10628	----	[Illustration: A noisy rabblement of people came running up] ANDREW GOLDING: A Tale of the Great Plague. By ANNIE E. KEELING CONTENTS. CHAP. INTRODUCTION.--HOW I, LUCIA DACRE, CAME TO WRITE THIS HISTORY I. HOW WE WERE VISITED BY TWO OF OUR KINSFOLK, OUR FATHER BEING DEAD; AND HOW THEY BEHAVED THEMSELVES TOWARD US II. HOW WE JOURNEYED UP TO YORKSHIRE; AND HOW WE WERE WELCOMED THERE III. HOW MR. TRUELOCKE PREACHED HIS LAST SERMON IN WEST FAZEBY IV. HOW HARRY TRUELOCKE LEFT US FOR THE SEA V. HOW ANDREW MADE ONE ENEMY, AND WAS LIKE TO HAVE ANOTHER VI. HOW MR. TRUELOCKE AND MRS. GOLDING LEFT US VII. HOW ANDREW CAME TO THE GRANGE BY NIGHT VIII. HOW A STRANGE MESSENGER BROUGHT US NEWS OF ANDREW IX. HOW WE WENT UP TO LONDON, AND FOUND NO FRIENDS THERE X. HOW WE DWELT IN A HOUSE THAI' WAS NOT OUR OWN XI. HOW THERE CAME NEW GUESTS INTO THE HOUSE XII. HOW WE SAILED FOR FRANCE IN THE 'MARIE-ROYALE' CONCLUSION.--HOW LUCIA DWELLS IN ENGLAND, AND ALTHEA OTHERWHERE INTRODUCTION. HOW I, LUCIA DACRE, CAME TO WRITE THIS HISTORY, AT THE TIME THAT I WITH MY SISTER WAS LODGED IN A DESERTED HOUSE IN LONDON, WHEN THE GREAT PLAGUE WAS AT ITS HEIGHT; WHICH WAS IN THE MONTHS OF JULY AND AUGUST, ANNO SIXTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIVE. Now that my sister and myself are in such a strange melancholy case, and I enforced to spend many hours daily in idleness, I find the time hang very heavy; for I cannot, like Althea, entertain any longer the hopes that brought us hither. She continues daily to make great exertions in pursuing them, but does not often admit my help; and, being afraid that I may fall into mere desperation, I have bethought me how to amuse some hours daily by setting down the manner of our present troubles and the beginnings that led to them. May I live to write of their happy end! but my fears are very great, and almost forbid me to pray thus. Having thus resolved how to beguile the heavy time, I began spying about for paper and pens and ink; and finding in a kind of lumber room a great many sheets of coarse paper, I stitched them together; then with much trembling I peeped into the study of the late poor master of the house, and there found a bundle of quills and some ink; and, leaving money in his desk to the full value of the things I took, I carried my writing-tools into the great front parlour, and set myself to the work. Now while I sat considering how to begin, Althea comes softly behind me, and, looking over my shoulder, asks me what I would be at; and when I told her, 'What, child,' says she, 'art going to turn historian? Thy spirits are more settled than mine, if thou canst sit quietly down to such work, with sights like these daily before thine eyes,' pointing with her hand to the window. Now I had pulled the table into a corner well out of sight from the street, wishing not to be discerned; for as yet but one knows of our being hidden in this house, and we would fain keep it a secret still. But rising and following with my eyes her pointing hand, I could behold a sight common enough, but too dismal to be looked on without fresh apprehension each time: in the middle of the street, which is quite grown with grass, a horse and cart standing, no driver in sight near it, and the cart as we too well knew being that which goes round daily to take away such as die of the Plague, though as it then stood we could not discern if any dead person lay in it. 'It is waiting for our neighbour next door,' says Althea. 'As I stood by an open casement up-stairs I plainly heard the family bemoaning themselves because the master is dead; I heard also how they are devising to get away unobserved in the early morning, and escape to some place of safety in the country. How sayest thou, Lucy? were it not well for thee to go also in their company?' 'Never I, while you stay here,' I answered. 'It repents me often,' she said, 'that I discovered to you my design of coming up hither. I would you were safe at home again.' 'I have no home, but where you are,' said I. 'Poor faithful little heart!' she says, sighing. 'Well, get on with thy history-writing; I must go forth presently, when all is quiet again; and when I return thou shalt show me what thou hast written. Tell the tale orderly, Lucy; begin at the beginning with "Once upon a time there lived two sisters; the elder was a fool, but the younger one loved her"'--and before I could say a word she had slipt away. I sat awhile, too much disquieted to write, listening against my will for the heavy sounds that told how the dead man next door was being carried forth and laid in the cart; but the thing lumbered away at last, its cracked bell tinkling dolefully; and I found courage to take to my work. But to begin at the beginning is not so easy, especially for one so unskilful with her pen as I. And who shall say what are the beginnings of the things that befall us? Perhaps they lie far off, long before our little life itself began. CHAPTER I. HOW WE WERE VISITED BY TWO OF OUR KINSFOLK, OUR FATHER BEING DEAD; AND HOW THEY BEHAVED THEMSELVES TOWARD US. Think, however, that the troubles that now lie upon us might not have been ours had not our father died when he did, which was the cause of our being taken into the house of our mother's sister, Mrs. Margaret Golding;--a happy thing we then thought it, that she would receive us, for we were in great straits;--so I will begin my history at that sad period. Our father, William Dacre, was indeed a gentleman, born to a competent estate, and married into an honest stock and to some fortune, but his fair prospects were all blighted and our mother's money well-nigh wasted before he died. To his great loss, he stood steadily for the king against the Parliament all through the late Rebellion, as he would ever call it; and, our mother's people being very stiff on the other side, and she dying while we were little children, we were sundered from them while our father lived. He took such care of us as he could, striving to breed us up like gentlewomen; sometimes we lived with him in London lodgings, sometimes were left at his manor-house of Milthorpe; but the last two years of his life were very uneasy to him and to us. For when the young king, Charles the Second, was brought in again, five years agone, our father was drawn up to Court by some I will not name, who tempted him with hopes of preferments and rewards to recompense his loyalty. He wasted his means much through the ill counsel of these false friends, but obtained no fruit of their promises, and at last he died suddenly; whether broken-hearted or not I leave to the judgment of God, and to the consciences of the men who for their own ends had betrayed him into those vain expectations. At that time Althea was barely nineteen, and I a little past sixteen; we had no brother nor other sister. We were then at Milthorpe; and thither our father was brought to be buried. That was a black time for us. Though lately we had been kept apart from our father, we loved him dearly, and we knew of no other friend and protector. And when the funeral was over we could not tell which way to turn; for we found our father's land must needs pass to the next male heir, Mr. John Dacre, our distant cousin. He, I know not how, had contrived to thrive where our father had decayed, and had gotten a good share of favour at the new Court. My memory offers things past to me as if in separate pictures, this and that accident that befell us showing much more clear and bright than things quite as important which lie between. I remember but dimly all the sad time of our father's death and burial, the grief I myself felt, and all the bustle and stir about us, making those days cloudy to me; but all the more plainly I remember a certain day that followed the funeral, when Althea and I were sitting together in a little parlour where we had been wont to sew,--I weeping on her neck, and she trying to turn my thoughts from my grief with planning how we two should live,--when, the door opening, some one came briskly in who called us by our names. 'What, Althea! what, Lucy! All in the dumps, and not a word to say to your mother's own sister?' and, in great surprise, we looked up on our aunt, whom we had seen but once since our mother died, when we were quite little. She was looking kindly on us; her eyes were quick, black, and sparkling, but had something very tender in them at that moment. I noticed directly how plain she was as to her clothes, wearing a common country-made riding-suit, all of black, and how her shape was a little too plump for her low stature, while her comely face was tanned quite brown with the sun; but methought the kind look she bent on us was even sweeter because of her homely aspect. So I got up and ran to her, holding out both my hands; but she took me into her arms, and kissed me lovingly, saying,-- 'Poor lamb! poor fatherless, motherless lamb! thou shalt feel no lack of a mother while I live.' Then, holding me in one arm, she stretched out the other hand to Althea, who had come up more slowly, and she said,-- 'And you too, my fair lady-niece; I have room in my heart for the two of you, if you will come in;' on which the water stood in Althea's eyes, and she took our aunt's hand and kissed it, saying,-- 'God reward you, madam, for your goodness to us desolate orphans! I receive it most thankfully.' 'That's well,' quoth our aunt cordially. And she proceeded to tell us how, when she got the news of our father's death, she made haste to come down to Milthorpe. 'Not that I hoped,' said she, 'to be here in time for the burying; but it was borne in on my mind there should be a friend of our side of the house to stand by you. Is Mr. Dacre here?' 'He came down to the funeral,' said Althea, 'and hath spoken to us on some small business matters; but he has been constantly out of the house, riding about the estate, and so we have seen little of him.' As she said this the door opened again, and our cousin, the new master of Milthorpe, entered. I had scarce noted his looks, being drowned in my grief at the time when, as Althea said, he had talked with us on business, accounting to us for some moneys, the poor wreck of our fortunes, which had been lodged in his hands; but I now thought what a grand gentleman he looked in his rich mourning suit; and indeed he was of a very graceful appearance, and smiled on us most courtly. He held his plumed hat in his hand, and, bowing low to our aunt,-- 'I am much honoured,' said he, 'that Mrs. Golding should grace my poor house with her presence before I have had time to sue for it. Will it please you, ladies, to step into the dining-parlour and sit down with me to a homely refection I have ordered to be spread there? I must return to-day to town; so if Mrs. Golding will bestow half an hour of her time on me to talk over some needful matters, I shall take it as a favour.' Mrs. Golding bent her head to him, saying, 'At your pleasure, sir;' and we followed to the dining-room, where we found what I should have called a plentiful dinner, but Mr. Dacre kept excusing its meanness at every dish he offered us. This was very grating to Althea, seeming a reflection both on our ways at Milthorpe and on our poor old faithful servants; and Mrs. Golding liked it no better. I saw her turning very red; and at last she said bluntly,-- 'The dinner is all very well, and I think Margery cook needs not so many excuses; so will you please leave speaking of meats and drinks, and turn to the needful matters you spoke of instead?' 'I might have chosen,' says Mr. Dacre, 'to talk to you in private first about those things; but perhaps it's as well my fair cousins should hear at once what I have to say. I am a married man, as you know, Mrs. Golding; and my wife loves the town, and cannot endure to hear of a country life. I have no hope she will ever live at the Manor here. But I will not let it; and I shall want it kept in good order against my coming down, which will be frequent. So if my cousin, Mistress Althea, likes to remain here as housekeeper, she will be very welcome.' 'And what do you think of paying her for her services?' said our aunt. Mr. Dacre lifted his eyebrows, and looked at her as if much surprised. 'She would have meat and lodging free,' said he, 'and servants to do her bidding. Also, if she can make anything by keeping of a dairy, or of fowls, or selling of fruit from the gardens, or such like devices of country dames, I shall ask no account of her gains; and if her management pleases me, I shall find a broad piece for her from time to time, I doubt not; so she may do very well.' 'And is her sister, Mistress Lucia, to dwell in your house and receive your bounty also?' said Mrs. Golding. 'That made no part of my plans,' said he, smiling and bowing. 'I shall hardly need two housekeepers here.' 'Then it may chance you must look otherwhere for your one housekeeper,' said Mrs. Golding. 'What sayest, Althea? Wilt be parted from thy sister that thou mayest have the honour of keeping house for so liberal a kinsman and master? or wilt go with Lucy and me to my farm, at West Fazeby, where you two shall be to me as daughters? for I am a childless widow, and will gladly cherish you young things. The choice lies before you, Althea.' Althea was now red as any rose; and the tears' that had been in her eyes seemed turned to sparks of fire. She rose from the table and made a deep curtsey to Mr. Dacre. 'I am exceeding grateful for your preference of me,' she said; 'but seeing I am only a young maid, and inexpert in the management of a house, I must beg to refuse your princely offer'--she spoke with infinite scorn--'and betake myself instead to the home Mrs. Golding will give me, where I may improve myself, and become fitter in time, both in years and skill, for some such post as you would now prefer me to.' She stopped and panted, being quite out of breath. Mr. Dacre did but lift his eyebrows again and say, 'As you will, madam,' and then begged she would sit down and finish eating; but she remained standing, and looked pitifully at Mrs. Golding; on which our aunt rose also, and I doing the same,-- 'You go to town to-day, I think you said?' questioned Mrs. Golding; 'we will therefore take our leave of you now, not to importune you further. My nieces and I will endeavour to be gone from here to-morrow, so please you to endure their presence in their father's house until then; for you must think it will ask a few hours for them to remove their apparel and other goods.' 'Assuredly, madam; they have full liberty,' said Mr. Dacre, rising and bowing, and, for a wonder, looking a little abashed. 'And I think it were well we lost no time,' continued our aunt. So we took our leave of him gladly enough, and I think he was full as glad to have us go; and we went back to the little parlour. 'I guessed what sort of kindness John Dacre would show you,' said our aunt, looking at us with a smile. 'Your father, my sweet maidens, of whom you have a heavy loss indeed, was of a much nobler nature than this his kinsman; and it's doubtless for that reason that one of them has thriven in the bad air where the other could not thrive, but perished;' and then came tears into her lively black eyes, and she was fain to sit down and weep awhile, in which we bore her company. Then Althea wiped her eyes, and said, with a trembling voice,-- 'I cannot think, however, why our cousin should make so strange a proffer to me--one so unfitting for a well-taught maiden to accept.' 'He made it that you might refuse it, child,' said our aunt. 'Now he can truly say he was willing to do somewhat for you, and that you would none of it, but thought scorn of his goodwill. It hath ever been his way to get much credit for little goodness. Well, Lucy, child, what art thinking of?' 'I was thinking,' stammered I, surprised with her question,--'I was thinking that the day is not so far spent but we could get away from Milthorpe before night. I wish not to sleep under Mr. Dacre's roof again.' 'That might be managed,' said Mrs. Golding; 'I left my horses and my men at the little inn in your village, where I had some thought of sleeping myself. And yet it's but a little inn; nor should I care to turn Andrew out of his lodging even to please thee, pretty Lucy. No, child; put thy hand to some work and thy pride in thy pocket, and submit even to spend one night in the house of an unkind kinsman. He will not be in it, thou knowest; see where he rides out of the gate.' So I looked and saw Mr. Dacre riding off, a very grand gentleman on his tall black horse, with his men, also well mounted, following him. 'He will be in town before nightfall,' quoth Mrs. Golding. It did not seem so insupportable to stay one more night in our old home, now its new master had left it; but I was in haste to be gone for all that, and Althea too; so we fell to work with great eagerness, gathering all our own possessions together and packing them for removal; while Mrs. Golding helped us with her hands and her counsel; and so well we worked that the sun had not gone down before we had all in readiness for our departure in the early morning; for it was the height of summer, and the days therefore long. Then Mrs. Golding would have us take her into the garden and show us what used to be our mother's favourite walks and alcoves; there was a good prospect of the house from one of them, and she stood some time regarding it. 'It's a stately place,' said she,--'a very noble house indeed, and a fair garden too. Your mother had a pride in it once, I know; and there was a time when it would have grieved her sore to think how her children should leave it. But what signifies that to her now?--a happy, glorified spirit, who may scorn the transitory riches and joys of this poor world, which are far outvalued by one ray shining on us from the Father of Lights. At His right hand are pleasures for evermore.' Althea and I looked on each other surprised, for we had then heard little of that kind of talk; and, our aunt espying it,-- 'Ah, children,' she said, 'I have learnt a new language since I saw you, and I see you know it not; but your mother could speak it before I could. I think thou art most like her, Lucy; there is more of your poor father about Althea.' I looked at Althea and thought Mrs. Golding was not much mistaken; for if I were to write my sister's description, it would need but the change of a word or two to make it pass for a portrait of my father. Like him, she is tall and slender and well-shaped; her complexion pale and clear, her hair almost black, very thick, softer than the finest silk, and curling in loose rings at the ends; her brows and eyelashes black also, but her eyes a blue-grey, appearing black when she is much moved or in deep thought; and she moves with admirable grace, showing a kind of nobleness in all her carriage. Myself am of low stature, and of shape nothing like so slender; indeed one hath told me I am dark and round as a blackheart cherry; so I could well think that at Mrs. Golding's years I should be very like her, though perhaps less comely. Mrs. Golding was still comparing us with each other and speaking of our parents, when I was aware of a tall man coming up to the garden gate; and my aunt, turning as she heard the latch clink, cried,-- 'Ah, here is Andrew! he will have come to have my orders for the night; I think we may welcome him in, nieces.' So she stepped to him, and taking him by the hand led him to us. 'This,' quoth she, 'is my husband's nephew and mine, but he is something more--he is my steward and my heir. I hold him for my son; I were but a lost woman without him. He would not hear of my coming to Milthorpe with no company but that of my serving-men, but must needs be my conductor himself; so precious a jewel as I was sure to be lost in the hedges otherwise;' and she laughed cordially. 'And, Andrew, these are two poor fatherless girls, Althea and Lucia Dacre by name; fatherless, I say, but not motherless, for I am their mother from this day forth, and so they are your sisters; see you use them kindly.' Andrew coloured up to his hair, and bowed to us, with some confused words about the honour of being as a brother to such gentle ladies; then he turned to her and they talked of our morrow's journey, and how our mails should be conveyed; and Mrs. Golding, telling him she would sleep at the Manor, bade him be early at the gate with horses for us; 'for we have many a mile to go,' she said to us; 'and make what speed we may, we shall be a day or two on the road.' And Althea spoke very prettily to Mr. Golding, praying him to sup with us; but he excused himself, still in a confused and disturbed way, and went away. While he stood and talked I was able to take note of his aspect, and I thought he looked a very homely youth indeed, after Mr. Dacre, though he was taller and of a better shape, and I believe a better face too; though burnt with the sun, and ruddy like a country-man, he had well-cut features and a full mild eye, with a right pleasant smile. But his garb was so ordinary, being of some dark cloth, and cut very plainly, and his hat with no feather in it, that though I had little cause to love Mr. Dacre, yet I wished our new friend was more like him outwardly, and thought I should then have been prouder to ride in his company. And Mrs. Golding praising him to us, and saying how good he was, and wise beyond his years, I thought it was pity such good people as he and she did not go handsomer; so little I knew of what belonged to goodness. CHAPTER II. HOW WE JOURNEYED UP TO YORKSHIRE; AND HOW WE WERE WELCOMED THERE. Though I remember so plainly what passed on our last day in Milthorpe Manor-house, I am not very clear about our journey up to Yorkshire, which was tedious enough. We kept to the king's highway, and yet were sometimes put in much fear of thieves, but happily we fell in with none; the only notable thing that befell us was in leaving a little market town, I cannot call to mind its name, where we had stopped to dine. We had ridden but a little way forth of the town when we heard a great din of shouting and hooting behind us, which made us women afraid; and presently a noisy rabblement of people came running up. They were chiefly of the baser sort, both men and women, some very ragged, and some red-faced and half tipsy; one or two gentlemen in laced coats rode among them. I thought at first they had some spite at us, but it proved not so. We drew to the wayside to let them pass, and they went by, very disorderly, yelling and swearing, the women not less than the men, pushing and hauling some poor creature dragged along in their midst. I looked earnestly to see who it might be, and presently discerned the person--a tall thin man, in a kind of loose garment girded about him, and I think it was made of some hempen stuff, a kind of sacking. This man was very pale, with longish dark hair hanging about his face, which, as I say, was pale indeed, but not dismayed; I think he even smiled when one struck him on the head, and another, pushing him, bade him, with a curse, go faster. I saw the blood trickling a little from the blow that had alighted on his head, as they hurried him past. Andrew, who saw all this as well as I did, looked full of horror. He caught one of the hindmost of the rabble by the sleeve and asked him harshly, 'What has this man done, and whither are you taking him?' At which the man, turning towards us his red, jovial face, replies,-- 'It's a mad Quaker, that took upon him this noon to stand up in our market-place, it being market day and every one mighty busy, and he tells us all to our face we were a set of cheating rogues, that he had marked our doings and seen how bad they were, and that he had a commission from God to bid us repent and amend, or a sudden dreadful judgment should fall on us. Didst ever hear of such a fool?' 'And what more did he,' says Andrew, 'to make you handle him so roughly?' at which the man stared and said,-- 'Nay, what more needed there? Matters are come to a pretty pass if free Englishmen, who are pleased to cheat and be cheated according to the fashion of this world, mayn't do so neighbourly and kindly without some canting rogue starting up to control them. We bade him hold his peace for a mad ass, but he would not. So we judged his frenzy to be something too hot, and that a cold bath were good to cure it; and Squire, riding up and seeing the bustle we were in, offered us his own duck-pond for the ducking of our preacher. Stay me no longer! I shall lose the best sport;' and Andrew snatching at him again to make him stay, he broke from him and ran as hard as he could after the crowd, that was now got some way from us. 'You hear and see this, Mrs. Golding?' says Andrew, turning to her, his mild countenance grown dark with anger. 'There may be murder done yet, let me ride after and see what I can do to hinder it;' and setting spurs to his horse he galloped off after the rabble. We saw him pressing in among them, riding close up to the chief horseman, talking earnestly to him; then we saw no more of them, they going round the turn of the road; and Mrs. Golding, half frowning, half smiling, says,-- 'It's ever so with Andrew! he cannot see mischief a-foot but he is all afire to stop it. I like it in the lad, but I wish yon poor fanatic had been content to stay at home and mind his own business, instead of crossing us so unluckily here.' She looked anxiously. Presently Andrew comes back to us, riding pretty quickly, and Mrs. Golding called to him,-- 'Now, my lad, hast not gone on a fool's errand this time also?' but he said smiling,-- 'That is as you take it, good mother. Yon Squire has some humanity in him, and some wit; for when I began vehemently to urge how sinful were the murdering of yon poor man, he smiled and let me know his proffer of the duck-pond was but to get the man out of the hands of his ill-wishers, for he meant to draw the Quaker within his gates and then have them shut as if by mistake on the rabble, who were already growing aweary with the length of the way, and so were dropping off by twos and threes.' 'So thou hast had thy labour for thy pains?' says Mrs. Golding, smiling as one well pleased. 'Not altogether,' said Andrew, 'for the Squire wills us to turn into the byway here, and keep from the high road awhile, lest we meet the baser rascals coming back, in all their fury and disappointment.' 'Good counsel,' said Mrs. Golding; 'we will take it.' And so we kept to that byway for a mile or so; and it was rough uneasy riding, though a pretty green lane enough. Althea said to me half aside, 'We had had none of these discomforts, if we had ridden as we were wont with our father, in a good coach like gentlewomen, and not a-horseback in the country fashion;' the first discontented word she had said, and Mrs. Golding hearing it,-- 'Child,' said she, 'I cannot away with these coaches, they are proud lazy inventions, and nothing like so wholesome as this our old country fashion of travelling;' at which Althea blushed and said nothing more, and Mrs. Golding began pleasantly to chide Andrew for his hazarding of our safety as he had done, which had put Althea into these discontents; and he hung his head, smiling, and had not a word to say for himself. I should scarce have remembered this accident, or Andrew's behaviour on it, had it not been for things that befell after. I was heartily weary of journeying by the time we got to West Fazeby; the way was long, the manner of travelling new to me, I had not so much as slept at an inn before, our former home being no great distance from town; and my company was not such as to shorten the way, for Aunt Golding was the only frank and cheerful-spoken person in our party, Althea behaving, as I told her, like an enchanted princess in a fairy tale, so melancholy, proud, and silent, and Andrew being so dashed with her stately ways that the poor youth was not less tongue-tied than she. So I was glad indeed when we rode out of York one fine morning, and Mrs. Golding told us we must reach her house before the day was out; in which she said no more than truth. She having always talked of it as a poor farmhouse, our surprise was not little when we saw it at last. It stands a little away from the village; it is no great house, but is a right fair one to my thinking, built of red brick, with a great deal of wood, handsomely carved, about the gables and the porch; it is much grown with ivy, at which our aunt would often rail, but I think for all that she loved it, seeing it makes the house green and pleasant even in winter. And at the back, looking into the gardens and orchards, was a pleasant porch, a very large one, grown with roses as well as ivy, wherein Althea and I have spent many a happy hour in summer-time, sitting there with our needlework or our lutes. I can see it in fancy, and would very fain be in it, looking on our lily beds and green walks and arbours, instead of these hot and dreary streets. But it's too likely I shall never see West Fazeby or any other pleasant place on earth again. A good comely man and woman, plainly habited like serving folks, came forth to greet Mrs. Golding, and she commended us to them much as she had done to Andrew, saying to us, 'These are Matthew Standfast and his wife Grace; good, kind souls, who look well to my house when I cannot do it. And how doth little Patience?' she went on to ask Dame Standfast; 'and have you seen aught of Mr. Truelocke while I have been gone?' and so chatting she led us into the hall, where we found a table ready covered, and the little Patience Standfast ready to attend us at it, a pretty child, fair-haired and blue-eyed, very civil and modest. We were not long in finding that she and her parents, with a serving-man or two, made all my aunt's household; and that she did very much work with her own hands, and would expect the like of us; a thing which displeased Althea not a little, but she said nothing of it, only to me, when we were got to our own chamber. 'And it is an odd thing,' she continued, when I did not reply, 'that Mrs. Golding should sit and should take her meals in the open hall, when there are one or two fair parlours more fitting for her occupation.' 'But the hall is a pleasant place,' I said; and indeed it was so to me, I hardly know why, being a very plain apartment, with a checkered pavement of blue and white stones, and furnished only with bright oaken tables and settles, and a great chair or two; also the great fireplace was well garnished with green boughs and flowers, it being summer. I looked all about it that evening as we sat in it chatting with our aunt, and was thinking I should always like it, plain as it was, when I was aware of two persons coming into the porch, one walking feebly like an old man, and one stepping firmly and strongly; and Mrs. Golding, springing up, ran forward to greet them, saying,-- 'Welcome! welcome, good Mr. Truelocke! this is a greater kindness than I had hoped for;' so she drew into the light of our candles a reverend old gentleman, clad in a black gown; he had white hair hanging about his face, and in his hand a stout staff on which he leaned as he walked. There came at his side a young, strongly-framed man, in a seaman's habit, who, I thought, looked something like him, having the same strong features, but a clear, merry blue eye and brown curling hair; he was very watchful over the old gentleman, who seemed to move feebly. Our aunt greeted him kindly by the name of 'Master Harry,' and said, 'It's good of you to bring your father up so soon to welcome me,' whereon the young man smiled and said,-- 'Nay, it is he that hath brought me; there was no holding him when he had heard of your return. I would gladly have kept him within doors, fearing the night damps for him;' and our aunt laughed also, and said to us,-- 'Come, Althea, come, Lucy, and speak to my best friend, who was a good friend to your mother also; it is the parson of this parish, Mr. Truelocke, and this his son Harry, newly come home from the seas;' so we came up and greeted the old gentleman reverently, and his son as kindly as we might; and Mrs. Golding put Mr. Truelocke into a great armed chair, and sat looking at him with vast contentment. He looked at her and smiled a wonderfully sweet smile. 'Had you brought these young maids home a month or two later, Mrs. Golding,' says he, 'you could not truly tell them I was the parson of this parish or of any other. But we'll let that pass;' and turning to us he began to speak to us kindly and fatherly, pitying our afflictions, and bidding us praise and thank God, who had raised up so good a friend to help us. I was glad to hear his words, though they brought the tears into mine eyes; but our aunt sat impatiently, and presently broke in on his discourse, saying,-- 'What mean you, sir, by telling me in a month or two you will be no parson of this parish? is there anything new?' 'Nothing, but the falling of a full-ripe fruit, that began to blossom two years agone,' says the old gentleman cheerfully; 'it hath been long a-ripening, 'twas time it should fall.' 'Give me none of your parables, good friend; I want plain speech,' cries our aunt; and Master Harry said bluntly,-- 'Madam, it's all along of the new Act for Uniformity which was printed and set forth this last May. You were too full at that time of your apprehensions for these young ladies to be curious to read that mischievous Act; but, since it touches my father nearly, he mastered its meaning with great pains, and has thought of little else for many days; and the upshot of all this is, that next Bartholomew-tide he will go forth, like Abraham of old, to wander he knows not whither;' at which words Mrs. Golding sighed deeply, and sat as one amazed. 'It is even so, my kind friend,' said Mr. Truelocke, smiling. 'Well, I can't tell what you may think here of the matter,' went on Master Harry; 'but in my conscience, I think my father's conscience something too tender.' 'You speak like a man of this world, Harry,' says Andrew, who had come in, and was looking at the young man with frowning brows and angry eyes. 'How else would you have me speak?' says Harry. 'I am but a plain sailor, and I pretend not to know any world but this work-a-day world that I have to get my bread in. I leave the new worlds in the moon, or beyond it, to poets and madmen; and I'll tell you my mind of the matter, if you will hear me. He stopped, and Mrs. Golding said, 'Speak your mind, Master Harry, it's ever an honest mind, and full of goodwill.' 'I will venture then,' said he, 'and do you bear with me, Andrew, and father too. I take it the Church of this country is a good ship that has to sail whither her owners will. A while since they were all for steering her straight to the Presbyterian port; now that voyage likes them not, and they would have her make for Prelacy. It's pity that the good ship has owners of such inconstant minds; but why should not the crew obey orders, and sail the ship as they are bid?' 'Wrong, all wrong, all wrong, Harry, my boy,' said the old man, with a groan; 'thou hast no spiritual sense of these things. How dare Christ's liegemen take their orders from the carnal rulers of this or any other country? Have I not seen the government of England change like the moon, ay, and more strangely? and shall I follow the changing moon as doth the faithless sea, ebbing and flowing in my zeal for truth like the tide? Nay verily! what was God's truth in Oliver's days is the truth of God still; and I will cleave to it.' As I gazed at the old man's face, pale and wrinkled and awful, I thought that so might have looked the prophet Moses when he brake the tables of the Law. Mr. Truelocke's deepset dark eyes flashed fire under his long white eyebrows, which themselves seemed to stir and to rise and fall, as he spoke with great passion, and he struck his staff against the floor. Althea was looking from one to another, something puzzled; presently her silver voice broke the silence that had fallen upon us; she said, 'All that you say is so dark to me, it makes me feel like a fool for my lack of comprehension; will you, madam, tell me in a few words what it is that troubles you and Mr. Truelocke?' 'It's our new masters, dear heart, who have been making of new laws,' said Mrs. Golding; and Andrew added instantly,-- 'Our pastors, madam, must consent to renounce the Covenant, and must use the Common Prayer-Book as newly set forth by authority of King Charles the Second and his Parliament; or they must leave to preach and to pray in the churches called of England, and must renounce their livings too; and this by the twenty-fourth of August next, which the Papists and such-like cattle call St. Bartholomew's Day. That is the story in little of the doings which afflict our good mother and our reverend friend.' 'It's a dry short setting forth of the matter, friend Andrew,' said the old man. 'But is it a true one?' asked Althea. 'Yea,' said he, 'too true, this is the new law; but I shall, as I think, follow after the footsteps of godly Mr. Baxter; he hath already ceased preaching, that his weaker brethren, such as I, may be in no manner of doubt as to what he thinketh. I shall not change my mind twice, once having seen the great error of my early prelatical opinions,--as your good aunt knoweth I have seen it.' 'Well,' said Mrs. Golding, sighing heavily, 'we will pray you may have illumination from above. I cannot tell how we shall do, bereft of our father in Christ. But I dare not urge any man against his conscience. And now am I ashamed that you have been so long within my doors and I have yet set nothing before you. Lucy, Althea, come help me;' and she bustled about, and presently with our help had set a dish of strawberries and cream, with nuts and cakes and wine, before our guests. Mr. Truelocke ate but little, which grieved my aunt; and he would drink nothing but spring water. But Harry was gay enough for two. We could get him to touch nothing until he had both of us girls served, he saying we were greater strangers than he. And since I chose to eat nuts, he would do the same, and would crack all mine for me. He had a clever way of doing this with his hands only, which were small, but like iron for strength; I made a cup of my hands that he might pour the sweet kernels into it, and so doing we scattered some on the floor, and both dropt on our knees to pick them up, when I, being nimbler than he, had them all snatched up before he could touch one; then we both laughed heartily. I was startled to hear myself laughing, and looked at Althea; and she seemed to be regarding me with scorn as if she despised me perfectly, so I checked my laughing and sat down quite crestfallen. Then Harry, sitting by me, half whispered, 'Now, sweet madam, if you did but know what music a heart-free laugh is to mine ears, you would not stop yours in the middle. I have no quarrel with my father's nor your aunt's piety, but there's too little laughing in it.' 'It's not piety that checks me now,' I said; 'do not credit me with more than I have; but a new-made orphan like me might well feel it something heartless to be very mirthful.' 'That's it, is it?' said he, looking comically from me to Althea, and then at me again. 'Now tell me, sweet lady, if you know any good reason why mirth should be a thing forbid to those who have had a cruel loss? If in the middle of a winter voyage, when the stormy winds do blow, we mariners should have one fair sunshine day, we don't spend it in bemoaning the black days that went before and the black days that will come after.' 'And what has that to do with me and my griefs?' asked I. 'Only this,' said he, 'that you should not be less wise than a sailor lad; think no shame to be glad when your heart bids you, whatever sorrows lie before or behind you. And I'll keep you in countenance, whenever I see your fair mournful sister reproving your gaiety with her eyes; but you must do the same by me with my father and your aunt. Is it a bargain? strike hands on it!' He held out his hand, and I put mine into it--I could not help it; though I stole a look at Althea, but her attention was drawn away by Andrew, who was half timidly urging her to eat some more of Mrs. Golding's dainties; she would not, however; and presently Mr. Truelocke, who had been talking apart with Mrs. Golding, got up and would be going; so when he and Harry were withdrawn, we all went shortly to our beds, being very weary; and for my part I felt that I was in a new world I could not half understand; but there seemed some pleasant things in it. I liked it better still as the days ran on. Country life at West Fazeby was more to my mind than ever it had been at Milthorpe. There we were waited on dutifully by kind old servants, and might not soil our fingers by any coarse work. Here I was taken into the dairy and the still-room, and instructed in their mysteries, and in many another useful household art; I might feed the pigeons and the other pretty feathered folk in the barnyard, and I got no reproof for my coarse tastes when I was found learning from Grace Standfast how to milk a cow, and making acquaintance with young foals and calves. There were prettier works too; gathering and making conserve of roses, and sharing in the pleasant harvest of the strawberry beds and the cherry orchard, or tossing of hay in the meadows. I will not deny that all these things were more pleasant to me that year than they have ever been since; partly because I was so new to them, and partly because Harry Truelocke often took part in them also. My merry and kind playfellow, I wonder if you have yet any heart for such simple pleasures? or if, in the midst of miseries and perils, you can still jest and laugh? Althea went with me and shared in these occupations, except in the haymaking and the milking; but she did so with a grave and serious air, seeming to give her whole mind to the work, as if it were a task she had to learn, whereas I thought it but a delightful pastime that I loved in spite of its being profitable. Mrs. Golding took no note, as it seemed, of Althea's sad and steadfast ways; but Andrew marked them, I could see, though, being daily busy with out-door matters and cares of our aunt's estate, he was but little in our company. When he was with us, he surrounded Althea with a careful, watchful kindness, treating her so reverently as if she were some sacred thing, and indeed never venturing to say much to her unless she spoke first; all which she never appeared to notice. Now it is a strange thing that in this pretty peaceful time the stormiest day and the fruitfullest of future mischiefs should have been a certain Lord's Day, only a week or two after our coming. It was from Mr. Truelocke that I learnt to say 'the Lord's Day,' Sunday, said he, being a heathenish, idolatrous word, nor would he allow of the fashion of calling the day of rest 'the Sabbath.' 'We keep not holy,' said he, 'the seventh-day Sabbath of the people of Israel, but the first day made holy for us by the resurrection of our Lord;' and I saying idly to him, out of the poet Shakespeare, whom my father loved,-- 'What's in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet,'-- he looked sternly, almost angrily on me, and said, 'Madam, what have ends of stage-plays, and the idle talk of a lovesick girl about her lover's name and the names of flowers,--I say, what have these vanities to do with a glorious divine thing like the Christian's Day of Rest? And believe me, there is much in names, too much in names. What a spell to conjure with is the name of King! and the name of Priest may make wild work in our poor England yet.' I was dumb when he reproved me thus; and thinking of it after, I began to have some glimmering why this good man should resolve to give up his all, rather than use a Prayer-Book he deemed not according to right doctrine, since he was so earnest about the right name for one holy day. I found it to be a strong point with him, some of his flock murmuring at him about it, and saying how could we appeal to the Fourth Commandment if our holy day might not be called the Sabbath? But he cared not for their words; no, nor for king, nor for Parliament, compared with what he deemed right. I used to wonder if his heart would have been so stout had he had wife and children to care for; but he had been many years widowed, and Harry, his only child, had carved his own way in the world, being now part owner of the ship he sailed himself. But by whatever name folks called it, the Lord's Day in West Fazeby was then a sweet, religious, holy day, and I loved it. Alas, to think of the changes wicked men have made! CHAPTER III. HOW MR. TRUELOCKE PREACHED HIS LAST SERMON IN WEST FAZEBY. On that Lord's Day of which I spoke, the weather was fair and bright when we went to worship in the church where Mr. Truelocke still ministered. Week after week more people came to hear him, for the time was growing short, and he was much loved; so this day the church was thronged, and we had some ado to get to our own places. As I said, the day was fair enough when we set forth, a little too hot, indeed; but we had not been long at our prayers before there came a gloom and a darkness, making the church full of shadows; and I saw the sky through the windows of a strange greenish and coppery colour. We were singing the hymn before the sermon, when I was aware of a tall man in a whitish garment standing directly below the pulpit, still as a stone; it seemed to me I had seen him once before. When the singing was done, and we were all in readiness to hear the sermon, this man suddenly stood up on the bench, so that even in the dusky light every one could see his tall white figure, and, looking up to Mr. Truelocke in the pulpit, he said,-- 'May I have liberty to speak a few words to this people?' 'You have liberty,' said Mr. Truelocke; then, folding his arms on the desk, he leaned forward and looked very intently on the man, who had turned himself to face the people. They were all rustling and stirring in their places, very uneasy at the interruption. He stretched out his arms in the form of a cross, and began to speak in a full and rich voice, very musical, with strange changes in it; and always the sky grew darker in the great window behind him while he spoke. 'Friends,' said he, 'I have listened earnestly to your singing; and now I am constrained to speak to you and tell you the words you sang were very unsuitable to your state. For the words were those of holy, humble souls, who are athirst after God; and how many of you be there that could truly answer Yea, if one should ask whether you are come here because you hunger and thirst after righteousness? Is it not true that the best of you only take delight in the preaching of the man who stands in yon pulpit, because it is to you as a very lovely song of one that can play on a pleasant instrument? but you hear his words, and do them not. And there be some of you that only come here to display your gay apparel, caring not how foul you are within, if you are but fair without; and some of you appear here weekly, because it is a decent and seemly thing to be here, and you desire the praise of men, though you care not for pleasing God. Your religious worships and ways are vain, for they are made up only of speaking and singing other men's words, which are not yours, nor do ye mean them truly. You were better to sit in humble silence before God, waiting till His Spirit, that enlighteneth every man, should speak in secret to your spirit. 'And I have a word to thee, Emanuel Truelocke,' he continued, suddenly turning, lifting his long right arm and pointing his long finger towards Mr. Truelocke, whose pale countenance, framed in his long white hair, could still be seen looking quietly at him. 'I desire to speak to thee in love, and show thee the secret of thy ill success in thy ministerings to this worldly people, who have not the excellent spirit that I gladly acknowledge in thyself. The canker of gold has been on these ministerings of thine, for thou hast yearly taken hire for them; and therefore it is that so many of these people are cold and sickly in divine things. But the Lord hath had mercy on thee, and will take away from thee the mammon whereby thou hast been deceived; and for thy sake I rejoice in thy coming downfall'-- Here there began a mighty hubbub in the place. Men stood up on benches, shaking their sticks and clenched fists against the speaker; women cried, 'Shame on him! pull him down! have him away!' and many rushed upon him, struck him, dragged him down, and would soon have trampled him under their feet, but Mr. Truelocke spoke with a voice that rang like a trumpet, and said,-- 'Do the man no harm; for shame, my brethren! Did not I tell him he had liberty to speak? Make me not a liar by your violence!' and then I saw several men, Andrew and Harry being foremost, raising up the stranger, for he had been felled to his knees pushing off those who were striking him, and leading him forth of the church. Then a mighty flash of lightning glared through the building, and a great peal of thunder roared and echoed after it, and the rain rushing down like a torrent drove and beat against the windows. The stranger, who had been got to the door, now turned round, crying,-- 'Hearken, O people, to the voice of the Lord bearing witness against your madness!' with which words he vanished, friendly hands pulling him out of sight against his will. A great silence seemed at once to fall upon the people, while the storm blazed and thundered on; and in the midst of it Mr. Truelocke began his discourse. 'My brethren,' said he, 'I did not think to have been so cruelly put to shame as I have been by you this day. Long have I toiled to make you follow His righteousness, who, when He was reviled, reviled not again; long have I trusted that you were indeed partakers of that Spirit whose fruits are love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness. Alas! what longsuffering, what peace, what gentleness have you shown to-day? Ye have well-nigh done a man to death in the very house of God, and before the eyes of me your pastor. I stand rebuked here, a teacher whose teaching is proved useless and fruitless. From this day forth I will preach to you no more, but will lay down, a little before the law takes it from me, the office I have so ill discharged. Now hearken to me once more, and once only; and let not my last sermon prove so idle as those I have preached to you before.' With this preamble, which struck every one into awe, he began to preach with an uncommon fervour, as one who was all on fire to have men turn from their sins, and to close with the offers of God's mercy while yet it was time; and this earnestness of his, and a certain passionate tenderness in his looks and tones, something more than ordinary, would not let us forget the resolve he had expressed. His text was, 'How shall we escape if we neglect so great salvation?' and having enlarged on it with such piercing eloquence as I have spoken of, and come to an end of his discourse, he made a little pause, and then said,-- 'Little as I like to mingle any private matters of mine own with the message I stand here to deliver, I had determined, when I should come before you for the last time, to say something of the reasons why I cannot comply with what our rulers require of us. I will not depart from that determination because a strange cause has moved me to lay down mine office some few days sooner than law requires.' He stopped a moment, looking troubled; then he resumed: 'Not my own humour, nor the pride of a vain consistency, holds me back from compliance. I have sought in prayer, and in study, and in discourse with my brethren, for light on this matter; but in my mind is something still unsatisfied that bids me persevere in my fixed opinion, so long adopted; I can do no other. Therefore, submitting patiently to leave my church and my flock, I pray your pardon for any fault I make in this resolution; of God's pardon I am assured.' Having said thus, he bowed his fatherly head, praying inwardly, and all the congregation wept and prayed with him, though many of them afterwards showed themselves highly displeased with the way he had taken of rebuking their violence; also great efforts were used to make him break his resolve of preaching there no more, it wanting more than a week or two of the appointed day in August when he must needs desist; but he would not yield to do more than pray publicly; and the pulpit was for a season supplied by other men. I am wandering away, however, from that day and its doings, of which I have not finished the account. While Mr. Truelocke was preaching, the storm drew off and died away in distant mutterings, so that it was in a very great stillness that he spoke his last words. However, the rain was still falling, though without violence, when we came out of the church; so we waited awhile in the porch till the clouds had rolled away, many others who did not love a wetting doing the same as we, and there was much talking. None of our party said aught, till Mrs. Bonithorne, one of the wealthiest farmers' wives in the parish, turned herself to Aunt Golding, saying,-- 'Heard you ever anything so strange, neighbour, as yon awful thunder-clap coming close on the malicious words of the brawling Quaker? He ought to have quaked and trembled indeed at the voice of Heaven rebuking his madness.' 'But that he did not, mistress,' said I, something too pertly, I fear; 'for he bade the people hearken to the voice of God bearing witness against _them_.' 'Did he so?' cried she; 'the more was his impudence to wrest the heavenly sign in his favour. But what make you then of the passing away of the storm when Mr. Truelocke began to preach, and of the sweet calm that had fallen on all things when he ended? was that a witness in favour of Quaker madness?' 'Nay, I make nothing of it,' said I; and Aunt Golding added,-- 'You would not interpret it as a sign of approval granted to Mr. Truelocke for his hasty resolve never to preach to us again? For my part, I hope he will be persuaded otherwise.' 'Truly I hope so,' said Dame Bonithorne, her ruddy colour deepening; 'for it's too cruel an affront he puts on us poor people;' and I know not how much more she might have said, but for Harry Truelocke, who now came up to the porch, and, beckoning Aunt Golding forth, whispered to her how Andrew had carried the Quaker to the Grange, and now desired her presence; at which we all set forth together, the rain having ceased; and on the road Harry tells us, what sore disquieted Aunt Golding, that the man had only come to West Fazeby on Andrew's account. 'It seems,' said he, 'you met him on your road hither, when he was in the hands of some base fellows that had a mind to maul him--do you remember such a matter?' and Aunt Golding saying how she remembered it very well, Harry went on to say that the man, having noted Andrew's willingness to serve him, had ever since 'had a concern on his mind for the good youth,'--that was his phrase,--and had been led to our village, and to the very church, being assured he would see Andrew there. 'It's a strange, mad story,' quoth Harry. Althea had given earnest heed to this tale, and now she asked, 'And what says Master Andrew to such wild talk? I suppose he will use the poor deluded wretch gently and kindly, that's his nature; but sure he will scorn his ravings?' 'I cannot tell what Andrew may think in his heart,' says Harry moodily; 'but he uses the man as if he thought him a saint or a martyr, or both. I wish harm may not come of this day's doings;' and he fell into a gloomy silence. I had never seen him look so nearly angry before. We were now got to the Parsonage, and Harry arousing himself to take leave of us, our aunt says to him,-- 'I shall ask you to do me a great good turn, by bringing your father to sup with us at the Grange. I would have him reason peaceably with yon poor distraught man, and convince him of his folly; so he may do a service to my Andrew also, if he has indeed a leaning to such delusions.' 'Well, madam, I will do it for you,' said Harry; 'but there is only one other person in the world to please whom I would bring my father into such odd company as yon man's;' and he went in, looking but half pleased; and as we took our way to the Grange I was musing who that other person might be Harry was so fain to please. When we got into the hall we saw Andrew sitting there and talking with the stranger, who was now clothed like any other man. His face had been bruised and his hair torn by the violence of the people; but, for all these disfigurements, I, looking earnestly at him, could see he was the very one the sight of whose ill-usage had so moved Andrew on our journey; there was the same composed look, and the same strange inward light in his eye. He rose when he saw Aunt Golding come in, saluting her with the words, 'Peace be to thee!' on which she, gravely smiling, said,-- 'You did not bring peace with you to our place of worship, sir; but I trust no one will break your peace in my house, where you are welcome to rest and refresh you this day.' 'No man can break my peace,' said he, 'my soul being ever at rest in the Holy City, the New Jerusalem.' 'That's a good resting-place indeed,' said our aunt. 'Will you tell me by what name I am to call you while you stay here? I think no one in our village knows who you are.' 'Not every one can know my name, but they that have the Light,' said the man; 'and the world can never know it.' 'But sure, man, you have a name of your own by which the world does know you,' said our aunt a little impatiently. 'I wish not to deny it,' he replied; 'therefore fret not thyself, good friend,--my worldly name is James Westrop. And I will tell thee what thou askest not, that my errand hither is to this young man, Andrew Golding. I have now told him my message, so I am free to depart; and if thou likest not of my talk or my ways, I refuse not to leave thy house and protection this hour.' 'But I will not have you go,' said she, 'till you are refreshed and rested. And, in good time, here comes the Vicar, whom I have desired to sup with us and to reason with you. You will not refuse his company? He scorns not yours.' 'I will not refuse it,' said Westrop gravely; and Mr. Truelocke coming in at that moment with Harry, we all went presently to table. I marvelled greatly during the meal at Mr. Truelocke's courtesy, so kindly did he speak to the Quaker; and he strove to excuse to him the mad behaviour of the people, ascribing it to their regard for their ancient pastor, now about to leave them. 'I pray you,' he said, 'to pardon them for my sake.' 'Friend,' said James Westrop, 'I had pardoned them before they offended. But thou art deceived if thou thinkest it was love to thee which moved them. They could not endure my word, because their own spirits were foul. My word was to them as the shining of a candle into a dark, dirty place, and the sight of their foulness made them mad against me. But in thee I perceive purity of intention; and I will gladly reason with thee of the things of the Spirit, according to this good woman's desire.' So after supper Aunt Golding showed the Quaker and Mr. Truelocke into a parlour, and herself with Andrew went in to hear their reasonings; but Althea whispered me, and said, 'Let us go and walk in the garden; I cannot stay and hear the man's insolent talk.' So we stepped out, and began to pace up and down one of the walks, the moon being just risen, and the evening very sweet and calm--a pleasant change it was after the heats and storms of that afternoon's work. Presently Harry joined us, and said at once, 'Well, sweet ladies, so you have no mind to turn Quakers?' 'As soon shall this rose turn nettle,' said Althea, plucking a white rose off a bush and giving it to him. 'Keep it, I pray you; and when you find it will sting you to touch it, then conclude Althea Dacre has turned Quaker.' 'Give me your rose too, Mistress Lucia,' said Harry. So I gathered one, and put it in his hand; but I felt obliged to say,-- 'I cannot speak so confidently as my sister; I know nothing of these people and their doctrines.' 'You see their doings,' said Althea indignantly; 'that should be enough. Mr. Truelocke, Lucia and I were bred up true Churchwomen, and so I will continue to my dying day. I love not all these sects that spring up like weeds in the ruined places of the Church; I am for those who are building up her walls again, and making them stronger.' 'And is this your mind too, Mistress Lucia?' says Harry. 'I fear me, if it is, you will not approve my good father either;' at which Althea went red and went pale, for she had not thought how her words might hit Mr. Truelocke; but since she did not speak, I said,-- 'Being so ignorant about these things, I don't like to say much, except that I hate these new harsh laws,--axes, I think them, lopping off from our Church her true, faithful members as if they were diseased limbs. I fear me the poor trunk that is left will be like a headless, handless corpse without them.' 'Well, God mend all!' said Harry, drawing a long breath. 'For my part, all I know is, that I would these great folks who rule us now had let my father end his days in peace, without pestering him about surplices and Prayer-Books and the sign of the cross, all which he holds for rank Papistry, I suppose; and I cannot wish him to lie, even about such foolish trifles as these things appear to me. But what profits wishing?' 'Very little,' said Althea, sighing softly. 'I might wish too, all in vain, that I had not spoken with such needless warmth even now;' and she began entreating him to believe she had meant no disrespect to his father; but he cut her short, assuring her he knew it already. 'My father is not in all your thoughts,' said he; 'but he is seldom out of mine. I am ever longing to see him settled in some peaceful shelter before I go to sea;' and he looked more downcast than I had ever seen him. We were got into the orchard now, winding in and out among the trees, and Althea went musing by herself; but I could not help lingering beside Harry, to say some comfortable words about how all folks loved Mr. Truelocke, my aunt especially, and I knew it was in her mind to have the old gentleman make his home at the Grange with her, if he only would. 'Ay,' says Harry; 'that's a larger "if" than you wot of, sweet Lucy. But would it please you, as well as Mrs. Golding, to have the old man living under this roof?' and I answered hastily,-- 'Nothing could like me better than to have so kind and fatherly a man dwelling with us, not to say that his holiness and piety would bring down Heaven's blessing on any house that sheltered him; and I promise you,' I went on, 'that I, for my part, would show him all a daughter's love and duty,'--'and so will Althea,'--I would fain have added, had not Harry cut my speech short, saying,-- 'That's a charming word on your lips when you speak of my father--the word of daughter. I hope you consider what it may mean to me.' 'Sure,' I said, 'I am very willing to take you for my brother, if that is what you aim at.' 'No, no, Lucy,' said he; 'I wish not to be your brother. I refuse altogether to let you think of me as such; but I have nothing to say against Mistress Althea as a sister. Think well of my words, will you?' and, taking my hand, he put it to his lips. And it was not the first time, in truth, that such a courtesy had been shown me; but with a fine gentleman it seems such a matter of course. It was not so with the frank and blunt sailor, who had had a kind of Puritan bringing-up too; so I suppose that was the reason it made me tremble so strangely, or perhaps the look on his face was the cause. I was therefore not sorry to see Althea coming up to us again. 'We had better keep nearer the house; their conference may be over, and Mrs. Golding will not know where to find us,' she said; so we turned back, and all three paced up and down the terrace under the windows for a while, then we went into the hall, and sat there awaiting the end of the disputation. At last we saw Mr. Truelocke, Mrs. Golding. James Westrop, and Andrew, all issuing forth together, and all but one seeming mightily disturbed. Mr. Truelocke looked stern and sad, and Mrs. Golding had been weeping; Andrew gazed on the Quaker with much anxiety, but with such reverence as if he saw in him an angel of God. As for James Westrop, there was no change in him, only his usual composure seemed a little exalted, if I may so phrase it. He walked straight to the hall door, Andrew keeping by him. There he made a stand, and, raising his hands as if in blessing,-- 'Peace be to this house!' he said; 'I have been well entreated in it, though it approves me not. Friend Andrew, thou and I will meet again; but now follow me not. I may not sleep under this roof, having many miles to go before the sun rises;' and with that he turned and walked out of the door, which he shut after him; and Andrew, who had stopped at his word, came slowly back to us. Althea now rose from her place and went towards him; her eyes were very bright, and there was unusual colour in her cheeks; indeed she seemed carried quite out of herself, yet she kept her queenly look and gait withal. 'Mr. Golding, said she, putting her hands on his arm, 'what means that man by his farewell to you? Sure you are not befooled and led away by his deceiving words to believe such madness as he speaks?' Andrew started at her touch, like a man waking from a dream. He then looked seriously at her, and said,-- 'Madam, I cannot say yet how much I believe of yon good man's doctrine; but I will not rest till I know more of it. If I find it to be as heavenly true as it hath seemed to me this day, not all the joys and glories of the world should hold me back from embracing it; at which Althea, letting her hands fall from his arm, stood as if she were turned into stone, her eyes remaining fixed on him sorrowfully. I suppose he could not endure that look; for he turned away sharply and went out of the hall. 'I feared this,' said Mr. Truelocke. He looked quite weary and spent. 'These men have a strange eloquence; and I cannot wonder that such youths as our Andrew should think their words are indeed set off by some superior Power,--the more, since none can deny that they preach what they practise. I would I could have imbued all my hearers with a like burning sincerity.' This was nearly all I heard about that long conference of theirs; for after some more lamentations over its ill result, which, Harry whispered me, they might have expected, Mr. Truelocke departed with his son, and Aunt Golding remained so troubled that I did not like to question her about what had passed. But all the more was I curious to know what the man's doctrine was; and on the first fair occasion I found, I began to ask Andrew to describe it to me. Poor youth! he was mightily pleased with my inquiry, thinking, doubtless, that it sprang from a real thirst for truth like his own; and to the best of his power he complied with my wish. I found he had not been altogether ignorant of this new teaching for some months back. 'We English Christians,' said he, 'have fallen into many hurtful snares by our lack of faith in God's great gift of the Holy Spirit, the mighty boon which the risen Saviour promised to His followers, and which truly came according to His word. I have often wondered,' said he, 'that we all profess and say, as often as we repeat the Creed, "I believe in the Holy Ghost," yet we act and think as if we believed not in Him.' And from this point he went on to tell me how George Fox, first of all, and many others after him, had been going about the country endeavouring to make people alive to the high privilege they had so long slighted, to their own exceeding hurt; 'also,' said he, 'these men, in obedience to the inward Voice that instructs them, strive to bring people off from their formal man-made religions to the primitive purity of Christ's religion, which consists not in rites and ceremonies, repeating of forms of prayer, singing of hymns, and ringing of bells, but in a holy and harmless life;' and he quoted many things out of the Sermon on the Mount, 'which,' said he, 'the common run of Christians never dream of obeying; but the poor Friends practise them most strictly.' All this was most alluring to Andrew, for, as I have often noticed, he detested nothing so much as false professions, and a show of goodness where none was. I asked him curiously why the Friends behaved themselves in such strange fashion in public places and churches; when he answered me by referring to the bold speeches of ancient prophets in rebuke of sin, and asked me if I could think that a man might now-a-days refuse to carry God's message to sinners because it might bring him into bodily peril? 'It were far worse,' said he, 'to disobey the Divine Voice, that still small Voice that is heard by the restful soul, than to endure a little pain at men's hands, or even the death of the body.' Well, I could not wonder that he was charmed with such teachings, for while I listened to him my own heart was moved strangely; but it evermore ended with my resolving to keep to the opinions of my aunt and Mr. Truelocke; I thought they were both too good to be far mistaken. But Andrew now began to be often away from home, and he made no secret that he went to meet with Westrop and other Friends, from whom he often had letters also. He was never at West Fazeby on the Lord's Day; and Aunt Golding and Althea also showed themselves mightily afflicted thereat. CHAPTER IV. HOW HARRY TRUELOCKE LEFT US FOR THE SEA. And now came fast upon us that black day, the twenty-fourth of August, 1662, when such numbers of faithful ministers were stript of their offices and livings because they would not go against their consciences; and our own Mr. Truelocke among them. I think he was more stiffly set than ever in his opinion of the unlawfulness of conformity, since he had that talk with James Westrop; at least Aunt Golding thought so. But on other points he showed himself mild and persuadable, so that there was nothing like the difficulty Harry and all of us had looked for in winning him to come and dwell at the Grange, for a season at least; and he agreed to make the change before the fatal day should come. So we had all a busy time of it that last week, in getting his many books and his simple household stuff removed from the Parsonage house, and in bestowing them suitably at the Grange, where Aunt Golding had prepared two fair rooms for his particular use. And however bad the occasion for our doing this work, some of us found pleasure in it. I must own I myself always loved a busy, bustling time, when there seemed a little more to be done in each day than we could crowd into it; which was our case now, wheat harvest having begun. And I was gladder than common of the stir and the bustle, for it helped to stupefy and dull a pain there was at my heart whenever the thought crossed me how soon Harry would be gone. He was to depart on a long voyage to the East Indies, and would indeed have sailed already but for his loving care about his father, which made him resolute to tarry until he saw the old gentleman in a manner provided for. Some perverse whimsy of mine had made me careful never to be left alone in Harry's company since that talk with him by moonlight in the orchard. It's no wonder that I so perfectly recollect all the sayings and doings of that day, for it was a fateful day indeed to some of our little company. But the things that dwelt most constantly in my memory, to the shutting out of weightier matters, were Harry's looks and words on my saying I would be as a daughter to Mr. Truelocke. There was small need to bid me think well of them; I thought of them whether I would or no, all the while telling myself that I was a poor fool for brooding over such airy trifles; that I had not known aught of Harry, nor he of me, six months before; and that I deserved whipping for fancying he could mean anything serious. And so, between a kind of fear and a good deal of pride, I tried, as I have said, to avoid any private talk with him; and I succeeded pretty well. But Harry's blunt, plain-spoken ways overmatched me after all. The first evening after Mr. Truelocke had come to the Grange--I cannot say, after we had him settled there, for he was mightily unsettled--he was not able to rest in the room we had fitted for his study, and so came to sit among us in the hall, seeming to please himself with watching our occupations, as he sat in his great chair. Andrew was writing somewhat at his desk; Althea had some sewing; and I was having a lesson from Aunt Golding in the right use of the little flax-wheel; for I had taken an extraordinary fancy for spinning, and our aunt encouraged me in it, and took pains to teach me, saying I was an apt scholar. Thus we were busied when Harry came in and sat down among us. 'You all look peaceful and content, methinks,' quoth he. 'I wish I were a skilful painter, then might I make a picture of this pretty scene to carry with me and cheer my heart in distant seas. But since I cannot do that, I must try for some other comfort to take away with me.' Here he stopt, and Aunt Golding said kindly, 'What is in my power to do for you, Master Harry, I will do as freely as your father could.' 'Thanks, madam,' said Harry; 'there's much you and my father can do for me; I know only one other person who can do more. Father, I looked for you in your study even now; but I am not sorry to find you here instead, hardly any one here but has some interest in my business with you. I want your consent and Mrs. Golding's to my seeking Mistress Lucy here for my wife.' I heard the words plainly, and I suppose their sense reached me; but if they had been so many blows of an axe upon my head they could not have left me more stupid. So I sat helpless, hearing Aunt Golding cry out,-- 'Here is hasty work, indeed! do you speak seriously, Master Harry?' 'Never more seriously,' said he; 'if they were the last words I should speak I could not mean them more truly and heartily. And I hope you have a good answer for me.' 'I don't say no,' she replied; 'but there are others to be consulted beside me.' So Harry, looking at Mr. Truelocke, said, 'Father, call your thoughts off from your unkind Mother Church, and bestow some of them on your dutiful son. Will you give me your sanction and your blessing, if I can win this lady to say she will be mine?' 'I can never refuse thee my blessing, Harry, and that thou knowest,' said the old man. 'But it's fitting that I should think of the lady too, and bid her consider what she does.' He turned to me, which troubled me greatly, and, looking sadly and kindly at me, said,-- 'If you take this boy of mine, madam,' said he, 'you take the son of a poor, despised, aged man, who can give you and him nothing but a father's blessing, coupled with his burdensome infirmity to care for and tend, till death remove it;' words which loosed my tongue straightway to say I should deem such an office a pride and honour. 'That is not all,' said Mr. Truelocke. 'Harry hath chosen to embrace a dangerous wandering way of life, neither very glorious nor very profitable. And his bride will have to spend many a sad lonely hour, while her husband is tossing on the seas, and she sitting trembling at home, deprived of his protection and doubtful of his fate.' 'That's a very odd way of recommending my suit, father,' said Harry, a little uneasily. 'Nay, I have not done my recommendation,' replied Mr. Truelocke; 'let me say all. You should further consider, Mistress Lucy, that this son of mine is so light of spirit and careless of speech, that some will say he has no constancy of disposition. I will not so far slander him, for I know him better; but this I must say, for it is truth, that he has not yet that confirmed and settled piety I should desire in the husband of mine own daughter, if I had one. Now I have laid before you all the disadvantages of the match, it is for you to say if you will have it.' I wonder if ever a love-suit was so urged before? It made me heartily angry to hear poor Harry so disparaged to his face, and to see him sit so downcast, a cloud of angry colour mounting to his very forehead. I suppose pity for him killed all my bashfulness, for I stood up, and said passionately, I thought no worse of a man for having the bold adventurous nature which loved seafaring; that was a noble trade, I said, and our mariners the very flower of England; and as for light spirit and merry speech, they were but flowers covering a rock, for steadfast as a rock was the heart under that gay show. 'And if you speak of piety,' I wound up, 'I am sure Harry hath as much of it as I have, at least; he has some faith, some love, and so I hope have I; but we will help each other up to better things; and here is my hand on it if he will take it.' With that I held out my hand to him, and he sprang up and grasped it in both his, looking exultingly at his father; it was a pleasure to see how his face had changed all in a moment. Mr. Truelocke smiled, but he shook his head too, saying,-- 'Well, children, I blame you not. The Lord will surely teach you and lead you, it may be in ways you will not like; for it is on my mind that you both have much to learn and much to suffer before your marriage day shall dawn.' And now Aunt Golding, who loved Harry, and never could endure to have him crossed, began to laugh outright. 'I will own,' she said, 'I thought you very unmerciful to your good son, Mr. Truelocke, while you continued to run him down so shamefully; but now I see you took the right way to advance his cause. It's wonderful what a spice of contradiction will do with a woman! Lucy, you would never have made this bold, open confession without some such provocation'--words which abashed me much, for they were true. And now, no one present having a word more to say against it, Harry and I exchanged rings; and Mr. Truelocke in a few pathetic words besought Heaven's blessing on our contract. I do believe Harry would not have been sorry could he have called me wife before he went away; but, every one frowning on this fancy of his when he distantly hinted it, he did not urge it; and truly the time was too short. I was a little afraid of Althea, lest she should think I had every way demeaned myself; but she never has owned that she thought so. 'These things go by destiny, little Lucy,' she said once. 'I am not strong enough to control fate, and certainly you are not; so why should I blame you? Were not all our follies written in the stars when we were born?' I could not tell then what to make of her mocking words, knowing how she despised what people call astrology. As for Andrew, he could talk cheerfully of nothing at this time; and the hopefullest word he could find for Harry and me was that though in these evil days there could be no love-thoughts or marriage-thoughts for such as him, he would not say they were forbidden to others; and he wished us all the happiness we could get; poor cold words; but Harry said 'twas wonderful Andrew could say as much on any worldly matter. This was the manner of our betrothing; and, were it not for Harry's ring still shining on my finger, and also for the odd unusual fashion of the whole thing, which is what I never could have dreamt, I should be sadly apt to think of it as a dream too pleasant to be true. For within a day or two Harry had left us and gone to Hull, from which port he sailed. I have never seen him since; also it is now a full twelve-month since any letter from him reached us. Yet I cannot believe he is dead; and if he is living, I know he is true; and living or dead, I have a strong persuasion that my little ruby ring, which was my mother's once, is on his finger still. But many a time have I thought on Mr. Truelocke's words, how we both should have much to learn and much to suffer before our marriage day. I think the words be true. CHAPTER V. HOW ANDREW MADE ONE ENEMY, AND WAS LIKE TO HAVE ANOTHER. And now my happy time was over; its story is all told so far; and I must write of darker days that came after. The living of West Fazeby, left vacant because of Mr. Truelocke's sturdiness in his opinion, did not wait long for an incumbent, but was quickly bestowed on a Mr. Lambert; a man not troubled with awkward scruples, for he had been a strong Presbyterian under the Commonwealth, and now was become as strong a Churchman; but an honest man as the world goes now, and not hard-hearted. He had another better living where he resided; so our parish was served by his curate, a Mr. Poole, a young man of shallow capacity and but little learning. Mr. Truelocke, however, went to hear him preach;--a strange sight it was to see so reverend, saintly, and able a minister sitting humbly as a listener, while that weak-headed lad spoke from the pulpit;--and he said the youth preached true doctrine; so he continued going to hear him, and encouraged our household to do the like, which they all did, except Andrew. That Mr. Truelocke himself did not join in the new formal prayers was not noticed, his presence at sermon-time seeming to give mighty satisfaction to Mr. Poole, who would often walk up to the Grange of a Lord's Day evening, to ask Mr. Truelocke's opinion of his handling of a text, and would even beg to hear his exposition of the same; when several of our neighbours would also come in and listen thankfully to their old pastor's words; neither we nor they dreaming that such practices could be deemed unlawful, as they soon were, being stigmatized as conventicles, and heavily punished. But this did not happen in Mr. Poole's time. There were other things much less agreeable to us under the new order of things. A monstrous new Maypole was set up on the village green, by command of a gentleman very powerful in the parish, whom I shall soon have to name, and we were told the old heathen May-games would be observed at the right season,--as indeed they were when the time came; meantime the one or two taverns in West Fazeby began to stand open on a Sunday, and were much more frequented than they used to be, men who had formerly been very careful to shun them now going to them boldly in open day; which plainly discovered their former decent carriage to have been a hollow show. Althea and I chanced one day to be passing the Royal Oak, as the chief inn of the village had been new christened, just as there reeled out of it a young gentleman whom every one had deemed a most hopeful pious youth, Mr. Truelocke in particular having a great opinion of him, though I never liked his demure looks for my part, nor his stiff way of dressing himself. He was called Ralph Lacy, and was son and heir to old Mr. Lacy of Lacy Manor, a worthy old gentleman, though somewhat austere, who was lately dead; which I suppose partly accounted for the mighty change in his son, who was now clad in silk and velvet, scarlet and gold; and, as I have said, could not walk too straight at that moment. He stood still, leering foolishly on us, just in our way; I could not bear to look at him, and would have slipt on one side; but Althea looked sternly at him, and said bitterly,-- 'Shame on you, Ralph Lacy! You mourn for your father in a very vile manner; a swine could do no worse.' 'Ah, sweet Mistress Dacre,' said he, 'do you think then the grim, sour-visaged saints are reigning still? Nay, their day is over! we have a right good fellow for a king now, and this shall be Merry England again, I can tell thee.' (He was growing more familiar at every word.) 'I will soon show thee what the ways are at Whitehall now;' and he was coming much nearer to her than was pleasant, when Andrew, who came up with us at that moment, flung him out of our path with such goodwill that Master Lacy measured his length on the ground; and there we left him lying. Althea thanked Andrew warmly and cordially; but Andrew, who had been all glowing with just wrath at first, seemed to shrink into himself at her praise. 'It was a temptation,' he said, 'and I have fallen. I could have taken you out of yon fool's way without laying a finger on him.' 'It's something of a disgrace indeed to have touched the beast--an oaken staff had been fitter than your hand,' she replied. 'Merry England, quotha! drunken England, I suppose he meant.' 'There is too much indeed of the unclean spirit of riot abroad now,' answered Andrew; 'but it is not with violent hands that we can cast it out. I sinfully forgot our Lord's word, "Resist not evil;"' and nothing could brighten him, though Althea did her best all the way home. There came the day when I rued Andrew's angry action as much as he did, though not for the same reason. Ralph Lacy was not too drunk to be unaware who had flung him aside into the dust; he never forgave it; and his hand was plainly seen afterwards in the troubles that came upon us. Another man also contributed something to them, though more innocently. Mr. Poole now came very much about us, and would often talk about the good family he belonged to and his hopes of speedy preferment; and another favourite topic of his was the gay suits he had worn in his secular days; he would dwell very fondly on the cut and trimmings of these clothes. I think nothing misliked him in his profession but the gravity of dress required from a clerical person; and I was often tempted to ask, had his father been a tailor? He made the most of his sober apparel, and loved to show a white, smooth, fat hand, with a fine diamond on one finger; but he was unhappy in an insignificant person and a foolish face, both of them something fatter than is graceful. I do not know what first made me guess that all his boastings and paradings were intended to advance him in Althea's good graces; but she refused to believe me when I said so. 'Poor harmless wretch!' said she; 'he is but practising with me; he would fain perfect himself in the airs and graces of a thriving wooer, before laying siege in earnest to some fair lady, with the heavy purse, that I lack, at her girdle.' 'That's a far-fetched fancy indeed,' said I. 'Why should he single you out alone for such practisings?' 'Well,' quoth Althea idly, 'he may deem me the fittest person to rehearse with, seeing I have at least the breeding of a gentlewoman, and am contracted to no one else. He will think that if his ways and words please me, they may answer with richer women of my sort as well.' 'But sure they do not please you!' I cried; 'nor should you let him think they do; 'tis not fair usage.' 'Nay, he diverts me hugely,' said she; 'and I need diversion, for my heart is heavy as lead, Lucy;'--all at once there were tears in her eyes;--'if I can forget my griefs while I watch a mannikin bowing and grimacing before me, don't grudge me the poor pastime. I assure thee, child, there's nothing more in it;' and with that she left me hastily. I was used to think Althea much wiser than myself, but the evening of the very day when we had this talk proved that in this matter her judgment was more at fault than mine. For about sunset Mr. Poole came up to the Grange, which was a rare thing for him to do, seeing he did not love to be abroad when it was dark. He seemed mightily puffed up about something; and, not being one of those who can keep their own counsel long, he soon imparted to Althea and me, whom he found sitting by the parlour fire, how his promotion now seemed very near. There was a living of which he had long had hopes to get the reversion; and the actual incumbent was fallen sick of a strange fever, with little prospect of recovery. 'And you are troubled because of the poor man's grievous case,' says Althea demurely. 'I guessed something was disturbing you. It's melancholy news indeed, Mr. Poole, for one would guess by it that the place must be unhealthy, so it may be your luck to sicken in like manner when it is your turn to live there.' I thought Althea cruel thus to tease the poor man, imputing to him a tender concern for the sufferer of which he had never dreamed; besides, he was chicken-hearted about contagious disorders, and that she knew. I pitied him then, but found it hard to forbear laughing, his aspect was so comical; therefore I feigned an errand out of the room, and, having stayed away long enough to compose my countenance, I returned to the parlour, where I found poor Mr. Poole on his knees to Althea, urging his suit for her hand with a great deal more passion than one could have expected in him. 'Twas in vain she spoke of her orphanhood and poverty, and told him he should look higher; and at last she had to speak sharply, and say, however she might esteem the honour he would do her, wife of his she would never be; 'so quit that unbecoming posture at my feet,' she added; on which he rose indeed, but said half-frantically,-- 'Give me at least, madam; the comfort of hearing you say you are heart-free, that you love none other better than you do me;' on which first her eyes flashed angry fire, and then changed and softened, her whole face and even her neck going rosy-red, and she said almost kindly,-- 'I will give you no such assurance, sir, to hold you in vain hopes; but I wish you a happier fate than marriage with me might prove.' With that she was gone from the room, like a shadow; and Mr. Poole and I were left foolishly staring at each other. Presently he said hoarsely,-- 'Who is it that your sister loves, madam? for whom does she disdain me? Sure,' he went on, with growing heat, 'it cannot be your cousin--he that is infected with the Quaker heresy! say it is not he, madam.' Well, I was tempted to lie, and say it was not our cousin; for Andrew was nothing akin to us; but I resisted the tempter, and said I could say nothing, but that I was heartily sorry,--'and I am sure, so is my sister,' I said, 'that you should have fixed your affections so unluckily.' Then I told him Andrew had no thoughts of marriage with Althea or any one; and I reminded him of the many rich and fair women who would be sure to look kindly on him; at which he smiled again, and presently went away in no unfriendly mood. So I acquit him of meaning the harm which he afterwards did us, poor youth, with his prattling tongue. He did not wait long for his promotion, the poor man whom he hoped to succeed dying indeed of the fever that had seized him; so we lost our curate. But it seems he prated to his patron about the fair young lady he had hoped should share his preferment, lamenting her silliness in preferring a moonstruck Quaker youth; also he complained of Mrs. Golding for not discouraging such follies, and he even deplored Mr. Truelocke's obstinate heresies as to church discipline. I think even he had held his peace, if he had known into how greedy an ear he poured these tales. This patron of his, one Sir Edward Fane, had much land and not a little power in our parish, though he resided in another neighbourhood; he was a bitter hater of all Nonconformists, and in especial of the Quakers; men said this was because of some encounter he had had with Fox himself, by whose sharp tongue and ready wit our gentleman was put to open shame, where he had hoped to make himself sport out of Quaker enthusiasm. However that might be, it was commonly said this Sir Edward loved Quaker-baiting, as it was called, beyond all other of the cruel, inhuman sports, the bull-baitings and bear-baitings, in which too many men of condition now take pleasure; and it was not long before we found a powerful enemy was raised up against our harmless friends. 'Twas a wonder to me that any would lift a hand against them; Mr. Truelocke being so venerable and so peaceable a man, and Andrew of life so irreproachable. Also, since the youth had cast in his lot with the Friends, he had shown a singular zeal in good works. He sought out those who were in distress or necessity, and laboured to make their hard lot easy, not merely giving them alms, but comforting them as a loving brother might do; and such as had fallen into want through folly or sin he toiled hard to lift up again, and to put them into an honest way of living. By this means some few were led to embrace his way of religion, it is true; and what wonder? My wonder was that so many were vilely ungrateful to him, at which _he_ never showed any vexation. 'We are bidden,' he said, 'to do good to the unthankful and the evil,' which seemed enough for him. But it being contrary to his conscience to attend the church, I suppose all his other graces did but lay him more open to injury, and we were soon warned of mischief hatching against us and him, and that by one from whom we never expected it. CHAPTER VI. HOW MR. TRUELOCKE AND MRS. GOLDING LEFT US. Mr. Poole being gone, there came in his place as curate an oldish man, grey-haired and meagre; a great adorer of Archbishop Laud and of King Charles the First, 'the Royal Martyr,' as he would say; but for all his half Popish notions, he was blameless, nay, austere in his life; and he had thriven so ill in the gay new world of London, that he deemed it great good luck to have the curate's place at West Fazeby. We had half feared that this poor Mr. Stokes would feel bound in conscience to torment and harass Mr. Truelocke into conformity; so when he came to the Grange one day, very earnest to see Aunt Golding and the former Vicar, and that in private, we were on thorns while he stayed; and when we heard the door shut after him, we hurried to our aunt, asking what his errand had been. She answered us not directly, but, gazing after Mr. Stokes, whom Mr. Truelocke was conducting out through the garden, 'Well, my girls,' said she, 'if the tree may be known by its fruits, yon is a right honest man and a true Christian;' and she went on to say how he had only come to warn her and hers of evil that was designed against them. 'I fear,' she said, smiling, 'the good man's conscience pulled him two ways; yet his heart has proved wiser than his head. I am right glad now that Andrew is away, though I was vexed before; yet I knew his was a charitable journey.' Then she told us of new crueller devices intended against the Friends, and, indeed, against all Nonconforming folks. 'And there be some,' she said, 'who have spoken very evil things of us here at the Grange. I warrant you it will not be long that we shall be suffered to have family worship if our labouring men share in it as they are used to do; nor can Mr. Truelocke so much as expound a Psalm to us and them, but it shall straight be said we hold a conventicle here.' 'Surely,' says Althea, very pale, 'the gentlemen who now rule the country are too proud-spirited, too noble, to intermeddle with such matters; what is it to them how we say our prayers in our own houses? Abroad, there may be need of a decent face of uniformity, and some open outrageous follies may require to be put down strongly'--She stopped, and Aunt Golding said,-- 'Ah, child, thou little knowest. I have not yet heard of any outrageous follies that our poor Andrew has run into; yet I am told, and I fear it's true, that if he were to show his face openly in West Fazeby to-morrow, his next lodging might be in York Castle, where he should lie in the foulest den they could find for him, and have the worst company to boot. Nor will it be very safe here for our good Mr. Truelocke, who now talks of taking his journey to certain worthy kinsfolk of his that are farmers in the Dale country, there he may live in a peaceful obscurity; but his chief aim is to avoid bringing troubles on our house.' It struck me cruelly to think of Harry's father leaving us, but I had no time to dwell on the thought, for now Althea sank down at my feet, helpless and senseless like one who was dead indeed; and much ado we had to bring her out of her swoon, which was very long, and she very feeble when she was recovered from it. We got her to her room, and persuaded her to lie down and sleep; and when we came away, Aunt Golding turns to me with a puzzled look, saying,-- 'What means this, Lucy? I never thought your sister one of those fine ladies who swoon for every trifle;--what is it, think you?' 'Andrew,' says I, 'and the image of his danger; you made a frightful picture of it, dear madam, do you know?' 'Ah, set a thief to catch a thief!' says Aunt Golding, and I felt glad to hear her laugh once more; 'my love-passages are of too ancient a date to serve me, it seems, but yours are fresh and new, my Lucy. But what of Andrew? is Althea dear to him?' 'More dear than he knows, or she guesses,' quoth I; at which our good aunt laughed again, but then said,-- 'It's a thing that would have pleased me well, had I been told that it would happen a year ago, but now I see nothing but trouble in it. There would be no equal yoke there, my Lucy. Whatever extravagances Andrew hath fallen into, the love of Christ runs through all he does and thinks. And canst thou say the like of thy sister?' 'Not yet,' I murmured, but Aunt Golding heard me, and said,-- 'Ay, well spoken, Lucy; we will remember that when we pray.' After this, Aunt Golding had a long conference with Matthew Standfast, whom she despatched in pursuit of Andrew, that he might furnish him with money and warn him to keep away from the Grange for a season. And after much trouble, Matthew found him, somewhere on the road to York; when it cost him still more pains to lead his young master into compliance with the prudent courses enjoined on him. 'He talked much,' said Matthew, 'of the honour of suffering for the truth, and how he must not be the vile coward to refuse it. And I had never been able to beat him away from that, but for the excellent counsel of one that was riding with him; I think he was a Quaker also, for he could talk with Master Andrew in his own dialect.' 'What manner of man was he?' said our aunt. 'I can hardly tell,' said Matthew; 'he had a piercing eye, I wot, and a voice as clear as a bell; very neat and seemly he was in his attire, and yet he might have been a ruffling cavalier if one judged by his hair, which he wore long and curled.' 'That is much how George Fox himself has been described to me,' said Aunt Golding. 'Nay, I cannot think it was any such man,' said Matthew, 'for he talked very reasonably, plain sense and plain words, such as a simple man like me could not choose but understand; and one told me how George Fox should be in Lancashire about this time.' 'Well, what said he to persuade my poor lad?' asked aunt. 'Why, he bade him remember certain works of mercy he had already in hand, which should not be neglected to gratify a mad fancy of thrusting his head in the lion's mouth whenever it was opened against him. So Master Andrew was ashamed of his rashness, and was persuaded to take himself away for a time; and we parted very lovingly. He says it shall not be long ere you hear from him, mistress.' I believe, in spite of Matthew's contrary opinion, that Andrew's counsellor was no other than the famous man whom our aunt had named. But I have no proof of this, only mine own strong persuasion. Not many days hereafter, we had proof that Mr. Stokes had been very honest in his warning to us. There came constables to the Grange, who showed a warrant to seize the body of Andrew Golding, charged with many strange misdemeanours, but especially with refusing the Oaths of Supremacy and Allegiance. I do not believe the poor youth ever had refused them; but this was the common trap set for the Friends, who were known to decline all oath-taking, because of that saying of our Lord's, 'Swear not at all,'--a harmless scruple at the worst, which never ought to be used, as I think, against honest and peaceable subjects. We were now heartily glad that Andrew was absent, and that we could truly say, we knew not where he was; nor were the constables much grieved at it. One of them found an occasion of whispering to Aunt Golding, 'If you can get word to the young man, let him know this air is unwholesome for him just now;' after which they went hastily away. And now we began to be haunted with spies, our steps seeming to be dogged even in our own garden, where we were aware of people moving about behind trees and bushes, as if hearkening after our talk; or we caught sight of faces peering in at the windows when we were at evening prayer. Also our friends and neighbours began to shun us as if we had the plague, and no one more than Mrs. Bonithorne, who had been a great worshipper of Mr. Truelocke, but now, as we heard, blamed him openly for his lack of true obedience to the powers that be, 'which are ordained of God,' she would often add. It was her husband who told us this as a good jest; but it hurt Mr. Truelocke, and he became more set on his design of leaving the Grange, and betaking himself to his kinsfolk in Cumberland, where among the waste and lonely mountains he might linger out his days without offence to any. I could not hear him talk of this plan without tears, which he perceiving tried to stop. 'Seest thou, dear child,' he would say, 'all these discomforts come upon this house because of my abode in it; for as for poor Andrew, he is known to be elsewhere, and however peaceably I may behave myself, you will be allowed no peace till I am either gone out of sight like him, or lodged in gaol for some fancied offence. Which were best, thinkest thou, Lucy?' and when I had no answer but weeping, he would leave that point and begin to talk of Harry's ship, the _Good Hope_, of which we had got some news, and would speak hopefully of the joyful meeting we should have when that ship came home. Alas, I fear he was no prophet! But he was not to be turned from his intention; and presently he was gone indeed, in the company of Mr. Bonithorne, who had business in the north country, and who undertook with a great deal of satisfaction to let no one, and especially not his wife, into the mystery of his having this reverend travelling companion. And now the Grange seemed a sad lonely house indeed; for every day and all day long we missed that noble white head, that kindly presence, that voice still musical and tender in spite of seventy years of service. Those spyings and watchings of us, which had helped to drive away our fatherly friend, were a little intermitted when he was gone; but the poor benefit was counterpoised with a heavy trouble, for now our Aunt Golding began to decline, falling into a strange lingering kind of fever, which the doctors could not understand. I think it was nothing but trouble of heart which caused it, for she was mightily disquieted about Andrew. There was reason to think it would be as unsafe as ever for him to return home, and letters from him were very rare; he could not often find a messenger whom he would trust, and this difficulty was increased by his wandering about the country as he did, which yet was deemed the best way for him to live. So being often a prey to anxious thoughts, the poor lady pined and faded away, and presently catching a cold, she began to be troubled with difficulty in breathing, and her sleep went from her. It was now that we learned the worth of Grace Standfast, who fairly took us poor silly girls in hand as her pupils, setting us tasks to do both in the house and the sick chamber, and keeping us in heart with cheerful words and looks. But for all her skill and her cheerfulness, our patient visibly grew worse and worse, and as the year wore into winter, we saw that we should lose her. And now there befell a strange thing, which I will tell just as it happened, and I think there can be no superstition in dwelling on it so far. Aunt Golding's sickness had now become so sore, that it was needful for one of us always to watch with her; and on the night I speak of it was my turn to do so. She was very uneasy the first part of my watch, but about midnight she fell into a deep sleep, and continued so for an hour, when, hearing no sound, I went to look on her, and saw such heavenly peace on her sleeping countenance, that I could have thought a light shone from it like the glory about a saint's head in a picture. I do not know how long I had stood gazing on her, when all at once she woke, and, smiling at me,-- 'Is it thou, Lucy?' said she; 'that is well. I have good news for thee;' at which I began to fear she was light-headed, for how should she have news that I knew not? But presently she went on, with many pauses because of her difficult breathing. 'Thou hast grieved much, Lucy, thinking thy sailor would never come home to thee again; be at peace, he shall come home, a better man,--and find thee a holier woman for all the troubles thou shalt have seen.' 'How do you know? how can you tell?' I cried. 'I cannot tell thee now,' she said, 'but I do know. And thou hast seen, dear heart, how I have grieved over my Andrew--my heart's child, the comfort of my old age; I have thought he was clean gone out of the right way, for all his sincerity. It has been shown me in my sleep, that I had no need thus to grieve. His rashness may bring him sharp trials, but even through those shall he enter in. The light that leads him is the true Light. And though he and his fellows are but erring men,--like all others,--yet even their trivial errors shall have their use; in days to come men shall say that these despised and persecuted believers have done nobly--for their country and for the world.' 'Then, do you think,' I said, in some trouble, 'that we are all wrong, and only Andrew and those like-minded in the right?' 'Nay, dear heart,' said she, 'I think not so. The paths are many--but the Guide is one. Let us only follow His voice,--and He will bring us to His Father's house in safety. I have comfort about thy sister too,' she added presently, 'though I fear it is not such as she can value yet. Do not forget, dear child, to have Mr. Stokes sent for to-morrow; I wish to receive the most comfortable Sacrament of the Lord's Supper once more--with you all, before I go hence.' As she said the last words, her voice sank away, and I saw that she was sleeping once more. The next day we did as she had bidden, in sending for Mr. Stokes, who accordingly came, and gave the Communion to all our household, as well as to our poor aunt. I never liked him better than on that day. But a sad day it proved to us, for we all saw plainly how our second mother was now a dying woman. I think she hardly said twenty words to one of us thereafter, but quietly slept and dreamed her life away, and on the third day she was gone. This was last winter, the winter of 1664; and I remember how all that melancholy time the people were greatly disturbed about the comet that was to be seen, wondering what mischiefs it should betoken; I saw it myself, but so full was my mind of my private griefs, I cared not much about ill omens to the State. Indeed, one thing that soon happened was very distressing to us, and I shall shortly relate what it was. CHAPTER VII. HOW ANDREW CAME TO THE GRANGE BY NIGHT. It was about a ten days after Mrs. Golding's death, and we were beginning to feel as if our desolation was a thing that had always been and always would be, for so I think it often seems when a grief is new. However desolate we were, we were not destitute; she who was gone had cared for that, and we found a modest dower secured to each of us, without injury to Andrew's rightful inheritance of the Grange and the lands belonging thereto; also we were to continue dwelling in the Grange till its new master should come home and make such dispositions as pleased him. But for all this we were greatly perplexed; we had been long without news of Andrew, and could not tell how to get word to him of Mrs. Golding's death. On the day I speak of, we had been teased by a visit from Mrs. Bonithorne, who, professing great sorrow for our loss, and her own loss of one whom she called her oldest friend, soon fell to talking of Andrew, and how his unlucky doings were all owing to our good aunt's foolishness in entertaining so pestilent a heretic as James Westrop under her roof. 'I warned her of it,' quoth she; 'I said to her, "You will rue it yet, Margaret; with such an one you should have no dealings, no, not so much as to eat," and now see what has come of her perverseness!' and such-like stuff she said, which moved Grace Standfast to say disdainfully, when our visitor was gone, 'Yon woman surely owes us a little grudge, that 'twas our house and not hers which entertained so rare a monster as a wandering Quaker; she asked me twenty questions about him the day after, I remember it well; but we hardly had heart to laugh, though we were sure enough she had given no such warnings as she spake of. Althea only sighed and said, ''twas an evil day for her when she first saw that man;' and as she told me, his two appearances to us haunted her as she went to rest, and mingled themselves with her dreams. She woke at last sharply and suddenly, thinking she heard the hail rattling against the windows as it did when Mr. Truelocke preached his last sermon in our church; but it was not hail that rattled, it was some one throwing sand and pebbles up at her window to wake her, and then a voice calling on her name. She sprang up, and, hurrying on some clothes, she ran down-stairs; for, as she told me, she had no more doubt of its being Andrew who called, than if it had been broad daylight, and she could see him standing below the window; and, being too impatient to unlock any door, she undid the hasp of the nearest casement and climbed out; and at the same moment hearing a voice again calling softly, 'Althea,' she ran in the direction of the sound, and came upon a man whom in the starlight she saw to be Andrew indeed; she spoke his name, holding out both her hands, and he turning at once grasped them in both his, and so they stood gazing at each other awhile. Then she said, half sobbing,-- 'You come strangely, Andrew--but you come to your own house, and I am glad that it falls to me to welcome you to it; it lacks a master sadly;' and she tried to draw him towards the door, telling him she would set it open if he would tarry a few minutes while she herself climbed in to do it. 'Alas!' he said, resisting her efforts; 'what do you mean by calling this my house? is our aunt indeed gone? I had hoped that part of the message might be a delusion.' 'What message? I sent none, for I knew not where to send, nor did any of us,' she replied; 'but it is too true that Mrs. Golding is dead these ten days; and all things are at a stand for lack of your presence. Come in; do not keep me here in the darkness and the cold.' 'I will not keep thee long,' he said sadly; 'fear it not, Althea. But I may not come under this roof which thou sayest is mine. I saw the dim light in your window,' he went on, like one talking in a dream, 'and I could not bear to pass by and make no sign, as I ought to have done. For I love thee too well, Althea Dacre, as thou knowest.' 'How can it be too well,' she answered boldly, 'if you do not love me better than I do you? and therefore come in to your own home, or I will not believe there is any love in you at all.' 'That's a foolish jest,' said he half angrily. 'I may not cross the doorstone of this house to-day, Althea; I am forbidden; so hear me say what I came to say. There is a heavy burden laid on me. For seven nights together I saw in vision a dark terrible angel, having his wings outspread and holding in his hand a half-drawn glittering sword; he was hovering over this land of England; and it was shown me that he was a messenger of wrath bidden to smite the land with a pestilence. Now there be those far holier than I who have seen the like vision; but to me came the word that I must go up to London, where this year the plague shall be very sore, and as I go I must warn all men, that they may repent and amend, before this judgment fall on them.' There was that in his voice and words that made Althea tremble like a leaf; she did not disbelieve in his visions while she heard him; but she strove against the impression, and cried out, when she could find her voice, that this was indeed madness. 'You have no right,' she said, 'to desert your natural and lawful duties, and your poor kinswomen too, who are desolate; you will break our hearts, you will ruin yourself, and all for a delusion.' 'It is no delusion,' said he; 'your own words, Althea, have confirmed to me the truth of my mission. For it was said to me, "This shall be a sign to thee, that Margaret, the widow of thy father's brother, lies sick even to death; and thou shalt see her face no more, nor come under her roof." And is it not so? for her face is buried out of our sight,'--his voice shook,--'so dost not see, Althea, I may not come in as thou wouldst have me? Furthermore, I believe my earthly pilgrimage shall come to its end in London; I cannot be sure; but, I think, I return no more alive. That is why I hungered so for one last look at thee, Althea; also I wished as a dying man to entreat thee not to despise the Lord's poor people any more. Now I must go; farewell, dear heart, for ever;' and with these words he assayed to go; but, as she told me afterwards, she clutched at his coat, passionately protesting he should never go; and when he unlocked her hands, and besought her not to hinder him, she dropt on the ground at his feet, clasped him round the knees, and called on me with all her might. 'Help, Lucia! help, sister!' were the words that woke me, and sent me flying with breathless speed to the place whence the call came. I climbed through the window which I found open, and ran to the spot where I could discern that a struggle was going on; but as I came up Andrew had got himself loosed; and, saying low and thickly to me,-- 'Look to your sister, take her in instantly,' he turned and fled as a man might flee for his life, while Althea threw herself on the cold ground, moaning and sobbing like a creature mortally hurt. I took her in my arms and raised her up, asking her, all amazed, was that indeed Andrew? but she did nothing but wring her hands and implore me to follow him and fetch him back; and I had much trouble to persuade her that was useless and hopeless for us at that hour of the night. At last she was won to rise and return to the house; and we both found it a difficult matter to get in where we had got out easily enough; which Mr. Truelocke, I doubt not, would have moralized in his pleasant way into a sort of holy parable. But I have not that gift, and I suppose 'twas the hope in Althea's breast and the fear in mine which had raised our powers for a moment and made a hard thing easy. [Illustration: 'Look to your sister, take her in instantly.'] When we had recovered a little, and had got safely to my room, Althea recollected herself and told me every word that had passed; and we both agreed that Andrew was running himself into new and strange dangers in pursuance of what he held as a Divine call. I noted it as a new thing in Althea, that she could no longer scoff at this belief of his in the inward heavenly voice that must be obeyed; but this matter was very terrible to us; and we talked of it till daylight, without coming to any conclusion as to what we were best to do about it. CHAPTER VIII. HOW A STRANGE MESSENGER BROUGHT US NEWS OF ANDREW. And now we had a time of unceasing disquiet. It was soon noised abroad that the heir to the Grange was missing, and his house and lands left masterless; and there presently appeared first one and then another of the Goldings, far-off kinsmen of Andrew; these persons came to the house to examine it, and talked much with the Standfasts; also they tried to find out what my sister and I knew of Andrew's doings; some of them went to York to talk with Aunt Golding's lawyer; and it was not hard to see that they would have been glad to get certain news of Andrew's death. This made their coming hateful to us; but the house not being our own, we could not shut them out. We did what we could to get news of Andrew; but there was small comfort in the scanty intelligence we could glean, since it all pointed to his having indeed gone up to London, and having preached woe and judgment on his way thither. And had it not been that we sometimes got comfortable letters from Mr. Truelocke, telling of his quiet untroubled life in the Dale country, I had now been unhappy enough; for we were ever hearing tales of the evil handling of all kinds of Dissenters; even young maidens and little children being pelted, whipped, and chained for the crime of being of Quaker parentage and belief, while hundreds of Nonconformists of that sort and other sorts were thrown into prison and left there. I suppose it was the mad doings of the Fifth Monarchy men, as folks called them, which stirred up such a persecuting spirit; so at least said the people of our village, who now began to come about us again, with some show of former kindness; but they proved very Job's comforters to us, by reason of the frightful stories they loved to retail. There was one good soul whom I loved well to see, who yet gave me many a heart-quake; it was a Mrs. Ashford, wife to a small farmer near us; a lad of hers had sailed with my Harry, and thus she would often come to talk over the hopes and fears we had in common, and to exchange with me whatever scraps of sea-news we could pick up. So one day, as we sat talking,-- 'It may be,' says she, 'we shall see things as terrible here in England, as any that can befall our darlings at sea;' and I asking what she meant, she told me she had learnt from certain poor seamen that the Plague was assuredly on its way to us, having been creeping nearer and nearer for a year and a half. 'A Dutch ship from Argier in Africa,' says she, 'brought it first to Amsterdam, where it grows more and more; and 'tis certain, in another Dutch ship, a great one, all hands died of the Plague, the ship driving ashore and being found full of dead corpses, to the great horror and destruction of the people there; which makes our people tremble, because of our nearness to Holland and our traffic with it.' 'I heard something of this,' I said, 'last summer, but it seemed an idle tale only, that died away of itself.' 'It is no idle tale,' answered she; 'see you not, sweet lady, the infection itself died away somewhat in the cold winter; but now that spring comes on so fast, the sickness and people's fears of it revive together. You will see.' Well, this news was frightful to me for Harry's sake. I began to tremble lest perchance the _Good Hope_ should be visited like that Dutch ship; but I did not breathe such a fear to Mrs. Ashford. And as the spring drew on, and war with the Dutch was in every mouth, we had a new terror; for now if our sailors came safe home, they could scarce escape being impressed for the king's service; so we knew not what to wish for. The spring being more than ordinarily hot, doubled the apprehensions of the Plague; and some time in April, as I think, news came down that it had broken out indeed in London. 'Twas said it came in a bale of silk, brought from some infected city, and the fear of it increased mightily; and we, remembering Andrew's strange vision, were not less in terror than our neighbours. About that time I was busy one morning in the front garden, when a gentleman in black came in at the gate, and was making up to the hall door, when, espying me, he stopped, beckoning with his hand, and seeming to want speech with me. He was muffled in a cloak, and his hat pulled over his brows, so I could not tell who he was; yet I went to meet him, and when I was near enough,-- 'I think, madam,' says he, in an odd husky voice, 'you have a kinsman who took his way up to town some weeks ago? I bring news of him;' on which I begged he would come in and tell it to my sister also; but he said,-- 'There is much sickness in town; I am newly come from it; it were more prudent for me to speak with you here;' on which I ran and fetched Althea out; and the man said, 'I do not pretend, madam, that my news is good news. Your kinsman demeaned himself strangely on his coming up, denouncing wrath and woe against the poor citizens, speaking much evil of both Court and City; I am told his civillest name for one was Sodom, and for the other Gomorrah.' Here Althea said scornfully, if all tales were true, those names were fit enough; and the stranger replied, that might be, but civil speech was best. 'People took your kinsman's preachings very unkindly,' he continued; 'the more so when the Plague he prophesied of began to show itself; then he was called a sorcerer; and to make a long story short, he was taken up for a pestilent mad Quaker, and clapt into gaol. I looked on him there; and in gaol he lies still, and may lie for me.' With that he plucked his cloak away from his face, and, lifting his hat, made us a deep, mocking bow, and we saw it was Ralph Lacy; but such a ghastly change I never saw on any man. His face was livid, his eyes, deep sunk in his head, glared like coals of fire; and when he began to laugh, his look was altogether devilish. 'You did not know me, pretty one,' he said to Althea, 'did you? When I had seen Golding laid in gaol, I swore none but I should bring you the joyful news; and I can tell you he is worse lodged than even his great prophet, Fox himself, at whose lodging in Lancaster Castle I looked this year with great pleasure--very smoky, and wet, and foul it is.' 'Wretch!' said Althea; 'do you exult over the sufferings of harmless, peaceable men?' 'Harmless and peaceable, quotha?' said he; 'it was one of these peaceable creatures flung me into the dust like a worm; but the worm turns, you know. I took much pains to requite that kindness, and now I cry quits with Master Andrew.' 'Your wickedness shall return on your own head! I pray God it may!' cries Althea, trembling with indignation. 'Past praying for, madam,' said the reckless wretch, 'for I have the Plague upon me. I stayed too long up in town, out of love to your friend and mine. I shall be a dead corpse to-morrow; and why should not you have the sickness as well as I?' With that he came towards her, as if to embrace her, when we both shrieked aloud, and turned to fly; and Matthew Standfast, coming suddenly between us with a spade uplifted in his hand, bade the miserable man keep his distance, and asked what he wanted. On which Lacy said wildly,-- 'A grave, man--I want nothing but a grave, and any ditch will furnish me that,' with which he went away. Matthew, good man, was troubled when we told him Lacy's words. 'If the wretched fellow have the sickness indeed,' he said, 'he might die in a ditch for all his own people care;' and that same night he went to Lacy Manor, inquiring after its master. It proved that, on leaving the Grange, the man went straight home, and up-stairs to bed, saying he was weary, and must not be disturbed for an hour or two; and there he now lay dead. None of the servants had guessed what ailed him, and they were taken with such a fear they would not stay to see him buried, but fled, and laid that charge on poor, good Mr. Stokes, who discharged it with true Christian courage; after which the Manor was shut up for many a day, till the next heir's covetousness got the better of his fears. This matter caused great terror; but the Plague spread no further in our parish, and so the people forgot it somewhat after a time. But Althea could not forget Lacy's words about Andrew, nor could I persuade her they were false tales spoken in pure despite; she brooded over them, remembering all the tales we had heard of good men's sufferings in poisonous infected dungeons; and at last she said to me,-- 'I wish Lacy had but said in what prison he saw our Andrew; however, it was in London, Lucy? sure he said London?' 'Ay,' said I, 'that's what he said, if you can pin any faith on the raving talk of a plague-stricken man.' 'He spoke truth,' said she; 'I am too sure of it. Now there will not be so many gaols in London town, Lucy, but I can find out where Andrew lies; and if I cannot have him out, I can supply his wants at least.' 'Althea, Althea, you do not dream of going up?' I cried; 'it were sinful madness! By all accounts the sickness increases there from day to day; the poor people die like flies.' 'I care not,' says she; and I found her immoveably set on taking this journey speedily. She was getting together all the money she could, and her jewels too, intending to turn them into money if needful; and she was packing some clothes in very small compass, so as to carry them herself as she journeyed. 'It is not likely,' she said, 'that I shall find companions on such a journey. I must learn to be my own servant.' But I had soon resolved that one companion she should have, and that should be myself; so, after a few more vain efforts to shake her resolution, I acquainted her with mine; and with incredible trouble I got her to agree to it, for I said at last that the roads were as free to me as to her; if she so disliked my company as she said, she might take the right side of the way and I would take the left. 'But where thou goest,' said I, 'there will I go, Althea.' 'Take heed,' she replied instantly, 'that it be not "Where thou diest I will die, and there will I be buried."' 'So let it be,' I said, 'if it is Heaven's will; but you go not up alone;' upon which she yielded, saying she had not thought I had so much sturdiness. I cannot deny I thought it a mad expedition, though I dreamed not of the straits into which we have since been driven. But I had prayed again and again for guidance, and always it grew clearer to me that I must cleave to my sister. So I made haste to get ready for our wild journey; and after Althea's example, I sewed certain moneys and jewels into the clothes I wore, and put a competent sum in my purse. Then came the telling the Standfasts of our intent. They opposed it at first with all their might, and no wonder; then, their anxiety about Andrew making them yield a little, Matthew took his stand on this, that we must have some protector. 'A man-servant you have at least, or you do not stir,' quoth he. 'But you cannot be spared from this place,' we urged; 'and who else is there faithful and bold enough for such a service?' 'Leave me alone for that,' said he. And the evening before our departure he brought to us a strange attendant indeed, but one who proved most trusty. It was a poor fellow of the village, who had once been in service at Lacy Manor; but the young Squire hated him, and got him turned away in disgrace, after which no man would employ him, and he fell into great wretchedness. But Andrew came across him, and not only relieved his distress, for he was almost dead for hunger, but put him in a way of living on his own land. So, partly for love of Andrew, and partly from true conviction, poor Will Simpson, so he was called, turned to the Quaker way of thinking. I do not know if he was acknowledged as a proved Friend, he had some odd notions of his own. But he showed himself a peaceable, industrious fellow, and he loved Andrew as a dog might love a kind master that had saved it from drowning. Indeed there was something very dog-like about honest Will. Without having any piercing wit, he had a strange sagacity at the service of those he loved; and his dull heavy face sometimes showed a great warmth of affection, making it seem almost noble. When Matthew told him wherefore he was wanted, he was all on fire to go. He left his hut, and work, and woodman's garb, Matthew having got him a plain serving-man's suit, in which he looked still a little uncouth; and thus he came eagerly to us and begged to be taken with us. Then with no escort but this poor fellow, who, however, knew the road well, and was strong and sturdy, we set forth on our way up to London, bidding adieu to none in West Fazeby, as the Standfasts had advised. I believe it was supposed in the village that we were gone to Mr. Truelocke. CHAPTER IX. HOW WE WENT UP TO LONDON, AND FOUND NO FRIENDS THERE. I hoped little from the first plan on which Althea relied for obtaining Andrew's release. Her trust was in Mr. Dacre, since he was a great courtier, and she thought his influence might avail to get one poor Quaker set free. 'I shall not get his help for nothing,' said she; 'that were an idle hope. But I know his expenses to be very great, out of proportion to his means; so if I bring a heavy purse in my hand to interpret between him and me, I am sure of a kind and favourable hearing.' She was almost gay while she dwelt on this plan, and it furnished the most of our talk on the first day or two of our journey. It was very hot summer weather, a little sultry; yet travelling would have been pleasant enough had our minds been easy, which they could not be. It was hard to go fast enough for Althea, Will having to make her understand it was small wisdom to hurry our horses beyond their strength; then she went sighing out,-- 'Oh for a horse with wings! or could one only ride on the speed of fire! It will be a week, I dare swear, before we see St. Paul's,' and she grudged herself time to eat and sleep. There was nothing very noticeable on the way, but the vast amazement expressed by all who found that we were going up to London. And as we got nearer our journey's end, we began to find that the inn-keepers distrusted us not a little, suspecting us of escaping out of the town, and making only a false pretence of journeying up to it. Will, however, was so plainly a blunt, simple fellow, that his word was taken where ours was doubted. Now and then we heard news of the war: first there was talk of a great victory at sea over the Dutch, won the third day of June, at which the Court and City were rejoicing mightily, half forgetting their home perils; then came contrary news, how this victory was no victory, but rather a disgrace to us, and that our ships were shamefully commanded, which I believe was the truer tale; so my thoughts flew at once to my Harry and his father. I had writ to Mr. Truelocke about our journey, but there had been no time for an answer; and I fell to musing what those two would think of our wild adventure, and wondering if Harry had been seized for the king's service, like many others; but all was vain conjecture, and I had to resign them and myself up to God's guidance; the safest and most blessed way, as I was fast learning; for since Aunt Golding's death I think a change had come over me; I had learned a true hate of mine own sins, and had found One in whose sufficiency I could trust to save me from them, and to guide me in all things. I will not enlarge on this now, however. So with hopes and fears, despairing and trusting, the days of travel wore away; and late in a sultry summer evening we came into London. We put up for the night at a decent inn, kept by some people named Bell, which our father had sometimes used when we were with him; the people remembered him, and were civil to us. My poor sister could scarce sleep all that night; and the landlady coming herself to wait on us at breakfast, Althea took occasion to ask her, did she know Mr. John Dacre? and finding she did, she got from her particular information about his house, and the way to it, and the hours when he was to be found there; all which the good woman imparted cheerfully, but could not help pitying our rashness in coming up to town. 'I live a dying life,' she said, 'for terror of the contagion; I would never have run into it;' which words we passed over at that time, but had to call them to mind after. According to her information, Mr. Dacre rarely stirred from home before noon; so we set off betimes to find him. Will, walking behind us, looked about in amaze at the half empty streets, the many closed shops, and houses uninhabited, and at last, fetching a great sigh, he said,-- 'Methinks, mistresses, this whole town looks like a gaol, and the folk go about like condemned prisoners.' 'Ay,' says Althea; 'but there are worse gaols within this gaol, Will. Here, the sun shines and the wind blows on us; not so where your master lies;' and she hastened her steps, which were swift before. Mr. Dacre's house proved to be a very stately and fair one, towards the west end of the town; it stood in a broad, very quiet street; too quiet, I thought. Althea bade Will knock boldly at the door; 'We will not be too humble,' says she; and he knocked loudly enough, once, twice, thrice; but no one came to open to us, and our knocking seemed to echo and re-echo strangely through the house. 'Sure,' says Althea, 'all the folks cannot be asleep; 'tis past ten o'clock,' and she knocked once more. There was a gentleman come out of a neighbouring house, who had looked curiously at us; he now drew near, and, standing a little way off, called out, 'It is little use to knock at that door, ladies--the master is dead a week since, and the house stands empty;' at which Althea turned a deadly pale face to him, saying,-- 'Do not mock us--sure, it cannot be so.' The man, looking compassionately at her, now came up to us and said, 'Nay, my words are too true, madam. Have you any interest in this Mr. Dacre?' 'I am his cousin,' said Althea, 'and I am come up from the North on great occasion, to see my kinsman and claim his help.' 'Alas!' said the gentleman; 'he is past rendering help to any. It was mightily suspected,' said he whisperingly, 'that he died of the Plague; but your great rich folks can smother these matters up. This is certain, that he had secret and hasty burial, and all his family are fled and gone, without so much as locking the door behind them, as it is said; but I think none have been so bold as to try that; men love their lives too well to venture within; nor would I advise you to do it.' 'No, no,' said Althea a little wildly; 'I will not take the Plague and die--not yet; I have work to do;' at which the man smiled pityingly, and added,-- 'You would not find Mr. Dacre here now, were he in life--he designed to follow the Court, which is removed to Salisbury for safety; but he lingered about some money matters, which have cost him very dear, as I think;' and bowing to us he walked hastily away. Well, we knew not what to do now, and so returned to our inn, where we sat the rest of the day in the room we had hired, talking over our few acquaintance in town, but unable to hit on one who would have will and power to help us much. Our good hostess served us again at supper, and asked how we sped in our search for Mr. Dacre; so unthinkingly we told her the whole tale; at which her colour changed and she left the room without saying a word in answer. That night we slept heavily for very trouble; so we were not aware of a great stir there was in the night; for Mrs. Bell, the poor landlady, was taken very ill about midnight, the maids were called up, and a physician sent for; they had some trouble to find one; but when he came he told them plainly that her disorder, which they and she too had feared was the Plague, was nothing but pure terror; our careless words about Mr. Dacre's death having struck such a fear in her as to throw her into a kind of fever. Will told us this news in the morning, and we were grieved at our foolishness, and wondered at hers; but we had little time for lamenting, as we were setting forth to visit a distant kinswoman of our father's, who, being rich and well reputed, we thought might be able to help us. But here we fared no better,--not that the lady was dead; but she had gone out of town on the first alarm of the sickness, leaving her house locked up and empty, as the neighbours told us. So we went back to our inn yet more cast down; but there we stayed not long, for we were scarce got to our room when the landlord came to us, very angry, and said, had he known we had been visiting an infected house, we had never come into his; and he bade us to pack up and be gone within the hour, that he might have every place purified where we had come. Our horses, he said, might stand in his stable; but we saying we would remove them, he spoke more plainly, and said he should keep them as security for what we owed. 'I will take no money from you,' he said; 'you may have the Plague in your purses for all I know;' and he left us, saying if we went not quickly we should be put out by force. This brutal usage dismayed me; but Althea said, 'Poor wretch! he is half crazed with fear; that makes mean men cruel; care not for him;' and when we were ready, giving our packages to Will, she led the way out with a determined aspect, having, as I soon found, embraced a strange--nay, a desperate resolution. For Will asking her, 'Which way will ye turn now, mistress? In _this_ street no inn will open to us, for sure;' she replied,-- 'We will not seek any inn; we will betake ourselves to our cousin's empty house.' 'You mean not Mr. Dacre's?' I cried. 'But I do,' said she. 'We have a right to shelter there; and the door is open.' I exclaimed against this as a tempting of Providence, persuading her first to try some other house of entertainment; and at last she agreed. Now, whether our great distraction of mind gave us a haggard and sickly aspect, or whether 'twas merely the suspicion and hardness of heart bred in all people by terror, I cannot tell; but no one would take us in, some saying flatly they would receive no lodgers they did not know, and know to be sound. The day wearing fast away in these vain applications, Althea says to me,-- 'You see we must try my plan at last. I bid you think scorn, my Lucy, of yielding to such base fears as make folk turn us from their doors.' 'It is not that I fear infection as they do,' said I; 'but I shrink from dwelling in a house not our own, and lying open to any thief.' 'Baby fears, Lucy,' she said, smiling. 'We will do our cousins a better turn than they merit; we will keep their doors fast against thieves, and their household stuff from moth and mould and rust. For the infection, we run as little risk in that house as out of it.' So she bore me down with her will, the more easily since we had no choice but either to lodge in that house or in the open street. But Will said sturdily, 'Mistresses, you may do as you will; I will neither eat nor sleep in that evil house. There is a scent of death and sin breathing from it; I perceived it as we stood at the door.' 'And will you desert us then, Will?' said Althea. 'Have you come so far, to forsake us now?' 'Who spoke of forsaking?' growled Will. 'I can find some balk, some cobbler's stall, without the house, to sleep on, if you will lodge within. The watch-dog lies not in the house, I trow? But if you must lodge there, enter not openly, nor let it be known you are within; you may be suspected for thieves or worse.' 'Yours is no fool's advice,' said Althea shortly. So we lingered out the time till nightfall in buying some needful things,--bread and meat and candles,--having to walk far before we found shops open; then, as night thickened, we stole into the desolate house, and groped our way to a room at the back, where we lit our candles and looked about us. 'Twas a richly furnished withdrawing-room, with windows open on a garden. 'There will I sleep,' said Will. 'I had rather have the free sky over me than this roof; so give me but a hunch of bread to sup on, and let me go.' There was little use in crossing him, so we gave him some meat and bread; but we prayed his help first to make all the doors fast, which he willingly did; then he showed us how to secure the window after him, and so slipt out into the night. Now we looked at one another, and felt desolate and dismayed for a moment. Then I said, 'Let us commend our cause to God, sister; He will hear us;' and we knelt down together and implored the Divine protection; after which we felt at peace, and so took courage to sup on the food we had brought. Then we made fast our door on the inside, and lay down to sleep on the floor, with our mantles for coverlets and our bundles for pillows. I never slept in such rude fashion, nor ever more sweetly and soundly. Early in the morning there came a tapping at the window that wakened me; so I rose and drew back the curtain, and saw that Will was moving about in the garden. We let him in shortly, and gave him some food, which he carried with him out of doors; then, coming back, he excused his incivility of the night before. 'But I cannot eat nor sleep here,' said he. 'In all other matters I am your servant.' He had lodged for the night in an empty dog-kennel, which he showed us, close against a side-door that led out to the street. 'There,' said he, 'I can do you better watchman's service than if I lay within; and by that door you may come and go unespied of any gossips.' Althea smiled, and commended his thoughtfulness. Then she said,-- 'You will come with us now, Will? We must examine this house;' so he stepped in, shuddering, and looking round almost with horror. However rich the room, it was in great disorder; and when we went up-stairs we found matters no better--beds half stript, chests and cabinets left open, floors strewed with things pulled forth in haste and left there. We pitched on one sleeping-room to the back, to use ourselves; and, having satisfied ourselves that no evil-disposed person lay hid in any room, we shut them all up (the keys being left in the locks) except that sleeping-room, the parlour we had first entered, the kitchen, and one great room looking to the front, agreeing to use no other apartments; and to this rule we kept, except when, as I have told, I went a-hunting for means to write this history. That work of examining the house was terrible to me, especially when we looked into Mr. Dacre's own chamber. There we found a mighty rich bed, with hangings of silk and silver, and all the toilet furniture in silver also; with couches and cushions richly wrought, and certain splendid garments, with a jewelled sword, left flung upon them, as if the owner had just put them off; but all was disordered wildly, as if by the dying struggles of a madman, and the gorgeousness seemed to add to the horror of it. I trembled as I looked at the glimmering mirror and thought of what it might have reflected; our cousin's image seemed to rise up in all his pride and bravery as I last saw him, but with the ghastly face of death; so I hurried out and flung the door to behind us, and Althea turned the key in the lock. After which we avoided passing that way; for the place was not less dreadful to her than to me; she acknowledged it made her remember what we had heard of the great burying-pit in Aldgate, and the dishonoured corpses that were flung into it, heaps upon heaps. 'He may have gone to that grave from this splendid chamber--it's a hideous mockery,' she said. CHAPTER X. HOW WE DWELT IN A HOUSE THAT WAS NOT OUR OWN. And now Althea began her search after Andrew, with none to help her but poor me and honest Will. Our chief care being not to be seen going out or coming in, she chose to steal forth of the back door early in the mornings; sometimes I with her, sometimes Will, but one of us always staying in the house to watch it, and to open at nightfall to the others. Althea went to such shops as she could find open and bought things, sometimes mere trifles, sometimes food and other necessaries, but always spending much time over it, and both listening to the talk of other folk, and drawing the shop-people into talk herself; when she contrived to work round to the prisons, and the poor souls in them, and how they fared in these bad times. Once or twice she took a boat and went up the river, and then was wondrous affable to the watermen, setting them talking also on the same matters; and thus she did with every one whom she could draw to speak with her, not disdaining even beggars, nor fearing the watchmen who guarded houses supposed to be infected, and therefore shut up. I confess that these last were people I would gladly have shunned, there being something so awful to me in the locked doors (marked with a great red cross, and 'Lord, have mercy on us' writ large upon them) by which the poor fellows sat. But Althea seemed to have said a long good-bye to fear. And with questioning and listening, and piecing things together by little and little, she assured herself that Andrew must be in Newgate, if he lay in any London prison. She had tried to find out by artful inquiries if any man had shown himself in London, announcing a coming judgment, and warning people to avoid it, as Andrew had proposed to do; on which people informed her of several such persons, but their descriptions answered not to our poor friend. One man had cried up and down the streets, 'Yet forty days, and London shall be destroyed,' after the fashion of the prophet Jonah; and another had run about by day and by night, naked to the waist, and crying, 'Oh! the great and dreadful God!' and no other words; which struck a great terror into all who saw and heard him; and yet a third, who was said to be a Quaker, acted more strangely; but he was known by name to those who told about him. Also in all these tales there was something frantic and unreasonable, not like Andrew, nor like the way he had designed to act. I think I myself saw one of these strange creatures. It was my turn to be housekeeper, Althea wanting Will's help to carry her purchases home that day. Such a solitary day was very dismal and heart-sinking to me; and had it not been for my plan of writing this history, I know not how I could have borne it. When it grew dusk I ventured to look out at a front window to see if my friends were coming; but what I saw was the light of torches coming up the street, which was the sign of a funeral, it being ordered that people should only bury at night; and presently came by a coffin borne of four, and a great many people following; for it was wonderful how people crowded to funerals at this time, as if desperate of their lives. They stopt suddenly, to my terror, right in front of my window; but it was because of another crowd meeting them, and in its midst a tall man, moving very swiftly, and going straight before him. He was stript to the waist; and I thought at first that the hair of his head was all in a flame of fire, but it was a chafing-dish of burning brimstone that he had set upon his head, and which glared through the darkness. As he met the coffin he made a stand, and looked upon it. [Illustration: 'I think I myself saw one of these strange creatures.'] 'Yet one more,' he said, in a deep hoarse voice,--'one more has fallen in his sins! but ye do not repent. Woe, woe, woe to this unfaithful city!' and he went on again directly, but continued to cry 'Woe, woe!' as long as I could hear him; the people running after and around him could scarce keep up with his swift pace. Those who were bearing and following the coffin had seemed struck with horror; but now they got into order again; and I heard one near the window bidding them sneeringly never to heed a mad Quaker, while another said aloud, 'I marvel such an evil-boding fool is left at large, when far quieter folks of his sort lie rotting in prison;' words which made me fain to hear more; but the men all moved off, and I had scarce seen their torches go twinkling away into darkness, when I heard the signal at the back door, and hurried joyfully to let in my friends, who had been delayed by meeting the funeral; but they had missed the other strange spectacle. As I remember, this was the second Saturday we spent in town; and here I may say that almost every Lord's Day which found us in our dismal abode, we two made our way to some church at a good distance, and there joined in worship. I never saw churches more crowded, worshippers more devout, ministers more fervent. We understood by what we heard that not a few clergymen were dead of the Plague, and others fled for terror; because of which certain of the silenced ministers were called on to fill those vacant pulpits; and they did so while the Plague lasted, with great zeal and boldness, no man saying them nay. But neither the courage of these men, nor the fervency with which they preached and visited among the sick and dying, could so far recommend them to Will that he would set foot in what he called the steeple-houses; so on the Lord's Day we had to dispense with his attendance, and this troubled me; but on the other hand there was comfort in seeing how my poor sister rejoiced in the ministerings of these faithful men. A great change showed itself in her; she was full of a new tenderness to me, and was most mild and patient with poor Will and his odd ways; and as for him, I believe he would have died for her, or done anything that she desired, except lodging in Mr. Dacre's house, or worshipping in a church. Now when Althea had assured herself she must look for Andrew in Newgate and in no other prison, she set herself to get admission there. 'No lock so hard,' she said to me, 'but will go with a golden key.' So she put money enough in her purse. She took Will with her, clad in a suit fit for a plain country gentleman, for she wished it to be thought he was one who had power to protect her; and, having found out the keeper of Newgate, she bought from him at a great price leave to visit his gloomy wicked kingdom, and to relieve poor creatures lying in it for conscience sake. Now, had she relieved all who professed that they were such as she sought, she might have spent the wealth of both Indies; for it was shocking how many utter reprobates pressed up to her and to Will, claiming that they were imprisoned for matters of religion; but their brazen countenances, that bore the deep impress of their wickedness, witnessed against them. With great trouble she found out at last a few of the sort she wanted, and then began to ask for Andrew by name; but no one seemed to know aught of him; the keeper too professed ignorance of any such person. But her belief was strong that he lay within those walls, and she went again and again on the same errand. Now I could never get her leave to go with her to Newgate. She said at first that Will, being a man, was more useful to her than I could be; but afterwards she owned that the prison was so vile and hideous a place she could not endure I should see it. 'There is no need,' she said, 'for more than one of us to behold such monstrous evil. 'Tis a society of fiends, Lucy, a training-school for all vice, and the keeper is worthy of it. I think it is not less than acted blasphemy to throw good men into it; as well send them alive into hell. The Lord look upon it, and require it.' 'Are there any of the Friends shut up there?' I asked. 'There have been hundreds, I am told,' she said; 'even now there are too many, but they die daily of fever and misery;' and she stopped short, presently saying, 'If I find him not, I will not repent of my search. I have fed some starving saints already.' So she continued her visits and her inquiries. But I began to find it an almost unbearable penance to stay within doors alone in her absence; I prayed and struggled for composure, but could not attain it, and at last I said I must go out sometimes to breathe the air. She warned me of perils awaiting me if I walked abroad by myself, but I got some poor coarse black clothes that I put on, and a hood to hide my face; and I sometimes added to these a cloth tied about my neck, such as I had seen on poor creatures who had sores. It was an artifice, but I hope not a sinful one; for in this disguise, and contriving to behave like a sick languishing person, I was more terrible to disorderly people than they to me, and they kept at a good distance from me. Thus I took many a walk about the streets; but my chief comfort was only to see a variety of dismal objects. The street where we dwelt was quite grass-grown and empty; I do not think there were above two inhabited houses in it, nor would you see above half a dozen people go through it, in all the length of the summer's day. Of the passengers that I met elsewhere, I think two out of every three were poor sickly objects with sores and plasters upon them; and sometimes it was my luck to meet coffins of those dead of the sickness; for now there could be no strict observing of the rule to bury them by night, the number of such funerals increasing at a frightful rate. CHAPTER XI. HOW THERE CAME NEW GUESTS INTO THE HOUSE. The last day that I ventured out in this foolhardy manner I had a terrible fright which even now it is distasteful to remember. I was hurrying to get home, being warned by the darkening light that it was drawing near Althea's time to return, and, chancing to look behind me as I turned a corner, I was aware that not many paces from me was a man, tall and sturdy, who seemed to be following me, his eyes being fixed on me; and when I turned it seemed to give him a kind of start, for he looked away, and made as if he would cross to the other side. This alarmed me, and I quickened my pace from a walk almost into a run, resolving meanwhile not to look round again; yet I could not resist the fancy that I heard steps coming after me; and glancing over my shoulder I was aware of some one at no great distance off; on which I dared look no more; and, being now very near home, I darted round to the back entrance; and having got in and made the door fast, I sat down trembling, to get my breath. I was still much disquieted, when I heard the joyful sound of Althea's signal at the back door; I flew to open to her, my hands trembling so I could hardly withdraw the bolts. But when I got the door open, it was not Althea who stood without, but that very man whom I had tried to escape; he stood with his back to the sky, which was red and glowing, for it was just past sunset; and I saw him to be tall and powerful and roughly clad, so sunburnt that he might have been a Moor; and a long scar that ran from his eyebrow half across his cheek gave a strange fierceness to his look. This was all I could see, his back being to the light, such as it was. I gave a smothered shriek, and would have shut the door on him; but he said,-- 'Not so hasty, mistress--look at me again, and you will not turn me away, I think.' But I still held the door in my hand, and said hastily, 'I can admit no stranger--you should know this house is infected--what do you seek?' at which the man's eyes, which I saw to be blue and bright, began to twinkle, and he said,-- 'You will think it odd, madam, but I am come seeking my true love--Lucia Dacre is her name; do you know aught of her?' with which words he smiled, and all his face changed in that smile into the face of my own Harry. My heart sprang up in sudden rapture; I think, as the play says, it 'leaped to be gone into his bosom,' for there I found myself the next moment, clasped tight in his arms, and holding him tight enough too, while I laughed and sobbed, crying out, 'Are you indeed my Harry? am I so blest beyond all other women? have you come back to me, alive from the dead?' 'You may say indeed, sweetheart, that I am alive from the dead,' he said seriously; 'in a double sense I was dead and am alive again. But my tale must wait for a better time. I am sent before, dear love, to tell you your sister is coming, and not coming alone.' 'Who is coming with her? any one beside Will? have you come to say she hath found Andrew? has she indeed?' I cried. 'Ay,' said Harry, 'he is found; but I fear we may lose him again. Have you here a place, Lucy, here a dying man may lie softly and easily, the little time he has left? If not, make one ready quickly--but no stairs for him, remember. I would help you, dear heart,' he said tenderly, 'were it not that I must keep watch here for their coming.' I turned my lips to his hand, as I unclasped my arms from him; then I flew to do as he had bidden. I dragged the coverings off our own bed and hastily spread a couch in that room where we commonly sat; I set lights, food, cordials in readiness on the table; then I ran back to the door, half afraid my Harry would have vanished like a dream; but there he was, watching yet; so I took my place beside him, and loaded him with questions about the finding of Andrew. I learned he had a large share in it. 'A poor seaman who loved me,' he said, 'met me this morning when I landed at Woolwich; and he testified such extravagant joy on seeing me that I own I half thought him mad.' 'Then what can you think of me?' I put in; at which Harry said,-- 'Nay, Lucy, you were ice compared to this poor fellow. He is one that hath tasted Andrew's bounty, and that not long since; for his wife sickened of the Plague, and our Andrew at his own cost provided a physician for her, and many other comforts; and 'tis owing to that, the man thinks, that she is now sound and well.' 'Where was this?' I said, wondering. 'Here, in London,' said Harry. 'Now close on this woman's recovery came the seizing of Andrew, and 'tis but lately that the poor grateful sailor discovered how his benefactor had been lying long in Newgate, where he was thrown by one Ralph Lacy's procurement.' 'Ah!' I said, 'that wretch! but he has paid for it, Harry. But why could Althea never find Andrew before?' 'I cannot tell by what devilish prompting it was,' he said, 'that Lacy bore Andrew and every one else down, that his true name was not Golding, but Dewsbury--William Dewsbury, as I think; and that he had shifted his name to avoid prosecution, having been once imprisoned already; and what our poor friend said to the contrary being slighted as a lie, his true name has never been given him. So inquiry after him has been crippled; and not by this means only.' 'But if this sailor be so grateful, why did he not come to our poor friend's help?' I said indignantly; but Harry said, sighing,-- 'A destitute seaman! why, there be throngs of them and their wives starving in the streets, and cursing the navy officers because they cannot get their own hard wages. And this was why my poor fellow showed such frantic joy on seeing me--'twas for love of Andrew; he hurried his tidings on me, and bade me hasten to the gaol and relieve my friend; himself going there with me, else I had not sped so well.' Now how Harry sped at the prison I learnt afterwards; for at this point his tale was cut short; but I will put the story here, where it seems fittest. By great good fortune Althea encountered with Harry and the seaman Ned Giles at the very gate of the prison, and she soon bought leave to visit the prisoner called William Dewsbury, who lay under lock and key in a very filthy cell, and had latterly been denied even bread and water, because his money being spent he could not satisfy his gaoler's demands. They found him lying on a heap of mouldy straw; he was miserably wasted, and to all seeming lifeless; yet they knew him at once for Andrew; and Harry perceived there was life yet in him. Althea, however, seeing him lie as if dead, rose into fiery indignation; she turned to the gaoler, saying, in a terrible voice,-- 'See there, murderer! that is your work--the blood of this man shall lie on your soul for ever--it shall drown you in perdition!' at which he cowered and shrank ('and well he might,' said Harry), stammering out 'twas an oversight, a pure accident; and she going on to threaten him with law and vengeance, he asked hurriedly, would not the lady like to remove the poor man, and give him honourable burial? at which Harry whispered her, 'Take his offer quickly; say not a word more of revenge;' and Althea, guessing his meaning, softened her tone a little, and consented to the man's proposal. 'Get me only a coach,' said she, 'and I will have this poor lifeless body to mine own home; and I will not charge you with the murder.' So they fetched a coach; but the driver, seeing as he thought a dead man brought out and laid in it, flung down the reins and refused to drive them. 'I am well used to drive sick folks,' he said (indeed that was now the chief use of hackney coaches), 'but a corpse I never drove and never will.' Althea, however, stepped in herself, and bade Will get on the box and take the reins; then whispering to Harry, she told him where to find me, and begged he would prepare me for her coming. 'I shall soon master this knave's scruples,' she said; 'he is but bringing them to market, and I am ready to buy them;' and as I suppose, she paid a heavy price for the use of that coach for an hour, saying her man should drive it to her house and then return it empty to the coachman. For while Harry and I stood talking at the door, his tale was broken by the rumbling of wheels; and the coach coming lumbering up, we perceived Will to be the driver. 'That is well,' said Harry; 'it will not be known where you dwell.' As he spoke the coach stopped, and Althea put aside the close-drawn curtains. She called Harry to her, and said softly,-- 'Now help me to lift him, good friend--but be very gentle; he lives, he speaks, but he is deadly weak;' and with infinite care she and Harry lifted out a poor shrunken figure that seemed light as an infant in their arms; and I leading the way they brought it in and laid it on the couch I had got ready; there Althea, sitting down, drew Andrew's head on to her bosom, supporting him with her arms, and murmuring tender words in his ear. Harry stayed to speak a word to Will before he drove off, and then returning he stood by me a moment and gazed with me at those two; 'twas a sight to chain one's eyes fast, to see Althea's face, still heavenly fair in spite of her anguish, bending over Andrew's, which was livid in colour, all but fleshless, and the eyes deep sunk in their sockets; yet he smiled, a smile full of a strange radiance; and he moved his colourless lips, saying something which Althea bent her head very low to hear; then looking up wildly and seeing Harry,-- 'Have you brought a physician?' she cried; 'there is no time to lose--he is dying for lack of help.' 'That he shall not,' said Harry, who was now knelt beside Andrew, and offering a cordial to his lips; 'here is no disease but hunger, dear lady--I have learnt by sharp experience how to minister to that;' and in two hasty words he bade me go and warm some broth, of which luckily I had told him; so I went quickly. Now when I came back I saw there was more company in the room; for Will had come in, and with him a man and woman; but I did not note them much, for it seemed to me that Andrew was swooning, his eyes being closed. But Harry took the broth from me and began to feed Andrew with it; and at the warm scent of the food he revived a little. It charmed me to see the tender skill which my Harry showed in his ministerings. As I stood looking on, the woman came up to me, and with a sort of simple grace let me know who she was; 'twas Mary, the wife of Ned Giles, the seaman, and the man with her was Giles himself. 'You will forgive us, madam,' she said, 'for thrusting our company on you unbidden; it's for love of this your kinsman we come, Mr. Truelocke having sent us word we could be useful about him.' 'Kay,' I said, 'never ask forgiveness for such goodness; do you know this house is reputed to be infected?' but she said, smiling,-- 'Madam, I who was all but dead of the Plague not long since have little fear of it left.' While she spoke I saw that Harry was urging something on Althea, who was still sitting at Andrew's head; she answered at last, 'As you will. I may not gainsay you;' and yielded up her place to that good woman, who came eagerly to take it when Harry called her. 'Now go and rest awhile till we call you--you have need,' Harry said to us; but Althea, as if she heard him not, stood looking down on Andrew and his nurse. 'Does God forget His own?' she muttered; 'is this the reward of His servants? chains, cruelty, starvation?' Andrew must have caught her words, for he half raised his head, and his languid eye brightened. 'Dear heart,' he said feebly, 'thou knowest little yet. Thou hast seen my prison, thou didst not see the Heavenly Guest who made it a heaven to me; thou hast seen me lacking bread, thou knowest nought of the angels' food with which He fed me.' As he said this he sank down again, but Mary Giles caught him in her arms; and Harry said imperiously to Althea and me,-- 'Leave him to us; it is best he should not speak; get you to your own rest, you need to renew your strength; so we went meekly enough, Althea saying when we were in our sleeping-room,-- 'Harry hath got the trick of command very perfect, that's certain; and I may say, Lucy, I am weary at last of ruling over you and Will; it's not amiss there is one here who has a mind to rule me instead.' Then we knelt down together and gave thanks for the great mercy of the day; and we implored passionately that the life of Andrew should be given back to us. Althea at the end of our prayer still remained kneeling; then beginning to weep she sobbed out, 'I think, I hope, I can say, "His will be done," but oh, 'tis hard, Lucy!' And she was so torn and shaken with her passion that I thought she would take no rest that night. But in five minutes after our heads touched the pillow we were both sleeping soundly: and we woke not till there came a knocking at our door, very early in the morning, and Will's voice praying us to descend and take some food. CHAPTER XII. HOW WE SAILED FOR FRANCE IN THE 'MARIE-ROYALE.' We found our friends where we had left them; the grey dawn glimmering in at the window showed us Andrew lying in a quiet slumber; and he looked nothing so death-like as the night before. But the others appeared haggard and weary, as well they might; for none of them had slept a wink the night through. Yet joy spoke from the poor wan faces of Mary Giles and her husband. They had helped in the tending of Andrew with wonderful skill and care, and now they were rejoicing in a good hope that he would yet recover. There was a meal spread, of which they had already partaken; and we were now bidden to sit and eat also, as quickly as we might. It was Harry who gave us these orders, with a stern anxious look, which daunted me a little. When we had eaten,-- 'Now leave us with our friend, ladies,' he said, 'and gather all together in readiness to depart; this house shall not hold us another hour;' and Althea hesitating, and saying Andrew was hardly in case to depart, 'That knave gaoler,' he said, 'who had hid Andrew from you so long, had strong reasons for doing it; is there no fear, think you, that he may suspect there was life in the dead man whom we removed? Would you have our practice detected and the prisoner seized again?' It did not need more to set wings to Althea's feet; so we made haste and gathered up all our belongings, and came down again with our bundles packed and our travelling suits donned, long ere the hour was passed. Yet for all our haste, we found they had made better speed than we. There stood a coach waiting, into which they had already lifted Andrew; he was muffled in a long cloak that I had flung off the night before. The two Gileses had him in their care, and Will was again acting as driver (I believe 'twas the very coach of the previous night); he was taking Harry's orders as to driving at a very soft pace to the nearest stairs, 'where,' said Harry, 'we will meet you; these ladies will walk with me.' We saw them drive off; then I made fast the outer door, and Harry took the key from me, and flung it over the wall into the garden. 'Let any find it who list,' said he. 'I thank God we are quit of the hideous place. How you have endured to dwell there day and night passes my comprehension.' 'Why,' said I, 'is it not a glorious rich house?' 'A house of sin and pride and death,' said he, 'I grant you.' 'You are of Will's mind,' says Althea; 'he never would eat or sleep in it.' 'If that be Will's mind,' said he, 'I approve his wisdom. And now, hey for Father Thames and his silver streams, and the sweet salt air of the sea! Here, take my arm, fair lady,' he said to Althea as we went along; 'I have my doubts of your obedience--Lucy I can trust to come with me of free will.' So she took his arm, and said, smiling faintly,-- 'At least indulge me so far as to tell us whither we are bound?' 'You heard me say,' he answered, stepping on briskly, 'to the nearest stairs; I have a boat ready there, and we will slip down the river to a ship I wot of that lies near Woolwich. I own,' he went on, 'it's a mighty risk to run, with Andrew in such a feeble case; yet I see no better way.' And in hasty words he told us how poor was our chance of getting clear away from the plague-stricken city by land. 'London is something of a mouse-trap now,' said he, 'or a lion's den, if you like a statelier image; the way in is easy enough, but the way out is more difficult than the steep and thorny path to heaven. Every town and village we should come to would rise against us with hue and cry, and drive us back to the city, to perish there; so cruel are men become through fear of the contagion.' Althea's pale cheek grew paler as she listened; and she said, 'Alas, my Lucy! into what a snare have I brought you! and all through pride and self-will.' 'Nay, sweet sister,' said I, 'do not miscall your compassion, and the daring of your spirit, which led you here.' 'There was pride and wilfulness in it too,' said she; 'and look what a rebuke Heaven gives me! it is not I that rescue Andrew; it is Harry and poor Giles.' 'Tut, tut!' said Harry; 'do not abuse yourself overmuch. You had found Andrew long since, but for the evil mind of Ralph Lacy, who had bought yon keeper with a mighty bribe, and commanded that Andrew should be kept out of sight, if ever you made inquiry after him.' This piece of intelligence struck us silent till we got to the stairs, going down which we found a roomy boat awaiting us, in which were already the rest of our little company, except Will; and he appearing before we were well settled in our places, sprang in after us, and said joyfully, as he took an oar,-- 'That coachman had fain learnt from me who it was I had carried down to the river; but I can be deaf upon occasion;' from which I gathered that he had been commissioned to restore the coach to its owner. The sun came up as we began to glide down the stream, and a million little sparkling waves flashed back his reflection as we rowed on; which was the only cheerful part of the scene, I thought; for all our company were grave and silent, and Andrew, though the calmest of us, looked so like death that I could find no pleasure in his peaceful aspect. And the river itself, which I had formerly seen so gay with all kinds of craft, watermen plying up and down constantly, and great sea-going ships coming and going, and lesser vessels crowding the noble stream, now seemed as desolate as the town that lay on its banks; only as we went on we came to many ships lying at anchor, by two and two; sometimes two or three lines of these ships lay in the breadth of the river, and as we threaded our way between them, men, women, and children came and looked over the sides at us. I was glad to break the silence that had settled on us, and I asked what was the reason of these long rows of ships being thus moored idly near the shores? on which the good Mary Giles, who had again the office of supporting Andrew, speaking softly, told me how they were the refuge of many hundreds of families, fled out of London, who hoped in this way to escape the contagion. 'I do not know,' she said however, 'that they do always escape as they hope. Many a device did I practise myself to keep myself whole and sound, and some mighty foolish ones; but it pleased the Lord to drive me from all those refuges of lies, and to show me that He only can kill and make alive. To my thinking, a fearless, believing heart is the best charm against the Plague.' 'Ay,' says Harry; 'that is the best charm doubtless. But we shall find it not amiss to keep our dwellings cleaner and sweeter here in England; with faith and courage and cleanliness, we might defy the foul fiend Pestilence. You shall not find that it makes so great ravages, even among the Dutch.' With that he bit his lip, as though a secret had escaped him; however no one but myself noted him; and the others now began to talk more freely; and Mrs. Giles from time to time bestirred herself about nourishment for Andrew, which Harry had been careful to provide; he said a man so nigh dead of hunger must have food often, but in small quantities. So our party grew cheerfuller, ever as the stream grew broader, and we began to breathe the salt breeze that blew inland. We ventured to question Harry about the ship that would receive us; and he said she was a French merchant-ship, and the captain a great friend of his, a good Protestant, who was willing to take on board any company he should bring. 'I hoped,' said I, 'it might have been the _Good Hope_.' 'Alas for my poor _Good Hope_!' said he; 'she went to pieces in a mighty storm, on the hard-hearted coasts of Africa; and such of my brave fellows as were not drowned were seized for slaves by the barbarous people of Algiers.' 'And you, Harry, what was your lot?' I cried. 'The lot of a slave for many a day,' said he briefly. 'It is thanks to my good friend Captain Maret, who will soon receive us, that I have ever seen my country again.' I would gladly have asked more, but I saw he was little inclined to talk; and after he had said, 'The ship we are going to board is called the _Marie-Royale_,' he fell again into a silence; but the rest of us continued to keep up some sort of talk, till we got down by Woolwich; and this seemed to help our courage a little,--I mean Althea's and mine, especially when Andrew would say a few words, as he began to do, in a way that showed reviving strength. Now I had never gone by sea anywhere, and all my sailing had been in wherries on the Thames; so I was not free from some childish fear when we came beside the _Marie-Royale_, and saw her black sides rising high and steep above us; but joy sat on every other face in our little company; and Harry's voice was gay once more as he shouted an answer to Captain Maret, who came and hailed us from above. 'Twas a matter of some difficulty to get Andrew safely hoisted on deck; yet they did it without giving too rude a shock to his enfeebled frame. I confess, when it came to my turn to mount, I shut my eyes for fear, and never opened them till I found Harry's arm about me, and a firm footing under me; and I heard his voice merrily mocking me for a poor little fool, who was ready to swoon at fancied perils, and was reckless of real ones. So then I looked abroad again, and seeing myself encircled with all our company, who were smiling at my terrors, while the dark, kindly face of the captain beamed a welcome on me,--I laughed first, and then wept; and then clasping my hands began to thank and praise God for our good deliverance, as if I were in an ecstasy; but now no one laughed at me, but heads were uncovered, and eyes cast down in thankful prayer also, all around me; the French sailors who had helped us to come aboard showing themselves not less reverent than our handful of English, and indeed appearing to be much moved. Then Andrew, who stood supported by the arms of Ned and Mary Giles, looked smiling at me, and said, in his feeble voice,-- 'Thou shamest me much, my sister Lucy; I who was deepest in peril ought to have been foremost in praise;' and Harry replied bluntly,-- 'Till you know something of the dangers these ladies have run, you need not be more grateful than they; but your further thanks must be rendered in your cabin, where I long to have you lodged before we get under weigh.' 'That shall be soon,' said the captain. 'We have but stayed for your coming; and see! the wind has shifted since we sighted you, and blows fair for our departing.' He moved away as he spoke and began giving his orders; while Harry marshalled us down to our cabins, saying gaily, 'Ay, the merry wind blows from the land now; 'twas against us as we rowed, and I had my fears; but all's well that ends well--the Lord be praised therefor!' 'Tell us whither this kind wind is to blow us?' I asked, and he saying, 'So it is not enough for you to be with me where I go?' I answered boldly, 'By no means;' on which, laughing, he said, 'I will talk with you soon, sweetheart, on that point and many others; but now let us look to Andrew.' So I and my curiosity had to wait awhile; for when Andrew and his faithful nurses were settled below, Harry went on deck; and I sat by Althea, something sick at heart for all my joy, while, with many strange noises of rattling and creaking and trampling overhead, our ship shook out her great wings and spread them for flight. But at last the water slipping past our cabin windows showed we were standing out to sea; and then came Harry and sat down beside us. Andrew had fallen asleep, and Giles and his wife sat watching him a little way off; so there was nothing to break in on Harry's story. 'Now first of all, my Lucy,' said he, 'you must know whither we are bound; 'tis to Calais, for there is Captain Maret due, and over-due, having come to Woolwich only for my sake, and yours, as it hath proved. Then at Calais I have intelligence that we shall find a ship bound for Hull, by which we may go thither, and so home to our father in the Dales.' 'Do you know,' I said, 'I suspected your design to be for Holland?' 'Well,' said he, 'I had such a thought for Andrew. There be friends in that country, with whom he might be sheltered till England should be safe for him once more. But it dislikes me to have dealings with any country at war with mine own--mad and wicked though the war be on our part.' 'All England is gone mad and wicked, I think,' said Althea; 'for my share I care not much if I never see it more.' 'You will change that thought, I hope,' said he. 'But now, my Lucy, I have a request and a petition to you. Captain Maret will bring us at Calais to a clergyman of the English Church whom he knows there; will you consent for the good man to join our hands? 'tis long since our hearts were knit, I trow.' 'What are you asking of her?' said Althea; 'should not such a marriage be celebrated on English ground?' 'So it shall,' said he; 'for we will be wedded on board the ship that shall take us to Hull; and her planks, being those of an English vessel, are reckoned English ground. Now, what says my dear heart?' and as I blushed and stammered, 'I warrant you,' said he, 'Lucy is struck dumb at my presumption in talking of wedlock, my good ship being gone to wreck, and I myself newly loosed from slavery.' 'Harry!' I cried, 'how dare you think so meanly of me? I who have been delighting in the thought of pouring all my little wealth at your feet, and bidding you freight a new ship with it; but perhaps you are too proud--you will refuse it?' 'Nay, I refuse neither it nor thee, my Lucy,' he said, 'the less because I can counterpoise my darling's little purse with something weightier.' And he told us briefly how in his captivity he had risen very high in his Moorish master's favour, having had the good fortune to save the man's life at the risk of his own. 'There were two rascals set on my master to murder him, for certain precious jewels that he wore,' said he; 'and I had the luck to lay them both low, though I got this little remembrance first from the fiercest of them,' touching as he spoke the scar upon his cheek. 'And with that stroke,' he went on, 'I purchased my freedom, and something more; for the Moor conferred on me freely those gems that the thieves had coveted; they are worth a little fortune. After this my only care was to find a ship to bring me home; of which I was almost in despair, when the good Maret came to my rescue, which he effected with great skill and boldness. Nor do I know how I could have got you clear of London, but for his readiness to help me once again.' This was Harry's history, which he made very dry and short; for he hates to dwell on his own doings or sufferings. I have got from him since many particulars of the story, and I think it were more worthy of pen and ink than this poor tale of our homely joys and sorrows, but he thinks not so; and it is at his bidding I have written all this last part, telling how he brought us safely out of London. CONCLUSION. HOW LUCIA DWELLS IN ENGLAND, AND ALTHEA OTHERWHERE. There is little more to write now. I did not care to cross Harry's wish in the matter of our wedding, to which both the good Mary Giles and Althea herself urged me to consent; only I had always hoped that my father Truelocke himself should join our hands; and when I whispered this to Harry, he said, 'If you cannot be content without it, sweetheart, my father shall marry us over again when we get to Dent-dale. But I will not go back to England till I can call you wife.' So my last defence fell; and wedded we were on board the _Diamond_, a good English ship that we found lying at Calais, according to Harry's intelligence. I did not forget that promise of his, and in due time I held him to it; but before I wind up mine own story I will relate that of my sister; for our lives, that have run so long in one channel, are divided now, since Althea sailed not with us to England; and I will show the reason presently. That imagination which Harry had once entertained of Andrew's passing into Holland and being safe there as an exile proved to be no impossible device, in spite of the war between the English and the Dutch. For while we still lay at Calais in the _Marie-Royale_ (I must ever admire her captain's courage in taking us poor fugitives on board, even though Harry was warrant for our soundness), there came letters from certain Friends called Derricks, of the Dutch nation. They had heard of Andrew's strange escape from prison, I wot not by what means; for the Friends have their own ways of learning news of one another. These good people willed him to go make his home under their roof in Amsterdam; and he was very fain to seek that shelter, being exceedingly weary in spirit, as one half spent with toil and grief; only two things held him back. The one was his love for our dear and cruel country England, which made him shrink from dwelling in a land at enmity with her; and the other was my sister. Now the first scruple Harry overcame thus. 'You needs must dwell in some foreign land,' he said, 'for England is altogether unsafe for you. Should you choose France, as Captain Maret would have you, you choose a land chiefly Papist, and now full of oppression; and my life on it, there will be war between France and England this very winter,' a saying which proved too true. 'So the balance must dip in favour of Holland, a Protestant country, where you shall live under just laws and among faithful friends who believe as you do. Is not this worth weighing, brother?' and Andrew said, 'It is,' but yet he hesitated; and I needed not the sight of his questioning look at Althea, nor of her dropt eyelids and whitening cheek, to guess the reason of his hesitation. The next morning after we had this talk, Harry, Althea, and I were sat idly on deck, basking in the sunshine, and drinking the sweet air, while we watched the sailors at work; when we saw Andrew come feebly towards us, at which we sprang up surprised, for he had not heretofore risen so early, because of his great weakness. Althea would have had him rest on the cushions from which we had risen, but saying, 'I would rather stand awhile,' he leaned on Harry's shoulder for support; and indeed he looked deathly when his white and wasted face was seen beside Harry's countenance, all bronzed with sun and wind, and glowing with health and life. 'Althea Dacre,' he said, looking steadily at her, 'I have sought all night long for a light on the path I must now take; and a word is ever in my ears, "Speak to the maiden thou lovest, her word shall lead thee!" Thou knowest I were loth to part from thee, who hast sought me and spent thyself for me--and more loth to think that we are parted in spirit. Yet if thy heart be not as my heart towards God, we must be parted now and ever. I implore thee, speak the perfect truth to me, and do not colour or change it.' 'And I will speak truth,' she said proudly, 'as if I stood before an angel of God; and it shall not grieve you. Andrew Golding, thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. The Church that I dreamed of, the Church I would have died for, was not a Church stained with innocent blood. I will cast in my lot, now and for ever, with the only Christian people that have never persecuted another--the only one, I verily believe, that follow whithersoever the Master leads.' At this Andrew's pallid face glowed as if a clear flame shone through it; he stretched out his hands to Althea, and she gave him both hers, continuing to say,-- 'And what is my native land to me? it is filled with violence and madness; I fear 'tis accursed of God; I am willing to find my fatherland wherever you find a home.' She turned with a defying look towards us; at which Harry began to laugh, and said, 'How about the rose I had one night from Mistress Althea Dacre? it is a rose yet--dry and faded truly; but it has not turned into a nettle.' 'Be generous,' she said, blushing; 'do not remind me of that; I spoke of it in the days of my folly. I have been taught the plague of my own heart since, by many a sharp lesson.' 'Well,' said Harry, 'I may truly say the same of myself. It hath pleased God,' he said reverently, 'to bring me to Himself through suffering. I trusted overmuch to my own heart; and not till I was stript of all, a beggar and a slave, did I learn mine own vileness and weakness, and Christ's all-sufficiency. I thank Him for the teaching. And I think my Lucy hath gone through the same school; is it not so, sweetheart?' and I murmured an assent. 'Not one of you,' said Andrew, 'has been so poor a pupil at that learning as I; but I think my many stripes have surely beaten it into my hard heart at last, and that I have mastered my task once and for ever.' 'Then,' quoth Harry, 'we are all on one footing so far, and we may thank Heaven for it. But I cannot fall in with you in your condemning of other Churches, and the Church of England chiefly. She is not disowned of God, not quite gone astray from Him; there is in her, I must think, a seed of life and holiness.' 'Your father went out from her notwithstanding,' says Althea; 'and in my mind he did well, though I was fool enough to condemn him at the time.' 'With your leave,' says Harry, 'I think he was driven out, because of those nice and subtle points of doctrine, that our rulers cruelly enforced, and he could not honestly assent to. But I have heard him say, 'tis his firm persuasion that out of this misgoverned English Church there shall yet rise great good, and marvellous blessings, to the land and the world. And in that hope I shall cleave to it with all its faults; and so I trust will my wife;' to which I had nothing to say but blushing. Andrew, however, was troubled. 'I fear thou art in perilous error, kind and good Harry,' said he. 'But let every one be fully persuaded in his own mind.' 'That am I,' said Althea promptly, on which he smiled again; and the two falling into talk about their own concerns, we charitably left them to it; for now it was well understood among us that they would wed at the earliest opportunity. It was a pretty sight to see the new humility they practised towards each other. Andrew, being now fully acquainted with my sister's efforts on his behalf, seemed to look on her as a protecting angel; but she, regarding him as a saint and a martyr, knew not how to show enough reverence to him. Also her high courage failed her sometimes, and she would cling to the good Mary Giles like a timid child to its mother; Mary on her part showing the same tenderness for her that her husband displayed to Andrew. These good people, with Will, kept them company when they departed for Amsterdam, which thing was a marvellous comfort to Harry and me; and shortly we had news how the lovers were married, after the Quaker fashion, and were in a happy way to be settled in that city. They dwell there still. The good honest Standfasts have power from Andrew to manage his lands for him, which they do faithfully; and the moneys due to him therefrom being privily conveyed to him, maintain him and his wife in comfort, nor them alone, but many poor and pious souls who are their pensioners. And now, our companions being gone, it might have been thought that I should feel a great lack of them, especially when the _Diamond_ loosed from port and bore us away with her. But I could feel nothing save joy and gratitude, more especially when I thought of the heavy and dreadful summer that lay behind me; and I was possessed with a great longing to see my father Truelocke once more. Harry had got word conveyed to him of his safety, and of our approaching journey; and sure I am his thoughts flew to meet our thoughts on the way, as we drew nearer and nearer. But I want words to express the tenderness of our meeting together, when at last my Harry and I beheld that venerable face again. There are some joys that cannot be told. We have made our home with him in Dent-dale; for there Harry hath bought a little farm, with a pretty odd farmhouse belonging thereto; and our father lives with us, well content, and in great peace. For no squabblings about ecclesiastical matters ever trouble the quiet of our sweet mountain solitude. There is a little lonely church in the Dale, where a good simple-hearted pastor ministers; and there can we worship in a homely and hearty fashion; nor does the pastor take it ill that Mr. Truelocke keeps aloof from the prayers, but respects his scruples, and reveres his character. For proof thereof, I did not cease urging on Harry his careless promise, that our union should have our father's blessing on it; and the good pastor falling in with my whim, prevailed on Mr. Truelocke to remarry us very privately in the little church I spoke of, he himself assisting. 'Twas a foolish fancy, I wot, but I was not easy till I had it gratified. And it is now my constant hope that Harry will never put to sea again, but will be content to plough the kindly earth and gather in her fruits, instead of furrowing the barren cruel waves; sure he has had enough of strange adventures. Yet I fear him sometimes, when little work is stirring; then he is so restless that even in his dreams he will talk of seafaring; I think, however, he will wander no more, so long as our father lives. We get letters from Althea and her husband, at rare intervals indeed; but then they are long and ample. And it is a marvel how stiffly Althea now stands for all the points of the Quaker doctrine, which formerly she so abhorred and contemned. Not many days since there reached me a long letter from her, in which she told me indeed a great deal of news, and also expressed a wonderful sisterly affection; but the burden of it was her disquietude because of my religious errors. She was very earnest with me upon the sin and danger of conforming to the world, in dress, and speech, and deportment. There were things in this letter which really troubled me, so I carried it to Mr. Truelocke; and when he had read it, I asked his opinion, whether Christian folk were bound to observe such strictness as Althea now advocates and practises? at which, softly smiling, he said,-- '"Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world." I think thou art not far from exemplifying that pure religion in thine own life, daughter; so I trust does thy sister; but I think her not more free from world-spots than thee, because she perchance goes clad in grey, and thou in scarlet;' for I had a new red cloak and hood upon me. 'This,' he said, touching the cloak lightly, 'is no stain of scarlet sin, 'tis honest dye-stuff, Lucy.' 'It might make me vain and proud to go gaily, might it not?' I said. 'When it has that effect, child, renounce it as a snare,' he replied. 'I think thou art not over gay as yet, for a young wife, with a true-love husband to please.' 'But besides these things,' I said, 'there are others more serious. See how my sister cries out against all set forms of worship, even to the singing of hymns; and how she accounts even the outward visible forms of the two great sacraments as having something of the nature of an idol that we sinfully adore. All should be spiritual and inward, according to her, and to other Friends; and I do not myself understand how that can be.' ''Tis a great truth that they uphold,' said he musingly, 'yet I cannot see that it includes all truth. For my own share, I still hold fast to my opinions; they commend themselves to my reason as strongly as ever. I should lie, did I deny them. And yet from my very heart I agree with the Friends in prizing the spirit above the letter. And I hope, my daughter,' he went on, while a smile trembled on his lips, 'that a day will yet dawn when all Christian men shall agree so heartily as touching the deep and vital truths of their faith, that they may be content to differ as to the visible ceremonial garment that their faith may wear. But that will not be in my day, Lucy, nor, I fear much, in thine. Let us hope and pray for its coming; and let us rejoice meanwhile and give thanks for our safety here from the strife of tongues, for the peace and rest we are allowed to share in this corner of the earth; so far are we happy above many.' And I am only too glad to obey his word, and to fare like a bird of the air that is fed by God's daily bounty, without care for the morrow. Nor will I trouble myself any more about this nice point of doctrine and that, laying on myself a burden that God never gave me. Has He not given me His own peace; and with it more of earthly bliss than ever my heart dared hope for? And were I even less happy in my lot, I ought all my life to praise Him for His hand over us for good, while we dwelt in that City of the Plague. I have heard with infinite satisfaction, how, since this cold winter weather came on, the sickness is mightily abated, and men hope it is passing away. But it hath swept off, say they, not less than a hundred thousand souls in one fatal year; and what were we, that we should escape? It is all of the Lord's goodness, and His pity to our rashness. 
31548	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries.) A SUCCINCT ACCOUNT OF THE PLAGUE AT _MARSEILLES_, Its Symptoms, and the Methods and Medicines used for Curing it. DRAWN UP And presented to the Governor and Magistrates of _Marseilles_, by M. _Chicoyneau_, _Verney_ and _Soullier_, the Physicians who were sent thither from _Paris_ by the Duke Regent of _France_, to prescribe to the Sick in the Hospitals, and other Parts of that Town, during the Progress of that Calamity. _Translated from the FRENCH by a Physician._ LONDON: Printed for S. Buckley in _Amen-Corner_, and D. MIDWINTER at the _Three Crowns_ in St. _Paul_'s Church-Yard. M.DCC.XXI. (Price Sixpence.) _The following Relation having been sent to us by Messieurs_ Chicoyneau, Verney _and_ Soullier, _deputed by the Court for the Relief of our City afflicted with the Plague: We_ Charles Claude de Andrault de LANGERON, _Knight and Commander of the Order of St._ John _of_ Jerusalem, _Chief Commander of the King's Galleys, Field Marshal, and Marshal of his Majesty's Armies,_ Commandant _in the City of_ Marseilles, _and the Territories thereof._ Alphonsus de Fortia _Marquis de_ PILLES, _Governing Magistrate, and_ John-Baptiste Estelle, John Baptiste Audimar, John-Peter Moustier, _and_ Balthazar Dieudé, _Sheriffs, Protectors and Defenders of the Privileges, Franchises and Liberties of this City, Counsellors of the King, and Lieutenants General of the Police, have thought fit to cause it to be printed; for having been Eye-witnesses of the Zeal with which these Gentlemen have exposed themselves for the Service and Relief of our Sick, as well in the City as in the Hospitals, we are thoroughly persuaded that their Observations on the Nature of this fatal Malady, and on the Remedies proper to its Cure, cannot but be very useful to the Inhabitants of divers Places of this Province that are unfortunately infected._ _At_ Marseilles _this 26 Nov. 1720._ A SHORT RELATION OF THE SYMPTOMS OF THE PLAGUE AT _MARSEILLES_, Its PROGNOSTICKS and METHOD OF CURE. To give some Satisfaction to the just Expectations of very many Persons, as well of this Realm as of foreign Countries, who fearing the dismal Effects of the Contagion, have done us the Honour to request of us some Account of the Nature of the Distemper that has depopulated _Marseilles_, and of the Success of such Remedies as we have employed against it; we have thought fit to draw up the following Relation, containing in short what is most essential in this Affair, and which may be sufficient to intelligent Persons of the Faculty, to direct their Conduct, and help them in framing a Judgment in the like Case, till we have better Means and a more convenient Leisure to present to the Publick more exact Particulars of all that we have observed on this Subject. All the Diseased that we have seen or attended, in this terrible Distemper, commonly called the Plague, may be reduced to five principal Classes; which will take in generally all the Cases that we have observed, except a few particular ones, which cannot be brought under any general Rule. FIRST CLASS. The First Class, observed especially in the first Period, and in the greatest Fury of the Distemper, contains such as were afflicted with the Symptoms that we shall here set down, constantly followed by a speedy Death. These Symptoms were for the most part irregular Shiverings, the Pulse low, soft, slow, quick, unequal, concentrated; a Heaviness in the Head so considerable, that the sick Person could scarce support it, appearing to be seized with a Stupidity and Confusion, like that of a drunken Person; the Sight fixed, dull, wandering, expressing Fearfulness and Despair; the Voice slow, interrupted, complaining; the Tongue almost always white, towards the end dry, reddish, black, rough; the Face pale, Lead-coloured, languishing, cadaverous; a frequent Sickness at the Stomach; mortal Inquietudes; a general sinking and Faintness; Distraction of the Mind; dosing, an Inclination to vomit, Vomiting, _&c._ The Persons thus seized, perished commonly in the Space of some Hours, of a Night, of a Day, or of two or three at farthest, as by Faintness or Extinction; sometimes, but more rarely, in convulsive Motions, and a Sort of Trembling; no Eruption, Tumour or Spot appearing without. It is easy to judge by these Accidents, that the Sick of this kind were not in a Condition to bear Bleeding; and even such, on whom it was tried, died a little while after. Emeticks and Catharticks were equally here useless, and often hurtful, in exhausting the Patient's Strength, by their fatal over-working. The Cordials and Sudorificks were the only Remedies to which we had recourse, which nevertheless could be of no Service, or at the most prolong the last Moments but for a few Hours. SECOND CLASS. The second Class of the Diseased that we attended during the Course of this fatal Sickness, contains such as at first had the Shiverings, as the preceding, and the same sort of Stupidity, and heavy Pain in the Head; but the Shiverings were followed by a Pulse quick, open, and bold, which nevertheless was lost upon pressing the Artery ever so little. These Sick felt inwardly a burning Heat, whilst the Heat without was moderate and temperate; the Thirst was great and inextinguishable; the Tongue white, or of an obscure red; the Voice hasty, stammering, impetuous; the Eyes reddish, fixed, sparkling; the Colour of the Face was of a red sufficiently fresh, and sometimes inclining to livid; the Sickness at the Stomach was frequent, tho' much less than in those of the preceding Class; the Respiration was frequent, laborious, or great and rare, without Coughing or Pain; Loathings; Vomitings, bilious, greenish, blackish, bloody; the Courses of the Belly of the same Sort, but without any Tension or Pain; Ravings, or phrenetick Deliria; the Urine frequently natural, sometimes troubled, blackish, whitish, or bloody; the Sweat, which seldom smelt badly, and which was far from giving Ease to the Sick, that it always weakned them; in certain Cases Hemorrhages, which, however moderate, have been always fatal; a great Decay in the Strength, and above all, an Apprehension so strong of dying, that these poor Creatures, were incapable of any Comfort, and looked on themselves, from the first Moment of their being attacked, as destined to certain Death. But that which deserves to be well observed, and which has always seemed to characterise and distinguish this Disease from all others, is, that almost all had at the Beginning, or in the Progress of this Distemper, very painful Buboes, situated commonly below the Groin, sometimes in the Groin or Arm-pits, or in the Parotide, Maxillar, or jugular Glands; as likewise Carbuncles, especially on the Arms, Legs or Thighs, small, white, livid, black Pustles, dispersed over all the Surface of the Body. It was very rare to see any of the diseased of this Second Class escape, though they supported themselves a little longer than those of the preceding; they perished almost all with the Marks of a gangren'd Inflammation, especially in the Brain and Thorax; and that which was most singular is, that the stronger, fatter, fuller, and more vigorous they were, the less we had to hope. As to the Remedies, they bore Bleeding no better than those of the First Class; at least if they were not blooded at the very first Instant of their being taken Sick: It was evidently hurtful to 'em; they grew pale, and fell even in the time of their first Bleeding, or a little while after, into such Faintings, as could not in most of them be imputed to any Fear, Repugnance, or Distrust, since they demanded with Earnestness to have a Vein opened. All Emeticks, if we except _Ipecacuanha_, were very often more hurtful than useful; causing such fatal Irritations and Excesses in operating, as we could neither moderate or stop. The Catharticks that were a little strong and active, were attended with the same Inconveniences. Such as we prescribed in the Form of a laxative Ptisan, as well as plentiful Draughts, that were diluting, nitrous, cooling, and gently alexiterial, gave some Relief, but did not hinder the Return of the Symptoms. All Cordials and Sudorificks, if they were not soft, gentle and benign, did nothing but promote the Progress of the inward Inflammations. In short, if any one escaped, which was very rare, he seem'd to owe his Cure to the external Eruptions, when they were very much raised; either solely by the Force of Nature, or by the Assistance of Remedies, as well internal as external, that determined the Blood to discharge on the Surface of the Body, the noxious Ferment wherewith it was infected. THIRD CLASS. The Third Class contains the two preceding; seeing we have attended, during the Course of this terrible Sickness, a great Number of Persons that have been attacked successively with the different Symptoms enumerated in the two former Classes, in such a manner, that the most part of the Signs described in the Second, were commonly the Forerunners of those which we have mentioned in the First; and the appearing of these latter Symptoms denounced an approaching Death. In these sorts of Cases we varied our Method according to the diversity of Indications, or of the most urgent Symptoms; so that without our being obliged to enter into farther Particulars, a Judgment may be formed of the Event of this Malady, and of the Success of the Remedies, from what we before observed on the Subject of the diseased of the two preceding Classes. Before we pass on to the Fourth Class, we believe it will not be improper to observe, that a very great Number of different Kinds of diseased Persons contained in the preceding, had very moderate Symptoms, whose Force and Malignity appeared to be much less, than in those of the same Accidents daily observed in inflammatory Fevers, or in the most common putrid ones, or in those that are vulgarly called Malignant, if we except the Signs of Fear or Despair, which were Extream, or in the highest Degree; insomuch, that of the great Number of infected Persons who have perished, there were very few, who at the very first Moment of their being seized, did not imagine themselves lost without Relief, whatever Pains we took to encourage them: And though many amongst them seemed to us, before the first Access of the Distemper, to be of a firm and courageous Disposition of Mind, and resolute under all Events, yet as soon as they felt the first Strokes, it was easy to know by their Looks, and their Discourses, that they were convinced that their Sickness was Incurable and Mortal, even at the Time when neither the Pulse, nor the Tongue, nor the Disorder in the Head, nor the Colour of the Face, nor the Disposition of the Mind, nor lastly, the Lesion of any of the other natural Functions mentioned above, gave any fatal Indication, or before there were any Grounds to be allarmed. FOURTH CLASS. The fourth Class contains the Diseased attacked with the same Symptoms with those of the second, but these sorts of Accidents lessened or disappeared the second or third Day of themselves, or in Consequence of the Effects of the internal Remedies, and at the same time in Proportion to the remarkable Eruption of the Buboes and Carbuncles in which the noxious Ferment that was dispersed through the whole Mass, seemed to be collected together; so that the Tumours rising from Day to Day, at length being open, and coming to a Suppuration, the Infected escaped the Danger that threatned them, provided they had some Assistance. These happy Events have determined us to redouble our Care during the whole Course of this Sickness, to accelerate, as much as the State of the Patient will admit, the Eruption, Elevation, Opening, and Suppuration of the Buboes and Carbuncles, in order to free, as soon as possible, by this way, the Mass of Blood, from the fatal Ferment that corrupts it; aiding Nature by a good Regimen, and by such cathartick, cordial, and sudorifick Medicines, as are proper in the present Condition and Temperature of the Sick. FIFTH and LAST CLASS. This Fifth and Last Class contains all such infected Persons, as without perceiving any Emotion, or there appearing any Trouble or Lesion of their natural Function, have Buboes and Carbuncles, which rise by little and little, and easily turn to Surpuration, becoming sometimes scirrhous, or which is more rare, dissipate insensibly, without leaving any bad Effect behind them; so that without any loss of Strength, and without changing their manner of Living, these infected Persons went about the Streets and publick Places, only using themselves a simple Plaister, or asking of the Physicians and Surgeons such Remedies as are necessary to these sorts of suppurating or scirrhous Tumours. The Number of the infected contained in the two last Classes, were so considerable, that one may affirm, without any exaggeration, that more than fifteen or twenty Thousand Persons were found in these sorts of Cases; and if the Distemper had not often taken this turn, there would not have been left in this City the fourth Part of its Inhabitants. We may very well admit a Sixth Class of such as we have seen perish without any Forerunner, or other manifest Hurt, than only a decay in Strength; and who being asked concerning their Condition, answered, that they were not sensible of any Disorder, which for the most part denoted a desperate Case, and an approaching Death; but the Number of these were very small in Comparison of such as made up the preceding Classes. Besides all these Observations, it has happened that amongst so great a Number of infected Persons, we have seen many particular Cases, wherein, contrary to our Expectation, and all the Appearance of Reason, the Sick have perished or recovered; but we are of Opinion that it would be useless to relate them here, and to give of them a long and tedious Account; being moreover persuaded that these Sorts of particular Events can serve as no sure Rule to form a Prognostick, or how to proceed in the like Distemper. It is therefore more proper to keep to the Observations we have made, and that the rather, since they are found conformable to those of our Collegues who have laboured in concert with us in this so painful and dangerous Work; and who have always professed to relate what they have seen and observed themselves, without suffering themselves to be prejudiced by all the Reports that a vain Credulity, a popular Superstition, the Boastings of Empericks, and the Greediness of making Profit by the publick Calamity, have spread through this City. To conclude, the Medicines we have made use of are such, whose Efficacy and manner of Operation, are generally acknowledged by a long Experience, to be adapted to satisfy all the Indications reported above; having moreover not neglected certain pretended Specificks, such as the solar Powder, the mineral Kernes, Elixirs, and other alexiterial Preparations, as have been communicated to us by charitable and well-disposed Persons; but Experience itself has convinced us, that all these particular Remedies are at the most useful only to remove some certain Accidents, when at the same time they are often noxious in a great many others, and by consequence incapable to cure a Disease characterised by a Number of different essential Symptoms. AN ABSTRACT OF THE _Different Methods that have been used towards the Infected, as they are included in the_ FIVE CLASSES _mentioned above_. Having finish'd the preceding Relation the Tenth of _November_, and applying to the Magistrates to procure Writers to copy a sufficient Number, to satisfie the Desires of all the Persons who have done us the Honour to consult us on this Subject, those Gentlemen replied, that by reason they could not get Transcribers enow, they would willingly take upon themselves the Care of having it printed; so that we have accepted their Offer, being persuaded that it is the shortest and most commodious Expedient to answer to all the Consultations that we receive from all Quarters on this Subject; but having reflected that this same Relation would be of no Use but to Persons of the Faculty who are instructed and experienced in the Knowledge and Cure of Diseases, we have thought proper to add here an Abstract of the different Methods which we have made use of in treating the different Kinds of diseased Persons contained in the five Classes mentioned above; presuming that they may be of Service to the young Physicians and Surgeons that are actually engaged in looking after infected Persons in divers Places of this Province. And we are the more readily determined to give this small Instruction to the Publick; since Mons. LEBRET, first President of the Parliament, and Intendant of this Province, a Gentleman zealous for its Preservation, and very active in his Assistance in this time of Calamity, has done us the Honour frequently to ask of us an exact Account of the Treatment of this Malady. _The Method used in treating the Sick of the First Class._ If we afford but the least Attention to the Nature of the Symptoms related in the first Class, that is to say, to the small, unequal, and concentrated Pulse; to the Shiverings; to the universal Chilliness, especially in the extreme Parts, and to the almost continual Sickness at the Stomach; to those Lead-coloured, dismal and cadaverous Faces; it will be very easy to judge, that we have nothing to do in this Case, but to prescribe the most active and generous Cordials; such as are _Venice_ Treacle, Diascordium, the Extract of Juniper Berries, the _Lilium_; the Confection of Hyacinth, of Alkermes; the Elixirs drawn from Substances that abound the most in a volatile Salt; the Treacle Waters, those of Juniper Berries of Carmes; the volatile Salts of Vipers, of Armoniack, of Hartshorn; the Balms the most spirituous; in one Word, all that is capable to animate, excite and strengthen; augmenting, doubling, and even tripling their ordinary Dose, according as the Case shall be more or less pressing. All these Remedies, and others of the same Nature, are without doubt very proper to animate and raise the almost extinguished Strength of these poor sick Persons; nevertheless we have with Grief seen almost all of them perish on a sudden, which presently confirmed us in the Opinion generally received, that the Malignity of the pestilential Ferment is of a Force superior to all Remedies; but as we have also seen them succeed in some particular Cases, there is Room to presume, and one is but too much convinced of it by fatal Experience, that the Desertion and Inactivity of the greatest Part of the People who might have given Assistance, that the Want of Nourishment, of Remedies and Attendance, that the fatal Prejudice of being seized by an incurable Distemper, that the Despair of seeing ones self abandoned without any Relief, one is, I say, well convinced that all these Causes have not less contributed than the Violence of the Disease, to the sudden Destruction of so great a Number of the Sick, not only of this first Class, but also of the following; seeing that in Proportion as this mortal Fear of the Contagion is diminished, and that one is mutually assisted, that the Hopes and Courage of the People are returned; that, in one Word, the good Order is re-established in this City by the Authority, Firmness and Vigilance of the Chevalier _de_ LANGERON, by the great Care of the Governor, and by the constant and indefatigable Endeavours of the Sheriffs; one has beheld the Progress and Violence of this terrible _Scourge_ to diminish insensibly, and we have been more successful in curing the infected. Returning then to the Method proposed to treat the sick Persons of this First Class, supposing that by the Remedies mentioned, we were able to revive their dying Forces, and to disengage them from the sad Condition described above, it would remain to examine with Attention the new Changes and Accidents that would arise, which according to our Observations, may be reduced to some of those we have related under the following Classes, and ought by consequence to be treated by some of the Methods which we shall now deliver. _The Method used in treating the Sick of the Second Class._ The Treatment of the Sick of this Second Class has much more employed us than the preceding, in respect to the Multiplicity and Variety of Accidents that offer at the same time several Indications to satisfy. All these Indications, however, may be reduced to two principal ones, which demand the greater Attention and Prudence, since they are opposite; for we have observed in the same Patient a strange mixture of Tension and Relaxation, of Shivering and Heat, of Agitation and Sinking; insomuch, that we were obliged constantly to endeavour at the expulsion of the noxious Ferments lodged in the _primæ Viæ_, or dispersed through the whole Mass of Blood, without exasperating them at the same time; or to correct and lessen their Action, without weakening the Patient. We ought, for Example, to vomit or purge without irritating or exhausting; to procure a free Perspiration or Sweating, without too much animating or inflaming; to fortify without augmenting the Heat contrary to Nature; lastly, to dilute and temperate without overcharging or relaxing. And this is what we have endeavoured to execute by the following Method. Suppose that we were called at the Beginning, and before the Patient was exhausted, we should order immediately a Medicine proper to cleanse the Stomach, that is to say, a gentle Vomit, such as is the _Ipecacuanha_, in a Dose proportioned to the Age and Temperature of the sick Person, to be taken in a little Broth or common Water; we have seldom used the Emetick Tartar or _Vinum Benedictum_, for fear of too great Irritations, unless we had to do with very robust and plethorick Bodies, or that some particular Accident seemed to demand them; we promoted the Operation of the Medicine by a large quantity of warm Water, or of _Tea_, or a Decoction of _Carduus Benedictus_. The Effect of this first Medicine being commonly a lessening of the Strength, we endeavoured to fortify, by some gentle Cordial, especially by _Venice_ Treacle and Diascordium, by reason they are proper to prevent or stop an over-working of the Vomit. To these two Remedies succeed moderate and diluting Catharticks, to cleanse away without irritating the Load of gross Humours which may hinder the Action of the other Medicines, or prevent their free Passage into the Vessels: These Purges are laxative Ptisans, made with Sena and Crystal Mineral, ordered in Phials; the Decoction of Tamarinds, or vulnary Infusions, wherein are dissolved Manna and Sal Prunel; the Diluta-Cassiæ; Syrupus de Chichorco cum Rhab.; to which then succeed the Cordials and gentle Alexipharmacks, for the Reasons given above; that is to say, to fortify, and to stop the Over-purgings, which would infallibly cause some fatal Weakness: And supposing that the _Venice_ Treacle and Diascordium were insufficient to answer this last Indication, we would add sealed Earth, Coral, Bole-Armoniack, which we would render still more efficacious in Cases of Necessity, by the mixture of some Drops of liquid Laudanum, which has been of service in many Cases, not only in stopping the immoderate Evacuations, but even in the want of Sleep, phrenetick Deliria, Hemorrhages, and other Symptoms of the same sort. The Solar Powder of _Hamburgh_, the Mineral Kermes, and other Remedies that have been communicated to us with great Commendations, have been also used, both as Emeticks and Catharticks; and have sometimes with success, answered both those Indications: And at the same time, in some certain Cases, we observed they promoted Sweat and Perspiration; but as we have already remarked, they have always seemed to us insufficient to perform the Work of a radical Cure, in a Distemper characterised by divers essential Symptoms. For what relates to Sudorificks, as soon as we perceive the least Disposition to a free Transpiration or Sweating, in what time soever of the Sickness it happens, we have taken care to make use of them, and that the rather, by reason some infected Persons have escaped by this Method: Nor are we ignorant how this sort of Crisis is recommended as very Salutary by all the Authors that have wrote of the Plague: We have had therefore Recourse to some of the Cordials mentioned above, and particularly the _Venice_ Treacle and Diascordium; to which may be added the Powder of Vipers, Diaphoretick Antimony, Oriental Saffron, Camphire, _&c._ promoting the Effect of these Medicines by the repeated Draughts of Tea, the vulnerary Infusions of _Switzerland_, the Waters of Scabious, _Carduus Benedictus_, Juniper Berries, of Scordium, Rue, Angelica, and others, recommended for pushing from the Center to the Circumference; that is to say, to depurate the Mass of Humours by the way of insensible Perspiration without too much Emotion; observing always, that the Patients are not of a too dry and hot Constitution, or that in forwarding too much this Sort of Crisis, they do not fall into some fatal Weakness. The great Heats and intolerable Thirst are allayed by a plentiful and repeated drinking of Water, wherein Bread has been macerated, Ptisan of Barley, of Rice, Chicken-Broth, dissolving therein Sal Prunel, or purified Nitre, mixing by intervals a few Drops of Spirit of Sulphur, or of Nitre dulcified, or of Vitriol; as also the Confections of Alkermes, Syrup of Lemons, _de Ovo_, or any other gentle Cordial, to prevent an Over-charge and Relaxation. All these Remedies properly made use of, and managed with Prudence, are sufficient to satisfy the divers Indications of this second Class, provided the terrible Prejudice of the Impossibility of a Cure, the Consternation, and the Despair, do not suspend their Action: And we could, if the Time would permit, give several Instances of such, as being supported by their Hopes, Courage, and Firmness, have experienced the good and wholsome Effects thereof: So that Nature being thereby strengthened, comforted, and freed in part, of the noxious Ferment that oppressed her; and above all, being delivered from the Danger of the internal Inflammations, by the means of the external Eruptions, I mean the Carbuncles, Buboes, Parotides, _&c._ there remains nothing to be done, but to treat methodically these sorts of Tumours, to which we have particularly applied our selves from the beginning of the Distemper to the end; and that with the greater Diligence, by reason, as we have already remarked, the Destiny of the Patient depended almost always on the Success of these sorts of Eruptions, the manner of treating which, we shall give by and by, according their several Varieties. _The Method used in treating the Sick of the_ THIRD CLASS. It would be altogether needless to enter into the particulars of the Method we used in treating the Patients of this third Class, since the Symptoms they were attack'd with, were the same with those which we have mention'd in the two preceeding Classes; so that they succeeded mutually each other, and the Symptoms related in the second Class, were the Forerunners of those described in the first; whence it is easy to judge that we have here nothing to do but to use successively the Medicines mentioned before. The Observation that we thought fit to insert between the third and fourth Class, and in which it is shown, that several infected Persons perished in a very short Time with Symptoms very moderate, or much less violent than what we generally observe the same Symptoms to be in malignant or common putrid Fevers. This Observation, I say, may instruct us, that this Sort of infected Persons in whom often there only appear a small Weakness, and a very great Consternation, demands as much Care as those in whom the Symptoms are more considerable, and on the least Appearance of their being seized, there ought immediately to be used, besides generous Remedies, every Thing that is proper to sustain their Strength and encourage them. _The Method of treating the Sick of the_ FOURTH CLASS. We have nothing here to do, but to cast our Eyes back, on what we have said above, relating to the Accidents that characterise and terminate the Plague, in order to judge that this Method should principally turn on the Manner of treating the Buboes or Carbuncles. The Symptoms, it is true, that appear at the Beginning in the Diseased of this Class, are nearly the same with those that show themselves in the sick Persons of the second Class; so we immediately employ'd the Remedies proper to oppose them, such as are the gentle Emeticks, the diluting Catharticks and Sudorificks of the same sort, according to the Indications that arise, observing however a very exact Regimen. But the Destiny of the Infected, depending principally, as we have remarked already, on the large Emption, and laudable Suppuration of the Buboes and Carbuncles, these Sorts of Tumours have been always the Objects of our chief Care and Attention. And since these Tumours have constantly appeared in the Sick of this fourth Class, and in those of the preceeding, the Method which we are going to propose for their Management, ought to be consider'd, as common to all the Classes. _The Method used in the Treatment of Buboes._ These Tumours were ordinarily situated in the Groin, and often below it, chiefly swelling the lymphatick Glands, placed near the crural Vessels; they appeared also pretty frequently under the Arm-pits, particularly under the pectoral Muscle, as also in the Glands behind and below the Ears, in the Jugular, and under the Chin. The Buboes with which the Sick of the former Classes were attack'd, often appeared at the Beginning of the Distemper, chiefly in the Groin and Arm-pits, small at first, deep and exceeding painful, that one could scarce touch or handle them, without causing a very uneasy Sensation; these for the most Part made no other Alteration in the Skin, but by swelling it, as they grew bigger, towards the End they became indolent. In what Time soever of the Distemper these Sorts of Tumours appeared, we attacked them without any Delay, unless there was Reason to presume from other Symptoms that the sick Person was at the Point of Death. If the Tumour was small, deep, painful, and one had Time to endeavour to mollify it, we began with the Application of emollient and anodyne Cataplasms, and as the Misery and Desertion would not suffer us to have Recourse to choice Drogues, we prepared on the Spot, and applied warm, a Sort of Pultice composed of Crums of Bread, common Water, Oil of Olives, Yolk of an Egg, or a large Onion roasted in the Ashes, which we first hollowed, and filled with Treacle, Soap, Oil of Scorpions or of Olives; using moreover, for Persons of Condition, Cataplasms made with Milk, the Crummy Part of Bread, Yolks of Eggs; or with the Mucilage of emollient Herbs and Roots. But as the Diseased of the first Classes perish often very suddenly, even at the Time when we apprehend such an Accident the least, we think it not adviseable in this Case to prescribe such Sort of Applications; but we ought immediately to prevent the last Danger, by endeavouring at the opening of the Tumour, and to that End we caused to be applied without Delay, all over the Part a Dressing with the caustick Stone, leaving it there for some Hours, more or less, according to the Depth, Situation, Bulk of the Parts, and the Constitution fat or lean of the Patient; the Escarr being made, it must be opened by Incision, without any Delay, in order to examine the tumified Glands, to dissolve which, there ought to be apply'd Digestives, after they have been a little scarified; or they should be extirpated if they are moveable, and can be removed without an Hemorrhage, which according to our Observations has been always fatal tho' but moderate. And for this Reason we have thought fit to reject the Method of extirpating these Tumours, which was made use of before we came to this City. The Way of opening them immediately by a Lancet, altho' more ready than that by Cauteries, appears to us in many Cases insufficient, and less sure, as giving but little Light to view the Part, and leaving very often after it, Abscesses, Fistula's or Scirrhous Tumours. As to Cupping, Glasses and Blisters, their Effects seem to us slow, useless, and that of the Latter sometimes dangerous; in certain Subjects their Application has been followed by internal Inflamations, especially in the Bladder. Returning then to our Caustick Stone, the Escarr being formed, and the Incisions made with the Precaution of discovering the tumified Glands, in their whole extent, that no bad Reliques be left behind; the next Thing is to dissolve the Glands by the means of good Digestives, which may be made of equal Parts of Balsom of _Arcæus_, Ointment of Marsh-Mallows, of Basilicon, adding thereto Turpentine and Oil of St. _John's_ Wort, which ought to be well mixed, and if there is any remarkable Corruption in the Part, there ought to be joyned with the Turpentine and Oil of St. _John's_ Wort, the Tinctures of Myrrh, of Aloes, Spirit of Wine camphorated and Sal Armoniack; lastly deterging and cleansing away the Pus and _Sanies_, whilst it is thick and too corrosive, with Lotions made of Barley Water, Honey of Roses, Camphire; or with vulneraine Decoctions of Scordium, Wormwood, Centaury the less, and Birthwort. And when the Ulcer has been well deterged, and the tumified Glands entirely consumed by Suppuration, there remains nothing but to apply a simple Plaister to bring the Wound to a Cicatrice. We shall now give in few Words, the Method we used in the Cure of Carbuncles, which in many Circumstances have a near Relation to the preceeding. _The Method used in the treating Carbuncles._ We have observed these sort of Tumours during the whole Course of the Sickness, in a very great number of diseased Persons in all the Classes, though less frequent than the Buboes; remarking also very often in the same Subjects, these two sorts of Emptions. The Carbuncles present themselves in different Places on the Surface of the Body, especially in the Thighs, Legs, Arms, Breast, Back, but very rarely in the Face, Neck, or Belly. They appear at first under the Form of a Pustle or Tumour, which is whitish, yellowish, or reddish, Pale in its middle, or inclining to an obscure Red, which becomes insensibly blackish, crustaceous, especially about the Edges; as also variegated with divers Colours; so that, according to that which is predominant, and the Excess or Defect of Sensibility and Elevation, we may give it the Name of a Phlegmonick, Erysipelatous, or gangrened Carbuncle. We immediately attack all these sorts of Carbuncles by Scarification, making the Incision to the Right and to the Left, in the Middle, and on the Edges, to the Quick; and if the Escarr is Thick and Callous, we take away all the Thickness, and what is Callous, as much as the Situation of the Parts will permit. We have not thought proper to use here the actual or potential Cauteries which are employed in our Province, in the case of common Carbuncles, because, having made Trial of them at the Beginning, we observed that they caused Inflammations so considerable, that a Gangrene presently ensued, and its Edges became Callous again: The Caustick Stone succeeded not but in small Carbuncles, which heal of themselves, almost without any Help. After having scarified these Tumours, we applied Pledgets with good Digestives, as in the Case of Buboes, only with this Difference, that we have left out the suppurating Ingredients, using only the Treacle, Balsam of _Arcæus_, and Oil of Turpentine; and if there is much Corruption, we add the Tinctures of Aloes, of Myrrh and Camphire, _&c._ We put over the Pledgets, emollient and anodine, or spirituous and dissolving Cataplasms, as over the Buboes, according to the diversity of Indications. In the Course of the Dressings, the Lotions and Injections are also employed the same as for the Buboes, according to the Exigence of the Case. And, if in the Process of Suppuration, the new Flesh be so sensible, that the Digestives applied cause a very great Pain, as we have seen it often happen, then we substitute in their room Pledgets with Unguentum Nutritum, with very good Success. _The Method relating to the Sick of the_ FIFTH CLASS. We believe it will be useless to give every particular of the Method that has been followed, and which is still actually used in the Cure of the diseased of the Fifth Class, wherewith the Hospitals are filled; because they being afflicted with no other Symptom besides the Buboes and Carbuncles ill looked after, or neglected, and by consequence, nothing here offers it self but the Abscesses, Ulcers, Fistula's, Scirrhus's, and Callus's, which Negligence, or an ill Treatment have left behind them; so that there is here nothing farther required, but to put in Use the Method laid down above, or to employ the Means practised in the like Cases, according to the Rules of Art. We shall remark, in concluding, that all the Methods we have here proposed, are not so general, or constant, as to be without Exceptions, in respect to certain particular Cases, which have fallen under our Observation during this terrible Sickness, and which may furnish Materials for a more exact Account. But what we have already delivered may be sufficient to instruct the young Physicians and Surgeons, that are employed in attending Infected Persons; and at the same time, to let the Publick know what Opinion ought to be had of all those singular Methods, and of those pretended Specificks so cried up by the Populace, and by the Empericks. _FINIS._ Transcriber's Notes: Long "s" has been modernized. The following misprints have been corrected: "MARSELLIES" corrected to "MARSEILLES" (page 5) "funish" corrected to "furnish" (page 38) 
3726	----	None 
31807	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries.) THE PLAGUE AT _MARSEILLES_ CONSIDER'D: With REMARKS upon the PLAGUE in General, shewing its Cause and Nature of INFECTION, with necessary Precautions to prevent the spreading of that DIREFUL DISTEMPER. Publish'd for the PRESERVATION of the People of GREAT-BRITAIN. Also some Observations taken from an Original Manuscript of a Graduate Physician, who resided in LONDON during the whole Time of the late Plague, _Anno_ 1665. By RICHARD BRADLEY, F. R. S. The THIRD EDITION. _LONDON_: Printed for W. MEARS at the _Lamb_ without _Temple-Bar_. 1721. Price 1_s._ TO Sir ISAAC NEWTON President of the Royal Society, _&c._ _SIR_, To Act under Your Influence, is to do Good, and to Study the Laws of Nature, is the Obligation I owe to the Royal Society, who have so wisely placed Sir _Isaac Newton_ at their Head. The following Piece, therefore, as I design it for the Publick Good, naturally claims _Your_ Patronage, and, as it depends chiefly upon Rules in Nature, I am doubly obliged to offer it to the President of that Learned Assembly, whose Institution was for the Improvement of Natural Knowledge. _I am, Sir With due Respect, Your most obliged, Humble Servant,_ R. BRADLEY. PREFACE. _There would be little Occasion for a Preface to this Treatise, if the last Foreign Advices had not given us something particular relating to the Pestilence that now rages in the South Parts of_ France; _and what may more particularly recommend these Relations to the World, is, because they come from Physicians, who resided at the Infected Places._ The Physician at _Aix_ gives us the following Account. _The Contagious Distemper, which has become the Reproach of our Faculty here for above a Month past, is more violent than that at_ Marseilles; _it breaks out in Carbuncles, Buboes, livid Blisters, and purple Spots; the first Symptoms are grievous Pains in the Head, Consternations, wild Looks, a trembling Voice, a cadaverous Face, a Coldness in all the extreme Parts, a low unequal Pulse, great Pains in the Stomach, Reachings to Vomit, and these are follow'd by Sleepiness, Deliriums, Convulsions, or Fluxes of Blood, the Forerunners of sudden Death. In the Bodies that are open'd, we find gangrenous Inflammations in all the lower Parts of the Belly, Breast and Neck. Above fifty Persons have died every Day for three Weeks past in the Town and Hospitals. Most of them fall into a dreadful Phrenzy, so that we are forc'd to tie them._ _The other is a Letter from a Physician at_ Marseilles, _sent to_ John Wheake, _Esq; who was so kind to give me the Abstract._ Marseilles _Sept._ 15. 1720. Sir, I Arriv'd here the 8_th_, and enter'd the Gate of _Aix_ which leads to the _Cours_, which has always been esteem'd one of the most pleasant Prospects in the Kingdom, but that Day was a very dismal Spectacle to me; all that great Place, both on the Right and Left, was fill'd with Dead, Sick, and Dying Persons. The Carts were continually employ'd in going and returning to carry away the Dead Carcasses, of which there were that Day above four Thousand. The Town was without Bread, without Wine, without Meat, without Medicines, and in general, without any Succours. The Father abandon'd the Child, and the Son the Father; the Husband the Wife, and the Wife the Husband; and those who had not a House to themselves, lay upon Quilts in the Streets and the Pavements; all the Streets were fill'd with Cloaths and Houshold-Goods, strew'd with Dead Dogs and Cats, which made an insupportable Stench. Meat was Sold at 18 to 20 _Sous per_ Pound, and was only distributed to those that had Billets from the Consuls: This, Sir, was the miserable State of this City at that Time, but at present, Things have a better appearance; Monsieur _le Marquis de Langeron_, who Commands here, has caused the Dead to be Buried, the Cloaths and Goods to be burnt, and the Shops to be open'd, for the Sustenance of the Publick. Two Hospitals are prepar'd where they carry all the Sick of the Town, good Orders are daily re-establish'd, and the Obligation is chiefly owing to Monsieur _de Langeron_, who does Wonders. However, there is not any Divine Service Celebrated, nor are there any Confessors. The People die, and are buried without any Ceremonies of the Church; But the Bishop, with an undaunted Courage, goes thro' the Streets, and into Publick Places, accompanied with a Jesuit and one Ecclesiastick, to Exhort the Dying, and to give them Absolution; and he distributes his Charity very largely. The Religious Order have almost all perish'd, and the Fathers of the Oratory are not exempt; it is accounted, that there have died 50000 Persons. One thing very particular is, that Monsieur _Moustier_, one of the Consuls of the City, who has been continually on Horseback ordering the Slaves who carried away the Dead in Carts, or those that were Sick, to the Hospitals, enjoys his Health as well as he did the first Day he began; the Sickness seems at present to abate, and we have the Satisfaction to see several whom we took under our Care at the Beginning of the Sickness, promise fair towards a Recovery. The Sickness however, is of a very extraordinary Nature, and the Observations we have in our Authors, have scarce any Agreement with what we find in this: It is the Assistance of Heaven we ought to implore, and to wait for a Blessing from thence upon our Labours. I am, _&c._ _We may observe, that the Contagion now spreading it self in Foreign Parts, has nearly the same Symptoms that were observ'd in the late Plague at_ London; _so that what Medicines were then used with good Success, may direct not only the People of_ England _in the way of Practice, if_ God _Almighty should please to afflict us with that dreadful Distemper, but be serviceable likewise to the Infected Places abroad. There is room enough to hope, the approaching Cold, which we naturally expect at this Season, may prevent its spreading amongst us for some Months, 'till the Air begins to warm, but the Seeds of that Venom may be brought over in Merchandizes even in the coldest Months, and according to the Nature of Insects will not hatch, or appear to our Prejudice, 'till the hotter Seasons. For to suppose this Malignant Distemper is occasion'd by Vapours only arising from the Earth, is to lay aside our Reason, as I think I have already shewn in my_ New Improvements of Planting, _&c. to which my Reader may refer._ _I suppose there may be such Persons in the World who do not agree with the Hypothesis I have laid down in the following Sheets, altho' many Learned Authors have supported it; and again, I expect others to Except against the Concise way I have taken, in writing upon a Subject, which at this time ought to be set in the plainest Light; but as I found the Danger of Pestilence spreading it self more and more every Day, a true Lover of his Country could not be easie without giving the Publick some Hints to prevent its dismal Effects, and at the same time to engage the Learned to write upon such an Occasion._ _And it is with Pleasure I observe, that since the former Editions of this small Tract has been made publick, our Learned Physicians are dispos'd to consider the necessary Means to prevent (as far as in them lies) the spreading of this Calamity, and justly deserve the favour of the Publick._ _For my own part, I can only say, that the short time I had to put this Work together, would not allow me to give it with that exactness, that I would have done, if I could have had more Leisure._ THE PLAGUE AT _MARSEILLES_ CONSIDER'D, _&c._ The Deplorable Condition of the _Marseillians_, and the Danger that all the Trading Parts of _Europe_ are now in, of being Infected by the Plague which rages in the _South_ Parts of _France_, and every Day spreads it self more and more over the Neighbouring Countries, gives me occasion to Publish some Papers which would never have otherwise appeared in the World. When I consider the melancholy Circumstances of the People at _Marseilles_ and other infected Places, how they are now divested of Relief, and brought into that miserable State, that even every Man is terrified at the Approach of his dearest Friend, and the very Aspect of our Neighbours strike such Horror and Confusion in us, as if they brought our Death and Destruction with them; it is then surely time for every one to contribute all that in him lies to prevent the Progress of so _direful a Calamity_. The good Counsels of our Nation, therefore, to prevent as much as possible the Infection which might be brought among us by Merchandizes coming from Infected Places, have wisely order'd strict Quarentine to be perform'd, before either the Sailors or Goods can be brought ashoar. The Neighbouring Nations of Trade, have follow'd our Example, but the _Hollanders_ in an extraordinary manner, have even order'd the Burning the very Ships and Goods coming from _Marseilles_, and have been so cautious, as to suffer none of the Passengers to come on Shoar, without first being dis-rob'd of all their Apparel, and even to be well wash'd with Sea Water, and then likewise to perform Quarentine in a little Island, remote from the Inhabitants. I could mention many Relations we have had, of the Sufferings of the poor People belonging to _Marseilles_, who to avoid the dismal Consequence of the Plague, have flown for Refuge into the Country, and have either been starv'd to Death, or Murder'd by the Country People; but yet we find, that notwithstanding all these Precautions, that Pestilence continues to destroy as much as ever, and makes it Advances every Day more towards us. It is computed, that about 60000 are Dead of the Plague at _Marseilles_; and that there are now (_October 20. N. S._) above 14000, Persons left in that Town, including 10000 Sick; and at _Aubagne_, out of 10000 who retir'd thither from _Marseilles_, above 9000 are Dead. On this sad Occasion of the Ruin of _Marseilles_ especially since there is talk of Burning that Town, it may not be unseasonable to give an Account of it. '_Marseilles_ is one of the most considerable Cities in _France_, and the most Populous and most trading Town of all _Provance_. It is so Antient, that it is reckon'd to have been Built upwards of Six Hundred and Thirty Years before the Birth of our Saviour. It was once a very flourishing Republick; and its University was in such Esteem, as drew Students thither from all Parts of _Europe_. '_Marseilles_ is situate at the Foot of a Hill, which rises in the Form of an Amphitheatre in proportion to its Distance from the Sea. The Harbour is Oval, and bounded by a Key about fourteen hundred Paces long, upon which stand the handsomest Houses in the Town. It affords a very delightful Walk, Part whereof is taken up in the Day time by the working Gally-Slaves Stalls, where you may furnish your self with Cloaths and other Necessaries; the Entrance of the Harbour is shut up by a Chain supported at certain Distances by three Stone-Pillars; so that only one large Ship can pass at a time, tho' the Haven will contain about Five hundred. And hither are brought all sorts of Commodities from all Parts of the known World. 'The Cathedral Church, call'd _Notre Dame la Majeure_, whereof S. _Lazarus_ is Patron, is very Solemn. It was formerly a Temple dedicated to _Venus_, or to _Diana_ of _Ephesus_. Its Form is Irregular; but it was not thought proper to add or diminish any thing. There remain several large Columns, on which stood the Idol. The Treasure of this Church is very Rich. Here you see the Head of S. _Lazarus_, that of S. _Connat_, a Foot of S. _Victor_, and many other Relicks. Near the Cathedral, is a Chappel built upon the Spot where (the _Marseillians_ tell you) S. _Mary Magdalen_ preached the Gospel to the Idolaters, as they came out of the Temple. '_Notre Dame des Acoules_ is also a fine large Church, which was formerly a Temple sacred to the Goddess _Pallas_. In that of S. _Martin_, which is Collegiate and Parochial, is preserv'd a Silver Image of the blessed Virgin, five Foot and half high, the Crown and Ornaments whereof are very rich. The Church of S. _Saviour_, now belonging to a Nunnery, was anciently a Temple of _Apollo_. All these Places are so many Proofs of the Antiquity of _Marseilles_, as well as two other Temples near the Port, with two Towers, _viz._ that of S. _John_, which is a Commandry of the Knights of _Malta_, and that of S. _Nicolas_. 'The Abby of S. _Victor_, of the Order of S. _Benedict_, is situate at the Foot of the Citadel. It resembles a Castle, being encompass'd with Walls, and set off with Towers. At the Front of the Church are these Words address'd to S. _Victor_, _Massiliam verè Victor civesque tuere._ 'In a Chappel on one side of the Epistle, you see the Head of that Saint, in a Shrine of Silver guilt, finely wrought, which was given by Pope _Urban_ V. whose Tomb is on one side of the Choir; there are many other Relicks in this Church. You then descend a large Stair-Case into the Church under Ground, where the Chappels visited by the Curious, are full of Holy Bodies. There they shew you the Tomb of S. _Eusebius_, and those of forty five Virgins who disfigur'd themselves to terrifie the Vandals who put them to Death. Here also you see St. _Andrew_'s Cross entire, the Branches whereof are seven Foot long and eight Inches Diameter. In one of these subterraneous Chappels is a little Grotto, wherein S. _Mary Magdalen_ (they tell you,) upon her Landing at _Marseilles_ began to do Pennance. They add, that she Inhabited it six or Seven Years: Her Statue likewise is represented, lying at the entrance of this Grotto. There is also a rich Chappel of our Lady, wherein no Women are permitted to enter. This Order was made, upon the Vulgar Notion, of a Queen's being struck Blind, who had the Temerity to venture into it. 'In _Marseilles_ you observe likewise the Monasteries and Churches of the _Carthusians_, the Monks of St. _Anthony_, the _Trinitarians_, _Jacobins_, _Augustins_, Barefooted _Augustins_, _Carmelites_, Barefooted _Carmelites_, _Cordeliers_, _Observantins_, _Servites_, _Minims_, _Capuchins_, _Recollects_, _de la Mercy_, _Feuillans_, _Jesuites_, Fathers of the _Oratory_, and of the _Mission_. There are also _Benedictine_ Nuns, _Dominicans_, Nuns of S. _Clare_, _Capuchins_, _Carmelites_, _Bernardines_, _Urselins_, Nuns of the Visitation of Mercy, and of the good Shepherd or Repentance; and a Commandry of _Malta_. 'The Citadel of _Marseilles_ is near the Port, extending its Fortifications to the Entrance of the same; and yet it commands the Town. The Key which lines this side of the Harbour, from Fort S. _Nicolas_ to the Arsenal, is about fifteen hundred Paces long, and is adorned with handsome Ware-Houses and Dwelling-Houses: Here is the great Hospital for Sick Slaves, which was formerly the Arsenal before the New one was built. Six large Pavilions, as many main Houses, and a great square Place big enough to build several Galleys at a time in, form the Design of it. In this Place are two large Basons, as long and as deep as a Galley, in each of which, when a Galley is ready to launch, they open a small Sluice which kept up the Sea Water. 'This great Building makes one entire Front of the Port, three hundred Paces in Length; the Harbour of _Marseilles_, is thirteen hundred Paces long, and the Circumference about three Thousand four hundred and fifty Paces. The Streets of the old Town are long, but narrow; and those of the New are spacious, and well Built. The chief, is that they call _le Cours_, which is near forty Paces broad, in the middle of which is a Walk, planted with four Rows of young Elms, which, with the Keys, are the Places of publick Resort. 'The Town-House which they call _La Loge_, is situate upon the Key over against the Galleys. Below is a large Hall, which serves the Merchants and Sea-faring Men for an Exchange; and above Stairs the Consuls, Town-Councellors, and others concerned in the Civil Administration have their Meeting. The most valuable Piece in this Building, is the City Arms in the Front, Carved by the famous _Puget_. '_Marseilles_ seems still to retain somewhat of the ancient Government, of its four Courts, being divided into four Quarters, viz. S. _John_, _Cavaillon_, _Corps de ville_ and _Blancaire_; each of which hath its Governors and other Officers. The _Porte Royalle_ is well Adorned, having on one side the Figure of S. _Lazarus_, and on the other, that of S. _Victor_. And in the middle is a Busto of _Lewis_ XIV. with this Inscription over it, _Sub cujus imperio summa libertas_. 'The Town is encompass'd by good Walls, and a Tetragon which commands a Part of it, is the best of the two Citadels, and within Cannon Shot of a Fort call'd _Notre Dame de la Garde_, whither the Inhabitants frequently go to pay their private Devotion, and from whence they discover Ships at Sea at a great Distance. This Fort is built on the top of a Mountain, upon the Ruins of an ancient Temple of _Venus_, called _Ephesium_. The Country about this City is low and open for two Miles, agreeably adorn'd with Villas, Vineyards, and Gardens of Fig-Trees, and Orange-Trees, with plenty of Water from a good Spring, which being divided into several Branches serves to furnish the City. As to the Inhabitants, they are for the most part Poor and uncleanly, and chiefly Eaters of Fruit, Herbs, and Roots with such like meagre Fare, nor do they take any Pains to clean the Streets where the meaner Sort have their Habitation. Their Bread is very coarse and high priz'd; and perhaps what has principally contributed to the Progress of the Plague among them, was the great Numbers of those which Lodged together in the same House, as I shall explain hereafter; when I have examin'd the State of _London_, when it suffer'd by the Plague in the Year 1665. _London_, at the time of the Plague, 1665 was, perhaps, as much crouded with People as I suppose _Marseilles_ to have been when the Plague begun; the Streets of _London_ were, in the time of the Pestilence, very narrow, and, as I am inform'd, unpaved for the most part; the Houses by continu'd Jetts one Story above another, made them almost meet at the Garrets, so that the Air within the Streets was pent up, and had not a due Freedom of Passage, to purifie it self as it ought; the Food of the People was then much less invigorating than in these Days; Foreign Drugs were but little in Use, and even _Canary_ Wine was the highest Cordial the People would venture upon; for Brandy, some Spices, and hot spirituous Liquors were then not in Fashion; and at that time Sea-Coal was hardly in Use, but their firing was of Wood; and, for the most part, Chestnut, which was then the chief Furniture of the Woods about _London_, and in such Quantity, that the greatest Efforts were made by the Proprietors, to prevent the Importation of _Newcastle_-Coal, which they represented as an unwholsome Firing, but, I suppose, principally, because it would hinder the Sale of their Wood; for the generality of Men were (I imagine) as they are now, more for their own Interest than for the common Good. The Year 1665 was the last that we can say the Plague raged in _London_, which might happen from the Destruction of the City by Fire, the following Year 1666, and besides the Destroying the Eggs, or Seeds, of those poisonous Animals, that were then in the stagnating Air, might likewise purifie that Air in such a Manner, as to make it unfit for the Nurishment of others of the same Kind, which were swimming or driving in the Circumambient Air: And again, the Care that was taken to enlarge the Streets at their Rebuilding, and the keeping them clean after they were rebuilt, might greatly contribute to preserve the Town from Pestilence ever since. But it was not only in the Year 1665 that the Plague raged in _London_, we have Accounts in the Bills of Mortality, of that dreadful Distemper in the Years 1592, 1603, 1625, 1630 and 1636, in which Years we may observe how many died Weekly of the Plague, and Remark how much more that Distemper raged in the hot Months, than in the others, and serve at the same time as a Memorandum to the Curious. A _TABLE_, Shewing how many Died Weekly, as well of all Diseases, as of the Plague, in the Years 1592, 1603, 1625, 1630, 1636; and the Year 1665. _Buried of all Diseases in the Year 1592._ _Total_ _Pla._ March 17 230 3 March 24 351 31 March 31 219 29 April 7 307 27 April 14 203 33 April 21 290 37 April 28 310 41 May 5 350 29 May 12 339 38 May 19 300 42 May 26 450 58 June 2 410 62 June 9 441 81 June 16 399 99 June 23 401 108 June 30 850 118 July 7 1440 927 July 14 1510 893 July 21 1491 258 July 28 1507 852 August 4 1503 983 August 11 1550 797 August 18 1532 651 August 25 1508 449 Septemb. 1 1490 507 Septemb. 8 1210 563 Septem. 15 621 451 Septem. 22 629 349 Septem. 29 450 330 October 6 408 327 October 13 522 323 October 20 330 308 October 27 320 302 Novemb. 3 310 301 Novem. 10 309 209 Novem. 17 301 107 Novem. 24 321 93 Decemb. 1 349 94 Decemb. 8 331 86 Decem. 15 329 71 Decem. 22 386 39 ---- _The Total of all that have been buried is,_ 25886 _Whereof of the Plague,_ 11503 _Buried of all Diseases in the Year 1603._ _Total_ _Pla._ March 17 108 3 24 60 2 31 78 6 April 7 66 4 14 79 4 21 98 8 28 109 10 May 5 90 11 12 112 18 19 122 22 26 122 32 June 2 114 30 9 131 43 15 144 59 23 182 72 30 267 158 July 7 445 263 14 612 424 _The Out Parishes this Week were joined with the City._ 21 1186 917 28 1728 1396 August 4 2256 1922 11 2077 1745 18 3054 2713 25 2853 2539 Septemb. 1 3385 3035 8 3078 2724 15 3129 2818 22 2456 2195 29 1961 1732 October 6 1831 1641 13 1312 1149 20 766 642 27 625 508 Novemb. 3 737 594 10 545 442 17 384 251 24 198 105 Decemb. 1 223 102 8 163 55 15 200 96 22 168 74 ---- _The Total this Year is,_ 37294 _Whereof of the Plague,_ 30561 _Buried of all Diseases in the Year 1625._ _Total_ _Pla._ March 17 262 4 24 226 8 31 243 11 April 7 239 10 14 256 24 21 230 25 28 305 26 May 5 292 30 12 232 45 19 379 71 26 401 78 June 2 395 69 9 434 91 16 510 161 23 640 239 30 942 390 July 7 1222 593 14 1781 1004 21 2850 1819 28 3583 2471 August 4 4517 3659 11 4855 4115 18 5205 4463 25 4841 4218 September 1 3897 3344 8 3157 2550 15 2148 1612 22 1994 1551 29 1236 852 October 6 833 538 13 815 511 20 651 331 27 375 134 November 3 357 89 10 319 92 17 274 48 24 231 27 December 1 190 15 8 181 15 15 168 6 22 157 1 ---- _The Total this Year is,_ 51758 _Whereof of the Plague,_ 35403 _Buried of all Diseases in the Year 1630._ _Total_ _Pla._ June 24 205 19 July 1 209 25 8 217 43 15 250 50 22 229 40 29 279 77 August 5 250 56 12 246 65 19 269 54 26 270 67 September 2 230 66 9 259 63 16 264 68 23 274 57 30 269 56 October 7 236 66 14 261 73 21 248 60 28 214 34 November 4 242 29 11 215 29 18 200 18 25 226 7 December 2 221 20 9 198 19 16 212 5 Buried in the 97 Parishes within the Walls, 2696 Whereof of the Plague, 190 Buried in the 16 Parishes without the Walls, 4813 Whereof of the Plague, 603 Buried in the 9 Out-Parishes in _Middlesex_ and _Surrey_ and at the _Pest-house_, 3045 Whereof of the Plague, 524 Buried in _Westminster_, 566 Whereof of the Plague, 31 ----- _The Total of all the Burials this time,_ 10545 _Whereof of the Plague,_ 1317 _Buried of all Diseases in the Year 1636._ _Total_ _Pla._ April 7 119 2 14 205 4 _This Week these Parishes were added_: _St._ Margaret Westminster, Lambeth _Parish_, _St._ Mary Newington, Redriff _Parish_, _St._ Mary Islington, Stepney _and_ Hackney _Parishes_. 21 285 14 28 259 17 May 5 251 10 12 308 55 19 299 35 26 330 62 June 2 339 77 9 345 87 16 381 103 23 304 179 30 352 104 July 7 215 81 14 372 104 21 365 120 28 423 151 August 4 491 206 11 538 283 18 638 321 25 787 429 Septemb. 1 10_1 638 8 1069 650 15 1306 865 22 1229 775 29 1403 928 October 6 1405 921 13 1302 792 20 1002 555 27 900 458 November 3 1300 838 10 1104 715 17 950 573 24 857 476 December 1 614 321 8 459 167 15 385 85 ---- _The Total of the Burials this Year, is_ 23359 _Whereof of the Plague,_ 10400 _Buried of all Diseases in the Year 1664/5._ _Total_ _Pla._ Decemb. 27 291 January 3 349 10 394 17 415 24 474 31 409 February 7 393 14 461 1 21 393 28 396 March 7 441 14 433 21 365 28 353 April 4 344 11 382 18 344 25 390 2 May 2 388 9 347 9 16 353 3 23 385 14 30 399 17 June 6 405 43 13 558 112 20 611 168 27 684 267 July 4 1006 470 11 1268 725 18 1761 1089 25 2785 1845 August 1 3014 2010 8 4030 2817 15 5319 3880 22 5568 4227 29 7496 6102 September 5 8252 6978 12 7690 6544 19 8297 7165 26 6460 5533 October 3 10 17 24 31 November 7 14 We may observe from hence, that the Months _July_, _August_, _September_, and _October_, the Plague was at the greatest height, and even in those Months, all other Distempers had greater Power over Human Bodies than in the others. When I consider this, I cannot help taking Notice, that in those Months we have our chief Fruit Seasons, and when it happens that there has been a Blight in the Spring, or the Summer has not given our Fruit due Maturity, I suppose that the Habit of the Body is so disposed as to receive Infection more readily, than in Years that either afford us little, or else very Ripe Fruit. Again, in those warm Months, I find that we have vast Varieties of the smaller kinds of Insects floating in the Air, and it is a thing constant, that every Insect from the greatest to the smallest has its proper _Nidus_ to hatch and perfect it self in, and is led thither by certain Effluvia which arise from that Body which is in a right State for the preservation of it. In the Blight of Trees we find, such Insects as are appointed to destroy a Cherry Tree, will not injure a Tree of another Kind, and again, unless the Leaves of some Trees are bruised by Hail, or otherwise Distemper'd, no Insect will invade them; so in Animals it may be, that by ill Diet the Habit of their Body may be so altered, that their very Breath may entice those poisonous Insects to follow their way, 'till they can lodge themselves in the Stomach of the Animal, and thereby occasion Death. We may likewise suppose that where these Insects have met with their appointed Nests, they will certainly lay their Eggs there, which the Breath of the diseased Person will fling out in Parcels, as he has occasion to Respire; so that the Infection may be communicated to a stander-by, or else, through their extraordinary smallness, may be convey'd by the Air to some Distance. It is observable, that all Insects are so much quicker in passing through their several Stages to the state of Perfection, as they are smaller, and the smallest of them are more numerous in their Increase than the others. Two Years ago when the Plague was at _Amiens_, I pass'd by that Place, and then found the Contagion began to abate ('twas then about _October_, and the Rains began to fall) the People told me they were advised to eat Garlick every Morning to guard their Stomachs against Infection; but whether it was the Garlick, or the sudden alteration of the Season that was the occasion of the decrease of that Distemper, we shall examine in another Place; but we may Note, That all the Ground about that City is a Morass, so that there is no coming near it but by the Roads which are Paved and mark'd out. This Marsh or Morass, as all others do in the Summer Season, produce vast Numbers of Insects which are accounted unwholsome: But as some are of Opinion, it is rather a Noxious Vapour which occasions this Infectious Distemper, I shall mention my Opinion of such Vapours before I conclude. _In the_ Philosophical Transactions, No 8. _we have the following Observations of Insects which are the Destroyers of Plants._ Some Years since there was such a swarm of a certain sort of Insect in _New-England_, that for the space of 200 Miles they poisoned and destroyed all the Trees of the Country; there being found innumerable little Holes in the Ground, out of which those Insects broke forth in the Form of _Maggots_, which turn'd into _Flies_ that had a kind of Sting, which they stuck into the Tree, and thereby envenom'd and killed it. The like Plague is said to happen frequently in the Country of the _Cossacks_ or _Ukrani_, where, in dry Summers, they are infested with swarms of _Locusts_, driven thither by an _East_, or _South-East_ Wind, that they darken the Air in the fairest Weather, and devour all the Corn of that Country, laying their Eggs in Autumn, and then dying; but the Eggs, of which every one layeth two or three Hundred, hatching the next Spring, produce again such a number of _Locusts_, that then they do far more mischief than before, unless Rains fall which kill both Eggs and Insects, or unless a strong _North_ or _North-West_ Wind arise, which drives them into the _Euxine_ Sea: And it is very natural to suppose, that if the Winds have this Power over the larger sort of Insects; _i. e._ of moving them from one Country to another, the smaller kinds, which are lighter than the Air it self, may be interceptibly Convey'd as far as the Winds can reach. _Dr._ Wincler, _Chief Physician of the Prince_ Palatine, _gives us the following Account of the_ Murrain _in_ Switzerland, _and the Method of its Cure, in a Letter to Dr._ Slare, _F. R. S. Anno_ 1682. On the Borders of _Italy_ a _Murrain_ infested the Cattle which spread farther into _Switzerland_, the Territories of _Wirtemburg_, and over other Provinces, and made great destruction among them. The Contagion seem'd to propagate it self in the form of a _Blue Mist_, that fell upon those Pastures where the Cattle Grazed, insomuch that Herds have returned home Sick, being very dull, forbearing their Food, most of them would die away in twenty four Hours. Upon dissections were discovered large and corrupted Spleens, sphacelous and corroded Tongues, some had _Angina Maligna's_. Those Persons that carelesly managed their Cattle without a due respect to their own Health, were themselves Infected and Died away like their Beasts. Having had timely Notice of this _Lues_ from our Neighbours, we made such Provision against the invading Disease, that very few of those who were infected by the Murrain died. Some impute this Contagion to the Witchcraft of three _Capuchins_ in _Switzerland_. But the more learned believe it to proceed from some _noxious Exhalations_ thrown out of the Earth by three distinct Earthquakes perceived here and in our Neighbourhood in the Space of one Year. _The Method of Cure for the Cattle._ As soon as ever there was any suspicion of the Contagion upon any one of the Herd, the Tongue of that Beast was carefully examined, and in case they found any Aptha or Blisters whether White, Yellow, or Black, then they were obliged to rub, and scratch the Tongue with a Silver Instrument (being about the breadth and thickness of a Six-pence, but indented on the sides, and having a Hole in the middle whereby it is fastened to a Stick, or Handle,) 'till it Bleed, then they must wipe away the Blood with new unwashen Linnen. This done, a Lotion for the Tongue is used, made of _Salt_ and good _Vinegar_. The _Antidote_ for the diseased Cattle is thus described. Take of _Soot_, _Gun-Powder_, _Brimstone_, _Salt_, equal Parts, and as much Water as is necessary to wash it down, give a large Spoonful for a Dose. _After which we have a further Account of the same Contagion by the same Hand._ ----I lately received an Account of two ingenious Travellers, who assured me the Contagion had reached their Quarters on the Borders of _Poland_, having passed quite through _Germany_, and that the Method used in our Relation preserved and cured their Cattle. They told me the Contagion was observed to make its Progress Dayly, spreading near two _German_ Miles in twenty four Hours. This they say was certainly observed by many curious Persons, that it continually, without intermission, made progressive Voyages, and suffered no neighbouring Parish to escape; so that it did not at the same time infect Places at great distances. They added, that Cattle secured at Rack and Manger, were equally infected with those in the Field. It were worth the considering, whether this Infection is not carried on by some volatile Insect, that is able to make only such short flights as may amount to such Computations: For the account of the Ancients concerning the grand _pestilential Contagions_, is very little satisfactory to this Age, who derive it from a blind Putrefaction, from the incantations of ill Men, or from the conjunction of inauspicious Planets. The following Account we have from Dr. _Bernard Ramizzini_, concerning the Contagion among the Black Cattle about _Padua_, Translated from _Acta Erudit_. In the Year 1712 a dreadful and violent Contagion seiz'd the _Black Cattle_, which, like an increasing Fire, could neither be extinguish'd nor stopt by any Human means. This First was observ'd in _Agro Vincentino_, and Discover'd it self more openly in the Country, spreading every way, even to the very Suburbs of _Padua_, with a cruel Destruction of the Cows and Oxen. It was also in _Germany_, in many Places; and is not yet wholly conquer'd. Of this Distemper, Dr. _Ramazzini_ made a particular Dissertation; in which he inquir'd into the Causes of the Distemper, and what Remedies might be us'd, to put a stop to its violent Course. It is evident, that this Distemper in Cows and Oxen was a true Fever, from the coldness of the Cattle at first, which was soon succeeded by a violent burning, with a quick Pulse. That this Fever was pestilential, its concomitant Symptoms plainly show, as difficulty of breathing, a Drowziness at the beginning; a continued Flux of a nauseous Matter from the Nose and Mouth, fetid Dung, sometimes with Blood, Pustules breaking out over the whole Body on the fifth or sixth Day, like the _Small-Pox_; they generally dyed about the fifth or seventh Day. The Author tells us, that out of a great Drove, such as the Merchants bring yearly into _Italy_ out of _Dalmatia_ and the bordering Countries, one Beast happen'd to straggle from the rest, and be left behind; which a Cowherd brought to a Farm belonging to the Count _Borromeo_: This Beast infected all the Cows and Oxen of the Place where he was taken in, with the same Distemper he labour'd under; the Beast it self dying in a few Days, as did all the rest, except one only, who had a Rowel put into his Neck. 'Tis no strange thing therefore, if from the Effluvia, proceeding from the sick and dead Cattle, and from the Cow-Houses and Pastures where they were fed, and perhaps from the Cloaths of the Cowherds themselves, this Infection falling upon a proper Subject, should diffuse it self so largely. When therefore this subtile _venomous Exhalation_ happens to meet with any of the Cow-kind, joining it self with the serous Juices and Animal Spirits, 'tis no wonder it should disorder the natural Consistence of the Blood, and corrupt the Ferments of the Viscera; whence it follows, that the natural Functions of the Viscera are vitiated, and the requisite Secretions stopt. For Dr. _Ramazzini_ not only supposes, but asserts, that a Poison of this kind, rather fixes and coagulates, than dissolves the Blood: For beside the forementioned Symptoms accompanying the Disease, the Eye it self is a Witness; since the dead Carcases being open'd while they are yet hot, little or no Blood runs out; those Animals having naturally a thick Blood, especially when the fever has continued so many Days. And he adds, that whether this Plague came first from the Foreign Beast, or any other way, it only had its Effect upon some Animal, in which there was the morbid Seminary or Ground prepared for it. In the dead Bodies of all the Cattle, it was particularly observ'd, that in the Omasus, or Paunch, there was found a hard compact Body, firmly adhering to the Coats of the Ventricle, of a large Bulk, and an intolerable Smell: In other Parts, as in the Brain, Lungs, _&c._ were several Hydatides, and large Bladders fill'd only with Wind, which being open'd, gave a disagreeable Stink: there were also Ulcers at the Root of the Tongue; and Bladders fill'd with a Serum on the sides of it. This hard and compact Body, like Chalk, in the Omasus, the Author takes to be the full Product of the contagious Miasma. He adds a Prognostick, believing that from so many Attempts and Experiments, and the Method observ'd in the Cure of this Venom, at last a true and specifick Remedy will be found out to extirpate the poisonous Malignity wholly: He also expects some mitigation of it, from the approaching Winter and North Winds. He does not think this Contagion can affect Human Bodies, since even other Species of ruminating Animals, symbolizing with the Cow-kind, are yet untouch'd by it; nor was the Infection taken by the Air, after the dead Bodies had been carefully Buryed. As for the Cure of it: From the Chirurgical part, he commends _Bleeding_, burning on both sides the Neck with a broad red-hot Iron, making Holes in the Ears with a round Iron, and putting the Root Hellebore in the Hole, a _Rowel_ or _Seton_ under the _Chin_, in the _Dew-laps_; he also orders the _Tongue_ and _Palate_ to be often wash'd and rub'd with _Vinegar_ and _Salt_. He recommends the Use of _Alexipharmicks_, and specifick Cordials; and three Ounces of Jesuits Bark, infus'd in ten or twelve Pints of Cordial Water or small Wine, to be given in four or five Doses; which is to be done in the beginning of the Fever, when the Beast begins to be Sick. Or else two Drams of _Sperma-Cæti_ dissolv'd in warm Wine. Again he prescribes _Antimonium Diaphoreticum_. Against Worms breeding, an Infusion of Quicksilver, or _Petroleum_ and Milk is to be given. And lastly, as to the Food, he directs Drinks made with Barley or Wheat Flower or Bread, like a _Ptisane_, fresh sweet Hay made in _May_ and macerated in fair Water. In the mean time the Cattle must be kept in a warm Place, and Cloath'd, daily shaking Fumigations in the Cow-Houses with Juniper Berries, Galbanum, and the like. As to Prevention, he enjoyns Care in cleaning the Stalls, and scraping the Crust off from the Wall; Care also is to be taken of their Food, the Hay and Straw not spoil'd by Rain in the Making; and he judges their Food ought to be but sparing: He likewise recommends currying, with a Comb and Brush; with Setons under their Chin, made with a hot Iron run through the Part, and kept open with a Rope put through it. After which we have the Receipt: Or the Ingredients of a Medicine for the speedy Cure of that mortal Distemper amongst Cows; sent over from _Holland_, where a like Distemper raged among the Black Cattel. _Recipe Veronicæ, Pulmonariæ, Hyssopi, Scordii, ana M._ iv. _Rad. Aristolohiæ rotundæ, Gentianæ, Angelicæ, Petasitidis, Tormentillæ, Carlinæ, ana unc._ 12. _Bac. Lauri & Juniperi, ana unc._ 12. _Misc. fiat Pulvis._ Bleed the Cow, and give her three or 4 Mornings successively, an Ounce of this Powder, with a Horn, in warm Beer. If the Cow continues Distemper'd, after the Omission 2 or 3 Days, repeat the Medicine for 3 or 4 Days again. I cannot help taking Notice likewise of the raging Distemper which was among the Cows about _London_, _Anno_ 1714. It was so Violent and Infectious, that if _one_ had it, all others that came within Scent of her, or even eat where she Grazed, were surely infected; it seized their Heads, and was attended with running at the Nose, and a very nauseous Breath, which killed them in three or four Days. The Herdsmen would not allow it to be the _Murrain_, nor could give any Account from whence it did proceed, or could find out any Remedy against it; they only tell us the unusual dry Summer, and the continued _East_-Winds, were the occasion of it. This Distemper had been for two or three Years before it came to us, in _Lombardy_, _Holland_, and _Hambrough_, to the Loss almost of all their Cattle. The States of _Holland_ caused a Medicine to be published for the Good of those who had their Cattle thus Distemper'd; but having been try'd here, 'twould not Cure one in seven, but rather increased the Infection by keeping the distemper'd Cattle longer alive (by some Days) than they would have been without it. 'Tis remarkable, that no Oxen had this Distemper, but only _Milch-Cows_, which were more tender than the _Males_. The Herdsmen to keep their Cattle from the Infection, let them Blood in the Tail, and rubb'd their Noses and Chaps with _Tar_; and when any happened to die of it, they were burnt, and buried deep under Ground. It began at _Islington_, spreading it self over many Places in _Middlesex_ and in _Essex_, but did not reach so far _Westward_ from _London_ as twenty Miles. The most general Opinion concerning the Cause of this Distemper, was, that the Cattle were first infected by drinking some unwholesome standing Water, where 'tis probable some Poisonous Insects were lodged and bred; the Summer having been extreamly dry, attended almost constantly with _Easterly_ Winds, the Grass almost burnt up, and the Herbs of the Gardens destroyed by Insects; but such as they were, (unfit for Table Use) were given to the Cattle. There was likewise so great want of Water, that many were forced to drive their Cows five or six Miles to it. The Electuary publish'd upon this Occasion by the States of _Holland_, was compos'd of most, if not all the Drugs used in the most serviceable Medicines that were made use of against the Plague among Men; most of which Ingredients we know to be mortal to Insects, as strong scented Roots and Herbs; but above all, Aromatick Gums and Saps of Plants; as Rhue, Garlick, Pitch, Tar, Frankincense and Olibanum. These Ingredients are much used in _France_ and _Italy_ to prevent or destroy Infection, by burning them and smoaking such Bodies, Letters, or any other things as are brought from infected Places, after they have made _Quarantain_, and are not suffered to come on Shore 'till they have undergone this Operation. It is not against Experience, that Insects can live and encrease in Animal Bodies: How often do we find Men, Women and Children troubled with Worms? What Varieties of those Insects are often voided by them? And how should that be, if they were not either suck'd into the Stomach with the Breath, or taken into it with some unwholesome Food? For they cannot breed in such Bodies from nothing, without either their Eggs or themselves are brought thither by some Accident: For if they were the natural Produce of Animal Bodies, they would then be alike common to all, which we know they are not. I have been informed, that in the Year 1714, when this Mortality among the Cows was at its height, that towards the End of the Summer, some Farmers brought in fresh Cattel, and turning them into the same Fields, where many Cows had died before, they took the Infection and died likewise; but the following Spring those Fields were void of Infection, and the _Cows_ that were put into them did very well, but what were then put into the _Cow-Houses_, where the sick _Cows_ had been the Year before, were seiz'd with the Distemper, and died; which seems to inform us, that it was the Effect of _Insects_, which thro' the Warmth of those Stalls were preserv'd from the Severity of the Winter's Frost; but such as were left in the open Fields were destroy'd by the Cold. I have heard that a Woman about _Camberwell_ cured Six in Seven of her _Cows_, by giving them once a Week an Infusion of _Rhue_ and _Ale-wort_. But it may be ask'd, why these infectious Distempers, subject to Men, Cattle and Plants, are not universal? And why the Plague should not be as well in _India_, _China_, the South Parts of _Africa_ and _America_, as in these Parts of the World? (For I do not find it has ever been in those Places.) This Query gives me a farther Opportunity to suggest, that Insects are the Cause of it, and that they are brought with the Easterly Winds. In the first place, so far as I can learn, there is not naturally in _America_ any one Kind of Creature or Insect that is found in any other Part of the World, and the Plants likewise are all different from those of other Countries; as it is the same in _India_, _China_, &c. whose Products are quite different from what we find elsewhere. Supposing then that these pestiferous Insects are only the Produce of _Tartary_, let us consider to what Parts of the World they may be carry'd from thence with the Easterly Winds; and whether _India_, _China_, the South of _Africa_ and _America_, are not beyond their Reach, or can reasonably be affected by them. Whoever considers the Disposition of the Land and Water in the Globe, may thus account for the Passage of these Insects, with an Easterly Wind from _Tartary_, to all the Parts of _Europe_, _Asia-Minor_, _Palestine_, _Barbary_, and other South Coasts of the _Mediterranean Sea_, whither, 'tis highly probable, they may come, without meeting any thing in their Way to obstruct their Course. The best Maps do not lay down any Mountains of Note between _Tartary_ and the places which have been subject to the Plague: The _Alps_ run parallel with the Winds coming from _Tartary_, and therefore does not any Way hinder their Passage: The Mountains of _Dalmatia_ are not high enough to prevent the Passage; or if they were, the _Caspian Sea_ is sufficiently large to let them pass to the South Parts of _Europe_, the _Mediterranean Sea_, and the North Coasts of _Africa_, even to their most Western Bounds. Now it may be expected, perhaps, by some, that these Winds should yet continue their Progress as far as _America_; but as yet, so far as I can learn, these Land-Winds, when they have blown with the greatest Force, and have been of the longest Continuance, have not reach'd farther than about three hundred Leagues beyond the Western Coasts of _Europe_, which is a Trifle in Comparison of the vast Ocean between us and _America_: Besides, it is my Opinion, that the Winds which blow over so vast a Tract of Land, as these _Tartarian_ Winds must do, that I suppose convey and support the pestiferous Insects, are of so different a Nature from the Winds coming from the Ocean, that 'tis likely those Creatures which would subsist in the one, would be destroy'd by the other: So that if I am right in this Conjecture, _America_ cannot be subject to the Plague. _Mount-Atlas_, which is a vast Ridge of Mountains, running from the Ocean almost as far as _Egypt_, and are back'd with the Desarts of _Lybia_, may very likely obstruct the Passage of these Insects to the South of _Africa_; and for that Reason, perhaps, secure that part of the World from Plagues. So likewise _Mount-Caucasus_, or _Ararat_, which is one of the highest Ridge of Mountains in the World, running from East to West, thro' _Persia_ and _India_, may secure the South Parts of those Countries from the Plague, by stopping the Passage of those infectious Creatures, if any Winds from _Tartary_ should happen to blow them that Way: And as _China_ lies to the East of _Tartary_, so it must be Westerly Winds which must infect that Country with the Plague, if it proceeds from what I imagine: But we do not yet find that Westerly Winds are frequent in those Parts; or if they are, we may be assur'd they cannot blow at the same time when the Insects are hatch'd and carried the contrary Way by the Wind from _Tartary_. We are inform'd, that upon the Coast of _China_, the Winds are so regular, that from _October_ to _March_ they continually blow from the North-East, and from that Month to _October_, the direct contrary Way. And Plants are no less subject to be destroy'd by Insects, than Men and Quadrupedes, is I have explain'd in the Chapter of Blights, in my _New Improvements of Planting and Gardening_. _Plants_ of all degrees are subject to Blights, which are so variously communicated to them, that sometimes a whole Tree will perish by that Distemper; now and then a few Leaves, or Blossoms only, and perhaps a Branch or two, will be shrivel'd, or scorch'd by it, and the rest remain green and flourishing. I have yet never observ'd this Disease to happen among Plants, but upon the blowing of sharp and clear _Easterly_ Winds, which are most frequent in _England_ about _March_; but sometimes happen in other Months. It is very observable, that the _Caterpillars_ generally attend these Winds, chiefly infecting some one sort of Tree more than another, and even then not every where upon the kind of Tree they attack, but some particular Branches only; from which Observations I think we may draw the following Inferences, either that the Eggs of those Insects are brought to us by the _Easterly_ Winds, or that the Temperature of the Air, when the _Easterly_ Winds blow, is necessary to hatch those Creatures, supposing their Eggs were already laid upon those infected Parts of the Trees the preceding Year. The Blights which are attended with large _Worms_ or _Caterpillars_, seem to be rather hatch'd with the _East_ Wind, than that the Eggs of those Creatures are brought along with it; but those Blights which produce only those small Insects which occasion the curling of the Leaves of Trees, may proceed from Swarms of them, either hatch'd or in the Egg, which are brought with the Wind. Some perhaps may object, that the _East_ Wind is too cold to hatch these Creatures; how comes it then that we find them hatch'd when those Winds reign? Or is it reasonable to conjecture that the same degree of Heat is necessary to enliven an Insect as is required to hatch the Egg of a Pullet? The Insects of _Norway_, _Iceland_, and such like cold Climes, must certainly have less Heat to produce them, than Creatures of the same Race must necessarily have in those Climates which lye nearer to the Sun. Every Creature, without doubt, requires a different Period of Heat or Cold to enliven it, and put it in Motion, which is prov'd by so many known Instances, that I conceive there is no room for any dispute upon that score. But there may yet be another Question, _viz._ Whether it is not the _East_ Wind of it self that blights, without the help of _Insects_? But that may be easily resolved on my side; for that if it was the Wind alone that blighted, then every Plant in its way must unavoidably be infected with its Poison; whereas we find the contrary on a single Branch it may be, or some other distinct Part of Plants. And again, to shew how reasonably we may conjecture that 'tis _Insects_ which thus infect the Trees, let us only consider, that every _Insect_ has its proper _Plant_, or Tribe of _Plants_, which it naturally requires for its Nourishment, and will feed upon no other kind whatsoever: Therefore 'tis no wonder to see one particular sort of Tree blighted, when all others escape; as for Example, that Wind which brings or hatches the _Caterpillars_ upon the _Apple-Trees_, will not any way infect the _Pear_, _Plumb_, or _Cherry_ with _Blights_, because, were the Shoals of _Insects_ natural to the _Apple_, to light only upon those other Trees mentioned, they would then want their proper Matrix to hatch in; or if they were hatch'd already, they would Perish for want of their natural Food; so that 'tis morally impossible that all sorts of Trees should be blighted at the same time, unless the Eggs of every kind of _Insect_, natural to each Tree, could be brought at one time with the Wind, or that an Easterly Wind could contain in it at once, as many differing Periods of Cold or Heat, as would be requir'd to hatch and maintain each differing kind of those Creatures. The common People in the Country seem to be of my Opinion, that Blights are brought by the East Winds, which they are so well satisfied brings or hatches the _Caterpillar_, that to prevent the too great Progress of Blights, it is common for them when the East Winds blow, to provide large Heaps of Weeds, Chaff, and other combustible Matter on the Windside of their Orchards, and set them on Fire, that the Smoak may poison either the _Insects_ or their Eggs, as they are pass'd along. By this Contrivance I have often known large Orchards preserv'd, when the neighbouring Parts have suffer'd to the Loss of all their Fruit. And I have also seen these Fires made with good Success to destroy the _Caterpillars_, even after they were hatch'd, and had began to devour the Trees, by suffocating them, and forcing them to drop to the Ground, where they have been swept up in large Quantities, and kill'd. I have heard it affirm'd by a Gentleman of Reputation, that _Pepper-Dust_, being powder'd upon the _Blossoms_ of any Tree, will preserve them from Blights, which may be, because _Pepper_ is said to be present Death to every Creature but to Mankind. Now altho' this last Secret is too costly for common Use, yet it may be of Service in some particular Place for the Tryal of a new Tree, where a Taste of the Fruit is desired, and besides it helps to inform us, that Blights are occasion'd by Insects, or their Eggs, lodging upon a Plant, and that _Pepper Dust_ will not suffer them either to live, or to be hatch'd. Another Remark (which to me is Demonstration) that Blights proceed from _Insects_, or their Eggs (being brought with the Easterly Winds) was the total Destruction of the _Turneps_, _Ann._ 1716, on the West Side of _London_; about _October_ we had dry Easterly Winds for a Week or ten Days, and several thousand Acres of _Turneps_, which were then well grown, turn'd Yellow and decay'd, unless in such Places only as were shelter'd by Hedges, Houses, or Trees, where they remain'd Green 'till the _Insects_, which came with the Wind, in about a Week's Time, destroy'd those also. Some Farmers imagin'd that the Birds which were there in great Flocks, had eaten the Leaves of their _Turneps_, and contriv'd all Means possible to destroy them, 'till I convinc'd them that the Birds were rather Friends than Enemies and came there to feed upon the _Caterpillars_, which were in such great Numbers, that each _Turnep-plant_ had not less than a Thousand upon it; and that _Insects_ frequently pass in Clouds and numberless Armies after this manner, is plain from several Instances, which have happen'd in my Time, and one of them (I think in _June, Ann._ 1717) passing over _London_ were suffocated (I suppose) with the Smoak of the Sea-Coal, and drop'd down in the Streets, insomuch that a square Court belonging to the _Royal Society_ was almost cover'd with them; these were of the _Fly Kind_, and fully perfected. It may be asked, perhaps, how these _Insects_ came to destroy the _Turneps_ only, and not touch the other Greens of the Fields, as _Cabbages_, _Carrots_, _Parsnips_, and the like? Every Herb has its peculiar _Insect_, like the Trees I have mention'd: Nay more than this, the _Insects_ which Nature hath design'd to prey upon the Flower of a Plant, will not eat the Leaves, or any other Part of the same Plant. The Leaves of Plants have their _Insects_ natural to them, the Bark and Wood likewise have their respective Devourers; and those several _Insects_ have other Kinds, which lay their Eggs, and feed upon them. I could yet give a much larger Account of Animals and Plants, how they have been particularly Infected, but I rather choose to refer my Reader to the Chapter at large, of _Blights_ and _Plagues_, in my _New Improvements of Planting and Gardening_, &c. By the foregoing Accounts we may observe, that _Mankind_, _Quadrupedes_ and _Plants_ seem to be infected in the same manner, by unwholesome _Insects_; only allowing this Difference, that the same _Insect_ which is poisonous to Man, is not so to other Animals or Plants, and so on the contrary; we observe likewise, that Pepper which is of Use to Mankind, is poisonous to other Creatures, and tho' a Man cannot eat of the _Cicuta_, or _Hemlock_, without prejudice, yet a _Cow_ and some other Animals will eat it to their Advantage; and the _Manchanese_ Apple, which is deadly Poison to almost every Creature, is eaten greedily by Goats, and which is strange, the Milk of those Goats is wholesome to Mankind. Again, we may remark that _Camphire_ which may be taken at the Mouth by the Human Race, and is helpful in many Cases, will destroy _Insects_; for among the Curious who have Cabinets of Rarities, it is a common Practice to lay it in their Drawers and Cases, to destroy the smaller kind of _Insects_, which would otherwise devour their Collections. The Smoaking of Tobacco is helpful to some Constitutions, but was the pure Leaf to be taken directly into the Stomach, it would Purge in a violent Manner, and the Oil of it as I am told is a deadly Poison; however it is to be remarked, that in the time of the last Plague in _London_, _Anno_ 1665, that Distemper did not reach those who smoak'd Tobacco every Day, but particularly it was judged the best to smoak in a Morning. We have an Account of a famous Physician, who in the Pestilential time took every Morning a Cordial to guard his Stomach, and after that a Pipe or two before he went to visit his Patients; at the same time we are told, he had an Issue in his Arm, by which, when it begun to smart, he knew he had received some Infection, (as he says) and then had recourse to his Cordial and his Pipe, by this means only he preserved himself, as several others did at that time by the same Method. I suppose therefore, that the Smoak of Tobacco is noxious to these Venomous _Insects_, which I believe to be the Cause of the Plague, either by mixing it self with the Air and there destroying them, or else by provoking the Stomach to discharge it self of those Morbid Juices which would nourish and encourage them. When I consider that the dead Bodies of the miserable People of _Marseilles_ were found full of _Insects_, and that those Worms could be no way so suddenly killed, as by putting Oil or Lemon Juice upon them, it brings to my Mind several Tryals I have made upon _Insects_ of various Kinds, in order to occasion their speedy Death. In these Experiments, I found that most of the larger Kinds would live some Minutes in Spirit of Wine and other spirituous Liquors, when they were forced into them, and that Oil immediately suffocated them, from whence I suppose, the Air, or Breath they draw, is exceeding fine and subtile, and that a thick Air consists of too gross Parts for them to breath, and that since Oil destroys the larger Kinds of them immediately, the Oleagenous Particles evaporating from such Bodies as Oil, Pitch, Tar, _&c._ expanding themselves, and mixing with the common Air, would render it too thick for the smaller Kinds to subsist in. We observe likewise that all _Aromatick Herbs_, &c. were found useful in the time of the dreadful Pestilence in 1665, which helps to confirm what I have just now related, for a single Leaf of Rosemary contains at least 500 little Bladders of Oily Juice, which by rubbing, break and afford that grateful Smell we find in that Plant, but in that as in all other _Aromatick Herbs_, was we to bruise the Leaves 'till all those Bladders were broken, the recreating Smell would be lost, and we should find only remaining an earthy, disagreeable Flavour, arising from the common undigested Sap; so if we take the Leaves of Fifty several Kinds of Aromatick Plants, and after bruising them, make up distinctly the bruis'd Leaves of each into Balls, and dry them by the Sun, or otherwise, they will all afford the same Smell; for the breaking of those Bladders, or Blisters, which yield the different Smells (from the Essence they severally contain) makes them lose all their Spirit or Essence. In the Culture of these Aromatick Herbs, such as _Rosemary_, _Lavender_, _Thyme_, &c. we may remark, that they are never destroy'd by any _Insect_, which may still give us a further Proof of the Antipathy all _Insects_ have to them, for which Reason some People are used to smoak their Houses with these Aromatick Herbs, but especially where the Chambers or Rooms are small and close; and it has been proved, that the Burning of Aromatick Gums and Woods, have likewise been useful in purifying the Air in a House, and preventing the Spreading of Pestilential Distempers. In 1665 it was observable, that in _Aldermanbury_, and other Places, where there were large Ware-Houses of Aromatick Druggs, the Infection did not reach; so that it seems where there is Quantity enough of such Woods or Gums, as yield a strong Smell, we have no Occasion of burning them, the bare Effluvia rising from a large Mass, having the same Effect as burning a small Quantity. As every one of these Druggs, or Gums, is more pungent or operative upon the Organs of Smelling, so we may be assured, the Vapour proceeding from them fill a larger Space in the Air; but perhaps a Tun Weight of the strongest Aromatick among them, in the Body or Mass, will not purifie so much Air as half an Ounce of the same will do by burning; for the Smoak of a few Grains of _Tobacco_, when the Air is clear, will sensibly touch the Smell above forty Yards, tho' a Pound of the Herb unburnt will not affect the Smell above a Foot. These Observations may serve to inform us, that the burning of Aromaticks may help to keep the Air in an healthful State; but as Men of Business must often change their Station, and pass thro' different Degrees and Tempers of Air, it is for that Reason, that Aromaticks, and strong smelling Roots, Herbs, _&c._ are recommended to be taken into the Stomach. The Cordial which we call _Plague-water_, compos'd of Aromatick Herbs, has been used with Success, as has also been Conserves of _Rhue_, _&c._ and the Use of _Garlick_ in the _Amiens_ Distemper, particularly, is remarkable. To this I may likewise add a Relation I had lately from some Men of Quality concerning a _Plague_, which some Years since destroy'd a great part of the _French_ Army: It was observable, that at that time the _Irish_ Regiments in that Service were preserv'd by rubbing their Bread every Morning with _Garlick_, which undoubtedly must taint their Breath for many Hours, and so regulate the Air about them, that the unwholesome _Insects_ could not approach them. Upon this Occasion, I cannot omit observing the extraordinary Remedy for destroying the Insect call'd the _Wevil_ in Corn or Malt, as it was communicated to me by the Learned Dr. _Bentley_, Master of Trinity College, _Cambridge_; that worthy Gentleman tells me, that the Herb _Parietaria_, or _Peletory of the Wall_, is a Sovereign Remedy against the _Wevil_ in Corn or Malt; and according to the Information he has had, an Handful of that Plant being laid here and there in a Granary infected by those Insects, will infallibly destroy them in a Day or two; which Discovery is so useful, that I think it ought to be made as publick as possible, and in this place serves to confirm my Hypothesis, That the Effluvia of some Plants are Destructive to Insects. In the next place I come to consider, how much a certain Quantity of Air is requisite to preserve a single Animal Body, and the Knowledge of that, is what I account one of the chief Preservatives of Health. I have often been concern'd to find a Family of six or seven pinn'd up in a Room, that has not contain'd Air enough for the Maintenance of Health in one single Person; but such is the Hardship of our Poor in many Places, and is frequently the Occasion of their Death. We may easily conceive how this happens, if we examine the Case of the Diving Tub, how short a while a Man can live it, without a Supply of fresh Air; the occasion of which is, that when he has drawn in with his Breath, all the Grosser Parts from the Air enclos'd in the Tub, the rest grows hot and suffocating, by being too much rarified. From whence I suppose, a Room of Nine or Ten Foot Cube, will contain Air enough to keep a single Man alive for one Day, but if two were to inhabit that Space for the same time, each would receive but half his Nourishment, and so both would be Sufferers; but a Room, perhaps, containing twice that Space, might well enough serve five People for a Day, supposing that all External Air was kept from Communication with such a Room, during the time the People were in it; for, as I have observ'd, that Air has certain Nourishing Qualities in it, for the Maintenance of Human Life; so when those Nourishing Parts are imbibed, and drawn in by the Lungs, the Air is return'd and flung out as invalid, and cannot be of Use a second Time to the same Person; an Example of which, we find very curiously demonstrated by Mr. _Newyentyte_; he tells us, that in making this Experiment, he discover'd that the same Nourishing Quality in the Air, which is necessary to maintain Human Life, is also necessary to maintain Flame, which he proves thus: A lighted Candle being set under a Bell, closely fix'd upon a Table, will burn perhaps a Minute or two in Proportion to the Quantity of Air pent up with the Candle in the Bell; but as soon as the Quality in that Air, which is necessary to feed the Flame, is exhausted, the Candle goes out; this has been often try'd with the same Success; and we find, that by letting into the Bell some fresh Air, a little before the Candle should have gone out, it will still continue burning: And then to shew that this Quality in the Air is the same which feeds the Life in Humane Bodies, it was try'd, whether the Air, returning from the Lungs, would not have the same Effect upon the Candle, as the External Air had before, but it had not, the Candle went out at its usual Time: Thus, it seems, when we suck in Air for Breath, the Lungs takes what is necessary for the Nourishment of our Bodies, and returns back the rest. After this we may naturally conclude, that where the Rooms, or Houses are small, there ought to be frequent Admissions of the External Air, but especially where those Rooms or Houses are too much crouded with People; and if it is supposed that the External Air is Infectious, the burning of _Aromaticks_, _Gums_, or _Herbs_, upon the letting in of fresh Air, is necessary. From the foregoing Observations we may learn, that all Pestilential Distempers, whether in Animals or Plants, are occasion'd by poisonous Insects convey'd from Place to Place by the Air, and that by uncleanly Living and poor Diet, Humane and other Bodies are disposed to receive such _Insects_ into the Stomach and most noble Parts; while, on the other Hand, such Bodies as are in full Strength, and are well guarded with Aromaticks, would resist and drive them away, but chiefly how necessary it is to allow the Body a Freedom of Air, and how to correct it if it is Infected. And I shall conclude with some Memorandums taken from the Papers of a learned Gentleman, who in the time of the late Plague in _London_ was curious enough to make his Remarks upon the Signs of that Distemper, and the Method of its Cure. He tells, the Plague proceeds first from a corrupted and unwholsome Air. The Second, is putrified Humours, hot Blood, caused by breathing in such corrupt Air; and if the Diet before were perverse, it fills the Body with superfluous Humours. Concerning the common Fear of Infection, which makes many rich Men, which might and ought to maintain poor visited People; and some Physicians likewise, whose Duty it is to administer Physick to them, flee away, so that in time of great Infection we hear more cry out for want of Bread and necessary means, than for anguish of the Disease. Hence also came that inhumane Custom of shutting up of Houses that are visited with Pestilence, dejecting their Spirits, and consequently making way for the Disease, and taking Men from their Labour, which is a digester of Humours, and a preserver of Health; and if the Disease be Infectious (as in their Opinion it is) it is plain Murder, to shut Men up in an infected and destroying Air. But all Mens Bodies are not full of Humours; if they were, all would be infected. After this I find the following Directions to prevent Infection. _First_, To avoid the Fear of it, and support the Spirits in the next place. _Secondly_, To keep the Body soluble, and to use the juice of _Lemons_ often. _Thirdly_, he recommends a Diet of quick Digestion, and to eat and drink moderately: He prescribes likewise the Smell of Aromaticks, such as _Camphire_, _Styrax_, _Calamites_, Wood of _Aloes_, &c. and to be taken inwardly, _Mithridate_, _Anjelica_, and _Petasetis_-Roots; and, in an express Manner, he recommends Cleanliness, and the Choice of a clear Air. After Infection he tells us the Signs are an extraordinary inward Heat, a Difficulty of Breathing, a Pain and Heaviness in the Head, an Inclination to Sleep, frequent Vomiting, immoderate Thirst, a Dryness on the Tongue and Palate; but especially if we discover Risings or Swellings behind the Ears, in the Groin, or other tender Parts of the Body; but this last, where it happens, is of Advantage to the Patient; for he says, in such a Case, the Plague is rarely Mortal, for then Nature has Power to dispel the Venom, and drive it from the most noble Parts; and then he recommends Bleeding; but if Spots appear upon the Body, he advises the Use of _Emeticks_, and afterwards _Sudorificks_, which, by his Papers, we find he gave with good Success, but he decries the Use of Opiates at the Beginning of the Distemper. He concludes with Directing of proper Cordials, to refresh and strengthen the Patient, such as _Confect. Hyacint._, _Confect. Alchermes_, _Pulv. Gasconiæ_, _Bezoar Orient._ and such like. But my Worthy Friend, Sir _John Colebatch_, who has in other Cases declared himself for Publick Good, has, in this, likewise been Careful to provide against the Infection, and especially recommends to his Friends, to collect large Parcels of the Ripe _Ivy Berries_ which are known from the others by their Blackness. Thus have I given my Reader such a View of the _Plague_ in general, as may point out to him its natural Cause, Progress of Infection, and the Methods that have been used by the Learned, to prevent the spreading that Terrible Distemper. _FINIS_ Transcriber's Notes: Passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. Long "s" has been modernized. Spelling and punctuation are presented as they appear in the original. The original text contains decorative illustrations which are not noted in this text version. In the table on page 15 (_Buried of all Diseases in the Year 1636._), the third digit next to September 1 is illegible and has been presented as "10_1." 
33155	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) _Medicina Flagellata_: OR, THE DOCTOR SCARIFY'D. ----_Ægrescitque medendo._ Virg. _Si tibi deficiant Medici, Medici, tibi fiant: Hæc tria, Mens læta, requies, moderata dieta._ _LONDON:_ Printed for J. BATEMAN, at the _Hat_ and _Star_; and J. NICKS, at the _Dolphin_ and _Crown_, both in St. _Paul's Church-yard_. 1721. _Medicina Flagellata_: OR, THE Doctor Scarify'd. Laying open the VICES of the Faculty, the Insignificancy of a great Part of their _Materia Medica_; with certain RULES to discern the true Physician from the Emperick, and the Useful Medicine from the Noxious and Trading Physick. WITH An ESSAY on HEALTH, Or the POWER of a REGIMEN. To which is added, A Discovery of some Remarkable Errors in the late Writings on the PLAGUE, by Dr. _Mead_, _Quincey_, _Bradley_, &c. With some useful and necessary RULES to be observed in the Time of that Contagious Distemper. _LONDON_: Printed for J. BATEMAN, and J. NICKS. M. DCC. XXI. PREFACE. _It being usual for Authors, in Prefaces, to render an Account of the Occasion which gave Birth to their Writings, and to acquaint the Reader with the Design and Scope of their Discourses; I thought it convenient to continue a Custom approved by many illustrious Examples._ _The Motive of publishing this Tract, is not the Intercession of Friends, for none had ever the View of any Part of it; and that it is not Design of Applause that has engaged me in this Undertaking, the Care I have had to conceal my Name will, I suppose, free me from such Suspicion: the chief Inducement proceeds from an Inclination to Mankind, to instruct them to preserve and prolong their Lives, thereby to prevent them from using fraudulent Quack Medicines (which are now become so universally vendible amongst them) or advising with such as are wholly ignorant; and I should think my self sufficiently rewarded for my Pains, if I could arrive to the Point of reforming the Abuses of the present, and restoring the Simplicity of the ancient Practice, by laying open to the World my Observations of the pretended and fallacious =Methodus Medendi=, and the Insignificancy of a great Part of their =Materia Medica=._ _And here I will particularly address my self to all those Persons concern'd with me, who are the People or Patients; and the Physicians with their Followers, the Chirurgeons and Apothecaries: This Discourse is chiefly intended for the first, it being they who are most highly injured by the unwarrantable Practices of those we have therein accused; for although many understanding Persons among the People are sufficiently satisfied of the Abuses we have mentioned; and that it is of absolute Necessity some Reformation should be made: Yet all are not thus perswaded; for we may daily observe, that many who are less discerning, being deceiv'd by an imaginary Good, covet their own Ruin; and unless they be given to understand which is the Evil, and which is the Good, by Persons they have Reason to confide in, they must necessarily run much Hazard._ _I have here endeavoured to undeceive them; which I should dispair of, did I only foresee Inconveniencies afar off (the Vulgar being led by Sense, and not by probable Conjectures); but since they do now actually labour under many, and those obvious, Inconveniencies, how short sover their sight be, the Senses of Feeling being no less acute in them than in others, I persuade my self, they will readily assent to those Truths I have largely discovered._ _And here must I venture through all the Barricadoes and the Fortifications of popular Resentment; but Satires, like Incision, become necessary when the Humour rankles, and the Wound threatens Mortification; when Advice ceases to work; when Loss, Experience, and Disaster will not convince, then Satire reforms, by making the Error we embrace ridiculous: Shame works to make us forsake a Thing, which Instruction augments, or Persuasion could have no Effect upon._ _Many and great Abuses, and of the last Importance to the People, have urged my Duty and demanded my Assistance; and if in my Essay on Health, I do persuade my Reader to the =Regimen= I have here laid down, he may assure himself of that =Golden Panacea=, that =Elixir Salutis=, at no other Charge but in =cura seipsum=._ _It would by many be expected, that I should make an Apology for the great Liberties I have taken in my general Treatment of the whole Faculty; in which I claim the allow'd Exception, that there are some few very Eminent, and worthy of the first Honours and Dignity of Physick, and who by their unwearied Labour of Body and Application of Mind, have run through the Courses of =Anatomy, Botany, Chymistry=, and =Galenick Pharmacy=, and no less acquainted with the Virtues, Faults, and Preparations, Compositions and Doses of Vegetables, Animals, Minerals, and all the Shop Medicines._ _And yet nevertheless, the Profession of Physick (though arrived to much greater Improvement than before) it's Dignity and Degrees are so despicably fallen, that the very lowest of People, as well Women as Men, usurp the Title; and how monstrous it is to see that Mob of Empericks, as Barbers, Farriers, and Mountebanks, over-reach and bubble the People both of their Lives and Money._ _As I would not arrogate to my self the Performance of another, I must not here forget to acknowledge that I have borrowed from the judicious Author of a late excellent Discourse concerning some few Passages of the State of Physick, and the Regulation of it's Practice. I suppose it will be easily imagined, that I could have spoken the same Things in other Words; but my Respect to the Memory of that worthy Person, disposes me to believe, they will sound better, and be more effectual in his own Language._ _The following Appendix receiv'd it's Birth in Answer to some the most formidable of the many Pamphlets that were crowded upon the People at the first Report we had of the miserable State of the =Marseillians= by the Plague; which had not been but for the same plausible End, of being serviceable to the Nation, by detecting their Errors, and setting aside the clashing Opinions of those =Literati=, which has rather given Alarm, than a Security to the People._ _To conclude: If in speaking the Truth there is no Blame, but rather Commendation, I then need not Apologise for the Freedom I've used, in exploding the great Varieties and Abuses in both the Theory and Practice of Physick. And although the Attempt should not answer equal to the good Intention I've had for the Publick; yet I shall demand that Justice of the World, and with =Horace=,_ Quod Verum atque decens, curo, & rogo, & omnis in hoc sum. _Medicina Flagellata_: OR, The Doctor Scarify'd. It is most certain that all Nations, even the most barbarous, have in all Ages made use of Medicines, to ease their Pains, to regain or preserve Health, the greatest among earthly Felicities; in the Absence whereof, we cannot relish any of those numerous Enjoyments, which the bountiful Creator hath plentifully bestow'd on us; so that the most sublime ancient Philosophers who excluded all other external Good from being necessary, to the well being of Man, placing Happiness only in the things whereof we cannot be depriv'd; yet out of them they excepted Health, knowing there was so near a Connexion between the Soul and Body, that the one could not be disorder'd in its Functions, but the other would be disturb'd in its Operations. Hence it is that no Part of human Knowledge can be of greater Moment than what directs to Remedies, and Means of Relief under those Infirmities to which the whole Race of Man is Heir to; so that even amongst the wisest, that Science or Art whereby those Defects we call Diseases were repair'd, was always accounted Divine; for that God is the first and chief Physician, hath been the constant Faith of all Ages, and that Physicians were accounted the Sons of Gods, was commendably asserted by _Galen_, and therefore it was truly spoken, that Medicines were the Hand of God, there meriting only such Names, as related to their divine Original; thus a certain Antidote was called [Greek: Isytheo], equal to God, another [Greek: Theodotos], given by God, another divine; several Compositions had the Inscription [Greek: Iera], or Sacred; and 'twas the common Belief among the Heathens, that so great a Knowledge in Physick came by Inspiration: And St. _Austin_ is of the same Opinion in his _Civi. Dei_, who saith, _Corporis Medicina (si altius rerum origines repetas) non invenitur unde ad homines manare potuerit, nisi à Deo_. It cannot be conceived whence Physick should come to Man but from God himself. It is well known how great a Name _Hippocrates_ obtain'd, not only in _Greece_ (which he deliver'd from the greatest Plague) but in remote Parts; so that the greatest Monarchs of the _East_, and their Vice-Roys, were Suitors to him, to free their Country from that devouring Disease, which threatned to exhaust those populous Regions of their Inhabitants, unless the same Person who freed _Greece_ interpos'd, whom they esteem'd divine, and sent from the Gods, because successful in so great Undertakings. Very certain it is, so Noble and Useful a Study were encouraged, yea and practised by Kings, Princes, and Philosophers, by the highest, wisest, and best of Men, whereof some were honour'd by Statues erected to perpetuate their Memoirs, and by many other Instances of the publick Gratitude. So that when I consider what Reverence has been paid to this Profession, and the Professors thereof in all times whereof we have any particular Account, I am amaz'd that in this latter Age wherein it hath received greater Improvements than in Two thousand Years before, and that nevertheless it should be by many neglected, by others slighted, and by some even contemned. After a diligent Enquiry into the Causes of so strange and sudden an Alteration, I could not, in my Opinion, so justly ascribe it to Defects in the Profession, as to those of its Professors; not that I deny that Physick may be capable of greater Improvements, notwithstanding it might to this Day have been maintain'd at least in the same Degree of Honour and Esteem which all Ages have justly had for it, if the Avarice and Imprudence of the Real, the Ignorance and Baseness of the pretended Artists had not interpos'd: Under the former I comprize the Vulgar Physicians; under the latter, their Dependants the Apothecaries, who, I am confident, have caused many of the great Inconveniences under which the Practice of Physick now labours. That the Sick are in all Cases oppressed with too many Medicines, and made to loath, and complain of the very Cordials; that the Expence is made greater, and more extravagant by the often Confederacy and Artifices visible in the new Modes of prescribing: And the Deaths of the Patient I would not say is frequently the Effect not of the Disease, but of the numerous Doses obtruded in the same Proportions in every Sickness and Age, pushing on declining, and even departing Life; which after its Exit makes Pots and Glasses observed, with the same Passions and Concern, as the bloody Sword is viewed as the Instrument of Death and Mischief. By whom, or by what Means the Purity of Physick has sunk into this Degeneracy, let us farther examine, and trace it from the first Steps of entring into this great Abuse; let us then usher in the young Physician now come from the University, and having spent a great Part of his Money (if not all) in his Education, very wisely for himself considers, which are the most obvious and practis'd Ways of making himself known, and by what Methods he may more easily insinuate himself, and that he may recover the Fortune he has lent the Publick in his Education, which he is resolved they shall now pay him with Interest. He is inform'd, or presently observes, that most, or all the Families are under the Directions of the Apothecary, who gives his Physick 'till he fears the Patient will die, and then appoints a Physician, who before is prepared to acquit him, by bearing the Reproach with the most perfect Resignation. And to support this good Temper, he is bid to cast his Eyes around the Kingdom, and consider how they flourish in the common Fame, who had the good Luck to follow those Instructions at their first Arrival. Or if he has found out any more effectual Medicines, or more compendious or grateful Methods of Cure, or would imitate the applauded Practice of some few of the most eminent of that Profession, whose Prescriptions were only to assist, not to overload, or suppress Nature; this is too bold a Stroke, a too dangerous Reform in Physick; he must previously consider, that the Number of Apothecaries are increas'd, and that their Dependance lieth more on the Quantities of Medicines in suitable Proportions, and notwithstanding a generous and liberal Education, by which he has learn'd to explode the malevolent and useless Practice, from a great many Prescriptions that are now in vogue; he must not dare to refute them, he must obey that great Principle of Nature, to preserve himself; he must conform to the Manners of the Age, and the general Practice; he must dispence with his not knowing whether the Medicines are made up according to his Prescription; he must wink at the Design, Ignorance, Carelessness, or Unfaithfulness of the Apothecary; whom he must not any ways disgust, tho' he in Revenge, as well in executing his own Interest, may make his Dose up with worm-eaten superannuated Drugs, wherewith most of 'em are well stor'd, which will not work according to the Physician's Promise, and the Patient's Expectation: The Apothecary who here outwits the Doctor, and assumes the Character, is here ready at hand to tell his Patient that this was no ways accommodated to his Temper; nay, perhaps, he presages to him that it will not work sufficiently, (as he may without Conjuring or Astrology) by which he obtains a Reputation of a Person more judicious than the Physician making way for his own Advantage, by telling the Patient that he will prepare a Purge that shall work more effectually than the former: This you need not doubt is the same the Physician before prescrib'd, but assuredly made up of better Drugs, and so the Apothecary executes his Design, which is to exclude the Physician, and prefer himself. The young Physician, tho' he has learn'd the Abuse, yet he has that Regard to himself, to make use of that old Maxim, _Of the two Evils, to choose the least_; and finding it best suiting his Interest, which otherwise might be endanger'd by the clandestine and underhand Dealings of the other, and now finds it necessary to close in with him, and such a one as will join in a mutual Application and Advancement of each other: Now are their Engines set at work, and the Doctor not to be behind-hand, gives a new Form to his Bills, which he prescribes in Terms so obscure, that he forces all chance Patients to repair to his own Apothecary, pretending a particular Secret, which only they have a Key to unlock; whereas in effect it is no other than the commonest of Medicines disguised under an unusual Name, on design to direct you to that Apothecary, between whom and the Physician there is a private Compact of going Snips out of the most unreasonable Rates of the said Medicines; wherein if you seek a Redress, by shewing the Bill to the Doctor, he shall most religiously aver it to be the cheapest he ever read. The Consequence whereof, as to your Particular, is a double Fraud; and as the Apothecaries in general, their Numbers bearing the Proportion at least ten to one of noted Physicians; to whom allowing his Covenant Apothecary, who constituting one Part of the ten, the remaining nine Parts are compell'd either to sit still, or to quack for a Livelihood, or at least eight of them, for we'll suppose one Part of the nine a Possibility of acquiring competent Estates, in a Way more honest than that of the Covenanters, by their wholsome Trade of fitting out Chirurgeons Chests for Sea, and supplying Country Apothecaries with Compositions: Lastly, all accomplish'd Physicians are likewise expos'd to manifest Injuries from the Covenant Apothecaries, who being sent for by Patients, after a short Essay of a Cordial, will overpower them by Perswasions to call in a Doctor, who shall be no other than his Covenant Physician; by which Means the former Physician, who by his extraordinary Care and Skill had oblig'd the Family before, shall be passed by, and lose the Practice of that Patient: And should it happen, the Sense of Gratitude of the forementioned Patient, should engage him to continue the Use of his former Physician, yet this Covenant Apothecary shall privately cavil at every Bill, and impute the Appearance of every small Pain, or Symptom (which necessarily in the Course of a Disease will happen) to his ill Address in the Art of Physick, and shall not give over before he has introduc'd his Covenanter, whose Authority in the Fraud of Physick he supposes to be most necessary. But least you should think me overbalanc'd with a Prejudice to those that so much abuse that noble Profession, I'll conduct you into their usual Road and Method of examining their Patients, and making Enquiry into their Diseases, wherewith being acquainted, you may, without any farther Conviction, pronounce a Verdict. This Knack doth chiefly consist in three Notions; _viz._ _First_, That a Patient's Grievance is either a discernible evident Disease, which his own Confession makes known to you, what it is; or, _Secondly_, an inward Pain; or, _Thirdly_, one of those two Endemic Diseases, a Scurvy, or Consumption; or, a _Fourth_, the Pox. This is their Theory, which is so deeply ingrafted on their _Dura Mater_, and may be acquired with less Industry than fourteen Years Study at one of our Universities; for so much Time is requir'd to make a Man grow up a Doctor, the Formality whereof in most Places consists in this Elogy; _Accipiamus pecuniam, & dimittamus asinùm_. If a sick Man makes his Address to a vulgar Physician, he demands his Complaint; t'other replies, he is troubled either with a Vomiting, Looseness, want of Stomach, Cough, bad Digesture, difficulty of Breathing, a Phtisick, Faintness, Jaundice, Green-Sickness, Dropsy, Gout, Convulsion-Fits, Palsy, Diziness, or Swimming in the Brain, Spitting of Blood, an Ague, a continual great Heat or Fever, _&c._ These are all evident Diseases the Party himself expresses he is troubled with; but his Sickness not being an evident Disease, which he himself can explain, the Vulgar Doctor concludes, it must be either an inward Pain, or an Endemick Disease: The Patient then making complaint of an inward Pain, to his old way of guessing t'other goes, enquiring first in what Part? If he answers, he feels a Pain in the right Side, or under the short Ribs, he tells him it is an Obstruction, or Stoppage in the Liver; if in the left Side, in the opposite Part, then 'tis a Stoppage of the Spleen; if in the Belly, he it may be calls it a Cholick, or Wind in the Guts; if in the Back, or Loins, he perswades him it's Gravel, Stone, or some other Obstruction in the Kidneys; if a Stitch in the Breast, he terms it Wind, or other times a Pleurisy: Lastly, if the Party be reduc'd to a very lean Carcass, by reason of a long tedious Cough, Spitting of Blood, or want of Stomach, or Feebleness, or almost any other Disease, or Pain, then besure he tells him he's in a Consumption, or at least falling into one: But being troubled with several Diseases and Pains at once, as running Pains, Faintness, want of Stomach, change of Complexion, so as to look a little yellowish, duskish, or greenish; then t'other whispers him, he is troubled with the Scurvy. If diseased with Ulcers or running Sores, red, yellow, blue, or dark Spots, Pimples, or Blotches in the Face, Arms, Legs, or any other Part of the Body, that's determin'd to be the Scurvy likewise, supposing the Party to be a sober discreet Person: But if appearing inclined to Wantonness by reason of his Youth, or sly Countenance, then the fore-mention'd Disease is to be call'd the Pox. In most Diseases of Women, they accuse the Mother. In Children, their Guess seems far more fallible; for a Child within the six Months being taken ill, restless, and froward, if there appear no evident Disease, he ever affirms it's troubled with Gripes; upon which he prognosticates, that if not speedily remedied, the Child will fall into Convulsion-Fits; but this not happening according to his Prediction, to prevent the Forfeiture of his Skill and Repute, endeavours to possess the Mother, and rest of the Gossips, it had inward Fits. The Child being past six Months, and falling indispos'd, then instead of Gripes, it is discompos'd by breeding of Teeth; but having bred all his Teeth, and being surpriz'd with any kind of Illness, the Doctor then avouches it is troubled with Worms: In short, take away these three Words, Obstruction, Consumption, and Scurvy, and there will remain three dumb Doctors, the Hackney Physician, the Prescribing Surgeon, and the Practicing Apothecary. Hitherto we have only discovered to you the Ordinary Physicians conjecturing Compass, whereby he steers his Course, to arrive to the Knowledge of his Patients Diseases: There yet remains we should unlock the other Ventricle of his Brain, to behold the Subtilty of his Fancy in groaping at the Causes of Diseases, which, tho' the Poet declares (_Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas_) to be cloathed with the darkest Clouds, yet by the Virtue of this following Principle, aims at this Mark immediately, _viz._ That most Diseases are caus'd by Choler, Phlegm, Melancholy, or abundance of Blood: Of these, two are suppos'd to be hot, namely, Choler, and abundance of Blood, and the other two cold, to wit, Phlegm, and Melancholy, and consequently Causes of hot and cold Diseases: These four Universals being reduced to two general Categories; under the Notion of hot and cold, any one having but the Sense of distinguishing Winter from Summer, may, in the Time of an _Hixius Doxius_, instantly appoint a Cause for almost every Disease: So that a Patient discovering his Trouble, it may be a want of Stomach, bad Digesture, Fainting, Cough, Difficulty of breathing, Giddiness, Palsy, _&c._ his Vulgar Physician has no more to do, but take him by the Fist, to feel whether he be hot or cold; if he finds him cold, then summons in his old Causes, Phlegm, and Melancholy; which ready, and quick pronouncing of the Cause upon a meer Touch, doth almost stupify your Patient, thro' Admiration of _Æsculapian_ Oracle, hitting him in the right Vein to a hair's breadth: For, quoth he, indeed, Mr. Doctor, I think you understand my Distemper exceedingly well, and have infallibly found out the Cause; for every Morning as soon as I awake, I spit such a deal of Phlegm, and moreover, I must confess my self extreamly given to Melancholy. This jumping in Opinions between them, makes Mr. Doctor swell with Expectation of a large Fee, which the Patient most freely forces on him, and so the Fool and his Monies are soon parted. Now it's two to one but both are disappointed, the one in his unexperienced Judgment, t'other in his fond Belief; for, state the Case, the Disease takes its Growth from Choler, or abundance of Blood, or any other internal Cause; there is scarce one in a hundred that are indispos'd, who is not subject to hauk and spit in the Morning, and being reduc'd to Weakness, by reason of his Trouble, must necessarily be heavy in the Passions of the Mind, and incident to melancholy Thoughts, through the Memory of his Mortality, occasion'd by this Infirmity: So that, seldom Mirth and Cheerfulness are housed in indispos'd Bodies, because they are deficient of that abundance of Light, and clear Spirits, required to produce them. No Wonder the Vulgar is so opinionated in the Affair of their Temperament, when belabour'd with a Disease; since in their healthful State, it's impossible for a Physician to engage their Opinion otherwise, than to believe themselves phlegmatick and melancholy. To return to the Point of declaring how the Vulgar strives even with Violence to be cheated, not in their Purses only, but in their Fancies and Opinion; and in this Particular, our Women are so violent eager, that if the Vulgar Physician can but make a true Sound upon the Treble of their Fancy, will produce such a Harmony as shall sound his Praise through City and Country; and without those Female-Instruments, or She-Trumpets, it's almost impossible for a Vulgarist to arrive to a famous Report, who having once by his Tongue-Harmony inchanted the Woman, doth by the same Cheat subject the Opinion of Man to his Advantage, Women generally usurping, and impropriating the Affair of their Husbands Health to their own Management; for if a Man chance to be surpriz'd with Sickness, he presently asks his Wife what Doctor he shall send to, who instantly gives her Direction to him that had her by the Nose last. In this Piece of Subtilty, the Doctor shews him self no less cunning than the Serpent in _Genesis_, who, to cheat _Adam_, thought it expedient first to deceive _Eve_. Now without any further Preamble, I must tell you the Humour many a sick Woman delights to be coaks'd in by the Ordinary Physician, _viz._ She loves to be told she is very melancholy, tho' of never so merry a Composure, and in that Part of the Litany, Mr. Doctor is a perfect Reader; for a Woman making Complaint she is troubled with Drowsiness, want of Stomach, Cough, or any other Distemper; he answers her, she is in an ill State, and troubled with great and dangerous Diseases, and all engender'd by Melancholy; and then tells her over again, she is very melancholy, and, saith he, probably occasion'd by coarse Treats at Home, or some Unkindness of Friends, which makes the poor Heart put Fingers in her Eye, and force a deep Sigh or two; and all this possibly for being deny'd the extravagant Charge of a Tea-Equipage, or a new Gown on a _May_-Day; which being refresh'd in her Memory, doth certainly assure her, the Impression of that Melancholy to be the Original of her Trouble, tho' some Months or Years past, especially since her Physician discovers to her so much: And for so doing, admires him no less, intending withal to give him an ample Testimony to the World of the Doctor's great Skill: But this is not all, he pursues his Business, looks into her Eyes, where 'spying a small Wrinkle or two in the inward or lesser Angle, he tells her, she has had a Child or two, namely, a Boy, or a Girl, according to the Place of the aforesaid Wrinkle in the right or left inward Angle; thence perswades her, that at her last lying in, her Midwife did not perform her Office skilfully, or did not lay her well, whereby she receiv'd a great deal of Prejudice, as Cold, Wrenching, displacing of the _Matrix_, &c. Which Instance squaring with the premeditated Sense and Opinion of his She-Patient, (most Women, though never so well accommodated in their Labour, being prone to call the Behaviour of their Midwife in Question) he hath now produced a far greater Confidence than before: And last of all, to compleat his Work now at the going off of his gull'd Patient, of rendring her Thoughts, Opinion, and Confidence, Vassals to his Service, Fame, and Advantage, makes one Overture more, of a great Cause of some of her Symptoms, declaring to her, she is much subject to Fits of the Mother, occasioning a Choaking in her Throat, and herein they also jump in their Sentiments; scarce one Woman in an hundred but one time or other is assaulted by those Uterin Steams, especially upon a Tempest of any of the Passions of Fright, Fret, Anger, Love, _&c._ If I have reproached the Vulgar Physician for executing his Employ with so little Ingenuity, far greater Reason may move me to condemn the Water-gazer, who by the Steams of the Urine, pretends to gratify his Patient's nice Curiosity, of being resolv'd what was, what is, and what Disease is to come; and what is more, some by their great Cunning aiming to discover as much by the Urinal, as the Astrologer by the Globe. The Fame unto which the _English_ Doctor, who some Years ago residing at _Leyden_, promoted himself by his wonderful Sagacity in Urins, is not unworthy of your Note, hundreds, or rather thousands repairing to this stupendious Oracle, to have the State of their Bodies describ'd by Urine. But when I relate to you the first Means that gave Birth to our Countryman's Repute, I shall soon remove your Passion of admiring him. Upon his Arrival at the Place aforemention'd, he had in his Company a bold Fellow, that haunted the most noted Taverns and Tap-houses, who by way of Discourse divulg'd the good Fortune that was happened to the Town, by the Arrival of an _English_ Doctor, whose great Learning, and particular Skill in Urins, would soon render him famous to all the Inhabitants. This being pronounced with a Confidence suitable to the Subject, occasion'd three sick Scholars (two Hecticks, one Hydropical) then present, to make Trial of the Truth of his Words; the next Morning, agreeing to mix all their Urins in one Urinal, and commit the Carriage of it to him that was dropsical. In the Interim, the Doctor advertis'd of it by his Companion, which made him so skilful, that when the Hydropical Scholar presented him with the Urinal, to know the State of his diseased Body, he soon gravely reply'd, that he observed three Urins in this one Urinal, whereof the two lowermost Parts of the Urin, appear'd to him to be consumptive, and the third that floated at top dropsical, and with all, that their Conditions were desperate, and at the Expiration of six Months they should be all lodg'd in their Graves. This admirable Dexterity of discerning Diseases by the Urinal, was soon proclaim'd by the Scholars themselves, who all having finish'd the Course of their Lives, within the Time prefix'd, proved an undoubted Argument of his unparallel'd Parts in the Art of Physick, which immediately procur'd him an incredible Concourse of People for many Years together. Another Instance of a Woman whose Husband had a Bruise by a Fall down Stairs, carry'd his Urin to the Urin casting Doctor in _Moor-fields_, who pretended likewise to be a Conjurer; he (after shaking) seeing little Specks of Blood float in it, had so much Understanding to tell her, that the Party had receiv'd some internal Hurt; the Woman agreed to this as Truth, but demanding by what Means he came by it: Upon this he erected a Scheme, and in the mean time asked her so many Questions, that by the Drift of her Discourse, he gather'd that he had tumbled down Stairs: The Woman not minding well what she had said, (in the Consternation she was in at the hard Words he had utter'd) suppossing he was conjuring up the Devil, to be resolv'd in the Matter, told her own Words in a different Title; the Woman acknowledged it true, with some Admiration, but desir'd to know how many Pair of Stairs he might fall down? She had told him before where she liv'd (and he considering the Place chiefly consisted of low Buildings) answer'd, two Pair. Nay, now said she, you are out in your Art, he fell three Story I'll promise. This put our Doctor to his Trumps, when having mused a while for an Excuse, he shook the Urinal again, and asked her if there was all the Water her Husband had made? No, reply'd she, I spilt a little in pouring it in. O ho, did you so? said he: Why that, Woman, was the Business that made me mistake, for there went away the other Pair of Stairs in the Urin you spilt. I shall but trouble you with another Instance, which explodes this Cheat, of what happened in the early Practice of the fam'd Dr. _Radcliff_ when at _Oxford_; of a Country Woman that brought to him her Husband's Urin in a Glass-Bottle, very carefully cork'd up; and after a low Courtesy, presented the Bottle, desiring the Doctor to send a Remedy for her Husband, who then lay very ill: The Doctor observing the Simplicity of this Woman, put no other Question, but of what Profession or Trade her Husband was of? Who reply'd, a Shoemaker: At which he pours forth the Urin in a Basin then by him, and after he had supply'd it with a like Quantity of his own, he gives it her, and says, Good Woman, carry this to your Husband, and bid him fit me with a Pair of Boots: but she replying, Her Husband must first take Measure; to which he return'd, The Shoemaker might as well judge by the Urinal the fitting of his Leg, as he in that of his Distemper. That the Effects of Confederacy in promoting a Physician to a popular Vogue, are as powerful as sinister and disingenuous, may not only be deduced from the aforesaid Naratives, but from the common Design of vulgar Empericks, who to raise their Fame as high as a Pyramid, send forth several prating Fellows into all publick Places, Taverns, Coffee-houses, and Ale-houses, to publish their vast Abilities, expecting with that Bait to hook in as many Patients as will swallow it. Others are no less skill'd in counterfeiting their great Practice, by causing their Apothecaries, or others, to call them out of the Church at an Afternoon Sermon, to hasten Post to a suborn'd Patient, to the Intent the World be advertis'd of the weighty Business this Doctor is concern'd in. Others by their Equipage, eminent Houses, and occasioning one and the same Patient, to repair needlesly to them twenty or thirty times, manifest a Decoy even taken Notice of by the Vulgar. These few disingenuous Ways, do here purposely bring on Board, omitting many others, to convince the Publick, that the only Means for a Physician to advance himself honourably to Practice, is by discovering his real Abilities in curing Diseases, by quick, certain, and pleasant Medicines; and therefore nothing should render his Parts more suspicious than by attempting their Discovery by such fallacious and ignoble Devices; for certainly the Conclusion is most sophistical, that because this Doctor is drawn in his Coach, t'other rides on Horseback, or another hath his Lacquey at his Heels, therefore he must be excellently qualify'd in his Profession, but _Vulgus vult decipi_. If I now describe, by way of Advice to those that are entering upon the Study of this divine Art, the Method of attaining to a Point of Excellency in it, and that may serve our Vulgar for a better Rule to distinguish their Qualifications by the Course they have passed through; for it is most necessarily requisite, our young Student should be perfectly instructed in the _Latin_ and _Greek_ Tongues, being the Universal Keys to unlock all those Arts and Sciences, and no less a Grace to the future Physicians. In this Particular, many of our Embryonated Physicians, that have of late Years transported themselves to _Leyden_, and _Utrecht_, to purchase a Degree, have been found very defective; insomuch, that I have heard the Professors condemn several of them for their shameful Imperfection in that which is so great an Ornament, and of so absolute an Use in the Study of Physick: Neither can less be suspected of some of the more aged Vulgar Physicians, making Choice to manage their Consultations in the Vulgar Tongue. _Secondly_, Being thus qualify'd for a Student, he ought to apply himself close to the Study of Phylosophy, for which, _Oxford_ and _Cambridge_ may justly challenge a Pre-eminence above other Universities: Here it is our Student learns to speak like a Scholar, and is inform'd in the Principles of Nature, and the Constitutions of Natural Bodies; and so receiving a rough Draught in his Mind, is to be accomplish'd by that excellent Science of Human Bodies. But because, according to the first Aphorism of the first Master _Hippocrates_, Art is long, and Life short, he ought to engage his Diligence to absolve his Philosophical Course in two Years at longest, and in the interim, for his Recreation and Divertisement, enter himself Scholar to the Gardiner of the Physick-Garden, to be acquainted with the Foetures of Plants, but particularly with those that are familiarly prescrib'd by Practitioners, to prevent being outwitted by Herb-women in the Markets, and to enable him to give a better Answer, than is said once of a Physician, who having prescrib'd _Maiden-hair_ in his Bill, the Apothecary asked which Sort he meant; t'other reply'd, some of the Locks of a Virgin. _Thirdly_, Supposing our Student having made sufficient Progress in Philosophy, may now pass to _Leyden_, and may enter himself into a _Collegium Anatomicum_, Anatomy being the Basis and Foundation whereon the weighty Structure of Physick is to be raised; and unless he acquires more than ordinary Knowledge and Dexterity in this, will certainly be deceiv'd in the Expectation of ever arriving to the Honour of an accomplish'd Physician: A Proficiency in that Part fits him for a _Collegium Medicum Institutionum_, and afterward for a _Collegium Practicum_, and then 'tis requisite he should embrace the Opportunity of visiting the Sick in the Hospital twice a Week with the Physick-Professor, where he shall examine those Patients with all the Exactness imaginable, and point at every Disease, its Symptoms, as it were, with his Fingers, and afterward propose several Cases upon those Distempers, demanding from every young Student his Opinion, and his Grounds, and his Reasons for it; withal requiring of him what Course of Physick is best to be prescrib'd: This is the only Way for a young Physician to attain a Habit of knowing Diseases when he seeth them; and a confident Method of curing those that may repair to him, without running the Hazard of being censured by Apothecaries, or derided by them for his Bills, as too many are, that at _Oxford_ or _Cambridge_ have only imbib'd a Part of _Senuert_'s Institutions, and overlook'd _Riverius_'s Practice, and thence attaining an imperfect and unhappy Skill, by enlarging the Church-yards in the City or Country; but what is more, he shall escape the Danger a young Student I formerly knew at _Oxford_ precipitated himself into, by imagining every Disease he read was his own. I must likewise advise our Student to take his Lodgings there at an able Apothecary's House, to contract the Knowledge of Drugs, and of preparing, dispensing, and mixing them in Compositions, and then by Means of his own Qualifications, may boldly pretend to inform, correct, and improve those Apothecaries which the Chance of his Practice shall conduct him to; for it would be judged ridiculous, should a Physician undertake to reprehend, and afterwards bend his Force to suppress and decry Apothecaries privately or publickly, without having first acquired a particular Experience in their Art. Hence it is again the Vulgar Physician is wrapped up in a Cloud, and the Apothecaries dance round about him; he prescribes Medicines he never saw; they prepare them according to their own Will and Pleasure. Neither is it over these alone the Physician claims a Superintendance, but over Chirurgeons likewise; and therefore in this his Course of Study, would contribute to his future Qualifications, in sojourning a Year with some experienc'd manual Operator, without a Hindrance to his other Affair, and there by an ocular Inspection, and handling of his Instruments, demanding their Names, Uses, and Manner of using, withal by Insinuations to visit the Chirurgical Patients, and see him dress them, would render his Study in Chirurgery, so plain and easy, which otherwise might be thought difficult, that it should enable him to give Laws to Chirurgeons also, especially to those that execute their Office with that Rashness, Indiscretion and Dishonesty as I have sometime discover'd amongst them. These two Years giving occasion to our Student to acquire a System, or a brief Comprehension of the Theory of Physick, and of the Practice likewise: Nothing now remains than to amplify his commenc'd Knowledge and Experience by his farther Travels; to which End, takes his Journey to _Paris_, to be acquainted with the most famous Physicians, and to be inform'd of their Way of Practice, by surveying their Prescripts at the most frequented Apothecaries, to visit for a Year every Day the Hospitals of _l'Hostel Dieù_, and _la Charitè_; in which latter, it is customary, for any three or four young Physicians to examine and overlook the new enter'd Patients, to name the Distempers among themselves, and propose their Cures, for to compare their Opinions afterwards with the Physicians that are appointed for the Hospital, and where he may see most difficult Operations perform'd in Chirurgery, as Trypaning, Amputating, Cutting for the Stone, Tapping of the Belly and Breast with the greatest Dexterity. Here he may also observe Wounds and Ulcers cured by Virtue of those famed Waters, _viz._ the White Water, and the Yellow Water; the former being _Aqua Calcis_, the latter the same, with an Addition of _Sublimate_. The Art of preparing Medicines chymically, having merited a great Esteem for its stupendious and admirable Effects in the most despair'd Diseases, shews a Necessity of being instructed in it, in which he can not fail of prying into, in the Course of his Travels. Having attained his Scope in this Place, his Curiosity ought to direct him to _Montpellier_, where he will meet with a Concourse of the greatest Proficients in Physick in _Europe_, converse with the Professors and Physicians of that Place, and out of 'em all, extract choice Observations, Secrets, and most subtle Opinions upon several Diseases, which Design can scarce be compassed in less than another Year. Now we must suppose our Student to merit the Title of an experienc'd Physician, and raised far above the Vulgar ones, that never felt the Cold beyond the Chimneys of their own Homes: He is now render'd capable of understanding the greatest Mysteries, and most acute Opinions in Physick, which he is chiefly to expect from those reputed Professors of the _Albò_ at _Padua_, where he is likewise to continue his Diligence in visiting the famed Hospital of _San Lorenzo_, and observe the _Italian_ Method of curing Diseases by alterative Broths, without purging or bleeding, that Climate seldom suffering Plethories in those dry Bodies: He cannot but be wonderfully pleased with the Variety and excellent Order of the Plants of their Physick Garden, by them call'd _Horto di Sempleci_. Neither will he receive less Satisfaction from the curious and most dextrous Dissections perform'd by the artificial Hand of the Anatomy Professor. Having here made his Abode for six Months, may justly aspire to a Degree of a Doctor in Physick, which the Fame of the Place should persuade him to take here, being the Imperial University for Physick of all others in the World, and where Physicians do pass a very exact Scrutiny, and severe Test. Hence may he transport himself to _Bologn_, and in three Months time add to his Improvements what is possible by the Advantage of the Hospital, and the Professors. Last of all, in the Imitation of the diligent Bee sucking Honey out of all sweet Flowers, our Doctor must not neglect to extract something that his Knowledge did not partake of before, out of the eminentest Practitioners at _Rome_, examine the chief Apothecaries Files, and still frequent those three renown'd Hospitals of _San Spirito_ in the _Vatican_, _San Giovanni Laterano_ on the Mount _Celio_, and that of _San Giacomo di Augusta_ in the Valley _Martia_, besides many others of less Note. Here may he see the Rarities and Antiquities of this once renowned Empress of the World, from whence he may visit the renowned City of _Naples_, and take a Survey of the Antiquities of the Nature of _Pazzoli_. Having thus in all Particulars satisfied his Curiosity, may consult about the most advantageous Ways homeward, which is to embark for _Leghorn_, or _Genoa_, where he cannot fail of _English_ Shipping. Or else may take a Tour by Land to _Milan_, where he will see the finest Hospital, and the strongest Citadel in _Europe_. Hence passes the _Alpes_, and that stupendous Mount St. _Godart_, through _Altorph_, and _Lucern_, and thence to _Bazil_, the chief of the Protestant _Cantons_, so by Boat down the River _Rhine_ to _Strasburgh_, and _Heydelbergh_, _Manheim_, and so down the _Rhine_ to _Coblentz_, _Audernach_ and _Collen_, then by Land to _Brussels_, _Ghant_, _Ostend_, _Newport_, and _Dunkirk_, _Gravelin_, and _Calais_: And thence to the Place of his Inclinations for his future Settlement, where, by his vast Experience and Knowledge, being render'd conspicuous in the secure and certain Method of his Cures, will soon give Occasion to the People to discern the Difference between him and the ordinary vulgar Physicians, who by their sordid Deports, and dangerous Practice, make it their Business to ease the blind People of the Weight in their Pockets, and plague them in worse Diseases. How very few go through this Course of Improvement, we too readily discover, and may be reproved by the first beginning of the Practice among the Ancients, where we find the Method then in use, to train up Youth to the Profession, was to place them Apprentices with able Physicians, who adjudged it necessary to take their Beginning from Surgery, the Subject whereof being external Diseases, as Wounds, Swellings, Members out of joint, and others that were visible, proved more facile and easy to their inmate Capacities, and wherein they might suddenly become serviceable to their Masters, in easing them of the Trouble of dressing and cleansing stinking Ulcers, and applying Ointments and Plaisters, a nauseous Employ, which they ever endeavour'd to abandon to their Scholars with what Expedition possible: This as it was the easiest, so it was the first, and ancientest Part of Physick, and from which those that exercised it were anciently not called Surgeons, but Physicians, tho' they attempted no other Diseases but what were external; according to which Sense _Æsculapius_ the first Physician, or Inventor of Physick, and his Sons _Podalyrius_ and _Machaon_, are by History asserted to have undertaken only those that wanted external Help; internal Diseases being in those Days unknown, and by Temperance in their Diet, wholly debarr'd; and if accidentally an internal Distemper did surprize them, they apply'd a general Remedy (having no other) of poisoning or killing themselves with a Dagger or Sword, thereby chusing rather to die once, and finish their Misery, than to survive the Objects of Peoples Pity, or to endure the Shocks of Death by every Pain or Languor, especially since the sage Judgment of that Age did esteem it a signal Virtue to despise and scorn the vain World, by hurrying out of it in a Fury, a Maxim most of the Philosophers were very eminent in observing; and was likewise extended to Children that brought any Diseases external or internal with them into the World, their Cure being perform'd immediately by strangling, or drowning them; neither was this Art of external Physick of short Continuance; _Pliny_ writing that Six hundred Years after the building of _Rome_, the _Romans_ entertain'd Chyrurgical Physicians from _Peloponesus_: Idleness and Gluttony at last exchang'd their Ease into a Disease, which soon put them into a Necessity of experimenting such Remedies as might re-establish them into that healthful Condition, which Exercise in War, and Temperance in Diet had for so many Ages preserved their Ancestors in. Upon a competent Improvement of their Scholars in this external Practice of Physick, and their deserving Deportment, they thought them worthy of giving them Entrance into their Closets, to be instructed in such Matters as the most retir'd Places of their Cabinets contained; which were their Remedies and Medicines, and the Manner of preparing them: And then bending his Endeavours to arrive to the Art of discerning the Disease by its Signs, and making Observations upon the Prognosticks, all critical and preternatural Changes: The Dose, Constitution, and all other Circumstances of giving the Medicines which he did gradually accomplish, by his sedulous Attendance on his Master, and his practical Discourses and Lectures from him on every Patient he visited: Lastly, upon his Attainment to a Degree of Perfection in the Art, discovered by his Master by his private Examination, all the Physicians and Commonalty of the Place were summoned to be present at the taking of his Oath in the publick Physick-School, which served in lieu of making Free to Practise, or taking his Degree; the Form of which, as remarkable as it is ancient, the Oath was as followeth. "I Swear by [1]_Apollo_ the Physician, and [2]_Æsculapius_, and by [3]_Hygea_, and [3]_Panacea_, and I do call to witness all the Gods, and likewise all the Goddesses, that according to my Power and Judgment I will entirely keep this Oath and this Covenant; That I will esteem this Master that taught me this Art, give him his Diet, and with a thankful Spirit, impart to him whatever he wants; and those that are born of him I will esteem them as my Male Brethren, and teach them this Art, if they will learn it, without Hire or Agreement; I will make Partakers of the Teaching, Hearing, and of all the whole Discipline, my own and my Master's Sons, and the rest of the Disciples, if they were bound before by Writing, and were obliged by the Physicians Oath, no other besides; I will, according to my Capacity and Judgment, prescribe a Manner of Diet suitable to the Sick, free from all Hurt or Injury; neither will I, through any bodies Intercession, offer Poison to any, neither will I give Counsel to any such Thing; neither will I give a Woman a Pessary to destroy her Conception: Moreover, I will exercise my Art, and lead the rest of my Life chastly and holily; neither will I cut those that are troubled with the Stone, but give them over to Artists that profess this Art; and whatever Houses I shall come into, I will enter for the Benefit of the Sick; and I will abstain from doing any voluntary Injury, from all Corruption, and chiefly from that which is venereal, whether I should happen to have in Cure the Bodies either of Women or of Men, or of free-born Men or Servants; and whatever I shall chance to see or hear in curing, or to know in the common Life of Men; if it be better not to utter it, I will conceal, and keep by me as Secrets: That as I entirely keep and do not confound this Oath, it may happen to me to enjoy my Life and my Art happily, and celebrate my Glory among all Men to all Perpetuity; but if transgressing and forswearing, that the contrary may happen." Between those Bounds of Secresy, Veneration, Honesty and Gratitude, the Art was for many hundred Years maintained; for in the Time of _Galen_, and many Ages after him, Medicines for their greater Secresie were used to be prepared and composed by Physicians, as you may read, _Libr. de Virt. Centaur._ where is observable, their Men were wont to carry their Physick ready prepar'd in Boxes after them, which they themselves, according to the Exigency, did dispense. This Custom was continued until Wars ceasing, People began to be as intent upon the Propagation of Mankind, as the Cruelty of the former martial Ages had been upon its Destruction; where the World growing numerous, and through Idelness and want of those Diversions of their military Employ, addicting themselves to Gluttony, Drunkenness, and Whoredom, did contract so great a Number of all inward Diseases, that their Multiplicity imposed a Necessity upon Physicians (being unable to attend them all as formerly) to dismember their Act into three Parts, whereof two were servile, Chirurgery and Pharmacy; and the other imperial and applicative or methodical. The servile Part being now committed to such as are now called Surgeons and Apothecaries, the former were employed in applying external Medicines to external Diseases; the latter in preparing all ordinary internal and external Medicines, according to the Prescription and Directions of the Physicians, whose Servants were ordered to fetch the prescrib'd Medicines at the Apothecaries, and thence to convey them to their Patients; by which Means the Apothecary was kept in Ignorance: As to the Application and Use of the said Medicines, not being suffered to be acquainted with the Patients or their Diseases, to prevent their Insinuation into their Acquaintance, which otherwise might endanger the diverting the said Patients to other Physicians, or at least their presuming themselves to venture at their Distempers. Neither were the Physicians Servants in the least Probability of undermining or imitating their Masters in the Practice, not knowing their Medicines or Prescriptions. Besides all this, those Remedies from which the chief Efficacy and Operation against the Disease was expected, still remain'd secret with the Physicians, who thought it no Trouble to prepare them with their own Hands. Thus you may remark the Physician's necessary Jealousy of their Underlings, and their small Pains prov'd the sole Means of impropriating their Art to themselves: And yet by the Advantage of their Chirurgeons and Apothecaries, were capacitated to visit and cure ten times greater Numbers of Sick than before; which in a short Time improved their Fame and Estate to a vast Treasure, whence it was well rhimed, ----_dat Galenus Opes, dat Justinianus Honores_. But at length, their Honour and vast Riches in the Eye of Apothecaries and Surgeons, proved Seeds sown in their Minds, that budded into Ambition of becoming Masters, and into Covetousness of Equality, and shareing with them in their Wealth; both which they thought themselves capable of aspiring to by an Emperical Skill the Neglect and Sloath of their Masters had given them occasion to attain, since they did not begin to scruple to make them Porters of their Medicines to their Patients, to intrust them with the Preparation of their greatest Secrets. This Trust they soon betray'd, for having insinuated into a familiar Acquaintance with their Masters Patients, it was a Task not difficult to perswade them, that those that had made and dispensed the Medicines, were as able to apply them to the like Distempers, as they that had prescrib'd them, who had either forgot, or were wholly ignorant how to prepare them; so that now they were as good as arrived to a Copartnership with their Masters in Reputation and Title, the best being call'd Doctors alike, and there being no other Difference between them, than that the Master Doctor comes at the Heells of his Man Doctor, to take in Hand the Work which he or his Brother Doctor (the Chirurgeon) had either spoiled, or could not farther go on with; a very fine Case the Art of Physick and its Professors are reduc'd to, and that not only of late Days, but of almost Seven hundred Years, for before that time Apothecaries had scarce a Being, only there were those they call'd _Seplasiarij_ from their selling of Ointments on the Market of _Capua_, call'd _Seplasia_, _Armatarij_, and _Speciarij_, or such as sold Drugs and Spices; tho' I confess Apothecaries may offer a just Objection in pretending to a far greater Antiquity, since the Original and Necessity of their Employ was deriv'd from the _Egyptian_ Bird _Isis_, spouting Water into its Breech for a Glyster: But 'tis no Matter, the Doctor must truckle to this powerful Engineer, he must conform to the Manner of the Age; and were I to enumerate the many Abuses that are practised by this lower Profession, I mean the Generality of them, you would be more careful in making Choice of your Apothecary, or making a better Choice in having least to do with them; and how dangerous is their Ignorance in the _Latin_ Tongue, which is of very ill Consequence, as their Prescriptions sent 'em by the Physicians are writ in _Latin_, and which not being rightly understood, hath often occasioned not only innocent but fatal Mistakes. _Homine semi docto quid iniquius?_ and that a great Part of the Apothecaries are very illiterate! is so evident, that they themselves dare not deny it; among many Instances of this Kind, that most unfortunate one recorded by an eminent Physician is notorious, who instead of a Dose of _Mercurius sublimatus dulcis_, exhibited so much common Sublimate, a mortal Poison, which was scarce ever given inwardly, instead of an innocent Medicine approved by all Physicians. Yet those worthy Sons of Bombast must disgust your Palate with the Relation of the nauseous and choaking Terms, their Ends of _Latin_ and stifling Phrases, driving to confound and amaze the simple Vulgar. An Instance of this Kind may afford you some little Diversion: A practical Apothecary coming to see his Customer, a Cobler, that lay indisposed of the Cholick, observed him to crack a Fart (for so it is express'd in the Original) upon which, said the Apothecary, Sir, that's nothing but the Tonitruation of Flatuosities in your Intestines; this was no sooner out of his Mouth, but the Cobler crack'd another, and reply'd to his Doctor, Sir, that is nothing but your Hobgoblin Notes thundring Wind out of my Guts; which literal Return of his Terms of Art in plain _English_, though by chance, obliged the Apothecary to this Expression; I beg your Pardon, Sir, I suppose you have study'd the Art of Physick as well as my self, and want not my Help: So away went Doctor Pestle, imagining the Cobler to be as great a Master in the Faculty as himself. Another Complaint against the Apothecaries is, That they are not well acquainted with the _Materia Medica_; the Knowledge of which is an essential Part of their Profession, but must take the Words of Druggists, who themselves are sometimes mistaken, and differ about the Names of several Drugs; and which is worse, their trusting to Herb-women, who obtrude almost any thing upon the greatest Part of them; and that those Women do often mistake one Thing for another, sometimes ignorantly, sometimes designedly, is well known to many Physicians, who have seen them sell the Apothecaries Herbs, Roots and Seeds, under other Names than those they do really bear, for many among them cannot distinguish between Ingredients noxious and salutary: So that we have not Patients daily poisoned is rather from the Care of Herb-women than Apothecaries. Another just Cause of Complaint against the Apothecaries are, their old Medicines; for suppose them as faithfully prepared as they can pretend or we desire, yet Length of Time will make some Changes in them, which are not often Improvements: The Syrups grow acid, and Waters full of Mother, Electuaries and Pills dry and deprived of their most active Parts, Powders themselves are not free from this Fate, whose Virtues in Time we find marvelously diminished. But were they to be told of this, you may with as good Success preach to a Wall, for not a Dram of any other Medicine will the Apothecaries part with but for Sale: So that many times they sell their Preparations five or six Years after they were made, and whether their Medicinal Properties are not much impaired, if they have any left, we leave to others to determine. And indeed the Apothecary has many Things in his Shop which are not called for in many Months, yet these must be vended with the rest; all which, when they have lost their Virtues, should they be rejected, it would be much to their Prejudice, and they have a fundamental Practice that no such Thing should be allow'd of: For 'tis much better the Patient should suffer somewhat in his Body than the Apothecary in his Estate; and if he has injured by his bad Physick, perhaps he will take Pity of him, and the next Prescription shall be better prepared; whereby he makes him abundance of Recompence for the Hurt he receiv'd by that which was bad: And he himself makes an Advantage of both, although perhaps if he had consulted the Patient, he would rather have chosen to keep his Head sound than have it broken, that a proper Plaister might be applied for the Cure. This is so notorious a Truth, that all the World, even their best Friends, exclaim against them for it, and 'till they amend this among many other Peccadillo's, it behoves the Patient to take care how seldom he employs them. Another, that the Apothecaries and their Servants are so careless, slovingly and slight in preparing of dispensatory, or prescribed Medicines, that neither the Physicians, or the Diseased, have Reason to repose that Trust in them which they challeng'd as their Due. As for Slovenliness, they may, I confess, plead the old Proverb, _That what the Eyes see not, the Heart rues not_. Indeed of all the rest it may be dispensed with; but should Patients but once behold how their Physick was prepared in some Shops, they would nauseate it: But least I should offend some nice Stomachs, I shall dismiss this Subject, and proceed to another, which is the Carelessness of Apothecaries and their Apprentices; on which I can never reflect without Fear and Indignation, to think what Numbers have been destroy'd and injur'd by such Proceedings: That this is not a groundless Apprehension many Families can witness, and you can converse with few Persons who are not able to give an Account of some such Miscarriages. Another thing of great Blame with the Apothecaries is, their enhancing the Prices of Medicines so much above what they might in Reason expect; about which the Physician must no ways concern himself, because it has a bad Influence on him, as on the Account of his Patient; though certainly, if the Apothecaries were more modest in the prising of their Physick, the Patient would be more liberal to the Physician: Whereas on the contrary, the Apothecary holds them at such unreasonable Rates, that in most Courses of Physick he gains more than the Doctor, how deservedly let others determine, though in my Opinion, were their Pay proportion'd to their Care and Honesty, I doubt they would gain little besides Shame and Reproaches: But their Bills must be paid without Abatement; and with how much Regret they are discharg'd, I shall refer it to those who have suffered by them. Now several Things contribute to, or are the occasional Causes of this Universal Grievance. The Physician's Silence, and the Number, Pride, or Covetousness of the Apothecaries, and that Prices are not set upon their Medicines: the Apothecaries being reduc'd into a Company, were at first few; and therefore having full Employment, could afford their Medicines at moderate Prices; but being since that time increased to a great Number, each Person bringing up two or three, or more, that Imployment which was before in a few Hands, became more dispers'd, so that very small Portion thereof falls to the Share of some, and indeed very few of them have more than they can manage. Now the Sick must maintain all these, for although there be no occasion for a sixth Part, yet they must all live handsomely; to supply which Expence, they have no other Way than to exalt the Prices of their Medicines, and still the less they are employ'd, the higher they must prize them, otherwise they could not possibly subsist, unless they became Physicians, and prescribe as well as prepare; to which Practices they are not only propense, but more arrogantly assume, which is no less fatal to their Patients, than by the impudent Prescription of your common Quacksalver, Emperic, or Mountebank. Now would it not be much better, if it were with us as in some Parts of _Europe_, where the Magistrates of many Cities agree upon a certain Number of Apothecaries, so many as they can apprehend are necessary, all the rest are excluded, and must either seek other Seats, or be content for a small Salary to work under those that are allow'd; their Apothecaries not being permitted to multiply by Apprentices, but one out of the Shop is by the publick Authority appointed to succeed in the Employment. _Hamburgh_ has but one, _Stockholm_ and _Copenhagen_ four or Five, _Paris_ (which rivals _London_ in its Inhabitants) has but one or two and fifty; they are from the due Regard to the Safety of the People exempted from Offices, either troublesome or profitable, that they may always be inspecting the Preparations, or compounding of the Doses, to prevent the deadly Consequences of sophisticated Medicines, or the fatal Errors of one Composition for another, not easily to be distinguished: They are not permitted to visit the Sick, that they may not be wanting from the Duties of the Shop, or be tempted to gratify themselves as they please for the Trouble, by introducing the Custom of taking too often of the Bolus and Cordials. The Physicians Fees are settled according to the various Conditions and Abilities of the Patient; 'tis not allow'd them to make any Advantage by the arbitrary Rates of Physick, when prepared by themselves, that the Patient and the Bill may not be too much inflam'd by a Profit on that side, not easily to be limited or confined. I would not be suspected to design any Prejudice to the careful and industrious Apothecary, (if such there be) his Business requires the greatest Diligence and Fidelity in selecting the Drugs, and preparing them faithfully according to the Appointment of the Faculty, and in making up the Doses with that just Regard to the Life of the Sick, that all Suspicion of the least Mistake may be prevented, in the Weight and Measure, or the Number of Drops, _&c._ But when the Apothecary deserts his Station, is always abroad, and leaves the compounding Part to his unexperienc'd Apprentice, who cannot avoid sometimes infusing one thing for another, by which Errors many are known to have lost their Lives; when 'tis known that the Prescripts are made up of Medicines bought by Wholesale of the Chymist, and not made up by the Apothecary himself, as is too much the present Practice, and consequently can't be known to be made of all, and best Ingredients, but are suspected, because bought at low Prices; you will doubt whether the Character of an Apothecary can be given to this new, and till lately unknown Employment: When he neglects the Business of his Trade, neither prepares himself the Compositions, nor forms the Doses for them, to be deliver'd at the most urgent Occasions, but daringly undertakes to advise in all Distempers, he becomes an Emperic, and invades a Profession which he cannot be supposed to understand. And here give me Leave to be serious, in examining their general Practice in all Diseases. Suppose your self to be troubled with any Distemper, it matters not which, for all is one to him you send to; upon his Arrival he feels your Pulse, and with a fix'd Eye upon your Countenance, tells you your Spirits are low, and therefore it's high time for a Cordial; the next Interogatory he puts gravely to you is, When was you at Stool, Sir? if not to Day, he promises to send you a laxative Clyster by and by; and if you complain you have a Looseness, then instead of one laxative, he will send you two healing Clysters: If besides you intimate a Pain in your Stomach, Back and Sides, then, responding to each Pain, you shall have a Stomach Plaister, another for the right Side, another for the left, and one for the Back, and so you are like to have a large Patch and well fortified round the Middle. Now before we go farther, let's compute the Charge of the first Day. There is the Cordial, composed by the Direction of some old dusty Bill on his File, out of two or three musty Waters (especially if it be towards the latter End of the Year, and that his Glasses have been stopt with Corks) _viz._ it may be a Citron, a Borrage and a Baum Water, all very full of Spirits, if River Water may be so accounted; to these is to be added one Ounce of that miraculous Treakle Water, then to be dissolved a Dram of _Confectio Alkermes_, and one Ounce of nauseous Syrup of July-Flowers; this being well shaked in the Vial, you shall spy a great Quantity of Gold swimming in Leaves up and down, for which your Conscience would be burthened should you give him less than Five Shillings; for from the meanest Tradesman he expects, without Abatement, Three and Six pence, the ordinary and general Price of all Cordials, tho' consisting only of Baum Water and half an Ounce of Syrup of July-Flowers. Your Clyster shall be prepared out of two or three Handsful of Mallow Leaves and one Ounce of common Fennil Seeds, boiled in Water to a Pint, which strained, shall be thickned with the common Electuary lenitive, Rape Oil and brown Sugar, and so seasoned with Salt; this shall be convey'd into your Guts by the young Doctor, his Man, through an Engine he commonly carries about with him, and makes him smell so wholsome; for which Piece of Service if you present your Engineer with less than Half a Crown, he will think himself worse dealt with than those who empty your necessary Closets in the Night; the Master places to Account for the Gut-Medicine (though it were no more than Water and Salt) and for the Use of his Man, which he calls Porteridge, Eight Groats. _Item_, For a Stomatick, Hepatick, Splenetick, and a Nephretick Plaister, for each Half a Crown: What the Total of this Day's Physick does amount to you may reckon. The next Afternoon or Evening the Apothecary returns himself to give you a Visit, (for should he appear in the Morning, it would argue he had little to do) and finding, upon Examination, you are rather worse than better, by Reason those Plaisters caused a melting of the gross Humours about the Bowels, and dissolved them into Winds and Vapours, which fuming to the Head, occasion a great Head-ach, Dulness and Drowsiness, and Part of 'em being dispersed through the Guts and Belly, discompose you with a Cholick, a Swelling of your Belly, and an universal Pain or Lassitude over all your Limbs. Thus you see one Day makes Work for another; however, he hath the Wit to assure you, they are Signs of the Operations of Yesterday's Means, beginning to move and dissolve the Humours; which successful Work is to be promoted by a Cordial Apozem, the Repetition of a carminative Clyster, another Cordial to take by Spoonfuls, and because your Sleep has been interrupted by the Unquietness of swelling Humours, he will endeavour to procure you for this next Night a Truce with your Disease, by an Hypnotick Potion that shall occasion Rest: Neither will he give you any other Cause than to imagine him a most careful Man, and so circumspect, that scarce a Symptom shall pass his particular Regard; and therefore to remove your Head-ach by retracting the Humours, or rather, as you are like to discern best, by attracting Humours and Vapours, he will order his young Mercury to apply a Vesicatory to the Nape of your Neck, and with a warm Hand to besmear your Belly and all your Joints with a good comfortable Ointment for to appease your Pains: The Cordial Apozem is a Decoction that shall derive its Virtue from two or three unsavoury Roots, and as many Herbs and Seeds, with a little Syrup of July-Flowers, for three or four Times taking; which because you shall not undervalue by having it brought to you all in one Glass, you shall have it sent you in so many Vials and Draughts, and for every one of them shall be placed Three Shillings to your own Account, which is five Parts more than the Whole stands him in; for the Cordial Potion as much; for the Hypnotick Potion the same Price; for your Carminative Clyster no less; and for the Epispastick Plaister a Shilling: Thus with the Increase of your Disease you may perceive the Increase of your Bill; and therefore it's no improper Observation, That the Apothecaries Practice follow the Course of the Moon. The third Day produces an Addition of new Symptoms, and an Augmentation of the old ones; the Patient stands in need of new Comfort from his Apothecary, who tells him, that Nature begins now to work more strong, and therefore all Things go well (and never ill;) but because Nature requires all possible Assistance from Cordials and small Evacuations, he must expect to have the same Cordials over again, but with the Addition of greater Ingredients, it may be Magistery of Pearl, or Oriental Bezoar in Powder, besides the Repetition of a Clyster, and the renewing of your Plaisters, for the Profit of your Physician, you must be persuaded to accept of a comfortable Electuary for the Stomach, to promote Digestion; of a Collution to wash your Gums to secure you from the Scurvy, serving at the same Time to wash the Slime and Filth from your Tongue; of a Melilot Plaister to apply to the Blister that was drawn the Night fore; of some Spirits of Salt to drop into your Beer at Meals; of three Pills of Ruffi to be swallowed down that Night, and three next Morning, which possibly may pleasure you with three Stools, but are to be computed at two Doses, each at a Shilling; the Spirit of Salt a Crown the Ounce; for the Stomach Electuary as much, for the Clysters as before; for your Cordial in relation to the Pearl and Bezoar, their Weight in Gold, which is Two-pence a Grain, the greatest Cheat of my whole Discourse; for dressing your Blister a Shilling; for the Plaister as formerly. Here I presume that Candour in you, as not to believe me so disingenuous, as to take the Advantage of Apothecaries in producing any other than the best Methods of their Practice, and that which favours the least of their Frauds, for in Comparison with others (though these are very palpable, in regard there is not a valuable Consideration regarded as a _quid pro quo_) they are such as may be judged passable; yet when you are to reflect upon the Total that shall arise on the Arithmetical Progression of Charge of a Fortnights Physick, modestly computed at about Fifteen Shillings a Day, without the Inclusion of what you please to present him for his Care, Trouble, and Attendance, I will not harbour so ill an Opinion of him, or give so rigid a Censure as your self shall upon the following Oration your Clysterpipe Doctor delivers to you with a melancholy Accent, in these Terms: Sir, I have made use of my best Skill and Endeavours, I have been an Apothecary these twenty Years, and upwards, and have seen the best Practice of our best _London_ Physicians; my Master was such a one, Mr. ------ one of the ablest Apothecaries of the City; I have given you the best Cordials that can be prescrib'd; 'tis at your Instance I did it, I can do no more, and indeed it is more properly the Work of a Physician; your Case is dangerous, and I think, if you sent for such a one, Dr. ---- he is a very pretty Man; if you please I will get him to come down. Now, Sir, how beats your Pulse? The Loss of your Monies your Bills import, give Addition to your Pain, through the Remembrance it is due to one that hath fool'd you out of it, and deserv'd it no other way, than by adding Wings to your gross Humours that before lay dormant, and now fly rampant up and down, raking, and raging; which had you not been Penny wise and Pound foolish, you would have prevented by sending for a Physician, who for the small Merit of a City-Fee (for which you might also have expected two Visits) would have struck at the Root of the Distemper, without tampering at its Symptoms, or Branches, and by Virtue of one Medicine, restor'd you to your former Condition of Health from which you are now so remote, being necessitated, considering your doubtful State, to be at the Charge of a Physician or two, to whom, upon Examination of what hath been done before, the Apothecary shall humbly declare, he hath given you nothing but Cordials; which Word Cordial, he supposes to be a sufficient Protection for his erroneous Practice; and I must tell you, that had his Cordial Method been continu'd in a Fever, or any other acute Distemper, for eight or ten Days, your Heirs would have been particularly obliged to him for giving you a Cordial Remove out of your Possession, and that through Omission of those two great Remedies, Purging and Bleeding, the exact Use whereof, in respect of Time and Quantity, and other Circumstances, can only be determined by accomplish'd Physicians. I cannot better describe their Unaptness for so great a Work, nor express the great Difficulties that must be conquer'd to deserve the first Character of a compleat Physician, than in the Words of that eminent and learned Physician Dr. _Fuller_; 'It requires (says he) to understand the learned Languages, Natural Philosophy, all the Parts of the Body, and the Animal Oeconomy, the Nature, Causes, Times, Tendencies, Symptoms, Diognosticks, and Prognosticks of Diseases, the Indications of Cure, and contra Indications, the Rules of Errors of living as to the Six Non-naturals; we must have the Skill to judge to whom, for what, when, how much, how often to prescribe Bleeding, Vomiting, Purging, Sweating, and other Evacuations; as also to Opiates, Calybiates, Cortex, and the numberless other Alteratives: We must be very well acquainted with the Virtues, Faults, Preparations, Compositions, and Doses of Vegetables, Animals, Minerals, and all Shop Medicines; and lastly, to compleat all, must be able, upon every emergent Occasion, to write a Bill for a Patient, readily, pertinently, and in Form according to Art. Now to accomplish all this, a Man had need be rightly born, and set out by Nature, with a peculiar Genius, and particular Fitness, and with a strong prevailing Inclination to this Study and Practice above all others. 'He must endeavour with Diligence, Sagacity and Gravity, Integrity, and such a convenient Briskness and Courage as will bear him up, and carry him through Difficulties, without presumptuous Rashness or barbarous Hard-heartedness; and then 'tis necessary he should be a Man of a competent Estate, to answer the great Expence of Education and Expectation; for he must be brought up directly in it from the Beginning of his Studies in the University; he must lay out all his Time and Talents upon Reading, Advising, Observing, Experimenting, Reasoning, Remembering, with an unwearied Labour of Body and Application of Mind; he must run through Courses of Anatomy, Botany, Chymistry and _Galenick_ Pharmacy: And when he hath done all this, cannot handsomely compleat himself, except he see good Variety of others practise, which (by the by) it's probable he will have more Time for than he could wish, before he can get any of his own.' Now each of those singly will require a great deal of Pains, Expence and Time to be attained; and yet all these and much more that can be in short summed up, ought to be done and in some measure accomplished, before a Man can be rightly and duly qualified even to begin Practice. And as to Matter of Fact, few (very few, God knows) there have been, or now are, who tho' they spared not for Education or Diligence, ever work themselves up to a tolerable Sufficiency: Nay, _Hippocrates_ himself, that great Genius, is not ashamed to confess, in an Epistle to _Democritus_, That though he was now got to Old Age and to the End of Life, yet he was not got to the End of Physick; no, nor was _Æsculapius_ neither, the Inventor of it. By all which, it's undeniably evident, that the Science and Practice of Physick is one of the largest Studies, and most difficult Undertakings in the World; and consequently, not any the best Collection of Prescripts that ever was, will, or can be writ or printed, can alone make a compleat Physician, any more than good Colours and Pencils alone can make a fine Painter. And yet every illiterate Fellow and paltry Gossip that can make shift to patch up a Parcel of pitiful Receipts, have the Impudence and Villainy to venture at it; and in hopes of a good Pig, Goose or Basket of Chickens, shall boldly stake their Skill (forsooth) against Mens Lives, and lose them; and at the same Time scandalize and keep out true Physicians, that might probably save them. And this leads me to the third Consideration, The great Danger and Damage occasioned by the rash tampering of such as are not educated rightly and qualified for it. You that enter not by the Door into the Profession, but climb up some other Way, ought to take it into your most serious Thoughts, that Mistakes and Mismanagement in so difficult a Business easily happen; often the Mischiefs occasioned thereby are impossible to be retrieved; and being upon the Body, perhaps Mind of Man, sometimes produce such undoing Misery, such deplorable Ruin, as would make even an Heart of Stone break and bleed, and Death to think of it. Suppose one should lose his Limbs or Health, and live unhappily in Pain, Sick or Bedrid all his Days through your improper Applications or ignorant Omissions; Would it not turn your very Bowels within you, and make you wish a thousand times you had never been that unadvis'd Busie-body to act thus foolishly and unfortunately? But put the Case again: You behold a dead Man (which to me is the most lamentable of all lamentable Spectacles Upon Earth) I say, put Case a poor dead Man were laid before your Eyes, that your Heart tells you might probably have lived many a fair Year, had it not been for your physicking of him: Such a Sight, such a Thought, (if you have the least Humanity left) cannot fail to pierce your very Soul; and ever after the Remembrance, yea, the evil Conscience of it must haunt you and give you Horror and Terror, and a sort of Hell to your dying Hour. Perhaps it may be an only and hopeful Son, in whose Life his aged Parents Lives were bound up; and they die too, or linger out a miserable Life in Sorrow and Anguish worse than Death. Perhaps the good Father of a many little Orphans, who being poor and now helpless, must pitiously perish, or being fallen into bad Hands, and cheated of what was left them, may suffer Poverty, Contempt, Injury and Misery all their Life long. Perhaps a Wife, who might have brought forth an useful eminent Man, a Hero of his Generation, and the Head of splendid Families; and so the Mischief you do may fall upon not only the present but future Ages. But Possibilities and putting of Cases are endless, the Upshot of all this, if you take upon you to cure the Sick, and be not licensed and otherwise qualified for it, if you presumptuously thrust in your self, and bar out another that is authorized and able, though no ill Event chance thereupon, yet well it might, and was likely to do so for all you; and therefore good Providence that protected your Patient, and fenced off the Evils, is alone to be thanked, and you nevertheless to be blamed. But if Death ensue your arrogant Intermeddling and pernicious Quackery, be assured of it, 'tis a sort of Murder in the Court of Conscience, and probably will be adjudged so in the last Great Court. This is not my private Opinion only, but the Judgment and Decision of the Legislature of our Land; for the _Present State of_ England tells us, That by the Law of _England_, if one who is no Physician or Surgeon, and not expresly allow'd to practise, shall take upon him a Cure, and his Patient die under his Hands, this is Felony in the Person presuming so to do. 'Tis not enough for you to say, If I can do no Good, I'll do no Hurt, (which you may as well invert, and say, If I do no Hurt I'll do no Good) no, you interlope, you injure the Faculty, you discourage Education, you keep out better Advice, you trifle with Mens Lives, you lose the golden Opportunity, you prolong the Case 'till it gets head, and grows incurable and mortal, or else extremely hazardous and almost helpless; and this is doing Hurt with a Vengeance. To bring this home to you, and make it more plain. If an House be on Fire, and you come and pretend to put it out your self, and absolutely keep off others, and then fling in Dust instead of Water, and so the Flame gets Mastery; in this Case, though you did not directly intend any positive Hurt, though you did not actually pour in Oil, nor stir and blow up the Coals; yet forasmuch as you would needs be an Undertaker, and could not extinguish it your self, and suffered not others, used to and skill'd in the Business, who coming with Water and proper Engines, might have done it, you are really and truly the Cause of it being burnt. Think not to excuse your self by pretending you did it out of Charity, and meant well, though it fell out ill; no, no, be it known to you, such a Charity as did not appertain to you, and proved murderous, was unpardonable Presumption, and therefore will not cover the multitude of Sins. If you are not sufficient for those Things, you'll do well and wisely to desist from this difficult and dangerous Practice, and fall into such a Trade of Life as you well understand and rightly can manage. And then like the Men who used curious Arts (_Acts_ xix. 19.) you may burn all your Receipt-Books; so shall you keep your Innocence, save your Conscience, secure your Quiet, and yet reserve Room enough to exercise your Charity. For if at any Time your Heart move you to pity and succour a poor sick Neighbour that can't pay for Advice, there will be no Necessity that you should try your Skill upon him, 'till you mischief or murder him by way of Charity. Do but you send him a Physician, Medicines and Necessaries without Hope of Requital; and trust me, that will be an handsome Assistance, most nobly becoming a generous Mind and a charitable Man. Now that not one of our Apothecaries, or indeed very few of our modern Traders in Physick, have these requisite Endowments, I shall leave it to any considerate Person to judge of; and how far they stretch beyond their Knowledge, we have a many miserable Objects in our daily View, woful Instances of their great Rashness, Folly and Ignorance. That the Profession has sunk into the Craft of deceiving, and amusing, and making Profit by new Medicines, or useless Preparations brought into fashion, and highly esteem'd, as long as the Mode of crying them up shall last, and the Fallacy which imposes them can support it, the unhappy People suffer themselves to be deluded, and cheated of their Lives, and their Money. The Rich please themselves that they can purchase the Alexipharmic, which has Power to controul the Disease, and have not any Doubt within themselves, that by the often Use, their Lives become almost immortal; they look down with some small Pity on the Vulgar, who they think must die before them, being not able to pay the Ransom. They please themselves, because Health and Life are of the highest Demands for these Rarities peculiar to them. The Gentlemen of both the higher and lower Faculty have not been wanting to make use of the Credulity and Weakness of the richer Patients; and I shall now lay open to your great Surprize, that the most despicable and useless Stuff have been brought into the highest Esteem to be rely'd on in the most difficult and dangerous Distempers. And _First_, of the _Bezoar_-Stone, an obvious Instance of our _English_ Practice, from whence you may concur with the Physicians abroad, with what Skill, and Art, and Integrity the Profession continues to be practised here. _Bezoar_ (which has neither Smell nor Taste, and upon taking into the Stomach gives no Sensation perceivable) has held its Name and Reputation almost sacred with us, though exploded long since in almost all Parts of _Europe_. The _French_ are well convinced that they have been impos'd upon by the trading Physicians returning from the _Indies_, to take off the pretty Trifle at a very great Price; they had made it to be admired, by asserting that it was able to encounter Poisons, that no malignant Distempers were able to resist its soveraign Virtues; but their overdoing, spoilt their Market, the more curious and wiser Part of the Nation discerning the Abuse, had the Opportunity of promoting the Experiment, which they procured by the King's Command, two Criminals who had Poison given them, with Promise of Life, if _Bezoar_ could procure their Pardon. They lost their Lives, and the Physicians and the Stone their Reputations. The greatest and most learned abroad have freely own'd that they have been deceiv'd by it, but their Patients much more, who had used it without Success, and any observable Effect. Doctor _Pauli_ tells you, he has left the Use of it many Years, and had given to better Purpose, the more powerful and certain Cordials taken from Plants; and supports his Opinion with the Suffrages of _Casper_, _Bauhinus_, _Casp. Hofmanus_, _Rectius_, _Fabriciùs_; The learned and judicious _Deemoebreck_ in his Treatise of the Pestilence, declares he had no Regard to it, that he gave it often _absque ullo fructu, movebat aliquo modo exiguum duntaxit sudorem_. It did, says he, no good to those who used it; scarcely mov'd so much as a little Sweat: It was of the best Parcel chosen of any coming from the _Indies_, or ever was sent to _Europe_, but gave them not the least Relief, though they had promised themselves the greatest from it: To confirm his Opinion that it is worth nothing, he produces the Opinion of _Hercules Saxonias_, and _Crato_ Physician to three Emperors, and refers you to many others. Doctor _Patin_, late Royal Professor of Physick in _Paris_, decides the Pretences to its being of any kind of Use: He says it neither stirs the Blood, nor puts the Spirits in any Motion; besides, some of the above-nam'd Physicians, he appeals to the Judgment of many others, and his own Experience of more than thirty Years. The lately corrected _Leewarden_'s Dispensatory leaves it out of their _Gascoins Powder_, condemning it as a useless and frivolous Ingredient. _Bontius_ tells you, that if we must give Stones, we ought to put a greater Value upon those cut out of the Bladders of Man, a more noble Creature, fed with Meat of the highest Nourishment, and his Spirits warm'd with Wine, than that of a Goat starving upon the Mountains. He assures you that he has given the _Bezoar_, from the Gall or the Bladder, with better Effect than he ever observ'd of those from the _Indies_. The Physicians who first began the Amusement and Cheat, made themselves ridiculous by dreading to give for a Dose more than five, or six, or seven Grains: You may take forty or fifty with no other Advantage or Alteration than your Imagination shall raise; and with the same Effect, ten times as much more. It may, with modern Observers, pass for a Sweater, and a Cordial, when they have given it with good Cordials, and Sweaters, but the most visible Operation it has, is seen when the Bill is paid. Our Physicians in their private Conversations, talk of it as a thing altogether worthless; but because the People are willing to be cheated with _Bezoar_ and _Pearl_, they dare not entertain a Thought of undeceiving them, fearing the Consequence to their own Disadvantage: And I pray with what Art can the high Rate of Medicines be maintain'd, if the World could not be amused with the Imagination of being kept alive in all the Distempers, by the Force of these two? _Pearl_ is a Disease in a Shell-Fish, as _Bezoar_ is in the _Quadruped_: They are very different in Shape and Bulk, the whitest and most glittering are most in Esteem; the sickly Fancy conceits it will revive the Blood as it pleases the Eye; and that it will brisk up the Spirits and Mind, when it reflects on its being dear and fashionable. But this has been despis'd by the honest Physicians, who prescribe for the Cure of their Patients. The famous _Plater_, after the Experience of a many Years Practice, rejects the pretended Virtues of Pearl, or Metals, which have no Taste or Smell, to give the least Pretence to rank them with the Vegetable Alexipharmicks. Most of our Writers are of his Sentiment, and give it only a common Place with the others usually prescrib'd in the Heart-burning, or windy sour Humour offending the upper Orifice of the Stomach: But the Shell of the Fish that breeds them, pretends to, and is allow'd by all our best Authors to have the same Virtues. Nature has been very liberal in this Sort of _Alkali_; all the Shell-fish, all the Claws of Crabs, or the Tips, if you please to value them most, the two Stones of the Craw-fish, and the Shells of Eggs are directed frequently with the Pearl: The two Corals, _&c._ and the numerous Earths of the absorbing Kind, the Chalk, the Marles, are judged by many preferable to it, or are used with the same Success: So that we have the greatest Reason to believe, that the debauched Practice of the _English_ Preservers of Health have made use of it, with Design to extract Sums out of the Purse, rather than of making the Crasis of the Blood better, or the Spirits more vivacious; and if you have Oyster-Shells or Crabs-Eyes in its Stead, which are generally made use of under that Name, they will have the same, if not a better Effect. Gold is by our Chymical Writers stil'd the Sun, and the King of Metals. The Kings and Princes of the last Age were amus'd and defrauded, their Lives made less durable than their Subjects, who were beneath the Use of Gold; the Chicken they eat had the Happiness to be fed with it, that they might extract the Sulphur and prepare it by their Circulation, and volatize it for their Use. But the Physicians were contented to collect all the Gold which past unaltered and undiminished thro' the Poultry, into their Pockets. This, with many other Artifices of this Stamp, are by many laid aside, because the Publick begin to be sensible that the Gold, as the _Bezoar_ and the Pearl, were of more Cordial Virtue to the Adviser and Confederates than to the Subject of their Care and Attendance. The _Aurum potabile_ is sometime the Entertainment of Conversation, when the poor Alcymists or their vain Pretensions are considered; there being no Humour in any Animal which can alter or dissolve it, no Effect or Operation can be expected from it, it deludes the Eye and Fancy in the Cordial Waters, and on the Bolus and Electuaries, but must pass away sooner or later as it adheres more or less to the Stomach or Bowels, without acting or being acted on in any Part of the Body; the Pills, either purgative or cordial, are as often dismist entire, having been covered with Leaf-Gold, which is able, though thin, to dismiss the most subtil and penetrating Parts of all Humours. The Value of the Leaf is not worth your Enquiry, the Book being sold at a low Price. The Fulminating Powder is a rough violent Medicine, and has been lately neglected, and given Place to others more useful and less dangerous. Silver and Lunar Pills are as vile and disregardless as Gold, when they are considered with relation to the Cure of Diseases. The precious Stones have constantly been put into the old Receipts by that Sort of Writers who prescribe every Medicine very faithfully, and design to please and amuse the Readers with the Bulk and Length of the Prescription; but they have been neglected by the practical Authors, who had the Trouble of considering, that no Manner of Vertue could be expected from so hard and therefore impenetrable Bodies; as the Diamond, Ruby, Hyacinth, the Sapphire, the Smargad and Topaz, _&c._ who are not capable of a Dissolution, and of altering or acting upon the Fluids, and as it is most certain that many very cheap Medicines have greater and more observable Effects, it's ridiculous to give a hard gritty Powder, which may for many Reasons corrode and offend the Stomach and Bowels in their Passage. Among the many Foreign Vegetables imported here, I must take Notice of Sarsaparilla, as it has had the Preference before many others, especially of our own Growth, in many difficult and chronical Cases, will have obtain'd its Credit and Reputation by being in good Company, and by being prescrib'd with the cheapest Drugs, but of the greatest Virtues, _viz._ Guiacum, Sasaphras, China, and the Seeds of many most useful Plants. If it has been by it self beneficial, in the Practice of the _West-Indies_, it has lost its Qualities in the Passage into the colder Climates, being a soft and thin Root, it may evaporate and exhale its most active Parts; many of the late Writers have given this Judgment of it, that it is _nullius Saporis vel Odoris_, of no Smell or Taste. The Physicians have not yet done, but contrive to thrust into the Stomachs of their Patients, not only the most loathsome, but the Parts of Animals, which after their Death, are void of all Spirits or Oils, and are a dry and unactive Earth. Of the first Sort, Mummy claims the Precedence; this has had the Honour to be worn in the Bosom next to the Heart, by the Kings and Princes, and all those who could then bear the Price the last Age in all the Courts of _Europe_; 'twas presented with the greatest Assurance, that it was able to preserve from the most deadly Infections, and that the Heart was secured by it from all the Kinds of Malignity: They expected long Life from the decay'd, or dead, Spices, and Balsams, and Gums, and the Piece of the dead Body of an _Egyptian_ Prince, or of a Slave preferred by him: If taken inwardly, it was avow'd to be able to dissolve the Blood coagulated, to give new Life and Motion to all the Spirits. The dry'd Hearts of many Animals, the Livers, the Spleens burnt to a Powder; the Skins of the Stomachs, or Guts of Cocks, and Worms, and the dry'd Lungs of Foxes, ought to be rejected as loathsome and offensive without any Qualities to amend, by the Expectation of any Advantage. The Powder of Vipers by it self, and in the Troches, will deserve a more strict Examination, because it is not only depended on in many Chronical Diseases, but the Life of the Patient in the Acute and Pestilential is betray'd and lost, if it has no alexiterial Powers to expel the Malignity, or support the natural Vigour. But as the Flesh of all Animals, and Fish, when dry'd, have exhal'd the Volatile Spirits with the Moisture, and nothing remains but the Skins and Fibres, and are capable of giving very little Nourishment to the Blood, and are very difficult to be dissolv'd, or digested in the Stomach: You may conclude, by trying when in Health, if Vipers will support your Strength, or if eating of the Flesh in all the Kinds of Cookery, will please the Palate more than the common Food, what you may hope from the dry Powder, or the Cake of it with Salt and Meal, (and the Troches of Vipers are no more) when your Fever calls for the best Alexipharmick. You may to this compare the Skulls of dead Men, now presum'd to command the Epilepsies, and other violent Diseases, if the Skull has been long in Powder, or has long surviv'd the Criminal, the Spirits distill'd from it, are not stronger than those from the Horn of a Stag, or the Spirits of Urin by it self, or from Sal Armoniack: the Shell of the Head preserves the Brains, and the Powder shall not fail to preserve the Spirits of all the Brains which can be perswaded to use it. What can you think will be the Success, from the Use of the Nest of the Swallow, or the Cast off Skin of a Serpent; your Thoughts will naturally reflect on the perfidious Fourbery of making great Gain from the Bubbles put on the Sick, or the vile Negligence of the rest who have suffer'd the fatal Amusements to be at last confirm'd by Custom. After these it may seem needless to speak of the gainful Industry, which has brought the Horns of the Elk, the Bufalo, Rhinoceros, and of the Unicorn's Horn, which is no other than the Bone of a Fish, and has been thought sufficient alone to expel all Poisons; or the Hoofs of the Elk and the Ounce, or the Bone of the Hart of a Stag, the Effect of his old Age; or the Jaw-bones of the Pyke, _&c._ or the Ancle-bones of the Hares and Boars, _&c._ with the Eagle-Stone, and those for the Cramp, and Convulsions, and Cholicks, the great Assistance from your Amulets, and abounding Nostrums, cannot sufficiently be derided. Of the simple distill'd Waters, one hundred and fifty are appointed to be made, the greatest Part of them are not now prepar'd; and indeed they are found of no Use, but to increase the Bulk of the Julep, with the hot and compound Waters; the Milk Water is now order'd for that Design, and because as much Money can be procur'd from it, as from all the vast Variety of the other, this in the usual Practice almost supplies the Place of all the rest. You may run over the vast Number of the _Galenical_ Preparations and Compositions, as they are improperly stiled; they are almost seven hundred, to be kept till they be corrupt, and be viewed as the old rusty and rotten Weapons of an ancient Armory; they are now reduc'd to, and the Shop is supposed to be made up with about One hundred and fifty: But if the insipid Simple Waters, and the fiery ungrateful Compound Waters shall be thrown aside, and the Simple Milk Water, with five or six Cordial Tinctures, shall be kept for Use, and the other Tincture appointed by the Physician, with respect to the Circumstances of the Patient: If only three or four Syrups and Conserves, and Powders, and Pills, and Oils, and Ointments, and Plaisters in that Number, in Imitation of the Prudence and Integrity of the Foreign Physicians who have contracted their Dispensatories, shall be order'd, in the most rational, and efficacious Forms, to receive the Addition of all the natural Powders, Balsams, Gums, or the Chymical Medicines, the Apothecary will have his Trouble very much lessened, and with less Expence; the Patient will have his Disease much sooner cured, and his Life much better preserved. By this time we presume the Reader is convinc'd, that private Interest too often influences many of our Modern Physicians, and makes them prescribe such Medicines as tend most to the Apothecaries Gain, because the People give the Apothecary Power of appointing the Physician; we have shewn that those costly pretended Medicines, which so much raise the Sum in the Bill, have no real Virtue; that the greatest Part of the most senative grow in our own Gardens; that if some few are fetch'd from foreign Parts, they are used in so small Quantities, that the Doses are of the lowest Price: And consequently you will very plainly see, that the long and high charg'd Bill after a Fit of Sickness, is more the Effect of the Collusion betwixt the Doctor and Apothecary, together with your own Folly of desiring of it, than either the Prices of the Medicine, or the Necessity of so many Doses. I dare say, my Reader now thinks it high time to take Care of himself, to believe that the seldomer the Physician or Apothecary are employ'd, the less Risque he runs in his Health or Fortune, that he is not upon every slight Indisposition, or ordinary Sickness to call upon their Help, whereby very often the Remedy proves worse than the Disease; that your Constitution will endeavour to preserve it self, and will effect it in most of the common Distempers, but with ill Medicines those will become dangerous, and will be made every Day more malignant. Take the Counsel of your most observing and experienced Friend, who has no Byass to divert him from the only Care of your Health; but avoid the Emperick, who will, instead of procuring the Ease of your Thoughts and Repose, and prescribing the Rules of your Diet, and permitting Nature to subdue the Disease, affright you with the greatest Danger, disturb you, and fill your Chamber, or both, with the inflaming and pernicious Cordials, the Bolus's and Draughts, till he has cured his own Distemper by the Number of Articles he shall enter into the Bill. That it is in the Power of every Man to become his own Physician, who needs no other Helps of supporting a good, and correcting a bad Constitution, than by observing a sober and regular Life; there is nothing more certain, than that Custom becomes a second Nature, and has a great Influence upon our Bodies, and has too often more Power over the Mind than Reason it self? The honestest Man alive, in keeping Company with Libertines, by degrees forgets the Maxims of Probity he before was used to, and naturally falls into those Vices with his Companions; and if he be so happy as to acquit himself, and to meet with better Company, then Virtue reassumes its first Lustre, and will triumph in its Turn, and he insensibly regains the Wisdom that he had abandoned. In a Word, all the Alterations that we perceive in the Temper, Carriage, and Manners of most Men, have scarce any other Foundation, but the Force and Prevalency of Custom. 'Tis an Unhappiness in which the Men of this Age are fall'n, that Variety of Dishes is now the Fashion, and become so far preferable to Frugality; and yet the one is the Product of Temperance, whilst Pride and unrestrain'd Appetite is the Parent of the other. Notwithstanding the Difference of their Origin, yet Prodigality is at present stiled Magnificence, Generosity and Grandeur, and is commonly esteem'd of in the World, whilst Frugality passes for Avarice and Sordidness in the Eyes and Acceptation of most Men: Here is a visible Error which Custom and Habit have established. The Error has so far seduc'd us, that it has prevail'd upon us, to renounce a frugal Way of living, though taught us by Nature, even from the first Age of the World, as being that which would prolong our Days, and has cast us into those Excesses, which serve only to abridge the Number of them. We become old before we have been able to taste the Pleasures of being young; and the time which ought to be the Summer of our Lives, is often the beginning of their Winter, we soon perceive our Strength to fail, and Weakness to come on apace, and decline even before we come to Perfection. On the contrary, Sobriety maintains us in the natural State wherein we ought to be. Our Youth is lasting, our Manhood attended with a Vigour that does not begin to decay 'till after a many Years. A whole Century must be run out before Wrinkles can be form'd on the Face, or Grey-hairs grow on the Head: This is so true, that when Men were not addicted to Voluptuousness, they had more Strength and Vivacity at Fourscore, than we have at present at Forty. It cannot indeed be expected, that every Man should tie himself strictly to the Observations of the same Rules in his Diet, since the Variety of Climates, Constitution, Age, and other Circumstances may admit of Variations. But this we may assert as a reasonable, general, and undeniable Maxim, founded upon Reason and the Nature of Things; that for the Preservation of Health and prolonging a Man's Life, it is necessary that he eat and drink no more than is sufficient to support his natural Constitution; and on the contrary, whatsoever he eats and drinks beyond, that is superfluous, and tends to the feeding of the corrupt and vicious Humours, which will at last, though they may be stifled for a Time, break out into a Flame and burn the Man quite down, or else leave him like a ruinated or shattered Building. This general Maxim which we have laid down, will hold good with respect to Men of all Ages and Constitutions, and under whatsoever Climate they live, if they have but the Courage to make a due Application of it, and to lay a Restraint upon their unreasonable Appetites. After all, we will not, we dare not warrant, that the most strict and sober Life will secure a Man from all Diseases, or prolong his Days to the greatest old Age. Natural Infirmities and Weaknesses, which a Man brings along with him into the World, which he deriv'd from his Parents and could not avoid, may make him sickly and unhealthful, notwithstanding all his Care and Precaution: And outward Accidents (from which no Man is free) may cut off the Thread of Life before it is half spun out. There is no fencing against the latter of those, but as to the former, a Man may in some Measure correct and amend them by a sober and regular Life. In fine, let a Man's Life be longer or shorter, yet Sobriety and Temperance renders it pleasant and delightful. One that is sober, though he lives but thirty or forty Years, yet lives long, and enjoys all his Days, having a free and clear Use of all his Faculties; whilst the Man that gives himself to Excess, and lays no Restraint to his Appetites, though he prolongs his Life to Threescore or Fourscore Years (which is next to a Miracle) yet is his Life but one continu'd doseing Slumber, his Head being always full of Fumes, the Pores of his Soul cloudy and dark, the Organs of his Body weak and worn out, and very unfit to discharge the proper Offices of a rational Creature. And indeed Reason, if we hearken to it, will tell us, that a good Regimen is necessary for the prolonging our Days, and that it consists in two Things, first in takeing Care of the Quality, and secondly of the Quantity, so as to eat and drink nothing that offends the Stomach, nor any more than we can easily digest. And in this, Experience ought to be our Guide in those two Principles, when we arrive to Forty, Fifty, or Sixty Years of Age. He who puts in Practice that Knowledge which he has of what is good for him, and goes on in a frugal Way of Living, keeps the Humours in a just Temperature, and prevents them from being altered, though he suffer Heat and Cold, though he be fatigued, though his Sleep be broke, provided there be no Excess in any of them. This being so, what an Obligation does Man lie under of living soberly, and ought he not to free himself from the Fears of sinking under the least Intemperature of the Air, and under the least Fatigue, which makes us sick upon every slight Occasion? 'Tis true, the most sober Man may sometimes be indisposed, when they are unavoidably obliged to transgress the Rule which they have been used to observe; but then they are certain, their Indisposition will not last above two or three Days at most, nor can they fall into a Fever: Weariness and Faintness are easily remedied by Rest and good Diet. There are some who feed high, and maintain, that whatsoever they eat is so little a Disturbance to them, that they cannot perceive in what Part of the Body the Stomach lies; but I averr, they do not speak as they think, nor is it natural? 'Tis impossible that any created Being should be of so perfect a Composition, as that neither Heat nor Cold, Dry nor Moist should have any Influence over it, and that the Variety of Food which they make use of, of different Qualities, should be equally agreeable to them. Those Men cannot but acknowledge, that they are sometimes out of Order; if it is not owing to a sensible Indigestion, yet they are troubled with Head-achs, Want of Sleep, and Fevers, of which they are cured by a Diet, and taking such Medicines as are proper for Evacuations. It is therefore certain, that their Distempers proceed from Repletion, or from their having eat or drank something which did not agree with their Stomachs. Most old People excuse their high Feeding by saying, that it is necessary to eat a great deal, to keep up their natural Heat, which diminishes proportionably as they grow into Years; and to create an Appetite, 'tis necessary to find out proper Sauces, and to eat whatsoever they have a Fancy for, and that without thus humouring their Palates, they would be soon in their Graves. To this I reply: That Nature, for the Preservation of a Man in Years, has so composed him, that he may live with a little Food; that his Stomach cannot digest a great Quantity, and that he has no need of being afraid of dying for want of eating; since when he is sick, he is forced to have recourse to a regular Sort of Diet, which is the first and main Thing prescrib'd him by his Physician, that if this Remedy is of such Efficacy to snatch us out of the Arms of Death, 'tis a Mistake to suppose that a Man may not by eating a little more than he does when he is sick, live a long Time without ever being sick. Others had rather be disturb'd twice or thrice a Year with the Gout, the Sciatica, and their Epidemical Distempers, than to be always put to the Torment and Mortification of laying a Restraint upon their Appetites, being sure, that when they are indisposed, a regular Diet will be an infallible Remedy and Cure. But let them be informed by me, that as they grow up in Years their natural Heat abates; that as regular Diet, despised as a Precaution, and only look'd upon as Physick, cannot always have the same Effect nor Force, to draw off the Crudities, nor repair the Disorders that are caused by Repletion; and lastly, that they run the Hazard of being cheated by their Hope and by their Intemperance. Others say, That it is more eligible to feed high and enjoy themselves, though a Man live the less while. It is no surprizing Matter that Fools and Mad-men should contemn and despise Life; the World will be no Loser whenever they go out of it; but 'tis a considerable Loss, when wise, virtuous, and holy Men drop into the Grave, who might have done more Honour to their Country and to themselves. In Youth this Excess is more frequent; necessary therefore it is to moderate his Apetite; for if the Stomach be stretch'd beyond its due Extent, it will require to be fill'd, but never well digest what it receives. Besides, it is much better to prevent Diseases, by Temperance, Sobriety, Chastity, and Exercise, than cure them by Physick. _Quid enim se Medicis dederit, seipsum sibi eripit. Summa Medicinarum ad sanitatem corporis & animæ, abstinentiæ est._ He that lives abstemiously, or but temperately, need not study the Wholesomeness of his Meat, nor the Pleasantness of that Sawce, the Moments and Punctillio's of Air, Heat, Cold, Exercise, Lodging, Diet; nor is critical in Cookery or in his Liquors, but takes thankfully what God gives him. Especially, let all young Men forbear Wines and Strong Drinks, as well as spiced and hot Meats; for they introduce a preternatural Heat in the Body, and at least hinder and obstruct, if not at length exhaust the natural. But if overtaken by Excess, (it's difficult to be always upon our Guard) the last Remedy is vomiting, or fasting it out, neither go to bed on a full Stomach; let Physick be always the last Remedy, that Nature may not trust to it; for though a sick Man leaves all for Nature to do, he hazards much; but when he leaves all for the Doctor to do, he hazards more: And since there is a Hazard both ways, I would sooner rely upon Nature; for this at least we may be sure of, that she is as honest as she can, and that she does not find the Account in prolonging the Disease. Others there are, who perceiving themselves to grow old, tho' their Stomach be less capable of digesting well every day less than another, yet will not upon that Account abate any thing of their Diet; they only abridge themselves in the Number of their Meals; and because they find two or three Meals a Day is troublesome, they think their Health is sufficiently provided for, by making only one Meal; that so the time between one Repast and another, may (as they say) facilitate the Digestion of those Aliments which they might have taken at twice: For this Reason they eat as much at one Meal, that their Stomach is over-charged and out of Order, and converts the Superfluities of its Nourishment into bad Humours, which engender Diseases and Death. I never knew a Man live long by this Conduct. These Men would doubtless have prolong'd their Days, had they abridg'd the Quantity of their ordinary Food proportionally as they grew in Years; and had they eat a great deal less a little oftner. Some again are of Opinion, that Sobriety may indeed preserve a Man in Health, but does not prolong his Life. To this we say, that there have been Persons in past Ages, who have prolong'd their Lives by this Means; and some there are at present who still do it; for as Infirmities contracted by Repletion shorten our Days, a Man of an ordinary Reach may perceive, that if he desires to live long, it is better to be well than sick, and that consequently Temperance contributes more to long Life, than excessive Feeding. Whatsoever Sensualists may say, Temperance is of infinite Benefit to Mankind: To it he owes his Preservation; it banishes from his Mind the dismal Apprehensions of dying; 'tis by its Means he becomes wise, and arrives to an Age wherein Reason and Experience furnish him with Assistance to free himself from the Tyranny of his Passions, which have lorded it over him for almost the whole Course of his Life. A very notable Instance of this we have in the Life of _Lewis Cornaro_, a noble _Venetian_, who though of a weakly Constitution, increas'd by a voluptuous Life, yet at the Age of thirty five or forty Years, he was resolv'd to practice in all the Rules of Sobriety and Temperance, and to withdraw from those Excesses that had brought upon him those usual Ills the Gout and the Cholick, fatal Attendants to an indolent and luxurious Life, and which reduc'd him to so low a State, that his Recovery was despair'd of by the wisest Physician: And here he tells you that he was born very cholerick and hasty, and flew out into a Passion for the least Trifle, that he huffed all Mankind, and was so intolerable, that a great many Persons of Repute avoided his Company: He apprehended the Injury which he did to himself, he knew that Anger is a real Frenzy, that it disturbs our Judgment, that it transports us beyond our selves, and that the Difference between a passionate and a mad Man is only this, that the latter has lost his Reason, and the former is only depriv'd of it by fits. A sober Life cured him of his Frenzy; by its Assistance he became so moderate, and so much a Master of his Passions, that no body could perceive it was born with him. How great and valuable must Temperance then be, which carries that soveraign Aid, and can relieve the Passions of the Mind, and not only to expel the bad Humours of the Body, but also to restore it to a due Tone, and a full State of Health. Now let any one upon a serious Reflection consider which is most eligible, a sober and regular, or an intemperate, and disorderly Course of Life: This is certain, that if all Men would live regularly and frugally, there would be so few sick Persons, that there would hardly be any Occasion for Remedies, _Si tibi deficiant Medici, Medici tibi fiant. Hæc tria, Mens læta, requies moderata dieta._ _The best and safest Physician is Doctor Diet, Doctor Merryman, and Doctor Quiet._ every one would become his own Physician, and would be convinced that he never met with a better. It would be to little Purpose to study the Constitution of other Men; every one, if he would but apply himself to it, would always be better acquainted with his own than that of another; every one would be capable of making those Experiments for himself which another could not do for him, and would be the best Judge of the Strength of his own Stomach, and of the Food which is agreeable thereto; for in one Word, 'tis next to impossible to know exactly the Constitution of another, their Constitutions being as different as their Complexions. Since no Man therefore can have a better Physician than himself, nor a more soveraign Antidote than a Regimen, that is to study his own Constitution, and to regulate his Life according to the Rules of right Reason. I own, indeed, the disinterested Physician may be some time necessary, since there are some Distempers, which all human Prudence cannot provide against, there happen some unavoidable Accidents which seize us after such a Manner, as to deprive our Judgment of the Liberty it ought to have to be a Comfort to us; it may then be a Mistake wholly to rely upon Nature, it must be assisted, and Recourse must be had to some one or another for it; and in this we have much the Advantage of the irregular Man, his Vices having heaped Fewel to the Distemper; but on the contrary, by a regular Course of Life, the very Cause is not to be found, and the Disease retreats from you. And here the fam'd _Cornaro_, who being at Seventy Years of Age, had another Experiment of the Usefulness of a Regimen, and 'twas this; A Business of extraordinary Consequence drawing him into the Country, and being in the Coach, the Horses ran away with him, and was overthrown, and dragg'd a long away before they could stay the Horses; they took him out of the Coach with his Head broke, a Leg and Arm out of joint, and in a Word, in a very lamentable Condition. As soon as they brought him Home again, they sent for the Physicians, who did not expect he should live three Days to an end: However, they resolv'd upon letting of him Blood, to prevent the coming of a Fever, which usually happens upon such Cases. He was so confident that the regular Life which he had led, had prevented the contracting of any ill Humours, of which he might be afraid, that he rejected their Prescription, and ordered them to dress his Head, to set his Leg and Arm, and to rub him with some Specifick Oils proper for Bruises, and without any other Remedies he was soon cured, to the Amazement of the Physicians and of all those that knew him. From hence he did infer, that a regular Life is an excellent Preservative against all natural Ills; and that Intemperance produces quite contrary Effects. What a Difference then between a sober and an intemperate Life? the one shortens and the other prolongs our Days, and makes us enjoy a perfect Health, and with _Juvenal_, _Mens sana in Corpore sano_. I cannot understand how it comes to pass, that so many People, otherwise prudent and rational, cannot resolve upon laying a Restraint upon their insatiable Appetites at fifty or sixty Years of Age, or at least when they begin to feel the Infirmities of old Age coming upon them they might rid themselves of them by a strict Diet and a due Regimen. I do not wonder so much that young People are so hardly brought to such a Resolution; they are not capable enough of reflecting; and their Judgment is not solid enough to resist the Charms of Sense: But at Fifty a Man ought to be govern'd by his Reason, which would convince us if we would hearken to it, that to gratify all our Appetites without any Rule or Measure, is the Way to become infirm and die young. Nor does the Pleasure of Taste last long, it hardly begins but 'tis gone and past; the more one eats, the more one may, and the Distempers which it brings along with it, last us to our Graves. Now should not a sober Man be very well satisfied when he is at Table, upon the Assurance, that as often as he rises from it, what he eats will do him no harm: Who then would not perfectly enjoy the Pleasures of this mortal Life so perfectly? Who will not court and win Sobriety, which is so grateful to God, as being the Guardian to Virtue, and irreconcileable Enemy to Vice. Surely the Example of this wise and good Man deserves our Imitation, that since old Age may be made so useful and pleasant to Men, I should have fail'd in Point of Charity to inform Mankind by what Methods they might prolong their Days. A great Assistant to that of Sobriety, and which is highly conducive to the Preservation of the whole Man, is to renew with us that habitual and beneficial Custom of the Antients in promoting _Exercise_, as one great Instrument to the Conservation of Health, and which no one can deny who has given himself the Experience of a Trial. That it promotes the Digestion, raises the Spirits, refreshes the Mind, and that it strengthens and relieves the whole Man, is scarce disputed by any; but that it should prove curative in some particular Distempers, and that too when scarce any thing else will prevail, seems to obtain little Credit with most People, who though they will give the Physician the hearing when he recommends the Use of Rideing, or any other Sort of Exercise, yet at the Bottom, look upon it as a forlorn Method, and rather the Effects of his Inability to relieve them, than a Belief that there is any great Matter in what he advises: Thus by a negligent Diffidence they deceive themselves and let slip the golden Opportunities of recovering by a diligent Struggle what could not be cur'd by the Use of Medicine alone. But to give you a just and rational Idea of its Power of moving and actuating upon the Body, let us consider the whole human System as a Compound of Tubes and Glands, or to use a more rustick Phrase, a Bundle of Pipes and Strainers, fitted to one another after so wonderful a Manner as to make a proper Engine for the Soul to work with. This Description does not only comprehend the Bowels, Bones, Tendons, Veins, Nerves, and Arteries, but every Muscle and every Ligature, which is a Composition of Fibres, that are so many imperceptable Tubes or Pipes interwoven on all Sides with invisible Glands and Strainers. This general Idea of a human Body, without considering it in the Niceties of Anatomy; let us see how absolutely necessary Labour is for the right Preservation of it. There must be frequent Motions and Agitations to mix, digest, and separate the Juices contained in it, as well as to clear and cleanse that Infinitude of Pipes and Strainers of which it is composed, and to give their solid Parts a more firm and lasting Tone; Exercise ferments the Humours, casts them into their proper Channels, throws off Redundancies, and helps Nature in those secret Distributions, without which the Body cannot subsist in Vigour, nor act with Chearfulness. I might here mention the Effects which this has upon the Soul, upon all the Faculties of the Mind, by keeping the Understanding clear, the Imagination untroubled, and refining those Spirits that are necessary for the proper Execution of our intellectual Faculties, during the present Laws of Union between Soul and Body. It is a Neglect in this Particular, that we must ascribe the Spleen, which is so frequent in Men of studious and sedentary Tempers; as well as the Vapours, to which those of the other Sex are so often subject. Had not Exercise been absolutely necessary for our Well-being, Nature would not have made the Body so proper for it, by giving such an Activity to the Limbs, and such a Pliancy to every Part, as necessarily produce those Compressions, Extensions, Contortions, Dilatations, and all other Kind of Motions that are necessary for the Preservation of such a System of Tubes and Glands as has been before mentioned. And that we might not want Inducements to engage us in such an Exercise of the Body as is proper for its Welfare, it is so ordered, that nothing valuable can be procur'd without it. Not to mention Riches and Honour, even Food and Raiment are not to be come at without the Toil of the Hands, and Sweat of the Brows. Providence furnishes us with Materials, but expects we should work them up ourselves. The Earth must be labour'd before it gives Encrease; and when it is forced into its several Products, how many Hands must they pass thro' before they are fit for Use? Manufactures, Trade, and Agriculture naturally employ more than nineteen Parts of the Species in twenty; and as for those who are not obliged to labour, by the Condition in which they are born, they are more miserable than the rest of Mankind, unless they indulge themselves in that voluntary Labour call'd Exercise, of which there is no Kind I would so recommend to both Sexes, as that of Rideing; as there is none that conduces so much to Health, and is every Way accommodated to the Body. Dr. _Sydenham_ is very lavish in its Praises, and if you would learn the mechanical Effects of it described at length, you may find it learnedly treated of by Dr. _Fuller_, in a late Treatise, intituled, _Medicina Gymnastica_, or, _The Power of Exercise_. And here Mr. _Dryden_: _The first Physicians by Debauch were made; Excess began, and Sloth sustain'd the Trade. By Chase our long-liv'd Fathers earn'd their Food, Toil strung the Nerves, and purified the Blood; But we their Sons, a pamper'd Race of Men, Are dwindled down to threescore Years and ten. Better to hunt in Fields for Health unbought, Than fee the Doctor for a nauseous Draught. The Wise for Cure on Exercise depend; God never made his Work for Man to mend._ General MAXIMS FOR HEALTH: OR, _RULES to preserve the Body to a good old Age_. I. It is not good to eat too much, or fast too long, or do any thing else that is preternatural. II. Whoever eats or drinks too much, will be sick. III. If thou art dull and heavy after Meat, it's a Sign thou hast exceeded the due Measure, for Meat and Drink ought to refresh the Body, and make it chearful, not to dull and oppress it. IV. If thou findest those ill Symptoms, consider whether too much Meat or Drink occasions it, or both, and abate by little and little, 'till thou findest the Inconveniency remov'd. V. Pass not immediately from a disorder'd Life, to a strict and precise Life, but by degrees abate the Excess, for ill Customs arrive by degrees, and so must be wore off. VI. As to the Quality of the Food, if the Body be of a healthful Constitution, and the Meat does thee no Harm, it matters little what it is; but all Sorts must be avoided that does Prejudice, though it please the Taste never so much. VII. After Diet is obtain'd, the Appetite will require no more than Nature hath need of, it will desire as Nature desires. VIII. Old Men can fast easily; Men of ripe Age can fast almost as much, but young People and Children can hardly fast at all. IX. Let ancient People eat Panada, made of Bread, and Flesh Broth, which is of light Digestion; an Egg now and then will do well. X. Growing Persons have a great deal of Natural Heat, which requires a great deal of Nourishment, else the Body will pine. XI. It must be examin'd what Sort of Persons ought to feed once or twice a Day, more or less; Allowance being always made to the Person, to the Season of the Year, to the Place where one lives, and to Custom. XII. The more you feed foul Bodies, the more you hurt your selves. XIII. He that studies much, ought not to eat so much as those that work hard, his Digestion being not so good. XIV. The near Quantity and Quality being found out, it is safest to be kept to. XV. Excess in all other things whatever, as well as in Meat and drink, are to be avoided; excessive Heats and Colds, violent Exercises, late Hours, and Women, unwholsome Air, violent Winds, the Passions, _&c._ XVI. Youth, Age, and Sick require a different Quantity. XVII. And so do those of different Complexions, for that which is too much for a Phlegmatick Man, is not sufficient for the Cholerick. XVIII. The Measure of the Food ought to be proportionable to the Quality and Condition of the Stomach, because the Stomach is to digest it. XIX. The Quantity that is sufficient, the Stomach can perfectly concoct, and answers to the due Nourishment of the Body. XX. Hence it appears we may eat a greater Quantity of some Viands than of others of a more hard Digestion. XXI. The Difficulty lies in finding out an exact Measure; but eat for Necessity not Pleasure; for Lust knows not where Necessity ends. XXII. Wouldst thou enjoy a long Life, a healthy Body, and a vigorous Mind, and be acquainted also with the wonderful Works of God, labour in the first Place to bring thy Appetite to Reason. XXIII. Beware of Variety of Meats, and such as are curiously and daintily drest, which destroy a multitude of People; they prolong Appetite four times beyond what Nature requires, and different Meats are of different Natures, some are sooner digested than others, whence Crudities proceed, and the whole Digestion depraved. XXIV. Keep out of the Sight of Feasts and Banquets as much as may be, for it is more difficult to retain good Cheer, when in Presence, than from the Desire of it when it is away; the like you may observe in all the other Senses. XXV. Fancy that Gluttony is not good and pleasant, but filthy, evil, and detestable; as it really is. XXVI. The richest Food, when concocted, yields the most noisom Smells; and he that works and fares hard, hath a sweeter and pleasanter Body than the other. XXVII. Winter requires somewhat a larger Quantity than Summer; hot and dry Meats agree best with Winter, cold and moist with Summer; in Summer abate a little of your Meat and add to your Drink, and in Winter substract from your Drink and add to your Meat. XXVIII. If a Man casually exceeds, let him fast the next Meal and all may be well again, provided it be not often done; or if he exceed at Dinner, let him rest from, or make a slight Supper. XXIX. Use now and then a little Exercise a Quarter of an Hour before Meals, or swing your Arms about with a small Weight in each Hand, to leap, and the like, for that stirs the Muscles of the Breast. XXX. Shooting in the long Bow, for the Breast and Arms. XXXI. Bowling, for the Reins, Stone and Gravel, _&c._ XXXII. Walking, for the Stomach: And the great _Drusus_ having weak and small Thighs and Legs, strengthened them by Riding, and especially after Dinner. XXXIII. Squinting and a dull Sight are amended by Shooting. XXXIV. Crookedness, by Swinging and hanging upon the Arms. XXXV. A temperate Diet frees from Diseases; such are seldom ill, but if they are surprized with Sickness, they bear it better, and recover it sooner, for all Distempers have their Original from Repletion. XXXVI. A temperate Diet arms the Body against all external Accidents, so that they are not so easily hurt by Heat, Cold, or Labour; if they at any Time should be prejudiced, they are more easily cured, either of Wounds, Dislocations, or Bruises; it also resists Epidemical Diseases. XXXVII. It makes Mens Bodies fitter for any Employments; it makes Men to live long; _Galen_, with many others, lived by it a Hundred Years. XXXVIII. _Galen_ saith, That those that are weak-complexioned from their Mothers Womb, may (by the Help of this Art, which prescribes the coarse Diet) attain to extreme old Age, and that without Diminution of Senses or Sickness of Body; and he saith, that though he never had a healthful Constitution of Body from his Birth, yet by using a good Diet after the Twenty-seventh Year of his Age, he never fell into Sickness, unless now and then into a One Days Fever, taken by One Days Weariness. XXXIX. A sober Diet makes a Man die without Pain; it maintains the Senses in Vigour; it mitigates the Violence of Passions and Affections. XL. It preserves the Memory; it helps the Understanding; it allays the Heat of Lust; it brings a Man to that weighty Consideration of his latter End. A DISCOVERY Of some Remarkable ERRORS In the late WRITINGS of Dr. _Mead_, _Quincey_, _Bradley_, &c. on the Plague. The great Apprehensions that all _Europe_ has received from the dreadful and raging Plague which has lately destroyed the greatest Part of the Inhabitants of _Marseilles_, has given that just Alarm to our Ministry, who under the Direction of His Majesty, by their wise and prudent Management, to the Duty of Publick Prayers, with that of a General and Solemn Fast throughout the Kingdom, have not been wanting, as much as possible, to prevent that direful Contagion which now threatens, and might be brought amongst us by the Sailors, or by Merchandize comeing from Places that are infected; and have ordered a strict Quarentine to be observed by all Ships in all the Maritime Ports liable to that Invasion. And to be Assistant to so great a Work, the Neglect of which the Lives of the Nation being at stake, we have some the most eminent of the Physicians now in Vogue, who from that Duty to their Profession, and their Zeal to the Publick Good, have publish'd some Essays, not only of the Nature, Cause, Symptoms, Prognosticks, and Affections of this fatal Distemper; but likewise of the proper Means to be used in preventing, and fortifying against, with the proper Applications of recovering those that are seiz'd by this fatal Enemy to Mankind. Books of this kind lately published are, a short Discourse concerning Pestilential Contagion, by Dr. _Mead_. The Plague of _Marseilles_ consider'd by Dr. _Bradley_. Dr. _Hodges_'s Loimologia of the Plague in _London_, _Anno_ 1665; reprinted by Dr. _Quincy_: To which is added, an Essay of his own, with Remarks of the Infection now in _France_. To those worthy Gentlemen are we indebted for their ready Help, to their philosophical Enquiries, their learned and analytical Explanations in all the Stages of this raging Ill; and farther, by what physical Power it corrupts the Blood, destroys the Spirits, and is follow'd by Death at the last. The Apologies that are made in their Preface, _viz._ of a short Warning, of their little Leisure, the Uncorrectness of Style, and the Typographical Errors should be favourably construed from so great an Aim of doing the Publick so great a Good; and it would be esteemed a base Ingratitude, meerly for the sake of Contradiction, to quarrel with the Hand that directs, and may support us in the greatest Extremity. But where there may be a sufficient Reason to undeceive, or amend such Errors, as might otherwise be prejudicial to their intended Purpose of preserving the Common Weal, or advancing some other necessary Instructions which they have omitted; I can't but perswade myself that I shall have their Approbation, if not their Thanks in prosecuting the Advancement of that good End they so greatly have desired in their Publications. It is very certain, that Essay of Doctor _Hodges de Peste_, is the best of any hitherto publish'd of that Kind; and if the Gentleman who has annex'd his Treatise to that of his own, has taken Care to remove the most affected Peculiarities, and Luxuriances of his Enthusiastick Strain, he should have avoided that Contagion himself, which are discover'd in his crabbed and dogmatical Terms of _Formulæ_, _Miasms_, _Miasmata_, _Nexus_, _Moleculæ_, _Spicula_, _Pabulum_, &c. Such Terms being too abstruse and difficult to be understood by the People in general, for whose Instruction and Benefit we have the Charity to believe he undertook his Publication. Nay, it cannot be doubted, and will need no Confirmation by those that carefully peruse Dr. _Hodges_, but will find that there is scarcely any advanced Method in what they have writ, or but what may be found in his Treatise, unless in this one Hint of _Quincy_, from the Use of _Pulvis Fluminans_ in dispersing the stagnate Air instead of the fucing of great Guns, _&c._ And he is no ways out in his Policy by tacking his own Remarks with those of the good old Doctors, which are the best Recommendations of their passing to his own Advantage. _Hodges_ in his Introduction tells you, "That the first Discoveries of the late Plague began in _Westminster_, about the Close of the Year 1664, for at that Season two or three Persons died there, attended with like Symptoms as manifestly declar'd their Origin; that in the Months of _August_ and _September_, the Contagion chang'd its former slow and languid Pace, having, as it were, got Master of all, made a most terrible Slaughter, so that three, four or five thousand died in a Week, and once eight thousand: Who can express the Calamities of those Times! None surely in more pathetick and bewailing Accents than himself, who gives us so melancholly a Description of their dismal Misery, as affects the Mind with the same Passions and despairing Sorrow they were then overloaded with; and as _Virgil_ has it, _Horror ubique Animos, simul ipsa silentia terrent. Hærent in fixi pectore Vultus._ The _British_ Nation wept for the Miseries of her Metropolis. In some Houses Carcases lay waiting for Burial; and in others, Persons in their last Agonies; in one Room might be heard dying Groans, in another the Raveings of a Delirium, and not far off Relations and Friends bewailing both their Loss and the dismal Prospect of their own sudden Departure; Death was the sure Midwife to all Children, and Infants passed immediately from the Womb to the Grave; Who would not burst with Grief to see the Stock of a future Generation hang upon the Breasts of a dead Mother? or the Marriage-Bed changed the first Night into a Sepulchre, and the unhappy Pair meet with Death in the first Embraces? Some of the Infected run about staggering like drunken Men, and fall and expire in the Streets; while others lie half dead and comatous, but never to be waked but by the last Trumpet; some lie vomiting, as if they had drank Poison; and others fall dead in the Market while they are buying Necessaries for the Support of Life. Not much unlike was it in the following Conflagration; where the Altars themselves became so many Victims, and the finest Churches in the whole World carried up to Heaven Supplications in Flames, while their marble Pillars, wet with Tears, melted like Wax; nor were Monuments secure from the inexorable Flames, where many of their venerable Remains passed a second Martyrdom; the most august Palaces were soon laid waste, and the Flames seem'd to be in a fatal Engagement to destroy the great Ornament of Commerce; and the burning of all the Commodities of the World together, seem'd a proper Epitome of this Conflagration: Neither confederate Crowns, nor the drawn Swords of Kings could restrain its phanatick and rebellious Rage; large Halls, stately Houses, and the Sheds of the Poor, were together reduced to Ashes; the Sun blush'd to see himself set, and envied those Flames the Government of the Night which had rivall'd him so many Days: As the City, I say, was afterwards burnt without any Distinction, in like Manner did this Plague spare no Order, Age, or Sex; the Divine was taken in the very Exercise of his priestly Office, to be inroll'd amongst the Saints above; and some Physicians, as before intimated, could not find Assistance in their own Antidotes, but died in the Administration of them to others; and although the Soldiery retreated from the Field of Death, and encamped out of the City, the Contagion followed and vanquished them; many in their old Age, others in their Prime, sunk under its Cruelties; of the female Sex, most died; and hardly any Children escaped; and it was not uncommon to see an Inheritance pass successively to three or four Heirs in as many Days; the Number of Sextons were not sufficient to bury the Dead; the Bells seem'd hoarse with continual tolling, until at last they quite ceased; the Burying-places would not hold the Dead, but they were thrown into large Pits dug in waste Grounds in Heaps, thirty or forty together; and it often happened, that those who attended the Funerals of their Friends one Evening, were carried the next to their own long Home." ------_Quis talia fundo temperet à lacrymis?_---- About the Beginning of _September_ the Disease was at the Height, in the Course of which Month more than Twelve thousand died in a Week[4] but from this Time its Force began to relax; and about the Close of the Year, that is, at the Beginning of _November_, People grew more healthful, and such a different Face was put upon the Publick, that although the Funerals were yet frequent, yet many who had made most haste in retiring, made the most to return, and came into the City without Fear; insomuch that in _December_ they crowded back as thick as they fled; and although the Contagion had carried off, as some computed, about One hundred thousand People; after a few Months this Loss was hardly discernable. The Doctor himself comes to no determinate Number of those that died of this Distemper, but in the Table that he has writ of the Funerals in the several Parishes within the Bills of Mortality of the Cities of _London_ and _Westminster_ for the Year 1665, he tells you, 68596 died of the Plague. Dr. _Mead_ in the same Year 1665, that it continued in this City about ten Months, and swept away 97306 Persons. Dr. _Bradley_, in his Table from the 27th of _December_, 1664/5, takes no notice of any buried of that Distemper, but of one on the 14th of _February_ following, and two on _April_ the 25th, and in all, to the 7th of _June_, 89. The next following Months, to _October_ the 3d, there were buried 49932, in all 50021. Why he should here break up from giving any further Account may be from the Weakness of his Intelligence, which so widely differs from all other Accounts; and in this one, with Dr. _Hodges_, who tells you, that about the Beginning of _September_, at which Time the Disease was at the Height, in the Course of which Month, more than 12000 Persons died in a Week: Whereas in _Bradley_, the most that were buried in one Week, _i. e._ from the 12th of _September_ to the 19th, amounted to no more than 7165. But computing after the Manner of Dr. _Hodges_, we find (taking one Week with another, from _August_ the 29th to the 27th of _September_, the Time of its greatest Fury) the exact Number of 6555; which falls short very near to one half of the Number accounted to be buried of that Distemper by Dr. _Hodges_; and we have abundant Reason to believe, that the greatest Account hitherto mentioned, may be short of the Number dying of that Distemper. If we do but observe the strict Order then published to shut up all infected Houses, to keep a Guard upon them Day and Night, to withhold from them all Manner of Correspondence from without; and that after their Recovery, to perform a Quarentine of 40 Days, in which Space if anyone else of the Family should be taken with that Distemper, the Work to be renewed again; by which tedious Confinement of the Sick and Well together, it often proved the Cause of the Loss of the Whole. These, besides many other great Inconveniencies, were sufficient to affright the People from making the Discovery, and we may be certain, that many died of the Plague which were returned to the Magistracy under another Denomination, which might easily be obtained from the Nurses and Searchers, whether from their Ignorance, Respect, Love of Money, _&c._ And if they vary so much in their Computation of those that died; we shall find them as widely different in the Time when 'tis said the Plague first began. The great Dr. _Mead_ on this important Subject, may establish by his Name whatever he lays down, with the same Force and Authority as the Ancients held of that _ipse dixit_ of Aristotle; but as that great Master of Nature was not exempt from slipping into some Errors, _& humanum est errare_, it can be no Shock to the Reputation of this Gentleman, if we shall find him no less fallible than of some others of the Faculty who has treated on this Subject; and to this part of the time when 'tis said the Plague first began. Doctor _Mead_, by what Information he has not thought fit to tell us, does affirm, That its Beginning was in _Autumn_ before the Year 1664/5; whereas Dr. _Hodges_ says, in the very first Page of his _Liomologia_, that it was not till the Close of the Year 1664; at that Season two or three Persons died suddenly in one Family at _Westminster_, of which he gives a further Light from his visiting the first Patient in the _Christmas_ Holidays, and fully confirmed by the Weekly Bills of Mortality, whose first Account of those who died of the Plague were from _December_ the 27th, 1664/5. As those Gentlemen have forfeited their Infallibility by what I have proved hitherto against them, we have further Reason to suspect, whether or not the late Plague in 1665 was occasioned by that Bale of Cotton imported from _Turkey_ to _Holland_, and thence to _England_, as Dr. _Hodges_ makes irrefregable, and Dr. _Mead_'s Authority indisputable; which is no less a Subject of Wonder and Admiration how many Years we have escaped from the Plagues that have happened and are frequent in so many Parts of _Turkey_; as at _Grand Cairo_, which is seldome or never free from that Distemper, at _Alexandria_, _Rosetta_, _Constantinople_, _Smyrna_, _Scanderoon_, and _Aleppo_, from which Places we have the most considerable Import of any of our Neighbours, and of such Goods as are most receptive of those infectious Seeds, such as Cotton, Raw Silk, Mohair, _&c._ And though Coffee may seem less dangerous, from its Quality of being more able to resist its pestilential Effluvia, yet from the many Coverings the Bales are wrapped in, it is not hard to conceive the contagious Power might be latent in some Part of the Packidge; which Escape is the more surprising and to be wondred at from the great Encrease of our Trade and Shipping which yearly arrive from those Countries; and yet to be preserved from the like Misfortune near to this 60 Years. _Gockelius_ informs us, [5]"That the Contagion in the same Year 1665 was brought into _Germany_ by a Body of Soldiers returning from the Wars in _Hungary_ against the _Turks_, spread the Infection about _Ulm_ and _Ausburgh_, where he then lived, and besides the Plague, they brought along with them the _Hungarian_ and other malignant Fevers, which diffused themselves about the Neighbourhood, whereof many died.[6] And with Submission to the wise Judgment and Opinion of these learned _Triumviri_, who have cited no fuller Authority for this Assertion than a bare Relation of it from _Hodges de Peste_; it may be no unreasonable Conjecture to have its first Progress from _Hungary_, _Germany_, and to _Holland_, from which last Place they all have agreed we certainly received the Contagion; and that we have had the Plague convey'd to us by the like Means may be found in the _Bibliotheca Anotomica_, being brought to us by some Troops from _Hungary_ sent thither against the _Turks_ by _Henry_ VI. King of _England_. Dr. _Mead_, who thinks it necessary to premise somewhat in general concerning the Propagation of the Plague, might, to the three Causes he has laid down, of a bad Air, diseased Persons, and Goods transported from Abroad, have added the Aliment or Diet, because affording Matter to the Juices it does not less contribute to the Generation of Diseases: And it may be observed, that in the Year before the pestilential Sickness, there was a great Mortality amongst the Cattel from a very wet Autumn, and their Carcasses being sold amongst the ordinary People at a very mean Price, a great many putred Humours might proceed from thence; and this, in the Opinion of many, was the Source of our late Calamities, when it was observed this fatal Destroyer raged with greater Triumph over the common People: And the feeding on unripened and unsound Fruits are frequently charged with a Share in Mischiefs of this Kind. _Galen_[7] is very positive in this Matter, and in one Place accuses[8] his great Master to _Hippocrates_ with neglecting the Consequence of too mean a Diet: From this 'tis generally observed, that a Dearth or Famine is the Harbinger to a following Plague. And we have an Account from our Merchants trading to _Surat_, _Bencoli_, and some other Parts of the _East-Indies_, that the Natives are never free from that Distemper, which is imputed to their low and pitiful Fare. The _Europeans_, especially the _English_, escaping by their better Diet, by feeding on good Flesh, and drinking of strong generous Wine, which secures them from the Power of that Malignancy. Their Hypotheses as widely differ in the very Substance or Nature of the Pestilence; and Dr. [9]_Hodges_, [10]_Mead_, and [11]_Quincey_, have asserted, that it proceeds from a Corruption of the Volatile Salts, or the Nitrous Spirit in the Air. Dr. [12]_Bradley_, from the Number of poisonous Animals, Insects, or Maggots which at that Time are swimming or driving in the circumambient Air; and being sucked into our Bodies along with our Breath, are sufficiently capable of causing those direful Depredations on Mankind called the Plague. Both these Opinions are supported by the Authorities of Learned Men. And if _Hodges_, _&c._ have the Suffrages of the greatest of the ancient Physicians, with those of _Wolfius_, _Agricola_, _Forestus_, _Fernelius_, _Belini_, _Carolus de là Font_, _&c._ _Bradley_ may challenge to him the famed _Kirchir_, _Malhigius_, _Leeuwenhooch_, _Morgagni_, _Redi_, and _Mangetus_. It is almost endless as well as altogether needless, to cite all the Authorities for the different Opinions, that might be collected from the most remote Antiquity down to the present Age. And although it is yet to be contested, and might be held an occult Quality with those learned Gentlemen, we shall find, each Doctor passes his favourite Opinion upon the World with as much Infallibility as a Demonstration in _Euclid_. [13]And for that Opinion of the famous _Kirchir_, about animated Worms, (says _Hodges_) 'I must confess I could never come at any such Discovery with the Help of the best Glasses, nor ever found the same discovered by any other; but perhaps in our cloudy Island we are not so sharp-sighted as in the serene Air of _Italy_; and with Submission to so great a Name, it seems to me very disconsonant to Reason, that such a pestilential Seminium, which is both of a nitrous and poisonous Nature, should produce a living Creature.' And he is well assured, that he is in the right, when he says, '[14]Every one of those Particulars are as clear as the Light at Noon-Day; and those Explications are so obvious to be met with in the Writings of the Learned, that it would be lost Labour to insist upon any such Thing here.' [15]Dr. _Mead_ chimes in here very tuneably with _Hodges_, and is pleased to say, 'That some Authors have imagined Infection to be performed by the Means of Insects, the Eggs of which may be conveyed from Place to Place, and make the Disease when it comes to be hatch'd. As this is a Supposition grounded upon no Manner of Observation, so I think there is no need to have Recourse to it.' Dr. _Bradley_, who hatches this Distemper by the smaller Kind of Insects floating in the Air, is greatly jealous of his favourite Egg, from which that fatal Cockatrice breaks forth and disperses Death in every Quarter: He may be seen to promote this Hypothesis in that Discourse of his new Improvement of Planting, _&c._ and with no less Pursuit in his late Pamphlet on the Plague at _Marseilles_; where in his Preface, _p._ 13, he tells you, 'That to suppose this malignant Distemper is occasioned by Vapours only arising from the Earth, is to lay aside our Reason, _&c._' And it may be farther observed, That they are as remote from their Consent to one another, as in the distant Place from whence they would trace its Origin. [16]Dr. _Mead_, from a bare Transcription of _Matthæus Villanus_, does affirm, That the Plague in the Year 1346, had its first Rise in _China_, advancing through the _East-Indies_, _Syria_, _Turkey_, _&c._ and by Shipping from the _Levant_, brought into _Europe_, which in the Year 1349. seized _England_. This is directly against Dr. _Bradley_,[17] who suggests the Plague is no where to be found in _India_, _China_, the South Parts of _Africa_ and _America_, and has taken the Pains in filling up three Pages in the Defence of this Assertion. It would be well if their Opposition ended here; but when it affects us more near, when their Difference becomes more wide in the very Means of our Preservation, and what by one is laid down as a soveraign and real Good, to be returned by another as the most fatal and destructive, is a Weight of no small Consequence, nor a less melancholly Reflection, if it should please God to inflict us with the same Calamities. And as to those preservative Means which the Government have only a Power to direct, the making of large Fires in the Streets, as has been practised in the Times of Contagion, is a Point largely contested. Dr. _Hodges_[18] seems inveterate against this Custom, and tells us, 'That before three Days were expired after the Fires made in 1665, the most fatal Night ensued, wherein more than 4000 expired; the Heavens both mourn'd so many Funerals, and wept for the fatal Mistake, so as to extinguish even the Fires with their Showers. May Posterity, (says he) be warned by this Mistake, and not like Empericks, apply a Remedy where they are ignorant of the Cause.' And Dr. _Mead_[19] has an Eye to this Remark, when he tells us, 'The fatal Success of the Trials in the last Plague is more than sufficient to discourage any farther Attempts of this Nature.' Whereas on the contrary, the making of Fires in the Streets were practised from the greatest Antiquity, and supported by _Mayerne_, _Butler_, and _Harvey_ in the two great Plagues before the Year 1665, and recommended by Dr. _Quincey_[20] for the Dissipation of Pestilential Vapours, _&c._ And without all manner of Dispute, Dr. _Bradley_[21] must be wholly on his Side, when he tells us, 'That the Year 1665, was the last that we can say raged in _London_, which might happen from the Destruction of the City by Fire the following Year 1666, and besides the destroying of the Eggs or Seeds of those poisonous Animals that were then in the stagnating Air, might likewise purifie the Air in such a Manner as to make it unfit for the Nourishment of others of the same kind, which were swimming or driving in the circumambient Air.' What has been said of Fires is likewise to be understood of firing of Guns, which some have too rashly advised. Says Dr. _Mead_[22], 'The proper Correction of the Air would be to make it fresh and cool.' And here quotes from the Practice of the _Arabians_ out of _Rhazes de re Medica_, &c. Dr. _Quincey_[23] 'That as the Air being still and as it were stagnate at such Times, and as it favours the Collection of poisonous Effluvia, and aggravates Infection, thinks it more effectual to let off small Parcels of the common _Pulvis Fulminans_, which must afford a greater Shock to the Air by its Explosion than by the largest Pieces of Ordnance.' In favour of which last Assertion, the Experience both of Soldiers, will justifie the firing of great Guns and Ordnance, which is frequently used in Camps, for the Dissipation of the collected pestilential Atoms, which by Concussion as well as its constituent Parts of Nitre and Sulphur, tend greatly to the Purification of the grosser Atmosphere within the Compass of their Activity; and by the Seamen in their Voyages in the Southern Parts of the World, when sometimes the Air is so gross, and hangs so low upon them, as to be almost suffocated. And in the late Plague at _Marseilles_ the constant firing of great Guns at Morning and Evening, by the Appointment of _Monsieur le Marquis de Langeron_ their Governour, was esteemed of great Relief to the Inhabitants. Nay, their Contest will not end in a Pipe of Tobacco, against which Dr. _Hodges_[24] declares himself a profess'd Enemy: 'But whether (says he) we regard the narcotick Quality of this _American_ Henbane; or the poisonous Oil which exhales from it in Smoaking, or that prodigious Discharge of Spittle which it occasions, and which Nature wants for many other important Occasions, besides the Aptitude of the pestilential Poison to be taken down along with it; he chose rather to supply its Place with Sack.' Dr. _Bradley_[25] redeems it from this low Character, and represents it as a great Antidote in the last Plague _Anno_ 1665. 'The Distemper did not reach those who smoak'd Tobacco every Day, but particularly it was judged best to smoak in a Morning: He farther gives you an Account of a famous Physician, who in the pestilential Time took every Morning a Cordial to guard his Stomach, and after that a Pipe or two, before he went to visit his Patients; at the same time he had an Issue in his Arm, by which, when it begun to smart, he knew he had received some Infection (as he says) and then had recourse to his Cordial and his Pipe.' By this Means only he preserved himself, as several others did at that Time by the same Method. I could heartily wish those worthy Gentlemen had struck in with greater Harmony to the Satisfaction and Security of the People, whose Expectations were greatly raised by the Hopes of their Assistance, by gaining a greater Light into the Nature, Quality, Symptoms, and Affections of this definitive Ill, to have promoted their Safety, by giving the necessary Indications relating to the Cure, as well as the necessary Precautions in order to guard us from that secret Attack which may approach us by very minute and unheeded Causes; the which, from their different Notions and positive Contradictions, lay too deep from the narrow Re-searches of those Philosophizing and Learned Gentlemen, and for the Manner whereby it kills, its Approaches are generally so secret, that Persons seiz'd with it seem to be fallen into an Ambuscade or a Snare, of which there was no Manner of Suspicion. And there are very few Discourses relating to the Pestilence but what abound in many Instances of this kind: And the Learned _Boccace_, in his Admirable Description of the Plague at _Florence_ (quoted by Dr. _Mead_[26] _Anno_ 1348) relates what himself saw, 'That two Hogs finding in the Streets some Rags which had been thrown off from a poor Man dead of the Disease, after snuffling upon them, and tearing them with their Teeth, fell into Convulsions, and died in less than an Hour.' The Misfortune which happened in the Island of _Bermudas_ about 25 Years since, which Account is from Dr. _Halley_; A Sack of Cotton put ashore by Stealth, lay above a Month without any Prejudice to the People of the House where it was hid; but when it came to be distributed among the Inhabitants, it carried such a Contagion along with it, that the Living scarce sufficed to bury the Dead. And Dr. _Quincey_[27] has somewhere read a strange Story in _Baker_'s Chronicle, 'of a great Rot amongst Sheep, which was not quite rooted out until about Fourteen Years time, that was brought into _England_ by a Sheep bought for its uncommon Largeness, in a Country then infected with the same Distemper.' _Fracastorius_[28], an eminent _Italian_ Physician, tells us, 'That in the Year 1511, when the _Germans_ were in Possession of _Verona_, there arose a deadly Disease amongst the Soldiers, from the wearing only of a Coat purchased for a small Value; for it was observed, that every Owner of it soon sickned and died; until at last the Cause of it was so manifestly known from some Infection in the Coat, that it was ordered to be burned.' Ten thousand Persons, he says, were computed to fall by this Plague before it ceased. And _Kephale_, in his _Medela Pestilentiæ_, printed _Anno_ 1665, acquaints us, That the following Plagues were produced from the following Causes. That in the Year 1603, the contagious Seeds were brought to _England_ amongst Seamens Clothes in _White-Chappel_; and in that Year there died of the Plague 30561. That in the Year 1625, was bred and produced by rotten Mutton at _Stepney_; of which died 35403 Persons. That in the Year 1630, was brought to us by a Bale of Carpets from _Turkey_, of which died 1317 Persons. That in the Year 1636, was brought over to us by a Dog from _Amsterdam_; of which died 10400 Persons. That in the Year 1665, was brought from _Turkey_ in a Bale of Cotton to _Holland_, thence to _England_; in this great Plague died no less than 100,000 People. And at _Marseilles_, in this present Year 1720, the Plague has swept away more than 70000 Persons, which was brought in Goods from _Sidon_, a fam'd and ancient City and Sea-port in _Phoenicia_, and the same which sometimes is mentioned in Holy Writ. From the Neighbourhood of this last Contagion, the frightful Apprehensions of the People are rais'd to the greatest Height; and when every one is consulting his own Security, how to guard and preserve himself from that dreadful Enemy, nothing can come more seasonably to their Relief, than to lay before them a _Compendium_ of the best and approved Rules for their Conduct; to which End I have carefully collected, from the successful Practice of Dr. _Glisson_, Sir _Thomas Millington_, Dr. _Charlton_, and other Learned Physicians in the last Plague, with what only may be of Use from the abounding Prescripts of those who have lately published, and as this Evil is supported throughout the general Practice, it appears to be the Result of the Reasoning of some of the Learned Sons of _Æsculapius_, to marshal into the Field as many Compositions as if only by their Number they might be able to pull down the Tyranny of this fatal Destroyer. It would be a Work insuperable, and altogether foreign to the Method I have gone by, to extract all the Medicines which some Writers abound with for this End; it is our Business here chiefly to take Notice of that saving _Regimen_, that Rule of Self-governing, which proved more successful in the Preservation of the People in the late Plague, than all the abounding _Nostrums_ that have been crouded into the Practice, the which has become a due Reproach to the Faculty. _Turpe est Doctori, quem culpa redarguit ipsum._ And it is here worthy of our first Remark, That the last Plague, in the Year 1665, as well from the late Accounts we have of that at _Marseilles_, the poorer Sort of People were those that mostly suffered, which can only be attributed to their mean and low Fare, whereas the most nutritive and generous Diet should be promoted, and such as generate a warm and rich Blood, Plenty of Spirits, and what easily perspires, which otherwise would be apt to ferment and generate Corruption. Your greatest Care is, to have your Meat sweet and good, neither too moist nor flashy, having a certain Regard to such as may create an easy Digestion, and observing that roasted Meats on those Occasions should be preferred; as Beef, Mutton, Lamb, Venison, Turkey, Capon, Pullet, Chicken, Pheasant, and Partridge: But Pidgeon, and most Sort of Wild and Sea Fowl to be rejected: Salt Meats to be cautiously used; all hot, dry, and spicey Seasonings to be avoided; most Pickles and rich Sauces to be encouraged, with the often Use of Garlick, Onion, and Shallot; the cool, acid, and acrid Herbs and Roots, as Lettuce, Spinnage, Cresses, Sorrel, Endive, and Sellery; all windy Things, which are subject to Putrefaction, to be refrained, as all kind of Pulse, Cabbage, Colliflower, Sprouts, Melons, Cucumbers, _&c._ as also most Summer Fruits, excepting Mulberries, Quinces, Pomegranates, Raspers, Cherries, Currants, and Strawberries, which are of Service when moderately eat of. All light and viscid Substances to be avoided, as Pork, most Sorts of Fish, of the latter that may be eat, are Soles, Plaise, Flounder, Trout, Gudgeon, Lobster, Cray-fish, and Shrimps, no Sort of Pond-Fish being good; and for your Sauce, fresh melted Butter, or Oil mixed with Vinegar or Verjuice, the Juice of Sorrel, Pomegranates, Barberries, of Lemon or _Seville_ Orange, which two last are to be preferred, from their Power of resisting all Manner of Putrefaction, as well to cool the violent Heat of the Stomach, Liver, _&c._ For your Bread, to be light, and rather stale than new, not to drink much of Malt Liquors, avoiding that which is greatly Hopped, or too much on the ferment, Mead and Metheglin are of excellent Use, and good Wines taken moderately are a strong Preservative, Sack especially being accounted the most Soveraign and the greatest Alexipharmick: Excess is dangerous to the most healthy Constitution, which may beget Inflammations of fatal Consequence in pestilential Cases. Let none go Home fasting, every one, as they can procure, to take something as may resist Putrefaction; some may take Garlick with Bread and Butter, a Clove two or three, or with Rue, Sage, Sorrel, dipt in Vinegar, the Spirit of Oil of Turpentine frequently drank in small Doses is of great Use; as also to lay in steep over-Night, of Sage well bruis'd two Handfuls, of Wormwood one Handful, of Rue half a Handful, put to them in an Earthen Vessel four Quarts of Mild Beer; which in the Morning to be drank fasting. The Custom that prevails now of drinking Coffee, Bohea-Tea, or Chocolate, with Bread and Butter, is very good; at their going abroad 'tis proper to carry Rue, Angelica, Masterwort, Myrtle, _Scordianum_ or Water-Germander, Wormwood, Valerian or Setwal-Root, _Virginian_ Snake-Root, or Zedoary in their Hands to smell to, or of Rue one Handful stampt in a Mortar, put thereto Vinegar enough to moisten it, mix them well, then strain out the Juice, wet a Piece of Sponge or a Toast of brown Bread therein, tie it in a Bit of thin Cloth to smell to. But there is nothing more grateful and efficacious than the volatile _Sal Armoniac_, well impregnated with the essential Oils of aromatick Ingredients, which may be procured dry, and kept in small Bottles, from a careful Distillation of the common _Sal Volatile Oleosum_. Sometimes more foetid Substances agree better with some Persons than the more grateful Scents, of which the most useful Compositions may be made of Rue, Featherfew, _Galbanum_, _Assafoetida_, and the like, with the Oil of Wormwood, the Spirit or Oil drawn and dropt upon Cotton, so kept in a close Ivory Box, though with Caution to be used, the often smelling to, dilating the Pores of the Olfactory Organs, which may give greater Liberty for the pestilential Air to go along with it. A Piece of Orris Root kept in the Mouth in passing along the Streets, or of Garlick, Orange or Lemon Peel, or Clove, are of very great Service. As also Lozenges of the following Composition, which are always profitable to be used fasting; of Citron Peel two Drams, Zedoary, Angelica, of each, prepar'd in Rose Vinegar, half a Dram, Citron Seeds, Wood of Aloes, Orris, of each two Scruples, Saffron, Cloves, Nutmeg, one Scruple, Myrrh, Ambergrease, of each six Grains, Sugarcandy one Ounce; make into Lozenges with Gum Traganth and Rose-water. I know not indeed a greater Neglect than not keeping the Body clean, and the keeping at a distance any thing superfluous and offensive, to keep the House airy and fresh, and moderately cool, and to strew it with Herbs, Rushes, and Boughs, which yield refreshing Scents, and contribute much to the purifying of the Air, and resisting the Infection; of this kind all Sorts of Rushes and Water Flags, Mint, Balm, Camomil Grass, Hyssop, Thyme, Pennyroyal, Rue, Wormwood, Southernwood, Tansy, Costmary, Lime-tree, Oak, Beech, Walnut, Poplar, Ash, Willow, _&c._ A frequent Change of Clothes, and a careful drying or airing them abroad, with whisking and cleaning of them from all Manner of Filth and Dust, which may harbour Infection, as it is likewise to keep the Windows open at Sun-Rise till the Setting, especially to the North and East, for the cold Blasts from those Quarters temper the Malignity of pestilential Airs. Preservative Fumigations are largely talked of by all on those Occasions, and they with good Reason deserve to be practised. And of the great Number of Aromatick Roots and Woods, I should chiefly prefer Storax, Benjamin, Frankinsense, Myrrh, and Amber, the Wood of Juniper, Cypress and Cedar, the Leaves of Bays and Rosemary, and the Smell of Tarr and Pitch is no ways inferior to any of the rest, where its Scent is not particularly offensive, observing the burning of any or more of those Ingredients at such proper Distances of Time from each other, that the Air may always be sensibly impregnated therewith. Amongst the Simples of the Vegitable Kind, _Virginian_ Snake-Root cannot be too much admired, and is deservedly accounted the most Diaphoretick and Alexipharmick for expelling the pestilential Poison; its Dose, finely powder'd, is from four or six Grains to two Scruples, in a proper Vehicle; due Regard being had to the Strength and Age of the Patient. The next is generally given to the Contrayerva Root, (from which also a Compound Medicine is admirably contrived, and made famous by its Success in the last Plague;) the Dose of this in fine Powder is from one Scruple to a Dram, in Angelica or Scordium Water, or in Wine, _&c._ There are other Roots likewise of which many valuable Compounds are form'd in order to effect that with an united Force which they could not do singly; in this Class are the Roots of Angelica, Scorzonera, Butterbur, Masterwort, Tormentil, Zedoary, Garlick, Elicampane, Valerian, Birthwort, Gentian, Bitany, and many others, which may be found in other Writings. Ginger, whether in the Root, powder'd, and candy'd deserve our Regard; for it is very powerful both to raise a breathing Sweat and defend the Spirits against the pestilential Impression. From these Roots may be made Extracts, either with Spirit of Wine or Vinegar, for it is agreed by all, that the most subtil Particles collected together, and divested of their grosser and unprofitable Parts, become more efficacious in Medicinal Cases. The Leaves of Vegetables most us'd in Practice are Scordiam, Rue, Sage, Veronica, the lesser Cataury, Scabious, Pimpinel, Marygolds, and Baum, from which, on Occasion, several _Formulæ_ are contrived. Good Vehicles to wash down and to facilitate the taking of many other Medicines, should be made of the Waters distilled from those Herbs while they are fresh and fragrant (having not yet lost their volatile Salt) for those which are commonly kept in the Shop, are insipid and of little Use. _FINIS._ Footnotes: [1] _An_ Ægyptian, _and the first Inventor of Physick_; [2] _The Son of_ Apollo, _begotten upon_ Coronis, _the Daughter of_ Phlegia. [3] _The two eldest Daughters of_ Æsculapius. [4] _See_ _Hodges of the Plague_, _reprinted_ per Qincey, p. 19. [5] _Vid._ Gockelius de peste, p. 25. [6] _Vid._ Gockelius de peste, p. 25. [7] Lib. 1. de differ. Feb. Cap. 3. & de cibis mali & boni succi. [8] Lib. 6. Obser. 9. 26. [9] _Liomologia_, p. 32, 33, 34, 35, 37, 42, 44, 52, 53, 54, 75. [10] _Short Discourse_, p. 11, 17. [11] _Different Causes_, p. 266. [12] _Plague_, Marseilles, p. 17, 30, 31, 36, 41. [13] Hodges'_s Limologia_, p. 64. [14] Hodges'_s Limilogia_, p. 32. [15] _Short Discourse_, p. 16. [16] _Short Discourse_, p. 10. [17] _Plague_, Marseilles, p. 31, 32, 33. [18] _Loimologia_, p. 20. [19] _Short Discourse_, p. 46. [20] _Liomologia Causes and Cures_, p. 281. [21] _Plague_, Marseilles, p. 9. [22] _Short Discourse_, p, 46. [23] _Loimologia_, p. 283. [24] _Loimologia_, p. 218. [25] _Plague_, Marseilles, p. 40. [26] _Short Discourse_, p. 24. [27] _Loimologia, Causes and Cures_, p. 255. [28] De Morbis Contag. Lib. II. Cap. 7. Transcriber's Notes: Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. In the Preface, non-italicized words are indicated by =not italics=. The original text includes Greek characters. For this text version these letters have been replaced with transliterations. The following misprints have been corrected: "Gratiude" corrected to "Gratitude" (page 5) "togegether" corrected to "together" (page 31) "Phsick" corrected to "Physick" (page 63) "Apothecacaries" corrected to "Apothecaries" (page 64) "Medicince" corrected to "Medicine" (page 65) "Strengh" corrected to "Strength" (page 120) "Humous" corrected to "Humours" (page 131) "snch" corrected to "such" (page 157) "nnless" corrected to "unless" (page 158) "Weeek" corrected to "Week" (page 187) "Aristole" corrected to "Aristotle" (page 189) Other than the corrections listed above, printing is retained from the original. 
13840	----	THE SIGN OF THE RED CROSS A Tale of Old London by EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN CHAPTER I. A WARNING WHISPER. "I don't believe a word of it!" cried the Master Builder, with some heat of manner. "It is just an old scare, the like of which I have heard a hundred times ere now. Some poor wretch dies of the sweating sickness, or, at worst, of the spotted fever, and in a moment all men's mouths are full of the plague! I don't believe a word of it!" "Heaven send you may be right, good friend," quoth Rachel Harmer, as she sat beside her spinning wheel, and spoke to the accompaniment of its pleasant hum. "And yet, methinks, the vice and profligacy of this great city, and the lewdness and wanton wickedness of the Court, are enough to draw down upon us the judgments of Almighty God. The sin and the shame of it must be rising up before Him day and night." The Master Builder moved a little uneasily in his seat. For his own part he thought no great harm of the roistering, gaming, and gallantries of the Court dandies. He knew that the times were very good for him. Fine ladies were for ever sending for him to alter some house or some room. Gay young husbands, or those who thought of becoming husbands, were seldom content nowadays without pulling their house about their ears, and rebuilding it after some new-fangled fashion copied from France. Or if the structure were let alone, the plenishings must be totally changed; and Master Charles Mason, albeit a builder by trade, and going generally amongst his acquaintances and friends by the name of Master Builder, had of late years taken to a number of kindred avocations in the matter of house plenishings, and so forth. This had brought him no small profit, as well as intimate relations with many a fine household and with many grand folks. Money had flowed apace into his pocket of late. His wife had begun to go about so fine that it was well for her the old sumptuary laws had fallen into practical disuse. His son was an idle young dog, chiefly known to the neighbourhood as being the main leader of a notorious band of Scourers, of which more anon, and many amongst his former friends and associates shook their heads, and declared that Charles Mason was growing so puffed up by wealth that he would scarce vouchsafe a nod to an old acquaintance in the street, unless he were smart and prosperous looking. The Master Builder had a house upon Old London Bridge. Once he had carried on his business there, but latterly he had grown too fine for that. To the disgust of his more simple-minded neighbours, he had taken some large premises in Cheapside, where he displayed many fine stuffs for upholstering and drapery, where the new-fashioned Indian carpets were displayed to view, and fine gilded furniture from France, which a little later on became the rage all through the country. His own house was now nothing more than a dwelling place for himself and his family; even his apprentices and workmen were lodged elsewhere. The neighbours, used to simpler ways, shook their heads, and prophesied that the end of so much pride would be disaster and ruin. But year after year went by, and the Master Builder grew richer and richer, and could afford to laugh at the prognostications of those about him, of which he was very well aware. He was perhaps somewhat puffed up by his success. He was certainly proud of the position he had made. He liked to see his wife sweep along the streets in her fine robes of Indian silk, which seemed to set a great gulf between her and her neighbours. He allowed his son to copy the fopperies of the Court gallants, and even to pick up the silly French phrases which made the language at Court a mongrel mixture of bad English and vile French. All these things pleased him well, although he himself went about clad in much the same fashion as his neighbours, save that the materials of his clothing were finer, and his frills more white and crisp; and it was in his favour that his friendship with his old friend James Harmer had never waned, although he knew that this honest tradesman by no means approved his methods. Perhaps in his heart of hearts he preferred the comfortable living room of his neighbour to the grandeur insisted upon by his wife at home. At any rate, he found his way three or four evenings in the week to Harmer's fireside, and exchanged with him the news of the day, or retailed the current gossip of the city. Harmer was by trade a gold and silver lace maker. He carried on his business in the roomy bridge house which he occupied, which was many stories high, and contained a great number of rooms. He housed in it a large family, several apprentices, two shopmen, and his wife's sister, Dinah Morse, at such times as the latter was not out nursing the sick, which was her avocation in life. Mason and Harmer had been boys together, had inherited these two houses on the bridge from their respective fathers, and had both prospered in the world. But Harmer was only a moderately affluent man, having many sons and daughters to provide for; whereas Mason had but one of each, and had more than one string to his bow in the matter of money getting. In the living room of Harmer's house were assembled that February evening six persons. It was just growing dusk, but the dancing firelight gave a pleasant illumination. Harmer and Mason were seated on opposite sides of the hearth in straight-backed wooden armchairs, and both were smoking. Rachel sat at her wheel, with her sister Dinah near to her; and in the background hovered two fine-looking young men, the two eldest sons of the household--Reuben, his father's right-hand man in business matters now; and Dan, who had the air and appearance of a sailor ashore, as, indeed, was the case with him. It was something which Dinah Morse had said that had evoked the rather fierce disclaimer from the Master Builder, with the rejoinder by Rachel as to the laxity of the times; and now it was Dinah's voice which again took up the word. "Whether it be God's judgment upon the city, or whether it be due to the carelessness of man, I know not," answered Dinah quietly; "I only say that the Bill of Mortality just published is higher than it has been this long while, and that two in the Parish of St. Giles have died of the plague." "Well, St. Giles' is far enough away from us," said the Master Builder. "If the Magistrates do their duty, there is no fear that it will spread our way. There were deaths over yonder of the plague last November, and it seems as though they had not yet stamped out the germs of it. But a little firmness and sense will do that. We have nothing to fear. So long as the cases are duly reported, we shall soon be rid of the pest." Dinah pressed her lips rather closely together. She had that fine resolute cast of countenance which often characterizes those who are constantly to be found at the bedside of the sick. Her dress was very plain, and she wore a neckerchief of soft, white Indian muslin about her throat, instead of the starched yellow one which was almost universal amongst the women citizens of the day. Her hands were large and white and capable looking. Her only ornament was a chatelaine of many chains, to which were suspended the multifarious articles which a nurse has in constant requisition. In figure she was tall and stately, and in the street strangers often paused to give her a backward glance. She was greatly in request amongst the sick of the better class, though she was often to be found beside the sick poor, who could give her nothing but thanks for her skilled tendance of them. "Ay, truly, so long as the cases are duly reported," she repeated slowly. "But do you think, sir, that that is ever done where means may be found to avoid it?" The Master Builder looked a little startled at the question. "Surely all good folks would wish to do what was right by their neighbours. They would not harbour a case of plague, and not make it known in the right quarter." "You think not, perhaps. Had you seen as much of the sick as I have, you would know that men so fear and dread the distemper, as they most often call it, that they will blind their eyes to it to the very last, and do everything in their power to make it out as something other than what they fear. I have seen enough of the ways of folks with sickness to be very sure that all who have friends to protect the fearful secret, will do so if it be possible. It is when a poor stranger dies of a sudden that it becomes known that the plague has found another victim. Why are there double the number of deaths in this week's bill, if more than are set down as such be not the distemper?" All the faces in the room looked very grave at that, for in truth it was a most disquieting thought. The sailor came a few steps nearer the fire, and remarked: "It has all come from those hounds of Dutchmen! Right glad am I that we are to go to war with them at last, whether the cause be righteous or not. They have gotten the plague all over their land. I saw men drop down in the streets and die of it when I was last in port there. They send it to us in their merchandise." "My wife will die of terror if she hears but a whisper of the distemper being anigh us," remarked the Master Builder, with a sigh and a look of uneasiness. "But men are always scaring us with tales of its coming and, after all, there is but a death here and one there, such as any great city may look to have." At that moment the door was thrown open, and a pretty young damsel, wearing a crimson cloak and hood, stepped lightly in. "O father, mother, do but come and look!" she cried, with the air of coaxing assurance which bespoke a favoured child. "Such a strange star in the sky! Men in the streets are all looking and pointing; and some say that it is no star, but a comet, and that it predicts some dreadful thing which is coming upon this land. Do come and look at it! There is a clear sky tonight, and one can see it well. And I heard that it has been seen by some before this, when at night the rain clouds have been swept away by the wind. Do come to the window above the river and look! One can see it fine from there." This sudden announcement, falling just upon the talk of pestilence and peril, caused a certain flutter and sensation through the room. All the persons there rose to their feet and followed the rosy-cheeked maiden out upon the staircase, and to a window from which the great river could be seen flowing beneath. A large expanse of sky could also be commanded from here, and as the inside of the house was almost dark, it was easy to obtain an excellent view of the strange appearance which was attracting so much attention in the streets. It certainly was no star that was glowing thus with a red and sullen-looking flame. Neither shape nor position in the heavens accorded with that of any star of magnitude. "It was certainly," so said Reuben Harmer, who had some knowledge of the heavenly bodies, "no star, but one of those travelling meteors or comets which are seen from time to time, and which from remote ages have been declared to foretell calamity to the lands over which they appear to travel." The Harmer family were godly people of somewhat Puritanic leaning, yet they were by no means entirely free from the superstition of their times, nor would Rachel have called it superstition to regard this manifestation as a warning from God. Why should He not send some such messenger before He proceeded to take vengeance upon an ungodly city? Was not even guilty Sodom warned of its approaching doom? All faces then were grave, but that of the Master Builder wore a look of fear as well. "I must to my wife," he said. "If she sees this comet, she will be vastly put about. I must to her side to reassure her. Pray Heaven that no calamity be near to us!" "Amen!" replied Harmer, gravely; and then the Master Builder retreated down the staircase, whilst from a room below a cheerful voice was heard announcing that supper was ready. The party therefore all moved downstairs towards the kitchen, where all the meals were taken in company with the apprentices, shopmen, and serving wenches. Dorcas, the maiden who had brought news of the comet, slipped her. hand within Reuben's arm, and asked him in a whisper: "Thinkest thou, Reuben, that it betides evil to the city?" "Nay, I know not what to think," he answered. "It is a strange thing, and men often say it betides ill; but I have no knowledge of mine own. I never saw the like before." "They spoke of it at my Lady Scrope's today," said Dorcas. "I was behind her chair, with her fan and essence bottles, and the lap dogs, when in comes one and another of the old beaux who beguile their leisure with my lady's sharp speeches; and they spoke of this thing, and she laughed them to scorn, and called them fools for listening to old wives' fables. It is her way thus to revile all who come anigh her. She said she had lived through a score of such scares, and would snap her fingers at all the comets of the heavens at once. Sometimes it makes me tremble to hear her talk; but methinks she loveth to raise a shudder in the hearts of those who hear her. She is a strange being. Sometimes I almost fear to go to and fro there, albeit she treats me well, and seldom speaks harshly to me. But men say she is above a hundred years old, and she leads so strange a life in her lonely house. Fancy being there alone of a night, with only that deaf old man and his aged wife within doors! It would scare me to death. But she will not let one other of her servants abide there with her!" "Ay, it is her whimsie. Women folks are given to such," answered Reuben, tolerantly. "She is a strange creature, albeit I doubt not that men make her out stranger than she is. Well, well, the comet at least will do us no hurt of itself; and if it be God's way of warning us of peril to come, we need not fear it, but only set ourselves to be ready for what He may send us." Below stairs there was a comfortable meal spread upon the table, simple and homely, but sufficient for the appetites of all. The three rosy-faced apprentices, of whom a son of the house made one, formed a link at table between the family and the shopmen and serving wenches. All sat down together, and Rebecca, the daughter who lived at home, served up the hot broth and puddings. The eldest daughter was a serving maid in the household of my Lady Howe, and was seldom able to get home for more than a few hours occasionally, even when that fashionable dame was in London. Dorcas spent each night under the shelter of her father's roof, and went daily to the quaint old house close beside Allhallowes the Less, where lived the eccentric Lady Scrope, her mistress, of whom mention has been made. The youngest son was also from home, being apprenticed to a carpenter in the service of the Master Builder next door, and he lived, as was usual, in the house of his employer. Thus four out of Harmer's seven children lived always at home, and Dan the sailor was with them whenever his ship put into the river after a voyage. No talk of either comet or plague was permitted at table; indeed the meal was generally eaten in something approaching to silence. Sometimes the master of the house would address a question to one of the family, or suppress by a glance the giggling of the lads at the lower end of the table. Joseph's presence there rather encouraged hilarity, for he was a merry urchin, and stood not in the same awe of his father as did his comrades. Kindness was the law of the house, but it was the kindness of thorough discipline. Neither the master nor the mistress believed in the liberty that brings licence in its train. Life went very quietly, smoothly, and monotonously within the walls of that busy house. Trade was brisk just now. The fashion lately introduced amongst fine ladies of having whole dresses of gold or silver lace, brought more orders for the lace maker than he well knew how to accomplish in the time. He and his son and his apprentices were hard at work from morning to night; and glad enough was the master of the daily-increasing daylight, which enabled him and those who were glad to earn larger wages to work extra hours each day. Being thus busy at home, he went less than was his wont abroad, and heard but little either of the sullen comet which hung night after night in the sky, or of the whispers sometimes circulating in the city of fresh cases of the distemper. These last, however, were growing fewer. The scare of a few weeks back seemed to be dying down. People said the pest had been stamped out, and the brighter, hotter weather cheered the hearts of men, albeit in case of sickness it might be their worst enemy, as some amongst them well knew. "I never believed a word of it!" said the wife of the Master Builder, as she sat in her fine drawing room and fanned herself with a great fan made of peacock's feathers. She was very handsomely dressed, far muore like a fine Court dame than the wife of a simple citizen. Her comnpanion was a very pretty girl of about nineteen, whose abundant chestnut hair was dressed after a fashionable mode, although she refused to have it frizzed over her head as her mother's was, and would have preferred to dress it quite simply. She wished she might have plain clothes suitable to her station, instead of being tricked out as though she were a fine lady. But her mother ruled her with a rod of iron, and girls in those days had not thought of rising in rebellion. The Master Builder's wife considered that she had gentle blood in her veins, as her grandfather had been a country squire who was ruined in the civil war, so that his family sank into poverty. Of late she had done all in her power to get her neighbours to accord her the title of Madam Mason, which she extorted from her servants, and which was given to her pretty generally now, although as much in mockery, it must be confessed, as in respect of her finery. She did not look a very happy woman, in spite of all the grandeur about her. She had frightened away her simpler neighbours by her airs of condescension and by the splendour of her house, and yet she could not yet see any way of inducing other and finer folks to come and see her. Sometimes her husband brought in a rich patron and his wife to look at the fine room, and examnine the furniture in it, and these persons would generally be mighty civil to her whilst they stayed; but then they did not come to see her, but only in the way of business. It was agreeable to be able to repeat what my lord this or my lady that said about the cabinets and chairs; but after all she was half afraid that her boasting deceived nobody, and Gertrude would never come to her aid with any little innocent fibs about their grand visitors. "I never did believe a word of it," repeated Madam, after a pause. "Gertrude, why do you not answer when I speak to you? You are as dull as a Dutch doll, sitting there and saying nothing. I would that Frederick were at home! He can speak when he is spoken to; but you are like a deaf mute!" "I beg your pardon, ma'am. I was reading--I did not hear." "That is always the way--reading, reading, reading! Why, what good do you think reading will do you? Why don't you get your silk embroidery or practise upon the spinnet? Such advantages as you have! And all thrown away on a girl who does not know when she is well off. I have no manner of patience with you, Gertrude. If I had had such opportunities in my girlhood, I should never have been a mere citizen's wife now." A slightly mutinous look passed across Gertrude's face. Submissive in word and manner, as was the rule of the day, she was by no means submissive in mind, and had her mother's ears been sharper she might have detected the undertone of irony in the reply she received. "I think nobody would take you for a citizen's wife, ma'am. As for me, I am not made to shine in a higher sphere than mine own. I have not even the patience to learn the spinnet. I would sooner be baking pies with Rebecca next door, as we used to do when we were children, before father grew so rich." Madam's face clouded ominously. She heartily wished she had never admitted her children to intimacy with the Harmers next door. It had done no harm in the case of Frederick. He was his mother's son, every inch of him, and was as ready to turn up a supercilious nose at his old comrades as ever Madam could wish. But Gertrude was different--she was excessively provoking at times. She did not seem able to understand that if one intended to rise in the world, one must cut through a number of old ties, and start upon a fresh track. It was not easy in those times to rise; but still the wealthier citizens did occasionally make a position for themselves, and get amongst the hangers-on of the Court party, especially if they were open handed with their money. Madam often declared that if they only moved into another part of the town, everything she wanted could be attained; but on that point her husband was inexorable. He loved the old bridge house. There he had been born, and there he meant to die, and he had not the smnallest intention of removing elsewhere to please even the wife to whom he granted so many indulgences. "You are a fool!" cried Madam, angrily; "you say those things only to provoke me. I wish you had some right feeling and some conversation. You are as dull as ditch water. You care for nothing. I don't believe it would rouse you to hear that the plague was in the next street!" "Well, we shall see," answered Gertrude, with a calmness that was at least a little provoking, "for people say it is spreading very fast, and may soon be here." "What!" cried Madam, in a sudden panic; "who says that? What do you mean, girl?" "It was Reuben who told me," answered Gertrude, with a little blush which she tried to conceal by turning her face towards the window. But her ruse was in vain. Madam's hawk eye had caught the rising colour, and her brow contracted sharply. "Reuben! what Reuben? Have I not told you a hundred times that I would have none of that sort of talk any more? Reuben, indeed! as though you were boy and girl together! Pray tell me this, you forward minx, does he dare to address you as Gertrude when he has the insolence to speak to you in the streets, where alone I presume he can do so?" Gertrude's face was burning with indignation. She had to clasp her hands tightly together to restrain the hot words which rose to her lips. "We have been children together--and friends," she said, "the Harmers and I. How should we forget that so quickly--even though you have forgotten! My father does not mind." Madam's face was as red as her daughter's. She was about to make some violent retort, when the sound of a footstep on the stairs checked the words upon her lips. "There is Frederick!" she said. CHAPTER II. LONDON'S YOUNG CITIZENS. The door of the room where mother and daughter sat was flung wide open with scant ceremony, and to the accompaniment of a boisterous laugh. Into the room swaggered a tall, fine-looking young man of some three-and-twenty summers, dressed in all the extravagance of a lavish and extravagant age. Upon his head he wore an immense peruke of ringlets, such as had been introduced at Court the previous year, and which was almost universal now with the nobles and gentry, but by no means so amongst the citizens. The periwig was surmounted by a high-crowned hat adorned with feathers and ribbons, and ribbons floated from his person in such abundance that to unaccustomed eyes the effect was little short of grotesque. Even the absurd high-heeled shoes were tied with immense bows of ribbon, whilst knees, wrists, throat, and even elbows displayed their bows and streamers. The young dandy wore the full "petticoat breeches" of the period, with a short doublet, a jaunty cloak hung from the shoulders, and an abundance of costly lace ruffles adorned the neck and wrists of the doublet, he wore at his side a short rapier, and had a trick of laying his hand upon the hilt, as though it would take very little provocation to make him draw it forth upon an adversary. His step was not altogether so steady as it might have been, as he swaggered into his mother's presence. His handsome face was deeply flushed. He was laughing boisterously; but there was that in his aspect which made his sister turn away with a look of repulsion, though his mother's glance rested on him with a look of admiring pride that savoured of adoration. In her fond and foolish eyes he was perfection, and the more he copied the vices and the follies of the gallants about the person of the King, the prouder did his vain and weak mother become of him. "Ho! ho! ho! such a bit of fun!" It is impossible to give Frederick Mason's words verbatim, as he seldom opened his lips without an oath, and inter-larded his talk with coarse jests in English and fragments of ribaldry in vile French, till it would scarce be intelligible to the reader of today. "Such a prime bit of fun! Who would have thought that little Dorcas next door would grow up such a marvelous pretty damsel! By my troth, what a slap she did give me in return for my kiss!" Gertrude suddenly turned upon her brother with flashing eyes. "Think shame of yourself, Frederick! You disgrace your boasted manhood. How dare you annoy with your coarse gallantry the daughter of our father's oldest friend, and that too in the open streets!" "How dare you speak so to your brother, girl?" cried Madam, bristling up like an angry mother hen. "What call have you to chide him? Is he answerable to you for his acts?" Gertrude subsided into silence, for she could not answer back as she would have liked. It was not for her to argue with her mother; and Madam, having vanquished her daughter, turned upon her son. "You must have a care how you vex our neighbours, for your father would take it ill an he heard of it. Nay, I would not myself that you mixed yourself up too much with them. They are honest good folks enow, but scarce such as are fitting company for us. What of this girl Dorcas? Is not she the one who is waiting maid to that mad old witch woman in Allhallowes, Lady Scrope?" "That may well be. I saw her come forth from a grim portal hard by Allhallowes the Less. I knew not who it was, but I gave chase, and ere she put her foot upon the bridge, I had plucked the hood from off her pretty curls, and had kissed her soundly on both cheeks. And at that she gave me such a cuff as I feel yet, and ran like a fawn, and I after her, till she vanished within the door of our neighbour's house; and then it came to me that it was Dorcas, grown wondrous pretty since I last took note of her. If she comes always home at this hour, I'll waylay my lady again and take toll of her." "You had better be careful not to let Reuben get wind of it" said Gertrude, with suppressed anger in her voice. "If he were to catch you insulting his sister, it is more than a slap or a cuff you would get." Frederick burst into a boisterous laugh. "What! do you think a dirty shopman would dare lay hands upon me? I'd run him through the body as soon as look at him. He'd better keep out of reach of my sword arm. You can tell him so, fair sister, if you have a tendresse for the young counter jumper." Gertrude's sensitive colour flew up, and her brother laughed loud and long, pointing his finger at her, and adding one coarse jest to another; but the mother interposed rather hastily, being uneasy at the turn the talk was taking. "Hist, children, no more of this! "I would not that this tale came to your father's ears, Frederick; it were better to have a care where our neighbours are concerned. Let the wench alone. There are many prettier damsels than she, who will not rebuff you in such fashion." "Ay, verily, but that is the spice of it all. When the wench gives you kiss for kiss, it is sweet, but flavourless. A box on the ear, and a merry chase through the streets afterwards, is a game more to my liking. I'll see the little witch again and be even with her, or my name's not Frederick Mason the Scourer!" "Your father will like it ill if it comes to his ears," remarked Madam, with a touch of uneasiness; "and for my part, the less we have to do with our neighbours the better. They are no fit associates for us." "Say that we are no fit associates for them," murmured Gertrude, beneath her breath. Her heart was swelling with sorrow and anger. In her eyes there was no young man in all London town to be compared with Reuben Harmer. From the day when in childhood they had playfully plighted their troth, she had never ceased to regard him as the one man in the world most worthy of love and reverence, and she knew that he had never ceased to look upon her with the same feelings. Latterly they had had but scant opportunities of meeting. Madam threw every possible obstacle in the way of her daughter's entering the doors of that house, and kept her own closed against those of her former friends whom she now chose to regard as her inferiors. Madam had never been liked. She had always held her head high, and shown that she thought herself too good for the place she occupied. Her house had never been popular. No neighbours had ever been in the habit of running in and out to exchange bits of news with her, or ask for the loan of some recipe or household convenience. It had not been difficult to seclude herself in her gradually increasing dignities, and only her daughter had keenly felt the difference when she had intimated that she wished the intimacy between her family and that of the Harmers to cease. Frederick had long since taken to himself other associates of a more congenial kind. The Master Builder went to and fro as before, permitting his wife full indulgence of her fads and fancies, but resolved to exercise his own individual liberty, and quite unconscious of the blow that was being inflicted upon his daughter, who was naturally tied by her mother's commands, and forced to abide by her regulations. Madam had been quick to see that if she did not take care Reuben Harmer would shortly aspire to the hand of her daughter, and she was not sure but that her husband would be weak enough to let the foolish girl please herself in the matter, and throw away what chance she had of marrying out of the city, and rising a step in life. Madam pinned her main hopes of a social rise for herself in the marriages of her children. She fondly believed that Frederick, with his good looks and his wealth, could take his pick even amongst high-born ladies, and not all the good-natured ridicule of her husband served to weaken this conviction. She was not a great admirer of her daughter's charms, but she knew that the girl was admired, and had been noticed more than once by the fine ladies who had come to look at her furniture and hangings. She had a plan of her own for getting Gertrude into the train of some fine Court dame, and once secured in such a position, her fair face and ample dowry might do the rest. If her son and daughter were well married, she would have two houses where she could make a home for herself more to her liking. No end of ambitious dreams were constantly floating in her shallow brain, and as all these were more or less bound up with the future of her son and daughter, it was natural that she should desire to put down with a strong hand the smallest indication of a love affair between Gertrude and Reuben. She had even persuaded her husband that Gertrude ought to make a good marriage; and as he was able to give her an ample dowry, and was proud of her good looks, he himself was of opinion that she might do something rather brilliant, even if she did not realize her mother's fond dreams. All this was very well known to poor Gertrude by this time, and it was seldom now that she did more than catch a passing glimpse of Reuben, or exchange a few hasty words with him in the street. The young man was proud, and knew that he was looked down upon by the Master Builder and his wife. This made him very reticent of showing his feelings, and reduced Gertrude often to the lowest ebb of depression. So the coarse jests of her brother were a keen pain to her, and she presently rose and left the room in great resentment, followed by a mocking laugh from the ill-conditioned young man. Having lost one victim, that amiable youth next turned his attention to his mother, and began to torment her with the same zest as he had displayed in the baiting of his sister. "All the town is talking of the plague," he remarked, in would-be solemn tones. "They say that in St. Giles' and St. Andrew's parishes they are burying them by the dozen every day;" and as his mother uttered a little scream, and shrank away even from him, he went on in the same tone, "All the fine folks from that end of the town are thinking of moving into the country. The witches and wizards are declaring openly in the streets that the whole city is to be destroyed. Some folks say that soon the Lord Mayor and the Magistrates will have all the infected houses shut up straitly, so that none may go in or come forth when it is known that the distemper has appeared there. The door will be marked with a red cross, and the words 'Lord, have mercy upon us!' writ large above it. So, good mother, when I come home one day with the marks of the distemper upon me, the whole house will be closed, and none will be able to go forth to escape it. So we shall all perish together, as a loving family should do." The blasphemies and ribald jokes with which this good-for-nothing young man adorned his speech made it sound tenfold more hideous than I can do. Even his mother shrank away from him, in terror and amaze at his levity, and cried aloud in her fear so that instantly the door opened, and her husband entered to know what was amiss. Frederick looked a little uneasy then, for he still held his father in a wholesome awe; but the mother made no complaint of her son, but only said she had been affrighted by hearing that there were more deaths from the plague than she had thought would ever be the case after all the care the Magistrates had taken, and was it true that the Lord Mayor had spoken of shutting up the houses, and so causing the sound ones to become diseased and to perish with the stricken ones? The Master Builder answered gravely enough; for he had himself but just come in from hearing that the weekly Bills of Mortality were terribly high, and that the deaths in certain of the western parishes had been beyond all reckoning since the last years when the plague had visited the city. True, there were not many put down as having died of the plague; but it was known how much was done to get other diseases set down in the bills, so that there was not much comfort to be got out of that. The Master Builder thought that the houses would not be shut up unless things became much worse. The matter had been spoken of, as he himself had heard; but the people were much against it, and it would be a measure most difficult to enforce, and would tend to make men conceal from the authorities any case of distemper which appeared amongst them. But he said it was true enough that persons of high degree were beginning to move into the country, at least from the western part of the town; but that all felt very sure the distemper would speedily be checked, and would not come within the city walls at all, nor extend eastward beyond its boundaries. Madam breathed a little more freely on hearing this, but made an eager suggestion to her husband that they should go away if the distemper began to spread. But the Master Builder shook his head impatiently. "A fine thing to run away from a chance ill, and court a certain ruin! How do you think business will thrive if all the men run away from their shops like affrighted sheep? No, no; it is often safest to stay at home with closed doors than to run helter skelter to strange places where one knows not who may have been last. Keep indoors with your perfumes and spices, and keep the wench close with you. That is the best way of outwitting the enemy. Besides, it has come nowhere near us yet." Madam had certainly no mind to be ruined, nor was she one who loved change or the discomforts of travel. So she thought on the whole her husband's advice was good. It would be much more comfortable to stay here with closed doors, surrounded by the luxuries of home. Now as Frederick sat with outstretched legs in one of the easiest chairs in the room, and heard his father speak of these things, a thought came into his head which tickled his fancy so vastly that throughout the evening he kept bursting into smothered laughter, so much so that his sister threw him many suspicious glances, and divined that he had some evil purpose in his head. The May light lasted long in the sky; but as it failed Frederick went out, as was his wont, and for many hours he spent his time with a number of kindred spirits in a neighbouring tavern, quaffing large potations, and dicing and gaming after the fashion of the Court gallants. The bulk of the young roisterers thus assembled belonged to one of those bands of Scourers of which Frederick claimed to be the head. They were the worthy successors to the "Roaring Boys" or Bonaventors of past centuries, and their favourite pastime was, after spending the night in revelry and play, to start forth towards dawn and scour the streets, upsetting the baskets or carts of the early market folks bringing their wares into the town, scattering the merchandise in the gutter, kissing the women, cuffing the men, wrenching off knockers from house doors, and getting up fights with the watch or with some rival band of Scourers which resulted in broken heads and sometimes in actual bloodshed. The Magistrates treated these misdemeanours with wonderful tolerance when the culprits were from time to time brought before them, and the nuisance went on practically unchecked--the people being used to wild and dissolute ways and much brawling--and looking on it as one of the necessary ills of life. But upon this bright May morning, before the streets began to awaken, even before the market folks were astir, Frederick led forth his band intent upon a new sort of mischief. Some of the number carried pots of red paint in their hands, and others pots of white paint. Up and down the empty streets paraded these worthies, pausing here and there at the door of some citizen that presented a tempting surface. One of their number would paint upon it the ominous red cross, whilst another who had skill enough (for writing was not the accomplishment of every citizen even then) would add in staring white letters the legend, "Lord, have mercy upon us!" It was a brutal jest at such a time, when the dread visitor had actually appeared as it were in their midst, and all sober men were in fear of what might betide, and of the methods already spoken of for the suppression of the distemper. But it was its very wickedness which gave it its charm in the opinion of the perpetrators, and as they went from street to street, Frederick suddenly exclaimed: "Ha! we are close to Allhallowes. Let us adorn the door of the old madwoman, Lady Scrope. They say she lives quite alone, and that her servants come in the morning and leave at night. Sure they will none of them have courage to pass the threshold when that sign adorns it, and the old hag will have to come forth herself to seek them. An excellent joke! I will watch the house, and give her a kiss as she comes forth." Whereupon the whole crew burst into shouts of drunken laughter, and made a rush to the door, which stood flush in a grim-looking wall just beneath the shadow of the church of Allhallowes the Less. Frederick had the paint pot in his hand, and he traced a fine red cross upon the door, all the while making his ribald jests upon the old woman within, he and his companions alike, far too drunk with wine and unholy mirth to have eyes or ears for what was happening close beside them. They did not hear the sound of an opening window just above them. They did not see a nightcapped head poked forth, the great frilled cap surrounding a small, wizened, but keenly-courageous face, in which the eyes were glittering like points of fire. None of them saw this. None of them heeded, and the head was for a moment silently withdrawn. Then it was again cautiously protruded, and the next minute there descended on the head of Frederick a black hot mass of tar and bitumen. It scalded his face, it blinded his eyes. It choked and almost poisoned him by its vaporous pungency. It matted itself in his voluminous periwig, and plastered it down to his shoulders; it clotted his lace frills, and ran in filthy rivulets down his smart clothes. In a word, it rendered him in a moment a disgusting and helpless object, unable to see or hear, almost unable to breathe, and quite unable to rid himself of the sticky, loathsome mass in which he had suddenly become encased. Then from the window above came a shrill, jeering cry: "To your task, bold Scourers--to your task! Scour your own fine friend and comrade. Scour him well, for he will need it. Scour him from head to foot. A pest upon you, young villains! I would every citizen in London would serve you the same!" Then the window above was banged to. The mob of roisterers fled helter skelter, laughing and jeering. Not one amongst them offered to assist their wretched leader. They left him alone in his sorry plight to get out of it as best he might. They had not the smallest consideration for one even of their own number overtaken by misfortune. Roaring with laughter at the frightful picture he presented, they dispersed to their own homes, and the wretched Frederick was left alone in the street to do the best he could with his black, unsavoury plaster. He strove in vain to clear his vision, and to remove the peruke, which clung to him like a second skin. He was in a horrible fright lest he should be seen and recognized in this ignominious plight; and although he felt sure his comrades would spread the story of his discomfiture all over the town, he did not wish to be seen by the watch, or by any law-abiding citizens who knew him. But how to get home was a puzzle, blind and half suffocated as he was; and he scarce knew whether anger or relief came uppermost to his mind when he felt his arm taken, and a voice that he knew said in his ear: "For shame, Frederick! It is a disgrace to London the way you and your comrades go on. And now of all times to jest when the foe is at our doors. Shame upon you! The old dame has given you no more than your due. But come with me, and I will get you home ere the town be awake; and have a care how you offend again like this, for the Magistrates will not suffer jests of such a kind at such a time. Know you not that it is almost enough to frighten a timid serving wench into the distemper to see such signs upon the doors? And if it break out in the midst of us, who can say where it will end?" It was Reuben Harmer who spoke, as Frederick very well knew. The young men had been boys together, and as Reuben was two years the elder, he assumed a tone in speaking which Frederick now keenly resented. But it was no time to repel an overture of help, and he sullenly forced himself to accept Reuben's good offices. The great clotted periwig was with some difficulty got off, and then it was possible to remove the worst of the tar from face and eyes. Frederick at last could see clearly and breathe freely, but presented so lamentable an object that he only longed to get safe home to the shelter of his father's house. The costly periwig of curls had perforce to be left in the gutter, hopelessly ruined, and Frederick, who had given more money for it than he could well afford, shook his fist at the house which contained the redoubtable old woman who had thus fooled and bested him. "You Scourers will find that you can play your meddlesome games too often," remarked Reuben sternly, his eyes upon the red cross and the half-completed words above. "I would that all the city were of the same spirit as Lady Scrope. She always keeps a quantity of hot pitch or tar beside her bed, with a lamp burning beneath it, in case of attacks from robbers. You may thank your stars that it descended not boiling hot upon your head. Had she been so minded to punish you, she would have done so fearlessly. You may be thankful it was no worse." Frederick sullenly picked up his hat, which he had laid aside while painting the door, and which had thus escaped injury, pulled it as far over his face as it would go, and turned abruptly away from Reuben. "I'll be revenged on the old hag yet!" he muttered between his teeth. "I've got a double debt to pay to this house now. I'll not forget it either." He turned abruptly away and scuttled home by the narrowest alleys he could find, whilst Reuben went about looking for the red crosses, and giving timely notice to the master of the house, that they might be erased, as quietly and quickly as possible. Accident had led Reuben early abroad that day, but he made use of his time to undo as far as he was able the mischievous jesting of Frederick's band of Scourers. CHAPTER III. DRAWING NEARER. "Brother Reuben, I cannot think what can be the reason, but my Lady Scrope has bidden me beg of thee to give her speech upon the morrow. All this day she has been in a mighty pleasant humour: she gave me this silken neckerchief when I left today, and bid me bring my brother with me on the morrow--and she means thee, Reuben." "What can be the meaning of that?" asked Rachel Harmer, with a look of curiosity. "Doth she often speak to thee of thy kindred, child?" "If the whim be on her, and she has naught else to amuse her, she will bid me tell of the life at home, and of our neighbours and friends," answered Dorcas. "But never has she spoke as she did today. Nor can I guess why she would have speech with Reuben." "I can guess shrewdly at that," said the young man. "It so befell this morning that I found a party of roisterers at her door, who were marking it with a red cross, as though it were a plague-stricken house--as the Magistrates talk of marking them now if the distemper spreads much further and wider. The bold lady had herself put these fellows to the rout by pouring pitch upon them from a window above; but I stopped to rebuke the foremost of them myself, and to erase their handiwork from the door. I did not know that I was either seen or known; but methinks my Lady Scrope has eyes in the back of her head, as the saying goes." "You may well say that!" cried Dorcas, with a laugh and a shrug. "Never was there such a woman for knowing everything and everybody. But she spoke not to me of any roisterers. Would I had been there to see her pouring her filthy compound over them! She always has it ready. How she must have rejoiced to find a use for it at last!" "It is an evil and a scurvy jest at such a time to mock at the peril which is at our very doors, and which naught but the mercy of God can avert from us," said the master of the house, very gravely. Then, looking round upon his assembled household, he added in the same very serious way, "I have been this day into the heart of the city. I have spoken with many of the authorities there. The Lord Mayor and the Magistrates are in great anxiety, and I fear me there can be no longer any doubt that the distemper is spreading fearfully. It has not yet appeared within the city nor upon the other side of the river; but in the western parishes it is spreading every way, and they say that all who are able are fleeing away from their houses. Perchance for those who can do so this may be the safest thing to do. But soon they will not be permitted to leave, unless they have a bill of health from the Lord Mayor, as in the country beyond the honest folks are taking alarm, and are crying out that we are like to spread the plague all over the kingdom." "I, too, have heard sad tales of the mortality," said Dinah, raising her calm voice and speaking very seriously. "I met a good physician, under whom I often laboured amongst the sick, and he tells me that there be poor stricken wretches from whom all the world flee in terror the moment it appears they have the distemper upon them. Many have died already untended and uncared for, whilst others have in the madness of the fever and pain burst out of the rooms in which they have been shut up, and have run up and down the streets, spreading terror in their path, till they have dropped down dead or dying, to be carried to graveyard or pest house as the case may be. But who can tell how many other victims such a miserable creature may not have infected first?" "Ay, that is the terror of it," said Harmer. "All are saying that nurses must be found to care for the sick, and many are very resolved that the houses where the distemper is found should be straitly shut up and guarded by watchmen, that none go forth. It is a hard thing for the whole to be thus shut in with the infected; but as men truly say, how shall the whole city escape if something be not done to restrain the people from passing to and fro, and spreading the distemper everywhere?" "I have thought," said Dinah, very quietly, "that it may be given to me to offer myself as a nurse for these poor persons. I have passed unscathed through many perils before now. Once I verily believe I was with one who died even of this distemper, albeit the physician called it the spotted fever, which frights men less than the name of plague. There be many herbs and simples and decoctions which men say are of great value in keeping the infection at bay. And even were it not so, we must not be thinking only at such times of saving our own lives. There be some that must be ready to risk even life, if they may serve their brethren. The good physicians are prepared to do this, to say nothing of the Magistrates and those who have the management of this great city at such a time. And it seems to me that women must always be ready to tend the sick even in times of peril. I seem to hear a call that bids me offer myself for this work; but none else shall suffer through me. If I go, I return hither no more. I shall live amongst the sick until this judgment be overpast, or until I myself be called hence, as may well be." All faces were grave and full of awe. Yet perhaps none who knew Dinah were overmuch surprised at her words. Her life had been lived amongst the sick for many years. She had never shrunk from danger, or had spared herself when the need was pressing. Her sister Rachel, although the tears stood in her eyes, said nothing to dissuade her. Nor indeed was there much time for discussion then, for the Master Builder looked in at that moment with a face full of concern. He brought the news that fresh revelations were being hourly made as to the terrible rapidity with which the plague was spreading in the parishes without the walls; and he added that even the gay and giddy Court had been at last alarmed, and that the King had been heard to say he should quit Whitehall and retire with his Court and his minions to Oxford in the course of a week or a fortnight, unless matters became speedily much better. "Ay, that is ever the way," said Harmer, sternly. "The reckless monarch and his licentious Court draw down upon the city the wrath of God in judgment of their wickedness, and those who have provoked the judgment flee from the peril, leaving the poor of the city to perish like sheep." "Well, well, well; fine folks like change, and it is easy for them to go elsewhere. I would do the same, perchance, were I so placed," said the Master Builder; "but we men of business must stick to our work as long as it sticks to us. "What about your mistress, Lady Scrope, Dorcas? Has she said aught of leaving London? She is one who could easily fly. Not but what I trust the distemper will be kept well out of the city by the care taken." "She has spoken no word of any such thing," answered Dorcas. "She reads and hears all that is spoken about the plague, and makes my blood run cold by the stories she tells of it in other lands, and during other outbreaks which she can remember. Methinks sometimes the very hair on my head is standing up in the affright her words bring me. But she only laughs and mocks, and calls me a little poltroon. I trow that she would never fly; it would not be like her." "Men and women do many things unlike themselves in stress of particular and deadly peril," said the Master Builder. "Lady Scrope would do well to consider leaving whilst the city has so good a bill of health; it may be less easy by-and-by, should the distemper spread." "Thou canst speak to her of this thing, Reuben, when thou dost see her on the morrow," observed his father. "Perchance she has not considered the peril of being detained if she puts off flight too long." Reuben said he would name the matter to the lady; and when Dorcas set forth upon the morrow for her daily walk, her brother accompanied her, and told her in confidence what he had not told to his family--how Frederick Mason had been served by the irate old lady, and what a sorry spectacle he had presented afterwards. Dorcas laughed heartily at the story. She had no love for Frederick, and she told her brother that she suspected he had been the half-tipsy gallant who had striven to kiss her in the streets, and had partially succeeded. This put Reuben into a great wrath, and he promised whenever he could do so to come and escort his sister home from the house in Allhallowes. True, the distance was but very short, yet the lane to the bridge head was lonely and narrow, and Frederick was known for a most ill-conditioned young man. Lady Scrope received Reuben in a demi-toilet of a peculiar kind, and a very strange and wizened object did she appear. She thanked him for the rebuke she had heard him administer to the roisterer, enjoyed a hearty laugh over his wretched appearance, and then proceeded to indulge her insatiable taste for gossip by demanding of him all the city news, and what all the world there was talking about. "Since this plague bogey has got into men's minds I see nobody and hear nothing," she said. "All the fools be flying the place like so many silly sheep; or, if they come to sit awhile, their talk is all of pills and decoctions, refuses and ointments. Bah! they will buy the drugs of every foolish quack who goes about the streets selling plague cures, and then fly off the next day, thinking that they will be the next victim. Bah! the folly of the men! How glad I am that I am a woman." "Still, madam," said Reuben, taking his cue, "there be many noble ladies who think it well to remove themselves for a time from this infected city. Not that for the time being the city itself is infected, and we hope to keep it free--" "Then men are worse fools than I take them for," was the sharp retort. "Keep the plague out of the city! Bah! what nonsense will they talk next! Is it not written in the very heavens that the city is to be destroyed? Heed not their idle prognostications. I tell you, young man, that the plague is already amongst us, even though men know it not. In a few more weeks half the houses in the very city itself will be shut up, and grass will be growing in the streets. We may be thankful if there are enough living to bury the dead. Keep it out of the city, forsooth! Let them do it if they can; I know better!" Dorcas paled and shrank, fully convinced that her redoubtable mistress possessed a familiar spirit who revealed to her the things that were coming; but Reuben fancied that the old lady was but guessing, and he saw no reason to be afraid at her words. Saying such things would not bring them to pass. "Then, madam," he answered, "if such be the case, would it not be well to consider whether you do not remove yourself ere these things comne to pass? Pardon me if I seem to take it upon mnyself to advise you, but I was charged by my father, who is like to be appointed for a time one of the examiners of health whom the Mayor and Magistrates think it well to institute at this time, that soon it may not be so easy to get away from the city as it is now; wherefore it behoves the sound whilst they are yet sound to bethink them whether or not they will take themselves away elsewhere. Also my mother wished me to ask the question of your ladyship, forasmuch as she would like to know whether my sister in such case would be required to accompany you." Lady Scrope nodded her head several times, an odd light of mockery gleaming in her keen black eyes. "Tell your worthy father, good youth, that I thank him for his good counsel; but also tell him that nothing will drive me from this place--not even though I be the only one left alive in the city. Here I was born, and here I mean to die; and whether death comes by the plague or by some other messenger what care I? I tell thee, lad, I am far safer here than gadding about the country. Here I can shut myself up at pleasure from all the world. Abroad, I am at the muercy of any plague-stricken vagabond who comes to ask an alms. Let all sensible folks stay at home and shut themselves up, and let the fools go gadding here, there, and all over. As for Dorcas, let her come and go as long as she safely may; but if your good mother would keep her at home, then let her abide there, and return to me when the peril is overpast. I like the wench, and if she likes to abide altogether with me she may do so. Let her mother choose." Dorcas, however, had no wish to live in that lonely house altogether, and for the present there was no reason why she should not go backwards and forwards to her father's abode. Her parents were grateful to Lady Scrope for her offer, but for the present there was no reason for making any change. The weather during these bright days of May had been cool and fresh, and in spite of all evil auguries, sanguine persons had tried hard to believe and to make others believe that the peril of a visitation of the plague had been somewhat overrated. Yet the choked thoroughfares leading out of London gave the lie to these suppositions, and for many weeks the bridge was a sight in itself, crowded with carriages and waggons all filled with the richer folks and their goods, hastening to the pleasant regions of Surrey to forget their fears and escape the pestilential atmosphere of the city. Then towards the end of the month a great heat set in, and at once, as it were, the infection broke out in a hundred different and unsuspected places, not only without but within the city walls. How the distemper had so spread none then dared to guess. It seemed everywhere at once, none knew why or how. Doubtless it was in innumerable instances the tainted condition of the wells from which the bulk of the people still drew their water; but men did not think of these things long ago. They looked each other in the face in fear and terror, none knowing but that his neighbour in the street might be carrying about with him the seeds of the dread distemper. It now behoved all careful citizens to bethink them well what they would do, with the fearful foe knocking as it were at their very doors, and the matter was brought home right early to the Harmer household, by a thing that befell them at the very outset of the access of hot weather which told so fatally upon the city almost imumediately afterwards. Rachel Harmer was awakened from sleep one night by the sound of something rattling upon the bed-chamber floor, as though it had fallen from the open casement, and as she came to her waking senses, she heard a voice without calling in urgent accents: "Mother! mother! mother!" Rising in some alarm, she went to the window which projected over the lower stories of the house, as was usual at that time, and on putting out her head she beheld a female figure standing in the roadway below. When the moonlight fell upon the upturned face, she saw it was that of her daughter Janet, who was in the service of Lady Howe, and was her waiting maid, living in her house not far from Whitehall, and earning good wages in that gay household. In no little alarm at seeing her daughter out alone in the street at night, she spoke her name and bid her wait at the door till she could let her in, which she would do immediately; but Janet instantly replied: "Nay, mother, come not to the door; come to the little window at the corner, where I can speak quietly till I have told you all. Open not the door till you have heard my lamentable tale. I know not even now that I am right to come hither at all." In great fear and anxiety the mother cast a loose wrapper about her, and descended quickly to the little storeroom close against the shop, where there was a tiny window which opened direct upon the street. At this window, but a few paces away, she found her daughter awaiting her, and by the light of the rush candle that she carried she saw that the girl's face was deadly white. "Child, child, what ails thee? Come in and tell me all. Thou must not stand out there. I will open the door and fetch thee in." "No, mother, no--not till thou hast heard my tale," pleaded Janet; "for the sake of the rest thou must be cautious. Mother, I have been with one who died of the plague at noon today!" "Mercy on us, child! How came that about?" "It was my fellow servant and bed fellow," answered Janet. "We were like sisters together, and if ever I ailed aught she tended me as fondly as thou couldst thyself, mother. Today, when we rose, she complained of headache and a feeling of illness; but we went down and took our breakfast below with the rest. At least I took mine as usual, though she did but toy with her food. Then all of a sudden she put her hand to her side and turned ghastly white, and fell off her chair. A scullery wench set up a cry, 'The plague! the plague!' and forthwith they all fled this way and that--all save me, who could not leave her thus. I made her swallow some hot cordial which I think they call alexiteric water, and which is said to be very beneficial in cases of the distemper; and she was able to crawl upstairs after a while to her bed once more, where I put her. I knew not for some hours what was passing in the house, though I heard a great commotion there, and presently there stole in a mincing physician who attends my lady, holding a handkerchief steeped in vinegar to his nose, and smelling like an apothecary's shop. He looked at poor Patience, who lay in a stupor, heeding none, and he directed me to uncover her neck for him to see if she had the tokens upon her. There had been none when I put her to bed again, so that I had hoped it was but a colic or some such affection; but, alas, when I looked at his direction, there were the black swellings plainly to be seen. Forthwith he fled with indecent haste, and only stopped to say he would send a nurse and such remedies as should be needful." "O my child! and thou wast with her all the time!--thou didst even touch and handle her?" "Mother, I could not leave her alone to die. And hardly had the doctor gone than the fever came upon her, and it was all I could do to keep her from rushing out of the room in her pain. But it lasted only a brief while--for the poison must have gotten a sore hold on her--and just after noon she fell back in mine arms and died. "O mother, I see her face now--so livid and terrible to look upon! O mother, mother, shall I too look like that when my turn comes to die?" "Hush, hush, my child! God is very merciful. It may be His good pleasure to spare thee. Thy aunt doth go to and fro amongst the smitten ones, and she is yet in her wonted health. But ere I call thy father and ask counsel what we are to do, tell me the rest of thy tale. Who came to thy relief? and how camest thou hither so late?" "I could not come before. I dared not go forth by day, lest I bore about the seeds of the distemper. The nurse came at three o'clock, and finding her patient already dead, wrapped her in a sheet, and said that a coffin would be sent at dark, and that the bearers would fetch her for burying when the cart came round, and that when I heard the bell ring I must call to them from the window and let them in. I asked why the porter should not do that, but she told me that already every person in the house had fled. My lady had fallen into an awful fright on hearing that one of her servants was smitten, and before any knowledge could have been received of it by the authorities, she had applied for and obtained a clean bill for herself and her household, and every one of them had fled. The house was empty, save for me and the poor dead girl; and I was bidden to stay till her corpse was removed, for the nurse said she was wanted in a dozen places at once, and that she had too much to do with the sick to attend upon the dead." "And thou wert willing to wait?" "I could not leave her alone. Besides, I feared to walk the streets till night. The nurse bid me not linger after the body was taken, for no man knows when the houses will be shut up, so that none can go forth who have been with an infected person. But it is not so done yet, and I was free. But I dared not come home amongst you all to bring, perhaps, death with me. I waited in the house till the men and the cart came, and they brought a coffin and took poor Patience away. They told me then that soon there would be no more coffins, and that they would have to bury without them." Janet paused and shuddered strongly. "O mother, mother, mother!" she wailed, "what shall I do? What will become of me? Shall I have to die in the streets, or to go to the pest house? Oh, why do such terrible things befall us?" The mother was weeping now, but the next moment she felt the touch of her husband's hand upon her shoulder, and his voice said in its quiet and authoritative way: "What means all this coil and to do? Why does the child speak thus? Tell me all; I must hear the tale. "Janet, my girl, never ask the why and the wherefore of any of the Lord's just judgments. It is for us to bow our heads in repentance and submission, trusting that He will never try us above what we are able to bear." Comforted by the sound of her father's voice, Janet repeated her tale to him in much the same words as before, the father listening in thoughtful silence, without comment or question; till at the conclusion of the tale he said to his wife: "Go upstairs and bring down with thee my heavy riding cloak which hangs in the press;" and when she had obeyed him, he added, "Now go up to thy room, and shut thyself in till I call thee thence." Implicit obedience to her husband was one of Rachel's characteristics. Although she longed to know what was to be done, she asked no questions, but retired upstairs and fell on her knees in prayer. The master of the house went to a great cask of vinegar which stood in the corner, and after pretty well saturating the heavy cloak in that pungent liquid, he unbarred the door, and beckoning to his daughter to approach, threw about her the heavy mantle and bid mer follow him. He led her through the house and up to a large spare guest chamber, rather away from the other sleeping chambers of the house, and he quickly brought to her there a bath and hot water, and certain herbs specially prepared--wormwood, woodsorrel, angelica, and so forth. He bid her wash herself all over in the herb bath, wrapping all her clothing first in the cloak, which she was to put outside the door. Then she was to go to bed, whilst all her clothing was burnt by his own hands; and after that she must submit to remain shut up in that room, seeing nobody but himself, until such time should have gone by as should prove whether or not she had become infected by the distemper. Janet wept for joy at being thus received beneath her father's roof, having heard so many fearsome tales of persons being turned out of doors even by their nearest and dearest, were it but suspected that they might carry about with them the seeds of the dreaded distemper. But the worthy lace maker was a godly man, and brave with the courage that comes of a lively faith. He had learned all that could be told of the nature of the distemper; and after he had burnt all his daughter's clothing with his own hands, and had assured himself that she felt sound and well, and had also fumigated his own house thoroughly, he felt that he had done all in his power against the infection, and that the rest must be left in the hands of Providence. The mother hovered anxiously about, but came not near her husband till permitted by him. She did not enter the room where her daughter now lay comfortably in a soft bed, but she prepared some good food for her, which was carried in by the father later on, and promised her that by the morning she should have clothing to put on, and that she should have every care and comfort during the days of her captivity. Janet thanked God from the very bottom of her heart that night for having given to her such good and kindly parents, and earnestly besought that she might be spared, not only for her own unworthy sake, but for their sakes who had risked so much rather than that she should be an outcast from home at such a time of peril and horror. CHAPTER IV. JAMES HARMER'S RESOLVE. It was with a grave face, yet with a brave and cheerful mien, that the worthy Harmer met his household upon the following morning. He had passed the remainder of that strangely interrupted night in meditation and prayer, and had arrived now at a resolution which he intended to put into immediate effect. His household consisted, it will be remembered, of his own family, together with apprentices, shopmen, and serving wenches. To all of these he now addressed himself, told the story which his daughter had related of the treatment received in the house of the high-born lady by the poor girl stricken by the pestilence, and how it had made even his own child almost fear to enter her father's house. "My friends," said the master, looking round upon the ring of grave and eager faces, "these things ought not to be. In times of common trouble and peril the hearts of men should draw closer together, and we should remember that God's command to us is to love our neighbour as ourself. If we were to lie stricken of mortal illness, should we think it a Christ-like act for all men to flee away from us? But inasmuch as we ought all of us to take every care not to run into needless peril, so must we take every right and reasonable precaution to keep from ourselves and our homes this just but terrible visitation, which God has doubtless sent for our admonition and chastisement." After this preface, Harmer proceeded to tell his household what he had himself resolved upon. His two apprentices--other than his own son Joseph--were sons of a farmer living in Greenwich; and he purposed that very day to get his sailor son Dan to take them down the river in a boat, that he might deliver the lads safe and sound to their parents before further peril threatened, advising them to keep them at home till the distemper should have abated, and arranging with them for a regular supply of fresh and untainted provisions, to be conveyed to his house from week to week by water, so long as there should be any fear of marketing in the city. He foresaw that very soon trade would come almost to a standstill. The scare and the pestilence together were emptying London of all its wealthier inhabitants. There would be soon no work for either shopmen or apprentices, and he counselled the former, if they had homes out of London to go to, to remain no longer in town, but to take their wages and seek safety and employment elsewhere, until the calamity should be overpast. He also gave the same liberty to the serving wenches, one of whom came from Islington and the other from Rotherhithe. And all of these persons having home and friends, decided to leave forthwith, to be out of the danger of infection, and of that still more dreaded danger of being shut up in an infected house with a plague-stricken person. The master gave liberally to each of his servants according to their past service, and promised that if he should escape the pestilence, and continue his business in more prosperous times, he would take them back into his house again. For the present, however, it seemed good to him that only his own family should remain with him. His wife and three daughters could well manage the house, and he did not desire that any other person should be imperilled through the course of action he himself intended to take. When he took boat with his apprentices, he offered to Joseph to accompany his companions and remain under the charge of the farmer and his wife at Greenwich; but the boy begged so earnestly to remain at home with the rest, that he was permitted to do so. Truth to tell, Joseph was more fascinated than alarmed by the thought of the advance of the dreaded plague, and was by no means anxious to be taken away from the city when all the world was saying that such strange things would be seen ere long. The lad felt so safe beneath the care of wise and loving parents, that he would never of his own will consent to leave them. The moment the party had started by boat, the shop being that day shut for the first time, albeit for some days nothing had been stirring in the way of custom--Joseph darted away down a network of alleys hard by in search of his younger brother Benjamin, who was apprenticed to a carpenter in Lad Lane, off Wood Street, and therefore much nearer to the infected parishes than the house on the bridge. Benjamin was sure to know the latest news as to the spread of the pestilence. Joseph was of opinion that it was all rather fine fun, especially since it seemed like to get him a spell of unwonted holiday. Already as he passed through the streets he noted a great many empty and shut-up houses. Men were going about with grave and anxious faces. Often they would look askance at some passerby who might be walking a little feebly or unsteadily, and once Joseph saw a man some fifty paces in advance of him stagger and fall to the ground with a lamentable cry. Instead of flying to his assistance, all who saw him fled in terror, crying one to the other, "It is the pestilence! Send for the watch to get him away!" And presently there came two men who lifted him up and carried him away, but whether he was then alive or dead the boy did not know, and a great awe fell upon him; for he had never seen such a thing before, and could not understand how death could come so suddenly. "Is it always so with them?" he asked of a woman who was craning her head out of a window to see where the bearers were taking him. "I cannot tell," she answered. "They say that there be many walking about amongst us daily in the streets who carry death to all in their breath and in their touch, and yet they know it not themselves, and none know it till they fall as yon poor man did, and die ofttimes in a few minutes or hours. If such be so, who knows when he is safe? May the Lord have mercy upon us all! There be seven lying dead in this street today, and though folks say they died of other fevers and distempers, who can tell? They bribe the nurses and the leeches to return them dead of smaller ailments, but I verily believe the pestilence is stalking through our very midst even now." She shut down the window with a groan, and Joseph pursued his way with somewhat modified feelings, half elated at being in the thick of so much that was terrible and awesome, and yet beginning to understand somewhat of the horror that was possessing the minds of all. He found himself walking in the middle of the street, and avoiding too close contact with the passersby; indeed all seemed disposed to give strangers a wide berth just now, so that it was not difficult to avoid contact. Yet crowds were to be seen, too, at many open spaces. Sometimes a fervid preacher would be declaiming to a pale-faced group on the subject of God's righteous judgments upon a wicked and licentious city. Sometimes a wizened old woman or a juggling charlatan would be seen selling all sorts of charms and potions as specifics against the plague. Joseph pressing near in curiosity to one of these vendors, found him doing a brisk trade in dried toads, which he vowed would preserve the wearer from all infection. Another had packets of dried herbs to which he gave terribly long names, and which he declared acted as an antidote to the poison. Another had small leaflets on which directions were given for applying a certain ointment to the plague spots, which at once cured them as by magic. The leaflets were given away, but the ointment had to be bought. Those, however, who once read what the paper said, seldom went away without a box of the precious specific. Joseph would have liked one himself, but had no money, and was further restrained by a sense of conviction that his father would say it was all nonsense and quackery. Church bells were ringing, and many were tolling--tolling for the dead, and ringing the living into the churches, where special prayers were being offered and many excellent discourses preached, to which crowds of people listened with bated breath. Joseph crept into one church on his way for a few minutes, but was too restless to listen long, and soon came forth again. He was now near to Lad Lane, and hastening his steps lest he might be further delayed, came quickly upon the back premises of the carpenter's shop, where the sound of hammer and chisel and saw made quite a clamour in the quiet air. "They are busy here at all events," muttered Joseph, as he pushed open the gate of the yard, and in truth they were busy within; but yet the sight that presented itself to his eyes was anything hut a cheerful one, for every man in the large number assembled there was at work upon a coffin. Coffins in every stage of construction stood everywhere, and the carpenters were toiling away at them as if for dear life. Nothing but coffins was to be seen; and scarcely was one finished, in never so rude a fashion, but it was borne hurriedly away by some waiting messenger, and the master kept coming into the yard to see if his men could not work yet faster. "They say they must bury the corpses uncoffined soon," Joseph heard him whisper to his foreman as he passed by. "No bodies may wait above ground after the first night when the cart goes its round. Six orders have come in within the last hour. No one knows how many we shall have by nightfall, or how many men we shall have working soon. I sent Job away but an hour since. I hope it was not the distemper that turned his face so green! They say it has broken out in three streets hard by, and that it is spreading like wildfire." Joseph shuddered as he listened and crept away to the corner where his brother was generally to be found. And there sure enough was Benjamin, a pretty fair-haired boy, who looked scarce strong enough for the task in hand, but who was yet working might and main with chisel and hammer. His face brightened at sight of his brother, yet he did not relax his efforts, only saying eagerly: "How goes it at home with them all, Joseph? I trow it is the coffin makers, not the lace makers, who have all the trade nowadays! We are working night and day, and yet cannot keep up with the orders." Benjamin was half proud of all this press of business, but he did not look as though it agreed with him. His face was pale, and when at last he threw down his hammer it was with a gasp of exhaustion. The day was very hot, and he had been at work before the dawn. It was no wonder, perhaps, that he looked wan and weary, yet the master passing by paused and cast an uneasy glance at him. For it was from the very next stool that he had recently dismissed the man Job of whom he had spoken, and of whose condition he felt grave doubts. Seeing Joseph close by he gave him a nod, and said: "Hast come to fetch home thy brother? Two of my apprentices have been taken away since yesterday. He is a good lad, and does his best; but he may take a holiday at home if he likes. You are healthier at your end of the town, and they say the distemper comes not near water. "Wilt thou go home to thy mother, boy? We want men rather than lads at our work in these days." Joseph had had no thought of fetching home his brother when he started, but it seemed to him that Benjamin would be much better at home than in this crowded yard, where already the infection might have spread. The boy confessed to a headache and pains in his limbs; and so fearful were all men now of any symptom of illness, however trifling, that the master sent him forth without delay, bidding Joseph take him straight home to his mother, and keep him there at his father's pleasure. A young boy was better at home in these days, as indeed might well be the case. Benjamin was well pleased with this arrangement, having had something too much of over hours and hard work. "He thinks perchance I have the distemper upon me," he remarked slyly to Joseph, "but it is not that. It is but the long hours and the heat and noise of the yard. I shall be well enough when I get home to mother." And this indeed proved to be the case. The child was overdone, and wanted but a little rest and care and mothering; and right glad were both his parents to have him safe under their own wing. Upon that hot evening, almost the first in June, James Harmer had the satisfaction of feeling that he had every member of his family under his own roof, and that his household contained now none who were not indeed his very own flesh and blood. Janet had slept peacefully almost the whole day, and had conversed happily and affectionately through the closed door with her sisters, who were rejoiced to have her there. She spoke of feeling perfectly well but desired to remain in seclusion until certain that she could injure none beside. She was not therefore able to be present when her father unfolded his plans to the rest of the family, though she was quickly apprised of the result later on. "My dear wife and dutiful children," said the master of the house, as he sat at table and looked about him at the ring of dear faces round him, "I have been thinking much as to what it is right for us to do in face of this peril and scourge which God has sent upon the city; and albeit I am well aware that it is the duty of every man to take reasonable care of himself and his household, yet I also feel very strongly that in the protection of the Lord is our greatest strength and safeguard, and that our best and strongest defence is in throwing ourselves upon His mercy, and asking day by day for His merciful protection for a household which looks to Him as the Lord of life and death." Then the good man proceeded to quote from Holy Writ certain passages in which the pestilence is represented as being the scourge of the Lord, and is spoken of as being an angel of the Lord with a drawn sword slaying right and left, yet ever ready to spare where the Lord shall bid. "I shall then," continued Harmer, "daily and nightly confide those of this household into the keeping of Almighty God, and pray to Him for His protection and special blessing. It may be (since His ears are always open to the supplication of His children) that He will send His angel of life to watch over us and keep us from harm; and having this confidence, and using such means as seem wise and reasonable for the protection of all, I shall strive--and you must all strive with me--to dismiss selfish terrors and the horror that begets cruelty and callousness, that we may all of us do our duty towards those about us, and show that even the scourge of a righteous and offended God may become a blessing if taken in meekness and humility." Then the good man proceeded to say what precautions he was about to take for the preservation of his family. He did not propose to fly the city. He had many valuable goods on the premises, which he might probably lose were he to shut up his house and leave. He had no place to go to in the country, and believed that the scourge might well follow them there, were every householder to seek to quit his abode. Moreover, never was there greater need in the city for honest men of courage and probity to help to meet the coming crisis and to see carried out all the wise regulations proposed by the Mayor and Aldermen. He had resolved to join them--since business was like to be at a standstill for a while--and do whatsoever a man could do to forward that good work. His son Reuben was of the same mind with him; whilst his wife would far rather face the peril in her own house than go out, she knew not whither, to be perhaps overtaken by the plague on the road. Her heart had yearned over the sick ever since she had heard her daughter's harrowing tale, and knew that her sister was at work amongst the stricken. She knew not what she might be able to do, but she trusted to her husband for guidance, and would be entirely under his direction. Some citizens spoke of victualling their houses as for a siege, and entirely secluding themselves and their families till the plague was overpast--and indeed this was many times done with success, although the plan broke down in other cases--but this was not Harmer's idea. He did indeed advise his wife and daughters to be careful how they adventured themselves abroad, and where they went. He had arranged at the farm near Greenwich for a regular supply of provisions to be brought by water to the stairs hard by the bridge; and since their house was supplied by water from the New River, they were sure of a constant fresh supply. But he had no intention of incarcerating himself or any of his household, and preventing them from being of use to afflicted neighbours, whilst he himself anticipated having to go into many stricken homes and into infected houses. All the restriction he imposed was that any person sallying forth into places where infection might be met should change his raiment before going out, in a small building in the rear of the shop which he was about to fit up for that purpose, and to keep constantly fumigated by the frequent burning of certain perfumes, of oil of sulphur, and of a coarse medicated vinegar which was said to be an excellent disinfectant. On returning home again, the person who had been exposed would doff all outer garments in this little room, would resume his former clothing, and hang up the discarded garments where they would be subjected to this disinfecting fumigation for a number of hours, and would be then safe to wear upon another occasion. He intended burning regularly in his house a fire of pungent wood such as pine or cedar, which was to be constantly fed with such spices and perfumes and disinfectants as the physicians should pronounce most efficacious. Perfect cleanliness he did not need to insist upon, for his wife could not endure a speck of dust upon anything in the house. A careful diet, regular hours, and freedom from needless fears would, he was assured, do much towards maintaining them all in health, and he concluded his address by kneeling down in the midst of his sons and daughters, and commending them all most fervently to the protection of Heaven, praying for grace to do their duty towards all about them, and for leading and guidance that they ran not into needless peril, but were directed in all things by the Spirit of God. They had hardly risen from their knees before a knock at the door announced the arrival of a visitor, and Joseph running to answer the summons--since there was now no servant in the house--came back almost immediately ushering in the Master Builder, whose face wore a very troubled look. "Heaven guard us all! I think my wife will go distraught with the terror of this visitation, if it goes on much longer. What is a man to do for the best? She raves at me sometimes like a maniac for not having taken her away ere the scourge spread as it is doing now. But when I tell her that if she is bent upon it she must e'en go now, she cries out that nothing would induce her to set her foot outside the house. She sits with the curtains and shutters fast closed, and a fire of spices on the hearth, till one is fairly stifled, and will touch nothing that is not well-nigh soaked in vinegar. And each time that Frederick comes in with some fresh tale, she is like to swoon with fear, and every time she vows that it is the pestilence attacking her, and is like to die from sheer fright. What is a man to do with such a wife and such a son?" "Surely Frederick will cease to repeat tales of horror when he sees they so alarm his mother," said Rachel; but the Master Builder shook his head with an air of more than doubt. "It seems his delight to torment her with terror; and she appears almost equally eager to hear all, though it almost scares her out of her senses. As for Gertrude, the child is pining like a caged bird shut up in the house and not suffered to stir into the fresh air. I am fair beset to know what to do for them. Nothing will convince Madam but that there be dead carts at every street corner, and that the child will bring home death with her every time she stirs out. Yet Frederick comes to and fro, and she admits him to her presence (though she holds a handkerchief steeped in vinegar to her nose the while), and she gets no harm from him." "Poor child!" said Rachel, thinking of Gertrude, whom once she had known so well, running to and fro in the house almost like one of her own. "Would that we could do somewhat for her. But I fear me her mother would not suffer her to visit us, especially since poor Janet came home last night from a plague-stricken house." Reuben's eyes had brightened suddenly at his mother's words, but the gleam died out again, and he remained quite silent whilst the story of Janet's appearance at home was told. The Master Builder listened with interest and sighed at the same time. Perhaps he was contrasting the nature of his neighbour's wife with that of his own. How would Madam have acted had her child come to her in such a plight? Harmer then told his neighbour the rules he was about to lay down for his own household, all of which the Master Builder, who was a keen practical man, cordially approved. He was himself likely soon to be in a great strait, for most probably he would be appointed in due course to serve as an examiner of health, and would of necessity come into contact with those who had been amongst the sick, even if not with the infected themselves, and how his wife would bear such a thing as that he scarce dared to think. Business, too, was at a standstill, all except the carpentering branch, and that was only busy with coffins. If London became depopulated, there would be nothing doing in the building and furnishing line for long enough. Some prophets declared that the city was doomed to a destruction such as had never been seen by mortal man before. Even as it was the plague seemed like to sweep away a fourth of the inhabitants; and if that were so, what would become of such trades as his for many a year to come? Already the Master Builder spoke of himself as a half-ruined man. His neighbour did all he could to cheer him, but it was only too true that misfortune appeared imminent. Harmer had always been a careful and cautious man, laying by against a rainy day, and not striving after a rapid increase of wealth. But the Master Builder had worked on different lines. He had enlarged his borders wherever he could see his way to doing so, and although he had a large capital by this time, it was all floating in this and that venture; so that in spite of his appearance of wealth and prosperity, he had often very little ready money. So long as trade was brisk this mattered little, and he turned his capital over in a fashion that was very pleasing to himself. But this sudden and totally unexpected collapse of business came upon him at a time when he could ill afford to meet it. Already he had had to discharge the greater part of his workmen, having nothing for them to do. The expenses which he could not put down drained his resources in a way that bid fair to bring him to bankruptcy, and it was almost impossible to get in outstanding accounts when the rich persons in his debt had fled hither and thither with such speed and haste that often no trace of them could be found, and their houses in town were shut up and absolutely empty. "As for Frederick, he spends money like water--and his mother encourages him," groaned the unhappy father in confidence to his friend. "Ah me! when I look at your fine sons, and see their conduct at home and abroad, it makes my heart burn with shame. What is it that makes the difference? for I am sure I have denied Frederick no advantage that money could purchase." "Perhaps it is those advantages which money cannot purchase that he lacks," said James Harmer, gravely--"the prayers of a godly mother, the chastisement of a father who would not spoil the child by sparing the rod. There are things in the upbringing of children, my good friend, of far more value than those which gold will purchase." The Master Builder gave vent to a sound almost like a groan. "You are right, Harmer, you are right. I have not done well in this thing. My son is no better than an idle profligate. I say it to my shame, but so it is. Nothing that I say will keep him from his riotous comrades and licentious ways. I have spoken till I am weary of speaking, and all is in vain. And now that this terrible scourge of God has fallen upon the city, instead of turning from their evil courses with fear and loathing, he and such as he are but the more reckless and impious, and turn into a jest even this fearful visitation. They scour the streets as before, and drink themselves drunk night by night. Ah, should the pestilence reach some amongst them, what would be their terrible doom! I cannot bear even to think of it! Yet that is too like to be the end of my wretched boy, my poor, unhappy Frederick!" CHAPTER V. THE PLOT AND ITS PUNISHMENT. Strange as it may appear, the awful nature of the calamity which had overtaken the great city had by no means the subduing influence upon the spirits of the lawless young roisterers of the streets that might well have been expected. No doubt there were some amongst these who were sobered by the misfortunes of their fellows, and by the danger in which every person in the town now stood; but it seemed as if the very imminence of the peril and the fearful spread of the contagion exercised upon others a hardening influence, and they became even more lawless and dissolute than before. "Let us eat and drink; for tomorrow we die," appeared to be their motto, and they lived up to it only too well. So whilst the churches were thronged with multitudes of pious or terrified persons, assembled to pray to God for mercy, and to listen to words of godly counsel or admonition; whilst the city authorities were doing everything in their power to check the course of the frightful contagion, and send needful relief to the sufferers, and many devoted men and women were adventuring their lives daily for the sake of others, the taverns were still filled day by day and night by night with idle and dissolute young men, tainted with all the vices of a vicious Court and an unbelieving age--drinking, and making hideous mockery of the woes of their townsmen, careless even when the gaps amid their own ranks showed that the fell disease was busy amongst all classes and ranks. Indeed, it was no unheard of thing for a man to fall stricken to the ground in the midst of one of these revels; and although the master of the house would hastily throw him out of the door as if he had staggered forth drunk, yet it would ofttimes be the distemper which had him in its fatal clutches, and the dead cart would remove him upon its next gloomy round. For now indeed the pestilence was spreading with a fearful rapidity. The King, taking sudden alarm, after being careless and callous for long, had removed with his Court to Oxford. The fiat for the shutting up of all infected houses had gone forth, and was being put in practice, greatly increasing the terror of the citizens, albeit many of them recognized in it both wisdom and foresight. Something plainly had to be done to check the spread of the infection. And as there was no means of removing the sick from their houses--there being but two or three pest houses in all London--even should their friends be prompt to give notice, and permit them to be borne away, the only alternative seemed to be to shut them up within the doors of the house where they lay stricken; and since they might already have infected all within it, condemn these also to share the imprisonment. It was this that was the hardship, and which caused so many to strive to evade the law by every means in their power. It drove men mad with fear to think of being shut up in an infected house with a person smitten with the fell disease. Yet if the houses were not so closed, and guarded by watchmen hired for the purpose, the sick in their delirium would have constantly been getting out and running madly about the streets, as indeed did sometimes happen, infecting every person they met. Restraint of some sort was needful, and the closing of the houses seemed the only way in which this could be accomplished. It may be guessed what hard work all this entailed upon such of the better sort of citizens as were willing to give themselves to the business. James Harmer and his two elder sons, Reuben and Dan, offered themselves to the Lord Mayor to act as examiners or searchers, or in whatever capacity he might wish to employ them. Dan should by this time have been at sea, but his ship being still in the docks when the plague broke out remained yet unladed. None from the infected city would purchase merchandise. The sailing master had himself been smitten down, and Dan, together with quite a number of sailors, was thrown out of employment. Many of these poor fellows were glad to take service as watchmen of infected houses, or even as bearers and buriers of the dead. At a time when trade was at a standstill, and men feared alike to buy or to sell, this perilous and lugubrious occupation was all that could be obtained, and so there were always men to be found for the task of watching the houses, though at other times it might have been impossible to get enough. Orders had been sent round the town that all cases of the distemper were to be reported within a few hours of discovery to the examiner of health, who then had the house shut up, supplied it with a day and a night watchman (whose duty it was to wait on the inmates and bring them all they needed), and had the door marked with the ominous red cross and the motto of which mention has been made before. Plague nurses were numerous, but too often these were women of the worst character, bent rather upon plunder than desirous of relieving the sufferers. Grim stories were told of their neglect and rapacity. Yet amongst them were many devoted and excellent women, and the physicians who bravely faced the terrors of the time and remained at their post when others fled from the peril, deserve all honour and praise; the more so that many amongst these died of the infection, as indeed did numbers of the examiners and searchers who likewise remained at their post to the end. It will therefore be well understood that good Master Harmer and his sons had no light time of it, and ran no small personal risk in their endeavours to serve their fellow citizens in this crisis. Although the pestilence had not as yet broken out in this part of the town with the virulence that it had shown elsewhere, still there were fresh cases rumoured day by day; and it often appeared that when one case in a street was reported, there had been many others there before of which no notice had been given, and that perhaps half a dozen houses were infected, and must be forthwith shut up. At first neglectful persons were brought before the Magistrates; but soon these persons became too numerous, and the Magistrates too busy to hear their excuses. An example was made of one or another, to show that the laws must be kept; but Newgate itself becoming infected by the disease, it was not thought fit to send any malefactor there except for some heinous offence. Dan joined the force of the constables, and day by day had exciting tales to tell about determined persons who had escaped from infected houses either by tricking or overpowering the watchman. All sorts of clever shifts were made to enable families where perhaps only one lay sick to escape from the house, leaving the sick person sometimes quite alone, or sometimes in charge of a nurse. Dan said it was heartrending to hear the cries and lamentations of miserable creatures pleading to be let out, convinced that it was certain death to them to remain shut up with the sick. Yet, since they might likely be themselves already infected, it was the greater peril and cruelty to let them forth; and he had ghastly tales to tell of the visitation of certain houses, where the watchmen reported that nothing had been asked for for long, and where, when the house was entered by searchers or constables, every person within was found either dead or dying. The precautions duly observed by the Harmer family had hitherto proved efficacious, and though the father and his sons going about their daily duties came into contact with infected persons frequently, yet, by the use of the disinfectants recommended by the College of Physicians, and by a close and careful attention to their directions, they went unscathed in the midst of much peril, and brought no ill to those at home when they returned thither for needful rest and refreshment. Janet had had a slight attack of illness, but there were no absolute symptoms of the distemper with it. Her father was of opinion that it might possibly be a very mild form of the disease, but the doctor called in thought not, and so their house escaped being shut up, and after a prudent interval Janet came down and took her place in the family as before. Mother and daughters worked together for the relief of the sick poor, making and sending out innumerable dainties in the way of broth, possets, and light puddings, which were gratefully received by poor folks in shut-up houses, who, although fed and cared for at the public expense when not able to provide for themselves, were grateful indeed for these small boons, and felt themselves not quite so forlorn and wretched when receiving tokens of goodwill from even an unknown source. The harmony, tranquillity, and goodwill that reigned in this household, even in the midst of so much that was terrible, was a great contrast to the anguish, terror, and ceaseless recriminations which made the Masons' abode a veritable purgatory for its luckless inhabitants. As the news of the spreading contagion reached her, so did Madam's terror and horror increase. As her husband had said long since, she sat in rooms with closed windows and drawn curtains, burned fires large enough to roast an ox, and half poisoned herself with the drugs she daily swallowed, and which she would have forced upon her whole household had they not rebelled against being thus sickened. As a natural consequence of her folly and ungovernable fears, Madam was never well, and was for ever discovering some new symptom which threw her into an ecstasy of terror. She would wake in the night screaming out in uncontrollable fear that she had gotten the plague--that she felt a burning tumour here or there upon her person--that she was sinking away into a deadly swoon, or that something fatal was befalling her. By day she would fall into like passions of fear, call out to her daughter to send for every physician whose name she had heard, and upbraid and revile her in the most unmeasured terms if the poor girl ventured to hint that the doctors were beginning to be tired of coming to listen to what always proved imaginary terrors. The only times when husband or daughter enjoyed any peace was when Frederick chose to make his appearance at home. On these occasions his mother would summon him to her presence, although in mortal fear lest he should bring infection with him, and make him tell her all the most frightful stories which he had picked up about the awful spread of the disease, about the iniquities and abominations practised by nurses and buriers, of which last there was plenty of gossip (although probably much was set down in malice and much exaggerated) and all the prognostications of superstitious or profane persons as to the course the pestilence was going to take. Eagerly did she listen to all of these stories, which Frederick took care should be very well spiced, as it was at once his amusement to frighten his mother and spite his sister; for Gertrude in private implored him not to continue to alarm their mother with his frightful tales, and also begged him for his own sake to relinquish his evil habits of intemperance, which at such a time as this might lead to fatal results. The good-for-nothing youth only mocked at her, and derided his father when he gave him the same warning. He had become perfectly unmanageable and reckless, and nothing that he heard or saw about him produced any impression. Although taverns and ale houses were closely watched, and ordered to close at nine o'clock, and the gatherings of idle and profligate youths of whatever condition of life sternly reprobated and forbidden by the authorities, yet these worthies found means of evading or defying the regulations, and their revels continued as before, so that Frederick was seldom thoroughly sober, and more reckless and careless even than of old. In vain his father strove to bring him to a better mind; in vain he warned him of the peril of his ways and the danger to his health of such constant excesses. Frederick only laughed insolently; whereupon the Master Builder, who had but just come from his neighbour's house, and was struck afresh with the contrast presented by the two homes, asked him if he knew how Reuben Harmer was passing his time, and made a few bitter comparisons between his son and those of his neighbour. This was perhaps unfortunate, for Frederick, like most men of his type, was both vain and spiteful. The mention of the Harmers put him instantly in mind of his grudge against Reuben and his suddenly-aroused admiration for rosy-cheeked Dorcas, both of which matters had been put out of his head by recent events. He had discovered also that Reuben generally accompanied his sister home from Lady Scrope's house in the evening, so that it had not been safe to pursue his attempted gallantries towards the maid. But as he heard his father's strictures upon his conduct, coupled with laudations of his old rival Reuben, a gleam of malice shone in his eyes, and he at once made up his mind to contrive and carry out a project which had been vaguely floating in his brain for some time, and which might be the more easily arranged now that the town was in a state of confusion and distress, and the streets were often so empty and deserted. In that age of vicious licence, it seemed nothing but an excellent joke to Frederick and his boon companions to waylay a pretty city maiden returning to her home from her daily duties. Frederick meant no harm to the girl; but he had been piqued by the way in which his compliments and kisses had been received, and above all he was desirous to do a despite to Reuben, whose rebukes still rankled in his heart, though he had quickly forgotten his good offices on the occasion of his escapade before Lady Scrope's door. Moreover, he owed that notable old woman a grudge likewise, and thought he could pay off scores all round by making away with pretty Dorcas, at any rate for a while. So he and his comrades laid their plans with what they thought great skill, resolved that they should be carried out upon the first favourable opportunity. For a while Dorcas had been rather nervous of leaving the house in Allhallowes unless Reuben was waiting for her. But as she had seen no more of the gallant who had accosted her, and as it was said on all hands that these had left London in hundreds, she had taken courage of late, and had bidden her brother not incommode himself on her account, if it were difficult for him to be her escort home. Of late he had oftentimes been kept away by pressure of other duties. Sometimes Dan had come in his stead. Sometimes she had walked back alone and unmolested. Persons avoided each other in the streets now, and hurried by with averted glances. Although upon her homeward route, which was but short, she had as yet no infected houses to pass, she always hastened along half afraid to look about her. But her father's good counsel and his daily prayers for his household so helped her to keep up heart, that she had not yet been frightened from her occupation, although her mistress always declared on parting in the evening that she never expected to see her back in the morning. "If the plague does not get you, some coward terror will. Never mind; I can do without you, child. I never looked for you to have kept so long at your post. All the rest have fled long since." Which was true indeed, only Dorcas and the old couple who lived in the house still continuing their duties. Fear of the pestilence had driven away the other servants, and they had sought safety on the other side of the water, where it was still believed infection would not spread. "I will come back in the morning. My father bids us all do our duty, and sets us the example, madam," said Dorcas, as she prepared to take her departure. It was a dark evening for the time of year; heavy thunderclouds were hanging low in the sky and obscuring the light. The air was oppressive, and seemed charged with noxious vapours. Part of this was due to the cloud of smoke wafted along from one of the great fires kept burning with the object of dispelling infection. But Dorcas shivered as she stepped out into the empty street, and looked this way and that, hoping to see one of her brothers. But nobody was in sight and she had just descended the steps and was turning towards her home when out from a neighbouring porch there swaggered a very fine young gallant, who made an instant rush towards her, with words of welcome and endearment on his lips. In a moment Dorcas recognized him not only as the gallant who had addressed her once before, but also as Frederick Mason, her brothers' old playfellow, of whom such evil things were spoken now by all their neighbours on the bridge. Uttering a little cry of terror, the girl darted back, turned, and commenced running like a hunted hare in the opposite direction, careless where she went or what she did provided she only escaped from the address and advances of her pursuer. But fleet as were her own steps, those in pursuit seemed fleeter. She heard her tormentor coming after her, calling her by name and entreating for a hearing. She knew that he was gaining upon her and must soon catch her up. She was in a lonely street where not a single passerby seemed to be stirring. She looked wildly round for some way of escape, and just at that moment saw a man come round a corner and fit a key into the door of one of the houses. Without pausing to think, Dorcas made a rush towards him, and so soon as the door was opened she dashed within the house, and fled up the staircase--fled she knew not whither--uttering breathless, frightened cries, whilst all the time she knew that her pursuer was close behind, and heard his voice mingled with angry cries of remonstrance from the man they had left below. Suddenly a door close to Dorcas opened, and a new terror was revealed to her horror-stricken gaze. A gaunt, tall figure, wrapped in a long white garment that looked like grave clothes, sprang out into the stairway with a shriek that was like nothing human. Dorcas sank, almost fainting with terror, to the ground; but the spectre--for such it seemed to her--paid no heed to her, but sprang upon her pursuer, who had at that moment come up, and the next moment had his arms wound about him in a bearlike embrace, whilst all the time he was laughing an awful laugh. Then lifting the unfortunate young man off his feet with a strength that was almost superhuman, he bore him rapidly down the stairs and rushed out with him into the street. All this happened in so brief a moment of time that Dorcas had not even time to regain her feet, or to utter the scream of terror which came to her lips. But as she found breath to utter her cry, another door opened and a scared face looked out, whilst a woman's voice asked in lamentable accents: "What do you here, maiden? What has happened to bring any person into this shut-up house? Child, child, how didst thou obtain entrance here? The plague is in this house, and we are straitly shut up!" Before Dorcas could answer for fright and the confusion of her faculties, a pale-faced watchman came hurrying up the stairs. "Where is the maid?" he asked, and then seeing Dorcas he grasped her by the wrist and cried, "Unless you wish to be shut up for a month, come away instantly. This is a stricken house. What possessed you to seek shelter here? Better anything than that. "As for your son, mistress, he is fled forth into the street; I could not hinder him. We are undone if the constable comes. But if we can get him back again ere that, all may be well. I will let you forth to lead him hither if he will listen to your voice." From the room whence the sick man had appeared a frightened face looked forth, and a half-tipsy old crone whimpered out: "The fault was none of mine. I had but just dropped asleep for a moment. But when a man has the strength of ten what can one poor old woman do?" Without paying any heed to this creature, the watchman and the mother of the plague-stricken man, together with Dorcas, who hurriedly told her tale as they moved, ran down the dark staircase and out into the street. There, a little way off, was the tall spectre-like figure, still hugging in bearlike embrace the hapless Frederick, and dancing the while a most weird and fantastic dance, chanting some awful words which none could rightly catch, but the burden of which was, "The dance of death! the dance of death! None who dances here with me will dance with any other!" "For Heaven's sake release him from that embrace!" cried the mother, who knew that her son was smitten to death. "If all be true that the maid hath said, he is not fit to die, and that embrace is a deadly one!--O my son, my son! come back, come back! "Mercy on us, here is the watch! We are undone!" Indeed the trampling of many hasty feet announced the arrival of a number of persons upon the scene. It seemed like enough to be the constables or the watch; but the moment the newcomers appeared round the corner, Dorcas, uttering a little shriek of joy and relief, threw herself upon the foremost man, who was in fact none other than Reuben himself--Reuben, followed closely by his brother Dan, and they by several young roisterers, the boon companions of Frederick. It had chanced that almost as soon as Dorcas had run from Lady Scrope's door, hotly pursued by Frederick, her brothers had come up to fetch her thence. It was also part of that worthy's plan that they should hear she had been carried off, though not by himself. His half-tipsy comrades, therefore, who had come to see the sport, immediately informed the young men that the maid had been pursued by a Scourer in such and such a direction; and so quickly had the brothers pursued the flying footsteps of the pair--guided by the footmarks in the dusty and untrodden streets--that they had come upon this strange and ghastly scene almost at its commencement, and in a moment their practised eyes took in what had happened. The open door marked with the ominous red cross, the troubled face of the watchman, the ghastly apparition of the delirious plague-stricken man, the horror depicted in the face of the mother--all this told a tale of its own. Scenes of a like kind were now growing common enough in the city; but this was more terrible to the young men from the fact that the face of the unhappy and half-fainting Frederick was known to them and that they understood the awful peril into which this adventure had thrown him. They knew the strength of delirious patients, and the peril of contagion in their touch. To attempt to loosen that bearlike clasp might be death to any who attempted it. Reuben looked about him, still holding his sister in his arms as though to keep her away from the peril; and Dan, who had taken one step forward towards the sheeted spectre, paused and muttered between his teeth: "The hound! he has but got his deserts!" "True," said Reuben, for he was certain now that it had been Frederick who was Dorcas's pursuer; "yet we must not leave him thus. He will be strangled or choked by the pestilential smell if we cannot get him away. Take Dorcas, Dan. Let me see if I can do aught with him." But even as Reuben spoke, and Dorcas clung closer than ever to him in fear that he was about to adventure himself into greater peril, the delirious man suddenly flung Frederick from him, so that he fell upon the pavement almost as one dead; and then, with a hideous shriek that rang in their ears for long, fled back to the house as rapidly as he had left it, and fell down dead a few moments later upon the bed from which he had so lately risen. That fact they learned only the next day. For the moment it was enough that the patient was safely within doors again, and that the watchman could make fast the door. The roisterers had fled at the first sight of the plague-stricken man with their hapless leader in his embrace, and now the darkening street contained only the prostrate figure on the pavement, the two brothers, and the white-faced Dorcas, who felt like to die of fear and horror. As chance or Providence would have it, up at that very moment came the Master Builder himself, and seeing his son in such a plight, shook his head gravely, thinking him drunk in the gutter. But Reuben went up and told all the tale, as far as he knew or guessed it, and Dorcas having confirmed the same more by gestures than words, the unhappy father smote his brow, and cried in a voice of lamentation: "Alas that I should have such a son! O unhappy, miserable youth! what will be thy doom now?" At this cry Frederick moved, and got slowly upon his feet. He had been stunned by the violence of his fall, and for the first moment believed himself drunk, and caught at his father's arm for support. "Have a care, sir," said Reuben, in a low voice; "he may be infected already by the contact." But the Master Builder only uttered a deep sigh like a groan, as he answered, "I fear me he is infected by a distemper worse then the plague. I thank you, lads, for your kindly thoughts towards him and towards me, but I must e'en take this business into mine own hands. Get you away, and take your sister with you. It is not well for maids to be abroad in a city where such things can happen. Lord, indeed have mercy upon us!" CHAPTER VI. NEIGHBOURS IN NEED. Gertrude Mason sat in the topmost attic of the house, leaning out at the open window, and drinking in, as it were, great draughts of fresh air, as she watched the lights beginning to sparkle from either side of the river, and the darkening volume of water slipping silently beneath. This attic was Gertrude's haven of refuge at this dread season, when almost every other window in the house was shuttered and close-curtained; when she was kept like a prisoner within the walls of the house, and half smothered and suffocated by the fumes of the fires which her mother insisted on burning, let the weather be ever so hot, as a preventive against the terrible infection which was spreading with fearful rapidity throughout all London. But Madam Mason's feet never climbed these steep ladder-like stairs up to this eyrie, which all her life had been dear to Gertrude. In her childhood it had been her playroom. As she grew older, she had gradually gathered about her in this place numbers of childish and girlish treasures. Her father bestowed gifts upon her at various times. She had clever fingers of her own, and specimens of her needlework and her painting adorned the walls. At such times as the fastidious mistress of the house condemned various articles of furniture as too antiquated for her taste, Gertrude would get them secretly conveyed up here; so that her lofty bower was neither bare nor cheerless, but, on the contrary, rather crowded with furniture and knick-knacks of all sorts. She kept her possessions scrupulously clean, lavishing upon them much tender care, and much of that active service in manual labour which she found no scope for elsewhere. Her happiest hours were spent up in this lonely attic, far removed from the sound of her mother's plaints or her brother's ribald and too often profane jesting. Here she kept her books, her lute, and her songbirds; and the key of her retreat hung always at her girdle, and was placed at night beneath her pillow. This evening she had been hastily dismissed from her father's presence, he having come in with agitated face, and bidden her instantly take herself away whilst he spoke with her mother. She had obeyed at once, without pausing to ask the questions which trembled on her lips. That something of ill had befallen she could not doubt; but at least her father was safe, and she must wait with what patience she could for the explanation of her sudden dismissal. She knew from her brother's reports that already infected houses were shut up, and none permitted to go forth. But so straitly had she herself been of late imprisoned within doors, that she felt it would make but little difference were she to hear that a watchman guarded the door, and that the fatal red cross had been painted upon it. "Our neighbours are not fearful as we are. They go to and fro in the streets. They seek to do what they can for the relief of the sick. My father daily speaks of their courage and faith. Why may not I do likewise? I would fain tend the sick, even though my life should be the forfeit. We can but live once and die once. Far sooner would I spend a short life of usefulness to my fellow men, than linger out a long and worthless existence in the pursuit of idle pleasures. It does not bring happiness. Ah! how little pleasure does it bring!" Gertrude spoke half aloud and with some bitterness, albeit she strove to be patient with the foibles of her mother, and to think kindly of her, her many faults notwithstanding. But the terror of these days was taking with her a very different form from what it did with Madam Mason. It was inflaming within her a great desire to be up and doing in this stricken city, where the fell disease was walking to and fro and striking down its victims by hundreds and thousands. Other women, in all lands and of all shades of belief, had been found to come forward at seasons of like peril, and devote themselves fearlessly to the care of the sick. Why might not she make one of this band? What though it should cost her her life? Life was not so precious a thing to her that she should set all else aside to preserve it! She was awakened from her fit of musing by an unwonted sound--a hollow tapping, tapping, tapping, which seemed to come from a corner of the attic where the shadows gathered most dun and dark. The girl drew in her head from the window with a startled expression on her face, and was then more than ever aware of the strange sound which caused a slight thrill to run through her frame. What could it be? There was no other room in their house from which the sound could proceed. She was not devoid of the superstitious feelings of the age, and had heard before of ghostly tappings that were said to be a harbinger of coming death or misfortune. Tap! tap! tap! The sound continued with a ceaseless regularity, and then came other strange sounds of wrenching and tearing. These were perhaps not quite so ghostly, but equally alarming. What could it be? Who and what could be behind that wall? Gertrude had heard stories of ghastly robberies, committed during these past days in plague-stricken houses, which were entered by worthless vagabonds, when all within were dead or helpless, and from which vantage ground they had gained access into other houses, and had sometimes brought the dread infection with them. Gertrude was by nature courageous, and she had always made it a point of duty not to add to her mother's alarms by permitting herself to fall a victim to nervous terrors. Frightened though she undoubtedly was, therefore, she did not follow the impulse of her fear and run below to summon her father, who was, she suspected, bent on some serious work of his own; but she stood very still and quiet, pressing her hands over her beating heart, resolved if possible to discover the mystery for herself before giving any alarm. All at once the sounds grew louder; something seemed to give way, and she saw a hand, a man's hand, pushed through some small aperture. At that she uttered a little cry. "Who is there?" she cried, in a shaking voice; and immediately the hand was withdrawn, whilst a familiar and most reassuring voice made answer: "Is anybody there? I beg ten thousand pardons. I had thought the attic would be hare and empty." "Reuben!" cried Gertrude, springing forward towards the small aperture in the wall. "Oh, what is it? Is it indeed thou? And what art thou doing to the wall?" "Gertrude! is that thy voice indeed? Nay, now, this is a good hap. Sweet Mistress Gertrude, have I thy permission to open once again betwixt thy home and mine that door which as children thy brother and we did contrive, but which was presently sealed up, though not over-strongly?" "Ah, the door!" cried Gertrude, coming forward to the place and feeling with her hands at the laths and woodwork; "I had forgot, but it comes to me again. Yes, truly there was a rude door once. Oh, open it quickly! I will get thee a light and hold it. Dost thou know, Reuben, what has befallen to make my father look as he did but now? I trow it is something evil. My heart is heavy within me." "Ay, I know," answered Reuben; "I will tell thee anon, sweet mistress, if thou wilt let me into thy presence." "Nay, call me not mistress," said Gertrude, with a little accent of reproach in her voice. "Have we not played as brother and sister together, and do not times like this draw closer the bonds of friendship? Thou canst not know how lonesome and dreary my life has been of late. I pine for a voice from the world without. Thou wilt indeed be welcome, good Reuben." Gertrude was busying herself with the tedious preparations for obtaining a light, and being skilful by long practice, she soon had a lamp burning in the room; and in a few minutes more, by the diligent use of hammer and chisel, Reuben forced open the little rough door which long ago had been contrived between the boys of the two households, and which had not been done away with altogether, although it had been securely fastened up by the orders of Madam Mason when she found her son Frederick taking too great advantage of this extra means of egress from the house, though she had other motives than the one alleged for the checking of the great intimacy which was growing up between her children and those of her neighbour. The door once opened, Reuben quickly stood within the attic, and looked around him with wondering and admiring eyes. "Nay, but it is a very bower of beauty!" he cried, and then he came forward almost timidly and took Gertrude by the hand, looking down at her with eyes that spoke eloquently. "Is this thy nest, thou pretty songbird?" he said. "Had I known, I should scarce have dared to invade it so boldly." Gertrude clung to him with an involuntary appeal for protection that stirred all the manhood within him. "Ah, Reuben, tell me what it all means!" she cried, "for methinks that something terrible has happened." Still holding the little trembling hand in his, Reuben told her of the peril her brother had been in. He spoke not of Dorcas, not desiring to pain her more than need be, but he had to say that her brother was, in a half-drunken state, pursuing some maiden in idle sport, and that, having been so exposed to contagion, there was great fear now for him and for his life. Gertrude listened with pale lips and dilating eyes; her quick apprehension filled up more of the details than Reuben desired. "It was Dorcas he was pursuing," she cried, recoiling and putting up her hands to her face; "I know it! I know it! O wretched boy! why does he cover us with shame like this? I marvel that thou canst look kindly upon me, Reuben. Am I not his most unhappy sister?" "Thou art the sweetest, purest maiden my eyes ever beheld," answered Reuben, his words seeming to leap from his lips against his own will. Then commanding himself, he added more quietly, "But he is like to be punished for his sins, and it may be the lesson learned will be of use to him all his life. It will be a marvel if he escapes the distemper, having been so exposed, and that whilst inflamed by drink, which, so far as I may judge, enfeebles the tissues, and causes a man to fall a victim far quicker than if he had been sober, and a temperate liver." "My poor brother!" cried Gertrude, beneath her breath. "Oh, what has my father done with him? What will become of him?" "Your father brought him hither at once--not within the house, but into one of his old offices where in past times his goods were wont to be stored. He has now gone to consult with your mother whether or not the poor lad should be admitted within the house or not. If your mother will not have him here, he will remain for a while where he is; and if he falls sick, he will be removed to the pest house." "Oh no! no! no!" cried Gertrude vehemently, "not whilst he has a sister to nurse him--a roof, however humble, to shelter him. Let him not die amongst strangers! I fear not the infection. I will go to him this minute. Already I have thought it were better to die of the plague, doing one's duty towards the sick and suffering, than to keep shut up away from all. They shall not take him away to die amidst those scenes of horror of which one has heard. Even my mother will be brave, methinks, for Frederick's sake. I trow she will open her doors to him." "That is what your father thinks. It may be that even now he is bringing him within. But, sweet mistress, if Frederick comes here, it may well be that in another week this house will be straitly shut up, with the red cross upon the door, and the watchman before the portal day and night. That is why I have come hither at once, to open the little door between our houses; for I cannot bear the thought of knowing naught that befalls you for a whole long month. And since, though my work takes me daily into what men call the peril of infection, I am sound and bring no hurt to others, I am not afraid that I shall bring hurt to thee. I could not bear to have no tidings of how it fared with thee. Thou wilt not chide me for making this provision. It came into my head so soon as I knew that peril of infection was like to come within these walls. We must not let thee be shut quite away from us. We may be able to give thee help, and in times of peril neighbours must play a neighbourly part." The tears stood in Gertrude's eyes. She was thinking of the unkindly fashion in which her mother had spoken of late years of these neighbours, and contrasting with that the way in which they were now coming forward to claim the neighbour's right to help in time of threatened trouble. The tears were very near her eyes as she made answer: "O Reuben, how good thou art! But if our house be infected, how can it be possible for thee to come and go? Would it not be a wrong against those who lay down these laws for the preservation of the city?" Then Reuben explained to her that, though the magistrates and aldermen were forced to draw up a strict code for the ordering of houses where infection was, these same personages themselves, together with doctors, examiners, and searchers of houses, had perforce to go from place to place; yet by using all needful and wise precautions, both for themselves and others, they had reasonable hope of doing nothing to spread the contagion. Reuben, as a searcher under his father, had again and again been in infected houses, and brought face to face with persons dying of the malady; yet so far he had escaped, and by adopting the wise precautions ordered at the outset by their father, no case of illness had appeared so far amongst them. If every person who could be of use excluded himself from all chance of contagion, there would be none to order the affairs of the unhappy city, or to carry relief to the sufferers. There must be perforce some amongst them who were ready to run the risk in order to assist the sufferers, and they of the household of James Harmer were all of one mind in this. "We do naught that is rash. We have herbs and drugs and all those things which the doctors think to be of use; and thou shalt have a supply of all such anon--if indeed thy mother be not already amply provided. But I cannot bear for thee to be straitly shut up; I must be able to see how it goes with thee. And should it be that thou wert thyself a victim, thou shalt not lack the best nursing that all London can give." She looked up at him with fearless eyes. "Do men ever recover when once attacked by the plague?" "Yes, many do--though nothing like the number who die. Amongst our nurses and bearers of the dead are numbers who have had the distemper and have survived it. They go by the name of the 'safe people.' Yet some have been known to take it again, though I think these cases are rare." "If Frederick takes it, will he be like to live?" asked Gertrude; and Reuben was silent. Both knew that the unhappy young man had long been given to drunkenness and debauchery, and that his constitution was undermined by his excesses. The girl pressed her hands together and was silent; but after a few moments' pause she looked up at Reuben, and said, "You have given me courage by this visit. Come again soon. I must to my mother now. I must ask her what I can do to help her and my unhappy brother." "Take this paper and this packet before you go," said Reuben. "The one contains directions for the better lodging and tending of the sick. The other contains prepared herbs which are useful as preventives--tormentil, valerian, zedoary, angelica, and so forth; but I take it that pure vinegar is as good an antidote to infection as anything one can find. Keep some always about you. Let your kerchief be always steeped in it. Then be of a cheerful courage, and take food regularly, and in sufficient quantities. All these things help to keep the body in health; and though the most healthy may fall victims, yet methinks that it is those who are underfed or weakened by disease or dissipation upon whom the malady fastens with most virulent strength. I will come anon and learn what is betiding. Farewell for the nonce, sweet mistress, and may God be with you." Greatly cheered and strengthened by this unexpected interview, Gertrude descended to the lower part of the house in search of her mother, and found her, with her face tied up in a cloth soaked in vinegar, bending over the unhappy Frederick, who lay with a face as white as death upon a couch in one of the lower rooms. To her credit be it said, the motherhood in the Master Builder's wife had triumphed over her natural terror at the thought of the infection. When her husband had brought her the news that Frederick was in one of the old shop buildings, awaiting her permission (after what had occurred) to enter the house; when she knew that should he sicken of the plague he would be taken away to the pest house to be tended there, and as she believed assuredly to die, she burst into wild weeping, and declared that she would risk everything sooner than that should happen. So it had been speedily arranged that the unhappy youth should be provided with a vinegar and herb bath and a complete change of raiment out there in the disused shop, and that then he should come into the house, his mother being willing to take the risk rather than banish him from home. This had been quickly done, under the direction of good James Harmer, who as one of the examiners of health was well qualified to give counsel in the matter. He also told his neighbour that should the young man be attacked by the plague, he would strive if possible to gain for him the services of his sister-in-law, Dinah Morse, who was one of the most tender and skilful nurses now working amongst the sick. She was always busy; but so fell was the action of the plague poison, that her patients died daily, despite her utmost care, and she was constantly moving from house to house, sometimes leaving none alive behind her in a whole domicile. A certain number recovered, and these she made shift to visit daily for a while; but her main work lay amongst the dying, whose friends too often left them in terror so soon as the fatal marks appeared which bespoke them sickening of the terrible distemper. The Master Builder received this promise with gratitude, having heard gruesome stories of the evil practices of many of those who called themselves plague nurses, but who really sought their own gain, and often left the patient alone and untended in his agony, whilst they coolly ransacked the house from which the other inmates had often contrived to flee before it was shut up. Frederick, utterly unnerved and overcome by the horror of the thing which had befallen him, looked already almost like one stricken to death. His mother was striving to get him to swallow some of the medicines which were considered as valuable antidotes, and to sip at a cup of so-called plague water--a rather costly preparation much in vogue amongst the wealthier citizens at that time. But the nausea of the horrible smell of the plague patient was still upon him, sickening him to the refusal of all medicine or food, and to Gertrude's eyes he looked as though he might well be smitten already. Her father was the only person who had eyes to notice her approach, and he strode forward and took her by the hands as though to keep her away. "Child, thou must not come here. Thy brother has been in a terrible danger--half strangled by a creature raving in the delirium of the distemper. It may be death to approach him even now. I would have had thy mother keep away. Come not thou near to him. Let us not increase the peril which besets us." Gertrude stood quite still, neither resisting her father, nor yet yielding to the pressure which would have forced her from the room. "Dear sir," she said, with dutiful reverence, "I must fain submit to thee in this thing. Yet I prithee keep me not from my brother in the hour of his extremity. Methinks that a more terrible thing than the plague itself is the cruel fear which it inspires, whereby families are rent asunder, and the sick are neglected and deserted in the hour of their utmost need. If indeed Frederick should fall a victim, this house will be straitly shut up; and if it be true what men say, the infection will spread through it, do what we will to keep it away. Then what can it matter whether the risk be a little more or less? Is it not better that I should be with my mother and my brother, than that I should seek my own safety by shutting myself up apart from all, a readier prey to grief and terror? Methinks I should the sooner fall ill thus shut away from all. Prithee let me take my place beside Frederick, and relieve my mother when she be weary; so do I think it will be best for me and her." The father's face quivered with emotion as he took his daughter in his arms and kissed her tenderly. "Thou shalt do as thou wilt, my sweet child," he said. "These indeed are fearful days, and it may be that happier are they who let their heart be ruled by love instead of by fear. Fear has become a cruel thing, from what men tell us. Thou shalt do thy desire. Yet methinks thy brother has scarce deserved this grace at thy hands." "Let us not think of that," said Gertrude, with a look of pain in her eyes; "let us only think of his peril, and of the terrible retribution which may fall upon him. God grant that he may find repentance and peace at the last!" "Amen!" said the Master Builder, with some solemnity, thinking of the fashion in which his son's time had been spent of late, and of the very escapade which had brought this evil upon him. All that night mother and sister watched beside the bed of the unhappy young man, who moaned and tossed, and too often broke into blasphemous railings at the fate which had overtaken him. He gave himself up for lost from the first, and having no hope or real belief as regards the future life, was full of darkness and bitterness of heart. He would not so much as listen when Gertrude would have spoken to him of the Saviour's love for sinners, but answered with mocking and profane words which made her heart die within her. Towards morning he fell into a restless sleep, from which he wakened in a high fever, not knowing any of those about him. The father coming in, went towards him with a strange look in his eyes, and after bending over him a few seconds, turned a haggard face towards his wife and daughter, saying: "May the Lord have mercy upon us! he has the tokens upon him!" Instantly the mother uttered a scream of lamentation, and fell half senseless into her husband's arms; whilst Gertrude stood suddenly up with a white face and said: "Let me take word to our neighbours next door. Master Harmer is an examiner. We must needs report it to him; and they will tell us what we must do, and give us help if any can." "Ay, that they will," answered the Master Builder, with some emotion in his voice. "Go, girl, and report that the distemper has broken out in the house, and that we submit ourselves to the orders of the authorities for all such as be infected." Gertrude sped upstairs. She preferred that method of transit to the one by the street door. But she had no need to go further than her attic; for upon opening the door she saw two figures in the room, and instantly recognized Reuben and his sister Janet. The latter came forward with outstretched hands, and would have taken Gertrude into her embrace, but that she drew back and said in a voice of warning: "Take heed, Janet; touch me not. I have passed the night by the bedside of my brother, and he is stricken with the plague!" "So soon?" quoth Reuben, quickly; whilst Janet would not be denied her embrace, saying softly: "I have no longer a fear of that distemper myself, for I have been with it erstwhile, and my aunt Dinah tells me that I have had a very mild attack of the same ill, and that I am not like to take it again." "If indeed Frederick is smitten, we must take precautions to close the house," said Reuben. "Is there aught you would wish to do ere giving the notice to my father?" "Nay, I was on my way to him," said Gertrude, speaking with the calmness of one upon whom the expected blow has at last fallen. "Let what must be done be done quickly. Can we have a nurse? for methinks Frederick must needs have tendance more skilled than any we can give him. But let it not be one of those women"--Gertrude paused and shuddered, as though she knew not how to finish her sentence. "Trust me to do all for you that lies in my power," answered Reuben, in a voice of emotion; "and never feel shut up altogether from the world; even when the outer door be locked and guarded by a watchman. I have already hung a bell within our house, and the cord is tied here upon this nail. In any time of need you have but to ring it, and be sure that the summons will be speedily answered." A mist rose before Gertrude's eyes and a lump in her throat. She pressed Janet's hand, and said to Reuben in a husky voice: "I have no words today. Some day I will find how to thank you for all this goodness at such a time." Before many hours had passed Dinah Morse was installed beside the sick man. Strong perfumes were burnt in and about his room, and the terrible tumours which bespoke the poison in his blood were treated skilfully by poultices and medicaments, applied by one who thoroughly understood the nature of the disease and the course it ran. But from the first it was apparent to a trained eye that the young man was doomed. There was too much poison in his blood before, and his constitution was undermined by his reckless and dissolute life. All that was possible was done to relieve the sufferings and abate the fever of the patient. One of the best and most devoted of the doctors who remained courageously at his post during this terrible time was called in. But he shook his head over the patient, and bid his parents make up their minds for the worst. "You have the best nurse in all London," said Dr. Hooker. "If skill and care could save him, he would be saved. But I fear me the poison has spread all over. Be cautious how you approach him, for he breathes forth death to those who are not inoculated. I would I could do more for you, but our skill avails little before this dread scourge." And so, with looks and words of friendly compassion and goodwill, the doctor took his departure; and before nightfall Frederick was called to his last account. Just as the hour of midnight tolled, a sound of wheels was heard in the street below, a bell rang, and a lugubrious voice called out: "Bring forth your dead! bring forth your dead!" Directed by Reuben, who was on the alert, the bearers themselves entered the house and removed the body, wrapped in its linen swathings, but without a coffin, for by this time there was not such a thing to be had for love or money; nor could the carts have contained their loads had each corpse been coffined. Gertrude alone, from an upper window, saw the body of her brother laid decently and reverently, under Reuben's direction, in the ominous-looking vehicle. For the mother of the dead youth was weeping her heart out in her husband's arms, and was not allowed to know at what hour nor in what manner her son's body was conveyed away. "Will they fling him, with never a prayer, into some great pit such as I have heard spoken of?" asked Gertrude of Dinah, who stood beside her at the window, fearful lest she should be overwhelmed by the horror of it all. She now drew her gently and tenderly back into the room, whilst the cart rumbled away upon its mournful errand, and smoothing the tresses of the girl, and drawing her to rest upon a couch hard by, she answered: "Think not of that, dear child. For what does it matter what befalls the frail mortal body? With whatsoever burial we may be buried now, we shall rise again at the last day in glory and immortality! That is what we must think of in these sorrowful times. We must lift our hearts above the things of this world, and let our conversation and citizenship be in heaven." Then the tears gushed out from Gertrude's eyes, and she wept freely and fully the healing tears of youth. CHAPTER VII. SISTERS OF MERCY. "Father, dear father, prithee let me go!" "What, my child? Have I not lost all but thee? Am I to send thee forth to thy death in this terrible city, stricken by the hand of God?" Into Gertrude's face there crept a wonderful light and brightness. Her eyes shone with the intensity of her feeling. "Father," she said, "it is even because I hold the city to be smitten by God that I ask thy permission to go forth to minister to the sick and stricken ones. It seems to me as though in my heart a voice had spoken, saying, 'Go, and I will be with thee.' Father, listen, I pray thee. I heard that voice first, methought, upon the terrible night when they came and took Frederick away. When mother was next laid low, and as I watched beside her, and watched likewise how Dinah soothed and comforted and assuaged her anguish of mind and body, the voice in my heart grew ever louder and louder. Whilst she lived, I knew my place was beside her; but it has pleased God to take her away. No tie binds me here now. If I stay, I shall but eat out my heart in fruitless longing, shut into these walls, and by no means permitted to sally forth. From a plague-stricken house I may only go to those smitten with the distemper. Father, let me go! prithee let me go! Dinah will take me; she will let me be with her. Ask her; she will tell thee." As the girl made her appeal to her father, the grave-faced, gentle woman who had remained with this household for nigh fourteen days stood quietly by. Dinah Morse had not quitted the house since the day upon which the hapless Frederick had been stricken down by the fell disease. For hardly had his remains been borne from the house before the mother fell violently ill of a wasting fever. At first there were no special indications of the plague in her malady; but after a week's time these suddenly developed themselves. From the first she had declared herself smitten by the distemper, and whether this conviction helped to develop the germs of the malady none could say. But be that as it might, the dreaded tokens appeared upon her body at last, and within three days from that time she lay dead. All that the kindness of friends and neighbours could avail had been done. The Harmer family, in particular, had showed so much attention and sympathy in this trying time, that Gertrude was often overcome with shame as she recalled in what uncivil fashion they had been treated by her mother of late years, and how they were now returning good for evil, just at a time when so many men were finding themselves forsaken even by their nearest and dearest in the hour of their affliction. The whole experience through which she had passed had made a deep and lasting impression upon Gertrude. She had already watched two of the beings nearest and dearest to her fall victims to the dire disease which was raging in the city and laying low its thousands daily. It seemed to her that there was but one thing to be done now by those whose circumstances permitted it, and that was to go forth amid the sick and smitten ones, and do what lay within human power to mitigate their sufferings, and to afford them the solace and comfort of feeling that they were not altogether shut off from the love and sympathy of their fellow men. "Father," she urged, as she saw that her parent still hesitated, "what would have become of us without Dinah? What should we have done had no help come to us in our hour of need? Think of the hundreds and thousands about us longing for some such tendance and love as she brought hither to us! What would have become of us had no kind neighbours befriended us? And are we not bidden to do unto others as we would have them do unto us in like case?" "But the risk, my child, the risk!" he urged. "Am I to lose my last and only stay and solace?" "Mother died in this house, which is now doubly infected. I was with her and with Frederick both, and yet I am sound and whole, and thou also. Why should we so greatly fear, when no man can say who will be smitten and who will escape? Methinks, perchance, those who seek to do their duty to the living, as our good neighbours and the city aldermen and magistrates and doctors are doing, will be specially protected of God. Father, let me go! Truly I feel that I have been bidden. Here I should fret myself ill in fruitless longing. Let me go forth with Dinah. Let me obey the call which methinks God has sent me. Truly I think I shall be the safest so. And who can say in these days, take what precaution he will, that he may not already have upon him the dreaded tokens? If we must die, let us at least die doing good to our fellow men. Did not our Lord say to those who visited the sick in their necessity, 'Ye have done it unto me'?" "Child," said the Master Builder, in a much-moved voice, "it shall be as you desire. Go; and may the blessing of God go with you. I will offer myself for any post, as searcher or examiner, which may be open, if indeed I may go forth from this house ere the twenty-eight days be expired. If Dinah will take you, and if the Harmers will let you both sally forth from the house, I will not keep you back. It may be indeed that God has called you; and if so, may He keep and bless you both." Father and daughter embraced each other tenderly. In those times the shadow of death was so very apparent that no one knew from day to day what might befall him ere the morrow. Strong men, leaving their homes apparently in their usual health, would sink down in the streets an hour afterwards, and perhaps die before the very eyes of the passersby, none of whom would be found willing so much as to approach the sufferer with a kind word. Men would hasten by with vinegar-steeped cloths held closely over their faces; and later on some bearer with a cart or barrow would be sent to carry away the corpse and fling it into the nearest pit, of which there was now an ever-increasing number in the various parishes. It will well be understood that in such days as these the need for nurses for the sick was terribly great. The majority of those so-called nurses were women of the lowest class, whose motive was personal gain, not a loving desire to mitigate the sufferings of the stricken. Whether all the dismal tales told by the miserable beings shut up in their houses, and left to the mercy of watchmen and nurses, were true may be well open to doubt. Many poor creatures became half demented by terror, and scarcely knew what they said. But enough was from time to time substantiated to prove how very terrible were the scenes which sometimes went on within these sealed abodes; and more than once some careless watchman or thieving and neglectful nurse had been whipped through the streets for misdemeanours brought home to them by the authorities. But now things were growing too pressing for individual cases to attract much attention. Do as men would to cope with the evil, the spread of the fell disease was something terrible to witness. Up till quite recently, the cases in the southern and eastern parishes and within the city walls had been few as compared with those in the north and west; but now the scourge seemed to have fallen upon the city itself, and the resources of the authorities were taxed to the uttermost. The Harmer family welcomed back Dinah with joy; but when they heard of Gertrude's resolve, they looked grave and awed. Then Janet stepped forward suddenly, and addressing her father, said: "Dear father, what Gertrude has desired for herself is nothing less than what I myself have often wished. Let me go forth also to tend the sick. If our neighbour can dare to let his only child do this thing, surely thou wilt spare me. Every day brings terrible tales of the woe and the pressing need of hundreds and thousands around us. Let me go, too. I am like to be safer than many, seeing that I may already have been touched by the distemper, though I knew it not." The example of his neighbour was not without effect upon the worthy citizen. Moreover, it seemed to him that those who went about their daily duties, and shrank not from contact with the sick when it was needful, fared better than many who shut themselves up at home, and feared to look forth even from their windows. As an examiner of health he was frequently brought into contact with the sick, and his son even oftener, and yet both kept their health wonderfully. True, there were many amongst those who filled these perilous offices who did fall victims, but not more in proportion than others who shunned all contact with peril. Steady nerves and a stout heart seemed as good preventives as any antidote; and the physicians who laboured ceaselessly and devotedly amongst the stricken ones seemed seldom to suffer. Moreover, after all these weeks of terror, the minds of persons of all degrees were growing used to the sense of uncertainty and peril, and Janet's request aroused no very strenuous opposition from any member of her family. "She shall please herself," said her father, after some discussion on the subject. "God has been very merciful to us so far. We will put our trust in Him during all this time. If the girl has had a call, let her do her duty, and He will he with her." That night the three devoted women slept beneath the roof of the bridge house. Upon the morrow they sallied forth to their strange task, but were told by the master of the house that they might return thither at any time they chose, provided they took the prescribed precautions with regard to their clothing before they entered. The sun was blazing hotly down on the streets as they opened the door to go forth. Sultry weather had now set in, no rain fell through the long, scorching days, and the heat was a terrible factor in the spread of the epidemic. Dinah, who had been nigh upon fourteen days shut up in one house, looked about her with grave, watchful eyes. Already she saw a great difference in the look of the bridge. Four houses were marked with the ominous red cross; and the tide of traffic, bearing the stream of persons out from the stricken city, had almost ceased. Bills of health were difficult to obtain now. The country villages round were loth to receive inmates of London. All roads were watched, and many hapless stragglers sent back again who had thought to escape from the city of destruction. Myriads had already left, and others were still flying--they could make shift to escape. But the continuous stream had ceased to cross the bridge. Foot passengers were few, and all walked in the middle of the road, avoiding contact with one another. Many kept a handkerchief or cloth pressed to their faces. Strangers eyed each other askance, none knowing that the other might not be already sickening of the disease. Between the stones of the streets blades of grass were beginning to grow up. Dinah pointed to these tokens and gave a little sigh. Just before they turned off from the bridge a flying figure was seen approaching, and Janet exclaimed quickly: "Why, it is Dorcas!" Since her fright of a fortnight back, Dorcas had remained an inmate of Lady Scrope's house by her own desire. Although she knew that poor Frederick would annoy her no more, she had come to have a horror of the very streets themselves. She had never forgotten the apparition of that white-robed figure, clad in what seemed like its death shroud; and as Lady Scrope was by no means ill pleased to keep her young maiden by night as well as by day, her father was glad that she should be saved the risk even of the short walk to and fro each day. But here she was, flying homewards as though there were wings to her feet; and she would almost have passed them in her haste, had not Janet laid hold of her arm and spoken her name aloud. Then she gave a little cry of relief and happiness, and turning upon her aunt, she cried: "Ah, how glad I am to see thee! I was praying thou mightst still be at home. Lady Scrope has been suddenly seized by some malady, I know not what. Everyone in the house but the old deaf man and his wife has fled. Three servants left before, afraid of passing to and fro. The rest only waited for the first alarm to seize whatever they could lay hands upon and fly. I could not stop them. I did what I could, but methinks they would have rifled the house had it not been that the mistress, ill as she was, rose from her bed and chased them forth. They feared her more than ever when they thought she had the plague upon her. And now I have come forth for help; for I am alone with her in the house, and I know not which way to turn. "Ah, good aunt, come back with me, I prithee. I am at my wit's end with the fear of it all." Without a moment's delay the party turned towards the house in Allhallowes, and speedily found themselves at the grim-looking portal, which Dorcas opened with her key. The house felt cool and fresh after the glare of the hot streets. Although by no means a stately edifice outside, it was roomy and commodious within, and the broad oak staircase was richly carpeted--a thing in those days quite unusual save in very magnificent houses. Doors stood open, and there were traces of confusion in some of the rooms; but Dorcas was already hurrying her companions up the stairs, and the silence of the house was broken by the sound of a shrill voice demanding in imperious tones who were coming and what was their business. "Fear not, mistress, it is I!" cried Dorcas, springing forward in advance of the others. She disappeared within an open door, and her companions heard the sharp tones of the answering voice saying: "Tush, child! who talks of fear? It is only fools who fear! Dost think I am scared by this bogey talk of plague? A colic, child--a colic; that is all I ail. I have always suffered thus in hot weather all my life. Plague, forsooth! I could wish I had had it, that I might have given it as a parting benediction to those knaves and hussies who thought to rob me when I lay a-dying, as many a woman has been robbed before! I only hope they may sicken of pure fright, as has happened to many a fool before now! Ha! ha! ha! how they did run! They thought I was tied by the leg for once. But I had them--I had them! I warrant me they did not take the worth of a sixpence from my house!" The chuckling laugh which followed bespoke a keen sense of enjoyment. Certainly this high-spirited old lady was not much like the ordinary plague patient. Dinah knocked lightly at the door, and entered, the two girls following her out of sheer curiosity. "Heyday! and who are these?" cried Lady Scrope. That redoubtable old dame was sitting up in bed, her great frilled nightcap tied beneath her chin, her hawk's eyes full of life and fire, although her face was very pinched and blue, and there were lines about her brow and lips which told the experienced eyes of the sick nurse that she was suffering considerable pain. Dinah explained their sudden appearance, and asked if they could be of any service. The old lady gazed at them all in turn, and her face relaxed as she broke into rather a grim laugh. "Plague nurses, by all the powers! Certes, this is very pretty company! If all that is said be true, ye be the worst harpies of all. I had better have my own minions to rob me than be left to your tender mercies. Three of you, too! Verily, 'wheresoever the carcase is, there will the eagles be gathered together,'" and the patient laughed again, as though tickled at her own grim pleasantry. Dorcas would have expostulated and explained and apologized, but her mistress cut her short with a sharp tap of her fan. "Little fool, hold thy peace! as though I didn't know an honest face when I see it! "Come, good people, look me well over, and you'll soon see I have none of the tokens. It is but a colic, such as I am well used to at this season of the year; but in these days let a body's finger but ache, and all the world runs helter skelter this way and that, calling out, 'The plague! the plague!' The plague, forsooth! as though I had not lived through a score of such scares of plague. If men would but listen to me, there need never be any more plagues in London. But the fools will not hear wisdom." "What is your remedy, madam?" asked Dinah, who saw very clearly that the old lady had gauged her symptoms aright; and although she had alarmed her attendants by a partial collapse an hour before, was mending now, and had no symptom of the distemper upon her. "My remedy is too simple for fools. Fill up every well in London--which is just a poison trap--and drink only New River water, and make every house draw its supply from thence, and we shall soon cease to hear of the plague! That's my remedy; but when I tell men so, they gibe and jeer and call me fool for my pains. Fools every one of them! If it would only please Providence to burn their city about their ears and fill up all the old wells with the rubbish, you would soon see an end of these scares of plague. Tush! if men will drink rank poison they deserve to have the plague--that is all I have to say to them." Such an idea as this was certainly far in advance of the times, and it was small wonder that Lady Scrope found no serious listeners when she propounded her scheme. Dinah did not profess to have an opinion on such a wide question. Her duties were with the sick. Others must seek for the cause of the outbreak. That was not the province of women. Something in her way of moving about and performing her little offices pleased the fancy of the capricious old woman, as did also the aspect of the two girls, who were assisting Dorcas to set the room to rights after the confusion of the morning, when the mistress had suddenly been taken with a violent colic, which had turned her blue and rigid, and had convinced her household that she was taken for death, and that by a seizure of the prevailing malady. She asked Dinah of herself and her plans, and nodded her head with approval as she heard that the two girls were to attend the sick likewise under her care. "Good girls, brave girls--I like to see courage in old and young alike. If I were young myself, I vow I would go with you. It's a fine set of experiences you will have. "Young woman, I like you. I shall want to hear of you and your work. Listen to me. This house is my own. I have no one with me here save the child Dorcas, and I don't think she is of the stuff that would be afraid; and I take good care of her, so that she is in no peril. Come back hither to me whenever you can. This house shall be open to you. You can come hither for rest and food. It is better than to go to and fro where there be so many young folks as in the place you come from. Bring the girls with you, too. They be good, brave maidens, and deserve a place of rest. I have victualled my house well. I have enough and to spare. I like to hear the news, and none can know more in these days than a plague nurse. "Come, children, what say you to this? Go to and fro amongst the sick; but come home hither and tell me all you have done. What say you? Against rules for persons to pass from infected houses into clean ones? Bah! in times like these what can men hope to do by their rules and regulations? Plague nurses and plague doctors are under no rules. They must needs go hither and thither wherever they are called. If I fear not for myself, you need not fear for me. I shall never die of the plague; I have had my fortune told me too many times to fear that! I shall never die in my bed--that they all agree to tell me. Have no fears for me; I have none for myself. "Make this house your home, you three good women. I am not a good woman myself, but I know the kind when I see them. They are rare, but all the more valued for that. Come, I say; you will not find a better place!" Dorcas clasped her hands in rapture and looked from one to the other. The fear of the distemper was small in comparison with the pleasure of the thought of seeing her sister and aunt and friend at intervals, now that she was so completely shut up in this lonely house, and that the servants had all fled never to return. It was just such an eccentric and capricious whim as was eminently characteristic of Lady Scrope. She had had nothing but her own whims to guide her through life, and she indulged them at her pleasure. She had taken a fancy to Dinah from the first moment. She knew all about the family of her young companion, from having listened to Dorcas's chatter when in the mood. Keenly interested in the spread of the plague, which had driven away all her fashionable friends, she was eager for news about it, and the more ghastly the tales that were told, the more did she seem to revel in them. To have news first hand from those who actually tended the sick seemed to her a capital plan; and Dinah recognized at once the advantage of having admittance for herself and the two girls to this solitary and commodious house, where rest and refreshment could be readily obtained, and where their coming and going would not be likely to be observed or to hurt any one. "If your ladyship really means it--" she began. "My ladyship generally does mean what she says--as Dorcas will tell you if you ask her," was the rather short, sharp reply. "Say no more, say no more; I hate chitter-chatter and shilly-shally. The thing's settled, and there's an end of it. Go your ways, go your ways; I'm none too ill for Dorcas to look to, now that the little fool is assured that I haven't got the plague. But you may have brought it here yourself, so you are bound in duty to come back and look after us the first moment you can. Go along with you all, and bring me word what London is doing, and what the streets are like. They say there be courts down in the worst parts of the town where not a living person remains, and where there be none left to give notice of the deaths. You go and bring me word about all that. "A fine thing truly for our grand city! The living soon will not be enough to bury the dead! Go! go! go! I shall wait and watch for your return. None will interfere with anything that goes on in my house. You can come and go at will. Dorcas will give you a key. I will trust you. You have a face to be trusted." "It is quite true--nobody ever dares interfere with her," said Dorcas, as she led the way downstairs. "They think she is a witch; and truly, methinks she is the strangest woman that ever drew breath! But I shall love her for what she has said and done today. I pray you be not long in coming again. None can want you much more sorely than I do!" CHAPTER VIII. IN THE DOOMED CITY. The clocks in the church steeples were chiming the hour of ten as Dinah and her two companions started forth a second time upon their errand of mercy and charity. It was an hour at which in ordinary times all the city should be alive, the streets filled with passersby, wagons lumbering along with heavy freights, fine folks in their coaches or on horseback picking their way from place to place, and shopmen or their apprentices crying their wares from open doorways. Now the streets were almost empty. The shops were almost all shut up. Here and there an open bake house was to be seen, orders having been issued that these places were to remain available for the public, come what might; and women or trembling servant maids were to be seen going to and fro with their loads of bread or dough for baking. But each person looked askance at the other. Neighbours were afraid to pause to exchange greetings, and hurried away from all contact with one another; and children breaking away from their mothers' sides were speedily called back, and chidden for their temerity. Some of the churches stood wide open, and persons were seen to hurry in, lock themselves for a few minutes into separate pews, and pour out their souls in supplication. Often the sound of lamentation and weeping was heard to issue from these buildings. At certain hours of the day such of the clergy as were not scared away through fear of infection, or who were not otherwise occupied amongst the sick, would come in and address the persons gathered there, or read the daily office of prayer; but although at first these services had been well attended--people flocking to the churches as though to take sanctuary there--the widely-increased mortality and the fearful spread of the distemper had caused a panic throughout the city. The magistrates had issued warnings against the assembling of persons together in the same building, and the congregations were themselves so wasted and decimated by death and disease that each week saw fewer and fewer able to attend. From every steeple in the city the bells tolled ceaselessly for the dead. But it was already whispered that soon they would toll no more, for the deaths were becoming past all count, and there might likely enough be soon no one left to toll. At one open place through which Dinah led her companions, a tall man, strangely habited, and with a great mass of untrimmed hair and beard, was addressing a wild harangue to a ring of breathless listeners. In vivid and graphic words he was summing up the wickedness and perversity of the city, and telling how that the wrath of God had descended upon it, and that He would no longer stay His hand. The day of mercy had gone by; the day of vengeance had come--the day of reckoning and of punishment. The innocent must now perish with the guilty, and he warned each one of his hearers to prepare to meet his Judge. The man was gazing up overhead with eyes that seemed ready to start from their sockets. Every face in the crowd grew pale with horror. The man seemed rooted to the spot with a ghastly terror. They followed the direction of his gaze, but could see nothing save the quivering sunshine above them. Suddenly one in the crowd gave a shriek which those who heard it never forgot, and fell to the ground like one dead. With a wild, terrible laugh the preacher gathered up his long gown and fled onwards, and the crowd scattered helter skelter, terrified and desperate. None seemed to have a thought for the miserable man smitten down before their very eyes. All took care to avoid approaching him in their hasty flight. He lay with his face upturned to the steely, pitiless summer sky. A woman coming furtively along with a market basket upon her arm suddenly set up a dolorous cry at sight of him, and setting down her basket ran towards him, the tears streaming down her face. "Why, it is none other than good John Harwood and his wife Elizabeth!" cried Janet, making a forward step. "Oh, poor creatures, poor creatures! Good aunt, prithee let us do what we can for their relief. I knew not the man, his face was so changed, but I know him now. They are very honest, good folks, and have worked for us ere now. They live hard by, if so be they have not changed their lodgings. Can we do nothing to help them?" "We will do what we can," said Dinah. "Remember, my children, all that I have bidden you do when approaching a stricken person. Be not rash, neither be over-much affrighted. The Lord has preserved me, and methinks He will preserve you, too." With that she stepped forward and laid a hand upon the shoulder of the poor woman, who was weeping copiously over her husband, and calling him by every name she could think of, though he lay rigid with half-open eyes and heeded her not. "Good friend," said Dinah, in her quiet, commanding fashion, "it is of no avail thus to weep and cry. We must get your goodman within doors, and tend him there. See, there is a man with a handcart over yonder. Go call him, and bid him come to our help. We must not let your goodman lie out here in the streets in this hot sunshine." "God bless you! God bless you!" cried the poor distracted woman, unspeakably thankful for any help at a time when neighbours and friends were wont alike to flee in terror from any stricken person. "But alas and woe is me! Tell me, is this the plague?" "I fear so," answered Dinah, who had bent over the smitten man; "but go quickly and do as I have said. There be some amongst the sick who recover. Lose not heart at the outset, but trust in God, and do all that thou art bidden." The woman ran quickly, and the man, who was indeed one of those forlorn creatures who, for a livelihood, were even willing to scour the streets and remove from thence those that were stricken down by death as they went their way amongst their fellows, came with her at her request, and lifting her husband into his cart, wheeled him away towards a poor alley where lay her home. As she turned into it she looked at the three women who followed, and said: "God have mercy upon us! I would not have you adventure yourselves here. There be but three houses in all the street where the distemper has not come, and of those, mine, which was one, must now be shut up. Lord have mercy upon us indeed, else we be all dead men!" Dinah paused for a brief moment, and looked at her young charges. "My children," she said, "needs must that I go where the need is so great. But bethink you a moment if ye have strength and wish to follow. I know not what sad and terrible sights we may have to encounter. Think ye that ye can bear them? Have ye the strength to go forward? If not, I would have you go back ere you have reached the contamination." Janet looked at Gertrude, and Gertrude looked at Janet; but though there was great seriousness and awe in their faces, there was no fear. Gertrude had gone through so much already within the walls of her home that she had no fear greater than that of remaining in helpless idleness there, alone with her own thoughts and memories. As for Janet, she had much of the nature of her aunt--much of that eager, intense sympathy and compassion for the sick and suffering which has induced women in all ages to go forth in times of dire need, and risk their lives for their stricken and afflicted brethren. So after one glance of mutual comprehension and sympathy, they both answered in one breath: "No, we will not turn back. We will go with you. Where the need is sorest, there would we be, too." "God bless you! God bless you for angels of mercy!" sobbed the poor woman, who heard their words, and knowing both Dinah and Janet, understood something of the situation, "for we be perishing like sheep here in this place, shut away from all, and with never a nurse to come nigh us. There be some rough fellows placed outside the houses to see that none go in or out, and perchance they do their best to find nurses; but at such a time as this it is small wonder if ofttimes none are to be found. And some they have brought are worse than none. The Lord protect us from the tender mercies of such!" The narrow court into which they now turned was cool in comparison with the sunny street; but there was nothing refreshing in the coolness, for fumes of every sort exhaled from the houses, and at the far end there burned a fire of resinous pine logs, the smoke from which, when it rolled down the court, was almost choking. "They say it will check the spread of the distemper to the streets beyond," said the woman, "but methinks it does as much harm as good. If the Lord help us not, we be all dead men. The cart took away a score or more of corpses last night. Pray Heaven it take not away my poor husband tonight!" The bearer of the handcart stopped at the door indicated by the woman, and lifted the stricken man in his arms. It was one of the very few doors all down that street which did not bear the ominous red cross. As Gertrude looked up and down the court her heart sank within her for pity. The houses were closed. Watchers lounged at the doors, drinking and smoking and jesting together, being by this time recklessly and brutally hardened to their office. They knew not from day to day when their own turn might come; but this knowledge seemed to have an evil rather than a sobering effect upon them. The better sort of watchmen were employed, as a rule, to keep the better sort of houses. When these crowded courts and alleys were attacked, the authorities had to send whom they could rather than whom they would. Indefatigable and courageously as they worked, the magnitude of the calamity was such that it taxed their resources to the utmost; and had it not been for the bountiful supplies of money sent in by charitable people, from the king downwards, for the relief of the city in this time of dire need, thousands must have perished from actual want, as well as those who fell victims to the plague itself. Yet do as these brave and devoted men could, the sufferings of the poor at this time were terrible. As the sound of voices was heard in the street below, windows were thrown up, and heads protruded with more or less of caution. From one of the windows thus thrown up there issued a lamentable wailing, and a woman with a white, wild face cried out in tones of passionate entreaty: "Help! help! help! good people. Ah, if that be a nurse, let her come hither. There be five dying and two dead in the house, and none but me to tend them, and methinks I am stricken to the death!" "Janet," said Dinah, with a searching glance at her niece, "methinks I must needs answer that cry. Go with this good woman, and do what thou canst for her husband. Thou dost know what is best to be done. I will come to thee anon; but thou wilt not fear to be thus left? There is but one sick in this house. The need is sorer elsewhere." "Go, I will do my best. At least I can make a poultice, and see that he is put to bed. I have medicaments in my bag. I would not hinder thee. Sure there is work for all in this terrible place!" "And this is only one of many scattered throughout the city!" breathed Gertrude softly, her heart swelling within her. Ever since she had halted before this house she had been aware of the sound of plaintive weeping and wailing proceeding from the adjoining tenement; and as Dinah moved away towards the door opposite, she asked Elizabeth Harwood what the sound meant, and if there was trouble in the next house. "Trouble?--trouble and death everywhere!" was the answer. "The man was taken away in the cart yesternight. God alone knows who is alive in the house now. There be seven little children there with their mother, but which of them be living and which dead by now no one knows. I have heard nothing of the woman's voice these many hours. Pray Heaven she be not dead--and the little helpless children all alone with the dead corpse!" "Oh, surely that could not be!" cried Gertrude. "Surely the watchman would go to them! Oh, that must not be! I will go and speak with him. He would not leave them to perish so!" The woman shook her head, and hurried up the stairs whither her husband had been carried. Her heart was too full of her own anxious misery to have room for more than a passing sympathy for the needs and troubles of others. But Gertrude could not rest. She neither followed Janet into this house nor her aunt across the street. She went to the door of the next house, upon which the red cross had been painted; and seeing her so stand before it, a man detached himself from a group hard by and asked her business, since the house was closed. "I am a nurse," answered Gertrude, boldly. "I have come to nurse the sick. Let me into this house, I pray, for I hear the need is very sore." "Sore enough, mistress," answered the man, fumbling with his key, for of course there was admittance to plague nurses and doctors into infected houses; "but if you take my advice, you'll not venture within the door. The dead cart has had four from it these last two days. Like enough by this time they are all dead. They have asked for nothing these past ten hours--not since the cart came last night." With a shudder of pity and horror, but without any personal shrinking, Gertrude signed to the man to open the door, which he proceeded to do in a leisurely manner. Then she stepped across the threshold, the door was closed behind her, and she heard the key turn in the lock. Truly her work had now begun. She was incarcerated in a plague-stricken house, and this time by her own will. For the first few seconds she stood still in the dark entry, unable to see her way before her; but soon her eyes grew used to the dim light, and she saw that there was a door on one side of the passage and a steep flight of stairs leading upwards, and it was from some upper portion of the house from which the sound of crying proceeded. Just glancing into the lower room, which she found quite empty, and which was unexpectedly clean, she mounted the rickety staircase, the wailing sound growing more distinct every step she took. The house was a very tiny one even for these small tenements, and there were only two little rooms upon the upper floor. It was from one of these that the crying was proceeding, but Gertrude could not be sure which. With a beating heart she opened the first door, and saw a sight which went to her heart. Upon a narrow bed lay two little forms wrapped in the same sheet, rigidly still, waiting their last transit to the common grave. Except for the two dead children the room was empty, and Gertrude, softly closing the door, and breathing a silent prayer, she scarce knew whether for herself, for the living, or for the dead, she opened the other, and came upon a scene, the pathos and inexpressible sadness of which made a lasting impression upon her, which even after events did not efface from her memory. There was a bed in this room too, and upon it lay the emaciated form of a woman; asleep, as the girl first thought--dead, as she afterwards quickly discovered. By her side there nestled a little child, hardly more than an infant, wailing pitifully with that plaintive, persistent cry which had attracted her attention at the outset. Three children, varying in age from four to eight, sat huddled on the floor in a corner, their tear-stained faces all turned in wondering expectancy upon the newcomer. Stretched upon the floor beside the bed was another child, so still that Gertrude felt from the first that it, too, was dead, and when she lifted up the little form, she saw the dreaded death tokens upon the waxen skin. With a prayer in her heart for grace and strength and guidance, Gertrude laid the dead child beside its dead mother--for she saw that the woman was cold and stiff in death; and then she gathered the living children round her, and taking the infant in her arms, she led them all down into the lower room, and quickly kindled the fire that was laid ready in the grate. She found nothing of any sort in the house, and the children were crying for food; but the watchman quickly provided what was needful, being, perhaps, a little ashamed of the condition in which this household had been found. Gertrude tended and fed and comforted the little ones, her heart overflowing with sympathy. They clung about her and fondled her as children will do those who have come to them in their hour of dire necessity; and as their hunger became appeased, and they grew confident of the kindness of their new friend, they told their pathetic tale with the unconscious graphic force of childhood. There had been a large household only a few days before. Father, mother, two grownup sons, and one or two daughters--evidently by a former marriage. The big brothers had gone away--probably to act as bearers or watchmen--and the little ones knew nothing of them. One of the sisters had been in service, but came home suddenly, complaining of illness, sat down in a chair, and died almost before they realized she was ill. They had kept that death a secret, had obtained a certificate of some other ailment than the distemper, and for a week all had gone on quietly, when suddenly three became ill together. Numbers of houses were shut up all round them. Theirs was reported and closed. For a few days there had been hope. Then the father sickened, and all the grownup persons had died almost together, save the mother, and had been taken away the night before last. What had happened since was dim and confused to the children. Their mother had seemed like one stunned--had hardly noticed them, or attended to their wants. Then two of them had been taken away into the other room. They had heard their mother weeping aloud for a while, but she would not let them in to her. By and by she had come back to them, and had taken the baby in her arms and lain down upon the bed. She had never moved after that--not even when little Harry had called to her, and had lain crying and moaning on the floor. The children thought she was asleep, and by and by Harry had gone to sleep too. They had slept together on the floor, huddled together in helpless misery and confusion of mind, until awakened by the ceaseless wailing of the baby, which never roused their mother. They were too much bewildered and weakened to make any attempt to call for help, and were just waiting for what would happen, when Gertrude had come amongst them like an angel of mercy. Her tears fell fast as the story was told, but the children had shed all theirs. They were comforted now, feeling as though something good had happened, and they crept about her and clung round her, begging her not to leave them. Nor had she any wish to do so. It seemed to her as though this must surely be her place for the present--amongst these helpless little ones to whom Providence had sent her in the hour of their extreme necessity. The baby was sleeping in her arms. She looked down into its tiny face, and wondered if it would be possible that its life could be saved. For a whole night it had lain at its dead mother's side. Could it have escaped the contagion? The three older children appeared well, and even grew merry as the hours wore slowly away. From time to time Gertrude looked out into the street, but there was nothing to be seen save the men on guard; and only from time to time was the silence broken by the cry of some delirious patient, or a shriek for mercy from some half-demented woman driven frantic by the terrors by which she was surrounded. When afternoon came, she prepared more food for the children, and partook of it with them, and wondered how and where she should spend the night. The infant in her arms had grown strangely still and quiet. It could not be roused, and breathed slowly and heavily. "Harry looked just like that before he went to sleep," said the eldest of the children, coming and peeping into the small waxen face; and Gertrude gave a little involuntary shiver as she thought of the four still forms lying sleeping upstairs, and wondered whether this would make a fifth for the bearers to carry forth at night. Just as the dusk began to fall, there came the sound of a slight parley without. Then the key turned in the house door, and the next minute, to Gertrude's unspeakable relief, Dinah entered the room. "My poor child, did you think I was never coming to you?" "I did not know if you could," answered Gertrude. "Oh, tell me, what must I do for all these little ones--and for the baby? Is he dying too? It is so long since he has moved. I am afraid to look at him lest I disturb him, but--but--" Dinah bent over the little form, and lifted it gently from Gertrude's arms. "Poor little lamb, its troubles are all over," she said, after a few moments. "The little ones often go like that--quite peacefully and quietly. It has not suffered at all. It has been a gentle and merciful release. You need not weep for it, my child." "I think my tears are for the living rather than for the dead," answered Gertrude, with brimming eyes. "There are but three left out of seven living yesterday, and what is to become of them?" "We must report their case to the authorities. There are numbers of poor children left thus orphaned, and it is hard to know what will become of them. I will send at once to my brother-in-law, and report the matter to him. He will know what it were best to do. Meantime I shall remain here with you. Janet is busy next door. Her patient is mending, and none besides in the house is sick. But oh, the things I have seen and heard this day! There is not one living now in the house to which I went first, and I have seen ten men and women die since I saw you last. "God alone knows how it is to end. It seems as though His hand were outstretched, and as though the whole city were doomed!" CHAPTER IX. JOSEPH'S PLAN. "Ben, boy, I am sick to death of sitting at home doing naught, and seeing naught of all the sights that be abroad, and of which men are for ever speaking. What boots it to be alive, if one is buried or shut up as we are? Art thou afraid to come forth? or shall I go alone?" "Where wilt thou go, brother?" asked Ben, looking up from a bit of wood carving upon which he was engrossed, with an eager light in his eyes. Perhaps these two young lads had felt the calamity which had befallen the city more than any one else in the house; for whilst the father, mother, sisters, and two elder sons were all hard at work doing all in their power for the relief of the sick, the younger lads were kept at home, to be as far as possible out of harm's way, and they had felt the confinement and idleness as most irksome. Their mother employed them about the house when she could, but it was not much she could find for them to do. To be sure there was some amusement to be found in watching the life on the river; for though traffic was suspended, many whole families were living on board vessels moored on the river, and hoped by this device to keep the plague away from them. Yet the time hung very heavy on their hands, and the stories of the increasing ravages of the plague could not but depress them, seeming as they did to lengthen out indefinitely the time of their captivity. Three of the sisters were practically living away from the house (of which more anon), and the loneliness of the silent house was becoming unbearable. To lads used to an active life and plenty of exercise, the distemper itself seemed a less evil than this close confinement between four walls. The bridge houses did not even possess yards or strips of garden, and without venturing out into the streets--which had for some weeks been forbidden by their father--the boys could not stir beyond the walls of their home. August had now come, a close, steaming, sultry August, and the plague was raging with a virulence that threatened to destroy the whole city. The Bills of Mortality week by week were appalling in magnitude; and yet those who knew best the condition of the lower courts and alleys were well aware that no possible record could be kept of those crowded localities, where whole households and families, even whole streets, were swept away in the course of a few days, and where there were sometimes none left to give warning and notice that there were dead to be borne away. So the registered deaths could only show a certain proportionate accuracy; for even the dead carts could keep no reckoning of the numbers they bore to the common grave, and the bearers themselves were too often stricken down in the performance of their ghastly duties, and shot by their comrades into the pit amongst those whom they had carried forth an hour before. It was small wonder that the father had forbidden his younger sons to adventure themselves in the streets, where the pestilence seemed to hang in the very air. But the magnitude of the peril was beginning to rob even the most cautious persons of any confidence in their methods, for it seemed as if those working hardest amongst the sick and dead were quite as much preserved from peril as those who shunned their neighbours and never came abroad unless dire necessity compelled them. Indeed, despite many deaths of individuals, it began to be noted that the magistrates, aldermen, examiners of health, and nurses of the plague-stricken sickened and died less, in proportion, than almost any other class. And of the physicians who remained at their posts to tend the sick, not many died, although some few here and there were stricken, and of these a certain proportion succumbed. But, as a whole, the workers who toiled with a good heart and gentle spirit amongst the sick (not just for daily bread or love of gain) fared better in the prevailing mortality than many others who held themselves aloof and lived in deadly fear of the pestilence. Wherefore it was not strange that at the last a sort of recklessness was bred amongst the citizens, and they kept themselves less close now when things were in so terrible a pass than they had done when the deaths were fewer and the conditions less fatal. James Harmer had always been one of those who had put his confidence more in the providence of God than in any merely human precautions, and although he had always insisted upon prudence and care, he had steadily discouraged in his household any of that feeling of panic or of despair which he believed had been a strong factor in the spread of the distemper in its earlier stages. He also agreed in part with Lady Scrope's views regarding the water supply of the city--the old wells and the contaminated river water. He let nothing be drunk in his house save what was supplied from the New River, and he impressed the same advice upon all his neighbours. But to return to the boys and their weariness of the shut-up life of the house. The heat had grown intolerable, their pining after fresh air and liberty was become too strong for resistance. Benjamin's eyes glowed at the very thought of escape from the region of streets and shut-up houses, and he drank in the sense of his brother's words eagerly. "Hark ye," cried Joseph, in a rapid undertone, for they did not wish their mother to overhear them, she being by many degrees more fearful than their father, as was but natural, "why should we stay pent up here day after day and week after week, when even the girls be permitted abroad, and go into the very heart of the peril? We cannot be nurses to the sick, I know right well; neither can we help to search houses, or do such like things, as the elder ones. But why do we tarry at home eating our hearts out, when the whole world is before us, and there be such wondrous things to see? "Listen, Ben. I have a plan. Let us but once get free of this house, and be our own masters, and we will wander about London as we will, and see those things of which all men be speaking. I long to look into one of those yawning pits where they shoot the dead, and to see the grass growing in the city, and to hear some of those strange preachers who go about prophesying in the streets. I long for liberty and freedom. I would sooner die of the plague at last than fret my heart out shut up here. And we may be smitten as well at home as abroad, as even father says himself." "Why, so we may; and methinks more are smitten so than those who go forth and breathe the air without!" cried Benjamin. "Our aunt lives amongst the dying, but she is not smitten; and the girls are ever in peril, but they live on, whilst others are taken. But will our father let us go forth? For I would not like to go unless he bid us." "Nay, nor I," answered Joseph quickly, for reverence for their father was a strong sentiment in all James Harmer's sons and daughters; "we will strive to win his consent and blessing to our going forth; but we need not say all that we purpose doing when we are free. For, indeed, it may well be that we shall meet with many hindrances. They say that the roads leading away from the city are all closely watched, that no infected person is able to pass, and that many sound ones are turned back lest they bring the infection with them." "Then how shall we get out?" asked Benjamin; but Joseph nodded his head wisely, and said he had a plan. Before, however, he could further enlighten his brother they heard their father's footfall on the stair, and he came in looking weary and sad, as it was inevitable that he should, coming as he did into personal contact with so much misery, sickness, and death. There was always refreshment ready for the workers at any hour of the day when they should come in to seek it. The boys rushed off to get him such things as their mother had ready, and whilst he partook of the wholesome and appetising meal prepared for him, Joseph burst out with his pent-up weariness of the shut-up life, his longing to be free of the house and the city, and his earnest desire that his father would permit him and Benjamin to go forth and shift for themselves in the country until the terrible visitation was past. The father listened with a grave face. He too began to have a great fear that the whole city was doomed to be swept away, and although upheld in his resolve to do his duty, so long as he was able, by his strong and fervent faith in the goodness and mercy of God, he was disposed to the opinion that all who remained would in turn be carried off victims to the fearful pestilence. Had he known from the beginning how terrible it would become in time, he sometimes said to himself, he would at least have made shift to send his family away; but now that they were engrossed in works of piety and charity, he could not feel it right to bid them cease their labours of love, nor did he feel any temptation to quit his own post. Yet this made him the more ready to listen to the eager petition of his boys, and to consider the project which had formed itself in the quick brain of Joseph. "Father, I have thought of it so much these past days. We are sound in health. Thou couldst get us the papers without which men say none can pass the watch upon the roads. With them we can sally forth, with a small provision of money and food, and make our way either by boat to the farm at Greenwich where the other 'prentice boys live, and where there would be a welcome for us always, or else northward to our aunt beyond Islington, who will be hungering for news of us, and who will be rejoiced, I am very sure, to give us a welcome and to hear of the welfare of all, even though we come to her from the land of the shadow of death." "Ay, verily do ye!" exclaimed the father, whose phrase Joseph had picked up and quoted. "Heaven send that my poor sister be yet numbered among the living. I know not whether the fell disease has wrought havoc beyond the limits of the city in that direction; but at the first it raged more fiercely north and west than with us, and God alone knows who are taken and who are left!" "Then, father, may we go?" asked Benjamin, eagerly. The father looked from one boy to the other with the glance of one who thinks he may be looking his last upon some loved face. Men had begun to grow used to the thought that when they left their homes in the morning they might return to them no more, or that they might return to find that one or more of their dear ones had been struck down and carried off in the course of a few hours. So terrible was the malignity of the disease, that often death supervened after a few hours, although others would linger--often in terrible suffering--for many days before death (or much more rarely, recovery) relieved them of their pain. This good man knew that if he let the lads go, he might never see them again. He or they might be victims before they met, and might see each other's face no more upon earth. Yet he did not oppose the boys' plan. He knew how bad for them was this shut-up life, and how the very sense of fret and compulsory inactivity might predispose them to the contagion. If they could once get beyond the limits of the city, they might be far safer than they could be here. It would be a relief to have them gone--to think of them as living in safety in the fresh air of the country. Moreover, it pleased him to think of sending a message of loving assurance to his favourite sister, who dwelt in the open country beyond the hamlet of Islington. He felt assured that if she still lived she would have a warm welcome for his boys; and if the lads were well provided with money and wholesome food, they had wits enough to take care of themselves for a while, until they had found some asylum. In all the surrounding villages, as he well knew, were only too many empty houses and cottages. He knew that there was risk; but there was risk everywhere, and he felt sympathy with the lads for their eager desire to get free of their prison. The mother felt more fear, but she never interfered with the decisions of her husband. Her tears fell as she packed up in very small compass a few articles of clothing and some provisions for the lads. Their father furnished them with money, the bulk of which was sewn up in their clothing, and with those health passes which were so needful for those leaving the infected city. The summer's night was really the best time in which to commence a journey. The heat of the streets by day was intolerable, the danger of encountering infected persons was greater, whilst although it was at night that the dead carts went about, these could be easily avoided, as the warning bell and mournful cry gave ample notice of their approach. Last thing of all, after the boys had partaken of an ample supper, and had shed a few natural tears at the thought that it might be the last meal ever eaten beneath the roof of the old home, the father knelt down and commended them solemnly to the care of Him in whose hands alone lay the issues of life and death. Then he blessed the boys individually, charged them to take every reasonable care, and finally escorted them down to the door, which he carefully opened, and after ascertaining that the road was quite clear, he walked with them as far as the end of the bridge, and dismissed them on their way with another blessing. Much sobered by the scenes through which they had passed, yet not a little elated by the quick and successful issue to their demand, the boys looked each other in the face by the light of the great yellow moon, and nipped each other by the hand to make sure it was not all a dream. How strange the sleeping city looked beneath that pale white light! The boys had hardly ever been abroad after nightfall, and never during this sad strange time, when even by day all was so different from what they had been used to see. Now it did indeed look like a city of the dead, for not even an idle roisterer, or a drunkard stumbling homewards with uncertain gait, was to be seen. The watchmen, sleeping or trying to sleep within the porches or upon the doorsteps of certain houses, were the only living beings to be seen; and even they were few and far between in this locality, for almost every house was shut up and empty, the inhabitants of many having fled before the distemper became so bad, and others having all died off, leaving the houses utterly vacant. "Let us go and see the house where Janet and Rebecca and Mistress Gertrude dwell," said Benjamin, as they watched their father's figure vanish in the distance, and felt themselves quite alone in the world; "perchance one of them may be waking, and may look forth from the window if we throw up a pebble. I would fain say a farewell word to them ere we go forth, for who knows whether we may see them again?" "Ay, verily, we may be dead or else they," said Joseph, but in the tone of one who has grown used to the thought. "This way then; the house lies hard by, next door to my Lady Scrope's. Who would have thought that that cross old madwoman would have turned so kindly disposed towards the poor and sick as she hath done?" There were many amongst her former friends and acquaintances who would have asked that question, had they been there to ask it. Lady Scrope had never been credited with charitable feelings; and yet it was her doing that a large house, her own property, next door to the small one she chose to inhabit, had been made over to the magistrates and authorities of the city at this time, for the housing of orphaned children whose parents had perished of the plague, and who were thrown upon the charity of strangers, or upon those entrusted with the care of the city at this crisis. True, the house was standing empty and desolate. Its tenants had fled, taking their goods with them. All that was left of plenishing belonged to Lady Scrope. Pallets were easily provided by the officers of health, and the place was speedily filled with little children, who were tenderly cared for by Gertrude, Janet, and Rebecca (who had joined her sister in this labour of love), all three having given themselves up to this work, and finding their hands too full to desire other occupation abroad. Joseph and Benjamin had of course heard all about this, and knew exactly where to find the house. It was marked with the red cross, for, as was inevitable, many of the little inmates were carried off by the fell disease after admission, and the numbers were constantly thinning and being replaced by fresh ones. But hitherto the nurses themselves had been spared, and toiled on unremittingly at their self-chosen work. There was no watchman at the door as the boys stole up, but they had scarcely been there ten seconds before a window was thrown up, and Janet's voice was heard exclaiming, "Andrew, art thou yet returned?" "There is nobody here, sister," answered Joseph, "save Ben and me. We are come to say farewell, for we are going forth this night from the city, to seek safety with our aunt in Islington. Can we do aught for you ere we go?" "Alas, it is the dead cart of which we have need tonight," answered Janet. "We sent the watchman for physic, but it is needed no longer. The little ones are dead already--three of them, and only one ill this morning. "Ah, brothers, glad am I to hear ye be going. God send you safety and health; and forget not to pray for us in the city when ye are far away. May He soon see fit to remove His chastening hand! It is hard to see the little ones suffer." Janet's voice was quiet and calm, but Benjamin burst into tears at the sound of her words, and at the thought of the little dead children; but she leaned out and said kindly: "Nay, nay, weep not, Ben, boy; let us think that they are taken in mercy from the evil to come. But linger not here, dear brothers. Who knows that contagion may not dwell in the very air? Go forth with what speed you may. "Ah, there is the bell! The cart is on its way! And here comes good Andrew back. Now he will do all that we need. Fare you well, brothers. Rebecca is sleeping tonight, and I would not wake her. I will give her your farewell love tomorrow." She waved them away, and they withdrew; but a species of fascination kept them hanging round the spot. Moreover, they feared to meet the death cart in that narrow thoroughfare, and the porch of the church of Allhallowes the Less was in close proximity. The iron gate was open, and they were quickly able to hide themselves in the porch, from whence by peeping out they could see all that passed. Nearer and nearer came the sound of the rumbling wheels and the bell, and now the cry, "Bring forth your dead! bring forth your dead!" was clearly to be heard through the still air. Round the corner came the strange conveyance, drawn by two weary-looking horses; and at some signal from the inmates it drew up at the door of the house in front of which the boys had been standing a minute before. The watchman brought out three little shrouded forms. They were laid upon the top of the awful pile, and the cart with its heavy load rumbled away, the bell no longer ringing, because there was no room for more upon that journey. The boys stood with hands closely locked together, for although they had heard of these things before, they had never seen the sight. Their bedroom at home looked out upon the river, and the dead cart only went about at night. They trembled at the thought which came to them, that had they been numbered amongst the dead during this terrible visitation they too had been carried in that fashion to their last resting place. "Come, Ben, let us be going," said Joseph, recovering himself first; "we need not linger in the city if we like it not. There may be strange things to see in all truth; but if we have no stomach for them, why let us make our way northward with all speed. We can leave all this behind us by daybreak an we will." Taking hands, and feeling their courage return as they walked on, the brothers passed along the silent streets. Sometimes a window would be opened from above, and a doleful voice would cry aloud in grief or anguish of mind, or some command would be shouted to the watchman beneath, or there would be a piercing cry for the dead cart as it rumbled by. The boys at last grew used to the sound of the bell and the wheels. Go where they would they could not avoid hearing one or another as the men went about their dismal errand. It seemed less terrible after a time than it had done at first, and the bold spirit within them came back. They wended their way northward, avoiding the narrower thoroughfares and keeping to the broader streets. Even these were often very narrow and ill smelling, so that the brothers had recourse to their vinegar bottle or swallowed a spoonful of Venice treacle before venturing down. Once they were forced to turn aside out of their way to avoid a heap of corpses that had been brought out from a narrow alley to wait for the cart. They had heard of such things before, but to see them was tenfold more terrible. Yet the spirit of adventure took possession of them as they passed along, and they were less afraid even of the most terrible things than they had been of lesser ones at starting. In passing near to the little church of St. Margaret's, Lothbury, they were attracted by the sound of a voice crying out as if in excitement or fear. Being filled with curiosity in spite of their fears, they turned in the direction of the sound, and came upon a man clutching hard at the railings of the little churchyard, which like all others in that part was now filled to overflowing, and closed for burials, the dead being taken to the great pits dug in various places. Night though it was, there was a small crowd of persons gathered round the railings, all peering in with eager faces, whilst the voice of the man at the corner kept calling out: "See! see! there she goes! She stands there by yon tall tombstone waving her arms over her head! Now she is wringing her hands, and weeping again. "O my wife, my wife! do you not know me? I am here, Margaret, I am here! Weep not for the children who are dead; weep for unhappy me, who am left alive. Ay, it is for the living that men should weep and howl. The dead are at peace--their troubles are over; but our agony is yet to come. "Margaret! Margaret! look at me! pity me! "Ah, she will not hear! She turns away! See, she is gliding hither and thither seeking the graves of her children-- "Margaret! I could not help it. They would not let them lie beside thee! They took them away in the cart. I would have sprung in after them, but they held me back. "Ah, woe is me! woe is me! There is no place for me either among the living or the dead. All turn from me alike!" The tears rolled down the poor man's face, his voice was choked with sobs. He still continued to point and to cry out, and to address some imaginary being whom he declared was wandering amongst the tombs. The boys pressed near to look, for some in the crowd suddenly made exclamations as though they had caught a glimpse of the phantom; but look as they would the brothers saw nothing, and Joseph asked of an elderly man in the little crowd what it all meant. "Methinks it means only that yon poor fellow has lost his reason," he answered, shaking his head. "His wife was one of the first to die when the distemper broke out; and men called it only a fever, though some said she had the tokens on her. She was buried here. And it is but a week since the last of his children was taken--six in two weeks; and he has escaped out of his house, and wanders about the streets, and comes here every night, saying that he sees his dead wife, and that she is looking for her children, and cannot find them because they are lying in the plague pit. He is distraught, poor fellow; but many men gather night by night to hear him. "For my part, I will come no more. Men are best at home in their own houses; and you lads had best go home as fast as you can. It is no place and no hour for boys to be abroad." Joseph and Benjamin said a civil goodnight to the man, and taking hands bent their steps northward once again. They were now close to the open Moor Fields; and although there was still another region of houses to be passed upon the other side, they felt that when once they had passed the gate and the walls they should have left the worst of the peril behind them. CHAPTER X. WITHOUT THE WALLS. Only one trifling incident befell the boys before they found themselves without the city gate. They were proceeding down Coleman Street towards Moor Gate, where they knew they should have to show their pass, and perhaps have some slight trouble in getting through, and were rehearsing such things as they had decided to tell the guard at the gate, when the sound of a dismal howling smote upon their ears, and they paused to look about them, for the street was very still, and almost every house seemed deserted and empty. The sound came again, and Joseph remarked: "'Tis some poor dog who perchance has lost master and home. There be only too many such in the city they say. They throw them by scores into the river to be rid of them; but I have heard father say that it is an ill thing to do, and likely to spread the contagion instead of checking it. Alive, the poor beasts do no ill; but their carcasses poison both the water and the air. Beshrew me, but he makes a doleful wailing!" Going on cautiously through the darkness, for the moon was veiled behind some clouds, the brothers presently saw, lying just outside a shut-up house, a long still form wrapped in a winding sheet, put out ready for one of the many carts that passed up the street on the way to the great pits in Bunhill and Finsbury Fields. Whether the corpse was that of a man or a woman the boys could not tell. They made a circuit round it to avoid passing near. But beside the still figure squatted a little dog of the turnspit variety, and he was awakening the echoes of the quiet street by his lugubrious howls. Both the brothers were fond of animals, and particularly of dogs, and they paused after having passed by, and tried to get the creature to come to them; but though he paused for a moment in his wailing, and even wagged his tail as though in gratitude for the kind words spoken, he would not leave his post beside the corpse, and the boys had perforce to go on their way. "The dumb brute could teach a lesson in charity to many a human being," remarked Joseph, gravely; "he will not leave his dead master, and they too often flee away even from the living. Poor creature, how mournful are his cries! I would that we could comfort him." At the gate they were stopped and questioned. They told a straightforward and truthful tale; their pass was examined and found correct; and their father's name being widely known and respected for his untiring labours in the city at this time, the boys were treated civilly enough and wished God speed and a safe return. They were the more quickly dismissed that the sound of wheels rumbling up to the gate made itself heard, and the guard darted hastily away into his shelter. "These plague carts will be the death of us, passing continually all the night through with their load," he said. "Best be gone before it comes through, lads. It carries death in its train." The boys were glad enough to make off, and found themselves for the time being free of houses in the pleasant open Moor Fields, which were familiar to them as the favourite gathering place of shopmen and apprentices on all high days and holidays. The moon shone down brightly again, although near her setting now; but before long the dawn would begin to lighten in the east, and the boys cared no whit for the semi-darkness of a summer's night. Behind them still came the rumble of wheels, and they drew aside to let the cart pass with its dreadful cargo. Behind it ran a small black object, and Benjamin exclaimed: "It is the little dog! O brother, let us follow and see what becomes of him!" The strange curiosity to see the burying place, which tempted only too many to their death in those perilous days, was upon Joseph at that moment. He desired greatly to see one of those plague pits, and to watch the emptying of the cart at its mouth. Forgetting their father's warnings, the brothers ran quickly after the cart, which was easily kept in view, and soon saw it halt and turn round at a spot where they could discern the outline of a great mound of earth, and the black yawning mouth of what they knew must be the pit. Half terrified, half fascinated, they gripped each other by the hand and crept step by step nearer. They took care to keep to the windward of the pit, and were getting very near to it when the air was rent by another of the doleful cries which they had heard before, but which sounded so strange and mournful here that they stopped short in terror at the noise. It seemed even to affect the nerves of the bearers, for one of them exclaimed: "It is that cur again, who has left the marks of his teeth in my hand. If I could but get near him with my cudgel, he should never howl again." "I thought we had rid ourselves of the brute, but he must have followed us. A plague upon his doleful voice! They say that it bodes ill to hear a dog's howl at night. Perchance he will leap down into the pit after his master. We will take good care he comes not forth again if he does that." With these words the rough fellows turned to the cart, which was now at the edge of the pit, and finished the rude burial which was all that could in those days be given to the dead. Every now and then one of the men would aim a heavy stone at the poor dog, who sat on the edge of the pit howling dismally. The creature, however, was never hit, for he kept a respectful distance from his enemies. Their work done, the men got into the cart and drove away, without having noticed the two boys crouching beside the pile of soil in the shadow. The dog began running backwards and forwards along the edge of the pit, which being only lately dug was still deep, though filling up very fast in these terrible days of drought and heat. The boys rose up and called to him kindly. He did not notice them at first, but finally came, and looked up in their faces with appealing eyes, as though he begged of them to give him back his master. "Touch him not, Ben," said Joseph to his brother, who would have taken the dog into his embrace, "he has been in a plague stricken house. Let us coax him to yon pool, and wash him there; and then, if he will go with us, we will take him and welcome. It may be he will be a safeguard from danger; and it would be sorrowful indeed to leave him here." The dog was divided in mind between watching the pit's mouth and going with the kindly-spoken boys, who coaxed and called to him; but at last it seemed as though the loneliness of the place, and the natural instinct of the canine mind to follow something human, prevailed over the other instinct of watching for the return of his master from this strange resting place. Perhaps the journey in the cart and the promiscuous burial had confused the poor beast's mind as to whether indeed his master lay there at all. With many wistful glances backwards, he still followed the boys; and when they paused at length beside a spring of fresh water, he needed little urging to jump in and refresh himself with a bath, emerging thence in better spirits and ravenously hungry, as they quickly found when they opened their wallet and partook of a part of the excellent provisions packed up for them by their mother. The young travellers were by this time both tired and sleepy, and finding near by a soft mossy bank, they lay down and were quickly asleep, whilst the dog curled himself up contentedly at their feet and slept also. When the boys awoke the sun was up, although it was still early morning. They were bewildered for a few moments to know where they were, but memory quickly returned to them, and with it a sense of exhilaration at being no longer cooped up within the walls of a house, but out in the open country, with the world before them and the plague-stricken city behind. Even the presence of the dog, who proved to be a handsome and intelligent member of his race, black and tan in colour, with appealing eyes and a quick comprehension of what was spoken to him, added greatly to the pleasure of the lads. They gave their new companion the name of Fido, as a tribute to his affection for his dead master; but they were very well pleased that he did not carry his fidelity to the pass of remaining behind by the great pit when they started forth to pursue their way to their aunt's house beyond Islington. Fido ran backwards and forwards for a while whining and looking pathetically sorrowful; but after the boys had coaxed and caressed him, and had explained many times over that his master could not possibly come back, he seemed to resign himself to the inevitable, and trotted at their heels with drooping tail, but with gratitude in his eyes whenever they paused to caress him or give him a kind word. And they were glad enough of his company along the road, for from time to time they met groups of very rough-looking men prowling about as though in search of plunder. Some of these fellows eyed the wallets carried by the boys with covetous glances; but on such occasions Fido invariably placed himself in front of his young masters, and with flashing eyes and bristling back plainly intimated that he was there to protect them, whilst the gleaming rows of shining teeth which he displayed when he curled up his lips in a threatening snarl seemed to convince all parties that it was better not to provoke him to anger. The more open parts of the region without the walls looked very strange to the boys as they journeyed onwards. Numbers of tents were to be seen dotted about Finsbury and Moor Fields and whole families were living there in the hope of escaping contagion. Country people from regions about came daily with their produce to supply the needs of these nomads; and it was curious to see the precautions taken on both sides to avoid personal contact. The villagers would deposit their goods upon large stones set up for the purpose; and after they had retired to a little distance, some persons from the tents or scattered houses would come and take the produce, depositing payment for it in a jar of vinegar set there to receive it. After it had thus lain a short time, the vendor would come and take it thence; but some were so cautious that they would not place it in purse or pocket till they had passed it through the fire of a little brazier which they had with them. Nor was it to be wondered at that the country folks were thus cautious, for the contagion had spread throughout all the surrounding districts, and every village had its tale of woe to tell. At first the people had been kind and compassionate enough in welcoming and harbouring apparently sound persons fleeing from the city of destruction; but when again and again it happened that the wayfarer died that same night of the plague in the house which had received him, and infected many of those who had showed him kindness, so that sometimes a whole family was swept away in two or three days, it was no wonder that they were afraid of offering hospitality to wayfarers, and preferred that these persons should encamp at a distance from them, though they were willing to supply them with the necessaries of life at reasonable charges. It must be spoken to the credit of the country people at this time, that they did not raise the price of provisions, as might have been expected, seeing the risk they ran in taking them to the city. There was no scarcity and hardly any advance in price throughout the dismal time of visitation. This was doubtless due, in part, to the wise and able measures taken by the magistrates and city corporations; but it also redounds to the credit of the villagers, that they did not strive to enrich themselves through the misfortunes of their neighbours. The boys were glad to purchase fruit and milk for a light breakfast; and their fresh open faces and tender years seemed to give them favour wherever they went. They were not shunned, as some travellers found themselves at this time, but were admitted to several farm houses on their way, and regaled plentifully, whilst they told their tale to a circle of breathless listeners. Sometimes they were stopped upon the way by the men told off to watch the roads, and turn back any coming from the city who had not the proper pass of health. But the boys, being duly provided with this, were always suffered to proceed after some parley. They began, however, to understand how difficult a thing it had now become to escape from the infected city; and several times they saw travellers turned back because their passes were dated a few days back, and the guard declared it impossible to know what infection they had encountered since. Very sad indeed were these poor creatures at being, as it were, sent back to their death. For it began to be rumoured all about the city that not a living creature would escape who remained there. It was said that God's judgments had gone forth, and that the whole place would be given over to destruction, even as Sodom, and that none who remained in it would be left alive. This sort of talk made the brothers very anxious and sorrowful, but, as Joseph sought to remind his brother, the people who said these things had nothing better to go by than the prognostications of old women or quacks and astrologers, whom their father had taught them to disbelieve. He had always taught them that God alone knew the future and the thing that He would do, and that it was folly and presumption on the part of man to seek to penetrate His counsels, and venture to prophesy things which He had not revealed. So they plucked up heart, these two youthful wayfarers, firmly believing that God would take care of their father and all those who were working in the cause of mercy and charity in the great city, and that they could leave the issues of these things in His hands. Since the day was very hot, and they were somewhat weary with their long walk and short night, they lay down at noontide in a little wood, not more than three miles from their aunt's house in Islington, and there they slept again, with Fido at their feet, until the sun was far in the west, and they were ready to finish their journey in the cool freshness of the evening. They had come by no means the nearest way, but had fetched a wide circuit, so as to avoid, as far as possible, all regions of outlying houses. Time was no particular object to them, so that they reached their destination by nightfall; and now they were quite in the open country, and delighting in the pure air and the rural sights and sounds. Yet even here all was not so happy and smiling as appeared from the face of nature. The corn was standing ripe for the sickle, but in too many districts there were not hands enough to reap it. One beautiful field of wheat which the brothers passed was shedding the golden grain from the ripened ears, and flocks of birds were gathering it up. When they passed the farmstead they saw the reason for this. Not a sign of life was there about the place. No cattle lowed, no dog barked; and an old crone who sat by the wayside with a bundle of ripe ears in her lap shook her head as she saw the wondering faces of the boys, and said: "All dead and gone! all dead and gone! Alive one day--dead the next! The plague carried them off, every one of them, harvest hands and all. They say it was the men who came to cut the corn that brought it. But who can tell? They got yon field in"--pointing to one where the golden stubble was to be seen short and compact--"but half were dead ere ever it was down; and then the sickness fell upon the house, and of those who did not fly not one remains. Lord have mercy upon us! We be all dead men if He come not to our aid. Who knows whose turn may come next?" Truly the shadow of death seemed everywhere. But the boys were so used to dismal tales of wholesale devastation that one more or less did not seem greatly to matter. Perhaps the contrast was the more sharp out here between the smiling landscape and the silent, shut-up house; but the chief fear which beset them was lest their kind aunt should have been taken by death, in which case they scarcely knew what would become of themselves. They hastened their steps as they entered the familiar lane where nestled the thatched cottage in which their aunt had her abode. Mary Harmer was their father's youngest and favourite sister. Once she had made one of the home party on the bridge; but that was long before the boys could remember. That was in the lifetime of their grandparents, and before the old people resigned their business to the able hands of their son James, and came into the country to live. The grandfather of Joseph and Benjamin had built this cottage, and he and his wife had lived in it from that time till the day of their death. Their daughter Mary remained still in the pretty, commodious place--if indeed she had not died during the time of the visitation. The children all loved their Aunt Mary, and esteemed a visit to her house as one of the greatest of privileges. Benjamin, who was rather delicate, had once passed six months together here, and was called by Mary Harmer "her boy." He grew excited as he marked every familiar turn in the shady lane; and when at last the thatched roof of the rose-covered cottage came in sight, he uttered a shout of excitement and ran hastily forward. The diamond lattice panes were shining with their accustomed cleanliness. There was no sign of neglect about the bright little house. The door stood open to the sunshine and the breeze; and at the sound of Benjamin's cry, a figure in a neat cotton gown and large apron appeared suddenly in the doorway, whilst a familiar voice exclaimed: "Now God be praised! it is my own boy. Two of them! Thank Heaven for so much as this!" and running down the garden path, Mary Harmer folded both the lads in her arms, tears coursing down her cheeks the while. "God bless them! God bless them! How I have longed for news of you all! What news from home bring you, dear lads? I tremble almost to ask, but be it what it may, two of you are alive and well; and in times like these we must needs learn to say, 'Thy will be done!'" "We are all alive, we are all well!" cried Joseph, hastening to relieve the worst of his aunt's fears. "Some say ours is almost the only house in London where there be not one dead. I scarce know if that be true. One or two of us have been sick, and some say that Janet and Dan have both had a touch of the distemper; but they soon were sound again. They all go about amongst the sick. Father has been one of the examiners all the time through; and though they only appoint them for a month, he will not give up his office. He says that so long as he and his family are preserved, so long will he strive to do his duty towards his fellow men. There be many like him--our good Lord Mayor for one; and my Lord Craven, who will not fly, as almost all the great ones have done, but stays to help to govern the city wisely, and to see that the alms are distributed aright to the poor at this season. "But there was naught for us to do. We were too young to be bearers or searchers, and boys cannot tend the sick. So we grew weary past bearing of the shut-up house, and yestereve our father gave us leave to sally forth and seek news of thee, good aunt. And oh, we are right glad to find ourselves out of the city and safe with thee!" Joseph spoke on, because Mary Harmer was weeping so plenteously with joy and gratitude that she had no words in which to answer him. She had not dared to hope that she should see again any of the dear faces of her kinsfolk. True, the distemper was yet raging fiercely, and none could say when the end would come; but it was much to know that they had lived in safety through these many weeks. It seemed to the pious woman as though God had given her a sort of pledge of His special mercy to her and hers, and that He would not now fail them. She led the boys into her pretty, cheerful cottage, and set them down to the table, where she quickly had a plentiful meal set before them. Fido's pathetic story was told, and he was caressed and fed in a fashion that altogether won his heart. He made them all laugh at his method of showing gratitude; for he walked up to the fire before which a bit of meat was cooking, and plainly intimated his desire to be allowed to turn the spit if they would give him the needful convenience. This being done by the handy Benjamin, he set to his task with the greatest readiness, and the boys quite forgot all their sorrowful thoughts in the entertainment of watching Fido turn the spit. Long did they sit at table, eating with the healthy appetite of growing lads, and answering their aunt's minute questions as to the welfare of every member of the household. Greatly was she interested in the home for desolate children provided by Lady Scrope, and ordered by her nieces and Gertrude. She told the boys that her house had often been used to shelter homeless and destitute persons, whom charity forbade her to send away. Just now she was alone; but even then she was not idle, for all round in the open fields and woods persons of all conditions were living encamped, and some of these had hardly the necessaries of life. Out of her own modest abundance, Mary Harmer supplied food and clothing to numbers of poor creatures, who might otherwise be in danger of perishing; and she bid the boys be ready to help her in her labour of love, because she had ofttimes more to do than one pair of hands could accomplish, and her little serving girl had run off in alarm the very first time she opened her door to a poor sick lady with an infant in her arms, who had escaped from the city only to die out in the country. It was not the plague that carried her off, but lung disease of long standing, and the infant did not survive its mother many days. "But it frightened Sally away, poor child, just as if it had been the sickness; and I have since heard that she was taken with it a month ago in her own home, and that every one there died within three days. These be terrible times! But we know they are sent by God, and that He will help us through them; and surely, I think, it cannot be His will that we turn a deaf ear to the plaints of the afflicted, and think of naught but our own safety. I have work and enough to do, and will find you enough to fill your hands, boys. It was a happy thought indeed which sent you two hither to me." CHAPTER XI. LOVE IN DIFFICULTIES. "It means that I am a ruined man, my poor girl!" "Ruined! O father, how can that be? Methought you were a man of much substance. Mother always said so." Gertrude looked anxiously into the careworn face of her father, which had greatly changed during the past weeks. He paid her occasional visits in her self-chosen home, being one of those who had ceased to fear contagion, and went about almost without precaution, from sheer indifference to the long-continued peril. He had been a changed man ever since the melancholy deaths of his son and his wife; but today a darker cloud than any she had seen there before rested upon his brow, and the daughter was anxious to learn the reason of it. This it was which had wrung from the Master Builder the foregoing confession. "Your poor mother was partly right, and partly wrong. I might have been a rich man, I might be a rich man even now--terrible as is the state of trade in this stricken city--had it not been that she would have me adventure beyond my means in her haste to see me wealthy before my fellows. And the end of it is that I stand here today a ruined man!" Gertrude held in her arms a little child, over whom she bent from time to time to assure herself that it slept. Her face had grown pale and thin during her long confinement between the walls of this house; yet it was a happier and more contented face than it had been wont to be in the days when she lived in luxurious idleness at her mother's side. She looked many years older than she had done then, but there was a beauty and sweet serenity about her appearance now which had not been visible in the days of old. "What has happened during this sad time to ruin you, dear father?" asked Gertrude gently, guessing that it would ease his heart to talk of his troubles. "Is it the sudden stoppage of all trade?" "That has been serious enough. It would have done much harm had that been the only thing, but there be many, many other causes. Thou art too young and unversed in the ways of business to understand all; but I was not content to grow rich in the course of business alone. I had ventures of all sorts afloat--on sea and on land; and through the death of patrons, through the sudden stoppage of all trade, numbers and numbers of these have come to no good. My money is lost; my loans cannot be recovered. Men are dead or fled to whom I looked for payment. Half-finished houses are thrown back on my hands, since half London is empty. And poor Frederick's debts are like the sands upon the seashore. I cannot meet them, but I cannot let others suffer for his imprudence and folly. The old house on the bridge will have to go. I must needs sell it so soon as a purchaser can be found. It may be I shall have to hand it over to one of Frederick's creditors bodily. I had thought to end my days there in peace, with my children's children round me. But the Almighty is dealing very bitterly with me. Wife and son are taken away, and now the old home must follow!" Gertrude, who knew his great love for the house in which he had been born, well understood what a fearful wrench this would be, and her heart overflowed with compassion. "O father! must it be so? Is there no way else? Methought you had stores of costly goods laid by in your warehouses. Surely the sale of those things would save you from this last step!" The Master Builder smiled a little bitterly. "Truly is it said that wealth takes to itself wings in days of adversity. I myself thought as you do, child--at least in part; and today I visited my warehouses, to look over my goods and see what there were to fetch when men will dare to buy things which have lain within the walls of this doomed city all these months. I had the keys of the place. I myself locked them up when the plague forced me to close my warehouse and dismiss my men. I saw all made sure, as I thought, with my own eyes. But what think you I found there today?" "O father! what?" asked Gertrude, and yet she divined the answer all too well; for she had heard stories of robbery and daring wickedness even during this season of judgment and punishment which prepared her for the worst. "That the whole place had been plundered; that there was nothing left of any price whatever. Thieves have broken in during this time of panic, and have despoiled me of the value of thousands of pounds. Whilst my mind has been full of other matters, my worldly wealth has been swept away. I stand here before you a ruined man. And like enough the very miscreants who have used this time of public calamity for plunder and lawlessness may be lying by this time in the common grave. But that will not give my property back to me." "Alas, father, these are indeed evil days! But has no watch been kept upon the streets that such acts can be done by the evil disposed? Is all property in the city at the mercy of the violent and wicked?" "Only too much has vanished that same way, as I have heard from many. Some owners are themselves gone where they will need their valuables no more, and others were careful to remove all they had to their own houses, or they themselves lived over their goods and could guard them by their presence. That is where my error lay. I gave your mother her will in this. She liked not the shop beneath, and I stored my goods elsewhere. Poor woman, she is dead and gone; we will speak no hard things of her weaknesses and follies. But had she lived to see this day, she had grievously lamented her resolve to have naught about her to remind her of buying and selling." "Ah, poor mother! I often think it was the happiest thing for her to be taken ere these fearful things came to pass. The terror would well nigh have driven her distracted. Methinks she would have died of sheer fright. But, father, is all lost past recovery? Can none of the watch or of the constables tell you aught, or help you to recover aught?" "Ah, child, in these days of death, who is to know so much as where to carry one's questions? Watchmen and constables have died and changed a score of times in the past two months. The magistrates do their best to keep order in the city, but who can fight against the odds of such a time as this? The very men employed as watchmen may be the thieves themselves. They have to take the services of almost any who offer. It is no time to pick and choose. I carried my story to the Lord Mayor himself, and he gave me sympathy and pity; but to look for the robbers is a hopeless task. It is most like that the plague pits have received them ere now. The mortality in the lower parts of the city is more fearful than it has ever been, and it seems as though the summer heats would never end. Belike I shall be taken next, and then it will matter little that my fortune has taken unto itself wings." Gertrude came and bent over him with a soft caress. "Say not so, dear father. God has preserved us all this while. Let us not distrust His love and goodness now." "It might be the greater mercy," answered the Master Builder in a depressed voice. "I am too old to start life again with nothing but my broken credit for capital. As for you, child, your future is assured. I could leave you happy in that thought. You would want for nothing." Gertrude raised her eyes wonderingly to her father's face. She had laid the sleeping child in its cot, and had taken a place at her father's feet. "What mean you, father?" she asked. "I have only you in the wide world now. If you were to die, I should be both orphaned and destitute. What mean you by speaking of my future thus? Whom have I in the wide world besides yourself?" The father passed his hand over her curly hair, and answered with a sigh and a smile: "Surely, child, thou dost know by this time that the heart of Reuben Harmer is all thine own. He worships the very ground on which thou dost tread. His father and I have spoken of it. Fortune has dealt more kindly with our neighbours than with me. Good James Harmer has laid by money, while I have adventured it rashly in the hope of large returns. This calamity has but checked his work for these months; when the scourge is past, he will reopen business once more, and will find himself but little the poorer. He is a wiser man than I have been; and his wife and sons have all been helpful to him. The love of Reuben Harmer is my assurance for thy future welfare. Thou wilt never want so long as they have a roof over their heads. "Nay, now what ails thee, child? Why dost thou spring up and look at me like that?" For Gertrude's usually tranquil face was ablaze now with all manner of conflicting emotions. She seemed for a moment almost too agitated to speak, and when she could command herself there were traces of great emotion in her voice. "Father, father!" she cried, "how can you thus shame me? You must know with what unmerited scorn and contumely Reuben was treated by poor mother when it was we who were rich and they who were (in her belief, at least) poor. She would scarce let him cross the threshold of our house. I have tingled with shame at the way in which she spoke of and to him. Frederick openly insulted him at pleasure. Every slight was heaped upon him; and he was once told to his very face that he might look elsewhere for a wife, for that my fortune was to win me the hand of some needy Court gallant. Yes, father, I heard with my own ears those very words spoken--save that the term 'needy' was added in mine own heart. Oh, I could have shrunk into the earth with shame. And after all this, after all these insults and aspersions heaped upon him in the day of our prosperity--am I to be made over to him penniless and needy, without a shilling of dowry? Am I to be thrown upon his generosity in my hour of poverty, when I was denied to him in my day of supposed wealth? "Father, father! I cannot, I will not permit it. I can work for my own bread if needs must be. But I will not owe it to the generosity of Reuben Harmer, after all that has passed. I should be humbled to the very dust!" The Master Builder looked at his daughter in amaze. He had never seen Gertrude quite so moved before. "Why, child," he exclaimed in astonishment. "I always thought that thou hadst a liking for the youth!" Then at that word Gertrude burst suddenly into tears and cried: "I love him as mine own soul, and I am not ashamed to own it. But that is the very reason why I will have none of him now. I will not be thrown upon his generosity like a bundle of damaged goods. Let him seek a wife who can bring him a modest fortune with her, and who has never been scornfully denied to him before. O father! can you not see that I can never consent to be his now? "O mother, mother! why did you do me this ill?" The father felt that the situation had got beyond him. Never much versed in the ways of women, he was fairly puzzled by his daughter's strange method of taking his confidence. He knew, of course, of the tactics of his wife, which he had deplored at the time, though he had been unable to bring her to a better frame of mind; but since the young people liked each other, and since madam was in her grave, it seemed absurd to let a shadow stand between them and their happiness. Perhaps if left to herself Gertrude would reach that conclusion of her own accord, and the Master Builder rose to go without pressing the matter further. Gertrude, left alone, was weeping silently and bitterly beside the child's cot, when she was aware of a little short laugh almost at her elbow, and a familiar voice said in sharp accents: "Good child! I like a woman with a spirit of her own. Go on as you have begun, and don't let him think he is to have it all his own way. Lovers are all very well, but husbands soon show their wives how cheap they hold them when they have won them all too cheap. Throw him aside in scorn! Let him not think or see that you care a snap of the fingers for him. That will rivet the fetters all the faster; and when you have got him like a tame bear at the end of a chain--why then you can make up your mind at leisure what you will end by doing." Gertrude sprang up suddenly, and faced Lady Scrope with flushed cheeks and glowing eyes. The little witch-like woman with her black-handled stick and her mobcap was no unfrequent visitor to this shut-up house. There was a communication between the two dwellings by means of a door in the cellars, and all this while curiosity, or some better motive, had prompted the eccentric old woman to come to and fro between her own luxurious house and this, paying visits to the devoted girls, and by turns terrifying and charming the children. Gertrude had been interested from the first by the piquant individuality of the old aristocrat, and was a decided favourite with her. It was plain now that she had been listening to the conversation between father and daughter, a thing so characteristic of her curiosity and even of her benevolence that Gertrude hardly so much as resented it. Nevertheless, having a spirit of her own, and being by no means prepared to be dictated to in these matters, some hot words escaped her lips almost before she knew, and were answered by Lady Scrope by an amused peal of her witch-like laughter. "Tut! tut! tut! Hoity toity! but she is in a temper, is she, my lady? Well a good thing too. Your saints are insipid unless they can call up a spice of the devil on occasion! Oh, don't you be afraid of me, child. I've known all about you and young Harmer this long time. I agree with your late mother, that you could do better; but with all the world topsy turvy as it is now, we must take what we can get; and that young man is estimable without doubt, and a bit of a hero in his way. I don't blame you for loving him. It's the way with maids, and will be to the end of time, I take it. All I say is, don't throw yourself away too fast. Show a proper pride. Keep him dangling and fearing, rather than hoping too much. Show him that he can't have you just for the asking. Why, child, I have kept a dozen fools hanging round me for a twelvemonth together sometimes; but I only married when I was tired of the game, and when I knew I had made sure of a captive who would not rebel. I swore in church to obey poor Scrope; but, bless you, he obeyed me like a lamb to the last day of his life--and was all the better for it." Lady Scrope's reminiscences and bits of worldly wisdom were not much more to Gertrude's taste than her father's had been. It was not pride, but a sense of humiliation and shame, which kept her from facing the thought of marriage with Reuben now that she was poor, when she had been scornfully denied to him when she was thought to be a well-dowered maiden. The idea of keeping him dangling after her in suspense was about the last that would ever have entered her head. Her feeling was one of profound humiliation and unworthiness. Her mother's bitter words could never be forgotten by her; and after what her father had told her of his ruined state, it appeared to her simply impossible that she should let Reuben take possession of her and her future when she could bring nothing in return. But she could not speak of these things to Lady Scrope; and finding her favourite irresponsive and reserved, the dame shrugged her shoulders and passed on to another room, where the children were soon heard to utter shrieks and gasps of mingled delight and terror at the stories she told them, which stories invariably fascinated them to an extraordinary degree, yet left them with a sense of undefined horror that was half delightful, half terrible. They all thought that she was a witch, and that she could spirit any of them away to fairy land. But since she brought sweetmeats in her capacious pockets, and had an endless fund of stories at her disposal, her visits were always welcomed, and she had certainly shown herself capable of a most unsuspected benevolence at this crisis, in presenting this house to the authorities for such a purpose, and in contributing considerably to the maintenance of the desolate little inmates. She liked to hear their dismal stories almost as well as they liked to hear hers. She made a point of visiting every fresh batch of children, after they had been duly fumigated and disinfected, and she seemed to take a horrible and unnatural delight in the ghastly details of desolation and death which were revealed in the artless narratives of the children. She was one of those who, knowing much of the fearful corruption of the times, were fond of prognosticating this judgment as a sweeping away of the dregs of the earth; although she still maintained that had the water supply been purer and differently arranged, the judgment of Heaven would have had to seek another medium. For three or four days Gertrude lived in a state of feverish expectancy and subdued excitement. She had fancied from her father's tone in speaking that there had been some talk of a betrothal between him and his neighbour, and that Reuben might take her consent for granted. The idea made her restless and unhappy. She wished the ordeal of refusing him over. She believed she was right in taking this step; but it was a hard one, and she was sometimes afraid of her own courage. The more she thought of the matter the more she convinced herself that Reuben's love was one of compassion rather than true affection. He had almost ceased his attentions in her mother's lifetime, and had been very reserved in his intercourse of late. Doubtless if he heard of her father's ruin, generosity would make him strive to do all that he could for her in her changed circumstances. It would be like him then to step forward and avow himself ready to marry her. But it was out of the question for her to consent. She wished the matter settled and done with; she wished the irrevocable words spoken. And yet when at dusk one evening Reuben suddenly stood before her, she felt her heart beating to suffocation, and wished that she had any reasonable excuse for fleeing from him. His visits to the house were not frequent; he was too busy to make them so. But from time to time he brought orphaned children to the home of shelter, or took away from it some of those for whom other homes had been found with their kinsfolk in other places. Tonight he had brought in three little destitute orphans; but having given them over into the care of his sisters, he went in search of Gertrude, who was with the youngest of the children in a separate room, and, having sung them all to sleep, was sitting in the window thinking her own thoughts. She knew what was coming when she saw Reuben's face, and braced herself to meet it. Reuben was very quiet and self-restrained--so self-restrained that she thought she read in his manner an indication that her suspicion was correct, and that it was pity rather than love which prompted his proposal of marriage. As a matter of fact Reuben was more in love with Gertrude now than he had ever been in his life before; but he had come to look upon her as a being so far above him in every respect that he sometimes marvelled at himself for ever hoping to win her. The fact that her father was just now a ruined man seemed to him as nothing. At a time like this the presence or absence of this world's goods appeared absolutely trivial. Reuben believed that the Master Builder would retrieve his fortune in better times without difficulty, and regarded this temporary reverse as absolutely insignificant. Therefore he had no clue to Gertrude's motive in her rejection of him, and accepted it almost in silence, feeling that it was what he always ought to have looked for, and marvelling at his temerity in seeking the hand of one who was to him more angel than woman. He said very little; he took it very quietly. It seemed to him as though all the life went out of him, and as though hope died within him for ever. But he scarcely showed any outward emotion as he rose and said farewell; and little did he guess how, when he had gone, Gertrude flung herself on the floor in a passion of tears and sobbed till the fountain of her weeping was exhausted. "I was right! I was right! It was not love; it was only pity! But ah, how terrible it is to put aside all the happiness of one's life! Oh I wonder if I have done wrong! I wonder if I could better have borne it if I had humbled myself to take what he had to offer, without thinking of anything but myself!" Would he come again? Would he try to see her any more? Would this be the end of everything between them? Gertrude asked herself these questions a thousand times a day; but a week flew by and he had not come. She had not seen a sign of him, nor had any word concerning him reached her from without. There was nothing very unusual in this, certainly; and yet as day after day passed by without bringing him, the girl felt her heart sinking within her, and would have given worlds for the chance of reconsidering her well-considered judgment. How the days went by she scarcely knew, but the next event in her dream-like life was the sudden bursting into the room of Dorcas, her face flushed, and her eyelids swollen and red with weeping. Dorcas was a member of Lady Scrope's household, but paid visits from time to time to the other house. Also, as Lady Scrope's house was not shut up, she could go thence to pay a visit home at any time, and she had just come from one such visit now. Gertrude sprang up at sight of her, asking anxiously: "Dorcas! Dorcas! what is wrong?" "Reuben!" cried Dorcas, with a great catch in her breath, and then she fell sobbing again as though her heart would break. Gertrude stood like one turned to stone, her face growing as white as her kerchief. "What of Reuben?" she asked, in a voice that she hardly knew for her own. "He is not--dead?" "Pray Heaven he be not," cried Dorcas through her sobs; and then, with a great effort controlling herself, she told her brief tale. "I went home at noon today and found them all in sore trouble. Reuben has not been seen or heard of for three days. Mother says she had a fear for several days before that that something was amiss; he looked so wan, and ate so little, and seemed like one out of whom all heart is gone. He would go forth daily to his work, but he came home harassed and tired, and on the last morning she thought him sick; but he said he was well, and promised to come home early. Then she let him go, and no one has seen him since. "Oh, what can have befallen him? There seems but one thing to believe. They say the sickness is worse now than ever it was. People drop down dead in street and market, and soon there will be none left to bury them. That must have been Reuben's fate. He has dropped down with the infection upon him, and if he be not lying in some pest house--which they say it is death now to enter--he must be lying in one of those awful graves. "O Reuben! Reuben! we shall never see you again!" CHAPTER XII. EXCITING DISCOVERIES. Joseph and Benjamin found themselves exceedingly happy and exceedingly well occupied in their aunt's pleasant cottage. They rose every morning with the lark, and spent an hour in setting everything to rights in the house, and sweeping out every room with scrupulous care, as their mother had taught them to do at home, believing that perfect cleanliness was one of the greatest safeguards against infection. Hot and close though the weather remained, the air out in these open country places seemed delicious to the boys, and the freedom to run out every moment into the open fields was in itself a privilege which could only be appreciated by those who had been long confined within walls. Sometimes they were alone in the house with their aunt. Sometimes the cottage harboured guests of various degrees--travellers fleeing from the doomed city in terror of the fearful mortality there, or poor unfortunates turned away from their own abodes because they were suspected of having been in contact with the sick, and were refused admittance again. Servant maids were often put in this melancholy plight. They would be sent upon errands by their employers to the bake house or some other place; and perhaps ere they were admitted again they would be closely questioned as to what they had seen or heard. Sometimes having terrible and doleful tales to tell of having seen persons fall down in the agonies of death almost at their feet, terror would seize hold upon the inmates of the house, who would refuse to open the door to one who might by this time be herself infected. And when this was the case, the forlorn creature was forced to wander away, and generally tried to find her way out of the city and into the country beyond. Many such unlucky wights, having no passes, were turned back by the guardians of the road; but some succeeded in evading these men, or else in persuading them, and many such unfortunates had found rest and help and shelter beneath Mary Harmer's charitable roof. September was now come, but as yet there was no abatement of the pestilence raging in the city. Indeed the accounts coming in of the virulence of the plague seemed worse than ever. Ten thousand deaths were returned in the weekly bill for the first week alone, and those who knew the state of the city were of opinion that not more than two-thirds of the deaths were ever really reported to the authorities. Hitherto the carts had never gone about save by night, and for all that was rumoured by those who loved to make the worst of so terrible a calamity, it was seldom that a corpse lay about in the streets for above a short while, just until notice of its presence there was given to the authorities. But now it seemed as though nothing could cope with the fearful increase of the mortality. The carts were forced to work by day as well as by night; and so virulent was now the pestilence that the bearers and buriers who had hitherto escaped, or had recovered of the malady and thought themselves safe, died in great numbers. So that there were tales of carts overthrown in the streets by reason of the drivers of them falling dead upon their load, or of driverless horses going of their own accord to the pits with their load. These terrible tales were reported to Mary Harmer and her nephews by the fugitives who sought refuge with her at this time. And very thankful did the lads feel to be free of the city and its terrors, albeit they never forgot to offer up earnest prayer for their father and mother and all their dear ones who were dwelling in the midst of so much peril. There was no hope of hearing news of them, save by hazard, whilst things were like this; but they trusted that the precautions taken, and hitherto successfully, would avert the pestilence from their dwelling, and for the rest the boys were too well employed to have time for brooding. When their daily work at home was done, there were always errands of mercy to be performed to neighbours who had had sickness at home, or to the persons encamped in the fields, who were very thankful of any little presents of vegetables or eggs or other necessaries; whilst others of larger means were glad to buy from those who came to sell, and gave good money for the accommodation. Mary Harmer had a large and productive garden and a large stock of poultry, so that she was able both to sell and to give largely; and the boys thought that working in the garden and looking after the fowls was the best sort of fun possible. They were exceedingly useful to her, and she kept them out of danger without fretting or curbing their eager spirit of usefulness. Of course, no person in those days could act with unselfish charity and not adventure something; but she took all reasonable precautions, and, like her brother, trusted the rest to Providence. And she believed that the boys were safer with her, even though not so closely restrained, than they would have been had they remained in the infected city, where the people now seemed to be dying like stricken sheep. But the spirit of curiosity and love of adventure were not dead within the hearts of the boys; and although for some weeks they were fully contented in performing the duties set them by their aunt, there were moments when a strong curiosity would come over them for some greater sensation, and this it was which led them to an act of disobedience destined to be fraught with important consequences, as will soon be seen. Mary Harmer's house was empty again, and she had promised to sit up for a night with a sick woman who lived some two miles off, and who had entreated her to come and see her. This was no case of plague, but fear of the infection had become so strong by this time that the sick were often rather harshly treated, and sometimes almost entirely neglected, by those about them. Mary Harmer had heard that this poor creature had been left alone by her son's wife, who had taken away her children and refused to go near her. Mary knew that her presence there for a while, and her assurances as to the nature of the malady, would be most likely to bring the woman to reason, so she decided to go and remain for one whole night, and she left her own cottage in the charge of the boys, bidding them take care of everything, and expect her back again on the following afternoon. They were quite happy all that evening, seeing to the poultry, and running races with Fido in the leafy lane. They liked the importance of the charge of the house, although they missed the gentle presence of their aunt. They shut up the house at dark, and prepared their simple supper, and whilst they were eating it, Benjamin said: "What shall we do tomorrow when we have finished our work?" "I know what I should like to do," said Joseph promptly. "What, brother?" asked Benjamin eagerly. "Marry, what I want to do is to go and see that farm house hard by Clerkenwell which they have turned into a pest house, and where they say they have dozens of plague-stricken people brought in daily. I have never seen a pest house. I would fain know what it looks like. And we might get more news there of the truth of those things that they say about the plague in the city. Ben, what sayest thou?" Ben's eyes were round with wonder and excitement. The boys had all the careless daring and eager curiosity which belong to boy nature. They were by this time so much habituated to living under conditions of risk and a certain amount of peril, that a little more or a little less did not now seem greatly to matter. "Would our good aunt approve?" asked the younger boy. "I trow not," answered Joseph frankly; "women are always timid, and she would say, perchance, that unless duty called us it were foolish to adventure ourselves into danger. But I would fain see this place, Ben, boy. If in time to come we live to be men, and folks ask us of these days of peril and sickness, I should like to have seen all that may be seen of these great things. Our father went many times to the pest houses within the city and came away no worse. Why should thou or I suffer? We have our vinegar bottles and our decoctions, and methinks we know enough now not to run needless risks." Benjamin was almost as eager and curious as his brother. The spirit of adventure soon gets into the hearts of boys and runs riot there. Before they went to bed they had fully decided to make the excursion; and they rose earlier next morning so as to get all their work done while it was yet scarce light, so that they might start for their destination before the heat of the day came on. It was pleasant walking through the dewy fields, and hard indeed was it to imagine that death and misery lurked anywhere in the neighbourhood of what was so smiling and gay. The boys knew what paths to take, nor was the distance very great. Benjamin on his former visit to his aunt had spent a day with the good people at this very farm house. Now, alas, all had been swept away, and the place had been taken possession of for the time being by the authorities, to be used as a supplementary pest house, where the homeless sick could be temporarily housed. Generally it was but for a few hours or a couple of days that such shelter was needed. The great common grave, barely a quarter of a mile away, received day by day the great majority of the unfortunate ones who were brought in. In all London proper there were only two pest houses used at this time, one on some fields beyond Old Street, and the other in Westminster; but as the virulence of the distemper increased, and the suburbs became so terribly infected, and such numbers of persons fleeing this way and that would fall stricken by the wayside, it became necessary to find places of some sort where they could be received, and the authorities began to take possession of empty houses--generally farmsteads standing in a convenient but isolated position--and to use them for this melancholy purpose. It could not be expected that even the most charitable would receive plague-stricken wayfarers into their own families, nor would such a thing be right. Yet they could not remain by the wayside to die and infect the air. So they were removed by the bearers appointed to that gruesome work to these smaller pest houses, and only too often from thence to the pit in the course of a few hours. "How pretty it all looks!" said Benjamin, as they approached the place. "See, Joseph, those are the great elm trees where the rooks build, and which I used to climb. When they cut the hay, I came often and rolled about in it and played with the boys from the farm. To think that they should all be dead and gone! Alack! what strange times these be! It seems sometimes as though it were all a dream!" "I would it were!" said Joseph, sobered by the thought of their near approach to the habitation of death. "Ben, wouldst thou rather turn back and see no more? We have at least seen the outside of a pest house. Shall that suffice us?" "Nay, if we have come so far, let us go further," answered Benjamin. "We have seen naught but the tiled roof and the green garden. Come this way. There is a little gate by which we may gain entrance to a side door. Perchance they will turn us back if we seek to enter at the front." The farm house looked peaceful enough nestling beneath its sheltering row of tall elms, in the midst of its wild garden, now a mass of autumnal bloom. But as they neared the house the boys heard dismal sounds issuing thence--the groans of sufferers beneath the hands of the physicians, who were often driven to use what seemed cruel measures to cause the tumours to break--the only chance of recovery for the patient--the shriek of some maddened or delirious patient, or the unintelligible murmur and babble from a multitude of sick. Moreover, they inhaled the pungent fumes of the burning drugs and vinegar which alone made it possible to breathe the atmosphere tainted by so much pestilential sickness. The boys held their own bottles of vinegar to their noses as they stole towards the house, feeling a mingling of strong repulsion and strong curiosity as they approached the dismal stronghold of disease. Although men were in these days becoming almost reckless, and those who actually nursed and tended the sick were naturally less cautious and less particular than others, yet it is probable that the daring boys might have been turned back had they approached the house by the ordinary entrance, for they certainly could not profess to have business there. As it was, however, thanks to Benjamin's knowledge of the place, not a creature observed their quiet approach through the orchard and along a tangled garden path. This path brought them to a door, which stood wide open in this sultry weather, in order to let a free current of air pass through the house, and they inhaled more strongly still the aromatic perfumes, which were not yet strong enough entirely to overcome that other noisome odour which was one of the most fatal means of spreading infection from plague-stricken patients. "We can get into the great kitchen by this door," whispered Benjamin. "I trow they will use it for the sick; it is the biggest room in all the house. Yonder is the door. Shall I open it?" Joseph gave a sign of assent, but bid his brother not speak needlessly, and keep his handkerchief to his mouth and nose. They had both steeped their handkerchiefs in vinegar, and could inhale nothing save that pungent scent. Burning with curiosity, yet half afraid of their own temerity, the boys stole through a half-open door into a great room lined with beds. The sound of moans, groans, shrieks, and prayers drowned all the noise their own entry might have made, and they stood in the shadow looking round them, quite unnoticed in the general confusion of that busy home of death. There were perhaps a score or more of sufferers in the great room, and two nurses moving about amongst them, quickly and in none too tender a fashion. A doctor was also there with a young man, his assistant; and at some bedsides he paused, whilst at others he gave a shake of the head, and went by without a word. Indeed it seemed to the boys as though almost a quarter of the patients were dead men, they lay so still and rigid, and the purple patches upon the white skin stood out with such terrible distinctness. A man suddenly put in his head from the open door at the other end and asked of anybody who could answer him: "Room for any more here?" And the doctor's assistant, looking round, replied: "Room for four, if you will send and have these taken away." Almost immediately there came in two men, who bore away four corpses from the place, and in five minutes more the beds were full again, and the nurses were calculating how soon it would be possible to receive more, some now here being obviously in a dying state. The bearers reported that the outer barn was full as well as all the house; but those without invariably died, whilst a portion of those brought in recovered. Joseph and Benjamin had seen enough for their own curiosity. It was a more terrible sight than they had anticipated, and they felt a great longing to get out of this stricken den into the purer air without. Joseph had laid a hand on his brother's arm to draw him away, when he was alarmed by seeing his brother's eyes fixed upon the far corner of the room with such an extraordinary expression of amaze and horror, that for a moment he feared he must have been suddenly stricken by the plague and was going off into the awful delirium he had heard described. A poignant fear and remorse seized him, lest he had been the means of bringing his brother into this peril and having caused his attack, if indeed it were one, and he pulled him harder by the arm to get him away. But with a strange choked cry Benjamin broke from him, and running across the room he flung himself upon his knees by the side of a bed, crying in a lamentable voice: "Reuben--Reuben--Reuben!" It was Joseph's turn now to gaze in horror and dismay. Could that be Reuben--that cadaverous, death-like creature, with the livid look of a plague patient, lying like one in a trance which can only end in the awakening of death? Was Benjamin dreaming? or was it really their brother? But how could he by any possibility be here, so far away from home, so utterly beyond the limits of his own district? The doctor had approached Benjamin and had pulled him back from the bedside quickly, though not unkindly. "What are you doing here, child?" he said. "Have we not enough upon our hands without having sound persons mad enough to seek to add to the numbers of the sick? Is he a relation of yours? "Well, well, well, he will be looked after here better than you can do it. Your brother? Well, he has been four days here, and is one of those I have hope for. The tumours have discharged. He is suffering now from weakness and fever; but he might get well, especially if we could move him out of this pestilential air. Go home, children, and tell your friends that if they have a place to take him to he will not infect them now, and will have a better chance. But you must not linger here. It may be death to you; though it is true enough that many come seeking their friends who go away and take no hurt. No one can say who is safe and who is not. But get you gone, get you gone. Your brother shall be well looked to, I say. We have none so many who recover that we can afford to let those slip back for whom there is a chance!" He had pushed the boys by this time into the garden, and was speaking to them there. He was a kind man, if blunt, and habit had not bred indifference in him to the sufferings of those about him. He told the boys that one of the strangest features about the plague patients was the rapid recovery they often made when once the poison was discharged by the breaking of the swellings, and the rapidity with which the infection ceased when these broken tumours had healed. Reuben's case had seemed desperate enough when he was brought in, but now he was in a fair way of recovery. If he could be taken to better air, he would probably be a sound man quickly. Even as he was, he might well recover. The boys looked at each other and said with one voice that they thought they knew of a house where he would be received, and got leave to remove him in a cart at any time. The doctor then hurried back to his work, whilst the brothers looked each other in the face, and Benjamin said gravely: "Methinks it must have been put into our hearts to go. Aunt Mary will forgive the temerity when she hears of the special Providence." Their aunt was at no great distance off, as Benjamin knew. Instead of going home, they found their way to a brook. Pulling off their clothes, they proceeded to drag them over the sweet-scented meadow grass. Then they plunged into the brook, and enjoyed a delightful paddle and bath in the clear cool water. After rolling themselves in the hot grass, and having a fine romp there with Fido, they donned their garments, and felt indeed as though they had got rid of all germs of infection and disease. After this they made their way towards the cottage where their aunt had been staying, and met her just sallying forth to return home. Without any hesitation or delay Joseph told the tale of their hardihood and disobedience, and the strange discovery to which it had led them; and although their aunt trembled and looked pale with terror at the thought of how they had exposed themselves, she did not stop to chide them, but was full of anxiety for the immediate release of Reuben from his pestilential prison, and eager to have him to nurse in her own house, if she could do this without risk to the younger boys. They were to the full as eager as she, and promised in everything to obey her--even to the sleeping and living in an outhouse for a few days, if only she would save Reuben from that horrible pest house. None knew better than Mary Harmer, who was a notable nurse herself, how much might now depend upon pure air, nourishing food, and quiet; and how could her nephew receive much individual care when cooped up amongst scores, if not hundreds, of desperate cases? Mary was so much beloved by all around, that she quickly found a farmer willing to lend a cart even for the purpose of removing a sick person from the pest house, if he bore the honoured name of Harmer. She would not permit any person to accompany the cart, but drove it herself, and sent the boys home to prepare the airiest chamber and make all such preparations as they could think of beforehand; and to remove their own bedding into the outhouse, till she was assured that they were in no peril from the presence of their brother indoors. Eagerly the boys worked at these tasks, and everything was in beautiful order when the cart drove up. One of the attendants from the pest house had come with it, and he carried Reuben up to the bed made ready for him, and drove the cart away, promising to disinfect it thoroughly, and return it to the owner ere nightfall. It was little the eager boys saw of their aunt that day. She was engrossed by Reuben the whole time. She said he was terribly weak, and that he had not yet got back the use of his faculties. He lay in a sort of trance or stupor, and did not know where he was or what was happening. It came from weakness, and would pass away as he got back his strength. The doctor had assured her that the plague symptoms had spent themselves, and that he was free from the contagion. The boys slept in the shed that night tranquilly enough, and in the morning their aunt came to them with a grave and sorrowful face. "Is he worse?" asked Benjamin starting up. "Not worse, I hope, yet not better. He has some trouble on his mind, and I fear that if we cannot ease him of that he will die," and her tears ran over, for Reuben was dear to her as a nephew, and she knew what store her brother set by his eldest son. "Trouble! what trouble? Are any dead at home?" cried the boys anxiously. "Can he speak? has he talked to you? Tell us all!" "He has not talked with his senses awake, but he has spoken words which have told me much. Death is not the trouble. He has not said one word to make me fear that our loved ones have been taken. The trouble is his own. It is a trouble of the heart. It concerns one whose name is Gertrude. Is not that the name of Master Mason's daughter?" "Why, yes, to be sure. She has joined with the rest--with Janet and Rebecca--to care for the orphan children whom none know what to do with, there are such numbers of them. Reuben always thought a great deal of Mistress Gertrude--and she of him. What of that?" "Does she think much of him?" asked Mary eagerly. "I feared she had flouted his love!" "Nay, she worships the ground he treads on!" cried Joseph, who had a very sharp pair of eyes of his own, and a great liking for sweet-spoken Gertrude himself. "It was madam, her mother, who flouted Reuben. Gertrude is of different stuff. Why, whenever she was with us she would get me in a corner and talk of nothing but him. I thought they would but wait for the plague to be overpast to wed each other!" Mary stood with her hands locked together, thinking deeply. "Joseph," she said, "if it were a matter of saving Reuben's life, think you that Mistress Gertrude would come hither to my house and help me to nurse him back to health?" Joseph's eyes flashed with eager excitement. "I am certain sure she would!" he answered. "Ah, but how to let her know!" cried Mary, pressing her hands together in perplexity. "Alas for days like these! How shall any one get a letter safely delivered to her in time? It may be that if we tarry the fever will have swept him off. It is fever of the mind rather than the body, and it is hard to minister to the mind diseased, without the one healing medicine." "Hold! I have a plan," cried Joseph, whose wits were sharpened by the pressing nature of the business in hand; "listen, and I will expound it. Tomorrow morning I will sally forth with a barrow laden with eggs, vegetables, and fruit; and I will enter the city as one of the country folks for the market, with whom none interfere at the barriers. I will e'en sell my goods to whoever will buy them, and at the bottom of the barrow thou shalt put one of thy cotton gowns and market aprons, Aunt Mary. Then will I go to Mistress Gertrude and tell her all. I shall learn of the welfare of those at home, and will come back with her at my side. The watch will but take her for a market woman, and we shall both pass unchecked and unhindered. By noon tomorrow Gertrude shall be here! "Nay, hinder me not, good aunt. We must all adventure ourselves somewhat in this dire distress and peril. Sure, if Providence kept me safe in yon pest house yesterday, I need not fear to return to the city upon an errand of mercy such as may save my brother's life!" CHAPTER XIII. HAPPY MEETINGS. "Reuben found! Reuben alive! O Joseph, Joseph, Joseph!" and Dorcas burst into tears of joy and relief, and sobbed aloud upon her brother's neck. Joseph had brought his news straight to Dorcas, knowing that she at least would be certainly found within Lady Scrope's house. He was secretly afraid to go home first, lest the fatal red cross upon the door should tell its tale of woe, or lest the whole house itself should be shut up and desolate, like the majority of the houses he had passed in the forlorn city that morning. He felt, however, an almost superstitious confidence that Lady Scrope's house would defy the infection. He was decidedly of the opinion that that redoubtable dame was a witch, and that she had charms which kept the plague at bay. He therefore first sought out the sister with whom he felt certain he could obtain speech; and she had drawn him into a little parlour hard by the street door, in great astonishment at seeing him there, and fearful at first (as folks had grown to be of late) that he was the bearer of evil tidings. The joy and relief were therefore so great that she could not restrain her tears, and between laughing, crying, and repeating in astonished snatches the words of explanation which fell from Joseph's lips, she made such an unwonted commotion in the ordinarily silent house, that soon the tap of a stick could have been heard by ears less preoccupied coming down the stairs and along the passage, and the door was pushed open to admit the little upright figure of the mistress of the house. "Hoity toity! art thou bereft of thy senses, child? What in fortune's name means all this? "Boy, who art thou? and what dost thou here? A brother, forsooth! Come with some news, perchance? Well, well, well; how goes it in the city? Are any left alive? They say at the rate we are going now, it will take but a month more to destroy the city even as Sodom was destroyed!" "O madam," cried Dorcas dashing away her tears, and turning an eager face towards the witch-like old woman, who in her silk gown, hooped and looped up, her fine lace cap and mittens, and her ebony stick with its ivory head, looked the impersonation of a fairy godmother, "this is my brother Joseph, and he comes with welcome tidings. My brother Reuben is not dead, albeit he has in truth been smitten by the plague. Joseph found him yesterday in the pest house just beyond Clerkenwell; and he is in a fair way to recover, if his mind can but be set at rest. "Oh what news this will be for our parents!--for the girls!--for Gertrude! Oh how we have mourned and wept together; and now we shall rejoice with full hearts!" "Has Mistress Gertrude mourned for him too?" asked Joseph eagerly. "Marry that is good hearing, for I have wondered all this while whether I should obtain the grace from her for which I have come." "And what is that, young man?" asked Lady Scrope, tapping her cane upon the ground as much as to say that in her own house she was not going to take a secondary place, and that conversation was to be addressed to her. Joseph turned to her at once and answered: "Verily, good madam, my aunt has sent me hither to fetch Mistress Gertrude forthwith to his side. She says that he calls ceaselessly upon her, and that unless he can see her beside him he may yet die of the disappointment and trouble, albeit the plague is stayed in his case, and it is but the fever of weakness that is upon him. She thinks it will not hurt her to come, if so be that it is as we hope, and that she has in her heart for him the same love as he has for her." "Oh, she has! she has!" cried Dorcas, fired with sudden illumination of mind about many things that perplexed her before. "Her heart is just breaking for him! "Prithee, good madam, let me go and call her. They say that she is of little use in the house now, being weak and weeping, and too sad at heart to work as heretofore. They can well spare her on such an errand, and methinks it will save her life as well as his. Let me but go and tell her the news." "Go, child, go. Lovers be the biggest fools in all this world of fools! And if the women be the bigger fools, 'tis but because they were meant to be fitting companions for the men! "Go to, child!--bring her here, and let us see what she says to this mad errand of this mad boy. "And you, young sir, whilst your sister is gone, tell me all you saw and heard in the pest house! Marry, I like your spirit in going thither! It is the one place I long to see myself; only I am too old to go gadding hither and thither after fine sights!" Joseph was quite willing to indulge the old lady's morbid curiosity as to the sights he had seen yesterday and today, as he had journeyed back into the city in the guise of a market lad. The things were terrible enough to satisfy even Lady Scrope, who seemed to rejoice in an uncanny fashion over the awful devastation going on all round. "I'm not a saint myself," she said with unwonted gravity, "and I never set up for one, but many has been the time when I have warned those about me that God would not stand aside for ever looking on at these abominations. The means were ready to His hand, and He has taken them and used them as a scourge. And He will scourge this wicked city yet again, if men will not amend their evil practices." Next minute Gertrude and Dorcas came running in together, and Gertrude almost flung herself into Joseph's arms in her eager gratitude to him for his news, and her desire to hear everything he could tell her. Such a clamour of voices then arose as fairly drowned any remark that Lady Scrope tried from time to time to throw in. Her old face took a suddenly softened look as she watched the little scene, and heard the words that passed amongst the young people. Presently she went tapping away on her high-heeled shoes, and was absent for some ten or fifteen minutes. When she came back she held in her hands a small iron-bound box, which seemed to be very heavy for its size. "Well," she asked in her clear, sharp tones, "and what is going to be done next?" "O madam, I am going to him. I can do naught else," answered Gertrude, whose face was like an April morning, all smiles and tears blended together. "I cannot let him lie wanting me and wearying for me." "Humph! I thought you had shown yourself a girl of spirit, and had sent him about his business when he came a-wooing, eh?" "O madam, I did so. I thought that duty bid me; but I have repented so bitterly since! They say that 'twas since then he fell into the melancholy which was like to make him fall ill of the distemper. Oh, if he were to die, I should feel his blood on my head. I should never hold it up again. I cannot let anything keep me from him now. I must go to him in my poverty and tell him all. He must be the judge!" Lady Scrope uttered a little snort, although her face bore no unkindly look. "Child, child, thou art a veritable woman! I had thought better things of thee, but thou art just like the rest. Thou wilt gladly lie down in the dust, so as the one man shall trample upon thee, whilst thou dost adore him the more for it. Go to! go to! Maids and lovers be all alike. Fools every one of them! But for all that I like thee. I have an old woman's fancy for thee. And since in these days none may reckon on seeing the face of a departing friend again, I give now into thine hands the wedding gift I have had in mine eyes for thee. "Nay, thank me not; and open it not save at the bedside of thy betrothed husband--if thou art fool enough to betroth thyself to one who as like as not will die of the plague before the week is out. "And now off with you both. If you tarry too long, the watch will not believe you to be honest market folks, and will hinder your flight. Good luck go with you; and when ye be come to the city again--if ever that day arrive--come hither and tell me all the tale of your folly and love. Although a wise woman myself, I have a wondrous love of hearing tales of how other folks make havoc of their lives by their folly." Gertrude took the box, which amazed her by its weight, and suggested ideas of value quite out of keeping with what she had any reason to expect from one so little known to her as Lady Scrope. She thanked the donor with shy gratitude, and pressed the withered hand to her fresh young lips. Lady Scrope, a little moved despite her cynical fashion of talking, gave her several affectionate kisses; and then the other girls came in to see the last of their companion, and to charge her with many messages of love for Reuben. Joseph during this interval darted round to his father's house, to exchange a kiss with his mother and tell her the good news. It was indeed a happy day for the parents to hear that the son whom they had given up for lost was living, and likely, under Gertrude's care, to do well. They had not dared to murmur or repine. It seemed to them little short of a miracle that death had spared to them all their children through this fearful season. When they believed one had at last been taken, they had learned the strength and courage to say, "God's will be done." Yet it was happiness inexpressible to know that he was not only living, but in the safe retreat of Mary Harmer's cottage, and under her tender and skilful care. So used were they now to the thought of those they loved caring for the sick, that they had almost ceased to fear contagion so encountered. It appeared equally busy amongst those who fled from it. They did not even chide Joseph for the reckless curiosity which had led the boys to adventure themselves without cause in the fashion that had led to such notable results. When Joseph returned to Lady Scrope's, it was to find Gertrude arrayed in the clothes provided for her, and looking, save for her dainty prettiness, quite like a country girl come in with marketable wares. Such things of her own as she needed for her sojourn, together with Lady Scrope's precious box, were put into the barrow beneath the empty basket and sacks. Then with many affectionate farewells the pair started forth, and talking eagerly all the while, took their way through the solitary grass-grown streets, away through Cripplegate, and out towards the pleasanter regions beyond the walls. Joseph sought to engross his companion in talk, so that she might not see or heed too much the dismal aspect of all around them. He himself had seen a considerable difference in the city between the time he and Benjamin had left it and today. In places it almost seemed as though no living soul now remained; and he observed that foot passengers in the streets went about more recklessly than before, with a set and desperate expression of countenance, as though they had made up their minds to the worst, and cared little whether their fate overtook them today or a week hence. Gertrude's thoughts, however, were so much with Reuben, that she heeded but little of what she saw around her. She spoke of him incessantly, and begged again and again to hear the story of how he had been found. Her cheek flushed a delicate rose tint each time she heard how he had called for her ceaselessly in his delirium. That showed her, if nothing else could convince her of it, how true and disinterested his love was; that it was for herself he had always wooed her, and not for any hope of the fortune she had at one time looked to receive from her father as her marriage dowry. When they had passed the last of the houses, and stood in the sunny meadows, with the blue sky above them and the songs of birds in their ears, Gertrude heaved a great sigh of relief, and her eyes filled with tears. "O beautiful trees and fields!" she cried; "it seems as though nothing of danger and death could overshadow the dwellers in such fair places." "So Benjamin and I thought," said Joseph gravely; "but, alas, the plague has been busy here, too. See, there is a cluster of houses down there, and but three of them are now inhabited. The pestilence came and smote right and left, and in some houses not one was left alive. Still death seems not so terrible here amid these smiling fields as it does when men are pent together in streets and lanes. And the dead at first could be buried in their own gardens by their friends, if they could not take them to the churchyards, which soon refused to receive them. Many were thus saved from the horror of the plague pit, which they so greatly dreaded. But I know not whether it is a wise kindness so to bury them; for there were hamlets, I am told, where the plague raged fearfully, and where the living could scarce bury the dead." Gertrude sighed; death and trouble did indeed seem everywhere. But even her sorrow for others could not mar her happiness in the prospect of seeing Reuben once again; and as they neared the place, and Joseph pointed out the twisted chimneys and thatched roof peeping through the sheltering trees and shrubs, the girl could not restrain her eager footsteps, and flew on in advance of her companion, who was retarded by his barrow. The next minute she was eagerly kissing Benjamin (who, together with Fido, had run out at the sound of her footsteps), and shedding tears of joy at the news that Reuben was no worse, that there were now no symptoms of the plague about him, but that he was perilously weak, and needed above all things that his mind should be set at rest. At the sound of voices Mary Harmer came softly downstairs from the sick man's side, and divining in a moment who the stranger was, took her into a warm, motherly embrace, and thanked her again and again for coming so promptly. "Nay, it is I must thank thee for letting me come," answered Gertrude between smiles and tears. "And now, may I not go to him? I would not lose a moment. I am hungry for the sight of his living face. Prithee, let me go!" "So thou shalt, my child, in all good speed; but just at this moment he sleeps, and thou must refresh thyself after thy long, hot walk, that thou mayest be better able to tend him. I will not keep thee from him, be sure, when the time comes that thou mayest go to him." Joseph at that moment came up with the barrow, and Gertrude found that it was pleasant and refreshing to let Mary Harmer bathe her face and hands and array her in her own garments. And then she sat down to a pleasant meal of fresh country provisions, which tasted so different from anything she had eaten these many long weeks. The boys, who as a precautionary measure were keeping away from the house itself until it should be quite certain that their brother was free from infection, took their meal on the grass plot outside, and enjoyed it mightily. The whole scene was so different from anything upon which Gertrude's eyes had rested for long, that tears would rise unbidden in them, though they were tears of happiness and gratitude. The dog Fido took to her at once, and showed her many intelligent attentions, and was so useful altogether in fetching and carrying that his cleverness and docility were a constant source of amusement and wonder to all, and gave endless delight to the boys, who spent all their spare time in training him. Then just when the afternoon shadows were beginning to lengthen, and the light to grow golden with the mellow September glow, Gertrude was softly summoned to the pleasant upper chamber, which smelt sweetly of lavender, rose leaves, and wild thyme, where beside the open casement lay Reuben, in a snow-white bed, his face sadly wasted and white, and his eyes closed as if in the lassitude of utter weakness. Mary gave Gertrude a smile, and motioned her to go up to him, which she did very softly and with a beating heart. He did not appear to note her footfall; but when she stood beside him, and gently spoke his name, his eyes flashed open in a moment, and fixed themselves upon her face, their expression growing each moment more clear and comprehending. "Gertrude!" he breathed in a voice whose weakness told a tale of its own, and he moved his hand as though he would fain ascertain by the sense of touch whether or not this was a dream. She saw the movement, and took his hand between her own, kneeling down beside the bed and covering it with kisses and tears. That seemed to tell him all, without the medium of words. He asked no question, he only lay gazing at her with a deep contentment in his eyes. He probably knew not either where he was, or how any of these strange things came to pass. She was with him; she was his very own. Of that there could be no manner of doubt. And that being so, what did anything else matter? He lay gazing at her perfectly contented, till he fell asleep holding her hand in his. That was the beginning of a steady if rather a slow recovery. It was only natural indeed that Reuben should be long in regaining strength. He had been through months of fatigue and arduous wearing toil, and the marvel was that when the distemper attacked him in his weakness and depression he had strength enough to throw it off. As Mary Harmer said, it seemed sometimes as though those who went fearlessly amongst the plague stricken became gradually inoculated with the poison, and were thus able to rid themselves of it when it did attack them. Reuben at least had soon thrown off his attack, and the state of weakness into which he had fallen was less the result of the plague than of his long and arduous labours before. How he ever came to be in the pest house of Clerkenwell he never could altogether explain. He remembered that business had called him out in a northwesterly direction; and he had a dim recollection of feeling a sick longing for a sight of the country once more, and of bending his steps further than he need, whilst he fancied he had entertained some notion of paying a visit to his aunt, and making sure that his brothers had safely reached her abode. That was probably the reason why he had come so far away from home. He had been feeling miserably restless and wretched ever since Gertrude had refused him, and upon that day he had an overpowering sense of illness and weariness upon him, too. But he did not remember feeling any alarm, or any premonition of coming sickness. He had grown so used to escaping when others were stricken down all round, that the sense of uncertainty which haunted all men at the commencement of the outbreak had almost left him now. It could only be supposed that the fever of the pestilence had come upon him, and that he had dropped by the wayside, as so many did, and had been carried into the farm house by some compassionate person, or by one of the bearers whose duty it was to keep the highways clear of such objects of public peril. But he knew nothing of his own condition, and had had no real gleam of consciousness, until he opened his eyes in his aunt's house to find Gertrude bending over him. There was no shadow between them now. Gertrude's surrender was as complete as Lady Scrope had foreseen. She used now to laugh with Reuben over the sayings of that redoubtable old dame, and wonder what she would think of them could she see them now. The box she had entrusted to Gertrude had been given into Mary Harmer's care for the present, till Reuben should be strong enough to enjoy the excitement of opening it. But upon the first day that saw him down in the little parlour, lying upon the couch that had been made ready to receive him, Joseph eagerly clamoured to have the box brought down and opened; and his wish being seconded by all, Mary Harmer quickly produced it, and it was set upon a little table at the side of the couch. "Have you the key?" asked Reuben of Gertrude, and she produced it from her neck, round which it had been hanging all this while by a silken cord. "It felt almost like a love token," she said with a little blush, "for she told me I was not to open it save at the side of my betrothed husband!" Now, amid breathless silence, she fitted the key into the lock and raised the lid. That disclosed a layer of soft packing, which, when removed, left the contents exposed to view. "Oh!" cried Joseph and Benjamin in tones of such wonder that Fido must needs rear himself upon his hind legs to get a peep, too; but he was soon satisfied, for he saw nothing very interesting in the yellow contents of the wooden box, which neither smelt nice nor were good for food. But the lovers looked across at each other in speechless amazement. For the box was filled to the brim with neatly piled heaps of golden guineas--the first guineas ever struck in this country; so called from the fact that they were made of Guinea gold brought from Africa by one of the trading companies, and first coined in the year 1662. And a quick calculation, based upon the counting of one of these upright heaps, showed that the box contained five hundred of these golden coins, which as yet were only just coming into general circulation. "Oh," cried Gertrude in amaze, "what can she have done it for? And they call Lady Scrope a miser!" "Misers often have strange fancies; and Lady Scrope has always been one of the strangest and most unaccountable of her sex," said Reuben. "I cannot explain it one whit. It is of a piece with much of her inscrutable life. All we can do is to give her our gratitude for her munificence. She has neither kith nor kin to wrong by her strange liberality to thee, sweet Gertrude; nor can I marvel that she should have come to love thee so well. Sweet heart, this money will purchase the house upon the bridge which thy father tells us he is forced to sell. I had thought that I would buy it of him for our future home. But thou hast the first claim. At least, now the place is safe. What is mine is thine, and what is thine is mine, and we will together make the purchase, and give him a home with us beneath the old roof. "Will that make you happy, dear heart? Methinks it will please Lady Scrope that her golden hoard should help in such an act of filial love!" And Gertrude could only weep tears of pure happiness on her lover's shoulder, and marvel how it was that such untold joy had come to her in the midst of the very shadow of death. CHAPTER XIV. BRIGHTER DAYS. "The plague is abating! the plague is abating! The bills were lower by two thousand last week! They say the city is like to go mad with joy. I would fain go and see what is happening there. Prithee, good aunt, let me e'en do so much. I shall take no hurt. Methinks, having escaped all peril heretofore, I may be accounted safe now." This was Joseph's eager petition as he rushed homewards after a stroll in the direction of the town one evening early in October. There had been rumours of an improvement in the health of the city for perhaps ten days now, notwithstanding the fearful mortality during the greater part of September. Therefore were the weekly bills most eagerly looked for, and when it was ascertained that the mortality had diminished by two thousand (when, from the number of sick, it might well have risen by that same amount), it did indeed seem as though the worst were over; and great was the joy which Joseph's news brought to those within the walls of that cottage home. Yet Mary Harmer was wise and cautious in the answer she gave to the eager boy. "Wait yet one week longer, Joseph; for we may not presume upon God's goodness and mercy, and adventure ourselves without cause into danger. The city has been fearfully ravaged of late. The very air seems to have been poisoned and tainted, and there are streets and lanes which, they say, it is even now death to enter. Therefore wait yet another week, and then we will consider what is safe to be done. Right glad should I be for news of your father and mother; but we have been patient this long while, and we will be patient still." "Our good aunt is wise," said Reuben, who looked wonderfully better for his stay in fresh country air, albeit still rather gaunt and pale. "It is like that this good news itself may lead men to be somewhat reckless in their joy and confidence. We will not move till we have another report. Perchance our father may be able to let us know ere long of his welfare and that of the rest at home." All through the week that followed encouraging and cheering reports of the abatement of the plague were heard by those living on the outskirts of the stricken city; and when the next week's bill showed a further enormous decrease in the death rate, Mary Harmer permitted Joseph to pay a visit home, his return being eagerly waited for in the cottage. He came just as the early twilight was drawing in, and his face was bright and joyous. "It is like another city," he cried. "I had not thought there could be so many left as I saw in the streets today. And they went about shaking each other by the hand, and smiling, and even laughing aloud in their joy. And if they saw a shut-up house, and none looking forth from the windows, some one would stand and shout aloud till those within looked out, and then he would tell them the good news that the plague was abating; and at that sound many poor creatures would fall a-weeping, and praise the Lord that He had left even a remnant." "Poor creatures!" said Mary Harmer with commiseration; "it has been a dismal year for thousands upon thousands!" "Ay, verily. I cannot think that London will ever be full again," said the boy. "There be whole streets with scarce an inhabitant left, and we know that multitudes of those who fled died of the pestilence on the road and in other places. But today there was no memory for the misery of the past, only joy that the scourge was abating. It is not that many do not still fall ill of the distemper, but that they recover now, where once they would have died. And whereas three weeks back they died in a day or two days, now even if so be as they do die, it takes the poison eight or ten days to kill them. The physicians say that that is because the malignity of the distemper is abating, wherefore men scarce fear it now, and come freely abroad, not in despair, as they did when it was so virulent a scourge, but because they fear it so much less than before." "And our parents and those at home?" asked Reuben eagerly. "All well, though something weary and worn; but it is wondrous how they have borne up all through. Father says that he will come hither to see us all the first moment he can. His duties are like to have a speedy end; and he is longing for a sight of Reuben's face, and of something better than closed houses and the wan faces of the sick or the mourners." "Poor brother James!" said Mary softly; "I would that he and his would leave the city behind for a while, and remain under my roof to recover their strength and health. It must have been a sorely trying time. Think you that they could leave the house together? For we would make shift to receive them all, an they could come." This was a most delightful idea to all the party. The hospitable cottage had plenty of rooms, although many of these were but attics beneath the thatched roof, none too light or commodious. In summer they might have been too warm and stuffy to be agreeable sleeping places, but in the cooler autumn they would be good enough for hardy young folks brought up simply and plainly. Joseph and Benjamin at once dashed all over the place, making plans for the housing of the whole party. It would be the finest end to a melancholy period, being all together here in this homelike place. Everything was duly arranged in the hopes of winning the father's consent to the scheme. Mary Harmer hunted up stores of bedding and linen, the latter of her own weaving, and every day they waited impatiently for the appearing of James Harmer, who, however, was unaccountably long in making his appearance. He came at last, but it was with a sorrowful face and a bowed look which told at once a story of trouble, and made the whole party stand silent, after the first eager chorus of welcome, certain that he was the bearer of bad news. "My poor boy Dan!" he said in a choked voice, and sat himself heavily down upon the chair beside the hearth. "Dan!" cried Reuben, and the word was echoed by all the brothers in tones of varying surprise and dismay. "You do not mean that he is dead!" "Taken to the plague pit a week ago. Just when all the world is rejoicing in the thought that the distemper is abating. Dr. Hooker spoke truly when he said that the confidence of the people was like to be a greater peril than the disease itself. For those who are sick now come openly abroad into the streets, no longer afraid for themselves or others, and thus it has come about that no man knows whether he is safe, and my poor boy has been taken." Sad indeed were the faces of all, and the two little boys were dissolved in tears, as their father told how poor Dan had fallen sick, and had succumbed on the fourth day to the poison. "Dr. Hooker said that he was worn out with his unceasing labours, else he would not have died," said the sorrowful father. "He had treated many worse cases even when things were worse, and brought them round. But Dan was worn out with all he had been doing for the past months. He fell an easy prey; and he did not suffer much, thank God. He lay mostly in a torpor, much as Reuben did, as I hear, but slowly sank away. His poor mother! She had begun to think that she was to have all her children about her yet. But in truth we must not repine, having so many left to us, when they say there is scarce a family in all the town that has not lost its two, three, or four at best!" It almost seemed a more sorrowful thing to lose Dan just when things were beginning to look brighter, than it would have done when the distemper was at its height. But as the good man said, gratitude for so many spared ought to outweigh any repining for those taken. After the first tears were shed, he gently checked in those about him the inclination to mourn, saying that God knew best, and had dealt very lovingly and bountifully with them; and that they must trust His goodness and mercy all through, and believe that He had judged mercifully and tenderly in taking their brother from them. The sight of Reuben alive and well did much to assuage the father's grief; for there had been a time when he had not thought to look upon the face of his firstborn in this life. He was also greatly pleased to learn that he had another daughter in the person of gentle Gertrude, and he gladly undertook the negotiation of the purchase of his neighbour's house, so that he should not know who the purchaser was until the right moment came. Mary Harmer's proposal to take in the whole family for a spell of fresh air and rest was gratefully accepted by the tired father. "I trow it would be the greatest boon for all of us, and may likely save us from some peril," he said, "for, as I say, men seem to be gone mad with joy that the malignity of the plague is so greatly abating, and that the houses are no longer closed. For my own part, I would they were closed yet a little longer; but the impatience of the people would not now permit it, and they having shown themselves in the main docile and obedient these many months, must be considered now that the worst of the peril is past. When the plague was at its worst last month, there was of necessity some relaxation of stringent measures, because there were times when neither watchmen nor nurses could be found, and common humanity forbade us to close houses when the inhabitants could not get tendance in the prescribed way. Moreover, a sort of desperation was bred in men's minds, and the fear was the less because that every man thought his own turn would assuredly come ere long. So that when of a sudden the bills began to decrease, it seemed unreasonable to be more strict than we had been just before. Moreover, it was found harder to restrain the people in their joy than in their sorrow; and so we must hope for the best, and trust that the lessened malignity of the disease will keep down the mortality. For that there will continue to be many sick for weeks to come we cannot doubt. As for myself, knowing and fearing all I do, nothing would more please and comfort me than to bring my wife and girls hither to this safe spot. I had not dared to think you could take such a party, Mary; but since you have already made provision for us, why, the sooner we all get forth from the city, the better will it please me." Great was the joy in the cottage occasioned by this answer. Sorrow for the loss of poor Dan was almost forgotten in joyful preparation. Dan had not been much at home for many years, only coming and going as his ship chanced to put into port in the river or not. Therefore his loss was not felt as that of Reuben would have been. It seemed a sad and grievous thing, after having escaped so many perils, to come to his death at last; but so many families had suffered such infinitely greater loss, that repining and mourning seemed almost wrong. And the thought of seeing all the home faces once more was altogether too delightful to admit of much admixture of grief. "I wonder if Dorcas will come," said Gertrude, as they hung about the door awaiting the arrival which was expected every minute. Three days had now passed since James Harmer's first visit, and he was to bring his wife and daughters in the afternoon, and stay the night himself, returning on the morrow to transact some necessary business, but spending much of his time with his family in this pleasant spot. Gertrude had offered to leave, if there were not room for her; but in truth she scarce knew where to go, since of her father she had heard very little of late, and knew not how long his house would be his own. No one, however, would hear of such a thing as that she should leave them. She was already like a sister to the boys, and had in old days been as one to the girls. Moreover, as Mary Harmer sometimes said, why should not she and Reuben be quietly married out here before they returned to the city, and then they could go back to their own house when all the negotiations had been completed and her father's mind relieved of its load of care? "Why should Dorcas not come?" asked Mary quickly. "My brother spoke of bringing all." "I was wondering if Lady Scrope would be willing to spare her," was the reply. "She is fond of Dorcas in her way, and is used to her. She might not be willing she should go, and she is very determined when her mind is made up." "Yet I think she has a kind heart in spite of all her odd ways," said Mary Harmer; "I scarce think she would keep the girl pining there alone. But we shall see. My wonder would rather be if Janet and Rebecca could get free from the other house where the children are kept." "Father said that that house was to be emptied soon. The Lord Mayor is making many wise regulations for the support of those left destitute by the plague. Large sums of money kept flowing in all the while the scourge lasted. The king sent large contributions, and other wealthy men followed his example. There be many widows left alone and desolate, and these are to have a sum of money and certain orphan children to care for. All that will be settled speedily; for who knows when my Lady Scrope's house may not be wanted by the tenant who ran away in such hot haste months ago? It will need purifying, too, and directions will shortly be issued, I take it, for the right purification of infected houses. "My sisters will soon get their burdens off their hands. It is time they had a change; they were looking worn and tired even before I left the city." "They are coming! they are coming! They are just here!" shouted Joseph and Benjamin in one breath, coming rushing down from a vantage post up to which they had climbed in one of the great elm trees. "They must all be there--every one of them! It is like a caravan along the road; but I know it is they, for we saw father leading a horse, and mother was riding it--with such a lot of bags and bundles!" The next minute the caravan hove in sight through the windings of the lane, and three minutes later there was such a confusion of welcomes going on that nothing intelligible could be said on either side; nor was it until the whole party was assembled round the table in Mary Harmer's pleasant kitchen, ready to do justice to the good cheer provided, that any kind of conversation could be attempted. The sisters felt like prisoners released. They laughed and cried as they danced about the garden in the twilight, stooping down to lay their faces against the cool, wet grass, and drinking in the scented air as though it were something to be tasted by palate and tongue. "It is so beautiful! it is so wonderful!" they kept exclaiming one to the other, and the quaint, rambling cottage, with its bare floor, and simple, homely comforts, seemed every whit as charming. Dorcas was there, as well as Janet and Rebecca; and the three sisters, together with Gertrude, were to share a pair of attics with a door of communication between them. They were delighted with everything. They kept laughing and kissing each other for sheer joy of heart; and although a sigh, and a murmur of "Poor Dan! if only he could be here!" would break at intervals from one or another, yet in the intense joy of this meeting, and in the sense of escape from the city in which they had been so long imprisoned, all but thankfulness and delight must needs be forgotten, and it was a ring of wonderfully happy faces that shone on Mary Harmer at the supper board that night. "This is indeed a kindly welcome, sister," said Rachel, as she sat at her husband's right hand, looking round upon the dear faces she had scarce dared hope to see thus reunited for so many weary weeks; "I could have desired nothing better for all of us. Thou canst scarcely know how it does feel to be free once more, to be able to go where one will, without vinegar cloths to one's face, and to feel that the air is a thing to breathe with healing and delight, instead of to be feared lest there be death in its kiss! Ah me! I think God does not let us know how terrible a thing is till His chastening hand is removed. We go on from day to day, and He gives us strength for each day as it comes; but had we known at the beginning what lay before us, methinks our souls would have well nigh fainted within us. And yet here we are--all but one--safe and sound at the other side!" "I truly never thought to see such fearful sights, and to come through such a terrible time of trial," said Dinah very gravely. She was one of the party included in Mary Harmer's hospitable invitation, and looked indeed more in need of the rest and change than any of the others. Her brother had had some ado to get her to quit her duties as nurse to the sick even yet, but it was not difficult now to get tendance for them, and she felt so greatly the need of rest that she had been persuaded at last. "Many and many are the times when I have been left the only living being in a house--once, so far as I could tell, the only living thing in a whole street! None may know, save those who have been through it, the awful loneliness of being so shut in, with nothing near but dead bodies. And yet the Lord has brought me through, and only one of our number has been taken." The mother's eyes filled with tears, but her heart was too thankful for those spared her to let her grief be loud. One after another those round the table spoke of the things they had seen and heard; but presently the talk drifted to brighter themes. Gertrude asked eagerly of her father, and where he was and what he was doing; and Mary Harmer asked if he would not come and join them, if her house could be made to hold another inmate. "He is well in health, but looks aged and harassed," was the answer of the father. "He has had sad losses. Half-finished houses have been thrown back on his hands through the death of those who had commenced them; he has been robbed of his stores of costly merchandise; and poor Frederick's debts have mounted up to a great sum. Now that people are flocking back into the city, and business is reviving once more, he will have to meet his creditors, and can only do this by the sale of his house. I saw him yesterday, and told him I had heard of a purchaser already; whereat he was right glad, fearing that he might be long in selling, since men might fear to come back to the city, and whilst there were so many hundreds of houses left empty. If he can once get rid of his load of debt, he can strive to begin business again in a modest way. But, to be sure, it will be long before any houses will need to be built; the puzzle will be how to fill those that are left empty. I fear me he will find things hard for a while. But if he has a home with you, my children, and if we all give what help we can, I doubt not that little by little he may recover a part of what he has lost. He will be wise not to try so many different callings. If he had not had so many ventures afloat in these troubled times, he would not now have lost his all." "That was poor mother's wish," said Gertrude softly; "she wanted to be rich quickly for Frederick's sake. I used to hear father tell her that the risk was too great; but she did not seem able to understand aright. I do not think it was father's own wish." "That is what I always said," answered James Harmer heartily; "and I trow things will be greatly better now, if once trade makes a start again. As for us, we have lost a summer's trade, but, beyond that, all has been well with us. We have had the fewer outgoings, and so soon as the gentry and the Court come back again we shall be as busy as ever. The plague has done us little harm, for we had no great ventures afloat to miscarry, and had money laid by against any time of necessity." That evening, before the party retired to rest, the father gathered his children and all the household about him, and offered a fervent thanksgiving for their preservation during this time of peril. After that they all separated to their own rooms, and the girls sat long together ere they sought their couches, talking, as girls will talk, of all that had happened to them, and of the coming marriage of Gertrude and their brother, over which they heartily rejoiced. "I must e'en let Lady Scrope know when it is to be," said Dorcas, "if I can make shift to do so. I trow she would like to be there. She has taken a wondrous liking to thee, Gertrude, and she says she has a fine opinion of Reuben, too. I know not quite what she has heard of him, but so it is." "I was fearful lest she should not be willing to spare thee, Dorcas," said Gertrude with a caress, "but here thou art with the rest." "Yes, she was wondrous good to us," said Janet eagerly, "else I scarce know how we could have come, for there were six children left in the house, and no homes yet found for them to go to. They were the sickly ones whom we feared to part with, and father said they would strive to get places for them in the country. When we heard what our kind aunt wished, we saw not how we could leave the little ones; but Lady Scrope, she up and chid us well for silly, puling fools, who thought the world could not wag without our help. And then she sent out and got two nice, comfortable, honest widow women to live in the house with the children. And one of them had a neat-fingered daughter, who had been in good service till the plague sent her family into the country and she was packed off home. Her she took for her maid, and sent Dorcas off with us. Sure, never was a sharper tongue and a kinder heart in one body together! I had never thought to like Lady Scrope one-tenth part as well as I do." Those were happy days that followed. It was pure delight to the sisters to wander about the green fields and lanes, watching the play of light and shadow there, hearing the songs of the birds, and seeing the gorgeous pageantry of autumn clothing the trees with all manner of wondrous tints and hues. Reuben knew the neighbourhood by that time, and was their companion in their rambles; and happy were the hours thus spent, only less happy than the meetings round the glowing hearth or hospitable table later on, when the news of the day would be told and retold. James Harmer went frequently into the city to see after certain things, and to ascertain that his own and his neighbour's houses were safe. What he saw and heard there day by day made him increasingly glad that big family had found so safe a retreat; for there was still some considerable peril to the dwellers in the city, owing, more than anything, to the utter carelessness of the people now that the immediate scare was removed. The same men who had shrunk away from all contact with even sound persons six weeks ago, would now actually visit and hold converse with those who had the disease upon them. Persons afflicted with tumours that were still active and therefore infectious would walk openly about the streets, none seeming to object to their presence even in crowded thoroughfares. It seemed as though joy at the abatement of the pestilence had wrought a sort of madness in the brains and hearts of the people. So long as the death rate decreased, and the cases were no longer so fatal in character, there seemed no way of making the citizens observe proper precautions, and, as many averred, the malady increased and spread, although not in nearly so fatal a form, as it never need have done but for the recklessness of the multitudes. One very sorrowful case was brought home to the Harmers, because it happened to some worthy neighbours of their own who had lived opposite to them for many a year. When first the alarm was given that the plague had entered within the city walls, this man had hastily decided to quit London with his wife and family and seek an asylum in the country, and had earnestly urged the Harmers to do the same. For many months nothing had been heard of them; but with the first abatement of the malady the father had appeared, and had asked advice from Harmer as to how soon he might bring home his family, who were all sound and well. His friend advised him to wait another month at least; but he laughed such counsel to scorn, and just before the Harmers themselves started for Islington, their friends had settled themselves in their old house opposite. Ten days later Harmer heard with great dismay that three of the children had taken the plague and had died. By the end of the week there was not one of the family alive save the unhappy man himself, and he went about like one distraught, so that his reason or his life seemed like to pay the forfeit. It was no wonder, in the hearing of such stories as these--of which there were many--that Mary Harmer rejoiced to have her brother's household safely housed and out of danger, and that she earnestly begged them to remain with her at least until the merry Christmastide should be overpast. CHAPTER XV. A CHRISTMAS WEDDING. "I never thought to see daughter of mine wedded from the house of a neighbour," said the Master Builder (whose title yet clung to him, albeit there was something of mockery in the sound), heaving a sigh as he looked into the happy face of his child. "But a homeless man must needs do the best he can; and our good friends have won the right to play the part of kinsfolk towards us both." "Indeed--indeed they have, dear father," answered Gertrude; "thou canst not think how happy I have been here in this sweet cottage, nor what a home it has been to us all these weeks. I shall be almost loth to leave it on the morrow--at least I should be, were it not for the great happiness coming into my life. But the home to which Reuben will take me must be even dearer than this. And thou wilt come with us, sweet father, and make us happy by thy presence!" "Ay, child, if thou wilt have the homeless old man who has managed his affairs so ill as to have to start life afresh when he should be thinking of resigning his work into other hands, and passing his old age in peace and--" But Gertrude stopped him with a kiss. "Thou art not old, father; and I trow before thou art, a peaceful and prosperous old age will be in store for thee. Whilst Reuben and I live, nothing shall lack to thee that filial love can bestow. O dearest father! methinks there are bright and happy days before us yet." "I trust so--I trust so, my child, for thee especially. For thou dost deserve them. Thou hast been a good daughter, and wilt make a good wife." "My heart misgives me sometimes that I was not always so tender a daughter to poor mother as I fain would have been. May God pardon me in whatever way I may have erred!" "The error was more hers than thine," answered the father with a sigh; "and mine too, inasmuch as I checked her not early, as I perchance might have done. She would have wed thee with some needy and perhaps evil-living gallant, who would have taken thee for thy fortune. Thou hast done far better to choose such an honest, godly youth as Reuben. He will make thee an excellent husband." "Ah, will he not!" said Gertrude, her face alight with tender love. "Poor mother did not understand what she was doing in striving to banish him from the house. But methinks, in the land of spirits all these things are seen aright; and that if it is permitted to the dead to know aught of what passes in the land they have left behind, she will be rejoicing with us today." "Heaven send it may be so! My poor wife," and the father heaved a great sigh of mixed feelings, "it is well she has not lived to see this end to her schemings to be rich. At least she is spared the knowledge of her husband's ruin." "Nay, call it not that, dear father. Master Harmer says that things are beginning to look up again after the terrible visitation, and surely your affairs will look up likewise." "In a measure, yes," he answered. "I have at least sold the old house for a better sum than I expected; and the purchaser has bought all the rich furniture, save such things as I would not sell for the sake of your poor mother. These I shall move shortly to your home, my child. My good friend says that it is hard by his house, so the journey will not be a difficult one." "No, father," answered Gertrude, with glowing cheeks. "And who has bought the old Bridge house?" "Nay, I have not even had the heart to ask. My good friend has carried out the business for me from first to last. He has been the truest friend man ever had. I have had naught to do but to sign the papers and receive the purchase money. No doubt the pang of seeing others living there will pass in time, but just now I care not even to think of it." Gertrude's face was still glowing a rosy red, but she turned the conversation at once. "And thou art getting together a little business again, father, on the Southwark side of the river?" "Yes; that again is by the advice of our good neighbour. He showed me that I could no longer afford the large buildings in the Chepe. He heard of these small premises going a-begging for a purchaser, all connected with them having perished in the plague. The small sum left to me of the purchase money of the house, after my debts were paid, sufficed to buy them; and now I have two steady workmen in my employ, instead of the scores I once had. But God be thanked, we have never been idle all these weeks. And it may be that by-and-by, as confidence returns, I may get something of a business together again." "Thou hast been purifying and disinfecting houses, they say, for the wealthy ones of the city?" "Ay; that was our good friend's thought. The Lord Mayor and authorities issued general directions for this work; and Harmer suggested to me that I should print handbills offering to undertake the purging of any house entrusted to me for a fixed fee. This I did, and have had my hands full ever since. All the fine folks are crowding back now that the cold weather has come, but no one cares to venture within his house till it has been purified by the burning of aromatic drugs and spices. The rich care not what they spend, so that they are sure they are free from danger. As for the poor, they do but burn tar or pitch or sulphur; and methinks these do just as well, save that the odour which hangs about is not so grateful to the senses. Yes, it was a happy thought of good James Harmer, and has put money in my pocket enough to enable me to undertake small building matters without borrowing. But I trow it will be long ere any building is wanted in and about the city. There are too many empty houses left there for that." "Shall I see a wondrous change there when I go back, father?" "A change, but a wondrous small one compared to what one would suppose," answered the father. "All men are amazed to see how quickly the streets have filled, and how little of change there is to note in the outward aspect of things. I had thought that half the houses would be left empty; but I think there be not more than one-eighth without inhabitants, and these are filling up apace. To be sure, in the once crowded lanes and alleys there are far fewer people than before; but it is wonderful to see how small the change is; and life goes on just as of old. It is as if the calamity was already half forgot!" "Nay but, father, I trust it is not forgotten, and that men's consciences are stirred, and that they have taken to heart the warning of God's just anger." The Master Builder slightly shook his head. "I fear not, child, I fear not. I hear the same oaths and blasphemies, the same ribald jests and ungodly talk, as of old. They say the Court, which has lately returned to Whitehall, is as gay and wanton as ever. In face of the terror of death, men did resolve to amend their ways; but I fear me, that terror being past, they do but make a mock of it, and return, like the sow in Scripture, to their wallowing in the mire." Gertrude looked gravely sorrowful for a moment; but, on the eve of her wedding day, she could not be sorrowful long. She and her father were enjoying a talk together before she sought her couch. He had been unable to come earlier to see her, business matters having detained him in town. For the past two months he had been at work with his task of purifying and setting in order the houses of the better-class people, for their return thither after the plague; and though he had sent many affectionate messages to his daughter, this was the first time for several weeks that they had met. It could not but rankle in the father's heart that, for the time being, he had no home to offer to his child. He had been staying with his good friend James Harmer all this while, who had left his wife and family at Islington to regain their full health and strength, while he spent his time between the Bridge house and the cottage. His business required his presence at home during a part of the week, since his shopmen and apprentices had already returned; but he would not permit his family to do so just yet, deeming it better for them to remain with his sister, and to enjoy with her a period of rest and refreshment which could never be theirs in the busy life of home. A happy Christmas had thus been spent; and now it was the eve of Gertrude's wedding day, which was the one following Christmas Day. The Master Builder had spent the festival with his friends, and on the morrow would accompany his daughter and her husband to their home in the city, the Harmer family returning to their house at the same time, and bringing Mary with them on a visit after all her hospitality to them. By nine o'clock the next morning, the quiet little wedding party was approaching the church, when to their surprise they beheld a fine coach, drawn by four horses, drawing up at the gate of the churchyard; and before Dorcas had more than time to exclaim, "Why, it is my Lady Scrope herself!" they saw that diminutive but remarkable old dame alighting from it, and walking nimbly up the path towards the porch. "I never dreamed she would really come, albeit I did let her know the day according to promise--or rather to her command," said her handmaiden, hurrying after her as if by instinct. The little figure in its sables and strangely-fashioned velvet bonnet turned at the sound of the quick footfall; and there stood the old lady scanning the whole party with her bead-like eyes, and giving little nods to this one and the other in response to their respectful reverences. "A pretty pair! a pretty pair!" was her comment upon the bridal couple, who walked together, and who certainly looked very handsome and happy. Reuben had regained strength and colour, though his face was thinner and finer in outline than it had been before his illness; and Gertrude had always been something of a beauty, and had greatly improved in looks during these weeks of happiness. "Well, well, well! I am always sorry for folks who are tying burdens round their own necks; but some can do it with a better grace than others. "Now, child," and she turned to Gertrude, and rapped her cane upon the ground, "don't make a fool of yourself or your husband! Don't begin by thinking him the best man in the world; else he may turn out all too soon to be the worst. Don't let him trample upon you. Hold your own with him. "Pooh! I might as well spare my words. Poor fools, they are all alike at starting. They only learn to sing to another tune when experience has taken them in hand for a while. Well, well, well! 'tis a pretty sight after all. I'll say no more. Give me your arm, good Master Harmer, and let me have a good view of the tying of this knot, so that there shall be no slipping out of it later." James Harmer, with a bow which he made as courtly as he knew how, offered his arm to the curious, little, old lady; and strange it was to see her small, richly-clad, upright figure amongst the simple group before the altar that day. Many there were who wondered what had brought her, and amongst the party themselves none could answer the question. It appeared to be one of those freaks for which, in old days, Lady Scrope had made herself famous throughout London, and the habit of which had not been overcome, although the opportunities were growing smaller with advancing years. She insisted on accompanying the party back to Mary Harmer's cottage. A simple collation was awaiting them before they travelled back to the city. Lady Scrope looked with the greatest interest and curiosity at the cottage; received the inquiring advances of Fido very graciously; made the boys tell her all the history of his attaching himself to them; and finally made herself the most entertaining and agreeable guest at the board, although the sharpness of her speech and the acid favour of some of her remarks bred a little uneasiness in some of her auditors. Nevertheless the time passed pleasantly enough; and when the hands of the clock pointed to the hour of eleven, the lady rose to her feet and remarked incisively: "My coach will be here immediately, if the varlets play me not false. The bride, bridegroom, and the bride's father shall drive with me. I mean to see the maiden's house before I return to mine own." A glowing colour was in Gertrude's face. Now she began to have a clearer idea why Lady Scrope was there. Reuben had been to her once, and had asked her approval of their plan to expend the bulk of the dowry she had, with such eccentric and unaccountable generosity, bestowed upon the bride, upon the purchase of the house which had been for many generations in the family of her father, and which she loved well from old associations. Reuben was going to set up in business for himself now. He had long been contemplating this step, since his father's trade was increasing steadily. They would now be partners, Reuben taking one branch of the industry, and leaving his father the other. With the changes in fashions, changes in the manufacture of Court luxuries became necessary. Reuben would advance with the times, his father would remain where he was before. It was a plan which had been carefully considered by both father and son for long, and would have been earlier carried out had it not been for the disastrous stoppage of all trade during the visitation of the plague. Now, however, London seemed as gay as ever. Orders were pouring in. It was wonderful how little the gaps in the ranks seemed to be heeded. It was scarcely, even amongst the upper classes, that persons troubled to wear the deep mourning for departed friends which, under ordinary circumstances, they would have done. The great wish of all appeared to be to forget the awful visitation as fast as possible, and to drown the memory of it in feasting and revelry. And this spirit, however little to the liking of a godly man like James Harmer, was nevertheless good for his trade. Lady Scrope being in the secret of the surprise in store for the Master Builder, was anxious to amuse herself by being witness to his enlightenment; and it certainly seemed as though she had full right thus to amuse herself, if it were her desire. Reuben had some savings of his own; but the purchase of the house, had it been made by him alone, would have seriously crippled his ability to carry out his further plans of business. Thus it was really Lady Scrope's golden guineas which had paved the way for the young people, and no one could grudge her the enjoyment of seeing them arrive at their new home. The Master Builder had had some dealings of late with her ladyship; for on hearing what he was employed to do for so many of her friends, she summoned him to fumigate both of her houses when she had got rid of all her temporary inmates; and she followed him about, watching what he did, and amusing herself with making him relate all the gossip he had picked up relative to her acquaintances into whose houses he had been admitted: how many amongst them had had the plague, how many had died, and all the other details that her insatiable curiosity could glean from him. And now the bridal couple, together with the bride's father, were being driven in state through the widest thoroughfares of the city in the hired chariot of Lady Scrope, she chatting all the while, and pointing out this thing and that as they went, openly lamenting that so little remained to remind them of the plague, and prophesying that London had not done with calamity yet. Gertrude was amazed at the small change in the familiar streets as they neared their home. True, she saw more strange faces than she had been wont to do, and read new names and new signs upon the gaily-painted boards hanging over the shop doors. Again and again she missed from some accustomed doorway the familiar face of the former owner, and saw that a stranger had taken the old business. But then, again, others were there in their old places; friendly faces beamed upon her as she looked out of the window. It was known upon the bridge itself that she was to come back today; and though the appearance of this fine coach caused a little thrill of surprise, there was a fine buzz of welcome as Reuben put out his head and stopped the postillion at the familiar door; for so many fears had been entertained of Reuben's death, that there were those who could not believe they should see him again in the flesh until he stood before them. "What means all this? Why stop ye here?" asked the Master Builder, with a little agitation in his voice. "You have a home of your own, you told me, Reuben, to which to take your wife. Why stop you at your father's house? Let the postillion drive to your own abode." "This is our own abode, dear father," said Gertrude softly, alighting from the coach and taking him by the hand to lead him in. Her other hand was held by her husband; and Lady Scrope was forgotten for the moment by all, as the three passed the familiar threshold amid a chorus of good wishes from friends and neighbours, to which Reuben responded by a variety of signs, Gertrude being too much moved to notice them. "Dear father," she said, as they stood within the lower room, which was being now fitted as of old for a shop, "forgive us if we have kept our happy secret till now. We wanted to have the home ready ere we brought you to it. This is our home. A wonderful thing befell me. A dowry was bestowed upon me by a generous patroness, from whom I looked not to receive a penny; that dowry bought the house. Reuben's business will give us an ample livelihood. Thou wilt remain always with us in the dear old house which thou hast loved. Oh how happy we shall be--how wondrously happy! "Father dear, it was Lady Scrope who gave me the wonderful gift that has brought us all this. We must try to thank her ere we think of ourselves more." So speaking Gertrude turned, with her eyes full of happy tears, towards Lady Scrope, who stood only a few paces off watching everything with her accustomed intense scrutiny, and held out both her hands in a sweet and simple gesture expressive of so much feeling that the old dame felt an unwonted mist rising in her eyes. "Tut, tut, tut, child! I want no thanks. What good did the gold do me, thinkest thou, shut away in yonder box? What think you I had preserved it there for? Marry that I might fling it away at dice or cards with those who came to visit me? It was my pleasure money, as I chose to call it. And then came the plague and smote hip and thigh amongst those who called me friend. And what good did the gold do me or any person else? If it pleases me to throw it away on a pair of fools, whose business is that but mine? "There, there, there, that will do, all of you good people. I want to see the house. I want none of your fool's talk. Going to keep a shop here?--sensible man. I'll come and buy all my finery when you start business, and sit and gossip at the counter the while. So mind you have plenty of fine folks to gossip with me. If I were young again, I vow I'd keep a shop myself." And she made Reuben show samples of his goods, which were piled up in readiness, albeit he was not quite ready to open shop; and very excellent of their kind they were, as Lady Scrope was not slow to remark. "I'll send the whole city to you. I'll make you the fashion yet. If I were a younger woman, and had my own old train of gallants after me, I'd have made your fortune for you before the year was out. But I'll do something yet, you shall see. And mind that you never begin to lend money, young man, to any needy young fool who may ask it of you. Those greedy court gallants would eat up all the gold of the Indies, and be no whit the richer for it. No money lending, young man, for in that way lies ruin, as too many have found." The Master Builder winced like one touched in a tender part, whilst Reuben answered boldly: "I have no such intentions. I hate usury, nor care I to earn money for others to filch from me. I get my wealth by honest trade; and if any man comes to me for aid, all the help I can give him is to put him in the way of doing the like." Lady Scrope nodded her head and laughed her shrill witch-like laugh. "He! he! he! Offer honest work to a needy gallant! May I be there to hear when thou dost. Work, forsooth!--a turn at the galleys would do most of them a power of good. Well, well, well, young man, thou speakest sound sense. Thou shouldst prosper in thy business. "Now, girl, show me the rest of the house, for I must needs be getting home ere long. I shall weary my old bones with all this gadding to and fro." Gertrude was willing enough to obey. The house was hardly changed from the time she had left it, save that all which was faded and worn had been replaced and furbished anew, and the whole place made sweet and wholesome, and as clean and bright as hands could make it. Gertrude would have preferred a plainer and simpler abode, more like that of her neighbours; but she had not had the heart to undo all her mother's dainty handiwork, and Reuben had thought nothing too good for his bride. Lady Scrope gibed and jeered a little, but not unkindly. She knew all the family history by this time, and how that Gertrude was not responsible for the luxuries with which her life would be surrounded. "Go to, child, go to; I am no judge over thee. What matters it a few years earlier or later? It began in Shakespeare's time, as you may read if you will, and it grows worse every generation. Soon the shopmen and traders will be the fine gentlemen of the land, and we may hope for the pickings and leavings of their tables. What does it matter to me? I shall not be troubled by it. And if I be not troubled thereby, what matter if all the world goes mad? "Now fare you well, young folks; and thou, good Master Builder, thank Heaven for a good and dutiful daughter, for they grow not on every hedge in these graceless days. "See me to my coach, young man, if thou canst leave devouring thy wife with thine eyes for so much as a minute. "Poor fools! poor fools! both of you. "Give me a kiss, maiden--nay, mistress I must call thee now. Be a good child, and be not too meek. Remember the fate of the hapless Griselda." Nodding her head and shaking her finger, Lady Scrope vanished down the stairs upon Reuben's arm; and Gertrude, moved beyond her powers of self restraint by all she had gone through, flung herself into her father's arms, and the two mingled together their tears of thankfulness and joy. CHAPTER XVI. A FLAMING CITY. Many happy months passed away, and the great city began to forget the terrible calamity through which it had passed. There was a little fear at first when the summer set in exceptionally hot and dry--very much as it had done the preceding year; but the plague seemed to have wreaked its full vengeance upon the inhabitants, and there was no fresh outbreak, although isolated cases were reported, as was usual, from time to time, and sometimes a slight passing scare would upset the minds of men in a certain locality, to be shortly laid at rest when no further ill followed. The two houses on the bridge, standing sociably side by side, were pleasant and flourishing places of business. Benjamin was now apprenticed to his brother Reuben, his old master the carpenter having fallen a victim to the plague. Dorcas remained with Lady Scrope, who was now reckoned as a kind friend and patroness to the Harmers, father and son. Rebecca fulfilled her old functions of the useful daughter at home, though it was thought she would not long remain there, as she was being openly courted by a young mercer in Southwark, who had bought a business left without head through the ravages of the plague, and was rapidly working it up to something considerable and successful. The Master Builder, too, was getting on, although still doing a very small trade compared to what he had done before. Many of his patrons were dead, others had been scared away altogether from London for the present, and with so many vacant houses to fill nobody cared to think of building. Still he found employment of a kind, and was never idle, although things were very different from what they had been, and he thought rather of paying his way in a quiet fashion than of building up a great fortune. He lived in the old house with his daughter and son-in-law, and was happier than in the old days, when his wife had always been trying to make him ape the ways of the gentry, and his son had been wearying his life out with ceaseless importunities for money, which would only be wasted in drunkenness and rioting. Now the days passed happily and peacefully. Gertrude was a loving wife and a loving daughter. Her father's comfort and welfare were studied equally with that of her husband. She did her utmost not to permit him ever to feel lonely or neglected, and she considered his needs as his own fine-lady wife had never thought of doing. He had also his friends next door to visit, where he was always welcome. There was now another door of communication opened between the two houses, and almost every evening the Master Builder would drop in for an hour to smoke a pipe with his friend and exchange the news of the day, leaving the young married couple to themselves, for a happy interchange of affection and confidences. The Harmer household remained unchanged, save for the death of Dan and the marriage of Reuben; but the sailor had been so little at home, that there was no great blank left by his absence, and Reuben was too close at hand to be greatly missed. Janet had not returned to service. Her mother had been rather horrified at the manner in which the poor girl had been treated by her mistress when the plague had appeared in the house. She did not care to send her back to Lady Howe, and Janet had become so accomplished a nurse, and took such interest in the life, that she begged to be allowed to follow the calling of her aunt Dinah, and to spend her time amongst the sick, wherever she might be needed. So both she and Dinah Morse lived at the house on the bridge, but went about amongst the sick in the neighbourhood, generally directed by Dr. Hooker, but sometimes called specially to urgent cases by neighbours or friends. Sometimes they returned home at night to sleep, sometimes they remained for several days or weeks at a time with their patients, according to their degree and the urgency of the case. Janet found herself very well content in her new life, and her mother liked it for her, since it brought her so much more to her home. It began to be noted that when Dinah Morse was at the house on the occasions of the visits of the Master Builder, he addressed a great part of his conversation to her, seemed never to weary hearing her talk, and would sit looking reflectively at her when other people were doing the talking. He had never forgotten how she had come to them in their hour of dire need, when poor Frederick had sickened of the fell disease which so soon carried him off. He always declared that her tenderness to his wife and daughter at that time had been beyond all price, and it seemed as though his sense of obligation and gratitude did not lessen with time. Sometimes James Harmer would say smilingly to his wife: "Methinks our good neighbour hath a great fancy for Dinah. I always do say that such a woman as she ought to be the wife of some good honest man. They might do worse, both of them, than think of marriage. What think you of Dinah? Tends her fancy that way at all?" And at that question Rachel would shake her head wisely and respond: "Dinah is not one to wear her heart upon her sleeve! A woman hides her secret in her heart till the right time comes for giving an answer. But we shall see! we shall see!" In this manner the spring and summer passed happily and quickly away. August had come and gone, and now the first days of September had arrived. The heat still continued very great, and a parching east wind had been blowing for many weeks, which had dried up the woodwork of the houses till it was like tinder. Sometimes the Master Builder, coming home from his work of repairing or altering some house either great or small, would say: "I would we could get rain. This long drought is something serious. I never knew the houses so dry and parched as they are now. If a fire were to break out, it would be no small matter to extinguish it. The water supply is very low, and the whole city is like tinder." It was Saturday night. The sun had gone down like a great ball of fire, and Gertrude had observed to her husband how it had dyed the river a peculiarly blood-red hue. One of those wandering fortune tellers, who had paraded the city so often during the early days of the plague (till the poor wretches were themselves carried off in great numbers by it), had passed down the street once or twice during the day, and had been always chanting a rude song like a dirge, in which many woes were said to be hanging over London town. These prognostications had been frequent since the appearance in the sky of another comet, which had been seen on all clear nights of late. It had considerably alarmed the citizens, who remembered the comet of the previous year, and the terrible visitation which had followed. This one was not very like the former; it was far more bright, and burning, and red, and its motion appeared more rapid in the sky. The soothsayers and astrologers, of which there were still plenty left, all averred that it bespoke some fresh calamity hanging over the city, and for a while there was considerable alarm in many minds, and some families actually left London, fearful that the plague would again break out there; but by this time the panic had well nigh died down. The comet ceased to be seen in the sky, and even the mournful words of the fortune tellers did not attract the notice they had done at first. The summer was waning, and no sickness had appeared; and of any other kind of calamity the people did not appear to dream. The Master Builder had gone in as usual to the next house to have a talk with his neighbour. But tonight he looked in vain for Dinah. "She and Janet have both been summoned to a fine lady who is sick in a grand house nigh to St. Paul's. Dr. Hooker fetched them thither this morning. They will be well paid for their work, he says. The lady has sickened of a fever, and some of her household took fright lest it should be the plague, albeit the symptoms are quite different. So he must needs take both Dinah and Janet with him, that she might be rightly served and tended. Tomorrow Joseph shall go and ask news of her, and get speech with Janet if he can, and learn how it fares with her. I confess I am glad, when she goes to fine houses, that Dinah should be there also. Janet is a pretty creature, and those young gallants think of nothing but to amuse themselves by turning girls' heads, be they ever so humble. "Ah me! ah me! there is a vast deal of wickedness in the world! I cannot wonder that men foretell some fresh calamity upon this city. I am sure some of the things we hear and see--well, well, well, we must not judge others. It is enough that judgment and vengeance are the Lord's." Rachel stopped short because she saw the look of pain which always came into the Master Builder's face when he thought of his profligate young son, cut off in the prime of his youthful manhood, and that without any assurance on the part of those about him that he had repented of the error of his ways. The carelessness and wickedness of the young men of the city were always a sore subject, and he still winced when the pranks of the Scourers were commented upon by his neighbours. "It is my Lady Desborough who has fallen ill," concluded Rachel, anxious to turn the subject. "Methinks you had some dealings with her lord not such very long time since. The name fell familiarly upon my ears." "Yes, truly, I did much to garnish their house, and I built out a private parlour for my lady, all of looking glass and gilding. Not long since I purified the house for them with the costliest of spices. Lord Desborough thinks all the world of his beauteous lady. They are devoted to each other, which is a goodly thing to see in these days. He will be greatly alarmed if she be seriously indisposed. He is a right worthy gentleman; and with thy permission I will accompany Joseph to St. Paul's tomorrow and learn the latest tidings of her." "With all my heart," answered the mother; and soon after that the Master Builder took his departure, and both houses settled to rest for the night. It might have been two or three o'clock in the morning, none could say exactly how time went on that memorable day, when the Master Builder was awakened by sounds in the adjoining chamber, where Reuben and his wife slept; and before he was fully awake, he heard Gertrude's voice at his door crying out: "O father, father! there is such a dreadful fire! Reuben is going out to see where it is. Methinks it must be very nigh at hand. Prithee go with him, and see that he comes to no hurt!" The Master Builder was awake in an instant, and although it was an hour at which the room should be dark, he found it quite sufficiently light to dress without trouble, owing to the red glare of fire somewhere in the neighbourhood. "Pray Heaven it be not very near us!" was the cry of his heart as he hurried into his clothes, remembering his own auguries of a short time back respecting the spread of fire, if once it got a hold upon a street or building. He was dressed in a moment, and had joined Reuben as the latter was feeling his way to the fastenings of the door. Two of the shopmen, who slept below, were already aroused and wishful to join them; and as they emerged into the street, which was quite light with the palpitating glow of fire, the door of the Harmers' house opened to admit the exit of the master of the house and his son Joseph. "Thou hast seen it also! I fear me it is very nigh at hand. I had a good look from my topmost window, and methought it must surely be in Long Lane or in Pudding Lane; certainly it is in one of the narrow thoroughfares turning off northward from Thames Street. It must have been burning for some while. It seems to have taken firm hold. Belike the poor creatures there are all too terrified to do aught to check the spread of the flames. We must see what can be done. It will not do to let the flames get a hold. This strong dry wind will spread them west and north with terrible speed, if something be not done to check them!" James Harmer spoke with the air of a man who is used to offices of authority. He had exercised one so long during the crisis of the plague, that the habit of thinking for his fellow citizens still clung to him. It appeared to him to be his bounden duty to do what he could to save life and property; and all the time he spoke he was hastening along the bridge in the direction of the smoke clouds and flames. The Master Builder hurried along at his side, and before they had reached the end of the bridge there were quite a dozen of the householders or their servants joining the procession to the scene of the conflagration. Until they reached the corner of Thames Street they saw nothing beyond the red column of flame and the showers of sparks mingling with clouds of smoke; but when once they reached the corner, a terrible sight was revealed to them, for the whole block of buildings between Pudding Lane and New Fish Street was a mass of flames, and the fire seemed to be like a living thing, driven onwards before some mighty compelling power. "God preserve us all! it will be upon us in an hour if nothing be done to check it," cried Harmer in sudden dismay. "What is being done? What are the people doing?" cried a score of voices. But what indeed could the terrified people do, wakened out of their sleep in the dead of night to find their houses burning about their ears? They were running helter skelter this way and that, not knowing which way to turn, like so many frightened sheep. Not that they thought as yet that this fire was going to be so very different from other bad fires which some of them had seen; for their wooden and plaster houses burned down too readily at all times, and were built up easily enough afterwards. A little farther off the people were trying to get their goods out of the houses, that they might not lose all if the fire came their way. But those actually burned out seemed to do nothing but stand helplessly by looking on; and perhaps it was only the Master Builder himself who at this moment realized that there was a very serious peril threatening the whole quarter of the city where the fire had broken out, and had already taken such hold. The wind being slightly north as well as east in its direction, it seemed reasonable to hope that the conflagration would not cross Thames Street in a southerly direction, in which case the bridge would be safe; and, indeed, as New Fish Street was a fairly wide thoroughfare, it was rather confidently hoped that this might prove a check to the fire. The Master Builder ran up the street crying out to the terrified inhabitants to get all the water they could and fling it upon the roofs and walls of their dwellings, to strive to keep the flames at bay; but there was scarcely one to listen or try to obey. The people were all hurrying out of their houses, bringing their families and their goods and chattels with them. The street was so blocked by hand carts and jostling crowds, that it was hopeless to attempt any plan of organization here. Then all too soon a cry went up that the fire had leaped the street and had ignited a house on the west side. A groan and a scream of terror went up as it was seen that this was all too true, and already great waves of flame seemed to be rushing onwards as if driven from the mouth of some vast blasting furnace; and the Master Builder returned to his friends with a very grave face. "Heaven send the whole city be not destroyed!" he exclaimed; "never have I seen fire like unto this fire! "Reuben, lad, make thy way with all speed to the Lord Mayor, and tell him of the peril in which we stand. He is the man to find means to check this fearful conflagration. Would to Heaven it were good Sir John Lawrence who were Mayor, as he was in the days of the plague! He was a man of spirit, and courage, and resource. But I much fear me that poor Bludworth has little of any of these qualities. Nevertheless go to him, Reuben. Tell him what thou hast seen, and tell him that if he wishes not to see London burned about his ears it behoves him to do something!" Reuben dashed off along Thames Street westward to do his errand, and then the Master Builder turned gravely to his friend and said: "Harmer, I like not the aspect of things. I fear me that even we are likely to stand in dire peril ere long. Yet we shall have time to take steps for our salvation, seeing the wind is our friend so far, though Heaven alone knows when that may change, and drive the flames straight down upon us. Yet, methinks, we shall have time for what must be done. Wilt thou work hand in hand with me for the salvation of our goods and houses, even though it may mean present loss?" "I will do whatever is right and prudent," answered Harmer, hurrying hack towards the bridge with his friend and with those who had followed them, and in a short while they were surrounded by a number of frightened neighbours, all asking what awful thing was happening, and what could be done to save themselves. The Master Builder was naturally the man looked to, and he gave answer quietly and firmly. If the fire once leaped Thames Street, and attacked the south side, nothing short of a miracle could save the bridge houses, unless some drastic step were taken; and the only method which he could devise in the emergency, was that some of the houses at the northern end should be demolished by means of gunpowder, and the ruins soaked in water, so that the passage of the flames might be stayed there. But at this suggestion the faces of those who lived in these same houses grew long and grave, as indeed the speaker had anticipated. The owners were not prepared for so great a sacrifice. They argued that with the wind where it was, the fire might in all probability not extend southward at all, in which case their loss would he useless. They talked and argued the matter out for about twenty anxious minutes, and in fine flatly refused to have their houses touched, preferring to take their chance of escaping the fire to this wholesale demolition. This was no more than the Master Builder had foreseen, and without attempting further argument he turned to his neighbour and said: "Then it must be your workshops and storerooms that must go. You can better spare them than the house itself; and on the opposite side there is the empty house where poor David Norris lived and died. There is none living there now to hinder us. We must take the law into our own hands and make the gap there. If the fire comes not this way, I will bear the blame with the Mayor, if we be called to account; but methinks a little promptitude now may save half the bridge, and perchance all the southern part of London likewise!" "Do as you will, good friend, your knowledge is greater than mine," answered James Harmer with cheerful alacrity; "Heaven forbid that I should value my goods beyond the life and property and salvation of the many in this time of threatened peril." "We shall save the goods first. It is only the sheds and workshops that must go," answered the Master Builder cheerily, and forthwith he and his men, who had come hurrying up, together with all the men and boys in the double Harmer household, commenced carrying within shop and houses all the valuables stored in the smaller buildings hard by. It was a work quickly accomplished, and whilst it was being carried out, the Master Builder himself was carefully making preparations for the demolition of the empty house opposite, which indeed was already in some danger of falling into decay, and was empty and desolate. It had been the abode of the unfortunate man who brought his family back too soon to the city, and lost them all of the plague within a short time. He himself had lingered on for some months, and had then died of a broken heart. But nobody had cared to live in the house since. It was averred that it was haunted by the restless spirit of the poor man, and strange noises were said to issue from it at night. Others declared that the ghost of the wife was seen flitting past the windows, and that she always carried a sick moaning child in her arms. So ill a name had the house got by reason of these many stories that none would take it, and there was therefore none to interfere when, with a loud report and showers of dust and sparks, the whole place and the workshop at the side were blown up at the command of the Master Builder, and reduced to a pile of ruins. In spite of all the excitement and fear caused by the spreading fire, the neighbours looked upon the Master Builder as an enthusiast and a madman, and upon James Harmer as a poor dupe, to allow such destruction of property. No sooner were both sets of buildings destroyed than men were set to work with buckets and chains to drench the dusty heaps of the ruins with water, nor would the Master Builder permit the workers to slacken their efforts until the whole mass of demolished ruin was reduced to the condition of a soppy pulp. By this time the day had broken; but the sun was partially obscured by the thick pall of smoke which hung in the air, whilst the ceaseless roar of the flames was becoming terrible in its monotony. Backwards and forwards ran excited men and boys, always bringing fresh reports as to the alarming spread of the fire. Even upon the bridge the heat could plainly be felt. The workers who were called within doors to be refreshed by food and drink were almost too anxious to eat. Never had such a fire been seen before. Whilst the Master Builder and his friend were snatching a hasty meal, Reuben came hurrying back with a smoke-blackened face. He too showed signs of grave anxiety. "Well, lad, hast thou seen the Lord Mayor?" was the eager question. "Ay, verily, I have seen him," answered Reuben, with a bent brow, and a look of severity on his young face, "but I might as well have spoken to Fido there for all the good I did." "Why, how so?" asked his father quickly and sternly; "is the man lost to all sense of his duties? Where was he? what said he? Come sit thee down, lad, and eat thy fill, and tell us all the tale." Reuben was hungry enough, and his wife hung over him supplying his needs; but he was thinking more of the perils of his fellow citizens, and of the supine conduct of the Mayor, than of anything else. "I found the worshipful fellow in bed," he answered. "Other messengers had arrived with the news, but his servant had not ventured to disturb him. I, however, would not be denied. I went up to him in his bed chamber, and I told him what I had seen, and warned him that there was need for prompt action. But he only answered with an oath and a ribald jest, which I will not repeat in the hearing of my wife or mother; and he would have turned again to his slumbers, had I not well nigh forced him to get up, and had not some of the aldermen arrived at that minute to speak of the matter, and inquire into its magnitude. They be all of them disposed to say that it will burn itself out fast enough like other fires; but I trow some amongst them are aroused to a fear that it may spread far in this dry wind, and with the houses so parched and cracked with heat. Then I came away, having done mine errand, and went back to the fire. It had spread all too fast even in that short time, and the worst thing is that no means seem to be taken to stop it. The people run about like those distraught, crying that a second judgment has come, that it is God's doing, and that man cannot fight against it. They are all seeking to convey away their goods to some safe place; but the fire travels quicker than they, and they are forced to leave their chattels and flee for their lives. I trow such a sight has never been seen before." "It must be like the burning of Rome in the days of the wicked emperor Nero," said Gertrude in a low, awed voice. "Pray Heaven they extinguish the flames soon! It would be fearful indeed were they to last till nightfall." At this moment Rachel Harmer came hurrying into the room with a pale scared face. "The child Dorcas!" she cried. "Why have we not thought of her? Is she safe? Where has the fire reached to? God forgive me! I must surely be off my head! Husband, go for the child; she must be scared to death, even if naught worse has befallen her!" "I had not forgot the maid," answered the father; "but it is well she should be looked to now. The fire has not crossed Thames Street. Lady Scrope's house is safe yet a while; but unless things quickly improve, both she and the child should come hither. "Make ready the best guest chamber in thy house, Gertrude, and thy husband and I will go and bring her hither. "Come, lad, as thy mother saith, the child may be scared at the heat and the flames. And my lady has many valuables to be rescued, too. It would be shame that they should perish in the flames if these leap the street. We will take the boat and moor it at Cold Harbour, and slip up by the side street out of the way of the smoke and the heat. We can thus bring her and her goods with most safety here. Marry that is well bethought! We will lose not an hour. One cannot tell at what moment the fire may change its direction." Reuben rose at once, and accompanied by two of the steadiest of the shopmen, they prepared to carry out their plan of seeking to rescue Lady Scrope and her valuables. CHAPTER XVII. SCENES OF TERROR. "Father! sweet father! thank Heaven thou art come! Methought we should be burned alive in this terrible house. Methought perchance all of you had been burned. O father! tell me, what is befalling? It is like the last judgment, when all the world shall be consumed with fervent heat!" Dorcas, with a white face and panting breath, stood clinging to her father's arm, as though she would never let it go. He soothed her tenderly, striving to pacify her terrors, but it was plain that she had been through some hours of terrible fear. "My little bird, didst thou think we should leave thee to perish here?" asked the father, half playfully, half reproachfully; "and if so affrighted, why didst thou not fly home to thy nest? That, at least, would have been easy." "Ah, but I could not leave my lady when all besides had fled--even the two old creatures who were never afraid of remaining when the distemper was raging all around. She stands at the window watching the flames devouring all else opposite, and it is hot enough there well nigh to singe the hair on her head; but she laughs and chuckles the while, and says the most horrible things. I cannot bear to go anigh her; and yet I cannot leave her alone. "O father, father! come and get her away. She seems like one made without the power of fear. The more that others are affrighted, the more she seems to rejoice!" Dorcas and her father and brother were in the narrow entry upon which the back door of the house opened. This alley led right down to the river, where the boat was moored under the charge of the two shopmen. It would be easy to carry down any valuables and load it up, and then transport the intrepid old woman, when she had looked her fill, and when she saw her own safety threatened. For it began to be evident that the flames would quickly overleap the gap presented by Thames Street. They were gathering so fearfully in power that great flakes of fire detached themselves from the burning buildings and leaped upon other places to right and left, as though endowed with the power of volition. The fire was even spreading eastward in spite of the strong east wind--not, of course, with anything like the rapidity with which it made its way westward, but in a fashion which plainly showed how firm a hold it had upon the doomed houses. There was no time to lose if Lady Scrope and her valuables were to be saved. The house seemed full of smoke as they entered it; and Dorcas led them up the stairs into the parlour, at the window of which her mistress was standing, leaning upon her stick, and uttering a succession of short, sharp exclamations, intermingled with the cackling laugh of old age. "Ha! that is a good one! Some roof fell in then! See the sparks rushing up like waters from a fountain! I would not have missed that! Pity it is daylight; 'twould have been twice as fine at night! Good! good! good! yes run, my man, run, or the flames will catch you. Ha! they gave him a lick, and he has dropped his bundle and fled for his very life. Ha! ha! ha! it is as good as the best play I ever saw in my life! Here comes another. Oh, he has so laden himself that he can scarcely run. There! he is down; he struggles to rise, but his pack holds him to the ground. O my good fool! you will find that your goods cost you dear today. You should have read your Bible to better purpose. Ah! there is some good-natured fool helping him up and along. It is more than he deserves. I should have liked to see what he did when the next wave of fire ran up the street. "Dorcas, child, where art thou? Thou art losing the finest sight of thy life! If thou hast courage to stay with me, why hast thou not courage to enjoy such a sight as thou wilt not see twice in a lifetime?" "Madam! madam!" cried the girl running forward, "here are my father and brother, come to help to save your goods and escape by the back. They have brought the boat to Cold Harbour, where it is moored; and, if it please you, they will conduct you to it, and come back and fetch such goods as you would most wish saved." But the old woman did not even turn her head. She was eagerly scanning the street without, along which sheets of flame seemed to be driven. "Great powers, what a noise! Methinks some church tower has collapsed. St. Lawrence, Poultney, belike. St. Mary's, Bush Lane, will be the next. Would I were there to see. I will to the roof of the house to obtain a better view. Zounds, but this is worth a hundred plagues! I had never thought to live to see London burned about my ears. What a noise the fire makes! It is like the rushing of a mighty flood. Oh, a flood of fire is a fine thing!" The weird old woman looked like a spirit of the devouring element, as she stood at her window talking aloud in her strange excitement and enjoyment of the awful destruction about her. The heat within the room was becoming intolerable, yet she did not appear to feel it. The house being well built, with thick walls and well-fitting windows, resisted the entrance of the great volumes of smoke that roiled along laden with sparks and burning fragments of wood; but these fiery heralds were becoming so menacing and continuous, that the Harmers saw plainly how little time was to be lost if they would save either the old woman or her valuables. "Madam," said James Harmer approaching, and forcing his presence upon the notice of the mistress of the house, "there is little time to lose if you would save yourself or your goods. We have come to give such assistance as lies in our power. Will you give me your authority to bear away hence all such things as may be most readily transported and are of most value? When we have saved these, belike you will have looked your fill on the fire. And, at least, you can see it as well from any other place in the neighbourhood without this risk. May we commence our task of rescue?" "Oh yes, my good fellow, take what you will. Dorcas will show you what is of greatest value. Lade yourselves with spoil, and make yourselves rich for life. I drove forth the hired varlets who would fain have robbed me ere they left; but take what you will, and my blessing with it. Your daughter deserves a dowry at my hands. Take all you can lay hands upon; I shall want it no more. Ha! I must to the roof! I must to the roof! Why, if it only lasts till nightfall, what a sight it will be! Right glad am I that I have lived to see this day." Without particularly heeding the words of the strange old woman, father and son, directed by Dorcas, set about rapidly to collect and transport to the boat the large quantities of silver plate and other valuables which, during her long life, Lady Scrope had collected about her. The rich furniture had, perforce, to be left behind, save a small piece here and there of exceptional value; but there were jewels, and golden trinkets, and strangely-carved ivories set with gems, and all manner of costly trophies from the distant lands whither vessels now went and returned laden with all manner of wonders. The Harmers were amazed at the vast amount of treasure hoarded up in that small house, and wondered that Lady Scrope had not many times had her life attempted by the servants, who must have known something of the contents of cabinet and chest. But her reputation as a witch had been a great safeguard, and her own intrepid spirit had done even more to hold robbers at bay. All who knew her were fully aware that she was quite capable of shooting down any person found in the act of robbing her, and that she always kept loaded pistols in her room in readiness. There was a story whispered about, of her having locked up in one of her rooms a servant whom she had caught pilfering, and it was said that she had starved him to death amid the plunder he had gathered, and had afterwards had his body flung without burial into the river. Whether there was more than rumour in such a gruesome tale none could now say, but it had long become an acknowledged axiom that Lady Scrope's goods had better be let alone. Twice had the boat been laden and returned, for all concerned worked with a will, and now all had been removed from the house which it was possible to take on such short notice and in such a fashion. The fire was surging furiously across the road, and in more than one place it had leaped the street, and the other side, the south side, was now burning as fiercely as the northern. Dorcas had been dispatched to call down Lady Scrope, for her father reckoned that in ten minutes more the house would be actually engulfed in the oncoming mass of flames. And now the girl hurried up to them, her face blanched with terror. "She will not come, father; she will not come. She laughs to scorn all that I say. She stands upon the parapet of the roof, tossing her arms, and crying aloud as she sees building after building catch fire, and the great billows of flame rolling along. Oh, it is terrible to see and to hear her! Methinks she has gone distraught. Prithee, go fetch her down by force, dear father, for I trow that naught else will suffice." Father and son looked at each other in consternation. They had not seriously contemplated the possibility of finding the old woman obstinate to the last. But yet, now that Dorcas spoke, it seemed to them quite in keeping with what they had heard of her, that she should decline to leave even in the face of dire peril. "Run to the boat, child!" cried the father. "Let us know that thou art safe on board, and leave thy mistress to us. If she come not peaceably, we must needs carry her down. "Come, Reuben, we must not tarry within these walls more than five minutes longer. The fire is approaching on all sides. I fear me, both the Allhallowes will be victims next." Springing up the staircase, now thick with smoke, father and son emerged at last upon a little leaden platform, and saw at a short distance from them the old woman whom they sought, tossing her arms wildly up and down, and bursting into awful laughter when anything more terrible than usual made itself apparent. They could not get quite up to her without actually crawling along an unguarded ridge of masonry, as she must have done to attain her present position; but they approached as near as was possible, and called to her urgently: "Madam, we have saved your goods as far as it was possible; now we come to save you. Lose not a moment in escaping from the house. In a few more minutes escape will be impossible." She turned and faced them then, dropping her mocking and excited manner, and speaking quite calmly and quietly. "Good fellow, who told you that I should leave my house? I have no intention whatever of doing any such thing. What should I do in a strange place with strange surroundings? Here I have lived, and here I will die. You are an honest man, and you have an honest wench for your daughter. Keep all you have saved, and give her a marriage portion when she is fool enough to marry. As for me, I shall want it no more." "But, madam, it is idle speaking thus!" cried Reuben, with the impetuosity of youth. "You must leave your house on the instant--" "So they told me in the time of the plague," returned Lady Scrope, with a little, disdainful smile; "but I told them I should never die in my bed." "Madam, we cannot leave you here to perish in the flames," cried the youth, with some heat and excitement of manner. "I would that you would come quietly with us, but if not I must needs--" and here he began to suit the action to the words, and to make as though he would creep along the ledge and gain the old woman's vantage ground, as, indeed, was his intention. But he had hardly commenced this perilous transit before he felt himself pulled back by his father, who said, in a strange, muffled voice: "It is useless, Reuben; we can do nothing. We must leave her to her fate. Either she is truly a witch, as men say, or else her brain is turned by the fearsome sight." And Reuben, following his father's glance, saw that the redoubtable Lady Scrope had drawn forth a pistol from pocket or girdle, and was pointing it full at him, with a light in her eyes which plainly betokened her intention of using it if he dared to thwart her beyond a certain point. When she saw the action of James Harmer, she smiled a sardonic smile. "Farewell, gentlemen," she said, with a wave of her hand. "I thank you for your good offices, and for your kindly thought for me. But no man has ever yet moved me from my purpose, and no man has laid hands on me against my will--nor ever shall. Go! farewell! Save yourselves, and take my blessing and good wishes with you; but I move not an inch from where I stand. I defy the fire, as I defied the plague!" It was useless to remain. Words were thrown away, and to attempt force would but bring certain death upon whoever attempted it. The fire was already almost upon them. Father and son, after one despairing look at each other, darted down the stairs again, and had but just time to make their escape ere a great wave of flame came rolling along overhead, and the house itself was wrapped in the fiery mantle. Dorcas, waiting with the men in the boat, devoured them with her eyes as they appeared, and uttered a little cry of horror and amazement when she saw them appear, choked and blackened, but alone. "She would not come! she would not come! Oh, I feared it from the first; but it seemed so impossible! Oh, how could she stay there alone in that sea of fire! O my mistress! my mistress! my poor mistress! She was always kind to me." Neither father nor brother spoke as they got into the boat and pushed off into the glowing river. It was terrible to think of that intrepid old woman facing her self-chosen and fiery doom alone up there upon the roof of that blazing house. "She must have been mad!" sobbed Dorcas; and her father answered with grave solemnity: "Methinks that self-will, never checked, never guided, breeds in the mind a sort of madness. Let us not judge her. God is the Judge. By this time, methinks, she will have passed from time to eternity." Dorcas shuddered and hid her face. She could not grasp the thought that her redoubtable mistress was no more; but the weird sight of the fire, as seen from the river, drew her thoughts even from the contemplation of the tragedy just enacted. The great pall of smoke seemed extending to a fearful distance, and the girl turned with a sudden terror to her father. "Father, will our house be burned?" "I trust not, my child, I trust not. It is of great moment that the bridge should be saved, not for its own sake only, but to keep the flames from spreading southward, as they might if they crossed that frail passage. We have done what we could; and we cannot be surrounded as are other houses. The fire can advance but by one road upon us. I trust the action we have taken will suffice to save us and others. I would fain be at home to see how matters are going there. I fear me that the pillar of fire over yonder is the blazing tower of St. Magnus. If so, the fire is fearfully near the head of the bridge. God help the poor families who would not consent to the demolition of their houses for the common weal! I fear me now they are in danger of losing both houses and goods!" It was even so, as the Harmers found on reaching their own abode, which they did by putting across the river to the Southwark side, to avoid the peril from the burning fragments which were flying all about the north bank of the river. The flames, having once leaped Thames Street, were devouring the houses on the southern side of the street with an astonishing rapidity; and the river was crowded with wherries, to which the affrighted people brought such goods as they could hastily lay hands upon in the terror and confusion. St. Magnus was now burning furiously, and great flakes of fire were falling pitilessly upon the houses at the northern end of the bridge. Even as the Harmers came hurrying up, a shout of fear told them that one of these had ignited, and the next minute there was no mistaking it. The houses on both sides of the northern end of the bridge were in flames; and the people who had somehow trusted that the bridge would, on account of its more isolated position, escape, were rushing terrified out of their doors, or were flinging their goods out of the windows with a recklessness that caused many of them to be broken to fragments as they reached the ground, whilst others were seized and carried off by the thieves and vagabonds who came swarming out of the dens of the low-lying parts of the city, eager to turn the public calamity into an occasion of private gain, and lost no opportunity of appropriating in the general confusion anything upon which they could lay their hands. "Pray Heaven the means we have taken may be blessed to the city!" cried James Harmer, as he hurried along. He found his men hard at work pumping water and drenching the ruins with it; for, as they said, the great heat dried up the moisture with inconceivable rapidity, and if once these ruins fired, nothing short of a miracle could save the remainder of the houses. Other stout fellows were upon the roofs with their buckets, emptying them as fast as they were filled upon the roofs and walls, so that when burning fragments and showers of sparks or even a leaping billow of flame smote upon them, it hissed like a live thing repulsed, and died away in smoke and blackness. It was the same when the flames reached the gap which had been made in the buildings by the Master Builder. The angry fire leapt again and again upon the drenched ruins, but each time fell back hissing and throwing off clouds of steam. For above two long hours that seemed like days the hand-to-hand fight continued, resolute and determined men casting water ceaselessly upon the ruins and the roofs and walls of the adjoining houses, the fire on the other side of the gap blazing furiously, and seeking to overstep it whenever a puff of wind gave it the right impetus. Had the wind shifted a point to the south, possibly nothing could have saved the bridge; but the general direction was northeast, and it was only an occasional eddy that brought a rush of flames to the southward. But there was great peril from the intense heat generated by the huge body of burning buildings close at hand, and from the flying splinters and clouds of sparks. Fearlessly and courageously as the workers toiled on, there were moments when their hearts almost failed them, when it seemed as though nothing could stop the oncoming tyrant, which appeared more like a living monster than a mere inanimate agency. But as the daylight waned, it began to be evident that victory would be with the devoted workers. Although the ever-increasing light in the sky told them that in other directions the fire was spreading with tireless fury, in the neighbourhood of the bridge and the places where it had broken out it had almost wreaked its fury. It had burned houses, and shops, and churches to the very ground. The lambent flames still played about the heaps of burning ruins, but the fury of the conflagration had abated through lack of material upon which to feed itself. Victory remained finally with those who had worked so well to keep the foe in check, and keep in safety the southern portion of the city. The Master Builder's scheme had been attended with marked success. The demolished buildings had arrested the progress of the flames, although not without severe labour on the part of those concerned. When the Harmer family met together to eat and drink after the toils of the day, so wearied out that even the knowledge that the terrible fire was still devouring all before it in other quarters could not keep them from their beds that night, the master of the house said to his friend the Master Builder: "Truly, if other means fail, we had better set about blowing up whole streets of houses in the path of the flames. We will to the Lord Mayor at daybreak, and tell him how the bridge has been saved. The people may lament at the destruction of their houses, but sure that is better than that all the city should be ravaged by fire!" Busy indeed were the women of both those abodes upon that memorable night. From basement to attic their houses were crowded with neighbours who had been burned out, and who must either pass the night in the open air or else seek shelter from friends more fortunate than themselves. The men, for the most part, were abroad in the streets, drawn thither by the excitement of the great fire, and by the hope of helping to save other persons and goods. But the women and children crowded together in helpless dismay, watching from the windows the increasing glow in the sky as the sun sank and night came on, and mingling tears of terror for others with their own lamentations over the loss of houses and goods. Good Rachel Harmer and her daughters and daughter-in-law moved amongst the poor creatures like ministering angels. The children were fed and put to bed by twos and threes together. The mothers were bidden to table in relays, and everything was done to cheer and sustain them. Good James Harmer thought not of his own goods when his neighbours were in dire need, and neither he nor his son grudged the hospitality which was willingly accorded to all who asked it, even though the houses would not stretch themselves out for the accommodation of more than a certain number. But as in times of trouble men draw very near together, so the misfortune of the citizens of London opened the hearts of their neighbours of Southwark and the surrounding villages, who themselves were now safe and in no danger from the great fire. Hospitable countrymen came with wagons and took away homeless creatures with their few poor goods, to be entertained for a while by their own wives and daughters. Others who had to encamp in the open fields were supplied with food by the surrounding inhabitants; and although there were much sorrow of heart and distress, the kindness shown to the burned out families did much to assuage their woes. James Harmer, who had done much to see to the safe housing of multitudes of women and children, came home at last, and gathering his household about him, gave thanks for their timely preservation in another great peril; and then he dismissed them to their beds, bidding them sleep, for that none knew what the morrow might bring forth. And they went to such couches as they could find for themselves, ready to do his behest; and though London was in flames, and the house almost as light as day, there were few that did not sleep soundly on the night which followed that strange eventful Sunday. CHAPTER XVIII. WHAT BEFELL DINAH. Dinah Morse and her niece Janet were faring sumptuously in Lord Desborough's house, hard by St. Paul's Churchyard. His young wife lay sick of a grievous fever, and he was well nigh distracted by the fear of losing her. Nothing was too good for her, or for the gentle-faced, soft-voiced nurses who had come to tend her in her hour of need. The best of everything was at their disposal; and it was no great source of regret to them that several of the hired servants had fled before their arrival, a whisper having gone through the house that her ladyship had taken the plague. Dinah and Janet had seen too much of the plague to be deceived by a few trifling similarities in some of the symptoms. They were able to assure the distracted husband that it was not the dreaded distemper, and then they settled to the task of nursing like those habituated to it; and so different were they in their ways from the women he had seen before in the office of sick nurse, many of whom were creatures of no good reputation, and of evil habits and life, that his mind was almost relieved of its fears and anxiety, and he began to entertain joyful hopes of the recovery of his spouse. Upon the Sunday morning which had passed so strangely and eventfully for those in the east of the city, there was nothing to disturb the tranquillity of patient or of nurses. It had been a hot night, and Janet, when she relieved Dinah towards morning, said she had seen a red light in the sky towards the east, and feared there had been a bad fire. But neither of them thought much of this; and when the bell of St. Paul's rang for morning service, Dinah bade Janet put on her hood and go, for Lady Desborough was sleeping quietly, and would only need quiet watching for the next few hours. When Janet entered the great building she was aware that a certain excitement and commotion seemed to prevail in some of the groups gathered together in Paul's Walk, as the long nave of the old building was called. Paul's Walk was a place of no very good repute, and any modest girl was wont to hurry through it with her hood drawn and her eyes bent upon the ground. Disgraceful as such desecration must be accounted, there can be no doubt that Paul's walk was a regular lounge for the dissipated and licentious young gallants of the day, a place where barter and traffic were shamelessly carried on, and where all sorts of evil practices prevailed. The sacredness of a building solemnly consecrated to God by their pious forefathers seemed to mean nothing to the reckless roisterers of that shameless age. The Puritans during the late civil war had set the example of desecrating churches, by using them as stables and hospitals, and for other secular purposes. It was a natural outcome of such practices that the succeeding generation should go a step further and do infinitely worse. If God-fearing men did not scruple to desecrate consecrated churches, was it likely that their godless successors would have greater misgivings? Janet therefore hurried along without seeking to know what men were talking of, and during the time that the service went on she almost forgot the impression she had taken in on her first entrance. As she came out she joined the old door porter of Lord Desborough's house, and was glad to walk with him through the crowded nave and into the bright, sunny air without. Although the sun was shining, she was aware of a certain murkiness in the air, but did not specially heed it until some loudly-spoken words fell upon her ears. "But forty hours, and this whole city shall be consumed by fire!" shouted a strange-looking man, who, in very scanty attire, was stationed upon the top of the steps, and was declaiming and gesticulating as he addressed a rather frightened-looking crowd beneath him. "Within forty hours there shall not be left standing one stone upon another in all this mighty edifice. The hand of the Lord is stretched forth against this evil city, and judgment shall begin at His sanctuary. Beware, and bewail, and repent in dust and ashes, for the Lord will do a thing this day which will cause the ears of every one who hears it to tingle. He is coming! He is coming! He is coming in clouds and majesty in a flaming fire, even as He appeared on the mount of Sinai! Be ready to meet Him. He comes to smite and not to spare! His chariots of fire are over us already. They travel apace upon the wings of the wind. I see them! I hear them! They come! they come! they come!" The fanatic waved his hands in the air with frantic gestures, and pointed eastward. Certainly there did appear to be a strange murkiness and haze in the air; and was there not a smell as of burning? or was it but the idea suggested by the man's words? Janet trembled as she slipped her arm within that of the old porter. "What does he mean?" she asked nervously. "The people seem very attentive to hear. They look affrighted, and some of them seem to tremble. What does it all mean?" "I scarce know myself. I heard men speak of a terrible fire right away in the east that has been burning many hours now. But sure they cannot fear that it will come nigh to St. Paul's. That were madness indeed! Why, each dry summer, as it comes, brings us plenty of bad fires. The fellow is but one of those mad fools who love to scare honest folks out of their senses. Heed him not, mistress. Belike he knows no more than thou and I. It is his trade to set men trembling. Let us go home; there is no danger for us." Rather consoled by these words, and certainly without any real apprehensions for their personal safety, Janet returned to the house, where she and Dinah passed a quiet day. Neither of them went out again; and though they spoke sometimes of the fire, and wondered if it had been extinguished, they did not suffer any real anxiety of mind. "I trust it went not nigh to our homes," said Janet once or twice. "I would that one of the boys might come and give us news of them. But if folks are in trouble over yonder, father is certain to have his hands full. He will never stand by idle whilst other folks are suffering danger and loss." "He is a good man," answered Dinah, and with her these words stood for much. Towards nightfall Lord Desborough came in with rather an anxious look upon his face. His eyes first sought the face of his wife; but seeing her lie in the tranquil sleep which was her best medicine, he was satisfied of her well being, and without putting his usual string of questions he began abruptly to ask of Dinah: "Have you heard news of this terrible fire?" Both nurses looked earnestly at him. "Is it not yet extinguished, my lord?" "Extinguished? no, nor likely to be, if all we hear be true. I have not seen it with mine own eyes. I was at Whitehall all the day, and heard no more than that some houses and churches in the east had been burned. But they say now that the flames are spreading this way with all the violence of a tempest at sea, and those who have been to see say that it is like a great sea of fire, rushing over everything so that nothing can hinder it. The Lord Mayor and his aldermen have been down since the morning, striving to do what they can; but, so far as report says, the flames are yet unchecked. It seems impossible that they should ever reach even to us here; but I am somewhat full of fear. What would befall my poor young wife if the fire were to threaten this house?" Dinah looked grave and anxious. Lady Desborough's condition was critical, and she could only be moved at considerable risk. But it seemed impossible that the fire could travel all this distance. Only the troubled look on the husband's face would have convinced her that such a thing could be contemplated for a moment even by the faintest-hearted. "You would not have us move her now, ere the danger approaches?" asked the husband anxiously. "No, my lord. To move her tonight would be, I think, certain death," answered Dinah gravely. "She has but passed the crisis of a very serious fever, and is weak as a newborn babe. We will strive all we can to get up her strength, that she may be able for what may come. But I trust and hope the fire will be extinguished long ere it reaches us. Oh, surely never was there fire that burned for days and destroyed whole streets and parishes!" "And oh, my lord, can you tell us if the bridge is safe?" asked Janet clasping her hands together in an agony of uncertainty and fear. "Have you heard news of the bridge? Oh, say it is not burned! They all talk of the east, but what does that mean? Who can tell me if my father's house has escaped?" Lord Desborough was a very kindly man, and the distress of the girl touched him. "I will go forth and ask news of all who have been thither to see," he answered. "Many have gone both by land and water to see the great sight. I would go likewise, save that I fear to leave my wife. But, at least, I will seek all the news I can get, and come again to you." The master of the house went forth, and the two anxious watchers, after a long look at their patient to satisfy themselves that she was sleeping peacefully, and not likely to wake suddenly, crept silently into an adjoining room, where a large window looking eastward enabled them to see in the sky that strange and terrible glow, which was so bright and fierce as darkness fell that they were appalled in beholding it spreading and brightening in the sky. "Good lack, what a terrible fire it must be!" cried Janet, wringing her hands together. "O good aunt, what can resist the oncoming fury of such a fearful conflagration? Would that I knew my father's house was safe. But, at least, those within must have had warning, and they could with ease escape by water if even the streets were in flames. Alack, this poor city! It does indeed seem as though the vials of God's wrath were being poured out upon it! Will His hand be stayed till all is destroyed? Surely the hearts of men must turn back to Him in these days of dire calamity!" Dinah gravely shook her head, her face lighted up by the ever-increasing light in the eastern sky, which grew brighter and brighter with the gathering shades of night. "Methought in those terrible days of the plague that surely men's hearts would, for the future, be set upon higher things, seeing how they had learned by fearful experience that man's life is but a vapour that the wind carrieth away. But as soon as the pressing peril abated, they hardened their hearts, and turned hack to their evil ways. It may be that even this warning will be lost upon them. God alone knows how many will see His hand in this great judgment, and will turn to Him in fear if not in love!" Before many minutes had passed affrighted servants began peeping and then crowding into the room, as though they felt more assurance in presence of Dinah's quiet steadfastness and courage. The faces of the maids were pale with apprehension. It was difficult to believe, in the midst of this ruddy glare which actually palpitated as the lights and shadows danced upon the wall, that the fire was yet as distant as was reported. All the menservants had run out into the streets after news of the progress of the fire, and the women were scared by their absence. Dinah did what she could to calm them, pointing out that since they could as yet neither hear nor feel anything of so great a fire, it must still be a great way off. It was hardly possible to believe that it would be permitted to sweep onwards much longer unchecked. By this time men's minds must be fully alive to the great peril in which all London stood, and she doubted not that some wise measures would soon be taken to stay the spread of the flames. She advised the maidens to go to bed and not think any more about it. Let them commend themselves to God and seek to sleep. She would undertake to watch, and to rouse them up should there be any need during the night. Somewhat appeased and comforted by these words, the maids withdrew and sought their needed rest. But Janet and Dinah returned to the sickroom, resolved to keep vigil there, and only to sleep by turns upon the couch, ready dressed in case of emergency. It was nigh upon midnight before Lord Desborough returned, and he was so blackened and begrimed that they scarcely knew him. His wife was still sleeping the sleep of exhausted nature, and, after one glance at her, the young nobleman turned towards Janet, who was quivering all over in her anxiety to hear the news. "Well, maiden, thy father's house is safe, and half the bridge is safe; and the thanks of that are due to him and to a worthy neighbour, who by their wise exertions stayed the fire, which might else have spread even to the other side of the river." Janet and Dinah exchanged looks of unspeakable relief, and Lord Desborough continued in the same cautious undertone: "Once out of doors, the fire fever quickly got its hold on me, even as it has gotten hold upon almost every person in the city. I had not meant to go far but I took a wherry, and, the tide serving well, I was swiftly borne along towards the bridge, and from the river I saw the raging of such a fire as, methinks, the world has never seen before. No words of mine can paint the awful grandeur of the sight I saw. It was as light as day upon the water, and there were times when the river itself seemed ablaze. For, as the flames wrought havoc amongst the warehouses and stores along the wharfs, burning masses of oil and tar would pour out upon the bosom of the water, blazing terribly, and the boatmen had to keep a sharp watch sometimes lest they and their craft should be engulfed in the fiery stream. To the ignorant, who knew not what caused the water to wear this aspect of burning, it appeared as though even the river had ignited. This increased their terrors tenfold, and they say that some poor distraught creatures actually flung themselves into the fire or the water, convinced that the end of the world had come, and careless as to whether they perished soon or late." "But my father--my father!" cried Janet earnestly. "Ah, true, thy father. I heard of him from the watermen in the wherries, who told me the tale of how he had saved the bridge by pulling down his workshops and drenching the ruins with water. It seemeth to me that unless some prompt and resolute course of a similar kind is taken tomorrow or tonight, infinite loss must ensue. No ordinary means can now check this great fire. But surely the Lord Mayor and his advisers will have by now a plan on foot. Were I not so weary, and anxious about my wife, I would go forth once more to see what was doing. But I must wait now for the morrow, and then, pray Heaven all danger may be at an end. Fear not, good friends, if you hear terrible sounds as of an earthquake shaking the house this night. Men say that if the city is to be saved it must be by the blowing up of whole streets of small houses somewhere in the path of the flames, so that they shall have nothing whereon to feed. Others say that nothing will stop them, and that none will be found ready to make sacrifice of their dwellings for the public good, preferring to risk the chance of the flames reaching them. I know not the truth of all the rumours flying about; but the thing might be, and might be wisely done. So fear not if you should hear some sounds that will make you think of an earthquake. And call me if aught alarms you, or if my wife should change either for the better or the worse." So saying, Lord Desborough took himself off to his well-earned repose; and the two nurses passed the night, sometimes waking and sometimes sleeping, but not disturbed by any strange sounds of explosion, and hopeful, as the night passed without special event, that the fire had been extinguished. But morning brought appalling accounts of its spread. Nothing had been done, it seemed, to stay its course. It had reached Cheapside, and was rushing a headlong course down it, and even the Guildhall, men said, would not escape. North and west the great, rolling body of the flames was spreading; churches were going down before it, one after the other, as helplessly as the timber and plaster houses, which burned like so much tinder. Hour after hour as that day passed by fresh and terrible items of news were brought in. Would anything ever stop the oncoming sea of fire? Surely--surely something would be done to save St. Paul's. Surely that magnificent and time-honoured structure would not be permitted to perish without some attempt to save it! Dinah went out at midday for a mouthful of air, leaving Janet in charge of the sick lady. She turned her steps towards the great edifice towering up in all its grandeur towards the sunny sky. It was hard indeed to believe that it could succumb to the devouring element, so solid and unconsumable it looked. Yet, although all men were asserting vehemently that "Paul's could never burn," all faces were looking anxious, and all ears were eagerly attuned to catch any new item of news which a messenger or passerby might bring. The murkiness in the air, faintly discernible even yesterday, had become very marked by this time. The smell of fire was in the air, although as yet the terrible roaring of the flames, of which all men who had been near it were speaking, had not yet become audible in the Babel of talk going on in the streets and about the great church. The dean and canons were grouped about the precincts, looking anxiously into each other's faces, as though to seek to read encouragement from one another. Nothing was talked of but the fire, the incapacity shown by the civic authorities in dealing with it, and lamentations that good Sir John Lawrence, who had coped so ably with the pestilence last year, should be no longer in office at this second great crisis. Still it was averred on all hands that something was about to be done; that it was too scandalous to stand by panic stricken whilst the whole city perished. Every one seemed to have heard talk respecting the demolition or blowing up of houses in the path of the flames; but none could say actually that it had been done, or was about to be done, in any given locality. Burned out households were pouring continually along the choked thoroughfares, striving to find safe places where they might bestow such goods as they had succeeded in saving. Charitable persons were occupied in housing and feeding those who had nothing of their own; whilst others, whose fears were on a larger scale, were fleeing altogether away from the city to friends in the country beyond, desiring only to escape the coming judgment, which seemed like that poured out on Sodom. Dinah went back with a very grave face to her charge. The poor lady had now recovered her senses, and though as weak as a newborn babe, was able to smile from time to time upon her husband, who sat beside her holding her hand between his. He was so overjoyed at this happy change in his wife's condition that he had no thought to spare at this moment for the peril of the city. He asked for no news as Dinah appeared; and indeed it was very necessary that the patient should not be in any wise alarmed or excited. Dinah, however, was becoming very uneasy as time went on; and she was certain that the air grew darker than could be accounted for by the falling dusk, and upon going to the east window as the twilight fell, she was appalled by the awful glare in the sky, and was certain that now, indeed, she did begin to distinguish the roaring of the flames as the wind drifted them ever onwards and onwards. Had it not been for the exceedingly critical state in which the patient lay, she would have suggested her removal before things grew worse. As it was, it might be death to move her; and perhaps the flames would be stayed ere they reached the noble cathedral pile. Surely every effort would be made for that end. It was difficult to imagine that the citizens would not combine together in some great and mighty effort to save their homes and their sanctuary before it should be too late. "What an awful sight!" exclaimed a soft voice behind her. "Heaven grant the peril be not so nigh as it looks!" It was Lord Desborough, who had come in and was looking with anxious eyes at the flaming sky, over which great clouds of sparks and flaming splinters could be seen drifting. It might only be fancy, but the room seemed to be growing hot with the breath of the fire. The young nobleman's face was very grave and disturbed. "What must we do?" he asked of Dinah. "Can she be moved? Ought we to take her elsewhere?" "I would we could," answered Dinah, "but she is so weak that it may be death to carry her hence, and if we spoke to her of this terrible thing that is happening, the shock might bring back the fever, and then, indeed, all would be lost." The husband wrung his hands together in the utmost anxiety. Dinah stood thinking deeply. "My lord," she presently said, "it may come to this, that she will have to be moved, risk or no risk. Should we not think about whither to take her if it be needful?" "Ay, verily; but where may that be? Who can know what place is safe? And to transport her far would be certain death. She would die on the road thither." "That is very true, my lord," answered Dinah; "but it has come into my mind that, perchance, my sister's house could receive her--that house upon the bridge, which is now safe, and which can be in no danger again, since all the city about it lies in ashes. By boat we could transport her most gently of all; and tonight, upon the rising tide, it might well be done, if the need should become more pressing." "A good thought! a happy thought indeed!" cried Lord Desborough. "But art thou sure that thy good kinsmen will have room within their walls? They may have befriended so many." "That is like enow," answered Dinah; "I have thought of that myself. My lord, methinks it would be a good plan for you to take boat now, at once, taking the maid Janet with you as a guide and spokeswoman. She will take you to her father's house and explain all; and then her father and brothers will come back with you, if need presses more sorely, and help us to transport thither the poor lady. I will sit by her the while, and by plying her with cordials and such food as she can swallow, strive to feed her feeble strength; and if the flames seem coming nearer and nearer, I will make shift to dress her in such warm and easy garments as are best suited to the journey she may have to take. And I will trust to you to be back to save us ere the danger be over great." "That I will! that I will!" cried the eager husband. "The plan is an excellent one! I will lose not a moment in acting upon it. I like not the look of yon sky. I fear me there will be no staying the raging of the flames. I will lose not a minute. Bid the girl be ready, and we will forth at once. We will take boat at Baynard's Castle, and be back again ere two hours have passed!" Janet was delighted with the plan. She was restless and nervous here, and anxiously eager to know what had befallen her own people. She would gladly have had Dinah to go also, but saw that the sick lady could not be left, and that it would not be right to move her save on urgent necessity; but to go and get a band of eager helpers to come to the rescue if need be satisfied her entirely, and she said a joyful farewell to her aunt, promising to send help right speedily. Left alone with her patient, Dinah commenced her task of feeding the lamp of life, and seeking by every means in her power to prepare the patient for the possible transit. Once she was called from the room by some commotion without, and found the frightened servants all huddled together outside the door, uncertain whether to fly the place altogether or to wait till some one came with definite news as to the magnitude of the peril. The light in the sky was terrible. The showers of sparks were falling all round the houses and the cathedral. The roar of the approaching fire began to be clearly distinguished above every other sound. Dinah, who knew that tumult and affright were the worst things possible for her patient, counselled the cowering maids to make good their escape at once, since there was nothing to be done in the house that night, and they were far too frightened to sleep. All had friends who would give them shelter. And soon the house was silent and empty, for the men had gone off either to the fire or out of sheer fright, and Dinah was left quite alone with her patient. "What is that noise I hear all the time?" asked Lady Desborough presently, in a feeble voice. "I feel as though there was something burning in the room. The air seems thick and heavy. Is it my fantasy, or do I smell burning? Where is my husband? Is there something the matter going on?" "There is a bad fire not very far from here, my lady," answered Dinah quietly. "My lord has gone to see if it be like to spread, that he may take such steps as are needful. Be not anxious; we are safe beneath his care. He will let no hurt come nigh us before he is back to tell us what we shall do." A tranquil smile lighted the lady's face at these words. She was in that state of weakness when the mind is not easily ruffled, and Dinah's calm face and steady voice were very tranquillizing. "Ah yes, my good lord will not let hurt come nigh us. We will await his good pleasure. I trust no poor creatures are in peril? There will be many to help them I trow?" "Yes, my lady. I have not heard of lives lost; and many say that it is good for some of the old houses to burn, that they may build better ones little by little. Now take this cordial, and sleep once more. I will awaken you when my lord returns." The lady obeyed, and soon slept again, her pulse stronger and firmer and her mind at rest. But Dinah was growing very uneasy. Far though she was above the street, she heard shouts and cries--muffled and distant truly, but very apparent to her strained faculties--all indicative of alarm and the presence of peril. She dared not leave her post at the bedside, but the air was becoming so thick with smoke that the patient coughed from time to time, and the nurse was not certain how much longer it would be possible to breathe in it. She was certain, too, that the place was becoming hot, increasingly hot, each minute. Oh, where was Lord Desborough? why did he not come? At last she stole from the room and into the adjoining chamber, and then indeed an awful sight met her shrinking gaze. A pillar of lambent flame, which seemed to her to be close at hand, was rising up in the air as though it reached the very heavens. It swayed slowly this way and that, surrounded by clouds of crimson smoke and a veritable furnace of sparks. Then, as she watched with awed and fascinated gaze, it suddenly seemed to make a bound towards the tower of St. Paul's standing up majestic and beautiful against the fiery sky. It fastened upon it like a living monster greedy of prey. Tongues of flame seemed to be licking it on all sides, and a mass of fire encircled it. With a gasp of fear and horror Dinah turned away. "St. Paul's on fire!" she exclaimed beneath her breath; "God in His mercy have pity upon us! Can any one save us now?" CHAPTER XIX. JUST IN TIME. Lady Desborough sat up in bed propped up with pillows, dressed in such flowing garments as Dinah had been able to array her in, her eyes shining in anxious expectation, her panting breath showing the oppression caused by the murkiness of the atmosphere. But in spite of the peril of the situation, to which she had now awakened with full comprehension; in spite of the fatigue of being partially dressed, with a view to sudden flight; in spite of the horror of knowing herself to be alone with Dinah in this flame-encircled house, her spirit rose to the occasion, triumphing over the weakness of the flesh. Dinah had feared that the knowledge of the peril would extinguish the faint flame of life; but it seemed rather to cause it to burn more strongly. The fragile creature looked full of courage, and the fears she experienced at this moment were less for herself than for others. "My dear lord! my dear lord!" she kept repeating. "Dinah, if he were living nothing would keep him from me. Where is he gone? Dost thou think he will return in time?" "I think so, my dear lady," answered Dinah in her full, quiet voice; "I pray he may come soon!" "Yes, pray for him, pray for him!" cried the lady clasping her hands, "I have not prayed for him enough. Pray that his precious life may be preserved!" Dinah clasped her hands and bent her head. Her whole faculties seemed merged in one great stress of urgent prayer. The lady looked at her and touched her hand gently. "You are a good woman, Dinah Morse. I am glad to have you with me; but if my good lord come not soon, you must save yourself and fly. I will not have you lose your life for me. You have not strength to bear me hence, and I cannot walk. You must fly and save yourself. For me, if my dear lord be dead, life has nothing for me to desire it." "Madam," answered Dinah, in her calm, resolute way, "your good lord, my master, entrusted you to my care, and that charge I cannot and will not quit whatever may betide. God is with us in the midst of the fire as truly as He was in the raging of the plague. He brought me safe through the one peril, and I can trust Him for this second one. Our lives we may not recklessly cast away, neither may we fly from our post of duty lightly, and without due warrant." Lady Desborough's thin white fingers closed over Dinah's steady hand with a grateful pressure. "Thou art a good woman, Dinah," she said. "Thy presence beside me gives me strength and hope. Truly I should dread to be left alone, and yet I would not have thee stay if the peril becomes great." "We will trust that help may reach us shortly," answered Dinah, who realized the magnitude of the peril far more clearly than did the sick lady, who had no idea of the awful extent of the fire. That it was a bad one she was well aware, and in perilous proximity to their dwelling; but Dinah had not told her, nor had she for a moment guessed, that half the city of London was already destroyed. "Go and look from the windows," she said a few minutes later, when the two had sat in silent prayer and meditation for that brief interval. "Go see what is happening in the street below. I marvel that I hear so little stir of voices. But the walls are thick, and we are high up. Go and see what is passing below, and bring me word again." Dinah was not loth to obey this behest, being terribly anxious to know what was happening around them. Neither by word nor by sign would she add to the anxieties of Lady Desborough, knowing how much might depend upon her calmness if the chance of rescue offered itself; but she herself began to entertain grave fears for the safety of this house, wedged in, as it appeared to her to be, between masses of blazing buildings. Running up to the top attics of the house, which commanded views almost every way, the sight which greeted her eyes was indeed appalling. The whole mass of St. Paul's grand edifice was alight, and the flames were rushing up the walls like fiery serpents whilst the dull roar of the conflagration was like the booming of the breakers on an iron-bound coast. Grand and terrible was the sight presented by that vast sea of flame, which extended eastward as far as the eyes could see. It was more brilliantly light now, in the middle of the night, than in the brightest summer noontide, although the blood-red glare was terrible in its intensity, and brought to Dinah's spirit, with a shudder of horror, a vision of the bottomless pit with its eternal fires. But without pausing to linger to watch the awful grandeur of the burning cathedral, she hastily passed from attic to attic to see how matters were going in other quarters, and she soon discovered, to her dismay and anxiety, that the flames had crept around the little wedge-like block of buildings in which this mansion stood, and that they were literally ringed round by fire. By some caprice, or perhaps owing to its solidity of structure, this small three-cornered block, containing about three good houses, had not yet ignited; but the hungry flames were creeping on apace, and, as it seemed to Dinah, from all sides. As she took in this fact, it seemed to her that help could never reach them now, and that all they could do was to strive to meet death with as calm and bold a spirit as they could, commending their souls to God, and trusting that He would raise up their bodies at the last day, even though they might be consumed to ashes in the midst of this burning fire. What was that noise? Surely a shout from below. Dinah started, and fled hastily down the staircase. In another moment she heard more plainly. "Sweet heart, sweet heart, where art thou--oh where art thou?" It was Lord Desborough's voice; she recognized it with a thrill of gladness. But there was another voice mingling with it which she also knew, and she heard her own name called with equal urgency. "Dinah! Mistress Dinah! Ah, pray God we have not come too late! Dinah, we are here to save you both! Show yourself, if you be still there. Pray Heaven they have not rushed forth in their fears and perished in the flames!" In another instant Dinah had rushed to a window, which seemed to be on the same side of the house as the voices--namely, at the back; and, in the narrow court below, she saw Lord Desborough, the Master Builder, her brother, and Reuben, all clustered together, with ladders and ropes, and all calling aloud to those within to show themselves. "We are here! we are safe! but the fire is well nigh upon us," answered Dinah, who had just been convinced by the rolling of the smoke up the staircase that the lower part of the house was in flames. "Thank God! thank God! they are still there!" cried Lord Desborough at sight of her; whilst the Master Builder, who was getting a ladder into position in order to run it up to the window where she stood, spoke rapidly and commandingly: "There is no time to lose. The house is ringed by fire. It will be all we can do to make good our escape. The front of the place is in flames already; we cannot approach that way, and the street is full of waves of fire. Can you make shift to bring out the sick lady to this window? or--" Dinah vanished the moment she understood what was to be done; but quick as were her movements, Lord Desborough was in the room almost as soon as she was. He must have darted up the ladder almost ere it was in position, and the next moment he had his wife in his arms, straining her passionately to his breast, as she cried in joyful accents: "O my love, my dear, dear love! methought thou hadst perished in yon fearful fire!" "It is more fearful than thou dost know, sweet heart, but with Heaven's help we will bear thee safe through it. Shut thine eyes, dear heart, and trust to me. We have won our way thus far in the teeth of many a peril. Pray Heaven we make good our escape in like fashion. We have taken every measure of precaution." In her great delight at having her husband back safe and sound, and in her state of exceeding weakness, Lady Desborough understood little of the terrible nature of what was happening. She felt her husband's arms round her; she knew he had come to save her from danger; and her trust was so perfect and implicit that it left no room in her heart for anxious fears. She closed her eyes like a tired child, and laid her head upon his shoulder. He was a strong man, and she had wasted in the fever to a mere shadow, and was always small and slight. He carried her as easily as though she had been an infant; and making straight for the open window, he climbed out upon the ladder and went slowly and steadily down it, whilst those below held it for him. Dinah watched the descent with eager eyes, unheeding all else. She never thought to look behind her. She had no idea that a mass of flames had suddenly come rushing up the stairway behind her. She was conscious of an overpowering heat and a rush of blinding smoke that caused her to stagger back gasping for breath; but it was only as she actually felt the hot breath of the flames upon her cheek, and saw that the whole house had suddenly become involved in the universal destruction, that she knew what had befallen her, and that death was striving hard to clutch her and make her its prey. With a short, sharp cry, she staggered towards the open window, but the heat and the smoke made her dizzy. She fell against the frame, and uttered a faint cry for help; and then it seemed to her that the body of flame behind leaped upon her like a live thing. She was conscious for a moment of making a fierce and desperate struggle, and then she knew no more, for black darkness swallowed her up, and her last moment of consciousness was spent in a prayer that the Lord would be with her in death and receive her spirit into His hands. When next Dinah opened her eyes it was to find a cool wind blowing on her face, and to feel an unwonted motion of the bed (as she supposed it for a moment) on which she was lying. Everything was bright as day about her, but everything seemed to be dyed the hue of blood. The next moment sense and memory returned. She realized that she was lying in the bottom of a boat, which men were rowing with steady strokes. She saw Lord Desborough sitting in the stern, only a few feet away, still clasping his wife in his arms. She knew that her head was lying in somebody's lap, and the next moment she heard a familiar voice saying: "Ah! she is better now. She has opened her eyes!" "Rachel!" exclaimed Dinah sitting suddenly up, in spite of a sensation of giddiness which made everything swim before her eyes for a few moments; and Rachel Harmer looked down into her face and smiled. "Dear Dinah, thank Heaven thou art safe! I hear that thou wert in fearful peril in this burning city; but our good neighbour brought thee forth from the blazing house just as the boards on which thou wert standing gave way beneath thy feet. Oh, how thankful must we be that our home and our dear ones have all been preserved to us, when half the city is lying in ruins!" Dinah raised herself up still more at these words, and turned her eyes in the direction of the raging flames on the north side of the river; and only then was she able to realize something of the terrible magnitude of that great conflagration. The boat was hugging the Southwark shore, for indeed it was scarce safe to approach the other, save from motives of dire necessity, and so thickly did sparks and fragments of blazing matter fall hissing into the river for quite half its width, that boats were chary of adventuring themselves much beyond the Southwark bank, save those conveying persons or goods from some of the many wharfs; and these made straight across with their cargoes as soon as they could quit the shore. "It is terrible! terrible!" gasped Dinah. "It is like the mouth of a volcano! And to think that but a short hour since I was in the midst of it. O sister, tell me how thou comest to be here. Tell me how I was snatched from the flames, for, verily, I thought I was their prey." Rachel put a trembling arm about her sister's shoulders as she made reply. "Truly there were those standing by who thought the same. But for the brave expedition of our neighbour there, methinks thou wouldst have perished; but let me tell the tale from the beginning. "It was some time after dark--I scarce know how the hours have sped through these two strange nights and days, when the day seems almost dimmer than the night. But suddenly there was Janet with us--Janet and my Lord Desborough, come with news that the fire had threatened even St. Paul's, and that he desired help to save his sick wife and thee, Dinah, ere the flames should have reached his abode. Janet told us much of the poor lady's state, and we made all fitting preparation to receive her. But none were at home save the boys, and they had to go forth and find their father and brother, to return with Lord Desborough to help him in his work of rescue. He would fain have got others and not have tarried so long. But all men seem distraught by fear, and would not listen to his promises of reward, nor face the perils either of the journey by water or of an approach to the flaming city." "Indeed it hath a fearful aspect!" said Dinah thoughtfully, as she turned her eyes upon the blazing mass that had been teeming with life but a few short hours ago. "Hast heard, sister, whether many poor creatures have perished in the flames? Oh, my heart has been sad for them, thinking of all the homeless and all the dead!" "They say that wondrous few have fallen victims to the fire," said Rachel, "and those that have perished are, for the most part, poor, distraught creatures, whom terror caused to fling away their lives, or like my Lady Scrope, who would not leave her home and preferred to perish with it. It is sad enough to think of the thousands who have lost home and goods in the fire. But had it come before the plague had ravaged the city so fearfully, it must have been tenfold worse. Methinks if the lanes and courts of the city had been crowded as they were then, the loss of life must needs have been far greater." "But to proceed with thy tale," said Dinah after a pause. "How was it that thou didst adventure thyself with the rescuing party in the boat?" "Methought that, as there were helpless women to be saved, a woman might find work to do suited more to her than to the men folks. Moreover, I may not deny that I felt a great and mighty desire to see this wonderful fire more nigh. Custom has used us to so much since it commenced that the terror of it has somewhat faded. They were saying that St. Paul's was blazing or like to blaze. I desired to see that awful sight; and see it I did right well, as we pushed the boat into mid-water after landing Lord Desborough and his assistants at Baynard's Castle. They were some half hour gone, and we sat and watched the fire, in some fear truly for them, for the flames seemed devouring everything, but with confidence that they would act with all prudence, and in the full belief that the fire had not yet attacked my lord's house." "Ah, but it had!" said Dinah with a little shiver. "I would not have believed that flames could sweep on at such a fearful pace. One minute we seemed safe, the next it was seething round us!" "That is what they all say of this fire. It travels with such an awful rapidity, and will suddenly pounce like a live thing upon some building hitherto unharmed, and in an incredibly short time will have licked it up, if one may so speak, leaving nothing but a mass of smouldering ashes behind." "I know how it leaps," spoke Dinah, with a little shiver. "I cannot think even now how I came to be saved." "It was our good neighbour, the Master Builder, who saved thee at risk of his life," answered Rachel with a little sob in her voice. "It was a terrible thing to see, Reuben tells me. He and his father were holding the ladder, and Lord Desborough was bringing down his wife, when all in a moment the house seemed engulfed in one of those great flame waves of which all men are speaking, and they saw you totter and fall, as if it had engulfed thee in its deadly embrace. Lord Desborough was not yet down the ladder, and knew nothing of thy peril, being engrossed in tender care for his wife. Nobody could pass him, nor would the ladder bear a greater weight; but the next moment they saw that our good neighbour had somehow got another ladder against the wall and was rushing up it at a pace that seemed impossible. Reuben ran to steady this ladder, for it was like to fall with the quaking and shaking. And then, just before they heard the fall of the burning floors, he saw the Master Builder coming down bearing his burden safely; and once having both of you safe, there was not a moment to lose in making for the boat. Already the alley was full of blinding flame and choking smoke, and it was all the men could do to carry the pair of you safe to Baynard's Castle, where we took you all on board, but only two minutes before the fire began to blaze there also. See, by looking back thou canst see how fiercely it is burning! "God alone knows how and where it will be stayed. They say it is spreading northward as furiously as it flies westward. If the city walls stay not its course, all London will surely perish." Dinah was silent a while, looking seriously before her. Then she lifted her face nearer to her sister's and said: "Prithee, tell me, has our good friend and neighbour suffered hurt in thus adventuring his life for me?" "He has not spoken of it, if so be that he has," was the answer; "but the haste and peril and confusion were too great for many words. We shall soon be at home now, and all who need it will receive tendance. I fear me, dear sister, that thou canst not altogether have escaped the cruel embrace of the fire. Thy garments were singed and charred: but this cloak covers thee well and protects thee from the night air." Dinah moved herself, and felt no hurt. She looked anxiously towards Lord Desborough, as though to ask how it went with his lady. Fortunately the night was warm and calm, save for the light breeze that was enough to fan the fierce flames onward and onward. By day the wind blew hard from the east; but it dropped at night, and this was no small boon to the many homeless creatures who had no roofs to shelter their heads. Once landed at the Southwark wharf, the party was soon within the sheltering doors of the twin houses. Gertrude came forth to meet them, anxious solicitude written on every line of her face. The first care was for the poor lady, for whom they had made ready a pleasant and airy room. She was carried thither, and Dinah followed to see what was her condition; and although she was exceedingly weak, she was not unconscious, and so long as she had her husband beside her holding her hand, she seemed to care nothing for the strangeness of her surroundings, or for the perils through which she had passed. "Verily, I think she will live," said Dinah, when Janet had fed her with some of the strong broth which had been made in readiness. "She looks not greatly worse than when she started up in bed in her own house with the consciousness that there was fire near. I had not thought so tender a frame could go through so much of peril and hardship; but methinks her lord's return was the charm that worked so marvellously for her; for, truly, she had begun to fear him dead." Satisfied as to her patient, Dinah allowed herself to be taken care of by Gertrude, who insisted on removing her burned garments, and assuring herself that no other hurt had been done. It was wonderful what an escape Dinah's had been, for there was scarcely any mark of fire upon her, only a little redness here and there, but nothing approaching to a severe burn. She declared that she could not go to bed in the midst of so much excitement; and after telling Gertrude of the wonderful nature of her own escape, she added, with a slightly heightened colour: "I would fain assure myself of the welfare of thy brave father, for it may be that he may have sustained some hurt; and if that be so, we must minister to his needs right speedily. Much depends in burns upon the promptness with which they are dressed." Gertrude's filial anxiety was at once aroused, as well as her warm admiration for her father's courage and devotion. Together they sought him out and found him in one of the lower rooms, a plate of food before him, which, however, he had hardly touched. The moment he saw his daughter, who entered a little in advance, he rose hastily and exclaimed: "Tell me how she does. Has she received any hurt?" "Lady Desborough?" asked Gertrude; "they all say she--" "Nay, nay, child, not Lady Desborough! What is Lady Desborough to me? I mean Dinah, that noble, devoted woman, who would not leave her mistress even in the face of deadly peril. Tell me of her! Tell me--" And here the Master Builder came to a dead stop, and paused for a moment in bashful shamefacedness most unwonted with him, for there was Dinah entering behind his daughter, and surely she must have heard every word. "Dinah is not hurt, father," said Gertrude, covering the awkward pause with ready tact; "her escape has been truly wonderful. She wishes to know whether you also have escaped; for she tells me that you must have faced a sea of flame in order to get to her." "Your arm is hurt--is burned!" said Dinah coming forward quickly, her eye detecting that much in a moment. "Gertrude, bring me the oil and the linen. I will bind it up before I do aught else. When the air is kept away the smart is wonderfully allayed." The burn was rather a severe one, but the Master Builder seemed to feel no pain under the dexterous manipulation of Dinah's gentle, capable hands. When he would have thanked her she gave him a quick look, and made a low-toned answer. "Nay, nay, I can hear no thanks from thee. Do I not owe thee my life? But for thee I should not be here now. It is I who must thank thee--only I have no words in which to do it." "Then let us do without words between us for the future, Dinah," said the Master Builder, possessing himself of one of her hands, which was not withdrawn. "If thou hadst perished in the fire, life had had nothing left for me. Does not that show that we belong to each other? I have not much to give, but all I have is thine; and I think thou mightest go the world over and not find a more loving heart!" CHAPTER XX. THE FLAMES STAYED. "Something must be done! The whole city must not perish! It is a shame that so much destruction has already taken place. What are the city magnates about that they stand idle, wringing their hands, whilst all London burns about their ears?" Young Lord Desborough was the speaker. He had risen in some excitement from the table where he had been seated at breakfast, for James Harmer had just come in with the news that the fire was still burning with the same fierceness as of old; that it had spread beyond the city walls, Ludgate and Newgate having both been reduced to a heap of smoking ruins; that it was spreading northward and westward as fiercely as ever; whilst even in an easterly direction it was creeping slowly and insidiously along, so that men began to whisper that the Tower itself would eventually fall a prey. "Nay, now, but that must not, that shall not be!" cried Lord Desborough in great excitement. "Shame enough for London that St. Paul's is gone! Are we to lose every ancient building of historic fame? What would his Majesty say were that to perish also? Zounds! methinks my Lord Mayor must surely be sleeping. In good King Henry the Eighth's reign his head would have been struck off ere now. "Thou hast seen him, thou sayest, good Master Harmer. What does he purpose to do? Surely he cannot desire all the city to perish. Yet, methinks, that will be what will happen, if indeed it be not already accomplished." "He is like one distraught," answered Harmer. "I went to him yesterday, and I have been again at break of day this morn. I have told him how we saved the bridge, and have begged powers of him to effect great breaches at various points to stay the ravages of the flames; but he will do naught but say he must consider, he must consider." "And whilst he considers, London burns to ashes!" cried the young nobleman in impetuous scorn. "A plague upon his consideration and his reflections! We want a man who can act in times like these. Beshrew me if I go not to his Majesty myself and tell him the whole truth. Methinks if he but knew the dire need for bold measures, London might even now be saved--so much of it as yet remains. If the Lord Mayor is worse than a child at such a crisis, let us to his Majesty and see what he will say!" "A good thought, in truth," answered Harmer thoughtfully. "But surely his Majesty knows?" "Ay, after a fashion doubtless; but it takes some little time to rouse the lion spirit in him. He is wont to laugh and jest somewhat too much, and dally with news, whilst he throws the dice with his courtiers, or passes a compliment to some fair lady. He takes life somewhat too lightly does my lord the King, until he be thoroughly roused. But the blood of kings runs in his veins; and let him but be awakened to the need for action, then he can act as a sovereign, indeed." "Then, good my lord, in the name of all those poor townsfolk whose houses are standing yet, let the King be roused to a full sense of the dire peril!" cried Harmer, in almost passionate tones; "for if some one come not to their help, I trow there will not be a house within or without the city that will not be reduced to ashes ere two more days have passed." "It is terrible to think of," said the Master Builder, who was taking his meal with the young lord, by his special desire, both having slept late into the morning after the exertions of the previous night. "If you, my lord, can get speech of the King, and show him the things you have seen and suffered, methinks that that should be enough to rouse him. And doubtless you could get speech of his Majesty without trouble, whereas a humble citizen might sue for hours in vain." "Yes, I trow that I could obtain an audience without much ado," answered Lord Desborough, though he gave rather a doubtful glance at his soiled and fire-blackened garments, which were all he had in the world since the burning of his house. "But I would have you go with me also, good Masters Harmer and Mason; for it was your prompt methods that saved the bridge, and perchance all Southwark too. I would have you with me to add your testimony to mine. "Master Harmer, your name was spoken often in the time of the raging of the plague, as that of a brave and loyal citizen. It is likely his Majesty may bear it still in mind, and it will give weight to any testimony you have to offer." Harmer and the Master Builder exchanged glances. They had not thought to appear before royalty, but they were willing to do anything that might be for the good of the town; and whilst the one hurried away to procure a wherry to take them as near as might be to Whitehall, the other supplied, from the stores in the shop, a new court suit to young Lord Desborough befitting his rank and station. Lady Desborough was going on better than any had dared to hope. Her husband stole in to look at her before his departure, and was rewarded by a sweet and tranquil smile. He stole towards the bedside and kissed her, telling her he was going to see the King; and she, knowing that his duties called him often to Court, asked no question, and seemed to remember nothing of the fire, but only bade him return anon to her when he could. Reuben was going also in the boat, and some of the men as rowers. Gertrude had donned her best cloak and holiday gown, and asked wistfully of her husband: "Prithee take me also; I will not be in your way. But I would fain see something of this great sight of which all men talk, and they say it may best be seen from the river." "Come then, sweet heart, so as thou dost not ask to run into peril," said Reuben; and by noon the party were well on their way, their progress being somewhat slow, as the tide was running out, and there was a considerable press of craft on the river, which was the only safe roadway now from one part of the burned city to the other. As boats passed each other, items of news were exchanged between the occupants, and every tale added some detail of horror to the last. Bridewell was in flames now, and many said Newgate also. Some averred that the prisoners had been left locked up in their cells to perish miserably, others that they had all been released, and that London would be swarming with felons and criminals, who would lead the van in the many acts of plunder which were already being perpetrated. What might be the truth of all these rumours none could say; but one thing could at least be gathered, which was that the fire was still raging unchecked, and that nothing had as yet been done to stay its progress. When the boat had reached its destination, Lord Desborough courteously invited Gertrude and her husband to accompany the deputation. They had not anticipated any such thing; but curiosity overcame every other feeling, and before another half hour had passed they found themselves absolutely within the precincts of Whitehall, passing along corridors where fine-feathered gallants and royal lackeys and pages walked hither and thither, and where their appearance excited some mirthful curiosity, although nobody spoke openly to them. Lord Desborough was challenged on all hands, but gave only brief replies. He would tell no word of his mission; and presently he led his companions into a small anteroom, which was quite empty, and charged the servant, who had accompanied them thus far, not to permit any one to enter so long as they were there. Then he hurried away to seek audience of the King, but promised to join his companions again in as brief a time as possible. "Belike it will be long enough ere we see him again," said Harmer, who almost regretted having come when there might be work to do elsewhere. "The ear of royalty is often besieged in vain, or at least it is a case of hours before an audience can be obtained. Yon pleasure-loving monarch will care but little if all London burn, so as he has his ladies and his courtiers about him to make merry by day and by night!" By which sentiment it may be gathered that a good deal of the Puritan sternness of character and distrust of royalty lingered in the mind of James Harmer, although in this case he was not destined to be a true prophet. Half an hour may have passed, certainly not more, before a sound of approaching voices from the inner room, to which this one was but the antechamber, announced the approach of some persons. The listeners within thought they distinguished the tones of Lord Desborough's voice; nor were they mistaken, for next moment, when the doors were flung wide open, and the party instinctively rose to their feet, it was to see the young noble approaching in earnest talk with a very dark, sallow man in an immense black periwig, whom in a moment they knew to be the King himself. He was followed by a still darker man, less richly dressed than himself, but still very fine and gay, who was so like the King as to be recognized instantly for the Duke of York. The little group made deep obeisance as the royal party came forward, and received in return a carelessly gracious nod from the King, who flung himself into a seat, and looked at Lord Desborough. "His Majesty would know from you, good Masters Harmer and Mason, what you have seen with your own eyes of this fire, and in particular how the flames were stayed upon the bridge by your efforts. He has heard so many contradictory stories from those who are less well informed, that he will have the tale from first to last by worthy citizens who are to be trusted to speak truth." There was no mistaking the ring of truth in the narratives which were told by the Master Builder and his neighbour. The King listened almost in silence, but when he did ask a question it was shrewd and pertinent in its import. The dark face was lacking neither in force nor in power; and if the eyes of royalty did, from time to time, stray towards the fair face of Gertrude, who followed her father's tale with breathless interest, his talk was all of the means which must forthwith be taken for the arrest of the fire, and from the sparkle in his eyes it was plain that he was aroused at last to some purpose. "Good citizens," he said at length, "since our worthy Mayor has proved himself a fool and a poltroon, I must needs use such tools as I have under my hand. "Bring me pen and paper, knave!" he cried to a servant who was in attendance; and when the man returned, the King hastily scrawled a few lines upon the paper, and gave it into the hands of the citizens. "My good fellows," he said, in his easy and familiar way, "take there your authority under my hand, and go and save the Tower. The Tower must not and shall not perish. Pull down, blow up, sacrifice as you will, but save you the Tower. As for me, I will forth instantly and see what may be done in this quarter. The people shall not say that their King cared no whit whilst the whole city was burned to ashes. Would I had known more before, but each messenger brought news that something was about to be done. "About to be done, forsooth! that is ever the way. Zounds! I would like to pitch yon cowardly Mayor and his whole corporation into the heart of the flames! And if something be not done to save what remains of the city, I will make good my word!" Then, with a complete change of manner, he rose and came forward to the corner where Gertrude stood shrinking and quivering, half frightened by this strange man, yet impressed by some indescribably kingly quality in him that fascinated her imagination in spite of all she had heard of him. "Fair mistress," he said gallantly, "hast thou nothing to ask? These good citizens have all had their word to say. Am I not to hear the music of thy voice also?" Gertrude, startled and abashed, dropped her eyes, and knew not what to say; but something in the King's glance compelled an answer of some kind, and a sudden inspiration flashed upon her. "Sire," she said, in a sweet tremulous voice, her colour coming and going in her cheek in a most becoming fashion, "may I ask a boon of your gracious Majesty?" "A hundred if thou wilt, fair mistress; there is nothing so sweet to me as obeying the behests of beauty." She shrank a little from his glance, and her grasp tightened upon her husband's arm; but she took courage, and went on bravely: "I have but one boon to crave, gracious Sire. For myself I have all that heart of woman could crave; but there is still one small trouble in my life. My dear father, who stands before you now, was well-nigh ruined a year ago in that fearful visitation of the plague. By trade he is a builder, and right well does he know his business. After this terrible fire there must needs be much building to do ere the city can be dwelt in. May it please your gracious Majesty to grant to him a portion of the work, that he may retrieve his lost fortune, and regain the place which he once held amongst his fellow citizens!" "It shall be done, mistress, it shall be done!" answered the King, with a smile at the girl and a friendly look towards the Master Builder. "Marry, it is a good thought too; for we shall want honest and skilful men to rebuild us our city. "Thy prayer is heard and granted, fair lady. I will not forget thy petition. I will see to it myself. Farewell, sweet heart! think always kindly of your King," and he saluted her upon the cheek, after the fashion of the day. Then turning briskly to the men he said, in a very different tone, "Now to our respective tasks, good sirs. We have our work cut out before us this day. Let it not be our fault if, ere the night fall upon us, the spreading flames, which are devastating this city, are stopped, and further destruction arrested." With a friendly nod, and with a smile to Gertrude, the King went as suddenly as he came. Lord Desborough lingered only a few moments to say, in hurried tones: "Thank Heaven his Majesty is roused at last! Now, indeed, something will be accomplished. I must remain with him. I shall have my work, doubtless, somewhere, as you have yours in the east. Fare you well. We shall meet again at nightfall; and pray Heaven the fire may by that time be stayed in its ravages!" Need it be told here how that fire was stayed? how the King and the Duke, his brother, rode in person at the head of a gallant band of men-at-arms and soldiers, and directed those measures--long urged upon the Mayor, but never efficiently carried out--of blowing up and pulling down large blocks of houses in the path of the flames, so that their ravages were stayed? It was the King himself who saved Temple Bar and a part of Fleet Street, the fire being checked close to St. Dunstan's in the west. Lord Desborough superintended like operations at Pye corner, hard by Smithfield; whilst the good citizens, Harmer and Mason, took boat to the Tower as fast as possible, and with the assistance of the governor, and by the mandate of the King, checked the slowly advancing flames just as they had reached the very walls of the fortress itself. The great and terrible fire was stayed ere nightfall. True, the flames smouldered and even raged in the burning area for another day and night, but the spread of them was checked. The citizens, recovering from their apathetic despair, and encouraged by the example of their King, no longer stood trembling by, but joined together to imitate his actions and sacrifice a little property to save much. "Thank God, thank God, the peril is at an end! The very flames have glutted themselves, and are sinking down into the smouldering heaps of the ruins they have wrought!" said Reuben, coming back on the Thursday evening from an expedition of inquiry and discovery. "Terrible indeed is the sight, but the worst is now known. Four hundred streets, ninety churches--if what I heard be true--and thirteen thousand houses--fifteen wards destroyed, and eight more half burned! Was ever such a fire known before? Yet can we say, Heaven be praised that it has spread no further. Verily, it seemed once as though nothing would escape!" Gertrude, too, was full of excitement. "Father has had a summons from the Lord Mayor. He was urgently sent for soon after thou hadst gone. O Reuben, dost think the King has remembered my words to him? dost think he has put in a plea for my father when the city is rebuilt?" "It is like enough," answered Reuben; "they say his Majesty does not forget when his word is plighted. He will be a rich man if he be employed by the corporation. And how goes the sick lady?" "So well that my lord has taken her away by boat to a villa hard by Lambeth, where she will be quieter and more at rest than she could be here. Janet and Dorcas have gone with her as her maids, her own servants having fled hither and thither. She would fain have had Dinah, too, but Dinah was not willing." Husband and wife smiled a little at each other, and then Reuben said: "Thou, wilt have a stepmother soon, little wife. How wilt thou like that?" "Well enow, so it be Dinah," answered Gertrude, smiling; "but there is the father coming in. Prithee, let me run to him and hear his news!" Others had seen the approach of the familiar figure, and there was quite a little group around the door of the two houses to ask news of the Master Builder as he approached. His face wore a beaming look, and in reply to the many questions showered upon him he answered gaily: "In truth, good friends, if the plague ruined me, it seems as though the fire was to set me up again. Here is my Lord Mayor, prompted thereto by his gracious Majesty the King, giving into my hands the task of seeing to the rebuilding of Bridge Ward, Within, Billingsgate Ward, Dowgate Ward, and Candlewick Ward. Four wards to build! why, my fortune is made!" He gave one quick look at Dinah, and then took her hand in his, all looking smilingly on the while. "Thou didst not repulse me when I was but a poor and broken man," he said; "but, please Heaven, before many months have passed over my head it will be no mockery to speak of me as Master Builder once again!" 
49567	----	AN ACCOUNT OF THE PLAGUE WHICH _RAGED AT MOSCOW_, IN 1771. BY CHARLES DE MERTENS, M. D. MEMBER OF THE MEDICAL COLLEGES OF VIENNA AND STRASBURG, FORMERLY IMPERIAL AND ROYAL CENSOR, AND CORRESPONDING MEMBER OF THE MEDICAL SOCIETY AT PARIS. TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH NOTES. _LONDON_: PRINTED FOR F. AND C. RIVINGTON, NO. 62, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD. 1799. PREFACE. Histories of the Plague, exhibiting the modifications it undergoes in different climates, must at all times and in all places be acceptable, if not to the public at large, at least to that class of persons who make the art of medicine their study and employ: But, to a country situated like our own, histories of this terrible disorder occurring in the northern parts of Europe are more particularly interesting, by holding up to our view a picture of what it probably would be, whenever it should visit us again. Such a picture is presented to us in the history of the plague which depopulated Moscow and other parts of the Russian empire, in the year 1771, and which forms the subject of the following pages. What, at the present time, must give a greater degree of interest to such a subject, is the danger to which we are exposed of importing the pestilential contagion from America[1], on the one hand, and from Turkey and the Levant on the other: For, although the cold has, happily, suppressed for the present the pestilence which has been committing such dreadful ravages at Philadelphia and New York; yet is it to be feared that it may be retained in many houses, and lie dormant in various goods, ready to break out again, whenever it shall be favoured by the weather[2]: And no one who is acquainted with the nature of that contagion can deny the possibility of its importation from America into this country, either now or hereafter, by infected persons or infected merchandise. On the other hand, are we not threatened with a similar danger from the East? In executing the hostile operations which are going forwards in the Mediterranean, it seems scarcely possible for our fleets and armies to keep clear of contagion. No nation was ever long engaged in a war with the Turks, without taking the plague. In this respect they are as much to be dreaded by their friends as their foes. If, in the present contest, Italy, and France, and England shall escape this scourge, it will form an exception to past events, which all Europe must devoutly pray for. Under these circumstances the Translator thought it would be useful to call the attention of the practitioners in medicine of this country, to the subject of pestilential contagion, by publishing the following Account of the Plague at Moscow in the year 1771. Besides the narrative of the rise and progress of the disorder, and the description of its symptoms and treatment, this account contains also a detail of the methods which were successfully employed in that city for checking and totally extinguishing the contagion; and in particular a detail of the means by which a large edifice, situated in the centre of Moscow, and containing about one thousand four hundred persons, was preserved from the pestilence during the whole of the time that it raged there. This account is translated from a treatise republished in French, and originally written in Latin by Dr. Mertens, under the following title: "_Traité de la Peste, contenant l'Histoire de celle qui a régné à Moscou en 1771; par Charles de Mertens, Docteur en Medecine, &c. ouvrage publié d'abord en Latin[3]; actuellement mis en François, &c. à Vienne, 1784_." The author (who was physician to the Foundling-Hospital, at Moscow, and resided in that city during the whole of the time that the plague raged there) divides his treatise into four chapters; in the first of which he gives a history of the plague as it appeared at Moscow; in the second, he treats of the diagnosis; in the third, of the curative treatment; and in the fourth, of the precautions or methods of prevention. So many works have been published on the plague, that whoever writes a regular treatise on this disorder cannot avoid repeating many observations that have been made by others before him. Hence, instead of dividing the present pamphlet into chapters and sections, and following the original word for word throughout; the translator has taken the liberty of extracting from the two last chapters those parts only which contain new observations, or which have an immediate reference to the narrative; which last he has translated entire, excepting half a dozen lines at the beginning, that seem to have been introduced by the author for no other purpose but that of quoting professor _Schreiber_'s[4] work on the plague, which broke out in the Ukraine in the years 1738 and 1739. Besides the preface[5], and some other matters noticed in their respective places, the following topics of discussion have been omitted; viz. 1st. _the comparison between the plague and the smallpox_; 2d. _the reflexions on the inoculation of the plague_; 3d. _the precautions to be employed in wars with the Turks_; and 4th. _the precautions continually necessary in places exposed to the pestilential contagion_. These topics have been omitted, because with regard to the first, as the smallpox and the plague agree in no other respect but in that of being propagated by contagion, a comparison between them seems to be quite unnecessary; because, as to the second, the inoculation of the plague is proved to be useless by the well-established fact, that the same person is susceptible of taking it several times[6]; and because with regard to the third and fourth points, they only lead to repetitions of general and particular precautions mentioned in other parts of the pamphlet, or suggest hints which do not apply to an insular situation like ours. Next to a detail of all the events which took place during the raging of the plague at Moscow, the translator has especially aimed at a full and accurate delineation of the symptoms. In doing this, he has taken the pains to compare the description given by Dr. _Mertens_, with those of two other writers on the same subject; viz. _Orræus_ and _Samoïlowitz_. Thus he flatters himself that all the different types and modifications which the plague assumes in the Northern parts of Europe, are here developed in such a manner, as to enable those who have never seen the disorder, to detect it on its first appearance, or in its early progress, should this country have the misfortune to be visited by it again. _January 2, 1799._ AN ACCOUNT OF THE PLAGUE AT MOSCOW. In 1769 war broke out between the Russians and Turks. The year following intelligence was received that the Turks had carried the plague into Wallachia and Moldavia, where it was making great ravages; and that in the town of Jassy a number of Russians had been carried off by a disorder, which, on its first appearance, was called by some of the faculty, a malignant fever; but which the most eminent physicians in the place declared to be the plague. _Baron Asch_, first physician to the army, sent an account of this disorder in a letter, written in German, to his brother, a physician at Moscow, who showed it to me. The following is a translation thereof: "It attacks people in different ways. Some are slightly indisposed, complaining for several days of a headach, sometimes very violent, at other times less so, and now and then ceasing altogether, and then coming on again. The patients are affected with pains in the chest, and particularly in the neck; they gradually become languid and dejected, with something like intoxication and drowsiness. They have a particular taste in their mouths, which soon turns to a bitter; at the same time they have an ardor urinæ. To these succeed chilly and hot fits, and, lastly, all the symptoms which characterize the plague. The disease sometimes terminates favourably by perspiration, before the appearance of exanthemata, buboes, or carbuncles. The contagion is sometimes more rapid and more violent in its action; in that case the infected are suddenly seized after making a hearty meal, after a fit of anger, or too much bodily motion, with head-ach, nausea, and vomiting; the eyes become inflamed and watery (_larmoyans_), and pains are felt in those parts of the body where buboes and carbuncles are about to appear. There is no great degree of heat. The pulse is sometimes full and hard; sometimes small, soft, and scarcely perceptible; it often intermits, and, what should be particularly noticed, it is often feeble. These symptoms are accompanied with lassitude, a white tongue, dry skin, urine of a pale yellow colour, or turbid, but without sediment; frequently with a diarrhoea, which it is difficult to stop; and, lastly, with delirium, buboes, carbuncles, and petechiæ[7]." The following summer this disorder spread into Poland, and committed great havoc there; from thence it passed to Kiow, where it destroyed four thousand souls. Immediately on its appearance at the last-mentioned place, all communication between that town and Moscow was cut off; guards were stationed on all the great roads, and all travellers were ordered to perform quarantine for several weeks. At the end of November 1770, the anatomical dissector, at the military-hospital in Moscow, is attacked with a putrid petechial fever, which carries him off in three days. The attendants upon the sick[8] of this hospital dwelt with their families in two rooms separate from the wards. In one of these rooms they fall ill one after the other, till, at length, all of them, to the number of eleven, are seized with a putrid fever, accompanied with petechiæ; buboes and carbuncles appear in some of them; and most of them die between the third and fifth day. The attendants occupying the other room are seized in like manner with the same disorder. On the 22nd of December, we are required to meet at the Board of Health. The first physician to the military-hospital states the circumstances, which I have just related, the truth of which is confirmed by the evidence of three other physicians, who farther report, that fifteen among the attendants, including their wives and children, had fallen victims to this disorder since the end of November; that five still continued ill of it; but that it had not yet shown itself in any of the hospital-wards. Eleven physicians were present at this consultation, and we all agreed that the disorder under consideration was the plague, except Dr. _Rinder_, state-physician[9], who had visited the sick, several times, in company with Mr. _Schafonsky_, and who pronounced it to be merely a putrid fever; an opinion which he maintained both in conversation and by writing. This hospital stands out of the town, near the suburb inhabited by the Germans, from which it is separated by a small stream, called the Yausa. We advised that it should be immediately shut up, and that guards should be placed round it, in order to cut off all communication; that all the attendants upon the hospital-invalids should be removed, together with their wives and children, to a detached situation, care being taken to separate the infected from the healthy; and, lastly, that all the clothes and furniture, not only of those who were dead, but likewise of those who still survived, should be burnt. The cold had set in later this year than usual; the weather was very damp and rainy until the end of December, when a hard frost came on, and continued through the remainder of the winter. In addition to our joint report, _Field-Marshal Count Soltikoff_, governour-general of the place, consulted me in private, and desired to know what steps I thought adviseable under the present circumstances. On a subject pregnant with so much danger to the public at large, I did not hesitate to communicate my sentiments in the most unreserved manner. Accordingly I put into the governor's hands a paper, wherein I laid great stress upon the necessity of employing every possible precaution with regard to the hospital, where I affirmed, that the plague had appeared among the attendants, as before mentioned; I added, that it would be necessary to make strict enquiries to ascertain, whether the contagion was concealed in any part of the town, and that, wherever it should be discovered, the same precautions, as in the case of the hospital, should be adopted: that, for the same purpose, it would be further necessary to desire the physicians and surgeons, whenever they should perceive any unusual or doubtful symptoms in their patients, to give immediate notice thereof to the Board of Health; and to order the police-officers to appoint a consultation of physicians, whenever several persons should fall ill in the same house. I remarked, however, that there would be great difficulties in the business, if the contagion existed in other parts of the town besides the hospital; but, I added, that, even in this case, we might hope to eradicate the evil when the frost should set in, provided speedy and proper measures were resorted to. We wished that what had passed on this subject should not transpire; but the rumour of the plague having broke out at Kiow, some months before, had produced such an effect upon the minds of the public, that the precautions which were adopted, with regard to the military-hospital, threw the whole city into the greatest alarm. All attempts to dissipate the fears of the inhabitants were fruitless. After some days, however, when it was known that only seven persons in the hospital itself were ill of the disorder, and that the rest remained free from infection, the public fell into the opposite extreme, and thinking themselves in perfect security, the grandees, nobles, merchants, common people, in a word, all the inhabitants, except the governour and a few others, ceased to give themselves any further trouble about the means of prevention. This idea of security, which was countenanced by the before-mentioned state-physician, Dr. _Rinder_, continued until the month of March. The medical consultations ceased. In spite of all our efforts to the contrary, every kind of precaution was neglected in the city; it was only at the military-hospital that, by order of the Empress, the means of prevention were still observed; in consequence whereof the plague was entirely suppressed there, after twenty-four persons had been seized with it, only two of whom recovered[10]. Six weeks after the death of the last of them, all their clothes, beds, &c. together with the house, to which they had been removed, and which was built of wood, were burnt. The hospital was opened again at the end of February. The generality of mankind judge of things by events only; and will never believe that the plague is among them, until they have certain proof thereof in the number of funerals[11]. It is owing to this and other mistaken notions, that the plague is not put a stop to in the beginning; at which period it may be compared to a spark which might easily be extinguished, but which, if left to itself, bursts out into a conflagration which nothing can resist. The opinion which went to assure the inhabitants that they were safe from the plague, was very generally believed, as in such cases almost always happens[12]. It only remained for us to console ourselves with the consciousness of having discharged our duty faithfully, and to the best of our abilities. Would to God that the business had stopped here, and that what afterwards took place had not confirmed the truth of our assertions. We should not then have beheld the dreadful destruction of so many of our fellow-creatures, nor have witnessed the most horrid of all public calamities. On the 11th of March we are again convened at the Board of Health. In the centre of the town there was a large building used for manufacturing clothing for the army; three thousand persons were employed in it, nearly a third part of whom, of the most necessitous class, occupied the ground-floors; the rest, after working there the whole day, returned in the evening to their respective homes, in different parts of the town. Dr. _Yagelsky_, at that time second physician to the Military Hospital, whom the Governor-General had sent to the manufactory in the morning, brings word that he had found several patients, (eight to the best of my recollection) labouring under the same disorder, (accompanied with petechiæ, vibices, carbuncles, and buboes) which he had seen three months before at the military hospital; and that on seven dead bodies which he had examined, he had perceived similar appearances. On enquiring of the workmen in the manufactory, in what manner, and how long this disorder had made its appearance among them, he was told that a woman who had a swelling in her cheek, had betaken herself to one of her relations who lived in the manufactory, and had died there; and that, from that time, one or other of them was every day taken ill of the disorder. They further stated, that from the period above-mentioned to the present day, they had lost one hundred and seventeen persons, including the seven dead bodies not yet interred. This account given by Dr. _Yagelsky_, was corroborated by two other physicians, who had been sent the same day to examine the patients and dead bodies. In a Memoir addressed to the Governor-General and the Senate (by whom we had been called together) we renew our declarations, that this disorder is the plague[13]; and we advise them to remove out of the town all the persons dwelling in the manufactory, taking care to separate the sick from the healthy; that they should order the clothes and furniture of the dead and infected to be burnt; and that the strictest search should be made to find out whether the contagion existed in any other part of the city. The inhabitants are again seized with a panic; and they now too well perceive the consequences of their neglect of the precautions recommended. We were thirteen physicians at this meeting[14], two of whom, who three months before had agreed with us that the disease which broke out at the military hospital was the plague, now said that the present disorder was not the plague, but a putrid fever; an opinion which they enforced in a separate conference with the Senate. These two physicians (Drs. _Kuhlmann_ and _Schiadan_) who still differed from us in opinion, had been led into their error, by observing that the number of deaths in the town was not greater than usual, but rather less than in the preceding years, and that there were very few people ill. Some days after, being summoned to meet the other physicians and surgeons at the senate, where each of us was required to deliver our sentiments explicitly, I affirmed, in the most solemn manner, that I was thoroughly convinced that the disease under consideration was the plague; ten of my colleagues were of the same opinion, and the two others before mentioned still maintained the contrary[15]; nevertheless, they admitted the propriety of adopting precautions against a disorder, which, though not the plague, was of a contagious nature. The first day (the 11th of March) is spent in deliberations. The infected building is shut up, and guards are placed there, to prevent any person from going in or coming out. Several make their escape through the windows, and the rest are removed out of the town during the night, the uninfected to the convent of St. Simon, and the infected to the convent of St. Nicholas, one of which is distant six, and the other eight versts[16]; from Moscow. These convents are surrounded with high walls, and have only one entrance. As it was discovered that some had died among the workmen who lived in their own houses, these were taken to a third convent, situated in like manner out of the town. Orders were given to the surgeons who had the care of all these people, to transmit daily to the Board of Health a list of the sick and dead. A committee of physicians was appointed to regulate every thing concerning the treatment of the sick, and the keeping of those who were performing quarantine free from infection; and great attention was paid to the interment of the dead. Drs. _Erasmus_ and _Yagelsky_ (now no more!) were entitled to great praise for the manner in which they acquitted themselves in this business. When any one of those who were under quarantine was taken ill, he was put in a separate room, and kept there until the symptoms of the plague shewed themselves, when he was conveyed in a carriage, by persons hired for that purpose, to the pest-house, viz. the convent of St. Nicholas. The public baths, where the people are accustomed to go, at least once a week, were shut up. The town was divided into seven districts, to each of which one physician and two surgeons were appointed, for the purpose of examining all the sick as well as the dead bodies; in which business police-officers were joined with them. It was forbidden to bury the dead within the city; proper places for burying-grounds were fixed upon at some distance from the town. It was ordered, that whenever any one of the common people should be seized with the plague, he should be sent to the hospital of St. Nicholas, and that, after burning his clothes and furniture, those who had been living in the same apartment should be detained for the space of forty days in some buildings appropriated to that purpose out of the town; that if the like occurrence should happen in the house of a principal inhabitant or person of rank, all the servants who had been in the same room with the patient should perform quarantine, and that the master, together with all his family, should remain shut up in his own house for the space of eleven days. All this was sanctioned and passed into the form of a law by a resolution of the Senate. General _Peter Demitrewich de Yeropkin_, not more distinguished by his birth and valour than by his polished manners and humane disposition, was appointed by the Empress, Director-General of Health. Notwithstanding what had happened, the number of those who were convinced that the plague had reached Moscow, was as yet inconsiderable. Dr. _Orræus_, physician to the army, who had visited impested patients at Jassy, was now passing through Moscow in his way to Petersburgh, and was requested to examine the sick and dead bodies before mentioned, which he accordingly did, and declared, that the disorder was exactly like that which, a short time before, had proved so destructive in Moldavia and Wallachia; that it was, in fact, the plague. This was further confirmed by Dr. _Lærch_, who was just returned from Kiow, where he had remained during the time that the plague raged there. The weather continued very cold until the middle of April, in consequence of which the contagion became more fixed and inactive, attacking only those who dwelt with the infected. In the pest-house, the daily number of deaths did not exceed three or four; and of the manufacturers who were performing quarantine only about the same number fell ill. According to the reports of the physicians, surgeons, and police-officers, the town appeared to be healthy. Almost every body believed that the physicians who had called the disorder the plague, had imposed upon the public; others entertained doubts on the subject. Things went on in this way until the middle of June, during which time nearly two hundred persons had died at the hospital of St. Nicholas. The number of sick and dead diminished daily there, in so much that, for a whole week, although the weather was very warm, not one fell ill of the disorder, and there only remained in the hospital a few convalescents. No further vestige of the disorder could be traced in the town. As among the workmen of the manufactory, who had been removed from their own houses to a third convent at a distance from the other two, in order to perform quarantine, not one had been attacked with the disorder for the space of two months, they were allowed to return to their respective homes. We now began to flatter ourselves that the plague had been entirely eradicated by the precautions which had been adopted. Scarcely, however, had we indulged in these fond hopes, when, towards the end of June, some people are taken ill of the same disorder at the hospital of St. Simon, where the quarantine was performed. On the 2nd of July, six people die in one night at a house in the suburb of Preobraginsky; a seventh, who lived with them, absconded[17]. Livid spots, buboes, and carbuncles are found upon the dead bodies. On the following days, many of the common people fall sick in different quarters of the town, and the mortality increases to such a pitch, that the number of deaths, which commonly amounted to about ten or fifteen _per_ day, and which, even during the prevalence of putrid fevers (as was the case for the two last years) did not exceed thirty, amounted at the end of July to as many as two hundred in the space of twenty-four hours. The sick, as well as the dead bodies, exhibited large purple spots and vibices; in many there were carbuncles and buboes. Some died suddenly, or in the space of twenty-four hours, before the buboes and carbuncles had time to come out; but the greatest number died on the third or fourth day. In the middle of August, the number of deaths amounted daily to four hundred; and at the end of the same month to as many as six hundred. At this time buboes and carbuncles were more frequent than they had been in July. At the beginning of September there were seven hundred deaths in the space of twenty-four hours; in a few days, there were eight hundred deaths within the same number of hours; and a short time after, the deaths amounted to one thousand in a day! The havoc was still greater during the time of the riots, which began on the 15th of September, in the evening; when an outrageous mob broke open the pest-houses and quarantine-hospitals, renewing all the religious ceremonies which it is customary with them to perform at the bed-side of the sick[18], and digging up the dead bodies and burying them afresh in the city. Agreeably to their ancient custom, the people began again to embrace the dead, despising all manner of precaution, which they declared to be of no avail, as the public calamity (I repeat their own words) was sent by God, to punish them for having neglected their ancient forms of worship. They further insisted, that as it was pre-ordained who should and who should not die, they must await their destiny; therefore, that all endeavours to avoid the contagion were only a trouble to themselves, and an insult to the Divinity, whose wrath was only to be appeased by their refusing all human assistance[19]. _General Yeropkin_, with a small party of soldiers drawn together as speedily as possible, dispersed the mob, and restored tranquillity in a few days, after which every thing was placed on its former footing. This vast concourse and intermixture of the healthy and infected, caused the contagion to spread to such a degree, that at this time the daily number of deaths amounted to one thousand two hundred and upwards! Moscow, one of the largest cities in Europe, consists of four circles, or inclosures, one within another; the smallest, which occupies the centre, is called Kremmel, and the second, which surrounds it, Kitaya, (or Chinese-Town); they are both inclosed by brick-walls, and the houses within them are built of brick; the third, which is called Bielogorod (or White-Town) is without walls, they having been levelled with the ground; and, lastly, the fourth called Zemlanoïgorod (from Zemla, land or earth, and Gorod, town) is defended by a ditch and rampart of earth[20]. In the two last-named parts of Moscow the houses are, for the most part, constructed of wood. These houses do not stand close together, but are detached with spaces between, and, in general, only one family inhabits each; hence they rarely consist of more than one story, and often of a ground-floor only. The nobles keep a great number of servants; and the common people live crouded together in small wooden houses[21]. In winter time the nobles repair to Moscow, from all parts of the empire, bringing with them a large train of attendants. Great numbers of the common people, who were engaged during the summer in agricultural labour, return to this great city in the winter, to gain subsistence by different employments. This conflux of people makes the town so full, from the month of December to March, that the population, at this season, amounts, according to some computations, to two hundred and fifty thousand; according to others, to three hundred thousand. In the month of March, people begin to go into the country again; hence, during the summer, the number of inhabitants is, at least, one-fourth less than in winter. In 1771 the fear of catching the plague had caused a much greater number to leave the city; so that I do not think that, in the month of August, there were more than one hundred and fifty thousand remaining in the place. An idea may be formed of the destructive nature of this disorder, and the terrible activity of its poison, by reflecting, that of these one hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants, twelve hundred were daily carried off by it, (in the month of September!) The number of deaths kept at this rate for some days, and then diminished to one thousand. As the populace, during the riots, had re-established all the religious ceremonies customary on burying the dead, almost all their priests, deacons, and other ecclesiastics, fell victims to the contagion. The people, brought to a sense of their duty, partly by the rigorous measures employed against them, and partly by seeing that the public calamity had been aggravated by their disorderly proceedings, now began to implore our assistance. The monasteries and other pest-houses were full; the sick were no longer carried thither; the contagion had spread every where; insomuch that the city itself might be considered as one entire hospital. All, therefore, we could now do, was to exhort every individual to take care of himself; to warn all those who were yet free from the contagion, to avoid, as much as possible, touching with their bare hands any infected person; to direct them to burn the clothes, and every thing else that had been used by those who had been ill of the plague; and, lastly, to keep their rooms clean and well aired. At this time _Count Gregory Orlow_[22] arrived at Moscow, invested with full powers by the empress. I received an order, in common with the other physicians, to deliver, in writing, my private sentiments on the subject; we were required to turn our attention principally to the most proper measures for destroying the contagion[23]. Having taken the necessary steps to prevent all further popular commotions, the Count selected, from all our papers, what appeared of most moment, and drew up a set of regulations, as well for the treatment of the sick, as for the keeping of those who were yet well, free from infection. He also ordered new hospitals to be immediately built for the reception of the poor seized with the plague[24]. Some months had elapsed since the plague had been carried to many of the villages, as well in the vicinity as at a distance from Moscow. Persons who fled from this city had also carried it with them to Kalomna (Kaluga, according to _Orræus_), Yaroslaw, and Tula. Inspectors of health, attended by physicians and surgeons, were sent to these infected towns and villages. A Council of Health was formed, composed of _General Yeropkin_ (who was president), of some counsellors of state, and of three physicians, and one surgeon. This council received daily reports from the physicians and police-officers, and took cognizance of every thing which related to the health of the inhabitants. Two physicians, Drs. _Pogaretzky_ and _Meltzer_, being offered a reward of one thousand roubles, undertook, each of them, the care of a pest-hospital; and went thither accordingly. On the 10th of October the frost set in; from that day the disorder was less fatal, and the contagion became more fixed. The number of sick and dead gradually diminished; and the disorder, which a short time before had terminated on the second or third day, now kept on to the fifth or sixth. Neither those large purple spots, which we have before described, nor carbuncles, were by any means so frequent as they had been; buboes were now almost the only tumours found upon the infected. The hard frost[25] which prevailed during the two last months of the year, weakened the pestilential virus to such a degree, that those who attended the sick and buried the dead were in much less danger of being infected; and when they were infected, the symptoms were much milder; so that at this period, several persons who had the plague were but slightly indisposed, and walked about though they had buboes upon them. At the close of the year 1771, this dreadful scourge ceased, by the blessing of God, at Moscow, and in every other part of the Russian empire. Besides the three towns before-mentioned, upwards of four hundred villages had been infected. The weather was intensely cold during the whole of the winter. In order to destroy all remains of the contagion, the doors and windows of the rooms in which there had been any persons ill of the plague, were broken and the rooms were fumigated with the antipestilential powder[26]; the old wooden houses were entirely demolished. The effects of the plague were traced in every part of the city. Even as late as the month of February, 1772, upwards of four hundred dead bodies were discovered, which had been secretly buried the year before in private houses. So powerful is cold in destroying the contagion, that not one of those who were employed in digging up these bodies, and carrying them to the public burying-grounds, became infected[27]. The total number of persons carried off by the plague amounted, according to the reports transmitted to the Senate and Council of Health, to upwards of seventy thousand; more than twenty-two thousand of this number of deaths happened in the month of September alone[28]. If we add to these, the private and clandestine interments[29], the whole number of deaths in Moscow will amount to eighty thousand[30]: and reckoning those who died in upwards of four hundred villages, and in the three towns of Tula, Yaroslaw and Kalomna (or Kaluga)[31], it will follow that this plague swept off altogether as many as an hundred thousand persons! For carrying away and burying the dead, criminals capitally convicted or condemned to hard labour, were at first employed; but afterwards, when these were not sufficient for the purpose, the poor were hired to perform this service. Each was provided with a cloke, gloves, and a mask made of oiled cloth; and they were cautioned never to touch a dead body with their bare hands. But they would not attend to these precautions, believing it to be impossible to be hurt by merely touching the bodies or clothes of the dead, and attributing the effects of the contagion to an inevitable destiny. We lost thousands of these people, who seldom remained well beyond a week. I was informed by the Inspectors of Health, that most of them fell ill about the fourth or fifth day. The plague, as is generally the case, raged chiefly among the common people; the nobles and better sort of inhabitants escaped the contagion, a few only excepted, who fell victims to their rashness and negligence. The contagion was communicated solely by contact of the sick or infected goods; it was not propagated by the atmosphere, which appeared in no respect vitiated during the whole of the time. When we visited any of the sick we[32] went so near them that frequently there was not more than a foot's distance between them and us; and although we used no other precaution but that of not touching their bodies, clothes, or beds, we escaped infection. When I looked at a patient's tongue, I used to hold before my mouth and nose a pocket-handkerchief moistened with vinegar[33]. Amid so great a number of deaths, I think there were only three persons of family, a few of the principal citizens, and not more than three hundred foreigners of the common class, who fell victims to the plague; the rest consisted of the lowest order of the Russian inhabitants. The former only purchased what was absolutely necessary for their support, during the time of the pestilence; whereas the latter bought up every thing which was rescued from the flames, and which of course was sold at a very low price; they refused to burn the goods which came to them by inheritance; and, moreover, carried away many things clandestinely, in spite of all we could say or do to the contrary. Two surgeons died of the plague in the town; and a great number of surgeons-mates and pupils in the hospitals. Dr. _Pogaretzky_ and Mr. _Samoïlowitz_, first surgeon to the hospital of St. Nicholas, both caught the infection several times; and were cured by critical sweats coming on at the beginning of each attack of the disorder. The foundling hospital, which contained about a thousand children[34] and four hundred adults (including nurses, servants, masters, and workmen) was kept free from infection by the precautions hereafter mentioned[35]. Only four workmen, and as many soldiers, who had got over the fences in the night time, were seized at different times; but by immediately separating them from the rest of the house, the disorder was prevented from spreading any farther. Thus this building was kept free from the plague, at the time that it raged in all the other houses around it; a proof that the atmosphere, not only during the frost, but even during the great heat of the summer[36], did not serve as a vehicle for spreading the contagion, which was only propagated by contact of the sick or infected goods[37]. The young and robust were more liable to become infected than elderly and infirm persons; pregnant women and nurses were not secure from its attacks. Children under four years of age were much less readily infected, but when they were, they exhibited the worst symptoms. All who were attacked with the plague had more or less fever; though in some it was so slight as to be scarcely perceivable. In a few instances, the patients were seized, from the first, with a furious delirium, accompanied with a high degree of fever; but the greater part were affected with debility, and only complained of oppression about the præcordia, and head-ach[38]. After taking great pains to ascertain in what manner the plague was introduced into the military hospital, the physician to that institution at length found out that two soldiers had died there in the month of November, 1770, a short time after their arrival from Choczim, where the plague was then raging; and that a Colonel, in whose train they were, had died upon the road. It would seem that the anatomical dissector opened the bodies of these soldiers; and that he caught the plague of them. The persons who waited upon the sick, either became infected by touching the bodies of these soldiers whilst they were living; or by handling their clothes, or their bodies after death. These attendants afterwards spread the contagion among their families. Thus have we traced the history of the plague which depopulated Moscow in the year 1771, from its first appearance to its final extinction. A plain and faithful statement of facts, even at the risk of being tedious, is what has been aimed at in this narrative; for let it be observed, that it is from simple details of the origin and progress of the plague, as it appears in different places, and of the symptoms and other circumstances with which it is accompanied, and not from the laboured dissertations that have been written upon it by some voluminous authors, that we can hope to acquire an accurate knowledge of the nature of this disorder, to ascertain the manner in which its contagion is propagated, and lastly to discover the best methods of prevention and cure. ADDENDA. A. _Symptoms more particularly described._ The symptoms of the plague vary according to the different constitutions of the persons whom it attacks, and the season of the year in which it appears. Sometimes it wears the mask of other diseases; but in general it is ushered in by head-ach, stupor, resembling intoxication, shiverings, depression of spirits, and loss of strength; these are followed by some degree of fever, together with nausea and vomiting. The eyes become red, the countenance melancholy, and the tongue white and foul. In this state of things, the patients are sometimes capable of sitting up, and going about for some hours, or even a day or two. They feel an itching or pain in those parts of the body where buboes and carbuncles are about to appear. During the height of the plague, many of the infected die on the second or third day, before these tumours have time to come out, and with no other external marks except petechiæ or purple spots, which appear a short time before death; in some these spots are altogether wanting. The buboes and carbuncles generally come out on the second or third day, seldom on the fourth. In some instances, the plague appears under the form of an inflammatory disorder, being accompanied with great heat, thirst, high-coloured urine, flushed cheeks, and violent delirium or phrensy; but in the greater number of cases it assumes the type of a nervous fever, being accompanied with little heat and thirst, and pale and turbid urine; the patients think themselves only slightly indisposed, until a sudden prostration of strength, and the eruption of buboes, carbuncles, petechiæ or vibices, announce to themselves, as well as to those who are about them, the danger they are in. In some few instances, the plague appears under the form of an intermittent fever.--Almost all those who are carried off by this disorder, die before the sixth day; those who get over the seventh day have a good chance of recovery[39]. The diversity of symptoms above-noticed, has given rise to the opinion that there are three different species of the plague, viz. one which is accompanied with petechiæ, another with carbuncles, and a third with buboes; but the history which we have given, clearly proves, that these are only shades or modifications of one and the same disorder, which is more or less violent under different circumstances and at different seasons. Petechiæ, buboes, and carbuncles often appear at the same time in the same patient, or occur in succession. In the month of July, great numbers of the impested died before the tumours came out, having petechiæ only; whereas in August and September, almost every patient had petechiæ, joined with buboes and carbuncles. After the middle of October, when the contagion was less virulent, although it still produced petechiæ and carbuncles, yet they were neither so malignant nor so frequent. Before this period, scarcely four patients in a hundred recovered; whereas during the latter months of the year, the proportion of recoveries was much greater. _Sydenham_ has made the same observation respecting the plague at London[40]. Nature endeavours to throw off the poison by buboes. Carbuncles and petechiæ are not critical eruptions; they only denote a putrid condition of the humours, and a great degree of acrimony; whence it follows, that in proportion as buboes are more common, and petechiæ and carbuncles more rare, the milder the plague is[41]. * * * * * To this account which Dr. _Mertens_ has given of the symptoms which the plague at Moscow exhibited, we shall add the descriptions drawn up by two other practitioners (_Orræus_ and _Samoïlowitz_,) who had great opportunities of observation, and who have been more particular in noticing some of the phenomena than our author. According to _Orræus_ (Descriptio Pestis, &c.) the plague in Russia appeared under four different forms or varieties. Of these, he terms the first, _the period of infection_; the second, _the slow type_; the third, _the acute type_; and the fourth, _the exceedingly acute type_. 1. In _the period of infection_ (which is commonly the forerunner of the other forms of the plague) the contagion, less active and virulent, keeps lurking in the body, and produces the following symptoms, viz. sharp, flying pains in the glandular parts (such as the armpit and groins) and in the muscles of the neck and breast; ardor urinæ; drowsiness; an increased secretion of the sebaceous humour, so that the skin is in many parts, and more especially in the hands and face, much more unctuous and glossy than usual; the belly is costive, but when moved, there comes away a great quantity of pulpy slimy fæces; the patients complain of a heaviness of the body (some compare their limbs to a mass of lead), great lassitude and faintings. A swelling, but without much pain, of some gland (in the groin or armpit) together with dark-red or brown spots, denote a higher degree of infection: and a bad taste in the mouth, a viscidity of the saliva, loss of appetite, whiteness and foulness of the tongue, and head-ach, show that the patient is going to be attacked with the plague under one or other of the following types. The above-mentioned symptoms, which continue for a longer or shorter time (in some instances for several days or even weeks) are not accompanied with fever. 2. After the period of infection above described has continued for some time without yielding to medicine, it generally ends in _the slow type of the plague_, which is characterized by the following symptoms; viz. shiverings, followed by a moderate degree of heat[42], a febrile[43], unequal, for the most part weak, and often intermitting pulse; a constant dull pain in the head (rather, according to the expression of some patients, a heaviness, as if the head was full of lead); urine pale and turbid, but without sediment; tongue foul and moist; very little thirst; depression of spirits; belly costive during the first three or four days, with inflation of the hypochondria and borborygmi, but the abdomen feels soft on pressure; there is frequent nausea and vomiting of a slimy greenish-yellow faburra[44]; petechiæ and other eruptions[45] make their appearance, in some sooner in others later; but in some they are altogether wanting. The rudiments or germs of buboes and carbuncles, which were forming during the period of infection, now gradually increase in size, but without being accompanied with violent pain; and new ones arise in other places; which, if they suppurate on the fifth, sixth, or seventh day, save the life of the patient: on the other hand, if no suppuration takes place, and great debility, diarrhoea, and delirium come on, the disease terminates fatally, not, however, in some cases till after the fourteenth day. 3. In _the acute type_, the plague is preceded by a much shorter indisposition, sometimes by none at all, suddenly seizing persons in health. It is characterized by the following symptoms: a bitter taste in the mouth, and a viscidity of the saliva; violent head-ach[46]; redness of the eyes[47] and face; a very foul, and sometimes dry tongue; chilliness succeeded by considerable heat; a much fuller, stronger, and quicker pulse than in the slow type of the disorder, as well as more thirst, and deeper coloured urine; costiveness; buboes, and carbuncles come out soon after the attack of fever, or at the same time with it; after these, others come out; frequent vomitings supervene, and a delirium, which is generally of the low kind[48]. If, between the first and fourth day of the attack, the buboes are resolved[49], or they, as well as the carbuncles, come to suppuration, the patient recovers: on the other hand, if no suppuration takes place within that period; if the buboes and carbuncles increase to a great size, and the delirium continues, then the powers of life become exhausted, the pulse sinks, and death is ushered in by hæmorrhages, and a copious exspuition of thin phlegm[50]. Death takes place on the third, fourth, or fifth day; and it often happens, while the corpse is yet warm, that petechiæ and other spots come out. The bodies, after death, appear remarkably pale, soft, somewhat tumid, flexible, and free from fætor. 4. The plague, _in its most acute type_, attacks in various ways; but in relation to the leading symptoms, it may be reduced to two forms: in the first, a person in perfect health, without any previous marks of infection, is suddenly seized with a short but violent shivering fit, followed by a hot fit, which alternate with each other several times; but the external heat soon goes off, and the skin feels cool. The pulse is hard and very quick, with a most violent headach and intolerable anxiety about the præcordia[51]; a furious delirium generally comes on; the tongue is smooth, exceedingly dry, and after a while becomes livid; the respiration is short and laborious; the eyes, which are more prominent than in the acute plague, are very red and full of ferocity; the face and neck are turgid, at first red and afterwards livid; vomiting seldom comes on spontaneously. Such as are seized with these violent symptoms seldom live more that twenty-four hours. Most of them die apoplectic, or in a state of convulsive suffocation[52]; some, however, expire in a more placid manner. After death the bodies turn livid in those parts where nature had endeavoured to throw out buboes; and dark-coloured spots and vibices appear in different places. In the other mode of attack, the patients are affected with debility from the beginning, which, together with the anxietas præcordiorum, increases every moment; so that unless timely relief be given, death speedily comes on. In these cases, the pulse is very quick, but small, feeble, and at length imperceptible. Sometimes there is a low delirium; but in many instances the patients are sensible to the last. These are all the febrile symptoms that are observable. Rudiments or germs of buboes are seen upon the dead bodies. Of these two varieties of the plague in its most acute form, the first was observed to take place in persons of a robust constitution and in full health, after making too hearty a meal on food not easily digested, or eating too much fruit, &c. The other variety attacked those who were under the influence of terror, or after immoderate venery, bleeding, &c. The very acute type of the plague is less frequent than the other types, and often destroys the patient before medical assistance is called in; in so much that he who appeared well yesterday, is to day carried to his grave. In this species of the plague, I never saw perfect carbuncles and exanthemata; but buboes come out quickly after the attack, and are seen considerably elevated and livid in the dead bodies. Such is the description of symptoms given by _Orræus_, a diligent and accurate observer. That published by _Samoïlowitz_[53], although it is not so circumstantial nor so well digested, coincides in all essential points with the above. This last author considers the plague under three different aspects or varieties, which correspond to the _three periods of its beginning, its height, and its decline_. In the first and last period, carbuncles and confluent petechiæ, or broad maculæ, are very rarely met with; whereas in the middle period, when the disorder rages with the greatest fury, they both occur in one and the same subject, and denote the utmost danger. At this period, (viz. when the plague is at its height) the pestilential particles being more virulent, more volatile, and more subtile, enter the body more readily, act upon it with greater force, and produce a disease which runs its course with greater rapidity than in either of the other two degrees or varieties of the plague. The symptoms in _the first period of the plague_ are few and moderate; they are for the most part reducible to head-ache, vomiting, and buboes; petechiæ rarely appear[54], or if they do, they are distinct and very small; carbuncles are hardly ever seen. This degree of the plague terminates favourably by a suppuration of the buboes, often without any assistance from art. It may therefore be termed the mild or benignant form of the plague. The _next degree or variety_ is that which occurs when the plague is at its height. This is the most terrible form of the disorder. All the symptoms are marked with violence. The head-ache is incessant, and the vomiting recurs frequently; the external characters are numerous; carbuncles appear in various parts of the body; the petechiæ or maculæ are very large and confluent, and often turn to carbuncles a short time before death. This happens in the following manner: two, three, or four large petechiæ run together and form a yellow pustule; sometimes a similar pustule rises upon each petechiæ; in either case, on opening the pustules, a true carbuncle appears beneath. In some instances the patient is seized from the first with a furious delirium; at other times this delirium or phrenitic state does not supervene until the second, third, or fourth day. If this disorder of the brain continues until the seventh day, there are hopes of recovery; on the other hand, if the delirium ceases on or after the first or second day, and the patient becomes tranquil and feeble, such an alteration is a certain presage of death. If this change took place in the morning, the patients died in the evening; if in the evening, they did not live over the night. At other times torpor came on, and continued through the whole of the disease, so that the patients died without pain, or at least without appearing to suffer any. In some instances, on being asked how they were, the patients replied, "very well," and called for meat and drink; but soon after they sunk into a deliquium animi, in which they remained motionless, and died.--The pulse was irregular from the beginning. When there was violent head-ache, with high delirium, &c. the pulse was full, hard, strong, and quick; on the other hand, when these symptoms ceased, whether shortly after the attack or after the second or third day, the pulse then became soft, feeble, intermitting, and not to be felt[55]. In many instances the skin was dry and hot, and the patients complained of a burning sensation, both outwardly and inwardly; in others the heat was not so great; in some the skin was yellow; in others it had a pale corpse-like appearance, joined with great flabbiness. The diarrhoea was often accompanied with an incontinence of urine, both which it was sometimes impossible to check; in such cases, these symptoms (occurring together) were the fore-runners of death. The diarrhoea was common to both sexes; but the incontinence of urine was observed in female patients only. 3. _The third degree or variety of the plague_ occurred in the decline of the epidemic. Its symptoms are the same as those which take place in the first type; and, therefore, to avoid repetition, we refer to that[56]. B. _Questions relative to the Nature, Prevention, and curative Treatment of the Plague._ The questions proposed by Prince _Orlow_ to the physicians, and surgeons, were 1. In what manner is the contagion, which is making such great ravages in this place, propagated? 2. What are the symptoms which show that a person is infected with this disorder? In what respects does it differ from other malignant fevers, and what symptoms has it in common with them? How is the patient himself to know that he is attacked with this dreadful disorder, so as to be able to apply for help at the very beginning? How are those who are constantly with the sick, to know the disorder, so as to be put upon their guard against taking infection? And, lastly, how is the physician to be certain that it is the disease in question[57], in order that all possible means may be immediately employed to save the life of the patient? 3. Each of you is required to describe accurately the symptoms of this disorder through its whole course and under all its forms, noticing in what order the symptoms succeed each other, more especially what the symptoms are which accompany each crisis, and what those are which denote more or less danger: lastly, in what space of time, in what manner, and with what outward marks this contagious disorder terminates, whether it be in recovery or in death? 4. What are the medicines which have hitherto been administered in the different cases, in what doses, in what stage of the disorder, and with what success? The general result of these observations will determine which is the easiest and most successful method of cure. 5. What is it necessary for the patient to observe when he is taking the remedies, and when he is not; and what sort of regimen is best suited to promote the cure? 6. Lastly, each of you is required to make known, according to his own judgment and experience, what appear to be the best and surest methods by which individuals may escape this terrible scourge, and by which it may be checked, and if possible entirely eradicated; but these methods must be simple and easily put in practice. My answers to these questions were as follow: 1. That this contagious disorder was propagated by touching the sick or dead bodies; by handling infected goods, such as clothes, furniture, and the like; by the patient's breath; or by the air of a room, confined and loaded with effluvia from the bodies of the sick; but not at all by the common atmosphere[58]. Hence those who avoid all communication with the sick, and never meddle with infected things, remain free from the plague, although they live in the same territory or in the same town where it is making its ravages; whilst the poor, not shunning communication with the sick, and putting on infected clothes, which they buy cheap or get by inheritance, are continually exposed to the contagion, and are consequently those who are chiefly attacked by the plague[59]. Now, if the cause of the plague existed in the atmosphere, or that it was carried by it in a state of activity from one place to another, it should follow, that all the inhabitants of the same territory, or at least of the same town, rich as well as poor, should be equally attacked by it; but this is not the case. All, therefore, that can be attributed to the atmosphere, with regard to the plague, is, that according to its different temperature, it disposes the human body more or less to receive the contagion; and that according as its temperature is greater or less, it renders the pestilential miasm more or less violent, or even destroys it; which, indeed, seems to have been the opinion of other writers on this subject[60]. We have seen in the preceding narrative, that the cold of winter blunted, and as it were froze the pestilential virus, whilst the heat of summer rendered it more active and volatile; nevertheless, at both these seasons, the atmosphere was as healthy as usual. 2. That it was sometimes difficult to ascertain the existence of the plague on its first appearance; but that afterwards it was attended by certain marks, which distinguish it from every other disease. These characteristic marks are petechiæ, buboes, and carbuncles. When these occur in a disorder which is very rapid in its progress, is accompanied with fever (unless when it destroys suddenly) and is highly contagious, there can be no doubt that such a disorder is the plague[61]. To determine with certainty whether a disorder which prevails in any place is the plague, it must have all the symptoms which I have just described in one or more patients. These symptoms taken singly, do not constitute the plague; for many other disorders are equally rapid in their course; petechiæ appear in common putrid fevers; in some malignant fevers carbuncles are met with; buboes are produced by the venereal disease and scurvy; and some times, though very rarely, a crisis happens in putrid fevers by abscesses forming under the arm-pits; but these abscesses arise later in these cases than they do in the plague, and moreover they are not accompanied with buboes and the other symptoms which characterize the plague. The high degree of contagion by which the disorder is propagated from one person to another, enters necessarily into the definition of the plague; without it there is no plague. In a word, if there is a frequent communication, either by commerce or in consequence of war, with Turkey or Egypt, and some persons, or a great number of persons, are attacked with a disorder which corresponds exactly to the definition above given, it is certain that it is the plague. 3. For the answer to this third question, the reader has only to revert to the description of symptoms in note A of the Addenda. As for the prognosis, it is attended with great uncertainty in cases of the plague. In some instances, an indisposition apparently slight, is quickly followed by death; whilst others who seem to be on the point of death, recover[62]. In general, when the buboes suppurate well, and there is a separation of the eschars from the carbuncles, accompanied with an abatement of the other symptoms, a favourable prognostic may be given. 4. That hitherto medicine had done very little good, the disorder being so rapid in its course as not to allow time for the remedies to act; but that the Peruvian bark and mineral acids, in large doses, ought, in my opinion, to form the basis of the curative treatment. From the preceding history of the plague it appears, that those who are attacked with this disorder are affected with nervous symptoms before the fever comes on, and that the fever itself is of a highly putrid nature, accompanied with marks peculiar to itself, and which distinguish it from all other fevers. The proportion of those in whom the plague appears under the form of an inflammatory fever, is very small: and this happens only in the beginning of the disorder, in plethoric subjects; and that in these instances, from being inflammatory it quickly becomes putrid. Thus there are two sets of symptoms in the plague, viz. those which depend on nervous irritation, and those which depend on the putrid condition of the blood. The first I call the _nervous_, and the second the _putrid state_. In the first, or nervous state, the indication is to promote perspiration by warm acidulated drinks, such as infusions of tea and other herbs mixed with lemon juice or vinegar, camphorated emulsions, camphor julep with vinegar and musk, &c. If ever bleeding is proper, it is at this period, and in plethoric subjects. In the second, or putrid state, vomits, the Peruvian-bark, and mineral acids are the most promising remedies. The violence and rapidity with which the disease runs its course, require that these medicines should be administered in powerful doses. In the month of September, a woman, aged twenty-four, was seized with head-ache, fever, and vomiting; shortly after, a bubo came out on the right groin, and another under the arm-pit on the same side, of the size of a hazel nut; the next day small petechiæ appeared over the whole body; she was weak and drowsy; the tongue was white and moist; the urine pale; and she complained of head-ache and oppression about the præcordia. After I had made her vomit by giving her twenty grains of ipecacuanha, I ordered her a very strong decoction of Peruvian bark, to a quart of which were added a drachm and a half of the extract of the same bark, a drachm of the acid elixir of vitriol of the London Pharmacopoeia, and an ounce of syrup of marshmallow; she took three ounces of this mixture every other hour, and besides this, she also took four times in the day, half a drachm of Peruvian bark in powder. For her common drink, she had a decoction of barley, acidulated with spirit of vitriol. The buboes increased gradually, insomuch that in the space of a few days they were as large as walnuts; they continued in this state, without any signs of suppuration. The patient began to mend regularly, and at the end of a week, she was almost entirely recovered; she was then removed, in spite of all my remonstrances to the contrary, to the hospital, from which she was dismissed a short time afterwards, and came to see me, in perfect health. By this mode of treatment I am persuaded that those who have the plague in its moderate and slow form, may be rescued from death. This is further confirmed by the cases of three children, one of whom was only a year old, and the two others still younger; each of them had a pestilential bubo in the groin, accompanied with fever and great debility. After they had taken the decoction of Peruvian bark, mixed with the extract, they got better; the buboes ripened and yielded a good pus. Two of these children got quite well; the third was carried off during his convalescence, by convulsions occasioned by the teeth. Although this happened in the month of December, when the disorder, being more mild, allowed many to recover; nevertheless these facts serve to establish the efficacy of the remedy, since the symptoms of the plague are always worse in children than adults, and its good effects were seen in all the three patients at the same time. But the cure of the plague by the mineral acids and Peruvian bark, is only to be expected when the disease appears under its less violent forms. In a great number of instances (where the disease has been more violent) these remedies have been prescribed, not only without effecting a cure, but even without retarding death for a moment. Various other medicines, such as theriaca (which has been so improperly cried up in the plague) camphor, dulcified spirit of nitre, &c. have in like manner failed; so that we are compelled to acknowledge, that the plague (under its more violent forms) is of such a malignant nature as not to yield to any medicines with which we are yet acquainted, howsoever well adapted they may, _à priori_, seem to be for getting the better of this disorder. From analogy and the preceding facts, I am inclined to place more reliance upon the Peruvian bark and acids, given in large doses, than upon any other remedy; joining with them, to obviate debility, camphor, elixir of vitriol, wine, and blisters. Some were relieved by gentle emetics, such as ipecacuanha. A surgeon who had brought with him from England a great quantity of _James_'s Powder, prescribed it to several patients; but I never heard that it answered better than ipecacuanha or other emetics[63]. Purgatives, even of the most gentle sort, were hurtful; they brought on a diarrhoea which it was scarcely possible to check, and which weakened the patients exceedingly. I consider bleeding to be very improper in the plague; nevertheless I would not forbid it entirely, where the disease, in plethoric subjects, assumes an inflammatory form, and is accompanied with phrenitis; which, however, was seldom the case in the plague at Moscow[64]. 5. That during the convalescence, wine, malt-liquor, kuas (the small beer of Russia) light vegetable food[65], and above all fresh air, were proper and necessary. The same diet which is suited to putrid fevers is equally suited to the plague. Nothing answers better for raising the drooping spirits and recruiting the strength of the weak and convalescent, than well fermented malt liquor, or wine and water. 6. That as to checking its progress and entirely eradicating the pestilence, that, in the present extended state of the disorder, would be attended with much difficulty; but that whatever tended to lessen the communication between the sick and healthy, and to prevent the latter from coming in contact with infected clothes, furniture, &c. would contribute to this end; and that I hoped the frost would not only weaken the contagion, but in a great measure destroy it. When physicians of science and probity declare that they are convinced of the existence of the plague in any place, it is incumbent on the magistrates, without paying any regard to the contrary opinions of other practitioners, to take the necessary precautions for preserving the health of the public, by removing, as soon as possible, all infected persons, as well as those who are under suspicion of being infected, out of the town, to a house standing by itself, and to surround the building with guards, in order to cut off all communication. As it is of great importance in the beginning of the plague to suppress it in secret, an infected family may be removed in the night-time, without giving rise to any suspicions concerning the disorder; which if it has, as yet, appeared only in this family, may be thus extinguished, without exciting a general alarm[66]. But when several families have become infected, it is then no longer possible to keep it a secret from the public, since the precautions which it is necessary to employ must make it known. In such a case, the impested, as well as all those who have dwelt under the same roofs with them, must be cut off from all further communication with the rest of the inhabitants. The clothes and furniture belonging to the sick (excepting such things as are of a hard and solid texture, which it will be sufficient to wash with vinegar) must be burnt. The goods that are thrown into the fire must not be touched with the hands, but be taken hold of by tongs and poles furnished with hooks at the end[67]; in the same way, the dead bodies are to be put into the carts, that carry them to the burying-grounds. Persons who may be relied on, should be appointed to see that all these directions are strictly complied with. The relations and friends of the sick should be persuaded to burn the clothes and other effects which they may at different times have received; and the health of such friends and relatives should be well watched by the physicians. A Board of Health, composed of some persons of rank, two or three physicians, and as many of the principal citizens, should regulate, under the authority of the magistrates, all matters relative to the health and safety of the inhabitants. This Board or Committee should divide the town into quarters or districts, in each of which they should appoint a physician to visit the sick; they should enjoin the inhabitants to apprize them whenever any individual in a family is taken ill; and they should order that no person be buried until the corpse shall have been examined by one of the faculty, and a note be given certifying the disorder of which the person died. If there should not be a sufficient number of physicians, the surgeons may be employed in this business. The poverty of the common people, and the avarice of others in better circumstances, have, in all places and at all times, been the chief causes by which the contagion has been propagated. The poor man, who dreads hunger more than death, cannot bear to see himself deprived of the pittance of property left him by a relation or friend, and accordingly endeavours to secure in secret all that he can; whilst the avaricious man, delighted with the thoughts of making a good bargain, buys what is offered for sale, regardless of the risk he runs of taking the contagion. There is but one effectual remedy for this evil, which, as long as it subsists, renders all precautions whatever of no avail. The remedy I mean is to allow a sum of money from the public treasury for the payment of the value of the goods which are burnt. In fact, the condition of those whose family is attacked with the plague is woful enough; deprived of their friends and cut off from all society, they have little else to expect but death: is it fit, then, that their situation should be rendered still more deplorable by having their goods taken from them and destroyed, without any compensation; and thus to have no other prospect left them but that of extreme indigence, in case of recovery? Let persons be appointed to appraise fairly the goods which are burnt, and pay for them accordingly; or, let the money be deposited in the hands of some banker, or of a committee chosen for that purpose, with the claimant's name, in order that if he recovers, it may be given to him, or in case of death, to his heirs. Not only those among the poor who are ill of the plague, but those also who are suspected of having the contagion, should be fed and maintained at the public expence; humanity, as well as the safety of the rest of the inhabitants, requires that this should be done. A sufficiently large sum should be appropriated to this purpose, in order that, in case of urgency, there may be no difficulties on this head. If every thing is arranged in this manner from the first appearance of the plague, the expences will not be very heavy, the contagion will be easily stopped, and the evil will be stifled in its infancy. When the disorder has ceased, all who have recovered from it, as well as those who have attended upon the sick, should remain shut up for some time until all doubts are removed as to their being capable of communicating the contagion, on mixing with the inhabitants again. Forty days (whence the term _quarantine_) are the usual probation; but although this space of time may be requisite for the complete purification of goods, it seems to be much longer than is necessary in the case of infected persons, or persons merely suspected of having the contagion[68]. Before those who have been performing quarantine are allowed to have communication with the rest of the inhabitants, they should be washed all over with vinegar, should put on new clothes (their old ones having been previously burnt, as well as their furniture, &c.) and have their houses well fumigated. Besides all this, it will further be proper to make a strict search for several months after, in order to be satisfied that the contagion is not concealed in any part of the town, and that nobody has locked up infected clothes or goods in chests, trunks, &c. or hidden them in any other places; for the plague might, when least apprehended, spring up again from such a source. The pestilential germ confined in clothes or bales of merchandise acquires a greater degree of virulence, and may in that manner be transported to very great distances, and be preserved for a great length of time. The deadly power of this poison is so much increased by being shut up in bales of goods closely packed and well defended from the air, that there are instances of persons who were seized with the most violent symptoms and suddenly killed, on opening them[69]. In the last century, a twelvemonth after the plague had ceased at Warsaw, _Erndtel_, who relates the following anecdote, passed through that town in order to attend the Court to Marienburgh and Dantzic: in the town of Langenfurt, a coachman's wife, being near the time of her lying-in, brought with her in the month of October a mattress on which some persons, who had died of the plague a year before, had lain. Having made use of it, she was soon seized with the same disorder, accompanied with inguinal buboes, and was shortly afterwards delivered; but an hæmorrhage from the womb coming on, she died, as well as the child. The husband, also, died soon after, having buboes and carbuncles; and many other persons caught the infection, which proved fatal to more than twenty of them. This contagion continued to manifest itself until the month of February, without, however, occasioning any more deaths, the persons belonging to the Court being dispersed in different villages and country seats. It ceased altogether in the beginning of March[70]. After the plague has spread itself and become prevalent, its progress is resisted with much more difficulty, and it threatens to become a general calamity. We must not, however, wholly despair; for if, on the one hand, the Magistrates and the Committee of Health exert themselves to the utmost, and on the other, the inhabitants are tractable, the evil may yet be suppressed, especially if the season be favourable. The first object of attention is, to prevent it from being carried into the neighbourhood and other places. To this end, it will be proper to make known in a printed declaration, that the disorder which rages is the plague; that the contagion does not exist in the air, and is only communicated by contact of the sick and infected goods: In this advertisement the inhabitants should be called upon to obey punctually the orders which may be given for the safety of the public at large, as well as of individuals; they should be warned against buying clothes or other effects which have been used; and dealers in second-hand goods and clothes should not be suffered to carry on their trade: Further, if the plague rages in one quarter of the town only, all communication between that part and the rest of the town should be immediately cut off. In the beginning, when only a few families have become infected, the public safety requires that they should be sent out of the town, or at least removed to some detached building, so as to be deprived of all further intercourse with the rest of the inhabitants; but this should be done in a humane and soothing manner, and with as little inconvenience as possible to these unfortunate persons. When the calamity, however, has arrived at such a pitch, that great numbers are attacked with the disorder, and that it has spread itself over every part of the town; we can no longer hope to eradicate it entirely by these precautions. At this period it would be cruel and unfeeling to add to the sufferings of so many afflicted families, by forcing away the sick from the healthy, by depriving the father of the presence of his children, the wife of the attentions of her husband, and the old man of the comfort of his family. Under such circumstances, we should only aggravate the evil, by compelling the sick to conceal their illness. Besides, it is impossible to find buildings sufficiently large and convenient for such a vast number of patients. Nevertheless, every exertion must be made to stop the progress of this terrible disorder, which propagates itself by contagion, in every direction. In this melancholy situation what adds to the distress is, that it is difficult to contrive measures which shall on the one hand be consistent with the humanity with which the unfortunate sufferers should be treated, and on the other, with the public safety. If you drag from their houses the fathers of families, mothers, and children, and thrust them into hospitals, you rob them of the only consolation which is left them, you heap misery upon misery, and plunge them into despair, from which it is impossible for them to recover. On the other hand, although the contrary plan may seem more humane, it is nevertheless equally cruel and fatal to the public at large to neglect all precautions, and to let the contagion take its own course; for in that case many towns and whole provinces would become a prey to the pestilence. We must, therefore, take the mid-way between these two extremes. Let an hospital with the houses near it, or a whole suburb[71], be appropriated for the reception of the poor who are seized with the plague; let every thing which is requisite for their support and cure be provided there; and let them repair thither of their own accord, and not be brought by compulsion. Let other persons be allowed to remain with them, provided the infected houses have a common mark upon the doors, by which they may be distinguished from the rest, in order that sound persons who enter them may be put upon their guard. Let the Board of Health circulate printed directions how the uninfected are to manage when they approach the sick, warning them to keep the doors and windows open, to avoid the breath of the infected, and the effluvia from their bodies and excrements; to sprinkle the rooms frequently with vinegar; and to avoid, as much as possible, touching with their bare hands either the bodies of the sick or infected goods; or if they have touched them, to wash their hands immediately with vinegar. Physicians, surgeons, and nurses, must be appointed to take care of the impested, and have handsome salaries allowed them[72]. The Magistrates should take care that the dead bodies do not remain unburied longer than is absolutely necessary for determining the disease by which life was destroyed. Those who are employed in burying the dead should be protected from the contagion, by having cloaks and gloves of oil-cloth, which should be frequently washed with vinegar; and that they may not touch the dead bodies with their hands, they should be provided with hooks and other instruments for lifting them up. The burying-grounds should be out of the town, and at some distance from the high-roads; the corpses should be thrown into deep trenches, and be immediately covered over with a thick layer of earth, not only to prevent the effluvia that would otherwise arise from them, but also to secure them from dogs and crows. Although, as I have before remarked, the atmosphere at Moscow, even when the plague was at its height, was not at all vitiated, and by no means contagious, not only in the winter but also in the middle of summer, when the heat is as great as in any other parts of Europe, excepting such as lie immediately to the south; yet, if a great number of bodies dead of the plague are suffered to lie unburied and putrefy, they may impregnate the air with their effluvia to such a degree as to render the atmosphere (otherwise incapable of propagating the contagion) infectious, especially in summer, and thereby cause it to spread inevitable destruction to the neighbourhood. It is well known that the carcases of all animals in a state of corruption fill the surrounding atmosphere with effluvia that are accompanied with an intolerable stench, and that these effluvia, though they do not produce the plague, are nevertheless the cause of putrid, malignant fevers. Accounts are given by several authors of such-like epidemic diseases being produced by the fætor exhaled from the dead bodies left on the field of battle, or from the bodies of animals putrefying in stagnant waters or on the banks of rivers. Among others, _Forestus_, (Lib. 4. Obs. ix. Tom. 1.) gives the history of a very malignant epidemic, occasioned by an enormous fish of the whale kind, which lay corrupting on the sea-shore. But how much more pernicious effects must the putrefaction of bodies dead of the plague have, since in this disorder the simple effluvia from the sick are so fatal to persons in health? (The observations which follow on the airing of goods, on quarantine, &c. coincide so much with those that are to be found in every treatise on the plague, that they are omitted by the Translator.) C. _Of the Antipestilential Fumigating Powders._ The houses and rooms of persons infected with the plague are purified by firing gunpowder in them. At Moscow we employed with success a powder, called _antipestilential_, of which sulphur and nitre formed the basis; some bran and other vegetable substances, such as abrotanum, juniper-berries, &c. together with certain resins, were added; but in my opinion these resins are totally useless, and only increase the expence[73]. The acid vapours let loose on burning nitre and sulphur together, remain a long time suspended in the air[74]. The greater or less strength of these powders depends on the proportion of sulphur and nitre to the other ingredients. After burning the rags or other litter which may be found in the rooms, they are fumigated by throwing one of these powders on a chafing-dish or pan of coals, the doors and windows being shut, to keep in the smoke and vapour for a sufficient length of time. This vapour is hurtful to the lungs, and produces suffocation; hence the person who throws the powder upon the burning coals should get out of the room as fast as possible. This process is repeated three or four times in the space of twenty-four hours for several days together; after which the doors and windows are thrown open. D. _Of Preservative Remedies._ We shall content ourselves with abridging, rather than translating at full length, what the author offers on this head. Among other preservatives, _issues_ are taken notice of. The author himself had one made in his left arm, which he kept open for a twelvemonth; but he is inclined to attribute his exemption from infection rather to his having avoided the contact of the sick and infected goods, than to this remedy. It appears that four surgeons at the principal pest-hospital died of the plague, notwithstanding they had all of them issues. Hence their preservative virtues may be questioned; yet as they have been recommended by others, and are attended with little inconvenience, he thinks it would be proper for those who are obliged to go among the infected, to have one made in the arm or leg, or both.--_Sweet spirit of nitre_ was esteemed an excellent preservative by some; they took twenty or thirty drops of it upon a lump of sugar several times a day. Others took, with the same intention, the _Peruvian bark_ under different forms; but as they all kept out of the way of the contagion at the same time, the preservative powers of these remedies remain very doubtful. The common practice of carrying _camphor_ in the pocket or sewed in the lining of the clothes, has nothing to recommend it. In like manner the _smoking of tobacco_, though it has been so strongly recommended by _Diemerbroeck_ and others, is by no means a certain protection against the contagion. The Turks, says Dr. _Mertens_, are continually smoking their pipes; and yet great numbers of them are swept off by the plague every year. This reflection was not sufficient to do away the prejudice in its favour, so difficult is it to destroy a received opinion, howsoever false it may be. While the plague was raging at Moscow, many Russian gentlemen and foreigners had recourse to the smoking of tobacco, as an infallible preservative. Those who were accustomed to the pipe, smoked oftener, whilst others gradually brought themselves to bear it, until they saw some among the foreigners of the lower class carried off by the plague, in spite of the use of this remedy. The master chimney-sweeper at the foundling-hospital, who had formerly served in the Prussian army, had so much faith in the smoking of tobacco, that he was always seen with a pipe in his mouth from morning to night; and boasted that by this means he should be proof against the plague. Disregarding all other precautions, even when the disorder was at its height, (viz. the month of September) he got over the fences in the night-time, in order to go and see his wife and children who were in the town. He was immediately seized with head-ach and vomiting, and the next day he had a bubo in the groin and under the arm-pit, accompanied with great debility and fever. He died at the end of forty-eight hours. His apprentice, twelve years of age, had a large flat bubo under the armpit, and followed him soon after. From the account published by Count _Berchtold_ at Vienna, in 1797, it would appear that the best preservative method is that recommended by Mr. _Baldwin_, the British Consul at Alexandria. It consists simply in anointing the body all over with olive oil. According to the same account, friction with warm oil is not only a preservative, but also a curative remedy. See the second volume of _Duncan_'s Annals of Medicine. E. _Of the means by which the Foundling-hospital at Moscow was kept free from the Plague._ I shall now give a particular account of the means by which the Foundling Hospital was kept free from the plague, during the whole time that it raged at Moscow; in the last six months of which it swept off so many thousands of inhabitants. From this account it will easily be seen how possible it is in times of pestilence, to keep one's self, one's family, and whole buildings, not only private but public, free from infection. The Foundling Hospital[75] is situated in the middle of the city, at the conflux of the Yausa and the Moscua. It occupies a space of ground, at that time only inclosed by a hedge six feet high, whose circumference measures nearly a French league. On this has been erected a building which might easily be made to contain five thousand foundlings. That part of it which was finished in 1769, contained one thousand children and three hundred adults; the rest, consisting of masters, servants, workmen, and soldiers, who amounted to nearly one hundred, lived in houses built of wood adjoining the stone edifice and standing within the inclosure. This inclosure had three gates. In the month of July, as soon as I found that the plague had spread itself in the town, I requested the Governors of the hospital to order all the gates to be shut, excepting that where the porter lived; and not to suffer any person to come in or go out, without permission from the principal inspector. I further requested them to lay in a large stock, from places not yet infected, of flour, cloth, linen, shoes, and other necessaries. In the month of August, when the plague was raging with great fury, it was no longer permitted for any one to enter but myself. Persons who lived out of the enclosure were hired to purchase all the necessaries of life, and to carry letters. I gave the porter some written directions, in which I put down every thing he was to allow to enter, and under what precautions. The butcher threw the meat into large tubs filled with vinegar, from which it was afterwards taken out by the under-cook. I prohibited the admission of furs, wool, feathers, cotton, hemp, paper, linen, and silk; but I allowed sugar-loaves to be received, after taking off the paper and packthread. Letters were pricked through with a pin and afterwards dipped in vinegar, and dried in the smoke produced by burning juniper-wood. The inhabitants of the building were allowed to speak to their relations and friends, who stood at a certain distance out of the gate[76]. Being obliged to purchase two hundred pair of boots and shoes, in the month of October; I ordered them to be immersed for some hours in vinegar, and afterwards dried. I visited all the sick in the house twice every day; the sound were examined by two surgeons night and morning, who informed me whenever they found any of them indisposed. Whenever any symptoms occurred in a patient which appeared to me doubtful, I kept such patient apart from the rest, until I was satisfied the disorder was not the plague. In this manner I detected the plague seven times among the soldiers[77] and workmen belonging to the Foundling Hospital; but as I separated them on the first appearance of the symptoms, they none of them infected the others, except the master chimney-sweeper, who gave it to his apprentice. After the month of July, we ceased to admit any more foundlings or pregnant women. I proposed to the Governors to hire, in the mean while, a house for this purpose in the suburbs, which was not determined upon until the month of October[78]. At this time there still continued to die in the town above a thousand persons in a day. I had the children who were brought to this quarantine-house, stripped to the skin; after which their clothes were burnt, their bodies washed all over with vinegar and water, and new clothes put upon them. I kept them for the space of a fortnight in three rooms detached from the rest; if, after that time, no signs of the plague appeared among them, they were put (having previously changed their clothes) each in the order in which he finished this first term of probation, in the common dwelling-rooms of the quarantine-house; here they remained another fortnight, before they were removed to the Great Hospital. I visited every day these children and the lying-in women[79]. One infant was brought with a pestilential bubo, and two others, during the time of their quarantine, had the plague with buboes, as mentioned in a former part of this treatise. By putting them in separate rooms along with their nurses, the contagion was prevented from spreading[80]. I had thus the happiness of rescuing from death about one hundred and fifty children[81], brought to the quarantine-house after the month of October. In the Spring of 1772, every thing was restored to its former footing. THE END. FOOTNOTES: [1] Whatever doubts might have been entertained, as to the real nature of the yellow fever, on its first appearance in North America, I believe almost all physicians are now agreed that it is the plague, with such modifications as are easily referable to difference of climate and different mode of living. [2] This can hardly fail to be the case until the American government shall have recourse to some of those vigorous measures for eradicating the contagion which are mentioned in the following pages. [3] In a work, entitled Observationes de Febribus putridis, de Peste, &c. published at Vienna, in 1778. [4] _Schreiber_ Observat. et Cogitat. de Pestilentia quæ 1738 & 1739, in Ukrania grassata est. [5] The author's preface or introduction is wholly controversial. It consists of a reply to Mr. _Samoïlowitz_, who had attempted, in a very illiberal manner, to detract from the merit of the author's publication. This reply is accompanied with copies of the certificates and testimonials received from the lieutenant of the police, the governours of the Foundling-Hospital, the lieutenant-general of Moscow, Count Pànin, the privy counsellor de Betzky, &c. relative to his advice and exertions during the time of the plague. These vouchers completely refute his adversary's charges; but as they and the rest of the preface present no facts relative to the history or treatment of the disorder, they cannot be interesting to any but the author's friends, and are therefore omitted. [6] Notwithstanding this, Mr. _Samoïlowitz_ contends strenuously for the inoculation of this disorder, in a pamphlet entitled "Memoire sur l'Inoculation de la Peste, &c. Strasbourg, 1782." [7] See Addenda, Note A. [8] In military hospitals men perform the office of nurses. Tr. [9] Literally physician to the city. The Russian government appoints a physician to every principal town of the empire. [10] _Orræus_ states, that of the whole number, which consisted of thirty, twenty-two died, five recovered, and three escaped infection. _Descriptio Pestis_, p. 26. Translator. [11] We have omitted a sentence or two in this paragraph which threw no light on the subject, and might have appeared exceptionable to some readers. Tr. [12] The author relates in a note, which it did not appear necessary to translate entire, that he found himself in a very disagreeable situation, in consequence of having been one of the first to assert the existence of the plague. The language used by some rival practitioners on this occasion, tended (as he believes) to stir up the populace to attack his house in the manner hereafter mentioned. [13] See Gustavi Orræi Descriptio Pestis. 4to. Petropoli, 1784, p. 29. [14] The state physician, Dr. _Rinder_, was attacked at the end of February with a gangrenous ulcer in the leg, which prevented his attendance at this meeting:--He died soon after. [15] Orræus, as before quoted, p. 29. [16] Three versts are equal to two English miles. Tr. [17] In what manner the contagion got among these people could not be ascertained. Perhaps, through the negligence of the centinels, they had some communication with the persons under quarantine; or had become infected by bringing into use clothes and other effects, which the last-mentioned persons might have concealed under ground before their removal to the quarantine-hospital. [18] Besides praying by them in the ordinary manner, it is customary, in Russia, to carry in great pomp to the sick the images of their saints, which every person present kisses in rotation. [19] In their paroxysm of phrensy, the populace attempted to wreak their vengeance upon those who had laboured for their preservation. After they had sacrificed one victim to their blind rage, they sought for the physicians and surgeons. Some of the lowest rabble broke into my house, and destroyed every thing they could lay hold of; they also went in search of the other physicians and surgeons, and pursued such as they met with. Providence rescued us all from their hands. Little suspecting what was to happen, I had gone four days before, by order of council, to the Foundling-Hospital, to superintend more closely the health of the children there. [20] There is some little variation between this author's spelling of these Russian names and Mr. _Coxe_'s. The last-mentioned traveller writes the 1st. Kremlin; the 2nd. Khitaigorod; the 3rd. Bielgorod; and the 4th. Semlainogorod. This last takes its name from the rampart of earth with which it is surrounded. Tr. [21] Mr. _Coxe_ describes the wooden houses of the common people in Moscow, as mean hovels, in no degree superior to peasants cottages. It is easy to conceive how favourable these low and crouded habitations must have been to the harbouring and spreading of contagion. Tr. [22] Now Prince _Orlow_. [23] See Addenda, Note B. [24] In Russia it is no uncommon thing to have a large edifice built of wood in a few days. See _Coxe_'s Travels. To persons unacquainted with this fact, the erecting of new hospitals might seem a very tardy measure for checking the progress of the plague. Tr. [25] _Reaumur_'s thermometer was constantly in the morning between 16 and 22 degrees below the freezing point. [26] See Addenda, note C. [27] Dr. _Pogaretzky_, who had the care of the pest-hospital, Laforte, told me that some of the bearers of the dead had put on sheep-skins that had been worn by the impested, after having exposed them to the open air for forty-eight hours, in the month of December, when the frost was very intense; and that none of them became infected. [28] The author remarks in a note, that the number of deaths in the month of September, probably amounted to as many as twenty-seven thousand. At this time, which was during the riots, the number of deaths could not be accurately registered. [29] The number of these was by no means inconsiderable; for during the height of the plague, there was scarcely a sufficient number of men, horses, and carts to carry off the dead; many remained uninterred for two or three days, and were at length taken away by their relations, friends, or poor people hired for that purpose. Many of these could not be registered, besides numbers of others who were buried in secret, and whose illness was never reported to the Senate. [30] According to the returns made to the Council of Health, and published by _Orræus_ (Descriptio Pestis, p. 48,) the number of persons carried off by the plague at Moscow in the year 1771, did not amount to more than fifty-six thousand seven hundred and seventy-two. It is to be remarked, however, that this list of deaths is dated only from the month of April, whereas the plague broke out in the cloth-manufactory in the beginning of March. Indeed, _Orræus_ himself acknowledges, (p. 49,) that a much greater number than what appears from the reports laid before the Council must have died of the plague, as, on pulling down the houses in different parts of the city, so many dead bodies were found that had been secretly interred, and as, moreover, in the beginning of the disorder, the returns were very inaccurately made. Tr. [31] These towns did not suffer greatly from the plague, as the inhabitants took warning from the unhappy fate of Moscow, and attended to the necessary precautions from the beginning. It was more destructive in the villages, and particularly in those that were at the greatest distance from Moscow. [32] I mean those physicians who, with myself, remained in the town; but not such as had the care of the pest-hospitals. [33] Although the atmosphere may not be capable of communicating the pestilential contagion beyond a very limited distance from its source, yet to approach so near as within a foot of the infected, appears to us (notwithstanding the present instance to the contrary) to be a practice not generally safe. Dr. _Russell_ proceeded with more caution in his examinations of the infected at Aleppo. He prescribed to most of his patients out of a window, about fifteen feet above them. A stair passed near one of the windows, by which he had such of the infected, whose eruptions he wanted to examine, brought within a smaller distance, viz. within four or five feet. _Russell_, on the Plague, book I. ch. vi. Tr. [34] Almost all the youngest children were out at nurse in the country. (Mr. _Coxe_ relates, that, at the time he was at Moscow, this noble institution contained three thousand foundlings. Tr.) [35] See Addenda, D. [36] It is remarkable, that it is towards the summer-solstice, according to _Russell_ (Natural History of Aleppo) and _Prosper Alpinus_ (Medicina Ægyptiorum) that the plague generally ceases in Asia and Africa; whilst in Europe it rages with the greatest fury at that season, and is only subdued by the winter-cold. [37] From the author's expressions in this place, the reader might be led to believe that he meant to restrict the communication of infection to contact of the sick and infected goods; but in other parts of his book, he admits the possibility of the contagion being communicated by the breath and other effluvia from the sick. Indeed there can be no doubt that the pestilential particles are (especially in the worst forms of the disease) contained in the moisture perspired through the skin, and in the vapour emitted from the lungs. If not, where was the use of the precaution, which the author adopted in his own person, of holding a handkerchief moistened with vinegar before the mouth and nose on approaching the sick? The conclusion, from all this is, that the sphere of contagion in cases of the plague, extends to a greater distance (several feet at least) than Dr. _Mertens_ imagines. Tr. [38] For a more particular account of the symptoms, see Addenda, A. [39] The author did not venture to feel the pulse of those impested patients who were under his own care, lest he should take infection. As the observations communicated to him by others on this head, which he has inserted in his book, coincide with those of _Orræus_ and _Samoïlowitz_, which we shall afterwards notice, we have omitted them, to avoid repetition. Tr. [40] It will be sufficient for readers in this country to refer to _Sydenham_'s works, Sect. II. Cap. II. without transcribing the quotation which the author has introduced in this place. _Sydenham_ observes of the London plague (1665), that it was most suddenly mortal in the beginning; whereas the Russian plague was the most rapid in its action when it was at its height. Dr. _Mertens_ reconciles this contrariety of observation, by remarking that the London plague began in the summer, a season the most favourable for its activity. Tr. [41] The description and treatment of the buboes, carbuncles, and other eruptions, which are to be found in every treatise on the Plague, the translator has purposely omitted, that the pamphlet might not be swelled out to an unnecessary bulk. [42] Frequently in the progress of the disease there is no heat on the surface of the body; but the burning heat under the axillæ shows that the internal heat is very intense. [43] A febrile, but not very quick pulse; sometimes almost natural. [44] The faburra brought up by vomiting, is commonly of a dirty yellow colour, viscid, and sometimes frothy. The quantity thrown up is astonishingly great, much greater than is observed in any other fever. [45] The petechiæ and other eruptions vary in size and colour. They are mostly small and distinct, but sometimes run together and form broad maculæ, which now and then end in carbuncles. Their colour in many instances is livid or black, in others (when the disease is milder) purplish, in some reddish. In convalescents, they turn first red, then yellow, and afterwards disappear. They are so common in the beginning of the plague, that scarcely any one dies without them; though buboes and carbuncles are not observable. Hence those who have never seen the plague under all its forms are apt to be deceived respecting the nature of the disorder. [46] The patients complain of this more than of any other symptom. The pain begins in the frontal sinus, and the orbits of the eyes, and afterwards extends to the temples and sides of the head as far as to the back part, and gradually over the whole head; so, however, as to be most violent in the fore part. [47] The appearance of the eyes in the plague is such as, when once seen, will ever afterwards enable even the commonest observers to recognise the disease. The eyes are unusually prominent, and the vessels of the tunica albuginea are turgid with blood, so as to produce a præternatural redness. They are, moreover, watery, sometimes full of tears (lacrymantes), and have a sparkling fierceness. But in the advanced stage of the disease, when the powers of life become exhausted, the eyes sink in, the redness gradually goes off, and a little while before death they become dull, and appear as if they had a film over them. [48] Although the delirium is rather higher than it is in the slow type of the plague, yet it is very rarely of the furious kind, in the present type of the disease. The patients are affected with stupor, and lie motionless in a dozing state; or if they awake, they are perpetually stretching out their hands and trying to raise themselves up, as if they wanted to get out of bed. They talk incessantly, but in consequence of the turgid and swollen state of the tongue, their speech is broken and stuttering, like that of drunken people, so as to be scarcely intelligible. [49] The buboes are dispersed or resolved by critical sweats breaking out on the first day of the attack. Often, at the same time, there is a discharge from the urethra of a white, viscid fluid, resembling pus, similar to what happens in a gleet; but this running is not accompanied with pain, and ceases spontaneously after a few days. [50] A moderate bleeding from the nose in the beginning of the disease, was, especially in plethoric habits, sometimes salutary; but in most instances it was otherwise. Such as spat up frothy blood, mixed with a great quantity of thin phlegm, though they might not at the time exhibit symptoms of great debility, or appear to be in danger, did, nevertheless, contrary to expectation, die soon afterwards. Hæmorrhages happened more frequently, and proved more fatal to women than to men. An immoderate flow of the menses coming on suddenly and before the stated time, carried off the patient in many instances. When pregnant women were attacked with this type of the plague, they almost always miscarried, and lost their lives by the subsequent hæmorrhage. This was also very generally the case with those who were delivered after having gone their natural time. [51] This anxiety about the præcordia may be regarded as a pathognomonic symptom of the plague in its most acute type. It is so excessive that the patients are at a loss for words capable of expressing it. It does not consist in a violent pain, but in a certain oppressive, suffocating, and altogether intolerable sensation at the pit of the stomach. In this state, they make known their anguish and show the danger they are in by sighs, tears, and lamentations, writhing their bodies in the most violent manner, and, especially when their delirium comes on, falling down upon the ground or floor, and crawling about as long as any muscular power remains. Others who are affected with extreme debility from the first, although they feel the same anguish, are not capable of tossing and writhing themselves about so much. [52] In the same manner as those who die of the catarrhus suffocativus. [53] Memoire sur la Peste, qui en 1771, ravagea l'Empire de Russie, sur tout Moscou, &c. par M. D. Samoïlowitz. A Paris, 1783. [54] This remark respecting the rare occurrence of petechiæ in the beginning of the plague is contrary to the observations of _Mertens_ and _Orræus_. Mr. _Samoïlowitz_ did not see much of the plague at Moscow in the beginning; he was chiefly employed in the care of the pest-hospitals during the height of the disorder. Tr. [55] Feeling the pulse of impested patients with the bare fingers, is always attended with great risk of taking the contagion, which is so readily communicated by contact. This, however, did not deter Mr. _Samoïlowitz_, from feeling the pulse in all the different forms or varieties of the plague, in the usual manner; though others took the precaution of putting on gloves, or having a leaf of tobacco applied to the patient's wrist before they ventured upon this examination. It is evident that much reliance cannot be placed upon the reports of those who felt the pulse through the intervening substances just mentioned. This and other observers have remarked, that after the pulse was once ascertained in each form or variety of the plague, it became unnecessary to feel it any more. According as the head-ache was either dull or acute, the delirium high or low, &c. the physician could pronounce, without feeling the wrist, upon the state of the pulse. Tr. [56] If the symptoms in the decline of the plague were precisely the same with those in the beginning, there would be but two types or varieties of the disorder; the 1st, comprehending the phenomena of the plague at its beginning and in its decline; and the 2d, the phenomena which belong to its height. But from the observations of _Mertens_ and others, it appears that although there is a great resemblance between the plague at its decline and in the beginning (viz. that in both cases the symptoms are less violent and less fatal than those which occur in the middle period or at the height of the epidemic) yet there is also a difference between them, the plague in the beginning of its career being accompanied with petechiæ and other spots, as well as buboes; whereas at the decline, scarcely any other external marks, besides buboes, are observed. Tr. [57] We suppose this query to relate to those physicians who received reports from the surgeons and their assistants, without visiting the sick themselves. Tr. [58] Although Dr. _Mertens_ maintains (what we believe no physician in these days will be disposed to contradict) that the contagion is not disseminated by the common atmosphere; yet, in other parts of his Treatise, he admits that the air may become infected to a certain distance by a great number of bodies, dead of the plague, lying unburied. Tr. [59] There are many reasons why the poor must be the chief victims of the plague, whenever it rages in any country; for 1st, They are the persons who are employed to remove or destroy infected goods, to carry away and bury the dead, &c. 2dly, As they live in small, crouded habitations, when any one of them is attacked by the disorder, all the rest of the same family are exposed to the contagion, in consequence of breathing an air tainted by the breath and other effluvia of the sick. 3dly, They are generally destitute of nurses and other necessary attendants, and particularly they cannot have that change of linen, which contributes in a very great degree to carry off the contagion and promote the recovery. 4thly, When the plague is at its height, the number of sick is so great that it becomes impossible for the physicians and surgeons to visit all of them, even once in twenty-four hours, though to be of real service, the visits should be repeated, in every family, twice within that space of time. Lastly, They have not wherewithal to procure themselves the proper food and diet; or, if these are provided for them out of the parochial funds, by the contributions of the wealthy, or by government, they do not strictly adhere to them, but fly to spirituous liquors and other hurtful things. Tr. [60] _Sydenham_ Oper. Sect. II. Cap. 2. and _Van Swieten_ Comment. Tom. V. § 1407. We have deemed it sufficient to refer to these authors, without transcribing the passages which Dr. _Mertens_ has introduced. Tr. [61] The author includes in his definition of the plague the circumstance of the disorder being brought by infected persons or goods from Egypt, or some other province of the Turkish empire; but as this is a circumstance which relates merely to its origin, without serving to mark its properties or pourtray its features, we thought it foreign to a definition, and have accordingly omitted it. Tr. [62] See _Chenot_ de Peste, p. 93, and _Russell_'s Aleppo, p. 229 and 235. [63] From the manner in which the author makes mention of _James_'s powder, it appears that it was administered in such large doses as produced vomiting. It should have been given in small quantities, so as to have acted as a diaphoretic, both alone, and in conjunction with opiates. Perhaps, however, it may be objected that this and other antimonials, in small doses, repeated at intervals of three or four hours, are too tardy in their operation for a disease so rapid in its progress? In larger doses they would be apt to purge. Thus there seems to be little encouragement for administering them in any way, in cases of the plague. Tr. [64] As the author's observations relative to the treatment of the buboes and carbuncles, coincide with those of other writers on this subject, they have been purposely omitted. See _Russell_ on the Plague, Book II. Chap. V. Tr. [65] Why no animal food? _Orræus_ found broths and soups seasoned with salt and vinegar, and having the fat taken off them, and even boiled meat of a light texture, to be very restorative to the convalescent. Tr. [66] If there should be any doubts respecting the nature of the disorder on its first appearance, and because, as yet, only a single family happens to be attacked with it; Dr. _Mertens_ proposes that criminals condemned to death should be shut up with the sick, and be made to wear their clothes. Thus in two or three weeks, according as they became infected or not, it would be decided whether the disorder was the plague. But in a free country, like England, neither the removing of a family in the night-time, under the circumstances just mentioned, nor the exposing of criminals to the contagion, are measures which would be deemed justifiable. Indeed, it seems almost impossible to stifle the plague, in any country, in the very beginning, before it has become publicly known and excited a general alarm. Tr. [67] Those who are employed to burn the goods, should not stand too near the fire, so as to be exposed to the thick smoke which arises from it; and the more effectually to destroy the pestilential particles, it may be useful to throw some gun-powder or nitre into the fire. It is infinitely better to burn the infected goods than to bury them, as some authors recommend; since people may be tempted by avarice to dig them up again. [68] See _Chenot_ de Peste, p. 208. [69] _Antrechaux_, Relation de la Peste, p. 65. _Chenot_, de Peste, p. 166. [70] _Erndtel_ Warsavia physice illustrata, p. 171. [71] By being distributed in this manner into several houses the sick will be less hurtful to each other; they will breathe a purer air, and recover much sooner. _Mead_ advises the impested to be removed to tents pitched out of the town. (This is not quite accurate. _Mead_'s words are,--"as the advice I have been giving is founded upon this principle, that the best method for stopping infection, is to separate the healthy from the diseased; so in small towns and villages, where it is practicable, if the _sound remove themselves into barracks or the like airy habitations_, it may probably be even more useful, _than to remove the sick_. This method has been found beneficial in France after all others have failed.") Tr. I do not think a better method for stopping the contagion can be suggested; but the season of the year, climate, and other circumstances must often render this measure impracticable; in that case, the doors and windows of the sick-rooms should remain open, and a free circulation of air be constantly kept up. The exposure to the air and wind seems to me to be the principal reason why the plague makes less havoc in armies that are encamped; for although the air or wind has very little power over the poison after it has entered the circulation, nevertheless it carries off the effluvia and dissipates them more quickly; so that the sound are not so readily infected by the sick. [72] The physicians and surgeons, and all those who are about the sick, should put over their clothes a cloak made of oil-cloth; they should wear gloves and boots made of the same material, which should be frequently washed with vinegar; and they should hold before the mouth and nose, a sponge moistened with vinegar. On other preservatives, see D. [73] The following is the composition of these fumigating powders, as published by the Council of Health. (See _Orræus_ p. 136, 137.) _The strong antipestilential powder_ consisted of juniper tops (cut small,) guaiacum shavings, juniper berries, bran, of each 6 lb, nitre 8 lb, sulphur 6 lb, myrrh 2 lb. _The weaker antipestilential powder_ consisted of the herb abrotanum 6 lb, juniper tops 4 lb, juniper berries 3 lb, nitre 4 lb, sulphur 2-1/2 lb, myrrh 1-1/2 lb. _The odoriferous antipestilential powder_ consisted of calamus aromaticus 3 lb, frankincense 2 lb, amber 1 lb, storax and dried roses, of each 1/2 lb, myrrh 1 lb, nitre 1 lb 8 oz., sulphur 4 oz. Of these powders, the first was employed to fumigate the houses and goods of the infected, such as woollens, furs, &c.; the second, for fumigating houses only suspected, and more delicate articles, which would have been spoiled by the first; the last was employed (by way of prevention) in inhabited houses. (We are now acquainted with a mode of destroying contagion, much more simple and efficacious than that of fumigating with such compound and costly powders as those mentioned in the preceding note; we mean _the vapour extricated from nitre by means of the vitriolic acid_. See an Account of the experiments made on board the Union Hospital-ship, to determine the effect of the nitrous acid in destroying contagion. By James Carmichael Smith, M.D. &c. London, 1796. Tr.) [74] The author adds, that the smoke from the vegetable substances burnt with them helps to keep the acid vapours longer suspended. We do not see how. Tr. [75] This asylum of innocence and misfortune holds the first place among all institutions of the same kind in Europe. It was founded by the Empress Catherine the Second. Under the auspices of this Sovereign, and by the great attention of Mr. _de Betzky_, to whom his country owes infinite obligations for the devotion of his time and fortune to the encouragement of the arts and the promotion of undertakings for the public good, this institution had nearly attained to perfection, at the time when this account of it was written. [76] I caused to be fixed up at the gate near the porter's lodge, two sets of railing, at the distance of twelve feet from each other. The people belonging to the hospital stood at the inner railing, and those who came to see them, at the outer. [77] There was always a guard of twenty-two men and an inferior officer. After July, I obtained an order not to have them changed. [78] It was not without great difficulty that we got a house for quarantine, as well on account of obstacles occasioned by the public calamity, as from the scarcity of houses sufficiently roomy. Hence this business was not settled until October. In the mean time, many children continued to be exposed at the hospital-gate. Some of these I put into a wooden house in the vicinity; and Mr. _de Durnowo_ took others of them under his roof. As soon as the above-mentioned quarantine-house was ready to receive them, which was not the case till November, I sent them thither. [79] In this quarantine-house I also established a small hospital for the reception of pregnant women, and the care of them after their delivery, as long as the plague might continue. Mr. _de Durnowo_ undertook the management of this establishment. [80] As it was possible for the plague, though it declined in the town, to have been kept up in this quarantine-house by the children that were daily brought there and by the lying-in women; in order to provide against such an event and in compliance with the orders of the Empress, Mr. _de Durnowo_ and myself presented a memoir, containing a detail of the regulations and precautions above-mentioned, to the Committee of Health, who were pleased to signify their approbation thereof. (Here follows in the original, the letter of approbation from the Committee of Health, which though it is highly flattering to the author, is unimportant to the reader, and is therefore omitted by the Translator.) [81] In the beginning of the year 1772, I had the remainder of the children who had been received into the quarantine-house, admitted, a few at a time, into the Great Hospital. Their number, including orphans, whose parents had been carried off by the plague, and new-born infants, amounted to one hundred and fifty. Transcriber's Notes page viii & ix: the four items listed have been expanded from the original compact paragraph. page 29: Pogaretsky ==> Pogaretzky page 44: accompained ==> accompanied page 75: petechia ==> petechiæ footnote 5: Samoïlowoitz ==> Samoïlowitz footnote 27: Pogaretsky ==> Pogaretzky footnote 33: Russel ==> Russell footnote 36: Russel ==> Russell footnote 59: sly ==> fly footnote 59: hurful ==> hurtful 
32171	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries.) A DISCOURSE ON THE PLAGUE: BY _RICHARD MEAD_, Fellow of the College of Physicians, and of the Royal Society; and Physician to his MAJESTY. The NINTH EDITION corrected and enlarged. _LONDON_, Printed for A. MILLAR, against _Catharine-Street_, in the _Strand_: And J. BRINDLEY in _New-Bond-Street_. MDCCXLIV. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE _James Craggs_, Esq; ONE OF His MAJESTY'S Principal Secretaries of State. _SIR_, I MOST humbly offer to You my Thoughts concerning the _Prevention of the Plague_, which I have put together by your Command. As soon as you were pleased to signify to me, in his _Majesty's_ Absence, that their Excellencies the _Lords Justices_ thought it necessary for the publick Safety, upon the Account of the _Sickness_ now in _France_, that proper Directions should be drawn up to defend our selves from such a Calamity; I most readily undertook the Task, though upon short Warning, and with little Leisure: I have therefore rather put down the _principal Heads of Caution_, than a _Set of Directions in Form_. THE _first_, which relate to _the performing Quarantaines_, &c. You, who are perfectly versed in the History of _Europe_, will see are agreeable to what is practised in other Countries, with some new Regulations. _The next_, concerning the _suppressing Infection here_, are very different from the Methods taken in former Times among _Us_, and from what they commonly do _Abroad_: But, I persuade my self, will be found agreeable to Reason. I MOST heartily wish, that the wise Measures, the _Government_ has already taken, and will continue to take, with Regard to the _former_ of _these_, may make the _Rules_ about the _latter_ unnecessary. However, it is fit, we should be always provided with proper _Means of Defence_ against so terrible an _Enemy_. MAY this short _Essay_ be received as one Instance, among many others, of the Care, you always shew for Your Country; and as a Testimony of the great Esteem and Respect, with which I have the Honour to be, _SIR_, _Your most obedient, and Most humble Servant,_ R. MEAD. Nov. 25. 1720. THE CONTENTS. The Preface, Page i PART I. _Of the_ PLAGUE _in General_. CHAP I. Of the Origine and Nature of the PLAGUE, 1 CHAP II. Of the Causes which spread the PLAGUE, 41 PART II. _Of the Methods to be taken against the_ PLAGUE. CHAP I. Of preventing Infection from other Countries, 80 CHAP II. Of stopping the Progress of the PLAGUE, if it should enter our Country, 100 CHAP III. Of the Cure of the PLAGUE, 151 THE PREFACE. THIS Book having at first been written only as a Plan of Directions for preserving our Country from the =Plague=[1] was then very short and concise. An Act of Parliament being immediately after made for performing =Quarantaines= &c. according to the Rules here laid down, it passed through seven Editions in one year without any Alterations. I then thought proper to make some =Additions= to it, in order to shew the Reasonableness of the Methods prescribed, by giving a more full Description of this Disease, and collecting some Examples of the good Success which had attended such Measures, when they had been put in Practice. At the same time I annex'd a short Chapter relating to the Cure of the Plague; being induced thereto by considering how widely most Authors have erred in prescribing a Heap of useless and very often hurtful Medicines, which they recommend under the specious Titles of =Antidotes=, =Specifics= and =Alexipharmacs=: hoping that the great Resemblance, which I had observed between this Disease and the =Small Pox=, would justify my writing upon a Distemper which I have never seen. INDEED the =Small Pox= is a true =Plague=, tho' of a particular kind, bred, as I have shewn all Pestilences are, in the same hot =Egyptian= Climate, and brought into =Asia= and =Europe= by the way of Commerce; but most remarkably by the War with the =Saracens=, called the =Holy War=, at the latter end of the eleventh and the beginning of the twelfth Century[2]. Ever since which time the morbific Seeds of it have been preserved in the infected Cloaths and the Furniture of Houses: and have broken out more or less in all Countries, according as the hot and moist Temperature of the Air has favoured their Spreading and the Exertion of their Force. The =Measles= is likewise a =Plague sui generis=, and owes its Origin to the same Country. I have now revised my little Work once more: and though I cannot find any reason to change my Mind as to any material Points which regard either the =Preventing= or the =Stopping= the Progress of =Infection=; yet I have here and there added some new =Strokes= of Reasoning, and, as the Painters say, retouch'd the =Ornaments=, and hightened the =Colouring= of the =Piece=. THE Substance of the long Preface to the last Edition is as follows. I have insisted more at large upon the =Infection= of this Disease, than I could ever have thought needful at this time, after =Europe= has had Experience of the Distemper for so many Ages; had I not been surprized by the late Attempts of some Physicians in =France= to prove the contrary, even while they have the most undeniable Arguments against them before their Eyes. In particular, I cannot but very much admire to see Dr. =Chicoyneau=, and the other Physicians, who first gave us =Observations= on the =Plague=, when at =Marseilles=, relate in the =Reflections=, they afterwards published upon those Observations, the Case of a Man, who was seized with the =Plague=, upon his burying a young Woman dead of it, when no one else dared to approach the Body; and yet to see them ascribe his Disease, not to his being =infected= by the Woman, but solely to his Grief for the Loss of her, to whom he had made Love, and to a =Diarrhoea=, which had been some time upon him[3]. No question but these concurred to make his Disease the more violent; and perhaps even exposed him to contract the =Infection=: but why it should be supposed, that he was not =infected=, I cannot imagine, when there was so plain an Appearance of it. I am as much at a Loss to find any Colour of Reason for their denying =Infection= in another Case, they relate, of a =young Lady= seized with the =Plague=, upon the sudden Sight of a =PESTILENTIAL TUMOR=, just broke out upon her Maid; not allowing any thing but the Lady's Surprize to be the Cause of her Illness[4]. THE Truth is, these Physicians had engaged themselves in an =Hypothesis=, that the =Plague= was bred at =Marseilles= by a long Use of bad Aliment, and grew so fond of their Opinion, as not to be moved by the most convincing Evidence. And thus it mostly happens, when we indulge Conjectures instead of pursuing the true Course for making Discoveries in Nature. I KNOW they imagine this their Sentiment to be abundantly confirmed from some Experiments made by Dr. =Deidier=[5] upon the =Bile= taken from Persons dead of the =Plague=: which having been either poured into a Wound made on purpose in different =Dogs=, or injected into their Veins, never failed, in many Trials, to produce in them all the Symptoms of the Pestilence, even the external ones of =Bubo's= and =Carbuncles=. One Dog, upon which the Experiment succeeded, had been known, for three Months before, to devour greedily the corrupted =Flesh= of infected Persons, and =Pledgets= taken off from =Pestilential Ulcers=, without receiving any Injury. From hence they conclude[6] that this Disease is not communicated by =Contagion=, but originally bred in the Body by the Corruption of the =Bile=. This Corruption, they say, is the Effect of unwholsome Food; and the =Bile= thus corrupted produces a Thickness and a Degree of Coagulation in the Blood, which is the Cause of the =Plague=: Tho' this they allow to be inforced by a bad Season of the Year, and the =Terrors= of Mind and Despair of the Inhabitants. THESE Experiments are indeed curious, but fall very short of what they are brought to prove. The most that can be gathered from them is this: That =Dogs= do not, at least not so readily, receive =Pestilential Infection= from Men, as Men do from one another: And also, that the =Bile= is so highly corrupted in a Body infected with the =Plague=, that by putting it into the Blood of a =Dog= it will immediately breed the same Disease. BUT it does not follow from hence, that the =Bile= is the Seat of the Disease, or that other Humors of the Body are not corrupted as well as =this=. I make no question but the whole Mass of Blood is, in this Case, in a State of Putrefaction; and consequently that all the Liquors derived from it partake of the Taint. ACCORDINGLY it appeared afterwards from some Experiments made by Dr. =Couzier=[7], that not only the =Blood=, but even the =Urine= from an infected person, infused into the crural Vein of a Dog communicated the =Plague=. I will venture to affirm, that if, instead of =Bile=, =Blood=, or =Urine=, the =Matter= of the =Ulcers= had been put into a Wound made in the Dog; it would have had at least an equally pernicious Effect: As may well be concluded from the Inoculation of the Small Pox. AS to the Dog's eating the =corrupted Flesh= and =purulent Matter= of the Patients; it ought to have been considered that there are some Poisons very powerful when mixed immediately with the Blood, which will not operate in the Stomach at all: As in particular the =Saliva= of the mad Dog and the =Venom= of the Viper[8]. And therefore Dr. =Deidier= himself, some Months after his former Experiments, found that =pestiferous Bile= itself was swallowed by Dogs without any Harm[9]. THE right Inference to be made from these Experiments, I think, would have been this: That since the Blood and all the Humors are so greatly corrupted in the Plague, as that Dogs (tho' not so liable to catch the Distemper in the ordinary way of Infection, as Men are) may receive it by a small Quantity of any of these from a diseased Subject being mixed with their Blood; it may well be supposed, that the =Effluvia= from an infected Person, drawn into the Body of one who is sound, may be pestiferous and productive of the like Disorder. MY Assertion, that these =French= Physicians have before them the fullest Proofs of this =Infection=, not only appears from these Instances of it, I have observed to be recorded by themselves; but likewise from what Dr. =le Moine= and Dr. =Bailly=[10] have written, of the Manner in which the =Plague= was brought to =Canourgue= in the =Gevaudan=: as also from an amazing Instance they give us of the great Subtilty of this =Poison=, experienced at =Marvejols=: where no less than =sixty= Persons were at once infected in a =Church=, by one that came thither out of an infected House. The =Plague= was carried from =Marseilles= to =Canourgue=, as follows. A =Gally-Slave=, employed in burying the Dead at =Marseilles=, escaped from thence to the Village of =St. Laurent de Rivedolt=, a League distant from =Correjac=: where finding a Kinsman, who belonged to the latter Place, he presented him with a =Waistcoat= and a =pair of Stockings= he had brought along with him. The =Kinsman= returns to his Village, and dies in two or three Days; being followed soon after by =three Children= and their =Mother=. His =Son=, who lived at =Canourgue=, went from thence, in order to bury the Family; and, at his Return, gave to his =Brother-in-law= a =Cloak= he had brought with him: the =Brother-in-law= laying it upon his Bed, lost a little =Child= which lay with him, in one Day's Time; and two Days after, his Wife; =himself= following in seven or eight. The =Parents= of this unhappy Family, taking Possession of the =Goods= of the Deceased, underwent the same Fate. ALL this abundantly shews how inexcusable the foresaid Physicians in =France= are, in their opposing the common Opinion that the =Plague= is contagious. However, I have paid so much Regard to them, as to insist the more largely upon the Proof of that =Contagion=; lest the Opinion of those, who have had so much Experience of the Disease, might lead any one into an Error, in an Affair of such Consequence, that all my Precepts relating to =Quarantaines=, and well nigh every particular Part of my Advice, depends upon it: For if this Opinion were a Mistake, =Quarantaines=, and all the like =Means of Defence=, ought to be thrown aside as of no use. But as I continue persuaded, that we have the greatest Evidence, that the =PLAGUE= is a =contagious= Disease; so I have left, without any Alteration, all my Directions in respect to =Quarantaines=: in which, I hope, I have not recommended any Thing =prejudicial to Trade=; my Advice being very little different from what has been long practised in all the =trading= Ports of =Italy=, and in other Places. Nay, were we to be more remiss in this than our Neighbours, I cannot think but the =Fear= they would have of us, must much obstruct our =Commerce=. BUT I shall pursue this Point no farther: the rather because a very learned Physician among themselves has since, both by strong Reasoning and undeniable Instances, evinced the Reality of =Contagion=[11]. IN a word, the more I consider this Matter, the more I am convinced that the Precepts I have delivered, both with regard to the Preventing the Plague from coming into a Country, and the Treatment of it when present, are perfectly suitable to the Nature of the Distemper, and consequently the fittest to be complied with. But how far, in every Situation of Affairs, it is expedient to grant the =Powers=, requisite for putting all of them in Practice, it is not my proper Business, as a Physician, to determine. No doubt, but at all Times, these =Powers= ought to be so limited and restrained, that they may never endanger the Rights and Liberties of a People. Indeed, as I have had no other View than the Publick Good in this my Undertaking, and the Satisfaction of doing somewhat towards the Relief of Mankind, under the greatest of Calamities; so I should not, without the utmost Concern, see that any Thing of mine gave the least Countenance to Cruelty and Oppression. BUT I must confess, I find no Reason for any Apprehensions of this kind, from any thing I have advanced. For what extraordinary Danger can there be, in lodging =Powers= for the proper Management of People under the Plague, with a =Council of Health=, or other Magistrates, who shall be accountable, like all other Civil Officers, for their just Behaviour in the Execution of them? Though this I must leave to those, who are better skilled in the Nature of Government. But sure I am, that by the Rules here given, both the =Sick= will be provided for with more Humanity, and the Country more effectually defended against the Progress of the Disease, than by any of the Methods heretofore generally put in Practice, either in our own, or in other Nations. THE Usage among =Us=, established by =Act of Parliament=, of =Imprisoning= in their Houses every Family the =Plague= seizes on, without allowing any one to pass in or out, but such as are appointed by Authority, to perform the necessary Offices about the Sick, is certainly the severest Treatment imaginable; as it exposes the whole Family to suffer by the same Disease; and consequently is little less than assigning them over to the cruellest of Deaths: As I have shewn in the Discourse. THE Methods practised in =France= are likewise obnoxious to great Objections. =Crowding= the Sick together in =Hospitals= can serve to no good Purpose; but instead thereof will =promote= and =spread= the =Contagion=, and besides will expose the Sick to the greatest Hardships. It is no small Part of the Misery, that attends this terrible Enemy of Mankind, that whereas moderate Calamities open the Hearts of Men to =Compassion= and =Tenderness=, this greatest of Evils is found to have the contrary Effect. Whether Men of wicked Minds, through Hopes of Impunity, at these Times of Disorder and Confusion, give their evil Disposition full Scope, which ordinarily is restrained by the Fear of Punishment; or whether it be, that a constant View of Calamities and Distress does so pervert the Minds of Men, as to blot out all Sentiments of Humanity; or whatever else be the Cause: certain it is, that at such Times, when it should be expected to see all Men unite in one common Endeavour, to moderate the publick Misery; quite otherwise, they grow regardless of each other, and Barbarities are often practised, unknown at other Times. Accordingly =Diemerbroek= informs us, that he himself had often seen these =Hospitals= committed to the Charge of Villains, whose Inhumanity has suffered great Numbers to perish by Neglect, and that sometimes they have even smothered such as have been very weak, or have had nauseous Ulcers difficult to cure. Insomuch, that in many Places the Sick have chose to lay themselves in Fields, in the open Air, under the slightest Coverings, rather than to fall into the barbarous Hands of those who have had the Management of these Hospitals[12]. THE rigorous Restraints observed at their =Lines=, are attended also with the like Inconveniences. For by absolutely denying a Passage to People from =infected= Places, they subject to the same common Ruin, both from the Disease, and from the Disorders committed in such Places, those, whom their Fortunes would otherwise furnish with Means of escaping: and this, no doubt, in every free Country, must be looked upon as an unjust =Infringement of Liberty=, and a Diminution of Mens natural Rights, not to be allowed. NOW, under all these Difficulties, I cannot but with the greatest Satisfaction observe, that my =Precepts= are well nigh, nay altogether free from them; and yet a proper Regard is had to the Disease. As soon as ever the =Sick= are grown numerous, I advise, that they be left in their Houses, without any of those unmerciful Restraints heretofore put upon them and the Families they belonged to. I might, perhaps, have justly directed, that whenever those, who frequent or dwell in an =infected= House, go abroad, they should be obliged to carry about them =a long Stick= of some remarkable Colour, or other =visible Token=, by which People may be warned from holding too free Converse with them: this being the Practice on these Occasions, as I have heard, in some Places. The =Removal of the Sick= from their Houses, I advise only at the beginning, when it will be attended with none of the forementioned Inconveniences: but is what, for the most Part, those Sick should themselves desire. It has hardly ever been known, when the Disease did not first begin among the =Poor=. Such therefore only will be subject to this Regulation, whose Habitations by the Closeness of them are in all Respects very incommodious for diseased Persons. So that my Advice chiefly amounts to the giving Relief to the =Poor=, who shall first be =infected=, by removing them into more convenient Lodgings than their own, where they shall be better provided for than at home. And the =Removal= of them will not be attended with that Danger, it is natural for the Unskilful to apprehend in so dreadful a Disease; because it is every Day practised in the =Small-Pox=, with great Safety. And whereas I have before observed, that People have often suffered in the publick =Hospitals= by the Inhumanity of their Attendants; in this Case, little or nothing of that kind is to be feared: for I have proposed this =Removal= of the =Sick= only, at a Time, when a long =Series= of =Calamities= has not yet bred Disorders and Hardness of Heart. Nay, it may be reasonably expected that they should rather be used with the tenderest Care, when every one shall believe the Stopping of the Distemper, and consequently their own Safety to depend upon it. And as this Treatment will be both safe and beneficial to the =Sick=, so it will be much more evidently for the Advantage of the sound Part of the Family, and of those who live near them. For as the =poorer= Sort of People subsist by their daily Labour, no sooner shall the =Plague= have broke out among them, but the sick Families, and all their Neighbours likewise, if not relieved by the Publick, shall be abandoned to perish by =Want=, unless the Progress of the Distemper put a shorter Period to their Lives. THIS Observation, that the_ Plague _usually begins among the =Poor=, was the Reason, why I did not make any Difference in my Directions for =removing the Sick=, in regard to their different Fortunes, when I first gave my Thoughts upon this Subject: which however, to prevent Cavils, I have at present done; and have shewn what Method ought to be taken, if by some unusual Chance, the =Plague= should at the beginning enter a wealthy Family. And, in this Case, I have advised nothing, which I would not most readily submit to my self: For I should much rather chuse to be thus removed from my Dwelling, with the Distemper upon me, to save my Family, than they, by being shut up with me, should be all exposed to perish. And as this Way of treating diseased Families is the most compassionate, that can be devised with any regard to the restraining the Progress of the Distemper; so it is still much preferable to what was formerly practised amongst us, on other Accounts. For, according to what I have advised, it is only required, to =remove some few= Families at the beginning of the Disease: whereas the Method of =shutting up= Houses was continued through the whole Course of the Sickness. Perhaps the Plague, under this Management, may not reach half a Score Families: I have given Instances, where it has thus been stopt in =One=. WHAT relates to the inclosing =Infected= Places with =Lines=, I have so regulated, that no body can be subjected to any Degree of Hardship thereby: for I have provided, that free Liberty be given to every one, that pleases, to depart from the =Infected= Place, without being put to any other Difficulty, than the Performance of a short =Quarantaine= of about three Weeks, in some Place of Safety. So that no one shall be compelled to continue in the infected Town, whom his own Circumstances will not confine. THIS part of my Directions is not so =general= as the rest, because some Places are too great to admit of it: which occasioned my proposing it with a Restriction[13]. But as this is a great Inconvenience to the rest of the =Country=, so it is far from being any Advantage to the =Place= thus left unguarded. For when all, who leave an =infected= Place, carry with them =Certificates= of their having submitted to such =Quarantaine=, as may remove all Cause of Suspicion, =Travelling= will be much more safe and commodious, than otherwise it can be. For want of this, when the =Plague= was last at =London=, it was difficult to withdraw from it, while the =Country= was every where afraid of =Strangers=, and the =Inns= on the =Roads= were unsafe to lodge in for those, who travelled from the =City=; when it could not be known, but =Infection= might be received in them by others come from the same Place. AND from hence it happened that the =Plague=, when last in =England=, though much more moderate, and though it continued not above one Year in the City of =London=, did yet spread it self over a great Part of =England=, getting into =Kent=, even as far as =Dover=; into =Sussex=, =Hampshire=, =Dorsetshire=, =Essex=, =Suffolk=, =Norfolk=, =Cambridgeshire=, =Northamptonshire=, =Warwickshire=, =Derbyshire=, and, to mention no more, as far as =Newcastle=[14]. THUS, as I have examined through the Course of the following =Treatise=, with all possible Care, into the Agreement of my =Precepts= with the Nature of the =Plague=; so I have now considered how far they can conveniently be put in Practice. BUT it is time to have done with a Subject by no means agreeable. I shall therefore conclude all I have to say upon this Matter, with a =Paper= well deserving Perusal, which is come to my Hands, since the following Sheets were finished; and therefore too late to be made use of in its proper Place: for which Reason, I shall give it here entire. This =Paper= contains the Methods taken by his late =Majesty=, when the =Plague= in the Year 1712. had entered his =Dominions= in =Germany=. It was delivered to me from Mr. =Backmeister=, the Secretary at =Hanover= to his =Majesty= for the =German= Affairs, who was the Person, that issued out the =Orders= that were given. This =Relation= I requested from the Secretary, being desirous to know how far the =Measures= then taken, agreed with my =Directions=: because I had been informed, that they were very successful. And I have the Satisfaction to find them very conformable to my =Precepts=; and that they had so much the desired Effect, as to stop the =Plague= from spreading beyond the small Number of =Towns= and =Villages= recited at the beginning of the =Paper=. =HANOVER=, Feb. 10. N. S. 1722. IN 1712 and 1713, the Plague raged in these Parts, at the following Places. =TOWNS.= =Lunenbourg=, =Zell=, =Haarbourg=, twice. =VILLAGES.= =Nienfeldt=, =Holdenstedt=, =Melle=, =Bienenbuttel=, =Achem=, =Trebel=, =Brinckem=, =Goldenstedt=, =Fallingbostel=. IN the last =Place=, three labouring Men, who had made their Escape from =Hamburgh=, got into a Barn in the Night, and were found dead there the next Morning, with Marks of the Plague upon them: but the Progress of the Infection was stopt by burning the Barn. AS soon as any Village was infected, the first Thing done was to make a =Line= round it, thereby to hinder the Inhabitants from communicating with others. Those who were thus shut up, were immediately furnished with Provisions: a Physician was sent to them; and especially some Surgeons; a Minister to officiate particularly to Persons infected; a Nurse; Buriers; =&c.= THE principal Management of this whole Affair consisted in two Things: 1. In =separating= the Sick from the Sound; and 2. In =cleaning= well the Houses which had been infected. WHEN any Person was taken ill, he was obliged to leave his Lodging, and retire into a =Lazaretto= or =Hospital=, built for that Purpose. The other Persons, who appeared to be well in the same House, were obliged, when it was practicable, to strip themselves in the Night quite naked, to put on other Clothes, which were provided for them, and to go to perform =Quarantaine= in a House appointed for it, after having burnt the Clothes, they had put off. Persons were made to change their Clothes, and those they put off were burnt, as often as was judged necessary: For Example, this was done when those who had recovered their Health, came out of the =Lazaretto= and went into =Quarantaine=; and likewise, when (after the Disease was ceased) the Women who attended the Sick, the Buriers, and Surgeons, went into =Quarantaine=. IN Summer, ordinary =Barracks= (or Huts) were made for those of the common People, who were obliged to quit infected Houses: which Barracks were afterwards burnt, when they had been made Use of. AS soon as the People were come out of an infected House, it was nailed up, and Centinels were posted there, that nothing might be stolen out of it. In the Country, when such a House was not of very great Value, and it might be done without Danger, it was =burnt=, and the Loss was made good to the Owner, at the Expence of the Publick. But in Towns, where this could not be done, without the Hazard of burning the Town, Men were hired to go into the Houses, and bring into the Court-Yard, or before the House, whatever Goods they found in it susceptible of Contagion, and there =burn= them: but to prevent the Fright which this might raise among the Neighbours, such Goods were sometimes put into the Cart, used to carry off dead Bodies, and so conveyed out of the Town and burnt. At first, the Method taken, was only to =bury= such Goods deep in the Ground: but it was found by several Examples, that they were dug up again, and that the Infection was thereby renewed. Before People were paid for their Houses and Effects, that were burnt, it was discovered, that they often laid some of their Goods out of the Way, and that the Contagion was spread by them: but after they came to be paid what was reasonable, by the Publick, they willingly let all be burnt, without concealing any thing. IN Summer, the Cattle were left abroad, and the Inhabitants, who had not the Plague in their Houses were obliged to look after them: In Winter, the Sound Persons were obliged, before they left an infected House, to kill the Cattle belonging to it, and to bury them ten Foot deep in the Ground near the House. So far the former Preface. I think it now proper to take Notice, that an =Act of Parliament= (as above mentioned in this Preface) formed upon the Precepts here delivered, having been passed on =December 8, 1720.= the two last =Clauses= in the said Act, relating to the =removing= of Sick Persons from their Habitations, and the making of =Lines= about Places infected, were on =October 19= of the following Year, repealed. THIS looks as if the Rules prescribed were not right and just: I must therefore observe, in Justification of myself, that this was not the Case. Nothing was urged in that Repeal against the Reasonableness of the Directions in themselves, more than in these Words: =That the Execution of them might be very grievous to the Subjects of this Kingdom=. But this I have proved to be quite otherwise. THE Truth of the Matter is this: Some great Men, both of the Lords and Commons, who were in the =Opposition to the Court=, objected that the =Ministry= were not to be intrusted with such =Powers=, lest they should abuse them; since they might, upon Occasion, by their Officers, either remove or confine Persons not favoured by the Government, on Pretence that their Houses were infected. VAIN and groundless as these Fears were, yet the Clamours industriously raised from them were so strong, that a great Officer in the State thought fit to oblige his Enemies by giving way to them: and tho' a =Motion= made in the House of Commons for repealing these two Clauses had just been rejected; yet upon making the same in the House of Lords, with his Consent, the thing was done. WHETHER private or public Considerations had the greater Share in bringing about this Compliance, I will not determine. Such =Counter-Steps= will happen in a Government, where there is too much of =Faction=, and too little of a =Public Spirit=. This I very well remember, that a learned Prelate, now dead, who had more of =Political= than of =Christian= Zeal, and was one who made the loudest Noise about the =Quarantaine= Bill, frankly owned to me in Conversation, that tho' the Directions were good, yet he and his Friends had resolved to take that Opportunity of shewing their Disaffection to the =Ministry=. BUT after all, it contributed not a little to the carrying this Point, that the Plague was now ceased at =Marseilles=, and a Stop put to its Progress in the =Provinces=. And I cannot but take notice that this last good Service was done by the same Method, which, tho' in a more moderate way, I have here proposed. For it is well known that the Regent of =France= did at last set Bounds to the Contagion by =Lines= and =Barriers= guarded by Soldiers: which wise Resolution saved not only his own but other Countries from the spreading of a Disease, which seems to have been of as violent a kind as ever was brought into =Europe=. HOWEVER, if there were any Severity in Orders of this kind, every Man ought to consider himself as a Member of the Society; by the Laws of which as he receives many Advantages, so he gives up somewhat of his own private Rights to the Public: and must therefore be perfectly satisfied with whatever is found necessary for the common Good; altho' it may, on particular Occasions, bring upon him some Inconveniences and Sufferings. Salus Populi suprema Lex est. Does any body complain of ill usage upon his House being ordered to be blown up, to stop the Progress of a Fire which endangers the whole Street: when he reflects that his Neighbour, who by this means escapes, must have suffered the same Loss for his sake, had it so happened that each had been in the other's Habitation? BUT in truth, there is no Cruelty, but on the contrary real Compassion in these Regulations, with the Limitations I have made: and I am fully persuaded that whoever with Judgment considers the nature of this Disease, will easily see that the Rules here laid down are not only the best, but indeed the only ones that can effectually answer the purpose. And therefore I should not doubt but that, if this Calamity (which God avert!) should be brought into our Country, even the Voice of the People would cry out for Help in this way: notwithstanding wrong Notions of their =Liberties= may sometimes over-possess their Minds, and make them, even under the best of Governments, impatient of any =Restraints=. PART I. Of the PLAGUE in general. CHAP. I. _Of the Origine and Nature of the Plague._ MY Design in this Discourse being to propose what Measures I think most proper to defend the Nation against the _Plague_, and for this End to consider the Nature of _Pestilential Contagion_ as far as is necessary to set forth the Reasonableness of the Precepts I shall lay down; before I proceed to any particular Directions, I shall enquire a little into the Causes, whence the _Plague_ arises, and by what Means the Infection of it is spread. IN the most ancient Times _Plagues_, like many other Diseases, were looked upon as _divine Judgments_ sent to punish the Wickedness of Mankind: and therefore the only Defence sought after was by Sacrifices and Lustrations to appease the Anger of incensed Heaven.[15] HOW much soever may be said to justify Reflexions of this Kind, since we are assured from sacred History, that divine Vengeance has been sometimes executed by _Plagues_; yet it is certain, that such Speculations pushed too far, were then attended with ill Consequences, by obstructing Inquiries into natural Causes, and encouraging a supine Submission to those Evils: against which the infinitely good and wise Author of Nature has in most Cases provided proper Remedies. UPON this Account, in After-Ages, when the Profession of Physick came to be founded upon the Knowledge of Nature, _Hippocrates_ strenuously opposed this Opinion, that _some particular Sicknesses were Divine, or sent immediately from the Gods_; and affirmed, that _no Diseases came more from the Gods than others, all coming from them, and yet all owning their proper natural Causes: that the Sun, Cold, and Winds were_ divine; _the Changes of which, and their Influences on human Bodies, were diligently to be considered by a Physician_.[16] WHICH general Position this great Author of Physick intended to be understood with respect to _Plagues_ as well as other Distempers: How far he had reason herein, will in some measure appear, when we come to search into the Causes of this Disease. BUT in order to this Inquiry, it will be convenient, in the first place, to remove an erroneous Opinion some have entertained, that the _Plague_ differs not from a _common Fever_ in any thing besides its greater Violence. Whereas it is very evident, that since the _Small-Pox_ and _Measles_ are allowed to be Distempers distinct in _Specie_ from all others, on account of certain Symptoms peculiar to them; so, for the same reason, it ought to be granted, that the _Plague_ no less differs in Kind from ordinary Fevers: For there are a Set of distinguishing Symptoms as essential to the _Pestilence_, as the respective Eruptions are to the _Small-Pox_ or _Measles_; which are indeed (as I have mentioned in the Preface) each of them _Plagues_ of a particular kind. AS the _Small-Pox_ discharges itself by _Pustules_ raised in the Skin; so in the _Plague_ the noxious Humour is thrown out either by _Tumors_ in the Glands, as by a _Parotis_, _Bubo_, and the like; or by _Carbuncles_ thrust out upon any part of the Body. And these Eruptions are so specific Marks of this Distemper, that one or other of them is never absent: unless through the extreme Malignity of the Disease, or Weakness of Nature, the Patient sinks, before there is time for any Discharge to be made this way; that Matter, which should otherwise have been cast out by external _Tumors_, seizing the _Viscera_, and producing _Mortifications_ in them. SOMETIMES indeed it happens, by this means, that these _Tumors_ in the _Glands_, and _Carbuncles_, do not appear; just as a bad kind of the _Small-Pox_ in tender Constitutions sometimes proves fatal before the _Eruption_, by a _Diarrhoea_, _Hæmorrhage_, or some such Effect of a prevailing Malignity. THE _French_ Physicians having distinguished the Sick at _Marseilles_ into five _Classes_, according to the Degrees of the Distemper, observed _Bubo's_, and _Carbuncles_, in all of them, except in those of the _first Class_, who were so terribly seized, that they died in a few Hours, or at farthest in a Day or two, sinking under the Oppression, Anxiety, and Faintness, into which they were thrown by the first Stroke of the Disease; having Mortifications immediately produced in some of the _Viscera_, as appeared upon the Dissection of their Bodies[17]. And this Observation of the _French_ Physicians, which agrees with what other Authors have remarked in former _Plagues_, fully proves, that these Eruptions are so far from being caused solely by the greater _Violence_ of this Disease, than of other Fevers, that they are only absent, when the Distemper is extraordinary fierce; but otherwise they constantly attend it, even when it has proved so mild, that the first Notice, the Patient has had of his Infection, has been the Appearance of such a _Tumor_: as, besides these _French_ Physicians, other Authors of the best Credit have assured us. From whence we must conclude, that these _Eruptions_ are no less a Specific Mark of this Disease, than those are, by which the _Small Pox_ and _Measles_ are known and distinguished. And as in the first _Class_ of those attacked with the Plague, so likewise in these two Distempers we often find the Patient to dye by the violence of the Fever, before any Eruption of the Pustules can be made. THIS Circumstance of the Plague being mortal before any Eruptions appeared, was attended with a great misfortune. The Physicians and Surgeons appointed to examine the dead Bodies, finding none of the distinguishing Marks of the Disease, reported to the Magistrates that it was not the _Plague_; and persisted in their opinion, till one of them suffered for his Ignorance, and himself, with part of his Family, dyed by the Infection: this Assurance having prevented the necessary Precautions[18]. AND this in particular shews us the difference between the true _Plague_, and those _Fevers_ of extraordinary Malignity, which are the usual Forerunners of it, and are the natural Consequence of that ill State of Air, we shall hereafter prove to attend all _Plagues_. For since all those Fevers, from which People recover without any Discharge by Tumors in the Glands, or by _Carbuncles_, want the _characteristic_ Signs, which have been shewn to attend the slightest Cases of the true _Plague_; we cannot, upon any just Ground, certainly conclude them to be a less Degree only of that Distemper: but as far as appears, they are of a different Nature, are not ordinarily _Contagious_ like the _Plague_, nor yet have any such necessary relation to it, but that such Fevers do sometimes appear, without being followed by a real _Pestilence_. ON the other hand, I would not be understood to call every _Fever_ a _Plague_, which is followed by Eruptions resembling these here mentioned: For as every _Boil_ or _Pustule_, which breaks out upon the Skin, is not an Indication of the _Small Pox_, nor every Swelling in the _Groin_ a _Venereal Bubo_; so there are _Carbuncles_ not Pestilential, and other Fevers, besides the _Plague_, which have their Crisis by _Tumors_ and _Abscesses_, and that sometimes even in the _Parotid_ or other Glands. There is indeed usually some difference between these Swellings in the _Plague_, and in other Fevers, especially in the time of their coming out: for in the _Plague_ they discover themselves sooner than in most other Cases. But the principal difference between these Diseases, is, that the Plague is infectious, the other not; at least not to any considerable Degree. AND this leads me to another Character of this Disease, whereby it is distinguished from ordinary Fevers, which is the _Contagion_ accompanying it. This is a very ancient Observation. _Thucydides_ makes it a part of his Description of the _Plague_ at _Athens_[19]; and _Lucretius_, who has almost translated this Description of _Thucydides_, dwells much upon it[20]. _Aristotle_ makes it one of his[21] _Problems_, How the _Plague infects_ those who approach to the Sick. And what is of more Consequence, _Galen_ himself is very clear in it[22]; for he has these words: +hoti syndiatribein tois loimôttousin episphales, apolausai gar kindynos, hôsper psôras tinos+, _&c. that it is unsafe to be about those, who have the Plague, for fear of catching it, as in the Itch_, &c. Indeed this is a thing so evident, that we find it at present the current Opinion of all Mankind, a very few Persons only excepted, who have distinguished themselves by their Singularity in maintaining the opposite Sentiment. And it is something strange that any one should make a Question of a thing so obvious, which is proved sufficiently by one Property only of the Disease, that whenever it seizes one Person in a House, it immediately after attacks the greatest part of the Family. This Effect of the _Plague_ has been so remarkable at all times, that whoever considers it well, cannot possibly, I think, have any Doubt remaining, or require any stronger Argument to convince him, that the Disease is infectious. For this very reason the _Small-Pox_ and _Measles_ are generally allowed to be _contagious_; because it is observed, that when either of these Diseases is got among a Family, it usually seizes successively the greatest part of that Family, who have not had it before: at least if such in the Family hold free Communication with the Sick. And by the same Argument the _Plague_ must be concluded to be infectious likewise. It cannot be pretended, that this is occasioned in the _Plague_ from this only, that the sound Persons are render'd more than ordinarily obnoxious to the unhealthy Air, or whatever be the common Cause of the Disease, by being put into fear and dispirited, upon seeing others in the same House taken sick: For if this were the Case, _Children_, who are too young to have any Apprehensions upon this Account, would escape better than others, the contrary of which has been always experienced. IT is true, some have not been attacked by the Disease, though constantly attending about the Sick. But this is no Objection against what is here advanced: for it is as easily understood how some Persons, by a particular Advantage of Constitution, should resist Infection, as how they should constantly breath a noxious Air without hurt. An odd Observation of _Diemerbroek_ deserves notice in this Place; That, part of a Family removed into a Town free from the _Plague_, was observed by him to be taken ill of it soon after the part left behind in the diseased Town fell sick: which certainly could scarce have happened, unless a Communication between the Healthy and the Sick, by Letters or otherwise, was capable of causing it[23]. Of the same Nature is a Circumstance recorded by _Evagrius_ of the _Plague_, which he describes, and what, he owns, surprized him very much: That, many of those, who left infected Places, were seized with the _Plague_ in the Towns to which they had retired, while the old Inhabitants of those Towns were free from the Disease[24]. But to multiply Proofs of a thing so evident, is needless; innumerable are at hand, and several will occasionally occur in the following Parts of this Discourse, when we come to speak in particular of the ways, by which this Infection is conveyed about. I shall therefore say no more in this Place, but only, that all the Appearances attending this Disease are very easily explained upon this Principle, and are hardly to be accounted for upon any other. We learn from hence the reason why when the _Plague_ makes its first Appearance in any Place, though the Number of Sick is exceeding small, yet the Disease usually operates upon them in the most violent manner, and is attended with its very worst Symptoms. Now was the Disease produced not by imported _Contagion_, but from some Cause, which had its Original in the diseased Place, and consequently from a Cause gradually bred, the contrary must happen: the Diseased would at first not only be few in Number, but their Sickness likewise more moderate than afterwards, when the morbific Causes were raised to their greatest Malignity. From the same Principle we see the reason, why People have often remained in Safety in a diseased Town, only by shutting themselves up from all Communication with such, as might be suspected of giving them the Disease. When the _Plague_ was last in _England_, while it was in the Town of _Cambridge_, the Colleges remained entirely free by using this Precaution. In the _Plague_ at _Rome_ in the Years 1656 and 1657, the _Monasteries_ and _Nunneries_, for the most part, defended themselves by the same Means[25]: Whereas at _Naples_, where the _Plague_ was a little before, these _Religious Houses_, from their Neglect herein, did not escape so well[26]. Nay the Infection entered none of the _Prisons_ at _Rome_[27], though the Nastiness of those Places exposes them very much. But, to avoid Prolixity, I shall give only one Instance more. I think it cannot be explained in any other reasonable manner, how the last _Plague_ in the City of _London_, which broke out in the parish of St. _Giles's in the Fields_ towards the latter end of the Year 1664, should lie a-sleep from _Christmas_ to the middle of _February_, and then break out again in the same Parish; and after another long rest till _April_, shew itself again in the same Place[28]. TO proceed: Whoever examines the Histories of _Plagues_ in all times, which have been described with any Exactness, will find very few, that do not agree in these essential Marks, whereby the _Plague_ may be distinguished from other _Fevers_. I confess an Instance or two may be found to the contrary; perhaps the History of our own Country furnishes the most remarkable of any[29]. But Examples of this kind are so very rare, that I think it must be concluded, that the _Plague_ is usually one and the same Distemper. IN the next place I shall endeavour to shew, that the _Plague_ has always the same Original, and is brought from _Africa_, the Country which has entail'd upon us two other infectious Distempers, the _Small-Pox_ and _Measles_. In all Countries indeed _Epidemic Diseases_ extraordinarily mortal, are frequently bred in _Goals_, _Sieges_, _Camps_, &c. which Authors have often in a large Sense called _Pestilential_: But the true _Plague_, which is attended with the distinguishing Symptoms before described, and which spreads from Country to Country, I take to be an _African_ Fever bred in _�thiopia_ or _Egypt_, and the _Infection_ of it carried by Trade into the other Parts of the World. IT is the Observation of _Pliny_, that the _Pestilence_ always travels from the _Southern_ Parts of the World to the _Western_, that is, in his Phrase, into _Europe_[30]. And the most accurate Accounts in all Times of this Disease, wherever it has raged, bring it from _Africa_. _Thucydides_[31], in his admirable Description of the famous _Plague_ of _Athens_, says, that it began in Upper _�thiopia_, then came into _Egypt_, from whence it was spread first into _Persia_, and afterwards into _Greece_. THERE is in all ancient History no Account of any _Plague_ so dreadful as that, which broke out at _Constantinople_ in the time of the Emperor _Justinian A. D._ 543. This is said to have spread its Infection over all the Earth, and to have lasted fifty two Years. The History of it is very well told by _Evagrius_[32], and yet more learnedly by _Procopius_[33]: and they both observe, that the Distemper had its Birth in _�thiopia_ or _Egypt_. THIS is likewise agreeable to the modern Relations of Travellers and Merchants from _Turkey_, who generally inform us, that the frequent _Plagues_, which depopulate that Country, are brought thither from the Coast of _Africa_: insomuch that at _Smyrna_, and other Ports of that Coast, they often know the very Ship which brings it. And, in these latter Ages, since our Trade with _Turkey_ has been pretty constant, the _Plagues_ in these Parts of _Europe_ have evidently been brought from thence. THE late _Plague_ in _France_ came indisputably from _Turkey_, as I shall particularly shew in some of the following Pages. The _Plague_, which broke out at _Dantzick_ in the Year 1709, and spread from thence to _Hamburgh_, _Copenhagen_, and other Cities in the _North_, made its way thither from _Constantinople_ through _Poland_, &c. And the last _Plague_ in this City, if we may believe Dr. _Hodges_, had the same Original, being brought to us from _Holland_, but carried to them by _Cotton_ imported from _Turkey_[34]. THE greatest _Mortality_ that has happen'd in later Ages, was about the middle of the fourteenth Century; when the _Plague_ seized Country after Country for five Years together[35]. In the Year 1346 it raged in _Egypt_, _Turkey_, _Greece_, _Syria_, and the _East-Indies_; in 1347 some Ships from the _Levant_ carried it to _Sicily_, _Pisa_, _Genoa_, &c. in 1348 it got into _Savoy_, _Provence_, _Dauphiny_, _Catalonia_, and _Castile_, &c. in 1349 it seized _England_, _Scotland_, _Ireland_, and _Flanders_; and the next Year _Germany_, _Hungary_ and _Denmark_: and in all Places, where it came, it made such heavy Destruction, that it is said to have dispeopled the Earth of more than half its Inhabitants[36]. Now since _Africa_ had a share of this _Plague_ in the very beginning, I question not but it had its first Rise in that Country; and not in _China_, as _M. Villani_, in his History of those Times, relates from the Report of _Genoese_ Seamen, who came from those Parts, and said it was occasion'd there by a great _Ball of Fire_, which either burst out of the Earth, or fell down from Heaven[37]. But this Relation is so very incredible, that I cannot think we ought at all to rely upon it: seeing we have no Instance of a _Plague_, which was originally bred in that Country. IT is very remarkable, that the several Countries of _Europe_ have always suffered more or less in this way, according as they have had a greater or lesser Commerce with _Africa_; or with those Parts of the _East_, that have traded thither. Which Observation, by the by, may help to solve a Difficulty concerning the great Increase of People among the _Northern_ Nations in ancient Times, more than at present; for in those Ages, having no Communication at all with _Africa_, they were not wasted with _Plagues_, as they have been since. AS the People of _Marseilles_, from the first Foundation of their City by the _Phoceans_, were famous for Trade, and made long Voyages Southwards on the _African_ Coast[38]; so they have in all times been very liable to the Plague. A French Author[39] in a History of the late Plague at _Marseilles_ reckons up twenty Plagues that have happened in that City; notwithstanding it is by its situation one of the most healthy and pleasant Places in _France_, and the least subject to epidemic Distempers. But if we had no Records of this in History, an odd Custom among them, mentioned in Antiquity[40], of the way they made use of to clear themselves from this Distemper, would be a proof of it. Their manner at such times was, that some one poor Man offered himself to be maintained at the publick Expence with delicate Food for a whole Year: at the end of which he was led about the City dressed in consecrated Garments and Herbs; and being loaded with Curses as he went along, that the Evils of the Citizens might fall upon him, he was at last thrown into the Sea[41]. AGREEABLE to this Remark upon Trade is the Observation of _Procopius_ in his forecited History, that the _Plague_ was always found to spread from _Maritime_ Places into the _Inland_ Countries: which has ever since been confirmed by Experience. HAVING shewn this Disease to be a Distemper of a distinct Species, and to take its Rise only in _Africa_; we must next seek for its Cause in that Country and no where else. We ought therefore to consider, what there is peculiar to that Country, which can reasonably be supposed capable of producing it. Wherefore I shall briefly set down as much as serves for this purpose of the State of _Grand Cairo_ in _Egypt_, and of _�thiopia_, the two great Seminaries of the _Plague_: Travellers relating that these Countries are more infested with it than most other Parts of _Africa_. _GRAND CAIRO_ is crouded with vast Numbers of Inhabitants, who for the most part live very poorly, and nastily; the Streets are very narrow, and close: it is situate in a sandy Plain at the Foot of a Mountain, which by keeping off the Winds, that would refresh the Air, makes the _Heats_ very stifling. Through the midst of it passes a great _Canal_, which is filled with Water at the overflowing of the _Nile_; and after the River is decreased, is gradually dried up: Into this the People throw all manner of Filth, Carrion, _&c._ so that the Stench which arises from this, and the Mud together, is insufferably offensive[42]. In this Posture of things, the _Plague_ every Year constantly preys upon the Inhabitants; and is only stopt, when the _Nile_, by overflowing, washes away this Load of Filth; the _Cold Winds_, which set in at the same time, lending their Assistance, by purifying the Air. IN _�thiopia_ those prodigious Swarms of _Locusts_, which at some times cause a Famine, by devouring the Fruits of the Earth, unless they happen to be carried by the Winds clear off into the Sea, are observed to entail a new Mischief upon the Country, when they die and rot, by raising a _Pestilence_[43]; the Putrefaction being hightened by the excessive _Intemperance of the Climate_, which is so very great in this Country, that it is infested with violent _Rains_ at one Season of the Year, for three or four Months together[44]. And it is particularly observed of this Country, that the _Plague_ usually invades it, whenever Rains fall during the sultry Heats of _July_ and _August_[45], that is, as _Lucretius_ expresses it, when the Earth is _Intempestivis pluviisque et solibus icta_[46]. NOW if we compare this last Remark of the _Intemperance of the Climate_ in _�thiopia_, with what the _Arabian_ Physicians[47], who lived near these Countries, declare, that _Pestilences_ are brought by _unseasonable_ Moistures, Heats, and want of Winds; I believe we shall be fully instructed in the usual Cause of this Disease. Which from all these Observations compared together, I conclude to arise from the _Putrefaction_ so constantly generated in these Countries, when _that_ is hightened and increased by the ill State of Air now described; and especially from the _Putrefaction_ of animal Substances. IT is very plain, that animal Bodies are capable of being altered into a Matter fit to breed this Disease: because this is the Case of every one who is sick of it, the Humours in him being corrupted into a Substance which will _infect_ others. And it is not improbable, that the volatile Parts with which Animals abound, may in some ill States of Air in the sultry Heats of _Africa_ be converted by Putrefaction into a Substance of the same kind: since in these colder Regions, we sometimes find them to contract a greater Degree of Acrimony than most other Substances will do by _putrefying_, and also more dangerous for Men to come within the reach of their Action; as in those pernicious, and even poysonous Juices, which are sometimes generated in corrupted Carcasses: Of which I have formerly given one very remarkable Instance[48], and, if it were necessary, many more might be produced, especially in _hydropic Bodies_, and in _cancerous Tumors_. Nay more, we find _animal Putrefaction_ sometimes to produce in these _Northern_ Climates very fatal Distempers, though they do not arise to the Malignity of the true _Plague_: For such _Fevers_ are often bred, where a large Number of People are closely confined together; as in _Goals_, _Sieges_, and _Camps_. AND perhaps it may not be here amiss to remark, that the _Egyptians_ of old were so sensible how much the _Putridness_ of dead Animals contributed towards breeding the _Plague_, that they worshipped the Bird _Ibis_ for the Service it did in devouring great Numbers of Serpents; which they observed did hurt by their Stench when dead, as well as by their Bite when alive[49]. BUT no kind of _Putrefaction_ is ever hightened in these _European_ Countries to a degree capable of producing the true _Plague_: and we learn from the Observation of the _Arabian_ Physicians, that some Indisposition of the _Air_ is necessary in the hottest Climates, either to cause so exalted a Corruption of the forementioned Substances, or at least to enforce upon Mens Bodies the Action of the _Effluvia_ exhaled from those Substances, while they putrefy. Both which Effects may well be expected from the sensible ill Qualities of the _Air_ before described, whenever they continue and exert their Force together any considerable time. WHAT I have here advanced of the first Original of the _Plague_, appears to me so reasonable, that I cannot enough wonder at Authors for quitting the Consideration of such manifest Causes for _Hidden Qualities_; such as _Malignant Influences of the Heavens_; _Arsenical_, _Bituminous_, or other _Mineral Effluvia_, with the like imaginary or uncertain Agents. THIS however I do not say with design absolutely to exclude all Disorders in the _Air_, that are more latent than the intemperate _Heat_ and _Moisture_ before mentioned, from a Share in increasing and promoting the Infection of the _Plague_, where it is once bred: for I rather think this must sometimes be the Case; like to what is observed among us in relation to another infectious Distemper, namely, the _Small-Pox_, which is most commonly spread, and propagated by the same manifest Qualities of the _Air_ as those here described: Notwithstanding which, this Distemper is sometimes known to rage with great Violence in the very opposite Constitution of _Air_, _viz._ in the Winter during dry and frosty Weather. But to breed a Distemper, and to give force to it when bred, are two different things. And though we should allow any such secret Change in the _Air_ to assist in the first Production of the Disease; yet it may justly be censured in these Writers, that they should undertake to determine the _Specific Nature_ of these secret Changes and Alterations, which we have no means at all of discovering: Since they do not shew themselves in any such sensible manner, as to come directly under our Examination; nor yet do their Effects, in producing the _Plague_, point out any thing of their _Specific Nature_. ALL that we know, is this, that the Cause of the _Plague_, whatever it be, is of such a Nature, that when taken into the Body, it works such Changes in the Blood and Juices, as to produce this Disease, by suddenly giving some Parts of the Humours such corrosive Qualities, that they either excite inward _Inflammations_ and _Gangrenes_, or push out _Carbuncles_ and _Bubo's_; the _Matter_ of which, when suppurated, communicates the like Disease to others: But of the manner how this is done, I shall discourse in the following Chapter. CHAP. II. _Of the Causes which spread the Plague._ I HAVE been thus particular in tracing the _Plague_ up to its first Origine, in order to remove, as much as possible, all Objection against what I shall say of the Causes, which excite and propagate it among us. This is done by _Contagion_. Those who are Strangers to the full Power of _this_, that is, those who do not understand how subtile it is, and how widely the Distemper may be spread by _Infection_, ascribe the Rise of it wholly to the malignant Quality of the _Air_ in all Places, wherever it happens; and, on the other hand, some have thought that the Consideration of the infectious Nature of the Disease must exclude all regard to the Influence of the _Air_: Whereas the _Contagion_ accompanying the Disease, and the Disposition of the _Air_ to promote that _Contagion_, ought equally to be considered; both being necessary to give the Distemper full force. The Design therefore of this Chapter, is to make a proper Balance between these two, and to set just Limits to the Effects of each. FOR this purpose, I shall reduce the Causes, which spread the _Plague_, to three, _Diseased Persons_, _Goods transported from infected Places_, and _a corrupted State of Air_. THERE are several Diseases, which will be communicated from the Sick to others: and this not done after the same manner in all. The _Hydrophobia_ is communicated no other way than by mixing the morbid Juices of the diseased Animal immediately with the Blood of the sound, by a _Bite_, or what is analogous thereto; the _Itch_ is given by _simple Contact_; the _Lues Venerea_ not without _a closer Contact_; but the _Measles_, _Small-Pox_, and _Plague_ are caught by a _near Approach_ only to the Sick: for in these three last Diseases Persons are render'd obnoxious to them only by residing in the same House, and conversing with the Sick. NOW it appears by the Experiments mentioned in the _Preface_, of giving the _Plague_ to _Dogs_ by putting the _Bile_, _Blood_ or _Urine_ from infected Persons, into their Veins, that the whole mass of the animal Fluids in this Disease is highly corrupted and putrefied. It is therefore easy to conceive how the _Effluvia_ or Fumes from Liquors so affected may taint the ambient Air. And this will more especially happen, when the Humours are in the greatest Fermentation, that is, at the Highth of the Fever: as it is observed that fermenting Liquors do at the latter end of their intestine Motion throw off a great Quantity of their most subtile and active Particles. And this Discharge will be chiefly made upon those Glands of the Body, in which the Secretions are the most copious, and the most easily increased: such are those of the Mouth and Skin. From these therefore the Air will be impregnated with _pestiferous Atoms_: which being taken into the Body of a sound Person will, in the Nature of a _Ferment_, put the Fluids there into the like Agitation and Disorder. THE Body, I suppose, receives them these two ways, by the _Breath_, and by the _Skin_; but chiefly by the former. I THINK it certain that _Respiration_ does always communicate to the Blood some Parts from the Air: Which is proved from this Observation, that the same Quantity of Air will not suffice long for breathing, though it be deprived of none of those Qualities, by which it is fitted to inflate the Lungs and agitate the Blood, the Uses commonly ascribed to it. And this is farther confirm'd by what the learned Dr. _Halley_ has inform'd me, that when he was several Fathom under Water in his _Diving Engine_, and breathing an Air much more condensed than the natural, he observed himself to breath more slowly than usual: Which makes it more than probable, that this conveying to the Blood some subtile Parts from the Air, is the chief Use of _Respiration_; since when a greater Quantity of _Air_ than usual was taken in at a time, and consequently more of these subtile Parts received at once by the Blood, a less frequent _Respiration_ sufficed. AS to the _Skin_, since there is a continual Discharge made thro' its innumerable _Pores_, of the matter of _insensible Perspiration_ and _Sweat_; it is very possible that the same Passages may admit subtile Corpuscles, which may penetrate into the inward Parts. Nay it is very plain that they do so, from what we observe upon the outward Application of _Ointments_ and warm _Bathings_: which have their Effects by their finest and most active Parts insinuating themselves into the Blood. IT is commonly thought, that the _Blood_ only is affected in these Cases by the morbific _Effluvia_. But I am of opinion, that there is another Fluid in the Body, which is, especially in the beginning, equally, if not more, concerned in this Affair: I mean the _Liquid of the Nerves_, usually called the _Animal Spirits_. As _this_ is the immediate Instrument of all Motion and Sensation, and has a great Agency in all the glandular Secretions, and in the Circulation of the Blood itself; any considerable Alteration made in it must be attended with dangerous Consequences. It is not possible that the whole Mass of Blood should be corrupted in so short a Time as that, in which the fatal Symptoms, in some Cases, discover themselves. Those Patients of the _first Class_, mentioned in the beginning of this Discourse, particularly the _Porters_ who opened the infected Bales of Goods in the _Lazaretto_'s of _Marseilles_, died upon the first Appearance of Infection, as it were by a sudden Stroke; being seized with Rigors, Tremblings, Heart-Sickness, Vomitings, Giddiness and Heaviness of the Head, an universal Languor and Inquietude; the Pulse low and unequal: and Death insued sometimes in a few Hours. EFFECTS so sudden must be owing to the Action of some Corpuscles of great Force insinuated into, and changing the Properties of, another subtle and active Fluid in the Body: and such an one, no doubt, is the _Nervous Liquor_. IT is not to be expected that we should be able to explain the particular manner by which this is brought about. We know too little of the Frame of the Universe, and of the Laws of _Attractions_, _Repulsions_ and _Cohesions_ among the minutest Parcels of Matter, to be able to determine all the Ways by which they affect one another, especially within animal Bodies, the most delicate and complicated of all the known Works of Nature. But we may perhaps make a probable Conjecture upon the Matter. Our great Philosopher, whose surprising Discoveries have exceeded the utmost Expectations of the most penetrating Minds, has demonstrated that there is diffused through the Universe a _subtile_ and _elastic Fluid_ of great Force and Activity. This he supposes to be the Cause of the _Refraction_ and _Reflection_ of the Rays of Light; and that by its _Vibrations_ Light communicates Heat to Bodies: and, moreover, that this readily pervading all Bodies, produces many of their Effects upon one another[50]. NOW it is not improbable that the _Animal Spirits_ are a thin Liquor, separated in the Brain, and from thence derived into the Nerves, of such a Nature that it admits, and has incorporated with it, a great Quantity of this _elastic Fluid_: which makes it a vital Substance of great Energy. And a Liquor of this kind must be very susceptible of Alterations from other active Bodies of a different Nature from it, if they approach to and are mixed with it: as we see some _Chemical Spirits_ upon their being put together, fall into a Fermentation, and make a Composition of a quite different kind. IF therefore we allow the _Effluvia_ or _Exhalations_ from a corrupted Mass of Humours in a Body that has the _Plague_ to be volatile and firey Particles, carrying with them the Qualities, of those fermenting Juices from which they proceed; it will not be hard to conceive how these may, when received into the _nervous Fluid_ of a sound Person, excite in it such intestine Motions as may make it to partake of their own Properties, and become more unfit for the Purposes of the animal Oeconomy. But of this more in another Place. THIS is one means by which the _Plague_, when once bred, is spread and increased: but the second of the forementioned Causes, namely, _Goods from infected Places_, extends the Mischief much wider. By the preceding Cause, the _Plague_ may be spread from _Person_ to _Person_, from _House_ to _House_, or perhaps from _Town_ to _Town_, tho' not to any great Distance; but this carries it into the remotest Regions. From hence the trading Parts of _Europe_ have their principal Apprehensions, and universally have recourse to _Quarantaines_ for their Security. The Universality of which Practice is a strong Argument, that _Merchandize_ will communicate _Infection_: for one cannot imagine, that so many Countries should agree in such a Custom without the most weighty Reasons. But besides, there is not wanting express Proof of this, from particular Examples, where this Injury has been done by several sorts of Goods carried from infected Places to others. Some of these I shall hereafter be obliged to mention; at present I shall confine my self to three Instances only. The _first_ shall be of the Entrance of the _Plague_ into _Rome_ in the Year 1656, which we are assured was conveyed thither from _Naples_ by Clothes and other Wares from that Place, brought first to Port _Neptuno_, and carried from thence to the Neighbouring Castle of St. _Lawrence_: which after having been kept some time there, were conveyed into _Rome_[51]. The _second_ Instance I shall take is from the Account given us of the Entrance of the Plague into _Marseilles_[52]; which being drawn up with great Exactness, may be the more rely'd on. It appears indisputably by this Account, that the Mischief was brought thither by Goods from the _Levant_. For the first, who had the Distemper, was one of the _Crew_ of the _Ship_, which brought those _Goods_: the next were those, who attended upon the same _Goods_, while they were under _Quarantaine_; and soon after the _Surgeon_, whom the Magistrates of _Marseilles_ appointed to examine the Bodies of those, who died. THIS Relation, if duly consider'd, is, I believe, sufficient to remove all the Doubts any one can have about the Power of _Merchandize_ to convey _Infection_: for it affords all the Evidence, the most scrupulous can reasonably desire. Possibly there might be some Fever of extraordinary Malignity in _Marseilles_, such as is commonly called _Pestilential_, before the Arrival of these Goods: But no such Fever has any indisputable Right to the Title of _Pestilence_, as I have before shewn. On the contrary, these two, the real _Pestilence_, and such _Pestilential Fevers_, must carefully be distinguished, if we design to avoid all Mistakes in reasoning upon these Subjects. SOME such Fever of uncommon Malignity, I say, might perhaps be in _Marseilles_ before the Arrival of these Goods. There might likewise perhaps be an Instance or two of _Fevers_ attended with _Eruptions_, bearing some Resemblance to those of the _Plague_: for such I my self have sometimes seen here in _London_. But it is not conceivable, that there should be any Appearance of the true _Plague_ before that time: for it was full six Weeks from the time of the Sailor's Death, which had given the Alarm, and raised a general Attention, before the Magistrates received Information of any one's dying of the _Plague_ in the City. And I believe it was never known, that the _Plague_, being once broke out, gave so long a Truce in hot Weather. THE _Plague_, which has this present Year almost depopulated _Messina_, affords a _third_ Instance of the same kind. By an authentic Relation of it, published here[53] we are informed, that a _Genoese_ Vessel from the _Levant_, arrived at that City; and upon notice given that a Sailor, who had touched some Cases of _Cotton Stuffs_ bought up at _Patrasso_ in the _Morea_, where the Distemper then raged, was dead of the Plague, in the Voyage; the Ship was put under _Quarantaine_: during which time the _Cotton Stuffs_ were privately landed. The Master and some Sailors dying three days after, the Vessel was burnt. These Goods lay for some time concealed, but were soon after publickly sold: upon which the Disease immediately broke out in that _Quarter_ where they were opened; and afterwards was spread through the whole City. I think it not improper, for the fuller Confirmation of the present Point, to give a Relation communicated to me by a Person of unquestionable Credit, of the like Effect from Goods, in respect to the _Small-Pox_; which Distemper is frequently carried in the Nature of the _Plague_ both to the _East_ and _West-Indies_ from these Countries, and was once carried from the _East-Indies_ to the _Cape of Good Hope_, in the following manner. About the Year 1718, a ship from the _East-Indies_ arrived at that Place: In the Voyage three Children had been sick of the _Small-Pox_: The foul Linen used about them was put into a Trunk, and lock'd up. At the Ship's Landing, this was taken out, and given to some of the Natives to be washed: Upon handling the Linen, they were immediately seized with the _Small-Pox_, which spread into the Country for many Miles, and made such a Desolation, that it was almost dispeopled. IT has been thought so difficult to explain the manner how _Goods_ retain the Seeds of _Contagion_, that some[54] Authors have imagined _Infection_ to be performed by the Means of _Insects_; the _Eggs_ of which may be conveyed from Place to Place, and make the Disease when they come to be _hatched_. But as this is a Supposition grounded upon no manner of Observation, so I think there is no need to have recourse to it. If, as we have conjectured, the _Matter_ of _Contagion_ be an active Substance generated chiefly from animal Corruption; it is not hard to conceive how this may be lodged and preserved in soft porous Bodies, which are kept pressed close together. WE all know how long a time _Perfumes_ hold their Scent, if wrapt up in proper Coverings: And it is very remarkable, that the strongest of these, like the Matter we are treating of, are mostly _animal Juices_, as _Mosch_, _Civet_, &c. and that the Substances, found most fit to keep them in, are the very same with those, which are most apt to receive and communicate Infection, as _Furrs_, _Feathers_, _Silk_, _Hair_, _Wool_, _Cotton_, _Flax_, &c. the greatest part of which are likewise of the _animal_ kind. NOTHING indeed can give us so just a Notion of _Infection_, and more clearly represent the manner of it, than _Odoriferous_ Bodies. Some of _these_ do strangely revive the animal Spirits; others instantaneously depress and sink them: We may therefore conceive that, what active particles emitted from any such Substances do, is in the like way done by _Pestiferous_ Bodies; so that _Contagion_ is no more than the effect of volatile offensive Matter drawn into the Body by our _Smelling_. THE third Cause we assigned for the spreading of _Contagion_, was a corrupted State of _Air_. Although the _Air_ be in a right State, yet a sick Person may infect those who are very near him: As we find the _Pestilence_ to continue sometimes among the _Crew_ of a Ship, after they have sailed out of the Infectious Air wherein the Disease was first caught. A remarkable Accident of this Nature is recorded to have happened in the _Plague_ at _Genoa_ in the Year 1656. Eleven Persons put to Sea in a _Felucca_, with design to withdraw themselves from the _Contagion_, and retire into _Provence_; but one of them falling sick of the _Plague_ soon after they had imbarked, infected the rest; insomuch that others being taken ill, and dying in their turns, they were not admitted any where, but were forced to return from whence they came: and by that time the Boat arrived again at _Genoa_ no more than one of them survived[55]. HOWEVER in this Case the Malady does not usually spread far, the _contagious_ Particles being soon dispersed and lost. But when in a corrupt Disposition of the _Air_ the _contagious_ Particles meet with the subtile Parts generated by that Corruption, by uniting with them they become much more active and powerful, and likewise of a more durable Nature; so as to form an infectious Matter capable of conveying the Mischief to a greater distance from the diseased Body, out of which it was produced. IN general, a _hot Air_ is more disposed to spread _Contagion_ than a cold one, as no one can doubt, who considers how much all kinds of _Effluvia_ are farther diffused in a _warm Air_, than in the contrary. But moreover, that State of _Air_, when unseasonable Moisture and want of Winds are added to its Heat, which gives birth to the _Plague_ in some Countries, will doubtless promote it in all. For _Hippocrates_ sets down the same Description of a _Pestilential State_ of Air in his Country, as the _Arabians_ do of the Constitution, which gives Rise to the _Plague_ in _Africa_[56]. _Mercurialis_ assures us the same Constitution of _Air_ attended the _Pestilence_ in his time at _Padua_[57]: and _Gassendus_ observed the same in the _Plague_ of _Digne_[58]. Besides, it is easy to shew how the _Air_, by the sensible ill Qualities discoursed of in the last Chapter, should favour infectious Diseases, by rendering the Body obnoxious to them. INDEED other hurtful Qualities of the _Air_ are more to be regarded than its Heat alone: for the _Plague_ is sometimes stopt, while the Heat of the Season increases, upon the Emendation of the _Air_ in other respects. At _Smyrna_ the _Plague_, which is yearly carried thither by Ships, constantly ceases about the 24th of _June_, by the dry and clear Weather they always have at that time: the unwholsome Damps being then dissipated that annoy the Country in the _Spring_. However, the Heat of the Air is of so much Consequence, that if any Ship brings it in the Winter Months of _November_, _December_, _January_, or _February_, it never spreads: but if later in the Year, as in _April_ or afterwards, it continues till the time before mentioned. BUT moreover, what was said before of some latent Disorders in the _Air_ having a share in spreading the _Plague_, will likewise have place in these Countries; as the last _Plague_ in the City of _London_ remarkably proves, the Seeds of which, upon its first Entrance, and while it was confined to a House or two, preserved themselves through a hard frosty _Winter_, and again put forth their malignant Quality as soon as the Warmth of the _Spring_ gave them force: but, at the latter end of the next Winter they were suppressed so as to appear no more, though in the Month of _December_ more than half the _Parishes_ of the City were infected. A _corrupted State_ of Air is, without doubt, necessary to give these contagious Atoms their full force; for otherwise it were not easy to conceive how the _Plague_, when once it had seized any Place, should ever cease but with the Destruction of all the Inhabitants: Which is readily accounted for by supposing an Emendation of the Qualities of the _Air_, and the restoring of it to a healthful State capable of dissipating and suppressing the Malignity. ON the other hand, it does not appear, that the _Air_, however corrupted, is usually capable of carrying Infection to a very great distance; but that commonly the _Plague_ is spread from Town to Town by infected Persons and Goods: for there are numberless Instances, where the _Plague_ has caused a great Mortality in Towns, while other Towns and Villages, very near them, have been entirely free. And hence it is, that the _Plague_ sometimes spreads from Place to Place very irregularly. _Thuanus_[59] speaks of a _Plague_ in _Italy_, which one Year was at _Trent_ and _Verona_, the next got into _Venice_ and _Padua_, leaving _Vicenza_, an intermediate Place, untouched, though the next Year that also felt the same Stroke: a certain Proof that the _Plague_ was not carried by the _Air_ from _Verona_ to _Padua_ and _Venice_; for the infected _Air_ must have tainted all in its Passage. We have had lately in _France_ one Instance of the same Nature, when the _Plague_ was carried at once out of _Provence_ several Leagues into the _Gevaudan_. Usually indeed the _Plague_, especially when more violent than ordinary, spreads from infected Places into those which border upon them: which probably is sometimes effected by some little Communication infected Towns are obliged to hold with the Country about them for the sake of Necessaries, the Subtlety of the Venom now and then eluding the greatest Precautions; and at other times by such as withdraw themselves from infected Places into the Neighbourhood. I OWN it cannot be demonstrated, that when the _Plague_ makes great Ravage in any Town, the Number of Sick shall never be great enough to load the _Air_ with infectious _Effluvia_, emitted from them in such Plenty, that they may be conveyed by the Winds into a neighbouring Town or Village without being dispersed so much as to hinder their producing any ill Effects; especially since it is not unusual for the _Air_ to be so far charged with these noxious _Atoms_, as to leave no Place within the infected Town secure: insomuch that when the Distemper is at its Highth, all shall be indifferently infected, as well those who keep from the Sick, as those who are near them; though at the beginning of a _Plague_ to avoid all Communication with the Diseased, is an effectual Defence. However, I do not think this is often the Case: just as the _Smoak_, with which the _Air_ of the City of _London_ is constantly impregnated, especially in _Winter_, is not carried many Miles distant; though the Quantity of it is vastly greater than the Quantity of infectious _Effluvia_, that the most mortal _Plague_ could generate. BUT, to conclude what relates to the _Air_, since the ill Qualities of it in these _Northern_ Countries are not alone sufficient to excite the _Plague_, without imported _Contagion_, this shews the Error of a common Opinion, countenanc'd by Authors of great Name[60], that we are necessarily _visited_ with the _Plague_ once in thirty or forty Years: which is a mere Fancy, without Foundation either in Reason or Experience; and therefore People ought to be delivered from such vain Fears. Since the _Pestilence_ is never originally bred with us, but always brought accidentally from abroad, its coming can have no relation to any certain Period of Time. And although our three or four last _Plagues_ have fallen out nearly at such Intervals, yet that is much too short a Compass of Years to be a Foundation for a general Rule. Accordingly we see that almost fourscore Years have passed over without any Calamity of this kind. THE _Air_ of our Climate is so far from being ever the Original of the true _Plague_, that most probably it never produces those milder infectious Distempers, the _Small-Pox_ and _Measles_. For these Diseases were not heard of in _Europe_ before the _Moors_ had entered _Spain_: and (as I have observed in the _Preface_) they were afterwards propagated and spread through all Nations, chiefly by means of the Wars with the _Saracens_. MOREOVER, we are so far from any Necessity of these periodical Returns of the _Plague_, that, on the contrary, though we have had several Strokes of this kind, yet there are Instances of bad _Contagions_ from abroad being brought over to us, which have proved less malignant here, when our _Northern Air_ has not been disposed to receive such Impressions. THE _Sweating Sickness_, before hinted at, called _Sudor Anglicus_ and _Febris Ephemera Britannica_, because it was commonly thought to have taken its Rise here, was most probably of a foreign Original: and though not the common _Plague_ with _Glandular Tumors_, and _Carbuncles_, yet a real _Pestilence_ from the same Cause, only altered in its Appearance, and abated in its Violence, by the salutary Influence of our Climate. For it preserved an Agreement with the common _Plague_ in many of its _Symptoms_, as _excessive Faintness_ and _Inquietudes_, _inward Burnings_, &c. these _Symptoms_ being no where observed in so intense a Degree as here they are described to have been, except in the true _Plague_: And, what is much more, it was likewise a _contagious_ Disease. THE first time this was felt here, which was in the Year 1485, it began in the Army, with which King _Henry_ VII. came from _France_ and landed in _Wales_[61]: and it has been supposed by some to have been brought from the famous Siege of _Rhodes_ by the _Turks_ three or four Years before, as may be collected from what Dr. _Keyes_ says in one Place of his Treatise on this Disease[62]. Besides, of the several returns which this has made since that time, _viz._ in the Years 1506, 1517, 1528, and 1551, that in the Year 1528 may very justly be suspected to have been owing to the common _Pestilence_, which at those times raged in _Italy_[63] as I find one of our Historians has long ago conjectured[64]: and the others were very probably from a _Turkish_ Infection. If at least some of these Returns were not owing to the Remains of former Attacks, a suitable Constitution of Air returning to put the latent Seeds in Action before they were quite destroyed. It is the more probable that this Disease was owing to _imported Contagion_; because we are assured, that this Form of the Sickness was not peculiar to our Island, but that it made great Destruction with the same Symptoms in _Germany_, and other Countries[65]. I call this Distemper a _Plague_ with lessened Force: because though its carrying off thousands for want of right Management was a Proof of its Malignity, which indeed in one respect exceeded that of the common _Plague_ itself (for few, who were destroyed with it, survived the Seizure above one Natural Day) yet its going off safely with _profuse Sweats_ in twenty four Hours, when due care was taken to promote that Evacuation, shewed it to be what a learned and wise Historian calls it, _rather a Surprize to Nature, than obstinate_ to _Remedies_; who assigns this Reason for expressing himself thus, that _if the Patient was kept warm with temperate Cordials, he commonly recovered_[66]. And, what I think yet more remarkable, _Sweating_, which was the natural _Crisis_ of this Distemper, has been found by great Physicians the best Remedy against the common _Plague_: by which means, when timely used, that Distemper may sometimes be carried off without any external _Tumors_. Nay besides, a judicious Observer informs us, that in many of his Patients, when he had broken the Violence of the Distemper by such an artificial _Sweat_, a natural _Sweat_ not excited by Medicines would break forth exceedingly refreshing[67]. AND I cannot but take notice, as a Confirmation of what I have been advancing, that we had here the same kind of Fever in the Year 1713, about the Month of _September_, which was called the _Dunkirk Fever_, as being brought by our Soldiers from that Place. This probably had its Original from the _Plague_, which a few Years before broke out at _Dantzick_, and continued some time among the Cities of the _North_. With us this Fever began only with a Pain in the Head, and went off in large _Sweats_ usually after a Day's Confinement: but at _Dunkirk_ it was attended with the additional Symptoms of _Vomiting_, _Diarrhoea_, &c. TO return from this Digression: From all that has been said, it appears, I think, very plainly, that the _Plague_ is a real Poison, which being bred in the Southern Parts of the World, is carried by Commerce into other Countries, particularly into _Turky_, where it maintains itself by a kind of Circulation from Persons to Goods: which is chiefly owing to the Negligence of the People there, who are stupidly careless in this affair. That when the Constitution of the _Air_ happens to favour _Infection_, it rages there with great Violence: that at that time more especially diseased Persons give it to one another, and from them _contagious Matter_ is lodged in Goods of a loose and soft Texture, which being pack'd up and carried into other Countries, let out, when opened, the imprisoned Seeds of _Contagion_, and produce the Disease whenever the _Air_ is disposed to give them force; otherwise they may be dissipated without any considerable ill Effects. And lastly, that the _Air_ does not usually diffuse and spread these to any great Distance, if Intercourse and Commerce with the Place infected be strictly prevented. [Illustration] PART II. Of the Methods to be taken against the PLAGUE. CHAP. I. _Of preventing Infection from other Countries._ AS it is a Satisfaction to know, that the _Plague_ is not a Native of our Country, so this is likewise an Encouragement to the utmost Diligence in finding out Means to keep our selves clear from it. THIS Caution consists of two Parts: _The preventing its being brought into our Island_; and, if such a Calamity should happen, _the putting a Stop to its spreading among us_. THE first of these is provided for by the established Method of obliging Ships, that come from _infected_ Places, to _perform Quarantaine_: As to which, I think it necessary, that the following Rules be observed. NEAR to our several Ports, there should be _Lazaretto's_ built in convenient Places, on little Islands, if it can so be, for the Reception both of Men and Goods, which arrive from Places suspected of _Infection_: The keeping Men in _Quarantaine_ on board the Ship being not sufficient; the only use of which is to observe whether any die among them. For _Infection_ may be preserved so long in Clothes, in which it is once lodged, that as much, nay more of it, if Sickness continues in the Ship, may be brought on Shore at the end than at the beginning of the forty Days: Unless a new _Quarantaine_ be begun every time any Person dies; which might not end, but with the Destruction of the whole Ship's Crew. IF there has been any _contagious_ Distemper in the Ship; the _sound_ Men should leave their Clothes, which should be sunk in the Sea, the Men washed and shaved, and having fresh Clothes, should stay in the _Lazaretto_ thirty or forty Days. The reason of this is, because Persons may be recovered from a Disease themselves, and yet retain _Matter_ of _Infection_ about them a considerable time: as we frequently see the _Small-Pox_ taken from those, who have several Days before passed through the Distemper. THE _Sick_, if there be any, should be kept in Houses remote from the _Sound_, and, some time after they are well, should also be washed and shaved, and have fresh Clothes; whatever they wore while sick being sunk or buryed: And then being removed to the Houses of the _Sound_, should continue there thirty or forty Days. I AM particularly careful to destroy the _Clothes_ of the Sick, because they harbour the very _Quintessence_ of _Contagion_. A very ingenious Author[68], in his admirable Description of the _Plague_ at _Florence_ in the Year 1348, relates what himself saw: That two _Hogs_ finding in the Streets the _Rags_, which had been thrown out from off a poor Man dead of the Disease, after snuffling upon them, and tearing them with their Teeth, they fell into Convulsions, and dy'd in less than an Hour. The learned _Fracastorius_ acquaints us, that in his time, there being a _Plague_ in _Verona_, no less than twenty five Persons were successively kill'd by the Infection of one _Furr_ Garment[69]. And _Forestus_ gives a like Instance of seven Children, who dy'd by playing upon Clothes brought to _Alckmaer_ in _North-Holland_, from an infected House in _Zealand_[70]. The late Mr. _Williams_, Chaplain to Sir _Robert Sutton_, when Embassador at _Constantinople_, used to relate a Story of the same Nature told him by a _Bassa_: that in an Expedition this _Bassa_ made to the Frontiers of _Poland_, one of the _Janizaries_ under his Command dy'd of the _Plague_; whose Jacket, a very rich one, being bought by another _Janizary_, it was no sooner put on, but he also was taken sick and dy'd: and the same Misfortune befel five _Janizaries_ more, who afterwards wore it. This the _Bassa_ related to Mr. _Williams_, chiefly for the sake of this farther Circumstance, that the Incidents now mentioned prevailed upon him to order the burning of the Garment: designing by this Instance to let Mr. _Williams_ see there were _Turks_, who allowed themselves in so much Freedom of Thought, as not to pay that strict Regard to the _Mahometan_ Doctrine of Fatality, as the Vulgar among them do. IF there has been no Sickness in the Ship, I see no reason why the Men should perform _Quarantaine_. Instead of this, they may be washed, and their Clothes aired in the _Lazaretto_, as Goods, for one Week. BUT the greatest Danger is from such _Goods_, as are apt to retain Infection, such as _Cotton_, _Hemp_ and _Flax_, _Paper_ or _Books_, _Silk_ of all sorts, _Linen_, _Wool_, _Feathers_, _Hair_, and all kinds of _Skins_. The _Lazaretto_ for these should be at a Distance from that for the Men; and they must in convenient Warehouses be unpack'd, and exposed, as much as may be, to the fresh Air for forty Days. THIS may perhaps seem too long; but as we don't know how much time precisely is necessary to purge the Interstices of spongy Substances from _infectious Matter_ by fresh Air, the Caution cannot be too great in this Point. Certainly the time here proposed, having been long established by general Custom, ought not in the least to be retrenched; unless there could be a way found out of trying when Bodies have ceased to emit the noxious Fumes. Possibly this might be discovered by putting tender _Animals_ near to them, particularly little _Birds_: because it has been observed in Times of the _Plague_, that the Country has been forsaken by the _Birds_; and those kept in Houses have many of them died[71]. Now if it should be found, that _Birds_ let loose among Goods at the beginning of their _Quarantaine_, are obnoxious to the _Contagion_ in them, it may be known, in good measure, when such Goods are become clean, by repeating the Trial till _Birds_ let fly among them receive no hurt. But the Use of this Expedient can be known only by Experience. In the mean time, I own I am fond of the _Thought_, in compassion to poor Labourers, who must expose their Lives to danger, in the attendance upon this Work: and tho' I am well aware that there are _Plagues_ among Animals, which do not indifferently affect all kinds of them, some being confined to a particular _Species_, (like the Disease of the _Black Cattle_ here, a few Years since, which neither proved infectious to other Brutes, nor to Men;) yet it has always been observed that the true _Plague_ among Men has been destructive to all Creatures of what kind soever. A very remarkable Story, lately communicated to me by a Person of undoubted Credit, is too much to the purpose to be here omitted. The Fact is this. In the Year 1726, an English Ship took in Goods at _Grand Cairo_, in the time of the _Plague's_ raging there, and carried them to _Alexandria_. Upon opening one of the Bales of Wool in a Field, two _Turks_ employed in the Work were immediately killed: and some _Birds_, which happened to fly over the Place, dropp'd down dead. HOWEVER, the Use of _Quarantaines_ is not wholly frustrated by our Ignorance of the exact time required for this Purification: since the _Quarantaine_ does at least serve as a Trial whether Goods are infected or not; it being hardly possible that every one of those, who are obliged to attend upon them, can escape hurt, if they are so. And whenever that happens, the Goods must be destroyed. I TAKE it for granted, that the _Goods_ should be _opened_, when they are put into the _Lazaretto_, otherwise their being there will avail nothing. This is the constant Practice in the _Ports_ of _Italy_. That it is so at _Leghorn_, appears by the Account lately published of the Manner, in which _Quarantaines_ are there performed: and I find, that the same Rule is observed at _Venice_, from an authentic Paper, I have before me, containing the Methods made use of in that City, where _Quarantaines_ have been enjoined ever since the Year 1484; at which time, as far as I can learn, they were first instituted in _Europe_. In that Place all _Bales_ of _Cotton_, of _Camel_'s or of _Beaver_'s _Hair_, and the like, are _ript_ open from end to end, and _Holes_ made in them by the _Porters_ every Day, into which they thrust their naked Arms, in order that the Air may have free Access to every part of the Goods. That some such Cautions as these ought not to be omitted, is clearly proved by the Misfortune, which happened in the Island of _Bermudas_ about the Year 1695; where, as the Account was given me by the learned Dr. _Halley_, a Sack of _Cotton_ put on Shore by Stealth, lay above a Month without any Prejudice to the People of the House, where it was hid: but when it came to be distributed among the Inhabitants, it carried such a _Contagion_ along with it, that the Living scarce sufficed to bury the Dead. This Relation Dr. _Halley_ received from Captain _Tucker_ of _Bermudas_, Brother to Mr. _Tucker_ late Under-Secretary in our Secretary's Office. INDEED, as it has been frequently experienced, that of all the Goods, which harbour _Infection_, _Cotton_ in particular is the most dangerous, and _Turky_ is almost a perpetual _Seminary_ of the _Plague_; I cannot but think it highly reasonable, that whatever _Cotton_ is imported from that part of the World, should at all Times be kept in _Quarantaine_: Because it may have imbibed _Infection_ at the Time of its packing up, notwithstanding no Mischief has been felt from it by the Ship's Company. And the length of Time from its being pack'd up to its Arrival here, is no certain Security that it is cleared from the _Infection_. At least, it is found, that the Time employed by Ships in passing between _Turky_ and _Marseilles_, is not long enough for Goods to lose their _Infection_: as appears not only from the late Instance, but also from an Observation made in a certain _Memorial_, drawn up by the Deputy of Trade at _Marseilles_[72]. _Marseilles_ is the only Port in _France_ allowed to receive Goods from the _Levant_, on Account of its singular Convenience for _Quarantaines_, by Reason of several small _Islands_ situate about it. The _Ports_ of _France_ in the _Western Ocean_ having had a Desire to be allowed the same Liberty, their Deputies presented, in the Year 1701, a _Memorial_ to the _Royal Council of Trade_, containing several Reasons for their Pretensions. To this the _Deputy_ at _Marseilles_ makes Reply in the _Memorial_ I am speaking of, in which this Advantage of _Marseilles_ for _Quarantaines_ above the other Ports, is much insisted upon: and, to evince the Importance thereof, it is declared in express Words, that many Times Persons have been found in that Place to die of the _Plague_ in their Attendance upon Goods under _Quarantaine_. Now if it be certain, that Goods have retained Infection during their Passage from _Turkey_ to _Marseilles_; it is too hardy a Presumption to be admitted in an Affair so important as this, that they must necessarily lose all Contagion in the Time of their coming to us, because the Voyage is something longer. But besides this, there are some few Instances of Goods, that have retained their Infection many Years. In particular, _Alex. Benedictus_ gives a very distinct Relation of a Feather Bed, that was laid by seven Years on Suspicion of its being infected, which produced mischievous Effects at the End of that great Length of Time[73]. And Sir _Theodore Mayerne_ relates, that some Clothes fouled with Blood and Matter from _Plague_ Sores being lodged between _Matting_ and the Wall of a House in Paris, gave the _Plague_ several Years after to a Workman, who took them out, which presently spread through the City[74]. WHAT makes _Cotton_ so eminently dangerous, is its great Aptitude to imbibe and retain any Sort of _Effluvia_ near it; of which I have formerly made a particular Experiment, by causing some _Cotton_ to be placed for one Day near a Piece of _putrefying Flesh_ from an amputated Limb, in a Bell-Glass, but without touching it: for the _Cotton_ imbibed so strong a Taint, that being put up in a close Box, it retained its offensive Scent above ten Months, and would, I believe, have kept it for Years. If, instead of the Fumes of _putrefied Flesh_ from a sound Body, this _Cotton_ had been thus impregnated with the Fumes of corrupted Matter from one sick of the _Plague_; I make no doubt but it would have communicated Infection. And the Experiment would have succeeded alike in both Cases, if instead of _Cotton_, _Silk_, _Wool_, or _Hair_ had been inclosed in the Vessel: Animal Substances being the most apt to attract the volatile Particles, which come from Bodies of the same Nature with themselves. AS all reasonable Provisions should be made both for the _Sound_ and _Sick_, who perform _Quarantaine_; so the strict keeping of it ought to be inforced by the severest _Penalties_. And if a Ship comes from any Place, where the _Plague_ raged, at the Time of the Ship's Departure from it, with more than usual Violence; it will be the securest Method to _sink_ all the _Goods_, and even the _Ship_ sometimes: especially if any on Board have died of the Disease. NOR ought this farther Caution to be omitted, that when the _Contagion_ has ceased in any Place by the Approach of Winter, it will not be safe to open a free Trade with _it_ too soon: because there are Instances of the _Distemper_'s being stopt by the Winter Cold, and yet the Seeds of it not destroyed, but only kept unactive, 'till the Warmth of the following Spring has given them new Life and Force. Thus in the great _Plague_ at _Genoa_ about four-score Years ago, which continued Part of two Years; the first Summer about _ten Thousand_ died; the Winter following hardly any; but the Summer after no less than _sixty Thousand_. Likewise the last _Plague_ at _London_ appeared the latter End of the Year 1664, and was stopt during the Winter by a hard Frost of near three Month's Continuance; so that there remained no farther Appearance of it 'till the ensuing Spring[75]. Now if Goods brought from such a Place should retain any of the latent _Contagion_, there will be Danger of their producing the same Mischief in the Place, to which they are brought, as they would have caused in that, from whence they came. BUT above all, it is necessary, that the _Clandestine Importing_ of Goods be punished with the utmost Rigour; from which wicked Practice I should always apprehend more Danger of bringing the _Disease_ than by any other Way whatsoever. THESE are, I think, the most material Points, to which Regard is to be had in defending ourselves again _Contagion_ from other Countries. The particular Manner of putting these Directions in Execution, as the _Visiting_ of _Ships_, _Regulation_ of _Lazaretto's_, &c. I leave to proper Officers, who ought sometimes to be assisted herein by able Physicians. CHAP. II. _Of Stopping the Progress of the_ Plague, _if it should enter our Country._ THE next Consideration is, what to do in Case, through a Miscarriage in the publick Care, by the Neglect of Officers, or otherwise, such a Calamity should be suffered to befal us. THERE is no _Evil_ in the World, in which the great Rule of _Resisting the Beginning_, more properly takes Place, than in the present Case; and yet it has unfortunately happened, that the common Steps formerly taken have had a direct Tendency to hinder the putting _this Maxim_ in Practice. AS the _Plague_ always breaks out in some particular Place, it is certain, that the Directions of the _Civil Magistrate_ ought to be such, as to make it as much for the Interest of infected Families to discover their Misfortune, as it is, when a House is on _Fire_, to call in the Assistance of the Neighbourhood: Whereas, on the contrary, the Methods taken by the Publick, on such Occasions, have always had the Appearance of a severe _Discipline_, and even _Punishment_, rather than of a _Compassionate Care_; which must naturally make the _Infected_ conceal the Disease as long as was possible. THE main Import of the _Orders_ issued out at these Times was[76]; As soon as it was found, that any House was infected, to keep it shut up, with a _large red Cross_, and these Words, _Lord, have Mercy upon us_, painted on the Door; Watchmen attending Day and Night to prevent any one's going in or out, except such _Physicians_, _Surgeons_, _Apothecaries_, _Nurses_, _Searchers_, &c. as were allowed by Authority: And this to continue at least a Month after all the Family was _dead_ or _recovered_. IT is not easy to conceive a more dismal Scene of Misery, than this: Families lock'd up from all their Acquaintance, though seized with a Distemper which the most of any in the World requires Comfort and Assistance; abandoned it may be to the Treatment of an inhumane Nurse (for such are often found at these times about the Sick;) and Strangers to every thing but the melancholy Sight of the Progress, Death makes among themselves: with small Hopes of Life left to the Survivers, and those mixed with Anxiety and Doubt, whether it be not better to die, than to prolong a miserable Being, after the Loss of their best Friends and nearest Relations. IF _Fear_, _Despair_, and all _Dejection of Spirits_, dispose the Body to receive _Contagion_, and give it a great Power, where it is received, as all Physicians agree they do; I don't see how a Disease can be more inforced than by such a Treatment. NOTHING can justify such _Cruelty_, but the Plea, that it is for the Good of the whole _Community_, and prevents the spreading of _Infection_. But this upon due Consideration will be found quite otherwise: For while _Contagion_ is kept nursed up in a House, and continually encreased by the daily Conquests it makes, it is impossible but the _Air_ should become tainted in so eminent a degree, as to spread the _Infection_ into the Neighbourhood upon the first Outlet. The shutting up Houses in this Manner is only keeping so many _Seminaries_ of _Contagion_, sooner or later to be dispersed abroad: For the waiting a Month, or longer, from the Death of the last Patient, will avail no more, than keeping a _Bale_ of infected _Goods_ unpack'd; the Poyson will fly out, whenever the _Pandora's Box_ is opened. AS these Measures were owing to the Ignorance of the true Nature of _Contagion_, so they did, I firmly believe, contribute very much to the long Continuance of the _Plague_, every time they have been practised in this City: And no doubt, they have had as ill Effects in other Countries. IT is therefore no wonder, that grievous Complaints were often made against this unreasonable Usage; and that the Citizens were all along under the greatest apprehensions of being thus _Shut up_. This occasioned their concealing the Disease as long as they could, which contributed very much to the inforcing and spreading of it: and when they were confined, it often happened that they broke out of their _Imprisonment_, either by getting out at Windows, _&c._ or by bribing the Watchmen at their Doors; and sometimes even by murdering them. Hence in the Nights, people were often met running about the Streets, with hideous _Shrieks_ of _Horror_ and _Despair_, quite _Distracted_, either from the violence of the Fever, or from the Terrors of Mind, into which they were thrown by the daily Deaths they saw of their nearest Relations. IN these miserable Circumstances, many ran away, and when they had escaped, either went to their Friends in the Country, or built Hutts or Tents for themselves in the open Fields, or got on board Ships lying in the River. A few also were saved by keeping their Houses close from all communication with their Neighbours[77]. AND it must be observed, that whenever popular Clamours prevailed so far, as to procure some Release for the _Sick_, this was remarkably followed with an Abatement of the Disease. The _Plague_ in the Year 1636 began with great Violence; but leave being given by the King's Authority for People to quit their Houses, it was observed, That _not one in twenty of the well Persons removed fell sick, nor one in ten of the Sick died_[78]. Which single Instance alone, had there been no other, should have been of Weight ever after to have determined the Magistracy against too strict Confinements. But besides this, a preceding _Plague_, _viz._ in the Year 1625, affords us another Instance of a very remarkable Decrease upon the discontinuing to _shut up_ Houses. It was indeed so late in the Year, before this was done, that the near Approach of Winter was doubtless one Reason for the Diminution of the Disease, which followed: Yet this was so very great, that it is at least past dispute, that the Liberty then permitted was no Impediment to it. For this _opening_ of the Houses was allowed of in the beginning of _September_: and whereas the last Week in _August_, there died no less than four thousand two hundred and eighteen, the very next Week the _Burials_ were diminished to three thousand three hundred and forty four; and in no longer time than to the fourth Week after, to eight hundred and fifty two[79]. SINCE therefore the Management in former Times neither answers the Purpose of _discovering the Beginning_ of the _Infection_, nor of putting a stop to it when _discovered_, other Measures are certainly to be taken; which, I think, should be of this Nature. THERE ought, in the first Place, _a Council of Health_ to be established, consisting of some of the principal Officers of State, both Ecclesiastical and Civil, some of the chief Magistrates of the City, two or three Physicians, _&c._ And this _Council_ should be intrusted with such Powers, as might enable them to see all their Orders executed with impartial Justice, and that no unnecessary Hardships, under any Pretence whatever, be put upon any by the Officers they employ. INSTEAD of _ignorant old Women_, who are generally appointed _Searchers_ in Parishes to inquire what Diseases People die of, that _Office_ should be committed to _understanding and diligent Men_: whose Business it should be, as soon as they find any have dy'd after an uncommon Manner, particularly with _livid Spots_, _Bubo's_, or _Carbuncles_, to give Notice thereof to the _Council of Health_; who should immediately send skilful Physicians to examine the suspected Bodies, and to visit the Houses in the Neighbourhood, especially of the _poorer_ Sort, among whom this Evil generally begins. And if upon their Report it appears, that a _Pestilential Distemper_ is broken out, they should without Delay order all the Families, in which the Sickness is, to be _removed_; the _Sick_ to different Places from the _Sound_: but the Houses for both should be three or four Miles out of Town; and the _Sound_ People should be _stript of all their Clothes_, and _washed_ and _shaved_, before they go into their new Lodgings. These Removals ought to be made in the Night, when the Streets are clear of People: which will prevent all Danger of spreading the Infection. And besides, all possible Care should be taken to provide such Means of Conveyance for the _Sick_, that they may receive no Injury. AS this Management is necessary with Respect to the _Poor_ and _meaner_ Sort of People; so the _Rich_, who have Conveniences, may, instead of being carried to _Lazaretto's_, be obliged to go to their Country-Houses: provided that Care be always taken to keep the _Sound_ separated from the _Infected_. And at the same Time all the Inhabitants who are yet well, should be permitted, nay encouraged to leave the Town, which, the thinner it is, will be the more healthy. NO manner of _Compassion_ and _Care_ should be wanting to the _Diseased_; to whom, when lodged in _clean_ and _airy_ Habitations, there would, with due Cautions, be no great Danger in giving Attendance. All Expences should be paid by the Publick, and no Charges ought to be thought great, which are counterbalanced with the saving a Nation from the greatest of Calamities. Nor does it seem to me at all unreasonable, that a _Reward_ should be given to the Person, that makes the first Discovery of _Infection_ in any Place: since it is undeniable, that the making known the _Evil_ to those, who are provided with proper Methods against it, is the first and main Step towards the overcoming it. ALTHOUGH the Methods taken in other Countries, as well as in our own, have generally been different from what we have here recommended; yet there are not wanting some Instances of extraordinary Success attending these Measures, whenever they have happened to be put in Practice. THE Magistrates of the City of _Ferrara_ in _Italy_ in the Year 1630, when all the Country round about them was infected with the _Plague_, observing the ill Success of the Conduct of their Neighbours, who, for Fear of losing their Commerce, did all they could to conceal the Disease, by keeping the Sick in their Houses, resolved, whenever occasion should require, to take a different Method. Accordingly, as soon as they received Information, that one had died in their City of the _Pestilence_, they immediately removed the whole Family he belonged to into a _Lazaretto_, where all, being seven in Number, likewise died. But though the Disease was thus malignant, it went no farther, being suppressed at once by this Method. Within the Space of a Year the same Case returned seven or eight Times, and this Management as often put a Stop to it. The Example of this _City_ was afterwards followed more than once by some other Towns in the same Territory with so good Success, that it was thought expedient, for the common Good, to publish in the _Memoirs_ of the People of _Ferrara_ this Declaration: _That the only Remedy against the Plague is to make the most early Discovery of it, that is possible, and thus to extinguish it in the very Beginning_[80]. NO less remarkable than this Occurrence at _Ferrara_, is what happened at _Rome_ in the _Plague_, I have taken Notice of before, in the Year 1657. When the Disease had spread itself among both Rich and Poor, and raged in the most violent Manner; the _Pope_ appointed Cardinal _Gastaldi_, to be Commissary General of Health, giving him for a Time the Power of the whole _Sacred College_, with full Commission to do whatever he should judge necessary. Hereupon he gave strict Orders, that no sick or suspected Persons should stay in their own Houses. The _Sick_ he removed, upon the first Notice, to a _Lazaretto_ in the _Island_ of the _Tyber_; and all who were in the same Houses with them to other _Hospitals_ just without the City, in order to be sent to the _Island_, if they should fall sick. At the same Time he took diligent Care to send away their _Goods_ to an airy Place to be cleansed. He executed these Regulations with so much Strictness, that no Persons of the highest Quality were exempted from this Treatment; which occasioned at first great Complaints against the _Cardinal_ for his Severity; but soon after he had general Thanks: for in two Months Time, by this means, he entirely cleared the City of the _Pestilence_, which had continued in it almost two Years. And it was particularly observed, that whereas before, when once the Disease had got into a House, it seldom ended without seizing the whole Family; in this Management scarce five out of an hundred of the sound Persons removed were infected[81]. I CANNOT but take Notice, that the _Plague_ was stopp'd at _Marseilles_ a full Fortnight by the same Measures, and probably might have been wholly extinguished, had not new Force been given it by the unseasonable Confidence of the Inhabitants upon this Intermission: which, we are informed, was so great, that they would not believe the _Pestilence_ had been at all among them, and publickly upbraided the Physicians and Surgeons for frighting them causlesly[82]. At this Time, no doubt, they must have neglected the Cautions necessary for their Security so much, as to leave us no room to be surprized, that the Disease should after this break out again with too great Violence to be a second Time overcome. BUT, besides these Examples in foreign Countries, we have one Instance of the same Nature nearer Home. When the _Plague_ was last here in _England_, upon its first Entrance into _Poole_ in _Dorsetshire_, the Magistrates immediately suppress'd it, by removing the _Sick_ into _Pest-Houses_, without the Town, as is well remember'd there to this Time. A very remarkable Occurrence has greatly contributed towards preserving all the Circumstances of this Transaction in Memory. They found some Difficulty in procuring any one to attend upon the _Sick_ after their Removal: which obliged the Town to engage a _young Woman_, then under Sentence of Death, in that Service, on a Promise to use their Interest for obtaining her Pardon. The young Woman escaped the Disease, but neglecting to solicite the Corporation for the Accomplishment of their Engagement with her, three or four Months after she was barbarously hanged by the _Mayor_ upon a Quarrel between them. I WOULD have it here observed, that as the Advice I have been giving is founded upon this Principle, that the best Method for stopping Infection, is to separate the _Healthy_ from the _Diseased_; so in small Towns and Villages, where it is practicable, if the _Sound_ remove themselves into _Barracks_, or the like airy Habitations, it may probably be even more useful, than to remove the _Sick_. This Method has been found beneficial in _France_ after all others have failed. But the Success of this proves the Method of _Removing the Sick_, where this other cannot be practised, to be the most proper of any. WHEN the _sick Families_ are gone, all the Goods of the Houses, in which they were, should be _buried_ deep under Ground. This I prefer to _burning_ them: because, especially in a close Place, some infectious Particles may possibly be dispersed by the Smoak through the Neighbourhood; according to what _Mercurialis_ relates, that the _Plague_ in _Venice_ was augmented by burning a large Quantity of infected Goods in the City[83]. A learned Physician of my Acquaintance lately communicated to me the Relation of a Case, (given to him by an Apothecary, who was at the Place when the Thing happened) very proper to be here mentioned. The Story is this. At _Shipston_, a little Town upon the River _Stour_ in _Worcestershire_, a poor Vagabond was seen walking in the Streets with the _Small-Pox_ upon him. The People frightened took Care to have him carried to a little House, seated upon a Hill, at some Distance from the Town, providing him with Necessaries. In a few Days the Man died. They ordered him to be buried deep in the Ground, and the House with his Cloaths to be burnt. The Wind, being pretty high, blew the Smoak upon the Houses on one Side of the Town: In that Part, a few Days after, eight Persons were seized with the _Small-Pox_. So dangerous is _Heat_ in all Kinds of pestilential Distempers, and so diffusive of Contagion. And moreover the Houses themselves may likewise be demolished or pulled down, if that can conveniently be done; that is, if they are remote enough from others: otherwise it may suffice to have them thoroughly cleansed, and then plastered up. And after this, all possible Care ought still to be taken to remove whatever Causes are found to breed and promote _Contagion_. In order to this, the _Overseers_ of the Poor (who might be assisted herein by other Officers) should visit the Dwellings of all the meaner Sort of the Inhabitants; and where they find them _stifled up too close_ and _nasty_, should lessen their Number by sending some into better Lodgings, and should take Care, by all Manner of Provision and Encouragement, to make them more _cleanly_ and _sweet_. NO good Work carries its own Reward with it so much as this kind of _Charity_: and therefore, be the Expence what it will, it must never be thought unreasonable. For nothing approaches so near to the first Original of the _Plague_, as Air pent up, loaded with Damps, and corrupted with the Filthiness, that proceeds from _Animal Bodies_. OUR _common Prisons_ afford us an Instance of something like this, where very few escape what they call the _Goal Fever_, which is always attended with a Degree of _Malignity_ in Proportion to the _Closeness_ and _Stench_ of the Place: and it would certainly very well become the Wisdom of the Government, as well with regard to the Health of the _Town_, as in Compassion to the _Prisoners_, to take Care, that all _Houses of Confinement_ should be kept as airy and clean, as is consistent with the Use, to which they are designed. THE _Black Assise_ at _Oxford_, held in the Castle there in the Year 1577, will never be forgot[84]; at which the _Judges_, _Gentry_, and almost all that were present, to the Number of three hundred, were killed by a _poisonous Steam_, thought by some to have broken forth from the _Earth_; but by a _noble_ and _great_ Philosopher[85] more justly supposed to have been brought by the _Prisoners_ out of the _Goal_ into _Court_; it being observed, that they alone were not injured by it. AT the same Time, that this Care is taken of _Houses_, the proper Officers should be strictly charged to see that the _Streets_ be washed and kept clean from _Filth_, _Carrion_, and all manner of _Nusances_; which should be carried away in the _Night Time_: nor should the _Laystalls_ be suffered to be too near the City. _Beggers_ and _idle Persons_ should be taken up, and such miserable Objects, as are neither fit for the common _Hospitals_, nor _Work-Houses_, should be provided for in an _Hospital of Incurables_. ORDERS indeed of this Kind are necessary to be observed at all Times, especially in populous Cities; and therefore I am sorry to take Notice, that in these of _London_ and _Westminster_ there is no good _Police_ established in these Respects: for want of which the Citizens and Gentry are every Day annoyed more ways than one. IF these early _Precautions_, we have mentioned, prove successful, there will be no need of any Methods for _Correcting the Air_, _Purifying Houses_, or of _Rules for preserving particular Persons from Infection_: to all which, if the _Plague_ get head, so that the _Sick_ are too many to be removed (as they will be when the Disease has raged for a considerable Time) Regard must be had. AS to the _first_: _Fire_ has been almost universally recommended for this Purpose, both by the Ancients and Moderns; who have advised to make frequent and numerous _Fires_ in the Towns infected. This _Precept_, I think, is almost entirely founded upon a Tradition, that _Hippocrates_ put a stop to a _Plague_ in _Greece_ by this means. But it is to be observed, that there is no mention made of any Thing like it in the Works of _Hippocrates_. The best Authority we have for it, is the Testimony of _Galen_, though it is also mentioned by other Authors. _Galen_, recommending _Theriaca_ against the _Pestilence_, has thought fit, it seems, to compare it to _Fire_; and, upon this Conceit, relates, that _Hippocrates_ cured a _Plague_, which came from _�thiopia_ into _Greece_, by purifying the Air with _Fires_; into which were thrown sweet-scented Herbs, and Flowers, together with Ointments of the finest Flavour. It is remarkable, that among the _Epistles_ ascribed to _Hippocrates_, which, though not genuine, yet are older than _Galen_, there is a _Decree_ said to be made by the _Athenians_ in Honour of this Father of Physicians, which, making mention of the Service he had done his Country in a _Plague_, says only, that he sent his Scholars into several Parts, with proper Instructions to cure the Disease. By which it should seem, that this Story of the _Fires_ was hardly or not at all known at the Time, when these _Letters_ were compiled. And _Soranus_ may yet more confirm us, that it was framed long after the Death of _Hippocrates_: for _Soranus_ only says in general, that _Hippocrates_ foretold the coming of the _Pestilence_, and took care of the Cities of _Greece_; without any mention of having used this particular Expedient. _Plutarch_ indeed speaks of a Practice like this as commonly approved among Physicians, which he makes use of to illustrate a certain Custom of the _Egyptians_: of whom he says, that they _purify_ the Air by the Fumes of _Resin_ and _Myrrh_, as Physicians correct the Foulness, and attenuate the Thickness thereof in Times of _Pestilence_, by _burning Sweet-Woods_, _Juniper_, _Cypress_[86] &c. THIS I take to be the Sum of what can be learned from Antiquity in Relation to this Point; from whence we may see, that Writers have concluded a little too hastily for the use of _common Fires_ in this Case, upon the Authority and Example of _Hippocrates_, though we should allow the Fact as related by _Galen_: when it will not from thence appear that _Hippocrates_ himself relied upon them; since he thought it necessary to take in the Assistance of _aromatic Fumes_. But as this Fact is not grounded upon sufficient Authority, so it is needless to insist long upon it. The Passage I have brought from _Plutarch_ will better explain what was the Sentiment of those Physicians who approved the Practice. It seems they expected from thence to dispel the Thickness and Foulness of the Air. And no doubt but such evil Dispositions of the Air, as proceed from _Damps_, _Exhalations_, and the like, may be corrected even by _common Fires_, and the Predisposition of it from these Causes to receive Infection sometimes removed. But I think this Method, if it be necessary, should be put in Practice before the coming of the _Pestilence_. For when the Distemper is actually _begun_, and rages, since it is known to _spread_ and _increased_ by the _Heat_ of the _Summer_, and on the contrary checked by the _Cold_ in _Winter_; undoubtedly, whatever increases that _Heat_, will so far add Force to the Disease: as _Mercurialis_ takes notice, that _Smiths_, and all those who worked at the _Fire_ were most severely used in the _Plague_ at _Venice_ in his Time[87]. Whether the Service _Fires_ may do by correcting any other ill Qualities of the Air, will counterbalance the Inconvenience upon this Account, Experience only can determine: and the fatal Success of the Trials made here in the last _Plague_, is more than sufficient to discourage any farther Attempts of this Nature. For _Fires_ being ordered in all the _Streets_ for three Days together, there died in one Night following no less than four thousand (if we may believe Dr. _Hodges_:) whereas in any single Week before or after, never twice that Number were carried off[88]. And we find that upon making the same Experiment in the last _Plague_ at _Marseilles_, the Contagion was every Day spread more and more thro' the City with increas'd Rage and Violence[89]. WHAT has been said of _Fires_, is likewise to be understood of _Firing of Guns_, which some have too rashly advised. The proper Correction of the Air would be to make it _fresh_ and _cool_: Accordingly the _Arabians_[90], who were best acquainted with the Nature of _Pestilences_, advise People to keep themselves as _airy_ as possible, and to chuse Dwellings exposed to the Wind, situate high, and refreshed with running Waters. AS for _Houses_, the first Care ought to be to keep them _clean_: for as _Nastiness_ is a great Source of _Infection_, so _Cleanliness_ is the greatest Preservative; which shews us the true Reason, why the _Poor_ are most obnoxious to _Contagious Diseases_. It is remarked of the _Persians_, that though their Country is surrounded every Year with the _Plague_, they seldom or never suffer any Thing by it themselves: and it is likewise known, that they are the most _cleanly_ People of any in the World, and that many among them make it a great Part of their Religion to remove _Filthiness_ and _Nusances_ of every Kind from all Places about their Cities and Dwellings[91]. BESIDES this, the _Arabians_ advise the keeping Houses _cool_, as another Method of their _Purification_, and therefore, to answer this End more fully, they directed to strew them with _cooling_ Herbs, as _Roses_, _Violets_, _Water-Lilies_, &c. and to be washed with _Water_ and _Vinegar_: than all which, especially the last, nothing more proper can be proposed. I think it not improper likewise to _fume_ Houses with _Vinegar_, either alone or together with _Nitre_, by throwing it upon a _hot Iron_ or _Tile_; though this be directly contrary to what modern Authors mostly advise, which is to make Fumes with hot things, as _Benzoin_, _Frankincense_, _Storax_, &c. from which I see no reason to expect any Virtue to destroy the Matter of _Infection_, or to keep particular Places from a Disposition to receive it; which are the only things here to be aimed at. The _Smoak_ of _Sulphur_, perhaps, as it abounds with an _acid Spirit_, which is found by Experience to be very _penetrating_, and to have a great Power to repress _Fermentations_, may promise some Service this way. AS hot Fumes appear to be generally _useless_, so the Steams of _Poisonous Minerals_ ought to be reckoned _dangerous_: and therefore I cannot but dissuade the use of all _Fumigations_ with _Mercury_ or _Arsenic_. Much less would I advise, as some have done, the wearing _Arsenic_ upon the _Pit_ of the _Stomach_ as an _Amulet_: since this Practice has been often attended with very ill Consequences, and is not grounded upon any good Authority, but probably derived from an Error in mistaking the _Arabian_ Word _Darsini_, which signifies _Cinnamon_, for the _Latin de Arsenico_, as I have formerly shewn[92]. THE next thing after the _Purifying of Houses_, is to consider by what Means particular _Persons_ may best defend themselves against _Contagion_: for the certain doing of which, it would be necessary to put the _Humours_ of the _Body_ into such a State, as not to be alterable by the _Matter of Infection_. But since this is no more to be hoped for, than a _Specific Preservative_ from the _Small-Pox_; the most that can be done, will be to keep the Body in such Order, that it may suffer as little as possible. The _first Step_ towards which, is to maintain a good State of Health, in which we are always least liable to suffer by any external Injuries; and not to weaken the Body by Evacuations. The _next_ is, to guard against all _Dejection of Spirits_, and _immoderate Passions_: for these we daily observe do expose Persons to the more common _Contagion_ of the _Small-Pox_. These Ends will be best answered by living with Temperance upon a good generous Diet, and by avoiding _Fastings_, _Watchings_, _extreme Weariness_, &c. _Another_ Defence is, to use whatever Means are proper to keep the _Blood_ from _Inflaming_. This, if it does not secure from _contracting Infection_, will at least make the _Effects_ of it less violent. The most proper Means for this, according to the Advice of the _Arabian_ Physicians, is the repeated Use of _acid Fruits_, as _Pomegranates_, _Sevil Oranges_, _Lemons_, _Tart Apples_, &c. But above all, of _Wine Vinegar_ in small Quantities, rendered grateful to the Stomach by the Infusion of some such Ingredients as _Gentian Root_, _Galangal_, _Zedoary_, _Juniper Berries_, &c. Which Medicines by correcting the _Vinegar_, and taking off some ill Effects it might otherwise have upon the Stomach, will be of good Use: but these, and all other hot _aromatic_ Drugs, though much recommended by Authors, if used alone, are most likely to do hurt by _over-heating_ the Blood. I CANNOT but recommend likewise the Use of _Issues_. The properest Place for them I take to be the inside of the Thigh a little above the Knee. Besides, the smoaking _Tobacco_, much applauded by some, since it may be put in Practice without any great Inconvenience, need not, I think, be neglected. BUT since none of these Methods promise any certain Protection; as _leaving_ the Place infected is the surest _Preservative_, so the next to it is to avoid, as much as may be, the _near Approach_ to the _Sick_, or to such as have but _lately recovered_. For the greater Security herein, it will be adviseable to avoid all _Crouds of People_. Nay, it should be the Care of the _Magistrate_ to prohibit all unnecessary _Assemblies_: and likewise to oblige all, who get over the Disease, to _confine_ themselves for some time, before they appear abroad. THE Advice to keep at a Distance from the _Sick_, is also to be understood of the _Dead Bodies_; which should be _buried_ at as great a Distance from Dwelling-Houses, as may be; put _deep_ in the Earth; and _covered_ with the exactest Care; but not with _Quick-Lime_ thrown in with them, as has been the Manner abroad: For I cannot but think that _This_, by _Fermenting_ with the putrefying Humours of the Carcases, may give rise to noxious Exhalations from the Ground. They should likewise be _carried out_ in the _Night_, while they are yet fresh and free from _Putrefaction_: Because a Carcase not yet beginning to corrupt, if kept from the Heat of the Day, hardly emits any kind of Steam or Vapour. AS for those, who must of necessity attend the _Sick_; some farther Directions should be added for their Use. These may be comprehended in two short Precepts. _One_ is, not to _swallow their Spittle_ while they are about the _Sick_, but rather to _spit_ it out: _The other_, not so much as to _draw in their Breath_, when they are very near them. The reason for both these appears from what has been said above concerning the Manner, in which a sound Person receives the Infection. But in case it be too difficult constantly to comply with these _Cautions_, _washing_ the _Mouth_ frequently with _Vinegar_, and _holding_ to the _Nostrils_ a _Sponge_ wet with the same, may in some measure supply their Place. THIS is the Sum of what I think most likely to stop the Progress of the _Disease_ in any Place, where it shall have got Admittance. If some few of these Rules refer more particularly to the City of _London_, with small Alteration they may be applied to any other _Place_. It now remains therefore only to lay down some Directions to hinder the Distemper's spreading from _Town_ to _Town_. The best Method for which, where it can be done, (for this is not practicable in very great Cities) is to cast up a _Line_ about the _Town infected_, at a convenient Distance; and by placing a _Guard_, to hinder People's passing from it without due Regulation, to other Towns: but not absolutely to forbid any to withdraw themselves, as was done in _France_, according to the usual Practice abroad; which is an unnecessary Severity, not to call it a Cruelty. I think it will be enough, if all, who desire to pass the _Line_, be permitted to do it, upon Condition they first perform _Quarantaine_ for about twenty Days in _Tents_, or other more convenient _Habitations_. But the greatest care must be taken, that none pass without conforming themselves to this Order; both by keeping diligent _Watch_, and by _punishing_, with the utmost Severity, any that shall either have done so, or attempt it. And the better to discover _such_, it will be requisite to oblige all, who travel in any Part of the Country, under the same Penalties, to carry with them _Certificates_ either of their coming from Places not _infected_, or of their passing the _Line_ by Permission. THIS I take to be a more effectual Method to keep the _Infection_ from spreading, than the absolute refusing a Passage to People upon any Terms. For when Men are in such imminent Danger of their Lives where they are, many, no doubt, if not otherwise allowed to escape, will use Endeavours to do it secretly, let the Hazard be ever so great. And it can hardly be, but some will succeed in their Attempts; as we see it has often happen'd in _France_, notwithstanding all their Care. But one that gets off thus clandestinely, will be more likely to carry the Distemper with him, than twenty, nay a hundred, that go away under the preceding Restrictions: especially because the _Infection_ of the Place, he flies from, will by this Management be rendered much more intense. For confining People, and shutting them up together in great Numbers, will make the Distemper rage with augmented Force, even to the increasing it beyond what can be easily imagined: as appears from the Account which the learned _Gassendus_[93] has given us of a memorable _Plague_, which happened at _Digne_ in _Provence_, where he lived, in the Year 1629. This was so terrible, that in one _Summer_, out of _ten thousand_ Inhabitants, it left but _fifteen hundred_, and of them all but _five_ or _six_ had gone through the _Disease_. And he assigns _this_, as the principal Cause of the great Destruction, that the Citizens were too closely confined, and not suffered so much as to go to their Country-Houses. Whereas in another _Pestilence_, which broke out in the same Place a Year and an half after, more Liberty being allowed, there did not die above _one hundred_ Persons. FOR these Reasons, I think, to allow People with proper _Cautions_ to remove from an infected Place, is the best Means to suppress the _Contagion_, as well as the most humane Treatment of the present Sufferers: and, under these Limitations, the Method of _investing_ Towns infected, which is certainly the most proper, that can be advised, to keep the Disease from spreading, will be no Inconvenience to the Places _surrounded_. On the contrary, it will rather be useful to them; since the Guard may establish such _Regulations_ for the Safety of those, who shall bring Provisions, as shall remove the Fears, which might otherwise discourage them. THE securing against all Apprehensions of this Kind, is of so great Importance, that in _Cities_ too large to be invested, as, for Example, this City of _London_, the _Magistrates_ must use all possible Diligence to supply this Defect, not only by setting up _Barriers_ without their City, but by making it in the most particular manner their Care to appoint such _Orders_ to be observed at them, as they shall judge will be most satisfactory to the Country about. THOUGH Liberty ought to be given to the _People_, yet no sort of _Goods_ must by any means be suffered to be carried over the _Line_, which are made of _Materials_ retentive of _Infection_. For in the present Case, when _Infection_ has seized any Part of a Country, much greater Care ought to be taken, that no _Seeds_ of the _Contagion_ be conveyed about, than when the Distemper is at a great Distance: because a _Bale of Goods_, which shall have imbibed the _Contagious Aura_ when pack'd up in _Turky_, or any remote Parts, when unpack'd here, may chance to meet with so healthful a Temperament of our Air, that it shall not do much hurt. But when the Air of any one of our Towns shall be so corrupted, as to maintain and spread the _Pestilence_ in it, there will be little Reason to believe, that the Air of the rest of the Country is in a much better State. FOR the same Reason _Quarantaines_ should more strictly be enjoined, when the _Plague_ is in a bordering Kingdom, than when it is more remote. THE Advice here given with respect to _Goods_, is not only abundantly confirmed from the Proofs, I have given above, that _Goods_ have a Power of spreading _Contagion_ to distant Places; but might be farther illustrated by many Instances of ill Effects from the Neglect of this Caution in Times of the _Plague_. I shall mention two, which happen'd among us during the last _Plague_. I have had occasion already to observe, that the _Plague_ was in _Poole_. It was carried to that Place by some _Goods_ contained in a _Pedlar's Pack_. The _Plague_ was likewise at _Eham_ in the Peak of _Derbyshire_, being brought thither by means of a Box sent from _London_ to a Taylor in that Village, containing some Materials relating to his Trade. There being several Incidents in this latter Instance, that will not only serve to establish in particular the Precepts I have been giving, in relation to Goods, but likewise all the rest of the Directions, that have been set down, for stopping the Progress of the _Plague_ from one Town to another; I shall finish this Chapter with a particular Relation of what passed in that Place. A Servant, who first opened the foresaid _Box_, complaining that the Goods were damp, was ordered to dry them at the Fire; but in doing it, was seized with the _Plague_, and died: the same Misfortune extended itself to all the rest of the Family, except the Taylor's Wife, who alone survived. From hence the Distemper spread about and destroyed in that Village, and the rest of the Parish, though a small one, between two and three hundred Persons. But notwithstanding this so great Violence of the Disease, it was restrained from reaching beyond that Parish by the Care of the Rector; from whose Son, and another worthy Gentleman, I have the Relation. This Clergyman advised, that the _Sick_ should be removed into _Hutts_ or _Barracks_ built upon the _Common_; and procuring by the Interest of the then Earl of _Devonshire_, that the People should be well furnished with Provisions, he took effectual Care, that no one should go out of the Parish: and by this means he protected his Neighbours from Infection with compleat Success. I have now gone through the chief Branches of _Preservation_ against the _Plague_, and shall conclude with some general Directions concerning the _Cure_. CHAP. III. _Of the Cure of the Plague._ IT appears, from what has been said in the beginning of this Discourse, that the _Plague_ and the _Small-Pox_ are Diseases, which bear a great Similitude to each other: both being _Contagious Fevers_ from _Africa_, and both attended with certain _Eruptions_. And as the _Eruptions_ or _Pustules_ in the _Small-Pox_ are of two Kinds, which has caused the Distemper to be divided into two Species, the _distinct_ and _confluent_; so we have shewn two Sorts of _Eruptions_ or _Tumors_ likewise to attend the _Plague_. In the first and mildest Kind of the _Small-Pox_ the _Pustules_ rise high above the Surface of the Skin, and contain a digested _Pus_; but in the other, the _Pustules_ lie flat, and are filled with an indigested _Sanies_. The two kinds of critical _Tumors_ in the _Plague_ are yet more different. In the most favourable Case the _Morbific Matter_ is thrown upon some of the softest _Glands_ near the Surface of the Body, as upon the _inguinal_, _axillary_, _parotid_, or _maxillary_ Glands: the first Appearance of which is a small Induration, great Heat, Redness, and sharp Pain near those Glands. These _Tumors_, if the Patient recover, like the _Pustules_ of the distinct _Small-Pox_, come to a just Suppuration, and thereby discharge the Disease. In worse Cases of the Distemper, either instead of these _Tumors_, or together with them, _Carbuncles_ are raised. The first Appearance of them is a very small indurated _Tumor_, not situate near any of the fore-mention'd Glands, with a dusky Redness, violent Heat, vast Pain, and a blackish _Spot_ in the middle of the _Tumor_. This _Spot_ is the beginning of a _Gangrene_, which spreads itself more and more as the _Tumor_ increases. BUT, besides the Agreement in these critical Discharges, the two Distempers have yet a more manifest Likeness in those _livid_ and _black Spots_, which are frequent in the _Plague_, and the Signs of speedy Death: for the same are sometimes found to attend the _Small-Pox_ with as fatal a Consequence; nay, I have seen Cases, when almost every _Pustule_ has taken this Appearance. Moreover, in both Diseases, when eminently malignant, Blood is sometimes voided by the Mouth, by Urine, or the like[94]. And we may farther add, that in both Death is usually caused by Mortifications in the _Viscera_. This has constantly been found in the _Plague_ by the Physicians in _France_: and I am convinced, from Accounts I have by me, of the Dissection of a great many, who had died of the _Small-Pox_, that it is the same in that Distemper. THIS Analogy between the two Diseases, not only shews us, that we cannot expect to cure the _Plague_ any more than the _Small-Pox_, by _Antidotes_ and _Specific Medicines_; but will likewise direct us in the Cure of the Distemper, with which we are less acquainted, by the Methods found useful in the other Disease, which is more familiar to us. IN short, as in the _Small-Pox_, the chief Part of the Management consists in clearing the _Primæ Viæ_ in the beginning; in regulating the Fever; and in promoting the natural Discharges: so in the _Plague_ the same Indications will have Place. The great Difference lies in this, that in the _Plague_ the Fever is often much more acute than in the other Distemper; the Stomach and Bowels are sometimes inflamed; and the Eruptions require external Applications, which to the _Pustules_ of the _Small-Pox_ are not necessary. WHEN the Fever is very acute, a cool _Regimen_, commonly so beneficial in the _Small-Pox_, is here still more necessary. But whenever the Pulse is languid, and the Heat not excessive, moderate Cordials must be used. THE Disposition of the Stomach and Bowels to be inflamed, makes _Vomiting_ not so generally safe in the _Plague_ as in the _Small-Pox_. The most gentle _Emetics_ ought to be used, none better than _Ipecacuanha_; and great Caution must be had, that the Stomach or Bowels are not inflamed, when they are administer'd: for if they are, nothing but certain Death can be expected from them: otherwise at the beginning they will be always useful. Therefore upon the first Illness of the Patient it must carefully be considered, whether there appear any Symptoms of an Inflammation having seized these Parts: if there are any Marks of this, all _Vomits_ must be omitted; if not, the Stomach ought to be gently moved. THE _Eruptions_, whether _glandular Tumors_, or _Carbuncles_, must not be left to the Course of Nature, as is done in the _Small-Pox_; but all Diligence must be used, by external Applications, to bring them to _Suppurate_. Both these _Tumors_ are to be treated in most respects alike. As soon as either of them appears, fix a _Cupping-Glass_ to it without _scarifying_; and when that is removed, apply a _suppurative Cataplasm_, or _Plaster_ of warm Gums. IF the _Tumors_ do not come to _Suppuration_, which the _Carbuncle_ seldom or never does; but if a thin _Ichor_ or Matter exudes through the Pores; or if the _Tumor_ feel soft to the Touch; or lastly, if it has a black _Crust_ upon it, then it must be _opened_ by _Incision_, either according to the length of the _Tumor_, or by a _crucial Section_. And if there is any Part _mortified_, as is usually in the _Carbuncle_, it must be _scarified_. This being done, it will be necessary to stop the Bleeding, and dry up the _Moisture_ with an _actual Cautery_, dressing the Wound afterwards with _Dossils_, and _Pledgits_ spread with the common _Digestive_ made with _Terebinth. cum Vitel. Ov._ and dip'd in a Mixture of two Parts of warmed Oil of _Turpentine_, and one Part of _Sp. Sal. Ammon._ or in _Bals. Terebinth._ and over all must be put a _Cataplasm of Theriac. Lond._ THE next Day the Wound ought to be well _bathed_ with a _Fomentation_ made of warm _aromatic_ Plants with Spirit of Wine in it; in order, if possible, to make the Wound digest, by which the _Sloughs_ will separate. After this the _Ulcer_ may be treated as one from an ordinary _Abscess_. FARTHER, in the _glandular Tumors_, when they suppurate, we ought not to wait, till the _Matter_ has made its way to the outer Skin, but to open it as soon as it is risen to any Bigness: because these _Tumors_ begin deep in the Gland, and often mortify, before the Suppuration has reached the Skin, as the Physicians in _France_ have found upon dissecting many dead Bodies. THIS is the Method in which the _Plague_ must be treated in following the natural Course of the Distemper. But the Patient in most Cases runs so great Hazard in this way, notwithstanding the utmost Care, that it would be of the greatest Service to Mankind under this Calamity, if some artificial Discharge for the corrupted Humours could be found out, not liable to so great Hazard, as the natural Way. To this Purpose _large Bleeding_ and _profuse Sweating_ are recommended to us upon some Experience. DR. _Sydenham_ tried both these Evacuations with good Success, and has made two very judicious Remarks upon them. The _first_ is, that they ought not to be attempted unless in the Beginning of the Sickness, before the natural Course of the Distemper has long taken Place: because otherwise we can only expect to put all into Confusion without any Advantage. His _other_ Observation is, that we cannot expect any prosperous Event from either of these Evacuations, unless they are very copious: there being no Prospect of surmounting so violent a Malignity without bolder Methods than must be taken in ordinary Cases. AS for _Bleeding_, by some Accounts from _France_, I have been informed, that some of the Physicians there have carried this Practice so far, as upon the first Day of the Distemper to begin with bleeding about twelve Ounces, and then to take away four or five Ounces every two Hours after. They pretend to extraordinary Success from this Method, with the Assistance only of cooling _Ptisanes_, and such like Drinks, which they give plentifully at the same Time. Such profuse Bleeding as this may perhaps not suit with our Constitutions so well as with theirs; for in common Cases they use this Practice much more freely than we: Yet we must draw Blood with a more liberal Hand than in any other Case, if we expect Success from it. I shall excuse myself from defining exactly how large a Quantity of Blood is requisite to be drawn, for want of particular Experience: but I think fit to give this Admonition, that, in so desperate a Case as this, it is more prudent to run some hazard of exceeding, than to let the Patient perish for want of due Evacuation. AS for _Sweating_, which is the other Method proposed, it ought, no doubt, to be continued without Intermission full twenty-four Hours, as Dr. _Sydenham_ advises. He is so particular in his Directions about it, that I need say little. I shall only add, that _Theriaca_, and the like solid Medicines, being offensive to the Stomach, are not the most proper _Sudorifics_. I should rather commend an Infusion in boiling Water of _Virginia Snake-Root_, or, in want of this, of some other warm _Aromatic_, with the Addition of about a fourth Part of _Aqua Theriacalis_, and a proper Quantity of Syrup of Lemons to sweeten it. From which, in Illnesses of the same kind with the _Goal Fever_, which approaches the nearest to the _Pestilence_, I have seen very good Effects. WHETHER either of these Methods, of _Bleeding_, or of _Sweating_, will answer the Purpose intended by them, must be left to a larger Experience to determine; and the Trial ought by no means to be neglected, especially in those Cases, which promise but little Success from the natural Course of the Disease. _FINIS._ [Illustration] Footnotes: [1] See the Dedication. [2] _Vide_ Huet. De rebus ad eum pertinentibus, _pag._ 23. [3] Observations sur la Peste de Marseille, p. 38, 39, 40. [4] Ibid. _p._ 113. [5] _Vid._ Philos. Transactions No. 370. [6] Le Journal des Sçavans, 1722. _pag._ 279. [7] _Vid._ Dissertation sur la Contagion de la Peste. A Toulouse 1724. [8] _Vid._ Mechanical Account of Poisons, _pag._ 24. [9] Vid. Philos. Trans. No. 372. [10] _Vid._ Lettre de Messieurs _Le Moine_ et _Bailly_. [11] Astruc, Dissertation sur la Contagion de la Peste. A Toulouse, 1724. 8o. [12] _Diemerbroek_ De Peste, _p._ 120. [13] In these Words, _Where it can be done_. [14] _Vid._ the _Gazettes_ of the Years 1665. _and_ 1666. [15] Celsus de Medic. in Praesat. Morbos ad iram deorum immortalium relatos esse, et ab iisdem opem posci solitam. [16] Libr. De morbo sacro; et libr. De aëre, locis, et aquis. [17] Observat. et Reflex, touchant la Nature, etc. de la Peste de Marseilles, pag. 47. et suiv. [18] Journal de la Contagion à Marseilles, pag. 6. [19] Lib. 2. +Hoti heteros aph' heterou, therapeias anapimplamenoi, hôsper ta probata ethnêskon; kai ton pleiston phthoron touto enepoiei; eite gar mê theloien dediotes allêlois prosienai, apôllunto erêmoi, kai oikiai pollai ekenôthêsan aporia tou therapeusantos; eite prosioien, diephtheironto, kai malista hoi aretês ti metapoioumenoi.+ The beginning of this Passage, as it here stands, though it is found thus in all the Editions of _Thucydides_, is certainly faulty, +therapeias anapimplamenoi+ being no good Sense. The Sentence I shall presently cite from _Aristotle_ shews that this may be rectified only by removing the Comma after +heterou+, and placing it after +therapeias+, for +prosanapimplêmi+ in _Aristotle_ absolutely used signifies _to infect_. With this Correction, the Sense of the Place will be as follows: _The People took Infection by their Attendance on each other, dying like Folds of Sheep. And this Effect of the Disease was the principal Cause of the great Mortality: for either the Sick were left destitute, their Friends fearing to approach them, by which means Multitudes of Families perished without Assistance; or they infected those who relieved them, and especially such, whom a Sense of Virtue and Honour obliged most to their Duty._ The Sense here ascribed to the word +anapimplêmi+ is confirmed yet more fully by a Passage in _Livy_, where he describes the Infection attending a Plague or Camp Fever, which infested the Armies of the _Carthaginians_ and _Romans_ at the Siege of _Syracuse_, in such words, as shew him to have had this Passage of _Thucydides_ in view; for he says, _aut neglecti desertique, qui incidissent, morerentur; aut assidentes curantesque eadem vi morbi repletos secum traherent_. Lib. xxv. c. 26. [20] L. 6. v. 1234. ----nullo cessabant tempore apisci Ex aliis alios avidi contagia morbi. Et v. 1241. Qui fuerant autem praesto, Contagibus ibant. [21] Sect. I. +Dia ti pote ho loimos monê tôn nosôn malista tous plêsiazontas tois therapeuomenois prosanapimplêsi?+ [22] +Peri diaphoras pyretôn, Bib. 1.+ [23] De Peste, c. iv. annot. 6. [24] Evagrii Histor. Eccles. l. iv. c. 29. [25] Gastaldi De avertenda et profliganda Peste, p. 117. [26] Ibid. p. 118. [27] Ibid. p. 117. [28] See Bills of Mortality for the Year 1665. [29] The Sweating Sickness. [30] Nat. Hist. l. vii. c. 50. [31] Histor. l. ii. [32] Histor. Ecclesiast. l. iv. c. 29. [33] De Bello Persico, l. ii. c. 22. [34] Vid. Hodges De Peste. [35] Vid. Istorie di Matteo Villanni, l. I. c. 2. [36] Mezeray Hist. de France, Tom. i. p. 798. [37] Villani, loco citato. [38] Vid. Huet. Histoire du Commerce des Anciens, p. 88. [39] Relation Historique de tout ce qui s'est passé à Marseille pendant la derniere Peste. [40] Vid. Serv. Comment. in Virgil. �neid, l. iii. v. 57. [41] This was a kind of _Expiatory Sacrifice_, as the _Scape-Goat_ among the Jews, _Levit._ xvi. And the Wretches thus devoted to dye for the Sins of the People were called +Katharmata+, _Purgations_. Vid. Aristophan. in Plut. ver. 454. et in Equit. ver. 1133. et Scholiast. ibid. _Suidas_ adds that when the Sacrificed Person was cast into the Water, these Words were pronounced, +Peripsêma hêmôn genou+, _Be thou our Cleansing_. And I observe, by the by, that the Apostle _Paul_, 1 _Corinth._ iv. 13. alluding very probably to this wicked Custom, makes use of both these Words, where speaking of himself in the plural number, he says, +Hôs perikatharmata tou kosmou egenêthêmen, pantôn peripsêma+; for some of the best MSS. instead of +Os perikatharmata+, read +Hôsper+, or +Hôsperei katharmata+; that is, _We have been looked upon as Wretches fit only to be Sacrificed for the Public good, and cast out of the World by way of Attonement for the Sins of the whole Society._ [42] Vid. Le Brun Voyage au Levant, c. 38. [43] Vid. Ludolf. Histor. �thiop. lib. i. c. 13. et D. August. De civitat. Dei, lib. iii. c. ult. [44] Vid. Ludolf. Histor. �thiop. lib. i. c. 5. et Comment. [45] J. Leo Hist. Afric. lib. i. [46] Lib. vi. v 1100. [47] Rhas. et Avicen. [48] Essay on Poysons, p. 178. [49] Cicero de Nat. Deor. lib. i. § 36. speaking of these Birds, says: _Avertunt Pestem ab Aegypto, cum volucres angues ex vastitate Libyae vento Africo invectas interficiunt atque consumunt; ex quo fit ut illae nec morsu vivae noceant, nec odore mortuae._ [50] Newton's Optics, Qu. 18 to 24. [51] Gastaldi, De Peste, p. 116. [52] Journal de ce qui s'est passé à Marseilles, _etc._ [53] Vid. The London Gazette, July 23, 1743. [54] Kircher, Langius, _&c._ [55] Toulon, Traité de la Peste. [56] _Hippocr._ Epid. l. iii. That _Hippocrates_ describes here the Constitution of Air accompanying the true _Plague_, contrary to what some have thought, _Galen_ testifies in his Comment upon this Place, in libr. De Temper. l. i. c. 4. and in lib. De differentiis Febr. lib. i. c. 4. [57] Vid. _Mercurial._ Prælect. De Pestilent. [58] Notitia Eccles. Diniensis. [59] Histor. lib. lxii. [60] Sydenham De Peste. [61] Vid. Caium, De Febr. Ephemer. Britan. and Lord _Bacon_'s History of _Henry_ VII. [62] Pag. 162. Edit. Lovan. [63] Vid. Rondinelli Contagio in Firenze, et Summonte Histor. di Napoli. [64] Lord _Herbert_'s History of _Henry_ VIII. [65] Thuani Histor. lib. 5. [66] Lord _Verulam_'s History of _Henry_ VII. [67] Vide Sydenham, De Peste, An. 1665. [68] Boccaccio Decameron. Giornat. prim. [69] De Contagione, l. iii. c. 7. [70] Observat. l. vi. Schol. ad Observ. 22. [71] Diemerbroeck, De Peste, l. 1. c. 4. [72] Memorials presented by the Deputies of the Council of Trade, in _France_, to the Royal Council, Pag. 44 and 45. [73] Alex. Benedict. De Peste, cap. 3. [74] In a Paper of Advice against the _Plague_, laid before the King and Council by Sir _Theod. Mayerne_ in the Year 1631. _MS._ [75] Hodges, De Peste. [76] Vid. _Directions for the Cure of the_ Plague _by the_ College _of_ Physicians; _and Orders by the_ Lord Mayor _and_ Aldermen _of_ London, _published_ 1665. [77] Vid. a Journal of the Plague in 1665. by a Citizen. London, 1722. [78] Discourse upon the Air, by _Tho. Cock_. [79] Vid. The shutting up Houses soberly debated, _Anno_ 1665. [80] Muratori governo della Peste, lib. I. c. 5. [81] Cardin. Gastaldi, De avertendâ Peste, c. 10. [82] Journal de ce qui s'est passé à Marseilles, &c. p. 9, 10, 11. [83] De Pestilent. cap. 21. [84] Camden. Annal. Regin. Elizab. [85] Lord _Verulam_, Natural History, Cent. 10. Num. 194. [86] Plutarch lib. de Isid. et Osir. [87] De Peste, c. 22. [88] Hodges, De Peste, pag. 24. [89] Journal de la Peste de Marseilles, pag. 19. et Relation Historique de tout ce qui s'est passé à Marseilles pendant la derniere Peste, pag. 77. [90] Rhazes, De re Medica, lib. 4. c. 24. & Avicenn. Can. Med. lib. 4. c. 1. [91] Gaudereau Relation des Especes de la Peste que reconnoissent les Orientaux. [92] Mech. Account of Poisons, Essay III. [93] Notitia Ecclesiae Diniensis. [94] Vid. Observ. et Reflex. sur la Peste de Marseilles, p. 333. Transcriber's Notes: In the original text, the Preface is printed in italics. For ease of reading, non-italicized text in this section is represented by =text=. In the remainder of the text, passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. Long "s" has been modernized. The original text includes Greek characters. For this text version these letters have been replaced with +transliterations+. The following misprints have been corrected: "Phsician" corrected to "Physician" (page 4) "that that" corrected to "that" (page 50) "Qarantaine" corrected to "Quarantaine" (page 92) "the the" corrected to "the" (page 95) Other than the corrections listed above, inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original. 
29631	----	Transcriber's Notes: 1) Mousul/Mosul, piastre/piaster, Shiraz/Sheeraz, Itch-Meeazin/Ech-Miazin/Etchmiazin, each used on numerous occasions; 2) Arnaouts/Arnaoots, Dr. Beagrie/Dr. Beagry, Beirout/Bayrout/Beyraut(x2), Saltett/Sallett, Shanakirke/Shammakirke, Trebizond/Trebisand - once each. All left as in original text. 3) M^R = a superscripted "R". * * * * * JOURNAL OF A RESIDENCE AT BAGDAD, &c, &c. LONDON: DENNETT, PRINTER, LEATHER LANE. JOURNAL OF A RESIDENCE AT BAGDAD, DURING THE YEARS 1830 AND 1831, BY M^R. ANTHONY N. GROVES, MISSIONARY. LONDON: JAMES NISBET, BERNERS STREET. M DCCC XXXII. * * * * * INTRODUCTION. This little work needs nothing from us to recommend it to attention. In its incidents it presents more that is keenly interesting, both to the natural and to the spiritual feelings, than it would have been easy to combine in the boldest fiction. And then it is not fiction. The manner in which the story is told leaves realities unencumbered, to produce their own impression. It might gratify the imagination, and even aid in enlarging our practical views, to consider such scenes as possible, and to fancy in what spirit a Christian might meet them; but it extends our experience, and invigorates our faith, to know that, having actually taken place, it is thus that they have been met. The first missionaries were wont, at intervals, to return from their foreign labours, and relate to those churches whose prayers had sent them forth, "all things that God had done with them" during their absence. To the Christians at Antioch, there must have been important edification, as well as satisfaction to their affectionate concern about the individuals, and about the cause, in the narrative of Paul and Barnabas. Nor would the states of mind experienced, and the spirit manifested, by the narrators themselves be less instructive, than the various reception of their message by various hearers. In these pages, in like manner, Mr. Groves contributes to the good of the Church, an important fruit of his mission, were it to yield no other. He had cast himself upon the Lord. To Him he had left it to direct his path; to give him what things He knew he had need of, and whether outward prospects were bright or gloomy, to be the strength of his heart and his portion for ever. The publication of his former little Journal was the erection of his Eben Ezer. Hitherto, said he to us in England, the Lord hath helped me. And now, after a prolonged residence among a people with whom, in natural things, he can have no communion, and who, towards his glad tidings of salvation, are as apathetic as is compatible with the bitterest contempt; after having had, during many weeks, his individual share of the suffering, and his mind worn with the spectacle, of a city strangely visited at once with plague, and siege, and inundation, and internal tumult; widowed, and not without experience of "flesh and heart fainting and failing," he again "blesses God for all the way he has led him,"[1] tells us that "the Lord's great care over him in the abundant provision for all his necessities, enables him yet further to sing of his goodness;"[2] and while his situation makes him say, "what a place would this be to be alone in now" if without God, he adds, "but with Him, this is better than the garden of Eden."[3] "The Lord is my only stay, my only support; and He is a support indeed."[4] It is remarkable, that at a time when the fear of pestilence has agitated the people of this country, and when the tottering fabric of society threatens to hurl down upon us as dire a confusion as that which has surrounded our brother, in a country hitherto regarded so remote from all comparison with our own; at a time when the records of the seasons at which the terrible voice of God has sounded loudest in our capital, are republished as appropriate to the contemplation of Christians at the existing crisis;[5]--this volume should have been brought before the Public, by circumstances quite unconnected with this train of God's dealings and threatenings to our land. The Christians of Britain ought to consider, that there is a warning voice of Providence, not only in the tumults of the people, and in the terrors of the cholera around them, but even in the publication of this Journal. It is not for nothing that God has moved Mr. Groves, as it were, to an advanced post, where he might encounter the enemy before them. The alarm may have, in a measure, subsided,[6] but if the people of God are to be ever patiently waiting for the coming of their conquering King, this implies a patient preparedness for those signs of his coming, the clouds and darkness that are to go before him, in the very midst of which they must be able to lift up their heads because their redemption draweth nigh. To provide for the worst contingencies is a virtue, not a weakness, in the soldier. That Christian will not keep his garments who forgets, that in this life, he is a soldier always. No army is so orderly in peace, or so triumphant upon lesser assaults, as that which is ready always for the extremest exigencies of war. To those who are looking for the glorious appearing of our great God and Saviour, Jesus Christ, this volume will exhibit indications of the advancement of the world towards the state in which he shall find it at his coming. The diffusion in the east of European notions and practices; the desire on the part of the rulers to possess themselves of the advantages of western intellect and skill; and on the side of the governed, the conviction of the comparative security and comfort of English domination; the vastly increased intercourse between those nations and the west, and the proposals for still further accelerating and facilitating that intercourse: all these things mark the rapid tendency, of which we have so many other signs, towards the production of one common mind throughout the human race, to issue in that combination for a common resistance of God, which, as of old, when the people were one, and had all one language, and it seemed that nothing could be restrained from them which they had imagined to do,--shall cause the Lord to come down and confound their purpose. Already has this unity of views and aims, with marvellous rapidity, prevailed in the European and American world; the press, the steam-engine by land and water, the multiplication of societies and unions, portend an advancement in it, to which nothing can set limits but the intervention of God: and now it appears that the mountain-fixedness of Asiatic prejudice and institution shall suddenly be dissolved, and absorbed into the general vortex. And to those who may have suspected, that the prospect of the return of Jesus of Nazareth to our earth for vengeance and expurgation of evil first, and then for occupation of rule, _under_ the face of the whole heaven, is but a speculative subject for curious minds, this little book presents matter of reflection. By circumstances of such urgent personal concernment, as those in which Mr. Groves and his departed wife have been placed, the merely speculative part of religion is put to flight. But we shall find them in the midst of confusion, and bereavement, and horror, clinging to this one hope for themselves and for the world, that the Lord cometh to reign, wherefore the earth shall be glad; deriving from this hope a delight in God, in the midst of all that seems adverse to such a sentiment, which, if it be not a proof of practical power in a doctrine, what is practical? On some few points, Mr. Groves has given a somewhat detailed expression of his own sentiments. One of the most important of these is re-considered in the notes by the writer of this introduction. Another, on which the interest of many has already been strongly excited, is the recognition of those men as ministers of God, who do not utter the word of his truth, and who are admitted to speak without the Spirit of his truth. The question, encompassed as it has been with difficulties foreign to itself, is but a narrow one. The preaching of the Gospel _is_ an ordinance of God. The preaching of what is not the Gospel is _no_ ordinance of God; and affords me no opportunity of shewing my respect for divine ordinances by my attendance upon it. That men possessing the Holy Ghost should confer spiritual gifts by the laying on of hands on those who in faith receive it, _is_ an ordinance of God: that men, not having the Holy Ghost, should lay hands on others for spiritual gifts, is _no_ ordinance of God. If the outward fact of what is named ordination, determines me to regard as now made of God a teacher, a pastor, an evangelist, a bishop, him who, to all intelligent and spiritual perception, is what he was, in error, and ignorance, and carnality; this is not respect for divine ordinances at all, but a faith in the _opus operatum_, a faith in transubstantiation transferred to men, denying the truth of my own perception, and clinging to the conclusion of my superstition, just as in the mass the senses are denied, and bread and wine visibly unaltered, are called flesh and blood. The arguments by which this notion is supported, are too complicated, and too contemptuous of unity or consistency, to be meddled with in our limited space. That Christ bade men observe what the Scribes and Pharisees taught on the authority of the law of Moses, is made a reason for reverencing what is taught on _no_ divine authority: Scribes and Pharisees, who pretended to no divine ordination, but rested their claims on their knowledge, are made specimens of the respect due to ordination, in the case of such whose ignorance and unsound teaching are allowed. But were not the Scribes and Pharisees in many things ignorant and unsound? Yes, truly; but were these the things of which the Lord said expressly, these things observe and do? To tell us that we must observe and do what is according to Scripture, however bad the men who teach it, ordained or unordained alike; what has this to do with ordination? True, this is no excuse for those who prostitute the form and name of God's ordinance, and know that it is prostituted: who say, "receive ye the Holy Ghost," and would laugh as being supposed to confer the Holy Ghost: but there is no necessity for running from this crime, to the error of which we have spoken. Let us acknowledge our wretchedness, and misery, and poverty, and blindness, and nakedness. When the laws were transgressed, and the everlasting covenant broken; then the _ordinance_ was _changed_, as Isaiah foretold it should,[7] among the causes why the earth is defiled under the inhabitants thereof. The Apostolic Epistles contain little, if any thing, to establish the pastoral authority in a single person of each church or congregation: and the omission of all allusion to such an office is often very remarkable from the occasion seeming to assure us, that it would have been mentioned had it existed. The Epistles of the Lord to the seven churches are therefore resorted to for proof of the existence and nature of the place of a single pastor with peculiar and exclusive powers. But neither there nor elsewhere is the fact of ordination once referred to, in relation to the receiving or rejection of those who claimed to speak in the name of Christ. In these very Epistles there is a commendation for disregarding for the truth's sake the highest titles of ecclesiastical office. "Thou canst not bear them which are evil: thou hast _tried_ them which say they are apostles, and are not, and hast found them liars."[8] I believe, "not to bear them which are evil" pastors, evangelists or apostles, is as commendable in England as in Ephesus in the eye of the Head of the Churches. Is there a syllable in the Bible to lead us to suppose that these liars were detected by any other means than those which Paul had already taught the Church? "Though _we_, or an angel from heaven, preach any other gospel unto you than that which we have preached unto you, let him be accursed." As for the ordinance, such passages as Titus i. 9, make _selection_ a part of that ordinance: the bishop is to be one "holding fast the word of truth as he hath been taught." Now, on what authority shall this part of the ordinance, viz. selection, be omitted, and no flaw follow: while the presence or omission of a manual act in certain hands is to constitute the reality or absence of Divine ordination? A. J. SCOTT. _Woolwich, Aug. 16th, 1832._ [1] Page 155. [2] Page 169. [3] Page 122. [4] Page 146. [5] See "Narratives of two Families exposed to the great Plague of London, 1665; with Conversations on a Religions Preparation for Pestilence," and "God's Terrible Voice in the City," by Vincent; both republished by Rev. J. Scott, of Hull. [6] And yet what security is afforded by a present abatement of the visitation? In Glasgow, cholera was regarded as departing, and all but departed. The number of cases has since risen, for some time, to above 300 at once, and the deaths not seldom to between one and two hundred a day, in a population small compared with that of London. [7] Chap. xxiv. ver. 5. [8] Rev. ii. 2. * * * * * JOURNAL OF A RESIDENCE AT BAGDAD. _Bagdad, April 2, 1830._ We begin to find that our school-room is not large enough to contain the children, and we have been obliged therefore to add to it another. We have now fifty-eight boys and nine girls, and might have many more girls had we the means for instructing them; but we have as yet no other help than the schoolmaster's wife, who knows very little of any thing, and therefore is very unfit to bring those into order who have been educated without any order. But I have no doubt of the Lord's sending us, in due time, sufficient help of all kinds. _April 3._--An Armenian merchant from Egypt and Syria, was with us to-day; a Roman Catholic by profession, but an infidel in fact. He said it was all one to him, whether men were Armenian, Syrian, Mohammedan, or Jew, so that they were good. He had left Beirout about two months, and said there were none of the missionaries there then; but that he knew there the Armenian Catholic bishop, and an Armenian priest, who had left the Roman Catholic church, and who were in Lebanon--he said they were friends of his, and very good men. We feel interested in receiving some missionary intelligence, to know whether or not Syria is still deserted. We have received from Shushee a parcel of our Lord's Sermon on the Mount, in the vulgar Armenian. We were very much rejoiced at this, as it enabled us to supersede, in some little degree, the old language; but in determining that every boy sufficiently advanced, should learn a verse a day, we met with some opposition from two or three of the elder boys, and I think two will leave the school in consequence; but the Lord will easily enable us to triumph over all; of this I have no doubt, at all events I see my way clear come what will. Captain Strong has taken a letter for me to Archdeacon Parr, to ask for some school materials, such as slates and slate pencils for the school. I feel daily more established in the conviction, that our Lord has led us to this place, and that he will make our way apparent, as we go on in faithful waiting upon him. I cannot sufficiently thank God for sending my dear brother Pfander with me, for had it not been for him, I could not have attempted any thing, so that all that has now been done, must rather be considered his than mine, as I have only been able to look on and approve. But if the Lord's work is advanced, I can praise him by whomsoever it may be promoted. _June 12._--The circumstances of our situation are now going on so regularly, that there is little to write about, more than that the Lord's mercies are new every morning. Since Captain Strong left us, there has arrived here a Mr. and Mrs. Mignan, and another gentleman, named Elliot, neither of whom seem to know, at present, whether they will remain here or go on. The capidji or officer, who came from Constantinople, bringing a firman to the Pasha, is desired to take back with him a drawing of one of the soldiers whom Major T. is organizing for the Pasha. Major T.'s son is just arrived from India, and he also is going to organize a body of horse; in fact, every thing is tending to the establishment of an European influence, and it may be the Lord's pleasure thus to prepare the way for his servants to publish the tidings which the sheep will hear. This tendency to adopt European manners and improvements, is not only manifested in the military department, but in others more important. The Pasha has a great desire to introduce steam navigation on these two beautiful rivers. A proposal has been made from an agent of the Bristol Steam Company, to the Pasha, through Major T., to have a steam vessel in the first place between Bussorah and this place; and secondly, if possible, to extend the navigation, either by the old canal or by a new one, into the Euphrates and up to Beer. This navigation will bring one within three days of the Mediterranean,[9] without the fatigue, danger, and loss of time to which travellers are exposed in the present journey. It will be a most important opening for missionaries; for should this mode of conveyance once get established, the route by Constantinople would almost cease, and some arrangement would soon be made for going from Scanderoon to the different important stations in the Mediterranean. [9] Impossible--within three days of Aleppo must be meant. There is a gentleman here on his return to England, a Mr. Bywater, whom Mr. Taylor wishes to undertake a survey of the Euphrates, from Beer to the canal, which connects it with this place. Till within about twenty years, heavy artillery came to this place by that river, so there can be but little doubt that a steam packet would be able to go; though it might not be of the same size as the one between this and Bussorah. The voyage between these places backwards and forwards, it is proposed to do in eight days, which now takes about six or seven weeks, and during the whole of the returning voyage, which is long, being against the current, you are at present exposed to the attacks of the Arabs every hour, whereas the steam packet would have nothing to fear from them. In fact, I feel the Lord is preparing great changes in the heart of this nation, or rather from one end of it to the other; and the events which have taken place in that part of the empire around Constantinople, have tended to the hastening on of these changes. Among the boys that come to me to learn English, I have one, the son of a rich Roman Catholic jeweller of this place. So important is the commercial relation between this place and India become, that the number who wish to learn English of me, is much greater than I can possibly take charge of, as this is not with me a primary object; but it is a most important field of labour, and one that might have, I think, very interesting results, for they will bear opposition to their own views more easily in another language than in their own: it does not come to them like a book written to oppose them, and thus truth may slide gently in. My Moolah, who is teaching me Arabic, and whose son I teach English, told me, that in two or three years he would send his son to England to complete his knowledge of English. Now to those who know nothing of the Turks, this may not appear remarkable, but to those who do, it will exhibit a striking breaking down of prejudice in this individual. There is a famous man here, a Mohammedan by profession, but in reality an infidel, who is the head of a pantheistic sect, who believe God to be every thing and every thing to be God, so that he readily admits, on this notion, the divinity of our blessed Lord. Infidelity is extending on every side in these countries. My Moolah said, that now a-days, if you asked a Christian whether he were a Christian, he would say, Yes; but if you asked him who Christ was, or why he was attached to him, he did not know. And in the same manner he said, if you asked a Mohammedan a similar question, he would also say, he did not know, but that he went as others went; but, he added, now all the _Sultans_ were sending out men to teach, the Sultan of England--the Sultan of Stamboul, &c. By this I imagine his impression is, that we are sent out by the king of England. Our school is, on the whole, going on very well. We have introduced classes, and a general table of good and bad behaviour, of lessons, of absence, and of attendance; and they all go on, learning a portion of Scripture every day in the vulgar dialect. This is something. I am beginning to feel my acquaintance with Arabic increase under the plan which I am now pursuing with the boys who learn English. They bring me Arabic phrases, and as far as my knowledge extends, I give them the meaning in English; and when that fails, I write it down for inquiry from the Moolah next day, and then by asking words in Arabic every day for the boys to give me the English, I at last get the expressions so impressed on my memory, that when I want them they arise almost without thought. Another advantage from the boys bringing phrases and words, is that they bring such as they use in the spoken Arabic, which is very different from the written. This is a plan I would recommend, whenever it can be adopted, to every missionary; for there is a stimulus to the memory in having the questions to ask every day, and having only the English written down, which nothing else gives. We have lately had a little proof of Turkish honesty. The man who sells us wood, charged us seven tagar, and brought us somewhat less than three. Our souls are much refreshed by the contemplation of our Lord's coming to complete the mystery of godliness. Oh, how long shall it be, ere he be admired in all them that believe. _June 26._--We have heard to-day from Mrs. G.'s brother J. from Alexander Casan Beg, mentioned in a preceding part of my journal, and from Mr. Glen. All our various accounts were welcome. Some of the information contained in them enables us to rejoice in those we love naturally, some in those we love spiritually. In the letters of Alexander C. Beg, and Mr. Glen, I have received the intelligence that the former would not now be able to join us, as he had previously received an offer from the Scottish Missionary Society, to become a missionary of theirs in India; for certain reasons, however, he does not at present seem able to accept it. Concerning this Mohammedan convert, it is impossible not to feel the deepest interest. We have just had some interesting conversation with a poor Jacobite, who is come from Merdin, with a letter from his matran or bishop, about two churches which the Roman Catholics have taken away from the Jacobites. His description of their state is striking. He says, the Pasha of Merdin cares neither for this Pasha, who is his immediate superior, nor for the Sultan; and that he encourages these disputes among the Christians, that he may get money from both parties, who bribe him by turns. He says, that the Yezidees, when they see a Syrian priest coming, will get off their horse and salute him, and kiss his hand, and that the Kourds are a much worse people than they, but that Roman Catholics are worse than either.--I was surprised to find that the Roman Catholic bishop has a school of fifty girls learning to read Arabic, and to work at their needle. We have heard to-day that the Mohammedans, inhabitants of the town, are much dissatisfied with the Sultan and with the Pasha, for introducing European customs. They say, they are already Christians, and one of them asked Mr. Swoboda, if it was true that the old missid or mosque near us, was to become again a Christian church, and whether the beating of the drums every evening after the European manner at the seroy or palace, did not mean that the Pasha was becoming a Christian. And they say, that the military uniforms now introducing, are haram or unlawful. Major T. has induced the Pasha to have a regiment dressed completely in the European fashion, and is now forming some horse regiments on the same plan. All these things will clearly tend to one of these two results--either to the overthrow of Mohammedanism by the introduction of European manners and intelligence, or to a tremendous crisis in endeavouring to throw off the burden which the great mass of the lower and bigoted Mohammedans abhor. But still the Lord knows, and has given his angels charge to seal his elect before these things come to pass. Our attention has again been directed to the subject of steam navigation between Bombay and England, by the arrival of Mr. James Taylor from Bombay. This gentleman has been engaged for some time in undertaking to effect steam communication by the Red Sea: with the view of making final arrangements on the subject he had just been to Bombay, and wished to have returned by the Red Sea, but difficulties arising, he determined to come by way of the Persian Gulf and this city, and to cross the desert. On his arrival here, he was made acquainted with the previous plans for steam navigation on these rivers; and he quickly perceived that if the river were navigable, and no other difficulties arose, the preference must be given to this route, as being at least ten days shorter to Bombay, and of the thirty or thirty-five days which remained, seven, or perhaps five, would be spent on two beautiful rivers, with opportunities of obtaining from its banks vegetables and fruits; and instead of the Red Sea, which is rocky, stormy, and little known, there would be the Persian Gulf, which has been surveyed in every part, and is peculiarly free from storms. From the mouth of the Persian Gulf, the boat would go direct to Bombay instead of going down to Columbo from the mouth of the Red Sea, and then up the western side of the Peninsula of India. In Egypt also they would have five days journey over the desert, whilst from Aleppo they would only have two to a place on the Euphrates, called Beer. Fuel also in abundance might be obtained here, either from wood or bitumen; in fact, Mr. Taylor feels that if it can be accomplished, it would save expense on the voyage. The only two difficulties that oppose themselves to this route are, first, the Arabs, and secondly, whether there be a sufficiency of water in the rivers. As to the Arabs, a steamer has nothing to fear, for by keeping mid-stream at the rate they go, no Arab would touch them or attempt to do it. The present vessels they have no power over in going down, but when they are dragged up by Arab trackers, then they are easily attacked. As to the second objection, the want of water, there appears no insurmountable difficulty here, as all the heavy ordnance from Constantinople were brought down the Euphrates from Beer, on rafts, or, as they are called, kelecks; these, independent of their width, being greater than that of a steamer, actually draw more water when heavily laden. There does not appear to be more than one place where there is a doubt, and that is at El Dar, the ancient Thapsacus, where we understand at one season, when the waters are at the lowest point, a camel can hardly go over; but still, perhaps, further information may be desirable. The Pasha has entered very heartily into this plan, and offered either to clear out an old canal, or to cut a new one between this river and the Euphrates. The mouth of the Euphrates is one extended marsh, which forms the best rice-grounds of the country. The distance between the two rivers at this place is about thirty miles. Mr. James Taylor thinks that travellers may reach England from this in twenty-three days, and Bombay in twelve: should this ever take place, steam boats will be passing twice a month up and down this river with passengers from India and England; the effects of such a change, both moral, spiritual, and political, none can tell, but that they must be great every one may see. I have been this morning talking with my Moolah about the two rivers, as to their capability of steam navigation. He decidedly gives the preference to the Euphrates, and says, that the average depth is the height of two men, or ten feet--even till considerably above Beer; but that the Tigris, above Mousul, is very shallow.[10] [10] We have since discovered, by a survey of the Tigris, that in its present state it will be only navigable to Mosul during seven months in the year, from ledges of rock that pass across the river. This possibility thus set before us of seeing those we love, and many of the Lord's dear servants here, is most comforting and encouraging: this place would become a frontier post of Christian labour, from which we might daily hope to send forth labourers to China, India, and elsewhere, and the work of publishing the testimony of Jesus be accomplished before the Lord come. However, we are in the Lord's hands, and he will bring to pass what concerns his own honour, and we will wait and see: a much greater opening has taken place since we came here than we could have hoped for, and much more will yet open upon us than we can now foresee. Things cannot remain as they are, whether they continue to advance as they are now doing, or whether bigotry be allowed to make a last vain effort to regain her ancient position; still some decided change must be the final result of the present state of things. From the Bible Society at Bombay, I have received accounts of their having sent me two English Bibles, fifty Testaments, twenty Arabic Bibles, fifty Syriac Gospels, fifty Syriac Testaments, fifty Armenian Bibles, one hundred Persian Psalters, seventy-five Persian Genesis, and six Hebrew Testaments. In this are omitted those which are most important to us, the Chaldean, the Persian, and the Arabic Testament; but perhaps when they receive a supply from the Parent Society, they will then forward these likewise. I have also received a letter from Severndroog, from the first tutor of my little boys, Mr. N., a true and dear person in the Lord, and he mentions that they had, since he last wrote, admitted to their church, four Hindoos and two Roman Catholics, and that one Hindoo still remains, whom they hope soon to admit. The following is the estimate of the time which the voyages, by the Red Sea, and by these rivers to India, would respectively occupy: BY RED SEA. Miles. Days. London to Gibraltar 1000 7 Gibraltar to Malta 1000 8 Malta to Diametta 900 5 Diametta to Suez 150 5 Suez to Mocha 1100 6 Mocha to Columbo 1920 10 Columbo to Bombay 1000 7 --- 48 BY EUPHRATES. Miles. Days. London to Gibraltar 1000 7 Gibraltar to Malta 1000 8 Malta to Aleppo 1000 6 Aleppo to Beles 60 2 Beles to Bagdad } 5 Bagdad to Bussorah } Bussorah to Bombay 9 --- 37 I have recently had some conversation with Mr. J. Taylor, who is waiting only to see the Pasha to make final arrangements. Another very important feature of the above plan for steam communication with India is, that those societies who have missionaries there, may send out their secretaries to encourage and counsel them, by which means they will be able not only to enter more fully into the feelings and circumstances of those they send, but will be able to make their own reports, which will be more agreeable to those engaged in the work--to tell about which must always be a difficult undertaking. I found yesterday that one of the gentlemen who came hither lately from India, was a Mr. Hull, the son of Mrs. Hull, of Marpool, near Exmouth, who, however, is not going across the desert, but round by Mosul and Merdin, to Stamboul. He hopes to be home in September. Mr. Pfander learnt from some Armenians yesterday, that they were much pleased with the children learning the Scriptures in the vulgar dialect; that they were so far able to understand the ancient language still read in their churches, and they expressed a wish that they might have a complete translation in the vulgar tongue. Those Bibles we now have from the Bible Society, are in the dialect of Constantinople, which is by no means generally or well understood here, where the Erivan dialect prevails, which they use in the Karabagh, in the north of Persia, and in all these countries. The missionaries at Shushee are going on with the New Testament: Mr. Dittrich has finished the translation of the four Gospels, and we hope it will be printed for the Bible Society this year, for we greatly need Armenian books in the vulgar dialect, by which we may, step by step, supersede the old altogether. We also greatly want Arabic school-books; but these we shall hope to get from Malta, through the labours of Mr. Jowett. We find the general feeling here, not only among Christians, but even among the Mohammedans, is a wish that the English power might prevail here, for although the Pasha does not directly tax them high, yet from a bunch of grapes to a barrel of gunpowder, he has the skimming of the cream, and leaves the milk to his subjects to do with as they can. Once a month at least the money is changed. When the Pasha has a great deal of a certain base money that he issues, he fixes the price higher by certain degrees, on pain of mutilation, and when he has paid it all away, or has any great sums to receive, he lowers the value by as many degrees as he has raised it before. And hearing, as they universally do now, of our government in India, that it is mild and equitable, most of them would gladly exchange their present condition, and be subject to the British government. This conduct on the part of the Pasha, begets an universal system of smuggling and fraud among all classes, so that the state of these people is indeed very, very bad. I never felt more powerfully than now, the joy of having nothing to do with these things; so that let men govern as they will, I feel my path is to live in subjection to the powers that be, and to exhort others to the same, even though it be such oppressive despotism as this. We have to shew them by this, that our kingdom is not of this world, and that these are not things about which we contend. But our life being hid where no storms can assail, "with Christ in God"--and our wealth being where no moth or rust doth corrupt, we leave those who are of this world to manage its concerns as they list, and we submit to them in every thing as far as a good conscience will admit. _July 12._--We have heard of two Jews, who have bought two Hebrew New Testaments, and a very respectable Jewish banker has been here to see Mr. Pfander, with the German Jew, whom I have mentioned before, and who is still desirous of leaving the broad road, without heart to trust in him who is in the heavenly path, the way, the truth, and the life. He is now here, endeavouring to obtain a livelihood by teaching a few boys Hebrew, and comes to read the book of Job in German with Mr. Pfander, without any of their explanations, one of which, as it regards Job, is as follows. They say that every individual of the human race actually existed in Adam, some in his nails, some in his toes, some in his eyes, mouth, &c. &c., and they think, in proportion to the proximity of the position of any person to the parts concerned in eating and digesting the forbidden fruit, will be their degree of guilt and measure of punishment here; so they consider that Job had his place near the mouth. Such are the follies which now occupy the minds of this interesting people, instead of the Lord of life and glory. Colonization appears to have entered into the contemplation of those engaged in steam-navigation, and the planting of indigo and sugar. To this end, the Pasha has granted them thirty miles of land on the banks of the river. Just before Mr. Taylor was to set off to go through the desert, news came that the Arab tribes on the road were at war among themselves, and that it would therefore not be safe for him to go that way, so he changed his route, and went on the 13th, by the way of Mousul and Merdin, nearly double the distance, and at the same time, Mr. Bywater and Mr. Elliot set off to Beer, from whence they intend going down the Euphrates and examining that river as far down as Babylon. The old Jew, who came with the German, heartily entered into some conversation about the coming of Christ. A school of Jewish children might, I think, easily be obtained here, if you would teach them English and the Old Testament only. Our Moolah has mentioned, that he has been reading the New Testament with another Moolah, who wishes to have a copy of Sabat's translation, thinking that that might stimulate them to answer it; but that the Propaganda edition is so vulgar, it offends them, for like the Greeks they seek after wisdom. Still, if they read, the testimony of God is delivered, and the plucking a few brands from the general conflagration, is the great work till the Lord come. They have a most proud and obstinate hatred against the name of Jesus, before whom all must bow. We have been interested by some inquiries made by our schoolmaster and his father, relative to our morning and evening prayers; he wanted to know what they were, and Mr. Pfander had the greatest difficulty in making him understand, that we prayed from a sense of our present wants. They said, they had heard from their books, that in the time of the apostles men were without form of prayer, and were enabled to pray from their hearts; but that it was not so now. They also asked some questions about the Lord's Supper, whether we used wine mixed with water or unmixed; bread leavened or unleavened. They seem anxious to know more, and may the Lord give an open door to them! We cannot help feeling, that the difficulties among the Mohammedans, and apostate Christian churches are great beyond any thing that can be imagined previous to experience. The difficulties of absolute falsehood are as nothing to those of perverted truth, as we see in the confounding infant baptism with the renewing of the Holy Ghost. In every thing it is the same, prayer, praise, love, all is perverted, and yet the name retained. The communications we received from Mr. G----l and others,[11] about the state of Christianity in these countries, is but too true, and what he states about the monks at Itch-Meeazin may be doubtless true; at least I suppose it is the seat of the Armenian Patriarch he means, for I know of no other Armenian church in these parts, where this service is kept up of reading the whole Book of Psalms every day. The office of a missionary in these countries is, to _live_ the Gospel before them in the power of the Holy Ghost, and to drop like the dew, line upon line, and precept upon precept, here a little and there a little, till God give the increase of his labours; but it must be by patient continuance in well doing against every discouraging circumstance, from the remembrance of what we ourselves once were. [11] See Record, Oct. 1, 1829. We have this day heard, that the cholera or the plague is at Tabreez, and that they are dying 4 or 5,000 a day; but this, I have no doubt, is a gross exaggeration. May the Lord watch over the seed that seems sowing there, and make the judgments that are in the earth warnings to men to return to God. We also have the cholera here; but I trust not severely. The last Tartar who took our letters with the head of the ex-Khiahya was plundered, so that our letters were lost which we sent by him. We have been to-day in hopes of obtaining another Moolah, for teaching the children in the school to read and write Arabic. For two months we have been trying, without success, to obtain one, so great is their prejudice against teaching Christians at all, but especially themselves to read the New Testament; but as our Lord does every thing for us, we doubt not he will do this also if it be best. I am much led to think on those of my dear missionary brethren, who look for the kingdom of Christ to come in by a gradual extension of the exertions now making. This view seems to me very discouraging; for surely after labouring for years, and so little having been done, we may all naturally be led to doubt if we are in our places; but to those who feel their place to be to preach Jesus, and publish the Testament in his blood, whether men will hear or whether they will forbear, they have nothing to discourage them, knowing they are a sweet savour of Christ. I daily feel more and more, that till the Lord come our service will be chiefly to gather out the few grapes that belong to the Lord's vine, and publish his testimony in all nations; there may be here and there a fruitful field on some pleasant hill, but as a whole, the cry will be, "Who hath believed our report, and to whom is the arm of the Lord revealed." It is the constant practice here among the Jews, when they hear our blessed Lord's name mentioned, or mention it themselves, to curse him; so awful is their present state of opposition, Mohammedans will not hear, and Christians do not care for any of those things--such is the present state here; but if the Lord prosper our labour, we shall see what the end will be, when the Almighty word of God becomes understood. The poor German Jew still holds on; he has too much honesty to live by writing lying amulets, and too little faith to cast himself on the Lord; but his constant cry is, What shall I do to live? The insight he gives us into the state of the Jews here is most awful, but notwithstanding, there appears to me a most abundant field of labour among the 10,000 who are here. Yesterday he called me suddenly while at breakfast, to see a poor young Jewess who had been married but two months, and had fallen over the bridge with her little brother in her arms. The scene was awfully interesting. Not less perhaps than 300 Jews, with their wives, were in the house, but tumultuous as the waves of the sea, without hope and without God in the world. There was no hope of recovering her. She had been in the water an hour and a half, and had there been life, they were acting so as to extinguish every spark. She was lying in a close room crowded to suffocation, with the windows shut; and they were burning under her nose charcoal and wool. The Armenian boys, who are learning English, go on with great zeal, and may in the course of time become very interesting. We have at length received information, that all our things are arrived at Bussorah, and among the rest, the lithographic press, which we hope to find most useful to us in our present position; every thing happens rightly and well; they have been delayed for some time in coming up the river, in consequence of a quarrel between the Pasha and the Arab tribe, the Beni-Laam, in consequence of the plunder of Dr. Beaky's boat, but we expect it will be settled, as the Pasha has acceded to the terms the Sheikh offered, and has sent him down a dress of honour. I am sometimes led, in contemplating the gentlemanly and imposing aspect which our present missionary institutions bear, and contrasting them with the early days of the church, when apostolic fishermen and tent-makers published the testimony, to think that much will not be done till we go back again to primitive principles, and let the nameless poor, and their unrecorded and unsung labours be those on which our hopes, under God, are fixed. We have just heard an interesting case. The gardener of the Pasha is a Greek, who was lately sent to him at his request from Constantinople, and yesterday (August 6), he became a Mohammedan. He had two daughters of thirteen and fourteen, whom he also wished to become Mohammedans; but they would not consent, and ran away to the factory, where they might have remained under English protection; but they would not stay, unless their brother, and his wife, and their servants could remain with them; so they left, as Major T---- had not room for them all, having already the family of one of the servants of the Pasha, who is imprisoned for some delinquency in connection with the revenue accruing to the Pasha from the bazaar. There has been with Mr. Pfander to-day one of the writers of the Pasha, and he read some parts of the Turkish New Testament, which he very well understood, and expressed much pleasure in the reading of; but when, on his being about to leave, Mr. P. asked him to accept of a Turkish Testament, he very politely declined it. There is another person come from Merdin, with the view of settling the affair between the Syrians and the Roman Catholics at Merdin. He is a weaver of Diarbekr; and from him Mr. Pfander learns, that in the last census taken by the Pasha, the Syrians were 700 families, and the Armenians 6,700: this certainly opens a most interesting field for Christian inquiry: he also said, that the Syrians in the mountains were perfectly independent of the Mohammedans, and among themselves are divided into little clans under their respective Bishops. He also stated, that reading and writing were much more cultivated among the independent Syrians than those in the plains. He also said there would be no difficulty whatever in going among the Yezidees with a Syrian guide. The language which the independent Syrians speak is Syriac, which is near the ancient Syriac, and that they understand fully the Syrian Scriptures when read in their churches. We hope, therefore, should the Lord spare our lives, to have an opportunity of circulating some of the many copies of the Scriptures in Syriac, which Mr. Pfander has brought from Shushee, and some that I expect will come from Bombay for me. The Gerba tribe of Arabs are come almost close to Bagdad, to check whom the Pasha intends sending out the troops that have been under the discipline of the English. We have also heard from the Syrian, that from Mousul to Mardin the road by the mountains of Sinjar is safer than by the plains. Among the Yezidees and Syrians, no Mohammedan lives. It is impossible to consider such an immense Christian population as that in Diarbekr, without feeling a wish to pour in upon it the fountains of living waters, which we are so abundantly blessed with. Oh, that some one would come out, and settle down in such a place as Diarbekr--what an abundant field of labour! _August 14._--A young Jew was here to-day, and bought three Arabic Bibles of Mr. Pfander, at 25 piastres of this place each, _i.e._ about 5s. sterling. This is almost the beginning. Many might perhaps have been given away; but as we find that those of Mr. Wolff were generally burnt, we wish them to buy them, at least, at such a price that they would not burn them. He took away a Hebrew New Testament, but returned it again. I should feel deeply interested in some one coming to take charge of a Jewish school, in which the Old Testament, Hebrew, and Arabic, might be the basis of instruction. I make no doubt, that at once a most interesting school might be established here on a very large scale, for they have but one school of about 150 poor boys at their synagogue, or rather synagogues, for they have six, but all in one place, and forming one building; they have also three rabbies, and besides the boys which are taught at the above school, many others are educated at home by teachers. Now, nothing can be more distinct than their wish for a school, and their promise of supporting it on the basis of the Old Testament being taught as a school-book, which certainly, as a primary step, is a most important one to cause them, by the Lord's blessing, to see that the book which they now disfigure by monstrous interpretations, has yet in itself, by the illumination of God's Spirit, a clear, simple, and, in all essential points, an intelligible meaning, without the aid of man's exposition. But should they finally turn round and oppose the school, which as soon as the power of it is felt, they most assuredly would do, still some might remain, and if none should, there is still a most abundant field of labour in circulating the Scriptures, and in conversation among them in this city, and throughout Mesopotamia, where they abound in almost every town. We have heard from a Jew, that Sakies, the Armenian Agent of the East India Company, had given the Jews directions to treat Mr. Wolff when here with attention, and to invite him to their houses. The Jews here are closely connected with the English, at least many of them, who are under English protection. _August 15._ _Sunday._--The thermometer this day has been the highest hitherto for the year, 117 in the shade, and 155 in the sun.[12] This is the time when the dates ripen, and the most oppressive in the year; but by the Lord's great mercy, we are all in health and strength, though sometimes we feel a little disposed to think it is so hot, that we may be excused from doing any thing; but my English scholars keep me employed six hours a day, which prevents me from thinking much about the heat, though not from feeling it. I can truly say, it is far more tolerable than I expected, and yet there are few places on the face of the earth hotter. The temperature of India is not near so high; and I question, if there is any place, that for the year through would average so high. [12] It has _since_ been so high as 118 in the shade, and 158 in the sun. _August 17._--The Jew has been here, and bought another Arabic Bible. I showed him one of the Hebrew Psalters of the Jews' Society. He greatly desired to have it; but I could not spare that; but promised him that when mine came up from Bussorah, I would let him know. We have this day a new Moolah, the best we could get, but not altogether such as we could have desired. The Jews here cannot believe that Christians know any thing of Hebrew, and are therefore surprised to see Hebrew books with us. Oh, should the Lord allow us to be of any use to this holy people, terrible from their beginning hitherto alike in the favour and indignation of Jehovah, we should esteem it a very great blessing; yet surely they ought to have here one missionary, whose whole soul might be drawn out towards this especial work. From some communications with a native of Merdin, we find that the custom of avenging murder and requiring blood for blood, exists among the independent Chaldeans and Syrians, and keeps them in continual warfare, where one happens to be killed by the inhabitants of another village. The inhabitants of the village of the person killed, feel it a necessary point of honour to revenge it. He also mentioned, that the Yezidees were no longer so numerous as formerly, but were greatly diminished by the plague, which happened a few years ago, by which Diarbekr lost 10,000 of its inhabitants. We had a visit from an Armenian, who was formerly treasurer to Sir Gore Ouseley; while speaking about Christianity, he said, it was no use to speak to the Armenians about it, for they all say, "How can we know any thing about such matters, and that, except as a sect, they are too ignorant to know or care about Christianity." They are indeed full of the pride of heart that appertains to sectarians, and obstinately resist the Scriptures being translated into the modern languages, because, say they, the ancient language was spoken in Paradise, and will be the language of heaven, and that, therefore, translating the sacred book into that which is modern, is a desecration. How wonderfully does Satan blind men, and how by one contrivance or another does he endeavour to keep God's word from them, as a real intelligible book, which the Spirit of God makes plain, even to the most unlettered; but the more we discover him endeavouring to pervert God's word from becoming intelligible, the more we should strive to let every soul have the testimony of God concerning his life in Christ, in a language he understands. In this point of view I look to the schools with comfort. _August 19._--Things here seem most unsettled, and require us to live in very simple faith as to what a day may bring forth. It is stated, that between 20 and 30,000 Arabs are close to the gates of the city. The Pasha has an army about 24 miles from hence; but unable to move, except all together, and there is another regiment under an English officer about 12 miles distant. The deposition of this Pasha seems to be the principal object of these Arabs, in which it is not impossible that they may be fully supported by the Porte. What will be the result of all this we are not careful to know, for we are not to fear their face, nor to be afraid, but the Lord will be to us a hiding place from the storm, when the blast of the terrible ones is as a storm against a wall. A caravan has just come across the desert from Aleppo, with a guard of 500 men, consisting of 300 camels. Letters brought by a Tartar from Constantinople have all been detained by the Pasha, except a few on mercantile concerns which have been delivered. So many packets sent by Constantinople have been in one way or another detained, that I have no other hope of letters than what my most gracious Lord's approved love gives me; all which he really desires me to have I shall receive, and more I would desire not to wish for. We have just heard, that Major T----'s brother, and the gentlemen who left Mousul were pursued by 500 Arabs; but all escaped except a horse of the Capidji,[13] an officer of the Sultan's, which was laden with money, collected by his master for the government at Constantinople; he could not go fast enough, so he fell into the hands of the Arabs. [13] A Capidji Bashi is a messenger of the Porte, to collect money, or bear especial messages of any sort. The Roman Catholic bishop has received accounts that Algiers is taken by the French, and also some forts in its neighbourhood. Aleppo is quiet, though the Arabs are in the neighbourhood. Our new Moolah has expressed his surprise at the contents of the New Testament, and wonders how Mohammedans can speak against it as they do. He intends coming to our Armenian schoolmaster on Sundays to read it with him; may the Lord most graciously send down his Spirit upon them, that the one who undertakes to teach what he does not know, may, by discovering his ignorance, be led to the fountain of all wisdom; and may the other learn to love him whose holy, heavenly, and divine name he has blasphemed. The cholera is much about, but the Lord preserves us all safe. The Pasha has made up his differences with the Arab tribe, and all the troops have returned, except those under Mr. Littlejohn, which still remain out for fear of an attack before all the harvest is thrashed and brought in. There are symptoms of great fear on the part of the Pasha, that a struggle is actually going on among those around him for superseding him in his Pashalic, in which they have apparently much probability of success, as the Porte has been greatly injured by his unwillingness to meet her necessities and afford her pecuniary help. Our security, however, is in this, that amidst all, the Lord knoweth them that are his, and will defend them amidst all turmoils and in the most troublous times--in this we find peace and quietness. The poor men who came to endeavour to obtain from the Pasha here the re-institution of the Syrian patriarch in those churches in Merdin, from which he had been ejected by the Roman Catholic bishop, are now returning without success, but carrying back with them two boxes of Arabic and Syrian New Testaments to the Patriarch. May the Lord water them by his most Holy Spirit, so that they may become the ground of living churches, instead of those of stone which they have lost. I have been much surprised to learn that all the Arab tribes on these rivers, except the Montefeiks, are Sheahs or followers of Ali, whom I had formerly thought followers of Omar. I have already mentioned, that on leaving Mousul, Mr. Taylor's party were attacked and obliged to return to Telaafer,[14] a village between Mousul and Merdin, whence, after having waited for a stronger escort, they proceeded towards Merdin, when the event related in the following letter took place; but the supposed death of the three gentlemen was unfounded. They were only made prisoners and carried to the mountains of Sinjar, among the Yezidees. These people are declared enemies of the Mohammedans, whom they hate; but, on the whole, except when their cupidity is excited, they are not unfriendly towards Christians. They seem, with the Sabeans and some others, such as the Druzes, to be descendants of the believers in the two principles who have blown their pestiferous breath at different times into every system of religion that has prevailed in these countries, corrupting all. However, these Yezidees, be they originally what they may, have now these three gentlemen in custody, and require 7,500 piastres of this place--about £75, for their liberation, and Major T. has sent a person from hence to treat about it. [14] All this was wrong; they were treacherously robbed and murdered, Mr. Jas. Taylor, Mr. Aspinal, a merchant of Bombay, and Mr. Bawater, formerly, I think, in the marines. "My dear Sir, "It is, I can assure you, with a sincere and melancholy regret at the dreadful, I may say horrible and awful event that I have so lately witnessed, that I sit down now to address a few lines to you. I feel quite unable to give you an entire relation of our misfortunes, and shall content myself with saying, that out of seven as happy people as could well exist on our departure from Mousul, three only have returned. To one so well able to look for consolation, where, I may say, in such an event consolation is alone to be found, fortitude and patience in suffering might well be found. I myself have not attained this, and I may say this event has plunged me in the deepest melancholy. For a relation of facts, I must refer you to Captain Cockrell's letter to Major Taylor: we were attacked and compelled to fly, and in the confusion, Mr. Taylor, his servant, Mr. Bywater, and our companion, Mr. Aspinal, were murdered. We, that is Captain Cockrell, Mr. Elliot, and myself escaped, though I was, I believe, especially fired at, as on descending the hill four or five whistled close past me. That we were betrayed, and moreover, our companions assassinated by our own party, no doubt exists in my mind. All that were killed out of 500 people that were with us were these four. They again, out of all, happened to be the only ones among us who carried money. We have done every thing in our power to recover their bodies but without effect: on our return to Telaafer, after having been twenty-six hours on horseback in the desert, we wrote a note, in the hope that they might be prisoners at Sinjar, and offered 4,000 piastres for them if they were brought in safe. The Kapidgi Bashi left for Merdin before we could hear of our messenger; he returned after three days, and said he had seen their clothes and pistols, and that they were all murdered. Mr. Taylor he mentioned as having been run through the body with a spear. This was one out of many reports of a similar nature, and we were fain to give them up for dead. (They could not possibly have been alive had they escaped, as there was no water within twenty-four hours.) All our things were pillaged. I lost all my papers, including your letters, and all that was left were a few pairs of white trowsers. This was most assuredly done by our own party; even our own baggage man, before my eyes, almost laid hold of my turban and pistol, which I had laid upon the ground, and on my laying hold on him, actually drew his dagger. I never witnessed such villany in my life. All our guards were laughing, as if nothing had occurred; and, although I may be wrong, yet I do venture it as my opinion, that there were no thieves at all, but that it was treachery altogether. You will be surprised to hear that Captain Cockrell and myself start to-morrow on the same road as before. I trust in God alone for protection, as we have no guards at all. If I ever reach Exeter I shall not fail to call on Miss Groves; but after what has happened who can say, "He shall do this." "We take no baggage of any description, being fully aware of the danger and impracticability of so doing; so that if we are again attacked, we shall be able to gallop for our lives. Now, adieu, my dear Sir. I will write from Constantinople if I reach it; in the mean time excuse this hurried scrawl, and believe me, ever "Yours very sincerely, "W. HULL." "_Mr. A. N. Groves._" In consequence of the receipt of this intelligence, Major T. sent off Aga Menas to Mousul, to treat about the liberation of the captives, and we are anxiously waiting the result. My dear brother Pfander and myself having come to the conclusion, that with so large a school, and so many objects of one kind and the other as there are here requiring attention, it would be impossible for me to leave this and go with him into the mountains; this led to the further determination on his part to return to Shushee next year, having first spent a few months at Ispahan, to complete his knowledge of Persian; and I of course was prepared to be left quite alone, but still my heart was fully sustained with the confident hope that the Lord would not only do what was right, but exceedingly abundant above all I could ask. On all sides nothing but silence prevailed:--three packets of letters had been lost between Constantinople and this, and one between Tabreez and this, and all the letters from India had been detained, by the Arabs on the river being at war with the Pasha for four or five months. Therefore I knew nothing of the movements of any of my dear friends, and all was left to conjecture; sometimes, when faith was in full exercise, I felt assured that the Lord was doing all well; at others, I hardly knew what to think. I had written to my very dear friends in Petersburgh, Dr. W. and Miss K. to come if possible and as soon as possible; but their having left Petersburgh doubtless prevented their receiving my letter. From my dear friends in England I heard little; from Ireland not a word. Things were in this state, when suddenly there came in three Tartars bringing us three packets, so full of Christian love, sympathy, and such good tidings, that it almost overcame our hearts, weak from long abstinence from similar entertainment, and even on this day, the third from their arrival, they fill my heart till it runs over. To hear and see that those one most loves, are indeed joying and rejoicing in their holy, most holy relation to God in Christ,--the relationship of sons and daughters, to see them anxious to walk blameless in all the ordinances their Lord has left them, while they glory in being free from the law of condemnation, and desire to know no freedom from the law of loving obedience: moreover, to see them becoming more and more sensible to the great truth that inestimable as knowledge is, it is what devils may share, but that the love of Jesus, and a tenderness of conscience as to his will, is infinitely higher than that, and that therefore his high command to the members of his church to love one another as he loves them, can never be slighted by them:--oh, to see this it does indeed rejoice my heart, and I pray among us all that it may abound more and more, particularly among us who have been so graciously and so kindly led into all the holy freedom of the Gospel. Let us see we use it not as a cloak of maliciousness, but as the servants of Christ, loving and serving one another, not returning evil for evil, or reviling for reviling, but contrariwise blessing. The path God's children have to take when they are determined in the name of the Lord not to give the name of God's truth to any thing merely human, knowing that it is a vain thing to teach for doctrines the commandments of men, is so naturally offensive, that our zeal for the truth should lead us to pray for such especial graces of the Spirit as may prevent any unloveliness in our walk, preventing the Lord's dear children from coming, and seeing, and drinking of that well-spring in Christ by which we have been so refreshed and invigorated. Whilst we profess, my very dear friends, absolute freedom from man's control in the things relating to God, we only acknowledge in a tenfold degree the absoluteness of our subjection to the whole mind and will of Christ in all things. As he is our _life_ hid with him in God, so let him be our _way_ and our _truth_, both in doctrine and conversation. How many, from neglect of this lovely union, have almost forgotten to care about adorning the doctrine of God their Saviour in all things. Let us, my dear brethren and sisters, pray that we may be united in all the will of Christ. This is a basis not for time only but for eternity, and for that glorious day especially, when the Lord shall come to be glorified in all his saints, and admired in all them that believe. But not only did my packets bring me joyful tidings of the Lord's doings among those whom I especially know and love, but they also brought me intelligence that he had prepared for me help from among those who had been known and approved, and whom I especially loved. How I felt reproved for every doubt; and indeed the Lord so fully has let his goodness pass before me, that I am overwhelmed, and feel I can only lay my hand upon my mouth, and whilst overwhelmed with my own vileness and unworthiness of the least of all my most gracious Lord's loving kindnesses to me, yet glory in that dispensation of grace which ministers to us, not according to our deserts, but the unbought, unbounded love of God. My letters tell me that my very dear brethren and friends, Mr. P., Mr. C., his sister, and mother, and little babe, and Mr. N., are coming to join us, with possibly a fourth. Now this does seem altogether wonderful, and whilst not at all more than I ought to have expected, yet more than I had faith to expect. Yet while I have nothing to say for myself, I desire to say all for God: it is like him, all whose ways are wonderful, and, towards his church, full of mercy, goodness, and truth. Oh, how happy shall we be to await the Lord's coming on the banks of these rivers, which have been the scene of all the sacred history of the old church of God, and destined still, I believe, to be the scene of doings of yet future and deeper interest at the coming of the Lord; and whilst I should not hesitate to go to the furthest corner of the habitable earth, were my dear Lord to send me, yet I feel much pleasure in having my post appointed here, though the most unsettled and insecure country beneath the sun perhaps. In every direction, without are lawless robbers, and within unprincipled extortioners; but it is in the midst of these, that the Almighty arm of our Father delights to display his preserving mercy, and while the flesh would shrink, the spirit desires to wing its way to the very foremost ranks of danger in the battles of the Lord. Oh that we may more and more press on this sluggish, timid, earthly constitution, that is always wanting its native ease among the delights of an earthly happiness. Oh, may my very loving, zealous brethren, stir up my timid, languid spirit to the mild yet life-renouncing love of my dear Lord, which, whilst it was silent, was as strong, yea, stronger than death. My dear friend and brother P---- and his wife have been baptized too; to see this conformity to Christ's mind, is very delightful; and how wonderful, too;--so strong a current of prejudice is there against this simple, intelligible, and blessed ordinance. I learn also, that he and my dear friend the A----[15] are preaching the everlasting Gospel themselves, and with some others of those we love, employing others to preach it. This also is good news. [15] They have 3,362 congregations, whereas the most numerous body besides has but 1,946. See _Miss. Register._ _September 10._--No accounts have been received from Sinjar regarding our travellers. I fear this is ominous, for if ransom is what the Yezidees want, would they not have contrived to forward some notice to Bagdad? however, a few days will most likely disclose the truth, as on the 8th Meenas reached Mousul. We have just heard that the Nabob of Lucknow's brother, on his return from a pilgrimage to Mished, was taken prisoner with the whole caravan by the Turcomans. This amiable Mohammedan came from India on a round of pilgrimages. He has visited Mecca and Kerbala, and was now returning again to this place on his way home to Lucknow, after which he purposed returning again, and going through Persia, Russia, Germany, &c. to England. He was robbed once before between this and Aleppo. The Pasha has just sent to the Factory to say, that the cholera has extended its ravages to Kerkook, and to ask for advice, and what is to be done should it reach this place with its epidemic violence. Mr. M---- is going therefore to write directions, and Major T---- will get them translated into Arabic, for the use of the people here. Blessed be the Lord's holy name, our charter runs, that in the pestilence, "though ten thousand fall at thy right hand, it shall not come nigh thee;" on this, therefore, we repose our hearts. The Pasha seems perplexed to know, in the event of its reaching Bagdad, where he shall go with his family for safety. It is certainly an awful thing to look at Tabreez, where they say, that 8,000 or 9,000 have died out of 60,000; and two years ago at Bussorah, 1,500 out of 6,000, so that the houses were left desolate, and the boats were floating up and down the creek without owners, and when persons died in a house, the rest went away, and left the bodies there locked up. But we have in our dwellings a light in these days that they know nothing of, who know not our God either in his power or his love, so that the heart is enabled to cast all, even the dearest to it, on the exceeding abundance of his mercy. _September 10._--I fear the intelligence we have just received of poor Mr. J. Taylor, Mr. Bywater, and Mr. Aspinal, and the Maltese servant, leaves us little room to hope but that they have all been treacherously murdered. Our Moolah tells us, he received a letter from a friend of his at Merdin, stating, that they were murdered--not by the Yezidees at all, but by the party of Arabs sent by the Pasha of Mousul to protect them, in conjunction with a party from Telaafer, an Arab village, where they spent a night. It appears, that when the attack was made, Mr. Elliot, Captain Cockrell, and Mr. Hull galloped off after being stripped; but Mr. Taylor, Mr. Aspinal, and Mr. Bywater got entangled among these robbers, and Mr. A. shot one of the Arabs with his pistol; and afterwards Mr. B. shot another. It then became with these lawless plunderers, no longer a matter of simple robbery, but of revenge and death. They killed these two young men, and then pulling Mr. Taylor from his horse, killed him. I confess, when I saw them mounting their horses, strongly covered with offensive weapons of warfare, I felt very little comfort about them, for, if they were attacked, it would only be with an overwhelming force, or they would be given up in treachery, in both which cases almost all the danger arises from resistance. Those wretched plunderers seek not life, but booty; this quietly yielded, you may go; but if you use the sword, you perish by the sword. If you carry money, or any thing valuable, you are exposed to be stripped, and if you go armed, to be killed. About three years ago, the French interpreter was going the very same route, and near Telaafer he was attacked, and stripped; but they let him go free. The fate of these gentlemen has greatly affected us all. A delay must now take place in the steamboat communication, for it is not probable that this route can ever be so disregarded, but that some effort, sooner or later, will be made. Let our impatient hearts hush their murmurings; it is the work of a loving Father, who declares to his children, that all things shall work together for their good; yea, the disappointment of present hopes shall, by heavenly patience, yield the peaceable fruits of righteousness to those who are exercised thereby. _September 14._--We have just heard, that an order has been given out in one of the mosques, that the Mohammedans shall receive no printed books. Whether this watchfulness is the result of Mr. Pfander having employed a man, a Jew, to sell Bibles, Testaments, and Psalters, or whether, at the suggestion from the R---- C---- B----, I know not. How near the principles are of the beast and the false prophet--how easily they harmonize and help each other! We have lately heard some interesting details of the numbers of the Jews in the places north-east of Persia. A Jew who has travelled in these countries states, that there are, _In._ _Language spoken._ _Families._ Samarcand Turkish 500 Bokhaura Turkish and Persian 5,000 Mished Turkish and Persian 10,000 Heerat Turkish and Persian 8,000 Caubul {Pashtoo, but Persian} 300 Bulkh-(Caubul) { generally understood} 300 There are also in the villages about some Jews, from 20 to 100 families. Their knowledge of the Hebrew is very confined; very few understand it at all; they have also very little knowledge of the Talmud. We hope from time to time to collect more particulars to correct, confirm, or cancel these, and all other accounts of a similar nature, for in these countries it is not one account that can stand, and when confronted by 50 more, it can still be only considered as an approximation to truth. _September 16._--Our long expected packet by Shushee and Tabreez has just arrived. The messenger, on reaching Kourdistan, found it in such a state of danger and confusion, that he was afraid to proceed, but went back again, and came by a longer but more quiet way. Another cause of delay seems to have been their going to India, and back again to Tabreez. The information contained in this packet is most interesting. From Petersburgh we heard from several friends, all encouraging, comforting, and rejoicing us. The Lord seems to give them courage still to persevere; and dear sister ---- intends, after recruiting a little in England, to return again to her work there. I feel satisfied it is a most interesting field, and that ere long in Russia some tremendous changes will take place. The poor are anxious for the word of God, and the nobility despising the hierarchy, and, therefore, that blind priestly domination under which it has groaned, will finally fall to pieces; infidelity will take openly its side, and the Lord's saints theirs. Dear Mr. K---- tells us, that some dear American brother, by name Lewis, has sent him money to procure for his family a house in the country during the few months of a Russian summer. How loving and bountiful a Lord ours is, supplying his most affectionate and waiting servant with all he needs; it makes every little bounty so sweet when it comes from a Father through one of his vessels of mercy. Oh, who would not live a life of faith in preference to one of daily, hourly satiety--I mean as to earthly things; how very many instances of happiness should we have been deprived of, had we not trusted to, and left it to his love to fill us with good things as he pleased, and to spread our table as he has done, year after year, and will do, even here in this wilderness. From Shushee we have also heard, that our dear brother Z---- and an Armenian had been travelling and selling Bibles and Testaments. They went first to Teflis; from thence to Erzeroum, Erivan, Ech-Miazin, and back again to Shushee. What success he had in selling Bibles and Testaments we do not know, but at Erzeroum, he was accused by the Mohammedans before the Russian authorities, but let go. He returned home in safety under the hand of the Lord. There is also in the letters of our brethren most pleasing accounts of a young Armenian, the son-in-law of the richest Armenian merchant in Baku, supposed to be worth half a million. This young man, at a visit of Z---- and P----, was much interested by their conversation about the New Testament, and they went away, leaving him an interesting inquirer. He, however, still pursued his way alone, and attained a perfect understanding of the Armenian Testament, which at first he was able to read but indifferently. He then felt himself unable to proceed in mercantile transactions as before; so that his father-in-law told him, that much as he regretted separating from him, if he became so pious, they must part. Well, he said, he could not give up his convictions, and he was sure his Lord would not allow him to want; so he left his father-in-law, and learnt the trade of a taylor. From the very first he began to teach his wife, and she takes part with him; and he is now selling Bibles and Testaments, and circulating tracts among the Russian soldiers. This is a sight indeed! for centuries perhaps they have not seen one of their own body rising up, and choosing to suffer affliction with the people of God, rather than enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season; and the sight is as strange to Mohammedans as to Christians. May the Lord sustain, comfort, and bless him out of his heavenly treasures. From Tabreez our tidings are heavy, or rather would be, but that the Lord of love directs and orders all, and sees the end from the beginning, yet they have also good tidings too. I have already mentioned, that the cholera had been raging at Tabreez; but we learn, that not only this, but the plague is there also, to a most frightful extent. I will just copy here the account our dear sister Mrs. ---- has given us; and for whose safety we desire to bless the Lord; she says, "Before this reaches you, you may have heard of the sorrow and desolation that have befallen this city within these last two months. Thousands around us have been cut off by the cholera and the plague. The former raged so furiously for the first month, that 2 or 300 died daily. Symptoms of the plague first were discovered in the ark among the Russian soldiers, which manifested itself by breaking out over the body in large boils; the person attacked, feeling himself overcome by stupor; many died before it was thought what it was; precautions were taken, and they were sent out to camp at some distance from the town. The disorder has not raged among them so much as it has in the town. I cannot tell you how great the fear was that was struck into the minds of the people. Many were taken ill through fear, of which they died. Previous to the city being quite deserted, men, women, children, of all denominations, collected themselves together in large bodies, crying and beseeching God to turn away his judgments from them: this they did bareheaded and without shoes, humbling themselves, they said, because they knew they were great sinners. The air resounded with their cries day and night, particularly the latter, and often during the whole of it. Oh, did they but know the truth as it is in Jesus. At length all classes fled to the mountains, leaving the town quite deserted. Alexander told me, on his return one day from the city, that he had not met a person. All the shops in the bazaar were forsaken, so that from this you may derive some idea of the terror that has possessed this people." Mrs. ---- also tells us, that the establishment at Tabreez is going to be much reduced, and that therefore Mr. N---- is ordered back to India. This has tried them much, for they were just expecting two American missionaries, a Mr. Dwight and a Mr. Smith, with whom they were hoping to have acted happily for their common Lord. But the Lord's ways are not our ways, nor his thoughts our thoughts, so these things happen otherwise than we expected. However, wherever they go, may they be blessed, and a blessing. They purpose coming here on their way, which affords us much pleasure at the prospect of seeing them again. However, we are greatly rejoiced to think, that brethren from America have designed Tabreez for their station. Now between Shushee, Tabreez, and this place we have a little frontier line. Oh, may there be daily new ambassadors of mercy publishing the testimony of Jesus in all the world. Oh, that the end may quickly come. Our Moolah is dreadfully depressed to-day, at the prospect of the cholera and plague coming here, and he said to me, he thought the end of the world must be near, because of these wars, pestilences, and plagues. We have also heard that we shall most likely be obliged to leave this house after the year has expired; for the Sheahs have been complaining to the Seyd,[16] the owner of it, for letting it to the infidels for such a purpose. But we are not careful about these things; it will be as the Lord wills. [16] Descendant of the Prophet. Nothing can show the stupid carelessness of these people more, than that, although they are frightened out of their reason almost at the prospect of the plague and cholera, yet they have actually allowed a whole caravan from Tabreez to come into the city without quarantine, or any kind of precaution. Oh, how joyful the promises in the Revelations are for "those written in the Lamb's book of life," for "those who have not the mark of the beast on them," for those who are to be sealed before the angels are allowed to hurt the earth. Yea, he will for his great name's sake hide us in the secret of his pavilion, so that he will put a song into our mouths; yea, he will encompass us with songs of deliverance. We feel that it now indeed especially becomes us neither to fear their fear nor be afraid. _Sept._--The weather is now become decidedly cooler. A fortnight since the average height of the thermometer in the shade, during the warmest part of the day, was 117; it is now lowered to 110. During the hottest time of the year, which is now just over, the quicksilver was rarely lower than 110, or higher than 118 in the shade, except in the morning, when the general range was from 87 to 93. The Seyd who has let us his house, and who we had heard intended to turn us out after the year was expired, has got into trouble with the Pasha, about some ground he rented, and for which he was to pay the Pasha a certain quantity of corn; but he says, what from the locusts, and the rain not coming at the usual time, and when it did come, coming in such unusual quantities, he lost his crop. He has now come begging us to take his case to Major T., to beg him to endeavour to settle it with the Musruff. Thus the Lord has brought him into difficulties, that if he were disposed to turn us out he would not be able this year. But he denies altogether having said any thing about turning us out, and it is not improbable that it is as he says; his family which is a large one, and once were opulent, feel it a great disgrace to let out the house of one of the descendants of the prophet to a Christian, and more especially as one of the rooms is over the street under which the Mohammedans have to walk, and this most especially offends them; but that we might not give them any unnecessary offence we have never occupied the room, though the most airy one we have. A Jew of Yezd has been with us, and told us that there are 300 families of Jews in that city, and the same number at Ispahan. _Sept. 24._--A caravan has just arrived from Constantinople, by way of Aleppo. We have also heard that one caravan from Damascus has been plundered, and another from Kerkook: and a messenger likewise who came from Captain Campbell, from Tabreez, was also stopped, but having nothing besides letters, was suffered to pass. I note these events down merely that they may afford a little criterion of the unsettled state of the whole of the interior of this immense continent. In fact, the Lord is, amidst these commotions, preparing a way for his testimony to spread. The cholera, by the Lord's blessing, is decreasing, but it is reported that at Kerkook the mortality went as high as 100 a day; it has now, however, ceased. _Sept. 27._--The intelligence has been confirmed of the death of Mr. Taylor, Mr. Aspinal, and Mr. Bywater, as well as of a Maltese servant, and that the principal perpetrators were the Sheikh of Telaafer, in conjunction with a Sheikh of the Yezidees, who were with the caravan at the time. The Nawaub mentioned before, has been delivered by the Prince of Teheran sending an army into Khorassan, and with him all the caravan. _Sept. 29._--Meenas has just been here, and the only particulars he has given of the unfortunate travellers, in addition to that which we knew before is, that Mr. Aspinal made his escape with the others, but hearing a cry from Mr. Taylor and Mr. Bywater, he returned, and finding them surrounded by about fifty men, he drew his pistol and shot one man through the arm. This made them retire for a moment, but they advanced again: he then drew another pistol, and shot the Sheikh of the Yezidees, by name Bella. His son then rushed on them with the rest, and killed them all, and with them six other Christians--two on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and the others on mercantile business. The booty they then divided, half to the people of Telaafer, who were the guards of the murdered party, and the other half the Yezidees kept. The Yezidees do not appear at all to have wished to kill them, knowing their relation to the Resident here, from whom they hoped to get a handsome ransom. Perhaps no two events could more powerfully manifest the weakness of the Ottoman empire internally than this event which has happened to Mr. Taylor, and the pillage of a caravan going to Mousul, which was stripped of every thing but two boxes of books, which Mr. Pfander had sent; these they left as being too heavy, and they are now safe at Mousul. This caravan was stripped by persons nominally the subjects of the Pasha within two days journey of Bagdad, and the property divided with the most perfect impunity without any attempt at recovery. These gentlemen were robbed and killed by persons of a village subject to the Pasha of Mousul; and he has not the least prospect of bringing them to punishment. When Meenas gave the Syrians in Mousul an account of our school here, they were so much interested, that all their principal persons have written a letter to invite us to come there and establish schools among them, and also to desire that we should send to them some Arabic Testaments and Psalms. All this is most encouraging, and I plainly see, that were there twenty servants of Christ, faithful men, who would be content to work for the Lord in every way, there might soon be found abundant work for them. Mousul seems especially open to Christian influence. Many of those immediately connected with the Pasha are Christians, and many even among the Mohammedans have still Christian recollections. The letter from Mousul, Meenas tells us, will come in about three days; if so, Mr. Pfander proposes sending back a present of Arabic Testaments and Psalms, with the expression of our hope that the Lord may strengthen our hands, as he has made willing our hearts, to extend our labours unto them. Major T. often asks me if I think any missionary mechanics may still come out. The Lord does so much and so wonderfully, that I can almost hope this, notwithstanding the host of prejudices to be first surmounted. Marteroos, the schoolmaster, who we hear is on his way from Sheeraz, will, I trust, be a great comfort to us, and a help to the school. He taught two years in the school at Calcutta, and though solicited, would receive no salary; and also at Bushire. This is a trait of character so utterly unlike these countries, that we cannot but hope he will enter into our plans with a heartiness that we can expect few others would. From his understanding English, we hope he may be able to take not only the higher Armenian classes, but also to have time to translate such books as we need for the use of the school, and also little tracts for circulation. The Musruff, (or treasurer) of the Pasha told Major T. that they had begun the canal between the Tigris and Euphrates. This shews the Pasha is still anxious about the steam communication. Our Mohammedan Moolah still continues to read the New Testament, with the Armenian schoolmaster, who seems very sanguine that he will become a Christian. At all events, I bless God that he sees the record of God with his own eyes, so that if he now rejects the testimony, it will be God's that he rejects, and not the solemn mockery of Christ's most simple and most holy truth, which they have before seen. We were much delighted to find that those of the little boys who had been exercised in translating their own language into the vulgar, had retained such a clear knowledge of it, that though they were called upon quite unexpectedly, they understood it; whereas the bigger boys, who come to me for English, and the Moolah for Arabic, and who are considered to have finished the Armenian education, were not able to translate one word, at which they were not a little ashamed, though the fault was not theirs, but the plan of education. We are greatly encouraged by this, and led to hope, with the Lord's blessing we shall see, instead of a system of education, which after immense labour, terminates in nothing but _sound_ without _sense_ or instruction, a system that will at least bring God's word before them in a form intelligible and clear; yea, the very truth that God's Spirit has promised to bless, and which He has declared shall not return unto him void. Our schoolmaster fully enters into these plans for improvement, and really desires to do whatever we wish. Our Arabic Moolah also enters much into our wishes, and the boys are making double the progress they did under the old system. This is all of the Lord; and in fact, when I think of the doubts expressed before we commenced of our being allowed to work at all, and consider the quietness and peace the Lord has allowed us to enjoy in the prosecution of our work, I desire more entirely to cast my whole soul, with all its purposes and plans on the Lord, not to move but as he guides. The two great objects of the church in the latter days seem to me to be, independent of growing herself up into the stature of fulness in Christ, the publication of the testimony of Jesus in all lands, and the calling out of the sheep of Christ that may be imprisoned in all the Babylonish systems that are in the world. In both these may the Lord of his infinite mercy grant success. Oh, how consoling it is, under an overwhelming sense of powerless inefficiency, to one's work, to know that God has chosen to put the most precious gift in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God and not of man, so that we may glory in our very weakness and ignorance, and natural insufficiency, knowing that the Lord's strength is made perfect in this very weakness. Dear and blessed Lord, make us every one willing to be nothing, that thou mayest in all things be glorified. _Oct. 2._--I have just seen a sight that interests me much; the Mohammedan Moolah sitting at one window of the school reading the Arabic New Testament, and the Armenian vartabiet (or schoolmaster) sitting at a table explaining to the son of the priest of this place the New Testament. This young man is just going to Ispahan to be ordained. This certainly is something gained, that the word of eternal truth is brought before them. In speaking yesterday to my Moolah about the fortress which the Sultan has ordered to be built between Damascus and Aleppo, to keep the road safe for caravans, and which is nearly finished, he told me that the Sultan had promised the European Sultans that he would govern and regulate his country like theirs; thus the minds of these people seem preparing step by step for changes. I have heard, that after we left Petersburgh, some of those, from whom we had experienced peculiar kindness, had become very active in visiting the poor in the neighbourhood of that city, and in circulating tracts and the Scriptures, till at last they attracted the notice of the governors of one of these villages, who arrested and examined them. Dr. W. was ordered to leave St. Petersburgh in twenty-four hours, and the Russian dominions in three weeks. Dear young Mr. ----, being an officer, was put into confinement, and ----, whose mother has often visited Africa, has since left her charge, and is returned to England for her health, but hopes with increased prospects of usefulness, to return to her former sphere of labour. They felt the cause of God had gained ground during their trials, and that their own souls had greatly rejoiced in the Lord. _Oct. 7._--We have just heard that a German watchmaker in this place has turned Mohammedan. This unprincipled man had a wife and children in Germany, yet wished to marry a Roman Catholic Armenian here; but knowing that the Bishop here would not marry them, he then went to the Musruff, (the chief officer of the Pasha,) and promised him that if he would get him this woman he would become a Mohammedan, and this he has now done, and he is using all his endeavours to compel the young woman he has married to follow his steps. This, at present, she resists, but she has little principle, as she knew before of his being married. The more I see of this people, the more I am struck with the necessity of our being made acquainted with the deep wickedness and corruption of the human heart, that we may never be hopeless as to these people, and think them some peculiarly iniquitous race; and on the other hand, we need a deep sense of the omnipotence of God's Holy Spirit, that we may never be discouraged; for the bones are indeed very, very dry. We hear this wretched man has been beating the woman, finding his entreaties failed. _Oct. 10._--The Lord has blessed us with a little girl, and every thing has been ordered by him most happily, so that we have wanted nothing that the luxury or wealth of England could supply. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me bless his holy name; for indeed he daily loadeth us with benefits. _Oct. 14._--The news of the state of things in France, and of the Revolution there, has led us to look up to our Lord to see what the end will be of these movements. That they will help on the coming kingdom of our Lord we know, but how we cannot yet see. We have also heard not only that France has taken possession of Algiers, but is marching towards Tunis. Thus, step by step, Turkey is being dismembered; and although by infidel principles and by infidel hands, yet perhaps preparing the way for the publication of the Lord's love to man. We have also understood that an English force of 4,000 men, in 200 ships, are assembled at Malta with the view of attacking Egypt; but this we do not believe, but regard it as French news, calculated to bring us, in the eyes of the Turks, as guilty alike with them in attacking the Turkish dominions. However, all these things render our situation here very profitable, for we know not what a day may bring forth, and are therefore obliged to look solely to our Lord. Not that this Pasha cares much, perhaps, about the taking of Egypt by the English, or the general reduction of the empire, for such is the state of this country, that the security of every little despot depends on the weakness of the supreme power. Yet notwithstanding this there may break out paroxysms of popular fury, that however short are terrible. But the Lord is our secure and sufficient refuge, and when he has a people to save--his chosen ones--he will put a fear into the hearts of their enemies. The Revolution in France seems to be the Infidel against the Jesuit, or ultra-Papistical party, which may lead to the removal of the Archbishop of Babylon from his consular authority, though his ecclesiastical influence would not, perhaps, be lessened by this. _Oct. 17._--The value of the English protection is beginning here to be so fully understood and felt, that the first merchant in Bagdad came to Major T. begging to be taken under it, and when Major T. declined, he requested that his son might; and the Seyd, our landlord, in explaining the reason of his wish for the Resident to take up his cause, stated, that it was not so much in order to obtain any present benefit, as that the government might see that he interested himself about him; as this, he said, would prevent him being subject to those oppressions he had been exposed to before. In fact, I do not believe, that during the late heavy exactions that have been made from all degrees and kinds of people, one individual under English protection has suffered, or that an attempt has been made to oppress one. I do not now, or on any other occasion, mention these events as pieces of political intelligence, but as necessary to give a view of the signs of the times. This consideration for the English does not arise from love, as the most intense hatred is manifested when it may with safety, as well as the most unconquerable and haughty contempt of Christianity and Christians; it seems with this people of God's curse, as with the mystical whore, they are consuming away in preparation for final destruction by the brightness of his coming. Mr. Pfander's Persian Moolah has altogether refused to translate Persian with him. He says he will read and converse with him, but not translate; so great is their contempt of Christians, that though it is only the Gulistan of Sadi, and therefore no religious book, they will not teach it. In fact, the difficulty of getting teachers here is very great. The Christians know nothing--the Mohammedans very little, and what they do know they will not communicate to a Christian. But all this is ceasing and must come down. _Oct. 18._--Our hearts have been deeply affected by a conversation which Mr. Pfander has had with the Mohammedan Moolah, who teaches our boys Arabic. He was telling Mr. P. that he was greatly struck by our Lord's precept, not when you make a feast, to invite the rich or those who can invite you again, but the poor who cannot; and that from these considerations he had been led to invite to an entertainment he had provided, all the poor persons he knew, to the surprise of his friends, to whom he explained his reasons. He also told Mr. Pfander he had often wished he were an animal rather than a man. There appears altogether a degree of uneasiness in his mind that may lead further. Thus God is making his holy and blessed word a testimony to the hearts of some; oh! may every success here be such as bears only the mark of God's workmanship by his word and his Spirit. That there are many souls here which will feel the power of God's omnipotent word, I can never doubt, when it comes fully and clearly before them. The German Jew, whom I have several times before mentioned, seems determined to become a professing Christian. His mind is convinced, but his heart I fear little, if at all, affected. He abhors the lying abominations of Judaism, which he finds among his brethren. He has certainly come thus far without being induced by any worldly motives, for had he continued, or would he now return to live by begging for Jerusalem and writing lying amulets, he might easily do it. He wishes to go to Bombay, and there become a Christian. We have just heard that one of the boys of the school and his mother, who took him away from us, have both become Roman Catholics. The inducement to these Armenians is, generally, the pecuniary relief they obtain from the bishop here, who has the administration of some funds entrusted to him for religious uses, which he exclusively gives to Roman Catholics, and with this he bribes those who can have no other attachment to their system beyond that which is hereditary, for in all other things, and in practice, it would be difficult to say whether of the two were most corrupt. But we trust, by the good hand of our God upon us, one day to have different systems of judgment than that of one corrupt system against another, even the holy, pure, unadulterated word of God against the corruptions of all men and all nominal churches. We have heard, to our great sorrow, that the plague has returned again to Tabreez, and that all have again left it; and also that the cholera has again returned to Kerkook, and committed dreadful ravages. Thus the Lord seems visiting the kingdoms of the false prophet with his sore judgments and plagues. _Oct. 21._--There has just been acting here a scene of duplicity, falsehood, and bloodshed, which appears strange to us, but is not uncommon in this land of misrule and cruelty. A Capidji (or Ambassador) from the Porte to the Pasha has been long expected, and with evident anxiety by him and those immediately about him, which was increased to the highest pitch, when by a messenger from Aleppo, the Pasha received the intelligence, that this man's intention was to supersede him, and of course to destroy him. It then became the object of the Pasha to endeavour to get him into his hands, which was the more difficult, as it is usual for the Capidji to read publicly his firman, and proclaim the successor at Mousul, or some place near, who, collecting the Arabs, marches to lay siege to this place, till the head of the Pasha is delivered to him. To prevent this, therefore, the Pasha made the Imrahor, or Master of the Horse, who has the whole arrangement of the military force, to write a letter to the Capidji, begging him to come here at once, and that he would, without a struggle, give the head of Daoud Pasha into his hand, whereas if he remained at Mousul, there must be an open contention about it. By this he was allured to approach the city, and the Pasha sent out 700 or 800 men under pretence of showing him honour, to meet him and secure him in case any accounts of the true state of the case should reach him, that he might have no possibility of flight. Thus he was brought into the city, and his quarters appointed in the house of the Musruff; when, after the Pasha had obtained from him the declaration of his object, a Divan was called, and it was determined to put him to death. This event has thrown the city into great consternation, and every one who can, is buying corn in expectation of what is to follow. For the tragedy will not end here, as a friend of the Capidji is left behind at Mousul, and another Capidji is at Diarbekr, waiting the result of this negociation. So it appears that the Sultan is determined to act at once and decidedly against this Pasha. We are now, therefore to expect a siege, and a state of anxiety and fear in this city for some months; but the Lord, who sitteth in the heavens, is ordering all for his own glory, and for our safety, and he will provide for us. _Oct. 22._--We have this day heard that the Syrian Patriarch of Merdin has recovered one of his churches from the Roman Catholics, and is, on the whole, making, in a certain sense, a more successful stand against them; but not in the spirit of Christ, I fear. He has two of his priests who had turned Roman Catholics in prison. This day our new Armenian teacher has arrived from Sheeraz. He seems an interesting man; but our final plans with him are not yet arranged. We have also heard that the school at Bushire, established by Mr. Wolff, is going on badly. He promised to send out a teacher and money, neither of which having arrived, the school has dwindled to seventeen, and these are neglected. It is the common conversation to-day in the Bazaar that the Capidji was put to death last night. This man was the Accountant General of the Porte, and formerly Kiahya. Our Arabic Moolah has been buying corn, in the expectation of the present state of things here terminating in an open contest, in which he thinks the Pasha, now having no hope, will throw himself into the hands of Abbas Meerza, and that thus Bagdad will again become subject to Persia. Amidst all these wars and rumours of wars, our path is to sit still and wait the Lord's pleasure, which he will assuredly manifest to our heart's content, for they that wait upon the Lord, shall not make haste, nor be confounded, world without end. Our schoolmaster has come to a full understanding of the principles on which we intend to conduct the school: to have nothing that is _contrary to God's word admitted_, and I think he very fully and heartily enters into this plan. But he informs us that the parents of many of the children are dissatisfied with our superseding the church prayers, called the Shanakirke, by the New Testament, and ask, "Who are these people? Are they wiser than our Bishops and ancient fathers, that we should reject what they introduced?" This is what we must expect. But we can, with a quiet heart, leave all to the Lord, to order as he will. That the schoolmaster is truly on our side I feel very thankful, and, I hope, the hearts of many of the children. _November 10._--After having waited now several weeks for an opportunity to send letters and a parcel, and not having found any, from the extreme vigilance there is here to prevent any communications going to Constantinople, I have determined to avail myself of the offer of an Austrian merchant here, to enclose them in a bale of goods going to Aleppo, and to have them forwarded thence to Constantinople. It is a great comfort to know that all the intelligence essential to our cause, as being God's, will reach, and all that is separate from that, though it may not be against it, is of little consequence. We have had two Armenian priests to converse with Mr. Pfander, one from Nisibin; and the other from Diarbekr. The one from Nisibin said they had no printed books among them, and that they were very anxious to go into the Russian provinces, but were afraid, since the death of the Russian Ambassador, to make any attempt to go. The Armenians seem going from all the Mohammedan states that they can to Russia. From Erzeroum, great numbers have gone to the Karabagh, and thus they may people the desolate provinces of Georgia. The other Armenian Priest, from Diarbekr, confirmed the information we had previously obtained, that the Armenian population of that city was 5,000 houses,[17] about 25,000 of all ages, and that they have two schools there, containing about 300 children, but no one cared about them. [17] This is the only mode in the East by which any estimate of the population can be attempted. They count the number of houses, and allow one with another, five souls to each house. Some contain many more, and few contain less, so that even thus, it can be but very imperfectly ascertained. It is now an understood fact, that the Capidji, or messenger of the Sultan, who was left behind at Diarbekr, when his companion came on to arrange the affairs of this Pashalic, is collecting troops around Diarbekr, to attack Bagdad. This, however, will most probably be now deferred till the spring. So we may then expect a siege, unless things are arranged before. The Capidji who has been put to death appears to have been a man of great distinction, and to have rendered great services to the Sultan, both during the war and subsequent to it. The priest of Diarbekr said, they were too far off to be helped either by the Russians or the English; but I cannot help thinking, for such a purpose as schools, or getting through their means a large body of persons acquainted with God's word, it would be a most important position. It presents, however, many difficulties, and at all events would require some time to be spent in some place preparatory to settling among them, to obtain a knowledge of the Turkish and Armenian languages, and for these preparatory studies, should there be no determining principle, perhaps Shushee would be the best position, as the brethren there all know English, and some Turkish, and some Armenian. We are now fast approaching the termination of our first year's residence in Bagdad, and the Lord's mercies towards us have been exceeding great. We have been surrounded by many things that would have been dangerous, had not the Lord checked them by bringing them to nothing, both from disease and enemies; but, as he promised, they have not come nigh us. We have borne the heat without any diminution of natural strength. We are altogether standing on a more advanced position, that on entering Bagdad we could have hoped. Things are in preparation for the knowledge of God's holy word being extended, and thus one great object of missionary labour is in the way of attainment. But still, while I feel assured of there being some choice fruit from here and there a fruitful bough, I at the same time feel no less assured, that the great harvest will be of wickedness, and that the pestilence of infidelity is the great spreading evil, not the spreading of Millennial blessedness. As it was in the days of Noah, so do I believe it will be at the coming of the Son of Man; and as it was in the days of Lot, the great mass of mankind will be taunting the Church with, "Where is the sign of his coming?" which shews plainly enough that this will be a doctrine of the Church in the latter days, or how should it be reviled; so that our Lord, in contemplating the general apostacy, said, "When the Son of Man cometh shall he find faith in the earth?" Oh, then, how happy is it to be among those who love his appearing, who long for the termination of that dispensation which witnessed the humiliation of the Church under the world, and the rise of that glorious kingdom which shall not be dissolved, and into which no sorrow or sighing can enter. I feel the languages to be a great barrier. Whether the Lord will pour down this among the other gifts of the latter days, I do not know, but at present it is a great exercise of a Missionary's patience, to ask even for the common necessaries of life; but to speak out the fulness of a full heart, so as to be understood and felt is very, very difficult. The difficulties in the way of a literary acquaintance with these languages are by no means so great, as the study may be pursued alone, but the colloquial language can only be learned by intercourse with men, and this is far more difficult to attain by an European, who may have a very good knowledge of the language of books, and still be little understood in speaking. But still the time spent in the learning of a language among a people, every thought, and purpose, and habit of whose lives are diverse from your own, has this advantage, that you become in some measure acquainted with their peculiarities before you are in a situation to offend against them. We have heard that the Emperor of Russia has conferred some honours on the family of this Pasha, who are Armenian Christians, in Teflis. Things are beginning to look unsettled in Persia. Contentions have already arisen between the Prince of Kermanshah and the Prince of Hamadan, which seems to be but the precursor of a general state of confusion on the death of the Shah; and doubtless amidst all these commotions the Lord will move on his way, and the day of his coming advance. Oh, may we all labouring abundantly in patience, wait for that day, that when it does come we may be found watching. We have some anxieties about our dear friends who are journeying towards us. Whether the intelligence of the state of the Pashalic may deter them, or whether they will come on, trusting in the Lord, it is our daily prayer for them, that he would guide and preserve them. Our communications with Tabreez seem almost closed. Since we received the letter from Mrs. ----, relative to their leaving Tabreez, and going by this to India, we have neither seen them, nor heard of them. Whether, therefore, they are gone by Shiraz, or whether they are detained, we cannot tell; but the roads will soon become impassable from snow in the lofty range of mountains over which they will have to come. I shall now conclude this portion of our little history, with assuring those we love, that the Lord has been better than all our fears and all our hopes. The more we have proved him, the more we have found him to be faithful and gracious, and that not one of the good things he has promised to faith has been wanting; but his love has abounded far beyond our faith, yea, and they will yet abound more and more. Let us then encourage one another to prove him more, that we may have deeper experience of his faithfulness. We find the prospect of the approaching coming of our Lord a corrective of the allurements of the world, and an encouragement to a simple surrender of all we have as his stewards, to him and his service, as their only legitimate and worthy object, who has redeemed us from death with his own precious blood, making us a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a peculiar people, that we might shew forth his praises. Oh! may the Holy Spirit dwell in us more powerfully, that we may be ever fulfilling his great and glorious purpose. Accounts have just come to us by letters from Tabreez, that the plague has been ravaging that devoted city till 23,000 of its inhabitants have fallen victims to it and the cholera, and that when this letter came off (Oct. 28), they were still dying eighteen of a day, and this is not confined to the city;--the villages of the surrounding country have equally suffered; half the inhabitants have been swept away, the corn has never been reaped, and the cattle were wandering about without owners. The missionaries from America had not arrived then; most probably they are deterred by the intelligence of the state of Tabreez. Our dear friends the N----'s had never enjoyed better health--thus preserved of the Lord in the midst of the general devastation: they are also for the present, at the request of the Prince, detained till an answer from the Indian government is again received respecting them. A famine seems the inevitable consequence of the plague and pestilence at Tabreez. Surely these are among the signs of the times; but the Lord's command to us is, Let not your hearts be troubled. We have received no intelligence from Shushee, but we heard from Tartars that the plague had been in the Karabagh, which makes us additionally anxious to hear from thence: but doubtless since the plague at Tabreez, all intercourse with Russia from that side has been interdicted. Mr. Zaremba mentioned, that he had to pass through seven quarantines between Erzeroum and Shushee. I may also just add, that we have finally arranged with our new schoolmaster from Shiraz. We had given particular directions to the person who proposed sending for him, that if money were any object to him, (which we heard it was not) he should write and let us know what he would require. He however came, and when he came, he wanted a sum equal to about £84. sterling a year. This I was both unable and unwilling to give, and therefore fixed £30. as the utmost, and the rest has been made up by the Armenians among themselves, excepting £18. which has been given by Major T. He speaks English imperfectly, but thoroughly understands Armenian, and will teach the elder boys grammar and translating. He will also superintend the girl's school for one or two hours in the morning, and teach Mrs. G. Armenian. We also hope, as soon as may be, to get some tracts and little school-books translated into vulgar Armenian, but all this must depend on the blessing of the Lord on our undertaking. This brother has joined the Church of England in Calcutta: but he is himself at present a strict Armenian, yet I hope, not a bigoted man. But all our past experience has led us to look to the Lord alone for all profitable help. Those whom we think promise every thing, often occasion nothing but anxiety, and those from whom we expect the least we have reason abundantly to bless God for having sent us:--so wisely, so graciously, and yet in so sovereign a way does the Lord bring to pass his purposes, and bless his servants, that every thought of confidence in any creature may be destroyed, and the soul, by a thousand disappointments, when it has reposed elsewhere, at last be compelled to learn only to repose on the bosom of its Father, where love and faithfulness eternally dwell, and convince the soul of its past expectations from any other source. _February 14, 1831._ An offer has been made to us by one of the richest Armenian merchants here, to send, at his own expense, two camel loads of books any where we wish, which has of course been thankfully accepted; and we think of sending at least one load to Diarbekr. He has also bought from our Armenian teacher, those Bibles he had procured from the Bible Society at Calcutta, who, with the many thus obtained, has determined to send more Bibles from Bushire, where he has already 200, to Julfa and Ispahan, and the villages round about, in which he says there are above twenty churches. I have this day settled all my accounts, and find, after every thing is paid, including the expenses of my baggage from Bushire, and of the house for ourselves, and school for another year, that our little stock will last us, with the Lord's blessing, two months longer, and then we know not whence we are to be supplied, but the Lord allows us not to be anxious; he has so wonderfully provided for us hitherto, that it would be most ungrateful to have an anxious thought. Even for my baggage, Major T. only allowed me to pay half the charge, and he has moreover told me, that should I at any time want money, only to let him know and he will lend it me. Now, really, to find here such kind and generous friends, is more than we could have hoped, but thus the Lord deals with us, and takes away our fears. That we may many times be in straits I have no doubt, but the time of our necessity will be the time for the manifestation of our Lord's providential love and munificence. There is one peculiar feature that runs through all education in the eastern churches, that it professes to be religious, which gives us an opportunity of introducing such books as may be useful, without its exciting any surprise or suspicion, or opposition. _Feb. 16._--The Pasha has sent Major T. word of the ravages the plague is making in Sulemania. The government and all who have it in their power have quitted it. This account has spread much consternation, in addition to which two men from Sulemania arrived here ill of the plague, one of whom has recovered. Major and Mrs. T., with their usual generous kindness to us, have offered us an asylum with them should the plague come here, where we should enjoy this great advantage, that as the house stands close to the river, a supply of water can be obtained without communication with the city. But at present we do not clearly see our way: should our school be broken up, I see not so much difficulty; it would be a most valuable opportunity for Mrs. G. making progress in the language; but we wait on the Lord and he will guide us. These do indeed seem awful times for these lands. We cannot be too thankful for the peace and joy the Lord allows us to feel in the assurance of his loving care. I was much struck by a remark of our Moolah yesterday, when speaking of the horror he felt at the prospect of the plague coming here. He said, the sword he did not fear, but the plague he did, for one was the work of man, the other of God. I replied to him, that feeling this God who directs the plague, to be my father, who loved me, I knew he would not suffer it to come nigh me unless he had no longer occasion for me, and then it would come as a summons from a scene of labour and many trials to one of endless joy. He said, Yes, it is very well for you not to fear death, who believe Christ to have atoned for you; but I fear to die. _Feb. 19._--To-day we have heard that the above report of the plague being at Sulemania is false; that it has been there, but has now left it; so we know not what to believe. _Feb. 21._--The expenses attendant on our packages from Bombay to this place, are as great as from England to Bombay. The boxes of books and medicine, and the press, with three boxes of books from the Bible Society, cost twenty-five pounds. Aleppo would certainly be the cheapest way to send them by, and by far the most speedy. It would be a great comfort to us, if this communication should ever be opened, for then we might freely communicate with, and hear from those we love. I sent a packet across the desert the other day, which we have every reason to think was intercepted. In fact, it is now very doubtful if any of the many letters we have sent, have gone safe, and none have reached us for these six months. Intelligence came to-day, that the Sultan has ordered the Pasha of Mosul, and another Pasha who is dependant on this Pasha, to discontinue all communication with him, as the enemy of the Sultan. A few weeks will, most probably, conclude this long-continued struggle, and, we hope, the insecurity and confusion attendant on it; yet, the Lord knows his purposes, and we have only to execute his will. _Feb. 24._--We have just heard, by a letter that came from Aleppo by way of Merdin and Mosul, that the caravan which left this place more than three months ago, entered Aleppo about thirty days ago. They remained in the desert till the Pasha of Aleppo had quitted that place on his expedition against the Pasha of Bagdad, from the fear, that if they entered the town he would seize their camels for the use of his army. Much alarm is entertained here by the inhabitants as to the result of this attack. From past experience they are led to expect great lawlessness, from both friends and foes. May the Lord keep our hearts in perfect peace, stayed on him. We now begin to feel that it is very doubtful when we shall see our dear friends: certainly no caravan will pass the desert till all these disturbances are settled. It may be also possible, that the journal and packet of letters I sent packed in a bale of goods belonging to a merchant here, may yet reach their destination. _Feb. 28._--This day brought us news of the arrival of our very dear and long expected friends and fellow-labourers safe at Aleppo, on the 11th of January, after many delays and many trials. We had never been allowed to doubt our Lord's most gracious dealings with us, but yet this overwhelmed us with joy and praise; and this welcome news reaches us just as our dear brother Pfander is on the point of leaving us alone. We received, at the same time, a packet of letters from most of our dearest friends in England, at the very moment when our little all was within a month of coming to a conclusion, telling us that the Lord had provided us with supplies for at least four months to come, which we might draw for. Surely the Lord has most graciously seen fit to dry up those sources from whence we anticipated supply, that we might know we depend on him alone, and see how he can supply even here; we were ashamed of every little anxious feeling we had ever had, and were much encouraged to trust him more and more. My soul is led to abhor, more and more, that love of independence which still clings to it, when I see how it would shut me out from these manifestations of my Father's loving care. Oh! how hard it is to persuade the rebellious will and proud heart, that to depend on your Father's love for your constant support, is more for the soul's health, than to be clothed in purple and fare sumptuously every day--or at least, as we would say, on bare independence; and yet how plain it is to spiritual vision. We met together in the evening to bless the Lord for the past, and supplicate his continued blessing for the future--that he would accomplish what he had begun, that our hearts may never cease to praise and bless him. My soul was much comforted, especially with a text to which one of our dear correspondents called my attention, Zeph. iii. 17. "The Lord thy God in the midst of thee is mighty, he will save, he will rejoice over thee with joy, he will rest in his love; he will joy over thee with singing." All the letters amounted to twenty-six, which, after so long an interruption of all intelligence, was an especial source of joy. And now we can think of our dear friends definitely as absolutely at Aleppo, only waiting for the termination of disturbances to join us. To-day, a Chaldean, from near Julimerk, came to see us, and we expect him again, with his brother, who, he says, can read, when I hope to obtain from him a fuller account of the state, numbers, and disposition, of his wild countrymen. A Mohammedan Effendi was with me to-day; a very amiable young man, who sees many things in the customs of his people bad, arising out of the Mohammedan laws. He came to borrow an Arabic bible for, he said, a poor schoolmaster, which I gladly lent him. Whether it be really for a schoolmaster, or for himself, I do not know. _March 4._--Read this morning, with peculiar pleasure, Hawker's Evening Portion: "How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land:" heightened as it was by the localities of our situation; but above all, by the unity of our experience with the sentiments of the writer; for we have indeed found the love of our Father, the pastoral care of our Elder Brother, and the consolation and visits of our Comforter, that which has enabled us to sing the Lord's song in this strange land, even the song of the redeemed. _March 13._--The time is now fast approaching when we expect the struggle for the Pashalic to commence, at the conclusion of the Ramazan. Yet it may all pass over, for the government of Turkey is so utterly without principle, that by a well timed application of money, all difficulties may be surmounted with the Porte, and as the Pasha seems now disposed to meet this desire, it may, especially in the present difficulties of the Sultan with Russia, lead, after all, to an amicable termination of one year's anxiety and suspense. We are now especially anxious for the pacification of these countries, that our dear friends may be able to pass over the desert, as our dear and kind brother Pfander left us last evening for Ispahan. It was a great rending to us all, and has left a vacuum we cannot easily hope to have filled up in all its parts; and till our dear brothers and sisters come, we shall be very solitary, and very much pressed; but our strength will be as our day. Had he seen it right to remain I might have crossed the desert to our dear friends; but this not being the case, it is impossible for me to leave this, and perhaps in the present state of things here, from apprehensions of plague and war, it would have been impracticable even if he had remained. Caravans pass much more frequently between this place and Damascus than between this and Aleppo, and it appears to me the shorter and better way of communication to Bayrout and Damascus to Bagdad than by Aleppo. Three caravans have passed over the desert from hence to Damascus within these few months. With one of these an Armenian with his wife and children went, and with another several Mohammedan families; thereby hoping to avoid the troubles they expected here. So at least we may venture for our Lord what men venture for their own various interests. In fact, it does not appear that any further danger is incurred than that of being plundered, or perhaps only a heavy exaction from the Arab tribes through whom the caravan passes, whose interest it is not to press so hard upon caravans as that they shall be stopped coming, but to levy a tax upon them sufficiently considerable to help to support the tribe. An English merchant and a Consul are about settling, if not already settled, at Damascus, which will still further facilitate communications; and besides the road from Beyraut to Damascus is much better than that from Latakeea to Aleppo. This arrangement, as well as that at Trebisand, shows that these countries are becoming the objects of public, or rather mercantile, interest. A Jew came to borrow an Arabic bible from me which I have let him have. Another Jew was with me yesterday, who translated the Hebrew into Arabic very tolerably; but, generally, they only learn to read, without understanding what they read. An Armenian Priest has just come to ask for four or five Armenian Bibles, to send to some villages between Hamadan and Teheran. This is a plan we like better than sending many to one place, not only as spreading knowledge further, but also from the greater probability of their being read. We have just seen another of the Chaldeans, from the mountains. He says that they understand the Syrian Scriptures; so that at least I hope to send a letter to the Bishop, with a copy or two of the Syrian Bible I have with me, that when they return next year they may bring me an account whether they understand them or not; and also it will serve as a means of opening a personal communication with their chief; as, by that time it may be possible that one or two of us may be able to return with these men to the mountains. As far as their personal assurances go, they promise me a most welcome reception. One of these people told me, if I would come to his village, he would kill a sheep for me, and I should have plenty, and 200 walnuts for two-pence; they said every thing was very abundant there and very cheap. Their pride seems much gratified by their being the head and the Mohammedans the tail in the mountains; so that they cannot open their mouths, or raise their hands against them. _March 15._--A packet of letters has just arrived from Shushee, after more than six months interruption, three days after our dear brother had left us. However, we got the messenger to set off immediately to overtake him, and he having seen the caravan on the way, promised to return in five days. In this packet I also received one letter from our dear brother J. B. Dublin, a note from dear Mr. R. informing me of his having forwarded the books to the brethren at Shushee. Surely they are worthy for whom he has done this, and he will be happy in being thus a fellow-helper in the truth. Mr. Knill also mentions their arrival safe at Petersburgh, and his purpose of forwarding them to Shushee. It has been a year of great trial at Shushee for the mission, but of exactly what nature and to what extent we know not, nor how things now stand in the communications to our dear fellow-helper who has just left us, as they are in German; but should he not be able on the road to write us a full account, he doubtless will when he has reached Kermanshah or Hamadan. We hear that the prince royal is marching against his brother the Prince of Kerman, by way of Ispahan, the roads, therefore, are very unsettled in Persia, but the Lord will encamp round about our brother and bear him safely through. _March 16._--The letters we yesterday received from Tabreez assured us of the willingness of the Armenian Bishop to have a school as soon as a fit person could be found; and on reading one of the tracts from Shushee, he said he would read it in his church to his flock. Mrs. N. also mentions the willingness among the Mohammedans to receive the New Testament, and that in many instances, pleasing results have manifested themselves; but of what kind she does not mention. She mentions also one of the principal Mohammedan merchants asking for a Testament to read on his road to Mecca. May the Lord stop him by it before he gets there, at the gates of the heavenly Jerusalem. In fact, there is room in these parts for much preparatory work, when the time comes that the power of the Gospel shall have taken such root as to show by the power and individuality it gives to the Christian character that their craft is in danger. They will do as they have done in Shushee; but by the Lord's blessing it may then be too late. What appears to me to require the greatest patience and the most unwavering perseverance, is the language; for, while on the one hand there is every thing to encourage, if we only take the burthen of the day on the day, there is such a natural tendency in the mind of man to accumulate all the difficulties together, and make one great impassable mountain, that it becomes more difficult than many would imagine, to go on successfully and happily like a little child. That measure of knowledge of a language which so enables one to move about in the common transactions of life, does not seem difficult to attain; but to be able to state clearly the power of moral distinctions, to detect the fallacy of false systems, and put beside them the true light of life, is another and a very difficult thing, but yet the Lord doubtless sees in this reasons of immense weight, or he would again bestow upon us the gifts of the Spirit as before. God our Father has most marvellously eased our way, and so great has been the kindness of our ---- here, that he would do any thing he could for us. He even told me the other day, never to let our work stand still for want of funds, for should I ever want any he would gladly supply me, and lend me for my personal wants whatever I might need. Now when we consider there is but one English family now resident in Bagdad besides our own, how like the Lord's acting it is to make them willing to supply to us the necessary help: not only does the Lord supply us with means necessary for our expense, but does not allow us when our little fund gets low, to know the anxiety of expecting, or thinking what we should do. And, surrounded as we have been these many months, by the alarm of war and the fear of plague or cholera, even our dear native islands have not been without their anxieties; but I have been much struck of late with the peculiar dealings of God towards his chosen; as of old, the pillar that was all darkness to the enemy, was light to the church in the wilderness, so now all this dark cloud, the darkness of which may be felt, which is spreading from one end of the Christian and Mohammedan world to the other, has, towards the church in her pilgrimage, its full steady bright light surmounted by "Behold he cometh!" Blessed assurance! But a little day of toil, and then we shall come with him, or rise to join his assembled saints, dressed all anew, with our house from heaven, that spiritual clothing meet for the new creature in Christ Jesus. Oh, what glorious liberty we are heirs to, as children of God, one day to love our Eternal Father, Son, and Spirit, with unalloyed affections, when our whole nature shall be again on the side of God, and not a place left for the enemy to put his foot to harass the heir of glory. _March 17._--A Chaldean Roman Catholic priest has been here to-day, and read me the same passages of the Psalms in the Chaldean and Syrian languages, and there appears to be no other difference than in character, as far as he read. The Syrians, the Chaldeans, and the Jews, might become most valuable objects of missionary labour, not only as being in greater numbers here, but from the great similarity of their languages, so that the mastering of the one would be to the mastering of the three, with very little additional trouble. I endeavoured to find out from him the difference between the spoken and written languages, and as far as he produced illustrations, the difference was only in pronunciation; the words seemed substantially the same. But there is a very strong prejudice to contend with in all those among these people who know any thing of these languages, in the contempt in which they hold their vulgar, and the reverence and sanctity they attach to their old language, so that I think tracts, in the shape of paraphrases on particular parts of the Scriptures, would be exceedingly valuable among them, as well as tracts generally. I trust we shall be able to turn our attention to these when we are able, from our knowledge of the languages, to judge sufficiently of translations or compositions. _March 18._--This evening the messenger I sent after Mr. Pfander with the letters from Shushee, returned with a letter, which I shall here insert, as it supplies a good deal of information concerning the dear brethren in the Karabagh. "_In the Desert near the Village Bakoobah_, "_17th March, 1831._ "My dear Brother, "I am very much obliged to you, that you sent this man after me with the letters from Shushee. He reached us a day's journey and a half from Bagdad. We advance very slowly, only from five to ten English miles a day, on account of the spring season, when the Dschervedars[18] feed their horses on grass, and because they waited for other parties which had yet been behind. The weather is very fine; we had rain twice, but only slightly. The remaining time of the day I spend in reading, and conversation with the Persians in the caravan. The first day I felt very solitary, but the second, and since, the Lord afforded me plenty of opportunity to give testimony of him who is our Saviour and Lord, and to distribute several tracts and books among my fellow travellers, and this rejoiced my heart greatly. According to the manner of our present travelling we shall not be in Kermanshah till after twenty days. They speak in the caravan from fear of the Arabs after this; but it will be easy for the Lord to bring me safely through. The caravan is increased to about 500 horses and 180 persons. [18] Muleteers. "Now something out of dear Zaremba's letters; but I had only time to read them once over, so that I am not able to give you any regular extracts out of them. Should I forget any thing I will write it from Kermanshah or Hamadan. The letter was of December last. All had been attacked with sickness more or less, and dear Brother Sallett, stationed at Teflis, was called home: he died of the cholera. "The circumstance with the Armenians is this: The two deacons did go on in their spiritual life prosperously, and continued to give testimony of the truth. This excited so much the hatred of the Armenian clergy against them, that soon after Zaremba's arrival in Shushee from Erzeroum, the Armenian Archbishop of the Karabagh desired to have them sent as prisoners to Etchmiazin, the seat of the Armenian Catholicos,[19] near Erivan. This the Russian Governor of Shushee, after he was informed of it from Zaremba, did not allow. So it got a little quiet: but these young Armenians thought it impossible, at present, to remain longer in Georgia, and so they prepared for their departure to Germany. But during this time the Armenian clergy got an order from the Russian Governor of Teflis, that the two deacons should appear before a council in Etchmiazin. The Governor in Shushee did again so much for them, that they should go to Teflis, and be allowed to lay their case before the governor. Zaremba went with them, though he was not quite well. The one of these deacons, he who assisted Dittrich in translation, died there, happy in his Lord. The other went at last, but in a very good state of mind and heart, to Etchmiazin, putting his confidence in his Lord, for whom he was going to suffer. The brethren had not yet heard more of him than his arrival there. During the time Zaremba was at Teflis, the cholera took daily many away, and some days before his departure, our beloved Saltett, as mentioned before. Zaremba got worse too, but reached Shushee again. After his arrival, he and Hohenaker, and Dittrich had been attacked from the cholera, but recovered again. During this time the person from Etchmiazin arrived in Shushee, and preached and spoke against our brethren, and condemned all the persons who sent their children to them. So the school was broken up. But now the children are beginning to collect again, and the school is again opened. Dittrich was with his family, yet at Teflis, where Zaremba wrote the letter. Hohenaker was gone to the German village, where you stopped, and Haas was kept in Moscow, in quarantine, because of the cholera. Two Armenian tracts had been printed in Moscow, and the copies of the first were already in Shushee. In Shushee they are printing the Armenian Dictionary. [19] Patriarch. "With our not going to the mountains, they are quite contented; but they think I should rather go to Tabreez than to Ispahan, where I might go at any other time. I do not yet know what I shall do. I shall see how the Lord will lead me. But this is clear now, that a long stay at Ispahan I must give up. Zaremba writes further, that he has now little hope to be able to go any more on a journey, and therefore they rather wish that I should travel and do the Lord's work in the neighbourhood of Shushee, as long as the door is yet open. I cannot reject this, and so I must for the present give up my plans for travelling in Persia. If the way to Ispahan should be quite open, I would go thither, distribute books, and see that I might be in Shushee in July; if not, I shall go direct to Shushee. "The case with the mission in Shushee, is now laid before the Emperor, and so they are waiting what decision they may receive from thence; but they are sure that the Lord will direct and order every thing as it will be best, and therefore are not discouraged. The Russian government does not yet in the least hinder them in their work. "My letters all arrived safely at Shushee, and the cause of their not writing, was their own sickness and the plague all round about them. It does not seem that one of our letters was lost. Boxes with Armenian and Persian books are in Tabreez. They speak good of the Americans. For the news in your letter I thank you: we live certainly in a most eventful time, and we have therefore the more to work so long as it is yet day. May the Lord mightily bless you, your family, and work. In him, under every circumstance, we have every reason to be glad and to rejoice that we have him on our side. "Your affectionate brother, "C. G. PFANDER." "P.S. From Alexander Kasembeg[20] they received a letter which rejoiced them much. It seems to be good with him. [20] This affords us unfeigned joy, as we had heard from one who was with him in Cazan, an account that made us a little anxious about him. "The other Armenian in Baku[21] came to Shushee to be employed in distributing tracts and Bibles. He has already made a journey into Georgia, and preaches to Armenians and Turks." [21] This is the Armenian whose history I gave a little account of before, as the son-in-law of the richest merchant in Baku, who has given up all the prospects of his connection with his father-in-law, which are very considerable, to endure afflictions with the people of God. This young Armenian is another proof of the immense importance of having those to bear testimony to the power of the Spirit's work in regenerating the soul in the image of him that created it, from among themselves. The people can see in him the contrast between the past and the present man. They have also a knowledge of the peculiar modes of thinking and feeling among those with whom they have been educated, and been in the closest terms of intimacy with from their infancy, that they cannot have with foreigners. The two dear and most interesting deacons, of whom one is mentioned as having died in the faith in his way to suffer for the truth, and the other has gone to witness alone before his enemies and persecutors at Etchmiazin, were both in the school at Shushee, and in the study of and translating the word of God, had been led step by step, to see through the errors of the system by which they were bound. Another proof of the progress of the same spirit manifested itself in our infant beginnings. The two little Armenian boys who live with us, eat and live as we do; on being asked by the boys without, why they did not fast as their nation did for fifty days? without any knowledge or direction from me, they set about selecting from the New Testament, in conjunction with my own little boys, those passages which bear on the question, and which shew that if we eat not we are none the better, and if we do eat, none the worse. Remarks of a similar kind have many times occurred in the course of our translations from the Testament. At all events, there is a growing tendency in the minds of the children, to feel that God's word is the one rule on which they must justify all they impose, and thence the necessity of understanding it; and these principles upset at once the whole system of ignorant mummery which is now called or thought to be the religion of Jesus here. If it be the Lord's pleasure to spare our lives, and grant us the ability and opportunity to publish his truth, results will follow to rejoice our hearts, I have no doubt: God has declared it shall not return to him void, nor shall it. And to the Mohammedans also these converts from among the fallen churches become invaluable preachers, from their vernacular facility in the language, and from their being continually exposed to the question, why they do not do so and so; they are called upon by the very necessity of their position to defend with meekness and wisdom their new position; whereas, with us, they are satisfied with just simply making up their minds to this, that theirs is best for them, and yours best for you. _March 20._--The Moolah yesterday, in speaking of the contest between the Pasha and the Sultan, said, that if the English would guarantee both sides, both might be satisfied and make peace; but that if not, they would never believe one another, for says he, every Osmanli will lie. This opinion of their own low moral condition, is universal among Turks and Persians. This man has often said to me, No Osmanli cares for more than his own bread, and if that is safe, the whole empire may be destroyed. Two tribes of Arabs, whom the Pasha has brought up to help him in the approaching contest, in consequence of some feud between them, came to blows, and all last night and this morning were firing at one another in that quarter of the city which is on the other side of the river, where they are stationed.--It caused much alarm, and may be but a precursor to general confusion and greater trials; but the Lord Jehovah who sitteth on the everlasting hills, is our shield and defence. The firing has since ceased, and one of the tribes has been driven out of Bagdad. _March 21._--This day the packet of letters came by Bombay, which were sent off about four months after we left, and therefore have been about eighteen months on the road. The best way is to put all letters into the post-office, paying the postage, and they will then come generally in about eight months by Bombay, free of all expense but that paid in England; and it would afford us peculiar pleasure if our dear friends would write regularly by this route, for the opportunities by Constantinople are either rare or expensive. How strikingly do these letters prove the truth of our Lord's declaration, that those who leave father or mother, &c. for his sake and the gospel's, shall find a hundred fold, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, houses, lands, with persecutions. Surely we are rich indeed, in the love of the saints of our Lord, and in their prayers for us. These letters prove that our weak childish faith has not been without the Lord's blessing on his own work. Oh! then, what might be expected if we had been strong in the Lord and in the power of his might? Perhaps, however, he who has led us hitherto, insignificant as we are, may lead us onward still to magnify his grace in our weakness. Surely no missionaries, with so few pretensions to the love and confidence of the church of God, ever received more solid proofs of deep and hearty interest than we have during these ten months; this is no small point gained, and I think we may go further, and add, that many have been led by this weak effort of faith in us, to take steps they might not otherwise have ventured upon. I do not desire, for one moment, to set myself in opposition to those blessed institutions whose labours roused us from our lethargy: but only this I must say, that I do not think their plan is the best, or the only good one. Notwithstanding, I desire to bless God for them, and to co-operate with them, whenever I can. I do rejoice, with most unfeigned joy, at any honour God bestows upon them, and I should rejoice to see them multiplied a hundred fold; for whosoever brings a stone to the temple of our Lord and king, by whatever different means they may have laboured with from ourselves, shall be our father, mother, sister, brother. The only end we know of existence is the manifestation of that temple, and may the king's blessing and favour rest on the head of every one who labours for it, at home or abroad, under established institutions, or in any other way. By all, Christ is preached, and God the Father glorified, and the power of the Holy Ghost manifested. Unprofitable servants as we are, weak in faith, and infirm in purpose, except as the Lord day by day lifted us up, as it were, with one hand, and covered us with the other, and enabled us to stagger on our way; still, we cannot but feel that the Lord's goodness and care, which our weakness has elicited, may have moved in some small degree the hearts of the little band of six, who are coming to join us; and I hear that their simplicity and faith has yet further stirred up the spiritual affections of others to go and do likewise--but these are early days; if it be of the Lord, he will bless it; if not, we desire to be the first to lay our hands on our lips, and our faces in the dust, saying, We were deceived; the cause is the Lord's, not ours; with him we will leave its prosperity and defence. _March 28._--The plague has now absolutely, we believe, entered this unhappy city. Major T. and all those connected with the residency are preparing to leave for the mountains of Kourdistan; they have most kindly invited us to go with them and form part of their family; this is most truly kind, and there are many things to recommend it--the opportunities it would afford M. for learning Armenian, and me Arabic, and for observation on the country and people, besides our being delivered from all apparent danger either from the sword which threatens us from without, or the pestilence within. The absence of all these friends and so many of the principal Christian families who are going with them, leaves us exposed to the bigotry of the people in any tumults that may arise--all these things presented themselves to our minds. But there are considerations that outweigh these in our minds: in the first place, we feel that while we have the Lord's work in our hands we ought not to fly and leave it; again, if we go, it is likely that for many months we cannot return to our work, whereas the plague may cease in a month; opportunities of usefulness may arise in the plague that a more unembarrassed time may not present; and our dear friends from Aleppo may come and find no asylum. The Lord gives great peace and quietness of mind in resting under his most gracious and loving care, and as the great object of our lives is to illustrate his love to us, we believe that in the midst of these awful circumstances, he will fill our tongues with praise as he does fill our hearts with peace. I have just heard, that some Englishmen have been circulating tracts at Julfa, an Armenian town in the neighbourhood of Ispahan, and that the bishop has prohibited their circulation; this shews what we have to expect. I believe I have many times mentioned the deeprooted opposition which exists among the clergy and literary men in the East, to having any thing translated into the vulgar dialects: they are worse than the literati of Europe used to be with their Latin, many among whom, but lately came to see that it was no disgrace to communicate their ideas in a vernacular dress: as the common sense of mankind has triumphed over the literary pride of the learned, so we shall find that babes will one day overthrow the literary pride of these orientals. I obtained, the other day, a translation of one of Carus Wilson's little stories, into the vulgar Armenian of this place, for the little girls. The contrast between the effect produced by reading this in an intelligible language, and their usual lessons, was most striking: in the one there is of necessity a perfect indifference; but on reading the other, they begged and entreated they might have it to carry home, which is promised them for next week. Of this I had no doubt before; but the experiment has been most gratifying and encouraging. _March 29._--Yesterday Dr. Beagrie and Mr. Montefiore went and saw several patients they thought afflicted with the plague; but their minds were not perfectly made up. To-day, there is no longer any doubt. I accompanied Mr. Montefiore, in his visits, and now there are about twenty, and the number is increasing. Thus, then, this long expected scourge has visited this city, and our Father only knows when the awful visitation may cease. We can only cast ourselves on his holy and loving hands for safety or peace: into these hands we do cast ourselves, with all that is dearest to us in this world. We have proved our Jesus to be the Captain and Author of our hopes, and always found that in the power of his name we have obtained the victory. Nothing but the Lord's loving pity can prevent the most awful extension of the disease; not only are the people crowded together, two or three dying in one room, but the intercourse is perfectly unrestricted in all parts of the city, so that I fear what is now confined to one quarter, and might possibly, by a vigilant government be kept there, is spreading in all directions. We have, therefore, been forced to the most painful step of breaking up our school, for it would have been quite impossible to collect together eighty children from different parts of the city, without exposing all to danger. May the Lord enable us profitably to avail ourselves of our retirement, to cultivate a more extended communion with him who is our life. Dear M. is much staid on her God, and feels that as he has been, so he will be to us a hiding place in every storm. _April 1._--The plague is still increasing, but apparently not rapidly. We wait the Lord's pleasure in our own house. The only inconvenience is want of water, which cannot be had from without; and they say that when the plague becomes intense all the water carriers cease to ply; but the Lord hath said, in the time of famine ye shall be satisfied; on this promise we rest in peace. Two English gentlemen set off to-morrow across the desert with a single guide to Damascus, to examine the means of communication by water between the Mediterranean and Aleppo. From thence, should they be spared, they purpose going to Beer, and thence pass down the Euphrates with the view of ascertaining its fitness for steam navigation. Surveys have already been completed between this and Bussorah, of both the Tigris and Euphrates, by Mr. Ormsby, in part assisted by Mr. Elliot, and from Ana to Felugia by Captain Chesney of the Royal Artillery, and there remains between Beer and Ana to be examined. Through all that has yet been surveyed there is no obstruction, but it is expected there will be a little labour required in one or two points of what remains to be surveyed, before steam communications could proceed on the rivers. If these gentlemen thus labour for what perishes in the using, and run such risks, going as they are across the desert with a guide, whose language they do not understand, ought it to be called tempting God, in us going for such a work as ours is, to run similar risks and encounter similar dangers. The deaths at present from the plague are confined to the Mohammedans and the Jews. To avoid it, many of the Jews have gone to Bussorah, and the Kourds who brought it here have fled from the city; a large caravan of Christians are now thinking of returning to Mosul, who were driven from Mosul three or four years ago by plague and its attendant famine. The poor Jews have been robbed of every thing by the Arabs, and sent naked back, and there seems little better prospect for those who are going to Mosul: they have the Arabs on one side the road, and the Kourds on the other. It is striking how fully and simply the Mohammedans admit the expected coming of our Lord and the end of the world. The end of our Lord's coming they conceive to be to set his seal to Mohammed's mission, and that all Christians will become Mohammedans. Still these fundamental errors in their views do not prevent a clear and distinct expectation similar to that of the heathen at the time of our Lord's coming. Certainly no people can have a worse opinion of the state of the professors of their religion than the Mohammedans have; still, with the loss of zeal for their own, their heart seems full of a strong delusion to believe a lie, and hate the way of life, and above all, the Lord who is the true God and eternal life. How blessed the 91st Psalm feels at such moments as these, in looking round on one's little family, to know that every arrow that flies, winged with death, is no random shot, but that the Lord who is your life, and by whom your life is hid in God, directs them all. Call upon me, says the Lord, in the day of trouble, and I will deliver _thee_, and thou shalt _glorify me_. Blessed Lord, when thou hast (as thou most assuredly wilt do) delivered us, may we never forget to glorify and bless thee. Oh! what a blessed feeling it is to know that you are not under the general but especial and particular government of Jehovah--that he has redeemed you, and you are his--that he has engraven you on the palms of his hands; and that day and night he is watching to preserve you. _April 3._--An immense crowd of poor Jews left the city this morning, to escape the destruction of the plague. The Christians also are leaving in every direction they can find open. I fear these poor creatures in their flight can hardly fail to carry the plague with them. I have lately read several of Erskine's works, or little portions of his writings, and never did I see the pernicious effects of system displayed more legibly than in several of his most interesting, but as a whole, most delusive publications. In his view of Gospel freeness, and other places where similar views to those contained in that little work are promulgated, there seems, to my mind, a radical defect, that nothing in so good a man accounts for but the baneful effects of a system, and a secret insurmountable repugnance to the sovereignty of God's government, and the individuality of God's election in Christ Jesus, from before the foundation of the world. I do not mean that these doctrines are denounced; but they evidently are not entertained as the comfort and consolation of the soul, nor as they are represented by the Apostles, as the most overwhelming reasons for unlimited devotion to his service, who has thus chosen us with our bodies, souls, and spirits, which are his. He talks of spreading the beauty of the Lord Jesus, and the excellency of God's love, not only as the pasture of their souls, who are born again of the Spirit, of which they undoubtedly are the legitimate, the only food and means of their spiritual growth, but as the cause of spiritual life in the unregenerate by being believed. Now, this appears to me a radical and fundamental error. Food does not give life, though it sustains and expands it. What he says of the effects of love, in moulding the soul to the likeness of the object beloved, is most true; but in order to the existence of this love, not merely faith in God's love seems to be necessary, nor the reality of the things promised, but such a new creation in the soul, as shall see a desirableness in it and them. As we see in nature, when the heart is engaged by one object of affection, any demonstration of affection from another, which involves the relinquishment of it, not only does not give pleasure, but positive pain, though you know its reality, purity, and intensity; the fact is, the affections are occupied, and there is no place. So it is by nature with every man, and while he remains in this state, no knowledge of love, however real, intense, and devoted, when he sees its tendency to disconnect him from the only source of known enjoyment, by the substitution of that which he has no senses to appreciate, will ever be found available. It appears to me, that the spiritual immortal generation of the second Adam, the Lord from heaven, is in Scripture represented to be as real and absolute as the generation from our earthly head, and only invisible from being spiritual. It has its proper food, its proper growth. Without being thus begotten from above, though you could display all the beauties of him who is the chief among ten thousand, the altogether lovely, though you could display all the Father's love to the church from the day he commanded his gathering it, till this day, it would be as powerless as spreading the most sumptuous banquet before the dead. With respect to the general design of vindicating the government of God from the charge of partiality, which I feel to be at the bottom of Mr. Erskine's views, I do not see that the Lord has committed it to us, but, whenever in the Old Testament or in the New, he pleads with his children against their ingratitude, it is from the specialty of his love. He does not say to the Israelites, I have dealt with you after a common dealing with all; but, with what nation has the Lord dealt as with Israel. So, in the New, he says, "I have chosen you, not you me." In the prayer of our Lord, in John xvii. in the Epistles of Paul and Peter--in the Revelations, and so in all the called and chosen, and faithful, who are written in the Lamb's book of life, and have been from the foundation of the world, from the beginning to the end, I see a constant reference made, and the warmest and most enlarged attachment of the affections demanded, on the ground of peculiar, especial, and personal choice on the part of God. That all this is consistent with every perfection of God's character, and, therefore, with his equal justice and mercy, I have the fullest assurance, but that we are in possession of the means of shewing it, or that the Lord requires it at our hands, I feel fully assured of the contrary. And the danger Mr. E. seems to apprehend from stating the doctrines of election as they are usually stated, are more imaginary than real. For God, who by his Holy Spirit begets the soul again in the likeness of the divine nature, gives to that nature thus begotten the power of discriminating in its food between night-shade and sweet pasture.--When he has created in the soul of any human being the love of himself, he gives him, with this love, the privilege to rejoice that his name is written in heaven, and the minister of Christ is by no means embarrassed by all these apparent difficulties, for he has to display all the beauty of Christ, all the love of the Father, all the graces of the Spirit before the assembled world, knowing that all the sheep will hear, and feed, and grow, and that the goats will cavil and stamp down the pasture with their feet. But, ye believe not, because ye are not of my sheep, as I said unto you, My sheep hear my voice and I know them, and they follow me. Again, he that is of God hath God's words, ye therefore hear them not, because ye are not of God. How and why this is we are not able nor willing to try to answer: all we can say is, hath not the Lord right to do what he will with his own. Shall the thing formed say to Him that formed it, "What makest thou?" And "Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right." And many, many more like it. _April 4._--We were last night alarmed by the voices of apparently thousands of persons on the other side of the river; by degrees the discharges of guns were mingled with the cries, which gradually extended also to this side the river. We concluded it must be from a tribe of Arabs having broken into the city, the noise being exactly similar, only much more violent, to that of the two tribes of Arabs who were contending the other day. But after an hour's suspense, we heard it was a concourse of Arabs to supplicate from God the removal of the plague from them. The deaths from the plague do not seem to increase with any rapidity, these two or three days; 150 perhaps is the highest any day. On a preceding occasion, about 60 years ago, it amounted to near 2000 a day. There is with us the father of our schoolmaster, who had the plague at that time, and says you might have walked from one gate of the city to the other, and hardly have met a person or heard a sound. We trust it may be the Lord's gracious purpose to take off the heaviness of his judgment, and spare yet a little longer this sinful city. The news from Europe also--how strange--how anxious; surely the Lord seems sifting the nations, and shewing their rulers that without the Lord's blessing their confidences, plans, and speculations, can never stand. That they should have discovered also that the spiritual and temporal character of the Pope's government are incompatible--surely these are signs in the times that may make the most sceptical enquire. Oh! how joyful a thought it is that the Lord is at hand, and our pilgrimage near ending. _April 7._--We had thought the Lord had removed the sword from us, but we hear it is now near at hand; and the plague seems extending, or every one is running away. Sometimes, on looking round on our dear little circle, the old heavy faithless flesh would seek its quiet, sheltered retreat under the lofty elms, but the Lord never allows the spirit for one moment to desire otherwise than to wait and see the salvation of our God, who will for his name's sake do wonderfully for us, that our hearts may rejoice in him. We hear the enemy is within three days of the city, and the Pasha is going out with all his Haram, whether to contend or fly we do not know, but we think from his character, the latter; but where shall he fly? If he flies with gold, there are those who will plunder him: if he flies without, he cannot stir a step. In fact, the moment his affairs are actually sinking, all the miserable elements of his present comparative strength turn against him. _April 9._--Stillness still prevails over the city, like the calm which precedes a convulsion; our neighbours are preparing for defence, by getting armed men into their houses, but we sit down under the shadow of the Almighty's wings, fully assured that in his name we shall boast ourselves. The Pasha, however, has not gone out as he intended yesterday. We have just heard that the reports of the plague has stopped for a little the approach of the enemies of the Pasha, still every thing is exceedingly unsettled. He is going to shut himself up in the citadel till the answer comes from Constantinople to his overtures, but all those about him are against him, and wishing for the arrival of his enemies. About fifty went out the other day, and seized on Hillah,[22] but they were driven out. [22] Hillah is a small town on the river Euphrates, a little below the ruins of Babylon. It was built in the year 495 of the Hegira, or 1115 of the Christian era, in a district called by the natives El Aredh Babel; its population does not exceed between 6 and 7000, consisting of Arabs and Jews, there being no Christians, and only such Turks as are employed in the Government. The inhabitants bear a very bad character. The air is salubrious, and the soil extremely fertile, producing great quantities of rice, dates, and grain of different kinds, though it is not cultivated to above half the degree of which it is susceptible,--See Mr. Rich's Memoirs on the Ruins of Babylon.--_Editor._ _April 10._--The Lord has in many respects this day altered our position here. One of Major Taylor's seapoys has died of the plague, and now four of the servants are attacked. This has so alarmed Major T. and the family, that they are immediately going off to a country house, built by order of the Government of Bombay, for the Resident in the neighbourhood of Bussorah, and they may or may not return to this place. They have kindly offered us an asylum with them, and a passage in their boat. Having no immediate occupation here at present, I feel quite free to accept it, but there are considerations that prevent us.--Hitherto the Lord has kept us safe, and no symptom of plague has appeared in our dwelling--though it is all around us. We cannot move without coming in contact with numbers of people for many days, and being shut up in a small boat with the Arab sailors,[23] and even the very plague we may leave this city to avoid, may have reached Bussorah before we arrived there, as thousands have already set off from hence for that place; besides which, should it be the Lord's pleasure that the plague terminate soon, and we then wish to return, it may be many months before we may meet with an opportunity. The only advantage seems to be, that we should thus be apparently further removed from those troubles which seem likely to arise in the threatened attempt to depose this Pasha; yet, on the whole, we feel we may hold on with the Lord's blessing; but if we were once to leave our present post, it might be very difficult again to regain it. [23] The whole of those who took down the boats died. The accounts brought us of the numbers of those who have died of the plague, on this side of the river alone, in little more than one fortnight, all agree in making it about 7000. The poor inhabitants know not what to do: if they remain in the city, they die of the plague; if they leave it, they fall into the hands of the Arabs, who strip them, or they are exposed to the effects of an inundation of the river Tigris, which has now overflown the whole country around Bagdad, and destroyed, they say, 2000 houses on the other side of the river, but I think this must be exaggerated; the misery of this place, however, is now beyond expression, and may yet be expected to be much greater. Dreadful as the outward circumstances of this people are, their moral condition is infinitely worse; nor does there seem to be a ray of light amidst it all. The Mohammedans look on those who die of the plague as martyrs, and when they die there is no wailing made for them; so that amidst all these desolations there is a stillness, that when one knows the cause is very frightful. The Lord enables us to feel the blessedness of the 91st Psalm, at least of the portion of those to whom that Psalm pertains; and we have, amidst all these very trying circumstances, a peace that passeth understanding. We feel indeed that we owe it to our Lord's love to be careful for nothing, neither to run or make haste as others, but to stand still and see the salvation of our God. There was a curious conversation going on last night, among some Mohammedans, outside our window, relative to the plague, which they said was an especial judgment on them and the Jews, but from which Christ would deliver the Nazarenes, and in all these calamities, it is remarkable how doubly heavy, they fall on these two classes. Feelings like these, and others that we know exist, make us clear to stay where we are in the midst of these judgments, trying as they are to natural feeling. That which comes to the ungodly _as judgments_, comes to the child of God, like the chariot of fire to Elijah. From these visitations as judgments, we have an especial promise of protection, and we trust in the midst of them some good may spring up; at all events, we feel that we shall have quite met our dear Lord's mind in giving this people a last opportunity of hearing, ere their house is left unto them desolate. _April 12._--I have just taken leave of the kind T.'s. The accounts of the dead are truly terrific; they say the day before yesterday 1200 died, and yesterday Major T.'s man of business obtained a receipt to the amount of 1040 on this side of the river. If this statement can be relied on, the mortality, within and without the city, must be truly appalling, and should it not please the Lord soon to stay the destroying Angel's hand, the whole country must become one wide waste. Some very kind Armenians[24] have offered to provide what is necessary for our journey to Damascus, if we will go with them. The possibility of meeting our dear Brethren is a great temptation, but still we do not see clearly our permission to go, and the Lord has given us all such perfect peace in staying, and such perfect health, that we are even unwilling to go; we remain, therefore, and wait upon our Lord's love, which we feel assured will be manifested towards us amidst this scene of death; and afterwards we shall see why we remained, more clearly perhaps than now. [24] The caravan they went by suffered the most complicated misery both from the flood and the plague, and never succeeded in prosecuting the journey. _April 13._--The plague has just entered our neighbour's dwelling, where they have collected together nearly thirty persons, not simply their own family. It seems as if a spirit of infatuation had seized them, for instead of making their number as small as possible, they seem to congregate as many together as they can. Oh! what a blessed portion is ours, to have the God of Israel and his unchangeable promises for our sure and abiding place of rest--our little sanctuary unto which we may always resort. Yea, in the secret of his pavilion he will hide us. _April 14._--This is a day of awful visitation. The accounts of deaths yesterday vary from between 1000 and 1500; and to-day, they say, is worse than any, and the increase in the numbers of deaths is exclusive of the immense multitudes who are dying without the city. One of our schoolmasters[25] is gone to Damascus, and has taken with him his little nephew who was boarding with us, so we are indeed now quite alone. In fact, nothing prevents the entire desertion of the city, but the dangers of the way, and the poverty of the inhabitants. [25] He died afterwards--he was the one mentioned in my former Journal as having come from Shiraz. _April 15._--The accounts of the mortality yesterday still more alarming--1800 deaths in the city. There was great danger of the bodies being left in the houses, and the inhabitants flying and leaving them unburied, but by great exertions on the part of some young men in one quarter of the town to bury the dead there, others have been stimulated in other quarters to similar exertions, and last night all were buried. Our Moolah has just been here; he says he has bought winding sheets for himself, his brother, and his mother.[26] He says that yesterday he was in the Jew's quarter, and only met one person, and that was a woman, who, when she saw him, ran in and locked the door. Meat, for some days, or any thing else from without, we have been unable to get. Water alone we have obtained. But, to-day, even that we cannot get at any price; every waterman you stop, answers he is carrying it to wash the bodies of the dead. [26] Both he and his brother died. _April 16._--The accounts of yesterday are worse than any day, and an Armenian girl, who has been here this morning, said she saw, in a distance of about 600 yards, fifty dead bodies carrying to burial. The son of Gaspar Khan, our next neighbour, is dead. Two have been carried out from a little passage opposite our house to-day, where two more are ill. All you see passing have a little bunch of herbs, or a rose, or an onion to smell to, and yet as to real measures of precaution there has not been one step taken; not even contact avoided, and the most unrestrained intercourse goes on in every direction, so that nothing but the Lord's arm shortening it, can prevent the entire desolation of the whole province. The population of Bagdad cannot exceed 80,000, and of this number more than half have fled,[27] so that the mortality of 2000 a-day is going on among considerably less than 40,000 people. But the Lord tells us, when we hear or see these things, not to have our hearts troubled, for our redemption draweth nigh; and we believe it, and accept it as a sweet drop in the bitter cup that is now drinking to the very dregs by so many about us; and which, but for this expectation, would bow down the stoutest heart. [27] Most of them were driven back by the increase of the waters without. One of Major T.'s servants has just been here, who says the city is a perfect desert, only peopled by the dead, the bearers of the dead, and the water carriers. Our household are all in perfect health, thanks be to our loving Shepherd's care. _April 17._--To-day, as yesterday, we have heard nothing as to numbers. The accounts are very contradictory; some saying that there is very little plague, others, that it is heavier than any day; so that probably, in some parts of the city, it is very severe, and in others lighter. An Armenian told the schoolmaster that almost every one you meet is carrying cotton and things for the interment of the dead. We are left almost alone in our own neighbourhood, all having fled in one direction or another; we have been, however, all preserved in health, to the praise of the Keeper of Israel. Surely every principle of dissolution is operating in the midst of the Ottoman, and Persian empires. Plagues, earthquakes, and civil wars, all mark that the days of the Lord's coming are at hand, and this is our hope--on this our eyes and hearts rest as the time of repose, when all these trials shall cease, and the saints shall possess the kingdom. _April 18._--To-day the accounts are truly distressing. In the family of one of our little boys, consisting of six, four are laid down with the plague, father, mother, one son, and one daughter--only one son and a daughter remaining. Immense numbers of families will be altogether swept away, and many thousand of fatherless and motherless children left when this heavy judgment of God ceases. It is now become useless to attempt obtaining accurate accounts about numbers. _April 19._--Still heavy, heavy news. The Moolah has called to give us an account of the city. He says it now stands stationary at between 1,500 and 2,000 a-day, and has been so for a fortnight. What a mass of mortality! Among the Pasha's soldiers, he says they have lost, in some of the regiments, above 500 out of 700.--And in the towns and villages without, the report is, that it is as bad or worse than within the city. _April 20._--The plague much the same. Among the Armenians nine were buried yesterday, and seven to-day. There are not left in the city more than 400, and now there is the plague in every third or fourth house. The water also is increasing, so that a little more will inundate the whole city on this side the river, as it has on the other, to the inexpressible additional misery of the poor people. The caravan which left for Damascus can neither advance nor return on account of the water. Yesterday four dead were carried out from the little passage opposite our house, making in all 14 dead from eight houses, and there are others now lying ill. _April 21._--To-day the accounts of the plague are rather more favourable, though another has been carried out from the passage opposite us, and there are some ill in three houses adjoining ours. The river has burst into the cellars of the Residency, and is within a foot of inundating the whole city. _April 22._--Having had occasion to-day to go out to the Residency, to endeavour to save some things from the water, which has come into all the cellars, in every way I was overwhelmed with the awful state of the city, and at the difficulty of obtaining help of any kind at any price. The servant of Major T----, who is left in charge of the house, told me he had applied in every direction, but could get no one to help him; one had a wife dead or dying, another a mother, another was employed in carrying water for the dead, and on our way, we saw the Court of the Meshid or Mosque full of graves; and no longer finding room there, they were burying the dead in the public road. When in want of water, I think we shall be obliged to go to the river and fetch it for ourselves, as a water-carrier is hardly now to be seen, except when followed by a man forcing him to carry water to some house where there is death. Amidst all, the Lord lets not his destroying angels enter our dwelling; though tens of thousands are falling around us, we are all, by his grace and holy keeping, well. The business of death is now come to that height, that people seem to take their nearest relations, and bring them for interment with as much indifference as they would transact the most ordinary business. _April 23._--The plague not decreasing; two more were brought out to-day from the passage opposite to us, making seventeen from eight houses near us. The mother of the Seyd, who owns our house, has been buried in her house, as no one could be found to bury her. Another most affecting instance has just occurred. A little girl of about twelve years old was seen carrying an infant in her arms, and being asked whose it was, she said, she did not know, but had found it in the road, having heard that both its parents were dead. Water now is not to be had for money; yet even in these times Israel's pillar has its bright side to Israel. These things must come to pass; but when we see these signs, we must remember that our redemption draweth nigh; and the Lord will be a little sanctuary for us, let him send however sore judgments on the earth. _April 24._--The plague still raging with most destructive violence; the two servants in our next neighbour's house are both dead, and two horses left, I fear, to starve. A poor Armenian woman has just been here, to beg a little sugar for a little infant she picked up in the street this morning; and she says, another neighbour of her's picked up two more. They have just been digging graves beside our house. Almost all the cotton is consumed, so that persons are wandering all over the city to find some, for burying their dead. Water not to be had at any price, nor a water-carrier to be seen. Oh, what heart-rending scenes sin has introduced into the world! Oh, when will the Lord come to put an end to these scenes of disorder, physical as well as moral? In one short month, not less than 30,000 souls have passed from time to eternity in this city, and yet, even now, no diminution apparently of deaths. Surely the judgment of the Lord is on this land? One more taken from the little passage opposite, making nineteen from the eight houses. _April 25._--To-day, three more from the same passage, making twenty-one from these houses. Such a disease I never heard of or witnessed; certainly not more than one in twenty recovers; every one attacked seems to die. This has been a heart-rending day. The accounts from the Residency, and the falling of a wall, undermined by the water, obliged me to go out, and I found nothing but signs of death and desolation; hardly a soul in the streets, unless such as were carrying the dead, or themselves affected with plague, and at a number of doors, and in the lanes, bundles of clothes that had been taken from the dead, and put out. The Court of the Mosque was shut, having no place left for burying, and graves were digging in every direction in the roads, and in the unoccupied stables about the city. The water also has increased so much as to be within a few inches of inundating the city. Should this further calamity come on this side, as it has on the other, the height of human misery will be near its climax, for where they will then bury their dead I know not. There seems no diminution in the plague yet, that we can discern. Two of the men we had helping to take Major T----'s things from the water are attacked; one of them is the fourth from a house, consisting of six. The remaining servant of Mr. T---- had intelligence brought while I was there, that his aunt was dead, which, he says, is the eighth near relation he has lost. Some of the Mohammedans, our neighbours, were sitting under our windows last evening, and were observing, that while two or three had been taken from every house, we only had remained free. And this is of the Lord's marvellous love. We consist of thirteen, including the schoolmaster's family, and the Lord has given his destroying angel charge to pass over our door. The Pasha has sent to desire, that he might have Major T----'s yacht drawn up near the Seroy or Palace to go into, in case the water should increase; and when the man was sent for, who had the charge of the vessel, he with another had run away, three were dead, and only one remained. These are surely the days of visitation for the pride of Edom. The man who sold cotton for burying the dead, the price of which he raised from 45 to 95 piastres, and who lived only two doors from us, died yesterday. There is no more cotton left in the city, and they now bury the dead in their clothes. The price of soap is raised four times higher than usual. I have been enabled, by the Lord's goodness, to get all our water-jars filled, though at twenty times the usual price. The bodies of persons of considerable wealth are now just put on the back of a donkey, or a mule, and carried away to be buried, accompanied by one servant. We have also much anxiety about the people of the Damascus-caravan, of which we can hear no tidings, whether or not they have been swallowed up by the inundation. Whether they have been able to retreat to some eminence, or what is become of them we know not. The poor women who have taken charge of the two poor little infants have sent to us for food for them, as in these countries they have no idea of bringing up children by hand. It may be to be instrumental in saving some of these poor little infants, and in helping the orphans that remain, that the Lord has allowed us to stay here. They are all Mohammedan children. _April 26._--For many days we have been unable to obtain any account of the number of deaths; but the _Chaoush_ of Major T---- has been with the Pasha this morning, who is in the greatest possible state of alarm, wishing to go, but not knowing how. One of his officers, whose business it is to inquire about the number of deaths daily, reported that it had reached 5,000, but yesterday was 3,000, and to-day less. Enormous as the mortality has been, I cannot but think this beyond the truth; yet it must be remembered, that the inundation kept immense masses of poor thronged together in the city, who, but for this, would have all fled in one direction or another. The accounts are heart-rending of little children left in the streets; five were left yesterday, a poor woman told us, near the Residency, and others in different directions. If the wrath of God is pouring out on the mystical Babylon, as it is on this province of the literal Babylon; the two antichrists are beginning to draw near their end. But for the presence of the Lord in our dwelling, as its light and joy, what a place would this be to be alone in now; but with Him, even this is better than the garden of Eden. These are invaluable situations for the experience of God's loving distinguishing care, and here we realize our pilgrim state much better than in the quiet of England, with all its external apparent security. The utmost number of daily deaths I heard of at Tabreez were 400, and here it is said to be 4,000, and yet the population certainly is not double. In going out to speak with a servant of Major T----, I saw a very decently dressed female lying in a dying state of plague at our door quite senseless; it is almost more than the heart can bear. Yet, that the Lord will even from these scenes prepare ways for the establishment of his truth, I feel fully assured, and this supports us. A north wind has regularly blown for these four days past, so that we hope the water will not again increase. Oh, may our Father of his infinite mercy take away these heavy heavy judgments, and make their present measure instrumental to the advancement of his kingdom. The Soochee Bashee, an officer of police, has just been here, and tells us, that the Pasha proposes removing to near Coote, a village on the Tigris, half way between this and Bussorah. At any other time, this would tend to most fearful convulsions within the city; but in the present state of things, perhaps, all may remain quiet, without a governor. When the plague, that now desolates the city ceases, we know not what may happen; but this we do know, that the love of our Father, and his gracious providence, will be magnified by all events, and that we shall yet praise him more and more. It seems to me more than probable that the Pasha does not intend to return. By the plague he has lost half his soldiers, and a great number of his Georgian slaves, who are his personal attached friends; he may now remove without obstruction perhaps, from any one, or the possibility of any communication being made to his enemies to intercept him; but time only will show; however this may be, it is certain that should the plague cease to-morrow, the city is in such a state, that no resistance could be made for one moment to any enemy. How invaluable the past proofs of the Lord's loving kindness and tender mercies are at such times, the remembrance of him from the Hill Mizar of the Hermonites. In going along the streets to-day, I saw several poor sufferers labouring under the plague; and a number of places, where clothes had been brought out and burnt. Our anxieties have been greatly increased by the illness of our dear little baby; but our unerring Physician has restored her to us to-day, we trust in a measure which promises amendment. _April 27._--To-day all thoughts are turned from the plague to the inundation, which from the falling of a portion of the city wall on the north-west side last night, let the water in full stream into the city. The Jews' quarter is inundated, and 200 houses fell there last night: we are hourly expecting to hear, that every part of the city is overflowed. A part also of the wall of the citadel is fallen. And, in fact, such is the structure of the houses, that if the water remains near the foundations long, the city must become a mass of ruins. The mortar they use in building is very like plaister of Paris, which sets very hard, and does very well when all is dry; but as soon as ever water is applied, it all crumbles to powder; and in building walls of four or five feet thick, they have only an outside casing of brick work thus cemented, and within it is filled up with dust and rubbish, so that what seems strong enough in appearance to bear any thing, soon moulders away, and by its own weight accelerates its ruin. It must be many many years, if ever, before the city can recover. But it seems to me, that this seat of Mohammedan glory, and of its proudest recollections, has received its death-warrant from the hand of the Lord. This inundation has not only ruined an immense number of houses in the city, and been the cause of tens of thousands dying of the plague, but the whole harvest is destroyed. The barley, which was just ready to be reaped, is utterly gone, and every other kind of corn must likewise be ruined, so that for 30 miles all round Bagdad, not a grain of corn can be collected this year, and perhaps, if all was quiet this might be of no consequence, for from Mosul and Kourdistan it might easily come; but this will be prevented by the enemies of the Pasha who surround us. The poor are beginning to feel immense difficulty in the city, for all the shops are shut, and there is a great scarcity of wood for firing; and should the water now cause a general inundation of the whole city, the heart sickens at the contemplation of the scenes that must follow; for the houses of the poor are nothing but mud, scarcely one of which will be left standing. For ourselves personally, the Lord has allowed us great peace, and assured confidence in his loving care, and in the truth of his promise, that our bread and our water shall be sure; but certainly nothing but the service of such a Lord as he is would keep me in the scenes which these countries do exhibit, and I feel assured will, till the Lord has finished his judgments on them, for the contempt of the name, nature, and offices of the Son of God; yet I linger in the hope he has a remnant even among them, for whose return these convulsions are preparing the way. _April 28._--News more and more disastrous. The inundation has swept away 7,000 houses from one end of the city to the other, burying the sick, the dying, and the dead, with many of those in health, in one common grave.[28] Those who have escaped, have brought their goods and the relics of their families, to the houses the plague has desolated, or desertion left unoccupied, and houses are yet falling in every direction. [28] I have heard of eight thus buried in one house, or rather belonging to one family, the remains of which are come to reside next us in a house, where those who had the charge of it are dead. The Lord has stopped the water just at the top of our street by a little ledge of high ground, so that as yet we are dry; and all free from the sword of the destroying angel. Scarcity of provision is beginning to be sensibly felt, so that very respectable persons are coming to the door to beg a little bread, or a little butter, or some other simple necessary of life. To-day, the number dying in the road was much greater than I have before seen, and the number unburied in the streets daily and hourly increases. The Seroy of the Pasha is a heap of ruins, and though he is most anxious to go, he cannot collect forty men to man the yacht, for all fear of him is now past, and love for him they have none; his distress beggars all description, for not a single native vessel is left in Bagdad, every one having been employed in taking down the crowds to Bussorah at the commencement of this dreadful calamity. I have from day to day mentioned the dead taken from the eight houses opposite to ours; that number has to-day reached twenty-four; in one of these, out of nine, one only survives; and I mention twenty-four not as all, but as those which have been seen carried out by some of the schoolmaster's family, who were however very little in that room which overlooks this passage. Of another family near the Meidan, out of thirteen one only remains, and I have no doubt there are hundreds of families similarly swept away; yet amidst all these trials to the servants of God, my heart does not despair for the work of the Lord, for no ordinary judgments seem necessary to break the pride and hatred of this most proud and contemptuous people; but the Lord will bring Edom down, and make a way for the Kings of the East to his holy habitation. We have taken one poor little Mohammedan baby, about three or four years old, from the streets, and are supplying a poor Armenian woman with pap for another; but what is this among so many? We know not what to do. It makes passing the streets most painful and affecting, thus to see little children from a month or six weeks, to two or four years, crying for a home, hungry, and naked, and wretched, and knowing not what to do, nor where to go. Thank God however, to-day the water is a little abated, about a span lower. Oh, may the Lord's mercy spare yet a little longer this wretched, wretched city. Oh, how does the glory of the Chalifat lie in ashes; she seems within a step of falling like her elder sister Babylon, the glory of the Chaldean's excellency, and in how many things has her spirit towards the church of God been as bad, yea worse, than hers. Missionaries in these countries have need of a very simple faith, which can glory in God's will being done, though all their plans come to nothing. It was but the other day we were surrounded by as interesting a school of boys, and a commencing one of thirteen girls, as the heart could desire; and now if the plague and desolation were to terminate to-morrow, and our scattered numbers were assembled, perhaps not more than half would remain to us. Yet dark as all the labours of the Lord's servants in these countries appears, I feel assured, that prophecy points them out as specially connected with many of the great events of the latter days. Yet it requires great confidence in God's love, and much experience of it, for the soul to remain in peace, stayed on him, in a land of such changes, without even one of our own nation near us, without means of escape in any direction; surrounded with the most desolating plague and destructive flood, with scenes of misery forced upon the attention which harrow up the feelings, and to which you can administer no relief. Even in this scene however, the Lord has kept us of his infinite mercy, in personal quiet and peace, trusting under the shadow of his Almighty wing, and has enabled us daily to offer up to his holy name praise, for suffering us to assemble in undiminished numbers, when tens of thousands have been falling around us. Neither is this all, for he has made us know why we staid in this place, and why we were never allowed to feel it to be our path of duty to leave the post we were in. _April 29._--Our situation is becoming daily still more extraordinary, and in many respects more trying, except that our Lord is our hiding place, who will preserve us from trouble, and will compass us about with songs of deliverance. The Pasha has fled, accompanied by his master of the horse, and his immediate family. His palace is left open, without a soul to take care of any thing. His stud of beautiful Arab horses are running about the streets, and are caught by those who care to take the trouble, and offered for sale for from £10. to £100. each; his stores also of corn are left open, and every one takes what he wants, or what he can carry away, which is a great relief to the poor, for the quantities are enormous, in expectation of a siege. The plague is working its destructive way, apparently with no other mitigation than that arising from decreasing numbers in the city; the inundation however, has prevented this having its full weight, for it has thronged the remaining population into a compass unnaturally disproportionate. The house next us, which belongs to a Seyd, who left it at the beginning of the plague, in charge of two servants who are dead, is now filled by twenty persons from different directions. The unburied dead, and the dying, are fearfully accumulating in the streets. So difficult it is now to find persons to bury, that even the priest of the Armenian church here, who died two days since, remains yet unburied. The water, thank God, is a little lower, but there seems now every prospect that the moment the waters decrease, the surrounding Arabs will come in, and plunder the city; yet even this is in the Lord's hands--our wisdom has ever been to sit still, and see the salvation of our God, and until we see his cloudy pillar arise from off our tabernacle, where we feel it has hitherto rested, and move forward, we shall yet judge our safety to be to sit still. We have in several instances seen, that there was reason to bless God for remaining quiet. We once thought of removing to the Residency, as a change to the dear children, and as being nearer to the water; but still on the whole we felt it best to remain here; and had we gone, we should have been in the midst of the plague; or had we gone, when the T----s went to Bussorah, what a state should we now be in, without the possibility of removing, and in danger of our lives from the inundation and falling of the walls, if we stayed. We had again considered, whether it would be right to leave this with the caravan for Damascus and Aleppo, which seemed the only opening there might possibly be for us, so that if we let that pass by, we must stay whether we would or not; still the Lord made us feel it was our path to stay looking to him. And had we gone, what a state should we have been in? For nearly three weeks they have been surrounded with water, continually increasing around them, so that now we know not what their situation may be, whether they are swept away, or remain; but at all events we bless God for having inclined our minds to stay. Why we did not join our dear and kind friends the T----s, in going to Bussorah, we do not yet so clearly see the reason of, because we have received no accounts thence, but it would have cut up alike our connection with our work here, and with our dear friends at Aleppo, with whom we feel it daily of more and more importance to have as speedy a meeting as possible for advice and counsel. We have just heard of the caravan already mentioned, as going to Damascus and Aleppo. The plague has taken off eight of the Armenians, and four have been drowned. The head of the caravan is dead of the plague also, besides many others; they must therefore return to Bagdad, instead of advancing on their journey; so in this instance at least we see great reason to bless God for keeping us back. Yea, the Lord will instruct us and teach us the way in which we should go, and will guide us with his eye; this is our confidence and comfort; and in such a time as this of unheard of perplexity, what a source of abiding peace is this. We feel it well to know our God in such circumstances as ours. Among the Armenians, thirteen died to-day, the largest number yet in one day. _April 30._--The report of the flight of the Pasha, it appears was not true, and arose from the two circumstances I have mentioned, of his horses having been seen running about the streets, and his supplies being open to the people. He has been for several days endeavouring to get away, and had drawn up for that purpose some boats under the Seroy. All his stables were levelled to the ground, and the place flooded with water. When the distress of the people was mentioned to him, he ordered one of his corn stores to be opened to them. However, to-day, blessed be God's Holy Name, _the waters have sunk more than a yard_, so we trust the great danger is over. To-day, one more was brought out dead from the eight opposite houses, making twenty-five, and we know there are four more lying ill there. Our poor schoolmaster, who went in the caravan, is dead, and was buried in his tent. _May 1._--The Lord has brought us all in safety to the beginning of another month, through the most trying period of my life; yet the Lord has every day filled our mouth with praise, and enabled us to see his preserving hand. To-day, as I passed along the street, I saw numbers of dead bodies lying unburied, and the dogs eating with avidity the loathsome food. Oh! it made my very heart sink. The numbers of the dead can now be no longer ascertained, for most of the bodies are buried either in the houses or in the roads; yet amidst all this, the Lord suffers not the destroying angel to enter our dwelling; but we feel the Lord has commanded the man with the ink-horn to write us down to be spared, as this is one of the vials of God's wrath on his enemies. _May 2._--We have heard nothing to-day to vary the general scene of our calamities; the intensity of this most desolating disease surpasses all thought. Numbers of families are altogether swept away; in numerous others, out of ten or twelve, only one, two, or three remain; but I hear of none, save our own, where death has not entered. Yet, while I bless and praise the Holy Name of our Lord, under whose wing alone we came here, and under whose wing alone we have trusted, the things my eyes have seen, and my ears heard, press upon my heart, and make me at times very sad; neither can I chase them from my mind. I can only look forward for comfort to that day, when the Lord himself will come to put an end to this dispensation of desolation, and introduce his own peace. Yea, come Lord Jesus, come quickly. We have just heard melancholy tidings of another caravan, which endeavoured to escape into Persia from the plague, but has been forced back again by the Arabs, the floods, and the scarcity of provisions, and besides numbers among them have died daily of the plague, so still we can bless God we did not leave our present position by this last opportunity. Let us then again bless him for not allowing us to make haste. _May 3._--To-day we trust the Lord has a little alleviated the virulence of the plague; many attacked yesterday, and the day before, have been rapidly recovering, and fewer deaths have taken place to-day--a great deal so far as we can ascertain. May God's holy name be praised, who is a hiding place from every storm. We had our water jars filled again to-day, when many, even of the rich, who have connections in every direction, find the greatest difficulty. "Your water shall be sure." We who are alone, and without a friend within hundreds of miles in any direction, have been supplied by our Lord's gracious ordering; thus he puts a new song into our mouths, even a song of thanksgiving. To-day all are well, even our dear little baby is quite recovered. _May 4._--The weather has for these two or three days past been beautifully fine, and clear, and hot, by which our God seems to have mitigated the symptoms of the plague. All accounts to-day are encouraging; the number of new cases few, and the number of those recovering many. Our eyes have also been rejoiced by the sight of three or four water-carriers passing again, after an interval of ten days; many more people have also been passing and repassing than before; so we trust the Lord is now taking away this desolating judgment, which, in less than two months, has carried away more than half the population of this city; for, allowing that it had been silently making its deadly course three weeks before it was discovered, it does not exceed eight weeks, and by far the greatest portion of deaths have been within the last four weeks. _May 5._--In my journal yesterday, I mention more than half the population as having been swept away in the inconceivably short space of two months, but every account I have received, convinces me that this is within the number; certainly not less than two thirds have been swept away, and this seems to have arisen from a complication of causes. At the time when the great mass of the population would have fled, and thus have thinned the city, the waters rose so high, that they could move only with great difficulty; they waited in the hopes of the water subsiding, instead of which, it so increased, that those who had left the town and could get back, were compelled to return; those who could not, were driven to seek some high ground where they might remain safe from the water, but in all cases they were crowded together without the power of moving their position.--Again, in the city, when by the death of immense multitudes the population became greatly thinned, the inundation of the water laid more than half the town level with the ground, and drove the remaining people to congregate together wherever they could find a dry place or an open house, so that often twenty or thirty came to reside together in the same house, as was the case next door to us; thus again the deaths became awfully great. Inquire where you will, the answer is, The city is desolate: around the Pasha four Georgians alone remain alive out of more than one hundred. The son of our Moolah, who is dead, told me to-day, that in the quarter where he lives, not one human being is left--they are all dead. Out of about eighteen servants and seapoys that Major T. left, fourteen are dead, two have now the plague,[29] and two remain well. Among the Armenians, more than half are dead. An Armenian who was with us to-day, tells us, there are not more than twenty-seven men left in one hundred and thirty houses. I, however, think that this is exaggerated. [29] Those two died. At Hillah, the modern Babylon, (population 10,000), there is, Seyd Ibrahim told me to-day, scarce a soul left, and the dogs and the wild beasts alone are there feeding on the dead bodies. This Seyd Ibrahim is one of the surviving servants of Major T.; and is the only one of a family of fourteen who remains alive.--His four brothers, their wives, his own wife, their children, and his own, are all dead. If mystical Babylon is suffering, as the seat of this Archbishopric of the literal Babylon, the times are not far off when the river Euphrates shall be dried up for the kings of the east to pass over. For digging a grave they ask a sum that equals in England three pounds, in consequence of which numbers have remained unburied about the streets, so that the Pasha has been obliged to engage men, paying them at the same rate for each body they will throw into the river. In all the villages the desolation seems as complete as it is here. When day by day I rise and see our numbers complete, and all in health, my soul is indeed made to feel what cannot the Lord do? though ten thousand shall fall at thy right hand it shall not come nigh thee.--I do not yet see what effect all this is likely to have on our labours here--whether it will break down or build up barriers; yet we expect it will break down, for the Lord seems thus breaking to pieces the power if not the pride of this haughty people. I have been struck two or three times lately, in going out, with the intense hatred that lurks at the bottom of the hearts of this people against Christians; my dress manifested me to be one, and some Arabs I met, particularly the women, cursed me with the most savage ferocity as I passed, two or three calling out at me as though I were the cause of all their calamities; and the people who are come to live next door to us, are bitter against us, especially one man among them, who seems to have his heart quite corroded, because they are dying and we are preserved by our Lord's love; he sits and talks under our window, saying, "These Christians and Jews alone remain, but in the whole of Bagdad you will hardly find one hundred Mohammedans." This is altogether false, for though in proportion as many Christians may not have died as Mohammedans and Jews, yet the deaths among them have been enormous, as the preceding accounts will have shewn. Medicine I have found of no use. If you attack the fever, they die of prostration of strength; if you endeavour to support the constitution, they die of oppression on the brain. Those cases which first affected the head with delirium, have been the most fatal; next those with carbuncles, which did not appear, however, for a fortnight after the commencement of the disease. Among those who have recovered, almost the whole have had large glandular swellings, speedily separating and thus relieving the constitution. This night, the first time for three weeks, I have heard again the Muezzin's call to prayers, from the minarets of the Mosques. _May 6._--The water to-day is much decreased. I saw a man also with fresh meat in his hand. I likewise saw many recovering from the plague walking about, leaning on sticks, and sitting by the way-side. The number of deaths, among the Armenians, to-day, amounted to 11, which, considering that their whole remaining numbers cannot exceed 300 at present, is an enormous mortality, and has a little damped our hopes of a speedy conclusion to this awful visitation. _May 7._--Of the plague nothing satisfactory to-day. Thieves are multiplying in every direction; and news has come from Mosul that a new Pasha has arrived there, who only waited for the cessation of the plague to advance against Bagdad. Great part of his work of destruction is already done for him, as hardly a Georgian is left, and he will find money enough left without owners, to supply his own utmost rapacity, or the demands of the Sultan. The Lord is our only secure resting place, and we know that he who delivers us out of six troubles, can and will deliver us out of seven. The water is decreasing most rapidly, so that rice is beginning to be brought from the other side of the river; and as all those who monopolized the sale of wood, and not only asked enormous prices, but cheated in the weight, are all dead, every one now that needs wood takes it, so that the situation of the poor seems in this respect a little improved. There has not been among all the circumstances of this scene of complicated suffering, any one that has more painfully affected my own mind than the increasing number of infants and little children that have been left exposed in the streets, and the absolute impossibility of meeting such a state of things. We greatly desired to take one or two; but our own little baby was ill, so that by night Mary had hardly any rest, and at best, not being strong in such a climate, we came reluctantly to the decision that we were not able to undertake such an additional charge. This is an anxious evening. Dear Mary is taken ill--nothing that would at any other time alarm me, but now very little creates anxiety; yet her heart is reposing on her Lord with perfect peace, and waiting his will. A few hours, perhaps, may show us that it is but a little trial of our faith to draw us nearer the fountain of our life. To nature it seems fearful to think of the plague entering our dwelling; in our present situation, nothing but the Lord's especial love could sustain the soul in the contemplation of a young family, left in such a land, at such a time, and in such circumstances; but we feel we came out under the shadow of the Almighty's wing, and we know that his pavilion will be our sanctuary, let his gracious providence prescribe what it may. On his love, therefore, we cast ourselves with all our personal interests. _May 8._--The Lord has this day manifested that the attack of my dear dear wife, is the plague, and of a very dangerous and malignant kind, so that our hearts are prostrate in the Lord's hand. As I think the infection can have only come through me, I have little hope of escaping, unless by the Lord's special intervention. It is indeed an awful moment, the prospect of having a little family in such a country at such a time. Yet, my dearest wife's faith triumphs over these circumstances, and as she sweetly said to me to day, "The difference between a child of God and the worldling is not in death, but in the hope the one has in Jesus, while the other is without hope and without God in the world." She says, "I marvel at the Lord's dealings, but not more than at my own peace in such circumstances." She is now continually sleeping, and when roused feels it difficult to keep her dear mind fixed on any subject for a minute. These are indeed the floods of deep waters, but in the midst of them the Lord is working his mysterious way, yet that way, however bitter to nature, is for the everlasting consolation of his chosen ones. She said to me, a few minutes since, "What does the Lord say concerning me." I said, that you are a dear child of his. "Yes," she said, "of that I have no doubt." May the Lord of his infinite mercy sustain my poor weak soul amidst these heavy visitations, that at least we may magnify him, whether by life or by death; what a relief it is now to my mind to think that her's was so much set against moving, whenever I proposed it, and she often said in reply, "The Lord has given me no desire nor sense of the desirableness of moving, which I feel assured he would have done had he seen it best." _May 9._--My dearest, dearest wife still alive, and not apparently worse than yesterday. Oh! if it were the Lord's holy blessed will to spare her, it would indeed rejoice my poor foolish heart, but the Lord has enabled me to cast my wife, myself, and my dear dear children on his holy love, and to await the issue. Oh! what wrath there must be against these lands, if not only the inhabitants are swept away, but the Lord transplants also his own, who would teach them, to his own garden of peace. My soul has just been refreshed by these two verses of Psalm 116. "Return unto thy rest, O my soul, for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee. He has taken one of thy olive branches to glory, and is now perhaps about to take another, for precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints, for he only takes them from the evil to come." Oh, but for Jesus, the never setting star of our heavenly way, amidst the wilderness what would our situation now be. Jesus is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever, and our heavenly Father's love we have too often proved to doubt it now. But, poor nature is bowed very very low, when I look at my dear boys and little babe, and see only poor little Kitto to be left for their care for hundreds of miles around; it needs all those consolations of God's spirit to keep the soul from sinking also with the body; but the Lord has said, "Leave your fatherless children unto me," and to him we desire to leave them. We did feel assured that the Lord would spare our dear little united happy family; but his ways are not our ways, nor his thoughts our thoughts. Dear little Kitto, I feel for his situation also from my heart. All the conversation of my dear dying wife, for these twelve months past, but especially as our difficulties and trials increased, was on the peace she enjoyed in the Lord. Often and often she has said to me, notwithstanding the disparity of every thing external, I never in England enjoyed that sweet sense of my Lord's loving care that I have enjoyed in Bagdad. And her assurance of her Lord's love never forsook her, even after she felt herself attacked by the plague. While contemplating the mysteriousness of the Providence, her mind was overwhelmed; but when she thought on her Lord's love, she was confident in his graciousness. From almost the first, her brain has been so oppressed, that with difficulty she opens her eyes, and though she can answer a question of two or three words, Yes, or No; yet, if it involves the slightest exercise of thought, she always replies, "I do not know what you say." When I consider all I and the dear children lose, should we survive her, it is almost more than my heart can contemplate. On any essential point, for some years, we have never had divided judgment on any material point; in every work of faith, or labour of love, her desire was to animate, not to hinder. Such simple truth of purpose, and unaffected love, and confidence in her Lord, as dwelt in her dear departing spirit, I have seldom seen, and those who knew her intimately will not think I say too much. She has been to me in the relation of Christian wife, and Missionary wife, just what I felt I so much, so very much needed. And yet the Lord sees fit to take her to himself, and add one more from my little family to the chosen, faithful, and true company that surrounds his throne. Lord, then, though it cuts nature to the quick, makes me feel its deepest suffering, and meets me under the most complicated forms of trial, yet if it be for thy glory, and her glory, do, dear Lord, thine Almighty will, and we know thou wilt to thy chosen, make light spring up out of darkness. _May 10._--Last evening my dearest wife was more herself than she had been, till within a few hours of her being taken ill, which was manifested by her asking to see dear little baby, the first thing she had voluntarily asked for, since her illness, without being spoken to. She again mentioned the subject of her confidence in her Lord, and acquiescence in his will. She asked me what I thought of her situation. I said I had committed her to the Lord, who, I knew, would deal graciously by her. She replied, "Yes, that he will." She continued in this state of improvement till to-day at about nine o'clock, when her mind again began to wander. When I quoted to her, that to the Lord's servants light should spring up in darkness, she said, "Yes, that it shall." She said, "I feel much better than yesterday--don't you see that I am." In fact, my hopes of her being really improving would have been complete, but from that peculiar look of the eyes, which authors who have written on this subject, all denote as most fatal; from this, therefore, my hopes never were very high, yet though I had yesterday been enabled, through the Lord's grace, to lie in his hands like a weaned child, to-day the disappointment of the dear hope, slight as it was, of having her restored to us, has brought my soul again into very deep waters. She also this morning expressed her anxiety about the dear children, and her fear, least in attending her, I should take the plague, and they be left orphans here. In every respect, certainly the Lord has been most gracious to her. She is about to be transplanted to her native soil, where tears and sorrows shall never enter, and in the way of her removal, since the Lord's time is come, nothing can be more compassionate to her peculiar weakness of heart than not allowing her anxiety to dwell on the dear children, and their probable situation here. To have been happy in quitting them, amidst such a scene as now surrounds us, and in such a country, perhaps no mortal faith could have been equal to; the Lord, therefore, suffered not her mind to possess its usual sensibilities; but took them from her, and left her only to return to his bosom in peace. I feel the Holy Ghost again sustaining my poor weak heart in the prospect of losing such a wife, and remaining solitary here with three dear motherless children; but I know the Lord in whom I have believed, and he will not fail his chosen in one of all those good things he has promised. Our trials are indeed very very great; but the Lord, the comforter, is greater even than they. My dearest wife now (two o'clock,) is quite delirious. Dear spirit! I have attended her night and day since the evening of the 7th, on which she was taken ill, and I allow no one else to approach her. The Lord is my only stay, my only support, and he is a support indeed. _May 11._--This night has been the most trying of my life. How hard for the soul to see the object of its longest and best grounded earthly affections suffering without the power of affording relief, knowing too that a heavenly Father who has sent it, can relieve it, and yet seems to turn a deaf ear to one's cries; at the same time, I felt, in the depths of my soul's affections, that notwithstanding all, he is a God of infinite love. Satan has sorely tried me, but the Lord has shewn me, in the 22d Psalm, a more wonderful cry _apparently_ unheeded, and the Holy Ghost has given me the victory, and enabled me to acquiesce in my Father's will, though I now see not the end of his holy and blessed ways. Dear, dear spirit! she will soon wing her way to where her heart has long been; and, if I am spared, I shall perhaps have reason to bless God for having removed her thus early. The plague has attacked two more of our household--the schoolmaster's wife and our maid-servant, and how far it will go now, no one knows but he who guides it by his sovereign will. My dearest Mary's sufferings for four or five hours last night were great; she was quite delirious, and her dear voice was so affected, that I could not make out two words connectedly. How mysterious are God's ways! Oh my soul, learn the lesson of patient submission to his holy will. I have cast myself upon him and he will guide me. Dear Mary, to-day has been quite insensible. It has indeed been a very painful day, but it is the condition of this world. Dear spirit! her heart has been so set on her Lord's coming of late, that it seemed quite to absorb her thoughts and heart. And now she will quickly join the holy assembly that are waiting to come with him. Surely such times as these, when the Lord is taking a ripe shock of corn from your field, are seasons to rejoice that your prayer for the quick accomplishment of the number of God's elect has been heard, and yet how hard it is for nature not to feel deep sorrow that a message has come for one of yours. Poor dear Kitto and the little boys are now become the sole nurses of the dear baby by night and by day. Oh, may the Lord watch over them and bless them. My last night's attendance on my dear wife, leaves me little hope of escaping the plague, unless it be our Father's special will to preserve me, for in her delirium she required so many times to be lifted from place to place, and to have all her clothes changed, that I can now only cry to the Lord to preserve me, if it may be a little while, for the dear children's sake. The Lord has most graciously provided us with a servant of Mrs. T's. to come and attend my dear Mary.[30] Oh may my soul bless him for this timely help, just when our own servant was taken ill. This woman has been in the midst of all the contagion, and has never taken it; so it may be the Lord's will to shew how he can work even in the midst of the darkest trials. She sits down beside the dear sufferer, keeps the flies from her face, and does every thing for her the fondest heart could desire. She came out with us from England, having gone there with Mrs. T.; is a native of these countries, knows all that is required in sickness, and how to perform the duties of a nurse, with the most unwearied patience, tenderness, and watchfulness. She also knows something of English, and having been with dear Mrs. T. in England, is acquainted with English customs. Surely the Lord heard my cry in the day of my deep distress, for such a person perhaps could not be got again within a thousand miles. That she should have been left too when all the rest went away. She has made dear Mary look so comfortable; she washes her and changes her, who though insensible, lies so quiet, and looks so composed. She said she knew the Lord would be very gracious, and he has been so indeed--he sees it right to take his sheep home to his fold; but he has so overwhelmed me by this proof of his loving kindness, this ray of light arising in the midst of my darkness, that it seems to have led my heart yet more and more to love him and to confide in him, that he may yet stay his rough wind in the day of his east wind. This kind friend, Mrs. T.'s servant, proposes to remain with us until all our family are either well or dead. [30] This servant was an old servant of Mrs. R.'s, and came out with us, and was much attached to dear Mary. _May 12._--Up to this day I am well, thank God, but seeing the ways of the Lord are so marvellous, I have arranged all my little concerns, and put them into the hands of dear Kitto, for the little boys and our dear little baby, till they arrive at some of those places where there may be some one to take care of them, and carry them to their guardians or my trustees. But as poor Kitto is so little able to provide even for himself, much less for the little boys, I shall now endeavour, the Lord enabling me, to arrange with this woman, Mariam by name, to undertake every thing for them till she can give them over to Major T., to whose family she is going, unless they return here. This woman was an old servant of dear Mrs. R. She has consented to undertake this charge, and is to remain with the dear, dear children. She knows enough of English to make herself understood by the dear children, and she thoroughly understands the language, manners, and habits of this people.--Whether it may ever be the Lord's will to call into exercise the arrangements of this plan or not, I trust I never shall forget the Lord's unspeakable mercy in shewing me, that when I saw no earthly protector for my poor children, his holy, loving, and fatherly hand could provide one if it were necessary. Oh, may my faith in him in the darkest day never fail, for it is a light that springeth up in darkness. Dearest Mary is gradually sinking into the bosom of the Lord, and to join in the society her soul has so long and so truly loved, of the lovers of the Lamb of God. Though the Lord has taken away the desire of my eyes, as it were with a stroke, and left me a few hours to cry unto him in the midst of my deep, deep waters; yet these visions of his love have so revived my soul, that my whole soul is brought to acquiesce in his holy and fatherly arrangements, with respect to her who was once the joy, the help, and companion of all in which I was engaged. I sit down now to wait, and see the salvation of my God, for doubtless he will reveal, in his own good time, the reason why he has acted so contrary, not only to mine, but especially my dear wife's strongest convictions, which were, that he would preserve us all safe through this calamity. When I now contemplate the spiritual state of dear Mary's mind for the last twelve months, I am not at all surprised that the Lord has taken her as a ripe shock of corn, but my expectation while watching her spiritual progress was so different. I saw her daily growing in the simple assurance of her Lord's love, and desiring under heaven neither to know nor serve any other than him. Her heart was panting for the Lord's coming, that the mystery of iniquity might be finished, and the mystery of godliness be fully established; but I thought not of all this being preparatory to her joining her Lord, but for the strengthening of my poor weak hands here. It never entered my heart that I was to be left alone, as far as earth is concerned, most alone. Those friends for whom this journal is alone designed, know how much she was to me, and how deservedly so: this, however, the Lord saw had its great, great dangers too, and may in his infinite mercy to us both have ripened her so rapidly for glory, and left me here to serve and praise; for I have felt it was very, very hard to be as the Apostle says, having a wife as though I had none. Now, when I go and look upon her having reached within one short step, the habitation of all her hopes; I have not a spiritual affection within my soul that would call her back; but poor nature bows reluctantly its head. The dear little baby also is but poorly. Her dear little cry of mamma, mamma, cuts my poor heart like a knife, to think, that from to-day or probably to-morrow, she must cease to know that endearing name, and such a mother too! However, the Lord tells his children to leave their fatherless, and doubtless motherless ones to him. Lord, I desire so to do; for he is a dear and kind father, though _nature_ cannot always see it, and indeed how could this be? for that which is _natural_ in us is, not only in its will opposed to God, but even in its best affections tainted from the fall. Were it not that the Lord whom we love and serve, is as infinite in his compassions, as he is mysterious in his ways, the days that must come when the excitement of present suffering will be past, and my soul begins to look round and see the extent of its desolations, in a country, too, where there is nothing to comfort or cheer me, would appear to me too dark to be borne, did I not know the Lord hath said, I will not leave you orphans, but I will come unto you; so if he does come and dwell more sensibly within me, even my poor dull and slow-growing spirit may soon be ripened and gathered into his kingdom, there to join my dear departing spirit in the realms of light. _May 13._--My dearest wife has reached the light of another day, still quietly sinking without a sigh and without a groan. This my prayer for her in the night of my darkness the Lord has mercifully heard. At present all the remaining ones of the family are well. I have separated the dear little boys and Kitto, and allow them to hold intercourse with none. The dear baby, and myself, and the maid, and the little boy of our sick servant, are also much separated, and this nurse, whom the Lord sent us, alone attends the sick; but yet so contagious is this fearful disease, that when it has once entered your dwelling, you can know no other safety than in your Lord's preserving care. These are indeed days of trial, but doubtless they will have their precious fruit in all God's children; for the eyes of the Lord are upon the righteous, and his ears are open unto their cry--for the Lord redeemeth the soul of his servants, therefore none of them that trust in him shall be desolate--no, not even I, poor and worthless as I am, I shall yet praise him who is the Lord of my life, and my God. The dear boys also keep up their spirits much better than the first two or three days after their dear mamma was taken ill. The magnitude of present danger to themselves, and to all, in some measure divides their thoughts, and prevents them from resting alone on that deeply affecting prospect before them, for they loved her most truly, and, Oh! how much reason had they to love her. I have just heard that the streets begin again to be crowded, shops here and there to be opened, and the gardeners are bringing things from without into the city. To think that so near the end we should have been thus visited, how mysterious! Yet my soul says, What thou seest not, thou shalt see. If it does but lead to my Lord's glory, I am sure it will lead to my dear sufferer's; then why should I repine? Water is also reduced to 1s. 3d. the skin, the price it was at before. For these proofs of mercy to the people, we will bless God in the midst of our own personal sorrows. _May 14._--This day dearest Mary's ransomed spirit took its seat among those dressed in white, and her body was consigned to the earth that gave it birth--a dark, heavy day to poor nature, but still the Lord was the light and stay of it. I cannot help exceedingly blessing my heavenly Father, however these calamities (for to nature they are such, though not to the heirs of glory) may end that he has allowed me to continue in health so long as to see every thing done I could have desired, and so infinitely more than I could have expected, for her whom I have so much reason to love. _May 15, 16._--I have heard to-day that the French Roman Catholic Archbishop of Babylon has been dead a long time, and two of his priests, and the remaining two fled. The poor schoolmaster's wife is dying, and our servant I trust, recovering: the rest of our household within and without, thank God, all continue in good health--even dear little baby, though rather cross from want of amusement, and from her teeth. They say new cases of plague have almost entirely disappeared; may the Lord grant its speedy disappearance altogether. We have had no intelligence from the Taylors since their departure, which makes us very anxious. As the waters are decreasing, the relics of those families which fled are returning; and, in numberless cases, out of eighteen in a family who left, only one or two return. The others died in the greatest misery and destitution of all things, distressed by the plague, the water, and scarcity, and the air in all the roads was tainted from the immense number of dead bodies lying by the way. I feel to-day many symptoms similar to those with which my dearest Mary's illness commenced--pains in the head and heaviness, pains in the back, and shooting pains through the glands and the arms. At another time I should think only of them as the result of a common cold; but now I know not how to discriminate, the beginnings are so similar. Should these be my last lines in this journal, I desire to ascribe all praise to the sovereign grace and unspeakable love of my heavenly Father, who, from before the foundation of the world, set his eye of redeeming love on me in the person of his dear and well-beloved Son. I bless God for all the way he has led me; and vile and wretched sinner as I feel I am, unworthily as I have in all my life served him, yet I feel he has translated the affections of my inmost soul from earth to heaven, from the creature to himself. As to the dear, dear helpless children, I have committed them to his love, with the full assurance that if he transplants me from hence to himself, to join the partner of my earthly history, he will provide them much, yea, very much better than I, or ten thousand fathers could do. To his love and promises, then, in Christ Jesus, I leave them; and strange and wonderful as his dealings appear, he has made my soul to acquiesce in them. To all the family of the redeemed of the Lord, especially those I know, I entreat you let your conversation be as it becometh the gospel of Christ; always abound in his most holy work, for you know your labour is not in vain in the Lord. Be as those who wait for their Lord with your lamp trimmed, for shortly he who shall come will come, and will not tarry. My soul embraces those I especially knew with all its powers, and desires for them that Christ may exceedingly be glorified in them, and by them, amen, and amen. _May 17._--To-day the fever has almost entirely left me, so that I feel a very little, except weakness, but never can I sufficiently praise God for the experience of yesterday. I certainly never expected again to have written in this journal, and few circumstances could have apparently presented themselves more trying to the heart, to have the prospect of soon leaving in a city like Bagdad, at this time, three helpless children, and the impossibility of making those provisions for them, which at another time might have been comparatively easy, seemed altogether more than the heart could support; yet so abundantly did the Lord allow his love to pass before me, so fully did he assure me of his loving care, that I felt no doubt for them--and, for myself, the prospect of soon joining him was specially exhilarating. He allowed me to see my free and full forgiveness and acceptance, and I never felt more the preciousness of such a salvation as the Gospel of Jesus provides for the sinner, than when I was as I thought, just entering eternity, to plead it as the ground of my hope before God. There seemed such simplicity in having only to believe you were redeemed by his love, and should be eternally preserved by the same, instead of having to do with weighing the sum of your beggarly services, all of which one hates now, and oh, how shall we hate them when we see him face to face. May our dear Lord make the promise he made to his disciples, good to my poor bereaved heart, and come himself and fill it with his fulness, that having him I may indeed feel I have all things. _May 18._--Our poor servant died last night, notwithstanding our hopes of her recovery, and has left one little orphan boy of seven years old with us. Oh that I could think of her transition from hence to eternity, and contemplate her, as the Lord to my unspeakable comfort allows me to contemplate my dear, dear wife, dwelling in the light of her Lord's countenance, where there is fulness of joy for evermore. The schoolmaster has just told me, that out of forty relations, he has now only four--the rest have all been swept away. The accounts we have of the misery, in which many of these died who endeavoured to fly, is truly heart-rending; with the water nearly half a yard high in their tents, without victuals or the means of seeking or buying any, they suffered every privation and misery that can be imagined, and one poor family which has returned, described the intense desire they had to return and die quietly in their houses. But return they could not, for the waters had so risen that there was no road, and no boats could be obtained, but at an immense price, which a few only could pay, and very few obtain even at any price. Oh! how many alleviations to the trials of parting with those we loved, the Lord allowed us in permitting us to see them surrounded by every comfort they could want, and with every attendance that could alleviate a moment's uneasiness. From the Taylors at Bussorah we have yet heard no accounts, and are therefore most anxious to know how the Lord has been moving among them. I have just heard that orders have come from Stamboul,[31] to the Pashas marching against this Pasha, to desire them to return, and that another messenger is on the way from Stamboul to bring his annual dress of investiture. Should it be really thus, our dear friends may soon be here from Aleppo; it would indeed be a great comfort; but the Lord regards, in this dispensation, our real advantage more than our sensible comfort, we therefore desire to leave all to his Holy, gracious ordering, who, though he orders all things after the counsel of his own free will, has no will towards us, but that we should be filled with the fulness of Christ, and be conformed to his image. [31] Constantinople. _May 19._--The water to-day has again fallen considerably in price, and as far as we can judge, God has mercifully nearly extinguished this desolating plague. I now feel quite satisfied the attack I had the other day was an attack of the plague, though very slight. The schoolmaster, yesterday, was attacked in the same way with a pain in his back and head, and a pain in his glands, one of which is decidedly enlarged, but still it is very slight, and I trust to-morrow, with the Lord's blessing, to see him, with the exception of weakness, well again. We are, thank God, all well; the only thing I now suffer from is weakness and pain in the glands and under the arm, but there is no enlargement, and I trust in a day or two it will go entirely away. I heard, to-day, the Pasha had been ill of the plague this week; it is now reported he is dead; but we know nothing certain. One of his sons is also dead. This has been a heavy day with my poor heart, so slow a scholar am I under my dear Master's teaching. Yet I feel he will fill me with his own most blessed presence, and then I shall be able to bear easily all other bereavements. How strange it is that feeling should rule with so much more power than principle, over the happiness of the soul, even when the spirit still imparts strength to direct the conduct aright. The feelings seize on the slightest recollection; and oh, what fuel have they when every thing in the minutest daily occurrences, every thing in the events passing around us, at once come directly on the heart and press upon it; and when there is not a soul near, not only not to supply all that is lost, but not even a portion of it, and yet notwithstanding all this, that now weighs on me, I feel the Lord himself will be yet more to me than all I have lost. I feel I have been skimming too much on the surface of Christianity instead of being clothed with Christ. Oh! what a child am I in the life of faith, but I feel the Lord has my poor soul in his training, and though the discipline may seem severe, it is only the severity of uncompromising love. _May 20._--This has been a day of mercies at the hand of the Most High. For a day or two past, I had observed a little dust falling through a creak in the wall, and although on any other occasion, it would have excited no anxiety; yet, knowing the cellars were full of water, I thought it better this morning early to take out all our things from this room; it was our own, mine and dear Mary's, and therefore contained all we had of clothing, &c.; the dear little boys and the servant were helping me, and we had not finished taking out the last things above ten minutes, when the whole arch on which the room was built gave way--our little stock of things and ourselves being all safe. Oh! my soul, bless the Lord who watcheth over the ways of his children. Oh! how easy it is to kiss our dear and loving Father's hand when he turns bright providences towards us. How easy, then, it is to praise! but I feel my dearest teacher is teaching me the hardest lesson to kiss the hand that wounds, to bless the hand that pours out sorrow, and to submit, with all my soul, though I see not a ray of light. Oh, thou holy and blessed Spirit, come and help thy poor wayward scholar, who indeed would not entertain a hard thought of his dear and loving Father. Through much tribulation we must enter into the kingdom; therefore, blessed Lord, prepare me for thy service. I am a poor inexperienced soldier; clothe me with the whole armour of God, that my soul may praise in the darkest day. All but myself are quite well, and my indisposition seems only at present a little weakness, which perhaps the exertions of removing the things from our room to-day, and all the painful associations connected with it, has this evening a little increased: but the Lord is very pitiful, and says, Ask what you will of my Father, and he will give it you. Dear Lord, fill me with thyself, that there may be no more room for the grief of any creature. Thou, and thy Father, and the blessed Spirit, one eternal God alone, are eternally a satisfying portion. I am very anxious about the poor schoolmaster: should he die, he will be the last of our teachers; _three_ are already dead, and he alone remains.--Oh, my Lord, my soul desires to wait on thee for light, and to remember Mizar and Hermon--days when the sun shone upon our path; but the frost may be as necessary to bring the cover to full perfection as the genial sun and showers. Dear Husbandman, do thine own will, only make us bear much fruit, that thou mayest be glorified. _May 21._--Last night thieves endeavoured three times to force an outer door, but did not succeed--the whole city is swarming with them. To-day the Pasha of Mosul is come to Bagdad; what it portends we know not; but the Lord reigneth, therefore let the Saints rejoice; they can only accomplish his will who is our Father and our God. I have to-day sent off a messenger to Major T. to Bussorah, may he quickly return with good tidings of them all. To-day I have also heard of a caravan proposing to go to Aleppo. Every account we have of the plague confirms its almost entire disappearance. Our walking now is altogether by faith: we see not a ray of light for the future, but the Lord will let light spring out of darkness, so that his servants who wait upon him shall not always mourn. Oh how different a thing faith is in a cloudy and dark day, and when all things smile around. I had intentionally renounced the world, yet the Lord saw that I held more of it than I knew in the dear object he has removed. In England, where I had many dear Christian friends, she was my constant companion; but _here_ she was on earth all I had left--my sorrows, my hopes, my fears, she shared and bore them all. I feel Christ my Lord has in store for me in himself some great and special good in exchange for all this, but my poor weak faithless heart does not yet see the way of his going forth. Miriam is most kind to my sweet little helpless babe. _May 22._--Our dear Lord said to his sorrowing disciples, You have heard how I said unto you, I go away and come again unto you. _If ye loved me ye would rejoice because I said I go unto the Father_, that is, if you loved me above the enjoyment of my society and help, ye would rejoice; how hard this is: as it was true of the departing head, so it is true of every member, and yet I feel my selfish heart constantly forgetting that true love which under the crucifixion of all one's own feelings can truly rejoice at the happiness of an object beloved, even at this expense. This has again been an anxious day. Dear Henry complained this morning of a swelling under his ear, or rather under the angle of the jaw, where there was on feeling it, an evidently enlarged gland; however, to the praise of the Lord's great grace, it is evidently passing away without any general attack on the constitution. I really believe the Holy Ghost is making these events instrumental in working a deep sense on the minds of the dearest boys of the importance of their souls; there is a concern about religion, a willingness to talk about it I have not before observed. Oh, may the Lord's blessed spirit water these seeds till they become plants of renown, to the glory of our own Lord's great name. _May 23._--Oh my poor heart flutters like a bird when it contemplates the extent of its bereavement as a husband, a father, a missionary. Oh, what have I not lost! Dear Lord sustain my poor weak faith. Thy gracious visits sometimes comfort my soul; yet my days move heavily on; but the Lord who redeemeth the souls of his servants has declared, that none of those who trust in him shall be desolate. Lord I believe, help thou mine unbelief. I do indeed desire with my whole soul to cast myself into the ocean of thy love, and never to let Satan have one advantage over me, by instilling into my heart hard thoughts of thy ways. Surely we expect trials, and if so, and thou sendest one other than we expected, should it surprise us when we see but a point in the circle of thy providence, and thou seest the end from the beginning. _May 24._--To-day Kitto has been very unwell. _May 25._--To-day the dear baby is very unwell, but Kitto better. Thus the Lord interchanges his merciful trials and merciful reliefs. I feel one great want, "To be filled with all the fulness of Christ," that there may be no room for those fluctuations, which from short intervals of sweet peace, plunge me into depths of sorrow and astonishment: yet I know the Lord will heal, he will bind up what he has broken. O my soul, wait patiently on him to learn all, I know he would teach thee: let patience have her perfect work, for the trial of our faith is much more precious than of gold that perisheth. My eyes are daily, hourly looking unto the Lord for a little ray of light, but as yet I see none: yet we know that they that trust on the Lord shall not walk in darkness, but mercies shall encompass them about. _May 26._--To-day, thank God, all our household are tolerably well.--All accounts from without say the plague is ended. May the Lord grant it! _May 27._--My dear baby still very poorly. Dear Lord, I commit this tender delicate flower to thy loving gracious keeping. Oh my God, my soul has been much cast down within me; but thou hast enabled me to remember thee from the land of Jordan, and the Hermonites, from the hill Mizar. O Lord, only let thy love appear shining through the clouds that surround me, and my soul will rejoice; it is only when the adversary prevails so far as to say, He loves thee not, that my soul is overwhelmed within me; for if I have not the Lord, whom have I? for vile and worthless as all my manifestations of love have been, cold and dead as all my worship, low and doubting as all my confidence has been, yet Lord, all my desire is to love thee better and serve thee more singally, who art infinitely worthy of all love and all service. How strong our tower seems till the Lord blow upon its foundations, and then much that looked so fair, flies like the chaff of the summer threshing floor, and meet it is, if the immoveable parts of Christ's own building be found to connect the poor fluttering soul with the Rock of Ages. Oh may my soul drink daily more and more deeply into that spirit of adoption and love, and assurance of the Lord's favour, that gilded the last year of my dear, dear Mary's life.--Lord, I feel I am a very child; but Lord, lead thou me by thine own right hand. Oh my heart longs for Christian communion--some one to whom I can talk of Jesus and his ways, and with whom I may take counsel; yet it now seems as though many months must elapse before our dear friends can come from Aleppo, but the Lord knows what is best, and to him we leave all our cares, and the providing for all our necessities. I pray the Lord to pour down his Holy Spirit upon my poor heart, and strengthen it for trials. It was one of my dearest Mary's greatest comforts, as it has been mine, to know so many of those who were dear to the Lord, and had purposed wholly to follow him, were praying for our guidance and welfare;--this used to be in our evening walks, on the roof of our house, a theme of thanksgiving, and used daily to draw out our hearts to the Lord for the continual dew of his blessing upon them. Oh when they hear of all the Lord's dealing, may their spirits be stirred up within them to pray that I may be filled with him who filleth all in all. I long to love my Eternal God--Father, Son, and Spirit, more with all my undivided heart; the coldness of my love--the lowness of my desires is my abiding sorrow. _May 28._--To-day came letters from England, but Oh, how strangely altered; those very letters which would have animated anew all our endeavours, and led us to praise God together, had dearest Mary been here to share them, came winged with passages that wrung my heart. But still the love of the saints of God, of those we love, has much sweetness in it; and then again to hear of our dear sister's thoughtful love towards our tender little babe in providing her clothes, which, while they are doing, my heart heaves with the prospect of losing the sweet little flower--so tender--so needing more than a mother's care. But the Lord is most compassionately gracious, and what he does not reveal, he will hereafter. I have also had intelligence to-day that my dear brothers and sisters had been two months ago on the point of setting off for Aleppo; but whether they received news of the plague and returned, or are waiting at Anah, I know not, but I greatly need them--yet still the Lord knows best how much I need them, and when. When I think of my lowness in the attainments of the divine life, my little knowledge, and less love of my dear Lord, I wonder how he has so graciously allowed me a place in the hearts of his chosen, and that he should allow our weak, tottering, and faithless walk, to encourage the young and lusty eagles to take their higher flight is wonderful; but it is that the glory might be his. * * * In concluding this portion of my journal, I shall just take a little view of the last two years, as it is now within a few days of two years since I left my dear, dear friends and native shore. From the day my dearest Mary and myself deliberately prepared to set out on the work in which we finally embarked, the Lord never allowed us to doubt that it was _his_ work, and that the result on the church of God would be greater than our remaining quietly at home. All our subsequent intercourse with his dear children in England, and in our journey, had a confirmatory tendency, and all the communications from the dear circle to whom we were known, insignificant as we were, convinced us that the cause of the Lord had suffered no detriment--that many had been led to act with more decision, and some to pursue measures which possibly might not otherwise have been undertaken. Again, the Lord's great care over us in his abundant provision for all our necessities, although every one of those sources failed we had calculated upon naturally when we left England, enabled us yet further to sing of his goodness. Then, as to our work; when we left England, schools entered not into our plan; but when we arrived here, the Lord so completely put the school of the Armenians into our hands, that on consultation both my dearest Mary, myself, and Mr. Pfander thought that the Lord's children and saints must take the work the Lord gives, particularly as there appeared no immediate prospect of other work. We entered on it, and by dear Mr. Pfander's most efficient help, the children were soon brought to translate God's word with understanding, and the school increased from 35 to near 80. My dearest Mary had long desired to undertake the girl's school exclusively; but previous to her confinement she did not feel able; but as soon as she got about, she undertook it heartily, and the dear little children were so attached to their employments, that they used to come on their holidays. She had got so far on in Armenian, as to be able to prepare for them, in large characters, some little pieces of Carus Wilson's, which I got translated into the Armenian of this place, and the dear little children were so interested by them, that they exceedingly desired to take them home, and read them to their mothers, which in two or three days they were to have done. For our own instruction in Arabic and Armenian, and for the school, we had five most competent teachers. Thus things went on up to the end of March, when the appearance of the plague obliged us to break up the school. But now two months have passed, and Oh! how changed. Half the children, or more, are dead; many have left the place; the five teachers are dead, and my dear, dear Mary. When I think on this, my heart is overwhelmed within me, and I remain in absolute darkness as to the meaning of my Lord and Father; but shall I therefore doubt him now, after so many proofs of love, because he acts inscrutably to me? God forbid! That the Lord made the coming of my dearest wife, and her multiplied trials and blessings, the instruments of her soul's rapid preparation for his presence, I have no doubt. I never heard a soul breathe a more simple, firm, and unostentatious faith in God. She never had a doubt but that it was for the Lord she left all that was naturally dear to her to expose herself to dangers from which, with a constitutional timidity, she shrunk. Her soul was most especially drawn out towards her Lord's coming, and this spread a gilded halo round every trial. She constantly exclaimed, as we walked on the roof of our house[32] of an evening, "When will he come?" Often she would say to me, I never enjoyed such spiritual peace as since I have been in Bagdad--such an unvarying sense of nearness to Christ, and assurance of his love and care; we came out trusting only under his wing, and he will never forsake us. Her strongest assurance was certainly that the Lord would not allow the plague to enter our dwelling; but when she saw that the Lord mysteriously accepted not this confidence, but let it rest even on her, it never disturbed her peace, as I have mentioned before. She said to me, "I know not which is to me most mysterious, that the Lord should have laid his hand upon me, or, having laid it, that I should enjoy such peace as I do." And in this peace and confidence, every subsequent moment of sensibility was passed. Her constant exclamation was, "I know he will do most graciously by me." Yet notwithstanding all the happiness I have in contemplating her among the redeemed, thus clothed in white; and notwithstanding the triumphing conviction I have in spite of the temptations of Satan, and the darkness that envelopes my present position, that all is the offspring of infinite love; yet at times the overwhelming loss I have sustained, in every possible way that a husband, a father, a missionary, and even a man, can know, so affects me that but for my Lord's loving presence, I should be overwhelmed. [32] It is on account of the great heat in the summer that the houses in Bagdad are built with flat roofs, to which the inhabitants all move up at sunset, to dine and spend the night. I now wait till the arrival of my dear friends to consult with them as to our future plans. May the Lord, if it be his pleasure, quickly send them hither, and direct us in all our plans and purposes, so that we may be led to fulfil his will. _May 30._--A messenger has arrived from Bussorah, bringing intelligence of the kind Taylors; but the letters he brought were all taken from him, and he stripped to his shirt, a few miles from Bagdad. However, by word of mouth, he brings, on the whole, good accounts. All their immediate family are well; some have died, among those that accompanied them, and nearly all the Arab sailors, but as the letters are lost, we know not the particulars. _May 31._--I have had another proof of my heavenly Father's care. An Armenian merchant has sent his servant to me to say, he proposes sending him every day to buy for me what I want from the bazaar, and also to offer me any money I may want. The latter I had no occasion to accept, for when the Jew left the city who was to supply me, and the man died who was to obtain it for me, and I seemed left without remedy, an Armenian offered to supply whatever I might want, without any application on my part, and from him I have had what I needed. Whether or not the affairs of the Pasha are likely to be quietly settled, I know not; but I think there are some indications that the present Pasha will remain. So intensely ruined does the city appear, that the Pasha of Aleppo, who was to have come and dispossessed him, seems to have no desire for the exchange; and besides, the present Pasha has offered so large a sum of money, that there appears little doubt it will be accepted. Dispatches have arrived for him, the contents of which are not yet known; but the Pasha says, he has received the most satisfactory letters. He is, I believe, recovering daily his strength. Thus I finish this melancholy portion of my journal--one of those dark pages in the history of one's life, that whenever the thoughts stray towards it, chills to the very centre of one's being; and when we trace all its sources, and see they terminate in sin, Oh! how hateful must that thing be, which is fraught with such deadly consequences. Oh! what a blessedness it is, amidst all these lights and shades of life, to know that the Rock on which we rest is the same, and does not vary; and that whether he administers to us the bitter portion or the sweet, his banner over us is love. * * * _June 5._--Reports are again spreading that the Pasha of Aleppo is within a few days of this place. But we sit down and patiently wait the event. _June 7._--To-day a letter has reached me from Major Taylor, being the first I have received since he removed his family from this place to Bussorah, on the breaking out of the plague here. In every one of the boats going down the river deaths occurred, but especially in theirs, they losing seven of their party. The plague broke out among the Arab sailors, who secreted a corpse in the boat several days, and from them it spread among his African servants, and seized Mrs. Taylor's brother-in-law, so that I cannot see my early conclusions were wrong as to not moving at that time. And, moreover, the Pasha, or rather Motezellim of Bussorah, has been driven out by a party of Arabs, and he is now come against the town with another large body of Turks, to endeavour to recover it; so that even this evil of the sword we should not have escaped. The Lord, therefore, leaves me nothing to regret, unless it be that I ought perhaps to have kept myself quite apart from the rest of the family, after I had been obliged by a sense of duty to go out during the time the plague was raging. It is easy to be wise after the events are past. The more I contemplate the circumstances in which I have of late been placed, the more I see of the trials and anxieties of the missionary life, and of the mysteriousness of God's dealings; I feel the more overwhelmed with the importance of the soul having a deep sense of the love of God in Christ, before it ventures upon such an undertaking. Our dear Father very often, in love, explains to us his reasons; at other times, he gives no account of his matters; in the one case to excite love and confidence, in the other, to exercise faith. It does seem to me, that no doctrines but those of the sovereign grace of God, and his love entertained towards the soul, before the foundation of the world, and the revelation by the Holy Ghost of the love and fellowship with Christ, and through him with the Father, so that we have thereby our life hid with him where no evil can reach us, can happily sustain the soul. There is something so filthy, so worthless in all our services, when events render it probable to the soul that soon it will appear before God, that the new creature cannot endure the deformity and defilement, and turns away its distressed sight to the love of the Lord, and the garment he has provided without spot or wrinkle, or any such thing. The experience of my dear dear Mary on this head was most striking. She often said to me, "They often talked to me, and I often read of the happiness of religion--but I can truly say I never knew what misery was till I was concerned about religion, and endeavoured to frame my life according to its rules--the manifest powerless inadequacy of my efforts to attain my standard, left me always further removed from hope and peace than when I never knew or thought of the likeness of Christ, as a thing to be aimed after; and it was not till the Holy Ghost was pleased of his infinite mercy to reveal the love of my Heavenly Father in Christ, as existing in _himself_ before all ages, contemplating me with pity, and purposing to save me by his grace, and to conform me to the image of Him whom my soul loves, that I really had peace, or confidence, or strength. And if in any measure I have been able to walk on with joy in the ways of the Lord, it has been from the manifestation of _his_ love, and not from the abstract sense of what is right, nor from the fear of punishment." This was the theme of her daily praise--the love and graciousness of her Lord; and I can set my seal, though with a comparatively feeble impression, to the same truths, that the sense of the love of Christ is the high road to walk in according to the law of Christ. _June 9._--I have heard from a German merchant, Mr. Swoboda, that above 15,000 persons, many sick with the plague, and others, were buried under the ruins of the houses that fell in the night the water burst into the city. Nothing can give a more awful impression of the mass of misery then in the city, than that such an event, which at another time, would have called forth every exertion to remove the sufferers, and have been the universal conversation and lamentation of the city, passed by without any effort to relieve them, and almost without a word of remark, but from those immediately connected with the sufferers. I hear that those who have closed their houses intend opening them on the 18th inst. I bless God for the intelligence; and trust the plague has quite left us. Mr. Swoboda tells me he does not expect to open his khan again for 12 months;--this, however, does not arise simply from the plague, but because the rich merchants have all left the city, and the principal Jews, from the apprehension of the coming of Ali Pasha from Aleppo, and that in consequence trade is at a stand. _June 10._--Last evening the guns of the citadel fired as for some good news, and we find, on enquiring, that a messenger has come from the Sultan, confirming the Pasha in his Pashalic.[33] The Tartars, who are the bearers of this intelligence, are expected to enter to-morrow or next day. This arrangement, it is reported, has been brought about by our Ambassador at Constantinople.--Should it be the Lord's pleasure that we now have a little peace and quietness here, it will be a great mercy, and an inconceivable relief from the disquietude of the last 18 months; however, the Lord knows what is best for us. These difficulties have led my heart many times to him, when, perhaps, but for them, it would have rested on some lower object. This prospect of peace seems to bring nearer the possibility of our dear friends joining us from Aleppo, and this would indeed be a great comfort. [33] All these reports were mere fables, got up for the purpose of deceiving the people. _June 11._--This day has made manifest that more judgments are coming upon the city, and instead of a _Firman_ in favour Daoud Pasha, bringing peace, we can hear the sound of the cannon of the new Pasha. He will little regard the _Firman_ that has come from the Sultan, if it has really come, and which being here universally believed to have been procured through the instrumentality of our Ambassador, places the English in no very acceptable position; but the Lord is our tower, yea, our high tower, and into _him_ we run. The enemy is now about six miles off, and the whole city is in a state of commotion that cannot be described, every one armed with swords, pistols, and guns, preparing for the expected contest. O Lord, we commend ourselves to thy holy keeping, for thou neither slumberest nor sleepest. When all the difficulties of these countries follow upon one another as rapidly as they have of late done here, it seems very difficult to see how the word of life is to go forth as a testimony. Yet it will; for the Lord hath said it; therefore let not our hearts fail, or our hands hang down, for the Lord of all circumstances, who governs the most disastrous as well as the most prosperous, is our own Lord, the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth. All the bazaars are closed, and we are taking in water again at an advanced price. Oh! Lord, when will thy holy and blessed kingdom of peace come, when the nations shall learn war no more, but love and light shall flourish in the Lord! Wherever the blasting influence of Mohammedanism extends, how iron bound all appears against the truth: yet even this the Lord will soften by his love, or break by his power. May my soul be daily more and more sensible of their misery and pride. Poor Mr. Goodell says, in a letter, that after all the labours the American missionaries have bestowed in Syria, they scarcely know an individual to whom their message has been peace, saving in the case of two or three Armenians of whom they hoped well. No one can imagine the disheartening feelings that often try the missionary's heart in the countries where Mohammedanism is professed and dominant, and where your mouth is sealed. Among heathens, and especially in India, you can publish your testimony, and this is a great comfort to the heart that knows what a testimony it is, and what promises are connected with its publication. Shortly after we ascended to the roof for our evening walk, we heard the cannon and small arms begin to fire, which informed us that the contest was begun within the city. About eight o'clock we heard multitudes crying out and shouting before the seroy, or palace, and the account was soon brought us that the inhabitants had broken in and seized the Pasha. After this all became quiet, except the firing of guns from the tops of the houses, to frighten off the thieves, and the cry of the watchmen, whom all, who can afford it in these trying occasions, keep to protect them. The Lord has hitherto extended his sheltering wing over us, though without sword, pistol, gun, or powder in the house; and the only men besides myself, are Kitto, who is deaf, and the schoolmaster's father, who is blind: but the Lord is our hope and our exceeding great reward. _June 12._ _Lord's day._--The wretched Pasha has just passed our house under a guard to the residence of Saleh Beg, almost the only male relation he suffered to live of the family he supplanted. The Lord is now visiting on him his cruelty and blood; so that what with the plague and now the sword, there will hardly be one of the apostate Georgians left. The day dawned quietly; but our house has just been attacked by a band of lawless depredators, asking for powder and offensive weapons. I told them I had none; but seeing a carpenter whom I knew, I told him I would let him and three others in, if they would promise me that no more should come in, which they did. So they entered, and were very civil, though they searched the house: I gave them some money, and they went away, promising that nothing more should be done to my house; but my only confidence is in the Lord. They wanted to go from the roof of my house to that of a rich neighbour's of mine, but I told them I could not allow that they should make my house a passage to his, and they were very civil and did not press it. A Frenchman who was teaching the Pasha's soldiers European discipline, has had his house stripped, and when they were on the point of killing him he turned Mohammedan. Before he was professedly a Roman Catholic, but really an infidel. Oh, my dear Mary, what a contrast to your kingdom of peace and love! Lord Jesus come quickly. For this I can now truly bless God that she is freed from this season of trouble and anxiety. The dear children bear it better than I could have hoped; but the Lord sustains and comforts us in the hope that as the new Pasha is near, this state of inquietude may not continue long. The Pasha of Mosul and an Arab chief have entered the city, and are now at the palace, so thank God, the state of anarchy is likely to be immediately put an end to. The crier has been publishing the determination of those now acting for the new Pasha, till he enters to punish all who commit any depredations, and desiring that the bazaars may be opened, and every one go about his own work. Should this be the end, we cannot but bless God that so great a storm has passed over so lightly. But the fact was, that the plague had destroyed all the powers of resistance. All Daoud Pasha's soldiers were dead--all his public servants were dead--and he, though recovering from the plague, unable to take any active part for himself. When he passed our house this morning, he was supported on his horse by six men. He is not yet killed, and on his expressing a wish to have his son brought to him, he was sent for immediately. Should they spare his life, it may augur that even the Turks are coming to a sense of their barbarism. It has been a great comfort to me to-day, to think on Noah's case, that God did not forget him amidst a condemned world. _June 14._--The people at the head of affairs have now begun to quarrel among themselves: some are for killing Daoud Pasha, some are for saving him, and the opposite parties are fighting in all directions; so when these troubles will terminate, or how, we have little knowledge. Our only resting place is in him who is the Shepherd of the fold of Israel. The Pasha of Mosul has been made prisoner, and part of the palace has been burnt and plundered: they have killed or put to flight the soldiers of the Pasha of Mosul, who came here as the agent of Ali Pasha, of Aleppo, the successor to Daoud Pasha, said to have been appointed by the Porte. The crier has again proclaimed Daoud as Pasha, and Saleh Beg his kaimacam or representative, till he recovers. Some say the Pasha of Aleppo is dead of the plague; some, that he is not coming, and that this entrance of the Pasha of Mosul and a famous Arab chief, was only a plot of theirs to get Bagdad into their own hands. What is true, what is false, it is now utterly impossible to tell, or what the result will be; but should Ali Pasha, if he is alive, be now sufficiently powerful to advance and attempt to dispossess this man, we may expect dreadful scenes. Last night the contest ended in plundering the poor Jews. Amidst this turmoil and interminable contention, a missionary with a family has much to try his faith, particularly in the early years of his missionary course, when he has no power in the language to take advantage of those opportunities which accidentally present themselves; for I am daily more and more convinced of the difficulty of speaking so as to be felt; at least in the first Eastern language one learns. The association of ideas, the images of illustration, are almost entirely different in many cases. The organs of pronunciation require a perfect new modelling, and perhaps not the least difficulty is to prevent one's heart from sinking at the little apparent progress made in understanding, and being understood, out of the common routine of daily life: the feeling will often arise, Surely I never shall learn. The difficulty is not, however, merely in words; you have to converse in the East generally with persons who have either no ideas on subjects of the deepest interest, or have attached some entirely different meaning to the terms you use to express those ideas; and which of the two occasions the most trouble, it is difficult to say. Notwithstanding, however, all difficulties, and all discouragements, and we seem now in the very centre of all, my soul was never more assured of the value of missionary labours among any people, it matters not whom, than now. There is, I am sure, what our blessed Lord declares, a _testimony_, in whatever measure we can proclaim his truth, or manifest his spirit, that is felt by those even who will not embrace it savingly. In reading Mrs. Judson's journal of the trials of the Burman mission, how deeply I now enter into them--how truly I can sympathize with them. It is wonderful how the Lord does sustain the heart when the time of trial comes. When I heard the struggle at the palace, last night, then saw it on fire, and heard the balls whizzing over our heads, and shortly after the screams of the poor Jews, whom they were plundering, a little way from the end of our street, my heart felt a repose in God that I cannot describe, and a peace that nothing but confidence in his loving care could give me, I feel assured. At times I feel so utterly useless, so devoid of every aptitude for the work in which I am engaged, that I wonder the Lord called me to it, yet the Lord may allow me to fill a place, though it be the lowest in missionary service. My greatest earthly treasure is the love of those who love the Lord, and in this I do feel rich, unworthy as I am of it. My heart longs for Christian communion; but such is the state of things here, that I feel almost as far from the prospect as when the first letter arrived from England, telling me so many were purposing to come. But what an inducement it is to patience to know, that all our trials and disappointments are the orderings of him who loved us, and gave himself for us. The day is passing quietly over, thank God; and they are removing the barricades from the streets. _June 15._--The account has just reached us, that the Pasha of Mosul was put to death last night. The reason assigned is, that he attacked Bagdad without any warrant, and had detained at Mosul the Tartars who were bringing the firman for Daoud Pasha. Oh! what a country, and what a government! Should the reinstatement of Daoud Pasha not be a truth, these circumstances will tend greatly to embitter the contest, and make the occupying of the city by the new Pasha a much more destructive and trying scene, than if these events had not occurred; but I feel that the Lord is disciplining, by these trials, the poor weak faith of his servant to lay hold on his strength, and not to rest on his own. I now give up all hope of seeing the dear brethren from Aleppo till the autumn. These scenes of anxiety and trouble strongly urge the heart forward to desire the day of the Lord to come, so wretched, so comfortless does all appear. I have quite given up the little we have to plunder, so that I feel quite at ease on that point, should it be the Lord's will to allow these scenes to continue, and us thus to be served. For the moment a season of lawlessness commences, you see the Mohammedan feeling relative to Christians. Now, for instance, that meat is scarce, if they see a butcher disposed to give a Christian some before them, they instantly put themselves into an attitude of hostility, and say, "What! will you give it to these infidels before us?" The other day, during the time of the disturbances in the city, the son of one of the most respectable Armenians here, went out, armed with pistol, sword, and gun to the coffee-house. They immediately began with saying, "What does this infidel with arms? Will he kill Moslems?" and they stripped him of all. The governing powers are beginning to recognize and feel the strength of those people called Christians; but this is never the thought of an Arab populace, who care for none of these things, and only think of present plunder. I have finished reading the account of the Burmese mission, and sympathize much more fully with the sufferers, than when I last read it, and I greatly admire and bless God for their steady and persevering devotedness to his holy service, amidst so many trials and so many discouragements. Such manifestations of the grace of Christ, tend much to encourage and strengthen the hands and hearts of those who are in any trials, whether similar or different. Whoever proves God to be among his dear children, becomes necessarily a light to the Church, for the Lord surely will be faithful to his promise and to his children's confidence; and the manifestation of this his faithfulness becomes the light of others. _June 16._ (_Friday._)--To-day all quiet within the city. _June 17._--For some weeks past hope and fear have alternated for my sweet little baby; but to-day hope finds not a place for her foot to rest on. I see the Lord has sent his message for her also; this comes very, very heavy; for from some days previous to dear Mary's death till now, I have been her constant nurse, and solicitude about her has in some measure served to distract my attention from the undivided dwelling on my heavier loss, till she has become so accustomed to my nursing, that as soon as ever she sees me, she stretches out her little supplicating hands for me to take her. All this has served to beguile my heart, and keep it in some degree occupied. But when the Lord takes from me this sweet little flower, I shall indeed be desolate. Why the Lord thus strips me, I do not now see; yet he does not allow me to doubt his love, amidst all my sorrows, and I know that light is sown for me, though it does not yet spring up. Oh! may my soul never cease to feel assured of my heavenly Father's unchangeable love; for with a doubt on this head _now_, what would my circumstances be? We know that tribulation worketh patience, and patience experience, and experience hope, and hope maketh not ashamed. Oh! may such a result spring from all my suffering! _June 26._--For some days I have had nothing to write about from without. All has been, on the whole, quiet, and we now wait for communications from Constantinople to see how things are likely to end. It appears now that Daoud Pasha has retired in favour of Saleh Beg, whether willingly or from necessity, is not known. The treasury and every thing else is given up into his hand; and he knows as well how to spend it as his predecessor did to collect it; he is therefore popular, but not esteemed by those of more understanding as a man of abilities. He, however, goes to the old Pasha Daoud every day for instructions. How all these events will operate upon our future labours, I cannot at all conceive; whether they will close up the little opening we had, or make a wider one, the Lord, on whom we wait, alone knows. I have been reading much lately of missionary labours, and am surprised to find how uniformly trials, and difficulties, and threatened destruction have hung over them for years, yet many of them the Lord has since singally blessed. We are, however, in the Lord's hands. I have just read through a second time Mr. Wolff's journal, and Mr. Jowett's second volume, and I confess that if my little experience entitles me to give my opinion, I think Mr. Jowett's judgment much the soundest as to the nature of the operations to be carried on in these countries; that the missionary corps should be as unencumbered as possible, and ready to remove at a moment's notice. I mean those engaged in the simple evangelist's office, disconnected from all secular callings; but should there be a band of enlightened saints, willing to take the handicraft departments of life, as their means of support, and unobserved access to the people, they might remain and carry on their work, when other and more ostensible teachers were obliged to fly: and this is doubtless the way the primitive churches were nourished, when their professed teachers fled. As to those colleges and large establishments contemplated by Mr. Wolff, even could they be established on the comprehensive principle proposed by his zealous and ardent mind, I fear it would lead much more to the diffusion of universal scepticism than the eternal excellency of the truth of God; if, I say, it could be attained, but for many reasons I feel it cannot be attained. The liberality of the Christian public is not up to such undertakings, even though they saw the utility to be clear. One cannot help being struck with Mr. Wolff's judging of others from himself; because he felt he was willing to make sacrifices, he promised for others as freely as for himself: but what has been the result even of the two schools he did establish, and promise to support from the funds of his patron and others? The burthen has rested on those who were persuaded through him of the willingness of others to co-operate. One is given up, and the other has dwindled down to about nineteen pupils, and these are educated on the native plan, so that, as far as divine light is concerned, it is in _statu quo_. The two colleges that were to be established at Aleppo and Tabreez, and towards which a beginning was made in promises and plans--nothing now is heard of them; nor do I think it is to be regretted. The object was too mixed for much of spiritual prosperity. The difficulty is not in getting houses and firmans: it is when you begin to wish to sit down and attack the strong holds of the enemy. The same with the letters of patriarchs and bishops: when the thing is new and they see not its bearings on their system, they are all friendliness--as among the heads of the Armenians, the Catholics, and other Bishops. But when they have seen the life-giving power of the divine word in the souls of two or three of their followers, under the instruction of such clear brethren as at Shushee, or the American brethren, all is changed, and when dear Zaremba was at Ech-Miazin the other day, and endeavoured to get the consent of the Armenian patriarch to the translation of the Scriptures, by Dittrich, his reception was every thing but kind; and they have actually dragged away one of their deacons from the dear brethren at Shushee, to try him at Ech-Miazin for heresy. I have also heard that the bishop of Ispahan, who superintends all these countries, even as far as India, has prohibited the reception of any tracts by his people, and would not let them have a school till the Roman Catholics appeared there and established one, taking away some of his flock, when he granted it. In fact, wherever the hierarchical spirit exists, there a spirit of domination and pride--there a spirit of Antichrist exists--whether in the Brahmin, the Mufti, or the Patriarch, there is a body of men who will not go in themselves, nor let others go in; it must be so, as Mr. Jowett justly observes, wherever the distinction between laity and clergy is kept up in opposition to the right and duty of each man to judge for himself. Mr. Jowett's words are, I think, "The principal religious characteristic of Syria and the Holy Land, (and he might have added, of all the ancient churches, and too many of the modern,) that which is common to all its professors and sects, is that _system of distinction between priesthood and laity_, felt even when not avowed; according to which, it seems to be the interest of a few professed teachers to hold the rest of their fellow-creatures in darkness." Those men, therefore, who, in a hasty visit, welcome you, and if you are well introduced, flatter you, no sooner see or feel your real design, than they become your enemies, and the missionary who should begin with any other expectation from present prospects, must be disappointed. For instance, had we been where there was a powerful clergy, we should have met with the greatest opposition in our school, because of our casting out of it the book which they so highly prize, called the Shammakirke. Yet no Christian teacher could conscientiously allow it--it was full of prayers to the Virgin, the Cross, &c. &c.; we therefore here succeeded, under God's blessing, because the laity were strong and the priesthood weak, without any serious struggle; but their progress has been very different at Shushee. The morals of the monks at Ech-Miazin are such that no parent in the country thinks himself justified in sending his child there to be educated. From such men, what can you expect? With them what can you do? I have for a long time been persuaded that the path for a child of God to pursue, is to follow his Lord, and not to ask the Sanhedrim's leave to preach the truth; and never to take any notice of them till they take notice of us. Dark as the cloud seems to be now around these lands, and difficult as it seems even to live in them, much more to labour in them; yet I do not at all think, to one having patiently attained a thorough knowledge of the colloquial Arabic, and the other colloquial languages in use, that the door is barred to a travelling unsettled missionary, or even to one resident many months in a place: neither do I think he should be discouraged from attempting schools, for although they may not stand above a year or two, you may by the Lord's blessing be the instrument of stirring up their minds to think and examine for themselves, and without violence lead them to question the truth of some of their dogmas; and when you have once dislodged the principle of implicit faith, you have at last opened the door for truth. I think it is much to be regretted that Mr. Wolff's wishes about Bussorah and Bushire did not succeed. In the one there is a permanent British Resident, and in the other a permanent British influence, that would have much favoured a school, and even perhaps finally more extensive operations; and I do still hope he may yet find some of his friends, who are as able as willing to take the necessary charge of these places, for they are now more disheartened than when nothing had been promised them. At Tabreez also, I think a most interesting school might be established; but let it be as comprehensive as it can with a safe conscience be, without pretending to a principle that includes all. If, upon such terms Mohammedans come, your conscience is not entangled, and you can go on steadily with your work. If they go, they go; if they stay, they stay; but take care how you take any of the gentiles by solicitation; it will tie your hands, and hamper all your proceedings. It looks promising to see the names of Princes and great men connected with our work; but I am persuaded that it is utterly spiritual weakness. Better do ever so little work with the whole soul, than ever so much, trimming between the world and the Church, and all very comprehensive plans must involve this: besides, from the outset, the feeling of duplicity that always must result from inducing men to contribute to support institutions under certain partial representations, which they would not embrace if you stated your real design, and the full truth. Besides these difficulties of money and principle, the unsettled state of these countries is such that learned orientalists would never come, even if they were in abundance; but the fact is, that even Europe is very scantily supplied with men who could direct such an institution, and if they could be found, unless the love of Christ were the spring of their actions--were they mere literary orientalists, their influence as it regards the kingdom of Christ would be worse than nugatory. For though you might hope to correct this evil by having others connected with the institution who might have the more immediate spiritual direction of the students, this would soon lead to strifes and divisions between the heads of the institution. That the spread of literature in the East will sap and finally overthrow _Mohammedanism_, I have little doubt; but this is the work of the men of the world, and the result, as it regards Christianity, very doubtful; but the missionary's object is one and indivisible: if Christ be not glorified, he gains nothing; but if he be but exalted, he has his rich reward. _June 28._ _Thursday._--There seems just sufficient strength in this wretched country to destroy itself: it has long lost the power of attacking its enemies with success, it has also lost the power of resistance against their attacks, neither can it longer stand without external support: there seems just sufficient power left to commit suicide. In this pashalic, though the Sultan cannot without extreme difficulty remove the Pasha, yet he effectually destroys its prosperity;--he ruins the merchant, he encourages every species of robbery, so that frequently, as at present, not a shop dare be opened but for the simplest necessaries. Nor does it operate against the prosperity of this city only, but all the trade of which this was a sort of intermediate place of transit between India, Mosul, Merdin, Damascus, and Aleppo, as well as on the other side from Europe, is so far interrupted, for not a merchant will now venture his goods across the desert. All attachment too seems entirely destroyed between the head and the members of the empire. ---- was with me to-day, who, speaking on the state of the Pashalic said, If the Sultan will let us have Daoud Pasha well, we neither want the Sultan nor a stranger; but we would rather put ourselves under the English, and let them govern as they do in Hindoostan. This feeling is exceedingly general, and in looking forward to the downfall of the empire, they seem quite to consider this country as the portion which will fall to England, and speak of it openly as a thing they desire. This arises from their hearing so much of our government in India. _June 29._--My dear little baby has had an attack of purulent ophthalmia, which gives me much anxiety; for three or four days she had been recovering a little, when this trying attack seized her dear little eyes; she was quite unable to open either of them. My mind has been much exercised these two days by reflections on the ease with which the soul is taken off from living in Christ. In prosperity, we are occupied with plans; in adversity, with our sorrows; in missionary labour, in preparation for what we intend to do for the Lord, and even in our very times of danger we are constantly exposed to the temptation of looking for relief to circumstances, rather than to the Lord of circumstances--to the love of the Lord of life. May the Lord of his great goodness grant that my soul may reap a full harvest from these reflections, and determine not only in words to know nothing but Jesus Christ and him crucified, as the subject of preaching, but as the object on which my soul constantly dwells, so that growing up into his fulness in understanding and love, may be the business of my future life, and much, yea, very much more, the simple purpose of my heart than it has ever yet been. Nothing can be to me clearer than that the work of the Lord will really prosper in the hands of his servants, in proportion as these servants prosper in their nearness to him. May his love, his life, his words, his wishes be the abiding incentives in my soul to simply living to him and for him, and for his creatures through him. How easy it is for one person to make one class of sacrifices, and another, another; but how hard to slay the darling idol, and to tear away the cherished indulgence:--how easy it is to exercise those graces which accord with our natural constitutions, how difficult those which mortify and run counter to them. May it be the labour and delight of my future life to see each cherished idol one by one fall prostrate, slain before my Lord's love. _July 1._--There has just been a transaction passing which illustrates, in a striking manner, the very loose connections which bind the parts of this empire together. I have already mentioned the death of the Pashas of Mosul and Merdin. Ali Pasha, in support of whom they had professedly marched against Bagdad, sent his treasurer to Saleh Beg, to commend him for what he had done in thus preserving the city by killing these two Pashas, requiring at the same time for himself, the payment of his expenses, as well as a sum of money for the Sultan, and promising that if this were given him he would return to Aleppo. Thus, after nearly two years confusion, all parties will be worse off than they were before. My reason for thinking it probable this will be the case is, that the Khaznadar or treasurer of Daoud Pasha, has accompanied the Khaznadar of Ali Pasha to his camp, who evidently doubts the result of his attempt. Indeed, it seems very doubtful if in any case he can succeed; for if he obtains the Pashalic, I think it very probable from the history of former Pashas, who, as strangers to the Pashalic, have been forced into it, that he will not be allowed to retain it. The fact is, that almost all his opposing force consists of Arabs, who become in a moment the servants of the highest bidder. It was only two days ago the Pasha detached one tribe from them; and I have little doubt that if he does not spare money he may soon break up all the confederacy.[34] Yesterday the soldiers of the late Pasha of Mosul came to the gates of the town, but were driven back into their encampment with loss; and one hundred of their mercenary troops (Arnaoots) came over to this Pasha, changing a pay of forty-eight piasters a month to one hundred, or about a pound sterling a month. [34] We heard afterwards that the state of his health and the lawlessness of the city prevented his getting access to his treasure. Every kind of provision is becoming extremely dear, from double to ten times its usual price; and I confess I see no present prospect of improvement, for the inundation swept away the harvest, and the plague has extended so far, that there have been no hands to cut down even that grain which remained, and the things which they might have sown, and which might in some measure have supplied the place of grain they were prevented from sowing by the Arabs, who were at enmity with the Pasha, and therefore laid waste the country. In contemplating the perplexity and uncertainty of events, according to all human calculation, that surrounds us, the knowledge that our own Lord is ordering all things not only for his own glory but also for ours, comes home continually to my soul with inexpressible comfort; and notwithstanding the anxious thoughts that sometimes arise, I am generally enabled at last to roll my burdens on his holy head, and this I know will sustain them. The dead weight about a missionary's neck in the first years of his labour is the language. So difficult is it to hear so as to understand, or to speak so as to be understood; for not only is it necessary to use right words, but with right accents, or you may often convey the very reverse of what you mean. Certainly, if I were quite alone, the plan I should pursue, would be to go into some family or place where the language I wish to learn alone is spoken, as brother King did in Syria to learn Arabic:--this being attained, a missionary is certainly not without the most interesting opportunities of usefulness. _July 2._ _Saturday._--Dear baby has suffered so much from her eyes to-day, that it tried my heart to the very bottom. And in addition to all this, the state of things here is assuming an alarming aspect. Without the city walls, the numbers of those who wish to plunder the city are increasing; and within, the same tendency is manifested among those who are intended for its protection, so that my heart has been at times very much pressed down; yet the Lord has sustained me. In the evening, as I was looking out, I saw the man come into the court yard, who brings and collects letters for Aleppo, and in his hand a letter for me. With what eagerness did I seize it, and anticipate its contents. Yet though good tidings, because tidings of the Lord's blessing them, and being in the midst of them, it contained tidings peculiarly heavy for me to receive at this moment, as it not only led me to anticipate no present prospect of seeing my dear brethren from Aleppo, but that it seemed very doubtful if it would be their path to come at all; at least if they did, it would be purely to join me, and this surely would not be the path of duty. I, however, receive this last trying providence at my loving Father's hands, adoring his love whilst I know not the modes of his going forth. It has not weighed me down so much as I thought it would; and the Lord allows me to feel assured he will yet do something for me. They seem to wish me to join them, but I do not yet see my way clear to leave this place to which the Lord has brought me. I feel daily more and more that my place in the church is very low, and it matters very little where I am for any good that is in me: yet by remaining, I keep the way open for those who are more able, and whose establishment is more important. I know my Lord will not cut me off from personal improvement by all his darkly gracious dealing, and perhaps I am now learning another part of that hard lesson, neither to glory in or trust in man. But still I bless God he is giving my dear brethren a door of utterance and prospects of usefulness where they are, and may my joy ever be in proportion to the glory that is brought to his blessed name, and the prosperity of his kingdom. Until the Lord, therefore, raises his fiery cloudy pillar, and bids me forth, I shall pursue my plan of endeavouring to converse in Arabic till the Lord is pleased to open my mouth by degrees, or as he please, to publish his whole truth. Should he send me some dear brother to help and comfort me, may he give me grace to praise him; if not, to hope in him and find in himself all I need. To the dear boys it has been a great disappointment, for it was the constant theme of their conversation, and a cheering expectation to see friends from England. However, our dear Father will order all things well; and I bless him exceedingly for sending out to Aleppo, our dear brethren and sisters. The Lord may make this event, which now seems so awakening and trying, yet for the furthering of the gospel in these lands: in fact, I should be almost sorry for _all_ of the brethren to leave Aleppo. _July 5._ _Tuesday._--I have had some interesting conversation with three poor people from _Karakoosh_,[35] a town about five hours from Mosul, composed of Roman Catholic Syrians. Every information I receive from that quarter, convinces me that Erzeroum, Diarbekr, and Mosul, would be most interesting head quarters for a missionary. The man told me that the Nestorians of the mountains, (like the Scotch) go once a year to receive the sacrament, whether upon their erroneous principle, or that from living scattered among the mountains they cannot make it convenient to meet often, I know not. The Syrians of the villages near Mosul speak among themselves Syriac, but in asking them if they understood the old Syriac, which is read, they reply, imperfectly; so that I have no doubt, for any instructive purpose, it is perfectly unintelligible, what with the mode of reading, and the difference of language. These are deeply interesting countries to those who can be happy in bestowing all their strength in planting under the prospect that others will reap the fruits. The Lord will water their way with little streams of comfort, and manifestations of the prospect of the future; but the preparatory work in these countries must occupy at least many, many years of missionary life. I shall never feel a missionary till I can deliver my message clearly and intelligibly; till then, I endeavour to drop a word, as it may be offered, and to instil a principle as an occasion may occur, or by seeking an occasion. The difficulty of this first step I daily feel to be increasing--I mean only that my sense of the difficulty is increasing; but the Lord daily comforts me, amidst the delays and trials of faith, by the clearest conviction of the large sphere of usefulness there is when once this is attained. [35] _Karakoosh_ is a small town within twelve miles of Mosul, containing about nine hundred houses, inhabited entirely by Syrian or Jacobite Christians, many of whom are become Roman Catholics. They speak Syriac, but so corrupted, that it is with great difficulty they understand the Syriac of the Scriptures. There are seven churches, four of which belong to the Roman Catholics, and the remainder to the Jacobites. The road between Karakoosh and Mosul, passes through the striking remains of Nineveh. All things in the city continue in the most unsettled state. Some of the lawless depredators came again to our house the day before yesterday, and wanted arrack; but they went away quietly, and they only talked about cutting off my head; but all this in mere bravado. The Lord thus graciously takes care of us. They look on me as a sort of dervish, because I do not drink arrack, nor use weapons of war, nor take men to guard my house. _July 9._--The camp of those without the city is moving down to-day towards us; and we hear a continued firing of cannon. It is reported they are come within half an hour's march of the city. The issue is in the Lord's hand. Nothing can exceed the fear and want of confidence that prevails throughout the city, every man's heart failing him for fear of those things which may be coming on us. Oh! what a resting place is the Lord's experienced love, and the assurance that all shall work together for good to those that love him; yet living thus in the midst of constant alarm, makes my heart sometimes long for that sweet, quiet Christian communion which I left behind in England. _July 10._ _Sunday._--In conversation to-day on the subject of invoking the Virgin Mary, with some Armenians and a Jacobite, I was struck with the readiness with which they all submit to Scripture; and this seems universal among all those who are not ecclesiastics by profession, or Roman Catholics. The curse of obstinate blindness seems to be left to those who join this apostate church, for truly it may be said of them, they come not to the light, because their deeds are evil--not their deeds as members of society, but as professed members of the mystical body of Christ. Our Lord's days are solitary--none to tune Zion's harps. Oh! how it makes the soul long for the courts of the Lord, where we may go up with the crowds to keep holiday; how precious now would appear some of those seasons of Christian communion which we enjoyed in dear England and Ireland. When dear Mary was with me, we had an unceasing source of happiness in conversing on our common hopes in our common Lord. Our communion also with our dear friends was thus rendered vivid, aided as it was and encouraged by the help of correspondence and conversation; but now letters have almost ceased to come, and I have no one to commune with. In addition to all this we are besieged, and every necessary of life is nearly three times its usual price, very bad, and to be got with difficulty. All night we hear nothing but firing and drums beating, and men shouting--all this, too, at present, without any prospect of termination, for those who are come against the city, are not strong enough to enforce the change they design, and those within have little to fear, so long as they have money and provisions to give the soldiers, which they say they have for two years;[36] so those who suffer are the poor people, who cannot help themselves. The Pasha of Aleppo is about an hour's distance; it does not seem to be his wish to act offensively against the city, but only to get into his power those few whom he wishes to displace and behead. Yet how much have I to bless God for, in that he keeps the little boys so free from alarm. Blessed Lord! these are indeed scenes and times that lead the soul to desire thy peaceful happy reign. Sometimes the sense of my dear, dear Mary's peace, safety, and joys, makes me feel my burthens lighter than though she had been with me; for to have those you love in such scenes is trying in proportion to this very love, which so sweetens times of mere labour or peace. I am sure the Lord _has_ dealt lovingly, and _will_. [36] This report of the provisions of the city appeared, in the sequel, to be unfounded. _July 14._--Since the ninth we have had little occurring but firing of guns from the citadel, and the noise and confusion at night occasioned by the soldiers. A circumstance has occurred to-day which a little tries me. The Armenian Priests are both dead; and the Armenian servant of Mrs. T. has asked if she might receive the communion with us, the next time we received it. Now, while I feel in my own soul that she knows nothing of the power of the divine life, yet how far I have authority from God's word to set up this, my private feeling, in the absence of any thing palpable to fix on as an objection, I do not see. I feel so utterly unworthy to place myself in the situation of a judge in such a case. I feel so exceedingly low in the divine life--I experience so little of the power of that life which was in Christ, subduing all things to the obedience of the Father's will--that I feel she may object more to my being accepted than I could to her. Yet, notwithstanding all this, I am conscious there is a difference--though I am only on the lowest step of Jacob's ladder, yet I do desire to ascend higher into the unsearchable riches of Christ, and to descend lower in my own esteem, so to be able to say without the pollution of affected humility, I feel myself less than the least of all saints. The divine life appears to me daily more and more a deep internal personal work, without which all external exertions and exercises will come to nothing; however fair, it will be at best but a fruitless blossom, that withers as soon as blown. Oh! how difficult it is not to deceive oneself with the appearance of Christian graces instead of the substance; how difficult not to substitute the _act_ for the _spirit_; that monster pride, how hard it is to kill, how chameleon like it changes its colour and seems to live on air, yea, on very vanity. _July 18._ _Lord's Day._--The warlike sounds of the cannon and mortars have abated within these three days. Oh that the Lord would quickly terminate this hateful civil strife. Yet at present there seems no prospect. How hard I feel it to-day to rise above the loss of my dear, dear Mary--it seems like a new wound just opened. It is so hard to feel the great honour and great proof of love the Lord has manifested towards me, in removing her I loved from the trials and sorrows of this earth to the ease and joy of his own Paradise, to join our dear little Mary, and sing there together his praise who washed them in his own blood, prepared them as vessels of honour, and then took them to himself. Sometimes I think I ought not to have gone out of our house during the plague, about Major T.'s affairs, but that I should have left them to their own fate; yet, at other times, I think, after all the kindness I had received from him, I ought not to have declined the dangerous service. Then again, I think that when I did go, I should have taken more precautions, and not have joined my dear family immediately, but remained apart; yet at last my heart comes round to the full assurance, that my dear and loving Lord would not have visited undesigned neglect, which sprang mainly from confidence in his loving care, with such a privation, had he not designed by it her speedy glory and my final good: now I shall go to her, but she shall not return to me. The dear little boys are very anxious to leave Bagdad, yet they do not complain, nor appear on the whole otherwise than happy, which is indeed a great mercy. My poor dear little nursling, the object of ceaseless care, seems rather gaining than losing ground, yet is still so frail, that a blast of wind seems enough to extinguish the little fire that burns; but if the Lord will, even this little fire shall yet burn brighter and brighter, and defy in his name the rudest blasts. Sometimes when I think on the complete stop the Lord has in his infinite wisdom seen fit to put to my little work here, I am astonished. Among those who are dead, is one who was translating the New Testament into the vulgar Armenian of this place, and had gone as far as Luke; and another gentleman, who was educated in Bombay, who was writing for me an English and Armenian Dictionary, in which he had proceeded about half way (10,000 words). In this dictionary there were not only the ancient and modern parallel words, but an explanation in vulgar Armenian, with examples. The probability of my meeting with one similarly qualified, able and willing again, is very small indeed; but with this, as with all the rest, it is the Lord, let him do what seemeth to him good. I wait to see his future pleasure manifested, and though I am now under a cloud of sorrow and separation from his service, may he sanctify it, and advance his glory by whomsoever he pleases, only giving me a heart to rejoice in their labours, and to love my Lord fervently, and then I hope I shall not complain. I never felt fit for much, and I daily now feel fit for less than I once thought I was, yet the Lord will not deny me a place in the body, and oh, may he give me a heart willing to take the lowest--that of washing the disciples' feet. Oh, for the spirit of our dear humble Lord in that wonderful transaction so calculated to stain human pride with the name of madness, but especially the pride of those who call themselves his. The weather is now getting intensely hot, and our cellars, which were our retreating places last year, are not habitable, the water being in them at least three feet high, and this, with the overflowing of the river, brought such swarms of mosquitos, that for several weeks it was almost impossible to sleep, and although now they are far less numerous, they are still very troublesome, so that if not on your guard every moment, you get stung by them. _July 20._--The weather is intensely hot, and we now begin seriously to miss the Serdaubs;[37] but I feel it most for dear little baby, to whom the heat is very, very trying. I also feel it very difficult to do any thing that requires the least exertion, and for the next six weeks we have no hope, of any mitigation, but rather an increase. The prospect too of affairs around us, leaves no resting place but in the love and favour of our Lord. The city is full of prophecies of the sorrows and desolations that are to come on this land; from the Pasha downward, this people seem devoted to astrology, believing lies, while they refuse to hear the truth; yet all their visions are of sorrow, lamentation, and woe. [37] Cellars under ground, to which the inhabitants of Bagdad retire during the heat of the day, from the months of June to September. I feel sometimes very much tried with respect to my future pursuit of missionary labours; for I have not only lost the encouragement and comfort of a sweet society that made every place a home; but all these domestic cares, which she so willingly and so entirely bore, have fallen on me, and I hardly seem, at least during the weakness of my dear little baby, to have time for any thing but to attend to them. Had I been joined by our dear brothers and sisters from Aleppo, it would have been comparatively light; but now, I can take no step, and before I may be able, the Lord may graciously afford me new light; for this I will therefore, with his grace and help, patiently wait. _July 21._--In some conversation I have just had with the old father of our late schoolmaster, I have been encouraged to feel that it is almost impossible for a missionary, even of the humblest pretensions, and in the lowest degree qualified for his calling, which I can I think with unaffected truth say, I feel to be my own case--to live among these people, and not to lead them to some most important principles. This old man is not only theoretically persuaded of the sufficiency of the Scriptures, but in his understanding fully convinced. His acquaintance with Scripture is very extensive and accurate, and on my servant coming to ask him the explanation of words in the translation lately set forth by the Bible Society, it led to a conversation on the importance of having a translation that every woman and child can understand. He said, "Yes, and it is only the pride of the learned and of the bishops which prevents it: if books once became published in the dialects of the people, the old language would cease to be cultivated." This would doubtless be an infinite benefit, not only to the Armenians but to the Syrians and Chaldeans, and every Church of the East, among the people; a few learned men may, and most likely will, be found to extract what is valuable from the old language, if they have only enlightened judgment enough to leave the mass of rubbish behind. He mentioned the sermon on the Mount, which we received from Shushee, and said, that it opened the eyes of the children--yet even this dialect is very different from the one used here. I think this aged man understands and feels there is but one Church in the world; and he quoted that interesting passage, "Paul may plant and Apollos water, but God giveth the increase," to prove it. _July 22._--I have to-day received letters from London and Aleppo, and I have reason to bless God for all; yet they all come armed with sorrow; for they are full of her of whom the Lord has emptied me. In my strength I thought I could so entirely give her up to him, did he desire it, since he had made her so strong in himself, and filled her so full of his blessings; well, and even now, my soul doth magnify the Lord, though in so many ways, I still feel my great and trying loss. Perhaps the Lord has meant to teach me that the 91st Psalm, as dear brother Cronin writes, relates only to Christ's humanity, specially shewing how, from his cradle to his grave, his father watched over him, so that at last he laid down his life, but none took it from him; and he, in this great act, has made it over spiritually to us: he has left the natural plague because of sin, but destroyed the spiritual because of righteousness, even that righteousness which is by his own most precious blood. The Pasha of Aleppo, hearing of dear Edward Cronin, as an English physician, wishing to come to Bagdad, wished to engage him to come with him as his physician, and offered him 1500 piasters a month; but, anxious as they were to come, the circumstances of their party did not, on mature deliberation, allow them to separate, and Ali Pasha was unwilling to undertake the responsibility of the females with his camp. And, oh, how my soul blesses the Lord, now I think on it, that these obstacles were so graciously interposed; disease, delay, and trouble would have accompanied them, and, till now, they would have been detained in the desert, with little prospect of speedy admission into the city, which is firing against the camp, and the camp firing against the city, and they would have been exposed to the full power of a sun, which no one can tell how to estimate, but by actual exposure to it. I have also received a letter from Bussorah, stating that on the drying up of the inundations there, a fever has been spreading, and carrying off numbers. Major T.'s family had most of them been ill, but they were recovering. Mr. Bathie was very weak, and his wife dead. Dr. Beagry, the new surgeon of this station, also died, and immense numbers of those who had fled from the plague. Bussorah is still besieged, but expected soon to fall into the hands of the Motezellim. A letter has also reached me to-day by the same conveyance, from the Bible Society, dated 27th July last year, mentioning the sending of three cases of Arabic and Persian Scriptures to my dear brother Pfander. When I consider how God, in his infinite and unsearchable providence, has seen it fit to bring to nought all our plans by the disorganization of this at all times lawless land, I cannot but feel it a strong call to form very few plans for the future, and just to work by the day. Our hope was, when we came to Bagdad, to have been able to travel pretty extensively both in the mountains of Kourdistan and in Persia; but the state of the country, and other considerations, brought all these plans to nothing, so my dear friend and kind brother left me for Shushee, having been able to obtain much of the information he desired, without the journey. And I, instead of having a large present field of useful employment, and one prospectively increasing, am now without employment or prospect, and if it were not that I feel getting on a little in the colloquial language of the country, I should be almost without hope of remaining with advantage here; but while I feel this, my heart does not sink. The Lord will yet let his light shine out of the darkness, and will one day enable me to speak of his promises; for I daily feel more assured this is the great gift after which an evangelist is to press--it is the very instrument of his labour. And let such a missionary feel infinitely happier to hear it said he speaks very low Arabic, but that every body understands him; than very pure, but which is unintelligible, except to the Mollahs. If he speaks not in a very mixed dialect of Turkish, Persian, and Arabic, he will not be understood here; there is, however, still an immense preponderance of Arabic over the others. The British and Foreign School Society have also very kindly offered to afford what assistance their limited means will allow to the furtherance of Scripture instruction in the East. I shall endeavour to repay this free kindness by obtaining the best information I can, before I call on their aid, for nothing is so discouraging as failures from precipitate attempts; but so variable is the state of affairs in these countries, that previous to your judgment being matured by experience, you may be led, with the best intentions possible, to undertake, on a bright day, plans which, before they can be executed, prove as baseless as a vision, and which will leave nothing behind but the remembrance of useless expense and unproductive labour. _July 22._--I had with me to-day, for the last time as a patient, an officer of the Pasha's household who had the plague, and a large wound from a carbuncle, but is now quite well, and he was talking of the state of the city and country, and said, "Why do we wish to give our country into the hands of the Ghiaours,[38] and not to the Persians? It is because we know they will neither take our wives or daughters from us, nor rob us of our money, nor cut off our heads, but in Islam there is no mercy, no pity." He added, "Did you ever see me before I came about my leg?" I said, "No." "Yet," he said "you had mercy upon me, and cured me and my daughter (who also had had the plague), and why? It was from your heart--there was mercy there." I took this opportunity to explain the reason, as emanating from the command of Christ, and not the goodness of my heart, and how truly could I say it; for the Lord knows how, but for this, it would be a weariness unto me. Now this impatience of their own government is not the feeling of a few discontented men, but I am persuaded it is very general--how can such a kingdom stand? [38] This word Ghiaour, or infidel, is applied by Mohammedans to Christians without the least intention of personal offence; and what is still more extraordinary, the Christians commonly designate themselves by the same appellation. The government, if government it can be called, is now sending the soldiers round to every house to seek for wheat and rice. From some they take half, from others a third of their little store, while they have enough for two years in their own corn cellars, and this too when the necessaries of life are raised to between four and five times their usual price; and as for fruit and vegetables, which constitute in eastern countries, during summer, so large a portion of the food of all classes, not a particle is to be seen. Yesterday and to-day I have had two Roman Catholic merchants with me, and in quoting Scripture to them, I found them ready with the context; but the deadly evil is the separation of religion and its principles from the government and rule of every day and every moment. In these countries, where religious expressions are in every one's mouth, a missionary has most valuable employment, as he is able to bring their minds back to their own expressions, to their own import and power, as we are desired to do to those who heartlessly use that beautiful form of dedication in the communion service of the Church of England, "We here present unto thee our bodies, souls, and spirits to be a reasonable, holy, and lively sacrifice unto thee." Oh! that all who use these blessed words felt their power, and lived under it. Christ's name would soon be magnified from land to land. _July 23._--The Pasha has just sent me a fish, with his compliments, and a request that I will dress it for him: this is the way he collects the daily provisions for his household; one person sends him a dish of rice, another a dish of kebaub, another bread; at other times all this takes place because of custom, but now from necessity, for he has no servants scarcely to attend to him. This is the first time I have been so honoured, and when the fish was cooked and sent, he desired the servant to come back, and bring him a few kustawee dates to eat with it; that, however, you may not think these any very extravagant luxury, I may add, their value is somewhat less than a penny a pound. I note this as a little trait of manners that one would hardly credit, had not the fact come under his own observation. _July 24._ _Lord's Day._--Nothing among the perverted use of scriptural terms has ever struck me as more remarkable than the use the Church now makes of the expression, tempting God. In God's word it is uniformly placed among the sins of unbelief; but the Church now, by universal consent, places it among the sins of presumption, to which it is the very antipodes. For instance, it is one of the great crimes of Israel, their tempting God in the desert, and limiting the Holy One of Israel. How? By presumptuous confidence? No--but by saying he hath given bread, but _can he give meat_ also? This is the only sense I know in scripture given to tempting God, and that famous passage from which the erroneous impression has mainly sprung, in the interview of Satan with our Lord, is quite kindred. The object of Satan was to get our Lord's mind into a condition of doubting God, by leading him to argue, God has certainly said so, but will he do it? for our blessed Lord was manifestly as much tempting God by attempting to walk upon the water, as to cast himself into the air. What proves this to be the meaning is our Lord's quotation, "It is written, Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God." Now, where is this written? Why, in the Old Testament, where it uniformly implies doubt and distrust; in Exod. xvii. 2. "Therefore the people did chide with Moses, and said, Give us water that we may drink. And Moses said unto them, Why chide ye with me? Wherefore do ye tempt the Lord? And he called the name of the place Massah and Meribah, because of the chiding of the children of Israel; and because they tempted the Lord, saying, _Is the Lord among us, or not?_" (verse 7.) And it is in reference to this very passage, that in Deut. vi. 16. it is said "Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God, as ye tempted him in Massah." And that we may not have a doubt of the meaning, see the application of the word tempting, as applied to our dear and blessed Lord. Is it ever in the sense of presumptuous confidence? Never; but always of scepticism and doubt. I do not mean to say there is not such a sin as presumptuous confidence; I am sure there is; but that is never called tempting God. The Israelites were guilty of this sin, when they went up contrary to the command of God to fight their enemies, after he had pronounced upon them the forty years wandering in the wilderness. I think that rightly understanding this is a matter of no small moment; for many are affrighted, and made sad in the ways of the Lord by the erroneous application of this Scripture; for to whom does the Church and the world alike now apply this term? Why, if they hear of a man selling his property, and becoming poor, like Barnabas, according to the exhortation of the apostles, and the _example of our Lord_, he is considered as tempting God by all according to the degree in which they wish to keep all or part of their own property. Again, if he exposes himself to dangers he might avoid, troubles he might escape, for what he believes the Lord's service, far from receiving any comfort or encouragement, he is again accused of tempting God. But tempting God is the deadly sin of an unregenerate mind, and is never charged on any saint, either in the Old or New Testament, that I recollect. Certainly, Peter did not tempt Christ, when he said, "If thou be he, bid me come unto thee on the water;" for he did not doubt our Lord's power; yet there was a measure of false confidence in himself, as well as of unbelief; but these are compatible with the holiest affections as a state. Tempting God belongs to the family of the tempter, and is a part of no child of God at any time. After his conversion, Peter asked a miracle of Christ; but it was in faith, however weak. When the sceptical Sadducees and the Pharisees, sought a sign it was to try him, can he do it? Therefore he said, Why tempt ye me, ye hypocrites? shewing it was a sin to tempt him as well as it was a sin to tempt his Father. I feel now that I had been led to expect a greater measure of freedom from the troubles which fall on the people, in the midst of which I find myself, than the dispensation under which I live warranted; I do not mean from those which spring directly out of the Lord's service, but those natural and national evils which God sends as judgments on the ungodly. This error arose from considering the temporal promises of the 91st Psalm, and other similar ones in multitudes of places, as the legitimate objects of faith: whereas I have been now led to see that they, like the curses, are but typical representations of that kingdom in which the saints of the Lord shall rejoice and be safe when his enemies are swept away as the chaff of the summer threshing floor. Yet even now, spiritually they are all ours. Not a hair of our head shall fall to the ground without our heavenly Father's permission. Therefore I feel these thoughts ought neither to trouble us, nor any more prevent our hand undertaking for Christ any service, than if a greater exemption was promised; for we know that whatever is allowed to befall us, whether natural or spiritual, if Christ is ours and we are his, they shall only so operate as to work out for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory; for these sufferings and trials must be among all the things that work together for good to those who love Christ. _July 28._ _Thursday._--Up to this time the shells and balls of the besiegers have done us no harm. Two shells have passed just over us. The one fell on the roof of the house of an Arab family at a little distance from us, who were all asleep, and on bursting killed three: one cannon ball has just passed over us, besides musket balls innumerable, only two of which, however, I have felt so near as to endanger us. The one just passed by me and struck the wall, the other, by bending my head, passed just over me: yet dangerous as it seems in such circumstances to sleep on the roof, the suffocating heat of the rooms is insupportable. I recollect Mr. Wolff, when here, mentions it as so hot that he could not write his journal, and indeed such is the heat, that one unaccustomed to it feels almost perfectly unfitted for any laborious service either of mind or body, but particularly the former, for at least my own experience is, that the body is much less affected by it than the mind. Famine is making its destructive way here among the poor. All the necessaries of life are raised from four to six times their usual price, and often are not to be obtained at all, and in addition there is no labour going on in the city: every shop is closed, and every one's concern is to take care of his life or property. They are constantly killing persons in the streets, without the least inquiry being made after the perpetrators; nay, they are publicly and notoriously known, and no one regards it. Nothing can exceed the misery and fear that pervades the city. Yet amidst all these perplexities and troubles, the Lord reigns, and without him they can do nothing. _July 31._ _Lord's day._--A day that always dawns with sweet peace on my soul: I seem more especially to bring before my mind those with whom I think I took sweet counsel, and went to the house of God in company; and though now deprived of all that the heart can desire from holy fellowship on earth, there is something that brings me near those I love, when I think on their places of assembly, and their times of prayer. Though my dear Lord has broken my heart in pieces, and his hand is still resting on me in the person of my dear little dying baby, whose love and preference for the little care I know how to show, renders it one of those exquisitely painful trials, that the feelings know not how to obey the Lord in, when the spiritual judgment is brought quite down. Yet I can never help feeling it to be a mercy eternally to be thankful for, that the sense of my Father's love and Saviour's sympathy has never been taken from me amidst all my trials; nay, I do feel that the Lord is fitting me, by suffering and separation, for the work to which he has called me; he leaves me without a home, or the desire of one, and in that way prepares me for situations, which, during the life-time of my dearest Mary, would have been deeply trying. I bless God for the fourteen years uninterrupted domestic happiness we enjoyed together, above all, for the seven years spiritual communion in a common gracious Lord, who led us in unity of faith and spirit to that work from which he has taken her so early to himself, and from which, when the Lord dismisses me, I trust to ascend and sing the song of Moses and the Lamb with her for ever and ever. My great want is, more of Christ, more of his whole character; this I purpose, by the Spirit's help, more to meditate on, that all that hateful concern about self, that pollutes all I do, may be absorbed in one only thought of how he may be glorified. What I feel I want, is more holiness of spirit. I know the Lord is fitting me for his holy presence, and that he is the chief desire of my soul; yet, oh! the weakness of faith, the coldness of communion, the reserves of dedication. Oh, Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief! A Mohammedan has been with me to-day, who is much alarmed at the state of the city, and wants to fly, but sees not now any opening. He told me, it was not this or that Pasha he cared about; but his property, his life, and the females of his family. Oh, what a relief to know, that my dear Mary is with her Lord; how light this makes my present trials. Yesterday they were fighting from before sun-rise till the afternoon, but could not effect an entrance into the city. The Lord preserves us all in simple dependence on himself. _August 2._ _Wednesday._--Accounts have arrived from the Hajjaj (Mecca and Medina, &c.) stating the mortality from plague and cholera to be most tremendous; many families that left this place on pilgrimage to escape the troubles, in the midst of which we have so long been, have, as we hear, suffered dreadfully. Thus God seems in wrath, making bare his holy arm against this wretched nation in all its length and breadth. My heart sometimes trembles for the dear brethren at Aleppo, lest at the conclusion of the hot season it should break out there. My only resource is God. The poor people here are beginning to sell their little all to buy bread, and in consequence of the badness and scarcity of provisions, dysentery is spreading its ravages in every direction, as well as fever. I have had with me to-day the translator to the late French Bishop, and two or three Roman Catholic merchants, all overwhelmed with fear. They say, the Sultan, on hearing of the death of the Pasha of Mosul, and the Vaivode of Merdin, has written to the Pasha of Aleppo, to spare neither man, woman, nor child in the city; but to let the very name of Bagdad be swept from his dominions. Though this is not altogether unlike the Sultan, I rather think it the report of those within the city, to make the inhabitants dread delivering it up into the hands of those without. How blessed a portion is ours, in the midst of all these perplexities, to stay ourselves on our God, and to confide in the sympathizing love of our Lord, who, worthless and vile as we are, will not overlook us; but for his name's sake, will take care of the very hairs of our heads, either in life or death. Amidst it all, what chiefly troubles me is, that I love my Father and my Lord so little, and that although there is not an object in the world, but his service and glory, for which I would desire to live; yet that, notwithstanding this I live so little for it. Three months have now passed since my dearest Mary has entered into her rest, which I have spent mostly in the sorrowful nursing of my poor dear sinking babe, and though her love and preference repays a hundred-fold all the trial, yet it pierces, while it pleases the heart, to see that connection so soon must cease. I often wonder at my strange indifference to my situation, which, but for my dear children, I think would be greater. I am afraid to think it is the fruit of faith I feel, in every other respect so weak; it seems more like the physical insensibility of one who is without a stake in what is passing. Oh, may my dear Lord, in every earthly tie he breaks, bind my poor soul doubly strong to himself for eternity, and to his service while here. _Aug. 3._--Some of the principal Christian families sent to me to-day, to request me to subscribe for guards to our quarter of the city, so that every night we might have about 40 on guard. This I saw my way clear in declining, believing that for Christ's servants the sword is not a lawful defence; whatever it may be the Lord's holy will I suffer, let it not be in acting against my convictions of his holy and blessed will, for though I feel as a sheep in the midst of wolves, the Lord does not allow my heart to be disturbed with any sense of personal insecurity. How beautifully all our blessed Lord's precepts hang together, and fit the one the other; if your consent to follow him in his poverty as he has commanded, you have little to fear in following his other commands of non-resistance: if you accept not the first, you will not accept the second, except in such circumstances as expose you to perhaps little comparative danger. May the Lord make me willing, whatever it costs, to learn all his will, and give me grace to love it. I have heard such instances to-day of hateful and abominable oppression and wickedness against the poor Christians, by the followers of those who have the name of rulers within the city, that my heart aches, and my soul loathes the place. But what can we expect, when these very persons robbed last night the house of Saleh Beg, himself from whom they receive their pay. A little butter and some sheep have been brought into the city; but they ask so enormous a price, that they have not yet been bought. I was struck with the quickness with which the mind apprehends the simple truth of God when unprejudiced by interest. I have, without even speaking contemptuously to the Christians of their fasting, taken various opportunities of expressing the liberty of a Christian to fast in such a way, and at such times, as he believes most conducive to his soul's advantage; and have pointed out to them, that to lay the stress on it they do, was quite perverting the very end and design of fasting; for that they are manifestly less afraid of violating Christ's commands than their own regulations, which, as they used them, were purely human. To-day, a question arose between two of them in my presence, about their fasts; and the one stated as clearly as could be wished, the uselessness of burthening their consciences about eating a little butter instead of oil, or such like, instead of seeking to flee from their lies, and drunkenness, and robbery, and cheating. There seems to me such a glorious moral power in God's word, that my heart never doubts of its producing marked effects, where it can be clearly and fully delivered; but, oh, the language, what a mountainous barrier! Last night, whilst lying on my bed, on the roof of my house, five balls passed over my head in about as many seconds, so close, that I threw myself off in expectation that the next might hit it or me; at times I almost determined to go down, but the danger of being shot did not appear so dreadful as the suffocating heat down stairs. _August 4._ _Thursday._--We have received accounts to-day of another messenger from Bussorah, with letters for us, having been stripped. How trying these dispensations are--how necessary for our peace that our eye should only rest on God, ordering in love every event concerning us, even to the arrival of a letter, so that he will allow nothing to fail us that is for our good. I have to-day finished reading through again Martyn's Memoir, by Sargent. How my soul admires and loves his zeal, self-denial, and devotion; how brilliant, how transient his career; what spiritual and mental power amidst bodily weakness and disease. Oh, may I be encouraged by his example to press on to a higher mark. When I think of my own spiritual weakness, contrasted with his spiritual power, it brings a striking warning home to my heart to seek a fuller and more abiding union with Jesus, from whom alone flows the living waters that make the branches fruitful; I am not now troubled about that intellectual difference between us, which might seem to make it impossible for me to do what he did: the Lord has made me, blessed be His holy name, contented in this respect with any difference I may feel between myself and his more exalted members; but my sorrow is caused by my want of that likeness to him, who is my Lord and King, which is alike the common inheritance of all the members of his mystical body. May I, however, henceforth make the most of my talent, that I be not numbered among the slothful servants at my dear Lord's most glorious and blessed appearing. The mild seriousness that pervades dear H. M.'s soul has for my heart a great charm. There is not a trait of eccentricity--all is like his Lord in its measure--he was solemn and serious as became his work, yet full of zeal and affection, which shewed itself, however, rather in the steady power of a course of action than in expression. It is astonishing what the world will endure from a child of God, whose manner gives them excuse for calling him an interesting eccentric madman; because then all he says they feel at liberty to laugh at; whereas, if the very same truths were declared to them in the calm seriousness of our Lord's manner, it would make them gnash on him with their teeth. _August 7._ _Lord's day._--This has been a day of trials and tears. The visions of the night were filled with her I have lost, and the day has been spent in weeping over her, I am soon, very soon, to lose; but this is only nature, my soul rests happily in my Lord. I had given up a little for his dear service! but he knew where the heart's reserves were, and has put his hand on them; yet, blessed hope, that gilds these darkest days--the day of the Lord is at hand, when we shall meet to part no more. Oh, may my heart live with this blessed vision ever before it, and labour each day for the Lord, as though it were to be the waking vision of the morning's dawn. My heart is very sad to think how profitless a servant I have been; but I do purpose, the Lord enabling me, to be more diligent, more devoted in the future. My mind has been much exercised with the question of the desirableness of keeping a journal of the soul's inmost workings; but after reading and thanking God for those of others, I feel I never could write one without the fear of its publication, and this would keep my soul in a continual struggle, either by tempting me to say too much or too little, more or less than the truth; for, if any but my most gracious and loving Lord knew me as I am, I should hide myself for ever from the face of man. Yet I pray the Lord, that he will by his Spirit write a journal on my soul, that I may truly feel how very meek and lowly it becomes me to be when I think of all his forgiveness, notwithstanding my transgressions against him. I feel there was something peculiarly gracious in my Lord's not sending me away to my sufferings and trials, till he had given me a cordial, in the assurance of his unchanging love. Oh, but for this, what would my past trials have been, had I not felt assured my Lord's love did not fluctuate with my feelings, nor depend upon my worthiness. Oh, what a blessed passage is that in Rom. v. "If, when we were enemies, we were reconciled to God by the death of his Son, _much more_ being reconciled we shall be saved by his life." Yet the more I feel of this assurance of such unmerited love, the more hateful sin appears in all its shapes, and the more my soul desires entire devotedness to the whole will of God, and conformity to my gracious Lord. _Aug. 9._--A contest has sprung up between the troops and the inhabitants of the city, in which, from the continued firing, I should fear there has been much slaughter. Our neighbours are also again making barricades across the street, near our door. I sometimes think I am too impatient under these trials, instead of being thankful for the mercies I enjoy, and waiting without anxiety upon the Lord to work as seemeth good to Him in his own time. I hope to strive more and more after this childlike confidence, which his experienced love so richly deserves. I did not expect my sweet little baby would have survived yesterday, yet she has this morning a little revived. In the hourly expectation of being plundered, I have put such things as I should be sorry to lose in a hole made in the wall, by the falling of a room. Yet I trust I am quite content the Lord should do as he sees best, even with respect to these. I sometimes sigh to join my dear Mary in the kingdom of peace and joy, and be ever with the Lord. Oh, may the Lord fully and quickly make me meet for the inheritance of the saints in light. _Aug. 13._ _Saturday._--The Arabs made an attack on the other side of the town to-day, but were repulsed. Another messenger from Bussorah is arrived, but stripped and plundered of our letters, and detained four days a prisoner by the Arabs. He has been near a month on his way. Bussorah, like Bagdad, is still besieged. _Aug. 14._ _Sunday._--My dear little baby and some others of my patients have occupied much of my time to-day; for though I give the people generally to understand, that unless in cases of necessity, I would rather see them on any other day; yet, there are many whom I have felt it to be my duty to see. The remainder of the day, however, was rendered profitless by extreme weariness, I having had to walk about with my poor little withering flower several hours through the night. I feel these trials all arise in what appears to me my present plain path of duty, so they do not greatly trouble me; though the progress in the language is almost altogether in abeyance; but, if I confine myself to my Lord's will, I feel he will manage all for me. I have had with me to-day an Armenian gunsmith, who has resided some years in Damascus; he says, the Christians there are treated very well, for though they will not allow them to ride on horseback in the city, yet, as inhabitants, they are well treated. He says, they are also very numerous, inhabiting not less than 15,000 houses; but, if from this we deduct 10,000, we shall probably be nearer the truth. The Jews are not so well treated. From Shaum (Damascus) to Beyraut, on the coast, is four days journey, to Acre four, to Tripoli six, to Aleppo ten, and the roads quite safe. From Damascus to Jerusalem is seven days journey, but through an unsafe country. On the journey from this place to Damascus, the only dangerous part of the road is between this and Hit, on the Euphrates, four days journey hence; after that a certain sum is paid to the Arab tribes, you may pass through. From Persian travellers, whom they hate, they extort, when they know them, a much greater sum, amounting sometimes to from £10. to £20. between this and Damascus. He says, you come to fresh water every second or third day. _Aug. 19._ _Friday._--Every thing seems darkening in this wretched city. Numbers of poor people are crying at the gates to be let out, that they may not be starved in the city; but they will not let them go. All the necessaries of life have risen to five times their usual price, and the pressure of this is increased tenfold by the time at which it has occurred. The bricklayers, carpenters, every trade has entirely ceased its occupations in the city since the commencement of the plague; so that all day-labourers, such as weavers and others, are thrown out of their employments, and without means of gaining their bread. In addition to this, the Arabs are breaking into every house where they expect to find a little corn or rice, so that it is a difficult choice either to be without provisions in danger of starving, or of being broken in upon by such ruffians, and stripped. We intend to bury a little box, containing some rice, and flour, and dates, under ground, that in the event of their breaking in, we may yet secure food for a few days, which may give us time to look about. The Lord, however, is very gracious, and will not try us above our strength, but will magnify his grace even in these scenes of trial and distress. The care of my dear little dying baby has taken my mind much off from dwelling on the distressing position in which we are, and, for aught I at present see, are likely to continue in, for those within the town feel it is their heads for which they are contending, and will therefore hold out to the very last. Yet in this whirlwind the Lord rides and reigns, and no part of the mystical body of Christ, however humble the member, will ever be forgotten: on this we rest and wait for light and deliverance. _Aug. 23._ _Tuesday._--Saturday last they made a sally from the city against a tribe of Arabs, friends of Ali Pasha, and after putting them to flight, and killing 100, they cut off the heads of 150 in cold blood afterwards. It appears that the obnoxious parties within the city are anxious to place the whole inhabitants of the city on such terms with the assailants that they shall fear the consequences of their entering the town as much as themselves. They have allowed about 5000 of the very poorest to leave the city, but the enemy without will allow no more to pass. A letter came yesterday to Mr. Swoboda from a Bohemian, who is physician to Ali Pasha, in which he desired to communicate to all the Franks, that Ali Pasha had given the strictest orders to his soldiers not to molest one of them. To a certain extent this manifests good intentions; but we have had too much experience of the powerlessness of governors at such times to restrain their soldiers, to have much confidence in man: our confidence is in Him who will and does watch over us for good. From the daily increase in the price of provisions, and the daily coining new lies to feed the people with hopes instead of bread, I think things cannot remain long in their present position; yet the Lord knows. It is certain Bagdad is altogether ruined; and if those who belong to the neighbouring villages, and those who would leave it, were there ever so small an opening, were gone, the city would be a desert. I had a patient with me to-day, who told me that, out of a family of sixteen, he alone remains from the plague. Persons he added, who before these troubles were not worth a para, are seen riding about on fine horses and trappings, covered with gold and pearls, &c.; and, on the other hand, many who before were in very good circumstances, are, by the robbery of those who should protect them, reduced to beggary. It appears that Ali Pasha is in want of nothing but money and ammunition; and those within the town want every thing but these. This wretched city has suffered to an almost unparalleled extent the judgments of God within the last six months: the plague swept away more than two-thirds of its inhabitants--the flood has thrown down nearly two-thirds of its houses; and property and provisions of corn, dates, sugar, &c. &c. beyond all calculation, have been destroyed, and we are now suffering under daily increasing famine, and we have yet hanging over our heads the revengeful sword of resisted authority, and the unprincipled plunder of a lawless soldiery to complete the devastation. This Pashalic was just about to fall an easy prey into the hands of the Persians, who long to possess it, from their famous place of pilgrimage, Kerbala, being in the neighbourhood, and perhaps also to make up for their losses on their Russian frontier. Thus the Lord seems preparing these two great Mohammedan powers for their final overthrow, partly by the hands of each other, and partly by the hands of the Christian power. In the province of Kourdistan, the Persians have encroached much on the territory of this Pashalic already. Oh! how delightful it is to turn from these scenes of present and prospective strife to that happy approaching day, when the Lord shall come with ten thousand of his saints to establish his kingdom of peace and glory. Oh! may our cry never cease to be, "Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly;" and when he does come, may he find us in his service among the faithful, chosen, and true. _Aug. 24._ _Thursday._--Three months and ten days have now passed since the Lord took from me her who was on earth the supreme consolation of my life; and now, this day, he has taken from me my sweet little baby without a sigh, without the expression of pain during the whole of her illness; for this my heart can, even at this moment, bless the Lord; but it has left a void that has more than ever made the world appear a waste. The incessantly returning wants made even these times appear to wing a rapid flight; but now all is still as death, except the weeping of the poor nurse, who truly loved her, and watched over her night and day with unremitting care. Oh! what a time would these three months have been for dear Mary, had she lived, and what a day would this have been; but the Lord took her from the evil to come, and has now taken the dear little object of her love to her, to join her little sainted sister and dear little brother; four of us are gone, and three are left. May the Lord quickly prepare us all, and hasten his coming kingdom, that we may meet to part no more. And, Oh! may he make and accept the remnant of the worthless life he grants me, as a living sacrifice to his service. Notwithstanding I acquiesce, I trust, in the Lord's will from the bottom of my heart, yet I feel a desolation and loneliness of heart, on this last dispensation, that surpasses all I have felt in my last six months of trial. My sweet little baby remained an object for those affections to seize upon, which will exist while life lasts, however disciplined, and however the power of grace may prevail; but in one so weak in faith, so earthly as I am, they have had much, too much power, and therefore the Lord, in mercy to my soul, has swept them all away, that I may have nothing in this world left but his service. If this be his holy purpose, may my whole soul second so gracious an intention; and I pray the spiritual family which the Lord, according to his promise, has given me, fathers, mothers, sisters, and brothers, that their love and patience towards me may abound, that my spirit may be refreshed thereby, and my weakness encouraged to proceed--though faint, yet pursuing. _Aug. 25._ _Friday._--This day has taught me, that if I would not be entirely miserable, I must give up my whole time, and soul, and thoughts to my Lord; for if I look off him, I feel bordering on a gulf, the depth of which I cannot fathom. Oh! may the Holy blessed Spirit give me such views of the graciousness and exceeding riches of my Lord, that I may really feel, that in having him, I have all things. He alone is the same, yesterday, to-day, and for ever. All created things, the nearest, the dearest, the most beloved in the moment of greatest need and greatest felicity, elude the grasp, and flee away; but he abides always. I desire, therefore, the Lord enabling me, to give myself altogether to the preparation for my future labours more diligently than I have ever yet done; that though desolate on earth, I may hold the freest and sweetest communion with heaven; for of all preparation I feel the greatest, the most needful to be, that of the heart; in order to the constant sensible entertainment of Christ, from whose nearness all the spiritual faculties derive the sap and the fruit bearing strength. _Aug. 28._--To-day I feel the Lord has given me a victory, by turning my thoughts off my miserable self and temporary circumstances, to the contemplation of the happiness of those who are gone before me, and by enabling me to feel set off on my journey to meet them, and drawing every day one day's journey nearer, while I endeavour to forget I had ever been happy in domestic life, or ever possessed those dear objects; but nature was often too strong for me, as I dwelt on their felicity, and my journeying towards them daily, whether the Lord brings them with him, or I go before he comes. This hope does comfort me, for it is a real abiding truth, whether I drink the sweets of the consolation from it or not. I therefore now purpose, the Lord enabling me, after nearly six months interruption, to return to the studies preparatory to my future duties as an itinerating missionary. To this service I ever thought the Lord had called me, and for this I now see all his trials have been fitting me, for I am without a home and without a tie in the world, but my dear Lord's service. These trials have made me ready for entering on my work to any extent; as my dear little boys will no longer confine me to one place, but will soon be of an age to move about with me; or should their choice render other arrangements necessary, the Lord will open a way for them likewise. For an itinerating missionary on this side the desert, three languages are essentially important; Arabic, Turkish, and Persian: and this I feel, unless the Lord very especially helps me, will be _to me_ no ordinary labour; but, as I am surrounded by men who every day learn them for purposes of gain, I trust the Lord will not allow me to faint, or be discouraged till, for his own service I have attained them. The internal state of the city is daily becoming more and more critical: all the necessaries of life are risen to ten times their common price, and are even then with difficulty obtained. The abominations that are now committed in the face of day, makes the city appear ripe for the judgment of the cities of the plain; and the poor Christians principally suffer in the persons of their children in these abominable acts of violence; but to seek a remedy now is utterly useless, for all the power in the city is in the hands of the lawless mob, who are the perpetrators of all the wickedness. It makes one's heart ache to hear them weeping and telling of their sufferings. _August 29._--Last night some of the depredators broke into our house, and have taken away to the amount of about ten pounds from Kitto and myself, while we were all asleep upon the roof of the house, so there was nothing to hinder them from clearing the house; yet the Lord some how or other disturbed them, for though they took my clothes out of a box, they dropped them in their way to the window through which they entered, and a box containing my money in my room they never opened--in fact, it altogether appears they went away without accomplishing the purpose for which they came, and it so happened that from the constant expectation of the general plunder of the city, we had put away every thing of any particular value. Should we be plundered by the soldiers of Ali Pasha, we may possibly, if our lives be spared, obtain, as Mr. Goodell did, remuneration; but about this I do not feel anxious: the Lord will provide. From daylight this morning till near noon there was a pretty sharp contest between those within the city and those without, in which the latter got the advantage. My feeling is, that we are very fast approaching to a crisis, and in that crisis our eyes are unto the everlasting hills--to him who says, 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee,' but who will be with us always even unto the end of the world. Oh! what a relief would a little time of peace and free communication with our dear friends be. The latest letters from England are dated nine months ago; and from many, nay all my dear friends at Exeter, the latest is nearly eleven months; so that all our trials come together. For five months the dear little boys have not set their foot without the door of our house, and I cannot but feel it is a great mercy of the Lord, that they are so happy and contented. I have never heard, during all this time, one word of complaint from them. _Aug. 30._--The inhabitants are building up gates in all the principal streets, both against the swarms of thieves who plunder by night, and in anticipation of the entrance of the opposing party, when a general pillage seems now fully expected by all. It often seems to me, on looking around and seeing all without God, and trusting to their puny efforts to avert impending evils, what a blessed portion we have who know him, believe in him, and love him, and know and feel, that without his permission, not one hair of our heads shall fall. Those within the city have also again been out and attacked another tribe of Arabs that were on Ali Pasha's side, pillaged and set fire to their camp, and brought the plunder into the city, among which was a great quantity of silk, which these Arabs had taken from a caravan coming to Bagdad from Persia in the time of the plague. _September 2._--I was sent for to-day to see the Pasha, who has, from the effects of a carbuncle on his toe lost one of the joints, and they have so treated it, that he will, I think, now certainly lose another. He was particularly kind and civil, and without any comparison, the most gentlemanly person I have met with in the East. There is an unaffected simplicity of manners, and a benevolence of countenance, which makes one wonder how all the accounts of his actions, which we may, I think, say we know to be true, could possibly be so. He made me a present of three small cucumbers, at this time the greatest rarity; and this may convey some idea to what extent the privations of the poor have gone, when the Pasha can hardly command a cucumber, which, with legumenous fruits of a similar kind, constitute a great portion of the food of the poor in ordinary times. As I returned from the Pasha a man levelled a gun at me, not with any intention to fire I believe, but just to show that independent boldness which fears no one, but dares to do what it chooses. _September 6._--There is nothing new; but the uninterrupted stream of misery is still swelling with its bitter waters: depredation and scarcity increasing and advancing with pretty equal steps. There seems to be signs of money beginning to fail from the treasury of the Pasha, as his kanjaar (a dagger), richly studded with diamonds, was offered for sale the other day. The palace of the Pasha, or rather its ruins, are filled with Arnaouts, a mercenary band of soldiers, who employ their time in making and drinking arrack, and knocking down the walls of the palace, wherever they yield a hollow sound, in search of the hidden treasures of the Pasha. In these countries it is a universal custom to bury or build up in the walls of houses their treasures, from the insecurity in which they always live. Mr. Swoboda has received a letter from a friend of his in the Pasha's camp, stating that there was a large pile of letters and parcels for Europeans within the city, in the possession of the Pasha. This is trying to us, but still it brings the hope that we may yet soon receive intelligence of our friends. It seems as if the angel of destruction was resting on this city as on Babylon, to sweep it from the earth. They are actually pulling down the roofs of the bazaars to sell and burn the wood, destroying buildings for fuel, that a hundred times the worth of the wood will not replace, and filling up the roads with rubbish so as to render them scarcely passable. The state of anarchy which prevails must be witnessed to be understood. If it were not that the soul feels it is the Lord's province to bring order out of confusion and good out of evil, it would utterly despair in such a scene, where every element at work seems wickedness; but amidst all, our eyes are unto him. _September 7._--Weak in body and mind, I could sometimes almost impatiently wish for a change. Yet the Lord is very gracious, and suffers us to have quite enough for our health and strength; and as for money, a Roman Catholic merchant was with me yesterday, begging that if I wanted any more, I would take it from him, for they seem all to have that kind of confidence even in our national character, that they will generally without hesitation, let you have money. For myself, I know not if my mind preys on my body, or my body on my mind, or whether they mutually act and re-act one on the other; yet I feel on the whole thus much, that if it appeared the Lord's most gracious pleasure to direct my steps away from this place for a season, I should be thankful. Nevertheless, I desire to say from my heart, not my will, O Lord, but thine be done. In Arabic, I think I make daily progress, and I feel fully assured, should the Lord spare my life for this blessed work, that I shall one day be able to preach the unsearchable riches of Christ intelligibly, perhaps even fluently. Yet from the natural badness of my memory, considerable time will be requisite, unless the Lord vouchsafe to me his especial help to this end, for which I daily pray, for I want not opportunity but language to preach Christ. _Sept. 9._ _Friday._--Every thing continues still increasing in price, and in an increased ratio the sufferings of the poor: if they leave the city they are stripped and driven back; if they remain they are starved; and even the dates are just come to an end, upon which for near three weeks, both the people and the cattle have been feeding. The Pasha has this day taken the jewels of his wives to sell, from which and some other signs, I am led to think his course is nearly run, and that ere long he will follow the fate of his predecessor. Ali Pasha told the Suffian-Effendi, who went out to him to endeavour to accommodate matters, that he had come for one head only, but that after the way in which he had been treated, he would not be satisfied with less than _ten_; and if, at that time, which was nearly a month ago, he had determined to take ten, I fear a hundred would not now satisfy him. A poor Roman Catholic priest was with me to-day, telling me of his distress, while one of his opulent flock was sitting by him. He said the Jews would not allow their poor to beg from others; by which I thought he meant to give a pretty intelligible hint that his flock ought to be ashamed. But his rich hearer only said, "The Lord is merciful, and he will provide." On this side the desert, the professing Christians are not certainly priest-ridden as they are in most Roman Catholic countries, or even on the other side of the desert, in consequence of there being no powerful and wealthy communities like the monasteries in Mount Lebanon, to bring down the heavy arm of the Turks upon them; for without the Turks they can do little, and these petty governments joyfully interfere in their strifes to extort money from both parties, though in this respect, Bagdad has been better off than most Pashalics for nearly sixty years past, since the time of Suliman Pasha, whose slave the present Pasha was, but liberated on his death. Since him there have been Ali Pasha, Suliman Pasha the younger, Abdallah Pasha, and Seyd Pasha, all of whom have been murdered after a longer or shorter period. Daoud Pasha has now been fourteen years in possession of the power he obtained by the murder of his predecessor, and seems now not far from sharing the same fate. _Sept. 10._ _Saturday._--The evening before last the thieves broke into the house of one of the sons of the Pasha, and killed three of the servants: if they serve the Pasha so what have others to expect? Instead of being surprised that things are so bad, my surprise is that they are not worse, seeing the city is entirely at the mercy of those who are capable of every abomination and cruelty; and there is no other restraint upon them than what God puts into their hearts by the undefined fear of possible retribution. The most valuable articles known to belong to the Pasha, from whom they had been stolen, were sold openly in the streets, without the least notice being taken, and thus also they shoot individuals when they please, in the open day and in the public thoroughfares, and no one stops to see who it is or why it is, but every one hastens off as fast as he can lest he should share the same fate. And the passengers in the streets are not only exposed to be shot at by those prompted by deliberate enmity, but this armed rabble is continually drunk, and, without the least provocation, fire at men or women. I seem to think, if it did please the Lord to put an end to these scenes of sorrow and trial, my heart would be very thankful; yet perhaps in this I deceive myself, and all my gratitude would be as a morning cloud. However, this I know, the Lord will not suffer me to be tried above what he will enable me to bear, and on this assurance, in the darkest day, may the blessed Spirit enable my heart to repose. This is my daily comfort. _Sept. 12._ _Monday._--The poor are again permitted to leave the city, and it is reported, that when Ali Pasha heard that those had been robbed who came out before, he threw some of the supposed plunderers into the river, and cut off the heads of others. However this may be, 5 or 600 now daily go out and suffer no molestation. This is a great mercy, for within the city every article of food has disappeared except buffaloes' and camels' flesh, and this at about twenty times its usual price. Should this state of things continue, it seems to me from present appearances, that a general plunder will be the consequence. To-day they have pillaged the houses of some Jews. Yesterday they broke open the house of Major Taylor's chaoush. They are very slow to interfere with those under English protection; but when their natural thievish propensities are stimulated by want and opportunity, from what may they be expected to withhold themselves? Things within the city are now come to that pass, that I heard from the Meidan to-day (the place where the principal Turks reside) that they have determined to wait five days more, and if Ajeel, the Sheikh of the Montefeik Arabs, or some other efficient aid, does not arrive, they will cut off the heads of Daoud Pasha and Saleh Beg, who is his Kaimacam, or Lieutenant Governor, and send them to Ali Pasha, for the city can bear no more. When I consider all the misery in the city, and the privations not only among the poor, but the rich, and consider how we have been provided for, it does seem to me most marvellous, strangers as we were, and without a friend. Before the plague, in our ignorance of the probable time of its continuance, and with the certain knowledge that in the midst of the greatest want, there was not a soul that could help us, we took in enough of wheat, rice, soap, and candles, to last till within a very few weeks. When dear Mr. Pfander left us, we made him some sausages, called in this country _pastourma_: he, however, took but a few, and the rest remained with us, and served us both during the plague, and now in the famine to vary our food a little, though somewhat dry and as hard as wood, and still of them one or two remains. The dear boys also had some pigeons: these also served us for many days. We then had two goats for my poor dear little baby, and to give us milk; but provisions became so dear that we were obliged to kill one; this we divided among the poor: the second at last we also killed, and potted in its fat. This by little and little we are consuming. We have also got four or five hens, which lay two or three eggs a-day. Thus the Lord has provided for us till now; and if we have not had abundance, we have never suffered from want. And now, when wheat and rice is not to be bought, and if possessed in quantities would expose the possessors to inevitable pillage, the Lord has so graciously supplied us, that we avoid both want and the danger of possessing provisions in the house, for before the kind Taylors left this, they gave me permission to take from the Residency whatever I might want, and this I now take by little and little as I need, and the house of the Resident is so far respected in public opinion, that openly disorganized as things are, I do not think they will commit any violence upon it. I am sure there are many who, in reading this, will bless God for his goodness to us, so utterly unworthy as we are; but, oh! if they could be witnesses of the misery that others suffer, and from which his mercies have freed us, they would indeed praise him. For, even when provisions were to be had, had we been obliged to purchase at the price things then were and are now, we must inevitably have run in debt; but as it is we have enough of money for more than a month to come. Therefore, bereaved and incapable as I yet feel of all enjoyment, I desire to bless the Lord for all his great goodness and care over us, of the least of whose mercies I feel infinitely unworthy. And though my faith does not enable me fully now to feel, in unison with my _soul's judgment_, on my heavenly Father's dealings toward me, when time has removed the bitter cup farther distant, it may not possess all its present intensity of bitterness, to which also so many circumstances have tended to add additional pungency--not a friend near, not a communication from any of those far away. I have ever felt one abiding source of comfort, in that I knew I enjoyed the prayers of many whose prayers I truly value, and through these I believe I shall yet stand complete in all the will of God, to remove or to remain, to live or to die. The Lord will quickly come, and then his power and great glory will be manifested to the joy of his chosen and the confusion of his enemies. _Sept. 14._ _Wednesday._--While I feel more convinced every day that a missionary in these countries, who really would cast himself upon his Lord, and share in its revolutions and national judgments, has more to prepare his mind for them previously to his entering upon it than he can well conceive: yet on the other hand, I feel more confirmed in the opinion, that amidst this disjointed disorganized state of society, there are more doors of irregular missionary service open than he can possibly occupy. For though he can perhaps find few opportunities of publicly preaching Christ; yet in conversation, and the preparation and circulation of tracts, I think there are immense opportunities afforded. Yet for conversation much time will be required in acquiring a facility in the language by most, till the Lord is pleased to pour down from on high, his gifts of the Spirit--and as to tracts, at present we have none. The Turkish Armenian tracts, printed at Malta, are not clearly understood here; neither do I think the Arabic or Turkish spoken on the other side of the desert would be so either, if I may judge from the translations into Turkish and Arabic. In fact, it would appear desirable if the object of a missionary be to labour in the east, that he should study on this side the desert if possible; though the difficulties of a family are great here amidst the constant succeeding commotion of this disturbed country. There is no retiring place within at least some hundred miles, at all times by a dangerous journey, but in such times as these almost impassable. And the elements of disorder do not arise only from the state of the Ottoman empire, but from the vicinity of Persia, daily encroaching on this side, as I have mentioned before, both from religious and political motives, and this spirit is encouraged by the constant weakening of the pashalic. About fifty or sixty years ago, commenced the government of Suliman Pasha the elder, who continued twenty-three years in his situation and died in his bed. This Pasha raised Bagdad from a place of little mercantile consideration to be one of the most important places of traffic in the east, and he allured merchants from all parts by the equity and firmness of his government. From that to the present time, this pre-eminence has been enjoyed by Bagdad, and it has been the central place of trade between the east and the west; and for these purposes, if improved, a more desirable situation could not be imagined under a firm and wise administration. This Suliman Pasha strengthened the Georgian interest in this pashalic prodigiously by the purchasing of an immense number of Georgian slaves whom he manumitted at his death. One of these, Ali Pasha, who married his daughter, succeeded him, and was murdered at prayers after about five years reign. Suliman Pasha who succeeded him, also married a daughter of the former Suliman, he governed about three years, and was then put to death. He was succeeded by Abdallah Pasha, who was the treasurer of Ali Pasha; he continued about three years, and was put to death. To him succeeded Seyd Pasha, son of Suliman Pasha the elder, who, at the end of about three years, was also put to death. To these last who had thus succeeded and murdered one another, succeeded Daoud, the present Pasha, who to avoid a like fate with his predecessors, cut off every man about him who could possibly afford him any umbrage; but while on the one hand he secured himself, on the other he so weakened the Georgian interest, that when his affairs became involved in difficulty, there was none to help but creatures who had ministered to his avarice which he had gratified at the expence of every loyal feeling (if such an expression can be used by a Turk.) But still, though previous to the plague, the Georgians had been thus diminishing in numbers, and more so in intellectual and moral character, still they were a strong body; but the plague swept them nearly all away. All this taking place at this peculiar juncture when there is no recruiting their strength from Georgia, which is now in the hands of the Russians, and when the heart of the Sultan is peculiarly set against the whole mameluke rule seems to indicate the period of their downfall to be near at hand. Should Ali Pasha now succeed in getting possession of the city, the Georgian government of these renegade slaves will be ended as that of their brethren in apostacy was in Egypt. But, however things may terminate, there are no elements of recovery, fall they must; for the curse of God is upon them from the hands of one tyrant after another, till some powerful nominal Christian government will accept the government of them, for which they are daily ripening, which they are daily expecting, and which will finally happen, unless they fully adopt a European policy and plan, and this by another road, will lead to the same end, the overthrow of Mohammedanism and the establishment of infidelity. I have just thus cursorily made these remarks, that no missionary may deceive himself by expecting any long period of peace and quietness. If it comes, he may bless God; but if it be withheld, he must calculate upon it. And I think those who are lightly armed for their work--who can run, and fly, and hide, and at all events have only their own lives to care about, will be happiest amidst all their privations and trials between Bagdad and China. But for those who have known the endearment of domestic life, or who are by nature peculiarly susceptible of its happiness it may truly be said, this is a living martyrdom. It is: but it is _for Christ_, who will soon come and wipe away all tears from our eyes. I desire daily to feel it is a world in which my gracious Lord was an outcast, and where it would be to my loss if I made me a home. May the Lord make me willing to serve him on these or any other terms he may manifest at his pleasure. This morning some persons who were employed for the purpose, set at liberty two of the principal Georgians who were imprisoned in the camp of Ali Pasha. The Armenian servant to whom I lent an Armenian Testament, with the translation into the modern Constantinople dialect, came to me to say how much better he understood it than he did before in the old language, and his countenance seemed quite to brighten up at the sense of his attainment. Among the Armenians I think there is an open door, especially among the young, their ears are open and thirsting for information on every subject. The father of the Armenian schoolmaster was to-day speaking with me on the difficulty of that passage, "Jacob have I loved, but Esau have I hated." He said he felt just in that state as though God had said to him, I will not receive you. I longed to preach to him fully so far as I am able, Him who saith, Whosoever cometh to me I will in no wise cast out; but I have many difficulties: he is very deaf, and Armenian and Turkish, not Arabic, are the languages he understands. The languages greatly try me, for though I feel by the Lord's mercy making daily progress, yet still I feel four or five years must pass before I am fully prepared even in this department of my labour, and happy shall I be if in that time it be accomplished. _Sept. 15._ _Thursday._--After a night of anxious suspense, the day has dawned in comparative peace; the cry that Ali Pasha's troops were entering the city, began soon after we had retired to rest, and continued till near morning. Now we hear that Daoud Pasha had fled from the house of Saleh Beg during the night and endeavoured to enter the citadel, but the soldiers would not admit him. He is now in the hands of the people of the Meidan. The Chaoush Kiahya of Ali Pasha has entered the city, and every one is in an awful state of suspense as to the future fate of the inhabitants, at least of the higher classes. I have just set up the English flag that they may know the inhabitant of the house is a stranger here, who has nothing to do with the strife of the city. If, after this, the Lord allows them to enter our habitation, may his holy and blessed will be done. I think the Lord has allowed my mind to be in perfect peace as to the result. The poor wives of the Pasha are kissing the hands of passers by, begging that they will give them an asylum. Poor sufferers! all are afraid to interfere so as to afford them that which they want. At present, words and appearances are peaceable. May the Lord of his mercy grant that they may continue so. To-day we killed two fowls to have a little fresh meat. Thus the Lord has kept us through all this time of trial, and we have enough remaining for five or six days, blessed be his holy name. This day has ended in perfect peace, not a disturbance or an individual molested. The principal thieves, who, at the head of various gangs, were robbing the city in every direction, are now doing all they can to escape, for they are perfectly known. Thus the gracious hand of the Lord has removed in one day the siege and famine, and fear and terror, from the lawless within, and the undefined terrors from those who are without, so that all seems joy and gladness to the poor inhabitants. In the conclusion of this affair Ali Pasha has conducted himself amidst numberless provocations with a moderation and prudence that does him the highest honour; bless the Lord for all his mercies. This will be the first night for months that we shall retire to rest without the hateful sounds of civil strife saluting our ears, or disturbing our rest. _Sept. 16._ _Friday._--Another peaceful day. Ali Pasha has collected all the principal Georgians together in his camp. When the late Pasha went out to his camp, he rose from his seat and embraced him, and told him not to fear; that the Sultan had ordered his life to be spared; to Saleh Beg also assurances of safety were given, and in fact up to this time not one individual has been put to death. It remains yet to be seen whether this be a cloak or real moderation. However, from the great body of the citizens all fear is removed, and both animals and inhabitants alike rejoice in returning abundance. The wheat that was sold on Wednesday, for 250 piasters, was sold on Thursday for 40, and other things in proportion, besides which, vegetables have re-appeared, which, for five months, were not to be procured, at any price. I sent out to-day the chaoush of Major Taylor to Ali Pasha, to enquire if there were any letters or packets for the Residency or for me; but I found there were none to my great disappointment. However, Ali Pasha was very civil; enquired after the Resident, hoped there would be perpetual and increasing affection between them, &c. &c. We have now to wait to see how these fair beginnings will end. I have just seen the Hakeem Bashee or chief Physician of Ali Pasha, who is an Italian, and to my great joy found he had locked up in his box for me many letters and newspapers, which he from time to time collected in the camp; whenever any messenger was brought in, and his packets examined, all that were for Europeans he took out, and put in his box; to-morrow he promises to let me have those that were addressed to me. He tells me that Ali Pasha has two interpreters, natives of Cyprus, who speak Turkish, Italian, and Romaic. It appears that a great change is contemplated in the government of this Pashalic. One of the two gentlemen whom Major Taylor sent to examine the Euphrates from Beles to Anah, has arrived at Aleppo on his way to Beles. From Anah to Bussorah there is no insurmountable impediment in the way of steam navigation. The part that now remains to be examined is from Beer to Anah. _Sept. 18._ _Lord's day._--To-day I have received a long missing letter from the dear Taylors, in which Major Taylor most kindly and generously offers, should any thing happen to me, to consider my dear boys as his own, till he has an opportunity of sending them safely to the hands of their friends in England. Thus the Lord provides, thus he orders for us. This kind offer of Major T. was quite unsolicited, for, though when I felt attacked by the plague, I had written a letter making this request, yet, on my recovery, I destroyed it. I also received a letter from Dr. Morrison, in China, in which he expresses his conviction of the importance of missionaries learning to earn their subsistence by some occupation, however humble, rather than be dependant as they now are, on societies. I confess my mind so far entirely agrees with him, that, if I had to prepare for a missionary course, I would not go to a college or an institution, but learn medicine, or go to a blacksmith's, watchmaker's, or carpenter's shop, and there pursue my preparatory studies. I do not mean to say, that this should be to the exclusion of preparatory studies in language, and the deepest preparatory Scripture studies, but, in conjunction with them, for I am satisfied it is a much greater blessing to missionaries to lead those down who either by birth or other circumstances may have been a little removed from the lower orders of society than to raise those of humble birth to the rank of gentlemen in the world, who neither by education, habits, nor intercourse are enabled happily or profitably to fill such a station--but it is that yoke of mere human ordination, the necessity of a _title from man to preach_ and _administer_ as it is called the sacraments, of which not so much as a hint is contained in the New Testament, it is that awful distinction between laity and clergy which are the things that tie up all hands, and put bodies of men into situations of trial, who, but for this delusion, would be without any comparative difficulties. Without these we should learn to judge of men's fitness for their work, not by their being ordained or unordained by this or that denomination of men, but according to the rule of the apostles, by their doctrine and walking as they had them for "ensamples;" if they came otherwise, though apostles or angels, let them, says the apostle, be accursed. Oh, if this principle of the apostles were set up in proving all things and holding fast that which is good, we should not hear so good a man, and one so much to be loved, as Mr. Bickersteth, misleading his readers by telling them to adhere to an unsound _authorised_[39] teacher, rather than go to a sound and unauthorised one; to one who is authorised by the head of the church, though not by the head of the state. So said not Paul, but, "if I or an angel come preaching any other doctrine, let him be accursed." In all the Apostle Paul's trials with the false teachers, and in all the directions given respecting them to the various churches, he never once alludes to their appointment by the apostles or any other human being, or bodies of human beings, as even a collateral ground of consideration and preference, but always to the truth, the truth, the truth; if they preach that, well; if they do not, it matters not who they are, nor whence they came, from heaven or earth, they are to be rejected. God grant the day may quickly come when the church of God may care as little about the opinions of bishops and presbyteries or any other association of men, _apart from their piety and truth_, as the Lord and his Apostles cared about the opinions of the Sanhedrim. So far as their estate or authority is temporal, let us obey them, but let us keep our souls free. [39] By whom authorised, of God or of man? It is said that all these provinces, from Bussorah to Bagdad, Sulemania, Mosul, Diarbekr, Merdin, Orfa, and Aleppo, are to be under the government of Ali Pasha; at all events there seems to be such a change contemplated, that at present I do not see it right to remove, especially as the Lord has provided an asylum in the event of any thing happening to me, in the bosom of Mr. Taylor's family, for my dear boys. Under Daoud Pasha the people were oppressed by monopolies in every article of consumption. Ali Pasha seems determined to put an end to the system. The cryer yesterday proclaimed that meat was to be sold for no more than two piasters an oke,[40] and that if any man took more he should be hanged on the spot to his own crooks. One of the butchers, near the Meidan, who was detected yesterday, selling meat for three piasters, was instantly hanged. After which, the butchers went to the officer who superintends their affairs, and offered him considerable sums of money as a bribe, but he would pay no attention to them. [40] About five-pence a pound. _Sept. 21._ _Wednesday._--Nothing can exceed the attention and respect that is paid to Daoud by Ali Pasha; for his life, he said, he had nothing to fear; the Sultan had pardoned him, and a firman had come to that effect, but that the Sultan wished him to go to Constantinople on the morrow or the day after. Therefore he leaves this, and his wives go with him, and his eldest son, Hassan Beg, who has had all his property made him a present of by Ali Pasha, and every thing they choose to select for the convenience of the journey, is to be provided for them. There is something in this treatment so utterly unlike any thing that has been ever witnessed before, that people know not what to make of it; the Turks cannot be brought to believe but that there must be some treachery under it; for my own part, I do believe that so far as Ali Pasha is concerned, this is not true. The Turks here are also much startled at seeing their long robes and turbans thrown away for an European military uniform, with epaulets and other decorations; and they say that Ali Pasha himself has quite adopted the European dress, so what changes we may expect I know not, but certainly great ones are contemplated; any change approximating to this has not been introduced from the days of the Patriarchs till now. Drinking is no longer a covert offence that they practice in secret; but wine and spirits are brought in their trays as regular articles of consumption. The fact is, that Mohammedanism and Popery have received, and are receiving, such hard knocks that their power will certainly sink, even though the name may remain, and I do expect that this state of powerlessness in these two bodies will open ways for God's elect among them to come out. I had yesterday a long and most interesting conversation with a very respectable Armenian Roman Catholic merchant of this place, most timidly fearful of having his faith touched; yet the Lord opened the way to the introduction of the conversation on some very interesting topics--on the duty of reading God's word for ourselves, and on the worship of the Virgin, on all of which, little by little, he conversed freely.--He seemed well acquainted with the Scriptures I quoted, but had never thought about the questions, and this is the great preparatory work in this country, to get men to think on the things of the soul's everlasting interests, and to feel that these things have to do with the various relations of life. In all countries custom has much power; but in the East it is despotic. I have been much struck in reading some letters in the Record, on the Church and Dissent, which has made me feel the necessity and value of that word of our blessed Lord.--"If thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light." Surely if the Scripture be sufficient to decide any question, it is sufficient to decide the question of what a child of God ought to do when a man, calling himself a minister of Christ, propagates errors among any section of Christ's church. Does not Paul say, Who is Paul or Apollos, but ministers by whom ye believe? What, then, is the Church of England, or Scotland, or the Dissenters, but various ministries, by which we believe? And the same apostle--the exalter of the Lord of life, and the abaser of every high thought of man, says, "If I or an angel from heaven preach any other gospel than that you have received, let him be accursed." Does Paul set up the principle that men are to be received not according to the truth or error of their doctrine, but according to the sect to which they belong, or the mode or circumstance of ordination? Never: but the very reverse. With the apostle it is always the truth--the truth--the truth; let those judge who wish to see. Now, I will just state a strong case, but a fact. I was one day travelling in the mail, and a certain person in one corner began a most obscene conversation, with a gentleman who came to see him at the door of the mail, while it was changing horses. Opposite him, in the other corner, was his own son. When the mail arrived at the place to which we were going, on getting out, I asked the people at the coach office, who that person was. I had previously considered him as an officer in the army, but, to my amazement, was told he was the Rev. ----. This individual has since been made a dignitary of the Church of England, and has had other preferment bestowed upon him; and this is but part of what might be said. You will say this is an extreme case. But it is a matter of fact. Am I to remain under the ministry of such a teacher? It not only shocks the affections of a child of God, but the very common sense of the world, and, if our eyes were single, it would, in proportion strike us till we should come down to the apostle's rule, about receiving teachers--those who preach the truth, and walk as ye have us for an ensample. As to example on which so much stress is laid, what example does a man give to his children or neighbourhood, when he continues to sit under the ministry of one whom he believes to be not a preacher but a perverter of the truth? Why, that the Church of England and its forms, even in the midst of our unfaithful ministry, is dearer to him than Christ's Church and his truth, under less agreeable external circumstances. On the other hand, what example does he give if he quit this, which may be granted on all hands to be an unsound ministry, for a sound one? Why, that he loves Christ's Church and truth so much better than any circumstances, that though it may cost him pain and sorrow he leaves the one for the other. There seems an idea prevalent, and kept up in all these letters, which is in fact most untrue--that a man, by leaving the church[41] becomes a dissenter in principle. Whereas I think many who have merely followed the line which the apostle recommends, of turning away from false teachers, are not at all thereby rendered in love with dissent as one system set up against another system. It appears to me, that a sectarian Church of England-man, and a sectarian Dissenter, whose only desire is to see augmented the respective members of those who follow them, are equally removed from the mind of Christ. The thing devoutly to be prayed for, for them all is, that when they respectively approach the nearest to the meaning of the divine word and the mind of Christ, they might be respectively strengthened and made willing in those things to borrow from each other, and all sides to remember that that love which covereth many faults is more valuable a thousand times than that sectarian zeal that magnifies every weakness and infirmity into a mortal sin, and which delights in evil surmisings and evil speakings. [41] I use this term, though in its sense of national churches, I think it absolutely unscriptural. The term which passes current with so many who are attached to the Church of England exclusively of "our apostolic church," it may not be amiss for a moment to dwell on. Where then does this apostolic similarity dwell, and in what does it consist? Is it in the mode of appointment of Bishops? _Formerly_ it was the work of the church, with which the state had nothing to do. _Now_, it may be the work of an infidel ministry, for infidel purposes. Is it the state and pomp of the episcopacy, the titles--"Your Grace," "Your Lordship," your palaces, your carriages, and fame, and hosts of idle livery servants? Is it in the mode of appointment to the cure of souls? _Then_ it was in the choice of the church; or, if of new churches, the appointment of those who had gathered them. _Now_, this cure is publicly sold like cattle in the market to the highest bidder, and a large proportion of the remainder may be in the hands of an infidel Lord Chancellor, to give as he pleases. Is it the Liturgy? However valuable it may be, no one will pretend to say the apostles used one. And even in the places of public worship, their grandeur, or their neatness, or their convenience are equally unlike the places of meeting of the apostles, who were happy to assemble in an upper loft. Instead, therefore, of saying the Church of England is _Apostolic_, it is infinitely more true to say she is _Romish_, in all those things on the distinction of which she prides herself and becomes distinguished. And the broad line of distinction between her and the apostate mother of harlots, commences when she comes to those points, whereon all the churches of Christ agree--the doctrines she professes, and which are to a very great extent scriptural and pure; and may the Lord water her truth while he sweeps away her dross and tin. Believing, as I do, her connection with the state to be an unmitigated evil as it relates to her spiritual power, I cannot but rejoice that this false ground of confidence and support which has made toryism stand too often in the place of truth and piety, as a recommendation to her highest places of trust, is crumbling underneath her, only her bonds will be burnt in the fire. May she have the holy wisdom to strengthen what remains, that when the times of her dominion shall pass by, the time of her spiritual splendour may return. In short, though there be much that is intolerable in the Church of England, much may be modified, and may yet, possibly, remain; but this is clear, that that swelling of the bosom which distinguishes a true son of the Church of England, considered as a sectarian, when he enunciates the term of "Our Apostolic Church," if it refers to discipline as well as doctrine, and external circumstances as well as internal principles, is the merest delusion that ever was published, and the most unsubstantial vision that ever formed the basis of pride, and one that will now remain unmasked no longer. May the Lord grant her grace in her day of trial, to run into her real ark of strength--the truth of God. What is contrary to God's will in her, may he make her ready, nay, anxious to throw off, as an incubus that oppresses her. What is not contrary, yet not essential, may she hold with that degree of tenacity only which such things deserve, and remain alone valiant for the truth on the earth. Many will say this is written by the hand of an enemy. But I protest before Him whom I love and serve, however unworthily, that I love the Church of Christ in the midst of her, fervently desiring their spiritual pre-eminence, and praying for her prosperity. The detestable association between the Dissenters, considered as a body, and the calumniators and degraders of the Lord of life, for the beggarly purposes of this world's power, sufficiently prove to my mind, that a spirit, which is not of God's children, rests among them too extensively somewhere, as I have before mentioned; and even the true children among them, who have been drawn into such an ungodly coalition, show great spiritual weakness. In the word of God I see Christ exalted and his truth; and not churches, apostles, or prophets; all things are to be proved, and that which is good to be kept. Apostles are to be tried, and if found _liars_, to be rejected. Think you, when the church of Ephesus, in the Apocalypse is commended by our Lord, for trying those who said they were apostles and were not, and when she had found them liars, that her members for example, still sat under their ministry. What a strange perversity of judgment prejudice casts over the mind. I cannot imagine any holier more acceptable service to our dear and blessed Lord and master, than that of endeavouring to unite in true and holy union, all the real members of his now (as to external circumstances) painfully divided body, for the Lord enables me to feel and to know, that amidst all the divisions and hard names that prevail among the members, there does really exist a body bound together for eternity, in all the essentials of Divine truth. _Sept. 24._--Nothing of any striking moment relative to our situation has occurred since the last date: all is quiet. Yet circumstances have taken place of the deepest interest, which makes my soul rejoice in God. In a packet of letters, I received the other day from India and Bussorah, was one from a person whom I met here, a gay thoughtless officer in the army, who seems now really seeking for light and life. Of this I am sure, that with that soul, it never can be again as in times past; the name of Christ will either be a savour of life unto life, or of death unto death. Oh! how strange a thing here does a consciousness of divine life in the soul appear, and how affecting is it to receive that news fresh from the heart of one who has seen, in spiritual things, men as trees walking. May the Lord complete what he has begun, and make his recovered child a burning and a shining light in that land of darkness, where he sojourns. This intelligence comes too at a very acceptable time, for I have had a slight attack of fever for these last ten days, which, though it is not worth mentioning, has, like all fevers, left me weak, and with a tendency to depression. Nor is this all the good the Lord has done me. The Roman Catholic merchant whom I mentioned before, has been again with me. He told me, that when I came from England I brought a letter for him, which is true, from a very dear friend, in which he was requested to come every day to see me, and talk with me, for I was neither a Roman Catholic, a Greek, an Armenian, nor belonging to any other denomination, but a Christian. He, however, never came. Shortly after my arrival I met him at the house of another merchant, and as I could not talk with him, my dear brother Pfander did; but nothing could exceed the timid reserve and coldness with which he answered all questions respecting religion. But yesterday he told me, "Now I do not fear to converse with you." Surely here is something gained. May the Lord grant me grace to pour in the sincere milk of the word. At present I see nothing more than a willingness to hear and consider; but this is almost like finding a spring in the desert, when you are parched with thirst. I have also received from Mr. Brandram, the Secretary of the Bible Society, a kind and generous letter from that noble institution, which enables me to enter on their work with all my heart, leaving the question of money free, and only seeking the soul's profit of those on whom their benefits are bestowed: if I obtain money, well--if not, I am only to seek a fair guarantee that the people will read and take care of the books I have without money full liberty to give. These books are arrived at Bussorah, so that when they reach me, what with those I already have, and those coming from Constantinople or Smyrna, I shall have quite a depository. All these circumstances at present make me determine to stay here, the Lord enabling me, though we again hear that the Persians are at Sulemania. I was lately informed that Capt. Chesney, with a gentleman from Bombay, and his wife, had endeavoured to pass on to Shiraz from Bushire; but that they were not allowed to enter that place. They next tried by Shuster, but from hence likewise they were obliged to turn back. They appear to have made a third trial with more success; but an Armenian, who was with me the other day, said he saw them at Ispahan stripped of every thing they had, and obliged to borrow money for their journey, which, as I have before observed, the English always obtain without the least difficulty. _October 9._ _Lord's Day._--It is just one fortnight since the Lord has laid me on the bed of sickness and suffering; for nearly a fortnight previous an attack of typhus fever had been making its steady advances. I had lost all appetite, strength, and ability to sleep, accompanied by that strange overwhelming depression of mind that inclines one to weep one knows not why. But this day fortnight I was completely laid by, and this is the first day I have had my clothes on since. _Oct. 11._--The Lord still allows me to feel convalescent, and I cannot but think of his mercies to me in my solitary and lonely situation, with all these tendencies to depression, which are concomitants of the disease. He sent me from time to time such cheering intelligence, as enabled me to hope his cause would prosper, and that all these turmoils were only the more speedily preparing the way for it. I certainly now close this journal with more of hope than I have been led to entertain for many months, yet not without some fears. The few Georgians that remained from the plague have been nearly all put to death, so that the Georgian government of Bagdad is, as I anticipated, now extinguished. The elements of disorder and weakness are so interwoven in this wretched government, that it will require a measure of energy and wisdom not often found united, to establish a better order of things; but I desire to leave all in the Lord's hands. I shall here then conclude my journal for the present, and most humbly and heartily pray, that all the trials, public and private, recorded in it, may redound to the glory of him who is the Lord of lords, and King of kings; and that my soul may not lose its portion of profit. * * * I had thought of finishing my journal for the present, but as it has been delayed going for want of an opportunity, I add the following. _Oct. 14._--All in the city is quiet yet. There is no apparent confidence: men seem waiting to see how things will turn out. Every thing is very dear, as it must necessarily be for some time. The greatest part of the inhabitants are dead, and many of the survivors have become rich, either by the death of relations or by robbery, and no one will do any thing without an exorbitant remuneration. I have just had a quantity of rice cleaned, for doing which, previously to the plague I gave a piastre and a half, and now I have given six piastres. We have an Armenian bishop coming here in the room of the priests who are dead. I know not what his plan of operation will be; but the Lord is on our side. I had a visit yesterday from the Abbé Troche, who has the superintendence of the Catholic mission here; he was very pleasant; but nothing particular passed, as many others were present. My conversations with the Roman Catholic merchant I have before mentioned, are still very open and free. Oh! may the Lord water and bless them. _Oct. 17._--Several of the elder boys, who had fled from the plague with their parents, have been with me since their return. My heart feels deeply interested about them; yet I see not plainly my way. I certainly never felt teaching in a school to be my proper work, and now much less than ever; yet they need instruction and desire it, and I think they are attached to me. May the Lord give me a wise and understanding heart, that I may rightly see the service he requires of me. I much wish for the counsel of my dear brethren at Aleppo; and perhaps the Lord may soon send some of them to me. _Oct. 18._--I have heard to-day we are to have no other Roman Catholic bishop in the room of him who is dead; nor any French Consul, but only an agent; this may take off many restraints; for the late bishop had given out we were worse than either the Mohammedans or Jews, and this had made a great impression on his flock; for he was a very liberal man, and therefore influential among them. However, I very much question if things will now be kept under the same restraint; so that should the Lord lead me to open the school again, I should not be surprised if many Roman Catholics came; for they all acknowledge that our boys learned more in three months than theirs in two years. The new Pasha is likewise exceedingly desirous of cultivating the closest friendship with our Resident, who has most kindly offered me any aid he can possibly lend me; and besides all this, the letters I have this day received from England and Ireland, shew me that my very dear friends have been making provision for my school; so that altogether, it seems to me the Lord's will I should try again; and in due time, when I am fit for other service, he may raise up help that will take this out of my hands. I desire to be ready to do any work, however humble and contrary to my nature, that I think the Lord appoints for me. I hear also, that at Aleppo, the French intend only having an Agent instead of a Consul; whereas, our government has just sent a Consul out to Damascus with an English merchant, and one to Aleppo, and last year we had a Consul established at Trebizond. I think Ali Pasha will do all in his power to promote the steam navigation of these rivers; and he is evidently a man of a very different character from the Georgians who preceded him. They cherished most of all the pride and pomp of Turkish power, with all its inveterate prejudices, ignorance, and narrowness of mind, so that if you had any business of the least difficulty, you could never get them to attend five minutes to it. But not so Ali Pasha: he apprehends with facility; and you at least have the satisfaction of knowing you are understood. He has been at Trieste, and in Hungary, and seems acquainted, to a limited extent, with several of the public journals of Europe. He dresses nearly as an European, and his brother-in-law quite so, with the exception of the hat; which is as yet very trying to the genuine Asiatics, who look on their own dress as that which it would be a sin to change. The Pasha also seems perfectly indifferent to hoarding money. Things in the city are still very dear, arising from the harvest of last year not having been reaped, and various other causes. We have to pay three times the usual price for most things; but after such tremendous visitations as we have suffered, we cannot expect that things can return to their usual course in a day. _Oct. 22._--I have had with me to-day a gentleman who was formerly attached to Mr. Morier's mission in Persia. He fled from the plague at Tabreez, and arrived at Kermanshah four days after dear brother Pfander left it, who, by his conversations in the caravan, had left so distinct an impression, that he thought Mohammed a liar, that when he reached Kermanshah, he found his situation very difficult, nay dangerous, and he was obliged hastily to quit it. He went to Hamadan, and remained there three days in the house of a priest, from whence he proceeded to Ispahan. All the villages between Hamadan and Ispahan are Armenian. The journey takes about ten days. When he arrived at Ispahan, Abbas Meerza being at Yezd, he went there, was treated with great honour and respect, and a firman given him to go where he liked: he returned to Ispahan, and from thence went to Tabreez, which place he reached before the plague broke out the second time. This account makes me long to hear from his own pen the course of the Lord's dealings with him. The same gentleman told me that the plague in Tabreez was much worse the second than the first time. Kermanshah is absolutely destroyed, and the governor, a grandson of the king, is reported to have collected from the property of the dead five lacs of piasters. In Kourdistan, also, they say it has been dreadful. In Saggas, Banah, and Sulemania, he says the desolation is shocking. How wonderful God's visitations on these nations are; it makes the soul that the Lord has appointed to be in the midst of them often say, Lord, let thy kingdom come; yea, speedily, that thy people may know peace and safety. I have sent to see the number of the poor little boys of my school that remain, and I find that they amount to 25 out of 80, and that I may expect near 30, should I get a master for them. I shall, therefore, endeavour to accomplish this, the Lord enabling me, and when I feel strong enough to begin again. I am very anxious about the dear N----'s at Tabreez, from whom I have not received a line. Abbas Meerza ordered large pits to be dug for those who died of the plague, and when they were full to have them covered in. The Ambassador, and the English, Russian, and other public functionaries, had fled, and from a packet that came from Capt. Campbell, who has now the charge of the mission since the death of Sir John Macdonald, we know that he was safe up to a late date. _Oct. 26._--I was much struck with an account which Mr. Swoboda, an Austrian merchant, gave me to-day, of a conversation he had with the brother-in-law of Ali Pasha. He said that now, in Stamboul, the Christians went to the mosque, and the Mohammedans to the Church; there was no difference. How strikingly this shows the rapid progress of that infidel spirit in these countries, which is spreading in Europe; surely these then are such signs as should keep us on the watch for our Lord. Accounts have just come that the struggle has commenced at Damascus, that supreme seat of bigotry, between the new and the old regime, and it remains to be seen how it will terminate. I already hear of one or two Roman Catholic boys, who will now come to the school, who before, during the life of the bishop, were afraid. My health I also feel daily establishing; and that I shall soon be able to enter on real labour again, with the Lord's blessing, I sincerely trust. _Oct. 27._--The affairs of the city appear daily more and more settling again; provisions are coming in in abundance, and the price gradually lowering. The roads also are becoming more open and safe: for all these signs of tranquility we bless the Lord and take courage, and trust we may yet serve him in this land of our pilgrimage. Also across the desert we hear the road is tranquil. _Oct. 28._--To-day the Jew called whom I mentioned in my journal of last year, as having come to Mr. Pfander: he is a Jewish Rabbi, who disbelieving Judaism, and possibly preferring Christianity, seems to be in both without heart or principle. He brought with him a Polish Jew, who is the tailor of Ali Pasha. He saw Mr. Wolff at Jerusalem, and speaks of him with high admiration. The Rabbi told me he was reading with him the German New Testament. May the Lord send his holy fire on the altar of their hearts, that they may really, heartily, and zealously enter into his truth. If there is any gift my soul longs for, it is to be able to speak to every one in his own tongue wherein he was born, the wonderful works of God; for want of this, in countries like this, where you are surrounded by many different languages, the heart gets overwhelmed with the difficulties that seem to spread on every side; as, for instance, with these Jews, they know little Arabic, and I do not know German, and thus we stand incapable of any such conversation as is likely to search the heart. _Nov. 1._--I have been reading with considerable attention the remarks, or rather reflections, of Jonathan Edwards, on the Life of Brainerd, wherein he endeavours to recommend to the Church of God, the _disinterested_ and _unmercenary_ love of God, by which he means the love of him for his abstract perfections apart from the consideration of any personal interest or happiness arising out of his especial love to his chosen. This is all very fine and very philosophical, but in my humble apprehension, most unscriptural. Does God any where in Scripture, when appealing to his chosen, or expostulating with them, argue on the ground of his abstract perfections, or of his especial love and distinguishing grace towards them? Throughout the Old Testament this is the controversy, not that they slighted his abstract perfections, but disregarded his especial favour. All the invitations to return, appeal to what Edwards would call the selfish and mercenary feelings. What! had not Moses respect unto the recompense of reward; and in all the 11th of the Hebrews, where is this abstraction held up? When our dear and blessed Lord exhorts to faithfulness, watchfulness, devotion, does he represent an abstraction as a motive, or without our own everlasting participation with him with whom there is fulness of joy for evermore. Paul thought it not mercenary to think on his crown, or to encourage his converts by the consideration, that present sorrow for the Lord, works for them a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory. Again, eye hath not seen nor ear heard the things which God hath prepared for them that love him. Our blessed Lord makes promises to whoever leaves father or mother for his sake,[42] and John encourages his disciples, by telling them that they were made sons of God, and that they were to be made like their Lord; he saw nothing debasing in this contemplation, but instantly adds, "he that hath this hope purifieth himself even as he is pure." This is the promise he hath promised even eternal life. In fact, the doctrine of rewards, as an incentive to the saints, prevails from one end to the other of the sacred volume. The notion that a love which springs from a sense of being beloved, must be selfish and mercenary, is the greatest delusion imaginable. It may be, and in proportion as its power is really known and felt, is the most holy, self-denying, pure, and devoted of all affections, an affection that seeketh not her own, but the glory of the object beloved. If Edwards would set up dear D. Brainerd and his Indians in favour of the abstract system, we may set up the Moravians and their Esquimaux in favour of the other. But why set up one set of worms and their conduct against another set of worms and theirs, when we have the record of God in our hands? Let us see how our Heavenly Father proposes himself to our love, confidence, and affections, and what incentives he proposes as inducements to the sinner to return, and the saint to persevere to the end, and not attempt to be wise above that which is written. That God is infinitely adorable in his abstract perfections I am sure, though I cannot fathom these abstract perfections, nor conceive of him but as revealed in his blessed word in connection with his chosen, and as personally exhibited by him who was the brightness of his Father's glory, and the express image of his person, and this is not in abstractions or apart from our happiness. [42] Matt. xix. 28, 29; Luke xviii. 29, 30. Again, when Edwards endeavours to prove it is enthusiasm in an individual to imagine that Christ, in an especial manner died for him, I think he destroys the peculiar stimulus to devotedness, which the doctrines of election in their widest latitude, contain above the doctrines of Armenianism, and he throws a coldness over all the doctrines of grace. In Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, David, Daniel, and others, with the Apostles of our Lord and Paul, it was both personal and open, but because not equally open to the rest of God's children, I do not believe the holy and blessed Spirit allows it to be less individual and personal. If, however, his opponents were practically such men as he describes, we cannot too deeply deplore it; but he writes so much more like the advocate of a sect, than an impartial enquirer after truth, that, without a particular knowledge of the case, one cannot help suspecting his picture of those he is writing against, to be very highly coloured. In fact, on the truth of God, it seems philosophical declamation, without scriptural proof: on the subject of his opponent, it is assertion in the lump, concerning masses of individuals, without proof or discrimination. _Nov. 4._--We have here now at the head of affairs, under the Pasha, one of those extraordinary men who are capable of any thing good or bad. Under Daoud Pasha he, for a long time, cruelly oppressed the people, but more especially the Jews, till at last a conspiracy was formed against him, and by the influence of the father of the Serof Bashee of the Pasha, who is one of the serofs, or bankers,[43] of the Sultan at Constantinople, an order was procured for his being put to death. Daoud Pasha did not execute this order, but imprisoned him, and as he had been the instrument of extorting money for him, he concluded he had not failed at the same time to enrich himself. In their endeavours to extort his money from him they drew the bow-string so tight that they nearly strangled him: however he recovered: he told them he had a certain sum of money, and where it was, which Daoud Pasha had previously agreed he should collect for himself. This his rapacious miserable master had the meanness to take from him. He had some friends who exerted themselves to save his life; which was spared. However, only a few days before the entrance of Ali Pasha, orders were again issued to put him to death, as he was detected holding communication with those without the city; but again intercession was made for him, and he was again spared. He was instantly taken into favour by Ali Pasha, on his entrance into the town, who has made him his treasurer and accountant-general (Musruff and Deftardar); and in fact, the whole business of the Pashalic is in his hands. He is at work night and day: till after midnight he is engaged in business, and long before dawn he is to be seen on horseback. He never sleeps at home, but each night at a different friend's house, though the Pasha gave him the best house (taken with all its accompaniments) in Bagdad. When the Pasha heard that Major Taylor's house, which is on the river, had suffered by the flood, he instantly gave it to him, and he now intends occupying it. This man is not only acquainted with all the internal affairs of the city, but he is connected with all the tribes of Arabs from Bussorah to Merdin; knows all their relations, enmities, friendships, and divisions, external as well as internal, and has ability and tact to take advantage of them. He is also acquainted with the agriculture of the country between the two rivers, and greatly desires to advance and improve it. What two such men as Ali Pasha and he may effect, should the Lord allow them to remain, it is impossible to conceive; but certainly great changes. He has now his old enemy, the Serof Bashee, in prison, and is bastinadoing him to get money out of him. But his general carriage to the inhabitants is much changed, though he has now twice the authority, which clearly, I think, manifests the altered temper of the government. To the English, he is a most devoted friend, and especially to the Resident, to whom he feels he owes his life, for he is at once a firm friend, and, I fear, an implacable enemy: one of those men from whom if you can once extort the assurance that you are safe, you may be at ease; whereas, in general, from the Pasha downwards, the more they assured you of your safety, the more reason you felt you had to fear. [43] The bankers in Turkey are generally Jews, and possessed of great wealth. _Nov. 7._--I have been to-day calling on several of the most respectable Roman Catholic merchants of this place, who have, some of them, repeatedly called on me; but, partly from want of health, and partly from want of spirits, I have not hitherto returned their visits. They received me with the greatest kindness, and the opportunities these visits afforded of bringing in God's word as the only standard of truth, I feel to be very valuable. It seems perfectly new to them to have the sentiments or conduct of themselves or others measured by this holy and blessed book; such a use they never in their lives saw made of it, so that it strikes them exceedingly; and the Lord's spirit may make something here or there rest on their hearts. I feel that the door for my particular line of usefulness is opening, and as I advance in the practical use of the language, I have confidence the Lord will yet shew me greater things than these. There is a new Roman Catholic priest here, formerly an Armenian. He has been trying to see if he can get my school boys to come to him if he opens a school: they have all refused; and this strengthens me in my purpose of not delaying the re-opening of mine longer than I am obliged. Should I not be able to get a master from Bussorah, for whom I have written, there has been an Armenian with me, who offers to come, a most respectable man; him, therefore, I may consider, as ready, should the other fail. Thus, the Lord provides. With my English class, I purpose, the Lord willing, to begin after another fortnight. My greatest difficulty will be I fear, to obtain an Arabic teacher; the mortality among the Mollahs has been enormous. Here then I shall end for the present, I fear this too long, and, in many respects, tedious, journal of the last five months, as the messenger goes to-morrow or the day after. * * * * * NOTES. Mr. Groves having so strongly expressed his condemnation of Mr. Erskine's view of Divine Truth, in pages 102, 103, and 104 of his Journal, the Editor, who believes Mr. Groves to be in error regarding the extent of the Atonement, has felt it to be a duty not to allow his statements to pass unaccompanied with a plain declaration of the truth. The following Notes on some of the principal points touched upon by Mr. Groves, have been contributed by a brother who bears him much love, the Rev. A. J. Scott, of Woolwich, not so much with any view of detailed discussions of Mr. Groves's positions, as simply to exhibit truth, as the best antidote to error. NOTE A, page 102. Mr. Groves has referred to the effects of system. One of the most important of these is, that opposite systems lead men to take such opposite views of the evidence itself by which the truth of the conflicting opinions must be tried. Of this he here furnishes an instance, in saying so strongly that the "sovereignty of God's government, and the individuality of God's election," are "represented by the Apostles as the most overwhelming reasons for unlimited devotion to his service, who has thus chosen us." Many of the very passages, doubtless, to which he would turn for the establishment of this assertion, would be enjoyed by others, as proofs how available is the general "kindness of God our Saviour towards _man_," as an argument for loving and serving him. When Paul persuades the Ephesians to "walk in love as Christ also hath loved _us_, and hath given himself for _us_;"[44] when Peter recommends to his brethren patient meekness in suffering, by the consideration that "Christ also suffered for _us_, the just for the unjust,"[45] the power of this over the mind of one man depends on his understanding by "_us_" the fallen world; and of another, on its reminding him only of distinguishing personal obligations to sovereign election. Now, suasives to holiness, or what are felt as such, as they continually recur in Scripture, produce on a devout mind a much deeper conviction of the truth of the doctrines from which they are derived, than a formal assertion can. When, by the same expressions, one man is habitually carried to this, another to that, view of the Divine character, and each experiences, that in what he sees, there is a practical tendency towards the state of the heart and form of life at which he aims as good: this becomes to each, as instances accumulate, a far stronger reason than bare propositions, could be for growing in confidence, that the belief which thus impresses him is indeed the truth of God. [44] Eph. v. 2. [45] 1 Pet. ii. 21. And one accustomed to observe the effects of system will not wonder that expressions like those above cited, still less that those in which Christ is spoken of as having "loved _the church_ and given himself for _it_," should thus come to be regarded as containing an argument for a selective atonement. It is by such a doctrine being perceived in them, that they practically impress the feelings of many. And yet, in truth, how are they inconsistent with the universal love of God and propitiation of Christ? Of course, where a common benefit is received, its efficacy, as a motive to grateful returns, is limited to those who recognize and value it. A patriot has delivered millions of ignorant, suspicious, ungrateful countrymen. His services are to be used as an argument for joining in some effort for his honour; and those who acknowledge and bless his exertions are especially addressed, and reminded that "he loved _you_, laboured for _you_, achieved happiness for _you_." Would this contain even an insinuation, that they were the exclusive objects of his disinterested ardour? In such an address not only would the common benefit be mentioned peculiarly as a good bestowed on themselves; but their acknowledgment of it, and their distinguishing susceptibility to the feeling of its worth, would be referred and appealed to, as reasons why that was looked for and demanded of them, which from others might be as justly asked, but not so naturally expected. Such appeals are the apostolic epistles to the churches, as contrasted with their proclamation of Christ to the world. NOTE B, page 103. The moral condition of man, his seeing no desirableness in the object presented to him by the Gospel, Mr. Erskine shews, at great length, to be the grand obstacle to his enjoying it. The capacity to know and believe, he indeed conceives to bring with it the capacity to enjoy. But if a change in the moral state is necessary in receiving the truth, this surely obviates the objection that such truth would be unpalatable and uninfluential to those whose moral state is _unchanged_. Our business, however, is not with Mr. E. but with the truth of the matter. Mr. Groves' remarks refer to the _nature_ of regeneration, and to the _necessity_ of a change in the affections, in order to man's appreciating the object presented to him in the Gospel: these he considers as objections to the doctrine that the simple knowledge and belief of that object are "the cause of spiritual life in the unregenerate;" and he uses the analogy of food, which he says, is not the cause of life, although it be the support of it. Certainly the contemplation of Jesus is not the cause, but it is the commencement and exercise of spiritual life, which needs no commencement of a distinct kind from its subsequent functions. As to the analogy of food, it will be seen whether the language of Scripture bears us out in making the same distinction between the source and the sustenance of spiritual, as of natural life. What, indeed, is meant to be asserted? Is it, that men have life in them _first_, to capacitate them to eat the flesh and drink the blood of the Son of Man? This seems to be said: but Himself hath said, "Except ye eat the flesh and drink the blood of the Son of Man, ye have _no_ life in you." Not life then without the food, or before the food, but _by_ the food. This banquet _is_ to be spread before the dead. Thus only shall any live. Is spirit and life in men first from another source, and then do they take and profit by his words? But "the entrance of his words _giveth_ light," and that light is life. "The words that I speak unto you," says the Lord, "_they_ are spirit, and they are life": and that spirit, the spirit of his words, he tells us it is that "quickeneth" or produceth life. Is there, then, no need for regeneration? Surely there is: but it does not follow that the principle of regeneration is one, and that of faith another to be superadded to it. "We are born," says Peter, "not of corruptible seed, but of the word of God, which liveth and abideth for ever;" adding, in very remarkable language, "This is the word which by the Gospel is preached unto you." An explanation which removes all doubt as to the meaning of James, when he says, "Of his own will begat he us with the word of truth," that is, according to Peter, with the Gospel preached. John, in like manner, tells us, that "whatsoever is born of God overcometh the world," and if we ask, what is born of God? Is it a principle antecedent and necessary to faith? He answers, It is faith itself. "This is the victory that overcometh the world, even our faith." NOTE C, page 104. The question is not whether the scheme of salvation is merely reconcilable with divine love and justice, but how it constitutes the grand proof and manifestation of these attributes, and in general, of the perfections of God. In it he undertakes to shew himself worthy of love, and thus to win our love to himself. Any other means to that end than such as should prove his own worthiness, He could not use. One may confer a benefit on an individual from a thousand various motives, of which one only may be morally right. In event of any of the others having prompted the action, the benefactor may be regarded with gratitude, but then it is either because the motive is mistaken for the nobler one, or the gratitude is a mere reflected selfishness. As an example of the latter sort, the Jews, in the days of the Son of Man upon earth, had a love to God, a zeal for God, founded on their conviction of his partiality for their people. They regarded him as the God of the Jews only, and not also of the Gentiles. Its fruits were, their carrying the Lord to the brow of the hill to destroy him, because he reminded them of Naaman and the widow of Sarepta, as preferred to objects of bounty among their own people; and their endeavouring to tear Paul in pieces when he spake of a commission given him by Jesus to the Gentiles. They were indeed zealous, the apostle bears them witness in the Holy Ghost, and fully believed in God's sovereign election of their nation. There is yet a zeal like their's--let us beware of it. It will not do to represent the Gospel scheme of salvation as not only _leaving_, but involving, the moral character of God in difficulty; and then to say we can still believe him holy, just, and good notwithstanding. The atonement was designed to prove and establish these attributes: to be the ground of our confidence in them, and of our love to God because of them. We are not to believe in them in spite of the plan of redemption; but, because of the plan of redemption. The words of John, "we love him because he first loved us," and "herein is the love of God manifested towards us, because he sent his Son into the world that we might live through him," imply that the believer's delight in the essential excellence of God (which delight alone is divine love) springs out of the display of that excellence in the cross of Christ. An atonement for all, arising out of love to all, proves that it is indeed justice that inflicts vengeance on the impenitent; not partial, personal hatred, not indifference, not cruelty. A limited atonement, just because it gives no proof that they are beloved--gives no proof that nothing else than justice could have punished them. It gives, on the other hand, no proof that forgiving love has been that which saved the elect, as it is to an arbitrary distinction it teaches them to look as the ultimate cause of their hope. I care not to be told that they acknowledge love in their salvation notwithstanding. I repeat, the redemption is to _prove_ the divine character, not merely to leave us the possibility of believing it. Finally, This scheme obliges to believe that Jesus has broken the law, and transgression of the law is sin. This he assuredly did, if he loved not all mankind as himself. It is an ignorant answer to say, that for him to break the law was not sin. To break the moral law, and to be a sinner, are not things arbitrarily put together; they are two names for the same thing. It is worse to say he need not keep the law because he was God. The law is the transcript of the character of God: opposition to it is opposition to that character. Made of woman, besides, he was made under the law. All praises of his goodness and moral perfection are so many varied expressions for the completeness with which he kept the law. And oh! indeed, what part of it so peculiarly his own, as to love his neighbour as himself? I say, therefore, again, to limit the divine love, to limit the atonement, the grand expression of that love, is to limit the love of Christ, and thus to make Christ a sinner. He that hath seen him hath seen the Father. No moral difference surely is so great as that between a breaker and a keeper of the law of love. What a moral difference, then, between the character of a God manifested in the one form and in the other. APPENDIX. The following letters are added, because they contain some interesting details of the Lord's dealings with this our dear brother, which are not contained in the Journal. And the reader will observe, that the last letter is of a later date than the conclusion of the Journal. BAGDAD, _Oct. 15th, 1831._ The Lord has just raised me up from a typhus fever, which, for the last month, has been pressing a little hard on my strength, but more on my spirits. The loss of my dearest Mary was so deeply felt by my poor desolate heart, that, at times, I bore up with difficulty; but the Lord shewed me that my sorrow was so selfish, so earthly, so unworthy of his love, and poured in besides such hopes and prospects as to my future work, that sustained and comforted me. I send with this a Journal of four months, from which you will see what has been passing amongst us. I have lately received many letters from my dear brethren at Aleppo, and I think either Mr. Cronin or Mr. and Mrs. Parnell will come to me the first opportunity, which will be an unspeakable relief to my mind; for I long for some one to whom I may unburthen my soul; for although my Lord is always near, yet, as I see in Paul, so I find in myself, that the society of Christian brethren and sisters, so long as we are in the flesh, will always afford a sweet consolation. I feel that Jesus meant his Church to be a body, not isolated members. We have each a little ministry essential to the happiness and building up of the mystical body--that there should be no schism, but that all the members might love and care one for the other. This place has been governed by Georgians, Apostate Christians, just as the Memelukes, another race of Apostate Christians, formerly governed Egypt. The Sultan has extirpated the first, and now the second, and the Janissaries who had a somewhat similar origin, have, at Stamboul, experienced a similar fate. Those of the Georgians who have had their lives spared will be sent to Stamboul. It is certainly the design of Ali Pasha and the Sultan, to make many changes here, and I wait to see the Lord's goings. It appears to me probable that most important openings may be afforded by these changes to our operations in these quarters: but I have seen such things these last twelve months, that my soul rests only upon God, to see how he will move. His ways are so deep, so out of sight, that what we think likely, He, in a month, brings to nothing, and yet in his own good time, will bring the most wonderful and unexpected things to pass. I have never ceased to bless God for the sweet assurance of his unchanging love, for the sake of Him who is our life, our dear and blessed Jesus. He has supplied me, I know not how, in the midst of famine, pestilence, and war; and though I have heard from none in England for more than a year, especially from those that supply my wants, the Lord has not suffered me to want, or to be in debt, and though the necessaries of life have amounted to almost twenty times their value during our late trials, he has not suffered me personally to be much affected by it. His loving-kindness and care have been wonderful. Of all the political and religious agitations of England, I have heard only whispers; but I am very anxious to receive a full account. For many months all communication has been entirely cut off; not a message has come though the road has now been open a month. The Lord has graciously allowed me to see the signs of spiritual life in three souls of late, through my instrumentality; and as the Lord gives me utterance, I trust I shall be able to speak to many others. The difficulties of the language are fading away one by one. I had occasion to translate a public document from the new Pasha to the Resident at Bussorah, concerning business of the utmost importance and secrecy, in which the Resident, who is a most competent judge, tells me I succeeded fully. I often think my dear friends in England will be sadly discouraged at the Lord's dealings with our mission: so difficult is it to act faith in dark seasons. However, should their faith and hope fail, the Lord will either raise up others or find me some little occupation by which I may live. His goodness in the way of provision has been so wonderfully manifested, that my heart feels quite easy that He will find a way for the support of his servant. _Oct. 24._--Since writing the above, I have received your letter of March last, by Bombay. Oh! how welcome it came! Oh! how it refreshed me! Surely there exists not in the world a more loving little Church than these dear believers amongst whom the Lord has brought us into one fellowship. I assure you, widely as I am separated from this beloved family in body, I am truly one with them in spirit, and am greatly refreshed by the springs of the Lord's grace, that run amongst them. I received several letters with yours, from England and Ireland; and the zeal of those dear friends who had provided for my school, made me finally determine, the Lord willing, and supplying me masters, to try again. I have sent one of the bigger boys round, and I trust, with new boys, I shall begin with thirty. The Bible Society have sent me a number of Books with a generous letter, nobly generous as to the principles of distribution. And there appears a prospect of great changes which may open a much wider door of usefulness here than I now have: I had thoughts of leaving this place, but the Resident entreats me not to go, and promises, should any thing happen to me, that he will be a father to my dear boys, till he can send them by an unexceptionable opportunity to England. All these things make me feel that the Lord still means me to stay here, and see his salvation.--Infidelity is making open and manifest strides amongst the Mohammedans on the other side of the desert, and in Persia, and we shall soon see the same spirit that is working in Europe working here: amidst these tempests, I sometimes think 'tis hard to live. Yet, my dear friend, it is sweet to live hardly for Jesus. After all my sufferings and all my sorrows, my heart is not discouraged. We have first the clods of the language to break up, then to prepare the ground, then to sow the seed, and through all to look for the precious showers from on high, and lastly for the fruit. Let us, then, like the husbandman patiently wait. The evil of the pressure of the world on the soul I feel as fully as you can do; not the luxurious worldliness of Europe, yet the pursuit of the language, and the absolute uncongeniality of all around, disorders the soul greatly. During Mary's life, or rather pilgrimage, I never wanted spiritual refreshment; I sometimes used to fear it stole away those hours that the language and other calls demanded; but now whilst I am sensibly proceeding in the language, my soul knows not that animated joy of heavenly communion with the saints on earth which I once enjoyed. Jesus still is near, still comforts and supports; but yet I feel he meant his Church to be a body. The miserable substitute of man's ordination for the Holy Ghost's, has destroyed the true unison and order of the Church of Christ, by substituting that which is artificial for that which is of God; by appointing man to be the artificer of a work God alone can accomplish. Now the Church presents a monstrous aspect, a great mis-shapen head called the clergy, and as mis-shapen a body called the laity. All the members being crowded into the head, and leaving the body without office or service, this did not the Spirit. How blessed it is among all these disorders to know that the Lord cares for his own, and will keep them as the apple of his eye, watching day and night lest any hurt them. Thus, were we preserved when we little thought it, by our Shepherd's care. There is something, I think, in this view of the body being thus composed of members of various orders, various services, from the most minute to the most important, all tending to the one great end, the glory of the only Head and the Church's glory in him, that greatly comforts the weak. When the Lord first led me to feel interested in the service of his cause abroad, I framed to myself some _beau-ideal_ of a missionary that if I now entertained would destroy all happiness. Since the Lord has led me to see how truly low my place is in his holy blessed body, amidst all this humiliation he makes me feel happy in the thought I am a member, though embracing little that pride would lead to aim at. If I am but allowed to minister to my dear and holy brethren on the other side of the desert I shall feel happy and thankful. Sometimes I am overwhelmed with the condescension that he should allow me to feel part of his mystical body, though so weak so useless. On the subject of baptism all the dear brethren at Aleppo have finally agreed and been baptized; thus the last little difference that I know between us is closed. How gracious the Lord is! The Lord has laid his hand heavily on them. Dear Newman is but just raised from a bed of sickness. The schoolmaster whom they brought is so unwell, that dear John Parnell and his wife have taken him for the change of air to the water's side; they too have both been very ill. Mrs. Cronan is daily getting weaker and weaker, so they are prevented joining me now from ill health, as before from the disturbances, and in a short time Mrs. Parnell expects to be confined, which will still delay them, as well as the expectation of a friend or two from England and Ireland. Should the Lord not remove these difficulties to their coming before the spring, and my Bibles and Testaments arrive from Bussorah, I purpose, the Lord willing, perhaps even in about two months, going by the way of Mosul, Merdin, Diarbekr, Orsa, and Beer to Aleppo, there to consult and to be refreshed, should the Lord graciously smile upon us, and in my way to distribute his word and see the state of the places above mentioned. When Mr. Newman was at the worst, and they had given up all hopes of him, they anointed him with oil according to the 14th of the 5th of James, and prayed over him, and the Lord had mercy on them, yea, and on me also, and restored him. It seems to me truly scriptural, and if the Church of Rome has perverted it to superstitious ends, ought we therefore to cast aside so plain a precept? By many it would be called plain popery, but this we must bear. I can feel a happiness in submitting to these directions of the Lord by the Spirit; they seem to us little, but surely whatsoever is of sufficient importance for the Spirit to command or direct, is sufficiently important for us worms to obey. With regard to miracles my mind is not at present prepared to embrace them fully: but this I do feel that the Apostle Paul, in Corinthians 12 and 14, when speaking of supernatural gifts for the edifying the Church and doing the work of God, points them out as things to be desired and prayed for then, and if they were desired to be prayed for then, why not now? I look on the argument from experience in the churches as of no weight, for unless it can be proved the churches have received faith on these powers, their not possessing the power is according to the whole analogy of faith. That distinguishing between apostolic times and present times is to my mind so dangerous a principle, and puts into the hands of any one so disposed, a sword that seems to me to reach the very vitals of the Gospel. I would have you pray for me, especially that Christ may be in me daily, my glorious loving Lord and satisfying portion, whose presence can make even this waste howling wilderness like the garden of Eden. Little did I think how poor I was in the anointed Lamb of God till he stripped me bare, and left me here to stand months alone with himself, and then I saw how much of that apparent love and zeal I felt flowed from human fountains. I bless his name, he left me yet a little while untainted to cheer, support, and comfort me, but my stature, my dear friend, I pray I may not again, mistake nor think I am approaching towards manhood when a very child in spiritual growth. When surrounded by all the love and kindness I experienced amongst you, encouraged by your sympathy and prayers, those thousand weaknesses I since have felt I hardly know the smart of. Amidst dangers, sorrows, and death I have walked for many months; and these scenes have tried the very foundation, yet it was most gracious of the Lord, when he let the plague reach me and laid me on my couch to give me the sweetest comfort from a full assurance of his favour and forgiveness, when there was as I thought but a step between me and death. Yet whilst he has never left me without the sense of being his, He has shewn me how much I have to aim at, how earnestly to desire to be filled with all his fulness. BAGDAD, _Dec. 25th, 1831_. Your most kind and welcome letter arrived this day, together with several others from my beloved friends in England, all by Bombay. It does, indeed, truly refresh my heart, to hear of the Lord's love to you all. Do you not praise God for these dear brothers and sisters he has given us? How rich we are in our sweet little church; a more loving, holy, and blessed little family cannot surely be found upon earth. Unworthy as I am to be one of you, yet I bless God that I am one. My heart is running over with thankfulness at the Lord's goodness to you all, and to me through you, and be not discouraged because I am blasted, and my bough no longer green, as it once was, the Lord has yet dealt most bountifully with me. In all but my dear Mary's place my path is opening again. I have hired one schoolmaster, and expect another. My English boys are most zealous and attached: my prospects of Bible circulation in Persia much opening. To the Jews here I have sold all my Hebrew Bibles, at about 3s. 6d. each: this is more to them than 12s. would be in England, and though it seems little, it answers an end of getting God's word amongst them. I had an Armenian bishop with me the other day, asking for Persian Testaments to send to Ispahan; and a Roman Catholic merchant has promised to take a parcel for me to Teheran, and to distribute them there. Besides these there are others whom I hope to find subservient to this end. For some days I had been making preparations to cross the desert, in order to consult with my dear brethren there about our future measures; but when I came to put together all the items of expense, I found I had not money enough, so I gave up the plan of going with my dear boys, and proposed waiting till Major Taylor came, and leaving them in the Residency, under his and dear Mrs. Taylor's kind care, to go alone. Your letter, however, has relieved all my pecuniary difficulties, and we shall now go altogether or remain together. The love of you all in thinking of and caring for me quite overwhelms me, as I see it to be the Lord's love in and through you all. He not only feeds us in this wilderness, but also provides for the school, so as to overwhelm me with a sense of his care over the most unworthy of his servants. My wonder is, how it is possible for me to love him so little. Since I left England, this is the first purpose I really thought desirable, that the want of sufficient money has put a stop to; and this you see but for a moment; not but that I can get money at any time, but I am determined not to borrow money till my affairs come to the utmost straits, and then only for the simplest necessaries. I have received a letter from England, which gives me a painful impression of the state of most of the religious societies. Indeed, I fear they cannot stand on their present basis. May the Lord gently lead them right. The spirit of compromise to gain the world has ruined all; yet are there some sweet spirits amongst them. I would rather have the love that could love amidst a thousand faults, than the zeal that will endure but one. Some, I know, would call this a sickly sort of feeling, but the more I see of their fiery condemnation and sarcastic scorn, the more I am sure it is not of Christ. It is only turning the truth of God into a sort of chimney for the escape of nature's pride and passion. My second plan for going to Aleppo has been defeated by my having heard a very bad account of the Arab Sheikh of the Caravan. The Lord graciously gave me an opportunity of seeing his true character before I was alone involved with him in the desert, where, indeed, you are fearfully at their mercy, and where they have so many means of oppressing you. _Dec. 29._--How gracious it was of the Lord to send me your letter, just before expense became inevitable, for either for the journey, or for shutting up; you must expend money, as during the time of the plague raging, you can obtain nothing, not even bread, and, if you could, you would be afraid to use it. What unspeakable peace it brings to the soul to have Jesus to look to, and to know that his eye is not averted, though all seems dark. Blessed doctrines of grace! how they comfort when the soul would sink under sin: to know that for Christ's sake we are pardoned. Yea, though we have played the harlot with many lovers, the Lord has restored us, and decked us for his bride against the day of his espousals. Oh what a day, the day of the marriage supper of the Lamb will be, may our hearts be waiting for it, with holy expectation. Pray for me that my faith fail not, nor my Lord's love even appear little in my eyes; but that I may always be enabled to say, "Though he slay me yet will I trust in him." If it be, that all my hopes finish, may his holy blessed will be done. I often wonder how he keeps up my hope as he does; but still I do hope even against hope: and I would call upon you, and all my dear friends, brethren, and sisters in Christ, to rejoice with me at the prospect of that blessed day which is dawning upon us, when we shall see our beloved as he is, and dwell with him for ever, when our vile bodies will be changed and made like unto his glorious body, when the whole number of his elect family will be completed, and we shall reign with him in glory. _Jan. 16, 1832._--My dear little boy, Frank, is just laid down in a fever, so I cannot now go to Aleppo. Thus the Lord frustrates all our plans and purposes. THE END. 
45673	----	A BRIEF JOURNAL Of what passed in the CITY of _MARSEILLES_, While it was Afflicted with the PLAGUE, In the YEAR 1720. Extracted from the REGISTER of the _Council-Chamber_ of the _Town-House_, kept by Monsieur PICHATTY DE CROISSAINTE, Counsellor and Orator of that City, and the King's Attorney in Affairs relating to the good Government of it. _Translated from the ORIGINAL, Published at_ PARIS, _with the King's Privilege_. _LONDON_: Printed for J. ROBERTS, near the _Oxford-Arms_ in _Warwick-Lane_. 1721. Price, One Shilling. [Illustration] _ABSTRACT of the_ French _King's Privilege, for the printing and publishing of this Journal._ _Lewis_, by the Grace of God, King of _France_ and _Navarre_. To our beloved and faithful Counsellors holding our Court of Parliament of _Paris_, and to all others whom it may Concern: Greeting. Our well beloved _Nicholas Carré_ of _Paris_, having represented to us, that a Manuscript has been put into his Hands, intitled, _A Brief Journal of what passed in the City of_ Marseilles _while it was afflicted with the Plague_; and most humbly besought us to grant him our Letters of Privilege, for the sole printing and vending thereof throughout our Dominions.----We being willing to treat the Petitioner favourably, and to acknowledge his Zeal for the Good and Benefit of the Publick, do by these Presents grant to him and his Assigns, the sole Liberty of printing and publishing the said Book, for the term of six Years from the Date hereof:--Forbidding all other Persons to print or counterfeit the same, on the Penalty of Confiscation of such Copies, and of a Fine of three thousand Livres, to be paid by every Offender. Done at _Paris_, the 17th of _July_ in the sixth Year of our Reign. By the King in Council. CARPOT. [Illustration] _A_ BRIEF JOURNAL _of what passed in the City of_ MARSEILLES, _while it was afflicted with the Plague in 1720_. THE Coasts of the _Levant_ being always suspected of the Plague, all Ships which come from thence for _Marseilles_ stop at the Islands of _Chateaudif_; and the Intendants of Health regulate the Time and Manner of their Quarantaines, and of purifying their Cargoes, by the Tenor of their Patents (or Bills of Health), and by the State of Health of the particular Places from whence they come. The Beginning of _May_, 1720. we had Advice at _Marseilles_, that from the Month of _March_ the Plague was rife in most of the Maritime Towns or trading Ports of _Palestine_ and _Syria_. The 25th of the said Month of _May_, the Ship commanded by Captain _Chataud_, which came from thence, that is to say, from _Sidon_, _Tripoli_, _Syria_, and _Cyprus_, arrives at the said Islands; but his Patents are clean (_i.e._ his Certificates imported there was no Contagion at those Places,) because he came away the 31st of _January_, before the Plague was there. He declares, however, to the Intendants of Health, that in his Voyage, or at _Leghorn_ where he touched, Six Men of his Crew died, but he shews by the Certificate of the Physicians of Health at _Leghorn_, that they died only of Malignant Fevers, caused by unwholesome Provisions. The 27th of _May_, one of his Sailors dies in his Ship. The 28th, the Intendants cause the Corpse to be carried into the Infirmary; _Guerard_, chief Surgeon of Health, views it; and makes Report, that it has not any Mark of Contagion. The 29th, the Intendants settle the purifying of the Goods of this Cargo, to Forty Days compleat, to be reckoned from the Day the last Bale shall be carried from it into the Infirmaries. The last of _May_, Three other Vessels arrive at the same Islands; _viz._ Two small Vessels of Captain _Aillaud_'s from _Sidon_, whence they came since the Plague was there; and Captain _Fouque_'s Bark from _Scanderoon_. The 12th of _June_, Captain _Gabriel_'s Ship arrives there likewise from the same Places, with a foul Patent; (_i. e._ importing, that the Plague was there.) The same Day the Officer, whom the Intendants had put on Board Captain _Chataud_'s Ship to see Quarantain duly performed, dies there; _Guerard_ chief Surgeon of Health views the Body, and makes Report that it has not any Mark of Contagion. The 14th of _June_, the Passengers who came in the said Ship, are perfumed for the last Time in the Infirmaries; and are allowed to enter the City as usual. The 23d, being the Eve of St. _John Baptist_, the Grand Prior arrives at _Genoa_ with the King's Gallies; the Sheriffs have the Honour to welcome him, and I to make a Speech to him in the Name of the City. The same Day a Cabbin-Boy of Captain _Chataud_'s Ship, a Servant employed at the Infirmaries in purifying the Goods of that Ship, and another who was purifying those of Captain _Gabriel_'s Ship, fall sick; the same Surgeon makes Report that they have not any Mark of Contagion. The 24th, another Servant employed to purify Captain _Aillaud_'s Goods, falls sick likewise; is visited, and the same Report made. The 24th, and 26th, all Four dye one after another; their Bodies are viewed, and Report made that they have not any Mark of Contagion. Notwithstanding the Reports thus made, the Intendants consult and resolve by way of Precaution to cause all these Bodies to be buried in Lime; to remove from the Island of _Pomegué_ the Ships of the Captains _Chataud_, _Aillaud_, and _Gabriel_, and send them to a distant Island called _Jarre_, there to begin again their Quarantain; and to inclose the Yard where their Goods are purifying in the Infirmaries, without suffering the Servants employed to air them, to come out. The 28th of _June_, another Vessel, being Captain _Gueymart_'s Bark, from _Sidon_, arrives at the foresaid Islands with a foul Patent. The 1st of _July_, the Intendants pass a Resolution, to cause all the Vessels which were come with foul Patents, to Anchor at a good Distance off the Island of _Pomegué_. The 7th of _July_, two more Servants shut up to purify in the Infirmaries the Goods brought by Captain _Chataud_, fall sick; the Surgeon finds Tumours in their Groyns, and says in his Report that he does not believe however it is the Plague: He pays for his Incredulity, perhaps for not right understanding the Distemper, by dying himself soon after, with part of his Family. The 8th, another Servant falls sick; the Surgeon finds a Swelling in the upper Part of the Thigh, and then declares he takes it to be a Mark of Contagion, and desires a Consultation. Immediately the Intendants call three other Master Surgeons to visit the said Servants; their Report is, that they have all certainly the Plague. The 9th those Patients dye, they are buried in Lime, and all their Apparel is burnt. The Intendants resolve to cause all the Goods of Captain _Chataud_'s Cargoe, to be taken out of the Infirmaries, and sent to be purified on the Island of _Jarre_; and they repair to the Town-House to acquaint the Sheriffs with what has passed. The Matter appearing to be of Consequence, they write about it to the Council of Marine, and to the Marshal Duke _de Villars_, Governor of _Provence_; and M. _Estelle_, one of the chief Sheriffs, with two Intendants of Health, are deputed to go to _Aix_ to give an Account of it to M. _Lebret_, first President of the Parliament and Intendant of Justice and of Commerce. The same Day, M. _Peissonel_, and his Son, Physicians, come to the Town-House, to give Notice to the Sheriffs, that having been called to a House in the Square of _Linche_, to visit a young Man named _Eissalene_, he appeared to them to have the Plague. That Instant, Guards are sent to the Door of that House, to hinder any one from coming out of it. The 10th of _July_ that Patient dies, and his Sister falls sick; the Guard is doubled; and it being judged proper to carry both off; to do it the more quietly, and without alarming the People, it is delayed till Night; when at Eleven a Clock M. _Moustier_, another of the chief Sheriffs, repairs thither without Noise, sends for Servants from the Infirmaries, encourages them to go up into the House, and they having brought down the Dead and the Sick, he orders them to carry them in Litters without the Town to the Infirmaries, causes all Persons belonging to the House to be conducted thither likewise, accompanies them himself with Guards, that none might come near them, and then returns to see the Door of the House closed up with Mortar. The 11th Notice is given, that one _Boyal_ is fallen sick in the same Quarter of the Town, Physicians and Surgeons are sent to visit him; they declare he has the Plague, his House is instantly secured by Guards, and when Night is come M. _Moustier_ goes thither, sends for the Buriers of the Dead from the Infirmaries, and finding the Patient was newly dead, causes them to take the Corpse, accompanies it, sees it interred in Lime, and then returns to remove all the Persons of that House to the Infirmaries, and the Door to be closed up. The 12th all this is told to the Grand Prior, who still remains at _Marseilles_; the first President is writ to; the Intendants of Health are assembled, to cause all the Vessels come from the _Levant_, with foul Patents, to go back to the Island of _Jarre_, and all their Goods that remain in the Infirmaries to be removed thither likewise: M. _Audimar_, one of the Sheriffs, presided in their Assembly, to influence them to pass this Resolution. This, and the following Day, the Sheriffs make very strict Enquiry in the Town, to discover all Persons who had Communication with those Dead or Sick of the Plague; the most suspected are sent to the Infirmaries, and the others confined to their Houses. The 14th, they write an Account of what has passed to the Council of Marine; they resolve not to give any more Patents (or Certificates of Health) to any Vessel, till they can be sure the Distemper is over. The 15th, left from this Refusal to give Certificates of Health, it should be believed in foreign Countries that the plague is in _Marseilles_; and lest this should entirely interrupt all Commerce, they write to the Officers Conservators of Health at all the Ports of _Europe_, the real Fact; that is to say, That there are several Persons ill of the Contagion in the Infirmaries, but that it has not made any Progress in the City. The 21st of _July_, nothing of the Plague having since been discovered in the Town, they write it with Joy to the Council of Marine, and continue to provide whatever is necessary in the Infirmaries for the Subsistance of suspected Persons whom they have sent thither, and of those whom they have confined to their Houses. Already the Publick, recovered from their Fright, begin to explode as useless the Trouble the Sheriffs had given themselves, and all the Precautions they had taken; 'tis pretended, the Two Persons who died in the Square of _Linche_, were carried off by quite another Distemper than the Plague: The Physicians and Surgeons are upbraided with having by their Error allarmed the whole Town. Abundance of People are observed to assume the Character of a dauntless Freedom of Mind, who are soon after seen more struck with Terror than any others, and to fly with more Disorder and Precipitation; their boasted Firmness quickly forsakes them. The Truth is, the Plague is to be feared and shunned. The 26th of _July_, Notice is given to the Sheriffs, that in the Street of _Lescalle_, a Part of the old Town inhabited only by poor People, Fifteen Persons are suddenly fallen sick: They dispatch thither Physicians and Surgeons; they examine into the Distemper, and make Report; some, that 'tis a Malignant Fever; others, a contagious or pestilential Fever, occasioned by bad Food, which Want had long forced those poor Creatures to live upon: Not one of them says positively it is the Plague. A Man must indeed have been very well assured of it, to say it; the Publick had already shewed a Disposition to resent any false Alarm. The Sheriffs do not rest wholly satisfied with this Report, but resolve to proceed in the same Way of Precaution, as if those Sick were actually touched with the Plague; to send them all without Noise to the Infirmaries; and for the present to confine them in their Houses. The 27th, Eight of those Sick dye; the Sheriffs themselves go to their Houses to cause them to be searched; Buboes are found on Two of them: The Physicians and Surgeons still hold the same Language, and impute the Cause of the Distemper to unwholsome Food. Notwithstanding which, as soon as Night comes, M. _Moustier_ repairs to the Place, sends for Servants from the Infirmaries, makes them willingly or by Force, take up the Bodies, with all due Precautions; they are carried to the Infirmaries, where they are buried with Lime; and all the rest of the Night he causes the remaining Sick, and all those of their Houses, to be removed to the Infirmaries. The 28th, very early in the Morning, Search is made every where for those who had Communication with them, in order to confine them: Other Persons in the same Street fall sick, and some of those who first sicken'd dye. At Midnight M. _Estelle_ (who was come back from _Aix_) repairs thither; causes the Buriers of the Dead at the Infirmaries to attend; makes them carry off the dead Bodies, and bury them in Lime; and then till Day-break sees all the Sick conducted to the Infirmaries. The People who love to deceive themselves, and will have it absolutely not to be the Plague, urge a Hundred false Reasons on that Side. Would the Plague, say they, attack none but such poor People? Would it operate so slowly? Let them have but a few Days Patience, and they will see all attacked without Distinction, with the swiftest Rage, and the most dreadful Havock, that ever was heard of. Some obstinately contend that the Distemper proceeded wholly from Worms: But while they pretend to argue so confidently, trembling with Fear in their Hearts, they make up their Pack to be the readier to fly: What all others are doing, I leave to be imagined; every one has taken the Fright, and is ready to run out of the Town, to seek Refuge any where. In the mean while, the Distemper continuing in the Street of _Lescalle_, the 29th of _July_, and 10 Days after successively, the Sheriffs are obliged to give Nightly the same Attendance, and in the Daytime to make continual Search after all those who had Communication with the Sick or Dead: People fall sick in several other Parts of the Town; they are confined in Places by themselves by Guards; some of them Dye, and every Night M. _Estelle_ and _Moustier_, go by Turns to see them carried off, to remove the rest to the Infirmaries, and to fasten up or perfume Houses; Labours as dangerous as toilsome, especially when after having sat up and staid all Night in the Street, they find themselves obliged to apply all the Day after to a thousand other Things no less troublesome. M. _Audimar_ and _Dieudé_, the other Sheriffs, are fatigued on their part with continual Care and Pains, arising from the Increase of necessary Business in a Town, where the common Course of Occurrences takes up all the Time the Civil Magistrate can bestow. M. _Dieudé_, however, goes two Nights together, to accompany the Officers at removing the Dead and the Sick. The Marquis _de Pilles_, the Governor, is perpetually co-operating with them all; he is every Day, from Morning till Night, at the Town-House, applying himself indefatigably to all that his Zeal and Prudence suggest to him; and to all that the maintaining of good Order requires on such an Occasion. The whole Sum in _Specie_ at this time in the City-Treasury, is but 1100 Livres; and 'tis manifest, that if the City come to be thoroughly infected, all must perish for Want of Money: This obliges the Sheriffs to write to the First President, to press him earnestly to be pleased to procure Money for them. Bread-Corn being scarce, is immediately run up to an exorbitant Price; to prevent therefore its being hoarded up to make it dearer, an Ordinance is issued at my Instance, to forbid the hoarding it, on severe Penalties. Two other Ordinances are published at the same time, forbidding all Persons to have and keep in the Town, any thing that might contribute to the spreading of the Contagion. The 30th of _July_, a general View and Inventory is taken of all the Provisions in the City; and the Sheriffs finding hardly any Bread-Corn, Meat, or Wood, and little Money in the Treasury to buy Stores with; all things excessively dear; Disorder increasing; the Populace as poor as frighten'd; all the Persons of Condition and the Rich already fled: They write to M. _le Pelletier des Forts_, and representing to him the deplorable Condition of _Marseilles_, beseech him to intercede with his Royal Highness to grant them some Supplies. The 31st of _July_, another Ordinance is issued at my Instance, to oblige all strange Beggars to depart the City this Day; and those settled in the Town, to retire into the Hospital _de la Charité_, on the Penalty of being whipped. But this Ordinance is not put in Execution, because we learn the same Day, that the Chamber of _Vacations_ of the Parliament of _Aix_, on the Rumour that the Plague is in _Marseilles_, has publish'd an _Arrêt_, forbidding the _Marseillians_ to stir out of the Bounds of their own Territory; the Inhabitants of all the Towns and Places of _Provence_ to communicate with them, or to harbour them; and all Muleteers, Carriers, and all others, to go to _Marseilles_, for what Cause, or under what Pretext soever, on Pain of Death. In this Condition, how could 2 or 3000 Beggars, that were then in the City, be turned out of it? Not being able to pass beyond the Limits of the Territory, they would be constrained to stay there, and to ravage it for Subsistance. The 1_st_ of _August_, M. _Sicard_, Father and Son, Physicians, come to the Town-House, to tell the Sheriffs, that it is not to be doubted the Distemper in the City is really the Plague, but that they make sure Account they shall put an end to it, if they will do what they shall prescribe; which is to buy up a great Quantity of Wood, Brushes and Faggots; to lay them in Piles, at small Distances, along the Walls of the Town, and in all publick Walks, open Places, Squares, and Markets; to oblige every private Person to lay a Heap of them before his House, in all the Streets in general; and to set them all on fire at the same time, in the Beginning of the Night; which will most certainly put an End to the Plague. Every body being willing to make this Experiment; and all the other Physicians, who are called daily to the Town-House to give an Account of the Progress of the Distemper, not disapproving it; the Sheriffs forthwith cause all the Wood, Faggots, and Brushes that can be found, to be bought up; and M. _Audimar_ and _Dieudé_ go with the utmost Ardour to see them placed along the Walls, and in the publick Walks and Places. The 2d of _August_ they publish an Ordinance, commanding all the Inhabitants to make each a Bonfire before his House, and to light it at 9 a-Clock at Night, the Moment those along the Walls and in the publick Places shall be lighted. This is executed: It is a magnificent Sight, to behold a Circuit of Walls, of so large, so vast Extent, all illuminated; and if this should cure the City, it would certainly be cured in a most joyful and agreeable manner. The Magistrates, who to satisfy the Publick, and to avoid all Reproach, make such Experiments, cannot however sleep upon the Success promised from them; Prudence requires they should pursue proper Measures, and not be with-held by vain Hopes: They write to the First President, and desire him, since the Roads are barricaded against them, to be pleased to dispatch for them a Courier to the Court, to represent their Misery, and the Inconveniences they have ground to fear, as being without a Penny of Money, while they are in Dread of wanting every thing, and of having the Calamity of Famine superadded to that of the Plague. They write to the Council of _Marine_ likewise, acquainting them what Number of Sick they actually have, and how many Dead they have carried to, and buried at the Infirmaries. The same Day, in the Assembly held daily at the Town-House with the municipal Officers, and such of the chief Citizens as have not yet fled, M. _de Pilles_ presiding, it was resolved: 1. That whereas the Number of the Sick increases more and more, especially in the Street of _Lescalle_, a _Corps de Garde_ shall be posted at every Avenue of that street, to hinder any one's going into, or coming out of it; and that Commissaries of Victualling shall be appointed to go and distribute Provisions to the Families inhabiting that Street. 2. That all the Captains of the City shall each raise a Company of 50 Men of the Militia, to be paid by the City: And that however, the Five Brigades called the Brigades _du Privilege du Vin_, with their Officers, shall serve every where as a Guard to the Sheriffs in their Marches in the Night, to see the Dead and Sick carry'd off to the Infirmaries. 3. That the Physicians and Surgeons already employ'd, may be induced to serve with the greater Diligence, and not to demand any fee of the Sick, they shall have Salaries from the City, and be allowed _Sarrots_ of oiled Cloth, and Chairs, for their more easy Conveyance every where. 4. That seeing the City has no Money, and that it must indispensibly be had, Advertisements shall be publickly affixed, for taking Loans of Money at 5 _per Cent._ to try to get some by that means: And that the Treasurer not being able to come to reside at the Town-House, M. _Bouys_, First Clerk of the Records, shall be Cashier there. The 3d of _August_, the Marquess _de Pilles_, and the Sheriffs, being reassembled with the same Citizens, appoint 150 Commissaries in the 5 Parishes of the City, to look each in the Quarter assigned him to the Wants of the Poor; to distribute to them Bread, and other Subsistance, at the Charge of the City; and to do whatever else they shall be directed for the publick Good and Welfare. In that Part of the Town called the _Rive Neuve_, which lies beyond the Port, and extends from the Abbey of St. _Victor_ to the Arsenal, the Chevalier _Rose_ is appointed Captain and Commissary General. And in the Territory, (_i.e._ the Country belonging to _Marseilles_) which is like a vast City, there being above Ten thousand Houses, called _Bastides_, in the 44 Quarters and dependent Parishes, of which it is composed, besides several pretty large Villages; one Captain and some Commissaries are appointed for each, to take the like Care. The same Day, for preventing Communication among Children, who, as it is said, are most susceptible of the Plague, the College and all the Publick Schools are shut up. As for the Fires advised by the Two _Sicards_, they are forborn: Notice is given, that those Two Physicians have deserted the City; besides, there is no Wood, Faggots, or Brushes, to be had; but a Quantity of Brimstone is bought up, and distributed among the Poor, in all Quarters of the Town, and the Insides of all the Houses are order'd to be perfumed. In the Evening, the Marquis _de Pilles_ and the Sheriffs, being still assembled in the Town-House, Notice is given them, that four or five Hundred of the Populace are got together in the Quarter called _l'Aggrandissement_, and are very disorderly, crying out they will have Bread; the Bakers of that Quarter, by reason of the Scarcity of Corn, not having made the usual Quantity, so that many Persons could not be served: The Marquess _de Pilles_ and M. _Moustier_ hasten thither, followed by some Guards; their Presence puts a Stop to the Tumult, and they entirely appease the People, by causing some Bread to be given them. The 4th, the Officers of the Garison of Fort _St. John_ come to the Town-House, acquaint the Sheriffs that they are in want of Bread-Corn, and desire a Supply from them; declaring, that otherwise they cannot answer that the Troops of their Garison will not come into the City, and take Corn by Force. The Sheriffs reply, that they would willingly furnish them if they had Stores sufficient; but the Want themselves are in, is so great, that they cannot do it; and if Violence should be offered to the Inhabitants, they would appear at their Head to defend them. The same Day it being taken into Consideration, that the Arrêt issued by the Chamber of Vacations, having interdicted all Communication between the Inhabitants of the Province, and those of _Marseilles_; if Things should remain at this Pass, and no Body should bring in Corn, and other Provisions, we should soon be reduced to the Extremity of Famine, the Sheriffs resolve to have Recourse to the First President. Accordingly they send to intreat him to establish, as had been done formerly, Markets, and Barriers for Conference, at certain proper Places, whither Strangers, without being exposed to any Risque, might bring us Provisions: At the same time they write to the Procurators of the Country of _Provence_, to be pleas'd to concur therein. It is impossible, certainly, to exert more Compassion to the Miseries of an afflicted City, than they did; and particularly the Consuls of the several Towns: _Marseilles_ will never forget the Services done her in this Calamity, nor the Kindness, Zeal and Readiness with which they were done. The same Day, the Sheriffs considering the Disorders which often happen in a Time of Contagion, the Necessity of using speedy Means to suppress them, and of making Examples of Malefactors and Rebels; and that as often as this City has been visited with the Plague, as in 1580, 1630, 1649, and 1650, our Kings have constantly granted to their Predecessors in the Magistracy, by Letters Patents, the Power of judging all Crimes finally, and without Appeal; they write again to the First President, desiring him to procure for them from his Majesty the like Letters Patents. The 5th, they repeat their Instances to him, to get them supplied with Corn: They write likewise to the same purpose, to the Consuls of _Toulon_, and to those of all the Maritime Towns of the Coasts of _Languedoc_ and _Provence_; proposing to go to receive the Corn at any Place distant from the Town which they shall chuse to land it at; and they desire those of the Town of _Martignes_ to send Vessels to _Arles_, to fetch Corn from thence. The 6th, an Ordinance is publish'd at my Instance, forbidding all Persons to remove from one House to another the Moveables and Apparel of the Sick or Dead, or to touch them, or make any use of them, on Pain of Death. Another Ordinance fixes the Rates of Victuals and necessary Commodities, to restrain the excessive Price to which, because of the Scarcity, those who would make Advantage of the Publick Misery, would raise them. The 7th, the Chamber of Vacations having permitted the Procurators of the Country to come to a Conference with the Sheriffs, at a Place on the Road to _Aix_, call'd _Notre-Dame_, two Leagues distant from _Marseilles_; the Marquess _de Vauvenargues_, first Procurator of the Country, comes thither, accompanied by several Gentlemen, and the principal Officers of the Province, attended by the Marshal de _Villars_'s Guards, and by a Brigade of Archers of the _Marshalsea_. A Town afflicted with, or suspected of the Plague, out of which even almost all the Inhabitants are ready to run, cannot make a Figure, conformable to such Honour. M. _Estelle_, one of the chief Sheriffs, goes to the Place, without Retinue, without Attendants, and without any Guard, accompanied only by M. _Capus_, Keeper of the Records of the City, who, by his Ability, Probity, and Application, is become the Pilot, as it were, of this whole Community. At this Conference, where the Precaution is used to speak to each other at a great Distance, an Agreement is made, importing, that at that Place a Market shall be establish'd, where a double Barrier shall be fixed; and that another Market shall be settled at the Sheep-Inn, on the Road to _Aubagne_, which is likewise two Leagues from _Marseilles_; another for Vessels bringing Provisions by Sea, at a Creek called _Lestaque_, in the Gulph of the Islands of _Marseilles_; and that at all these Markets and Barriers, the Guards shall be placed by the Procurators of the Country, and paid by the Sheriffs of _Marseilles_. The 8th, this Agreement is confirm'd by an Arret of the Chamber of Vacations: In Consequence of which, the Sheriffs write to all the Consuls of the Towns and Places of _Provence_, pressing them to send, with all Expedition, Corn, and other Provisions, Wood and Coal, to these Markets and Barriers, where all shall be transacted without Communication. They apply themselves the same Day to the drawing up of general Instructions, in which they specify all the Duties the Commissaries whom they have already appointed, are to perform, for relieving the Poor, and taking Care of the Sick. In the mean time, it being evident that M. _Estelle_ and _Moustier_, who hitherto have sat up by Turns every Night, to see the Dead, Sick, and Suspected, carried to the Infirmaries, and Houses fasten'd up or perfumed, cannot possibly undergo such Fatigues much longer; especially the Distemper beginning to break out in divers Quarters of the Town, far distant from each other; altho' M. _Audimar_ and _Dieudé_ offer'd to relieve them; The Marquis _de Pilles_ judging it necessary they should manage their Health and Life, it was resolved in the Assembly, 1. That Carts shall be used to carry off the Dead; that all the sturdiest Beggars who can be found, shall be seized, and made Buriers of the Dead; that Four Lieutenants of Health shall direct them, and M. _Bonnet_, Lieutenant to the Governor, shall command them. 2. Men shall forthwith be set to work, to dig large and deep Pits without the Walls of the Town, in which the Dead shall be buried with Lime. 3. A Pest-House or Hospital shall be immediately establish'd: The Hospital _de la Charité_ is first thought of; but the Difficulty of removing out of it, and lodging elsewhere, above 800 of both Sexes who are in it, renders it necessary to resolve upon that _des Convalescens_, which is near the Walls of the Town, on the side of the Gate of St. _Bernard du Bois_. The 9th of _August_, it is observ'd, that some Physicians, and almost all the Master-Surgeons, are fled. An Ordinance is issued at my Instance, to oblige them to return; on the Penalty to the former, of being expell'd for ever from the College of their Faculty; and to the latter, of being expell'd the Company of Surgeons, and of being proceeded against extraordinarily. Another Ordinance is publish'd at my Instance, forbidding Butchers, when they flea and cut up Beef or Mutton at the Slaughter-House, to blow it up with their Mouth, by which the Plague might be communicated to the Meat; but to make use of Bellows, on Pain of Death. Another, forbidding Bakers to convert into Biscuit, the Meal the City gives them to make Bread of for the Poor; or to make any White Bread, in order to prevent their bolting the Meal designed for the Poor's Bread. And another, forbidding all Persons to divert the publick Waters for overflowing their Grounds; that the Conduits may not become dry, but that Water may run the more plentifully through all the Streets of the City to carry off the Filth. This Day and the following, it is found not a little difficult, to get all that had been resolved upon the Day before put in Execution: Carts, Horses, Harness are wanted; they must be had from the Country, and no Person will furnish them to serve to carry infected Bodies. Men are wanted to harness the Horses, to put them to the Carts, and to drive them; and every one abhors lending a Hand to so dangerous a Service. Buriers of the Dead are wanted to take them out of the Houses; and tho' excessive Pay be offered, the poorest of the Populace dread such hazardous Work, and make all possible Efforts to shun it. Peasants are wanted to open the Pits, and none will come to dig, such Affright and Horror has seiz'd them: The Sheriffs are oblig'd to exert themselves to the utmost, to get some by Management, and others by Force and Rigor. To put into Order as speedily as is requisite, a Pest-House, and to furnish it with all Necessaries, which are almost numberless, is a Task no less perplexed with Difficulties. The Hospital _des Convalescens_, which was resolved to be made use of, is found to be too little; it is necessary to enlarge it, by joining to it a Building called the _Fas_, which stands very near it; a thousand Things are to be done, and yet none could easily be made to stir about them: M. _Moustier_ is obliged to repair thither, and to abide upon the Spot; and by keeping Hands at Work Night and Day, he makes such Expedition, that in 48 Hours he gets it put in Order, all Necessaries sorted and laid ready, and the whole made fit to receive the Sick. A very great Difficulty still remains, which is to find Stewards, Overseers, Cooks, and other lower Officers, and especially so great a Number of Servants as are requisite to tend the Sick: Advertisements are affixed throughout the City, to invite those sordid Creatures whom Avarice draws into Dangers, or those of better Minds, whom superabundant Charity disposes to devote themselves for the Publick; and by seeking such out, by encouraging, giving, and promising, they are procured: Apothecaries and Surgeons are engaged; and two Physicians, Strangers, named _Gayon_, come in voluntarily, and offer their Service, and to be shut up in the Hospital: Unhappily, Death puts an End too soon to their Charity and Zeal. Three Pits of Sixty Foot long, as many broad, and Twenty four deep, are begun at once without the Walls, between the Gate of _Aix_ and that of _Joliette_: To compel the Peasants to work at them, M. _Moustier_ is obliged to keep with them daily, exposed to the Heat of the Sun. The Chevalier _Rose_, appointed Captain and Commissary-General at the _Rive Neuve_, beyond the Port, does the same: He puts into proper Order another vast Hospital, under the Sheds of a Rope-yard; causes large and deep Pits to be dug near the Abbey of St. _Victor_; gets together Carts, Buriers of the Dead, and all Persons needful to look to the Living, the Dying, and the Dead; and what is no less remarkable than his Activity, his Courage, and his Zeal for his unfortunate Country, he furnishes out of his own Purse the great Expences necessary for maintaining that Hospital, and the many Hands he employs, without troubling himself when and how he shall be reimbursed. No sooner are these Pest-Houses in any Readiness to receive the Sick, but in less than Two Days they are quite filled; but are not long so by those who are carried thither: The Distemper is so violent, that those who are brought in at Night are carried out next Day to the Pits; and so the Dead make Room every Day successively for the Sick. The 12th of _August_, M. _de Chicoyneau_ and _Verny_, the chief Physicians of _Montpellier_, arrive at the Barrier of _Notre-Dame_, to come and examine, by Order of his Royal Highness, the true Nature of the Distemper that afflicts this City: Lodgings are made ready for them, and a Coach is sent to bring them hither from the Barrier. The 13th, the Marquess _de Pilles_, and the Sheriffs invite them to the Town-House, whither they had summoned all the Physicians and Master-Surgeons of the City; after they had conferred a long Time upon the Symptoms of the Distemper, they agree among themselves, to go together the following Days, to visit as well the sick in the Hospitals, as those in the several Quarters of the Town, and to make such Experiments as they should judge proper. Hitherto the Distemper has not exerted all its Rage; it kills indeed those it seizes, hardly one escaping; and whatever House it enters, it carries off the whole Family; but as yet, it has fallen only on the poorer Sort of People, which keeps many Persons in a false Notion, that it is not really the Plague, but proceeds from bad Diet and Want of other Necessaries: those who use the Sea, and have frequently seen the Plague in the _Levant_, think they observe some Difference: In short, Abundance of People still remain in doubt, and expecting with the utmost Impatience the Decision of the Physicians of _Montpellier_, to determine them whether to stay or fly. The 14th, the Sheriffs write to the Council of Marine, most humbly to thank his Royal Highness for his Care and Goodness, in sending to them these Physicians. The 15th they write to the Marshal _de Villars_, to acquaint him with the Condition of the City, and the extreme Want it is in, having near a hundred thousand Souls in it, without Bread and without Money: they write likewise to M. _de Bernage_, Intendant in _Languedoc_, and to the Marquess _de Caylus_ the commanding Officer in _Provence_, then at _Montpellier_, to desire them to procure them Bread-Corn, to preserve them from Famine, which they had no less Reason to fear than the Plague. The Marquess _de Caylus_ has the Goodness to engage his own Credit for procuring them a good Quantity. The 16th being the Festival of St. _Roch_, which has at all Times been solemnized at _Marseilles_, for imploring Deliverance from the Plague, the Marquess _de Pilles_, and the Sheriffs, for preventing Communication, would have the Procession usually made every Year, in which the Bust and Relicks of that Saint are carried, be now forborn; but they are obliged to yield to the Outcries of the People, who become almost raving in Matters of Devotion, when they are under so terrible a Scourge as the Plague, whose dire Effects they already feel; they even judge it convenient to assist at the Procession themselves, with all their Halbardiers and Guards, to hinder its being followed by a Crowd, and to prevent all Disorder. The 17th the Physicians of _Montpellier_ come to the Town-House, to acquaint the Sheriffs with what they have discover'd of the Nature of the Distemper, and in plain Words declare it to be certainly the Plague. But considering how many People have already left the City, and that the Terror and Affright in it have put all into Confusion, they think fit, lest they should increase it, to dissemble; and that, for quieting Peoples Minds, a publick Notification should be affixed; importing, that they find the Distemper to be only a contagious Fever, occasion'd by unwholsome Diet, and that it will soon cease by the Supplies which are preparing to be sent in from all Parts, and which will produce Plenty of all Things. This Notification is forthwith affixed, but without any Effect: The Mortality which for some Days past has extremely increas'd, the Malignity and Violence with which it begins to rage in all Parts without Distinction, and the Suddenness with which it is observ'd to communicate it self imperceptibly, has already convinced the most obstinate, and those who were most disposed to deceive themselves, that it is really the Plague; and without waiting to hear or reason any longer, every one runs away so precipitately, that all the Gates of the Town are hardly sufficient to let out the Crowds. Were those only the useless Mouths, nothing could be more convenient and beneficial; but the most necessary Persons, and even those whose Functions oblige them most indispensably to tarry, are the forwardest to desert; almost all the Intendants of Health, those of the Office of Plenty, the Councellors of the Town, the Commissaries _de Police_, the chief Director of the Hospitals and other Houses of publick Charity; the very Commissaries, who but a few Days ago, were established in the Parishes and Quarters to take care of relieving the Poor; the Tradesmen of all Professions, and those who are the most necessary in Life, the Bakers, the Sellers of Provisions and common Necessaries; even those whose Duty it is to watch others, and hinder them from leaving the Town; that is to say, the Captains and Officers of the _Militia_, do all desert, abandon, and fly from the City: In short, the Marquis _de Pilles_, and the Sheriffs are left by themselves, with the Care upon them of an infinite Number of poor People, ready to attempt any Thing in the Extremity to which they are reduced by Want, and by the Calamities which are multiplied by the Contagion. The Town has now an Aspect that moves Compassion; an Air of Desolation appears throughout; all the Shops are every where shut up; the greatest Part of the Houses, Churches and Convents, all the publick Markets and Places of Resort are deserted; and no Person is to be found in the Streets, but poor groaning Wretches; the Port is empty, the Gallies have withdrawn from the Keys, and are enclosed within a Stockade on the Side of the Arsenal, where the Bridges are drawn up, and high Barriers erected, and all the Merchant-Ships and Vessels have left the Wharfs, and gone out to Anchor at a Distance. This proud _Marseilles_, but a few Days before so flourishing; this Source of Plenty, and (if I may use the Expression) of Felicity; is become the true Image of _Jerusalem_ in its Desolation: Happy still if it could stop here; and if the Hand which has begun to chastise her, did not within less than Two Weeks, render her the most dreadful Scene of human Misery, that ever Destruction formed in any City of the World. The 18th, a Crowd of People from the Quarter of St. _John_ come before the Gates of the Town-House, crying out that they will have Wine; and that there is no body left in the Town who will sell any. The Guards make ready to drive them away, M. _Estelle_ repairs thither, and soon after M. _Moustier_; they pacify them, promise to let them have what they desire; and accordingly an Ordinance is immediately published, commanding all those who have Wine by them, to expose it to Sale all that Day, otherwise their Cellars to be broke open, and the Wine sold by the Guards, who shall go the Rounds through all the Quarters. At this Time the Contagion has spread into all Parts of the Town, notwithstanding all the Care and Pains taken to hinder Communication, and begins to make a general Ravage: It is necessary for carrying off the Dead, to employ in the Streets a greater Number of Carts, and especially to increase the Number of Buriers of the Dead. But this is utterly impossible, almost all of that Sort of People of the Town that could be sacrificed in so dangerous a Work are consumed; they do not live in it above Two Days; they catch the Plague the first Corpse they touch, whatever Precaution is used; they are furnished with Hooks fastened to the End of long Staves; but the coming any thing near the Bodies infects them: They are paid no less than Fifteen Livres a Day; but as alluring a Bait as that is to beggarly Wretches, they will not touch it, in the Sight of certain and inevitable Death; they must be hunted for, and dragged to the Work by downright Force: Now whether they are able to keep themselves hid, or whether they are all dead, there are no longer any to be found; in the mean while, the dead Bodies remain in the Houses, and at the Gates of the Hospitals, cast in Heaps one upon another, there being no Means to remove them and bury them in the Pits. In this Extremity the Sheriffs have recourse to the Officers commanding the Gallies, most earnestly beseeching them to let them have some of their Slaves to serve for Buriers of the Dead, offering them Security for supplying their Room at the Cost of the City, or to make the Loss good to his Majesty. They condescend, considering the absolute Necessity, to give them Twenty Six of their Invalids, to whom they promise Liberty to excite them to the Work. It cannot be denied that the City was in some Measure saved by the Help of these Slaves, and of those afterwards granted, but it must be allowed too, that to Sheriffs who are oppress'd with the Weight of Business, and deserted by all Persons on whom they could repose any Part of their Care, such Buriers of the Dead are very burdensome. They are destitute of all Necessaries; they must be provided with Shooes when there are neither Shooes nor a Shooemaker left in the City: They must have Lodgings and Victuals, and no body will harbour, or come near, or have any Communication with Gally-Slaves, Buriers of infected Bodies: A watchful Eye must be kept over them Night and Day; they rob all Houses from whence they fetch the dead Bodies; and not knowing how to harness the Horses, or drive the Carts, they often overturn them, breaking the Carts or the Harness, which cannot be mended, not only because there is neither Wheelwright nor Collarmaker left, but because no body will touch Things infected; so that the Sheriffs must be continually begging or borrowing of Carts from the Country, where every Body contrives to hide them; and must often be at a Stand in a Work requiring the most Haste of all others, which those Slaves affect to perform so slowly and lazily, that it is very provoking. In what City of the World was it ever seen, that the Consuls were harrassed with so many Cares, and reduced to the Necessity of going through all the dismal and dangerous Offices, to which the Sheriffs of _Marseilles_ are forced to sacrifice themselves? Seeing that very quickly, to oblige those Slaves to make more Dispatch, and carry off putrified Bodies which they cannot endure to touch, nor even so much as to approach, without being excited and urged on, the Sheriffs are forced to put themselves at their Head, and go the foremost where the Infection rages most, to make them carry them off: M. _Moustier_ for near Two Months together was forced to rise constantly at Day-break, to see them put the Horses to the Carts, and prevent their breaking them; to follow them to the Pits, lest they should leave the Bodies on the Sides of the Pits without burying them; and at Night to see the Horses unharnessed; put into the Stables, and the Harness hung where they may be found next Morning, and thereby prevent the Inconveniences which might interrupt the Continuance of a Work, the Delay of which is dangerous. Even the _Roman_ Consuls, so full of the Love of their Country, did certainly never carry their Zeal to so high a Pitch. The 19th, Persons are chosen in all the Parishes to make Broth for the sick Poor, and to distribute it among them; and a particular Hospital is established, which the most moving Accidents such a Calamity can produce, render absolutely necessary. Many Women who suckled Children, dye of the Contagion; and the Infants are found crying in their Cradles, when the Bodies of the Mothers or Nurses are taken away; no Body will receive these Children, much less suckle, or feed them: There is no Pity stirring in the Time of a Plague, the Fear of catching the Contagion stifles all Sentiments of Charity, and even those of Humanity: To save as many as possible of these little Innocents, and of so many other unhappy Children of tender Age, whom the Pestilence has made Orphans, the Sheriffs take the Hospital of St. _James_ of _Galicia_, and the Convent of the Fathers of _Loretto_, which were become empty by the Death or Flight of all those Monks; and there Care is taken to feed them, with Spoon-Meat, or by holding them to Goats to suck. The Number of them is so great, that tho' 30 or 40 die in a Day, there are always 12 or 1300, by the Addition of those who are brought in successively every Day. The 20th, Part of the Slaves, which had been received into the Town but Two Days before, are struck with the Plague, and disabled from Working; more are asked of the Officers of the Gallies, who grant Thirty Three. This Day all the Millers and Bakers ceasing to work, because almost all their Servants have left them and fled, an Ordinance is issued at my Instance, requiring the Deserters to return, and to forbid those who remain to leave their Masters, on Pain of Death. Not one Mason is left in the Town, and divers Works are wanting to be done in the Church-Yards, and the Hospitals. A like Ordinance is published, to compel them to return; and another forbidding the carrying out of the Town, Meal or Brown Bread, designed for subsisting the Poor, on the Penalty of a Fine and Confiscation. The 21st, the Pestilence begins to rage with so much Fury, and the Number of the dead is multiplied so suddenly, that it appears impossible to carry them off in Carts to the Pits without the Town; because the Carts cannot well go to the upper Quarter of St. _John_, nor to several others of the old Town, the Streets of which are narrow and steep, and yet the greatest Number of dead Bodies lies in those Streets, which are inhabited by Multitudes of the meanest People; and besides, it is so far from thence to the Pits without the Walls, that there is no doing so much Work without falling into the Inconvenience of leaving many Bodies behind, which would poison the Air, and breed a general Infection. Upon this and other perplexing Difficulties, which require the Advice of a Number of judicious Persons, the Marquess _de Pilles_, and the Sheriffs desire the General Officers of the Gallies, to assemble with them at the Town-House, and give them their Advice: It is there resolved, 1. That for the Reasons above specified, and for avoiding the Inconveniencies which 'tis apprehended might be fatal, the Dead shall be buried in the Pits without the Walls, and also in the Vaults of the Churches of the _Jacobines_, the _Observantines_, of the Grand _Carmelites_, and of _Loretto_; that these Churches being situate in the upper Town, where is the greatest Number of dead Bodies, and where the Carts cannot easily pass; a kind of Biers shall be made, on which the Slaves, shall carry off those Bodies from thence: that at each Church, Heaps of Lime shall be laid, and Barrels of Water placed, to be thrown into the Vaults, and when they are filled, they shall be closed up with a Cement, so that no Infection may exhale. 2. That a trusty Person with some Guards on Horseback, shall march at the Head of the Carts, and with each Brigade of Slaves, to make them work diligently, and prevent their losing Time in stealing. 3. Lest the Pits and the several Church-yards in which the Dead are buried, should exhale the Infection, for want of being filled up and covered with the necessary Quantity of Earth and Lime; a general and exact View shall be taken, and sufficient Heaps of both shall be laid there. 4. Several Parishes and Quarters being destitute of Commissaries, who have fled, and Persons to supply their room not being to be found, each Convent shall be obliged to furnish Monks to act as Commissaries in those Quarters where they are wanted. 5. For preventing Communication, the Bishop shall be desired to cause all Divine Service in the Churches to cease. 6. To keep the Populace in Awe and obedient to Orders, Gibbets shall be set up in all the publick Places. The 21st, the Sheriffs acquainting the Council of Marine with the Increase of the Contagion, desire them to allow all ordinary Business to remain suspended for the future, that they may apply themselves entirely to what regards the publick Health only. When the Plague rages thus in a City, every one looking on himself as at the Point of Death, is no longer in a Disposition to apply himself to any thing, but what tends immediately to his own Preservation. In the mean while every thing is grown scarce in the Town, even such things of which there is ordinarily the greatest Plenty: Linnen cannot be had for covering the Mattresses in the Hospitals, tho' Search is made for it by breaking open all the Warehouses and Shops. The Report of the Plague keeps out whatever used to be brought daily into the Port from all Parts of the World: The Sheriffs are obliged therefore to write to the first President, to desire him to send what Linnen can be had at _Aix_, and also Shooes for the Slaves, there being no Shooemaker at _Marseilles_ to make them. Were it not for his Attention to the Wants of the Sheriffs, and his Care to supply them, they would be in a thousand Perplexities: Twice or thrice a Day they take the Liberty to write to him, and always with equal Goodness he exerts himself to answer their Demands, condescending to give Directions in Matters beneath the Functions of his Ministry; and as if it were not enough to employ his own Care and Pains Night and Day, for saving this unfortunate City, he extends his Concern for it yet further, by chusing to be represented here by M. _Rigord_, his Subdelegate, who acts with so great Application and Zeal, that tho' the Plague has ravaged his House, tho' he has seen his Lady perish by his Side, and all his Family, Clerks, and Servants swept away, these Horrors have not shaken him, nor drawn him aside one Moment from his continual Labours for the Relief of the Town. This Day, upon Information that several Bakers to conceal their Desertion, have committed their Shops and Ovens to the Management of their Servants, who appear there only for Show, but do nothing; an Ordinance is published at my Instance, enjoyning them to return and look to their own Business, forbidding them to absent themselves again on Pain of Death. Another Ordinance is issued, to oblige likewise the Intendants of Health, those of the Office of Plenty, the Counsellors of the City, and all other municipal Officers, to return within 24 Hours, on the Penalty of a Fine of 1000 Livres, and of being declared incapable of all municipal Offices. The same Day the Bishop, to whom the Marquess _de Pilles_ had notified the Resolutions taken in the Assembly the Day before, sets forth to him in a Letter several Reasons against burying the infected Dead in the Vaults of the Churches of the Convents chosen for that Use. Whereupon the Marquess _de Pilles_, having invited the General Officers of the Gallies to meet again at the Town-House, with the Sheriffs, and some other good Citizens: After the Reasons urged in the said Letter had been well considered, and weighed against that which had determined them to pass the Resolution for burying in the Churches, which is, the absolute and indispensible Necessity of doing it; they unanimously conclude that the said Resolution shall stand, but that the Execution of it shall be forborn 24 Hours, to see whether in that Interval the Mortality shall happen to decrease, so that it may be dispensed with; but that in the mean time, without any Delay, the Vaults in the Churches shall be got ready, and all the Lime and Water necessary carried thither. * * * * * The 23d, when this Work was setting about, the Monks of those Churches shut up the Doors, and refused to open them. M. _Moustier_ repairs thither, causes them to be forced open, and all the Lime and Barrels of Water requisite to be brought thither by Carts. As for Biers, for want of Joyners, he puts the first Persons that come in his way upon making them as well as they can: The Publick Services in Cases of Extremity are dispatched, where Magistrates know how to direct and command, and will see themselves obeyed. This Day, the Mortality is so far from decreasing, that near 1000 Persons dye; and it being evident there is no room to hesitate about burying in the Churches, seeing otherwise the dead Bodies would become gradually too numerous to be carried off, all Dispositions are made for setting about it to-Morrow Morning every where at once, and the Officers of the Gallies are pleased to furnish for this Purpose 20 Slaves more. * * * * * The 24th, that all Dispatch might be made, and a Work which disheartens Men by the visible Danger and Terrors of Death not slackened, M. _Moustier_ appears in Person, animating and urging on the Slaves, as well by his Intrepidity and Courage, as by his Actions; and when the Vaults are filled, and the Lime and Water thrown in, he takes care to have them well closed up, and Cement laid over every Hole and Crevice. The Marquess _de Pilles_, and the other Sheriffs are as active in the mean time to put in Execution all the other Things resolved on. They appoint the most trusty Persons they can find, to go on Horseback with Guards at the Head of the Carts, and of each Brigade of Slaves; but those Persons do not hold out long in so perilous an Employment, and they are soon obliged to act themselves in that Station. * * * * * They have no Occasion to go to desire the Bishop to cause Divine Service to cease in the Churches, they are generally shut up already: There are hardly any Masses now said any where, no Administration of the Sacraments, not so much as the tolling of Bells, all the Ecclesiasticks are fled, and even some of the Parish-Priests. As for Monks, they cannot possibly find any to act as Commissaries in the Quarters where they are wanted; some have deserted, others are dead, and not a sufficient Number of them are left, to confess the Sick; Father _Milay_, a Jesuit, is the only Man of them all, who to satisfy that Holy Zeal, and fervent Charity, by which he has been always actuated, comes voluntarily and offers to be Commissary in the Street of _Lescale_, and thereabouts; an Employment which none else durst take, because it is the Part of the Town where the Plague makes the greatest Havock, and which is barricaded with _Corps de Garde_ at the Avenues, that no Person may enter, or stir out of it; the Sheriffs make him Commissary there, where from the Beginning of the Contagion he has confessed the infected. He performs Acts of Piety surpassing any thing called Heroick; but the Plague does not spare him long, it snatches from the Faithful this new Apostle. They go to take a View of the Pits and Churchyards; a horrid Spectacle, dangerous to approach, the vast Number of infected Bodies but lately thrown into them, lying all uncovered, heaped by Thousands on one another. Formerly Governors and Consuls during all the Time of Contagion, used to keep shut up in the Town-House with very great Precaution; all who have formed Rules for Towns visited with the Plague, have prescribed that Conduct, judging that the Magistrates ought to be more careful than all others, to preserve their Life and Health. Here, the Marquess _de Pilles_, and the Sheriffs, think only of preserving the Life and Health of others, exposing their own without any Concern; and are Night and Day in the open Street, wherever they see Danger deter others. The Marquess _de Pilles_ has so little Regard for himself, that at the first he lets the principal Pest-House (which is that _des Convalescens_) be settled within 4 Paces of his own House. M. _Estelle_ goes all Night long, so void of fear, to see the dead Bodies carried off the Street _Lescale_, that slipping on the Pavement he was within a Finger's Breadth of falling full upon a dead Body that lay on the Ground before him: M. _Moustier_ sets so light by Dangers that make others tremble, that a Plaister reeking with the Corruption of the Bubo of an infected Person thrown out of the Window, lighting on his Cheek, and sticking there, he takes it off perfectly unconcerned, and only wiping his Cheek clean with his Spunge dipped in Vinegar, proceeds on the Business he is about. The others behaved much in the same manner. * * * * * The 25th, the Plague has spread into the four Corners of the City, and exercises its Rage on all Sides: From this time to the End of _September_ it rages with the same Violence, it strikes like Lightning every where, sweeps all before it, and carries off above a Thousand Souls a Day. Its Violence now attacks by Crowds only, and its Fury gives a Thousand Deaths at once. In Consequence, the Pest-Houses established are insufficient to receive all the poor Sick; it is resolved to make a new one, large enough to take in any Number; and there not being without the Town, nor in it, a Building capacious enough for that Purpose, it is resolved to erect one (as the Physicians of _Montpellier_ had advised) in the Allies of that spacious Piece of Ground used for playing at Mall, which is without the Gate _des faineants_, contiguous to the Convent of the Reformed _Augustines_, with Timber-Work to be covered with Sail-Cloath made of Cotton: This is a new Difficulty for the Sheriffs, to have such an Hospital to build, without being able to reckon upon the Assistance of any Person, and even without any Workmen, for they are generally fled. * * * * * The 26th, the Chamber of Vacations being informed that almost all the Bakers of _Marseilles_ have deserted, and being desirous to prevent the Extremity to which the City will be reduced, if at such a Conjuncture sufficient Quantities of Bread should not be made; they publish an Arrêt, commanding all _Bakers_ and their Foremen who have withdrawn, to return on Pain of Death; and enjoining the Consuls of the Places where they may have taken Refuge, to deliver them up, on the Penalty of a Fine and other Punishment. All the Shops of Retailers being shut up, so that People have no whither to go to buy common Necessaries, an Ordinance is published at my Instance, to oblige the Retailers to open their Shops within Twenty Four Hours, otherwise they shall be broken open. * * * * * The 27th, the Chamber of Vacations commiserating the Condition of _Marseilles_, and the Sufferings of its Inhabitants, publish an Arrêt, enjoining all Artificers, Tradesmen and Wholesale Dealers, to open their Shops and Warehouses within Twentyfour Hours, on Pain of Death. This Day the Marquess _de Pilles_, who from the Beginning of the Contagion has been continually at the Town-House, or wherever his Zeal called him, that is to say, where was most Danger and Difficulty, without any Care of his own Safety, sinks at length under the Weight of his Fatigues, and falling sick is unable to stir out of his House; The Fear of losing a Governor, whose Merit and Person are held in Veneration at _Marseilles_, gives a general Alarm. * * * * * The 28th, the Plague redoubles its Ravages, and the whole City is become a vast Church-yard, presenting to the View the sad Spectacle of dead Bodies cast in Heaps one upon another. In this deplorable State, a thousand Things are to be done, a Thousand Wants to be supplied, and yet there is no Person to have Recourse to for Relief; the People of the Territory are deaf to all Demands, they cannot by any Order issued be wrought upon, to bring in so much as Straw for the Mattresses in the Hospitals, and Hay for the Horses belonging to the Carts: The Sheriffs seeing nothing is to be done but by Force, desire the first President to procure them the Assistance of some Hundred Men of regular Troops. They apply next to the Officers of the Gallies, remonstrating to them, that the common Safety is at Stake; that almost all the Slaves they have already granted them are dead, and that the Number of dead Bodies the City is fill'd with is so exceeding great, that they cannot be carried off, unless they will be pleas'd to let them have a sufficient Number to make a strong Effort. * * * * * M. _de Rancé_, Lieutenant-General, commanding the Gallies, M. _de Vaucresson_, Intendant, and all the General Officers, are moved with the miserable Condition they see _Marseilles_ in; they make too noble and eminent a Part or it, not to be thoroughly concern'd to see it wholly perish; they have shewn, on all Occasions, their good Intentions; and in this, there is not one of them, who, to help to save the City, would not hazard his own Life: But not having received Order to the present Purpose from the Council of Marine, they make a Difficulty to grant so great a Number of Slaves as is requisite, and will part with but 80; and this with a Protestation, that they shall be the last. * * * * * This Protestation obliges the Sheriffs to exert themselves more than ever, to make these Slaves do all the Service that is possible: M. _Moustier_, not satisfying himself with the toilsome Care of providing them Lodging and Subsistance, and of going every Morning to see them harness the Horses, and get to work with the Carts, puts himself at the Head of the largest Brigade, leads them to the Places that are least accessible, where lye the greatest Heaps of putrified Bodies, and encourages them to carry them off, either whole, or by Pieces. * * * * * In the mean while a Letter is written to the Council of Marine, most humbly to intreat his Royal Highness to be pleased to give Orders for supplying the Town: Which wanting all Things, there being no Meat to make Broth with for the poor Sick, and Famine destroying those whom the Plague might spare, his Royal Highness is earnestly besought to order the neighbouring Provinces to send in the necessary Provisions for subsisting the People. The 29th, several Ordinances are issued, at my Instance. 1. All the Rakers, and others employed under the Scavengers to clean the Streets, having deserted since the Beginning of the Contagion, for fear of being made use of as Buriers of the Dead: the whole Town since the Second of this Month, is full of Dunghils and Poisonous Filth, which stagnates on the Pavement: They are by an Ordinance commanded to return on Pain of Death. 2. From out of the Houses, the Quilts, Straw-Beds, Bed-Cloaths, Apparel, and Rags used about the Infected, are thrown into the Streets; so that there is no passing them. An Ordinance forbids it, and enjoins that all such Things be drawn to the publick Squares, and immediately burnt, on Pain of Imprisonment. 3. For want of Porters, the very Corn, which the Boats bring up from the Barrier of _Lestaque_, cannot be carried into the Store-Houses; those Porters are all engaged in the Service of private Persons in the Territory: An Ordinance commands them to come and work as usual in the City, on Pain of Death; and private Persons are forbidden to detain them, on the Penalty of a Fine of 3000 Livres, and of Imprisonment. 4. For want of those who used to ply with Asses, the Bakers cannot get the Wood carried with which the Town furnishes them; and all private Persons are under the like Inconvenience: An Ordinance charges those Ass-Keepers to return with their Beasts, on Pain of Death. The Chamber of Vacations being informed, that the Intendants of Health, and the Commissaries appointed in the Parishes and Quarters, who have deserted, do not obey the Ordinance of the Sheriffs and return; that Chamber issues an Arrêt this Day, commanding them all to return forthwith to their Duties, on Pain of Death. * * * * * All these Arrêts and Ordinances are duly proclaimed by Sound of Trumpet, and affixed at all the Corners of the Streets, and in all the Quarters of the Territories, but to no manner of Purpose; the Dread of the Plague is so strong and terrible, that nothing can overcome it. It is indeed impossible for the Heart of Man to bear up against all the frightful Spectacles that present themselves every where to the Eye in this unhappy City; the dire Effects of a raging Pestilence, which seems to threaten not to be asswaged by the Death only and general Extinction of all the Inhabitants, but by rendring the Place it self a vast Sink of Corruption and Poison, for ever uninhabitable by human Race. * * * * * Which Way soever one turns, the Streets appear strowed on both Sides with dead Bodies close by each other, most of which being putrified, are unsupportably hideous to behold. * * * * * As the Number of Slaves employed to take them out of the Houses, is very insufficient to be able to carry all off daily, some frequently remain there whole Weeks; and there would remain longer, if the Stench they emit, which poisons the Neighbours, did not compel them for their own Preservation, to overcome all Aversion to such horrid Work, and go into the Apartments where they lye, to drag them down into the Streets: They pull them out with Hooks, and hawl them by Ropes fastened to the Staves of those Hooks into the Streets: This they do in the Night, that they may draw them to some Distance from their own Houses; they leave them extended before another's Door, who at opening it the next Morning is frighted at the Sight of such an Object, which generally infects him, and gives him Death. The Ring, and all publick Walks, Squares, and Market-Places, the Key of the Port, are spread with dead Bodies, some lying in Heaps: The Square before the Building called the _Loge_, and the Pallisades of the Port, are filled with the continual Number of dead Bodies that are brought ashore from the Ships and Vessels, which are crowded with Families, whom Fear induced to take Refuge there, in a false Persuasion, that the Plague would not reach them upon the Water. Under every Tree in the Ring and the Walks, under every Pent-House of the Shops in the Streets and on the Port, one sees among the Dead a prodigious Number of poor Sick, and even whole Families, lying on a little Straw, or on ragged Mattresses; some are in a languishing Condition, to be relieved only by Death; others are light-headed by the Force of the Venom which rages in them: They implore the Assistance of those who pass by; some in pitiful Complaints, some in Groans and Out-cries which Pain or Frenzy draw from them. An intolerable Stink exhales from among them: They not only endure the Effects of the Distemper, but suffer equally by the publick Want of Food and common Necessaries: They dye under the Rags that cover them, and every Moment adds to the Number of the Dead that lye about them. It rends the Heart, to behold on the Pavement so many wretched Mothers, who have lying by their Sides the dead Bodies of their Children, whom they have seen expire, without being able to give them any Relief; and so many poor Infants still hanging at the Breasts of their Mothers, who died holding them in their Arms, sucking in the rest of that Venom which will soon put them into the same Condition. If any Space be yet left in the Streets, it is filled with infected Houshold-Goods and Cloaths, which are thrown out of the Windows every where; so that one cannot find a void Place to set one's Foot in. All the Dogs and Cats that are killed, lye putrifying every where among the dead Bodies, the Sick, and the infected Cloaths; all the Port is filled with those thrown into them; and while they float, they add their Stench to the general Infection, which has spread all over the Town, and preys upon the Vitals, the Senses, and the Mind. Those one meets in the Street, are generally livid and drooping, as if their Souls had begun to part from their Bodies; or whom the Violence of the Distemper has made delirious, who, wandring about they know not whither, as long as they can keep on their Legs, soon drop, through Weakness; and, unable to get up again, expire on the Spot; some writhed into strange Postures, denoting the torturing Venom which struck them to the Heart; others are agitated by such Disorders of Mind, that they cut their own Throats, or leap into the Sea, or throw themselves out of the Windows, to put an End to their Misery, and prevent the Death which was not far off. Nothing is to be heard or seen on all Sides but Distress, Lamentation, Tears, Sighs, Groans, Affright, Despair. To conceive so many Horrors, one must figure to one's self, in one View, all the Miseries and Calamities that Human Nature is subject to; and one cannot venture to draw near such a Scene, without being struck dead, or seiz'd with unutterable Horrors of Mind. The 30th, those Heaps of dead Bodies which are in every Quarter of the City, are increas'd by new ones; every Night adds a thousand Dead; and now none of the Slaves are left to work, they are all dead, or sick of the Distemper; nor can more be demanded, after the Protestation made by the Officers of the Gallies. What can be done in Circumstances so full of Desolation? The Sheriffs have Recourse, as usual, to the First President, and intreat him to dispatch a Courier for them to the Court, to sollicit his Royal Highness to send Orders for their being supplied with as many Galley-Slaves as they shall have occasion for: They desire him also to write to M. _de Rancé_ and _de Vaucresson_, to persuade them to grant, in the mean while, at least a Hundred. The 31st, it is impossible for the Hospitals to receive the Number of Sick who crowd thither: As soon as one Person in a House is seized with the Distemper, that Person becomes an Object of Horror and Affright to the nearest Relations; Nature instantly forgets all ordinary Duties; and the Bands of Flesh and Blood being less strong than the Fear of certain Death, shamefully dissolve in an Instant. As the Distemper which has seized that Person, threatens to attack them; as the Contagion communicates it self with extreme Quickness; as the Danger is almost equal to him that suffers, and to those who approach him; and as those who tend and help him have no other Prospect than that of following him in a few Days; they take at first the barbarous Resolution, either to drive him out of the House, or to fly and desert it themselves, and to leave him alone without Assistance or Relief, abandoned to Hunger, Thirst, and all that can render Death the more tormenting. Thus Wives treat their Husbands, and Husbands their Wives, Children their Parents, and Parents their Children: Vain Precaution, inspired by Love of Life, and Horror of Death! By that time they take their Resolution, they have already catch'd the subtle Effluvia of the fatal Poison they would secure themselves from; they are soon sensible of its Malignity, a speedy Death is the Punishment of their Cruelty and Baseness: Others have the same Hardness of Heart towards them; they are forced into the open Street in their Turn, or are left alone in their Houses to perish without Help. Hence proceeds that infinite Number of Sick, of each Sex, and of every Age, State, and Condition, who are found lying in the Streets and publick Places. If all are not cruelly driven out of their own Houses by their Relations or Friends, they prevent that Cruelty; and lest they should run the Hazard of being left alone at home, by the Flight of those Relations or Friends, when they are become quite helpless, they repair to the Hospitals; where not getting Entrance, nay, not being able to get near the Gates, by reason of the Multitudes of Sick, which have got thither before; and who finding them already full, lye down on the Pavement, and stop up all the Avenues; they are obliged to seek room for themselves farther off, among the putrified dead Bodies; the Sight and Stench of which serve to hasten their Death, the only End of this Distemper. These Extremities put the Sheriffs upon double Diligence, to get the New Hospital in the Alleys of the _Mall_ finished: In the mean time, they cause large Tents to be pitched upon that _Esplanade_ without the Town, which is between the Gate _des Faineants_, and the Monastery of the _Capuchins_, where they order as many Mattresses to be put, as the Tents will hold. No sooner are those Tents up, and the Mattresses placed, but they are filled with so many poor Infected, that several throw themselves upon one Mattress: A greater Number is requisite to supply them all; and the Misfortune is, that there is neither Straw nor Linnen to be had to make them with. The 1st of _September_, the first President having been pleased to write to M. _de Rancé_, and _de Vaucresson_, desiring them to let the Sheriffs have a hundred Galley-Slaves more; they are presently sent to them, and a more vigorous Use of them was never made: For M. _Moustier_, incited by the Extremity to which things are reduced, immediately puts himself at the Head of these Slaves, with 11 Carts, and while they are able, makes them carry off above 1200 dead Bodies a Day. The 2d, for making this Labour the more easy, as the Bodies in the Houses occasion the most Loss of Time to the Slaves to fetch them away; and besides, being putrified by being left there long, they cannot draw them out with Hooks, but by Pieces; as also for preventing Robberies by the Slaves, who finding no Person in the Houses, steal all they can lay their Hands on; an Ordinance is published at my Instance, importting, that as soon as any one dies in a House, those belonging to that House shall be obliged to convey the Body down into the Street, using all proper and necessary Precautions. The same Day an Arrêt is issued by the Chamber of Vacations, injoyning all the Rectors of the _Hôtel Dieu_, _de la Charité_, of Foundlings, of the Houses of the Penitent, and of Refuge, the Captains of the City, the Physicians appointed for the Hospitals, and all Sorts of Intendants and municipal Officers, to return to their Duty at _Marseilles_; otherwise declaring them incapable of Publick Offices, and fining them 1000 Livres. The 3d, the Sheriffs repair to the Town-House almost by themselves, with M. _Capus_, Keeper of the Records, his eldest Son, so distinguish'd by his Merit and his Virtues, who, from the Beginning of the Contagion, has assisted him to go through the Multiplicity of Business in his Offices; M. _Bouis_, Cashier; and my self; having no longer any Guards, Domestick Servants, or other Person under Command. The Ravages the Plague has already made in this great City, may be judged by the Number belonging to the Town-House only, that have been carried off, which, is above 500 Persons, _viz._ 30 Guards wearing the Shoulder-Belt, all the Guards _de la Police_, all the Captains of the City one excepted, all the Lieutenants except two, almost all the Captains Lieutenants, and Guards of the Five Brigades _du Privilege du Vin_, all the Sergeants of the Nightly Watch or Patroll, 350 Men of the Companies of the Guard, and all the City-Yeomen appointed to attend the Magistrates, who are now become destitute of all Servants. Men are become only Shadows; those who are seen well one Day, are in the Carts the next; and, what is unaccountable, those who have shut themselves up most securely in their own Houses, and are the most careful to take in nothing without the most exact Precautions, are attacked there by the Plague, which creeps in no Body knows how. The 4th, nothing is more deplorable, than to see the vast Number of Sick and Dying which are spread over the whole City, deprived of all spiritual as well as temporal Comforts, and reduced to the lamentable Condition of dying almost all of them without Confession. There wanted not, indeed, Servants of the Lord, as well of the Secular as Regular Clergy, who devoted their Lives to the saving of Souls, and assisting and confessing the infected; there wanted not even holy Heroes, (for by that Name we ought to call all the Capuchins and Jesuits of the Two Houses of St. _Jeaume_; and of the holy Cross, and likewise all the Observantins, and the Recollets, and some others) who, with more than heroick Courage, and indefatigable Charity and Zeal, ran about every where, and rushed precipitately into the most deserted and most infected Houses, into the Streets and Places that were thickest strow'd with putrify'd Bodies, and into the Hospitals that reeked most with the Contagion, to confess the infected, assist them in the Article of Death, and receive their last contagious and envenom'd Breath, as if it were but Dew. But these sacred Labourers, who may well be look'd upon as true Martyrs, (seeing those of _Alexandria_, under the Prelacy of St. _Denis_, who had the Charity to assist the infected, were honour'd with the Glory of Martyrdom) are almost all taken away by Death, in the Time of so great a Mortality, when their Help is most wanted: Forty two Capuchins have already perished, Twenty one Jesuits, Thirty two Observantins, Twenty nine Recollets, Ten Barefooted _Carmelites_, Twenty two Reformed _Augustines_, all the Grand _Carmelites_, the Grand Trinitarians, the Reformed Trinitarians, the Monks of _Loretto_, of Mercy, the _Dominicans_ and Grand _Augustins_ who had kept in their Convent: besides several Secular Priests, and the greatest Part of the Vicars of Chapters and Parishes. In so great an Extremity, the Bishop recalls those, who, by their peculiar Character, and by the Nature of their Benefice, are under the indispensible Obligation of confessing and administring the spiritual Remedies to the Dying; but who being struck with shameful Terror, have basely sought their own Safety by Flight, without troubling themselves about the Salvation of others. Had their Concern to discharge their proper Duty been too cold to light up in their Hearts that Fire of Charity with which they ought to glow, the Example of their holy Prelate should have excited them: In vain, from the Beginning of the Contagion was he pressed to leave the City, to endeavour to preserve himself, for the rest of his Diocese; he rejects all such Counsels, and hearkens only to those which the Love the Sovereign Pastor has inspired him with for his Flock, suggest to him; he tarries with unshaken Fortitude, determined to lay down his Life for the Good of his Sheep, if God is pleas'd to require it. * * * * * He is not satisfied with prostrating himself at the Feet of Altars, and lifting up his Hands to Heaven to beseech God to mitigate his Wrath; his Charity is active; he is every Day in the open Streets, through all Quarters of the Town; he goes up to the highest and worst Apartments of the Houses to visit the Sick; crosses the Streets among the dead Bodies; appears in the publick Places, at the Port, at the Ring; the poorest, the most destitute of Friends, those afflicted the most grievously and hideously, are the Persons to whom he goes with most Earnestness; and without dreading those mortal Blasts which carry Poison to the Heart, he approaches them, confesses them, exhorts them to Patience, disposes them to die, pours celestial Consolations into their Souls, representing to them the Felicity of Suffering and of Poverty; and drops every where abundant Fruits of his generous Charity, distributing Money where-ever he goes, and especially in secret to indigent Families, whom holy Curiosity prompts him to seek out and to relieve; he has already given away Twenty five thousand Crowns, and takes up what Money he can upon Pledges, to enable him to distribute more. But I should not blaze abroad what his Humility is careful to conceal, it ought to be left under the Veil which that Virtue throws over it. Death has spared this new _Charles Borromeo_, but has continually surrounded him, and almost mowed under his Feet: The Plague gets into his Palace, the greatest Part of his Officers and Domesticks are struck with it; he is obliged to retreat into the House of the first President at _Marseilles_; the Plague pursues him thither, and not only attacks the rest of his Domesticks, but Two Persons who are very dear to him for their distinguished Merit, and are his Assistants in his holy Labours, Father _de la Fare_ a Jesuit, and M. _Bourgeret_ Canon of _la Major_; the first escapes, but he has the Grief to see the other expire: All this however does not terrify him, nor with-hold him one Moment from any of the Duties of his fervent Charity; he goes every where still to visit the Infected. But the Plague destroys too fast for the surviving Remnant of Confessors to perform all the Service necessarily required: A greater Number of Workmen should be had; wherefore the Canons of the Collegiate Church of St. _Martin_, and some of that of _Acoules_, who have Benefices with Cure of Souls, and who have fled, are those the Bishop recals, to come and confess, each within the Bounds of his parish. The Sheriffs, who observe all those Parish-Priests are deaf to the Voice of their Bishop, and unconcerned for the Loss of the Souls of their Parishioners, present a Petition to the Bishop, to order them by an Injunction to return forthwith to their Duty; in default of which their Benefices to be declared vacant, and other Persons qualified to fill them, to be nominated. The 5th, the Regulators of the Fishermen being capable of some Service, and Three of them having fled; an Ordinance is published at my Instance, to oblige them to return, on the Penalty of a Fine of Three Thousand Livres, and of losing their Offices. * * * * * This Day the Sheriffs being astonish'd at the Increase of the Mortality, and the deplorable State the City is in, and longing for an Answer to the Dispatches they have sent to Court for necessary Supplies, write to the Marshal _de Villars_, most earnestly beseeching him to second their Instances: That Illustrious Governor, who among all the Towns of his Government of _Provence_, has constantly honoured _Marseilles_ with his particular Affection, is so concerned to hear of the extreme Desolation it is in, that he returns Answer, He is resolved to come himself to its Relief, if his Royal Highness will give him Leave. * * * * * The 6th, the Sheriffs find themselves reduced to the most terrible of all Extremities; the last Slaves which the Officers of the Gallies had granted, at the Request of the first President, being all either dead, or fallen ill of the Distemper; and notwithstanding all the Efforts M. _Moustier_ had made the preceeding Days, to get all the dead Bodies possible carried off, above Two Thousand still remaining in the Streets, besides what are in the Houses; they see plainly, that if the Officers of the Gallies will not give them more Slaves, at the rate the Mortality goes on, there must be in less than Eight Days above Fifteen Thousand Bodies in the Streets all putrified; from which will ensue a Necessity of quitting the Town, and abandoning it perhaps for ever, to the Putrefaction, Poison, and Infection which will settle in it. Hereupon they assemble, with the few Citizens still left, among whom are two Intendants of Health who have not stirred a Foot, M. _Rose_ the Elder, and M. _Rollaud_. Divers Expedients are debated; some propose, that for disposing of the present dead Bodies, and those to be expected daily, a large Pit should be opened in every Street to throw them into: But two things are objected; one is, that such Pits cannot be dug in the Streets, without cutting off, at the same time, all the Conduit-Pipes which are laid through them; the other is, that it would require above Ten Thousand Men to dig speedily so many Pits in so vast a City, while there is none to be found in a Condition to work; besides, no body would dig in Streets actually strewed with infected Bodies, for fear of catching the Infection by touching them. Others propose, to let all the Bodies lie where they are, in the Streets, the publick Places, and the Houses, and there to cover them with Lime to consume them; and that such a Quantity of Lime be carried in Carts, and laid in Heaps in every Street, as may serve to consume all the dead Bodies that shall be there. But to this likewise there are several Objections; Where is Lime enough to be had for consuming so many Bodies? Where are Men to help to cart it? And who could stay in the City amidst the horrible Infection which those Bodies would exhale, as they are consuming? The Course the Sheriffs think best to take, is, without passing any Resolution, to desire the Citizens assembled with them, to accompany them, in their Hoods, and in a Body, to the House of M. _de Rancé_ to intreat him with all Earnestness, to grant them the Assistance they want for the Preservation of the City. M. _de Rancé_ calls together M. _de Vaucresson_ the Intendant, and the General Officers of the Gallies; they appear to be touched as much with the Zeal of these Magistrates, and with the burthensome and hazardous Conditions upon which they ask this Assistance, as with the great Extremity the City is in; accordingly they grant them all they demand on those Conditions; and being desirous to have the Agreement put into Writing, I drew up before them the following Act to be entred in the Register of the Town-House, and a Copy of it to be given to them. * * * * * _This Day, the Sheriffs, Protectors, and Defenders of the Privileges, Liberties, and Immunities, of this City of_ Marseilles, _the King's Counsellors, Lieutenants-General_ de Police, _being assembled in the Town-House, with some of the municipal Officers, the Counsellor Orator of the City and the King's Procurator_ de la Police, _and other eminent Citizens; and taking into Consideration, that though the 260 Slaves, which the Officers of the Gallies have been pleased to grant them at different Times, to bury the Dead since the City was afflicted with the Plague; have been extremely helpful to them hitherto, yet that Assistance is insufficient, above 2000 dead Bodies having actually lain in the Streets several Days; and causing a general Infection; it was therefore resolved, for preserving the City, to desire greater Assistance: And immediately the Sheriffs going out in their Hoods, accompanied by all the said municipal Officers and eminent Citizens, went in a Body to the House of the Chevalier_ de Rancé, _Lieutenant-General, commanding his Majesty's Gallies, and represented to him, that the City has infinite Obligations to him for the signal Services which he has been pleased to do them in this Calamity; but that it is not possible to preserve the City, unless he does them the favour to grant them a Hundred Slaves more, and 4 Officers of the Whistle (or Boatswains) (almost all those who have formerly been granted, being dead or sick;) in which Case they will make the best Use of them; that to engage them to work with the greater Diligence in carrying off the dead Bodies, they will expose themselves as they have already done; will march on Horseback in their Hoods, before the Carts, and go with them all over the City: That moreover, it being of Importance, that their Authority should be supported by Force, at a time when there remains in the City only a numerous Populace, who must be kept under, for preventing all Tumult, and for maintaining good Order every where; they further intreat him most earnestly to grant them at least Forty stout Soldiers of the Gallies, to obey their Orders, to attend them, and at the same time hinder the Slaves from getting away; that they shall be commanded by themselves only; that they will divide them into 4 Parties, of which each Sheriff will head One; and it being necessary that one of the Sheriffs, at least, should be continually at the Town-House, for the Dispatch of such Affairs as may occur, one of the said Parties shall be commanded by the Chevalier_ Rose; _and in Case they should be hindred by any Accident, they will propose in their Room, Commissaries of the best Distinction they can find, to head and command them. Whereupon the Chevalier_ de Rancé, _being assembled with the Intendant and General Officers of the Gallies, all sensible of the miserable Condition of this great and important City, and willing to grant all that is necessary for saving it, have been pleased to grant to the Sheriffs, and to the Community, a Hundred Slaves more, and 40 Soldiers, among them 4 Corporals, with 4 Officers of the Whistle; and it being necessary to take those who are voluntarily disposed, and to engage them by Rewards, to this dangerous Service; It is resolved and agreed, that besides Subsistance which the Community shall furnish to them all, ten Livres a Day shall be given to each Officer of the Whistle, and to each Soldier fifty Sols: And after it shall please God to deliver the City from this Visitation, a Gratification of a hundred Livres, to be paid at once, shall be made to each of them who shall then be living. The Corporals shall have each a hundred Sols a Day, and also an annual Pension for Life of a hundred Livres to each of them who shall survive; it being judged they cannot be sufficiently rewarded for so important and perillous a Service, This is agreed by the Assembly, in consideration of the present Exigence, and the Necessity of the Time._ Concluded at _Marseilles_, the 6th of _September_, 1720. Signed, _Estelle_, _Audimar_, _Moustier_, _Dieudé_, Sheriffs; _Pichatty de Croissainté_, Orator, and the King's Procurator; _Capus_, Keeper of the Records. The 7th, the Magistrates taking into Consideration, that the Plague being the Instrument of God's Wrath, all the Help of Men, and all the Efforts they resolve to make, will be vain and useless, unless they have Recourse to his Mercy, and seek to appease him; they determine to make a Vow in the Name of the City, to incline him to vouchsafe to deliver it from this cruel Pestilence (as their Predecessors did during the last Plague,) that the Community shall give every Year, for ever, the Sum of 2000 Livres to a House of Charity, to be established by the Title and under the Protection of _Our Lady of Good Help_, for the Reception of poor Girls, Orphans of this City and its Territory. The 8th, they make this Vow solemnly in the Presence of the Bishop, in the Chapel of the Town-House, where he celebrates Mass. The same Day having received the Slaves, and the Officers of the Whistle, together with the Soldiers (whose _Corps de Garde_ is settled in the great Hall of the _Loge_,) and M. _Moustier_ having got in Readiness the Carts, and divided the Slaves into several Brigades, the Sheriffs in their Hoods put themselves each at the Head of one of those Brigades, with a Division or Guard of Soldiers, and go to the Places that are thickest spread with dead Bodies, and where they are most putrefied, with an Intrepidity that astonishes the very Soldiers, and makes the Slaves work with all their Strength, without fearing the Dangers which they see them so much contemn: They continue this Work daily, from Morning till Night, and the Chevalier _Rose_ on Horseback, constantly supplies the Room of that Sheriff who is obliged in his Turn to sit in the Town-House for the ordinary Dispatch of Business: 'Tis a Miracle that they have not all perished, by exposing themselves to Dangers so great, that the forty Soldiers of the Gallies, who accompanied them, have all perished, except four, by their Sides. The 9th, they send to the Council of _Marine_ a Copy of the Act, specifying the Conditions on which the Officers of the Gallies granted those Soldiers, and the Slaves; another to the Marshal _de Villars_, and a third to the Grand Prior. The 10th, the first President, who is always vigilant to supply their Wants, and who knows that besides Carts, they more need Carters to drive them, sends a Number of both from _Aix_, which are very helpful: The Officers of the Gallies furnish them with twenty five Slaves more, to replace those of the hundred already granted who are become unable to work; and add to them six, who are Butchers by Profession, to serve in the Slaughter-houses of the Town, where all the Butchers being dead, or having deserted, no body is left to kill Oxen and Sheep. The 11th, there being hardly any Physicians remaining, and fewer Surgeons, the rest having deserted, or perished, their Art not availing them; the first President sends hither M. _Pons_ and _Boutellier_, Physicians of the Faculty of _Montpellier_; and M. _Montet_ and _Rabaton_, very skilful Master-Surgeons. The 12th, the Sheriff's are informed that the Commandeur M. _de Langeron_, Commadore of a Squadron of Gallies, and Major-General of the King's Armies, has been nominated by his Majesty Governour of _Marseilles_ and its Territory, and that he has received his Commission. Such agreeable and salutary News revives them immediately from all the Sorrow, Dejection, and Consternation they were in; and inspires, not only into them, but into all the other Citizens, and into the People in general, both Sick and Well, no less Joy, Pleasure and Content, than Confidence, new Spirit, and Courage: They think it impossible to perish under so worthy a Governour, and the Preservation of _Marseilles_ is looked upon as certain under his Auspices and Conduct: The Affection he has always been observed to bear to this City, and which he has demonstrated since it became afflicted with the Plague; his having been pleased, not only to come and assist in the Assemblies at the Town-House, but to promote very much the giving Assistance to the City by the Officers of the Gallies (in which naval Body of Forces he is distinguished by his Rank, as well as by his Merit and Valour:) His Character so long established, his illustrious Name, his Presence, which by a happy Mixture of Sweetness and Gravity makes him at once respected, loved, and feared; his Wisdom and Foresight, his Courage, his Firmness; Virtues, which qualify and dispose him to chuse the best Expedients in pressing Occasions, and execute with Rigour what he has judiciously resolved; all this, I say, gives every body, and particularly the Sheriffs, the most promising Hopes, which in the Event were soon answered: They go in their Hoods, and in a Body, to his House, to have the Honour to make him a Tender of their Duties. They learn at the same time, that the Marquess _de Pilles_ (who has newly begun to recover his Health) has also received a Commission to command in the City and Territory; they go in the same manner to his House, to make him the like Compliments: And both their Commissions being sent to be entred in the Register of the Town-House, it appears that M. _de Langeron_, in the Quality of Major-General of the King's Forces, is to take place, and command in Chief. The same Day, M. _de Langeron_ mounts on Horseback, and comes to the Town-House, to inform himself of the State of Affairs, that he might thereupon make the proper Dispositions, and take the necessary Measures for applying speedy Remedies to pressing Evils: He is accompanied by the Chevalier _de Soissans_, an Officer of the Gallies, whom he has taken to his Assistance; and who is so ardent for relieving the Town, that he is every Day on Horseback from Morning till Night, running wherever any thing is to be done, and to provide against, or redress, those Inconveniences which appear most insuperable; contemning Danger, and compelling others, by his Example, not to relax or stop; putting in Execution Things seeming the most impossible, with that Activity, Prudence, and indefatigable Zeal, that every thing is done by his Care, and by his Assistance. The 13th, the Marquess _de Pilles_ comes to the Town-House; his Presence, after the Grief and Alarm his Sickness had caused, gives every one unspeakable Pleasure. M. _de Langeron_ repairs thither likewise; he never fails to come thither every Day on Horseback, in the Morning and Afternoon, be what Weather it will, and sits generally till eight a Clock at Night; 'tis most frequently after he has taken his Rounds to the Hospitals, the Pits, the Church-yards, and other Places very dangerous to approach, which he will view with his own Eyes, and where he exposes himself without Regard to his Health or Life. The 14th, the Sheriffs continue to appear constantly, each at the Head of one of the Brigades of Slaves, with the Carts, to set them to work in different Quarters, to take up and carry to the Pits that prodigious Number of dead Bodies, with which the City is filled; and though they take away so many, they find more still, by the Continuance of the Mortality. But there is one Part, where they have not been able to set foot yet; it is at an Esplanade called _la Tourette_, which lies towards the Sea, between the Houses and the Rampart, from Fort St. _John_ to the Church of _Major_: There lie extended about a thousand dead Bodies close to each other, the freshest of which have lain there above three Weeks; so that had they not been infected, the lying so long in a Place exposed to the hot Sun all the Day, might have sufficed to render them contagious: All one's Senses are affected at approaching a Place, whence one smells afar off the contagious Vapours which Exhale from it: Nature shrinks, and the firmest Eyes cannot bear so hideous a Sight; those Bodies have no longer any human Form, they are Monsters that give Horror, and one would think all their Limbs stir, the Worms are in such Motion about them. Nothing however is of more urgent Necessity than to remove these Bodies from that Place; every Moment they are let lye there, furnishes Exhalations which must poison the Air; but how shall they be taken up and carried to the Pits without the Town, which are at a very great Distance? Bodies so putrefied will not hold in the Carts; the Entrails, the Limbs which are loosened at the Joints by the Worms, would run out, or drop off, which would scatter the Plague and Venom quite through the City. The Chevalier _Rose_, who is good at Expedients, and as industrious as intrepid, goes to the Place, and viewing the Rampart, perceives that two antient Bastions, which about two thousand Years ago stood the Attacks of _Julius Cæsar_'s Army, and are near the _Esplanade_ where lye the dead Bodies, tho' they seem to be filled with Earth, are vaulted within, which he discovers at the Foot of one of them through a Hole, which Time has made in a Stone; he presently imagines that no more needs be done, than to take away some Foot of Earth which cover the Vault of each Bastion, to break into that Vault, and finding them quite hollow within down to the Foundation which is level with the Surface of the Sea, nothing is more easy than to cast all those Bodies into them, and then to cover them with as much Earth and Lime as is necessary, to hinder the exhaling of any Infection from them. This being so judiciously projected, he returns to the Town-house, and tells M. _de Langeron_ and the Sheriffs, that he will take upon him to remove all the dead Bodies from _la Tourette_, explains to them his Project, they find it admirable; but to be able to execute it, a greater Number of Slaves must be employed, that it may be done suddenly and at once; it being evident, that no Soul that breathes can hold out above a few Minutes in so noisome a Place, when those Bodies are moved, to be drawn off the Ground and thrown into the Bastions. M. _de Langeron_, who has newly received Orders from Court, to take as many Slaves out of the Gallies as he shall judge necessary for the Service of the City, promises him a hundred for this Enterprize. The same Day the Mortality continues without Decrease, and all the several Pits which had been opened being filled, M. _de Langeron_ accompanied by M. _Moustier_, and the Chevalier _de Soissans_, take a Turn without the City, to see what Place will be most convenient for opening new ones speedily; and some are marked out on the Side of the Gate of _Aix_, of sixty Foot long and thirty broad: At the same time the Question being where to get at least a hundred _Peasants_ to dig them; M. _de Langeron_ sends all his Guards into the Territory, with Orders to the Captains of the principal Quarters to make them come, either willingly, or by Force. The 15th, he issues an Ordinance, commanding all the Intendants of Health, Counsellors of the City, Captains of Quarters, and Commissaries of Parishes, who have deserted, to return within twenty four Hours to their Functions, on Pain of Disobedience. He sets forth another, jointly with the Marquess _de Pilles_ and the Sheriffs, prescribing all that ought to be done, observed, and executed in the Territory, where the Plague makes likewise very great Ravages, and has got into all the Quarters. The 16th, to remove that horrible Infection which is in the Port, by above ten thousand dead Dogs floating in it, he sends for the Regulators of the Fishermen to the Town-house, and Orders them to work with Boats to inclose them in Nets, and draw them so far without the Chain, that the Current of the Water may not bring them in again. This Day the Chevalier _Rose_, who the Day before had caused the Vaults of the two Bastions of the Rampart _de la Tourette_ to be broken into, and found them hollow to the Foundation as he had foreseen, having received the hundred Slaves appointed to remove the dead Bodies from that Part, causes each of them to tye a Handkerchief dipped in Vinegar about his Head to stop his Nose, and having disposed them in such a manner, as to be able to put all Hands to the Work at once, he makes them in half an Hour take away all those Bodies, Limbs of which dropped off in carrying, and throw them into the Caverns of those Bastions, which he immediately causes to be filled with Lime and Earth, up to the Level of the Esplanade. The 17th, the Sheriffs continuing with yet greater Ardour and Zeal, to go each at the Head of a Number of Carts, to see the dead Bodies taken up and carried off, from the several Streets of the Town, which are more and more filled with them; M. _Estelle_ has Notice that the Pits which had been filled on the Side of _la Major_, had cleft in the Night; he hastens thither to see them repaired, and takes with him the Peasants who were working at the new Pits without the Gate of _Aix_: But there's no governing the Peasants at approaching infected Places, the Soldiers of the Gallies who accompany them drive them on, but they give back; he takes a Pick-ax himself and falls to work to encourage them; they are not to be stimulated by his Example, the Soldiers are, they instantly lay down their Arms, wrest the Pick-ax out of his Hands, take each of them one from those dastardly Peasants, and repair the Pits, notwithstanding the Infection, with inexpressible Ardour: It is Pity all those Soldiers perished, they served the City with a Zeal which will make them always lamented. This Day M. _Audimar_ causes a Heap of Bodies, which were piled up in the Street of _Ferrat_, and were no less putrid than those of _la Tourette_, to be carried off. M. _de Langeron_ studying to relieve the Necessities of the People, who are in want of all Things, and who suffer and even perish by the Desertion of almost all the Surgeons, Apothecaries, Retailers of common Necessaries, as Cooks and others, whose Shops and Stalls are generally shut up every where; he publishes an Ordinance to compel them to return within twenty four Hours precisely, on Pain of Death. The same Day the Physicians of _Montpellier_ who had come in the Month of _August_, to examine by Order of his Royal Highness, the Nature and Symptoms of the Distemper, come again, accompanied by M. _Soulliers_ Master Surgeon to the King, who was also with them the first time; after their Departure from hence, they had resided at a Country-house near _Aix_ which had been appointed for them to perform Quarantain in, which done they were to have been admitted into _Montpellier_; but his Royal Highness being desirous to succour _Marseilles_, and judging that such a Distemper required the most eminent and skilful Physicians, was pleased to send them new Orders to return hither, and join with them M. _Deidier_ another famous Physician and Professor of _Montpellier_, who arrived with them. The Plague had till then been treated as the Plague, the Sick presently judged of the Danger of their Sickness by the Behaviour of the Physicians who visited them: M. _de Chicoyneau_, Chancellor of the University of _Montpellier_, M. _Verny_, and M. _Deidier_, give them Reason to believe, on the contrary, that 'tis of all Distempers the least dangerous and the most common; they approach them without the least Concern or Mark of Emotion, without Repugnance, without Precaution; they even sit down upon their Beds, touch their Buboes and Sores, and stay by them calmly as long as is necessary to inform themselves of the State of their Case, the Symptoms of their Distemper, and to see the Surgeons perform the Operations they order: They go every where, and pass through all the Quarters, they examine the Sick, in the Streets, in the publick Places, in the Houses, and in the Hospitals; one would think them invulnerable, or tutelar Angels sent by God to save every poor Creature's Life; they refuse the Money the Rich offer them; nor receive any thing from any body, but a thousand Blessings from all; their Manner of proceeding, with the Reputation of their Names, recover the Sick by the Hope and Confidence they raise in them. The 18th, another Pit is opened, below the Ramparts between the Gate of _Aix_ and the Tower of St. _Paule_, sixty Foot long and thirty broad: M. _de Langeron_ wrote the Day before to the Captains of the Territory, to send in Peasants: The Chevalier _de Soissans_ goes at Day break to the Entrance of the Suburbs, to conduct them to this Work, which they were extremely averse to, because of the Nearness of other Pits already filled thereabouts. New ones are also opened on the Side of that Ground, by which the Church-yard of the Parish of St. _Ferriol_ was formerly enlarged; this Quarter is the finest and best Inhabited of the City, where M. _Serre_, no less a good Citizen than a famous and excellent Painter, one of the Commissaries appointed there, zealous even to the Sacrificing of his own Life for the Relief of his Country, has taken upon himself alone the laborious and perillous Care to see carried off and buried, the dead Bodies from thence, with some Carts which the Sheriffs have given him, and a Brigade of Slaves put under his Direction by the Officers of the Gallies, whom he carefully subsists and lodges at his own Expence. A Citizen that so loves his Country, deserves to be beloved by it. The 19th the Desertion from the City continuing, so that none can be found to carry into the Store-houses of the Community the Corn brought up by Boats from the Barrier of _Lestaque_, M. _de Langeron_ appoints for that Service twenty six Gally-Slaves, with four of their Companions to dress Victuals for them; no Persons being found fit to be put to do so much as that. The time of Vintage approaching, it is considered that the Vapours of the new Wine, in a Town where so prodigious a Quantity is made, might contribute very much towards dis-infecting the Houses; and it is called to mind that it was by this Means the last Plague which afflicted _Marseilles_ was stopt: Whereupon an Ordinance is issued, in the Names of M. _de Langeron_, the Marquess _de Pilles_, and the Sheriffs, importing that the Vintage shall be got in as usual. This Day arrive three other Physicians of the Faculty of _Montpellier_, who came Post from _Paris_ by Order of his Royal Highness, _viz._ M. _Mailhes_ Professor of the University of _Cahors_, M. _Boyer de Paradis_ of _Marseilles_, and M. _de Læbadie_, accompanied by two Master-Surgeons of _Paris_: They are provided with excellent Instructions, which they received from M. _Chirac_ first Physician to his Royal Highness, and Sur-Intendant of the Royal Physick-Garden, who has not neglected any thing that might be for the Relief of this unfortunate City: Physicians so well chosen, and so well instructed, cannot fail of doing good Service; the Event will soon shew it. The 20th, there are no Medicines nor Drugs to be found in the City, by Reason of the Flight and Desertion of all the Apothecaries, Druggists, and Grocers; the Sick dye without being able to use the Liberty of making their Wills, the Royal Notaries having all fled; Women with Child are delivered without any Assistance, the Midwives being all fled likewise: An Ordinance at my Instance is issued by M. _de Langeron_, the Marquess _de Pilles_, and the Sheriffs, to oblige them all to return within twenty four Hours on Pain of Death: The Royal Notaries only obey readily. The ordinary Term of letting or quitting Houses being _Michaelmas-Day_, and almost all the Houses being infected, it would be dangerous to suffer such removing with Houshold-Goods mostly infected; another Ordinance forbids it, till it be otherwise ordered. The 21st, the Sheriffs have an Increase of Care and Trouble; the Persons who for a long time had the Direction and Management of the Office of Plenty of Corn, and of the Shambles, dye of the Plague; this obliges the Sheriffs to take that Business upon themselves, while they have so much already upon their Hands: M. _de Langeron_, to facilitate their going through with it all, persuades them to take each a certain part of the Work: Accordingly, M. _Estelle_ is charged with the Dispatch of all the current Affairs at the Town-House, with the Correspondences, and with the Orders for the good Government of the City; M. _Audimar_ with the Shambles; M. _Moustier_ with all that relates to the carrying off and burying of the Dead, the Pits, and the Church-yards, the cleaning of the Streets, the Carts, the Gally Slaves and their Subsistance; and M. _Dieudé_ with what relates to Bread-Corn, Meal, Wood for firing, and the Bakers. The 22d, new Pits are to be made, M. _de Langeron_ sends his Guards into the Territory, to bring in one hundred and fifty Men to dig them; and the 23d one is opened of one hundred thirty two Foot long, forty eight wide, and fourteen deep, in the Garden of the Observantines near the Ramparts. The 24th, at the Time when Misery and Calamity are at the Heighth; when all is groaning, lamenting, dying, as well in the Country, as in the Town; when those whom the Fury of the Distemper has spared, are overtaken by Famine, and fall into Despair, more cruel and terrible than the Plague it self; when the Fountains of Charity, which had run till now, are dried up; when, as the Scripture expresses it, _the Heavens seem to be of Brass, and the Earth of Iron_; and when no Hope at all remain'd, but of Dying; 'tis then a charitable Hand extends it self from afar to this unhappy City. The 25th, the Heaps of infected Cloaths and Houshold-Goods, with which all the Streets are incumbered, being a greater hindrance to the passing through them, than the dead Bodies and Sick that lye in them; Mons. _de Langeron_ sets twenty five Gally-Slaves to work, to carry all off in Carts, and twenty others to cleave Wood for Firing, for the Use of the Bakers; no other Hands being to be had. The Refractoriness of the Apothecaries, Druggists, and Grocers, in absenting themselves from the City, and the Necessity of compelling them to return, that the Sick may be supplied with Medicines and Drugs, oblige him to send Guards into the Territory, to seize and bring away the chief of them. The 26th, the Hospital of Timber-work in the Alleys of the _Grand Mall_, and which so many Poor infected, who lie in the Streets and publick Places, have been wishing for several Days, is upon the Point of being finished, after incredible Labour; when a North Wind, the most violent that ever was, blows so hard, that it breaks and throws down almost all the Timber-work, with the Sail-cloth that covered it: For repairing speedily this Damage, M. _de Langeron_ goes thither, sends for robust and serviceable Fellows from the Gallies, with Officers to keep them diligently employed; the Sheriffs bestir themselves to provide more Timber and Sail-cloth; all Hands are at Work; the Chevalier _de Soissans_ keeps upon the Spot, to encourage the Men, and give Orders, accompanied by M. _Marin_ and _Beaussier_, Commissaries appointed to act as Directors General of this Hospital, who sacrificed their Time and private Concerns to see it built, were always active in any thing that was most toilsome; and the principal Assistants of the Sheriffs, from the Time the Fear of the Contagion made every body abandon them. The 27th, it is considered, that as large as this Hospital is, it cannot serve for such a Multitude of Sick, as are lying in all the Streets, and encreased daily by the Continuance of the Distemper; and therefore another must be timely thought of: After looking about every where, it is resolved to make use of the Hospital General _de la Charité_, which is in perfect Readiness, actually furnished with near 800 Beds, and all necessary Utensils. The Difficulty is, whither to remove the Poor maintained in it: No Place seems so proper as the _Hôtel-Dieu_, where there is Room enough; but there have been infected Patients in it, and above fifty are so now; they must be first removed, and the House disinfected (or perfumed;) those Patients are carried to a Chapel of the _Penitents_, which is hard by; and M. _Estelle_ performs the Disinfection with all requisite Exactness. From the 28th of _September_ to the 3d of _October_, nothing but Action and Labour Night and Day. At the _Mall_ no Time is lost to repair the Damage done by the Wind, and to provide for such an Hospital the infinite Number of Things necessary in it; in fitting up Apartments and Laboratories for the Physicians, Apothecaries, Surgeons, Officers, and Servants of the Hospital, in the Convent of the Reformed _Augustines_, which is contiguous to it, and in the neighbouring _Bastides_; and in digging near it large and deep Pits: At _la Charité_, those already opened in the Garden of the _Observantines_ are just behind it; but for that Hospital, it was found to require more Trouble than the other to provide it with all Necessaries. The Pains taken to disinfect the _Hôtel-Dieu_, remove from thence the infected Patients, and bring into it all the Poor from _la Charité_, are inconceivable: M. _de Langeron_ is obliged to be on Horseback from Morning to Night, moving from Place to Place; the Sheriffs give themselves no Respite, but shorten the common Time of Meals, that they may not lose a Moment. Every thing is hard to be got, even Straw to stuff the Mattresses, which no body will bring in from the Territory, without being compelled to it by Force. Officers and Servants must be sought for all these Hospitals; especially a great Number of Surgeons must be had, both Masters and Men; they cannot be drawn hither from other Provinces, but by exorbitant Rewards; Advertisements are affixed every where, promising to all Surgeons who will come, _viz._ to Master-Surgeons of Principal Towns 2000 Livres a Month; to the licensed Surgeons of those Towns, and the Master-Surgeons of small Places 1000 Livres a Month; and to their Apprentices, or Journeymen, 300 Livres a Month, with the Freedom of the Company of Surgeons of _Marseilles_; besides Lodging and Diet all the time they are employed. The 3d of _October_, Part of the Troops which M. _de Langeron_ expected for the Service of the City, and to execute his Orders, arrive; _viz._ Three Companies of the Regiment of _Flandres_, whom he causes to encamp at the _Chartreuse_ without the Walls. The 4th, the two new Hospitals at the _Mall_ and _la Charité_, are, at length, in a Condition to receive the Sick; and immediately they creep thither from all Quarters. A Number of Gally-Slaves is employed to fetch those who cannot help themselves, and are lying in the publick Places and Streets, and in the Houses. The 5th, all the Physicians, as well Strangers, as of Faculty in this City, are convened at the Town-House, in the Presence of M. _de Langeron_, the Marquess de _Pilles_, and the Sheriffs; and M. _de Chicoyneau_ and _Verny_, as Principals, and those others to whom the general Inspection is committed, appoint the Stations where each shall serve, and the Surgeons to be employed under them. If all the Strangers have signalized themselves by their Skill and Zeal, those of the City have equall'd them in both; they have served with so little Care of their own Persons, that three of them have lost their Lives, M. _Peissonel_, _Montagnier_, and _Audan_, and a fourth, Mr. _Bertrand_, was very near Death's Door. The 6th, three of the Captains of the City dying, the Sheriffs nominate in their Room M. _Desperier_, _Bonnaneau_, and _Icard_, who from the Beginning of the Contagion have voluntarily gone upon any Service, however toilsome and hazardous, for the City. The 7th, the Plague being more violent in the Territory than in the City, and it being of Importance to hinder the Sick to come from thence into it; M. _de Langeron_ posts at each Gate a _Corps de Garde_ of Soldiers of the King's Troops, under the Command of the Captains and Officers of the Town; and publishes an Ordinance, which prescribes the Rules to be observed at any Person's coming into, or going out of the Gates. The 8th, whereas since the two new Hospitals have been opened, the Sick are no longer lying about the Streets, and the dead Bodies are carried off daily, by the great Number of Carts which are continually passing; Dispositions are made for cleaning the Streets throughout the City, as well for making Room to pass, as to take away the horrible Infection caused by the prodigious Quantity of Filth and Nastiness, with which they are all covered. For this Purpose large Boats, used for cleansing the Port, by taking up the Soil, are placed all along the Key at each Pallisade; and while the Sheriffs go each through a Quarter with a Brigade of Gally Slaves, to cause all the Heaps of infected Cloaths and Houshold-Goods, which have been thrown out of the Windows, to be burnt; other Brigades of Slaves go with Carts, to take up the Dunghills and Filth, which they shoot into those Boats, and these carry it out, and throw it into the Sea, as far as they can from the Mouth of the Port: This is so tedious a Work, that be it followed never so close, it will take up a Month at least to finish it. The 9th, the Sheriffs receive News that fills them with Joy and Consolation; they find by a Letter which the Consuls of _Avignon_ are so kind to write to them, that the common Father of the Faithful _Roman_ Catholicks, moved at hearing of the Calamities of a City, which was the first of all _Gaul_ that received the Catholick Faith, by St. _Lazarus_ its first Bishop; which in all Times has preserved it in its Purity, no Heresy having ever been able to get footing in it; and which has always had a singular Attachment, with a profound and inviolable Respect, for the Holy See; has not thought it enough to order publick Prayers in all the Churches of _Rome_, and Processions, at which his Holiness assists on Foot, to beseech the Sovereign Father of Mercies to appease his Wrath against _Marseilles_, and cast away the dreadful Scourge which lays it desolate; but being desirous to succour so many miserable Poor as are in it, and supply them with Bread in their Need, has caused to be bought up in the District of _Ancona_ two thousand Measures (called _Roubies_) of Bread-Corn, which will be forthwith brought hither by Vessels that are to take it in at _Civita-Vecchia_, to be distributed to the Poor in such Proportions as the Bishop shall allot. The 10th, the Canons of the Collegiate Church of St. _Martin_, having Benefices with Cure of Souls, persisting to absent themselves from their Duty, notwithstanding the several Admonitions signified to them, the Bishop pronounces Sentence, and, conformably to the Petition of the Sheriffs of the 4th of _September_ last, declares their Benefices vacant, and that they shall be filled with others duly qualified; and he nominates to them accordingly. The 11th, there are in the Hospitals several Patients who have the Happiness to recover of the Plague: A Place is necessary for these to be removed to, where they may stay forty Days after their Buboes and Sores are entirely cured and healed up; it is resolv'd to make use of the grand Infirmaries for this Purpose; they must be made ready, and provided with all Things necessary: M. _de Langeron_ goes thither, with M. _Estelle_, and Orders are given for doing it out of hand. The 12th, more Troops arrive for the Service of the City; _viz._ Three Companies of the Regiment of _Brie_, which M. _de Langeron_ causes to encamp at the _Chartreuse_, with the three others already there. The 13th, 14th, and 15th, while the Infirmaries are getting ready for those who are recover'd from the Plague, he sends Orders into the Territory, to compel those Intendants of Health, who have absented themselves, and several other Municipal Officers, whose Service is absolutely requisite in the City, to return. The 16th, he posts a _Corps de Garde_ of thirty Soldiers by the Town-House, to guard the Sheriffs, and execute Orders. The 17th, it is resolved to send into the Infirmaries, not only those who have recovered in the several Hospitals, but likewise all those who wander about the City with their Buboes broke and running, and communicate the Contagion generally to those who, not knowing their Condition, have the Misfortune to touch or approach them. The 18th, the Difficulties which obstruct the putting the Infirmaries intirely into Order; or closing up the Sides of the Market-House, which are open; Timber, Boards, and Sail-Cloth being not to be had; make it necessary to seek some other Place, which is already in proper Order; such appears to be the College of the Fathers _de l'Oratoire_, the Halls of which are capable of harbouring a great Number of Persons; and Lodgings for the Officers, Surgeons, and Servants, are ready in the rest of the House, which is quite empty by the Flight of those Priests. The 16th, the Grand Claustral Prior (_i. e._ he that resides, and keeps the Monks to their Duty) of the Abbey of St. _Victor_, and two Monks deputed from that Chapter, come to the Town-House to justify themselves upon their Refusal to carry in Procession the Shrines and Reliques of their Church, to the Square of the _Loge_. The Continuance of the Contagion, notwithstanding all the Efforts hitherto made to stop it, leaving no Hope, but in the Mercy of the Almighty through the Intercession of the Saints, the Sheriffs resolved to desire the Bishop to cause all the Shrines of Saints, and all the Reliques of the Church of _Major_ to be brought forth, and to accompany them to the Square of the _Loge_, where they design'd to erect a great Altar, on which to place them in open View, and likewise to desire the Monks of the Abbey of St. _Victor_, to bring out at the same Time all the Shrines and Reliques of their Church, and to accompany them to the same Place, where being all ranged together on the same Altar, the Bishop was to celebrate Mass, and all the Prayers prescribed against the Plague were to be said. The Bishop instantly agreed to it, with all the Joy and Satisfaction which the Piety that animates him could raise: M. _de Langeron_ had given the most proper Orders, for preventing any Crowd, or even any Communication, at this Holy Procession; nothing remained, but to dispose the Monks of the Abbey of St. _Victor_ to perform their Part: M. _Estelle_ went, and moved it to them; they consent, but on Conditions utterly impracticable: They demand, either that two Altars should be erected, or that the Bishop should not celebrate Mass, lest their Privileges should receive some Diminution by it. And their Grand Prior Claustral, with two Monks of the Abbey, come to Day to the Town-house, to have it understood that their Reasons were solid, and not Pretexts. The 20th, no Bell having been rung in the Town since the Contagion, not even that which warns the Soldiers and Townsmen to retire to their Houses and Quarters at Night, M. _de Langeron_ orders it to be rung as formerly. The 21st, he orders the Officers of the City to go the Rounds punctually in all the Quarters, with the Number of Soldiers appointed by him. The 22d and 23d, the Prisons being filled with Malefactors, and the Effects of a vast Number of Houses being exposed to Robbery, by the Death of all the Persons who inhabited them; he sends Orders into the Territory, to oblige the Commissaries _de Police_ to return, to bring to Tryal those Malefactors, and to secure those Effects for the lawful Claimants. The 24th M. _de Langeron_, the Marquess _de Pilles_ and the Sheriffs, publish an Ordinance at my Instance, commanding all those who have taken into their Possession the Keys of Houses, or the Effects of Persons deceased, or who have had them put into their Hands in Trust, of what Nature soever they are, to appear within twenty four Hours at the Town-House, and make Declaration thereof before the Commissaries _de Police_, that the same may be properly secured. The 25th another Ordinance is issued for the Publick Safety and Health, importing, that for preventing Robberies in the Night, and the Increase of the Contagion by removing from one Place to another infected Apparel, those who after ringing the warning Bell at Night shall be taken robbing Houses, or removing Apparel, or Houshold Goods, shall be punish'd with Death; and that those who shall have forbidden Arms found upon them, shall be condemned to the Gallies. The 26th, tho' the Plague seems to have decreased, want of Provisions increases; the Distemper having got into the neighbouring Places, and even into the Capital of the Province, hardly any Corn or other Necessaries are brought any longer to the Markets at the Barriers; even all the Barriers are chang'd and remov'd so far off, that they are out of reach, and _Marseilles_ is in the greatest Extremities that it ever felt. M. _de Langeron_ and the Sheriffs see the Necessity there is, for avoiding a speedy Famine, to send Vessels to divers Parts to fetch Bread-Corn, and other Provisions; but having neither Money nor Means to procure any, they are obliged to send Dispatches to Court for Supplies. The 27th the Hospitals of the _Mall_, of _La Charité_, and of the _Rive Neuve_, being by the Decrease of the Distemper more than sufficient to hold all the Sick; and that _des Convalescens_ being become altogether superfluous, it is resolv'd to make Use of it for those who have recovered, and not of the College _de l'Oratoire_, as was design'd. The 28th and 29th are spent in putting it in Order and Furnishing it with new Beds, after all the Sick who were in it had been remov'd to the Hospital at the _Mall_. The 30th the great Number of Surgeons, as well Masters as others, who are come from all Parts, allur'd by the Advertisements of the 30th of _September_, that had been sent out to be publickly affix'd every where, which promised great Rewards to those that would come and serve; makes it necessary to publish contrary Advertisements, signifying, that the Distemper having happily decreased very much, there is no further Occasion for them. The 31th, to get together, in Order to confine and put under Quarantain, those who have recovered from the Plague, who with their Buboes broke and running wander about the Streets and infect all whom they approach, the Chevalier _de Soissans_ finds out a very easy Expedient; they are all necessitous People who beg about, and do not fail to go wherever Alms are distributed daily to all Comers; he orders Soldiers to hide themselves near the House whither the Bishop has retir'd; in less than half an Hour above five hundred of these Beggars flock thither, whom the Soldiers surround and carry to the Hospital _des Convalescens_, where the Surgeons search them, and detain all who ought to be kept there. The First of _November_, being the Feast of all Saints, the Bishop comes out of his Palace in Procession, accompany'd by the Canons of the Church _des Acoulles_, by those whom he has newly nominated Canons of the Church of St. _Martin_, and by the Parson and Priests of the Parish of St. _Ferriol_; and chusing to appear like the Scape Goat, loaded with the Sins of all the People, and like a Victim destin'd to expiate them, he walks with a Halter about his Neck, the Cross in his Arms, and bare-Foot; thus he proceeds by the Ring towards the Gate of _Aix_, where he celebrates Mass publickly, at an Altar which he had caused to be erected; and after a pathetick Exhortation to the People to move them to Repentance, for appeasing the Wrath of God, and obtaining Deliverance from the raging Pestilence; he pronounces a solemn Consecration of the City to the sacred Heart of Jesus, in Honour of which he had instituted a Festival to be kept yearly by a Mandate which he caus'd to be read: The Tears which are seen running down his Cheeks during this devout Ceremony, join'd to his very moving Expressions, excite Compunction in the most obdurate Hearts, and every one pierc'd with unfeigned Sorrow cries to the Lord for Mercy: St. _Charles_ did the like formerly at _Milan_ on the same Festival of all Saints, when that City was under the Calamity of the Plague; and nothing is wanting to this Imitator of the Zeal, Piety, Charity, and all the Virtues of so great a Saint, but the _Roman_ Purple which he deserves, and which a whole People on whom he heaps spiritual and temporal Blessings, wish him from the bottom of their Hearts. From the second to the fifth, M. _de Langeron_ with the Sheriffs divide all the Quarters of the Town into new Districts, and appoint at every District, containing a certain number of Houses, a Commissary to see to the Execution of the several Orders issued, and to prevent whatever may contribute to the Continuance of the Plague, or to its Return. The 5th, for restraining the excessive Price of all Provisions, which is raised every Day by those who take Advantage of the general Scarcity, they hold in the Town-house an Assembly of Merchants and Tradesmen to settle a general Rate; they continue drawing it up the next Day, and the 8th they publish an Ordinance forbidding all Shopkeepers, Retailers, and Regraters, to sell at a higher Price than what is specified in that general Rate, on the Penalty of the Pillory, of Refunding the Money taken, and Confiscation of the Goods sold. From the 6th to the 13th M. _de Langeron_ sends out Orders on all Sides for regulating and relieving all the Quarters of the Territory, where the Plague continues to rage; and the 14th he publishes an Ordinance with the Marquess _de Pilles_ and the Sheriffs, which prescribes such exact and judicious Precautions to be observ'd at the Gates, that the indispensible Commerce between the City and the Territory is maintain'd, and yet the Distemper which is there cannot any way be brought into the City, to make that which still continues here rage the more. The 15th, the Bakers having almost spent all the Fuel for their Ovens, so that they must leave off Baking, Vessels are sent towards _Toulon_ to fetch Wood. The 16th the Bishop takes a holy Resolution to exorcise the Plague, which he has the Grief to see continue: In order to this, having called together the Remains of his Clergy in the Church _des Acoulles_, he begins by causing all the Prayers to be read which his Holiness had sent to him, and which are daily repeated in all the Churches of _Rome_, to incline the Almighty to deliver _Marseilles_ from this Scourge; and after a very eloquent and very moving Exhortation, he carries up the Holy Sacrament to the Leads over the Roof of the Church, from whence all the City and its Territory lye open to the View, gives his Benediction, and performs the Exorcism against the Plague, with all the Prayers and Ceremonies which the Church has prescribed. The 17th, M. _de Langeron_ receives an Answer from Court, to the Dispatches he had sent thither: M. _le Blanc_, and M. _le Pelletier des Forts_ write to him, that his Royal Highness being extremely concerned at the Calamity of _Marseilles_, had given Orders to the _India_ Company to remit hither twenty five thousand Pieces of Eight, and one thousand nine hundred Marks of Silver, with which he is pleased to assist this City, till he can provide for its further Relief: The Marquess _de la Vrilliere_ writes the same thing to the Sheriffs, and that his Royal Highness will do all that lies in his Power to succour them: That August Prince has had all possible Regard for this unfortunate City; from the Time he knew of its Distress, he has not neglected sending Orders every where, for supplying it with all necessary Help, as well to cure the Distemper, as to provide against Scarcity and Want: All his Ministers have seconded his Intentions with so much Earnestness and Application, that they seem to have had no other Business upon their Hands, than to hasten its Supplies, and to render them effectual. What Gratitude for this will not Subjects so obedient and so faithful ever cherish in their Hearts? This Gratitude for their Preservation, joined to the Ardour and Zeal which have always distinguished them in the Submission and Obedience due to his Majesty; will inflame them with a Desire to sacrifice their Lives and Fortunes, for the Honour and Glory of his Service. Never was there greater Scarcity, nor ever was such Scarcity so plentifully supplied; so that having been continually just falling into Want, or in fear of wanting every thing, by the Interdiction of Communication and Commerce, we have hardly ever wanted any thing, by Means of the continual Succours which came in successively from all Parts, by the Orders of his Royal Highness, and the particular Care of M. _le Pelletier des Forts_, and M. _le Blanc_, to cause them to be executed: Corn and other Provisions, and especially large Cattle, and Sheep, have been brought in such Quantity and Numbers, notwithstanding all Difficulties, that for a long time we have had a kind of Plenty of them; from the Mint at _Aix_, the first President has remitted very considerable Sums of Money, he has procured all Necessaries to be sent in from divers Parts; he has caused almost whole Forests to be cut down, that we might not want Wood for firing; and not contenting himself with procuring Credit for us to a great Sum, he has had the Goodness to find Means to discharge a considerable Part of that Debt; from _Languedoc_ the Intendant, M. _de Bernage_, has taken infinite Pains to get sent hither all the Succours that fertile Province could furnish. Several eminent Citizens have contributed very largely; M. _Constans_ and _Remusat_, have by their Credit and Money procured twenty thousand Measures (called _Charges_) of Bread-Corn; M. _Martins_, _Grimaud_, and _Beoland_, have voluntarily taken inconceivable Pains so keep the Shambles supplied, and with very great Success; several others have contributed Money for buying up Corn in the _Levant_; even some of the Magistrates of the Soveraign Courts of the Province, as soon as the Plague had broke out, moved by their Generosity of Heart, and Grandeur of Soul, offered and even sent in all the Corn that was reaped on their own Lands; such are M. _de Lubieres_ and _de Ricardi_, Counsellors of the Parliament, and M. _de Rauville_ President of the Court of Accompts, Aids and Finances: We could not perish with so great and various Supplies; but _Marseilles_ and its Territory are an Abyss; it cannot otherwise be filled, than by that prodigious Abundance, which Liberty, and the Concourse of the Commerce of Nations, bring into it. The 18th M. _Taxil_, Agent of the _India_ Company at _Marseilles_, remits to the Sheriffs one thousand six hundred Marks of _Bullion_, and twenty thousand and forty nine Marks in Pieces of Eight, which they cause to be conveyed to the Mint at _Montpellier_, there to be converted into new Specie. The 19th the Distemper which had extremely decreased, having increased again a little, and there being Ground to believe that the Communication in some Churches which were opened, had occasioned it, the Bishop is desired to be pleased to order them to be shut up again. The 20th, 21st, and 22d Vessels are fitted out to fetch Corn from the _Levant_, that we might not be wholly in want of it this Winter, and after the Plague and Scarcity fall into Famine. The 23d Advice comes that one of the Vessels in which his Holiness's Ministers had caused to be laden at _Civita-Vecchia_, the Bread-Corn designed for the Poor of _Marseilles_, is unhappily wrecked on the Island of _Porcherolles_, and that of one thousand Measures it carried, not three hundred could be saved. The 24th and 25th, the Contagion still continuing in the Territory, and the Persons who live there, or have retired thither, especially those who are struck with it, or suspect they are, using all manner of Artifice to steal into the City, where the Distemper has almost intirely ceased, M. _de Langeron_ establishes such proper and exact Precautions, that no Endeavours of that kind can succeed. The 26th he publishes an Ordinance, to serve for Rules at the Gates, prescribing the several Certificates which must be brought to obtain Permission to enter, and describing the Condition of Health and other Circumstances a Person must be in to be qualified for a Certificate from the Parish-Priests, Captains, and Commissaries. The 27th he sends this Ordinance to be published in the Territory, and with it a circular Letter to all the Parish-Priests, Captains and Commissaries of the Quarters, for their more ample Instruction. The 28th two other Vessels laden with the rest of the Bread-Corn given by his Holiness, arrive at _Toulon_: The Bishop comes to the Town-house, to concert with M. _de Langeron_ and the Sheriffs, the Means of getting it brought to this City, whither those Vessels will not come because of the Contagion. The 29th, the Difficulty made by the Masters of Vessels of _Languedoc_, to come laden with Provisions to the Port of _Frioul_ in the Island of _Roteneau_, one of the Isles of _Marseilles_, whither the Barrier is removed from _Lestaque_, because after they have unladen at that Island, no Ballast is to be had there, without which they cannot sail empty, and return to their own Ports; this Difficulty, I say, obliges M. _de Langeron_ and the Sheriffs to send for the Regulators of the Fishermen to the Town-house, and order them to see that no Boat goes out to fish, till it has first carried a lading of Ballast to that Isle of _Roteneau_. The 30th the Chevalier _Rose_ undertakes for the Execution of this Order; and he succeeds so well in it, that all the Ballast necessary for all the Vessels which may come to that Island, is presently carried thither. The First of _December_ the Hospital of the _Rive-Neuve_, governed and directed by the Chevalier _Rose_, being become useless, the few Sick remaining in it are removed to that of _la Charité_, and the other is entirely shut up: M. _Boyer de Paradis_, one of the Physicians who came from _Paris_ by Order of his Royal Highness, served in it with all the Ardour and Zeal, that the Love of his native Country could inspire. From the second to the fifth, Assemblies are held, to settle all the Dispositions and all the Measures necessary for purifying and dis-infecting all the Houses of the City in which the Contagion has been: A tedious Work, which to be very minutely performed, must be as laborious as it is nice and important. The 6th, the grand Infirmaries having been for some time purified, M. _Michel_, a Physician of the Faculty of _Marseilles_, who had been shut up in them from the beginning of the Contagion, comes out with the Surgeons he had with him; he served with a Zeal, Firmness, and Success, which make him admired by all. The 7th, the Intendants of Health assemble at the Town-house, in the Presence of M. _de Langeron_ and the Sheriffs, to deliberate about purifying all the Vessels that are in the Port, who had taken in their Cargoes before the Plague broke out; these Intendants (those of them who had absented being come back long since) do their Duty so well, that tho' they are obliged to serve only by Turns, they generally all act together, hardly any one excusing himself. The Directors of the Hospital-general of _la Charité_ and those of the _Hôtel Dieu_, acquit themselves also of their Duty with the same Ardour: The latter even took upon them the Direction of this Hospital when it was turned into a Pest-House, tho' the coming near such a Place gives Disgust and makes one tremble: The Zeal among them was so extraordinary, that at the beginning of the Contagion, when every Body was running away, M. _Bruno Grainier_ was seen to quit his own House, and take up his Lodgings in the _Hôtel Dieu_, there to devote himself intirely to the Service of the Poor, and endeavour to prevent the Plague's getting into it; accordingly it never could get in, before it had overthrown this pious _Argus_, and deprived of Life this Example of the most fervent and active Charity. Almost all the Municipal Officers, and other Principal Citizens have been come back also some time; most of the Shops of Tradesmen and Artificers are opened; the People, who in their Fright had lost all Hope of Health, and all Measure of Prudence, are brought to themselves, and put into Heart again by the Presence and good Orders of M. _de Langeron_; and every one is at present assisting each other by mutual Offices, and by an exact and admirable Administration of Government; which cutting off all destructive Communication, allows only what is salutary. As this is but a brief Journal, drawn up in haste in some Moments stolen from Business, the Publick may expect an ample Supplement to it, which shall take in several Things here omitted, and the Services worthy of Notice and Acknowledgment, which several Persons have rendred to the City, as well within it, as Abroad; and the Wonders performed by the Surgeons, whom the Court was pleased to send, and others, shall not be forgotten. The 8th, the Danger of Communication hindring still the Opening of the Churches, the Bishop orders Altars to be set up in the Streets, and Mass to be said at them in Publick. This Day M. _de Langeron_, the Marquess _de Pilles_, and the Sheriffs, publish an Ordinance, directing the Commissaries of the Quarters and Parishes, all they are to do generally, as well for hindring whatever might contribute to the keeping of the Contagion in the Town, or increasing it by introducing the Distemper from Abroad, as for concurring to the great Work still remaining, of disinfecting all the Houses. The 9th, upon Notice that several Taverns, Victualing-Houses, Coffee-Houses, and other like Houses of Publick Resort are opened, where People meeting in Crowds, a mortal Communication is to be feared; an Ordinance is published, at my Instance, for their being all shut up again, on the Penalty of Imprisonment, and of a Fine of thirty Livres. This present Day (the 10th of _December_) the Distemper has so abated throughout the City, that no new Patient has been carried into any Hospital: There is Ground to hope, that the Wrath of God will be intirely appeased; that this miserable unfortunate City will be wholly delivered from this cruel Visitation, which has laid it desolate; and that we shall be secured from all Returns of it, by the wise, exact, and judicious Precautions which M. _de Langeron_ takes, in Concert with the Sheriffs, with such indefatigable Zeal, such laborious Assiduity, such prudent Vigilance, and such singular Application, that the Preservation of _Marseilles_ cannot but be looked upon as his Work; and its surviving Inhabitants will be ever obliged to bless his glorious Name, and those of the Sheriffs, who second him so well, and do so justly merit, by the Ardour with which they have exposed their Lives, the Title of FATHERS OF THEIR COUNTRY. _Done at_ Marseilles, _in the Town-House, the_ 10th _of_ December, 1720. _The_ END. [Illustration] Transcriber's Note. In the original page numbering is not continuous. The following corrections were made: p. 9: _le Pellletier des Forts_ was changed to _le Pelletier des Forts_ p. 47: King's Puocurator was changed to King's Procurator 
17221	----	ECLECTIC ENGLISH CLASSICS HISTORY OF THE PLAGUE IN LONDON BY DANIEL DEFOE NEW YORK ·:· CINCINNATI ·:· CHICAGO AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY Copyright, 1894, by AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY. DEFOE--THE PLAGUE IN LONDON. M. 2 [Illustration: PRINCIPAL WARDS AND PARISHES IN THE CITY OF LONDON, 1665.] [Illustration: LONDON AND THE SUBURBS, SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.] INTRODUCTION. The father of Daniel Defoe was a butcher in the parish of St. Giles's, Cripplegate, London. In this parish, probably, Daniel Defoe was born in 1661, the year after the restoration of Charles II. The boy's parents wished him to become a dissenting minister, and so intrusted his education to a Mr. Morton who kept an academy for the training of nonconformist divines. How long Defoe staid at this school is not known. He seems to think himself that he staid there long enough to become a good scholar; for he declares that the pupils were "made masters of the English tongue, and more of them excelled in that particular than of any school at that time." If this statement be true, we can only say that the other schools must have been very bad indeed. Defoe never acquired a really good style, and can in no true sense be called a "master of the English tongue." Nature had gifted Defoe with untiring energy, a keen taste for public affairs, and a special aptitude for chicanery and intrigue. These were not qualities likely to advance him in the ministry, and he wisely refused to adopt that profession. With a young man's love for adventure and a dissenter's hatred for Roman Catholicism, he took part in the Duke of Monmouth's rebellion (1685) against James II. More fortunate than three of his fellow students, who were executed for their share in this affair, Defoe escaped the hue and cry that followed the battle of Sedgemoor, and after some months' concealment set up as a wholesale merchant in Cornhill. When James II. was deposed in 1688, and the Protestant William of Orange elected to the English throne, Defoe hastened to give in his allegiance to the new dynasty. In 1691 he published his first pamphlet, "A New Discovery of an Old Intrigue, a Satire leveled at Treachery and Ambition." This is written in miserable doggerel verse. That Defoe should have mistaken it for poetry, and should have prided himself upon it accordingly, is only a proof of how incompetent an author is to pass judgment upon what is good and what is bad in his own work. In 1692 Defoe failed in business, probably from too much attention to politics, which were now beginning to engross more and more of his time and thoughts. His political attitude is clearly defined in the title of his next pamphlet, "The Englishman's Choice and True Interest: in the Vigorous Prosecution of the War against France, and serving K. William and Q. Mary, and acknowledging their Right." "K. William" was too astute a manager to neglect a writer who showed the capacity to become a dangerous opponent. Defoe was accordingly given the place of accountant to the commissioners of the glass duty (1694). From this time until William's death (1702), he had no more loyal and active servant than Defoe. Innumerable pamphlets bear tribute to his devotion to the King and his policy,--pamphlets written in an easy, swinging, good-natured style, with little imagination and less passion; pamphlets whose principal arguments are based upon a reasonable self-interest, and for the comprehension of which no more intellectual power is called for than Providence has doled out to the average citizen. Had Defoe lived in the nineteenth century, instead of in the seventeenth, he would have commanded a princely salary as writer for the Sunday newspaper, and as composer of campaign documents and of speeches for members of the House of Representatives. In 1701 Defoe published his "True-born Englishman," a satire upon the English people for their stupid opposition to the continental policy of the King. This is the only metrical composition of prolific Daniel that has any pretensions to be called a poem. It contains some lines not unworthy to rank with those of Dryden at his second-best. For instance, the opening:-- "Wherever God erects a house of prayer, The Devil always builds a chapel there; And 'twill be found upon examination The latter has the largest congregation." Or, again, this keen and spirited description of the origin of the English race:-- "These are the heroes that despise the Dutch, And rail at newcome foreigners so much, Forgetting that themselves are all derived From the most scoundrel race that ever lived; A horrid crowd of rambling thieves and drones, Who ransacked kingdoms and dispeopled towns: The Pict and painted Briton, treach'rous Scot By hunger, theft, and rapine hither brought; Norwegian pirates, buccaneering Danes, Whose red-haired offspring everywhere remains: Who, joined with Norman French, compound the breed From whence your true-born Englishmen proceed." Strange to say, the English people were so pleased with this humorous sketch of themselves, that they bought eighty thousand copies of the work. Not often is a truth teller so rewarded. Not unnaturally elated by the success of this experiment, the next year Defoe came out with his famous "Shortest Way with the Dissenters," a satire upon those furious High Churchmen and Tories, who would devour the dissenters tooth and nail. Unfortunately, the author had overestimated the capacity of the average Tory to see through a stone wall. The irony was mistaken for sincerity, and quoted approvingly by those whom it was intended to satirize. When the truth dawned through the obscuration of the Tories' intellect, they were naturally enraged. They had influence enough to have Defoe arrested, and confined in Newgate for some eighteen months. He was also compelled to stand in the pillory for three days; but it is not true that his ears were cropped, as Pope intimates in his "Earless on high stood unabashed Defoe." What are the exact terms Defoe made with the ministry, and on exactly what conditions he was released from Newgate, have not been ascertained. It is certain he never ceased to write, even while in prison, both anonymously and under his own name. For some years, in addition to pamphlet after pamphlet, he published a newspaper which he called the "Review,"[1] in which he generally sided with the moderate Whigs, advocated earnestly the union with Scotland, and gave the English people a vast deal of good advice upon foreign policy and domestic trade. There is no doubt that during this time he was in the secret service of the government. When the Tories displaced the Whigs in 1710, he managed to keep his post, and took his "Review" over to the support of the new masters, justifying his turncoating by a disingenuous plea of preferring country to party. His pamphleteering pen was now as active in the service of the Tory prime minister Harley as it had been in that of the Whig Godolphin. The party of the latter rightly regarded him as a traitor to their cause, and secured an order from the Court of Queen's Bench, directing the attorney-general to prosecute Defoe for certain pamphlets, which they declared were directed against the Hanoverian succession. Before the trial took place, Harley, at whose instigation the pamphlets had been written, secured his henchman a royal pardon. When the Tories fell from power at the death of Queen Anne (1714), and the Whigs again obtained possession of the government, only one of two courses was open to Defoe: he must either retire permanently from politics, or again change sides. He unhesitatingly chose the latter. But his political reputation had now sunk so low, that no party could afford the disgrace of his open support. He was accordingly employed as a literary and political spy, ostensibly opposing the government, worming himself into the confidence of Tory editors and politicians, using his influence as an editorial writer to suppress items obnoxious to the government, and suggesting the timely prosecution of such critics as he could not control. He was able to play this double part for eight years, until his treachery was discovered by one Mist, whose "Journal" Defoe had, in his own words, "disabled and enervated, so as to do no mischief, or give any offense to the government." Mist hastened to disclose Defoe's real character to his fellow newspaper proprietors; and in 1726 we find the good Daniel sorrowfully complaining, "I had not published my project in this pamphlet, could I have got it inserted in any of the journals without feeing the journalists or publishers.... I have not only had the mortification to find what I sent rejected, but to lose my originals, not having taken copies of what I wrote."[2] Heavy-footed justice had at last overtaken the arch liar of his age. Of the two hundred and fifty odd books and pamphlets written by Defoe, it may fairly be said that only two--"Robinson Crusoe" and the "History of the Plague in London"--are read by any but the special students of eighteenth-century literature. The latter will be discussed in another part of this Introduction. Of the former it may be asserted, that it arose naturally out of the circumstances of Defoe's trade as a journalist. So long as the papers would take his articles, nobody of distinction could die without Defoe's rushing out with a biography of him. In these biographies, when facts were scanty, Defoe supplied them from his imagination, attributing to his hero such sentiments as he thought the average Londoner could understand, and describing his appearance with that minute fidelity of which only an eyewitness is supposed to be capable. Long practice in this kind of composition made Defoe an adept in the art of "lying like truth." When, therefore, the actual and extraordinary adventures of Alexander Selkirk came under his notice, nothing was more natural and more profitable for Defoe than to seize upon this material, and work it up, just as he worked up the lives of Jack Sheppard the highwayman, and of Avery the king of the pirates. It is interesting to notice also that the date of publication of "Robinson Crusoe" (1719) corresponds with a time at which Defoe was playing the desperate and dangerous game of a political spy. A single false move might bring him a stab in the dark, or might land him in the hulks for transportation to some tropical island, where he might have abundant need for the exercise of those mental resources that interest us so much in Crusoe. The secret of Defoe's life at this time was known only to himself and to the minister that paid him. He was almost as much alone in London as was Crusoe on his desert island. The success which Defoe scored in "Robinson Crusoe" he never repeated. His entire lack of artistic conscience is shown by his adding a dull second part to "Robinson Crusoe," and a duller series of serious reflections such as might have passed through Crusoe's mind during his island captivity. Of even the best of Defoe's other novels,--"Moll Flanders," "Roxana," "Captain Singleton,"--the writer must confess that his judgment coincides with that of Mr. Leslie Stephen, who finds two thirds of them "deadly dull," and the treatment such as "cannot raise [the story] above a very moderate level."[3] The closing scenes of Defoe's life were not cheerful. He appears to have lost most of the fortune he acquired from his numerous writings and scarcely less numerous speculations. For the two years immediately preceding his death, he lived in concealment away from his home, though why he fled, and from what danger, is not definitely known. He died in a lodging in Ropemaker's Alley, Moorfields, on April 26, 1731. The only description we have of Defoe's personal appearance is an advertisement published in 1703, when he was in hiding to avoid arrest for his "Shortest Way with the Dissenters:"-- "He is a middle-aged, spare man, about forty years old, of a brown complexion, and dark-brown colored hair, but wears a wig; a hooked nose, a sharp chin, gray eyes, and a large mole near his mouth." In the years 1720-21 the plague, which had not visited Western Europe for fifty-five years, broke out with great violence in Marseilles. About fifty thousand people died of the disease in that city, and great alarm was felt in London lest the infection should reach England. Here was a journalistic chance that so experienced a newspaper man as Defoe could not let slip. Accordingly, on the 17th of March, 1722, appeared his "Journal of the Plague Year: Being Observations or Memorials of the most Remarkable Occurrences, as well Publick as Private, which happened in London during the Last Great Visitation in 1665. Written by a Citizen who continued all the while in London. Never made public before." The story is told with such an air of veracity, the little circumstantial details are introduced with such apparent artlessness, the grotesque incidents are described with such animation, (and relish!) the horror borne in upon the mind of the narrator is so apparently genuine, that we can easily understand how almost everybody not in the secret of the authorship believed he had here an authentic "Journal," written by one who had actually beheld the scenes he describes. Indeed, we know that twenty-three years after the "Journal" was published, this impression still prevailed; for Defoe is gravely quoted as an authority in "A Discourse on the Plague; by Richard Mead, Fellow of the College of Physicians and of the Royal Society, and Physician to his Majesty. 9th Edition. London, 1744." Though Defoe, like his admiring critic Mr. Saintsbury, had but small sense of humor, even he must have felt tickled in his grave at this ponderous scientific tribute to his skill in the art of realistic description. If we inquire further into the secret of Defoe's success in the "History of the Plague," we shall find that it consists largely in his vision, or power of seeing clearly and accurately what he describes, before he attempts to put this description on paper. As Defoe was but four years old at the time of the Great Plague, his personal recollection of its effects must have been of the dimmest; but during the years of childhood (the most imaginative of life) he must often have conversed with persons who had been through the plague, possibly with those who had recovered from it themselves. He must often have visited localities ravaged by the plague, and spared by the Great Fire of 1666; he must often have gazed in childish horror at those awful mounds beneath which hundreds of human bodies lay huddled together,--rich and poor, high and low, scoundrel and saint,--sharing one common bed at last. His retentive memory must have stored away at least the outline of those hideous images, so effectively recombined many years later by means of his powerful though limited imagination. * * * * * Defoe had the ability to become a good scholar, and to acquire the elements of a good English style; but it is certain he never did. He never had time, or rather he never took time, preferring invariably quantity to quality. What work of his has survived till to-day is read, not for its style, but in spite of its style. His syntax is loose and unscholarly; his vocabulary is copious, but often inaccurate; many of his sentences ramble on interminably, lacking unity, precision, and balance. Figures of speech he seldom abuses because he seldom uses; his imagination, as noticed before, being extremely limited in range. That Defoe, in spite of these defects, should succeed in interesting us in his "Plague," is a remarkable tribute to his peculiar ability as described in the preceding paragraph. In the course of the Notes, the editor has indicated such corrections as are necessary to prevent the student from thinking that in reading Defoe he is drinking from a "well of English undefiled." The art of writing an English prose at once scholarly, clear-cut, and vigorous, was well understood by Defoe's great contemporaries, Dryden, Swift, and Congreve; it does not seem to have occurred to Defoe that he could learn anything from their practice. He has his reward. "Robinson Crusoe" may continue to hold the child and the kitchen wench; but the "Essay on Dramatic Poesy," "The Battle of the Books," and "Love for Love," are for the men and women of culture. * * * * * The standard Life of Defoe is by William Lee (London, J.C. Hotten, 1869). William Minto, in the "English Men of Letters Series," has an excellent short biography of Defoe. For criticism, the only good estimate I am acquainted with is by Leslie Stephen, in "Hours in a Library, First Series." The nature of the article on Defoe in the "Britannica" may be indicated by noticing that the writer (Saintsbury) seriously compares Defoe with Carlyle as a descriptive writer. It would be consoling to think that this is intended as a joke. Those who wish to know more about the plague than Defoe tells them should consult Besant's "London," pp. 376-394 (New York, Harpers). Besant refers to two pamphlets, "The Wonderful Year" and "Vox Civitatis," which he thinks Defoe must have used in writing his book. FOOTNOTES: [1] At first, a weekly; with the fifth number, a bi-weekly; after the first year, a tri-weekly. [2] Preface to his pamphlet entitled Street Robberies. [3] For a very different estimate, see Saintsbury's Selections from Defoe's Minor Novels. HISTORY OF THE PLAGUE IN LONDON. It was about the beginning of September, 1664, that I, among the rest of my neighbors, heard in ordinary discourse that the plague was returned again in Holland; for it had been very violent there, and particularly at Amsterdam and Rotterdam, in the year 1663, whither, they say, it was brought (some said from Italy, others from the Levant) among some goods which were brought home by their Turkey fleet; others said it was brought from Candia; others, from Cyprus. It mattered not from whence it came; but all agreed it was come into Holland again.[4] We had no such thing as printed newspapers in those days, to spread rumors and reports of things, and to improve them by the invention of men, as I have lived to see practiced since. But such things as those were gathered from the letters of merchants and others who corresponded abroad, and from them was handed about by word of mouth only; so that things did not spread instantly over the whole nation, as they do now. But it seems that the government had a true account of it, and several counsels[5] were held about ways to prevent its coming over; but all was kept very private. Hence it was that this rumor died off again; and people began to forget it, as a thing we were very little concerned in and that we hoped was not true, till the latter end of November or the beginning of December, 1664, when two men, said to be Frenchmen, died of the plague in Longacre, or rather at the upper end of Drury Lane.[6] The family they were in endeavored to conceal it as much as possible; but, as it had gotten some vent in the discourse of the neighborhood, the secretaries of state[7] got knowledge of it. And concerning themselves to inquire about it, in order to be certain of the truth, two physicians and a surgeon were ordered to go to the house, and make inspection. This they did, and finding evident tokens[8] of the sickness upon both the bodies that were dead, they gave their opinions publicly that they died of the plague. Whereupon it was given in to the parish clerk,[9] and he also returned them[10] to the hall; and it was printed in the weekly bill of mortality in the usual manner, thus:-- PLAGUE, 2. PARISHES INFECTED, 1. The people showed a great concern at this, and began to be alarmed all over the town, and the more because in the last week in December, 1664, another man died in the same house and of the same distemper. And then we were easy again for about six weeks, when, none having died with any marks of infection, it was said the distemper was gone; but after that, I think it was about the 12th of February, another died in another house, but in the same parish and in the same manner. This turned the people's eyes pretty much towards that end of the town; and, the weekly bills showing an increase of burials in St. Giles's Parish more than usual, it began to be suspected that the plague was among the people at that end of the town, and that many had died of it, though they had taken care to keep it as much from the knowledge of the public as possible. This possessed the heads of the people very much; and few cared to go through Drury Lane, or the other streets suspected, unless they had extraordinary business that obliged them to it. This increase of the bills stood thus: the usual number of burials in a week, in the parishes of St. Giles-in-the-Fields and St. Andrew's, Holborn,[11] were[12] from twelve to seventeen or nineteen each, few more or less; but, from the time that the plague first began in St. Giles's Parish, it was observed that the ordinary burials increased in number considerably. For example:-- Dec. 27 to Jan. 3, St. Giles's 16 St. Andrew's 17 Jan. 3 to Jan. 10, St. Giles's 12 St. Andrew's 25 Jan. 10 to Jan. 17, St. Giles's 18 St. Andrew's 18 Jan. 17 to Jan. 24, St. Giles's 23 St. Andrew's 16 Jan. 24 to Jan. 31, St. Giles's 24 St. Andrew's 15 Jan. 31 to Feb. 7, St. Giles's 21 St. Andrew's 23 Feb. 7 to Feb. 14, St. Giles's 24 Whereof one of the plague. The like increase of the bills was observed in the parishes of St. Bride's, adjoining on one side of Holborn Parish, and in the parish of St. James's, Clerkenwell, adjoining on the other side of Holborn; in both which parishes the usual numbers that died weekly were from four to six or eight, whereas at that time they were increased as follows:-- Dec. 20 to Dec. 27, St. Bride's 0 St. James's 8 Dec. 27 to Jan. 3, St. Bride's 6 St. James's 9 Jan. 3 to Jan. 10, St. Bride's 11 St. James's 7 Jan. 10 to Jan. 17, St. Bride's 12 St. James's 9 Jan. 17 to Jan. 24, St. Bride's 9 St. James's 15 Jan. 24 to Jan. 31, St. Bride's 8 St. James's 12 Jan. 31 to Feb. 7, St. Bride's 13 St. James's 5 Feb. 7 to Feb. 14, St. Bride's 12 St. James's 6 Besides this, it was observed, with great uneasiness by the people, that the weekly bills in general increased very much during these weeks, although it was at a time of the year when usually the bills are very moderate. The usual number of burials within the bills of mortality for a week was from about two hundred and forty, or thereabouts, to three hundred. The last was esteemed a pretty high bill; but after this we found the bills successively increasing, as follows:-- Buried. Increased. Dec. 20 to Dec. 27 291 0 Dec. 27 to Jan. 3 349 58 Jan. 3 to Jan. 10 394 45 Jan. 10 to Jan. 17 415 21 Jan. 17 to Jan. 24 474 59 This last bill was really frightful, being a higher number than had been known to have been buried in one week since the preceding visitation of 1656. However, all this went off again; and the weather proving cold, and the frost, which began in December, still continuing very severe, even till near the end of February, attended with sharp though moderate winds, the bills decreased again, and the city grew healthy; and everybody began to look upon the danger as good as over, only that still the burials in St. Giles's continued high. From the beginning of April, especially, they stood at twenty-five each week, till the week from the 18th to the 25th, when there was[13] buried in St. Giles's Parish thirty, whereof two of the plague, and eight of the spotted fever (which was looked upon as the same thing); likewise the number that died of the spotted fever in the whole increased, being eight the week before, and twelve the week above named. This alarmed us all again; and terrible apprehensions were among the people, especially the weather being now changed and growing warm, and the summer being at hand. However, the next week there seemed to be some hopes again: the bills were low; the number of the dead in all was but 388; there was none of the plague, and but four of the spotted fever. But the following week it returned again, and the distemper was spread into two or three other parishes, viz., St. Andrew's, Holborn, St. Clement's-Danes; and, to the great affliction of the city, one died within the walls, in the parish of St. Mary-Wool-Church, that is to say, in Bearbinder Lane, near Stocks Market: in all, there were nine of the plague, and six of the spotted fever. It was, however, upon inquiry, found that this Frenchman who died in Bearbinder Lane was one who, having lived in Longacre, near the infected houses, had removed for fear of the distemper, not knowing that he was already infected. This was the beginning of May, yet the weather was temperate, variable, and cool enough, and people had still some hopes. That which encouraged them was, that the city was healthy. The whole ninety-seven parishes buried but fifty-four, and we began to hope, that, as it was chiefly among the people at that end of the town, it might go no farther; and the rather, because the next week, which was from the 9th of May to the 16th, there died but three, of which not one within the whole city or liberties;[14] and St. Andrew's buried but fifteen, which was very low. It is true, St. Giles's buried two and thirty; but still, as there was but one of the plague, people began to be easy. The whole bill also was very low: for the week before, the bill was but three hundred and forty-seven; and the week above mentioned, but three hundred and forty-three. We continued in these hopes for a few days; but it was but for a few, for the people were no more to be deceived thus. They searched the houses, and found that the plague was really spread every way, and that many died of it every day; so that now all our extenuations[15] abated, and it was no more to be concealed. Nay, it quickly appeared that the infection had spread itself beyond all hopes of abatement; that in the parish of St. Giles's it was gotten into several streets, and several families lay all sick together; and accordingly, in the weekly bill for the next week, the thing began to show itself. There was indeed but fourteen set down of the plague, but this was all knavery and collusion; for St. Giles's Parish, they buried forty in all, whereof it was certain most of them died of the plague, though they were set down of other distempers. And though the number of all the burials were[16] not increased above thirty-two, and the whole bill being but three hundred and eighty-five, yet there was[17] fourteen of the spotted fever, as well as fourteen of the plague; and we took it for granted, upon the whole, that there were fifty died that week of the plague. The next bill was from the 23d of May to the 30th, when the number of the plague was seventeen; but the burials in St. Giles's were fifty-three, a frightful number, of whom they set down but nine of the plague. But on an examination more strictly by the justices of the peace, and at the lord mayor's[18] request, it was found there were twenty more who were really dead of the plague in that parish, but had been set down of the spotted fever, or other distempers, besides others concealed. But those were trifling things to what followed immediately after. For now the weather set in hot; and from the first week in June, the infection spread in a dreadful manner, and the bills rise[19] high; the articles of the fever, spotted fever, and teeth, began to swell: for all that could conceal their distempers did it to prevent their neighbors shunning and refusing to converse with them, and also to prevent authority shutting up their houses, which, though it was not yet practiced, yet was threatened; and people were extremely terrified at the thoughts of it. The second week in June, the parish of St. Giles's, where still the weight of the infection lay, buried one hundred and twenty, whereof, though the bills said but sixty-eight of the plague, everybody said there had been a hundred at least, calculating it from the usual number of funerals in that parish as above. Till this week the city continued free, there having never any died except that one Frenchman, who[20] I mentioned before, within the whole ninety-seven parishes. Now, there died four within the city,--one in Wood Street, one in Fenchurch Street, and two in Crooked Lane. Southwark was entirely free, having not one yet died on that side of the water. I lived without Aldgate, about midway between Aldgate Church and Whitechapel Bars, on the left hand, or north side, of the street; and as the distemper had not reached to that side of the city, our neighborhood continued very easy. But at the other end of the town their consternation was very great; and the richer sort of people, especially the nobility and gentry from the west part of the city, thronged out of town, with their families and servants, in an unusual manner. And this was more particularly seen in Whitechapel; that is to say, the Broad Street where I lived. Indeed, nothing was to be seen but wagons and carts, with goods, women, servants, children, etc.; coaches filled with people of the better sort, and horsemen attending them, and all hurrying away; then empty wagons and carts appeared, and spare horses with servants, who it was apparent were returning, or sent from the country to fetch more people; besides innumerable numbers of men on horseback, some alone, others with servants, and, generally speaking, all loaded with baggage, and fitted out for traveling, as any one might perceive by their appearance. This was a very terrible and melancholy thing to see, and as it was a sight which I could not but look on from morning to night (for indeed there was nothing else of moment to be seen), it filled me with very serious thoughts of the misery that was coming upon the city, and the unhappy condition of those that would be left in it. This hurry of the people was such for some weeks, that there was no getting at the lord mayor's door without exceeding difficulty; there was such pressing and crowding there to get passes and certificates of health for such as traveled abroad; for, without these, there was no being admitted to pass through the towns upon the road, or to lodge in any inn. Now, as there had none died in the city for all this time, my lord mayor gave certificates of health without any difficulty to all those who lived in the ninety-seven parishes, and to those within the liberties too, for a while. This hurry, I say, continued some weeks, that is to say, all the months of May and June; and the more because it was rumored that an order of the government was to be issued out, to place turnpikes[21] and barriers on the road to prevent people's traveling; and that the towns on the road would not suffer people from London to pass, for fear of bringing the infection along with them, though neither of these rumors had any foundation but in the imagination, especially at first. I now began to consider seriously with myself concerning my own case, and how I should dispose of myself; that is to say, whether I should resolve to stay in London, or shut up my house and flee, as many of my neighbors did. I have set this particular down so fully, because I know not but it may be of moment to those who come after me, if they come to be brought to the same distress and to the same manner of making their choice; and therefore I desire this account may pass with them rather for a direction to themselves to act by than a history of my actings, seeing it may not be of one farthing value to them to note what became of me. I had two important things before me: the one was the carrying on my business and shop, which was considerable, and in which was embarked all my effects in the world; and the other was the preservation of my life in so dismal a calamity as I saw apparently was coming upon the whole city, and which, however great it was, my fears perhaps, as well as other people's, represented to be much greater than it could be. The first consideration was of great moment to me. My trade was a saddler, and as my dealings were chiefly not by a shop or chance trade, but among the merchants trading to the English colonies in America, so my effects lay very much in the hands of such. I was a single man, it is true; but I had a family of servants, who[22] I kept at my business; had a house, shop, and warehouses filled with goods; and in short to leave them all as things in such a case must be left, that is to say, without any overseer or person fit to be trusted with them, had been to hazard the loss, not only of my trade, but of my goods, and indeed of all I had in the world. I had an elder brother at the same time in London, and not many years before come over from Portugal; and, advising with him, his answer was in the three words, the same that was given in another case[23] quite different, viz., "Master, save thyself." In a word, he was for my retiring into the country, as he resolved to do himself, with his family; telling me, what he had, it seems, heard abroad, that the best preparation for the plague was to run away from it. As to my argument of losing my trade, my goods, or debts, he quite confuted me: he told me the same thing which I argued for my staying, viz., that I would trust God with my safety and health was the strongest repulse[24] to my pretensions of losing my trade and my goods. "For," says he, "is it not as reasonable that you should trust God with the chance or risk of losing your trade, as that you should stay in so eminent a point of danger, and trust him with your life?" I could not argue that I was in any strait as to a place where to go, having several friends and relations in Northamptonshire, whence our family first came from; and particularly, I had an only sister in Lincolnshire, very willing to receive and entertain me. My brother, who had already sent his wife and two children into Bedfordshire, and resolved to follow them, pressed my going very earnestly; and I had once resolved to comply with his desires, but at that time could get no horse: for though it is true all the people did not go out of the city of London, yet I may venture to say, that in a manner all the horses did; for there was hardly a horse to be bought or hired in the whole city for some weeks. Once I resolved to travel on foot with one servant, and, as many did, lie at no inn, but carry a soldier's tent with us, and so lie in the fields, the weather being very warm, and no danger from taking cold. I say, as many did, because several did so at last, especially those who had been in the armies, in the war[25] which had not been many years past: and I must needs say, that, speaking of second causes, had most of the people that traveled done so, the plague had not been carried into so many country towns and houses as it was, to the great damage, and indeed to the ruin, of abundance of people. But then my servant who[26] I had intended to take down with me, deceived me, and being frighted at the increase of the distemper, and not knowing when I should go, he took other measures, and left me: so I was put off for that time. And, one way or other, I always found that to appoint to go away was always crossed by some accident or other, so as to disappoint and put it off again. And this brings in a story which otherwise might be thought a needless digression, viz., about these disappointments being from Heaven. It came very warmly into my mind one morning, as I was musing on this particular thing, that as nothing attended us without the direction or permission of Divine Power, so these disappointments must have something in them extraordinary, and I ought to consider whether it did not evidently point out, or intimate to me, that it was the will of Heaven I should not go. It immediately followed in my thoughts, that, if it really was from God that I should stay, he was able effectually to preserve me in the midst of all the death and danger that would surround me; and that if I attempted to secure myself by fleeing from my habitation, and acted contrary to these intimations, which I believed to be divine, it was a kind of flying from God, and that he could cause his justice to overtake me when and where he thought fit.[27] These thoughts quite turned my resolutions again; and when I came to discourse with my brother again, I told him that I inclined to stay and take my lot in that station in which God had placed me; and that it seemed to be made more especially my duty, on the account of what I have said. My brother, though a very religious man himself, laughed at all I had suggested about its being an intimation from Heaven, and told me several stories of such foolhardy people, as he called them, as I was; that I ought indeed to submit to it as a work of Heaven if I had been any way disabled by distempers or diseases, and that then, not being able to go, I ought to acquiesce in the direction of Him, who, having been my Maker, had an undisputed right of sovereignty in disposing of me; and that then there had been no difficulty to determine which was the call of his providence, and which was not; but that I should take it as an intimation from Heaven that I should not go out of town, only because I could not hire a horse to go, or my fellow was run away that was to attend me, was ridiculous, since at the same time I had my health and limbs, and other servants, and might with ease travel a day or two on foot, and, having a good certificate of being in perfect health, might either hire a horse, or take post on the road, as I thought fit. Then he proceeded to tell me of the mischievous consequences which attend the presumption of the Turks and Mohammedans in Asia, and in other places where he had been (for my brother, being a merchant, was a few years before, as I have already observed, returned from abroad, coming last from Lisbon); and how, presuming upon their professed predestinating[28] notions, and of every man's end being predetermined, and unalterably beforehand decreed, they would go unconcerned into infected places, and converse with infected persons, by which means they died at the rate of ten or fifteen thousand a week, whereas the Europeans, or Christian merchants, who kept themselves retired and reserved, generally escaped the contagion. Upon these arguments my brother changed my resolutions again, and I began to resolve to go, and accordingly made all things ready; for, in short, the infection increased round me, and the bills were risen to almost seven hundred a week, and my brother told me he would venture to stay no longer. I desired him to let me consider of it but till the next day, and I would resolve; and as I had already prepared everything as well as I could, as to my business and who[29] to intrust my affairs with, I had little to do but to resolve. I went home that evening greatly oppressed in my mind, irresolute, and not knowing what to do. I had set the evening wholly apart to consider seriously about it, and was all alone; for already people had, as it were by a general consent, taken up the custom of not going out of doors after sunset: the reasons I shall have occasion to say more of by and by. In the retirement of this evening I endeavored to resolve first what was my duty to do, and I stated the arguments with which my brother had pressed me to go into the country, and I set against them the strong impressions which I had on my mind for staying,--the visible call I seemed to have from the particular circumstance of my calling, and the care due from me for the preservation of my effects, which were, as I might say, my estate; also the intimations which I thought I had from Heaven, that to me signified a kind of direction to venture; and it occurred to me, that, if I had what I call a direction to stay, I ought to suppose it contained a promise of being preserved, if I obeyed. This lay close to me;[30] and my mind seemed more and more encouraged to stay than ever, and supported with a secret satisfaction that I should be kept.[31] Add to this, that turning over the Bible which lay before me, and while my thoughts were more than ordinary serious upon the question, I cried out, "Well, I know not what to do, Lord direct me!" and the like. And at that juncture I happened to stop turning over the book at the Ninety-first Psalm, and, casting my eye on the second verse, I read to the seventh verse exclusive, and after that included the tenth, as follows: "I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust. Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee. Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold and see the reward of the wicked. Because thou hast made the Lord, which is my refuge, even the Most High, thy habitation; there shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling," etc. I scarce need tell the reader that from that moment I resolved that I would stay in the town, and, casting myself entirely upon the goodness and protection of the Almighty, would not seek any other shelter whatever; and that as my times were in his hands,[32] he was as able to keep me in a time of the infection as in a time of health; and if he did not think fit to deliver me, still I was in his hands, and it was meet he should do with me as should seem good to him. With this resolution I went to bed; and I was further confirmed in it the next day by the woman being taken ill with whom I had intended to intrust my house and all my affairs. But I had a further obligation laid on me on the same side: for the next day I found myself very much out of order also; so that, if I would have gone away, I could not. And I continued ill three or four days, and this entirely determined my stay: so I took my leave of my brother, who went away to Dorking in Surrey,[33] and afterwards fetched around farther into Buckinghamshire or Bedfordshire, to a retreat he had found out there for his family. It was a very ill time to be sick in; for if any one complained, it was immediately said he had the plague; and though I had, indeed, no symptoms of that distemper, yet, being very ill both in my head and in my stomach, I was not without apprehension that I really was infected. But in about three days I grew better. The third night I rested well, sweated a little, and was much refreshed. The apprehensions of its being the infection went also quite away with my illness, and I went about my business as usual. These things, however, put off all my thoughts of going into the country; and my brother also being gone, I had no more debate either with him or with myself on that subject. It was now mid-July; and the plague, which had chiefly raged at the other end of the town, and, as I said before, in the parishes of St. Giles's, St. Andrew's, Holborn, and towards Westminster, began now to come eastward, towards the part where I lived. It was to be observed, indeed, that it did not come straight on towards us; for the city, that is to say within the walls, was indifferent healthy still. Nor was it got then very much over the water into Southwark; for though there died that week twelve hundred and sixty-eight of all distempers, whereof it might be supposed above nine hundred died of the plague, yet there was but twenty-eight in the whole city, within the walls, and but nineteen in Southwark, Lambeth Parish included; whereas in the parishes of St. Giles and St. Martin's-in-the-Fields alone, there died four hundred and twenty-one. But we perceived the infection kept chiefly in the outparishes, which being very populous and fuller also of poor, the distemper found more to prey upon than in the city, as I shall observe afterwards. We perceived, I say, the distemper to draw our way, viz., by the parishes of Clerkenwell, Cripplegate, Shoreditch, and Bishopsgate; which last two parishes joining to Aldgate, Whitechapel, and Stepney, the infection came at length to spread its utmost rage and violence in those parts, even when it abated at the western parishes where it began. It was very strange to observe that in this particular week (from the 4th to the 11th of July), when, as I have observed, there died near four hundred of the plague in the two parishes of St. Martin's and St. Giles-in-the-Fields[34] only, there died in the parish of Aldgate but four, in the parish of Whitechapel three, in the parish of Stepney but one. Likewise in the next week (from the 11th of July to the 18th), when the week's bill was seventeen hundred and sixty-one, yet there died no more of the plague, on the whole Southwark side of the water, than sixteen. But this face of things soon changed, and it began to thicken in Cripplegate Parish especially, and in Clerkenwell; so that by the second week in August, Cripplegate Parish alone buried eight hundred and eighty-six, and Clerkenwell one hundred and fifty-five. Of the first, eight hundred and fifty might well be reckoned to die of the plague; and of the last, the bill itself said one hundred and forty-five were of the plague. During the month of July, and while, as I have observed, our part of the town seemed to be spared in comparison of the west part, I went ordinarily about the streets as my business required, and particularly went generally once in a day, or in two days, into the city, to my brother's house, which he had given me charge of, and to see it was safe; and having the key in my pocket, I used to go into the house, and over most of the rooms, to see that all was well. For though it be something wonderful to tell that any should have hearts so hardened, in the midst of such a calamity, as to rob and steal, yet certain it is that all sorts of villainies, and even levities and debaucheries, were then practiced in the town as openly as ever: I will not say quite as frequently, because the number of people were[35] many ways lessened. But the city itself began now to be visited too, I mean within the walls. But the number of people there were[35] indeed extremely lessened by so great a multitude having been gone into the country; and even all this month of July they continued to flee, though not in such multitudes as formerly. In August, indeed, they fled in such a manner, that I began to think there would be really none but magistrates and servants left in the city. As they fled now out of the city, so I should observe that the court[36] removed early, viz., in the month of June, and went to Oxford, where it pleased God to preserve them; and the distemper did not, as I heard of, so much as touch them; for which I cannot say that I ever saw they showed any great token of thankfulness, and hardly anything of reformation, though they did not want being told that their crying vices might, without breach of charity, be said to have gone far in bringing that terrible judgment upon the whole nation. The face of London was now, indeed, strangely altered: I mean the whole mass of buildings, city, liberties, suburbs, Westminster, Southwark, and altogether; for as to the particular part called the city, or within the walls, that was not yet much infected. But in the whole, the face of things, I say, was much altered. Sorrow and sadness sat upon every face, and though some part were not yet overwhelmed, yet all looked deeply concerned; and as we saw it apparently coming on, so every one looked on himself and his family as in the utmost danger. Were it possible to represent those times exactly to those that did not see them, and give the reader due ideas of the horror that everywhere presented itself, it must make just impressions upon their minds, and fill them with surprise. London might well be said to be all in tears. The mourners did not go about the streets,[37] indeed; for nobody put on black, or made a formal dress of mourning for their nearest friends: but the voice of mourning was truly heard in the streets. The shrieks of women and children at the windows and doors of their houses, where their nearest relations were perhaps dying, or just dead, were so frequent to be heard as we passed the streets, that it was enough to pierce the stoutest heart in the world to hear them. Tears and lamentations were seen almost in every house, especially in the first part of the visitation; for towards the latter end, men's hearts were hardened, and death was so always before their eyes that they did not so much concern themselves for the loss of their friends, expecting that themselves should be summoned the next hour. Business led me out sometimes to the other end of the town, even when the sickness was chiefly there. And as the thing was new to me, as well as to everybody else, it was a most surprising thing to see those streets, which were usually so thronged, now grown desolate, and so few people to be seen in them, that if I had been a stranger, and at a loss for my way, I might sometimes have gone the length of a whole street, I mean of the by-streets, and see[38] nobody to direct me, except watchmen set at the doors of such houses as were shut up; of which I shall speak presently. One day, being at that part of the town on some special business, curiosity led me to observe things more than usually; and indeed I walked a great way where I had no business. I went up Holborn, and there the street was full of people; but they walked in the middle of the great street, neither on one side or[39] other, because, as I suppose, they would not mingle with anybody that came out of houses, or meet with smells and scents from houses, that might be infected. The inns of court were all shut up, nor were very many of the lawyers in the Temple,[40] or Lincoln's Inn, or Gray's Inn, to be seen there. Everybody was at peace, there was no occasion for lawyers; besides, it being in the time of the vacation too, they were generally gone into the country. Whole rows of houses in some places were shut close up, the inhabitants all fled, and only a watchman or two left. When I speak of rows of houses being shut up, I do not mean shut up by the magistrates, but that great numbers of persons followed the court, by the necessity of their employments, and other dependencies; and as others retired, really frighted with the distemper, it was a mere desolating of some of the streets. But the fright was not yet near so great in the city, abstractedly so called,[41] and particularly because, though they were at first in a most inexpressible consternation, yet, as I have observed that the distemper intermitted often at first, so they were, as it were, alarmed and unalarmed again, and this several times, till it began to be familiar to them; and that even when it appeared violent, yet seeing it did not presently spread into the city, or the east or south parts, the people began to take courage, and to be, as I may say, a little hardened. It is true, a vast many people fled, as I have observed; yet they were chiefly from the west end of the town, and from that we call the heart of the city, that is to say, among the wealthiest of the people, and such persons as were unincumbered with trades and business. But of the rest, the generality staid, and seemed to abide the worst; so that in the place we call the liberties, and in the suburbs, in Southwark, and in the east part, such as Wapping, Ratcliff, Stepney, Rotherhithe, and the like, the people generally staid, except here and there a few wealthy families, who, as above, did not depend upon their business. It must not be forgot here that the city and suburbs were prodigiously full of people at the time of this visitation, I mean at the time that it began. For though I have lived to see a further increase, and mighty throngs of people settling in London, more than ever; yet we had always a notion that numbers of people which--the wars being over, the armies disbanded, and the royal family and the monarchy being restored--had flocked to London to settle in business, or to depend upon and attend the court for rewards of services, preferments, and the like, was[42] such that the town was computed to have in it above a hundred thousand people more than ever it held before. Nay, some took upon them to say it had twice as many, because all the ruined families of the royal party flocked hither, all the soldiers set up trades here, and abundance of families settled here. Again: the court brought with it a great flux of pride and new fashions; all people were gay and luxurious, and the joy of the restoration had brought a vast many families to London.[43] But I must go back again to the beginning of this surprising time. While the fears of the people were young, they were increased strangely by several odd accidents, which put altogether, it was really a wonder the whole body of the people did not rise as one man, and abandon their dwellings, leaving the place as a space of ground designed by Heaven for an Aceldama,[44] doomed to be destroyed from the face of the earth, and that all that would be found in it would perish with it. I shall name but a few of these things; but sure they were so many, and so many wizards and cunning people propagating them, that I have often wondered there was any (women especially) left behind. In the first place, a blazing star or comet appeared for several months before the plague, as there did, the year after, another a little before the fire. The old women, and the phlegmatic hypochondriac[45] part of the other sex (whom I could almost call old women too), remarked, especially afterward, though not till both those judgments were over, that those two comets passed directly over the city, and that so very near the houses that it was plain they imported something peculiar to the city alone; that the comet before the pestilence was of a faint, dull, languid color, and its motion very heavy, solemn, and slow, but that the comet before the fire was bright and sparkling, or, as others said, flaming, and its motion swift and furious; and that, accordingly, one foretold a heavy judgment, slow but severe, terrible, and frightful, as was the plague, but the other foretold a stroke, sudden, swift, and fiery, as was the conflagration. Nay, so particular some people were, that, as they looked upon that comet preceding the fire, they fancied that they not only saw it pass swiftly and fiercely, and could perceive the motion with their eye, but even they heard it; that it made a rushing, mighty noise, fierce and terrible, though at a distance, and but just perceivable. I saw both these stars, and, I must confess, had had so much of the common notion of such things in my head, that I was apt to look upon them as the forerunners and warnings of God's judgments, and, especially when the plague had followed the first, I yet saw another of the like kind, I could not but say, God had not yet sufficiently scourged the city. The apprehensions of the people were likewise strangely increased by the error of the times, in which I think the people, from what principle I cannot imagine, were more addicted to prophecies, and astrological conjurations, dreams, and old wives' tales, than ever they were before or since.[46] Whether this unhappy temper was originally raised by the follies of some people who got money by it, that is to say, by printing predictions and prognostications, I know not. But certain it is, books frighted them terribly, such as "Lilly's Almanack,"[47] "Gadbury's Astrological Predictions," "Poor Robin's Almanack,"[48] and the like; also several pretended religious books,--one entitled "Come out of Her, my People, lest ye be Partaker of her Plagues;"[49] another called "Fair Warning;" another, "Britain's Remembrancer;" and many such,--all, or most part of which, foretold directly or covertly the ruin of the city. Nay, some were so enthusiastically bold as to run about the streets with their oral predictions, pretending they were sent to preach to the city; and one in particular, who, like Jonah[50] to Nineveh, cried in the streets, "Yet forty days, and London shall be destroyed." I will not be positive whether he said "yet forty days," or "yet a few days." Another ran about naked, except a pair of drawers about his waist, crying day and night, like a man that Josephus[51] mentions, who cried, "Woe to Jerusalem!" a little before the destruction of that city: so this poor naked creature cried, "Oh, the great and the dreadful God!" and said no more, but repeated those words continually, with a voice and countenance full of horror, a swift pace, and nobody could ever find him to stop, or rest, or take any sustenance, at least that ever I could hear of. I met this poor creature several times in the streets, and would have spoke to him, but he would not enter into speech with me, or any one else, but kept on his dismal cries continually. These things terrified the people to the last degree, and especially when two or three times, as I have mentioned already, they found one or two in the bills dead of the plague at St. Giles's. Next to these public things were the dreams of old women; or, I should say, the interpretation of old women upon other people's dreams; and these put abundance of people even out of their wits. Some heard voices warning them to be gone, for that there would be such a plague in London so that the living would not be able to bury the dead; others saw apparitions in the air: and I must be allowed to say of both, I hope without breach of charity, that they heard voices that never spake, and saw sights that never appeared. But the imagination of the people was really turned wayward and possessed; and no wonder if they who were poring continually at the clouds saw shapes and figures, representations and appearances, which had nothing in them but air and vapor. Here they told us they saw a flaming sword held in a hand, coming out of a cloud, with a point hanging directly over the city. There they saw hearses and coffins in the air carrying to be buried. And there again, heaps of dead bodies lying unburied and the like, just as the imagination of the poor terrified people furnished them with matter to work upon. So hypochondriac fancies represent Ships, armies, battles in the firmament; Till steady eyes the exhalations solve, And all to its first matter, cloud, resolve. I could fill this account with the strange relations such people give every day of what they have seen; and every one was so positive of their having seen what they pretended to see, that there was no contradicting them, without breach of friendship, or being accounted rude and unmannerly on the one hand, and profane and impenetrable on the other. One time before the plague was begun, otherwise than as I have said in St. Giles's (I think it was in March), seeing a crowd of people in the street, I joined with them to satisfy my curiosity, and found them all staring up into the air to see what a woman told them appeared plain to her, which was an angel clothed in white, with a fiery sword in his hand, waving it or brandishing it over his head. She described every part of the figure to the life, showed them the motion and the form, and the poor people came into it so eagerly and with so much readiness. "Yes, I see it all plainly," says one: "there's the sword as plain as can be." Another saw the angel; one saw his very face, and cried out what a glorious creature he was. One saw one thing, and one another. I looked as earnestly as the rest, but perhaps not with so much willingness to be imposed upon; and I said, indeed, that I could see nothing but a white cloud, bright on one side, by the shining of the sun upon the other part. The woman endeavored to show it me, but could not make me confess that I saw it; which, indeed, if I had, I must have lied. But the woman, turning to me, looked me in the face, and fancied I laughed, in which her imagination deceived her too, for I really did not laugh, but was seriously reflecting how the poor people were terrified by the force of their own imagination. However, she turned to me, called me profane fellow and a scoffer, told me that it was a time of God's anger, and dreadful judgments were approaching, and that despisers such as I should wander and perish. The people about her seemed disgusted as well as she, and I found there was no persuading them that I did not laugh at them, and that I should be rather mobbed by them than be able to undeceive them. So I left them, and this appearance passed for as real as the blazing star itself. Another encounter I had in the open day also; and this was in going through a narrow passage from Petty France[52] into Bishopsgate churchyard, by a row of almshouses. There are two churchyards to Bishopsgate Church or Parish. One we go over to pass from the place called Petty France into Bishopsgate Street, coming out just by the church door; the other is on the side of the narrow passage where the almshouses are on the left, and a dwarf wall with a palisade on it on the right hand, and the city wall on the other side more to the right. In this narrow passage stands a man looking through the palisades into the burying place, and as many people as the narrowness of the place would admit to stop without hindering the passage of others; and he was talking mighty eagerly to them, and pointing, now to one place, then to another, and affirming that he saw a ghost walking upon such a gravestone there. He described the shape, the posture, and the movement of it so exactly, that it was the greatest amazement to him in the world that everybody did not see it as well as he. On a sudden he would cry, "There it is! Now it comes this way!" then, "'Tis turned back!" till at length he persuaded the people into so firm a belief of it, that one fancied he saw it; and thus he came every day, making a strange hubbub, considering it was so narrow a passage, till Bishopsgate clock struck eleven; and then the ghost would seem to start, and, as if he were called away, disappeared on a sudden. I looked earnestly every way, and at the very moment that this man directed, but could not see the least appearance of anything. But so positive was this poor man that he gave them vapors[53] in abundance, and sent them away trembling and frightened, till at length few people that knew of it cared to go through that passage, and hardly anybody by night on any account whatever. This ghost, as the poor man affirmed, made signs to the houses and to the ground and to the people, plainly intimating (or else they so understanding it) that abundance of people should come to be buried in that churchyard, as indeed happened. But then he saw such aspects I must acknowledge I never believed, nor could I see anything of it myself, though I looked most earnestly to see it if possible. Some endeavors were used to suppress the printing of such books as terrified the people, and to frighten the dispersers of them, some of whom were taken up, but nothing done in it, as I am informed; the government being unwilling to exasperate the people, who were, as I may say, all out of their wits already. Neither can I acquit those ministers that in their sermons rather sunk than lifted up the hearts of their hearers. Many of them, I doubt not, did it for the strengthening the resolution of the people, and especially for quickening them to repentance; but it certainly answered not their end, at least not in proportion to the injury it did another way. One mischief always introduces another. These terrors and apprehensions of the people led them to a thousand weak, foolish, and wicked things, which they wanted not a sort of people really wicked to encourage them to; and this was running about to fortune tellers, cunning men,[54] and astrologers, to know their fortunes, or, as it is vulgarly expressed, to have their fortunes told them, their nativities[55] calculated, and the like. And this folly presently made the town swarm with a wicked generation of pretenders to magic, to the "black art," as they called it, and I know not what, nay, to a thousand worse dealings with the devil than they were really guilty of. And this trade grew so open and so generally practiced, that it became common to have signs and inscriptions set up at doors, "Here lives a fortune teller," "Here lives an astrologer," "Here you may have your nativity calculated," and the like; and Friar Bacon's brazen head,[56] which was the usual sign of these people's dwellings, was to be seen almost in every street, or else the sign of Mother Shipton,[57] or of Merlin's[58] head, and the like. With what blind, absurd, and ridiculous stuff these oracles of the devil pleased and satisfied the people, I really know not; but certain it is, that innumerable attendants crowded about their doors every day: and if but a grave fellow in a velvet jacket, a band,[59] and a black cloak, which was the habit those quack conjurers generally went in, was but seen in the streets, the people would follow them[60] in crowds, and ask them[60] questions as they went along. The case of poor servants was very dismal, as I shall have occasion to mention again by and by; for it was apparent a prodigious number of them would be turned away. And it was so, and of them abundance perished, and particularly those whom these false prophets flattered with hopes that they should be kept in their services, and carried with their masters and mistresses into the country; and had not public charity provided for these poor creatures, whose number was exceeding great (and in all cases of this nature must be so), they would have been in the worst condition of any people in the city. These things agitated the minds of the common people for many months while the first apprehensions were upon them, and while the plague was not, as I may say, yet broken out. But I must also not forget that the more serious part of the inhabitants behaved after another manner. The government encouraged their devotion, and appointed public prayers, and days of fasting and humiliation, to make public confession of sin, and implore the mercy of God to avert the dreadful judgment which hangs over their heads; and it is not to be expressed with what alacrity the people of all persuasions embraced the occasion, how they flocked to the churches and meetings, and they were all so thronged that there was often no coming near, even to the very doors of the largest churches. Also there were daily prayers appointed morning and evening at several churches, and days of private praying at other places, at all which the people attended, I say, with an uncommon devotion. Several private families, also, as well of one opinion as another, kept family fasts, to which they admitted their near relations only; so that, in a word, those people who were really serious and religious applied themselves in a truly Christian manner to the proper work of repentance and humiliation, as a Christian people ought to do. Again, the public showed that they would bear their share in these things. The very court, which was then gay and luxurious, put on a face of just concern for the public danger. All the plays and interludes[61] which, after the manner of the French court,[62] had been set up and began to increase among us, were forbid to act;[63] the gaming tables, public dancing rooms, and music houses, which multiplied and began to debauch the manners of the people, were shut up and suppressed; and the jack puddings,[64] merry-andrews,[64] puppet shows, ropedancers, and such like doings, which had bewitched the common people, shut their shops, finding indeed no trade, for the minds of the people were agitated with other things, and a kind of sadness and horror at these things sat upon the countenances even of the common people. Death was before their eyes, and everybody began to think of their graves, not of mirth and diversions. But even these wholesome reflections, which, rightly managed, would have most happily led the people to fall upon their knees, make confession of their sins, and look up to their merciful Savior for pardon, imploring his compassion on them in such a time of their distress, by which we might have been as a second Nineveh, had a quite contrary extreme in the common people, who, ignorant and stupid in their reflections as they were brutishly wicked and thoughtless before, were now led by their fright to extremes of folly, and, as I said before, that they ran to conjurers and witches and all sorts of deceivers, to know what should become of them, who fed their fears and kept them always alarmed and awake, on purpose to delude them and pick their pockets: so they were as mad upon their running after quacks and mountebanks, and every practicing old woman for medicines and remedies, storing themselves with such multitudes of pills, potions, and preservatives, as they were called, that they not only spent their money, but poisoned themselves beforehand, for fear of the poison of the infection, and prepared their bodies for the plague, instead of preserving them against it. On the other hand, it was incredible, and scarce to be imagined, how the posts of houses and corners of streets were plastered over with doctors' bills, and papers of ignorant fellows quacking and tampering in physic, and inviting people to come to them for remedies, which was generally set off with such flourishes as these; viz., "INFALLIBLE preventitive pills against the plague;" "NEVER-FAILING preservatives against the infection;" "SOVEREIGN cordials against the corruption of air;" "EXACT regulations for the conduct of the body in case of infection;" "Antipestilential pills;" "INCOMPARABLE drink against the plague, never found out before;" "An UNIVERSAL remedy for the plague;" "The ONLY TRUE plague water;" "The ROYAL ANTIDOTE against all kinds of infection;" and such a number more that I cannot reckon up, and, if I could, would fill a book of themselves to set them down. Others set up bills to summon people to their lodgings for direction and advice in the case of infection. These had specious titles also, such as these:-- An eminent High-Dutch physician, newly come over from Holland, where he resided during all the time of the great plague, last year, in Amsterdam, and cured multitudes of people that actually had the plague upon them. An Italian gentlewoman just arrived from Naples, having a choice secret to prevent infection, which she found out by her great experience, and did wonderful cures with it in the late plague there, wherein there died 20,000 in one day. An ancient gentlewoman having practiced with great success in the late plague in this city, anno 1636, gives her advice only to the female sex. To be spoken with, etc. An experienced physician, who has long studied the doctrine of antidotes against all sorts of poison and infection, has, after forty years' practice, arrived at such skill as may, with God's blessing, direct persons how to prevent being touched by any contagious distemper whatsoever. He directs the poor gratis. I take notice of these by way of specimen. I could give you two or three dozen of the like, and yet have abundance left behind. It is sufficient from these to apprise any one of the humor of those times, and how a set of thieves and pickpockets not only robbed and cheated the poor people of their money, but poisoned their bodies with odious and fatal preparations; some with mercury, and some with other things as bad, perfectly remote from the thing pretended to, and rather hurtful than serviceable to the body in case an infection followed. I cannot omit a subtlety of one of those quack operators with which he gulled the poor people to crowd about him, but did nothing for them without money. He had, it seems, added to his bills, which he gave out in the streets, this advertisement in capital letters; viz., "He gives advice to the poor for nothing." Abundance of people came to him accordingly, to whom he made a great many fine speeches, examined them of the state of their health and of the constitution of their bodies, and told them many good things to do, which were of no great moment. But the issue and conclusion of all was, that he had a preparation which, if they took such a quantity of every morning, he would pawn his life that they should never have the plague, no, though they lived in the house with people that were infected. This made the people all resolve to have it, but then the price of that was so much (I think it was half a crown[65]). "But, sir," says one poor woman, "I am a poor almswoman, and am kept by the parish; and your bills say you give the poor your help for nothing."--"Ay, good woman," says the doctor, "so I do, as I published there. I give my advice, but not my physic!"--"Alas, sir," says she, "that is a snare laid for the poor then, for you give them your advice for nothing; that is to say, you advise them gratis to buy your physic for their money: so does every shopkeeper with his wares." Here the woman began to give him ill words, and stood at his door all that day, telling her tale to all the people that came, till the doctor, finding she turned away his customers, was obliged to call her upstairs again and give her his box of physic for nothing, which perhaps, too, was good for nothing when she had it. But to return to the people, whose confusions fitted them to be imposed upon by all sorts of pretenders and by every mountebank. There is no doubt but these quacking sort of fellows raised great gains out of the miserable people; for we daily found the crowds that ran after them were infinitely greater, and their doors were more thronged, than those of Dr. Brooks, Dr. Upton, Dr. Hodges, Dr. Berwick, or any, though the most famous men of the time; and I was told that some of them got five pounds[66] a day by their physic. But there was still another madness beyond all this, which may serve to give an idea of the distracted humor of the poor people at that time, and this was their following a worse sort of deceivers than any of these; for these petty thieves only deluded them to pick their pockets and get their money (in which their wickedness, whatever it was, lay chiefly on the side of the deceiver's deceiving, not upon the deceived); but, in this part I am going to mention, it lay chiefly in the people deceived, or equally in both. And this was in wearing charms, philters,[67] exorcisms,[68] amulets,[69] and I know not what preparations to fortify the body against the plague, as if the plague was not the hand of God, but a kind of a possession of an evil spirit, and it was to be kept off with crossings,[70] signs of the zodiac,[71] papers tied up with so many knots, and certain words or figures written on them, as particularly the word "Abracadabra,"[72] formed in triangle or pyramid; thus,-- A B R A C A D A B R A A B R A C A D A B R A B R A C A D A B A B R A C A D A A B R A C A D A B R A C A A B R A C A B R A A B R A B A Others had the Jesuits' mark in a cross:-- I H S[73] Others had nothing but this mark; thus,-- + I might spend a great deal of my time in exclamations against the follies, and indeed the wickednesses of those things, in a time of such danger, in a matter of such consequence as this of a national infection; but my memorandums of these things relate rather to take notice of the fact, and mention only that it was so. How the poor people found the insufficiency of those things, and how many of them were afterwards carried away in the dead carts, and thrown into the common graves of every parish with these hellish charms and trumpery hanging about their necks, remains to be spoken of as we go along. All this was the effect of the hurry the people were in, after the first notion of the plague being at hand was among them, and which may be said to be from about Michaelmas,[74] 1664, but more particularly after the two men died in St. Giles's, in the beginning of December; and again after another alarm in February, for when the plague evidently spread itself, they soon began to see the folly of trusting to these unperforming creatures who had gulled them of their money; and then their fears worked another way, namely, to amazement and stupidity, not knowing what course to take or what to do, either to help or to relieve themselves; but they ran about from one neighbor's house to another, and even in the streets, from one door to another, with repeated cries of, "Lord, have mercy upon us! What shall we do?" I am supposing, now, the plague to have begun, as I have said, and that the magistrates began to take the condition of the people into their serious consideration. What they did as to the regulation of the inhabitants, and of infected families, I shall speak to[75] by itself; but as to the affair of health, it is proper to mention here my having seen the foolish humor of the people in running after quacks, mountebanks, wizards, and fortune tellers, which they did, as above, even to madness. The lord mayor, a very sober and religious gentleman, appointed physicians and surgeons for the relief of the poor, I mean the diseased poor, and in particular ordered the College of Physicians[76] to publish directions for cheap remedies for the poor in all the circumstances of the distemper. This, indeed, was one of the most charitable and judicious things that could be done at that time; for this drove the people from haunting the doors of every disperser of bills, and from taking down blindly and without consideration, poison for physic, and death instead of life. This direction of the physicians was done by a consultation of the whole college; and as it was particularly calculated for the use of the poor, and for cheap medicines, it was made public, so that everybody might see it, and copies were given gratis to all that desired it. But as it is public and to be seen on all occasions, I need not give the reader of this the trouble of it. It remains to be mentioned now what public measures were taken by the magistrates for the general safety and to prevent the spreading of the distemper when it broke out. I shall have frequent occasion to speak of the prudence of the magistrates, their charity, their vigilance for the poor and for preserving good order, furnishing provisions, and the like, when the plague was increased as it afterwards was. But I am now upon the order and regulations which they published for the government of infected families. I mentioned above shutting of houses up, and it is needful to say something particularly to that; for this part of the history of the plague is very melancholy. But the most grievous story must be told. About June, the lord mayor of London, and the court of aldermen, as I have said, began more particularly to concern themselves for the regulation of the city. The justices of the peace for Middlesex,[77] by direction of the secretary of state, had begun to shut up houses in the parishes of St. Giles-in-the-Fields, St. Martin's, St. Clement's-Danes, etc., and it was with good success; for in several streets where the plague broke out, upon strict guarding the houses that were infected, and taking care to bury those that died as soon as they were known to be dead, the plague ceased in those streets. It was also observed that the plague decreased sooner in those parishes after they had been visited to the full than it did in the parishes of Bishopsgate, Shoreditch, Aldgate, Whitechapel, Stepney, and others; the early care taken in that manner being a great means to the putting a check to it. This shutting up of the houses was a method first taken, as I understand, in the plague which happened in 1603, at the coming of King James I. to the crown; and the power of shutting people up in their own houses was granted by act of Parliament, entitled "An Act for the Charitable Relief and Ordering of Persons Infected with Plague." On which act of Parliament the lord mayor and aldermen of the city of London founded the order they made at this time, and which took place the 1st of July, 1665, when the numbers of infected within the city were but few; the last bill for the ninety-two parishes being but four, and some houses having been shut up in the city, and some people being removed to the pesthouse beyond Bunhill Fields, in the way to Islington. I say by these means, when there died near one thousand a week in the whole, the number in the city was but twenty-eight; and the city was preserved more healthy, in proportion, than any other place all the time of the infection. These orders of my lord mayor's were published, as I have said, the latter end of June, and took place from the 1st of July, and were as follow: viz.,-- ORDERS CONCEIVED AND PUBLISHED BY THE LORD MAYOR AND ALDERMEN OF THE CITY OF LONDON, CONCERNING THE INFECTION OF THE PLAGUE; 1665. Whereas in the reign of our late sovereign King James, of happy memory, an act was made for the charitable relief and ordering of persons infected with the plague; whereby authority was given to justices of the peace, mayors, bailiffs, and other head officers, to appoint within their several limits examiners, searchers, watchmen, keepers, and buriers, for the persons and places infected, and to minister unto them oaths for the performance of their offices; and the same statute did also authorize the giving of their directions as unto them for other present necessity should seem good in their discretions: it is now, upon special consideration, thought very expedient, for preventing and avoiding of infection of sickness (if it shall please Almighty God), that these officers following be appointed, and these orders hereafter duly observed. _Examiners to be appointed to every Parish._ First, it is thought requisite, and so ordered, that in every parish there be one, two, or more persons of good sort and credit chosen by the alderman, his deputy, and common council of every ward, by the name of examiners, to continue in that office for the space of two months at least: and if any fit person so appointed shall refuse to undertake the same, the said parties so refusing to be committed to prison until they shall conform themselves accordingly. _The Examiner's Office._ That these examiners be sworn by the aldermen to inquire and learn from time to time what houses in every parish be visited, and what persons be sick, and of what diseases, as near as they can inform themselves, and, upon doubt in that case, to command restraint of access until it appear what the disease shall prove; and if they find any person sick of the infection, to give order to the constable that the house be shut up; and, if the constable shall be found remiss and negligent, to give notice thereof to the alderman of the ward. _Watchmen._ That to every infected house there be appointed two watchmen,--one for every day, and the other for the night; and that these watchmen have a special care that no person go in or out of such infected houses whereof they have the charge, upon pain of severe punishment. And the said watchmen to do such further offices as the sick house shall need and require; and if the watchman be sent upon any business, to lock up the house and take the key with him; and the watchman by day to attend until ten o'clock at night, and the watchman by night until six in the morning. _Searchers._ That there be a special care to appoint women searchers in every parish, such as are of honest reputation and of the best sort as can be got in this kind; and these to be sworn to make due search and true report, to the utmost of their knowledge, whether the persons whose bodies they are appointed to search do die of the infection, or of what other diseases, as near as they can. And that the physicians who shall be appointed for the cure and prevention of the infection do call before them the said searchers, who are or shall be appointed for the several parishes under their respective cares, to the end they may consider whether they be fitly qualified for that employment, and charge them from time to time, as they shall see cause, if they appear defective in their duties. That no searcher during this time of visitation be permitted to use any public work or employment, or keep a shop or stall, or be employed as a laundress, or in any other common employment whatsoever. _Chirurgeons._[78] For better assistance of the searchers, forasmuch as there has been heretofore great abuse in misreporting the disease, to the further spreading of the infection, it is therefore ordered that there be chosen and appointed able and discreet chirurgeons besides those that do already belong to the pesthouse, amongst whom the city and liberties to be quartered as they lie most apt and convenient; and every of these to have one quarter for his limit. And the said chirurgeons in every of their limits to join with the searchers for the view of the body, to the end there may be a true report made of the disease. And further: that the said chirurgeons shall visit and search such like persons as shall either send for them, or be named and directed unto them by the examiners of every parish, and inform themselves of the disease of the said parties. And forasmuch as the said chirurgeons are to be sequestered from all other cures,[79] and kept only to this disease of the infection, it is ordered that every of the said chirurgeons shall have twelvepence a body searched by them, to be paid out of the goods of the party searched, if he be able, or otherwise by the parish. _Nurse Keepers._ If any nurse keeper shall remove herself out of any infected house before twenty-eight days after the decease of any person dying of the infection, the house to which the said nurse keeper doth so remove herself shall be shut up until the said twenty-eight days shall be expired. ORDERS CONCERNING INFECTED HOUSES, AND PERSONS SICK OF THE PLAGUE. _Notice to be given of the Sickness._ The master of every house, as soon as any one in his house complaineth either of botch, or purple, or swelling in any part of his body, or falleth otherwise dangerously sick without apparent cause of some other disease, shall give notice thereof to the examiner of health, within two hours after the said sign shall appear. _Sequestration of the Sick._ As soon as any man shall be found by this examiner, chirurgeon, or searcher, to be sick of the plague, he shall the same night be sequestered in the same house; and in case he be so sequestered, then, though he die not, the house wherein he sickened shall be shut up for a month after the use of the due preservatives taken by the rest. _Airing the Stuff._ For sequestration of the goods and stuff of the infection, their bedding and apparel, and hangings of chambers, must be well aired with fire, and such perfumes as are requisite, within the infected house, before they be taken again to use. This to be done by the appointment of the examiner. _Shutting up of the House._ If any person shall visit any man known to be infected of the plague, or entereth willingly into any known infected house, being not allowed, the house wherein he inhabiteth shall be shut up for certain days by the examiner's direction. _None to be removed out of Infected Houses, but, etc._ Item, That none be removed out of the house where he falleth sick of the infection into any other house in the city (except it be to the pesthouse or a tent, or unto some such house which the owner of the said house holdeth in his own hands, and occupieth by his own servants), and so as security be given to the said parish whither such remove is made, that the attendance and charge about the said visited persons shall be observed and charged in all the particularities before expressed, without any cost of that parish to which any such remove shall happen to be made, and this remove to be done by night. And it shall be lawful to any person that hath two houses to remove either his sound or his infected people to his spare house at his choice, so as, if he send away first his sound, he do not after send thither the sick; nor again unto the sick, the sound; and that the same which he sendeth be for one week at the least shut up, and secluded from company, for the fear of some infection at first not appearing. _Burial of the Dead._ That the burial of the dead by this visitation be at most convenient hours, always before sunrising, or after sunsetting, with the privity[80] of the churchwardens, or constable, and not otherwise; and that no neighbors nor friends be suffered to accompany the corpse to church, or to enter the house visited, upon pain of having his house shut up, or be imprisoned. And that no corpse dying of the infection shall be buried, or remain in any church, in time of common prayer, sermon, or lecture. And that no children be suffered, at time of burial of any corpse, in any church, churchyard, or burying place, to come near the corpse, coffin, or grave; and that all graves shall be at least six feet deep. And further, all public assemblies at other burials are to be forborne during the continuance of this visitation. _No Infected Stuff to be uttered._[81] That no clothes, stuff, bedding, or garments, be suffered to be carried or conveyed out of any infected houses, and that the criers and carriers abroad of bedding or old apparel to be sold or pawned be utterly prohibited and restrained, and no brokers of bedding or old apparel be permitted to make any public show, or hang forth on their stalls, shop boards, or windows towards any street, lane, common way, or passage, any old bedding or apparel to be sold, upon pain of imprisonment. And if any broker or other person shall buy any bedding, apparel, or other stuff out of any infected house, within two months after the infection hath been there, his house shall be shut up as infected, and so shall continue shut up twenty days at the least. _No Person to be conveyed out of any Infected House._ If any person visited[82] do fortune,[83] by negligent looking unto, or by any other means, to come or be conveyed from a place infected to any other place, the parish from whence such party hath come, or been conveyed, upon notice thereof given, shall, at their charge, cause the said party so visited and escaped to be carried and brought back again by night; and the parties in this case offending to be punished at the direction of the alderman of the ward, and the house of the receiver of such visited person to be shut up for twenty days. _Every Visited House to be marked._ That every house visited be marked with a red cross of a foot long, in the middle of the door, evident to be seen, and with these usual printed words, that is to say, "Lord have mercy upon us," to be set close over the same cross, there to continue until lawful opening of the same house. _Every Visited House to be watched._ That the constables see every house shut up, and to be attended with watchmen, which may keep in, and minister necessaries to them at their own charges, if they be able, or at the common charge if they be unable. The shutting up to be for the space of four weeks after all be whole. That precise order be taken that the searchers, chirurgeons, keepers, and buriers, are not to pass the streets without holding a red rod or wand of three foot in length in their hands, open and evident to be seen; and are not to go into any other house than into their own, or into that whereunto they are directed or sent for, but to forbear and abstain from company, especially when they have been lately used[84] in any such business or attendance. _Inmates._ That where several inmates are in one and the same house, and any person in that house happens to be infected, no other person or family of such house shall be suffered to remove him or themselves without a certificate from the examiners of the health of that parish; or, in default thereof, the house whither she or they remove shall be shut up as is in case of visitation. _Hackney Coaches._ That care be taken of hackney coachmen, that they may not, as some of them have been observed to do after carrying of infected persons to the pesthouse and other places, be admitted to common use till their coaches be well aired, and have stood unemployed by the space of five or six days after such service. ORDERS FOR CLEANSING AND KEEPING OF THE STREETS SWEPT. _The Streets to be kept Clean._ First, it is thought necessary, and so ordered, that every householder do cause the street to be daily prepared before his door, and so to keep it clean swept all the week long. _That Rakers take it from out the Houses._ That the sweeping and filth of houses be daily carried away by the rakers, and that the raker shall give notice of his coming by the blowing of a horn, as hitherto hath been done. _Laystalls_[85] _to be made far off from the City._ That the laystalls be removed as far as may be out of the city and common passages, and that no nightman or other be suffered to empty a vault into any vault or garden near about the city. _Care to be had of Unwholesome Fish or Flesh, and of Musty Corn._ That special care be taken that no stinking fish, or unwholesome flesh, or musty corn, or other corrupt fruits, of what sort soever, be suffered to be sold about the city or any part of the same. That the brewers and tippling-houses be looked unto for musty and unwholesome casks. That no hogs, dogs, or cats, or tame pigeons, or conies, be suffered to be kept within any part of the city, or any swine to be or stray in the streets or lanes, but that such swine be impounded by the beadle[86] or any other officer, and the owner punished according to the act of common council; and that the dogs be killed by the dog killers appointed for that purpose. ORDERS CONCERNING LOOSE PERSONS AND IDLE ASSEMBLIES. _Beggars._ Forasmuch as nothing is more complained of than the multitude of rogues and wandering beggars that swarm about in every place about the city, being a great cause of the spreading of the infection, and will not be avoided[87] notwithstanding any orders that have been given to the contrary: it is therefore now ordered that such constables, and others whom this matter may any way concern, take special care that no wandering beggars be suffered in the streets of this city, in any fashion or manner whatsoever, upon the penalty provided by law to be duly and severely executed upon them. _Plays._ That all plays, bear baitings,[88] games, singing of ballads, buckler play,[89] or such like causes of assemblies of people, be utterly prohibited, and the parties offending severely punished by every alderman in his ward. _Feasting prohibited._ That all public feasting, and particularly by the companies[90] of this city, and dinners in taverns, alehouses, and other places of public entertainment, be forborne till further order and allowance, and that the money thereby spared be preserved, and employed for the benefit and relief of the poor visited with the infection. _Tippling-Houses._ That disorderly tippling in taverns, alehouses, coffeehouses, and cellars, be severely looked unto as the common sin of the time, and greatest occasion of dispersing the plague. And that no company or person be suffered to remain or come into any tavern, alehouse, or coffeehouse, to drink, after nine of the clock in the evening, according to the ancient law and custom of this city, upon the penalties ordained by law. And for the better execution of these orders, and such other rules and directions as upon further consideration shall be found needful, it is ordered and enjoined that the aldermen, deputies, and common councilmen shall meet together weekly, once, twice, thrice, or oftener, as cause shall require, at some one general place accustomed in their respective wards, being clear from infection of the plague, to consult how the said orders may be put in execution, not intending that any dwelling in or near places infected shall come to the said meeting while their coming may be doubtful. And the said aldermen, deputies, and common councilmen, in their several wards, may put in execution any other orders that by them, at their said meetings, shall be conceived and devised for the preservation of his Majesty's subjects from the infection. Sir JOHN LAWRENCE, Lord Mayor. Sir GEORGE WATERMAN, } Sir CHARLES DOE, } Sheriffs. I need not say that these orders extended only to such places as were within the lord mayor's jurisdiction: so it is requisite to observe that the justices of peace within those parishes and places as were called the "hamlets" and "outparts" took the same method. As I remember, the orders for shutting up of houses did not take place so soon on our side, because, as I said before, the plague did not reach to this eastern part of the town at least, nor begin to be violent till the beginning of August. For example, the whole bill from the 11th to the 18th of July was 1,761, yet there died but 71 of the plague in all those parishes we call the Tower Hamlets; and they were as follows:-- Aldgate, 14 { 34 { 65 Stepney, 33 The next { 58 To { 76 Whitechapel, 21 week was { 48 Aug. 1 { 79 St. Kath. Tower.[91] 2 thus: { 4 thus: { 4 Trin. Minories,[92] 1 { 1 { 4 -- --- --- 71 145 228 It was indeed coming on amain, for the burials that same week were, in the next adjoining parishes, thus:-- St. L.[93] Shoreditch 64 The next week { 84 To { 110 St. Bot.[94] Bishopsg. 65 prodigiously { 105 Aug. 1 { 116 St. Giles's Crippl.[95] 213 increased, as { 431 thus: { 554 --- --- --- 342 620 780 This shutting up of houses was at first counted a very cruel and unchristian method, and the poor people so confined made bitter lamentations. Complaints of the severity of it were also daily brought to my lord mayor, of houses causelessly, and some maliciously, shut up. I cannot say but upon inquiry many that complained so loudly were found in a condition to be continued; and others again, inspection being made upon the sick person, and the sickness not appearing infectious, or, if uncertain, yet, on his being content to be carried to the pesthouse, was[96] released. As I went along Houndsditch one morning, about eight o'clock, there was a great noise. It is true, indeed, there was not much crowd, because the people were not very free to gather together, or to stay long together when they were there, nor did I stay long there; but the outcry was loud enough to prompt my curiosity, and I called to one, who looked out of a window, and asked what was the matter. A watchman, it seems, had been employed to keep his post at the door of a house which was infected, or said to be infected, and was shut up. He had been there all night, for two nights together, as he told his story, and the day watchman had been there one day, and was now come to relieve him. All this while no noise had been heard in the house, no light had been seen, they called for nothing, sent him of no errands (which used to be the chief business of the watchmen), neither had they given him any disturbance, as he said, from Monday afternoon, when he heard a great crying and screaming in the house, which, as he supposed, was occasioned by some of the family dying just at that time. It seems the night before, the "dead cart," as it was called, had been stopped there, and a servant maid had been brought down to the door dead; and the "buriers" or "bearers," as they were called, put her into the cart, wrapped only in a green rug, and carried her away. The watchman had knocked at the door, it seems, when he heard that noise and crying, as above, and nobody answered a great while; but at last one looked out and said with an angry, quick tone, and yet a kind of crying voice, or a voice of one that was crying, "What d'ye want, that you make such a knocking?" He answered, "I am the watchman. How do you do? What is the matter?" The person answered, "What is that to you? Stop the dead cart." This, it seems, was about one o'clock. Soon after, as the fellow said, he stopped the dead cart, and then knocked again, but nobody answered; he continued knocking, and the bellman called out several times, "Bring out your dead;" but nobody answered, till the man that drove the cart, being called to other houses, would stay no longer, and drove away. The watchman knew not what to make of all this, so he let them alone till the morning man, or "day watchman," as they called him, came to relieve him. Giving him an account of the particulars, they knocked at the door a great while, but nobody answered; and they observed that the window or casement at which the person looked out who had answered before, continued open, being up two pair of stairs. Upon this, the two men, to satisfy their curiosity, got a long ladder, and one of them went up to the window and looked into the room, where he saw a woman lying dead upon the floor, in a dismal manner, having no clothes on her but her shift.[97] But though he called aloud, and, putting in his long staff, knocked hard on the floor, yet nobody stirred or answered, neither could he hear any noise in the house. He came down again upon this, and acquainted his fellow, who went up also; and finding it just so, they resolved to acquaint either the lord mayor or some other magistrate of it, but did not offer to go in at the window. The magistrate, it seems, upon the information of the two men, ordered the house to be broke open, a constable and other persons being appointed to be present, that nothing might be plundered; and accordingly it was so done, when nobody was found in the house but that young woman, who having been infected, and past recovery, the rest had left her to die by herself, and every one gone, having found some way to delude the watchman, and to get open the door, or get out at some back door, or over the tops of the houses, so that he knew nothing of it. And as to those cries and shrieks which he heard, it was supposed they were the passionate cries of the family at this bitter parting, which, to be sure, it was to them all, this being the sister to the mistress of the family; the man of the house, his wife, several children and servants, being all gone and fled: whether sick or sound, that I could never learn, nor, indeed, did I make much inquiry after it. At another house, as I was informed, in the street next within Aldgate, a whole family was shut up and locked in because the maidservant was taken sick. The master of the house had complained by his friends to the next alderman, and to the lord mayor, and had consented to have the maid carried to the pesthouse, but was refused: so the door was marked with a red cross, a padlock on the outside, as above, and a watchman set to keep the door, according to public order. After the master of the house found there was no remedy, but that he, his wife, and his children, were locked up with this poor distempered servant, he called to the watchman, and told him he must go then and fetch a nurse for them to attend this poor girl, for that it would be certain death to them all to oblige them to nurse her, and told him plainly that if he would not do this the maid would perish either[98] of the distemper, or be starved for want of food, for he was resolved none of his family should go near her; and she lay in the garret, four story high, where she could not cry out or call to anybody for help. The watchman consented to that, and went and fetched a nurse as he was appointed, and brought her to them the same evening. During this interval, the master of the house took his opportunity to break a large hole through his shop into a bulk or stall, where formerly a cobbler had sat before or under his shop window; but the tenant, as may be supposed, at such a dismal time as that, was dead or removed, and so he had the key in his own keeping. Having[99] made his way into this stall, which he could not have done if the man had been at the door, the noise he was obliged to make being such as would have alarmed the watchman,--I say, having made his way into this stall, he sat still till the watchman returned with the nurse, and all the next day also; but the night following, having contrived to send the watchman of another trifling errand (which, as I take it, was to an apothecary's for a plaster for the maid, which he was to stay for the making up, or some other such errand that might secure his staying some time), in that time he conveyed himself and all his family out of the house, and left the nurse and the watchman to bury the poor wench, that is, throw her into the cart, and take care of the house. Not far from the same place they blowed up a watchman with gunpowder, and burned the poor fellow dreadfully; and while he made hideous cries, and nobody would venture to come near to help him, the whole family that were able to stir got out at the windows (one story high), two that were left sick calling out for help. Care was taken to give them nurses to look after them; but the persons fled were never found till, after the plague was abated, they returned. But as nothing could be proved, so nothing could be done to them. In other cases, some had gardens and walls, or pales,[100] between them and their neighbors, or yards and backhouses; and these, by friendship and entreaties, would get leave to get over those walls or pales, and so go out at their neighbors' doors, or, by giving money to their servants, get them to let them through in the night. So that, in short, the shutting up of houses was in no wise to be depended upon; neither did it answer the end at all, serving more to make the people desperate, and drive them to such extremities as that they would break out at all adventures. And that which was still worse, those that did thus break out spread the infection farther, by their wandering about with the distemper upon them in their desperate circumstances, than they would otherwise have done; for whoever considers all the particulars in such cases must acknowledge, and cannot doubt, but the severity of those confinements made many people desperate, and made them run out of their houses at all hazards, and with the plague visibly upon them, not knowing either whither to go, or what to do, or indeed what they did. And many that did so were driven to dreadful exigencies and extremities, and perished in the streets or fields for mere want, or dropped down by[101] the raging violence of the fever upon them. Others wandered into the country, and went forward any way, as their desperation guided them, not knowing whither they went or would go, till, faint and tired, and not getting any relief, the houses and villages on the road refusing to admit them to lodge, whether infected or no, they have perished by the roadside, or gotten into barns, and died there, none daring to come to them or relieve them, though perhaps not infected, for nobody would believe them. On the other hand, when the plague at first seized a family, that is to say, when any one body of the family had gone out, and unwarily or otherwise catched[102] the distemper and brought it home, it was certainly known by the family before it was known to the officers, who, as you will see by the order, were appointed to examine into the circumstances of all sick persons, when they heard of their being sick. In this interval, between their being taken sick and the examiners coming, the master of the house had leisure and liberty to remove himself, or all his family, if he knew whither to go; and many did so. But the great disaster was, that many did thus after they were really infected themselves, and so carried the disease into the houses of those who were so hospitable as to receive them; which, it must be confessed, was very cruel and ungrateful. I am speaking now of people made desperate by the apprehensions of their being shut up, and their breaking out by stratagem or force, either before or after they were shut up, whose misery was not lessened when they were out, but sadly increased. On the other hand, many who thus got away had retreats to go to, and other houses, where they locked themselves up, and kept hid till the plague was over; and many families, foreseeing the approach of the distemper, laid up stores of provisions sufficient for their whole families, and shut themselves up, and that so entirely, that they were neither seen or heard of till the infection was quite ceased, and then came abroad sound and well. I might recollect several such as these, and give you the particulars of their management; for doubtless it was the most effectual secure step that could be taken for such whose circumstances would not admit them to remove, or who had not retreats abroad proper for the case; for, in being thus shut up, they were as if they had been a hundred miles off. Nor do I remember that any one of those families miscarried.[103] Among these, several Dutch merchants were particularly remarkable, who kept their houses like little garrisons besieged, suffering none to go in or out, or come near them; particularly one in a court in Throckmorton Street, whose house looked into Drapers' Garden. But I come back to the case of families infected, and shut up by the magistrates. The misery of those families is not to be expressed; and it was generally in such houses that we heard the most dismal shrieks and outcries of the poor people, terrified, and even frightened to death, by the sight of the condition of their dearest relations, and by the terror of being imprisoned as they were. I remember, and while I am writing this story I think I hear the very sound of it: a certain lady had an only daughter, a young maiden about nineteen years old, and who was possessed of a very considerable fortune. They were only lodgers in the house where they were. The young woman, her mother, and the maid had been abroad on some occasion, I do not remember what, for the house was not shut up; but about two hours after they came home, the young lady complained she was not well; in a quarter of an hour more she vomited, and had a violent pain in her head. "Pray God," says her mother, in a terrible fright, "my child has not the distemper!" The pain in her head increasing, her mother ordered the bed to be warmed, and resolved to put her to bed, and prepared to give her things to sweat, which was the ordinary remedy to be taken when the first apprehensions of the distemper began. While the bed was airing, the mother undressed the young woman, and just as she was laid down in the bed, she, looking upon her body with a candle, immediately discovered the fatal tokens on the inside of her thighs. Her mother, not being able to contain herself, threw down her candle, and screeched out in such a frightful manner, that it was enough to place horror upon the stoutest heart in the world. Nor was it one scream, or one cry, but, the fright having seized her spirits, she fainted first, then recovered, then ran all over the house (up the stairs and down the stairs) like one distracted, and indeed really was distracted, and continued screeching and crying out for several hours, void of all sense, or at least government of her senses, and, as I was told, never came thoroughly to herself again. As to the young maiden, she was a dead corpse from that moment: for the gangrene, which occasions the spots, had spread over her whole body, and she died in less than two hours. But still the mother continued crying out, not knowing anything more of her child, several hours after she was dead. It is so long ago that I am not certain, but I think the mother never recovered, but died in two or three weeks after. I have by me a story of two brothers and their kinsman, who, being single men, but that had staid[104] in the city too long to get away, and, indeed, not knowing where to go to have any retreat, nor having wherewith to travel far, took a course for their own preservation, which, though in itself at first desperate, yet was so natural that it may be wondered that no more did so at that time. They were but of mean condition, and yet not so very poor as that they could not furnish themselves with some little conveniences, such as might serve to keep life and soul together; and finding the distemper increasing in a terrible manner, they resolved to shift as well as they could, and to be gone. One of them had been a soldier in the late wars,[105] and before that in the Low Countries;[106] and having been bred to no particular employment but his arms, and besides, being wounded, and not able to work very hard, had for some time been employed at a baker's of sea biscuit, in Wapping. The brother of this man was a seaman too, but somehow or other had been hurt of[107] one leg, that he could not go to sea, but had worked for his living at a sailmaker's in Wapping or thereabouts, and, being a good husband,[108] had laid up some money, and was the richest of the three. The third man was a joiner or carpenter by trade, a handy fellow, and he had no wealth but his box or basket of tools, with the help of which he could at any time get his living (such a time as this excepted) wherever he went; and he lived near Shadwell. They all lived in Stepney Parish, which, as I have said, being the last that was infected, or at least violently, they staid there till they evidently saw the plague was abating at the west part of the town, and coming towards the east, where they lived. The story of those three men, if the reader will be content to have me give it in their own persons, without taking upon me to either vouch the particulars or answer for any mistakes, I shall give as distinctly as I can, believing the history will be a very good pattern for any poor man to follow in case the like public desolation should happen here. And if there may be no such occasion, (which God of his infinite mercy grant us!) still the story may have its uses so many ways as that it will, I hope, never be said that the relating has been unprofitable. I say all this previous to the history, having yet, for the present, much more to say before I quit my own part. I went all the first part of the time freely about the streets, though not so freely as to run myself into apparent danger, except when they dug the great pit in the churchyard of our parish of Aldgate. A terrible pit it was, and I could not resist my curiosity to go and see it. As near as I may judge, it was about forty feet in length, and about fifteen or sixteen feet broad, and at the time I first looked at it about nine feet deep. But it was said they dug it near twenty feet deep afterwards, in one part of it, till they could go no deeper for the water; for they had, it seems, dug several large pits before this; for, though the plague was long a-coming[109] to our parish, yet, when it did come, there was no parish in or about London where it raged with such violence as in the two parishes of Aldgate and Whitechapel. I say they had dug several pits in another ground when the distemper began to spread in our parish, and especially when the dead carts began to go about, which was not in our parish till the beginning of August. Into these pits they had put perhaps fifty or sixty bodies each; then they made larger holes, wherein they buried all that the cart brought in a week, which, by the middle to the end of August, came to from two hundred to four hundred a week. And they could not well dig them larger, because of the order of the magistrates, confining them to leave no bodies within six feet of the surface; and the water coming on at about seventeen or eighteen feet, they could not well, I say, put more in one pit. But now, at the beginning of September, the plague raging in a dreadful manner, and the number of burials in our parish increasing to more than was[110] ever buried in any parish about London of no larger extent, they ordered this dreadful gulf to be dug, for such it was rather than a pit. They had supposed this pit would have supplied them for a month or more when they dug it; and some blamed the churchwardens for suffering such a frightful thing, telling them they were making preparations to bury the whole parish, and the like. But time made it appear, the churchwardens knew the condition of the parish better than they did: for, the pit being finished the 4th of September, I think they began to bury in it the 6th, and by the 20th, which was just two weeks, they had thrown into it eleven hundred and fourteen bodies, when they were obliged to fill it up, the bodies being then come to lie within six feet of the surface. I doubt not but there may be some ancient persons alive in the parish who can justify the fact of this, and are able to show even in what place of the churchyard the pit lay, better than I can: the mark of it also was many years to be seen in the churchyard on the surface, lying in length, parallel with the passage which goes by the west wall of the churchyard out of Houndsditch, and turns east again into Whitechapel, coming out near the Three Nuns Inn. It was about the 10th of September that my curiosity led, or rather drove, me to go and see this pit again, when there had been near four hundred people buried in it. And I was not content to see it in the daytime, as I had done before,--for then there would have been nothing to have been seen but the loose earth, for all the bodies that were thrown in were immediately covered with earth by those they called the "buriers," which at other times were called "bearers,"--but I resolved to go in the night, and see some of them thrown in. There was a strict order to prevent people coming to those pits, and that was only to prevent infection. But after some time that order was more necessary; for people that were infected and near their end, and delirious also, would run to those pits wrapped in blankets, or rugs, and throw themselves in, and, as they said, "bury themselves." I cannot say that the officers suffered any willingly to lie there; but I have heard that in a great pit in Finsbury, in the parish of Cripplegate (it lying open then to the fields, for it was not then walled about), many came and threw themselves in, and expired there, before they threw any earth upon them; and that when they came to bury others, and found them there, they were quite dead, though not cold. This may serve a little to describe the dreadful condition of that day, though it is impossible to say anything that is able to give a true idea of it to those who did not see it, other than this: that it was indeed very, very, very dreadful, and such as no tongue can express. I got admittance into the churchyard by being acquainted with the sexton who attended, who, though he did not refuse me at all, yet earnestly persuaded me not to go, telling me very seriously (for he was a good, religious, and sensible man) that it was indeed their business and duty to venture, and to run all hazards, and that in it they might hope to be preserved; but that I had no apparent call to it but my own curiosity, which, he said, he believed I would not pretend was sufficient to justify my running that hazard. I told him I had been pressed in my mind to go, and that perhaps it might be an instructing sight that might not be without its uses. "Nay," says the good man, "if you will venture upon that score, 'name of God,[111] go in; for, depend upon it, it will be a sermon to you, it may be, the best that ever you heard in your life. It is a speaking sight," says he, "and has a voice with it, and a loud one, to call us all to repentance;" and with that he opened the door, and said, "Go, if you will." His discourse had shocked my resolution a little, and I stood wavering for a good while; but just at that interval I saw two links[112] come over from the end of the Minories, and heard the bellman, and then appeared a "dead cart," as they called it, coming over the streets: so I could no longer resist my desire of seeing it, and went in. There was nobody, as I could perceive at first, in the churchyard, or going into it, but the buriers, and the fellow that drove the cart, or rather led the horse and cart; but when they came up to the pit, they saw a man go to and again,[113] muffled up in a brown cloak, and making motions with his hands, under his cloak, as if he was[114] in great agony. And the buriers immediately gathered about him, supposing he was one of those poor delirious or desperate creatures that used to pretend, as I have said, to bury themselves. He said nothing as he walked about, but two or three times groaned very deeply and loud, and sighed as[115] he would break his heart. When the buriers came up to him, they soon found he was neither a person infected and desperate, as I have observed above, or a person distempered in mind, but one oppressed with a dreadful weight of grief indeed, having his wife and several of his children all in the cart that was just come in with him; and he followed in an agony and excess of sorrow. He mourned heartily, as it was easy to see, but with a kind of masculine grief, that could not give itself vent by tears, and, calmly desiring the buriers to let him alone, said he would only see the bodies thrown in, and go away. So they left importuning him; but no sooner was the cart turned round, and the bodies shot into the pit promiscuously,--which was a surprise to him, for he at least expected they would have been decently laid in, though, indeed, he was afterwards convinced that was impracticable,--I say, no sooner did he see the sight, but he cried out aloud, unable to contain himself. I could not hear what he said, but he went backward two or three steps, and fell down in a swoon. The buriers ran to him and took him up, and in a little while he came to himself, and they led him away to the Pye[116] Tavern, over against the end of Houndsditch, where, it seems, the man was known, and where they took care of him. He looked into the pit again as he went away; but the buriers had covered the bodies so immediately with throwing in earth, that, though there was light enough (for there were lanterns,[117] and candles in them, placed all night round the sides of the pit upon the heaps of earth, seven or eight, or perhaps more), yet nothing could be seen. This was a mournful scene indeed, and affected me almost as much as the rest. But the other was awful, and full of terror: the cart had in it sixteen or seventeen bodies; some were wrapped up in linen sheets, some in rugs, some little other than naked, or so loose that what covering they had fell from them in the shooting out of the cart, and they fell quite naked among the rest; but the matter was not much to them, or the indecency much to any one else, seeing they were all dead, and were to be huddled together into the common grave of mankind, as we may call it; for here was no difference made, but poor and rich went together. There was no other way of burials, neither was it possible there should,[118] for coffins were not to be had for the prodigious numbers that fell in such a calamity as this. It was reported, by way of scandal upon the buriers, that if any corpse was delivered to them decently wound up, as we called it then, in a winding sheet tied over the head and feet (which some did, and which was generally of good linen),--I say, it was reported that the buriers were so wicked as to strip them in the cart, and carry them quite naked to the ground; but as I cannot credit anything so vile among Christians, and at a time so filled with terrors as that was, I can only relate it, and leave it undetermined. Innumerable stories also went about of the cruel behavior and practice of nurses who attended the sick, and of their hastening on the fate of those they attended in their sickness. But I shall say more of this in its place. I was indeed shocked with this sight, it almost overwhelmed me; and I went away with my heart most afflicted, and full of afflicting thoughts such as I cannot describe. Just at my going out of the church, and turning up the street towards my own house, I saw another cart, with links, and a bellman going before, coming out of Harrow Alley, in the Butcher Row, on the other side of the way; and being, as I perceived, very full of dead bodies, it went directly over the street, also, towards the church. I stood a while, but I had no stomach[119] to go back again to see the same dismal scene over again: so I went directly home, where I could not but consider with thankfulness the risk I had run, believing I had gotten no injury, as indeed I had not. Here the poor unhappy gentleman's grief came into my head again, and indeed I could not but shed tears in the reflection upon it, perhaps more than he did himself; but his case lay so heavy upon my mind, that I could not prevail with myself but that I must go out again into the street, and go to the Pye Tavern, resolving to inquire what became of him. It was by this time one o'clock in the morning, and yet the poor gentleman was there. The truth was, the people of the house, knowing him, had entertained him, and kept him there all the night, notwithstanding the danger of being infected by him, though it appeared the man was perfectly sound himself. It is with regret that I take notice of this tavern. The people were civil, mannerly, and an obliging sort of folks enough, and had till this time kept their house open, and their trade going on, though not so very publicly as formerly. But there was a dreadful set of fellows that used their house, and who, in the middle of all this horror, met there every night, behaving with all the reveling and roaring extravagances as is usual for such people to do at other times, and indeed to such an offensive degree that the very master and mistress of the house grew first ashamed, and then terrified, at them. They sat generally in a room next the street; and as they always kept late hours, so when the dead cart came across the street end to go into Houndsditch, which was in view of the tavern windows, they would frequently open the windows as soon as they heard the bell, and look out at them; and as they might often hear sad lamentations of people in the streets, or at their windows, as the carts went along, they would make their impudent mocks and jeers at them, especially if they heard the poor people call upon God to have mercy upon them, as many would do at those times, in their ordinary passing along the streets. These gentlemen, being something disturbed with the clutter of bringing the poor gentleman into the house, as above, were first angry and very high with the master of the house for suffering such a fellow, as they called him, to be brought out of the grave into their house; but being answered that the man was a neighbor, and that he was sound, but overwhelmed with the calamity of his family, and the like, they turned their anger into ridiculing the man and his sorrow for his wife and children, taunting him with want of courage to leap into the great pit, and go to heaven, as they jeeringly expressed it, along with them; adding some very profane and even blasphemous expressions. They were at this vile work when I came back to the house; and as far as I could see, though the man sat still, mute and disconsolate, and their affronts could not divert his sorrow, yet he was both grieved and offended at their discourse. Upon this, I gently reproved them, being well enough acquainted with their characters, and not unknown in person to two of them. They immediately fell upon me with ill language and oaths, asked me what I did out of my grave at such a time, when so many honester men were carried into the churchyard, and why I was not at home saying my prayers, against[120] the dead cart came for me, and the like. I was indeed astonished at the impudence of the men, though not at all discomposed at their treatment of me: however, I kept my temper. I told them that though I defied them, or any man in the world, to tax me with any dishonesty, yet I acknowledged, that, in this terrible judgment of God, many better than I were swept away, and carried to their grave; but, to answer their question directly, the case was, that I was mercifully preserved by that great God whose name they had blasphemed and taken in vain by cursing and swearing in a dreadful manner; and that I believed I was preserved in particular, among other ends of his goodness, that I might reprove them for their audacious boldness in behaving in such a manner, and in such an awful time as this was, especially for their jeering and mocking at an honest gentleman and a neighbor, for some of them knew him, who they saw was overwhelmed with sorrow for the breaches which it had pleased God to make upon his family. I cannot call exactly to mind the hellish, abominable raillery which was the return they made to that talk of mine, being provoked, it seems, that I was not at all afraid to be free with them; nor, if I could remember, would I fill my account with any of the words, the horrid oaths, curses, and vile expressions such as, at that time of the day, even the worst and ordinariest people in the street would not use: for, except such hardened creatures as these, the most wicked wretches that could be found had at that time some terror upon their mind of the hand of that Power which could thus in a moment destroy them. But that which was the worst in all their devilish language was, that they were not afraid to blaspheme God and talk atheistically, making a jest at my calling the plague the hand of God, mocking, and even laughing at the word "judgment," as if the providence of God had no concern in the inflicting such a desolating stroke; and that the people calling upon God, as they saw the carts carrying away the dead bodies, was all enthusiastic, absurd, and impertinent. I made them some reply, such as I thought proper, but which I found was so far from putting a check to their horrid way of speaking, that it made them rail the more: so that I confess it filled me with horror and a kind of rage; and I came away, as I told them, lest the hand of that Judgment which had visited the whole city should glorify his vengeance upon them and all that were near them. They received all reproof with the utmost contempt, and made the greatest mockery that was possible for them to do at me, giving me all the opprobrious insolent scoffs that they could think of for preaching to them, as they called it, which, indeed, grieved me rather than angered me; and I went away, blessing God, however, in my mind, that I had not spared them, though they had insulted me so much. They continued this wretched course three or four days after this, continually mocking and jeering at all that showed themselves religious or serious, or that were any way touched with the sense of the terrible judgment of God upon us; and I was informed they flouted in the same manner at the good people, who, notwithstanding the contagion, met at the church, fasted, and prayed to God to remove his hand from them. I say they continued this dreadful course three or four days (I think it was no more), when one of them, particularly he who asked the poor gentleman what he did out of his grave, was struck from Heaven with the plague, and died in a most deplorable manner; and, in a word, they were every one of them carried into the great pit, which I have mentioned above, before it was quite filled up, which was not above a fortnight or thereabout. These men were guilty of many extravagances, such as one would think human nature should have trembled at the thoughts of, at such a time of general terror as was then upon us, and particularly scoffing and mocking at everything which they happened to see that was religious among the people, especially at their thronging zealously to the place of public worship, to implore mercy from Heaven in such a time of distress; and this tavern where they held their club, being within view of the church door, they had the more particular occasion for their atheistical, profane mirth. But this began to abate a little with them before the accident, which I have related, happened; for the infection increased so violently at this part of the town now, that people began to be afraid to come to the church: at least such numbers did not resort thither as was usual. Many of the clergymen, likewise, were dead, and others gone into the country; for it really required a steady courage and a strong faith, for a man not only to venture being in town at such a time as this, but likewise to venture to come to church, and perform the office of a minister to a congregation of whom he had reason to believe many of them were actually infected with the plague, and to do this every day, or twice a day, as in some places was done. It seems they had been checked, for their open insulting religion in this manner, by several good people of every persuasion; and that[121] and the violent raging of the infection, I suppose, was the occasion that they had abated much of their rudeness for some time before, and were only roused by the spirit of ribaldry and atheism at the clamor which was made when the gentleman was first brought in there, and perhaps were agitated by the same devil when I took upon me to reprove them; though I did it at first with all the calmness, temper, and good manners that I could, which, for a while, they insulted me the more for, thinking it had been in fear of their resentment, though afterwards they found the contrary.[122] These things lay upon my mind, and I went home very much grieved and oppressed with the horror of these men's wickedness, and to think that anything could be so vile, so hardened, and so notoriously wicked, as to insult God, and his servants and his worship, in such a manner, and at such a time as this was, when he had, as it were, his sword drawn in his hand, on purpose to take vengeance, not on them only, but on the whole nation. I had indeed been in some passion at first with them, though it was really raised, not by any affront they had offered me personally, but by the horror their blaspheming tongues filled me with. However, I was doubtful in my thoughts whether the resentment I retained was not all upon my own private account; for they had given me a great deal of ill language too, I mean personally: but after some pause, and having a weight of grief upon my mind, I retired myself as soon as I came home (for I slept not that night), and, giving God most humble thanks for my preservation in the imminent danger I had been in, I set my mind seriously and with the utmost earnestness to pray for those desperate wretches, that God would pardon them, open their eyes, and effectually humble them. By this I not only did my duty, namely, to pray for those who despitefully used me, but I fully tried my own heart, to my full satisfaction that it was not filled with any spirit of resentment as they had offended me in particular; and I humbly recommend the method to all those that would know, or be certain, how to distinguish between their zeal for the honor of God and the effects of their private passions and resentment. I remember a citizen, who, having broken out of his house in Aldersgate Street or thereabout, went along the road to Islington. He attempted to have gone[123] in at the Angel Inn, and after that at the White Horse, two inns known still by the same signs, but was refused, after which he came to the Pyed[124] Bull, an inn also still continuing the same sign. He asked them for lodging for one night only, pretending to be going into Lincolnshire, and assuring them of his being very sound, and free from the infection, which also at that time had not reached much that way. They told him they had no lodging that they could spare but one bed up in the garret, and that they could spare that bed but for one night, some drovers being expected the next day with cattle: so, if he would accept of that lodging, he might have it, which he did. So a servant was sent up with a candle with him to show him the room. He was very well dressed, and looked like a person not used to lie in a garret; and when he came to the room, he fetched a deep sigh, and said to the servant, "I have seldom lain in such a lodging as this." However, the servant assured him again that they had no better. "Well," says he, "I must make shift.[125] This is a dreadful time, but it is but for one night." So he sat down upon the bedside, and bade the maid, I think it was, fetch him a pint of warm ale. Accordingly the servant went for the ale; but some hurry in the house, which perhaps employed her other ways, put it out of her head, and she went up no more to him. The next morning, seeing no appearance of the gentleman, somebody in the house asked the servant that had showed him upstairs what was become of him. She started. "Alas!" says she, "I never thought more of him. He bade me carry him some warm ale, but I forgot." Upon which, not the maid, but some other person, was sent up to see after him, who, coming into the room, found him stark dead, and almost cold, stretched out across the bed. His clothes were pulled off, his jaw fallen, his eyes open in a most frightful posture, the rug of the bed being grasped hard in one of his hands, so that it was plain he died soon after the maid left him; and it is probable, had she gone up with the ale, she had found him dead in a few minutes after he had sat down upon the bed. The alarm was great in the house, as any one may suppose, they having been free from the distemper till that disaster, which, bringing the infection to the house, spread it immediately to other houses round about it. I do not remember how many died in the house itself; but I think the maidservant who went up first with him fell presently ill by the fright, and several others; for, whereas there died but two in Islington of the plague the week before, there died nineteen the week after, whereof fourteen were of the plague. This was in the week from the 11th of July to the 18th. There was one shift[126] that some families had, and that not a few, when their houses happened to be infected, and that was this: the families who in the first breaking out of the distemper fled away into the country, and had retreats among their friends, generally found some or other of their neighbors or relations to commit the charge of those houses to, for the safety of the goods and the like. Some houses were indeed entirely locked up, the doors padlocked, the windows and doors having deal boards nailed over them, and only the inspection of them committed to the ordinary watchmen and parish officers; but these were but few. It was thought that there were not less than a thousand houses forsaken of the inhabitants in the city and suburbs, including what was in the outparishes and in Surrey, or the side of the water they called Southwark. This was besides the numbers of lodgers and of particular persons who were fled out of other families; so that in all it was computed that about two hundred thousand people were fled and gone in all.[127] But of this I shall speak again. But I mention it here on this account: namely, that it was a rule with those who had thus two houses in their keeping or care, that, if anybody was taken sick in a family, before the master of the family let the examiners or any other officer know of it, he immediately would send all the rest of his family, whether children or servants as it fell out to be, to such other house which he had not in charge, and then, giving notice of the sick person to the examiner, have a nurse or nurses appointed, and having another person to be shut up in the house with them (which many for money would do), so to take charge of the house in case the person should die. This was in many cases the saving a whole family, who, if they had been shut up with the sick person, would inevitably have perished. But, on the other hand, this was another of the inconveniences of shutting up houses; for the apprehensions and terror of being shut up made many run away with the rest of the family, who, though it was not publicly known, and they were not quite sick, had yet the distemper upon them; and who, by having an uninterrupted liberty to go about, but being obliged still to conceal their circumstances, or perhaps not knowing it themselves, gave the distemper to others, and spread the infection in a dreadful manner, as I shall explain further hereafter. I had in my family only an ancient woman that managed the house, a maidservant, two apprentices, and myself; and, the plague beginning to increase about us, I had many sad thoughts about what course I should take and how I should act. The many dismal objects[128] which happened everywhere as I went about the streets had filled my mind with a great deal of horror, for fear of the distemper itself, which was indeed very horrible in itself, and in some more than others. The swellings, which were generally in the neck or groin, when they grew hard, and would not break, grew so painful that it was equal to the most exquisite torture; and some, not able to bear the torment, threw themselves out at windows, or shot themselves, or otherwise made themselves away, and I saw several dismal objects of that kind. Others, unable to contain themselves, vented their pain by incessant roarings; and such loud and lamentable cries were to be heard, as we walked along the streets, that[129] would pierce the very heart to think of, especially when it was to be considered that the same dreadful scourge might be expected every moment to seize upon ourselves. I cannot say but that now I began to faint in my resolutions. My heart failed me very much, and sorely I repented of my rashness, when I had been out, and met with such terrible things as these I have talked of. I say I repented my rashness in venturing to abide in town, and I wished often that I had not taken upon me to stay, but had gone away with my brother and his family. Terrified by those frightful objects, I would retire home sometimes, and resolve to go out no more; and perhaps I would keep those resolutions for three or four days, which time I spent in the most serious thankfulness for my preservation and the preservation of my family, and the constant confession of my sins, giving myself up to God every day, and applying to him with fasting and humiliation and meditation. Such intervals as I had, I employed in reading books and in writing down my memorandums of what occurred to me every day, and out of which, afterwards, I took most of this work, as it relates to my observations without doors. What I wrote of my private meditations I reserve for private use, and desire it may not be made public on any account whatever. I also wrote other meditations upon divine subjects, such as occurred to me at that time, and were profitable to myself, but not fit for any other view, and therefore I say no more of that. I had a very good friend, a physician, whose name was Heath, whom I frequently visited during this dismal time, and to whose advice I was very much obliged for many things which he directed me to take by way of preventing the infection when I went out, as he found I frequently did, and to hold in my mouth when I was in the streets. He also came very often to see me; and as he was a good Christian, as well as a good physician, his agreeable conversation was a very great support to me in the worst of this terrible time. It was now the beginning of August, and the plague grew very violent and terrible in the place where I lived; and Dr. Heath coming to visit me, and finding that I ventured so often out in the streets, earnestly persuaded me to lock myself up, and my family, and not to suffer any of us to go out of doors; to keep all our windows fast, shutters and curtains close, and never to open them, but first to make a very strong smoke in the room, where the window or door was to be opened, with rosin[130] and pitch, brimstone and gunpowder, and the like; and we did this for some time. But, as I had not laid in a store of provision for such a retreat, it was impossible that we could keep within doors entirely. However, I attempted, though it was so very late, to do something towards it; and first, as I had convenience both for brewing and baking, I went and bought two sacks of meal, and for several weeks, having an oven, we baked all our own bread; also I bought malt, and brewed as much beer as all the casks I had would hold, and which seemed enough to serve my house for five or six weeks; also I laid in a quantity of salt butter and Cheshire cheese; but I had no flesh meat,[131] and the plague raged so violently among the butchers and slaughterhouses on the other side of our street, where they are known to dwell in great numbers, that it was not advisable so much as to go over the street among them. And here I must observe again, that this necessity of going out of our houses to buy provisions was in a great measure the ruin of the whole city; for the people catched the distemper, on these occasions, one of another; and even the provisions themselves were often tainted (at least I have great reason to believe so), and therefore I cannot say with satisfaction, what I know is repeated with great assurance, that the market people, and such as brought provisions to town, were never infected. I am certain the butchers of Whitechapel, where the greatest part of the flesh meat was killed, were dreadfully visited, and that at last to such a degree that few of their shops were kept open; and those that remained of them killed their meat at Mile End, and that way, and brought it to market upon horses. However, the poor people could not lay up provisions, and there was a necessity that they must go to market to buy, and others to send servants or their children; and, as this was a necessity which renewed itself daily, it brought abundance of unsound people to the markets; and a great many that went thither sound brought death home with them. It is true, people used all possible precaution. When any one bought a joint of meat in the market, they[132] would not take it out of the butcher's hand, but took it off the hooks themselves.[132] On the other hand, the butcher would not touch the money, but have it put into a pot full of vinegar, which he kept for that purpose. The buyer carried always small money to make up any odd sum, that they might take no change. They carried bottles for scents and perfumes in their hands, and all the means that could be used were employed; but then the poor could not do even these things, and they went at all hazards. Innumerable dismal stories we heard every day on this very account. Sometimes a man or woman dropped down dead in the very markets; for many people that had the plague upon them knew nothing of it till the inward gangrene had affected their vitals, and they died in a few moments. This caused that many died frequently in that manner in the street suddenly, without any warning: others, perhaps, had time to go to the next bulk[133] or stall, or to any door or porch, and just sit down and die, as I have said before. These objects were so frequent in the streets, that when the plague came to be very raging on one side, there was scarce any passing by the streets but that several dead bodies would be lying here and there upon the ground. On the other hand, it is observable, that though at first the people would stop as they went along, and call to the neighbors to come out on such an occasion, yet afterward no notice was taken of them; but that, if at any time we found a corpse lying, go across the way and not come near it; or, if in a narrow lane or passage, go back again, and seek some other way to go on the business we were upon. And in those cases the corpse was always left till the officers had notice to come and take them away, or till night, when the bearers attending the dead cart would take them up and carry them away. Nor did those undaunted creatures who performed these offices fail to search their pockets, and sometimes strip off their clothes, if they were well dressed, as sometimes they were, and carry off what they could get. But to return to the markets. The butchers took that care, that, if any person died in the market, they had the officers always at hand to take them up upon handbarrows, and carry them to the next churchyard; and this was so frequent that such were not entered in the weekly bill, found dead in the streets or fields, as is the case now, but they went into the general articles of the great distemper. But now the fury of the distemper increased to such a degree, that even the markets were but very thinly furnished with provisions, or frequented with buyers, compared to what they were before; and the lord mayor caused the country people who brought provisions to be stopped in the streets leading into the town, and to sit down there with their goods, where they sold what they brought, and went immediately away. And this encouraged the country people greatly to do so; for they sold their provisions at the very entrances into the town, and even in the fields, as particularly in the fields beyond Whitechapel, in Spittlefields. Note, those streets now called Spittlefields were then indeed open fields; also in St. George's Fields in Southwark, in Bunhill Fields, and in a great field called Wood's Close, near Islington. Thither the lord mayor, aldermen, and magistrates sent their officers and servants to buy for their families, themselves keeping within doors as much as possible; and the like did many other people. And after this method was taken, the country people came with great cheerfulness, and brought provisions of all sorts, and very seldom got any harm, which, I suppose, added also to that report of their being miraculously preserved.[134] As for my little family, having thus, as I have said, laid in a store of bread, butter, cheese, and beer, I took my friend and physician's advice, and locked myself up, and my family, and resolved to suffer the hardship of living a few months without flesh meat rather than to purchase it at the hazard of our lives. But, though I confined my family, I could not prevail upon my unsatisfied curiosity to stay within entirely myself, and, though I generally came frighted and terrified home, yet I could not restrain, only that, indeed, I did not do it so frequently as at first. I had some little obligations, indeed, upon me to go to my brother's house, which was in Coleman Street Parish, and which he had left to my care; and I went at first every day, but afterwards only once or twice a week. In these walks I had many dismal scenes before my eyes, as, particularly, of persons falling dead in the streets, terrible shrieks and screechings of women, who in their agonies would throw open their chamber windows, and cry out in a dismal surprising manner. It is impossible to describe the variety of postures in which the passions of the poor people would express themselves. Passing through Token-House Yard in Lothbury, of a sudden a casement violently opened just over my head, and a woman gave three frightful screeches, and then cried, "O death, death, death!" in a most inimitable tone, and which[135] struck me with horror, and[136] a chillness in my very blood. There was nobody to be seen in the whole street, neither did any other window open, for people had no curiosity now in any case, nor could anybody help one another: so I went on to pass into Bell Alley. Just in Bell Alley, on the right hand of the passage, there was a more terrible cry than that, though it was not so directed out at the window. But the whole family was in a terrible fright, and I could hear women and children run screaming about the rooms like distracted, when a garret window opened, and somebody from a window on the other side the alley called, and asked, "What is the matter?" Upon which from the first window it was answered, "O Lord, my old master has hanged himself!" The other asked again, "Is he quite dead?" and the first answered, "Ay, ay, quite dead; quite dead and cold!" This person was a merchant and a deputy alderman, and very rich. I care not to mention his name, though I knew his name too; but that would be a hardship to the family, which is now flourishing again.[137] But this is but one. It is scarce credible what dreadful cases happened in particular families every day,--people, in the rage of the distemper, or in the torment of their swellings, which was indeed intolerable, running out of their own government,[138] raving and distracted, and oftentimes laying violent hands upon themselves, throwing themselves out at their windows, shooting themselves, etc.; mothers murdering their own children in their lunacy; some dying of mere grief as a passion, some of mere fright and surprise without any infection at all; others frighted into idiotism[139] and foolish distractions, some into despair and lunacy, others into melancholy madness. The pain of the swelling was in particular very violent, and to some intolerable. The physicians and surgeons may be said to have tortured many poor creatures even to death. The swellings in some grew hard, and they applied violent drawing plasters, or poultices, to break them; and, if these did not do, they cut and scarified them in a terrible manner. In some, those swellings were made hard, partly by the force of the distemper, and partly by their being too violently drawn, and were so hard that no instrument could cut them; and then they burned them with caustics, so that many died raving mad with the torment, and some in the very operation. In these distresses, some, for want of help to hold them down in their beds or to look to them, laid hands upon themselves as above; some broke out into the streets, perhaps naked, and would run directly down to the river, if they were not stopped by the watchmen or other officers, and plunge themselves into the water wherever they found it. It often pierced my very soul to hear the groans and cries of those who were thus tormented. But of the two, this was counted the most promising particular in the whole infection: for if these swellings could be brought to a head, and to break and run, or, as the surgeons call it, to "digest," the patient generally recovered; whereas those who, like the gentlewoman's daughter, were struck with death at the beginning, and had the tokens come out upon them, often went about indifferently easy till a little before they died, and some till the moment they dropped down, as in apoplexies and epilepsies is often the case. Such would be taken suddenly very sick, and would run to a bench or bulk, or any convenient place that offered itself, or to their own houses, if possible, as I mentioned before, and there sit down, grow faint, and die. This kind of dying was much the same as it was with those who die of common mortifications,[140] who die swooning, and, as it were, go away in a dream. Such as died thus had very little notice of their being infected at all till the gangrene was spread through their whole body; nor could physicians themselves know certainly how it was with them till they opened their breasts, or other parts of their body, and saw the tokens. We had at this time a great many frightful stories told us of nurses and watchmen who looked after the dying people (that is to say, hired nurses, who attended infected people), using them barbarously, starving them, smothering them, or by other wicked means hastening their end, that is to say, murdering of them. And watchmen being set to guard houses that were shut up, when there has been but one person left, and perhaps that one lying sick, that[141] they have broke in and murdered that body, and immediately thrown them out into the dead cart; and so they have gone scarce cold to the grave. I cannot say but that some such murders were committed, and I think two were sent to prison for it, but died before they could be tried; and I have heard that three others, at several times, were executed for murders of that kind. But I must say I believe nothing of its being so common a crime as some have since been pleased to say; nor did it seem to be so rational, where the people were brought so low as not to be able to help themselves; for such seldom recovered, and there was no temptation to commit a murder, at least not equal to the fact, where they were sure persons would die in so short a time, and could not live. That there were a great many robberies and wicked practices committed even in this dreadful time, I do not deny. The power of avarice was so strong in some, that they would run any hazard to steal and to plunder; and, particularly in houses where all the families or inhabitants have been dead and carried out, they would break in at all hazards, and, without regard to the danger of infection, take even the clothes off the dead bodies, and the bedclothes from others where they lay dead. This, I suppose, must be the case of a family in Houndsditch, where a man and his daughter (the rest of the family being, as I suppose, carried away before by the dead cart) were found stark naked, one in one chamber and one in another, lying dead on the floor, and the clothes of the beds (from whence it is supposed they were rolled off by thieves) stolen, and carried quite away. It is indeed to be observed that the women were, in all this calamity, the most rash, fearless, and desperate creatures. And, as there were vast numbers that went about as nurses to tend those that were sick, they committed a great many petty thieveries in the houses where they were employed; and some of them were publicly whipped for it, when perhaps they ought rather to have been hanged for examples,[142] for numbers of houses were robbed on these occasions; till at length the parish officers were sent to recommend nurses to the sick, and always took an account who it was they sent, so as that they might call them to account if the house had been abused where they were placed. But these robberies extended chiefly to wearing-clothes, linen, and what rings or money they could come at, when the person died who was under their care, but not to a general plunder of the houses. And I could give you an account of one of these nurses, who several years after, being on her deathbed, confessed with the utmost horror the robberies she had committed at the time of her being a nurse, and by which she had enriched herself to a great degree. But as for murders, I do not find that there was ever any proofs of the fact in the manner as it has been reported, except as above. They did tell me, indeed, of a nurse in one place that laid a wet cloth upon the face of a dying patient whom she tended, and so put an end to his life, who was just expiring before; and another that smothered a young woman she was looking to, when she was in a fainting fit, and would have come to herself; some that killed them by giving them one thing, some another, and some starved them by giving them nothing at all. But these stories had two marks of suspicion that always attended them, which caused me always to slight them, and to look on them as mere stories that people continually frighted one another with: (1) That wherever it was that we heard it, they always placed the scene at the farther end of the town, opposite or most remote from where you were to hear it. If you heard it in Whitechapel, it had happened at St. Giles's, or at Westminster, or Holborn, or that end of the town; if you heard it at that end of the town, then it was done in Whitechapel, or the Minories, or about Cripplegate Parish; if you heard of it in the city, why, then, it happened in Southwark; and, if you heard of it in Southwark, then it was done in the city; and the like. In the next place, of whatsoever part you heard the story, the particulars were always the same, especially that of laying a wet double clout[143] on a dying man's face, and that of smothering a young gentlewoman: so that it was apparent, at least to my judgment, that there was more of tale than of truth in those things. A neighbor and acquaintance of mine, having some money owing to him from a shopkeeper in Whitecross Street or thereabouts, sent his apprentice, a youth about eighteen years of age, to endeavor to get the money. He came to the door, and, finding it shut, knocked pretty hard, and, as he thought, heard somebody answer within, but was not sure: so he waited, and after some stay knocked again, and then a third time, when he heard somebody coming downstairs. At length the man of the house came to the door. He had on his breeches, or drawers, and a yellow flannel waistcoat, no stockings, a pair of slip shoes, a white cap on his head, and, as the young man said, death in his face. When he opened the door, says he, "What do you disturb me thus for?" The boy, though a little surprised, replied, "I come from such a one; and my master sent me for the money, which he says you know of."--"Very well, child," returns the living ghost; "call, as you go by, at Cripplegate Church, and bid them ring the bell," and with these words shut the door again, and went up again, and died the same day, nay, perhaps the same hour. This the young man told me himself, and I have reason to believe it. This was while the plague was not come to a height. I think it was in June, towards the latter end of the month. It must have been before the dead carts came about, and while they used the ceremony of ringing the bell for the dead, which was over for certain, in that parish at least, before the month of July; for by the 25th of July there died five hundred and fifty and upwards in a week, and then they could no more bury in form[144] rich or poor. I have mentioned above, that, notwithstanding this dreadful calamity, yet that[145] numbers of thieves were abroad upon all occasions where they had found any prey, and that these were generally women. It was one morning about eleven o'clock, I had walked out to my brother's house in Coleman Street Parish, as I often did, to see that all was safe. My brother's house had a little court before it, and a brick wall and a gate in it, and within that several warehouses, where his goods of several sorts lay. It happened that in one of these warehouses were several packs of women's high-crowned hats, which came out of the country, and were, as I suppose, for exportation, whither I know not. I was surprised that when I came near my brother's door, which was in a place they called Swan Alley, I met three or four women with high-crowned hats on their heads; and, as I remembered afterwards, one, if not more, had some hats likewise in their hands. But as I did not see them come out at my brother's door, and not knowing that my brother had any such goods in his warehouse, I did not offer to say anything to them, but went across the way to shun meeting them, as was usual to do at that time, for fear of the plague. But when I came nearer to the gate, I met another woman, with more hats, come out of the gate. "What business, mistress," said I, "have you had there?"--"There are more people there," said she. "I have had no more business there than they." I was hasty to get to the gate then, and said no more to her; by which means she got away. But just as I came to the gate, I saw two more coming across the yard, to come out, with hats also on their heads and under their arms; at which I threw the gate to behind me, which, having a spring lock, fastened itself. And turning to the women, "Forsooth," said I, "what are you doing here?" and seized upon the hats, and took them from them. One of them, who, I confess, did not look like a thief, "Indeed," says she, "we are wrong; but we were told they were goods that had no owner: be pleased to take them again. And look yonder: there are more such customers as we." She cried, and looked pitifully: so I took the hats from her, and opened the gate, and bade them begone, for I pitied the women indeed. But when I looked towards the warehouse, as she directed, there were six or seven more, all women, fitting themselves with hats, as unconcerned and quiet as if they had been at a hatter's shop buying for their money. I was surprised, not at the sight of so many thieves only, but at the circumstances I was in; being now to thrust myself in among so many people, who for some weeks I had been so shy of myself, that, if I met anybody in the street, I would cross the way from them. They were equally surprised, though on another account. They all told me they were neighbors; that they had heard any one might take them; that they were nobody's goods; and the like. I talked big to them at first; went back to the gate and took out the key, so that they were all my prisoners; threatened to lock them all into the warehouse, and go and fetch my lord mayor's officers for them. They begged heartily, protested they found the gate open, and the warehouse door open, and that it had no doubt been broken open by some who expected to find goods of greater value; which indeed was reasonable to believe, because the lock was broke, and a padlock that hung to the door on the outside also loose, and not abundance of the hats carried away. At length I considered that this was not a time to be cruel and rigorous; and besides that, it would necessarily oblige me to go much about, to have several people come to me, and I go to several, whose circumstances of health I knew nothing of; and that, even at this time, the plague was so high as that there died four thousand a week; so that, in showing my resentment, or even in seeking justice for my brother's goods, I might lose my own life. So I contented myself with taking the names and places where some of them lived, who were really inhabitants in the neighborhood, and threatening that my brother should call them to an account for it when he returned to his habitation. Then I talked a little upon another footing with them, and asked them how they could do such things as these in a time of such general calamity, and, as it were, in the face of God's most dreadful judgments, when the plague was at their very doors, and, it may be, in their very houses, and they did not know but that the dead cart might stop at their doors in a few hours, to carry them to their graves. I could not perceive that my discourse made much impression upon them all that while, till it happened that there came two men of the neighborhood, hearing of the disturbance, and knowing my brother (for they had been both dependents upon his family), and they came to my assistance. These being, as I said, neighbors, presently knew three of the women, and told me who they were, and where they lived, and it seems they had given me a true account of themselves before. This brings these two men to a further remembrance. The name of one was John Hayward, who was at that time under-sexton of the parish of St. Stephen, Coleman Street (by under-sexton was understood at that time gravedigger and bearer of the dead). This man carried, or assisted to carry, all the dead to their graves, which were buried in that large parish, and who were carried in form, and, after that form of burying was stopped, went with the dead cart and the bell to fetch the dead bodies from the houses where they lay, and fetched many of them out of the chambers and houses; for the parish was, and is still, remarkable, particularly above all the parishes in London, for a great number of alleys and thoroughfares, very long, into which no carts could come, and where they were obliged to go and fetch the bodies a very long way, which alleys now remain to witness it; such as White's Alley, Cross Keys Court, Swan Alley, Bell Alley, White Horse Alley, and many more. Here they went with a kind of handbarrow, and laid the dead bodies on, and carried them out to the carts; which work he performed, and never had the distemper at all, but lived about twenty years after it, and was sexton of the parish to the time of his death. His wife at the same time was a nurse to infected people, and tended many that died in the parish, being for her honesty recommended by the parish officers; yet she never was infected, neither.[146] He never used any preservative against the infection other than holding garlic and rue[147] in his mouth, and smoking tobacco. This I also had from his own mouth. And his wife's remedy was washing her head in vinegar, and sprinkling her head-clothes so with vinegar as to keep them always moist; and, if the smell of any of those she waited on was more than ordinary offensive, she snuffed vinegar up her nose, and sprinkled vinegar upon her head-clothes, and held a handkerchief wetted with vinegar to her mouth. It must be confessed, that, though the plague was chiefly among the poor, yet were the poor the most venturous and fearless of it, and went about their employment with a sort of brutal courage: I must call it so, for it was founded neither on religion or prudence. Scarce did they use any caution, but ran into any business which they could get any employment in, though it was the most hazardous; such was that of tending the sick, watching houses shut up, carrying infected persons to the pesthouse, and, which was still worse, carrying the dead away to their graves. It was under this John Hayward's care, and within his bounds, that the story of the piper, with which people have made themselves so merry, happened; and he assured me that it was true. It is said that it was a blind piper; but, as John told me, the fellow was not blind, but an ignorant, weak, poor man, and usually went his rounds about ten o'clock at night, and went piping along from door to door. And the people usually took him in at public houses where they knew him, and would give him drink and victuals, and sometimes farthings; and he in return would pipe and sing, and talk simply, which diverted the people; and thus he lived. It was but a very bad time for this diversion while things were as I have told; yet the poor fellow went about as usual, but was almost starved: and when anybody asked how he did, he would answer, the dead cart had not taken him yet, but that they had promised to call for him next week. It happened one night that this poor fellow, whether somebody had given him too much drink or no (John Hayward said he had not drink in his house, but that they had given him a little more victuals than ordinary at a public house in Coleman Street), and the poor fellow having not usually had a bellyful, or perhaps not a good while, was laid all along upon the top of a bulk or stall, and fast asleep at a door in the street near London Wall, towards Cripplegate; and that, upon the same bulk or stall, the people of some house in the alley of which the house was a corner, hearing a bell (which they always rung before the cart came), had laid a body really dead of the plague just by him, thinking too that this poor fellow had been a dead body as the other was, and laid there by some of the neighbors. Accordingly, when John Hayward with his bell and the cart came along, finding two dead bodies lie upon the stall, they took them up with the instrument they used, and threw them into the cart; and all this while the piper slept soundly. From hence they passed along, and took in other dead bodies, till, as honest John Hayward told me, they almost buried him alive in the cart; yet all this while he slept soundly. At length the cart came to the place where the bodies were to be thrown into the ground, which, as I do remember, was at Mountmill; and, as the cart usually stopped some time before they were ready to shoot out the melancholy load they had in it, as soon as the cart stopped, the fellow awaked, and struggled a little to get his head out from among the dead bodies; when, raising himself up in the cart, he called out, "Hey, where am I?" This frighted the fellow that attended about the work; but, after some pause, John Hayward, recovering himself, said, "Lord bless us! There's somebody in the cart not quite dead!" So another called to him, and said, "Who are you?" The fellow answered, "I am the poor piper. Where am I?"--"Where are you?" says Hayward. "Why, you are in the dead cart, and we are going to bury you."--"But I ain't dead, though, am I?" says the piper; which made them laugh a little, though, as John said, they were heartily frightened at first. So they helped the poor fellow down, and he went about his business. I know the story goes, he set up[148] his pipes in the cart, and frighted the bearers and others, so that they ran away; but John Hayward did not tell the story so, nor say anything of his piping at all. But that he was a poor piper, and that he was carried away as above, I am fully satisfied of the truth of. It is to be noted here that the dead carts in the city were not confined to particular parishes; but one cart went through several parishes, according as the number of dead presented. Nor were they tied[149] to carry the dead to their respective parishes; but many of the dead taken up in the city were carried to the burying ground in the outparts for want of room. At the beginning of the plague, when there was now no more hope but that the whole city would be visited; when, as I have said, all that had friends or estates in the country retired with their families; and when, indeed, one would have thought the very city itself was running out of the gates, and that there would be nobody left behind,--you may be sure from that hour all trade, except such as related to immediate subsistence, was, as it were, at a full stop. This is so lively a case, and contains in it so much of the real condition of the people, that I think I cannot be too particular in it, and therefore I descend to the several arrangements or classes of people who fell into immediate distress upon this occasion. For example:-- 1. All master workmen in manufactures, especially such as belonged to ornament and the less necessary parts of the people's dress, clothes, and furniture for houses; such as ribbon-weavers and other weavers, gold and silver lacemakers, and gold and silver wire-drawers, seamstresses, milliners, shoemakers, hatmakers, and glovemakers, also upholsterers, joiners, cabinet-makers, looking-glass-makers, and innumerable trades which depend upon such as these,--I say, the master workmen in such stopped their work, dismissed their journeymen and workmen and all their dependents. 2. As merchandising was at a full stop (for very few ships ventured to come up the river, and none at all went out[150]), so all the extraordinary officers of the customs, likewise the watermen, carmen, porters, and all the poor whose labor depended upon the merchants, were at once dismissed, and put out of business. 3. All the tradesmen usually employed in building or repairing of houses were at a full stop; for the people were far from wanting to build houses when so many thousand houses were at once stripped of their inhabitants; so that this one article[151] turned out all the ordinary workmen of that kind of business, such as bricklayers, masons, carpenters, joiners, plasterers, painters, glaziers, smiths, plumbers, and all the laborers depending on such. 4. As navigation was at a stop, our ships neither coming in or going out as before, so the seamen were all out of employment, and many of them in the last and lowest degree of distress. And with the seamen were all the several tradesmen and workmen belonging to and depending upon the building and fitting out of ships; such as ship-carpenters, calkers, ropemakers, dry coopers, sailmakers, anchor-smiths, and other smiths, blockmakers, carvers, gunsmiths, ship-chandlers, ship-carvers, and the like. The masters of those, perhaps, might live upon their substance; but the traders were universally at a stop, and consequently all their workmen discharged. Add to these, that the river was in a manner without boats, and all or most part of the watermen, lighter-men, boat-builders, and lighter-builders, in like manner idle and laid by. 5. All families retrenched their living as much as possible, as well those that fled as those that staid; so that an innumerable multitude of footmen, serving men, shopkeepers, journeymen, merchants' bookkeepers, and such sort of people, and especially poor maidservants, were turned off, and left friendless and helpless, without employment and without habitation; and this was really a dismal article. I might be more particular as to this part; but it may suffice to mention, in general, all trades being stopped, employment ceased, the labor, and by that the bread of the poor, were cut off; and at first, indeed, the cries of the poor were most lamentable to hear, though, by the distribution of charity, their misery that way was gently[152] abated. Many, indeed, fled into the country; but, thousands of them having staid in London till nothing but desperation sent them away, death overtook them on the road, and they served for no better than the messengers of death: indeed, others carrying the infection along with them, spread it very unhappily into the remotest parts of the kingdom. The women and servants that were turned off from their places were employed as nurses to tend the sick in all places, and this took off a very great number of them. And which,[153] though a melancholy article in itself, yet was a deliverance in its kind, namely, the plague, which raged in a dreadful manner from the middle of August to the middle of October, carried off in that time thirty or forty thousand of these very people, which, had they been left, would certainly have been an insufferable burden by their poverty; that is to say, the whole city could not have supported the expense of them, or have provided food for them, and they would in time have been even driven to the necessity of plundering either the city itself, or the country adjacent, to have subsisted themselves, which would, first or last, have put the whole nation, as well as the city, into the utmost terror and confusion. It was observable, then, that this calamity of the people made them very humble; for now, for about nine weeks together, there died near a thousand a day, one day with another, even by the account of the weekly bills, which yet, I have reason to be assured, never gave a full account by many thousands; the confusion being such, and the carts working in the dark when they carried the dead, that in some places no account at all was kept, but they worked on; the clerks and sextons not attending for weeks together, and not knowing what number they carried. This account is verified by the following bills of mortality:-- Of All Diseases. Of the Plague. Aug. 8 to Aug. 15 5,319 3,880 Aug. 15 to Aug. 22 5,668 4,237 Aug. 22 to Aug. 29 7,496 6,102 Aug. 29 to Sept. 5 8,252 6,988 Sept. 5 to Sept. 12 7,690 6,544 Sept. 12 to Sept. 19 8,297 7,165 Sept. 19 to Sept. 30 6,400 5,533 Sept. 27 to Oct. 3 5,728 4,929 Oct. 3 to Oct. 10 5,068 4,227 ------ ------ 59,918 49,605 So that the gross of the people were carried off in these two months; for, as the whole number which was brought in to die of the plague was but 68,590, here is[154] 50,000 of them, within a trifle, in two months: I say 50,000, because as there wants 395 in the number above, so there wants two days of two months in the account of time.[155] Now, when I say that the parish officers did not give in a full account, or were not to be depended upon for their account, let any one but consider how men could be exact in such a time of dreadful distress, and when many of them were taken sick themselves, and perhaps died in the very time when their accounts were to be given in (I mean the parish clerks, besides inferior officers): for though these poor men ventured at all hazards, yet they were far from being exempt from the common calamity, especially if it be true that the parish of Stepney had within the year one hundred and sixteen sextons, gravediggers, and their assistants; that is to say, bearers, bellmen, and drivers of carts for carrying off the dead bodies. Indeed, the work was not of such a nature as to allow them leisure to take an exact tale[156] of the dead bodies, which were all huddled together in the dark into a pit; which pit, or trench, no man could come nigh but at the utmost peril. I have observed often that in the parishes of Aldgate, Cripplegate, Whitechapel, and Stepney, there were five, six, seven, and eight hundred in a week in the bills; whereas, if we may believe the opinion of those that lived in the city all the time, as well as I, there died sometimes two thousand a week in those parishes. And I saw it under the hand of one that made as strict an examination as he could, that there really died a hundred thousand people of the plague in it that one year; whereas, in the bills, the article of the plague was but 68,590. If I may be allowed to give my opinion, by what I saw with my eyes, and heard from other people that were eyewitnesses, I do verily believe the same; viz., that there died at least a hundred thousand of the plague only, besides other distempers, and besides those which died in the fields and highways and secret places, out of the compass[157] of the communication, as it was called, and who were not put down in the bills, though they really belonged to the body of the inhabitants. It was known to us all that abundance of poor despairing creatures who had the distemper upon them, and were grown stupid or melancholy by their misery (as many were), wandered away into the fields and woods, and into secret uncouth[158] places, almost anywhere, to creep into a bush or hedge, and die. The inhabitants of the villages adjacent would in pity carry them food, and set it at a distance, that they might fetch it if they were able; and sometimes they were not able. And the next time they went they would find the poor wretches lie[159] dead, and the food untouched. The number of these miserable objects were[160] many; and I know so many that perished thus, and so exactly where, that I believe I could go to the very place, and dig their bones up still;[161] for the country people would go and dig a hole at a distance from them, and then, with long poles and hooks at the end of them, drag the bodies into these pits, and then throw the earth in form, as far as they could cast it, to cover them, taking notice how the wind blew, and so come on that side which the seamen call "to windward," that the scent of the bodies might blow from them. And thus great numbers went out of the world who were never known, or any account of them taken, as well within the bills of mortality as without. This indeed I had, in the main, only from the relation of others; for I seldom walked into the fields,[162] except towards Bethnal Green and Hackney, or as hereafter. But when I did walk, I always saw a great many poor wanderers at a distance, but I could know little of their cases; for, whether it were in the street or in the fields, if we had seen anybody coming, it was a general method to walk away. Yet I believe the account is exactly true. As this puts me upon mentioning my walking the streets and fields, I cannot omit taking notice what a desolate place the city was at that time. The great street I lived in, which is known to be one of the broadest of all the streets of London (I mean of the suburbs as well as the liberties, all the side where the butchers lived, especially without the bars[163]), was more like a green field than a paved street; and the people generally went in the middle with the horses and carts. It is true that the farthest end, towards Whitechapel Church, was not all paved, but even the part that was paved was full of grass also. But this need not seem strange, since the great streets within the city, such as Leadenhall Street, Bishopsgate Street, Cornhill, and even the Exchange itself, had grass growing in them in several places. Neither cart nor coach was seen in the streets from morning to evening, except some country carts to bring roots and beans, or pease, hay, and straw, to the market, and those but very few compared to what was usual. As for coaches, they were scarce used, but to carry sick people to the pesthouse and to other hospitals, and some few to carry physicians to such places as they thought fit to venture to visit; for really coaches were dangerous things, and people did not care to venture into them, because they did not know who might have been carried in them last; and sick infected people were, as I have said, ordinarily carried in them to the pesthouses; and sometimes people expired in them as they went along. It is true, when the infection came to such a height as I have now mentioned, there were very few physicians who cared to stir abroad to sick houses, and very many of the most eminent of the faculty[164] were dead, as well as the surgeons also; for now it was indeed a dismal time, and for about a month together, not taking any notice of the bills of mortality, I believe there did not die less than fifteen or seventeen hundred a day, one day with another. One of the worst days we had in the whole time, as I thought, was in the beginning of September, when, indeed, good people were beginning to think that God was resolved to make a full end of the people in this miserable city. This was at that time when the plague was fully come into the eastern parishes. The parish of Aldgate, if I may give my opinion, buried above one thousand a week for two weeks, though the bills did not say so many; but it[165] surrounded me at so dismal a rate, that there was not a house in twenty uninfected. In the Minories, in Houndsditch, and in those parts of Aldgate Parish about the Butcher Row, and the alleys over against me,--I say, in those places death reigned in every corner. Whitechapel Parish was in the same condition, and though much less than the parish I lived in, yet buried near six hundred a week, by the bills, and in my opinion near twice as many. Whole families, and indeed whole streets of families, were swept away together, insomuch that it was frequent for neighbors to call to the bellman to go to such and such houses and fetch out the people, for that they were all dead. And indeed the work of removing the dead bodies by carts was now grown so very odious and dangerous, that it was complained of that the bearers did not take care to clear such houses where all the inhabitants were dead, but that some of the bodies lay unburied till the neighboring families were offended by the stench, and consequently infected. And this neglect of the officers was such, that the churchwardens and constables were summoned to look after it; and even the justices of the hamlets[166] were obliged to venture their lives among them to quicken and encourage them; for innumerable of the bearers died of the distemper, infected by the bodies they were obliged to come so near. And had it not been that the number of people who wanted employment, and wanted bread, as I have said before, was so great that necessity drove them to undertake anything, and venture anything, they would never have found people to be employed; and then the bodies of the dead would have lain above ground, and have perished and rotted in a dreadful manner. But the magistrates cannot be enough commended in this, that they kept such good order for the burying of the dead, that as fast as any of those they employed to carry off and bury the dead fell sick or died (as was many times the case), they immediately supplied the places with others; which, by reason of the great number of poor that was left out of business, as above, was not hard to do. This occasioned, that, notwithstanding the infinite number of people which died and were sick, almost all together, yet they were always cleared away, and carried off every night; so that it was never to be said of London that the living were not able to bury the dead. As the desolation was greater during those terrible times, so the amazement of the people increased; and a thousand unaccountable things they would do in the violence of their fright, as others did the same in the agonies of their distemper: and this part was very affecting. Some went roaring, and crying, and wringing their hands, along the street; some would go praying, and lifting up their hands to heaven, calling upon God for mercy. I cannot say, indeed, whether this was not in their distraction; but, be it so, it was still an indication of a more serious mind when they had the use of their senses, and was much better, even as it was, than the frightful yellings and cryings that every day, and especially in the evenings, were heard in some streets. I suppose the world has heard of the famous Solomon Eagle, an enthusiast. He, though not infected at all, but in his head, went about denouncing of judgment upon the city in a frightful manner; sometimes quite naked, and with a pan of burning charcoal on his head. What he said or pretended, indeed, I could not learn. I will not say whether that clergyman was distracted or not, or whether he did it out of pure zeal for the poor people, who went every evening through the streets of Whitechapel, and, with his hands lifted up, repeated that part of the liturgy of the church continually, "Spare us, good Lord; spare thy people whom thou hast redeemed with thy most precious blood." I say I cannot speak positively of these things, because these were only the dismal objects which represented themselves to me as I looked through my chamber windows; for I seldom opened the casements while I confined myself within doors during that most violent raging of the pestilence, when indeed many began to think, and even to say, that there would none escape. And indeed I began to think so too, and therefore kept within doors for about a fortnight, and never stirred out. But I could not hold it. Besides, there were some people, who, notwithstanding the danger, did not omit publicly to attend the worship of God, even in the most dangerous times. And though it is true that a great many of the clergy did shut up their churches and fled, as other people did, for the safety of their lives, yet all did not do so. Some ventured to officiate, and to keep up the assemblies of the people by constant prayers, and sometimes sermons, or brief exhortations to repentance and reformation; and this as long as they would hear them. And dissenters[167] did the like also, and even in the very churches where the parish ministers were either dead or fled; nor was there any room for making any difference at such a time as this was. It pleased God that I was still spared, and very hearty and sound in health, but very impatient of being pent up within doors without air, as I had been for fourteen days or thereabouts. And I could not restrain myself, but I would go and carry a letter for my brother to the posthouse; then it was, indeed, that I observed a profound silence in the streets. When I came to the posthouse, as I went to put in my letter, I saw a man stand in one corner of the yard, and talking to another at a window; and a third had opened a door belonging to the office. In the middle of the yard lay a small leather purse, with two keys hanging at it, with money in it; but nobody would meddle with it. I asked how long it had lain there. The man at the window said it had lain almost an hour, but they had not meddled with it, because they did not know but the person who dropped it might come back to look for it. I had no such need of money, nor was the sum so big that I had any inclination to meddle with it or to get the money at the hazard it might be attended with: so I seemed to go away, when the man who had opened the door said he would take it up, but so that, if the right owner came for it, he should be sure to have it. So he went in and fetched a pail of water, and set it down hard by the purse, then went again and fetched some gunpowder, and cast a good deal of powder upon the purse, and then made a train from that which he had thrown loose upon the purse (the train reached about two yards); after this he goes in a third time, and fetches out a pair of tongs red hot, and which he had prepared, I suppose, on purpose; and first setting fire to the train of powder, that singed the purse, and also smoked the air sufficiently. But he was not content with that, but he then takes up the purse with the tongs, holding it so long till the tongs burnt through the purse, and then he shook the money out into the pail of water: so he carried it in. The money, as I remember, was about thirteen shillings, and some smooth groats[168] and brass farthings.[169] Much about the same time, I walked out into the fields towards Bow; for I had a great mind to see how things were managed in the river and among the ships; and, as I had some concern in shipping, I had a notion that it had been one of the best ways of securing one's self from the infection to have retired into a ship. And, musing how to satisfy my curiosity in that point, I turned away over the fields, from Bow to Bromley, and down to Blackwall, to the stairs that are there for landing, or taking water. Here I saw a poor man walking on the bank, or "sea wall" as they call it, by himself. I walked awhile also about, seeing the houses all shut up. At last I fell into some talk, at a distance, with this poor man. First I asked how people did thereabouts. "Alas, sir!" says he, "almost desolate, all dead or sick; here are very few families in this part, or in that village," pointing at Poplar, "where half of them are not dead already, and the rest sick." Then he, pointing to one house, "They are all dead," said he, "and the house stands open: nobody dares go into it. A poor thief," says he, "ventured in to steal something; but he paid dear for his theft, for he was carried to the churchyard too, last night." Then he pointed to several other houses. "There," says he, "they are all dead, the man and his wife and five children. There," says he, "they are shut up; you see a watchman at the door:" and so of other houses. "Why," says I, "what do you here all alone?"--"Why," says he, "I am a poor desolate man: it hath pleased God I am not yet visited, though my family is, and one of my children dead."--"How do you mean, then," said I, "that you are not visited?"--"Why," says he, "that is my house," pointing to a very little low boarded house, "and there my poor wife and two children live," said he, "if they may be said to live; for my wife and one of the children are visited; but I do not come at them." And with that word I saw the tears run very plentifully down his face; and so they did down mine too, I assure you. "But," said I, "why do you not come at them? How can you abandon your own flesh and blood?"--"O sir!" says he, "the Lord forbid! I do not abandon them, I work for them as much as I am able; and, blessed be the Lord! I keep them from want." And with that I observed he lifted up his eyes to heaven with a countenance that presently told me I had happened on a man that was no hypocrite, but a serious, religious, good man; and his ejaculation was an expression of thankfulness, that, in such a condition as he was in, he should be able to say his family did not want. "Well," says I, "honest man, that is a great mercy, as things go now with the poor. But how do you live, then, and how are you kept from the dreadful calamity that is now upon us all?"--"Why, sir," says he, "I am a waterman, and there is my boat," says he, "and the boat serves me for a house; I work in it in the day, and I sleep in it in the night: and what I get I lay it down upon that stone," says he, showing me a broad stone on the other side of the street, a good way from his house; "and then," says he, "I halloo and call to them till I make them hear, and they come and fetch it." "Well, friend," says I, "but how can you get money as a waterman? Does anybody go by water these times?"--"Yes, sir," says he, "in the way I am employed there does. Do you see there," says he, "five ships lie at anchor?" pointing down the river a good way below the town; "and do you see," says he, "eight or ten ships lie at the chain there, and at anchor yonder?" pointing above the town. "All those ships have families on board, of their merchants and owners, and such like, who have locked themselves up and live on board, close shut in, for fear of the infection; and I tend on them to fetch things for them, carry letters, and do what is absolutely necessary, that they may not be obliged to come on shore. And every night I fasten my boat on board one of the ship's boats, and there I sleep by myself, and, blessed be God! I am preserved hitherto." "Well," said I, "friend, but will they let you come on board after you have been on shore here, when this has been such a terrible place, and so infected as it is?" "Why, as to that," said he, "I very seldom go up the ship side, but deliver what I bring to their boat, or lie by the side, and they hoist it on board: if I did, I think they are in no danger from me, for I never go into any house on shore, or touch anybody, no, not of my own family; but I fetch provisions for them." "Nay," says I, "but that may be worse; for you must have those provisions of somebody or other; and since all this part of the town is so infected, it is dangerous so much as to speak with anybody; for the village," said I, "is, as it were, the beginning of London, though it be at some distance from it." "That is true," added he; "but you do not understand me right. I do not buy provisions for them here. I row up to Greenwich, and buy fresh meat there, and sometimes I row down the river to Woolwich,[170] and buy there; then I go to single farmhouses on the Kentish side, where I am known, and buy fowls and eggs and butter, and bring to the ships as they direct me, sometimes one, sometimes the other. I seldom come on shore here, and I came only now to call my wife, and hear how my little family do, and give them a little money which I received last night." "Poor man!" said I. "And how much hast thou gotten for them?" "I have gotten four shillings," said he, "which is a great sum, as things go now with poor men; but they have given me a bag of bread too, and a salt fish, and some flesh: so all helps out." "Well," said I, "and have you given it them yet?" "No," said he, "but I have called; and my wife has answered that she cannot come out yet, but in half an hour she hopes to come, and I am waiting for her. Poor woman!" says he, "she is brought sadly down; she has had a swelling, and it is broke, and I hope she will recover, but I fear the child will die. But it is the Lord!"--Here he stopped, and wept very much. "Well, honest friend," said I, "thou hast a sure comforter, if thou hast brought thyself to be resigned to the will of God: he is dealing with us all in judgment." "O sir!" says he, "it is infinite mercy if any of us are spared; and who am I to repine!" "Say'st thou so?" said I; "and how much less is my faith than thine!" And here my heart smote me, suggesting how much better this poor man's foundation was, on which he stayed in the danger, than mine: that he had nowhere to fly; that he had a family to bind him to attendance, which I had not; and mine was mere presumption, his a true dependence and a courage resting on God; and yet that he used all possible caution for his safety. I turned a little away from the man while these thoughts engaged me; for, indeed, I could no more refrain from tears than he. At length, after some further talk, the poor woman opened the door, and called, "Robert, Robert!" He answered, and bid her stay a few moments and he would come: so he ran down the common stairs to his boat, and fetched up a sack in which was the provisions he had brought from the ships; and when he returned he hallooed again; then he went to the great stone which he showed me, and emptied the sack, and laid all out, everything by themselves, and then retired; and his wife came with a little boy to fetch them away; and he called, and said, such a captain had sent such a thing, and such a captain such a thing, and at the end adds, "God has sent it all: give thanks to him." When the poor woman had taken up all, she was so weak she could not carry it at once in, though the weight was not much, neither: so she left the biscuit, which was in a little bag, and left a little boy to watch it till she came again. "Well, but," says I to him, "did you leave her the four shillings too, which you said was your week's pay?" "Yes, yes," says he; "you shall hear her own it." So he called again, "Rachel, Rachel!" which it seems was her name, "did you take up the money?"--"Yes," said she. "How much was it?" said he. "Four shillings and a groat," said she. "Well, well," says he, "the Lord keep you all;" and so he turned to go away. As I could not refrain from contributing tears to this man's story, so neither could I refrain my charity for his assistance; so I called him. "Hark thee, friend," said I, "come hither, for I believe thou art in health, that I may venture thee:" so I pulled out my hand, which was in my pocket before. "Here," says I, "go and call thy Rachel once more, and give her a little more comfort from me. God will never forsake a family that trusts in him as thou dost." So I gave him four other shillings, and bid him go lay them on the stone, and call his wife. I have not words to express the poor man's thankfulness; neither could he express it himself but by tears running down his face. He called his wife, and told her God had moved the heart of a stranger, upon hearing their condition, to give them all that money; and a great deal more such as that he said to her. The woman, too, made signs of the like thankfulness, as well to Heaven as to me, and joyfully picked it up; and I parted with no money all that year that I thought better bestowed. I then asked the poor man if the distemper had not reached to Greenwich. He said it had not till about a fortnight before; but that then he feared it had, but that it was only at that end of the town which lay south towards Deptford[171] Bridge; that he went only to a butcher's shop and a grocer's, where he generally bought such things as they sent him for, but was very careful. I asked him then how it came to pass that those people who had so shut themselves up in the ships had not laid in sufficient stores of all things necessary. He said some of them had; but, on the other hand, some did not come on board till they were frightened into it, and till it was too dangerous for them to go to the proper people to lay in quantities of things; and that he waited on two ships, which he showed me, that had laid in little or nothing but biscuit bread[172] and ship beer, and that he had bought everything else almost for them. I asked him if there were any more ships that had separated themselves as those had done. He told me yes; all the way up from the point, right against Greenwich, to within the shores of Limehouse and Redriff, all the ships that could have room rid[173] two and two in the middle of the stream, and that some of them had several families on board. I asked him if the distemper had not reached them. He said he believed it had not, except two or three ships, whose people had not been so watchful as to keep the seamen from going on shore as others had been; and he said it was a very fine sight to see how the ships lay up the Pool.[174] When he said he was going over to Greenwich as soon as the tide began to come in, I asked if he would let me go with him, and bring me back, for that I had a great mind to see how the ships were ranged, as he had told me. He told me if I would assure him, on the word of a Christian and of an honest man, that I had not the distemper, he would. I assured him that I had not; that it had pleased God to preserve me; that I lived in Whitechapel, but was too impatient of being so long within doors, and that I had ventured out so far for the refreshment of a little air, but that none in my house had so much as been touched with it. "Well, sir," says he, "as your charity has been moved to pity me and my poor family, sure you cannot have so little pity left as to put yourself into my boat if you were not sound in health, which would be nothing less than killing me, and ruining my whole family." The poor man troubled me so much when he spoke of his family with such a sensible concern and in such an affectionate manner, that I could not satisfy myself at first to go at all. I told him I would lay aside my curiosity rather than make him uneasy, though I was sure, and very thankful for it, that I had no more distemper upon me than the freshest man in the world. Well, he would not have me put it off neither, but, to let me see how confident he was that I was just to him, he now importuned me to go: so, when the tide came up to his boat, I went in, and he carried me to Greenwich. While he bought the things which he had in charge to buy, I walked up to the top of the hill, under which the town stands, and on the east side of the town, to get a prospect of the river; but it was a surprising sight to see the number of ships which lay in rows, two and two, and in some places two or three such lines in the breadth of the river, and this not only up to the town, between the houses which we call Ratcliff and Redriff, which they name the Pool, but even down the whole river, as far as the head of Long Reach, which is as far as the hills give us leave to see it. I cannot guess at the number of ships, but I think there must have been several hundreds of sail; and I could not but applaud the contrivance, for ten thousand people and more who attended ship affairs were certainly sheltered here from the violence of the contagion, and lived very safe and very easy. I returned to my own dwelling very well satisfied with my day's journey, and particularly with the poor man; also I rejoiced to see that such little sanctuaries were provided for so many families on board in a time of such desolation. I observed, also, that, as the violence of the plague had increased, so the ships which had families on board removed and went farther off, till, as I was told, some went quite away to sea, and put into such harbors and safe roads[175] on the north coast as they could best come at. But it was also true, that all the people who thus left the land, and lived on board the ships, were not entirely safe from the infection; for many died, and were thrown overboard into the river, some in coffins, and some, as I heard, without coffins, whose bodies were seen sometimes to drive up and down with the tide in the river. But I believe I may venture to say, that, in those ships which were thus infected, it either happened where the people had recourse to them too late, and did not fly to the ship till they had staid too long on shore, and had the distemper upon them, though perhaps they might not perceive it (and so the distemper did not come to them on board the ships, but they really carried it with them), or it was in these ships where the poor waterman said they had not had time to furnish themselves with provisions, but were obliged to send often on shore to buy what they had occasion for, or suffered boats to come to them from the shore; and so the distemper was brought insensibly among them. And here I cannot but take notice that the strange temper of the people of London at that time contributed extremely to their own destruction. The plague began, as I have observed, at the other end of the town (namely, in Longacre, Drury Lane, etc.), and came on towards the city very gradually and slowly. It was felt at first in December, then again in February, then again in April (and always but a very little at a time), then it stopped till May; and even the last week in May there were but seventeen in all that end of the town. And all this while, even so long as till there died about three thousand a week, yet had the people in Redriff and in Wapping and Ratcliff, on both sides the river, and almost all Southwark side, a mighty fancy that they should not be visited, or at least that it would not be so violent among them. Some people fancied the smell of the pitch and tar, and such other things, as oil and resin and brimstone (which is much used by all trades relating to shipping), would preserve them. Others argued it,[176] because it[177] was in its extremest violence in Westminster and the parish of St. Giles's and St. Andrew's, etc., and began to abate again before it came among them, which was true, indeed, in part. For example:-- Aug. 8 to Aug. 15, St. Giles-in-the-Fields 242 " " Cripplegate 886 " " Stepney 197 " " St. Mag.[178] Bermondsey 24 " " Rotherhithe 3 Total this week 4,030 Aug. 15 to Aug. 22, St. Giles-in-the-Fields 175 " " Cripplegate 847 " " Stepney 273 " " St. Mag. Bermondsey 36 " " Rotherhithe 2 Total this week 5,319 N.B.[179]--That it was observed that the numbers mentioned in Stepney Parish at that time were generally all on that side where Stepney Parish joined to Shoreditch, which we now call Spittlefields, where the parish of Stepney comes up to the very wall of Shoreditch churchyard. And the plague at this time was abated at St. Giles-in-the-Fields, and raged most violently in Cripplegate, Bishopsgate, and Shoreditch Parishes, but there were not ten people a week that died of it in all that part of Stepney Parish which takes in Limehouse, Ratcliff Highway, and which are now the parishes of Shadwell and Wapping, even to St. Katherine's-by-the-Tower, till after the whole month of August was expired; but they paid for it afterwards, as I shall observe by and by. This, I say, made the people of Redriff and Wapping, Ratcliff and Limehouse, so secure, and flatter themselves so much with the plague's going off without reaching them, that they took no care either to fly into the country or shut themselves up: nay, so far were they from stirring, that they rather received their friends and relations from the city into their houses; and several from other places really took sanctuary in that part of the town as a place of safety, and as a place which they thought God would pass over, and not visit as the rest was visited. And this was the reason, that, when it came upon them, they were more surprised, more unprovided, and more at a loss what to do, than they were in other places; for when it came among them really and with violence, as it did indeed in September and October, there was then no stirring out into the country. Nobody would suffer a stranger to come near them, no, nor near the towns where they dwelt; and, as I have been told, several that wandered into the country on the Surrey side were found starved to death in the woods and commons; that country being more open and more woody than any other part so near London, especially about Norwood and the parishes of Camberwell, Dulwich,[180] and Lusum, where it seems nobody durst[181] relieve the poor distressed people for fear of the infection. This notion having, as I said, prevailed with the people in that part of the town, was in part the occasion, as I said before, that they had recourse to ships for their retreat; and where they did this early and with prudence, furnishing themselves so with provisions so that they had no need to go on shore for supplies, or suffer boats to come on board to bring them,--I say, where they did so, they had certainly the safest retreat of any people whatsoever. But the distress was such, that people ran on board in their fright without bread to eat, and some into ships that had no men on board to remove them farther off, or to take the boat and go down the river to buy provisions, where it may be done safely; and these often suffered, and were infected on board as much as on shore. As the richer sort got into ships, so the lower rank got into hoys,[182] smacks, lighters, and fishing boats; and many, especially watermen, lay in their boats: but those made sad work of it, especially the latter; for going about for provision, and perhaps to get their subsistence, the infection got in among them, and made a fearful havoc. Many of the watermen died alone in their wherries as they rid at their roads, as well above bridge[183] as below, and were not found sometimes till they were not in condition for anybody to touch or come near them. Indeed, the distress of the people at this seafaring end of the town was very deplorable, and deserved the greatest commiseration. But, alas! this was a time when every one's private safety lay so near them that they had no room to pity the distresses of others; for every one had death, as it were, at his door, and many even in their families, and knew not what to do, or whither to fly. This, I say, took away all compassion. Self-preservation, indeed, appeared here to be the first law: for the children ran away from their parents as they languished in the utmost distress; and in some places, though not so frequent as the other, parents did the like to their children. Nay, some dreadful examples there were, and particularly two in one week, of distressed mothers, raving and distracted, killing their own children; one whereof was not far off from where I dwelt, the poor lunatic creature not living herself long enough to be sensible of the sin of what she had done, much less to be punished for it. It is not, indeed, to be wondered at; for the danger of immediate death to ourselves took away all bowels of love, all concern for one another. I speak in general: for there were many instances of immovable affection, pity, and duty in many, and some that came to my knowledge, that is to say, by hearsay; for I shall not take upon me to vouch the truth of the particulars. I could tell here dismal stories of living infants being found sucking the breasts of their mothers or nurses after they have been dead of the plague; of a mother in the parish where I lived, who, having a child that was not well, sent for an apothecary to view the child, and when he came, as the relation goes, was giving the child suck at her breast, and to all appearance was herself very well; but, when the apothecary came close to her, he saw the tokens upon that breast with which she was suckling the child. He was surprised enough, to be sure; but, not willing to fright the poor woman too much, he desired she would give the child into his hand: so he takes the child, and, going to a cradle in the room, lays it in, and, opening its clothes, found the tokens upon the child too; and both died before he could get home to send a preventive medicine to the father of the child, to whom he had told their condition. Whether the child infected the nurse mother, or the mother the child, was not certain, but the last most likely. Likewise of a child brought home to the parents from a nurse that had died of the plague; yet the tender mother would not refuse to take in her child, and laid it in her bosom, by which she was infected and died, with the child in her arms dead also. It would make the hardest heart move at the instances that were frequently found of tender mothers tending and watching with their dear children, and even dying before them, and sometimes taking the distemper from them, and dying, when the child for whom the affectionate heart had been sacrificed has got over it and escaped. I have heard also of some who, on the death of their relations, have grown stupid with the insupportable sorrow; and of one in particular, who was so absolutely overcome with the pressure upon his spirits, that by degrees his head sunk into his body so between his shoulders, that the crown of his head was very little seen above the bone of his shoulders; and by degrees, losing both voice and sense, his face, looking forward, lay against his collar bone, and could not be kept up any otherwise, unless held up by the hands of other people. And the poor man never came to himself again, but languished near a year in that condition, and died. Nor was he ever once seen to lift up his eyes, or to look upon any particular object.[184] I cannot undertake to give any other than a summary of such passages as these, because it was not possible to come at the particulars where sometimes the whole families where such things happened were carried off by the distemper; but there were innumerable cases of this kind which presented[185] to the eye and the ear, even in passing along the streets, as I have hinted above. Nor is it easy to give any story of this or that family, which there was not divers parallel stories to be met with of the same kind. But as I am now talking of the time when the plague raged at the easternmost parts of the town; how for a long time the people of those parts had flattered themselves that they should escape, and how they were surprised when it came upon them as it did (for indeed it came upon them like an armed man when it did come),--I say this brings me back to the three poor men who wandered from Wapping, not knowing whither to go or what to do, and whom I mentioned before,--one a biscuit baker, one a sailmaker, and the other a joiner, all of Wapping or thereabouts. The sleepiness and security of that part, as I have observed, was such, that they not only did not shift for themselves as others did, but they boasted of being safe, and of safety being with them. And many people fled out of the city, and out of the infected suburbs, to Wapping, Ratcliff, Limehouse, Poplar, and such places, as to places of security. And it is not at all unlikely that their doing this helped to bring the plague that way faster than it might otherwise have come: for though I am much for people's flying away, and emptying such a town as this upon the first appearance of a like visitation, and that all people who have any possible retreat should make use of it in time, and begone, yet I must say, when all that will fly are gone, those that are left, and must stand it, should stand stock-still where they are, and not shift from one end of the town or one part of the town to the other; for that is the bane and mischief of the whole, and they carry the plague from house to house in their very clothes. Wherefore were we ordered to kill all the dogs and cats, but because, as they were domestic animals, and are apt to run from house to house and from street to street, so they are capable of carrying the effluvia or infectious steams of bodies infected, even in their furs and hair? And therefore it was, that, in the beginning of the infection, an order was published by the lord mayor and by the magistrates, according to the advice of the physicians, that all the dogs and cats should be immediately killed; and an officer was appointed for the execution. It is incredible, if their account is to be depended upon, what a prodigious number of those creatures were destroyed. I think they talked of forty thousand dogs and five times as many cats; few houses being without a cat, some having several, sometimes five or six in a house. All possible endeavors were used also to destroy the mice and rats, especially the latter, by laying rats-bane and other poisons for them; and a prodigious multitude of them were also destroyed. I often reflected upon the unprovided condition that the whole body of the people were in at the first coming of this calamity upon them; and how it was for want of timely entering into measures and managements, as well public as private, that all the confusions that followed were brought upon us, and that such a prodigious number of people sunk in that disaster which, if proper steps had been taken, might, Providence concurring, have been avoided, and which, if posterity think fit, they may take a caution and warning from. But I shall come to this part again. I come back to my three men. Their story has a moral in every part of it; and their whole conduct, and that of some whom they joined with, is a pattern for all poor men to follow, or women either, if ever such a time comes again: and if there was no other end in recording it, I think this a very just one, whether my account be exactly according to fact or no. Two of them were said to be brothers, the one an old soldier, but now a biscuit baker; the other a lame sailor, but now a sailmaker; the third a joiner. Says John the biscuit baker, one day, to Thomas, his brother, the sailmaker, "Brother Tom, what will become of us? The plague grows hot in the city, and increases this way. What shall we do?" "Truly," says Thomas, "I am at a great loss what to do; for I find if it comes down into Wapping I shall be turned out of my lodging." And thus they began to talk of it beforehand. _John._ Turned out of your lodging, Tom? If you are, I don't know who will take you in; for people are so afraid of one another now, there is no getting a lodging anywhere. _Tho._ Why, the people where I lodge are good civil people, and have kindness for me too; but they say I go abroad every day to my work, and it will be dangerous; and they talk of locking themselves up, and letting nobody come near them. _John._ Why, they are in the right, to be sure, if they resolve to venture staying in town. _Tho._ Nay, I might even resolve to stay within doors too; for, except a suit of sails that my master has in hand, and which I am just finishing, I am like to get no more work a great while. There's no trade stirs now, workmen and servants are turned off everywhere; so that I might be glad to be locked up too. But I do not see that they will be willing to consent to that any more than to the other. _John._ Why, what will you do then, brother? And what shall I do? for I am almost as bad as you. The people where I lodge are all gone into the country but a maid, and she is to go next week, and to shut the house quite up; so that I shall be turned adrift to the wide world before you: and I am resolved to go away too, if I knew but where to go. _Tho._ We were both distracted we did not go away at first, when we might ha' traveled anywhere: there is no stirring now. We shall be starved if we pretend to go out of town. They won't let us have victuals, no, not for our money, nor let us come into the towns, much less into their houses. _John._ And, that which is almost as bad, I have but little money to help myself with, neither. _Tho._ As to that, we might make shift. I have a little, though not much; but I tell you there is no stirring on the road. I know a couple of poor honest men in our street have attempted to travel; and at Barnet,[186] or Whetstone, or thereabout, the people offered to fire at them if they pretended to go forward: so they are come back again quite discouraged. _John._ I would have ventured their fire, if I had been there. If I had been denied food for my money, they should have seen me take it before their faces; and, if I had tendered money for it, they could not have taken any course with me by the law. _Tho._ You talk your old soldier's language, as if you were in the Low Countries[187] now; but this is a serious thing. The people have good reason to keep anybody off that they are not satisfied are sound at such a time as this, and we must not plunder them. _John._ No, brother, you mistake the case, and mistake me too: I would plunder nobody. But for any town upon the road to deny me leave to pass through the town in the open highway, and deny me provisions for my money, is to say the town has a right to starve me to death; which cannot be true. _Tho._ But they do not deny you liberty to go back again from whence you came, and therefore they do not starve you. _John._ But the next town behind me will, by the same rule, deny me leave to go back; and so they do starve me between them. Besides, there is no law to prohibit my traveling wherever I will on the road. _Tho._ But there will be so much difficulty in disputing with them at every town on the road, that it is not for poor men to do it, or undertake it, at such a time as this is especially. _John._ Why, brother, our condition, at this rate, is worse than anybody's else; for we can neither go away nor stay here. I am of the same mind with the lepers of Samaria.[188] If we stay here, we are sure to die. I mean especially as you and I are situated, without a dwelling house of our own, and without lodging in anybody's else. There is no lying in the street at such a time as this; we had as good[189] go into the dead cart at once. Therefore, I say, if we stay here, we are sure to die; and if we go away, we can but die. I am resolved to be gone. _Tho._ You will go away. Whither will you go, and what can you do? I would as willingly go away as you, if I knew whither; but we have no acquaintance, no friends. Here we were born, and here we must die. _John._ Look you, Tom, the whole kingdom is my native country as well as this town. You may as well say I must not go out of my house if it is on fire, as that I must not go out of the town I was born in when it is infected with the plague. I was born in England, and have a right to live in it if I can. _Tho._ But you know every vagrant person may, by the laws of England, be taken up, and passed back to their last legal settlement. _John._ But how shall they make me vagrant? I desire only to travel on upon my lawful occasions. _Tho._ What lawful occasions can we pretend to travel, or rather wander, upon? They will not be put off with words. _John._ Is not flying to save our lives a lawful occasion? And do they not all know that the fact is true? We cannot be said to dissemble. _Tho._ But, suppose they let us pass, whither shall we go? _John._ Anywhere to save our lives: it is time enough to consider that when we are got out of this town. If I am once out of this dreadful place, I care not where I go. _Tho._ We shall be driven to great extremities. I know not what to think of it. _John._ Well, Tom, consider of it a little. This was about the beginning of July; and though the plague was come forward in the west and north parts of the town, yet all Wapping, as I have observed before, and Redriff and Ratcliff, and Limehouse and Poplar, in short, Deptford and Greenwich, both sides of the river from the Hermitage, and from over against it, quite down to Blackwall, was entirely free. There had not one person died of the plague in all Stepney Parish, and not one on the south side of Whitechapel Road, no, not in any parish; and yet the weekly bill was that very week risen up to 1,006. It was a fortnight after this before the two brothers met again, and then the case was a little altered, and the plague was exceedingly advanced, and the number greatly increased. The bill was up at 2,785, and prodigiously increasing; though still both sides of the river, as below, kept pretty well. But some began to die in Redriff, and about five or six in Ratcliff Highway, when the sailmaker came to his brother John, express,[190] and in some fright; for he was absolutely warned out of his lodging, and had only a week to provide himself. His brother John was in as bad a case, for he was quite out, and had only[191] begged leave of his master, the biscuit baker, to lodge in an outhouse belonging to his workhouse, where he only lay upon straw, with some biscuit sacks, or "bread sacks," as they called them, laid upon it, and some of the same sacks to cover him. Here they resolved, seeing all employment being at an end, and no work or wages to be had, they would make the best of their way to get out of the reach of the dreadful infection, and, being as good husbands as they could, would endeavor to live upon what they had as long as it would last, and then work for more, if they could get work anywhere of any kind, let it be what it would. While they were considering to put this resolution in practice in the best manner they could, the third man, who was acquainted very well with the sailmaker, came to know of the design, and got leave to be one of the number; and thus they prepared to set out. It happened that they had not an equal share of money; but as the sailmaker, who had the best stock, was, besides his being lame, the most unfit to expect to get anything by working in the country, so he was content that what money they had should all go into one public stock, on condition that whatever any one of them could gain more than another, it should, without any grudging, be all added to the public stock. They resolved to load themselves with as little baggage as possible, because they resolved at first to travel on foot, and to go a great way, that they might, if possible, be effectually safe. And a great many consultations they had with themselves before they could agree about what way they should travel; which they were so far from adjusting, that, even to the morning they set out, they were not resolved on it. At last the seaman put in a hint that determined it. "First," says he, "the weather is very hot; and therefore I am for traveling north, that we may not have the sun upon our faces, and beating upon our breasts, which will heat and suffocate us; and I have been told," says he, "that it is not good to overheat our blood at a time when, for aught we know, the infection may be in the very air. In the next place," says he, "I am for going the way that may be contrary to the wind as it may blow when we set out, that we may not have the wind blow the air of the city on our backs as we go." These two cautions were approved of, if it could be brought so to hit that the wind might not be in the south when they set out to go north. John the baker, who had been a soldier, then put in his opinion. "First," says he, "we none of us expect to get any lodging on the road, and it will be a little too hard to lie just in the open air. Though it may be warm weather, yet it may be wet and damp, and we have a double reason to take care of our healths at such a time as this; and therefore," says he, "you, brother Tom, that are a sailmaker, might easily make us a little tent; and I will undertake to set it up every night and take it down, and a fig for all the inns in England. If we have a good tent over our heads, we shall do well enough." The joiner opposed this, and told them, let them leave that to him: he would undertake to build them a house every night with his hatchet and mallet, though he had no other tools, which should be fully to their satisfaction, and as good as a tent. The soldier and the joiner disputed that point some time; but at last the soldier carried it for a tent: the only objection against it was, that it must be carried with them, and that would increase their baggage too much, the weather being hot. But the sailmaker had a piece of good hap[192] fall in, which made that easy; for his master who[193] he worked for, having a ropewalk, as well as sailmaking trade, had a little poor horse that he made no use of then, and, being willing to assist the three honest men, he gave them the horse for the carrying their baggage; also, for a small matter of three days' work that his man did for him before he went, he let him have an old topgallant sail[194] that was worn out, but was sufficient, and more than enough, to make a very good tent. The soldier showed how to shape it, and they soon, by his direction, made their tent, and fitted it with poles or staves for the purpose: and thus they were furnished for their journey; viz., three men, one tent, one horse, one gun for the soldier (who would not go without arms, for now he said he was no more a biscuit baker, but a trooper). The joiner had a small bag of tools, such as might be useful if he should get any work abroad, as well for their subsistence as his own. What money they had they brought all into one public stock, and thus they began their journey. It seems that in the morning when they set out, the wind blew, as the sailor said, by his pocket compass, at N.W. by W., so they directed, or rather resolved to direct, their course N.W. But then a difficulty came in their way, that as they set out from the hither end of Wapping, near the Hermitage, and that the plague was now very violent, especially on the north side of the city, as in Shoreditch and Cripplegate Parish, they did not think it safe for them to go near those parts: so they went away east, through Ratcliff Highway, as far as Ratcliff Cross, and leaving Stepney church still on their left hand, being afraid to come up from Ratcliff Cross to Mile End, because they must come just by the churchyard, and because the wind, that seemed to blow more from the west, blowed directly from the side of the city where the plague was hottest. So, I say, leaving Stepney, they fetched a long compass,[195] and, going to Poplar and Bromley, came into the great road just at Bow. Here the watch placed upon Bow Bridge would have questioned them; but they, crossing the road into a narrow way that turns out of the higher end of the town of Bow to Oldford, avoided any inquiry there, and traveled on to Oldford. The constables everywhere were upon their guard, not so much, it seems, to stop people passing by, as to stop them from taking up their abode in their towns; and, withal, because of a report that was newly raised at that time, and that indeed was not very improbable, viz., that the poor people in London, being distressed and starved for want of work, and by that means for want of bread, were up in arms, and had raised a tumult, and that they would come out to all the towns round to plunder for bread. This, I say, was only a rumor, and it was very well it was no more; but it was not so far off from being a reality as it has been thought, for in a few weeks more the poor people became so desperate by the calamity they suffered, that they were with great difficulty kept from running out into the fields and towns, and tearing all in pieces wherever they came. And, as I have observed before, nothing hindered them but that the plague raged so violently, and fell in upon them so furiously, that they rather went to the grave by thousands than into the fields in mobs by thousands; for in the parts about the parishes of St. Sepulchre's, Clerkenwell, Cripplegate, Bishopsgate, and Shoreditch, which were the places where the mob began to threaten, the distemper came on so furiously, that there died in those few parishes, even then, before the plague was come to its height, no less than 5,361 people in the first three weeks in August, when at the same time the parts about Wapping, Ratcliff, and Rotherhithe were, as before described, hardly touched, or but very lightly; so that in a word, though, as I said before, the good management of the lord mayor and justices did much to prevent the rage and desperation of the people from breaking out in rabbles and tumults, and, in short, from the poor plundering the rich,--I say, though they did much, the dead cart did more: for as I have said, that, in five parishes only, there died above five thousand in twenty days, so there might be probably three times that number sick all that time; for some recovered, and great numbers fell sick every day, and died afterwards. Besides, I must still be allowed to say, that, if the bills of mortality said five thousand, I always believed it was twice as many in reality, there being no room to believe that the account they gave was right, or that indeed they[196] were, among such confusions as I saw them in, in any condition to keep an exact account. But to return to my travelers. Here they were only examined, and, as they seemed rather coming from the country than from the city, they found the people easier with them; that they talked to them, let them come into a public house where the constable and his warders were, and gave them drink and some victuals, which greatly refreshed and encouraged them. And here it came into their heads to say, when they should be inquired of afterwards, not that they came from London, but that they came out of Essex. To forward this little fraud, they obtained so much favor of the constable at Oldford as to give them a certificate of their passing from Essex through that village, and that they had not been at London; which, though false in the common acceptation of London in the country, yet was literally true, Wapping or Ratcliff being no part either of the city or liberty. This certificate, directed to the next constable, that was at Homerton, one of the hamlets of the parish of Hackney, was so serviceable to them, that it procured them, not a free passage there only, but a full certificate of health from a justice of the peace, who, upon the constable's application, granted it without much difficulty. And thus they passed through the long divided town of Hackney (for it lay then in several separated hamlets), and traveled on till they came into the great north road, on the top of Stamford Hill. By this time they began to weary; and so, in the back road from Hackney, a little before it opened into the said great road, they resolved to set up their tent, and encamp for the first night; which they did accordingly, with this addition: that, finding a barn, or a building like a barn, and first searching as well as they could to be sure there was nobody in it, they set up their tent with the head of it against the barn. This they did also because the wind blew that night very high, and they were but young at such a way of lodging, as well as at the managing their tent. Here they went to sleep; but the joiner, a grave and sober man, and not pleased with their lying at this loose rate the first night, could not sleep, and resolved, after trying it to no purpose, that he would get out, and, taking the gun in his hand, stand sentinel, and guard his companions. So, with the gun in his hand, he walked to and again before the barn; for that stood in the field near the road, but within the hedge. He had not been long upon the scout, but he heard a noise of people coming on as if it had been a great number; and they came on, as he thought, directly towards the barn. He did not presently awake his companions, but in a few minutes more, their noise growing louder and louder, the biscuit baker called to him and asked him what was the matter, and quickly started out too. The other being the lame sailmaker, and most weary, lay still in the tent. As they expected, so the people whom they had heard came on directly to the barn, when one of our travelers challenged, like soldiers upon the guard, with, "Who comes there?" The people did not answer immediately; but one of them speaking to another that was behind them, "Alas, alas! we are all disappointed," says he; "here are some people before us; the barn is taken up." They all stopped upon that, as under some surprise; and it seems there were about thirteen of them in all, and some women among them. They consulted together what they should do; and by their discourse, our travelers soon found they were poor distressed people too, like themselves, seeking shelter and safety; and besides, our travelers had no need to be afraid of their coming up to disturb them, for as soon as they heard the words, "Who comes there?" they could hear the women say, as if frighted, "Do not go near them; how do you know but they may have the plague?" And when one of the men said, "Let us but speak to them," the women said, "No, don't, by any means; we have escaped thus far by the goodness of God; do not let us run into danger now, we beseech you." Our travelers found by this that they were a good sober sort of people, and flying for their lives as they were; and as they were encouraged by it, so John said to the joiner, his comrade, "Let us encourage them too, as much as we can." So he called to them. "Hark ye, good people," says the joiner; "we find by your talk that you are flying from the same dreadful enemy as we are. Do not be afraid of us; we are only three poor men of us. If you are free from the distemper, you shall not be hurt by us. We are not in the barn, but in a little tent here on the outside, and we will remove for you; we can set up our tent again immediately anywhere else." And upon this a parley began between the joiner, whose name was Richard, and one of their men, whose said name was Ford. _Ford._ And do you assure us that you are all sound men? _Rich._ Nay, we are concerned to tell you of it, that you may not be uneasy, or think yourselves in danger; but you see we do not desire you should put yourselves into any danger, and therefore I tell you that we have not made use of the barn; so we will remove from it, that you may be safe and we also. _Ford._ That is very kind and charitable; but if we have reason to be satisfied that you are sound, and free from the visitation, why should we make you remove, now you are settled in your lodging, and, it may be, are laid down to rest? We will go into the barn, if you please, to rest ourselves awhile, and we need not disturb you. _Rich._ Well, but you are more than we are. I hope you will assure us that you are all of you sound too, for the danger is as great from you to us as from us to you. _Ford._ Blessed be God that some do escape, though it be but few! What may be our portion still, we know not, but hitherto we are preserved. _Rich._ What part of the town do you come from? Was the plague come to the places where you lived? _Ford._ Ay, ay, in a most frightful and terrible manner, or else we had not fled away as we do; but we believe there will be very few left alive behind us. _Rich._ What part do you come from? _Ford._ We are most of us from Cripplegate Parish; only two or three of Clerkenwell Parish, but on the hither side. _Rich._ How, then, was it that you came away no sooner? _Ford._ We have been away some time, and kept together as well as we could at the hither end of Islington, where we got leave to lie in an old uninhabited house, and had some bedding and conveniences of our own, that we brought with us; but the plague is come up into Islington too, and a house next door to our poor dwelling was infected and shut up, and we are come away in a fright. _Rich._ And what way are you going? _Ford._ As our lot shall cast us, we know not whither; but God will guide those that look up to him. They parleyed no further at that time, but came all up to the barn, and with some difficulty got into it. There was nothing but hay in the barn, but it was almost full of that, and they accommodated themselves as well as they could, and went to rest; but our travelers observed that before they went to sleep, an ancient man, who, it seems, was the father of one of the women, went to prayer with all the company, recommending themselves to the blessing and protection of Providence before they went to sleep. It was soon day at that time of the year; and as Richard the joiner had kept guard the first part of the night, so John the soldier relieved him, and he had the post in the morning. And they began to be acquainted with one another. It seems, when they left Islington, they intended to have gone north away to Highgate, but were stopped at Holloway, and there they would not let them pass; so they crossed over the fields and hills to the eastward, and came out at the Boarded River, and so, avoiding the towns, they left Hornsey on the left hand, and Newington on the right hand, and came into the great road about Stamford Hill on that side, as the three travelers had done on the other side. And now they had thoughts of going over the river in the marshes, and make forwards to Epping Forest, where they hoped they should get leave to rest. It seems they were not poor, at least not so poor as to be in want: at least, they had enough to subsist them moderately for two or three months, when, as they said, they were in hopes the cold weather would check the infection, or at least the violence of it would have spent itself, and would abate, if it were only for want of people left alive to be infected. This was much the fate of our three travelers, only that they seemed to be the better furnished for traveling, and had it in their view to go farther off; for, as to the first, they did not propose to go farther than one day's journey, that so they might have intelligence every two or three days how things were at London. But here our travelers found themselves under an unexpected inconvenience, namely, that of their horse; for, by means of the horse to carry their baggage, they were obliged to keep in the road, whereas the people of this other band went over the fields or roads, path or no path, way or no way, as they pleased. Neither had they any occasion to pass through any town, or come near any town, other than to buy such things as they wanted for their necessary subsistence; and in that, indeed, they were put to much difficulty, of which in its place. But our three travelers were obliged to keep the road, or else they must commit spoil, and do the country a great deal of damage in breaking down fences and gates to go over inclosed fields, which they were loath to do if they could help it. Our three travelers, however, had a great mind to join themselves to this company, and take their lot with them; and, after some discourse, they laid aside their first design, which looked northward, and resolved to follow the other into Essex. So in the morning they took up their tent and loaded their horse, and away they traveled all together. They had some difficulty in passing the ferry at the riverside, the ferryman being afraid of them; but, after some parley at a distance, the ferryman was content to bring his boat to a place distant from the usual ferry, and leave it there for them to take it. So, putting themselves over, he directed them to leave the boat, and he, having another boat, said he would fetch it again; which it seems, however, he did not do for above eight days. Here, giving the ferryman money beforehand, they had a supply of victuals and drink, which he brought and left in the boat for them, but not without, as I said, having received the money beforehand. But now our travelers were at a great loss and difficulty how to get the horse over, the boat being small, and not fit for it, and at last could not do it without unloading the baggage and making him swim over. From the river they traveled towards the forest; but when they came to Walthamstow, the people of that town denied[197] to admit them, as was the case everywhere; the constables and their watchmen kept them off at a distance, and parleyed with them. They gave the same account of themselves as before; but these gave no credit to what they said, giving it for a reason, that two or three companies had already come that way and made the like pretenses, but that they had given several people the distemper in the towns where they had passed, and had been afterwards so hardly used by the country, though with justice too, as they had deserved, that about Brentwood[198] or that way, several of them perished in the fields, whether of the plague, or of mere want and distress, they could not tell. This was a good reason, indeed, why the people of Walthamstow should be very cautious, and why they should resolve not to entertain anybody that they were not well satisfied of; but as Richard the joiner, and one of the other men who parleyed with them, told them, it was no reason why they should block up the roads and refuse to let the people pass through the town, and who asked nothing of them but to go through the street; that, if their people were afraid of them, they might go into their houses and shut their doors: they would neither show them civility nor incivility, but go on about their business. The constables and attendants, not to be persuaded by reason, continued obstinate, and would hearken to nothing: so the two men that talked with them went back to their fellows to consult what was to be done. It was very discouraging in the whole, and they knew not what to do for a good while; but at last John, the soldier and biscuit baker, considering awhile, "Come," says he, "leave the rest of the parley to me." He had not appeared yet: so he sets the joiner, Richard, to work to cut some poles out of the trees, and shape them as like guns as he could; and in a little time he had five or six fair muskets, which at a distance would not be known; and about the part where the lock of a gun is, he caused them to wrap cloth and rags, such as they had, as soldiers do in wet weather to preserve the locks of their pieces from rust; the rest was discolored with clay or mud, such as they could get; and all this while the rest of them sat under the trees by his direction, in two or three bodies, where they made fires at a good distance from one another. While this was doing, he advanced himself, and two or three with him, and set up their tent in the lane, within sight of the barrier which the townsmen had made, and set a sentinel just by it with the real gun, the only one they had, and who[199] walked to and fro with the gun on his shoulder, so as that the people of the town might see them; also he tied the horse to a gate in the hedge just by, and got some dry sticks together and kindled a fire on the other side of the tent, so that the people of the town could see the fire and the smoke, but could not see what they were doing at it. After the country people had looked upon them very earnestly a great while, and by all that they could see could not but suppose that they were a great many in company, they began to be uneasy, not for their going away, but for staying where they were; and above all, perceiving they had horses and arms (for they had seen one horse and one gun at the tent, and they had seen others of them walk about the field on the inside of the hedge by the side of the lane with their muskets, as they took them to be, shouldered),--I say, upon such a sight as this, you may be assured they were alarmed and terribly frightened; and it seems they went to a justice of the peace to know what they should do. What the justice advised them to, I know not; but towards the evening they called from the barrier, as above, to the sentinel at the tent. "What do you want?" says John. "Why, what do you intend to do?" says the constable. "To do?" says John; "what would you have us to do?" _Const._ Why don't you begone? What do you stay there for? _John._ Why do you stop us on the King's highway, and pretend to refuse us leave to go on our way? _Const._ We are not bound to tell you the reason, though we did let you know it was because of the plague. _John._ We told you we were all sound, and free from the plague, which we were not bound to have satisfied you of, and yet you pretend to stop us on the highway. _Const._ We have a right to stop it up, and our own safety obliges us to it; besides, this is not the King's highway, it is a way upon sufferance. You see here is a gate, and if we do let people pass here, we make them pay toll. _John._ We have a right to seek our own safety as well as you; and you may see we are flying for our lives, and it is very unchristian and unjust in you to stop us. _Const._ You may go back from whence you came, we do not hinder you from that. _John._ No, it is a stronger enemy than you that keeps us from doing that, or else we should not have come hither. _Const._ Well, you may go any other way, then. _John._ No, no. I suppose you see we are able to send you going, and all the people of your parish, and come through your town when we will; but, since you have stopped us here, we are content. You see we have encamped here, and here we will live. We hope you will furnish us with victuals. _Const._ We furnish you! What mean you by that? _John._ Why, you would not have us starve, would you? If you stop us here, you must keep us. _Const._ You will be ill kept at our maintenance. _John._ If you stint us, we shall make ourselves the better allowance. _Const._ Why, you will not pretend to quarter upon us by force, will you? _John._ We have offered no violence to you yet, why do you seem to oblige us to it? I am an old soldier, and cannot starve; and, if you think that we shall be obliged to go back for want of provisions, you are mistaken. _Const._ Since you threaten us, we shall take care to be strong enough for you. I have orders to raise the county upon you. _John._ It is you that threaten, not we; and, since you are for mischief, you cannot blame us if we do not give you time for it. We shall begin our march in a few minutes. _Const._ What is it you demand of us? _John._ At first we desired nothing of you but leave to go through the town. We should have offered no injury to any of you, neither would you have had any injury or loss by us. We are not thieves, but poor people in distress, and flying from the dreadful plague in London, which devours thousands every week. We wonder how you can be so unmerciful. _Const._ Self-preservation obliges us. _John._ What! To shut up your compassion, in a case of such distress as this? _Const._ Well, if you will pass over the fields on your left hand, and behind that part of the town, I will endeavor to have gates opened for you. _John._ Our horsemen cannot pass with our baggage that way. It does not lead into the road that we want to go, and why should you force us out of the road? Besides, you have kept us here all day without any provisions but such as we brought with us. I think you ought to send us some provisions for our relief. _Const._ If you will go another way, we will send you some provisions. _John._ That is the way to have all the towns in the county stop up the ways against us. _Const._ If they all furnish you with food, what will you be the worse? I see you have tents: you want no lodging. _John._ Well, what quantity of provisions will you send us? _Const._ How many are you? _John._ Nay, we do not ask enough for all our company. We are in three companies. If you will send us bread for twenty men and about six or seven women for three days, and show us the way over the field you speak of, we desire not to put your people into any fear for us. We will go out of our way to oblige you, though we are as free from infection as you are. _Const._ And will you assure us that your other people shall offer us no new disturbance? _John._ No, no; you may depend on it. _Const._ You must oblige yourself, too, that none of your people shall come a step nearer than where the provisions we send you shall be set down. _John._ I answer for it, we will not. Here he called to one of his men, and bade him order Captain Richard and his people to march the lower way on the side of the marshes, and meet them in the forest; which was all a sham, for they had no Captain Richard or any such company. Accordingly, they sent to the place twenty loaves of bread and three or four large pieces of good beef, and opened some gates, through which they passed; but none of them had courage so much as to look out to see them go, and as it was evening, if they had looked, they could not have seen them so as to know how few they were. This was John the soldier's management; but this gave such an alarm to the county, that, had they really been two or three hundred, the whole county would have been raised upon them, and they would have been sent to prison, or perhaps knocked on the head. They were soon made sensible of this, for two days afterwards they found several parties of horsemen and footmen also about, in pursuit of three companies of men armed, as they said, with muskets, who were broke out from London and had the plague upon them, and that were not only spreading the distemper among the people, but plundering the country. As they saw now the consequence of their case, they soon saw the danger they were in: so they resolved, by the advice also of the old soldier, to divide themselves again. John and his two comrades, with the horse, went away as if towards Waltham,[200]--the other in two companies, but all a little asunder,--and went towards Epping.[200] The first night they encamped all in the forest, and not far off from one another, but not setting up the tent for fear that should discover them. On the other hand, Richard went to work with his ax and his hatchet, and, cutting down branches of trees, he built three tents or hovels, in which they all encamped with as much convenience as they could expect. The provisions they had at Walthamstow served them very plentifully this night; and as for the next, they left it to Providence. They had fared so well with the old soldier's conduct, that they now willingly made him their leader, and the first of his conduct appeared to be very good. He told them that they were now at a proper distance enough from London; that, as they need not be immediately beholden to the country for relief, they ought to be as careful the country did not infect them as that they did not infect the country; that what little money they had they must be as frugal of as they could; that as he would not have them think of offering the country any violence, so they must endeavor to make the sense of their condition go as far with the country as it could. They all referred themselves to his direction: so they left their three houses standing, and the next day went away towards Epping; the captain also (for so they now called him), and his two fellow travelers, laid aside their design of going to Waltham, and all went together. When they came near Epping, they halted, choosing out a proper place in the open forest, not very near the highway, but not far out of it, on the north side, under a little cluster of low pollard trees.[201] Here they pitched their little camp, which consisted of three large tents or huts made of poles, which their carpenter, and such as were his assistants, cut down, and fixed in the ground in a circle, binding all the small ends together at the top, and thickening the sides with boughs of trees and bushes, so that they were completely close and warm. They had besides this a little tent where the women lay by themselves, and a hut to put the horse in. It happened that the next day, or the next but one, was market day at Epping, when Captain John and one of the other men went to market and bought some provisions, that is to say, bread, and some mutton and beef; and two of the women went separately, as if they had not belonged to the rest, and bought more. John took the horse to bring it home, and the sack which the carpenter carried his tools in, to put it in. The carpenter went to work and made them benches and stools to sit on, such as the wood he could get would afford, and a kind of a table to dine on. They were taken no notice of for two or three days; but after that, abundance of people ran out of the town to look at them, and all the country was alarmed about them. The people at first seemed afraid to come near them; and, on the other hand, they desired the people to keep off, for there was a rumor that the plague was at Waltham, and that it had been in Epping two or three days. So John called out to them not to come to them. "For," says he, "we are all whole and sound people here, and we would not have you bring the plague among us, nor pretend we brought it among you." After this, the parish officers came up to them, and parleyed with them at a distance, and desired to know who they were, and by what authority they pretended to fix their stand at that place. John answered very frankly, they were poor distressed people from London, who, foreseeing the misery they should be reduced to if the plague spread into the city, had fled out in time for their lives, and, having no acquaintance or relations to fly to, had first taken up at Islington, but, the plague being come into that town, were fled farther; and, as they supposed that the people of Epping might have refused them coming into their town, they had pitched their tents thus in the open field and in the forest, being willing to bear all the hardships of such a disconsolate lodging rather than have any one think, or be afraid, that they should receive injury by them. At first the Epping people talked roughly to them, and told them they must remove; that this was no place for them; and that they pretended to be sound and well, but that they might be infected with the plague, for aught they knew, and might infect the whole country, and they could not suffer them there. John argued very calmly with them a great while, and told them that London was the place by which they, that is, the townsmen of Epping, and all the country round them, subsisted; to whom they sold the produce of their lands, and out of whom they made the rents of their farms; and to be so cruel to the inhabitants of London, or to any of those by whom they gained so much, was very hard; and they would be loath to have it remembered hereafter, and have it told, how barbarous, how inhospitable, and how unkind they were to the people of London when they fled from the face of the most terrible enemy in the world; that it would be enough to make the name of an Epping man hateful throughout all the city, and to have the rabble stone them in the very streets whenever they came so much as to market; that they were not yet secure from being visited themselves, and that, as he heard, Waltham was already; that they would think it very hard, that, when any of them fled for fear before they were touched, they should be denied the liberty of lying so much as in the open fields. The Epping men told them again that they, indeed, said they were sound, and free from the infection, but that they had no assurance of it; and that it was reported that there had been a great rabble of people at Walthamstow, who made such pretenses of being sound as they did, but that they threatened to plunder the town, and force their way, whether the parish officers would or no; that there were near two hundred of them, and had arms and tents like Low Country soldiers; that they extorted provisions from the town by threatening them with living upon them at free quarter,[202] showing their arms, and talking in the language of soldiers; and that several of them having gone away towards Rumford and Brentwood, the country had been infected by them, and the plague spread into both those large towns, so that the people durst not go to market there, as usual; that it was very likely they were some of that party, and, if so, they deserved to be sent to the county jail, and be secured till they had made satisfaction for the damage they had done, and for the terror and fright they had put the country into. John answered, that what other people had done was nothing to them; that they assured them they were all of one company; that they had never been more in number than they saw them at that time (which, by the way, was very true); that they came out in two separate companies, but joined by the way, their cases being the same; that they were ready to give what account of themselves anybody desired of them, and to give in their names and places of abode, that so they might be called to an account for any disorder that they might be guilty of; that the townsmen might see they were content to live hardly, and only desired a little room to breathe in on the forest, where it was wholesome (for where it was not, they could not stay, and would decamp if they found it otherwise there). "But," said the townsmen, "we have a great charge of poor upon our hands already, and we must take care not to increase it. We suppose you can give us no security against your being chargeable to our parish and to the inhabitants, any more than you can of being dangerous to us as to the infection." "Why, look you," says John, "as to being chargeable to you, we hope we shall not. If you will relieve us with provisions for our present necessity, we will be very thankful. As we all lived without charity when we were at home, so we will oblige ourselves fully to repay you, if God please to bring us back to our own families and houses in safety, and to restore health to the people of London. "As to our dying here, we assure you, if any of us die, we that survive will bury them, and put you to no expense, except it should be that we should all die, and then, indeed, the last man, not being able to bury himself, would put you to that single expense; which I am persuaded," says John, "he would leave enough behind him to pay you for the expense of. "On the other hand," says John, "if you will shut up all bowels of compassion, and not relieve us at all, we shall not extort anything by violence, or steal from any one; but when that little we have is spent, if we perish for want, God's will be done!" John wrought so upon the townsmen by talking thus rationally and smoothly to them, that they went away; and though they did not give any consent to their staying there, yet they did not molest them, and the poor people continued there three or four days longer without any disturbance. In this time they had got some remote acquaintance with a victualing house on the outskirts of the town, to whom they called at a distance to bring some little things that they wanted, and which they caused to be set down at some distance, and always paid for very honestly. During this time the younger people of the town came frequently pretty near them, and would stand and look at them, and would sometimes talk with them at some space between; and particularly it was observed that the first sabbath day the poor people kept retired, worshiped God together, and were heard to sing psalms. These things, and a quiet, inoffensive behavior, began to get them the good opinion of the country, and the people began to pity them and speak very well of them; the consequence of which was, that upon the occasion of a very wet, rainy night, a certain gentleman who lived in the neighborhood sent them a little cart with twelve trusses or bundles of straw, as well for them to lodge upon as to cover and thatch their huts, and to keep them dry. The minister of a parish not far off, not knowing of the other, sent them also about two bushels of wheat and half a bushel of white pease. They were very thankful, to be sure, for this relief, and particularly the straw was a very great comfort to them; for though the ingenious carpenter had made them frames to lie in, like troughs, and filled them with leaves of trees and such things as they could get, and had cut all their tent cloth out to make coverlids, yet they lay damp and hard and unwholesome till this straw came, which was to them like feather beds, and, as John said, more welcome than feather beds would have been at another time. This gentleman and the minister having thus begun, and given an example of charity to these wanderers, others quickly followed; and they received every day some benevolence or other from the people, but chiefly from the gentlemen who dwelt in the country round about. Some sent them chairs, stools, tables, and such household things as they gave notice they wanted. Some sent them blankets, rugs, and coverlids; some, earthenware; and some, kitchen ware for ordering[203] their food. Encouraged by this good usage, their carpenter, in a few days, built them a large shed or house with rafters, and a roof in form, and an upper floor, in which they lodged warm, for the weather began to be damp and cold in the beginning of September; but this house being very well thatched, and the sides and roof very thick, kept out the cold well enough. He made also an earthen wall at one end, with a chimney in it; and another of the company, with a vast deal of trouble and pains, made a funnel to the chimney to carry out the smoke. Here they lived comfortably, though coarsely, till the beginning of September, when they had the bad news to hear, whether true or not, that the plague, which was very hot at Waltham Abbey on the one side, and Rumford and Brentwood on the other side, was also come to Epping, to Woodford, and to most of the towns upon the forest; and which, as they said, was brought down among them chiefly by the higglers,[204] and such people as went to and from London with provisions. If this was true, it was an evident contradiction to the report which was afterwards spread all over England, but which, as I have said, I cannot confirm of my own knowledge, namely, that the market people carrying provisions to the city never got the infection or carried it back into the country; both which, I have been assured, has been[205] false. It might be that they were preserved even beyond expectation, though not to a miracle;[206] that abundance went and came and were not touched; and that was much encouragement for the poor people of London, who had been completely miserable if the people that brought provisions to the markets had not been many times wonderfully preserved, or at least more preserved than could be reasonably expected. But these new inmates began to be disturbed more effectually, for the towns about them were really infected. And they began to be afraid to trust one another so much as to go abroad for such things as they wanted; and this pinched them very hard, for now they had little or nothing but what the charitable gentlemen of the country supplied them with. But, for their encouragement, it happened that other gentlemen of the country, who had not sent them anything before, began to hear of them and supply them. And one sent them a large pig, that is to say, a porker; another, two sheep; and another sent them a calf: in short, they had meat enough, and sometimes had cheese and milk, and such things. They were chiefly put to it[207] for bread; for when the gentlemen sent them corn, they had nowhere to bake it or to grind it. This made them eat the first two bushels of wheat that was sent them, in parched corn, as the Israelites of old did, without grinding or making bread of it.[208] At last they found means to carry their corn to a windmill near Woodford, where they had it ground; and afterwards the biscuit baker made a hearth so hollow and dry, that he could bake biscuit cakes tolerably well, and thus they came into a condition to live without any assistance or supplies from the towns. And it was well they did; for the country was soon after fully infected, and about a hundred and twenty were said to have died of the distemper in the villages near them, which was a terrible thing to them. On this they called a new council, and now the towns had no need to be afraid they should settle near them; but, on the contrary, several families of the poorer sort of the inhabitants quitted their houses, and built huts in the forest, after the same manner as they had done. But it was observed that several of these poor people that had so removed had the sickness even in their huts or booths, the reason of which was plain: namely, not because they removed into the air, but[209] because they did not remove time[210] enough, that is to say, not till, by openly conversing with other people, their neighbors, they had the distemper upon them (or, as may be said, among them), and so carried it about with them whither they went; or (2) because they were not careful enough, after they were safely removed out of the towns, not to come in again and mingle with the diseased people. But be it which of these it will, when our travelers began to perceive that the plague was not only in the towns, but even in the tents and huts on the forest near them, they began then not only to be afraid, but to think of decamping and removing; for, had they staid, they would have been in manifest danger of their lives. It is not to be wondered that they were greatly afflicted at being obliged to quit the place where they had been so kindly received, and where they had been treated with so much humanity and charity; but necessity, and the hazard of life which they came out so far to preserve, prevailed with them, and they saw no remedy. John, however, thought of a remedy for their present misfortune; namely, that he would first acquaint that gentleman who was their principal benefactor with the distress they were in, and to[211] crave his assistance and advice. This good charitable gentleman encouraged them to quit the place, for fear they should be cut off from any retreat at all by the violence of the distemper; but whither they should go, that he found very hard to direct them to. At last John asked of him, whether he, being a justice of the peace, would give them certificates of health to other justices who[212] they might come before, that so, whatever might be their lot, they might not be repulsed, now they had been also so long from London. This his worship immediately granted, and gave them proper letters of health; and from thence they were at liberty to travel whither they pleased. Accordingly they had a full certificate of health, intimating that they had resided in a village in the county of Essex so long; that, being examined and scrutinized sufficiently, and having been retired from all conversation[213] for above forty days, without any appearance of sickness, they were therefore certainly concluded to be sound men, and might be safely entertained anywhere, having at last removed rather for fear of the plague, which was come into such a town, rather[214] than for having any signal of infection upon them, or upon any belonging to them. With this certificate they removed, though with great reluctance; and, John inclining not to go far from home, they removed towards the marshes on the side of Waltham. But here they found a man who, it seems, kept a weir or stop upon the river, made to raise water for the barges which go up and down the river; and he terrified them with dismal stories of the sickness having been spread into all the towns on the river and near the river, on the side of Middlesex and Hertfordshire (that is to say, into Waltham, Waltham Cross, Enfield, and Ware, and all the towns on the road), that they were afraid to go that way; though it seems the man imposed upon them, for that[215] the thing was not really true. However, it terrified them, and they resolved to move across the forest towards Rumford and Brentwood; but they heard that there were numbers of people fled out of London that way, who lay up and down in the forest, reaching near Rumford, and who, having no subsistence or habitation, not only lived oddly,[216] and suffered great extremities in the woods and fields for want of relief, but were said to be made so desperate by those extremities, as that they offered many violences to the country, robbed and plundered, and killed cattle, and the like; and others, building huts and hovels by the roadside, begged, and that with an importunity next door to demanding relief: so that the country was very uneasy, and had been obliged to take some of them up. This, in the first place, intimated to them that they would be sure to find the charity and kindness of the county, which they had found here where they were before, hardened and shut up against them; and that, on the other hand, they would be questioned wherever they came, and would be in danger of violence from others in like cases with themselves. Upon all these considerations, John, their captain, in all their names, went back to their good friend and benefactor who had relieved them before, and, laying their case truly before him, humbly asked his advice; and he as kindly advised them to take up their old quarters again, or, if not, to remove but a little farther out of the road, and directed them to a proper place for them. And as they really wanted some house, rather than huts, to shelter them at that time of the year, it growing on towards Michaelmas, they found an old decayed house, which had been formerly some cottage or little habitation, but was so out of repair as[217] scarce habitable; and by consent of a farmer, to whose farm it belonged, they got leave to make what use of it they could. The ingenious joiner, and all the rest by his directions, went to work with it, and in a very few days made it capable to shelter them all in case of bad weather; and in which there was an old chimney and an old oven, though both lying in ruins, yet they made them both fit for use; and, raising additions, sheds, and lean-to's[218] on every side, they soon made the house capable to hold them all. They chiefly wanted boards to make window shutters, floors, doors, and several other things; but as the gentleman above favored them, and the country was by that means made easy with them, and, above all, that they were known to be all sound and in good health, everybody helped them with what they could spare. Here they encamped for good and all, and resolved to remove no more. They saw plainly how terribly alarmed that country was everywhere at anybody that came from London, and that they should have no admittance anywhere but with the utmost difficulty; at least no friendly reception and assistance, as they had received here. Now, although they received great assistance and encouragement from the country gentlemen, and from the people round about them, yet they were put to great straits; for the weather grew cold and wet in October and November, and they had not been used to so much hardship, so that they got cold in their limbs, and distempers, but never had the infection. And thus about December they came home to the city again. I give this story thus at large, principally to give an account[219] what became of the great numbers of people which immediately appeared in the city as soon as the sickness abated; for, as I have said, great numbers of those that were able, and had retreats in the country, fled to those retreats. So when it[220] was increased to such a frightful extremity as I have related, the middling people[221] who had not friends fled to all parts of the country where they could get shelter, as well those that had money to relieve themselves as those that had not. Those that had money always fled farthest, because they were able to subsist themselves; but those who were empty suffered, as I have said, great hardships, and were often driven by necessity to relieve their wants at the expense of the country. By that means the country was made very uneasy at them, and sometimes took them up, though even then they scarce knew what to do with them, and were always very backward to punish them; but often, too, they forced them from place to place, till they were obliged to come back again to London. I have, since my knowing this story of John and his brother, inquired, and found that there were a great many of the poor disconsolate people, as above, fled into the country every way; and some of them got little sheds and barns and outhouses to live in, where they could obtain so much kindness of the country, and especially where they had any, the least satisfactory account to give of themselves, and particularly that they did not come out of London too late. But others, and that in great numbers, built themselves little huts and retreats in the fields and woods, and lived like hermits in holes and caves, or any place they could find, and where, we may be sure, they suffered great extremities, such that many of them were obliged to come back again, whatever the danger was. And so those little huts were often found empty, and the country people supposed the inhabitants lay dead in them of the plague, and would not go near them for fear, no, not in a great while; nor is it unlikely but that some of the unhappy wanderers might die so all alone, even sometimes for want of help, as particularly in one tent or hut was found a man dead, and on the gate of a field just by was cut with his knife, in uneven letters, the following words, by which it may be supposed the other man escaped, or that, one dying first, the other buried him as well as he could:-- O m I s E r Y! We Bo T H Sh a L L D y E, W o E, W o E I have given an account already of what I found to have been the case down the river among the seafaring men, how the ships lay in the "offing," as it is called, in rows or lines, astern of one another, quite down from the Pool as far as I could see. I have been told that they lay in the same manner quite down the river as low as Gravesend,[222] and some far beyond, even everywhere, or in every place where they could ride with safety as to wind and weather. Nor did I ever hear that the plague reached to any of the people on board those ships, except such as lay up in the Pool, or as high as Deptford Reach, although the people went frequently on shore to the country towns and villages, and farmers' houses, to buy fresh provisions (fowls, pigs, calves, and the like) for their supply. Likewise I found that the watermen on the river above the bridge found means to convey themselves away up the river as far as they could go; and that they had, many of them, their whole families in their boats, covered with tilts[223] and bales, as they call them, and furnished with straw within for their lodging; and that they lay thus all along by the shore in the marshes, some of them setting up little tents with their sails, and so lying under them on shore in the day, and going into their boats at night. And in this manner, as I have heard, the riversides were lined with boats and people as long as they had anything to subsist on, or could get anything of the country; and indeed the country people, as well gentlemen as others, on these and all other occasions, were very forward to relieve them, but they were by no means willing to receive them into their towns and houses, and for that we cannot blame them. There was one unhappy citizen, within my knowledge, who had been visited in a dreadful manner, so that his wife and all his children were dead, and himself and two servants only left, with an elderly woman, a near relation, who had nursed those that were dead as well as she could. This disconsolate man goes to a village near the town, though not within the bills of mortality, and, finding an empty house there, inquires out the owner, and took the house. After a few days he got a cart, and loaded it with goods, and carries them down to the house. The people of the village opposed his driving the cart along, but, with some arguings and some force, the men that drove the cart along got through the street up to the door of the house. There the constable resisted them again, and would not let them be brought in. The man caused the goods to be unloaded and laid at the door, and sent the cart away, upon which they carried the man before a justice of peace; that is to say, they commanded him to go, which he did. The justice ordered him to cause the cart to fetch away the goods again, which he refused to do; upon which the justice ordered the constable to pursue the carters and fetch them back, and make them reload the goods and carry them away, or to set them in the stocks[224] till they[225] came for further orders; and if they could not find them,[226] and the man would not consent to take them[227] away, they[225] should cause them[227] to be drawn with hooks from the house door, and burned in the street. The poor distressed man, upon this, fetched the goods again, but with grievous cries and lamentations at the hardship of his case. But there was no remedy: self-preservation obliged the people to those severities which they would not otherwise have been concerned in. Whether this poor man lived or died, I cannot tell, but it was reported that he had the plague upon him at that time, and perhaps the people might report that to justify their usage of him; but it was not unlikely that either he or his goods, or both, were dangerous, when his whole family had been dead of the distemper so little a while before. I know that the inhabitants of the towns adjacent to London were much blamed for cruelty to the poor people that ran from the contagion in their distress, and many very severe things were done, as may be seen from what has been said; but I cannot but say also, that where there was room for charity and assistance to the people, without apparent danger to themselves, they were willing enough to help and relieve them. But as every town were indeed judges in their own case, so the poor people who ran abroad in their extremities were often ill used, and driven back again into the town; and this caused infinite exclamations and outcries against the country towns, and made the clamor very popular. And yet more or less, maugre[228] all the caution, there was not a town of any note within ten (or, I believe, twenty) miles of the city, but what was more or less infected, and had some[229] died among them. I have heard the accounts of several, such as they were reckoned up, as follows:-- Enfield 32 Hornsey 58 Newington 17 Tottenham 42 Edmonton 19 Barnet and Hadley 43 St. Albans 121 Watford 45 Uxbridge 117 Hertford 90 Ware 160 Hodsdon 30 Waltham Abbey 23 Epping 26 Deptford 623 Greenwich 631 Eltham and Lusum 85 Croydon 61 Brentwood 70 Rumford 109 Barking about 200 Brandford 432 Kingston 122 Staines 82 Chertsey 18 Windsor 103 _cum aliis._[230] Another thing might render the country more strict with respect to the citizens, and especially with respect to the poor, and this was what I hinted at before; namely, that there was a seeming propensity, or a wicked inclination, in those that were infected, to infect others. There have been great debates among our physicians as to the reason of this. Some will have it to be in the nature of the disease, and that it impresses every one that is seized upon by it with a kind of rage and a hatred against their own kind, as if there were a malignity, not only in the distemper to communicate itself, but in the very nature of man, prompting him with evil will, or an evil eye, that as they say in the case of a mad dog, who, though the gentlest creature before of any of his kind, yet then will fly upon and bite any one that comes next him, and those as soon as any, who have been most observed[231] by him before. Others placed it to the account of the corruption of human nature, who[232] cannot bear to see itself more miserable than others of its own species, and has a kind of involuntary wish that all men were as unhappy or in as bad a condition as itself. Others say it was only a kind of desperation, not knowing or regarding what they did, and consequently unconcerned at the danger or safety, not only of anybody near them, but even of themselves also. And indeed, when men are once come to a condition to abandon themselves, and be unconcerned for the safety or at the danger of themselves, it cannot be so much wondered that they should be careless of the safety of other people. But I choose to give this grave debate quite a different turn, and answer it or resolve it all by saying that I do not grant the fact. On the contrary, I say that the thing is not really so, but that it was a general complaint raised by the people inhabiting the outlying villages against the citizens, to justify, or at least excuse, those hardships and severities so much talked of, and in which complaints both sides may be said to have injured one another; that is to say, the citizens pressing to be received and harbored in time of distress, and with the plague upon them, complain of the cruelty and injustice of the country people in being refused entrance, and forced back again with their goods and families; and the inhabitants, finding themselves so imposed upon, and the citizens breaking in, as it were, upon them, whether they would or no, complain that when they[233] were infected, they were not only regardless of others, but even willing to infect them: neither of which was really true, that is to say, in the colors they[234] were described in. It is true there is something to be said for the frequent alarms which were given to the country, of the resolution of the people of London to come out by force, not only for relief, but to plunder and rob; that they ran about the streets with the distemper upon them without any control; and that no care was taken to shut up houses, and confine the sick people from infecting others; whereas, to do the Londoners justice, they never practiced such things, except in such particular cases as I have mentioned above, and such like. On the other hand, everything was managed with so much care, and such excellent order was observed in the whole city and suburbs, by the care of the lord mayor and aldermen, and by the justices of the peace, churchwardens, etc., in the outparts, that London may be a pattern to all the cities in the world for the good government and the excellent order that was everywhere kept, even in the time of the most violent infection, and when the people were in the utmost consternation and distress. But of this I shall speak by itself. One thing, it is to be observed, was owing principally to the prudence of the magistrates, and ought to be mentioned to their honor; viz., the moderation which they used in the great and difficult work of shutting up houses. It is true, as I have mentioned, that the shutting up of houses was a great subject of discontent, and I may say, indeed, the only subject of discontent among the people at that time; for the confining the sound in the same house with the sick was counted very terrible, and the complaints of people so confined were very grievous: they were heard in the very streets, and they were sometimes such that called for resentment, though oftener for compassion. They had no way to converse with any of their friends but out of their windows, where they would make such piteous lamentations as often moved the hearts of those they talked with, and of others who, passing by, heard their story; and as those complaints oftentimes reproached the severity, and sometimes the insolence, of the watchmen placed at their doors, those watchmen would answer saucily enough, and perhaps be apt to affront the people who were in the street talking to the said families; for which, or for their ill treatment of the families, I think seven or eight of them in several places were killed. I know not whether I should say murdered or not, because I cannot enter into the particular cases. It is true, the watchmen were on their duty, and acting in the post where they were placed by a lawful authority; and killing any public legal officer in the execution of his office is always, in the language of the law, called "murder." But as they were not authorized by the magistrate's instructions, or by the power they acted under, to be injurious or abusive, either to the people who were under their observation or to any that concerned themselves for them, so that,[235] when they did so, they might be said to act themselves, not their office; to act as private persons, not as persons employed; and consequently, if they brought mischief upon themselves by such an undue behavior, that mischief was upon their own heads. And indeed they had so much the hearty curses of the people, whether they deserved it or not, that, whatever befell them, nobody pitied them; and everybody was apt to say they deserved it, whatever it was. Nor do I remember that anybody was ever punished, at least to any considerable degree, for whatever was done to the watchmen that guarded their houses. What variety of stratagems were used to escape, and get out of houses thus shut up, by which the watchmen were deceived or overpowered, and that[236] the people got away, I have taken notice of already, and shall say no more to that; but I say the magistrates did moderate and ease families upon many occasions in this case, and particularly in that of taking away or suffering to be removed the sick persons out of such houses, when they were willing to be removed, either to a pesthouse or other places, and sometimes giving the well persons in the family so shut up leave to remove, upon information given that they were well, and that they would confine themselves in such houses where they went, so long as should be required of them. The concern, also, of the magistrates for the supplying such poor families as were infected,--I say, supplying them with necessaries, as well physic as food,--was very great: and in which they did not content themselves with giving the necessary orders to the officers appointed; but the aldermen, in person and on horseback, frequently rode to such houses, and caused the people to be asked at their windows whether they were duly attended or not, also whether they wanted anything that was necessary, and if the officers had constantly carried their messages, and fetched them such things as they wanted, or not. And if they answered in the affirmative, all was well; but if they complained that they were ill supplied, and that the officer did not do his duty, or did not treat them civilly, they (the officers) were generally removed, and others placed in their stead. It is true, such complaint might be unjust; and if the officer had such arguments to use as would convince the magistrate that he was right, and that the people had injured him, he was continued, and they reproved. But this part could not well bear a particular inquiry, for the parties could very ill be well heard and answered in the street from the windows, as was the case then. The magistrates, therefore, generally chose to favor the people, and remove the man, as what seemed to be the least wrong and of the least ill consequence; seeing, if the watchman was injured, yet they could easily make him amends by giving him another post of a like nature; but, if the family was injured, there was no satisfaction could be made to them, the damage, perhaps, being irreparable, as it concerned their lives. A great variety of these cases frequently happened between the watchmen and the poor people shut up, besides those I formerly mentioned about escaping. Sometimes the watchmen were absent, sometimes drunk, sometimes asleep, when the people wanted them; and such never failed to be punished severely, as indeed they deserved. But, after all that was or could be done in these cases, the shutting up of houses, so as to confine those that were well with those that were sick, had very great inconveniences in it, and some that were very tragical, and which merited to have been considered, if there had been room for it: but it was authorized by a law, it had the public good in view as the end chiefly aimed at; and all the private injuries that were done by the putting it in execution must be put to the account of the public benefit. It is doubtful whether, in the whole, it contributed anything to the stop of the infection; and indeed I cannot say it did, for nothing could run with greater fury and rage than the infection did when it was in its chief violence, though the houses infected were shut up as exactly and effectually as it was possible. Certain it is, that, if all the infected persons were effectually shut in, no sound person could have been infected by them, because they could not have come near them.[237] But the case was this (and I shall only touch it here); namely, that the infection was propagated insensibly, and by such persons as were not visibly infected, who neither knew whom they infected, nor whom they were infected by. A house in Whitechapel was shut up for the sake of one infected maid, who had only spots, not the tokens, come out upon her, and recovered; yet these people obtained no liberty to stir, neither for air or exercise, forty days. Want of breath, fear, anger, vexation, and all the other griefs attending such an injurious treatment, cast the mistress of the family into a fever; and visitors came into the house and said it was the plague, though the physicians declared it was not. However, the family were obliged to begin their quarantine anew, on the report of the visitor or examiner, though their former quarantine wanted but a few days of being finished. This oppressed them so with anger and grief, and, as before, straitened them also so much as to room, and for want of breathing and free air, that most of the family fell sick, one of one distemper, one of another, chiefly scorbutic[238] ailments, only one a violent cholic; until, after several prolongings of their confinement, some or other of those that came in with the visitors to inspect the persons that were ill, in hopes of releasing them, brought the distemper with them, and infected the whole house; and all or most of them died, not of the plague as really upon them before, but of the plague that those people brought them, who should have been careful to have protected them from it. And this was a thing which frequently happened, and was indeed one of the worst consequences of shutting houses up. I had about this time a little hardship put upon me, which I was at first greatly afflicted at, and very much disturbed about, though, as it proved, it did not expose me to any disaster; and this was, being appointed, by the alderman of Portsoken Ward, one of the examiners of the houses in the precinct where I lived. We had a large parish, and had no less than eighteen examiners, as the order called us: the people called us visitors. I endeavored with all my might to be excused from such an employment, and used many arguments with the alderman's deputy to be excused; particularly, I alleged that I was against shutting up houses at all, and that it would be very hard to oblige me to be an instrument in that which was against my judgment, and which I did verily believe would not answer the end it was intended for. But all the abatement I could get was only, that whereas the officer was appointed by my lord mayor to continue two months, I should be obliged to hold it but three weeks, on condition, nevertheless, that I could then get some other sufficient housekeeper to serve the rest of the time for me; which was, in short, but a very small favor, it being very difficult to get any man to accept of such an employment that was fit to be intrusted with it. It is true that shutting up of houses had one effect which I am sensible was of moment; namely, it confined the distempered people, who would otherwise have been both very troublesome and very dangerous in their running about streets with the distemper upon them, which, when they were delirious, they would have done in a most frightful manner, as, indeed, they began to do at first very much until they were restrained; nay, so very open they were, that the poor would go about and beg at people's doors, and say they had the plague upon them, and beg rags for their sores, or both, or anything that delirious nature happened to think of. A poor unhappy gentlewoman, a substantial citizen's wife, was, if the story be true, murdered by one of these creatures in Aldersgate Street, or that way. He was going along the street, raving mad, to be sure, and singing. The people only said he was drunk; but he himself said he had the plague upon him, which, it seems, was true; and, meeting this gentlewoman, he would kiss her. She was terribly frightened, as he was a rude fellow, and she run from him; but, the street being very thin of people, there was nobody near enough to help her. When she saw he would overtake her, she turned and gave him a thrust so forcibly, he being but weak, as pushed him down backward; but very unhappily, she being so near, he caught hold of her and pulled her down also, and, getting up first, mastered her and kissed her, and, which was worst of all, when he had done, told her he had the plague, and why should not she have it as well as he. She was frightened enough before; but when she heard him say he had the plague, she screamed out, and fell down into a swoon, or in a fit, which, though she recovered a little, yet killed her in a very few days; and I never heard whether she had the plague or no. Another infected person came and knocked at the door of a citizen's house where they knew him very well. The servant let him in, and, being told the master of the house was above, he ran up, and came into the room to them as the whole family were at supper. They began to rise up a little surprised, not knowing what the matter was; but he bid them sit still, he only come to take his leave of them. They asked him, "Why, Mr. ----, where are you going?"--"Going?" says he; "I have got the sickness, and shall die to-morrow night." It is easy to believe, though not to describe, the consternation they were all in. The women and the man's daughters, which[239] were but little girls, were frightened almost to death, and got up, one running out at one door and one at another, some downstairs and some upstairs, and, getting together as well as they could, locked themselves into their chambers, and screamed out at the windows for help, as if they had been frightened out of their wits. The master, more composed than they, though both frightened and provoked, was going to lay hands on him and throw him downstairs, being in a passion; but then, considering a little the condition of the man and the danger of touching him, horror seized his mind, and he stood still like one astonished. The poor distempered man, all this while, being as well diseased in his brain as in his body, stood still like one amazed. At length he turns round. "Ay!" says he with all the seeming calmness imaginable, "is it so with you all? Are you all disturbed at me? Why, then, I'll e'en go home and die there." And so he goes immediately downstairs. The servant that had let him in goes down after him with a candle, but was afraid to go past him and open the door; so he stood on the stairs to see what he would do. The man went and opened the door, and went out and flung[240] the door after him. It was some while before the family recovered the fright; but, as no ill consequence attended, they have had occasion since to speak of it, you may be sure, with great satisfaction. Though the man was gone, it was some time, nay, as I heard, some days, before they recovered themselves of the hurry they were in; nor did they go up and down the house with any assurance till they had burned a great variety of fumes and perfumes in all the rooms, and made a great many smokes of pitch, of gunpowder, and of sulphur. All separately shifted,[241] and washed their clothes, and the like. As to the poor man, whether he lived or died, I do not remember. It is most certain, that if, by the shutting up of houses, the sick had not been confined, multitudes, who in the height of their fever were delirious and distracted, would have been continually running up and down the streets; and even as it was, a very great number did so, and offered all sorts of violence to those they met, even just as a mad dog runs on and bites at every one he meets. Nor can I doubt but that, should one of those infected diseased creatures have bitten any man or woman while the frenzy of the distemper was upon them, they (I mean the person so wounded) would as certainly have been incurably infected as one that was sick before and had the tokens upon him. I heard of one infected creature, who, running out of his bed in his shirt, in the anguish and agony of his swellings (of which he had three upon him), got his shoes on, and went to put on his coat; but the nurse resisting, and snatching the coat from him, he threw her down, run over her, ran downstairs and into the street directly to the Thames, in his shirt, the nurse running after him, and calling to the watch to stop him. But the watchman, frightened at the man, and afraid to touch him, let him go on; upon which he ran down to the Still-Yard Stairs, threw away his shirt, and plunged into the Thames, and, being a good swimmer, swam quite over the river; and the tide being "coming in," as they call it (that is, running westward), he reached the land not till he came about the Falcon Stairs, where, landing and finding no people there, it being in the night, he ran about the streets there, naked as he was, for a good while, when, it being by that time high water, he takes the river again, and swam back to the Still Yard, landed, ran up the streets to his own house, knocking at the door, went up the stairs, and into his bed again; and[242] that this terrible experiment cured him of the plague, that is to say, that the violent motion of his arms and legs stretched the parts where the swellings he had upon him were (that is to say, under his arms and in his groin), and caused them to ripen and break; and that the cold of the water abated the fever in his blood. I have only to add, that I do not relate this, any more than some of the other, as a fact within my own knowledge, so as that I can vouch the truth of them; and especially that of the man being cured by the extravagant adventure, which I confess I do not think very possible, but it may serve to confirm the many desperate things which the distressed people, falling into deliriums and what we call light-headedness, were frequently run upon at that time, and how infinitely more such there would have been if such people had not been confined by the shutting up of houses; and this I take to be the best, if not the only good thing, which was performed by that severe method. On the other hand, the complaints and the murmurings were very bitter against the thing itself. It would pierce the hearts of all that came by, to hear the piteous cries of those infected people, who, being thus out of their understandings by the violence of their pain or the heat of their blood, were either shut in, or perhaps tied in their beds and chairs, to prevent their doing themselves hurt, and who would make a dreadful outcry at their being confined, and at their being not permitted to "die at large," as they called it, and as they would have done before. This running of distempered people about the streets was very dismal, and the magistrates did their utmost to prevent it; but as it was generally in the night, and always sudden, when such attempts were made, the officers could not be at hand to prevent it; and even when they got out in the day, the officers appointed did not care to meddle with them, because, as they were all grievously infected, to be sure, when they were come to that height, so they were more than ordinarily infectious, and it was one of the most dangerous things that could be to touch them. On the other hand, they generally ran on, not knowing what they did, till they dropped down stark dead, or till they had exhausted their spirits so as that they would fall and then die in perhaps half an hour or an hour; and, which was most piteous to hear, they were sure to come to themselves entirely in that half hour or hour, and then to make most grievous and piercing cries and lamentations, in the deep afflicting sense of the condition they were in. There was much of it before the order for shutting up of houses was strictly put into execution; for at first the watchmen were not so rigorous and severe as they were afterwards in the keeping the people in; that is to say, before they were (I mean some of them) severely punished for their neglect, failing in their duty, and letting people who were under their care slip away, or conniving at their going abroad, whether sick or well. But after they saw the officers appointed to examine into their conduct were resolved to have them do their duty, or be punished for the omission, they were more exact, and the people were strictly restrained; which was a thing they took so ill, and bore so impatiently, that their discontents can hardly be described; but there was an absolute necessity for it, that must be confessed, unless some other measures had been timely entered upon, and it was too late for that. Had not this particular of the sick being restrained as above been our case at that time, London would have been the most dreadful place that ever was in the world. There would, for aught I know, have as many people died in the streets as died in their houses: for when the distemper was at its height, it generally made them raving and delirious; and when they were so, they would never be persuaded to keep in their beds but by force; and many who were not tied threw themselves out of windows when they found they could not get leave to go out of their doors. It was for want of people conversing one with another in this time of calamity, that it was impossible any particular person could come at the knowledge of all the extraordinary cases that occurred in different families; and particularly, I believe it was never known to this day how many people in their deliriums drowned themselves in the Thames, and in the river which runs from the marshes by Hackney, which we generally called Ware River or Hackney River. As to those which were set down in the weekly bill, they were indeed few. Nor could it be known of any of those, whether they drowned themselves by accident or not; but I believe I might reckon up more who, within the compass of my knowledge or observation, really drowned themselves in that year than are put down in the bill of all put together, for many of the bodies were never found who yet were known to be lost; and the like in other methods of self-destruction. There was also one man in or about Whitecross Street burnt himself to death in his bed. Some said it was done by himself, others that it was by the treachery of the nurse that attended him; but that he had the plague upon him, was agreed by all. It was a merciful disposition of Providence, also, and which I have many times thought of at that time, that no fires, or no considerable ones at least, happened in the city during that year, which, if it had been otherwise, would have been very dreadful; and either the people must have let them alone unquenched, or have come together in great crowds and throngs, unconcerned at the danger of the infection, not concerned at the houses they went into, at the goods they handled, or at the persons or the people they came among. But so it was, that excepting that in Cripplegate Parish, and two or three little eruptions of fires, which were presently extinguished, there was no disaster of that kind happened in the whole year. They told us a story of a house in a place called Swan Alley, passing from Goswell Street near the end of Old Street into St. John Street, that a family was infected there in so terrible a manner that every one of the house died. The last person lay dead on the floor, and, as it is supposed, had laid herself all along to die just before the fire. The fire, it seems, had fallen from its place, being of wood, and had taken hold of the boards and the joists they lay on, and burned as far as just to the body, but had not taken hold of the dead body, though she had little more than her shift on, and had gone out of itself, not hurting the rest of the house, though it was a slight timber house. How true this might be, I do not determine; but the city being to suffer severely the next year by fire, this year it felt very little of that calamity. Indeed, considering the deliriums which the agony threw people into, and how I have mentioned in their madness, when they were alone, they did many desperate things, it was very strange there were no more disasters of that kind. It has been frequently asked me, and I cannot say that I ever knew how to give a direct answer to it, how it came to pass that so many infected people appeared abroad in the streets at the same time that the houses which were infected were so vigilantly searched, and all of them shut up and guarded as they were. I confess I know not what answer to give to this, unless it be this: that, in so great and populous a city as this is, it was impossible to discover every house that was infected as soon as it was so, or to shut up all the houses that were infected; so that people had the liberty of going about the streets, even where they pleased, unless they were known to belong to such and such infected houses. It is true, that, as the several physicians told my lord mayor, the fury of the contagion was such at some particular times, and people sickened so fast and died so soon, that it was impossible, and indeed to no purpose, to go about to inquire who was sick and who was well, or to shut them up with such exactness as the thing required, almost every house in a whole street being infected, and in many places every person in some of the houses. And, that which was still worse, by the time that the houses were known to be infected, most of the persons infected would be stone dead, and the rest run away for fear of being shut up; so that it was to very small purpose to call them infected houses and shut them up, the infection having ravaged and taken its leave of the house before it was really known that the family was any way touched. This might be sufficient to convince any reasonable person, that as it was not in the power of the magistrates, or of any human methods or policy, to prevent the spreading the infection, so that this way of shutting up of houses was perfectly insufficient for that end. Indeed, it seemed to have no manner of public good in it equal or proportionable to the grievous burthen that it was to the particular families that were so shut up; and, as far as I was employed by the public in directing that severity, I frequently found occasion to see that it was incapable of answering the end. For example, as I was desired as a visitor or examiner to inquire into the particulars of several families which were infected, we scarce came to any house where the plague had visibly appeared in the family but that some of the family were fled and gone. The magistrates would resent this, and charge the examiners with being remiss in their examination or inspection; but by that means houses were long infected before it was known. Now, as I was in this dangerous office but half the appointed time, which was two months, it was long enough to inform myself that we were no way capable of coming at the knowledge of the true state of any family but by inquiring at the door or of the neighbors. As for going into every house to search, that was a part no authority would offer to impose on the inhabitants, or any citizen would undertake; for it would have been exposing us to certain infection and death, and to the ruin of our own families as well as of ourselves. Nor would any citizen of probity, and that could be depended upon, have staid in the town if they had been made liable to such a severity. Seeing, then, that we could come at the certainty of things by no method but that of inquiry of the neighbors or of the family (and on that we could not justly depend), it was not possible but that the uncertainty of this matter would remain as above. It is true, masters of families were bound by the order to give notice to the examiner of the place wherein he lived, within two hours after he should discover it, of any person being sick in his house, that is to say, having signs of the infection; but they found so many ways to evade this, and excuse their negligence, that they seldom gave that notice till they had taken measures to have every one escape out of the house who had a mind to escape, whether they were sick or sound. And while this was so, it was easy to see that the shutting up of houses was no way to be depended upon as a sufficient method for putting a stop to the infection, because, as I have said elsewhere, many of those that so went out of those infected houses had the plague really upon them, though they might really think themselves sound; and some of these were the people that walked the streets till they fell down dead: not that they were suddenly struck with the distemper, as with a bullet that killed with the stroke, but that they really had the infection in their blood long before, only that, as it preyed secretly on their vitals, it appeared not till it seized the heart with a mortal power, and the patient died in a moment, as with a sudden fainting or an apoplectic fit. I know that some, even of our physicians, thought for a time that those people that so died in the streets were seized but that moment they fell, as if they had been touched by a stroke from heaven, as men are killed by a flash of lightning; but they found reason to alter their opinion afterward, for, upon examining the bodies of such after they were dead, they always either had tokens upon them, or other evident proofs of the distemper having been longer upon them than they had otherwise expected. This often was the reason that, as I have said, we that were examiners were not able to come at the knowledge of the infection being entered into a house till it was too late to shut it up, and sometimes not till the people that were left were all dead. In Petticoat Lane two houses together were infected, and several people sick; but the distemper was so well concealed, the examiner, who was my neighbor, got no knowledge of it till notice was sent him that the people were all dead, and that the carts should call there to fetch them away. The two heads of the families concerted their measures, and so ordered their matters as that, when the examiner was in the neighborhood, they appeared generally at a time, and answered, that is, lied for one another, or got some of the neighborhood to say they were all in health, and perhaps knew no better; till, death making it impossible to keep it any longer as a secret, the dead carts were called in the night to both the houses, and so it became public. But when the examiner ordered the constable to shut up the houses, there was nobody left in them but three people (two in one house, and one in the other), just dying, and a nurse in each house, who acknowledged that they had buried five before, that the houses had been infected nine or ten days, and that for all the rest of the two families, which were many, they were gone, some sick, some well, or, whether sick or well, could not be known. In like manner, at another house in the same lane, a man, having his family infected, but very unwilling to be shut up, when he could conceal it no longer, shut up himself; that is to say, he set the great red cross upon the door, with the words, "LORD, HAVE MERCY UPON US!" and so deluded the examiner, who supposed it had been done by the constable, by order of the other examiner (for there were two examiners to every district or precinct). By this means he had free egress and regress into his house again and out of it, as he pleased, notwithstanding it was infected, till at length his stratagem was found out, and then he, with the sound part of his family and servants, made off and escaped; so they were not shut up at all. These things made it very hard, if not impossible, as I have said, to prevent the spreading of an infection by the shutting up of houses, unless the people would think the shutting up of their houses no grievance, and be so willing to have it done as that they would give notice duly and faithfully to the magistrates of their being infected, as soon as it was known by themselves; but as that cannot be expected from them, and the examiners cannot be supposed, as above, to go into their houses to visit and search, all the good of shutting up houses will be defeated, and few houses will be shut up in time, except those of the poor, who cannot conceal it, and of some people who will be discovered by the terror and consternation which the thing put them into. I got myself discharged of the dangerous office I was in as soon as I could get another admitted, whom I had obtained for a little money to accept of it; and so, instead of serving the two months, which was directed, I was not above three weeks in it; and a great while too, considering it was in the month of August, at which time the distemper began to rage with great violence at our end of the town. In the execution of this office, I could not refrain speaking my opinion among my neighbors as to the shutting up the people in their houses, in which we saw most evidently the severities that were used, though grievous in themselves, had also this particular objection against them; namely, that they did not answer the end, as I have said, but that the distempered people went day by day about the streets. And it was our united opinion that a method to have removed the sound from the sick, in case of a particular house being visited, would have been much more reasonable on many accounts, leaving nobody with the sick persons but such as should, on such occasions, request to stay, and declare themselves content to be shut up with them. Our scheme for removing those that were sound from those that were sick was only in such houses as were infected; and confining the sick was no confinement: those that could not stir would not complain while they were in their senses, and while they had the power of judging. Indeed, when they came to be delirious and light-headed, then they would cry out of[243] the cruelty of being confined; but, for the removal of those that were well, we thought it highly reasonable and just, for their own sakes, they should be removed from the sick, and that, for other people's safety, they should keep retired for a while, to see that they were sound, and might not infect others; and we thought twenty or thirty days enough for this. Now, certainly, if houses had been provided on purpose for those that were sound, to perform this demiquarantine in, they would have much less reason to think themselves injured in such a restraint than in being confined with infected people in the houses where they lived. It is here, however, to be observed, that after the funerals became so many that people could not toll the bell, mourn or weep, or wear black for one another, as they did before, no, nor so much as make coffins for those that died, so, after a while, the fury of the infection appeared to be so increased, that, in short, they shut up no houses at all. It seemed enough that all the remedies of that kind had been used till they were found fruitless, and that the plague spread itself with an irresistible fury; so that, as the fire the succeeding year spread itself and burnt with such violence that the citizens in despair gave over their endeavors to extinguish it, so in the plague it came at last to such violence, that the people sat still looking at one another, and seemed quite abandoned to despair. Whole streets seemed to be desolated, and not to be shut up only, but to be emptied of their inhabitants: doors were left open, windows stood shattering with the wind in empty houses, for want of people to shut them. In a word, people began to give up themselves to their fears, and to think that all regulations and methods were in vain, and that there was nothing to be hoped for but an universal desolation. And it was even in the height of this general despair that it pleased God to stay his hand, and to slacken the fury of the contagion in such a manner as was even surprising, like its beginning, and demonstrated it to be his own particular hand; and that above, if not without the agency of means, as I shall take notice of in its proper place. But I must still speak of the plague as in its height, raging even to desolation, and the people under the most dreadful consternation, even, as I have said, to despair. It is hardly credible to what excesses the passions of men carried them in this extremity of the distemper; and this part, I think, was as moving as the rest. What could affect a man in his full power of reflection, and what could make deeper impressions on the soul, than to see a man almost naked, and got out of his house or perhaps out of his bed into the street, come out of Harrow Alley, a populous conjunction or collection of alleys, courts, and passages, in the Butcher Row in Whitechapel,--I say, what could be more affecting than to see this poor man come out into the open street, run, dancing and singing, and making a thousand antic gestures, with five or six women and children running after him, crying and calling upon him for the Lord's sake to come back, and entreating the help of others to bring him back, but all in vain, nobody daring to lay a hand upon him, or to come near him? This was a most grievous and afflicting thing to me, who saw it all from my own windows; for all this while the poor afflicted man was, as I observed it, even then in the utmost agony of pain, having, as they said, two swellings upon him, which could not be brought to break or to suppurate; but by laying strong caustics on them the surgeons had, it seems, hopes to break them, which caustics were then upon him, burning his flesh as with a hot iron. I cannot say what became of this poor man, but I think he continued roving about in that manner till he fell down and died. No wonder the aspect of the city itself was frightful. The usual concourse of the people in the streets, and which used to be supplied from our end of the town, was abated. The Exchange was not kept shut, indeed, but it was no more frequented. The fires were lost: they had been almost extinguished for some days by a very smart and hasty rain. But that was not all. Some of the physicians insisted that they were not only no benefit, but injurious to the health of the people. This they made a loud clamor about, and complained to the lord mayor about it. On the other hand, others of the same faculty, and eminent too, opposed them, and gave their reasons why the fires were and must be useful to assuage the violence of the distemper. I cannot give a full account of their arguments on both sides; only this I remember, that they caviled very much with one another. Some were for fires, but that they must be made of wood and not coal, and of particular sorts of wood too, such as fir, in particular, or cedar, because of the strong effluvia of turpentine; others were for coal and not wood, because of the sulphur and bitumen; and others were neither for one or other. Upon the whole, the lord mayor ordered no more fires, and especially on this account, namely, that the plague was so fierce that they saw evidently it defied all means, and rather seemed to increase than decrease upon any application to check and abate it; and yet this amazement of the magistrates proceeded rather from want of being able to apply any means successfully than from any unwillingness either to expose themselves or undertake the care and weight of business; for, to do them justice, they neither spared their pains nor their persons. But nothing answered. The infection raged, and the people were now terrified to the last degree, so that, as I may say, they gave themselves up, and, as I mentioned above, abandoned themselves to their despair. But let me observe here, that when I say the people abandoned themselves to despair, I do not mean to what men call a religious despair, or a despair of their eternal state; but I mean a despair of their being able to escape the infection, or to outlive the plague, which they saw was so raging, and so irresistible in its force, that indeed few people that were touched with it in its height, about August and September, escaped; and, which is very particular, contrary to its ordinary operation in June and July and the beginning of August, when, as I have observed, many were infected, and continued so many days, and then went off, after having had the poison in their blood a long time. But now, on the contrary, most of the people who were taken during the last two weeks in August, and in the first three weeks in September, generally died in two or three days at the farthest, and many the very same day they were taken. Whether the dog days[244] (as our astrologers pretended to express themselves, the influence of the Dog Star) had that malignant effect, or all those who had the seeds of infection before in them brought it up to a maturity at that time altogether, I know not; but this was the time when it was reported that above three thousand people died in one night; and they that would have us believe they more critically observed it pretend to say that they all died within the space of two hours, viz., between the hours of one and three in the morning. As to the suddenness of people dying at this time, more than before, there were innumerable instances of it, and I could name several in my neighborhood. One family without the bars, and not far from me, were all seemingly well on the Monday, being ten in family. That evening one maid and one apprentice were taken ill, and died the next morning, when the other apprentice and two children were touched, whereof one died the same evening and the other two on Wednesday. In a word, by Saturday at noon the master, mistress, four children, and four servants were all gone, and the house left entirely empty, except an ancient woman, who came to take charge of the goods for the master of the family's brother, who lived not far off, and who had not been sick. Many houses were then left desolate, all the people being carried away dead; and especially in an alley farther on the same side beyond the bars, going in at the sign of Moses and Aaron.[245] There were several houses together, which they said had not one person left alive in them; and some that died last in several of those houses were left a little too long before they were fetched out to be buried, the reason of which was not, as some have written very untruly, that the living were not sufficient to bury the dead, but that the mortality was so great in the yard or alley that there was nobody left to give notice to the buriers or sextons that there were any dead bodies there to be buried. It was said, how true I know not, that some of those bodies were so corrupted and so rotten, that it was with difficulty they were carried; and, as the carts could not come any nearer than to the alley gate in the High Street, it was so much the more difficult to bring them along. But I am not certain how many bodies were then left: I am sure that ordinarily it was not so. As I have mentioned how the people were brought into a condition to despair of life, and abandoned themselves, so this very thing had a strange effect among us for three or four weeks; that is, it made them bold and venturous. They were no more shy of one another, or restrained within doors, but went anywhere and everywhere, and began to converse. One would say to another, "I do not ask you how you are, or say how I am. It is certain we shall all go: so 'tis no matter who is sick or who is sound." And so they ran desperately into any place or company. As it brought the people into public company, so it was surprising how it brought them to crowd into the churches. They inquired no more into who[246] they sat near to or far from, what offensive smells they met with, or what condition the people seemed to be in; but, looking upon themselves all as so many dead corpses, they came to the churches without the least caution, and crowded together as if their lives were of no consequence compared to the work which they came about there. Indeed, the zeal which they showed in coming, and the earnestness and affection they showed in their attention to what they heard, made it manifest what a value people would all put upon the worship of God if they thought every day they attended at the church that it would be their last. Nor was it without other strange effects, for it took away all manner of prejudice at, or scruple about, the person whom they found in the pulpit when they came to the churches. It cannot be doubted but that many of the ministers of the parish churches were cut off among others in so common and dreadful a calamity; and others had not courage enough to stand it, but removed into the country as they found means for escape. As then some parish churches were quite vacant and forsaken, the people made no scruple of desiring such dissenters as had been a few years before deprived of their livings, by virtue of an act of Parliament called the "Act of Uniformity,"[247] to preach in the churches, nor did the church ministers in that case make any difficulty in accepting their assistance; so that many of those whom they called silent ministers had their mouths opened on this occasion, and preached publicly to the people. Here we may observe, and I hope it will not be amiss to take notice of it, that a near view of death would soon reconcile men of good principles one to another, and that it is chiefly owing to our easy situation in life, and our putting these things far from us, that our breaches are fomented, ill blood continued, prejudices, breach of charity and of Christian union so much kept and so far carried on among us as it is. Another plague year would reconcile all these differences; a close conversing with death, or with diseases that threaten death, would scum off the gall from our tempers, remove the animosities among us, and bring us to see with differing eyes than those which we looked on things with before. As the people who had been used to join with the church were reconciled at this time with the admitting the dissenters to preach to them, so the dissenters, who, with an uncommon prejudice, had broken off from the communion of the Church of England, were now content to come to their parish churches, and to conform to the worship which they did not approve of before. But, as the terror of the infection abated, those things all returned again to their less desirable channel, and to the course they were in before. I mention this but historically: I have no mind to enter into arguments to move either or both sides to a more charitable compliance one with another. I do not see that it is probable such a discourse would be either suitable or successful; the breaches seem rather to widen, and tend to a widening farther, than to closing: and who am I, that I should think myself able to influence either one side or other? But this I may repeat again, that it is evident death will reconcile us all: on the other side the grave we shall be all brethren again. In heaven, whither I hope we may come from all parties and persuasions, we shall find neither prejudice nor scruple: there we shall be of one principle and of one opinion. Why we cannot be content to go hand in hand to the place where we shall join heart and hand without the least hesitation, and with the most complete harmony and affection,--I say, why we cannot do so here, I can say nothing to; neither shall I say anything more of it, but that it remains to be lamented. I could dwell a great while upon the calamities of this dreadful time, and go on to describe the objects that appeared among us every day,--the dreadful extravagances which the distraction of sick people drove them into; how the streets began now to be fuller of frightful objects, and families to be made even a terror to themselves. But after I have told you, as I have above, that one man being tied in his bed, and finding no other way to deliver himself, set the bed on fire with his candle (which unhappily stood within his reach), and burned himself in bed; and how another, by the insufferable torment he bore, danced and sung naked in the streets, not knowing one ecstasy[248] from another,--I say, after I have mentioned these things, what can be added more? What can be said to represent the misery of these times more lively to the reader, or to give him a perfect idea of a more complicated distress? I must acknowledge that this time was so terrible that I was sometimes at the end of all my resolutions, and that I had not the courage that I had at the beginning. As the extremity brought other people abroad, it drove me home; and, except having made my voyage down to Blackwall and Greenwich, as I have related, which was an excursion, I kept afterwards very much within doors, as I had for about a fortnight before. I have said already that I repented several times that I had ventured to stay in town, and had not gone away with my brother and his family; but it was too late for that now. And after I had retreated and staid within doors a good while before my impatience led me abroad, then they called me, as I have said, to an ugly and dangerous office, which brought me out again; but as that was expired, while the height of the distemper lasted I retired again, and continued close ten or twelve days more, during which many dismal spectacles represented themselves in my view,[249] out of my own windows, and in our own street, as that particularly, from Harrow Alley, of the poor outrageous creature who danced and sung in his agony; and many others there were. Scarce a day or a night passed over but some dismal thing or other happened at the end of that Harrow Alley, which was a place full of poor people, most of them belonging to the butchers, or to employments depending upon the butchery. Sometimes heaps and throngs of people would burst out of the alley, most of them women, making a dreadful clamor, mixed or compounded of screeches, cryings, and calling one another, that we could not conceive what to make of it. Almost all the dead part of the night,[250] the dead cart stood at the end of that alley; for if it went in, it could not well turn again, and could go in but a little way. There, I say, it stood to receive dead bodies; and, as the churchyard was but a little way off, if it went away full, it would soon be back again. It is impossible to describe the most horrible cries and noise the poor people would make at their bringing the dead bodies of their children and friends out to the cart; and, by the number, one would have thought there had been none left behind, or that there were people enough for a small city living in those places. Several times they cried murder, sometimes fire; but it was easy to perceive that it was all distraction and the complaints of distressed and distempered people. I believe it was everywhere thus at that time, for the plague raged for six or seven weeks beyond all that I have expressed, and came even to such a height, that, in the extremity, they began to break into that excellent order of which I have spoken so much in behalf of the magistrates, namely, that no dead bodies were seen in the streets, or burials in the daytime; for there was a necessity in this extremity to bear with its being otherwise for a little while. One thing I cannot omit here, and indeed I thought it was extraordinary, at least it seemed a remarkable hand of divine justice; viz., that all the predictors, astrologers, fortune tellers, and what they called cunning men, conjurers, and the like, calculators of nativities, and dreamers of dreams, and such people, were gone and vanished; not one of them was to be found. I am verily persuaded that a great number of them fell in the heat of the calamity, having ventured to stay upon the prospect of getting great estates; and indeed their gain was but too great for a time, through the madness and folly of the people: but now they were silent; many of them went to their long home, not able to foretell their own fate, or to calculate their own nativities. Some have been critical enough to say[251] that every one of them died. I dare not affirm that; but this I must own, that I never heard of one of them that ever appeared after the calamity was over. But to return to my particular observations during this dreadful part of the visitation. I am now come, as I have said, to the month of September, which was the most dreadful of its kind, I believe, that ever London saw; for, by all the accounts which I have seen of the preceding visitations which have been in London, nothing has been like it, the number in the weekly bill amounting to almost forty thousands from the 22d of August to the 26th of September, being but five weeks. The particulars of the bills are as follows: viz.,-- Aug. 22 to Aug. 29 7,496 Aug. 29 to Sept. 5 8,252 Sept. 5 to Sept. 12 7,690 Sept. 12 to Sept. 19 8,297 Sept. 19 to Sept. 26 6,460 ------ 38,195 This was a prodigious number of itself; but if I should add the reasons which I have to believe that this account was deficient, and how deficient it was, you would with me make no scruple to believe that there died above ten thousand a week for all those weeks, one week with another, and a proportion for several weeks, both before and after. The confusion among the people, especially within the city, at that time was inexpressible. The terror was so great at last, that the courage of the people appointed to carry away the dead began to fail them; nay, several of them died, although they had the distemper before, and were recovered; and some of them dropped down when they have been carrying the bodies even at the pitside, and just ready to throw them in. And this confusion was greater in the city, because they had flattered themselves with hopes of escaping, and thought the bitterness of death was past. One cart, they told us, going up Shoreditch, was forsaken by the drivers, or, being left to one man to drive, he died in the street; and the horses, going on, overthrew the cart, and left the bodies, some thrown here, some there, in a dismal manner. Another cart was, it seems, found in the great pit in Finsbury Fields, the driver being dead, or having been gone and abandoned it; and the horses running too near it, the cart fell in, and drew the horses in also. It was suggested that the driver was thrown in with it, and that the cart fell upon him, by reason his whip was seen to be in the pit among the bodies; but that, I suppose, could not be certain. In our parish of Aldgate the dead carts were several times, as I have heard, found standing at the churchyard gate full of dead bodies, but neither bellman, or driver, or any one else, with it. Neither in these or many other cases did they know what bodies they had in their cart, for sometimes they were let down with ropes out of balconies and out of windows, and sometimes the bearers brought them to the cart, sometimes other people; nor, as the men themselves said, did they trouble themselves to keep any account of the numbers. The vigilance of the magistrate was now put to the utmost trial, and, it must be confessed, can never be enough acknowledged on this occasion; also, whatever expense or trouble they were at, two things were never neglected in the city or suburbs either:-- 1. Provisions were always to be had in full plenty, and the price not much raised neither, hardly worth speaking. 2. No dead bodies lay unburied or uncovered; and if any one walked from one end of the city to another, no funeral, or sign of it, was to be seen in the daytime, except a little, as I have said, in the first three weeks in September. This last article, perhaps, will hardly be believed when some accounts which others have published since that shall be seen, wherein they say that the dead lay unburied, which I am sure was utterly false; at least, if it had been anywhere so, it must have been in houses where the living were gone from the dead, having found means, as I have observed, to escape, and where no notice was given to the officers. All which amounts to nothing at all in the case in hand; for this I am positive in, having myself been employed a little in the direction of that part of the parish in which I lived, and where as great a desolation was made, in proportion to the number of the inhabitants, as was anywhere. I say, I am sure that there were no dead bodies remained unburied; that is to say, none that the proper officers knew of, none for want of people to carry them off, and buriers to put them into the ground and cover them. And this is sufficient to the argument; for what might lie in houses and holes, as in Moses and Aaron Alley, is nothing, for it is most certain they were buried as soon as they were found. As to the first article, namely, of provisions, the scarcity or dearness, though I have mentioned it before, and shall speak of it again, yet I must observe here. 1. The price of bread in particular was not much raised; for in the beginning of the year, viz., in the first week in March, the penny wheaten loaf was ten ounces and a half, and in the height of the contagion it was to be had at nine ounces and a half, and never dearer, no, not all that season; and about the beginning of November it was sold at ten ounces and a half again, the like of which, I believe, was never heard of, in any city under so dreadful a visitation, before. 2. Neither was there, which I wondered much at, any want of bakers or ovens kept open to supply the people with bread; but this was indeed alleged by some families, viz., that their maidservants, going to the bakehouses with their dough to be baked, which was then the custom, sometimes came home with the sickness, that is to say, the plague, upon them. In all this dreadful visitation there were, as I have said before, but two pesthouses made use of; viz., one in the fields beyond Old Street, and one in Westminster. Neither was there any compulsion used in carrying people thither. Indeed, there was no need of compulsion in the case, for there were thousands of poor distressed people, who having no help, or conveniences, or supplies, but of charity, would have been very glad to have been carried thither and been taken care of; which, indeed, was the only thing that, I think, was wanting in the whole public management of the city, seeing nobody was here allowed to be brought to the pesthouse but where money was given, or security for money, either at their introducing,[252] or upon their being cured and sent out; for very many were sent out again whole, and very good physicians were appointed to those places; so that many people did very well there, of which I shall make mention again. The principal sort of people sent thither were, as I have said, servants, who got the distemper by going of errands to fetch necessaries for the families where they lived, and who, in that case, if they came home sick, were removed to preserve the rest of the house; and they were so well looked after there, in all the time of the visitation, that there was but one hundred and fifty-six buried in all at the London pesthouse, and one hundred and fifty-nine at that of Westminster. By having more pesthouses, I am far from meaning a forcing all people into such places. Had the shutting up of houses been omitted, and the sick hurried out of their dwellings to pesthouses, as some proposed it seems at that time as well as since, it[253] would certainly have been much worse than it was. The very removing the sick would have been a spreading of the infection, and the rather because that removing could not effectually clear the house where the sick person was of the distemper; and the rest of the family, being then left at liberty, would certainly spread it among others. The methods, also, in private families which would have been universally used to have concealed the distemper, and to have concealed the persons being sick, would have been such that the distemper would sometimes have seized a whole family before any visitors or examiners could have known of it. On the other hand, the prodigious numbers which would have been sick at a time would have exceeded all the capacity of public pesthouses to receive them, or of public officers to discover and remove them. This was well considered in those days, and I have heard them talk of it often. The magistrates had enough to do to bring people to submit to having their houses shut up; and many ways they deceived the watchmen, and got out, as I observed. But that difficulty made it apparent that they would have found it impracticable to have gone the other way to work; for they could never have forced the sick people out of their beds and out of their dwellings: it must not have been my lord mayor's officers, but an army of officers, that must have attempted it. And the people, on the other hand, would have been enraged and desperate, and would have killed those that should have offered to have meddled with them or with their children and relations, whatever had befallen them for it; so that they would have made the people (who, as it was, were in the most terrible distraction imaginable), I say, they would have made them stark mad: whereas the magistrates found it proper on several occasions to treat them with lenity and compassion, and not with violence and terror, such as dragging the sick out of their houses, or obliging them to remove themselves, would have been. This leads me again to mention the time when the plague first began,[254] that is to say, when it became certain that it would spread over the whole town, when, as I have said, the better sort of people first took the alarm, and began to hurry themselves out of town. It was true, as I observed in its place, that the throng was so great, and the coaches, horses, wagons, and carts were so many, driving and dragging the people away, that it looked as if all the city was running away; and had any regulations been published that had been terrifying at that time, especially such as would pretend to dispose of the people otherwise than they would dispose of themselves, it would have put both the city and suburbs into the utmost confusion. The magistrates wisely caused the people to be encouraged, made very good by-laws[255] for the regulating the citizens, keeping good order in the streets, and making everything as eligible as possible to all sorts of people. In the first place, the lord mayor and the sheriffs,[256] the court of aldermen, and a certain number of the common councilmen, or their deputies, came to a resolution, and published it; viz., that they would not quit the city themselves, but that they would be always at hand for the preserving good order in every place, and for doing justice on all occasions, as also for the distributing the public charity to the poor, and, in a word, for the doing the duty and discharging the trust reposed in them by the citizens, to the utmost of their power. In pursuance of these orders, the lord mayor, sheriffs, etc., held councils every day, more or less, for making such dispositions as they found needful for preserving the civil peace; and though they used the people with all possible gentleness and clemency, yet all manner of presumptuous rogues, such as thieves, housebreakers, plunderers of the dead or of the sick, were duly punished; and several declarations were continually published by the lord mayor and court of aldermen against such. Also all constables and churchwardens were enjoined to stay in the city upon severe penalties, or to depute such able and sufficient housekeepers as the deputy aldermen or common councilmen of the precinct should approve, and for whom they should give security, and also security, in case of mortality, that they would forthwith constitute other constables in their stead. These things reëstablished the minds of the people very much, especially in the first of their fright, when they talked of making so universal a flight that the city would have been in danger of being entirely deserted of its inhabitants, except the poor, and the country of being plundered and laid waste by the multitude. Nor were the magistrates deficient in performing their part as boldly as they promised it; for my lord mayor and the sheriffs were continually in the streets and at places of the greatest danger; and though they did not care for having too great a resort of people crowding about them, yet in emergent cases they never denied the people access to them, and heard with patience all their grievances and complaints. My lord mayor had a low gallery built on purpose in his hall, where he stood, a little removed from the crowd, when any complaint came to be heard, that he might appear with as much safety as possible. Likewise the proper officers, called my lord mayor's officers, constantly attended in their turns, as they were in waiting; and if any of them were sick or infected, as some of them were, others were instantly employed to fill up, and officiate in their places till it was known whether the other should live or die. In like manner the sheriffs and aldermen did,[257] in their several stations and wards, where they were placed by office; and the sheriff's officers or sergeants were appointed to receive orders from the respective aldermen in their turn; so that justice was executed in all cases without interruption. In the next place, it was one of their particular cares to see the orders for the freedom of the markets observed; and in this part either the lord mayor, or one or both of the sheriffs, were every market day on horseback to see their orders executed, and to see that the country people had all possible encouragement and freedom in their coming to the markets and going back again, and that no nuisance or frightful object should be seen in the streets to terrify them, or make them unwilling to come. Also the bakers were taken under particular order, and the master of the Bakers' Company was, with his court of assistants, directed to see the order of my lord mayor for their regulation put in execution, and the due assize[258] of bread, which was weekly appointed by my lord mayor, observed; and all the bakers were obliged to keep their ovens going constantly, on pain of losing the privileges of a freeman of the city of London. By this means, bread was always to be had in plenty, and as cheap as usual, as I said above; and provisions were never wanting in the markets, even to such a degree that I often wondered at it, and reproached myself with being so timorous and cautious in stirring abroad, when the country people came freely and boldly to market, as if there had been no manner of infection in the city, or danger of catching it. It was indeed one admirable piece of conduct in the said magistrates, that the streets were kept constantly clear and free from all manner of frightful objects, dead bodies, or any such things as were indecent or unpleasant; unless where anybody fell down suddenly, or died in the streets, as I have said above, and these were generally covered with some cloth or blanket, or removed into the next churchyard till night. All the needful works that carried terror with them, that were both dismal and dangerous, were done in the night. If any diseased bodies were removed, or dead bodies buried, or infected clothes burned, it was done in the night; and all the bodies which were thrown into the great pits in the several churchyards or burying grounds, as has been observed, were so removed in the night, and everything was covered and closed before day. So that in the daytime there was not the least signal of the calamity to be seen or heard of, except what was to be observed from the emptiness of the streets, and sometimes from the passionate outcries and lamentations of the people, out at their windows, and from the numbers of houses and shops shut up. Nor was the silence and emptiness of the streets so much in the city as in the outparts, except just at one particular time, when, as I have mentioned, the plague came east, and spread over all the city. It was indeed a merciful disposition of God, that as the plague began at one end of the town first, as has been observed at large, so it proceeded progressively to other parts, and did not come on this way, or eastward, till it had spent its fury in the west part of the town; and so as it came on one way it abated another. For example:-- It began at St. Giles's and the Westminster end of the town, and it was in its height in all that part by about the middle of July, viz., in St. Giles-in-the-Fields, St. Andrew's, Holborn, St. Clement's-Danes, St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, and in Westminster. The latter end of July it decreased in those parishes, and, coming east, it increased prodigiously in Cripplegate, St. Sepulchre's, St. James's, Clerkenwell, and St. Bride's and Aldersgate. While it was in all these parishes, the city and all the parishes of the Southwark side of the water, and all Stepney, Whitechapel, Aldgate, Wapping, and Ratcliff, were very little touched; so that people went about their business unconcerned, carried on their trades, kept open their shops, and conversed freely with one another in all the city, the east and northeast suburbs, and in Southwark, almost as if the plague had not been among us. Even when the north and northwest suburbs were fully infected, viz., Cripplegate, Clerkenwell, Bishopsgate, and Shoreditch, yet still all the rest were tolerably well. For example:-- From the 25th of July to the 1st of August the bill stood thus of all diseases:-- St. Giles's, Cripplegate 554 St. Sepulchre's 250 Clerkenwell 103 Bishopsgate 116 Shoreditch 110 Stepney Parish 127 Aldgate 92 Whitechapel 104 All the 97 parishes within the walls 228 All the parishes in Southwark 205 ----- 1,889 So that, in short, there died more that week in the two parishes of Cripplegate and St. Sepulchre's by forty-eight than all the city, all the east suburbs, and all the Southwark parishes put together. This caused the reputation of the city's health to continue all over England, and especially in the counties and markets adjacent, from whence our supply of provisions chiefly came, even much longer than that health itself continued; for when the people came into the streets from the country by Shoreditch and Bishopsgate, or by Old Street and Smithfield, they would see the outstreets empty, and the houses and shops shut, and the few people that were stirring there walk in the middle of the streets; but when they came within the city, there things looked better, and the markets and shops were open, and the people walking about the streets as usual, though not quite so many; and this continued till the latter end of August and the beginning of September. But then the case altered quite; the distemper abated in the west and northwest parishes, and the weight of the infection lay on the city and the eastern suburbs, and the Southwark side, and this in a frightful manner. Then indeed the city began to look dismal, shops to be shut, and the streets desolate. In the High Street, indeed, necessity made people stir abroad on many occasions; and there would be in the middle of the day a pretty many[259] people, but in the mornings and evenings scarce any to be seen even there, no, not in Cornhill and Cheapside. These observations of mine were abundantly confirmed by the weekly bills of mortality for those weeks, an abstract of which, as they respect the parishes which I have mentioned, and as they make the calculations I speak of very evident, take as follows. The weekly bill which makes out this decrease of the burials in the west and north side of the city stands thus:-- St. Giles's, Cripplegate 456 St. Giles-in-the-Fields 140 Clerkenwell 77 St. Sepulchre's 214 St. Leonard, Shoreditch 183 Stepney Parish 716 Aldgate 629 Whitechapel 532 In the 97 parishes within the walls 1,493 In the 8 parishes on Southwark side 1,636 ----- 6,076 Here is a strange change of things indeed, and a sad change it was; and, had it held for two months more than it did, very few people would have been left alive; but then such, I say, was the merciful disposition of God, that when it was thus, the west and north part, which had been so dreadfully visited at first, grew, as you see, much better; and, as the people disappeared here, they began to look abroad again there; and the next week or two altered it still more, that is, more to the encouragement of the other part of the town. For example:-- Sept. 19-26. St. Giles's, Cripplegate 277 St. Giles-in-the-Fields 119 Clerkenwell 76 St. Sepulchre's 193 St. Leonard, Shoreditch 146 Stepney Parish 616 Aldgate 496 Whitechapel 346 In the 97 parishes within the walls 1,268 In the 8 parishes on Southwark side 1,390 ----- 4,927 Sept. 26-Oct. 3. St. Giles's, Cripplegate 196 St. Giles-in-the-Fields 95 Clerkenwell 48 St. Sepulchre's 137 St. Leonard, Shoreditch 128 Stepney Parish 674 Aldgate 372 Whitechapel 328 In the 97 parishes within the walls 1,149 In the 8 parishes on Southwark side 1,201 ----- 4,328 And now the misery of the city, and of the said east and south parts, was complete indeed; for, as you see, the weight of the distemper lay upon those parts, that is to say, the city, the eight parishes over the river, with the parishes of Aldgate, Whitechapel, and Stepney, and this was the time that the bills came up to such a monstrous height as that I mentioned before, and that eight or nine, and, as I believe, ten or twelve thousand a week died; for it is my settled opinion that they[260] never could come at any just account of the numbers, for the reasons which I have given already. Nay, one of the most eminent physicians, who has since published in Latin an account of those times and of his observations, says that in one week there died twelve thousand people, and that particularly there died four thousand in one night; though I do not remember that there ever was any such particular night so remarkably fatal as that such a number died in it. However, all this confirms what I have said above of the uncertainty of the bills of mortality, etc., of which I shall say more hereafter. And here let me take leave to enter again, though it may seem a repetition of circumstances, into a description of the miserable condition of the city itself, and of those parts where I lived, at this particular time. The city, and those other parts, notwithstanding the great numbers of people that were gone into the country, was[261] vastly full of people; and perhaps the fuller because people had for a long time a strong belief that the plague would not come into the city, nor into Southwark, no, nor into Wapping or Ratcliff at all; nay, such was the assurance of the people on that head, that many removed from the suburbs on the west and north sides into those eastern and south sides as for safety, and, as I verily believe, carried the plague amongst them there, perhaps sooner than they would otherwise have had it. Here, also, I ought to leave a further remark for the use of posterity, concerning the manner of people's infecting one another; namely, that it was not the sick people only from whom the plague was immediately received by others that were sound, but the well. To explain myself: by the sick people, I mean those who were known to be sick, had taken their beds, had been under cure, or had swellings or tumors upon them, and the like. These everybody could beware of: they were either in their beds, or in such condition as could not be concealed. By the well, I mean such as had received the contagion, and had it really upon them and in their blood, yet did not show the consequences of it in their countenances; nay, even were not sensible of it themselves, as many were not for several days. These breathed death in every place, and upon everybody who came near them; nay, their very clothes retained the infection; their hands would infect the things they touched, especially if they were warm and sweaty, and they were generally apt to sweat, too. Now, it was impossible to know these people, nor did they sometimes, as I have said, know themselves, to be infected. These were the people that so often dropped down and fainted in the streets; for oftentimes they would go about the streets to the last, till on a sudden they would sweat, grow faint, sit down at a door, and die. It is true, finding themselves thus, they would struggle hard to get home to their own doors, or at other times would be just able to go into their houses, and die instantly. Other times they would go about till they had the very tokens come out upon them, and yet not know it, and would die in an hour or two after they came home, but be well as long as they were abroad. These were the dangerous people; these were the people of whom the well people ought to have been afraid: but then, on the other side, it was impossible to know them. And this is the reason why it is impossible in a visitation to prevent the spreading of the plague by the utmost human vigilance; viz., that it is impossible to know the infected people from the sound, or that the infected people should perfectly know themselves. I knew a man who conversed freely in London all the season of the plague in 1665, and kept about him an antidote or cordial, on purpose to take when he thought himself in any danger; and he had such a rule to know, or have warning of the danger by, as indeed I never met with before or since: how far it may be depended on, I know not. He had a wound in his leg; and whenever he came among any people that were not sound, and the infection began to affect him, he said he could know it by that signal, viz., that the wound in his leg would smart, and look pale and white: so as soon as ever he felt it smart it was time for him to withdraw, or to take care of himself, taking his drink, which he always carried about him for that purpose. Now, it seems he found his wound would smart many times when he was in company with such who thought themselves to be sound, and who appeared so to one another; but he would presently rise up, and say publicly, "Friends, here is somebody in the room that has the plague," and so would immediately break up the company. This was, indeed, a faithful monitor to all people, that the plague is not to be avoided by those that converse promiscuously in a town infected, and people have it when they know it not, and that they likewise give it to others when they know not that they have it themselves; and in this case, shutting up the well or removing the sick will not do it, unless they can go back and shut up all those that the sick had conversed with, even before they knew themselves to be sick; and none knows how far to carry that back, or where to stop, for none knows when, or where, or how, they may have received the infection, or from whom. This I take to be the reason which makes so many people talk of the air being corrupted and infected, and that they need not be cautious of whom they converse with, for that the contagion was in the air. I have seen them in strange agitations and surprises on this account. "I have never come near any infected body," says the disturbed person; "I have conversed with none but sound healthy people, and yet I have gotten the distemper." "I am sure I am struck from Heaven," says another, and he falls to the serious part.[262] Again the first goes on exclaiming, "I have come near no infection, or any infected person; I am sure it is in the air; we draw in death when we breathe, and therefore it is the hand of God: there is no withstanding it." And this at last made many people, being hardened to the danger, grow less concerned at it, and less cautious towards the latter end of the time, and when it was come to its height, than they were at first. Then, with a kind of a Turkish predestinarianism,[263] they would say, if it pleased God to strike them, it was all one whether they went abroad, or staid at home: they could not escape it. And therefore they went boldly about, even into infected houses and infected company, visited sick people, and, in short, lay in the beds with their wives or relations when they were infected. And what was the consequence but the same that is the consequence in Turkey, and in those countries where they do those things, namely, that they were infected too, and died by hundreds and thousands? I would be far from lessening the awe of the judgments of God, and the reverence to his providence, which ought always to be on our minds on such occasions as these. Doubtless the visitation itself is a stroke from Heaven upon a city, or country, or nation, where it falls; a messenger of his vengeance, and a loud call to that nation, or country, or city, to humiliation and repentance, according to that of the prophet Jeremiah (xviii. 7, 8): "At what instant I shall speak concerning a nation, and concerning a kingdom, to pluck up, and to pull down, and to destroy it; if that nation, against whom I have pronounced, turn from their evil, I will repent of the evil that I thought to do unto them." Now, to prompt due impressions of the awe of God on the minds of men on such occasions, and not to lessen them, it is that I have left those minutes upon record. I say, therefore, I reflect upon no man for putting the reason of those things upon the immediate hand of God and the appointment and direction of his providence; nay, on the contrary, there were many wonderful deliverances of persons from infection, and deliverances of persons when infected, which intimate singular and remarkable providence in the particular instances to which they refer; and I esteem my own deliverance to be one next to miraculous, and do record it with thankfulness. But when I am speaking of the plague as a distemper arising from natural causes, we must consider it as it was really propagated by natural means. Nor is it at all the less a judgment for its being under the conduct of human causes and effects; for as the Divine Power has formed the whole scheme of nature, and maintains nature in its course, so the same Power thinks fit to let his own actings with men, whether of mercy or judgment, to go on in the ordinary course of natural causes, and he is pleased to act by those natural causes as the ordinary means, excepting and reserving to himself, nevertheless, a power to act in a supernatural way when he sees occasion. Now it is evident, that, in the case of an infection, there is no apparent extraordinary occasion for supernatural operation; but the ordinary course of things appears sufficiently armed, and made capable of all the effects that Heaven usually directs by a contagion. Among these causes and effects, this of the secret conveyance of infection, imperceptible and unavoidable, is more than sufficient to execute the fierceness of divine vengeance, without putting it upon supernaturals and miracles. The acute, penetrating nature of the disease itself was such, and the infection was received so imperceptibly, that the most exact caution could not secure us while in the place; but I must be allowed to believe--and I have so many examples fresh in my memory to convince me of it, that I think none can resist their evidence,--I say, I must be allowed to believe that no one in this whole nation ever received the sickness or infection, but who received it in the ordinary way of infection from somebody, or the clothes, or touch, or stench of somebody, that was infected before. The manner of its first coming to London proves this also, viz., by goods brought over from Holland, and brought thither from the Levant; the first breaking of it out in a house in Longacre where those goods were carried and first opened; its spreading from that house to other houses by the visible unwary conversing with those who were sick, and the infecting the parish officers who were employed about persons dead; and the like. These are known authorities for this great foundation point, that it went on and proceeded from person to person, and from house to house, and no otherwise. In the first house that was infected, there died four persons. A neighbor, hearing the mistress of the first house was sick, went to visit her, and went home and gave the distemper to her family, and died, and all her household. A minister called to pray with the first sick person in the second house was said to sicken immediately, and die, with several more in his house. Then the physicians began to consider, for they did not at first dream of a general contagion; but the physicians being sent to inspect the bodies, they assured the people that it was neither more or less than the plague, with all its terrifying particulars, and that it threatened an universal infection; so many people having already conversed with the sick or distempered, and having, as might be supposed, received infection from them, that it would be impossible to put a stop to it. Here the opinion of the physicians agreed with my observation afterwards, namely, that the danger was spreading insensibly: for the sick could infect none but those that came within reach of the sick person; but that one man, who may have really received the infection, and knows it not, but goes abroad and about as a sound person, may give the plague to a thousand people, and they to greater numbers in proportion, and neither the person giving the infection, nor the persons receiving it, know anything of it, and perhaps not feel the effects of it for several days after. For example:-- Many persons, in the time of this visitation, never perceived that they were infected till they found, to their unspeakable surprise, the tokens come out upon them, after which they seldom lived six hours; for those spots they called the tokens were really gangrene spots, or mortified flesh, in small knobs as broad as a little silver penny, and hard as a piece of callus[264] or horn; so that when the disease was come up to that length, there was nothing could follow but certain death. And yet, as I said, they knew nothing of their being infected, nor found themselves so much as out of order, till those mortal marks were upon them. But everybody must allow that they were infected in a high degree before, and must have been so some time; and consequently their breath, their sweat, their very clothes, were contagious for many days before. This occasioned a vast variety of cases, which physicians would have much more opportunity to remember than I; but some came within the compass of my observation or hearing, of which I shall name a few. A certain citizen who had lived safe and untouched till the month of September, when the weight of the distemper lay more in the city than it had done before, was mighty cheerful, and something too bold, as I think it was, in his talk of how secure he was, how cautious he had been, and how he had never come near any sick body. Says another citizen, a neighbor of his, to him one day, "Do not be too confident, Mr. ----: it is hard to say who is sick and who is well; for we see men alive and well to outward appearance one hour, and dead the next."--"That is true," says the first man (for he was not a man presumptuously secure, but had escaped a long while; and men, as I have said above, especially in the city, began to be overeasy on that score),--"that is true," says he. "I do not think myself secure; but I hope I have not been in company with any person that there has been any danger in."--"No!" says his neighbor. "Was not you at the Bull Head Tavern in Gracechurch Street, with Mr. ----, the night before last?"--"Yes," says the first, "I was; but there was nobody there that we had any reason to think dangerous." Upon which his neighbor said no more, being unwilling to surprise him. But this made him more inquisitive, and, as his neighbor appeared backward, he was the more impatient; and in a kind of warmth says he aloud, "Why, he is not dead, is he?" Upon which his neighbor still was silent, but cast up his eyes, and said something to himself; at which the first citizen turned pale, and said no more but this, "Then I am a dead man too!" and went home immediately, and sent for a neighboring apothecary to give him something preventive, for he had not yet found himself ill. But the apothecary, opening his breast, fetched a sigh, and said no more but this, "Look up to God." And the man died in a few hours. Now, let any man judge from a case like this if it is possible for the regulations of magistrates, either by shutting up the sick or removing them, to stop an infection which spreads itself from man to man even while they are perfectly well, and insensible of its approach, and may be so for many days. It may be proper to ask here how long it may be supposed men might have the seeds of the contagion in them before it discovered[265] itself in this fatal manner, and how long they might go about seemingly whole, and yet be contagious to all those that came near them. I believe the most experienced physicians cannot answer this question directly any more than I can; and something an ordinary observer may take notice of which may pass their observation. The opinion of physicians abroad seems to be, that it may lie dormant in the spirits, or in the blood vessels, a very considerable time: why else do they exact a quarantine of those who come into their harbors and ports from suspected places? Forty days is, one would think, too long for nature to struggle with such an enemy as this, and not conquer it or yield to it; but I could not think by my own observation that they can be infected, so as to be contagious to others, above fifteen or sixteen days at farthest; and on that score it was, that when a house was shut up in the city, and any one had died of the plague, but nobody appeared to be ill in the family for sixteen or eighteen days after, they were not so strict but that they[266] would connive at their going privately abroad; nor would people be much afraid of them afterwards, but rather think they were fortified the better, having not been vulnerable when the enemy was in their house: but we sometimes found it had lain much longer concealed. Upon the foot of all these observations I must say, that, though Providence seemed to direct my conduct to be otherwise, it is my opinion, and I must leave it as a prescription, viz., that the best physic against the plague is to run away from it. I know people encourage themselves by saying, "God is able to keep us in the midst of danger, and able to overtake us when we think ourselves out of danger;" and this kept thousands in the town whose carcasses went into the great pits by cartloads, and who, if they had fled from the danger, had, I believe, been safe from the disaster: at least, 'tis probable they had been safe. And were this very fundamental[267] only duly considered by the people on any future occasion of this or the like nature, I am persuaded it would put them upon quite different measures for managing the people from those that they took in 1665, or than any that have been taken abroad that I have heard of: in a word, they would consider of separating the people into smaller bodies, and removing them in time farther from one another, and not let such a contagion as this, which is indeed chiefly dangerous to collected bodies of people, find a million of people in a body together, as was very near the case before, and would certainly be the case if it should ever appear again. The plague, like a great fire, if a few houses only are contiguous where it happens, can only[268] burn a few houses; or if it begins in a single, or, as we call it, a lone house, can only burn that lone house where it begins; but if it begins in a close-built town or city, and gets ahead, there its fury increases, it rages over the whole place, and consumes all it can reach. I could propose many schemes on the foot of which the government of this city, if ever they should be under the apprehension of such another enemy, (God forbid they should!) might ease themselves of the greatest part of the dangerous people that belong to them: I mean such as the begging, starving, laboring poor, and among them chiefly those who, in a case of siege, are called the useless mouths; who, being then prudently, and to their own advantage, disposed of, and the wealthy inhabitants disposing of themselves, and of their servants and children, the city and its adjacent parts would be so effectually evacuated that there would not be above a tenth part of its people left together for the disease to take hold upon. But suppose them to be a fifth part, and that two hundred and fifty thousand people were left; and if it did seize upon them, they would, by their living so much at large, be much better prepared to defend themselves against the infection, and be less liable to the effects of it, than if the same number of people lived close together in one smaller city, such as Dublin, or Amsterdam, or the like. It is true, hundreds, yea thousands, of families fled away at this last plague; but then of them many fled too late, and not only died in their flight, but carried the distemper with them into the countries where they went, and infected those whom they went among for safety; which confounded[269] the thing, and made that be a propagation of the distemper which was the best means to prevent it. And this, too, is evident of it, and brings me back to what I only hinted at before, but must speak more fully to here, namely, that men went about apparently well many days after they had the taint of the disease in their vitals, and after their spirits were so seized as that they could never escape it; and that, all the while they did so, they were dangerous to others. I say, this proves that so it was; for such people infected the very towns they went through, as well as the families they went among; and it was by that means that almost all the great towns in England had the distemper among them more or less, and always they would tell you such a Londoner or such a Londoner brought it down. It must not be omitted,[270] that when I speak of those people who were really thus dangerous, I suppose them to be utterly ignorant of their own condition; for if they really knew their circumstances to be such as indeed they were, they must have been a kind of willful murderers if they would have gone abroad among healthy people, and it would have verified indeed the suggestion which I mentioned above, and which I thought seemed untrue, viz., that the infected people were utterly careless as to giving the infection to others, and rather forward to do it than not; and I believe it was partly from this very thing that they raised that suggestion, which I hope was not really true in fact. I confess no particular case is sufficient to prove a general; but I could name several people, within the knowledge of some of their neighbors and families yet living, who showed the contrary to an extreme. One man, the master of a family in my neighborhood, having had the distemper, he thought he had it given him by a poor workman whom he employed, and whom he went to his house to see, or went for some work that he wanted to have finished; and he had some apprehensions even while he was at the poor workman's door, but did not discover it[271] fully; but the next day it discovered itself, and he was taken very ill, upon which he immediately caused himself to be carried into an outbuilding which he had in his yard, and where there was a chamber over a workhouse, the man being a brazier. Here he lay, and here he died, and would be tended by none of his neighbors but by a nurse from abroad, and would not suffer his wife, nor children, nor servants, to come up into the room, lest they should be infected, but sent them his blessing and prayers for them by the nurse, who spoke it to them at a distance; and all this for fear of giving them the distemper, and without which, he knew, as they were kept up, they could not have it. And here I must observe also that the plague, as I suppose all distempers do, operated in a different manner on differing constitutions. Some were immediately overwhelmed with it, and it came to violent fevers, vomitings, insufferable headaches, pains in the back, and so up to ravings and ragings with those pains; others with swellings and tumors in the neck or groin, or armpits, which, till they could be broke, put them into insufferable agonies and torment; while others, as I have observed, were silently infected, the fever preying upon their spirits insensibly, and they seeing little of it till they fell into swooning and faintings, and death without pain. I am not physician enough to enter into the particular reasons and manner of these differing effects of one and the same distemper, and of its differing operation in several bodies; nor is it my business here to record the observations which I really made, because the doctors themselves have done that part much more effectually than I can do, and because my opinion may in some things differ from theirs. I am only relating what I know, or have heard, or believe, of the particular cases, and what fell within the compass of my view, and the different nature of the infection as it appeared in the particular cases which I have related; but this may be added too, that though the former sort of those cases, namely, those openly visited, were the worst for themselves as to pain (I mean those that had such fevers, vomitings, headaches, pains, and swellings), because they died in such a dreadful manner, yet the latter had the worst state of the disease; for in the former they frequently recovered, especially if the swellings broke; but the latter was inevitable death. No cure, no help, could be possible; nothing could follow but death. And it was worse, also, to others; because, as above, it secretly and unperceived by others or by themselves, communicated death to those they conversed with, the penetrating poison insinuating itself into their blood in a manner which it was impossible to describe, or indeed conceive. This infecting and being infected without so much as its being known to either person is evident from two sorts of cases which frequently happened at that time; and there is hardly anybody living, who was in London during the infection, but must have known several of the cases of both sorts. 1. Fathers and mothers have gone about as if they had been well, and have believed themselves to be so, till they have insensibly infected and been the destruction of their whole families; which they would have been far from doing if they had had the least apprehensions of their being unsound and dangerous themselves. A family, whose story I have heard, was thus infected by the father, and the distemper began to appear upon some of them even before he found it upon himself; but, searching more narrowly, it appeared he had been infected some time, and, as soon as he found that his family had been poisoned by himself, he went distracted, and would have laid violent hands upon himself, but was kept from that by those who looked to him; and in a few days he died. 2. The other particular is, that many people, having been well to the best of their own judgment, or by the best observation which they could make of themselves for several days, and only finding a decay of appetite, or a light sickness upon their stomachs,--nay, some whose appetite has been strong, and even craving, and only a light pain in their heads,--have sent for physicians to know what ailed them, and have been found, to their great surprise, at the brink of death, the tokens upon them, or the plague grown up to an incurable height. It was very sad to reflect how such a person as this last mentioned above had been a walking destroyer, perhaps for a week or fortnight before that; how he had ruined those that he would have hazarded his life to save, and had been breathing death upon them, even perhaps in his tender kissing and embracings of his own children. Yet thus certainly it was, and often has been, and I could give many particular cases where it has been so. If, then, the blow is thus insensibly striking; if the arrow flies thus unseen, and cannot be discovered,--to what purpose are all the schemes for shutting up or removing the sick people? Those schemes cannot take place but upon those that appear to be sick or to be infected; whereas there are among them at the same time thousands of people who seem to be well, but are all that while carrying death with them into all companies which they come into. This frequently puzzled our physicians, and especially the apothecaries and surgeons, who knew not how to discover the sick from the sound. They all allowed that it was really so; that many people had the plague in their very blood, and preying upon their spirits, and were in themselves but walking putrefied carcasses, whose breath was infectious, and their sweat poison, and yet were as well to look on as other people, and even knew it not themselves,--I say they all allowed that it was really true in fact, but they knew not how to propose a discovery.[272] My friend Dr. Heath was of opinion that it might be known by the smell of their breath; but then, as he said, who durst smell to that breath for his information, since to know it he must draw the stench of the plague up into his own brain in order to distinguish the smell? I have heard it was the opinion of others that it might be distinguished by the party's breathing upon a piece of glass, where, the breath condensing, there might living creatures be seen by a microscope, of strange, monstrous, and frightful shapes, such as dragons, snakes, serpents, and devils, horrible to behold. But this I very much question the truth of, and we had no microscopes at that time, as I remember, to make the experiment with.[273] It was the opinion, also, of another learned man that the breath of such a person would poison and instantly kill a bird, not only a small bird, but even a cock or hen; and that, if it did not immediately kill the latter, it would cause them to be roupy,[274] as they call it; particularly that, if they had laid any eggs at that time, they would be all rotten. But those are opinions which I never found supported by any experiments, or heard of others that had seen it,[275] so I leave them as I find them, only with this remark, namely, that I think the probabilities are very strong for them. Some have proposed that such persons should breathe hard upon warm water, and that they would leave an unusual scum upon it, or upon several other things, especially such as are of a glutinous substance, and are apt to receive a scum, and support it. But, from the whole, I found that the nature of this contagion was such that it was impossible to discover it at all, or to prevent it spreading from one to another by any human skill. Here was indeed one difficulty, which I could never thoroughly get over to this time, and which there is but one way of answering that I know of, and it is this; viz., the first person that died of the plague was on December 20th, or thereabouts, 1664, and in or about Longacre: whence the first person had the infection was generally said to be from a parcel of silks imported from Holland, and first opened in that house. But after this we heard no more of any person dying of the plague, or of the distemper being in that place, till the 9th of February, which was about seven weeks after, and then one more was buried out of the same house. Then it was hushed, and we were perfectly easy as to the public for a great while; for there were no more entered in the weekly bill to be dead of the plague till the 22d of April, when there were two more buried, not out of the same house, but out of the same street; and, as near as I can remember, it was out of the next house to the first. This was nine weeks asunder; and after this we had no more till a fortnight, and then it broke out in several streets, and spread every way. Now, the question seems to lie thus: Where lay the seeds of the infection all this while? how came it to stop so long, and not stop any longer? Either the distemper did not come immediately by contagion from body to body, or, if it did, then a body may be capable to continue infected, without the disease discovering itself, many days, nay, weeks together; even not a quarantine[276] of days only, but a soixantine,[277]--not only forty days, but sixty days, or longer. It is true there was, as I observed at first, and is well known to many yet living, a very cold winter and a long frost, which continued three months; and this, the doctors say, might check the infection. But then the learned must allow me to say, that if, according to their notion, the disease was, as I may say, only frozen up, it would, like a frozen river, have returned to its usual force and current when it thawed; whereas the principal recess of this infection, which was from February to April, was after the frost was broken and the weather mild and warm. But there is another way of solving all this difficulty, which I think my own remembrance of the thing will supply; and that is, the fact is not granted, namely, that there died none in those long intervals, viz., from the 20th of December to the 9th of February, and from thence to the 22d of April. The weekly bills are the only evidence on the other side, and those bills were not of credit enough, at least with me, to support an hypothesis, or determine a question of such importance as this; for it was our received opinion at that time, and I believe upon very good grounds, that the fraud lay in the parish officers, searchers, and persons appointed to give account of the dead, and what diseases they died of; and as people were very loath at first to have the neighbors believe their houses were infected, so they gave money to procure, or otherwise procured, the dead persons to be returned as dying of other distempers; and this I know was practiced afterwards in many places, I believe I might say in all places where the distemper came, as will be seen by the vast increase of the numbers placed in the weekly bills under other articles[278] of diseases during the time of the infection. For example, in the months of July and August, when the plague was coming on to its highest pitch, it was very ordinary to have from a thousand to twelve hundred, nay, to almost fifteen hundred, a week, of other distempers. Not that the numbers of those distempers were really increased to such a degree; but the great number of families and houses where really the infection was, obtained the favor to have their dead be returned of other distempers, to prevent the shutting up their houses. For example:-- _Dead of other Diseases besides the Plague._ From the 18th to the 25th of July 942 To the 1st of August 1,004 To the 8th 1,213 To the 15th 1,439 To the 22d 1,331 To the 29th 1,394 To the 5th of September 1,264 To the 12th 1,056 To the 19th 1,132 To the 26th 927 Now, it was not doubted but the greatest part of these, or a great part of them, were dead of the plague; but the officers were prevailed with to return them as above, and the numbers of some particular articles of distempers discovered is as follows:-- Aug. 1-8. Aug. 8-15. Aug. 15-22. Aug. 22-29. Fever 314 353 348 383 Spotted fever 174 190 166 165 Surfeit 85 87 74 99 Teeth 90 113 111 133 --- --- --- --- 663 743 699 780 Aug. 29-Sept. 5. Sept. 5-12. Sept. 12-19. Sept. 19-26. Fever 364 332 309 268 Spotted Fever 157 97 101 65 Surfeit 68 45 49 36 Teeth 138 128 121 112 --- --- --- --- 727 602 580 481 There were several other articles which bore a proportion to these, and which it is easy to perceive were increased on the same account; as aged,[279] consumptions, vomitings, imposthumes,[280] gripes, and the like, many of which were not doubted to be infected people; but as it was of the utmost consequence to families not to be known to be infected, if it was possible to avoid it, so they took all the measures they could to have it not believed, and if any died in their houses, to get them returned to the examiners, and by the searchers, as having died of other distempers. This, I say, will account for the long interval which, as I have said, was between the dying of the first persons that were returned in the bills to be dead of the plague, and the time when the distemper spread openly, and could not be concealed. Besides, the weekly bills themselves at that time evidently discover this truth; for while there was no mention of the plague, and no increase after it had been mentioned, yet it was apparent that there was an increase of those distempers which bordered nearest upon it. For example, there were eight, twelve, seventeen, of the spotted fever in a week when there were none or but very few of the plague; whereas before, one, three, or four were the ordinary weekly numbers of that distemper. Likewise, as I observed before, the burials increased weekly in that particular parish and the parishes adjacent, more than in any other parish, although there were none set down of the plague; all which tell us that the infection was handed on, and the succession of the distemper really preserved, though it seemed to us at that time to be ceased, and to come again in a manner surprising. It might be, also, that the infection might remain in other parts of the same parcel of goods which at first it came in, and which might not be, perhaps, opened, or at least not fully, or in the clothes of the first infected person; for I cannot think that anybody could be seized with the contagion in a fatal and mortal degree for nine weeks together, and support his state of health so well as even not to discover it to themselves:[281] yet, if it were so, the argument is the stronger in favor of what I am saying, namely, that the infection is retained in bodies apparently well, and conveyed from them to those they converse with, while it is known to neither the one nor the other. Great were the confusions at that time upon this very account; and when people began to be convinced that the infection was received in this surprising manner from persons apparently well, they began to be exceeding shy and jealous of every one that came near them. Once, on a public day, whether a sabbath day or not I do not remember, in Aldgate Church, in a pew full of people, on a sudden one fancied she smelt an ill smell. Immediately she fancies the plague was in the pew, whispers her notion or suspicion to the next, then rises and goes out of the pew. It immediately took with the next, and so with them all; and every one of them, and of the two or three adjoining pews, got up and went out of the church, nobody knowing what it was offended them, or from whom. This immediately filled everybody's mouths with one preparation or other, such as the old women directed, and some, perhaps, as physicians directed, in order to prevent infection by the breath of others; insomuch, that if we came to go into a church when it was anything full of people, there would be such a mixture of smells at the entrance, that it was much more strong, though perhaps not so wholesome, than if you were going into an apothecary's or druggist's shop: in a word, the whole church was like a smelling bottle. In one corner it was all perfumes; in another, aromatics,[282] balsamics,[283] and a variety of drugs and herbs; in another, salts and spirits, as every one was furnished for their own preservation. Yet I observed that after people were possessed, as I have said, with the belief, or rather assurance, of the infection being thus carried on by persons apparently in health, the churches and meetinghouses were much thinner of people than at other times, before that, they used to be; for this is to be said of the people of London, that, during the whole time of the pestilence, the churches or meetings were never wholly shut up, nor did the people decline coming out to the public worship of God, except only in some parishes, when the violence of the distemper was more particularly in that parish at that time, and even then[284] no longer than it[285] continued to be so. Indeed, nothing was more strange than to see with what courage the people went to the public service of God, even at that time when they were afraid to stir out of their own houses upon any other occasion (this I mean before the time of desperation which I have mentioned already). This was a proof of the exceeding populousness of the city at the time of the infection, notwithstanding the great numbers that were gone into the country at the first alarm, and that fled out into the forests and woods when they were further terrified with the extraordinary increase of it. For when we came to see the crowds and throngs of people which appeared on the sabbath days at the churches, and especially in those parts of the town where the plague was abated, or where it was not yet come to its height, it was amazing. But of this I shall speak again presently. I return, in the mean time, to the article of infecting one another at first. Before people came to right notions of the infection and of infecting one another, people were only shy of those that were really sick. A man with a cap upon his head, or with cloths round his neck (which was the case of those that had swellings there),--such was indeed frightful; but when we saw a gentleman dressed, with his band[286] on, and his gloves in his hand, his hat upon his head, and his hair combed,--of such we had not the least apprehensions; and people conversed a great while freely, especially with their neighbors and such as they knew. But when the physicians assured us that the danger was as well from the sound (that is, the seemingly sound) as the sick, and that those people that thought themselves entirely free were oftentimes the most fatal; and that it came to be generally understood that people were sensible of it, and of the reason of it,--then, I say, they began to be jealous of everybody; and a vast number of people locked themselves up, so as not to come abroad into any company at all, nor suffer any that had been abroad in promiscuous company to come into their houses, or near them (at least not so near them as to be within the reach of their breath, or of any smell from them); and when they were obliged to converse at a distance with strangers, they would always have preservatives in their mouths and about their clothes, to repel and keep off the infection. It must be acknowledged that when people began to use these cautions they were less exposed to danger, and the infection did not break into such houses so furiously as it did into others before; and thousands of families were preserved, speaking with due reserve to the direction of Divine Providence, by that means. But it was impossible to beat anything into the heads of the poor. They went on with the usual impetuosity of their tempers, full of outcries and lamentations when taken, but madly careless of themselves, foolhardy, and obstinate, while they were well. Where they could get employment, they pushed into any kind of business, the most dangerous and the most liable to infection; and if they were spoken to, their answer would be, "I must trust to God for that. If I am taken, then I am provided for, and there is an end of me;" and the like. Or thus, "Why, what must I do? I cannot starve. I had as good have the plague as perish for want. I have no work: what could I do? I must do this, or beg." Suppose it was burying the dead, or attending the sick, or watching infected houses, which were all terrible hazards; but their tale was generally the same. It is true, necessity was a justifiable, warrantable plea, and nothing could be better; but their way of talk was much the same where the necessities were not the same. This adventurous conduct of the poor was that which brought the plague among them in a most furious manner; and this, joined to the distress of their circumstances when taken, was the reason why they died so by heaps; for I cannot say I could observe one jot of better husbandry[287] among them (I mean the laboring poor) while they were all well and getting money than there was before; but[288] as lavish, as extravagant, and as thoughtless for to-morrow as ever; so that when they came to be taken sick, they were immediately in the utmost distress, as well for want as for sickness, as well for lack of food as lack of health. The misery of the poor I had many occasions to be an eyewitness of, and sometimes, also, of the charitable assistance that some pious people daily gave to such, sending them relief and supplies, both of food, physic, and other help, as they found they wanted. And indeed it is a debt of justice due to the temper of the people of that day, to take notice here, that not only great sums, very great sums of money, were charitably sent to the lord mayor and aldermen for the assistance and support of the poor distempered people, but abundance of private people daily distributed large sums of money for their relief, and sent people about to inquire into the condition of particular distressed and visited families, and relieved them. Nay, some pious ladies were transported with zeal in so good a work, and so confident in the protection of Providence in discharge of the great duty of charity, that they went about in person distributing alms to the poor, and even visiting poor families, though sick and infected, in their very houses, appointing nurses to attend those that wanted attending, and ordering apothecaries and surgeons, the first to supply them with drugs or plasters, and such things as they wanted, and the last to lance and dress the swellings and tumors, where such were wanting; giving their blessing to the poor in substantial relief to them, as well as hearty prayers for them. I will not undertake to say, as some do, that none of those charitable people were suffered to fall under the calamity itself; but this I may say, that I never knew any one of them that miscarried, which I mention for the encouragement of others in case of the like distress; and doubtless if they that give to the poor lend to the Lord, and he will repay them, those that hazard their lives to give to the poor, and to comfort and assist the poor in such misery as this, may hope to be protected in the work. Nor was this charity so extraordinary eminent only in a few; but (for I cannot lightly quit this point) the charity of the rich, as well in the city and suburbs as from the country, was so great, that in a word a prodigious number of people, who must otherwise have perished for want as well as sickness, were supported and subsisted by it; and though I could never, nor I believe any one else, come to a full knowledge of what was so contributed, yet I do believe, that, as I heard one say that was a critical observer of that part,[289] there was not only many thousand pounds contributed, but many hundred thousand pounds, to the relief of the poor of this distressed, afflicted city. Nay, one man affirmed to me that he could reckon up above one hundred thousand pounds a week which was distributed by the churchwardens at the several parish vestries, by the lord mayor and the aldermen in the several wards and precincts, and by the particular direction of the court and of the justices respectively in the parts where they resided, over and above the private charity distributed by pious hands in the manner I speak of; and this continued for many weeks together. I confess this is a very great sum; but if it be true that there was distributed, in the parish of Cripplegate only, seventeen thousand eight hundred pounds in one week to the relief of the poor, as I heard reported, and which I really believe was true, the other may not be improbable. It was doubtless to be reckoned among the many signal good providences which attended this great city, and of which there were many other worth recording. I say, this was a very remarkable one, that it pleased God thus to move the hearts of the people in all parts of the kingdom so cheerfully to contribute to the relief and support of the poor at London; the good consequences of which were felt many ways, and particularly in preserving the lives and recovering the health of so many thousands, and keeping so many thousands of families from perishing and starving. And now I am talking of the merciful disposition of Providence in this time of calamity, I cannot but mention again, though I have spoken several times of it already on other accounts (I mean that of the progression of the distemper), how it began at one end of the town, and proceeded gradually and slowly from one part to another, and like a dark cloud that passes over our heads, which, as it thickens and overcasts the air at one end, clears up at the other end: so, while the plague went on raging from west to east, as it went forwards east, it abated in the west; by which means those parts of the town which were not seized, or who[290] were left, and where it had spent its fury, were (as it were) spared to help and assist the other: whereas, had the distemper spread itself over the whole city and suburbs at once, raging in all places alike, as it has done since in some places abroad, the whole body of the people must have been overwhelmed, and there would have died twenty thousand a day, as they say there did at Naples, nor would the people have been able to have helped or assisted one another. For it must be observed that where the plague was in its full force, there indeed the people were very miserable, and the consternation was inexpressible; but a little before it reached even to that place, or presently after it was gone, they were quite another sort of people; and I cannot but acknowledge that there was too much of that common temper of mankind to be found among us all at that time, namely, to forget the deliverance when the danger is past. But I shall come to speak of that part again. It must not be forgot here to take some notice of the state of trade during the time of this common calamity; and this with respect to foreign trade, as also to our home trade. As to foreign trade, there needs little to be said. The trading nations of Europe were all afraid of us. No port of France, or Holland, or Spain, or Italy, would admit our ships, or correspond with us. Indeed, we stood on ill terms with the Dutch, and were in a furious war with them, though in a bad condition to fight abroad, who had such dreadful enemies to struggle with at home. Our merchants were accordingly at a full stop. Their ships could go nowhere; that is to say, to no place abroad. Their manufactures and merchandise, that is to say, of our growth, would not be touched abroad. They were as much afraid of our goods as they were of our people; and indeed they had reason, for our woolen manufactures are as retentive of infection as human bodies, and, if packed up by persons infected, would receive the infection, and be as dangerous to the touch as a man would be that was infected; and therefore when any English vessel arrived in foreign countries, if they did take the goods on shore, they always caused the bales to be opened and aired in places appointed for that purpose. But from London they would not suffer them to come into port, much less to unload their goods, upon any terms whatever; and this strictness was especially used with them in Spain and Italy. In Turkey and the islands of the Arches,[291] indeed, as they are called, as well those belonging to the Turks as to the Venetians, they were not so very rigid. In the first there was no obstruction at all, and four ships which were then in the river loading for Italy (that is, for Leghorn and Naples) being denied product, as they call it, went on to Turkey, and were freely admitted to unlade their cargo without any difficulty, only that when they arrived there, some of their cargo was not fit for sale in that country, and other parts of it being consigned to merchants at Leghorn, the captains of the ships had no right nor any orders to dispose of the goods; so that great inconveniences followed to the merchants. But this was nothing but what the necessity of affairs required; and the merchants at Leghorn and Naples, having notice given them, sent again from thence to take care of the effects which were particularly consigned to those ports, and to bring back in other ships such as were improper for the markets at Smyrna[292] and Scanderoon.[293] The inconveniences in Spain and Portugal were still greater; for they would by no means suffer our ships, especially those from London, to come into any of their ports, much less to unlade. There was a report that one of our ships having by stealth delivered her cargo, among which were some bales of English cloth, cotton, kerseys, and such like goods, the Spaniards caused all the goods to be burned, and punished the men with death who were concerned in carrying them on shore. This I believe was in part true, though I do not affirm it; but it is not at all unlikely, seeing the danger was really very great, the infection being so violent in London. I heard likewise that the plague was carried into those countries by some of our ships, and particularly to the port of Faro, in the kingdom of Algarve,[294] belonging to the King of Portugal, and that several persons died of it there; but it was not confirmed. On the other hand, though the Spaniards and Portuguese were so shy of us, it is most certain that the plague, as has been said, keeping at first much at that end of the town next Westminster, the merchandising part of the town, such as the city and the waterside, was perfectly sound till at least the beginning of July, and the ships in the river till the beginning of August; for to the 1st of July there had died but seven within the whole city, and but sixty within the liberties; but one in all the parishes of Stepney, Aldgate, and Whitechapel, and but two in all the eight parishes of Southwark. But it was the same thing abroad, for the bad news was gone over the whole world, that the city of London was infected with the plague; and there was no inquiring there how the infection proceeded, or at which part of the town it was begun or was reached to. Besides, after it began to spread, it increased so fast, and the bills grew so high all on a sudden, that it was to no purpose to lessen the report of it, or endeavor to make the people abroad think it better than it was. The account which the weekly bills gave in was sufficient; and that there died two thousand to three or four thousand a week was sufficient to alarm the whole trading part of the world: and the following time being so dreadful also in the very city itself, put the whole world, I say, upon their guard against it. You may be sure also that the report of these things lost nothing in the carriage. The plague was itself very terrible, and the distress of the people very great, as you may observe of what I have said, but the rumor was infinitely greater; and it must not be wondered that our friends abroad, as my brother's correspondents in particular, were told there (namely, in Portugal and Italy, where he chiefly traded), that in London there died twenty thousand in a week; that the dead bodies lay unburied by heaps; that the living were not sufficient to bury the dead, or the sound to look after the sick; that all the kingdom was infected likewise, so that it was an universal malady such as was never heard of in those parts of the world. And they could hardly believe us when we gave them an account how things really were; and how there was not above one tenth part of the people dead; that there were five hundred thousand left that lived all the time in the town; that now the people began to walk the streets again, and those who were fled to return; there was no miss of the usual throng of people in the streets, except as every family might miss their relations and neighbors; and the like. I say, they could not believe these things; and if inquiry were now to be made in Naples, or in other cities on the coast of Italy, they would tell you there was a dreadful infection in London so many years ago, in which, as above, there died twenty thousand in a week, etc., just as we have had it reported in London that there was a plague in the city of Naples in the year 1656, in which there died twenty thousand people in a day, of which I have had very good satisfaction that it was utterly false. But these extravagant reports were very prejudicial to our trade, as well as unjust and injurious in themselves; for it was a long time after the plague was quite over before our trade could recover itself in those parts of the world; and the Flemings[295] and Dutch, but especially the last, made very great advantages of it, having all the market to themselves, and even buying our manufactures in the several parts of England where the plague was not, and carrying them to Holland and Flanders, and from thence transporting them to Spain and to Italy, as if they had been of their own making. But they were detected sometimes, and punished, that is to say, their goods confiscated, and ships also; for if it was true that our manufactures as well as our people were infected, and that it was dangerous to touch or to open and receive the smell of them, then those people ran the hazard, by that clandestine trade, not only of carrying the contagion into their own country, but also of infecting the nations to whom they traded with those goods; which, considering how many lives might be lost in consequence of such an action, must be a trade that no men of conscience could suffer themselves to be concerned in. I do not take upon me to say that any harm was done, I mean of that kind, by those people; but I doubt I need not make any such proviso in the case of our own country; for either by our people of London, or by the commerce, which made their conversing with all sorts of people in every county, and of every considerable town, necessary,--I say, by this means the plague was first or last spread all over the kingdom, as well in London as in all the cities and great towns, especially in the trading manufacturing towns and seaports: so that first or last all the considerable places in England were visited more or less, and the kingdom of Ireland in some places, but not so universally. How it fared with the people in Scotland, I had no opportunity to inquire. It is to be observed, that, while the plague continued so violent in London, the outports, as they are called, enjoyed a very great trade, especially to the adjacent countries and to our own plantations.[296] For example, the towns of Colchester, Yarmouth, and Hull, on that side[297] of England, exported to Holland and Hamburg the manufactures of the adjacent counties for several months after the trade with London was, as it were, entirely shut up. Likewise the cities of Bristol[298] and Exeter, with the port of Plymouth, had the like advantage to Spain, to the Canaries, to Guinea, and to the West Indies, and particularly to Ireland. But as the plague spread itself every way after it had been in London to such a degree as it was in August and September, so all or most of those cities and towns were infected first or last, and then trade was, as it were, under a general embargo, or at a full stop, as I shall observe further when I speak of our home trade. One thing, however, must be observed, that as to ships coming in from abroad (as many, you may be sure, did), some who were out in all parts of the world a considerable while before, and some who, when they went out, knew nothing of an infection, or at least of one so terrible,--these came up the river boldly, and delivered their cargoes as they were obliged to do, except just in the two months of August and September, when, the weight of the infection lying, as I may say, all below bridge, nobody durst appear in business for a while. But as this continued but for a few weeks, the homeward-bound ships, especially such whose cargoes were not liable to spoil, came to an anchor, for a time, short of the Pool, or freshwater part of the river, even as low as the river Medway, where several of them ran in; and others lay at the Nore, and in the Hope below Gravesend: so that by the latter end of October there was a very great fleet of homeward-bound ships to come up, such as the like had not been known for many years. Two particular trades were carried on by water carriage all the while of the infection, and that with little or no interruption, very much to the advantage and comfort of the poor distressed people of the city; and those were the coasting trade for corn, and the Newcastle trade for coals. The first of these was particularly carried on by small vessels from the port of Hull, and other places in the Humber, by which great quantities of corn were brought in from Yorkshire and Lincolnshire; the other part of this corn trade was from Lynn in Norfolk, from Wells, and Burnham, and from Yarmouth, all in the same county; and the third branch was from the river Medway, and from Milton, Feversham, Margate, and Sandwich, and all the other little places and ports round the coast of Kent and Essex.[299] There was also a very good trade from the coast of Suffolk, with corn, butter, and cheese. These vessels kept a constant course of trade, and without interruption came up to that market known still by the name of Bear Key, where they supplied the city plentifully with corn when land carriage began to fail, and when the people began to be sick of coming from many places in the country. This also was much of it owing to the prudence and conduct of the lord mayor, who took such care to keep the masters and seamen from danger when they came up, causing their corn to be bought off at any time they wanted a market (which, however, was very seldom), and causing the cornfactors[300] immediately to unlade and deliver the vessels laden with corn, that they had very little occasion to come out of their ships or vessels, the money being always carried on board to them, and put it into a pail of vinegar before it was carried. The second trade was that of coals from Newcastle-upon-Tyne, without which the city would have been greatly distressed; for not in the streets only, but in private houses and families, great quantities of coal were then burnt, even all the summer long, and when the weather was hottest, which was done by the advice of the physicians. Some, indeed, opposed it, and insisted that to keep the houses and rooms hot was a means to propagate the distemper, which was a fermentation and heat already in the blood; that it was known to spread and increase in hot weather, and abate in cold; and therefore they alleged that all contagious distempers are the worst for heat, because the contagion was nourished, and gained strength, in hot weather, and was, as it were, propagated in heat. Others said they granted that heat in the climate might propagate infection, as sultry hot weather fills the air with vermin, and nourishes innumerable numbers and kinds of venomous creatures, which breed in our food, in the plants, and even in our bodies, by the very stench of which infection may be propagated; also that heat in the air, or heat of weather, as we ordinarily call it, makes bodies relax and faint, exhausts the spirits, opens the pores, and makes us more apt to receive infection or any evil influence, be it from noxious, pestilential vapors, or any other thing in the air; but that the heat of fire, and especially of coal fires, kept in our houses or near us, had quite a different operation, the heat being not of the same kind, but quick and fierce, tending not to nourish, but to consume and dissipate, all those noxious fumes which the other kind of heat rather exhaled, and stagnated than separated, and burnt up. Besides, it was alleged that the sulphureous and nitrous particles that are often found to be in the coal, with that bituminous substance which burns, are all assisting to clear and purge the air, and render it wholesome and safe to breathe in, after the noxious particles (as above) are dispersed and burnt up. The latter opinion prevailed at that time, and, as I must confess, I think with good reason; and the experience of the citizens confirmed it, many houses which had constant fires kept in the rooms having never been infected at all; and I must join my experience to it, for I found the keeping of good fires kept our rooms sweet and wholesome, and I do verily believe made our whole family so, more than would otherwise have been. But I return to the coals as a trade. It was with no little difficulty that this trade was kept open, and particularly because, as we were in an open war with the Dutch at that time, the Dutch capers[301] at first took a great many of our collier ships, which made the rest cautious, and made them to stay to come in fleets together. But after some time the capers were either afraid to take them, or their masters, the States, were afraid they should, and forbade them, lest the plague should be among them, which made them fare the better. For the security of those northern traders, the coal ships were ordered by my lord mayor not to come up into the Pool above a certain number at a time; and[302] ordered lighters and other vessels, such as the woodmongers (that is, the wharf keepers) or coal sellers furnished, to go down and take out the coals as low as Deptford and Greenwich, and some farther down. Others delivered great quantities of coals in particular places where the ships could come to the shore, as at Greenwich, Blackwall, and other places, in vast heaps, as if to be kept for sale; but[303] were then fetched away after the ships which brought them were gone; so that the seamen had no communication with the river men, nor so much as came near one another.[304] Yet all this caution could not effectually prevent the distemper getting among the colliery, that is to say, among the ships, by which a great many seamen died of it; and that which was still worse was, that they carried it down to Ipswich and Yarmouth, to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and other places on the coast, where, especially at Newcastle and at Sunderland, it carried off a great number of people. The making so many fires as above did indeed consume an unusual quantity of coals; and that upon one or two stops of the ships coming up (whether by contrary weather or by the interruption of enemies, I do not remember); but the price of coals was exceedingly dear, even as high as four pounds a chaldron;[305] but it soon abated when the ships came in, and, as afterwards they had a freer passage, the price was very reasonable all the rest of that year. The public fires which were made on these occasions, as I have calculated it, must necessarily have cost the city about two hundred chaldron of coals a week, if they had continued, which was indeed a very great quantity; but as it was thought necessary, nothing was spared. However, as some of the physicians cried them down, they were not kept alight above four or five days. The fires were ordered thus:-- One at the Custom House; one at Billingsgate; one at Queenhithe, and one at the Three Cranes; one in Blackfriars, and one at the gate of Bridewell; one at the corner of Leadenhall Street and Gracechurch; one at the north and one at the south gate of the Royal Exchange; one at Guildhall, and one at Blackwell Hall gate; one at the lord mayor's door in St. Helen's; one at the west entrance into St. Paul's; and one at the entrance into Bow Church. I do not remember whether there was any at the city gates, but one at the bridge foot there was, just by St. Magnus Church. I know some have quarreled since that at the experiment, and said that there died the more people because of those fires; but I am persuaded those that say so offer no evidence to prove it, neither can I believe it on any account whatever. It remains to give some account of the state of trade at home in England during this dreadful time, and particularly as it relates to the manufactures and the trade in the city. At the first breaking out of the infection there was, as it is easy to suppose, a very great fright among the people, and consequently a general stop of trade, except in provisions and necessaries of life; and even in those things, as there was a vast number of people fled and a very great number always sick, besides the number which died, so there could not be above two thirds, if above one half, of the consumption of provisions in the city as used to be. It pleased God to send a very plentiful year of corn and fruit, and not of hay or grass, by which means bread was cheap by reason of the plenty of corn, flesh was cheap by reason of the scarcity of grass, but butter and cheese were dear for the same reason; and hay in the market, just beyond Whitechapel Bars, was sold at four pounds per load; but that affected not the poor. There was a most excessive plenty of all sorts of fruit, such as apples, pears, plums, cherries, grapes; and they were the cheaper because of the wants of the people; but this made the poor eat them to excess, and this brought them into surfeits and the like, which often precipitated them into the plague. But to come to matters of trade. First, foreign exportation being stopped, or at least very much interrupted and rendered difficult, a general stop of all those manufactures followed of course, which were usually brought for exportation; and, though sometimes merchants abroad were importunate for goods, yet little was sent, the passages being so generally stopped that the English ships would not be admitted, as is said already, into their port. This put a stop to the manufactures that were for exportation in most parts of England, except in some outports; and even that was soon stopped, for they all had the plague in their turn. But though this was felt all over England, yet, what was still worse, all intercourse of trade for home consumption of manufactures, especially those which usually circulated through the Londoners' hands, was stopped at once, the trade of the city being stopped. All kinds of handicrafts in the city, etc., tradesmen and mechanics, were, as I have said before, out of employ; and this occasioned the putting off and dismissing an innumerable number of journeymen and workmen of all sorts, seeing nothing was done relating to such trades but what might be said to be absolutely necessary. This caused the multitude of single people in London to be unprovided for, as also of families whose living depended upon the labor of the heads of those families. I say, this reduced them to extreme misery; and I must confess it is for the honor of the city of London, and will be for many ages, as long as this is to be spoken of, that they were able to supply with charitable provision the wants of so many thousands of those as afterwards fell sick and were distressed; so that it may be safely averred that nobody perished for want, at least that the magistrates had any notice given them of. This stagnation of our manufacturing trade in the country would have put the people there to much greater difficulties, but that the master workmen, clothiers, and others, to the uttermost of their stocks and strength, kept on making their goods to keep the poor at work, believing that, as soon as the sickness should abate, they would have a quick demand in proportion to the decay of their trade at that time; but as none but those masters that were rich could do thus, and that many were poor and not able, the manufacturing trade in England suffered greatly, and the poor were pinched all over England by the calamity of the city of London only. It is true that the next year made them full amends by another terrible calamity upon the city; so that the city by one calamity impoverished and weakened the country, and by another calamity (even terrible, too, of its kind) enriched the country, and made them again amends: for an infinite quantity of household stuff, wearing apparel, and other things, besides whole warehouses filled with merchandise and manufactures, such as come from all parts of England, were consumed in the fire of London the next year after this terrible visitation. It is incredible what a trade this made all over the whole kingdom, to make good the want, and to supply that loss; so that, in short, all the manufacturing hands in the nation were set on work, and were little enough for several years to supply the market, and answer the demands. All foreign markets also were empty of our goods, by the stop which had been occasioned by the plague, and before an open trade was allowed again; and the prodigious demand at home falling in, joined to make a quick vent[306] for all sorts of goods; so that there never was known such a trade all over England, for the time, as was in the first seven years after the plague, and after the fire of London. It remains now that I should say something of the merciful part of this terrible judgment. The last week in September, the plague being come to its crisis, its fury began to assuage. I remember my friend Dr. Heath, coming to see me the week before, told me he was sure the violence of it would assuage in a few days; but when I saw the weekly bill of that week, which was the highest of the whole year, being 8,297 of all diseases, I upbraided him with it, and asked him what he had made his judgment from. His answer, however, was not so much to seek[307] as I thought it would have been. "Look you," says he: "by the number which are at this time sick and infected, there should have been twenty thousand dead the last week, instead of eight thousand, if the inveterate mortal contagion had been as it was two weeks ago; for then it ordinarily killed in two or three days, now not under eight or ten; and then not above one in five recovered, whereas I have observed that now not above two in five miscarry. And observe it from me, the next bill will decrease, and you will see many more people recover than used to do; for though a vast multitude are now everywhere infected, and as many every day fall sick, yet there will not so many die as there did, for the malignity of the distemper is abated;" adding that he began now to hope, nay, more than hope, that the infection had passed its crisis, and was going off. And accordingly so it was; for the next week being, as I said, the last in September, the bill decreased almost two thousand. It is true, the plague was still at a frightful height, and the next bill was no less than 6,460, and the next to that 5,720; but still my friend's observation was just, and it did appear the people did recover faster, and more in number, than they used to do; and indeed if it had not been so, what had been the condition of the city of London? For, according to my friend, there were not fewer than 60,000 people at that time infected, whereof, as above, 20,477 died, and near 40,000 recovered; whereas, had it been as it was before, 50,000 of that number would very probably have died, if not more, and 50,000 more would have sickened; for in a word the whole mass of people began to sicken, and it looked as if none would escape. But this remark of my friend's appeared more evident in a few weeks more; for the decrease went on, and another week in October it decreased 1,843, so that the number dead of the plague was but 2,665; and the next week it decreased 1,413 more, and yet it was seen plainly that there was abundance of people sick, nay, abundance more than ordinary, and abundance fell sick every day; but, as above, the malignity of the disease abated. Such is the precipitant disposition of our people (whether it is so or not all over the world, that is none of my particular business to inquire; but I saw it apparently here), that, as upon the first sight of the infection they shunned one another, and fled from one another's houses and from the city with an unaccountable, and, as I thought, unnecessary fright, so now, upon this notion spreading, viz., that the distemper was not so catching as formerly, and that if it was catched it was not so mortal, and seeing abundance of people who really fell sick recover again daily, they took to such a precipitant courage, and grew so entirely regardless of themselves and of the infection, that they made no more of the plague than of an ordinary fever, nor indeed so much. They not only went boldly into company with those who had tumors and carbuncles upon them that were running, and consequently contagious, but eat and drank with them, nay, into their houses to visit them, and even, as I was told, into their very chambers where they lay sick. This I could not see rational. My friend Dr. Heath allowed, and it was plain to experience, that the distemper was as catching as ever, and as many fell sick, but only he alleged that so many of those that fell sick did not die; but I think that while many did die, and that at best the distemper itself was very terrible, the sores and swellings very tormenting, and the danger of death not left out of the circumstance of sickness, though not so frequent as before,--all those things, together with the exceeding tediousness of the cure, the loathsomeness of the disease, and many other articles, were enough to deter any man living from a dangerous mixture[308] with the sick people, and make them[309] as anxious almost to avoid the infection as before. Nay, there was another thing which made the mere catching of the distemper frightful, and that was the terrible burning of the caustics which the surgeons laid on the swellings to bring them to break and to run; without which the danger of death was very great, even to the last; also the insufferable torment of the swellings, which, though it might not make people raving and distracted, as they were before, and as I have given several instances of already, yet they put the patient to inexpressible torment; and those that fell into it, though they did escape with life, yet they made bitter complaints of those that had told them there was no danger, and sadly repented their rashness and folly in venturing to run into the reach of it. Nor did this unwary conduct of the people end here; for a great many that thus cast off their cautions suffered more deeply still, and though many escaped, yet many died; and at least it[310] had this public mischief attending it, that it made the decrease of burials slower than it would otherwise have been; for, as this notion ran like lightning through the city, and the people's heads were possessed with it, even as soon as the first great decrease in the bills appeared, we found that the two next bills did not decrease in proportion: the reason I take to be the people's running so rashly into danger, giving up all their former cautions and care, and all shyness which they used to practice, depending that the sickness would not reach them, or that, if it did, they should not die. The physicians opposed this thoughtless humor of the people with all their might, and gave out printed directions, spreading them all over the city and suburbs, advising the people to continue reserved, and to use still the utmost caution in their ordinary conduct, notwithstanding the decrease of the distemper; terrifying them with the danger of bringing a relapse upon the whole city, and telling them how such a relapse might be more fatal and dangerous than the whole visitation that had been already; with many arguments and reasons to explain and prove that part to them, and which are too long to repeat here. But it was all to no purpose. The audacious creatures were so possessed with the first joy, and so surprised with the satisfaction of seeing a vast decrease in the weekly bills, that they were impenetrable by any new terrors, and would not be persuaded but that the bitterness of death was passed; and it was to no more purpose to talk to them than to an east wind; but they opened shops, went about streets, did business, and conversed with anybody that came in their way to converse with, whether with business or without, neither inquiring of their health, or so much as being apprehensive of any danger from them, though they knew them not to be sound. This imprudent, rash conduct cost a great many their lives who had with great care and caution shut themselves up, and kept retired, as it were, from all mankind, and had by that means, under God's providence, been preserved through all the heat of that infection. This rash and foolish conduct of the people went so far, that the ministers took notice to them of it, and laid before them both the folly and danger of it; and this checked it a little, so that they grew more cautious. But it had another effect, which they could not check: for as the first rumor had spread, not over the city only, but into the country, it had the like effect; and the people were so tired with being so long from London, and so eager to come back, that they flocked to town without fear or forecast, and began to show themselves in the streets as if all the danger was over. It was indeed surprising to see it; for though there died still from a thousand to eighteen hundred a week, yet the people flocked to town as if all had been well. The consequence of this was, that the bills increased again four hundred the very first week in November; and, if I might believe the physicians, there were above three thousand fell sick that week, most of them newcomers too. One John Cock, a barber in St. Martin's-le-Grand, was an eminent example of this (I mean of the hasty return of the people when the plague was abated). This John Cock had left the town with his whole family, and locked up his house, and was gone into the country, as many others did; and, finding the plague so decreased in November that there died but 905 per week of all diseases, he ventured home again. He had in his family ten persons; that is to say, himself and wife, five children, two apprentices, and a maidservant. He had not been returned to his house above a week, and began to open his shop and carry on his trade, but the distemper broke out in his family, and within about five days they all died except one: that is to say, himself, his wife, all his five children, and his two apprentices; and only the maid remained alive. But the mercy of God was greater to the rest than we had reason to expect; for the malignity, as I have said, of the distemper was spent, the contagion was exhausted, and also the wintry weather came on apace, and the air was clear and cold, with some sharp frosts; and this increasing still, most of those that had fallen sick recovered, and the health of the city began to return. There were indeed some returns of the distemper, even in the month of December, and the bills increased near a hundred; but it went off again, and so in a short while things began to return to their own channel. And wonderful it was to see how populous the city was again all on a sudden; so that a stranger could not miss the numbers that were lost, neither was there any miss of the inhabitants as to their dwellings. Few or no empty houses were to be seen, or, if there were some, there was no want of tenants for them. I wish I could say, that, as the city had a new face, so the manners of the people had a new appearance. I doubt not but there were many that retained a sincere sense of their deliverance, and that were heartily thankful to that Sovereign Hand that had protected them in so dangerous a time. It would be very uncharitable to judge otherwise in a city so populous, and where the people were so devout as they were here in the time of the visitation itself; but, except what of this was to be found in particular families and faces, it must be acknowledged that the general practice of the people was just as it was before, and very little difference was to be seen. Some, indeed, said things were worse; that the morals of the people declined from this very time; that the people, hardened by the danger they had been in, like seamen after a storm is over, were more wicked and more stupid, more bold and hardened in their vices and immoralities, than they were before; but I will not carry it so far, neither. It would take up a history of no small length to give a particular of all the gradations by which the course of things in this city came to be restored again, and to run in their own channel as they did before. Some parts of England were now infected as violently as London had been. The cities of Norwich, Peterborough, Lincoln, Colchester, and other places, were now visited, and the magistrates of London began to set rules for our conduct as to corresponding with those cities. It is true, we could not pretend to forbid their people coming to London, because it was impossible to know them asunder; so, after many consultations, the lord mayor and court of aldermen were obliged to drop it. All they could do was to warn and caution the people not to entertain in their houses, or converse with, any people who they knew came from such infected places. But they might as well have talked to the air; for the people of London thought themselves so plague-free now, that they were past all admonitions. They seemed to depend upon it that the air was restored, and that the air was like a man that had had the smallpox,--not capable of being infected again. This revived that notion that the infection was all in the air; that there was no such thing as contagion from the sick people to the sound; and so strongly did this whimsey prevail among people, that they run altogether promiscuously, sick and well. Not the Mohammedans, who, prepossessed with the principle of predestination, value[311] nothing of contagion, let it be in what it will, could be more obstinate than the people of London. They that were perfectly sound, and came out of the wholesome air, as we call it, into the city, made nothing of going into the same houses and chambers, nay, even into the same beds, with those that had the distemper upon them, and were not recovered. Some, indeed, paid for their audacious boldness with the price of their lives. An infinite number fell sick, and the physicians had more work than ever, only with this difference, that more of their patients recovered, that is to say, they generally recovered; but certainly there were more people infected and fell sick now, when there did not die above a thousand or twelve hundred a week, than there was[312] when there died five or six thousand a week, so entirely negligent were the people at that time in the great and dangerous case of health and infection, and so ill were they able to take or except[313] of the advice of those who cautioned them for their good. The people being thus returned, as it were, in general, it was very strange to find, that, in their inquiring after their friends, some whole families were so entirely swept away that there was no remembrance of them left. Neither was anybody to be found to possess or show any title to that little they had left; for in such cases what was to be found was generally embezzled and purloined, some gone one way, some another. It was said such abandoned effects came to the King as the universal heir; upon which we are told, and I suppose it was in part true, that the King granted all such as deodands[314] to the lord mayor and court of aldermen of London, to be applied to the use of the poor, of whom there were very many. For it is to be observed, that though the occasions of relief and the objects of distress were very many more in the time of the violence of the plague than now, after all was over, yet the distress of the poor was more now a great deal than it was then, because all the sluices of general charity were shut. People supposed the main occasion to be over, and so stopped their hands; whereas particular objects were still very moving, and the distress of those that were poor was very great indeed. Though the health of the city was now very much restored, yet foreign trade did not begin to stir; neither would foreigners admit our ships into their ports for a great while. As for the Dutch, the misunderstandings between our court and them had broken out into a war the year before, so that our trade that way was wholly interrupted; but Spain and Portugal, Italy and Barbary,[315] as also Hamburg, and all the ports in the Baltic,--these were all shy of us a great while, and would not restore trade with us for many months. The distemper sweeping away such multitudes, as I have observed, many if not all of the outparishes were obliged to make new burying grounds, besides that I have mentioned in Bunhill Fields, some of which were continued, and remain in use to this day; but others were left off, and, which I confess I mention with some reflection,[316] being converted into other uses, or built upon afterwards, the dead bodies were disturbed, abused, dug up again, some even before the flesh of them was perished from the bones, and removed like dung or rubbish to other places. Some of those which came within the reach of my observations are as follows:-- First, A piece of ground beyond Goswell Street, near Mountmill, being some of the remains of the old lines or fortifications of the city, where abundance were buried promiscuously from the parishes of Aldersgate, Clerkenwell, and even out of the city. This ground, as I take it, was since[317] made a physic garden,[318] and, after[319] that, has been built upon. Second, A piece of ground just over the Black Ditch, as it was then called, at the end of Holloway Lane, in Shoreditch Parish. It has been since made a yard for keeping hogs and for other ordinary uses, but is quite out of use as a burying ground. Third, The upper end of Hand Alley, in Bishopsgate Street, which was then a green field, and was taken in particularly for Bishopsgate Parish, though many of the carts out of the city brought their dead thither also, particularly out of the parish of St. Allhallows-on-the-Wall. This place I cannot mention without much regret. It was, as I remember, about two or three years after the plague was ceased, that Sir Robert Clayton[320] came to be possessed of the ground. It was reported, how true I know not, that it fell to the King for want of heirs (all those who had any right to it being carried off by the pestilence), and that Sir Robert Clayton obtained a grant of it from King Charles II. But however he came by it, certain it is the ground was let out to build on, or built upon by his order. The first house built upon it was a large fair house, still standing, which faces the street or way now called Hand Alley, which, though called an alley, is as wide as a street. The houses in the same row with that house northward are built on the very same ground where the poor people were buried; and the bodies, on opening the ground for the foundations, were dug up, some of them remaining so plain to be seen, that the women's skulls were distinguished by their long hair, and of others the flesh was not quite perished; so that the people began to exclaim loudly against it, and some suggested that it might endanger a return of the contagion; after which the bones and bodies, as fast as they[321] came at them, were carried to another part of the same ground, and thrown altogether into a deep pit, dug on purpose, which now is to be known[322] in that it is not built on, but is a passage to another house at the upper end of Rose Alley, just against the door of a meetinghouse, which has been built there many years since; and the ground is palisadoed[323] off from the rest of the passage in a little square. There lie the bones and remains of near two thousand bodies, carried by the dead carts to their grave in that one year. Fourth, Besides this, there was a piece of ground in Moorfields, by the going into the street which is now called Old Bethlem, which was enlarged much, though not wholly taken in, on the same occasion. N.B. The author of this journal lies buried in that very ground, being at his own desire, his sister having been buried there a few years before. Fifth, Stepney Parish, extending itself from the east part of London to the north, even to the very edge of Shoreditch churchyard, had a piece of ground taken in to bury their dead, close to the said churchyard; and which, for that very reason, was left open, and is since, I suppose, taken into the same churchyard. And they had also two other burying places in Spittlefields,--one where since a chapel or tabernacle has been built for ease to this great parish, and another in Petticoat Lane. There were no less than five other grounds made use of for the parish of Stepney at that time; one where now stands the parish church of St. Paul, Shadwell, and the other where now stands the parish church of St. John, at Wapping, both which had not the names of parishes at that time, but were belonging to Stepney Parish. I could name many more; but these coming within my particular knowledge, the circumstance, I thought, made it of use to record them. From the whole, it may be observed that they were obliged in this time of distress to take in new burying grounds in most of the outparishes for laying the prodigious numbers of people which died in so short a space of time; but why care was not taken to keep those places separate from ordinary uses, that so the bodies might rest undisturbed, that I cannot answer for, and must confess I think it was wrong. Who were to blame, I know not. I should have mentioned that the Quakers[324] had at that time also a burying ground set apart to their use, and which they still make use of; and they had also a particular dead cart to fetch their dead from their houses. And the famous Solomon Eagle, who, as I mentioned before,[325] had predicted the plague as a judgment, and run naked through the streets, telling the people that it was come upon them to punish them for their sins, had his own wife died[326] the very next day of the plague, and was carried, one of the first, in the Quakers' dead cart to their new burying ground. I might have thronged this account with many more remarkable things which occurred in the time of the infection, and particularly what passed between the lord mayor and the court, which was then at Oxford, and what directions were from time to time received from the government for their conduct on this critical occasion; but really the court concerned themselves so little, and that little they did was of so small import, that I do not see it of much moment to mention any part of it here, except that of appointing a monthly fast in the city, and the sending the royal charity to the relief of the poor, both which I have mentioned before. Great was the reproach thrown upon those physicians who left their patients during the sickness; and, now they came to town again, nobody cared to employ them. They were called deserters, and frequently bills were set up on their doors, and written, "Here is a doctor to be let!" So that several of those physicians were fain for a while to sit still and look about them, or at least remove their dwellings and set up in new places and among new acquaintance. The like was the case with the clergy, whom the people were indeed very abusive to, writing verses and scandalous reflections upon them; setting upon the church door, "Here is a pulpit to be let," or sometimes "to be sold," which was worse. It was not the least of our misfortunes, that with our infection, when it ceased, there did not cease the spirit of strife and contention, slander and reproach, which was really the great troubler of the nation's peace before. It was said to be the remains of the old animosities which had so lately involved us all in blood and disorder;[327] but as the late act of indemnity[328] had lain asleep the quarrel itself, so the government had recommended family and personal peace, upon all occasions, to the whole nation. But it[329] could not be obtained; and particularly after the ceasing of the plague in London, when any one had seen the condition which the people had been in, and how they caressed one another at that time, promised to have more charity for the future, and to raise no more reproaches,--I say, any one that had seen them then would have thought they would have come together with another spirit at last. But, I say, it could not be obtained. The quarrel remained, the Church[330] and the Presbyterians were incompatible. As soon as the plague was removed, the dissenting ousted ministers who had supplied the pulpits which were deserted by the incumbents, retired. They[331] could expect no other but that they[332] should immediately fall upon them[331] and harass them with their penal laws; accept their[331] preaching while they[332] were sick, and persecute them[331] as soon as they[332] were recovered again. This even we that were of the Church thought was hard, and could by no means approve of it. But it was the government, and we could say nothing to hinder it. We could only say it was not our doing, and we could not answer for it. On the other hand, the dissenters reproaching those ministers of the Church with going away, and deserting their charge, abandoning the people in their danger, and when they had most need of comfort, and the like,--this we could by no means approve; for all men have not the same faith and the same courage, and the Scripture commands us to judge the most favorably, and according to charity. A plague is a formidable enemy, and is armed with terrors that every man is not sufficiently fortified to resist, or prepared to stand the shock against.[333] It is very certain that a great many of the clergy who were in circumstances to do it withdrew, and fled for the safety of their lives; but it is true, also, that a great many of them staid, and many of them fell in the calamity, and in the discharge of their duty. It is true, some of the dissenting turned-out ministers staid, and their courage is to be commended and highly valued; but these were not abundance. It cannot be said that they all staid, and that none retired into the country, any more than it can be said of the Church clergy that they all went away. Neither did all those that went away go without substituting curates[334] and others in their places, to do the offices needful, and to visit the sick as far as it was practicable. So that, upon the whole, an allowance of charity might have been made on both sides, and we should have considered that such a time as this of 1665 is not to be paralleled in history, and that it is not the stoutest courage that will always support men in such cases. I had not said this, but had rather chosen[335] to record the courage and religious zeal of those of both sides who did hazard themselves for the service of the poor people in their distress, without remembering that any failed in their duty on either side; but the want of temper among us has made the contrary to this necessary: some that staid, not only boasting too much of themselves, but reviling those that fled, branding them with cowardice, deserting their flocks, and acting the part of the hireling, and the like. I recommend it to the charity of all good people to look back and reflect duly upon the terrors of the time; and whoever does so will see that it is not an ordinary strength that could support it. It was not like appearing in the head of an army, or charging a body of horse in the field; but it was charging death itself on his pale horse.[336] To stay was indeed to die; and it could be esteemed nothing less, especially as things appeared at the latter end of August and the beginning of September, and as there was reason to expect them at that time; for no man expected, and I dare say believed, that the distemper would take so sudden a turn as it did, and fall immediately two thousand in a week, when there was such a prodigious number of people sick at that time as it was known there was; and then it was that many shifted[337] away that had staid most of the time before. Besides, if God gave strength to some more than to others, was it to boast of their ability to abide the stroke, and upbraid those that had not the same gift and support, or ought they not rather to have been humble and thankful if they were rendered more useful than their brethren? I think it ought to be recorded to the honor of such men, as well clergy as physicians, surgeons, apothecaries, magistrates, and officers of every kind, as also all useful people, who ventured their lives in discharge of their duty, as most certainly all such as staid did to the last degree; and several of these kinds did not only venture, but lost their lives on that sad occasion. I was once making a list of all such (I mean of all those professions and employments who thus died, as I call it, in the way of their duty), but it was impossible for a private man to come at a certainty in the particulars. I only remember that there died sixteen clergymen, two aldermen, five physicians, thirteen surgeons, within the city and liberties, before the beginning of September. But this being, as I said before, the crisis and extremity of the infection, it can be no complete list. As to inferior people, I think there died six and forty constables and headboroughs[338] in the two parishes of Stepney and Whitechapel; but I could not carry my list on, for when the violent rage of the distemper, in September, came upon us, it drove us out of all measure. Men did then no more die by tale[339] and by number: they might put out a weekly bill, and call them seven or eight thousand, or what they pleased. It is certain they died by heaps, and were buried by heaps; that is to say, without account. And if I might believe some people who were more abroad and more conversant with those things than I (though I was public enough for one that had no more business to do than I had),--I say, if we may believe them, there was not many less buried those first three weeks in September than twenty thousand per week. However the others aver the truth of it, yet I rather choose to keep to the public account. Seven or eight thousand per week is enough to make good all that I have said of the terror of those times; and it is much to the satisfaction of me that write, as well as those that read, to be able to say that everything is set down with moderation, and rather within compass than beyond it. Upon all these accounts, I say, I could wish, when we were recovered, our conduct had been more distinguished for charity and kindness, in remembrance of the past calamity, and not so much in valuing ourselves upon our boldness in staying; as if all men were cowards that fly from the hand of God, or that those who stay do not sometimes owe their courage to their ignorance, and despising the hand of their Maker, which is a criminal kind of desperation, and not a true courage. I cannot but leave it upon record, that the civil officers, such as constables, headboroughs, lord mayor's and sheriff's men, also parish officers, whose business it was to take charge of the poor, did their duties, in general, with as much courage as any, and perhaps with more; because their work was attended with more hazards, and lay more among the poor, who were more subject to be infected, and in the most pitiful plight when they were taken with the infection. But then it must be added, too, that a great number of them died; indeed, it was scarcely possible it should be otherwise. I have not said one word here about the physic or preparations that were ordinarily made use of on this terrible occasion (I mean we that frequently went abroad up and down the streets, as I did). Much of this was talked of in the books and bills of our quack doctors, of whom I have said enough already. It may, however, be added, that the College of Physicians were daily publishing several preparations, which they had considered of in the process of their practice; and which, being to be had in print, I avoid repeating them for that reason. One thing I could not help observing,--what befell one of the quacks, who published that he had a most excellent preservative against the plague, which whoever kept about them should never be infected, or liable to infection. This man, who, we may reasonably suppose, did not go abroad without some of this excellent preservative in his pocket, yet was taken by the distemper, and carried off in two or three days. I am not of the number of the physic haters or physic despisers (on the contrary, I have often mentioned the regard I had to the dictates of my particular friend Dr. Heath); but yet I must acknowledge I made use of little or nothing, except, as I have observed, to keep a preparation of strong scent, to have ready in case I met with anything of offensive smells, or went too near any burying place or dead body. Neither did I do, what I know some did, keep the spirits high and hot with cordials and wine, and such things, and which, as I observed, one learned physician used himself so much to, as that he could not leave them off when the infection was quite gone, and so became a sot for all his life after. I remember my friend the doctor used to say that there was a certain set of drugs and preparations which were all certainly good and useful in the case of an infection, out of which or with which physicians might make an infinite variety of medicines, as the ringers of bells make several hundred different rounds of music by the changing and order of sound but in six bells; and that all these preparations shall[340] be really very good. "Therefore," said he, "I do not wonder that so vast a throng of medicines is offered in the present calamity, and almost every physician prescribes or prepares a different thing, as his judgment or experience guides him; but," says my friend, "let all the prescriptions of all the physicians in London be examined, and it will be found that they are all compounded of the same things, with such variations only as the particular fancy of the doctor leads him to; so that," says he, "every man, judging a little of his own constitution and manner of his living, and circumstances of his being infected, may direct his own medicines out of the ordinary drugs and preparations. Only that," says he, "some recommend one thing as most sovereign, and some another. Some," says he, "think that Pill. Ruff., which is called itself the antipestilential pill, is the best preparation that can be made; others think that Venice treacle[341] is sufficient of itself to resist the contagion; and I," says he, "think as both these think, viz., that the first is good to take beforehand to prevent it, and the last, if touched, to expel it." According to this opinion, I several times took Venice treacle, and a sound sweat upon it, and thought myself as well fortified against the infection as any one could be fortified by the power of physic. As for quackery and mountebank, of which the town was so full, I listened to none of them, and observed often since, with some wonder, that for two years after the plague I scarcely ever heard one of them about the town. Some fancied they were all swept away in the infection to a man, and were for calling it a particular mark of God's vengeance upon them for leading the poor people into the pit of destruction merely for the lucre of a little money they got by them; but I cannot go that length, neither. That abundance of them died is certain (many of them came within the reach of my own knowledge); but that all of them were swept off, I much question. I believe, rather, they fled into the country, and tried their practices upon the people there, who were in apprehension of the infection before it came among them. This, however, is certain, not a man of them appeared for a great while in or about London. There were indeed several doctors who published bills recommending their several physical preparations for cleansing the body, as they call it, after the plague, and needful, as they said, for such people to take who had been visited and had been cured; whereas, I must own, I believe that it was the opinion of the most eminent physicians of that time, that the plague was itself a sufficient purge, and that those who escaped the infection needed no physic to cleanse their bodies of any other things (the running sores, the tumors, etc., which were broken and kept open by the direction of the physicians, having sufficiently cleansed them); and that all other distempers, and causes of distempers, were effectually carried off that way. And as the physicians gave this as their opinion wherever they came, the quacks got little business. There were indeed several little hurries which happened after the decrease of the plague, and which, whether they were contrived to fright and disorder the people, as some imagined, I cannot say; but sometimes we were told the plague would return by such a time; and the famous Solomon Eagle, the naked Quaker I have mentioned, prophesied evil tidings every day, and several others, telling us that London had not been sufficiently scourged, and the sorer and severer strokes were yet behind. Had they stopped there, or had they descended to particulars, and told us that the city should be the next year destroyed by fire, then, indeed, when we had seen it come to pass, we should not have been to blame to have paid more than common respect to their prophetic spirits (at least, we should have wondered at them, and have been more serious in our inquiries after the meaning of it, and whence they had the foreknowledge); but as they generally told us of a relapse into the plague, we have had no concern since that about them. Yet by those frequent clamors we were all kept with some kind of apprehensions constantly upon us; and if any died suddenly, or if the spotted fevers at any time increased, we were presently alarmed; much more if the number of the plague increased, for to the end of the year there were always between two and three hundred[342] of the plague. On any of these occasions, I say, we were alarmed anew. Those who remember the city of London before the fire must remember that there was then no such place as that we now call Newgate Market; but in the middle of the street, which is now called Blow Bladder Street, and which had its name from the butchers, who used to kill and dress their sheep there (and who, it seems, had a custom to blow up their meat with pipes, to make it look thicker and fatter than it was, and were punished there for it by the lord mayor),--I say, from the end of the street towards Newgate there stood two long rows of shambles for the selling[343] meat. It was in those shambles that two persons falling down dead as they were buying meat, gave rise to a rumor that the meat was all infected; which though it might affright the people, and spoiled the market for two or three days, yet it appeared plainly afterwards that there was nothing of truth in the suggestion: but nobody can account for the possession of fear when it takes hold of the mind. However, it pleased God, by the continuing of the winter weather, so to restore the health of the city, that by February following we reckoned the distemper quite ceased, and then we were not easily frighted again. There was still a question among the learned, and[344] at first perplexed the people a little; and that was, in what manner to purge the houses and goods where the plague had been, and how to render them[345] habitable again which had been left empty during the time of the plague. Abundance of perfumes and preparations were prescribed by physicians, some of one kind, some of another, in which the people who listened to them put themselves to a great, and indeed in my opinion to an unnecessary, expense; and the poorer people, who only set open their windows night and day, burnt brimstone, pitch, and gunpowder, and such things, in their rooms, did as well as the best; nay, the eager people who, as I said above, came home in haste and at all hazards, found little or no inconvenience in their houses, nor in their goods, and did little or nothing to them. However, in general, prudent, cautious people did enter into some measures for airing and sweetening their houses, and burnt perfumes, incense, benjamin,[346] resin, and sulphur in their rooms, close shut up, and then let the air carry it all out with a blast of gunpowder; others caused large fires to be made all day and all night for several days and nights. By the same token that[347] two or three were pleased to set their houses on fire, and so effectually sweetened them by burning them down to the ground (as particularly one at Ratcliff, one in Holborn, and one at Westminster, besides two or three that were set on fire; but the fire was happily got out again before it went far enough to burn down the houses); and one citizen's servant, I think it was in Thames Street, carried so much gunpowder into his master's house, for clearing it of the infection, and managed it so foolishly, that he blew up part of the roof of the house. But the time was not fully come that the city was to be purged with fire, nor was it far off; for within nine months more I saw it all lying in ashes, when, as some of our quaking philosophers pretend, the seeds of the plague were entirely destroyed, and not before,--a notion too ridiculous to speak of here, since, had the seeds of the plague remained in the houses, not to be destroyed but by fire, how has it been that they have not since broken out, seeing all those buildings in the suburbs and liberties, all in the great parishes of Stepney, Whitechapel, Aldgate, Bishopsgate, Shoreditch, Cripplegate, and St. Giles's, where the fire never came, and where the plague raced with the greatest violence, remain still in the same condition they were in before? But to leave these things just as I found them, it was certain that those people who were more than ordinarily cautious of their health did take particular directions for what they called seasoning of their houses; and abundance of costly things were consumed on that account, which I cannot but say not only seasoned those houses as they desired, but filled the air with very grateful and wholesome smells, which others had the share of the benefit of, as well as those who were at the expenses of them. Though the poor came to town very precipitantly, as I have said, yet, I must say, the rich made no such haste. The men of business, indeed, came up, but many of them did not bring their families to town till the spring came on, and that they saw reason to depend upon it that the plague would not return. The court, indeed, came up soon after Christmas; but the nobility and gentry, except such as depended upon and had employment under the administration, did not come so soon. I should have taken notice here, that notwithstanding the violence of the plague in London and other places, yet it was very observable that it was never on board the fleet; and yet for some time there was a strange press[348] in the river, and even in the streets, for seamen to man the fleet. But it was in the beginning of the year, when the plague was scarce begun, and not at all come down to that part of the city where they usually press for seamen; and though a war with the Dutch was not at all grateful to the people at that time, and the seamen went with a kind of reluctancy into the service, and many complained of being dragged into it by force, yet it proved, in the event, a happy violence to several of them, who had probably perished in the general calamity, and who, after the summer service was over, though they had cause to lament the desolation of their families (who, when they came back, were many of them in their graves), yet they had room to be thankful that they were carried out of the reach of it, though so much against their wills. We, indeed, had a hot war with the Dutch that year, and one very great engagement[349] at sea, in which the Dutch were worsted; but we lost a great many men and some ships. But, as I observed, the plague was not in the fleet; and when they came to lay up the ships in the river, the violent part of it began to abate. I would be glad if I could close the account of this melancholy year with some particular examples historically, I mean of the thankfulness to God, our Preserver, for our being delivered from this dreadful calamity. Certainly the circumstances of the deliverance, as well as the terrible enemy we were delivered from, called upon the whole nation for it. The circumstances of the deliverance were indeed very remarkable, as I have in part mentioned already; and particularly the dreadful condition which we were all in, when we were, to the surprise of the whole town, made joyful with the hope of a stop to the infection. Nothing but the immediate finger of God, nothing but omnipotent power, could have done it. The contagion despised all medicine, death raged in every corner; and, had it gone on as it did then, a few weeks more would have cleared the town of all and everything that had a soul. Men everywhere began to despair; every heart failed them for fear; people were made desperate through the anguish of their souls; and the terrors of death sat in the very faces and countenances of the people. In that very moment, when we might very well say, "Vain was the help of man,"[350]--I say, in that very moment it pleased God, with a most agreeable surprise, to cause the fury of it to abate, even of itself; and the malignity declining, as I have said, though infinite numbers were sick, yet fewer died; and the very first week's bill decreased 1,843, a vast number indeed. It is impossible to express the change that appeared in the very countenances of the people that Thursday morning when the weekly bill came out. It might have been perceived in their countenances that a secret surprise and smile of joy sat on everybody's face. They shook one another by the hands in the streets, who would hardly go on the same side of the way with one another before. Where the streets were not too broad, they would open their windows and call from one house to another, and asked how they did, and if they had heard the good news that the plague was abated. Some would return, when they said good news, and ask, "What good news?" And when they answered that the plague was abated, and the bills decreased almost two thousand, they would cry out, "God be praised!" and would weep aloud for joy, telling them they had heard nothing of it; and such was the joy of the people, that it was, as it were, life to them from the grave. I could almost set down as many extravagant things done in the excess of their joy as of their grief; but that would be to lessen the value of it. I must confess myself to have been very much dejected just before this happened; for the prodigious numbers that were taken sick the week or two before, besides those that died, was[351] such, and the lamentations were so great everywhere, that a man must have seemed to have acted even against his reason if he had so much as expected to escape; and as there was hardly a house but mine in all my neighborhood but what was infected, so, had it gone on, it would not have been long that there would have been any more neighbors to be infected. Indeed, it is hardly credible what dreadful havoc the last three weeks had made: for, if I might believe the person whose calculations I always found very well grounded, there were not less than thirty thousand people dead, and near one hundred thousand fallen sick, in the three weeks I speak of; for the number that sickened was surprising, indeed it was astonishing, and those whose courage upheld them all the time before, sunk under it now. In the middle of their distress, when the condition of the city of London was so truly calamitous, just then it pleased God, as it were, by his immediate hand, to disarm this enemy: the poison was taken out of the sting. It was wonderful. Even the physicians themselves were surprised at it. Wherever they visited, they found their patients better,--either they had sweated kindly, or the tumors were broke, or the carbuncles went down and the inflammations round them changed color, or the fever was gone, or the violent headache was assuaged, or some good symptom was in the case,--so that in a few days everybody was recovering. Whole families that were infected and down, that had ministers praying with them, and expected death every hour, were revived and healed, and none died at all out of them. Nor was this by any new medicine found out, or new method of cure discovered, or by any experience in the operation which the physicians or surgeons attained to; but it was evidently from the secret invisible hand of Him that had at first sent this disease as a judgment upon us. And let the atheistic part of mankind call my saying what they please, it is no enthusiasm: it was acknowledged at that time by all mankind. The disease was enervated, and its malignity spent; and let it proceed from whencesoever it will, let the philosophers search for reasons in nature to account for it by, and labor as much as they will to lessen the debt they owe to their Maker, those physicians who had the least share of religion in them were obliged to acknowledge that it was all supernatural, that it was extraordinary, and that no account could be given of it. If I should say that this is a visible summons to us all to thankfulness, especially we that were under the terror of its increase, perhaps it may be thought by some, after the sense of the thing was over, an officious canting of religious things, preaching a sermon instead of writing a history, making myself a teacher instead of giving my observations of things (and this restrains me very much from going on here, as I might otherwise do); but if ten lepers were healed, and but one returned to give thanks, I desire to be as that one, and to be thankful for myself. Nor will I deny but there were abundance of people who, to all appearance, were very thankful at that time: for their mouths were stopped, even the mouths of those whose hearts were not extraordinarily long affected with it; but the impression was so strong at that time, that it could not be resisted, no, not by the worst of the people. It was a common thing to meet people in the street that were strangers, and that we knew nothing at all of, expressing their surprise. Going one day through Aldgate, and a pretty many people being passing and repassing, there comes a man out of the end of the Minories; and, looking a little up the street and down, he throws his hands abroad: "Lord, what an alteration is here! Why, last week I came along here, and hardly anybody was to be seen." Another man (I heard him) adds to his words, "'Tis all wonderful; 'tis all a dream."--"Blessed be God!" says a third man; "and let us give thanks to him, for 'tis all his own doing." Human help and human skill were at an end. These were all strangers to one another, but such salutations as these were frequent in the street every day; and, in spite of a loose behavior, the very common people went along the streets, giving God thanks for their deliverance. It was now, as I said before, the people had cast off all apprehensions, and that too fast. Indeed, we were no more afraid now to pass by a man with a white cap upon his head, or with a cloth wrapped round his neck, or with his leg limping, occasioned by the sores in his groin,--all which were frightful to the last degree but the week before. But now the street was full of them, and these poor recovering creatures, give them their due, appeared very sensible of their unexpected deliverance, and I should wrong them very much if I should not acknowledge that I believe many of them were really thankful; but I must own that for the generality of the people it might too justly be said of them, as was said of the children of Israel after their being delivered from the host of Pharaoh, when they passed the Red Sea, and looked back and saw the Egyptians overwhelmed in the water, viz., "that they sang his praise, but they soon forgot his works."[352] I can go no further here. I should be counted censorious, and perhaps unjust, if I should enter into the unpleasing work of reflecting, whatever cause there was for it, upon the unthankfulness and return of all manner of wickedness among us, which I was so much an eyewitness of myself. I shall conclude the account of this calamitous year, therefore, with a coarse but a sincere stanza of my own, which I placed at the end of my ordinary memorandums the same year they were written:-- A dreadful plague in London was, In the year sixty-five, Which swept an hundred thousand souls Away, yet I alive. H.F.[353] FOOTNOTES: [4] It was popularly believed in London that the plague came from Holland; but the sanitary (or rather unsanitary) conditions of London itself were quite sufficient to account for the plague's originating there. Andrew D. White tells us, that it is difficult to decide to-day between Constantinople and New York as candidates for the distinction of being the dirtiest city in the world. [5] Incorrectly used for "councils." [6] In April, 1663, the first Drury Lane Theater had been opened. The present Drury Lane Theater (the fourth) stands on the same site. [7] The King's ministers. At this time they held office during the pleasure of the Crown, not, as now, during the pleasure of a parliamentary majority. [8] Gangrene spots (see text, pp. 197, 198). [9] The local government of London at this time was chiefly in the hands of the vestries of the different parishes. It is only of recent years that the power of these vestries has been seriously curtailed, and transferred to district councils. [10] The report. [11] Pronounced H[=o]´burn. {Transcriber's note: [=o] indicates o-macron} [12] Was. [13] Were. [14] Outlying districts; so called because they enjoyed certain municipal immunities, or liberties. Until recent years, a portion of Philadelphia was known as the "Northern Liberties." [15] Attempts to believe the evil lessened. [16] Was. [17] Were. [18] The chief executive officer of the city of London still bears this title. [19] One of the many instances in which Defoe mixes his tenses. [20] Whom. We shall find many more instances of Defoe's misuse of this form, as also of others (see Introduction, p. 15). [21] Used almost in its original sense of a military barrier. [22] Whom. [23] See Matt, xxvii. 40; Mark xv. 30; Luke xxiii. 35. [24] Denial. [25] The civil war between the Royalists and the Parliamentarians, 1642-51. [26] Whom. [27] This argument is neatly introduced to account for the narrator's staying in the city at all, when he could easily have escaped. [28] Explained by the two following phrases. [29] Whom. [30] "Lay close to me," i.e., was constantly in my mind. [31] Kept safe from the plague. [32] "My times are in thy hand" (Ps. xxxi. 15). [33] Dorking is about twenty miles southwest of London. [34] Rather St. Martin's-in-the-Fields and St. Giles's. [35] Was. [36] Charles II. and his courtiers. The immunity of Oxford was doubtless due to good drainage and general cleanliness. [37] Eccl. xii. 5. [38] Have seen. [39] Nor. This misuse of "or" for "nor" is frequent with Defoe. [40] The four inns of court in London which have the exclusive right of calling to the bar, are the Inner Temple, the Middle Temple, Lincoln's Inn, and Gray's Inn. The Temple is so called because it was once the home of the Knights Templars. [41] The city proper, i.e., the part within the walls, as distinguished from that without. [42] Were. [43] The population of London at this time was probably about half a million. It is now about six millions. (See Macaulay's History, chap. iii.) [44] Acel´dama, the field of blood (see Matt. xxvii. 8). [45] Phlegmatic hypochondriac is a contradiction in terms; for "phlegmatic" means "impassive, self-restrained," while "hypochondriac" means "morbidly anxious" (about one's health). Defoe's lack of scholarship was a common jest among his more learned adversaries, such as Swift, and Pope. [46] It was in this very plague year that Newton formulated his theory of gravitation. Incredible as it may seem, at this same date even such men as Dryden held to a belief in astrology. [47] William Lilly was the most famous astrologer and almanac maker of the time. In Butler's Hudibras he is satirized under the name of Sidrophel. [48] Poor Robin's Almanack was first published in 1661 or 1662, and was ascribed to Robert Herrick, the poet. [49] See Rev. xviii. 4. [50] Jonah iii. 4. [51] Flavius Josephus, the author of the History of the Jewish Wars. He is supposed to have died in the last decade of the first century A.D. [52] So called because many Frenchmen lived there. In Westminster there was another district with this same name. [53] "Gave them vapors," i.e., put them into a state of nervous excitement. [54] Soothsayers. [55] In astrology, the scheme or figure of the heavens at the moment of a person's birth. From this the astrologers pretended to foretell a man's destiny. [56] Roger Bacon, a Franciscan friar of the thirteenth century, had a knowledge of mechanics and optics far in advance of his age: hence he was commonly regarded as a wizard. The brazen head which he manufactured was supposed to assist him in his necromantic feats; it is so introduced by Greene in his play of Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay (1594). [57] A fortune teller who lived in the reign of Henry VIII., and was famous for her prophecies. [58] The most celebrated magician of mediæval times (see Spenser's Faërie Queene and Tennyson's Merlin and Vivien). [59] Linen collar or ruff. [60] Him. [61] The interlude was originally a short, humorous play acted in the midst of a morality play to relieve the tedium of that very tedious performance. From the interlude was developed farce; and from farce, comedy. [62] Charles II. and his courtiers, from their long exile in France, brought back to England with them French fashions in literature and in art. [63] To be acted. [64] Buffoons, clowns. [65] About 62½ cents. [66] About twenty-five dollars; but the purchasing power of money was then seven or eight times what it is now. [67] Strictly speaking, this word means "love potions." [68] Exorcism is the act of expelling evil spirits, or the formula used in the act. Defoe's use of the word here is careless and inaccurate. [69] Bits of metal, parchment, etc., worn as charms. [70] Making the sign of the cross. [71] Paper on which were marked the signs of the zodiac,--a superstition from astrology. [72] A meaningless word used in incantations. Originally the name of a Syrian deity. [73] Iesus Hominum Salvator ("Jesus, Savior of Men"). The order of the Jesuits was founded by Ignatius de Loyola in 1534. [74] The Feast of St. Michael, Sept. 29. [75] This use of "to" for "of" is frequent with Defoe. [76] The Royal College of Physicians was founded by Thomas Linacre, physician to Henry VIII. Nearly every London physician of prominence is a member. [77] The city of London proper lies entirely in the county of Middlesex. [78] Literally, "hand workers;" now contracted into "surgeons." [79] Cares, duties. [80] Consenting knowledge. [81] Disposed of to the public, put in circulation. [82] That is, by the disease. [83] Happen. [84] Engaged. [85] Heaps of rubbish. [86] A kind of parish constable. [87] The writer seems to mean that the beggars are so importunate, there is no avoiding them. [88] Fights between dogs and bears. This was not declared a criminal offense in England until 1835. [89] Contests with sword and shield. [90] The guilds or organizations of tradesmen, such as the goldsmiths, the fishmongers, the merchant tailors. [91] St. Katherine's by the Tower. [92] Trinity (east of the) Minories. The Minories (a street running north from the Tower) was so designated from an abbey of St. Clare nuns called Minoresses. They took their name from that of the Franciscan Order, Fratres Minores, or Lesser Brethren. [93] St. Luke's. [94] St. Botolph's, Bishopsgate. [95] St. Giles's, Cripplegate. [96] Were. [97] Chemise. [98] This word is misplaced; it should go before "perish." [99] Before "having," supply "the master." [100] Fences. [101] From. [102] This old form for "caught" is used frequently by Defoe. [103] Came to grief. [104] "Who, being," etc., i.e., who, although single men, had yet staid. [105] The wars of the Commonwealth or of the Puritan Revolution, 1640-52. [106] Holland and Belgium. [107] "Hurt of," a common form of expression used in Defoe's time. [108] Manager, economist. This meaning of "husband" is obsolete. [109] A participial form of expression very common in Old English, the "a" being a corruption of "in" or "on." [110] Were. [111] "'Name of God," i.e., in the name of God. [112] Torches. [113] "To and again," i.e., to and fro. [114] Were. [115] As if. [116] Magpie. [117] This word is from the same root as "lamp." The old form "lanthorn" crept in from the custom of making the sides of a lantern of horn. [118] Supply "be." [119] Inclination. [120] In expectation of the time when. [121] Their being checked. [122] This paragraph could hardly have been more clumsily expressed. It will be found a useful exercise to rewrite it. [123] "To have gone," i.e., to go. [124] Spotted. [125] "Make shift," i.e., endure it. [126] Device, expedient. [127] "In all" is evidently a repetition. [128] Objects cannot very well happen. Defoe must mean, "the many dismal sights I saw as I went about the streets." [129] As. [130] "Rosin" is a long-established misspelling for "resin." Resin exudes from pine trees, and from it the oil of turpentine is separated by distillation. [131] As distinguished from fish meat. [132] Defoe uses these pronouns in the wrong number, as in numerous other instances. [133] The projecting part of a building. [134] Their miraculous preservation was wrought by their keeping in the fresh air of the open fields. It seems curious that after this object lesson the physicians persisted in their absurd policy of shutting up infected houses, thus practically condemning to death their inmates. [135] Used here for "this," as also in many other places. [136] Supply "with." [137] Such touches as this created a widespread and long-enduring belief that Defoe's fictitious diary was an authentic history. [138] "Running out," etc., i.e., losing their self-control. [139] Idiocy. In modern English, "idiotism" is the same as "idiom." [140] Gangrene, death of the soft tissues. [141] Before "that" supply "we have been told." [142] Hanging was at this time a common punishment for theft. In his novel Moll Flanders, Defoe has a vivid picture of the mental and physical sufferings of a woman who was sent to Newgate, and condemned to death, for stealing two pieces of silk. [143] Cloth, rag. [144] They could no longer give them regular funerals, but had to bury them promiscuously in pits. [145] Evidently a repetition. [146] In old and middle English two negatives did not make an affirmative, as they do in modern English. [147] It is now well known that rue has no qualities that are useful for warding off contagion. [148] "Set up," i.e., began to play upon. [149] Constrained. [150] Because they would have been refused admission to other ports. [151] Matter. So used by Sheridan in The Rivals, act iii. sc. 2. [152] Probably a misprint for "greatly." [153] This. [154] Are. [155] He has really given two days more than two months. [156] A count. [157] Range, limits. [158] Unknown. [159] Lying. [160] Was. [161] Notice this skillful touch to give verisimilitude to the narrative. [162] Country. [163] "Without the bars," i.e., outside the old city limits. [164] Profession. [165] The plague. [166] The legal meaning of "hamlet" in England is a village without a church of its own: ecclesiastically, therefore, it belongs to the parish of some other village. [167] All Protestant sects other than the Established Church of England. [168] A groat equals fourpence, about eight cents. It is not coined now. [169] A farthing equals one quarter of a penny. [170] About ten miles down the Thames. [171] The _t_ is silent in this word. [172] Hard-tack, pilot bread. [173] Old form for "rode." [174] See the last sentence of the next paragraph but one. [175] Roadstead, an anchoring ground less sheltered than a harbor. [176] Substitute "that they would not be visited." [177] The plague. [178] St. Margaret's. [179] _Nota bene_, note well. [180] Dul´ich. All these places are southward from London. Norwood is six miles distant. [181] Old form of "dared." [182] Small vessels, generally schooner-rigged, used for carrying heavy freight on rivers and harbors. [183] London Bridge. [184] This incident is so overdone, that it fails to be pathetic, and rather excites our laughter. [185] Supply "themselves." [186] Barnet was about eleven miles north-northwest of London. [187] Holland and Belgium. [188] See Luke xvii. 11-19. [189] Well. [190] With speed, in haste. [191] This word is misplaced. It should go immediately before "to lodge." [192] Luck. [193] Whom. [194] A small sail set high upon the mast. [195] "Fetched a long compass," i.e., went by a circuitous route. [196] The officers. [197] Refused. [198] Nearly twenty miles northeast of London. [199] He. This pleonastic use of a conjunction with the relative is common among illiterate writers and speakers to-day. [200] Waltham and Epping, towns two or three miles apart, at a distance of ten or twelve miles almost directly north of London. [201] Pollard trees are trees cut back nearly to the trunk, and so caused to grow into a thick head (_poll_) of branches. [202] Entertainment. In this sense, the plural, "quarters," is the commoner form. [203] Preparing. [204] Peddlers. [205] "Has been," an atrocious solecism for "were." [206] To a miraculous extent. [207] "Put to it," i.e., hard pressed. [208] There are numerous references in the Hebrew Scriptures to parched corn as an article of food (see, among others, Lev. xxiii. 14, Ruth ii. 14, 2 Sam. xvii. 28). [209] Supply "(1)." [210] Soon. [211] Substitute "would." [212] Whom. [213] Familiar intercourse. [214] Evidently a repetition. [215] "For that," i.e., because. [216] Singly. [217] Supply "to be." [218] Buildings the rafters of which lean against or rest upon the outer wall of another building. [219] Supply "of." [220] The plague. [221] "Middling people," i.e., people of the middle class. [222] At the mouth of the Thames. [223] Awnings. [224] Two heavy timbers placed horizontally, the upper one of which can be raised. When lowered, it is held in place by a padlock. Notches in the timbers form holes, through which the prisoner's legs are thrust, and held securely. [225] The constables. [226] The carters. [227] The goods. [228] In spite of, notwithstanding. [229] Supply "who." [230] "Cum aliis," i.e., with others. Most of the places mentioned in this list are several miles distant from London: for example, Enfield is ten miles northeast; Hadley, over fifty miles northeast; Hertford, twenty miles north; Kingston, ten miles southwest; St. Albans, twenty miles northwest; Uxbridge, fifteen miles west; Windsor, twenty miles west; etc. [231] Kindly regarded. [232] Which. [233] The citizens. [234] Such statements. [235] For "so that," substitute "so." [236] How. [237] It was not known in Defoe's time that minute disease germs may be carried along by a current of air. [238] Affected with scurvy. [239] "Which," as applied to persons, is a good Old English idiom, and was in common use as late as 1711 (see Spectator No. 78; and Matt. vi. 9, version of 1611). [240] Flung to. [241] Changed their garments. [242] Supply "I heard." [243] At. [244] Various periods are assigned for the duration of the dog days: perhaps July 3 to Aug. 11 is that most commonly accepted. The dog days were so called because they coincided with the heliacal rising of Sirius or Canicula (the little dog). [245] An inn with this title (and probably a picture of the brothers) painted on its signboard. [246] Whom. [247] The Act of Uniformity was passed in 1661. It required all municipal officers and all ministers to take the communion according to the ritual of the Church of England, and to sign a document declaring that arms must never be borne against the King. For refusing obedience to this tyrannical measure, some two thousand Presbyterian ministers were deprived of their livings. [248] Madness, as in Hamlet, act iii. sc. 1. [249] "Represented themselves," etc., i.e., presented themselves to my sight. [250] "Dead part of the night," i.e., from midnight to dawn. Compare, "In the dead waste and middle of the night." _Hamlet_, act i. sc 2. [251] "Have been critical," etc., i.e., have claimed to have knowledge enough to say. [252] Being introduced. [253] The plague. [254] "First began" is a solecism common in the newspaper writing of to-day. [255] Literally, laws of the _by_ (town). In modern usage, "by-law" is used to designate a rule less general and less easily amended than a constitutional provision. [256] "Sheriff" is equivalent to _shire-reeve_ (magistrate of the county or shire). London had, and still has, two sheriffs. [257] Acted. [258] The inspection, according to ordinance, of weights, measures, and prices. [259] "Pretty many," i.e., a fair number of. [260] The officers. [261] Were. [262] "Falls to the serious part," i.e., begins to discourse on serious matters. [263] See note, p. 28. The Mohammedans are fatalists. {Transcriber's note: The reference is to footnote 28.} [264] A growth of osseous tissue uniting the extremities of fractured bones. [265] Disclosed. [266] The officers. [267] Leading principle. [268] Defoe means, "can burn only a few houses." In the next line he again misplaces "only." [269] Put to confusion. [270] Left out of consideration. [271] The distemper. [272] A means for discovering whether the person were infected or not. [273] Defoe's ignorance of microscopes was not shared by Robert Hooke, whose Micrographia (published in 1664) records numerous discoveries made with that instrument. [274] Roup is a kind of chicken's catarrh. [275] Them, i.e., such experiments. [276] From the Latin _quadraginta_ ("forty"). [277] From the Latin _sexaginta_ ("sixty"). [278] Kinds, species. [279] Old age. [280] Abscesses. [281] Himself. [282] The essential oils of lavender, cloves, and camphor, added to acetic acid. [283] In chemistry, balsams are vegetable juices consisting of resins mixed with gums or volatile oils. [284] Supply "they declined coming to public worship." [285] This condition of affairs. [286] Collar. [287] Economy. [288] Supply "they were." [289] Action (obsolete in this sense). See this word as used in 2 Henry IV., act iv. sc. 4. [290] Which. [291] Sailors' slang for "Archipelagoes." [292] An important city in Asia Minor. [293] A city in northern Syria, better known as Iskanderoon or Alexandretta. The town was named in honor of Alexander the Great, the Turkish form of Alexander being Iskander. [294] Though called a kingdom, Algarve was nothing but a province of Portugal. It is known now as Faro. [295] The natives of Flanders, a mediæval countship now divided among Holland, Belgium, and France. [296] Colonies. In the reign of Charles II., the English colonies were governed by a committee (of the Privy Council) known as the "Council of Plantations." [297] The east side. [298] On the west side. [299] See map of England for all these places. Feversham is in Kent, forty-five miles southeast of London; Margate is on the Isle of Thanet, eighty miles southeast. [300] Commission merchants. [301] Privateers. _Capers_ is a Dutch word. [302] Supply "he." [303] Supply "the coals." [304] "One another," by a confusion of constructions, has been used here for "them." [305] By a statute of Charles II. a chaldron was fixed at 36 coal bushels. In the United States, it is generally 26¼ hundredweight. [306] Opening. [307] "To seek," i.e., without judgment or knowledge. [308] Mixing. [309] Him. [310] This unwary conduct. [311] Think. [312] Were. [313] Accept. [314] Personal chattels that had occasioned the death of a human being, and were therefore given to God (_Deo_, "to God"; _dandum_, "a thing given"); i.e., forfeited to the King, and by him distributed in alms. This curious law of deodands was not abolished in England until 1846. [315] The southern coast of the Mediterranean, from Egypt to the Atlantic. [316] Censure. [317] Afterward. [318] "Physic garden," i.e., a garden for growing medicinal herbs. [319] Since. [320] Lord mayor of London, 1679-80, and for many years member of Parliament for the city. [321] The workmen. [322] Recognized. [323] Fenced. [324] Members of the Society of Friends, a religious organization founded by George Fox about 1650. William Penn was one of the early members. The society condemns a paid ministry, the taking of oaths, and the making of war. [325] See p. 105, next to the last paragraph. [326] Die. "Of the plague" should immediately follow "died." [327] See Note 3, p. 26. {Transcriber's note: the reference is to footnote 26.} [328] The act of indemnity passed at the restoration of Charles II. (1660). In spite of the King's promise of justice, the Parliamentarians were largely despoiled of their property, and ten of those concerned in the execution of Charles I. were put to death. [329] Family and personal peace. [330] The Established Church of England, nearly all of whose ministers were Royalists. The Presbyterians were nearly all Republicans. [331] The dissenting ministers. [332] The Churchmen. [333] Of. [334] What we should call an assistant minister is still called a curate in the Church of England. [335] "I had not said this," etc., i.e., I would not have said this, but would rather have chosen, etc. [336] See Rev. vi. 8. [337] Moved away (into the country). [338] The duties of headboroughs differed little from those of the constables. The title is now obsolete. [339] Count. [340] "Must." In this sense common in Chaucer. The past tense, "should," retains something of this force. Compare the German _sollen_. [341] Otherwise known as _theriac_ (from the Greek [Greek: thêriakos], "pertaining to a wild beast," since it was supposed to be an antidote for poisonous bites). This medicine was compounded of sixty or seventy drugs, and was mixed with honey. [342] Supply "died." [343] Supply "of." [344] Substitute "which." [345] Those. [346] A corruption of "benzoin," a resinous juice obtained from a tree that flourishes in Siam and the Malay Archipelago. When heated, it gives off a pleasant odor. It is one of the ingredients used in court-plaster. [347] This word should be omitted. [348] The "press gang" was a naval detachment under the command of an officer, empowered to seize men and carry them off for service on men-of-war. [349] Off Lowestoft, in 1665. Though the Dutch were beaten, they made good their retreat, and heavily defeated the English the next year in the battle of The Downs. 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52970	----	Google Books (Library of the University of Illinois) Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: Google Books https://books.google.com/books?id=8YtBAQAAMAAJ (Library of the University of Illinois) 2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. SERVANTS OF SIN BY THE SAME AUTHOR ROMANCES IN THE DAY OF ADVERSITY ACROSS THE SALT SEAS THE CLASH OF ARMS DENOUNCED THE SCOURGE OF GOD THE HISPANIOLA PLATE FORTUNE'S MY FOE A GENTLEMAN ADVENTURER THE DESERT SHIP NOVELS OF TO-DAY A BITTER HERITAGE HIS OWN ENEMY THE SILENT SHORE THE SEAFARERS SERVANTS OF SIN A ROMANCE BY JOHN BLOUNDELLE-BURTON "HOW DOTH THE CITY SIT SOLITARY THAT WAS FULL OF PEOPLE! NOW IS SHE BECOME AS A WIDOW! SHE THAT WAS GREAT AMONG THE NATIONS AND PRINCESS AMONG THE PROVINCES." METHUEN & CO. 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. LONDON 1900 _Dramatised and produced for copyright purposes in London, May 1st_, 1900. _Licensed for production by the Lord Chamberlain, and entered at Stationers' Hall as a Drama in IV. Acts_. TO MY FRIEND ERNEST FOSTER CONTENTS CHAP. I. Monsieur le Duc. II. Les Demoiselles Montjoie at Home. III. The Romance of Monsieur Vandecque. IV. A Sister of Mercy. V. The Duke's Desire VI. The Duke's Bride. VII. Man And Wife. VIII. The Street Of The Holy Apostles. IX. Alone. X. The Prison of St. Martin des Champs. XI. The Condemned. XII. Marseilles. XIII. "My Wife! What Wife? I have no Wife." XIV. Where is the Man? XV. The Pest. XVI. "I had not Lived till now, could sorrow kill." XVII. An Aristocratic Resort. XVIII. "The Abandoned Orphan"--Prologue XIX. "The Abandoned Orphan"--Drama XX. "The Way to Dusty Death" XXI. A Night Ride. XXII. The Stricken City. XXIII. Within the Walls. XXIV. A Discovery. XXV. Face to Face. XXVI. "Revenge--Bitter! Ere Long Back on Itself Recoils!" XXVII. "I Love Her!--She is my Wife." XXVIII. The Walled-up Doors. XXIX. Asleep or Awake. XXX. "If after Every Tempest come such Calms!" SERVANTS OF SIN CHAPTER I MONSIEUR LE DUC Lifting aside the heavy tapestry that hung down in front of the window of the tourelle which formed an angle of the room--a window from which the Bastille might be seen frowning over the Quartier St. Antoine, a third of a mile away--the man shrugged his shoulders, uttered a peevish exclamation, and muttered, next: "Snow! Snow! Snow! Always snow! Curse the snow!" Then he turned back into the room, letting the curtain fall behind him, and seated himself once more in a heavy fauteuil opposite the great fireplace, up the chimney of which the logs roared in a cheerful blaze. "Hard winters, now," he muttered once more, still thinking of the weather outside; "always hard winters in Paris now. 'Twas so when I rode back here after the campaign in Spain was over. When I rode back," he repeated, "a year ago." He paused, reflecting; then continued: "Ay, a year ago. Why! so it was. A year ago to-day. A year this very day. The last day of December. Ay, the bells were ringing from Notre Dame, St. Roch--the Tour St. Jacques. To welcome in the New Year. Almost, it seemed, judging by the events of the next few weeks, to welcome me to my inheritance. To my inheritance! Yet, how far off that inheritance seemed once! As far off as the love of those curs, my relatives, was then." He let himself sink farther and farther into the deep recesses of the huge fauteuil as thus he mused, stretched out his long legs towards the fire, stretched out, too, a long arm and a long, slim brown hand towards where a flask of tokay stood, with a goblet by its side; poured out a draught and drank it down. "A far-off love, then," he said again, "now near, and warm, and generous. Bah!" Looking at the man as he lay stretched in the chair and revelling in the luxury and comfort by which he was surrounded, one might have thought there was some incongruity between him and those surroundings. The room--the furniture and hangings--the latter a pale blue, bordered with fawn-coloured lace--the dainty ornaments, the picture let in the wall above the chimney-piece, with others above the doorway and windows--did not match with the occupant. No more than it and they matched with a bundle of swords in one corner of it; swords of all kinds. One, a heavy, straight, cut-and-thrust weapon; another an English rapier with flamboyant blade and straight quillon; a third of the Colichemarde pattern; a fourth a viperish-looking spadroon; a fifth a German Flamberg with deadly grooved blade and long-curled quillons. Surely a finished swordsman this, or a man who had been one! Looking at him one might judge that he was so still--or could be so upon occasion. His wig was off--it hung upon the edge of an old praying-chair that was pushed into a corner as though of no further use; certainly of none to the present occupant of this room--and his black-cropped hair, his small black moustache, which looked like a dab stuck on his upper lip--since it extended no further on either side of his face than beneath each nostril--added to his black eyes, gave him a saturnine expression, not to say a menacing one. For the rest, he was a thick-set, brawny man of perhaps five-and-forty, with a deeply-tanned complexion that looked as though it had been exposed to many a pitiless storm and many a fierce-beating sun; a complexion that, were it not for a whiteness beneath the eyes, which seemed to tell of late hours and too much wine, and other things that often enough go with wine and wassail, would have been a healthy one. Also, it was to be noted that, in some way, his apparel scarcely seemed suited to him. The satin coat of russet brown; the deep waistcoat of white satin, flowered with red roses and pink daisies and little sprays of green leaves; the white knee-breeches also of satin, the gold-buckled shoes, matched not with the sturdy form and fierce face. Instead of this costume _à la Régence_ one would have more expected to see the buff jerkin of a soldier, the brass spurs at the heels of long brown riding-boots, and, likewise, one of the great swords now reclining in the corner buckled close to his thigh. Or else to have seen the man sitting in some barrack guardroom with, beneath his feet, an uncarpeted floor, and, to his hand, a pint stoop, instead of finding him here in this highly-ornamented saloon. "The plague seize me!" he exclaimed, using one of his favourite oaths, "but there is no going out to-night. Nor any likelihood of anyone coming in. I cannot go forth to gaze upon my adorable Laure; neither Morlaix nor Sainte Foix are likely to get here." And, after glancing out at the fast falling snow, he abandoned himself once more to his reflections. Though, now, those reflections were aided by the perusal of a packet of letters which he drew forth from an escritoire standing by the side of the fireplace. A bundle of letters all written in a woman's hand. He knew them well enough--by heart almost; he had read them over and over again in the past year; it was perhaps, therefore, because of this that he now glanced at them as they came to his hand; it happening, consequently, that the one he had commenced to peruse was the last he had received. It was dated not more than a week back--the night before Christmas, of the year 1719. "Mon ami," it commenced, "I am desolated with grief that you cannot be with me this Christmastide. I had hoped so much that we should have spent the last New Year's Day together before our marriage." "Bah!" exclaimed the man, impatiently. "Before our marriage. Bah!" and he rattled the sheet in his hand as he went on with its perusal. "I imagine that," the letter continued, "after all which has gone before and has been between us it will ere long take place----." "Ah!" he broke off once more, exclaiming, "Ah! you imagine that, dear Marquise. You imagine that. Ha! you imagine that. So be it. Yet, on my part, I imagine something quite the contrary. I dare to imagine it will never take place. I think not. There are others--there is one other. Laure--Laure--Laure Vauxcelles. My beautiful Laure! Yet--yet--I know not. Am I wise? Does she love me? Love me! No matter about that! She will be my wife; the mother of future Desparres. However, let us see. To the Marquise." And again he regarded his letters--flinging this one aside as though not worth the trouble of further re-reading--and took up another. Yet it, also, seemed scarcely to demand more consideration than that which he had accorded its forerunner in his hands, and was also discarded; then another and another, until he had come to the last of the little packet--that which bore the earliest date. This commenced, however, with a vastly different form of address than did the one of which we have seen a portion. It opened with the pretty greeting, "My hero." And it opened, too, with a very feminine form of rejoicing--a pæan of delight. "At last, at last, at last, my soldier," the writer said, "at last, thou hast come to thine own. The unhappy boy is dead; my hero, my Alcides, is no longer the poor captain following the wars for hard knocks; his position is assured; he is rich, the inheritor, nay, the possessor of his great family title. I salute you, monsieur le----." As his eyes reached those words, there came to his ears the noise of the great bell pealing in the courtyard as though rung by one seeking immediate entrance. Then, a moment later, the noise of lackeys addressing one another; in another instant, the sound of a footfall in the corridor outside--drawing nearer to the room where the man was. Wherefore he came out of the tower with the window in it, to which he had vainly gone, as though to observe what might be happening in the street--knowing even as he did so that he could see nothing, since, whoever his visitor might be, that visitor and his carriage, or sedan-chair, had already entered the courtyard with his menials. Then, in answer to the soft knock at the door, he bade the person come in. "Who is below?" he asked of the footman, thinking some friend had kindly ventured forth on this inclement night to visit him--perhaps to take a hand at pharaon or piquet. "Monsieur, it is Madame la Marquise----" "La Marquise?" "Grignan de Poissy." For a moment the man addressed stood still, facing his servant; his eyes a little closed, his upper eyelids lowered somewhat; then he said quietly: "Show Madame la Marquise to this apartment. Or, rather, I will come with you to welcome Madame la Marquise." While, suiting his action to his words, he preceded the footman to the head of the great staircase and warmly welcomed the lady who, by this time, was almost at the head of it. Doubtless, she knew she would not be denied. That this man had been (as the letter, which he had a few moments ago but glanced at, said) "a poor captain following the wars" was no doubt the fact; now, however, he was becoming a perfect courtier, and testified that such was the case by his demeanour. With easy grace he removed from her shoulders the great furred houppelande, or cloak, which the ladies of the period of the Regency wore on such a night as this, and carried it over his own arm; with equal grace he led her into the room he had but now quitted, placed her in the great fauteuil before the fire, and put before her feet a footstool, while he, with great courtesy, even removed her shoes, and thus left her silk-stockinged feet to benefit by the genial warmth thrown out by the logs. "I protest it is too good of you, Diane," he whispered, as he paid her all these attentions, "too good of you to visit thus so idle an admirer as I am. See, I, a soldier, a man used to all weathers, have not dared to quit my own hearth on such a night as this. Yet Diane, adorable Diane, why--why--expose yourself to the inclemency of the night--even, almost, I might say, to the gossip of your--and of my--menials." "The gossip of your menials!" the lady exclaimed. "The gossip of your menials? Will this fresh incident expose us to any further gossip, do you suppose? It is a long while since our names have been coupled together, Monsieur le Duc." "Monsieur le Duc!" he repeated. "What a form of address! Monsieur le Duc! My name to you is--has ever been--Armand." "Ay, 'tis so," she answered, while, even as she continued speaking a little bitterly to him, she shifted her feet upon the footstool, so that they should get their full share of the luxurious warmth of the fire. "'Tis so. Has been so for more years now than a woman cares to count. Desparre," she said, addressing him shortly, "how long have we known each other--how old am I?" For answer he gave her a deprecatory shrug of the shoulders, as though it were impossible such a question should be asked, or, being asked, could possibly be answered by him; while she, her blue eyes fixed upon his face, herself replied to the question. "It is twenty years," she said, "since we first met." "Alas!" with another shrug, meant this time to express a wince of emotion. "Yes, twenty years," she continued. "A long while, is it not? I, a young widow then; you, Armand Desparre, a penniless porte-drapeau in the Regiment de Bellebrune. Yet not so penniless either, if I remember aright"--and the blue eyes looked steely now, as they gazed from beneath their thick auburn fringe at him--"not penniless. You lived well for an ensign absolutely without private means--rode a good horse, could throw a main with the richest man in the regiment." "Diane," he interrupted, "these suggestions, these reminiscences are unseemly." "Unseemly! Heavens! Yes, they are unseemly. However, no matter for that. You are no longer a poor man. Armand Desparre is rich, he is no more the poor marching soldier, he is Monsieur le Duc Desparre." "More recollections," he said, with still another shrug. "Diane, we know all this. The world, our world, knows who and what I am." "Also our world knows, expects, that there is to be a Duchess Desparre." "Yes," he answered, "it knows, it expects, that." "Expects! My God!" she exclaimed vehemently, "if it knew all it would not only expect but insist that that duchesse should be the woman who now bears the title of the Marquise Grignan de Poissy." "It does not know all. Meanwhile," and his eye glanced towards the heap of swords in the corner of the room, "who is there to insist on what my conduct shall be--to order it to be otherwise than I choose it shall be? Frankly, Diane, who is there to insist and make the insistence good?" "There are men of the De Poissy family," she replied, and her glance, too, rested on those swords. "Desparre is not the only master of fence in Paris." "Chut! They are your kinsmen. I do not desire to slay them, nor, I presume, will they desire to slay me. And, desiring, what could they do? De Poissy himself is only a boy." "He is the head of the house. He will not see the wife of the late head slighted." Then, before he could make any answer to this remark, she turned round suddenly on him and exclaimed, while again the blue eyes looked steely through their heavy lashes: "Who is Laure Vauxcelles?" This question, asked with such unexpectedness, startled even the man's cynical superciliousness, as he showed by the way in which he stammered forth an answer that was no answer at all. "Laure--Vauxcelles! What--what--do you know of her? She is not of your--our--class." "Pardon. Every woman who is well favoured is--of your class." "What do you know of her?" he repeated, unheeding the taunt, though with a look that might have been regarded as a menacing one. "Only," she answered, "that which most of those who are of your--our--class know. The gossip of the salon, the court, the Palais Royal. Armand Desparre, I have been in Paris two days and was bidden to the Regent's supper last night--otherwise I should have been still at the Abbaye de Grignan dispensing New Year hospitality with the boy, De Poissy. Instead, therefore, I was at supper in the oval room. And de Parabére, de Sabran, de Noailles, le Duc de Richelieu--a dozen, were there. One hears gossip in the oval room, 'specially when the Regent has drunk sufficient of that stuff," and she nodded towards Monsieur's still unfinished flask of tokay. "When he is asleep at the head of his table endeavouring to--well--sleep off--shake off its fumes ere going to his box close by to hear La Gautier sing." "What did you hear?" Desparre asked now. "Gossip," the Marquise answered. "Gossip. Perhaps true--perhaps idle. God knows. The story of a man," she continued, with a shrug of her shoulders, "no longer young, once very poor, yet always with pistoles in his pocket, since he did not disdain to take gifts from a foolish woman whom he had wronged and who loved him." "Was that mentioned?" "It was hinted at. It was known, too, by one listener, at least--myself--to be true. A man," she continued, "now well to do, able to gratify almost every desire he possesses. Of high position. The story of a man," she went on with machine-like insistence, "who, finding at last, however, one desire he is not able to gratify--the desire of adding one more woman to his victims, and that a woman young enough to be his daughter--is about to change his character. To abandon that of knave, to adopt that of fool." "Also," interrupted Monsieur le Duc, "a man who will demand from Madame la Marquise Grignan de Poissy the name of her gossip. It is to be desired that that gossip should be a man. Otherwise, her nephew the Marquis Grignan de Poissy will perhaps consent to be Madame's representative." "To adopt the rôle of a fool," she continued, unheeding his words. "To marry the woman--the niece of a broken-down gamester--who refuses to become his victim. A creature bred up in the gutter!" "Madame will allow that this--fool--is subject to no control or criticism?" "Madame will allow anything that Monsieur le Duc desires. Even, if he pleases, that he is a coward and contemptible." CHAPTER II LES DEMOISELLES MONTJOIE AT HOME Outside the snow had ceased to fall; in its place had come the clear, crisp, and biting stillness of an intense frost, accompanied by that penetrating cold which gives those who are subjected to it the feeling that they are themselves gradually freezing, that the blood within them is turning to ice itself. A cold, hard night; with the half-foot long icicles cracking from the increasing density of the frost, and falling, with a little clatter and a shivering, into atoms on the heads or at the feet of the passers-by; a night on which beggars huddled together for warmth in stoops and porches, or, being solitary, laid down moaning in their agony on doorsteps until, at the end, there came that warm, blissful glow which precedes death by frost. A night when the well-to-do who were abroad drew cloaks, roquelaures, and houppelandes tighter round them as they shivered and shook in chariots and sedan chairs; when dogs were brought in from kennels and placed before the blazing fires so that their unhappy carcases might be thawed back to life and comfort, and when horses in their stalls had rugs and cloths strapped over their backs so that, in the morning, they should not be found stretched dead upon their straw. Inside, except in the garrets and other dwellings of the outcasts, who had neither fuel to their fires nor rags to their backs, every effort was made to expel the winter cold; wood fires blazed on hearths and in Alsatian stoves; each nook and cranny of every window was plugged carefully; while men, and in many cases, women as well, drank spiced Lunel and Florence, Richebourg and St. Georges, to keep their temperatures up. And drank copiously, too. It was the coldest night of the winter 1719-20; the coldest night of that long spell of frost which had gripped Paris in its icy grasp. Yet, in the salons of the Demoiselles Montjoie that frost was confronted--defeated; it seemed unable to penetrate into the warmed and scented rooms, over every door and window of which was hung arras and tapestry; unable to touch, and cause to shiver in touching, either the bare-shouldered women who lounged in the velvet fauteuils or the group of men who, in their turn, wandered aimlessly about. "Confusion!" exclaimed one of the latter, a well-dressed, middle-aged man, "when is Susanne about to begin? What are we here for? To gaze into each other's fascinating faces or to recount our week-old scandals? The fiend take it! one might as well be at home and have been spared the encounter with the night air!" "Have patience, Morlaix!" exclaimed a second; "the game never begins until the pigeons are here. Sportsmen fire not into the air, nor against one another. Do you want to win my louis-d'ors, or I yours? No, no! On the contrary, let us combine. So, so," he broke off, "there come two. The Prince Mirabel and Sainte Foix." "Mirabel and Sainte Foix!" exclaimed the other. "Mirabel and Sainte Foix! My faith, all we shall get out of them will not make us fat. Sainte Foix cannot have got a thousand louis-d'ors left in the world, and those which he has Mirabel will attach for himself. Mon Dieu! that one of the Rohans should be one of us!" The other shrugged his shoulders; then he said: "Speak for yourself, mon ami. Meanwhile, I do not consider myself the same as Mirabel. I have not been kicked out of the army. I am no protector of all the sharpers in Paris. Speak for yourself, my friend. For yourself." "Now, there," said the other, taking not the slightest notice of his acquaintance's protestations, which he probably reckoned at their proper value. "There is one who might be worth----" "Nothing! He would have been once, but his money is all gone. La Mothe over there has had some of it, Mirabel also; even I have touched a little. Now, there is none to touch. They even say he owes the respected Duc Desparre twenty thousand livres, and cannot pay them." "Desparre will expect them." "That is possible. But I have great doubts--as to his ever getting them, I mean. Yet he is a gentleman, this Englishman; it may be he will find means to pay. It is a pity he does not ask his countryman, John Law, for assistance. He might put him in the way of making something." "He might; though that I also doubt. Law has bigger friends to help than dissolute young Englishmen; and they are not countrymen, the financier being Scotch. Meanwhile, as I say, Desparre will expect his money. He will want it, rich as he is, for his honeymoon." "His honeymoon! Faugh! the wretch. He is fifty if an hour. And, frankly, is it true? Has he bought Laure Vauxcelles?" "Ay, body and soul; from her uncle Vandecque. She is his, and cannot escape; she is in his grip. There is no hope for her. Vandecque is her guardian; our law gives him full power over her. It is obedience to the guardian's orders--or--you know!" "Yes, I know. A convent; the veil. I know. Ha! speak of the angels! Behold!" and his eyes turned towards the heavily-curtained doorway, at which a woman, accompanied by a man much her senior in years, appeared at the moment. A woman! Nay! little more than a girl--yet a girl who ere long would be a beauteous woman. Tall and supple, with a figure giving promise of ripe fulness ere many months should have passed, with a face of sweet loveliness--possessing dark hazel eyes, an exquisite mouth, a head crowned with light chestnut hair, one curl of which (called by the roués of the Regent's Court a "follow me, young man") fell over the shoulder to the fair bosom beneath. The face of a girl to dream of by night, to stand before by day and worship. No wonder that Desparre, forty-five years of age as he really was, and a dissolute, depraved roué to whom swift advancing age had brought no cessation of his evil yearnings, was supposed to have shown good taste in purchasing this modern Iphigenia, in buying her from her uncle, the gambler, Vandecque--the man who entered now by her side. In this salon there was a score of women, all of whom were well favoured enough; yet the glances they cast at Laure Vauxcelles showed that they owned their superior here. Moreover, they envied her. Desparre was thought to be enormously rich--had, indeed, always been considered so since he inherited his dukedom; but now that he had thrust his hand into the golden rain that fell in the Rue Quincampoix and, with it, had drawn forth more than a million livres--as many said!--there was not one of them who, being unmarried, would not have sold herself to him. But he had elected to buy Laure Vauxcelles, they understood; and yet Laure hated him. "She was a beautiful fool!" they whispered to each other. The tables were ready by the time she and her uncle had made their greetings. The "guests" sat down to biribi, pharaon (faro), and lansquenet. It was what they had come for, since the Demoiselles Montjoie kept the most fashionable gambling-house in Paris--a house in which the Regent had condescended to play ere now. A house in which, many years later, a milliner's girl, who was brought there to exhibit her beauty, managed to become transformed into a king's favourite, known afterwards as Madame du Barry. Soon the gamblers were at it fast and furious. The stockbrokers of the Rues Quincampoix[1] and Vivienne--not having had enough excitement during the day in buying and selling Mississippi shares--were now engaged in retrieving their losses, if possible, or losing their gains. Even the greater part of the women had left the velvet lounges and fauteuils and were tempting fate according to their means, with crowns, louis-d'ors shares of the Royal Bank, or "The Louisiana Company"; gambling in sums from twenty pounds to a thousand. And Vandecque, Laure's uncle, having now his purse well lined, though once nothing rubbed themselves together within it but a few beggarly coppers, was presiding at the lansquenet table, had flung down an important sum to make a bank, and was--as loudly as the manners of good society under the Regency would permit--inviting all round him to try their chance. While they, on their part, were eager enough to possess themselves of that purse's contents, though he himself had very little fear that such was likely to be the case. Two there were, however, who sat apart and did not join in the play--one, the ruined young Englishman of whom Morlaix and his companion had spoken, the other, Laure Vauxcelles, the woman who was to be sold in marriage to Desparre. Neither had spoken, however, on Laure's entrance with Vandecque. The man had remained seated on one of the velvet lounges at the far end of the room, his eyes fixed on the richly-painted ceiling, with its cupids and nymphs and goddesses--fitting allegories to the greatest and most aristocratic gambling hell in Paris! The girl, on entering, had cast one swift glance at him from those, hazel eyes, and had then turned them away. Yet he had seen that glance, although he had taken no notice of it. Presently, the game waxing more and more furious while Vandecque's back was turned to them (he being much occupied with his earnest endeavours to capture all the bank notes and the obligations of the Royal Bank and the Louisiana Company, and the little piles of gold pieces scattered about), the young man rose from his seat, and, walking to where Laure Vauxcelles sat some twenty paces from him, staring straight before her, said: "This should be almost Mademoiselle's last appearance here. Doubtless Monsieur le Duc is anxious for--for his union with Mademoiselle. When, if one may make so bold to ask, is it likely to take place?" For answer, the girl seated before him raised her eyes to those of the young Englishman, then--with a glance towards Vandecque's back, rounded as it bent over the table, while he scooped up the stakes which a successful deal of the cards had made his--said slowly: "Never. Never--if I can prevent it." She spoke in a low whisper, for fear the gambler should hear her, yet it was clear and distinct enough to reach the ears of the man before her; and, as he heard the words, he started. Yet, because--although he was still very young--the life he had led, the people he had mixed among in Paris, had taught him to steel himself against the exhibition of all emotion, he said very quietly: "Mademoiselle is, if I may say it, a little difficult. She appears to reject all honest admiration offered to her. To--to desire to remain untouched by the love of any man?" "The love of any man! Does Monsieur Clarges regard the love of the Duc Desparre as worth having? Does he regard the Duc Desparre as a man? As one whose wife any woman should desire to become?" Monsieur Clarges shrugged his shoulders, then he said: "There have been others." "Yes," she answered. "There have been others." "And they were equally unfortunate. There was one----" "There was one," she replied, interrupting, and with her glance firmly fixed him, "who desired my love; who desired me for his wife. A year ago. Is it not so? And, Monsieur Clarges, what was my answer to him? You should know. Recall it." "Your answer was that you did not love him; that, therefore, you could be no wife of his. Now, Mademoiselle, recall yourself--it is your turn--what he then said. It was this, I think. That he so loved you that, without receiving back any love from you in return, he begged you to grant his prayer; to believe that he would win that love at last if you would but give yourself to him; while, if you desired it, he would so show the reverence he held you in--that, once you were his wife, he would demand nothing more from you. Nothing but that he might be by your side; be but as a brother, a champion, a sentinel to watch and guard over you, although a husband in truth. That was what he said. That was all he desired. Mademoiselle, will the Duc Desparre be as loyal a husband as this, do you think?" "The Duc Desparre will never be husband of mine." The Englishman again shrugged his shoulders. He had learnt the trick well during a long exile in Paris--an exile dating from the time when the Pretender's cause was lost by the Earl of Mar, and he, a Jacobite, had followed him to France after the "'15." "But how to avoid it now?" he asked. "The time draws near--is at hand. How escape?" "Is there not one way?" she asked, with again an upward glance of those eyes. "No no no!" he replied, his calmness deserting him now. "No! no! Not that! Not that!" "How else? There is no other." As they spoke the play still went on at the tables; women shrieked still, half in earnest half in jest, as a card turned up that told against them. Still Vandecque crouched over the board where he held the bank and where his greedy hands drew in the stakes, for he was winning heavily. Already he had twenty thousand livres before him drawn from the pockets of Mirabel, Sainte Foix, the stockbrokers of the Rues Quincampoix and Vivienne, and from the female gamblers. And, gambler himself, he had forgotten all else; he had forgotten almost that the niece whom he guarded so carefully until the time should come when he would hand her over to her purchaser, was in the room. "It is an accursed law," the Englishman murmured; "a vile, accursed law which gives a father or a guardian such power. In no other country would it be possible. Yet Lau--Mademoiselle--that which you meditate must never be. Oh! to think of it! To think of it!" He buried his head in his hands now as he spoke--he had taken a seat beside her--and reflected on the terror of the thing, the horror that she, whom he had loved so madly--whom, alas! he loved still, though she cared nothing for him--should be doomed to one of two extremes--marriage with Desparre, or a convent. Or, worse--a third, a more fearful horror! That which she meditated--death! For that, if she had taken this resolve, she would carry it out he did not doubt. She would never have proclaimed her intention had she not been determined. She had said it was the only way! But, suddenly, he looked up at her, bent his head nearer to hers, whispered a word. Then said aloud: "There is your safety. There your only chance. Take it." As he spoke, she started, and a rich glow came into her face while her eyes sparkled; but a moment later her countenance fell again, and she drew away from him. "No! no!" she said. "No! no! Not that way. Not that. Not such a sacrifice as that. Never! never never!" CHAPTER III THE ROMANCE OF MONSIEUR VANDECQUE An evening or so after the meeting between Laure Vauxcelles and Walter Clarges at the gambling hell kept by the Demoiselles Montjoie, Vandecque sat in the saloon of his apartments in the Passage du Commerce. Very comfortable apartments they were, too, if bizarre ornaments and rococo furniture, combined with the most gorgeous colours possible to be obtained, could be considered as providing comfort. Yet, since it was a period of bizarrerie and whimsical caprice in furniture, clothing, and life generally (including morals), it may be that, to most people--certainly to most people with whom the once broken-down but now successful gambler was permitted to associate--the rococo nature of his surroundings would not have appeared particularly out of place. And, undoubtedly, such a warm nest must have brought comfort to the heart of the man who paid at the present moment 250f. a week for the right of occupying that nest, since there had been a time once when he scarce knew how to find one franc a day whereby to pay in advance for a night's lodgings in a back alley. Also, he had passed, previously to that period of discomfort, a portion of his life away from Paris in a condition which the French termed politely (whenever they mentioned such an unpleasant subject) "in retreat," and had been subjected to a process that they designated as "_marqué_," which, in plain English, means that he had been at the galleys as a slave and had been branded. "For the cause of religion," he said, if he ever said anything at all on the subject; "for a question of theft and larceny with violence" being, however, written in the factum of the eminent French counsel who appeared against him before the judges in Paris. His life had been a romance, he was in the habit of observing in his moments of ease, which were when the gambling hells were closed during the day-time, or the stockbrokers' offices in the Rues Quincampoix and Vivienne during the night-time. And so, indeed, it had been if romance is constituted and made up of robbery, cheating, chicanery, the wearing of blazing scarlet coats one month and the standing bare-backed in prison yards during the next, there to have the shoulders and loins scourged with a whip previously steeped in brine. A romance, if drinking flasks of champagne and iced tokay at one period, and water out of street fountains at another, or riding in gilt sedan-chairs one week and being flogged along at a cart tail another, formed one. For all these things had happened to Jean Vandecque, as well as the galleys in the past, with the carcan, or collar around his neck, and the possession of the gorgeous apartments in the Passage du Commerce at the present moment--all these, and many more. With also another romance--or the commencement and foundation of one. That which has now to be told. Struggling on foot along the great road that leads from the South to Paris, ten years before this story begins, Jean Vandecque (with the discharge of a liberated convict from the galley _Le Requin_ huddled away in the bosom of his filthy shirt) viewed the capital at last--his face burnt black by the Mediterranean suns under which he had slaved for five years, and by the hot winds which had swept over his nakedness during that time. God knows how he would have got so far, how have traversed those weary miles without falling dead by the wayside, had it not been for that internal power which he possessed (in common with the lowest, as well as the highest of beasts) of finding subsistence somehow; of supporting life. An egg stolen here and there along the country roads; a fowl seized, throttled, and eaten raw, if no sticks could be found wherewith to make a fire; a child robbed of a loaf--and lucky that it was not throttled too; a lonely grange despoiled; a shopkeeper's till in some hamlet emptied of a few sous; a woman cajoled out of a drink of common wine; and Paris at last. Paris, the home of the rich and well-to-do; the refuge of every knave and sharper who wished to prey upon others. Paris, into which he limped footsore and weary, and clad in dusty rags; Paris, full of wealth and full of fools to be exploited. He found his home, or, at least, he found the home in which his unhappy wife sheltered; a garret under the roof of a crazy, tumble-down house behind Notre Dame--found both home and wife after a day's search and many inquiries made in cellars and reeking courts and hideous alleys, into which none were allowed to penetrate except those who bore the brand of vagabond and scoundrel stamped clear and indelible upon them. Also, he found something else: A child--a girl eight years old--playing in a heap of charred faggots in the chimney; a child who told him that she was hungry, and that there was no food at all in the place. "Whose is the brat?" he asked of his wife, knowing very well that, at least, it was not hers, since it must of a certainty have been born three years before he went "into retreat" on the Mediterranean. "Whose? Have you grown so rich that you adopt children now; or is it paid for, eh?" "It is paid for," the patient creature said, shuddering at the man's return, since she had hoped that he had died in the galley and would never, consequently, wander back to Paris to molest her. "Paid for, and will be----" "Badly paid for, at least, since its adoption leads you to no better circumstances than these in which I find you. Give me some food. I have eaten nothing for hours." "Nor I; nor the child there. Not for twenty-four hours. I have not a sol; nor anything to sell." The man looked at his wife from under bushy black eyebrows--though eyebrows not much blacker than his baked face; then he thrust his hand into his pocket and drew forth five sols and weighed them in his hands as though they were gold pieces. He had stolen them that morning from the basket of a blind man sleeping in the sun outside St. Roch, when no one was looking. "Go, buy bread," he said. "Get something. I am starving. Go." "Bread--with these! They will not buy enough for one. And we are so hungry, she and I. See, the child weeps for hunger. Have you no more?" "Not a coin. Have you?" "Alas! God, He knows! Nothing. And we are dying of hunger." "How is it you are not at work, earning something?" "They will trust me no more. They fear I shall sell the goods confided to me. Who entrusts velvets, or silk, or laces to such as I, or lets such as I enter their shops to work there?" "What is to be done, then?" "Die," the woman said. "There is nought else to do." "Bah! In Paris! Imbecile! In Paris, full of wealth and food! Stay here till I return." And he went swiftly out. Some hours later, when the sun had sunk behind the great roof of the Cathedral, when the children were playing about beneath the spot where the statues were, and when the pigeons were seeking their niches, those three were eating a hearty meal, all seated on the floor, since there was neither chair nor table nor bed within the room; a meal consisting of a loaf, a piece of bacon, and some hard-boiled eggs. The woman and the child got but a poor share, 'tis true, their portions being the morsels which Vandecque tossed to them every now and again; while of a wine bottle, which he constantly applied to his mouth, they got nothing at all. Yet their hunger was appeased; they were glad enough to do without drink. * * * * * * The passing years brought changes to two of these outcasts, as it did to the wealthy in Paris. Vandecque's wife had died of the small-pox twelve months after his return; the adopted child, Vandecque's _niece_, Mdlle. Vauxcelles, was developing fast into a lovely girl; while as for Vandecque--well! the gallows bird, the man who had worn the iron collar round his neck and who bore upon his shoulders the brand, had disappeared, and in his place had come a grave, sedate person clad always in sombre clothes, yet a man conspicuous for the purity of his linen and lace and the neatness of his attire. While, although he had not as yet attained to the splendour of the Passage du Commerce, his rooms in the Rue du Paon were comfortable and there was no lack of either food, or drink, or fuel--the three things that the outcast who has escaped and triumphed over the miseries and memories of the past most seeks to make sure of in the future. He was known also to great and rich personages now, he had patrons amongst the nobility and was acquainted with the roués who circled round the Regent. He was prominent, and, as he frequently told himself, was "respected." He was a successful man. How he had become so, however, he did not dilate on--or certainly not on the earlier of his successes after his reappearance!--even when making those statements about his romantic life with which he occasionally favoured his friends. Had he done so, he would not, perhaps, have shocked very much the ears, or morals, of his listeners, but he must, at least, have betrayed the names of several eminent patrons for whom he had done dirty work in a manner which might have placed his own ears, if not his life, in danger, and would, thereby, probably have led to his once more traversing the road to Marseilles or to Cette--which is almost the same thing--to again partake of the shelter of the galleys. Yet he would never have found or come into contact with these illustrious patrons, these men who required secret agents to minister to their private pleasures, had it not been for a stupendous piece of good fortune which befell him shortly after his return to Paris from the Mediterranean. It was, indeed, so strange a piece of good fortune that it may well be set down here as a striking instance of how the Devil takes care of his own. From his late wife he had never been able to obtain any information as to who "the brat" was whom he had found playing about in the ashes on the hearth in the garret, when he returned from his period of southern seclusion; he had not found out even so much as what name she was supposed to bear, except that of "Laure," which seemed to have been bestowed on the child by Madame Vandecque on the principle that one name was as good as another by which to call a child. She had said herself that she did not know anything further--that, being horribly poor after Vandecque had departed for the south, she had yielded to the offer of an abbé--now dead--to adopt the girl, twenty-five louis-d'ors being paid to her for doing so. That was all, she said, that she knew. But, she added (with a firmness which considerably astonished her lord and master) that, especially as she had come to love the creature which was so dependent on her, she meant to carry out her contract and to do her best by her. To Vandecque's suspicious nature--a nature sharpened by countless acts of roguery of all kinds--this statement presented itself as a lie, and he believed that either his wife had received a very much larger sum of money in payment for the child's adoption than she had stated, or that she was surreptitiously receiving regular sums of money at intervals on its behalf. Of the two ideas, he inclined more to the latter than the former, and it was owing to this belief that he did not at once take steps to disembarrass himself of the burden with which he found himself saddled, and send the child of at once to the Home of the Foundlings whence she would eventually have been sold to a beggar for a few livres and trained to demand alms in the street, as usually happened to deserted children in the reign of Louis the Great. Later on he was thankful--he told himself that he was "devoutly thankful"--that he had never done anything of the sort. He was one day, about a year after his wife's death, mounting the ricketty stairs which led to the garret in which he had found the woman on his return, when, to his astonishment, he saw a Sister of Charity standing outside the door of his room, looking hesitatingly about her, and glancing down towards him as he ascended to where she was. And it was very evident to him that the woman had been knocking at his door without receiving any answer to her summons. This was a thing certain to happen in any case, since it was Vandecque's habit on quitting his shelter during the day-time to send Laure to play with all the other vagrant children of the alley, and to put the key in his pocket. At night, the plan was varied somewhat when he went forth, the girl being sent to her bed and locked into the room for safety. "Madame desires--?" he said now, as he reached the landing on which the sister stood, while taking off his frayed hat to her with an inimitable gesture of politeness which his varied and "romantic" career had taught him well enough how to assume when necessary. "Madame desires----" "To see the woman, Madame Jasmin," the sister answered, her grave solemn eyes roving over the man's poor clothes as she answered. Or, perhaps, since his clothes in such a spot as this would scarcely be out of place, examining his face with curiosity. "Madame Jasmin!" he repeated to himself, but to himself only--"Madame Jasmin!" How long it was since he had heard that name! Ages ago, it seemed; ages. "Madame Jasmin!" The name his wife had borne as a young widow of twenty, the name she had parted with for ever, on the morning when she gave herself to him at the altar of St. Vincent de Paul. Yet, now, of late years, she seemed to have used it again for some reason, some purpose, and had probably done so during his retreat. Only--what was that purpose? He must know that. "Madame Jasmin," he said in a subdued voice--a voice that was meant to, and perhaps did, express some sorrow for the worn, broken helpmate and drudge who had gone away and left him, "Madame Jasmin is dead. A year ago. My poor wife was delicate; our circumstances did not conduce to----" "Ah! your wife. You are, then, Monsieur Jasmin? She doubtless, therefore--you--you understand why I am here? That I have brought what was promised." Understanding nothing, utterly astonished, yet with those consoling words, "I have brought what was promised," sinking deep into his mind, Vandecque bowed his head acquiescingly. "I understand," he said. "Understand perfectly. Will not Madame give herself the trouble to enter my poor abode? We can talk there at our leisure." And he opened the door and ushered her within. CHAPTER IV A SISTER OF MERCY Some betterment of his circumstances must have come to Vandecque between the time when he had returned from the South and now (how it had come, whether by villainy or honest labour, if he ever turned his hand to such a thing, it would be impossible to say), since the garret, though still poor and miserable, presented a better appearance than it had previously done. There were, to wit, some chairs in it at this time; cheap common things, yet fit to sit upon; a table with the pretence of a cloth upon it; also a carpet, with a pattern that must once have been so splendid that the beholder could but conclude that it had passed from hand to hand in its descent, until it had at last' reached this place. A miserable screen also shut off a bed in which, doubtless, Vandecque reposed, while a large cupboard was fitted up as a small bedroom, or closet, in which possibly the child slept. In one of these chairs the owner of the room invited his visitor to be seated, in the other he placed himself, the table between them. Then, after a pause, while Vandecque's eyes sought again and again those of the sister's, as though their owner was wondering what the next revelation would be, the latter recommenced the conversation. She repeated, too, the purport of her former words, if not the words themselves. "Doubtless Madame Jasmin told you that you might expect my coming. It has been delayed longer than it should have been. Yet--yet--even in the circumstances of my--of the person for whom I act--money is not always quite easy to be obtained," and she looked at Vandecque as though expecting an answer in assent. "Naturally. Naturally," he made haste to reply, his quick wits prompting him to understand what that reply should be, while also they told him that this explanation, coupled with the presence here of the visitor, gave an almost certain testimony to the fact that the money mentioned had been now obtained. "Naturally. And--and--it was of no import. Since my poor wife passed away we have managed to struggle through our existence somehow." Yet he would have given those ears which had so often been in peril of the executioner's knife to know from what possible source any money could have become due to his late wife. Her first husband had died in almost poverty, he recalled; they had soon spent what little he had had to leave his widow. Then, even as he thus pondered, the sister's voice broke in on him again. "It is understood that this is the last sum. And that it is applied, as agreed upon with your late wife, to the proper bringing up and educating of the child, and to her support by you. You understand that; you give your promise as a man of honour? Your wife said that you were a 'sailor'--sailors are, I have heard, always honourable men." "I--I was a sailor at the time she took charge of little Laure. As one--as a man of honour--I promise. She shall have nought to complain of. And I have come to love her. I--believe me--I have been good to her, as good as, in my circumstances, I could be." And, knave as Vandecque was, he was speaking the truth now. He had been good to the child. These two, so strangely brought together, had grown fond of each other, and the vagabond not only found a place in his heart for the little thing, but, which was equally as much to the purpose, found for himself a place in hers. If he had ever seriously thought, in the first days of finding her in his garret, of sending her to the home for abandoned children, he had long since forgotten those ideas. He would not have parted with her now for that possible sum of money which it seemed extremely likely he was going to become the possessor of for having retained her. "I do not doubt it. Yet, ere I can give you the money, there are conditions to be complied with. First, I must see the child; next, you must give me your solemn promise--a promise in writing--that you will conform to my demands as to the bringing of her up. You will not refuse?" "Refuse!" said Vandecque. "Refuse! Madame, what is there to refuse? That which you demand is that which I have ever intended, not knowing that you were--not knowing when to expect your coming. Now you have brought the money--you have brought it, have you not?" speaking a little eagerly (for the life of him he could not help that eagerness)--"my dearest desire can be accomplished." "Yes, I have brought it," the woman answered. "It is here," and she took from out her pocket a little canvas sack or bag, that to Vandecque's eyes looked plump and fat. "It contains the promised sum," she said, "and it is--should be--enough. With that the child can be fed, clothed, educated, if you husband it well. Fitted for a decent, if simple, life. You agree that it is so, Monsieur Jasmin?" Vandecque bowed his head courteously, acquiescingly, while muttering, "Without doubt it is enough with careful husbanding." Yet, once more he would have given everything, all he had in the world--though 'twas little enough--to know what that small canvas bag contained. While, as for acquiescing in its sufficiency, he would have done that even though it contained but a handful of silver, as he thought might after all be the case. "Take it then," she said, passing it across the table to him, while the principal thought in Vandecque's mind as she did so was that, whosoever had chosen this simpleton for his, or her agent, must be a fool, or one who had but little choice in the selection of a go-between, "and, if you choose, count the gold; you will find it as promised." Count the gold! So it was gold! A bag full! Some two or three hundred pieces at least, or he, whose whole life had been spent in getting such things by hook or by crook, in gambling hells, or by, as that accursed advocate had said who prosecuted for the King, theft and larceny, or as a coiner, was unable to form any judgment. And they were his, must be his, now. Were they not in his own room, to his hand? Even though this idiotic Sister of Charity should decide to repossess herself of them, what chance would she have of doing so. Against him, the ex-galley slave. Him! the knave. Yet he had to play a part, to reserve his efforts for something more than this present bag of louis'. If one such was forthcoming, another might be, in spite of what the foolish woman had said about it being the last; for were there not such things as spyings and trackings, and the unearthing of secrets; would there not be, afterwards, such things as the discovery of some wealthy man or woman's false step? Oh that it might be a woman's, since they were so much easier to deal with. And then, extortion; blackmail. Ha! there was a bird somewhere in France that laid golden eggs--that would lay golden eggs so long as it lived; one that must be nourished and fed with confidence--at least, at first--not frightened away. He pushed the bag back towards the Sister, remembering he could wrench it from her again at any moment. With a calm dignity, which might well have become the most highbred gentleman of the Quartier St. Germain hard by, he muttered that, as for counting, such an outrage was not to be thought upon. Also he said: "Madame has not seen the child. She stipulated that she should do so. Had she not thus stipulated, I must myself have requested her to see her." Then he quitted the room, leaving the bag of money lying on the table, and, descending one or two of the flights of stairs, sent a child whom he knew, and whom he happened to observe leaving another room, to seek for little Laure and bid her return at once. At one moment ere he descended he had thought of turning the key (which he had left outside when he and his visitor entered the apartment) softly in the lock and thereby preventing her from escaping; but he remembered that he would be on the stairs between her and the street, and that he did not mean to go farther than the doorstep. She was safe. He returned, therefore, saying that the child would be with them shortly. Then to expedite matters (as he said), he asked if it would not be well for him to sign the receipt as desired? The receipt or promise, as to what he undertook to perform. "That, too, is here," she replied, while Vandecque's shrewd eye noticed, even as she spoke, that the bag of louis' lay untouched as he had left it. "Read it, then sign." He did read it, laughing inwardly to himself meanwhile, though showing a grave, thoughtful face outwardly, since his sharp intelligence told him that it was a document of no value whatever. It was made out in the form of a receipt from Madame Jasmin--who had had no legal existence for twelve years, and was now dead--to a person whose name was carefully and studiously omitted from the paper (though that, he knew, would afterwards be filled up) on behalf of a female child, "styled Laure by the woman Jasmin." A piece of paper, he told himself, not worth the drop of ink spilt upon it. Or, even though it were so, not ever likely to be used or produced by the individual who took such pains to shroud himself, or herself, in mystery. A worthless document, which he would have signed for a franc, let alone a bag of golden louis.' Aloud, however, he said: "To make it legal in the eyes of his Majesty's judges, the name of my dear wife must be altered to that of mine. Shall I do it or will you?" "You, if it pleases you." Whereon Vandecque altered the name of "la femme Jasmin" to that of "le Sieur Jasmin," householder, since, as he justly remarked aloud, he was no longer a sailor, and then, with many flourishes--he being a master hand at penmanship of all kinds--signed beneath the document the words, "Christophe Jasmin." Christophe was not his name, but, as he said to himself saturninely, no more was Jasmin, wherefore he might as well assume the one as the other. Moreover, he reflected that should the paper ever see the light again, it might be just as well for him to be able to deny the whole name as a part of it. As he finished this portion of the transaction, the door opened and little Laure came in, hot and flushed with the games she had been playing with the other _gamines_ of the court, yet with already upon her face the promise of that beauty which was a few years later to captivate the hearts of all who saw her, including the Duc Desparre and the English exile, Walter Clarges. Only, there was as yet no sign upon that face of the melancholy and sorrow which those later years brought to it as she came to understand the life her guardian led; to understand, too, the rottenness of the existence by which she was surrounded. Instead, she was bright and merry as a child of her years should be, gay and insouciant, not understanding nor foreseeing how dark an opening to Life's future was hers. As for externals, she was well enough dressed; better dressed, indeed, than those among whom she mixed. Her little frock of dark Nimes serge--the almost invariable costume of the lowly in France--was not a mass of rags and filth, her boots and thread stockings not altogether a mockery. "Madame sees," Vandecque remarked, as the child ran towards him with her hands outstretched and her eyes full of gladness, until she stopped, embarrassed at the sight of the strange lady with the solemn glance; "Madame sees; she recognises that she need have no fear, no apprehension." "I see." Then, because she was a woman, she called Laure to her and kissed and fondled the child, muttering, "Poor child; poor little thing," beneath her breath. And, though she would have shuddered and besought pardon for days and nights afterwards on her knees, had she recognised what was passing through her mind, she was in truth uttering maledictions on the mother who could thus send away for ever from her so gentle and helpless a little creature as this; who could send her forth to the life she was now leading, to the life that must be before her. The interview was at an end, and the sister rose from her seat. As for Vandecque, he would willingly have given half of whatever might be in that bag of money still lying on the table--his well-acted indifference to the presence of such a thing preventing him from even casting the most casual glance at it--could he have dared to ask one question, or throw out one inquiry as to whom the principal might be in the affair. Yet it was impossible to do so since he was supposed to know all that his wife had known, while actually not aware if she herself had been kept in ignorance of the child's connections or, on the contrary, had been confided in. "If she had only known more," he thought; "or, knowing more, had only divulged all to me." But she was in her grave now, and, rascal though he had been, he could not bring himself to curse the poor drudge lying in that grave for having held her peace against such a man as he was, and knew himself to be. If she knew all, then, he acknowledged, it was best she should be silent; if she knew nothing--as he thought most likely--so, also, it was best. But, still, he meant to know himself, if possible, something about the child's origin. He, at least, was under no promised bond of secrecy and silence; he had never been confided in. For, to know everything was, he felt certain, to see a comfortable future unroll itself before him; a future free from all money troubles--the only discomfort which he could imagine was serious in this world. The person who had sent that bag of louis'--the woman had said it contained gold!--he repeated to himself, could doubtless provide many more. He must know who that person was. With still an easy grace which seemed to be the remnant of a higher life than that in which he now existed, he held the door open for his visitor to pass out; with equally easy politeness he followed her down the ricketty stairs and would have escorted her to the end of the court, or alley, and afterwards, unknown to her, have followed the simple creature to whatever portion of Paris she might have gone, never losing sight of his quarry, but that, at the threshold, she stopped suddenly and bade him come no farther. "It must not be," she said. "Monsieur Jasmin, return. And--forget not your duty to the child." For a moment he paused dumfoundered, perceiving that this simpleton was, in sober truth, no such fool as he had supposed her. Then he bowed, wished her good day, promising all required of him as he did so, and retired back into the passage of the house. Nor could any glance thrown through the crack of the open door aid him farther. He saw her pause at the entrance to the court, and, standing still, look back for some minutes or so, as though desirous of observing if he was following her; also, he saw her glance directed to the window of his room above, as though seeking to discover if he was glancing out of it; if he had rushed up there to spy upon her. Then, a moment later, she was gone from out the entrance to the court. And, creeping swiftly now to that entrance, and straining his eyes up and down the long street, he observed that no sign of the woman was visible. He had lost all trace of her. Amidst the hackney coaches and the hucksters' carts, and, sometimes, a passing carriage of the nobility from the neighbouring Quartier St. Germain, she had disappeared, leaving no sign behind. CHAPTER V THE DUKE'S DESIRE Vandecque never discovered who that woman was, whence she came, nor where she vanished to. Never, though he brought to bear upon the quest which he instituted for her an amount of intelligent search that his long training in all kinds of cunning had well fitted him to put in action. He watched for days, nay, weeks, in the neighbourhood of the Hospital of Mercy, to or from which most of the Sisters, who were not engaged in nursing or other acts of charity elsewhere, passed regularly--yet never, amongst some scores of them who met his eyes, could he discover the woman he sought. He questioned, too, those in the court who had been dwelling there when first his wife came to occupy the garret in which he had found her later, as to whether they could remember aught of the arrival of the child. He asked questions that produced nothing satisfactory, since all testified to the truth of that which the poor woman had so often told him--namely, that the child was brought to her before she came to this spot. Indeed, he would have questioned Laure herself as to what she could remember concerning her earliest years, only what use was it to ask questions of one who had been but an infant, unable even to talk, at the time the event happened. At last--and after being confronted for months by nothing but a dense blackness of oblivion which he could not penetrate--he decided that the woman who had appeared to him as a simple and unsophisticated _religieuse_, capable only of blindly and faithfully carrying out the orders given to her by another person, was, in truth, no Sister of Charity whatever, but a scheming person who had temporarily assumed the garb she wore as a disguise. He came also to believe that she herself was Laure's mother, that she had bound herself in some way to make the payment which he had by such extreme good fortune become the recipient of, and that, in one thing at least, she had uttered the actual truth--the actual truth when she had said that those louis' would be the last forthcoming, that there could never be any more. Had she not, he recalled to mind, said that such a sum as she brought was not easily come by, as an excuse for her not having paid them before? Also, had she not wept a little over the child, folded her to her bosom, and called her "Poor little thing"? Did not both these things most probably point to the fact that, judged by the latter actions, she was the girl's mother, and, according to the statement which preceded it, that she was not a woman of extraordinarily large means? Had she been so, she would have been both able and willing to pay down more than five hundred louis' for the hiding of her secret, and would, to have that secret kept always safely (and also to possess the power of seeing the child now and again without fear of detection) have been prepared to make fresh payments from time to time. For five hundred louis' was what the canvas bag had contained. Five hundred louis', as Vandecque found when, on returning to the garret after losing sight of the woman at the entrance to the court, he had turned them all out on to the table. Five hundred louis' exactly, neither more nor less, proving that the sum was a carefully counted one; doubtless, too, one duly arranged for. Louis' that were of all kinds, and of the reigns during which they had been in existence--the original ones of Louis the Just; the more imposing ones of Le Roi Soleil, with the great sun blazing on the reverse side; the bright, new ones but recently struck for the present boy-king by order of the Regent; all of which led the astute Vandecque to conclude that the pile had been long accumulating--that the first batch might be an old nest egg, or an inheritance; that the second batch was made up of savings added gradually; that the third had been got together by hook or by crook, with a determination to complete the full sum. "Yet, what matters!" he said, to himself, as he tossed the gold pieces about in his eager hands, and gloated over them with his greedy eyes; tossing, too, a double louis d'or of the treacherous Le Juste, which he had come across, to the child to play with--"what matters where they come from, how they were gathered together to hide a woman's shame? They are mine now! Mine! Mine! Mine! A capital! A bank! The foundation of a fortune, carefully handled! Come, child; come, Laure; come with me. To the _fournisseur's_, first; then to the dining rooms. Some new, clean clothes for both of us, and then a meal to make our hearts dance within us. We are rich, my child; rich, my little one. Rich! Rich! Rich!" For, to the whilom beggared outcast and galley slave, five hundred louis' were wealth. Time passed; in truth it seemed that Vandecque was indeed rich, or growing rich. The garret was left behind; four rooms in the Rue du Paon preceded by a year or so that apartment in the Passage du Commerce at which he eventually arrived. Four rooms, one a dining-room, another a parlour, in which at midnight there came sometimes a score of men to gamble--women sometimes came too--and a bedroom for each. He was growing well-to-do, his capital accumulating as capital will accumulate in the hands of the man who always holds the bank and makes it a stipulation that, on those terms alone, can people gamble beneath his roof. Meanwhile Laure was fast developing into a woman--was one almost. She was now seventeen, for she was within a year of the time when the exile, Walter Clarges, was to whisper the words of suggested salvation in her ear in the saloon of the demoiselles Montjoie--suggested salvation from her marriage with Monsieur le Duc Desparre, from his embraces. A beautiful girl, too, with her sweet hair bound up now about her shapely head, her deep hazel eyes full and lustrous, calm and pure. Una herself passed no more undefiled amidst the horrors of Wandering Wood than did Laure Vauxcelles amidst the gamblers and the dissolute _roués_ who surrounded the court of Philippe le Débonnaire, and who, ere the games began at night--when occasionally permitted to see her--found time to cast admiring glances at her wondrous, fast-budding beauty. The name Vauxcelles was, of course, no more hers than was that of Laure, which had been given to her by poor Madame Vandecque when first she took the deserted and discarded waif to her kindly heart. But as Vandecque had elected to style her his niece, so, too, he decided to give her a name which would have been that of an actual niece if he had ever had one. He recalled the fact that he had once possessed an elder sister, now long since dead, who had married a man from Lorraine whose name was Vauxcelles, and, he being also dead, the name was bestowed on his _protégée_. It answered well enough, he told himself, since Laure had come to his late wife far too early in her life to remember aught that had preceded her arrival under the roof of the unhappy woman's earlier garret; and it formed a sufficient answer and explanation to any questions the girl might ever ask as to her origin. In sober fact, she believed that she was actually the child of his dead and gone sister and her husband. She would have loved her uncle more dearly than she did--she would have loved the grave, serious man who had suffered so for his "religion," as he often told her, but for two things. The first was that she knew him to be a gambler; that he grew rich by enticing men to his apartments and by winning their money; that several young men had been ruined beneath their roof, and that more than one had destroyed himself after such ruin had fallen upon him. She knew, too, that others stole so as to be able to take part in the faro and biribi that was played there; to take part, too, in the brilliant society of those members of the aristocracy who condescended to visit the Rue du Paon and to win their stolen money. For there sometimes came, amongst others, that most horrible of young roués, the Duc de Richelieu and Fronsac, from whom the girl shrank as from a leper, or some noisome reptile; there, too, came De Noailles, reeking with the impurities of an unclean life; and De Biron, who was almost as bad. Sometimes also, amongst the women, came the proud De Sabran, who condescended to be the Regent's "friend," but redeemed herself in her own eyes by insulting him hourly, and by telling him that, when God had finished making men and lackeys, He took the remnants of the clay and made Kings and Regents. Laughing La Phalaris came, too, sometimes; also Madame de Parabère; once the Regent came himself; leaning heavily on the arm of his Scotch financier, and, under his astute mathematical calculations, managed to secure a large number of Vandecque's pistoles, so that the latter cursed inwardly while maintaining outwardly a face as calm and still as alabaster. An illustrious company was this which met in the ex-galley slave's apartments! What to Laure was worse than all, however, was that her uncle sometimes desired her to be agreeable to occasional guests who honoured his rooms with their presence. Not, it is true, to the dissolute roués nor the Regent's mistresses--to do the soiled and smirched swindler of bygone days justice, he respected the girl's innocence and purity too much for that--nor to those men who were married and from whom there was nothing to be obtained. But he perceived clearly enough her swift developing beauty; he knew that there, in that beauty, was a charm so fresh and fascinating that it might well be set as a stake against a great title, an ancient and proud name, the possession of enormous wealth. Before loveliness inferior to Laure's, and purity not more deep--for such would have been impossible--he had known of, heard of, the heads of the noblest houses in France bowing, while exchanging for the possession of such charms the right to share their names. What had happened before, he mused, might well happen again. Laure, the outcast, the outcome of the gutters and the mud, the abandoned child, might yet live to share a ducal coronet, a name borne with honour since the days of the early Capets. And, with her, he would mount, too, go hand in hand, put away for ever a disgraceful past, a past from which he still feared that some spectre might yet arise to denounce and proclaim him. If she would only yield to his counsel--only do that! If she only would! Suitors such as he desired were not lacking. One, he was resolved she should accept by hook or by crook, as he said to himself in his own phrase. This was the newly succeeded Duc Desparre, the man who a year before had been serving as an officer on paltry pay in the Regiment de Bellebrune, and taking part in the Catalonian campaign--the man who, in middle life, had succeeded to a dukedom which a boy of eighteen had himself succeeded to but a year before that. But the lad was then already worn out with dissipation which a sickly constitution, transmitted to him by half-a-dozen equally dissipated forerunners, was not able to withstand. A cold contracted at a midnight fête given by the Regent in the gardens of Madame de Parabère's country villa at Asnieres, had done its work. It had placed in the hands of the soldier who had nothing but his pay and his bundle of swords (and a few presents occasionally sent him by an admiring woman), a dukedom, a large estate, a great rent-roll. It was six months before that snowy night on which the Marquise Grignan de Poissy paid her visit to Monsieur le Duc, that Desparre, flinging all considerations of family, of an ancient title and a still more ancient name, to the winds, determined that this girl should be his wife, that he would buy her with his coronet, since in no other way could she be his. "I desire her. I love her. I will possess her," he said to himself by night and day; "I will. I must marry her. Curse it, 'tis strange, too, how her beauty has bound me down; I who have loved so many, yet never thought of marrying one of them. I, the poor soldier, who had nothing to offer in exchange for a woman's heart but a wedding ring, and would never give even that. Now that I am well to do, a great prize, I sacrifice myself." Yet he chuckled, too, as he resolved to make the sacrifice, recognising that it was not only his love for and desire of possessing this girl which was egging him on to the determination, but something else as well. The desire to retaliate upon his numerous kinswomen who had once ignored him, but who now grovelled at his feet. To wound, as he termed them, the "women of his tribe," whose doors were mostly shut to the beggarly captain of the Regiment de Bellebrune, but who, in every case, would have now prostrated themselves before him with pleasure--the elder ones because there was much of the family wealth which he might direct towards them and their children eventually, if he so chose, and also because rumour said that his acquaintanceship with the Regent and John Law was doubling and trebling that wealth; the younger ones because there was the title and the coronet and the great position ready to be shared with some woman. Yet he meant to defeat them all, to retaliate upon them for past slights. The only share which they should have in any wedding of his would be the witnessing of it with another woman, and that a woman of whom no one knew anything beyond the fact that she belonged to the inferior classes, and was the niece and ward of a man who kept a gambling-house. It would be a great, a stupendous retaliation--a retaliation he could gloat over and revel in; a repayment for all he had endured in his earlier days. One thing alone stood in the way of the accomplishment of that retaliation. Laure Vauxcelles refused absolutely to consent to become the Duchesse Desparre--indeed, to marry anyone--as Vandecque told Monsieur after he had well sounded his niece on the subject. "Refuses!" Desparre exclaimed. "Refuses! It is incredible. Is there any other? That English exile to wit, the man Clarges? If I know aught of human emotions, he, too, loves her." "She has refused him also." "Yet the cases are widely different. He is a beggar; I am Desparre." "She avers she will marry no one. She has also strange scruples about this house, about the establishment I keep. She says that from such a home as this no woman is fit to go forth as a wife." "Her scruples show that she, at least, is fit to do so. Vandecque, she must be my wife. I am resolved. What pressure can you bring to bear upon her? Oh! that I, Desparre, should be forced to sue thus!" he broke off, muttering to himself in his rage. "I must think, reflect," Vandecque replied. "Leave it to me. You are willing to wait, Monsieur?" "I must have her. She must be my wife." "Leave it to me." Monsieur did leave it to him, and, as the autumn drew towards the winter, Vandecque was able to tell his employer--for such he was--that all scruples were overcome, that the girl was willing to become his wife. One thing, however, he did not tell--namely, the influence he had brought to bear upon her, such influence consisting of the information he had furnished as to her being an unknown and nameless waif and stray, who, as he said, he had adopted out of charity. For, naturally enough, he omitted all mention of the bag of louis' d'or which he had received on her behalf, and also all mention of anything else which he imagined his wife had previously received. So, when his tale was done, it was with no astonishment that he heard Laure Vauxcelles announce that she was willing to become the Duchesse Desparre, since he concluded that, as she had now learnt who she was--or rather who she was not--she was willing to sink all trace of what she doubtless considered was a shameful origin in a brilliant future. It never dawned upon his warped and sordid mind that this very story, while seeming to induce her to compliance, had, in truth, forced her to a determination to seek oblivion in a manner far different from that of marriage; an oblivion which should be utter. As for Desparre, he asked no questions as to how Vandecque had brought her to that compliance. It was sufficient for him to know, and revel in the knowledge, that the girl, who moved his middle-aged pulses in a manner in which they had never been stirred for years before by any woman, was now to be his possession; sufficient for him also to know that, in so becoming possessed of her, he would be able to administer a crushing blow to the vanity as well as the cupidity of the family which had so long ignored him; a blow from which he thought it was very doubtful if their arrogance could ever recover. CHAPTER VI THE DUKE'S BRIDE The Duc Desparre was making his toilette for his approaching marriage--about to take place at midday at the church of St. Gervais, which was conveniently placed between the streets in which his mansion and Vandecque's new apartments were situated. Strange to say, Monsieur was in a bad temper for such a joyous occasion, and, in consequence, his valet was passing an extremely bad time. Many things had conspired to bring about this unfortunate state of affairs, the foremost of which was that there had been a great fall in the value of "Mississippians" or "Louisiana" stock, owing to the fact that adverse accounts were reaching France as to the state of the colony. Some of the settlers, who had gone out within the last two or three years, had but recently returned and given the lie to all the flourishing accounts so assiduously put about. There were, they said, neither gold mines nor silver to be found there, as had been stated; the Indians, especially the Natchez, were in open warfare with the French and slaughtering all who came in their way; the soil was unproductive, marshy and feverous--the colonists were dying by hundreds. Law, the great promoter of the Louisiana scheme, was a liar, they said, while, La Salle and Hennepin, the Franciscan monk who had sent home such flourishing accounts to the late king, were, they added, the same; and so were all who held out any hopes that Louisiana could ever be aught to France but a suitable place to which to send its surplus population, there to find death. It is true these wanderers had been flung into the Bastille for daring to return and promulgate such statements--but, all the same, those statements had their effect on the funds, and "Mississippians" had fallen. Wherefore the Duc Desparre was a poorer man on this, his wedding morn, than he had been yesterday, by one-half his newly acquired wealth, and he was in a great state of irritation in consequence. While, also, he remembered at this moment that Vandecque had had a deal of money from him, none of which he was ever likely to see the colour of again. So that, altogether, he was in a very bad humour--and there were other things besides to annoy him. "Have you sent this morning to enquire how Mademoiselle Vauxcelles is?" he asked of his valet, who at this moment was affixing a patch to his face. "She has not been well for four days, and has been invisible. I trust her health is restored. What is the answer?" "Mademoiselle is better, Monsieur," the man replied, "much better." "Is that the answer? No message for me?" "None was delivered to me from her, Monsieur le Duc. But Monsieur Vandecque sent his compliments and said he expected you eagerly." "Did he? Without doubt! Perhaps, too, he expects a little more money from me." This he whispered to himself. "Well, he will find himself disappointed. If he requires more he may go seek it at the gambling tables, or of the devil; he will get nothing further from me. Henceforth it will be sufficient to have to support his niece." Then, his toilet being completed, he asked the valet if the company were below and the carriages ready to convey them to the church where the bride was to be met? "They assemble, Monsieur le Duc, they assemble. Already the distinguished relatives of Monsieur are arriving, and many friends have called to ask after Monsieur's health this morning, and have proceeded to the church," while, as the little clock struck eleven in silvery tones, the man added, "If Monsieur is agreeable it will be well to descend now, perhaps." "So," said Desparre, rising, "I will descend. Yet, before I go, give me my tablets, let me see that everything has been carried out as I ordered," while, taking from the servant's hand a little ivory notebook, he glanced his eye over it. "Yes," he muttered. "Yes. Humph! Yes. Rosina's allowance to be paid monthly--ha!--curse her!--yet, otherwise, she would not hold her tongue. The exempt to sell up the widow Lestrange if she pays not by the 31st. Good! Good! The outfitters to be told that I will not pay for the new furniture until the end of the year; ha! but I shall not pay it then, though." And, so, he read down his tablets until he had gone through all his notes. When, bidding his man perfume his ruffles and lace pocket-handkerchief, he descended to the salon to greet his relatives and guests; those dearly beloved relatives, who, he strongly believed and hoped, were cursing themselves and their fate at this very moment. In spite of their intense disapproval of the union which Desparre was about to enter into, a union with the niece of a man whose reputation was of the worst--which really would not have mattered much had he belonged to the aristocracy!--those relatives had not thought it altogether advisable to abstain from gracing the impending ceremony with their presence. For Monsieur was the head of a great house, of their great house, he had interest unbounded. And he was the Regent's friend. He was almost one of the most prominent of the roués. What might he not still do for them, in spite of this atrocious misalliance he was about to perpetrate, if only they kept on friendly terms with him? Then again, he was, as they supposed, enormously wealthy, rumour saying that he had made some millions over Law's system--in which case rumour, as usual, exaggerated--and, above all, he was approaching old age; he was, and always had been, a dissolute man; there was little likelihood that he would leave any heirs behind him. And, if so, there would be some fine pickings for the others. Wherefore they swallowed their disapproval and disgust of this forthcoming mésalliance and trooped to his house to wish him that joy which they earnestly hoped he would never experience, notwithstanding that it was a cruel, bitter winter and that, unfortunately, wedding ceremonies took place at an hour when most of them were accustomed to be snoring in their beds. These relatives formed a strange group; a strange collection of beings which, perhaps, no other period than that of the Regency, five years after the death of Louis XIV., could have produced. There were old women present, including his paternal aunt, the Dowager Duchesse Desparre, whose lives had been one long sickening reek of immorality and intrigue under The Great King; women who, as she had done, had struggled and schemed for that king's favours--or for what was almost as good, the reputation of having gained those favours. Women who had betrayed their husbands over and over again, women who had sinned against those husbands with the latters' own consent, so long as the deception had aided their fortunes. Yet, withal, their manners were those of the most perfect ease and grace which the world has ever known, and which are now to be found only amongst dancing mistresses and masters of ceremonies. Amidst them all, however, the battered, half-worn-out roué moved with a grace equal to theirs, he having become a very prince of posturers; while bowing to one old harridan in whose veins ran the blood of crusading knights and--some whispered--even of Henry of Navarre; kissing the hand of another who had tapped the late Dauphin on the cheek with her fan when he asked her if she liked hunting, and had made answer that "innocent pleasures were not pleasure to her;" leering at a younger female cousin in a manner that might almost have made the Duc de Richelieu himself jealous, but which did not disturb the fair recipient of the ogle at all. And he kissed the hand of the Dowager Duchess with respectful rapture (though once she had refused to let the impoverished soldier into her house), while he regretted that such a trifle as his marriage should have brought her forth from her home that morning; he carried a glass of tokay to one aunt and ordered his servant to hand a cup of chocolate to another--the distinction being made because the rank of this latter was not quite so exalted as that of the former. He was revelling in his revenge! And then, suddenly, his face dropped and he stood staring at the door. Staring, indeed, with so ghastly a look upon that face that a boon companion of his began to think that, after all, an apoplectic fit was about to seize him, and that leeches to his head and a cupping would more likely be his portion than a wedding on that day. For, at the door, was standing Vandecque, alone--and on his face was a look which told the Duke very plainly that something had happened. "What is it?" he muttered, as he came close to him, while lurching a little in his gait, as the boon companion thought--as though he had fetters about his feet--and while his words came from his mouth with difficulty. "Speak. Speak. Curse you! speak. Why are you here when--when--you should be with her--at--the--church?" And all the time the eyes of the old and young members of his family were looking at him, and the Dowager Duchess was wondering if the bride had committed suicide sooner than go to his arms, while the battered hulk who had been drinking the chocolate was raising the wrinkles in her brow as much as she dared do without fear of cracking her enamel, and leering at the other worn-out wreck whose shaking hand held the glass of tokay. "There is no Duchess yet," she whispered to a neighbour, through her thin lips, "and my boy, Henri, is second in succession." And again she leered hideously. "Speak, I say," Desparre continued. "Something has happened. I can see it in your face. Quick." "She--she--is--gone. Escaped. Married," Vandecque stammered. "Married!" And Desparre's face worked so that Vandecque turned his eyes away while he muttered. "Alas! Yes. This morning." "To whom? Tell me. Tell me. I--did--not--know--she had a lover." "Nor I. Yet it appears she had. She loved him all the time. That Englishman. Walter Clarges." There was a click in the Chevalier's throat such as a clock makes ere it is about to strike, and Vandecque saw the cords twitching in that throat--after which Desparre gasped, "And I have called them here to see my triumph!" and then glanced his eyes round his great salon. Then he muttered, "Married!" and, controlling himself, walked steadily out into the corridor and to a chair, into which he sank. "Tell me here," he whispered, "here. Where they cannot see my face, nor look at me." "The woman found this in her room when she went to warn her the time was near. She had no maid; therefore, I had engaged one from the person who made the bridal dress. It was on her mirror. Look. Read." Desparre took the paper in his hands; they were shaking, but he forced them to be still; then he glanced at it. It ran:-- "I refuse to be sold to the man who would have bought me from you. Therefore I have sought a lesser evil. I am gone to be married to another man whom, even though I do not love him, I can respect. An hour hence I shall be the wife of Monsieur Clarges. He has loved me for a year; now, his love is so strong, or, I should better say, his nobility is so great, that he sacrifices himself to save me. God forgive me for accepting the sacrifice, but there was no other way than death." The Duke's hand fell to his knee while still holding the paper in it, after which he raised his eyes to the other's face. "You suspected nothing; knew nothing of this?" he asked, his lips still twitching, his eyes half-closed in a way peculiar to him when agitated or annoyed. "Nothing. I swear it. Do you think that, if I had dreamed of such a catastrophe, I would not have prevented it? It was to you I wished her married--to you." "Ay," Desparre answered, "no doubt. We have worked together in other things--you--but no matter for that now." Then he raised his half-hidden eyes to the other. "Where does this man live?" he asked. "I do not know. Yet his address can be found. There are many to whom he is known. Why do you ask?" "Why!" and now there was another look in Desparre's face that Vandecque did not understand. "Why! I will tell you. Yet, stay; ere I do so send those people all away. Go. Tell them--damn them!--there is no marriage to-day, nor--for--me--on any other day. Get rid of them. Bid them pack. Then return," while, rising from the antique chair into which he had dropped in the corridor, he went slowly into another room, feeling that his feet dragged under him, that they were heavy as lead. "By night," he murmured, "it will be all over Paris--at Versailles and St. Germain--the Palais Royal. The Regent will laugh and make merry over it with La Phalaris--countless women whom I have cast off will be gloating over it, laughing at the downfall, the humiliation of Desparre--the fool, Desparre, who had boasted of the trick he was to play on his kinsfolk. _Dieu!_ to be fooled by this beggar's brat. Yet. Yet. Yet--well! let Orleans laugh--still--he shall help me to be avenged. He shall. He must. Or--I will tell my tale, too. Sirac and I know as much as he about the deaths of the Duc and Duchesse de Bourgogne and the Duc de Bretagne--about the Spanish snuff. Ha! he must avenge me on these two--he shall." Vandecque came back now, saying that the company was departing, but that some of the ladies, especially the Dowager Duchess, were very anxious to see him and express their sympathy. Would he receive them? "Sympathy, faugh! Let them express their sympathy to the Devil, their master. Now, Vandecque, listen to me. There is but one way of re-establishing myself in the eyes of Paris. By retaliation, punishment--swift, hard, unceasing. You understand?" Vandecque nodded. "Good. If you did not understand I should have to assist your memory with reminders of other things--which would have been no more remembered had all gone well--and of several little matters in your past known to me. However, you need no reminders such as those, I think." Again Vandecque showed by a nod that such was the case. "Good. Therefore, you will assist me to rehabilitate myself. So. So. Very well. We must begin at once. Because, Vandecque, I am not well, this has been a great shock to me--and--and, Vandecque, I had a--perhaps it was an apoplectic seizure six months ago, when--when--I was falsely accused of--but no matter. I am afraid I may have another ere long. I feel symptoms. My feet are heavy, my speech is uncertain. I must not leave the thing undone." "What," asked the other, "will you do?" "What!" Desparre paused a moment, and again the twitching came to his lips; then, when it was over, he went on. "What! Vandecque," speaking rapidly this time, "do you love your niece at all?" "Passably," and he shrugged his shoulders, "she was beloved of my dead wife, and she was useful. Also, I hoped great things from her marriage." "Those hopes are vanished, Vandecque. So, too, for the matter of that, is your niece. Therefore, it will not grieve you never to see her again?" "I shall never see her again. You forget she has a husband." "No, Vandecque. No! I do not forget. It is that which I am remembering." "What do you mean, Monsieur?" "Later on you will know. Meanwhile," and he put a finger out and touched him, "do you love this Englishman, who has spoilt your niece's chances?" "Love him!" exclaimed Vandecque. "Love him! Ah! do I love him!" while, as he spoke, he looked straight into Desparre's eyes. CHAPTER VII MAN AND WIFE "This," said Walter Clarges, as he thrust open the door, "has been my home for the last four years. You will find it comfortable enough, I hope. Let me assist you to remove your cloak and hood." It was a large room into which he led his newly-married wife, situated on the ground floor of an old street, the Rue de la Dauphine, in the Quartier St. Germain. A room in which a wood fire burnt on this cold wintry day, and which was furnished sufficiently well--far more so, indeed, than were the habitations of most of the English refugees in Paris after the "'15." The furniture, if old and solid, was good of its kind; there were a number of tables and chairs and a huge lounge, an excellent Segoda carpet on the floor, and a good deal of that silver placed about, against the sale of which, for gambling purposes, a strangely stringent law had just been passed in France. On the walls there were some pictures--one of an English country house, another of a horse, a third of a lady. "That is my mother," Clarges said. "My mother! Shall I ever see her again? God knows!" She, following him with her eyes as he moved about the room, could think only of one thing; of the nobility of the sacrifice he had made for her that morning; the sacrifice of his life. He had married her because it was the only way to save her from Desparre, the only legal bar he could place between her and her uncle's desire to sell her to the best bidder who had appeared. The law, passed by the late King, which accorded to fathers and guardians the total right to dispose of the hands of their female children and wards, was terrible in its power; there was no withstanding it. Nothing but a previous marriage could save those children and wards, and, even if that marriage had taken place clandestinely, the law punished it heavily. But, punish severely as it might, it could not undo the marriage. That stood against all. "Oh! Monsieur Clarges," Laure exclaimed, as she sat by the side of his great fire, the cloak removed from her shoulders, her hood off, and her beautiful hair, unspoilt by any wig, looped up behind her head. "Oh! Monsieur Clarges, now it is finished I reproach myself bitterly with the wrong I have performed against you. I--I----" "I beseech you," he said, coming back to where she sat, and standing in front of her. "I beseech you not to do so. What has been done has been my own thought; my own suggestion. And you will remember that, when I asked you to be my wife a year ago and you refused, I told you that, if you would accept me, I would never force my love on you further than in desiring that I might serve you. The chance has come for me to do so--I thank God it has come!--I have had my opportunity. Whatever else may happen, I have been enabled to save you from the terrible fate you dreaded." He stood as he spoke against the great mantel-shelf, gazing down at her, and she, while looking up at him in turn, recognised how great was the nobility of this man. She saw, too, and she wondered now why it struck her for the first time--struck her as it had never done before--that he was one who should have but little difficulty in gaining a woman's love if he desired it. She had always known that he was possessed of good looks, was well-made and graceful, and had clear-cut, handsome features. Now--perhaps because of what he had done for her that day, because he had wrecked his existence to save hers--hers! the existence of an abandoned child, a nameless woman--and had placed a barrier between him and the love of some honest woman who would make a home and happiness for him, she thought he seemed more than good-looking; indeed, he almost seemed in her eyes superb in his dignity and manliness. And she asked herself, "Why, why could she not have given him the love he craved for? Why not?" "There was," she said aloud and speaking slowly, while, with her hands before her on her knees, she twined her fingers together. "There was no just reason why you should have made this sacrifice for me. I--I refused to give the love you craved, therefore you were absolved from all consideration of me. I had no claim on you--no part nor share in your life. Oh! Monsieur," she broke off, "why tempt me with so noble an opportunity of escape from my impending fate; why tempt me to avail myself of so great a surrender by you of all that could make life dear? Especially since I have told you!--thank God, I told you!--that I am a nameless woman. That I have no past." "Hush," he said. "Hush, I beseech you. I loved you a year ago, and I made my offer--even proffered my terms. You would not accept those terms then; yet, because the offer was made, I have kept to it. Do you think the story of your unacknowledged birth and parentage could cause me to alter? Nay!--if I have saved you, I am content." Still she looked up at him standing there; still, as she gazed at him who had become her husband, she felt almost appalled at the magnanimity of his nature. How far above her was this man whose love she had refused; how great the nobleness of his sacrifice! And--perhaps, because she was a woman--even as he spoke to her she noticed that he never mentioned the love which had prompted him to the sacrifice as being in the present, but always as having been in the past. "I loved you last year," he had said once; not, "I love you." "Now," he went on, seating himself in a chair opposite to her on the other side of the great fireplace. "Now, let us talk of the future. Of what we must do. This is what I purpose." She raised her eyes from the fire again and looked at him, wondering if he was about to suggest that their life should be arranged upon the ordinary lines of a marriage brought about on the principles of expediency; and, although she knew it not, there was upon her beautiful face a glance which testified that her curiosity was aroused. Then he went on. "You know," he said, "that my own country is closed to me. For such as I, who, although little more than twenty at the time--for such as those who were out with the Earl of Mar--there is no return to England, in spite of the Elector having pardoned many. Nor, indeed, would I have it so. We Clarges have been followers of the Royal House always. My grandfather fell fighting against Fairfax and the Puritans; my father was abroad with King Charles II., and returned with him; I and my elder brother fought for the present King whom, across the water, they term 'The Pretender.'" He paused a moment, then said, "I pray I may not weary you. But, without these explanations, the future--our future--can scarce be provided for." "Go on," she said, very gently. Whereupon he continued. "England is consequently closed to me--for ever. After to-day's work it may be that France will be, too--and then----" "France, too!" she repeated, startled, "France, too! and 'after to-day's work.' Oh!" and she made a motion as though to rise from her chair, "what do your words mean? Tell me. Tell me." Her suddenly aroused anxiety surprised him somewhat; he wondered, seeing it, if she feared that, even now, the relief against her fate which he had provided her with was not sufficient; if still she feared other troubles. Then, with a slight smile, he continued. "I mean that--forgive me if I have to say so--I may be called to account for my share in saving you from the Duc Desparre. He is a powerful man--a favourite with the Regent and the Court--he may endeavour to revenge himself. I have seen an advocate; I took his advice yesterday so that what I did this morning I might do with my eyes open, and there is no possible doubt that I have committed an offence against the law in marrying a ward contrary to her guardian's will, for which I may be punished." "Oh!" she gasped. "Oh! this, too," and he saw that she had grown very pale, whereupon he hastened to comfort her. "I beseech you," he said, "have no fear. You are, so the advocate tells me, perfectly free from any danger; nothing can happen to you----" "Monsieur!" she cried. Then, under her breath, she muttered, "So be it! He imagines I fear only for myself. Alas! it is not strange he should." As she spoke no more after that exclamation, he continued: "Therefore, since France is now, perhaps, no longer likely to be more of a home to me than England, this is what I have decided to do. To leave France for ever--to find another home in another land. To begin a new life." "To begin a new life! Yes?" "Yes. A new life. As you know--who can help but know if they have been in France during the last year or so!--this country is colonising largely in America; there are great prospects for those who choose to go to the Mississippi; Louisiana is being peopled by the French; emigrants, planters are called for largely. If I go there, it is not at all probable that Desparre's vengeance will follow me; nay, a willing colonist can even get exemption for his sins committed in France. I intend to take steps for proceeding to the new world as soon as may be." She bent her head as though to signify that she heard all he said, yet, even as she did so, there coursed again through her brain the thought of how she had blasted this man's life. She was driving him forth to a place of which she had heard the most terrible accounts, a place overrun by savages who disputed every inch of their native ground against the white man--sometimes, too, with other white men for their allies--the very countrymen of him who sat before her. Of herself she thought not at all; if he could endure the hardships that must be faced, why, she, his wife, could endure them--must endure them--too. She--but his voice aroused her from her thoughts, and it showed that for her, at least, there was no likelihood of such endurance being required. "I intend," he was saying, "to take steps for proceeding there as soon as may be. But, ere I go, your welfare has to be consulted--provided for. This is what I purpose doing," while, as he spoke, he rose and went towards a large, firmly-locked bureau that stood in one corner of the room, and came back bearing in his hand a small iron box which he proceeded to open. "This," he said, with a smile that seemed to her as she watched him to be a terribly weary one, "contains all that I have left in the world, except what my mother contrives at various periods to furnish me with. It is not much now--but something. There are some four thousand livres here; enough to provide you with your subsistence for the time being; to assist you in doing what I wish--what I think best for you to do." "What," she asked, still with her eyes fixed on him, "is that?" "It would be best," he continued, "that, when I am gone, you should endeavour to make your way to England--to my mother. I shall write to her at once telling her that I am married, that my future necessitates my going to Louisiana, and that, out of her love for me, her last remaining child--for my brother is dead--she will receive you as her daughter. And she will do it, I know; she will greet you warmly as my wife. Only," and now his voice sank very low, was very gentle, as he continued, "one thing I must ask. It is that you do not undeceive her about--the--condition we stand in to one another--that, for her sake--she is old, and I am very dear to her--you will let her suppose--that--there is love--some love, at least--between us. If you will so far consent as to grant me this, it is all--the only demand--I will ever make of you." He lifted his eyes towards where she sat, not having dared to glance at her while he made his request, but they did not meet hers in return. Unseen by him, she had raised her hood as a screen to the side of her face which was nearest to the logs; that, and her white hand, now hid her features from him. He could not see aught but that hand. Yet she had to speak, to make some answer to his request, and, a moment later, she said from behind her hand in a voice that sounded strangely changed to him: "As you bid me I will do. All that you desire shall be carried out." Then, for a moment, no further word was said by either. Presently he spoke again. "Desparre is paid what I owe him--what I lost at play. It will reach him by a safe hand at about the same time he learns that you are--my wife, not his. And I owe no money now in Paris. All is paid; during the past two days I have settled my affairs. As for these apartments, when you desire to set out, do what you will with all that they contain, excepting only those," and he pointed to the pictures of the country house, the horse, and his mother. "Those I should not desire to part with. I will take them with me to a friend. Now, I will summon the concierge; she has orders to attend to all your wants." She rose as he spoke and turned towards him, and he saw that there was no colour left in her face; that, in truth, she was deathly pale. Her eyes, too, he thought were dim--perhaps, from some feeling of regard or gratitude which might have been awakened in her--and as she spoke her voice trembled. "Is this then," she asked, "our parting? Our last farewell?" "Nay. Nay," he said, "not now. Though it will be very soon. But I shall not leave Paris yet. Some trouble might arise; your uncle may endeavour to regain possession of you--though that he cannot do, since you are a married woman and have your lines. I shall stay near you for some days; I shall even be in this house should you require me. Have no fear. You will be quite safe. And, when I am assured that all is well with you, we will part; but not before." He went towards the hall to ring for the woman, but, ere he could cross to where it was, she stopped him with a motion of her hand. "Stay," she said, "stay. Let me speak now. Monsieur--my husband--I have heard every word that has fallen from your lips. Monsieur, I think you are the noblest man to whom ever woman plighted her troth--a troth, alas! that, as she gave it, she had no thought of carrying out. Oh!" she exclaimed, raising her eyes, "God forgive me for having accepted this man's sacrifice. God forgive me." Then, in a moment, before he had time to form the slightest suspicion that she meditated any such thing, she had flung herself at his feet, and, with hands clasped before her, was beseeching him also to pardon her for having wrecked his life. But, gentle as ever, he raised her from the ground and placed her again in the seat she had left, beseeching her not to distress herself. "Remember this," he said; "what I did I did out of the love I bore you when first I sought yours; remember that, though you had no love in your heart to give me, I had plighted my faith to you. Remember that my duty is pledged to you; that, if I prosper, as I hope to do, you shall prosper too. Or, better still, if in years to come this yoke which you took upon yourself galls too much, and you have no longer any need of it, we will find means to break it. I will find means to set you free." "To--set--me--free!" she repeated slowly. "Yes. Now I will go and seek the concierge. Then I will leave you until to-morrow. You will, as I have said, be perfectly safe here--perfectly at liberty. Have no fear, I beg. No one can harm you." The concierge came at his summons and took his orders, he telling her briefly that the lady would occupy his apartments for a few days, and that he would use some other rooms at the top of the house which she had for disposal. Then, when he had seen a light meal brought to her and the woman had withdrawn, he bade his wife good-night. "In the morning," he said, "I will tell you how my plans are progressing. I am about now to visit one who is much concerned with the colonisation of Louisiana, and, indeed, of the whole of the Mississippi--doubtless I may obtain some useful knowledge from him." "And it is to this exile--this life in a savage land--that I have driven you! You, a gentleman--I, God only knows what," she exclaimed. "Nay, nay. In any circumstances I must have gone forth to seek my living in some distant part of the world. It could not have been long delayed--as well now as a month or a year later." "At least, you would have gone forth free--free to make a home for yourself, to have a wife, a----" But he would listen to none of her self reproaches; would not, indeed, let her utter them. Instead, he held out his hand to her--permitting himself that one cold act of intimacy--and said, "Farewell. Farewell, for the present. Farewell until to-morrow." "Not farewell," she murmured gently, "not farewell No, not that." "So be it," he answered, commanding himself and forcing back any thoughts that rose to his mind at what seemed almost a plea from her. "So be it. Instead, au revoir. We shall meet again." And he went forth. CHAPTER VIII THE STREET OF THE HOLY APOSTLES When Walter left his wife it was with the intention of proceeding to the offices of the Louisiana Company, known more generally as Le Mississippi, situated in the Rue Quincampoix. For, at this exact period, which was one of a great crisis in the affairs of the "Law System," as it was universally called, those offices were open day and night, and were besieged by crowds made up of all classes of the community. Duchess's carriages--the carriages of women who had made Law the most welcome guest of their salons, who had petted and actually kissed him--as often as not at the instigation of their husbands, when they had any--jostled the equally sumptuous carriages of the rich tradesmen's wives and _cocottes_, as well as those of footmen who had suddenly become millionaires; while country people, who had trudged up from provincial towns and remote villages, rubbed shoulders with broken-down gentlemen and ladies, who had hoped to grow rich in a moment by the "System." Broken-down gentlemen and ladies who, after a few months of mirage-like affluence, were to find themselves plunged into a worse poverty than they had ever previously known. For, as has been said, the "System" was breaking down, and France, with all in it, would soon be in a more terrible state of ruin than it had even been at the time of the death of that stupendous bankrupt and spendthrift, "Le Grand Monarque." The Bank of France had almost failed--at least it could not pay its obligations or give cash for its notes, which had been issued to the amount of two thousand seven hundred million francs, and the Mississippi Company was approaching the same state; it could neither redeem its bonds nor pay any interest on them. Therefore all France was in a turmoil, and, naturally, the turmoil was at its worst in Paris. Law--the creator of the "System" by which so many had been ruined--had sought safety at the Palais Royal, where the Regent lived; the gates of the Palais Royal itself were closed against the howling mob that sought to force an entrance, the streets were given up to anarchy and confusion. Meanwhile, in the hopes of quelling the tumult, it was being industriously put about all over Paris that fresh colonists were required to utilise the rich products of the soil of Louisiana, and that, so teeming was this soil with all good things for the necessary populating of the colony, that culprits in the prisons were being sent out in shiploads, with, as a reward for their emigration, a free pardon and a grant of land on their arrival in America. And--which was a masterstroke of genius well worthy of John Law--since the prisons were not considered full enough, innocent people were being arrested wholesale and on the most flimsy pretences, and thrust into those prisons, only to be thrust out of them again into the convict ships, and, afterwards, on to the shores of America. Many writers have spoken truly enough when they have since said that a light purse dropped into an archer's or an exempt's hands might be made the instrument of a terrible, as well as a most unjust and inhuman, vengeance. It was done that night in Paris, and for many more nights, with awful success. Girls who had jilted men, men who had injured and betrayed women, successful rivals, faithless wives; a poet whose verses had been preferred to another's and read before De Parabére or the Duchesse de Berri and her lover and second husband, the bully, Riom; an elder brother, a hundred others, all disappeared during those nights of terror and were never seen or heard of again. Not in France, that is to say, though sometimes (when they lay dying, rotting to death on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico, and, in their last faint accents, would whisper how they had been trapped and sent to this spot where pestilence and famine reeked) those who listened to them shuddered and believed their story. For many of those who so listened had been victims of a similar plot. Down the street which led to the Rue de la Dauphine--one which rejoiced in the name of the Rue des Saints Apostoliques--there came, at almost the same moment when Walter Clarges quitted his wife, a band of men. Of them, all were armed, some, the archers and the exempts,[2] being so by virtue of their duty of arresting troublesome people, especially drunkards and brawlers of both sexes, while two others walking behind wore the ordinary rapier carried by people of position. These two were Desparre and Vandecque. Inclusive of archers and exempts the band numbered six. "We may take them together," Desparre whispered in his comrade's ear, "in which case so much the best. I imagine the English dog will show fight." "Without doubt! When was there ever an Englishman who did not? Yet, what matter! These fellows," and Vandecque's eye indicated that he referred to the attendants, "will have to seize on him, we but to issue orders. Now," and he turned to the fellows mentioned, "we near the street where the birds are. You understand," addressing the man who seemed to be the leader, "what is to be done?" "We understand," the man replied, though the answer was a husky one, as if he had been drinking. "We understand. Take them both, without injury if possible, then away with them to the prisons. She to St. Martin-des-Champs, he to La Bastille. Ha! la Bastille. The kindly mother, the gracious hostess! My faith! Yes." "Yes," answered Vandecque. "Without injury, as you say, if possible. But, remember, you are paid well for what you may have to do; remember, too, the man is an Englishman; he has been a soldier and fought against the King of England for that other whom he calls the King; he will show his teeth. He is but newly married--this day--he will not willingly exchange the warm embraces of his beautiful young wife" (and as he spoke he could not resist looking at Desparre out of the side of his eye) "for a bed of straw. You must be prepared--for--for--well, for difficulties." "We are prepared--I hope your purse is. We are near the spot--we should desire to have the earnest before we begin. While as for difficulties, why, if he makes any, we must----" "Kill him--dead!" The man started and looked round, appalled by the voice that hissed in his ear. Yet he should have recognised it, since he had heard it before that evening, though, perhaps, with scarcely so much venom in its shaking tones then. And, as he saw Desparre's face close to his, he drew back a little, while almost shuddering. There was something in the glance, in the half-closed eyelids--the eyes glittering through them--that unnerved him. "Dead," hissed Desparre again. "Dead." And he put forth his hand and laid it on the archer's sleeve, and clutched at his arm through that sleeve so that the man winced with pain, as a moment before he had winced, or almost winced, from a feeling of creepiness. "Dead," Desparre repeated. "Mon Dieu!" the man said, raising his hand to his forehead and brushing it across the latter, "we know our business, monsieur; no need to instruct us in it. Though as for killing, that is not our account as a rule----" "Peace," interrupted Desparre, "here is the reward. Hold out your hand." The man did as he was bid, and, in the light of a seven nights' old moon that, by now, overtopped the roofs of the houses, Desparre counted out twenty gold louis' d'or (rare enough at that moment, when all France was deluged with worthless paper; coins to be kept carefully and made much of!) into his hand, and twenty more into the hands of the principal exempt. Yet his own hand shook so that each of the vagabonds raised his eyes to his face and then withdrew them swiftly. They liked the look of the money better than the appearance of the features of the man who was paying it. Then, suddenly, he started as he dropped the last piece into the exempt's palm--while the latter, looking up again at Desparre, saw his eyes staring down the street to the further end of it--though, at the same time, there was a glance in them as if he were staring into vacancy. Yet, in truth, they were fixed on a very palpable object--the form of a man passing swiftly up the street of the Holy Apostles. The form of Walter Clarges! "See," Desparre whispered to Vandecque. "See. He comes. Ha! he has left her alone. So! 'tis better." Then he turned to the Archers and Exempts and muttered low: "There! There is the man. Coming towards us. I would slay him myself--I could do it easily with the secret thrust I know of," he whispered, "but I must risk nothing--till--I--have--seen--her." While, as he spoke, he moved off to the other side of the street and withdrew into the porch, or stoop, of a door, wrapping his roquelaure around him. Yet, as the fellows drew themselves together and prepared to seize on the man advancing towards them, they heard his voice send forth another whisper from within that porch. "You know your office. Do it. And if he resists--slay him." Approaching, Walter Clarges saw the group of men standing in the roadside close up by the footway, while, because of the troubles and turmoils in the streets, as well as because he knew well enough of the lawlessness that prevailed that night, he let his left hand fall under his cloak on to the hilt of his sword, and thus loosened the blade in its sheath, so that it should be ready for his right to draw if necessary. Then, a moment later, he saw Vandecque's figure in front of the others, and, recognising his features in the gleam of the moon, nerved himself for an encounter. Though, even now, he scarcely knew what form that encounter might take. "So," Vandecque exclaimed, "we have found you! That is well, and may save trouble. Monsieur Clarges, you will have to go with us." "Indeed! On what authority? State it quickly and briefly. I have no time to spare." "On the authority of the guardian of the woman whom you have removed from his custody and married. The law has a punishment for that to which you will have to submit." "Possibly. Meanwhile, your warrant for my arrest and detention." "The warrant is made out. I----" "Show it." "I shall not show it. It is sufficient for that later on. Meanwhile, I warn you--come without resistance or we must resort to force. These men are archers and exempts, if you resist them they will seize upon you." "Let them begin. I am ready," and, as he spoke, his sword had leaped from its sheath and was glittering before their eyes in an instant. "Begin," he repeated, "or stand back. My time is precious." "It is against the law that you contend. I warn you," Vandecque called out excitedly. "So be it. It is for my freedom I contend. Whether it be either the law or Vandecque, the sharper and swindler who embodies that law, I care not. Let me pass, fellow," speaking impatiently, "or 'tis I who will commence." "Fall on," exclaimed Vandecque, "and do your duty. Seize on him." 'Twas easier said than done, however, as those five men found when once they were engaged with the Englishman--well armed as they were. The rapier wielded by Clarges seemed to have, indeed, the power of five swords; it was everywhere--under their guard, perilously near their lungs, through one man's throat already--a man who now lay choking on the ground. Moreover, Clarges had had time to wind his cloak swiftly round his left arm, and, with that arm bent, to ward off several of their attacks. Nor was this difficult, since all were not armed as well as he. The exempts had short swords of the cutlass order, which would cut heavily but administer no thrust; the archers had rapiers, or, rather, long thin tucks, which were more deadly--Vandecque had a weapon as good as Clarge's own. Already it had lunged twice at his breast--and hate had added, perhaps, an extra force to those thrusts (for Vandecque was undone by the marriage that had taken place that morning), and had twice been parried. Yet as Clarges knew, he was spared but for a few moments; his fate was but postponed. Against that rapier and the remaining blades--unless he could kill the wielders of the latter, and so stand face to face with Vandecque alone--he had no hope. The swordsman never lived yet who could encounter four others--for the man on the ground was disposed of--and keep them at bay for longer than a few moments. He knew his end was at hand; at every moment he expected the sharp thrust of the rapier through his body, or the heavy swinging blow that would cleave his head in half. He knew one or the other must come, yet he fought hard against the odds, with his back against the house behind him, his teeth clenched, his breath coming faster and faster from his lungs. And, all beset as he was, knowing that death was near at hand, he whispered to himself "for her, for her." Though once he thought, "'Tis better so, far better. Thus her way is clear, and she is free of me." He forgot--he was mercifully permitted to forget for a moment that, free of him, she would still be open to Desparre's designs again, and might still be forced to marry him. Yet, a moment later, the recollection of this sprang swiftly as a lightning flash to his mind. He must live for her, he must not be slain and thereby set her free for Desparre. Nerved afresh to his task by this memory, he fought with renewed energy--fought like a tiger at bay, determined that, even though he fell, he would not fall alone; that he would have some more companions on the dark road he must go, as well as the man now dead at his feet. "Two," he muttered through his set teeth as, darting like an adder's fang, his rapier passed through a second man's breast-bone when, with a yell of agony, the archer fell at his feet. "Two. Who next?" But still there were three to contend with, Vandecque, an archer, and an exempt. And these two were raining blows at him, while the gambler's sword was making pass after pass--it being caught once in the folds of the cloak over his left arm and missing once his left breast by an inch, while ripping open the coat and waistcoat as it darted by. Then, as he warded off another swinging blow from the archer's weapon, he knew the time had come. His rapier was cleft in twain by the heavier metal of the other blade--his hand held nothing but the hilt and a few inches of sundered steel. With a fierce exclamation he flung himself full at the man who had disabled him, seized him by the throat ere he could swing his cutlass again, and dashed with awful force the remnant of his sword in his face, inflicting a frightful wound and battering the features into an unrecognisable mass. Yet, as he did so, he uttered a terrible moan himself and reeled back heavily against the wall, sliding a moment after down it and rolling to the ground. Vandecque's rapier was through his left lung, an inch below the shoulder. The fight was finished. "Is he dead?" that ruffian heard a harsh, raucous voice whisper as he drew his sword from the other's body. "Is he dead?" while, turning, he saw the cadaverous face of Desparre peering over his shoulder at their victim. "Dead," he replied breathlessly. "Mon Dieu! I hope so. Were he not, we should all have been dead ourselves ere long. And then--then--he might have found you out in your hiding-hole." CHAPTER IX ALONE Laure scarcely moved for an hour after Walter had left her, but still sat upon the couch, gazing into the wood fire--musing always. Sometimes on the sacrifice this man had made; more often on the profound depths of that sacrifice. For it had in its depth that which she had never dreamed of; it had taken a shape she had never looked for. When he brought her to this apartment she had supposed that, from this day, there was to commence a loveless life such as was so often witnessed in the marriages of convenience with which she was familiar enough in Paris; she had, indeed, told herself that she had escaped one sacrifice only to become the victim of another. She had escaped Desparre, only to become tied to this Englishman for ever; an escape for the better, it was true, since he was young and manly, while Desparre was old and--worse--depraved. But, still, a sacrifice. Yet, never had she dreamt of aught like this: of a marriage gone through by him which was, in truth, all a sacrifice on his part but none on hers. For he was bound to her for ever, and he asked nothing from her in return. Not so much as a word of love, a look, a thought; nothing! Nothing, though he knew by her confession that she was a nameless, an abandoned child: the offspring of Shame! Yet he had taken her for his wife. As she meditated upon it all, her eyes still watching the logs as they smouldered on the hearth, there rose into her mind a reflection which--because she was a woman--was more painful than any that had previously possessed it. The thought that this was no marriage of love on his part, no clutching by him at the one opportunity that had arisen of gaining her for his wife, and, with that gain, the other opportunity of, in time, drawing her to him, but, instead, was simply the fulfilment of a word promised and given a year ago, the redemption of that which was in his eyes as a bond. He had told her once--a year ago--that all he asked was to be allowed to be her servant, her champion, her sentinel; and now the opportunity had come to prove his word. That was all! And she, reflecting, recalling other Englishmen whom she had met or heard of, who were living a life of exile in Paris, remembered how they all prided themselves above aught else upon the sacredness with which they regarded their word when once passed--how, amongst all other men, they were renowned for keeping that word. He would have kept his, she thought sorrowfully, with any other woman as equally well as with her, simply because he had given it. Why the tears dropped from her eyes as she still mused and still gazed into the dying embers, she could scarcely have told herself; all she did know was that, gradually, a resolve was forming in her heart, a determination that all the nobility should not be with him alone. On her side also there should be, not a sacrifice--remembering what she was, she dared not deem it that--but, at least, a reciprocity. If he loved her still, if what he had done had not been prompted alone by that sense of honour which governed all his countrymen's actions, then he should have the reward that was his due. True or false as the statement might be, she would declare that she loved him. "Why not?" she whispered to herself. "Why not? Whom have I ever seen or known more worthy of my love? Ah!" she murmured, "return, return, my husband, that I, too, may make confession." The winter night was come now, though from the churches near by the hour of five was but striking. The Rue de la Dauphine was very still, while yet, from a distance, there came the hum of many noises. She knew that Paris was in a feverous state at this time, that Law's bubble was bursting, that the Regent's popularity was gone, that the boy-king's throne was in danger. And the archers, and the exempts, and provost-marshal's guards were in these streets, carrying off the turbulent ones to the many prisons of Paris, shooting them down sometimes--as the report of a discharged carbine now and again testified--clubbing them and beating out their brains as the most sure way of preventing resistance. Yet, amidst this distant noise which sometimes disturbed the quiet street at intervals, her ears caught now a footstep outside the door--the footsteps, indeed, of more than one person, as well as a whispering that mixed itself and mingled with her own murmur of "Return, my husband." So that she wondered if her wish was granted, if he had returned, and was giving the concierge further orders in a low tone that she might not be disturbed; or if he was saying "Good night" to some friends--perhaps to those two other Englishmen who that day had witnessed their marriage. Then the door opened, and a man came in. A man who was not her husband, but, instead, he who expected to have been that husband--the Duc Desparre! With a cry--a gasp that was half a shriek--she rose and stood facing him, the table, to one side of which he had advanced, being between them. Facing him, with her hand upon her heart, "You!" she exclaimed. "You here?" Even as she spoke she wondered what possessed, what ailed the man; he was so changed since the time when last she had seen him. He had thrown back the cloak in which he had been muffled against the wintry air; while, because the habits of the courtier and the gentleman--or, at least, the well-bred man--were strong upon him, he had also removed his hat. He had come, he stood before her, she knew and felt, as an avenger; but he had been of the great Louis' time and the instincts of that period could not be put aside or forgotten. Yet his appearance, the change which she noticed in him since they had last met and she had listened to his hateful wooing, was terrible. His face was white and drawn; the lines left by a dissolute life, perhaps also by the rough life of a soldier--lines which had always been strong and distinct--showed more plainly now; the eyes glistened horribly. But, worse than all, more terrifying to behold than aught else, were the twitchings of the muscles of his face and the shaking of the long brown hand which was lifted now and again to that face, as though to still the movement of his lips. "Yes," he said, and she started as he spoke, for the voice of the man was changed also; had she not stood before him she would scarce, she thought, have known to whom it belonged. "Yes. We had to meet again, Laure--Madame Clarges. To meet again. Once. Once more." "Why?" she gasped. In truth, the girl was appalled, not only by his presence there, but by his dreadful appearance, his indistinct, raucous voice and shaking hands. "Why! You ask why? Have you forgotten? We--were--to--have--been--made--man and wife--this morning. Yet----" "By no consent of mine," she cried, interrupting him and speaking rapidly, "but of him--my uncle, my guardian. God! my guardian! My guardian!" Then she continued, more calmly, "Yes, we were to have been married thus: I to be sold; you to buy. Only, I did not choose it should be so. Instead----" "Instead," he replied, interrupting in his turn, "you married another--thereby to escape me. I--I--hope--you do not love him very dearly. Not, for--instance, more than, than you loved me?" For a moment she paused ere answering, wondering dimly what lay beneath his words, what threat was implied in them; but, still, with a feeling of happiness unspeakable that now, at this moment, her opportunity had come to fulfil some part of that reciprocity she had resolved on. Even though he, her husband, could not hear the words, she uttered them plainly, distinctly. "Your hope is vain. I love my husband." His shaking hand, clutching now at the table, shook even more than before. For some time he essayed ineffectually to speak. Then, as once more he appeared to be obtaining the mastery over his voice, she resumed: "Why do you come here? What do you require? Between us there is nothing in common. Nothing. You had best leave me." "Not yet. There is something further to be said--to be done." And now he mastered himself with some great effort, so that, for a time, he was coherent, intelligible; and continued: "Listen," he said. "You did not love me. I knew that well enough, I cared little enough upon that score. Yet I needed a wife; it pleased me--for a reason other than your beauty--to select you. I announced to all whom it concerned that I had done so. As for love, that had little part or parcel in the matter. There was no more love--passion is not love--in my heart for you than in yours for me. I have passed the time for loving any woman; but----" "Why, then," she asked, gazing at him, "seek me?" "Because I am the bearer of a great name, a great fortune. Because I despised the members of my family--they are all intriguing harridans who formerly despised me. Because I sought a woman at once beautiful, yet lowly, who should arouse equally their envy and their hate; who should sting these women to madness with mortification. That is why I selected you." "You may now select another," she replied coldly. "Doubtless there are many to whom the holder of so great a name, so great a fortune, will prove acceptable." "I shall not select another. Meanwhile, you have flouted me, exposed me to the ridicule of the whole court--me, Desparre--of the whole of Paris! Do you think that is to be quickly forgotten, overlooked? Do you think that I, Desparre, will do either?" "You must do what seems best to you," she said, still coldly. "Monsieur le Duc, I am not your wife. What you may choose to do is of absolute indifference to me." He became, if such a thing were possible, more white than before. Once his eye glanced at a chair close by as though he felt he must drop into it; yet he forbore. Instead, planting both his shaking hands on the table, he said: "The trick was clever that you played. Yet--as you should know, you who haunted the gambling-hells of Paris with your precious guardian--you should know that, however clever a trickster may be, there is generally one to be found who is his master. Always. Always. He always finds his master, does that trickster. Shall I tell you of a cleverer trick than yours?" "What--what do you mean?" "Attend. You hear that noise in the next street; do you know what it is? It is the archers and the exempts carrying of people to prison who are supposed to be insurgents, uprisers against the King, the Regent--the 'System.' Many of those persons are quite innocent, they are simply passers-by seeking their homes. Still, they have, some of them, enemies, people whom they have wronged, perhaps even inadvertently; yet the wronged ones have now their hour. A purse--a very light one--dropped into an archer's or an exempt's hands--a hint--a name--an address--and--that is all! To-night the prisons, La Force, La Pitié, La Tournelle--the Bastille; to-morrow the false accusations--a month later the wheel, or, at best, the Mississippi, the Colonies. And--and--my purse is not light." "Devil!" she murmured. "Devil incarnate!" "Ay, an aroused one. Yet, 'tis your own doing. You should have thought, you should have reflected. Desparre's name was known in those choice circles which you and Vandecque affected--in your own gambling hell. Had you ever heard it coupled with so weak a quality as forgiveness for an insult, a slight? Nay, madame, nay! None can prevent either insult or slight being offered--it is only the weak and powerless who do not retaliate. And I, Desparre, am neither." While, once more, as he spoke, the twitchings of his face presented a terrible sight. "You mean," she said, staring at him as one stares who is fascinated by some horror from which, appalling as it is, the eyes cannot be withdrawn, "you mean that this retaliation is to be visited on me. On me--or, perhaps, one other. The man who enabled me to escape you--on my husband?" "I mean precisely that. On you. Yet without my purse's weight being much tested, either. For against you, madame, I have legal claims that will, I fear, prevent you from enjoying your new-found happiness for some time, even were your husband able to share it with you, which he is not----" He stopped. For as he uttered those last words, "which he is not," she had moved from the position in which she had stood all through the interview; she had quitted that barricade which the table made between them; she was advancing slowly round it to him. In her eyes there was a light that terrified him; on her face a look at which he trembled more than even his rage and unstrung nerves had previously caused him to do. For, now, he saw that the victim was an equal foe--that the aroused woman had changed places with him and was calling him to account, instead of being called to account herself. "Speak!" she said; her voice low, yet clear, her eyes blazing, her whole frame rigid, "speak. Have done with equivocation, with hints and threats. Speak, villain. Answer me." While, as she herself spoke, she raised her hand and pointed it at him. "You say he cannot share my new-found happiness with me. Answer me! Why can he not? Two hours ago he was here, with me, in this room. Where is he now?" Standing before her, his eyes peering at her--ghastly, horrible; upon his face a look that was half a leer and half a snarl, he essayed to tell her that which he had come to say. Yet, at first, he could utter no word--almost it seemed to him as though he was suffocating, as though his gall were rising and choking him. Yet, still, there was the woman before him, close to him, her hand outstretched, her eyes glaring into his. Again, too, he heard her words: "My husband! Villain! Scoundrel! Answer me. Where is my husband?" Then his voice came to him, though it seemed to her as though it was the voice of one whom she had never known. At last he spoke. "He is dead," he said, "Half an hour ago. Slain by my orders. Dead. My wrong, my humiliation is avenged." With a cry she sprang at him, frenzied, maddened at his words; her hands at his throat, as though she would throttle him. "Murderer!" she shrieked. "Murderer! By your orders--By your orders--By----" Yet, even as she spoke, the shaking assassin before her seemed to vanish from her sight, the room swam before her and became darkened; with a moan she sank swooning to the floor, forgetting, oblivious of, all. "Come in," said Monsieur le Duc a moment later, as he opened the door and showed a white face to those waiting without. "Come in. She is quite harmless. Now is your time." CHAPTER X THE PRISON OF ST MARTIN DES CHAMPS The agreeable ceremony of marrying the prisoners to one another, ere despatching them to Louisiana as convicts, was going on rapidly in the yard of the Prison of St. Martin des Champs on a sunny morning of the May which followed the ruin of Law's system; the paternal government being under the impression that it was far better for moral purposes--always matters of great importance in France!--that the new tillers of the soil should go out as married couples. Moreover, the Government were a little embarrassed as to what they should do with all the convicts with which the numerous prisons of Paris were stuffed, since, at this period, there was no opportunity of drafting the men off into regiments, nor of utilising the services of the women. France was ruined--consequently she was not at war just now with any Power--while she had no money with which to keep her convicts hard at work. But (the idea having entered Law's fertile brain ere he prepared to flee) it was thought that Louisiana might still be made of some service to the Mother Country if her soil could be utilised, and, since there were no capitalists left of the original order and, if there had been, none who would embark their capital in that region, the Government had decided on peopling the place with fresh batches of convicts. Thus they attained a double object; they emptied their prisons and they provided a population for New France--a population which, since it was free and absolved from all further punishment of its past crimes, might, on reaching the shores of the Gulf of Mexico, flourish and do well, or, since both the Indians and the neighbouring English colonists were very troublesome, might be swept off the face of the earth. But, even in the event of such a lamentable catastrophe as this, they would, after all, be only ex-convicts whose loss could be supplied by fresh relays. Now, on this morning, it had come to the turn of the Prison of St. Martin des Champs to be relieved of some of its inhabitants, while, previous to their despatch to La Rochelle, and, in some cases, even Marseilles, Toulon, and Cette (to which places they would have to walk in chain-gangs, thereby to reach the convict transports), the marriage ceremony was taking place between those who were willing to be united together, and the governor and the chaplain were both in the yard ready to officiate at the ceremony. "Listen," said the chaplain, addressing the gaol birds who were blinking in the rays of the bright morning sun--an unaccustomed sight to them, since many of their numbers had been for months buried in dark underground cells, attached each to a block of wood by the humane process of having a chain passed round their throats which was stapled on to the beam behind. "Listen, while I expound to you the law by which you now practically become free men and women once more." While, as he spoke, he turned his eyes and bobbed his head to the right where the men were huddled together, and to the left where the women were. "Free to become wealthy colonists and planters; married men and women instead of cutpurses and outcasts, or lost women. Listen, I say." "_Ohé!_" muttered one of the women, while almost all the others laughed and grimaced, except two or three who scowled at the chaplain and the governor and ground their teeth savagely together. "_Ohé!_ hark to him. Lost women! Think of that! The rogue! Who knows more of such unhappy ones than the reverend father? Mon Dieu My sisters! You remember?" "Silence," bellowed the chaplain, who seemed a more important man than the governor at this juncture, "silence, and listen to the law as expounded by me and passed," the latter part of the sentence being delivered as though of secondary importance--"by his Highness the Regent. This is it." Then, having cleared his throat, he began again:---- "All who leave by the transport ships from La Rochelle, Marseilles, Cette, Toulon, Dunkirk, or Brest go forth as prisoners already pardoned and absolved from a shameful yet well-deserved death; absolved and pardoned from that most meritorious penalty, I say, yet still prisoners and convicts. Yet, now, see what a noble and forgiving Government does for you all, fruit of the Abbey of Mount Regret[3] as you are. As you step upon the shores of New France your chains will fall away from you; you will be free; you will become honourable citizens once more of the noblest country in the world, with a vast continent before you on which Nature has poured out her most bounteous treasures--all for you." "But how to obtain them, Roger, my friend?" screamed a bold-faced, black-eyed young woman, who had evidently known the chaplain under other circumstances than the present. "Tell us that," and she laughed a strident laugh. "Silence, wretch," again bawled the chaplain, whereat the woman laughed once more derisively. "Silence, creature. It is to tell you this--and for other things--that I am here after a night of fasting and prayer. On landing, to each man will be allotted plots of the most excellent fertile ground, either on the banks of the Mississippi, the Fiore, the Ste. Susanne, the Trinité, or the Boca-Chica rivers." All these names he read from a paper in his hand. "To each married couple--remember this, you abandoned ones, who have hitherto despised and scoffed at the holy bonds of matrimony, into which I now invite you who are still unwed to enter--a treble plot. Also tools for husbandry and the building of houses, barns, and sheds. Also," he went on with great volubility, still glancing at the paper in his hand, "a musket to each man, a sufficiency of powder and shot for the slaying of wild beasts; though not those of your own kind," he added, remembering, doubtless, their proclivities. Then, his recollection of their lawless natures prompting him again, he also added. "For if you slay one another you will undoubtedly be executed. Therefore, take heed, and if the beasts of the forest offer not sufficient killing to your murderous and unregenerate natures, why! assist in exterminating the natives who, being not yet baptised and received into the bosom of our Holy Mother Church, are not to be accounted human. Then, there are the English from neighbouring settlements who war with and dispute the power of France in their insolence. Those, too, you may slay and despatch--if--if they give you fair cause, which undoubtedly their fierce and brutal nature will prompt them to do." "But how to live?" asked one man, an enormous and cruel-looking ruffian; "how to live, Father Roger, until the land yields the wherewithal?" "Listen, and you will learn. On arriving, you will be sent to that noble town now rising as a monument of France's greatness; the town of new Orleans, so named after our pious and illustrious Regent. 'Tis but eighteen miles from where you will land, if the captains of the transports arrive at the proper spot; a morning's walk. There you may earn money by assisting in laying out the streets, building the houses, making yourself useful. Work half the day at this, devote the other half to attending to your allotted settlements, if they are near at hand; otherwise, if they are afar off, work one week at New Orleans, another at your plantations; and, thereby, shall you grow rich and prosperous. 'Tis not hard to do, and, if it is, why, 'tis better than a roadside gallows, a prison cell, or the wheel--any of which you have all deserved." Whether he knew what he was talking about, or whether he knew how impracticable were the schemes he propounded, cannot be told. It was sufficient that, at least, the vagabonds before him knew no better than he did, and, at any rate, he spoke truly in one particular--to whatever life they went forth, it must be better than death on the gallows or the wheel. And as they listened, they told each other that, at the worst, they would be free and at liberty to commence a new life of preying on their fellow creatures, if there were any worth preying on. "Now," the chaplain continued hastily, for a glance at the prison clock showed him that the time for his midday meal was approaching--a meal at which he generally ate heartily, since, from various causes, he was ever a poor breakfaster; "now for the holy and irrevocable bond of marriage to which I invite you to enter, so that, thereby, you shall all lead a life of propriety and decency--which, as yet, none of you have ever done!--and shall also increase the population of New France. Therefore, stand forth, first, all you who are agreed on marriage; after which those who are not yet affianced unto one another can select spouses according to their tastes. Stand forth, I say, you who are agreed." Forth, at his bidding they came, many of them having already decided on becoming united, since it seemed that those who were married might derive more advantage from their emigration than those who were single; and because, also, all in their own minds had decided that, once in the foreign land to which they were going, the tie might easily be broken if they got sick of it. Therefore they stood before him, ready. They were a strange, vile-looking crowd, such as, perhaps, no other state of society but that which prevailed in the last days of the Regency of Philip of Orleans could have produced. All were not of the lowest orders; some there were who had commenced life in circumstances which should almost have warranted them against ever coming to such case as they were now in. The chaplain's list contained their names--or such names as they chose to be known by--as well as their prison numbers; it contained, too, information as to where other particulars could be gathered. And in that list was an account of what crimes they were condemned for. Among the men, most had been convicted of robbery, accompanied generally with violence; one had slain a youth in a gambling hell, or tripot, after cheating him; another had drugged a friend and robbed him; a third had broken into a church and stolen the sacred vessels; a fourth had beaten a priest; a fifth had throttled his wife. While, also, there were others convicted and sentenced to the gibbet or the wheel for crimes which, besides these, seemed trifling: a shop boy who had robbed his master: a master who had starved his shop boy to death; a vicomte who had embezzled the trust money of a ward and lost it all in the "System;" a clerk who had stolen money to indulge in loose pleasures, and a literary man who had written against the doctrines of Rome and had called her Babylon, he being prosecuted by the Cardinal Dubois of pious life! The women were, however, the greater sinners, besides being also better educated in most cases, and, likewise, more hardened and defiant. One was beautiful, her golden hair being knotted now behind her head--wigs in the Prison of St. Martin des Champs were, naturally, superfluous!--her eyes as blue as the cornflower, large, limpid, and full of innocence; yet she had murdered her husband and her husband's mother to marry a man who, from the moment she was arrested, had never come near her nor sent her word nor message, nor money for her defence. She was now about to marry the embezzling vicomte. Next to her there stood, ready to bestow herself on the literary man, a woman who was her exact opposite, a creature black and swarthy, yet with the remains of magnificent florid beauty in her dissolute face; a woman born beneath the warm sun of Hérault. She, too, had committed secret murder on one who had wronged her; yet now she was to be married. And, sometimes, as he glanced at her who in a few moments would be his wife, the literary man who boasted that he had made Pope Clement tremble trembled himself. The others were all more or less alike; lost women, as Roger, the priest had said--one of them was about to espouse the shop boy--young viragoes, robbers of drunken men, and so forth. And all meant to lead a new life in a new land, though not perhaps the manner of life which the priest had so unctuously described. "Stand forth," he said again now, for the clock had struck twelve and his onion soup and stewed mutton were ready. "Stand forth in front of me. Prepare to enter the Holy State." Whereupon he rapidly ran his eye over the paper in his hand, compared the numbers by which the convicts were known in the prison with the names they had been tried under, and then, exhorting them to attend to the ceremony in a decent and reverent attitude, he proceeded to make each two into one. Yet before he did so he gave them one last salutary admonition, one paternal warning. "Remember," he said, "that this is no idle ceremony to be gone through carelessly, but an entrance into the honourable state of matrimony; an espousal of each other as binding on you by the laws of the land as though it had taken place at the altar of Notre Dame, and been performed by Monseigneur the Archbishop. Pause, therefore, ere it is too late; before you pledge yourselves to one another; ransack your memories; be sure that none of you men have wives anywhere else; that none of you women--though, in truth, most of you have taken steps to make yourselves widows without the assistance of Fate--have husbands. For if any of you have such ties and the fact is ever discovered, nothing can save you again. Wherever you are, in France or her colonies, you will most assuredly be executed, for such is the punishment of bigamy as laid down by his late most sacred Majesty, urged thereto by the pious Madame de Maintenon. I have warned you. Turn your eyes inwards," and as he spoke he cast his own eyes over the convicts before him to see which of them trembled or turned pale. Doubtless there were some to whom the warning came home--amongst them there must of a surety have been some dissolute wives who had deserted their husbands, and selfish husbands who, having grown tired of supporting wives of whom they had sickened, had long disappeared from their knowledge--yet all were hardened and gave no sign of meditated bigamy. The New World was before them; their imaginations were inflamed with the hopes of, a fresh and more free life in New France, or elsewhere, if they could escape from the old world. If they had deserted a dozen wives, or husbands, each was now willing to accept another. Therefore they gave no sign, and, after one more glance at their brazen faces, the chaplain married those who stood before him to each other. Then he gave them his blessing and his hopes that their union might be prosperous and fruitful, and also--this he did not forget--passed in a sober and righteous manner, after which he dismissed them and exclaimed-- "Now for the undecided ones. Come, you," and he advanced towards where three or four men were making proposals to as many women. "Come you, time runs apace; are you agreed?" Two men and two women were agreed, the third man was unpropitious in his suit. The woman to whom he offered himself refused to listen to him, to even heed his words or to give any sign that she heard him. "What is her number?" the priest asked, while the governor by his side bent down and twitched at her coarse prison cloak, which she had drawn close round her shoulders and the lower part of her face, thereby probably to conceal the latter. "What is her number? Let us see," and he looked at his notebook. "54," the governor said, pointing to the figures sewn on her shoulder. "54," muttered the chaplain, referring to the paper in his hand and, after that, to a small memorandum book he drew from beneath his cassock. "54. Humph! Ha!" Then, after reading from the book for a few moments, he turned to the rejected suitor and said: "Young man, you do not lose much. She is almost the worst, if not the worst, of all in the list--she is----" "She may reform--and--and--you see? She is beautiful." "I see," murmured the chaplain, "that is true. Yet a dower you are best without. What, my son, was your crime?" "Oh as for that," the fellow stammered, "but little. My uncle was rich; he would give me nothing--a--miser----" "Precisely. Wherefore you helped yourself. Yet you were an innocent beside this woman whom you now seek to wed. An innocent! She was affianced to a rich man of illustrious family. On the day that was to witness their wedding, on that very day she jilted him and married an English vagabond--a swindler--who, report says, shortly deserted her. But before he did so, they inveigled the one who should have been her husband to their dwelling at night on some vile pretence, and then attempted to strangle him, she doing the deed herself with those hands," and he pointed to the thin white hands of the woman which held the coarse hood about her face. While he continued: "Her victim was found almost throttled at her feet--the exempts swore to it--part of his cravat was in her hand when they rushed in. My man, you are well free of the creature, even if you could by law have wedded her, which is doubtful. The brigand, her husband, may be still alive, plundering, robbing elsewhere." He finished speaking, and the miserable creature who would have united himself to the woman, shuddered at the escape he had had. Shuddered, too, at the look of despair upon the woman's face, which he took for the fury of a spitfire, as she, lifting her hood, stared up with large, grief-stricken eyes from where she crouched, and said to the chaplain: "It is a lie! A lie! My husband was no adventurer, while, for that other, would to God he were truly dead. He merited death." CHAPTER XI THE CONDEMNED The prisons had not emptied quite as swiftly as the authorities desired after they had been stuffed full of real and imaginary criminals who were to people New France, with a view to proving that the Mississippi scheme was not such a falsehood as had been stated. The principal cause of this was that trustworthy galleys which could cross the ocean from the western coast of France to the Gulf of Mexico were not obtainable, while of the transports, only three, _La Duchesse de Noailles_, _La Victoire_, and _La Duchesse de Berri_, were fit to make the passage. The consequence was, therefore, that but one prison emptied itself at a time, and that the month of May had come ere, for the detained of the two remaining gaols, La Tournelle and St. Martin des Champs, vessels had been provided for their reception, while even these had to be hired from private owners by the Government. On the unhappy creatures, whether actual or supposititious malefactors, who had lain in damp and unclean dungeons during the months which had now passed since the period of the great frost, this fact fell with an even greater force of cruelty than anything which the other evil-doers--incarcerated in La Pitié, La Salpêtrière, Bicêtre or Vincennes--had had to undergo, since the incarcerated ones of the latter places had to proceed only to La Rochelle or La Havre or St. Malo, while those of the former had now to set out on a far more terrible journey. They were to march, chained together, to Marseilles, a distance, roughly, of 350 miles from Paris; to cross mountains and vast plains beneath a sun which would be a burning one ere they had accomplished half the distance, and to do so upon nourishment which would scarcely suffice to keep alive those who had to make no exertions whatsoever. The reason for this was that the private owners of the vessels which were to be hired for the purposes of their transport would only consent to let them be chartered for such use on condition that Marseilles was made the port of embarkation. Their ships belonged to, came into, that port; they would be there in the beginning of June, and, if the Government chose to have their convicts ready to proceed on board at that time, they were willing to undertake their transportation to the Gulf. If not, then those vessels must be used for the ordinary business they were employed upon, and, in no circumstances, would they contract to proceed to any other port of France, and certainly to none on the western coast, to await the arrival of the convicts. Marseilles was, therefore, decided on as the place to which the miserable wretches still inhabiting La Tournelle and St. Martin des Champs were to proceed. Three days after the marriages which the chaplain of the latter place had performed (as the chaplain of the former had also done) the chain gangs were ordered to set out. The day was fixed--May 15--so, too, was the hour--that of eight o'clock in the morning. It is possible that upon this earth--beneath the eyes of God--no more horrible nor more heart-rending sight has ever been witnessed than the preparations for the departure, and the actual departure itself, of a chain of galley slaves of both sexes towards the sea coast. And that which was taking place on this 15th of May in the prison of St. Martin des Champs might have wrung the hearts of even those persons who were marble to the core; of even human fiends. Yet, however much the process might be calculated to distress those who looked on, there was a sufficiency of observers to cause the exit from the gaol to be so surrounded that scarcely could the prisoners come forth, and the roads and streets leading to the open country to be so stuffed and congested with lookers-on as to be almost impassable. For to see the "strings," as they were called, depart was ever one of the spectacles of Paris. Inside the prison, in its huge, vast yard, all were assembled at daybreak--all who were to set out upon that horrible journey on foot which was to know no end until the burning shores of the Mediterranean were reached; the end of a journey which was then to give place to a life of hell passed between close decks in ships none too seaworthy. A life of weeks spent under the eyes of sentries with loaded muskets, of overseers armed with whips coated with hardened pitch; of blasphemous and brutal guards ready to strike with sticks, or the flats of sabres, upon the backs of either men or women who disobeyed their orders and injunctions; a life of horror to be endured until they were set ashore free men and women in the New World. Perhaps the knowledge of that impending freedom enabled some to look forward calmly to what they had learned they would have to endure; perhaps--which was far more probable--none among the murderers and murderesses, the thieves and rogues and lost women, and innocent, guiltless victims, knew or dreamt of what was before them. Far more probable! All were in the courtyard at daybreak. And now began the ceremony of preparing, of making the _toilette de voyage_, as it was brutally termed, of the travellers ere they set out upon their journey. Into the vast gaol-yard--called in bitter mockery and spite by generations of convicts who had quitted it on their road to the galleys, the "Court of Honour"--there came now three waggons filled with chains and fetters; _carcans_, or iron collars, to be fitted on to the necks of men and women alike; iron bolts to join together the chains which attached each of those prisoners to one another. To be rivetted on here in Paris; to be never struck off again until the journey of 350 miles was accomplished, and the human cattle stood upon the crazy decks of the hired transports which were eventually to land them, free at last, amidst the raging surf of the Gulf of Mexico. Free then, but, until then, condemned convicts in actual fact as much as if, instead of being on their way to the New World, there to begin a new life, they were to step on board the galleys themselves and there begin the hideous existence which France enforced on all those who offended against her laws. Before, however, these fetters and those chains were rivetted upon their necks and wrists and ankles--rivetted cold, and thereby causing awful agony to all the culprits--one thing had to be done. Those women who, in the course of the months in which they had lain in prison, had given birth to children, were now to be separated from them; separated from them for ever in all likelihood, since it was certain that the mothers would never return to France, and almost equally certain that the children would never be likely to make their way to New France when they grew up. Separated also--since the lawgivers of France boasted that they punished but never persecuted--because these babes had committed no crime; because, too, the Government paid no passage money for children, nor arranged for their sustenance. Three women had given birth thus to children during the time they lay in the vaults of St. Martin des Champs, which was one of the places of reception for these galley slaves who now figured under the name of colonists; and, not knowing that their babes would ever be torn from them, had rejoiced exceedingly over their birth. For they had hugged the little creatures to their bosoms to keep them warm and to warm themselves; they had kissed and fondled them and crooned strange phrases of maternal love over them; had even looked forward with joy unspeakable to the extra burden which they would have to carry on the long march that they suspected, truly enough, lay before them. And they had passed the helpless things round at night to other women who had been torn, shrieking, from their own offspring, or had been spirited off to gaol ere they could utter one last farewell to them, or give them one last mad embrace; they had passed these newborn babes round surreptitiously in the dark, and when the warders slumbered, to these poor bereft mothers, so that they might pet them a little, call them by the names of their own deserted and lost children, and bring, thereby, some sort of comfort to their aching hearts in doing so. While the women, these other women who had been wrenched away from their offspring, had arranged with those happier ones to assist in the carrying of the infants on the weary march and to help those who owned them, their reward to be that they should hold the little mites within their arms sometimes and, thereby, delude themselves into the belief that it was their own flesh and blood which they were clasping to their aching breasts. Yet now--now!--those mothers who had been made happy by the coming of the children were to be parted from them for ever. There strode towards one of these mothers who was seated on the stone bench which ran all round the Court of Honour, the Governor of St. Martin des Champs (a stern man who had never possessed either wife or child, nor anything of a home but tents and barracks, during a long life of soldiering) accompanied by a woman from the Hospital of Charity--which preceded by some years the Hospital for Foundlings--a nurse. And she, that mother smiling there, had no idea, no suspicion, of aught that was about to befall her. If any other of the convicts knew--which was doubtful, since few had ever travelled the road before that all were now to set out upon--not one spoke a word or gave a hint of the sorrow that was to light upon the unhappy woman. "Say farewell to your child," the governor exclaimed. "Quick! there is no time to lose. Bid it adieu; then give it to this good nurse," and he indicated that other woman who accompanied him. The mother looked up at him with staring eyes. There was, in truth, a half smile upon her face, as though she doubted if she heard aright and was almost amused--if one so wretched as she could ever be amused again!--at the strange, impossible form which the words he must actually have uttered had taken to her ears. Then she said, quietly, "What did monsieur say?" "Bid your child adieu. Quick!" the governor repeated impatiently; "or it will be taken without your farewells. Quick! I say. There are two others to be dealt with." "Bid my child--farewell!" she murmured, understanding his words at last. "Bid it farewell. You mean that?" And, now, her eyes stared with a horror that was awful to see. A horror that appalled even this man, whose life had been passed amidst, first, the turbulence of years of rough campaigning, and, next, amidst all the most depraved and savage wild beasts of Paris humanity. Above the roar of clanking cold iron being fastened upon the chains of men and women, the rivetting and fitting of _carcans_ upon different throats--the white throats of erring women, the knotted, corded throats of men who had worn them before and slaved out portions of their evil lives with those cursed iron bands swathed fast about them--amidst, too, the cheers of the populace outside, through whose ranks, by now, the first chain--that of some men--was passing, that woman's shriek was heard. It rose above all; above hoarse curses from the male savages at the pain caused by the hammer as it struck the edges of their collars together; above yells from the female savages as the same process went on; above, too, the trumpets of the gendarmerie, which, a merciful Government allowed to bray outside the prison gates as an encouragement to the unhappy wretches setting out upon that journey; above everything else that shriek arose. For she understood now! She knew that the little helpless mass of human life which had lain so warm and snug within her arms for two or three months was to be torn away from her for ever. "No! No! No!" she moaned, ceasing at last to shriek. "No! No! No. Ah, monsieur, see how small, how helpless it is. My child! My child! My little child! And--monsieur--it is not well--it--it--oh--oh! God, how I have watched over it; cared for it. I have prayed to Him--I, who never prayed before; I, who scarce knew how to form a prayer. It is not well. It cannot live without me. It cannot; it cannot. It is death to part us; death to it and me. And it is so--so helpless--and--so--innocent." The governor had turned his back upon her. Perhaps her pleading had wrung even his heart! Then the nurse spoke. The nurse, who, because she was a gentle woman, wept. "Fear not, poor girl," she whispered, even as she strove to take the child from the arms which clasped it so tightly. "Fear not. It shall be well attended to. And, see, here is a number," whereon she gave the unhappy mother a piece of paper, on which she hastily scrawled some figures. "If you ever return you may find it thus--when it grows up--it--what is your name?" "Le Blanc. I shall never return. Never." Then she moaned again. "My child! My little child! And," she sobbed forth, "see, I had made a sling wherewith to carry it--so--that--it should lie more easily upon my breast. Oh! God--that I--that it--were dead." Many women had watched this scene, amongst them the two other newly-made mothers, who saw in it what was to be their own fate and the fate of their babes. So, too, had Laure Vauxcelles, herself bearing a collar now around her beautiful neck--a light one, it is true, since the warder whose duty it was to attend to these matters, among other things, had observed that she was young and handsome, and, being himself young, or, at least, not old, had spared her as much as possible. On her left wrist there was fastened a great iron loop--great for so small a wrist!--through which was to run the chain that would attach her to those before and those behind her. To her right wrist was an iron bracelet with a short chain hanging to it, which, a few moments later, would couple her to the woman who would march by her side from Paris to Marseilles--if she ever reached the latter place, which she prayed fervently she might never do. The chain composed of men was already gone by now; out into the street, beyond the prison gate, it had already passed; out into the bright, warm sun, so cheering to those who had lain in that prison for months--cheering now, but, ere long, to become an awful torture as the days grew hotter and the south was neared. The chain composed of women was about to follow. Of women, amongst whom, perhaps, were others as innocent of guilt as Laure herself; women whom a relentless rival, a rejected lover possessed of power, a suspicious, jealous husband also possessed of power or--which was the same thing--of money, may have consigned to this hellish doom. Women, too, who, although they were the guilty things that Roger, the chaplain, had described them as being, had possibly never walked three consecutive leagues in their lives. Women who, instead, had in many cases ridden in carriages and sedan chairs and coaches provided by their admirers. Yet now--now they set forth to march to Marseilles, nearly 350 miles away by road; to Marseilles, where, in the summer, the sun burned like a flaming furnace, and to which the breeze of the southern sea came hot and sultry as the breath from out of the mouth of a panting dog. The trumpets of the gendarmerie pealed louder, the mob outside was screaming frantically, people were hanging half-way out of the windows; some boys who had climbed a tree which grew in the dusty place beyond the prison gates, were waving their ragged caps and chattering and grimacing. "The female cord" was passing forth. Ahead, went four mounted gendarmes, then, next, four waggons, destined to occasionally give a lift to those women who fell by the wayside, yet did not die at once. They who did so were left behind for the Communes to bury! Now, in the waggons, were seated the galley sergeants. There was no reason why they should walk; they were neither criminals nor women. Then _la Châim_ issued from the gates, the two leading couples of the double string, as the mob and the boys in the trees called them, passed out. Amidst further roars, hurrahs, encouragements, low jeers and fingerpointings, they came forth; amidst, too, exclamations from some who recognised them. With, also, a woman's shriek issuing now and again from out the mob's tight-packed density--a mother's heartbroken cry perhaps, perhaps a sister's, perhaps a daughter's. Yet, with no sign of sympathy from one set of beings who were witnessing the spectacle; who had paid, and paid well, to thus witness it. Beings--fashionable, well-dressed men and women, who had hired windows at which to sit and see the chains go by, and who drank chocolate and ate chipped bread and cakes and dainty butter brought from the cool north; and laughed and chatted, and made appointments for the Gardens of the Tuileries that night, or for boating parties on the Seine when the evening air was cooling the atmosphere. Laure passed out, too, at last, manacled, shackled to the dark southern woman who had married the literary man. Passed out with her head bent down, her feet dragging like lead beneath her, her heart beating as though it must burst. Passed out to what she knew and felt would be her death. To what she prayed might be her death. CHAPTER XII MARSEILLES The chain gangs--the men a mile ahead of the women--marched but slowly on their way; indeed, it was impossible that they should progress very fast. Some, as has been said, especially among the female prisoners, had never been accustomed to walking at all; others, amongst both women and men, soon became footsore. The months passed in the dungeons of the prisons, with their bodies chained by the neck to the beam behind them, had given their feet but little opportunity of exercise, that only being obtainable which they got from stamping on the ground to drive out the cold they suffered from during the winter period. No wonder that all became footsore ere a fiftieth part of their toilsome journey was covered. Yet they went on; they had to go on. Marseilles was, to be exact, 356 miles from Paris by road, and they were timed to do the distance in thirty days; must do it according to the contract made by the Government with the owners of the ships which were to transport the "colonists," the "emigrants," to New France. Thirty days for 356 miles. About twelve miles a day! Not much that for pedestrians, for hardy walkers, for people used to journeying on foot day by day. A thing to be accomplished easily, and easily to be surpassed, by the countless pedlars who swarmed over the face of France; by itinerant monks, by wandering ballad-singers, strolling players and troops of showmen; yet not easy for women or men who, even if they had ever walked at all, were now quite out of practice; who, also, were ill-fed and, in many cases, were sick and ailing. Yet they had to do it. It must be done. Each morning, therefore, they set forth again on their route, no matter whether the sun was beating down fiercely on their heads--they being protected only by hats which they had been allowed to plait from the prison straw, in anticipation of the forthcoming journey--or whether the rain was falling in torrents. Each night they lay down wherever the chain halted, which it generally did near some village or hamlet, partly because there the colonists might be allowed to lie and sleep beneath the shelter of barns and outhouses, but more particularly because, thereby, the guards and the galley sergeants and mounted gendarmes could find drinking shops and _pants_ wherein they might rest and refresh themselves. And, gradually, as they went on and on along the great southern road, through Montargis and Cosne, and by Nevers, and on to Moulins and Montmarault, their numbers became a little diminished nightly. Women dropped by the wayside, or, rather, amidst the dust and mud of the high road; it was useless to place them in the carts and carry them further; therefore they were left beneath the hedges and the sparse bushes that bordered the route--left with their coarse prison petticoat thrown over their dead faces to save them from the flies--left there for the villagers to bury when they were found. And, because the women passed along behind the men, they saw--they could not help but see!--unless they were blinded by staggering for league after league through heat and dust, that, with the chain of men, the same thing had happened. Their bodies--some of their bodies--were also to be seen lying beneath the hedges and the bushes, but with no protecting rag over their faces. Yet, still, those who were not dead went on and on, stumbling, falling, being dragged up by the companion manacled to them, or by the guards (kind in some cases, brutal in others) on and on, like women walking in their sleep; their lids half closed over their glistening, fever-lit eyes, their senses telling them they were suffering, even as the dumb brutes' senses tell them that they are suffering. But no more! Shackled to the dark handsome woman of the south who had espoused the writer who hated Rome and her customs, was Laure, alive still, though praying that every day might be her last. That she would have ever reached Clermont, to which they were by now arrived, had it not been for this woman, was doubtful. For she, brought up by Vandecque in all the luxury he could afford--partly from love of her, partly because she was a saleable article that, carefully cherished, might fetch a large price--was no more fitted to walk day by day a distance of from ten to fifteen miles than she was fitted to sleep on the ground in barns and outhouses, or to exist on bread and water and anything else which her comrade could procure by stealing or begging from the compassionate landlords of those inns where sometimes the chain halted. Yet she had done it, she had survived, she was alive; she could feel the cool mountain air of the Dômes sweep down upon and revive her. She was still alive. It seemed to her as if a miracle alone could have kept her so; a miracle that had for its instrument the woman Marion Lascelles (Lascelles being the name of the man the latter had espoused, but from whom she would be separated until they stood free in Louisiana). For Marion, however vile her past had been, or whatever crimes she might have steeped her hands in, was, at least, an angel of mercy to Laure, though at first she had not been so. Instead, indeed, she, in her great, masterful strength, which neither dungeon nor starvation had been able to subdue, had strode fiercely along the baked roads which led, as she muttered to herself, to the sea-coast first, and then to freedom, though a freedom thousands of miles away. And, as she so strode, she dragged at the chain which fastened Laure to her, until once, in doing so, she brought down on her the eye of the officer, or guard, who rode near. "What ails her?" he asked, guiding his horse up close to them, while Marion saw his hand tighten on the whip he held as though about to administer a blow. "What ails her? Does she want a taste of this?" and he shook it before their eyes. The fellows in charge of the chain gangs were indeed officers, but, since none but the most brutal, or those who had risen from the lowest ranks, would condescend to accept this employment, to which they were regularly appointed for periods, their savageness was not extraordinary. "Nay," replied Marion; "it is my fault. I am too rough with her. And you can see that she is a gentlewoman, delicately bred. If," and her black eyes flashed at him, "you are a man, strike not one as helpless as she is." "Oh! as for that," the fellow answered, "there are no delicately-bred ones here. Sentenced convicts all, while you are in our hands. Yet, since you are the best-looking women in the gang--I love both fair and dark myself!--I will not beat her this time. But there must be no lagging; the transports sail under three weeks from now if the wind is fair. We must be there--at Marseilles." "She shall not lag," Marion replied. "If she fails I will carry her." "God bless you," Laure said to her that night, as, still chained to each other, they lay down together in a shelter for sheep outside Issoire, since the dreary march was now almost half compassed though many leagues had still to be accomplished. "God bless you, you are a true woman." Then she put out her hand and touched the dark one of the woman at her side, and called her "sister." With this began their friendship; with it began, too, a revolution in the hot, fiery blood that coursed through the veins of Marion Lascelles. She scarcely knew at first what crime the woman next to her had been condemned for, though she had caught something of what the chaplain of the prison had said to the fellow who desired to marry Laure; but one thing she did know, namely that, besides herself, this was an innocent, suffering creature. And this weakling had called her "sister"; had prayed God to bless her--to bless her! "When," she mused, "when, if ever, had such a prayer gone up to heaven for her; when, when?" Not, she thought, since she was a simple, innocent child, roaming about the sandy, sunburnt beach of Hérault with her hand in her mother's--a fisherman's widow, now years since dead. And from that day she was no longer the fierce companion, but instead, the protector of Laure, striving always to give the latter some portion of her own sparse allowance of food; stealing bits of meat out of the _pots-au-feu_ if the chance ever came her way, sharing all with her; walking with her arm round her waist, while Laure's head reclined on her shoulders. "I shall die," the latter said more than once, "I shall die ere we reach Marseilles. Oh! Marion, let them not leave me by the wayside." "Bah!" Marion answered, "you shall not die. I will fight death for you, wrestle with him, hold you back from him. You have to live." "For what?" the other would ask. "For what?" and her soft eyes would look so sad that Marion, still unregenerate, would swear a fierce southern oath to herself, while she folded Laure to her bosom and strained her to it with her strong arms. "For what?" Marion would repeat. "Why, for freedom, first; for justice. That poor imbecile marching ahead of us" (she was referring to her newly-espoused husband) "has it seems the gift of writing, at least, since it has brought him to this pass. We will tell him your history" (for Marion knew it all now): "then he shall put it into words, and so, somehow, it shall have its effect. In this new land to which we go there must be a governor, or vice-regent, or someone in power. He will surely help you, especially after he has seen you! And there are two other reasons why you should live." "I do not know them," Laure faltered. "You love your husband?" "Ah!" the other gasped. "You love him, I say. My God! do I not know what love is!" and she smote her breast as she spoke. "You love him. You have told me all. You loved him; you came to love him on the day you married him, the day he saved you from that--that animal!" "He is dead!" Laure wailed. "He is dead!" "I doubt it. Men do not die easily." Possibly, here, too, she was speaking from experience. "I doubt it. More like, those animals, Desparre and your uncle, caused him to be arrested and thrown into prison; remember, they may have encountered him on their road to you. He may be--who knows?--in the chain that is now on its road to Brest or Dunkirk." Laure wrung her hands and shook her head at this, while Marion continued:-- "Or suppose Desparre lied to you; suppose they had not encountered him at all. Suppose, I say, he came back to you that night, the next morning, and found you gone; with none to tell where--you say yourself that no servant appeared on the scene ere the exempts dragged you away. Suppose he came back. What then?" "I do not know; I cannot think." "I can. He will find out what has become of you, follow you. _Mon Dieu!_" as a sudden thought flashed into her mind. "Did he not tell you he meant himself to emigrate to Louisiana, the very place to which we go. Courage; courage; courage." "Oh!" Laure gasped, "if--if I dared to hope that." "Dared to hope! There is nothing else to be supposed but that. He will be there. Surely, surely, Laure, you will meet your husband in this colony, big as they say it is. All will be well." "Nay," she said, "nay. It will never be well. He married me to save me from Desparre; he had ceased to love me. Yet--yet, if I could see him once again, only once, I would tell him----" "What?" "That I surrendered; that I had come to love him. Yet of what avail would that? He will be a gentleman planter; I--I a released convict, a woman earning her bread by labour. Also, he knows--that--I have no origin." "He knew it before he married you. And, knowing it, be sure he loved you." And Marion Lascelles, whether she believed the comforting hopes she had endeavoured to raise in the other's breast, or whether she had only uttered them in the desire to put fresh strength into her sad heart, would hear no word of doubt. But still the chains went on, the men a mile ahead, the women following behind. But ever on, and with the journey growing still more toilsome to these poor creatures worn by this time to skeletons; more toilsome because they were passing through Haute Loire and Ardèche now and the mountains were all around them, and had to be climbed by their bleeding, festering feet. Ascents that had to be made which lasted for hours, followed by descents as wearying to their aching limbs. In truth, it might have seemed to any who had observed that chain of women that it was a small army of dead women which was passing through the land. An army of dead women who had been burnt black and become mummified, whose bony frames were enveloped in prison garments, foul--even for such things--from rain and the mud they had slept in and the white powdery dust that had blown on to them. Dead women, who, when they halted, fell prostrate and gasping to the earth, or reclined against rocks and trees rigidly, with staring, glassy eyes--eyes that stared, indeed, but saw nothing. Women, in fact, to whose lips the guards and the sergeants of the prisons--themselves burnt black, though not worn to skin and bone by constant walking, since they had their horses and the carts--were forced to hold cups of water, as otherwise the prisoners must have died of thirst, not being able to fetch or lift them for themselves. But still--with now half their number left behind dead, amongst which were two of the women whose children had been taken from them--they went on. Down by where the Rhone swept and swirled; past Beaucaire and Tarascon, past Orgon and Lambèse; past Aix, sacred twenty years before to the slaughter, and the murder, and the mock trials of many Protestants still toiling at the galleys, hopeless and heartbroken. On, on, on, until, beneath a lurid evening sky, the eyes of the guards--but not the sightless eyes of the women--discerned a great city lying upon the shores of a limpid, waveless sea. Marseilles! It was there before them, before the eyes of those men on horseback and in the carts, only--what was happening, what was doing in it? That, they could not understand. For, beneath that lurid and gleaming sky, which had succeeded to an awful thunderstorm that had passed over the unhappy chain gang an hour before and drenched them afresh, as they had been drenched so many times in their long march, they saw fires blazing from pinnacles and towers, as well as upon the city walls. They knew, too, that similar fires must be blazing in the streets and market-places and great open spaces--they knew it by another fierce red light that rose up and mingled with the red flames and flecks which the sun cast upon the purple, storm-charged clouds. "What is it?" a mounted gendarme whispered to a comrade. "What! Can the storm, the lightning, have set the city in flames? Yet, surely not in twenty places at once!" "Nay, nay," the other muttered, his eyes shaded by his hands as he glanced down to where those flaming lights were illuminating all the heavens with their glare as the night grew on, and the fires burnt more fiercely. "Nay; they burn fuel for some reason, they ignite it themselves." "What! What! What! For what reasons?" "God knows," muttered the gendarme, becoming pious under this awe-inspiring thing which he did not understand. "They did it once before," the other whispered. "Once! nay, oftener. My grandam was a Marseillaise. I have heard her tell the tale. They feared the pest." "The pest--my God! Ere we left Paris people whispered that it had broken out in the Levant. The Levant! Marseilles trades much there. What if--if----" he stammered, turning white with fear and apprehension. "What if," said his comrade, taking him up, "it should be here!" CHAPTER XIII "MY WIFE! WHAT WIFE? I HAVE NO WIFE." Two months before the chain-gangs set out for Marseilles from the Prison of St. Martin des Champs, namely at the end of March, Walter Clarges descended from a hackney coach outside the house in which he had lived in the Rue de la Dauphine, and entered its roomy hall, or passage. Then, taking a key from his pocket, he was about to open the door of his own suite of apartments on the right of the hall, when he saw that, attached to the door, was a great padlock which fastened a chain into two staples fixed in the outer and inner framework. He saw, too, something else. A spider's web that had been spun above the chain itself by the insect, which, at the present moment, was reposing in its self-made house. For a moment, seeing this, he stood there pondering while looking down upon the creature in its web--accepting, acknowledging, the sign of desolation which this thing gave--then, ever so gently, he shrugged his shoulders with a gesture that might have brought the tears to the eyes of any woman--nay, of any man--who had observed him. "Scarce," he muttered, "could I have expected aught else. After so long. After so long." Then, turning away, he went to the back of the long hall where, opening a small door, he called down some stairs to the woman who had been the housekeeper three months before--at the time when he brought Laure to his rooms. Presently, after answering him from where she was, she appeared, her sleeves turned up and her hands wet, as though fresh from some simple household work, and, seeing him, exclaimed-- "In truth! It is Monsieur Clarges. Returned--at last! Monsieur has been away long. Perhaps to his own land. No matter. Now he is back. Yet--yet----" she said, looking up at him in the gleaming light of the spring sun: "Monsieur has not been well. He is white--oh, so white! Evidently not well." "I have been close to death for months. At death's door. In the hospital of the Trinity. No matter for that. Instead, tell me where the lady is whom I left here on--on--the night I brought her. When did she cease to occupy these rooms; when depart? As I see she must have done by this." And he indicated with his finger the spider in its web. "Also, what message, what letter has she left for me?" For answer the woman glanced into his face with wide-open eyes--eyes full of astonishment, surprise. Then she said: "Monsieur asks strange questions. Letters! Messages! From her?" "From her. Surely she did not go away and leave none behind." "But--but----" the other stammered, she being appalled by the look in his eyes; "beyond doubt she went with Monsieur. Upon that night. I have ever thought so. I----" "She went away upon that night!" he said, his voice deep and low. "Upon that night?" "Why, yes, Monsieur," the woman replied. "Why, yes." And now she found her natural garrulity; she began to tell her tale, such as it was. "I have always thought that, after Monsieur had given his orders as to Madame's occupation of the rooms, he and the lady had changed their minds and had decided to go away together. Especially since a compatriot of Monsieur's called a few days later and said that Madame was Monsieur's wife--that--that--the marriage had taken place on the morning of that day." "My compatriot told you that?" "He told me so. As well as that he himself had assisted at the wedding. Therefore, I felt no surprise at the absence of Monsieur and Madame." "What?" asked Walter Clarges, still in the low deep voice that was owing, perhaps, to the thrust through the lungs he had received in the Rue des Saints Apostoliques three months ago, perhaps to the tidings he was now gleaning--"what happened on that night? How did she go away? Surely, surely, you must have known she did not go with me." "Alas!" the woman answered. "I knew nothing; saw nothing. I knew not when she went, and deemed for certain that Monsieur had returned for her. That he had taken her away with him." "You mean, then, that she went alone? Walked forth from this house alone. Leaving no word--no message. Has--never--since--sent--one. You mean that?" "Monsieur, I know not what I mean. Oh! Monsieur, listen. That night was a night of horror. Awful things were being done outside. Monsieur knows. Hideous, heart-rending things! A neighbour of mine, Madame Prue, came in, rushed in in the evening, and said that the archers and exempts were seizing people in the streets who had committed no crimes, yet had been denounced by their neighbours as criminals. Her own son, she said, was abroad in the streets, and he was so wild, as well as hated by all in the quarter because he was a fighter and a brawler in his cups. She feared--she feared--she knew not what. That he might resist and become quarrelsome. Thereby, be lost and sent to the prisons--the galleys; even, some whispered, to foreign lands, exiled for ever. And she, Madame Prue, begged me to go with her, to assist in finding him--to--to----" and the woman paused to take breath. "Go on," said Walter Clarges. "Go on. You went. When did you return?" "Not for three hours. We could not find the son--he has never been found yet. God alone knows where he is. His mother is heartbroken. They say--they say there are hundreds in the prisons being transported to foreign lands--to----." "You came not back for three hours! And the lady--my--my--wife?" "Monsieur, she was gone. And I thought nought of it. The streets were in turbulence, shots were heard now and again; even houses, apartments entered. I deemed you had returned for her, dreading to leave her alone; that you had taken Madame away, dreading also to keep her in this quarter. That you had, perhaps, sought a better one, or the suburbs, and were enjoying--well! your honeymoon." "My honeymoon," he whispered to himself. "My God!" Then he said aloud. "And there was no message? No letter left in the room? You are sure?" "There was nothing. I entered the room meaning to offer Madame some supper--it was vacant. No sign of aught. The fire was gone out. The lamp was extinct. There was--nothing." "Nothing!" Walter repeated. "Nothing! No sign of aught. Not a line of writing. No letter left then or come since." "Oh," exclaimed the woman, "as for 'come since'--there are several----" "And you have kept me thus in torture! Where are they? Where? Where? Doubtless one is from her?" "I will go and fetch them. Since Monsieur has been away I have not opened the rooms. Not since I cleaned them during the first days of Monsieur's absence." "Fetch them at once, I beseech you. Yet, ere you go, give me the key of this padlock. Let me enter the rooms. Bring the letters here at once." The woman sped on her way to the back of the house, and, while she was gone, Walter applied the key to the padlock--brushing away the spider and its web as he did so--then turned the other key of the door and entered his sitting-room while he muttered, "She will have gone to England, as I wished her. She has written from there. All will be well. All. All. Yet why did she go so soon? Why leave this house the moment my back was turned?" And, even as he remembered she had done this, he felt a pang at his heart. Why! Why I Why had she acted thus? Why before seeing him again; before waiting for his return? The rooms looked very lonely and desolate as he glanced around them, while throwing open the wooden shutters ere he did so--lonely and desolate as all rooms and houses invariably appear which have remained unused and shut up for some considerable space of time. And they seemed even more so than they would otherwise have done, because of her whom he had left sitting by what was now a cold and empty hearth. Where, he asked himself, where was she? Yet he would soon know--in an instant; he could hear the woman's pattens clattering up the bare cold steps of the stairs and along the hall--he would soon know. She came in a moment later, one hand full of kindlings and paper to make a fire, the other grasping some letters--half a dozen--a dozen. And amongst them there must be one--more than one from her--he could see the English frank--also the red post-boy stamped in the corner. She had written. He snatched as gently as might be the little parcel from the woman's hand, ran the letters rapidly through his own--and recognised in a moment that there were none, was not one, from her. Not one! Three were from his mother, another was in a woman's writing which he did not recognise, another from his compatriot, from him who had witnessed his marriage. But from her--nothing! He let the servant lay and light the fire while he stood by looking down into the fast kindling flames and holding the letters in his hand listlessly, then, when she rose from her knees and glanced at him inquiringly, he shook his head gently. "No," he said, in answer to her questioning eyes. "No. She has not written yet. Not yet. Leave me now if you will. These at least must be attended to." When she had gone from out the room, after turning back ere she did so to cast a swift glance at him, a glance which led her to passing her apron across her eyes after she had gained the passage, he sat down in the deep fauteuil by the fire in which he had so often sat since he had lived there--the fauteuil in which his wife of a day had sat before him on their wedding night--and brooded long ere he opened the letters which lay to his hand. "What does it mean?" he murmured to himself. "What? Were Vandecque and that creeping snake, Desparre, whom I saw lurking in the porch of a house ere I was vanquished, on their way here when we met? Did they come on here afterwards? Yet, even so, what could they do to her? Nothing! The law punishes not those women who disobey their parents or guardians by marrying against their wish, but, instead, the man who marries them. It could do nothing to her. If she went from here she went of her own free will, even though cajoled by Vandecque into doing so. As for Desparre, what harm could he do? She hated him; she married me when she might have married him. No! No! It is Vandecque I must seek. Vandecque! At once. At once. Now. Yet, to begin with, these letters." Those from his mother were the first to which he turned; before all else he, this married yet wifeless man, sought news of her. Her love, at least, never faltered; never! And, he reflected sadly, it was the only woman's love he was ever likely to know. There could be no other now that he was wedded to one who had disappeared from out his life an hour after his back was turned. "Yet, stay," he mused, as these thoughts sped swiftly through his troubled mind. "Stay. She may have followed my injunctions and have made her way to England. The news I seek may be here, in these." But, even as he so thought, something, some fear or apprehension, told him that it was not so, and that his mother had no information to give him of his wife. Swiftly he ran through his letters after opening them, putting away for the moment all consideration of his mother's anxiety as to what might have happened to him, since she had not heard from him for so long. Swiftly only to find that, beyond all doubt, she had neither seen nor heard aught of Laure. There was no mention of her. No word. "I have no wife," he murmured. "No wife; nothing but a bond that will for ever prevent me from having wife or child, or home. Ah well! so be it. I saved her; saved her from him. Of my own free will I did it. It is enough." Yet, though she had gone away thus and had left him without word or sign, he remembered that there was still one other thing--two other things--for him to do. Things that he had mused upon for weeks as he lay in the hospital in which he found himself on emerging from a long delirium, and while his wounded lung was slowly healing--the determination to find both Desparre and Vandecque, and, then, to slay both. To kill Vandecque as he would kill a rat or a snake that had bitten him; to force Desparre to stand before him, rapier in hand, and to run the villain through the lungs, even as his jackals had done to him while their employer looked on from out the shelter of the porch. This he meant to set about now, at once, to-day; but, first, let him read his mother's letters and write one in reply. Those letters were full of the distress she was in at gleaning no news from him, full of tender dread as to what might have befallen him in Paris, which, she had heard, even in her country seclusion, was in a terrible state of turmoil in consequence of the bursting of the Mississippi bubble and the ruin following thereon; also, they expressed great fear that, in some manner, his Jacobite devotion might have led him into trouble, even though he was out of England. Thus the first two ran. The third contained stranger and more pregnant news; news of so unexpected a nature that even this gentle, anxious mother put aside for the moment her wail of distress over the lack of tidings from her son to communicate it. His distant cousin, she wrote, Lord Westover, was dead, burned to death in his own house in Cumberland, and with him had also perished his son; therefore Walter Clarges, her own dear son, had, unexpectedly to all, inherited the title as well as a large and ample fortune. He must, consequently, she said, on receipt of this at once put himself in communication with the men of business of the Westover family, the notary and the steward; if, too, she added, he could see his way to giving in his adherence to the reigning family his career might now be a great, almost an illustrious, one. The Hanoverian King was welcoming all to his Court who had once espoused the now utterly ruined Stuart cause. All would be forgotten if Walter but chose to give in his allegiance to the new ruler of England. And, perhaps with a view to inducing him to think seriously of such a change, she mentioned that she had heard from a sure source that, not six months before he met with his terrible death, the late Earl had seen King George, and had been graciously received by him. There was, she thought, no doubt that he at least had made his peace with the reigning monarch. To Walter Clarges--or the Earl of Westover, as he now was--this news seemed, however, of little value. Titles, political principles--which he felt sure he should never feel disposed to change--even considerable wealth, were at the present moment nothing to him; nothing in comparison with what he had to do, with what he had set himself to do. This was to seek out and wreak his vengeance on those two men, Desparre and his tool and creature, Vandecque. As for her, his wife--now an English aristocrat, a woman of high patrician rank by marriage--she had gone; she had left him without a word, without a message as to what life she intended to lead henceforward, or what existence to pursue. Yet, he had no quarrel with, no rancour against, her; he could have none. He had offered himself to her as a man who might be her earthly saviour, though without demanding in return any of the rights of a husband, without demanding the slightest show or pretence of affection; and she had taken him at his word, she had accepted his sacrifice! That was all. Upon her he had no right to exercise any vengeance whatsoever. It was on Desparre first; on Vandecque next; or rather, on whichever might first come to his hand, that the punishment must fall; and fall it should, heavily. Of this he was resolved. Pondering thus, he picked up the letter addressed to him in a woman's handwriting, and, opening it, began its perusal. Yet, as he did so, as he read through it swiftly, his face became white and blanched. Once he muttered to himself, "My God, what awful horror have I saved her from!" And once he shivered as though he sat on some bleak moor, across which the wintry wind swept icily, instead of in his own room, on the hearth of which the blazing logs now roared cheerfully up the great open chimney. CHAPTER XIV WHERE IS THE MAN? When Walter Clarges was left lying on the footway of the Rue des Saints Apostoliques, on that cold, wintry night after Vandecque's rapier had struck through his left lung, there was not an hour's life left in him if succour had not been promptly at hand. Fortunately, however, such was the case, and, ere he had been stretched there twenty minutes, his prostrate form was found by a number of soldiers of the "Regiment of Orleans," who happened to pass down the street on their way to where their quarters were, near the Hôtel de Ville. All these men had been drinking considerably on this night of lawlessness and anarchy, they having, indeed, been sent forth under the charge of some officers to restore, if possible, peace and tranquillity to the streets, and to prevent the archers and exempts from continuing the wholesale arresting and dragging off to prison (after first clubbing and beating them senseless) of many innocent persons. And, for the rescues which they had made of many such innocent people, they had met with much gratitude and had been treated to draughts of liquor strong enough and copious enough to have turned even more seasoned heads than theirs, and were now reeling back to their quarters singing songs, yelling out vulgar ribaldries, and accosting jocosely, and with many barrack-room gallantries, the few women who ventured forth, or were forced to be abroad on such a night. "Body of a dog," said one, a big, brawny fellow, whose magnificent uniform shone resplendent under the rays of the now fully risen moon, as they flashed down from the snow upon the roofs, "is our Regent turned fool? What will he gain by this devil's game of arresting all the people who object to lose their money in his cursed schemes. 'Tis well De Noailles sent us out into the streets to-night to stop it all, or the boy-king might never sit on the old one's throne. By my grandmother's soul, our good Parisians will not endure everything, and Philippe, who is wise, when he is not drinking or making love, should know better than to play such a fool's game. 'Tis that infernal Dubois, or his English friend, the financier----" "La! la!" said another, equally big and brawny, "blaspheme not Le Débonnaire. He is our master. Ho! le Débonnaire!" Whereon he began to sing a song that everyone sung in Paris at this time, in which he was joined by all his comrades: "Long live our Regent, He is so débonnaire." Then he broke off, exclaiming while his comrades continued the refrain, "Ha! What have we here? Ten thousand thunders! Is it a battlefield? Behold Look at this Dead men around! The house-wall splashed with blood! How it gleams, sticky and shiny, in the moon's rays! Poor beasts!" "Beasts in truth!" exclaimed a third. "Archers, exempts! _Fichtre!_ who cares for them. Dirty police, watchmen essaying the duties of soldiers--of gentlemen, of ourselves. Bah!" and he kicked a dead archer lying in the road with such force that the thud of his heavy-spurred riding-boots sounded hideously against the corpse's ribs. "Let them lie there till the dogs find them." "Ay! ay!" exclaimed the first of the speakers. "Let them lie. But this other, here; this is no exempt nor archer--instead, a gentleman. Look to his clothes and lace, and his hands. White as De Noailles's own. Also, he is not dead yet." Meanwhile, he who thus spoke was bending over Walter Clarges and had already run his great muscular arm beneath the wounded man's shoulders, thus lifting him into a sitting position, whereby a stream of blood issued swiftly from his lips, and, running down his chin, stained the steinkirk and breast lace beneath. "That saves him," he exclaimed, "for a time, at least. The red wine was choking the unfortunate. And observe; you understand? This is a gentleman. Set upon by these sewer rats either for robbery--or--or--or," and he winked sapiently, "by some rival." Whereon, as he spoke, the man who had kicked the dead fellow lying in the road looked very much as though he were about to repeat the performance. Yet he was arrested in the act by what the other, who was supporting Walter's still inanimate form, said: "Nay, fool, kick not the garbage. They cannot feel. Instead, scour their pockets. Doubtless the pay of Judas is in them. And, if so, 'tis rightly ours for saving this one. To the soldier and gentleman the spoils of war. To the gentlemen of Monseigneur's guard the perquisites of those wretches." Meanwhile, even as he spoke, the gentleman of Monseigneur's guard was doing his best to restore the victim of Desparre and Vandecque to life. Half a handful of snow was placed on the latter's burning forehead; his vest was opened by the summary process of tearing the lace out of it and wrenching the sides apart. Gradually, Clarges unclosed his eyes, understanding what was being done. "God bless you!" he murmured as well as the blood in his mouth would let him. "God bless you! My purse is in my pocket. Take----" Then relapsed into insensibility. "Bah! for his purse. This is a gentleman. We do not rob one another. The dog eats not dog, as the Jew said to the man who unhappily looked like one. Instead, despoil those carrion, and, you others, help me to bear him to the Trinity. 'Tis close at hand. Hast found aught, Gaspard?" "Ay!" the other gentleman of the guard replied. "A pocketful of louis-d'ors. Ho! for Babette and Alison and the wine flask to-morrow." "Good! Good!" the first replied. "The wine cup and the girls to-morrow. Yet, not a word of anything to anybody. We found this Monsieur stretched on the ground wounded. As for the refuse here," and he looked scornfully at the dead men, "poof! we do not see them. They are beneath the notice of sabreurs. Lift him gently; use your cloaks as bands beneath his body. So away to the Trinity. Forward! _Marchez, mes dragons!_" * * * * * * The days drew into weeks, and the weeks into months. The winter, with its snows and frosts was gone; the spring was coming. Yet, still, Walter Clarges lay, white as a marble statue, in the hospital bed, hovering 'twixt life and death. But, because he was young and healthy, and had ever been sober and temperate, his constitution triumphed over the thrust that had pierced his lung and gone dangerously near to piercing his heart; his wound healed well and cleanly both inside and out, his mouth ceased at last to fill with blood each time he coughed or essayed to speak. Recovery was close at hand. That he was a gentleman the surgeons recognised as plainly as the good-natured swashbucklers of Monseigneur's guard had done. His clear-cut, aristocratic features and his delicate shapely hands showed this as surely as his rich apparel (he had put on the best he had for his wedding), his jewelled watch by Tompion (which his father had left him), and his well-filled purse seemed to testify the same. But they did not know that what the purse contained was all he would have in the world after he had made provision for the woman he had married in the morning, and had paid every debt. At last, one day, the surgeon spoke to him, telling him that he was well and cured. If he had a home he might go forth to it, nothing now being required but that he should exercise some little care with his lung, while endeavouring to catch no chill--and so forth. "Yes," he said, "I have a home, such as it is. An apartment in a back street, yet good enough, perhaps, for an English exile--an English Jacobite." He had told them who he was and his name, while contenting himself with simply describing the attack upon him as one made by armed ruffians on that night of confusion, and thinking it best that he should say no more. To narrate the reason why he had been thus attacked, to state that he had taken a woman away from her lawful guardian, and married her on the morning when she was about to have become the wife of a prominent member of the noblesse--prominent in more ways than one!--would, he knew, be unwise. It might be that, even now, Desparre or Vandecque could set the law upon him, in spite of their base attempt at murder. If such were the case, and he should become a prisoner in the Bastille or Vincennes, his chance of being of further help to his wife would be utterly gone. And, for the same reason, he had not, during the last two weeks that he had been enabled to speak or write, sent any message to the custodian of the house where he lived, nor to his wife. He imagined that, since he had not returned on that night as he had promised to do, she would continue to remain on in the apartments in the Rue de la Dauphine until she heard from him. He had shown her his strong box and had told her that it contained four thousand livres, enough to provide her with her subsistence for some time to come. Surely she would not fail to utilise the money--would not forget that she was his lawful wife, and, though caring nothing for him, was therefore fully entitled to do with it what she chose. He would find her there on his return. And then--then they would make their arrangements for parting. He would force himself to bury, in what must henceforth be a dead heart, the love and adoration he had for her. Nay, he would do more. He had told her that, in days to come, he would find some means of setting her free from the yoke of their marriage, that yoke which must gall her so in the future. He could scarcely imagine as yet how this freedom was to be obtained, but, because of that adoration, that love and worship of his, it should be done. He had saved her from Desparre; soon she would need him no more. Then she could fling him away, if any means could be devised to break the bonds that bound her to him. What he did find when he reached the house in the Rue de la Dauphine has been told, and how, when there, he learned that his thoughts of setting her free had long since been anticipated. She had waited for no effort on his part. She had escaped and left him the first moment that a chance arose, after having availed herself of the sacrifice he had made, all too willingly, for her. "So be it," he said at last, as he sat before the burning logs, thinking over all these things, while that letter, written in some unknown woman's handwriting, lay at his feet "So be it; she is gone. I have no wife. Yet, yet"--and he gazed down as he spoke at the paper--"had she known this story which it tells--if it is the truth, she should have thanked me five thousand times over for the service I did her. To have saved her from Desparre as her husband was, perhaps, something worth doing--to save her from the awful, hellish union into which she would have entered unknowingly, would surely have entitled me to her everlasting gratitude--even without her love." And, again, he shuddered as he glanced at the letter lying there. "Now," he exclaimed, springing to his feet, "that is over; done with; put away for ever. One thing alone is not--my vengeance." "Vandecque's abode I know," he muttered, "though not the address of that double-dyed scoundrel, his master. That I must learn later. Now for the jackal." He seized his roquelaure and was about to throw it over his shoulder when he paused, remembering that he was unarmed--since the last sword he had worn, that one which had been broken in the affray of the Rue des Saints Apostoliques, was left where it had fallen. Then he went into his sleeping room and came forth bearing a strong serviceable rapier, which he passed through his sash. "It has done good work for me before now," he mused; "'twill serve yet to spit the foul creature I go to seek." Whereupon, putting the letter from his unknown female correspondent in his pocket, he went forth and made his way to the spot at which he had met his wife on the morning of their ill-starred marriage; the "Jardin des Roses," out of which the Passage du Commerce opened. The roses were not yet in bloom, the spring flowers were only now struggling into bud; yet all looked gay and bright, and vastly different from what it had done on that cold wintry morning when Laure had stolen forth trembling to the arbour in which he waited for her, and had gone with him to that ceremony which she then regarded as but a lesser evil than the one she fled from. "What hopes we cherish, nourish in our hearts," he thought, as he went swiftly over the crushed-shell paths to the opening of the Passage. "Hopes never to be realised. Even as I married her, even as I vowed that never would I ask her for her love, nor demand any consideration for me as her husband, I still dreamed, still prayed that at last--some day--in the distant future--she might come to love me. If only a little. Only a little. And now! And now! And now! Ah, well! It must be borne!" He reached the house in the Passage as thus he meditated; reached it, and summoned the concierge to come forth from his den. Then, when the man stood before him ready to answer his inquiries, he said: "I seek him who occupies the second floor of this house. Your tenant, Vandecque." "Vandecque!" the man exclaimed. "Monsieur Vandecque! You seek him?" and the tones of the man's voice rose shriller and shriller with each word he muttered. "You seek Monsieur Vandecque?" "'Tis for that I am here. What else? Where is he?" Then, seeing a blank look upon the man's face, he suddenly exclaimed: "Surely he is not dead?" "Dead; no. Not that I know of. Though, sometimes, I fear. But--but--missing. He may be dead." "Missing! Since when--how long ago?" "Since the night of the--the--catastrophe. The night of the day when mademoiselle threw over the illustrious duke to marry an English outcast. They say--many think--that it broke his heart; turned him demented. That he drowned himself, poor gentleman, plunged into the Seine to hide----" "Bah!" exclaimed Walter, "such fellows as that do not drown themselves. More like he is in hiding for some foul crime, attempted or done. If this is true that you tell me" (he thought it very likely that the man was lying by Vandecque's orders) "what of his companions, his clients--the men who gambled here. The 'illustrious duke' of whom you make mention; where is that vagabond?" The man rolled up his eyes to heaven as though fearing that the skies must surely be about to fall at such profanation as this, and would have replied uncivilly to his interrogator only--the accent of that interrogator showed him to be an Englishman of the same class as the man who had stolen the Duke's bride. And he remembered that Englishmen were hot and choleric; above all that they permitted no insolence from inferiors. He did not know but that, if he were impertinent, he might find himself saluted with a kick or a blow. But, because he had as much wit of a sub-acid kind as most of his countrymen, he muttered to himself, "Apparently, Monsieur knows Monsieur le Duc." But, aloud, he said, "Monsieur le Duc is extremely unwell. He is no longer strong; in truth, he has lived too well since he removed himself from the army. They say," and the fellow sunk his voice as though what he was now about to impart was of too sacred a nature to be even whispered to the vulgar air, "they say that Monsieur fears a little fluxion, a stroke of apoplexy. His health, too, has suffered from the events of that terrible morning, and that----" "No matter for his health. Where is he? Tell me that. If I cannot find Vandecque I must see him." Then, taking a louis from his pocket, he held it out, while making no pretence of disguising the bribe. "Here," he said, "here is something for your information. Now, answer, where is the man?" "He is," the concierge said, slipping the louis with incredible rapidity into his breeches' pocket, "at or near Montpelier. The doctors there are the finest in the world, while the baths are of great repute for such disorders as those of Monsieur le Duc." "This is the truth? As well as that Vandecque has disappeared?" "Monsieur, I swear it. And, if Monsieur doubts me, he can see Monsieur Vandecque's apartments. They will prove to him that they have not been occupied for months. Also, if Monsieur demands at the Hôtel Desparre he will learn that, in this case as well, I speak the truth." "I take you at your word. Let me see the apartments. Later, I will verify what you say as to the absence of Desparre." "Ascend, Monsieur," said the man, pointing to the stairs. "Ascend, if you please." Walter Clarges did as was suggested, yet, even as he preceded the concierge, he took occasion to put his hand beneath his cloak and loosen his sword in its sheath. He did not know--he felt by no means sure of what he might encounter when he reached those rooms upon the second floor. CHAPTER XV THE PEST Almost did those unhappy women of the cordon, or chain-gang--those skeletons clad in rags--thank God that something was occurring down below in the great city, the nature of which they could not divine beyond the fact that it was horrible, and must be something portentous, since it delayed their descent from the hill towards the ships that were, doubtless, now waiting in the harbour to transport them to New France. For, whatever the cause might be--whether the city were in flames, or attacked by an enemy from the sea, or set on fire in different places by the recent lightning--at least they were enabled to rest; to cast themselves upon the dank earth that reeked with the recent rain; to lie there with their eyes closed wearily. Yet, amongst those women was one who knew--or guessed, surely--what was the cause of those flames; what they signified. The dark woman of Hérault--the woman who, as a child, had listened to stories told of not so many years ago, when, forth from this smoking city which lay now at their feet, had rushed countless people seeking the pure air of the plains and mountains; people seeking to escape from the stifling and pestiferous poison of the pest that was lurking in the narrow, confined streets of Marseilles. "It has come to the city again," she whispered in Laure's ear, as the latter lay prostrate by her side--chained to her side--"As it has come, they say, more than thirty times since first Christ walked the earth--since Cæsar first made the place his. It must be that it has come again." "What?" murmured Laure, not understanding. "What has come? Freedom or death? Which is it?" "Probably both," Marion Lascelles answered. "Freedom and death. Both." Then, because her eyes were clearer than the eyes of many by whom she was surrounded, and because her great, strong frame had resisted even the fatigues and the miseries of that terrible journey from Paris to which so many of her original companions had succumbed--to which all had succumbed, more or less!--she was able to observe that the mounted gendarmes and the warders and gaolers were holding close consultation; and that, also, they looked terror-stricken and agitated. She was able to observe, too, that a moment later they had been joined by a creature which had crept up the hill to where they were, and had slowly drawn near to them. Yet it had done so as though half afraid to approach too close, or as one who feared that he might be beaten away as an unknown dog is driven off on approaching too near to the heels of a stranger. Thrusting her brown, sunburnt hands through her matted, coal-black hair, now filled and clotted with mud that had once been the dust of the long weary roads she had traversed until the rain turned it into what it was, she parted that hair from off her eyes and glared transfixed at the figure. It was that of a man almost old, his sparse white locks glistening in the rays of the moon which now overtopped the brow of the hill behind them--yet it was neither the man's age nor his grey hairs that appalled her. Instead, it was his face, which was of a loathsome yellow hue--it being plainly perceptible in the moonbeams--as is the face of a man stricken to death with jaundice; a face covered, too, with huge carbuncles and pustules, and with eyes of a chalky, dense white, sunken in the hollow sockets. "It is," Marion muttered hoarsely to herself, "the pest. That man is sickening, has sickened of it. God help us all! Slave-drivers and slaves alike. I saw one like him at Toulon once." And again she muttered, "God help us all!" Above her murmur, which hardly escaped beyond her white, clenched teeth, there rose a shout from those whom she termed to herself the slave-drivers--a shout of fury and of horror. "Away, leper!" cried the man who had been the most stern of all the guards, on seeing this figure near to him and his companions; "away, or I shoot you like a dog," and he wrenched a great horse pistol from out his belt as he spoke. "Away, I say, to a distance. At once." The unfortunate, yellow-faced creature did as he was bidden, dragging himself wearily off for several paces, while falling once, also, upon one knee, yet recovering himself by the aid of a huge knotted stick he held in his hands; then he turned and said in a voice which, though feeble, was still strong enough to be heard: "In the name of God give me some water. I burn within. Oh! that one should live and yet endure such agony!" "You shall have water--later," a warder answered. "Only, approach not on peril of your life. Presently, a jar of water for you shall be carried to a spot near here." Then the speaker asked huskily, and in a voice which trembled with fear, "Is it the pest? Down there--in the city?" "It is the pest," the man replied, his awful white eyes gleaming sickeningly. "They die in hundreds daily. Whole families--whole streets of families--are dead. All mine are gone--my wife and seven children. I, too, am stricken after nursing, burying them. I cannot live. In pity's sake, put that jar of water where I can reach it ere--ere they come forth!" "They come forth?" the guards of the cordon exclaimed all together. "Ere who come forth?" "Many who are still left alive. All are fleeing who can leave the city. It is a vast tomb. Hundreds lie dead in the streets--poisoning, infecting the air. Also, the dogs--they, too, are stricken, through tearing them. The rooks, likewise, who have swooped down upon the bodies. God help me! The water! The water The water! Ere they come." Perhaps it was compassion, perhaps fear, perhaps the knowledge that ere long they, too, might be burning inwardly from the same cause as that which now affected this unhappy man, which caused those brutal custodians to take pity on his sufferings. But, from whatever cause it might be, at least that pity was shown. A flat, squat bottle holding about a pint was taken by one of them to a little rising knoll some seventy yards away and put on the ground; then the pest-stricken man was told he might go to it. By now, even as he hobbled and dragged himself on his stick towards that knoll, his white eyes gleaming horribly, the women of the chain-gang had somewhat recovered from the stupor in which they had been lying; some besides Marion Lascelles had even sat up upon the rain-steeped ground and had heard all that had passed. And, now, they raised their voices in a shrill clatter, shrieking to their custodians: "Release us! Release us! Set us free! We are not doomed to this; instead, we are on our road to freedom. Strike off these accursed irons; let us find safety somewhere. None meant that we should perish thus," while Marion's voice was the loudest, most strident of all, since she was the strongest and the fiercest. A common fear--a common horror--was upon everyone by now: women prisoners and captors, or custodians, alike; all dreaded what was impending over them. Wherefore their cries and shrieks, which, before this day, would have been answered with the lash or the heavy riding wand, were replied to almost kindly. "Have patience, good women," the gendarmes and guards replied, "have patience. All may yet be well. If the vessels are in the port they will soon carry you to sea; to a pure air away from this." Yet still more hubbub arose from all the women. Those very women who, upon the weary journey, had prayed that each day might be their last, screamed at this time for life and safety and preservation from this awful death--the death by the pest. "Turn us back," they wailed. "Turn us back. It has not penetrated inland, or we should have heard of it on the route. Turn us back, or set us free to escape by ourselves. 'Tis all we ask. It is our due. The law desires not our death. Above all, no such death as this!" But again their guardians bade them have patience, telling them that soon they would be on board the transports and well out upon the pure bosom of the ocean. "Well out!" cried Marion Lascelles, her voice still harsh and strident, her accent defiant and contemptuous. "Well out to sea! Yes, after traversing that fever-stricken city from one end to the other to reach the docks. How shall we accomplish that; how will you, who must accompany us? You! You, too! Can we pass through Marseilles unharmed? Can you?" and again she emphasised the "you," while striking terror into the men's hearts and making them quake as they sat on their horses or reclined in the carts. "All are doomed. We, the prisoners. You, the gaolers." Those men knew it was as she said; they knew that their lives were subject to as much risk, were as certain to be forfeited, as the lives of the wretched women in their charge. Whereon they trembled and grew pale, especially since they remembered that this was a woman of the South, and, therefore, one who doubtless understood what she spoke of. The people of the Midi had been reared from time immemorial on legends telling of the horrors of the earlier pests. Whatever terrors were felt by either prisoners or custodians, women or men, were now, however, to be doubly, trebly intensified. They were to see, here, upon this rising upland of sunburnt and, now, rain-soaked grass, sights even more calculated to make their hearts beat with apprehension, their nerves tingle, and their lips turn more white. Forth from the smitten, pestiferous city lying at their feet--that city which now flared with a hundred fires lit to purify it, if possible--there came those who could escape while still life remained, and while the poisonous venom of the scourge had not reduced them to helplessness. They came dragging themselves feebly if already struck by the disease; swiftly if, as yet, the fever had not penetrated their systems nor death set its mark upon them. Walking rapidly in some cases, crawling in others; running, almost leaping, if able to do so. Doing anything, thereby to flee away in the open; out into the woods and plains and mountains--anything to leave behind the accursed city in which the houses were empty or only filled with corpses; the accursed streets in which the dead bodies of men and women, of dogs and crows, lay in huddled masses. A band of nuns passed first--their heads bound in cloths that had been steeped in vinegar into which gunpowder had been soaked; their holy garments trailing on the ground, their rosaries clattering as they went along, their faces white with terror though not with disease. These were good, pious women, many of them young, who, until now, when the panic of dread had seized upon them, had nursed the sick and dying under the orders of their saintly bishop, Henri de Belsunce de Castlemoron, but who, at last, had yielded to the fear that was upon all within Marseilles, and had fled. They had fled from their cloisters out into the open, rushing away from the city of death, shrieking to those who were stricken to keep off from them in the name of God and all his Saints; even arming themselves with what were called the "Sticks of St. Roch," namely, canes from eight to ten feet long, wherewith to ward off and push aside the passers-by and, especially, the dogs which were supposed to be thoroughly infected from the dead bodies at which they sniffed and sometimes tore. Nay, not supposed only, since the creatures had already perished by hundreds from having done so. Running by their side, endeavouring to keep up with those over whom, but a little while ago, she had ruled with a stern, unbending power, went the mother superior, a fat, waddling woman, whose face may have been comely once, but was now drawn with fright and terror. Yet--with perhaps some recollections left in her mind, even now, of the sanctity and charity that should be the accompaniment of her holy calling--she paused on seeing the group of worn, sunburnt, and emaciated women sitting there under the charge of their frightened warders, and asked who and what they were? "Galley slaves," one of these warders answered; "at least, emigrants. They go to New France. Can we pass through the city, think you, holy mother, or reach the ships without danger? Can we go on to safety and pure breezes?" "Alas!" the woman answered, gathering up her skirts even as she spoke, so as to flee as swiftly as might be after her flock, which had gone on without pausing when she herself did so. "Alas, there are no ships. The galleys are moored outside 'tis true, but all else have put to sea to escape. Turn back if you are wise. Ah!" she cried with a scream, a shriek, as some other fugitives from the city passed near her, their eyes chalky white, their faces yellow and blotched with great livid carbuncles. "Oh, keep off! keep off!" And she waved her long stick around her and then rushed precipitously after her band of nuns. But still the refugees came forth, singly, in pairs, in families. Some staggered under burdens which they bore, such as bags containing food or jars holding water. Numbers of women carried not only babes in their arms and folded to their breasts, but others strapped on to their backs. Some men wheeled hand barrows before them with their choicest household goods flung pell-mell into them; some, even, had got rough vehicles drawn by horses or cows--in one or two instances by dogs, and in another by a pig--by the side of which they walked while their stricken relatives lay gasping within. Yet, even as these latter passed along, that which was most distinctive in their manner was the horror which those who still remained unstruck testified for those who were stricken, yet whom the ties of blood still prompted them to save. A son passed along with his aged mother dying on the truck he pushed before him, yet he had bound his mouth up with vinegar-steeped cloths so that her infected breath should not be inhaled by him; a husband, whose wife was at the point of death, bore, fastened on his chest, a small iron tray on which smoked burning sulphur, so that he should inhale those fumes. Others, too, carried flasks and bottles of spirituous liquors, from which they drank momentarily; some smoked incessantly enormous pipes full of rank, coarse tobacco, and drew into their lungs as much of the fumes as they could bear. There, too, passed flying domestics and servitors, upon whose coarse hands sparkled rich and sumptuous rings never made to be worn by such as they, and carrying in those hands strong boxes and jewel boxes. None need have asked how they became possessed of such treasures as these! Imagination would have told at once of dead or dying employers, of dark houses rifled, and of robbery successful. Yet these fugitives were such as, up to now, had escaped the deadly breath of the pest, and were not so horrible as those stricken by that breath. These latter were too awful to behold as they staggered along moaning, "I burn! I burn!" and then flung themselves down to lick the rain-water off the grass beneath them, or to thrust their parched tongues into rivulets formed by the recent downpour. They flung themselves down, never, in many cases, to stagger to their feet again. Exhausted they lay where they fell, and so they died. The stream of refugees ceased not. Under the rays of the now risen moon they poured forth continuously from the flaming city beneath them, their faces lit also by the crimson-illuminated sky above. They came on in numbers, running or walking, breathlessly if strong, staggering, falling, moaning, shrieking sometimes, if already attacked by the pest. And Marion Lascelles sitting up upon the sodden hill slope, her hands holding back her matted hair so that the soft wind now blowing from above should not cause it to obscure her eyes, saw all these passers-by, and felt a horror in her soul that she had never before known in her tempestuous life. While, also, she saw something else, and whispered in the ears of the half inanimate Laure what it was that she perceived. "Observe, dear one," she muttered, "observe. The guards, all of them, the gaolers and gendarmes move. They mix with that rushing crowd; see, they disappear; almost, it seems, they dissolve into the night. One understands what they have determined to do. They flee, too; they dare not face this thing. They depart, leaving us here. The cowards!" And if eyes as well as lips could hurl contemptuous curses at others, the woman of the South hurled them now at the departing captors. "For," she said a moment later, "the safety the creatures seek they do not give us the opportunity of finding as well. They have left us chained and manacled so that we, on our part, cannot escape." CHAPTER XVI "I HAD NOT LIVED TILL NOW, COULD SORROW KILL" The night wind rose as the hours went by, so that at last the cool breezes brought ease, and, in a manner, restoration to those unhappy women lying or sitting upon the slope of the hill which lay to the north of Marseilles. Gradually, under its influence, many of them began to feel more strength coming to their wasted and aching limbs, while others, who up to now had been dazed and stupefied at the end of their journey, began to understand that the long and terrible march from Paris was at last concluded; that, henceforth, there was to be no more dragging of weary, bleeding feet along league after league of rough and stony roads. Unhappily, however, as this fact dawned upon them, so did another and more hideous one--the awful, ghastly fact that they had but escaped from one terror to be surrounded by a second to which the first was almost a trifle. As their senses came back to many of them, such senses being aroused by the continual excitement of the talk amongst those who were already awake or had never slept since their arrival, they grasped this fact, and became aware of what was now threatening them. They grasped the fact that death in a more horrid garb than that which it had previously worn had to be faced, and was around them; close to them; and about to seize them in an awful embrace. Some started to their feet shrieking as this knowledge dawned upon them, while clanking their chains as they did so, and endeavouring to tear from off their necks the loathsome _carcan_, or collar, in their frenzy, or to rush away from where they were back to the great plain through which they had passed but a day or so ago, or up to the vine-clad heights of which they had caught a sight as they drew near to the end of their journey. Anywhere! Anywhere, away from this new terror which threatened them. Then, even as they wailed aloud, while some cast themselves upon their knees and prayed to be spared from the horrible contagion into which they had advanced, the voice of Marion Lascelles was heard speaking to them, counselling them as to what they should do, what measures take to preserve themselves from this fresh calamity. And, because, all along that dreary road which stretched from Paris in the north to Marseilles in the south, this woman's strong, indomitable courage and contempt for suffering and misfortune had cheered and comforted them, they hearkened to her now. They welcomed, indeed, any words that fell from her lips. "Listen," she said, "my sisters in misery. Listen to me. Of what use is it for each to try and wrest from off her neck the accursed _carcan_ that encloses it, to tear from off her wrists the accursed cordon that binds her to her neighbour? It is impossible; not that they might be thus easily parted with, did the warder rivet them to us in Paris. Yet, how else have we progressed here but with them on; how progressed along dusty roads, beneath the burning sun, the beating rains, over mountains and across valleys. We have done this, I say to you, yet now the night is fresh and cool." "Thank God for that. For that," they murmured. "Ay, thank Him for that. 'Tis well we do so, sinners as most of us are. We need His help and blessing. But, hear me. Can we not also retreat together, as we have advanced over all these leagues to this plague-stricken spot? Can we not?" But no more words were required from her; already they understood and grasped her meaning. It was simple enough, yet, heretofore, their despair and frenzy had prevented them from conceiving that, together, they might escape from this place, as, together, they had reached it. With cries of rejoicing and exultation they prepared to do what she suggested; to flee at once from this awful spot. To join those who were still pouring out of the city unceasingly, even though the depth of the night was now upon them; to follow in the wake of those who had already gone. They knew--those previous fugitives--they must know--where to flee for safety; to follow them was to reach that safety themselves. Weak, enfeebled as they were, they prepared to act upon Marion's advice; staggeringly they formed themselves once more into the lines in which they had marched day after day and week after week; they turned themselves about to unwind the tangled chains which ran from the first woman of the chain-gang to the last, and placed themselves in order to at once depart. And it seemed easier to their poor bruised bodies, easier, too, to their aching hearts, to thus set about these preparations for seeking safety since there were now no longer brutal gendarmes nor custodians, nor guards of any kind to lash them with whips or curse them with foul oaths. Wherefore they turned back, commencing at once to retrace the road they had come and walking in the same order as they walked from the first--since the position of none could be altered. And by Marion's side was Laure, as ever. "You are refreshed," the former said to her companion; "you can accomplish this? Strive--oh! strive--poor soul, to be brave! Remember, every step we take, every moment, removes us farther and farther from the risk of this awful thing. Be brave, dear one," and, herself still strong and brave, unconquered and unconquerable, she placed her arm around that of her more delicate fellow-prisoner and helped her upon the way. "I will be brave," Laure answered. "I will struggle to the end. My heart is broken, death would be welcome--yet not such a death as this. Oh! Marion, I do not desire to die thus--like those," and she pointed to some of the awful yellow-faced victims who were being wheeled or dragged along, or were staggering by themselves to the mountains and open country. "Yet, surely," she added, "the risk is as great here as in the city below, so long as we keep in their vicinity. Is it not?" "Ay, it is," the other answered. "Yet we will break off from them ere long. Alas! these chains. If we were only free of them we could all separate; you and I could climb that little hill together which rises over there; we could go on and on until the feverous breath of the pest was left behind. But we can do nothing. All must stay together." Still they went on, however--not swiftly, because amongst them there was not one, not even Marion herself, who could progress otherwise than slowly, owing to the fatigue that was upon them after their long march, and owing, also, to the weight of their irons, as well as to the fact that they were almost famished. Their last meal had been eaten at midday, and they had been promised a full one by their late guardians on entering the gates of Marseilles. Yet, now, they were retreating from Marseilles, and there were no guardians left to provide for them. When, Marion wondered, would they ever eat again; how would food be found for the mouths of all in their company? There were still some twenty women left chained together; how could they be fed? Even, however, as she reflected on all this, another thought arose in her mind; one that had had no existence in it for many hours, or, indeed, days. "Where is the men's chain-gang, I wonder?" she mused aloud. "The men who, poor wretches, are in many cases our newly-made husbands. Where can they be? They were ahead of us all the way; therefore, since we have not passed them, and since, also, we halted within musket-shot of the city, it follows that they, at least, have entered the doomed place--are doomed themselves. Great God! we who survive this are as like as not to be widows again soon," and she laughed a harsh, strident laugh that had no mirth in it, but was born of the bitterness within her. Those words "our newly-made husbands" gave rise to thoughts in Laure's own sad heart that she would willingly have stifled if she had possessed the power to do so. They recalled memories that (when she had not been too dazed--almost too delirious--to dwell upon them during the horrors of the past six weeks) she had endeavoured to dispel. Memories of the noble Englishman who had sacrificed his existence for her--nay! if that villain Desparre had spoken truth, his very life--and whose sacrifice had obtained for her no more than the state of misery in which she was now plunged. "Yet," she whispered, half to herself, half aloud, so that Marion heard her words; "yet, almost I pray that he may be dead----" "Your husband?" the other interrupted. "You pray that he may be dead! He who gave up all for you--the man whom you love. Whom, Laure, you know you love?" For still Marion insisted, as she had insisted often enough before during the journey, that Laure had come to love Walter Clarges. "Yes--I even pray for that--sometimes," the girl answered. "For--for if he lives, how doubly vile must he deem me. What must he think of me, supposing--supposing that Desparre lied--that he was not dead--that he was not even met by that villain and his myrmidons--that the whole story was false!" "What should he think!" exclaimed Marion, not, in truth, grasping Laure's meaning. "What should he think?" "What? Why think that but I used him for my own selfish purposes to escape from marriage with Desparre, as, God forgive me, was the case; and that, once he had left me alone in his home, I next escaped from him. How can he know--how dream of what befell me? Who was there to tell him of what happened in that room? Even I, myself, know nothing of what occurred from the time I fell prostrate at Desparre's feet, until I awoke a prisoner in that--that prison, which I only left for this," and she cast her eyes despairingly around upon her miserable companions and upon the flying inhabitants of the stricken city who still went on and on, their one hope being to leave the place behind. But the brave heart, the strong mind of Marion Lascelles--neither of which could be subdued by even that which now encompassed them--would not for an instant agree to such hopelessness as her companion expressed. Instead, she cried: "Nay, nay. He would not do so. Believe that Desparre lied when he said that your husband was dead, since how could such a creeping snake as that slay such as he was, one so noble. Believe he lived, and, thus living, returned to find you gone. But, in doing so----" "He would hate, despise, loathe me. He would deem me what I was, base and contemptible, and so, God help me! endeavour to forget. He would remember nothing except that he had parted with his freedom for ever to save so vile a thing as I." "Again I say nay, Laure," and now Marion's voice sank even lower, her tone became more deep. "Laure, I know the hearts of men--God help _me_, too!--I have had cause to know them--bitter cause, brought about sometimes by my own errors, sometimes by their own wickedness. And I--I tell you, you have judged wrongly. This man, this Englishman, loved you with his whole heart and soul; he loves you still." "Alas! alas! it cannot be," Laure murmured. "It is impossible." "At first," Marion went on, "he may, it is true, deem that you used him only as a tool. He may do so because no man who ever lived has yet understood woman's nature--ever sounded the depths of that nature. Therefore, not knowing, as they none of them know, our hearts, he may at first believe, as you say, that you sacrificed his existence to your salvation. Not understanding, not guessing in his man's blindness that, as he made the sacrifice, so the love for him sprang newborn into your heart. Is it not so, Laure? Here in the midst of all these horrors with which we are surrounded, here with death close at hand, with infection in the air, ready to seize on one or all at any moment, answer me. Speak truth as you would speak it on your death-bed. You love him--loved him from that moment? Answer! Is it not so?" "Yes," Laure said, faintly, her whisper being almost drowned in the soft, cool breeze that came sweeping over them from the distant mountain-tops of the Basses Alpes. "Yes, I loved him from the first--from the moment when he took me to his house. Oh, God!" she murmured, "when he told me that we must part, deeming that I could never love him, almost I threw myself at his feet, almost I rushed to his arms beseeching him to fold me in them, to stay by my side for ever. And now--now--we shall never meet again." "Never meet again, perhaps," said Marion, scorning to hold out hopes to the other that she could not believe were ever likely to be realised; "yet of one thing be sure, namely, that he will seek for you. As time goes on he will learn the truth--how, I cannot tell, yet surely he must learn it--and then--and then no power on earth, nothing short of the will of God will prevent him from seeking for you." "And finding me dead. Here, or in the new land to which we go." "The new land to which we go!" Marion echoed, scornfully. "The new land to which we go! I doubt if that will ever be. If it were not for these cursed irons we should be free now--free for ever. We could disperse singly, or in couples, wander forth over France, even seek other lands. And--and you could write to him." "Ah!" Laure exclaimed. "Write to him! To do that! Oh, Marion, Marion, you are so strong, so brave! Set us free! Set us free! Set us free!" Alas! that Marion should have spoken those words, or have let them fall on Laure's ears, thus raising desires and expectations never to be gratified. There was no freedom to come to them--none from so awful a captivity as that which was now to enslave them. For, even as Laure uttered her wail for freedom, which was born of her companion's hopeful words, the atom of liberty they possessed--the liberty of being able to remove from this fever-tainted spot to some other that remained still unpoisoned by the breath of the pestilence, although shackled and chained altogether--was taken away. There came up swiftly behind them a band of men; they were a number of convicts, drawn from the galleys lying at the Quai de Riveneuve, as well as several of the beggars of Marseilles, known as "the crows:" beggars who were employed and told off to act under the orders of the sheriffs in removing the dead from the streets, in lighting nightly the fires to purge the city, and in fulfilling the duties of the police--mostly dead themselves by this time. And in command of them were two sheriffs. "These are the women, the emigrants," one of the latter said to the other. "'Twas certain they could not be very far behind the men." Then the speaker, who was mounted, rode his horse up to where this group of desolate, forlorn wanderers stood hesitating while appalled by the sudden stoppage of their escape, and said-- "Good women, whither are you going? Your destiny is Marseilles, en route for New France." For a moment those unhappy women stood helpless and silent, gazing into each other's worn faces, not knowing what answer to make or what to say. In truth they were paralysed with the fear that was upon them, namely, that they were about to be driven into the infected city, paralysed also with grief at their escape being cut off. "Answer," the Sheriff said, not speaking harshly. And then, with all the eyes of her companions in misery fixed on her and bidding her plainly enough to act as their mouthpiece, Marion said-- "Those who drove us from Paris here have fled in fear of the contagion that is amongst you. We, too, have sought to flee away from it. The law which condemned us to transportation to New France, to be followed by our freedom, did not condemn us to this." "You speak truth," the Sheriff said, his voice a grave and solemn, yet not unkindly, one. "Yet you must go on with what you are sent here for. And--and--we need women's help here, such help as nursing and so forth. You must come with us and stay until the ships, which have put to sea in fear, return to transport you to New France." "It is tyranny!" Marion Lascelles exclaimed. "Tyranny to force us thus!" "Not so," the Sheriff replied. "Not so. You will be treated well; your freedom will begin at once. Your irons shall be struck off now. Also, while you remain with us and work for us--heaven knows how we require assistance--you shall have a daily wage and good food. But--you must come." "We shall die," Marion exclaimed, acting still as the spokeswoman of all. "And our deaths will lie at your door." But still the Sheriff spoke very gently, saying that, even so, they must do as he bid them. Then, next, he ordered some of the convicts to stand forward and remove their chains and collars, so that even the short distance to be accomplished ere reaching the city should be no more irksome than possible. After which he said to the group of women, many of whom were sobbing around him, some with fear of what they were about to encounter, and some with joy at losing at last, their horrible, hateful iron burdens. "Do not weep. Do not weep. Already is our once bright, joyous city a vale of tears. Nay, there can be, I think, no more tears left for us to shed. I myself can weep no more. I who, in the last week, have buried my wife, my two daughters, and my little infant babe." "Oh! oh!" gasped Marion and Laure and all the women standing round who heard the bereaved man's words. "Oh! Unhappy man. Unhappy man!" CHAPTER XVII AN ARISTOCRATIC RESORT The little watering-place of Eaux St. Fer, which stood on the slope of a hill some few leagues outside Montpelier, and nearer than that city to the southern sea-board, was very full this summer; so full, indeed, that hardly could the visitors to it be accommodated with the apartments they required. So full that, already it had incurred the displeasure of many of those patrons--who were mostly of the ancient nobility of France--at their being forced to rub shoulders with, and also live cheek by jowl with, such common persons as--to go no lower--those of the upper bourgeoisie. Yet it had to be done--the doing of it could not be avoided; for this very year the waters of Eaux St. Fer had bubbled forth a degree warmer than they had ever been known to do before; they tasted more of saltpetre than any visitor could recollect their having done previously, and tasted also more unutterably nauseous; while marvellous cures of gout and rheumatism, and complaints brought on by overeating and overdrinking and late hours, as well as other indulgences, were reported daily. Even at this very moment the gossips staying at The Garland (the fashionable hostelry) were relating how Madame la Marquise de Montesprit, who was noted for eating a pâté of snipe every night of her life for supper, was already free from pain and able to sit up in her bed and play piquet with the Abbé Leri, whose carbuncles were fast disappearing from his face; while, too, the Chevalier Rancé d'Irval had lost eight pounds of his terrible weight, and the Vicomtesse de Fraysnes had announced that in another week she would actually appear without her veil, so much improved was her complexion. Likewise, it was whispered that, only a day or so before, three casks of the atrociously tasting water had been sent up to Paris to no less a person than the Regent himself. Wherefore Eaux St. Fer was full to suffocation; dukes, duchesses, and all the other members of what was even then called the old régime, were huddled together pell-mell with bankers, merchants, even eminent shopkeepers and tradesmen; and, except that in the principal alley, or walk, it was understood that the nobility kept to one side of it, and those whom they termed the "refuse" to the other, one could hardly have told which were the people who boasted the blood of centuries in their veins, and which were those who, if they knew who their grandfathers were, knew no more. And, after all, when one's blood is corrupted by every indulgence that human weakness can give way to until the body is like a barrel, and the legs are like bolsters, and the face is a mass of swollen impurity, or as white as that of a corpse within its shroud, it matters very little whether that blood is drawn from ancestors who fought at Ascalon and Jerusalem or peddled vulgar wares in the lowest purlieus of cities. "Mon ami!" exclaimed one of the high-born dames, who kept to the right side of the alley, to an aristocrat who sat on a bench beneath a tree close by where one of the fountains of Eaux St. Fer bubbled forth its waters, "Mon ami, you do not look well this morning. Yet see how the sun shines around; observe how it shows the wrinkles beneath the eyes of Mademoiselle de Ste. Ange over there, and also the paint on the face of the old Marquis de Pontvert. You should be gay, mon ami, this morning." "I am not well," replied the personage whom she addressed. "Neither in health nor mind. Sometimes I wish I were a soldier again, living a life of----" "Neither in health nor mind!" the lady who had accosted him repeated. "Come, now. That is not as it should be. Let us see. Tell me your symptoms. First, for the health. What ails that?" and, as she asked the question, she peered into the man's dull eyes with her own large clear ones. Then she continued, "Remember, Monsieur le Duc, that, although an arrangement once subsisting between us will never come to a settlement now, we are still to be very good--friends. Is it not so?" Yet, even as she asked the question, especially as she mentioned the word "friends," she turned her face away from him on the pretence of flicking off some dust from her farthest sleeve, and smiled, while biting her full, red nether lip with her brilliantly white teeth. Then she turned back to him, saying: "Now for the health. What is the worst?" "Diane, I suffer. I burn----" "_Already!_" she exclaimed. And the Marquise laughed aloud at her own cruel joke; a merry little, rippling laugh, and one more befitting a girl of twenty than a woman nearly double that age. And her blue eyes flashed saucily--though some might, however, have said, sinisterly. Then she begged the other's pardon, and desired him to continue. But, annoyed, petulant at her scoff, he would not do so; instead, he turned his white face away from where she had taken a seat beside him, and watched the other members of his own order strolling about under the trees, their hats, when men, under their arms, their dresses, when women, held up in many cases by little page boys. She, on her part, did not press him to continue. She had strolled forth that morning from The Garland, where she had been fortunate enough to secure rooms for herself and her maid, with the full determination of meeting Monsieur le Duc Desparre and of conversing with him on a certain topic, her own share in which conversation she had rehearsed a thousand times in the last seven months, and she meant to do so still; but as for his health, or his mental troubles, she cared not one jot. Indeed, had Diane Grignan de Poissy been asked what gift of Fate she most desired should be accorded to her old lover at the present time, she would doubtless have suggested that a long, lingering illness, which should prevent him from ever again being able to enjoy, in the slightest degree, the fortune and position he had lately inherited, would be most agreeable to her. For this man sitting by her side had, in his poverty, been her lover, he had accepted substantial offerings from her under the guise of her future husband, and, in his affluence, had refused to fulfil his pledge to her--a Grignan de Poissy by marriage, a Saint Fresnoi de Buzanval by birth--a woman notorious, famous, for her beauty even now! No wonder she hated the "cadaverous infidel"--as often enough she termed him in her own thoughts--the man now seated by her side. Her presence in this resort of the sick and ailing was, like that of many others, simply for her own purpose. Some of those others came to keep assignations; some to win money off well-to-do invalids who, although rushing with swift strides to their tombs, could not, nevertheless, exist without gaming; some to carry on here the same life which they led in Paris, but which life there was now at a standstill and would be so until the leaves began to fall in the woods round and about the capital. As for her, Diane Grignan de Poissy, she needed neither to drink unpleasant waters that tasted of iron and saltpetre, nor to bathe in them, nor to follow any regimen; though, to suit her own ends, she gave out that she did thus need to do so. Instead, and actually, in all her thirty-eight years she had never know either ache or pain or ailment, but had revelled always in superb health, notwithstanding the fact that she had been a maid of honour once at Versailles to a daughter of the old King--that now-forgotten "Roi Soleil!"--and had taken part since in many of the supper parties given by Philippe le Débonnaire. Yet in spite of all, she was here, at Eaux St. Fer. Presently she spoke again, saying in a soft, subdued voice, into which she contrived to throw a contrite tone-- "Armand, dear friend, you are not going to quarrel with me for a foolish word; a silly joke! Armand, the memories of the past brought me here--to see you. I heard that you were suffering, and also--that--that--you--could not recover from the trick put upon you by that girl--Laure Vauxc----" "Silence!" he said, turning swiftly round on her. "Silence! Never mention that name, that episode again in my hearing. It has damned me in the eyes of Paris--of France--for ever. It has heaped ridicule on me from which I can never recover. It is that--that--that--which has broken me down. Neither Tokay, nor late nights--as I cause it to be given out--nor----" He paused in his furious words, then said a moment later, "Yet, so far as he, as she, are concerned, I have paid the score. He is dead, she worse than dead." "I know, I know," she murmured, her blue eyes almost averted, so that he should not observe the glance that she felt, that she knew, must be in them. "I know. Let us talk of it no more. Armand, forget it." "Forget it! I shall never forget it. What can I do to drive it from my own thoughts or to drive the memory of my humiliation by that beggar's brat from out the memory of men--of all Paris!" "Ignore it. Again I say, forget. Thus you cause others to do so." Then, as though she, at least, had no intention of saying aught that might re-open, or help to re-open, the wounds caused to his vanity by the events of the winter, she picked up idly a book he had been glancing at when she drew near him, and which had fallen on to the crushed-shell path of the alley as they conversed. She picked it up and began turning its fresh white pages over. "It amuses you?" she asked. "This thing?" And she read out the title of one of Piron's latest productions, the comic opera, "Arlequin Deucalion." "One must do something--to pass the time. If we cannot see a play, the next best thing is to read one." "Alas," his companion exclaimed, "the plays of to-day are so stupid--so puerile! No plot, no characters bearing truth to life. Now I! Now I--ah!----" she broke off. "Look at that! And just as we speak, too, of plays and playwriters. Behold, Papa de Crébillon. Mon Dieu! What is the matter with him. He jabbers like a monkey. Yet still he bows with grace--the grace of a gentleman." "He suffers from gout atrociously," Desparre muttered. In truth, the figure which now approached the pair seated in the alley might have been either of the things which Diane Grignan de Poissy had mentioned, a monkey or a gentleman. His face was a drawn and twitching one, filled with innumerable lines and with, set into it, deep sunken eyes, while his manners were--for the period--perfect, his bow that of a courtier, and worthy of the most refined member of the late Louis' court. For the rest, he was a man of over forty years of age, and was renowned already as the author of the popular dramas "Electra," "Atreus," and "Idomeneus." By his side walked a lad, his son, Claude Prosper, destined to be better known even than his father, though not so creditably. "Good morning, Monsieur de Crébillon," cried the bright and joyous Diane--bright and joyous as she assumed to be!--while the dramatist drew near to where she and her companion were seated beneath the acacias. "You are most welcome. 'Tis but now we were talking of plays and dramas--lamenting, too----" "Ah! Madame la Marquise!" exclaimed the dramatist at the word "lamenting," while his face twitched worse than before, since assumed horror was added to it now. "Lamenting; no! no! madame! lament nothing. At least there is, I trust, nothing to lament in our modern drama." "Ay, but there is though!" the Marquise said. Then assuming an air of playful reproof, she went on: "How is it that you all miss plot in your productions now? Why have you no secrets reserved for the end--for the dénouement, for the last moment ere they make ready to extinguish the lights. Eh! Answer me that. Hardy was the last. Since then it is all pompous declamation, heavy versification, dull pomp, and thunder. Hardy belonged to a past day, but at least he excited his listeners, kept them awake for what was to come--what they knew would come--what they knew must come." "Madame has said it----" the dramatist bowed at this moment to three ladies of the aristocracy who passed by, while Desparre rose from his seat to greet them with stiff courtesy, and Diane Grignan de Poissy smiled affectionately. "Hardy did belong to a past day. We have changed all that, Corneille changed it." At the name of Corneille he bowed again solemnly. "Yet," he said, "plot is no bad thing. A little vulgar and straining, perhaps, yet sufficiently interesting." "Monsieur de Crébillon," Desparre exclaimed here, he not having spoken a word before or acknowledged the dramatist's presence, except by a glance, "you may be seated. There is a sufficiency of room upon this bench." With a gleam from his sunken eyes--which might have meant to testify thanks to Monsieur le Duc, or might have meant to convey contempt--was he not already a popular favourite among the highest ranks of the aristocracy in Paris, and, even here, in Eaux St. Fer, one of those to whom the fashionable side of the alley was thrown open as a right!--he took his seat upon the vacant space on the other side of the Marquise. Then, from out the hollow caverns of his eye-sockets he regarded her steadily, while he said-- "Has Madame la Marquise by chance any protegé among her many friends who has written a play with a plot? An embryo Hardy, for example. Almost, if a poor poet might be permitted to have a thought," and again his glance rested with contempt on Desparre; "I would wager such to be the case. Some gentleman of her house who deems that he has the sacred fire within him----" "Supposing," interrupted Diane, "that one who is no poor gentleman--but--but--as a matter of fact--myself--had conceived a good drama, a--a--story so strange that she imagined it might amuse--nay--interest an audience. Suppose that! Would it be possible to----?" "Madame," exclaimed le Duc Desparre, "have you turned dramatist. Are you about to become a bluestocking?" "Why not?" she asked, with a swift glance that met his; a glance that reminded him--he knew not why--of the blue steely glitter of a rapier. "Why not? Have not other women of France, of my class, done such things?" "Frequently," de Crébillon replied, answering the question addressed to the other. "Frequently. Yet--yet--never that I can recall in public, before the lower orders, the people. But to pass a soirée away, to amuse one's friends in the country. That would be another thing. A little comedy now,--with a brilliant, startling conclusion--" "Mine is not a comedy!" "Perhaps," questioned the dramatist, "a great classical tragedy? With a dénouement such as was used in early days?" "Nay, a drama. One of our own times." Still, as she spoke, she kept her eyes fixed full blaze upon de Crébillon--yet--out of the side of them--she watched Monsieur le Duc. And it might be that the sun was flickering the shadows of the acacia leaves upon his face and, thereby, causing that face to look now as though it were more yellow than white. She thought, at least, that this was the tinge it was assuming. Yet--she might be mistaken. "Will you not tell us, Madame la Marquise, something of this plot, at least?" the duke asked, "give us some premonition of what this subject is. Or prepare us for what we are to expect when this drama sees the day?" And she knew that his voice trembled as he spoke. "Nay, nay, Monsieur le Duc," the dramatist exclaimed, "to do that would destroy the pleasure of the representation. It would remove expectancy--the salt of such things." Then, turning to the Marquise, he asked: "Is Madame's little play written, or, at present, only conceived? If so, I should be ravished to read it; to myself alone, or to a number of Madame's friends. There are many here, in Eaux St. Fer. And the after dinner hours are a little dull; such an afternoon would compensate for much." "The plot is alone conceived. It is in the air only. Yet it is all here," and she tapped with her finger on her white forehead over which the golden hair curled crisply. "Will Madame la Marquise permit that I construct a little play for the benefit of her friends? The saloon of The Garland will hold all she chooses to invite. Doubtless, Monsieur le Duc will agree with me that no more ravishing entertainment could be provided in Eaux St. Fer, which is a little--one may say--a little _triste_--sometimes." Heavily, stolidly, Monsieur le Duc bowed his head acquiescingly; though, had it been in his power to do so, he would have thrown obstacles in the way of the Marquise's little plot ever falling into de Crébillon's hands. He had seen something in that steely glitter of her blue eyes which disturbed him, though he scarcely knew why such should be the case--yet, also, he could not forget that this was a woman whom he had wronged in the worst way possible to wrong such as she--by scorning her in his prosperity. Therefore he was disturbed. Half an hour later the alley was deserted, the visitors were going to their dinners, it was one o'clock. The Duc had departed to his, the Marquise Grignan de Poissy was strolling slowly towards The Garland, there to partake of hers; de Crébillon and his son walked by her side. And, as they did so, the dramatist said a word. "Always," he remarked quietly, "I have thought that Madame la Marquise was possessed of the deepest friendship for Monsieur le Duc." "_Vraiment!_" she exclaimed, transfixing him with her wondrous eyes. "_Vraiment!_ And has Monsieur de Crébillon seen fit to alter that opinion?" To which the other made no answer, unless a shrug of his lean shoulders was one. CHAPTER XVIII "THE ABANDONED ORPHAN" PROLOGUE The company had assembled in the saloon of the Garland and formed as fashionable a collection of the upper aristocracy as any which could perhaps be brought together outside Paris. Not even Vichy, the great rival of Eaux St. Fer, could have drawn a larger number of persons bearing the most high-sounding and aristocratic names of France. For Eaux St. Fer was this year _la mode_, principally because of that one extra degree of heat which the waters were reported to have assumed, and, next, because of the rumour, now accepted as absolute truth, that the Regent had casks and barrels of those waters sent with unfailing regularity to Paris daily. And, still, for one other reason, namely, that here the life of Paris might be resumed; the intrigues, the flirtations, and the scandals of the _Maîtresse Vile_--or of that portion of it which the highest aristocracy of the land condescended to consider as Paris, namely, St. Germain, the Palais Royal and Versailles--might be renewed; everything might be indulged in, here as there, except the late hours of going to bed and the equally late ones of rising, the overeating and overdrinking, and the general wear and tear of already enfeebled constitutions. Everything might be the same except these delights against which the fashionable physicians so sternly set their faces. "Do what you will," said those aristocratic tyrants, who (after having preached up the place as one from which almost the elixir of a new life might be drawn) had now followed their patients to the spot thereby to guard over and protect them, and, also, to continue to increase their bills. "Do all that you desire, save--a few things. No late hours, no rich dishes, no potent wines, no heated rooms. Instead, fresh air all day long in the valleys, or, above, on the hills; the plain living of the country and long nights of rest; for drink, the pure draughts of the springs and of milk. Thereby shall you all return to Paris renovated and restored." Yet they were careful not to add, "And ready to commence a fresh career of dissipation which shall place you in our hands again and, eventually, in the tombs of your aristocratic families." Since, however, the visitors followed with more or less regularity the prescribed regimen, the wholesomeness of the life was soon apparent in renewed appetites, in cheeks which bloomed--almost, though not quite--without the adventitious aid of paint and cosmetiques; in nerves which ceased to quiver at every noise; in nights which were passed in easy slumbers instead of being racked by the pangs of indigestion. Wholesome enough indeed, revivifying and strengthening; a life that recuperated wasted vitality and prepared its possessors for a new season of dissipation and debauchery at the Regent's court. Yet, withal, a deadly dull one! Wherefore, when it was whispered that they were invited to "a representation of a play" by "a lady of rank," which play was, as they termed it themselves, "_Un secret de la Comédie_," since everyone in Eaux St. Fer knew who the lady of rank was, they flocked to the saloon of The Garland, and did so a little more eagerly than they might otherwise have done, since there was also in the air a whisper that, in the "representation," was something more than the mere attempts of a would-be bluestocking to exhibit her talents for dramatic construction. De Crébillon possessed another talent besides an inventive genius and a power of writing tragedies; he had a tongue which could whisper smoothly but effectively, a glance which could suggest, and an altogether admirable manner of exciting curiosity by a look alone. So they were all gathered together now, two hours after their early and salutary, but scarcely appetising, dinners had been eaten; and they formed a mass of gorgeously-dressed, highbred men and women, everyone of whom were known to the others, and everyone of whose secrets were, in almost every case, also known to each other. Yet, since each and all had a history, none being free from one skeleton of the past (or present) at least, this was not a matter of very much importance. In costumes suited for the watering-places--yet made by the astute hands of the workwomen of Mesdames Germeuil or Carvel, Versac or Grandchamp, and produced under the equally astute eyes of those authorities in dress--the ladies entered the room where the representation was to take place, their pointed corsages and bouffante sleeves, with their deep ruffles at the elbows, setting off well their diamond-adorned head-dresses and their flowered robes. As for the men, their dress was the dress of the most costly period in France, not even excepting the days of the Great Monarch; their court-swords gold-hilted; their lace at sleeve and breast and knee worth a small fortune; their wigs works of art and of great cost. "Mon ami," said the Marquise Grignan de Poissy to a youth who approached her as she made her way through the press of her friends, the young man being none other than her nephew, the present bearer of the title of the de Poissys, "you are charming; your costume is ravishing." "Yet," she continued, "that is but a poor weapon to hang upon a man's thigh," and she touched lightly with her finger the ivory and gold hilt of the court-sword he carried by his side. "There is no fighting quality in that." "My dear aunt," exclaimed the young marquis, glancing at her admiringly, for, even to him, the beauty of his late uncle's widow was more or less alluring, "my dear aunt, it professes to have no fighting qualities. It is only an ornament such as that," and he, too, put out a finger and touched the baton, or cane, which she carried in her hand in common with other ladies. "Yet this," she said, "would strike a blow on any who molested me, even though it broke in the attempt, being so poor a thing," and her deep blue eyes gazed into his while sparkling like sapphires as they did so. "And," he replied, not understanding why those eyes so transfixed him, or why, at the same time, he vibrated under their glance, "this would run a man through who molested you, even though it broke in the attempt, being so poor a thing," and he gave a little self-satisfied laugh. "Would it? You mean that?" "Without doubt, I mean it," he replied, his voice gradually becoming grave, while he stared fixedly at her, as though not comprehending. "Without doubt, I mean it." Then he said, a moment later--speaking as though he had penetrated the meaning she would convey: "My dear aunt Diane, is there by chance anyone whom you wish run through? If so name him. It shall be done, to-night, to-morrow, at dawn, for--for--the honour of our house and--your bright eyes." "No! No! No! No! I do but jest. Yet, come, sit by me, I--I am nervous for the success of this play. I know the writer thereof----" "So do I!" he interjected. "And, see, all are in their places. De Crébillon comes on the platform to speak the argument. Sit. Sit here, Agénor. Close by my side." Then she muttered to herself so low that he could not hear her words. "Almost I fear for that which I have done. Yet--Vengeance confound him!--he merits it. And worse!" An instant later the easy tones of de Crébillon were heard announcing--as briefly and succinctly as though he were addressing the players at the Français ere reading to them the plot of some new drama by himself--what was to be offered to the audience. Having opened his address with many compliments to those assembled there and to their exalted rank, equalled only by their capacity of judgment and their power to make or mar for ever that which would now be submitted to them as the work of an illustrious unknown, he went on-- "The scene is in two acts. The title is 'The Abandoned Orphan.' The leading characters are Cidalise, who is the orphan, and Célie, who has protected her. The first act exhibits the child's abandonment, the second--but, no! Mesdames et Messieurs--that must be left for representation, must be unrolled before you in the passage of the play. Suffice it, therefore, if I say now that the work has been hurriedly written so as to be presented before you for your delectation; that the actors and actresses are the best obtainable from a troupe now happily roaming in Provence; that, in effect, your indulgence is begged by all. Mesdames et Messieurs, the play will now begin." Amidst such applause as so fashionable an audience as this felt called upon to give, de Crébillon withdrew from the hastily-constructed platform which had been erected in the great saloon--which was not, in truth, very great--the blue curtain that was stretched across from one side of the room to the other was withdrawn, and the play began. Yet not before more than one person in the audience had whispered to himself, or herself, "At whom does she aim?" Not before, too, more than one had turned their eyes inwardly with much introspection. And one who heard de Crébillon's words gave a sigh, almost a gasp of relief. That one was Monsieur le Duc Desparre. To his knowledge he had never abandoned any infant. There was, naturally, no scenery; yet, all the same, some attempts had been made to aid dramatic illusion. The landlord had lent some bits of tapestry to decorate the walls, and some chairs and tables. In this case only the commoner sort were required, since la scene depicted a room not much better than a garret. And in this garret, as the curtain was pulled aside, was depicted Célie having in her arms a bundle supposed to be the child, Cidalise, while on the bed lay stretched the unhappy mother, dead. With that interminable monologue, so much used by the French dramatists of the period, and so tolerated by the audience of the period, Célie delivered in blank verse a long recitation of what had led to this painful scene. Fortunately, the actress who played this part was (as happened often enough in those days, when the wandering troupes were quite as good as those which trod the boards of the Parisian stages, though, through want of patronage or opportunity, they very often never even so much as entered the capital) quite equal to its rendition, she having a clear distinct diction which she knew thoroughly well how to accompany with suitable gesture. Also, which caused some remark even amongst this unemotional audience, she bore a striking likeness to the highbred dame who was the authoress of the drama. The woman was tall and exquisitely shaped; her primrose-coloured hair--coloured thus, either by art and design, or nature--curled in crisp curls about her head; her eyes were blue as corn-flowers. Wherefore, as they gazed on her, there ran a suppressed titter through that audience, a whispered word or so passed, more than one head turned, and more than one pair of eyes rested inquiringly on Diane Grignan de Poissy sitting some row or so of chairs back from the platform. And there were some whose eyes sought the countenance of le Duc Desparre and observed that his face, although blank as a mask, showed signs of aroused interest; that his eyes were fixed eagerly on the wandering mummer who enacted Célie. "'Tis thee," whispered Agénor to his aunt. "'Tis thee!" "Yes. It is I," she whispered back. In solemn diction, the woman unfolded her story. The story of an innocent girl betrayed into a mock marriage, a fictitious priest, desertion followed by death, and her own determination to secure the child and to rear it, and, some day, to use that child as a means whereby to wreak vengeance on the betrayer because he was such in a double capacity. He had sworn his love to Célie, to herself, as well as to the unfortunate woman now lying dead; he had deceived them both. Only the dead woman was poor; she was rich. Rich enough, at least, to provide in some way for that child, to keep it alive until the time came for producing it. "As I swear to do," Célie cried in rhyme, this being the last speech, or tag, of the prologue, "even though I wait for years. For years." Then she called on Ph[oe]bus and many other heathen divinities so dear to the hearts of the French dramatists, to hear her register her vow. And, thus, the prologue ended amidst a buzz from the audience, loud calls for Célie, for de Crébillon, for the author. Expectancy had been aroused, the most useful thing of all others, perhaps, to which a prologue could be put. De Crébillon led on the blue-eyed, golden-haired actress, and she, standing before the most exalted audience which had ever witnessed her efforts, considered that her fortune was as good as made. Henceforth, farewell, she hoped, to acting in barns and hastily-erected booths in provincial towns and villages, to the homage of country boors and simple country gentlemen. She saw before her . . . what matters what she saw! In all that audience none, except a few of the younger and most impressionable of the men, thought of the handsome stroller; all desired to know what the drama itself would bring forth. For none doubted now (since they knew full well from de Crébillon's whispered hints and suggestive glances who the author was) that Desparre was the man pointed at as the betrayer of the woman who had been seen stretched in the garret. All remembered that, for years, even during the life of the old king, his name had been coupled with that of the Marquise. And they remembered that she, who was once looked upon as the certain Duchesse Desparre of the future, had never become his wife; that instead, he had meant to wed with a woman who had emerged none knew whence except that it was from the gutters of the streets--from beneath a gambler's roof; and that even such a one as this had jilted him! Jilted him who sat there now, still as a statue, white as one, too. Looking like death itself! What were they about to see? A denunciation of this man by his abandoned child to that intended bride born of the gutter, a denunciation so fierce and terrible that even she, that creature of nothingness, shrank from him as something so base--so _scabreux_, as they termed it in their whispers--that she dared not share his illustrious name! Was that what was now to be depicted before them? Was that the true reason for the scandal with which all Paris had rung since the cruel months of winter; of which people still spoke apart and in subdued murmurs? Was the abandoned orphan, or rather her representative, to speak her denunciation on that platform? Was that woman of the people to fly from him before their eyes? Was the Duc Desparre to be held up before them here, on this summer day, in the true colours which all knew him to possess, but which all, because he was of their own patrician order, endeavoured to forget that he thus possessed? If so, then Diane Grignan de Poissy's vengeance was, indeed, an awful one! If so, then God shield them from having their own secrets fall into her possession, from having her vengeance aroused against them, too! As had been ever since the days of Hardy, of Corneille, of Moliere, their attention was now drawn to the fact that the actual play was about to commence by three thumps upon the stage from a club, and, once more, they settled down to the enjoyment of the spectacle; the buzz amongst them ceasing as again the curtain was drawn back. They prepared for the denunciation! Yet, still, in their last whispers to each other ere silence set in, they asked how that denunciation was to take effect? There were but two female characters, Célie, the protectress, Cidalise, the orphan. Where then was the character of the woman to whom the man was to be denounced; the woman who should represent before them that creature of the lower orders who, in actual fact and life, had last winter fled from Desparre--the blanched figure sitting before them--sooner than become his wife and a duchess? Perhaps, after all, they thought and said, they had been mistaken--perhaps, after all, it was not a true representation of Desparre's degradation which was about to be offered to them! Perhaps they had misjudged, overrated, the vengeance of Diane! Well! they would soon see now. The curtain was withdrawn, the scene was exposed, and it represented a pretty _salon_ adorned for a festivity--a betrothal. The play began. CHAPTER XIX "THE ABANDONED ORPHAN" DRAMA The usual guests who figure at stage weddings had assembled in the salon. Evidently, the audience whispered, one to another, it was a marriage contract, at least, which was about to be signed--or, perhaps, an assemblage of relatives at the bride's house ere setting forth to the church. No doubt of that, they thought, else why the love-knots at ladies' wrists and breasts--quite clean and fresh because, somehow, the poor strolling players who represented high-born dames had been provided with them by the giver of the entertainment--and why, also, had the gentlemen got on the best suits which the baggage waggon of their troupe contained? Wherefore, after seeing all this, the actual high-born dames and men of ancient family in the audience gave many a sidelong glance at each other, while the former's eyes frequently flashed leering looks over their enamelled cheeks and from beneath their painted eyelashes and eyebrows. For all recalled that, in the real drama which had happened in Paris in the winter months--the real drama over which Baron and Destouches and Poinsinet (who should never have been an author, since he was born almost a gentleman), and other grinning devils of the pen, had made such bitter mockery in verse and prose--in that real drama, a marriage, renounced and broken, had formed the main incident. Recalling all this, they settled down well into their seats, eager and excited as to what was to come. Enter amongst the guests, Célie. The handsome woman was made up to look a little older now. Yet, "the deuce confound me!" said the venerable Marquise de Champfleury, a lady who, fifty years before, had been renowned for her _bonnes fortunes_ in the Royal circle, "the deuce confound me! she resembles Diane more than ever." Which was true, and was, perhaps, made more so by the fact that the woman was now wearing a costly dress which Diane Grignan de Poissy had herself worn more than once at Eaux St. Fer before all her friends, but which she had now bestowed upon the wandering actress. The latter was, indeed, so like Diane, that again and again the revered marquise uttered her oaths as she regarded her. To Célie there entered next Cidalise, young, slender, pretty, yet--because sometimes the troupe were starving and had naught to eat but that which was flung to them in charity, or a supper of broken victuals given them by an innkeeper in return for a song or performance before a handful of provincial shopkeepers--thin, and out of condition. Nevertheless, she could deliver her lines well, and speak as clearly as Charlotte Lenoir had done, or as La Gautier did now--and would have become a leading actress, indeed might become one yet, if she could only get a foothold in Paris. In short, sharp sentences, such as the French dramatists loved to intersperse with the terribly long monologues which, in other places, they put into the mouths of their characters, Célie asked her if she was resolved to carry out her contract and marry this man, this Prince, who desired her for his wife? Yes, Cidalise replied, yes. Not because she loved him, but because her origin was obscure, her present surroundings revolting. Was not her uncle a gambler! At this there was a movement amongst the audience; many exquisitely painted fans were fluttered, a rustle of silk and satin and brocade was perceptible. And, also, eyes gleamed into other eyes again, but none spoke. Even the old Marquise de Champfleury swore no more. The aged trifler had become interested, a novelty which had not occurred to her--unless in connection with herself and her food and her health--for a long time. Yet, because when all is said, these were ladies and gentlemen, not one stole a glance in the direction of Monsieur le Duc. Had they done so they would have seen that he sat motionless in his seat, with his eyes half closed, yet glittering, as they gazed at the two women on the stage. Two more figures were now upon the scene. His Highness, the Prince, the bridegroom predestinate, and also the uncle of Cidalise; the first called Cléon, Prince de Fourbignac, the second, Dorante. They loved such names as these, did those old French dramatists. Yet what was there about the man who played the Prince which awoke recollections in the minds of all the audience of another man they had once seen or known who was not the Duc Desparre, but someone very like him? How--how was that likeness produced? The vagabond, the stroller who enacted the illustrious personage, was a big, hectoring fellow, with a short-clipped, jet black moustache; an individual who looked more accustomed to the guardroom than a salon, to a spadroon clanking against his thigh--perhaps sticking out half a foot through its worn-out scabbard--than to a clouded cane which he now wielded, even though in a salon. His clothes, too--they were the best that could be found in the frowsy, hair-covered trunk which carried the costumes of the "first gentleman" of the troupe--seemed more fitted to some bully or sharper than to an exquisite. So, too, did his expressions, his "Health, belle comtesse!" to one high-born (stage) lady, his "_Rasade_" to another whose glass touched his as she wished him felicity; so, too, did his vulgar heartiness to all. "A Prince!" the real aristocrats in front muttered to themselves and each other, yet remembered that the words he uttered must for sure have been put into his mouth either by the authoress, or her collaborateur, De Crébillon. Only, why and wherefore? And still they were puzzled, since many of them could recall in far back days some fellow very much like the creature who was now strutting about the stage and kicking a footman here and there, slapping the bare shoulders of female guests, and giving low winks to his male friends. There was some art in this, they muttered; some recollection which it was intended to evoke. Whom had they ever known like this? What fellow who, for some particular reason, had been admitted to their august society--a society in which, to do them justice, they behaved admirably and with exquisite grace so long as their actions were public, no matter how much they atoned for that behaviour by extremely questionable conduct in private? Then they remembered all, memory being aroused by none other than the respected Marquise de Champfleury. "_Me damne!_" she whispered, changing her form of exclamation somewhat--probably for fear of being monotonous. "_Me damne!_ does no one recall our friend when a beggarly captain on the frontier? _Hein!_ he was the second, heir then, wherefore we permitted his presence sometimes. Yet, only sometimes, God be praised! Had he not been an heir, our lackeys should have kicked him down the street. You remember; you, Fifine, and you, Finette? Heaven knows you are both old enough to do so!" After which the amiable aristocrat ceased her pleasing prattle, and attended to the development of the drama before them. They were all doing that now, eagerly, absorbingly, and even more especially so since the fine memory of the old Marquise had recalled to them, or most of them, the time when Desparre stamped about their salons roughly, and, because he was the second heir to the dukedom and almost sure to succeed to it some day, treated them all to a great deal of what they termed privately in disgust, "his guardroom manners." And, in remembering, they thought what good fortune it was for Diane (if it was not the outcome of astute selection) to have secured this rough fellow to personate the man she was undoubtedly bent on exposing--the man who now sat staring at the stage with his face as set as a mask, and as expressionless. Meanwhile, the play went on. The signing of the contract which, all recognised now, was the ceremony to be performed, was at hand. First came the bridegroom, who--having ceased his tavern buffooneries--so becoming to a Prince! and in the distribution of which he had included Cidalise, who, with well-acted horror, shrank from him every time he approached her--drew near the table at which the notary and his clerk sat, and, having slapped the former on the back, affixed his signature with a great deal of gesticulation, and then handed the quill with ostentatious politeness to his future Princess. "Sign, dear idol," he whispered in a stage whisper, "sign. I await with eagerness the right to call thee mine." Only he marred somewhat these affecting words by winking at another girl who stood by Cidalise. On either side of that Iphigenia were grouped now Célie and Dorante--an old grisly actor this, round shouldered and ill-favoured, who had forgotten to shave himself that morning, or who, perhaps, imagined that, as he represented a Parisian gambler, it was a touch of nature to go thus unclean--Cléon being of course next to Cidalise. And to her, Célie spoke clearly, so clearly that her voice was heard by everyone of the audience present in the salon of The Garland as she said "Sign, Cidalise." Then she stood with her large blue eyes fixed full on Cléon, while the expression in them told the spectators as plainly as words could have done that the great moment was at hand, that the dénouement was coming. "Sign," she said again. Taking the pen, the girl signed, repeating in stage fashion the letters of the name "Cidalise," so that the audience, who could not see the characters, should understand that they were being written down. "So," exclaimed Célie, her eyes still on Cléon, "So, Cidalise. Continue." "D. O. R.," murmured the bride as she pretended to write again, when, suddenly, breaking in upon hers was heard the voice of the leading actress. "No! Not that. If you sign further you must use another name." Then, turning to Cléon she hissed rapidly: "_Lâche!_ You abandoned one woman and deserted another. My time has come." Aroused thoroughly, the audience bent forward in their chairs. The Marquise de Champfleury drew a quick breath, but cursed no more. Agénor Grignan de Poissy felt his aunt's hand tighten convulsively on his. Now, not one of the painted patricians glanced at the other; all eyes were on the stage, except one pair--those of Diane--and they were fixed on Desparre! "What must I sign?" whispered Cidalise, trembling, and playing her part as the audience said afterwards, _à ravir_. "What? What?" "Demand of thy uncle--uncle, mon Dieu! Demand of Dorante. Speak, Dorante." "Thy real name," replied Dorante slowly, effectively, "is De Fourbignac." "Thou canst not marry him," and now the woman who represented Célie was superb, as, with finger extended and eyes ablaze, she pointed at Cléon, (she got to Paris at last and became the leading lady at the Odéon!). "He is thy father. Even as he deserted me, so, too, he deserted thy mother, leaving her to die of starvation. Villain! _maraud!_" she exclaimed, turning on Cléon. "What did I promise thee? Thus I fulfil my vow." "And thus I avenge myself," cried Cléon, tugging at his rapier. "Thus, traitress----" But the actor did not finish his speech. From outside the wall of the salon was heard ringing the great bell of The Garland; the bell which was a signal to all who resided at the inn that now was the time when the noblesse, in contradistinction to those of the commercial world, repaired to the wells of Eaux St. Fer, there to take their glass of those unutterably filthy, but health-giving waters. Perhaps it was an arranged thing; arranged by the vengeful Diane, or the spiteful De Crébillon. Perhaps, too, it was arranged that, as the bell ceased to ring, the old Comte de la Ruffardière, a man who was of the very highest position even among so fashionable an audience as that assembled there, should rise from his chair and say, in a voice exquisitely sweet and silvery: "Mesdames et Messieurs,--you hear that bell. Alas, that it should--although we are desolated in obeying it--that it should be able to call us away from this most ravishing drama. Yet, my dear friends, we have our healths, our most precious healths, to consult. If we miss our revivifying glass what shall become of us? Madame," addressing the representative of Célie, "Monsieur," to Cléon, "Mademoiselle," to Cidalise--his manners were of a truth perfect--not for nothing had he handed the Grand Monarch his shirt for forty-two nights in every year (by royal appointment), and watched his august master's deportment both in public and private--"we are penetrated, we are in despair, at having to depart ere this most exciting play is at an end. A play, my faith! it is a tragedy of the first order. Yet, yet, it must be so. We are all invalids--sufferers. Alas! the waters the waters! We must partake of the waters!" Then he bowed again, solemnly to each actress, in a friendly way to the representatives of Cléon and Dorante, comprehensively to all. And, strange to say, not one of those gifted Thespians seemed at all surprised, nor in the least offended, at the departure of the audience, which was now taking place rapidly. On the contrary, the shrinking, persecuted Cidalise, that distinguished heroine and once-about-to-be sacrificed one, tapped him lightly on his aged cheek with her bridal fan as he stepped on to the foot-high stage, and whispered, "be still, _vieux farceur_," while Célie regarded him with a mocking smile in her blue eyes. Nor did Cléon refuse a fat purse which, surreptitiously, the old courtier dropped into his hand, but, instead, murmured his thanks again and again. The audience had indeed departed now amidst rustlings of silks and satins, the click-clack of light dress swords upon the parquet floor, and the sharp tap of high heels. Diane, with her nephew, had slipped out even as De la Ruffardière commenced his oration; scarcely any were left when he had concluded it and his withered old cheek had received the accolade of Cidalise. And, it was strange! but not one had looked at--in solemn truth, all had avoided looking at--the only person who seemed to make no attempt to move. Desparre! Desparre, who sat on and on in his seat, motionless as ever, and always stone, marble white; his eyes glaring through their drooping lids at the little stage on which the battered old courtier was whispering his compliments. Presently however, the latter turned and descended the foot-high platform, casting his eyes,--for him, timidly and, undoubtedly, furtively--at the silent, motionless figure sitting there. Then he turned round to the actors and actresses who, themselves, had observed Desparre, while, in a totally different tone from that in which he had previously addressed them, he said: "Begone. Quit the stage. Your parts are played. And," he muttered to himself, "played with sufficient effect." As they obeyed his orders--he watching them depart from the scene of what was undoubtedly their triumph (never before had those wandering comedians achieved such a success--in more ways than one), he went over slowly to where the Duke sat and touched him gently on the shoulder. The withered, battered old roué, who had known the secrets and intrigues of the most intriguing court that ever existed in Europe, had still something left that did duty for a heart. "Come, Desparre. Come," he said. "The company has broken up. It is time to--to--to take the waters." But Monsieur le Duc, sitting there, his eyes still fixed on the stage, made him no answer, though his lips moved once, and once he turned those eyes and gazed at the old Chevalier by his side. "Come, Desparre," the other repeated. "If not the waters, at least to your apartments. Come." Then, old and feeble though he was, he placed his hands under Desparre's shoulders and endeavoured to assist him to rise. CHAPTER XX "THE WAY TO DUSTY DEATH" "If," said Lolive, the Duke's valet, to himself later that day, "he would speak, would say something--not sit there like one dead, I could endure it very well. But, mon Dieu! he makes me shudder!" It was not strange that the shivering servant should feel afraid, though he scarce knew of what. One feels not afraid of the actual dead--they can harm us no more, even if they have been able to do so in life!--unless one is a coward as this valet was; yet, still, the brave are sometimes appalled at the resemblance of death which, on occasions, those who are yet alive are forced to assume, owing to some strange stroke that has attacked either heart or nerve or brain. And such a stroke as this, subtle and intangible, was the one which had fallen upon Desparre. He was alive, Lolive knew; he could move, he felt sure; almost, too, was he confident that his master could speak if he chose. Yet neither did he move nor speak. Instead, he did nothing but sit there immobile, before the great cheval glass, staring into it, his hands lying listless in his lap, his face colourless and his lips almost as much so. Once, the valet had made as though he was about to commence undressing Desparre after having previously turned down the bed and prepared it for his reception, but, although the latter had not spoken, he had done what was to the menial's mind more terrifying. He had snarled at him as an ill-conditioned cur snarls at those who go near him, while showing, too, like a dog, his discoloured teeth with, over them, the lips drawn back and, thereby, exhibiting his almost white gums. And with, too, his eyes glistening horribly. Then the man had withdrawn from close vicinity to that master and had busied himself about the room, while doing anything rather than again approach the chair in which the stricken form was seated. Also, he lit the wax candles in all the branches about the room; on the dressing table, over the bed, and in girandoles placed at even distances on the walls, while receiving, as it seemed to him some comfort from the light and brightness he had now produced. For some reason, which, as with his other fears, he could not have explained, he feared to be alone in the gathering darkness with that living statue. Summoning up again, however, his courage, he approached once more his master and pointed to the latter's feet and to the diamond-buckled shoes upon them, then whispered timorously that it would be well if Monsieur would at least allow those shoes to be removed. "Doubtless Monsieur was tired," he said; "doubtless also it would relieve Monsieur." But again he drew back trembling. Once more that hateful snarl came on Desparre's face, and once more there was the drawn-back lip. "What," the fellow asked himself, "what was he to do?" Then, suddenly he bethought him of the fashionable doctors from Paris of whom Eaux St. Fer was full; he would go and fetch one, if not two of them. Thereby, at least, he would be acquitted of failing in his duty if the Duke died to-night, which, judging by his present state, seemed more than likely. Thinking thus, he let his eyes wander round the room, while meditating as he did so. Near to the bedside was a locked cupboard in which he had placed, on their arrival, a large sum of money, a sum doubly sufficient to pay any expenses Desparre might incur during his course of waters; in a valise, bestowed in the same cupboard, was a small coffer full of jewellery of considerable value. And, upon the walls of the lodging, was the costly tapestry which, in accordance with most noblemen and all wealthy persons in those days, Desparre had brought with him, so that the often enough bare and scanty lodgings to be found at such resorts as Eaux St. Fer might be rendered pleasant and agreeable to the eyes. This he too regarded, remembering as well the costly suits his master had with him; the wigs, each costing over a thousand livres, the lace for sleeves and breast and for the steinkirks and other cravats, and the ivory-hilted Court sword in which was a great diamond. He recalled all the costly things the room contained. "If he should die to-night," he muttered inwardly--"to-night. None would know what he brought with him and what he left behind. None, but I. No other living soul knows what he possessed. He hated all his kinsmen and kinswomen. None know. I will go seek the doctors; yet, ere I do so--I will--will place these things out of sight. They must not see too much." Then the knave began moving about the room, "arranging" things, while, even as he did so, he recalled a cabaret in Paris where heavy gambling went on as well as eating and drinking, which was for sale for two thousand crowns. If he had but that sum! And--and--Desparre might die to-night! Wherefore, his eyes stole sideways towards the spectral figure seated there--powerless, or almost so. He might die to-night! Might die to-night! Well! Why not? Why might he not die to-night? The doctor--the leading one from Paris--should visit him. Yes, he should do that. He knew that doctor; he had seen him called in before to gouty, or paralysed, or dropsical men and women whose servant he himself had once been. And he knew the fashionable physician's formula--the cheering words, accompanied, however, by a slightly doubting phrase; the safe-guarding of his own reputation by a hint to others that--"all the same"--"nevertheless"--"it might be--he could not say. If there were any relatives they should be warned--not alarmed, oh, no! only warned," and so forth. Well! the doctor should come to see the Duke. Doubtless he would say some such thing before himself and the landlord, who, he would take care, should also be in the room. That would be sufficient. If the Duke did die to-night suddenly, as he might very well do--as he would do--why then he, Lolive, was safe. The doctor's words would have saved him. He was sure now that Monsieur would die to-night. Quite sure. So sure that he knew nothing could save the Duke. He would die to-night; he even knew the time it would happen; between one and two of the clock, when every soul in Eaux St. Fer would be wrapped in sleep, even to the servants. Then, about that hour--perhaps nearer two than one--the Duke would die. And the cabaret, the disguised gambling hell, would be his in a month's---- "Lolive," uttered a voice from behind him. "Lolive!" The man started; stopped in what he was doing; then dropped a dressing case with almost a crash on to the shelf of a wardrobe, in which he was placing the box and its contents, and withdrew his own head from the inside of the great bureau. He scarcely dared, however, to turn that head round to the spot whence the voice issued, since he knew that he was white to the lips; since he felt that he was trembling a little. Yet--he must do it--it had to be done--it was his master's voice. Therefore he turned, gazing with startled eyes at Desparre who was now sitting up more firmly in his chair, and saw that some change had come to him, that he had regained speech as well as sense, that he would not die, could not by any chance be made to die, that night. The possession of the cabaret was as far off as ever now! "Ah, Monsieur, the Virgin be praised," he exclaimed fawningly and with a smile of satisfaction, as he ran forward to where Desparre sat, still rigid, though not so rigid as before. "Monsieur is better. What happiness! Monsieur will go to bed now." While, even as he spoke, he regained courage; confidence. Sick men had died before now in their beds, in their sleep. Such things had been often heard of: they might--would, doubtless--be heard of again. His master spoke once more, the voice, harsh, bitter, raucous, yet distinct. "_Malotru!_" Desparre said, while, as he did so, his eyes gleamed dully at the other, "you thought I was dead, or dying. Eh, dog? Well! it is not so. Go--descend at once. Order my travelling carriage. We depart to-night, in an hour--for--Marseilles." "For Marseilles?" "Ask no questions. Go. Hangdog I Go, I say. And come not back until you bring me news that the carriage is prepared. Go, beast!" "The horses, Monsieur; the coachman! He sleeps----" But there the valet stopped. Desparre's eyes were on him. He was afraid. Therefore he went, murmuring that Monsieur should be obeyed. Left alone, Desparre still sat on for some moments in his chair, listless and motionless. Then, slowly, he raised himself by using his hands upon the arms of the chair as levers; he stood erect upon his feet. He tried his legs, too, and found he could walk, though heavily and with a feeling as if he had two senseless columns of lead beneath him instead of limbs. Still, he could walk. "The second time," he muttered to himself, as he did so. "The second time. What--what did the physician tell me? What? That, if the first stroke did not kill neither would the second, but that--that the third was certain, unfailing. If that could not be avoided, all was lost. All! No longer any hope. This is the second, when will the third come? When? Perhaps--when I stand face to face with her again. With Cidalise! My God! When she blasts me to death with one look. Cidalise! Laure!" He resumed his seat, resumed, too, his dejected musings. "It was well done. Fool that I am never to have remembered that Diane was implacable. Cidalise! Ha! I recollect. It was my pet name for the woman I left behind in Paris when hastily summoned away. I loved that woman. She--she--Diane must have known--have taken the child, have reared it. And I should have married her--my own child! Oh, God! that such awful, impious vengeance could be conceived. That, having found out how, all unknowing, I loved the girl, she--she--she--that merciless devil--would have stood by and let me marry her--my child. My own child. The child of Cidalise." Again he sat back in his chair. To an onlooker it would have seemed as though it was still a statue sitting there before him. Yet he was musing always and revolving horrible matter in his mind. "Baulked thus," he reflected; "she evolved this scheme of revenge to expose me to all. To tell me, too, that I have consigned my own child to a living death, to exile in a savage land, to the chain gang. And, I have gloated over it, not knowing. Not knowing! I have pictured the woman whom I deemed to have outraged me as trudging those weary leagues with the carcan round her neck, the chains about her limbs. And she was my own child! My own child! My own child!" Again he paused, thinking now of what lay before him. Of what he had to do. What was it? Yes, he remembered his orders for the carriage to be prepared. He had to hasten to Marseilles at once, as fast as that coach (known as a "berceuse"), as that luxurious sleeping carriage could be got there, and then to intercept the cordon of women who were to be deported; to find her, to save her. And--and--and, if they had already reached that city and left for New France--if they had sailed--what to do next? What? Why, to follow in the first vessel that went. To save her! To save her! To save her if she had not fallen dead by the roadside, as he knew, as all France knew, the women and the men did often enough fall dead on those awful journeys. But if he found her; if God had spared her; if she still lived! What then? What had he then to do? To stand before her whom he had most unrighteously sent to so cruel a doom, to acknowledge himself so vile, so deep a villain that life was too good for such as he; yet, also, to purge himself in her eyes of one, of two, crimes. To prove to her that he knew not that her mother, ere dying, had ever borne him a child; to prove to her that he had never dreamt, when he proposed to marry her, that he was so near committing the most hideous crime that could be perpetrated. And afterwards--afterwards--then--well, then, she might curse him as he stood before her, or the third stroke that he knew would--must come--might come then. What mattered; nothing could matter then. He would have saved her. That was enough. Why did not the menial come to tell him the berceuse was ready--the great cumbersome form of carriage which Guise had invented fifty years before, so that one might sleep in their beds even while they travelled on and on through day and night, and also take their meals therein--the commodious carriage which had been built for himself in exact imitation of that possessed by the present young Duc de Richelieu et Fronsac. Young Richelieu! What a scoundrelly ruffian he was, he found himself meditating; what a villain, what a seducer; how he would have revelled in the idea of a man marrying his own daughter after leaving the mother to starve, how----. He broke off in these musings to curse Lolive and all his pack of pampered servants, coachmen and footmen, who were snoring still in their beds, and to curse himself; to wonder when the third stroke would come and how: to wonder also if it would be when he stood before his wronged daughter. To muse if he would fall dead, writhing at her feet--to---- Lolive re-entered the room. The berceuse was ready, the horses got out of the stables. Would Monsieur have all his goods packed and taken with him, also his jewellery, or--or should he wake the landlord and confide everything to him until--until Monsieur's return? Only, Lolive thought to himself, Monsieur might, in truth, never return. He was ill, very ill; he might die on the road to Marseilles. He hoped that, at least (though he did not say so), the Duke would not take the money and the jewellery with him. Thus, he could find it later! "Take," said Desparre, his eyes glinting hideously, as Lolive thought, "take all that is of small compass and of value. Give it to me, I will bestow the money and jewellery where it will be safe in the carriage. Give it to me." With a smothered oath, the valet did as he was bidden, Desparre placing the jewellery in the pockets of his vast travelling cloak, and the money about him, and bidding Lolive pack the clothes, the wigs and the swords at once, and swiftly. And the pistols; they, too, should go. "There are highwaymen, brigands, upon the road, Lolive," he muttered, fixing the valet with his eye. "Thieves everywhere. It may befall that I shall have to shoot a thief on the way. I had best be armed--ready." Wherefore he took the box containing his silver-hilted pistols upon his knee, and, with the lid up, sat regarding the man as he hastily packed all that was to accompany them on the journey to Marseilles. "My God!" the fellow muttered, "he makes me tremble. Can this man, half alive, half dead, divine my thoughts?" The boxes were packed at last with their changes of linen and clothes; once more Desparre was left alone. Lolive was despatched to arouse the landlord and to inform him that Monsieur had to depart at once for Marseilles on important matters, but that his room was to be retained for him and his furniture and other things taken proper care of. And the valet was also bidden to say that the Duke did not require the presence of the landlord to see him depart. The reason whereof being that Desparre felt sure that the man knew as well as all in Eaux St. Fer knew what had befallen him that day; and how a play had been produced by a vengeful woman for the sole purpose of holding him up to the derision, the execration, of all who were in the little watering-place, nobility and others, as well as the "refuse" who had not been admitted to the representation but were aware of what had happened. Everyone knew! He could never return here, nor to Paris. If he found his child, if he saved her, then--then he must go away somewhere, or--or, perhaps, then the third stroke would fall. Well, so best. He would be better dead. He could not live long; he understood by the doctor's manner that his doom was pronounced, assured. Better dead! Upon the night air, up from the street below, he could hear the rumble of the berceuse on the stones as it approached the door of the house where he lodged; he could also hear the horses shaking their harness, and the mutterings of the coachman and the footman at being thus dragged forth from their beds at night. It was time to go--time for Lolive and the footman to come up with the carrying chair, which he used now when stairs had to be either ascended or descended, not so much because he could not walk as because he did not care to do so. He could have got down those stairs to-night, he knew, even after this second shock, this further and last warning of his impending end--only he would not. These menials, these dogs of his, would have heard from Lolive of that stroke--they would be peering curiously at him out of their low, cunning eyes to see whether he were worse or not. Therefore, he let them carry him down and place him on his bed in the sleeping carriage, while all the time but one thought occupied his mind. That thought--what he would find at the end of his journey, and whether he would find his child alive or dead? CHAPTER XXI A NIGHT RIDE The berceuse had passed through Aix and was nearing Gardanne-le-Pin, leaving to its right the dead lake known as l'Etang de Berre, while, rising up on its left, were the last and most southern spurs of the Lower Alps. It was drawing very near to Marseilles. Inside that travelling carriage, which comprised, as has been said, a sleeping apartment and sitting-room combined, as well as a cooking place and a bed for the servant, all was very quiet now except for the snores of the knavish valet, Lolive, which occasionally reached the ears of the white-faced, stricken man in the inner compartment; the man who, in spite of the softness of the couch on which he lay, never closed his eyes, but instead, whispered, muttered, continually to himself: "If I should be too late. God! if the transports should have sailed!" Behind, and just above where his head lay upon the pillow of that couch, there was let into the panel of the carriage a small glass window covered by a little curtain, or pad of leather, a convenience as common in those days as in far later ones, and, through this, Desparre, lifting himself at frequent intervals upon one elbow, would glance now and again as a man might do who was desirous of noting--by the objects which he passed on the road--how far he had got upon his journey. Yet, hardly could this be the case with him now, since the route the berceuse was following was one over which he had never travelled before. In the many journeys he had made, either with the regiment in which he had served so long or when riding swiftly to rejoin it after leave of absence, this road had, by chance, never been previously used by him. What, therefore, could this terror-haunted man be in dread of seeing, when, lifting the leather pad, he placed his white face against the glass and peered out; what did he see but the foliage of the warm southern land lying steeped in the rays of the moon, while no breeze rustled the leaves that hung lifelessly on the branches in the unstirred, murky heat of an almost tropical summer's night; or the white, gleaming, dusty road that stretched behind him like a thread as far as his eyes could follow it? In truth, he expected to see nothing; he knew that there was nothing to come behind him which he need fear, unless it were some mounted robber whom he could shoot, and would shoot, from the interior of his carriage--from out that window--with his silver-mounted pistols--as he would shoot a mad dog or a wolf that might attack him; he knew that there was no human creature on earth who could molest him or bar his way. He had made that safe, at least, he told himself, though, even in the telling, in the recalling how he had done it, he shuddered. Still, it was done! The Englishman who had thwarted him, as he then considered, but for whose interference he now thanked the Being whom, even in his evil heart, he acknowledged as God, was dead; had been left lying dead upon the stones of Paris months ago. Dead, after saving him from another infamy which he would have added to all the horrors of his past life, though, in this case, unknowingly. And Vandecque--ay, Vandecque--the man who could have told so much, who could have told how that Englishman had been hacked and done to death so that his patron's vengeance might be glutted both on him and the woman he had once meant to marry. Well! Vandecque was safe. Neither could that gambler rise up to denounce him, nor could he ever stand before the world and point to Desparre as the murderer of the man who had married his adopted niece. He, too, was disposed of. Yet, still, the traveller glanced ever and anon through that window as the berceuse rolled on, not knowing why he did so nor what he feared, nor what he expected to see. "Laure, his own child! His daughter!" he mused again, as he had now mused for so long. The child of the one woman he had ever really loved--of a woman who had fondly loved him, who had believed and trusted in him. And he, called away suddenly to join his regiment to take active service, had never even known what had befallen her, had never even dreamt that she was about to become a mother. He had not known that she had been cast forth into the streets by her parents to die, but had, instead, deemed that she was false to him from the moment he left Paris, and had, therefore, hidden herself away from him ever afterwards. Well! he was innocent of all this--innocent of all that had befallen her and their child, innocent of what a hideous, hateful crime his marriage would have been: yet guilty, blood-guilty in his vengeance on that child after she had escaped from marrying him. Guilty of sending her to the prison under a false charge of attempted murder--of banishing her to a savage, almost unknown land. Guilty of murder in yet another form than that which he had meted out to her husband--of the cruel, wicked murder of an innocent woman. And now he had learnt that this woman was his own child, his own flesh and blood! And he might be too late to save her. The transports had probably sailed, or--and again he shuddered--she might have fallen dead on the road in that long, dreary march from Paris to the South. He knew well enough what the horrors were that the chain-gangs experienced in their journeys towards the sea-coast towns--nay, all France knew. They had heard and talked for years of how the convict men and women dropped dead day by day; of how, each morning, the cordon resumed its march with some numbers short of what it had been on the previous morning--of how bodies were left lying by the wayside to bake in the sun and to have the eyes picked out by the crows until the communes found and buried them. Awful enough would have been his vengeance had she been an ordinary woman who had despised and scorned him. But, as it was, she was his own daughter! Would he be in time to save her? Or, if not, would he still find her alive if he should follow her to New France? And if so, if he could save her either at Marseilles or in that town now rising at the mouth of the Mississippi, then--then--well then, instead of hating Diane Grignan de Poissy for the revenge she had taken on him, he would bless her, worship her for at last revealing the secret she had so cherished as an instrument of future vengeance. In that night, as he thought all these things, a revolution took place in the soul of Armand Desparre; he was no longer all bad. Vile as he had been and execrable, a man who had trifled with women's hearts, who had received benefits from at least one woman under the pretence of becoming her husband eventually; a man who had been a very tiger in his rage and hate against those who had thwarted him, and a shedder of blood, yet now--now that his evil life stood revealed clearly before him, he shuddered at it. On this night he registered a vow that, if he lived, he would make amends. His child should be rescued if it were possible, even though he, with paralysis staring him threateningly in the face, should have to voyage to the other side of the world to save her. That, at least, should be done. As for the Englishman murdered at his instigation who was that child's husband, nothing could call him back to life from the Paris graveyard in which he had doubtless been lying for months; while for Vandecque--but of Vandecque he could not dare to allow himself to think. His fate, as an accomplice removed, was too terrible, even more terrible than his vengeance on Laure Vauxcelles, as she had come to be called. Unknowingly, Diane Grignan de Poissy had gone far by what she had done--by the vengeance she had been nursing warm for years to use against him if he proved faithless to her--towards enabling him to whiten and purify his soul at last. Again, as it had become customary for him to do since he had lain in the travelling carriage, and from the time of quitting Eaux St. Fer, he lifted the cover of the little window and glanced out. And it seemed to him that the night was passing away, that soon the day-spring would have come. The stars were paling and already the moon sank towards the northwest; he saw birds moving in the trees and pluming themselves and heard them twittering; also it had grown very cold. Sounding his repeating clock it struck four. The August dawn was near at hand. A little later and a grey light had come--daybreak. The route stretched far behind him; for half a league he could see the white thread tapering to a point, then disappearing sharply and suddenly round a bend of the road which he remembered having passed. And as he gazed, recalling this and recollecting that at that bend he had noticed a lightning-blasted fir tree growing out of a sandy hillock, he saw a black speck emerge from behind the point, with, beneath it, a continual smoke of white dust. Then the speck grew and grew, while the smoke of dust became larger and larger and also whiter, until at last he knew that it was a horseman coming on at a swift rate, a horseman who loomed larger and larger as each moment passed and brought him rapidly nearer to the lumbering berceuse in which the watcher sat. "He rides apace," Desparre muttered; "hot and swiftly. He presses his hat down upon his head as the morning breeze catches it and hurries forward. It is some courrier du Roi who posts rapidly. One who rides with orders." Observing how well the man sat his horse, his body appearing as though part of the animal's own, and how, thereby, the creature skimmed easily along the road and overtook the berceuse more and more every moment, he decided that this was some cavalry soldier, young and well trained, whose skill had been acquired first in the schools and then, mayhap, on many a battlefield. Whereon he sighed, recalling how he himself, in other days, had ridden fast through summer nights and dewy dawns, with no thought in his mind but his duty and--his future! And now--now!--he was a broken-down invalid; a man whose soul was black and withered with an evil past. Would he ever----? He paused in his reflections, scarcely knowing why he did so or what had caused their sudden termination. Yet he realised that something quite different from those reflections had come to his mind to drive them forth--some idea totally removed from them. What was it? What was he thinking of? That--he comprehended at last, after still further meditation--that this form following behind, enshrouded in its long riding-cloak, was not strange to him; that he had seen those square shoulders, which that cloak covered but did not conceal, somewhere before. Yet, what a fantasy must this be! There were thousands of men in France with as good a figure as this man's, as well-knit a frame, as broad and shapely shoulders. Perhaps he was going mad to imagine such things; perhaps madness sometimes preceded that paralysis with which he was threatened and which he feared so much! Yet, at this moment, when now the sun rose up bright and warm from beyond where the Rhone lay, and threw a long horizontal ray across the road that both he and the horseman were travelling at a rapidly decreasing distance apart, the rider put up his hand, unfastened the hook of his cloak, and, taking the latter off, rolled it up and placed it before him on the saddle. Whereby he revealed a well-shaped, manly form, clad in a dark riding suit passemented with silver galloon. Yet, still, his face was not quite visible since the laced three-cornered hat was now tilted well over it to keep the rays of the bright morning sun from out his eyes, into which they now streamed as the road made another turn. "I am not mad," Desparre whispered to himself. "I have seen that form before. Yet where? Where?" This he could not answer. He could not even resolve in his own mind whether the knowledge that he was acquainted with that on-coming figure disturbed him or not, yet he turned his glance away from the eyehole of the carriage and cast it on a shelf above the couch. A shelf on which lay the box wherein reposed his silver-hilted pistols. Then he returned to the little window, holding the leathern flap so lowered with a finger raised above his head, that he could gaze forth while exposing to view little more of his features than his eyes. The horseman was overtaking him rapidly, he would be close to him directly, so close that his face must then be plainly discernible; he would be able to discover whether he had been deceived into that quaint supposition that the figure was actually known to him, or whether, instead, he was cherishing some strange delusion. Doubtless the latter was the case! Yet, all the same, the finger let down the flap a little more, so that there was now only a slit wide enough to enable his eyes to peer through the glass. At this moment the road took still another turn and, in an instant, the rider was lost to his view. Then, next, that road rose considerably, whereby the berceuse was forced to creep up the incline at a pace which was less than a walk. The man behind him must, therefore, come up in a few minutes; even his horse would, at a walking pace alone, overtake his own animals as they struggled and dragged at the heavy lumbering carriage behind them. But still he kept the flap open with his upraised hand, and still he peered forth from the window, it being darkened and blurred by the moisture from his nostrils. Then, suddenly, the carriage stopped, the horses were doubtless obliged to rest for an instant from their labours, and, a moment or so later, the horseman had come round the corner and up the inclined road at a trot, he reaching almost the back of the berceuse ere pulling up. At which Desparre dropped the flap as though it had been molten steel which seared his hand; dropped it and staggered back on to the couch close by, whiter than before, shaking, too, as if palsied! For he had not been deceived in his surmise as to recognising the horseman's figure; he knew now that he had not. He had seen the man's face at last! And it was the face of the man whom Desparre thought to be long since lying buried in some Paris graveyard, the face of the man who had married Laure; the husband of the woman he had caused to be sent out an exile to the New World. That man, alive--strong--well! "What should he do? What? What? What?" he asked himself, as he recognised this rider's presence and its nearness to him and observed that he could hear the horse's blowings, as well as the great gusts emitted from its nostrils and the way it shook itself on slackening its pace on the other side of the back panel of his carriage. What? He could not get out and fight him in his diseased, enfeebled state, brought on by a year of hot and fiery debauch in Paris following on years of coarser debauches when he had been a poor man; he would have no chance--one thrust and he would be disarmed, a second and he would be dead, run through and through. Yet he knew that, if the man outside but caught a glimpse of his face, death must be his portion. They had met often at Vandecque's and at the demoiselle's Montjoie; almost he thought that the Englishman had recognised him as he concealed himself in the porch of the house in the Rue des Saints Apostoliques--if he saw his features now, he would drag him forth from the carriage, throttle him, stab him to the heart. Doubtless he would do that at once--these English were implacable when wronged!--doubtless, too, he was in pursuit of him, had sought him in Paris, followed him to Eaux St. Fer, was following him to Marseilles. For, that he should be here endeavouring to find his wife he deemed impossible. She had been almost spirited away to the prison of St. Martin-des-Champs and there were but one or two knew what had become of her; while those who did so know had been--had been--well--made secure. He had followed him, and--now--he had found him! Now! and there was but an inch, a half inch of carriage panel between them; at any moment he might hear the man's summons to him to come forth and meet his doom. And he would be powerless to resist--he was ill, he repeated to himself again, and his servants were poltroons; they could not assist him. Thinking thus--glancing round the confined spot in which he was cooped up--wondering what he should do, his eyes lighted on the pistol box upon the shelf. The pistol box! The pistol box! Whereon, seeing it, he began to muse as to whether a shot well directed through that small window--not now, in full daylight, but later, in some gloomy copse they might pass through--would not be the shortest way to end all and free himself from the enemy whom he had already so bitterly wronged. CHAPTER XXII THE STRICKEN CITY Whatever effect such musings might have brought forth, even to bloodshed, had Walter Clarges continued to ride close behind the carriage containing his enemy--of which fact he was, in actual truth, profoundly unconscious--cannot be told, since, scarcely had Desparre given way to those musings, than events shaped themselves into so different a form that the idea with regard to the pistols was at once abandoned. For, ere the summit of the ascent, which was in itself a trifling one, had been reached by both the berceuse and the rider following it, Desparre was surprised--nay, startled--to discover that the man he dreaded so much was not by any possibility tracking him; that the pursuit of him was not his object. Clarges had ridden past the carriage almost immediately after coming up with it; he had gone on ahead of it--and that rapidly, too--directly after reaching level ground once more. "Startled" is, indeed, the word most fitting to express the feelings of the man who had but a moment before been quivering with excitement--with nervous fear--within his carriage, not knowing whether his end was close at hand or not. He had felt so sure that the presence of that other, in this region so remote from where they had ever met before, could only be due to the fact that Clarges was in search of and in pursuit of him, that, when he discovered such was not the case, his amazement was extreme. Since, if Clarges sought not him, for whom did he look? Was it the woman who had become his wife? Yet, if so, how did he know that she was, had been, near this spot, even if, by now, already gone far away across the sea whose nearest waters sparkled by this time in the morning sun. For Marseilles was close at hand; another league or so, and Desparre would have reached that city--would know the worst. He would know whether his child had departed to that distant, remote colony, or had died on the roadside ere reaching the city. But his freedom from the presence of that man, of that avenger--even though it might be only momentary--even though the Englishman might only have taken a place in front of the horses instead of riding behind the carriage--enabled him to reflect more calmly now on what the future would probably bring forth when he came into contact with his enemy--as come he must. In those reflections he began to understand that vengeance could scarcely be taken upon him, sinner though he was. Clarges had married the daughter--he could not slay the father. No! not although that father had plotted to slay him--had in truth, nearly slain him by the hands of others. Not although he had himself taken such hideous vengeance on that daughter, not knowing who she was. But, did the Englishman know all, or, if he were told of what was absolutely the case, would he believe, would----? A cry, a commotion ahead, broke in upon his meditations, his hopes of personal salvation from a violent death. The carriage stopped with a jerk and he heard sudden and excited talking. What was the reason? Had Clarges suddenly faced round and ordered the coachman to halt ere he proceeded to exercise his vengeance on the master--had he? What could have happened? A moment later, the valet, aroused from his heavy, perhaps guilty, slumbers, had thrust aside the curtain which separated the bed-chamber (for so it was termed) from the fore part of the berceuse, and was standing half in, half out, of the little room, undressed as yet and with a look of agony; almost, indeed, a look of horror, on his features. "Oh! Monsieur, Monsieur le Duc," he gasped, "there is terrible news. Terrible. We cannot go forward." "Cannot go forward!" Desparre ejaculated. "Why not? Has that man--that man who passed us endeavoured to stop the carriage?" "No, Monsieur. No. But--but they flee from the city; in hundreds they flee. There are some outside already, Marseilles is----" "What?" "Stricken with the pest. They die like flies; they lie in thousands unburied in the streets. It is death to enter it. Nay, more," and the man shook all over, "it is death to be here." "My God! Marseilles stricken again. Yet we must go on. We must, I say. Where is that--that cavalier who overtook--rode past us?" "He has gone on, Monsieur le Duc. He would not be stayed, though warned also. The people, the fugitives--there are a score at the inn a few yards ahead of where we are--warned him to turn back ere too late, and told him it was death to approach the city; that, here even, so near to it, the air is infected, tainted, poisonous! He heeded them not but said his mission was itself one of life or death, and that this news made that mission--his reaching the city at once--even more imperative. Oh! Monsieur le Duc, for God's sake give the orders to turn back." "Fool, poltroon, be silent So, also, by this news, if it be true, is my reaching the city become more imperative. Where is this crowd, this inn you speak of?" It was natural he should ask the question, since the bed-chamber of the berceuse had no other window but the little one at the back out of which its occupant could gaze. "Where," he repeated, "is the crowd--the inn?" "Close outside, Monsieur; but, oh! in the name of all the Saints, go not forth. It is death! It is death!" "It is death if I do aught but go on," the Duke muttered to himself; "death to her if she is there and cannot be saved." And, at that moment, Desparre was at his best. Even this man of vile record was dominated by some good angel now. As he spoke, he pushed the valet aside and, shambling through the still smaller compartment outside the curtain in which the fellow slept and cooked, he appeared on the little platform beneath where the coachman and a footman sat, and from which it was easy by a step to reach the ground. "What is this I hear of the pestilence at Marseilles?" he asked, as, seeing in front of him an inn before which his carriage was drawn up, as well as a number of strange, sickly-looking beings huddled about in front of it--some lying on wooden benches running alongside tables and some upon the ground--he addressed them. "What? Answer me." Yet he knew that no answer was required. One glance at those beings told all, especially to him who had once known the pest raging in Catalonia and had seen the ravages it made, and once also at Bordeaux. Those chalk-white faces, those yellow eyes and the great blotches beneath them, were enough. These people might not be absolutely stricken with the pestilence, yet they had almost been so ere they fled. "We have escaped," one answered, "though it may be only for a time. It is in us. We burn with thirst, shiver with cold. On such a morn as this! Marseilles is lost! Already forty thousand lie dead in her; they pile quicklime on them in the streets to burn them up. At Aix ten thousand are dead--at Toulon ten thousand; thousands more at a hundred other places. Turn back. Turn back, whosoever you are; be warned in time." "Man," Desparre answered, "we have passed by Aix, yet we are not stricken. I must go on," and his white face blanched even whiter while his eyes rested on those unhappy people. Yet all the same, he did not, would not, falter. He had vowed that his attempt to save his child should act as his redemption if such might be the case; he would never turn back! No, not though the pest awaited him with its fiery poisonous breath at the gates; not even though the Englishman stood before him with his drawn sword ready to be thrust through his heart. He would go on. He felt positive, something within warned him, that his hour was not far off. And also some strange presentiment seemed to tell him that by, or through, the pest his death was to come--not by the man whom he had himself striven to slay. Partly he was wrong, partly he was right. An awful penalty awaited him for his misdeeds as well as through his misdeeds, though how the blow was to be struck he had not truly divined. "Who," he asked, still standing on the platform of his carriage with his richly-embroidered sleeping gown around him, "are there besides the Marseillais? Are--there--any--strangers?" "Strangers. Nay, nay! Strangers. Bon Dieu! Does Monsieur think strangers seek Marseilles now, when even we, the Marseillais, flee from it? When we leave our houses, our goods, sometimes our own flesh and blood, behind? Who should be there?" "The commerce is great," he replied. "To all parts of the world go forth ships laden with merchandise. All traffic, all commerce cannot be stopped, even by such a scourge as this!" "Not stopped!" the man replied. "Monsieur, you do not know. It is impossible that monsieur should understand. There are no ships; they lie out at sea. They will not approach. None, except the galleys. Their cargo counts not." For a moment the Duke made no reply, while his eyes wandered from that group of fugitives to the people gazing forth from the inn window; to, also, his own servants looking paralysed with fear as they stood about, all having left the berceuse temporarily and crossed to the other side of the road so as not to be too near to the infected ones; then he said: "There left Paris some weeks ago--many weeks now--two gangs of--of emigrant convicts for--for the New World. One cordon was of men, the other of--of women. Have they, are--are they there in that great pest house?" And he drew in his breath as he awaited the reply. "The men are there." "My God!" he whispered. "They arrived yesterday." "Have they sailed--put to sea? For New France?" "I know not. There are, I tell monsieur, no ships. Those which were to transport those gallows' birds would not perhaps come in. They may have gone elsewhere." "And the women?" "I know not. If they are there, they will work in the streets--the men at burning and burying. The women at nursing." "Have many persons there succumbed?" "Many! Of those in the town almost half; at least a half." Desparre asked no more questions but turned away, shaking at that last reply. Yet a moment later he returned to where the fugitives were (he was so white now that one whispered to another that already he was "struck"), took from his pocket a purse, and, shaking from it several gold pieces into his hand, held them out towards the poor creatures. Yet, even as he did so, he paused a moment, saying: "Nay, do not come for them--there!" And he threw the coins towards where the people were huddled together. For a moment they seemed astonished, even though he muttered, "Doubtless they will be of assistance," and he noticed that only one man in the small crowd picked them up--he with whom he had first conversed. But he saw a man whose head was out of the window smile, if the look upon his wretched face could be called by that name, whereby he was led to believe that the man who had last spoken was some rich merchant flying from the stricken city, even as the poorest and most humble fled. He understood that wealth made no difference in such a case as this. He gave now the orders to proceed towards Marseilles, bidding his coachman and footman resume their places on the box, and his valet re-enter the berceuse. Instead, however, of doing so, they remained standing stolidly upon the farther side of the road muttering to themselves, shaking their heads, and looking into each other's eyes, as though seeking for support in their disobedience. At last the coachman spoke, saying: "Monsieur le Duc, we cannot go on. We--we dare not. This is no duty of ours--to risk our lives in this manner. No wages could repay us for doing that." "You must go on," Desparre said; "you must conduct me to the gates of Marseilles. Beyond that, I demand no more. It is but two leagues. If I were not sick and ailing I would dismiss you here and walk into the city by myself. As it is, you must finish the journey. If not----" "If not--what?" demanded the footman, speaking in an almost insolent tone. "What, Monsieur le Duc? These are not feudal days; there is no law here. All law is at an end, it seems; and--and, if it were not, no law ever made can compel us to meet death in this manner." For a moment Desparre looked at the man, his eyes glistening from his pallid, sickly face; then he turned and slowly entered the berceuse. A moment later he reappeared upon the platform, and now he held within his hands his pistols. He was, however, too late. Whether the men had divined what he had intended to do and how he meant to coerce them, or whether they recognised that here was their chance--which might be their last one--of escaping from the horrible prospect of death that lay before them, at least they were gone, They had fled away the moment his back was turned, and had disappeared into a copse lying some distance from the road. There remained, however, as Desparre supposed, Lolive; yet he recollected that he had been in neither of the compartments as he entered them. In an instant he understood that the man was gone too. The fellow had slid into the inn while his master had been inside the berceuse, and, passing swiftly through it to the back, had thereby made his own escape also. Desparre would, in days not so long since past, have given way to some tempestuous gust of rage at this abandonment of him by his domestics, creatures who had been well paid and fed, even pampered, since they had been in his service and since he had come to affluence--he would have endeavoured to find them, and, had he done so, have shot them there and then. Yet now, either because he was a changed man in his disposition, or because his physical infirmities were so great, he did nothing beyond letting his glance rest upon the people standing about who had been witnesses of the desertion. Then, at last, he addressed them, haltingly--as he ever spoke now--his words coming with labour from between his lips. "I am," he said, "a rich man. And--and--there is one in Marseilles dear to me, one whom I must save if I can. She is," the pause was very long here, "my daughter, and--heretofore--I have treated her evilly. I--must--see her if she be still alive; I must see her. If any here will drive my carriage to Marseilles he may demand of me what he will. Otherwise, I, feeble, sick, as I am, must do it myself. Even though I fall dead from the box to the ground in the attempt." For a moment none spoke. None! not even those who, a short time back, would have performed so slight a task for a crown and have been glad to do it. Not one, though now, doubtless, a hundred pistoles would be forthcoming if asked from a man who travelled in so luxurious a manner. They knew what was in that city; they had had awful experience of the poisonous, infected breath that was mowing down thousands weekly, and, though some in the little crowd were of the poorest of the population, they did not stir to earn a golden reward. Gold, precious as it was, fell to insignificance before the preservation of their lives, squalid though such lives were even at the best of times. A silence fell upon all; there was not one volunteer, not one who, meeting Desparre's imploring glance as it roved over them, responded to that glance. Then, suddenly, the man who had conversed with Desparre when last he appeared on the platform, the one who had taken no notice of the coins the latter tossed out in his sudden fit of charity, came forward and took in his hands the reins lying on the backs of the horses, and began to mount to the deserted box. "I will drive you to the gates," he said quietly, "since your misery is so extreme. Yet, in God's grace, it must be less than mine. You may find this daughter of whom you speak alive even now--but for me--God two of mine are gone. I shall never see them again. As for your money, I need it not. I would have given a whole fleet of ships, a hundred thousand louis--I could have done it very well and not felt the loss--to have saved my children's lives. Oh! my children! My children! My children!" and, as he shook the reins, he wept piteously. CHAPTER XXIII WITHIN THE WALLS Midnight sounded from the tower of the ancient cathedral of Marseilles--the deep tones of the bell, in unison with all the bells of the other churches in the stricken city, being borne across the upland by the soft breeze from off the Mediterranean to where the women of the cordon stood--and those women were free at last from one awful form of suffering. The hateful collar was gone from off their necks; the chains that looped and bound them together had fallen from their wrists under the blows of the convicts, and lay in a mass upon the ground. They could hold up their heads and straighten the backs which had been bowed so long by the weight of the collar; they could stretch their limbs and rejoice--if such women could ever rejoice again at aught!--that they might raise their arms unencumbered by either steel or iron shackles. Yet, around their necks, around their arms, were impressed livid marks that, if they should live, it would take months to efface. More months than it had taken to produce the impression which the things had stamped into their flesh. Then the order was given by the Sheriff, that broken-hearted man, that they should descend into the city; the very tones in which it was uttered--so different from the harsh, cruel commands of the men who had escorted the forlorn women from Paris!--being almost enough to make compliance with that order easy. "Come," said Marion Lascelles to Laure, "come, dear one. Even though we march into the jaws of death, at least we go no longer as slaves, but as freed women. Let be. Things might be worse. Had those cowardly dogs, our warders, stayed by our side we should have been whipped or cursed into this nest of pestilence." So they went on, following their sorrowful guide; the men of the galleys marching near them and relating the awful ravages of the plague which had stricken the city. Yet not without some exclamations of satisfaction issuing from the lips of those outcasts and mingling with their story, since they dilated on the freedom which was now theirs--except at nights when they were re-conducted to the galleys moored by the Quai de Riveneuve; and on, also, the better class of food which--at present! but at present only--they were able to obtain. Upon, too, the almost certain fact of their being entirely pardoned and released when the pestilence should at last be over. "Will that come to us--if we live?" murmured Laure to the man who walked by the side of her and of Marion. "Will anything we do here, and any dangers to life we encounter, give us our pardon; save us from voyaging to that unknown land?" "Will it, _ma belle!_" answered the convict--a brawny, muscular, fellow, who would have been a splendid specimen of humanity but for the fact that he was gaunt and yellow and hideously disfigured by the white cloth steeped in vinegar which he wore swathed round his lower jaw, so that he might continuously inhale the aromatic flavour with each breath he drew. "Will it! Who can doubt it! And, if not, why--name, of a dog!--are we not free already?" "Free! How?" "In a manner we are so. What control is there over us--over you, especially? You will live in the streets--or, if you prefer it, in any house you choose to enter; have a care, though, that it is one from which the healthy have fled in fear, not one in which the dead lie poisoning the air. At any moment you can hide yourselves away. While for us--well, there will come a night when we shall not return to the galleys. That is all." "Has," asked Marion, "a chain of male emigrants entered Marseilles but a few hours before us? They should have done so, seeing that they were not more than a day in advance." "Yes, yes. They have come. Yet their fortune was different; better or worse than yours, according to how one regards it. One of the merchant ships was still in the port--off the port--a league out to sea, and, well, they risked it. They took the human cargo; they are gone for New France. Had you a man amongst them whom you loved, my black beauty?" he asked, gazing into the dark eyes of Marion, those eyes whose splendour not all she had gone through could dull. "My husband was amongst them," she replied quietly; while, to herself, she added: "Poor wretch! He did little enough good in marrying me. Yet this leaves me free to devote myself to her." "Your husband," the convict exclaimed with a laugh. "Your husband? Good! he will never claim you. You can take another if you desire--the first one who falls in love with those superb glances." "Vagabond! be still," she answered, with such a look from the very eyes he had been praising that the man was silent. They were by now close to the northern gate of Marseilles; and here for a little while they halted, the Sheriff, whose name was Le Vieux--and who is still remembered there for his acts of mercy and goodness to all--addressing some archers who formed a group outside the gate, and bidding them produce food and wine, as well as some vinegar-steeped cloths for the neck of each woman. "Who are they?" asked another Sheriff, who came up at this moment, while he scanned the worn and emaciated women and ran his eyes over their dusty and weather-stained clothes. "Surely you are not bringing to our charnel house the refugees from other stricken towns? Not from Toulon and Arles?" "Nay," replied Le Vieux, "not so. But women who may, by God's grace, be yet of some service to those left alive. If there are any!" he added ominously. Then he asked: "What is the count to-day?" The other shrugged his shoulders ere he replied: "There is no count. It is abandoned. Who shall count? The tellers die themselves ere the record is made. Poublanc made a list yesterday--now----" "He is not dead? My God I he is not dead?" The other nodded his head solemnly. After which he said: "He lies on his doorstep--dead. He was struck this morning--now----!" * * * * * * It was a charnel-house to which the Cordon entered! The second Sheriff had spoken truly! Yet, at this time, but half of the ninety thousand[4] who were to die in Marseilles of this pestilence had achieved their doom. Still, all was bad enough--awful, heart-rending! Not since ten thousand people died daily in Rome, in the first century of the Christian era, had so horrible a blight fallen upon any city. Nor had any city presented so terrible a sight as did Marseilles now when the women entered it, while glancing shudderingly to right and left as they passed along. The dead lay unburied in the streets where they had fallen--men, women, and children being huddled together in heaps; it seemed even as if, after one heap had lain there for some hours, another had fallen on top of it, so that one might suppose that these second layers of dead represented those who, coming forth to search for their kindred and friends, had in their turn been stricken and fallen over them. There were also the bodies of many dogs lying stretched by the sides of the human victims, it being thought afterwards that they had taken the infection through sniffing at and caressing those who were dear to them. Yet--heart-rending as such a sight as this was to see, and doubly so as the women regarded it, partly under the rays of the moon and partly by aid of the flames of the fires which had been lit to destroy the contagion if possible--there was still worse to be witnessed. This was the sight of those still left alive. The women who had once formed the chain of female emigrants, and who, unfettered at last, marched along in company towards a spot where the Sheriff had said they would be able to sleep in peace for the remainder of the night, were now passing down a public promenade which ran for some three hundred yards through the principal part of the city. This promenade was known as Le Cours, and was bordered on each side by trees, mostly acacias and limes, which in summer threw a pleasant shade over the sitters and strollers during the day time, and, in the evening of the same season, had often served as a place for summer evening fetes to be held in, for open-air balmasqués, and as a rendezvous for lovers. Now the picture it presented was frightful! In its midst there was a fountain with water gushing from the lips of fauns, nymphs, and satyrs into a basin beneath, and at that fountain the moon showed poor stricken men drinking copiously to cool their burning thirst, or leaning over the smooth sides of the basin and holding their extended tongues in the water. Or they lay gasping with their heads against the stone-work, in their endeavours to cool the heat of their throbbing brains, and to still, if might be, the splitting headaches which racked them. For clothes, many had nothing about them but a counterpane snatched hastily from off a bed ere they had rushed forth in agony unspeakable; often, too, when they had left their houses fully dressed, they had torn off their apparel in their inability to bear the warmth imparted by the garments. Yet numbers of them were not poor--if outward signs were sure testimony of wealth. One woman--young, perhaps beautiful, ere stricken by the disfiguring signs of the pest--was resplendent on breast and neck and hands with jewels that glittered in the moonbeams. Doubtless she had seized all she owned ere rushing from her house in misery! If death levels all, so, too, had the pest in this desolated city plunged into strange companionship persons who, in other days, would never have been brought together. Hard by this bedizened woman was another, a woman of the people--perhaps a beggar, or a work girl, or a washer-woman at the best--who screamed and wailed over a dead babe lying in her lap. At her side was an old man, well clad and handsomely belaced, who shrieked forth offers of pistoles and louis' to any who would ease him of his pain, and then suddenly paused to call to him a dog hard by, to utter endearing words to it, and to endeavour to persuade it to draw near to him and quit the spot on which it lay writhing. A beggar, too! an awful thing of rags and patches! sat gibbering near them, and held out a can into which a monk passing by poured some soup, as he did into many others--yet, no sooner had the man put the stuff to his mouth than he hurled away the can, shrieking that the broth burned him to the vitals. "This is the end," muttered Marion to herself, her dark eyes roving over all and seeing all as the women passed along--themselves now hideous in their vinegar-steeped wrappings--"the end of our journey!" Then she glanced down, frightened, at Laure, to see if she had heard her words. And she observed that this woman of gentler nature was walking by her side with her eyes closed, while supported and guided only by her own tender arm. The sight was too awful for Laure to gaze upon. The alley led into a street called La Rue de la Bourse, a broad and stately one, full of large commodious houses such as the merchants of Marseilles had been accustomed to inhabit for some centuries. Now, it was deserted by all living things, while, at the same time, the dead lay in the streets as thick as autumn leaves. Huddled together they lay; some with their faces horribly distorted, some almost placid as though they had died in their sleep, some with their heads broken in! These were the people who had leapt from their windows in a frenzy of delirium or in an agony of pain; or, being dead, had been flung forth from those windows by the convicts and galley-slaves who had been sent into the houses to free them from the poisonous bodies of those who had expired. Marion noticed, too, that the still living were driven off the thresholds of some houses to which they clung--one man, who looked like the master of the abode, was pouring cold water from a bucket down the steps, so that none would be likely to lie there. And, next, she heard a piteous dialogue between two others. "It is my own house--my own house!" a man, writhing in a porch close to where she was, gasped to another who parleyed with him from a door open about half a foot. "Oh, my son! my son! let me die here on my own doorstep, if I may not enter." Then the son answered, his tones being muffled by the aromatic bandages around his face: "My father, it cannot be. Not because I am cruel to you, but because I must be kind to others still unstruck. Your wife and mine, also myself and my babes, are still free from the fever. Would you slay all, yet with no avail to yourself? My father, think of us," and he shut the door gently on the man while beseeching him once again to begone and to carry the contagion he bore about him far away from the house which contained all that should be dear to him. "Brute!" cried Marion, hearing all this. "Brute! Animal!" Then, because of her warm, impetuous Southern nature, she hurled more than one curse up at the window from which she saw the son's white face looking forth by now. "Nay, nay," murmured the dying old man, while understanding. "Nay, curse him not, good woman. He speaks well. Why should I poison them? And--I am old, very old. I must have died soon in any hap. It matters not." "There are houses here," whispered the convict, who still walked by Marion's and Laure's side, "at the end of the street, which are, by some marvel, unaffected. Yet, also, they are deserted, because they are so near to the poisoned ones. Seek shelter in one for the night, I counsel you." "Show me one of such," said Marion. "If there is room enough for all of us," and she indicated with her eyes that she referred to the other women who had marched in company from Paris. "Follow me, then. There is a house at the end, the mansion of one of our richest merchants. Yet he and all are gone; they have escaped safely in one of his ships to sea. He will not return for months; not until the city is free and purged. 'Twould hold a regiment," he added. Then he led the way down towards the house he spoke of. "To-morrow," he continued, "the Sheriffs will ask me where you are disposed of, and I must say, since you will be required to lend aid. Meanwhile, sleep well, all you women. Above all, when you are in, shut fast every window so that no air enters the house to infect it. Forget not." "Be sure I will remember," Marion replied. "As well as to shut the doors," she added, not liking too much the looks of this stalwart, though gaunt ruffian, and mistrusting his familiarity, in spite of the services he had more or less rendered them. But the man only laughed, yet with some slight confusion apparent in his manner, and said: "Oh! you are too much of my own kind to have any fear. You women have nothing to be robbed of--nothing to lose. And--Marseilles is full of everything which any can desire, except food and health. Here is the house. If you like it not, there are many others." Casting her eyes up at what was in truth a mansion, Marion answered that it would do very well. Then she advanced up the steps towards it, still leading and supporting Laure, and bidding all the other women follow her. "My sisters," she cried, "here is rest and shelter from the poisoned air of the city. And there should be good beds and couches within. Ah! we have none of us known a bed for so long. We should sleep well here." Whereupon one and all filed in after her, uttering prayers that the pestilence might not be lurking within the place and making it even more dangerous than the open air. "Fear not," the man replied. "Fear not. The owner fled at the first outbreak. Not one has died here unless--unless some have crawled in to do so. It is untainted." "Now," said Marion to him, "begone and leave us. To-morrow we will do aught that we are bidden. You will find us here," and as he stood upon the steps of the house, she closed the door. The place echoed gloomily with the reverberation. It appeared to be a vast, mournful building as they cast their eyes around the great hall into which the moonlight streamed through a window above the stairs. Mournful now all deserted as it was, yet a building in which many a festival and much gaiety had, for sure, taken place in vanished years. The stairs were richly carpeted; so, too, the hall. Upon the walls hung pictures and quaint curiosities, brought, doubtless, by the owner's ships from far-off ports; bronzes and silken banners, great jars of Eastern workmanship, savage weapons and shields and tokens; also statues and statuettes in niches and corners. "The mansion of a rich, wealthy merchant," Marion thought to herself, seeing all these things plainly in the pure moonlight streaming from the untainted heavens above. "The home of gentle women and bright, happy men. Now, the refuge of such as we are--lepers, outcasts, gaol-birds." And even as she so thought, Marion pushed open a door on the right of the hall, when, seeing that it led to a rich, handsome salon, she bade her companions follow her. CHAPTER XXIV A DISCOVERY Aided by the light of the moon which now soared high in the heavens, she being in her second quarter, the women--of whom there still remained many out of the original number that quitted Paris--distributed themselves about this vast and sumptuous abode of gloom. Some, and these were the women who felt the most worn out and prostrate of all, flung themselves at once upon the rich Segoda ottomans and lounges which were in the saloon they had entered; one or two even cast themselves down upon the soft, thick Smyrna carpets, protesting they could go no further, no, not so much as up a flight of stairs even to find a bed; while others did what these would not, and so proceeded to the first floor. Amongst them went Marion and Laure. Yet this, they soon found, was also full of reception rooms and with none of the sleeping apartments upon it; there being a vast saloon stretching the whole length of the front of the house with smaller rooms at the back, and in the former the two women cast themselves down, lying close together upon a lounge so big that two more besides themselves might easily have reposed thereon. "Sleep," said Marion, "sleep for some hours at least. To-morrow they will come for us; yet, heart up! the work cannot be hard. 'Tis but to nurse the sick; and, remember, if we survive--if we escape contagion--we shall doubtless be free. That Sheriff, that unhappy, bereaved man promised as much; he will not go back upon his word." "Can he undo the law?" muttered her companion, as now she prepared to find rest by Marion's side. "Are we not condemned to be deported to the other side of the world? How then can he set us free? And, even though free, what use the freedom? We have not the wherewithal to live." "Bah!" exclaimed Marion, ruthlessly thrusting aside every doubt that might rise in Laure's, or her own, mind as to the possibility of a brighter future ahead: "Bah! we are outside the law's grip now. We can set ourselves free at any moment. Can we not escape from out this city as inhabitants who are fugitives? Or get away----" "In these prison rags!" Laure exclaimed, recalling to the other's memory how the garb they wore--the coarse black dress and the equally coarse prison linen--was known and would be recognised from one side of France to the other. "Marked, branded as we are Even with the impress of the carcan still on our necks! It is impossible!" "Is it? Child, you do not understand. Do you not think that in this great, rich house there are countless handsome dresses and vast quantities of women's clothing? We can go forth decked as we choose--even as rich women fleeing from the scourge. Have no fear," the brave, sturdy creature added; "that we cannot depart when we desire. And--leave all--trust all--to me." "How to live though we should escape? I am fit for nothing. I can do no work: even though I were strong. I know nothing. My uncle reared me too delicately." "I can do all, I am strong. I will work for both of us. Now sleep." And they did sleep, lying side by side. Side by side as they had done before when chained together, and as they had trudged along the awful road which led to still more awful horrors than even the route could produce. In the morning Marion arose as the first rays of dawn stole in through the windows of the great room, while thinking at first, ere she was thoroughly awake, that the guardians would come in a moment to curse into consciousness all who still slept, and half dreaming that she was again on the road. Then, she remembered that these men would never trouble her more; that, in a manner of speaking, she and Laure were free. Yet she remembered that their freedom was a ghastly one, and that death was all around them; that the pestilence was slaying a thousand people a day (as she had heard one galley slave say to another); and that, ere they had been in Marseilles many hours, it might lay its hot, poisonous hands on her and her companions. Laure still slept, and, gazing down upon her, Marion saw how white and worn she was--yet how beautiful still! Upon that beauty nothing which she had yet undergone had had full power of destruction. Neither sun nor rain nor wind, nor the long dreary tramp and the rough, coarse food--not even the sleeping in outhouses and barns, and, sometimes, of necessity, beneath the open heavens and in the cold night wind--could spoil the soft graceful curves of chin or cheek, or alter the features. Burnt black almost, worn to skin and bone, and with, on those features, that look which toil almost ever, and sorrow always, brings, she lay there as beautiful still in all the absolute originality of her beauty as on the day she was supposed to be about to marry one man and had married another. Looking down upon her, that other woman, that woman whose own life had been so turbulent--and who, like Laure, had been reared among the people but who had, doubtless, never known the refining influences which even such a man as Vandecque could offer to one whom he loved for herself, as well as valued for her loveliness--wept. She wept hot, scalding tears, such as only those amongst us whose lives have been fierce and tempestuous (almost always, alas! because of those fiery passions which Nature has implanted in our hearts, and which, could we but have the arbitrament of them, we would hurl away for ever from us), can weep. Then, slowly, she did that which she could not remember having once done for long past years--not since she was a tiny, innocent child. She sunk first on one knee and then on the other, and so knelt at the side of the sleeping girl, murmuring: "If I may dare to pray--I--I--who have so outraged Him and all His laws. Yet, what to say--how to frame a prayer? 'Tis years since she who taught me my first one at her knee--since she--ah! pity me, God," Marion broke off, "I know not how to pray." Yet, all the same, she prayed (if, in truth, "prayer is the soul's sincere desire, uttered or unexpressed") that this stricken, forlorn woman might live through all the dangers that now encompassed her; that once more she might see the noble, chivalrous man who had married her, and be at last folded to his heart. While, even as she bent over Laure, the latter's lips parted, and it seemed as though she muttered the name "Walter." "Ay", Marion muttered, "that is it. But where is he? Where? Oh! if he were but near to save her." Then she sighed deeply, as she would not have sighed could she have known that, already, the man whose name was in the sleeping and waking thoughts of each woman had reached the city, intent upon finding and rescuing his wife. His wife, whom he had loved since first his eyes fell on her fresh, pure beauty in the f[oe]tid, sickly air of a Paris gambling hell. For Walter Clarges knew all now. He knew of the deadly, damnable vengeance that Desparre had taken on the woman whom he would have married if she had not cast him off for another. Himself! The knowledge had come to Clarges in that strange way, by one of those improbable incidents which are the jest of the ignorant scoffers who, in their self-importance and self-sufficient conceit, are unaware that actual life is more full of strange coincidences than the most subtle of plot-weavers has ever been able to devise. It had come to him when least to be expected--in such a manner and at such an opportune moment as to make the knowledge vouchsafed to him appear to be the work of Providence alone. He had been passing one night at dusk down the street which led to that in which he dwelt, while musing, as ever, on whether she had been false to him--so bitterly, cruelly false as to make her memory and all regrets worthless--when his attention was attracted by an altercation going on between two men. One, a middle-aged, powerful-looking individual; the other, a beggar and almost old. "Fie! Fie! Shame on you!" he said to the former, as he saw him strike the second with his cane. "For shame! The man is older than you, and apparently feeble. Put up your stick, bully, or seek a more suitable adversary." "Monsieur's self to wit, perhaps," the aggressor sneered, yet ceasing his blows all the same. "Pray, does Monsieur regulate the laws by which gentlemen are to be molested by whining mendicants in the public places of Paris? This fellow has followed me with his petition for alms through a whole street." "I will see that he does so no more," Walter Clarges said, quietly yet effectively. "At least, you shall beat him no further. You had best begone now," and there was something in his tone, as well as in his stalwart appearance, which induced the other to draw off and proceed on his way. Not, of course, without the usual protestations of "another time," and "when the opportunity should serve," and so forth. But, still, he went. "What ails you?" asked Walter, gazing down now on the man whom he had saved from further drubbing. "Answer," he continued, seeing that the beggar turned his face away from him, and seemed, indeed, inclined to shuffle off after mumbling some thanks in his throat which were almost inaudible and entirely indistinct. "Answer me. And here is something to heal your aches from that fellow's cane." Whereon he held out a small silver coin to him. But still the man made off, walking as swiftly as two lame feet would allow, and keeping at the same time his face turned from the other, as well as not seeing, or pretending not to see, the proffered coin. "A strange beggar!" exclaimed Walter, now. "You pester a man until he beats you, yet refuse alms when cheerfully offered. By heavens perhaps he was not so wrong. At least, you are an ungrateful churl." "I am not ungrateful," the fellow answered, turning suddenly upon Walter, and showing a blotched, liquor-stained face. "No; yet I will not take your money. It would blister me." "In heaven's name, who are you?" Walter exclaimed, utterly amazed. "Look at me and see!" And now the man thrust his blotchy visage close up to the other's, as though inviting the most open inspection. "I protest I never set eyes on you before. My friend, you have injured someone else--evidently you must have injured him!--and mistake me for that person." "I do not mistake. You are the man who was set upon and done to death, left for dead--as all supposed--on the night when Law's bubble was nearly pricked; the man whose newly-married wife was flung into the prison----" "Ah! My God! What?" "Of St. Martin des Champs, and thence deported to America. Nay, nay," the fellow shrieked suddenly, seeing the effect of his words; "do not swoon, nor faint. Heavens!" he added to himself, "he is about to drop dead at my feet." He might well have thought so! The man before him had become as rigid as a corpse that had been placed upright on its dead feet and left to topple over to the earth as soon as all support was withdrawn. Clarges' eyes were open, it was true--better, the appalled man thought, they should have been shut than look at him as they did!--yet they were glassy, staring, dreadful. His face was not white now with the whiteness of human flesh--it was marble--alabaster--ghastly as the dead! So, too, with his lips--they being but a thin, grey, livid line upon that face. And he spoke not, no muscle twitched, no limb moved. Only--one thing happened; one sign was given by the statue standing before the shaking outcast. That sign consisted of a clink upon the stones at his feet--the coin which that outcast had refused to take had dropped from the other's nerveless, relaxed hand. At last the man knew that he who was before him had not been turned to stone, had not died standing there erect. From that livid line formed of two compressed lips, a voice issued and said:-- "The prison of St. Martin des Champs! And--deported--to--America! Is this true? You swear it?" "Before Heaven and all the angels." There was another pause, another moment of statuelike calm. Then, again, that voice asked:-- "Whose doing was it? Who sent her--there?" "The noble--the man they termed a Duke. The man she had jilted for you." "Come with me. I--I--can walk, move, now." * * * * * * They were seated opposite to each other in Walter Clarges' room half an hour later, and the fellow, who had by such a strange chance been brought into contact with him, had told his tale, or partly told it. He had described how he had been one of those employed by another who worked under "the man they termed a Duke," to assist in falling on him who was now before him; how they, the attackers, had left him for dead, and how they had been bidden to follow to this very house to assist in another matter. "She lay there--there," he said, "when we came in," and he pointed to a spot at the side of the table; "dead, too, as we all thought. He and his creature, the man who gave you your _coup de grâce_, as we imagined.--I--I cannot remember his name----" "I can," Walter said. "It was Vandecque. Go on." "That is the name. Vandecque bade us lift her up and convey her to the prison. To St. Martin des Champs, because it was the nearest. And we did so, Heaven pardon us! Yet, ere we set forth, that man, that noble--that rat--he did one thing that even such ruffians as we were shuddered at. "What did he do?" Walter asked, dreading to know what awful outrage might have been offered to his insensible wife as she lay before her ruffian captor. "What? Tell me all." "He tore from his lace cravat, where it hung down over his breast, a piece of it; tore it roughly, raggedly and--and--he placed it in her right hand, clenching the fingers on it. Then he whispered in his lieutenant's ears, 'the evidence against her, mon ami. Yes. Yes. The damning evidence, Vandecque.' Yes--Vandecque. That was the name." Again the man was startled--at the look upon the face of the other. As well as at the words he heard him mutter; the words:--"It shall be thy evidence, too, blackest of devils. The passport to thy master." Aloud he said:-- "Do you know more? Is--is--oh! my wife--my wife!--is--has she set out?" "La Châine went to Marseilles a month ago." "How fast do they--does la Châine, as you term it--travel?" "But slowly. Especially the chain-gang of women. They must needs go slowly." Again Walter Clarges said nothing for some moments; he was calculating how long, if mounted on relay after relay of swift horses, it would take him to catch up with that chain--to reach Marseilles as soon as it--to rescue her. For he knew he could do it--he who was now an English peer could save her who was an English peer's--who was his--wife. He had but to yield on one point, to proclaim himself an adherent of the King who sat on England's throne, and the ambassador would obtain an order from the French Government to the prison authorities to at once hand over his wife to him. And politics were nothing now! They vanished for ever from his thoughts! Then he again addressed the creature before him. "You should have been well paid for your foul work," he said. "So paid that never again ought you to have known want. How is it I find you a beggar?" "Ah!" the man cried. "It was our ruin. We were blown upon somehow to the ministry of police a day or two later for some little errors--Heaven only knows how there were any who could do so, but thus it was. We were imprisoned, ruined. I but escaped the galleys by a chance. Yet, I, too, was ill-treated. I was cast into prison for two months. God help me! I am ruined. There was some private enemy." "Doubtless, your previous employer." "I have thought so." "And that other vagabond. That villain, Vandecque! What of him? He is missing." The man cast his bloodshot eyes round the room as though fearing that, even here, he might be overheard, or that the one whom they called a duke might be somewhere near and able to wreak further condign vengeance on him; then he whispered huskily: "Ay--he is missing. Some of us--I have met them in the wineshops--think he is dead. He knew too much. He--all of us--have paid for our knowledge of that night's work. Yes, dead! we think." "'Tis very possible. Desparre would leave no witness--none to call him to account. Yet," muttered Walter to himself, "that account has soon to be made. I am alive, at least. But first--first--for her. For Laure!" CHAPTER XXV FACE TO FACE It was during the day preceding the night on which those unhappy, forlorn women were conducted down to the north gates of the pest-ridden city that Walter Clarges himself entered Marseilles. He had passed those women on the previous night, unseen in the darkness and himself unseeing, while they, worn out and inert, lay in some barns and outhouses belonging to a farm some miles off the city. He had ridden by within two hundred yards of where the woman he loved so much was enfolded in the arms of Marion Lascelles, half dead with fatigue and misery. He had ridden by, not dreaming how near they were to each other! On the morning following he had also passed, not knowing whom it contained, the travelling carriage of the man who had wrought so much evil in his own and his wife's life; he had gone on fast and swiftly towards Marseilles, impelled to even greater speed by the first news of the horror which had fallen on the city, as well as by the hope that he might be in time to rescue her from that horror and the danger of an awful death. And, if not that--if happily, for so he must deem it now, she, with the other female prisoners, should have been sent on board the transports for New France and already departed--then he was still full of the determination to follow her across the ocean, and so, ultimately, effect her freedom. Only an hour or two later, and after he and the villain Desparre had passed the spot where the first news of the pest was heard by them, La Châine went by too. Yet, by that time all around and within the inn was desolate, while the place itself was abandoned and shut up, the landlord and his family having closed the house and joined the other refugees in their flight. The spot was too near to Marseilles to make it safe to remain there; it was too much visited by the stricken inhabitants as they fled to the open country to continue long unattacked by the poisonous germs brought with them by those inhabitants. Walter entered the city, therefore, on the midday preceding the arrival of those unhappy, forlorn women; he entered it at last after having made what was, perhaps, one of the fastest journeys ever yet effected from Paris to the great city in the South, so often spoken of in happier days, by those who dwelt therein, as the Queen of the Mediterranean. How he had done it, how compassed all those leagues, he hardly knew. Indeed, he could scarcely have given a description of how that long journey had been made, and seemed, in truth, to remember nothing beyond the fact that it had been accomplished more by the lavish use of money than aught else. He had (he could recall, as he looked back to what appeared almost an indistinct dream) bought more than one horse and ridden it to a standstill; and had, next, hired as swift a travelling carriage as it was possible to obtain, so that, thereby, he might snatch some hour or so of rest. Then he remembered that he had also left that in its turn, had bought another horse--and--and had--nay, he could scarcely recollect what it was he had done next, how progressed, where slept, and how taken food and nourishment. Yet, what mattered? He had done it. He was here at last. That was enough. But now that he was in the great seething plague spot, now that he was here and riding his horse down Le Cours amidst heaps of decaying dead, both human and canine (with, also, some crows poisoned and lying dead from pecking at those who were stricken), all of whom tainted the air and spread fresh poison and disease around, how was he to find her? And if he found her, in _what_ condition would it be? Would she be there, and his eyes glanced stealthily, nervously towards those heaps--or--or--would he never find her at all! Some--he had been told at the gate, where they handed him the repulsive cloth steeped in vinegar which he was bidden to wrap round his neck--were destroyed by quicklime as they died; while there was an awful whisper going about that the thousands of dead now lying in the streets were to be burnt in one vast holocaust, and that, likewise, the houses in which more than a certain number had died were to be closed up for a long space of time with what was termed "walled up doors and windows." Suppose--suppose, therefore, she had died, or should die, in any of these circumstances, and he should never find her--never hear of her again! Never, although he had reached the very place in which she was! Suppose he should never know what had been her actual fate! "I must find her," he muttered; "I must find her!" And he prayed God that he might do so ere long; that he might discover her alive and well, so that he could rescue her from this loathsome place and take her away with him to safety and health. He could make her so happy now that he was rich. He must find her! At the gate where he had been given the disinfectants, the man in charge stared at him as one stares at a madman or some foolhardy creature who insists on doing the very thing which all people possessed of sanity are intent upon not doing at any cost. He stared at the well-dressed stranger, who, flinging himself off his horse, had battered at the gate to be let in--much the same as, on the other side of it, people battered against it in their desire to be let out. "Admit you!" exclaimed the galley slave who now filled the post of the dead and gone gate-keepers (with, for reward, a prospect of freedom before him when the pest should be finally over, if he should be alive by that time). "Admit you! Name of Heaven one does not often hear that request! Are you sick of life? It must be so!" "Nay; instead, I seek to preserve life, even though I lose my own in doing so. To preserve the life of one I love." Then, observing the man's strange appearance, his red cap and convict's garb, he asked: "Are you the warder of the gate?" "For want of better! When one has not a snipe they take a blackbird. I am the substitute of the warders. They lie in the outhouse now. I may lie there, too, ere long." "Has--has any cordon of women--female convicts--emigrants--passed in lately? From Paris? Speak, I beseech you," and he had again recourse to that which had not failed him yet, a gift of money. The man pocketed the double piece in an instant. Then he said: "I cannot say. I was sent here but yesterday--the warders would have known." "Go and ask them." "Ask them. _Ciel!_ they would return a strange answer. Man, they are dead! Do you not understand?" "Is everybody dead in this unhappy place?" Walter asked, despairingly. "Not yet. But as like as not they will soon be. You see, _mon ami_, we die gaily. Of us, of us others--gentlemen condemned for crimes we never committed--forty were sent into the city from our galleys two days ago. Four remain alive. I am one." Then, changing the subject, he said: "Is the life you love that of a woman who comes--or has come--in the cordon of which you speak?" "God pity me! yes. She is my wife. Yet an innocent." "Ha! An innocent. So! so! We are all innocent--all the convicts and convict emigrants. Also, our woman-kind. Well! enter, go find her if she is here. Then, away at once. Escape is easy, for the sufficient reason there will be none to stop you." "Why not, therefore, flee yourself?" "Oh I as for that, we have our reasons. We may grow rich by remaining, and we are paid eight livres a day to encourage us. There is much hidden treasure. And our costume is a little pronounced. We should not get far. Moreover," with a look of incredible cunning, "we shall get our yellow paper, our 'passport,' if we do well and survive! We shall be gentlemen at large once more. If we survive!" Sickened by the sordid calculations of this criminal, Walter Clarges turned away, then, addressing the man once more, he said: "I will go seek through the city for my wife. If I find her not I will return to you. You will tell me if the cordon I have spoken of arrives. Will you not?" and again he had recourse to the usual mode of obtaining favours. "Ay! never fear. If they come in you shall know of it." Whereon Walter Clarges took his way down Le Cours and traversed the rows of dead and dying who lay all around him at his horse's feet, seeing as he went along the same horrors that, in the coming midnight, his wife and her companions in misery were also to gaze upon. The daylight showed him more than the dark of twelve hours later was to show to them, yet robbed, perhaps, the surroundings of some of those tragic shadows and black suggestions which night ever brings, or, at least, hints at. It was almost incredible that the ravages of an all devouring plague, accompanied in human minds by the most terrible fear that can haunt them--the fear of a swift-approaching, loathsome death--could have so transformed an always gay, and generally brilliant, city into such a place as it had now become. Incredible, also, that those who still lived while dreading a death that might creep stealthily on them at any moment, could act towards those already dead with the callous indifference which they actually exhibited. He saw some convicts flinging bodies from windows, high up in the houses, down into the streets, where they would lie till some steps could be taken for gathering and removing them--and he shuddered while seeing that now and again the wretches laughed, even though the very work that they were about might be at the moment impregnating them with the disease itself. He saw a pretty woman--a once pretty woman--flung forth in a sheet; an old man hurled naked from a window; while a little babe would sometimes excite their derision, if, in the flight to earth, anything happened that might be considered sufficient to arouse it. He saw, too, lost children shrieking for their parents--long afterwards it came to his knowledge that, in this time of trouble and disorder, some strange mistakes had been made with these little creatures. He learnt that beggars' offspring had undoubtedly become confused with the children of rich merchants who had died from the pest, and that the reverse had also happened. In one case, many years afterwards (the account of which reached England and was much discussed) a merchant's child had been mistaken for that of an outcast woman, and had eventually earned its living as a domestic servant working for the very pauper child who had, by another mistake, been put in possession of the wealth the other should have inherited. Still, he went on; nerved, steeled to endure such sights; determined that neither regiments of dead, nor battalions of dying, nor scores of frightened, trembling inhabitants fleeing to what they hoped might be safety in some distant, untouched village, should prevent him from seeking for the woman he had loved madly since first his eyes rested on her. The woman he had won for his wife only to lose a few hours later! Through terrible spectacles he went, scanning every female form and face, looking for women who might be clad in the coarse sacking of the convict _emigrée_; peering at dying women and at dead. And he knew, he could not fail to recognise, how awful a grip this pest had got on the city, not only by the forms he saw lying about, but by the action of the living. Monks and priests were passing to and fro, one holding a can of broth, another administering the liquid to the stricken; yet all, he observed, pressing hard to their own nostrils the aromatically-steeped cloths with which they endeavoured to preserve their own lives. He saw, too, an old and reverend bishop passing across a market place, attended by some of his priests, who gave benedictions to all around him and wept even as he did so. A bishop, who, calm with that holy calm which he was surely fitted to be the possessor of, disdained to do more than wear around his neck the bandage which might preserve him from contagion. He pressed nothing to his lips, but, instead, used those lips to utter prayers and to bestow blessings all around him. This was, although Walter knew it not, the saintly Belsunce de Castelmoron, the Reverend Bishop of Marseilles, of whom Pope afterwards wrote: "Why drew Marseilles' good bishop purer breath, When nature sickened, and each gate was Death?" Of convicts, galley slaves, there were many everywhere, since, as soon as one batch sent from the vessels lying at the Quai de Riveneuve was decimated, or more than decimated, another was turned into the city to assist in removing the dead, and, where possible, burying them within the city ramparts and port-walls, which had been discovered to be not entirely solid but to possess large vacant spaces within them that might serve as catacombs. And, also, they were removing many to the churches, the vaults of which were opened, and, when stuffed full of the dead, were filled with quicklime and closed up again, it remaining doubtful, however, if the churches themselves could be used for worship for many years to come. In that dreadful ride he saw and heard such things that he wondered he did not, himself, fall dead off his horse from horror. He saw men and their wives afraid to approach each other for fear of contracting contagion; he observed many people running about the streets who had gone mad from fright; once, in the midst of all these shocking surroundings, he perceived a wedding party--the bride and bridegroom laughing and shrieking, while the man, who was either overcome with drink or frenzy, called out boisterously, "Thy uncle can thwart us no more, Julie. The pest has done us this service at least." Next, he passed through a street at which a little trading was taking place, some provisions being sold there. Yet he noticed what precautions prevailed over even such transactions as these. He saw a great cauldron of boiling water with a fire burning fiercely beneath it, and into this cauldron was plunged every coin that changed hands, pincers being used for the purpose. It was feared that even the pieces of metal might convey the disease! And he observed that those who brought fish to sell were driven away with shouts and execrations, and made to retire with their bundles. It was rumoured, he heard one man say, that all the fish near land were poisoned and infected by the bodies that had been cast into the sea. The night drew near as still he paced the city streets and open places, and he knew that both he and his horse must rest somewhere--either out in the open or in some deserted house or stable. Food, too, must be obtained for both. Only--where? Then he determined he would make his way back to the gate and discover if, by any chance, the chain-gang of women had yet arrived. If it had not, it must, he felt sure, be very near, or--perhaps--already lying outside the city. To-morrow at daybreak he would begin his search again. Remembering the way he had come, guided by terrible signs, by shocking sights which he recollected having passed on his way to the spot he was now returning from; guided, also, by the glow left by the sun as it began to sink, he went on his road back towards the gate, observing the names of the streets at the corners as he did so. One, which now he was passing through, and which he noticed was called _La Rue des Carmes Déchaussés_, seemed to have, for some reason, been more deserted by its inhabitants than several others he had traversed. Perhaps, he thought, because the fever had developed itself more pronouncedly here than elsewhere; perhaps because the inhabitants were wealthy enough to take themselves off at the first sign of the approach of the pestilence. That might be so. Now, the doors and, in many cases, the windows stood open; he could see through these windows--even in the fast falling dusk--that the rooms were sumptuously furnished, yet how desolate and neglected all seemed! How fearful must have been the terror of their owners when they could flee while leaving behind them all their treasures and belongings, leaving even their doors open behind them to the midnight prowlers or thieves who must surely be about after dark. Or, had those prowlers and thieves themselves burst open those doors, while neglecting to shut them again after they had glutted themselves with the treasures within? Musing thus he halted, regarding one particularly open house--it was number 77--then started to see he was not alone in the street. Coming slowly up it was a man who walked as though with difficulty; a man who, seeing a solitary woman's body lying on the footpath, crossed over to her, turned over the body, and regarded the face. Then he seemed to shake his head and walk on again towards where Walter Clarges sat his horse observing him. And, far down the street, he saw also another figure, indistinct as to features, distinct as to dress. A man arrayed in the garb of a convict; a man who, as he crept along, gave to the watcher the idea that he was tracking him who was ahead. Ahead and near Clarges now, so near that he could see his features. And, as he saw and recognised them, he gave a gasp, while exclaiming hastily, "My God!" For the first man of the two, the one who now drew close to him, was Desparre! CHAPTER XXVI "REVENGE-BITTER! ERE LONG BACK ON ITSELF RECOILS!" The night was close at hand as those two men came together, they being brought so by the slow, heavy approach of Desparre towards where the other sat his horse watching him. The dark had almost come. But, still, there was a sufficiency of dusky light left beneath the stars which began to twinkle above in the deep, sapphire sky for the features of each to be recognised by the other. "Yet," Clarges asked himself, as he dismounted and left his tired horse standing unheld in the deserted street, "did Desparre recognise his features?" He could hardly decide. The man had stopped in that halting, dragging walk up the long, deserted street which rose slightly on a hill; he had stopped and was looking--yes, looking--staring--at him, yet saying nothing either with his lips or by the expression of those glassy eyes. He was standing still before him, mute and rigid. And Clarges noted, all unimportant as it was, that far down the street, a hundred yards away, the galley slave who was the only other living creature about besides themselves, had halted too--had halted and was looking up towards them as though wondering curiously what these men might have to do with one another. "Desparre!" exclaimed Walter Clarges now, abandoning all title, all form of ceremony. "Desparre, how it is that you have been delivered into my hands here to-night in this loathsome, plague-stricken spot, I know not. Yet I know one thing. We have met. Met for me to kill you, or for you to kill me!" To his astonishment, to his utter amazement, the other was silent--silent as if stricken dumb, as if turned to stone. But still the glassy eyes regarded him and seemed to glisten in the light that was almost darkness now. Clarges paused a moment while observing that figure before him and wondering if this might be some devilish ruse, some scheme concocted in Desparre's mind for either saving himself or perpetrating some act of treachery. The villain might, he thought, have a pistol in his breast or pocket which he would suddenly draw forth and discharge full at him. Then, seeing that the other still remained mute and motionless, he said: "No silence on your part can save you. Be dumb if you will, but act. Draw your sword at once or stand there to be slain, to be righteously executed. I have to avenge to-night the wrongs of myself and of my wife--your daughter. Ha! you know that!" As he mentioned "my wife--your daughter," he saw that he had moved the man. His face became contorted with a horrible spasm; one part of it seemed to be drawn down suddenly, the mouth, by the process, assuming a hideous, one-sided grin. Desparre was now awful to gaze upon. Unsheathing his own sword, Clarges advanced towards him, uttering only one word, the word "Draw." Then he stood before the other, waiting, watching what he would do, while determined that, if he did not draw as he bade him, he would thrust his weapon through his craven breast and so put an end to his vile life. At first Desparre did nothing, but stood stock and motionless before him with always that drawn-down look upon one side of his face, though now his lower jaw seemed, as seen through the dusk, to be working horribly, and his teeth, one or two of which were discoloured, showing like fangs. Then he put his hand to his sword--it appeared as though that hand would never reach the hilt, as though it were numbed or dead--and with what looked like extreme effort, drew forth the blade. Yet only to let it drop listlessly by his side directly afterwards, the point clicking metallically against the cobble stones of the street as he did so. Was the coward struck lifeless with fear? Almost, it seemed so. Yet but a moment later, Clarges knew that it was something worse than fear that possessed him. For now the sword he had held so languidly fell altogether from his hand and clattered upon the stones as it did so, while Desparre stood shaking before the man who was about to slay him, his arms quivering helplessly, his face appalling in its distortions, his body swaying. Then he, too, fell heavily, and lay, as it seemed, lifeless before the other, his arms stretched out wide. And Clarges, bending over him, regarding him as though he still doubted whether this were a ruse or not, yet knowing, feeling certain, that it was not so--did not perceive that the skulking form of the galley-slave had drawn nearer to them--that the man was now crouching in a stooping posture on the other side of the street regarding him and Desparre, while his starting, eager eyes observed all that was happening. "Has he died of fright?" Clarges whispered to himself, while he bent over the prostrate man. "Died of fright or by God's visitation? Or is he dead? Anyway, he has escaped me for the present. So be it. We shall meet again, unless this scourge which is over all the place takes him or me, or both of us, before we can do so." Whereupon, he left Desparre lying there. He could not stab him now, helpless as he was and dead or dying? Yet, as he remounted his tired steed which had stood tranquilly in the road where he had left it, he remembered that, during the many weeks he had lain in the Paris Hospital, and while the wounds administered at that craven's instigation were healing, he had seen men brought into it who had fallen almost lifeless in the street from paralysis and apoplexy. From paralysis! Yes, that must be what had now stricken this man; he felt sure it must. He remembered that there was one so brought in who had dropped in the street suddenly--the doctors said from a great shock he had received--whose face had been drawn down as Desparre's was, whose jaws had twitched, even in his insensibility, in much the same way. Yes, he reflected, it was that, it must be that which had stricken this man thus at the moment when he had meant to slay him. One death had saved him from another, since now he must surely be near his end. If he did not perish of the stroke, the fever would doubtless lay hold upon him. His account was made. And musing thus, thanking God, too, that he had been spared from taking the life of even so great a villain as Desparre, and from having for ever the burden of the man's execution upon his head, he slowly rode off from the street of the Barefooted Carmelites, to learn, if possible, whether the cordon of women from Paris had yet arrived. But scarcely had his horse's hoofs ceased to echo down that mournful, deserted place in which now lay two bodies stretched upon their backs--the one, that of the poor dead woman at the lower end of it, the other, that of the wealthy and highly descended Armand, Duc Desparre--than forth from the porch across the street there stole the form of the skulking convict,--the convict who had been tracking Desparre from long before he entered the street, the galley-slave who had stood, or crouched aside, to see what should be the result of the meeting with the man who had dismounted from his horse to parley with him. With almost the sinuous crawl of the panther, this convict--old, and with his close cropped hair flecked with grey--stole across the wide street to where the form of Desparre lay; then, reaching that form, he went down on one knee beside it, and, in the dark, felt all over it, lifting up his own hands now and again and peering at them in the night as though to see if they glistened with anything they might have come against, while feeling also one palm with the fingers of the other hand to discover if it was wet. Yet such was not the case. "Almost I could have sworn," the _galérien_ muttered, "that I heard his sword fall from him. That he was disarmed and therefore run through a moment later. Yet he is not wounded; there is no blood. What does it mean? That man was Walter Clarges--alive! Alive Alive! He whom I have deemed dead for months. Her husband--and alive! He must have slain him. He must. He must. He would be more than human, more than man, to spare him after all that he and she have suffered. He must have run that black treacherous heart through and through. Yet, there is no wound that I can find; no blood!" Again and again--feeling the body all over, feeling, too, that the heart was beating beneath his hand and that there was no sign of cold or stiffness coming into that form as it lay motionless there--he was forced at last to the conclusion that, for some strange reason, Clarges had spared his bitterest foe. "Spared him," he hissed. "Spared him. Why, why, why!" and he rose to his feet cursing Clarges for his weakness or folly. Cursing him even as he looked down and meditated on throttling the man lying there before him. "He may spare him," he said. "I will not. My wrongs are as great, as bitter as theirs. I will have his life. Here--to-night." He had touched with his foot, some moments before, the sword which Desparre had let fall from his nerveless hand, and the clatter of which had led him to imagine that the duke had been disarmed. Now, he picked up the weapon, tried it once against the stones, then bent over the miserable man with his arm shortened so as to drive the blade a moment later through throat and breast. "Hellhound!" he muttered, "your hour is truly come. Devil! go to your master. You swore she should go unharmed if I would but assist you in your vengeance on him; that--that knowing I loved her--God, how I had learnt to love her! in spite of my trying to force her to marry such as you so that she might be great and powerful--she should be given back to me. Whereby we could yet have lived happy, prosperous, unmolested, together. Together! Together! And you sent her to exile and death, and me--your tool--to the galleys. Die!" And now, he drew back his arm so as to drive the blade home. Yet, even as he did so, even before he thrust it through neck and chest, he whispered savagely. "It is too good a death, it is too easy. He is insensible from fear, he will die without pain. If there were any other way--any method----" He paused with his eyes roaming round the street from side to side--then started. A moment afterwards he went up the steps of the house with the sword still in his hand, and peered at the numbers painted in great white figures on the door. In the dark of the summer night, in the faint light given by the blazing southern stars, he could decipher them. "Seventy-seven," he muttered, "seventy-seven." Then paused again as though thinking deeply, his empty hand fingering his grisly, unshaven chin. "Seventy-seven. Ay! I do remember. This house was one of them. One of the first. One of the worst. 'Twill serve." He leant the sword against the side of the porch, muttering: "He would not stab you to the heart--so--neither will I," then went slowly down the steps again, and back to where Desparre lay unmoved. After which he took both of the other's hands in his, drew them above the shoulder, and stretched the arms out to their full length, and thus hoisted the burden on his own gaunt shoulders--while bending--almost staggering at first--under the weight. Yet he kept his feet; at last he was able to straighten his back, and to stagger up the steps into the house. Here, when once in it, he let the body down to the floor of the passage and stood gasping and breathing heavily for some moments, what time he muttered to himself: "This will not do. Not here on the first floor. It is too near the street. He must go higher. Higher yet. Otherwise he may be found--and saved!" Whereupon, having regained his breath, he lifted Desparre on to his shoulders again and slowly mounted to the first floor of the house. Then he rested there, and afterwards went on to the second. Here, as was ever the case in the houses of the well-to-do in the city, the sleeping apartments began; the principal bedroom of the master of the house being in this instance on the front, or street side, while that reserved for guests was on the back, and looked over a small plot of ground, or garden. The moon, now peeping up, showed that both rooms were in a state of great confusion--rooms to which, by this time, the man had crept laboriously with his heavy, horrid burden on his back. The bed, he could see, as still the rays stole in more fully to the front apartment, was in disorder, the upper sheet and coverlet being flung back as though some one had leapt hastily from them; the doors of wardrobes and cupboards stood open; so, too, did the lid of a huge strong-box bound and clasped with iron bands. Easy enough was it for Vandecque to see that, from this room a hurried flight had been made, and with only sufficient time allowed before the departure for the more precious and smaller objects of value to be hastily gathered up. For, upon the floor there lay--as he felt as well as saw, since his feet struck against them--the larger articles of importance, the silverware, the coffee pots and tea-pots, the salvers, and other things. It had been a hurried flight! "If," said Vandecque to himself, even as his eye glanced round on all these things which he would once have deemed a rich booty had they fallen into his hands, but which now he scorned, since, if he could but gain his freedom by his conduct here and return to Paris a liberated man, he would want for nothing, having at last grown rich through the gambling house; "if I leave him in this house and he recovers consciousness--strength--he may be able to attract attention; to call for assistance from the window. He shall have no chance of that. Come, murderer, come," and again he lifted the insensible man upon his shoulders and bore him into the back, or spare, room. This was not in a disordered condition. There would be no guests in Marseilles at this time; no visitors from a healthy place to such an unhealthy, stricken one as this. The bed was made and arranged, and on to it Vandecque flung the body of his victim. His victim! Yes, yet how long was it since he himself had been the victim? And, even as he thought of how he had suffered at this man's hand, any compunctions he might have had during the last hour--and, hardened as he was, he had had them!--vanished for ever. "Arrested by your orders," he muttered, glancing down upon Desparre as he lay senseless on the bed; glaring down, indeed, though only able to see the dim outline of his enemy's form, since, as yet, the moonbeams had scarcely penetrated to this room. "By your orders, though not knowing, never dreaming that it was so; not dreaming that my betrayal came from you. Then the prison of La Tournelle--oh, God! for the third time in my life--the condemnation to the galleys, this time in perpetuity. I--I who had grown well-to-do, who had no need to be a criminal again, who might have finished my life in ease. And Laure--Laure--poor Laure!--whom I had hoped to see a Duchess, and great--happy--or, at least, not unhappy! Cut-throat!" he almost shrieked at the senseless man; "when I learnt, as we gaol birds do learn from one another, all that you had done, I swore to escape from these galleys somehow, to make my way back to Paris, to slay you. Yet, it is better thus; far better. Lie there and die." Then he went forth from the room, finding the key in the door and turning it upon Desparre. But, as he descended the stairs and returned to the street, taking no precaution to deaden his footfall in the empty corridors, since he knew well enough that there were none to hear them, he muttered to himself, "Clarges spoke of her to him as 'his wife.' Also he said 'Your daughter.' Mon Dieu! was she that? Was she that? And if so, how should the Englishman know it, how have found out what I spent years in fruitlessly trying to discover?" Musing thus, he caught up the sword which still stood in the porch, flung it down a drain, and went slowly through the deserted streets towards the Quai de Riveneuve where the galleys were, and to which the convicts returned nightly to sleep--if they had not succumbed during the day to the pestilence. CHAPTER XXVII "I LOVE HER!-SHE IS MY WIFE" Down the Rue de la Bourse, wherein the women of la Châine had passed the latter part of the night, the rays of the sun began to stream horizontally as it rose far away over the Mediterranean and lit up the side of the street in which stood the house where the weary creatures lay. A month before this period daybreak would have dawned upon a vastly different scene from the one of lifeless desolation to which it now brought light and warmth. The great warehouses at the back of the merchants' residences--in which position most of those buildings in Marseilles were situated--would have already begun to teem with human life; with bands of sailors coming up from the harbour, either bringing, or with the intention of carrying away, bales of goods and merchandise; workmen, mechanics, clerks, and _employés_ of every kind would have been passing up the street to their early work. Now, the Rue de la Bourse, like scores of other streets in the City, was absolutely deserted or only tenanted at various spots by the dead--human and animal!--who lay about where they had fallen--on doorsteps, in porches and stoops, sometimes even in the very middle of the road. On such a scene as this Marion gazed as she looked forth from the room she and Laure had slept in; her mind full of sorrow and perplexity--not for herself nor on her own account, but on that of the other unhappy one over whom she watched. For herself she cared not--she knew that her past, and the consequences resulting from the actions of that past, had shut the door for ever against any sweetness of existence for her in the future, nor was she much concerned as to whether the pestilence slew her or not. Only--she had sworn to stand by Laure until the end; therefore she knew that now, at this present time and for some weeks or months at least, she must live, she must take care of her own health if she would do what she had vowed to perform. Afterwards, if she should see Laure spared by the hideous scourge which now ravaged the place they had arrived at, spared to be in some manner restored to the husband she had come at last to love--then it mattered little what became of her. But she must live to see that! Marion went over to the girl now and once more gazed at her, observing that she was sleeping calmly and easily; then she returned to the window and continued her glances up and down the street. She was watching for those who, as the convict had said, would come for them soon after daybreak to lead them away to where their services would be needed as nurses and helpers, and she wished to be on the alert to prevent them from troubling Laure. She meant at once to tell them--her teeming brain never being at a loss for an expedient!--that the girl was ill or, at least, too weak to take any part in the proceedings for which they might all be required on that day, and to beg her off. She determined also that, whether the request was granted cheerfully or not, Laure should rest for the next twenty-four hours. Her confidence in her own powers and strength failed her no more now than they had ever failed her in the most violent crises of her life--she was resolved that what she desired should be accomplished. Presently she saw them coming--or, rather, saw coming up the street a band of men and women who, she could not doubt, were a party of nurses and "crows," as the males were termed who attended to the work of removing the dead and, if possible, to the disposing of them elsewhere, namely, in the vaults of churches, the hollow walls of the ramparts, and, in some cases, in old boats and decayed vessels which were taken out to sea and there sunk. Whereon she went swiftly down the stairs to the door to meet them. Among this body of persons which now drew near she saw her acquaintance of last night, the convict, who at once greeted her in his strong Breton accent, he being, as he had told her at their first meeting, a native of that province. "Bon jour, Madame," he now cried with an attempt at cheerfulness,--poor wretch! he had made some sort of compact with himself that nothing should depress him, nor any horrors by which he was surrounded frighten him, while forcing himself to regard his impending liberty as a certainty which no pestilence must be allowed to deprive him of. "Bon jour, Madame. And how is the young one?" "She is not well," Marion answered, while glad, in a way, that she so soon had an opportunity given her of declaring that Laure could not go nursing that day; "also, she must rest." Then she regarded the members of the group accompanying the man, while observing who and what they were. Two were monks; good, holy men, who, working cheerfully under the orders of the bishop (as dozens of their brethren were doing in other parts of Marseilles) were now acting as doctors, since--horrible to relate--there was not one physician or surgeon now left either alive or unstricken. In the beginning of the pestilence, the doctors of Marseilles had scoffed at the disease being the plague; they had called it nothing but a trifling malady, and, unhappily both for them and all in the city, they had suffered for their obstinacy or, rather, incredulity. They had been amongst the very first to break down under the attacks of the loathsome fever which they had refused to recognise. Consequently, the work which they should still have been able to do had to be done by amateurs--such as these monks--or the surgeons of the galleys, or any stranger in the city who understood medicine and its uses, and was willing to risk his life in administering it. Of the others who formed the group some were "crows," as has been said, while there were five women, three of them being under sentence for life at the travaux forcés, yet now with a fair prospect of freedom before them should they perform faithfully all that was demanded of them at this awful crisis, and--also--preserve their lives! Of the other two, one was an elderly lady whose whole existence had been devoted to good works, she even having voyaged as far as Siam with the missionaries sent out there; the second was a young and beautiful woman of high position among the merchant families of the place, who had broken her father's heart by her loose conduct and was now endeavouring to soothe her own remorse by self-sacrifice. There was also a Sheriff--not the same as he who had accosted La Châine overnight--but another one, older than the former, and seeming also much grief-stricken. "If," said this man, addressing Marion, "the young woman of whom you speak is indeed ill, let her rest; later, she may be able to be of assistance. God forbid we should do aught to add to the sickness here. She is not attacked with the pestilence?" he asked. "Nay," said Marion. "Nay. But she is young and delicate. She is a lady. Think, monsieur, of what she must have gone through in the past few months. We others are mostly rough creatures, especially those who have survived, since the loose women, the dissolute ones who set out with us have--well--been left behind. But--but----" "What was her crime? That of your friend? For what was she condemned?" "She was an innocent woman!" cried Marion; and as she spoke her lustrous eyes blazed into the man's before her. "God crush for ever the scoundrel who bore false witness against her." "There are other women in the house," the Sheriff said, almost unheeding Marion's tempestuous outburst. "They at least can work, can they not?" "Oh! as for that," Marion answered, "I imagine so. I will go in and see. Yes," she exclaimed, glancing up at a window in the house above the room in which she and Laure had slept, she being now in the street and amidst the group, "it would seem so. Behold, they look forth." It was true that they did so, since, when all eyes were directed upwards, the unkempt heads of the other surviving members of the gang--heads covered in some cases with black hair, in some with yellow, and, in one, with grey--were seen peering down into the street. "_Hola!_" cried Marion, "come down all of you. Come down and assist at the good work. You have slept well, have you not?" "Ay, we have slept. But now we are hungry. We want food. We cannot work on empty stomachs; if we do the pest will seize on us." "Descend," cried the Sheriff, "we bring food with us. For to-day," he muttered to himself, turning aside his head. "To-morrow there may be none. Already the country people will not enter the city nor take what they deem to be our poisoned money. God help all!" As he so muttered to himself he made a sign to one of the men who carried a great copper pot, and to one of the condemned women who bore in her hands a tin box, and bade them prepare some food, the man lighting at his bidding a little brazier at the bottom of the big pot. At the same time the female produced from her box some hard ship's biscuits, and began, with a stone she picked up, to break them into pieces. By this time the other women had come down into the street, and, inhaling the odour of the soup which was warming in the utensil, betrayed intense desire to be at once supplied with some nourishment. "A half cup to each," said the Sheriff, "and some biscuits. Later, you shall have more. A warehouse is to be broken open at midday; it is that of a merchant who supplies vessels with necessaries for long voyages. God grant that we shall find enough for many days. Otherwise, starvation will soon be added to our other miseries. Already seventy such warehouses have been ransacked." Obtaining a portion of soup and another of biscuit, Marion went back to the house to Laure, though not before she had filled up the other cup with her own share of soup, reserving only a scrap of the food for herself; and, when there, she found the girl sitting up upon the couch listening to the voices of those in the street. "Have they come for us?" Laure asked wearily. "Must we now begin to work? Well, so be it! I am ready." "Nay, dearest," exclaimed the other. "You need not go forth to-day. I have begged you off, because you are so worn and delicate. And see, sweet, they are serving out food. Here is some good broth and biscuit. Take it; it will nourish you." "But it is not right," Laure exclaimed, "that I should stay behind. They--you, too, Marion, my guide and comforter--are all as weary as I. I will go also." "No; no. Rest here till we come back. Then, to-morrow, if you are stronger, you shall assist. Nay, you must do so if you can; thereby the better to entitle you to your freedom. Oh! Laure, we must work for that freedom. Then--at last--we can go away and live together, and I can earn subsistence for both. Until we find your husband." "You are in truth an angel, Marion," the girl exclaimed, flinging her arms around the other's dark swarthy neck. "Oh! how--how could one as good as you have ever come within the law's clutches. How----" "Hush! Hush! I have been an awful sinner; I have deserved my fate, I have been swayed and mastered by one passion after another--by love, jealousy, hate, revenge. God forgive me! We southern women are all like that! Yet--if I should live----" "If you live! You shall, you must live! Oh! Marion, my guide, my sister----" "Ah, your sister! Yes! Say that again. Yet," she cried, springing to her feet, "not now! Now we have to earn the freedom we long so for. I must go; I must do my best and work for both of us. Ah, God! how good it is, how peaceful, to be doing something at last, no matter if danger lurks in it, that is not evil. Let me go, sweet. I shall come back to you at night; therefore sleep well all day. And, see, I will lock you in the house so that no harm may come anigh you. You will not fear?" "Never; knowing you are coming back to me." Then they tore themselves apart, Marion taking every opportunity of leaving Laure as comfortable as was possible, which opportunity was not lacking since the room was, as has been said, furnished luxuriously, and nothing was wanting that might make the couch of the wearied girl an easy one. And so, after more embraces between them, Marion went forth once more, falling in with the rest of the women and following the Sheriff and the convict and the "crows," to do the work they might be appointed to perform. The bravest heart that ever beat--even her own, since there was none braver!--might well be turned almost to stone by that which they had to do; the sights they were forced to witness. And the daylight made those sights even more terrible and more appalling than the night had done, which, if it produced a weird and wizard air of solemnity that spread itself around all the terrors of the pestilence, had; at least, served also as a cloak to much. For now they saw the dead lying in heaps upon each other--with, among them, the dying; they saw the awful chalk-like faces turned up to the bright morning sun in the last agonised glare of a hideous death, and the still whiter eye-balls gleaming hideously. They saw, too--but description of these horrors must cease. Suffice it that these women stood among a hecatomb of victims such as other stricken cities had shown in earlier days, but which none, not even London with its plague, had equalled for more than a hundred years. Gradually the women of the gang were distributed about in various spots where it was thought they might be of service; to some fell the task of holding cups of broth or of water to the lips of the dying; to some the casting of disinfectants over the already dead; to others the removal of newborn babes from the pestiferous atmosphere in which their mothers lay. And Marion's task, because she was strong and feared nothing, was to assist in the removal of the dead to the carts that were to transport the bodies to the ramparts, in the hollows of which many scores were to be interred in quicklime. Engaged thus, she observed near her a gentleman--a man clad in black, as one who wore mourning for a relative; a man young, handsome and grave. One, too, whose face was white and careworn as though it had become so through some poignant grief. He was talking to one of the "crows" as her eyes fell on him, and--with an astonishment in her mind which, she noticed, was not all an astonishment, but rather an indistinct feeling that gradually merged itself into something that she seemed to feel, did not partake altogether of the unexpected--she observed that both men were regarding her. They were doing so, she understood, by the glances cast at her by the "crow," and followed by others from the stranger talking of her. Why, she asked herself, why? Yet even as she did so, something within again apprised her, whispered to her, that it was not strange they should be doing so. Then, with the habit of years strong upon her, she cast one penetrating glance at the new-comer from out of her dark eyes, and went on with the loathsome work she was engaged upon. Presently, however, she felt that the man clad in mourning had drawn near to her--she knew it though she had looked round no more: a moment later she heard him addressing her. "You will pardon me," he whispered, "for what I have to say. But--but--that unhappy creature with whom I have been conversing has told me that--you--alas! that I must say it--have recently made a journey from Paris. That you are----" "A convicted woman," Marion replied swiftly, facing round on him, her eyes ablaze; "a criminal! One of the women condemned to deportation to the colonies. Well, he has spoken the truth. What then?" "Forgive me. I speak not with a view to wound you, or to be offensive. But, God help me, I seek one dear to me. An innocent woman condemned to the same penance as you, and by one who is a double damned scoundrel. She was of your chain. And--heaven pity us both, I love her--she is my--wife." "Your wife!" Marion repeated, standing before him, gazing full into his eyes, holding still in her hand the white leprous-looking hand of a dead woman whose body she had been helping to place in the cart. "Your wife." And now her voice had sunk to as deep a murmur as it had ever assumed, even in the softest moments of her bygone days of love and passion. "Your wife. Amongst us?" "It is so. Oh, speak; answer me. Is--is--yet almost I fear to ask. Still--still I must do it. Is she still alive?" "What?"--mastering herself, speaking firmly, though hoarsely--"What is your name?" "Walter Clarges. I am an Englishman." "Laure's husband! Laure's husband!" "You know her! You know--ah! does she live?" "Yes. She lives." "God! I thank thee!" the other murmured. CHAPTER XXVIII THE WALLED-UP DOORS Marion Lascelles had hoped, had prayed that this moment would come at last; that at some future day Laure's husband would stand face to face with his wife again; that he would seek her out and find her even though, to do so, he had to follow La Châine to the New World. But now--now that what she had hoped for had come to pass, there almost swept a revulsion of feeling over her. Standing before that husband of the woman whom she had tended and nurtured, she smothered within her bosom something that was akin to a groan. For his coming brought, would bring, in an hour, in half-an-hour, in a few moments, the joy unspeakable to Laure for which she had so much craved, while to her--to Marion--the outcast, it brought also separation from the only thing in all the wide world that she loved or could ever love again. She had been racked by her love for men who had treated her badly and on whom she had taken swift, unerring vengeance for their infidelity; yet that was passed. Her heart had died, or, if not dead, had steeled itself against all other love of a like nature (since the condemned man whom she had married in the prison had been only accepted as a husband because, in the distant land to which they had been going together, such a union would be a matter of convenience and profit, as well as, perhaps, safety). Yet into that heart had crept another love, pure, unselfish, almost holy. Her love for Laure. And now--now it would be worthless, valueless, of no esteem. At what price would her fostering, her sister's love be valued when set off against the love of husband? Had she been a bad woman instead of an erring one only, a woman resolved to attach to her for ever the one creature with whose existence her own was, as she had vainly dreamed, inseparably bound up; had she been the Marion Lascelles of ten, five, perhaps one year ago, it may be--she feared it must have been--that she would have lied to Walter Clarges standing there before her, his sad face irradiated now, since she had not lied, with joy extreme. She would perhaps have denied Laure's existence, have said that she had long since fallen dead upon one of the roads along which she and the other women had plodded weary and footsore; she would have done anything to have kept the girl to herself. But not now. Not now. Not even though her heart broke within her. Never! She loved Laure. Perish, therefore, all her own feelings, her hopes of happy days to come and to be passed by the other's side. She loved her; it was not by falsehood and treachery and selfishness that that love must be testified. "I cannot leave this work to which I am put," she said, speaking to him as these thoughts continued to flow through her mind. "I have to earn remission of the remainder of my sentence. Pardon for--for myself. Yet, if you would see her now, she is to be found in the Rue de la Bourse. The number is 3. Upon the first floor in the front room you will find her." She spoke calmly, almost hardly, Walter Clarges thought, and, thus thinking, deemed her a cold-hearted, selfish woman, studying nought but her own release and the swiftest method of obtaining it. Wherefore he said: "You know her. You must have marched in the same cordon with her." "Yes, I know her." "How can she have borne the terrors of the journey? How? How?" "All had to bear it," Marion Lascelles answered, glancing up at him, "or die." "This house?" he asked, while almost shuddering at the cold, indifferent tones in which the woman spoke, even while reflecting that, since she had borne as much as Laure had done, it was not to be expected that she should show any particular sympathy for a companion in misfortune. "This house? Can admission be obtained to it? And why is she there, when--when her companions in misery and unhappiness are here?" "This key," Marion said, drawing it from her pocket, "will admit you. She is alone, sleeping. She is not as strong as some of us--us, the outcasts, who are the rightful prey of the galleys and the scaffold. Mercy has been shown her. She has been relieved from her work in these streets to-day." He took the key from her as she held it out to him, glancing at her wonderingly as he did so, though understanding nothing of the cause which produced her bitterness of tone--her self-contempt, as testified by her speech. Then, thanking her, he repeated: "No. 3, of the Rue de la Bourse. That is it?" "That is it. You will find her there." After which she turned away and slowly followed after the cart proceeding up the street with its terrible burdens. If Marion Lascelles had never before wrestled with all the strong emotions which were born of her fiery nature day by day, and month by month, she had done so this morning, was doing so now. And at last--at last--she thanked God the better had overcome the worse--she had conquered. None knew but herself, none should ever know, what hopes she had formed in her bosom of happy days to come when she and the delicate girl, whom she had supported all through the hideous journey from Paris, and during their still more hideous entry into this stricken city of death, should have escaped away to some spot where they might at last be at peace. She had pictured to herself how she would work and slave for Laure so that she should be at ease; how work her fingers to the bone, bear any toil, so that--only that--she might have the sweet companionship of the girl as recompense. And now--now--the dream had vanished, the hope was past; they could never be aught to each other. The husband was there, he had come to claim his wife, as she herself had told Laure he would come; now he would be all in all to her and she would be nothing. Yet she must not repine; the prayers that she had forced herself to utter, almost without knowing how to frame them, had been heard and answered. The God against whom her life had been so long an outrage had granted her the first request she had ever made to Him. Was it for her now to rebel against the granting of it? Nay, nay, she answered to herself, never. And, even in her misery and her awful sense of desolation, in her appreciation of the solitude that must be hers for ever now, she found a consolation. She had done that which she should do; she had sent the husband straight to his wife's arms when she might so easily have prevented him from even discovering that wife's existence. One lie, one false hint, one word uttered to the effect that Laure had succumbed upon the road and had been left behind for the communes to bury her, and it would have been enough. She would have remained to Marion; the husband could never have found her--he could never find her. No, no! God be praised! she had been true and faithful; she had not yielded to her own selfish hopes and desires. "Take," said a soft and gentle voice in her ear at this moment; the voice of the unhappy Sheriff who accompanied the carts that were removing the dead, "take, good woman, more heed of yourself and your own life. See, the cloth with the disinfectants has fallen from your neck--it is lost. Beware of what you do. Otherwise you will be stricken ere long yourself." Turning, she glanced up at the speaker, then shrugged her shoulders and went on with the loathsome task she was engaged upon--that of bending over prostrate bodies to see if their owners were, indeed, dead or not, and, if the latter, of assisting in their removal to the carts. But that was all, she uttered no word in answer to the warning. "You do not value your life?" the man continued, while thinking how fine a woman this was; one so darkly handsome too, that, surely, she must have some who loved her, criminal though she must undoubtedly be since she had formed one of the chain-gang. "No," she answered, looking up at him now. "I do not value it. Yet, they say, 'tis to such as I am that death never comes." "But, ere long, if you survive this visitation, you may--you shall--be free. I will charge myself with your freedom." "Free!" she answered, her eyes fixed on him with so sad a look that, instinctively, he turned away. There was something in this woman's life, he understood, which it was not for him to attempt to probe. Left in peace by the Sheriff, Marion continued her work, following close by the cart; yet bidding the man who led the horse to halt at intervals wherever she found some poor body with distorted features which told only too plainly that the last agony had been experienced; halting herself sometimes to be of assistance to those who were still alive. But always saying over and over again the words, "Free! Free!" Free! Of what use was freedom now to her? What! Supposing she were free to-night, to-morrow, what should she do with that freedom? Laure wanted her no more, she would not miss her if she never went back to the Rue de la Bourse; she had her husband now, the man whom, she acknowledged, she had learned to love. Therefore, Marion resolved that she would never go back. Never! Of that she was determined. She would but be an incubus, be only in the way of their love. She would never go back. Not even if the pestilence spared her, which, she hoped, it might not do. They had come by now to the street of the Barefooted Carmelites--a street in which she perceived that there were no dead--or, only one, a woman lying on one side of it. And here, strong as she was, she felt that she must rest. Her limbs trembled beneath her--from fatigue and want of sufficient nourishment, she thought, not daring to hope that already the fever had stolen into her veins and that a better, surer freedom than the one the Sheriff had suggested might be near at hand. He, that Sheriff, had left them by now to attend to other duties in the city, therefore there was at this time no living person with her but the carman, who, with his ghastly burdens in his cart, walked ahead of her. "I must rest here," she said to him, "a little while. See, there is a fountain in the street. We will drink," and she went towards the fountain, which was represented by a statue of Cybele, from out of whose bunch of keys the water gushed in half a dozen streams. "Drink not," the carman exclaimed, warningly. "They say the source is impregnated. All the water of Marseilles is poisonous now. Beware!" "Bah! It must come from the bowels of the earth. There are no infected bodies there. And," she muttered to herself, "even though there were I still would drink." Whereon she drank, then sat down on the base of the statue, which was large and spacious and would have furnished a dozen persons with seats. Presently, still sitting there--she saw come down the street a number of men, some of them galley slaves, two of them officers. Then, when all had advanced almost to where Marion sat observing them, one of the latter drew from his pocket a list and began to read out several names, while giving the convicts instructions as to what each had to do. But what truly surprised Marion was that, behind all these men there came some others leading the horses which drew two carts--carts not filled with dead, but the one with mortar and the other with bricks. Gazing at these, and almost with interest for one whose mind was as troubled as hers, she perceived that, of the galley slaves, one had drawn away from the group, and, approaching the base of the fountain, had sat down upon it near her and on the other side from that on which the carman whom she had accompanied was sitting. An old criminal this; a man of nearly sixty, grey and grizzled, and with a frosty bristling on his unshaven chin and cheeks and upper lip. A man who sat with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, staring in front of him--at a house numbered 77. "What do they do?" Marion asked of this staring man, while looking round at him and noticing how worn and white he was, "and why are these carts piled with bricks and mortar? What is it?" "They brick up the houses that are infected; those in which the dead lie. Those that are the worst." "But--but--supposing there should be any living left in them. See, they have commenced there, at 76, and without entering to make inspection. That would be even more terrible than all else." "The inspection has been made. The houses are marked already. Observe, there is a chalk mark. Regard No. 76, at which the masons work." "By whom has the inspection been made?" "By me and another," the convict answered, turning his white and ghastly face on her. "Three hours ago, this morning. At daybreak." "All are not marked." "No, all are not marked. Not--yet!" Ere she could, however, ask more, one of the officers strode towards where they sat near together, and, addressing the convict, who sprang respectfully to his feet, said: "Have you thought, remembered yet, which is the house you had forgotten. Idiot that you are! to have thus forgotten. Reflect again. Recall the house. Otherwise we shall brick up one in which there are no dead to be left to decay in it." "I think--I think," the other answered--white and almost shivering, as Marion, who was watching him curiously, observed, "it is that," and he pointed to No. 77. "You think! Yet are not positive? Go in again and see. Make sure this time. Go." Slowly the man obeyed him, walking over to the door of No. 77, and then, after turning the handle, entering. And, while he was gone, the masons went on with the bricking up of one or other of the houses which bore the chalk-marked cross beneath their numbers. Five minutes later the convict appeared again at the door and said, loud enough for his voice to reach the officer's ears and also to reach Marion's: "This, Monsieur, is the house," while, as he spoke, his left hand went to the pocket of his filthy galley's dress. "You are sure?" "I am--sure!" "Mark it." Therefore, in obedience to the order, the man drew forth a piece of chalk from his pocket, and slowly marked the cross beneath the number 77. "Now," said the officer, seeing that the masons were ready to begin upon that house, "fall in and lend assistance." Half-an-hour later it was done, finished. Not for a year would that house be opened again. By which time those who were in it--if any--would be skeletons. CHAPTER XXIX Oh! let me be awake, Or let me sleep alway. Left alone by Marion's departure, Laure endeavoured to sleep once more and to obtain some return of the strength that she had lost in that long, horrible march which she, in common with all the other women, had been forced to make from Paris. "If I could only sleep again," she murmured to herself, "sleep and forget everything. Everything!" Yet, because, perhaps, the early morning sun streamed so brightly through the handsome curtains of the windows in spite of their having been drawn carefully together by Marion ere she went forth, or because the sparrows twittered so continuously from the eaves--the pestilence brought neither death nor misery to them!--she could sleep no more. Instead, she could only toss and turn upon the luxurious couch on which she had lain all night, wondering, as she did so, if the unhappy owner and his family who had fled affrighted from all their wealth and sumptuous surroundings had now as soft a one whereon to rest--wondering, too, what was to be the end of it all. "As for him," she murmured, for her thoughts dwelt always, hour by hour and day after day, upon the man who had sacrificed his existence--his life for her, perhaps--if Desparre had spoken truly; "as for him--oh, God!" she broke off, "if I could only see him once again. Only once! To tell him how soon I had surrendered, how he had conquered, even as he stood before me sad and unhappy on his own hearth. To see him only once!" Again she turned upon her pillows and cushions, again attempted to sleep; but it was in vain. She was neither nervous nor alarmed at being alone in the great, desolate house; since what had she, this worn, emaciated outcast to fear!--therefore she thought that it must be owing to her heavy slumber of the past night that she was now wide awake. Or owing, perhaps, to her thoughts of him. "If he were not slain," she pondered now while lying there, her eyes open and staring at the richly painted and moulded ceiling of the vast saloon, "he may be by this time in that land to which he was going. And he will think, must think, that I fled from him the moment he had left his house. Even though I should go on in the transports to the same place wherein he is, and we might meet, he would cast me off, discard me as one who is worthless." Why had she not spoken on that night, she mused? Why? Why? Had she said but one word, had she but held out some promise that, in time, her love would grow, he would have stayed by her side, would never have left the house. And, thus, there would have been no danger of his being slain, if slain he was; nor could that crawling snake, Desparre, have made his way to the house to which Walter had taken her, nor, having done so, would he have been able to effect any harm. "Slain! Slain!" she continued, musing, "slain! Yet some voice whispers in my ears that it was not so, that Marion is right. That he is alive. Still, even so, what can that profit me; how help me to put aside my misery and despair? Alive! he would deem himself lawfully free of me by my desertion, free to become another woman's lover--or husband--free to whisper the words in her ears that he whispered once in mine, to see his and her children grow up at his knee." Excitedly she sprang from the couch and paced the floor, her thoughts beyond endurance. "No! no no!" she gasped again and again. A dozen times she cried out, "No," in her despair. "Not that, not that! I loved you, Walter," she murmured, "I loved you. If never before, then, at least, on the morning when you risked everything in the world to obtain my freedom from that fiend incarnate, when you led me through the garden, stood at the altar by my side, made me your wife. Then, then, I loved you, worshipped you. I cannot bear these thoughts, I cannot bear to deem you another's. Oh, Walter! Walter!" Soon, however, she became more calm; she recalled what she was now. An outcast, a woman condemned to deportation; in truth, a convict, and none the less so because, through one strange and awful circumstance, it was almost certain that the exile to which she had been doomed would never now be borne by her or her companion. She became sufficiently calm now to speculate, while she paced the floor of the vast room, as to what her and Marion's future would be if spent together as both hoped; as to what poverty and struggles both would have to contend with. Of how, too, they would grow older and older together, until at last the parting came--that awful moment when, of two who love each other dearly, one has to go while leaving the other behind, stricken and prostrate. But, suddenly, these meditations were broken in upon; to them succeeded a more bodily fear, a terror of some tangible danger near at hand. She had heard a grating sound in the passage beneath, a sound that she recognised at once in the hollow emptiness of the house to be that of a large key turning in a lock; she heard next the hall door pushed opened and a man's step below. What was it? Who could be coming? Perhaps the _galérien_ of the night before who had escorted them to this place, the man whose familiarities had been sternly repressed by Marion. If so, what could he want? How could he have become possessed of the key which Marion had at the last moment said should never quit her possession until she returned in the evening? Yet, as she heard the man's footfall below, while recognising as she did so that he was entering each of the rooms on the lower floor one after the other, she was able to calm her trepidation by reflecting that, whatever purpose he might be there for, it could scarcely bode harm to her. What had she--a beggar, clad in the rags of the galleys, with no remnants of beauty, scarcely any of womanhood, left in her sunbaked, emaciated face--to fear? What had she to tempt any man with, even if he were the most ferocious and hardened of his sex. Then she heard the steps of the intruder coming up the stairs. To this floor on which she was! Well, she feared nothing; she would go forth and encounter him, whosoever he might be, instead of locking herself in the saloon as a moment ago she had thought of doing. He might be bringing some message from Marion, some news she ought to know. But, suddenly, her heart almost stopped beating. What if her one friend in all the wide world, her one support and comfort, should be stricken already! She must go forth on to the landing and learn what the entry of this man into the house might portend. Reaching the head of the stairs, looking down at him who was ascending, she knew that, at least, this was no knavish galley-slave who mounted slowly towards where she was; no thief, nor, did it seem likely, anyone who had been sent with a message to her from Marion. More like, she thought, it was the owner of this great, luxurious house. She could not see the man's face as he ascended, since it was hidden by his three-cornered hat, yet she observed that the rich mourning he wore--doubtless for some of his family who had fallen victims to the pest--was, although smirched and travel-stained, of the best. The black satin coat, the lace of his cravat and ruffles, the costly sword, were those of one such as the master of this house might be. Then the man looked up, and their eyes met. And, even as they did so, even as she clasped her breast with both her hands, drawing back with a gasp, she knew, she understood, that her husband had not recognised her! If, in her aching heart, there had ever arisen any doubt of the ravages which her sufferings and tribulation had caused to her beauty, that doubt was dispelled now; it existed no longer. She was so changed that her own husband did not know her! But still he came on, step by step, up those stairs. On and up until they stood face to face. Then he knew her! And, with a loud cry, he strode forward. A moment later his arms were around her, her head was upon his breast. "My wife! My wife!" he cried, "ah, my wife! Thank God, I have found you." * * * * * * Whatever havoc those sufferings and tribulations might have wrought upon Laure no sign was given by her husband that he perceived them. Instead, as hour after hour went by and still she lay in his arms sobbing in her happiness, she learnt that to him she was as beautiful as in the first hour he had cast his eyes upon her; that, always, even though never more the fair rose and white should return to her complexion, nor the mark left by the hateful carcan become effaced, she would be to him the one woman in all the world. That he had observed that devilish mark, and understood the story it told, she perceived at once, as again and again he kissed the ring upon her neck which the iron had stamped in, while murmuring words of love and deep affection as he did so. But he heeded it no more than he did the sunburn upon her face and throat and breast, the hollowness of her eyes or the emaciation of her frame. All, all of her beauty would come back amidst the pine-scented breezes and mountain air of the land to which he would bear her, while she was surrounded, as she should be, by everything that wealth and happiness could offer. Wherefore she could only murmur again and again: "What I feared most of all was that you deemed me heartless and intriguing, that I had used you only as a means to my own end. Walter, my love, my husband, I feared that I was banished from your heart. I feared it even as I recognised that I had loved you from the first." "That will be," he whispered back, "only when my heart has ceased to beat." So the day drew on and the sun had left the front of the house; over the street, up which none came, and in which no footfall was heard--over which, indeed, there reigned a silence as of death--the shadows of the evening began to creep, ere they had told each other all. Laure had narrated Desparre's visit to the Rue de la Dauphine, far away in northern Paris, as well as everything that had befallen her since she was cast into prison as a would-be murderess. Walter, too, had told the tale of his misery when he returned to his apartments, his discovery of what had been her fate, his instant departure for this stricken city, and the encounter with Desparre. "He here!" she had exclaimed, almost affrighted at the thought, in spite of her husband's statement that, even though Desparre should not be struck for death, he still was harmless for further injury, "what could have brought him here? What!" That Walter could not answer this question is certain; but that he could divine how, in some way, Desparre must have learnt who and what the woman was whom he had condemned to such fiendish punishment, he felt assured. But he had vowed to himself that this fact should never be made known to Laure; she must never learn that it was from her own father's hand that the blow had fallen which consigned her to the horrors of the past months. There was only one man who, if he were still alive, could tell her now--since he was resolved that Desparre should never again stand in her presence, nor be face to face with her--only one, Vandecque. But it was not likely that Laure and he would ever meet again. Had not the beggar, the miserable, shrinking wretch whom he had saved from a beating in Paris, and who had informed him of all, told him, too, that Desparre had made sure of Vandecque and had silenced him for ever? No more was it likely that she and that scoundrel would meet again than that she and Desparre would do so. In the now swift-coming twilight of the summer evening they heard the voices of women in the street below, and he, looking out inquiringly, learned that they proceeded from her fellow-sufferers who were returning to this house for the night. It was the time at which Marion had told her that, according to what the man who had brought them to this house had said, they would be released from their duties in the streets. Of Marion herself they had long since spoken when Walter came to that part of his narrative wherein he narrated how he had found Laure out, and had been able to reach her through this woman's assistance; while his wife had described the other as one who had been her saviour and guardian, one to whom she owed the fact that she was still alive. And again they spoke of her, wondering how soon it would be ere she returned. "She is an angel of goodness," Laure said, "turbulent as her life has been. Oh, Walter, Walter, I can never part from her. She must stay with me always." "Always," he answered; "always. If her life can be made happy, I will make it so out of my deep gratitude for all that she has done for you. If she will come with us her happiness shall be for ever assured." "You will tell her so when she comes back to me? Now, at once, when next she enters this room? You will not let her think, Walter--not for one moment--that--that my new-found happiness shall bring misery in its train for her?" "At once I will tell her." As he spoke, the women were coming up the stairs, heavily, dully, gripping the balustrades as they did so; thanking God that, as yet, not one of them seemed to be affected by the horrible contagion they had been amongst. Thanking God, also, that there was another long night of rest before them in which they could sleep soundly. "Where?" asked Laure, leaving her husband alone in the vast saloon, and going out on the landing as she heard the footsteps of the last woman receding as she mounted to the floor on which the others had slept the night before, "where is Marion? Has she not returned with you all?" "Nay, I know not," said one, who had also received much help from the strong Southern woman whom they had come to regard as their leader. "I know not. We have all been together, excepting her alone. Is she not back?" But as she asked the question and before Laure could answer it, another woman who had mounted higher than the other looked over the balustrade rail, and calling down, said: "She is attending a convict who has been struck; who is, a monk said, doomed. He fell in the Flower Market, writhing. One who was engaged in walling up the doors of the infected houses. I saw her half-an-hour ago." Then descending a few steps of the stairs, so that now she stood but little above where Laure was, she continued: "The man wanders in his mind. He told Marion that your husband had come here to seek for you in Marseilles; that he knew him; that he had seen and recognised him." "My husband has come here!--it is true--and has found me God be praised," while, as she spoke, there was a look of such supreme happiness in her eyes, on her whole face, that the other women could not withdraw their gaze from her. "He has found me. Yet, how can this stricken man, this galley slave, know him?" "He says he does; and avers that it is so. He says, too, he must see him ere he dies." Then, because the woman was one who was more righteously sentenced to deportation than most who had toiled in her company from Paris to Marseilles, she having been a thief and a receiver of stolen goods for many years in the Capital, she lowered her voice as she said: "If he is here, best bid him go see the dying man. He may know of hidden goods, of appropriated treasure securely put away, of wealth easily to be acquired. Tell your husband, if he is in truth his friend, if he has any such a friend----" "My husband the friend of such as that!" Laure exclaimed. "God forbid! He is an honest man! A gentleman!" "All our husbands are!" the woman exclaimed with a grimace. "We can all say that! Yet they cannot preserve us from such a fate as this!" and she turned and recommenced the ascent of the stairs. Relating this to Walter when she returned to the saloon, Laure perceived that the information the woman had given her was surprising to him. "A dying convict!" he exclaimed, "who knows and recognises me! Impossible. I know none. Yet," he continued, "it may be some man whom I have met in the past. My own countrymen have found their way to the galleys ere now. I will go." "For God's sake beware of what you do," Laure whispered. "Put yourself in no danger of this infection. Oh! Walter, if--if I lost you now that you have come back to me, my heart would break." CHAPTER XXX "IF AFTER EVERY TEMPEST COME SUCH CALMS!" The darkness of the night was over the city as Walter Clarges went forth; a darkness that was almost weird and unearthly in that gloomy street--far down at the other end of which could be seen the lurid flames of the braziers burning. A weird and ghastly blending of sullen flames, of gloaming and of night, through which no living creature passed and in which one dead woman lay huddled up against the kerb, neglected, unheeded. And, from above, the southern stars looked down from their sapphire vault, they twinkling as clear and white as though the city slumbered peacefully beneath them and all was well with it. Meditating upon whom the unhappy man might be who had asked for him while adding that he knew him, that he desired to see him ere he died, Walter went on to where the braziers flared; went on, yet with his thoughts also occupied with many other things besides this dying galley slave. He went on with his heart beating with happiness. He had found her--his life! his soul! the woman of his heart! Found her! Found her alive! Thank God! Now--now--so soon as any vessel could be discovered that would take them away from this stricken spot--no matter though he paid half of his newly-inherited fortune to obtain the use of it--now, they would be happy and always together. He would bear her to England--his peace was made with the Government, henceforth he was a subject of the new dynasty. He had paid that much for the right to retrieve his wife if she should be still alive; there, in England, health should come back to her body, beauty to her face. In the pure, cool breezes of the northern home which had been that of the Westovers for so long, she would gain strength, recover fast. When he entered George's throne-room to personally testify his adherence to a House which, for years, he and his had opposed with all their power, one thing should at least be beyond denial. All should acknowledge that the woman who leant upon his arm was fair enough to excuse a thousand apostacies and that the determination to save the life of one so beautiful as she, and this beautiful one his wife, justified him in what he had done. The braziers still burned and flared fiercely as he drew near them; through the night air the aromatic odours of pine and thyme, of vinegar and pitch, were diffused: around those braziers the sufferers lay--some dead, some dying. Asking his way to the Flower Market, and being directed thereto, Walter went on until at last he reached the place; a little open Square surrounded on all sides by tall, grey houses, from the windows of which no light from candle or taper gleamed forth. Like all others in the stricken city these houses were deserted, the inhabitants either having fled or, if remaining, being dead within their own walls. But there was light in the close, stuffy Square itself. Placed on the lumber of the stalls around the open market were pots and pans of burning disinfectants that cast flickering shadows upon everything near them; upon, too, a little group of persons gathered in the middle of the spot where once the Provence roses and the great luscious-scented lilies of the south, and the crimson fuchsias, had been sold in handfuls by the flower-girls. Now, in their place, there lay a man dying, Not in agony, as many had died who had been stricken by the pest, but, instead calmly, insensibly. A man old and grizzly; yet, looking, perhaps, older than he actually was; white as marble, his lips grey, and, upon his chin and cheeks, a white rim of unshaven beard of three or four days' growth. By his side stood a monk muttering prayers and heedless as to whether the plague struck him or not; at his other side knelt the dark woman who had directed Walter to where he should find his wife--the woman whom he had thought cold and dead of heart, yet whom he now knew to have been Laure's friend and comforter. She was engaged in moistening the dying man's lips with spirits, and in wiping the dank dews of death from off his face, as Walter drew near. "God bless you," he said, touching her brown hand with his as he came to her side. "God bless you. She has told me; I know all. God bless you." Yet, even as he spoke to her, he wondered why she drew her hand hurriedly away from his, and why, in the flicker of the flames around, her dark eyes seemed to cast an almost baleful glance at him. "My son," the monk said, gazing at the stranger while thinking, perhaps, how good it was to see one so strong and healthy-looking amidst all the surrounding disease. "My son, is it you for whom he waits? But now, ten minutes past, he was sensible and averred he could not die until he saw him for whom he looked. Knowing him to be here, in Marseilles. Is it you?" "It is I, holy father," Walter answered. "Yet, how should he know me? Let me come nearer and observe him." He passed thereupon to the front of the dying man, so that thus he might regard his face, while heeding however, the monk's injunction not to put his own face too near the other's, and to envelope his nostrils and mouth with a cloth which he handed him. Then, this done--Walter remembering his new-found wife at the moment, and how he must preserve his life for her sake--he bent over a little nearer and gazed at the livid features beneath him. At first he did not know the man. How should he? The now bristling face had, when he last saw it, been ever scrupulously shaved; upon the head, where now was only close-cropped grey hair, there had been a tye-wig of irreproachable neatness; dark clothes of the best material and cut had been the adornment of this dying man who, to-night, lay prostrate in the hideous garments of the galleys. How should he know him! Hardly might he have known his own father had he met him thus similarly transformed. Then, suddenly, the man opened his eyes--and he recognised him! "Merciful God!" he exclaimed. "It is Vandecque." "Vandecque!" a voice hissed close to his ear, a voice he would scarcely have recognised as that of the southern woman, he had not seen her lips move. "Vandecque! the betrayer of Laure! Heaven destroy him!" while, as she spoke, her hand stole to her breast, opening her dress as it did so. "Be still," he said sternly; "be still. What! Is not the heaven you have invoked about to punish him? Let go whatever your hand holds." Yet, as he spoke, he recognised how great and strong had been this woman's love for Laure when it could prompt her even now, at the man's last hour, to desire to slay him. Then Vandecque began to mutter; his eyes being fixed upon Walter with the dull and filmy look which the dying ever have. "I," he whispered, "I--loved her. The little child--that--that--wound itself around my heart. She had been--wronged--by those of his--that devil's own order. I would have made her prosperous--rich--one of that order. A patrician instead of an outcast. I loved her. You thwarted me. Therefore I helped him--to--slay you, as I thought." He closed his eyes now and those around him thought that he was gone, while the monk began the prayers for the dying. Yet, in a moment, he spoke again. "Save her--save--her. If she still lives." "She lives," Walter said. "She is saved. By the woman at your side." "All--is--therefore--well." Vandecque gasped. "All--all. And--listen--listen. You spared that monster--Desparre--last night. Fool! Yet--I was there to--finish the work." "To finish the work! You! You slew him! He is dead!" "Ay. Dead! Dead! And--" writhing as he spoke and with his agony upon him, his last moment at hand. His lips were white now, not grey; his eyelids were but two slits through which the glazed eyes peered. "Dead--and _buried!_" Then the monk's voice alone uprose, reciting the prayers for a passing soul. * * * * * * The Mediterranean sparkling beneath the warm sun of the early autumn sky; the blue waves lapping gently the sides of a French bilander which, with all sail set on both her masts, is running swiftly before a northern breeze past Cape de Gata towards Gibraltar. A northern breeze with a touch of the west in it, that comes cool and fresh from off the Sierra Nevada mountains and brings life and health and strength in its breath. Towards Gibraltar the vessel goes on, its course to be set later due north for the tumbling Bay, and then, at last, to England--to happiness and content. To obtain that bilander, to find seamen fit to work it, and to assure the owner of his payment when once she should reach our shores (a payment of a thousand louis d'ors being made for the voyage!) had been no easy task for Walter Clarges, who now took his title openly; yet, at last, it had been done. In Marseilles it was impossible; there was no sailor to be discovered fit and strong enough to do so much as to haul upon a halliard, while, in Toulon it was no better; but, at last, at Istres in the mouth of the Rhone, to which they proceeded in an open boat, the ship had been found and their escape from all the tainted neighbourhood around assured. They were free! Free of the poisoned South, free at last. And now Lord Westover walked the deck of the rolling, pitching craft, saying a word here and there to the rough sailor from Aude, who was the master; another, now and again, to the dark-eyed woman who sat by the taffrail beneath the swing of the after-sheet; and going next to a cabin upon the deck and peering in through the window while speaking to his wife within. At first it had been hard to persuade that dark-eyed woman to accompany them, to induce her to throw in her lot with theirs and bid farewell to the land in which she had sinned and suffered. For she was, indeed, almost distraught at the thought that never more would she struggle and toil for the woman she had come to love so dearly; that, henceforth, no sacrifice on her part was needed. "Go back to her," she said to Walter after Vandecque had breathed his last, while, since there was nothing else that could be done in a place so encumbered with the dead as Marseilles was, they had left the dead man lying where he died. "Go back to her. She needs you now. Not me. Return to her," and, as she spoke, she cast herself down near the market place as though about to sleep there. "And you--Marion?" Walter said softly. "You! What of you? You will come with me?" "She wants me no longer. She has you." "She needs you ever. You must never part. What shall become of her without you; what will your life be in the future if you have no longer her to tend and care for?" "My life! My life!" she cried with an upward glance at him from where she had thrown herself down. "What matters that! Every wreck is broken to pieces at last. So shall I be." Yet still he pleaded, repeating all that Laure had that day said of her and telling of how she had declared that she could never go away unless Marion came too; and, finally, he won. He won so far that, at last, she consented to return to Laure, even though it were but to say farewell to her and then go forth into oblivion for ever. Yet now she was in the bilander with them, on her way to England to pass the rest of her life in peace. How could she have refused--how!--when the girl wept tears of joy in her arms and murmured that, since she had her husband and Marion by her side, she asked for nothing else? And so the ship went on and on, bearing those in her to freedom and to peace. To a peace and contentment that Laure had never dreamed could come to her again; to a happiness which once Walter Clarges had never dared to hope should at last be his. FOOTNOTES [Footnote 1: This street served as the Bourse of the period.] [Footnote 2: "Archers" were servants of the Provost Marshals and of a position between gendarmes and policemen, but in the service of the prisons. "Exempts" were a kind of Sheriff's officer.] [Footnote 3: A slang name for the scaffold.] [Footnote 4: The total number of deaths in Provence was finally estimated to be 148,000. Aix and Toulon suffered the worst after Marseilles.] THE END PRINTED BY TURNBULL AND SPEARS, EDINBURGH 
13183	----	In the Days of Chivalry A Tale of the Times of the Black Prince by Evelyn Everett-Green. CHAPTER I. THE TWIN EAGLETS. Autumn was upon the world -- the warm and gorgeous autumn of the south -- autumn that turned the leaves upon the trees to every hue of russet, scarlet, and gold, that transformed the dark solemn aisles of the trackless forests of Gascony into what might well have been palaces of fairy beauty, and covered the ground with a thick and soundless carpet of almost every hue of the rainbow. The sun still retained much of its heat and power, and came slanting in between the huge trunks of the forest trees in broad shafts of quivering light. Overhead the soft wind from the west made a ceaseless, dreamy music and here and there the solemn silence of the forest was broken by the sweet note of some singing bird or the harsh croak of the raven. At night the savage cry of the wolf too often disturbed the rest of the scattered dwellers in that vast forest, and made a belated traveller look well to the sharpness of his weapons and the temper of his bowstring; but by day and in the sunlight the forest was beautiful and quiet enough -- something too quiet, perhaps, for the taste of the two handsome lads who were pacing the dim aisles together, their arms entwined and their curly heads in close proximity as they walked and talked. The two lads were of exactly the same height, and bore a strong likeness one to the other. Their features were almost identical, but the colouring was different, so that no one who saw them in a good light would be likely to mistake or confuse them. Both had the oval face and delicate regular features which we English sometimes call "foreign-looking;" but then again they both possessed the broad shoulders, the noble height, the erect carriage, and frank, fearless bearing which has in it something distinctively English, and which had distinguished these lads from their infancy from the children of the country of their adoption. Then, though Raymond had the dark, liquid eyes of the south, Gaston's were as blue as the summer skies; and again, whilst Gaston's cheek was of a swarthy hue, Raymond's was as fair as that of an English maiden; and both had some golden gleams in their curly brown hair --- hair that clustered round their heads in a thick, waving mass, and gave a leonine look to the bold, eager faces. "The lion cubs" had been one of the many nicknames given to the brothers by the people round, who loved them, yet felt that they would not always keep them in their quiet forest. "The twin eaglets" was another such name; and truly there was something of the keen wildness of the eagle's eye in the flashing blue eyes of Gaston. The eager, delicate features and the slightly aquiline noses of the pair added, perhaps, to this resemblance; and there had been many whispers of late to the effect that the eaglets would not remain long in the nest now, but would spread their wings for a wider flight. Born and bred though they had been at the mill in the great forest that covered almost the whole of the district of Sauveterre, they were no true children of the mill. What had scions of the great house of the De Brocas to do with a humble miller of Gascony? The boys were true sons of their house -- grafts of the parent stock. The Gascon peasants looked at them with pride, and murmured that the day would come when they would show the world the mettle of which they were made. Those were stirring times for Gascony -- when Gascony was a fief of the English Crown, sorely coveted by the French monarch, but tenaciously held on to by the "Roy Outremer," as the great Edward was called; the King who, as was rumoured, was claiming as his own the whole realm of France. And Gascony, it must be remembered, did not in those days hold herself to be a part of France nor a part of the French monarchy. She held a much more important place than she would have done had she been a mere fief of the French Crown. She had a certain independence of her own -- her own language, her own laws, her own customs and she saw no humiliation in owning the sovereignty of England's King, since she bad passed under English rule through no act of conquest or aggression on England's part, but by the peaceful fashion of marriage, when nearly two centuries ago Eleanor of Aquitaine had brought to her lord, King Henry the Second, the fair lands of which Gascony formed a part. Gascony had grown and flourished apace since then, and was rich, prosperous, and content. Her lords knew how important she might be in days to come, when the inevitable struggle between the rival Kings of France and England should commence; and like an accomplished coquette, she made the most of her knowledge, and played her part well, watching her opportunity for demanding an increase of those rights and privileges of which she had not a few already. But it was not of their country's position that the twin brothers were so eagerly talking as they wandered together along the woodland paths. It was little indeed that they knew of what was passing in the wide world that lay beyond their peaceful home, little that they heard of the strife of party or the suspicious jealousy of two powerful monarchs -- jealousy which must, as all long-sighted men well knew, break into open warfare before long. It was of matters nearer to their own hearts that the brothers spoke as they sauntered through the woodland paths together; and Gaston's blue eyes flashed fire as he paused and tossed back the tangled curls from his broad brow. "It is our birthright -- our land, our castle. Do they not all say that in old days it was a De Brocas, not a Navailles, that ruled there? Father Anselm hath told us a thousand times how the English King issued mandate after mandate bidding him give up his ill-gotten gains, and restore the lands of his rival; and yet he failed to do it. I trow had I been in the place of our grandsire, I would not so tamely have sat down beneath so great an affront. I would have fought to the last drop of my blood to enforce my rights, and win back my lost inheritance Brother, why should not thou and I do that one day? Canst thou be content for ever with this tame life with honest Jean and Margot at the mill? Are we the sons of peasants? Does their blood run in our veins? Raymond, thou art as old as I -- thou hast lived as long. Canst thou remember our dead mother? Canst thou remember her last charge to us?" Raymond had nodded his head at the first question; he nodded it again now, a glance of strange eagerness stealing into his dark eyes. Although the two youths wore the dress of peasant boys -- suits of undyed homespun only very slightly finer in make than was common in those parts -- they spoke the English tongue, and spoke it with purity and ease. It needed no trained eye to see that it was something more than peasant blood that ran in their veins, albeit the peasant race of Gascony in those days was perhaps the freest, the finest, the most independent in the whole civilized world. "I remember well," answered Raymond quickly; "nay, what then?" "What then? Spoke she not of a lost heritage which it behoved us to recover? Spoke she not of rights which the sons of the De Brocas had power to claim -- rights which the great Roy Outremer had given to them, and which it was for them to win back when the time should come? Dost thou remember? dost thou heed? And now that we are approaching to man's estate, shall we not think of these things? Shall we not be ready when the time comes?" Raymond gave a quick look at his brother. His own eyes were full of eager light, but he hesitated a moment before asking: "And thinkest thou, Gaston, that in speaking thus our mother would fain have had us strive to recover the castle and domain of Saut?" "In good sooth yea," answered Gaston quickly. "Was it not reft from our grandsire by force? Has it not been kept from him ever since by that hostile brood of Navailles, whom all men hate for their cruelty and oppression? Brother, have we not heard of dark and hideous deeds done in that same castle -- deeds that shame the very manhood of those that commit them, and make all honest folk curse them in their hearts? Raymond, thou and I have longed this many a day to sally forth to fight for the Holy Sepulchre against the Saracens; yet have we not a crusade here at home that calls us yet more nearly? Hast thou not thought of it, too, by day, and dreamed of it by night? To plant the De Brocas ensign above the walls of Saut -- that would indeed be a thing to live for. Methinks I see the banner already waving over the proud battlements." Gaston's eyes flashed and glowed, and Raymond's caught an answering gleam, but still he hesitated awhile, and then said: "I fain would think that some day such a thing might be; but, Brother, he is a powerful and wily noble, and they say that he is high in favour with the Roy Outremer. What chance have two striplings like ourselves against so strong a foe? To take a castle, men must be found, and money likewise, and we have neither; and all men stand in deadly terror of the wrath of the Sieur de Navailles. Do they not keep even our name a secret from him, lest he should swoop down upon the mill with his armed retainers and carry us off thence -- so hates he the whole family that bears the name of De Brocas? What could we do against power such as his? I trow nothing. We should be but as pygmies before a giant." Gaston's face had darkened. He could not gainsay his brother's reluctant words, but he chafed beneath them as a restive horse beneath the curb rein tightly drawn. "Yet our mother bid us watch and be ready. She spoke often of our lost inheritance, and she knew all the peril, the danger." Raymond's eyes sought his brother's face. He looked like one striving to recall a dim and almost lost memory. "But thinkest thou, Gaston, that in thus speaking our mother was thinking of the strong fortress of Saut? I can scarce believe that she would call that our birthright. For we are not of the eldest branch of our house. There must be many whose title would prove far better than our own. We might perchance win it back to the house of De Brocas by act of conquest; but even so, I misdoubt me if we should hold it in peace. We have proud kinsfolk in England, they tell us, whose claim, doubtless, would rank before ours. They care not to cross the water to win back the lands themselves, yet I trow they would put their claim before the King did tidings reach them that their strong and wily foe had been ousted therefrom. We win not back lands for others to hold, nor would we willingly war against our own kindred. Methinks, my Brother, that our mother had other thoughts in her mind when she spoke of our rightful inheritance." "Other thoughts! nay, now, what other thoughts?" asked Gaston, with quick impatience. "I have never dreamed but of Saut. I have called it in my thoughts our birthright ever since we could walk far enow to look upon its frowning battlements perched upon yon wooded crag." And Gaston stretched out his hand in the direction in which the Castle of Saut lay, not many leagues distant. "We have heard naught save of Saut ever since we could run alone. What but that could our mother's words have boded? Sure she looked to us to recover yon fortress as our father once meant to do?" "I know not altogether, and yet I can scarce believe it was so. Would that our father had left some commands we might have followed. But, Brother, canst thou not recall that other name she spoke so many a time and oft as she lay a-dying? Sure it was some such name as Basildon or Basildene -- the name of some fair spot, I trow, where she must once have lived. Gaston, canst thou remember the day when she called us to her, and joined our hands together, and spoke of us as 'the twin brothers of Basildene'? I have scarce thought of it from that hour to this, but it comes back now clearly to my mind. In sooth, it might well have been of Basildene she was thinking when she gave us that last charge. What could she have known or cared for Saut and its domain? She had fled hither from England, I know not why. She knew but little of the ways and the thoughts of those amongst whom she had come to dwell. It might well have been of her own land that she was thinking so oft. I verily believe that Basildene is our lost inheritance." "Basildene!" said Gaston quickly, with a start as of recollection suddenly stirred to life; "sure I remember the name right well now that thy words bring it back to mind. Yet it is years since I have heard it spoke. Raymond, knowest thou where is this Basildene?" "In England, I well believe," was the answer of the other brother. "Methinks it was the name of our mother's home. I seem to remember how she told us of it -- the old house over the sea, where she had lived. Perchance it was once her own in very sooth, and some turbulent baron or jealous kinsman drove her forth from it, even as we of the house of De Brocas have been ousted from the Castle of Saut. Brother, if that be so, Basildene is more our inheritance than yon gloomy fortress can be. We are our mother's only children, and when she joined our hands together she called us the twins of Basildene. I trow that we have an inheritance of our very own, Gaston, away over the blue water yonder." Gaston's eyes flashed with sudden ardour and purpose. Often of late had the twins talked together of the future that lay before them, of the doughty deeds they would accomplish; yet so far nothing of definite purpose had entered into their minds. Gaston's dreams had been all of the ancient fortress of Saut, now for long years passed into the hands of the hostile family, the terrible and redoubtable Sieur de Navailles, who was feared throughout the length and breadth of the country round about his house. Raymond had been dimly conscious of other thoughts and purposes, but memory was only gradually recalling to his mind the half-forgotten days of childhood, when the twin eaglets had stood at their mother's knee to talk with her in her own tongue of the land across the water where was her home -- the land to which their father had lately passed, upon some mission the children were too young to understand. Now the faint dim memories had returned clear and strong. The long silence was broken. Eagerly the boys strove to recall the past, and bit by bit things pieced themselves together in their minds till they could not but marvel how they had so long forgotten. Yet it is often so in youth. Days pass by one after the other unnoticed and unmarked. Then all in a moment some new train of thought or purpose is awakened, a new element enters life, making it from that day something different; and by a single bound the child becomes a youth -- the youth a man. Some such change as this was passing over the twin brothers at this time. A deep-seated dissatisfaction with their present surroundings had long been growing up in their hearts. They were happy in a fashion in the humble home at the mill, with good Jean the miller, and Margot his wife who had been their nurse and a second mother to them all their lives; but they knew that a great gulf divided them from the Gascon peasants amongst whom they lived -- a gulf recognized by all those with whom they came in contact, and in nowise bridged by the fact that the brothers shared in a measure the simple peasant life, and had known no other. Their very name of De Brocas spoke of the race of nobles who had long held almost sovereign rights over a large tract of country watered by the Adour and its many tributary streams; and although at this time, the year of grace 1342, the name of De Brocas was no more heard, but that of the proud Sieur de Navailles who now reigned there instead, the old name was loved and revered amongst the people, and the boys were bred up in all the traditions of their race, till the eagle nature at last asserted itself, and they felt that life could no longer go on in its old accustomed groove. Had they not been taught from infancy that a great future lay before them? and what could that future be but the winning back of their old ancestral lands and rights? Perhaps they would have spoken more of this deeply-seated hope had it not been so very chimerical -- so apparently impossible of present fulfilment. To wrest from the proud and haughty Sieur de Navailles the vast territory and strong castle that had been held by him in open defiance of many mandates from a powerful King, was a task that even the sanguine and ambitious boys knew to be a hundred times too hard for them. If they had dreamed of it in their hearts, they had scarce named the hope even to each other. But today the brooding silence had been broken. The twins had taken counsel one with the other; and now burning thoughts of this other fair inheritance were in the minds of both. What golden possibilities did not open out before them? How small a matter it seemed to cross the ocean and claim as their own that unknown Basildene! Both were certain that their mother had held it in her own right. Sure, if there were right or justice in the kingdom of the Roy Outremer, they would but have to show who and what they were, to become in very fact what their mother had loved to call them -- the twin brothers of Basildene. How their young hearts swelled with delighted expectation at the thought of leaving behind the narrow life of the mill, and going forth into the wide world to seek fame and fortune there! And England was no such foreign land to them, albeit they had never been above ten leagues from the mill where they had been born and brought up. Was not their mother an Englishwoman? Had she not taught them the language of her country, and begged them never to forget it? And could they not speak it now as well as they spoke the language of Gascony -- better than they spoke the French of the great realm to which Gascony in a fashion belonged? The thought of travel always brings with it a certain exhilaration, especially to the young and ardent, and thoughts of such a journey on such a quest could not but be tinged with all the rainbow hues of hope. "We will go; we will go right soon!" cried Gaston. "Would that we could go tomorrow! Why have we lingered here so long, when we might have been up and doing years ago?" "Nay, Brother, we were but children years ago. We are not yet sixteen. Yet methinks our manhood comes the faster to us for that noble blood runs in our veins. But we will speak to Father Anselm. He has always been our kindest friend. He will best counsel us whether to go forth, or whether to tarry yet longer at home --" "I will tarry no longer; I pant to burst my bonds," cried the impetuous Gaston; and Raymond was in no whit less eager, albeit he had something more of his mother's prudence and self-restraint. "Methinks the holy Father will bid us go forth," he said thoughtfully. "He has oft spoken to us of England and the Roy Outremer, and has ever bidden us speak our mother's tongue, and not forget it here in these parts where no man else speaks it. I trow he has foreseen the day when we should go thither to claim our birthright. Our mother told him many things that we were too young to hear. Perchance he could tell us more of Basildene than she ever did, if we go to him and question him thereupon." Gaston nodded his head several times. "Thou speakest sooth, Brother," said he. "We will go to him forthwith. We will take counsel with him, albeit --" Gaston did not finish his sentence, for two reasons. One was that his brother knew so well what words were on his lips that speech was well-nigh needless; the other, that he was at that moment rudely interrupted. And although the brothers had no such thought at the time, it is probable that this interruption and its consequences had a very distinct bearing upon their after lives, and certainly it produced a marked effect upon the counsel they subsequently received from their spiritual father, who, but for that episode, might strongly have dissuaded the youths from going forth so young into the world. The interruption came in the form of an angry hail from a loud and gruff voice, full of impatience and resentment. "Out of my path, ye base-born peasants!" shouted a horseman who had just rounded the sharp angle taken by the narrow bridle path, and was brought almost to a standstill by the tall figures of the two stalwart youths, which took up the whole of the open way between the trees and their thick undergrowth. "Stand aside, ye idle loons! Know ye not how to make way for your betters? Then, in sooth, I will teach you a lesson;" and a thick hide lash came whirling through the air and almost lighted upon the shoulders of Gaston, who chanced to be the nearer. But such an insult as that was not to be borne. Even a Gascon peasant might well have sprung upon a solitary adversary of noble blood had he ventured to assault him thus, without support from his train of followers. As for Gaston, he hesitated not an instant, but with flashing eyes he sprang at the right arm of his powerful adversary, and had wrested the whip from him and tossed it far away before the words were well out of the angry lord's mouth. With a great oath the man drew his sword; but the youth laughed him to scorn as he stepped back out of reach of the formidable weapon. He well knew his advantage. Light of foot, though all unarmed, he could defy any horseman in this wooded spot. No horse could penetrate to the right or left of the narrow track. Even if the knight dismounted, the twin brothers, who knew every turn and winding of these dim forest paths, could lead him a fine dance, and then break away and let him find his way out as best he could. Fearless and impetuous as Gaston ever was, at this moment his fierce spirit was stirred more deeply within him than it had ever been before, for in this powerful warrior who had dared to insult both him and his brother, ay, and their mother's fair fame too -- he recognized the lineaments of the hated Sieur de Navailles. The more cautious Raymond had done the same, and now he spoke in low though urgent accents. "Have a care, Brother! Knowest thou who it be?" "Know? ay, that I do. It is he who now holds by force and tyranny those fair lands which should be ours -- lands which our forefathers held from generation to generation, which should be theirs now, were right and justice to be had, as one day it may be, when the Roy Outremer comes in person, as men say he will one day come, and all men may have access to his royal presence. And he, the tyrant, the usurper, dares to call us base born, to call us peasants, we who own a nobler name than he! "The day will come, proud man, when thou shalt rue the hour when thou spakest thus to me -- to me who am thy equal, ay, and more than thy equal, in birth, and who will some day come and prove it to thee at the sword's point!" Many expressions had flitted over the rider's face as these bold words had been spoken -- anger, astonishment, then an unspeakable fury, which made Gaston look well to the hand which held the shining sword; last of all an immense astonishment of a new kind, a perplexity not unmixed with dismay, and tinged with a lively curiosity. As the youth ceased speaking the knight sheathed his sword, and when he replied his voice was pitched in a very different key. "I pray you pardon, young sirs," he said, glancing quickly from one handsome noble face to the other. "I knew not that I spoke to those of gentle birth. The dress deceived me. Tell me now, good youths, who and whence are ye? You have spoken in parables so far; tell me more plainly, what is your name and kindred?" Raymond, who had heard somewhat of the enmity of the Sieur de Navailles, and knew that their identity as sons of the house of De Brocas had always been kept from his knowledge, here pressed his brother's arm as though to suggest the necessity for caution; but Gaston's hot blood was up. The talk they had been holding together had strung his nerves to the utmost pitch of tension. He was weary of obscurity, weary of the peasant life. He cared not how soon he threw off the mask. Asked a downright question, even by a foe, it was natural to him to make a straightforward answer, and he spoke without fear and without hesitation. "We are the sons of Arnald de Brocas. De Brocas is our name; we can prove it whenever such proof becomes needful. Our fathers held these fair lands long ere you or yours did. The day may come when a De Brocas may reign here once more, and the cursed brood of Navailles be rooted out for ever." And without waiting to see the effect produced by such words upon the haughty horseman, the two brothers dashed off into the wood, and were speedily lost to sight. CHAPTER II. FATHER ANSELM. The mill of Sainte-Foi, which was the home of the twin brothers of the De Brocas line, was situated upon a tributary stream of the river Adour, and was but a couple of leagues distant from the town of Sauveterre -- one of those numerous "bastides" or "villes Anglaises" built by the great King Edward the First of England during his long regency of the province of Gascony in the lifetime of his father. It was one of those so-called "Filleules de Bordeaux" which, bound by strong ties to the royal city, the queen of the Garonne, stood by her and played so large a part in the great drama of the Hundred Years' War. Those cities had been built by a great king and statesman to do a great work, and to them were granted charters of liberties such as to attract into their walls large numbers of persons who helped originally in the construction of the new townships, and then resided there, and their children after them, proud of the rights and immunities they claimed, and loyally true to the cause of the English Kings, which made them what they were. It is plain to the reader of the history of those days that Gascony could never have remained for three hundred years a fief of the English Crown, had it not been to the advantage of her people that she should so remain. Her attachment to the cause of the Roy Outremer, her willing homage to him, would never have been given for so long a period of time, had not the people of the land found that it was to their own advancement and welfare thus to accord this homage and fealty. Nor is the cause for this advantage far to seek. Gascony was of immense value to England, and of increasing value as she lost her hold upon the more northerly portions of France. The wine trade alone was so profitable that the nobility, and even the royal family of England, traded on their own account. Bordeaux, with its magnificent harbour and vast trade, was a queen amongst maritime cities. The vast "landes" of the province made the best possible rearing ground for the chargers and cavalry horses to which England owed much of her warlike supremacy; whilst the people themselves, with their strength and independence of character, their traditions of personal and individual freedom which can be clearly traced back to the Roman occupation of the province, and their long attachment to England and her King, were the most valuable of allies; and although they must have been regarded to a certain extent as foreigners when on English soil, they still assimilated better and worked more easily with British subjects than any pure Frenchman had ever been found to do. Small wonder then that so astute a monarch as the First Edward had taken vast pains to draw closer the bond which united this fair province to England. The bold Gascons well knew that they would find no such liberties as they now enjoyed did they once put themselves beneath the rule of the French King. His country was already overgrown and almost unmanageable. He might cast covetous eyes upon Gascony, but he would not pour into it the wealth that flowed steadily from prosperous England. He would not endow it with charters, each one more liberal than the last, or bind it to his kingdom by giving it a pre-eminence that would but arouse the jealousy of its neighbours. No: the shrewd Gaseous knew that full well, and knew when they were well off. They could often obtain an increase of liberty and an enlarged charter of rights by coquetting with the French monarch, and thus rousing the fears of the English King; but they had no wish for any real change, and lived happily and prosperously beneath the rule of the Roy Outremer; and amongst all the freemen of the Gascon world, none enjoyed such full privileges as those who lived within the walls of the "villes Anglaises," of which Sauveterre was one amongst the smaller cities. The construction of these towns (now best seen in Libourne) is very simple, and almost always practically the same -- a square in the centre formed by the public buildings, with eight streets radiating from it, each guarded by a gate. An outer ditch or moat protected the wall or palisade, and the towns were thus fortified in a simple but effective manner, and guarded as much by their own privileges as by any outer bulwarks. The inhabitants were bound together by close ties, and each smaller city looked to the parent city of Bordeaux, and was proud of the title of her daughter. Sauveterre and its traditions and its communistic life were familiar enough, and had been familiar from childhood to the twin brothers. Halfway between the mill and the town stood a picturesque and scattered hamlet, and to this hamlet was attached a church, of which a pious ecclesiastic, by name Father Anselm, had charge. He was a man of much personal piety, and was greatly beloved through all the countryside, where he was known in every hut and house for leagues around the doors of his humble home. He was, as was so frequently the case in those times, the doctor and the scribe, as well as the spiritual adviser, of his entire flock; and he was so much trusted and esteemed that all men told him their affairs and asked advice, not in the confessional alone, but as one man speaking to another in whom he has strong personal confidence. The twin brothers knew that during the years when their dead mother had resided at the mill with honest Jean and Margot (they began greatly to wonder now why she had so lived in hiding and obscurity), she had been constantly visited by the holy Father, and that she had told him things about herself and her history which were probably known to no other human being beside. Brought up as the youths had been, and trained in a measure beneath the kindly eye of the priest, they would in any case have asked his counsel and blessing before taking any overt step in life; but all the more did they feel that they must speak to him now, since he was probably the only person within their reach who could tell them anything as to their own parentage and history that they did not know already. "We will go to him upon the morrow," said Gaston with flashing eyes. "We will rise with the sun -- or before it -- and go to him ere his day's work is begun. He will surely find time to talk with us when he hears the errand upon which we come. I trow now that when he has sat at our board, and has bent upon our faces those glances I have not known how to read aright, he has been wondering how long it would be ere we should awake to the knowledge that this peasant life is not the life of the De Brocas race, guessing that we should come to him for counsel and instruction ere we spread our wings to flee away. They call us eaglets in sooth; and do eaglets rest for ever in their mountain eyry? Nay, they spread their wings as strength comes upon them, and soar upwards and onwards to see for themselves the great world around; even as thou and I will soar away, Brother, and seek other fortunes than will ever be ours here in Sauveterre." With these burning feelings in their hearts, it was no wonder that the twins uttered a simultaneous exclamation of satisfaction and pleasure when, as they approached the mill, they were aware of the familiar figure of Father Anselm sitting at the open door of the living house, engaged, as it seemed, in an animated discussion with the worthy miller and his good wife. The look which the Father bent upon the two youths as they approached betrayed a very deep and sincere affection for them; and when after supper they asked to speak with him in private, he readily acceded to their request, accepting the offer of a bed from the miller's wife, as already the sun had long set, and his own home was some distance away. The faces of Jean and Margot were grave with anxious thought, and that of the priest seemed to reflect something of the same expression; for during the course of the simple meal which all had shared together, Gaston had told of the unlooked-for encounter with the proud Sieur de Navailles in the forest, and of the defiance he had met with from the twin eaglets. As the good miller and his wife heard how Gaston had openly declared his name and race to the implacable foe of his house, they wrung their hands together and uttered many lamentable exclamations. The present Lord of Saut was terribly feared throughout the neighbourhood in which he dwelt. His fierce and cruel temper had broken forth again and again in acts of brutality or oppression from which there was practically no redress. Free as the Gascon peasant was from much or the serfdom and feudal servitude of other lands, he was in some ways worse off than the serf, when he chanced to have roused the anger of some great man of the neighbourhood. The power of the nobles and barons -- the irresponsible power they too often held -- was one of the crying evils of the age, one which was being gradually extinguished by the growing independence of the middle classes. But such changes were slow of growth, and long in penetrating beyond great centres; and it was a terrible thing for a brace of lads, unprotected and powerless as these twin brothers, to have brought upon themselves the hostility and perchance the jealousy of a man like the Sieur de Navailles. If he wished to discover their hiding place, he would have small difficulty in doing so; and let him but once find that out, and the lives of the boys would not be safe either by night or day. The retainers of the proud baron might swoop down at any moment upon the peaceful mill, and carry off the prey without let or hindrance; and this was why the secret of their birth and name had been so jealously kept from all (save a few who loved the house of De Brocas) by the devoted miller and his wife. But Gaston little recked of the threatened peril. The fearless nature of his race was in him, and he would have scorned himself had he failed to speak out boldly when questioned by the haughty foe of his house. If the De Brocas had been ruined in all else, they had their fearless honour left them still. But the priest's face was grave as he let the boys lead him into the narrow bedchamber where they slept -- a room bare indeed of such things as our eyes would seek, but which for the times was commodious and comfortable enough. He was pondering in his mind what step must now be taken, for it seemed to him as though the place of safety in the mill in which their mother had left her sons could hide them no longer. Go they must, of that he felt well assured; but where? That was a question less easily answered offhand. "Father," began Gaston eagerly, so soon as the door had closed behind the three, and Raymond had coaxed the dim taper into its feeble flicker -- "Father, we have come to thee for counsel -- for help. Father, chide us not, nor call us ingrate; but it has come to this with us -- we can no longer brook this tame and idle life. We are not of the peasant stock; why must we live the peasant life? Father, we long to be up and doing -- to spread our wings for a wider flight. We know that those who bear our name are not hiding their heads in lowly cots; we know that our sires have been soldiers and statesmen in the days that are past. Are we then to hide our heads here till the snows of age gather upon them? Are we, of all our race, to live and die obscure, unknown? Father, we cannot stand it; it shall not be! To thee we come to ask more of ourselves than yet we know. To thee our mother commended us in her last moments; to thee she bid us look in days to come when we needed guidance and help. Wherefore to thee we have come now, when we feel that there must surely be an end to all of this. Tell us, Father, of our sire; tell us of our kinsfolk. Where be they? Where may we seek them? I trow thou knowest all. Then tell us, I beseech thee tell us freely all there is to know." The good priest raised his eyes and thoughtfully scanned the faces of the two eager youths. Gaston was actually shivering with repressed excitement; Raymond was more calm, but not, as it seemed, one whit less interested. What a strong and manly pair they looked! The priest's eyes lighted with pride as they rested on the stalwart figures and noble faces. It was hard to believe that these youths were not quite sixteen, though man's estate was then accounted reached at an age which we should call marvellously immature in these more modern days. "My children," said the good old man, speaking slowly and with no small feeling, "I have long looked for this day to come -- the day when ye twain should stand thus before me and put this selfsame question." "You have looked for it!" said Gaston eagerly; "then, in very sooth, there is something to tell?" "Yes, my children, there is a long story to tell; and it seemeth to me, even as it doth to you, that the time has now come to tell it. This day has marked an era in your lives. Methinks that from this night your childhood will pass for ever away, and the life of your manhood commence. May the Holy Mother of God, the Blessed Saints, and our gracious Saviour Himself watch over and guard you in all the perils and dangers of the life that lies before you!" So solemn were the tones of the Father that the boys involuntarily sank upon their knees, making the sign of the Cross as they did so. The priest breathed a blessing over the two, and when they had risen to their feet, he made them sit one on each side of him upon the narrow pallet bed. "The story is something long -- the story which will tell ye twain who and what ye are, and why ye have been thus exiled and forced to dwell obscure in this humble home; but I will tell all I know, and ye will then see something of the cause. "My children, ye know that ye have a noble name -- that ye belong to the house of De Brocas, which was once so powerful and great in these fair lands around this home of yours. I wot that ye know already some thing of the history of your house, how that it was high in favour with the great King of England, that first Edward who so long dwelt amongst us, and made himself beloved by the people of these lands. It was in part fidelity to him that was the cause of your kinsfolk's ruin: for whilst they served him in other lands, following him across the sea when he was bidden to go thither, the treacherous foe of the house of Navailles wrested from them, little by little, all the lands they had owned here, and not even the many mandates from the Roy Outremer sufficed to gain them their rights again. It might have been done had the great Edward lived; but when he died and his son mounted the throne, men found at once how weak were the hands that held the sovereign power, and the Sieur de Navailles laughed in his beard at commands he knew there was no power to enforce. But listen again, my sons; that feeble King, despite many and great faults, was not without some virtues also; and he did not forget that the house of De Brocas had ruined itself in the cause of himself and his father." "Did he do aught to show his gratitude?" "Thou shalt hear, my son. The younger Edward had not been many years upon his father's throne before a great battle was fought by him against the Scottish race his father had vanquished and subdued. These rebel subjects revolted from under his hand, and he fought with them a battle on the field of Bannockburn, in which he was overthrown and defeated, and in which your grandsire, Arnald de Brocas, lost his life, fighting gallantly for England's King." "Our grandsire?" cried both the boys in a breath. "Tell us more of him." "It is little that I know, my children, save what I have just said. He served the King faithfully in life and death, and his sons reaped some reward for their father's fidelity. At first, whilst they were quite young, his three sons (of whom your father was the third) were sent to dwell with their mother's relatives -- the De Campaines of Agen, of whom, doubtless, ye have heard; but as they grew to man's estate, they were recalled to the English Court, and received offices there, as many another noble Gascon has done before them." "Have we then uncles in England?" asked Raymond eagerly. "Then, if we find but our way across the water, we may find a home with one of them? Is it not so, good Father?" The priest did not exclaim at the idea of the boys journeying forth across the seas alone, but he shook his head thoughtfully as he continued his narrative as if there had been no interruption. "The English King was not unmindful of the service done him by the father of these youths, and he promoted them to places of honour about his Court. First, they were all made serviens of his own royal person, and were brought up with his son, who is now the King; then, as I have heard, they greatly endeared themselves to the Prince by loyalty and faithful service. When he ascended the throne, and purged the Court of the false favourites from this and other lands who had done so much ill to that country, he was ably helped in the task before him by thy father and thy two uncles; and I can well believe that this was so, seeing that they were speedily advanced to posts of honour in the royal service." "What posts?" asked the eager youths. "The head of your branch of this noble house," continued the priest, "is your uncle Sir John de Brocas, who is the King's Master of the Horse, and the lord of many fair Manors and wide lands in England, and high in favour with his master. Second in the line is your uncle Master Bernard de Brocas, a clerk, and the Rector (as it is called in the realm of England) of St. Nicholas, in or near a town that is called Guildford -- if I can frame my lips aright to the strange words. He too is high in favour with the Roy Outremer, and, as I have heard, is oft employed by him in these parts to quell strife or redress grievances; but I know not how that may be. It is of thy father that I would fain speak to thee, Gaston, for thou art heir to his name and estate if thou canst make good the claim, as in time thou mayest yet. Listen whilst I tell all that I know. Thy father -- Arnald -- was the youngest of the three sons of him who died on the field of Bannockburn, and to him was given the post of Master of the Horse to Prince John of Eltham. I misdoubt me if that Prince is living yet; but of that I cannot speak with certainty. He was also valettus or serviens to the King, and might have carved out for himself as great a career as they, had it not been that he estranged himself from his kindred, and even offended the King himself, by the marriage that he made with Mistress Alice Sanghurst of Basildene." The brothers exchanged quick glances as the name passed the priest's lips. Their memory had not then played them false. "But why were they thus offended? Was not our mother rightful owner of Basildene? and is it not a fair heritage?" "The reason for the ill will, my sons, I know not. Your mother did not fully understand it, and from her lips it was I heard all this tale. Perchance some nobler alliance was wished by the family and by the King himself, perchance the young man acted something hastily, and gave umbrage that might have been spared. I know not how that may have been. All I for certainty know is that your father, Arnald, brought hither his wife, flying from some menaced peril, fearful of capture and discovery; and that here in this lonely mill, amongst those who had ever loved the name of De Brocas, the sweet lady was able to hide her head, and to find a place of safe refuge. Jean, then a youth, had been in the service of Arnald, having been seized with a love of wandering in his boyhood, which had led him to cross the sea to England, where he had fallen in with your father and attached himself to his person. The elder Jean, his father, was miller then and right glad was he to welcome back his son, and give a shelter to the lady in her hour of need. Good Margot, as you know, was your nurse when you were born; she had married Jean a short time back, and her own babe had died the very week before you came into the world. She has always loved you as her own, and though your mother was taken from you, you have never lost a mother's love. Do not forget that, my children, in the years to come; and if the time should ever be when you can requite the faithful attachment of these two honest hearts, be sure that you let not the chance slip." "We will not," answered the boys in a breath. "But the rest of your story, good Father." "You shall hear it all, my sons. It was in the year of grace 1329 that your father first brought his wife here, and in the following year you twain were born. Your father stayed till he could fold you in his arms, and bestow upon you the blessing of a father; but then his duties to his master called him to England, and for a whole long year we heard no news of him. At the end of that time a messenger arrived with despatches for his lady. She sent to ask my help in reading these; and together we made out that the letter contained a summons for her to join her lord in England, where he would meet her at the port of Southampton, into which harbour many of our vessels laden with wine put in for safe anchorage. As for the children, said the letter, she must either bring or leave them, as seemed best to her at the time; and after long and earnest debate we resolved that she should go alone, and that you should be left to good Margot's tender care. I myself escorted our gentle lady to Bordeaux, and there it was easy to find safe and commodious transport for her across the sea. She left us, and we heard no more until more than a year had passed by, and she returned to us, sorely broken down in mind and body, to tell a sorrowful tale." "Sorrowful? Had our proud uncles refused to receive her?" asked Gaston, with flashing eyes. "I trow if that be so --" But the Father silenced him by a gesture. "Wait and let me tell my tale, boy. Thou canst not judge till thou knowest all. She came back to us, and to me she told all her tale, piece by piece and bit by bit, not all at once, but as time and opportunity served. And this is what I learned. When your father summoned her back to join him, it was because her one brother was dead -- dead without leaving children behind -- and her father, now growing old, wished to see her once again, and give over to her before he died the fair domain of Basildene, which she would now inherit, but to which she had had no title when she married your father. It seemed like enow to both of them that if Arnald de Brocas could lead a well-dowered bride to his brothers' halls, all might be well between them and so it came about when the old man died, and the lady had succeeded to the lands, that he started forth to tell the news, not taking her, as the weather was inclement, and she somewhat suffering from the damp and fog which they say prevail so much in England, but faring forth alone on his embassy, trusting to come with joy to fetch her anon." "And did he not?" asked the boys eagerly. "I will tell you what chanced in his absence. You must know that your grandsire on your mother's side had a kinsman, by name Peter Sanghurst, who had long cast covetous eyes upon Basildene. He was next of kin after your mother, and he, as a male, claimed to call the property his. He had failed to make good his claim by law; but so soon as he knew your mother to be alone in the house, he came down upon it with armed retainers and drove her forth ere she well knew what had befallen; and she, not knowing whither her lord had gone, nor how to find him, and being in sore danger from the malice of the wicked man who had wrested from her the inheritance, and would gladly have done her to death, knew not what better to do than to fly back here, leaving word for her lord where she was to be found; and thus it came that ere she had been gone from us a year, she returned in more desolate plight than at the first." Gaston's face was full of fury, and Raymond's hands were clenched in an access of rage. "And what did our father then? Sure he waged war with the vile usurper, and won back our mother's lands for her! Sure a De Brocas never rested quiet under so foul an insult!" "My sons, your father had been taught patience in a hard school. He returned to Basildene, not having seen either of his brothers, who were both absent on the King's business, to find his wife fled, and the place in the firm grasp of the wily man, who well knew how to strengthen himself in the possession of ill-gotten gains. His first care was for your mother's safety, and he followed her hither before doing aught else. When he found her safe with honest Jean and Margot, and when they had taken counsel together, he returned to England to see what could be done to regain the lost inheritance and the favour of his kinsmen who had been estranged. You were babes of less than three summers when your father went away, and you never saw him more." "He did not come again?" "Nay, he came no more, for all too soon a call which no man may disobey came for him, and he died before the year was out." "And had he accomplished naught?" "So little that it must needs come to naught upon his death. He sent a trusty messenger -- one of his stout Gascon henchmen -- over to us with all needful tidings. But there was little of good to tell. He had seen his brother, Sir John, the head of the family, and had been received not unkindly by him; but in the matter of the recovery of Basildene the knight had but shaken his head, and had said that the King had too many great matters on hand just then to have leisure to consider so small a petition as the one concerning a Manor of no repute or importance. If Arnald had patience to wait, or to interest Prince John in the matter, something might in time be done; but Peter Sanghurst would strive to make good his claim by any means bad or good, and as he held possession it might be difficult indeed to oust him. The property belonged to one who had been a cause of much offence, and perchance that weighed with Sir John and made him less willing to bestir himself in the matter. But be that as it may, nothing had been done when Arnald de Brocas breathed his last; and his wife, when she heard the tale, looked at you two young children as you lay upon the grass at play, and she said with a sigh and a smile, 'Father, I will wait till my boys be grown, for what can one weak woman do alone? and then we will go together to the land that is mine by birth, and my boys shall win back for me and for themselves the lost inheritance of Basildene.'" "And so we will!" cried Gaston, with flashing eyes; "and so we will! Here as I stand I vow that we will win it back from the false and coward kinsman who holds it now." "Ay," answered Raymond, with equal ardour and enthusiasm, "that, Brother, will we do; and we will win for ourselves the name that she herself gave to us -- The Twin Brothers of Basildene." CHAPTER III. THE UNKNOWN WORLD. So that was the story of their past. That was why they two, with the blood of the De Brocas running in their veins, had lived all their past lives in the seclusion of a humble mill; why they had known nothing of their kinsfolk, albeit they had always known that they must have kindred of their own name and race; and why their mother upon her deathbed had spoken to them not of any inheritance that they might look to claim from descent through their father, but of Basildene, which was theirs in very right, as it had been hers before, till her ambitious and unscrupulous kinsman had driven her forth. And now what should they do? Whither should they go; and what should be the object of the lives -- the new lives of purpose and resolve which had awakened within them? Gaston had given voice to this feeling in vowing them to the attempt to recover their lost heritage of Basildene, and Father Anselm did not oppose either that desire or the ardent wish of the youths to fare forth into the great world alone. "My sons," he said a few days later, when he had come to see if the twins held yet to their first resolve. "You are something young as yet to sally forth into the unknown world and carve for yourselves your fortunes there; but nevertheless I trow the day has come, for this place is no longer a safe shelter for you. The Sieur de Navailles, as it is told me, is already searching for you. It cannot be long before he finds your hiding place, and then no man may call your lives safe by night or day. And not only would ye yourselves be in peril, but peril would threaten good Jean and Margot; and methinks you would be sorely loath that harm should come to them through the faithful kindness they have ever shown to you and yours." "Sooner would we die than that one hair of their head should be touched!" cried both the boys impetuously; "and Margot lives in fear and trembling ever since we told her of the words we spoke to yon tyrant and usurper of Saut. We told her for her comfort that he would think us too poor and humble and feeble to vent his rage on us; but she shook her head at that, and feared no creature hearing the name of De Brocas would be too humble to be a mark for his spite. And then we told her that we would sally forth to see the world, as we had ever longed to do and though she wept to think that we must go, she did not bid us stay. She said, as thou hast done, good Father, that she had known that such day would surely come; and though it has come something early and something suddenly, she holds that we shall be safer facing the perils of the unknown world, than living here a mark for the spite and malice of the foe of our house. If no man holds us back, why go we not forth tomorrow?" The priest's face was grave and even sorrowful, but he made no objection even to so rapid a move. "My sons, if this thing is to be, it is small use to tarry and linger. I would not that the Sieur de Navailles should know that you have hidden your heads here so long; and a secret, however faithfully kept, that belongs to many, may not be a secret always. It is right that you should go, and with the inclement winter season hard upon us, with its dangers from heavy snows, tempests at sea, and those raids from wolves that make the peril of travellers when the cold once sets in, it behoves you, if go ye must, to go right speedily. And in the belief that I should find your minds made up and your preparations well-nigh complete, I have brought to you the casket given into my charge by your mother on her dying bed. Methinks that you will find therein gold enough to carry you safe to England, and such papers as shall suffice to prove to your proud kinsmen at the King's Court that ye are in very truth the sons of their brother, and that it is of just and lawful right that you make your claim to Basildene." The brothers looked eagerly at the handsome case, wrought and inlaid with gold, in which certain precious parchments had lain ever since they had been carried in haste from England. The boys looked at these with a species of awe, for they had but very scant knowledge of letters, and such as they had acquired from the good Father was not enough to enable them to master the contents of the papers. Learning was almost entirely confined to the ecclesiastics in those days, and many were the men of birth and rank who could scarce read or write their own name. But the devices upon the parchments told a tale more easily understood. There was the golden lion rampant upon the black ground -- the arms of the De Brocas family, as the Father told them; whilst the papers that referred to Basildene were adorned with a shield bearing a silver stag upon an azure ground. They would have no difficulty in knowing the deeds apart; and good Margot sewed them first into a bag of untanned leather, and then stitched them safely within the breast of Gaston's leathern jerkin. The golden pieces, and a few rings and trinkets that were all that remained to the boys of their lost inheritance, were sewn in like manner into Raymond's clothing, and there was little more to be done ere the brothers went forth into the unknown world. As for their worldly possessions, they were soon numbered, and comprised little more than their clothing, their bows and arrows, and the poniards which hung at their girdles. As they were to proceed on foot to Bordeaux, and would probably journey in the same simple fashion when they reached the shores of England, they had no wish to hamper themselves with any needless encumbrances, and all that they took with them was a single change of under vest and hose, which they were easily able to carry in a wallet at their back. They sallied forth in the dress they commonly wore all through the inclement winter season -- an under-dress of warm blue homespun, with a strong jerkin of leather, soft and well-dressed, which was as long as a short tunic, and was secured by the girdle below the waist which was worn by almost all ranks of the people in that age. The long hose were likewise guarded by a species of gaiter of the same strong stuff. And a peasant clad in his own leather garments was often a match for a mailed warrior, the tough substance turning aside sword point or arrow almost as effectually as a coat of steel, whilst the freedom and quickness of motion allowed by the simpler dress was an immense advantage to the wearer in attack or defence. The good Father looked with tender glances at the brave bright boys as they stood forth on the morning of their departure, ready to sally out into the wide world with the first glimpse of dawn. He had spent the previous night at the mill, and many words of fatherly counsel and good advice had he bestowed upon the lads, now about to be subjected to temptations and perils far different from any they had known in their past life. And his words had been listened to with reverent heed, for the boys loved him dearly, and had been trained by him in habits of religious exercise, more common in those days than they became, alas in later times. They had with them an English breviary which had been one of their mother's most valued possessions, and they promised the Father to study it with reverent heed; for they were very familiar with the petitions, and could follow them without difficulty despite their rudimentary education. So that when they knelt before him for his last blessing, he was able to give it with a heart full of hope and tender confidence; and he felt sure that whether the lads went forth for weal or woe, he should (if they and he both lived through the following years) see their faces again in this selfsame spot. They would not forget old friends -- they would seek them out in years to come; and if fate smiled upon their path, others would share in the sunshine of their good fortune. And so the boys rose to their feet again to meet a proud, glad smile from the eyes of the kind old man; and though Margot's face was buried in her apron, and honest Jean was not ashamed to let the tears run down his weatherbeaten face, there was no attempt made to hinder or to sadden the eager lads. They kissed their good nurse with many protestations of love and gratitude, telling her of the days to come when they would return as belted knights, riding on fine horses, and with their esquires by their side, and how they would tell the story of how they had been born and bred in this very mill, and of all they owed to those who had sheltered them in their helpless infancy. The farewells once over, with the inevitable sadness that such scenes must entail, the boys' spirits rose with wonderful celerity. True, they looked back with fond glances at the peaceful homestead where their childhood had been passed, as they reached the ridge of the undulating plain from which the last glimpse of the red roofs and tumbling water was to be had. Raymond even felt a mist rise before his eyes as he stood and gazed, and Gaston dashed his hand impatiently across his eyes as though something hindered his vision; but his voice was steady and full of courage as he waved his right arm and cried aloud: "We will come back! we will see this place again! Ah, Raymond, methinks I shall love it better then than I do today; for though it has been a timely place of shelter, it has not been -- it never could be -- our true home. Our home is Basildene, in the fair realm of England's King. I will rest neither day nor night until I have looked upon the home our mother dwelt in, and have won the right to call that home our own." Then the brothers strode with light springy steps along the road which would in time lead them to the great seaport city of Bordeaux, towards which all the largest roads of the whole province converged. The royal city of the Garonne was full forty leagues away -- over a hundred British miles -- and the boys had never visited it yet, albeit their dream had long been to travel thither on their feet, and see the wonders of which travellers spoke. A day's march of ten leagues or more was as nothing to them. Had the days been longer they would have done more, but travelling in the dark through these forest-clad countries was by no means safe, and the Father had bid them promise that they would always strive to seek shelter ere the shades of night fell; for great picks of wolves ravaged the forests of Gascony until a much later date, and though the season of their greatest boldness and fierceness had not yet come, they were customers not to be trifled with at any time, and a hunting knife and a crossbow would go but a small way in defence if a resolute attack were to be made by even half-a-dozen of the fierce beasts. But the brothers thought not of peril as they strode through the clear crisp air, directing their course more by the sun than by any other guide, as they pursued their way engrossed in eager talk. They were passing through the great grazing pastures, the Landes of Gascony, which supplied England with so many of her best horses, and walking was easy and they covered the ground fast. Later on would come dark stretches of lonely forest, but here were smiling pasture and bright sunshine and the brothers talked together of the golden future before them, of their proud kinsmen at the King's Court, of the Roy Outremer himself, and of Basildene and that other treacherous kinsman there. As they travelled they debated within themselves whether it were better to seek first the countenance of their uncles on their father's side, or whether to make their way first to Basildene and see what manner of place it was, and what likelihood there seemed of ousting the intruder. How to decide this point themselves the brothers did not know; but as it chanced, fortune was to decide it for them in her own fashion, and that before many suns had set. Two days of travel had passed. The brothers had long left behind them every trace of what had been familiar to them in the old life. The evening of the third day was stealing fast upon them, and they were yet, as it seemed, in the heart of the vast forest which they had entered soon after noon, and which they had hoped to pass completely through before the daylight waned. They had been told that they might look, if they pushed on fast, to reach the town of Castres by nightfall; but the paths through the forest were intricate: they had several times felt uncertain as to whether they were going right. Now that the darkness was coming on so fast they were still more uncertain, and more than once they had heard behind and before them the unmistakable howl of the wolf. The hardy twins would have thought nothing of sleeping in the open air even at this somewhat inclement season; but the proximity of the wolves was unpleasant. For two days the cold had been sharp, and though it was not probable that it had yet seriously interfered with the supplies of the wild beasts, yet it was plain that they had emerged from their summer retreats in the more remote parts of the forest, and were disposed to venture nearer to the habitable world on the outskirts. If the brothers slept out of doors at all, it would have to be in the fork of some tree, and in that elevated position they would be likely to feel the cold rather keenly, though down below in some hollow trunk they could make themselves a warm nest enough. Mindful of their promise to the priest, they resolved to try yet to reach some hut or place of shelter, however rude, before the night absolutely closed in, and marched quickly forward with the practised tread of those born to forest life. Suddenly Gaston, who was a couple of paces in the front, paused and laid a hand upon his brother's arm. "Hist!" he said below his breath. "Methought I heard a cry." Raymond stopped short and listened, too. Yes; there was certainly some tumult going on a little distance ahead of them. The brothers distinguished the sound of human voices raised in shrill piercing cries, and with that sound was mingled the fierce baying note that they had heard too often in their lives to mistake at any time. "It is some traveller attacked by wolves!" cried the brothers in a breath, and without a single thought of their own peril the gallant boys tore headlong through the dark wood to the spot whence the tumult proceeded. Guided by the sound of shouts, cries, and the howling of the beasts, the brothers were not long in nearing the scene of the strife. "Shout aloud!" cried Gaston to his brother as they ran. "Make the cowardly brutes believe that a company is advancing against them. It is the best, the only chance. They will turn and fly if they think there be many against them." Raymond was not slow to act upon this hint. The next moment the wood rang again to the shouts and calls of the brothers, voice answering to voice till it seemed as though a score of men were approaching. The brothers, moreover, knew and used the sharp fierce call employed by the hunters of the wolves in summoning their dogs to their aid -- a call that they knew would be heard and heeded by the savage brutes, who would well know what it meant. And in effect the artifice was perfectly successful; for ere they had gained the spot upon which the struggle had taken place, they heard the breaking up of the wolf party, as the frightened beasts dashed headlong through the coverts, whilst their howling and barking died away in the distance, and a great silence succeeded. "Thank Heaven for a timely rescue!" they heard a voice say in the English tongue; "for by my troth, good Malcolm, I had thought that thou and I would not live to tell this tale to others. But where are our good friends and rescuers? Verily, I have seen nothing, yet there must have been a good dozen or more. Light thy lantern, an thou canst, and let us look well round us, for by the mass I shall soon think we have been helped by the spirits of the forest." "Nay, fair sir, but only by two travellers," said Gaston, advancing from the shadow of the giant trees, his brother closely following him. "We are ourselves benighted in this forest, having by some mischance lost our road to Castres, which we hoped to have sighted ere now. Hearing the struggle, and the shouts with which you doubtless tried to scare off the brutes, we came to see if we might not aid, and being well acquainted with the calls of the hunters of the wolves, succeeded beyond our hopes. I trust the cowardly and treacherous beasts have done you no injury?" "By my troth, it is strange to hear my native tongue in these parts, and so fairly spoken withal. I trust we are not bewitched, or the sport of spirits. Who art thou, brave boy? and whence comest thou? How comes it that thou, being, as it seems, a native of these parts, speakest so well a strange language?" "It was our mother's tongue," answered Gaston, speaking nevertheless guardedly, for he had been warned by the Father not to be too ready to tell his name and parentage to all the world. "We are bound for Bordeaux, and thence to England, to seek our mother's kindred, as she bid us ere she died." "If that be so, then let us join forces and travel on together," said he whom they had thus succoured, a man well mounted on a fine horse, and with a mounted servant beside him, so that the brothers took him for a person of quality, which indeed he was, as they were soon to learn. "There is safety in numbers, and especially so in these inhospitable forest tracks, where so many perils beset the traveller. I have lost my other stout fellows in the windings of the wood, and it were safer to travel four than two. Riding is slow work in this gloom. I trow ye will have no trouble in keeping pace with our good chargers." The hardy Gascon boys certainly found no difficulty about that. Gaston walked beside the bridle rein of the master, whilst Raymond chatted amicably to the man, whose broad Scotch accent puzzled him a little, and led in time to stories of Border warfare, and to the tale of Bannockburn, told from a Scotchman's point of view; to all of which the boy listened with eager interest. As for Gaston, he was hearing of the King's Court, the gay tourneys, the gallant feats of arms at home and abroad which characterized the reign of the Third Edward. The lad drank in every item of intelligence, asking such pertinent questions, and appearing so well informed upon many points, that his interlocutor was increasingly surprised, and at last asked him roundly of his name and kindred. Now the priest had warned the boys at starting not to speak with too much freedom to strangers of their private affairs, and had counselled them very decidedly not to lay claim at starting to the name of De Brocas, and thus draw attention to themselves at the outset. There was great laxity in the matter of names in ages when penmanship was a recondite art, and even in the documents of the period a name so well known as that of De Brocas was written Broc and Brook, Brocaz and Brocazt, and half-a-dozen more ways as well. Wherefore it mattered the less what the lads called themselves, and they had agreed that Broc, without the De before it, would be the best and safest patronymic for them in the present. "We are twin brothers, may it please you, fair sir; English on our mother's side, though our father was a Gascon. Our father was much in England likewise, and, as we hear, held some office about the Court, though of its exact nature we know not. Both our parents died many long years since; but we have never ceased to speak the tongue of England, and to dream of one day going thither. Our names are Gaston and Raymond Broc, and we are going forth at last in search of the adventures which men say in these warlike days may be found by young and old, by rich and poor. Our faces are set towards England. What may befall us there kind Fortune only knows." Something in the frank and noble bearing of the lad seemed to please the knightly stranger. He laid a friendly hand on Gaston's shoulder as the youth paced with springy strides beside him. "I trow thou art a mettlesome knave, and I owe thee and thy brother something more than fair words for the service ye have rendered me this night. I have lost three or four of my followers by disease and accident since I left the shores of England. Boy, what sayest thou to taking service with me for a while -- thou and thy brother likewise -- and journeying to fair England as two of my young esquires? I like you well, and in these days it is no small thing to rank in one's train those to whom the language of Gascony is familiar. I trow ye be able to speak the French tongue likewise, since ye be so ready with our foreign English?" "Ay, we can both speak and understand it," answered Gaston, whose cheeks had crimsoned with eager delight; "but we speak English better. Good Sir, we could desire nothing better than to follow you to the world's end; but we have not been trained to the use of arms, nor to knightly exercises. I know not if we could make shift to please you, be our service never so faithful." "In such a case as that, sure I should be a hard master to please," returned the other, and Gaston knew from his voice that he was smiling. "But we need not settle it all out here in this dark wood. You must wait awhile to see what manner of man it is you speak of serving. And you may at least be my companions of voyage across the sea, though once on English shores you shall please yourselves whether or not you serve me farther. As for my name, it is James Audley, and I am one of the King's knights. I am now bound for Windsor -- thou hast doubtless heard of Windsor, the mighty fortress where the King holds his Court many a time and oft. Well, it hath pleased his Majesty of late to strive to bring back those days of chivalry of which our bards sing and of which we hear from ancient legend -- days that seem to be fast slipping away, and which it grieves our most excellent King to see die out in his time. Hast heard, boy, of the great King Arthur of whom men wrote and sung in days gone by? Has his fame reached as far as thy Gascon home?" "Yea, verily," answered Gaston eagerly. "Our mother in long-past days would speak to us of that great King, and of his knights, and of the Round Table at which they sat together, their King in their midst --" "Ay, truly thou knowest well the tale, and it is of this same Round Table I would speak. The King has thought good to hold such a Round Table himself, and has sent forth messages to numbers of his knights to hold themselves in readiness to attend it early in the year which will soon be upon us. Men say that he is building a wondrous round tower at his fortress of Windsor, wherein his Round Table will be placed and the feast celebrated. I know not with what truth they rumour this, but it is like enough, for his Majesty hath the love of his people and a kingly mind; and what he purposes he makes shift to carry out, and that right speedily. But be that as it may, there is no mistaking his royal summons to his Round Table, and I am hastening back across the water to be at Windsor on the appointed day; and if it will pleasure you twain to journey thither with me, I trow you will see things the like of which you have never dreamed before; and sure a better fashion of entering life could scarce be found than to follow one of the King's knights to one of the fairest assemblies of chivalry that the world has ever locked upon." And indeed Gaston thought so too. His breath was taken away by the prospect. He was dazzled by the very thought of such a thing, and his words of eager thanks were spoken with the falterings of strong emotion. The road had widened out here, and the travellers had got free of the forest. Lights sparkled pleasantly in front of them, and Raymond had come up in time to hear the offer just made. The eager delight of the two lads seemed to please the brave Sir James, who was not much more than a youth himself, as we should reckon things now, though four-and-twenty appeared a more advanced age then. As the travellers at last found themselves within the precincts of a fairly comfortable hostelry, and the horsemen dismounted at the door and entered the inn, Sir James pushed the two lads into the lighted room before him, and looked them well over with a pair of searching but kindly blue eyes. He was himself a fine man, of noble stature and princely hearing. His face was pleasant, though it could be stern too on occasion, and the features were regular and good. The boys had never seen such a kingly-looking man, and their hearts went out to him at once. As for him, he looked from one bright face to the other, and nodded his head with a smile. "Methinks you will make a pair of gallant squires," he said. "So long as it pleases you to remain in my service, you may call yourselves my men, and receive from my hands what my other servants do." CHAPTER IV. THE MASTER OF THE HORSE. What a wonderful experience it was for the twin brothers to find themselves for the first time in their lives upon the great ocean of which they had so many times heard! As the little vessel, with her cargo of wine, plunged merrily through the white-crested waves, bearing her freight northward through the stormy Bay of Biscay to the white shores of Albion, the brothers loved to stand in the pointed prow of the brave little craft, feeling the salt spray dashing in their faces, and listening to the swirl of water round the ship's sides as she raced merrily on her way. Now indeed, were they well embarked upon a career of adventure and glory. Were they not habited like the servants of an English knight -- their swords by their sides (if need be), their master's badge upon their sleeves? Were they not bound for the great King's Court -- for the assembly of the Round Table, of which, as it seemed, all men were now talking? Would they not see their own kinsmen, feel their way perhaps to future friendship with those who bore their own name? For the present they were dubbed Brook by the English servants with whom they associated, though more frequently they went by their Christian names alone. It was the fashion in these times to think well of the Gascon race. The King set the example, knowing how useful such men were like to be to him in days to come; and these lads, who spoke English almost as their mother tongue, and were so full of spirit, grace, and vivacity, rapidly rose in favour both with Sir James himself and with his retinue. No auspices could well have been more favourable for the lads upon their first entrance into the great world, and they only wished that Father Anselm could hear of their good fortune. They had settled now to let the visit to Basildene stand over for a time. They had but the vaguest idea where to seek their mother's home. The priest could not help them to any information on this point, and the way to Windsor was open. Their kinsfolk there could possibly give them news of Basildene, even did they decide to keep their own true name a secret for a time. There could be no doubt as to the wisdom of learning something of their mother's country and the ways of its sons before they launched themselves upon a difficult and possibly dangerous quest. With what strange feelings did the brothers first set eyes upon the shores of England, as the little sloop slid merrily into the smoother Solent, after a rough but not unpleasant passage! How they gazed about them as they neared the quays of Southampton, and wondered at the contrast presented by this seaport with the stately and beautiful city of Bordeaux, which they had seen a fortnight back! Certainly this English port could not compare with her a single moment, yet the boys' hearts bounded with joyful exhilaration as they first set foot on English soil. Was not the first step of their wild dream safely and prosperously accomplished? Might they not augur from this a happy and prosperous career till their aim and object was accomplished? Their master had some business to transact in and about Southampton which detained him there many days; but the Gaston lads found no fault with this arrangement, for everything they saw was new and full of interest; they were well lodged and well fed without cost to themselves, and had full license to go where they would and do what they would, as their master had no present use for their services. Gaston and Raymond had no desire to idle away their time without profit to themselves, and after taking counsel with honest Malcolm, who had a great liking for the boys, they put themselves under the instruction of a capable swordsman, who undertook to teach them the art of using those weapons with skill and grace. As their natural quickness of eye and strength of hand made them quickly proficient in this exercise, they became anxious to try their skill at the more difficult sport of tilting, then so much in vogue with both knights and gentlemen -- a sport which the King greatly encouraged as likely to be excellent training for those charges of his picked horsemen which so often turned the fortunes of the day in his favour in the sterner game of war. Both the Gascon youths were good horsemen; not that they had ever owned a horse themselves, or had ridden upon a saddle after the fashion of knights and their esquires, but they had lived amongst the droves of horses that were bred upon the wide pasture lands of their own country, and from childhood it had been their favourite pastime to get upon the back of one of these beautiful, unbroken creatures, and go careering wildly over the sweeping plain. That kind of rough riding was as good a training as they could have had, and when once they had grown used to the feel of a saddle between their knees, and had learned the right use of rein and spur, they became almost at once excellent and fearless riders, and enjoyed shivering a lance or carrying off a ring or a handkerchief from a pole as well as any of their comrades. So that the month they passed in the seaport town was by no means wasted on them, and when they took to horse once again to accompany Sir James on his way to Windsor, they felt that they had made great strides, and were very different from the country-bred Gascon youths of two months back. There was one more halt made in London, that wonderful city of which time fails us to speak here; and in that place a new surprise awaited the young esquires, for they and their comrades who wore Sir James Audley's livery were all newly equipped in two new suits of clothes, and these of such a sumptuous description as set the boys agape with wonder. Truly as we read of the bravery in which knights and dames and their servants of old days were attired, one marvels where the money came from to clothe them all. It could have been no light thing to be a great man in such times, and small wonder was it that those who lived in and about the Court, whose duty it was to make a brave show in the eyes of royalty, were so often rewarded for trifling services by the gifts of Manors, benefices, or wardships; for the cost of keeping up such state as was required was great indeed, and could not have been done without some adequate compensation. Sir James had always been a favourite with the King, as he was with the Prince of Wales -- the Black Prince of the days to come. He had at various times received marks of the royal favour by substantial grants, and was resolved to appear at this festival of the Round Table in such guise as should be fitting to his rank and revenues. Thus it came about that the Gascon youths found themselves furnished with tunics of blue and silver, richly embroidered with their master's cognizances, and trimmed with costly fur, with long mantles of blue cloth fastened with golden clasps, with rich girdles, furnished with gipciere and anelace, and hose and long embroidered shoes, such as they began to see were the fashion of the day in England. Their stout nags, which had carried them bravely thus far, were now exchanged for handsome animals of a better breed, horses trained to knightly exercises, and capable of carrying their masters bravely through any game of battle or tourney such as the King loved to organize when he had his knights round him. It was often that the esquires as well as the knights competed in these contests of skill and strength, or followed their masters into some great melee, and it was a point of honour with the latter that their followers should be well and suitably equipped for the sport. "By my faith, but I wish good Margot and the holy Father could see us now," quoth Gaston, laughing, as Sir James and his followers sallied forth one bright December morning to take their last stage on the journey to Windsor. They had traversed the main distance the day previously, for Sir James had no wish to arrive weary and travel stained at the King's Court. Orders had been given for every man to don his best riding dress and look well to the trappings of his steed, and it was a gallant-looking company indeed that sallied out from the door of the wayside hostelry and took the road towards the great Castle, glimpses of which began from time to time to be visible through the trees. "I trow they would scarce know us! There be moments, Raymond, when I scarce know myself for the same. It seems as though years had passed since we left the old home, and by the Mass I feel as though I were a new being since then!" "Yea, verily, and I also," answered Raymond, looking round him with eager eyes. "Gaston, look well about thee; for by what Malcolm says, these very woods through which we shall pass, and the Manor of old Windsor hard by, are the property of our uncle Sir John de Brocas, the King's Master of the Horse; and by what I hear, methinks we shall see him in the flesh ere the day has passed." "Ha!" exclaimed Gaston, with interest; "if that be so let us heed him well, for much of our future may hang on him. He is in the King's favour, they say, and if he did but plead our cause with the Roy Outremer, we might well look to call Basildene our home ere long." "We must call him no longer the Roy Outremer," said Raymond, with a smile. "If we are to be the brothers of Basildene, we must be English subjects and he our liege lord." "True," answered Gaston readily; "and methinks, if he be what all men say, it will be no hardship to own ourselves his subjects. I would ten thousand times sooner call myself so than be servant to yon weak and treacherous King of France." At that moment an interruption occurred to delay the little cavalcade for a few moments. The road they were traversing led them past a solid gateway, which showed that upon one side at least the property was that of a private individual; and just as they were approaching this gateway the portal swung open, and out of it rode a fine-looking man of middle age and imposing aspect, followed by three youths richly attired, and by some dozen mounted attendants. The leader of the party wore a dress that was evidently the livery of some office -- a tunic of blue and a cape of white Brussels cloth. His cap was of white and blue, and the King's badge of a silver swan was fastened in the front. As he rode out, the esquires round Gaston and Raymond drew rein and whispered one to another: "It is the King's Master of the Horse!" Eagerly and curiously the two lads gazed at the face and figure of the kinsman now before them, whilst Sir James spurred his horse forward, a smile lighting up the grave face of the King's servant. "Marry well met, good Sir James!" was the hearty greeting of the latter, as the two men grasped hands. "I warrant you will be welcome at the Castle, whither, I doubt not, your steps are bent. It was but two days since that his Majesty was asking news of you, no man knowing rightly whither you had gone, nor upon what errand. There be fine musterings already at the Court, and every day brings some fresh faces to the gathering assembly. I trow that such a sight as will shortly be witnessed within those walls has scarce been seen by England before." "Nay, nor since the days of good King Arthur, if all be true that I have heard," answered Sir James. "Be these gallant youths your sons, Sir John? Verily time flies! I have not been in these parts for full three years. I scarce know them once again." "Yes, these be my three sons," answered the father, with a proud glance at the handsome youths, who came up at a sign from him to be presented to the knight. "It may well be many long years since you saw them, for they have often been away from my side, travelling in foreign parts with my good brother, and learning the lessons of life as I have been able to see occasion. This is John, my first born. Oliver and Bernard follow after him. I trust in years to come they will live to win their spurs in the King's service. They are often about the Court, and the Prince has chosen them amongst his serviens. But they have not yet seen war, albeit I trow they will not be missing when the day for fighting shall come, which I verily believe will not be long now." The youths made their salute to the knight, and then dropped behind. Sir James rode in advance, still in earnest converse with the Master of the Horse; whilst the attendants of the two bands, some of whom were acquainted, mixed together indiscriminately, and rode after their masters in amicable converse. Sir John's three sons rode a few paces behind the knights, and as it chanced the Gascon brothers were the next behind them, studying these cousins of theirs with natural interest and curiosity. They had heard their names distinctly as their father had presented them to his friend, and gladly would they have fallen into converse with them had they felt certain that the advance would be taken in good part. As it was, they were rather fearful of committing breaches of good manners, and restrained themselves, though their quick, eager glances towards each other betrayed what they were feeling. All of a sudden something unseen by the rider caused Gaston's horse to take fright. It was a very spirited and rather troublesome animal, which had been passed on by two or three riders as too restive for them, and had been ridden more successfully by Gaston than by any of its former masters. But the creature wanted close watching, and Gaston had been for a time off his guard. The knowing animal had doubtless discovered this, and had hoped to take advantage of this carelessness to get rid of his rider and gain the freedom of the forest himself. With a sudden plunge and hound, which almost unseated Gaston, the horse made a dash for the woodland aisles; and when he felt that his rider had regained his seat and was reining him in with a firm and steady hand, the fiery animal reared almost erect upon his hind legs, wildly pawing the air, and uttering fierce snorts of anger and defiance. But Gaston's blood was up now, and he was not going to be mastered by his steed, least of all in presence of so many witnesses. Shouting to Raymond, who had dismounted and appeared about to spring at the horse's head, to keep away, he brought the angry creature down by throwing himself upon his neck; and though there were still much plunging and fierce kicking and struggling to be encountered before the day was won, Gaston showed himself fully equal to the demands made upon his horsemanship; and before many moments had passed, had the satisfaction of riding the horse quietly back to the little cavalcade, which had halted to witness the struggle. "That was good riding, and a fine animal," remarked the Master of the Horse, whose eyes were well trained to note the points of any steed. "I trow that lad will make a soldier yet. Who is he, good Sir James?" "One Gaston Brook, a lad born and brought up in Gascony, together with his twin brother who rides by his side. They came to my help in the forest round Castres; and as I was in need of service, and they were faring forth to seek their fortunes, I bid them, an it pleased them, follow me. One parent was a native of Gascony, their mother I trow, since their name is English. I did hear somewhat of their simple tale, but it has fled my memory since." "They are proper youths," said Sir John, not without a passing gleam of interest in any persons who hailed from his own country. "Half Gascon and half English makes a fine breed. The lads may live to do good service yet." Meantime the three sons of Sir John had entered into conversation with the two youthful esquires, and were making friends as fast as circumstances would allow. They were some years older than the Gascon brothers -- that is to say that John was close upon twenty, and Oliver and Bernard followed, each a year younger than his predecessor. They had seen far more of the world than these country-bred lads, and had been reared more or less in the atmosphere of the Court; still they were bright, high spirited, and unaffected youths, who were ready enough to make advances to any comrades of their own standing across whose path they might be thrown. Gaston and Raymond had about them an air of breeding which won them notice wherever they went. Their speech was refined for the times, and their handsome figures and faces gained them speedy and favourable attention. Very soon the five youths were chatting and laughing together as though they were old friends. The sons of Sir John heard all about the encounter in the forest, and how the wolves had been scared away; whilst the Gascon brothers, on their side, heard about the vast round tower built by the King for his Round Table to assemble at, and how busily everybody had been employed in hastening on the work and getting everything in readiness for the great festival that was at hand. "Shall we see the feast?" asked Gaston eagerly. "Men say it will be a sight not to be forgotten." "We shall see it like enough," answered John, "but only belted knights will sit at the board. Why, even the Prince of Wales himself will not sit down at the table, but will only stand to serve his father; for his spurs are not yet won, though he says he will not be long in winning them if kind fortune will but give him the chance he craves. A great assembly of esquires will be in attendance on their masters, and I trow ye twain might well be amongst these, as we hope ourselves to be. Your master is one of the bidden knights, and will sit not very far from the King himself. If you can make shift to steal in through the press and stand behind his chair, I doubt not but what ye will see all right well; and perchance the King himself may take note of you. He has a marvellous quick eye, and so has the Prince; and he is ever on the watch for knightly youths to serve him as valettus -- as we do." "We are going to win our spurs together," cried Bernard, who in some ways was the leading spirit amongst the brothers, as he was afterwards the most noted man of his house. "We have talked of it a thousand times, and the day will come ere long. The King has promised that when next he is called forth to fight the recreant King of France, he will take the Prince with him, and he has promised that we shall go with him. The day will come when he will lay claim once more to that crown of France which by rights is his to wear, and we shall all sally forth to drive the coward Louis from the throne, and place the crown on Edward's royal brow." Bernard's eyes flashed fire at the bare thought of the unchecked career of victory he saw for England's arms when once she had set foot on the long-talked-of expedition which was to make Edward king over the realm of France. "And we will fight for him too!" cried Gaston and Raymond in a breath; "and so, I trow, will all Gascony. We love the English rule there. We love the Roy Outremer, as he is called there. If he would but come to our land, instead of to treacherous Flanders or feeble, storm-torn Brittany, for his soldiers and for his starting place, I trow his arms would meet with naught but victory. The Sieur d'Albret, men whisper, has been to the Court, and has looked with loving eyes upon one of the King's daughters for his son. That hope would make him faithful to the English cause, and he is the greatest Lord in Gascony, where all men fear his name." "Thou shalt tell all that to the King or to the Prince," said John in a low tone to Raymond, as they fell a little behind, for the road grew rough and narrow. "I trow he will be glad to learn all he may from those who know what the people of the land speak and think -- the humbler folks, of whom men are growing now to take more account, at least here in England, since it is they, men now say, who must be asked ere even the King himself may dare to go to war. For money must be found through them, and they will not always grant it unless they be pleased with what has already been done. The great nobles say hard things of them they call the 'Commons;' they say that England's doom will surely come if she is to be answerable to churls and merchant folk for what her King and barons choose to do. But for my part it seems but just that those who pay the heavy burden of these long wars should know somewhat about them, and should even have the power to check them did they think the country oppressed beyond what she could bear. A bad king might not care for the sufferings of his people. A weak king might be but the tool of his barons -- as we have heard the King's father was -- and hear nothing but what they chose for him to know. For my own part, I think it right and just enough that the people should have their voice in these things. They always grant the King a liberal supply; and if they demand from him the redress of grievances and the granting of certain privileges in return, I can see in that naught that is unfair; nor would England be happier and more prosperous, methinks, were she governed by a tyrant who might grind her down to the dust." John de Brocas was a very thoughtful youth, very different in appearance from his younger brothers, who were fine stalwart young men, well versed in every kind of knightly exercise, and delighting in nothing so much as the display of their energies and skill. John was cast in quite a different mould, and possibly it was something of a disappointment to the father that his first born should be so unlike himself and his other sons. John had had weak health from his cradle, which might account in part for his studious turn of mind; and the influence of his uncle's training may have had still greater effect. As the damp air of Windsor did not appear to agree with the boy, he had been sent, when seven years old, to his uncle's Rectory of St. Nicholas, and brought up in the more healthy and bracing air of Guildford. Master Bernard de Brocas, though by no means a man of exclusively scholarly tastes, was for the days he lived in a learned man, and feeling sure that his eldest nephew would never make a soldier, he tried to train him for a statesman and for an ecclesiastic -- the two offices being in those days frequently combined. The great statesmen were nearly always men in the Church's employ, and the scholarship and learning of the age were almost entirely in their keeping. John showed no disposition to enter the Church -- probably the hope of winning his spurs was not yet dead within him; but he took very kindly to book lore, and had often shown a shrewdness and aptness in diplomatic negotiation which had made Master Bernard prophesy great things for him. Raymond had never heard such matters discussed before, and knew little enough about the art of government. He looked with respect at his companion, and John, catching the glance, smiled pleasantly in reply. "I trow thou wouldest sooner be with the rest, hearing of the King's Round Table and the knightly jousts to follow. Let me not weary thee with my graver words. Go join the others an thou wilt." "Nay, I will stay with thee," answered Raymond, who was greatly attracted by John's pale and thoughtful face, and could not but pity him for his manifest lack of strength and muscle. The youth was tall and rode well, but he was slight to the verge of attenuation, and the hollow cheek and unnaturally bright eyes sunk in deep caverns told a tale that was not hard to read. Young De Brocas might make a student, a clerk, a man of letters, but he would never be a soldier; and that in itself appeared to Raymond the greatest deprivation that could befall a man. But he liked his companion none the less for this sense of pity. "I would fain hear more of England -- England's laws, England's ways. I have heard that in this land men may obtain justice better than in any other. I have heard that justice is here administered to poor as well as rich. I would learn more of this. I would learn more of you. Tell me first of yourself. I know well the name of De Brocas. We come from the very place where once you held sway. The village (as you would call it) of Brocas was not so very far away. Tell me of yourself, your father, your uncle. I know all their names right well. I would hear all that you can tell." John's face lighted with interest. He was willing enough to tell of himself, his two brothers, two sisters, and their many homes in and about the Castle of Windsor. Besides his post as Master of the Horse, John explained to Raymond, his father held the office of Chief Forester of Windsor Forest (equivalent to the modern Ranger), and besides the Manor of Old Windsor, possessed property and Manors at Old and New Bray, Didworth and Clewer. He was high in the King's favour and confidence, and, as may well be believed, led a busy and responsible life. Upon him devolved the care of all those famous studs of horses on which the King relied when he sent his armies into the field; and if his expenditure in these matters has been condemned in more recent days, the best answer will be found in the disasters and the ruinous expenditure of the later campaigns of the reign, when the King, thinking that he had reduced his French possessions to complete order, and that his magnificent cavalry would not longer be wanted to career over the plains of France, broke up and sold off his studs; so that when his calculation as to the future proved mistaken, he had no longer any organized supply of war horses to draw upon. Raymond's interest in John's talk so won the heart of that youth that a warm friendship sprang up rapidly between them, whilst the younger brothers appeared to take almost the same liking for Gaston. By-and-by it became known that the Castle was crowded almost beyond its capacity for accommodation; and as much of the responsibility of seeing to the lodging of guests fell upon Sir John de Brocas, he gave up his house at Clewer for the time being for the use of some of the guests of humbler rank, his son John acting as host there; and to this house the Gaston brothers were asked, amongst many other youthful esquires of like degree. Thus it came about that the merry yuletide season was spent by them actually beneath their uncle's roof, although he had no idea that he was entertaining kinsmen unawares. Mindful of the good priest's warning, and knowing their ignorance of the new life and the new people amongst whom their fortunes had led them, the twins still carefully preserved the secret of their identity. They knew too little of the cause of estrangement between their father and his brothers to have any confidence how his sons would be received. They were both of opinion that by far their wisest course was to wait quietly and patiently, and watch what befell them; and the only question which Raymond ever dared to put to John in the days that followed which savoured of their own affairs, was an inquiry as to whether he had ever heard of a place called Basildene. "Basildene?" repeated John slowly. "Yes, I have heard the name. It is the name of a Manor not very many miles from my uncle's house in Guildford. Dost thou know aught of it?" "Nay; I knew not rightly if there were such a spot. But I have heard the name. Knowest thou to whom it belongs?" "Yes, I know that too. It belongs to one Peter Sanghurst, of whom no man speaks aught but evil." CHAPTER V. THE KING AND THE PRINCE. King Edward's assembly of knights that met at his first Round Table was as typical a gathering as could well have been found of that age of warlike chivalry. The King's idea was likewise typical of the age he lived in. He had begun to see something of that decline of chivalry which was the natural outcome of a real advance in general civilization, and of increasing law and order, however slow its progress might be. Greatly deploring any decay in a system so much beloved and cherished by knights and warriors, and not seeing that its light might merely be paling in the rise of something more truly bright and beneficent, the King resolved to do everything in his power to give an impetus to all chivalrous undertakings by assembling together his knights after the fashion of the great King Arthur, and with them to take counsel how the ways and usages of chivalry might best be preserved, the old spirit kept alive, and the interests of piety and religion (with which it should ever be blended) be truly considered. How far this festival succeeded in its object can scarcely be told now. The days of chivalry (in the old acceptation of the term) were drawing to a close, and an attempt to galvanize into life a decaying institution is seldom attended with any but very moderate success. From the fact that we hear so little of the King's Round Table, and from the few times it ever met, one is led to conclude that the results were small and disappointing. But the brilliance of the first assembly cannot be doubted; and for the twins of Gascony it was a wonderful day, and marked an epoch in their lives; for on that occasion they saw for the first time the mighty King, whose name had been familiar to them from childhood, and had actual speech with the Prince of Wales, that hero of so many battlefields, known to history as the Black Prince. So great was the crowd of esquires who waited upon the knights sitting around the huge Round Table, that the Gascon brothers only struggled for a few minutes into the gay assemblage to look at what was going on there. The table was itself a curiosity -- a huge ring round which, in beautifully carved seats, the knights sat, each seat fitting into the next, with an arm to divide them, the backs forming a complete circle round the table. The King's seat was adorned with a richer carving, and had a higher back, than the others, but that was its only distinction. Within the circle of the table were pages flitting about, attending on the guests; and the esquires who thronged the corridors or supplemented the attentions of the pages were considerably more numerous than the occasion required, so that these were to be seen gathering in groups here and there about the building in the vicinity of the feast, discussing the proceedings or talking of public or private matters. Very wonderful was all this to Gaston and Raymond, but not quite so bewildering as it would have been a month ago. They had been about the Court some little time now, and were growing used to the fine dresses, the English ways of speech, and the manners and customs which had perplexed them not a little at first. They were greatly entertained by watching the shifting throng of courtiers, and their one glimpse at the royal countenance of the King had been fraught with keen pleasure and satisfaction; but so far as they knew it, they had not yet seen the Prince of Wales, and they had not caught sight either of their cousins Oliver or Bernard, though they had found John sitting in the embrasure of a window in the corridor, watching the scene with the same interest which they felt in it themselves. When they saw him they joined him, and asked the names of some of the gay personages flitting about. John good-naturedly amused them with a number of anecdotes of the Court; and as the three were thus chatting together, they were suddenly joined by another group of three, who advanced along the corridor talking in low tones but with eager excitement. "Here comes the Prince," said John, rising to his feet, and the twin brothers turned eagerly round. They knew in an instant which of the three was the Prince, for his companions were John's two brothers, Oliver and Bernard. Young Edward was at that time not quite fourteen, but so strong, so upright, so well grown, and of such a kingly presence, that it was hard to believe he had scarcely left his childhood behind. His tunic was of cloth of gold, with the royal arms embroidered upon it. He wore a golden collar round his neck, and his golden girdle held a dagger with a richly-jewelled hilt. A short velvet mantle lined with ermine hung over his shoulder, and was fastened by a clasp richly chased and set with rubies. His face was flushed as if with some great purpose, and his eyes shone brightly with excitement. "It shall never be true -- I will not believe it!" he was saying, in urgent accents. "Let chivalry once die out, and so goes England's glory. May I die ere I live to see that day! Better a thousand times death in some glorious warfare, in some knightly deed of daring, than to drag out a life of ease and sloth with the dying records of the glorious past alone to cheer and sustain one. Good John, thou art a man of letters -- thou canst read the signs of the times -- prithee tell me that there be no truth in this dark whisper. Sure the days of chivalry are not half lived through yet!" "Nor will be so long as you are spared to England, gentle Prince," answered John, with his slight peculiar smile. "You and your royal Sire together will keep alive the old chivalry at which was dealt so sore a blow in your grandsire's days. A reign like that of weakness and folly and treachery leaves its mark behind; but England's chivalry has lived through it --" "Ay, and she shall awake to new and fuller life!" cried the ardent boy. "What use in being born a prince if something cannot thus be done to restore what has been lost? And why should princes stand idle when the world is all in arms? Comrades, do ye long as I do to show the world that though we have not yet won our knighthood's spurs, we are yet ready and willing to sally forth, even as did the knights of old, upon some quest of peril or adventure? Why is it that I, who should by rights be one to show what may be done by a boy's arm with a stout heart behind, am ever held back from peril and danger, have never seen fighting save in the tilt yard, or wound worse than what splintered spear may chance to inflict? I burn to show the world what a band of youths can do who go forth alone on some errand of true chivalry. Comrades, give me your ears. Let me speak to you of the purpose in my heart. This day has my father, in the hearing of all men, lamented the wane of chivalry, has spoken brave words of encouragement to those who will strive with him to let it be no hollow name amongst us. Then who more fit than his own son to go forth now -- at once, by stealth if need be -- upon such a quest of peril and glory? nay, not for the glory -- that may or may not be ours -- but upon a mission of chivalrous service to the weak and helpless? This thing I purpose to do myself, together with some few chosen comrades. Brothers of Brocas, will ye go with me?" "We will! we will!" cried the three brothers in a breath. "We will!" echoed the twins of Gascony, forgetting all but their eager desire to share the peril and the glory of the Prince's enterprise, whatever it might be. Young Edward heard the sound of the strange voices, and turned a quick glance of inquiry upon the youths. He saw that they wore the livery of Sir James Audley, who was a great favourite even then with the Prince. The true kingly courtesy of the Plantagenets was ingrained in the nature of this princely boy, and he looked with a smile at the two eager faces before him. "And who be ye, fair gentlemen?" he asked. "Methinks the badge you wear is answer almost enough. I know your good lord well, and love him well, and sure there be none of his esquires, be they never so young, who would disgrace their master by fleeing in an hour of peril. Wherefore if ye would fain be of the band I seek to muster round me, I will bid you ready welcome. I seek none that be above twenty years of age. "Good John, you shall be the wise man of our party. These lads have not lived many more years than I have myself, or I am much mistaken." "We are twin brothers," said Gaston frankly, "and we are nigh upon sixteen. We have been with Sir James a matter of two months. We --" "They met him in the woods of Gascony," cried Oliver, "and rescued him from the attacks of a pack of fierce wolves. I trow they would bear themselves bravely be your quest what it may." "Are you Gascons?" asked the Prince, looking with keener interest at the two youths; for he shared some of his father's instincts of government, and was always well disposed towards Gascon subjects. "We are half Gascon and half English, may it please you, fair Prince," answered Gaston readily, "and we will follow you to the death." "I well believe it, my good comrades," answered the Prince quickly; "and right glad shall we be of your company and assistance. For our errand lies amidst dark forests with their hidden perils and dangers, and I wot that none know better what such dangers are nor how they may be escaped than our brethren of Gascony." "Then you know on what quest we are bent, sweet Prince?" Edward nodded his head as he looked over his shoulder. "Ay, that I do right well, and that will I tell you incontinently if no eavesdroppers be about. Ye know that of late days brave knights and gentlemen have been mustering to our Court from all parts of this land? Now amongst these is one Sir Hugh Vavasour, who comes from his house of Woodcrych, not half a day's ride from our Royal Palace of Guildford; and with him he has brought his son, one Alexander, with whom I yestere'en fell into converse. I say not that I liked the youth himself. He seemed to me something over bold, yet lacking in those graces of chivalry that are so dear to us. Still it was in talking with him that I heard this thing which has set my blood boiling in my veins." "What thing is that, fair Prince?" asked John. And then the young Edward told his tale. It was such a tale as was only too often heard in olden days, though it did not always reach the ears of royalty. The long and expensive, and as yet somewhat fruitless, wars in which Edward had been engaged almost ever since he came to the throne, had greatly impoverished his subjects, and with poverty there arose those other evils inseparable from general distress -- robbery, freebooting, crime in its darkest and ugliest aspects; bands of hungry men, ruined and beggared, partly perhaps through misfortune, but partly through their own fault, wandering about the country ravaging and robbing, leaving desolation behind them, and too often, if opposed, committing acts of brutal cruelty upon defenceless victims, as a warning to others. A band such as this was just now scouring the woods around Guildford. Young Vavasour had heard of depredations committed close against the walls of his own home, and had heard of many outrages which had been suffered by the poor folks around. Cattle had been driven off, their hardly-gathered fuel had vanished in the night; sometimes lonely houses were attacked, and the miserable inhabitants, if they offered resistance, stabbed to the heart by the marauders. One or two girls had been missed from their homes, and were said to have fallen a prey to the robber band. All these things, and the latter item especially, stirred the hot blood in the young Prince's veins, and he was all on fire to do some doughty deed that should at once exterminate such evildoers from the face of the earth, strike terror into the hearts of other bands, and show that the spirit of chivalry was yet alive in the kingdom, and that the King's son was the first to fly to the succour of the distressed and the feeble. "For I will go myself and hunt these miscreants as though they were dogs or wolves -- beasts of prey that needs must be put down with a strong hand. I will not tell my father the tale, else might he appoint warriors of his own to see to the matter, and the glory be theirs and not ours. No, this is a matter for my arm to settle. I will collect around me a band of our bravest youths -- they shall all be youths like myself. Our good John knows well the country around our Palace of Guildford -- in truth I know it indifferently well myself. We will sally forth together -- my father will grant me leave to go thither with a body of youths of my own choosing -- and thence we will scour the forests, scatter or slay these vile disturbers of the peace, restore the lost maidens to their homes, and make recompense to our poor subjects for all they have suffered at their hands." It was just the scheme to fascinate the imagination and fire the ardour of a number of high-spirited and generous boys. The proximity of the Royal Palace of Guildford gave them every facility for carrying out the plan speedily and yet secretly, and the Prince had quickly enlisted a score of well-trained, well-equipped lads to follow him on his chivalrous quest. Sir James gave ready consent to his petition that the Gascon twins might join his train for a few days. The King, when he gave his sanction to the proposed expedition to Guildford, believed that his son was going there bent on sport or some boyish pastime, and scarce bestowed a second thought upon the matter. The royal children had each their own attendants and establishment, following wherever their youthful master or mistress went; and to the eldest son of the King a very decided liberty was given, of which his father had never yet had cause to repent. Thus it came about that three days after the King's great feast of the Round Table had ended, the Prince of Wales, with a following of twenty young comrades, in addition to his ordinary staff of attendants, rode forth from the Castle of Windsor in the tardy winter's dawn, and before night had fallen the gay and gallant little band had reached the Palace of Guildford, which had received due notice of the approach of the King's son. Those who were sharp-eyed amongst the spectators of this departure might have noted that the Prince and his immediate followers each wore round his arm a band of black ribbon with a device embroidered upon it. The device was an eagle worked in gold, and was supposed to be emblematic of the swiftness and the strength that were to characterize the expedition of the Prince, when he should swoop down upon the dastardly foes, and force them to yield up their ill-gotten gains. These badges had been worked by the clever fingers of Edward's sisters, the youthful princesses Isabella and Joanna. Joanna, as the wardrobe rolls of the period show, was a most industrious little maiden with her needle, and must have spent the best part of her time in her favourite pastime of embroidery, judging by the amount of silk and other material required by her for her own private use. Both the sisters were devotedly attached to their handsome brother, and were the sharers of his confidences. They knew all about this secret expedition, and sympathized most fully with it. It was Joanna's ready wit which had suggested the idea of the badge, which idea was eagerly caught up by Edward; for to go forth with a token woven by the fair hands of ladies would give to the exploit a spice of romantic chivalry that would certainly add to its zest. So for the past three days the royal sisters had been plying their needles with the utmost diligence, and each of the gallant little band knew that he wore upon his arm a token embroidered for him by the hands of a youthful princess. Of the Royal Palace of Guildford nothing now remains -- even the site is not known with any certainty, though it is supposed to have occupied the spot where Guildford Park farm now stands. Its extensive park covered a large area of ground, and was a favoured hunting ground for many of the illustrious Plantagenets. It need hardly be said with what interest and curiosity the twin brothers gazed about them as they neared the little town of Guildford, where their uncle, Master Bernard de Brocas, possessed a gradually increasing property. They felt that this journey was the first step towards Basildene; and utterly ignorant as they were of its exact locality, they wondered if they might not be passing it by whenever some ancient Manor House reared its chimneys or gables above the bare encircling trees, and their hearts beat high at the thought that they were drawing near to their own lost inheritance. The Palace was warmly lighted in honour of the arrival of the Prince of Wales; and as the little cavalcade dismounted at the door and entered the noble hall, a figure, habited after the fashion of the ecclesiastics of the day, stepped forth to greet the scion of royalty, and the twin brothers heard their comrades mutter, "It is the good Rector, Master Bernard de Brocas." The young Prince plainly knew the Rector well, and after just bending his knee to ask the blessing, as was his reverent custom, he led him into the banqueting hall, where a goodly meal lay spread, placing him in a seat at his own right hand, and asking him many things as the meal progressed, leading the talk deftly to the robbers' raids, and seeking, without betraying his purpose, to find out where these miscreants might most readily be found. The good Rector had heard much about them, but knew little enough of their movements. One day they were heard of in one place, and again they would vanish, and no man would know whither they had gone till they appeared in another. Everywhere they left behind them desolated homes, and bloodshed and ruin followed in their track. Master Bernard had heard too many such tales from all parts of the kingdom to heed overmuch what went on in this particular spot. He knew that the winter's privation and cold acted upon savage men almost as it did upon wolves and ravenous beasts, and that in a country harassed and overtaxed such things must needs be. He never suspected the cause of the Prince's eagerness. He believed that the youths had come down bent on sport, and that they would take far more interest in the news he had to give them, that a wild boar had recently been seen in the forest aisles of the Royal Park, and that the huntsmen would be ready to sally forth to slay it at a single word from the Prince. Edward's eyes lighted at this. It seemed to him a fortunate coincidence. Also he would be glad enough to see the killing of the boar, though he was more interested in the expedition it would involve into the heart of the forest. "Prithee give orders, good Master Bernard, that the huntsmen be ready tomorrow morning at dawn of day. I trow there be horses and to spare to mount us all, as our own beasts will be something weary from the journey they have taken today. We will be ready ere the sun is up, and if kind fortune smiles upon us, I trust I shall have the good fortune to have a pair of fine tusks to offer to my sisters when they join us here, as they shortly hope to do." Master Bernard, who was a man of no small importance all through this neighbourhood, hastened away to give the needful orders. He had come from his own Rectory hard by to receive the Prince and his comrades, and he suspected that the King would be well pleased for him to remain beneath the roof of the castle so long as this gay and youthful party did so. When night came and the youths sought the rooms which had been made ready for them, the Prince signed to a certain number of his comrades to repair with him to his chamber, as though he desired their services at his toilet. Amongst those thus summoned were the three sons of Sir John de Brocas, and also the Gascon twins, for whom young Edward appeared to have taken a great liking, and who on their part warmly returned this feeling. Shutting the door carefully, and making sure that none but friends were round him, the Prince unfolded his plan. He had learned from the Master Huntsman, whom he had seen for a few minutes before going to his room, that the boar lay concealed for the most part in some thick underwood lying in the very heart of the forest many miles distant, right away to the southwest in the direction of Woodcrych. This part of the forest was fairly well known to the Prince from former hunting expeditions, and he and John both remembered well the hut of a lonely woodman that lay hidden in the very depths of the wood near this spot. It had occurred to Edward as likely that old Ralph would be better acquainted with the habits of the robbers than any other person could be. He was too poor to be made a mark for their rapacity, yet from his solitary life in the forest he might likely enough come across their tracks, and be able to point out their hiding places. Therefore the Prince's plan was that he and the picked companions he should choose should slip away from the main body of the huntsmen, and make their way to this lonely cabin, joining their comrades later when they had discovered all that they could do from the old man. The shouts of the huntsmen and the baying of the dogs would guide them to the scene of the chase, and if the rest who remained all the while with the foresters and the dogs missed the Prince from amongst their ranks, they were not to draw attention to the fact, but were rather to strive to conceal it from the Master Huntsman, who might grow uneasy if he found the young Edward missing. It was of importance that all inquiries respecting the robbers should be conducted with secrecy, for if the Prince's curiosity on the subject were once to be known, suspicion might be aroused, or a regular expedition against them organized, the glory and credit of which would not belong in anything but empty name to the Prince. It was not, perhaps, unnatural that the six lads who had first conned over the plan together should be selected as the ones to make this preliminary inquiry. John was chosen for his seniority and the prudence of his counsels, his brothers for their bravery and fleetness of foot, and the Gascon twins for their close acquaintance with forest tracks, and their greater comprehension of the methods employed in following the trail of foes or fugitives through tangled woods. They would likely enough understand the old man's counsel better than any of the others; and as the sport of hunting the boar was more esteemed by the other youths than the expedition to the woodman's hut, no jealousy was aroused by the Prince's choice, and the scheme was quickly made known to the whole of the party. The morrow proved a first-rate day for a hunting party in the forest. A light crisp snow lay on the ground, melting where exposed to the sun's rays, but forming a sparkling white carpet elsewhere. It was not deep enough to inconvenience either men or horses, and would scarce have fallen to any depth beneath the trees of the forest; but there was just sufficient to be an excellent guide in tracking down the quarry, and all felt confident that the wily old boar had seen his last sunrise. Merrily rode the party forth through the great gateway and across the fine park in the direction of the forest. The Prince and his five chosen comrades rode together, sometimes speaking in low tones, sometimes joining in the gay converse on the subject of hunting which went on around them. But the Prince's thoughts were far less with sport than with the wrongs of his father's subjects, and the cruel outrages which they had suffered unredressed and almost unpitied. His heart burned within him to think that in merry England, as he liked to call it, and in the days of chivalry, such things were possible; and to put down cruelty and rapacity with a strong hand seemed of infinitely more importance to him than the pursuit of a fine sport. Thus musing, and thus talking in low tones to the thoughtful John, the Prince dropped a little behind the muster of huntsmen. His chosen comrades followed his example, and straggled rather aimlessly after the main body, till at last a turn in the forest shut these completely from their view. "Now," said the Prince, turning to his five selected comrades, "this, if I mistake not, is our road. We will soon see if we cannot get upon the track of the miscreants whom I am burning to punish and destroy!" CHAPTER VI. THE PRINCE'S EXPLOIT. The woodman's cottage was quickly reached. It was a little rush-thatched cabin of mud, lying in the very heart of the dim wood. The party had to dismount and tie up their horses at some short distance from the place; but they had the good fortune to find the occupant at home, or rather just outside his cabin, gathering a few dried sticks to light his fire. He was a grizzled, uncouth-looking old man, but a certain dignity was imparted to him by a look of deep and unspeakable melancholy upon his face, which gave it pathos and character of its own. The rustic face is apt to become vacant, bovine, or coarse. Solitude often reduces man almost to the level of the beasts. This old man, who for many years had lived hidden away in this vast forest, might well have lost all but the semblance of humanity; but such was not the case. His eyes had light in them; his very melancholy showed that the soul was not dead. As he saw the bright-faced boys approaching him, he first gave a great start of surprise, eagerly scanning one face after another; then, as he did so the light of hope died out from his eyes, and the old despairing look came back. Something of this was observed by the Prince and his followers, but they were at present too much bent upon their own mission to have thought to spare for any other concerns. They formed a circle round him, and asked him of the robbers -- if he ever saw them; if he knew their haunts; if they had been near these parts during the past days? For a moment it seemed as though the old man was disappointed by the questions asked him. He muttered something they did not rightly comprehend about robbers worse than these, and a quick fierce look passed across his face, and then died out again. The young Prince was courteous and patient: he allowed the old man's slow wits time to get to work; and when he did begin to speak he spoke to some purpose, and the boys listened and questioned with the most eager attention. It took some time to extract the necessary information, not from any reluctance to speak on the old man's part, but from his inability to put his thoughts into words. Still when this was by degrees achieved, the information was of the highest possible importance. The robbers, said the old man, were at that very moment not far away. He had seen them sally forth on one of their nocturnal raids about dusk the previous evening; and they had returned home laden with spoil two hours before the dawn. He was of the opinion that they had carried off some captive with them, for he had heard sounds as of bitter though stifled weeping as they passed his hut on their return. Did he know where they lay by day? Oh yes, right well he did! They had a hiding place in a cave down in a deep dingle, so overgrown with brushwood that only those who knew the path thither could hope to penetrate within it. Once there, they felt perfectly safe, and would sleep away the day after one of their raids, remaining safely hidden there till supplies were exhausted, when they sallied forth again. The old woodman showed them the tracks of the party that had passed by that morning, and to the eyes of the Gascon brothers these tracks were plain enough, and they undertook to follow them unerringly to the lair. The old woodman had no desire to be mixed up in the matter. If he were to be seen in the company of the trackers, he firmly believed that he should be skinned alive before many days had passed. He plainly did not put much faith in the power of these lads to overcome a large band of desperate men, and strongly advised them to go home and think no more of the matter. But his interest was only very partially aroused, and it was plain that there was something on his own mind which quite outweighed with him the subject of the forest outlaws. John would fain have questioned him about himself, being a youth of kindly spirit; but the moment was not propitious, for the Prince was all on fire with a new idea. "Comrades," he said gravely and firmly, "the hour has come when we must put our manhood to the proof. This very day, without the loss of a needless moment, we must fall, sword in hand, upon yon dastard crew, and do to them as they have done. You have heard this honest man's tale. Upon the day following a midnight raid they lie close in their cave asleep -- no doubt drunken with the excesses they indulge in, I warrant, when they have replenished their larder anew. This, then, is the day they must be surprised and slain. If we wait we may never have such another chance. My brothers in arms, are you ready to follow me? Shall the eagles fail for lack of courage when the prey is almost within sight?" An unanimous sound of dissent ran through the group. All were as eager as the Prince for the battle and the victory; but the face of John wore an anxious look. "We must not go alone," he said. "We must summon our comrades to join us. They are bound on the quest as much as we." "True," answered the Prince, looking round him. "It were madness, I trow, for the six of us to make the attack alone. Yet did not Jonathan and his armour bearer fall unawares upon a host and put them to flight? Methinks some holy Father has told such a tale to me. Still thou art right, good John. We must not risk losing all because it has been given to godly men in times of old to work a great deliverance. See here, friends, what we will do. Our comrades cannot be very far away. Hark! Surely it is the baying of the hound I hear yonder over that wooded ridge! Good Bernard, do thou to horse, gallop to them as fast as thou canst, and tell them of the hap upon which we have fallen. Bid them follow fast with thee, but leave the dogs and horses behind with the huntsmen, lest their noise betray our approach. Master Huntsman may seek to withhold them from the quest, but when he knows that I, the Prince, with but four of my comrades to help me, have gone on in advance, and that we are even then approaching the robbers' cave, he will not only bid them all go, but will come himself doubtless, with the best of his followers, and give us what help he may. Lose no time. To horse, and away! And when thou hast called the band together, come back in all haste to this spot. The forest trackers will be put upon the trail, and will follow us surely and swiftly. You will find us there before you, lying in ambush, having fully reconnoitred. Be not afraid for us. Honest John will see that we run not into too great peril ere we have help. Is it understood? Good! Then lose not a moment. And for the rest of us, we will follow these sturdy Gascons, who will secretly lead us to the haunt of the outlaws." Bernard was off almost before the last words had been spoken, and very soon they heard from the sounds that he had mounted his horse and was galloping in the direction in which, from the faint baying of the hounds, he knew the hunting party to be. John looked somewhat anxious as the Prince signed to Gaston and Raymond to lead the way upon the robbers' track; but he knew the determined nature of the Prince, and did not venture open remonstrance. Yet Edward's quick eye caught the uneasy glance, and he replied to it with frank goodwill. "Nay, fear not, honest John; I will run into no reckless peril, for my sweet mother hath ever been forward to counsel me that recklessness is not true bravery. Some peril there must needs be -- without it there could be no glory; but that danger shall not be added to by any hardihood such as my royal Sire would chide in me. Trust me; I will be prudent, as I trust I may yet show that I can be bold. We will use all due caution in approaching this hiding place, and if it will pleasure thee, I will promise not to leave thy side before our friends come to our aid." John was glad enough of this promise. As the eldest of this ardent band, and the one who would be most harshly taken to task did any harm come of the enterprise, he was anxious above all things to insure the safety of the Prince. If Edward would remain beside him, he could certainly make sure of one thing -- that he himself did not survive his royal master, but died at his side fighting for his safety. The younger spirits thought only of the glory of victory. John, with his feebler physique and more thoughtful mind, saw another possible ending to the day's adventure. Still his heart did not fail; only his unspoken prayer was that no harm should befall the brave young Prince, who was so eager to show the world that chivalry was not yet dead. The brothers from Gascony had no trouble whatever in finding and keeping the trail the robbers had left behind them. Slowly but surely they pursued their way through the labyrinth of the gloomy forest. Neither John nor any of his companions had ever been here before. The dense wood was gloomy enough to be almost terrible. Craggy rocks were visible from time to time as the party proceeded, and the thickness of the forest was so great that almost all light was excluded. At last a spot was reached where the forest-bred boys paused. They looked back at those who were following, and beckoned them silently forward. So quietly had the party moved that the stillness of the forest had scarce been broken. Mute and breathless, John and his companion stole up. They found that they had now reached the edge of a deep ravine, so thickly wooded as to appear impassable to human foot. But just where they stood there were traces of a narrow pathway, well concealed by the sweeping boughs of a drooping willow; and that this was the dell and the path of which the old woodman had spoken the little party did not doubt for a moment. "It is doubtless the place," said the Prince, in a whisper. "Let us softly reconnoitre whilst our forces are assembling." "I and my brother will make the round of the dell," answered Gaston, in a like cautious tone. "Sweet Prince, stay you hither, where the rest will doubtless find us. It boots not for us to make too much stir. Sound carries well in this still frosty air." The Prince made a sign of assent, and Gaston and Raymond crept away in different directions to make the circuit of this secluded hollow, and try to ascertain how the land lay, and what was the chance of capturing the band unawares. In particular they desired to note whether there were any other pathway into it, and whether, if the robbers were taken by surprise and desirous of flight, there was any way of gaining the forest save by the overgrown path the exploring party had already found. The dell proved to be a cup-like hollow of no very great extent. On the side by which the party had approached it the ground shelved down gradually, thickly covered with bushes and undergrowth; but on the opposite side, as the Gascon boys discovered, the drop was almost sheer, and though trees grew up to the very edge of the dell, nothing could grow upon the precipitous sandy sides. "We have them like rats in a trap," cried Gaston, with sparkling eyes, as he once more joined the Prince, his brother with him. "They can only escape up these steep banks thickly overgrown, and we know that there is but this one path. On the other side it is a sheer drop; a goat could not find foothold. If we can but take them by surprise, and post an ambush ready to fall upon escaped stragglers who reach the top, there will not be one left to tell the tale when the deed is done." The Prince set his teeth, and the battle light which in after days men learned to regard with awe shone brightly in his eyes. "Good," he said briefly: "they shall be served as they have served others -- taken in their slumber, taken in the midst of their security. Nay, even so it will not be for them as it has been for their victims, for doubtless they will have their arms beside them, and will spring from their slumber to fight like wild wolves trapped; but I trow the victory will lie with us, and he who fears may stay away. Are we not all clad in leather, and armed to repulse the savage attacks of the wild boar of the woods? Thus equipped, need we fear these human wild beasts? Methinks we shall sweep this day from the face of the earth a fouler scourge than ever beasts of the forest prove." "Hist!" whispered Oliver de Brocas cautiously; "methinks I hear a sound approaching. It is our fellows joining us." Oliver was right. The trail had now been cautiously followed by the huntsmen and their young charges, and the next moment the whole twenty stood at the head of the pathway, together with the Master Huntsman, and some half-dozen stout fellows all armed with murderous-looking hunting knives, and betraying by their looks the same eagerness for the fight as the band of youthful warriors. It was vain to plead with the Prince to be one of those told off to remain in ambush in order to intercept and slay any fugitive who might escape the melee below. No, the young heir of England was resolved to be foremost in the fray; and the utmost that he would consent to was that the party should be led down by the Master Huntsman himself, whilst he walked second, John behind him, the rest pressing on in single file, one after the other, as quickly as might be. Down went the gallant little band -- with the exception of two stalwart huntsmen and four of the younger amongst the boys, who were left to guard the head of the path -- not knowing the risk they ran: whether they would find an alert and well-armed foe awaiting them at the bottom, or whether they might fall upon the enemy unawares. Very silent and cautious were their movements. The Huntsman and the Gascon brothers moved noiselessly as cats, and even the less trained youths were softly cautious in their movements. Downwards they pressed in breathless excitement, till they found themselves leaving the thick scrub behind and emerging upon a rocky platform of rude shape. Here the Master Huntsman made an imperative sign to the Prince to stop, whilst he crept forward a few paces upon hands and knees, and peeped over the edge. After gazing for a moment at something unseen to those behind, he made a cautious sign to the Prince to approach. Edward at once did so, and Gaston and Raymond followed him, their agile, cat-like movements being as circumspect as those of the leader himself. What they saw as they peeped down into the heart of the dell was a welcome spectacle indeed. Some distance below them, but in full view, was the opening into what looked like a large cavern, and at the entrance to this cavern lay two stout ruffians, armed to the teeth, but both in a sound sleep, their mouths open, their breath coming noisily between their parted lips. There were no dogs to be seen. Nothing broke the intense stillness that prevailed. It was plainly as the old woodman had said. Their nocturnal raid had been followed by a grand carouse on the return home, and now the party, overcome by fatigue and strong drink, and secure in the fancied privacy of their isolated retreat, had retired to rest within the cave, leaving two fellows on guard, to be sure, but plainly without the smallest apprehension of attack. "Good!" whispered the Prince, with eyes that shone like his father's in the hour of action; and softly rising to his feet, he made a sign to his comrades to draw their long knives and follow him in a compact body. "No quarter," he whispered, as he surveyed with pride the brave faces round him: "they have shown no mercy; let no mercy be shown to them. Those who rob the poor, who slay the defenceless, who commit brutal outrages upon the persons of women and children, deserve naught but death. Let them fight like men; we will slay them in fair fight, but we will give no quarter. We will, if God fights for us, sweep the carrion brood from off the very face of the earth!" And then, to the dismay of the Master Huntsman, who had hoped to step upon the sleeping sentries unawares, and rid themselves of at least two of the foe before the alarm was given, the Prince raised his voice in a shrill battle cry, and dashing down the slope with his comrades at his heels, flung himself upon the taller of the guards and plunged his knife into the fellow's throat. Gaston and Raymond had simultaneously sprung upon the other, and with a sharp cry of astonishment and rage he too fell lifeless to the ground. But the Prince's shout, the man's cry, and the sound of clashing arms aroused from their deep slumbers the robber crew within the cavern, and with the alertness that comes of such a lawless life, every man of them sprang to his feet and seized his weapon almost before he was awake. The Master Huntsman, however, had not waited to see the end of the struggle upon the platform outside. At the very moment that the Prince buried his weapon in the sentry's throat, this bold fellow, with three of his underlings at his side, had sprung inside the cave itself, and luckily enough it was upon the prostrate figure of the chief of the band that his eye first lighted. Before the man could spring to his feet, a blow from that long shining knife had found its way to his heart. The other hunters had set each upon his man, and taken unawares, those attacked were slain ere they had awakened sufficiently to realize what was happening. Thus the number had been diminished by six before the rest came swarming out, as bees from a disturbed hive. It was well indeed then for the brave boys, who had thought themselves the match for armed men, that these latter were dazed with deep potations and but half armed after throwing aside their weapons ere lying down to rest. Well was it also that they had amongst them the Master Huntsman and his trusty satellites, who had the strength of men, as well as the trained eye, quick hand, and steady nerve that belong to their calling in life. Then, again, the dress of these huntsmen was so like in character to that worn by many of the band, that the robbers themselves suspected each other of treachery, and many turned one upon the other, and smote his fellow to the earth. Yet notwithstanding all these things in their favour, the Prince's youthful followers were hardly beset, and to his rage and grief young Edward saw more than one bright young head lying in the dust of the sandy platform. But this sight filled him with such fury that he was like a veritable tiger amongst the assailants who still came flocking out of the cave. His battle cry rang again and again through the vaulted cavern, his shining blade seemed everywhere, dealing death and destruction. Boy though he was, he appeared endued with the strength of a man, and that wonderful hereditary fighting instinct, which was so marked in his own sire, seemed handed down to him. He took in the whole scope of the scene with a single glance. Wherever there was an opening to deal a fatal blow, that blow was dealt by the Prince's trusty blade. It almost seemed as though he bore a charmed life in that grim scene of bloodshed and confusion, though perhaps he owed his safety more to the faithful support of the two Gascon brothers, who together with John de Brocas followed the Prince wherever he went, and averted from his head many a furious stroke that else might have settled his mortal career for ever. But the robbers began to see that this boy was their chiefest foe. If they could but slay him, the rest might perchance take flight. Already their own ranks were terribly thinned, and they saw that mischief was meant by the deadly fury with which their assailants came on at them. They were but half armed, and the terror and bewilderment of the moment put them at great disadvantage; but amongst those who still retained their full senses, and could distinguish friend from foe, were three brothers of tall stature and mighty strength, and these three, taking momentary counsel together, resolved to fling themselves upon the little knot surrounding the person of the Prince, and slay at all cost the youthful leader who appeared to exercise so great a power over the rest of the gallant little band. It was a terrible moment for good John de Brocas, already wearied and ready to drop with the exertions of the fight -- exertions to which he was but little habituated -- when he saw bearing down upon them the gigantic forms, as they looked to him, of these three black-browed brothers. The Prince had separated himself somewhat from the rest of the band. He and his three immediate followers had been pursuing some fugitives, who had fallen a prey to their good steel blades. They were just about to return to the others, round whom the fight still raged, though with far less fierceness than at first, when these new adversaries set upon them from behind. John was the only one who had seen the approach, and he only just in time to give one warning shout. Before the Prince could turn, an axe was whirling in the air above his head; and had not John flung himself at that instant upon the Prince, covering his person and dragging him aside at the same moment, a glorious page in England's history would never have been written. But John's prompt action saved the young Edward's life, though a frightful gash was inflicted upon his own shoulder, which received the weight of the robber's blow. With a gasping moan he sank to the ground, and knew no more of what passed, whilst Gaston and Raymond each sprang upon one of their assailants with a yell of fury, and the Prince flung himself upon the fellow who had so nearly caused his death, and for all he knew had slain the trusty John before his very eyes. The Prince soon made sure of his man. The fellow, having missed his stroke, was taken at a disadvantage, and was unable to free his axe or draw his dagger before the Prince had stabbed him to the heart. Gaston and Raymond were sore beset with their powerful adversaries, and would scarce have lived to tell the tale of that fell struggle had not help been nigh at hand from the Master Huntsman. But he, missing the Prince from the cave's mouth, and seeing the peril he was in, now came running up, shouting to his men to follow him, and the three giant brothers were soon lying together stark and dead, whilst poor John was tenderly lifted and carried out of the melee. The fighting was over now. The robbers had had enough of it. Some few had escaped, or had sought to do so; but by far the greater number lay dead on or about the rocky platform, where the fiercest of the fighting had been. They had slain each other as well as having been slain by the Prince's band, and the place was now a veritable shambles, at which some of the lads began to look with shuddering horror. Several of their own number were badly hurt. Three lay dead and cold. Victory had indeed been theirs, but something of the sense of triumph was dashed as they bore away the bodies of their comrades and looked upon the terrible traces of the fray. But the Prince had escaped unscathed -- that was the point of paramount importance in the minds of many -- and he was now engrossed in striving to relieve the sufferings of his wounded comrades by seeing their wounds skilfully bound up by the huntsmen, and obtaining for them draughts of clear cold water from a spring that bubbled up within the cavern itself. Gaston and Raymond had escaped with minor hurts; but John's case was plainly serious, and the flow of blood had been very great before any help could reach him. He was quite unconscious, and looked like death as he lay on the floor of the cave; and after fruitless efforts to revive him, the Prince commanded a rude litter to be made wherein he might be transported to the Palace by the huntsmen who had not taken part in the struggle, and were therefore least weary. The horses were not very far away, and the rest of the wounded and the rescued captives could make shift to walk that far, and afterwards gain the Palace by the help of their sturdy steeds. Thus it came about that Master Bernard de Brocas, who had believed the Prince and his party to be engaged in the harmless and (to them) safe sport of tracking and hunting a boar in the forest, was astounded beyond all power of speech by seeing a battered and ghastly procession enter the courtyard two hours before dusk, bearing in their midst a litter upon which lay the apparently inanimate form of his eldest nephew, his brother's first-born and heir. CHAPTER VII. THE RECTOR'S HOUSE. "It was well thought and boldly executed, my son," said the King of England, as he looked with fatherly pride at his bright-faced boy. "Thou wilt win thy spurs ere long, I doubt not, an thou goest on thus. But it must be an exploit more worthy thy race and state that shall win thee the knighthood which thou dost rightly covet. England's Prince must be knighted upon some glorious battlefield -- upon a day of victory that I trow will come ere long for thee and me. And now to thy mother, boy, and ask her pardon for the fright thou madest her to suffer, when thy sisters betrayed to her the wild chase upon which thou and thy boy comrades were bent. Well was it for all that our trusty huntsmen were with you, else might England be mourning sore this day for a life cut off ere it had seen its first youthful prime. Yet, boy, I have not heart to chide thee; all I ask is that when thou art bent on some quest of glory or peril another time, thou wilt tell thy father first. Trust him not to say thee nay; it is his wish that thou shouldst prove a worthy scion of thy house. He will never stand in thy path if thy purpose be right and wise." The Prince accepted this paternal admonition with all becoming grace and humility, and bent his knee before his mother, to be raised and warmly embraced both by her and the little princesses, who had come in all haste to the Palace of Guildford before the good Rector had had time to send a message of warning to the King. Queen Philippa had heard from her daughters of the proposed escapade on the part of the little band surrounding the Prince, and the fear lest the bold boy might expose himself to real peril had induced the royal family to hasten to Guildford only two days after the Prince had gone thither. They had met a messenger from Master Bernard as they had neared the Palace, and the King, after assuring himself of the safety of his son, made kindly inquiries after those of his companions who had been with him on his somewhat foolhardy adventure. John de Brocas was lying dangerously ill in one of the apartments of the Palace. The King was greatly concerned at hearing how severely he had been hurt; and when the story came to be told more in its details, and it appeared that to John's fidelity and the stanch support of Audley's two youthful esquires the heir of England owed his life, Edward and his Queen both paid a visit to the room where the sick youth lay, and with their own hands bestowed liberal rewards upon the twin brothers, who had stood beside the Prince in the stress of the fight, and had both received minor hurts in shielding him. Sir James Audley was himself in the King's train; but he was about to leave the south for a secret mission in Scotland, entrusted to him by his sovereign. He was going to travel rapidly and without any large escort, and for the present he had no further need for the services of the Gascon twins. Neither of the lads would be fit for the saddle for more than a week to come, and they had already made good use of their time in England, and had interested both the King and the Prince in them, and had also earned liberal rewards. In their heart of hearts they were anxious to remain in the neighbourhood of Guildford, for they knew that there they were not far from Basildene. Wherefore when they understood that their master had no present occasion for any further service from them, they were not a little excited and pleased by the thought that they were now in a position to prosecute their own quest in such manner as seemed best to them. They had made a wonderfully good beginning to their life of adventure. They had won the favour not only of their own kinsfolk, but of the King and the Prince. They had money and clothes and arms. They had the prospect of service with Sir James in the future, when he should have returned from his mission and require a larger train. Everything seemed to be falling in with their own desires; and it was with faces of eager satisfaction that they turned to each other when the knight had left them alone again, after a visit to the long rush-carpeted room, by the glowing hearth of which they were sitting when he had come to seek them soon after the King had visited John's couch. John lay in a semi-conscious state upon the tall canopied bed, beneath a heavy pall of velvet, that gave a funereal aspect to the whole room. He had been aroused by the King's visit, and had spoken a few words in reply to the kind ones addressed to him; but afterwards he had sunk back into the lethargy of extreme weakness, and the brothers were to all intents and purposes alone in the long dormitory they had shared with John, and with two more comrades who had also received slight hurts, but who had now been summoned to attend the Prince on the return journey to Windsor, which was to be taken leisurely and by short stages. Oliver and Bernard de Brocas had likewise gone, and John was, they knew, to be moved as soon as possible to Master Bernard's rectory, not far away. The kindly priest had said something about taking the brothers there also till they were quite healed of their wounds and bruises, and John invariably asked for Raymond if ever he awoke to consciousness. What was to be the end of it all the twins had no idea, but it certainly seemed as though for the present they were to be the guests of their own uncle, who knew nothing of the tie that existed betwixt them. "Shall we say aught to him, Gaston?" asked Raymond, in a low whisper, as the pair sat over the glowing fire together. "He is a good man and a kind one, and perchance if he knew us for kinsmen he might --" "Might be kinder than before?" questioned Gaston, with a proud smile. "Is it that thou wouldst say, brother? Ay, it is possible, but it is also likely enough that he would at once look coldly and harshly upon us. Raymond, I have learned many lessons since we left our peaceful home, and one of these is that men love not unsuccess. It is the prosperous, the favoured of fortune, upon whom the smiles of the great are bent. Perchance it was because he succeeded not well that by his own brothers our father was passed by. Raymond, I have seen likewise this -- if our kinsmen are kind, they are also proud. They have won kingly favour, kingly rewards; all men speak well of them; they are placed high in the land. Doubtless they could help us if they would; but are we to come suing humbly to them for favours, when they would scarce listen to our father when he lived? Shall we run into the peril of having their smiles turned to frowns by striving to claim kinship with them, when perchance they would spurn us from their doors? And if in days to come we rise to fame and fortune, as by good hap we may, shall we put it in their power to say that it is to their favour we owe it all? No -- a thousand times no! I will carve out mine own fortune with mine own good sword and mine own strong arm. I will be beholden to none for that which some day I will call mine own. The King himself has said that I shall make a valiant knight. I have fought by the Prince's side once; I trow that in days to come I shall do the like again. When my knighthood's spurs are won, then perchance I will to mine uncle and say to him, 'Sire, I am thy brother Arnald's son -- thine own nephew;' but not till then will I divulge the secret. Sir John de Brocas -- no, nor Master Bernard either -- shall never say that they have made Sir Gaston's fortune for him!" The lad's eyes flashed fire; the haughty look upon his face was not unlike the one sometimes to be seen upon that of the King's Master of the Horse. Raymond listened with a smile to these bold words, and then said quietly: "Perhaps thou art right, Gaston; but I trust thou bearest no ill will towards our two uncles?" Gaston's face cleared, and he smiled frankly enough. "Nay, Brother, none in the world. It is only as I think sometimes of the story of our parents' wrongs that my hot blood seems to rise against them. They have been kind to us. I trow we need not fear to take such kindness as may be offered to us as strangers; but to come as suppliant kinsmen, humble and unknown, I neither can nor will. Let us keep our secret; let us carve out our own fortunes. A day shall come when we may stand forth before all the world as of the old line of De Brocas, but first we will win for ourselves the welcome we would fain receive." "Ay, and we will seek our lost inheritance of Basildene," added Raymond. "That shall be our next quest, Gaston. I would fain look upon our mother's home. Methinks it lies not many miles from here." "I misdoubt me if Basildene be aught of great moment," said Gaston, shaking back his curly hair. "Like enough it is but a Manor such as we have seen by the score as we have ridden through this land. It may be no such proud inheritance when we do find it, Raymond. It is of our lost possessions in Gascony that I chiefly think. What can any English house, of which even here scarce any man has heard, be as compared with our vast forest lands of Gascony -- our Castle of Saut -- of Orthez -- where the false Sieur de Navailles rules with the rod of iron? It is there that I would be; it is there that I would rule. When the Roy Outremer wages war with the French King, and I fight beneath his banner and win his favour, as I will do ere many years have passed, and when he calls me to receive my rewards at his kingly hands, then will I tell him of yon false and cruel tyrant there, and how our people groan beneath his harsh rule. I will ask but his leave to win mine own again, and then I will ride forth with my own knights in my train, and there shall be once again a lord of the old race ruling at Saut, and the tyrant usurper shall be brought to the very dust!" "Ay," answered Raymond, with a smile that made his face look older for the moment than that of his twin brother, "thou, Gaston, shalt reign in Saut, and I will try to win and to reign at Basildene, content with the smaller inheritance. Methinks the quiet English Manor will suit me well. By thy side for a while will I fight, too, winning, if it may be, my spurs of knighthood likewise; but when the days of fighting be past, I would fain find a quiet haven in this fair land -- in the very place where our mother longed to end her days." It may be seen, from the foregoing fragment of talk, that already the twin brothers were developing in different directions. So long as they had lived in the quiet of the humble home, they had scarce known a thought or aspiration not shared alike by both; but the experiences of the past months had left a mark upon them, and the mark was not altogether the same in the case of each. They had shared all adventures, all perils, all amusements; their hearts were as much bound up as ever one with the other; but they were already looking at life differently, forming a different ideal of the future. The soldier spirit was coming out with greater intensity in one nature than in the other. Gaston had no ambition, no interest beyond that of winning fame and glory by the sword. Raymond was just beginning to see that there were other aims and interests in life, and to feel that there might even come a day when these other interests should prove more to him than any laurels of battle. In the days that followed, this feeling grew more and more upon him. His hurt was more slow to heal than Gaston's, and long after his brother was riding out daily into the forest with the keepers to slay a fat buck for the prelate's table or fly a falcon for practice or sport, Raymond remained within the house, generally the companion of the studious John; and as the latter grew strong enough to talk, he was always imparting new ideas to the untutored but receptive mind of the Gascon boy. They had quickly removed from the Royal Palace to the more cozy and comfortable quarters within the Rectory, which belonged to Master Bernard in right of his office. John was as much at home in his uncle's house as in his father's, having spent much of his youth with the priest. Indeed it may be questioned whether he felt as much at ease anywhere as he did in this sheltered and retired place, and Raymond began to feel the subtle charm of the life there almost at once. The Rector possessed what was for that age a fine collection of books. These were of course all manuscripts, and very costly of their kind, some being beautifully illuminated and others very lengthy. These manuscripts and books were well known to John, who had read the majority of them, and was never weary of reading them again and again. Some were writings of the ancient fathers; others were the works of pagan writers and philosophers who had lived in the dark ages of the world's history, yet who had had thoughts and aspirations in advance of their day, and who had striven without the light of Christianity to construct a code of morals that should do the work for humanity which never could have been done till the Light came into the world with the Incarnation. As Raymond sat day by day beside John's couch, hearing him read out of these wonderful books, learning himself to read also with a sense of quickened pleasure that it was a surprise to experience, he began to realize that there was a world around and about him of which he had had no conception hitherto, to feel his mental horizon widening, and to see that life held weightier questions than any that could be settled at the sword's point. "In truth I have long held that myself," answered John, to whom some such remark had been made; and upon the pale face of the student there shone a light which Raymond had seen there before, and marked with a dim sense of awe. "We hear men talk of the days of chivalry, and mourn because they seem to be passing away. Yet methinks there may be a holier and a higher form of chivalry than the world has yet seen that may rise upon the ashes of what has gone before, and lead men to higher and better things. Raymond, I would that I might live to see such a day -- a day when battle and bloodshed should be no longer men's favourite pastime, but when they should come to feel as our Blessed Lord has bidden us feel, brothers in love, for that we love Him, and that we walk forward hand in hand towards the light, warring no more with our brethren of the faith, but only with such things as are contrary to His Word, and are hindering His purpose concerning the earth." Raymond listened with but small comprehension to a thought so vastly in advance of the spirit of the day; but despite his lack of true understanding, he felt a quick thrill of sympathy as he looked into John's luminous eyes, and he spoke with reverence in his tone even though his words seemed to dissent from those of his companion. "Nay, but how would the world go on without wars and gallant feats of arms? And sure in a good cause men must fight with all their might and main? Truly I would gladly seek for paynim and pagan foes if they might be found; but men go not to the Holy Land as once they did. There be foes nigher at home against whom we have to turn our arms. Good John, thou surely dost not call it a wicked thing to fight beneath the banner of our noble King when he goes forth upon his wars?" John smiled one of those thoughtful, flickering smiles that puzzled his companion and aroused his speculative curiosity. "Nay, Raymond," he answered, speaking slowly, as though it were no easy matter to put his thought in such words as would be comprehensible to his companion, "it is not that I would condemn any man or any cause. We are placed in the midst of warlike and stirring times, and it may be that some great purpose is being worked out by all these wars and tumults in which we bear our share. It is only as I lie here and think (I have, as thou knowest, been here many times before amongst these books and parchments, able for little but study and thought) that there comes over me a strange sense of the hollowness of these earthly strivings and search after fame and glory, a solemn conviction -- I scarce know how to frame it in words -- that there must be other work to be done in the world, stronger and more heroic deeds than men will ever do with swords and spears. Methinks the holy saints and martyrs who went before us knew something of that work; and though it be not given to us to dare and suffer as they did, yet there come to me moments when I feel assured that God may still have works of faith and patience for us to do for Him here, which (albeit the world will never know it) may be more blessed in His eyes than those great deeds the fame of which goes through the world. Perchance were I a man of thews and sinews like my brothers, I might think only of the glory of feats of arms and the stress and strife of the battle. But being as I am, I cannot but think of other matters; and so thinking and dreaming, there has come to me the sense that if I may never win the knighthood and the fame which may attend on others, I may yet be called upon to serve the Great King in some other way. Raymond, I think that I could gladly die content if I might but feel that I had been called to some task for Him, and having been called had been found faithful." John's eyes were shining brightly as he spoke. Raymond felt a slight shiver run through his frame as he answered impulsively: "Thou hast done a deed already of which any belted knight might well be proud. It was thou who saved the life of the Prince of Wales by taking upon thy shoulder the blow aimed at his head. The King himself has spoken in thy praise. How canst thou speak as though no fame or glory would be thine?" A look of natural pride and pleasure stole for a moment over John's pale face; but the thoughtful brightness in his eyes deepened during the silence that followed, and presently he said musingly: "I am glad to think of that. I like to feel that my arm has struck one good blow for my King and country; though, good Raymond, to thee and to Gaston, as much as to me, belongs the credit of saving the young Prince. Yet though I too love deeds of glory and chivalry, and rejoice to have borne a part in one such struggle undertaken in defence of the poor and the weak, I still think there be higher tasks, higher quests, yet to be undertaken by man in this world." "What quest?" asked Raymond wonderingly, as John paused, enwrapped, as it seemed, in his own thoughts. It was some time before the question was answered, and then John spoke dreamily and slow, as though his thoughts were far away from his wondering listener. "The quest after that whose glory shall not be of this world alone; the quest that shall raise man heavenward to his Maker. Is that thought new in the heart of man? I trow not. We have heard of late much of that great King Arthur, the founder of chivalry, and of his knights. Were feats of arms alone enough for them? or those exploits undertaken in the cause of the helpless or oppressed, great and noble as these must ever be? Did not one or more of their number feel that there was yet another and a holier quest asked of a true knight? Did not Sir Galahad leave all else to seek after the Holy Grail? Thou knowest all the story; have we not read it often together? And seems it not to thee to point us ever onward and upward, away from things of earth towards the things of heaven, showing that even chivalry itself is but an earthly thing, unless it have its final hopes and aspirations fixed far above this earth?" John's face was illumined by a strange radiance. It seemed to Raymond as though something of the spirit of the Knight of the Grail shone out from those hollow eyes. A subtle sympathy fired his own soul, and taking his cousin's thin hand in his he cried quickly and impetuously: "Such a knight as that would I fain be. Good John, tell me, I pray thee, where such a quest may be found." At that literal question, put with an air of the most impulsive good faith, John's face slightly changed. The rapt look faded from his eyes, and a reflective smile took its place, as the young man gazed long and earnestly into the bright face of the eager boy. "Why shouldst thou come to me to know, good lad?" he questioned. "It is of others that thou wilt learn these matters better than of me. Do they not call me the man of books -- of dreams -- of fancies?" "I know not and I care not," answered Raymond impetuously. "It is of thee and of thee only that I would learn." "And I scarce know how to answer thee," replied the youth, "though gladly would I help thee to fuller, clearer knowledge if I knew how. I trow that many men would smile at me were I to put my thoughts into words, for it seems to me that for us who call ourselves after the sacred name of Christ there can be no higher or holier service than the service in which He himself embarked, and bid His followers do likewise -- feeding the hungry, ministering to the sick, cheering the desolate, binding up the broken heart, being eyes to the blind and feet to the lame. He that would be the greatest, let him be the servant of all. Those were His own words. Yet how little do we think of them now." Raymond sat silent and amazed. Formerly such words would have seemed comprehensible enough to him; but of late he had seen life under vastly different aspects than any he had known in his quiet village home. The great ones of the earth did not teach men thus to think or speak. Not to serve but to rule was the aim and object of life. "Wouldst have me enter the cloister, then?" he asked, a look of distaste and shrinking upon his face; for the quiet, colourless life (as it seemed to him) of those who entered the service of the Church was little to the taste of the ardent boy. But John's answer was a bright smile and a decided negative; whereupon Raymond breathed more freely. "Nay; I trow we have priests and monks enow, holy and pious men as they are. It has often been asked of me if I will not follow in the steps of my good uncle here; but I have never felt the wish. It seems to me that the habit of the monk or the cassock of the priest too often seems to separate betwixt him and his fellow man, and that it were not good for the world for all its holiest men to don that habit and divide themselves from their brethren. Sir Galahad's spotless heart beat beneath his silver armour. Would he have been to story and romance the star and pattern he now is had he donned the monkish vesture and turned his armed quest into a friar's pilgrimage?" "Nay, verily not." "I think with thee, and therefore say I, Let not all those who would fain lead the spotless life think to do so by withdrawing from the world. Rather let them carry about the spotless heart beneath the coat of mail or the gay habit. Their quest need not be the less exalted --" "But what is that quest to be?" cried Raymond eagerly; "that is what I fain would know. Good John, give me some task to perform. What wouldst thou do thyself in my place?" "Thou wouldst laugh were I to tell thee." "Try me and see." "I will. If I were sound and whole tomorrow, I should forth into the forest whence we came, and I should seek and find that aged woodman, who seemed so sorely bowed down with sorrow, and I should bid him unfold his tale to me, and see if in any wise I might help him. He is poor, helpless, wretched, and by the words he spoke, I knew that he had suffered heavy sorrow. Perchance that sorrow might be alleviated could one but know the story of it. His face has haunted my fevered dreams. To me it seems as though perchance this were an errand of mercy sent to me to do. Deeds of knightly prowess I trow will never now be mine. It must be enough for me to show my chivalry by acts of love and care for the helpless, the sorrowful, the oppressed." Raymond's eyes suddenly glowed. Something of the underlying poetry of the thought struck an answering chord in his heart, though the words themselves had been plain and bald enough. "I will perform that task for thee, good John," he said. "I well remember the place, ay, and the old man and his sorrowful mien. I will thither tomorrow, and will bring thee word again. If he may be helped by any act of mine, be assured that act shall not be lacking." John pressed his comrade's hand and thanked him; but Raymond little knew to what this quest, of apparently so little moment, was to lead, nor what a link it was to form with the story of the lost inheritance of Basildene. CHAPTER VIII. THE VISIT TO THE WOODMAN. "Raymond, I am glad of this chance to speak alone together, for since thou hast turned into a man of books and letters I have scarce seen thee. I am glad of this errand into these dark woods. It seems like times of old come back again -- and yet not that either. I would not return to those days of slothful idleness, not for all the gold of the King's treasury. But I have wanted words with thee alone, Brother. Knowest thou that we are scarce ten miles (as they measure distance here in England) from Basildene?" Raymond turned an eager face upon his brother. "Hast seen it, Gaston?" "Nay. It has not been my hap to go that way; but I have heard enough and to spare about it. I fear me that our inheritance is but a sorry one, Raymond, and that it will be scarce worth the coil that would be set afoot were we to try to make good our claim." "Tell me, what hast thou heard?" asked Raymond eagerly. "Why, that it is but an ancient Manor, of no great value or extent, and that the old man who dwells there with his son is little different from a sorcerer, whom it is not safe to approach -- at least not with intent to meddle. Men say that he is in league with the devil, and that he has sold his soul for the philosopher's stone, that changes all it touches to gold. They say, too, that those who offend him speedily sicken of some fell disease that no medicine can cure. Though he must have wondrous wealth, he has let his house fall into gloomy decay. No man approaches it to visit him, and he goes nowhither himself. His son, Peter, who seems as little beloved as his father, goes hither and thither as he will. But it is whispered that he shares in his father's dealings with the Evil One, and that he will reap the benefit of the golden treasure which has been secured to them. However that may be, all men agree that the Sanghursts of Basildene are not to be meddled with with impunity." Raymond's face was very thoughtful. Such a warning as this, lightly as it would be regarded in the present century, meant something serious then; and Raymond instinctively crossed himself as he heard Gaston's words. But after a moment's pause of thoughtful silence he said gravely: "Yet perhaps on this very account ought we the rather to strive to win our inheritance out of such polluted hands. Have we not others to think of in this thing? Are there not those living beneath the shelter of Basildene who must be suffering under the curse that wicked man is like to bring upon it? For their sakes, Gaston, ought we not to do all in our power to make good our rights? Are they to be left to the mercy of one whose soul is sold to Satan?" Gaston looked quickly into his brother's flushed face, and wondered at the sudden enthusiasm beaming out of his eyes. But he had already recognized that a change was passing over Raymond, even as a change of a different kind was coming upon himself. He did not entirely understand it, neither did he resent it; and now he threw his arm across his brother's shoulder in the old caressing fashion of their boyhood. "Nay, I know not how that may be. There may be found those who dare to war against the powers of darkness, and with the help of the holy and blessed saints they may prevail. But that is not the strife after which my heart longs. Raymond, I fear me I love not Basildene, I love not the thought of making it our own. It is for the glory of the battlefield and the pomp and strife of true warfare that I long. There are fairer lands to be won by force of arms than ever Basildene will prove, if all men speak sooth. Who and what are we, to try our fortunes and tempt destruction by drawing upon ourselves the hatred of this wicked old man, who may do us to death in some fearful fashion, when else we might be winning fame and glory upon the plains of France? Let us leave Basildene alone, Brother; let us follow the fortunes of the great King, and trust to his noble generosity for the reward of valour." Raymond made no immediate reply, though he pressed his brother's hand and looked lovingly into his face. Truth to tell, his affections were winding themselves round his mother's country and inheritance, just as Gaston's were turning rather to his father's land, and the thought of the rewards to be won there. Then, within Raymond's heart were growing up those new thoughts and aspirations engendered by long talks with John; and it seemed to him that possibly the very quest of which he was in search might be found in freeing Basildene of a heavy curse. Ardent, sensitive, full of vivid imagination -- as the sons of the forest mostly are -- Raymond felt that there was more in the truest and deepest chivalry than the mere feats of arms and acts of dauntless daring that so often went by that name. Hazy and indistinct as his ideas were, tinged with much of the mysticism, much of the superstition of the age, they were beginning to assume definite proportions, and to threaten to colour the whole future course of his life; and beneath all the dimness and confusion one settled, leading idea was slowly unfolding itself, and forming a foundation for the superstructure that was to follow -- the idea that in self-denial, self-sacrifice, the subservience of selfish ambition to the service of the oppressed and needy, chivalry in its highest form was to be found. But in his brother's silence Gaston thought he read disappointment, and with another affectionate gesture he hastened to add: "But if thy heart goes out to our mother's home, we will yet win it back, when time has changed us from striplings to tried warriors. See, Brother, I will tell thee what we will do. Men say that it can scarce be a year from now ere the war breaks out anew betwixt France and England, and then will come our opportunity. We will follow the fortunes of the King. We will win our spurs fighting at the side of the Prince. We will do as our kindred have done before us, and make ourselves honoured and respected of all men. It may be that we shall then be lords of Saut once more. But be that as it may, we shall be strong, rich, powerful -- as our uncles are now. Then, if thou wilt so have it, we will think again of Basildene; and if we win it back, it shall be thine, and thine alone. Fight thou by my side whilst we are yet too young to bring to good any private matter of our own. Then will I, together with thee, think again of our boyhood's dream; and it may be that we shall yet live to be called the Twin Brothers of Basildene!" Raymond smiled at the sound of that name, as he had smiled at Gaston's eager words before. Full of ardent longings and unbounded enthusiasm, as were most well-born youths in those adventurous days, he was just a little less confident than Gaston of the brilliant success that was to attend upon their feats of arms. Still there was much of the fighting instinct in the boy, and there was certainly no hope of regaining Basildene in the present. So that he agreed willingly to his brother's proposition, although he resolved before he left these parts to look once with his own eyes upon the home that had sheltered his mother's childhood and youth. And then they plunged into the thickest of the forest, and could talk no more till they had reached the little clearing that lay around the woodman's hut. The old man was not far away, as they heard by the sound of a falling axe a little to the right of them. Following this sound, they quickly came upon the object of their search -- the grizzled old man, with the same look of unutterable woe stamped upon his face. Gaston, who knew only one-half of the errand upon which they had come, produced the pieces of silver that the Rector and John had sent, with a message of thanks to the old woodman for his help in directing the Prince and his company to the robbers' cave at such a favourable moment. The old man appeared bewildered at first by the sight of the money and the words of thanks; but recollection came back by degrees, though he seemed as one who in constant brooding upon a single theme has come to lose all sense of other things, and scarce to observe the flight of time, or to know one day from another. This strange, wild melancholy, which had struck John at once, now aroused in Raymond a sense of sympathetic interest. He had come to try to seek the cause of the old man's sorrow, and he did not mean to leave with his task unfulfilled. Perhaps John could have found no fitter emissary than this Gascon lad, with his simple forest training, his quick sympathy and keen intelligence, and his thorough knowledge of the details of peasant life, which in all countries possess many features in common. It was hard at first to get the old man to care to understand what was said, or to take the trouble to reply. The habit of silence is one of the most difficult to break; but patience and perseverance generally win the day: and when it dawned upon this strange old man that it was of himself and his own loss and grief that these youths had come to speak, a new look crossed his weatherbeaten face, and a strange gleam of mingled fury and despair shone in the depths of his hollow eyes. "My sorrow!" he exclaimed, in a voice from which the dreary cadence had now given place to a clearer, firmer ring: "is it of that you ask, young sirs? Has it been told to you the cruel wrong that I have suffered?" Then suddenly clinching his right hand and shaking it wildly above his head, he broke into vehement and almost unintelligible invective, railing with frenzied bitterness against some foe, speaking so rapidly, and with such strange inflections of voice, that it was but a few words that the brothers could distinguish out of the whole of the impassioned speech. One of those words was "my son -- my boy," followed by the names of Sanghurst and Basildene. It was these names that arrested the attention of the brothers, causing them to start and exchange quick glances. Raymond waited till the old man had finished his railing, and then he asked gently: "Had you then a son? Where is he now?" "A son! ay, that had I -- the light and brightness of my life!" cried the old man, with a sudden burst of rude eloquence that showed him to have been at some former time something better than his present circumstances seemed to indicate. "Young sirs, I know not who you are; I know not why you ask me of my boy. But your faces are kind, and perchance there may be help in the world, though I have found it not. I know not how time has fled since that terrible sorrow fell upon me. Perchance not many years by the calendar, but in misery and suffering a lifetime. Listen, and I will tell you all. I was not ever as you see me now. I was no lonely woodman buried in the heart of the forest. I was second huntsman to Sir Hugh Vavasour of Woodcrych, in favour with my master and well contented with my lot. I had a wife whom I loved, and she had born me a lovely boy, who was the very light of my eyes and the joy of my heart. I should weary you did I tell you of all his bold pranks and merry ways. He was, I verily believe, the loveliest child that God's sun has ever looked down upon. When it pleased Him to take my wife away from me after seven happy years, I strove not to murmur; for I had still the child, and every day that passed made him more winsome, more loving, more mettlesome and bold. Even the master would draw rein as he passed my door to have a word with the boy; and little Mistress Joan gave me many a silver groat to buy him a fairing with, and keep him always dressed in the smartest little suit of forester's green. The priest noticed him too, and would have him to his house to teach him many things, and told me he would live to carve out a fortune for himself. I thought naught too good for him. I would have wondered little if even the King had sent for him to make of him a companion for his son. "Perchance I was foolish in the boastings I made. But the beauty and the wisdom of the boy struck all alike -- and thence came his destruction." "His destruction?" echoed both brothers in a breath. "What! is he then dead?" "He is worse than dead," answered the father, in a hollow, despairing voice; "he has been bewitched -- undone by foul sorcery, bound over hand and foot, and given to the keeping of Satan. Even the priest can do nothing for us. He is lost, body and soul, for ever." The brothers exchanged wondering glances as they made the sign of the cross, the old man watching the gesture with a bitter smile in his eye. Then Raymond spoke again: "But what was it that happened? we do not yet understand." "I will tell you all. If you know this part of the world, young sirs, you have doubtless heard of the old Manor of Basildene, where dwells one, Peter Sanghurst by name, who is nothing more nor less than a wizard, who should be hunted to death without pity. Men have told me (I know not with what truth) that these wizards, who give themselves over to the devil, are required by their master from time to time to furnish him with new victims, and these victims are generally children -- fair and promising children, who can first be trained in the black arts of their earthly master, and are then handed over, body and soul, to the devil, to be his slaves and his victims for ever." The old man was speaking slowly now, with a steady yet despairing ferocity that was terrible to hear. His sunken eyes gleamed in their sockets, and his hands, that were tightly clinched over the handle of his axe, trembled with the emotion that had him in its clutches. "I was sent upon a mission by my master. I was absent from my home some seven days. When I came back my boy was gone. I had left him in the care of the keeper of the hounds. He was an honest man, and told me all the tale. Perchance you know that Sir Hugh Vavasour is what men call a spendthrift. His estates will not supply him with the money he needs. He is always in debt, he is always in difficulties. From that it comes that he cares little what manner of men are his comrades or friends, provided only that they can supply his needs when his own means fail. This is why, when all men else hate and loathe the very name of Sanghurst, he calls himself their friend. He knows that the old man has the secret by which all things may be turned into gold, and therefore he welcomes his son to Woodcrych. And men say that Mistress Joan is to be given in marriage to his son one day, because he will take her without dowry; for she is the fairest creature in the world, and he has vowed that she shall wed him and none else." The brothers were intensely interested by this tale, but were growing a little confused by all the names introduced, and they wanted the story of the woodman's son complete. "Then was it the old man who took your boy, or was it his son? Are they not both called Peter?" "Ay, they have both the same name -- the same name and the same nature: evil, cruel, remorseless. I know not how nor where the old man first set eyes upon my boy; but he must have seen him, and have coveted possession of him for his devilish practices; for upon the week that I was absent from home, he left the solitude of his house, and came with the master himself to the house where the boy was. And then Sir Hugh explained to honest Stephen, who had charge of him, that Master Peter Sanghurst had offered the lad a place in his service, where he would learn many things that would stand him in good stead all the days of his life. It sounded fair in all faith. But Stephen stoutly refused to let the boy go till I returned; whereupon Sir Hugh struck him a blow across the face with his heavy whip, and young Peter Sanghurst, leaping to the ground, seized the child and placed him in front of him upon the horse, and the three galloped off laughing aloud, whilst the boy in vain implored to be set down to run home. When I came back he had gone, and all men said that the old man had thus stolen him to satisfy the greed for souls of his master the devil." "And hast thou not seen him since?" asked the boys breathlessly. "What didst thou do when thou camest back?" For a moment it seemed as though the old man would break out again into those wild imprecations of frenzied anger which the brothers had heard him utter before; but by a violent effort he checked the vehement flow of words that rose to his lips, and replied with a calmness far more really impressive: "I did all that a poor helpless man might do when his feudal lord was on the side of the enemy, and met every prayer and supplication either with mockery or blows. I soon saw it all too well. Sir Hugh was under the spell of the wicked old man. What was my boy's soul to him? what my agony? Nothing -- nothing. The wizard had coveted the beautiful boy. He had doubtless made it worth my master's while to sell him to him; and what could I do? I tried everything I knew; but who would listen to me? Master Bernard de Brocas of Guildford, whom I met upon the road and begged to listen to my tale, promised he would see if something might not be done. I waited and waited in anguish, and hope, and despair, and there came a day when his palfrey stopped at my door, and he came forward himself to speak with me. He told me he had spoken to the Master of Basildene, and that he had promised to restore me my son if I was resolved to have him back; but he had told the good priest that he knew the boy would never be content to stay in a woodland cottage with an unlettered father, when he had learned what life elsewhere was like. But I laughed this warning to scorn, and demanded my boy back." "And did he come?" A strange look swept over the old man's face. His hands were tightly clinched. His voice was very low, and full of suppressed awe and fury. "Ay, he came back -- he came back that same night -- but so changed in those few months that I scarce knew him. And ah, how he clung to me when he was set down at my door! How he sobbed on my breast, entreating me to hold him fast -- to save him -- to protect him! What fearful tales of unhallowed sights and sounds did his white lips pour into my ears! How my own blood curdled at the tale, and how I vowed that never, never, never would I let him go from out my arms again! I held him fast. I took him within doors. I fastened the door safely. I fed him, comforted him, and laid him in mine own bed, lying wakeful beside him for fear even then that he should be taken from me; and thus the hours sped by. But the rest -- ah, how can I tell it? It wrings my very heart. O my child, my son -- my own heart's joy!" The old man threw up his arms with a wild gesture of despair, and there was something in his face so terrible that the twins dared ask him no question; but after that one cry and gesture, the stony look returned upon his face, and he went on of his own accord. "Midnight had come. I knew it by the position of the moon in the heavens. My boy had been sleeping like one dead beside me, never moving or stirring, scarce breathing; and I had at last grown soothed and drowsy likewise. I had just fallen into a light sleep, when I was aroused by feeling Roger stir beside me, and hastily sit up in the bed. His eyes were wide open, and in the moonlight they seemed to shine with unnatural brilliance. It was as if he were listening -- listening with every fibre of his being, listening to a voice which he could hear and I could not; for he made quick answers. 'I hear, Sire,' he said, in a strange, muffled voice. And he rose suddenly to his feet and cried, 'I come, Master, I come.' Then a great rage and fear possessed me, for I knew that my boy was being called by some foul spirit, and that he was bewitched. I sprang up and seized him in my arms. 'Thou shalt not go!' I cried aloud. 'He has given thee back to me. I am thy father. Thy place is here. I will not let thee go!' But I might have been speaking to a dead corpse for all the understanding I received. My boy's eyes were opened, but he saw me not. His ears, that heard other voices, were deaf to mine. He struggled fiercely against my fatherly embrace; and when I felt the strength that had come into that frame, so worn and feeble but a few short hours ago, then I knew that it was the devil himself who had entered into my child, and that it was his voice that was luring him back to his destruction. O my God! May I never have to live again through the agony of that hour in which I fought with the devil for my child, and fought in vain. Like one possessed (as indeed he was) did he wrestle with me, crying out wildly all the while that he was coming -- that he would quickly come; hearing nothing that I could hear, seeing nothing that I could see, and all the time struggling with me with a strength that I knew must at last prevail, albeit he was but a tender child and I a man in the prime of manhood's strength. But the devil was in him that night. It was not my boy's own hand that struck the blow which forced me to leave my hold, and sent me staggering back against the wall. No, it was but the evil spirit within him; and even as I released him from my embrace, he glided to the door, undid the fastenings, and still calling out that he was coming, that he would be there anon, he slipped out into the still forest, and vanished amongst the trees." "Did he return to Basildene?" "Ay, like a bird to its nest, a dog to its master's home. Spent and breathless, despairing as I was, I yet gathered my strength and followed my boy -- weeping and calling upon his name, though I knew he heard me not. Scarce could I keep the gliding figure in sight; yet I could not choose but follow, lest some mischance should befall the child by the way. But he moved onwards as if he trod on air, neither stumbling nor falling, nor turning to the right hand or to the left. I watched him to the end of the avenue of trees that leads to Basildene. As he reached it a dark figure stepped forth, and the child sank to the ground as if exhausted. There was the sound of laughter -- fiends' laughter, if ever devils do laugh. It chilled the very blood in my veins, and I stood rooted to the spot, whilst the hair of my head stood erect. The dark form bent over the boy and seemed to raise it. "'You shall suffer for this,' I heard a cruel voice say in a hissing whisper; 'you will not ask to leave again!' and at those evil words a cry of anguish -- a human cry -- broke from my boy's lips, and with a yell of fury I sprang forward to save him or to die with him. But what happened then I know not. Whether a human hand or a fiend's struck me down I shall never now know. I remember a blow -- the sense that hell's mouth was opening to receive me; that the mocking laughter of devils was in my ears. Then I knew no more till (they tell me it was many weeks later) I awoke from a long strange sleep in yon cabin where I live. An old woodman had found me, and had carried me there. Sir Hugh had given him a few silver pieces to take care of me. He had filled my place, and my old home was occupied by another; but had it not been so, no power on earth would have taken me back there. I had grown old in one night. I had lost my strength, my cunning, my heart. I stayed on with the old man awhile, and as he fell sick and died when the next snow fell upon the ground, Master Bernard de Brocas appointed me as woodman in his stead, and here I have remained ever since. I know not how the time has sped. I have no heart or hope in life. My child is gone -- possessed by fiends who have him in their clutches, so that I may never win him back to me. I hate my life, yet fear to die; for then I might see him the sport of devils, and be, as before, powerless to succour him. I have long ceased to be shriven for my sins. What good to me is forgiveness, if my child will be doomed to hellfire for evermore? No hope in this world, no hope after death. Woe is me that ever I was born! Woe is me! woe is me!" The energy which had supported the old man as he told his tale now appeared suddenly to desert him. With a low moan he sank upon the ground and buried his face in his hands, whilst the boys stood and gazed at him, and then at one another, their faces full of interest and sympathy, their hearts burning with indignation against the wicked foe of their own race, who seemed to bring misery and wrong wherever he moved. "And thou hast never seen thy son again?" asked Raymond softly. "Is he yet alive, knowest thou?" "I have never seen him again: they say that he still lives. But what is life to one who is sold and bound over, body and soul, to the powers of darkness?" Then the old man buried his face once more in his hands, and seemed to forget even the presence of the boys; and Gaston and Raymond stole silently away, with many backward glances at the bowed and stricken figure, unable to find any words either to help or comfort him. CHAPTER IX. JOAN VAVASOUR. It was with the greatest interest that John de Brocas listened to the story brought home by the twin brothers after their visit to the woodman's hut. Such a story of oppression, cruelty, and wrong truly stirred him to the very soul; and moreover, as the brothers spoke of Basildene, they told him also (under the promise of secrecy) of their own connection with that place, of their kinship with himself, and of the wrongs they had suffered at the hand of the Sanghursts, father and son; and all this aroused in the mind of John an intense desire to see wrong made right, and retribution brought upon the heads of those who seemed to become a curse wherever they went. "And so ye twain are my cousins?" he said, looking from one face to the other with penetrating gaze. "I knew from the very first that ye were no common youths; and it was a stronger tie than that of Gascon blood that knit us one to the other. But I will keep your secret. Perchance ye are wise in wishing it kept. There be something too many hangers-on of our house already, and albeit I know not all the cause of the estrangement, I know well that your father was coldly regarded for many years, and it may be that his sons would receive but sorry welcome if they came as humble suppliants for place. The unsuccessful members of a house are scarce ever welcomed, and the claim to Basildene might be but a hindrance in your path. Sir Hugh Vavasour is high in favour at Court. He is a warm friend of my father and my uncle; and he and the Sanghursts are bound together by some close tie, the nature of which I scarce know. Any claim on Basildene would be fiercely resented by the father and son who have seized it, and their quarrel would be taken up by others of more power. Gaston is right in his belief that you must first win credit and renown beneath the King's banners. As unknown striplings you have no chance against yon crafty fox of Basildene. Were he but to know who and what you were, I know not that your very lives would be safe from his malice." The twins exchanged glances. It seemed as though they were threatened on every hand by the malice of those who had usurped their rights and their lands; yet they felt no fear, rather a secret exultation at the thought of what lay before them. But their curiosity was strongly stirred about the strange old man at Basildene, and they eagerly asked John of the truth of those reports which spoke of him as being a tool and slave of the devil. A grave light came into John's eyes as he replied: "Methinks that every man is the tool of Satan who willingly commits sin with his eyes open, and will not be restrained. I cannot doubt that old Peter Sanghurst has done this again and again. He is an evil man and a wicked one. But whether or no he has visible dealings with the spirits of darkness, I know not. Men can sin deeply and darkly and yet win no power beyond that vouchsafed to others." "But the woodman's son," said Raymond, in awestruck tones, "him he most certainly bewitched. How else could he have so possessed him that even his own father could not restrain him from going back to the dread slavery once again?" A thoughtful look was on John's face. He was lying on his couch in the large room where his learned uncle stored all his precious books and parchments, safely locked away in carved presses; and rising slowly to his feet -- for he was still feeble and languid in his movements -- he unlocked one of these, and took from it a large volume in some dead language, and laid it upon the table before him. "I know not whether or no I am right, but I have heard before of a strange power that some men may possess over the minds and wills of others -- a power so great that they become their helpless tools, and can be made to act, to see, to feel just as they are bidden, and are as helpless to resist that power as the snared bird to avoid the outstretched hand of the fowler. That this power is a power of evil, and comes from the devil himself, I may not disbelieve; for it has never been God's way of dealing with men to bind captive their wills and make them blind and helpless agents of the will of others. Could you read the words of this book, you would find many things therein as strange as any you have heard today. For myself, I have little doubt that old Peter Sanghurst, who has spent years of his life amongst the heathen Moors, and is, as all men avow, steeped to the lips in their strange and unchristian lore, has himself the art of thus gaining the mastery over the minds and wills of others, and that it was no demoniacal possession, but just the wicked will of the old man exercised upon that of his helpless victim, which drew the boy back to him when his father had him safe at home (as he thought) once more. In this book it is written that young boys, especially if they be beautiful of form and receptive of mind, make the best tools for this black art. They can be thrown into strange trances, in which many things are revealed to them. They can be sent in the spirit to places they have never seen, and can be made to describe what is passing thousands of miles away. I cannot tell how these things may be, unless indeed it is the devil working in them; yet here it is written down as if it were some art which certain men with certain gifts may acquire, as they may acquire other knowledge and learning. In truth, I think such things smack of the Evil One himself; yet I doubt if there be that visible bond with Satan that is commonly reported amongst the unlettered and ignorant. It is a cruel and a wicked art without doubt, and it says here that the children who are caught and subjected to these trances and laid under this spiritual bondage seldom live long; and that but for this, there seems no end to the wonders that might be performed. But the strain upon their spirits almost always results in madness or death, and thus the art never makes the strides that those who practise it long to see." John was turning the leaves of the book as he spoke, reading a word here and there as if to refresh his memory. The Gascon brothers listened with breathless interest, and suddenly Raymond started to his feet, saying: "John, thou hast spoken of a knightly quest that would win no praise from man, but yet be such as a true knight would fain undertake. Would not the rescue of yon wretched boy from the evil thraldom of that wicked sorcerer be such a task as that? Is not Basildene ours? Is it not for us to free it from the curse of such pollution? Is not that child one of the oppressed and wronged that it is the duty of a true servant of the old chivalry to rescue at all costs? "Gaston, wilt thou go with me? Shall we snatch from the clutches of this devilish old man the boy whose story we have heard today? Methinks I can never rest happy till the thing is done. Will not a curse light upon the very house itself if these dark deeds go on within its walls? Who can have a better right to avert such curse than we -- its rightful lords?" Gaston sprang to his feet, and threw back his head with a proud and defiant gesture. "Verily I will go with thee, Brother. I would gladly strike a blow for the freedom of the boy and against the despoiler of our mother's house. I would fain go this very day." Both brothers looked to John, as if asking his sanction for the act. He closed his book, and raised his eyes with a smile; but he advocated prudence, and patience too. "In truth, methinks it would be a deed of charity and true chivalry, yet one by no means without its peril and its risk. Old Sanghurst is a wily and a cruel foe, and failure would but mean more tyranny and suffering for the miserable victim he holds in his relentless hands. It might lead also to some mysterious vengeance upon you yourselves. There are ugly whispers breathed abroad about the old man and his evil practices. Travellers through these forest tracks, richly laden, have been known to disappear, and no man has heard of them more. It is rumoured that they have been seized and done to death by the rapacious owners of Basildene, and that the father and son are growing wealthy beyond what any man knows by the plunder they thus obtain." "But if they hold the secret of the philosopher's stone, sure they would not need to fall upon travellers by the way!" John slowly shook his head, a thoughtful smile upon his face. "For mine own part," he said quietly, "I have no belief in that stone, or in that power of alchemy after which men since the beginning of time have been vainly striving. They may seek and seek, but I trow they will never find it; and I verily believe if found it would but prove a worthless boon. For in the hands of a rapacious master, so quickly would gold be poured upon the world that soon its value would be lost, and it would be no more prized than the base metals we make our horseshoes of. It is not the beauty of gold that makes men covet it. It is because it is rare that it is precious. If this philosopher's stone were to be found, that rareness would speedily disappear, and men would cease to prize a thing that could be made more easily than corn may be grown." The brothers could scarce grasp the full meaning of these words; but it was not of the philosopher's stone that their minds were full, and John's next words interested them more. "No: I believe that the wealth which is being accumulated at Basildene is won in far different fashion, and that this miserable boy, who is the helpless slave and tool of his master's illicit art, is an unwilling agent in showing the so-called magician the whereabouts of hapless travellers, and in luring them on to their destruction. But that the old man is wealthy above all those about him may not now be doubted; and it is this growing wealth, gotten no man knows how, that makes men believe in his possession of the magic stone." "And if we rescue the boy, some part of his power will be gone, and he will lose a tool that he will not easily replace," cried Gaston, with eager animation. "Brother, let us not delay. We have long desired to look upon Basildene; let us sally forth this very day." But John laid a detaining hand upon his arm. "Nay now, why this haste? Thou art a bold lad, Gaston, but something more than boldness is needed when thou hast such a subtle foe to deal with. Then there is another thing to think of. What will it avail to rescue the boy, if his master holds his spirit so in thrall that he can by no means be restrained from rising in the dead of night to return to him again? There be many things to think of ere we can act. And we must take counsel of one who knows Basildene, as we do not. I have never seen the house, and know nothing of its ways. Till these things were recalled to my memory these last days, I had scarce remembered that such a place existed." "Of whom then shall we take counsel?" asked Gaston, with a touch of impatience, for to him action and not counsel was the mainspring of life. "Of thine uncle, who thou sayest is a friend of this unholy man?" "Scarce a friend," answered John, "albeit he has no quarrel with Master Sanghurst; and if thou knewest more of the temper of the times, thou wouldst know that the King's servants must have a care how they in any wise stir up strife amongst those who dwell in the realm. We have enemies and to spare abroad -- in Scotland, in Flanders, in France. At home we must all strive to keep the peace. It behoves not one holding office under the crown to embroil himself in private quarrels, or stir up any manner of strife. This is why I counsel you to make no claim on Basildene for the nonce, and why my uncle could give no help in the matter of this boy, kindly as his heart is disposed towards the poor and oppressed. He moved once in the matter, with the result that you know. It could scarce be expected of him to do more." "Who then will help or counsel us?" "I can think of but one, and that is but a slim maiden, whom ye bold lads might despise. I mean Mistress Joan Vavasour herself." "What!" cried Gaston in amaze -- "the maiden whom Peter Sanghurst is to wed? Sure that were a strange counsellor to choose! Good John, thou must be dreaming." "Nay, I am no dreamer," was the smiling answer; and a slight access of colour came slowly into John's face. "I have not seen fair Mistress Joan of late; yet unless I be greatly mistaken in her, I am very sure that by no deed of her own will she ever mate with one of the Sanghurst brood. I have known her from childhood. Once it was my dream that I might wed her myself; but such thoughts have long ago passed from my mind never to enter it again. Yet I know her and I love her well, and to me she has spoken words which tell me that she will never be a passive tool in the hands of her haughty parents. She has the spirit of her sire within her, and I trow he will find it no easy task to bend the will even of a child of his own, when she is made after the fashion of Mistress Joan. If Peter Sanghurst has gone a-wooing there, I verily believe that the lady will by this time have had more than enough of his attentions. It may be that she would be able to give us good counsel; at least I would very gladly ask it at her hands." "How can we see her?" asked the brothers quickly. "So soon as I can make shift to ride once more we will to horse and away to Woodcrych. It is time I paid my respects to fair Mistress Joan, for I have not seen her for long. I would that you twain could see her. She is as fair as a lily, yet with all the spirit of her bold sire, as fearless in the saddle as her brother, as upright as a dart, beautiful exceedingly, with her crown of hair the colour of a ripe chestnut. Ah! if she were but taken to the King's Court, she would be its fairest ornament. But her sire has never the money to spend upon her adornment; and moreover if she appeared there, she would have suitors and to spare within a month, and he would be called upon to furnish forth a rich dower -- for all men hold him to be a wealthy man, seeing the broad lands he holds in fief. Wherefore I take it he thinks it safer to betroth her to this scion of the Sanghurst brood, who will be heir to all his father's ill-gotten wealth. But if I know Mistress Joan, as I think I do, she will scarce permit herself to be given over like a chattel, though she may have a sore fight to make for her liberty." Raymond's eyes brightened and his hands closely clinched themselves. Surely this quest after Basildene was bringing strange things to light. Here was a miserable child to be rescued from bondage that was worse than death; and a maiden, lovely and brave of spirit, to be saved from the clutches of this same Sanghurst faction. What a strange combination of circumstances seemed woven around the lost inheritance! Might it not be the very life's work he had longed after, to fulfil his mother's dying behest and make himself master of Basildene again? That night his dreams were a strange medley of wizards, beauteous maidens, and ruinous halls, through which he wandered in search of the victim whose shrill cries he kept hearing. He rose with the first of the tardy light, to find that Gaston was already off and away upon some hunting expedition planned overnight. Raymond had not felt disposed to join it; the attraction of John's society had more charm for him. The uncle was absent from home on the King's business. The two cousins had the house to themselves. They had established themselves beside the glowing hearth within their favourite room containing all the books, when the horn at the gate announced the arrival of some guest, and a message was brought to John saying that Mistress Joan Vavasour was even then dismounting from her palfrey, and was about to pay him a visit. "Nay now, but this is a lucky hap!" cried John, as he went forward to be ready to meet his guest. The next moment the light footfall along the polished boards of the anteroom announced the coming of the lady, and Raymond's eager eyes were fixed upon a face so fair that he gazed and gazed and could not turn his eyes away. Mistress Joan was just his own age -- not yet seventeen -- yet she had something of the grace and dignity of womanhood mingling with the fresh sweet frankness of the childhood that had scarcely passed. Her eyes were large and dark, flashing, and kindling with every passing gust of feeling; her delicate lips, arched like a Cupid's bow, were capable of expressing a vast amount of resolution, though now relaxed into a merry smile of greeting. She was rather tall and at present very slight, though the outlines of her figure were softly rounded, and strength as well as grace was betrayed in every swift eager motion. She held John's hands and asked eagerly after his well-being. "It was but two days ago I heard that you lay sick at Guildford, and I have been longing ever since for tidings. Today my father had business in the town, and I humbly sued him to let me ride with him, and rest, whilst he went his own way, in the hospitable house of your good uncle. This is how I come to be here today. And now tell me of thyself these many months, for I hear no news at Woodcrych. And who is this fair youth with thee? Methinks his face is strange to me, though he bears a look of the De Brocas, too." A quick flush mounted in Raymond's cheek; but John only called him by the name by which he was known to the world, and Mistress Joan spoke no more of the fancied likeness. She and John, who were plainly well acquainted, plunged at once into eager talk; and it was not long before the question of Joan's own marriage was brought up, and he plainly asked her if the news was true which gave her in wedlock to Peter Sanghurst. A change came over Joan's face at those words. A quick gleam shot out of her dark eyes. She set her teeth, and her face suddenly hardened as if carved in flint. Her voice, which had been full of rippling laughter before, now fell to a lower pitch, and she spoke with strange force and gravity. "John, whatever thou hearest on that score, believe it not. I will die sooner than be wedded to that man. I hate him. I fear him -- yes, I do fear him, I will not deny it -- I fear him for his wickedness, his evil practices, his diabolic cruelty, of which I hear fearful whispers from time to time. He may be rich beyond all that men credit. I doubt not he has many a dark and hideous method of wringing gold from his wretched victims. Basildene holds terrible secrets; and never will I enter that house by my own free will. Never will I wed that man, not if I have to plunge this dagger into mine own heart to save myself from him. I know what is purposed. I know that he and his father have some strange power over my sire and my brother, and that they will do all they can to bend my will to theirs. But I have two hopes yet before me. One is appeal to the King, through his gentle and gracious Queen; another is the Convent -- for sooner would I take the veil (little as the life of the recluse charms me) than sell myself to utter misery as the wife of that man. Death shall call me its bride before that day shall come. Yet I would not willingly take my life, and go forth unassoiled and unshriven. No; I will try all else first. And in thee, good John, I know I shall find a trusty and a stalwart friend and champion." "Trusty in all truth, fair lady, but stalwart I fear John de Brocas will never be. Rather enlist in thy service yon gallant youth, who has already distinguished himself in helping to save the Prince in the moment of peril. I trow he would be glad enough to be thy champion in days to come. He has, moreover, a score of his own to settle one day with the present Master of Basildene." Joan's bright eyes turned quickly upon Raymond, who had flushed with boyish pride and pleasure and shame at hearing himself thus praised. He eagerly protested that he was from that time forward Mistress Joan's loyal servant to command; and at the prompting of John, he revealed to her the fact of his own claim on Basildene (without naming his kinship with the house of De Brocas), and gave an animated account of the recent visit to the woodman's hut, and told the story of his cruel wrongs. Joan listened with flashing eyes and ever-varying colour. At the close of the tale she spoke. "I have heard of that wretched boy -- the tool and sport of the old man's evil arts, the victim of the son's diabolic cruelty when he has no other victim to torment. They keep him for days without food at times, because they say that he responds better to their fiendish practices when the body is well-nigh reduced to a shadow. Oh, I hear them talk! My father is a dabbler in mystic arts. They are luring him on to think he will one day learn the secret of the transmutation of metals, whilst I know they do but seek to make of him a tool, to subdue his will, and to do with him what they will. They will strive to practise next on me -- they have tried it already; but I resist them, and they are powerless, though they hate me tenfold more for it, and I know that they are reckoning on their revenge when I shall be a helpless victim in their power. Art thou about to try to rescue the boy? That were, in truth, a deed worth doing, though the world will never praise it; though it might laugh to scorn a peril encountered for one so humble as a woodman's son. But it would be a soul snatched from the peril of everlasting death, and a body saved from the torments of a living hell!" And then John spoke of the thoughts which had of late possessed them both of that chivalry that was not like to win glory or renown, that would not gain the praise of men, but would strive to do in the world a work of love for the oppressed, the helpless, the lowly. And Joan's eyes shone with the light of a great sympathy, as she turned her bright gaze from one face to the other, till Raymond felt himself falling beneath a spell the like of which he had never known before, and which suddenly gave a new impulse to all his vague yearnings and imaginings, and a zest to this adventure which was greater than any that had gone before. Joan's ready woman's wit was soon at work planning and devising how the deed might best be done. "I can do this much to aid," she said. "A day will come ere long when the two Sanghursts will come at nightfall to Woodcrych, to try, as they have done before, some strange experiments in the laboratory my father has had made for himself. We always know the day that this visit is to be made, and I can make shift to let you know. They stay far into the night, and only return to Basildene as the dawn breaks. That would be the night to strive to find and rescue the boy. He will be almost alone in yon big house, bound hand and foot, I doubt not, or thrown into some strange trance that shall keep him as fast a prisoner. There be but few servants that can be found to live there. Mostly they flee away in affright ere they have passed a week beneath that roof. Those that stay are bound rather by fear than aught beside; and scarce a human being will approach that house, even in broadest daylight. There are many doors and windows, and the walls in places are mouldering away, and would give easy foothold to the climber. It is beneath the west wing, hard by the great fish ponds, that the rooms lie which are ever closed from light of day, and in which the evil men practise their foul arts. I have heard of a secret way from the level of the water into the cellars or dungeons of the house; but whether this be true I do not rightly know. Yet methinks you could surely find entrance within the house, for so great is the terror in which Basildene is held that Master Sanghurst freely boasts that he needs neither bolt nor bar. He professes to have drawn around the house a line which no human foot may cross. He knows well that no man wishes to try." Raymond shivered slightly, but he was not daunted, Yet there was still the question to be faced, what should be done with the boy when rescued to hold him back from the magician's unholy spell. But Joan had an answer ready for this objection. Her hands folded themselves lightly together, her dark eyes shone with the earnestness of her devotion. "That will I soon tell to you. The spell cast upon the boy is one of evil, and therefore it comes in some sort from the devil, even though, as John says, men may have no visible dealings with him. Yet, as all sin is of the Evil One, and as the good God and His Holy Saints are stronger than the devil and his angels, it is His help we must invoke when the powers of darkness strive to work in him again. And we must ask in this the help of some holy man of God, one who has fasted and prayed and learned to discern betwixt good and evil, has fought with the devil and has overcome. I know one such holy man. He lives far away from here. It is a small community between Guildford and Salisbury -- I suppose it lies some thirty miles from hence. I could find out something more, perchance, in time to acquaint you farther with the road. If you once gain possession of the boy, mount without loss of time, and draw not rein till you reach that secluded spot. Ask to be taken in in the name of charity, and when the doors have opened to you, ask for Father Paul. Give him the boy. Tell him all the tale, and trust him into his holy hands without fear. He will take him; he will cast out the evil spirit. I misdoubt me if the devil himself will have power over him whilst he is within those hallowed walls. At least if he can find entrance there, he will not be able to prevail; and when the foul spirit is cast out and vanquished, you can summon his father to him and give him back his son -- as the son of the father in Scripture was restored to him again when the devil had been cast out by the voice of the Blessed Jesus." "I truly think that thou art right," said John. "The powers of evil are very strong, too strong to be combated by us unaided by the prayers and the efforts of holy men. "Raymond, it shall be my work to provide for this journey. My uncle will be long absent. In his absence I may do what I will and go where I will. I would myself pay a pilgrimage to the house where this holy man resides, and make at the shrine of the chapel there my offering of thanksgiving for my recovery from this hurt. We will go together. We will take the boy with us; and the boy's father shall be one of our party. He shall see that the powers of evil can be vanquished. He shall see for himself the restoration of his child." CHAPTER X. BASILDENE. It was in the bright moonlight of a clear March evening that the twin brothers of Gascony stood hand in hand, gazing for the first time in their lives upon their lost inheritance of Basildene. It was not yet wholly dark, for a saffron glow in the sky behind still showed where the sun had lately sunk, whilst the moon was shining with frosty brightness overhead. Dark as the surrounding woods had been, it was light enough here in the clearing around the house. Behind the crumbling red walls the forest grew dark and close, but in the front the larger trees had been cleared away, and the long low house, with its heavy timbers and many gables, stood clearly revealed before the eager eyes of the boys, who stopped short to gaze without speaking a single word to one another. Once, doubtless, it had been a beautiful house, more highly decorated than was usual at the period. The heavy beams, dark with age, let into the brickwork were many of them richly carved, and the twisted chimneys and quaint windows showed traces of considerable ingenuity in the builder's art. Plainly, too, there had been a time when the ground around the house had been cared for and kept trim and garden-like. Now it was but a waste and wilderness, everything growing wild and tangled around it; whilst the very edifice itself seemed crumbling to decay, and wore the grim look of a place of evil repute. It was hard to believe that any person lived within those walls. It was scarce possible to approach within the precincts of that lonely house without a shudder of chill horror. Gaston crossed himself as he stood looking on the house, which, by what men said, was polluted by many foul deeds, and tenanted by evil spirits to boot; but upon Raymond's face was a different look. His heart went suddenly out to the lonely old house. He felt that he could love it well if it were ever given to him to win it back. As he stood there in the moonlight gazing and gazing, he registered anew in his heart the vow that the day should come when he would fulfil his mother's dying behest, and stand within those halls as the recognized lord of Basildene. But the present moment was one for action, not for vague dreamings. The brothers had come with a definite purpose, and they did not intend to quit the spot until that purpose was accomplished. The Sanghursts -- father and son -- were far away. The gloomy house -- unless guarded by malevolent spirits, which did not appear unlikely -- was almost tenantless. Within its walls was the miserable victim of cruel tyranny whom they had come to release. The boys, who had both confessed and received the Blessed Sacrament from the hands of the priest who had interested himself before in the woodman's son, felt strong in the righteousness of their cause. If they experienced some fear, as was not unlikely, they would not own it even to themselves. Gaston was filled with the soldier spirit of the day, that scorned to turn back upon danger however great. Raymond was supported by a deep underlying sense of the sacredness of the cause in which he was embarked. It was not alone that he was going to deal a blow at the foes of his house; it was much more to him than that. Vengeance might play a part in the crusade, but to him it was a secondary idea. What he thought of was the higher chivalry of which he and John had spoken so much together -- the rescue of a soul from the clutches of spiritual tyranny; a blow struck in the defence of one helpless and oppressed; risk run for the sake of those who would never be able to repay; the deed done for its own sake, not in the hope of any praise or reward. Surely this thing might be the first step in a career of true knightliness, albeit such humble deeds might never win the golden spurs of which men thought so much. Gaston's eyes had been scanning the whole place with hawk-like gaze. Now he turned to his brother and spoke in rapid whispers. "Entrance will be none too easy here. The narrow windows, with their stone mullions, will scarce admit the passage of a human body, and I can see that iron bars protect many of them still farther. The doors are doubtless strong, and heavily bolted. The old sorcerer has no wish to be interrupted in his nefarious occupations, nor does he trust alone to ghostly terrors to protect his house. Methinks we had better skirt round the house, and seek that other entrance of which we have heard. Raymond, did not our mother tell us oft a story of a revolving stone door to an underground passage, and the trick by which it might be opened from within and without? I remember well that it was by a secret spring cleverly hidden -- seven from above, three from below, those were the numbers. Can it be that it was of Basildene she was thinking all that time? It seems not unlikely. Seven from the top, three from the bottom -- those were certainly the numbers, though I cannot recollect to what they referred. Canst thou remember the story, Raymond? Dost thou think it was of Basildene she spoke?" "Ay, verily I do!" cried the other quickly, a light coming into his face. "Why had I not thought of it before? I remember well she spoke of dark water which lay upon the outside of the house hard by the entrance to the underground way. Rememberest thou not the boat moored in the lake to carry the fugitive across to the other side, and the oars so muffled that none might hear? And did not Mistress Joan say that the secret way into Basildene was hard by the fish ponds on the west side of the house? It can be nothing else but this. Let us go seek them at once. Methinks we have in our hands the clue by which we may obtain entrance into Basildene." Cautiously, as though their foes were at hand, the brothers slipped round the crumbling walls of the house, marking well as they did so that despite the half-ruinous aspect of much of the building, there was no ready or easy method of access. Every gap in the masonry was carefully filled up, every window that was wide enough to admit the passage of a human form was guarded by iron bars, and the doors were solid enough to defy for a long time the assault of battering rams. "It is not in ghostly terrors he mainly trusts to guard his house," whispered Raymond, as they skirted round into the dim darkness of the dense woodland that lay behind the house. "Methinks if he had in very truth a guard of evil spirits, he would not be so careful of his bolts and bars." Gaston was willing enough to believe this; for though he feared no human foe, he was by no means free from the superstitious terrors of the age, and it needed all his coolness of head, as well as all his confidence in the righteousness of his cause, to keep his heart from fluttering with fear as they stepped along beneath the gloom of the trees, which even when not in leaf cast dense shadows around them. It was in truth a weird spot: owls hooted dismally about them, bats flitted here and there in their erratic flight, and sometimes almost brushed the faces of the boys with their clammy wings. The strange noises always to be heard in a wood at night assailed their ears, and mingled with the quick beating of their own hearts; whilst from time to time a long unearthly wail, which seemed to proceed from the interior of the house itself, filled them with an unreasoning sense of terror that they would not confess even to themselves. "It is like the wail of a lost spirit," whispered Raymond at the third repetition of the cry. "Brother, let us say a prayer, and go forward in the power of the Blessed Virgin and her Holy Son." For a moment the brothers knelt in prayer, as the priest had bidden them if heart or spirit quailed. Then rising, strengthened and supported, they looked carefully about them, and Gaston, grasping his brother by the arm, pointed through the trees and said: "The water, the water! sure I see a gleam of moonlight upon it! We have reached the fish ponds, I verily believe! Now for the secret way to the house!" It was true enough. A few steps brought them to the margin of a large piece of water, which was something between a lake and a series of fish ponds, such as are so often seen by old houses. Once the lake had plainly been larger, but had partially drained away, and was now confined to various levels by means of a rude dam and a sort of gate like that of a modern lock. Still the boys could trace a likeness to the lake of their mother's oft-told tale, and by instinct they both turned to the right as they reached the margin of the water, and threaded their way through the coarse and tangled sedges, decaying in the winter's cold, till they reached a spot where brushwood grew down to the very edge of the water, and the bank rose steep and high above their heads. Gaston was a step in advance, Raymond following at his heels, both keenly eager over the quest. An exclamation from the leader soon showed that something had been discovered, and the next minute he had drawn aside the sweeping branches of a great willow, and revealed a dark opening in the bank, around which the giant roots seemed to form a protecting arch. "This is the place," he said, in a muffled whisper. "Raymond, hast thou the wherewithal to kindle the torch?" The boys had not come unprovided with such things as were likely to prove needful for their search, and though it was a matter of some time to obtain a light, they were skilful and well used to the process, and soon their torch was kindled and they were treading with cautious steps the intricacies of the long and tortuous passage which plainly led straight to the house. "We never should have found it but for our mother's story," said Gaston, with exultation in his voice. "Raymond, methinks that this is the first step in our career of vengeance. We have the key to Basildene in our hands. It may be that upon another occasion we may use it with a different purpose." It seemed to the brothers that they had walked a great distance, when their steps were arrested by what appeared in the first instance to be a solid wall of stone. Had they not had some sort of clue in their heads, they would certainly have believed that this natural tunnel ended here, and that further progress was impossible. But as it was, they were firmly convinced that this was but the door of masonry of which their mother had told them in years gone by. Neither could recollect the story save in fragments; but the numbers had clung to Gaston's tenacious memory, and now he stood before the door saying again and again -- "Seven from the top, three from the bottom" -- scanning the wall in front of him with the keenest glances all the while. "Ha!" he exclaimed at length; "bring the torch nearer, Raymond. See here. This is not one block of stone, as seems at first, but a mass of masonry so cunningly joined together as to look like one solid piece. See, here are the joints; I can feel them with my fingernail, though I can scarce see them with my eyes. Let us count the number of the stones used. Yes; there are nine in all from top to bottom, each of the same width. Therefore the seventh from the top is the third counting from the bottom. This is the stone which is the key." So saying, Gaston set his knee against it and pressed with all his might. Almost to his own surprise he felt it give as he did so, and Raymond uttered a short cry of astonishment: for the whole of what had looked like a solid wall revolved slowly inwards, revealing a continuation of the passage which they had been traversing so long, only that now the passage was plainly one in the interior of the house; for the walls were of masonry, and the dimensions were far more regular. "This is the secret door," said Gaston exultingly. "It is in truth a cunning contrivance. Let me have the light here a moment, Brother. I will see what the trick of the door upon this side is." This point was quickly settled by an inspection of the ingenious contrivance, which was one purely of balance, and not dependent either upon springs or bolts. Probably it dated back from days when these latter things were hardly known, and was so satisfactory in the working that it had never been improved upon. "The way to Basildene is always open to us," murmured Raymond, with a quick thrill of exultation, as the brothers passed through the doorway and let it close behind them; and then they forgot all else in the excitement of the search after the woodman's miserable son. What strange places they came upon in this underground region below the ill-famed house! Plainly these cells had been built once for prisoners; for there were fragments of rusty chains still fastened to the stone floors, and in one spot a grinning skull lying broken in a corner sent thrills of horror through the brothers' hearts. From time to time the sound of that unearthly wailing reached their ears, though it was almost impossible to divine from what direction it proceeded; and it had a far less human sound now that the boys were within the precincts of the house than had been the case when they were still outside. Whether this was more alarming or less they hardly knew. Everything was so strange and dreamlike that they could not tell whether or not all were real. They pressed on eager to accomplish the object of their search, resolved to do that at all cost, and anxious to keep themselves from thinking or feeling too much until that object should be accomplished. They had mounted some stairs, and had reached a different level from the underground passages, when they found their further progress barred by a strong door. This door was bolted, but from the outside, and they had no difficulty in withdrawing the heavy bolts from their sockets. When this had been done the door opened of itself, and they found themselves in a large vaulted room utterly unlike any place they had ever seen before. They grasped each other by the hand and gazed about in wonder. "It is the magician's laboratory!" whispered Raymond, whose recent readings with John had taught him many things. He recognized the many crucibles and the strange implements lying on the table as the things employed by dabblers in magic lore, whilst the great sullen wood and charcoal fire, which illumined the place with a dull red glow, was all in keeping with the nature of the occupations carried on there, as was the strange pungent smell that filled the air. Rows of jars and bottles upon shelves, strange-looking mirrors and crystals, some fixed and some lying upon the tables, books and parchments full of cabalistic signs propped open beside the crucibles or hung against the wall, all gave evidence of the nature of the pursuits carried on in that unhallowed spot. The brothers, burning with curiosity as well as filled with awe, approached the tables and looked into the many vessels lying upon them, shuddering as the crimson contents made them think of blood. Gaston put forth his hand cautiously and touched an ebony rod tipped with crystal that lay beside the largest crucible. As he did so a heavy groan seemed to arise from the very ground at his feet, and he dropped the implement with a smothered exclamation of terror. Raymond at the same moment looking hastily round the dim place, grasped his brother's arm, and pointed to a dark corner not many paces from them. "Brother, see there! see there!" he whispered. "Sure there is the boy we have come to save!" Gaston looked and made a quick step forward. Sure enough, there upon the floor, bound hand and foot with leather thongs that had been pulled cruelly tight, lay the emaciated figure of what had once been a handsome and healthy boy, but was now little more than a living skeleton. His face still retained its beauty of outline, though these outlines were terribly pinched and sharpened, but the expression of abject terror in the great blue eyes was pitiful to behold, and as Gaston and Raymond bent over the boy, a shrill cry, as of agony or terror, broke from his pale lips. "Who are you?" he gasped. "How have you come? Oh, do not touch me -- do not hurt me! Go -- go quickly from this evil place, or perchance those devils will return and capture you as they have captured me, that they may torture you to death as they are torturing me. Oh, how did you come? I know the doors are locked and bolted. Are you devils in human guise, or hapless prisoners like myself? Oh, if you are still free, go -- go ere they can return! They know that they cannot keep me much longer; they are thirsting for another victim. Let them not return to find you here; and plunge your own dagger into your heart sooner than be made a slave as I have been!" These words were not all spoken at once, but were gasped out bit by bit whilst the twin brothers, with wrath and fury in their hearts, cut the tough thongs that bound the wrists and ankles of the boy, and raised his head as they poured down his throat the strong cordial that had been given to them by John, and which was a marvellous restorer of exhausted nature. They had food, too, in a wallet, and they made the boy eat before they told him aught of their mission; and after the first gasping words of warning and wonder, it seemed as though he obeyed their behests mechanically, most likely taking it all for part and parcel of some strange vision. But as the sorely-needed nourishment and the powerful restorative did its work upon the boy, he began to understand that this was no vision, and that something utterly inexplicable had befallen him, whether for weal or woe his confused senses would not tell him. He heard as in a dream the hurried explanations of the boys, drawing his brows together in the effort to understand. But when they spoke of flight he shook his head, and pointed to the door leading into the house. "No man may pass out of that," he said, in low despairing tones. "How you came in I cannot even guess. It is guarded by a fierce hound, who will tear in pieces any who approaches save his master. There is no way of escape for me. If you are blessed spirits from the world above, fly hence the way you came. For me, I must ever remain the slave of him who, if not the devil himself, is his sworn servant." "We will go, and that quickly," answered Raymond; "but thou shalt go with us. We are no spirits, but let us be such to thee for the nonce. Fear nothing; only trust us and obey us. If thou wilt do both these things, thou shalt this very night escape for ever from the tyranny of him whom thou hast served so long in such cruel bondage." The boy looked at the face bending over him, instinct with courage and a deep sympathy and brotherly love, and a strange calm and security seemed to fall upon him. He rose to his feet, though with some difficulty, and laid his hand in Raymond's. "I will go with thee to the world's end. Be my master, and break the hated yoke of that monster of wickedness, and I will serve thee for ever. Thou art a ministering spirit sent from Heaven. I verily believe that thou canst free me from this slavery." "Kneel then and lift thy heart in prayer to the Great God of Heaven and earth," answered Raymond, a strange sense of power and responsibility falling upon him at this moment, together with a clearer, purer perception of divine things than had ever been vouchsafed him before -- "ay, here in this very place, polluted though it may be; for God's presence is everywhere, and it may be He will give thee, even in this fearful chamber of abominations, that release of soul which is the right of each of His human creatures. Kneel, and lift thy heart in prayer. I too will pray with thee and for thee. He will hear us, for He loves us. Be not afraid; pray with boldness, pray with love in thine heart. God alone can loose the bands of the thraldom which binds thee; and He wilt do it if thou canst trust in Him." First making the sign of the cross over the kneeling boy, and then kneeling by his side, Raymond directed his crushed spirit to rise in an act of devotion and supplication; and the child, believing that most assuredly a divine messenger had come to deliver him from the hand of his persecutor, was able to utter his prayer in a spirit of trust and hope that brought its own immediate answer in a strange calm and confidence. "Come," said Gaston cautiously; "we must not longer delay. We have a long night's ride before us, and John will be wondering what detains us this long while." Together they supported the feeble steps of the boy, who was passive and quiet in their hands. He was scarce amazed by the opening of the mysterious inner door within a vaulted arch, through which he saw from time to time his captors disappear, but which was ever firmly bolted and barred upon the outer side. He did not even hang back through dread of what might befall him if he were again recalled, as on a former occasion, by the diabolic arts of his master. He was so firmly persuaded of the supernatural character of these visitors, that he had faith and strength to let them do with him what they would without comment, question, or remonstrance. When they reached the outer air, after having successfully passed the secret door again, he gave one great gasp of surprise and reeled as if almost intoxicated by the sweet freshness of the spring night; but the strong arms of his protectors supported him, and hurrying along through the woodland tracks already traversed earlier in the evening, they quickly approached the appointed place just on the outskirts of the Basildene lands, where John, attended by three trusty serving men, together with the old woodman, were impatiently awaiting the return of the twins. "We have him safe!" cried Gaston, as he bounded on a few paces in advance; and as the words were spoken there broke from the lips of the old woodman a strange inarticulate cry. He sprang forward with a swiftness and agility that seemed impossible in one so bent and bowed, and the next minute he had clasped his son in his arms, and was weeping those terrible tears of manhood over the emaciated form clasped to his breast. Leaving the father and son for a few moments together, the brothers in rapid words told their tale to John, who heard it with great satisfaction. But time was passing, and there was no longer any need for delay. The journey before them was somewhat rough and tedious, and all were anxious to put many miles of forest road between themselves and Basildene ere the dawn should break. John did not greatly fear pursuit. He did not believe that the old man's occult powers would enable him to track the fugitive; but he was not certain of this, and the rest were all of opinion that he both could and would follow, and that remorselessly, the moment he discovered the loss of his captive. Certainly it could do no harm to put all possible distance betwixt the boy and his master, and the party got to horse with the smallest possible delay. Once let the boy be placed within the precincts of the Sanctuary for which he was bound, in the keeping of the holy man of God whose power was known to be so great, and none feared for the result. But if the boy should be seized upon the road with one of his fits of frenzy, no one could tell what the result might be, and so there was no dissentient voice raised when a quick start and a rapid pace was suggested by Gaston. The woodman took his boy in front of him upon the strong animal he bestrode. Roger was plainly unfit to sit a horse unsupported by a strong arm, and as they rode through the chill night air a dull lethargy seemed to fall upon him, and he slept in an uneasy, troubled fashion. Every moment his father feared to hear him answer an unheard call, feared to feel him struggle wildly in his encircling arm; but neither of these things happened. Mile after mile was traversed; the moonlight enabled the party to push rapidly onward. Mile after mile slipped away; and just as the first dim rays of dawn appeared in the eastern sky, John, who was himself by this time looking white and jaded, pointed eagerly towards a spire rising up against the saffron of the sky to the south. "That is the spire of St. Michael's church," he cried. "The abode of the holy men of whom Father Paul is one is nigh at hand. Ride on, good Gaston, and bid the holy man come forth in the name of the love of the Blessed Saviour. If we may once put the child in his keeping, the powers of hell will not prevail to snatch him thence." Gaston, who was the freshest of the little band, eagerly pressed onward with his message. His tired horse, seeing signs of habitation, pricked up his ears, and broke into an eager gallop. The youth quickly disappeared from the eyes of his companions along the road; but when they reached the monastery gate they saw that his errand had been accomplished. A tall monk, holding in his hand a crucifix, advanced to meet them, with a word of blessing which bared all heads; and advancing to the side of the woodman's horse, he took the apparently inanimate form of the boy in his arms, and looking into the wan face, said: "Peace be with thee, my son. Into the care of Holy Church I receive thee. Let him who can prevail against the Church of God pluck thee from that keeping!" CHAPTER XI. A QUIET RETREAT. Little did Raymond de Brocas think, as he stepped across the threshold of that quiet monastic home, that the two next years of his own life were to be spent beneath that friendly and hospitable roof. And yet so it was, and to the training and teaching he received during his residence there he attributed much of the strength of mind and force of character that distinguished him in days to come. The small community to which they had brought the persecuted victim of the sorcerer's evil practices belonged to the order of the Cistercians, who have been described as the Quakers of their day. At a time when many of the older orders of monks were falling from their first rigid simplicity -- falling into those habits of extravagance which in days to come caused their fall and ultimate suppression -- the Cistercians still held to their early regime of austere simplicity and plainness of life; and though no longer absolutely secluding themselves from the sight or sound of their fellow men, or living in complete solitude, they were still men of austere life and self-denying habits, and retained the reputation for sanctity of life that was being lost in other orders, though men had hardly begun to recognize this fact as yet. From the first moment that Raymond's eyes fell upon the wonderful face of Father Paul, his heart was touched by one of those strange attractions for which it is difficult to account, yet which often form a turning point in the history of a human life. It was not the venerable appearance of the holy man alone; it was an indescribable something that defied analysis, yet drew out all that was best and highest in the spirit of the youth. But after the first glance at the monk, as he came forward and received the inanimate form of the woodman's son in his strong arms, Raymond's attention was differently occupied; for on looking round at his companions, he saw that John's face was as white as death, and that he swayed in his saddle as though he would fall. It then occurred to the boy for the first time that this long and tiring night's ride was an undertaking for which John was little fit. He had but recently recovered from a bout of sickness that had left him weak and fit for little fatigue, and yet the whole night through he had been riding hard, and had only yielded to exhaustion when the object for which the journey had been taken had been accomplished. The kindly monks came out and bore him into their house, and presently he and the woodman's son lay side by side in the room especially set apart for the sick, watched over by Father Paul, and assiduously tended by Raymond, to whom John was by this time greatly attached. As for Gaston, after a rest extending over two nights and days, he was despatched to Windsor with the escort who had accompanied them on their ride hither, to tell John's father what had befallen the travellers, and how, John's wound having broken out afresh, he purposed to remain for some time the guest of the holy Fathers. Thus, for the first time in their lives, were the brothers separated; for though Gaston had no thought but of speedy return when he set out on his journey, they saw him no more in that quiet cloistered home, and for two long years the brothers did not meet again. Truth to tell, the quiet of a religious retreat had no charm for Gaston, as it had for his brother, and the stirring doings in the great world held him altogether in thrall. The King of England was even then engaged in active preparations for the war with France that did not commence in real earnest till two years later. But all men believed that the invasion of the enemy's land was very near. Proclamations of the most warlike nature were being issued alike by King and Parliament. Edward was again putting forward his inconsistent and illogical claim to the crown of France. Men's hearts were aflame for the glory and the stress of war, and Gaston found himself drawn into the vortex, and could only send an urgent message to his brother, bidding him quickly come to him at Windsor. He had been taken amongst the number of the Prince's attendants. He longed for Raymond to come and share his good fortune. But Raymond, when that message reached him, had other things to think of than the clash of arms and the struggle with a foreign foe; and he could only send back a message to his brother that for the time at least their paths in life must lie in different worlds. Doubtless the day would come when they should meet again; but for the present his own work lay here in this quiet place, and Gaston must win his spurs without his brother beside him. So Gaston threw himself into the new life with all the zest of his ardent nature, following sometimes the Prince and sometimes the King, according as it was demanded of him, making one of those who followed Edward into Flanders the following year, only to be thwarted of their object through the most unexpected tragedy of the murder of Van Artevelde. Of wars, adventures, and battles we shall have enough in the pages to follow; so without farther concerning ourselves with the fortunes of Gaston through these two years of excitement and preparation, we will rather remain with Raymond, and describe in brief the events which followed upon his admission within the walls of the Cistercian monks' home. Of those first weeks within its walls Raymond always retained a vivid remembrance, and they left upon him a mark that was never afterwards effaced. He became aware of a new power stirring within him which he had never hitherto dreamed of possessing. As has before been said, Roger the woodman's son was carried into the bare but spotlessly clean room upon the upper floor of the building which was used for any of the sick of the community, and John was laid in another of the narrow pallet beds, of which there were four in that place. All this while Roger lay as if dead, in a trance that might be one simply of exhaustion, or might be that strange sleep into which the old sorcerer had for years been accustomed to throw him at will. Leaving him thus passive and apparently lifeless (save that the heart's action was distinctly perceptible), Father Paul busied himself over poor John, who was found to be in pitiable plight; for his wound had opened with the exertion of the long ride, and he had lost much blood before any one knew the state he was in. For some short time his case was somewhat critical, as the bleeding proved obstinate, and was checked with difficulty; and but for Father Paul's accurate knowledge of surgery (accurate for the times he lived in, at any rate), he would likely enough have bled to death even as he lay. Then whilst the kindly monks were bending over him, and Father Paul's entire time and attention were given up to the case before him, so that he dared not leave John's bedside for an instant, Roger suddenly uttered a wild cry and sprang up in his bed, his lips parted, his eyes wide open and fixed in a dreadful stare. "I come! I come!" he cried, in a strange, muffled voice; and with a rapidity and energy of which no one would have believed him capable who had seen him lifted from the horse an hour before, he rose and strove to push aside his father's detaining hand. The old man uttered a bitter cry, and flung his arms about the boy. "It has come! it has come! I knew it would. There is no hope, none! He is theirs, body and soul. He will go back to them, and they will --" The words were drowned in a wild cry, as the boy struggled so fiercely that it was plain even the old man's frenzied strength would not suffice to detain him long. Father Paul and the monk who was assisting him with John could not move without allowing the bleeding to recommence. But Raymond was standing by disengaged, and the keen eyes of the Father fixed themselves upon his face. He had heard a brief sketch of the rescue of Roger as the boy had been undressed and laid in the bed, and now he said, in accents of quiet command, "Take the crucifix that hangs at my girdle, and lay it upon his brow. Bid him lie down once again -- adjure him in the name of the Holy Jesus. It is not earthly force that will prevail here. We may save him but by the Name that is above every name. Go!" Again over Raymond's senses there stole that sense of mystic unreality, or to speak more truly, the sense of the reality of the unseen over the seen things about and around us that men call mysticism, but which may be something widely different; and with it came that quickening of the faculties that he had experienced before as he had knelt in the sorcerer's unhallowed hall, the same sense of fearlessness and power. He took the crucifix without a word, and went straight to the frenzied boy, struggling wildly against the detaining clasp of his father's arms. "Let him go," he said briefly; and there was that in the tone that caused the astonished old man to loose his hold, and stand gazing in awe and amaze at the youthful face, kindling with its strange look of resolve and authoritative power. It seemed as though the possessed boy felt the power himself; for though his open eyes took in no answering impression from the scenes around him, his arms fell suddenly to his side. The struggles ceased, he made no attempt to move; whilst Raymond laid the crucifix against his brow, and said in a low voice: "In the Name of the Holy Son of God, in the Name of the Blessed Jesus, I forbid you to go. Awake from that unhallowed sleep! Call upon the Name of all names. He will hear you -- He will save you." His eyes were fixed upon the trembling boy; his face was shining with the light of his own implicit faith; his strong will braced itself to the fulfilment of the task set him to do. Confident that what the Father bid him accomplish, that he could and must fulfil, Raymond did indeed resemble some pictured saint on painted window, engaged in conflict with the Evil One; and when with a sudden start and cry the boy woke suddenly to the sense of passing things, perhaps it was small wonder that he sank at Raymond's feet, clasping him round the knees and sobbing wildly his broken and incoherent words: "O blessed Saint George -- blessed and glorious victor! thou hast come to me a second time to strengthen and to save. Ah, leave me not! To thee I give myself; help, O help me to escape out of this snare, which is more cruel than that of death itself! I will serve thee ever, blessed saint. I will be thine in life and death! Only fight my battle with the devil and his host, and take me for thine own for ever and ever." Raymond kindly lifted him up, and laid him upon the bed again. "I am no saint," he said, a little shamefacedly; "I am but a youth like thyself. Thou must not pray to me. But I will help thee all I may, and perchance some day, when this yoke be broken from off thy neck, we will ride forth into the world together, and do some service there for those who are yet oppressed and in darkness." "I will follow thee to the world's end, be thou who thou mayest!" exclaimed the boy ecstatically, clasping his thin hands together, whilst a look of infinite peace came into his weary eyes. "If thou wouldest watch beside my bed, then might I sleep in peace. He will not dare to come nigh me; his messengers must stand afar off, fearing to approach when they see by whom I am guarded." It was plainly useless to try to disabuse Roger of the impression that his visitor was other than a supernatural one, and Raymond saw that with the boy's mind so enfeebled and unhinged he had better let him think what he would. He simply held the crucifix over him once again, and said, with a calm authority that surprised even himself: "Trust not in me, nor in any Saint however holy. In the Name of the Blessed Jesus alone put thy faith. Speak the prayer His lips have taught, and then sleep, and fear nothing." With hands locked together, and a wonderful look of rest upon his face, Roger repeated after Raymond the long-unused Paternoster which he had never dared to speak beneath the unhallowed roof of his master at Basildene. With the old sense of restful confidence in prayer came at once the old untroubled sleep of the little child; and when Raymond at last looked up from his own devotions at the bedside, it was to see that Roger had fallen into the tranquil slumber that is the truest restorer of health, and that Father Paul was standing on the opposite side of the bed, regarding him with a very gentle yet a very penetrating and authoritative gaze. He bent his head once more as if to demand a blessing, and the Father laid a hand upon his head, and said, in grave, full tones: "Peace be with thee, my son." That was all. There was no comment upon what had passed; and after partaking of a simple meal, Raymond was advised to retire to rest himself after his long night's ride, and glad enough was he of the sleep that speedily came to him. All the next day he was occupied with Gaston, who had many charges to undertake for John; and only when his brother had gone was he free to take up his place at John's bedside, and be once again his nurse, companion, and fellow student. Roger still occupied the bed in the same room where he had first been laid. A low fever of a nature little understood had fastened upon him, and he still fell frequently into those strange unnatural trances which were looked upon by the brothers of the order as due to purely satanic agency. What Father Paul thought about them none ever knew, and none dared to ask. Father Paul was a man who had lived in the world till past the meridian of life. He was reported to have travelled much, to have seen many lands and many things, and to have been in his youth a reckless and evil liver. Some even believed him to have committed some great crime; but none rightly knew his history, and his present sanctity and power and holiness were never doubted. A single look into that stern, worn, powerful face, with the coal-black eyes gleaming in their deep sockets, was enough to convince the onlooker that the man was intensely, even terribly in earnest. His was the leading spirit in that small and austere community, and he began at once to exercise a strong influence upon each of the three youths so unexpectedly thrown across his path. This influence was the greatest at first over Raymond, in whom he appeared to take an almost paternal interest; and the strange warfare that they waged together over the mental malady of the unhappy Roger drew them still closer together. Certainly for many long weeks it seemed as though the boy were labouring under some demoniacal possession, and Raymond fully believed that such was indeed the case. Often it seemed as though no power could restrain him from at least the attempt to return to the tyrant whom he believed to be summoning him back. Possibly much of the strange malady from which he was suffering might be due to physical causes -- overstrained nerves, and even an unconscious and morbid craving after that very hypnotic condition (as it would now be termed) which had really reduced him to his present pitiable state; but to Raymond it appeared to proceed entirely from some spiritual possession, and in helping the unhappy boy to resist and conquer the voice of the tempter, his own faith and strength of spirit were marvellously strengthened; whilst Roger continued to regard him in the light of a guardian angel, and followed him about like a veritable shadow. Father Paul watched the two youths with a keen and observant interest. It was by his command that Raymond was always summoned or roused from sleep whenever the access of nervous terror fell upon Roger and he strove to obey the summoning voice. He would watch with quiet intensity the struggle between the wills of the two lads, and mark, with a faint smile upon his thin lips, the triumph invariably attained by Raymond, and his growing and increasing faith in the power of the Name he invoked in his aid. Seldom indeed had he himself to come to the aid of the boy. He never did so unless Roger's paroxysm lasted long enough to try Raymond's strength to the verge of exhaustion, and this was very seldom. The calm smile in the Father's eyes, and his quiet words of commendation, "Well done, my son!" were reward sufficient for Raymond even when his strength had been most severely tasked; and as little by little he and his charge came to know the monk better, and to receive from him from time to time words of teaching, admonition, or encouragement, they found themselves growing more and more dominated by his strong will and personality, more eager day by day to please him, more anxious to win the rare smile that occasionally flashed across the austere face and illuminated it like a gleam of sunshine. John felt almost the same sense of fascination as Raymond, and was by no means impatient of the tardy convalescence that kept him so long a prisoner beneath the walls of the small religious house. He would indeed have fain tarried longer yet, but that his father sent a retinue of servants at length to bring him home again. But Raymond did not go with him. His work for Roger was not yet done, and warmly attached as he was to John, his heart was still more centred upon Father Paul. Besides, no mention was made of him in the letter that accompanied the summons home. His brother was he knew not where, and his duty lay with Roger, who looked to him as to a saviour and protector. There was no thought of Roger's leaving the retreat he had found in his hour of need. He scarce dared put foot outside the quiet cloistered quadrangle behind whose gates and walls he alone felt safe. Besides, his father lay slowly dying in the hospital hard by. It seemed as though the very joy of having his son restored to him had been too much for his enfeebled frame after the long strain of grief that had gone before. The process of decay might be slow, but it was sure, and all knew that the old man would ere long die. He had no desire for life, if only his boy were safe; and to Raymond he presented a pathetic petition that he would guard and cherish him, and save him from that terrible possession which had well-nigh been his ruin body and soul. To Raymond it seemed indeed as if this soul had been given him, and he passed his word with a solemnity that brought great comfort to the dying man. An incident which had occurred shortly before had added to Raymond's sense of responsibility with regard to Roger, and had shown him likewise that a new peril menaced his own path in life, though of personal danger the courageous boy thought little. One day, some six weeks after his admission to the Monastery, and shortly before John's departure thence, Roger had been strangely uneasy and depressed for many hours. It was no return of the trance-like state in which he was not master of his own words and actions. Those attacks had almost ceased, and he had been rapidly gaining in strength in consequence. This depression and restless uneasiness was something new and strange. Raymond did not know what it might forebode, but he tried to dissipate it by cheerful talk, and Roger did his best to fight against it, though without much success. "Some evil presence is near!" he exclaimed suddenly; "I know it -- I feel it! I ever felt this sick shuddering when those wicked men approached me. Methinks that one of them must even now be nigh at hand. Can they take me hence? Do I indeed belong to them? O save me -- help me! Give me not up to their power!" His agitation became so violent, that it was a relief to Raymond that Father Paul at this moment appeared; and as this phase in Roger's state was something new, and did not partake of the nature of any spiritual possession, he dismissed Raymond with a smile, bidding him go out for one of the brief wanderings in the woods that were at once pleasant and necessary for him, whilst he himself remained beside Roger, soothing his nameless terrors and assuring him that no power in the land, not even that of the King himself, would be strong enough to force from the keeping of the Church any person who had sought Sanctuary beneath her shadow. Meantime Raymond went forth, as he was wont to do, into the beech wood that lay behind the home of the monks. It was a very beautiful place at all times; never more so than when the first tender green of coming summer was clothing the giant trees, and the primroses and wood sorrel were carpeting the ground, which was yet brown with the fallen leaves of the past autumn. The slanting sunbeams were quivering through the gnarled tree trunks, and the birds were singing rapturously overhead, as Raymond bent his steps along the trodden path which led to the nearest village; but he suddenly stopped short with a start of surprise on encountering the intent gaze of a pair of fierce black eyes, and finding himself face to face with a stranger he had never seen in his life before. Never seen? No; and yet he knew the man perfectly, and felt that he changed colour as he stood gazing upon the handsome malevolent face that was singularly repulsive despite its regular features and bold beauty. In a moment he recollected where he had seen those very lineaments portrayed with vivid accuracy, even to the sinister smile and the gleam in the coal-black eyes. Roger possessed a gift of face drawing that would in these days make the fortune of any portrait painter. He had many times drawn with a piece of rough charcoal pictures of the monks as he saw them in the refectory, the refined and hollow face of John, and the keen and powerful countenance of Father Paul. So had he also portrayed for Raymond the features of the two Sanghursts, father and son. The youth knew perfectly the faces of both; and as he stopped short, gazing at this stranger with wide-open eyes, he knew in a moment that Roger's malevolent foe was nigh at hand, and that the sensitive and morbidly acute faculties of the boy had warned him of the fact, when he could by no possibility have known it by any other means. Sanghurst stood looking intently at this bright-faced boy, a smile on his lips, a frown in his eyes. "Methinks thou comest from the Monastery hard by?" he questioned smoothly. "Canst tell me if there be shelter there for a weary traveller this night?" "For a poor and weary traveller perchance there might be," answered the boy, with a gleam in his eye not lost upon his interlocutor; "but it is no house of entertainment for the rich and prosperous. Those are sent onwards to the Benedictine Brothers, some two miles south from this. Father Paul opens not his gates save to the sick, the sorrowful, the needy. Shall I put you in the way of the other house, Sir? Methinks it would suit you better than any place which calls Father Paul its head." The gaze bent upon the boy was searching and distinctly hostile. As the dialogue proceeded, the look of malevolence gradually deepened upon the face of the stranger, till it might have made a timid heart quail. "How then came John de Brocas to tarry there so long? For aught I know he may be there yet. By what right is he a guest beneath this so hospitable roof?" "He was sick nigh to the death when he craved admittance," answered Raymond briefly. "He --" "He had aided and abetted the flight from his true masters of a servant boy bound over to them lawfully and fast. If he thinks to deceive Peter Sanghurst or if you do either, boy that you are, though with the hardihood of a man and the recklessness of a fool -- you little know with whom you have to deal. It was you -- you who broke into our house -- I know not how, but some day I shall know -- and stole away with one you fondly hope to hold against my power. Boy, I warn you fairly: none ever makes of Peter Sanghurst an enemy but he bitterly, bitterly rues the day. I give you one chance of averting the doom which else will fall upon you. Give back the boy. Lure him out hither some day when I am waiting to seize him. Place him once again in my hands, and your rash act shall be forgiven. You have the power to do this. Be advised, and accept my terms. The Sanghursts never forgive. Refuse, and the day will come when you will so long to have done my bidding now, that you would even sell your soul to undo the deed which has brought my enmity upon you. Now choose. Will you deliver up the boy, or --" "Never!" answered Raymond, with flashing eyes, not even waiting to hear the alternative. "I fear you not. I know you, and I defy you. I will this moment to Father Paul, to warn him of your approach. The gates will be closed, and you will be denied all entrance. You may strive as you will, but your victim has taken Sanctuary, and not all the powers of the world or the devil you serve can prevail against the walls of that haven of refuge. Go back whence you came, or stay and do your worst. We fear you not. The Holy Saints and the Blessed Jesus are our protectors and defenders. You have tried in vain your foul spells. You have seen what their power is against that which is from above. Go, and repent your evil ways ere it be too late. You threaten me with your vengeance; have you ever thought of that vengeance of God which awaits those who defy His laws and invoke the powers of darkness? My trust is in Him; wherefore I fear you not. Do then your worst. Magnify yourself as you will. Your fate will be like that of the blaspheming giant of Gath who defied the power of the living God and fell before the sling and the stone of the shepherd boy." And without waiting to hear the answer which was hurled at him with all the fury of an execration, Raymond turned and sped back to the Monastery, not in any physical fear of the present vengeance of his foe, but anxious to warn the keeper of the gate of the close proximity of one who was so deadly a foe to Father Paul's protege. Not a word of this adventure ever reached Roger's ears, and indeed Raymond thought little of it after the next few weeks had passed without farther molestation from the foe. The old woodman died. Roger, though sincerely mourning his father, was too happy in returning health and strength to be over-much cast down. His mind and body were alike growing stronger. He was never permitted to speak of the past, nor of the abominations of his prison house. Father Paul had from the first bidden the boy to forget, or at least to strive to forget, all that had passed there, and never let his thoughts or his words dwell upon it. Raymond, despite an occasional access of boyish curiosity, ever kept this warning in mind, and never sought to discover what Roger had done or had suffered beneath the roof of Basildene. And so soon as the boy had recovered some measure of health, both he and Raymond were regularly instructed by Father Paul in such branches of learning as were likely to be of most service to them in days to come. Whether or not he hoped that they would embrace the religious life they never knew. He never dropped a hint as to his desires on that point, and they never asked him. They were happy in their quiet home. All the brothers were kind to them, and the Father was an object of loving veneration which bordered on adoration. Two years slipped thus away so fast that it seemed scarce possible to believe how time had fled by. Save that they had grown much both in body and mind, the boys would have thought it had been months, not years, they had spent in that peaceful retreat. The break to that quiet life came with a mission which was entrusted by His Holiness himself to Father Paul, and which involved a journey to Rome. With the thought of travel there came to Raymond's mind a longing after his own home and the familiar faces of his childhood. The Father was going to take the route across the sea to Bordeaux, for he had a mission to fulfil there first. Why might not he go with him and see his foster-mother and Father Anselm again? He spoke his wish timidly, but it was kindly and favourably heard; and before the spring green had begun to clothe the trees, Father Paul, together with Raymond and his shadow Roger, had set foot once more upon the soil of France. CHAPTER XII. ON THE WAR PATH "Raymond! Is it -- can it be thou?" "Gaston! I should scarce have known thee!" The twin brothers stood facing one another within the walls of Caen, grasping each other warmly by the hand, their eyes shining with delight as they looked each other well over from head to foot, a vivid happiness beaming over each handsome face. It was more than two years since they had parted -- parted in the quiet cloister of the Cistercian Brotherhood; now they met again amid scenes of plunder and rapine: for the English King had just discovered, within the archives of the city his sword had taken, a treaty drawn up many years before, agreeing that its inhabitants should join with the King of France for the invasion of England; and in his rage at the discovery, he had given over the town to plunder, and would even have had the inhabitants massacred in cold blood, had not Geoffrey of Harcourt restrained his fury by wise and merciful counsel. But the order for universal pillage was not recalled, and the soldiers were freebooting to their hearts' content all over the ill-fated city. Raymond had seen sights and had heard sounds as he had pressed through those streets that day in search of his brother that had wrung his soul with indignation and wonder. Where was the vaunted chivalry of its greatest champion, if such scenes could be enacted almost under his very eyes? Were they not true, those lessons Father Paul had slowly and quietly instilled into his mind, that not chivalry, but a true and living Christianity, could alone withhold the natural man from deeds of cruelty and rapacity when the hot blood was stirred by the fierce exultation of battle and victory, and the lust of conquest had gained the mastery over his spirit? The hot July sun was beating down upon the great square where were situated those buildings of which the King and the Prince and their immediate followers had taken temporary possession. The brothers stood together beneath the shadow of a lofty wall. Cries and shouts from the surrounding streets told tales of the work being done there; but that work had carried off almost all the soldiers, and the twins were virtually alone in the place, save for the tall and slight youth who stood a few paces off, and was plainly acting in the capacity of Raymond's servant. "I thought I should find thee here, Gaston," said his brother, with fond affection in his tones. "I knew that thou wouldst be with the King at such a time; and when I entered within the walls of this city, I said in my heart that my Gaston would have no hand in such scenes as those I was forced to witness as I passed along." Gaston's brow darkened slightly, but he strove to laugh it off. "Nay, thou must not fall foul of our great and mighty King for what thou hast seen today. In truth I like it not myself; but what would you? The men were furious when they heard of yon treaty; and the King's fierce anger was greatly kindled. The order went forth, and when pillage once begins no man may tell where it will end. War is a glorious pastime, but there must ever be drawbacks. Sure thine own philosophy has taught thee that much since thou hast turned to a man of letters. But tell me of thyself, Raymond. I am hungry for news. For myself, thou mayest guess what has been my life, an thou knowest how these past two years have been spent -- wars and rumours of wars, fruitless negotiations, and journeys and marches for little gain. I am glad enough that we have shaken hands with peace and bid her adieu for a while. She can be a false and treacherous friend, and well pleased am I that the bloody banner of true warfare is unfurled at last. England is athirst for some great victory, for some gallant feat of arms which shall reward her for the burdens she has to pay to support our good soldiers. For his people's sake, as well as for his own honour, the King must strike some great blow ere he returns home and we who follow the Prince have sworn to follow him to the death and win our spurs at his side. "Brother, say that thou wilt join our ranks. Thou hast not forgotten our old dreams? Thou hast not turned monk or friar?" "Nay, or I should not now be here," answered Raymond. "No, Gaston, I have forgotten naught of the old dream; and I too have seen fighting in the south, where the King of France has mustered his greatest strength. For we believed the Roy Outremer would land at Bordeaux and march to the help of my Lord Derby, who is waging war against the Count of Lille Jourdaine and the Duke of Bourbon in and around Gascony. And, Gaston, the Sieur de Navailles has joined the French side, and is fighting in the van of the foe. He has long played a double game, watching and waiting till victory seems secure for either one King or the other. Now, having seen the huge force mustered by the King of France in the south, he seems to have resolved that the victory must remain with him, and has cast in his lot against the English cause. So, Brother, if the great Edward wins his battles, and drives from his own fair territories the invading hosts of France, it may be that the Sieur do Navailles may be deprived of his ill-gotten lands and castles; and then, if thou hast won thy spurs --" Raymond paused, and Gaston's eyes flashed at the thought. But he had learned, even in these two years, something of the lesson of patience, and was now less confident of winning fame and fortune at one stroke than he had been when he had made his first step along the path that he believed would lead him by leaps and bounds to the desired haven. "Then thou hast been there? Hast thou seen the old places -- the old faces? Truly I have longed to visit Sauveterre once more; but all our plans are changed, and now men speak of naught but pressing on for Calais. Where hast thou come from?" "From the old home, Gaston, where for three months I and Roger have been. What! dost thou not know Roger again? In truth, he looks vastly different from what he did when thou sawest him last. We are brothers in arms now, albeit he likes to call himself my servant. We have never been parted since the day we snatched him from that evil place within the walls of Basildene. We have been in safe shelter at the mill. Honest Jean and Margot had the warmest welcome for us, and Father Anselm gave us holy words of welcome. Everything there is as when we left. Scarce could I believe that nigh upon three years will soon have fled since we quitted its safe shelter. But I could not stay without thee, Brother. I have greatly longed to look upon thy face again. I knew that thou wert with the King, and I looked that this meeting should have been at Bordeaux. But when news was brought that the English ships had changed their course and were to land their soldiers in the north, I could tarry no longer, and we have ridden hard through the land northward to find thee here. Tell me, why this sudden change of plan? Surely the King will not let his fair province of Gascony be wrested from his hand without striking a blow in its defence in person?" Gaston laughed a proud, confident laugh. "Thou needst scarce ask such a question, Raymond; little canst thou know the temper of our King an thou thinkest for a moment such a thing as that. But methinks we may strike a harder blow here in the north against the treacherous French monarch than ever we could in the south, where his preparations are made to receive us. Here no man is ready. We march unopposed on a victorious career. The army is far away in the south; the King has but a small force with him in Paris. Brave Geoffrey of Harcourt, by whose advice we have turned our course and landed here at La Hague, has counselled us to march upon Calais and gain possession of that pirate city. With the very key of France in our hands, what may not England accomplish? Wherefore our march is to be upon Calais, and methinks there will be glory and honour to be won ore this campaign closes!" And, indeed, for a brief space it did seem as though King Edward's progress was to be one of unchecked victory; for he had already routed the French King's Constable, sent to try to save Caen; had taken and pillaged that city, and had marched unopposed through Carbon, Lisieux, and Louviers to Rouen, leaving terrible devastation behind, as the soldiers seized upon everything in the way of food from the hapless inhabitants, though not repeating the scenes which had disgraced the English colours at Caen. But at Rouen came the first of those checks which in time became so vexatious and even perilous to the English army. The French, in great alarm, had realized that something must be done to check Edward's victorious career; and as it was plain that if he turned his steps northward there would be no chance of opposing him, their aim and object was to pen him as far in the south as possible, so that the army in Gascony, perhaps, or failing that the new one mustering rapidly round the King in Paris, might close in upon the alien army and cut them to pieces by sheer force of numbers, before they could reach the coast and their ships. So Philip, recovering from his first panic, sent orders that all the bridges between Rouen and Paris should be broken down; and when Edward reached the former city, intending to cross there to the north side of the Seine, he found only the broken piers and arches of the bridge left standing, and the wide, turbid waters of the great river barring his further progress. Irritated and annoyed, but not really alarmed as yet, the English King turned his steps eastward toward Paris, still resolved to cross by the first bridge found standing. But each in turn had been broken down; and the only retaliation he could inflict upon the people who were thwarting and striving to entangle him in a net, was to burn the towns through which he passed; Pont de l'Arche, Vernon, and Verneuil, until he arrived at last at Poissy, only a few miles from Paris, to find the bridge there likewise broken down, whilst messengers kept arriving from all sides warning him that a far mightier host was gathering around Philip than he had with him, and advising instant retreat along the course by which he had come. But Edward well knew that retreat was impossible. He had so exhausted the country and exasperated its inhabitants by his recent march and its attendant ravages, that it would be impossible to find food for his soldiers there again, even if the people did not rise up in arms against them. Rather would he face the French foe, however superior to his own force, in open fight, than turn his back upon them in so cowardly a fashion. Meantime, as Philip did not move, he set to work with his soldiers to repair the bridge, sending out detachments of his army to harass and alarm the inhabitants of Paris, ravaging the country up and down, and burning St. Germain, St. Cloud, and Montjoie. These expeditions, so perilous and so singularly successful, were just of the kind to delight the eager spirits of the camp, and keep enthusiasm up to a high pitch. Why Philip suffered these ravages, when his army already far outnumbered that of the English, and why the French permitted their foes to repair and cross the bridge at Poissy without stirring a finger to hinder them, are questions more easily asked than answered. Possibly the knowledge that the Somme still lay between their enemies and the sea, and that the same difficulties with regard to the bridges was to be found there, kept the French army secure still of final victory. Possibly they thought that, hemmed in between the two great rivers, the army of Edward would be so well caught in a trap that they need not bestir themselves to consummate the final scene of the drama. At any rate, Philip remained inactive, save that his army was rapidly augmenting from all sides; whilst the English finished their bridge and marched northward, only opposed by a large body of troops sent out from Amiens to meet them, over which they obtained an easy victory. Nevertheless the position of the English was becoming exceedingly critical, and their march certainly partook something of the nature of a retreat, little as they themselves appeared to be aware of the fact. Philip with his host was advancing from behind, the great river Somme lay before them, all its bridges either broken down or so well fortified as to be practically impassable; and though their allies in Flanders had raised the siege of Bovines in order to march to the assistance of the English King, there appeared small chance of their effecting a junction in time to be of any use. At Airaines a pause was made in order to try to discover some bridge or ford by which the river might be passed. But Philip's work had been so well done that not a whole bridge could anywhere be found; and the French army was pressing so hard upon the English that in the end they had to break up their camp in the greatest haste, leaving their cooked provisions and tables ready spread for their foes to benefit by. They themselves hastened on to Abbeville, keeping slightly to the west of the town so as to avoid provoking attack, and be nearer to the coast, though as no English ships could be looked for in the river's mouth, the seacoast was of small service to them. Such is the brief outline of the facts of Edward's well-known march in this campaign, destined to become so famous. The individual action of our Gascon twins must now be told in greater detail. Their reunion after so long a separation had been a source of keen delight to both the brothers. Each had developed in a different direction, and instead of being shadows the one of the other as in old days, they were now drawn together by the force of contrast. Gaston was above all else a soldier, with a soldier's high spirit, love of adventure, and almost reckless courage. He fairly worshipped the King and the Prince, and was high in favour with the youthful Edward, whose first campaign this was. Raymond, whilst imbued with the same high courage, though of a loftier kind, in that it was as much spiritual as physical, and with much of the chivalrous love of adventure so common to the gallant youths of that age, was far more thoughtful, well instructed, and far-seeing than his brother. He looked to the larger issues of life. He was not carried away by wild enthusiasm. He could love, and yet see faults. He could throw in his lot with a cause, and ardently strive for the victory, and yet know all the while that there were flaws in that same cause, and admit with sorrow, yet firm truthfulness, that in this world no cause is ever altogether pure, altogether just. He was not of the stuff of which hot partisans are made. He had a spirit in advance of his times, and the chances were that he would never rise to the same measure of success as his brother. For those who try to keep a stainless name in times of strife, bloodshed, and hostile jealousy, seldom escape without making bitter enemies, and suffer the penalty that will ever attend upon those who strive after a higher ideal than is accepted by the world at large. But if growing apart in character, the bond of warm love was but drawn closer by the sense that each possessed gifts denied to the other. Raymond found in Gaston the most charming and enlivening comrade and friend. Gaston began unconsciously to look up to his brother, and to feel that in him was a power possessed by few of those by whom he was surrounded, and to which he could turn for counsel and help if ever the time should come when he felt the need of either. In Raymond's presence others as well as Gaston began to curb some of that bold freedom of speech which has always characterized the stormy career of the soldier. Those who so curbed themselves scarce knew why they did so. It was seldom that Raymond spoke any word of rebuke or admonition, and if he did it was only to some youth younger than himself. But there was something in the direct grave look of his eyes, and in the pure steadfastness of his expression, which gave to his aspect a touch of saintliness quickly felt by those about him. For in those days men, in spite of many and great faults, were not ashamed of their religion. Much superstition might be mingled with their beliefs, corruption and impurity were creeping within the fold of the Church, darkness and ignorance prevailed to an extent which it is hard in these times to realize; yet with all this against them, men were deeply and truly loyal to their faith. It had not entered into their minds that a deep and firm faith in God was a thing of which to be ashamed; that to trust in special providence was childish folly; to receive absolution upon the eve of some great and perilous undertaking a mere empty form, or a device of cunning priestcraft. It has been the work of a more "enlightened" age to discover all this. In olden times -- those despised days of worn-out superstition -- men yet believed fully and faithfully in their God, and in His beneficent care of His children. Raymond, then, with his saint-like face and his reputation of piety, together with the story of his residence beneath the care of Father Paul, quickly obtained a certain reputation of his own that made him something of a power; and Gaston felt proud to go about with his brother at his side, and hear the comments passed upon that brother by the comrades he had made in the past years. During the exciting march through the hostile country Gaston and Raymond had known much more of the feeling of the people than their comrades. The French tongue was familiar to them, and though they did not speak it as readily as English or their Gascon dialect, they had always known it from childhood, and never had any difficulty in making themselves understood. Despite their English sympathies and their loyalty to England's King, they felt much natural compassion for the harried and distracted victims of Edward's hostile march; and many little acts of protective kindness had been shown by both the brothers (generally at Raymond's instigation) towards some feeble or miserable person who might otherwise have been left in absolute destitution. These small acts of kindness won them goodwill wherever they went, and also assisted them to understand the words and ways of the people as they would scarcely have done without. Then, as in all countries and all times the old proverb holds good that one good turn deserves another, they picked up here and there several valuable hints, and none more valuable than the knowledge that somewhere below Abbeville, between that town and the sea, was a tidal ford that could be crossed twice in the twelve hours by those who knew where to seek it. Thus whilst the King's Marshals were riding up and down the river banks, vainly seeking some bridge over which the hard-pressed army could pass, the twin brothers carefully pursued their way down the stream, looking everywhere for the white stone bottom which they had been told marked the spot where the water was fordable. But the tide was rolling in deep and strong, and they could see nothing. Still cautiously pursuing their way -- cautiously because upon the opposite bank of the river they saw a large gathering of archers and footmen all belonging to the enemy -- they lighted presently upon a peasant varlet cutting willow wands not far from the river's brink. The boys entered into talk with him, and Raymond's kindly questioning soon elicited the information that the man's name was Gobin Agace, that he was a poor man with little hope of being anything else all his days, and that he knew the river as well as any man in the realm. "Then," said Raymond, "thou needest be poor no longer; for if thou wilt come with us to the camp of the English King a short league away, and lead him and his army to the ford of the Blanche Tache which lies not far from here, he will make thee rich for life, and thou wilt be prosperous all thy days." "If the King of France do not follow and cut off my head," said the man doubtfully, though his eyes glistened at the prospect of such easily-won wealth. "By holy St. Anthony, thou needst not fear that!" cried Gaston. "Our great King can protect thee and keep thee from all harm. See here, good knave: it will be far better for thee to win this great reward than for us, who have no such dire need of the King's gold. If thou wilt not aid us, we must e'en find the place ourselves; but as time presses we will gladly lead thee to the King, and let him reward thee for thy good service. So answer speedily yea or nay, for we may not linger longer whilst thou debatest the matter in that slow mind of thine." "Then I will e'en go with you, fair sirs," answered the fellow, who was in no mind to let the reward slip through his fingers; and within an hour Gaston and Raymond led before the King the peasant varlet who held the key of the position in his hands. Every hour was bringing fresh messages of warning. The French King was in pursuit of his flying foe (as he chose to consider him), and though he felt so certain of having him in a trap that he did not hasten as he might have done, there was no knowing when the van of the French army would be upon them; and the moment that the King heard of this ford, and was assured by the peasant that at certain states of the tide twelve men abreast could ford it, the water reaching only to the knee, he broke up his camp at an hour's notice, and with Gobin Agace at his side proceeded in person to the water's edge, the flower of his army crowding to the spot beside him, whilst the mass of his troops formed in rank behind, ready to press forward the moment the water should be fordable. Night had fallen before the trumpets had sounded, warning the soldiers of the breaking up of the camp. All night long they had been working, and then marching to the fordable spot: but now the tide was rolling in again; and worse than that, the English saw upon the opposite shore a compact band of twelve hundred men -- Genoese archers and picked cavalry -- posted there by the now vigilant Philip, ready to oppose their passage if they should chance upon the ford. "Knights and gentlemen," said the King, as he sat his fine charger and looked round upon the gallant muster around him, "shall we be daunted by the opposing foe? They are but a handful, and we know the coward temper of yon Italian crossbowmen. Who will be the first to lead the charge, and ride on to victory?" A hundred eager voices shouted a reply. The enthusiasm spread from rank to rank. Foremost of those beside the water's edge stood Oliver and Bernard de Brocas; and when at last the ebb came, and the word was given to advance, they were amongst the first who dashed into the shallow water, whilst Gaston and his brother, though unable to press into the foremost rank, were not far behind. Thick and fast fell round them the bolts of the crossbows; but far thicker and more deadly were the long shafts of the English archers, which discomfited the foreign banners and sent them flying hither and thither. In vain did their brave leader, Godemar de Fay, strive to rally them and dispute the passage of the main body of the army, even when the horsemen had passed across. Edward's splendid cavalry rode hither and thither, charging again and again into the wavering band. Quickly the Genoese hirelings flung away their bows and ran for their lives; whilst the English army, with shouts of triumph, steadily advanced across the ford in the first quivering light of the dawning day, and looked back to see the banners of Philip of France advancing upon them, whilst a few stragglers and some horses were actually seized by the soldiers of that monarch. "Now God and St. George be praised!" cried Edward, as he watched the approach of the foe, who had so nearly trapped him upon ground which would have given every advantage to the French and none to his own army. "Methinks had our good brother but pressed on a day's march faster, it would have gone hard with us to save the honour of England. Now I stand on mine own ground. Now will I fight at my ease. There is bread for my soldiers. They shall rest ere they be called upon to fight. Let Philip do his worst! We will be ready with an English welcome when he comes. Let his host outnumber ours by three to one, as men say it does, shall we be afraid to meet him in fair field, and show him what English chivalry may accomplish?" A tumultuous cheer was answer enough. The whole of the English army now stood upon the north bank of the Somme, watching, with shouts of triumph and gestures of defiance, the futile efforts of the French to plunge over the ford. The tide was again flowing. The water was deep and rapid. In a moment they knew themselves to be too late, and a few well-aimed shafts from English longbows showed them how futile was now any effort in pursuit of the foe who had eluded them. Sullenly and with many menacing gestures, that were replied to by shouts of derisive laughter from the English soldiers, the French army turned hack towards Abbeville, where they could cross the river at their leisure by the bridge which had been strongly fortified against Edward. Careless confidence had lost Philip the advantage he might have gained through clever generalship; he was now to see what he could do by force of arms when he and Edward should stand face to face in their opposing hosts in the open field of battle. CHAPTER XIII. WINNING HIS SPURS. "Tomorrow, good comrades in arms, we will show yon laggard King of what stuff English chivalry is made!" cried the young Prince of Wales, as he rose to his feet and held a bumper of wine high above his head. "We have our spurs to win, and tomorrow shall be our chance. Here is to the victory of the English arms! May the mighty St. George fight upon our side, and bring us with glory and honour through the day!" Every guest at the Prince's table had leaped to his feet. Swords were unsheathed and waved in wild enthusiasm, and a shout went up that was like one of triumph, as with one voice the guests around the Prince's table drained their cups to the victory of the English cause, shouting with one voice, as if formulating a battle cry: "St. George and the Prince! St. George and the Prince!" In the English camp that night there were elation and revelry; not the wild carousing that too often in those days preceded a battle and left the soldiers unfit for duty, but a cheerful partaking of good and sufficient food before the night's rest and ease which the King had resolved upon for his whole army, in preparation for the battle that could scarce be delayed longer than the morrow. It was early on Thursday morning, the twenty-fourth day of August, that the ford of the Blanche Tache had been crossed. Thursday and Friday had been spent by the English in skirmishing about in search of provisions, of which great abundance had been found, and in deciding upon the disposition of their troops in a favourable position for meeting the advance of the French. The King had selected some wooded and rising ground in the vicinity of the then obscure little village of Crecy. Then having made all his arrangements with skill and foresight, and having ordered that his men should be provided with ample cheer, and should rest quietly during the night, he himself gave a grand banquet to the leaders of his army; and the young Prince of Wales followed his father's example by inviting to his own quarters some score of bold and congenial spirits amongst the youthful gentlemen who followed his father's banner, to pass the time with them in joyous feasting, and to lay plans for the glory of the coming day. It is difficult in these modern days to realize how young were some amongst those who took part in the great battles of the past. The Black Prince, as he was afterwards called from the sombre hue of the armour he wore, was not yet fifteen when the Battle of Crecy was fought; and when the King had summoned his bold subjects to follow him to the war, he had called upon all knights and gentlemen between the ages of sixteen and twenty to join themselves to him for this campaign in France. Lads who would now be reckoned as mere schoolboys were then doughty warriors winning their spurs in battle; and some of the most brilliant charges of those chivalrous days were led and carried through mainly by striplings scarce twenty years old. Inured from infancy to hardy sports, and trained to arms to the exclusion almost of all other training, these bold sons of England certainly proved equal to the demands made upon them. True, they were often skilfully generalled by older men, but the young ones held their own in prowess in the field; and child as the Prince of Wales would now be considered, the right flank of the army was to be led by him upon the morrow; and though the Earls of Warwick and Hereford and other trusty veterans were with him, his was the command, and to him were they to look. No wonder then that the comrades who had marched with him through these last hazardous days, and who had been with and about him for many months -- some of them for years -- should rally round him now with the keenest enthusiasm. The De Brocas brothers were there -- Oliver and Bernard (John had not left England to follow the fortunes of the war) -- as well as Gaston and his brother, whose return had been warmly welcomed by the Prince. He had heard about the rescue of the woodman's son, and had been greatly interested and taken by Raymond and his story. Student though he might be by nature, Raymond was as eager as any for the fight that was to come. He had caught the spirit of the warlike King's camp, and his blood was on fire to strike a blow at the foe who had so long harassed and thwarted them. And it was not all rioting and feasting in the camp that night. The soldiers supped well and settled to rest; but the King, when his guests had departed, went to his oratory and spent the night upon his knees, his prayer being less for himself than for his gallant boy; less for victory than that England's honour might be upheld, and that whatever was the issue of the day, this might be preserved stainless in the sight of God and man. Then very early in the morning, whilst almost all the camp slept, the King was joined by his son, the Prince being followed by Raymond, who had also kept vigil upon his knees that night, and they, with some half score of devout spirits, heard mass and received the Sacrament; whilst a little later on the monks and priests were busy hearing the confessions of the greater part of the soldiers, who after receiving the priestly absolution went into battle with a loftier courage than before. When this had been done and still the French army appeared not, the King gave orders that the men should be served with something to eat and drink, after which they might sit down at their ease to wait till their adversaries appeared. Meantime the French were having anything but a comfortable time of it. They had remained inactive in Abbeville for the whole of Friday as well as the preceding Thursday, after they had retreated thither from the ford where the English had given them the slip; and on Saturday they were marched off none too well fed, to meet their English foes. Philip was so confident that his immense superiority in numbers was certain to give him the victory, that he thought little of the comfort of his men, the consequence being that they grew jaded and weary with the long hot march taken in an ill-fed state; and his own marshals at last very earnestly entreated their lord to call a halt for rest and refreshment before the troops engaged in battle, or else the men would fight at a terrible disadvantage. Philip consented to this, and a halt was called, which was obeyed by the ranks in front; but those behind, eager to fall upon the English, and confident of easy victory, declined to wait, and went steadily forward, shouting "Kill! kill!" as they went, till all the alleys became filled up and choked. The press from behind urged forward the men in front, and the army moved on perforce once again, though now no longer in order, but in a confused and unmanageable mass. Just as they came in sight of the English line of battle a heavy tempest of thunder and rain came upon them. The clouds seemed to discharge themselves upon the French host, and those birds of evil omen, the ravens, flew screaming overhead, throwing many men into paroxysms of terror who would never have blenched before the drawn blade of an armed foe. Worse than this, the rain wet and slackened the strings of the Genoese crossbowmen, who marched in the foremost rank; and hungry and weary as they were, this last misfortune seemed to put the finishing touch to their discomfiture. Hireling soldiers, whose hearts are not in the cause, have been the curse of many a battlefield; and though these Genoese advanced with a great shouting against the foe, as though hoping to affright them by their noise, they did little enough except shout, till their cries were changed to those of agony and terror as their ineffectual shower of bolts was answered by a perfect hail of shafts from the English archers' dreaded longbows, whilst the sun shining full into their dazzled eyes rendered ineffectual any farther attempt on their part to shoot straight at the foe. The hired archers turned and fled, and throwing into confusion the horsemen behind who were eager to charge and break the ranks of the English archers, the luckless men were mown down ruthlessly by their infuriated allies, whose wrath was burning against them now that they had proved not only useless but a serious hindrance. This was by no means a promising beginning for the French; but still, with their overwhelming superiority of numbers, they had plenty of confidence left; and the English, though greatly encouraged by the breaking and havoc in the ranks of the foe, were by no means recklessly confident that the day was theirs. Presumably the English King, who with the reserves was posted upon the highest ground at some distance behind the two wings, had the best view of the battle. The left wing, commanded by the Earls of Northampton and Arundel, occupied the stronger position, being protected on their left by the little river Maye. The young Prince was in the position of the greatest danger; and as he and his companions stood in their ranks, watching the onset of the battle with parted lips, and breath that came and went with excitement, they began to see that upon them and their men the brunt of the day would fall. It had been the King's command that the battle should be fought on foot by the English, probably owing to the wooded and uncertain nature of the ground, else his far-famed cavalry would hardly have been dismounted. The Prince then stood still in his place, gazing with kindling eyes at the confusion in the ranks of the foe, till the glint of a blood-red banner in their ranks caught his eye, and he cried aloud to his men, "The oriflamme! the oriflamme, good comrades! See ye that, and know ye what it means when the King of France unfurls it? It is a signal that no lives will be spared, no quarter granted to the foe. If we go not on to victory, we march every man to his death!" A shout that was like a cheer was the response of the gallant little band who stood shoulder to shoulder with the Prince, and the word being passed from mouth to mouth was received everywhere with like courageous enthusiasm, so that the cheer went ringing down from line to line, and hearts beat high and hand grasped sword ever harder and faster as the tide of battle rolled onward, until the word was given and the trumpets sounded the advance. "Keep by my side and the Prince's, Raymond," breathed Gaston, as slowly and steadily they pressed down the hill towards the spot where the French horse under the Count of Alencon were charging splendidly into the ranks of the archers and splitting the harrow into which they had been formed by Edward's order into two divisions. The Count of Flanders likewise, knowing that the King's son was in this half of the battle, called on his men to follow him, and with a fine company of Germans and Savoyards made for the spot where the young Prince was gallantly fighting, and cheering on his men to stand firm for the honour of England. Shoulder to shoulder, fearless and dauntless, stood the little band of gallant knights and gentlemen who formed the bodyguard of the Prince. Again and again had the horsemen charged them; but the soldiers threw themselves beneath the horses of the foe and stabbed them through the body, so that hundreds of gallant French knights were overthrown and slain ere they well knew what had befallen them. But in the press and the heat of battle it was hard to say how the tide would turn. The commanders of the left wing of the English, the Earls of Northampton and Arundel, were forcing their way inch by inch to reach the Prince's side and divert from his immediate neighbourhood the whole stress of the opposing force now concentred there. They could see that the Prince was still unharmed, fighting with the gallantry of his soldier race. But the odds for the moment were heavily against him; and they despatched a messenger to the King, who remained with the reserves, begging him to go to the assistance of the Prince. Ere the messenger returned, they had fought their own way into the melee, and had joined issue with the gallant youth, who, fearless and full of spirit, was encouraging his men alike by the boldness of his demeanour and by his shouts of encouragement and praise, though his breath was coming thick and fast, and the drops of exhaustion stood upon his brow. "Fear not, sweet Prince," cried Arundel, raising his voice so that all who were near could hear: "we have sent word to your Royal Sire of the stress of the battle round you, and he will soon be here himself with the help that shall enable us to rout this rebel host;" and he turned his eyes somewhat anxiously towards the height where the King and his company still remained motionless. But a messenger was spurring back through the open ground which lay between the reserves and the right wing where such hot work was going on. He made straight for the spot where the Prince was fighting, and both the Earls turned eagerly towards him. "What said the King?" they asked quickly. "When will he be with us?" "He asked," replied the messenger, "whether the Prince were killed or wounded; and when I told him nay, but in a hard passage of arms wherein he needed his Sire's help, the King folded his arms and turned away, saying, 'Let the boy win his spurs; for I will that the glory of this day be his, and not mine.'" As those words were spoken it seemed as if new life were infused into the young Prince himself and all those who surrounded him. A ringing cheer rose from all their throats. They formed once again under their young leader, and charged the enemy with a fury that nothing was able to resist. The horsemen were forced hack the way they had come. The Counts who had led them boldly and well were unhorsed and slain. Dismay and terror fell upon the breaking ranks of the French, and they turned and fled; whilst the excited and triumphant young Prince pursued them with shouts of exultation and triumph, till he found himself with his few most faithful followers in the midst of the flying but hostile ranks some little distance away from the English army. "Sweet Prince, beware! have a care how you adventure your life thus in the enemy's ranks," whispered Raymond in his ear, he alone keeping a cool head in the midst of so much that was exciting. "See, here come some score of horsemen who know thee and would fain cut off thy retreat. Let us here make a stand and receive the charge, else shall we all be overthrown together." This cautious counsel came only just in time. Young Edward looked round to see that his reckless bravery had placed him for the moment in imminent peril; but he had all the courage of his race, and his heart quailed not for an instant. Giving the word to his comrades to form a compact square, he placed himself where the onset was like to be the fiercest; nor was there time for his companions to interfere to place him in a position of greater safety. With a great shout of rage and triumph the band of horsemen, who had recognized the person of the Prince, now rushed upon him, resolved either to carry him off a prisoner or leave him lying dead upon the field, so that the English might have little joy in their victory. So fierce was the attack that the Prince was borne to the ground; and the Battle of Crecy might have been a dark instead of a bright page in England's history, but for the gallantry of a little band of Welshmen headed by Richard de Beaumont, the bearer of the banner portraying the great red dragon of Merlin, which had floated all day over the bold Welsh contingent. Flinging this banner over the prostrate form of the Prince, the brave soldier called on his men to charge the horses and cut them down. This they did in the way before mentioned -- throwing themselves underneath and stabbing them through the heart. So their riders, finding even this last effort futile, joined in the headlong flight of their compatriots; and the Prince's faithful attendants crowded round him to raise him up again, greatly rejoicing to find that though breathless and confused by the shock of his fall, he was none the worse for his overthrow, and was quickly able to thank the brave Welshmen who had so opportunely come to the rescue of him and his comrades. "Now, we will back to the ranks and find my father," said the Prince, when he had spoken his courteous thanks and looked round about to see if his comrades had suffered more than himself. One or two had received slight wounds, and Raymond was leaning upon Gaston's shoulder looking white and shaken; but he quickly recovered, and declared himself only bruised and breathless, and still holding fast to Gaston's arm, followed the Prince up the hill amongst the heaps of dying and dead. Gaston was flushed with his exertions, and in his heart was room for nothing but pride and joy in the glorious victory just achieved. But whilst Raymond looked around him as he slowly moved, suffering more bodily pain than he wished his brother to know, his heart felt bruised and crushed like his body, and a sudden sense of the vanity of human life and ambition came suddenly upon him, so much so that he scarce knew whether he was in the flesh or in the spirit as he moved slowly and quietly onwards. Everywhere he saw before him the bodies of men who but a few short hours ago had been full of strong vitality, instinct with the same passions of hatred and loyalty as had animated their own ranks that day. How strange it seemed to look into those dead faces now, and wonder what those freed spirits thought of those same passions that had been raging within them but a few short hours before! Did it seem to them, as it almost seemed to him, that in all the world around there was nothing of moment enough to arouse such tumult of passion and strife; that only the things eternal the things that pass not away were worthy to be greatly sought after and longed for? But his reverie was quickly interrupted by an exclamation from Gaston. "See, Brother, the King! the King He is coming to meet his son, and his nobles with him!" It was a sight not soon to be forgotten, that meeting between the warlike Edward and his bold young son, after the splendid triumph just achieved by the gallant boy. The King embraced the Prince with tears of joyful pride in his eyes, whilst the nobles standing round the King shouted aloud at the sight, and the soldiers made the welkin ring with their lusty English cheers. Young Edward had received knighthood at his father's hand upon landing on the shores of France, though truly it was this day's fighting which had won him his spurs. But as the King was resolved to mark the occasion by some rewards to those who had stood by his gallant boy in the thick of the press, he quickly picked out from the cluster of noble youths who stood behind their young leader some six of gentle blood and known bravery, and thereupon dubbed them knights upon the bloody battlefield. Amongst those thus singled out for such honourable notice were the two sons of the King's Master of the Horse, Oliver and Bernard de Brocas, the latter of whom was destined to be the Prince's chosen and trusted comrade through many another warlike campaign. Gladly and proudly did the royal boy stand by and see the reward of valour thus bestowed upon his chosen comrades of the day; but he seemed scarce satisfied by all that was done. His eye wandered quickly over the little knot grouped upon the knoll around the King, and then his glance travelling yet farther to the remoter outskirts, he suddenly detached himself from the centre group, and ran quickly down the hillside till he reached the spot where the twin brothers were standing watching the scene with vivid interest, Raymond still leaning rather heavily upon his brother's arm. "Nay now, why tarry ye here?" eagerly questioned the Prince. "Sure ye were amongst the most steadfast and fearless in the fight today. "Good Raymond, but for thy quick eye and timely word of warning, we had been fallen upon and scattered unawares, and perhaps had been cut to pieces, ere we knew that we were vanquished rather than victors. My father is even now bestowing upon my gallant comrades the reward their good swords have won for them. Come, and let me present you twain to him; for sure in all the gallant band that fought by my side none were more worthy of knighthood than you. Come, and that quickly!" A quick flush crossed Gaston's cheek as the guerdon so dear to the heart of the soldier was thus thrust upon him; but a whisper in his ear held him back. "Gaston, we have no name; we cannot receive knighthood without revealing all. Has the time yet come to speak? Of that thou shalt be the judge. I will follow thy wishes in this as in all else." For a moment Gaston stood debating with himself. Then the counsel of prudence prevailed over that of youthful ambition. How were he and his brother worthily to support the offered rank? Even did they make known their true parentage, that would not put money in their purses; and to be poor dependents upon the bounty of relatives who had rejected their mother and driven forth their father to seek his fortune as he could, was as repugnant to Gaston's pride now as it had been two years before. "Sweet Prince," he answered, after this brief pause for thought, "we have but done our duty today, and knighthood is far too great a reward for our poor merits. Sure it has been honour and glory enough to fight by your side, and win this gallant day. We are but poor youths, without home or friends. How could we receive a reward which we could not worthily wear? A penniless knight without servant or esquire would cut but a sorry figure. Nay then, sweet Prince, let it be enough for us this day to have won these gracious words at your lips. It may be when fair fortune has smiled upon us, and we are no longer poor and nameless, that we will come to you to crave the boon you have graciously offered this day. We will remain for the nonce in our present state, but will ever look forward to the day when some other glorious victory may be won, and when we may come to our Prince for that reward which today we may not receive at his hands." "So be it," answered the Prince, his face, which had clouded over with regret a few moments earlier, lighting up again at these latter words. "Be assured I will not forget you, nor the services ye have done me this day. I too in days to come shall have knighthood to bestow upon those who have earned the right to wear it. Fear not that Edward ever will forget. Whenever the day comes that shall bring you thus to me for the reward so nobly earned today, that reward shall be yours. The King's son has promised it." CHAPTER XIV. WINTER DAYS. "Nephew John, I have brought thee a companion to share thy winter's solitude." John de Brocas, who was in his old and favourite retreat -- his Rector-uncle's great library -- rose to his feet with a start at hearing the familiar voice of Master Bernard (whom he believed to be far away in France), and found himself face to face not with his cheery uncle alone, but with a tall, white, hollow-eyed youth, upon whose weary face a smile of delighted recognition was shining, whilst a thin hand was eagerly advanced in welcome. "Raymond!" exclaimed John, with a look that spoke volumes of welcome. "Good mine uncle, welcome at all times, thou art doubly welcome in such company as this. But I had not looked to see you in merry England again for long. Men say that Calais is closely besieged by the King, and methought he had need of thee and my father likewise whilst the campaign across the water lasted." "True, lad, the King has need of those he graciously dubs his trusty counsellors; and I have but come hither for a short while. The King is full of anxiety about this outbreak of the hardy Scots, which has been so gallantly frustrated at Neville's Cross by our gracious Queen, worthy to be the mate of the world's greatest warrior. I am come hither charged with much business in this matter, and so soon as all is accomplished I am desired to bring the Queen to join her royal spouse before the walls of Calais. It is not long that I may linger here. I have but a few short hours to set mine own affairs in order. But thinking I should be like to find thee here, Nephew John, as the autumn weather in low-lying Windsor generally drives thee forth from thence, I hastened hither to bring to thee a companion for thy winter's loneliness. Methinks thou hast known and loved him before. Treat him as a cousin and a friend. He will tell thee all his story at his leisure." The slight stress laid upon the word "cousin" by the prelate caused John to glance quickly and curiously at Raymond, who answered by a slight smile. Just at that moment there was no time for explanations. Master Bernard engrossed the whole of John's time and attention, being eager to learn from that young man every detail of the campaign in the north which had reached his ears. And John, who took a wide and intelligent interest in all the passing affairs of the day, and from his position was able to learn much of what went on in the world, sat beside his uncle at the hastily-spread board, and told all the leading facts of the brief and triumphant campaign in terse and soldier-like fashion. Meantime Raymond sat at ease in the corner of a deep settle beside the fire, leaning back against the soft fur rug which draped it, unable to eat through very weariness, but eagerly interested in all the news his uncle was hearing from John. Master Bernard had to push on to London that night. He and his companion had landed at Southampton the previous day, and had taken Guildford upon their way to the capital. There Raymond was to remain under the kindly care of John; and as soon as the Rector had set off with fresh horses and his own retinue of servants, his nephew turned eagerly back to the hall, where his cousin was still resting, and taking him warmly by the hands, gazed into his face with a glance of the most friendly and affectionate solicitude. "Good my cousin, I have scarce had time to bid thee welcome yet, but I do so now with all my heart. It is as a cousin I am to receive and treat thee? What meant my good uncle by that? Hast thou told him what I myself know? Methought he spoke like one with a purpose." "Yes, it is true that he knows," answered Raymond; "but he counsels us to keep our secret awhile longer. He thinks, as does Gaston, that we were wiser first to win our way to greater fame and fortune than mere boys can hope to do, and then to stand revealed as those sprung from a noble line. How came he to know? That I will tell thee when I am something rested. But I am so weary with our journey that I scarce know how to frame my thoughts in fitting words. Yet I am glad to see thy face again, good John. I have been wearying long for a sight of thee." "Thou art indeed sadly changed thyself, my cousin," said John. "In truth, men who go to these wars go with their lives in their hands. Was it on the glorious field of Crecy that thou receivedst some hurt? Sure thou hast been sore wounded. But thou shalt tell me all thy tale anon, when thou art something rested and refreshed." The tale was told that same evening, when, after Raymond had slept for a few hours and had been able then to partake of some food, he felt, in part at least, recovered from the fatigues of the long ride from the coast, and could recline at ease beside the glowing fire, and talk to John of all that had befallen him since they had parted two and a half years before. The account of the victory at Crecy was eagerly listened to, and also that of the subsequent march upon Calais, when the King of France, choosing to consider the campaign at an end, had disbanded both his armies, leaving the victorious King of England to build unmolested a new town about Calais, in which his soldiers could live through the winter in ease and plenty, and complete the blockade both by sea and land undisturbed by hostile demonstrations. "It seems to me," said Raymond, "that did our great Edward wish to make good his claim on the crown of France, he has only to march straight upon Paris and demand coronation there. When after the victory at Crecy and the subsequent triumphs I have told you of, over band after band of troops all going to the support of Philip, we could have marched unopposed through the length and breadth of the land, none daring to oppose us, the soldiers all thought that Paris, not Calais, would be the next halting place. "What thinkest thou, good John? Thou knowest much of the true mind of the King. Why, after so glorious a victory, does he not make himself master of all France?" John smiled his thoughtful smile. "Verily because our King is statesman as well as soldier; and though he boldly advances a claim on the crown of France, to give the better colour to his feats of arms against its King, he knows that he could not rule so vast an empire as that of France and England together would be, and that his trusty subjects at home would soon grow jealous and discontented were they to find themselves relegated to the second place, whilst their mighty Edward took up his abode in his larger and more turbulent kingdom of France. England rejoices in snatching portions of territory from the French monarch, in holding off his grasping hand from those portions of France that lawfully belong to our great King. She will support him joyfully through a series of victories that bring spoil and glory to her soldiers; but jealousy would soon arise did she think that her King was like to regard France as his home rather than England, that England was to be drained of her gold and her best men to keep under control the unwieldy possession she had won but could never peacefully hold. Methinks the King and his best counsellors know this well, and content themselves with their glorious feats of arms which stir the blood and gratify the pride of all loyal subjects. "But now, I pray thee, tell me of thyself; for thou hast sadly altered since we parted last. What has befallen thee in these wars? and where is thy brother Gaston, whom thou wentest forth to seek? and where the faithful Roger, whose name thou hast spoken many times before?" "I have left them together in the camp before Calais," answered Raymond. "Roger would fain have come with me, but I thought it not well that he should place himself so near his ancient foes and masters, even though I trow the spell has been snapped once and for ever. He loves Gaston only second to me, and was persuaded at length to stay with him. I, too, would have stayed likewise, but they said the winter's cold would kill me, and I could no longer bear arms or serve in the ranks. So I was fain to leave them and come to England with our uncle. And the thought of spending the winter months with thee and with the books made amends for all I left behind beneath the walls of Calais." "What ails thee then, Raymond? Is it some unhealed wound?" The youth shook his head. "Nay, I have no wound. It was some hurt I got in that last melee on the field of Crecy, when the Prince nearly lost his life just as the day was won. I was hurled to the ground and trampled upon. Methought for many long minutes that I should never rise again. But for days afterwards I knew not that the hurt was aught to think about or care for. It pained me to move or breathe, but I thought the pain would pass, and heeded it but little. We rode gaily enough to the walls of Calais, and we set about building a second city without its walls (when the governor refused to surrender it into our hands), which the King has been pleased to call Newtown the Bold. I strove to work with the rest, thinking that the pain I suffered would abate by active toil, and liking not to speak of it when many who had received grievous wounds were to be seen lending willing service in the task set us. But there came a day when I could no more. I could scarce creep to the tent which Gaston, Roger, and I shared together; and then I can remember naught but the agony of a terrible pain that never left me night or day, and I only longed that I might die and so find rest." "Ah, poor lad, I too have known that wish," said John. "Doubtless it was some grave inflammation of the hidden tissues of the body from the which you so grievously suffered. And how came it that our uncle found you out? He is a notable leech, as many men have found ere now. Was it as such that he then came to thee?" "Yes, truly; and our generous and kindly Prince sent him. He heard through Gaston of the strait I was in, and forthwith begged our uncle to come and visit me. John, dost thou know that Gaston and I each wear about our neck the halves of a charm our mother hung there in our infancy? It is a ring of gold, each complete in itself, yet which may be so joined together as to form one circlet with the two halves of the medallion joined in one;" and Raymond pulled forth from within his doublet a small circlet of gold curiously chased, with a half medallion bearing certain characters inscribed upon it. John examined it curiously, and said it was of Eastern workmanship. "I know not how that may be. I know not its history," answered Raymond; "but Gaston tells me that when our uncle saw the ring about my neck he seemed greatly moved, and asked quickly how it came there. Gaston told him it was hung there by our mother, and showed his own half, and how they fitted together. At that our uncle seemed yet more moved; and after he had done what he could to ease my pain, he left me with Roger, and bid Gaston follow him to his own tent. There he told him the history of that ring, and how for many generations it had been in the De Brocas family, its last owner having been the Arnald de Brocas who had quarrelled with his kindred, and had died ere the dispute had been righted. Seeing that it was useless to hide the matter longer, Gaston told our uncle all; and he listened kindly and with sympathy to the tale. At the first he seemed as if he would have told your father all the story likewise, and have had us owned before the world. But either Gaston's reluctance to proclaim ourselves before we had won our way to fortune, or else his own uncertainty as to how your father would take the news, held him silent; and he said we were perchance right and wise to keep our secret. He added that to reveal ourselves, though it might gain us friends, would also raise up many bitter and powerful enemies. The Sieur de Navailles in the south, who by joining the French King's standard had already made himself a mark for Edward's just displeasure when the time should come for revenging himself upon those treacherous subjects in Gascony, would be certain to hold in especial abhorrence any De Brocas who would be like to cast longing eyes upon the domain he had so long ruled over; whilst in England the fierce and revengeful Sanghursts would have small scruple in seeking the destruction of any persons who would rise to dispute their hold on Basildene. The King's time and thought were too much engrossed in great matters of the state to give him leisure to concern himself with private affairs. Let the youths then remain as they were for the present, serving under his banner, high in favour with the youthful Prince, and like to win fame and honour and wealth through the victorious war about to be waged in France. When that war had triumphantly ended, and the King was rewarding those whose faithful service had gained him the day, then might the time come for the brothers of Basildene to make themselves known, and plead for their own again." "I trow he is in the right," said John, "and I am glad that he knows all himself. So would he take the more interest in you, good Raymond; and thus it was, I take it, that he brought you to England himself when he came hither." "Ay, truly his kindness was great; and after he knew all, I was moved to better quarters, and a prince could not have been better treated. But it was long before I could stand upon my own feet, and save for the hope of seeing you once again, I would gladly have been spared the journey to England. But the sea passage was favourable, and gave me strength, though the wind from the east blew so strong that we could not make the harbour of Dover, and were forced to beat westward along the coast till we reached the friendly port of Southampton. Then we took horse and rode hither, and glad am I to be at the journey's end. But our uncle tells me that in a few short weeks I shall be sound and whole again, and before the winter ends I may hope to join my brother beneath the King's banner." "I hope it will be so," answered John; "and if rest is what thou needest for thy recovery, it will not be lacking to thee here. It is well that the sword is not the only weapon thou lovest, but that the quill and the lore of the wise of the earth have attractions for thee likewise." It quickly seemed to Raymond as if the incidents of that stirring campaign had been but part and parcel of a fevered dream. He was disposed to believe that he had never quitted the retreat of his uncle's roof, and took up his old studies with John with the greatest zest. John found him marvellously advanced since the days they had studied together before. His two years with Father Paul in the Brotherhood had wonderfully enlarged his mind and extended his field of vision. It was a delight to both cousins to exchange ideas, and learn from one another; and the time fled by only too fast, each day marked by a steady though imperceptible improvement in Raymond's state of health, as his fine constitution triumphed over the serious nature of the injury received. Although he often thought of Basildene, he made no attempt to see the place. The winter cold had set in with severity; John had little disposition to face it, and quiet and rest were far more congenial to him than any form of activity or amusement. John believed that the Sanghursts were still there, engaged in their mysterious experiments that savoured so strongly of magic. But after hearing of Raymond's bold defiance of the implacable Peter in the forest near to the Brotherhood, John was by no means desirous that the fact of Raymond's residence at the Rectory of St. Nicholas should become known at Basildene. Without sharing to the full the fears of the country people with regard to the occult powers of the father and son in that lonely house, John believed them to be as cruel and unscrupulous a pair as ever lived, even in those half-civilized times. He therefore charged his servants to say nothing of Raymond's visit, and hoped that it would not reach the ears of the Sanghursts. But there was another person towards whom Raymond's fancy had sometime strayed during the years of his absence from Guildford, and this person he was unaccountably shy of naming even to John, though he would have been quite unable to allege a reason for his reticence. But fortune favoured him in this as in other matters, for on entering the library one day after a short stroll around the Rector's garden, he found himself face to face with a radiant young creature dressed in the picturesque riding gear of the day, who turned to him with a beaming smile as she cried: "Ah! I have been hearing of thee and of thy prowess, my fair young sir. My good brother Alexander, who has followed the King's banner, would gladly have been in thy place on the day of Crecy. Thou and thy brother were amongst that gallant little band who fought around the Prince and bore him off the field unhurt. Did not I say of thee that thou wouldst quickly win thy knighthood's spurs? And thou mightest already have been a belted knight if thy prudence and thy modesty had not been greater than thine ambition. Is it not so?" Raymond's face glowed like a child's beneath the praises of Mistress Joan Vavasour, and the light of her bright eyes seemed fairly to dazzle him. John came to the rescue by telling Raymond's own version of the story; and then he eagerly asked Joan of herself and what had become of her these past years, for he had seldom seen her, and knew not where she was living nor what she was doing -- knew not even if she were wedded, nor if Peter Sanghurst's suit were at an end or had been crowned by success. At the sound of that name the girl's face darkened quickly, and a spark of fire gleamed in her eyes. "Talk not of him," she said; "I would that he were dead! Have I not said that I would never wed him, that I would die first? Fair fortune hath befriended me in this thing. Thou knowest perchance that my father and brother have been following the King's banner of late, first in Flanders and then in France. My mother and I meantime have not been residing at Woodcrych, but in London, whither all news of the war is first known, and where travellers from the spot are like to come. We are here but for a short space, to spend the merry Yuletide season with my mother's brother, who lives, as thou knowest, within the town of Guildford. After that we return once more to London, there to await the return of my father and brother. Alexander, in truth, has once visited us, but has returned to the siege of Calais, hoping to be amongst those who will reap plenteous spoil when the city is given over to plunder, as Caen was given. Of the Sanghursts, I thank my kindly saints, I have heard naught all this while. My mother loved them not, albeit she was always entreating me in nowise to thwart or gainsay my father. I cannot but hope that these long months of absence will have gone far to break the spell that those evil men seemed to cast about him. Be that as it may, I myself have grown from a child to a woman, and I say now, as I said then, that no power in the world shall induce me to give my hand in marriage to Peter Sanghurst. I will die first!" The girl threw back her handsome head, and her great eyes glowed and flashed. Raymond looked at her with a beating heart, feeling once more that mysterious kindling of the soul which he could not understand, and yet of which he had been before in the presence of Joan so keenly conscious. She appeared to him to be far older than himself, though in reality he was a few months the senior; for at eighteen a girl is always older in mind than a boy, and Joan's superb physique helped to give to her the appearance of a more advanced age than was really hers. Just then, too, Raymond, though grown to his full height, which was stately enough, was white and thin and enfeebled. He felt like a mere stripling, and it never occurred to him that the many glances bent upon him by the flashing eyes of the queenly maiden were glances of admiration, interest, and romantic approval. To her the pale, silent youth, with the saint-like face and the steadfast, luminous eyes, was in truth a very /preux chevalier/ amongst men. She had seen something too much of those knights of flesh and blood and nothing else, who could fight gallantly and well, but who knew nothing of the deeper and truer chivalry of the days of mythical romance in which her own ardent fancies loved to stray. Feats of arms she delighted in truly with the bold spirit of her soldier race; but she wanted something more than mere bravery in the field. It was not physical courage alone that made Sir Galahad her favourite of all King Arthur's knights. Ah no! There was another quest than that of personal glory which every true knight was bound to seek. Yet how many of them felt this and understood the truer, deeper meaning of chivalry? She knew, she felt, that Raymond did; and as she turned her palfrey's steps homeward when the twilight began to fall that cold December day, it was with her favourite Sir Galahad that her mind was engrossed, and to him she gave a pale, thin face, with firm, sweet lines and deep-set dreamy eyes -- eyes that looked as though they had never quailed before the face of foe, and which yet saw far into the unseen mysteries of life, and which would keep their sweet steadfastness even to the end. As for Raymond, an unwonted restlessness came over him at this time. He was growing stronger and better. Moderate exercise was recommended as beneficial, and almost every day during the bright hours of the forenoon his steps were turned towards the town of Guildford, lying hard by his uncle's Rectory house. Scarce a day passed but what he was rewarded by a chance encounter with Mistress Joan -- either a glimpse of her at a window, or a smile from her bright eyes as she passed him upon her snow-white palfrey; or sometimes he would have the good hap to meet her upon foot, attended by her nurse, or some couple of stout retainers, if her walk had been in any wise extended; and then she would pause and bring him to her side by a look, and inquire after his own health and that of John, who seldom stirred out in the bitter cold of winter. Then he would ask and obtain her permission to accompany her as far as the gate of her own home -- the place where she was staying; and though he never advanced beyond the gate -- for she knew not what her relatives might say to these encounters with a gallant without money and without lands -- they were red-letter days in the calendar of two young lives, and were strong factors moulding their future lives, little as either knew it at the time. Had either the radiant maiden or the knightly youth had eyes for any but the other, they might have observed that these encounters, now of almost daily occurrence, were not unheeded by at least one evil-faced watcher. The servants who attended Mistress Joan were all devoted to her, and kept their own counsel, whatever they might think, and Raymond's fame as one of the heroes of Crecy had already gone far and wide, and won him great regard in and about the walls of his uncle's home; but there was another watcher of Mistress Joan's movements who took a vastly different view of the little idyll playing itself out between the youth and the maiden, and this watcher was none other than the evil and vengeful Peter Sanghurst the younger. Once as Raymond turned away, after watching Joan's graceful, stately figure vanish up the avenue which led to her uncle's house, he suddenly encountered the intensely malevolent glance of a pair of coal-black eyes, and found himself most unexpectedly face to face with the same man who had once confronted him in the forest and had demanded the restitution of the boy Roger. "You again!" hissed out between his teeth the dark-browed man. "You again daring to stand in my path to thwart me! Have a care how you provoke me too far. My day is coming! Think you that I threaten in vain? Go on then in your blind folly and hardihood! But remember that I can read the future. I can see the day when you, a miserable crushed worm, will be wholly and solely in my power; when you will be mine mine to do with what I will, none hindering or gainsaying me. Take heed then how you provoke me to vengeance; for the vengeance of the Sanghurst can be what thou dreamest not of now. Thwart me, defy me, and the hour will come when for every pang of rage and jealousy I have known thou shalt suffer things of which thou hast no conception now, and none shall be able to rescue thee from my hand. Yon maiden is mine -- mine -- mine! Her will I wed, and none other. Strive as thou wilt, thou wilt never pluck her from my hand. Thou wilt but draw down upon thine own head a fearful fate, and she too shall suffer bitterly if thou failest to heed my words." And with a look of hatred and fury that seemed indeed to have something positively devilish in it, Sanghurst turned and strode away, leaving Raymond to make what he could of the vindictive threats launched at him. Had this man, in truth, some occult power of which none else had the secret; or was it but an idle boast, uttered with the view of terrifying one who was but a boy in years? Raymond knew not, could not form a guess; but his was a nature not prone to coward fears. He resolved to go home and take counsel with his good cousin John. CHAPTER XV. THE DOUBLE SURRENDER. On a burning day in July, nearly a year from the time of their parting, the twin brothers met once more in the camp before Calais, where they had parted the previous autumn. Raymond had been long in throwing off the effect of the severe injuries which had nearly cost him his life after the Battle of Crecy; but thanks to the rest and care that had been his in his uncle's house, he had entirely recovered. Though not quite so tall nor so broad-shouldered and muscular as Gaston, who was in truth a very prince amongst men, he was in his own way quite as striking, being very tall, and as upright as a dart, slight and graceful, though no longer attenuated, and above all retaining that peculiar depth and purity of expression which had long seemed to mark him out somewhat from his fellow men, and which had only intensified during the year that had banished him from the stirring life of the camp. "Why, Brother," said Gaston, as he held the slim white hands in his vise-like clasp, and gazed hungrily into the face he had last seen so wan and white, "I had scarce dared to hope to see thee again in the camp of the King after the evil hap that befell thee here before; but right glad am I to welcome thee hither before the final act of this great drama, for methinks the city cannot long hold out against the famine within and our bold soldiers without the walls. Thou hast done well to come hither to take thy part in the final triumph, and reap thy share of the spoil, albeit thou lookest more like a youthful St. George upon a church window than a veritable knight of flesh and blood, despite the grip of thy fingers, which is well-nigh as strong as my own." "I will gladly take my share in any valorous feat of arms that may be undertaken for the honour of England and of England's King. But I would sooner fight with warriors who are not half starved to start with. Say not men that scarce a dog or a cat remains alive in the city, and that unless the citizens prey one upon the other, all must shortly perish?" "Yea, in very truth that is so; for, as perchance thou hast heard, a vessel was sighted leaving Calais harbour but a few short days ago, and being hotly pursued, was seen to drop a packet overboard. That packet at ebb tide was found tied to an anchor, and being brought to the King and by him opened, was found to contain those very words addressed to the King of France by the governor of the city, praying him to come speedily to the rescue of his fortress if he wished to save it from the enemy's hand. Our bold King having first read it, sent it on posthaste to his brother of France, crying shame upon him to leave his gallant subjects thus to perish with hunger. Methinks that message will shame yon laggard monarch into action. How he has been content to idle away the year, with the foe besieging the key of his kingdom, I know not. But it is a warm welcome he shall get if he comes to the relief of Calais. We are as ready to receive him here as we were a year ago on the field of Crecy!" "Ay, in fair fight with Philip's army would I gladly adventure my life again!" cried Raymond, with kindling eyes; "but there be fighting I have small relish for, my Gaston, and I have heard stories of this very siege which have wrung my heart to listen to. Was it true, brother, that hundreds of miserable creatures, more than half of them women and little children, were expelled from the city as 'useless mouths,' and left to starve to death between the city walls and the camp of the English, in which plenty has all the winter reigned? Could that be true of our gallant King and his brave English soldiers?" A quick flush dyed Gaston's cheek, but he strove to laugh. "Raymond, look not at me with eyes so full of reproach. War is a cruel game, and in some of its details I like it little better than thou. But what can we soldiers do? Nay, what can even the King do? Listen, and condemn him not too hastily. Long months ago, soon after thou hadst left us, the same thing was done. Seventeen hundred persons -- men, women, and children -- were turned out of the town, and the King heard of it and ordered some of them to be brought before him. In answer to his question they told him that they were driven from the city because they could not fight, and were only consuming the bread, of which there was none to spare for useless mouths. They had no place to go to, no food to eat, no hope for the future. Then what does our King do but give them leave to pass through his camp; and not only so, but he orders his soldiers to feed them well, and start them refreshed on their way; and before they went forth, to each of them was given, by the royal order, two sterlings of silver, so that they went forth joyously, blessing the liberality and kindness of the English and England's King. But thou must see he could not go on doing these kindly acts if men so took advantage of them. He is the soul of bravery and chivalry, but there must be reasonable limits to all such royal generosity." Raymond could have found in his heart to wish that the limit had not been quite so quickly reached, and that the hapless women and children had not been left to perish miserably in the sight of the warmth and plenty of the English camp; but he would not say more to damp his brother's happiness in their reunion, nor in that almost greater joy with which Roger received him back. "In faith," laughed Gaston, "I believe that some of the wizard's art cleaves yet to yon boy, for he has been restless and dreamy and unlike himself these many days; and when I have asked him what ailed him, his answer was ever the same, that he knew you were drawing nigh; and verily he has proved right, little as I believed him when he spoke of it." Roger had so grown and improved that Raymond would scarce have recognized in him the pale shrinking boy they had borne out from the house of the sorcerer three years before. He had developed rapidly after the first year of his new life, when the shackles of his former captivity seemed finally broken; but this last year of regular soldier's employment had produced a more marked change in his outward man than those spent in the Brotherhood or at Raymond's side. His figure had widened. He carried himself well, and with an air of fearless alertness. He was well trained in martial exercises, and the hot suns of France had bronzed his cheeks, and given them a healthy glow of life and animation. He still retained much of his boyish beauty, but the dreaminess and far-away vacancy had almost entirely left his eyes. Now and again the old listening look would creep into them, and he would seem for a few moments to be lost to outward impressions; but if recalled at such moments from his brief lapse, and questioned as to what he was thinking, it always proved to be of Raymond, not of his old master. Once or twice he had told Gaston that his brother was in peril -- of what kind he knew not; and Gaston had wondered if indeed this had been so. One of these occasions had been just before Christmastide, and the date being thus fixed in his mind, he asked his brother if he had been at that time exposed to any peril. Raymond could remember nothing save the vindictive threat of Peter Sanghurst, and Gaston was scarce disposed to put much faith in words, either good or bad, uttered by such a man as that. And now things began to press towards a climax in this memorable siege. The French King, awakened from his long and inexplicable lethargy by the entreaties of his starving subjects so bravely holding the town for a pusillanimous master, and stung by the taunts of the English King, had mustered an army, and was now marching to the relief of the town. It was upon the last day of July, when public excitement was running high, and all men were talking and thinking of an approaching battle, that word was brought into the camp, and eagerly passed from mouth to mouth, to the effect that the King of France had despatched certain messengers to hold parley with the royal Edward, and that they were even now being admitted to the camp by the bridge of Nieulay -- the only approach to Calais through the marshes on the northeast, which had been closely guarded by the English throughout the siege. "Hasten, Raymond, hasten!" cried Gaston, dashing into the small lodging he and his brother now shared together. "There be envoys come from the French King. The Prince will be with his father to hear their message, and if we but hasten to his side, we may be admitted amongst the number who may hear what is spoken on both sides." Raymond lost no time in following his brother, both eager to hear and see all that went on; and they were fortunate enough to find places in the brilliant muster surrounding the King and his family, as these received with all courtesy the ambassador from the French monarch. That messenger was none other than the celebrated Eustache de Ribeaumont, one of the flower of the French chivalry, to whom, on another occasion, Edward presented the celebrated chaplet of pearls, with one of the highest compliments that one brave man could give another. The boys, and indeed the whole circle of English nobility, looked with admiration at his stately form and handsome face, and though to our ears the message with which he came charged sounds infinitely strange, it raised no smile upon the faces of those who stood around the royal Edward. "Sire," began the messenger, "our liege lord, the King of France, sends us before you, and would have you know that he is here, and is posted on the Sandgatte Hill to fight you; but intrenched as you are in this camp, he can see no way of getting at you, and therefore he sends us to you to say this. He has a great desire to raise the siege of Calais, and save his good city, but can see no way of doing so whilst you remain here. But if you would come forth from your intrenchments, and appoint some spot where he could meet you in open fight, he would rejoice to do it, and this is the thing we are charged to request of you." A shout, led by the Prince of Wales, and taken up by all who stood by, was proof enough how acceptable such a notion was to the ardent spirits of the camp; for it was not a shout of derision, but one of eager assent. Indeed, for a moment it seemed as though the King of England were disposed to give a favourable reply to the messenger; but then he paused, and a different expression crossed his face. He sat looking thoughtfully upon the ground, whilst breathless silence reigned around him, and then he and the Queen spoke in low tones together for some few minutes. When Edward looked up again his face had changed, and was stern and set in expression. "Tell your lord," he said, speaking slowly and distinctly, "that had he wished thus to fight, he should have sent his challenge before. I have been near a twelvemonth encamped before this place, and my good people of England have been sore pressed to furnish me with munitions for the siege. The town is now on the point of falling into my hands, and then will my good subjects find plunder enough to recompense them for their labour and loss. Wherefore tell your lord that where I am there will I stay; and that if he wishes to fight he must attack me in my camp, for I assuredly have no intention of moving out from it." A slight murmur of disappointment arose from the younger and more ardent members of the crowd; but the older men saw the force of the King's words, and knew that it would be madness to throw away all the hardly-earned advantages of those long months just for a piece of chivalrous bravado. So De Ribeaumont had to ride back to the French camp with Edward's answer; and ere two more days had passed, the astonishing news was brought to the English lines that Philip had abandoned his camp, which was now in flames, and was retreating with his whole army by the way he had come. "Was ever such a craven coward!" cried the Prince, in indignant disappointment; for all within the English camp had been hoping for battle, and had been looking to their arms, glad of any incident to vary the long monotony of the siege. "Were I those gallant soldiers in yon fortress, I would serve no longer such a false, treacherous lord. Were my father but their king, he would not leave them in such dire strait, with an army at his back to fight for him, be the opposing force a hundredfold greater than it is!" And indeed it seemed as though the brave but desperate garrison within those walls saw that it was hopeless to try to serve such a master. How bitter must their feelings have been when Philip turned and left them to their fate may well be imagined. Hopeless and helpless, there was nothing but surrender before them now; and to make the best terms possible was the only thing that remained for them. The day following Philip's dastardly desertion, the signal that the city was ready to treat was hung out, and brave Sir Walter Manny, whose own history and exploits during the campaigns in Brittany and Gascony would alone fill a volume either of history or romance, was sent to confer on this matter with the governor of the city, the gallant De Vienne, who had been grievously wounded during the long siege. Raymond's sympathies had been deeply stirred by what he had heard and imagined of the sufferings of the citizens, and with the love of adventure and romance common to those days, he arrayed himself lightly in a dress that would not betray his nationality, and followed in the little train which went with Sir Walter. The conference took place without the walls, but near to one of the gates. Raymond did not press near to hear what was said, like the bulk of the men on both sides who accompanied the leaders, but he passed through the eager crowd and made for the gate itself, the wicket of which stood open; and so calm and assured was his air, and so deeply were the minds of the porters stirred by anxiety to know the fate of the town, that the youth passed in unheeded and unchallenged, and once within the ramparts he could go where he chose and see what he would. But what a sight met his eyes! Out into the streets were flocking the inhabitants, all trembling with anxiety to hear their fate. Every turn brought him to fresh knots of famine-stricken wretches, who had almost lost the wish to live, or any interest in life, till just stirred to a faint and lingering hope by the news that the town was to be surrendered at last. Gaunt and hollow-eyed men, women little better than skeletons, and children scarce able to trail their feeble bodies along, were crowding out of the houses and towards the great marketplace, where the assembly to hear the conditions was likeliest to meet. The soldiers, who had been better cared for than the more useless townsfolk, were spectre-like in all conscience; but the starving children, and the desperate mothers who could only weep and wring their hands in answer to the piteous demand for bread, were the beings who most stirred Raymond's heart as he went his way amongst them. Again that sense of horror and shrinking came upon him that he had experienced upon the field of Crecy amongst the dying and the dead. If war did indeed entail such ghastly horrors and frightful sufferings, could it be that glorious thing that all men loved to call it? Curious glances began to be levelled at him as he passed through the streets, sometimes pausing to soothe a wailing child, sometimes lending a hand to assist a tottering woman's steps, and speaking to all in that gentle voice of his, which with its slightly unfamiliar accent smote strangely upon the ears of the people. He wore no helmet on his head, and his curly hair floated about his grave saint-like face, catching golden lights from the glory of the August sunshine. "Is it one of the blessed saints?" asked a little child of his mother, as Raymond paused in passing by to lay a caressing hand upon his head, and speak a soft word of encouragement and hope to the weary mother. And the innocent question was taken up and passed from mouth to mouth, till it began to be whispered about that one of the holy saints had appeared in their midst in the hour of the city's deadly peril. As Raymond passed on his way, many a knee was bent and many a pleading voice asked a blessing; whilst he, feeling still as one who moves in a dream, made the sign of the cross from time to time over some kneeling suppliant without understanding what was said of him or why all eyes were bent upon him. But the great town bell was ringing now to summon the citizens to assemble themselves together to hear the final terms agreed upon for the capitulation of the city, and all else was forgotten in the overwhelming anxiety of that moment; for none could form a guess what terms would be granted to a town in such sore straits as was theirs. The English King could be generous and merciful, but he could also be stern and implacable; and the long resistance made by the town was like to have stirred his wrath, as well as the fact that the sea port of Calais had done more harm to his ships and committed more acts of piracy than any other port in France. Raymond himself had great fears for the fate of the hapless town, and was as eager as any to hear what had been decreed. "Sure if the King could see the famished gathering here his heart would relent," murmured the youth to himself, as he looked round at the sea of wan faces gathered in the open square. But the grave and sorrowful expression upon the governor's face told that he had no very happy tidings to impart. He stood upon a flight of steps where all men could well behold him, and in the dead silence that fell upon the multitude every word spoken could be distinctly beard. "My friends," he said, in grave, mournful accents, "I come to you with news of the only terms of capitulation that I have been able to win from England's King. I myself offered to capitulate if he would permit all within the walls to depart unharmed, whilst his demand was for unconditional surrender. The brave knight who came forth to confer with me went back more than once to strive to win for us better terms, and his intercession was thus far successful. The King will take the rest of the citizens to mercy if six of their chief burgesses be given up to his vengeance, and appear before him bareheaded and barefooted, with halters about their necks and the keys of the city in their hands. For such there will be no mercy. Brave Sir Walter Manny, who bore hack this message with so sorrowful a countenance, bid me not hope that the lives of these men would be spared. He said he saw the fierce sparkle in Edward's eyes as he added, grinding his teeth, 'On them will I do my will.' Wherefore, my good friends, we are this day in a great strait, and I would that I might myself give up my life to save the town; but the King's command is that it shall be six of the burgesses, and it is for you and them to say if these hard conditions shall be accepted." The deepest silence had hitherto prevailed in that vast place, but now it was broken by the weeping and wailing of a great multitude. Raymond's throat swelled and his eyes glistened as he looked around upon that sea of starving faces, and tried to realize all that this message must mean to them. If his own life could have paid the ransom, he would have laid it down that moment for these miserable weeping beings; but he was helpless as the brave governor, and could only stand and see the end of the drama. Slowly up the steps of the marketplace, where stood the governor of the city, advanced a fine-looking man in the prime of life, and a hushed murmur ran through the crowd, in which Raymond caught the name of Eustache de St. Pierre. This man held up his hand in token that he wished to speak, and immediately a deathlike silence fell again upon the crowd. "My friends," spoke the clear deliberate voice, "it would be a great pity and mischief to let such a people as this assembled here die by famine or any other way, if a means can be found to save them; and it would be great alms and great grace in the sight of the Lord for any one who could save them from such harm. I have myself so great hope of finding grace and pardon in the sight of our Lord, if I die to save this people, that I will be the first, and will yield myself willingly, in nothing but my shirt, with my head bare and a halter round my neck, to the mercy of the King of England." As these simple but truly heroic words were spoken a burst of weeping and blessing arose from the crowd, women pressed forward and fell at the feet of the worthy citizen, and Raymond said in his heart: "Sure if the King of England could but see it, there is more chivalry in yon simple merchant than in half the knights who stand about his throne." It is seldom that a noble example is thrown away upon men. Hardly had the burst of weeping died away before two more men, brothers, to judge by their likeness to each other, mounted the steps and stood beside St. Pierre. He held out his hand and greeted them by name. "My good friends Jacques and Peter de Wisant, we go hand in hand to death, as we have gone hand in hand in other ventures of another kind. And hither to join us comes our good friend Jehan d'Aire. Truly if we march to death, we shall march in good company." The full number was soon made up. Six of the wealthiest and best known of the citizens came forward and stood together to be disrobed and led before the King. But Raymond could bear the sight no longer. With a bursting heart he hurried through the crowd, which made way wonderingly for him as he moved, and went straight towards the gate by which he had entered, none hindering his path. "It is the blessed saint who came amongst us in our hour of need," said the women one to another, "and now perchance he goes to intercede with the mighty conqueror! See how his face is set towards the gate; see the light that shines in his eyes! Sure he can be no being of this earth, else how could he thus come and go in our beleaguered city!" The guard at the gate looked with doubtful eyes at the stranger, and one man stood in his path as if to hinder him; but Raymond's eyes seemed to look through and beyond him, and in a clear, strange voice he said: "In the name of the Blessed Son of God, I bid thee let me pass. I go upon an errand of mercy in that most Holy Name." The man fell back, his comrades crossed themselves and bent the knee. Raymond passed out of the gate, scarce knowing how he had done so, and sped back to the English camp as if his feet had wings. With that same strangely rapt expression upon his face, he went straight to the lodging of the Prince of Wales, and entering without ceremony found not only the Prince there, but also his royal mother, the gracious Queen Philippa. Bending his knee to that fair lady, but without one thought beyond the present urgent need of the moment, Raymond told all his tale in the ear of the Queen and the Prince. With that power of graphic description which was the gift of his vivid imagination and deep sense of sympathy with the needs of others, he brought the whole scene before the eyes of his listeners the crowded marketplace, the famine-stricken people in their extremity and despair, the calm heroism of the men who willingly offered their lives to save those of their townspeople, and the wailing multitude watching the start of the devoted six going forth to a shameful and ignominious death on their behalf. And as Raymond spoke the Prince's cheek flushed, and the eyes of the beautiful Queen kindled and filled with sudden tears; and rising to her feet she held out her hand to Raymond and said: "Good lad, I thank thee for thy tale, and the request thy lips have not spoken shall be granted. Those men shall not die! I, the Queen of England, will save them. I pledge thee here my royal word. I will to my noble husband and win their pardon myself." Raymond sank upon his knee and kissed the fair hand extended to him, and both he and the Prince hastened after the Queen, who hoped to find her royal husband alone and in a softened mood, as he was wont to be after the stress of the day was over. But time had fled fast whilst Raymond had been telling his tale, and already notice had been brought to Edward of the approach of the six citizens, and he had gone forth into a pavilion erected for his convenience in an open part of the camp; and there he was seated with grim aspect and frowning brow as his Queen approached to speak with him. "I will hear thee anon, good wife," he said, seeing that she craved his ear. "I have sterner work on hand today than the dallying of women. Stay or go as thou wilt, but speak not to me till this day's work is carried through." Raymond's heart sank as he heard these words, and saw the relentless look upon the King's face. None realized better than he the cruel side to the boasted chivalry of the age; and these middle-aged burgesses, with no knightliness of dress or bearing, would little move the loftier side of the King's nature. There would be no glamour of romance surrounding them. He would think only of the thousands of pounds the resistance of the city had cost him, and he would order to a speedy death those whom he would regard as in part the cause of all this trouble and loss. The Queen made no further effort to win his notice, but with graceful dignity placed herself beside him; whilst the Prince, quivering with suppressed excitement, stepped behind his father's chair. Raymond stood in the surrounding circle, and felt Gaston's arm slipped within his. But he had eyes only for the mournful procession approaching from the direction of the city, and every nerve was strained to catch the lightest tone of the Queen's voice if she should speak. The governor of Calais, though disabled by wounds from walking, was pacing on horseback beside the devoted six thus giving themselves up to death; and as he told how they had come forward to save their fellow citizens from death, tears gathered in many eyes, and brave Sir Walter Manny, who had pleaded their cause before, again threw himself upon his knees before his sovereign, and besought his compassion for the brave burgesses. But Edward would not listen -- would not allow the better feelings within him to have play. With a few angry and scathing words, bidding his servants remember what Calais had cost them to take, and what the obstinacy of its citizens had made England pay, he relentlessly ordered the executioner to do his work, and that right quickly; and as that grim functionary slowly advanced to do the royal bidding, a shiver ran through the standing crowd, the devoted six alone holding themselves fearlessly erect. But just at the moment when it seemed as if all hope of mercy was at an end, the gentle Queen arose and threw herself at her husband's feet, and her silvery voice rose clear above the faint murmur rising in the throng. "Ah, gentle Sire, since I have crossed the sea with great peril, I have never asked you anything; now I humbly pray, for the sake of the Son of the Holy Mary and your love of me, that you will have mercy on these six brave men!" Raymond's breath came so thick and fast as he waited for the answer, that he scarce heard it when it came, though the ringing cheer which broke from the lips of those who stood by told him well its purport. The King's face, gloomy at first, softened as he gazed upon the graceful form of his wife, and with a smile he said at last: "Dame, I wish you had been somewhere else this day; but I cannot refuse you. I put them into your keeping; do with them what you will." Raymond felt himself summoned by a glance from the Prince. The Queen-mother had bidden him take the men, and feast them royally, and send them away with rich gifts. As the youth who had done so much for them forced his way to the side of the Prince, his face full of a strange enthusiasm and depth of feeling, the citizens looked one upon another and whispered: "Sure it was true what the women said to us. That was the youth with the face of painted saint that we saw within the walls of the city. Sure the Blessed Saints have been watching over us this day, and have sent an angel messenger down to deliver us in our hour of sorest need!" CHAPTER XVI. IN THE OLD HOME. The memorable siege of Calais at an end, Edward, his Queen and son and nobility generally, set sail for England, where many matters were requiring the presence of the sovereign after an absence so prolonged. When the others of the Prince's comrades were thronging on hoard to accompany him homewards, Gaston and Raymond sought him to petition for leave to remain yet longer in France, that they might revisit the home of their youth and the kind-hearted people who had protected them during their helpless childhood. Leave was promptly and willingly given, though the Prince was graciously pleased to express a hope that he should see his faithful comrades in England again ere long. It had begun to be whispered abroad that these two lads with their knightly bearing, their refinement of aspect, and their fearlessness in the field, were no common youths sprung from some lowly stock. That there was some mystery surrounding their birth was now pretty well admitted, and this very mystery encircled them with something of a charm -- a charm decidedly intensified by the aspect of Raymond, who never looked so much the creature of flesh and blood as did his brother and the other young warriors of Edward's camp. The fact, which was well known now, that he had walked unharmed and unchallenged through the streets of Calais upon the day of its capitulation, but before the terms had been agreed upon, was in itself, in the eyes of many, a proof of some strange power not of this world which encircled the youth. And indeed Gaston himself was secretly of the opinion that his brother was something of a saint or spirit, and regarded him with a reverential affection unusual between brothers of the same age. Through the four years since he had left his childhood's home, Gaston had felt small wish to revisit it. The excitement and exaltation of the new life had been enough for him, and the calm quiet of the peaceful past had lost, its charm. Now, however, that the war was for the present over, and with it the daily round of adventure and change; now that he had gold in his purse, a fine charger to ride, and two or three stout men-at-arms in his train, a sudden wish to see again the familiar haunts of his childhood had come over him, and he had willingly agreed to Raymond's suggestion that they should go together to Sauveterre, to ask a blessing from Father Anselm, and tell him how they had fared since they had parted from him long ago. True, Raymond had seen him a year before, but he had not then been in battle; he had not had much to tell save of the cloister life he had been sharing; and of Gaston's fortunes he had himself known nothing. Both brothers were for the present amply provided for. They had received rich rewards from the Prince after the Battle of Crecy, and the spoils of Calais had been very great. They could travel in ease through the sunny plains of France, sufficiently attended to be safe from molestation, even if the terror of the English arms were not protection enough for those who wore the badge of the great Edward. From Bordeaux they could find easy means of transport to England later; and nothing pleased them better than the thought of this long ride through the plains of France, on the way to the old home. They did not hurry themselves on this pleasant journey, taken just as the trying heats of summer had passed, but before the winter's cold had made its first approach. The woods were scarce showing their first russet tints as the brothers found themselves in familiar country once again, and looked about them with eager glances of recognition as they traversed the once well-known tracks. "Let us first to Father Anselm," said Raymond, as they neared the village where the good priest held his cure. "He will gladly have us pass a night beneath his roof ere we go onward to the mill; and our good fellows will find hospitable shelter with the village folks. They have been stanch and loyal in these parts to the cause of the Roy Outremer, and any soldier coming from his camp will be doubly welcome, as the bearer of news of good luck to the English arms. The coward King of France is little loved by the bold Gascons, save where a rebel lord thinks to forward his private ends by transferring his allegiance from England to France." "To the good Father's, then, with all my heart," answered Gaston heartily; and the little troop moved onwards until, to the astonishment of the simple villagers clustered round the little church and their cure's house, the small but brilliant cavalcade of armed travellers drew up before that lowly door. The Father was within, and, as the sound of trampling feet made itself heard, appeared at his door in some astonishment; but when the two youths sprang from their horses and bent the knee before him, begging his blessing, and he recognized in them the two boys who had filled so great a portion of his life not so many years ago, a mist came before his eyes, and his voice faltered as he gave the benediction, whilst raising them afterwards and tenderly embracing them, he led them within the well-known doorway, at the same time calling his servant and bidding him see to the lodging of the men without. The low-ceiled parlour of the priest, with its scanty plenishing and rush-strewn floor, was well known to the boys; yet as Raymond stepped across the threshold he uttered a cry of surprise, not at any change in the aspect of the room itself, but at sight of a figure seated in a high-backed chair, with the full sunlight shining upon the calm, thin face. With an exclamation of joyful recognition the lad sped forward and threw himself upon his knees before the erect figure, with the name of Father Paul upon his lips. The keen, austere face did not soften as Father Anselm's had done. The Cistercian monk, true to the severity of his order, permitted nothing of pleasure to appear in his face as he looked at the youth whose character he had done so much to form. He did not even raise his hand at once in the customary salutation or blessing, but fixed his eyes upon Raymond's face, now lifted to his in questioning surprise; and not until he had studied that face with great intentness for many long minutes did he lay his hand upon the lad's head and say, in a low, deep voice, "Peace be with thee, my son." This second and most unexpected meeting was almost a greater pleasure to Raymond than the one with Father Anselm. Whilst Gaston engrossed his old friend's time and thought, sitting next him at the board, and pacing at his side afterwards in the little garden in which he loved to spend his leisure moments, Raymond remained seated at the feet of Father Paul, listening with breathless interest to his history of the voyage he had taken to the far East (as it then seemed), and to the strange and terrible sights he had witnessed in some of those far-off lands. Raymond had vaguely heard before of the plague, but had regarded it as a scourge confined exclusively to the fervid heat of far-off countries -- a thing that would never come to the more temperate latitudes of the north; but when he spoke these words to the monk, Father Paul shook his head, and a sudden sombre light leaped into his eyes. "My son, the plague is the scourge of God. It is not confined to one land or another. It visits all alike, if it be God's will to send it in punishment for the many and grievous sins of its inhabitants. True, in the lands of the East, where the paynim holds his court, and everywhere is blasphemy and abomination, the scourge returns time after time, and never altogether ceases from amongst the blinded people. But of late it has spread farther and farther westward -- nearer and nearer to our own shores. God is looking down upon the lands whose people call themselves after His name, and what does he see there but corruption in high places, greed, lust, the covetousness that is idolatry, the slothful ease that is the curse of the Church?" The monk's eyes flashed beneath their heavily-fringed lids; the fire that glowed in them was of a strange and sombre kind. Raymond turned his pure young face, full of passionate admiration and reverence, towards the fine but terribly stern countenance of the ecclesiastic. A painter would have given much to have caught the expression upon those two faces at that moment. The group was a very striking one, outlined against the luminous saffron of the western sky behind. "Father, tell me more!" pleaded Raymond. "I am so young, so ignorant; and many of the things the world praises and calls deeds of good turn my heart sick and my spirit faint within me. I would fain know how I may safely tread the difficult path of life. I would fain choose the good and leave the evil. But there be times when I know not how to act, when it seems as though naught in this world were wholly pure. Is it only those who yield themselves up to the life of the cloister who may choose aright and see with open eyes? Must I give up my sword and turn monk ere I may call myself a son of Heaven?" The boy's eyes were full of an eager, questioning light. His hands were clasped together, and his face was turned full upon his companion. The Father's eyes rested on the pure, ethereal face with a softer look than they had worn before, and then a deep sadness came into them. "My son," he answered, very gravely, "I am about to say a thing to thee which I would not say to many young and untried as thou art. There have been times in my life when I should have triumphed openly had men spoken to me the words that I shall speak to thee -- times when I had gladly said that all which men call holiness was but a mask for corruption and deceit, and should have rejoiced that the very monks themselves were forced to own to their own wanton disregard of their vows. My son, I see the shrinking and astonishment in thine eyes; but yet I would for a moment that thou couldst see with mine. I spoke awhile ago of the judgment of an angry God. Wherefore, thinkest thou, is it that His anger is so hotly burning against those lands that call themselves by His name -- that call day by day upon His name, and make their boast that they hold the faith whole and undefiled?" Raymond shook his head. He had no words with which to answer. He was beginning slowly yet surely to feel his eyes opened to the evil of the world -- even that world of piety and chivalry of which such bright dreams had been dreamed. His fair ideals were being gradually dashed and effaced. Something of sickness of heart had penetrated his being, and he had said in the unconscious fashion of pure-hearted youth, "Vanity of vanities! is all around but vanity?" and he had found no answer to his own pathetic question. As an almost necessary consequence of all this had his thoughts turned towards the holy, dedicated life of the sons of the Church; and though it was with a strong sense of personal shrinking, with a sense that the sacrifice would be well-nigh bitterer than the bitterness of death, he had asked himself if it might not be that God had called him, and that if he would be faithful to the love he had ever professed to hold, he ought to rise up without farther delay and offer himself to the dedicated service of the Church. And now Father Paul, who had always seemed to read the very secrets of his heart, appeared about to answer this unspoken question. Greatly had Raymond longed of late to speak with him again. Father Anselm was a good and a saintly man, but he knew nothing of the life of the world. To him the Church was the ark of refuge from all human ills, and gladly would he have welcomed within its fold any weary or world-worn soul. But with Father Paul it was different. He had lived in the world; he had sinned (if men spoke truth), and had suffered bitterly. One look in his face was enough to tell that; and having lived and sinned, repented and suffered, he was far more able to offer counsel to one tempted and sometimes suffering, though perhaps in a very different fashion. The Father's eyes were bent upon the faint glow in the sky, seen through the open casement. His words were spoken quietly, yet with an earnestness that was almost terrible. "My son," he said, "I have come back but recently from lands where it seems that holiness should abound -- that righteousness should flow forth as from a perpetual fountain, where the Lord should be seen walking almost visibly in the midst of His people. And what have I seen instead? Luxury, corruption, unspeakable abominations -- abominations such as I may not dare to speak in thy pure ears, such as I would not have believed had not mine own eyes seen, mine own ears heard. Where is the poverty, the lowliness, the meekness, the chastity of the sons of the Church? Ah, God in Heaven only knows; and let it be our solemn rejoicing that He does know where His own faithful children are to be found, for assuredly man would miserably fail if he were sent forth to find and to gather them. Leaving those lands which thou, my son, hast never seen, and coming hither to France and England, what do we find? Those who have vowed themselves to the service of the Church walking gaily in the dress of soldiers, engaged in carnal matters, letting their hair hang down their shoulders curled and powdered, and thinking scorn of the tonsure, which is the mark of the Kingdom of Heaven. And does not God see? Will He not recompense to His people their sins? Yea, verily He will; and in an hour when they little think it, the wrath of God shall fall upon them. It is even now upon its way. I have seen it; I have marked its progress. Ere another year has passed, if men repent not of their sins, it will be stalking amongst us. And thou, my son, when that day comes, fear not. Think not of the cloister; keep thy good sword at thy side, but keep it bright in the cause of right, of mercy, of truth, and keep thy shield stainless and unspotted. Then when the hour of judgment falls upon this land, and men in wild terror begin to call upon the God they have forgotten and abused, then go thou forth in the power of that purity of heart which He in His mercy has vouchsafed to thee. Fear not the pestilence that walketh in darkness, nor the sickness that destroyeth at noonday. A thousand shall fall beside thee, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee. With thine eyes shalt thou behold the destruction of thine enemies; but the angels of God shall encamp around thy path, and guard thee in all thy ways. Only be true, be fearless, be steadfast. Thou shalt be a knight of the Lord; thou shalt fight His battle; and from Him, and from no earthly sovereign, shalt thou reap thy reward at last!" As the Father continued speaking, it seemed as if something of prophetic fire had lighted his eyes. Raymond held his breath in awe as he heard this strange warning, benediction, and promise. But not for a moment did he doubt that what the Father spoke would come to pass. He sank upon his knees, and his heart went up in prayer that when the hour of trial came he might be found faithful at his post; and at once and for ever was laid to rest that restless questioning as to the life of the Church. He knew from that moment forward that it was in the world and not out of it that his work for his Lord was to be done. No more of a personal nature passed between him and Father Paul that night, and upon the morrow the brothers proceeded to the mill, and the Father upon his journey to England. "We shall meet again ere long," was Father Paul's parting word to Raymond, and he knew that it would be so. It was a pretty sight to witness the delighted pride with which honest Jean and Margot welcomed back their boys again after the long separation. Raymond hardly seemed a stranger after his visit of the previous year, but of Gaston they knew not how to make enough. His tall handsome figure and martial air struck them dumb with admiration. They never tired of listening to his tales of flood and field; and the adventures he had met with, though nothing very marvellous in themselves, seemed to the simple souls, who had lived so quiet a life, to raise him at once to the position of some wonderful and almost mythical being. On their own side, they had a long story to tell of the disturbed state of the country, and the constant fighting which had taken place until the English King's victory at Crecy had caused Philip to disband his army, and had restored a certain amount of quiet to the country. The quiet was by no means assured or very satisfactory. Though the army had been disbanded, there was a great deal of brigandage in the remoter districts. So near as the mill was to Sauveterre, it had escaped without molestation, and the people in the immediate vicinity had not suffered to any extent; but there was a restless and uneasy feeling pervading the country, and it had been a source of considerable disappointment to the well-disposed that the Roy Outremer had not paid a visit to Gascony in person, to restore a greater amount of order, before returning to his own kingdom. The Sieur de Navailles had made himself more unpopular than ever by his adhesion to the French cause when all the world had believed that Philip, with his two huge armies, would sweep the English out of the country. Of late, in the light of recent events, he had tried to annul his disloyalty, and put another face upon his proceedings; but only his obscurity, and the remoteness of his possessions in the far south, would protect him from Edward's wrath when the affairs of the rebel Gascons came to be inquired into in detail. Gaston listened eagerly, and treasured it all carefully up, feeling sure he could place his rival and the usurper of the De Brocas lands in a very unenviable position with the royal Edward at any time when he wished to make good his own claim. The visit of the De Brocas brothers (as they were known in these parts) was not made by stealth. All the world might know it now for all they cared, protected as they were by their stout men-at-arms, and surrounded by the glamour of the English King's royal favour. Gaston and Raymond ranged the woods and visited their old haunts with the zest of youth and affectionate memories, and Gaston often hunted there alone whilst his brother paid a visit to Father Anselm, to read with him or talk of Father Paul. It was after a day spent thus apart that Gaston came in looking as though some unwonted thing had befallen him, and when he and his brother were alone in their room together, he began to speak with eager rapidity. "Raymond, methinks I have this day lost my heart to a woodland nymph or fairy. Such a strange encounter had I in the forest today! and with it a warning almost as strange as the being who offered it." "A warning, Gaston? what sort of warning?" "Why, against our old, old enemy the Navailles, who, it seems, knows of our visit here, and, if he dared, would gladly make an end of us both. So at least the fairy creature told me, imploring me, with sweetest solicitude, to be quickly gone, and to adventure myself in the woods alone no more. I told her that our visit was well-nigh at an end, and that we purposed to reach England ere the autumn gales blew shrill. At that she seemed mightily pleased, and yet she sighed when we said adieu. Raymond, she was the loveliest maiden my eyes have ever beheld: her hair like silk, and of the deepest golden hue; her eyes of the colour of violets nestling beneath brown winter leaves. Her voice was like the rippling of a summer's brook, and her form scarce of this earth, so light, so airy, so full of sylvan grace. She was like the angelic being of a dream. I have never seen a daughter of earth so fair. Tell me, thinkest thou it was some dream? Yet it is not my wont to slumber at my sport, and the little hand I held in mine throbbed with the warmth of life." "Asked you not her name and station?" "Yea verily, but she would tell me naught; only the soft colour crept into her cheeks, and she turned her eyes for a moment away. Raymond, I have heard men speak of love, but till that moment I knew not what they meant. Now methinks I have a better understanding, for if yon sweet maiden had looked long into my eyes, my very soul would sure have gone out to her, and I should have straightway forgot all else in the world but herself. Wherefore I wondered if she could be in truth a real and living being, or whether some woodland siren sent to lure man to death and destruction." Raymond smiled at the gravity of Gaston's words. Mystic as he was in many matters, he had outgrown that belief in woodland nymphs and sirens which had woven itself into their life whilst the spell of the forests remained upon them in their boyhood. That evil and good spirits did hover about the path of humanity, Raymond sincerely believed; but he was equally certain that they took no tangible form, and that the vision Gaston had seen in the wood was no phantom form of spirit. "Sure she came to try to warn and save," he answered; "that should be answer enough. Gaston, methinks we will take that warning. We are still but striplings and our men are few, though brave and true. The land is disturbed as in our memory it never was, and men are wild and lawless, none being strong enough to put down disorder. Wherefore we had best be gone. It is no true bravery to court danger, and our errand here is done. When the King comes, as one day he will, to punish rebels and reward faithful loyalty, then we will come with him, and thou shalt seek out thy woodland nymph once more, and thank her for her good counsel. Now wilt thou thank her best -- seeing she came express to warn thee of coming peril -- by taking her at her word. Honest Jean and Margot will not seek to stay us longer. They have a secret fear of the Sieur de Navailles. We will not tell them all, but we will tell them something, and that will be enough. Tomorrow will we take to horse again; and we will tell in the ears of the King how restless and oppressed by lawlessness and strife are his fair lands of Gascony." Raymond's advice was followed. Gaston had had enough of quiet and repose, and only the desire to see again the face of the woodland sprite could have detained him. Not knowing where to seek her, he was willing enough to set his face for Bordeaux; and soon the brothers had landed once again upon the shores of England. CHAPTER XVII. THE BLACK DEATH The glorious termination of Edward's campaign, and the rich spoil brought home from the wars by the soldiers, had served to put the nation into a marvellous good temper. Their enthusiasm for their King amounted almost to adoration, and nothing was thought of but tourneys, jousts, and all sorts of feasting and revelry. Indeed, things came to such a pass that at last an order was given that tournaments might be held only at the royal pleasure, else the people were disposed to think of nothing else, and to neglect the ordinary avocations of life. As the King appointed nineteen in six months, to be held in various places throughout the kingdom, it cannot be said that he defrauded his subjects of their sports; and he himself set the example of the extravagant and fanciful dressing which called forth so much adverse criticism from the more sober minded, appearing at the jousts in all manner of wonderful apparel, one of his dresses being described as "a harness of white buckram inlaid with silver -- namely, a tunic, and a shield with the motto: 'Hay, hay, the wythe swan! By Goddes soul I am thy man;' whilst he gave away on that occasion five hoods of long white cloth worked with blue men dancing, and two white velvet harnesses worked with blue garters and diapered throughout with wild men." Women disgraced themselves by going about in men's attire and behaving themselves in many unseemly fashions. The ecclesiastics, too, often fell into the prevailing vices of extravagance and pleasure seeking that at this juncture characterized the whole nation, and, as Father Paul had said to Raymond, disgraced their calling by so doing far more than others who had never professed a higher code. Amongst the graver and more austere men of the day heads were gravely shaken over the wild burst of enthusiasm and extravagance, and there were not wanting those who declared that the nation was calling down upon itself some terrible judgment of God -- such a judgment as so often follows upon a season of unwonted and sudden prosperity. As for the twin brothers, they spent these months in diverse fashion, each carrying out his own tastes and preferences. Gaston attached himself to Sir James Audley once again, and travelled with him into Scotland, where the knight frequently went upon the King's business. When in or about the Court, he threw himself into the jousting and sports with the greatest enthusiasm and delight, quickly excelling so well in each and every contest that he made a name and reputation for himself even amongst the chosen flower of the English nobility. Real fighting was, however, more to his taste than mock contests, and he was always glad to accompany his master upon his journeys, which were not unfrequently attended by considerable peril, as the unsettled state of the Border counties, and the fierce and sometimes treacherous nature of the inhabitants, made travelling there upon the King's business a matter of some difficulty and danger. There was no fear of Gaston's growing effeminate or turning into a mere pleasure hunter; and he soon made himself of great value to his master, not only by his undaunted bravery, but by his success in diplomatic negotiation -- a success by no means expected by himself, and a surprise to all about him. Perhaps the frank, free bearing of the youth, his perfect fearlessness, and his remarkably quick and keen intelligence, helped him when he had any delicate mission entrusted to him. Then, too, the hardy and independent nature of the Scots was not altogether unlike that of the free-born Gascon peasant of the Pyrenean portion of the south of France; so that he understood and sympathized with them better, perhaps, than an average Englishman could have done. A useful life is always a happy one, and the successful exercise of talents of whose very existence we were unaware is in itself a source of great satisfaction. Gaston, as he grew in years, now began to develop in mind more rapidly than he had hitherto done, and though separated for the most part from his brother, was seldom many months without meeting him for at least a few days. Raymond was spending the time with his old friend and comrade and cousin, John de Brocas. It had become evident to all who knew him that John was not long for this world. He might linger on still some few years, but the insidious disease we now call consumption had firm hold upon him, and he was plainly marked as one who would not live to make any name in the world. He showed no disposition to seclude himself from his kind by entering upon the monastic life, and his father had recently bestowed upon him a small property which he had purchased near Guildford, the air and dryness of which place had always been beneficial to him. This modest but pleasant residence, with the revenues attached, kept John in ease and comfort. He had spent the greater part of his income the year previous in the purchase of books, and his uncle's library was always at his disposal. He had many friends in and about the place; and his life, though a little lonely, was a very happy one -- just the life of quietness and study that he loved better than any other. When his cousin Raymond came home from the wars without any very definite ideas as to his own immediate career in the future, it had occurred to John that if he could secure the companionship of this cousin for the coming winter it would be a great boon to himself; and the suggestion had been hailed with pleasure by the youth. Raymond would gladly have remained with the King had there been any fighting in the cause of his country to be done; but the round of feasting and revelry which now appeared to be the order of the day had no charms for him. After breaking a lance or two at Windsor, and seeing what Court life was in times of triumphant peace, he wearied of the scene, and longed for a life of greater purpose. Hearing where his cousin John was located, he had quickly ridden across to pay him a visit; and that visit had lasted from the previous October till now, when the full beauty of a glorious English summer had clothed the world in green, and the green was just tarnishing slightly in the heat of a glaring August. As Raymond had seen something of the fashion in which the world was wagging, his thoughts had ofttimes recurred to Father Paul and that solemn warning he had uttered. He had spoken of it to John, and both had mused upon it, wondering if indeed something of prophetic fire dwelt within that strong, spare frame -- whether indeed, through his austerities and fasts, the monk had so reduced the body that the things of the spiritual world were revealed to him, and the future lay spread before his eyes. At first both the cousins had thought week by week to hear some news of a terrible visitation; but day had followed day, and months had rolled by, and still the country was holding high revel without a thought or a fear for the future. So gradually the two studious youths had ceased to speak of the visitation they had once confidently looked for, and they gave themselves up with the zest of pure enjoyment to their studies and the pursuit of learning. Raymond's spiritual nature was deepened and strengthened by his perusal of such sacred and devotional lore as he could lay hands upon; and though the Scriptures, as they were presented to him, were not without many errors and imperfections and omissions, he yet obtained a clearer insight into many of the prophetical writings, and a fuller grasp of God's purposes towards man, than he had ever dreamed of before. So that though strongly tinged with the mysticism and even with the superstition of the times, his spiritual growth was great, and the youth felt within him a spring of power unknown before which was in itself a source of exaltation and power. And there was another element of happiness in Raymond's life at this time which must not be omitted from mention. Seldom as he saw her -- jealously as she was guarded by her father and brother, now returned from the war, and settled again at Woodcrych -- he did nevertheless from time to time encounter Mistress Joan Vavasour, and each encounter was fraught with a new and increasing pleasure. He had never spoken a word of love to her; indeed he scarce yet knew that he had lost his heart in that fashion which so often leads to wedlock. He was only just beginning to realize that she was not many years older than himself -- that she was not a star altogether beyond the firmament of his own sky. He had hitherto regarded her with one of those boyish adorations which are for the time being sufficient in themselves, and do not look ahead into the future; and then Raymond well knew that before he could for a moment dream of aspiring to the hand of the proud knight's daughter, he must himself have carved his way to moderate fortune and fame. His dreams of late had concerned themselves little with his worldly estate, and therefore his deep reverential admiration for Joan had not developed into anything of a definite purpose. If he dreamed dreams of the future in which she bore a part, it was only of laying at her feet such laurels as he should win, without thinking of asking a reward at her hands, unless it was the reward of being her own true knight, and rescuing her from the power of the Sanghursts, father and son, who appeared to have regained their old ascendency over Sir Hugh and his son, and to be looking forward still to the alliance between the two families. Joan was of more than marriageable age. It was thought strange by many that the match was not yet consummated. But the quietly determined resistance on the part of the girl herself was not without some effect; and although there were many rumours afloat as to the boundless wealth of the ill-famed father and son, it was not yet an affair of absolute certainty that they were in possession of the secret of the transmutation of metals. So the match still hung fire, and Raymond received many bewitching smiles from the lady on the rare occasions when they met; and he thought nothing of the threat of Peter Sanghurst, being endowed with that fearless courage which does not brood upon possible perils, but faces real ones with quiet resolution. John was sitting over his books in the pleasant western window one evening at the close of a hot September day, when he heard a quick footstep crossing the anteroom, and Raymond came in with a strange look upon his face. "John," he said, before his cousin could ask a single question, "it has come at last!" "What has come?" "The visitation -- the sickness -- the scourge of God. I knew that Father Paul was looking into the future when he pronounced the doom upon this land. It has come; it is amongst us now!" "Not here -- not in this very place! We must have heard something of it had it been so nigh." "It has not yet reached this town," answered Raymond, the same strange light shining in his eyes that John had observed there from his entrance. "Listen, and I will tell thee all I myself know. Thou knowest that I have been to Windsor, to meet my brother who is there. Him I found well and happy, brave as ever, knowing naught of this curse and scourge. But even as we talked together, there came a messenger from London in hot haste to see thy father, good John. He had been straight despatched by the King with a message of dire warning. A terrible sickness, which already men are calling by the name of Black Death, has broken out in the south and west of the land, and seems creeping eastward with these hot west winds that steadily blow. It attacks not only men, but beasts and cattle -- that is, it seems to be accompanied by a plague something similar in nature which attacks the beasts. Word has been passed on by the monks of what is happening far away, and already a great terror has seized upon many, and some are for flying the country, others for shutting themselves up in their houses and keeping great fires burning around them. The message to thy father was to have a care for the horses, and to buy no new ones that might by chance carry the seeds of the sickness within them. Men say that the people of London are very confident that they can keep the sickness away from entering their walls, by maintaining a careful guard upon the city gates. At Windsor, I left the town in a mighty fear, folks looking already askance at each other, as if afraid they were smitten with the deadly disease. The news of its appearance is passing from mouth to mouth faster than a horseman could spread the tidings. It had outridden me hither, and I thought perchance thou mightest have heard it ere I reached home." "Nay, I have heard naught; but I would fain hear more now." "I know little but what I have already told thee," answered Raymond. "Indeed, it is but little that there is to know at present. The disease seems to me somewhat to resemble that described by Lucretius as visiting Athens. Men sometimes suddenly fall down dead; or they are seized with violent shiverings, their hair bristling upon their heads. Sometimes it is like a consuming fire within, and they run raving mad to the nearest water, falling in perchance, and perishing by drowning, leaving their carcases to pollute the spring. But if it do not carry off the stricken person for some hours or days, black swellings are seen upon their bodies like huge black boils, and death follows rapidly, the victim often expiring in great agony. I have heard that the throat and lungs often become inflamed before the Black Death seizes its victim, and that in districts where the scourge has reached, any persons who appear to have about them even a common rheum are cast forth from their homes even by those nearest and dearest, for fear they are victims to the terrible scourge." "Misfortune makes men cruel if it do not bind them closer together. Raymond, I see a purpose in thy face -- a purpose of which I would know the meaning. That light in thine eyes is not for nothing. Tell me all that is in thine heart. Methinks I divine it somewhat already." "Belike thou dost, good John," answered Raymond, speaking very calmly and steadily, "for thou knowest the charge laid upon me by my spiritual Father. 'Fear not, be not dismayed. A thousand shall fall beside thee, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.' Such was the burden of his charge; and shall I shrink or falter when the hour I have waited and watched for all these years has come like a thief in the night? Good John, thou wast the first to teach me that there was a truer, deeper chivalry than that of the tourney or the battlefield. Thou wast the first to understand, and to make me understand, that the highest chivalry was that of our Lord Himself, when He laid down His life for sinners, and prayed for His enemies who pierced and nailed Him to the Cross. His words are ever words of mercy. Were He here with us today upon earth, where should we find Him now? Surely where the peril was greatest, where the need sorest, where the darkness, the terror, the distress blackest. And where He would be, were He with us here, is the place where those who would follow Him most faithfully should be found. Not all perchance; there be claims of kindred, ties of love that no man may lightly disregard: But none such ties bind me. I have but my brother to love, and he is out in the world -- he needs me not. I am free to go where the voice within calls me; and I go forth to-morrow." "And whither goest thou?" asked John, in a low, awestruck tone. "I go to Father Paul," answered Raymond, without hesitation, as one who has thought the matter well out beforehand. "Wherever the need is sorest, the peril greatest, there will Father Paul be found. And the Brotherhood stands in the heart of the smitten regions; wherefore at his very doors the sick will be lying, untended perchance and unassoiled, save in those places whither he can go. I fare forth at sunrising tomorrow, to seek and to find him. He will give me work, he will let me toil beside him; better than that I ask not." John had risen from his seat. An answering light had sprung to his eyes as he had heard and watched Raymond. Now he laid his hand upon his cousin's arm, and said quietly: "Go, then, in the name of the Lord; I too go with thee." Raymond turned his head and looked full at his cousin, marking the thin, sunken lines of the face, the stooping pose of the shoulders, the hectic flush that came and went upon the hollow cheek; and seeing this and knowing what it betokened, he linked his arm within John's and commenced walking up and down the room with him, as though inaction were impossible at such a moment. And as he walked he talked. "Good John," he said, "I would fain have thee with me; but I well know thou hast no strength for the task thou hast set thyself. Even the long day's ride would weary thy frame so sorely that thou wouldst fall an easy victim to the sickness ere thou hadst done aught to help another. Thou hast thy father, thy mother, and thy good uncle to think of. How sad would they be to hear whither thou hadst gone! And then, my cousin, it may well be that for thee there is other work, and work for which thou canst better prepare thyself here than in any other place. I have thought of thee as well as of myself as I have ridden homeward this day. Shall I tell thee what my thought -- my dream of thee was like?" "Ay, tell me; I would gladly hear." "I saw in my spirit the advance of this terrible Black Death; I saw it come to this very place. Dead and dying, cast out of their homes by those who would neither bury the one nor tend the other, were left lying in the streets around, and a deadly fear was upon all the place. And then I saw a man step forth amongst these miserable wretches, and the man had thy face, dear cousin. And he came forward and said to those who were yet willing to touch the sick, 'Carry them into my house; I have a place made ready for them. Bring them to my house; there they will he tended and cared for.' And then I thought that I saw the bearers lift and carry the sick here to this house, and that there they were received by some devoted men and women who had not been driven away by the general terror, and there were clean and comfortable beds awaiting the sick, and great fires of aromatic herbs burning upon the hearths to keep away the fumes of the pestilence from the watchers. And as the wretched and stricken creatures found themselves in this fair haven, they blessed him who had had this care for them; and those who died, died in comfort, shriven and assoiled by holy priests, whilst some amongst the number were saved, and saved through the act of him who had found them this safe refuge." Raymond ceased speaking, and looked out over the fair landscape commanded by the oriel window of the room in which they were standing; and John's pale face suddenly kindled and glowed. The same spirit of self-sacrifice animated them both; but the elder of the pair realized, when it was put before him, how little he was fit for the work which the younger had set himself to do, whilst he had the means as well as the disposition to perform an act of mercy which in the end might be a greater boon to many than any service he could offer now. And if he did this thing -- if he turned his house into a house of mercy for the sick of the plague -- he would then have his own opportunity to tend and care for the sufferers. Only one thought for a moment hindered him from giving an answer. He looked at Raymond, and said: "Thinkest thou that this sickness will surely come this way?" "In very truth I believe that it will ravage the land from end to end. I know that Father Paul looked to see the whole country swept by the scourge of God. Fear not but that thy work will find thee here. Thou wilt not have to wait long, methinks. Thou wilt but have fair time to make ready all that thou wilt need -- beds, medicaments, aromatic wood, and perfumes -- and gather round thee a few faithful, trusty souls who will not fly at the approach of danger. It may be no easy task to find these, yet methinks they will be found here and there; for where God sends His scourges upon His earth, He raises up pious men and women too, to tend the sufferers and prove to the world that He has still amongst the gay and worldly His own children, His own followers, who will follow wherever He leads." John's mind was quickly made up. "I will remain behind and do this thing," he said. "Perchance thou and I will yet work together in this very place amongst the sick and dying." "I well believe it," answered Raymond, with one of his far-away looks; and the cousins stood together looking out over the green world bathed in the light of sunset, wondering how and when they would meet again, but both strangely possessed with perfect confidence that they would so meet. Then Raymond went to make his simple preparations for the morrow's ride. He had intended travelling quite alone, and chancing the perils of the road, which, however, in these times of peace and rejoicing, were not very great; for freebooters seldom disturbed travellers by day, save perhaps in very lonely forest roads. But when Roger, the woodman's son, heard whither his master's steps were bent, and upon what errand he was going, he fell at his feet in one of his wild passions of devotional excitement, and begged to be allowed to follow him even to the death. "It may well be to the death, good Roger," answered Raymond gravely. "Men say that death is certain for those who take the breath of the smitten persons; and such as go amongst them go at the risk of their lives. I do not bid thee follow me -- I well believe the peril is great; but if thou willest to do this thing, I dare not say thee nay, for methinks it is a work of God, and may well win His approval." "I will go," answered Roger, without the slightest hesitation. "Do I not owe all -- my body and soul alike -- to you and Father Paul? Where you go, there will I go with you. What you fear not to face, I fear not either. For life or for death I am yours; and if the Holy Saints and the Blessed Virgin will but give me strength to fight and to conquer this fell foe, I trow they will do it because that thou art half a saint thyself, and they will know that I go to be with thee, to watch over thee, and perchance, by my service and my prayers, guard thee in some sort from ill." Raymond smiled and held out his hand to his faithful servant. In times of common peril men's hearts are very closely knit together. The bond between the two youths seemed suddenly to take a new form; and when they rode forth at sunrise on the morrow, with John waving an adieu to them and watching their departure with a strange look of settled purpose on his face, it was no longer as master and servant that they rode, but as friends and comrades going forth to meet a deadly peril together. It seemed strange, as they rode along in the bright freshness of a clear September morning, to realize that any scenes of horror and death could be enacting themselves upon this fair earth not very many miles away. Yet as they rode ever onwards and drew near to the infected districts, the sunshine became obscured by a thick haze, the fresh wind which had hitherto blown in their faces dropped, and the air was still with a deadly stillness new to both of them -- a stillness which was oppressive and which weighed upon their spirits like lead. The first intimation they had of the pestilence itself was the sight of the carcasses of several beasts lying dead in their pasture, and, what was more terrible still, the body of a man lying beside them, as though he had dropped dead as he came to drive them into shelter. Raymond looked at the little group with an involuntary shudder, and Roger crossed himself and muttered a prayer. But they did not turn out of their way; they were now nearing the gates of the Monastery, and it was of Father Paul that Raymond's thoughts were full. Plainly enough he was in the heart of the peril. How had it gone with him since the sickness had appeared here? That question was answered the moment the travellers appeared within sight of the well-known walls. They saw a sight that lived in their memories for many a day to come. Instead of the calm and solitude which generally reigned in this place, a great crowd was to be seen around the gate, but such a crowd as the youths had never dreamed of before. Wretched, plague-stricken people, turned from their own doors and abandoned by their kindred, had dragged themselves from all parts to the doors of the Monastery, in the hope that the pious Brothers would give them help and a corner to die in peace. And that they were not disappointed in this hope was well seen: for as Raymond and his companion appeared, they saw that one after another of these wretched beings was carried within the precincts of the Monastery by the Brothers; whilst amongst those who lay outside waiting their turn for admission, or too far gone to be moved again, a tall thin form moved fearlessly, bending over the dying sufferers and hearing their last confessions, giving priestly absolution, or soothing with strong and tender hands the last agonies of some stricken creature. Raymond, with a strange, tense look upon his face, went straight to the Father where he stood amongst the dying and the dead, and just as he reached his side the Monk stood suddenly up and looked straight at him. His austere face did not relax, but in his eyes shone a light that looked like triumph. "It is well, my son," he said. "I knew that thou wouldest be here anon. The soldier of the Cross is ever found at his post in such a time as this." CHAPTER XVIII. WITH FATHER PAUL. All that evening and far into the night Raymond worked with the Brothers under Father Paul, bringing in the sick, burying the dead, and tending all those for whom anything could be done to mitigate their sufferings, or bring peace either of body or mind. By nightfall the ghastly assemblage about the Monastery doors had disappeared. The living were lying in rows in the narrow beds, or upon the straw pallets of the Brothers, filling dormitories and Refectory alike; the dead had been laid side by side in a deep trench which had been hastily dug by order of Father Paul; and after he had read over them the burial service, earth and lime had been heaped upon the bodies, and one end of the long trench filled in. Before morning there were a score more corpses to carry forth, and out of the thirty and odd stricken souls who lay within the walls, probably scarce ten would recover from the malady. But no more of the sick appeared round and about the Monastery gates as they had been doing for the past three days; and when Raymond asked why this was so, Father Paul looked into his face with a keen, searching glance as he replied: "Verily, my son, it is because there be no more to come -- no more who have strength to drag themselves out hither. Tomorrow I go forth to visit the villages where the sick be dying like beasts in the shambles. I go to shrive and confess the sick, to administer the last rites to the dying, to read the prayers of the Church over those who are being carried to the great common grave. God alone knows whether even now the living may suffice to bury the dead. But where the need is sorest, there must His faithful servants be found." Raymond looked back with a face full of resolute purpose. "Father, take me with thee," he said. Father Paul looked earnestly into that fair young face, that was growing so intensely spiritual in its expression, and asked one question. "My son, and if it should be going to thy death?" "I will go with thee, Father Paul, be it for life or for death." "God bless and protect thee, my son!" said the Father. "I verily believe that thou art one over whom the Blessed Saints and the Holy Angels keep watch and ward, and that thou wilt pass unscathed even through this time of desolation and death." Raymond had bent his knee to receive the Father's blessing, and when he rose he saw that Roger was close behind him, likewise kneeling; and reading the thought in his mind, he said to the Father: "Wilt thou not give him thy blessing also? for I know that he too will go with us and face the peril, be it for life or death." Father Paul laid his hand upon the head of the second lad. "May God's blessing rest also upon thee, my son," he said. "In days past thou hast been used as an instrument of evil, and hast been forced to do the devil's own work. Now God, in His mercy, has given thee work to do for Him, whereby thou mayest in some sort make atonement for the past, and show by thy faith and piety that thou art no longer a bondservant unto sin." Then turning to both the youths as they stood before him, the Father added, in a different and less solemn tone: "And since your purpose is to go forth with me tomorrow, you must now take some of that rest without which youthful frames cannot long dispense. Since early dawn you have been travelling and working at tasks of a nature to which you are little used. Come with me, therefore, and pass the remaining hours of the night in sleep. I will arouse you for our office of early mass, and then we will forth together. Till then sleep fearlessly and well. Sleep will best fit you for what you will see and hear tomorrow." So saying, the Father led them into a narrow cell where a couple of pallet beds had been placed, and where some slices of brown bread and a pitcher of spring water were likewise standing. "Our fare is plain, but it is wholesome. Eat and drink, my sons, and sleep in peace. Wake not nor rise until I come to you again." The lads were indeed tired enough, though they had scarcely known it in the strange excitement of the journey, and amid the terrible scenes of death and sickness which they had witnessed around and about the Monastery doors since their arrival there. Now, however, that they had received the command to rest and sleep (and to gainsay the Father's commands was a thing that would never have entered their minds), they were willing enough to obey, and had hardly laid themselves down before they fell into a deep slumber, from which neither awoke until the light of day had long been shining upon the world, and the Father stood beside them bidding them rise and follow him. In a few minutes their simple toilet and ablutions had been performed, and they made their way along the familiar passage to the chapel, from whence a low sound of chanting began to arise. There were not many of the Brothers present at the early service, most of them being engaged in tending the plague-stricken guests beneath their roof. But the Father was performing the office of the mass, and when he had himself partaken of the Sacrament, he signed to the two boys, who were about to go forth with him into scenes of greater peril than any they had witnessed heretofore, to come and receive it likewise. The service over, and some simple refreshment partaken of, the youths prepared for their day's toil, scarce knowing what they would be like to see, but resolved to follow Father Paul wherever he went, anxious only to accomplish successfully such work as he should find for them to do. Each had a certain burden to carry with him -- some of the cordials that had been found to give most relief in cases of utter collapse and exhaustion, a few simple medicaments and outward applications thought to be of some use in allaying the pain of those terrible black swellings from which the sickness took its significant name, and some simply-prepared food for the sufferers, who were often like to perish from inanition even before the plague had done its worst. For stricken persons, or those supposed to be stricken, were often turned out of their homes even by their nearest relatives, and forced to wander about homeless and starving, none taking pity upon their misery, until the poison in their blood did its fatal work, and they dropped down to die. That loosening of the bands of nature and affection in times of deadly sickness has always been one of the most terrible features of the outbreaks of the plague when it has visited either this or other lands. There are some forms of peril that bind men closer and closer together, and that bring into bond of friendship even those who have been before estranged; and terrible though these perils may be, there is always a deep sense of underlying consolation in the closer drawing of the bond of brotherhood. But when the scourge of deadly sickness has passed over the land, the effect has almost always been to slacken this tie; the inherent love of life, natural to human beings, turning to an almost incredible selfishness, and inducing men to abandon their nearest and dearest in the hour of peril, leaving them, if stricken, to die alone, or turning them, sick to death though they might be, away from their doors, to perish untended and without shelter. True, there were many bright exceptions to such a code of barbarity, and devoted men and women arose by the score to strive to ameliorate the condition of the sufferers; but for all that, one of the most terrible features of the period of death and desolation was that of the fearful panic it everywhere produced, and the inhuman neglect and cruelty with which the early sufferers were treated by the very persons who, perhaps only a few days or even hours later, had themselves caught the contagion, and were lying dead or dying in the homes from which they had ejected their own kith and kin before. Of the fearful havoc wrought in England by this scourge of the Black Death many readers of history are scarcely aware. Whole districts were actually and entirely depopulated, not a living creature of any kind being left sometimes within a radius of many miles; and at the lowest computation made by historians, it is believed that not less than one-half of the entire population perished during the outbreak. But of anything like the magnitude of such a calamity no person at this time had any conception, and little indeed was Raymond prepared for the sights that he was this day to look upon. The Father and his two assistants went forth after they had partaken of food, and turned their faces westward. "There is a small village two miles hence that we will visit first," said the Father, "for the poor people have no pastor or any other person to care for their bodies or souls, and I trow we shall find work to do there. If time permits when we have done what we may there, we will pass on to the little town round the church of St. Michael, whose spire you see yonder on the hillside. Many of the stricken folks within our walls came from thence. The sickness is raging there, and there may be few helpers left by now." The same sultry haze the travellers had noticed in the infected regions was still hanging over the woods today as they sallied forth; and though the sun was shining in the sky, its beams were thick and blood-red instead of being clear and bright, and there was an oppression in the air which caused the birds to cease their song, and lay on the spirit like a dead weight. "The curse of God upon the land -- the curse of God!" said the Father, in a low, solemn tone, as he led the way, bearing in his hands the Holy Sacrament with which to console the dying. "Men have long been forgetting Him. But He will not alway be forgotten. He will arise in judgment and show men the error of their ways. If in their prosperity they will not remember Him, He will call Himself to their remembrance by a terrible day of adversity. And who may stand before the Lord? Who may abide the day of His visitation?" Moving along with these and like solemn words of warning and admonition, to which his followers paid all reverent heed, the woodland path was quickly traversed, and the clearing reached which showed the near approach to the village. There was a break in the forest at this point, and some excellent pasture land and arable fields had tempted two farmers to establish themselves here, a small hamlet growing quickly up around the farmsteads. This small community supplied the Brothers with some of the necessaries of life, and every soul there was known to the Father. Some dozen persons had come to the Monastery gates during the past two days, stricken and destitute, and had been taken in there. But all these had died and no others had followed, and Father Paul was naturally anxious to know how it fared with those left behind. Raymond and Roger both knew the villagers well. The two years spent within the walls of the Brotherhood had made them fully acquainted with the people round about. The little hamlet was a pretty spot: a number of low thatched cottages nestled together beside the stream that watered the meadows, whilst the larger farmsteads, which, however, were only modest dwelling houses with their barns and sheds forming a background to them, stood a little farther back upon a slightly-rising ground, sheltered from the colder winds by a spur of the forest. Generally one was aware, in approaching the place, of the pleasant homely sounds of life connected with farming. Today, with the golden grain all ready for the reaper's hand, one looked to hear the sound of the sickle in the corn, and the voices of the labourers calling to each other, or singing some rustic harvest song over their task. But instead of that a deadly and death-like silence prevailed; and Raymond, who had quickened his steps as he neared the familiar spot, now involuntarily paused and hung back, as if half afraid of what he would be forced to look upon when once the last turning was passed. But Father Paul moved steadily on, turning neither to the right hand nor to the left. There was no hesitation or faltering in his step, and the two youths pressed after him, ashamed of their moment's backwardness. The sun had managed to pierce through the haze, and was shining now with some of its wonted brilliancy. As Raymond turned the corner and saw before him the whole of the little hamlet, he almost wished the sun had ceased to shine, the contrast between the beauty and brightness of nature and the scene upon which it looked being almost too fearful for endurance. Lying beside the river bank, in every attitude and contortion of the death agony, were some dozen prostrate forms of men, women, and children, all dead and still. It seemed as though they must have crawled forth from the houses when the terrible fever thirst was upon them, and dragging themselves down to the water's edge, had perished there. And yet if all were dead, as indeed there could be small doubt from their perfect stillness and rigidity, why did none come forth to bury them? Already the warm air was tainted and oppressive with that plague-stricken odour so unspeakably deadly to the living. Why did not the survivors come forth from their homes and bury the dead out of their sight? Had all fled and left them to their fate? Father Paul walked calmly onwards, his eyes taking in every detail of the scene. As he reached the dead around the margin of the stream, he paused and looked upon the faces he had known so well in life, then turning to his two followers, he said: "I trow these be all dead corpses, but I will examine each if there be any spark of life remaining. Go ye into the houses, and if there be any sound persons within, bid them, in the name of humanity and their own safety, come forth and help to bury their brethren. If they are suffered to lie here longer, every soul in this place will perish!" Glad enough to turn his eyes from the terrible sight without, Raymond hurried past to the cluster of dwelling places beyond, and entering the first of these himself, signed to Roger to go into the second. He had some slight difficulty in pushing open the door, not because it was fastened, but owing to some encumbrance behind. When, however, he succeeded in forcing his way in, he found that the encumbrance was nothing more or less than the body of a woman lying dead along the floor of the tiny room. Upon a bed in the corner two children were lying, smiling as if in sleep, but both stiff and cold, the livid tokens of the terrible malady visible upon their little bodies, though the end seemed to have been painless. No other person was in the house, and Raymond, drawing a covering over the children as they lay, turned from the house again with a shudder of compassionate sorrow. Outside he met Roger coming forth with a look of awe upon his face. "There be five souls within you door," he said -- "an old woman, her two sons and two daughters. But they are all dead and cold. I misdoubt me if we find one alive in the place." "We must try farther and see," answered Raymond, his face full of the wondering consternation of so terrible a discovery; and by mutual consent they proceeded in their task together. There was something so unspeakably awful in going about alone in a veritable city of the dead. And such indeed might this place be called. Roger was fearfully right in his prediction. Each house entered showed its number of victims to the destroyer, but not one of these victims was living to receive comfort or help from the ministrations of those who had come amongst them. And not man alone had suffered; upon the dumb beasts too had the scourge fallen: for when Roger suddenly bethought him that the creatures would want tendance in the absence of their owners, and had gone to the sheds to seek for them, nothing but death met his eye on all sides. Some in their stalls, some in the open fields, some, like their masters, beside the stream, lay the poor beasts all stone dead. It seemed as if the scourge had fallen with peculiar virulence upon this little hamlet, in the warm cup-like hollow where it lay, and had smitten it root and branch. Possibly the waters of the stream had been poisoned higher up, and the deadly malaria had reached it in that way; possibly some condition of the atmosphere predisposed living things to take the infection. But be the cause what it might, there was no gainsaying the fact. Not a living or breathing thing remained in the hamlet; and little as Raymond knew it, such wholesale destruction was only too common throughout the length and breadth of England. But such a revelation coming upon him suddenly, brought before his very eyes when he had come with the desire to help and tend the living, filled him with an awe that was almost terror, although the terror was not for himself. Personally he had no fear; he had given himself to this work, and he would hold to it be the result what it might. But the thought of the scourge sweeping down upon a peaceful hamlet, and carrying off in a few short days every breathing thing within its limits, was indeed both terrible and pitiful. He could picture only too vividly the terror, the anguish, the agony of the poor helpless people, and longed, not to escape from such scenes, but rather to go forward to other places ere the work of destruction had been accomplished, and be with the sick when the last call came. If he had been but two days earlier in coming forward, might he not have been in time to do a work of mercy and charity even here? But it was useless musing thus. To act, and not to think, was now the order of the day. He went slowly out from the yard they had last visited, his face as pale as death, but full of courage and high purpose. "There is nothing living here," he said, as he reached the Father, who had not left the side of the dead. "We have been into all the houses, we have looked everywhere, but there is nothing but dead corpses: man and beast have perished alike. Nothing that breathes is left alive." The Father looked round upon the scene of smiling desolation -- the sunny harvest fields, the laughing brook, the broad meadows -- and the ghastly rows of plague-stricken corpses at his feet, and a stern, sad change passed across his face. "It is the hand of the Lord," he said, "and perchance He smites in mercy as well as in wrath, delivering men from the evil to come. Let us arise and go hence. Our work is for the living and not the dead." For those three to have attempted to bury all that hamlet would have been an absolute impossibility. Dreadful as was the thought of turning away and leaving the place as it was, it was hopeless to do otherwise, and possibly in the town men might be found able and willing to come out and inter the corpses in one common grave. With hearts full of awe, the two lads followed their conductor. He had been through similar scenes in other lands. To him there was nothing new in sights such as this. Even the sense of personal peril, little as he had ever regarded it, had long since passed away. But it was something altogether new to Raymond and his companion; and though they had seen death in many terrible forms upon the battlefield, it had never inspired the same feelings of horror and awe. It was impossible to forget that they might at any moment be breathing into their lungs the same deadly poison which was carrying off multitudes on every side, and although there was no conscious fear for themselves in the thought, it could not but fill them with a quickened perception of the uncertainty of life and the unreality of things terrestrial. In perfect silence the walk towards the little town was accomplished; and as they neared it terrible sights began to reveal themselves even along the roadside. Plainly indeed to be seen were evidences of attempted flight from the plague-stricken place; and no doubt many had made good their escape, but others had fallen down by the wayside in a dying state, and these dead or dying sufferers were the first tokens observed by the travellers of the condition of the town. Not all were dead, though most were plainly hopeless cases. Raymond and Roger had both learned something during the hours of the previous night, when they had helped the good Brothers over their tasks; and they fearlessly knelt beside the poor creatures, moistening their parched lips, answering their feeble, moaning plaints, and summoning to the side of the dying the Father, who could hear the feeble confession of sin, and pronounce the longed-for absolution to the departing soul. Passing still onwards -- for they could not linger long, and little enough could be done for these dying sufferers, all past hope -- they reached the streets of the town itself; and the first sight which greeted their eyes was the figure of a man stripped naked to the waist, his back bleeding from the blows he kept on inflicting upon himself with the thick, knotted cord he held in his hands, a heavy and rough piece of iron being affixed to the end to make the blows more severe. From the waist downwards he was clothed with sackcloth, and as he rushed about the streets shrieking and castigating himself, he called aloud on the people to repent of their sins, and to flee from the wrath of God that was falling upon the whole nation. Yet, though many dead and dying were lying in the streets about him, and though cries and groans from many houses told that the destroyer was at work there, this Flagellant (as these maniacs, of which at that time there were only too many abroad, were called) never attempted to touch one of them, though he ran almost over their prostrate bodies, and had apparently no fear of the contagion. There were very few people abroad in the streets, and such as were sound kept their faces covered with cloths steeped in vinegar or some other pungent mixture, and walked gingerly in the middle of the road, as if afraid to approach either the houses on each side or the other persons walking in the streets. A cart was going about, with two evil-looking men in it, who lifted in such of the dead as they found lying by the roadside, and coolly divested them of anything of any value which they chanced to have upon them before conveying them to the great pit just outside which had been dug to receive the victims of the plague. A wild panic had seized upon the place. Most of the influential inhabitants had fled. There was no rule or order or oversight observed, and the priest of the church, who until this day had kept a certain watch over his flock, and had gone about encouraging and cheering the people, had himself been stricken down with the fell malady, and no one knew whether he were now living or dead. As the Father passed by, people rushed out from many doors to implore him to come to this house or the other, to administer the last rites to some one dying within. There were other houses marked with a red cross on the doors, which had been for many days closed by the town authorities, until these had themselves fled, being assured that no person could live in that polluted air. What had become of the wretched beings thus shut up, when the watchers who were told off to guard them had fled in terror, it was hard to imagine; and whilst the Father responded to the calls of those who required spiritual assistance at the last dread hour, Raymond beckoned to Roger to follow him in his visitation to those places where the distemper had first showed itself, and where people had hoped to confine it by closing the houses and letting none go forth. The terribly deadly nature of the malady was well exemplified by the condition of these houses. Scarce ten living souls were found in them, and of these almost all were reduced to the last extremity either by disease or hunger; for none had been nigh them, and they had no strength to try to make their wants known. Raymond had the satisfaction of seeing some amongst these wretched beings revive somewhat under his ministrations. It was not in every case the real distemper from which they suffered; in not a few the patients had sunk only from fright and the misery of feeling themselves shut away from their fellows. Whenever any persons ailed anything in those days, it was at once supposed that the Black Death was upon them, and they were shunned and abhorred by all their friends and kindred. To these poor creatures it seemed indeed as though an angel from heaven had come down when Raymond bent over them and put food and drink to their lips. Many an office of loving mercy to the sick and dying did he and Roger perform ere daylight faded from the sky; and before night actually fell, the Father had by precept and example got together a band of helpers ready and willing to tend the sick and bury the dead, and the people felt that the terrible panic which had fallen upon them, and caused every one to flee away, had given place to something better and more humane. Men who had fled their stricken homes and had spent their time carousing in the taverns, trying to drown their fears and their griefs, now returned home to see how it fared with those who had been left behind. Women who had been almost distracted by grief, and had been rushing into the church sobbing and crying, and neglecting the sick, that they might pour out their hearts at the shrine of their favourite saint, were admonished by the Holy Father, so well known to them, to return to their homes and their duties. As the pall of night fell over the stricken city, and the three who had entered it a few hours before still toiled on without cessation, people breathed blessings on them wherever they appeared, and Raymond felt that his work for the Lord in the midst of His stricken people had indeed begun. CHAPTER XIX. THE STRICKEN SORCERER. "Thou to Guildford then, my son, and I and the Brethren to London." So said Father Paul some three weeks later, as he stood once again inside the precincts of the Monastery, with Raymond by his side, looking round the thinned circle of faces of such of the Brothers as had survived the terrible visitation which had passed over them, and now gone, as it seemed, elsewhere. Quite one-half of the inhabitants of that small retreat had fallen victims to the scourge. Scarce ten souls out of all those who had sought shelter within those walls had risen from their beds and gone forth to their desolated homes again. The great trench in the burying ground had received the rest; and of the Brothers who gathered round Father Paul to welcome him back, several showed, by their pinched and stricken appearance, how near they themselves had been to the gates of death. Few stricken by the fatal sickness itself ever recovered; but there were many others who, falling ill of overwork or some other feverish ailment, were accounted to have caught the distemper, and many of these did amend, though all sickness at such a time seemed to get a firmer hold upon its victims. But Father Paul and both his young assistants had escaped unscathed, though they had been waging a hand-to-hand fight with the destroyer for three long weeks, that seemed years in the retrospect. The Brothers came crowding round them as about those returned from the grave. Indeed, to them it did almost seem as though this was a resurrection from the dead; for they had long since given up all hope of seeing their beloved Superior and Father again in the flesh. But the Father himself only accounted his work begun. Although the pestilence appeared to have passed from the immediate district, and such cases as occurred amid the few survivors of the visitation were by no means so fatal as they had been in the beginning, yet the sickness itself in its most virulent form was sweeping along northward and eastward, spreading death and desolation in its track; and Father Paul had but one purpose in his mind, which was to follow in the path of the destroyer, performing for the sufferers wherever he went the same offices of piety and mercy that he had been wont to undertake all these past days; and the Brothers, who had finished their labour of love within the walls of their home, and had grown fearless before the pestilence with that fearlessness which gradually comes to those who look long and steadily upon death, were not wanting in resolve to face it even in its most terrible shape. So that they one and all vowed that they would go with Father Paul; and his steps were bound for the capital of the kingdom, where he knew that the need would be the sorest. It seemed to the Brothers, who had long lived beneath his austere but wise and fatherly rule, that not only did he himself bear a charmed life, but that all who worked with him felt the shelter of that charm. Raymond and Roger had returned, having suffered no ill effects from the terrible sights and scenes through which they had passed. Though the country in these almost depopulated districts literally reeked with the pestilence, owing to the effluvia from the carcasses of men and beasts which lay rotting on the ground unburied, yet they had passed unscathed through all, and were ready to go forth again upon the same errand of mercy. Raymond was much divided in mind as to his own course of action. Much as he longed to remain with Father Paul, whom he continued to revere with a loving admiration that savoured of worship, he yet had a great desire to know how it was faring with his cousin John. He could not but be very sure that the pestilence would not pass Guildford by, and he knew that John would go forth amongst the sick and dying, and bring them into his own house for tendance, even though his own life paid the forfeit. It was therefore with no small eagerness that he longed for news of him; and when he spoke of this to the Father, the latter at once advised that they should part company -- he and such of the Brethren as were fit for the journey travelling on to London, whilst the two youths took the direct road to Guildford, to see how matters fared there. "Ye are but striplings," said the Father kindly, "and though ye be willing and devoted, ye have not the strength of men, nor are ye such seasoned vessels. In London the scenes will be terrible to look upon. It may be that they would be more than ye could well brook. Go, then, to Guildford. They will need helpers there who know how best to wrestle with the foul distemper, and ye have both learned many lessons with me. I verily believe that your work lies there, as mine lies yonder. Go then, and the Lord be with you. It may be we shall meet again in this world, but if not, in that world beyond into which our Blessed Saviour has passed, that through His intercession, offered unceasingly for us, we too may obtain an entrance through the merits of His redeeming Blood." Then blessing both the boys and embracing them with a tenderness new in one generally so reserved and austere, he sent them away, and they set their faces steadily whence they had come, not knowing what adventures they might meet upon the way. This return journey was by no means so rapid as the ride hither had been. Both the horses they had then ridden had perished of the sickness, and as none others were to be found, and had they been obtainable might but have fallen down by the wayside to die, the youths travelled on foot. And they did not even take the most direct route, but turned aside to this place or the other, wherever they knew of the existence of human habitations; for wherever such places were, there might there be need for human help and sympathy. And not a few acts of mercy did the boys perform as they travelled slowly onwards through an almost depopulated region. Time fails to tell of all they saw and heard as they thus journeyed; but they found ample employment for all their skill and energy. The lives of many little children, whose parents had died or fled, were saved by them, and the neglected little orphans left in the kindly care of some devoted Sisterhood, whose inmates gladly received them, fearless of the risk they might run by so doing. Wandering so often out of their way, they scarce knew their exact whereabouts when darkness fell upon them on the third day of their journeying; but after walking still onwards for some time in what they judged to be the right direction, they presently saw a light in a cottage window, and knocking at the door, asked shelter for the night. Travellers at such a time as this were regarded with no small suspicion, and the youths hardly looked to get any answer to their request; but rather to their surprise, the door was quickly opened, and Roger uttered a cry of recognition as he looked in the face of the master of the house. It was no other, in fact, than the ranger with whom as a boy he had found a temporary home, from which home he had been taken in his father's absence and sold into the slavery of Basildene. The boy's cry of astonishment was echoed by the man when once he had made sure that his senses were not deceiving him, but that it was really little Roger, whom he had long believed to be dead; and both he and his companion were eagerly welcomed in and set down to a plentiful meal of bread and venison pasty, whilst the boy told his long and adventurous story as briefly as he could, Stephen listening with parted lips and staring eyes, as if to the recital of some miraculous narrative. And in truth the tale was strange enough, told in its main aspects: the escape from Basildene, which to himself always partook of the nature of a miracle, the conflict with the powers of darkness in the Monastery, his adventures in France, and now his marvellous escape in the midst of the plague-stricken people whom he had tended and helped. The ranger, who had lost his own wife and children in the distemper, and had himself escaped, had lost all fear of the contagion --indeed he cared little whether he lived or died; and when he heard upon what errand the youths were bent, he declared he would gladly come with them, for the solitude of his cottage was so oppressive to him that he would have welcomed even a plague-stricken guest sooner than be left much longer with only his hounds and his own thoughts for company. "If I cannot tend the sick, I can at least bury the dead," he said, drawing his horny hand across his eyes, remembering for whom he had but lately performed that last sad office. And Raymond, to whom this offer was addressed, accepted his company gladly, for he knew by recent experience how great was the need for helpers where the sick and the dead so far outnumbered the whole and sound. He had gone off into a reverie as he sat by the peat fire, whilst Roger and the ranger continued talking together eagerly of many matters, and he heard little of what passed until roused by the name of Basildene spoken more than once, and he commanded his drowsy and wearied faculties to listen to what the ranger was saying. "Yes, the Black Death has found its way in behind those walls, men say. The old sorcerer tried all his black arts to keep it out; but there came by one this morning who told me that the old man had been seized, and was lying without a soul to go near him. They have but two servants that have ever stayed with them in that vile place, and these both thought the old man's dealings with the devil would at least suffice to keep the scourge away, and felt themselves safer there than elsewhere. But the moment he was seized they both ran away and left him, and there they say he is lying still, untended and unwatched -- if he be not dead by now. For as for the son, he had long since made his own preparations. He has shut himself up in a turret, with a plentiful supply of food; and he burns a great fire of scented wood and spices at the foot of the stairway, and another in the place he lives in, and never means to stir forth until the distemper has passed. One of the servants, before he fled, went to the stair foot and called to him to tell him that his father lay a-dying of the plague below; but he only laughed, and said it was time he went to the devil, who had been waiting so long for him; and the man rushed out of the house in affright at the sound of such terrible blasphemy and unnatural wickedness at a time like this." Raymond's face took a new expression as he heard these words. The lassitude and weariness passed out of it, and a curious light crept into his eyes. Roger and the ranger continued to talk together of many things, but their silent companion still sat motionless beside the hearth. Over his face was stealing a look of purpose -- such purpose as follows a struggle of the spirit over natural distaste and disgust. When the ranger presently left them, to see what simple preparations he could make for their comfort during the night, he motioned to Roger to come nearer, and looking steadily at him, he said: "Roger, I am going to Basildene tonight, to see what human skill may do for the old Sanghurst. He is our enemy -- thine and mine -- therefore doubly is it our duty to minister to him in the hour of his extremity. I go forth this night to seek him. Wilt thou go with me? or dost thou fear to fall again under the sway of his evil mind, or his son's, if thou puttest foot within the halls of Basildene again?" For a moment a look of strong repulsion crossed Roger's face. He shrank back a little, and looked as though he would have implored his young master to reconsider his resolution. But something in the luminous glance of those clear bright eyes restrained him, and presently some of their lofty purpose seemed to be infused into his own soul. "If thou goest, I too will go," he said. "At thy side no harm from the Evil One can come nigh me. Have I not proved that a hundred times ere now? And the spell has long been broken off my neck and off my spirit. I fear neither the sorcerer nor his son. If it be for us -- if it be a call -- to go even to him in the hour of his need, I will go without a thought of fear. I go in the name of the Holy Virgin and her Son. I need not fear what man can do against me." Great was the astonishment of the worthy ranger when he returned to hear the purpose upon which his guests were bent; but he had already imbibed some of that strange reverential admiration for Raymond which he so frequently inspired in those about him, and it did not for a moment occur to him to attempt to dissuade him from an object upon which his mind was bent. The October night, though dark and moonless, was clear, and the stars were shining in the sky as the little procession started forth. The ranger insisted on being one of the number. Partly from curiosity, partly from sheer hatred of solitude, and a good deal from interest in his companions and their errand of mercy, he had decided to come with them, not merely to show them the way to Basildene, which he could find equally well by night as by day, but to see the result of their journey there, and take on with him to Guildford the description of the old sorcerer's home and his seizure there. As they moved along through the whispering wood, the man, in low and awe-stricken tones, asked Roger of his old life there, and what it was that made him of such value to the Sanghursts. Raymond had never talked to the lad of that chapter in his past life, always abiding by Father Paul's advice to let him forget it as far as possible. Now, however, Roger seemed able to speak of it calmly, and without the terror and emotion that any recollection of that episode used to cause him in past years. He could talk now of the strange trances into which he was thrown, and how he was made to see things at a distance and tell all he saw. Generally it was travellers upon the road he was instructed to watch, and forced to describe the contents of the mails they carried with them. Some instinct made the boy many times struggle hard against revealing the nature of the valuables he saw that these people had about them, knowing well how they would be plundered by his rapacious masters, after they had tempted them upon the treacherous swamp not far from Basildene, where, if they escaped with their lives, it would be as much as they could hope to do. But the truth was always wrung from him by suffering at last -- not that his body was in any way injured by them, save by the prolonged fasts inflicted upon him to intensify his gift of clairvoyance; but whilst in these trances they could make him believe that any sort of pain was being inflicted, and he suffered it exactly as though it had been actually done upon his bodily frame. Thus they forced from his reluctant lips every item of information they desired; and he knew when plunder was brought into the house, and stored in the deep underground cellars, how and whence it had come -- knew, too, that many and many a wretched traveller had been overwhelmed in the swamp who might have escaped with life and goods but for him. It was the horror of this conviction, and the firm belief that he had been bound over body and soul to Satan, that was killing him by inches when the twin brothers effected his rescue. He did not always remember clearly in his waking moments what had passed in his hours of trance, but the horror of great darkness always remained with him; and at some moments everything would come upon him with a fearful rush, and he would remain stupefied and overwhelmed with anguish. To all of this Raymond listened with great interest. He and John had read of some such phenomena in their books relating to the history of magic; and little as the hypnotic state was understood in those days, the young student had gained some slight insight into the matter, and was able to speak of his convictions to Roger with some assurance. He told him that though he verily believed such power over the wills of others to be in some sort the work of the devil, it might yet be successfully withstood by a resolute will, bound over to the determination to yield nothing to the strong and evil wills of others. And Roger, who had long since fought his fight and gained strength and confidence, was not afraid of venturing into the stronghold of wickedness -- less so than ever now that he might go at Raymond's side. It was midnight before the lonely house was reached, and Raymond's heart beat high as he saw the outline of the old walls looming up against the gloomy sky. Not a light was to be seen burning in any of the windows, save a single gleam from out the turret at the corner away to the left; and though owls hooted round the place, and bats winged their uncertain flight, no other living thing was to be seen, and the silence of death seemed to brood over the house. "This is the way to the door that is the only one used," said Stephen, "and we shall find it unlocked for certain, seeing that the servants have run away, and the young master will not go nigh his father, not though he were ten times dying. My lantern will guide us surely enough through the dark passages, and maybe young Roger will know where the old man is like to be found." "Below stairs, I doubt not, amongst his bottles and books of magic," answered Roger, with a light shiver, as he passed through the doorway and found himself once again within the evil house. "He would think that in yon place no contagion could touch him. He spent his days and nights alike there. He scarce left it save to go abroad, or perchance to have a few hours' sleep in his bed. But the treasure is buried somewhere nigh at hand down in those cellars, though the spot I know not. And he fears to leave it night or day, lest some stealthy hand filch away the ill-gotten gain. Men thought he had the secret whereby all might be changed to gold, and indeed he would ofttimes bring pure gold out from the crucibles over his fire; but he had cast in first, unknown to those who so greedily watched him, the precious baubles he had stolen from travellers upon the road. He was a very juggler with his hands. I have watched him a thousand times at tricks which would have made the fortune of a travelling mountebank. But soft! here is the door at the head of the stairs. Take heed how that is opened, lest the hound fly at thy throat. Give me the lantern, and have thou thy huntsman's knife to plunge into his throat, else he may not let us pass down alive." But when the door was opened, the hound, instead of growling or springing, welcomed them with whines of eager welcome. The poor beast was almost starved, and had been tamed by hunger to unwonted gentleness. Raymond, who had food in his wallet, fed him with small pieces as they cautiously descended the stairs, for Basildene would furnish them with more if need be; the larder and cellar there were famous in their way, though few cared to accept of their owner's hospitality. Roger almost expected to find the great door of that subterranean room bolted and locked, so jealous was its owner of entrance being made there; but it yielded readily to the touch, and the three, with the hound, passed in together. In a moment Raymond knew by the peculiar atmosphere, which even in so large a place was sickly and fetid, that they were in the presence of one afflicted with the true distemper. The place was in total darkness save for the light of the lantern the ranger carried; but there were lamps in sconces all along the wall, and these Roger quickly lighted, being familiar enough with this underground place, which it had been part of his duty to see to. The light from these lamps was pure and white and very bright, and lit up the weird vaulted chamber from end to end. It shone upon a stiffened figure lying prone upon the floor not far from the vaulted fireplace, upon whose hearth the embers lay black and cold; and Raymond, springing suddenly forward as his glance rested upon this figure, feared that he had come too late, and that the foe of his house had passed beyond the power of human aid. "Help me to lift him," he said to Stephen; "and, Roger, kindle thou a fire upon the hearth. There may be life in him yet. We will try what we know. Yes, methinks his heart beats faintly; and the tokens of the distemper are plainly out upon him. Perchance he may yet live. Of late I have seen men rise up from their beds whom we have given up for lost." Raymond was beginning to realize that the black boils, so often looked upon as the death tokens, were by no means in reality anything of the kind. As a matter of fact, of the cases that recovered, most, if not all, had the plague spots upon them. These boils were, in fact, nature's own effort at expelling the virulent poison from the system, and if properly treated by mild methods and poultices, in some cases really brought relief, so that the patient eventually recovered. But the intensity of the poison, and its rapid action upon the human organs, made cases of recovery rare indeed at the outset, when the outbreak always came in its most virulent form; and truly the appearance of old Peter Sanghurst was such as almost to preclude hope of restoration. Tough as he was in constitution, the glaze of death seemed already in his eyes. He was all but pulseless and as cold as death, whilst the spasmodic twitchings of his limbs when he was lifted spoke of death rather than life. Still Raymond would not give up hope. He had the fire kindled, and it soon blazed up hot and fierce, whilst the old man was wrapped in a rich furred cloak which Roger produced from a cupboard, and some hot cordial forced between his lips. After one or two spasmodic efforts which might have been purely muscular, he appeared to make an attempt to swallow, and in a few more minutes it became plain that he was really doing so, and with increasing ease each time. The blood began to run through his veins again, the chest heaved, and the breath was drawn in long, labouring gasps. At last the old man's eyes opened, and fixed themselves upon Raymond's face with a long, bewildered stare. They asked him no questions. They had no desire that he should speak. His state was critical in the extreme. They had but come to minister to his stricken body. To cope with a mind such as his was a task that Raymond felt must be far beyond his own powers. He would have given much to have had Father Paul at this bedside for one brief hour, the more so as he saw the shrinking and terror creeping over the drawn, ashen face. Did his guilty soul know itself to be standing on the verge of eternity? and did the wretched man feel the horror of great darkness infolding him already? All at once he spoke, and his words were like a cry of terror. "Alicia! Alicia! how comest thou here?" Raymond, to whom the words were plainly addressed, knew not how to answer them, or what they could mean; but the wild eyes were still fixed upon his face, and again the old man's excited words broke forth -- "Comest thou in this dread hour to claim thine own again? Alicia, Alicia! I do repent of my robbery. I would fain restore all. It has been a curse, and not a blessing; all has been against me -- all. I was a happy man before I unlawfully wrested Basildene from thee. Since I have done that deed naught has prospered with me; and here I am left to die alone, neglected by all, and thou alone -- thy spirit from the dead -- comes to taunt me in my last hour with my robbery and my sin. O forgive, forgive! Thou art dead. Spirits cannot inherit this world's goods, else would I restore all to thee. Tell me what I may do to make amends ere I die? But look not at me with those great eyes of thine, lightened with the fire of the Lord. I cannot bear it -- I cannot bear it! Tell me only how I may make restoration ere I am taken hence to meet my doom!" Raymond understood then. The old man mistook him for his mother, who must have been about his own age when her wicked kinsman had ousted her from her possessions. Had they not told him in the old home how wondrous like to her he was growing? The clouded vision of the old man could see nothing but the face of the youth bending over him, and to him it was the face of an avenging angel. He clasped his hands together in an agony of supplication, and would have cast himself at the boy's feet had he not been restrained. The terrible remorse which so often falls upon a guilty conscience at the last hour had the miserable man in its clutches. His mind was too far weakened to think of his many crimes even blacker than this one. The sight of Raymond had awakened within him the memory of the defrauded woman, and he could think of nothing else. She had come back from the dead to put him in mind of his sin. If he could but make one act of restitution, he felt that he could almost die in peace. He gripped Raymond's hand hard, and looked with agonizing intensity into his face. "I am not Alicia," he answered gently. "Her spirit is at rest and free, and no thought of malice or hatred could come from her now. I am her son. I know all -- how you drove her forth from Basildene, and made yourself an enemy; but you are an enemy no longer now, for the hand of God is upon you, and I am here in His name to strive to soothe your last hours, and point the way upwards whither she has gone." "Alicia's son! Alicia's son!" almost screamed the old man. "Now Heaven be praised, for I can make restitution of all!" Raymond raised his eyes suddenly at an exclamation from Roger, to see a tall dark figure standing motionless in the doorway, whilst Peter Sanghurst's fiery eyes were fixed upon his face with a gaze of the most deadly malevolence in them. CHAPTER XX. MINISTERING SPIRITS. "The sickness in the town! Alackaday! Woe betide us all! It will be next within our very walls. Holy St. Catherine protect us! May all the Saints have mercy upon us! In Guildford! why, that is scarce five short miles away! And all the men and the wenches are flying as for dear life, though if what men say be true there be few enough places left to fly to! Why, Joan, why answerest thou not? I might as well speak to a block as to thee. Dost understand, girl, that the Black Death is at our very doors -- that all our people are flying from us? And yet thou sittest there with thy book, as though this were a time for idle fooling. I am fair distraught -- thy father and brother away and all! Canst thou not say something? Hast thou no feeling for thy mother? Here am I nigh distracted by fear and woe, and thou carriest about a face as calm as if this deadly scourge were but idle rumour." Joan laid down her book, came across to her mother, and put her strong hand caressingly upon her shoulder. Poor, weak, timid Lady Vavasour had never been famed for strength of mind in any of the circumstances of life, and it was perhaps not wonderful that this scare, reaching her ears in her husband's absence, should drive her nearly frantic with terror. For many days reports of a most disquieting nature had been pouring in. Persons who came to Woodcrych on business or pleasure spoke of nothing but the approach of the Black Death. Some affected to make light of it, protested that far too much was being made of the statements of ignorant and terrified people, and asserted boldly that it would not attack the well-fed and prosperous classes; whilst others declared that the whole country would speedily be depopulated, and whispered gruesome tales of those scenes of death and horror which were shortly to become so common. Then the inhabitants of isolated houses like Woodcrych received visits from travelling peddlers and mountebanks of all sorts, many disguised in Oriental garb, who brought with them terrible stories of the spread of the distemper, at the same time offering for sale certain herbs and simples which they declared to be never-failing remedies in case any person were attacked by the disease; or else they besought the credulous to purchase amulets or charms, or in some cases alleged relics blessed by the Pope, which if always worn upon the person would effectually prevent the onset of the malady. After listening greedily (as the servants in those houses always loved to do) to any story of ghastly horror which these impostors chose to tell them, they were thankful to buy at almost any price some antidote against the fell disease; and even Lady Vavasour had made many purchases for herself and her daughter of quack medicines and talismans or relics. But hitherto no one had dared to whisper how fast the distemper was encroaching in this very district. Men still spoke of it as though it were far off, and might likely enough die out without spreading, so that now it was with terror akin to distraction that the poor lady heard through her servants that it had well-nigh reached their own doors. One of the lackeys had had occasion to ride over to the town that very day, and had come back with the news that people there were actually dying in the streets. He had seen two men fall down, either dead or stricken for death, before he could turn his beast away and gallop off, and the shops were shut and the church bell was tolling, whilst all men looked in each other's faces as if afraid of what they might see there. Sir Hugh and his son were far away from Woodcrych at one of their newer possessions some forty miles distant, and in their absence Lady Vavasour felt doubly helpless. She shook off Joan's hand, and recommenced her agitated pacing. Her daughter's calmness was incomprehensible apathy to her. It fretted her even to see it. "Thou hast no feeling, Joan; thou hast a heart of stone," she cried, bursting into weak weeping. "Why canst thou not give me help or counsel of some sort? What are we to do? What is to become of us? Wouldst have us all stay shut up in this miserable place to die together?" Joan did not smile at the feeble petulance of the half-distracted woman. Indeed it was no time for smiles of any sort. The peril around and about was a thing too real and too fearful in its character to admit of any lightness of speech; and the girl did not even twit her mother with the many sovereign remedies purchased as antidotes against infection, though her own disbelief in these had brought down many laments from Lady Vavasour but a few days previously. Brought face to face with the reality of the peril, these wonderful medicines did not inspire the confidence the sanguine purchasers had hoped when they spent their money upon them. Lady Vavasour's hope seemed now to lie in flight and flight alone. She was one of those persons whose instinct is always for flight, whatever the danger to be avoided; and now she was eagerly urging upon Joan the necessity for immediate departure, regardless of the warning of her calmer-minded daughter that probably the roads would be far more full of peril than their own house could ever be, if they strictly shut it up, lived upon the produce of their own park and dairy, and suffered none to go backwards and forwards to bring the contagion with them. Whether Joan's common-sense counsel would have ever prevailed over the agitated panic of her mother is open to doubt, but all chance of getting Lady Vavasour to see reason was quickly dissipated by a piece of news brought to the mother and daughter by a white-faced, shivering servant. The message was that the lackey who had but lately returned from Guildford, whilst sitting over the kitchen fire with his cup of mead, had complained of sudden and violent pains, had vomited and fallen down upon the floor in a fit; whereat every person present had fled in wild dismay, perfectly certain that he had brought home the distemper with him, and that every creature in the house was in deadly peril. Lady Vavasour's terror and agitation were pitiful to see. In vain Joan strove to soothe and quiet her. She would listen to no words of comfort. Not another hour would she remain in that house. The servants, some of whom had already fled, were beginning to take the alarm in good earnest, and were packing up their worldly goods, only anxious to be gone. Horses and pack horses were being already prepared, for Lady Vavasour had given half-a-dozen orders for departure before she had made up her mind what to do or where to go. Now she was resolved to ride straight to her husband, without drawing rein, or exchanging a word with any person upon the road. Such of the servants as wished to accompany her might do so; the rest might do as they pleased. Her one idea was to be gone, and that as quickly as possible. She hurried away to change her dress for her long ride, urging Joan to lose not a moment in doing the same; but what was her dismay on her return to find her daughter still in her indoor dress, though she was forwarding her mother's departure by filling the saddlebags with provisions for the way, and laying strict injunctions upon the trusty old servants who were about to travel with her to give every care to their mistress, and avoid so far as was possible any place where there was likelihood of catching the contagion. They were to bait the horses in the open, and not to take them under any roof, and all were to carry their own victuals and drink with them. But that she herself was not to make one of the party was plainly to be learned by these many and precise directions. This fact became patent to the mother directly she came downstairs, and at once she broke into the most incoherent expression of dismay and terror; but Joan, after letting her talk for a few minutes to relieve her feelings, spoke her answer in brief, decisive sentences. "Mother, it is impossible for me to go. Old Bridget, as you know, is ill. It is not the distemper, it is one of the attacks of illness to which she has been all her life subject; but not one of these foolish wenches will now go near her. She has nursed and tended me faithfully from childhood. To leave her here alone in this great house, to live or die as she might, is impossible. Here I remain till she is better. Think not of me and fear not for me. I have no fears for myself. Go to our father; he will doubtless be anxious for news of us. Linger not here. Men say that those who fear the distemper are ever the first victims. Farewell, and may health and safety be with you. My place is here, and here I will remain till I see my way before me." Lady Vavasour wept and lamented, but did not delay her own departure on account of her obstinate daughter. She gave Joan up for lost, but she would not stay to share her fate. She had already seen something of the quiet firmness of the girl, which her father sometimes cursed as stubbornness, and she felt that words would only be thrown away upon her. Lamenting to the last, she mounted her palfrey, and set her train of servants in motion; whilst Joan stood upon the top step of the flight to the great door, and waved her hand to her mother till the cortege disappeared down the drive. A brave and steadfast look was upon her face, and the sigh she heaved as she turned at last away seemed one of relief rather than of sorrow. Lonely as might be her situation in this deserted house, it could not but be a relief to her to feel that her timid mother would shortly be under the protection of her husband, and more at rest than she could ever hope to be away from his side. He could not keep the distemper at bay, but he could often quiet the restless plaints and causeless terrors of his weak-minded spouse. As she turned back into the silent house she was aware of two figures in the great hall that were strange there, albeit she knew both well as belonging to two of the oldest retainers of the place, an old man and his wife, who had lived the best part of their lives in Sir Hugh's service at Woodcrych. "Why, Betty -- and you also, Andrew -- what do ye here?" asked Joan, with a grave, kindly smile at the aged couple. With many humble salutations and apologies the old folks explained that they had heard of the hasty and promiscuous flight of the whole household, headed by the mistress, and also that the "sweet young lady" was left all alone because she refused to leave old Bridget; and that they had therefore ventured to come up to the great house to offer their poor services, to wait upon her and to do for her all that lay in their power, and this not for her only, but for the two sick persons already in the house. "For, as I do say to my wife there," said old Andrew, though he spoke in a strange rustic fashion that would scarce be intelligible to our modern ears, "a body can but die once; and for aught I see, one might as easy die of the Black Death as of the rheumatics that sets one's bones afire, and cripples one as bad as being in one's coffin at once. So I be a-going to look to poor Willum, as they say is lying groaning still upon the kitchen floor, none having dared to go anigh him since he fell down in a fit. And if I be took tending on him, I know that you will take care of my old woman, and see that she does not want for bread so long as she lives." Joan put out her soft, strong hand and laid it upon the hard, wrinkled fist of the old servant. There was a suspicious sparkle in her dark eyes. "I will not disappoint that expectation, good Andrew," she said. "Go if you will, whilst we think what may best be done for Bridget. Later on I will come myself to look at William. I have no fear of the distemper; and of one thing I am very sure -- that it is never kept away by being fled from and avoided. I have known travellers who have seen it, and have been with the sick, and have never caught the contagion, whilst many fled from it in terror only to be overtaken and struck down as they so ran. We are in God's hands -- forsaken of all but Him. Let us trust in His mercy, do our duty calmly and firmly, and leave the rest to Him." Later in the day, upheld by this same lofty sense of calmness and trust, Joan, after doing all in her power to make comfortable the old nurse, who was terribly distressed at hearing how her dear young lady had been deserted, left her to the charge of Betty, and went down again through the dark and silent house to the great kitchen, where William was still to be found, reclining now upon a settle beside the glowing hearth, and looking not so very much the worse for the seizure of the afternoon. "I do tell he it were but the colic," old Andrew declared, rubbing his crumpled hands together in the glow of the fire. "He were in a rare fright when I found he -- groaning out that the Black Death had hold of he, and that he were a dead man; but I told he that he was the liveliest corpse as I'd set eyes on this seventy years; and so after a bit he heartened up, and found as he could get upon his feet after all. It were naught but the colic in his inside; and he needn't be afraid of nothing worse." Old Andrew proved right. William's sudden indisposition had been but the result of fright and hard riding, followed by copious draughts of hot beer taken with a view to keeping away the contagion. Very soon he was convinced of this himself; and when he understood how the whole household had fled from him, and that the only ones who had stayed to see that he did not die alone and untended were these old souls and their adored young lady, his heart was filled with loving gratitude and devotion, and he lost no opportunity of doing her service whenever it lay in his power. Strange and lonely indeed was the life led by those five persons shut up in that large house, right away from all sights and sounds from the world without. The silence and the solitude at last became well-nigh intolerable, and when Bridget had recovered from her attack of illness and was going about briskly again, Joan took the opportunity of speaking her mind to her fully and freely. "Why do we remain shut up within these walls, when there is so much work to be done in the world? Bridget, thou knowest that I love not my life as some love it. Often it seems to me as though by death alone I may escape a frightful doom. All around us our fellow creatures are dying -- too often alone and untended, like dogs in a ditch. Good Bridget, I have money in the house, and we have health and strength and courage; and thou art an excellent good nurse in all cases of sickness. Thou hast taught me some of thy skill, and I long to show it on behalf of these poor stricken souls, so often deserted by their nearest and dearest in the hour of their deadliest peril. If I go, wilt thou go with me? I trow that thou art a brave woman --" "And if I were not thou wouldst shame me into bravery, Sweetheart," answered the old woman fondly, as she looked into the earnest face of her young mistress. "I too have been thinking of the poor stricken souls. I would gladly risk the peril in such a labour of love. As old Andrew says, we can but die once. The Holy Saints will surely look kindly upon those who die at their post, striving to do as they would have done had they been here with us upon earth." And when William heard what his young mistress was about to do, he declared that he too would go with her, and assist with the offices to the sick or the dead. He still had a vivid recollection of the moments when he had believed himself left alone to die of the distemper; and fellow feeling and generosity getting the better of his first unreasoning terror, he was as eager as Joan herself to enter upon this labour of love. Bridget, who was a great botanist, in the practical fashion of many old persons in those days, knew more about the properties of herbs than anybody in the country round, and she made a great selection from her stores, and brewed many pungent concoctions which she gave to her young mistress and William to drink, to ward off any danger from infection. She also gave them, to hang about their necks, bags containing aromatic herbs, whose strong and penetrating odour dominated all others, and was likely enough to do good in purifying the atmosphere about the wearer. There was no foolish superstition in Bridget's belief in her simples. She did not regard them as charms; but she had studied their properties and had learned their value, and knew them to possess valuable properties for keeping the blood pure, and so rendering much smaller any chance of imbibing the poison. At dusk that same evening, William, who had been out all day, returned, and requested speech of his young mistress. He was ushered into the parlour where she sat, with her old nurse for her companion; and standing just within the threshold he told his tale. "I went across to the town today. I thought I would see if there was any lodging to be had where you, fair Mistress, might conveniently abide whilst working in that place. Your worshipful uncle's house I found shut up and empty, not a soul within the doors -- all fled, as most of the better sort of the people are fled, and every window and door fastened up. Half the houses, too, are marked with black or red crosses, to show that those within are afflicted with the distemper. There are watchmen in the streets, striving to keep within their doors all such as have the Black Death upon them; but these be too few for the task, and the maddened wretches are continually breaking out, and running about the streets crying and shouting, till they drop down in a fit, and lie there, none caring for them. By day there be dead and dying in every street; but at night a cart comes and carries the corpses off to the great grave outside the town." "And is there no person to care for the sick in all the town?" asked Joan, with dilating eyes. "There were many monks at first; but the distemper seized upon them worse than upon the townfolks, and now there is scarce one left. Soon after the distemper broke out, Master John de Brocas threw open his house to receive all stricken persons who would come thither to be tended, and it has been full to overflowing night and day ever since. I passed by the house as I came out, and around the door there were scores of wretched creatures, all stricken with the distemper, praying to be taken in. And I saw Master John come out to them and welcome them in, lifting a little child from the arms of an almost dying woman, and leading her in by the hand. When I saw that, I longed to go in myself and offer myself to help in the work; but I thought my first duty was to you, sweet Mistress, and I knew if once I had told my tale you would not hold me back." "Nay; and I will go thither myself, and Bridget with me," answered Joan, with kindling eyes. "We will start with the first light of the new-born day. They will want the help of women as well as of men within those walls. "Good Bridget, look well to thy store of herbs, and take ample provision of all such as will allay fever and destroy the poison that works in the blood. For methinks there will be great work to be done by thee and me ere another sun has set; and every aid that nature can give us we will thankfully make use of." "Your palfrey is yet in the stable, fair Mistress," said William, "and there be likewise the strong sorrel from the farm, whereupon Bridget can ride pillion behind me. Shall I have them ready at break of day tomorrow? We shall then gain the town before the day's work has well begun." "Do so," answered Joan, with decision. "I would fain have started by night; but it will be wiser to tarry for the light of day. Good William, I thank thee for thy true and faithful service. We are going forth to danger and perchance to death; but we go in a good cause, and we have no need to fear." And when William had retired, she turned to Bridget with shining eyes, and said: "Ah, did I not always say that John was the truest knight of them all? The others have won their spurs; they have won the applause of men. They have all their lives looked down on John as one unable to wield a sword, one well-nigh unworthy of the ancient name he bears. But which of yon gay knights would have done what he is doing now? Who of all of them would stand forth fearless and brave in the teeth of this far deadlier peril than men ever face upon the battlefield? I trow not one of them would have so stood before a peril like this. They have left that for the true Knight of the Cross!" At dawn next day Joan said adieu to her old home, and set her face steadily forward towards Guildford. The chill freshness of the November air was pleasant after the long period of oppressive warmth and closeness which had gone before, and now that the leaves had really fallen from the trees, there was less of the heavy humidity in the air that seemed to hold the germs of distemper and transmit them alike to man and beast. The sun was not quite up as they started; but as they entered the silent streets of Guildford it was shining with a golden glory in strange contrast to the scenes upon which it would shortly have to look. Early morning was certainly the best time for Joan to enter the town, for the cart had been its round, the dead had been removed from the streets, and the houses were quieter than they often were later in the day. Once in a way a wild shriek or a burst of demoniacal laughter broke from some window; and once a girl, with hair flying wildly down her back, flew out of one of the houses sobbing and shrieking in a frenzy of terror, and was lost to sight down a side alley before Joan could reach her side. Pursuing their way through the streets, they turned down the familiar road leading to John's house, and dismounting at the gate, Joan gave up her palfrey to William to seek stabling for it behind, and walked up with Bridget to the open door of the house. That door was kept wide open night and day, and none who came were ever turned away. Joan entered the hall, to find great fires burning there, and round these fires were crowded shivering and moaning beings, some of the latest victims of the distemper, who had been brought within the hospitable shelter of that house of mercy, but who had not yet been provided with beds; for the numbers coming in day by day were even greater than the vacancies made by deaths constantly occurring in the wards (as they would now be called). Helpers were few, and of these one or another would be stricken down, and carried away to burial after a few hours' illness. Of the wretched beings grouped about the fires several were little children, and Joan's heart went out in compassion to the suffering morsels of humanity. Taking a little moaning infant upon her knee, and letting two more pillow their weary beads against her dress, she signed to Bridget to remove her riding cloak, which she gently wrapped about the scantily-clothed form of a woman extended along the ground at her feet, to whom the children apparently belonged. The woman was dying fast, as her glazing eyes plainly showed. Probably her case was altogether hopeless; but Joan was not yet seasoned to such scenes, and it seemed too terrible to sit by idle whilst a fellow creature actually died not two yards away. Surely somewhere within that house aid could be found. The girl rose gently from her seat, and still clasping the stricken infant in her arms, she moved towards one of the closed doors of the lower rooms. Opening this softly, she looked in, and saw a row of narrow pallet beds down each side of the room, and every bed was tenanted. Sounds of moaning, the babble of delirious talk, and thickly-uttered cries for help or mercy now reached her ears, and the terrible breath of the plague for the first time smote upon her senses in all its full malignity. She recoiled for an instant, and clutched at the bag around her neck, which she was glad enough to press to her face. A great fire was burning in the hearth, and all that could be done to lessen the evil had been accomplished. There was one attendant in this room, which was set apart for men, and he was just now bending over a delirious youth, striving to restrain his wild ravings and to induce him to remain in his bed. This attendant had his back to Joan, but she saw by his actions and his calm self possession that he was no novice to his task; and she walked softly through the pestilential place, feeling that she should not appeal to him for help in vain. As the sound of the light, firm tread sounded upon the bare boards of the floor, the attendant suddenly lifted himself and turned round. Joan uttered a quick exclamation of surprise, which was echoed by the person in question. "Raymond!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "Joan! Thou here, and at such a time as this!" And then they both stood motionless for a few long moments, feeling that despite the terrible scenes around and about them, the very gates of Paradise had opened before them, turning everything around them to gold. CHAPTER XXI. THE OLD, OLD STORY The scourge had passed. It had swept over the length and breadth of the region of which Guildford formed the centre, and had done its terrible work of destruction there, leaving homes desolated and villages almost depopulated. It was still raging in London, and was hurrying northward and eastward with all its relentless energy and deadliness; but in most of the places thus left behind its work seemed to be fully accomplished, and there were no fresh cases. People began to go about their business as of old. Those who had fled returned to their homes, and strove to take up the scattered threads of life as best they might. In many cases whole families had been swept out of existence; in others (more truly melancholy cases), one member had escaped when all the rest had perished. The religious houses were crowded with the helpless orphans of the sufferers in the epidemic, and the summer crops lay rotting in the fields for want of labourers to get them in. John's house in Guildford had by this time reassumed its normal aspect. The last of the sick who had not been carried to the grave, but had recovered to return home, had now departed, with many a blessing upon the master, whose act of piety and charity had doubtless saved so many lives at this crisis. The work the young man had set himself to do had been nobly accomplished; but the task had been one beyond his feeble strength, and he now lay upon a couch of sickness, knowing well, if others did not, that his days were numbered. He had fallen down in a faint upon the very day that the last patient had been able to leave his doors. For a moment it was feared that the poison of the distemper had fastened upon him; but it was not so. The attack was but due to the failure of the heart's action -- nature, tried beyond her powers of endurance, asserting herself at last -- and they laid him down in his old favourite haunt, with his books around him, having made the place look like it did before the house had been turned into a veritable hospital and mortuary. When John opened his eyes at last it was to find Joan bending over him; and looking into her face with his sweet, tired smile, he said: "You will not leave me, Joan?" "No," she answered gently; "I will not leave you yet. Bridget and I will nurse you. All our other helpers are themselves worn out; but we have worked only a little while. We have not borne the burden and heat of that terrible day." "You came in a good hour -- like angels of mercy that you were," said John, feeling, now that the long strain and struggle was over, a wonderful sense of rest and peace. "I thought it was a dream when first I saw your face, Joan -- when I saw you moving about amongst the sick, always with a child in your arms. I have never been able to ask how you came hither. In those days we could never stay to talk. There are many things I would fain ask now. How come you here alone, save for your old nurse? Are your parents dead likewise?" "I know not that myself," answered Joan, with the calmness that comes from constantly standing face to face with death. "I have heard naught of them these many weeks. William goes ofttimes to Woodcrych to seek for news of them there. But they have not returned, and he can learn nothing." And then whilst John lay with closed eyes, his face so white and still that it looked scarce the face of a living man, Joan told him all her tale; and he understood then how it was that she had suddenly appeared amongst them like a veritable angel of mercy. When her story was done, he opened his eyes and said: "Where is Raymond?" "They told me he was sleeping an hour since," answered Joan. "He has sore need of sleep, for he has been watching and working night and day for longer than I may tell. He looks little more than a shadow himself; and he has had Roger to care for of late, since he fell ill." "But Roger is recovering?" "Yes. It was the distemper, but in its least deadly form, and he is already fast regaining his strength. "Has Raymond been the whole time with you? I have never had the chance to speak to him of himself." And a faint soft flush awoke in Joan's cheek, whilst a smile hovered round the corners of her lips. "Nor I; yet there be many things I would fain ask of him. He went forth to be with Father Paul when first the Black Death made its fatal entry into the country; and from that day forth I heard naught of him until he came hither to me. We will ask him of himself when he comes to join us. It will be like old times come back again when thou, Joan, and he and I gather about the Yule log, and talk together of ourselves and others." A common and deadly peril binds very closely together those who have faced it and fought it hand in hand and shoulder to shoulder; and in those days of divided houses, broken lives, and general disruption of all ordinary routine in domestic existence, things that in other times would appear strange and unnatural were now taken as a matter of course. It did not occur to Joan as in any way remarkable that she should remain in John's house, nursing him with the help of Bridget, and playing a sister's part until some of his own kith or kin returned. He had been deserted by all of his own name. She herself knew not whether she had any relatives living. Circumstances had thrown her upon his hospitality, and she had looked upon him almost as a brother ever since the days of her childhood. She knew that he was dying; there was that in his face which told as much all too well to those who had long been looking upon death. To have left him at such a moment would have seemed far more strange and unnatural than to remain. In those times of terror stranger things were done daily, no man thinking aught of it. So she smiled as she heard John's last words, trying to recall the day when she had first seen Raymond at Master Bernard's house, when he had seemed to her little more than a boy, albeit a very knightly and chivalrous one. Now her feelings towards him were far different: not that she thought less of his knightliness and chivalry, but that she was half afraid to let her mind dwell too much upon him and her thoughts of him; for of late, since they had been toiling together in the hand-to-hand struggle against disease and death, she was conscious of a feeling toward him altogether new in her experience, and his face was seldom out of her mental vision. The sound of his voice was ever in her ears; and she always knew, by some strange intuition, when he was near, whether she could see him or not. She knew even as John spoke that he was approaching; and as the latch of the door clicked a soft wave of colour rose in her pale cheek, and she turned her head with a gesture that spoke a mute welcome. "They tell me that thou art sick, good John," said Raymond, coming forward into the bright circle of the firelight. The dancing flames lit up that pale young face, worn and hollow with long watching and stress of work, and showed that Raymond had changed somewhat during those weeks of strange experience. Some of the dreaminess had gone out of the eyes, to be replaced by a luminous steadfastness of expression which had always been there, but was now greatly intensified. Pure, strong, and noble, the face was that of a man rather than a boy, and yet the bright, almost boyish, alertness and eagerness were still quickly apparent when he entered into conversation, and turned from one companion to another. It was the same Raymond -- yet with a difference; and both of his companions scanned him with some curiosity as he took his seat beside John's couch and asked of his cousin's welfare. "Nay, trouble not thyself over me; thou knowest that my life's sands are well-nigh run out. I have been spared for this work, that thou, my Raymond, gavest me to do. I am well satisfied, and thou must be the same, my kind cousin. Only let me have thee with me to the end -- and sweet Mistress Joan, if kind fortune will so favour us. And tell us now of thyself, Raymond, and how it fared with thee before thou camest hither. Hast thou been with Father Paul? And if so, why didst thou leave him? Is he, too, dead?" "He was not when we parted; he went forward to London when he bid me come to see how it fared with thee, good John, and bring thee his blessing. I should have been with thee one day earlier, save that I turned aside to Basildene, where I heard that the old man lay dying alone." "Basildene!" echoed both his hearers quickly. "Has the Black Death been there?" "Ay, and the old man who is called a sorcerer is dead. To me it was given to soothe his dying moments, and give him such Christian burial as men may have when there be no priest at hand to help them to their last rest. I was in time for that." "Peter Sanghurst dead!" mused John thoughtfully; and looking up at Raymond, he said quickly, "Did he know who and what thou wert?" "He did; for in his delirium he took me for my mother, and his terror was great, knowing her to be dead. When I told him who I was, he was right glad; and he would fain have made over to me the deeds by which he holds Basildene -- the deeds my mother left behind her in her flight, and which he seized upon. He would fain have made full reparation for that one evil deed of his life; but his son, who had held aloof hitherto, and would have left his father to die untended and alone --" Joan had uttered a little exclamation of horror and disgust; now she asked, quickly and almost nervously: "The son -- Peter Sanghurst? O Raymond, was that bad man there?" "Yes; and he knows now who and what I am, whereby his old hatred to me is bitterly increased. He holds that I have hindered and thwarted him before in other matters. Now that he knows I have a just and lawful claim on Basildene, which one day I will make good, he hates me with a tenfold deadlier hatred." "Hates you -- when you came to his father in his last extremity? How can he dare to hate you now?" Raymond smiled a shadowy smile as he looked into the fire. "Methinks he knows little of filial love. He knew that his father had been stricken with the distemper, but he left him to die alone. He would not have come nigh him at all, save that he heard sounds in the house, and feared that robbers had entered, and that his secret treasure hoards might fall into their hands. He had come down armed to the teeth to resist such marauders, being willing rather to stand in peril of the distemper than to lose his ill-gotten gold. But he found none such as he thought; yet having come, and having learned who and what manner of man I was, he feared to leave me alone with his father, lest I should be told the secret of the hidden hoard, which the old man longed to tell me but dared not. Doubtless the parchment he wished to place in my hands is there; but his son hovered ever within earshot, and the old man dared not speak. Yet with his last breath he called me lord of Basildene, and charged me to remove from it the curse which in his own evil days had fallen upon the place." "Peter Sanghurst will not love you the more for that," said John. "Verily no; yet methinks he can scarce hate me more than he does and has done for long." "He is no insignificant foe," was the thoughtful rejoinder. "His hate may be no light thing." "He has threatened me oft and savagely," answered Raymond, "and yet no harm has befallen me therefrom." "Why has he threatened thee?" asked Joan breathlessly; "what hast thou done to raise his ire?" "We assisted Roger, the woodman's son, to escape from that vile slavery at Basildene, of which doubtless thou hast heard, sweet lady. That was the first cause of offence." "And the second?" Raymond's clear gaze sought her face for a moment, and Joan's dark eyes kindled and then slowly dropped. "The second was on thy account, sweet Joan," said Raymond, with a curious vibration in his voice. "He saw us once together -- it is long ago now -- and he warned me how I meddled to thwart him again. I scarce understood him then, though I knew that he would fain have won this fair hand, but that thou didst resolutely withhold it. Now that I have reached man's estate I understand him better. Joan, he is still bent upon having this hand. In my hearing he swore a great oath that by fair means or foul it should be his one day. He is a man of resolute determination, and, now that his father no longer lives, of great wealth too, and wealth is power. Thou hast thwarted him till he is resolved to humble thee at all cost. I verily believe to be avenged for all thou hast cost him would be motive enough to make him compass heaven and earth to win thee. What sayest thou? To withstand him may be perilous --" "To wed him would be worse than death," said Joan, in a very low tone. "I will never yield, if I die to save myself from him." Unconsciously these two had lowered their voices. John had dropped asleep beside the fire with the ease of one exhausted by weakness and long watching. Joan and Raymond were practically alone together. There was a strange light upon the face of the youth, and into his pale face there crept a flush of faint red. "Joan," he said, in low, firm tones that shook a little with the intensity of his earnestness, "when I saw thee first, and knew thee for a very queen amongst women, my boyish love and homage was given all to thee. I dreamed of going forth to win glory and renown, that I might come and lay my laurels at thy feet, and win one sweet answering smile, one kindly word of praise from thee. Yet here am I, almost at man's estate, and I have yet no laurels to bring to thee. I have but one thing to offer -- the deep true love of a heart that beats alone for thee. Joan, I am no knightly suitor, I have neither gold nor lands -- though one day it may be I may have both, and thy father would doubtless drive me forth from his doors did I present myself to him as a suitor for this fair hand. But, Joan, I love thee -- I would lay down my life to serve thee -- and I know that thou mayest one day be in peril from him who is also mine own bitter foe. Wilt thou then give me the right to fight for thee, to hold this hand before all the world and do battle for its owner, as only he may hope to do who holds it, as I do this moment, by that owner's free will? Give me but leave to call it mine, and I will dare all and do all to win it. Sweet Mistress Joan, my words are few and poor; but could my heart speak for me, it would plead eloquent music. Thou art the sun and star of my life. Tell me, may I hope some day to win thy love?" Joan had readily surrendered her hand to his clasp, and doubtless this had encouraged Raymond to proceed in his tale of love. He certainly had not intended thus to commit himself, poor and unknown and portionless as he was, with everything still to win; but a power stronger than he could resist drew him on from word to word and phrase to phrase, and a lovely colour mantled in Joan's cheek as he proceeded, till at last she put forth her other hand and laid it in his, saying: "Raymond, I love thee now. My heart is thine and thine alone. Go forth, if thou wilt, and win honour and renown -- but thou wilt never win a higher honour and glory than I have seen thee winning day by day and hour by hour here in this very house -- and come back when and as thou wilt. Thou wilt find me waiting for thee --ever ready, ever the same. I am thine for life or death. When thou callest me I will come." It was a bold pledge for a maiden to give in those days of harsh parental rule; yet Joan gave it without shrinking or fear. That this informal betrothal might be long before it could hope to be consummated, both the lovers well knew; that there might be many dangers lying before them, they did not attempt to deny. It was no light matter to have thus plighted their troth, when Raymond was still poor and nameless, and Joan, in her father's estimation, plighted to the Sanghurst. But both possessed brave and resolute spirits, that did not shrink or falter; and joyfully happy in the security of their great love, they could afford for a time to forget the world. Raymond drew from within his doublet the half ring he had always carried about with him, and placed it upon the finger of his love. Joan, on her side, drew from her neck a black agate heart she had always worn there, and gave it to Raymond, who put it upon the silver cord which had formerly supported his circlet of the double ring. "So long as I live that heart shall hang there," he said. "Never believe that I am dead until thou seest the heart brought thee by another. While I live I part not with it." "Nor I with thy ring," answered Joan, proudly turning her hand about till the firelight flashed upon it. And then they drew closer together, and whispered together, as lovers love to do, of the golden future lying before them; and Raymond told of his mother and her dying words, and his love, in spite of all that had passed there, for the old house of Basildene, and asked Joan if they two together would be strong enough to remove the curse which had been cast over the place by the evil deeds of its present owners. "Methinks thou couldst well do that thyself, my faithful knight," answered Joan, with a great light in her eyes; "for methinks all evil must fly thy presence, as night flies from the beams of day. Art thou not pledged to a high and holy service? and hast thou not proved ere now how nobly thou canst keep that pledge?" At that moment John stirred in his sleep and opened his eyes. There was in them that slightly bewildered look that comes when the mind has been very far away in some distant dreamland, and where the weakened faculties have hardly the strength to reassert themselves. "Joan," he said -- "Joan, art thou there? art thou safe?" She rose and bent over him smilingly. "Here by thy side, good John, and perfectly safe. Where should I be?" "And Raymond too?" "Raymond too. What ails thee, John, that thou art so troubled?" He smiled slightly as he looked round more himself. "It must have been a dream, but it was a strangely vivid one. Belike it was our talk of a short while back; for I thought thou wast fleeing from the malice of the Sanghurst, and that Raymond was in his power, awaiting his malignant rage and vengeance. I know not how it would have ended -- I was glad to wake. I fear me, sweet Joan, that thou wilt yet have a hard battle ere thou canst cast loose from the toil spread for thee by yon bad man." Joan threw back her head with a queenly gesture. "Fear not for me, kind John, for now I am no longer alone to fight my battle. I have Raymond for my faithful knight and champion. Raymond and I have plighted our troth this very day. Let Peter Sanghurst do his worst; it will take a stronger hand than his to sunder love like ours!" John's pale face kindled with sympathy and satisfaction. He looked from one to the other and held out his thin hands. "My heart's wishes and blessings be with you both," he said. "I have so many times thought of some such thing, and longed to see it accomplished. There may be clouds athwart your path, but there will be sunshine behind the cloud. Joan, thou hast chosen thy knight worthily and well. It may be that men will never call him knight. It may be that he will not have trophies rich and rare to lay at thy feet. But thou and I know well that there is a knighthood not of this world, and in that order of chivalry his spurs have already been won, and he will not, with thee at his side, ever be tempted to forget his high and holy calling. For thou wilt be the guiding star of his life; and thou too art dedicated to serve." There was silence for a few moments in the quiet room. John lay back on his pillows panting somewhat, and with that strange unearthly light they had seen there before deepening in his eyes. They had observed that look often of late -- as though he saw right through them and beyond to a glory unspeakable, shut out for the time from their view. Joan put out her hand and took that of Raymond, as if there was assurance in the warm human clasp. But their eyes were still fixed upon John's face, which was changing every moment. He had done much to form both their minds, this weakly scion of the De Brocas house, whose life was held by those who bore his name to be nothing but a failure. It was from him they had both imbibed those thoughts and aspirations which had been the first link drawing them together, and which had culminated in an act of the highest self-sacrifice and devotion. And now it seemed to him, as he lay there looking at them, the two beings upon earth that he loved the best (for Raymond was more to him than a brother, and Joan the one woman whom, had things gone otherwise with him, he would fain have made his wife), that he might well leave his work in their hands -- that they would carry on to completion the nameless labour of love which he had learned to look upon as the highest form of chivalry. "Raymond," he said faintly. Raymond came and bent down over him. "I am close beside thee, John." "I know it. I feel it. I am very happy. Raymond, thou wilt not forget me?" "Never, John, never." "I have been very happy in thy brotherly love and friendship. It has been very sweet to me. Raymond, thou wilt not forget thy vow? Thou wilt ever be true to that higher life that we have spoken of so oft together?" Raymond's face was full of deep and steadfast purpose. "I will be faithful, I will be true," he answered. "God helping me, I will be true to the vow we have made together. Joan shall be my witness now, as I make it anew to thee here." "Not for fame or glory or praise of man alone," murmured John, his voice growing fainter and fainter, "but first for the glory of God and His honour, and then for the poor, the feeble, the helpless, the needy. To be a champion to such as have none to help them, to succour the distressed, to comfort the mourner, to free those who are wrongfully oppressed, even though kings be the oppressors -- that is the true courage, the true chivalry; that is the service to which thou, my brother, art pledged." Raymond bent his head, whilst Joan's clasp tightened on his hand. They both knew that John was dying, but they had looked too often upon death to fear it now. They did not summon any one to his side. No priest was to be found at that time, and John had not long since received the Sacrament with one who had lately died in the house. There was no restlessness or pain in his face, only a great peace and rest. His voice died away, but he still looked at Raymond, as though to the last he would fain see before his eyes the face he had grown to love best upon earth. His breath grew shorter and shorter. Raymond thought he made a sign to him to bend his head nearer. Stooping over him, he caught the faintly-whispered words: "Tell my father not to grieve that I did not die a knight. He has his other sons; and I have been very happy. Tell him that -- happier, I trow, than any of them --" There were a brief silence and a slight struggle for breath, then one whispered phrase: "I will arise and go to my Father --" Those were the last words spoken by John de Brocas. CHAPTER XXII. THE BLACK VISOR. "Brother, this is like old times," said Gaston, his hand upon Raymond's shoulder as they stood side by side in the extreme prow of the vessel that was conveying them once again towards the sunny south of France. The salt spray dashed in their faces, the hum of the cordage overhead was in their ears, and their thoughts had gone back to that day, now nigh upon eight years back, when they, as unknown and untried boys, had started forth to see the world together. Gaston's words broke the spell of silence, and Raymond turned his head to scan the stalwart form beside him with a look of fond admiration and pride. "Nay, scarce like those old days, Sir Gaston de Brocas," he answered, speaking the name with significant emphasis; and Gaston laughed and tossed back his leonine head with a gesture of mingled pride and impatience as he said: "Tush, Brother! I scarce know how to prize my knighthood now that thou dost not share it with me -- thou so far more truly knightly and worthy. I had ever planned that we had been together in that as in all else. Why wert thou not with me that day when we vanquished the navy of proud Spain? The laurels are scarce worth the wearing that thou wearest not with me." For Gaston was now indeed a knight. He had fought beside the Prince in the recent engagement at sea, when a splendid naval victory had been obtained over the Spanish fleet. He had performed prodigies of valour on that occasion, and had been instrumental in the taking of many rich prizes. And when the royal party had returned to Windsor, Gaston had been named, with several more youthful gentlemen, to receive knighthood at the hands of the Prince of Wales. Whereupon Master Bernard de Brocas had stood forward and told the story of the parentage of the twin brothers, claiming kinship with them, and speaking in high praise of Raymond, who, since the death of John, had been employed by his uncle in a variety of small matters that used to be John's province to see to. In every point the Gascon youth had shown aptitude and ability beyond the average, and had won high praise from his clerical kinsman, who was more the statesman than the parish priest. Very warmly had the de Brocas brothers been welcomed by their kinsmen; and as they laid no claim to any lands or revenues in the possession of other members of the family, not the least jealousy or ill-will was excited by their rise in social status. All that Gaston asked of the King was liberty some day, when the hollow truce with France should be broken, and when the King's matters were sufficiently settled to permit of private enterprise amongst his own servants, to gather about him a company of bold kindred spirits, and strive to wrest back from the treacherous and rapacious Sieur de Navailles the ancient castle of Saut, which by every law of right should belong to his own family. The King listened graciously to this petition, and gave Gaston full encouragement to hope to regain his fathers' lost inheritance. But of Basildene no word was spoken then; for the shrewd Master Bernard had warned Raymond that the time had not yet come to prosecute that claim -- and indeed the neglected old house, crumbling to the dust and environed by an evil reputation which effectually kept all men away from it, seemed scarce worth the struggle it would cost to wrest it from the keeping of Peter Sanghurst. This worthy, since his father's death, had entered upon a totally new course of existence. He had appeared at Court, sumptuously dressed, and with a fairly large following. He had ingratiated himself with the King by a timely loan of gold (for the many drains upon Edward's resources kept him always short of money for his household and family expenses), and was playing the part of a wealthy and liberal man. It was whispered of him, as it had been of his father, that he had some secret whereby to fill his coffers with gold whenever they were empty, and this reputation gave him a distinct prestige with his comrades and followers. He was not accused of black magic, like his father. His secret was supposed to have been inherited by him, not bought with the price of his soul. It surrounded him with a faint halo of mystery, but it was mystery that did him good rather than harm. The King himself took favourable notice of one possessed of such a golden secret, and for the present the Sanghurst was better left in undisturbed possession of his ill-gotten gains. Raymond had learned the difficult lesson of patience, and accepted his uncle's advice. It was the easier to be patient since he knew that Joan was for the present safe from the persecutions of her hated suitor. Joan had been summoned to go to her father almost immediately upon the death of John de Brocas. He had sent for her to Woodcrych, and she had travelled thither at once with the escort sent to fetch her. Raymond had heard from her once since that time. In the letter she had contrived to send him she had told him that her mother was dead, having fallen a victim to the dreaded distemper she had fled to avoid, but which had nevertheless seized her almost immediately upon her arrival at her husband's house. He too had been stricken, but had recovered; and his mind having been much affected by his illness and trouble, he had resolved upon a pilgrimage to Rome, in which his daughter was to accompany him. She did not know how long they would be absent from England, and save for the separation from her true love, she was glad to go. Her brother would return to the Court, and only she and her father would take the journey. She had heard nothing all these weeks of the dreaded foe, and hoped he might have passed for ever from her life. And in this state matters stood with the brothers as the vessel bore them through the tossing blue waves that bright May morning, every plunge of the well-fitted war sloop bringing them nearer and nearer to the well-known and well-loved harbour of Bordeaux. Yet it was on no private errand that they were bound, though Gaston could not approach the familiar shores of Gascony without thinking of that long-cherished hope of his now taking so much more solid a shape. The real object of this small expedition was, however, the relief of the town of St. Jean d'Angely, belonging to the English King, which had been blockaded for some time by the French monarch. The distressed inhabitants had contrived to send word to Edward of their strait, and he had despatched the Earl of Warwick with a small picked army to its relief. The Gascon twins had been eager to join this small contingent, and had volunteered for the service. Gaston was put in command of a band of fine soldiers, and his brother took service with him. This was the first time for several years that Raymond had been in arms, for of late his avocations had been of a more peaceful nature. But he possessed all the soldier instincts of his race, and by his brother's side would go joyfully into battle again. He did not know many of the knights and gentlemen serving in this small expedition, nor did Gaston either, for that matter. It was too small an undertaking to attract the flower of Edward's chivalry, and the Black Death had made many gaps in the ranks of the comrades the boys had first known when they had fought under the King's banner. But the satisfaction of being together again made amends for all else. Indeed they scarce had eyes for any but each other, and had so much to tell and to ask that the voyage was all too short for them. Amongst those on board Raymond had frequently noticed the figure of a tall man always in full armour, and always wearing his visor down, so that none might see his face. His armour was of fine workmanship, light and strong, and seemed in no way to incommode him. There was no device upon it, save some serpents cunningly inlaid upon the breastplate, and the visor was richly chased and inlaid with black, so that the whole effect was gloomy and almost sinister. Raymond had once or twice asked the name of the Black Visor, as men called him, but none had been able to tell him. It was supposed that he was under some vow -- a not very uncommon thing in the days of chivalry -- and that he might not remove his visor until he had performed some gallant feat of arms. Sometimes it had seemed to the youth as though the dark eyes looking out through the holes in that black covering were fixed more frequently upon himself than upon any one else; and if he caught full for a moment the fiery gleam, he would wonder for the instant it lasted where and when he had seen those eyes before. But his mind was not in any sense of the word concerned with the Black Visor, and it was only now and then he gave him a passing thought. And now the good vessel was slipping through the still waters of the magnificent harbour of Bordeaux. The deck was all alive with the bustle of speedy landing, and the Gascon brothers were scanning the familiar landmarks and listening with delight to the old familiar tongue. Familiar faces there were none to be seen, it is true. The boys were too much of foreigners now to have many old friends in the queenly city. But the whole place was homelike to them, and would be so to their lives' ends. Moreover, they hoped ere they took ship again to have time and opportunity to revisit old haunts and see their foster parents and the good priest once more; but for the present their steps were turned northward towards the gallant little beleaguered town which had appealed to the English King for aid. A few days were spent at Bordeaux collecting provisions for the town, and mustering the reinforcements which the loyal city was always ready and eager to supply in answer to any demand on the part of the Roy Outremer. The French King had died the previous year, and his son John, formerly Duke of Normandy, was now upon the throne; but the situation between the two nations had by no means changed, and indeed the bitter feeling between them was rather increased than diminished by the many petty breaches of faith on one side or another, of which this siege of St. Jean d'Angely was an example. On the whole the onus of breaking the truce rested more with the French than the English. But a mere truce, where no real peace is looked for on either side, is but an unsatisfactory state of affairs at best; and although both countries were sufficiently exhausted by recent wars and the ravages of the plague to desire the interlude prolonged, yet hostilities of one kind or another never really ceased, and the struggles between the rival lords of Brittany and their heroic wives always kept the flame of war smouldering. Gascony as a whole was always loyal to the English cause, and Bordeaux too well knew what she owed to the English trade ever to be backward when called upon by the English King. Speedily a fine band of soldiers was assembled, and at dawn one day the march northward was commenced. The little army mustered some five thousand men, all well fed and in capital condition for the march. Raymond rode by his brother's side well in the van, and he noticed presently, amongst the new recruits who had joined them, another man of very tall stature, who also wore a black visor over his face. He was plainly a friend to the unknown knight (if knight he were) who had sailed in their vessel, for they rode side by side deep in talk; and behind them, in close and regular array, rode a number of their immediate followers, all wearing a black tuft in their steel caps and a black band round their arm. However, there was nothing very noteworthy in this. Many men had followers marked by some distinctive badge, and the sombre little contingent excited small notice. They all looked remarkably fine soldiers, and appeared to be under excellent discipline. More than that was not asked of any man, and the Gascons were well known to be amongst the best soldiers of the day. The early start and the long daylight enabled the gallant little band to push on in the one day to the banks of the Charente, and within a few miles of St. Jean itself. There, however, a halt was called, for the French were in a remarkably good position, and it was necessary to take counsel how they might best be attacked. In the first place there was the river to be crossed, and the one bridge was in the hands of the enemy, who had fortified it, and would be able to hold it against great odds. They were superior in numbers to their assailants, and probably knew their advantage. Gaston, who well understood the French nature, was the first to make a likely suggestion. "Let us appear to retreat," he said. "They will then see our small numbers, and believe that we are flying through fear of them. Doubtless they will at once rush out to pursue and attack us, and after we have drawn them from their strong position, we can turn again upon them and slay them, or drive them into the river." This suggestion was received with great favour, and it was decided to act upon it that very day. There were still several hours of daylight before them, and the men, who had had wine and bread distributed to them, were full of eagerness for the fray. The French, who were quite aware of the strength of their own position, and very confident of ultimate victory, were narrowly watching the movements of the English, whose approach had been for some time expected by them. They were certain that they could easily withstand the onslaught of the whole body, if these were bold enough to attack, and they well knew how terribly thinned would the English ranks become before they could hope to cross the bridge and march upon the main body of the French army encamped before the town. Great, then, was the exultation of the French when they saw how much terror they had inspired in the heart of the foe. They were eagerly observing their movements; they saw that a council had been called amongst the chiefs, and that deliberations had been entered into by them. But so valiant were the English in fight, and so many were the victories they had obtained with numbers far inferior to those of the foe, that there was a natural sense of uncertainty as to the result of a battle, even when all the chances of the war seemed to be against the foreign foe. But when the trumpets actually sounded the retreat, and they saw the whole body moving slowly away, then indeed did they feel that triumph was near, and a great shout of derision and anger rose up in the still evening air. "To horse, men, and after them!" was the word given, and a cry of fierce joy went up from the whole army. "My Lords of England, you will not get off in that way. You have come hither by your own will; you shall not leave until you have paid your scot." No great order was observed as the Frenchmen sprang to horse and galloped across the bridge, and so after the retreating foe. Every man was eager to bear his share in the discomfiture of the English contingent, and hardly staying to arm themselves fully, the eager, hot-headed French soldiers, horse and foot, swung along in any sort of order, only eager to cut to pieces the flower of the English chivalry (as their leaders had dubbed this little band), and inflict a dark stain upon the honour of Edward's brilliant arms. In the ranks of this same English contingent, now in rapid and orderly retreat, there was to the full as much exultation and lust of battle as in the hearts of their pursuing foes. Every man grasped his weapon and set his teeth firmly, the footmen marching steadily onwards at a rapid and swinging pace, whilst the horsemen, who brought up the rear -- for they were to be the first to charge when the trumpet sounded the advance -- kept turning their heads to watch the movement of the foe, and sent up a brief huzzah as they saw that their ruse had proved successful, and that their foes were coming fast after them. "Keep thou by my side in the battle today, Raymond," said Gaston, as he looked to the temper of his weapons and glanced backwards over his shoulder. "Thou hast been something more familiar with the pen than the sword of late -- and thy faithful esquire likewise. Fight, then, by my side, and together we will meet and overcome the foe. They will fight like wolves, I doubt not, for they will be bitterly wrathful when they see the trick we have played upon them. Wherefore quit not my side, be the fighting never so hot, for I would have thee ever with me." "I wish for nothing better for myself," answered Raymond, with a fond proud glance at the stalwart Gaston, who now towered a full head taller above him, and was a very king amongst men. He was mounted on a fine black war horse, who had carried his master victoriously through many charges before today. Raymond's horse was much lighter in build, a wiry little barb with a distinct Arab strain, fearless in battle, and fleet as the wind, but without the weight or solidity of Gaston's noble charger. Indeed, Gaston had found some fault with the creature's lack of weight for withstanding the onslaught of cavalry charge; but he suited Raymond so well in other ways that the latter had declined to make any change, and told his brother smilingly that his great Lucifer had weight and strength for both. Scarcely had Gaston given this charge to his brother before the trumpets sounded a new note, and at once the compact little body of horse and foot halted, wheeled round, and put themselves in position for the advance. Another blast from those same trumpets, given with all the verve and joyousness of coming victory, and the horses of their own accord sprang forward to the attack. Then the straggling and dismayed body of Frenchmen who had been pushing on in advance of their fellows to fall upon the flying English, found themselves opposed to one of those magnificent cavalry charges which made the glory and the terror of the English arms throughout the reign of the great Edward. Vainly trying to rally themselves, and with shouts of "St. Dennis!" "St. Dennis!" the Frenchmen rushed upon their foes; and the detachments from behind coming up quickly, the engagement became general at once, and was most hotly contested on both sides. Gaston was one of the foremost to charge into the ranks of the French, and singling out the tallest and strongest adversary he could see, rode full upon him, and was quickly engaged in a fierce hand-to-hand conflict. Raymond was close beside him, and soon found himself engaged in parrying the thrusts of several foes. But Roger was quickly at his side, taking his own share of hard blows; and as the foot and horse from behind pressed on after the impetuous leaders, and more and more detachments from the French army came up to assist their comrades, the melee became very thick, and in the crush it was impossible to see what was happening except just in front, and to avoid the blows levelled at him was all that Raymond was able to think of for many long minutes -- minutes that seemed more like hours. When the press became a little less thick about him, Raymond looked round for his brother, but could not see him. A body of riders, moving in a compact wedge, had forced themselves in between himself and Gaston. He saw the white plume in his brother's helmet waving at some distance away to the left, but when he tried to rein in his horse and reach him, he still found himself surrounded by the same phalanx of mounted soldiers, who kept pressing him by sheer weight on and on away to the right, though the tide of battle was most distinctly rolling to the left. The French were flying promiscuously back to their lines, and the English soldiers were in hot pursuit. Raymond was no longer amid foes. He had long since ceased to have to use his sword either for attack or defence, but he could not check the headlong pace of his mettlesome little barb, nor could he by any exertion of strength turn the creature's head in any other direction. As he was in the midst of those he looked upon as friends, he had no uneasiness as to his own position, even though entirely separated from Gaston and Roger, who generally kept close at his side. He was so little used of late to the manoeuvres of war, that he fancied this headlong gallop, in which he was taking an involuntary part, might be the result of military tactics, and that he should see its use presently. But as he and his comrades flew over the ground, and the din of the battle died away in his ears, and the last of the evening sunlight faded from the sky, a strange sense of coming ill fell upon Raymond's spirit. Again he made a most resolute and determined effort to check the fiery little creature he rode, who seemed as if his feet were furnished with wings, so fast he spurned the ground beneath his hoofs. Then for the first time the youth found that this mad pace was caused by regular goading from the silent riders who surrounded him. Turning in his saddle he saw that these men were one and all engaged in pricking and spurring on the impetuous little steed; and as he cast a keen and searching look at these strange riders, he saw that they all wore in their steel caps the black tuft of the followers of the Black Visor and his sable-coated companion, and that these two leaders rode themselves a little distance behind. Greatly astonished at the strange thing that was befalling him, yet not, so far, alarmed for his personal safety, Raymond drew his sword and looked steadily round at the ring of men surrounding him. "Cease to interfere with my horse, gentlemen," he said, in stern though courteous accents. "It may be your pleasure thus to ride away from the battle, but it is not mine; and I will ask of you to let me take my way whilst you take yours. Why you desire my company I know not, but I do not longer desire yours; wherefore forbear!" Not a word or a sign was vouchsafed him in answer; but as he attempted to rein back his panting horse, now fairly exhausted with the struggle between the conflicting wills of so many persons, the dark silent riders continued to urge him forward with open blows and pricks from sword point, till, as he saw that his words were still unheeded, a dangerous glitter shone in Raymond's eyes. "Have a care how you molest me, gentlemen!" he said, in clear, ringing tones. "Ye are carrying a jest (if jest it be meant for) a little too far. The next who dares to touch my horse must defend himself from my sword." And then a sudden change came over the bearing of his companions. A dozen swords sprang from their scabbards. A score of harsh voices replied to these words in fierce accents of defiance. One -- two -- three heavy blows fell upon his head; and though he set his teeth and wheeled about to meet and grapple with his foes, he felt from the first moment that he had no chance whatever against such numbers, and that the only thing to do was to sell his life as dearly as he could. There was no time to ask or even to wonder at the meaning of this mysterious attack. All he could do was to strive to shield his head from the blows that rained upon him, and breathe a prayer for succour in the midst of his urgent need. And then he heard a voice speaking in accents of authority: where had he heard that voice before? "Hold, men! have I not warned you to do him no hurt? Kill him not, but take him alive." That was the last thing Raymond remembered. His next sensation was of falling and strangulation. Then a blackness swam before his eyes, and sense and memory alike fled. CHAPTER XXIII. IN THE HANDS OF HIS FOE. How long that blackness and darkness lasted Raymond never really knew. It seemed to him that he awoke from it at occasional long intervals, always to find himself dreaming of rapid motion, as though he were being transported through the air with considerable speed. But there was no means of telling in what direction he moved, nor in what company. His senses were clouded and dull. He did not know what was real and what part of a dream. He had no recollection of any of the events immediately preceding this sudden and extraordinary journey, and after a brief period of bewilderment would sink back into the black abyss of unconsciousness from which he had been roused for a few moments. At last, after what seemed to him an enormous interval -- for he knew not whether hours, days, or even years had gone by whilst he had remained in this state of unconscious apathy, he slowly opened his eyes, to find that the black darkness had given place to a faint murky light, and that he was no longer being carried rapidly onwards, but was lying still upon a heap of straw in some dim place, the outlines of which only became gradually visible to him. Raymond was very weak, and weakness exercises a calming and numbing effect upon the senses. He felt no alarm at finding himself in this strange place, but after gazing about him without either recollection or comprehension, he turned round upon his bed of straw, which was by no means the worst resting place he had known in his wanderings, and quickly fell into a sound sleep. When he awoke some hours later, the place was lighter than it had been, for a ray of sunlight had penetrated through the loophole high above his head, and illuminated with tolerable brightness the whole of the dim retreat in which he found himself. Raymond raised himself upon his elbow and looked wonderingly around him. "What in the name of all the Holy Saints has befallen me?" he questioned, speaking half aloud in the deep stillness, glad to break the oppressive silence, if it were only by the sound of his own voice. "I feel as though a leaden weight were pressing down my limbs, and my head is throbbing as though a hammer were beating inside it. I can scarce frame my thoughts as I will. What was I doing last, before this strange thing befell me?" He put his hand to his head and strove to think; but for a time memory eluded him, and his bewilderment grew painfully upon him. Then he espied a pitcher of water and some coarse food set not far away, and he rose with some little difficulty and dragged his stiffened limbs across the stone floor till he reached the spot where this provision stood. "Sure, this be something of the prisoner's fare," he said, as he raised the pitcher to his lips; "yet I will refresh myself as best I may. Perchance I shall then regain my scattered senses and better understand what has befallen me." He ate and drank slowly, and it was as he hoped. The nourishment he sorely needed helped to dispel the clouds of weakness and faintness which had hindered the working of his mind before, and a ray of light penetrated the mists about him. "Ha!" he exclaimed, "I have it now! We were in battle together -- Gaston and I rode side by side. I recollect it all now. We were separated in the press, and I was carried off by the followers of the Black Visor. Strange! He was in our ranks. He is a friend, and not a foe. How came it, then, that his men-at-arms made such an error as to set upon me? Was it an error? Did I not hear him, or his huge companion, give some order for my capture to his men before their blades struck me down? It is passing strange. I comprehend it not. But Gaston will be here anon to make all right. There must be some strange error. Sure I must have been mistaken for some other man." Raymond was not exactly uneasy, though a little bewildered and disturbed in mind by the strangeness of the adventure. It seemed certain to him that there must have been some mistake. That he was at present a prisoner could not be doubted, from the nature of the place in which he was shut up, and the silence and gloom about him; but unless he had been abandoned by his first captors, and had fallen into the hands of the French, he believed that his captivity would speedily come to an end when the mistake concerning his identity was explained. If indeed he were in the power of some French lord, there might be a little longer delay, as a ransom would no doubt have to be found for him ere he could be released. But then Gaston was at liberty, and Gaston had now powerful friends and no mean share in some of the prizes which had been taken by sea and land. He would quickly accomplish his brother's deliverance when once he heard of his captivity; and there would be no difficulty in sending him a message, as his captor's great desire would doubtless be to obtain as large a ransom as he was able to extort. "They had done better had they tried to seize upon Gaston himself," said Raymond, with a half smile. "He would have been a prize better worth the taking. But possibly he would have proved too redoubtable a foe. Methinks my arm has somewhat lost its strength or cunning, else should I scarce have fallen so easy a prey. I ought to have striven harder to have kept by Gaston's side; but I know not now how we came to be separated. And Roger, too, who has ever been at my side in all times of strife and danger, how came he to be sundered from me likewise? It must have been done by the fellows who bore me off -- the followers of the Black Visor. Strange, very strange! I know not what to think of it. But when next my jailer comes he will doubtless tell me where I am and what is desired of me." The chances of war were so uncertain, and the captive of one day so often became the victor of the next, that Raymond, who for all his fragile look possessed a large fund of cool courage, did not feel greatly disturbed by the ill-chance that had befallen him. Many French knights were most chivalrous and courteous to their prisoners; some even permitted them to go out on parole to collect their own ransoms, trusting to their word of honour to return if they were unable to obtain the stipulated sum. The English cause had many friends amongst the French nobility, and friendships as well as enmities had resulted from the English occupation of such large tracts of France. So Raymond resolved to make the best of his incarceration whilst it lasted, trusting that some happy accident would soon set him at large again. With such a brother as Gaston on the outside of his prison wall, it would be foolish to give way to despondency. He looked curiously about at the cave-like place in which he found himself. It appeared to be a natural chamber formed in the living rock. It received a certain share of air and light from a long narrow loophole high up overhead, and the place was tolerably fresh and dry, though its proportions were by no means large. Still it was lofty, and it was wide enough to admit of a certain but limited amount of exercise to its occupant. Raymond found that he could make five paces along one side of it and four along the other. Except the heap of straw, upon which he had been laid, there was no plenishing of any kind to the cell. However, as it was probably only a temporary resting place, this mattered the less. Raymond had been worse lodged during some of his wanderings before now, and for the two years that he had lived amongst the Cistercian Brothers, he had scarcely been more luxuriously treated. His cell there had been narrower than this place, his fare no less coarse than that he had just partaken of, and his pallet bed scarce so comfortable as this truss of straw. "Father Paul often lay for weeks upon the bare stone floor," mused Raymond, as he sat down again upon his bed. "Sure I need not grumble that I have such a couch as this." He was very stiff and bruised, as he found on attempting to move about, but he had no actual wounds, and no bones were broken. His light strong armour had protected him, or else his foes had been striving to vanquish without seriously hurting him. He could feel that his head had been a good deal battered about, for any consecutive thought tired him; but it was something to have come off without worse injury, and sleep would restore him quickly to his wonted strength. He lay down upon the straw presently, and again he slept soundly and peacefully. He woke up many hours later greatly refreshed, aroused by some sound from the outside of his prison. The light had completely faded from the loophole. The place was in pitchy darkness. There is something a little terrible in black oppressive darkness -- the darkness which may almost be felt; and Raymond was not sorry, since he had awakened, to hear the sound of grating bolts, and then the slow creaking of a heavy door upon its hinges. A faint glimmer of light stole into the cell, and Raymund marked the entrance of a tall dark figure habited like a monk, the cowl drawn so far over the face as entirely to conceal the features. However, the ecclesiastical habit was something of a comfort to Raymond, who had spent so much of his time amongst monks, and he rose to his feet with a respectful salutation in French. The monk stepped within the cell, and drew the door behind him, turning the heavy key in the lock. The small lantern he carried with him gave only a very feeble light; but it was better than nothing, and enabled Raymond to see the outline of the tall form, which looked almost gigantic in the full religious habit. "Welcome, Holy Father," said Raymond, still speaking in French. "Right glad am I to look upon face of man again. I prithee tell me where I am, and into whose hands I have fallen; for methinks there is some mistake in the matter, and that they take me for one whom I am not." "They take thee for one Raymond de Brocas, who lays claim, in thine own or thy brother's person, to Basildene in England and Orthez and Saut in Gascony," answered the monk, who spoke slowly in English and in a strangely-muffled voice. "If thou be not he, say so, and prove it without loss of time; for evil is purposed to Raymond de Brocas, and it were a pity it should fall upon the wrong head." A sudden shiver ran through Raymond's frame. Was there not something familiar in the muffled sound of that English voice? was there not something in the words and tone that sounded like a cruel sneer? Was it his fancy that beneath the long habit of the monk he caught the glimpse of some shining weapon? Was this some terrible dream come to his disordered brain? Was he the victim of an illusion? or did this tall, shadowy figure stand indeed before him? For a moment Raymond's head seemed to swim, and then his nerves steadied themselves, and he wondered if he might not be disquieting himself in vain. Possibly, after all, this might be a holy man -- one who would stand his friend in the future. "Thou art English?" he asked quickly; "and if English, surely a friend to thy countrymen?" "I am English truly," was the low-toned answer, "and I am here to advise thee for thy good." "I thank thee for that at least. I will follow thy counsel, if I may with honour." It seemed as though a low laugh forced its way from under the heavy cowl. The monk drew one step nearer. "Thou hadst better not trouble thy head about honour. What good will thy honour be to thee if they tear thee piecemeal limb from limb, or roast thee to death over a slow fire, or rack thee till thy bones start from their sockets? Let thy honour go to the winds, foolish boy, and think only how thou mayest save thy skin. There be those around and about thee who will have no mercy so long as thou provest obdurate. Bethink thee well how thou strivest against them, for thou knowest little what may well befall thee in their hands." The blood seemed to run cold in Raymond's veins as he heard these terrible words, spoken with a cool deliberation which did nothing detract from their dread significance. Who was it who once -- nay, many times in bygone years -- had threatened him with just that cool, deliberate emphasis, seeming to gloat over the dark threats uttered, as though they were to him full of a deep and cruel joy? It seemed to the youth as though he were in the midst of some dark and horrible dream from which he must speedily awake. He passed his hand fiercely across his eyes and made a quick step towards the monk. "Who and what art thou?" he asked, in stifled accents, for it seemed as though a hideous oppression was upon him, and he scarce knew the sound of his own voice; and then, with a harsh, grating laugh, the tall figure recoiled a pace, and flung the cowl from his head, and with an exclamation of astonishment and dismay Raymond recognized his implacable foe and rival, Peter Sanghurst, whom last he had beheld within the walls of Basildene. "Thou here!" he exclaimed, and moved back as far as the narrow limits of the cell would permit, as though from the presence of some noxious beast. Peter Sanghurst folded his arms and gazed upon his youthful rival with a gleam of cool, vindictive triumph in his cruel eyes that might well send a thrill of chill horror through the lad's slight frame. When he spoke it was with the satisfaction of one who gloats over a victim utterly and entirely in his power. "Ay, truly I am here; and thou art mine, body and soul, to do with what I will; none caring what befalls thee, none to interpose between thee and me. I have waited long for this hour, but I have not waited in vain. I can read the future. I knew that one day thou wouldst be in my hands -- that I might do my pleasure upon thee, whatsoever that pleasure might be. Knowing that, I have been content to wait; only every day the debt has been mounting up. Every time that thou, rash youth, hast dared to try to thwart me, hast dared to strive to stand between me and the object of my desires, a new score has been written down in the record I have long kept against thee. Now the day of reckoning has come, and thou wilt find the reckoning a heavy one. But thou shalt pay it -- every jot and tittle shalt thou pay. Thou shalt not escape from my power until thou hast paid the uttermost farthing." The man's lips parted in a hideous smile which showed his white teeth, sharp and pointed like the fangs of a wolf. Raymond felt his courage rise with the magnitude of his peril. That some unspeakably terrible doom was designed for him he could not doubt. The malignity and cruelty of his foe were too well understood; but at least if he must suffer, he would suffer in silence. His enemy should not have the satisfaction of wringing from him one cry for mercy. He would die a thousand times sooner than sue to him. He thought of Joan -- realizing that for her sake he should be called upon, in some sort, to bear this suffering; and even the bare thought sent a thrill of ecstasy through him. Any death that was died for her would be sweet. And might not his be instrumental in ridding her for ever of her hateful foe? Would not Gaston raise heaven and earth to discover his brother? Surely he would, sooner or later, find out what had befallen him; and then might Peter Sanghurst strive in vain to flee from the vengeance he had courted: he would assuredly fall by Gaston's hand, tracked down even to the ends of the earth. Peter Sanghurst, his eyes fixed steadily on the face of his victim, hoping to enjoy by anticipation his agonies of terror, saw only a gleam of resolution and even of joy pass across his face, and he gnashed his teeth in sudden rage at finding himself unable to dominate the spirit of the youth, as he meant shortly to rack his body. "Thou thinkest still to defy me, mad boy?" he asked. "Thou thinkest that thy brother will come to thine aid? Let him try to trace thee if he can! I defy him ever to learn where thou art. Wouldst know it thyself? Then thou shalt do so, and thou wilt see thy case lost indeed. Thou art in that Castle of Saut that thou wouldest fain call thine own -- that castle which has never yet been taken by foe from without, and never will be yet, so utterly impregnable is its position. Thou art in the hands of the Lord of Navailles, who has his own score to settle with thee, and who will not let thee go till thou hast resigned in thy brother's name and thine own every one of those bold claims which, as he has heard, have been made to the Roy Outremer by one or both of you. Now doth thy spirit quail? now dost thou hope for succour from without? Bid adieu to all such fond and idle hopes. Thou art here utterly alone, no man knowing what has befallen thee. Thou art in the hands of thy two bitterest foes, men who are known and renowned for their cruelty and their evil deeds -- men who would crush to death a hundred such as thou who dared to strive to bar their way. Now what sayest thou? how about that boasted honour of thine? Thou hadst best hear reason ere thou hast provoked thy foes too far, and make for thyself the best terms that thou canst. Thou mayest yet save thyself something if thou wilt hear reason." Raymond's face was set like a flint. He had no power to rid himself of the presence of his foe, but yield one inch to persuasion or threat he was resolved not to do. For one thing, his distrust of this man was so great that he doubted if any concessions made by him would be of the smallest value in obtaining him his release; for another, his pride rose up in arms against yielding anything to fear that he would not yield were he a free man in the midst of his friends. No: at all costs he would stand firm. He could but die once, and what other men had borne for their honour or their faith he could surely bear. His lofty young face kindled and glowed with the enthusiasm of his resolution, and again the adversary's face darkened with fury. "Thou thinkest perhaps that I have forgot the art of torture since thou wrested from me one victim? Thou shalt find that what he suffered at my hands was but the tithe of what thou shalt endure. Thou hast heard perchance of that chamber in the heart of the earth where the Lord of Navailles welcomes his prisoners who have secrets worth the knowing, or treasures hidden out of his reach? That chamber is not far from where thou standest now, and there be willing hands to carry thee thither into the presence of its Lord, who lets not his visitors escape him till he has wrung from their reluctant lips every secret of which he desires the key. And what are his clumsy engines to the devices and refinements of torture that I can inflict when once that light frame is bound motionless upon the rack, and stretched till not a muscle may quiver save at my bidding? Rash boy, beware how thou provokest me to do my worst; for once I have thee thus bound beneath my hands, then the devil of hatred and cruelty which possesses me at times will come upon me, and I shall not let thee go until I have done my worst. Bethink thee well ere thou provokest me too far. Listen and be advised, ere it be too late for repentance, and thy groans of abject submission fall upon unheeding ears. None will befriend thee then. Thou mayest now befriend thyself. If thou wilt not take the moment when it is thine, it may never be offered thee again." Raymond did not speak. He folded his arms and looked steadily across at his foe. He knew himself perfectly and absolutely helpless. Every weapon he possessed had been taken from him whilst he lay unconscious. His armour had been removed. He had nothing upon him save his light summer dress, and the precious heart hanging about his neck. Even the satisfaction of making one last battle for his life was denied him. His limbs were yet stiff and weak. His enemy would grip him as though he were a child if he so much as attempted to cast himself upon him. All that was now left for him was the silent dignity of endurance. Sanghurst made one step forward and seized the arm of the lad in a grip like that of a vice. So cruel was the grip that it was hard to restrain a start of pain. "Renounce Joan!" he hissed in the boy's ear; "renounce her utterly and for ever! Write at my bidding such words as I shall demand of thee, and thou shalt save thyself the worst of the agonies I will else inflict upon thee. Basildene thou shalt never get -- I can defy thee there, do as thou wilt; besides, if thou departest alive from this prison house, thou wilt have had enough of striving to thwart the will of Peter Sanghurst -- but Joan thou shalt renounce of thine own free will, and shalt so renounce her that her love for thee will be crushed and killed! Here is the inkhorn, and here the parchment. The ground will serve thee for a table, and I will tell thee what to write. Take then the pen, and linger not. Thou wouldst rejoice to write whatever words I bid thee didst thou know what is even now preparing in yon chamber below thy prison house. Take the pen and sit down. It is but a short half-hour's task." The strong man thrust the quill into the slight fingers of the boy; but Raymond suddenly wrenched his hand away, and flung the frail weapon to the other end of the cell. He saw the vile purpose in a moment. Peter knew something of the nature of the woman he passionately desired to win for his wife, and he well knew that no lies of his invention respecting the falsity of her young lover would weigh one instant with her. Even the death of his rival would help him in no whit, for Joan would cherish the memory of the dead, and pay no heed to the wooing of the living. There was but one thing that would give him the faintest hope, and that was the destruction of her faith in Raymond. Let him be proved faithless and unworthy, and her love and loyalty must of necessity receive a rude shock. Sanghurst knew the world, and knew that broken faith was the one thing a lofty-souled and pure-minded woman finds it hardest to forgive. Raymond, false to his vows, would no longer be a rival in his way. He might have a hard struggle to win the lady even then, but the one insuperable obstacle would be removed from his path. And Raymond saw the purpose in a moment. His quick and sharpened intelligence showed all to him in a flash. Not to save himself from any fate would he so disgrace his manhood -- prove unworthy in the hour of trial, deny his love, and by so doing deny himself the right to bear all for her dear sake. Flinging the pen to the ground and turning upon Sanghurst with a great light in his eyes, he told him how he read his base purpose, his black treachery, and dared him to do his worst. "My worst, mad boy, my worst!" cried the furious man, absolutely foaming at the mouth as he drew back, looking almost like a venomous snake couched for a spring. "Is that, then, thy answer -- thy unchangeable answer to the only loophole I offer thee of escaping the full vengeance awaiting thee from thy two most relentless foes? Bethink thee well how thou repeatest such words. Yet once again I bid thee pause. Take but that pen and do as I bid thee --" "I will not!" answered Raymond, throwing back his head in a gesture of noble, fearless defiance; "I will not do thy vile bidding. Joan is my true love, my faithful and loving lady. Her heart is mine and mine is hers, and her faithful knight I will live and die. Do your worst. I defy you to your face. There is a God above who can yet deliver me out of your hand if He will. If not -- if it be His will that I suffer in a righteous cause -- I will do it with a soul unseared by coward falsehood. There is my answer; you will get none other. Now do with me what you will. I fear you not." Peter Sanghurst's aspect changed. The fury died out, to be replaced by a perfectly cold and calm malignity a hundred times more terrible. He stooped and picked up the pen, replacing it with the parchment and inkhorn in a pouch at his girdle. Then throwing off entirely the long monk's habit which he had worn on his entrance, he advanced step by step upon Raymond, the glitter in his eye being terrible to see. Raymond did not move. He was already standing against the wall at the farthest limit of the cell. His foe slowly advanced upon him, and suddenly put out two long, powerful arms, and gripped him round the body in a clasp against which it was vain to struggle. Lifting him from his feet, he carried him into the middle of the chamber, and setting him down, but still encircling him with that bear-like embrace, he stamped thrice upon the stone floor, which gave out a hollow sound beneath his feet. The next moment there was a sound of strange creaking and groaning, as though some ponderous machinery were being set in motion. There was a sickening sensation, as though the very ground beneath his feet were giving way, and the next instant Raymond became aware that this indeed was the case. The great flagstone upon which he and his captor were standing was sinking, sinking, sinking into the very heart of the earth, as it seemed; and as they vanished together into the pitchy darkness, to the accompaniment of that same strange groaning and creaking, Raymond heard a hideous laugh in his ear. "This is how his victims are carried to the Lord of Navailles's torture chamber. Ha-ha! ha-ha! This is how they go down thither. Whether they ever come forth again is quite another matter!" CHAPTER XXIV. GASTON'S QUEST. When Gaston missed his brother from his side in the triumphant turning of the tables upon the French, he felt no uneasiness. The battle was going so entirely in favour of the English arms, and the discomfited French were making so small a stand, that the thought of peril to Raymond never so much as entered his head. In the waning light it was difficult to distinguish one from another, and for aught he knew his brother might be quite close at hand. They were engaged in taking prisoners such of their enemies as were worthy to be carried off; and when they had completely routed the band and made captive their leaders, it was quite dark, and steps were taken to encamp for the night. Then it was that Gaston began to wonder why he still saw nothing either of Raymond or of the faithful Roger, who was almost like his shadow. He asked all whom he met if anything had been seen of his brother, but the answer was always the same -- nobody knew anything about him. Nobody appeared to have seen him since the brothers rode into battle side by side; and the young knight began to feel thoroughly uneasy. Of course there had been some killed and wounded in the battle upon both sides, though the English loss was very trifling. Still it might have been Raymond's fate to be borne down in the struggle, and Gaston, calling some of his own personal attendants about him, and bidding them take lanterns in their hands, went forth to look for his brother upon the field where the encounter had taken place. The field was a straggling one, as the combat had taken the character of a rout at the end, and the dead and wounded lay at long intervals apart. Gaston searched and searched, his heart growing heavier as he did so, for his brother was very dear to him, and he felt a pang of bitter self-reproach at having left him, however inadvertently, to bear the brunt of the battle alone. But search as he would he found nothing either of Raymond or Roger, and a new fear entered into his mind. "Can he have been taken prisoner?" This did not seem highly probable. The French, bold enough at the outset when they had believed themselves secure of an easy victory, had changed their front mightily when they had discovered the trap set for them by their foes, and in the end had thought of little save how to save their own lives. They would scarce have burdened themselves with prisoners, least of all with one who did not even hold the rank of knight. This disappearance of his brother was perplexing Gaston not a little. He looked across the moonlit plain, now almost as light as day, a cloud of pain and bewilderment upon his face. "By Holy St. Anthony, where can the boy be?" he cried. Then one of his men-at-arms came up and spoke. "When we were pursuing the French here to the left, back towards their own lines, I saw a second struggle going on away to the right. The knight with the black visor seemed to be leading that pursuit, and though I could not watch it, as I had my own work to do here, I know that some of our men took a different line, there along by yon ridge to the right." "Let us go thither and search there," said Gaston, with prompt decision, "for plainly my brother is not here. It may be he has been following another flying troop. We will up and after him. Look well as you ride if there be any prostrate figures lying in the path. I fear me he may have been wounded in the rout, else surely he would not have stayed away so long." Turning his horse round, and closely followed by his men, Gaston rode off in the direction pointed out by his servant. It became plain that there had been fighting of some sort along this line, for a few dead and wounded soldiers, all Frenchmen, lay upon the ground at intervals. Nothing, however, could be seen of Raymond, and for a while nothing of Roger either; but just as Gaston was beginning to despair of finding trace of either, he beheld in the bright moonlight a figure staggering along in a blind and helpless fashion towards them, and spurring rapidly forward to meet it, he saw that it was Roger. Roger truly, but Roger in pitiable plight. His armour was gone. His doublet had been half stripped from off his back. He was bleeding from more than one wound, and in his eyes was a fixed and glassy stare, like that of one walking in sleep. His face was ghastly pale, and his breath came in quick sobs and gasps. "Roger, is it thou?" cried Gaston, in accents of quick alarm. "I have been seeking thee everywhere. Where is thy master? Where is my brother?" "Gone! gone! gone!" cried Roger, in a strange and despairing voice. "Carried off by his bitterest foes! Gone where we shall never see him more!" There was something in the aspect of the youth and in his lamentable words that sent an unwonted shiver through Gaston's frame; but he was quick to recover himself, and answered hastily: "Boy, thou art distraught! Tell me where my brother has gone. I will after him and rescue him. He cannot be very far away. Quick -- tell me what has befallen him!" "He has been carried off -- more I know not. He has been carried off by foulest treachery." "Treachery! Whose treachery? Who has carried him off?" "The knight of the Black Visor." "The Black Visor! Nay; thou must be deceived thyself! The Black Visor is one of our own company." "Ay verily, and that is why he succeeded where an open foe had failed. None guessed with what purpose he came when he and his men pushed their way in a compact wedge, and sundered my young master from your side, sir, driving him farther and farther from all beside, till he and I (who had managed to keep close beside him) were far away from all the world beside, galloping as if for dear life in a different direction. Then it was that they threw off the pretence of being friends -- that they set upon him and overpowered him, that they beat off even me from holding myself near at hand, and carried me bound in another direction. I was given in charge to four stalwart troopers, all wearing the black badge of their master. They bound my bands and my feet, and bore me along I knew not whither. I lost sight of my master. Him they took at headlong speed in another direction. I had been wounded in the battle. I was wounded by these men, struggling to follow your brother. I swooned in my saddle, and knew no more till a short hour ago, when I woke to find myself lying, still bound, upon a heap of straw in some outhouse of a farm. I heard the voices of my captors singing snatches of songs not far away; but they were paying no heed to their captive, and I made shift to slacken my bonds and slip out into the darkness of the wood. "I knew not where I was; but the moon told me how to bend my steps to find the English camp again. I, in truth, have escaped -- have come to bring you word of his peril; but ah, I fear, I fear that we shall never see him more! They will kill him -- they will kill him! He is in the hands of his deadliest foes!" "If we know where he is, we can rescue him without delay!" cried Gaston, who was not a little perplexed at the peculiar nature of the adventure which had befallen his brother. To be taken captive and carried off by one of the English knights (if indeed the Black Visor were a knight) was a most extraordinary thing to have happened. Gaston, who knew little enough of his brother's past history in detail, and had no idea that he had called down upon himself any particular enmity, was utterly at a loss to understand the story, nor was Roger in a condition to give any farther explanation. He tottered as he stood, and Gaston ordered his servants to mount him upon one of their horses and bring him quietly along, whilst he himself turned and galloped back to the camp to prosecute inquiries there. "Who is the Black Visor?" -- that was the burden of his inquiries, and it was long before he could obtain an answer to this question. The leaders of the expedition were full of their own plans and had little attention to bestow upon Gaston or his strange story. The loss of a single private gentleman from amongst their muster was nothing to excite them, and their own position was giving them much more concern. They had taken many prisoners. They believed that they had done amply enough to raise the siege of St. Jean d'Angely (though in this they proved themselves mistaken), and they were anxious to get safely back to Bordeaux with their spoil before any misadventure befell them. Gaston cared nothing now for the expedition; his heart was with his brother, his mind was full of anxious questioning. Roger's story plainly showed that Raymond was in hostile hands. But the perplexity of the matter was that Gaston had no idea of the name or rank of his brother's enemy and captor. At last he came upon a good-natured knight who had been courteous to the brothers in old days. He listened with interest to Gaston's tale, and bid him wait a few minutes whilst he went to try to discover the name and rank of the Black Visor. He was certain that he had heard it, though he could not recollect at a moment's notice what he had heard. He did not keep Gaston waiting long, but returned quickly to him. "The Black Visor is one Peter Sanghurst of Basildene, a gentleman in favour with the King, and one likely to rise to high honour. Men whisper that he has some golden secret which, if it be so, will make of him a great man one of these days. It is he who has been in our company, always wearing his black visor. Men say he is under some vow, and until the vow is accomplished no man may look upon his face." Gaston drew his breath hard, and a strange gleam came into his eyes. "Peter Sanghurst of Basildene!" he exclaimed, and then fell into a deep reverie. What did it all mean? What had Raymond told him from time to time about the enmity of this man? Did not Gaston himself well remember the adventure of long ago, when he and his brother had entered Basildene by stealth and carried thence the wretched victim of the sorcerer's art? Was not that the beginning of an enmity which had never been altogether laid to sleep? Had he not heard whispers from time to time all pointing to the conclusion that Sanghurst had neither forgotten nor forgiven, and that he felt his possession of Basildene threatened by the existence of the brothers whose right it was? Had not Raymond placed himself almost under vow to win back his mother's lost inheritance? And might it not be possible that this knowledge had come to the ears of the present owner? Gaston ground his teeth in rage as he realized what might be the meaning of this cowardly attack. Treachery and cowardice were the two vices most hateful in his eyes, and this vile attack upon an unsuspecting comrade filled him with the bitterest rage as well as with the greatest anxiety. Plain indeed was it that Raymond had been carried off; but whither? To England? that scarce seemed possible. It would be a daring thing indeed to bring an English subject back to his native land a prisoner. Yet where else could Peter Sanghurst carry a captive? He might have friends amongst the French; but who would be sufficiently interested in his affairs to give shelter to him and his prisoner, when it might lead to trouble perhaps with the English King? One thought of relief there was in the matter. Plainly it was not Raymond's death that was to be compassed. If they had wished to kill him, they would have done so upon the battlefield and have left him there, where his death would have excited no surprise or question. No; it was something more than this that was wanted, and Gaston felt small difficulty in guessing what that aim and object was. "He is to be held for ransom, and his ransom will be our claim upon Basildene. We both shall be called upon to renounce that, and then Raymond will go free. Well, if that be the only way, Basildene must go. But perchance it may be given to me to save the inheritance and rescue Raymond yet. Would that I knew whither they had carried him! But surely he may be traced and followed. Some there must be who will be able to give me news of them." Of one thing Gaston was perfectly assured, and that was that he must now act altogether independently, gain permission to quit the expedition, and pursue his own investigations with his own followers. He had no difficulty in arranging this matter. The leaders had already resolved upon returning to Bordeaux immediately, and taking ship with their spoil and prisoners for England. Had Gaston not had other matters of his own to think of, he would most likely have urged a farther advance upon the beleaguered town, to make sure that it was sufficiently relieved. As it was, he had no thoughts but for his brother's peril; and his anxieties were by no means relieved by the babble of words falling from Roger's lips when he returned to see how it fared with him. Roger appeared to the kindly soldiers, who had made a rude couch for him and were tending him with such skill as they possessed, to be talking in the random of delirium, and they paid little heed to his words. But as Gaston stood by he was struck by the strange fixity of the youth's eyes, by the rigidity of his muscles, and by the coherence and significance of his words. It was not a disconnected babble that passed his lips; it was the description of some scene upon which he appeared to be looking. He spoke of horsemen galloping through the night, of the Black Visor in the midst and his gigantic companion by his side. He spoke of the unconscious captive they carried in their midst -- the captive the youth struggled frantically to join, that they might share together whatever fate was to be his. The soldiers naturally believed he was wandering, and speaking of his own ride with his captors; but Gaston listened with different feelings. He remembered well what he had once heard about this boy and the strange gift he possessed, or was said to possess, of seeing what went on at a distance when he had been in the power of the sorcerer. Might it not be that this gift was not only exercised at the will of another, but might be brought into play by the tension of anxiety evoked by a great strain upon the boy's own nervous system? Gaston did not phrase the question thus, but he well knew the devotion with which Roger regarded Raymond, and it seemed quite possible to him that in this crisis of his life, his body weakened by wounds and fatigue, his mind strained by grief and anxiety as to the fate of him he loved more than life, his spirit had suddenly taken that ascendency over his body which of old it had possessed, and that he was really and truly following in that strange trance-like condition every movement of the party of which Raymond was the centre. At any rate, whether he were right or not in this surmise, Gaston resolved that he would not lose a word of these almost ceaseless utterings, and dismissing his men to get what rest they could, he sat beside Roger, and listened with attention to every word he spoke. Roger lay with his eyes wide open in the same fixed and glassy stare. He spoke of a halt made at a wayside inn, of the rousing up with the earliest stroke of dawn of the keeper of this place, of the inside of the bare room, and the hasty refreshment set before the impatient travellers. "He sits down, they both sit down, and then he laughs -- ah, where have I heard that laugh before?" and a look of strange terror sweeps over the youth's face. "'I may now remove my visor -- my vow is fulfilled! My enemy is in my hands. My Lord of Navailles, I drink this cup to your good health and the success of our enterprise. We have the victim in our own hands. We can wring from him every concession we desire before we offer him for ransom.'" Gaston gave a great start. What did this mean? Well indeed he remembered the Sieur de Navailles, the hereditary foe of the De Brocas. Was it, could it be possible, that he was concerned in this capture? Had their two foes joined together to strive to win all at one blow? He must strive to find this out. Could it be possible that Roger really saw and heard all these things? or was it but the fantasy of delirium? Raymond might have spoken to him of the Lord of Navailles as a foe, and in his dreams he might be mixing one thought with the other. Suddenly Roger uttered a sharp cry and pressed his hands before his eyes. "It is he! it is he!" he cried, with a gasping utterance. "He has removed the mask from his face. It is he -- Peter Sanghurst -- and he is smiling -- that smile. Oh, I know what it means! He has cruel, evil thoughts in his mind. O my master, my master!" Gaston started to his feet. Here was corroboration indeed. Roger no more knew who the Black Visor was than he had done himself an hour back. Yet he now saw the face of Peter Sanghurst, the very man he himself had discovered the Black Visor to be. This indeed showed that Roger was truly looking upon some distant scene, and a strange thrill ran through Gaston as he realized this mysterious fact. "And the other, Peter Sanghurst's companion -- what of him? what likeness does he bear?" asked Gaston quickly. "He is a very giant in stature," was the answer, "with a swarthy skin, black eyes that burn in their sockets, and a coal-black beard that falls below his waist. He has a sear upon his left cheek, and he has lost two fingers upon the left hand. He speaks in a voice like rolling waves, and in a language that is half English and half the Gascon tongue." "In very truth the Sieur de Navailles!" whispered Gaston to himself. With every faculty on the alert, he sat beside Roger's bed, listening to every word of his strange babble of talk. He described how they took to horse, fresh horses being provided for the whole company, as though all had been planned beforehand, and how they galloped at headlong pace away -- away -- away, ever faster, ever more furiously, as though resolved to gain their destination at all cost. The day dawned, but Roger lay still in this trance, and Gaston would not have him disturbed. Until he could know whither his brother had been carried, it was useless to strive to seek and overtake him. If in very truth Roger was in some mysterious fashion watching over him, he would, doubtless, be able to tell whither at length the captive was taken. Then they would to horse and pursue. But they must learn all they could first. The hours passed by. Roger still talked at intervals. If questioned he answered readily -- always of the same hard riding, the changes of horses, the captive carried passive in the midst of the troop. Then he began to speak words that arrested Gaston's attention. He spoke of natural features well known to him: he described a grim fortress, so placed as to be impregnable to foes from without. There were the wide moat, the huge natural mound, the solid wall, the small loopholes. Gaston held his breath to hear: he knew every feature of the place so described. Was it not the ancient Castle of Saut -- his own inheritance, as he had been brought up to call it? Roger had never seen it; he was almost assured of that. What he was describing was something seen with that mysterious second sight of his, nothing that had ever impressed itself upon his waking senses. It was all true, then. Raymond had indeed been taken captive by the two bitter enemies of the house of De Brocas. Peter Sanghurst had doubtless heard of the feud between the two houses, and of the claim set up by Gaston for the establishment of his own rights upon the lands of the foe, and had resolved to make common cause with the Navailles against the brothers. It was possible that they would have liked to get both into their clutches, but that they feared to attack so stalwart a foe as Gaston; or else they might have believed that the possession of the person of Raymond would be sufficient for their purpose. The tie between the twin brothers was known to be strong. It was likely enough that were Raymond's ransom fixed at even an exorbitant sum, the price would be paid by the brother, who well knew that the Tower of Saut was strong enough to defy all attacks from without, and that any person incarcerated in its dungeons would be absolutely at the mercy of its cruel and rapacious lord. The King of England had his hands full enough as it was without taking up the quarrel of every wronged subject. What was done would have to be done by himself and his own followers; and Gaston set his teeth hard as he realized this, and went forth to give his own orders for the morrow. At the first glimpse of coming day they were to start forth for the south, and by hard riding might hope to reach Saut by the evening of the second day. Gaston could muster some score of armed men, and they would be like enough to pick up many stragglers on the way, who would be ready enough to join any expedition promising excitement and adventure. To take the Castle of Saut by assault would, as Gaston well knew, be impossible; but he cherished a hope that it might fall into his hands through strategy if he were patient, and if Roger still retained that marvellous faculty of second-sight which revealed to his eyes things hidden from the vision of others. He slept all that night without moving or speaking, and when he awoke in the morning it was in a natural state, and at first he appeared to have no recollection of what had occurred either to himself or to Raymond. But as sense and memory returned to him, so did also the shadow of some terrible doom hanging over his beloved young master; and though he was still weak and ill, and very unfit for the long journey on horseback through the heat of a summer's day, he would not hear of being left behind, and was the one to urge upon the others all the haste possible as they rode along southward after the foes who had captured Raymond. On, on, on! there were no halts save for the needful rest and refreshment, or to try to get fresh horses to carry them forward. A fire seemed to burn in Gaston's veins as well as in those of Roger; and the knowledge that they were on the track of the fugitives gave fresh ardour to the pursuit at every halting place. Only a few hours were allowed for rest and sleep during the darkest hour of the short night, and then on -- on -- ever on, urged by an overmastering desire to know what was happening to the prisoner behind those gloomy walls. Roger's sleep that night had been disturbed by hideous visions. He did not appear to know or see anything that was passing; but a deep gloom hung upon his spirit, and he many times woke shivering and crying out with horror at he knew not what; whilst Gaston lay broad awake, a strange sense of darkness and depression upon his own senses. He could scarce restrain himself from springing up and summoning his weary followers to get to horse and ride forth at all risks to the very doors of Saut, and only with the early dawn of day did any rest or refreshment fall upon his spirit. Roger looked more himself as they rode forth in the dawn. "Methinks we are near him now," he kept saying; "my heart is lighter than it was. We will save him yet -- I am assured of it! He is not dead; I should surely know it if he were. We are drawing nearer every step. We may be with him ere nightfall." "The walls of Saut lie betwixt us," said Gaston, rather grimly, but he looked sternly resolute, as though it would take strong walls indeed to keep him from his brother when they were so near. The country was beginning to grow familiar to him. He picked up followers in many places as he passed through. The name of De Brocas was loved here; that of De Navailles was loathed, and hated, and feared. Evening was drawing on. The woods were looking their loveliest in all the delicate beauty of their fresh young green. Gaston, riding some fifty yards ahead with Roger beside him, looked keenly about him, with vivid remembrance of every winding of the woodland path. Soon, as he knew, the grim Castle of Saut would break upon his vision -- away there in front and slightly to the right, where the ground fell away to the river and rose on the opposite bank, crowned with those frowning walls. He was riding so carelessly that when his horse suddenly swerved and shied violently, he was for a moment almost unseated; but quickly recovering himself, he looked round to see what had frightened the animal, and himself gave almost as violent a start as the beast had done. And yet what he saw was nothing very startling: only the light figure of a young girl -- a girl fair of face and light of foot as a veritable forest nymph -- such as indeed she looked springing out from the overhanging shade of that dim place. For one instant they looked into each other's faces with a glance of quick recognition, and then clasping her hands together, the girl exclaimed in the Gascon tongue: "The Holy Saints be praised! You have come, you have come! Ah, how I have prayed that help might come! And my prayers have been heard!" CHAPTER XXV. THE FAIRY OF THE FOREST Gaston sat motionless in his saddle, gazing at the apparition as though fascinated. He had seen this woodland nymph before. He had spoken with her, had sat awhile beside her, and her presence had inspired feelings within him to which he had hitherto been a complete stranger. As he gazed now into that lovely face, anxious, glad, fearful, all in one, and yet beaming with joy at the encounter, he felt as if indeed the denizens of another sphere had interposed to save his brother, and from that moment he felt a full assurance that Raymond would be rescued. Recovering himself as by an effort, he sprang from his saddle and stood beside the girl. "Lady," he said, in gentle accents, that trembled slightly through the intensity of his emotion -- "fairest lady, who thou art I know not, but this I know, that thou comest ever as a messenger of mercy. Once it was to warn me of peril to come; now it is to tell us of one who lies in sore peril. Lady, tell me that I am not wrong in this -- that thou comest to give me news of my brother!" Her liquid eyes were full of light. She did not shrink from him, or play with his feelings as on a former occasion. Her face expressed a serious gravity and earnestness of purpose which added tenfold to her charms. Gaston, deeply as his feelings were stirred with anxious care for his brother's fate, could not help his heart going out to this exquisite young thing standing before him with trustful upturned face. Who she was he knew not and cared not. She was the one woman in the world for him. He had thought so when he had found her in the forest in wayward tricksy mood; he knew it without doubt now that he saw her at his side, her sweet face full of deep and womanly feeling, her arch shyness all forgotten in the depth and resolution of her resolve. "I do!" she answered, in quick, short sentences that sounded like the tones of a silver bell. "You are Gaston de Brocas, and he, the prisoner, is your twin brother Raymond. I know all. I have heard them talk in their cups, when they forget that I am growing from a child to a woman. I have long ceased to be a child. I think that I have grown old in that terrible place. I have heard words -- oh, that make my blood run cold! that make me wish I had never been born into a world where such things are possible! In my heart I have registered a vow. I have vowed that if ever the time should come when I might save one wretched victim from my savage uncle's power -- even at the risk of mine own life -- I would do it. I have warned men away from here. I have done a little, times and again, to save them from a snare laid for them. But never once have I had power to rescue from his relentless clutch the victim he had once enclosed in his net, for never have I had help from without. But when I heard them speak of Raymond de Brocas -- when I knew that it was he, thy brother, of whom some such things were spoken -- then I felt that I should indeed go mad could I not save him from such fate." "What fate?" asked Gaston breathlessly; but she went on as though she had not heard. "I thought of thee as I had seen thee in the wood. I said in my heart, 'He is noble, he is brave. He will rest not night nor day whilst his brother lies a captive in these cruel hands. I have but to watch and to wait. He will surely come. And when he comes, I will show him the black hole in the wall -- the dark passage to the moat -- and he will dare to enter where never man has entered before. He will save his brother, and my vow will be fulfilled!'" Gaston drew his breath hard, and a light leaped into his eyes. "Thou knowest a secret way by which the Tower of Saut may be entered -- is that so, Lady?" "I know a way by which many a wretched victim has left it," answered the girl, whose dark violet eyes were dilated by the depth of her emotion. "I know not if any man ever entered by that way. But my heart told me that there was one who would not shrink from the task, be the peril never so great. I will see that the men-at-arms have drink enough to turn their heads. I have a concoction of herbs which if mingled with strong drink will cause such sleep to fall upon men that a thunderbolt falling at their feet would scarce awaken them. I will see that thou hast the chance thou needest. The rest wilt thou do without a thought of fear." "Fear to go where Raymond is -- to share his fate if I may not rescue him!" cried Gaston. "Nay, sweet lady, that would be indeed a craven fear, unworthy of any true knight. But tell me more. I have many times wandered round the Tower of Saut in my boyhood, when its lord and master was away. Methinks I know every loophole and gate by heart. But the gates are so closely guarded, and the windows are so narrow and high up in the walls, that I know not how they may be entered from without." "True: yet there is one way of which doubtless thou knowest naught, for, as I have said, men go forth that way, but enter not by it; and the trick is known only to a few chosen souls, for the victims who pass out seek not to come again. They drop with sullen plash into the black waters of the moat, and the river, which mingles its clearer water with the sluggish stream encircling the Tower, bears thence towards the hungry sea the burden thus entrusted to its care." Gaston shivered slightly. "Thou speakest of the victims done to death within yon gloomy walls. I have heard dark tales of such ere now." "Thou hast heard nothing darker than the truth," said the girl, her slight frame quivering with repressed emotion and a deep and terrible sense of helpless indignation and pity. "I have heard stories that have made my blood run cold in my veins. Men have been done to death in a fashion I dare not speak of. There is a terrible room scarce raised above the level of the moat, into which I was once taken, and the memory of which has haunted me ever since. It is within the great mound upon which the Tower is built; and above it is the dungeon in which the victim is confined. There is some strange and wondrous device by which he may be carried down and raised again to his own prison house when his captor has worked his hideous will upon him. And if he dies, as many do, upon the fearful engines men have made to inflict torture upon each other, then there is this narrow stairway, and this still narrower passage down to the sullen waters of the moat. "The opening is just at the level of the water. It looks so small from the opposite side, that one would think it but the size to admit the passage of a dog; you would think it was caused by the loosening of some stone in the wall -- no more. But yet it is large enough to admit the passage of a human body; and where a body has passed out, sure a body may pass in. There is no lock upon the door from the underground passage to the moat; for what man would be so bold as find his way into the Castle by the grim dungeons which hold such terrible secrets? If thou hast the courage to enter thus, none will bar thy passage --" "If!" echoed Gaston, whose hand was clenched and his whole face quivering with emotion as he realized the fearful peril which menaced his brother. "There is no such thing as a doubt. Raymond is there. I come to save him." The girl's eyes flashed with answering fire. She clasped her hands together, and cried, with something like a sob in her voice: "I knew it! I knew it! I knew that thou wert a true knight that thou wouldst brave all to save him." "I am his brother," said Gaston simply, "his twin brother. Who should save him but I? Tell me, have I come in time? Have they dared to lay a finger upon him yet?" "Dared!" repeated the girl, with a curious inflection in her voice. "Of what should they be afraid here in this tower, which has ever withstood the attacks of foes, which no man may enter without first storming the walls and forcing the gates? Thinkest thou that they fear God or man? Nay, they know not what such fear is; and therein lies our best hope." "How so?" asked Gaston quickly. "Marry, for two reasons: one being that they keep but small guard over the place, knowing its strength and remoteness; the other, that being thus secure, they are in no haste to carry out their devil's work. They will first let their prisoner recover of his hurts, that he slip not too soon from their power, as weaklier victims ofttimes do." "Then they have done naught to him as yet?" asked Gaston, in feverish haste. "What hurts speakest thou of? Was he wounded in the fight, or when they surrounded him and carried him off captive?" "Not wounded, as I have heard, but sorely battered and bruised; and he was brought hither unconscious, and lay long as one dead. When he refused to do the bidding of Peter Sanghurst, they took him down to yon fearsome chamber; but, as I heard when I sat at the hoard with mine uncle and that wicked man, they had scarce laid hands upon him, to bend his spirit to their will through their hellish devices, before he fell into a deep swoon from which they could not rouse him; and afraid that he would escape their malice by a merciful death, and that they would lose the very vengeance they had taken such pains to win, they took him back to his cell; and there he lies, tended not unskilfully by my old nurse, who is ever brought to the side of the sick in this place. Once I made shift to slip in behind her when the warder was off his guard, and to whisper in his ear a word of hope. But we are too close watched to do aught but by stealth, and Annette is never suffered to approach the prison alone. She is conducted thither by a grim warder, who waits beside her till she has done her office, and then takes her away. They do not know how we loathe and hate their wicked, cruel deeds; but they know that women have ere this been known to pity helpless victims, and they have an eye to us ever." Gaston drew his breath more freely. Raymond, then, was for the moment safe. No grievous bodily hurt had been done him as yet; and here outside his prison was his brother, and one as devoted as though the tie of blood bound them together, ready to dare all to save him from the hands of his cruel foes. "They are in no great haste," said the maiden; "they feel themselves so strong. They say that no man can so much as discover where thy brother has been spirited, still less snatch him from their clasp. They know the French King will not stir to help a subject of the Roy Outremer, They know that Edward of England is far away, and that he still avoids an open breach of the truce. They are secure in the undisturbed possession of their captive. I have heard them say that had he a hundred brothers all working without to obtain his release, the walls of the Tower of Saut would defy their utmost efforts." "That we shall see," answered Gaston, with a fierce gleam in his eye; and then his face softened as he said, "Now that we have for our ally the enchanted princess of the Castle, many things may be done that else would be hard of achievement." His ardent look sent a flush of colour through the girl's transparent skin, but her eyes did not waver as she looked frankly back at him. "Nay; I am no princess, and I have no enchantments -- would that I had, if they could be used in offices of pity and mercy! I am but a portionless maiden, an orphan, an alien. Ofttimes I weep to think that I too did not die when my parents did, in that terrible scourge which has devastated the world, which I hear that you of England call the Black Death." "Who art thou then, fair maid?" questioned Gaston, who was all this time cautiously approaching the Tower of Saut by a winding and unfrequented path well known to his companion. Roger had been told to wait till the other riders came up, and conduct them with great secrecy and caution along the same path. Their worst fears for Raymond partially set at rest, and the hope of a speedy rescue acting upon their minds like a charm, Gaston was able to think of other things, and was eager to know more of the lovely girl who had twice shown herself to him in such unexpected fashion. It was a simple little story that she told, but it sounded strangely entrancing from her lips. Her name, she said, was Constanza, and her father had been one of a noble Spanish house, weakened and finally ruined by the ceaseless internal strife carried on between the proud nobles of the fiery south. Her mother was the sister of the Sieur do Navailles, and he had from time to time given aid to her father in his troubles with his enemies. The pestilence which had of late devastated almost the whole of Europe, had visited the southern countries some time before it had invaded more northerly latitudes; and about a year before Gaston's first encounter with the nymph of the wood, it had laid waste the districts round and about her home, and had carried off both her parents and her two brothers in the space of a few short days. Left alone in that terrible time of trouble, surrounded by enemies eager to pounce upon the little that remained of the wide domain which had once owned her father's sway, Constanza, in her desperation, naturally turned to her uncle as the one protector that she knew. He had always showed himself friendly towards her father. He had from time to time lent him substantial assistance in his difficulties; and when he had visited at her home, he had shown himself kindly disposed in a rough fashion to the little maiden who flitted like a fairy about the wide marble halls. Annette, her nurse, who had come with her mother from France when she had left that country on her nuptials, was a Gascon woman, and had taught the language of the country to her young mistress. It was natural that the woman should be disposed to return to her native land at this crisis; and for Constanza to attempt to hold her own -- a timid maiden against a score of rapacious foes -- was obviously out of the question. Together they had fled, taking with them such family jewels as could easily be carried upon their persons, and disguised as peasants they had reached and crossed the frontier, and found their way to Saut, where the Lord of Navailles generally spent such of his time as was not occupied in forays against his neighbours, or in following the fortunes either of the French or English King, as best suited the fancy of the moment. He had received his niece not unkindly, but with complete indifference, and had soon ceased to think about her in any way. She had a home beneath his roof. She had her own apartments, and she was welcome to occupy herself as she chose. Sometimes, when he was in a better humour than usual, he would give her a rough caress. More frequently he swore at her for being a useless girl, when she might, as a boy, have been of some good in the world. He had no intention of providing her with any marriage portion, so that it was superfluous to attempt to seek out a husband for her. She and Annette were occasionally of use when there was sickness within the walls of the Castle, or when he or his followers came in weary and wounded from some hard fighting. On the whole he did not object to her presence at Saut, and her own little bower was not devoid of comfort, and even of luxury. But for all that, the girl was often sick at heart with all that she saw and heard around her, and was unconsciously pining for some life, she scarce knew what, but a life that should be different from the one she was doomed to now. "Sometimes I think that I will retire to a Convent and shut myself up there," she said to Gaston, her eyes looking far away over the wooded plain before them; "and yet I love my liberty. I love to roam the forest glades -- to hear the songs of the bird, and to feel the fresh winds of heaven about me. Methinks I should pine and die shut up within high walls, without the liberty to rove as I will. And then I am not /devote/. I love not to spend long hours upon my knees. I feel nearest to the Blessed Saints and the Holy Mother of God out here in these woods, where no ribald shouts of mirth or blasphemous oaths can reach me. But the Sisters live shut behind high walls, and they love best to tell their beads beside the shrine of some Saint within their dim chapels. They were good to us upon our journey. I love and reverence the holy Sisters, and yet I do not know how I could be one of them. I fear me they would soon send me forth, saying that I was not fit for their life." "Nay, truly such a life is not for thee!" cried Gaston, with unwonted heat. "Sweet maiden, thou wert never made to pine away behind walls that shelter such as cannot stand against the trials and troubles of life. For it is not so with thee. Thou hast courage; thou hast a noble heart and a strong will. There is other work for thee to do. Lady, thou hast this day made me thy humble slave for ever. My brother once free, as by thy aid I trust he will be ere another day has dawned, and I will repay thy service by claiming as my reward the right to call myself thine own true knight. Sweet Constanza, I will live and, if need be, die for thee. Thou wilt henceforth be the light of my path, the star of my life. Lady, thy face hath haunted me ever since that day, so long gone by, when I saw thee first, scarce knowing if thou wert a creature of flesh and blood or a sprite of the woodland and water. Fair women have I looked upon ere now, but none so fair as thee. Let me but call myself thy true and faithful knight, and the day will come when I will stand boldly forth and make thee mine before all the world!" Gaston had never meant to speak thus when he and his companion first began this walk through the winding woodland path. Then his thoughts had been filled with his brother and him alone, and there had been no space for other matters to intrude upon him. But with a mind more at rest as to Raymond's immediate fate, he could not but be aware of the intense fascination exercised upon him by his companion; and before he well knew what he was saying, he was pouring into her ears these ardent protestations of devotion. Her fair face flushed, and the liquid eyes, so full of softness and fire, fell before his ardent gaze. The little hand he had taken in his own quivered in his strong clasp, and Gaston felt with a thrill of ecstatic joy that it faintly returned the pressure of his fingers. "Lady, sweetest Lady!" he repeated, his words growing more and more rapid as his emotion deepened, "let me hear thee say that thou wilt grant me leave to call myself thy true knight! Let me hear from those sweet lips that there is none before me who has won the love of this generous heart!" The maid was quivering from head to foot. Such words were like a new language to her, and yet her heart gave a ready and sweet response. Had she not sung of knightly wooers in the soft songs of her childhood, and had she not dreamed her own innocent dreams of him who would one day come to seek her? And had not that dream lover always worn the knightly mien, the proud and handsome face, of him she had seen but once, and that for one brief hour alone? Was it hard to give to him the answer he asked? And yet how could she frame her lips aright to tell him she had loved him ere he had asked her love? "Fair Sir, how should a lonely maid dwelling in these wild woods know aught of that knightly love of which our troubadours so sweetly sing? I have scarce seen the face of any since I have come to these solitudes; only the rough and terrible faces of those wild soldiers and savages who follow mine uncle when he rideth forth on his forays." Gaston's heart gave a throb of joy; but it was scarce the moment to press his suit farther. Who could tell what the next few hours might bring forth? He might himself fall a victim, ere another day had passed, to the ancient foe of his house. It was enough for the present to know that the fair girl's heart was free. He raised the hand he held and pressed his lips upon it, saying in tenderest tones: "From henceforth -- my brother once standing free without these walls -- I am thy true knight and champion, Lady. Give me, I pray thee, that knot of ribbon at thy neck. Let me place it in my head piece, and feel that I am thine indeed for life or death." With a hand that trembled, but not from hesitation, Constanza unfastened the simple little knot she wore as her sole ornament, and gave it to Gaston. They exchanged one speaking glance, but no word passed their lips. By this time they had approached very near to the Tower, although the thick growth of the trees hindered them from seeing it, as it also concealed them from the eyes of any persons who might be upon the walls. The evening light was now fast waning. Upon the tops of the heights the sun still shone, but here in the wooded hollow, beside the sullen waters of the moat, twilight had already fallen, and soon it would be dark as night itself. The moon rose late, and for a space there would be no light save that of the stars. Constanza laid her finger upon her lips, and made a sign demanding caution. Gaston understood that he was warned not to speak, and to tread cautiously, which he did, stealing along after his fairy-like companion, and striving to emulate her dainty, bird-like motions. He could see by the glint of water that they were skirting along beside the moat, but he had never approached so near to it before, and he knew not where they were going. Some men might have feared treachery, but such an idea never entered Gaston's head. Little as he knew of his companion, he knew that she was true and loyal, that she was beloved by him, and that her heart was already almost won. Presently the girl stopped and laid her hand upon his arm. "This is the place," she whispered. "Come very softly to the water's edge, and I will show you the dark hole opposite, just above the waterline, where entrance can be made. There be no loopholes upon this side of the Tower, and no watchman is needed where there be no foothold for man to scale the wall beneath. "Look well across the moat. Seest thou yon black mark, that looks no larger than my hand? That is the entrance to a tunnel which slopes upward until it reaches a narrow doorway in the thickness of the solid wall whereby the underground chamber may be reached. Once there, thou wilt see let into the wall a great wheel with iron spokes projecting from it. Set that wheel in motion, and a portion of the flooring of the chamber above will descend. When it has reached the ground, thou canst ascend by reversing the wheel, leaving always some one in the chamber below to work the wheel, which will enable thee to bring thy brother down again. That accomplished, all that remains will be to creep again through the narrow passage to the moat and swim across once more. Thou canst swim?" "Ay, truly. Raymond and I have been called fishes from our childhood. We swam in the great mill pool almost ere we could well run alone. Many of my stout fellows behind are veritable water rats. If my brother be not able to save himself, there will be a dozen stout arms ready to support him across the moat. "And what will be the hour when this attempt must be made? What if the very moment I reached my brother his jailer should come to him, and the alarm be given through the Castle ere we could get him thence?" "That it must be my office to prevent," answered the girl, with quiet resolution. "I have thought many times of some such thing as this, hoping as it seemed where no hope was, and Annette and I have taken counsel together. Leave it to me to see that all the Castle is filled with feasting and revelry. I will see that the mead which circulates tonight be so mingled with Annette's potion that it will work in the brains of the men till they forget all but rioting and sleep. For mine uncle and his saturnine guest, I have other means of keeping them in the great banqueting hall, far away from the lonely Tower where their prisoner lies languishing. They shall be so well served at the board this night, that no thought of aught beside the pleasure of the table shall enter to trouble their heads. And at ten of the clock, if I come not again to warn thee, cross fearlessly the great moat, and do as I have bid thee. But if thou hearest from the Castle wall the hooting of an owl thrice repeated like this" -- and the girl put her hands to her mouth, and gave forth so exact an mutation of an owl's note that Gaston started to hear it -- "thrice times thrice, so that there can be no mistake, then tarry here on this side; stir not till I come again. It will be a danger signal to tell that all is not well. But if at the hour of ten thou hast heard naught, then go forward, and fear not. Thy brother will be alone, and all men far away from the Tower. Take him, and go forth; and the Blessed Saints bless and protect you all." She stretched forth her hand and placed it in his. There was a sudden sadness in her face. Gaston caught her hand and pressed it to his lips, but he had more to say than a simple word of parting. "But I shall see thee again, sweet Constanza? Am I not thy true knight? Shall I not owe to thee a debt I know not how to pay? Thou wilt not send me forth without a word of promise of another meeting? When can I see thee again to tell thee how we have fared?" "Thou must not dream of loitering here once thy object is secured," answered the girl, speaking very firmly and almost sternly, though there was a deep sadness in her eyes. "It will not be many hours ere they find their captive has escaped them, and they will rouse the whole country after you. Nay, to linger is certain death; it must not be thought of. In Bordeaux, and there alone, wilt thou be safe. It is thither that thou must fly, for thither alone will the Sieur de Navailles fear to follow you. For me, I must remain here, as I have done these many years. It will not be worse than it hath ever been." "And thinkest thou that I will leave thee thus to languish after thou hast restored to me my brother?" asked Gaston hotly. "Nay, lady, think not that of thine own true knight! I will come again. I vow it! First will I to the English King, and tell in his ears a tale which shall arouse all his royal wrath. And then will I come again. It may not be this year, but it shall be ere long. I will come to claim mine own; and all that is mine shall be thine. Sweet Lady, wouldst thou look coldly upon me did I come with banners unfurled and men in arms against him thou callest thine uncle? For the lands he holds were ours once, and the English King has promised that they shall one day be restored, as they should have been long ago had not this usurper kept his iron clutch upon them in defiance of his feudal lord. Lady, sweet Constanza, tell me that thou wilt not call me thy foe if I come as a foe to the Lord of Navailles!" "Methinks thou couldst never be my foe," answered Constanza in a low voice, pressing her hands closely together; "and though he be mine uncle, and though he has given me a home beneath his roof, he has made it to me an abode of terror, and I know that he is feared and hated far and wide, and that his evil deeds are such that none may trust or love him. I would not show ingratitude for what he hath done for me; but he has been paid many times over. He has had all my jewels, and of these many were all but priceless; and he gives me but the food I eat and the raiment I wear. I should bless the day that set me free from this life beneath his roof. There be moments when I say in mine heart that I cannot live longer in such an evil place -- when I have no heart left and no hope." "But thou wilt have hope now!" cried Gaston ardently. "Thou wilt know that I am coming to claim mine own, and with it this little hand, more precious to me than all else besides. Sweetest Constanza, tell me that I shall still find thee as thou art when I come to claim thee! I shall not come to find thee the bride of another?" He could not see her face in the dimness, but he felt her hand flutter in his clasp like a bird in the hand of one who has tamed it, and whom it trusts and loves. The next moment his arm was about her slight figure, and her head drooped for a moment upon his shoulder. "I shall be waiting," she whispered, scarce audibly. "How could I love another, when thou hast called thyself my knight?" He pressed a passionate kiss upon her brow. "If this is indeed farewell for the present hour, it is a sweet one, my beloved. I little thought, as I journeyed hither today, what I was to find. Farewell, farewell, my lady love, my princess, my bride. Farewell, but not for ever. I will come again anon, and then we will be no more parted, for thou shalt reign in these grim walls, and no more dark tales of horror shall be breathed of them. I will come again; I will surely come. Trust me, and fear not!" She stood beside him in the gathering darkness, and he could almost hear the fluttering of her heart. It was a moment full of sweetness for both, even though the shadow of parting was hanging over them. A slight rustle amongst the underwood near to them caused them to spring apart; and the girl fled from him, speeding away with the grace and silent fleetness of a deer. Gaston made a stride towards the place whence the sound had proceeded, and found himself face to face with Roger. "The men are all at hand," he whispered. "I would not have them approach too close till I knew your pleasure. They are all within the wood, all upon the alert lest any foe be nigh; but all seems silent as the grave, and not a light gleams from the Tower upon this side. Shall I bid them remain where they are? or shall I bring them hither to you beside the water?" "Let them remain where they are for a while and see that the horses be well fed and cared for. At ten o'clock, if all be well, the attempt to enter the Tower is to be made; and once the prisoner is safe and in our keeping, we must to Bordeaux as fast as horse will take us. The Sieur de Navailles will raise the whole country after us. We must be beyond the reach of his clutches ere we draw rein again." CHAPTER XXVI. THE RESCUE OF RAYMOND. The appointed hour had arrived. No signal had fallen upon Gaston's listening ears; no note of warning had rung through the still night air. From the direction of the Castle sounds of distant revelry arose at intervals -- sounds which seemed to show that nothing in the shape of watch or ward was being thought of by its inmates; and also that Constanza's promise had been kept, and potations of unwonted strength had been served out to the men. Now the appointed hour had come and gone, and Gaston commenced his preparations for the rescue of his brother. That he might be going to certain death if he failed, or if he had been betrayed, did not weigh with him for a moment. If Constanza were false to him, better death than the destruction of his hopes and his trust. In any case he would share his brother's fate sooner than leave him in the relentless hands of these cruel foes. He had selected six of his stoutest followers, all of them excellent swimmers, to accompany him across the moat; and Roger, as a matter of course, claimed to be one of the party. To Roger's mysterious power of vision they owed their rapid tracing of Raymond to this lonely spot. It was indeed his right to make one of the rescue party if he desired to be allowed to do so. The rest of their number were to remain upon this farther side of the moat, and the horses were all in readiness, rested and refreshed, about half-a-mile off under the care of several stout fellows, all stanch to their master's interests. The story they had heard from Gaston of what had been devised against his brother filled the honest soldiers with wrath and indignation. Rough and savage as they might show themselves in open warfare, deliberate and diabolical cruelty was altogether foreign to their nature. And they all felt towards Raymond a sense of protecting and reverent tenderness, such as all may feel towards a being of finer mould and loftier nature. Raymond had the faculty of inspiring in those about him this reverential tenderness; and not one of those stalwart fellows who were silently laying aside their heavy mail, and such of their garments as would be likely to hinder them in their swim across the moat, but felt a deep loathing and hatred towards the lord of this grim Tower, and an overmastering resolve to snatch his helpless victim from his cruel hands, or perish in the attempt. All their plans had been very carefully made. Lanterns and the wherewithal for kindling them were bound upon the heads of some of the swimmers; and though they laid aside most of their defensive armour and their heavy riding boots, they wore their stout leather jerkins, that were almost as serviceable against foeman's steel, and their weapons, save the most cumbersome, were carried either in their belts or fastened across their shoulders. Dark though it had become, Gaston had not lost cognizance of the spot whither they were to direct their course; and one by one the strong swimmers plunged into the sullen waters without causing so much as a ripple or plash, which might betray their movements to suspicious ears upon the battlements (if indeed any sort of watch were kept, which appeared doubtful). They swam with that perfect silence possible only to those who are thoroughly at home in the water, till they had crossed the dark moat and had reached the perpendicular wall of the Tower, which rose sheer upon the farther side -- so sheer that not even the foot of mountain goat could have scaled its rough-hewn side. But Gaston knew what he had to search for, and with outstretched hand he swam silently along the solid masonry, feeling for that aperture just above watermark which he had seen before the daylight faded. It took him some little time to find it, but at last it was discovered, and with a muttered word of command to the men who silently followed in his wake, he drew himself slowly out of the water, to find himself in a very narrow rounded aperture like a miniature tunnel, which trended slightly upwards, and would only admit the passage of one human being at a time, and then only upon hands and knees. It was pitchy dark in this tunnel, and there was no space in which to attempt to kindle a light. Once the thought came into Gaston's head that if he were falling into a treacherous pitfall laid for him with diabolic ingenuity by his foes, nothing could well be better than to entrap him into such a place as this, where it would be almost impossible to go forward or back, and quite out of his power to strike a single blow for liberty or life. But he shook off the chill sense of fear as unworthy and unknightly. His Constanza was true; of that he was assured. The only possible doubt was whether she herself were being used as an unconscious tool in the hands of subtle and perfectly unscrupulous men. But even so Gaston had no choice but to advance. He had come to rescue his brother or to die with him. If the latter, he would try at least to sell his life dearly. But he was fully persuaded that his efforts would be crowned with success. He had time to think many such things as he slowly crept along the low passage in the black darkness. It seemed long before his hand came in contact with the door he had been told he should presently reach, and this door, as Constanza had said, yielded to his touch, and he felt rather than saw that he had emerged into a wider space beyond. This place, whatever it was, was not wholly dark, though so very dim that it was impossible to make out anything save the dull red glow of what might be some embers on a distant hearth. Gaston did not speak a word, but waited till all his companions had reached this more open space, and had risen to their feet and grasped their weapons. Then all held their breath, and listened for any sound that might by chance reveal the presence of hidden foes, till they started at the sound of Roger's voice speaking softly but with complete assurance. "There is no one here," he said. "We are quite alone. Let me kindle a torch and show you." Roger, as Gaston had before observed, possessed a cat-like faculty of seeing in the dark. Whether it was natural to him, or had been acquired during those days spent almost entirely underground in the sorcerer's vaulted chamber at Basildene, the youth himself scarcely knew. But he was able to distinguish objects clearly in gloom which no ordinary eye could penetrate; and now he walked fearlessly forward and stirred up the smouldering embers, whose dull red glow all could see, into a quick, bright, palpitating flame which illumined every corner of the strange place into which they had penetrated. Gaston and his men looked wonderingly around them, as they lighted their lanterns at the fire and flashed them here and there into all the dark corners, as though to assure themselves that there were no ambushed foes lurking in the grim recesses of that circular room. But Roger had been quite right. There was nothing living in that silent place. Not so much as a loophole in the wall admitted any air or light from the outer world, or could do so even in broad noon. The chamber was plainly hollowed out in the mass of earth and masonry of which the foundations of the Tower were composed, and if any air were admitted (as there must have been, else men could not breathe down there), it was by some device not easily discovered at a first glance. It was in truth a strange and terrible place -- the dank walls, down which the damp moisture slowly trickled, hung round with instruments of various forms, all designed with a terrible purpose, and from their look but too often used. Gaston's face assumed a look of dark wrath and indignation as his quick eyes roved round this evil place, and he set his teeth hard together as he muttered to himself: "Heaven send that the Prince himself may one day look upon the vile secrets of this charnel house! I would that he and his royal father might know what deeds of darkness are even now committed in lands that own their sway! Would that I had that wicked wretch here in my power at this moment! Well does he deserve to be torn in pieces by his own hideous engines. And in this very place does he design to do to death my brother! May God pardon me if I sin in the thought, but death by the sword is too good for such a miscreant!" Words very similar to these were being bandied about in fierce undertones by the men who had accompanied Gaston, and who had never seen such a chamber as this before. Great would have been their satisfaction to let its owner taste something of the agony he had too often inflicted upon helpless victims thrown into his power. But this being out of the question, the next matter was the rescue of the captive they had come to save; and they looked eagerly at their young leader to know what was the next step to be taken. Gaston was searching for the wheel by which the mechanism could be set in motion which would enable him to reach his brother's prison house. It was easily found from the description given him by Constanza. He set his men to work to turn the wheel, and at once became aware of the groaning and grating sound that attends the motion of clumsy machinery. Gazing eagerly up into the dun roof above him, he saw slowly descending a portion of the stonework of which it was formed. It was a clever enough contrivance for those unskilled days, and showed a considerable ingenuity on the part of some owner of the Castle of Saut. When the great slab had descended to the floor below, Gaston stepped upon it, Roger placing himself at his side, and with a brief word to his men to reverse the action of the wheel, and to lower the slab again a few minutes later, he prepared for his strange passage upwards to his brother's lonely cell. Roger held a lantern in his hand, and the faces of the pair were full of anxious expectation. Suppose Raymond had been removed from that upper prison? Suppose he had succumbed either to the cruelty of his foes or to the fever resulting from his injuries received on the day of the battle? A hundred fears possessed Gaston's soul as the strange transit through the air was being accomplished -- a transit so strange that he felt as though he must surely be dreaming. But there was only one thing to be done -- to persevere in the quest, and trust to the Holy Saints and the loving mercy of Blessed Mary's Son to grant him success in this his endeavour. Up, up into the darkness of the vaulted roof he passed, and then a yawning hole above their heads, which looked too small to admit the passage of the slab upon which they stood, swallowed them up, and they found themselves passing upwards through a shaft which only just admitted the block upon which they stood. Up and up they went, and now the creaking sound grew louder, and the motion grew perceptibly slower. They were no longer in a narrow shaft; a black space opened before their eyes. The motion ceased altogether with a grinding sensation and a jerk, and out of the darkness of a wider space, pitchy dark to their eyes, came the sound of a familiar voice. "Gaston -- Brother!" Gaston sprang forward into the darkness, heedless of all but the sound of that voice. The next moment he was clasping his brother in his arms, his own emotion so great that he dared not trust his voice to speak; whilst Raymond, holding him fast in a passionate clasp, whispered in his ear a breathless question. "Thou too a prisoner in this terrible place, my Gaston? O brother -- my brother -- I trusted that I might have died for us both!" "A prisoner? nay, Raymond, no prisoner; but as thy rescuer I come. What, believest thou not? Then shalt thou soon see with thine own eyes. "But let me look first upon thy face. I would see what these miscreants have done to thee. Thou feelest more like a creature of skin and bone than one of sturdy English flesh and blood. "The light, Roger! "Ay, truly, Roger is here with me. It is to him in part we owe it that we are here this night. Raymond, Raymond, thou art sorely changed! Thou lookest more spirit-like than ever! Thou hast scarce strength to stand alone! What have they done to thee, my brother?" But Raymond could scarce find strength to answer. The revulsion of feeling was too much for him. When he had heard that terrible sound, and had seen the slab in the floor sink out of sight, he had sprung from his bed of straw, ready to face his cruel foes when they came for him, yet knowing but too well what was in store for him when he was carried down below, as he had been once before. Then when, instead of the cruel mocking countenance of Peter Sanghurst, he had seen the noble, loving face of his brother, and had believed that he, too, had fallen into the power of their deadly foes, it had seemed to him as though a bitterness greater than that of death had fallen upon him, and the rebound of feeling when Gaston had declared himself had been so great, that the whole place swam before his eyes, and the floor seemed to reel beneath his feet. "We will get him away from this foul place!" cried Gaston, with flaming eyes, as he looked into the white and sharpened face of his brother, and felt how feebly the light frame leaned against the stalwart arm supporting it. He half led, half carried Raymond the few paces towards the slab in the floor which formed the link with the region beneath, and the next minute Raymond felt himself sinking down as he had done once before; only then it had been in the clasp of his most bitter foe that he had been carried to that infernal spot. The recollection made him shiver even now in Gaston's strong embrace, and the young knight felt the quiver and divined the cause. "Fear nothing now, my brother," he said. "Though we be on our way to that fearful place, it is for us the way to light and liberty. Our own good fellows are awaiting us there. I trow not all the hireling knaves within this Castle wall should wrest thee from us now." "I fear naught now that thou art by my side, Gaston," answered Raymond, in low tones. "If thou art not in peril thyself, I could wish nothing better than to die with thine arm about mine." "Nay, but thou shalt live!" cried Gaston, with energy, scarce understanding that after the long strain of such a captivity as Raymond's had been it was small wonder that he had grown to think death well-nigh better and sweeter than life. "Thou shalt live to take vengeance upon thy foes, and to recompense them sevenfold for what they have done to thee. I will tell this story in the ears of the King himself. This is not the last time that I shall stand within the walls of Saut!" By this time the heavy slab had again descended, and around it were gathered the eager fellows, who received their young master's brother with open arms and subdued shouts of triumph and joy. But he, though he smiled his thanks, looked round him with eyes dilated by the remembrance of some former scene there, and Gaston set his teeth hard, and shook back his head with a gesture that boded little good for the Sieur de Navailles upon a future day. "Come men; we may not tarry!" he said. "No man knows what fancy may enter into the head of the master of this place. Turn the wheel again; send up the slab to its right place. Let them have no clue to trace the flight of their victim. Leave everything as we found it, and follow me without delay." He was all anxiety now to get his brother from the shadow of this hideous place. The whiteness of Raymond's face, the hollowness of his eyes, the lines of suffering traced upon his brow in a few short days, all told a tale only too easily read. The rough fellows treated him tenderly as they might have treated a little child. They felt that he had been through some ordeal from which they themselves would have shrunk with a terror they would have been ashamed to admit; and that despite the youth's fragile frame and ethereal face that looked little like that of a mailed warrior, a hero's heart beat in his breast, and he had the spirit to do and to dare what they themselves might have quailed from and fled before. The transit through the narrow tunnel presented no real difficulty, and soon the sullen waters of the moat were troubled by the silent passage of seven instead of six swimmers. The shock of the cold plunge revived Raymond; and the sense of space above him, the star-spangled sky overhead, the free sweet air around him, even the unfettered use of his weakened limbs, as he swam with his brother's strong supporting arm about him, acted upon him like a tonic. He hardly knew whether or not it was a dream; whether he were in the body or out of the body; whether he should awake to find himself in his gloomy cell, or under the cruel hands of his foes in that dread chamber he had visited once before. He knew not, and at that moment he cared not. Gaston's arm was about him, Gaston's voice was in his ear. Whatever came upon him later could not destroy the bliss of the present moment. A score of eager hands were outstretched to lift the light frame from Gaston's arm as the brothers drew to the edge of the moat. It was no time to speak, no time to ask or answer questions. At any moment some unguarded movement or some crashing of the boughs underfoot might awaken the suspicions of those within the walls. It was enough that the secret expedition had been crowned with success -- that the captive was now released and in their own hands. Raymond was almost fainting now with excitement and fatigue, but Gaston's muscles seemed as if made of iron. Though the past days had been for him days of great anxiety and fatigue, though he had scarce eaten or slept since the rapid march upon the besieging army around St. Jean d'Angely, he seemed to know neither fatigue nor feebleness. The arm upholding Raymond's drooping frame seemed as the arm of a giant. The young knight felt as though he could have carried that light weight even to Bordeaux, and scarce have felt fatigue. But there was no need for that. Nigh at hand the horses were waiting, saddled and bridled, well fed and well rested, ready to gallop steadily all through the summer night. The moon had risen now, and filtered in through the young green of the trees with a clear and fitful radiance. The forest was like a fairy scene; and over the minds of both brothers stole the softening remembrance of such woodland wonders in the days gone by, when as little lads, full of curiosity and love of adventure, they had stolen forth at night into the forest together to see if they could discover the fairies at their play, or the dwarfs and gnomes busy beneath the surface of the earth. To Raymond it seemed indeed as though all besides might well be a dream. He knew not which of the fantastic images impressed upon his brain was the reality, and which the work of imagination. A sense of restful thankfulness -- the release from some great and terrible fear -- had stolen upon him, he scarce knew how or why. He did not wish to think or puzzle out what had befallen him. He was with Gaston once more; surely that was enough. But Gaston's mind was hard at work. From time to time he turned an anxious look upon his brother, and he saw well how ill and weary he was, how he swayed in the saddle, though supported by cleverly-adjusted leather thongs, and how unfit he was for the long ride that lay before them. And yet that ride must be taken. They must be out of reach of their implacable foe as quickly as might be. In the unsettled state of the country no place would afford a safe harbour for them till Bordeaux itself was reached. Fain would he have made for the shelter of the old home in the mill, or of Father Anselm's hospitable home, but he knew that those would be the first places searched by the emissaries of the Navailles. Even as it was these good people might be in some peril, and they must certainly not be made aware of the proximity of the De Brocas brothers. But if not there, whither could Raymond be transported? To carry him to England in this exhausted state might be fatal to him; for no man knew when once on board ship how contrary the wind might blow, and the accommodation for a sick man upon shipboard was of the very rudest. No; before the voyage could be attempted Raymond must have rest and care in some safe place of shelter. And where could that shelter be found? As Gaston thus mused a sudden light came upon him, and turning to Roger he asked of him a question: "Do not some of these fellows of our company come from Bordeaux; and have they not left it of late to follow the English banner?" "Ay, verily," answered Roger quickly. "There be some of them who came forth thence expressly to fight under the young knight of De Brocas. The name of De Brocas is as dear to many of those Gascon soldiers as that of Navailles is hated and cursed." "Send then to me one of those fellows who best knows the city," said Gaston; and in a few more minutes a trooper rode up to his side. "Good fellow," said Gaston, "if thou knowest well you city whither we are bound, tell me if thou hast heard aught of one Father Paul, who has been sent to many towns in this and other realms by his Holiness the Pope, to restore amongst the Brethren of his order the forms and habits which have fallen something into disuse of late? I heard a whisper as we passed through the city a week back now that he was there. Knowest thou if this be true?" "It was true enow, Sir Knight, a few days back," answered the man, "and I trow you may find him yet at the Cistercian Monastery within the city walls. He had but just arrived thither ere the English ships came, and men say that he had much to do ere he sallied forth again." "Good," answered Gaston, in a tone of satisfaction; and when the trooper had dropped back to his place again, the young knight turned to his brother and said cheerily: "Courage, good lad; keep but up thy heart, my brother, for I have heard good news for thee. Father Paul is in the city of Bordeaux, and it is in his kindly charge that I will leave thee ere I go to England with my tale to lay before the King." Raymond was almost too far spent to rejoice over any intelligence, however welcome; yet a faint smile crossed his face as the sense of Gaston's words penetrated to his understanding. It was plain that there was no time to lose if they were to get him to some safe shelter before his strength utterly collapsed, and long before Bordeaux was reached he had proved unable to keep his seat in the saddle, and a litter had been contrived for him in which he could lie at length, carried between four of the stoutest horsemen. They were now in more populous and orderly regions, where the forest was thinner and townships more frequent. The urgent need for haste had slightly diminished, and though still anxious to reach their destination, the party was not in fear of an instant attack from a pursuing foe. The Navailles would scarce dare to fall upon the party in the neighbourhood of so many of the English King's fortified cities; and before the sun set they hoped to be within the environs of Bordeaux itself -- a hope in which they were not destined to be disappointed. Nor was Gaston disappointed of his other hope; for scarce had they obtained admission for their unconscious and invalided comrade within the walls of the Cistercian Monastery, and Gaston was still eagerly pouring into the Prior's ears the story of his brother's capture and imprisonment, when the door of the small room into which the strangers had been taken was slowly opened to admit a tall, gaunt figure, and Father Paul himself stood before them. He gave Gaston one long, searching look; but he never forgot a face, and greeted him by name as Sir Gaston de Brocas, greatly to the surprise of the youth, who thought he would neither be recognized nor known by the holy Father. Then passing him quickly by, the monk leaned over the couch upon which Raymond had been laid -- a hard oaken bench -- covered by the cloak of the man who had borne him in. Raymond's eyes were closed; his face, with the sunset light lying full upon it, showed very hollow and white and worn. Even in the repose of a profound unconsciousness it wore a look of lofty purpose, together with an expression of purity and devotion impossible to describe. Gaston and the Prior both turned to look as Father Paul bent over the prostrate figure with an inarticulate exclamation such as he seldom uttered, and Gaston felt a sudden thrill of cold fear run through him. "He is not dead?" he asked, in a passionate whisper; and the Father looked up to answer: "Nay, Sir Knight, he is not dead. A little rest, a little tendance, a little of our care, and he will be restored to the world again. Better perhaps were it not so - better perchance for him. For his is not the nature to battle with impunity against the evil of the world. Look at him as he lies there: is that face of one that can look upon the deeds of these vile days and not suffer keenest pain? To fight and to vanquish is thy lot, young warrior; but what is his? To tread the thornier path of life and win the hero's crown, not by deeds of glory and renown, but by that higher and holier path of suffering and renunciation which One chose that we might know He had been there before us. Thou mayest live to be one of this world's heroes, boy; but in the world to come it will be thy brother who will wear the victor's crown." "I truly believe it," answered Gaston, drawing a deep breath; "but yet we cannot spare him from this world. I give him into thy hands, my Father, that thou mayest save him for us here." CHAPTER XXVII. PETER SANGHURST'S WOOING. "Joan -- sweetest mistress -- at last I find you; at last my eyes behold again those peerless charms for which they have pined and hungered so long! Tell me, have you no sweet word of welcome for him whose heart you hold between those fair hands, to do with it what you will?" Joan, roused from her reverie by those smoothly-spoken words, uttered in a harsh and grating voice, turned quickly round to find herself face to face with Peter Sanghurst -- the man she had fondly hoped had passed out of her life for ever. Joan and her father, after a considerable period spent in wanderings in foreign lands (during which Sir Hugh had quite overcome the melancholy and sense of panic into which he had been thrown by the scourge of the Black Death and his wife's sudden demise as one of its victims), had at length returned to Woodcrych. The remembrance of the plague was fast dying out from men's minds. The land was again under cultivation; and although labour was still scarce and dear, and continued to be so for many, many years, whilst the attempts at legislation on this point only produced riot and confusion (culminating in the next reign in the notable rebellion of Wat Tyler, and leading eventually to the emancipation of the English peasantry), things appeared to be returning to their normal condition, and men began to resume their wonted apathy of mind, and to cease to think of the scourge as the direct visitation of God. Sir Hugh had been one of those most alarmed by the ravages of the plague. He was full of the blind superstition of a thoroughly irreligious man, and he knew well that he had been dabbling in forbidden arts, and had been doing things that were supposed in those days to make a man peculiarly the prey of the devil after death. Thus when the Black Death had visited the country, and he had heard on all sides that it was the visitation of God for the sins of the nations, he had been seized with a panic which had been some years in cooling, and he had made pilgrimages and had paid a visit to his Holiness the Pope in order to feel that he had made amends for any wrongdoing in his previous life. He had during this fit of what was rather panic than repentance avoided Woodcrych sedulously, as the place where these particular sins which frightened him now had been committed. He had thus avoided any encounter with Peter Sanghurst, and Joan had hoped that the shadow of that evil man was not destined to cross her path again. But, unluckily for her hopes, a reaction had set in in her father's feelings. His blind, unreasoning terror had now given place to an equally wild and reckless confidence and assurance. The Black Death had come and gone, and had passed him by (he now said) doing him no harm. He had obtained the blessing of the Pope, and felt in his heart that he could set the Almighty at defiance. His revenues, much impoverished through the effects of the plague, made the question of expenditure the most pressing one of the hour; and the knight had come to Woodcrych with the distinct intention of prosecuting those studies in alchemy and magic which a year or two back he had altogether forsworn. Old Sanghurst was dead, he knew -- the devil had claimed one of his own. But the son was living still, and was to be heard of, doubtless, at Basildene. Peter Sanghurst was posing in the world as a wealthy man, surrounded by a halo of mystery which gave him distinction and commanded respect. Sir Hugh felt that he might be a very valuable ally, and began to regret now that his fears had made him so long an exile from his country and a wanderer from home. Many things might have happened in that interval. What more likely than that Sanghurst had found a wife, and that his old affection for Joan would by now be a thing of the past? The knight fumed a good deal as he thought of neglected opportunities. But there was just the chance that Sanghurst might be faithful to his old love, whilst surely Joan would have forgotten her girlish caprice, and cease to attempt a foolish resistance to her father's will. Had he been as much in earnest then as he now was, the marriage would long ago have been consummated. But in old days he had not felt so confident of the wealth of the Sanghursts as he now did, and had been content to let matters drift. Now he could afford to drift no longer. Joan had made no marriage for herself, she was unwed at an age when most girls are wives and mothers, and Sir Hugh was growing weary of her company. He wished to plunge once again into a life of congenial dissipation, and into those researches for magic wealth which had always exercised so strong a fascination over him; and the first step necessary for both these objects appeared to be to marry off his daughter, and that, if possible, to the man who was supposed to be in possession of these golden secrets. Joan, however, knew nothing of the hopes and wishes filling her father's mind. She was glad to come back to the home she had always loved the best of her father's residences, and which was so much associated in her mind with her youthful lover. She believed that so near to Guildford she would be sure to hear news of Raymond. Master Bernard de Brocas would know where he was; he might even be living beneath his uncle's roof. The very thought sent quick thrills of happiness through her. Her face was losing its thoughtful gravity of expression, and warming and brightening into new beauty. She had almost forgotten the proximity of Basildene, and Peter Sanghurst's hateful suit, so long had been the time since she had seen him last, until the sound of his voice, breaking in upon a happy reverie, brought all the old disgust and horror back again, and she turned to face him with eyes that flashed with lambent fire. Yet as she stood there in the entrance to that leafy bower which was her favourite retreat at Woodcrych, Peter Sanghurst felt as though he had never before seen so queenly a creature, and said in his heart that she had grown tenfold more lovely during the years of her wanderings. Joan was now no mere strip of a girl. She was three-and-twenty, and had all the grace of womanhood mingling with the free, untrammelled energy of youth. Her step was as light, her movements as unfettered, as in the days of her childhood; yet now she moved with an unconscious stately grace which caused her to be remarked wherever she went; and her face, always beautiful, with its regular features, liquid dark eyes, and full, noble expression, had taken an added depth and sweetness and thoughtfulness which rendered it remarkable and singularly attractive. Joan inspired a considerable amount of awe in the breasts of those youthful admirers who had flitted round her sometimes during the days of her wanderings; but she had never given any of them room to hope to be more to her than the passing acquaintance of an hour. She had received proffers of life-long devotion with a curious gentle courtesy almost like indifference, and had smiled upon none of those who had paid her court. Her father had let her do as she would. No suitor wealthy enough to excite his cupidity had appeared at Joan's feet. He intended to make a wealthy match for her before she grew much older; but the right person had not yet appeared, and time slipped by almost unheeded. Now she found herself once again face to face with Peter Sanghurst, and realized that he was renewing, or about to renew, that hateful suit which she trusted had passed from his mind altogether. The face she turned towards him, with the glowing autumn sunshine full upon it, was scarcely such as could be called encouraging to an ardent lover. But Peter Sanghurst only smiled as she stood there in her proud young beauty, the russet autumn tints framing her noble figure in vivid colours. "I have taken you by surprise, sweet lady," he said; "it is long since we met." "Long indeed, Master Peter -- or should I say Sir Peter? It hath been told to me that you have been in the great world; but whether or not your gallantry has won you your spurs I know not." Was there something of covert scorn in the tones of her cold voice? Sanghurst could not tell, but every smallest stab inflicted upon his vanity or pride by this beautiful creature was set down in the account he meant to settle with her when once she was in his power. His feelings towards her were strangely mixed. He loved her passionately in a fierce, wild fashion, coveting the possession of that beauty which maddened whilst it charmed him. She enchained and enthralled him, yet she stung him to the quick by her calm contempt and resolute avoidance of him. He was determined she should be his, come what might; but when once he had won the mastery over her, he would make her suffer for every pang of wounded pride or jealousy she had inflicted upon him. The cruelty of the man's nature showed itself even in his love, and he hated even whilst he loved her; for he knew that she was infinitely his superior, and that she had read the vileness of his nature, and had learned to shrink from him, as purity always shrinks from contact with what is foul and false. Even her question stung his vanity, and there was a savage gleam in his eye as he answered: "Nay, my spurs are still to be won; for what was it to me whether I won them or not unless I might wear them as your true knight? Sweetest mistress, these weary years have been strangely long and dark since the light of your presence has been withdrawn from us. Now that the sun has risen once again upon Woodcrych, let it shine likewise upon Basildene. Mistress Joan, I come to you with your father's sanction. You doubtless know how many years I have wooed you -- how many years I have lived for you and for you alone. I have waited even as the patriarch of old for his wife. The time has now come when I have the right to approach you as a lover. Sweet lady, tell me that you will reward my patience -- that I shall not sue in vain." Peter Sanghurst bent the knee before her; but she was acute enough to detect the undercurrent of mockery in his tone. He came as a professed suppliant; but he came with her father's express sanction, and Joan had lived long enough to know how very helpless a daughter was if her father's mind were once made up to give her hand in marriage. Her safety in past days had been that Sir Hugh was not really resolved upon the point. He had always been divided between the desire to conciliate the old sorcerer and the fear lest his professed gifts should prove but illusive; and when he was in this mood of uncertainty, Joan's steady and resolute resistance had not been without effect. But she knew that he owed large sums of money to the Sanghursts, who had made frequent advances when he had been in difficulties, and it was likely enough that the day of reckoning had now come, and that her hand was to be the price of the cancelled bonds. Her father had for some days been dropping hints that had raised uneasiness in her mind. This sudden appearance of Peter Sanghurst, coupled with his confident words, showed to Joan only too well how matters stood. For a moment she stood silent, battling with her fierce loathing and disgust, her fingers toying with the gold circlet her lover had placed upon her finger. The very thought of Raymond steadied her nerves, and gave her calmness and courage. She knew that she was in a sore strait; but hers was a spirit to rise rather than sink before peril and adversity. "Master Peter Sanghurst," she answered, calmly and steadily, "I thought that I had given you answer before, when you honoured me by your suit. My heart is not mine to give, and if it were it could never be yours. I pray you take that answer and be gone. From my lips you can never have any other." A fierce gleam was in his eye, but his voice was still smooth and bland. "Sweet lady," he said, "it irks me sore to give you pain; but I have yet another message for you. Think you that I should have dared to come with this offer of my heart and hand if I had not known that he to whom thy heart is pledged lies stiff and cold in the grip of death -- nay, has long since mouldered to ashes in the grave?" Joan turned deadly pale. She had not known that her secret had passed beyond her own possession. How came Peter Sanghurst to speak of her as having a lover? Was it all guesswork? True, he had been jealous of Raymond in old days. Was this all part of a preconcerted and diabolical plot against her happiness? Her profound distrust of this man, and her conviction of his entire unscrupulousness, helped to steady her nerves. If she had so wily a foe to deal with, she had need of all her own native shrewdness and capacity. After a few moments, which seemed hours to her from the concentrated thought pressed into them, she spoke quietly and calmly: "Of whom speak you, Sir? Who is it that lies dead and cold?" "Your lover, Raymond de Brocas," answered Sanghurst, rising to his feet and confronting Joan with a gaze of would-be sympathy, though his eyes were steely bright and full of secret malice -- "your lover, who died in my arms after the skirmish of which you may have heard, when the English army routed the besieging force around St. Jean d'Angely; and in dying he gave me a charge for you, sweet lady, which I have been longing ever since to deliver, but until today have lacked the opportunity." Joan's eyes were fixed upon him wide with distrust. She was in absolute ignorance of Raymond's recent movements. But in those days that was the fate of those who did not live in close contiguity. She had been a rover in the world, and so perchance had he. All that Sanghurst said might be true for aught she could allege to the contrary. Yet how came it that Raymond should confide his dying message to his sworn and most deadly foe? The story seemed to bear upon it the impress of falsehood. Sanghurst, studying her face intently, appeared to read her thoughts. "Lady," he said, "if you will but listen to my tale, methinks I can convince you of the truth of my words. You think that because we were rivals for your hand we were enemies, too? And so of old it was. But, fair mistress, you may have heard how Raymond de Brocas soothed the dying bed of my father, and tended him when all else, even his son, had fled from his side; and albeit at the moment even that service did not soften my hard heart, in the times that followed, when I was left alone to muse on what had passed, I repented me of my old and bitter enmity, and resolved, if ever we should meet again, to strive to make amends for the past. I knew that he loved you, and that you loved him; and I vowed I would keep away and let his suit prosper if it might. I appeal to you, fair mistress, to say how that vow has been kept." "I have certainly seen naught of you these past years," answered Joan. "But I myself have been a wanderer." "Had you not been, my vow would have been as sacredly kept," was the quick reply. "I had resolved to see you no more, since I might never call you mine. I strove to banish your image from my mind by going forth into the world; and when this chance of fighting for the King arose, I was one who sailed to the relief of the English garrison." She made no response, but her clear gaze was slightly disconcerting; he looked away and spoke rapidly. "Raymond de Brocas was on board the vessel that bore us from England's shores: ask if it be not so, an you believe me not. We were brothers in arms, and foes no longer. I sought him out and told him all that was in my heart. You know his nature -- brave, candid, fearless. He showed his nobility of soul by giving to me the right hand of fellowship. Ere the voyage ended we were friends in truth. When the day of battle came we rode side by side against the foe." Joan's interest was aroused. She knew Raymond well. She knew his nobility of nature -- his generous impulse to forgive a past foe, to bury all enmity. If Sanghurst had sought him with professions of contrition, might he not have easily been believed? And yet was such an one as this to be trusted? "In the melee -- for the fighting was hard and desperate -- we were separated: he carried one way and I another. When the French were driven back or taken captive I sought for Raymond everywhere, but for long without avail. At last I found him, wounded to the death. I might not even move him to our lines. I could but give him drink and watch beside him as he slowly sank. "It was then he spoke of thee, Joan." Sanghurst's voice took a new tone, and seemed to quiver slightly; he dropped the more formal address hitherto observed, and lapsed into the familiar "thou." "The sole trouble upon that pure soul was the thought of thee, left alone and unprotected in this harsh world. He spoke of thee and that love he bore thee, and I, who had also loved, but had resigned all my hopes for love of him, could but listen and grieve with him. But he knew my secret -- his clear eyes had long ago divined it -- and in talking together of thee, Joan, as we had many times done before, he had learned all there was to know of my hopeless love. As he lay dying he seemed to be musing of this; and one short half-hour before he breathed his last, he spoke in these words -- "'Sanghurst, we have been rivals and foes, but now we are friends, and I know that I did misjudge thee in past days, as methinks she did, too.' (Joan, this is not so. It was not that ye misjudged me, but that I have since repented of my evil ways in which erst I rejoiced.) 'But thou wilt go to her now, and tell her what has befallen her lover. Tell her that I died with her name on my lips, with thoughts of her in my heart. And tell her also not to grieve too deeply for me. It may be that to die thus, loving and beloved, is the happiest thing that can befall a man. But tell her, too, that she must not grieve too bitterly -- that she must not lead a widowed life because that I am taken from her. Give to her this token, good comrade; she will know it. Tell her that he to whom she gave it now restores it to her again, and restores it by the hand of his best and truest friend, trusting that this trusty friend will some day meet the reward he covets from the hand of her who once gave the token to him upon whom the hand of death is resting. Give it her, and tell her when you give it that her dying lover's hope is that she will thus reward the patient, generous love of him who shall bring it to her.'" As he spoke these words, Sanghurst, his eyes immovably fixed upon the changing face of the beautiful girl, drew from his breast a small packet and placed it within her trembling hands. He knew he was playing a risky game, and that one false move might lose him his one chance. It was all the veriest guesswork; but he believed he had guessed aright. Whilst Raymond had been stretched upon the rack, swooning from extremity of pain, Sanghurst's eyes, fixed in gloating satisfaction upon the helpless victim, had been caught by the sight of this token about his neck, secured by a strong silver cord. To possess himself of the charm, or whatever it might be, had been but the work of a moment. He had felt convinced that it was a lover's token, and had been given to Raymond by Joan, and if so it might be turned to good account, even if other means failed to bend the stubborn will of the youth who looked so frail and fragile. Raymond had escaped from his hands by a species of magic, as it had seemed to the cruel captors, when he had tasted but a tithe of what they had in store for him. Baffled and enraged as Sanghurst was, he had still the precious token in his possession. If it had been given by Joan, she would recognize it at once, and coupled with the supposed dying message of her lover, surely it would not be without effect. Eagerly then were his eyes fixed upon her face as she undid the packet, and a gleam of triumph came into them as he saw a flash of recognition when the little heart was disclosed to view. Truly indeed did Joan's heart sink within her, and every drop of blood ebbed from her cheek; for had not Raymond said that he would never part from her gift whilst he had life? and how could Peter Sanghurst have become possessed of it unless his tale were true? He might be capable of robbing a dead body, but how would he have known that the token was given by her? A mist seemed to float before the girl's eyes. At that moment she was unable to think or to reason. The one thought there was room for in her mind was that Raymond was dead. If he were lost to her for ever, it was little matter what became of herself. Sanghurst's keen eyes, fixed upon her with an evil gleam, saw that the charm was working. It had worked even beyond his hopes. He was so well satisfied with the result of this day's work, that he would not even press his suit upon her farther then. Let her have time to digest her lover's dying words. When she had done so, he would come to her again. "Sweet lady, I grieve that thou shouldst suffer though any words I have been forced to speak; but it was a promise given to him who is gone to deliver the message and the token. Lady, I take my leave of thee. I will not intrude upon thy sacred sorrow. I, too, sorrow little less for him who is gone. He was one of the brightest ornaments of these days of chivalry and renown." He caught her hand for a moment and pressed it to his lips, she scarce seeming to know what he did or what he said; and then he turned away and left her alone with her thoughts, a strangely malicious expression crossing his face as he knew himself hidden from her eyes. That same evening, when father and daughter were alone together in the room they habitually occupied in the after part of the day, Sir Hugh began to speak with unwonted decision and authority. "Joan, child, has Peter Sanghurst been with thee today?" "He has, my father." "And has he told thee that he comes with my sanction as a lover, and that thou and he are to wed ere the month is out?" "He had not said so much as that," answered Joan, who spoke quietly and dreamily, and with so little of the old ring of opposition in her voice that her father looked at her in surprise. She was very pale, and there was a look in her eyes he did not understand; but the flush of anger or defiance he had thought to see did not show itself. He began to think Sanghurst had spoken no more than the truth in saying that Mistress Joan appeared to have withdrawn her opposition to him as a husband. "But so it is to be," answered her father, quickly and imperiously, trying to seize this favourable moment to get the matter settled. "I have long given way to thy whimsies -- far too long -- and here art thou a woman grown, older than half the matrons round, yet never a wife as they have long been. I will no more of it. It maketh thee and me alike objects of ridicule. Peter Sanghurst is my very good friend. He has helped me in many difficulties, and is ready to help me again. He has money, and I have none. Listen, girl: this accursed plague has carried off all my people, and labourers are asking treble and quadruple for their work that which they have been wont to do. Sooner would I let the crops rot upon the ground than be so mulcted by them. The King does what he can, but the idle rogues set him at defiance; and there be many beside me who will feel the grip of poverty for long years to come. Peter Sanghurst has his wealth laid up in solid gold, not in fields and woods that bring nothing without hands to till or tend them. Marry but him, and Woodcrych shall be thy dower, and its broad acres and noble manor will make of ye twain, with his gold, as prosperous a knight and dame (for he will soon rise to that rank) as ye can wish to be. Girl, my word is pledged, and I go not back from it. I have been patient with thy fancies, but I will no more of them. Thou art mine own daughter, my own flesh and blood, and thy hand is mine to give to whom I will. Peter Sanghurst shall be thy lord whether thou wilt or no. I have said it; let that be enough. It is thy part to obey." Joan sat quite still and answered nothing. Her eyes were fixed upon the dancing flames rushing up the wide chimney. She must have heard her father's words, yet she gave no sign of having done so. But for that Sir Hugh cared little. He was only too glad to be spared a weary battle of words, or a long struggle with his high-spirited daughter, whose force of character he had come to know. That she had yielded her will to his at last seemed only right and natural, and of course she must have been by this time aware that if her father was really resolved upon the match, she was practically helpless to prevent it. She was no longer a child; she was a woman who had seen much of the world for the times she lived in. Doubtless she had begun to see that she must now marry ere her beauty waned; and having failed to make a grander match during her years of wandering, was glad enough to return to her former lover, whose fidelity had doubtless touched her heart. "Thou wilt have a home and a dowry, and a husband who has loved thee long and faithfully," added Sir Hugh, who felt that he might now adopt a more paternal tone, seeing he had not to combat foolish resistance. "Thou hast been a good daughter, Joan; doubtless thou wilt make a good wife too." Still no reply, though a faint smile seemed to curve Joan's lips. She presently rose to her feet, and making a respectful reverence to her father -- for daily embraces were not the order of the day -- glided from the room as if to seek her couch. "That is a thing well done!" breathed the knight, when he found himself once more alone, "and done easier than I had looked for. Well, well, it is a happy thing the wench has found her right senses. Methinks good Peter must have been setting his charms to work, for she never could be brought to listen to him of old. He has tamed her to some purpose now." Meantime Joan had glided up the staircase of the hall, along several winding passages, and up and down several irregular flights of narrow steps, till she paused at the door of a room very dim within, but just lighted by the gleam of a dying fire. As she stepped across the threshold a voice out of the darkness accosted her. "My ladybird, is it thou, and at such an hour? Tell me what has befallen thee." "The thing that thou and I have talked of before now, Bridget," answered Joan, speaking rapidly in a strange low voice -- "the thing that thou and I have planned a hundred times if the worst should befall us. It is tenfold more needful now than before. Bridget, I must quit this house at sunset tomorrow, and thou must have my disguise ready. I must to France, to find out there the truth of a tale I have this day heard. Nat will go with me -- he has said so a hundred times; and I have long had money laid by for the day I ever knew might come. Thou knowest all. He is a man of the sea; I am his son. We have planned it too oft to be taken unawares by any sudden peril. Thus disguised, we may wander where we will, molested by none. Lose no time. Rise and go to Nat this very night. I myself must not be seen with him or with thee. I must conduct myself as though each day to come were like the one past. But thou knowest what to do. Thou wilt arrange all. God bless thee, my faithful Bridget; and when I come back again, thou shalt not lack thy reward!" "I want none else but thy love, my heart's delight," said the old nurse, gathering the girl into her fond arms; and Joan hid her face for one moment upon that faithful breast and gave way to a short burst of weeping, which did much for her overcharged heart. Then she silently stole away and went quietly to her own chamber. CHAPTER XXVIII. GASTON'S SEARCH. "He would get better far more quickly could the trouble be removed from his mind." Gaston raised his head quickly, and asked: "What trouble?" Father Paul's face, thin and worn as of old, with the same keen, kindling glance of the deep-set eyes, softened almost into a smile as he met the questioning glance of Gaston's eyes. "Thou shouldst know more of such matters than I, my son, seeing that thou art in youth's ardent prime, whilst I wear the garb of a monk. Sure thou canst not have watched beside thy brother's sickbed all these long weeks without knowing somewhat of the trouble in his mind?" "I hear him moan and talk," answered Gaston; "but he knows not what he says, and I know not either. He is always feeling at his neck, and calling out for some lost token. And then he will babble on of things I understand not. But how I may help him I know not. I have tarried long, for I could not bear to leave him thus; and yet I am longing to carry to the King my tale of outrage and wrong. With every week that passes my chance of success grows less. For Peter Sanghurst may have been before me, and may have told his own false version of the tale ere I may have speech with King or Prince. I know not what to do -- to stay beside Raymond, or to hasten to England ere time be farther flown. Holy Father, wilt thou not counsel me? I feel that every day lost is a day lived in vain, ere I be revenged upon Raymond's cruel foes!" The youth's eyes flashed. He clenched his hands, and his teeth set themselves fast together. He felt like an eagle caged, behind these protecting walls. For his brother's sake he was right glad of the friendly shelter; but for himself he was pining to be free. And yet how was he to leave that dearly-loved brother, whose eyes followed him so wistfully from place to place, who brightened up into momentary life when he entered the room, and took so little heed of what passed about him, unless roused by Gaston's touch or voice? Raymond had been very, very near to the gates of death since he had been brought into the Monastery, and even now, so prostrated was he by the long attack of intermittent fever which had followed his wonderful escape from Saut, that those about him scarce knew how the balance would turn. The fever, which had at first run high and had been hard to subdue, had now taken another turn, and only recurred at intervals of a few days; but the patient was so fearfully exhausted by all he had undergone that he seemed to have no strength to rally. He would lie in a sort of trance of weakness when the fever was not upon him, scarce seeming to breathe unless he was roused to wakefulness by some word or caress from Gaston; whilst on the days when the fever returned, he would lie muttering indistinctly to himself, sometimes breaking forth into eager rapid speech difficult to follow, and often trying to rise and go forth upon some errand, no one knew what, and struggling hard with those who held him back. Father Paul had watched over the first stages of the illness with the utmost care and tenderness, after which his duties called him away, and he had only returned some three days since. The long hot summer in Bordeaux had been a very trying one for the patient, whose state prohibited any attempt at removal to a cooler, fresher air. But as August was merging into September, and the days were growing shorter and the heat something less oppressive, it was hoped that there might be a favourable change in the patient's state; and much was looked for also from Father Paul's skill, which was accounted something very great. Gaston and Roger had remained within the Monastery walls in close attendance upon the patient; but the restraint had been terribly irksome to the temper of the young knight, and he was panting to be free to pursue his quest, and to tell his story in the King's ears. He could not but dread that in his absence some harm might befall his Constanza. Suppose those two remorseless men suspected her to be concerned in the flight of their victim, what form might not their vengeance take? It was a thing that would scarce bear thinking of. Yet what could he do to save her and to win her until he could make an organized attack upon Saut, armed with full authority from England's King? And now that Father Paul was back, might it not be possible that this could be done? Gaston felt torn in twain betwixt his love for his brother and his love for his betrothed. Father Paul would be able to advise him wisely and well. The Father looked earnestly into the ardent and eager face of the youth, and answered quietly: "Methinks thou hast been here long enough, my son. Thou mayest do better for Raymond by going forth upon the mission thou hast set thyself. But first I would ask of thee a few questions. Who is this lady of whom thy brother speaks so oft?" "Lady?" questioned Gaston, his eyes opening wide in surprise. "Does he indeed speak of a lady?" The Father smiled at the question. "Thy thoughts must have been as wandering as his if thou dost not know as much as that," he said, with a look that brought the hot blood into Gaston's cheek, for he well knew where his own thoughts had been whilst he sat beside his brother, scarce heeding the ceaseless murmur which babbled from his unconscious lips. It had never occurred to him that he could learn aught by striving to catch those indistinct utterances; and his mind had been full to overflowing with his own affairs. "I knew not that he spoke of any lady," said the young knight, wondering for a moment, with love's irrational jealousy, whether Raymond could have seen his Constanza and have lost his heart to her. Had she not spoken of having slipped once into his cell to breathe in his ear a word of hope? Might not even that passing glimpse at such a time have been enough to subjugate his heart? He drew his breath hard, and an anxious light gleamed in his eye. But the Father continued speaking, and a load seemed to roll from his spirit with the next words. "It is of a lady whose name is Joan that he speaks almost ceaselessly when the fever fit is on him. Sometimes he speaks, too, of his cousin, that John de Brocas who lost his life in the Black Death through his ceaseless labours amongst the sick. He is in sore trouble, as it seems, by the loss of some token given him by the lady. He fears that some foul use may be made by his foes of this same token, which he would sooner have died than parted from. If thou knowest who this lady is and where she may be found, it would do more for thy brother to have news of her than to receive all the skilled care of the best physicians in the world. I misdoubt me whether we shall bring him back to life without her aid. Wherefore, if thou knowest where she may be found, delay not to seek her. Tell her her lover yet lives, and bring him some message from her that may give him life and health." Gaston's eyes lighted. To be given anything to do -- anything but this weary, wearing waiting and watching for the change that never came -- put new life into him forthwith. "It must sure be Mistress Joan Vavasour thou meanest, Father," he said. "Raymond spoke much of her when we were on shipboard together. I knew not that his heart was so deeply pledged; but I see it all now. It is of her that he is dreaming night and day. It is the loss of her token that is troubling him now. "Stop! what have I heard? Methinks that this same Peter Sanghurst was wooing Mistress Joan himself once. Sure I see another motive in his dastard capture of my brother. Perchance he had in him not only a rival for the lands of Basildene, but for the hand of the lady. Father, I see it all! Would that I had seen it before! It is Peter Sanghurst who has robbed Raymond of his token, and he may make cruel use of what he has treacherously filched away. I must lose not a day nor an hour. I must to England in the wake of this villain. Oh, why did I not understand before? What may he not have done ere I can stop his false mouth? The King shall hear all; the King shall be told all the tale! I trow he will not tarry long in punishing the coward traitor!" Father Paul was less certain how far the King would interest himself in a private quarrel, but Peter Sanghurst's recent action with regard to Raymond might possibly be such as to stir even the royal wrath. At least it was time that some watch should be placed upon the movements of the owner of Basildene, for he would be likely to make a most unscrupulous use of any power he might possess to injure Raymond or gain any hold over the lady they both loved. Roger being called in to the conference, and giving his testimony clearly enough as to the frequent intercourse which had existed between Mistress Joan Vavasour and Raymond de Brocas, and the evident attraction each bore for the other, the matter appeared placed beyond the possibility of all doubt. Gaston's resolve was quickly taken, and he only waited till his brother could be aroused to fuller consciousness, to start forth upon his double quest after vengeance and after Joan. "Brother," he said, taking Raymond's hands in his, and bending tenderly over him, "I am going to leave thee, but only for a time. I am going to England to find thy Joan, and to tell her that thou art living yet, and how thou hast been robbed of thy token." A new light shone suddenly in Raymond's eyes. It seemed as though some of the mists of weakness rolled away, leaving to him a clearer comprehension. He grasped his brother's hand with greater strength than Gaston believed him to possess, and his lips parted in a flashing smile. "Thou wilt seek her and find her? Knowest thou where she is?" "No; but I will go to seek her. I shall get news of her at Guildford. I will to our uncle's house forthwith. Sir Hugh Vavasour can easily be found." "He has been wandering in foreign lands this long while," answered Raymond. "I know not whether he may have returned home. Gaston, if thou findest her, save her from the Sanghurst. Tell her that I yet live -- that for her sake I will live to protect her from that evil man. He has robbed me of the pledge of her love; I am certain of it. It was a trinket not worth the stealing, and I had it ever about my neck. It was taken from me when I was a prisoner and at their mercy, when I did not know what befell me. He has it -- I am assured of that -- and what evil use he may make of it I know not. Ah, if thou canst but find her ere he can reach her side!" "I will find her," answered Gaston, firmly and cheerfully. "Fear not, Raymond; I have had harder tasks than this to perform ere now. Be it thy part to shake off this wasting sickness. I will seek out thy Joan, and will bring her to thy side. But let her not find thee in such sorry plight. Thou lookest yet rather a corpse than a man. Thou wouldst fright her by thy wan looks an she came to thee now." Wan and white and wasted did Raymond indeed appear, as though a breath would blow him away. Upon his face was that faraway, ethereal look of one who has been lingering long beside the portal of another world, and scarce knows to which he belongs. It sometimes seemed as though the angel song of the unseen realm was oftener heard and understood by him than the voices of those about him. But the fever cloud was slowly lifting from his brain, and today the first impulse to a real recovery had been given by these few words with his brother. Raymond's recollection of past events was coming back to him connectedly, and the thought of Joan acted like a tonic upon him. For her sake he would live; for her sake he would make a battle for his life. Had he not vowed himself to her service? and did any woman stand more in need of her lover's strong arm than the daughter of Sir Hugh Vavasour? Raymond had gauged the character of that knight before, and knew that he would sell his daughter without scruple to any person who would make it worth his while. It had been notorious in old days that the Sanghursts had some peculiar hold upon him, and was it likely that Peter Sanghurst, who was plainly resolved to make Joan his wife, would allow that power to rest unused when it might be employed for the furtherance of his purpose? To send Gaston forth upon the quest for Joan was much; but he himself must fight this wasting sickness, that he might be ready to go to her when the summons came that she was found, and was ready to welcome her faithful knight. From that hour Raymond began to amend; and although his progress was slow, and seemed doubly slow to his impatience, it was steady and sure, and he was as one given back from the dead. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Mistress Joan Vavasour, boy? why, all the world is making that inquiry. How comes it that thou, by thine own account but just home from Gascony, shouldst be likewise asking the same question?" Master Bernard de Brocas turned his kindly face towards Gaston with a look of shrewd inquiry in his eyes. His nephew had arrived but a short half-hour at his house, somewhat jaded by rapid travelling, and after hurriedly removing the stains of the journey from his person, was seated before a well-supplied board, whilst the cleric sat beside him, always eager for news, and exceedingly curious to know the history of the twin brothers, who for the past six months seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. But for the moment Gaston was too intent upon asking questions to have leisure to answer any. "How?" he questioned; "what mean you, reverend Sir? Everybody asking news of her? How comes that about?" "Marry, for the reason that the lady hath disappeared these last three weeks from her father's house, and none can tell whither she has fled, or whether she has been spirited away, or what hath befallen her. Sir Hugh is in a mighty taking, for he had just arranged a marriage betwixt her and Peter Sanghurst, and the lady had given her consent (or so it is said, albeit there be some who doubt the truth of that), and he is sorely vexed to know what can have become of her." "Peter Sanghurst! that arch-villain!" cried Gaston, involuntarily laying his hand on the hilt of his dagger. "Mine uncle, I have come to ask counsel of thee about that same miscreant. I am glad that he at least has not fled the country. He shall not escape the fate he so richly merits." And then, with flashing eyes and words eloquent through excess of feeling, Gaston related the whole story of the past months: the appearance on board the vessel of the Black Visor; the concerted action against Raymond carried out by Sanghurst, thus disguised, and the Sieur de Navailles; and the cruelty devised against him, from which he had escaped only by something of a miracle. And as Master Bernard de Brocas listened to this tale of treachery, planned and carried out against one of his own name and race, an answering light shone in his eyes, and he smote his palms together, crying out in sudden wrath: "Gaston, the King shall hear of this! Thou shalt tell to him the tale as thou hast told it to me. He will not hear patiently of such indignities offered to a subject of his, not though the King of France himself had done it! That Sieur de Navailles is no friend to England. I know him well, and his false, treacherous ways. I have heard much of him ere now, and the King has his eye upon him. Gaston, this hollow truce cannot long continue. The nobles and the King are alike weary of a peace which is no peace, and which the King of France or his lords are continually breaking. A very little, and the flame of war will burst out anew. It may be that even this tale of thine may put the spark to the train (as they say of these new artillery engines that are so astonishing men by their smoke and noise), and that the Prince, when he hears of it, will urge his father to march once more into France, and put an end to the petty annoyances and treacherous attacks which are goading the royal lion of England to wrath and fury." "Pray Heaven it may!" cried Gaston, starting to his feet and pacing up and down the hall. "Thou knowest, uncle mine, how the Prince and the King did long ago confirm to me the rights of the De Brocas to the ancient Castles of Orthez and Saut. If he would but give me his royal warrant for mustering men and recovering mine own, I trow, be the walls of Saut never so strong, that I would speedily make mine entrance within them! Uncle, the Sieur de Navailles is hated and feared and reviled by all men for miles around his walls. I trow that, even amongst those who bear arms for him, some would be found who would gladly serve another master. Stories of the punishments he is wont to inflict upon all who fall beneath his displeasure have passed from mouth to mouth, and bitter is the rage burning in the breasts of those whose helpless kinsfolk have suffered through his tyrant cruelty. I trow an armed band, coming in the name of the English King, could soon smoke that old fox out of his hole; whilst all men would rejoice at his fall. Let me to the King -- let me tell my tale! I burn to be on the wing once more! Where may his Majesty be found?" "Softly, softly, boy! We must think somewhat more of this. And we have two foes, not one alone, to deal with. Peter Sanghurst is, as it were, beneath our very hand. He is at Basildene, fuming like a wild thing at the sudden disappearance of Mistress Joan. There be, nevertheless, some who say that this wrath is all assumed; that he has captured the lady, and holds her a prisoner in his hands, all the while pretending to know naught of her. I know not what truth there may be in such rumours. The Sanghurst bears an evil name, and many are the stories whispered about him." "What!" almost shouted Gaston, in the fierceness of his excitement, "Mistress Joan a prisoner in Basildene, the captive of that miscreant! Uncle, let us lose not an hour! Let us forthwith to the King. He will give us his royal warrant, and armed with that we will to Basildene, and search for her there, and free her ere the set of sun. Oh, it would be like him -- it would be all in a piece with his villainy! I cannot rest nor breathe till I know all. Uncle, may we not set forth this very day -- this same night?" The worthy ecclesiastic laid a hand upon Gaston's shoulder. "Boy," he said, "I will myself to the King this very day. The moon will soon be up, and the way is familiar to me and my men. But thou shalt tarry here. Thou hast travelled far today, and art weary and in need of rest. Perchance, in this matter of the Sanghurst, I shall do better without thee. Thou shalt see the King anon, and shalt tell him all thy tale; but methinks this matter of Basildene had best be spoken of betwixt him and me alone. Thou knowest that I have for long been in the King's favour and confidence, and have managed many state matters for him. Thou mayest therefore leave thy cause in my hands. I have all the papers safe that thou broughtest from Gascony long since, and have left in my care these many years. I have been awaiting my opportunity to lay the matter of Basildene before the King, and now I trow that the hour has come." Gaston stopped short in his restless pacing, a bright light in his eyes. "Thou thinkest to oust the Sanghurst thence -- to gain Basildene for Raymond?" "Ay, verily I do. It is your inheritance by right; the papers prove it. Ye were deprived of it by force, and now the hour of restitution has come. As to thee are secured the Gascon lands, when they can be wrested from the hand of the foe, so shall Basildene be secured to Raymond, albeit he has not won his spurs as thou hast done, boy, and that right lustily. But I know much good of Raymond. He will worthily fill his place. Go now to rest, boy, and leave this matter in mine hands. I warrant thee the cause shall not suffer for being intrusted to me. Get thee to rest. Fear not; and ere two days be passed thou shalt have tidings of some sort from me." Gaston would fain have been his uncle's companion on the road, but he knew better than to insist. Master Bernard de Brocas well knew what he was about, and was plainly deeply interested in the story he had heard. Raymond had long been high in his favour. To cause to recoil upon the head of the treacherous Sanghurst the vengeance he had plotted against his own nephew, to punish him for his treachery -- to wrest from his rapacious grasp the lands and the Manor of Basildene, was a task peculiarly agreeable to the statesman, who knew well what he was about and the master whom he served. Basildene was no great possession, but it might be greatly increased in value, and there was rumour of buried hoards there which might speedily restore the old house to more than its former splendour. At any rate, its lands and revenues would be a modest portion for a younger son, who still had the flower of his life before him, and was like to rise in the King's favour. The romantic story of his love, his sufferings, his rescue from the two foes of his house, was certain to appeal to the King and his son, whilst the treachery of those foes would equally rouse the royal wrath. Master Bernard departed for Windsor with the rising of the moon; and Gaston passed a restless night and day wondering what was passing at Windsor, and feeling, when he retired to rest upon the second night, as though his excitement of mind must drive slumber from his eyes. Nor did sleep visit him till the tardy dawn stole in at the window, and when he did sleep he slept long and soundly. He was aroused by the sound of a great trampling in the courtyard below; and springing quickly from his couch, he saw the place full of men-at-arms, all wearing either the badge of the De Brocas or else that of the Prince of Wales. Throwing on his clothes in great haste, and scarce tarrying to buckle on his sword, Gaston strode from his chamber and hastened down the great staircase. At the foot of this stood one whom well he knew, and with an inarticulate exclamation of delight he threw himself upon one knee before the young Prince, and pressed his lips to the hand graciously extended to him. "Nay, Gaston; thy friend and comrade, not thy sovereign!" cried the handsome youth gaily, as he raised Gaston and looked smilingly into his face, his own countenance alight with satisfaction and excitement. "Ah, thou knowest not how glad I am to welcome thee once more! For the days be coming soon when I must needs rally all my brave knights about me, and go forth to France for a new career of glory there. But today another task is ours, and not as thy Prince, but thy good comrade, have I come. I will forth with thee to the den of this foul Sanghurst, and together will we search his house for the lady men say he has so cunningly spirited away; and if she be found indeed languishing in captivity there, then in very truth shall the Sanghurst feel the wrath of the royal Edward. He shall live to feel the iron hand of the King he has outraged and defied! But he shall pay the forfeit of his life. England shall be rid of one of her greatest villains when Peter Sanghurst feels the halter about his neck!" CHAPTER XXIX. THE FALL OF THE SANGHURST. "Is that the only answer you have for me, sweet lady?" "The only one, Sir; and you will never have another. Strive as you will, keep me imprisoned as long as you will, I will never yield. I will never be yours; I belong to another --" A fierce gleam was in Sanghurst's eyes, though he retained the suave softness of speech that he had assumed all along. "He is dead, fair mistress." "Living or dead, I am yet his," answered Joan unfalteringly; "and were I as free as air -- had I never pledged my faith to him -- I should yet have none other answer for you. Think you that your evil deeds have not been whispered in mine ear? Think you that this imprisonment in which you think fit to keep me is like to win my heart?" "Nay, sweetest lady, call it not by that harsh name. Could a princess have been better served or tended than you have been ever since you came beneath my humble roof? It is no imprisonment; it is but the watchful care of one who loves you, and would fain save you from the peril into which you had recklessly plunged. Lady, had you known the dangers of travel in these wild and lawless days, you never would have left the shelter of your father's house with but one attendant to protect you. Think you that those peerless charms could ever have been hidden beneath the dress of a peasant lad? Well was it for you, lady, that your true love was first to follow and find you, ere some rude fellow had betrayed the secret to his fellows, and striven to turn it to their advantage. Here you are safe; and I have sent to your father to tell him you are found and are secure. He, too, is searching for you; but soon he will receive my message, and will come hastening hither. Then will our marriage be solemnized with all due rites. Your obstinate resistance will avail nothing to hinder our purpose. But I would fain win this lovely hand by gentle means; and it will be better for thee, Joan Vavasour, to lay down thine arms and surrender while there is yet time." There was a distinct accent of menace in the last words, and the underlying expression upon that smiling face was evil and threatening in the extreme. But Joan's eyes did not falter beneath the searching gaze of her would-be husband. Her face was set in lines of fearless resolution. She still wore the rough blue homespun tunic of a peasant lad, and her chestnut locks hung in heavy natural curls about her shoulders. The distinction in dress between the sexes was much less marked in those days than it has since become. Men of high degree clothed themselves in flowing robes, and women of humble walk in life in short kirtles; whilst the tunic was worn by boys and girls alike, though there was a difference in the manner of the wearing, and it was discarded by the girl in favour of a longer robe or sweeping supertunic with the approach of womanhood. In the lower ranks of life, however, the difference in dress between boy and girl was nothing very distinctive; and the disguise had been readily effected by Joan, who had only to cut somewhat shorter her flowing locks, clothe herself in the homespun tunic and leather gaiters of a peasant boy, and place a cloth cap jauntily on her flowing curls before she was transformed into as pretty a lad as one could wish to see. With the old henchman Nat to play the part of father, she had journeyed fearlessly forth, and had made for the coast, which she would probably have reached in safety had it not been for the acuteness of Peter Sanghurst, who had guessed her purpose, had dogged her steps with the patient sagacity of a bloodhound, and had succeeded in the end in capturing his prize, and in bringing her back in triumph to Basildene. He had not treated her badly. He had not parted her from the old servant under whose escort she had travelled. Perhaps he felt he would have other opportunities of avenging this insult to himself; perhaps there was something in the light in Joan's eyes and in the way in which she sometimes placed her hand upon the hilt of the dagger in her belt which warned him not to try her too far. Joan was something of an enigma to him still. She was like no other woman with whom he had ever come in contact. He did not feel certain what she might say or do. It was rather like treading upon the crust of some volcanic crater to have dealings with her. At any moment something quite unforeseen might take place, and cause a complete upheaval of all his plans. From policy, as well as from his professed love, he had shown himself very guarded during the days of their journey and her subsequent residence beneath the roof of Basildene; but neither this show of submission and tenderness, nor thinly-veiled threats and menaces, had sufficed to bend her will to his. It had now come to this -- marry him of her own free will she would not. Therefore the father must be summoned, and with him the priest, and the ceremony should be gone through with or without the consent of the lady. Such marriages were not so very unusual in days when daughters were looked upon as mere chattels to be disposed of as their parents or guardians desired. It was usual, indeed, to marry them off at an earlier age, when reluctance had not developed into actual resistance; but still it could be done easily enough whatever the lady might say or do. Peter Sanghurst, confident that the game was now entirely in his own hands, could even afford to be indulgent and patient. In days to come he would be amply avenged for all the slights now inflicted upon him. He often pictured the moment when he should tell to Joan the true story of his possession of the love token she had bestowed upon Raymond. He thought that she would suffer even more in the hearing of it than he had done upon the rack; and his wife could not escape him as his other victim had. He could wring her heartstrings as he had hoped to wring the nerves of Raymond's sensitive frame, and none could deliver her out of his hand. But now he was still playing the farce of the suppliant lover, guessing all the while that she knew as well as he what a farce the part was. He strove to make her surrender, but was met by an invincible firmness. "Do what you will, Peter Sanghurst," she said: "summon my father, call the priest, do what you will, your wife I will never be. I have told you so before; I tell it you again." He smiled a smile more terrible than his frown. "We shall see about that," was his reply, as he turned on his heel and strode from the room. When he was gone Joan turned suddenly towards the old man, who was all this while standing with folded arms in a distant window, listening in perfect silence to the dialogue. She made a few swift paces towards him and looked into his troubled face. "Nat," she said, in a low voice, "thou hast not forgotten thy promise made to me?" "My mistress, I have not forgotten." "And thou wilt keep thy word?" "I will keep it." He spoke with manifest effort; but Joan heaved a sigh of relief. She came one step nearer, and laid her soft hand upon the old servant's shoulder, looking into his face with affectionate solicitude. "I know not if I should ask it of thee; it may cost thee thy life." "My life is naught, if I can but save thee from that monster, sweet mistress; but oh, if it might be by another way!" "Nay, say not so; methinks now this is the best, the sweetest way. I shall the sooner find him, who will surely be waiting for me upon the farther shore. One blow, and I shall be free for ever. O Nat, this world is a sore place for helpless women to dwell in. Since he has gone, what is there for me to live for? I almost long for the hour which shall set my spirit free. They will let me see the Holy Father, who comes to wed us. I shall receive the Absolution and the Blessing; and methinks I am not unprepared. Death has no terrors for me: I have seen him come so oft in the guise of a friend. Nay, weep not, good Nat; the day will come when we all must die. Thou wouldst rather see me lying dead at thy feet than the helpless captive of the Sanghurst, as else I must surely be?" "Ay, lady," answered the old man, between his shut teeth, "ten thousand times rather, else would not this fond hand strike the blow that will lay thy fair young head in the dust. But sooner than know thee the wife of yon vile miscreant, I would slay thee ten times over. Death is soon past -- death comes but once; but a life of helpless misery and agony, that I could not bear for thee. Let them do what they will to me, I will set thee free first." Joan raised the strong, wrinkled hand to her lips and kissed it, before the old retainer well knew what she was doing. He withdrew it in some confusion. "Good Nat, I know not how to thank thee; but what I can do to save thee I will. I do not think my father will suffer thee to be harmed if when I am dead thou wilt give him this packet I now give to thee. In it I have told him many things he would not listen to whilst I lived, but he will read the words that have been penned by a hand that is cold and stiff in death. To his old love for me I have appealed to stand thy friend, telling him how and why the deed has been done, and thy hand raised against me. I think he will protect and pardon thee -- I think it truly. "How now, Nat? What seest thou? What hearest thou? Thy thoughts are not with me and with my words. What is it? Why gazest thou thus from the casement? What is there to see?" "Armed men, my mistress -- armed men riding towards Basildene!" answered the old man, in visible excitement. "I have seen the sunlight glinting on their headpieces. I am certain sure there be soldiers riding to this very door. What is their business? How have they come? Ah, lady, my sweet mistress, pray Heaven they have come to set thee free! Pray Heaven they have come as our deliverers!" Joan started and ran to the casement. She was just in time to see the flash of the November sunlight upon the steel caps of the last of the band of horsemen whose approach had been observed by Nat. Only a very small portion of the avenue leading to Basildene could be seen from these upper casements, and the riders must have been close to the house before their approach was marked by the old man. Now Joan flung open the casement in great excitement, and leaned far out. "Hark!" she exclaimed, in great excitement, "I hear the sound of heavy blows, and of voices raised in stern command." "Open in the King's name; open to the Prince of Wales!" These words were distinctly borne to Joan's listening ears as she stood with her head thrust through the lattice, every faculty absorbed in the strain of eager desire to hear. "The King! the Prince!" she cried, her breath coming thick and fast, whilst her heart beat almost to suffocation. "O Nat, good Nat! what can it mean? The Prince! what can have brought him hither?" "Doubtless he comes to save thee, sweet lady," cried the old retainer, to whom it seemed but natural that the heir of England should come forth to save his fair young mistress from her fate. But Joan shook her head, perplexed beyond measure, yet not able to restrain the wildest hopes. The Prince -- that noble youth so devoted to chivalry, so generous and fearless, and the friend of the twin brothers, one of whom was her lost Raymond! Oh, could it be that some rumour had reached his ears? Could it be that he had come to set her free? It seemed scarce possible, and yet what besides could have brought him hither? And at least with help so near she could surely make her woeful case known to him! For the first time for many days hope shot up in Joan's heart -- hope of release from her hated lover by some other means than that of death; and with that hope came surging up the love of life so deeply implanted in human nature, the wild hope that her lover might yet live, that she had been tricked and deceived by the false Sanghurst --all manner of vague and unformed hopes, to which there was no time to give definite form even in her thoughts. She was only conscious that a ray of golden sunshine had fallen athwart her path, and that the darkness in which she had been enwrapped was changing -- changing to what? There were strange sounds in the house -- a tumult of men's voices, the clash of arms, cries and shouts, and the tread of many feet upon the stairs. Joan's colour came and went as she listened. Yes, surely she heard a voice -- a voice that sent thrills all through her -- and yet it was not Raymond's voice; it was deeper, louder, more authoritative. But the footsteps were approaching, were mounting the turret stair, and Joan, with a hasty movement, flung over her shoulders a sweeping supertunic lined with fur, which Peter Sanghurst had placed in the room for her use, but which she had not hitherto deigned to wear. She had but just secured the buckle and girdle, and concealed her boy's garb by the means of these rich folds of velvet, before a hand was upon the latch of the door, and the same thrilling voice was speaking through the panels in urgent accents. "Lady -- Mistress Joan -- art thou there?" "I am within this turret -- I am here, fair sir," answered Joan, as calmly as her beating heart would allow. "But I cannot open to thee, for I am but a captive here -- the captive of Peter Sanghurst." "Now a prisoner bound, and answering for his sins before the Prince and some of the highest nobles of the land. Lady, I and my men have come to set thee free. I come to thee the bearer of a message from my brother -- from Raymond de Brocas. Give my stout fellows but a moment's grace to batter down this strong door, and we will set thee free, and take thee to the Prince, to bear witness against the false traitor, who stands in craven terror before him below!" But these last words were quite lost upon Joan. She had sunk, trembling and white, upon a couch, overcome by the excess of joy with which she had heard her lover's name pronounced. She heard heavy blows dealt upon the oaken panels of the door. She knew that her deliverance was at hand; but a mist was before her eyes, and she could think of nothing but those wonderful words just spoken, until the woodwork fell inwards with a loud crash, and Gaston, springing across the threshold, knelt at her feet. "Lady, it is many years since we met, and then we met but seldom; but I come from him whom thou lovest and therefore I know myself welcome. Fair mistress, my brother has been sorely sick -- sick unto death -- or he would be here himself to claim this fair hand. He has been sick in body and sick in mind -- sick with fear lest that traitor and villain who robbed him of your token should make foul use of it by deceiving thee with tales of his death or falsity. "Lady, he was robbed by Peter Sanghurst of that token. Sanghurst and our ancient foe of Navailles leagued themselves together and carried off my brother by treachery. He was their prisoner in the gloomy Tower of Saut. They would have done him to death in cruel fashion had not we found a way to save and rescue him from their hands. They had done him some hurt even then, and they had robbed him of what had become almost dearer to him than life itself; but he was saved from their malice. It was long ere he could tell us of his loss, tell us of thee; for he lay sick of a wasting fever for many a long month, and we knew not what the trouble was that lay so sore upon him. But no sooner had he recovered so as to speak more plainly than we learned all, and I have been seeking news of thee ever since. I should have been here long ago but for the contrary winds which kept us weeks at sea, unable to make the haven we sought. But I trow I have not come too late. I find thee here at Basildene; but sure thou art not the wife of him who calls himself its lord?" "Wife! no -- ten thousand times no!" answered Joan, springing to her feet, and looking superb in her stately beauty, the light of love and happiness in her eyes, the flush of glad triumph on her cheek. "Sir Knight, thou art Raymond's brother, thou art my saviour, and I will tell thee all. I was fleeing from Sanghurst -- fleeing to France, to learn for myself if the tale he told of Raymond's death were true; for sorely did I misdoubt me if those false lips could speak truth. He guessed my purpose, followed and brought me back hither a captive. To force me to wed him has long been his resolve, and he has won my father to take his side. He was about to summon my father and a priest and make me his wife, here in this very place, and never let me stir thence till the chain was bound about me. But I had a way of escape. Yon faithful servant, who shared my perils and my wanderings, had given me his word to strike me dead ere he would see me wedded to Sanghurst. No false vow should ever have passed my lips; no mockery of marriage should ever have been consummated. I have no fear of death. I only longed to die that I might go to my Raymond, and be with him for ever." "But now thou needest not die to be with him!" cried Gaston, enchanted at once by her beauty, her fearless spirit, and her loyalty and devotion to Raymond. "My brother lives! He lives for thee alone! I have come to lead thee to him, if thou wilt go. But first, sweet mistress, let me take thee to our Prince. It is our noble Prince who has come to see into this matter his own royal self. I had scarce hoped for so much honour, and yet I ever knew him for the soul of generosity and chivalry. Let me lead thee to him. Tell him all thy tale. We have the craven foe in our hands now, and this time he shall not escape us!" Gaston ground his teeth, and his eyes flashed fire, as he thought of all the wickedness of Peter Sanghurst. He was within the walls of Basildene, his brother's rightful inheritance; the memory of the cruelty and the treachery of this man was fresh in his mind. The Prince was hearing all the tale; the Prince would judge and condemn. Gaston knew well what the fate of the tyrant would be, and there was no room for aught in his heart beside a great exultant triumph. Giving his arm to Joan, who was looking absolutely radiant in her stately beauty, he led her down into the hall below, where the Prince was seated with some knights and nobles round him -- Master Bernard de Brocas occupying a seat upon his right hand -- examining witnesses and looking at the papers respecting the ownership of Basildene which were now laid before him. At the lower end of the hall, his hands bound behind him, and his person guarded by two strong troopers, stood Peter Sanghurst, his face a chalky-white colour, his eyes almost starting from his head with terror, all his old ease and assumption gone, the innate cowardice of his nature showing itself in every look and every gesture. A thoroughly cruel man is always at heart a coward, and Peter Sanghurst, who had taken the liveliest delight in inflicting pain of every kind upon those in his power, now stood shivering and almost fainting with apprehension at the fate in store for himself. As plentiful evidence had been given of his many acts of barbarity and tyranny, there had been fierce threats passed from mouth to mouth that hanging was too good for him -- that he ought to taste what he had inflicted on others; and the wretched man stood there in an agony of apprehension, every particle of his swaggering boldness gone, and without a vestige of real courage to uphold him in the hour of his humiliation. As the Prince saw the approach of Joan, he sprang to his feet, and all the assembled nobles did the same. With that chivalrous courtesy for which he became famous in history, the Prince bent the knee before the lady, and taking her by the hand, led her to a seat of honour beside himself, asking her of herself and her story, and listening with respectful attention to every word she spoke. Gaston then stood forward and told again his tale of Raymond's capture, and deep murmurs of indignation ran through the hall as he did so. The veins swelled upon the Prince's forehead as he heard the tale, and his eyes emitted sparks of fierce light as they flashed from time to time upon the trembling prisoner. "Methinks we have heard enough, gentlemen," said he at length, as Gaston's narrative drew to a close. "Marshal, bring hither your prisoner. "This man, gentlemen, is the hero of these brave deeds of valour of which we have been hearing. This is the man who dares to waylay and torture English subjects to wring from them treasure and gold; the man who dares to bring this vilely-won wealth to purchase with it the favour of England's King; the man who wages war on foreign soil with the friends of England, and treacherously sells them into the hand of England's foe; who deals with them as we have heard he dealt and would have dealt with Raymond de Brocas had not Providence worked almost a miracle in his defence. This is the man who, together with his father, drove from this very house the lawful owner, because that she was a gentle, tender woman, and was at that moment alone and unable to defend herself from them. This is the man who is not ashamed to call himself the master of Basildene, and who has striven to compass by the foulest ends the death of the true owner of the property -- though Raymond de Brocas braved the terrors of the Black Death to tend and soothe the last dying agonies of that man's father. This is the man who would wed by force this fair maiden, and strove to deceive her by the foulest tricks and jugglery. Say, gentlemen, what is the desert of this miscreant? What doom shall we award him as the recompense of his past life?" A score of hideous suggestions were raised at once, and the miserable Peter Sanghurst shook in his shoes as he saw the fierce, relentless faces of the soldiers making a ring round him. Those were cruel days, despite the softening influence of their vaunted chivalry, and the face of the Prince was stern and black. It was plain that he had been deeply roused by the story he had heard. But Joan was there, and she was a woman; and vile as had been this man's life, and deeply as he had injured her and him she loved tenfold more than her own life, he was still a human creature, and a creature without a hope either in this world or the world to come. She could not but pity him as he stood there cowering and shuddering, and she turned swiftly towards the Prince and spoke to him in a rapid undertone. Young Edward listened, and the dark cloud passed from his brow. He was keenly susceptible to the nobler emotions, and an appeal to his generosity was not unheeded. Raising his hand in token that he demanded silence, he turned towards the quaking criminal, and thus addressed him: "Peter Sanghurst, you stand convicted of many and hideous crimes -- witchcraft, sorcery, treachery to your King, vile cruelty to his subjects -- crimes for which death alone is scarce punishment enough. You well merit a worse fate than the gallows. You well merit some of those lingering agonies that you have inflicted upon your wretched victims, and have rejoiced to witness. But we in England do not torture our prisoners, and it is England's pride that this is so. This fair lady, who owes you naught but grievous wrong, has spoken for you; she says that were Raymond de Brocas here, he would join with her in praying that your fate might be swift and merciful. Therefore I decree that you are led forth without the gates of Basildene, and hanged upon the first tree out of sight of its walls. "See to it, marshal. Let there be no delay. It is not fit that such a wretch should longer cumber the earth. Away with him, I say!" The soldiers closed around the condemned man and bore him forth, one of the marshals following to see the deed done. Joan had for a moment covered her face with her hand, for even so it was rather terrible to see this tyrant and oppressor led forth from his own house to an ignominious death, and she was unused to such stern scenes. But those around the table were already turning their attention to other matters, and the Prince was addressing himself to certain men who had come into the hall covered with cobweb and green mould. "Has the treasure been found?" he asked. "Yes, Sire," answered the leader of this strange-looking band. "It was cleverly hidden, in all truth, in the cellars of the house, and we should scarce have lighted on it but for the help of some of the people here, who, so soon as they heard that their master was doomed to certain death, were as eager to help us as they had been fearful before. It has all been brought up for you to see; and a monstrous hoard it is. It must almost be true, I trow, that the old man had the golden secret. So much gold I have never seen in one place." "It is ill-gotten gold," said the Prince, sternly, as he rose, and, followed by the nobles and Master Bernard de Brocas, went to look at the coffers containing the treasure hoarded up and amassed by the Sanghursts during a long period of years. "But I trow since the Black Death has so ravaged these parts, it would be idle to strive to seek out the owners, and it would but raise a host of false claims that no man might sift. "Master Bernard de Brocas, I award this treasure to Raymond de Brocas, the true lord of Basildene, to whom and to whose heirs shall be secured this house and all that belongs to it. Into your hands I now intrust the gold and the lands, to be kept by you until the rightful owner appears to lay claim to them. Let a part of this gold be spent upon making fit this house for the reception of its master and this fair maiden, who will one day be the mistress here with him. Let it be thy part, good Master Bernard, to remove from these walls the curse which has been brought upon them by the vile sorceries and cruelties of this wicked father and more wicked son. Let Holy Church do her part to cleanse and purify the place, and then let it be made meet for the reception of its lord and lady when they shall return hither to receive their own." The good Bernard's face glowed with satisfaction at this charge. It was just such a one as pleased him best, and such as he was well able to fulfil. Nobody more capable could well have been found for the guardianship and restoration of Basildene; and with this hoard to draw upon, the old house might well grow to a beauty and grandeur it had never known before. "Gracious Prince, I give you thanks on behalf of my nephew, and I will gladly do all that I may to carry out your behest. The day will come when Raymond de Brocas shall come in person to thank you for your princely liberality and generosity." "Tush, man, the gold is not mine; and some of it may have been come by honestly, and belong fairly enough to the Sanghurst family. You say the mother of these bold Gascon youths was a Sanghurst: it follows, then, that Basildene and all pertaining to it should be theirs. Raymond de Brocas has suffered much from the Sanghursts. By every law of right and justice, it is he who should reap the reward, and find Basildene restored to its former beauty before he comes to dwell within it." "And he shall so find it if I have means to compass it," answered the uncle, with glad pride. His eye was then drawn to another part of the hall; for Sir Hugh Vavasour had just come galloping up to the door in hot haste, having heard all manner of strange rumours: the first being that his daughter had been found, and was in hiding at Basildene; the second, which had only just reached his ears, that Peter Sanghurst was dead -- hanged by order of the Prince, and that Basildene had been formally granted as the perpetual right of Raymond de Brocas and his heirs. "And Raymond de Brocas is the plighted husband of thy daughter, good Sir Hugh," said Master Bernard, coming up to help his old friend out of his bewilderment -- "plighted, that is, by themselves, by the right of a true and loyal love. Thy daughter will still be the Lady of Basildene, and I think that thou wilt rather welcome my nephew as her lord than yon miscreant, whose body is swinging on some tree not far away. Thou wert something too willing, my friend, to sell thy daughter for wealth; but fortune has been kind to her as well as to thee, and thou hast gained for her the wealth, and yet hast not sacrificed her brave young heart. Go to her now, and give her thy blessing, and tell her she may wed young Raymond de Brocas so soon as he comes to claim her hand." CHAPTER XXX. WITH THE PRINCE.[i] "Sanghurst dead! Joan free! her father's consent won! I the Lord of Basildene! Gaston, thou takest away my breath! Art sure thou art not mocking me?" "Art sure that thou art indeed thyself, my lord of Basildene?" was Gaston's merry response, as he looked his brother over from head to foot with beaming face; "for, in sooth, I scarce should know thee for the brother I left behind -- that wan and wasted creature, more like a corpse than a man. The good Brothers have indeed done well by thee, Raymond. Save that thou hast not lost thine old saintly look, which stamps thee as something different from the rest of us, I should scarce have thought it could be thee. This year spent in thine own native clime has made a new man of thee!" "In truth I think it has," answered Raymond, who was indeed wonderfully changed from the time when Gaston had left him, rather more than ten months before. "We had no snow and no cold in the winter gone by, and I was able to take the air daily, and I grew strong wondrous fast. Thou hadst told me to be patient, to believe that all was well if I heard nothing from thee; and I strove to follow thy maxim, and that with good success. I knew that thou wouldst not let me go on hoping if hope meant but a bitterer awaking. I knew that silence must mean there was work which thou wert doing. Many a time, as a white-winged vessel spread her sails for England's shores, have I longed to step on board and follow thee across the blue water to see how thou wast faring; but then came always the thought that thou mightest be on thy way hither, and that thou wouldst chide me for having left these sheltering walls. And so I stayed on day after day, and week after week, until months had rolled by; and I began to say within myself that, if thou camest not before the autumn storms, I must e'en take ship and follow thee, for I could wait no longer for news of thee -- and her." "And here I am with news of her, and news that to me is almost better. Raymond, I have not come hither alone. The Prince and the flower of our English chivalry are here at Bordeaux this day. The hollow truce is at an end. Insult upon insult has been heaped upon England's King by the King of France, the King of Navarre (who called himself our ally till he deserted us to join the French King, who will yet avenge upon him his foul murder of Charles of Spain), and the Count of Blois in Brittany. England has been patient. Edward has listened long to the pleadings of the Pope, and has not rushed into war; but he cannot wait patiently for ever. They have roused the lion at last, and he will not slumber again till he has laid his foes in the dust. "Listen, Raymond: the Prince is here in Bordeaux. The faithful Gascon nobles -- the Lord of Pommiers, the Lord of Rosen, the Lord of Mucident, and the Lord de l'Esparre -- have sent to England to say that if the Prince will but come to lead them, they will make gallant war upon the French King. John has long been striving to undermine England's power in his kingdom, to rid himself of an enemy's presence in his country, to be absolute lord over his vassals without their intermediate allegiance to another master. It does not suffice that our great King does homage for his lands in France (though he by rights is King of France himself). He knows that here, in these sunny lands of the south, the Roy Outremer is beloved as he has never been. He would fain rob our King of all his lands; he is planning and plotting to do it." "But the Roy Outremer is not to be caught asleep," cried Raymond, with a kindling glance, "and John of France is to learn what it is to have aroused the wrath of the royal Edward and of his brave people of England." "Ay, verily; and our good Gascons are as forward in Edward's cause as his English subjects," answered Gaston quickly. "They love our English rule, they love our English ways; they will not tamely be transformed into a mere fief of the French crown. They will fight for their feudal lord, and stand stanchly by his banner. It is their express request that brings the Prince hither today. The King is to land farther north -- at Cherbourg methinks it was to be; whilst my Lord of Lancaster has set sail for Brittany, to defend the Countess of Montford from the Count of Blois, who has now paid his ransom and is free once more. His Majesty of France will have enough to do to meet three such gallant foes in the field. "And listen still farther, Raymond, for the Prince has promised this thing to me -- that as he marches through the land, warring against the French King, he will pause before the Castle of Saut and smoke out the old fox, who has long been a traitor at heart to the English cause. And the lands so long held by the Navailles are to be mine, Raymond -- mine. And a De Brocas will reign once more at Saut, as of old! What dost thou think of that?" "Brother, I am glad at heart. It seemeth almost like a dream. Thou the lord of Saut and I of Basildene! Would that she were living yet to see the fulfilment of her dream!" "Ay, truly I would she were. But, Raymond, thou wilt join the Prince's standard; thou wilt march with us to strike a blow for England's honour and glory? Basildene and fair Mistress Joan are safe. No harm will come to them by thine absence. And thou owest all to the Prince. Surely thou wilt not leave him in the hour of peril; thou wilt march beneath his banner and take thy share of the peril and the glory?" Gaston spoke with eager energy, looking affectionately into his brother's face; and as he saw that look, Raymond felt that he could not refuse his brother's request. For just a few moments he hesitated, for the longing to see Joan once again and to clasp her in his arms was very strong within him; but his brother's next words decided him. "Thy brother and the Prince have won Basildene for thee; surely thou wilt not leave us till Saut has yielded to me!" Raymond held out his hand and grasped that of Gaston in a warm clasp. "We will go forth together once again as brothers in arms," he said, with brightening eyes. "It may be that our paths in life may henceforth be divided; wherefore it behoves us in the time that remains to us to cling the more closely together. I will go with thee, brother, as thy faithful esquire and comrade, and we will win back for thee the right to call the old lands thine. How often we have dreamed together in our childhood of some such day! How far away it then appeared! and yet the day has come." "And thou wilt then see my Constanza," said Gaston, in low, exultant tones -- "my lovely and gentle mistress, to whom thou, my brother, owest thy life. It is meet that thou shouldst be one to help to set her free from the tyranny of her rude uncle and the isolation of her dreary life in yon grim castle walls. Thou hast seen her, hast thou not? Tell me, was she not the fairest, the loveliest object thine eyes had ever looked upon, saving of course (to thee) thine own beauteous lady?" "Methought it was some angel visitor from the unseen world," answered Raymond, "flitting into yon dark prison house, where it seemed that no such radiant creature could dwell. There was fever in my blood, and all I saw was through a misty veil, I scarce believed it more than a sweet vision; but I will thank her now for the whispered word of hope breathed in mine ear in the hour of my sorest need." "Ay, that thou shalt do!" cried Gaston, with all a lover's delight in the thought of the near meeting with the lady of his heart. "And when, in days to come, thou and I shall bring our brides to Edward's Court, men will all agree that two nobler, lovelier women never stepped this earth before -- my fairy Constanza, a creature of fire and snow; thy Joan, a veritable queen amongst women, stately, serene, full of dignity and courage, and beautiful as she is noble." "And thou art sure that she is safe?" questioned Raymond, his heart still longing for the moment of reunion after the long separation, albeit those were days when the separation of years was no infrequent thing, even betwixt those most closely drawn by bonds of love. "There is none else to come betwixt her and me? Her father will not strive to sunder us more?" "Her father is but too joyous to be free from the power of the Sanghurst; and the Prince spoke words that brought the flush of shame tingling to his face. An age of chivalry, and a man selling his daughter for filthy lucre to one renowned for his evil deeds and remorseless cruelties! A lady forced to flee her father's house and brave the perils of the road to escape a terrible doom! I would thou hadst heard him, Raymond our noble young Prince, with scorn in his voice and the light of indignation in his eyes. And thy Joan stood beside him; he held her hand the while, as though he would show to all men that the heir of England was the natural protector of outraged womanhood, that the upholder of chivalry would stand to his colours, and be the champion of every distressed damsel throughout the length and the breadth of the land. And the lady looked so proud and beautiful that I trow she might have had suitors and to spare in that hour; but the Prince, still holding her hand, told her father all the story of her plighted troth to thee -- that truest troth plight of changeless love. And he told him how that Basildene and all its treasure had been secured to thee, and asked him was he willing to give his daughter to the Lord of Basildene? And Sir Hugh was but too glad that no more than this was asked of him, and in presence of the Prince and of us all he pledged his daughter's hand to thee, I standing as thy proxy, as I have told thee. And now thy Joan is well-nigh as fully thine as though ye had joined your hands in holy wedlock. Thou hast naught to fear from her father's act. He is but too much rejoiced with the fashion in which all has turned out. His word is pledged before the Prince; and moreover thou art the lord of Basildene and its treasure, and what more did he ever desire? It was a share in that gold for which he would have sold his daughter." Raymond's face took a new look, one of shrinking and pain. "I like not that treasure, Gaston," he said. "It is like the price of blood. I would that the King had taken it for his own. It seemeth as though it could never bring a blessing with it." "Methinks it could in thy hands and Joan's," answered Gaston, with a fond, proud glance at his brother's beautiful face; "and as the Prince truly said, since this scourge has swept through the land, claiming a full half of its inhabitants, it would be a hopeless task to try to discover the real owners; and moreover a part may be the Sanghurst store, which men have always said is no small thing, and which in very truth is now thine. But thou canst speak to Father Paul of all that. The Church will give thee holy counsel. Methinks that gold in thy hands would ever be used so as to bring with it a blessing and not a curse. "But come now with me to the Prince. He greatly desires to see thee again. He has not forgot thee, brother mine, nor that exploit of thine at the surrender of Calais." Father Paul was not at that time within the Monastery walls, his duties calling him hither and thither, sometimes in one land and sometimes in another. Raymond had enjoyed a peaceful time of rest and mental refreshment with the good monks, but he was more than ready to go forth into the world again. Quiet and study were congenial to him, but the life of a monk was not to his taste. He saw clearly the evils to which such a calling was exposed, and how easy it was to forget the high ideal, and fall into self indulgence, idleness, and sloth. Not that the abuses which in the end caused the monastic system to fall into such contempt were at that time greatly developed; but the germs of the evil were there, and it needed a nature such as that of Father Paul and men of his stamp to show how noble the life of devotion could be made. Ordinary men fell into a routine existence, and were in danger of letting their duties and even their devotions become purely mechanical. Raymond said adieu to his hospitable entertainers with some natural regrets, yet with a sense that there was a wider work for him to do in the world than any he should ever find between Monastery walls. Even apart from all thoughts of love and marriage, there was attraction for him in the world of chivalry and warfare. His ambition took a different form from that of the average youth of the day, but none the less for that did it act upon him like a spur, driving him forth where strife and conflict were being waged, and where hard blows were to be struck. Gaston's brother was warmly welcomed in the camp of the Prince. Many there were who remembered the dreamy-faced lad, who had seemed like a young Saint Michael amongst them, and still bore about with him something of that air of remoteness which was never without its effect even upon the rudest of his companions. Indeed the ordeal through which he had passed had left an indelible stamp upon him. If the face looked older than of yore, it was not that the depth and spirituality of the expression had in any wise diminished. The two brothers standing together formed a perfect picture in contrasted types -- the bronzed, stalwart soldier in his coat of mail, looking every inch the brave knight he was; and the slim, pale-faced Raymond, with the haunting eyes and wonderful smile, which irradiated his face like a gleam of light from another world, bearing about with him that which seemed to stamp him as somewhat different from his fellows, and yet which always commanded from them not only admiration, but affection and respect. The Prince's greeting was warm and hearty. He felt towards Raymond all that goodwill which naturally follows an act of generous interference on behalf of an injured person. He made him sit beside him in his tent at supper time, and tell him all his history; and the promise made to Gaston with reference to the tyrant Lord of Saut was ratified anew as the wine circulated at table. The chosen comrades of the Prince, who had most of them known the twin brothers for many years, vowed themselves to the enterprise with hearty goodwill; and had the Lord of Navailles been there to hear, he might well have trembled for his safety, despite the strong walls and deep moat that environed Saut. "Let his walls be never so strong, I trow we can starve or smoke the old fox out!" quoth young Edward, laughing. "There be many strong citadels, many a fortified town, that will ere long open their gates at the summons of England's Prince. How say ye, my gallant comrades? Shall the old Tower of Saut defy English arms? Shall we own ourselves beaten by any Sieur de Navailles?" The shout with which these words were answered was answer sufficient. The English and Gascon lords, assembled together under the banner of the Prince, were bent on a career of glory and plunder. The inaction of the long truce, with its perpetual sources of irritation and friction, had been exasperating in the extreme. It was an immense relief to them to feel that war had at last been declared, and that they could unfurl their banners and march forth against their old enemy, and enrich themselves for life at his expense. With the march of the Prince through south France we have little concern in this history. It was one long triumphal progress, not over and above glorious from a military standpoint; for there were no real battles, and the accumulation of plunder and the infliction of grievous damage upon the French King's possessions seemed the chief object of the expedition. Had there been any concerted resistance to the Prince's march, doubtless he might have shown something of his great military talents in directing his forces in battle; but as it was, the country appeared paralyzed at his approach: place after place fell before him, or bought him off by a heavy price; and though there were several citadels in the vanquished towns which held out for France, the Prince seldom stayed to subdue them, but contented himself with plundering and burning the town. Not a very glorious style of warfare for those days of vaunted chivalry, yet one, nevertheless, characteristic enough of the times. Every undertaking, however small, gave scope for deeds of individual gallantry and the exercise of individual acts of courtliness and chivalry; and even the battles were often little more than a countless number of hand-to-hand conflicts carried on by the individual members of the opposing armies. The Prince and his chosen comrades, always on the watch for opportunities of showing their prowess and of exercising their knightly chivalry towards any miserable person falling in their own way, were doubtless somewhat blinded to the ignoble side of such a campaign. However that may be, Raymond often felt a sinking at heart as he saw their path marked out by blazing villages and wasted fields; and almost all his own energies were concentrated in striving to do what one man could achieve to mitigate the horrors of war for some of its helpless victims. Narbonne, on the Gulf of Lions, was the last place attacked and taken by the Prince, who then decided to return with his spoil to Bordeaux, and pass the remainder of the winter in the capture of certain places that would be useful to the English. Nothing had all this time been spoken as to Saut, which lay out of the line of their march in the heart of friendly Gascony. But the project had by no means been abandoned, and the Prince was but waiting a favourable opportunity to carry it into effect. The Sieur de Navailles had not attempted to join the Prince's standard, as so many of the Gascon nobles had done, but had held sullenly aloof, probably watching and waiting to see the result of this expedition, but by no means prepared to adventure his person into the hands of a feudal lord against whom his own sword had more than once been drawn. He was well aware, no doubt, that there were pages in his past history with regard to his relations with France that would not bear inspection by English eyes, and perhaps he trusted to the remoteness and obscurity of his two castles to save him from the notice of the Prince. The terror inspired by the English arms in France is a thing that must always excite the wonder and curiosity of the readers of history. It was displayed on and after the Battle of Crecy, when Edward's army, if numbers counted for anything, ought to have been simply annihilated by the vast musters of the French, who were in their own land surrounded by friends, whilst the English were a small band in the midst of a hostile and infuriated population. This same thing was seen again in the march of the Prince of Wales, soon to be called the Black Prince, when city after city bought him off, hopeless of resisting his progress; and when the army mustered by the Count of Armagnac to oppose the retreat of the English to Bordeaux with their spoil was seized with a panic after the merest skirmish, and fled, leaving the Prince to pursue his way unmolested. If the conduct of the English army was somewhat inglorious, certainly the behaviour of their foes was still more so. The English were always ready to fight if they could find an enemy to meet them. Possibly the doubtful character of the Prince's first campaign was less his fault than that of his pusillanimous enemies. Bordeaux reached, however, and the Gascon soldiers dismissed to their homes for the winter months, the Prince promising to lead them next year upon a more glorious campaign, in which fresh spoil was to be won and more victories achieved, there was time for the consideration of objects of minor importance, and a breathing space wherein private interests could be considered. Gaston had repressed all impatience during the march of the Prince. He had not looked that his own affairs should take the foremost place in the Prince's scheme. Moreover, he saw well that it would give a false colour to the expedition if the first march of the Prince had been into Gascony; nor was the capture of so obscure a fortress as the Castle of Saut a matter to engross the energies of the whole of the allied army. But now that the army was partially disbanded, whilst the English contingent was either in winter quarters in Bordeaux or engaged here and there in the capture of such cities and fortresses as the Prince decided worth the taking, the moment appeared to be favourable for that long-wished-for capture of Saut; and Gaston, taking his brother aside one day, eagerly opened to him his mind. "Raymond, I have spoken to the Prince. He is ready and willing to give me men at any time I ask him. Perchance he will even come himself, if duty calls him not elsewhere. The thing is now in mine own hands. Brother, when shall the attempt be made?" Raymond smiled at the eager question. "Sir Knight, thou art more the warrior than I. Thou best knowest the day and the hour for such a matter." Gaston passed his hand through his hair, and a softer light shone in his eyes. His brother knew of whom he was thinking, and he was not surprised at the next words. "Raymond, methinks before I do aught else I must see her once more. My heart is hungry for her. I think of her by day and dream of her by night. Perchance there might be some more peaceful way of winning entrance to Saut than by battering down the walls, and doing by hap some hurt to the precious treasure within. Brother, wilt thou wander forth with me once again -- thou and I, and a few picked men, in case of peril by the way, to visit Saut by stealth? We would go by the way of Father Anselm's and our old home. I have a fancy to see the dear old faces once again. Thou hast, doubtless, seen them all this year that has passed by, but I not for many an one." "I saw Father Anselm in Bordeaux," answered Raymond; "and good Jean, when he heard I was there, came all the way to visit me. But I adventured not myself so near the den of Navailles. The Brothers would not permit it. They feared lest I might fall again into his power. Gladly, indeed, would I come and see them once again. I have pictured many times how, when thou art Lord of Saut, I will bring my Joan to visit thee, and show her to good Jean and Margot and saintly Father Anselm. I would fain talk to them of that day. They ever feel towards us as though we were their children in very truth." There was no difficulty in obtaining the Prince's sanction to this absence from Bordeaux. He gave the brothers free leave to carry out their plan by any means they chose, promising if they sent him word at any time that they were ready for the assault, he would either come himself or send a picked band of veterans to their aid; and saying that Gaston was to look upon himself as Lord of Saut, by mandate from the English King, who would enforce his right by his royal power if any usurping noble dared to dispute it with him. Thus fortified by royal warrant, and with a heart beating high with hope and love, Gaston set out with some two score soldiers as a bodyguard to reconnoitre the land; and upon the evening of the second day, the brothers saw, in the fast-fading light of the winter's day, the red roofs of the old mill lying peacefully in the gathering shadows of the early night. Their men had been dismissed to find quarters in the village for themselves, and Roger was their only attendant, as they drew rein before the door of the mill, and saw the miller coming quickly round the angle of the house to inquire what these strangers wanted there at such an hour. "Jean!" cried Gaston, in his loud and hearty tones, the language of his home springing easily to his lips, though the English tongue was now the one in which his thoughts framed themselves. "Good Jean, dost thou not know us?" The beaming welcome on the miller's face was answer enough in itself; and, indeed, he had time to give no other, for scarce had the words passed Gaston's lips before there darted out from the open door of the house a light and fairy-like form, and a silvery cry of rapture broke from the lips of the winsome maiden, whilst Gaston leaped from his horse with a smothered exclamation, and in another moment the light fairy form seemed actually swallowed up in the embrace of those strong arms. "Constanza my life -- my love!" "O Gaston, Gaston! can it in very truth be thou?" Raymond looked on in mute amaze, turning his eyes from the lovers towards the miller, who was watching the encounter with a beaming face. "What means it all?" asked the youth breathlessly. "Marry, it means that the maiden has found her true knight," answered Jean, all aglow with delight; but then, understanding better the drift of Raymond's question, he turned his eyes upon him again, and said: "You would ask how she came hither? Well, that is soon told. It was one night nigh upon six months agone, and we had long been abed, when we heard a wailing sound beneath our windows, and Margot declared there was a maiden sobbing in the garden below. She went down to see, and then the maid told her a strange, wild tale. She was of the kindred of the Sieur de Navailles, she said, and was the betrothed wife of Gaston de Brocas; and as we knew somewhat of her tale through Father Anselm, who had heard of your captivity and rescue, we knew that she spoke the truth. She said that since the escape, which had so perplexed the wicked lord, he had become more fierce and cruel than before, and that he seemed in some sort to suspect her, though of what she scarce knew. She told us that his mind seemed to be deserting him, that she feared he was growing lunatic. He was so fierce and wild at times that she feared for her own life. She bore it as long as her maid, the faithful Annette, lived; but in the summer she fell sick of a fever, and died -- the lady knew not if it were not poison that had carried her off -- and a great terror seized her. Not two days later, she fled from her gloomy home, and not knowing where else to hide her head, she fled hither, trusting that her lover would shortly come to free her from her uncle's tyranny, as he had sworn, and believing that the home which had sheltered the infancy of the De Brocas brothers would give her shelter till that day came." "And you took her in and guarded her, and kept her safe from harm," cried Raymond, grasping the hand of the honest peasant and wringing it hard. "It was like you to do it, kind, good souls! My brother will thank you, in his own fashion, for such service. But I must thank you, too. And where is Margot? for I trow she has been as a mother to the maid. I would see her and thank her, for Gaston has no eyes nor ears for any one but his fair lady." Gaston, indeed, was like one in a dream. He could scarce believe the evidence of his senses; and it was a pretty sight to see how the winsome Constanza clung to him, and how it seemed as though she could not bear to let her eyes wander for a moment from his face. Only at night, when the brothers stood together in the room they had occupied of yore, and clasped each other by the hand in warm congratulation, did Raymond really know how this meeting affected the object of their journey; then Gaston, looking grave and thoughtful, spoke a few words of his purpose. "The Sieur de Navailles is a raging madman. That I can well divine from what Constanza says. Tomorrow we will to Saut, to see what we may discover there on the spot. It may be we may have no bloody warfare to wage; it may be that Saut may be won without the struggle we have thought. His own people are terrified before him. Constanza thinks that I have but to declare myself and show the King's warrant to be proclaimed by all as Lord and Master of Saut." CHAPTER XXXI. THE SURRENDER OF SAUT. "In the King's name!" The old seneschal at the drawbridge eyed with glances of awed suspicion the gallant young knight who had ridden so boldly up to the walls of Saut and had bidden him lower the bridge. A few paces behind the leader was a compact little body of horsemen, all well mounted and well armed, though it was little their bright weapons could do against the solid walls of the grim old fortress, girdled as it was with its wide and deep moat. The pale sunshine of a winter's day shone upon the trappings of the little band, and lighted up the stone walls with something of unwonted brightness. It revealed to those upon the farther side of the moat the perplexed countenance of the old seneschal, who did not meet Gaston's bold demand for admittance with defiance or refusal, but stood staring at the apparition, as if not knowing what to make of it; and when the demand had been repeated somewhat more peremptorily, he still stood doubtful and hesitating, saying over and over to himself the same words: "In the King's name! in the King's name!" "Ay, fellow, in the King's name," repeated Gaston sternly. "Wilt thou see his warrant? I have it here. Thou hadst best have a care how thou settest at defiance the King's seal and signet. Knowest thou not that his royal son is within a few leagues of this very spot?" The old man only shook his head, as if scarce comprehending the drift of these words, and presently he looked up to ask: "Of which King speak you, good Sir Knight?" "Of the English King, fellow, the only King I acknowledge! Whose servant doth thy master call himself? Thou hadst better go and tell him that King Edward of England has sent a message to him." "Tell my master!" repeated the seneschal, with a strange gesture, as he lifted his hand and touched his head. "To what good would that be? My master understands no word that is said to him. He raves up and down the hall day by day, taking note of naught about him. Thou hadst best have a care how thou beardest him, Sir Knight. We go in terror of our very lives through him." "Ye need go no longer in that fear," cried Gaston, with a kindling of the eyes, as he bared his noble head and looked forth at the old man with his fearless glance, "for in me ye will find a master whom none need fear who do their duty by him and by the King. Seneschal, I stand here the lawful Lord of Saut -- lord by hereditary right, and by the mandate of England's King, the Roy Outremer, as you call him. I am Gaston de Brocas, of the old race who owned these lands long before the false Navailles had set foot therein. I have come back armed with the King's warrant to claim mine own. "Say, men, will ye have me for your lord? or will ye continue to serve yon raging madman till England's King sends an army to raze Saut to the ground, and slay the rebellious horde within these ancient walls?" Gaston had raised his voice as he had gone on speaking, for he saw that the dialogue with the old seneschal had attracted the attention of a number of men-at-arms, who had gradually mustered about the gate to hear what was passing. Gaston spoke his native dialect like one of themselves. The name of De Brocas was known far and wide in that land, and was everywhere spoken with affection and respect. The fierce rapacity of the Navailles was equally feared and hated. Even the stout soldiers who had followed his fortunes so long regarded him with fear and distrust. No man in those days felt certain of his life. If he chanced to offend the madman, a savage blow from that strong arm might fell him to the earth; whilst some amongst their companions had from time to time mysteriously disappeared, and their fate had never been disclosed. A sense of fearfulness and uncertainty had long reigned at Saut. The mad master had his own myrmidons in the Tower, who would do his bidding whatever that bidding might be; and that there were dark secrets hidden away in those underground dungeons and secret chambers everybody in the Castle well knew. Hardly one of the men now gathered on the opposite side of the moat but had awakened at some time or other from a horrid dream, believing himself to have been spirited down into those gloomy subterranean places, there to expiate some trifling offence, according as their savage lord should give order. Many of these men had assisted at scenes which seemed frightful to them when they pictured themselves the victims of the cruelty of the fierce man they had long served, but whom now they had grown to fear and distrust. A sense of horror had long been hanging over Saut, and since the disappearance of the maiden who once had brightened the grim place by her presence, this horror had perceptibly deepened. Not one of all the men-at-arms dared even to his fellow to propose the remedy. Each feared that if he breathed what was in his own mind, the very walls would whisper it in the ears of their lord, and that the offender would be doomed to some horrible death, to act as a warning to others like-minded with himself. Since the loss of his niece, almost as mysterious to him as the escape of Raymond de Brocas from the prison, the clouds of doubt and suspicion had closed more and more darkly round the miserable man, who had let himself become the slave of his passions until these had increased to absolute madness. His unbridled fury and fits of maniac rage had estranged from him even the most attached of his old retainers, and in proportion as he felt this with the instinct of cunning and madness, the more did he exact from those about him protestations of zeal and faithfulness, the more did he watch the words and actions of his servants, and mark the smallest attempt on their part to restrain or thwart him. Small wonder was it, then, when Gaston de Brocas stood forth in the sunshine, the King's warrant in his hand, words of good augury upon his lips, and a compact little body of armed men at his back, proclaiming himself the Lord of Saut, and inviting to his service the men who were now trembling before the caprices and cruel cunning of a madman, that they exchanged wondering glances, and spoke in eager whispers together, fearful lest the Navailles should approach from behind ere they were aware of it, and feeling that there was here such a chance of escape from miserable bondage as might never occur again. And whilst they still hesitated -- for the fear of treachery was never absent from the minds of those bred up in habits and thoughts of treachery -- another wonder happened. Out from the little knot a few paces behind the young knight two more figures pressed forward, and the men-at-arms rubbed their eyes and looked on in silent wonder: for one of the pair was none other than the fairy maiden who had lived so long amongst them, and had endeared herself even to these rude spirits by her grace and sweetness and undefinable charm; the other, that youth with the wonderful eyes and saint-like face who had been captured and borne away to Saut after the battle before St. Jean d'Angely, and whose body they all believed had long ago been lying beneath the sullen waters of the moat, where so many victims of their lord's hatred had found their last resting place. And as they stared and looked at one another and stared again, a silvery voice was uplifted, and they all held their breath to listen. "My friends," said the lady, urging her palfrey till she reached Gaston's side, and could feel his hand upon hers, "I have come hither with this noble knight, Sir Gaston de Brocas, because he is my betrothed husband and liege lord, and I have the right to be at his side even in the hour of peril, but also because you all know me; and when I tell you that every word he has spoken is true, I trow ye will believe it. There he stands, the lawful Lord of Saut, and if ye will but own him as your lord, you will find in him a wise, just, and merciful master, who will protect you from the mad fury of yon miserable man whom now ye serve, and will lead you to more glorious feats of arms than any ye have dreamed of before. Hitherto ye have been little better than robbers and outlaws. Have ye no wish for better things than ye have won under the banner of Navailles?" The men exchanged glances, and visibly wavered. They compared their coarse and stained garments, their rusty arms and battered accoutrements, with the brilliant appearance of the little band of soldiers standing on the opposite side of the moat, their armour shining in the sunlight, their steeds well fed and well groomed, arching their necks and pawing the ground, every man and every horse showing plainly that they came from a region of abundance of good things; whilst the military precision of their aspect showed equally well that they would be antagonists of no insignificant calibre, if the moment should come when they were transformed from friends to foes. Constanza saw the wavering and hesitation amongst her uncle's men. She well knew their discontent at their own lot, their fearful distrust of their lord. She knew, too, that it was probably some fear of treachery alone that withheld them from making cause at once with the De Brocas -- treachery having been only too much practised amongst them by their own fierce master -- and again her voice rang out clear and sweet. "Men, listen again to me. I speak to counsel you for your good; for fierce and cruel as ye have been to your foes, ye have ever been kind and gentle to me when I was with you in these walls. What think ye to gain by defying the great King of England? Think ye that he will spare you if ye arouse him to anger by impotent resistance? What more could King have done for you than send to be your lord a noble Gascon knight; one of your own race and language; one who, as ye all must know, has a far better right to hold these lands than any of the race of Navailles? Here before you stands Sir Gaston de Brocas, offering you place in his service if ye will but swear to him that allegiance he has the right to claim. The offer is made in clemency and mercy, because he would not that any should perish in futile resistance. Men, ye know that he comes to this place with the King's mandate that Saut be given up to him. If it be not peaceably surrendered, what think ye will happen next? "I will tell you. Ye have heard of the Prince of Wales, son of the Roy Outremer; doubtless even to these walls has come the news of that triumphal march of his, where cities have surrendered or ransomed themselves to him, and nothing has been able to stay the might of his conquering arm. That noble Prince and valiant soldier is now not far away. We have come from his presence, and are here with his knowledge and sanction. If we win you over, and gain peaceable possession of these walls, good; no harm will befall any living creature within them. But if ye prove obdurate; if ye will not listen to the voice of reason; if ye still hold with rebellious defiance to the lord ye have served, and who has shown himself so little worthy of your service, then will the Prince and his warriors come with all their wrath and might to inflict chastisement upon you, and take vengeance upon you, as enemies of the King. "Say, men, how can ye hope to resist the might of the Prince's arm? Say, which will ye do -- be the free servants of Gaston de Brocas, or die like rats in a hole for the sake of yon wicked madman, whose slaves ye have long been? Which shall it be -- a De Brocas or a Navailles?" Something in this last appeal stirred the hearts of the men. It seemed as though a veil were torn from their eyes. They seemed to see all in a moment the hopelessness of their position as vassals of Navailles, and the folly of attempting resistance to one so infinitely more worthy to be called their lord. It was no stranger coming amongst them -- it was one of the ancient lords of the soil; and the sight of the youthful knight, sitting there on his fine horse, with his fair lady beside him, was enough to stir the pulses and awaken the enthusiasm of an ardent race, even though the nobler instincts had been long sleeping in the breasts of these men. They hated and distrusted their old lord with a hatred he had well merited; and degraded as they had become in his service, they had not yet sunk so low but that they could feel with the keenness of instinct, rather than by any reasoning powers they possessed, that this young knight was a man to be trusted and be loved -- that if they became his vassals they would receive vastly different treatment from any they had received from the Sieur de Navailles. There was one long minute's pause, whilst looks and whispered words were exchanged, and then a shout arose: "De Brocas! De Brocas! We will live and die the servants of De Brocas!" whilst at the same moment the drawbridge slowly descended, and Gaston, at the head of his gallant little band, with Raymond and Constanza at his side, rode proudly over the sounding planks, and found himself, for the first time in his life, in the courtyard of the Castle of Saut. "De Brocas! De Brocas!" shouted the men, all doubt and hesitation done away with in a moment at sight of the gallant show thus made, enthusiasm kindling in every breast as the sweet lady rained smiles and gracious words upon the rough men, who had always had a soft spot in their heart for her; whilst Raymond's earnest eyes and Gaston's courtly and chivalrous bearing were not without effect upon the ruder natures of these lonely residents of Saut. It seemed to them as though they had been invaded by some denizens from another world, and murmurs of wonder and reverent admiration mingled with the cheering with which Gaston de Brocas was received as Lord of Saut. But there was still one more person to be faced. The men had accepted the sovereignty of a new lord, and were already rejoicing in the escape from the dreaded tyranny they had not had the resolution to shake off unprompted; but there was still the Sieur de Navailles to be dealt with, and impotent as he might be in the desertion of his old followers, it was necessary to see and speak with him, and decide what must be done with the man who was believed by those about him to be little better than a raging maniac. "Where is your master?" asked Gaston of the old seneschal, who stood at his bridle rein, his eyes wandering from his face to that of Raymond and Constanza and back again; "I marvel that this tumult has not brought him forth." "The walls are thick," replied the old man, "and he lives for days together in a world of his own, no sound or sight from without penetrating his understanding. Then again he will awaken from his dream, and show us that he has heard and seen far more than we have thought. And if any man amongst us has dropped words that have incensed him -- well, there have been men who have disappeared from amongst us and have never been seen more; and tales are whispered of horrid cries and groans that have issued as from the very bowels of the earth each time following their spiriting away." Constanza shuddered, and a black frown crossed Gaston's face as he gave one quick glance at his brother, who had so nearly shared that mysterious and terrible doom. "The man is a veritable fiend. He merits scant mercy at our hands. He has black crimes upon his soul. Seneschal, lead on. Take us to him ye once owned as sovereign lord. I trow ye will none of you lament the day ye transferred your allegiance from yon miscreant to Gaston de Brocas!" Another cheer, heartier than the last, broke from the lips of all the men. They had been joined now by their comrades within the Castle, and in the sense of freedom from the hateful tyranny of their old master all were rejoicing and filled with enthusiasm. For once they were free from all fear of treachery. Gaston's own picked band of stalwart veterans was guarantee enough that might as well as right was on the side of the De Brocas. The sight of those well-equipped men-at-arms, all loyal and full of affectionate enthusiasm for their youthful lord, showed these rude retainers how greatly to their advantage would be this change of masters; and before Gaston had dismounted and walked across the courtyard towards the portal of the Castle, he felt, with a swelling of the heart that Raymond well understood, that Saut was indeed his own. "This is the way to the Sieur de Navailles," said the old seneschal, as they passed beneath the frowning doorway into a vaulted stone hall. "He spends whole days and nights pacing up and down like a wild beast in a cage. He scarce leaves the hall, save when he wanders forth into the forest, and that has not happened since the cold winds have blown hard. You will find him within those doors, good gentlemen. Shall I make known your presence to him?" It was plain that the old man had no small fear of his master, and would gladly be spared this office. Gaston looked round to see that some of his own followers were close behind and on the alert, and then taking Constanza's hand in his, and laying his right hand upon the hilt of his sword, he signed to the seneschal to throw open the massive oaken doors, and walked fearlessly in with Raymond at his side. They found themselves in the ancient banqueting hall of the fortress -- a long, lofty, rather narrow room, with a heavily-raftered ceiling, two huge fireplaces, one at either end, and a row of very narrow windows cut in the great thickness of the wall occupying almost the whole of one side of the place; whilst a long table was placed against the opposite wall, with benches beside it, and another smaller table was placed upon a small raised dais at the far end of the apartment. On this dais was also set a heavy oaken chair, close beside the glowing hearth; and at this moment it was plain that the occupant of the chair had been disturbed by the commotion from without, and had suddenly risen to his feet, for he stood grasping the oaken arms, his wild gray hair hanging in matted masses about his seamed and wrinkled face, and his hollow eyes, in which a fierce light blazed, turned upon the intruders in a glare of impotent fury. "Who are ye who thus dare to intrude upon me here? What is all this tumult I hear in mine own halls? "Seneschal, art thou there? Send hither to me my soldiers; bid them bind these men, and carry them to the dungeons. I will see them there. Ha, ha! I will talk with them there. I will deal with them there. What ho! Send me the jailer and his assistants! Let them light the fires and heat hot the irons. Let them prepare our welcome for guests to Saut. Ha, ha! Ho, ho! These brave gallants shall taste our hospitality. Who brought them in? Where were they found? Methinks they will prove a rich booty. Would that good Peter Sanghurst were here to help me in the task of entertaining these new guests!" The man was a raving lunatic; that was plain to the most inexperienced eye from the first moment. He knew not his own niece, he knew not the De Brocas brothers, though Raymond's face must have been familiar to him had he been in his right senses. He was still in fancy the undisputed lord of these wide lands, scouring the country for English travellers or prisoners of meaner mould; acting here in Gascony much the same part as the Sanghursts had more cautiously done in England, and as the Barons of both France and England had long done, though their day of irresponsible and autocratic power was well-nigh at an end. He glared upon the brothers and their attendants with savage fury, still calling out to his men to carry them to the dungeons, still believing them to be a band of travellers taken prisoners by his own orders, raving and raging in his impotent fury till the gust of passion had worn itself out, and in a sullen amaze he sank into his seat, still gazing out from under his shaggy brows at the intruders, but the passion and fury for a moment at an end. "He will understand better what you say to him now, Sir Knight," whispered the old seneschal, who alone of the men belonging to the Castle dared to enter the hall where their maniac master was. "His mind comes back to him sometimes after he has raved himself quiet. We dread his sullen moods almost more than his wild ones. "Have a care how you approach him. He is as cunning as a fox, and as crafty as he is cruel. He always has some weapon beneath his robe. Have a care, I say, how you approach him." Gaston nodded, but he was too fearless by nature to pay much heed to the warning; he felt himself more than a match for that bowed-down old man. Giving Constanza into Raymond's charge, he stepped boldly up to the dais, and doffing his headpiece, addressed himself to his adversary in firm though courteous accents. "My Lord of Navailles," he said, "I am come to claim mine own. If thou knowest me not, I will tell thee who I am -- Gaston de Brocas, the Lord of Saut in mine own right, and by the mandate of the King which I hold in mine hand. Long hast thou held lands to which thou hadst no right, but the day has come when I claim mine own again, and am prepared to do battle for it to the death. But here is no battle needed. Thine own men have called me lord; they have obeyed the mandate of the King, and have opened their gates to me. I stand here the Lord of Saut. Thy power and thy reign are over for ever. Grossly hast thou abused that power when it was thine. Now, like all tyrants, thou art finding that thy servants fall away in the hour of peril, and that thou, who hast been a cruel master, canst command no service from them in the time of need. I, and I alone, am Lord of Saut. Hast thou aught to say ere thou yieldest dominion to me?" Did he understand? Those standing round and breathlessly watching the curious scene could scarce be sure; but there was a look of comprehension and of intense baffled rage and malice in those cavernous eyes that sent a shiver through Constanza's light frame. "Have a care, Gaston; have a care!" she cried, with sudden shrillness, as she saw a quick movement of those knotted sinewy hands beneath the coarse robe the old man wore; and in another moment both she and Raymond had sprung forward, for there was a flash of keen steel, and the madman had flung himself upon Gaston with inconceivable rapidity of motion. For a moment there was a hideous scuffle. Blood was flowing, they knew not whose. Gaston acted solely on the defensive. He would not raise his hand against one who was old and lunatic, and near in blood to her whom he held dear; but he wrestled valiantly in the iron grip of arms stronger than his own, and he felt that some struggle was going on above him, though for the moment his own breath seemed suspended, and his very life pressed out of him. Then came a sudden sense of release. His enemy had relaxed his bear-like clasp. Gaston sprang to his feet to see his enemy falling backwards in a helpless collapse, the hilt of a dagger clasped between his knotted hands -- the sharp blade buried in his own heart. "He has killed himself!" cried Constanza, with eyes dilated with horror, as she sprang to Gaston's side. It had all been so quick that it was hard to tell what had befallen in those few seconds of life-and-death struggle. Gaston was bleeding from a slight flesh wound in the arm, but that was the only hurt he had received; whilst his foe -- "He strove to plunge the dagger in thy breast, Gaston," said Raymond, who was supporting the head of the dying man; "and failing that, he thought to smother thee in his bear-like clasp, that has crushed the life out of enemies before now, as we have ofttimes heard. When he felt other foes around him unloosing that clasp, and knew himself balked of his purpose, he clutched the weapon thou hadst dashed from his hand and buried it in his own body. As he has lived, so has he died -- defiant to the very end. But the madness-cloud may have hung long upon his spirit. Perchance some of the worst of his crimes may not be laid to his charge." As Raymond spoke, the dying man opened his eyes, and fixed them upon the face bending over him. The light of sullen defiance which had shone there but a few short moments ago changed to something strange and new as he met the calm, compassionate glance of those expressive eyes now fixed upon him. He seemed to give a slight start, and to strive to draw himself away. "Thou here!" he gasped -- "thou! Hast thou indeed come from the spirit world to mock me in my last moments? I know thee now, Raymond de Brocas! I have seen thee before -- thou knowest how and where. Methinks the very angels of heaven must have spirited thee away. Why art thou here now?" "To bid thee ask forgiveness for thy sins with thy dying breath," answered Raymond, gently yet firmly; "to bid thee turn thy thoughts for one last moment towards thy Saviour, and though thou hast scorned and rebelled against Him in life, to ask His pardoning mercy in death. He has pardoned a dying miscreant ere now. Wilt thou not take upon thy lips that dying thief's petition, and cry 'Lord, remember me;' or this prayer, 'Lord, be merciful to me, a sinner'?" A gray shadow was creeping over the rugged face, the lips seemed to move, but no words came forth. There was no priest at hand to listen to a dying confession, or to pronounce a priestly absolution, and yet Raymond had spoken as if there might yet be mercy for an erring, sin-stained soul, if it would but turn in its last agony to the Crucified One -- the Saviour crucified for the sins of the whole world. It must be remembered that there was less of priestcraft -- less of what we now call popery -- in those earlier days than there came to be later on; and the springs of truth, though somewhat tainted, were not poisoned, as it were, at the very source, as they afterwards became. Something of the purity of primitive times lingered in the minds of men, and here and there were always found pure spirits upon whom the errors of man obtained no hold -- spirits that seemed to rise superior to their surroundings, and hold communion direct with heaven itself. Such a nature and such a mind was Raymond's; and his clear, intense faith had been strengthened and quickened by the vicissitudes through which he had passed. He did not hesitate to point the dying soul straight to the Saviour Himself, without mediation from the Blessed Virgin or the Holy Saints. Love and revere these he might and did; but in the presence of that mighty power of death, in that hour when flesh and heart do fail, he felt as he had felt when he believed his own soul was to be called away -- when it seemed as though no power could avail to save him from a fearful fate -- that to God alone must the cry of the suffering soul be raised; that into the Saviour's hands alone could the departing soul be committed. He did not speak to others of these thoughts -- thoughts which in later days came to be branded with the dreaded name of "heresy" -- but he held them none the less surely in the depths of his own spirit; and now, when all but he would have stood aside with pitiful helplessness, certain that nothing could be done for the dying man in absence of a priest, Raymond strove to lead his thoughts upwards, that though his life had been black and evil, he might still die with his face turned Godwards, with a cry for mercy on his lips. Nor was this hope in vain; for at the last the old man raised himself with a strength none believed him to possess, and raising his hand he clasped that of Raymond, and said: "Raymond de Brocas, I strove to compass thy death, and thou hast come to me in mine hour of need, and spoken words of hope. If thou canst forgive -- thou so cruelly treated, so vilely betrayed -- it may be that the Saviour, whose servant thou art, can forgive yet greater crimes. "Christ have mercy upon me! Lord have mercy upon me! Christ have mercy upon me! My worldly possessions are fled: let them go; they are in good hands. May Christ pardon my sins, and receive me at last to Himself!" He looked earnestly at Raymond, who understood him, and whispered the last prayers of the Church in his ear. A look of calm and peace fell upon that wild and rugged face; and drawing one sigh, and slightly turning himself towards his former foe, the old ruler of Saut fell asleep, and died with the two De Brocas brothers standing beside him. CHAPTER XXXII. ON THE FIELD OF POITIERS. The face of the Prince was dark and grave. He had posted his gallant little army in the strongest position the country afforded; but his men were ill-fed, and though brave as lions and eager for the battle, were but a handful of troops compared with the vast French host opposed to them. Eight thousand against fifty or even sixty thousand! Such an inequality might well make the stoutest heart quail. But there was no fear in young Edward's eyes, only a glance of stern anxiety slightly dashed with regret; for the concessions just made to the Cardinal de Perigord, who was earnestly striving to arrange terms between the rival armies and so avoid the bloodshed of a battle, went sorely against the grain of the warrior prince, and he was almost disposed to repent that he had been induced to make them. But his position was sufficiently critical, and defeat meant the annihilation of the gallant little army who had followed his fortunes through two campaigns, and who were to a man his devoted servants. He had led them, according to promise, upon another long march of unopposed plunder and victory, right into the very heart of France; whilst another English army in Normandy and Brittany had been harassing the French King, and averting his attention from the movements of his son. Perhaps young Edward's half-matured plan had been to join the other English forces in the north, for he was too much the general and the soldier to think of marching upon Paris or of attacking the French army with his own small host. Indeed, a few reverses had recently taught him that he had already ventured almost too far into the heart of a hostile country; and he was, in fact, retreating upon Bordeaux, believing the French army to be behind him, when he discovered that it was in front of him, intercepting his farther progress, and he was made aware of this unwelcome fact by seeing the advance guard of his own army literally cut to pieces by the French soldiers before he could come to their assistance. Realizing at once the immense peril of his position, the Prince had marched on till he reached a spot where he could post his men to some advantage amongst hedges and bushes that gave them shelter, and would serve to embarrass an attacking foe, and in particular any charge of cavalry. The place selected was some six miles from Poitiers, and possessed so many natural advantages that the Prince felt encouraged to hope for a good issue to the day, albeit the odds were fearfully to his disadvantage. He had looked to be speedily attacked by the French King, who was in person leading his host; but the Saturday passed away without any advance, and on Sunday morning the good Cardinal de Perigord began to strive to bring matters to a peaceable issue. Brave as the young Prince was, and great as his reliance on his men had always been, his position was perilous in the extreme, and he had been willing to listen to the words of the Cardinal. Indeed, he had made wonderful concessions to the messenger of peace, for he had at last consented to give up all the places he had taken, to set free all prisoners, and to swear not to take up arms against the King of France for seven years; and now he stood looking towards the French host with a frown of anxious perplexity upon his face, for the Cardinal had gone back to the French King with this message, and already the Prince was half repentant at having conceded so much. He had been persuaded rather against his will, and he was wondering what his royal father would say when he should hear. He had been thinking rather of his brave soldiers' lives than his own military renown, when he had let himself be won over by the good Cardinal. Had he, after all, made a grand mistake? His knights stood around, well understanding the conflict going on in his breast, and sympathizing deeply with him in this crisis of his life, but not knowing themselves what it were best to do. The sun was creeping to the horizon before the Cardinal was seen returning, and his face was grave and sorrowful as he was ushered into the presence of the Prince. "My Liege," he said, in accents of regret, "it is but sorry news I have to bring you. My royal master of his own will would have gladly listened to the terms to which your consent has been won, save for the vicious counsel of my lord Bishop of Chalons, Renaud Chauveau, who hates your nation so sorely that he has begged the King, even upon his bended knees, to slay every English soldier in this realm rather than suffer them to escape just when they had fallen into his power, rather than listen to overtures of submission without grasping the victory of blood which God had put into his hands. Wherefore my liege the King has vowed that he will consent to nothing unless you yourself, together with one hundred of your knights, will give yourselves up into his hand without condition." Young Edward's eyes flashed fire. A look more like triumph than dismay crossed his noble face. Looking at the sorrowful Cardinal, with the light of battle in his eyes, he said in ringing tones: "My Lord Cardinal, I thank you for your goodwill towards us. You are a good and holy man, an ambassador of peace, and as such you are fulfilling your Master's will. But I can listen no longer to your words. Go back to the King of France, and tell him that I thank him for his last demand, because it leaves me no choice but to fight him to the death; and ten thousand times would I rather fight than yield, albeit persuaded to submit to terms by your eloquent pleading. Return to your lord, and tell him that Edward of England defies him, and will meet him in battle so soon as it pleases him to make the attack. I fear him not. The English have found no such mighty antagonists in the French that they should fear them now. "Go, my Lord Cardinal, and carry back my message of defiance. Ere another sun has set I hope to meet John of France face to face in the foremost of the fight!" A shout of joy and triumph rose from a hundred throats as this answer was listened to by the Prince's knights, and the cheer was taken up and echoed by every soldier in the camp. It was the signal, as all knew well, that negotiation had failed; and the good Cardinal went sorrowfully back to the French lines, whilst the English soldiers redoubled their efforts at trenching the ground and strengthening their position -- efforts which had been carried on ceaselessly all through this and the preceding day, regardless of the negotiations for peace, which many amongst them hoped would prove abortive. Then up to the Prince's side stepped bold Sir James Audley, who had been his counsellor and adviser during the whole of the campaign, and by whose advice the coming battle was being arranged. "Sire," he said, bending the knee before his youthful lord, "I long ago vowed a vow that if ever I should find myself upon the field of battle with the King of England or his son, I would be foremost in the fight for his defence. Sire, that day has now dawned -- or will dawn with tomorrow's sun. Grant me, I pray you, leave to be the first to charge into yon host, and so fulfil the vow long registered before God." "Good Sir James, it shall be even as thou wilt," answered the Prince, extending his hand. "But if thou goest thus into peril, sure thou wilt not go altogether alone?" "I will choose out four knightly comrades," answered Sir James, "and together we will ride into the battle. I know well that there will be no lack of brave men ready and willing to fight at my side. Gaston de Brocas has claimed already to be one, and his brother ever strives to be at his side. But he has yet his spurs to win, and I may but take with me those who are knights already." "Raymond de Brocas's spurs unwon!" cried the Prince, with kindling eye, "and he the truest knight amongst us! Call him hither this moment to me. Shame upon me that I have not ere this rewarded such pure and lofty courage as his by that knighthood he so well merits!" And then and there upon the field of Poitiers Raymond received his knighthood, amid the cheers of the bystanders, from the hands of the Prince, on the eve of one of England's most glorious victories. Gaston's eyes were shining with pride as he led his brother back to their tent as the last of the September daylight faded from the sky. "I had set my heart on sending thee back to thy Joan with the spurs of knighthood won," he said, affectionately pressing his brother's hands. "And truly, as they all say, none were ever more truly won than thine have been, albeit thou wilt ever be more the saint than the warrior." Raymond's eyes were bright. For Joan's sake rather than his own he rejoiced in his new honour; though every man prided himself upon that welcome distinction, especially when bestowed by the hand of King or Prince. And the thought of a speedy return to England and his true love there was as the elixir of life to Raymond, who was counting the days and hours before he might hope to set sail for his native land again. He had remained with his brother at Saut all through the past winter. Gaston and Constanza had been married at Bordeaux very shortly after the death of old Navailles; and they had returned to Saut, their future home, and Raymond had gone with them. Greatly as he longed for England and Joan, his duty to the Prince kept him beside him till he should obtain his dismissal to see after his own private affairs. The Prince needed his faithful knights and followers about him in his projected expedition of the present year; and Gaston required his brother's help and counsel in setting to rights the affairs of his new kingdom, and in getting into better order a long-neglected estate and its people. There had been work enough to fill their minds and hands for the whole time the Prince had been able to spare them from his side; and an interchange of letters between him and his lady love had helped Raymond to bear the long separation from her. She had assured him of her changeless devotion, of her present happiness and wellbeing, and had bidden him think first of his duty to the Prince, and second of his desire to rejoin her. They owed much to the Prince: all their present happiness and security were the outcome of his generous interposition on their behalf. Raymond's worldly affairs were not suffering by his absence. Master Bernard de Brocas was looking to that. He would find all well on his return to England; and it were better he should do his duty nobly by the Prince now, and return with him when they had subdued their enemies, than hasten at once to her side. In days to come it would grieve them to feel that they had at this juncture thought first of themselves, when King and country should have taken the foremost place. So Raymond had taken the counsel thus given, and now was one of those to be foremost in the field on the morrow. No thought of fear was in his heart or Gaston's; peril was too much the order of the day to excite any but a passing sense of the uncertainty of human life. They had come unscathed through so much, and Raymond had so long been said to bear a charmed life, that he and Gaston had alike ceased to tremble before the issue of a battle. Well armed and well mounted, and versed in every art of attack and defence, the young knights felt no personal fear, and only longed to come forth with honour from the contest, whatever else their fate might be. Monday morning dawned, and the two opposing armies were all in readiness for the attack. The fighting began almost by accident by the bold action of a Gascon knight, Eustace d'Ambrecicourt, who rode out alone towards what was called the "battle of the marshals," and was met by Louis de Recombes with his silver shield, whom he forthwith unhorsed. This provoked a rapid advance of the marshals' battle, and the fighting began in good earnest. The moment this was soon to have taken place, the brave James Audley, calling upon his four knights to follow him, dashed in amongst the French in another part of the field, giving no quarter, taking no prisoners, but performing such prodigies of valour as struck terror into the breasts of the foe. The French army (with the exception of three hundred horsemen, whose mission was to break the ranks of the bowmen) had been ordered, on account of the nature of the ground, all to fight on foot; and when the bold knight and his four chosen companions came charging in upon them, wheeling their battle-axes round their heads and flashing through the ranks like a meteor, the terrified and impressionable Frenchmen cried out that St. George himself had appeared to fight against them, and an unreasoning panic seized upon them. Flights of arrows from the dreaded English longbow added immeasurably to their distress and bewilderment. The three hundred horsemen utterly failed in their endeavour to approach these archers, securely posted behind the hedges, and protected by the trenches they had dug. The arrows sticking in the horses rendered them perfectly wild and unmanageable, and turning back upon their own comrades, they threw the ranks behind into utter confusion, trampling to death many of the footmen, and increasing the panic tenfold. Then seeing the utter confusion of his foes, the Prince charged in amongst them, dealing death and destruction wherever he went. The terror of the French increased momentarily; and the division under the Duke of Normandy, that had not even taken any part as yet in the battle, rushed to their horses, mounted and fled without so much as striking a blow. The King of France, however, behaved with far greater gallantry than either his son or the majority of his knights and nobles, and the battle that he led was long and fiercely contested. If, as the chronicler tells us, one-fourth of his soldiers had shown the same bravery as he did, the fortunes of the day would have been vastly different; but though personally brave, he was no genius in war, and his fatal determination to fight the battle on foot was a gross blunder in military tactics. Even when he and his division were being charged by the Prince of Wales at full gallop, at the head of two thousand lances, the men all flushed with victory, John made his own men dismount, and himself did the same, fighting with his axe like a common soldier; whilst his little son Philip crouched behind him, narrowly watching his assailants, and crying out words of warning to his father as he saw blows dealt at him from right or left. The French were driven back to the very gates of Poitiers, where a great slaughter ensued; for those gates were now shut against them, and they had nowhere else to fly. The battle had begun early in the morning, and by noon the trumpets were sounding to recall the English from the pursuit of their flying foes. Such a victory and such vast numbers of noble prisoners almost bewildered even the victors themselves; and the Prince was anxious to assemble his knights once more about him, to learn some of the details of the issue of the day. That the French King had either been killed or made prisoner appeared certain, for it was confidently asserted that he had not left the field; but for some time the confusion was so great that it was impossible to ascertain what had actually happened, and the Prince, who had gone to his tent to take some refreshment after the labours of the day, had others than his high-born prisoners to think for. "Who has seen Sir James Audley -- gallant Sir James?" he asked, looking round upon the circle of faces about him and missing that of the one he perhaps loved best amongst his knights. "Who has seen him since his gallant charge that made all men hold their breath with wonder? I would fain reward him for that gallant example he gave to our brave soldiers at the beginning of the day." News was soon brought that Sir James had been badly wounded, and had been carried by his knights to his tent. The Prince would have gone to visit him there; but news of this proposal having been brought to the knight, he caused himself to be transported to the Prince's tent by his knights, all of whom had escaped almost unscathed from their gallant escapade. Thus it came about that Gaston and Raymond stood within the royal tent, whilst the Prince bent over his faithful knight, and promised as the reward for that day's gallantry that he should remain his own knight for ever, and receive five hundred marks yearly from the royal treasury. Then, when poor Sir James, too spent and faint to remain longer, had been carried hence by some of the bystanders, the Prince turned to the twin brothers and grasped them by the hand. "I greatly rejoice that ye have come forth unhurt from that fierce strife in the which ye so boldly plunged. What can I do for you, brave comrades, to show the gratitude of a King's son for all your faithful service?" "Sire," answered Gaston, "since you have asked us to claim our guerdon, and since your foes are at your feet, your rival a prisoner in your royal hands (if he be not a dead corpse), and the whole land subject to you; since there be no further need in the present for us to fight for you, and a time of peace seems like to follow upon this glorious day, methinks my brother and I would fain request your royal permission to retire for a while each to his own home, to regulate our private concerns, and dwell awhile each with the wife of his choice. Thou knowest that I have a wife but newly made mine, and that my brother only tarries to fly to his betrothed bride till you have no farther need of his sword. If ever the day dawns when King or Prince of England needs the faithful service of Gascon swords, those of Raymond and Gaston de Brocas will not be wanting to him. Yet in the present --" "Ay, ay, I understand well: in the present there be bright eyes that are more to you than glittering swords, and a service that is sweeter than that of King or Prince. Nay, blush not, boy; I like you the better for that the softer passions dwell in your breast with those of sterner sort. Ye have well shown many a day ere now that ye possess the courage of young lions, and that England will never call upon you in vain. But now that times of peace and quiet seem like to fall upon us, get you to your homes and your wives. May Heaven grant you joy and happiness in both; and England's King and Prince will over have smiles of welcome for you when ye bring to the Court the sweet ladies of your choice. Do I not know them both? and do I not know that ye have both chosen worthily and well?" A tumult without the tent now announced the approach of the French King, those who brought him disputing angrily together whose prisoner he was. The Prince stepped out to receive his vanquished foe with that winning courtesy so characteristic of one who so longed to see the revival of the truer chivalry, and in the confusion which ensued Gaston and Raymond slipped away to their own tent. "And now," cried Gaston, clasping his brother's hand, "our day of service is for the moment ended. Now for a space of peaceful repose and of those domestic joys of which thou and I, brother, know so little." "At last!" quoth Raymond, drawing a long breath, his eyes glowing and kindling as he looked into his brother's face and then far beyond it in the direction of the land of his adoption. "At last my task is done; my duty to my Prince has been accomplished. Now I am free to go whither I will. Now for England and my Joan!" CHAPTER XXXIII. "AT LAST!" "At last, my love, at last!" "Raymond! My own true lord -- my husband!" "My life! my love!" At last the dream had fulfilled itself; at last the long probation was past. Raymond de Brocas and Joan Vavasour had been made man and wife by good Master Bernard de Brocas in his church at Guildford, and in the soft sunlight of an October afternoon were riding together in the direction of Basildene, from henceforth to be their home. Raymond had not yet seen Basildene. He had hurried to Joan's side the moment that he left the ship which bore him from the shores of France, and the marriage had been celebrated almost at once, there being no reason for farther delay, and Sir Hugh being eager to be at the Court to receive the triumphant young Prince when he should return to England with his kingly captive. All the land was ringing with the news of the glorious victory, of which Raymond's vessel was the first to bring tidings. He himself, as having been one of those who had taken part in the battle and having won his spurs on the field of Poitiers, was regarded with no small admiration and respect. But Raymond had thoughts of nothing but his beloved; and to find her waiting for him, her loving heart as true to him as his was to her, was happiness sweeter than any he had once dreamed could be his. The time had flown by on golden wings. He scarce knew how to reckon its flight. He and Joan lived in a world of their own -- a world that reckons not time by our calendar, but has its own fashion of computation; and hours that once had crept by leaden footed, now flew past as if on wings. He and his love were together at last, soon to be united in a bond that only death could sunder. And neither of them held that it could be broken even by the stern cold hand of death. Such love as theirs was not for time alone; it would last on and on through the boundless cycles of eternity. And now the holy vows had been spoken. At last the solemn ceremony was over and past. Raymond and Joan were man and wife, and were riding side by side through the whispering wood in the direction of Basildene. Joan had not changed much since the day she and Raymond had plighted their troth beside the dying bed of John de Brocas. As a young girl she had looked older than her years; as a woman she looked scarce more. Perhaps in those great dark eyes there was more of softness; weary waiting had not dimmed their brightness, but had imparted just a touch of wistfulness, which gave to them an added charm. The full, curved lips were calmly resolute as of old, yet touched with a new sweetness and the gracious beauty of a great happiness. Raymond had changed more than she, having developed from the youth into the man; retaining in a wonderful way the peculiar charm of his boyhood's beauty, the ethereal purity of expression and slim grace of figure, yet adding to these the dignity and purpose of a more advanced age, and all the stateliness and power of one who has struggled and suffered and battled in the world, and who has come forth from that struggle with a stainless shield, and a name unsullied by the smallest breath of slander. Joan's eyes dwelt upon her husband's face with a proud, joyous light in them. Once she laid her hand upon his as they rode, and said, in low tones very full of feeling: "Methinks I have found my Galahad at last. Methinks that thou hast found a treasure as precious as the Holy Grail itself. Methinks no treasure could be more precious than that which thou hast won." He turned his eyes upon her tenderly. "The treasure of thy love, my Joan?" "I was not thinking of that," she answered; "we have loved each other so long. I was thinking of that other treasure -- the love which has enabled thee to triumph over evil, to forgive our enemies, to do good to those that have hated us, to fight the Christian's battle as well as that of England's King. I was thinking of that higher chivalry of which in old days we have talked so much. Perchance we should give it now another name. But thou hast been true and faithful in thy quest. Ah, how proud I am of the stainless name of my knight!" His fingers closed fast over hers, but he made no reply in words. Raymond's nature was a silent one. Of his deepest feelings he spoke the least. He had told his story to Joan; he knew that she understood all it meant to him. It was happiness to feel that this was so without the need of words. That union of soul was sweeter to him than even the possession of the hand he held in his. And so they rode on to Basildene. But was this Basildene? Raymond passed his hand across his eyes, and gazed and gazed again. Joan sat quietly in her saddle, watching him with smiling eyes. Basildene! yes, truly Basildene. There was the quaint old house with its many gables and mullioned casements and twisted chimneys, its warm red walls and timbered grounds around it; but where was the old look of misery, decay, neglect, and blight? Who could look at that picturesque old mansion, with its latticed casements glistening in the sun, and think of aught but home-like comfort and peace? What had been done to it? what spell had been at work? This was the Basildene of his boyhood's dreams -- the Basildene that his mother had described to them. It was not the Basildene of later years. How had the change come about? "That has been our uncle's work these last two years," answered Joan, who was watching the changes passing over her husband's face, and seemed to read the unspoken thought of his heart. "He and I together have planned it all, and the treasure has helped to carry all out. The hidden hoard has brought a blessing at last, methinks, Raymond; for the chapel has likewise been restored, and holy mass and psalm now ascend daily from it. The wretched hovels around the gates, where miserable peasants herded like swine in their sties, have been cleared away, and places fit for human habitation have been erected in their stead. That fearful quagmire, in which so many wretched travellers have lost their lives, has been drained, and a causeway built across it. Basildene is becoming a blessing to all around it; and so long as thou art lord here, my Raymond, it will remain a blessing to all who come within shelter of its walls." He looked at her with his dreamy smile. His mind was going back in review over all these long years since first the idea had formed itself in his brain that they two -- Gaston and himself -- would win back Basildene. How long those years seemed in retrospect, and yet how short! How many changes they had seen! how many strange events in the checkered career of the twin brothers! "I would that Gaston were with me now; I would that he might see it." "And so he shall, come next summer," answered Joan. "Is it not a promise that he comes hither with his bride to see thy home and mine, Raymond, and that we pass one of England's inclement winters in the softer air of sunny France? You are such travellers, you brethren, that the journey is but child's play to you; and I too have known something of travel, and it hath no terrors for me. There shall be no sundering of the bond betwixt the twin brothers of Basildene. Years shall only bind that bond faster, for to their faithful love and devotion one to the other Basildene owes its present weal, and we our present happiness." "The twin brothers of Basildene," repeated Raymond dreamily, gazing round him with smiling eyes, as he held Joan's hand fast in his. "My mother, I wonder if thou canst see us now -- Gaston at Saut and Raymond here at Basildene? Methinks if thou canst thou wilt rejoice in our happiness. We have done what thou biddedst us. We have fought and we have overcome. Thine own loved home has been won back by thine own sons, and Raymond de Brocas is Lord of Basildene." THE END. i If any reader has taken the trouble to follow this story closely, he may observe that the expedition of the Black Prince has been slightly antedated. In order not to interrupt the continuity of the fictitious narrative, the time spent in long-drawn and fruitless negotiation at the conclusion of the truce has been omitted. 
11082	----	OLD SAINT PAUL'S, _A TALE OF THE PLAGUE AND THE FIRE_ By William Harrison Ainsworth The portion of the ensuing Tale relating to the Grocer of Wood-street, and his manner of victualling his house, and shutting up himself and his family within it during the worst part of the Plague of 1665, is founded on a narrative, which I have followed pretty closely in most of its details, contained in a very rare little volume, entitled, "_Preparations against the Plague, both of Soul and Body_," the authorship of which I have no hesitation in assigning to DEFOE. Indeed, I venture to pronounce it his masterpiece. It is strange that this matchless performance should have hitherto escaped attention, and that it should not have been reprinted with some one of the countless impressions of the "_History of the Plague of London_," to which it forms an almost necessary accompaniment. The omission, I trust, will be repaired by Mr. HAZLITT the younger, DEFOE'S last and best editor, in his valuable edition of the works of that great novelist and political writer, now in the course of publication. It may be added, that a case precisely similar to that of the Grocer, and attended with the same happy results, occurred during the Plague of Marseilles, in 1720. For my acquaintance with this narrative, as well as for the suggestion of its application to the present purpose, I am indebted to my friend, Mr. JAMES CROSSLEY, of Manchester. KENSAL MANOR HOUSE, HARROW ROAD, _November_ 30, 1841. CONTENTS. BOOK THE FIRST--April, 1665. 1. The Grocer of Wood-street and his Family. 2. The Coffin-maker. 3. The Gamester and the Bully. 4. The Interview. 5. The Pomander-box. 6. The Libertine Punished. 7. The Plague Nurse. 8. The Mosaical Rods. 9. The Miniature. 10. The Duel. BOOK THE SECOND.--May, 1665. 1. The Progress of the Pestilence. 2. In what Manner the Grocer Victualled his House. 3. The Quack Doctors. 4. The Two Watchmen. 5. The Blind Piper and his Daughter. 6. Old London from Old Saint Paul's. 7. Paul's Walk. 8. The Amulet. 9. How Leonard was cured of the Plague. 10. The Pest-house in Finsbury Fields. 11. How the Grocer shut up his House. BOOK THE THIRD.--June, 1665. 1. The Imprisoned Family. 2. How Fires were Lighted in the Streets. 3. The Dance of Death. 4. The Plague-pit. 5. How Saint Paul's was used as a Pest-house. 6. The Departure. 7. The Journey. 8. Ashdown Lodge. 9. Kingston Lisle. BOOK THE FOURTH.--September, 1665. 1. The Plague at its Height. 2. The Second Plague-pit. 3. The House in Nicholas-lane. 4. The Trials of Amabel. 5. The Marriage and its Consequences. 6. The Certificate. BOOK THE FIFTH.--December, 1665. 1. The Decline of the Plague. 2. The Midnight Meeting. BOOK THE SIXTH.--September, 1666. 1. The Fire-ball. 2. The First Night of the Fire. 3. Progress of the Fire. 4. Leonard's Interview with the King. 5. How Leonard saved the King's Life. 6. How the Grocer's House was Burnt. 7. The Burning of Saint Paul's. 8. How Leonard rescued the Lady Isabella. 9. What befel Chowles and Judith in the Vaults of Saint Faith's. 10. Conclusion. OLD SAINT PAUL'S. BOOK THE FIRST.--APRIL, 1665. I. THE GROCER OF WOOD-STREET AND HIS FAMILY. One night, at the latter end of April, 1665, the family of a citizen of London carrying on an extensive business as a grocer in Wood-street, Cheapside, were assembled, according to custom, at prayer. The grocer's name was Stephen Bloundel. His family consisted of his wife, three sons, and two daughters. He had, moreover, an apprentice; an elderly female serving as cook; her son, a young man about five-and-twenty, filling the place of porter to the shop and general assistant; and a kitchen-maid. The whole household attended; for the worthy grocer, being a strict observer of his religious duties, as well as a rigid disciplinarian in other respects, suffered no one to be absent, on any plea whatever, except indisposition, from morning and evening devotions; and these were always performed at stated times. In fact, the establishment was conducted with the regularity of clockwork, it being the aim of its master not to pass a single hour of the day unprofitably. The ordinary prayers gone through, Stephen Bloundel offered up along and fervent supplication to the Most High for protection against the devouring pestilence with which the city was then scourged. He acknowledged that this terrible visitation had been justly brought upon it by the wickedness of its inhabitants; that they deserved their doom, dreadful though it was; that, like the dwellers in Jerusalem before it was given up to ruin and desolation, they "had mocked the messengers of God and despised His word;" that in the language of the prophet, "they had refused to hearken, and pulled away the shoulder, and stopped their ears that they should not hear; yea, had made their heart like an adamant stone, lest they should hear the law and the words which the Lord of Hosts had sent in his spirit by the former prophets." He admitted that great sins require great chastisement, and that the sins of London were enormous; that it was filled with strifes, seditions, heresies, murders, drunkenness, revellings, and every kind of abomination; that the ordinances of God were neglected, and all manner of vice openly practised; that, despite repeated warnings and afflictions less grievous than the present, these vicious practices had been persisted in. All this he humbly acknowledged. But he implored a gracious Providence, in consideration of his few faithful servants, to spare the others yet a little longer, and give them a last chance of repentance and amendment; or, if this could not be, and their utter extirpation was inevitable, that the habitations of the devout might be exempted from the general destruction--might be places of refuge, as Zoar was to Lot. He concluded by earnestly exhorting those around him to keep constant watch upon themselves; not to murmur at God's dealings and dispensations; but so to comport themselves, that "they might be able to stand in the day of wrath, in the day of death, and in the day of judgment." The exhortation produced a powerful effect upon its hearers, and they arose, some with serious, others with terrified looks. Before proceeding further, it may be desirable to show in what manner the dreadful pestilence referred to by the grocer commenced, and how far its ravages had already extended. Two years before, namely, in 1663, more than a third of the population of Amsterdam was carried off by a desolating plague. Hamburgh was also grievously afflicted about the same time, and in the same manner. Notwithstanding every effort to cut off communication with these states, the insidious disease found its way into England by means of some bales of merchandise, as it was suspected, at the latter end of the year 1664, when two persons died suddenly, with undoubted symptoms of the distemper, in Westminster. Its next appearance was at a house in Long Acre, and its victims two Frenchmen, who had brought goods from the Levant. Smothered for a short time, like a fire upon which coals had been heaped, it broke out with fresh fury in several places. The consternation now began. The whole city was panic-stricken: nothing was talked of but the plague--nothing planned but means of arresting its progress--one grim and ghastly idea possessed the minds of all. Like a hideous phantom stalking the streets at noon-day, and scaring all in its path, Death took his course through London, and selected his prey at pleasure. The alarm was further increased by the predictions confidently made as to the vast numbers who would be swept away by the visitation; by the prognostications of astrologers; by the prophesyings of enthusiasts; by the denunciations of preachers, and by the portents and prodigies reported to have occurred. During the long and frosty winter preceding this fatal year, a comet appeared in the heavens, the sickly colour of which was supposed to forebode the judgment about to follow. Blazing stars and other meteors, of a lurid hue and strange and preternatural shape, were likewise seen. The sun was said to have set in streams of blood, and the moon to have shown without reflecting a shadow; grisly shapes appeared at night--strange clamours and groans were heard in the air--hearses, coffins, and heaps of unburied dead were discovered in the sky, and great cakes and clots of blood were found in the Tower moat; while a marvellous double tide occurred at London Bridge. All these prodigies were currently reported, and in most cases believed. The severe frost, before noticed, did not break up till the end of February, and with the thaw the plague frightfully increased in violence. From Drury-lane it spread along Holborn, eastward as far as Great Turnstile, and westward to Saint Giles's Pound, and so along the Tyburn-road. Saint Andrew's, Holborn, was next infected; and as this was a much more populous parish than the former, the deaths were more numerous within it. For a while, the disease was checked by Fleet Ditch; it then leaped this narrow boundary, and ascending the opposite hill, carried fearful devastation into Saint James's, Clerkenwell. At the same time, it attacked Saint Bride's; thinned the ranks of the thievish horde haunting Whitefriars, and proceeding in a westerly course, decimated Saint Clement Danes. Hitherto, the city had escaped. The destroyer had not passed Ludgate or Newgate, but environed the walls like a besieging enemy. A few days, however, before the opening of this history, fine weather having commenced, the horrible disease began to grow more rife, and laughing all precautions and impediments to scorn, broke out in the very heart of the stronghold--namely, in Bearbinder-lane, near Stock's Market, where nine persons died. At a season so awful, it may be imagined how an impressive address, like that delivered by the grocer, would be received by those who saw in the pestilence, not merely an overwhelming scourge from which few could escape, but a direct manifestation of the Divine displeasure. Not a word was said. Blaize Shotterel, the porter, and old Josyna, his mother, together with Patience, the other woman-servant, betook themselves silently, and with troubled countenances, to the kitchen. Leonard Holt, the apprentice, lingered for a moment to catch a glance from the soft blue eyes of Amabel, the grocer's eldest daughter (for even the plague was a secondary consideration with him when she was present), and failing in the attempt, he heaved a deep sigh, which was luckily laid to the account of the discourse he had just listened to by his sharp-sighted master, and proceeded to the shop, where he busied himself in arranging matters for the night. Having just completed his twenty-first year, and his apprenticeship being within a few months of its expiration, Leonard Holt began to think of returning to his native town of Manchester, where he intended to settle, and where he had once fondly hoped the fair Amabel would accompany him, in the character of his bride. Not that he had ever ventured to declare his passion, nor that he had received sufficient encouragement to make it matter of certainty that if he did so declare himself, he should be accepted; but being both "proper and tall," and having tolerable confidence in his good looks, he had made himself, up to a short time prior to his introduction to the reader, quite easy on the point. His present misgivings were occasioned by Amabel's altered manner towards him, and by a rival who, he had reason to fear, had completely superseded him in her good graces. Brought up together from an early age, the grocer's daughter and the young apprentice had at first regarded each other as brother and sister. By degrees, the feeling changed; Amabel became more reserved, and held little intercourse with Leonard, who, busied with his own concerns, thought little about her. But, as he grew towards manhood, he could not remain insensible to her extraordinary beauty--for extraordinary it was, and such as to attract admiration wherever she went, so that the "Grocer's Daughter" became the toast among the ruffling gallants of the town, many of whom sought to obtain speech with her. Her parents, however, were far too careful to permit any such approach. Amabel's stature was lofty; her limbs slight, but exquisitely symmetrical; her features small, and cast in the most delicate mould; her eyes of the softest blue; and her hair luxuriant, and of the finest texture and richest brown. Her other beauties must be left to the imagination; but it ought not to be omitted that she was barely eighteen, and had all the freshness, the innocence, and vivacity of that most charming period of woman's existence. No wonder she ravished every heart. No wonder, in an age when love-making was more general even than now, that she was beset by admirers. No wonder her father's apprentice became desperately enamoured of her, and proportionately jealous. And this brings us to his rival. On the 10th of April, two gallants, both richly attired, and both young and handsome, dismounted before the grocer's door, and, leaving their steeds to the care of their attendants, entered the shop. They made sundry purchases of conserves, figs, and other dried fruit, chatted familiarly with the grocer, and tarried so long, that at last he began to suspect they must have some motive. All at once, however, they disagreed on some slight matter--Bloundel could not tell what, nor, perhaps, could the disputants, even if their quarrel was not preconcerted--high words arose, and in another moment, swords were drawn, and furious passes exchanged. The grocer called to his eldest son, a stout youth of nineteen, and to Leonard Holt, to separate them. The apprentice seized his cudgel--no apprentice in those days was without one--and rushed towards the combatants, but before he could interfere, the fray was ended. One of them had received a thrust through the sword arm, and his blade dropping, his antagonist declared himself satisfied, and with a grave salute walked off. The wounded man wrapped a lace handkerchief round his arm, but immediately afterwards complained of great faintness. Pitying his condition, and suspecting no harm, the grocer led him into an inner room, where restoratives were offered by Mrs. Bloundel and her daughter Amabel, both of whom had been alarmed by the noise of the conflict. In a short time, the wounded man was so far recovered as to be able to converse with his assistants, especially the younger one; and the grocer having returned to the shop, his discourse became so very animated and tender, that Mrs. Bloundel deemed it prudent to give her daughter a hint to retire. Amabel reluctantly obeyed, for the young stranger was so handsome, so richly dressed, had such a captivating manner, and so distinguished an air, that she was strongly prepossessed in his favour. A second look from her mother, however, caused her to disappear, nor did she return. After waiting with suppressed anxiety for some time, the young gallant departed, overwhelming the good dame with his thanks, and entreating permission to call again. This was peremptorily refused, but, notwithstanding the interdiction, he came on the following day. The grocer chanced to be out at the time, and the gallant, who had probably watched him go forth, deriding the remonstrances of the younger Bloundel and Leonard, marched straight to the inner room, where he found the dame and her daughter. They were much disconcerted at his appearance, and the latter instantly rose with the intention of retiring, but the gallant caught her arm and detained her. "Do not fly me, Amabel," he cried, in an impassioned tone, "but suffer me to declare the love I have for you. I cannot live without you." Amabel, whose neck and cheeks were crimsoned with blushes, cast down her eyes before the ardent regards of the gallant, and endeavoured to withdraw her hand. "One word only," he continued, "and I release you. Am I wholly indifferent to you! Answer me--yes or no!" "Do _not_ answer him, Amabel," interposed her mother. "He is deceiving you. He loves you not. He would ruin you. This is the way with all these court butterflies. Tell him you hate him, child, and bid him begone." "But I cannot tell him an untruth, mother," returned Amabel, artlessly, "for I do _not_ hate him." "Then you love me," cried the young man, falling on his knees, and pressing her hand to his lips. "Tell me so, and make me the happiest of men." But Amabel had now recovered from the confusion into which she had been thrown, and, alarmed at her own indiscretion, forcibly withdrew her hand, exclaiming in a cold tone, and with much natural dignity, "Arise, sir. I will not tolerate these freedoms. My mother is right--you have some ill design." "By my soul, no!" cried the gallant, passionately. "I love you, and would make you mine." "No doubt," remarked Mrs. Bloundel, contemptuously, "but not by marriage." "Yes, by marriage," rejoined the gallant, rising. "If she will consent, I will wed her forthwith." Both Amabel and her mother looked surprised at the young man's declaration, which was uttered with a fervour that seemed to leave no doubt of its sincerity; but the latter, fearing some artifice, replied, "If what you say is true, and you really love my daughter as much as you pretend, this is not the way to win her; for though she can have no pretension to wed with one of your seeming degree, nor is it for her happiness that she should, yet, were she sought by the proudest noble in the land, she shall never, if I can help it, be lightly won. If your intentions are honourable, you must address yourself, in the first place, to her father, and if he agrees (which I much doubt) that you shall become her suitor, I can make no objection. Till this is settled, I must pray you to desist from further importunity." "And so must I," added Amabel. "I cannot give you a hope till you have spoken to my father." "Be it so," replied the gallant. "I will tarry here till his return." So saying, he was about to seat himself, but Mrs. Bloundel prevented him. "I cannot permit this, sir," she cried. "Your tarrying here may, for aught I know, bring scandal upon my house;--I am sure it will be disagreeable to my husband. I am unacquainted with your name and condition. You may be a man of rank. You may be one of the profligate and profane crew who haunt the court. You may be the worst of them all, my Lord Rochester himself. He is about your age, I have heard, and though a mere boy in years, is a veteran in libertinism. But, whoever you are, and whatever your rank and station may be, unless your character will bear the strictest scrutiny, I am certain Stephen Bloundel will never consent to your union with his daughter." "Nay, mother," observed Amabel, "you judge the gentleman unjustly. I am sure he is neither a profligate gallant himself, nor a companion of such--especially of the wicked Earl of Rochester." "I pretend to be no better than I am," replied the young man, repressing a smile that rose to his lips at Mrs. Bloundel's address; "but I shall reform when I am married. It would be impossible to be inconstant to so fair a creature as Amabel. For my rank, I have none. My condition is that of a private gentleman,--my name, Maurice Wyvil." "What you say of yourself, Mr. Maurice Wyvil, convinces me you will meet with a decided refusal from my husband," returned Mrs. Bloundel. "I trust not," replied Wyvil, glancing tenderly at Amabel. "If I should be so fortunate as to gain _his_ consent, have I _yours_?" "It is too soon to ask that question," she rejoined, blushing deeply. "And now, sir, you must go, indeed, you must. You distress my mother." "If I do not distress _you_, I will stay," resumed Wyvil, with an imploring look. "You _do_ distress me," she answered, averting her gaze. "Nay, then, I must tear myself away," he rejoined. "I shall return shortly, and trust to find your father less flinty-hearted than he is represented." He would have clasped Amabel in his arms, and perhaps snatched a kiss, if her mother had not rushed between them. "No more familiarities, sir," she cried angrily; "no court manners here. If you look to wed my daughter, you must conduct yourself more decorously; but I can tell you, you have no chance--none whatever." "Time will show," replied Wyvil, audaciously. "You had better give her to me quietly, and save me the trouble of carrying her off,--for have her I will." "Mercy on us!" cried Mrs. Bloundel, in accents of alarm; "now his wicked intentions are out." "Fear nothing, mother," observed Amabel, coldly. "He will scarcely carry me off without my own consent; and I am not likely to sacrifice myself for one who holds me in such light esteem." "Forgive me, Amabel," rejoined Wyvil, in a voice so penitent that it instantly effaced her displeasure; "I meant not to offend. I spoke only the language of distraction. Do not dismiss me thus, or my death will lie at your door." "I should be sorry for that," she replied; "but, inexperienced as I am, I feel this is not the language of real regard, but of furious passion." A dark shade passed over Wyvil's handsome features, and the almost feminine beauty by which they were characterized gave place to a fierce and forbidding expression. Controlling himself by a powerful effort, he replied, with forced calmness, "Amabel, you know not what it is to love. I will not stir hence till I have seen your father." "We will see that, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Bloundel, angrily. "What, ho! son Stephen! Leonard Holt! I say. This gentleman _will_ stay here, whether I like or not. Show him forth." "That I will, right willingly," replied the apprentice, rushing before the younger Bloundel, and flourishing his formidable cudgel. "Out with you, sir! Out with you!" "Not at your bidding you, saucy knave," rejoined Wyvil, laying his hand upon his sword: "and if it were not for the presence of your mistress and her lovely daughter, I would crop your ears for your insolence." "Their presence shall not prevent me from making my cudgel and your shoulders acquainted, if you do not budge," replied the apprentice, sturdily. Enraged by the retort, Wyvil would have drawn his sword, but a blow on the arm disabled him. "Plague on you, fellow!" he exclaimed; "you shall rue this to the last day of your existence." "Threaten those who heed you," replied Leonard, about to repeat the blow. "Do him no further injury!" cried Amabel, arresting his hand, and looking with the greatest commiseration at Wyvil. "You have dealt with him far too rudely already." "Since I have your sympathy, sweet Amabel," rejoined Wyvil, "I care not what rude treatment I experience from this churl. We shall soon meet again." And bowing to her, he strode out of the room. Leonard followed him to the shop-door, hoping some further pretext for quarrel would arise, but he was disappointed. Wyvil took no notice of him, and proceeded at a slow pace towards Cheapside. Half an hour afterwards, Stephen Bloundel came home. On being informed of what had occurred, he was greatly annoyed, though he concealed his vexation, and highly applauded his daughter's conduct. Without further comment, he proceeded about his business, and remained in the shop till it was closed. Wyvil did not return, and the grocer tried to persuade himself they should see nothing more of him. Before Amabel retired to rest, he imprinted a kiss on her snowy brow, and said, in a tone of the utmost kindness, "You have never yet deceived me, child, and I hope never will. Tell me truly, do you take any interest in this young gallant?" Amabel blushed deeply. "I should not speak the truth, father," she rejoined, after a pause, "if I were to say I do not." "I am sorry for it," replied Bloundel, gravely. "But you would not be happy with him. I am sure he is unprincipled and profligate:--you must forget him." "I will try to do so," sighed Amabel. And the conversation dropped. On the following day, Maurice Wyvil entered the grocer's shop. He was more richly attired than before, and there was a haughtiness in his manner which he had not hitherto assumed. What passed between him and Bloundel was not known, for the latter never spoke of it; but the result may be gathered from the fact that the young gallant was not allowed an interview with the grocer's daughter. From this moment the change previously noticed took place in Amabel's demeanour towards Leonard. She seemed scarcely able to endure his presence, and sedulously avoided his regards. From being habitually gay and cheerful, she became pensive and reserved. Her mother more than once caught her in tears; and it was evident, from many other signs, that Wyvil completely engrossed her thoughts. Fully aware of this, Mrs. Bloundel said nothing of it to her husband, because the subject was painful to him; and not supposing the passion deeply rooted, she hoped it would speedily wear away. But she was mistaken--the flame was kept alive in Amabel's breast in a manner of which she was totally ignorant. Wyvil found means to deceive the vigilance of the grocer and his wife, but he could not deceive the vigilance of a jealous lover. Leonard discovered that his mistress had received a letter. He would not betray her, but he determined to watch her narrowly. Accordingly, when she went forth one morning in company with her younger sister (a little girl of some five years old), he made an excuse to follow them, and, keeping within sight, perceived them enter Saint Paul's Cathedral, the mid aisle of which was then converted into a public walk, and generally thronged with town gallants, bullies, bona-robas, cut-purses, and rogues of every description. In short, it was the haunt of the worst of characters of the metropolis. When, therefore, Amabel entered this structure, Leonard felt certain it was to meet her lover. Rushing forward, he saw her take her course through the crowd, and attract general attention from her loveliness--but he nowhere discerned Maurice Wyvil. Suddenly, however, she struck off to the right, and halted near one of the pillars, and the apprentice, advancing, detected his rival behind it. He was whispering a few words in her ear, unperceived by her sister. Maddened by the sight, Leonard hurried towards them, but before he could reach the spot Wyvil was gone, and Amabel, though greatly confused, looked at the same time so indignant, that he almost regretted his precipitation. "You will, of course, make known to my father what you have just seen?" she said in a low tone. "If you will promise not to meet that gallant again without my knowledge, I will not," replied Leonard. After a moment's reflection, Amabel gave the required promise, and they returned to Wood-street together. Satisfied she would not break her word, the apprentice became more easy, and as a week elapsed, and nothing was said to him on the subject, he persuaded himself she would not attempt to meet her lover again. Things were in this state at the opening of our tale, but upon the night in question, Leonard fancied he discerned some agitation in Amabel's manner towards him, and in consequence of this notion, he sought to meet her gaze, as before related, after prayers. While trying to distract his thoughts by arranging sundry firkins of butter, and putting other things in order, he heard a light footstep behind him, and turning at the sound, beheld Amabel. "Leonard," she whispered, "I promised to tell you when I should next meet Maurice Wyvil. He will be here to-night." And without giving him time to answer, she retired. For awhile, Leonard remained in a state almost of stupefaction, repeating to himself, as if unwilling to believe them, the words he had just heard. He had not recovered when the grocer entered the shop, and noticing his haggard looks, kindly inquired if he felt unwell. The apprentice returned an evasive answer, and half determined to relate all he knew to his master, but the next moment he changed his intention, and, influenced by that chivalric feeling which always governs those, of whatever condition, who love profoundly, resolved not to betray the thoughtless girl, but to trust to his own ingenuity to thwart the designs of his rival, and preserve her Acting upon this resolution, he said he had a slight headache, and instantly resumed his occupation. At nine o'clock, the whole family assembled at supper. The board was plentifully though plainly spread, but the grocer observed, with some uneasiness, that his apprentice, who had a good appetite in ordinary, ate little or nothing. He kept his eye constantly upon him, and became convinced from his manner that something ailed him. Not having any notion of the truth, and being filled with apprehensions of the plague, his dread was that Leonard was infected by the disease. Supper was generally the pleasantest meal of the day at the grocer's house, but on this occasion it passed off cheerlessly enough, and a circumstance occurred at its close which threw all into confusion and distress. Before relating this, however, we must complete our description of the family under their present aspect. Tall, and of a spare frame, with good features, somewhat austere in their expression, and of the cast which we are apt to term precise and puritanical, but tempered with great benevolence, Stephen Bloundel had a keen, deep-seated eye, overshadowed by thick brows, and suffered his long-flowing grey hair to descend over his shoulders. His forehead was high and ample, his chin square and well defined, and his general appearance exceedingly striking. In age he was about fifty. His integrity and fairness of dealing, never once called in question for a period of thirty years, had won him the esteem of all who knew him; while his prudence and economy had enabled him, during that time, to amass a tolerable fortune. His methodical habits, and strong religious principles, have been already mentioned. His eldest son was named after him, and resembled him both in person and character, promising to tread in his footsteps. The younger sons require little notice at present. One was twelve, and the other only half that age; but both appeared to inherit many of their father's good qualities. Basil, the elder, was a stout, well-grown lad, and had never known a day's ill-health; while Hubert, the younger, was thin, delicate, and constantly ailing. Mrs. Bloundel was a specimen of a city dame of the best kind. She had a few pardonable vanities, which no arguments could overcome--such as a little ostentation in dress--a little pride in the neatness of her house--and a good deal in the beauty of her children, especially in that of Amabel--as well as in the wealth and high character of her husband, whom she regarded as the most perfect of human beings. These slight failings allowed for, nothing but good remained. Her conduct was exemplary in all the relations of life. The tenderest of mothers, and the most affectionate of wives, she had as much genuine piety and strictness of moral principles as her husband. Short, plump, and well-proportioned, though somewhat, perhaps, exceeding the rules of symmetry--she had a rich olive complexion, fine black eyes, beaming with good nature, and an ever-laughing mouth, ornamented by a beautiful set of teeth. To wind up all, she was a few years younger than her husband. Amabel has already been described. The youngest girl, Christiana, was a pretty little dove-eyed, flaxen-haired child, between four and five years old, and shared the fate of most younger children, being very much caressed, and not a little spoiled by her parents. The foregoing description of the grocer's family would be incomplete without some mention of his household. Old Josyna Shotterel, the cook, who had lived with her master ever since his marriage, and had the strongest attachment for him, was a hale, stout dame, of about sixty, with few infirmities for her years, and with less asperity of temper than generally belongs to servants of her class. She was a native of Holland, and came to England early in life, where she married Blaize's father, who died soon after their union. An excellent cook in a plain way--indeed, she had no practice in any other--she would brew strong ale and mead, or mix a sack-posset with, any innkeeper in the city. Moreover, she was a careful and tender nurse, if her services were ever required in that capacity. The children looked upon her as a second mother; and her affection for them, which was unbounded, deserved their regard. She was a perfect storehouse of what are termed "old women's receipts;" and there were few complaints (except the plague) for which she did not think herself qualified to prescribe and able to cure. Her skill in the healing art was often tested by her charitable mistress, who required her to prepare remedies, as well as nourishing broths, for such of the poor of the parish as applied to her for relief at times of sickness. Her son, Blaize, was a stout, stumpy fellow, about four feet ten, with a head somewhat too large for his body, and extremely long arms. Ever since the plague had broken out in Drury-lane, it haunted him like a spectre, and scattered the few faculties he possessed. In vain he tried to combat his alarm--in vain his mother endeavoured to laugh him out of it. Nothing would do. He read the bills of mortality daily; ascertained the particulars of every case; dilated upon the agonies of the sufferers; watched the progress of the infection, and calculated the time it would take to reach Wood-street. He talked of the pestilence by day, and dreamed of it at night; and more than once alarmed the house by roaring for assistance, under the idea that he was suddenly attacked. By his mother's advice, he steeped rue, wormwood, and sage in his drink, till it was so abominably nauseous that he could scarcely swallow it, and carried a small ball in the hollow of his hand, compounded of wax, angelica, camphor, and other drugs. He likewise chewed a small piece of Virginian snake-root, or zedoary, if he approached any place supposed to be infected. A dried toad was suspended round his neck, as an amulet of sovereign virtue. Every nostrum sold by the quacks in the streets tempted him; and a few days before, he had expended his last crown in the purchase of a bottle of plague-water. Being of a superstitious nature, he placed full faith in all the predictions of the astrologers, who foretold that London should be utterly laid waste, that grass should grow in the streets, and that the living should not be able to bury the dead. He quaked at the terrible denunciations of the preachers, who exhorted their hearers to repentance, telling them a judgment was at hand, and shuddered at the wild and fearful prophesying of the insane enthusiasts who roamed the streets. His nativity having been cast, and it appearing that he would be in great danger on the 20th of June, he made up his mind that he should die of the plague on that day. Before he was assailed by these terrors, he had entertained a sneaking attachment for Patience, the kitchen-maid, a young and buxom damsel, who had no especial objection to him. But of late, his love had given way to apprehension, and his whole thoughts were centred in one idea, namely, self-preservation. By this time supper was over, and the family were about to separate for the night, when Stephen, the grocer's eldest son, having risen to quit the room, staggered and complained of a strange dizziness and headache, which almost deprived him of sight, while his heart palpitated frightfully. A dreadful suspicion seized his father. He ran towards him, and assisted him to a seat. Scarcely had the young man reached it, when a violent sickness seized him; a greenish-coloured froth appeared at the mouth, and he began to grow delirious. Guided by the convulsive efforts of the sufferer, Bloundel tore off his clothes, and after a moment's search, perceived under the left arm a livid pustule. He uttered a cry of anguish. His son was plague-stricken. II. THE COFFIN-MAKER. The first shock over, the grocer bore the affliction manfully, and like one prepared for it. Exhibiting little outward emotion, though his heart was torn with anguish, and acting with the utmost calmness, he forbade his wife to approach the sufferer, and desired her instantly to retire to her own room with her daughters; and not to leave it on any consideration whatever, without his permission. Accustomed to regard her husband's word as law, Mrs. Bloundel, for the first time in her life, disputed his authority, and, falling on her knees, besought him, with tears in her eyes, to allow her to nurse her son. But he remained inflexible, and she was forced to comply. He next gave similar directions to old Josyna respecting his two younger sons, with this difference only, that when they were put to rest, and the door was locked upon them, she was to return to the kitchen and prepare a posset-drink of canary and spirits of sulphur, together with a poultice of mallows, lily-roots, figs, linseed, and palm-oil, for the patient. These orders given and obeyed, with Leonard Holt's assistance-for Blaize, who had crept into a corner, in extremity of terror, was wholly incapable of rendering any help-he conveyed his son to the adjoining room, on the ground floor, where there was a bed, and placing him within it, heaped blankets upon him to promote profuse perspiration, while the apprentice lighted a fire. Provided with the most efficacious remedies for the distemper, and acquainted with the mode of treating it prescribed by the College of Physicians, Bloundel was at no loss how to act, but, rubbing the part affected with a stimulating ointment, he administered at the same time doses of mithridate, Venice treacle, and other potent alexipharmics. He had soon the satisfaction of perceiving that his son became somewhat easier; and after swallowing the posset-drink prepared by old Josyna, who used all the expedition she could, a moisture broke out upon the youth's skin, and appeared to relieve him so much, that, but for the ghastly paleness of his countenance, and the muddy look of his eye, his father would have indulged a hope of his recovery. Up to this time, the grocer had acted for himself, and felt confident he had acted rightly; but he now deemed it expedient to call in advice, and, accordingly, commissioned his apprentice to fetch Doctor Hodges, a physician, residing in Great Knightrider-street, Doctors' Commons, who had recently acquired considerable reputation for his skilful treatment of those attacked by the plague, and who (it may be incidentally mentioned) afterwards gave to the medical world a curious account of the ravages of the disorder, as well as of his own professional experiences during this terrible period. He likewise told him--and he could not repress a sigh as he did so--to give notice to the Examiner of Health (there were one or two officers, so designated, appointed to every parish, at this awful season, by the city authorities) that his house was infected. While preparing to set out, Leonard again debated with himself whether he should acquaint his master with Maurice Wyvil's meditated visit. But conceiving it wholly impossible that Amabel could leave her mother's room, even if she were disposed to do so, he determined to let the affair take its course. On his way to the shop, he entered a small room occupied by Blaize, and found him seated near a table, with his hands upon his knees, and his eyes fixed upon the ground, looking the very image of despair. The atmosphere smelt like that of an apothecary's shop, and was so overpowering, that Leonard could scarcely breathe. The table was covered with pill-boxes and phials, most of which were emptied, and a dim light was afforded by a candle with a most portentous crest of snuff. "So you have been poisoning yourself, I perceive," observed Leonard, approaching him. "Keep off!" cried the porter, springing suddenly to his feet. "Don't touch me, I say. Poisoning myself! I have taken three rufuses, or pestilential pills; two spoonfuls of alexiteral water; the same quantity of anti-pestilential decoction; half as much of Sir Theodore Mayerne's electuary; and a large dose of orvietan. Do you call that poisoning myself? I call it taking proper precaution, and would recommend you to do the same. Beside this, I have sprinkled myself with vinegar, fumigated my clothes, and rubbed my nose, inside and out, till it smarted so intolerably, I was obliged to desist, with balsam of sulphur." "Well, well, if you don't escape the plague, it won't be your fault," returned Leonard, scarcely able to refrain from laughing. "But I have something to tell you before I go." "What is the matter?" demanded Blaize, in alarm. "Where--where are you going?" "To fetch the doctor," replied Leonard. "Is Master Stephen worse?" rejoined the porter. "On the contrary, I hope he is better," replied Leonard "I shall be back directly, but as I have to give notice to the Examiner of Health that the house is infected, I may be detained a few minutes longer than I anticipate. Keep the street-door locked; I will fasten the yard-gate, and do not for your life let any one in, except Doctor Hodges, till I return. Do you hear?--do you understand what I say?" "Yes, I hear plain enough," growled Blaize. "You say that the house is infected, and that we shall all be locked up." "Dolt!" exclaimed the apprentice, "I said no such thing." And he repeated his injunctions, but Blaize was too much terrified to comprehend them. At last, losing all patience, Leonard cried in a menacing tone, "If you do not attend to me, I will cudgel you within an inch of your life, and you will find the thrashing harder to bear even than the plague itself. Rouse yourself, fool, and follow me." Accompanied by the porter, he hurried to the yard-gate, saw it bolted within-side, and then returned to the shop, where, having found his cap and cudgel, he directed Blaize to lock the door after him, cautioning him, for the third time, not to admit any one except the doctor. "If I find, on my return, that you have neglected my injunctions," he concluded, "as sure as I now stand before you, I'll break every bone in your body." Blaize promised obedience, adding in a supplicating tone, "Leonard, if I were you, I would not go to the Examiner of Health. Poor Stephen may not have the plague, after all. It's a dreadful thing to be imprisoned for a month, for that's the time appointed by the Lord Mayor. Only a week ago I passed several houses in Holborn, shut up on account of the plague, with a watchman at the door, and I never shall forget the melancholy faces I saw at the windows. It was a dreadful spectacle, and has haunted me ever since." "It cannot be helped," rejoined Leonard, with a sigh. "If we disobey the Lord Mayor's orders, and neglect giving information, we shall all be sent to Newgate, while poor Stephen will be taken to the pest-house. Besides, the searchers will be here before morning. They are sure to learn what has happened from Doctor Hodges." "True, true," replied Blaize; "I had forgotten that. Let me go with you, dear Leonard. I dare not remain here longer." "What! would you leave your kind good master, at a time like this, when he most needs your services?" rejoined Leonard, reproachfully. "Out, cowardly hound! I am ashamed of you. Shake off your fears, and be a man. You can but die once; and what matters it whether you die of the plague or the cholic?" "It matters a great deal," replied Blaize. "I am afraid of nothing but the plague. I am sure I shall be its next victim in this house. But you are right--I cannot desert my kind master, nor my old mother. Farewell, Leonard. Perhaps we may never meet again. I may be dead before you come back. I feel very ill already." "No wonder, after all the stuff you have swallowed," returned Leonard. "But pluck up your courage, or you will bring on the very thing you are anxious to avoid. As many people have died from fear as from any other cause. One word before I go. If any one should get into the house by scaling the yard-wall, or through the window, instantly alarm our master." "Certainly," returned Blaize, with a look of surprise, "But do you expect any one to enter the house in that way?" "Ask no questions, but do as I bid you," rejoined Leonard, opening the door, and about to go forth. "Stop a moment," cried Blaize, detaining him, and drawing from his pocket a handful of simples. "Won't you take some of them with you to guard against infection? There's wormwood, woodsorrel, masterwort, zedoary, and angelica; and lastly, there is a little bottle of the sovereign preservative against the plague, as prepared by the great Lord Bacon, and approved by Queen Elizabeth. Won't you take _that_?" "I have no fear," replied Leonard, shutting the door in his face. And as he lingered for a moment while it was locked, he heard Blaize say to himself, "I must go and take three more rufuses and a large dose of diascordium." It was a bright moonlight night, and as the apprentice turned to depart, he perceived a figure hastily retreating on the other side of the way. Making sure it was Maurice Wyvil, though he could not distinguish the garb of the person--that side of the street being in the shade--and stung by jealousy, he immediately started in pursuit. The fugitive struck down Lad-lane, and run on till he came to the end of Lawrence-lane, where, finding himself closely pressed, he suddenly halted, and pulling his hat over his brows to conceal his features, fiercely confronted his pursuer. "Why do you follow me thus, rascal?" he cried, drawing his sword. "Would you rob me? Begone, or I will call the watch." "It _is_ his voice!" cried the apprentice. "I have news for you, Mr. Maurice Wyvil. You will not see Amabel to-night. The plague is in her father's house." "The plague!" exclaimed Wyvil, in an altered tone, and dropping the point of his sword. "Is she smitten by it?" The apprentice answered by a bitter laugh, and without tarrying longer to enjoy his rival's distress, set off towards Cheapside. Before reaching the end of Lawrence-lane, however, he half-repented his conduct, and halted to see whether Wyvil was following him; but as he could perceive nothing of him, he continued his course. Entering Cheapside, he observed, to his surprise, a crowd of persons collected near the Cross, then standing a little to the east of Wood-street. This cross, which was of great antiquity, and had undergone many mutilations and alterations since its erection in 1486, when it boasted, amongst other embellishments, images of the Virgin and Saint Edward the Confessor, was still not without some pretensions to architectural beauty. In form it was hexagonal, and composed of three tiers, rising from one another like the divisions of a telescope, each angle being supported by a pillar surmounted by a statue, while the intervening niches were filled up with sculptures, intended to represent some of the sovereigns of England. The structure was of considerable height, and crowned by a large gilt cross. Its base was protected by a strong wooden railing. About a hundred yards to the east, there stood a smaller hexagonal tower, likewise ornamented with carvings, and having a figure on its conical summit blowing a horn. This was the Conduit. Midway between these buildings the crowd alluded to above was collected. As Leonard drew near, he found the assemblage was listening to the exhortations of an enthusiast, whom he instantly recognised from a description he had heard of him from Blaize. The name of this half-crazed being was Solomon Eagle. Originally a Quaker, upon the outbreak of the plague he had abandoned his home and friends, and roamed the streets at night, denouncing doom to the city. He was a tall gaunt man, with long jet-black hair hanging in disordered masses over his shoulders. His eyes were large and black, and blazed with insane lustre, and his looks were so wild and terrific, that it required no great stretch of imagination to convert him into the genius of the pestilence. Entirely stripped of apparel except that his loins were girt with a sheep-skin, in imitation of Saint John in the Wilderness, he bore upon his head a brazier of flaming coals, the lurid light of which falling upon his sable locks and tawny skin, gave him an unearthly appearance. Impelled by curiosity, Leonard paused for a moment to listen, and heard him thunder forth the following denunciation:--"And now, therefore, as the prophet Jeremiah saith, 'I have this day declared it to you, but ye have not obeyed the voice of the Lord your God, nor anything for the which he hath sent me unto you. Now, therefore, know certainly that ye shall die by the sword, by the famine, and by the pestilence.' Again, in the words of the prophet Amos, the Lord saith unto YOU by my mouth, 'I have sent among you the pestilence after the manner of Egypt, yet have you not returned unto me. Therefore, will I do this unto thee, O Israel; and because I will do this unto thee, prepare to meet thy God?' Do you hear this, O sinners? God will proceed against you in the day of His wrath, though He hath borne with you in the day of His patience? O how many hundred years hath He spared this city, notwithstanding its great provocations and wickedness! But now He will no longer show it pity, but will pour out His wrath upon it I Plagues shall come upon it, and desolation; and it shall be utterly burnt with fire,--for strong is the Lord who judgeth it!" His address concluded, the enthusiast started off at a swift pace, shrieking, in a voice that caused many persons to throw open their windows to listen to him, "Awake! sinners, awake'--the plague is at your doors!--the grave yawns for you!--awake, and repent!" And followed by the crowd, many of whom kept up with him, he ran on vociferating in this manner till he was out of hearing. Hurrying forward in the opposite direction, Leonard glanced at the ancient and picturesque houses on either side of the way,--now bathed in the moonlight, and apparently hushed in repose and security,--and he could not repress a shudder as he reflected that an evil angel was, indeed, abroad, who might suddenly arouse their slumbering inmates to despair and death. His thoughts took another turn as he entered the precincts of Saint Paul's, and surveyed the venerable and majestic fabric before him. His eyes rested upon its innumerable crocketed pinnacles, its buttresses, its battlements, and upon the magnificent rose-window terminating the choir. The apprentice had no especial love for antiquity, but being of an imaginative turn, the sight of this reverend structure conjured up old recollections, and brought to mind the noble Collegiate Church of his native town. "Shall I ever see Manchester again?" he sighed: "shall I take Amabel with me there? Alas! I doubt it. If I survive the plague, she, I fear, will never be mine." Musing thus, he scanned the roof of the cathedral, and noticing its stunted central tower, could not help thinking how much more striking its effects must have been, when the lofty spire it once supported was standing. The spire, it may be remarked, was twice destroyed by lightning; first in February, 1444, and subsequently in June, 1561, when it was entirely burnt down, and never rebuilt. Passing the Convocation House, which then stood at one side of the southern transept, Leonard struck down Paul's Chain, and turning to the right, speeded along Great Knightrider-street, until he reached an old habitation at the corner of the passage leading to Doctors' Commons. Knocking at the door, an elderly servant presently appeared, and in answer to his inquiries whether Doctor Hodges was at home, stated that he had gone out, about half an hour ago, to attend Mr. Fisher, a proctor, who had been suddenly attacked by the plague at his residence in Bartholomew-close, near Smithfield. "I am come on the same errand," said Leonard, "and must see your master instantly." "If you choose to go to Bartholomew-close," replied the servant, "you may probably meet with him. Mr. Fisher's house is the last but two, on the right, before you come to the area in front of the church." "I can easily find it," returned Leonard, "and will run there as fast as I can. But if your master should pass me on the road, beseech him to go instantly to Stephen Bloundell's, the grocer, in Wood-street." The servant assenting, Leonard hastily retraced his steps, and traversing Blow-bladder-street and Saint-Martin's-le-Grand, passed through Aldersgate. He then shaped his course through the windings of Little Britain and entered Duck-lane. He was now in a quarter fearfully assailed by the pestilence. Most of the houses had the fatal sign upon their doors--a red cross, of a foot long, with the piteous words above it, "Lord have mercy upon us," in characters so legible that they could be easily distinguished by the moonlight, while a watchman, with a halberd in his hand, kept guard outside. Involuntarily drawing in his breath, Leonard quickened his pace. But he met with an unexpected and fearful interruption. Just as he reached the narrow passage leading from Duck-lane to Bartholomew-close, he heard the ringing of a bell, followed by a hoarse voice, crying, "Bring out your dead--bring out your dead!" he then perceived that a large, strangely-shaped cart stopped up the further end of the passage, and heard a window open, and a voice call out that all was ready. The next moment a light was seen at the door, and a coffin was brought out and placed in the cart. This done, the driver, who was smoking a pipe, cracked his whip, and put the vehicle in motion. Shrinking into a doorway, and holding a handkerchief to his face, to avoid breathing the pestilential effluvia, Leonard saw that there were other coffins in the cart, and that it was followed by two persons in long black cloaks. The vehicle itself, fashioned like an open hearse, and of the same sombre colour, relieved by fantastical designs, painted in white, emblematic of the pestilence, was drawn by a horse of the large black Flanders breed, and decorated with funeral trappings. To Leonard's inexpressible horror, the cart again stopped opposite him, and the driver ringing his bell, repeated his doleful cry. While another coffin was brought out, and placed with the rest, a window in the next house was opened, and a woman looking forth screamed, "Is Anselm Chowles, the coffin-maker, there?" "Yes, here I am, Mother Malmayns," replied one of the men in black cloaks, looking up as he spoke, and exhibiting features so hideous, and stamped with such a revolting expression, that Leonard's blood curdled at the sight. "What do you want with me?" he added. "I want you to carry away old Mike Norborough," replied the woman. "What, is the old miser gone at last?" exclaimed Chowles, with an atrocious laugh. "But how shall I get paid for a coffin?" "You may pay yourself with what you can find in the house," replied Mother Malmayns; "or you may carry him to the grave without one, if you prefer it." "No, no, that won't do," returned Chowles. "I've other customers to attend to who _will_ pay; and, besides, I want to get home. I expect friends at supper. Good-night, Mother Malmayns. You know where to find me, if you want me. Move on, Jonas, or you will never reach Saint Sepulchre's." The woman angrily expostulated with him, and some further parley ensued,--Leonard did not tarry to hear what, but rushing past them, gained Bartholomew-close. He soon reached the proctor's house, and found it marked with the fatal cross. Addressing a watchman at the door, he learnt, to his great dismay, that Doctor Hodges had been gone more than a quarter of an hour. "He was too late," said the man. "Poor Mr. Fisher had breathed his last before he arrived, and after giving some directions to the family as to the precautions they ought to observe, the doctor departed." "How unfortunate!" exclaimed Leonard, "I have missed him a second time. But I will run back to his house instantly." "You will not find him at home," returned the watchman "He is gone to Saint Paul's, to attend a sick person." "To Saint Paul's at this hour!" cried the apprentice. "Why, no one is there, except the vergers or the sexton." "He is gone to visit the sexton, who is ill of the plague," replied the watchman. "I have told you all I know about him. You can do what you think best." Determined to make another effort before giving in, Leonard hurried back as fast as he could. While threading Duck-lane, he heard the doleful bell again, and perceived the dead-cart standing before a house, from which two small coffins were brought. Hurrying past the vehicle, he remarked that its load was fearfully increased, but that the coffin-maker and his companion had left it. Another minute had not elapsed before he reached Aldersgate, and passing through the postern, he beheld a light at the end of Saint Anne's-lane, and heard the terrible voice of Solomon Eagle, calling to the sleepers to awake and repent. Shutting his ears to the cry, Leonard did not halt till he reached the great western door of the cathedral, against which he knocked. His first summons remaining unanswered, he repeated it, and a wicket was then opened by a grey-headed verger, with a lantern in his hand, who at first was very angry at being disturbed; but on learning whom the applicant was in search of, and that the case was one of urgent necessity, he admitted that the doctor was in the cathedral at the time. "Or rather, I should say," he added, "he is in Saint Faith's. I will conduct you to him, if you think proper. Doctor Hodges is a good man,--a charitable man," he continued, "and attends the poor for nothing. He is now with Matthew Malmayns, the sexton, who was taken ill of the plague yesterday, and will get nothing but thanks--if he gets those--for his fee. But, follow me, young man, follow me." So saying, he shut the wicket, and led the way along the transept. The path was uneven, many of the flags having been removed, and the verger often paused to throw a light upon the ground, and warn his companion of a hole. On arriving at the head of the nave, Leonard cast his eyes down it, and was surprised at the magical effect of the moonlight upon its magnificent avenue of pillars; the massive shafts on the left being completely illuminated by the silvery beams, while those on the right lay in deep shadow. "Ay, it is a noble structure," replied the old verger, noticing his look of wonder and admiration, "and, like many a proud human being, has known better days. It has seen sad changes in my time, for I recollect it when good Queen Bess ruled the land. But come along, young man,--you have something else to think of now." Bestowing a momentary glance upon the matchless choir, with its groined roof, its clerestory windows, its arched openings, its carved stalls, and its gorgeous rose-window, Leonard followed his conductor through a small doorway on the left of the southern transept, and descending a flight of stone steps, entered a dark and extensive vault, for such it seemed. The feeble light of the lantern fell upon ranks of short heavy pillars, supporting a ponderous arched roof. "You are now in Saint Faith's," observed the verger, "and above you is the choir of Saint Paul's." Leonard took no notice of the remark, but silently crossing the nave of this beautiful subterranean church (part of which still exists), traversed its northern aisle. At length the verger stopped before the entrance of a small chapel, once dedicated to Saint John the Baptist, but now devoted to a less sacred purpose. As they advanced, Leonard observed a pile of dried skulls and bones in one corner, a stone coffin, strips of woollen shrouds, fragments of coffins, mattocks, and spades. It was evidently half a charnel, half a receptacle for the sexton's tools. "If you choose to open that door," said the verger, pointing to one at the lower end of the chamber, "you will find him you seek. I shall go no further." Summoning up all his resolution, Leonard pushed open the door. A frightful scene met his gaze. At one side of a deep, low-roofed vault, the architecture of which was of great antiquity, and showed that it had been a place of burial, was stretched a miserable pallet, and upon it, covered by a single blanket, lay a wretch, whose groans and struggles proclaimed the anguish he endured. A lamp was burning on the floor, and threw a sickly light upon the agonized countenance of the sufferer. He was a middle-aged man, with features naturally harsh, but which now, contracted by pain, had assumed a revolting expression. An old crone, who proved to be his mother, and a young man, who held him down in bed by main force, tended him. He was rambling in a frightful manner; and as his ravings turned upon the most loathly matters, it required some firmness to listen to them. At a little distance from him, upon a bench, sat a stout, shrewd-looking, but benevolent little personage, somewhat between forty and fifty. This was Doctor Hodges. He had a lancet in his hand, with which he had just operated upon the sufferer, and he was in the act of wiping it on a cloth. As Leonard entered the vault, the doctor observed to the attendants of the sick man, "He will recover. The tumour has discharged its venom. Keep him as warm as you can, and do not let him leave his bed for two days. All depends upon that. I will send him proper medicines and some blankets shortly. If he takes cold, it will be fatal." The young man promised to attend to the doctor's injunctions, and the old woman mumbled her thanks. "Where is Judith Malmayns?" asked Doctor Hodges: "I am surprised not to see her. Is she afraid of the distemper?" "Afraid of it!--not she," replied the old woman. "Since the plague has raged so dreadfully, she has gone out as a nurse to the sick, and my poor son has seen nothing of her." Leonard then recollected that he had heard the woman, who called out of the miser's house, addressed as Mother Malmayns by the coffin-maker, and had no doubt that she was the sexton's wife. His entrance having been so noiseless that it passed unnoticed, he now stepped forward, and, addressing Doctor Hodges, acquainted him with his errand. "What!" exclaimed the doctor, as soon as he concluded, "a son of Stephen Bloundel, the worthy grocer of Wood-street, attacked by the plague! I will go with you instantly, young man. I have a great regard for your master--a very great regard. There is not a better man living. The poor lad must be saved, if possible." And hastily repeating his instructions to the attendants of the sick man, he left the vault with the apprentice. They found the verger in the charnel, and before quitting it, the doctor drew a small flask of canary from his pocket, and applied it to his lips. "This is my anti-pestilential drink," he remarked with a smile, "and it has preserved me from contagion hitherto. You must let us out of the south door, friend," he added to the verger, "for I shall be obliged to step home for a moment, and it will save time. Come with me, young man, and tell me what has been done for the grocer's son." As they traversed the gloomy aisle of Saint Faith, and mounted to the upper structure, Leonard related all that had taken place since poor Stephen's seizure. The doctor strongly expressed his approval of what had been done, and observed, "It could not be better. With Heaven's help, I have no doubt we shall save him, and I am truly glad of it for his father's sake." By this time they had reached the southern door, and the verger having unlocked it, they issued forth. It was still bright moonlight, and Leonard, whose mind was greatly relieved by the assurances of the physician, felt in some degree reconciled to the delay, and kept up his part in the conversation promoted by his companion. The doctor, who was an extremely kind-hearted man, and appeared to have a great regard for the grocer, made many inquiries as to his family, and spoke in terms of the highest admiration of the beauty of his eldest daughter. The mention of Amabel's name, while it made Leonard's cheek burn, rekindled all his jealousy of Wyvil, and he tried to make some excuse to get away, but his companion would not hear of it. "I tell you there is no hurry," said the doctor; "all is going on as well as possible. I will make your excuses to your master." "On reaching the doctor's house they were ushered into a large room, surrounded with bookshelves and cases of anatomical preparations. Hodges seated himself at a table, on which a shaded lamp was placed, and writing out a prescription, desired his servant to get it made up at a neighbouring apothecary's, and to take it, with a couple of blankets, to the sexton of Saint Paul's. He then produced a bottle of medicated canary, and pouring out a large glass for the apprentice, drained another himself. "I will answer for its virtue," he said: "it is a sure preservative against the plague." Having furnished himself with several small packets of simples, a few pots of ointment, one or two phials, and a case of surgical instruments, he told Leonard he was ready to attend him. "We will go round by Warwick-lane," he added. "I must call upon Chowles, the coffin-maker. It will not detain us a moment; and I have an order to give him." The mention of this name brought to Leonard's mind the hideous attendant on the dead-cart, and he had no doubt he was the person in question. It did not become him, however, to make a remark, and they set out. Mounting Addle-hill, and threading Ave-Maria-lane, they entered Warwick-lane, and about half-way up the latter thoroughfare, the doctor stopped before a shop, bearing on its immense projecting sign the representation of a coffin lying in state, and covered with scutcheons, underneath which was written, "ANSELM CHOWLES, COFFIN-MAKER." "I do not think you will find Mr. Chowles at home," observed Leonard: "for I saw him with the dead-cart not half an hour ago." "Very likely," returned the doctor; "but I shall see one of his men. The coffin-maker's business is now carried on in the night time," he added, with a sigh; "and he drives a flourishing trade. These sad times will make his fortune." As he spoke, he rapped with his cane at the door, which, after a little delay, was opened by a young man in a carpenter's dress, with a hammer in his hand. On seeing who it was, this person exhibited great confusion, and would have retired; but the doctor, pushing him aside, asked for his master. "You cannot see him just now, sir," replied the other, evidently considerably embarrassed. "He is just come home greatly fatigued, and is about to retire to rest." "No matter," returned the doctor, entering a room, in which three or four other men were at work, hastily finishing coffins; "I _must_ see him." No further opposition being offered, Hodges, followed by the apprentice, marched towards an inner room. Just as he reached the door, a burst of loud laughter, evidently proceeding from a numerous party, arose from within, and a harsh voice was heard chanting the following strains: SONG OF THE PLAGUE. To others the Plague a foe may be, To me 'tis a friend--not an enemy; My coffins and coffers alike it fills, And the richer I grow the more it kills. _Drink the Plague! Drink the Plague!_ For months, for years, may it spend its rage On lusty manhood and trembling age; Though half mankind of the scourge should die, My coffins will sell--so what care I? _Drink the Plague! Drink the Plague!_ Loud acclamations followed the song, and the doctor, who was filled with disgust and astonishment, opened the door. He absolutely recoiled at the scene presented to his gaze. In the midst of a large room, the sides of which were crowded with coffins, piled to the very ceiling, sat about a dozen personages, with pipes in their mouths, and flasks and glasses before them. Their seats were coffins, and their table was a coffin set upon a bier. Perched on a pyramid of coffins, gradually diminishing in size as the pile approached its apex, Chowles was waving a glass in one hand, and a bottle in the other, when the doctor made his appearance. A more hideous personage cannot be imagined than the coffin-maker. He was clothed in a suit of rusty black, which made his skeleton limbs look yet more lean and cadaverous. His head was perfectly bald, and its yellow skin, divested of any artificial covering, glistened like polished ivory. His throat was long and scraggy, and supported a head unrivalled for ugliness. His nose had been broken in his youth, and was almost compressed flat with his face. His few remaining teeth were yellow and discoloured with large gaps between them. His eyes were bright, and set in deep cavernous recesses, and, now that he was more than half-intoxicated, gleamed with unnatural lustre. The friends by whom he was surrounded were congenial spirits,--searchers, watchmen, buriers, apothecaries, and other wretches, who, like himself, rejoiced in the pestilence, because it was a source of profit to them. At one corner of the room, with a part-emptied glass before her, and several articles in her lap, which she hastily pocketed on the entrance of the doctor, sat the plague-nurse, Mother Malmayns; and Leonard thought her, if possible, more villainous-looking than her companions. She was a rough, raw-boned woman, with sandy hair and light brows, a sallow, freckled complexion, a nose with wide nostrils, and a large, thick-lipped mouth. She had, moreover, a look of mingled cunning and ferocity inexpressibly revolting. Sharply rebuking Chowles, who, in springing from his lofty seat, upset several of the topmost coffins, the doctor gave him some directions, and, turning to the nurse, informed her of her husband's condition, and ordered her to go to him immediately. Mother Malmayns arose, and glancing significantly at the coffin-maker, took her departure. Repeating his injunctions to Chowles in a severe tone, the doctor followed; and seeing her take the way towards Saint Paul's, proceeded at a brisk pace along Paternoster-row with the apprentice. In a few minutes they reached Wood-street, and knocking at the door, were admitted by Blaize. "Heaven be praised, you are come at last!" exclaimed the porter. "Our master began to think something had happened to you." "It is all my fault," returned Doctor Hodges; "but how is the young man?" "Better, much better, as I understand," replied Blaize; "but I have not seen him." "Come, that's well," rejoined Hodges. "Lead me to his room." "Leonard will show you the way," returned the porter, holding back. Glancing angrily at Blaize, the apprentice conducted the doctor to the inner room, where they found the grocer, with the Bible on his knee, watching by the bedside of his son. He was delighted with their appearance, but looked inquisitively at his apprentice for some explanation of his long absence. This Hodges immediately gave; and, having examined the sufferer, he relieved the anxious father by declaring, that, with due care, he had little doubt of his son's recovery. "God be praised!" exclaimed Bloundel, falling on his knees. Hodges then gave minute directions to the grocer as to how he was to proceed, and told him it would be necessary for some time to keep his family separate. To this Bloundel readily agreed. The doctor's next inquiries were, whether notice had been given to the Examiner of Health, and the grocer referring to Leonard, the latter acknowledged that he had forgotten it, but undertook to repair his omission at once. With this view, he quitted the room, and was hastening towards the shop, when he observed a figure on the back stairs. Quickly mounting them, he overtook on the landing Maurice Wyvil. * * * * * III. THE GAMESTER AND THE BULLY. Before proceeding further, it will be necessary to retrace our steps for a short time, and see what was done by Maurice Wyvil after the alarming announcement made to him by the apprentice. Of a selfish nature and ungovernable temper, and seeking only in the pursuit of the grocer's daughter the gratification of his lawless desires, he was filled, in the first instance, with furious disappointment at being robbed of the prize, at the very moment he expected it to fall into his hands. But this feeling was quickly effaced by anxiety respecting his mistress, whose charms, now that there was every probability of losing her (for Leonard's insinuation had led him to believe she was assailed by the pestilence), appeared doubly attractive to him; and scarcely under the governance of reason, he hurried towards Wood-street, resolved to force his way into the house, and see her again, at all hazards. His wild design, however, was fortunately prevented. As he passed the end of the court leading to the ancient inn (for it was ancient even at the time of this history), the Swan-with-two-Necks, in Lad-lane, a young man, as richly attired as himself, and about his own age, who had seen him approaching, suddenly darted from it, and grasping his cloak, detained him. "I thought it must be you, Wyvil," cried this person. "Where are you running so quickly? I see neither angry father, nor jealous apprentice, at your heels. What has become of the girl? Are you tired of her already?" "Let me go, Lydyard," returned Wyvil, trying to extricate himself from his companion's hold, who was no other than the gallant that had accompanied him on his first visit to the grocer's shop, and had played his part so adroitly in the scheme devised between them to procure an interview with Amabel,--"let me go, I say, I am in no mood for jesting." "Why, what the plague is the matter?" rejoined Lydyard. "Has your mistress played you false? Have you lost your wager?" "The plague _is_ the matter," replied Wyvil, sternly. "Amabel is attacked by it. I must see her instantly." "The devil!" exclaimed Lydyard. "Here is a pretty termination to the affair. But if this is really the case, you must _not_ see her. It is one thing to be run through the arm,--which you must own I managed as dexterously as the best master of fence could have done,--and lose a few drops of blood for a mistress, but it is another to brave the plague on her account." "I care for nothing," replied Wyvil; "I _will_ see her." "This is madness!" remonstrated Lydyard, still maintaining his grasp. "What satisfaction will it afford you to witness her sufferings--to see the frightful ravages made upon her charms by this remorseless disease,--to throw her whole family into consternation, and destroy the little chance she may have of recovery, by your presence? What good will this do? No,--you must pay your wager to Sedley, and forget her." "I cannot forget her," replied Wyvil. "My feelings have undergone a total change. If I _am_ capable of real love, it is for her." "Real love!" exclaimed Lydyard, in an incredulous tone. "If the subject were not too serious, I should laugh in your face. No doubt you would marry her, and abandon your design upon the rich heiress, pretty Mistress Mallet, whom old Rowley recommended to your attention, and whom the fair Stewart has more than half-won for you?" "I would," replied the other, energetically. "Nay, then, you are more insane than I thought you," rejoined Lydyard, relinquishing his hold; "and the sooner you take the plague the better. It may cure your present brain fever. I shall go back to Parravicin, and the others. You will not require my assistance further." "I know not," replied Wyvil, distractedly; "I have not yet given up my intention of carrying off the girl." "If you carry her oft in this state," rejoined the other, "it must be to the pest-house. But who told you she was attacked by the plague?" "Her father's apprentice," replied Wyvil. "And you believed him?" demanded Lydyard, with a derisive laugh. "Undoubtedly," replied Wyvil. "Why not?" "Because it is evidently a mere trick to frighten you from the house," rejoined Lydyard. "I am surprised so shallow a device should succeed with _you_." "I wish I could persuade myself it was a trick," returned Wyvil. "But the fellow's manner convinced me he was in earnest." "Well, I will not dispute the point, though I am sure I am right," returned Lydyard. "But be not too precipitate. Since the apprentice has seen you, some alteration may be necessary in your plans. Come with me into the house. A few minutes can make no difference." Wyvil suffered himself to be led up the court, and passing through a door on the left, they entered a spacious room, across which ran a long table, furnished at one end with wine and refreshments, and at the other with cards and dice. Three persons were seated at the table, the most noticeable of whom was a dissipated-looking young man, dressed in the extremity of the prevailing mode, with ruffles of the finest colbertine, three inches in depth, at his wrists; a richly-laced cravat round his throat; white silk hose, adorned with gold clocks; velvet shoes of the same colour as the hose, fastened with immense roses; a silver-hilted sword, supported by a broad embroidered silk band; and a cloak and doublet of carnation-coloured velvet, woven with gold, and decorated with innumerable glittering points and ribands. He had a flowing wig of flaxen hair, and a broad-leaved hat, looped with a diamond buckle, and placed negligently on the left side of his head. His figure was slight, but extremely well formed; and his features might have been termed handsome, but for their reckless and licentious expression. He was addressed by his companions as Sir Paul Parravicin. The person opposite to him, whose name was Disbrowe, and who was likewise a very handsome young man, though his features were flushed and disturbed, partly by the wine he had drunk, and partly by his losses at play, was equipped in the splendid accoutrements of a captain in the king's body-guard. His left hand convulsively clutched an empty purse, and his eyes were fixed upon a large sum of money, which he had just handed over to the knight, and which the latter was carelessly transferring to his pocket. The last of the three, whose looks betrayed his character--that of a sharper and a bully--called himself Major Pillichody, his pretensions to military rank being grounded upon his service (so ran his own statement, though it was never clearly substantiated) in the king's army during the civil wars. Major Pillichody was a man of remarkably fierce exterior. Seamed with many scars, and destitute of the left eye, the orifice of which was covered, with a huge black patch; his face was of a deep mulberry colour, clearly attesting his devotion to the bottle; while his nose, which was none of the smallest, was covered with "bubukles, and whelks, and knobs, and flames of fire." He was of the middle size, stoutly built, and given to corpulency, though not so much so as to impair his activity. His attire consisted of a cloak and doublet of scarlet cloth, very much stained and tarnished, and edged with gold lace, likewise the worse for wear; jack-boots, with huge funnel tops; spurs, with enormous rowels, and a rapier of preposterous length. He wore his own hair, which was swart and woolly, like that of a negro; and had beard and moustaches to match. His hat was fiercely cocked; his gestures swaggering and insolent; and he was perpetually racking his brain to invent new and extra-ordinary oaths. "So soon returned!" cried Parravicin, as Wyvil appeared. "Accept my congratulations?" "And mine!" cried Pillichody. "We wild fellows have but to be seen to conquer. Sugar and spice, and all that's nice!" he added, smacking his lips, as he filled a glass from a long-necked bottle on the table; "May the grocer's daughter prove sweeter than her father's plums, and more melting than his butter! Is she without? Are we to see her?" Wyvil made no answer, but, walking to the other end of the room, threw himself into a chair, and, covering his face with his hands, appeared wrapped in thought. Lydyard took a seat beside him, and endeavoured to engage him in conversation; but, finding his efforts fruitless, he desisted. "Something is wrong," observed Parravicin, to the major. "He has been foiled in his attempt to carry off the girl. Sedley has won his wager, and it is a heavy sum. Shall we resume our play?" he added, to Disbrowe. "I have nothing more to lose," observed the young man, filling a large goblet to the brim, and emptying it at a draught. "You are master of every farthing I possess." "Hum!" exclaimed Parravicin, taking up a pack of cards, and snapping them between his finger and thumb. "You are married, Captain Disbrowe?" "What if I am?" cried the young man, becoming suddenly pale; "what if I am?" he repeated. "I am told your wife is beautiful," replied Parravicin. "Beautiful!" ejaculated Pillichody; "by the well-filled coffers of the widow of Watling-street! she is an angel. Beautiful is not the word: Mrs. Disbrowe is divine!" "You have never seen her," said the young man, sternly. "Ha!--fire and fury! my word doubted," cried the major, fiercely. "I have seen her at the play-houses, at the Mulberry-garden, at court, and at church. Not seen her! By the one eye of a Cyclops, but I have! You shall hear my description of her, and judge of its correctness. _Imprimis_, she has a tall and majestic figure, and might be a queen for her dignity." "Go on," said Disbrowe, by no means displeased with the commencement. "Secondly," pursued Pillichody, "she has a clear olive complexion, bright black eyes, hair and brows to match, a small foot, a pretty turn-up nose, a dimpling cheek, a mole upon her throat, the rosiest lips imaginable, an alluring look--" "No more," interrupted Disbrowe. "It is plain you have never seen her." "Unbelieving pagan!" exclaimed the major, clapping his hand furiously upon his sword. "I have done more--I have spoken with her." "A lie!" replied Disbrowe, hurling a dice-box at his head. "Ha!" roared Pillichody, in a voice of thunder, and pushing back his chair till it was stopped by the wall. "Death and fiends! I will make mincemeat of your heart, and send it as a love-offering to your wife." And, whipping out his long rapier, he would have assaulted Disbrowe, if Sir Paul had not interposed, and commanded him authoritatively to put up his blade. "You shall have your revenge in a safer way," he whispered. "Well, Sir Paul," rejoined the bully, with affected reluctance, "as you desire it, I will spare the young man's life. I must wash away the insult in burgundy, since I cannot do so in blood." With this, he emptied the flask next him, and called to a drawer, who was in attendance, in an imperious tone, to bring two more bottles. Parravicin, meanwhile, picked up the dice-box, and, seating himself, spread a large heap of gold on the table. "I mentioned your wife, Captain Disbrowe," he said, addressing the young officer, who anxiously watched his movements, "not with any intention of giving you offence, but to show you that, although you have lost your money, you have still a valuable stake left." "I do not understand you, Sir Paul," returned Disbrowe, with a look of indignant surprise. "To be plain, then," replied Parravicin, "I have won from you two hundred pounds--all you possess. You are a ruined man, and, as such, will run any hazard to retrieve your losses. I give you a last chance. I will stake all my winnings, nay, double the amount, against your wife. You have a key of the house you inhabit, by which you admit yourself at all hours; so at least the major informs me. If I win, that key shall be mine. I will take my chance for the rest. Do you understand me now?" "I do," replied the young man, with concentrated fury. "I understand that you are a villain. You have robbed me of my money, and would rob me of my honour." "These are harsh words, sir," replied the knight, calmly; "but let them pass. We will play first, and fight afterwards. But you refuse my challenge?" "It is false!" replied Disbrowe, fiercely, "I accept it." And producing a key, he threw it on the table. "My life is, in truth, set on the die," he added, with a desperate look--"for if I lose, I will not survive my shame." "You will not forget our terms," observed Parravicin. "I am to be your representative to-night. You can return home to-morrow." "Throw, sir--throw," cried the young man, fiercely. "Pardon, me," replied the knight; "the first cast is with you. A single main decides it." "Be it so," returned Disbrowe, seizing the box. And as he shook the dice with a frenzied air, the major and Lydyard drew near the table, and even Wyvil roused himself to watch the result. "Twelve!" cried Disbrowe, as he removed the box. "My honour is saved! My fortune retrieved--Huzza!" "Not so fast," returned Parravicin, shaking the box in his turn. "You were a little too hasty," he added, uncovering the dice. "I am twelve, too. We must throw again." "This to decide," cried the young officer, again rattling the dice. "Six!" Parravicin smiled, took the box, and threw ten. "Perdition!" ejaculated Disbrowe, striking his brow with his clenched hand. "What devil tempted me to my undoing?--My wife trusted to this profligate! Horror!--it must not be!" "It is too late to retract," replied Parravicin, taking up the key, and turning with a triumphant look to his friends. Disbrowe noticed the smile, and stung beyond endurance, drew his sword, and called to the knight to defend himself. In an instant, passes were exchanged. But the conflict was brief. Fortune, as before, declared herself in favour of Parravicin. He disarmed his assailant, who rushed out of the room, uttering the wildest ejaculations of rage and despair. "I told you you should have your revenge," observed the knight to Pillichody, as soon as Disbrowe was gone. "Is his wife really as beautiful as you represent her?" "Words are too feeble to paint her charms," replied the major. "Shafts of Cupid! she must be seen to be appreciated." "Enough!" returned Parravicin. "I have not made a bad night's work of it, so far. I'faith, Wyvil, I pity you. To lose a heavy wager is provoking enough--but to lose a pretty mistress is the devil." "I have lost neither yet," replied Wyvil, who had completely recovered his spirits, and joined in the general merriment occasioned by the foregoing occurrence. "I have been baffled, not defeated. What say you to an exchange of mistresses? I am so diverted with your adventure, that I am half inclined to give you the grocer's daughter for Disbrowe's wife. She is a superb creature--languid as a Circassian, and passionate as an Andalusian." "I can't agree to the exchange, especially after your rapturous description," returned Parravicin, "but I'll stake Mrs. Disbrowe against Amabel. The winner shall have both. A single cast shall decide, as before." "No," replied Wyvil, "I could not resign Amabel, if I lost. And the luck is all on your side to-night." "As you please," rejoined the knight, sweeping the glittering pile into his pocket. "Drawer, another bottle of burgundy. A health to our mistresses!" he added, quaffing a brimmer. "A health to the grocer's daughter!" cried Wyvil, with difficulty repressing a shudder, as he uttered the pledge. "A health to the rich widow of Watling-street," cried Pillichody, draining a bumper, "and may I soon call her mine!" "I have no mistress to toast," said Lydyard; "and I have drunk wine enough. Do not forget, gentlemen, that the plague is abroad." "You are the death's-head at the feast, Lydyard," rejoined Parravicin, setting down his glass. "I hate the idea of the plague. It poisons all our pleasures. We must meet at noon to-morrow, at the Smyrna, to compare notes as to our successes. Before we separate, can I be of any further service to you, Wyvil? I came here to enjoy _your_ triumph; but, egad, I have found so admirable a bubble in that hot-headed Disbrowe, whom I met at the Smyrna, and brought here to while away the time, that I must demand your congratulations upon _mine_." "You have certainly achieved an easy victory over the husband," returned Wyvil; "and I trust your success with the wife will be commensurate. I require no further assistance. What I have to do must be done alone. Lydyard will accompany me to the house, and then I must shift for myself." "Nay, we will all see you safe inside," returned Parravicin, "We shall pass by the grocer's shop. I know it well, having passed it a hundred times, in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of its lovely inmate." "I am glad it _was_ a vain hope," replied Wyvil. "But I must scale a wall to surprise the garrison." "In that case you will need the rope-ladder," replied Lydyard; "it is in readiness." "I will carry it," said Pillichody, picking up the ladder which was lying in a corner of the room, and throwing it over his shoulders. "Bombs and batteries! I like to be an escalader when the forts of love are stormed." The party then set out. As they proceeded, Parravicin ascertained from the major that Disbrowe's house was situated in a small street leading out of Piccadilly, but as he could not be quite sure that he understood his informant aright, he engaged him to accompany him and point it out. By this time they had reached Wood-street, and keeping in the shade, reconnoitred the house. But though Wyvil clapped his hands, blew a shrill whistle, and made other signals, no answer was returned, nor was a light seen at any of the upper windows. On the contrary, all was still and silent as death. The grocer's was a large, old-fashioned house, built about the middle of the preceding century, or perhaps earlier, and had four stories, each projecting over the other, till the pile seemed completely to overhang the street. The entire front, except the upper story, which was protected by oaken planks, was covered with panels of the same timber, and the projections were supported by heavy beams, embellished with grotesque carvings. Three deeply-embayed windows, having stout wooden bars, filled with minute diamond panes, set in leaden frames, were allotted to each floor; while the like number of gables, ornamented with curiously-carved coignes, and long-moulded leaden spouts, shooting far into the street, finished the roof. A huge sign, with the device of Noah's Ark, and the owner's name upon it, hung before the door. After carefully examining the house, peeping through the chinks in the lower shutters, and discovering the grocer seated by the bedside of his son, though he could not make out the object of his solicitude, Wyvil decided upon attempting an entrance by the backyard. To reach it, a court and a narrow alley, leading to an open space surrounded by high walls, had to be traversed. Arrived at this spot, Wyvil threw one end of the rope ladder over the wall, which was about twelve feet high, and speedily succeeding in securing it, mounted, and drawing it up after him, waved his hand to his companions, and disappeared on the other side. After waiting for a moment to listen, and hearing a window open, they concluded he had gained admittance, and turned to depart. "And now for Mrs. Disbrowe!" cried Parravicin. "We shall find a coach or a chair in Cheapside. Can I take you westward, Lydyard?" But the other declined the offer, saying, "I will not desert Wyvil. I feel certain he will get into some scrape, and may need me to help him out of it. Take care of yourself, Parravicin. Beware of the plague, and of what is worse than the plague, an injured husband. Good-night, major." "Farewell, sir," returned Pillichody, raising his hat. "A merry watching, and a good catching, as the sentinels were wont to say, when I served King Charles the First. Sir Paul, I attend you." IV. THE INTERVIEW. Maurice Wyvil, as his friends conjectured, had found his way into the house. Creeping through the window, and entering a passage, he moved noiselessly along till he reached the head of the kitchen stairs, where, hearing voices below, and listening to what was said, he soon ascertained from the discourse of the speakers, who were no other than old Josyna and Patience, that it was not the grocer's daughter, but one of his sons, who was attacked by the plague, and that Amabel was in perfect health, though confined in her mother's bedroom. Overjoyed at the information he had thus acquired, he retired as noiselessly as he came, and after searching about for a short time, discovered the main staircase, and ascended it on the points of his feet. He had scarcely, however, mounted a dozen steps, when a door opened, and Blaize crawled along the passage, groaning to himself, and keeping his eyes bent on the ground. Seeing he was unnoticed, Wyvil gained the landing, and treading softly, placed his ear at every door, until at last the musical accents of Amabel convinced him he had hit upon the right one. His heart beat so violently that, for a few seconds, he was unable to move. Becoming calmer, he tried the door, and finding it locked, rapped with his knuckles against it. The grocer's wife demanded who was there. But Wyvil, instead of returning an answer, repeated his application. The same demand followed, and in a louder key. Still no answer. A third summons, however, so alarmed Mrs. Bloundel, that, forgetful of her husband's injunctions, she opened the door and looked out; but, as Wyvil had hastily retired into a recess, she could see no one. Greatly frightened and perplexed, Mrs. Bloundel rushed to the head of the stairs, to see whether there was any one below; and as she did so, Wyvil slipped into the room, and locked the door. The only object he beheld--for he had eyes for nothing else--was Amabel, who, seeing him, uttered a faint scream. Clasping her in his arms, Wyvil forgot, in the delirium of the moment, the jeopardy in which he was placed. "Do you know what has happened?" cried Amabel, extricating herself from his embrace. "I know all," replied her lover; "I would risk a thousand deaths for your sake. You must fly with me." "Fly!" exclaimed Amabel; "at such a time as this?--my brother dying--the whole house, perhaps, infected! How can you ask me to fly? Why have you come hither? You will destroy me." "Not so, sweet Amabel," replied Wyvil, ardently. "I would bear you from the reach of this horrible disease. I am come to save you, and will not stir without you." "What shall I do?" cried Amabel, distractedly. "But I am rightly punished for my disobedience and ingratitude to my dear father. Oh! Wyvil, I did not deserve this from you." "Hear me, Amabel," cried her lover; "I implore your forgiveness. What I have done has been from irresistible passion, and from no other cause. You promised to meet me to-night. Nay, you half consented to fly with me. I have prepared all for it. I came hither burning with impatience for the meeting. I received no signal, but encountering your father's apprentice, was informed that you were attacked by the plague. Imagine my horror and distress at the intelligence. I thought it would have killed me. I determined, however, at all risks, to see you once more--to clasp you in my arms before you died--to die with you, if need be. I accomplished my purpose. I entered the house unobserved. I overheard the servants say it was your brother who was ill, not you. I also learnt that you were in your mother's room. I found the door, and by a fortunate device, obtained admittance. Now you know all, and will you not fly with me?" "How _can_ I fly?" cried Amabel, gazing wildly round the room, as if in search of some place of refuge or escape, and, noticing her little sister, Christiana, who was lying asleep in the bed--"Oh! how I envy that innocent!" she murmured. "Think of nothing but yourself," rejoined Wyvil, seizing her hand. "If you stay here, it will be to perish of the plague. Trust to me, and I will secure your flight." "I cannot--I dare not," cried Amabel, resisting him with all her force. "You _must_ come," cried Wyvil, dragging her along. As he spoke, Mrs. Bloundel, who had been down to Blaize's room to ascertain what was the matter, returned. Trying the door, and finding it fastened, she became greatly alarmed, and called to Amabel to open it directly. "It is my mother," cried Amabel. "Pity me, Heaven! I shall die with shame." "Heed her not," replied Wyvil, in a deep whisper; "in her surprise and confusion at seeing me, she will not be able to stop us. Do not hesitate. There is not a moment to lose." "What is the matter, child?" cried Mrs. Bloundel. "Why have you fastened the door? Is there any one in the room with you?" "She hears us," whispered Amabel. "What shall I do? You must not be seen?" "There is no use in further concealment," cried Wyvil. "You are mine, and twenty mothers should not bar the way." "Hold!" cried Amabel, disengaging herself by a sudden effort. "I have gone too far--but not so far as you imagine. I am not utterly lost." And before she could be prevented, she rushed to the door, threw it open, and flung herself into her mother's arms, who uttered an exclamation of terror at beholding Wyvil. The latter, though filled with rage and confusion, preserved an unmoved exterior, and folded his arms upon his breast. "And so it was you who knocked at the door!" cried Mrs. Bloundel, regarding the gallant with a look of fury--"it was you who contrived to delude me into opening it! I do not ask why you have come hither like a thief in the night, because I require no information on the subject. You are come to dishonour my child--to carry her away from those who love her and cherish her, and would preserve her from such mischievous serpents as you. But, Heaven be praised! I have caught you before your wicked design could Be effected. Oh! Amabel, my child, my child!" she added, straining her to her bosom, "I had rather--far rather--see you stricken with the plague, like your poor brother, though I felt there was not a hope of your recovery, than you should fall into the hands of this Satan!" "I have been greatly to blame, dear mother," returned Amabel, bursting into tears; "and I shall neither seek to exculpate myself, nor conceal what I have done. I have deceived you and my father. I have secretly encouraged the addresses of this gentleman. Nay, if the plague had not broken out in our house to-night, I should have flown from it with him." "You shock me, greatly, child," returned Mrs. Bloundel; "but you relieve me at the same time. Make a clean breast, and hide nothing from me." "I have nothing more to tell, dear mother," replied Amabel, "except that Maurice Wyvil has been in the room ever since you left it, and might, perhaps, have carried me off in spite of my resistance, if you had not returned when you did." "It was, indeed, a providential interference," rejoined Mrs. Bloundel. "From what a snare of the evil one--from what a pitfall have you been preserved!" "I feel I have had a narrow escape, dear mother," replied Amabel. "Pardon me. I do not deserve your forgiveness. But I will never offend you more." "I forgive you from my heart, child, and will trust you," returned Mrs. Bloundel, in a voice broken by emotion. "That is more than I would," thought Maurice Wyvil. "A woman who has once deceived those she holds dear, will not fail to do so a second time. The fairest promises are forgotten when the danger is past." "Mr. Wyvil, if you have a particle of regard for me, you will instantly leave the house," said Amabel, turning to him. "If had my own way, he should leave it through the window," said Mrs. Bloundel; "and if he tarries a minute longer, I will give the alarm." "You hear this, sir," cried Amabel:--"go, I entreat you." "I yield to circumstance, Amabel," replied Wyvil; "but think not I resign you. Come what will, and however I may be foiled, I will not desist till I make you mine." "I tremble to hear him," cried Mrs. Bloundel, "and could not have believed such depravity existed. Quit the house, sir, directly, or I will have you turned out of it." "Do not remain another moment," implored Amabel. "Do not, do not!" "Since I have no other way of proving my love, I must perforce obey," returned Wyvil, trying to snatch her hand and press it to his lips; but she withdrew it, and clung more closely to her mother. "We part," he added, significantly, "only for a time." Quitting the room, he was about to descend the stairs, when Mrs. Bloundel, who had followed to see him safely off the premises, hearing a noise below, occasioned by the return of Leonard with the doctor, cautioned him to wait. A further delay was caused by Blaize, who, stationing himself at the foot of the stairs, with a light in his hand, appeared unwilling to move. Apprehensive of a discovery, Mrs. Bloundel then directed the gallant to the back staircase, and he had got about halfway down, when he was surprised by Leonard Holt, as before related. At the very moment that Wyvil was overtaken on the landing by the apprentice, Amabel appeared at the door of her chamber with a light. The different emotions of each party at this unexpected rencontre may be imagined. Leonard Holt, with a breast boiling with jealous rage, prepared to attack his rival. He had no weapon about him, having left his cudgel in the shop, but he doubled his fists, and, nerved by passion, felt he had the force of a Hercules in his arm. Wyvil, in his turn, kept his hand upon his sword, and glanced at his mistress, as if seeking instructions how to act. At length, Mrs. Bloundel, who formed one of the group, spoke. "Leonard Holt," she said, "show this person out at the door. Do not lose sight of him for an instant; and, as soon as he is gone, try to find out how he entered the house." "He entered it like a robber," returned Leonard, looking fiercely at the gallant, "and if I did my strict duty, I should seize him and give him in charge to the watch. He has come here for the purpose of stealing my master's chief valuable--his daughter." "I am aware of it," replied Mrs. Bloundel, "and nothing but consideration for my husband prevents my delivering him up to justice. As it is, he may go free. But should he return--" "If I catch him here again," interrupted Leonard, "I will shoot him as I would a dog, though I should be hanged for the deed. Have you considered well what you are doing, madam? I would not presume beyond my station, but there are seasons when an inferior may give wholesome advice. Are you certain you are acting as your worthy husband would, in allowing this person to depart? If you have any doubt, speak. Fear nothing. Unarmed as I am, I am a match for him, and will detain him." "Do not heed what Leonard says, dear mother," interposed Amabel. "For my sake, let Mr. Wyvil go." "I _have_ considered the matter, Leonard," returned Mrs. Bloundel, "and trust I am acting rightly. At all events, I am sure I am sparing my husband pain." "It is mistaken tenderness," rejoined Leonard, "and Heaven grant you may not have cause to repent it. If I had your permission, I would so deal with this audacious intruder, that he should never venture to repeat his visit." "You know that you speak safely, fellow," rejoined Wyvil, "and you, therefore, give full license to your scurrile tongue. But a time will come when I will chastise your insolence." "No more of this," cried Mrs. Bloundel. "Do as I bid you, Leonard; and, as you value my regard, say nothing of what has occurred to your master." Sullenly acquiescing, the apprentice preceded Wyvil to the shop, and opened the door. As the other passed through it, he said, "You spoke of chastising me just now. If you have courage enough--which I doubt--to make good your words, and will wait for me for five minutes, near Saint Alban's Church in this street, you shall have the opportunity." Wyvil did not deign a reply, but wrapping his cloak around him, strode away. He had not proceeded far, when it occurred to him that, possibly, notwithstanding his interdiction, some of his companions might be waiting for him, and hurrying down the passage leading to the yard, he found Lydyard, to whom he recounted his ill-success. "I shall not, however, abandon my design," he said. "These failures are only incentives to further exertion." "In the meantime, you must pay your wager to Sedley," laughed Lydyard, "and as the house is really infected with the plague, it behoves you to call at the first apothecary's shop we find open, and get your apparel fumigated. You must not neglect due precautions." "True," replied Wyvil, "and as I feel too restless to go home at present, suppose we amuse ourselves by calling on some astrologer, to see whether the stars are favourable to my pursuit of this girl." "A good idea," replied Lydyard. "There are plenty of the 'Sons of Urania,' as they term themselves, hereabouts. "A mere juggler will not serve my turn," returned Wyvil. "William Lilly, the almanack-maker, who predicted the plague, and, if old Rowley is to be believed, has great skill in the occult sciences, lives somewhere in Friday-street, not a stone's throw from this place. Let us go and find him out." "Agreed," replied Lydyard. V. THE POMANDER-BOX. Any doubts entertained by Leonard Holt as to the manner in which his rival entered the house, were removed by discovering the open window in the passage and the rope-ladder hanging to the yard-wall. Taking the ladder away, and making all as secure as he could, he next seized his cudgel, and proceeded to Blaize's room, with the intention of inflicting upon him the punishment he had threatened: for he naturally enough attributed to the porter's carelessness all the mischief that had just occurred. Not meeting with him, however, and concluding he was in the kitchen, he descended thither, and found him in such a pitiable plight, that his wrath was instantly changed to compassion. Stretched upon the hearth before a blazing sea-coal fire, which seemed large enough to roast him, with his head resting upon the lap of Patience, the pretty kitchen-maid, and his left hand upon his heart, the porter loudly complained of a fixed and burning pain in that region; while his mother, who was kneeling beside him, having just poured a basin of scalding posset-drink down his throat, entreated him to let her examine his side to see whether he had any pestilential mark upon it, but he vehemently resisted her efforts. "Do you feel any swelling, myn lief zoon?" asked old Josyna, trying to remove his hand. "Swelling!" ejaculated Blaize,--"there's a tumour as big as an egg." "Is id possible?" exclaimed Josyna, in great alarm. "Do let me look ad id." "No, no, leave me alone," rejoined Blaize. "Don't disturb me further. You will catch the distemper if you touch the sore." "Dat wond hinder me from drying to zaave you," replied his mother, affectionately. "I must see vad is de madder vid you, or I cannod cure you." "I am past your doctoring, mother," groaned Blaize. "Leave me alone, I say. You hurt me shockingly!" "Poor child!" cried Josyna, soothingly, "I'll be as dender as possible. I'll nod give you de leasd pain--nod de leasd bid." "But I tell you, you _do_ give me a great deal," rejoined Blaize. "I can't bear it. Your fingers are like iron nails. Keep them away." "Bless us! did I ever hear de like of dad!" exclaimed Josyna. "Iron nails! if you think so, myn arm zoon, you musd be very ill indeed." "I _am_ very ill," groaned her son. "I am not long for this world." "Oh! don't say so, dear Blaize," sobbed Patience, letting fall a plentiful shower of tears on his face. "Don't say so. I can't bear to part with you." "Then don't survive me," returned Blaize. "But there's little chance of your doing so. You are certain to take the plague." "I care not what becomes of myself, if I lose you, Blaize," responded Patience, bedewing his countenance with another shower; "but I hope you won't die yet." "Ah! it's all over with me--all over," rejoined Blaize. "I told Leonard Holt how it would be. I said I should be the next victim. And my words are come true." "You are as clever as a conjurer," sobbed Patience; "but I wish you hadn't been right in this instance. However, comfort yourself. I'll die with you. We'll be carried to the grave in the same plague-cart." "That's cold comfort," returned Blaize, angrily. "I beg you'll never mention the plague-cart again. The thought of it makes me shiver all over--oh!" And he uttered a dismal and prolonged groan. At this juncture, Leonard thought it time to interfere. "If you are really attacked by the plague, Blaize," he said, advancing, "you must have instant advice. Doctor Hodges is still upstairs with our master. He must see you." "On no account," returned the porter, in the greatest alarm, and springing to his feet. "I am better--much better. I don't think I am ill at all." "For the first time, I suspect the contrary," replied the apprentice, "since you are afraid of owning it. But this is not a matter to be trifled with. Doctor Hodges will soon settle the point." And he hurried out of the room to summon the physician. "Oh! mother!--dear Patience!" roared Blaize, capering about in an ecstasy of terror; "don't let the doctor come near me. Keep me out of his sight. You don't know what horrid things are done to those afflicted with my complaint. But I do,--for I have informed myself on the subject. Their skins are scarified, and their sores blistered, lanced, cauterized, and sometimes burned away with a knob of red-hot iron, called 'the button.'" "But iv id is necessary, myn goed Blaize, you musd submid," replied his mother. "Never mind de hod iron or de lance, or de blisder, iv dey make you well. Never mind de pain. It will soon be over." "Soon over!" bellowed Blaize, sinking into a chair. "Yes, I feel it will. But not in the way you imagine. This Doctor Hodges will kill me. He is fond of trying experiments, and will make me his subject. Don't let him--for pity's sake, don't." "But I musd, myn lief jonger," replied his mother, "I musd." "Oh, Patience!" supplicated Blaize, "you were always fond of me. My mother has lost her natural affection. She wishes to get rid of me. Don't take part with her. My sole dependence is upon you." "I will do all I can for you, dear Blaize," blubbered the kitchen-maid. "But it is absolutely necessary you should see the doctor." "Then I won't stay here another minute," vociferated Blaize. "I'll die in the street rather than under his hands." And bursting from them, he would have made good his retreat, but for the entrance of Leonard and Hodges. At the sight of the latter, Blaize ran back and endeavoured to screen himself behind Patience. "Is this the sick man?" remarked Hodges, scarcely able to refrain from laughing. "I don't think he can be in such imminent danger as you led me to suppose." "No, I am better--much better, thank you," returned Blaize, still keeping Patience between him and the doctor. "The very sight of you has frightened away the plague." "Indeed!" exclaimed Hodges, smiling, "then it is the most marvellous cure I ever yet effected. But, come forward, young man, and let us see what is the matter with you." "You neither lance nor cauterize an incipient tumour, do you, doctor?" demanded Blaize, without abandoning his position. "Eh, day!" exclaimed Hodges, "have we one of the faculty here? I see how it is, friend. You have been reading some silly book about the disease, and have frightened yourself into the belief that you have some of its symptoms. I hope you haven't been doctoring yourself, likewise. What have you taken?" "It would be difficult to say what he has _not_ taken," remarked Leonard. "His stomach must be like an apothecary's shop." "I have only used proper precautions," rejoined Blaize, testily. "And what may those be--eh?" inquired the doctor. "I am curious to learn." "Come from behind Patience," cried Leonard, "and don't act the fool longer, or I will see whether your disorder will not yield to a sound application of the cudgel." "Don't rate him thus, good Master Leonard," interposed Patience. "He is very ill--he is, indeed." "Then let him have a chance of getting better," returned the apprentice. "If he _is_ ill, he has no business near you. Come from behind her, Blaize, I say. Now speak," he added, as the porter crept tremblingly forth, "and let us hear what nostrums you have swallowed. I know you have dosed yourself with pills, electuaries, balsams, tinctures, conserves, spirits, elixirs, decoctions, and every other remedy, real or imaginary. What else have you done?" "What Dr. Hodges, I am sure, will approve," replied Blaize, confidently. "I have rubbed myself with vinegar, oil of sulphur, extract of tar, and spirit of turpentine." "What next?" demanded Hodges. "I placed saltpetre, brimstone, amber, and juniper upon a chafing-dish to fumigate my room," replied Blaize; "but the vapour was so overpowering, I could not bear it." "I should be surprised if you could," replied the doctor. "Indeed, it is astonishing to me, if you have taken half the remedies Leonard says you have, and which, taken in this way, are no remedies at all, since they counteract each other--that you are still alive. But let us see what is the matter with you. What ails you particularly?" "Nothing," replied Blaize, trembling; "I am quite well." "He complains of a fixed pain near de haard, docdor," interposed his mother, "and says he has a large dumour on his side. But he wond let me examine id." "That's a bad sign," observed Hodges, shaking his head. "I am afraid it's not all fancy, as I at first supposed. Have you felt sick of late, young man?" "Not of late," replied Blaize, becoming as white as ashes; "but I do now." "Another bad symptom," rejoined the doctor. "Take off your doublet and open your shirt." "Do as the doctor bids you," said Leonard, seeing that Blaize hesitated, "or I apply the cudgel." "Ah! bless my life! what's this?" cried Hodges, running his hand down the left side of the porter, and meeting with a large lump. "Can it be a carbuncle?" "Yes, it's a terrible carbuncle," replied Blaize; "but don't cauterize it, doctor." "Let me look at it," cried Hodges, "and I shall then know how to proceed." And as he spoke, he tore open the porter's shirt, and a silver ball, about as large as a pigeon's egg, fell to the ground. Leonard picked it up, and found it so hot that he could scarcely hold it. "Here is the terrible carbuncle," he cried, with a laugh, in which all the party, except Blaize, joined. "It's my pomander-box," said the latter. "I filled it with a mixture of citron-peel, angelica seed, zedoary, yellow saunders, aloes, benzoin, camphor, and gum-tragacanth, moistened with spirit of roses; and after placing it on the chafing-dish to heat it, hung it by a string round my neck, next my dried toad. I suppose, by some means or other, it dropped through my doublet, and found its way to my side. I felt a dreadful burning there, and that made me fancy I was attacked by the plague." "A very satisfactory solution of the mystery," replied the doctor, laughing; "and you may think yourself well off with the blister which your box has raised. It will be easier to bear than the cataplasm I should have given you, had your apprehensions been well founded. As yet, you are free from infection, young man; but if you persist in this silly and pernicious practice of quacking yourself, you will infallibly bring on some fatal disorder--perhaps the plague itself. If your mother has any regard for you she will put all your medicines out of your reach. There are few known remedies against this frightful disease; and what few there are, must be adopted cautiously. My own specific is sack." "Sack!" exclaimed Blaize, in astonishment. "Henceforth, I will drink nothing else. I like the remedy amazingly." "It must be taken in moderation," said the doctor: "otherwise it is as dangerous as too much physic." "I have a boddle or doo of de liquor you commend, docdor, in my private cupboard," observed Josyna. "Will you dasde id?" "With great pleasure," replied Hodges, "and a drop of it will do your son no harm." The wine was accordingly produced, and the doctor pronounced it excellent, desiring that a glass might always be brought him when he visited the grocer's house. "You may rely upon id, mynheer, as long as my small sdore lasds," replied Josyna. Blaize, who, in obedience to the doctor's commands, had drained a large glass of sack, felt so much inspirited by it, that he ventured, when his mother's back was turned, to steal a kiss from Patience, and to whisper in her ear, that if he escaped the plague, he would certainly marry her--an assurance that seemed to give her no slight satisfaction. His new-born courage, however, was in some degree damped by Leonard, who observed to him in an undertone: "You have neglected my injunctions, sirrah, and allowed the person I warned you of to enter the house. When a fitting season arrives, I will not fail to pay off old scores." Blaize would have remonstrated, and asked for some explanation, but the apprentice instantly left him, and set out upon his errand to the Examiner of Health. Accompanied by his mother, who would not even allow him to say good-night to Patience, the porter then proceeded to his own room, where the old woman, to his infinite regret, carried off his stores of medicine in a basket, which she brought with her for that purpose, and locked the door upon him. "This has escaped her," said Blaize, as soon as she was gone, opening a secret drawer in the cupboard. "How fortunate that I kept this reserve. I have still a tolerable supply in case of need. Let me examine my stock. First of all, there are plague-lozenges, composed of angelica, liquorice, flower of sulphur, myrrh, and oil of cinnamon. Secondly, an electuary of bole-armoniac, hartshorn-shavings, saffron, and syrup of wood-sorrel. I long to taste it. But then it would be running in the doctor's teeth. Thirdly, there is a phial labelled _Aqua Theriacalis Stillatitia_--in plain English, distilled treacle-water. A spoonful of this couldn't hurt me. Fourthly, a packet of powders, entitled _Manus Christi_--an excellent mixture. Fifthly, a small pot of diatesseron, composed of gentian, myrrh, bayberries, and round aristolochia. I must just taste it. Never mind the doctor! He does not know what agrees with my constitution as well as I do myself. Physic comes as naturally to me as mother's milk. Sixthly, there is _Aqua Epidemica_, commonly called the Plague-Water of Matthias--delicious stuff! I will only just sip it. What a fine bitter it has! I'm sure it must be very wholesome. Next, for I've lost my count, comes salt of vipers--next, powder of unicorn's horn--next, oil of scorpions from Naples--next, dragon-water--all admirable. Then there are cloves of garlics--sovereign fortifiers of the stomach--and, lastly, there is a large box of my favourite rufuses. How many pills have I taken? Only half a dozen! Three more may as well go to keep the others company." And hastily swallowing them, as if afraid of detection, he carefully shut the drawer, and then crept into bed, and, covering himself with blankets, endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. Doctor Hodges, meantime, returned to the grocer, and acquainted him that it was a false alarm, and that the porter was entirely free from infection. "I am glad to hear it," replied Bloundel; "but I expected as much. Blaize is like the shepherd's boy in the fable: he has cried 'wolf' so often, that when the danger really arrives, no one will heed him." "I must now take my leave, Mr. Bloundel," said Hodges. "I will be with you the first thing to-morrow, and have little doubt I shall find your son going on well. But you must not merely take care of him, but of yourself, and your household. It will be well to set a chafing-dish in the middle of the room, and scatter some of these perfumes occasionally upon it!" and producing several small packets, he gave them to the grocer. "If you ever smoke a pipe, I would advise you to do so now." "I never smoke," replied Bloundel, "and hold it as a filthy and mischievous habit, which nothing but necessity should induce me to practise." "It is advisable now," returned Hodges, "and you should neglect no precaution. Take my word for it, Mr. Bloundel, the plague is only beginning. When the heats of summer arrive, its ravages will be frightful. Heaven only knows what will become of us all!" "If my poor son is spared, and we escape contagion," returned Bloundel, "I will put into execution a scheme which has occurred to me, and which (under Providence!) will, I trust, secure my family from further hazard." "Ah, indeed! what is that?" inquired Hodges. "We must talk of it some other time," returned Bloundel "Good-night, doctor, and accept my thanks for your attention. To-morrow, at as early an hour as you can make convenient, I shall hope to see you." And with a friendly shake of the hand, and a reiteration of advice and good wishes, Hodges departed. Soon after this the apprentice returned, and by his master's directions, placed a chafing-dish in the middle of the room, supplying it with the drugs and herbs left by the doctor. About four o'clock, a loud knocking was heard. Instantly answering the summons, Leonard found four men at the shop-door, two of whom he knew, by red wands they carried, were searchers; while their companions appeared to be undertakers, from their sable habits and long black cloaks. Marching unceremoniously into the shop, the searchers desired to see the sick man; and the apprentice then perceived that one of the men in black cloaks was the coffin-maker, Chowles. He could not, however, refuse him admittance, and led the way to the grocer's chamber. As they entered it, Bloundel arose, and placing his finger to his lips in token of silence, raised the blankets, and exhibited the blotch, which had greatly increased in size, under the arm of his slumbering son. The foremost of the searchers, who kept a phial of vinegar to his nose all the time he remained in the room, then demanded in a low tone whether there were any other of the household infected? The grocer replied in the negative. Upon this, Chowles, whose manner showed he was more than half intoxicated, took off his hat, and bowing obsequiously to the grocer, said, "Shall I prepare you a coffin, Mr. Bloundel?--you are sure to want one, and had better give the order in time, for there is a great demand for such articles just now. If you like, I will call with it tomorrow night. I have a plague-cart of my own, and bury all my customers." "God grant I may not require your services, sir!" replied the grocer, shuddering. "But I will give you timely notice." "If you are in want of a nurse, I can recommend an experienced one," added Chowles. "Her last employer is just dead." "I may need assistance," replied the grocer, after a moment's reflection. "Let her call to-morrow." "She understands her business perfectly, and will save you a world of trouble," replied Chowles; "besides securing me the sale of another coffin," he added to himself. He then quitted the room with the searchers, and Leonard felt inexpressibly relieved by their departure. As soon as the party gained the street, the fourth person, who was provided with materials for the task, painted a red cross of the prescribed size--namely, a foot in length--in the middle of the door; tracing above it, in large characters, the melancholy formula--"LORD, HAVE MERCY UPON US!" VI. THE LIBERTINE PUNISHED. Sir Paul Parravicin and Major Pillichody arrived without any particular adventure at the top of the Haymarket, where the former dismissed the coach he had hired in Cheapside, and they proceeded towards Piccadilly on foot. Up to this time the major had been in very high spirits, boasting what he would do, in case they encountered Disbrowe, and offering to keep guard outside the door while the knight remained in the house. But he now began to alter his tone, and to frame excuses to get away. He had noticed with some uneasiness, that another coach stopped lower down the Haymarket, at precisely the same time as their own; and though he could not be quite certain of the fact, he fancied he perceived a person greatly resembling Captain Disbrowe alight from it. Mentioning the circumstance to his companion, he pointed out a tall figure following them at some distance; but the other only laughed at him, and said, "It may possibly be Disbrowe--but what if it is? He cannot get into the house without the key; and if he is inclined to measure swords with me a second time, he shall not escape so lightly as he did the first." "Right, Sir Paul, right," returned Pillichody, "exterminate him--spare him not. By Bellerophon! that's my way. My only apprehension is lest he should set upon us unawares. The bravest are not proof against the dagger of an assassin." "There you wrong Disbrowe, major, I am persuaded," returned Parravicin. "He is too much a man of honour to stab a foe behind his back." "It may be," replied Pillichody, "but jealousy will sometimes turn a man's brain. By the snakes of Tisiphone! I have known an instance of it myself. I once made love to a tailor's wife, and the rascal coming in unawares, struck me to the ground with his goose, and well nigh murdered me." "After such a mischance, I am surprised you should venture to carry on so many hazardous intrigues," laughed the knight. "But you proposed just now to keep watch outside the house. If it is Disbrowe who is following us, you had better do so." "Why, Sir Paul--you see,"--stammered the major, "I have just bethought me of an engagement." "An engagement at this hour--impossible!" cried Parravicin. "An assignation, I ought to say," returned Pillichody. "Couches of Cytheraea!--an affair like your own. You would not have me keep a lady waiting." "It is strange you should not recollect it till this moment," replied Parravicin. "But be your inamorata whom she may--even the rich widow of Watling-street, of whom you prate so much--you must put her off to-night." "But, Sir Paul----" "I will have no denial," replied the knight, peremptorily. "If you refuse, you will find me worse to deal with than Disbrowe. You must remain at the door till I come out. And now let us lose no more time. I am impatient to behold the lady." "Into what a cursed scrape have I got myself!" thought the major, as he walked by the side of his companion, ever and anon casting wistful glances over his shoulder. "I am fairly caught on the horns of a dilemma. I instinctively feel that Disbrowe _is_ dogging us. What will become of me? The moment this harebrained coxcomb enters the house, I will see whether a light pair of heels cannot bear me out of harm's way." By this time, they had reached a passage known as Bear-alley (all traces of which have been swept away by modern improvements), and threading it, they entered a narrow thoroughfare, called Castle-street. Just as they turned the corner, Pillichody again noticed the figure at the further end of the alley, and, but for his fears of the knight, would have instantly scampered off. "Are we far from the house?" inquired Parravicin. "No," replied the major, scarcely able to conceal his trepidation. "It is close at hand--and so is the lady's husband." "So much the better," replied the knight; "it will afford you some amusement to beat him off. You may affect not to know him, and may tell him the lady's husband is just come home--her _husband_!--do you take, Pillichody?" "I do--ha! ha! I do," replied the major, in a quavering tone. "But you don't appear to relish the jest," rejoined Parravicin, sneeringly. "Oh, yes, I relish it exceedingly," replied Pillichody; "her husband--ha!--ha!--and Disbrowe is the disappointed lover--capital! But here we are--and I wish we were anywhere else," he added to himself. "Are you sure you are right?" asked Parravicin, searching for the key. "Quite sure," returned Pillichody. "Don't you see some one behind that wall?" "I see nothing," rejoined the knight. "You are afraid of shadows, major." "Afraid!" ejaculated Pillichody. "Thousand thunders! I am afraid of nothing." "In that case, I shall expect to find you have slain Disbrowe, on my return," rejoined Parravicin, unlocking the door. "The night is chilly," observed the major, "and ever since my campaigns in the Low Countries, I have been troubled with rheumatism. I should prefer keeping guard inside." "No, no, you must remain where you are," replied the knight, shutting the door. Pillichody was about to take to his heels, when he felt himself arrested by a powerful arm. He would have roared for aid, but a voice, which he instantly recognised, commanded him to keep silence, if he valued his life. "Is your companion in the house?" demanded Disbrowe, in a hollow tone. "I am sorry to say he is, Captain Disbrowe," replied the bully. "I did my best to prevent him, but remonstrance was in vain." "Liar," cried Disbrowe, striking him with his clenched hand. "Do you think to impose upon me by such a pitiful fabrication? It was you who introduced me to this heartless libertine--you who encouraged me to play with him, telling me I should easily strip him of all he possessed--you who excited his passion for my wife, by praising her beauty--and it was you who put it into his head to propose that fatal stake to me." "There you are wrong, Captain Disbrowe," returned Pillichody, in a supplicatory tone. "On my soul, you are! I certainly praised your wife (as who would not?), but I never advised Parravicin to play for her. That was his own idea entirely." "The excuse shall not avail you," cried Disbrowe, fiercely. "To you I owe all my misery. Draw and defend yourself." "Be not so hasty, captain," cried Pillichody, abjectedly. "I have injured you sufficiently already. I would not have your blood on my head. On the honour of a soldier, I am sorry for the wrong I have done you, and will strive to repair it." "Repair it!" shrieked Disbrowe. "It is too late." And seizing the major's arm, he dragged him by main force into the alley. "Help! help!" roared Pillichody. "Would you murder me?" "I will assuredly cut your throat, if you keep up this clamour," rejoined Disbrowe, snatching the other's long rapier from his side. "Coward!" he added, striking him with the flat side of the weapon, "this will teach you to mix yourself up in such infamous affairs for the future." And heedless of the major's entreaties and vociferations, he continued to belabour him, until compelled by fatigue to desist; when the other, contriving to extricate himself, ran off as fast as his legs could carry him. Disbrowe looked after him for a moment, as if uncertain whether to follow, and then hurrying to the house, stationed himself beneath the porch. "I will stab him as he comes forth," he muttered, drawing his sword, and hiding it beneath his mantle. Parravicin, meanwhile, having let himself into the house, marched boldly forward, though the passage was buried in darkness, and he was utterly unacquainted with it. Feeling against the wall, he presently discovered a door, and opening it, entered a room lighted by a small silver lamp placed on a marble slab. The room was empty, but its furniture and arrangements proclaimed it the favourite retreat of the fair mistress of the abode. Parravicin gazed curiously round, as if anxious to gather from what he saw some idea of the person he so soon expected to encounter. Everything betokened a refined and luxurious taste. A few French romances, the last plays of Etherege, Dryden, and Shadwell, a volume of Cowley, and some amorous songs, lay on the table; and not far from them were a loomask, pulvil purse, a pair of scented gloves, a richly-laced mouchoir, a manteau girdle, palatine tags, and a golden bodkin for the hair. Examining all these things, and drawing his own conclusions as to the character of their owner, Parravicin turned to a couch on which a cittern was thrown, while beside it, on a cushion, were a pair of tiny embroidered velvet slippers. A pocket-mirror, or sprunking-glass, as it was then termed, lay on a side-table, and near it stood an embossed silver chocolate-pot, and a small porcelain cup with a golden spoon inside it, showing what the lady's last repast had been. On another small table, covered with an exquisitely white napkin, stood a flask of wine, a tall-stemmed glass, and a few cakes on a China dish, evidently placed there for Disbrowe's return. As Parravicin drew near this table, a slip of paper, on which a few lines were traced, attracted his attention, and taking it up, he read as follows: "It is now midnight, and you promised to return early. I have felt your absence severely, and have been suffering from a violent headache, which has almost distracted me. I have also been troubled with strange and unaccountable misgivings respecting you. I am a little easier now, but still far from well, and about to retire to rest. At what hour will this meet your eye?" "MARGARET." "Charming creature!" exclaimed Parravicin, as the paper dropped from his hand; "she little dreamed, when she wrote it, who would read her billet. Disbrowe does not deserve such a treasure. I am sorry she is unwell. I hope she has not taken the plague. Pshaw, what could put such an idea into my head? Lydyard's warning, I suppose. That fellow, who is the veriest rake among us, is always preaching. Confound him! I wish he had not mentioned it. A glass of wine may exhilarate me." And pouring out a bumper, he swallowed it at a draught. "And so the fond fool is pining for her husband, and has some misgivings about him. Egad! it is well for her she does not know what has really taken place. She'll learn that soon enough. What's this?" he added, glancing at a picture on the wall. "Her miniature! It must be; for it answers exactly to Pillichody's description. A sparkling brunette, with raven hair, and eyes of night. I am on fire to behold her: but I must proceed with prudence, or I may ruin all. Is there nothing of Disbrowe's that I could put on for the nonce? 'Fore Heaven! the very thing I want!" The exclamation was occasioned by his observing a loose silken robe lying across a chair. Wrapping it round him, and throwing down his hat, he took the lamp and went up stairs. Daring as he was, Parravicin felt his courage desert him, as having found the door of Mrs. Disbrowe's chamber, he cautiously opened it. A single glance showed him that the room was more exquisitely, more luxuriously furnished than that he had just quitted. Articles of feminine attire, of the richest kind, were hung against the walls, or disposed on the chairs. On one side stood the toilette-table, with its small mirror then in vogue, and all its equipage of silver flasks, filligree cassets, japan patch-boxes, scent-bottles, and pomatum-pots. As he entered the room, a faint voice issuing from behind the rich damask curtains of the bed, demanded, "Is it you, Disbrowe?" "It is, Margaret," replied Parravicin, setting down the lamp, and speaking with a handkerchief at his mouth, to disguise his voice and conceal his features. "You are late--very late," she rejoined, "and I have been ill. I fancied myself dying." "What has been the matter with you sweet, Meg?" asked Parravicin, approaching the bed, and seating himself behind the curtains. "I know not," she replied. "I was seized with a dreadful headache about an hour ago. It has left me; but I have a strange oppression at my chest, and breathe with difficulty." "You alarm me, my love," rejoined Parravicin. "Were you ever attacked thus before?" "Never," she replied. "Oh! Disbrowe! if you knew how I have longed for your return, you would blame yourself for your absence. You have grown sadly neglectful of late. I suspect you love some one else. If I thought so------" "What if you thought so, Margaret?" demanded Parravicin. "What!" cried Mrs. Disbrowe, raising herself in the bed. "I would requite your perfidy--terribly requite it!" "Then learn that Captain Disbrowe _is_ faithless," cried Parravicin, throwing back the curtains, and disclosing himself. "Learn that he loves another, and is with her now. Learn that he cares so little for you, that he has surrendered you to me." "What do I hear?" exclaimed Mrs. Disbrowe. "Who are you, and what brings you here?" "You may guess my errand from my presence," replied the knight. "I am called Sir Paul Parravicin, and am the most devoted of your admirers." "My husband surrender me to a stranger! It cannot be!" cried the lady, distractedly. "You see me here, and may judge of the truth of my statement," rejoined the knight. "Your husband gave me this key, with which I introduced myself to the house." "What motive could he have for such unheard-of baseness--such barbarity?" cried Mrs. Disbrowe, bursting into tears. "Shall I tell you, madam?" replied Parravicin. "He is tired of you, and has taken this means of ridding himself of you." Mrs. Disbrowe uttered a loud scream, and fell back in the bed. Parravicin waited for a moment; but not hearing her move, brought the lamp to see what was the matter. She had fainted, and was lying across the pillow, with her night-dress partly open, so as to expose her neck and shoulders. The knight was at first ravished with her beauty; but his countenance suddenly fell, and an expression of horror and alarm took possession of it. He appeared rooted to the spot, and instead of attempting to render her any assistance, remained with his gaze fixed upon her neck. Rousing himself at length, he rushed out of the room, hurried down stairs, and without pausing for a moment, threw open the street-door. As he issued from it, his throat was forcibly griped, and the point of a sword was placed at his breast. "You are now in my power, villain," cried Disbrowe, "and shall not escape my vengeance." "You are already avenged," replied Parravicin, shaking off his assailant. "Your wife has the plague." VII. THE PLAGUE NURSE. "And so my husband has got the plague," muttered Mother Malmayns, as she hastened towards Saint Paul's, after the reproof she had received from Doctor Hodges. "Well, it's a disorder that few recover from, and I don't think he stands a better chance than his fellows. I've been troubled with him long enough. I've borne his ill-usage and savage temper for twenty years, vainly hoping something would take him off; but though he tried his constitution hard, it was too tough to yield. However, he's likely to go now. If I find him better than I expect, I can easily make all sure. That's one good thing about the plague. You may get rid of a patient without any one being the wiser. A wrong mixture--a pillow removed--a moment's chill during the fever--a glass of cold water--the slightest thing will do it. Matthew Malmayns, you will die of the plague, that's certain. But I must be careful how I proceed. That cursed doctor has his eye upon me. As luck would have it, I've got Sibbald's ointment in my pocket. That is sure to do its business--and safely." Thus ruminating, she shaped her course towards the southwest corner of the cathedral, and passing under the shrouds and cloisters of the Convocation House, raised the latch of a small wooden shed fixed in the angle of a buttress. Evidently well acquainted with the place, she was not long in finding a lantern and materials to light it, and inserting her fingers in a crevice of the masonry, from which the mortar had been removed, she drew forth a key. "It has not been stirred since I left it here a month ago," she muttered. "I must take care of this key, for if Matthew _should_ die, I may not be able to enter the vaults of Saint Faith's without it; and as I know all their secret places and passages, which nobody else does, except my husband, I can make them a storehouse for the plunder I may obtain during the pestilence. If it rages for a year, or only half that time, and increases in violence (as God grant it may), I will fill every hole in those walls with gold." With this, she took up the lantern, and crept along the side of the cathedral, until she came to a flight of stone steps. Descending them, she unlocked a small but strong door, cased with iron, and fastening it after her, proceeded along a narrow stone passage, which brought her to another door, opening upon the south aisle of Saint Faith's. Pausing for a moment to listen whether any one was within the sacred structure--for such was the dead and awful silence of the place, that the slightest whisper or footfall, even at its farthest extremity, could be distinguished--she crossed to the other side, glancing fearfully around her as she threaded the ranks of pillars, whose heavy and embrowned shafts her lantern feebly illumined, and entering a recess, took a small stone out of the wall, and deposited the chief part of the contents of her pocket behind it, after which she carefully replaced the stone. This done, she hurried to the charnel, and softly opened the door of the crypt. Greatly relieved by the operation he had undergone, the sexton had sunk into a slumber, and was, therefore, unconscious of the entrance of his wife, who, setting down the lantern, advanced towards the pallet. His mother and the young man were still in attendance, and the former, on seeing her daughter-in-law, exclaimed, in low but angry accents--"What brings you here, Judith? I suppose you expected to find my son dead. But he will disappoint you. Doctor Hodges said he would recover--did he not Kerrich?" she added, appealing to the young man, who nodded acquiescence. "He will recover, I tell you." "Well, well," replied Judith, in the blandest tone she could assume; "I hope he will. And if the doctor says so, I have no doubt of it. I only heard of his illness a few minutes ago, and came instantly to nurse him." "_You_ nurse him?" cried the old woman; "if you show him any affection now, it will be for the first time since your wedding-day." "How long has he been unwell?" demanded Judith, with difficulty repressing her anger. "He was seized the night before last," replied the old woman; "but he didn't know what was the matter with him when it began. I saw him just before he went to rest, and he complained of a slight illness, but nothing to signify. He must have passed a frightful night, for the vergers found him in the morning running about Saint Faith's like a madman, and dashing his spades and mattocks against the walls and pillars. They secured him, and brought him here, and on examination, he proved to have the plague." "You surprise me by what you say," replied Judith. "During the last month, I have nursed more than a dozen patients, and never knew any of them so violent. I must look at his sore." "The doctor has just dressed it," observed the old woman. "I don't mind that," rejoined Judith, turning down the blanket, and examining her husband's shoulder. "You are right," she added, "he is doing as well as possible." "I suppose I shan't be wanted any more," observed Kerrich, "now you're come back to nurse your husband, Mrs. Malmayns? I shall be glad to get home to my own bed, for I don't feel well at all." "Don't alarm yourself," replied Judith. "There's a bottle of plague vinegar for you. Dip a piece of linen in it, and smell at it, and I'll insure you against the pestilence." Kerrich took the phial, and departed. But the remedy was of little avail. Before daybreak, he was seized with the distemper, and died two days afterwards. "I hope poor Kerrich hasn't got the plague?" said the old woman, in a tremulous tone. "I am afraid he has," replied the daughter-in-law, "but I didn't like to alarm him." "Mercy on us!" cried the other, getting up. "What a dreadful scourge it is." "You would say so, if you had seen whole families swept off by it, as I have," replied Judith. "But it mostly attacks old persons and children." "Lord help us!" cried the crone, "I hope it will spare me. I thought my age secured me." "Quite the reverse," replied Judith, desirous of exciting her mother-in-law's terrors; "quite the reverse. You must take care of yourself." "But you don't think I'm ill, do you?" asked the other, anxiously. "Sit down, and let me look at you," returned Judith. And the old woman tremblingly obeyed. "Well, what do you think of me--what's the matter?" she asked, as her daughter-in-law eyed her for some minutes in silence. "What's the matter, I say?" But Judith remained silent. "I insist upon knowing," continued the old woman. "Are you able to bear the truth?" returned her daughter-in-law. "You need say no more," groaned the old woman. "I know what the truth must be, and will try to bear it. I will get home as fast as I can, and put my few affairs in order, so that if I am carried off, I may not go unprepared." "You had better do so," replied her daughter-in-law. "You will take care of my poor son, Judith," rejoined the old woman, shedding a flood of tears. "I would stay with him, if I thought I could do him any good; but if I really am infected, I might only be in the way. Don't neglect him--as you hope for mercy hereafter, do not." "Make yourself easy, mother," replied Judith. "I will take every care of him." "Have you no fears of the disorder yourself?" inquired the old woman. "None whatever," replied Judith. "I am _a safe woman_." "I do not understand you," replied her mother-in-law, in surprise. "I have had the plague," replied Judith; "and those who have had it once, never take it a second time." This opinion, entertained at the commencement of the pestilence, it may be incidentally remarked, was afterwards found to be entirely erroneous; some persons being known to have the distemper three or four times. "You never let us know you were ill," said the old woman. "I could not do so," replied Judith, "and I don't know that I should have done if I could. I was nursing two sisters at a small house in Clerkenwell Close, and they both died in the night-time, within a few hours of each other. The next day, as I was preparing to leave the house, I was seized myself, and had scarcely strength to creep up-stairs to bed. An old apothecary, named Sibbald, who had brought drugs to the house, attended me, and saved my life. In less than a week, I was well again, and able to move about, and should have returned home, but the apothecary told me, as I had had the distemper once, I might resume my occupation with safety. I did so, and have found plenty of employment." "No doubt," rejoined the old woman; "and you will find plenty more--plenty more." "I hope so," replied the other. "Oh! do not give utterance to such a dreadful wish, Judith," rejoined her mother-in-law. "Do not let cupidity steel your heart to every better feeling." A slight derisive smile passed over the harsh features of the plague-nurse. "You heed me not," pursued the old woman. "But a time will come when you will recollect my words." "I am content to wait till then," rejoined Judith. "Heaven grant you a better frame of mind!" exclaimed the old woman. "I must take one last look of my son, for it is not likely I shall see him again." "Not in this world," thought Judith. "I conjure you, by all that is sacred, not to neglect him," said the old woman. "I have already promised to do so," replied Judith, impatiently. "Good-night, mother." "It will be a long good-night to me, I fear," returned the dame. "Doctor Hodges promised to send some blankets and medicine for poor Matthew. The doctor is a charitable man to the poor, and if he learns I am sick, he may, perhaps, call and give me advice." "I am sure he will," replied Judith. "Should the man bring the blankets, I will tell him to acquaint his master with your condition. And now take this lantern, mother, and get home as fast as you can." So saying, she almost pushed her out of the vault, and closed the door after her. "At last I am rid of her," she muttered. "She would have been a spy over me. I hope I have frightened her into the plague. But if she dies of fear, it will answer my purpose as well. And now for my husband." Taking up the lamp, and shading it with her hand, she gazed at his ghastly countenance. "He slumbers tranquilly," she muttered, after contemplating him for some time, adding with a chuckling laugh, "it would be a pity to waken him." And seating herself on a stool near the pallet, she turned over in her mind in what way she could best execute her diabolical purpose. While she was thus occupied, the messenger from Doctor Hodges arrived with a bundle of blankets and several phials and pots of ointment. The man offered to place the blankets on the pallet, but Judith would not let him. "I can do it better myself, and without disturbing the poor sufferer," she said. "Give my dutiful thanks to your master. Tell him my husband's mother, old widow Malmayns, fancies herself attacked by the plague, and if he will be kind enough to visit her, she lodges in the upper attic of a baker's house, at the sign of the Wheatsheaf, in Little Distaff-lane, hard by." "I will not fail to deliver your message to the doctor," replied the man, as he took his departure. Left alone with her husband a second time, Judith waited till she thought the man had got out of the cathedral, and then rising and taking the lamp, she repaired to the charnel, to make sure it was untenanted. Not content with this, she stole out into Saint Faith's, and gazing round as far as the feeble light of her lamp would permit, called out in a tone that even startled herself, "Is any one lurking there?" but receiving no other answer than was afforded by the deep echoes of the place, she returned to the vault. Just as she reached the door, a loud cry burst upon her ear, and rushing forward, she found that her husband had wakened. "Ah!" roared Malmayns, raising himself in bed, as he perceived her, "are you come back again, you she-devil? Where is my mother? Where is Kerrich? What have you done with them?" "They have both got the plague," replied his wife. "They caught it from you. But never mind them. I will watch over you as long as you live." "And that will be for years, you accursed jade," replied the sexton; "Dr. Hodges says I shall recover." "You have got worse since he left you," replied Judith. "Lie down, and let me throw these blankets over you." "Off!" cried the sick man, furiously. "You shall not approach me. You want to smother me." "I want to cure you," replied his wife, heaping the blankets upon the pallet. "The doctor has sent some ointment for your sore." "Then let him apply it himself," cried Malmayns, shaking his fist at her. "You shall not touch me. I will strangle you if you come near me." "Matthew," replied his wife, "I have had the plague myself, and know how to treat it better than any doctor in London. I will cure you, if you will let me." "I have no faith in you," replied Malmayns, "but I suppose I must submit. Take heed what you do to me, for if I have but five minutes to live, it will be long enough to revenge myself upon you." "I will anoint your sore with this salve," rejoined Judith, producing a pot of dark-coloured ointment, and rubbing his shoulder with it. "It was given me by Sibbald, the apothecary of Clerkenwell He is a friend of Chowles, the coffin-maker. You know Chowles, Matthew?" "I know him for as great a rascal as ever breathed," replied her husband, gruffly. "He has always cheated me out of my dues, and his coffins are the worst I ever put under ground." "He is making his fortune now," said Judith. "By the plague, eh?" replied Matthew. "I don't envy him. Money so gained won't stick to him. He will never prosper." "I wish _you_ had his money, Matthew," replied his wife, in a coaxing tone. "If the plague hadn't attacked me when it did, I should have been richer than Chowles will ever be," replied the sexton,--"nay, I am richer as it is." "You surprise me," replied Judith, suddenly pausing in her task. "How have you obtained your wealth?" "I have discovered a treasure," replied, the sexton, with a mocking laugh,--"a secret hoard--a chest of gold--ha! ha!" "Where--where?" demanded his wife, eagerly. "That's a secret," replied Matthew. "I must have it from him before he dies," thought his wife. "Had we better not secure it without delay?" she added, aloud. "Some other person may find it." "Oh, it's safe enough," replied Matthew. "It has remained undiscovered for more than a hundred years, and will continue so for a hundred to come, unless I bring it forth." "But you _will_ bring it forth, won't you?" said Judith. "Undoubtedly," replied Matthew, "if I get better. But not otherwise. Money would be of no use to me in the grave." "But it would be of use to _me_," replied his wife. "Perhaps it might," replied the sexton; "but if I die, the knowledge of the treasure shall die with me." "He is deceiving me," thought Judith, beginning to rub his shoulder afresh. "I suspect you have played me false, you jade," cried Malmayns, writhing with pain. "The stuff you have applied burns like caustic, and eats into my flesh." "It is doing its duty," replied his wife, calmly watching his agonies. "You will soon be easier." "Perhaps I shall--in death," groaned the sufferer. "I am parched with thirst. Give me a glass of water." "You shall have wine, Matthew, if you prefer it. I have a flask in my pocket," she replied. "But what of the treasure--where is it?" "Peace!" he cried. "I will baulk your avaricious hopes. You shall never know where it is." "I shall know as much as you do," she rejoined, in a tone of incredulity. "I don't believe a word you tell me. You have found no treasure." "If this is the last word I shall ever utter, I _have_," he returned; --"a mighty treasure. But you shall never possess it--never!--ah! ah!" "Nor shall you have the wine," she replied; "there is water for you," she added, handing him a jug, which he drained with frantic eagerness. "He is a dead man," she muttered. "I am chilled to the heart," grasped the sexton, shivering from head to foot, while chill damps gathered on his brow. "I have done wrong in drinking the water, and you ought not to have given it me." "You asked for it," she replied. "You should have had wine but for your obstinacy. But I will save you yet, if you will tell me where to find the treasure." "Look for it in my grave," he returned, with a hideous grin. Soon after this, he fell into a sort of stupor. His wife could now have easily put a period to his existence, but she still hoped to wrest the secret from him. She was assured, moreover, that his recovery was hopeless. At the expiration of about two hours, he was aroused by the excruciating anguish of his sore. He had again become delirious, and raved as before about coffins, corpses, graves, and other loathsome matters. Seeing, from his altered looks and the livid and gangrenous appearance which the tumour had assumed, that his end was not far off, Judith resolved not to lose a moment, but to try the effect of a sudden surprise. Accordingly, she bent down her head, and shouted in his ear, "What has become of your treasure, Matthew?" The plan succeeded to a miracle. The dying man instantly raised himself. "My treasure!" he echoed with a yell that made the vault ring again. "Well thought on! I have not secured it. They are carrying it off. I must prevent them." And throwing off the coverings, he sprang out of bed. "I shall have it now," thought his wife. "You are right," she added,--"they are carrying it off. The vergers have discovered it. They are digging it up. We must instantly prevent them." "We must!" shrieked Malmayns. "Bring the light! bring the light!" And bursting open the door, he rushed into the adjoining aisle. "He will kill himself, and discover the treasure into the bargain," cried Judith, following him. "Ah! what do I see! People in the church. Curses on them! they have ruined my hopes." VIII. THE MOSAICAL RODS. In pursuance of their design of seeking out an astrologer, Maurice Wyvil and Lydyard crossed Cheapside and entered Friday-street. They had not proceeded far, when they perceived a watchman standing beneath a porch with a lantern in his hand, and thinking it an intimation that the house was attacked by the plague, they hurried to the opposite side of the street, and called to the watchman to inquire whether he knew where Mr. Lilly lived. Ascertaining that the house they sought was only a short distance off, they repaired thither, and knocking at the door, a small wicket, protected by a grating, was open within it, and a sharp female voice inquired their business. "Give this to your master, sweetheart," replied Wyvil, slipping a purse through the grating; "and tell him that two gentlemen desire to consult him." "He is engaged just now," replied the woman, in a much softer tone; "but I will take your message to him." "You have more money than wit," laughed Lydyard. "You should have kept back your fee till you had got the information." "In that case I should never have received any," replied Wyvil. "I have taken the surest means of obtaining admission to the house." As he spoke, the door was unbolted by the woman, who proved to be young and rather pretty. She had a light in her hand, and directing them to follow her, led the way to a sort of anteroom, divided, as it appeared, from a larger room by a thick black curtain. Drawing aside the drapery, their conductress ushered them into the presence of three individuals, who were seated at a table strewn with papers, most of which were covered with diagrams and, astrological calculations. One of these persons immediately rose on their appearance, and gravely but courteously saluted them. He was a tall man, somewhat advanced in life, being then about sixty-three, with an aquiline nose, dark eyes, not yet robbed of their lustre, grey hair waving over his shoulders, and a pointed beard and moustache. The general expression of his countenance was shrewd and penetrating, and yet there were certain indications of credulity about it, showing that he was as likely to be imposed upon himself as to delude others. It is scarcely necessary to say that this was Lilly. The person on his right, whose name was John Booker, and who, like himself, was a proficient in astrology, was so buried in calculation, that he did not raise his eyes from the paper on the approach of the strangers. He was a stout man, with homely but thoughtful features, and though not more than a year older than Lilly, looked considerably his senior. With the exception of a few silver curls hanging down the back of his neck, he was completely bald; but his massive and towering brow seemed to indicate the possession of no ordinary intellectual qualities. He was a native of Manchester, and was born in 1601, of a good family. "His excellent verses upon the twelve months," says Lilly, in his autobiography, "framed according to the configurations of each month, being blessed with success according to his predictions, procured him much reputation all over England. He was a very honest man," continues the same authority; "abhorred any deceit in the art he studied; had a curious fancy in judging of thefts; and was successful in resolving love-questions. He was no mean proficient in astronomy; understood much in physic, was a great admirer of the antimonial cup; and not unlearned in chemistry, which he loved well, but did not practise." At the period of this history, he was clerk to Sir Hugh Hammersley, alderman. The third person,--a minor canon of Saint Paul's, named Thomas Quatremain,--was a grave, sallow-complexioned man, with a morose and repulsive physiognomy. He was habited in the cassock of a churchman of the period, and his black velvet cap lay beside him on the table. Like Booker, he was buried in calculations, and though he looked up for a moment as the others entered the room, he instantly resumed his task, without regard to their presence. After looking earnestly at his visitors for a few moments, and appearing to study their features, Lilly motioned them to be seated; but they declined the offer. "I am not come to take up your time, Mr. Lilly," said Wyvil, "but simply to ask your judgment in a matter in which I am much interested." "First permit me to return you your purse, sir, since it is from you, I presume, that I received it," replied the astrologer. "No information that I can give deserves so large a reward as this." Wyvil would have remonstrated. But seeing the other resolute, he was fain to concede the point. "What question do you desire to have resolved, sir?" pursued Lilly. "Shall I be fortunate in my hopes?" rejoined Wyvil. "You must be a little more precise," returned the astrologer. "To what do your hopes relate?--to wealth, dignity, or love?" "To the latter," replied Wyvil. "So I inferred from your appearance, sir," rejoined Lilly, smiling. "Venus was strong in your nativity, though well-dignified; and I should, therefore, say you were not unfrequently entangled in love affairs. Your inamorata, I presume, is young, perhaps fair,--blue-eyed, brown-haired, tall, slender, and yet perfectly proportioned." "She is all you describe," replied Wyvil. "Is she of your own rank?" asked Lilly. "Scarcely so," replied Wyvil, hesitating before he answered the question. "I will instantly erect a scheme," replied the astrologer, rapidly tracing a figure on a sheet of paper. "The question refers to the seventh house. I shall take Venus as the natural significatrix of the lady. The moon is in trine with the lord of the ascendant,--so far, good; but there is a cross aspect from Mars, who darts forth malicious rays upon them. Your suit will probably be thwarted. But what Mars bindeth, Venus dissolveth. It is not wholly hopeless. I should recommend you to persevere." "Juggler!" exclaimed "Wyvil between his teeth. "I am no juggler!" replied Lilly, angrily; "and to prove I am not, I will tell you who you are who thus insult me, though you have not announced yourself, and are desirous of preserving your _incognito_. You are the Earl of Rochester, and your companion is Sir George Etherege." "'Fore heaven! we are discovered," cried the earl; "but whether by art, magic, or from previous acquaintance with our features, I pretend not to determine." "In either case, my lord,--for it is useless, since you have avowed yourself, to address you longer as Wyvil," replied Etherege,--"you owe Mr. Lilly an apology for the insult you have offered him. It was as undeserved as uncalled for; for he described your position with Amabel exactly." "I am sorry for what I said," replied the earl, with great frankness, "and entreat Mr. Lilly to overlook it, and impute it to its real cause,--disappointment at his judgment." "I wish I could give you better hopes, my lord," replied Lilly; "but I readily accept your apology. Have you any further questions to ask me?" "Not to-night," replied the earl; "except that I would gladly learn whether it is your opinion that the plague will extend its ravages?" "It will extend them so far, my lord, that there shall neither be buriers for the dead, nor sound to look after the sick," replied Lilly. "You may have seen a little tract of mine published in 1651,--some fourteen years ago,--called '_Monarchy or No Monarchy in England_,' in which, by an hieroglyphic, I foretold this terrible calamity." "I heard his majesty speak of the book no later than yesterday," replied Rochester. "He has the highest opinion of your skill, Mr. Lilly, as he cannot blind himself to the fact that you foretold his father's death. But this is not the only visitation with which you threaten our devoted city." "It is threatened by Heaven, not by me, my lord," replied Lilly. "London will be devoured by plague and consumed by fire." "In our time?" asked Etherege. "Before two years have passed over our heads," returned the astrologer. "The pestilence originated in the conjunction of Saturn and Jupiter in Sagittarius, on the 10th of last October, and the conjunction of Saturn and Mars in the same sign, on the 12th of November. It was harbingered also by the terrible comet of January, which appeared in a cadent and obscure house, denoting sickness and death: and another and yet more terrible comet, which will be found in the fiery triplicity of Aries, Leo, and Sagittarius, will be seen before the conflagration." "My calculations are, that the plague will be at its worst in August and September, and will not cease entirely till the beginning of December," observed Booker, laying aside his pen. "And I doubt not you are right, sir," said Lilly, "for your calculations are ever most exact." "My labour is not thrown away, Mr. Lilly," cried Quatremain, who had finished his task at the same time. "I have discovered what I have long suspected, that treasure _is_ hidden in Saint Paul's Cathedral. Mercury is posited in the north angle of the fourth house; the dragon's tail is likewise within it; and as Sol is the significator, it must be gold." "True," replied Lilly. "Furthermore," proceeded Quatremain, "as the sign is earthy, the treasure must be buried in the vaults." "Undoubtedly," replied Booker. "I am all impatience to search for it," said Quatremain. "Let us go there at once, and make trial of the mosaical rods." "With all my heart," replied Lilly. "My lord," he added to Rochester, "I must pray you to excuse me. You have heard what claims my attention." "I have," returned the earl, "and should like to accompany you in the quest, if you will permit me." "You must address yourself to Mr. Quatremain," rejoined Lilly. "If he consents, I can make no objection." The minor canon, on being appealed to, signified his acquiescence, and after some slight preparation, Lilly produced two hazel rods, and the party set out. A few minutes' walking brought them to the northern entrance of the cathedral, where they speedily aroused the poor verger, who began to fancy he was to have no rest that night. On learning their purpose, however, he displayed the utmost alacrity, and by Quatremain's directions went in search of his brother-verger, and a mason, who, being employed at the time in making repairs in the chantries, lodged within the cathedral. This occasioned a delay of a few minutes, during which Rochester and Etherege had an opportunity, like that enjoyed a short time before by Leonard Holt, of beholding the magnificent effect of the columned aisles by moonlight. By this time the other verger, who was a young and active man, and the mason, arrived, and mattocks, spades, and an iron bar being procured, and a couple of torches lighted, they descended to Saint Faith's. Nothing more picturesque can be conceived than the effect of the torchlight on the massive pillars and low-browed roof of the subterranean church. Nor were the figures inappropriate to the scene. Lilly, with the mosaical rods in his hand, which he held at a short distance from the floor, moving first to one point, then to another; now lingering within the gloomy nave, now within the gloomier aisles; the grave minor canon, who kept close beside him, and watched his movements with the most intense anxiety; Booker, with his venerable head uncovered, and his bald brow reflecting the gleam of the torches; the two court gallants in their rich attire; and the vergers and their comrade, armed with the implements for digging;--all constituted a striking picture. And as Rochester stepped aside to gaze at it, he thought he had never beheld a more singular scene. Hitherto, no success had attended the searchers. The mosaical rods had continued motionless. At length, however, Lilly reached a part of the wall where a door appeared to have been stopped up, and playing the rods near it, they turned one over the other. "The treasure is here!" he exclaimed. "It is hidden beneath this flag." Instantly, all were in action. Quatremain called to his assistants to bring their mattocks and the iron bar. Rochester ran up and tendered his aid; Etherege did the same; and in a few moments the flag was forced from its position. On examination, it seemed as if the ground beneath it had been recently disturbed, though it was carefully trodden down. But without stopping to investigate the matter, the mason and the younger verger commenced digging. When they were tired, Lilly and Quatremain took their places, and in less than an hour they had got to the depth of upwards of four feet. Still nothing had been found, and Lilly was just about to relinquish his spade to the mason, when, plunging it more deeply into the ground, it struck against some hard substance. "It is here--we have it!" he cried, renewing his exertions. Seconded by Quatremain, they soon cleared off the soil, and came to what appeared to be a coffin or a large chest. Both then got out of the pit to consider how they should remove the chest; the whole party were discussing the matter, when a tremendous crash, succeeded by a terrific yell, was heard at the other end of the church, and a ghastly and half-naked figure, looking like a corpse broken from the tomb, rushed forward with lightning swiftness, and shrieking--"My treasure!--my treasure!--you shall not have it!"--thrust aside the group, and plunged into the excavation. When the bystanders recovered sufficient courage to drag the unfortunate sexton out of the pit, they found him quite dead. IX. THE MINIATURE. According to his promise, Doctor Hodges visited the grocer's house early on the following day, and the favourable opinion he had expressed respecting Stephen Bloundel was confirmed by the youth's appearance. The pustule had greatly increased in size; but this the doctor looked upon as a good sign: and after applying fresh poultices, and administering a hot posset-drink, he covered the patient with blankets, and recommending as much tranquillity as possible, he proceeded, at Bloundel's request, to ascertain the state of health of the rest of the family. Satisfied that all the household (including Blaize, who, being a little out of order from the quantity of medicine he had swallowed, kept his bed) were uninfected, he went upstairs, and finding the two boys quite well, and playing with their little sister Christiana, in the happy unconsciousness of childhood, he tapped at the door of Mrs. Bloundel's chamber, and was instantly admitted. Amabel did not raise her eyes at his entrance, but continued the employment on which she was engaged. Her mother, however, overwhelmed him with inquiries as to the sufferer, and entreated him to prevail upon her husband to let her take his place at the sick bed. "I cannot accede to your request, madam," replied Hodges; "because I think the present arrangement the best that could be adopted." "And am I not to see poor Stephen again?" cried Mrs. Bloundel, bursting into tears. "I hope you will soon see him again, and not lose sight of him for many years to come," replied the doctor. "As far as I can judge, the danger is over, and, aided by your husband's care and watchfulness, I have little doubt of bringing the youth round." "You reconcile me to the deprivation, doctor," rejoined Mrs. Bloundel; "but can you insure my husband against the distemper?" "I can insure no one against contagion," replied Hodges; "but there is much in his favour. He has no fear, and takes every needful precaution. You must hope for the best. I think it right to tell you, that you will be separated from him for a month." "Separated from my husband for a month, doctor!" cried Mrs. Bloundel. "I must see him to-day. I have something of importance to say to him." At this point of the conversation Amabel for the first time looked up. Her eyes were red and inflamed with weeping, and her looks betrayed great internal suffering. "You cannot see my father, mother," she said in a broken and supplicatory tone. "But she can write to him, or send a message by me," rejoined Hodges. "I will deliver it when I go downstairs." "What my mother has to say cannot be confided to a third party, sir," returned Amabel. "Better defer it, then," said the doctor, who, as he looked hard at her, and saw the colour mount to her cheeks, began to suspect something of the truth. "Whatever you have to say, Mrs. Bloundel, may be very well delayed; for the house is now closed, with a watchman at the door, and will continue so for a month to come. No one can quit it, except members of our profession, searchers, nurses, and other authorized persons, during that time." "But can no one enter it, do you think?" asked Mrs. Bloundel. "No one would desire to do so, I should conceive, except a lover," replied Hodges, with a sly look at Amabel, who instantly averted her gaze. "Where a pretty girl is concerned, the plague itself has no terrors." "Precisely my opinion, doctor," rejoined Mrs. Bloundel; "and as I cannot consult my husband, perhaps you will favour me with your advice as to how I ought to act, if such a person as you describe should get into the house." "I seldom meddle with family matters," rejoined Hodges; "but I feel so much interest in all that relates to Mr. Bloundel, that I am induced to depart from my rule on the present occasion. It is evident you have lost your heart," he added, to Amabel, whose blushes told him he was right; "but not, I hope, to one of those worthless court-gallants, who, as I learn from common report, are in the habit of toasting you daily. If it is so, you must subdue your passion; for it cannot lead to good. Be not dazzled by a brilliant exterior, which often conceals a treacherous heart; but try to fix your affections on some person of little pretension, but of solid worth. Never, I grieve to say, was there a season when such universal profligacy prevailed as at present. Never was it so necessary for a young maiden, possessed of beauty like yours, to act with discretion. Never was a court so licentious as that of our sovereign, Charles the Second, whose corrupt example is imitated by every one around him, while its baneful influence extends to all classes. Were I to echo the language of the preachers, I should say it was owing to the wickedness and immorality of the times that this dreadful judgment of the plague has been inflicted upon us; but I merely bring it forward as an argument to prove to you, Amabel, that if you would escape the moral contagion by which you are threatened, you must put the strictest guard upon your conduct." Amabel faintly murmured her thanks. "You speak as my husband himself would have spoken," said Mrs. Bloundel. "Ah! we little thought, when we prayed that the pestilence might be averted from us, that a worse calamity was behind, and that one of the most profligate of the courtiers you have mentioned would find his way to our house." "One of the most profligate of them?" cried Hodges. "Who, in Heaven's name?" "He calls himself Maurice Wyvil," replied Mrs. Bloundel. "I never heard of such a person," rejoined the doctor. "It must be an assumed name. Have you no letter or token that might lead to his discovery?" he added, turning to Amabel. "I have his portrait," she replied, drawing a small miniature from her bosom. "I am glad I have seen this," said the doctor, slightly starting as he cast his eyes upon it. "I hope it is not too late to save you, Amabel," he added, in a severe tone. "I hope you are free from contamination?" "As I live, I am," she replied. "But you recognise the likeness?" "I do," returned Hodges. "It is the portrait of one whose vices and depravity are the town's cry, and whose name coupled with that of a woman, is sufficient to sully her reputation." "It is the Earl of Rochester," said Mrs. Bloundel. "You have guessed aright," replied the doctor; "it is." Uttering an exclamation of surprise and terror, Amabel fell back in her chair. "I thought it must be that wicked nobleman," cried Mrs. Bloundel. "Would you believe it, doctor, that he forced himself into the house--nay, into this room--last night, and would have carried off my daughter, in spite of her resistance, if I had not prevented him." "I can believe anything of him," replied Hodges. "But your husband, of course, knows nothing of the matter?" "Not as yet," replied Mrs. Bloundel; "but I authorize you to tell him all." "Mother, dear mother," cried Amabel, flinging herself on her knees before her, "I implore you not to add to my father's present distress. I might not have been able to conquer my attachment to Maurice Wyvil, but now that I find he is the Earl of Rochester, I regard him with abhorrence." "If I could believe you sincere," said Mrs. Bloundel, "I might be induced to spare your father the pain which the knowledge of this unfortunate affair would necessarily inflict." "I am sincere,--indeed I am," replied Amabel. "To prove that the earl could not have had honourable intentions towards you, Amabel," said the doctor, "I may mention that he is at this moment urging his suit with Mistress Mallet,--a young heiress." "Ah!" exclaimed Amabel. "I was in attendance upon Mistress Stewart, the king's present favourite, the day before yesterday," continued Hodges, "and heard his majesty entreat her to use her influence with Mistress Mallet in Rochester's behalf. After this, you cannot doubt the nature of his intentions towards yourself." "I cannot--I cannot," rejoined Amabel. "He is perfidy itself. But is Mistress Mallet very beautiful, doctor?" "Very beautiful, and very rich," he replied, "and the earl is desperately in love with her. I heard him declare laughingly to the king, that if she would not consent to marry him, he would carry her off." "Just what he said to me," exclaimed Amabel--"perjured and faithless that he is!" "Harp on that string, doctor," whispered Mrs. Bloundel. "You understand her feelings exactly." "Strangely enough," pursued the doctor, who, having carefully examined the miniature, had opened the back of the case, and could not repress a smile at what he beheld--"strangely enough, this very picture will convince you of the earl's inconstancy. It was evidently designed for Mistress Mallet, and, as she would not accept it, transferred to you." "How do you know this, sir?" inquired Amabel, in a mortified tone. "Hear what is written within it," answered Hodges, laying the open case before her, and reading as follows: "'To the sole possessor of his heart, the fair Mistress Mallet, this portrait is offered by her devoted slave--ROCHESTER.' 'The _sole_ possessor of his heart!' So you have no share in it, you perceive, Amabel. 'Her devoted slave!' Is he your slave likewise? Ha! ha!" "It _is_ his writing," cried Amabel. "This note," she added, producing a billet, "is in the same hand. My eyes are indeed open to his treachery." "I am glad to hear it," replied Hodges, "and if I can preserve you from the snares of this noble libertine, I shall rejoice as much as in curing your brother of the plague. But can you rely upon yourself, in case the earl should make another attempt to see you?" "I can," she averred confidently. "In that case there is nothing to apprehend," rejoined Hodges; "and I think it better on many accounts not to mention the subject to your father. It would only distract his mind, and prevent him from duly discharging the painful task he has undertaken. Were I in your place, Amabel, I would not only forget my present perfidious lover, but would instantly bestow my affections on some worthy person." "It would gladden me if she would do so," said Mrs. Bloundel. "There is your father's apprentice, Leonard Holt, a good-looking, well-grown lad," pursued the doctor; "and I much mistake if he is insensible to your attractions." "I am sure he loves her dearly, doctor," replied Mrs. Bloundel. "He is as well-principled as well-looking. I have never had a fault to find with him since he came to live with us. It will rejoice me, and I am sure would not displease my husband, to see our child united to Leonard Holt." "Well, what say you, Amabel?" asked Hodges. "Can you give him a hope?" "Alas, no!" replied Amabel; "I have been deceived once, but I will not be deceived a second time. I will never wed." "So every woman says after her first disappointment," observed Hodges; "but not one in ten adheres to the resolution. When you become calmer, I would recommend you to think seriously of Leonard Holt." At this moment, a tap was heard at the door, and opening it, the doctor beheld the person in question. "What is the matter?" cried Hodges. "I hope nothing is amiss." "Nothing whatever," replied Leonard, "but my master wishes to see you before you leave the house." "I will go to him at once," replied the doctor. "Good day, Mrs. Bloundel. Take care of your daughter, and I hope she will take care of herself. We have been talking about you, young man," he added in a low tone to the apprentice, "and I have recommended you as a husband to Amabel." "There was a time, sir," rejoined Leonard, in a tone of deep emotion, "when I hoped it might be so, but that time is past." "No such thing," replied the doctor. "Now is the time to make an impression. Her heart is on the rebound. She is satisfied of her lover's treachery. Her mother is on your side. Do not neglect the present opportunity, for another may not arrive." With this he pushed Leonard into the room, and, shutting the door upon him, hurried downstairs. "You have arrived at a seasonable juncture, Leonard," observed Mrs. Bloundel, noticing the apprentice's perplexity, and anxious to relieve it. "We have just discovered that the person calling himself Maurice Wyvil is no other than the Earl of Rochester." "Indeed!" exclaimed Leonard. "Yes, indeed," returned Mrs. Bloundel. "But this is not all. Amabel has promised to forget him, and I have urged her to think of you." "Amabel," said Leonard, advancing towards her, and taking her hand, "I can scarcely credit what I hear. Will you confirm your mother's words?" "Leonard," returned Amabel, "I am not insensible to your good qualities, and no one can more truly esteem you than I do. Nay, till I unfortunately saw the Earl of Rochester, whom I knew not as such, I might have loved you. But now I cannot call my heart my own. I have not the affection you deserve to bestow upon you. If I can obliterate this treacherous man's image from my memory--and Heaven, I trust, will give me strength to do so--I will strive to replace it with your own." "That is all I ask," cried Leonard, dropping on his knee before her, and pressing his lips to her hand. "Nothing would make me happier than to see you united, my children," said Mrs. Bloundel, bending affectionately over them. "And I would do anything to make you happy, dear mother," replied Amabel, gently withdrawing her hand, from that of the apprentice. "Before I leave you," said Leonard, rising, "I must give you this note. I found it lying before your chamber door as I passed this morning. How it came there I know not, but I can give a shrewd guess as to the writer. I ought to tell you, that but for what has just occurred, I should not have delivered it to you." "It is from Wyvil--I mean Rochester," said Amabel, taking the note with a trembling hand. "Let me see it, child," cried Mrs. Bloundel, snatching it from her, and breaking the seal. "Insolent!" she exclaimed, as she cast her eyes over it. "I can scarcely contain my indignation. But let him cross my path again, and he shall find whether I cannot resent such shameful usage." "What does he say, dear mother?" asked Amabel. "You shall hear," replied Mrs. Bloundel, "though I blush to repeat his words: 'Amabel, you are mine. No one shall keep you from me. Love like mine will triumph over all obstacles!'--Love like his, forsooth!" she remarked; "let him keep such stuff as that for Mistress Mallet, or his other mistresses. But I will go on: 'I may be foiled ninety-nine times, but the hundredth will succeed. We shall soon meet again. 'MAURICE WYVIL.'" "Never!" cried Amabel. "We will never meet again. If he holds me thus cheaply, I will let him see that he is mistaken. Leonard Holt, I have told you the exact state of my feelings. I do not love you now, but I regard you as a true friend, and love may come hereafter. If in a month's time you claim my hand; if my father consents to our union, for you are aware that my mother will not oppose it--I am yours." Leonard attempted to speak, but his voice was choked with emotion, and the tears started to his eyes. "Farewell," said Amabel. "Do not let us meet till the appointed time. Rest assured, I will think of you as you deserve." "We could not meet till that time, even if you desired it," said Leonard, "for your father has forbidden any of the household, except old Josyna, to approach you till all fear of contagion is at an end, and I am now transgressing his commands. But your mother, I am sure, will acquit me of intentional disobedience." "I do," replied Mrs. Bloundel; "it was the doctor who forced you into the room. But I am heartily glad he did so." "Farewell, Amabel," said Leonard. "Though I shall not see you, I will watch carefully over you." And gazing at her with unutterable affection, he quitted the chamber. "You must now choose between the heartless and depraved nobleman, who would desert you as soon as won," observed Mrs. Bloundel, "and the honest apprentice, whose life would be devoted to your happiness." "I _have_ chosen," replied her daughter. Doctor Hodges found the grocer writing at a small table, close to the bedside of his son. "I am happy to tell you, Mr. Bloundel," he said, in a low tone, as he entered the room, "that all your family are still free from infection, and with due care will, I hope, continue so. But I entirely approve of your resolution of keeping apart from them till the month has expired. If your son goes on as he is doing now, he will be as strong as ever in less than a fortnight. Still, as we cannot foresee what may occur, it is better to err on the cautious side." "Pray be seated for a moment," rejoined the grocer, motioning the other to the chair. "I mentioned to you last night that in case my son recovered, I had a plan which I trusted (under Providence!) would preserve my family from the further assaults of the pestilence." "I remember your alluding to it," replied Hodges, "and should be glad to know what it is." "I must tell it you in confidence," rejoined Bloundel, "because I think secresy essential to its entire accomplishment. My plan is a very simple one, and only requires firmness in its execution--and that quality, I think, I possess. It is your opinion, I know, as it is my own, that the plague will increase in violence and endure for months--probably, till next winter. My intention is to store my house with provisions, as a ship is victualled for a long voyage, and then to shut it up entirely till the scourge ceases." "If your project is practicable," said Hodges, after a moment's reflection, "I have no doubt it will be attended, with every good result you can desire. This house, which is large and roomy, is well adapted for your purpose. But you must consider well whether your family will submit to be imprisoned during the long period you propose." "They shall remain close prisoners, even if the pestilence lasts for a twelvemonth," replied the grocer. "Whoever quits the house, when it is once closed, and on whatever plea, be it wife, son, or daughter, returns not. That is my fixed resolve." "And you are right," rejoined Hodges, "for on that determination the success of your scheme entirely depends." While they were thus conversing, Leonard entered the chamber, and informed his master that Chowles, the coffin-maker, and Mrs. Malmayns, the plague-nurse, desired to see him. "Mrs. Malmayns!" exclaimed Hodges, in surprise. "I heard that something very extraordinary occurred last night in Saint Faith's. With your permission, Mr. Bloundel, she shall be admitted; I want to ask her a few questions. You had better hesitate about engaging her," he observed to the grocer, as Leonard departed, "for she is a woman of very indifferent character, though she may (for aught I know) be a good and fearless nurse." "If there is any doubt about her, I _cannot_ hesitate," returned Bloundel. As he said this, the door was opened by Leonard, and Chowles and Judith entered the room. The latter, on seeing the doctor, looked greatly embarrassed. "I have brought you the nurse I spoke of, Mr. Bloundel," said Chowles, bowing, "and am come to inquire whether you want a coffin to-night." "Mr. Bloundel is not likely to require a coffin at present, Chowles," returned the doctor, severely; "neither does his son stand in need of a nurse. How is your husband, Mrs. Malmayns?" "He is dead, sir," replied Judith. "Dead!" echoed the doctor. "When I left him at one o'clock this morning, he was doing well. Your attendance seems to have accelerated his end." "His death was occasioned by an accident, sir," replied Judith. "He became delirious about three o'clock, and, in spite of all my efforts to detain him, started out of bed, rushed into Saint Faith's, and threw himself into a pit, which Mr. Lilly and some other persons had digged in search of treasure." "This is a highly improbable story, Mrs. Malmayns," returned Hodges, "and I must have the matter thoroughly investigated before I lose sight of you." "I will vouch for the truth of Mrs. Malmayn's statement," interposed Chowles. "You!" cried Hodges, contemptuously. "Yes, I," replied the coffin-maker. "It seems that the sexton had found a chest of treasure buried in Saint Faith's, and being haunted by the idea that some one was carrying it off, he suddenly sprang out of bed, and rushed to the church, where, sure enough, Mr. Lilly, Mr. Quatremain, the Earl of Rochester, and Sir George Etherege, having, by the help of mosaical rods, discovered this very chest, were digging it up. Poor Matthew instantly plunged into the grave, and died of a sudden chill." "That is not impossible," observed Hodges, after a pause. "But what has become of the treasure?" "It is in the possession of Mr. Quatremain, who has given notice of it to the proper authorities," replied Chowles. "It consists, as I understand, of gold pieces struck in the reign of Philip and Mary, images of the same metal, crosses, pyxes, chalices, and other Popish and superstitious vessels, buried, probably, when Queen Elizabeth came to the throne, and the religion changed." "Not unlikely," replied Hodges. "Where is your husband's body, Mrs. Malmayns?" "It has been removed to the vault which he usually occupied," replied Judith. "Mr. Chowles has undertaken to bury it to-night." "I must see it first," replied Hodges, "and be sure that he has not met with foul play." "And I will accompany you," said Chowles. "So you do not want a coffin, Mr. Bloundel?" The grocer shook his head. "Good day, Mr. Bloundel," said Hodges. "I shall visit you to-morrow, and hope to find your son as well as I leave him. Chowles, you will be answerable for the safe custody of Mrs. Malmayns." "I have no desire to escape, sir," replied the nurse. "You will find everything as I have represented." "We shall see," replied the doctor. "If not, you will have to tend the sick in Newgate." The trio then proceeded to Saint Paul's, and descended to the vaults. Hodges carefully examined the body of the unfortunate sexton, but though he entertained strong suspicions, he could not pronounce positively that he had been improperly treated; and as the statement of Mrs. Malmayns was fully borne out by the vergers and others, he did not think it necessary to pursue the investigation further. As soon as he was gone, Judith accompanied the coffin-maker to his residence, where she remained, till the evening, when she was suddenly summoned, in a case of urgency, by a messenger from Sibbald, the apothecary of Clerkenwell. X. THE DUEL. After Parravicin's terrible announcement, Disbrowe offered him no further violence, but, flinging down his sword, burst open the door, and rushed upstairs. His wife was still insensible, but the fatal mark that had betrayed the presence of the plague to the knight manifested itself also to him, and he stood like one entranced, until Mrs. Disbrowe, recovering from her swoon, opened her eyes, and, gazing at him, cried--"You here!--Oh Disbrowe, I dreamed you had deserted me--had sold me to another." "Would it were a dream!" replied her husband. "And was it not so?" she rejoined, pressing her hand to her temples. "It is true! oh! yes, I feel it is. Every circumstance rushes upon me plainly and distinctly. I see the daring libertine before me. He stood where you stand, and told me what you had done." "What did he tell you, Margaret?" asked Disbrowe in a hollow voice. "He told me you were false--that you loved another, and had abandoned me." "He lied!" exclaimed Disbrowe, in a voice of uncontrollable fury. "It is true that, in a moment of frenzy, I was tempted to set you--yes, _you_, Margaret--against all I had lost at play, and was compelled to yield up the key of my house to the winner. But I have never been faithless to you--never." "Faithless or not," replied his wife, bitterly, "it is plain you value me less than play, or you would not have acted thus." "Reproach me not, Margaret," replied Disbrowe; "I would give worlds to undo what I have done." "Who shall guard me against the recurrence of such conduct?" said Mrs. Disbrowe, coldly. "But you have not yet informed me how I was saved." Disbrowe averted his head. "What mean you?" she cried, seizing his arm. "What has happened? Do not keep me in suspense? Were you my preserver?" "Your preserver was the plague," rejoined Disbrowe, in a sombre tone. The unfortunate lady then, for the first time, perceived that she was attacked by the pestilence, and a long and dreadful pause ensued, broken only by exclamations of anguish from both. "Disbrowe!" cried Margaret, at length, raising herself in bed, "you have deeply--irrecoverably injured me. But promise me one thing." "I swear to do whatever you may desire," he replied. "I know not, after what I have heard, whether you have courage for the deed," she continued. "But I would have you kill this man." "I will do it," replied Disbrowe. "Nothing but his blood can wipe out the wrong he has done me," she rejoined. "Challenge him to a duel--a mortal duel. If he survives, by my soul, I will give myself to him." "Margaret!" exclaimed Disbrowe. "I swear it," she rejoined. "And you know my passionate nature too well to doubt I will keep my word." "But you have the plague!" "What does that matter? I may recover." "Not so," muttered Disbrowe. "If I fall, I will take care you do not recover. I will fight him to-morrow," he added aloud. He then summoned his servants, but when they found their mistress was attacked by the plague, they framed some excuse to leave the room, and instantly fled the house. Driven almost to his wits' end, Disbrowe went in search of other assistance, and was for a while unsuccessful, until a coachman, to whom he applied, offered, for a suitable reward, to drive to Clerkenwell--to the shop of an apothecary named Sibbald (with whose name the reader is already familiar), who was noted for his treatment of plague patients, and to bring him to the other's residence. Disbrowe immediately closed with the man, and in less than two hours Sibbald made his appearance. He was a singular and repulsive personage, with an immense hooked nose, dark, savage-looking eyes, a skin like parchment, and high round shoulders, which procured him the nickname of Aesop among his neighbours. He was under the middle size, and of a spare figure, and in age might be about sixty-five. On seeing Mrs. Disbrowe, he at once boldly asserted that he could cure her, and proceeded to apply his remedies. Finding the servants fled, he offered to procure a nurse for Disbrowe, and the latter, thanking him, eagerly embraced the offer. Soon after this he departed. In the evening the nurse, who (as may be surmised) was no other than Judith Malmayns, arrived, and immediately commenced her functions. Disbrowe had no rest that night. His wife slept occasionally for a few minutes, but, apparently engrossed by one idea, never failed when she awoke to urge him to slay Parravicin; repeating her oath to give herself to the knight if he came off victorious. Worn out at length, Disbrowe gave her a terrible look, and rushed out of the room. He had not been alone many minutes when he was surprised by the entrance of Judith. He eagerly inquired whether his wife was worse, but was informed she had dropped into a slumber. "Hearing what has passed between you," said the nurse, "and noticing your look when you left the room, I came to tell you, that if you fall in this duel, your last moments need not be embittered by any thoughts of your wife. I will take care she does not recover." A horrible smile lighted up Disbrowe's features. "You are the very person I want," he said. "When I would do evil, the fiend rises to my bidding. If I am slain, you know what to do. How shall I requite the service?" "Do not concern yourself about that, captain," rejoined Judith. "I will take care of myself." About noon, on the following day, Disbrowe, without venturing to see his wife, left the house, and proceeded to the Smyrna, where, as he expected, he found Parravicin and his companions. The knight instantly advanced towards him, and, laying aside for the moment his reckless air, inquired, with a look of commiseration, after his wife. "She is better," replied Disbrowe, fiercely. "I am come to settle accounts with you." "I thought they were settled long ago," returned Parravicin, instantly resuming his wonted manner. "But I am glad to find you consider the debt unpaid." Disbrowe lifted the cane he held in his hand, and struck the knight with it forcibly on the shoulder. "Be that my answer," he said. "I will have your life first, and your wife afterwards," replied Parravicin, furiously. "You shall have her if you slay me, but not otherwise," retorted Disbrowe. "It must be a mortal duel." "It must," replied Parravicin. "I will not spare you this time." "Spare him!" cried Pillichody. "Shield of Agamemnon! I should hope not. Spit him as you would a wild boar." "Peace, fool!" cried Parravicin. "Captain Disbrowe, I shall instantly proceed to the west side of Hyde Park, beneath the trees. I shall expect you there. On my return I shall call on your wife." "I pray you do so, sir," replied Disbrowe, disdainfully. Both then quitted the coffee-house, Parravicin attended by Rochester and Pillichody, and Disbrowe accompanied by a military friend, whom he accidentally encountered. Each party taking a coach, they soon reached the ground,--a retired spot, completely screened from observation by trees. The preliminaries were soon arranged, for neither would admit of delay. The conflict then commenced with great fury on both sides; but Parravicin, in spite of his passion, observed far more caution than his antagonist; and, taking advantage of an unguarded movement, occasioned by the other's impetuosity, passed his sword through his body. Disbrowe fell. "You are again successful," he groaned, "but save my wife--save her." "What mean you?" cried Parravicin, leaning over him, as he wiped his sword. But Disbrowe could make no answer. His utterance was choked by a sudden effusion of blood on the lungs, and he instantly expired. Leaving the body in care of the second, Parravicin and his friends returned to the coach, where the major rejoiced greatly at the issue of the duel; but the knight looked grave, and pondered upon the words of the dying man. After a time, however, he recovered his spirits, and dined with his friends at the Smyrna; but they observed that he drank more deeply than usual. His excesses did not, however, prevent him from playing with his usual skill, and he won a large sum from Rochester at hazard. Flushed with success, and heated with wine, he walked up to Disbrowe's residence about an hour after midnight. As he approached the house, he observed a strangely-shaped cart at the door, and, halting for a moment, saw a body, wrapped in a shroud, brought out. Could it be Mrs. Disbrowe? Rushing forward, to one of the assistants in black cloaks--and who was no other than Chowles--he asked whom he was about to inter. "It is a Mrs. Disbrowe," replied the coffin-maker. "She died of grief, because her husband was killed this morning in a duel; but as she had the plague, it must be put down to that. We are not particular in such matters, and shall bury her and her husband together; and as there is no money left to pay for coffins, they must go to the grave without them. What, ho! Mother Malmayns, let Jonas have the captain as soon as you have stripped him. I must be starting." And as the body of his victim was brought forth, Parravicin fell against the wall in a state almost of stupefaction. At this moment Solomon Eagle, with his brazier on his head, suddenly turned the corner of the street, and stationing himself before the dead-cart, cried in a voice of thunder, "Woe to the libertine! woe to the homicide! for he shall perish in everlasting fire! Woe! woe!" BOOK THE SECOND. MAY, 1665. I. PROGRESS OF THE PESTILENCE. Towards the middle of May, the bills of mortality began to swell greatly in amount, and though but few were put down to the plague, and a large number to the spotted fever (another frightful disorder raging at the period), it is well known that the bulk had died of the former disease. The rigorous measures adopted by the authorities (whether salutary or not has been questioned), in shutting up houses and confining the sick and sound within them for forty days, were found so intolerable, that most persons were disposed to run any risk rather than be subjected to such a grievance, and every artifice was resorted to for concealing a case when it occurred. Hence, it seldom happened, unless by accident, that a discovery was made. Quack doctors were secretly consulted, instead of the regular practitioners; the searchers were bribed to silence; and large fees were given to the undertakers and buriers to lay the deaths to the account of some other disorder. All this, however, did not blind the eyes of the officers to the real state of things. Redoubling their vigilance, they entered houses on mere suspicion; inflicted punishments where they found their orders disobeyed or neglected; sent the sound to prison,--the sick to the pest-house; and replaced the faithless searchers by others upon whom they could place reliance. Many cases were thus detected; but in spite of every precaution, the majority escaped; and the vent was no sooner stopped in one quarter than it broke out with additional violence in another. By this time the alarm had become general. All whose business or pursuits permitted it, prepared to leave London, which they regarded as a devoted city, without delay. As many houses were, therefore, closed from the absence of the inhabitants as from the presence of the plague, and this added to the forlorn appearance of the streets, which in some quarters were almost deserted. For a while, nothing was seen at the great outlets of the city but carts, carriages, and other vehicles, filled with goods and movables, on their way to the country; and, as may be supposed, the departure of their friends did not tend to abate the dejection of those whose affairs compelled them to remain behind. One circumstance must not be passed unnoticed, namely, the continued fineness and beauty of the weather. No rain had fallen for upwards of three weeks. The sky was bright and cloudless; the atmosphere, apparently, pure and innoxious; while the heat was as great as is generally experienced in the middle of summer. But instead of producing its usual enlivening effect on the spirits, the fine weather added to the general gloom and apprehension, inasmuch as it led to the belief (afterwards fully confirmed), that if the present warmth was so pernicious, the more sultry seasons which were near at hand would aggravate the fury of the pestilence. Sometimes, indeed, when the deaths were less numerous, a hope began to be entertained that the distemper was abating, and confidence was for a moment restored; but these anticipations were speedily checked by the reappearance of the scourge, which seemed to baffle and deride all human skill and foresight. London now presented a lamentable spectacle. Not a street but had a house in it marked with a red cross--some streets had many such. The bells were continually tolling for burials, and the dead-carts went their melancholy rounds at night and were constantly loaded. Fresh directions were issued by the authorities; and as domestic animals were considered to be a medium of conveying the infection, an order, which was immediately carried into effect, was given to destroy all dogs and cats. But this plan proved prejudicial rather than the reverse, as the bodies of the poor animals, most of which were drowned in the Thames, being washed ashore, produced a horrible and noxious effluvium, supposed to contribute materially to the propagation of the distemper. No precautionary measure was neglected; but it may be doubted whether any human interference could have averted the severity of the scourge, which, though its progress might be checked for a few days by attention, or increased in the same ratio by neglect, would in the end have unquestionably fulfilled its mission. The College of Physicians, by the king's command, issued simple and intelligible directions, in the mother tongue, for the sick. Certain of their number, amongst whom was the reader's acquaintance, Doctor Hodges, were appointed to attend the infected; and two out of the Court of Aldermen were required to see that they duly executed their dangerous office. Public prayers and a general fast were likewise enjoined. But Heaven seemed deaf to the supplications of the doomed inhabitants--their prayers being followed by a fearful increase of deaths. A vast crowd was collected within Saint Paul's to hear a sermon preached by Doctor Sheldon, Archbishop of Canterbury,--a prelate greatly distinguished during the whole course of the visitation, by his unremitting charity and attention to the sick; and before the discourse was concluded, several fell down within the sacred walls, and, on being conveyed to their own homes, were found to be infected. On the following day, too, many others who had been present were seized with the disorder. A fresh impulse was given to the pestilence from an unlooked for cause. It has been mentioned that the shutting up of houses and seclusion of the sick were regarded as an intolerable grievance, and though most were compelled to submit to it, some few resisted, and tumults and disturbances ensued. As the plague increased, these disturbances became more frequent, and the mob always taking part against the officers, they were frequently interrupted in the execution of their duty. About this time a more serious affray than usual occurred, attended-with loss of life and other unfortunate consequences, which it may be worth while to relate, as illustrative of the peculiar state of the times. The wife of a merchant, named Barcroft, residing in Lothbury, being attacked by the plague, the husband, fearing his house would be shut up, withheld all information from the examiners and searchers. His wife died, and immediately afterwards one of his children was attacked. Still he refused to give notice. The matter, however, got wind. The searchers arrived at night, and being refused admittance, they broke into the house. Finding undoubted evidence of infection, they ordered it to be closed, stationed a watchman at the door, and marked it with the fatal sign. Barcroft remonstrated against their proceedings, but in vain. They told him he might think himself well off that he was not carried before the Lord Mayor, who would undoubtedly send him to Ludgate; and with other threats to the like effect, they departed. The unfortunate man's wife and child were removed the following night in the dead-cart, and, driven half-mad by grief and terror, he broke open the door of his dwelling, and, plunging a sword in the watchman's breast, who opposed his flight, gained the street. A party of the watch happened to be passing at the time, and the fugitive was instantly secured. He made a great clamour, however,--calling to his neighbours and the bystanders to rescue him, and in another moment the watch was beaten off, and Barcroft placed on a post, whence he harangued his preservers on the severe restraints imposed upon the citizens, urging them to assist in throwing open the doors of all infected houses, and allowing free egress to their inmates. Greedily listening to this insane counsel, the mob resolved to act upon it. Headed by the merchant, they ran down Thread-needle-street, and, crossing Stock's Market, burst open several houses in Bearbinder-lane, and drove away the watchmen. One man, more courageous than the others, tried to maintain his post, and was so severely handled by his assailants, that he died a few days afterwards of the injuries he had received. Most of those who had been imprisoned within their dwellings immediately issued forth, and joining the mob, which received fresh recruits each moment, started on the same errand. Loud shouts were now raised of--"Open the doors! No plague prisoners! No plague prisoners!" and the mob set off along the Poultry. They halted, however, before the Great Conduit, near the end of Bucklersbury, and opposite Mercer's Hall, because they perceived a company of the Train-bands advancing to meet them. A council of war was held, and many of the rabble were disposed to fly; but Barcroft again urged them to proceed, and they were unexpectedly added by Solomon Eagle, who, bursting through their ranks, with his brazier on his head, crying, "Awake! sleepers, awake! the plague is at your doors! awake!" speeded towards the Train-bands, scattering sparks of fire as he pursued his swift career. The mob instantly followed, and, adding their shouts to his outcries, dashed on with such fury that the Train-bands did not dare to oppose them, and, after a slight and ineffectual resistance, were put to rout. Barcroft, who acted as leader, informed them that there was a house in Wood-street shut up, and the crowd accompanied him thither. In a few minutes they had reached Bloundel's shop, but finding no one on guard--for the watchman, guessing their errand, had taken to his heels--they smeared over the fatal cross and inscription with a pail of mud gathered from the neighbouring kennel, and then broke open the door. The grocer and his apprentice hearing the disturbance, and being greatly alarmed at it, hurried to the shop, and found it full of people. "You are at liberty Mr. Bloundel," cried the merchant, who was acquainted with the grocer. "We are determined no longer to let our families be imprisoned at the pleasure of the Lord Mayor and aldermen. We mean to break open all the plague houses, and set free their inmates." "For Heaven's sake, consider what you are about, Mr. Barcroft," cried the grocer. "My house has been closed for nearly a month. Nay, as my son has entirely recovered, and received his certificate of health from Doctor Hodges, it would have been opened in three days hence by the officers; so that I have suffered all the inconvenience of the confinement, and can speak to it. It is no doubt very irksome, and may be almost intolerable to persons of an impatient temperament: but I firmly believe it is the only means to check the progress of contagion. Listen to me, Mr. Barcroft--listen to me, good friends, and hesitate before you violate laws which have been made expressly to meet this terrible emergency." Here he was checked by loud groans and upbraidings from the bystanders. "He tells you himself that the period of his confinement is just over," cried Barcroft. "It is plain he has no interest in the matter, except that he would have others suffer as he has done. Heed him not, my friends; but proceed with the good work. Liberate the poor plague prisoners. Liberate them. On! on!" "Forbear, rash men," cried Bloundel, in an authoritative voice. "In the name of those you are bound to obey, I command you to desist." "Command us!" cried one of the bystanders, raising his staff in a menacing manner. "Is this your gratitude for the favour we have just conferred upon you? Command us, forsooth! You had better repeat the order, and see how it will be obeyed." "I _do_ repeat it," rejoined the grocer, firmly. "In the Lord Mayor's name, I command you to desist, and return to your homes." The man would have struck him with his staff, if he had not been himself felled to the ground by Leonard. This was the signal for greater outrage. The grocer and his apprentice were instantly assailed by several others of the mob, who, leaving them both on the floor covered with bruises, helped themselves to all they could lay hands on in the shop, and then quitted the premises. It is scarcely necessary to track their course further; and it may be sufficient to state, that they broke open upwards of fifty houses in different streets. Many of the plague-stricken joined them, and several half-naked creatures were found dead in the streets on the following morning. Two houses in Blackfriars-lane were set on fire, and the conflagration was with difficulty checked; nor was it until late on the following day that the mob could be entirely dispersed. The originator of the disturbance, Barcroft, after a desperate resistance, was shot through the head by a constable. The result of this riot, as will be easily foreseen, was greatly to increase the pestilence; and many of those who had been most active in it perished in prison of the distemper. Far from being discouraged by the opposition offered to their decrees, the city authorities enforced them with greater rigour than ever, and, doubling the number of the watch, again shut up all those houses which had been broken open during the late tumult. Bloundel received a visit from the Lord Mayor, Sir John Lawrence, who, having been informed of his conduct, came to express his high approval of it, offering to remit the few days yet unexpired of his quarantine. The grocer, however, declined the offer, and with renewed expressions of approbation, Sir John Lawrence took his leave. Three days afterwards, the Examiner of Health pronounced the grocer's house free from infection. The fatal mark was obliterated from the door; the shutters were unfastened; and Bloundel resumed his business as usual. Words are inadequate to describe the delight that filled the breast of every member of his family, on their first meeting after their long separation. It took place in the room adjoining the shop. Mrs. Bloundel received the joyful summons from Leonard, and, on descending with her children, found her husband and her son Stephen anxiously expecting her. Scarcely able to make up her mind as to which of the two she should embrace first, Mrs. Bloundel was decided by the pale countenance of her son, and rushing towards him, she strained him to her breast, while Amabel flew to her father's arms. The grocer could not repress his tears; but they were tears of joy, and that night's happiness made him ample amends for all the anxiety he had recently undergone. "Well, Stephen, my dear child," said his mother, as soon as the first tumult of emotion had subsided,--"well, Stephen," she said, smiling at him through her tears, and almost smothering him with kisses, "you are not so much altered as I expected; and I do not think, if I had had the care of you, I could have nursed you better myself. You owe your father a second life, and we all owe him the deepest gratitude for the care he has taken of you." "I can never be sufficiently grateful for his kindness," returned Stephen, affectionately. "Give thanks to the beneficent Being who has preserved you from this great danger, my son, not to me," returned Bloundel. "The first moments of our reunion should be worthily employed." So saying, he summoned the household, and, for the first time for a month, the whole family party assembled, as before, at prayer. Never were thanksgivings more earnestly, more devoutly uttered. All arose with bright and cheerful countenances; and even Blaize seemed to have shaken off his habitual dread of the pestilence. As he retired with Patience, he observed to her, "Master Stephen looks quite well, though a little thinner. I must ascertain from him the exact course of treatment pursued by his father. I wonder whether Mr. Bloundel would nurse _me_ if I were to be suddenly seized with the distemper?" "If he wouldn't, I _would_," replied Patience. "Thank you, thank you," replied Blaize. "I begin to think we shall get through it. I shall go out to-morrow and examine the bills of mortality, and see what progress the plague is making. I am all anxiety to know. I must get a fresh supply of medicine, too. My private store is quite gone, except three of my favourite rufuses, which I shall take before I go to bed to-night. Unluckily, my purse is as empty as my phials." "I can lend you a little money," said Patience. "I haven't touched my last year's wages. They are quite at your service." "You are too good," replied Blaize; "but I won't decline the offer. I heard a man crying a new anti-pestilential elixir, as he passed the house yesterday. I must find him out and buy a bottle. Besides, I must call on my friend Parkhurst, the apothecary.--You are a good girl, Patience, and I'll marry you as soon as the plague ceases." "I have something else to give you," rejoined Patience. "This little bag contains a hazel-nut, from which I have picked the kernel, and filled its place with quicksilver, stopping the hole with wax. Wear it round your neck, and you will find it a certain preservative against the pestilence." "Who told you of this remedy?" asked Blaize, taking the bag. "Your mother," returned Patience. "I wonder I never heard of it," said the porter. "She wouldn't mention it to you, because the doctor advised her not to put such matters into your head," replied Patience. "But I couldn't help indulging you. Heigho! I hope the plague will soon be over." "It won't be over for six months," rejoined Blaize, shaking his head. "I read in a little book, published in 1593, in Queen Elizabeth's reign, and written by Simon Kelway, 'that when little children flock together, and pretend that some of their number are dead, solemnizing the burial in a mournful sort, it is a certain token that a great mortality is at hand.' This I have myself seen more than once. Again, just before the great sickness of 1625, the churchyard wall of St. Andrew's, Holborn, fell down. I need not tell you that the same thing occurred after the frost this winter." "I heard of it," replied Patience: "but I did not know it was a bad sign." "It is a dreadful sign," returned Blaize, with a shudder "The thought of it brings back my old symptoms. I must have a supper to guard against infection--a slice of toasted bread, sprinkled with vinegar, and powdered with nutmeg." And chattering thus, they proceeded to the kitchen. Before supper could be served, Dr. Hodges made his appearance. He was delighted to see the family assembled together again, and expressed a hearty wish that they might never more be divided. He watched Amabel and Leonard carefully, and seemed annoyed that the former rather shunned than favoured the regards of the apprentice. Leonard, too, looked disconcerted; and though he was in possession of his mistress's promise, he did not like to reclaim it. During the whole of the month, he had been constantly on the watch, and had scarcely slept at night, so anxious was he to prevent the possibility of any communication taking place between Rochester and his mistress. But, in spite of all his caution, it was possible he might be deceived. And when on this, their first meeting, she returned his anxious gaze with averted looks, he felt all his jealous misgivings return. Supper, meanwhile, proceeded. Doctor Hodges was in excellent spirits, and drank a bottle of old sack with great relish. Overcome by the sight of his wife and children, the grocer abandoned himself to his feelings. As to his wife, she could scarcely contain herself, but wept and laughed by turns--now embracing her husband, now her son, between whom she had placed herself. Nor did she forget Doctor Hodges; and such was the exuberance of her satisfaction, that when the repast was ended, she arose, and, flinging her arms about his neck, termed him the preserver of her son. "If any one is entitled to that appellation it is his father," replied Hodges, "and I may say, that in all my experience I have never witnessed such generous self-devotion as Mr. Bloundel has exhibited towards his son. You must now be satisfied, madam, that no person can so well judge what is proper for the safety of his family as your husband." "I never doubted it, sir," replied Mrs. Bloundel. "I must apprise you, then, that he has conceived a plan by which he trusts to secure you and his children and household from any future attack," returned Hodges. "I care not what it is, so it does not separate me from him," replied Mrs. Bloundel. "It does not," replied the grocer. "It will knit us more closely together than we have yet been. I mean to shut up my house, having previously stored it with provisions for a twelvemonth, and shall suffer no member of my family to stir forth as long as the plague endures." "I am ready to remain within doors, if it continues twenty years," replied his wife. "But how long do you think it _will_ last, doctor?" "Till next December, I have no doubt," returned Hodges. "So long?" exclaimed Amabel. "Ay, so long," repeated the doctor. "It has scarcely begun now. Your father is right to adopt these precautions. It is the only way to insure the safety of his family." "But----" cried Amabel. "I am resolved," interrupted Bloundel, peremptorily. "Who ever leaves the house--if but for a moment--never returns." "And when do you close it, father?" asked Amabel. "A week hence," replied the grocer; "as soon as I have laid in a sufficient stock of provisions." "And am I not to leave the house for a year?" cried Amabel, with a dissatisfied look. "Why should you wish to leave it?" asked her father, curiously. "Ay, why?" repeated Leonard, in a low tone. "I shall be here." Amabel seemed confused, and looked from her father to Leonard. The former, however, did not notice her embarrassment, but observed to Hodges--"I shall begin to victual the house to-morrow." "Amabel," whispered Leonard, "you told me if I claimed your hand in a month, you would yield it to me. I require the fulfilment of your promise." "Give me till to-morrow," she replied, distractedly. "She has seen Rochester," muttered the apprentice, turning away. II. IN WHAT MANNER THE GROCER VICTUALLED HIS HOUSE. Leonard Holt was wrong in his suspicions. Amabel had neither seen nor heard from Rochester. But, if the truth must be told, he was never out of her mind, and she found, to her cost, that the heart will not be controlled. Convinced of her noble lover's perfidy, and aware she was acting wrongfully in cherishing a passion for him, after the exposure of his base designs towards herself, no reasoning of which she was capable could banish him from her thoughts, or enable her to transfer her affections to the apprentice. This conflict of feeling produced its natural result. She became thoughtful and dejected--was often in tears--had no appetite--and could scarcely rouse herself sufficiently to undertake any sort of employment. Her mother watched her with great anxiety, and feared--though she sought to disguise it from herself--what was the real cause of her despondency. Things were in this position at the end of the month, and it occasioned no surprise to Mrs. Bloundel, though it afflicted her deeply, to find that Amabel sedulously avoided the apprentice's regards on their first meeting. When Doctor Hodges was gone, and the rest of the family had retired, she remarked to her husband, "Before you shut up the house as you propose, I should, wish one important matter settled." The grocer inquired what she meant. "I should wish to have Amabel married," was the answer. "Married!" exclaimed Bloundel, in astonishment. "To whom?" "To Leonard Holt." Bloundel could scarcely repress his displeasure. "It will be time enough to talk of that a year hence," he answered. "I don't think so," returned his wife; "and now, since the proper time for the disclosure of the secret has arrived, I must tell you that the gallant who called himself Maurice Wyvil, and whom you so much dreaded, was no other than the Earl of Rochester." "Rochester!" echoed the grocer, while an angry flush stained his cheek; "has that libertine dared to enter my house?" "Ay, and more than once," replied Mrs. Bloundel. "Indeed!" cried her husband, with difficulty controlling his indignation. "When was he here?--tell me quickly." His wife then proceeded to relate all that had occurred, and he listened with profound attention to her recital. At its close, he arose and paced the chamber for some time in great agitation. At length he suddenly paused, and, regarding his wife with great sternness, observed, in a severe tone, "You have done very wrong in concealing this from me, Honora--very wrong." "If I have erred, it was to spare you uneasiness," returned Mrs. Bloundel, bursting into tears. "Doctor Hodges agreed with me that it was better not to mention the subject while you had so many other anxieties pressing upon you." "I have a stout heart, and a firm reliance on the goodness of Heaven, which will enable me to bear up against most evils," returned the grocer. "But on this point I ought, under any circumstances, to have been consulted. And I am greatly surprised that Doctor Hodges should advise the contrary." "He was influenced, like myself, by the kindliest feelings towards you," sobbed Mrs. Bloundel. "Well, well, I will not reproach you further," returned the grocer, somewhat moved by her tears. "I have no doubt you conceived you were acting for the best. But I must caution you against such conduct for the future." After a pause, he added, "Is it your opinion that our poor deluded child still entertains any regard for this profligate nobleman?" "I am sure she does," replied Mrs. Bloundel; "and it is from that conviction that I so strongly urge the necessity of marrying her to Leonard Holt." "I will never compel her to do anything to endanger her future happiness," returned the grocer. "She must not marry Leonard Holt without loving him. It is better to risk an uncertain evil, than to rush upon a certain one." "Then I won't answer for the consequences," replied his wife. "What!" cried Bloundel; "am I to understand you have no reliance on Amabel? Has all our care been thrown away?" "I do not distrust her," returned Mrs. Bloundel; "but consider whom she has to deal with. She is beset by the handsomest and most fascinating man of the day--by one understood to be practised in all the arts most dangerous to our sex--and a nobleman to boot. Some allowance must be made for her." "I will make none," rejoined Bloundel, austerely. "She has been taught to resist temptation in whatever guise it may present itself; and if the principles I have endeavoured to implant within her breast had found lodgment there, she _would_ have resisted it. I am deeply grieved to find this is not the case, and that she must trust to others for protection, when she ought to be able to defend herself." The subject was not further discussed, and the grocer and his wife shortly afterwards retired to rest. On the following morning, Bloundel remarked to the apprentice as they stood together in the shop, "Leonard, you are aware I am about to shut up my house. Before doing so, I must make certain needful arrangements. I will not disguise from you that I should prefer your remaining with me, but at the same time I beg you distinctly to understand that I will not detain you against your will. Your articles are within two months of expiring; and, if you desire it, I will deliver them to you to-morrow, and release you from the rest of your time." "I do not desire it, sir," replied Leonard; "I will remain as long as I can be serviceable to you." "Take time for reflection," rejoined his master, kindly. "In all probability, it will be a long confinement, and you may repent, when too late, having subjected yourself to it." "Last month's experience has taught me what I have to expect," remarked Leonard, with a smile. "My mind is made up, I will stay with you." "I am glad of it," returned Bloundel, "and now I have something further to say to you. My wife has acquainted me with the daring attempt of the Earl of Rochester to carry off Amabel." "Has my mistress, also, told you of my attachment to your daughter?" demanded Leonard, trembling, in spite of his efforts to maintain a show of calmness. Bloundel nodded an affirmative. "And of Amabel's promise to bestow her hand upon me, if I claimed it at the month's end?" continued the apprentice. "No!" replied the grocer, a good deal surprised--"I heard of no such promise. Nor was I aware the matter had gone so far. But have you claimed it?" "I have," replied Leonard; "but she declined giving an answer till to-day." "We will have it, then, at once," cried Bloundel "Come with me to her." So saying, he led the way to the inner room, where they found Amabel and her mother. At the sight of Leonard, the former instantly cast down her eyes. "Amabel," said her father, in a tone of greater severity than he had ever before used towards her, "all that has passed is known to me. I shall take another and more fitting opportunity to speak to you on your ill-advised conduct. I am come for a different purpose. You have given Leonard Holt a promise (I need not tell you of what nature), and he claims its fulfilment." "If he insists upon my compliance," replied Amabel, in a tremulous voice, "I must obey. But it will make me wretched." "Then I at once release you," replied Leonard. "I value your happiness far more than my own." "You deserve better treatment, Leonard," said Bloundel; "and I am sorry my daughter cannot discern what is for her good. Let us hope that time will work a change in your favour." "No," replied the apprentice, bitterly; "I will no longer delude myself with any such vain expectation." "Amabel," observed the grocer, "as your father--as your wellwisher--I should desire to see you wedded to Leonard. But I have told your mother, and now tell you, that I will not control your inclinations, and will only attempt to direct you so far as I think likely to be conducive to your happiness. On another point, I must assume a very different tone. You can no longer plead ignorance of the designs of the depraved person who besets you. You may not be able to forget him--but you can avoid him. If you see him alone again--if but for a moment--I cast you off for ever. Yes, for ever," he repeated, with stern emphasis. "I will never voluntarily see him again," replied Amabel, tremblingly. "You have heard my determination," rejoined her father. "Do you still adhere to your resolution of remaining with me, Leonard?" he added, turning to the apprentice. "If what has just passed makes any alteration in your wishes, state so, frankly." "I will stay," replied Leonard. "There will be one advantage, which I did not foresee, in closing my house," remarked the grocer aside to the apprentice. "It will effectually keep away this libertine earl." "Perhaps so," replied the other. "But I have more faith in my own vigilance than in bolts and bars." Bloundel and Leonard then returned to the shop, where the former immediately began to make preparations for storing his house; and in the prosecution of his scheme he was greatly aided by the apprentice. The grocer's dwelling, as has been stated, was large and commodious. It was three stories high; and beneath the ground-floor there were kitchens and extensive cellars. Many of the rooms were spacious, and had curiously carved fireplaces, walls pannelled with fine brown oak, large presses, and cupboards. In the yard, at the back of the house, there was a pump, from which excellent water was obtained. There were likewise three large cisterns, supplied from the New River. Not satisfied with this, and anxious to obtain water in which no infected body could have lain, or clothes have been washed, Bloundel had a large tank placed within the cellar, and connecting it by pipes with the pump, he contrived an ingenious machine, by which he could work the latter from within the house--thus making sure of a constant supply of water direct from the spring. He next addressed himself to the front of the house, where he fixed a pulley, with a rope and hook attached to it, to the beam above one of the smaller bay windows on the second story. By this means, he could let down a basket or any other article into the street, or draw up whatever he desired; and as he proposed using this outlet as the sole means of communication with the external world when his house was closed, he had a wooden shutter made in the form of a trap-door, which he could open and shut at pleasure. Here it was his intention to station himself at certain hours of the day, and whenever he held any communication below, to flash off a pistol, so that the smoke of the powder might drive back the air, and purify any vapour that found entrance of its noxious particles. He laid down to himself a number of regulations, which will be more easily shown and more clearly understood, on arriving at the period when his plans came to be in full operation. To give an instance, however--if a letter should be conveyed to him by means of the pulley, he proposed to steep it in a solution of vinegar and sulphur; and when dried and otherwise fumigated, to read it at a distance by the help of strong glasses. In regard to provisions, after a careful calculation, he bought upwards of three thousand pounds' weight of hard sea-biscuits, similar to those now termed captain's biscuits, and had them stowed away in hogsheads. He next ordered twenty huge casks of the finest flour, which he had packed up with the greatest care, as if for a voyage to Barbadoes or Jamaica. As these were brought in through the yard an accident had well-nigh occurred which might have proved fatal to him. While superintending the labours of Leonard and Blaize, who were rolling the casks into the house--having stowed away as many as he conveniently could in the upper part of the premises--he descended to the cellar, and, opening a door at the foot of a flight of steps leading from the yard, called to them to lower the remaining barrels with ropes below. In the hurry, Blaize rolled a cask towards the open door, and in another instant it would have fallen upon the grocer, and perhaps have crushed him, but for the interposition of Leonard. Bloundel made no remark at the time; but he never forgot the service rendered him by the apprentice. To bake the bread required an oven, and he accordingly built one in the garret, laying in a large stock of wood for fuel. Neither did he neglect to provide himself with two casks of meal. But the most important consideration was butcher's meat; and for this purpose he went to Rotherhithe, where the plague had not yet appeared, and agreed with a butcher to kill him four fat bullocks, and pickle and barrel them as if for sea stores. He likewise directed the man to provide six large barrels of pickled pork, on the same understanding. These were landed at Queenhithe, and brought up to Wood-street, so that they passed for newly-landed grocery. Hams and bacon forming part of his own trade, he wrote to certain farmers with whom he was in the habit of dealing, to send him up an unlimited supply of flitches and gammons; and his orders being promptly and abundantly answered, he soon found he had more bacon than he could possibly consume. He likewise laid in a good store of tongues, hung beef, and other dried meats. As to wine, he already had a tolerable stock; but he increased it by half a hogshead of the best canary he could procure; two casks of malmsey, each containing twelve gallons; a quarter-cask of Malaga sack; a runlet of muscadine; two small runlets of aqua vitae; twenty gallons of aniseed water; and two eight-gallon runlets of brandy. To this he added six hogsheads of strongly-hopped Kent ale, calculated for keeping, which he placed in a cool cellar, together with three hogsheads of beer, for immediate use. Furthermore, he procured a variety of distilled waters for medicinal purposes, amongst which he included a couple of dozen of the then fashionable and costly preparation, denominated plague-water. As, notwithstanding all his precautions, it was not impossible that some of his household might be attacked by the distemper, he took care to provide proper remedies, and, to Blaize's infinite delight, furnished himself with mithridates, Venice treacle, diascorium, the pill rufus (oh! how the porter longed to have the key of the medicine chest!), London treacle, turpentine, and other matters. He likewise collected a number of herbs and simples; as Virginian snakeweed, contrajerva, pestilence-wort, angelica, elecampane, zedoary, tormentil, valerian, lovage, devils-bit, dittany, master-wort, rue, sage, ivy-berries, and walnuts; together with bole ammoniac, terra sigillata, bezoar-water, oil of sulphur, oil of vitriol, and other compounds. His store of remedies was completed by a tun of the best white-wine vinegar, and a dozen jars of salad-oil. Regulating his supplies by the provisions he had laid in, he purchased a sufficient stock of coals and fagots to last him during the whole period of his confinement; and he added a small barrel of gunpowder, and a like quantity of sulphur for fumigation. His eatables would not have been complete without cheese; and he therefore ordered about six hundredweight from Derbyshire, Wiltshire, and Leicestershire, besides a couple of large old cheeses from Rostherne, in Cheshire--even then noted for the best dairies in the whole county. Several tubs of salted butter were sent him out of Berkshire, and a few pots, from Suffolk. It being indispensable, considering the long period he meant to close his house, to provide himself and his family with every necessary, he procured a sufficient stock of wearing apparel, hose, shoes and boots. Spice, dried fruit, and other grocery articles, were not required, because he already possessed them. Candles also formed an article of his trade, and lamp-oil; but he was recommended by Doctor Hodges, from a fear of the scurvy, to provide a plentiful supply of lemon and lime juice. To guard against accident, he also doubly stocked his house with glass, earthenware, and every article liable to breakage. He destroyed all vermin, such as rats and mice, by which the house was infested; and the only live creatures he would suffer to be kept were a few poultry. He had a small hutch constructed near the street-door, to be used by the watchman he meant to employ; and he had the garrets fitted up with beds to form an hospital, if any part of the family should be seized with the distemper, so that the sick might be sequestered from the sound. * * * * * III. THE QUACK DOCTORS. Patience, it may be remembered, had promised Blaize to give him her earnings to enable him to procure a fresh supply of medicine, and about a week after he had received the trifling amount (for he had been so constantly employed by the grocer that he had no opportunity of getting out before), he sallied forth to visit a neighbouring apothecary, named Parkhurst, from whom he had been in the habit of purchasing drugs, and who occupied a small shop not far from the grocer's, on the opposite side of the street. Parkhurst appeared overjoyed to see him, and, without giving him time to prefer his own request, inquired after his master's family--whether they were all well, especially fair Mistress Amabel--and, further, what was the meaning of the large supplies of provision which he saw daily conveyed to the premises? Blaize shook his head at the latter question, and for some time refused to answer it. But being closely pressed by Parkhurst, he admitted that his master was about to shut up his house. "Shut up his house!" exclaimed Parkhurst. "I never heard of such a preposterous idea. If he does so, not one of you will come out alive. But I should hope that he will be dissuaded from his rash design." "Dissuaded!" echoed Blaize. "You don't know my master. He's as obstinate as a mule when he takes a thing into his head. Nothing will turn him. Besides, Doctor Hodges sanctions and even recommends the plan." "I have no opinion of Doctor Hodges," sneered the apothecary. "He is not fit to hold a candle before a learned friend of mine, a physician, who is now in that room. The person I speak of thoroughly understands the pestilence, and never fails to cure every case that comes before him. No shutting up houses with him. He is in possession of an infallible remedy." "Indeed!" exclaimed Blaize, pricking up his ears. "What is his name?" "His name!" cried Parkhurst, with a puzzled look. "How strange it should slip my memory! Ah, now I recollect. It is Doctor Calixtus Bottesham." "A singular name, truly," remarked Blaize; "but it sounds like that of a clever man." "Doctor Calixtus Bottesham is a wonderful man," returned the apothecary. "I have never met with his like. I would trumpet forth his merits through the whole city, but that it would ruin my trade. The plague is our harvest, as my friend Chowles, the coffin-maker, says, and it will not do to stop it--ha! ha!" "It is too serious a subject to laugh at," returned Blaize, gravely. "But are the doctor's fees exorbitant?" "To the last degree," replied Parkhurst. "I am afraid to state how much he asks." "I fear I shall not be able to consult him, then," said Blaize, turning over the coin in his pocket; "and yet I should greatly like to do so." "Have no fear on that score," returned the apothecary. "I have been able to render him an important service, and he will do anything for me. He shall give you his advice gratis." "Thank you! thank you!" cried Blaize, transported with delight. "Wait here a moment, and I will ascertain whether he will see you," replied Parkhurst. So saying, he quitted the porter, who amused himself during his absence by studying the labels affixed to the jars and bottles on the shelves. He had much ado to restrain himself from opening some of them, and tasting their contents. Full a quarter of an hour elapsed before the apothecary appeared. "I am sorry to have detained you so long," he said; "but I had more difficulty with the doctor than I expected, and for some time he refused to see you on any terms, because he has a violent antipathy to Doctor Hodges, whom he regards as a mere pretender, and whose patient he conceives you to be." "I am not Doctor Hodges' patient," returned Blaize; "and I regard him as a pretender myself." "That opinion will recommend you to Doctor Bottesham," replied Parkhurst; "and since I have smoothed the way for you, you will find him very affable and condescending. He has often heard me speak of your master; and if it were not for his dislike of Doctor Hodges, whom he might accidentally encounter, he would call upon him." "I wish I could get my master to employ him instead of the other," said Blaize. "I wish so too," cried Parkhurst, eagerly. "Do you think it could be managed?" "I fear not," returned Blaize. "There would be no harm in making the trial," replied Parkhurst. "But you shall now see the learned gentleman. I ought to apprise you that he has two friends with him--one a young gallant, named Hawkswood, whom he has recently cured of the distemper, and who is so much attached to him that he never leaves him; the other, a doctor, like himself, named Martin Furbisher, who always accompanies him in his visits to his patients, and prepares his mixtures for him. You must not be surprised at their appearance. And now come with me." With this, he led the way into a small room at the back of the shop, where three personages were seated at the table, with a flask of wine and glasses before them. Blaize detected Doctor Bottesham at a glance. He was an ancient-looking man, clad in a suit of rusty black, over which was thrown a velvet robe, very much soiled and faded, but originally trimmed with fur, and lined with yellow silk. His powers of vision appeared to be feeble, for he wore a large green shade over his eyes, and a pair of spectacles of the same colour. A venerable white beard descended almost to his waist. His head was protected by a long flowing grey wig, over which he wore a black velvet cap. His shoulders were high and round, his back bent, and he evidently required support when he moved, as a crutch-headed staff was reared against his chair. On his left was a young, handsome, and richly-attired gallant, answering to the apothecary's description of Hawkswood; and on the right sat a stout personage precisely habited like himself, except that he wore a broad-leaved hat, which completely overshadowed his features. Notwithstanding this attempt at concealment, it was easy to perceive that Doctor Furbisher's face was covered with scars, that he had a rubicund nose, studded with carbuncles, and a black patch over his left eye. "Is this the young man who desires to consult me?" asked Doctor Calixtus Bottesham, in the cracked and quavering voice of old age, of Parkhurst. "It is," replied the apothecary, respectfully. "Go forward," he added to Blaize, "and speak for yourself." "What ails you?" pursued Bottesham, gazing at him through his spectacles. "You look strong and hearty." "So I am, learned sir," replied Blaize, bowing to the ground; "but understanding from Mr. Parkhurst that you have an infallible remedy against the plague, I would gladly procure it from you, as, if I should be attacked, I may not have an opportunity of consulting you." "Why not?" demanded Bottesham. "I will come to you if you send for me." "Because," replied Blaize, after a moment's hesitation, "my master is about to shut up his house, and no one will be allowed to go forth, or to enter it, till the pestilence is at an end." "Your master must be mad to think of such a thing," rejoined Bottesham. "What say you, brother Furbisher?--is that the way to keep off the plague?" "Gallipots of Galen! no," returned the other; "it is rather the way to invite its assaults." "When does your master talk of putting this fatal design--for fatal it will be to him and all his household--into execution?" demanded Bottesham. "Very shortly, I believe," replied Blaize. "He meant to begin on the first of June, but as the pestilence is less violent than it was, Doctor Hodges has induced him to defer his purpose for a few days." "Doctor Hodges!" exclaimed Bottesham, contemptuously. "It was an unfortunate day for your master when he admitted that sack-drinking impostor into his house." "I have no great opinion of his skill," replied Blaize, "but, nevertheless, it must be admitted that he cured Master Stephen in a wonderful manner." "Pshaw!" exclaimed Bottesham, "that was mere accident. I heard the particulars of the case from Parkhurst, and am satisfied the youth would have recovered without his aid. But what a barbarian Mr. Bloundel must be to think of imprisoning his family in this way!" "He certainly does not consult my inclinations in the matter," returned Blaize. "Nor those of his wife and daughter, I should imagine," continued Bottesham. "How do _they_ like it?" "I cannot exactly say," answered Blaize. "What a dreadful thing it would be if I should be attacked by the plague, and no assistance could be procured!" "It would be still more dreadful if so angelic a creature as Bloundel's daughter is represented to be--for I have never seen her--should be so seized," observed Bottesham. "I feel so much interested about her that I would do anything to preserve her from the fate with which she is menaced." "Were it not inconsistent with your years, learned sir, I might suspect you of a tenderer feeling towards her," observed Blaize, archly. "But, in good sooth, her charms are so extraordinary, that I should not be surprised at any effect they might produce." "They would produce no effect on me," replied Bottesham. "I am long past such feelings. But in regard to yourself. You say you are afraid of the plague. I will give you an electuary to drive away the panic;" and he produced a small jar, and handed it to the porter. "It is composed of conserve of roses, gillyflowers, borage, candied citron, powder of _laetificans Galeni_, Roman zedoary, doronicum, and saffron. You must take about the quantity of a large nutmeg, morning and evening." "You make me for ever your debtor, learned sir," rejoined Blaize. "What a charming mixture!" "I will also add my remedy," said Furbisher. "It is a powder compounded of crabs' eyes, burnt hartshorn, the black tops of crabs' claws, the bone from a stag's heart, unicorn's horn, and salt of vipers. You must take one or two drams--not more--in a glass of hot posset-drink, when you go to bed, and swallow another draught of the same potion to wash it down." "I will carefully observe your directions," replied Blaize, thankfully receiving the powder. "Of all things," said Bottesham, claiming the porter's attention by tapping him on the head with his cane, "take care never to be without vinegar. It is the grand specific, not merely against the plague, but against all disorders. It is food and physic, meat and medicine, drink and julep, cordial and antidote. If you formerly took it as a sauce, now take it as a remedy. To the sound it is a preservative from sickness, to the sick, a restorative to health. It is like the sword which is worn not merely for ornament, but for defence. Vinegar is my remedy against the plague. It is a simple remedy, but an effectual one. I have cured a thousand patients with it, and hope to cure a thousand more. Take vinegar with all you eat, and flavour all you drink with it. Has the plague taken away your appetite, vinegar will renew it. Is your throat ulcerated, use vinegar as a gargle. Are you disturbed with phlegmatic humours, vinegar will remove them. Is your brain laden with vapours, throw vinegar on a hot shovel, and inhale its fumes, and you will obtain instantaneous relief. Have you the headache, wet a napkin in vinegar, and apply it to your temples, and the pain will cease. In short, there is no ailment that vinegar will not cure. It is the grand panacea; and may be termed the elixir of long life." "I wonder its virtues have not been found out before," observed Blaize, innocently. "It is surprising how slow men are in discovering the most obvious truths," replied Bottesham. "But take my advice, and never be without it." "I never will," returned Blaize. "Heaven be praised, my master has just ordered in three tuns. I'll tap one of them directly." "That idea of the vinegar remedy is borrowed from Kemp's late treatise on the pestilence and its cure," muttered Furbisher. "Before you enter upon the new system, young man," he added aloud to Blaize, "let me recommend you to fortify your stomach with a glass of canary." And pouring out a bumper, he handed it to the porter, who swallowed it at a draught. "And now," said Bottesham, "to return to this mad scheme of your master's--is there no way of preventing it?" "I am aware of none," replied Blaize. "Bolts and bars!" cried Furbisher, "something must be done for the fair Amabel. We owe it to society not to permit so lovely a creature to be thus immured. What say you, Hawkswood?" he added to the gallant by his side, who had not hitherto spoken. "It would be unpardonable to permit it--quite unpardonable," replied this person. "Might not some plan be devised to remove her for a short time, and frighten him out of his project?" said Bottesham. "I would willingly assist in such a scheme. I pledge you in a bumper, young man. You appear a trusty servant." "I am so accounted, learned sir," replied Blaize, upon whose brain the wine thus plentifully bestowed began to operate--"and I may add, justly so." "You really will be doing your master a service if you can prevent him from committing this folly," rejoined Bottesham. "Let us have a bottle of burnt malmsey, with a few bruised raisins in it, Mr. Parkhurst. This poor young man requires support. Be seated, friend." With some hesitation, Blaize complied, and while the apothecary went in search of the wine, he observed to Bottesham, "I would gladly comply with your suggestion, learned sir, if I saw any means of doing so." "Could you not pretend to have the plague?" said Bottesham. "I could then attend you." "I should be afraid of playing such a trick as that," replied Blaize. "Besides, I do not see what purpose it would answer." "It would enable me to get into the house," returned Bottesham, "and then I might take measures for Amabel's deliverance." "If you merely wish to get into the house," replied Blaize, "that can be easily managed. I will admit you this evening." "Without your master's knowledge?" asked Bottesham, eagerly. "Of course," returned Blaize. "But he has an apprentice?" said the doctor. "Oh! you mean Leonard Holt," replied Blaize. "Yes, we must take care he doesn't see you. If you come about nine o'clock, he will be engaged with my master in putting away the things in the shop." "I will be punctual," replied Bottesham, "and will bring Doctor Furbisher with me. We will only stay a few minutes. But here comes the burnt malmsey. Fill the young man's glass, Parkhurst. I will insure you against the plague, if you will follow my advice." "But will you insure me against my master's displeasure, if he finds me out?" said Blaize. "I will provide you with a new one," returned Bottesham. "You shall serve me if you wish to change your place." "That would answer my purpose exactly," thought Blaize. "I need never be afraid of the plague if I live with him. I will turn over your proposal, learned sir," he added, aloud. After priming him with another bumper of malmsey, Blaise's new friends suffered him to depart. On returning home, he proceeded to his own room, and feeling unusually drowsy, he threw himself on the bed, and almost instantly dropped asleep. When he awoke, the fumes of the liquor had, in a great degree, evaporated, and he recalled, with considerable self-reproach, the promise he had given, and would gladly have recalled it, if it had been possible. But it was now not far from the appointed hour, and he momentarily expected the arrival of the two doctors. The only thing that consoled him was the store of medicine he had obtained, and, locking it up in his cupboard, he descended to the kitchen. Fortunately, his mother was from home, so that he ran no risk from her; and, finding Patience alone, after some hesitation, he let her into the secret of his anticipated visitors. She was greatly surprised, and expressed much uneasiness lest they should be discovered; as, if they were so, it would be sure to bring them both into trouble. "What can they want with Mistress Amabel?" she cried. "I should not wonder if Doctor Calixtus Bottesham, as you call him, turns out a lover in disguise." "A lover!" exclaimed Blaize. "Your silly head is always running upon lovers. He's an old man--old enough to be your grandfather, with a long white beard, reaching to his waist. He a lover! Mr. Bloundel is much more like one." "For all that, it looks suspicious," returned Patience; "and I shall have my eyes about me on their arrival." Shortly after this, Blaize crept cautiously up to the back yard, and, opening the door, found, as he expected, Bottesham and his companion. Motioning them to follow him, he led the way to the kitchen, where they arrived without observation. Patience eyed the new-comers narrowly, and felt almost certain, from their appearance and manner, that her suspicions were correct. All doubts were removed when Bottesham, slipping a purse into her hand, entreated her, on some plea or other, to induce Amabel to come into the kitchen. At first she hesitated; but having a tender heart, inclining her to assist rather than oppose the course of any love-affair, her scruples were soon overcome. Accordingly she hurried upstairs, and chancing to meet with her young mistress, who was about to retire to her own chamber, entreated her to come down with her for a moment in the kitchen. Thinking it some unimportant matter, but yet wondering why Patience should appear so urgent, Amabel complied. She was still more perplexed when she saw the two strangers, and would have instantly retired if Bottesham had not detained her. "You will pardon the liberty I have taken in sending for you," he said, "when I explain that I have done so to offer you counsel." "I am as much at a loss to understand what counsel you can have to offer, sir, as to guess why you are here," she replied. "Amabel," returned Bottesham, in a low tone, but altering his voice, and slightly raising his spectacles so as to disclose his features; "it is I--Maurice Wyvil." "Ah!" she exclaimed, in the utmost astonishment. "I told you we should meet again," he rejoined; "and I have kept my word." "Think not to deceive me, my lord," she returned, controlling her emotion by a powerful effort. "I am aware you are not Maurice Wyvil, but the Earl of Rochester. Your love is as false as your character. Mistress Mallet is the real object of your regards. You see I am acquainted with your perfidy." "Amabel, you are deceived," replied Rochester. "On my soul, you are. When I have an opportunity of explaining myself more fully, I will prove to you that I was induced by the king, for an especial purpose, to pay feigned addresses to the lady you have named. But I never loved her. You alone are the possessor of my heart, and shall be the sharer of my title. You shall be Countess of Rochester." "Could I believe you?" she cried. "You _may_ believe me," he answered. "Do not blight my hopes and your own happiness a second time. Your father is about to shut up his house for a twelvemonth, if the plague lasts so long. This done, we shall meet no more, for access to you will be impossible. Do not hesitate, or you will for ever rue your irresolution." "I know not what to do," cried Amabel, distractedly. "Then I will decide for you," replied the earl, grasping her hand. "Come!" While this was passing, Furbisher, or rather, as will be surmised, Pillichody, had taken Blaize aside, and engaged his attention by dilating upon the efficacy of a roasted onion filled with treacle in the expulsion of the plague. Patience stationed herself near the door, not with a view of interfering with the lovers, but rather of assisting them; and at the very moment that the earl seized his mistress's hand, and would have drawn her forward, she ran towards them, and hastily whispered, "Leonard Holt is coming downstairs." "Ah! I am lost!" cried Amabel. "Fear nothing," said the earl. "Keep near me, and I will soon dispose of him." As he spoke, the apprentice entered the kitchen, and, greatly surprised by the appearance of the strangers, angrily demanded from Blaize who they were. "They are two doctors come to give me advice respecting the plague," stammered the porter. "How did they get into the house?" inquired Leonard. "I let them in through the back door," replied Blaize. "Then let them out by the same way," rejoined the apprentice. "May I ask what you are doing here?" he added, to Amabel. "What is that to you, fellow?" cried Rochester, in his assumed voice. "Much, as you shall find, my lord," replied the apprentice; "for, in spite of your disguise, I know you. Quit the house instantly with your companion, or I will give the alarm, and Amabel well knows what the consequences will be." "You must go, my lord," she replied. "I will not stir unless you accompany me," said Rochester. "Then I have no alternative," rejoined Leonard. "You know your father's determination--I would willingly spare you, Amabel." "Oh, goodness! what _will_ become of us?" cried Patience--"if there isn't Mr. Bloundel coming downstairs." "Amabel," said Leonard, sternly, "the next moment decides your fate. If the earl departs, I will keep your secret." "You hear that, my lord," she cried; "I command you to leave me." And disengaging herself from him, and hastily passing her father, who at that moment entered the kitchen, she rushed upstairs. On hearing the alarm of the grocer's approach, Pillichody took refuge in a cupboard, the door of which stood invitingly open, so that Bloundel only perceived the earl. "What is the matter?" he cried, gazing around him. "Whom have we here?" "It is a quack doctor, whom Blaize has been consulting about the plague," returned Leonard. "See him instantly out of the house," rejoined the grocer, angrily, "and take care he never enters it again. I will have no such charlatans here." Leonard motioned Rochester to follow him, and the latter reluctantly obeyed. As soon as Bloundel had retired, Leonard, who had meanwhile provided himself with his cudgel, descended to the kitchen, where he dragged Pillichody from his hiding-place, and conducted him to the back door. But he did not suffer him to depart without belabouring him soundly. Locking the door, he then went in search of Blaize, and administered a similar chastisement to him. IV. THE TWO WATCHMEN. On the day following the events last related, as Leonard Holt was standing at the door of the shop,--his master having just been called out by some important business,--a man in the dress of a watchman, with a halberd in his hand, approached him, and inquired if he was Mr. Bloundel's apprentice. Before returning an answer, Leonard looked hard at the newcomer, and thought he had never beheld so ill-favoured a person before. Every feature in his face was distorted. His mouth was twisted on one side, his nose on the other, while his right eyebrow was elevated more than an inch above the left; added to which he squinted intolerably, had a long fell of straight sandy hair, a sandy beard and moustache, and a complexion of the colour of brickdust. "An ugly dog," muttered Leonard to himself, as he finished his scrutiny; "what can he want with me? Suppose I should be Mr. Bloundel's apprentice," he added, aloud, "what then, friend?" "Your master has a beautiful daughter, has he not?" asked the ill-favoured watchman. "I answer no idle questions," rejoined Leonard, coldly. "As you please," returned the other, in an offended tone. "A plan to carry her off has accidentally come to my knowledge. But, since incivility is all I am likely to get for my pains in coming to acquaint you with it, e'en find it out yourself." "Hold!" cried the apprentice, detaining him; "I meant no offence. Step indoors for a moment. We can converse there more freely." The watchman, who, notwithstanding his ill-looks, appeared to be a good-natured fellow, was easily appeased. Following the apprentice into the shop, on the promise of a handsome reward, he instantly commenced his relation. "Last night," he said, "I was keeping watch at the door of Mr. Brackley, a saddler in Aldermanbury, whose house having been attacked by the pestilence is now shut up, when I observed two persons, rather singularly attired, pass me. Both were dressed like old men, but neither their gait nor tone of voice corresponded with their garb." "It must have been the Earl of Rochester and his companion," remarked Leonard. "You are right," replied the other; "for I afterwards heard one of them addressed by that title. But to proceed. I was so much struck by the strangeness of their appearance, that I left my post for a few minutes, and followed them. They halted beneath a gateway, and, as they conversed together very earnestly, and in a loud tone, I could distinctly hear what they said. One of them, the stoutest of the two, complained bitterly of the indignities he had received from Mr. Bloundel's apprentice (meaning you, of course), averring that nothing but his devotion to his companion had induced him to submit to them; and affirming, with many tremendous oaths, that he would certainly cut the young man's throat the very first opportunity." "He shall not want it then," replied Leonard contemptuously; "neither shall he lack a second application of my cudgel when we meet. But what of his companion? What did he say?" "He laughed heartily at the other's complaints," returned the watchman, "and told him to make himself easy, for he should soon have his revenge. 'To-morrow night,' he said, 'we will carry off Amabel, in spite of the apprentice or her father; and, as I am equally indebted with yourself to the latter, we will pay off old scores with him.'" "How do they intend to effect their purpose?" demanded Leonard. "That I cannot precisely tell," replied the watchman. "All I could hear was, that they meant to enter the house by the back yard about midnight. And now, if you will make it worth my while, I will help you to catch them in their own trap." "Hum!" said Leonard. "What is your name?" "Gregory Swindlehurst," replied the other. "To help me, you must keep watch with me to-night," rejoined Leonard. "Can you do so?" "I see nothing to hinder me, provided I am paid for my trouble," replied Gregory. "I will find some one to take my place at Mr. Brackley's. At what hour shall I come?" "Soon after ten," said Leonard. "Be at the shop-door, and I will let you in." "Count upon me," rejoined Gregory, a smile of satisfaction illumining his ill-favoured countenance. "Shall I bring a comrade with me? I know a trusty fellow who would like the job. If Lord Rochester should have his companions with him, assistance will be required." "True," replied Leonard. "Is your comrade a watchman, like yourself?" "He is an old soldier, who has been lately employed to keep guard over infected houses," replied Gregory. "We must take care his lordship does not overreach us." "If he gets into the house without my knowledge, I will forgive him," replied the apprentice. "He won't get into it without mine," muttered Gregory, significantly. "But do you not mean to warn Mistress Amabel of her danger?" "I shall consider of it," replied the apprentice. At this moment Mr. Bloundel entered the shop, and Leonard, feigning to supply his companion with a small packet of grocery, desired him, in a low tone, to be punctual to his appointment, and dismissed him. In justice to the apprentice, it must be stated that he had no wish for concealment, but was most anxious to acquaint his master with the information he had just obtained, and was only deterred from doing so by a dread of the consequences it might produce to Amabel. The evening passed off much as usual. The family assembled at prayer; and Blaize, whose shoulders still ached with the chastisement he had received, eyed the apprentice with sullen and revengeful looks. Patience, too, was equally angry, and her indignation was evinced in a manner so droll, that at another season it would have drawn a smile from Leonard. Supper over, Amabel left the room. Leonard followed her, and overtook her on the landing of the stairs. "Amabel," he said, "I have received certain intelligence that the Earl of Rochester will make another attempt to enter the house, and carry you off to-night." "Oh! when will he cease from persecuting me?" she cried. "When you cease to encourage him," replied the apprentice, bitterly. "I do _not_ encourage him, Leonard," she rejoined, "and to prove that I do not, I will act in any way you think proper tonight." "If I could trust you," said Leonard, "you might be of the greatest service in convincing the earl that his efforts are fruitless." "You _may_ trust me," she rejoined. "Well, then," returned Leonard, "when the family have retired to rest, come downstairs, and I will tell you what to do." Hastily promising compliance, Amabel disappeared; and Leonard ran down the stairs, at the foot of which he encountered Mrs. Bloundel. "What is the matter?" she asked. "Nothing--nothing," replied the apprentice, evasively. "That-will not serve my turn," she rejoined. "Something, I am certain, troubles you, though you do not choose to confess it. Heaven grant your anxiety is not occasioned by aught relating to that wicked Earl of Rochester! I cannot sleep in my bed for thinking of him. I noticed that you followed Amabel out of the room. I hope you do not suspect anything." "Do not question me further, madam, I entreat," returned the apprentice. "Whatever I may suspect, I have taken all needful precautions. Rest easy, and sleep soundly, if you can. All will go well." "I shall never rest easy, Leonard," rejoined Mrs. Bloundel, "till you are wedded to my daughter. Then, indeed, I shall feel happy. My poor child, I am sure, is fully aware how indiscreet her conduct has been; and when this noble libertine desists from annoying her--or rather, when he is effectually shut out--we may hope for a return of her regard for you." "It is a vain hope, madam," replied Leonard; "there will be no such return. I neither expect it nor desire it." "Have you ceased to love her?" asked Mrs. Bloundel, in surprise. "Ceased to love her!" echoed Leonard, fiercely. "Would I had done so!--would I _could_ do so! I love her too well--too well." And repeating the words to himself with great bitterness, he hurried away. "His passion has disturbed his brain," sighed Mrs. Bloundel, as she proceeded to her chamber. "I must try to reason him into calmness to-morrow." Half an hour after this, the grocer retired for the night; and Leonard, who had gone to his own room, cautiously opened the door, and repaired to the shop. On the way he met Amabel. She looked pale as death, and trembled so violently, that she could scarcely support herself. "I hope you do not mean to use any violence towards the earl, Leonard?" she said in a supplicating voice. "He will never repeat his visit," rejoined the apprentice, gloomily. "Your looks terrify me," cried Amabel, gazing with great uneasiness at his stern and determined countenance. "I will remain by you. He will depart at my bidding." "Did he depart at your bidding before?" demanded Leonard, sarcastically. "He did not, I grant," she replied, more supplicatingly than before. "But do not harm him--for mercy's sake, do not--take my life sooner. I alone have offended you." The apprentice made no reply, but, unlocking a box, took out a brace of large horse-pistols and a sword, and thrust them into his girdle. "You do not mean to use those murderous weapons?" cried Amabel. "It depends on circumstances," replied Leonard. "Force must be met by force." "Nay, then," she rejoined, "the affair assumes too serious an aspect to be trifled with. I will instantly alarm my father." "Do so," retorted Leonard, "and he will cast you off for ever." "Better that, than be the cause of bloodshed," she returned. "But is there nothing I can do to prevent this fatal result?" "Yes," replied Leonard. "Make your lover understand he is unwelcome to you. Dismiss him for ever. On that condition, he shall depart unharmed and freely." "I will do so," she rejoined. Nothing more was then said. Amabel seated herself and kept her eyes fixed on Leonard, who, avoiding her regards, stationed himself near the door. By-and-by a slight tap was heard without, and the apprentice cautiously admitted Gregory Swindlehurst and his comrade. The latter was habited like the other watchman, in a blue night-rail, and was armed with a halberd. He appeared much stouter, much older, and, so far as could be discovered of his features--for a large handkerchief muffled his face--much uglier (if that were possible) than his companion. He answered to the name of Bernard Boutefeu. They had no sooner entered the shop, than Leonard locked the door. "Who are these persons?" asked Amabel, rising in great alarm. "Two watchmen whom I have hired to guard the house," replied Leonard. "We are come to protect you, fair mistress," said Gregory, "and, if need be, to cut the Earl of Rochester's throat." "Oh heavens!" exclaimed Amabel. "Ghost of Tarquin!" cried Boutefeu, "we'll teach him to break into the houses of quiet citizens, and attempt to carry off their daughters against their will. By the soul of Dick Whittington, Lord Mayor of London! we'll maul and mangle him." "Silence! Bernard Boutefeu," interposed Gregory. "You frighten Mistress Amabel by your strange oaths." "I should be sorry to do that," replied Boutefeu--"I only wish to show my zeal for her. Don't be afraid of the Earl of Rochester, fair mistress. With all his audacity, he won't dare to enter the house when he finds we are there." "Is it your pleasure that we should thrust a halberd through his body, or lodge a bullet in his brain?" asked Gregory, appealing to Amabel. "Touch him not, I beseech you," she rejoined. "Leonard, I have your promise that, if I can prevail upon him to depart, you will not molest him." "You have," he replied. "You hear that," she observed to the watchmen. "We are all obedience," said Gregory. "Bless your tender heart!" cried Boutefeu, "we would not pain you for the world." "A truce to this," said Leonard. "Come to the yard, we will wait for him there." "I will go with you," cried Amabel. "If any harm should befall him, I should never forgive myself." "Remember what I told you," rejoined Leonard, sternly; "it depends upon yourself whether he leaves the house alive." "Heed him not," whispered Gregory. "I and my comrade will obey no one but you." Amabel could not repress an exclamation of surprise. "What are you muttering, sirrah?" demanded Leonard, angrily. "Only that the young lady may depend on our fidelity," replied Gregory. "There can be no offence in that. Come with us," he whispered to Amabel. The latter part of his speech escaped Leonard, but the tone in which it was uttered was so significant, that Amabel, who began to entertain new suspicions, hesitated. "You must come," said Leonard, seizing her hand. "The fault be his, not mine," murmured Amabel, as she suffered herself to be drawn along. The party then proceeded noiselessly towards the yard. On the way, Amabel felt a slight pressure on her arm, but, afraid of alarming Leonard, she made no remark. The back-door was opened, and the little group stood in the darkness. They had not long to wait. Before they had been in the yard five minutes, a noise was heard of footsteps and muttered voices in the entry. This was followed by a sound like that occasioned by fastening a rope-ladder against the wall, and the next moment two figures were perceived above it. After dropping the ladder into the yard, these persons, the foremost of whom the apprentice concluded was the Earl of Rochester, descended. They had no sooner touched the ground than Leonard, drawing his pistols, advanced towards them. "You are my prisoner, my lord," he said, in a stern voice, "and shall not depart with life, unless you pledge your word never to come hither again on the same errand." "Betrayed!" cried the earl, laying his hand upon his sword. "Resistance is in vain, my lord," rejoined Leonard. "I am better armed than yourself." "Will nothing bribe you to silence, fellow?" cried the earl. "I will give you a thousand pounds, if you will hold your tongue, and conduct me to my mistress." "I can scarcely tell what stays my hand," returned Leonard, in a furious tone. "But I will hold no further conversation with you. Amabel is present, and will give you your final dismissal herself." "If I receive it from her own lips," replied the earl, "I will instantly retire--but not otherwise." "Amabel," said Leonard in a low tone to her, "you hear what is said. Fulfil your promise." "Do so," cried a voice, which she instantly recognised, in her ear--"I am near you." "Ah!" she exclaimed. "Do you hesitate?" cried the apprentice, sternly. "My lord," said Amabel, in a faint voice, "I must pray you to retire, your efforts are in vain. I will never fly with you." "That will not suffice," whispered Leonard; "you must tell him you no longer love him." "Hear me," pursued Amabel; "you who present yourself as Lord Rochester, I entertain no affection for you, and never wish to behold you again." "Enough!" cried Leonard. "Admirable!" whispered Gregory. "Nothing could be better." "Well," cried the supposed earl, "since I no longer hold a place in your affections, it would be idle to pursue the matter further. Heaven be praised, there are other damsels quite as beautiful, though not so cruel. Farewell for ever, Amabel." So saying he mounted the ladder, and, followed by his companion, disappeared on the other side. "He is gone," said Leonard, "and I hope for ever. Now let us return to the house." "I am coming," rejoined Amabel. "Let him go," whispered Gregory. "The ladder is still upon the wall; we will climb it." And as the apprentice moved towards the house, he tried to drag her in that direction. "I cannot--will not fly thus," she cried. "What is the matter?" exclaimed Leonard, suddenly turning. "Further disguise is useless," replied the supposed Gregory Swindlehurst. "I am the Earl of Rochester. The other was a counterfeit." "Ah!" exclaimed Leonard, rushing towards them, and placing a pistol against the breast of his mistress? "Have I been duped? But it is not yet too late to retrieve my error. Move a foot further, my lord,--and do you, Amabel, attempt to fly with him, and I fire." "You cannot mean this?" cried Rochester. "Raise your hand against the woman you love?" "Against the woman who forgets her duty, and the libertine who tempts her, the arm that is raised is that of justice," replied Leonard. "Stir another footstep, and I fire." As he spoke, his arms were suddenly seized by a powerful grasp from behind, and, striking the pistols from his hold, the earl snatched up Amabel in his arms, and, mounting the ladder, made good his retreat. A long and desperate struggle took place between Leonard and his assailant, who was no other than Pillichody, in his assumed character of Bernard Boutefeu. But notwithstanding the superior strength of the bully, and the advantage he had taken of the apprentice, he was worsted in the end. Leonard had no sooner extricated himself, than, drawing his sword, he would have passed it through Pillichody's body, if the latter had not stayed his hand by offering to tell him where he would find his mistress, provided his life were spared. "Where has the earl taken her?" cried Leonard, scarcely able to articulate from excess of passion. "He meant to take her to Saint Paul's,--to the vaults below the cathedral, to avoid pursuit," replied Pillichody. "I have no doubt you will find her there." "I will go there instantly and search," cried Leonard, rushing up the ladder. V. THE BLIND PIPER AND HIS DAUGHTER Scarcely knowing how he got there, Leonard Holt found himself at the great northern entrance of the cathedral. Burning with fury, he knocked at the door; but no answer being returned to the summons, though he repeated it still more loudly, he shook the heavy latch with such violence as to rouse the sullen echoes of the aisles. Driven almost to desperation, he retired a few paces, and surveyed the walls of the vast structure, in the hope of descrying some point by which he might obtain an entrance. It was a bright moonlight night, and the reverend pile looked so beautiful, that, under any other frame of mind, Leonard must, have been struck with admiration. The ravages of time could not now be discerned, and the architectural incongruities which, seen in the broad glare of day, would have offended the eye of taste, were lost in the general grand effect. On the left ran the magnificent pointed windows of the choir, divided by massive buttresses,--the latter ornamented with crocketed pinnacles. On the right, the building had been new-faced, and its original character, in a great measure, destroyed by the tasteless manner in which the repairs had been executed. On this side, the lower windows were round-headed and separated by broad pilasters, while above them ran a range of small circular windows. At the western angle was seen one of the towers (since imitated by Wren), which flanked this side of the fane, together with a part of the portico erected, about twenty-five years previously, by Inigo Jones, and which, though beautiful in itself, was totally out of character with the edifice, and, in fact, a blemish to it. Insensible alike to the beauties or defects of the majestic building, and regarding it only as the prison of his mistress, Leonard Holt scanned it carefully on either side. But his scrutiny was attended with no favourable result. Before resorting to force to obtain admission, he determined to make the complete circuit of the structure, and with this view he shaped his course towards the east. He found two small doors on the left of the northern transept, but both were fastened, and the low pointed windows beneath the choir, lighting the subterranean church of Saint Faith's, were all barred. Running on, he presently came to a flight of stone steps at the north-east corner of the choir, leading to a portal opening upon a small chapel dedicated to Saint George. But this was secured like the others, and, thinking it vain to waste time in trying to force it, he pursued his course. Skirting the eastern extremity of the fane--then the most beautiful part of the structure, from its magnificent rose window--he speeded past the low windows which opened on this side, as on the other upon Saint Faith's, and did not pause till he came to the great southern portal, the pillars and arch of which differed but slightly in character from those of the northern entrance. Here he knocked as before, and was answered, as on the former occasion, by sullen echoes from within. When these sounds died away, he placed his ear to the huge key-hole in the wicket, but could not even catch the fall of a footstep. Neither could he perceive any light, except that afforded by the moonbeams, which flooded the transept with radiance. Again hurrying on, he passed the cloister-walls surrounding the Convocation House; tried another door between that building and the church of Saint Gregory, a small fane attached to the larger structure; and failing in opening it, turned the corner and approached the portico,--the principal entrance to the cathedral being then, as now, on the west. Erected, as before mentioned, from the designs of the celebrated Inigo Jones, this magnificent colonnade was completed about 1640, at which time preparations were made for repairing the cathedral throughout, and for strengthening the tower, for enabling it to support a new spire. But this design, owing to the disorganised state of affairs, was never carried into execution. At the time of the Commonwealth, while the interior of the sacred fabric underwent every sort of desecration and mutilation,--while stones were torn from the pavement, and monumental brasses from tombs,--while carved stalls were burnt, and statues plucked from their niches,--a similar fate attended the portico. Shops were built beneath it, and the sculptures ornamenting its majestic balustrade were thrown down. Amongst other obstructions, it appears that there was a "high house in the north angle, which hindered the masons from repairing that part of it." The marble door-cases, the capitals, cornices, and pillars were so much injured by the fires made against them, that it required months to put them in order. At the Restoration, Sir John Denham, the poet, was appointed surveyor-general of the works, and continued to hold the office at the period of this history. As Leonard drew near the portico, he perceived, to his surprise, that a large concourse of people was collected in the area in front of it; and, rushing forward, he found the assemblage listening to the denunciations of Solomon Eagle, who was standing in the midst of them with his brazier on his head. The enthusiast appeared more than usually excited. He was tossing aloft his arms in a wild and frenzied manner, and seemed to be directing his menaces against the cathedral itself. Hoping to obtain assistance from the crowd, Leonard resolved to await a fitting period to address them. Accordingly, he joined them, and listened to the discourse of the enthusiast. "Hear me!" cried the latter, in a voice of thunder. "I had a vision last night and will relate it to you. During my brief slumbers, I thought I was standing on this very spot, and gazing as now upon yon mighty structure. On a sudden the day became overcast, and ere long it grew pitchy dark. Then was heard a noise of rushing wings in the air, and I could just discern many strange figures hovering above the tower, uttering doleful cries and lamentations. All at once these figures disappeared, and gave place to, or, it may be, were chased away by, others of more hideous appearance. The latter brought lighted brands which they hurled against the sacred fabric, and, in an instant, flames burst forth from it on all sides. My brethren, it was a fearful, yet a glorious sight to see that vast pile wrapped in the devouring element! The flames were so vivid--so intense--that I could not bear to look upon them, and I covered my face with my hands. On raising my eyes again the flames were extinguished, but the building was utterly in ruins--its columns cracked--its tower hurled from its place--its ponderous roof laid low. It was a mournful spectacle, and a terrible proof of the Divine wrath and vengeance. Yes, my brethren, the temple of the Lord has been profaned, and it will be razed to the ground. It has been the scene of abomination and impiety, and must be purified by fire. Theft, murder, sacrilege, and every other crime have been committed within its walls, and its destruction will follow. The ministers of Heaven's vengeance are even now hovering above it. Repent, therefore, ye who listen to me, and repent speedily; for sudden death, plague, fire, and famine, are at hand. As the prophet Amos saith, 'The Lord will send a fire, the Lord will commission a fire, the Lord will kindle a fire;' and the fire so commissioned and so kindled shall consume you and your city; nor shall one stone of those walls be left standing on another. Repent, or burn, for he cometh to judge the earth. Repent, or burn, I say!" As soon as he concluded, Leonard Holt ran up the steps of the portico, and in a loud voice claimed the attention of the crowd. "Solomon Eagle is right," he cried; "the vengeance of Heaven will descend upon this fabric, since it continues to be the scene of so much wickedness. Even now it forms the retreat of a profligate nobleman, who has this night forcibly carried off the daughter of a citizen." "What nobleman?" cried a bystander. "The Earl of Rochester," replied Leonard. "He has robbed Stephen Bloundel, the grocer of Wood-street, of his daughter, and has concealed her, to avoid pursuit, in the vaults of the cathedral." "I know Mr. Bloundel well," rejoined the man who had made the inquiry, and whom Leonard recognised as a hosier named Lamplugh, "and I know the person who addresses us. It is his apprentice. We must restore the damsel to her father, friends." "Agreed!" cried several voices. "Knock at the door," cried a man, whose occupation of a smith was proclaimed by his leathern apron, brawny chest, and smoke-begrimed visage, as well as by the heavy hammer which he bore upon his shoulder. "If it is not instantly opened, we will break it down. I have an implement here which will soon do the business." A rush was then made to the portal, which rang with the heavy blows dealt against it. While this was passing, Solomon Eagle, whose excitement was increased by the tumult, planted himself in the centre of the colonnade, and vociferated--"I speak in the words of the prophet Ezekiel:--'Thou hast defiled thy sanctuaries by the multitude of thine iniquities, by the iniquity of thy traffic. Therefore will I bring forth a fire from the midst of thee, and will bring thee to ashes upon the earth, in the sight of all them that behold thee!'" The crowd continued to batter the door until they were checked by Lamplugh, who declared he heard some one approaching, and the next moment the voice of one of the vergers inquired in trembling tones, who they were, and what they wanted. "No matter who we are," replied Leonard, "we demand admittance to search for a young female who has been taken from her home by the Earl of Rochester, and is now concealed within the vaults of the cathedral." "If admittance is refused us, we will soon let ourselves in," vociferated Lamplugh. "Ay, that we will," added the smith. "You are mistaken, friends," returned the verger, timorously. "The Earl of Rochester is not here." "We will not take your word for it," rejoined the smith. "This will show you we are not to be trifled with." So saying, he raised his hammer, and struck such a tremendous blow against the door, that the bolts started in their sockets. "Hold! hold!" cried the verger; "sooner than violence shall be committed, I will risk your admission." And he unfastened the door. "Keep together," shouted the smith, stretching out his arms to oppose the progress of the crowd. "Keep together, I say." "Ay, ay, keep together," added Lamplugh, seconding his efforts. "Conduct us to the Earl of Rochester, and no harm shall befall you," cried Leonard, seizing the verger by the collar. "I tell you I know nothing about him," replied the man. "He is not here." "It is false! you are bribed to silence," rejoined the apprentice. "We will search till we find him." "Search where you please," rejoined the verger; "and if you _do_ find him, do what you please with me." "Don't be afraid of that, friend," replied the smith; "we will hang you and the earl to the same pillar." By this time, the crowd had pushed aside the opposition offered by the smith and Lamplugh. Solomon Eagle darted along the nave with lightning swiftness, and, mounting the steps leading to the choir, disappeared from view. Some few persons followed him, while others took their course along the aisles. But the majority kept near the apprentice. Snatching the lamp from the grasp of the verger, Leonard Holt ran on with his companions till they came to the beautiful chapel built by Thomas Kempe, bishop of London. The door was open, and the apprentice, holding the light forward, perceived there were persons inside. He was about to enter the chapel, when a small spaniel rushed forth, and, barking furiously, held him in check for a moment. Alarmed by the noise, an old man in a tattered garb, and a young female, who were slumbering on benches in the chapel, immediately started to their feet, and advanced towards them. "We are mistaken," said Lamplugh; "this is only Mike Macascree, the blind piper and his daughter Nizza. I know them well enough." Leonard was about to proceed with his search, but a slight circumstance detained him for a few minutes, during which time he had sufficient leisure to note the extraordinary personal attractions of Nizza Macascree. In age she appeared about seventeen, and differed in the character of her beauty, as well as in the natural gracefulness of her carriage and demeanour, from all the persons he had seen in her humble sphere of life. Her features were small, and of the utmost delicacy. She had a charmingly-formed nose--slightly _retroussé_--a small mouth, garnished with pearl-like teeth, and lips as fresh and ruddy as the dew-steeped rose. Her skin was as dark as a gipsy's, but clear and transparent, and far more attractive than the fairest complexion. Her eyes were luminous as the stars, and black as midnight; while her raven tresses, gathered beneath a spotted kerchief tied round her head, escaped in many a wanton curl down her shoulders. Her figure was slight, but exquisitely proportioned; and she had the smallest foot and ankle that ever fell to the lot of woman. Her attire was far from unbecoming, though of the coarsest material; and her fairy feet were set off by the daintiest shoes and hose. Such was the singular and captivating creature that attracted the apprentice's attention. Her father, Mike Macascree, was upwards of sixty, but still in the full vigour of life, with features which, though not ill-looking, bore no particular resemblance to those of his daughter. He had a good-humoured, jovial countenance, the mirthful expression of which even his sightless orbs could not destroy. Long white locks descended upon his shoulders, and a patriarchal beard adorned his chin. He was wrapped in a loose grey gown, patched with different coloured cloths, and supported himself with a staff. His pipe was suspended from his neck by a green worsted cord. "Lie down, Bell," he cried to his dog; "what are you barking at thus? Lie down, I say." "Something is the matter, father," replied Nizza. "The church is full of people." "Indeed!" exclaimed the piper. "We are sorry to disturb you," said Leonard; "but we are in search of a nobleman who has run away with a citizen's daughter, and conveyed her to the cathedral, and we thought they might have taken refuge in this chapel." "No one is here except myself and daughter," replied the piper. "We are allowed this lodging by Mr. Quatremain, the minor canon." "All dogs are ordered to be destroyed by the Lord Mayor," cried the smith, seizing Bell by the neck. "This noisy animal must be silenced." "Oh, no! do not hurt her!" cried Nizza. "My father loves poor Bell almost as well as he loves me. She is necessary to his existence. You must not--will not destroy her!" "Won't I?" replied the smith, gruffly; "we'll see that." "But we are not afraid of contagion, are we, father?" cried Nizza, appealing to the piper. "Not in the least," replied Mike, "and we will take care the poor beast touches no one else. Do not harm her, sir--for pity's sake, do not. I should miss her sadly." "The Lord Mayor's commands must be obeyed," rejoined the smith, brutally. As if conscious of the fate awaiting her, poor Bell struggled hard to get free, and uttered a piteous yell. "You are not going to kill the dog?" interposed Leonard. "Have you anything to say to the contrary?" rejoined the smith, in a tone calculated, as he thought, to put an end to further interference. "Only this," replied Leonard, "that I will not allow it." "You won't--eh?" returned the smith, derisively. "I will not," rejoined Leonard, "so put her down and come along." "Go your own way," replied the smith, "and leave me to mine." Leonard answered by snatching Bell suddenly from his grasp. Thus liberated, the terrified animal instantly flew to her mistress. "Is this the return I get for assisting you?" cried the smith, savagely. "You are bewitched by a pair of black eyes. But you will repent your folly." "I shall never forget your kindness," replied Nizza, clasping Bell to her bosom, and looking gratefully at the apprentice. "You say you are in search of a citizen's daughter and a nobleman. About half an hour ago, or scarcely so much, I was awakened by the opening of the door of the southern transept, and peeping out, I saw three persons--a young man in the dress of a watchman, but evidently disguised, and a very beautiful young woman, conducted by Judith Malmayns, bearing a lantern,--pass through the doorway leading to Saint Faith's. Perhaps they are the very persons you are in search of." "They are," returned Leonard; "and you have repaid me a hundredfold for the slight service I have rendered you by the information. We will instantly repair to the vaults. Come along." Accompanied by the whole of the assemblage, except the smith, who skulked off in the opposite direction, he passed through the low doorway on the right of the choir, and descended to Saint Faith's. The subterranean church was buried in profound darkness, and apparently wholly untenanted. On reaching the charnel, they crossed it, and tried the door of the vault formerly occupied by the sexton. It was fastened, but Leonard knocking violently against it, it was soon opened by Judith Malmayns, who appeared much surprised, and not a little alarmed, at the sight of so many persons. She was not alone, and her companion was Chowles. He was seated at a table, on which stood a flask of brandy and a couple of glasses, and seemed a good deal confused at being caught in such a situation, though he endeavoured to cover his embarrassment by an air of effrontery. "Where is the Earl of Rochester?--where is Amabel?" demanded Leonard Holt. "I know nothing about either of them," replied Judith. "Why do you put these questions to me?" "Because you admitted them to the cathedral," cried the apprentice, furiously, "and because you have concealed them. If you do not instantly guide me to their retreat, I will make you a terrible example to all such evil-doers in future." "If you think to frighten me by your violence, you are mistaken," returned Judith, boldly. "Mr. Chowles has been here more than two hours--ask him whether he has seen any one." "Certainly not," replied Chowles. "There is no Amabel--no Earl of Rochester here. You must be dreaming, young man." "The piper's daughter affirmed the contrary," replied Leonard. "She said she saw this woman admit them." "She lies," replied Judith, fiercely. But suddenly altering her tone, she continued, "If I _had_ admitted them, you would find them here." Leonard looked round uneasily. He was but half convinced, and yet he scarcely knew what to think. "If you doubt what I say to you," continued Judith, "I will take you to every chamber in the cathedral. You will then be satisfied that I speak the truth. But I will not have this mob with me. Your companions must remain here." "Ay, stop with me and make yourselves comfortable," cried Chowles. "You are not so much used to these places as I am, I prefer a snug crypt, like this, to the best room in a tavern--ha! ha!" Attended by Judith, Leonard Holt searched every corner of the subterranean church, except the vestry, the door of which was locked, and the key removed; but without success. They then ascended to the upper structure, and visited the choir, the transepts, and the nave, but with no better result. "If you still think they are here," said Judith, "we will mount to the summit of the tower?" "I will never quit the cathedral without them," replied Leonard. "Come on, then," returned Judith. So saying, she opened the door in the wall on the left of the choir, and, ascending a winding stone staircase to a considerable height, arrived at a small cell contrived within the thickness of the wall, and desired Leonard to search it. The apprentice unsuspectingly obeyed. But he had scarcely set foot inside when the door was locked behind him, and he was made aware of the treachery practised upon him by a peal of mocking laughter from his conductress. VI. OLD LONDON FROM OLD SAINT PAUL'S. After repeated, but ineffectual efforts to burst open the door, Leonard gave up the attempt in despair, and endeavoured to make his situation known by loud outcries. But his shouts, if heard, were unheeded, and he was soon compelled from exhaustion to desist. Judith having carried away the lantern, he was left in total darkness; but on searching the cell, which was about four feet wide and six deep, he discovered a narrow grated loophole. By dint of great exertion, and with the help of his sword, which snapped in twain as he used it, he managed to force off one of the rusty bars, and to squeeze himself through the aperture. All his labour, however, was thrown away. The loophole opened on the south side of the tower, near one of the large buttresses, which projected several yards beyond it on the left, and was more than twenty feet above the roof; so that it would be certain destruction to drop from so great a height. The night was overcast, and the moon hidden behind thick clouds. Still, there was light enough to enable him to discern the perilous position in which he stood. After gazing below for some time, Leonard was about to return to the cell, when, casting his eyes upwards, he thought he perceived the end of a rope about a foot above his head, dangling from the upper part of the structure. No sooner was this discovery made, than it occurred to him that he might possibly liberate himself by this unlooked for aid; and, regardless of the risk he ran, he sprang upwards and caught hold of the rope. It was firmly fastened above, and sustained his weight well. Possessed of great bodily strength and activity, and nerved by desperation, Leonard Holt placed his feet against the buttress, and impelled himself towards one of the tall pointed windows lighting the interior of the tower; but though he reached the point at which he aimed, the sway of the rope dragged him back before he could obtain a secure grasp of the stone shaft; and, after another ineffectual effort, fearful of exhausting his strength, he abandoned the attempt, and began to climb up the rope with his hands and knees. Aided by the inequalities of the roughened walls, he soon gained a range of small Saxon arches ornamenting the tower immediately beneath the belfry, and succeeded in planting his right foot on the moulding of one of them; he instantly steadied himself, and with little further effort clambered through an open window. His first act on reaching the belfry was to drop on his knees, and return thanks to Heaven for his deliverance. He then looked about for an outlet; but though a winding staircase existed in each of the four angles of the tower, all the doors, to his infinite disappointment, were fastened on the other side. He was still, therefore, a prisoner. Determined, however, not to yield to despair, he continued his search, and finding a small door opening upon a staircase communicating with the summit of the tower, he unfastened it (for the bolt was on his own side), and hurried up the steps. Passing through another door bolted like the first within side, he issued upon the roof. He was now on the highest part of the cathedral, and farther from his hopes than ever; and so agonizing were his feelings, that he almost felt tempted to fling himself headlong downwards. Beneath him lay the body of the mighty fabric, its vast roof, its crocketed pinnacles, its buttresses and battlements scarcely discernible through the gloom, but looking like some monstrous engine devised to torture him. Wearied with gazing at it, and convinced of the futility of any further attempt at descent, Leonard Holt returned to the belfry, and, throwing himself on the boarded floor, sought some repose. The fatigue he had undergone was so great, that, notwithstanding his anxiety, he soon dropped asleep, and did not awake for several hours. On opening his eyes, it was just getting light, and shaking himself, he again prepared for action. All the events of the night rushed upon his mind, and he thought with unutterable anguish of Amabel's situation. Glancing round the room, it occurred to him that he might give the alarm by ringing the enormous bells near him; but though he set them slightly in motion, he could not agitate the immense clappers sufficiently to produce any sound. Resolved, however, to free himself at any hazard, he once more repaired to the summit of the tower, and leaning over the balustrade, gazed below. It was a sublime spectacle, and, in spite of his distress, filled him with admiration and astonishment. He had stationed himself on the south side of the tower, and immediately beneath him lay the broad roof of the transept, stretching out to a distance of nearly two hundred feet. On the right, surrounded by a double row of cloisters, remarkable for the beauty of their architecture, stood the convocation, or chapter-house. The exquisite building was octagonal in form, and supported by large buttresses, ornamented on each gradation by crocketed pinnacles. Each side, moreover, had a tall pointed window, filled with stained glass, and was richly adorned with trefoils and cinquefoils. Further on, on the same side, was the small low church dedicated to Saint Gregory, overtopped by the south-western tower of the mightier parent fane. It was not, however, the cathedral itself, but the magnificent view it commanded, that chiefly attracted the apprentice's attention. From the elevated point on which he stood, his eye ranged over a vast tract of country bounded by the Surrey hills, and at last settled upon the river, which in some parts was obscured by a light haze, and in others tinged with the ruddy beams of the newly-risen sun. Its surface was spotted, even at this early hour, with craft, while innumerable vessels of all shapes and sizes were moored, to its banks. On. the left, he noted the tall houses covering London Bridge; and on the right, traced the sweeping course of the stream as it flowed from Westminster. On this hand, on the opposite bank, lay the flat marshes of Lambeth; while nearer stood the old bull-baiting and bear-baiting establishments, the flags above which could be discerned above the tops of the surrounding habitations. A little to the left was the borough of Southwark, even then a large and populous district--the two most prominent features in the scene being Winchester House, and Saint Saviour's old and beautiful church. Filled with wonder at what he saw, Leonard looked towards the east, and here an extraordinary prospect met his gaze. The whole of the city of London was spread out like a map before him, and presented a dense mass of ancient houses, with twisted chimneys, gables, and picturesque roofs--here and there overtopped by a hall, a college, an hospital, or some other lofty structure. This vast collection of buildings was girded in by grey and mouldering walls, approached by seven gates, and intersected by innumerable narrow streets. The spires and towers of the churches shot up into the clear morning air--for, except in a few quarters, no smoke yet issued from the chimneys. On this side, the view of the city was terminated by the fortifications and keep of the Tower. Little did the apprentice think, when he looked at the magnificent scene before him, and marvelled at the countless buildings he beheld, that, ere fifteen months had elapsed, the whole mass, together with the mighty fabric on which he stood, would be swept away by a tremendous conflagration. Unable to foresee this direful event, and lamenting only that so fair a city should be a prey to an exterminating pestilence, he turned towards the north, and suffered his gaze to wander over Finsbury-fields, and the hilly ground beyond them--over Smithfield and Clerkenwell, and the beautiful open country adjoining Gray's-inn-lane. So smiling and beautiful did these districts appear, that he could scarcely fancy they were the chief haunts of the horrible distemper. But he could not blind himself to the fact that in Finsbury-fields, as well as in the open country to the north of Holborn, plague-pits had been digged and pest-houses erected; and this consideration threw such a gloom over the prospect, that, in order to dispel the effect, he changed the scene by looking towards the west. Here his view embraced all the proudest mansions of the capital, and tracing the Strand to Charing Cross, long since robbed of the beautiful structure from which it derived its name, and noticing its numerous noble habitations, his eye finally rested upon Whitehall: and he heaved a sigh as he thought that the palace of the sovereign was infected by as foul a moral taint as the hideous disease that ravaged the dwellings of his subjects. At the time that Leonard Holt gazed upon the capital, its picturesque beauties were nearly at their close. In a little more than a year and a quarter afterwards, the greater part of the old city was consumed by fire; and though it was rebuilt, and in many respects improved, its original and picturesque character was entirely destroyed. It seems scarcely possible to conceive a finer view than can be gained from the dome of the modern cathedral at sunrise on a May morning, when the prospect is not dimmed by the smoke of a hundred thousand chimneys--when the river is just beginning to stir with its numerous craft, or when they are sleeping on its glistening bosom--when every individual house, court, church, square, or theatre, can be discerned--when the eye can range over the whole city on each side, and calculate its vast extent. It seems scarcely possible, we say, to suppose at any previous time it could be more striking; and yet, at the period under consideration, it was incomparably more so. Then, every house was picturesque, and every street a collection of picturesque objects. Then, that which was objectionable in itself, and contributed to the insalubrity of the city, namely, the extreme narrowness of the streets, and overhanging stories of the houses, was the main source of their beauty. Then, the huge projecting signs with their fantastical iron-work--the conduits--the crosses (where crosses remained)--the maypoles--all were picturesque; and as superior to what can now be seen, as the attire of Charles the Second's age is to the ugly and disfiguring costume of our own day. Satiated with this glorious prospect, Leonard began to recur to his own situation, and carefully scrutinizing every available point on the side of the Tower, he thought it possible to effect his descent by clambering down the gradations of one of the buttresses. Still, as this experiment would be attended with the utmost danger, while, even if he reached the roof, he would yet be far from his object, he resolved to defer it for a short time, in the hope that ere long seine of the bell-ringers, or other persons connected with the cathedral, might come thither and set him free. While thus communing with himself, he heard a door open below; and hurrying down the stairs at the sound, he beheld, to his great surprise and joy, the piper's daughter, Nizza Macascree. "I have searched for you everywhere," she cried, "and began to think some ill had befallen you. I overheard Judith Malmayns say she had shut you up in a cell in the upper part of the tower. How did you escape thence?" Leonard hastily explained. "I told you I should never forget the service you rendered me in preserving the life of poor Bell," pursued Nizza, "and what I have done will prove I am not unmindful of my promise I saw you search the cathedral last night with Judith, and noticed that she returned from the tower unaccompanied by you. At first I supposed you might have left the cathedral without my observing you, and I was further confirmed in the idea by what I subsequently heard." "Indeed!" exclaimed Leonard. "What did you hear?" "I followed Judith to the vaults of Saint Faith's," replied Nizza, "and heard her inform your companions that you had found the grocer's daughter, and had taken her away." "And this false statement imposed upon them?" cried Leonard. "It did," replied Nizza. "They were by this time more than half intoxicated by the brandy given them by Chowles, the coffin-maker, and they departed in high dudgeon with you." "No wonder!" exclaimed Leonard. "They had scarcely been gone many minutes," pursued Nizza, "when, having stationed myself behind one of the massive pillars in the north aisle of Saint Faith's--for I suspected something was wrong--I observed Judith and Chowles steal across the nave, and proceed towards the vestry. The former tapped at the door, and they were instantly admitted by Mr. Quatremain, the minor canon. Hastening to the door, which was left slightly ajar, I perceived two young gallants, whom I heard addressed as the Earl of Rochester and Sir George Etherege, and a young female, who I could not doubt was Amabel. The earl and his companion laughed heartily at the trick Judith had played you, and which the latter detailed to them; but Amabel took no part in their merriment, but, on the contrary, looked very grave, and even wept." "Wept, did she?" cried Leonard, in a voice of much emotion. "Then, there is hope for her yet." "You appear greatly interested in her," observed Nizza, pausing, in her narration. "Do you love her?" "Can you ask it?" cried Leonard, passionately. "I would advise you to think no more of her, and to fix your heart elsewhere," returned Nizza. "You know not what it is to love," replied the apprentice, "or you would not offer such a counsel." "Perhaps not," replied Nizza; "but I am sorry you have bestowed your heart upon one who so little appreciates the boon." And, feeling she had said too much, she blushed deeply, and cast down her eyes. Unconscious of her confusion, and entirely engrossed by the thought of his mistress, Leonard urged her to proceed. "Tell me what has become of Amabel--where I shall find her?" he cried. "You will find her soon enough," replied Nizza. "She has not left the cathedral. But hear me to an end. On learning you were made a prisoner, I ran to the door leading to the tower, but found that Judith had locked it, and removed the key. Not daring to give the alarm--for I had gathered from what was said that the three vergers were in the earl's pay--I determined to await a favourable opportunity to release you. Accordingly I returned to the vestry door, and again played the eaves-dropper. By this time, another person, who was addressed as Major Pillichody, and who, it appeared, had been employed in the abduction, had joined the party. He informed the earl that Mr. Bloundel was in the greatest distress at his daughter's disappearance, and advised him to lose no time in conveying her to some secure retreat. These tidings troubled Amabel exceedingly, and the earl endeavoured to pacify her by promising to espouse her at daybreak, and, as soon as the ceremony was over, to introduce her in the character of his countess to her parents." "Villain!" cried Leonard; "but go on." "I have little more to tell," replied Nizza, "except that she consented to the proposal, provided she was allowed to remain till six o'clock, the hour appointed for the marriage, with Judith." "Bad as that alternative is, it is better than the other," observed Leonard. "But how did you procure the key of the winding staircase?" "I fortunately observed where Judith had placed it," replied Nizza, "and when she departed to the crypt near the charnel, with Amabel, I possessed myself of it. For some time I was unable to use it, because the Earl of Rochester and Sir George Etherege kept pacing to and fro in front of the door, and their discourse convinced me that the marriage was meant to be a feigned one, for Sir George strove to dissuade his friend from the step he was about to take; but the other only laughed at his scruples. As soon as they retired, which is not more than half an hour ago, I unlocked the door, and hurried up the winding stairs. I searched every chamber, and began to think you were gone, or that Judith's statement was false. But I resolved to continue my search until I was fully satisfied on this point, and accordingly ascended to the belfry. You are aware of the result." "You have rendered me a most important service," replied Leonard; "and I hope hereafter to prove my gratitude. But let us now descend to the choir, where I will conceal myself till Amabel appears. This marriage must be prevented." Before quitting the belfry, Leonard chanced to cast his eyes on a stout staff left there, either by one of the bell-ringers or some chance visitant, and seizing it as an unlooked-for prize, he ran down the steps, followed by the piper's daughter. On opening the lowest door, he glanced towards the choir, and there before the high altar stood Quatremain in his surplice, with the earl and Amabel, attended by Etherege and Pillichody. The ceremony had just commenced. Not a moment was to be lost. Grasping his staff, the apprentice darted along the nave, and, rushing up to the pair, exclaimed in a loud voice, "Hold! I forbid this marriage. It must not take place!" "Back, sirrah!" cried Etherege, drawing his sword, and opposing the approach of the apprentice. "You have no authority to interrupt it. Proceed, Mr. Quatremain." "Forbear!" cried a voice of thunder near them--and all turning at the cry, they beheld Solomon Eagle, with his brazier on his head, issue from behind the stalls. "Forbear!" cried the enthusiast, placing himself between the earl and Amabel, both of whom recoiled at his approach. "Heaven's altar must not be profaned with these mockeries! And you, Thomas Quatremain, who have taken part in this unrighteous transaction, make clean your breast, and purge yourself quickly of your sins, for your hours are numbered. I read in your livid looks and red and burning eyeballs that you are smitten by the pestilence." VII. PAUL'S WALK. It will now be necessary to ascertain what took place at the grocer's habitation subsequently to Amabel's abduction. Leonard Holt having departed, Pillichody was preparing to make good his retreat, when he was prevented by Blaize, who, hearing a noise in the yard, peeped cautiously out at the back-door, and inquired who was there? "Are you Mr. Bloundel?" rejoined Pillichody, bethinking him of a plan to turn the tables upon the apprentice. "No, I am his porter," replied the other. "What, Blaize!" replied Pillichody. "Thunder and lightning! don't you remember Bernard Boutefeu, the watchman?" "I don't remember any watchman of that name, and I cannot discern your features," rejoined Blaize. "But your voice sounds familiar to me. What are you doing there?" "I have been trying to prevent Leonard Holt from carrying off your master's daughter, the fair Mistress Amabel," answered Pillichody. "But he has accomplished his villanous purpose in spite of me." "The devil he has!" cried Blaize. "Here is a pretty piece of news for my master. But how did you discover him?" "Chancing to pass along the entry on the other side of that wall about a quarter of an hour ago," returned Pillichody, "I perceived a rope-ladder fastened to it, and wishing to ascertain what was the matter, I mounted it, and had scarcely got over into the yard, when I saw two persons advancing. I concealed myself beneath the shadow of the wall, and they did not notice me; but I gathered from their discourse who they were and what was their design. I allowed Amabel to ascend, but just as the apprentice was following, I laid hold of the skirt of his doublet, and, pulling him back, desired him to come with me to his master. He answered by drawing his sword, and would have stabbed me, but I closed with him, and should have secured him if my foot had not slipped. While I was on the ground, he dealt me a severe blow, and ran after his mistress." "Just like him," replied Blaize. "He took the same cowardly advantage of me last night." "No punishment will be too severe for him," rejoined Pillichody, "and I hope your master will make a terrible example of him." "How fortunate I was not gone to bed!" exclaimed Blaize, "I had just taken a couple of rufuses, and was about to put on my nightcap, when, hearing a noise without, and being ever on the alert to defend my master's property, even at the hazard of my life, I stepped forth and found you." "I will bear testimony to your vigilance and courage," returned Pillichody; "but you had better go and alarm your master, I will wait here." "Instantly I-instantly!" cried Blaize, rushing upstairs. On the way to Mr. Bloundel's chamber, he met Patience, and told her what he had heard. She was inclined to put a very different construction on the story; but as she bore the apprentice no particular good-will, she determined to keep her opinion to herself, and let affairs take their course. The grocer was soon aroused, and scarcely able to credit the porter's intelligence, and yet fearing something must be wrong, he hastily attired himself, and proceeded to Amabel's room. It was empty, and it was evident from the state in which everything was left, that she had never retired to rest. Confounded by the sight, Bloundel then hurried downstairs in search of the apprentice, but he was nowhere to be found. By this time, Mrs. Bloundel had joined him, and on hearing Blaize's story, utterly scouted it. "It cannot be," she cried. "Leonard could have no motive for acting thus. He had our consent to the union, and the sole obstacle to it was Amabel herself. Is it likely he would run away with her?" "I am sure I do not know," replied Patience, "but he was desperately in love, that's certain; and when people are in love, I am told they do very strange and unaccountable things. Perhaps he may have carried her off against her will." "Very likely," rejoined Blaize. "I thought I heard a scream, and should have called out at the moment, but a rufus stuck in my throat and prevented me." "Where is the person who says he intercepted them?" asked Bloundel. "In the yard," answered Blaize. "Bid him come hither," rejoined his master. "Stay, I will go to him myself." With this, the whole party, including old Josyna and Stephen--the two boys and little Christiana not having been disturbed--proceeded to the yard, where they found Pillichody in his watchman's dress, who related his story more circumstantially than before. "I don't believe a word of it," cried Mrs. Bloundel; "and I will stake my life it is one of the Earl of Rochester's tricks." "Were I assured that such was the case," said the grocer, in a stern whisper to his wife, "I would stir no further in the matter. My threat to Amabel was not an idle one." "I may be mistaken," returned Mrs. Bloundel, almost at her wit's end with anxiety. "Don't mind what I say. Judge for yourself. Oh dear! what _will_ become of her?" she mentally ejaculated. "Lanterns and links!" cried Pillichody. "Do you mean to impeach my veracity, good mistress? I am an old soldier, and as tenacious of my honour as your husband is of his credit." "This blustering will not serve your turn, fellow," observed the grocer, seizing him by the collar. "I begin to suspect my wife is in the right, and will at all events detain you." "Detain me! on what ground?" asked Pillichody. "As an accomplice in my daughter's abduction," replied Bloundel. "Here, Blaize--Stephen, hold him while I call the watch. This is a most mysterious affair, but I will soon get at the bottom of it." By the grocer's directions, Pillichody, who very quietly entered the house, and surrendered his halberd to Blaize, was taken to the kitchen. Bloundel then set forth, leaving Stephen on guard at the yard door, while his wife remained in the shop, awaiting his return. On reaching the kitchen with the prisoner, Blaize besought his mother, who, as well as Patience, had accompanied him thither, to fetch a bottle of sack. While she went for the wine, and the porter was stalking to and fro before the door with the halberd on his shoulder, Patience whispered to Pillichody, "I know who you are. You came here last night with the Earl of Rochester in the disguise of a quack doctor." "Hush!" cried Pillichody, placing his finger on his lips. "I am not going to betray you," returned Patience, in the same tone. "But you are sure to be found out, and had better beat a retreat before Mr. Bloundel returns." "I won't lose a moment," replied Pillichody, starting to his feet. "What's the matter?" cried Blaize, suddenly halting. "I only got up to see whether the wine was coming," replied Pillichody. "Yes, here it is," replied Blaize, as his mother reappeared; "and now you shall have a glass of such sack as you never yet tasted." And pouring out a bumper, he offered it to Pillichody. The latter took the glass; but his hand shook so violently that he could not raise it to his lips. "What ails you, friend?" inquired Blaize, uneasily. "I don't know," replied Pillichody; "but I feel extremely unwell." "He looks to me as if he had got the plague," observed Patience, to Blaize. "The plague!" exclaimed the latter, letting fall the glass, which shivered to pieces on the stone floor. "And I have touched him. Where is the vinegar-bottle? I must sprinkle myself directly, and rub myself from head to foot with oil of hartshorn and spirits of sulphur. Mother! dear mother! you have taken away my medicine-chest. If you love me, go and fetch me a little conserve of Roman wormwood and mithridate. You will find them in two small jars." "Oh yes, do," cried Patience; "or he may die with fright." Moved by their joint entreaties, old Josyna again departed; and her back was no sooner turned, than Patience said in an undertone to Pillichody,--"Now is your time. You have not a moment to lose." Instantly taking the hint, the other uttered a loud cry, and springing up, caught at Blaize, who instantly dropped the halberd, and fled into one corner of the room. Pillichody then hurried upstairs, while Blaize shouted after him, "Don't touch him, Master Stephen. He has got the plague! he has got the plague!" Alarmed by this outcry, Stephen suffered Pillichody to pass; and the latter, darting across the yard, mounted the rope-ladder, and quickly disappeared. A few minutes afterwards, Bloundel returned with the watch, and was greatly enraged when he found that the prisoner had got off. No longer doubting that he had been robbed of his daughter by the Earl of Rochester, he could not make up his mind to abandon her to her fate, and his conflicting feelings occasioned him a night of indescribable anxiety. The party of watch whom he had summoned searched the street for him, and endeavoured to trace out the fugitives,--but without success; and they returned before daybreak to report their failure. About six o'clock, Mr. Bloundel, unable to restrain himself longer, sallied forth with Blaize in search of his daughter and Leonard. Uncertain where to bend his steps, he trusted to chance to direct him, resolved, if he were unsuccessful, to lay a petition for redress before the throne. Proceeding along Cheapside, he entered Paternoster-row, and traversed it till he came to Paul's Alley,--a narrow passage leading to the north-west corner of the cathedral. Prompted by an unaccountable impulse, he no sooner caught sight of the reverend structure, than he hastened, towards it, and knocked against the great northern door. We shall, however, precede him, and return to the party at the altar. The awful warning of Solomon Eagle so alarmed Quatremain, that he let fall his prayer-book, and after gazing vacantly round for a few moments, staggered to one of the stalls, where, feeling a burning pain in his breast, he tore open his doublet, and found that the enthusiast had spoken the truth, and that he was really attacked by the pestilence. As to Amabel, on hearing the terrible denunciation, she uttered a loud cry, and would have fallen to the ground but for the timely assistance of the apprentice, who caught her with one arm, while with the other he defended himself against the earl and his companions. But, in spite of his resistance, they would have soon compelled him to relinquish his charge, if Solomon Eagle, who had hitherto contented himself with gazing sternly on what was passing, had not interfered; and, rushing towards the combatants, seized Rochester and Etherege, and hurled them backwards with almost supernatural force. When they arose, and menaced him with their swords, he laughed loudly and contemptuously, crying, "Advance, if ye dare! and try your strength against one armed by Heaven, and ye will find how far it will avail." At this juncture, Leonard Holt heard a musical voice behind him, and turning, beheld Nizza Macascree. She beckoned him to follow her; and, raising Amabel in his arms, he ran towards the door leading to Saint Faith's, through which his conductress passed. All this was the work of a moment, and when Rochester and Etherege, who rushed after him, tried the door, they found it fastened withinside. Just then, a loud knocking was heard at the northern entrance of the cathedral, and a verger answering the summons, Mr. Bloundel and Blaize were admitted. On beholding the newcomers, Rochester and his companions were filled with confusion. Equally astonished at the recounter, the grocer grasped his staff, and rushing up to the earl, demanded, in a voice that made the other, despite his natural audacity, quail--"Where is my child, my lord? What have you done with her?" "I know nothing about her," replied Rochester, with affected carelessness.--"Yes, I am wrong," he added, as if recollecting himself; "I am told she has run away with your apprentice." Pillichody, who had changed his attire since his escape from the grocer's dwelling, thought he might now venture to address him without fear of discovery, and, setting his arms a-kimbo, and assuming a swaggering demeanour, strutted forward and said, "Your daughter has just been wedded to Leonard Holt, Mr. Bloundel." "It is false," cried Bloundel, "as false as the character you just personated, for I recognise you as the knave who recently appeared before me as a watchman." "I pledge you my word as a nobleman," interposed Rochester, "that your daughter has just descended to Saint Faith's with your apprentice." "I can corroborate his lordship's assertion," said Etherege. "And I," added Pillichody. "By the holy apostle to whom this fane is dedicated! it is so." "To convince you that we speak the truth, we will go with you and assist you to search," said Rochester. Attaching little credit to what he heard, and yet unwilling to lose a chance of recovering his daughter, the grocer rushed to the door indicated by his informant, but found it fastened. "You had better go to the main entrance," said one of the vergers; "I have the keys with me, and will admit you." "I will keep guard here till you return," said another verger Accompanied by Rochester and Etherege, Bloundel then proceeded to the chief door of the subterranean church. It was situated at the south of the cathedral, between two of the larger buttresses, and at the foot of a flight of stone steps. On reaching it, the verger produced his keys, but they were of no avail, for the door was barred withinside. After many fruitless attempts to obtain admission, they were fain to give up the attempt. "Well, if we cannot get in, no one shall get out," observed the verger. "The only key that opens this door is in my possession, so we have them safe enough." The party then returned to the cathedral, where they found Blaize, Pillichody, and the two other vergers keeping watch at the door near the choir. No one had come forth. Rochester then walked apart with his companions, while Bloundel, feeling secure so long as he kept the earl in view, folded his arms upon his breast, and determined to await the result. By this time, the doors being opened, a great crowd was soon collected within the sacred structure. Saint Paul's Churchyard, as is well known, was formerly the great mart for booksellers, who have not, even in later times, deserted the neighbourhood, but still congregate in Paternoster-row, Ave-Maria-lane, and the adjoining streets. At the period of this history they did not confine themselves to the precincts of the cathedral, but, as has been previously intimated, fixed their shops against the massive pillars of its nave. Besides booksellers, there were seamstresses, tobacco-merchants, vendors of fruit and provisions, and Jews--all of whom had stalls within the cathedral, and who were now making preparations for the business of the day. Shortly afterwards, numbers who came for recreation and amusement made their appearance, and before ten o'clock, Paul's Walk, as the nave was termed, was thronged, by apprentices, rufflers, porters, water-carriers, higglers, with baskets on their heads, or under their arms, fish-wives, quack-doctors, cutpurses, bonarobas, merchants, lawyers, and serving-men, who came to be hired, and who stationed themselves near an oaken block attached to one of the pillars, and which was denominated, from the use it was put to, the "serving-man's log." Some of the crowd were smoking, some laughing, others gathering round a ballad-singer, who was chanting one of Rochester's own licentious ditties; some were buying quack medicines and remedies for the plague, the virtues of which the vendor loudly extolled; while others were paying court to the dames, many of whom were masked. Everything seemed to be going forward within this sacred place, except devotion. Here, a man, mounted on the carved marble of a monument, bellowed forth the news of the Dutch war, while another, not far from him, on a bench, announced in lugubrious accents the number of those who had died on the previous day of the pestilence. There, at the very font, was a usurer paying over a sum of money to a gallant--it was Sir Paul Parravicin--who was sealing a bond for thrice the amount of the loan. There, a party of choristers, attended by a troop of boys, were pursuing another gallant, who had ventured into the cathedral booted and spurred, and were demanding "spur-money" of him--an exaction which they claimed as part of their perquisites. An admirable picture of this curious scene has been given by Bishop Earle, in his _Microcosmographia_, published in 1629. "Paul's Walk," he writes, "is the land's epitome, or you may call it the lesser isle of Great Britain. It is more than this--it is the whole world's map, which you may here discern in its perfectest motion, jostling and turning. It is a heap of stones and men, with a vast confusion of languages; and were the steeple not sanctified, nothing could be liker Babel. The noise in it is like that of bees, a strange humming, or buzzing, mixed of walking, tongues, and feet: it is a kind of still roar, or loud whisper. It is the great exchange of all discourse, and no business whatsoever, but is here stirring and afoot. It is the synod of all parts politic, jointed and laid together in most serious posture, and they are not half so busy at the Parliament. It is the market of young lecturers, whom you may cheapen here at all rates and sizes. It is the general mint of all famous lies, which are here, like the legends of Popery, first coined and stamped in the church. All inventions are emptied here, and not a few pockets. The best sign of the Temple in it is that it is the thieves' sanctuary, who rob more safely in a crowd than a wilderness, while every pillar is a bush to hide them. It is the other expense of the day, after plays and taverns; and men have still some oaths to swear here. The visitants are all men without exceptions; but the principal inhabitants are stale knights and captains out of service, men of long rapiers and short purses, who after all turn merchants here, and traffic for news. Some make it a preface to their dinner, and travel for an appetite; but thirstier men make it their ordinary, and board here very cheap. Of all such places it is least haunted by hobgoblins, for if a ghost would walk here, he could not." Decker, moreover, terms Paul's Walk, or the "Mediterranean Isle," in his "Gull's Hornbook"--"the only gallery wherein the pictures of all your true fashionate and complimental gulls are, and ought to be, hung up." After giving circumstantial directions for the manner of entering the walk, he proceeds thus: "Bend your course directly in the middle line that the whole body of the church may appear to be yours, where in view of all, you may publish your suit in what manner you affect most, either with the slide of your cloak from the one shoulder or the other." He then recommends the gull, after four or five turns in the nave, to betake himself to some of the semsters' shops the new tobacco office, or the booksellers' stalls, "where, if you cannot read, exercise your smoke, and inquire who has written against the divine weed." Such, or something like it, was Paul's Walk at the period of this history. The grocer, who had not quitted his post, remained a silent and sorrowful spectator of the scene. Despite his anxiety, he could not help moralizing upon it, and it furnished him with abundant food for reflection. As to Rochester and his companions, they mingled with the crowd--though the earl kept a wary eye on the door--chatted with the prettiest damsels--listened to the newsmongers, and broke their fast at the stall of a vendor of provisions, who supplied them with tolerable viands, and a bottle of excellent Rhenish. Blaize was soon drawn away by one of the quacks, and, in spite of his master's angry looks, he could not help purchasing one of the infallible antidotes offered for sale by the charlatan. Parravicin had no sooner finished his business with the usurer than he strolled along the nave, and was equally surprised and delighted at meeting with his friends, who briefly explained to him why they were there. "And how do you expect the adventure to terminate?" asked Parravicin, laughing heartily at the recital. "Heaven knows," replied the earl. "But what are you doing here?" "I came partly to replenish my purse, for I have had a run of ill luck of late," replied the knight; "and partly to see a most beautiful creature, whom I accidentally discovered here yesterday." "A new beauty!" cried Rochester. "Who is she?" "Before I tell you, you must engage not to interfere with me," replied Parravicin. "I have marked her for my own." "Agreed," replied Rochester. "Now, her name?" "She is the daughter of a blind piper, who haunts the cathedral," replied Parravicin, "and her name is Nizza Macascree. Is it not charming? But you shall see her." "We must not go too far from the door of Saint Faith's," rejoined Rochester. "Can you not contrive to bring her hither?" "That is more easily said than done," replied Parravicin. "She is as coy as the grocer's daughter. However, I will try to oblige you." With this, he quitted his companions, and returning shortly afterwards, said, "My mistress has likewise disappeared. I found the old piper seated at the entrance of Bishop Kempe's chapel, attended by his dog--but he missed his daughter when he awoke in the morning, and is in great trouble about her." "Strange!" cried Etherege; "I begin to think the place is enchanted." "It would seem so, indeed," replied Rochester. While they were thus conversing, Pillichody, who was leaning against a column, with his eye fixed upon the door leading to Saint Faith's, observed it open, and the apprentice issue from it accompanied by two masked females. All three attempted to dart across the transept and gain the northern entrance, but they were Intercepted. Mr. Bloundel caught hold of Leonard's arm, and Rochester seized her whom he judged by the garb to be Amabel, while Parravicin, recognising Nizza Macascree, as he thought, by her dress, detained her. "What is the meaning of all this, Leonard?" demanded the grocer, angrily. "You shall have an explanation instantly," replied the apprentice; "but think not of me--think only of your daughter." "My father!--my father!" cried the damsel, who had been detained by Parravicin, taking off her mask, and rushing towards the grocer. "Who then have I got?" cried Rochester. "The piper's daughter, I'll be sworn," replied Etherege. "You are right," replied Nizza, unmasking. "I changed dresses with Amabel, and hoped by so doing to accomplish her escape, but we have been baffled. However, as her father is here, it is of little consequence." "Amabel," said the grocer, repulsing her, "before I receive you again, I must be assured that you have not been alone with the Earl of Rochester." "She has not, sir," replied the apprentice. "Visit your displeasure on my head. I carried her off and would have wedded her." "What motive had you for this strange conduct?" asked Bloundel, incredulously. Before Leonard could answer, Pillichody stepped forward, and said to the grocer, "Mr. Bloundel, you are deceived--on the faith of a soldier you are." "Peace, fool!" said Rochester, "I will not be outdone in generosity by an apprentice. Leonard Holt speaks the truth." "If so," replied Bloundel, "he shall never enter my house again. Send for your indentures to-night," he continued sharply, to Leonard, "but never venture to approach me more." "Father, you are mistaken," cried Amabel. "Leonard Holt is not to blame. I alone deserve your displeasure." "Be silent!" whispered the apprentice; "you destroy yourself. I care not what happens to me, provided you escape the earl." "Come home, mistress," cried the grocer, dragging her through the crowd which had gathered round them. "Here is a pretty conclusion to the adventure!" cried Parravicin; "but where is the apprentice--and where is the pretty Nizza Macascree? 'Fore heaven," he added, as he looked around for them in vain, "I should not wonder if they have eloped together." "Nor I," replied Rochester. "I admire the youth's spirit, and trust he may be more fortunate with his second mistress than with his first." "It shall be my business to prevent that," rejoined Parravicin. "Help me to search for her." * * * * * VIII. THE AMULET. As the grocer disappeared with his daughter, Nizza Macascree, who had anxiously watched the apprentice, observed him turn deadly pale, and stagger; and instantly springing to his side, she supported him to a neighbouring column, against which he leaned till he had in some degree recovered from the shock. He then accompanied her to Bishop Kempe's beautiful chapel in the northern aisle, where she expected to find her father; but it was empty. "He will be back presently," said Nizza. "He is no doubt making the rounds of the cathedral. Bell will take care of him. Sit down on that bench while I procure you some refreshment. You appear much in need of it." And without waiting for a reply, she ran off, and presently afterwards returned with a small loaf of bread and a bottle of beer. "I cannot eat," said Leonard, faintly. But seeing that his kind provider looked greatly disappointed, he swallowed a few mouthfuls, and raised the bottle to his lips. As he did so, a sudden feeling of sickness seized him, and he set it down untasted. "What ails you?" asked Nizza, noticing his altered looks with uneasiness. "I know not," he replied. "I have never felt so ill before." "I thought you were suffering from agitation," she rejoined, as a fearful foreboding crossed her. "I shall be speedily released from further trouble," replied the apprentice. "I am sure I am attacked by the plague." "Oh! say not so!" she rejoined. "You may be mistaken." But though she tried to persuade herself she spoke the truth, her heart could not be deceived. "I scarcely desire to live," replied the apprentice, in a melancholy tone, "for life has lost all charms for me. But do not remain here, or you may be infected by the distemper." "I will never leave you," she hastily rejoined; "that is," she added, checking herself, "till I have placed you in charge of some one who will watch over you." "No one will watch over me," returned Leonard. "My master has dismissed me from his service, and I have no other friend left. If you will tell one of the vergers what is the matter with me, he will summon the Examiner of Health, who will bring a litter to convey me to the pest-house." "If you go thither your fate is sealed," replied Nizza. "I have said I do not desire to live," returned the apprentice. "Do not indulge in these gloomy thoughts, or you are certain to bring about a fatal result," said Nizza. "Would I knew how to aid you! But I still hope you are deceived as to the nature of your attack." "I cannot be deceived," replied Leonard, whose countenance proclaimed the anguish he endured. "Doctor Hodges, I think, is interested about me," he continued, describing the physician's residence--"if you will inform him of my seizure, he may, perhaps, come to me." "I will fly to him instantly," replied Nizza; and she was about to quit the chapel, when she was stopped by Parravicin and his companions. "Let me pass," she said, trying to force her way through them. "Not so fast, fair Nizza," rejoined Parravicin, forcing her back, "I must have a few words with you. Have I overrated her charms?" he added to Rochester. "Is she not surpassingly beautiful?" "In good sooth she is," replied the earl, gazing at her with admiration. "By the nut-brown skin of Cleopatra!" cried Pillichody, "she beats Mrs. Disbrowe, Sir Paul." "I have never seen any one so lovely," said the knight, attempting to press her hand to his lips. "Release me, sir," cried Nizza, struggling to free herself. "Not till I have told you how much I love you," returned the knight, ardently. "Love me!" she echoed, scornfully. "Yes, love you," reiterated Parravicin. "It would be strange if I, who profess myself so great an admirer of beauty, did otherwise. I am passionately enamoured of you. If you will accompany me, fair Nizza, you shall change your humble garb for the richest attire that gold can purchase, shall dwell in a magnificent mansion, and have troops of servants at your command. In short, my whole fortune, together with myself, shall be placed at your disposal." "Do not listen to him, Nizza," cried Leonard Holt, in a faint voice. "Be assured I will not," she answered. "Your insulting proposal only heightens the disgust I at first conceived for you," she added to the knight: "I reject it with scorn, and command you to let me pass." "Nay, if you put on these airs, sweetheart," replied Parravicin, insolently, "I must alter my tone likewise. I am not accustomed to play the humble suitor to persons of your condition." "Perhaps not," replied Nizza; "neither am I accustomed to this unwarrantable usage. Let me go. My errand is one of life and death. Do not hinder me, or you will have a heavy crime on your soul--heavier, it may be, than any that now loads it." "Where are you going?" asked Parravicin, struck by her earnest manner. "To fetch assistance," she replied, "for one suddenly assailed by the pestilence." "Ah!" exclaimed the knight, trembling, and relinquishing his grasp. "My path is ever crossed by that hideous spectre. Is it your father who is thus attacked?" "No," she replied, pointing to Leonard, "it is that youth." "The apprentice!" exclaimed Rochester. "I am sorry for him. Let us be gone," he added to his companions. "It may be dangerous to remain here longer." With this they all departed except Parravicin. "Come with us, Nizza," said the latter; "we will send assistance to the sufferer." "I have already told you my determination," she rejoined; "I will not stir a footstep with you. And if you have any compassion in your nature, you will not detain me longer." "I will not leave you here to certain destruction," said the knight. "You shall come with me whether you will or not." And as he spoke, he advanced towards her, while she retreated towards Leonard, who, rising with difficulty, placed himself between her and her persecutor. "If you advance another footstep," cried the apprentice, "I will fling myself upon you, and the contact may be fatal." Parravicin gazed, furiously at him, and half unsheathed his sword. But the next moment he returned it to the scabbard, and exclaiming, "Another time! another time!" darted after his companions. He was scarcely gone, when Leonard reeled against the wall, and before Nizza could catch him, fell in a state of insensibility on the floor. After vainly attempting to raise him, Nizza flew for assistance, and had just passed through the door of the chapel, when she met Judith Malmayns and Chowles. She instantly stopped them, and acquainting them with the apprentice's condition, implored them to take charge of him while she went in search of Doctor Hodges. "Before you go," said Judith, "let me make sure that he is attacked by the plague. It may be some other disorder." "I hope so, indeed," said Nizza, pausing; "but I fear the contrary." So saying, she returned with them to the chapel. Raising the apprentice with the greatest ease, Judith tore open his doublet. "Your suspicion is correct," she said, with a malignant smile. "Here is the fatal sign upon his breast." "I will fetch Doctor Hodges instantly," cried Nizza. "Do so," replied Judith; "we will convey him to the vaults in Saint Faith's, where poor Mr. Quatremain has just been taken. He will be better there than in the pest-house." "Anything is better than that," said Nizza, shuddering. As soon as she was gone, Chowles took off his long black cloak, and, throwing it over the apprentice, laid him at full length upon the bench, and, assisted by Judith, carried him towards the choir. As they proceeded, Chowles called out, "Make way for one sick of the plague!" and the crowd instantly divided, and gave them free passage. In this way they descended to Saint Faith's, and, shaping their course to the vault, deposited their burden on the very bed lately occupied by the unfortunate sexton. "He has come here to die," observed Judith to her companion. "His attack is but a slight one, and he might with care recover. But I can bargain with the Earl of Rochester for his removal." "Take heed how you make such a proposal to his lordship," returned Chowles. "From what I have seen, he is likely to revolt at it." "Every man is glad to get rid of a rival," rejoined Judith. "Granted," replied Chowles; "but no man will _pay_ for the riddance when the plague will accomplish it for him for nothing." "With due attention, I would answer for that youth's recovery," said Judith. "It is not an incurable case, like Mr. Quatremain's. And so Doctor Hodges, when he comes, will pronounce it." Shortly after this, Nizza Macaseree appeared with a countenance fraught with anxiety, and informed them that Doctor Hodges was from home, and would not probably return till late at night. "That's unfortunate," said Judith. "Luckily, however, there are other doctors in London, and some who understand the treatment of the plague far better than he does--Sibbald, the apothecary of Clerkenwell, for instance." "Do you think Sibbald would attend him?" asked Nizza, eagerly. "To be sure he would," replied Mrs. Malmayns, "if he were paid for it. But you seem greatly interested about this youth. I have been young, and know what effect good looks and a manly deportment have upon our sex. He has won your heart! Ha! ha! You need not seek to disguise it. Your blushes answer for you." "A truce to this," cried Nizza, whose cheeks glowed with shame and anger. "You can answer a plain question, I suppose," returned Judith. "Is his life dear to you?" "Dearer than my own?" replied Nizza. "I thought as much," returned Judith. "What will you give me to save him?" "I have nothing," rejoined Nizza, with a troubled look--"nothing but thanks to give you." "Think again," said Judith. "Girls like you, if they have no money, have generally some trinket--some valuable in their possession." "That is not my case," said Nizza, bursting into tears. "I never received a present in my life, and never desired one till now." "But your father must have some money?" said Judith, inquisitively. "I know not," replied Nizza, "but I will ask him. What sum will content you?" "Bring all you can," returned Judith, "and I will do my best." Nizza then departed, while Judith, with the assistance of Chowles, covered Leonard with blankets, and proceeded to light a fire. Long before this, the sick youth was restored to animation. But he was quite light-headed and unconscious of his situation, and rambled about Amabel and her father. After administering such remedies as she thought fit, and as were at hand, Judith sat down with the coffin-maker beside a small table, and entered into conversation with him. "Well," said Chowles, in an indifferent tone, as he poured out a glass of brandy, "is it to be kill or cure?" "I have not decided," replied Judith, pledging him. "I still do not see what gain there would be in shortening his career," observed Chowles. "If there would be no gain, there would be gratification," replied Judith. "He has offended me." "If that is the case, I have nothing further to say," returned Chowles. "But you promised the piper's daughter to save him." "We shall see what she offers," rejoined Judith; "all will depend upon that." "It is extraordinary," observed Chowles, after a pause, "that while all around us are sick or dying of the pestilence, we should escape contagion." "We are not afraid of it," replied Judith. "Besides, we are part of the plague ourselves. But I _have_ been attacked, and am, therefore, safe." "True," replied Chowles; "I had forgotten that. Well, if I fall ill, you Sha'n't nurse me." "You won't be able to help yourself then," returned Judith. "Eh!" exclaimed Chowles, shifting uneasily on his seat. "Don't be afraid," returned Judith, laughing at his alarm. "I'll take every care of you. We are necessary to each other." "So we are," replied Chowles; "so we are; and if nothing else could, that consideration would make us true to each other." "Of course," assented Judith. "Let us reap as rich a harvest as we can, and when the scourge is over, we can enjoy ourselves upon the spoils." "Exactly so," replied Chowles. "My business is daily-hourly on the increase. My men are incessantly employed, and my only fear is that an order will be issued to bury the dead without coffins." "Not unlikely," replied Mrs. Malmayns. "But there are plenty of ways of getting money in a season like this. If one fails, we must resort to another. I shall make all I can, and in the shortest manner." "Right!" cried Chowles, with, an atrocious laugh. "Right! ha! ha!" "I have found out a means of propagating the distemper," pursued Judith, in a low tone, and with a mysterious air, "of inoculating whomsoever I please with the plague-venom. I have tried the experiment on Mr. Quatremain and that youth, and you see how well it has answered in both instances." "I do," replied Chowles, looking askance at her. "But why destroy the poor minor canon?" "Because I want to get hold of the treasure discovered by the help of the Mosaical rods in Saint Faith's, which by right belonged to my husband, and which is now in Mr. Quatremain's possession," replied Judith. "I understand," nodded Chowles. While they were thus conversing, Nizza Macascree again returned, and informed them that she could not find her father. "He has left the cathedral," she said, "and will not, probably, return till nightfall." "I am sorry for it, on your account," observed Judith, coldly. "Why, you will not have the cruelty to neglect the poor young man till then--you will take proper precautions?" exclaimed Nizza. "Why should I exert myself for one about whose recovery I am indifferent?" said Judith. "Why?" exclaimed Nizza. "But it is in vain to argue with you. I must appeal to your avarice, since you are deaf to the pleadings of humanity. I have just bethought me that I have an old gold coin, which was given me years ago by my father. He told me it had been my mother's, and charged me not to part with it. I never should have done so, except in an emergency like the present." As she spoke, she drew from her bosom a broad gold piece. A hole was bored through it, and it was suspended from her neck by a chain of twisted hair. "Let me look at it," said Judith taking the coin. "Who gave you this?" she asked, in an altered tone. "My father?" replied Nizza; "I have just told you so. It was my mother's." "Impossible!" exclaimed Judith! "Have you ever seen it before?" inquired Nizza, astonished at the change in the nurse's manner. "I have," replied Judith, "and in very different hands." "You surprise me," cried Nizza. "Explain yourself, I beseech you." "Not now--not now," cried Judith, hastily returning the coin. "And this is to be mine in case I cure the youth?" "I have said so," replied Nizza. "Then make yourself easy," rejoined Judith; "he shall be well again in less than two days." With this, she set a pan on the fire, and began to prepare a poultice, the materials for which she took from a small oaken chest in one corner of the vault. Nizza looked on anxiously, and while they were thus employed, a knock was heard at the door, and Chowles opening it, found the piper and one of the vergers. "Ah! is it you, father?" cried Nizza, rushing to him. "I am glad I have found you," returned the piper, "for I began to fear some misfortune must have befallen you. Missing you in the morning, I traversed the cathedral in search of you with Bell, well knowing, if you were in the crowd, she would speedily discover you." His daughter then hastily recounted what had happened. When the piper heard that she had promised the piece of gold to the plague-nurse, a cloud came over his open countenance. "You must never part with it," he said--"never. It is an amulet, and if you lose it, or give it away, your good luck will go with it." "Judith Malmayns says she has seen it before," rejoined Nizza. "No such thing," cried the piper hastily, "she knows nothing about it. But come with me. You must not stay here longer." "But, father--dear father!--I want a small sum to pay the nurse for attending this poor young man," cried Nizza. "I have no money," replied the piper; "and if I had, I should not throw it away in so silly a manner. Come along; I shall begin think you are in love with the youth." "Then you will not be far wide of the mark," observed Judith, coarsely. The piper uttered an angry exclamation, and taking his daughter's hand, dragged her out of the vault. "You will not get your fee," laughed Chowles, as they were left alone. "So it appears," replied Judith, taking the pan from the fire; "there is no use in wasting a poultice." Shortly after this, the door of the vault again opened, and Parravicin looked in. He held a handkerchief sprinkled with vinegar to his face, and had evidently, from the manner in which he spoke, some antidote against the plague in his mouth. "Nizza Macascree has been here, has she not?" he asked. "She has just left with her father," replied Judith. Parravicin beckoned her to follow him, and led the way to the north aisle of Saint Faith's. "Is the apprentice likely to recover?" he asked. "Humph!" exclaimed Judith; "that depends upon circumstances. Nizza Macascree offered me a large reward to cure him." "Is he any connexion of hers?" asked the knight, sharply. "None whatever," returned Judith, with a significant smile. "But he may possibly be so." "I thought as much," muttered the knight. "He never _shall_ recover," said Judith, halting, and speaking in a low tone, "if you make it worth my while." "You read my wishes," replied Parravicin, in a sombre tone. "Take this purse, and free me from him." "He will never more cross your path," replied Judith, eagerly grasping the reward. "Enough!" exclaimed Parravicin. "What has passed between us must be secret." "As the grave which shall soon close over the victim," she rejoined. Parravicin shuddered, and hurried away, while Judith returned at a slow pace, and chinking the purse as she went to the vault. She had scarcely passed through the door, when Nizza Macascree appeared from behind one of the massive pillars. "This dreadful crime must be prevented," she cried--"but how? If I run to give the alarm, it may be executed, and no one will believe me. I will try to prevent it myself." Crossing the channel, she was about to enter the vault, when Chowles stepped forth. She shrank backwards, and allowed him to pass, and then trying the door, found it unfastened. IX. HOW LEONARD WAS CURED OF THE PLAGUE. Nizza Macascree found Judith leaning over her intended victim, and examining the plague-spot on his breast. The nurse was so occupied by her task that she did not hear the door open, and it was not until the piper's daughter was close beside her, that she was aware of her presence. Hastily drawing the blankets over the apprentice, she then turned, and regarded Nizza with a half-fearful, half-menacing look. "What brings you here again?" she inquired, sharply. "Ask your own heart, and it will tell you," rejoined Nizza, boldly. "I am come to preserve the life of this poor youth." "If you think you can nurse him better than I can, you can take my place and welcome," returned Judith, affecting not to understand her; "I have plenty of other business to attend to, and should be glad to be released from the trouble." "Can she already have effected her fell purpose?" thought Nizza, gazing at the apprentice, whose perturbed features proclaimed that his slumber procured him no rest from suffering. "No--no--she has not had time. I accept your offer," she added, aloud. "But what will your father say to this arrangement?" asked Judith. "When he knows my motive, he will not blame me," answered Nizza. "Here I take my place," she continued, seating herself, "and will not quit it till he is out of danger." "Your love for this youth borders upon insanity," cried Judith, angrily. "You shall not destroy yourself thus." "Neither shall you destroy him," retorted Nizza. "It is to prevent the commission of the crime you meditate, and for which you have been _paid_, that I am determined to remain with him." As she said this, a singular and frightful change took place in the nurse's appearance. A slight expression of alarm was at first visible, but it was instantly succeeded by a look so savage and vindictive, that Nizza almost repented having provoked the ire of so unscrupulous a person. But summoning up all her resolution, she returned Judith's glance with one as stern and steady, if not so malignant as her own. A deep silence prevailed for a few minutes, during which each fancied she could read the other's thoughts. In Nizza's opinion, the nurse was revolving some desperate expedient, and she kept on her guard, lest an attack should be made upon her life. And some such design did, in reality, cross Judith; but abandoning it as soon as formed, she resolved to have recourse to more secret, but not less certain measures. "Well," she said, breaking silence, "since you are determined to have your own way, and catch the plague, and most likely perish from it, I shall not try to hinder you. Do what you please, and see what will come of it." And she made as if about to depart; but finding Nizza did not attempt to stop her, she halted. "I cannot leave you thus," she continued; "if you _will_ remain, take this ointment," producing a small jar, "and rub the plague-spot with it. It is a sovereign remedy, and will certainly effect a cure." "I will not touch it," returned Nizza. "His death, then, be upon your head," rejoined Judith, quitting the vault, and closing the door after her. Greatly relieved by her departure, Nizza began to consider what she should do, and whether it would be possible to remove the apprentice to some safer place. "While occupied with these reflections, the object of her solicitude heaved a deep sigh, and opening his eyes, fixed them upon her. It was evident, however, that he did not know her, but as far as could be gathered from his ravings, mistook her for Amabel. By degrees he grew calmer, and the throbbing anguish of the tumour in some measure subsiding, his faculties returned to him. "Where am I?" he exclaimed, pressing his hand forcibly to his brow, "and what is the matter with me?" "You are in a vault, near Saint Faith's," replied Nizza, "and--I will not deceive you--the disorder you are labouring under is the plague." "The plague!" echoed Leonard, with a look of horror. "Ah! now I recollect. I was attacked immediately after Amabel's departure with her father. Heaven be praised! she is safe. That is some consolation amid all this misery. Could my master behold me now, he would pity me, and so perhaps would his daughter." "Heed her not," rejoined Nizza, in a slightly reproachful tone, "she does not deserve consideration. To return to yourself. You are not safe here. Judith Malmayns has been hired to take away your life. Are you able to move hence?" "I hope so," replied Leonard, raising himself on his arm. "Wrap a blanket round you, then, and follow me," said Nizza, taking up the lamp and hastening to the door. "Ah!" she exclaimed, with a cry of anguish--"it is locked." "This building is destined to be my prison, and that treacherous woman my gaoler," groaned Leonard, sinking backwards. "Do not despair," cried Nizza; "I will accomplish your deliverance." So saying, she tried, by knocking against the door and by loud outcries, to give the alarm. But no answer was returned, and she soon became convinced that Judith had fastened the door of the charnel, which, it will be remembered, lay between the vault and the body of Saint Faith's. Hence, no sound could teach the outer structure. Disturbed by what had just occurred. Leonard's senses again wandered; but, exerting all her powers to tranquillize him, Nizza at last succeeded so well that he sunk into a slumber. Almost regarding his situation as hopeless, she took up the lamp, and searching the vault, found the pan containing the half-made poultice. The fire smouldered on the hearth, and replenishing it from a scanty supply in one corner, she heated the poultice and applied it to the tumour. This done, she continued her search. But though she found several phials, each bearing the name of some remedy for the pestilence, her distrust of Judith would not allow her to use any of them. Resuming her seat by the couch of the sufferer, and worn out with fatigue and anxiety, she presently dropped asleep. She was awakened after awhile by a slight noise near her, and beheld Judith bending over the apprentice, with a pot of ointment in her hand, which she was about to apply to the part affected. The poultice had already been removed. Uttering a loud cry, Nizza started to her feet, and snatching the ointment from the nurse, threw it away. As soon as the latter recovered from her surprise, she seized her assailant, and forced her into the seat she had just quitted. "Stir not till I give you permission," she cried, fiercely; "I wish to cure this young man, if you will let me." "You intend to murder him," replied Nizza; "but while I live you shall never accomplish your atrocious purpose. Help! help!" And she uttered a prolonged piercing scream. "Peace! or I will strangle you," cried Judith, compressing Nizza's slender throat with a powerful gripe. And she would, in all probability, have executed her terrible threat, if a secret door in the wall had not suddenly opened and admitted Solomon Eagle. A torch supplied the place of his brazier, and he held it aloft, and threw its ruddy light upon the scene. On seeing him, Judith relinquished her grasp, and glared at him with a mixture of defiance and apprehension; while Nizza, half dead with terror, instantly rushed towards him, and throwing herself at his feet, besought him to save her. "No harm shall befall you," replied Solomon Eagle, extending his arm over her. "Tell me what has happened." Nizza hastily explained the motive of Judith's attack upon her life. The plague-nurse endeavoured to defend herself, and, in her turn, charged her accuser with a like attempt. But Solomon Eagle interrupted her. "Be silent, false woman!" he cried, "and think not to delude me with these idle fabrications. I fully believe that you would have taken the life of this poor youth, and, did I not regard you as one of the necessary agents of Heaven's vengeance, I would instantly deliver you up to justice. But the measure of your iniquities is not yet filled up. Your former crimes are not unknown to me. Neither is the last dark deed, which you imagined concealed from every human eye, hidden from me." "I know not what you mean," returned Judith, trembling, in spite of herself. "I will tell you, then," rejoined Solomon Eagle, catching her hand, and dragging her into the furthest corner of the vault. "Give ear to me," he continued, in a low voice, "and doubt, if you can, that I have witnessed what I relate. I saw you enter a small chamber behind the vestry, in which Thomas Quatremain, who once filled the place of minor canon in this cathedral, was laid. No one was there beside yourself and the dying man. Your first business was to search his vestments, and take away his keys." "Ha!" exclaimed Judith, starting. "While securing his keys," pursued Solomon Eagle, "the owner awakened, and uttered a low, but angry remonstrance. Better he had been silent. Dipping a napkin in an ewer of water that stood beside him, you held the wet cloth over his face, and did not remove it till life was extinct. All this I saw." "But you will not reveal it," said Judith, tremblingly. "I will not," replied Solomon Eagle, "for the reasons I have just stated; namely, that I look upon you as one of the scourges appointed by Heaven." "And so I am," rejoined Judith, with impious exultation; "it is my mission to destroy and pillage, and I will fulfil it." "Take heed you do not exceed it," replied Solomon Eagle. "Lift a finger against either of these young persons, and I will reveal all. Yes," he continued, menacingly, "I will disclose such dreadful things against you, that you will assuredly be adjudged to a gibbet higher than the highest tower of this proud fane." "I defy you, wretch!" retorted Judith. "You can prove nothing against me." "Defy me?--ha!" cried Solomon Eagle, with a terrible laugh. "First," he added, dashing her backwards against the wall--"first, to prove my power. Next," he continued, drawing from her pockets a bunch of keys, "to show that I speak the truth. These were taken from the vest of the murdered man. No one, as yet, but ourselves, knows that he is dead." "And who shall say which of the two is the murderer?" cried Judith. "Villain! I charge you with the deed." "You are, indeed, well fitted for your appointed task," returned Solomon Eagle, gazing at her with astonishment, "for sometimes Heaven, for its own wise purpose, will allow the children of hell to execute its vengeance upon earth. But think not you will always thus escape. No, you may pursue your evil course for a while--you, and your companion in crime; but a day of retribution will arrive for both--a day when ye shall be devoured, living, by flames of fire--when all your sins shall arise before your eyes, and ye shall have no time for repentance--and when ye shall pass from one fierce fire to another yet fiercer, and wholly unquenchable!" As he concluded, he again dashed her against the wall with such violence that she fell senseless upon the ground. "And now," he said, turning to Nizza Macascree, who looked on in alarm and surprise, "what can I do for you?" "Bear this youth to a place of safety," was her answer. Solomon Eagle answered by lifting up the pallet upon which Leonard was laid, with as much ease as if it had been an infant's cradle, and calling on Nizza to bring the torch, passed with his burden through the secret door. Directing her to close it after them, he took his way alone a narrow stone passage, until he came to a chink in the wall commanding a small chamber, and desired her to look through it. She obeyed, and beheld, stretched upon a couch, the corpse of a man. "It is Mr. Quatremain, the minor canon," she said, retiring. "It is," returned Solomon Eagle, "and it will be supposed that he died of the plague. But his end was accelerated by Judith Malmayns." Without allowing her time for reply, he pursued his course, traversing another long, narrow passage. "Where are we?" asked Nizza, as they arrived at the foot of a spiral stone staircase. "Beneath the central tower of the cathedral," replied Solomon Eagle. "I will take you to a cell known only to myself, where this youth will be in perfect safety." Ascending the staircase, they passed through an arched door, and entered the great northern ambulatory. Nizza gazed down for a moment into the nave, but all was buried in darkness, and no sound reached her to give her an idea that any one was below. Proceeding towards the west, Solomon Eagle arrived at a small recess in the wall opposite one of the broad-arched openings looking into the nave, and entering it, pressed against a spring at the further extremity, and a stone door flying open, discovered a secret cell, on the floor of which his brazier was burning. Depositing his burden on the floor, he said to Nizza, "He is now safe. Go in search of proper assistance, and I will watch by him till you return." Nizza did not require a second exhortation, but quitting the cell, and noticing its situation, swiftly descended the winding staircase, and hurrying along the northern aisle, proceeded to a small chamber beneath the tower at its western extremity, which she knew was occupied by one of the vergers. Speedily arousing him, she told him her errand, and implored him to remain on the watch till she returned with Doctor Hodges. The verger promised compliance; and, opening a wicket in the great doorway, allowed her to go forth. A few seconds brought her to the doctor's dwelling, and though it was an hour after midnight, her summons was promptly answered by the old porter, who conveyed her message to his master. Doctor Hodges had just retired to rest; but, on learning in whose behalf his services were required, he sprang out of bed, and hastily slipped on his clothes. "I would not, for half I am worth, that that poor youth should perish," he cried. "I take a great interest in him--a very great interest. He must not be neglected. How comes he at Saint Paul's, I wonder? But I can obtain information on that point as I go thither. No time must be lost." Ruminating thus, he swallowed a glass of sack, and providing himself with a case of instruments, and such medicines as he thought he might require, he descended to Nizza. On the way to the cathedral, she acquainted him with what had befallen Leonard during the last four-and-twenty hours, and the only circumstance that she kept back was Judith's attempt on his life. This she intended to reveal at a more fitting opportunity. The doctor expressed somewhat emphatically his disapproval of the conduct of Mr. Bloundel, but promised to set all to rights without loss of time. "The only difficulty I foresee," he observed, "is that the poor youth is attacked by the pestilence; and though I may succeed in curing him, his master will probably have shut up his house before I can accomplish my object, in which case, all chance of his union with Amabel will be at an end." "So much the better," rejoined Nizza, sharply; "she does not deserve him." "There I agree with you," returned Hodges. "But could you point out any one who does?" he added, with a slight but significant laugh. No answer was returned; and as they had just reached the portico of the cathedral, they entered the sacred structure in silence. As they ascended the winding stairs, loud outcries resounded along the ambulatory, and echoed by the vaulted roof of the nave, convinced them that the sufferer was again in a state of frenzy, produced by fever and the anguish of his sore; and on reaching the cell they found him struggling violently with Solomon Eagle, who held him down by main force. "He is in a fearfully excited state, truly," observed Hodges, as he drew near, "and must not be left for a moment, or he will do himself a mischief. I must give him a draught to allay the fever, and compose his nerves--for in this state I dare not have recourse to the lancet." With this he dressed the tumour; and pouring the contents of a large phial which he had brought with him in a cup, he held it to the burning lips of the apprentice, who eagerly quaffed it. It was soon apparent that the dose produced a salutary effect, and a second was administered. Still the sufferer, though calmer, continued to ramble as before--complained that his veins were filled with molten lead--entreated them to plunge him in a stream, so that he might cool his intolerable thirst, and appeared to be in great agony. Doctor Hodges watched by him till daybreak, at which time he sank into a slumber; and Solomon Eagle, who had never till then relinquished his hold of him, now ventured to resign his post. The doctor was then about to depart; but at the urgent solicitation of Nizza, who had stationed herself at the door of the cell, he agreed to remain a little longer. Two hours after this, the doors of the cathedral were opened, and a large crowd soon assembled within the nave, as on the preceding day. The tumult of voices reached the cell and awakened the sleeper. Before he could be prevented he started from his bed, and dashing aside the feeble opposition offered by Nizza and the doctor, ran along the ambulatory, uttering a loud and fearful cry. Finding the door of the winding staircase open, he darted through it, and in a few seconds reappeared in the aisle. Hearing the cries, several persons rushed to meet him; but on beholding his haggard looks and strange appearance--he was merely wrapped in a blanket,--they instantly recoiled. Mean-time, Doctor Hodges, who had run to one of the arched openings looking on the nave, called out to them to secure the fugitive. But all fled at his approach; and when he reached the door of the southern transept, the verger, instead of attempting to stop him, retreated with a cry of alarm. As he passed through the outlet, one man bolder than the rest caught hold of him, and endeavoured to detain him. But, leaving the blanket in his hands, and without other covering than his shirt, the apprentice dashed across the churchyard--next shaped his course down Saint Bennet's-hill--then crossed Thames-street,--and finally speeding along another narrow thoroughfare, reached Paul's Wharf. Gazing for a moment at the current sweeping past him--it was high-tide,--he plunged head foremost into it from the high embankment, and on rising to the surface, being a strong and expert swimmer, struck out for the opposite shore. Those who beheld him were filled with amazement; but such was the alarm occasioned by his appearance, that none ventured to interfere with him. He had not crossed more than a fourth part of the stream when Doctor Hodges arrived at the wharf; but neither promises of reward nor threats could induce any of the watermen to follow him. The humane physician would have sprung into a boat, but feeling he should be wholly unable to manage it, he most reluctantly abandoned his purpose. Scarcely doubting what the result of this rash attempt would be, and yet unable to tear himself away, he lingered on the wharf till he saw Leonard reach the opposite bank, where an attempt was made by a party of persons to seize him. But instead of quietly surrendering himself, the apprentice instantly leapt into the river again, and began to swim back towards the point whence he had started. Amazed at what he saw, the doctor ordered his servant, who by this time had joined the group, to bring a blanket, and descending to the edge of the river, awaited the swimmer's arrival. In less than ten minutes he had reached the shore, and clambering on the bank, fell from exhaustion. "This is a violent effort of nature, which has accomplished more than science or skill could do," said Hodges, as he gazed on the body, and saw that the pestilential tumour had wholly disappeared--"he is completely cured of the plague." And throwing the blanket over him, he ordered him to be conveyed to his own house. X. THE PEST-HOUSE IN FINSBURY FIELDS. Not a word passed between the grocer and his daughter, as he took her home from Saint Paul's. Amabel, in fact, was so overpowered by conflicting emotions that she could not speak; while her father, who could not help reproaching himself for the harshness he had displayed towards Leonard Holt, felt no disposition to break silence. They found Mrs. Bloundel at the shop-door, drowned in tears, and almost in a state of distraction. On seeing them, she rushed towards her daughter, and straining her to her bosom, gave free vent to the impulses of her affection. Allowing the first transports of joy to subside, Mr. Bloundel begged her to retire to her own room with Amabel, and not to leave it till they had both regained their composure, when he wished to have some serious conversation with them. His request complied with, the grocer then retraced his steps to the cathedral with the intention of seeking an explanation from Leonard, and, if he saw occasion to do so, of revoking his severe mandate. But long before he reached the southern transept, the apprentice had disappeared, nor could he learn what had become of him. While anxiously pursuing his search among the crowd, and addressing inquiries to all whom he thought likely to afford him information, he perceived a man pushing his way towards him. As this person drew near, he recognised Pillichody, and would have got out of his way had it been possible. "You are looking for your apprentice, I understand, Mr. Bloundel," said the bully, raising his hat--"if you desire, it, I will lead you to him." Unwilling as he was to be obliged to one whom he knew to be leagued with the Earl of Rochester, the grocer's anxiety overcame his scruples, and, signifying his acquiescence, Pillichody shouldered his way through the crowd, and did not stop till they reached the northern aisle, where they were comparatively alone. "Your apprentice is a fortunate spark, Mr. Bloundel," he said. "No sooner does he lose one mistress than he finds another. Your daughter is already forgotten, and he is at this moment enjoying a tender _tête-à-tête_ in Bishop Kempe's chapel with Nizza Macascree, the blind piper's daughter." "It is false, sir," replied the grocer, incredulously. "Unbelieving dog!" cried Pillichody, in a furious tone, and clapping his hand upon his sword, "it is fortunate for you that the disparity of our stations prevents me from compelling you to yield me satisfaction for the insult you have offered me. But I caution you to keep better guard upon your tongue for the future, especially when addressing one who has earned his laurels under King Charles the Martyr." "I have no especial reverence for the monarch you served under," replied Bloundel; "but he would have blushed to own such a follower." "You may thank my generosity that I do not crop your ears, base Roundhead," rejoined Pillichody; "but I will convince you that I speak the truth, and if you have any shame in your composition, it will be summoned to your cheeks." So saying, he proceeded to Bishop Kempe's chapel, the door of which was slightly ajar, and desired the grocer to look through the chink. This occurred at the precise time that the apprentice was seized with sudden faintness, and was leaning for support upon Nizza Macascree's shoulder. "You see how lovingly they are seated together," observed Pillichody, with a smile of triumph. "Bowers of Paphos! I would I were as near the rich widow of Watling-street. Will you speak with him?" "No," replied Bloundel, turning away; "I have done with him for ever. I have been greatly deceived." "True," chuckled Pillichody, as soon as the grocer was out of hearing; "but not by your apprentice, Mr. Bloundel. I will go and inform Parravicin and Rochester that I have discovered the girl. The knight must mind what he is about, or Leonard Holt will prove too much for him. Either I am greatly out, or the apprentice is already master of Nizza's heart." To return to Amabel. As soon as she was alone with her mother, she threw herself on her knees before her, and, imploring her forgiveness, hastily related all that had occurred. "But for Leonard Holt," she said, "I should have been duped into a false marriage with the earl, and my peace of mind would have been for ever destroyed. As it is, I shall never be easy till he is restored to my father's favour. To have done wrong myself is reprehensible enough; but that another should suffer for my fault is utterly inexcusable." "I lament that your father should be deceived," rejoined Mrs. Bloundel, "and I lament still more that Leonard Holt should be so unjustly treated. Nevertheless, we must act with the utmost caution. I know my husband too well to doubt for a moment that he will hesitate to fulfil his threat. And now, my dear child," she continued, "do not the repeated proofs you have received of this wicked nobleman's perfidy, and of Leonard's devotion--do they not, I say, open your eyes to the truth, and show you which of the two really loves you, and merits your regard?" "I will hide nothing from you, mother," replied Amabel. "In spite of his perfidy, in spite of my conviction of his unworthiness, I still love the Earl of Rochester. Nor can I compel myself to feel any regard, stronger than that of friendship, for Leonard Holt." "You distress me, sadly, child," cried Mrs. Bloundel. "What will become of you! I wish my husband would shut up his house. That might put an end to the difficulty. I am not half so much afraid of the plague as I am of the Earl of Rochester. But compose yourself, as your father desired, that when he sends for us we may be ready to meet him with cheerfulness." Mr. Bloundel, however, did _not_ send for them. He remained in the shop all day, except at meal-times, when he said little, and appeared to be labouring under a great weight of anxiety. As Amabel took leave of him for the night, he dismissed her with coldness; and though he bestowed his customary blessing upon her, the look that accompanied it was not such as it used to be. On the following day things continued in the same state. The grocer was cold and inscrutable, and his wife, fearing he was meditating some severe course against Amabel, and aware of his inflexible nature, if a resolution was once formed, shook off her habitual awe, and thus addressed him: "I fear you have not forgiven our daughter. Be not too hasty in your judgment. However culpable she may appear, she has been as much deceived as yourself." "It may be so," replied Bloundel. "Still she has acted with such indiscretion that I can never place confidence in her again, and without confidence affection is as nought. Can I say to him who may seek her in marriage, and whom I may approve as a husband,--'Take her! she has never deceived me, and will never deceive you?' No. She _has_ deceived me, and will, therefore, deceive others. I do not know the precise truth of the story of her abduction (if such it was) by Leonard Holt, neither do I wish to know it, because I might be compelled to act with greater severity than I desire towards her. But I know enough to satisfy me she has been excessively imprudent, and has placed herself voluntarily in situations of the utmost jeopardy." "Not voluntarily," returned Mrs. Bloundel. "She has been lured into difficulties by others." "No more!" interrupted the grocer, sternly. "If you wish to serve her, keep guard upon your tongue. If you have any preparations to make, they must not be delayed. I shall shut up my house to-morrow." "Whether Leonard returns or not?" asked Mrs. Bloundel. "I shall wait for no one," returned her husband, peremptorily. They then separated, and Mrs. Bloundel hastened to her daughter to acquaint her with the result of the interview. In the afternoon of the same day, the grocer, who began to feel extremely uneasy about Leonard, again repaired to Saint Paul's to see whether he could obtain any tidings of him, and learnt, to his great dismay, from one of the vergers, that a young man, answering to the description of the apprentice, had been attacked by the pestilence, and having been taken to the vaults of Saint Faith's, had made his escape from his attendants, and, it was supposed, had perished. Horror-stricken by this intelligence, he descended to the subterranean church, where he met Judith Malmayns and Chowles, who confirmed the verger's statement. "The poor young man, I am informed," said Chowles, "threw himself into the Thames, and was picked up by a boat, and afterwards conveyed, in a dying state, to the pest-house in Finsbury Fields, where you will probably find him, if he is still alive." Mr. Bloundel heard no more. Quitting the cathedral, he hastened to Finsbury Fields, and sought out the building to which he had been directed. It was a solitary farm-house, of considerable size, surrounded by an extensive garden, and had only been recently converted to its present melancholy use. Near it was a barn, also fitted up with beds for the sick. On approaching the pest-house, Mr. Bloundel was greatly struck with the contrast presented by its exterior to the misery he knew to be reigning within. Its situation was charming,--in the midst, as has just been stated, of a large and, until recently, well-cultivated garden, and seen under the influence of a bright and genial May day, the whole place looked the picture of healthfulness and comfort. But a closer view speedily dispelled the illusion, and showed that it was the abode of disease and death. Horrid sounds saluted the ears; ghastly figures met the eyes; and the fragrance of the flowers was overpowered by the tainted and noisome atmosphere issuing from the open doors and windows. The grocer had scarcely entered the gate when he was arrested by an appalling shriek, followed by a succession of cries so horrifying that he felt half disposed to fly. But mustering up his resolution, and breathing at a phial of vinegar, he advanced towards the principal door, which stood wide open, and called to one of the assistants. The man, however, was too busy to attend to him, and while waiting his leisure, he saw no fewer than three corpses carried out to an outbuilding in the yard, where they were left till they could be taken away at night for interment. Sickened by the sight, and blaming himself for entering near this contagious spot, Mr. Bloundel was about to depart, when a young chirurgeon stepped out to him, and, in reply to his inquiries after Leonard, said: "Twelve persons were brought in here last night, and five this morning, but I do not remember any of their names. You can go through the rooms and search for your apprentice, if you think proper." Mr. Bloundel hesitated, but his humanity overcame his apprehension, and murmuring a prayer that he might be preserved from infection, he followed his conductor into the house. Prepared as he was for a dreadful spectacle, the reality far exceeded his anticipations. Along both sides of a large room, occupying nearly the whole of the ground-floor, were rows of pallets, on which were laid the sick, many of whom were tied down to their couches. Almost all seemed in a hopeless state, and the cadaverous hue of their countenances proclaimed that death was not far off. Though the doors and windows were open, and the room was filled with vapours and exhalations, arising from pans of coal and plates of hot iron, on which drugs were burning, nothing could remove the putrid, and pestilential smell that pervaded the chamber. The thick vapour settled on the panes of the windows, and on the roof, and fell to the ground in heavy drops. Marching quickly past each bed, the grocer noted the features of its unfortunate occupant; but though there were many young men, Leonard was not among the number. His conductor then led him to an upper room, where he found the chirurgeons dressing the sores of their patients, most of whom uttered loud shrieks while under their hands. Here an incident occurred which deeply affected the grocer. A poor young woman, who had been brought to the pest-house with her child on the previous evening, had just expired, and the infant, unable to obtain its customary nourishment, uttered the most piteous cries. It was instantly removed by a nurse and proper food given it; but Mr. Bloundel was informed that the plague-tokens had already appeared, and that it would not probably live over the night. "I have no doubt," said the young chirurgeon, "it will be buried with its mother." And so it happened. The grocer turned away to hide his emotion, and endeavoured through his blinded gaze to discover Leonard, but, as will be anticipated, without success. Stunned by the cries and groans that pierced his ears, and almost stifled by the pestilential effluvia, he rushed out of the house, and gladly accepted a glass of sack offered him by his conductor, which removed the dreadful nausea that affected him. "I now remember that the two last persons brought here were taken to the barn," observed the chirurgeon; "I will go with you thither, if you think proper." The grocer assented, and the chirurgeon crossed the yard, and opened the door of the barn, on the floor of which upwards of twenty beds were laid. Passing between them, Mr. Bloundel narrowly scrutinized every countenance; but, to his great relief, recognised no one. One couch alone remained to be examined. The poor sufferer within it had drawn the coverings over his face, and when they were removed he was found quite dead! He was a young man; and the agony he had endured in the last struggle was shown by his collapsed frame and distorted features. It was not, however, Leonard; and, so far satisfied, though greatly shocked, Mr. Bloundel hurried out. "Thank Heaven he is not here!" he exclaimed to his conductor. "You have not seen the dead bodies in the outhouse," returned the other; "it is possible his may be among them." "I trust not," rejoined the grocer, shuddering; "but as I have gone thus far, I will not leave my errand unaccomplished. Suffer me to look at them." The chirurgeon then led the way to a spacious outbuilding, once used for cattle, in the midst of which stood a large frame supporting six bodies, covered only with a sheet. Mr. Bloundel could not overcome his repugnance to enter this shed; but the chirurgeon, who appeared habituated to such scenes, and to regard them lightly, threw off the sheet, and raised the corpses, one by one, that he might the better view them. One peculiarity Mr. Bloundel noticed; namely, that the limbs of these unfortunate victims of the pestilence did not stiffen, as would have been the case if they had died of any other disorder; while the blotches that appeared on the livid flesh made them objects almost too horrible to look upon. In many cases the features were frightfully distorted--the tongues of the poor wretches swollen and protruding--the hands clenched, and the toes bent towards the soles of the feet. Everything denoted the dreadful pangs that must have attended dissolution. Greatly relieved to find that the whole of this ghastly group were strangers to him, Mr. Bloundel thanked the chirurgeon, and departed. Convinced that he had been deceived by the coffin-maker, he now began to hope that the whole story was false; but he determined not to rest till he had thoroughly investigated the matter. Before doing so, however, he thought it advisable to return home, and accordingly shaped his course toward Cripplegate, and, passing through the postern, stopped at an apothecary's shop, and got his apparel fumigated and sprinkled with spirits of hartshorn and sulphur. On reaching Wood-street, he noticed, with some uneasiness, a number of persons gathered together before his dwelling. His fears were speedily relieved by finding that the assemblage was collected by a preacher, who was pronouncing an exhortation to them in tones almost as loud and emphatic as those of Solomon Eagle. The preacher's appearance was very remarkable, and attracted the attention of the grocer, who joined the crowd to listen to him. As far as could be judged, he was a middle-aged man, with black hair floating over his shoulders, earnest features, and a grey eye of extraordinary brilliancy. His figure was slight and erect, and his gestures as impassioned as his looks. He spoke with great rapidity; and his eloquence, combined with his fervent manner and expression, completely entranced his audience. He was habited in a cassock and bands, and had taken off his cap, which was held by an attendant, who stood near the stool on which he was mounted. The latter differed materially from his master. His closely-cropped hair, demure looks, sugar-loaf hat, and suit of rusty sable, seemed to proclaim him a Puritan; but his twinkling eye--for he had but one, and wore a black patch over the orifice--his inflamed cheeks, and mulberry nose contradicted the idea. As soon as the preacher distinguished Mr. Bloundel, he addressed his discourse to him; and, alluding to his religious habits and general excellence of character, held him up as an example to others. The grocer would fain have retreated; but the preacher besought him to stay, and was proceeding in the same strain, when a sudden interruption took place. A slight disturbance occurring amid the crowd, the attendant attempted to check it, and in doing so received a sound buffet on the ears. In endeavouring to return the blow, he struck another party, who instantly retaliated, and a general affray commenced--some taking one side, some the other. In the midst of the confusion three persons forced their way towards the preacher, knocked him from his stool, and, assailing him with the most opprobrious epithets, dealt him several seemingly severe blows, and would have further maltreated him, if Mr. Bloundel had not interposed, and, pushing aside his assailants, gave him his hand, and led him into his dwelling, the door of which he closed. Shortly afterwards, the crowd dispersing, the preacher's companion entered the shop in search of his master. "I hope you have sustained no injury during this tumult, reverend and dear sir?" he asked, with great apparent solicitude. "I am not much hurt," replied the preacher; "but I have received a blow on the head, which has stunned me. The faintness will go off presently. You were the cause of this disturbance, Bambolio." "I, Doctor Maplebury?" replied Bambolio. "I endeavoured to stop it. But your reverence looks extremely ill. I am sure, sir," he added to Mr. Bloundel, "after the high character my master gave you in his discourse, and which I am persuaded you deserve, you will extend your hospitality towards him." "Readily," replied the grocer. "Here, Blaize, assist the reverend gentleman within, and bid your mistress come down stairs immediately." Doctor Maplebury was then conveyed between the porter and Bambolio into the inner room, where he sank into a chair in a complete state of exhaustion. The next moment Mrs. Bloundel made her appearance with Amabel. The latter no sooner beheld the preacher, than she started and trembled so violently, that she could scarcely support herself; but her mother, who only saw a fainting man, flew to his assistance, and called to Patience to bring restoratives. These applied, Doctor Maplebury was soon able to rouse himself sufficiently to gaze round the room, and fix his eyes on Amabel. "So our old friends are here again," said Patience in a low tone to Blaize, as they left the room together. "Old friends! What do you mean?" rejoined the porter. "Why, the Earl of Rochester and Major Pillichody," replied Patience. "I knew them at a glance, and so did Mistress Amabel. But if I hadn't discovered them, the major would soon have let me into the secret by the way in which he squeezed my hand." "Indeed!" exclaimed Blaize, angrily. "I'll go and acquaint my master with the trick directly." "Do so," replied Patience, "and the house will be shut up to-morrow. Our only chance of averting that calamity is in the earl." XI. HOW THE GROCER SHUT UP HIS HOUSE. Placed in a warm bed, and carefully tended by the humane physician, Leonard Holt slept tranquilly for some hours, and when he awoke, though so weak as scarcely to be able to lift an arm, he was free from all ailment. Feeling ravenously hungry, he made known his wants; and, provisions being set before him, he was allowed to eat and drink in moderation. Greatly revived by the meal, he arose and attired himself in habiliments provided for him by Hodges, who, finding him fully equal to conversation, questioned him as to all that had occurred prior to his seizure. "You have acted nobly," observed the doctor, at the close of his recital; "and if Amabel had a spark of generosity in her composition, she would worthily requite you. But I do not expect it. How different is her conduct from that of the piper's pretty daughter. The latter really loves you; and I would advise you as a friend to turn your thoughts to her. She will make you happy: whereas the indulgence of your present hopeless passion--for hopeless it is--can only lead to wretchedness." "Would I could follow your advice!" replied Leonard; "but, alas! I cannot. Amabel does not love the Earl of Rochester more blindly, more constantly, than I love her; and I could as soon change my nature as transfer my affection to another." "I am truly sorry for it," rejoined Hodges, in a tone of deep sympathy. "And you still desire to return to your master?" "Unquestionably," replied Leonard. "If I am banished the house, I shall wander round it night and day like a ghost." "I will accompany you there this evening," rejoined Hodges, "and I trust I shall be able to arrange matters without compromising Amabel. I wish I could forward your suit more efficiently; but I see no chance of it, and, to deal plainly with you, I do not think a marriage with her would be for your happiness. The brilliant qualities of your noble rival at present so dazzle her eyes, that your own solid worth is completely overlooked. It will be well if her father can preserve her from ruin." "The earl shall die by my hand rather than he shall succeed in his infamous purpose," cried Leonard, fiercely. "No more of this!" exclaimed Hodges. "If you would have me take an interest in you, you will never give utterance to such a sentiment again. Amabel has another guardian, more powerful even than her father--the plague. Ere long the earl, who has a sufficient value for his own safety, will fly the city." "I hope the pestilence will number him among its victims," observed Leonard, in a sombre tone. At this juncture the old porter entered the room, and informed his master that the piper's daughter was below, and had called to inquire after the apprentice. Hodges desired she might be shown upstairs, and the next moment Nizza was ushered into the room. On beholding the improved appearance of Leonard, she could not repress an exclamation of delight, while a deep blush suffused her cheeks. "You are surprised to find him quite well," observed Hodges, with a smile. "Nay, you may approach him with safety. There is no fear of contagion now." "Having satisfied myself on that point, I will take my leave," rejoined Nizza, in some confusion. "Not till you have allowed me to return my thanks, I trust," said Leonard, advancing towards her, and taking her hand. "I owe my life to you." "Then pay the debt by devoting it to her," rejoined Hodges. "Excuse me for a few minutes. I have business to attend to, but will be back again directly." Left alone together, the young couple felt so much embarrassment that for some minutes neither could utter a word. At length Nizza, who had suffered her hand to remain in that of Leonard, gently withdrew it. "Circumstances have given me a claim to your confidence," she faltered, "and you will not misconstrue my motive, when I ask you whether you still retain the same affection as formerly for Amabel?" "Unfortunately for myself, I do," replied Leonard. "And unfortunately for me too," sighed Nizza. "Doctor Hodges says he can restore you to your master's favour. You will therefore return home, and we shall meet no more." "In these precarious times, those who part, though even for a few days, can feel no certainty of meeting again," rejoined Leonard. "But I hope we shall be more fortunate." "You mistake me," replied Nizza. "Henceforth I shall sedulously avoid you. Till I saw you, I was happy, and indifferent to all else, my affections being centred in my father and in my dog. Now I am restless and miserable. My former pursuits are abandoned, and I think only of you. Despise me if you will after this frank avowal. But believe that I would not have made it if I had not resolved to see you no more." "Despise you!" echoed Leonard. "On no! I shall ever feel the deepest gratitude towards you; but perhaps it is better we should meet no more." "And yet you throw yourself in the way of Amabel," cried Nizza. "You have not resolution to fly from the danger which you counsel me to shun." "It is too true," replied Leonard; "but she is beset by temptations from which I hope to preserve her." "That excuse will not avail me," returned Nizza, bitterly. "You cannot live without her. But I have said enough--more than enough," she added, correcting herself. "I must now bid you farewell--for ever. May you be happy with Amabel, and may she love you as I love you!" As she said this she would have rushed out of the room, if she had not been stopped by Doctor Hodges. "Whither so fast?" he inquired. "Oh! let me go--let me go, I implore of you!" she cried, bursting into an agony of tears. "Not till you have composed yourself," rejoined the doctor. "What is the matter? But I need not ask. I wonder Leonard can be insensible to charms like yours, coupled with such devotion. Everything seems to be at cross purposes, and it requires some one more skilled in the affairs of the heart than an old bachelor like myself to set them right. Sit down. I have a few questions of importance to ask you before you depart." And partly by entreaty, partly by compulsion, he made her take a chair; and as soon as she was sufficiently composed to answer him, questioned her as to what she knew relating to Judith Malmayns and Chowles. "Mr. Quatremain, the minor canon, has died of the plague in one of the vaults of Saint Faith's," he observed; "and I more than suspect, from the appearance of the body, has not met with fair play." "Your suspicion is well founded, sir," replied Nizza. "Solomon Eagle told me that the unfortunate man's end was hastened by the plague-nurse. Nor is this her sole crime. She was hired to make away with Leonard Holt in the same manner, and would have accomplished her purpose but for the intervention of Solomon Eagle." "Neither she nor her partner in guilt, the coffin-maker, shall escape justice this time," replied Hodges. "I will instantly cause her to be arrested, and I trust she will expiate her offences at Tyburn. But to change the subject. I am sincerely interested about you, Nizza, and I wish I could make Leonard as sensible of your merits as I am myself. I still hope a change will take place in his feelings." "My heart tells me the contrary," replied Nizza. "There is no hope for either of us. Farewell, Leonard!" and she rushed out of the room. Soon after this Hodges quitted the apprentice, and going before a magistrate, detailed all that had come to his knowledge concerning the criminal practices of Judith Malmayns and Chowles. In the course of the day the accused parties were arrested, and, after a long examination, conveyed to Newgate. Solomon Eagle could not be found, neither could Sir Paul Parravicin. It appeared that Mr. Quatremain's residence had been entered on that very morning, and the box of treasure discovered in Saint Faith's abstracted. But though the strongest suspicion of the robbery attached to Chowles and Judith, it could not be brought home to them. We shall now proceed to Wood-street, and ascertain what took place there. Refreshments were placed before the supposed Doctor Maplebury by the grocer, while his attendant was sent to the kitchen, and directions given to Blaize to take every care of him; old Josyna was occupied about her own concerns; and Pillichody, perceiving from the porter's manner that his disguise was detected, laid aside concealment altogether, and endeavoured to win the other over to his patron's interests. "If this marriage takes place," he said, "I am authorized by my noble friend to state that he will appoint you his steward with a large salary, and that will be a very different situation from the one you hold at present. A nobleman's steward! Think of that. You will have a retinue of servants under your control, and will live quite as well as his lordship." "I have some scruples," hesitated Blaize. "Scruples! pshaw!" cried Pillichody. "You can have no hesitation in benefiting yourself. If you remain here, the house will be shut up, and you will be kept a close prisoner for months in the very heart of an infected city, and I dare say will be buried in yonder cellar; whereas, if you go with the Earl of Rochester, you will dwell in a magnificent country mansion--a palace, I ought to call it--enjoy every luxury, and remain there till the plague is over." "That last reason decides me," replied Blaize. "But I suppose his lordship will provide himself with a medicine chest?" "He has already got one as large as this table," said Pillichody, "and you shall have the key of it." "Enough!" exclaimed Blaise. "I am yours." "Pray, what am I to be?" asked Patience, who had listened to the foregoing conversation with a smile at Blaize's credulity. "You, sweetheart!" exclaimed Pillichody. "I will take care of you. You shall be my housekeeper." "Hold!" cried Blaize. "I cannot admit that. Patience and I are engaged." "Since you are promoted to such an important situation, you can make a better match," observed Patience. "I release you from the engagement." "I don't choose to be released," returned Blaize; "I will marry you on the same day that the earl weds Amabel." "That will be to-night, or to-morrow at the latest," said Pillichody. "Consent, sweetheart," he added, in a whisper to Patience; "if we can once get you and your pretty mistress out of the house, we will leave this simpleton fool in the lurch." "No, I will never consent to such a thing," returned Patience, in the same tone. "What's that you are saying?" inquired Blaize, suspiciously. "Major Pillichody says he will marry me, if you won't," returned Patience. "I have just told you I will," rejoined Blaize. "But he must not continue his attentions. I feel I shall be very jealous." "I am glad to hear it," returned Patience, bursting into a loud laugh, "for that proves you love me." "Well," observed Pillichody, "I won't interfere with a friend; and as there is no knowing what may occur, it will be as well to prepare accordingly." So saying, he fell to work upon the provisions loading the board, and ate and drank as if determined to lay in a stock for the next two days. Meantime the earl made rapid progress in the good opinion both of Mr. Bloundel and his wife. Adapting his discourse precisely to their views, and exerting his matchless conversational powers to their full extent, he so charmed them that they thought they could listen to him for ever. While thus engaged, he contrived ever and anon to steal a glance at Amabel, and on these occasions, his eyes were quite as eloquent and intelligible as his tongue. Among other topics interesting to the grocer, the persecution to which his daughter had been recently subjected was brought forward. Mr. Bloundel could not reprobate the earl's conduct more strongly than his guest did; and he assailed himself with such virulence that, in spite of her uneasiness, Amabel could not repress a smile. In short, he so accommodated himself to the grocer's opinion, and so won upon his regard, that the latter offered him an asylum in his house during the continuance of the pestilence. This was eagerly accepted, and the earl, hazarding a look at Amabel at the moment, perceived her change colour and become greatly agitated. Mrs. Bloundel also noticed her confusion, but attributing it to any other than the right cause, begged her, in a low tone, to control herself. At length, the opportunity for which the earl had been secretly sighing occurred. Mr. Bloundel called his wife out of the room for a moment, and as their eldest son, Stephen, was in the shop, and the two other children upstairs, Amabel was left alone with her lover. The door was no sooner closed than he sprang towards her and threw himself at her feet. "Shall I avail myself of your father's offer, sweetheart?" he cried. "Shall I remain here with you--the happiest of prisoners--or will you once more accompany me? This time, our marriage shall not be interrupted." "Perhaps not, my lord," she replied, gravely; "but it will be a mock ceremonial, like the last. Do not attempt to deceive me. I am fully aware of your intentions, and after the awful fate of the wretched instrument of your purposed criminality, you will not readily get another person to tempt in like manner the vengeance of Heaven. I have had a severe struggle with myself. But at length I have triumphed over my irresolution. I will not disguise from you that I love you still,--and must ever, I fear, continue to love you. But I will not be yours on the terms you propose. Neither will I leave this house with you, nor suffer you to remain in it, in any other than your proper character. On my father's return I will disclose all to him. If your designs are honourable, I am sure he will no longer oppose my union with you. If not, we part for ever." "Be prudent, sweet girl, I entreat of you," cried the earl imploringly. "Your indiscretion will ruin all. There are a thousand reasons why your father should not be consulted on the matter." "There are none that weigh with me," she interrupted, decidedly. "I have been bewildered--beside myself,--but, thank Heaven, I have recovered before it is too late." "You are beside yourself at this moment," cried Rochester, unable to control his anger and mortification, "and will bitterly repent your folly. Neither your supplications nor my rank will have any weight with your father, prejudiced as he is against me. Fly with me, and I swear to make you mine, without a moment's loss of time. Will not my plighted word content you?" "No, my lord, you have broken it already," returned Amabel. "My father shall know the truth." A dark shade passed over Rochester's countenance, and a singular and most forbidding expression, which Amabel had once before noticed, took possession of it. His love for her seemed changed to hate, and she tremblingly averted her gaze. At this juncture, the door opened, and the grocer and his wife entered the room. The former started, on seeing Amabel and the supposed preacher in such close propinquity, and a painful suspicion of the truth crossed his mind. He was not, however, kept long in suspense. Throwing off his wig, and letting his own fair ringlets fall over his shoulders, the earl tore open his cassock, and disclosed his ordinary rich attire. At the same time, his face underwent an equally striking change,--each feature resuming its original expression; and the grocer, though he witnessed the whole transformation, could scarcely believe that the same individual he had recently beheld stood before him. "You now know who I am, Mr. Bloundel, and what brought me hither," said Rochester, with a haughty salutation. "I do, my lord," replied the grocer, "and I give you full credit for your daring and ingenuity. After the manner in which I have been imposed upon myself, I can make allowance for others." He then turned to Amabel, and said, in a severe tone, "You are no longer my daughter." "Father!" she cried, rushing towards him and throwing herself at his feet, "do not cast me off for ever. I am not now to blame. It is owing to my determination to disclose all to you that the earl has thus revealed himself. I might have deceived you further--might have fled with him." "Forgive her! oh, forgive her!" cried Mrs. Bloundel--"or, if any ill happens to her, you will be answerable for it." "Is this the truth, my lord?" asked the grocer. Rochester bowed stiffly in acquiescence. "Then you are again my child," said Bloundel, raising her, and pressing her to his bosom. "What are your intentions towards her?" he continued, addressing the earl. "They may be readily surmised," replied Rochester, with a scornful laugh. "Will you wed her, if I agree to the union," asked Bloundel, trembling with concentrated rage. Amabel looked at her lover as if her life hung on his answer. Rochester affected not to hear the question, but, as it was repeated still more peremptorily, he repeated carelessly,--"I will consider of it." "Deceived! deceived!" cried Amabel, falling on her mother's neck, and bursting into tears. "This outrage shall not pass unpunished," cried Bloundel. And before the earl could draw his sword or offer any resistance, he threw himself upon him, and hurling him to the ground, set his foot upon his bosom. "Do not kill him," shrieked Amabel, terrified by the stern expression of her father's countenance. "What are you about to do?" gasped Rochester, struggling ineffectually to get free. "Bid Stephen bring a cord," cried the grocer. "You are not going to hang him?" inquired Mrs. Bloundel. "Do as I bid you," rejoined her husband, "and lose no time." As she was about to leave the room, the door opened, and Doctor Hodges entered, followed by Leonard and Stephen. "Mercy on us! what's the matter?" cried the former, in astonishment. "You are just arrived in time to prevent mischief," replied Mrs. Bloundel. "Pray interfere between them. My husband will attend to you." "Arise, my lord," said Mr. Bloundel, removing his foot from the prostrate nobleman; "you are sufficiently punished by being found in this disgraceful condition. Remember that your life has been at my disposal." Thus liberated, Rochester sprang to his feet, and regarding the group with a menacing and disdainful look, walked up to Amabel, and saying to her, "You shall yet be mine," strode out of the room. He then marched along the passage, and called to Pillichody, who instantly answered the summons. Accompanied by Hodges, the grocer followed them to the shop, where the bully not departing so quickly as he desired, and refusing to be more expeditious, he kicked him into the street. This done, and the door fastened, he tarried only till he had received all needful explanations from the friendly physician, and then returning to the inner room, warmly greeted Leonard, and congratulated him on his extraordinary recovery from the plague. Happiness was thus once more restored to every member of the grocer's family, except Amabel, who still continued downcast and dejected, and entreated permission to retire to her own room. A cheerful evening was then passed by the others, and the doctor did not offer to take his departure till the clock struck eleven. "It is the last night I shall spend here for some months," he said; "perhaps the last I shall ever spend here, and I have stayed longer than I intended, but I did not like to abridge my enjoyment." After shaking hands cordially with the whole party, he added in an under tone, as he took leave of Leonard, "Do not forget Nizza Macascree." On the following day the grocer nailed up the shutters, and locked and barred the doors of his house. BOOK THE THIRD. JUNE, 1665. I. THE IMPRISONED FAMILY. The first few days of their confinement were passed by the grocer's family in a very uncomfortable manner. No one, except Mr. Bloundel, appeared reconciled to the plan, and even he found it more difficult of accomplishment that he had anticipated. The darkness of the rooms, and the want of ventilation caused by the closed windows and barred doors, gave the house the air of a prison, and occasioned a sense of oppression almost intolerable. Blaize declared it was "worse than being in Newgate, and that he must take an additional rufus to set right his digestion;" while Patience affirmed "that it was like being buried alive, and that she would not stand it." Mr. Bloundel paid no attention to their complaints, but addressed himself seriously to the remedy. Insisting upon the utmost attention being paid to cleanliness, he had an abundant supply of water drawn, with which the floors of every room and passage were washed down daily. By such means the house was kept cool and wholesome; and its inmates, becoming habituated to the gloom, in a great degree recovered their cheerfulness. The daily routine of the establishment was as follows. The grocer arose at dawn, and proceeded to call up the whole of his family. They then assembled in a large room on the second story, where he offered up thanks that they had been spared during the night, and prayed for their preservation during the day. He next assigned a task to each, and took care to see it afterwards duly fulfilled; well knowing that constant employment was the best way to check repining and promote contentment. Heretofore the servants had always taken their meals in the kitchen, but now they always sat down to table with him. "I will make no distinction at this season," he said; "all shall fare as I fare, and enjoy the same comforts as myself. And I trust that my dwelling may be as sure a refuge amid this pestilential storm as the ark of the patriarch proved when Heaven's vengeance was called forth in the mighty flood." Their devotions ended, the whole party repaired to one of the lower rooms, where a plentiful breakfast was provided, and of which they all partook. The business of the day then began, and, as has just been observed, no one was suffered to remain idle. The younger children were allowed to play and exercise themselves as much as they chose in the garret, and Blaize and Patience were occasionally invited to join them. A certain portion of the evening was also devoted to harmless recreation and amusements. The result may be anticipated. No one suffered in health, while all improved in spirits. Prayers, as usual, concluded the day, and the family retired to rest at an early hour. This system of things may appear sufficiently monotonous, but it was precisely adapted to the exigencies of the case, and produced a most salutary effect. Regular duties and regular employments being imposed upon each, and their constant recurrence, so far from being irksome, soon became agreeable. After a while the whole family seemed to grow indifferent to the external world--to live only for each other, and to think only of each other--and to Leonard Holt, indeed, that house was all the world. Those walls contained everything dear to him, and he would have been quite content never to leave them if Amabel had been always near. He made no attempt to renew his suit--seldom or never exchanging a word with her, and might have been supposed to have become wholly indifferent to her. But it was not so. His heart was consumed by the same flame as before. No longer, however, a prey to jealousy--no longer apprehensive of the earl--he felt so happy, in comparison with what he had been, that he almost prayed that the term of their imprisonment might be prolonged. Sometimes the image of Nizza Macascree would intrude upon him, and he thought, with a feeling akin to remorse, of what she might suffer--for he was too well acquainted with the pangs of unrequited love not to sympathise deeply with her. As to Amabel, she addressed herself assiduously to the tasks enjoined by her father, and allowed her mind to dwell as little as possible on the past, but employed all her spare time in devotional exercises. It will be remembered that the grocer had reserved a communication with the street, by means of a shutter opening from a small room in the upper story. Hither he would now frequently repair, and though he did not as yet think it necessary to have recourse to all the precautionary measures he intended eventually to adopt--such as flashing a pistol when he looked forth--yet he never opened the shutter without holding a phial of vinegar, or a handkerchief wetted with the same liquid, to his face. Before closing his house he had hired a porter, who occupied the hutch at his door, and held himself in readiness to execute any commission, or perform any service that might be required. Fresh vegetables, poultry, eggs, butter, and milk, were brought by a higgler from the country, and raised by means of a basket or a can attached to the pulley. Butcher's meat was fetched him from Newgate-market by the porter. This man, whose name was Ralph Dallison, had been formerly in the employ of the grocer, who, knowing his character, could place entire reliance on him. Dallison reported the progress of the pestilence daily, and acquainted him with the increasing amount of the bills of mortality. Several houses, he said, were infected in Cheapside, and two in Wood-street, one of which was but a short distance from the grocer's habitation. A watchman was stationed at the door, and the red cross marked upon it, and on the following night the grocer heard the sound of the doleful bell announcing the approach of the pest-cart. The weather still continued as serene and beautiful as ever, but no refreshing showers fell--no soft and healthful breezes blew--and it was now found to be true, what had been prognosticated--viz, that with the heats of summer the plague would fearfully increase. The grocer was not incommoded in the same degree as his neighbours. By excluding the light he excluded the heat, and the care which he took to have his house washed down kept it cool. The middle of June had arrived, and such dismal accounts were now brought him of the havoc occasioned by the scourge, that he would no longer take in fresh provisions, but began to open his stores. Dallison told him that the alarm was worse than ever--that vast numbers were endeavouring to leave the city, but no one could now do so without a certificate, which was never granted if the slightest suspicion was attached to the party. "If things go on in this way," said the porter, "London will soon be deserted. No business is conducted, as it used to be, and everybody is viewed with distrust. The preachers, who ought to be the last to quit, have left their churches, and the Lord's day is no longer observed. Many medical men even have departed, declaring their services are no longer of any avail. All public amusements are suspended, and the taverns are only open to the profane and dissolute, who deride God's judgments, and declare they have no fear. Robberies, murders, and other crimes, have greatly increased, and the most dreadful deeds are now committed with impunity. You have done wisely, sir, in protecting yourself against them." "I have reason to be thankful that I have done so," replied Bloundel. And he closed his shutter to meditate on what he had just heard. And there was abundant food for reflection. Around him lay a great and populous city, hemmed in, as by a fire, by an exterminating plague, that spared neither age, condition, nor sex. No man could tell what the end of all this would be--neither at what point the wrath of the offended Deity would stop--nor whether He would relent, till He had utterly destroyed a people who so contemned his word. Scarcely daring to hope for leniency, and filled with a dreadful foreboding of what would ensue, the grocer addressed a long and fervent supplication to Heaven, imploring a mitigation of its wrath. On joining his family, his grave manner and silence showed how powerfully he had been affected. No one questioned him as to what had occurred, but all understood he had received some distressing intelligence. Amid his anxiety one circumstance gave him unalloyed satisfaction. This was the change wrought in Amabel's character. It has been stated that she had become extremely devout, and passed the whole of the time not appointed for other occupations, in the study of the Scriptures, or in prayer. Her manner was extremely sedate, and her conversation assumed a tone that gave her parents, and especially her father, inexpressible pleasure. Mrs. Bloundel would have been equally delighted with the change, if it had tended to forward her own favourite scheme of a union with Leonard; but as this was not the case, though she rejoiced in the improvement, she still was not entirely satisfied. She could not help noting also, that her daughter had become pale and thin, and though she uttered no complaint, Mrs. Bloundel began to fear her health was declining. Leonard Holt looked on in wonder and admiration, and if possible his love increased, though his hopes diminished; for though Amabel was kinder to him than before, her kindness seemed the result rather of a sense of duty than regard. Upon one occasion they were left alone together, and instead of quitting the room, as she had been accustomed, Amabel called to Leonard, who was about to depart, and requested him to stay. The apprentice instantly obeyed; the colour forsook his cheek, and his heart beat violently. "You desire to speak with me, Amabel," he said:--"Ha! you have relented?--Is there any hope for me?" "Alas! no," she replied; "and it is on that very point I have now detained you. You will, I am sure, rejoice to learn that I have at length fully regained my peace of mind, and have become sensible of the weakness of which I have been guilty--of the folly, worse than folly, I have committed. My feelings are now under proper restraint, and viewing myself with other eyes, I see how culpable I have been. Oh! Leonard, if you knew the effort it has been to conquer the fatal passion that consumed me, if I were to tell you of the pangs it has cost me, of the tears I have shed, of the heart-quakes endured, you would pity me." "I do, indeed, pity you," replied Leonard, "for my own sufferings have been equally severe. But I have not been as successful as you in subduing them." "Because you have not pursued the right means, Leonard," she rejoined. "Fix your thoughts on high; build your hopes of happiness on Heaven; strengthen your faith; and you will soon find the victory easy. A short time ago I thought only of worldly pleasures, and was ensnared by vanity and admiration, enchained to one whom I knew to be worthless, and who pursued me only to destroy me. Religion has preserved me from the snare, and religion will restore you to happiness. But you must devote yourself to Heaven, not lightly, but with your whole soul. You must forget me--forget yourself--forget all but the grand object. And this is a season of all others, when it is most needful to lead a life of piety, to look upon yourself as dead to this world, and to be ever prepared for that to come. I shudder to think what might have been my portion had I perished in my sin." "Yours is a most happy frame of mind," returned Leonard, "and I would I had a chance of attaining the same tranquillity. But if you have conquered your love for the earl,--if your heart is disengaged, why deny me a hope?" "My heart is _not_ disengaged, Leonard," she replied; "it is engrossed by Heaven. While the plague is raging around us thus--while thousands are daily carried off by that devouring scourge--and while every hour, every moment, may be our last, our thoughts ought always to be fixed above. I have ceased to love the earl, but I can never love another, and therefore it would be unjust to you, to whom I owe so much, to hold out hopes that never can be realized." "Alas! alas!" cried Leonard, unable to control his emotion. "Compose yourself, dear Leonard," she cried, greatly moved. "I would I could comply with your wishes. But, alas! I cannot. I could only give you," she added, in a tone so thrilling, that it froze the blood in his veins--"a breaking, perhaps a broken heart!" "Gracious heaven!" exclaimed Leonard, becoming as pale as death; "is it come to this?" "Again, I beg you to compose yourself," she rejoined, calmly--"and I entreat you not to let what I have told you pass your lips. I would not alarm my father, or my dear and anxious mother, on my account. And there may be no reason for alarm. Promise me, therefore, you will be silent." Leonard reluctantly gave the required pledge. "I have unwittingly been the cause of much affliction to you," pursued Amabel--"and would gladly see you happy, and there is one person, I think, who would make you so--I mean Nizza Macascree. From what she said to me when we were alone together in the vaults of Saint Faith's, I am sure she is sincerely attached to you. Could you not requite her love?" "No," replied Leonard. "There is no change in affection like mine." "Pursue the course I have advised," replied Amabel, "and you will find all your troubles vanish. Farewell! I depend upon your silence!" And she quitted the room, leaving Leonard in a state of indescribable anxiety. Faithful, however, to his promise, he made no mention of his uneasiness to the grocer or his wife, but indulged his grief in secret. Ignorant of what was passing, Mr. Bloundel, who was still not without apprehension of some further attempt on the part of the earl, sent Dallison to make inquiries after him, and learnt that he was at Whitehall, but that the court had fixed to remove to Hampton Court at the end of June. The porter also informed him that the city was emptying fast--that the Lord Mayor's residence was literally besieged with applications for bills of health--that officers were stationed at the gates--and that, besides these, barriers and turnpikes were erected on all the main roads, at which the certificates were required to be exhibited--and that such persons as escaped without them were driven back by the inhabitants of the neighbouring villages, who refused to supply them with necessaries; and as they could not return home, many had perished of want, or perhaps of the pestilence, in the open fields. Horses and coaches, he added, were not to be procured, except at exorbitant prices; and thousands had departed on foot, locking up their houses, and leaving their effects behind them. "In consequence of this," added Dallison, "several houses have been broken open; and though the watch had been trebled, still they cannot be in all places at once; and strong as the force is, it is not adequate to the present emergency. Bands of robbers stalk the streets at night, taking vehicles with them, built to resemble pest-carts, and beating off the watch, they break open the houses, and carry off any goods they please." This intelligence greatly alarmed the grocer, and he began to fear his plans would be defeated in an unexpected manner. He engaged Dallison to procure another trusty companion to take his place at night, and furnished him with money to purchase arms. He no longer slept as tranquilly as before, but frequently repaired to his place of observation to see that the watchman was at his post, and that all was secure. For the last few days, he had remarked with some uneasiness that a youth frequently passed the house and gazed at the barred windows, and he at first imagined he might be leagued with the nocturnal marauders he had heard of; but the prepossessing appearance of the stripling, who could not be more than sixteen, and who was singularly slightly made, soon dispelled the idea. Still, as he constantly appeared at the same spot, the grocer began to have a new apprehension, and to suspect he was an emissary of the Earl of Rochester, and he sent Dallison to inquire his business. The youth returned an evasive answer, and withdrew; but the next day he was there again. On this occasion, Mr. Bloundel pointed him out to Leonard Holt, and asked him if he had seen him before. The youth's back being towards them, the apprentice unhesitatingly answered in the negative, but as the subject of investigation turned the next moment, and looked up, revealing features of feminine delicacy and beauty, set off by long flowing jet-black ringlets, Leonard started, and coloured. "I was mistaken," he said, "I _have_ seen him before." "Is he one of the Earl of Rochester's pages?" asked Mr. Bloundel. "No," replied Leonard, "and you need not be uneasy about him. I am sure he intends no harm." Thus satisfied, the grocer thought no more about the matter. He then arranged with Leonard that he should visit the window at certain hours on alternate nights with himself, and appointed the following night as that on which the apprentice's duties should commence. On the same night, however, an alarming incident occurred, which kept the grocer and his apprentice for a long time on the watch. The family had just retired to rest when the report of fire-arms was heard close to the street door, and Mr. Bloundel hastily calling up Leonard, they repaired to the room overlooking the street, and found that a desperate struggle was going on below. The moon being overclouded, and the lantern extinguished, it was too dark to discern the figures of the combatants, and in a few seconds all became silent, except the groans of a wounded man. Mr. Bloundel then called out to know what was the matter, and ascertained from the sufferer, who proved to be his own watchman, that the adjoining house, being infected, had been shut up by the authorities; and its owner, unable to bear the restraint, had burst open the door, shot the watchman stationed at it, and firing another pistol at the poor wretch who was making the statement, because he endeavoured to oppose his flight, had subsequently attacked him with his sword. It was a great grief to Mr. Bloundel not to be able to aid the unfortunate watchman, and he had almost determined to hazard a descent by the pulley, when a musical voice was heard below, and the grocer soon understood that the youth, about whom his curiosity had been excited, was raising the sufferer, and endeavouring to stanch his wounds. Finding this impossible, however, at Mr. Bloundel's request, he went in search of assistance, and presently afterwards returned with a posse of men, bearing halberds and lanterns, who carried off the wounded man, and afterwards started in pursuit of the murderer. Mr. Bloundel then entered into conversation with the youth, who informed him that his name was Flitcroft, that he was without a home, all his relations having died of the plague, and that he was anxious to serve as a watchman in place of the poor wretch who had just been removed. Leonard remonstrated against this arrangement, but Mr. Bloundel was so much pleased with Flitcroft's conduct that he would listen to no objection. Accordingly provisions were lowered down in a basket to the poor youth, and he stationed himself in the hutch. Nothing material occurred during the day. Flitcroft resigned his post to Dallison, but returned in the evening. At midnight, Leonard took his turn to watch. It was a bright moonlight night, but though he occasionally looked out into the street, and perceived Flitcroft below, he gave no intimation of his presence. All at once, however, he was alarmed by a loud cry, and opening the shutter, perceived the youth struggling with two persons, whom he recognised as Sir Paul Parravicin and Pillichody. He shouted to them to release their captive, but they laughed at his vociferations, and in spite of his resistance dragged the youth away. Maddened at the sight, Leonard lowered the rope as quickly as he could with the intention of descending by it. At this moment, Flitcroft turned an agonized look behind him, and perceiving what had been done, broke suddenly from his captors, and before he could be prevented, sprang into the basket, and laid hold of the rope. Leonard, who had seen the movement, and divined its object, drew up the pulley with the quickness of thought; and so expeditiously was the whole accomplished, that ere the knight and his companion reached the spot, Flitcroft was above their heads, and the next moment was pulled through the window, and in safety by the side of Leonard. II. HOW FIRES WERE LIGHTED IN THE STREETS. Nizza Macascree, for it is useless to affect further mystery, as soon as she could find utterance, murmured her thanks to the apprentice, whose satisfaction at her deliverance was greatly diminished by his fears lest his master should disapprove of what he had done. Seeing his uneasiness, and guessing the cause, Nizza hastened to relieve it. "I reproach myself bitterly for having placed you in this situation!" she said, "but I could not help it, and will free you from my presence the moment I can do so with safety. When I bade you farewell, I meant it to be for ever, and persuaded myself I could adhere to my resolution. But I was deceived. You would pity me, were I to tell you the anguish I endured. I could not accompany my poor father in his rambles; and if I went forth at all, my steps involuntarily led me to Wood-street. At last, I resolved to disguise myself, and borrowed this suit from a Jew clothesman, who has a stall in Saint Paul's. Thus equipped, I paced backwards and forwards before the house, in the hope of obtaining a glimpse of you, and fortune has favoured me more than I expected, though it has led to this unhappy result. Heaven only knows what will become of me!" she added, bursting into tears. "Oh! that the pestilence would select me as one of its victims. But, like your own sex, it shuns all those who court it." "I can neither advise you," replied Leonard, in sombre tone, "nor help you. Ah!" he exclaimed, as the sounds of violent blows were heard against the door below--"your persecutors are trying to break into the house." Rushing to the window, and gazing downwards, he perceived Sir Paul Parravicin and Pillichody battering against the shop door, and endeavouring to burst it open. It was, however, so stoutly barricaded, that it resisted all their efforts. "What is to be done?" cried Leonard. "The noise will certainly alarm my master, and you will be discovered." "Heed me not," rejoined Nizza, distractedly, "you shall not run any risk on my account. Let me down the pulley. Deliver me to them. Anything is better than that you should suffer by my indiscretion." "No, no," replied Leonard; "Mr. Bloundel shall know all. His love for his own daughter will make him feel for you. But come what will, I will not abandon you." As he spoke a timid knock was heard at the door, and a voice without exclaimed, in accents of the utmost trepidation, "Are you there, Leonard?--Robbers are breaking into the house. We shall all be murdered." "Come in, Blaize," returned Leonard, opening the door and admitting the porter--"you may be of some assistance to me." "In what way?" demanded Blaize. "Ah! who's this?" he added, perceiving Nizza--"what is this page doing here?" "Do not concern yourself about him but attend to me," replied Leonard. "I am about to drive away those persons from the door. You must lower me down in the basket attached to the pulley." "And will you dare to engage them?" asked Blaize, peeping out at the shutter. "They are armed. As I live, one is Major Pillichody, the rascal who dared to make love to Patience. I have half a mind to go down with you, and give him a sound drubbing." "You shall not encounter this danger for me," interposed Nizza, endeavouring to stay Leonard, who, having thrust a sword into his girdle, was about to pass through the window. "Do not hinder me," replied the apprentice, breaking from her. "Take hold of the rope, Blaize, and mind it does not run down too quickly." With this, he got into the basket, and as the porter carefully obeyed his instructions, he reached the ground in safety. On seeing him, Pillichody bolted across the street, and flourishing his sword, and uttering tremendous imprecations, held himself in readiness to beat an immediate retreat. Not so Parravicin. Instantly assailing the apprentice, he slightly wounded him in the arm. Seeing how matters stood, and that victory was pretty certain to declare itself for his patron, Pillichody returned, and, attacking the apprentice, by their combined efforts, he was speedily disarmed. Pillichody would have passed his sword through his body, but the knight stayed his hand. "The fool has placed himself in our power," he said, "and he shall pay for his temerity; nevertheless, I will spare his life provided he assist us to get into the house, or will deliver up Nizza Macascree." "I will do neither," replied Leonard, fiercely. Parravicin raised his sword, and was about to strike, when, at the moment, the basket was again quickly lowered to the ground. It bore Nizza Macascree, who, rushing between them, arrested the stroke. "Oh! why have you done this?" cried Leonard, in a tone of reproach. "I will tell you why," rejoined Parravicin, triumphantly; "because she saw you were unable to defend her, and, like a true woman, surrendered herself to the victor. Take care of him, Pillichody, while I secure the girl. Spit him, if he attempts to stir." And twining his arms round Nizza, notwithstanding her shrieks and resistance, he bore her away. Infuriated by the sight, Leonard Holt threw himself upon Pillichody, and a desperate struggle took place between them, which terminated this time successfully for the apprentice. Wresting his long rapier from the bully, Leonard rushed after Parravicin, and reached the end of Wood-street, just in time to see him spring into a coach, and drive off with his prize. Speeding after them along Blowbladder-street, and Middle-row, as Newgate-street was then termed, the apprentice shouted to the coachman to stop, but no attention being paid to his vociferations, and finding pursuit unavailing, he came to a halt. He then more slowly retraced his steps, and on arriving at the grocer's residence, found the basket drawn up. Almost afraid to call out, he at length mustered courage enough to shout to Blaize to lower it, and was answered by Mr. Bloundel, who, putting his head through the window, demanded in a stern tone why he had left the house? Leonard briefly explained. "I deeply regret your imprudence," replied his master; "because I can now no more admit you. It is my fixed determination, as you well know, not to suffer any member of my family who may quit my house, to enter it again." "I shall not attempt to remonstrate with you, sir," replied Leonard. "All I pray of you is to allow me to occupy this hutch, and to act as your porter." "Willingly," rejoined Mr. Bloundel; "and as you have had the plague, you will run no risk of infection. You shall know all that passes within doors; and I only lament that you should have banished yourself from the asylum which I hoped to afford you." After some further conversation between them, a bundle was lowered by the grocer, containing a change of clothes and a couple of blankets. On receiving these, Leonard retired to the hutch, and tying a handkerchief round his wounded arm, wrapped himself in a night trail, and stretching himself on the ground, in spite of his anxiety, soon sank asleep. He awoke about four o'clock in the morning, with a painful consciousness of what had taken place during the night. It was just beginning to grow light, and he walked across the street to gaze at the house from which he was exiled. Its melancholy, uninhabited look did not serve to cheer him. It seemed totally altered since he knew it first. The sign, which then invited the passers-by to enter the shop and deal with its honest owner, now appeared no longer significant, unless--and it will be remembered it was the Noah's Ark--it could be supposed to have reference to those shut up within. The apprentice looked at the habitation with misgiving, and, instead of regarding it as a sanctuary from the pestilence, could not help picturing it as a living tomb. The last conversation he had had with Amabel also arose forcibly to his recollection, and the little likelihood there appeared of seeing her again gave him acute agony. Oppressed by this painful idea, and unable to exclude from his thoughts the unhappy situation of Nizza Macascree, he bent his steps, scarcely knowing whither he was going, towards Saint Paul's. Having passed so much of his time of late in the cathedral, Leonard began to regard it as a sort of home, and it now appeared like a place of refuge to him. Proceeding to the great western entrance, he seated himself on one of the large blocks of stone left there by the masons occupied in repairing the exterior of the fane. His eye rested upon the mighty edifice before him, and the clear sparkling light revealed numberless points of architectural grandeur and beauty which he had never before noticed. The enormous buttresses and lofty pinnacles of the central tower were tinged with the beams of the rising sun, and glowed as if built of porphyry. While gazing at the summit of this tower, and calling to mind the magnificent view he had recently witnessed from it at the same hour, if a wish could have transported him thither at that moment, he would have enjoyed it again. But as this could not be, he tried to summon before his mental vision the whole glorious prospect--the broad and shining river, with its moving or motionless craft--the gardens, the noble mansions, the warehouses, and mighty wharfs on its banks--London Bridge, with its enormous pile of habitations--the old and picturesque city, with its innumerable towers, and spires, and girdle of grey walls--the green fields and winding lanes leading to the lovely hills around it--all these objects arose obedient to his fancy, and came arrayed in colouring as fresh as that wherein they had before appeared to him. While thus occupied, his gaze remained riveted on the summit of the central tower, and he fancied he perceived some one leaning over the balustrade; but as little beyond the upper part of the figure could be discerned, and as it appeared perfectly motionless, he could not be quite sure that his eyes did not deceive him. Having gazed at the object for some minutes, during which it maintained the same attitude, he continued his survey of the pile, and became so excited by the sublime emotions inspired by the contemplation, as to be insensible to aught else. After a while he arose, and was about to proceed towards the portico, when, chancing to look at the top of the tower, he remarked that the figure had disappeared, and while wondering who it could be, he perceived a person emerge from one of the tall windows in the lower part of the tower. It was Solomon Eagle, and he no longer wondered at what he had seen. The enthusiast was without his brazier, but carried a long stout staff. He ran along the pointed roof of the nave with inconceivable swiftness, till, reaching the vast stone cross, upwards of twelve feet in height, ornamenting the western extremity, he climbed its base, and clasping the transverse bar of the sacred symbol of his faith with his left arm, extended his staff with his right, and described a circle, as if pointing out the walls of the city. He then raised his staff towards heaven to invoke its vengeance, and anon pointed it menacingly downwards. After this he broke into loud denunciations; but though the apprentice could not hear the words, he gathered their purport from his gestures. By this time a few masons had assembled, and producing their implements, commenced working at the blocks of stone. Glancing at the enthusiast, one of them observed with a smile to his companion, "There is Solomon Eagle pronouncing his morning curse upon the city. I wonder whether the judgments he utters against it will come to pass." "Assuredly, Phil Gatford," replied the other mason, gravely; "and I look upon all the work we are now doing as labour thrown away. Was he not right about the plague? Did he not foretell the devouring scourge by which we are visited? And he will be right also about the fire. Since he has doomed it, this cathedral will be consumed by flames, and one stone will not be left standing on another." "It is strange, Ned Turgis," observed Gatford, "that, though Solomon Eagle may always be seen at daybreak at the top of the tower or on the roof of the cathedral--sometimes at one point and sometimes at another--no one can tell where he hides himself at other times. He no longer roams the streets at night, but you may remember when the officers of justice were in search of him, to give evidence against Mother Malmayns and Chowles, he was not to be found." "I remember it," replied Turgis; "but I have no doubt he was hidden in some out-of-the-way corner of the cathedral--perhaps among the immense wooden beams of the clerestory." "Or in some of the secret passages or cells contrived in the thickness of the walls," rejoined the first speaker. "I say, Ned Turgis, if the plague increases, as there is every likelihood it will, Solomon Eagle will be the only preacher left in Saint Paul's. Neither deans, prebends, minor-canons, nor vicars will attend. As it is, they have almost abandoned it." "Shame on them!" exclaimed Leonard Holt, who, being much interested in the conversation of the masons, had silently approached them. "At this season, more than ever, they are bound to attend to their duty." "Why, so I think," rejoined Gatford; "but I suppose they consider self-preservation their first duty. They aver that all assemblages, whether called together for religious purposes or not, are dangerous, and likely to extend the pestilence." "And yet crowds are permitted to assemble for purposes of amusement, if not for worship, in those holy walls," returned Leonard. "Not so," replied Gatford. "Very few persons now come there, and none for amusement. Paul's Walk is completely deserted. The shops and stalls have been removed, and the pillars to which they were attached are restored to their former appearance." "I am glad to hear it," rejoined Leonard. "I would far rather the sacred edifice were altogether abandoned than be what it has been of late--a den of thieves." "It was a stable and a magazine of arms in the time of the Commonwealth," remarked Gatford. "And if Solomon Eagle's foreboding come to pass, it will be a heap of ruins in our own time," rejoined Turgis. "But I see the prophet of ill has quitted his post, and retired to his hiding-place." Looking up as this was said, Leonard saw that the enthusiast had disappeared. At this moment the great door of the cathedral was thrown open, and, quitting the masons, he ascended the broad steps under the portico, and entered the fane, where he found that the information he had received was correct, and that the stalls and other disfigurements to the pillars had been removed. After pacing the solitary aisles for some time, he made inquiries from the verger concerning Solomon Eagle. "I know nothing about him," replied the man, reluctantly. "I believe he always appears at daybreak on some part of the roof, but I am as ignorant as yourself where he hides himself. The door of the winding staircase leading to the central tower is open. You can ascend it, and search for him, if you think proper." Acting upon the suggestion, Leonard mounted to the belfry, and from thence to the summit of the tower. Having indulged himself with a brief survey of the glorious view around, he descended, and glanced into every cell and chamber as he passed, in the hopes of meeting with the enthusiast, but he was disappointed. At length, as he got about half-way down, he felt his arm forcibly grasped, and, instantly conjecturing who it was, offered no resistance. Without uttering a word, the person who had seized him dragged him up a few steps, pushed aside a secret door, which closed behind them with a hollow clangour, and leading him along a dark narrow passage, opened another door, and they emerged upon the roof. He then found that his suspicion was correct, and that his mysterious guide was no other than Solomon Eagle. "I am glad to find you have recovered from the pestilence," said the enthusiast, regarding him with a friendly glance; "it proves you are favoured by Heaven. I saw you in the open space before the cathedral this morning, and instantly recognised you. I was in the belfry when you descended, but you did not perceive me, and I wished to be certain you were alone before I discovered myself." "You have ceased to roam the streets at night, and rouse the slumbering citizens to repentance?" asked Leonard. "For the present I have," returned Solomon Eagle. "But I shall appear again when I am required. But you shall now learn why I have brought you hither. Look along those streets," he added, pointing to the thoroughfares opening in different directions. "What see you?" "I see men piling heaps of wood and coals at certain distances, as if they were preparing bonfires," replied Leonard. "And yet it cannot be. This is no season for rejoicing." "It has been supposed that the lighting of many thousand fires at once will purify the air," replied Solomon Eagle; "and therefore the Lord Mayor has given orders that heaps of fuel shall be placed before every house in every street in the city, and that all these heaps shall be kindled at a certain hour. But it will be of no avail. The weather is now fine and settled, and the sky cloudless. But the offended Deity will cause the heaviest rain to descend, and extinguish their fires. No--the way to avert the pestilence is not by fire, but by prayer and penitence, by humiliation and fasting. Let this sinful people put on sackcloth and ashes. Let them beseech God, by constant prayer, to forgive them, and they may prevail, but not otherwise." "And when are these fires to be lighted?" asked the apprentice. "To-night, at midnight," replied Solomon Eagle. He then took Leonard by the hand, and led him back the same way he had brought him. On reaching the spiral staircase, he said, "If you desire to behold a sight, such as a man has seldom witnessed, ascend to the summit of this tower an hour after midnight, when all these fires are lighted. A small door on the left of the northern entrance shall be left open. It will conduct you to the back of the choir, and you must then find your way hither as well as you can." Murmuring his thanks, Leonard hurried down the spiral staircase, and quitting the cathedral, proceeded in the direction of Wood-street. Preparations were everywhere making for carrying the Lord Mayor's orders into effect; and such was the beneficial result anticipated, that a general liveliness prevailed, on reaching his master's residence, he found him at the shutter, curious to know what was going forward; and having informed him, the grocer immediately threw him down money to procure wood and coal. "I have but little faith in the experiment," he said, "but the Lord Mayor's injunctions must be obeyed." With the help of Dallison, who had now arrived, Leonard Holt soon procured a large heap of fuel, and placed it in the middle of the street. The day was passed in executing other commissions for the grocer, and he took his meals in the hutch with the porter. Time appeared to pass with unusual slowness, and not he alone, but anxious thousands, awaited the signal to kindle their fires. The night was profoundly dark and sultry, and Leonard could not help thinking that the enthusiast's prediction would be verified, and that rain would fall. But these gloomy anticipations vanished as the hour of midnight was tolled forth by the neighbouring clocks of Saint Michael's and Saint Alban's. Scarcely had the strokes died away, when Leonard seized a light and set fire to the pile. Ten thousand other piles were kindled at the same moment, and in an instant the pitchy darkness was converted into light as bright as that of noonday. Anxious to behold this prodigious illumination at its best, Leonard Holt committed the replenishing of the pile and the custody of the house to Dallison, and hastened to Saint Paul's. A great fire was burning at each angle of the cathedral, but without pausing to notice the effect of the flames upon the walls of the building, he passed through the door to which he had been directed, and hastening to the spiral staircase beyond the choir, ascended it with swift steps. He did not pause till he reached the summit of the tower, and there, indeed, a wondrous spectacle awaited him. The whole city seemed on fire, and girded with a flaming belt--for piles were lighted at certain distances along the whole line of walls. The groups of dark figures collected round the fires added to their picturesque effect; and the course of every street could be traced by the reflection of the flames on the walls and gables of the houses. London Bridge was discernible from the fires burning upon it--and even upon the river braziers were lighted on all the larger craft, which cast a ruddy glow upon the stream. After gazing at this extraordinary sight for some time, Leonard began to descend. As yet he had seen nothing of Solomon Eagle, and searching for him in vain in the belfry, he quitted the cathedral. From a knot of persons gathered round one of the fires he learnt that the enthusiast was addressing the crowd at the west side of the building, and proceeding thither he perceived him standing on the edge of the balustrade of the south-western tower, surmounting the little church of Saint Gregory. His brazier was placed on one of the buttresses, and threw its light on the mighty central tower of the fabric, and on a large clock-face immediately beneath. Solomon Eagle was evidently denouncing the city, but his words were lost in the distance. As he proceeded, a loud clap of thunder pealed overhead. "It comes--it comes!" cried the enthusiast, in a voice that could be distinctly heard in the death-like stillness that followed the thunder. "The wrath of Heaven is at hand." As he spoke, a bright flash cut the air, and a bolt struck down, one of the pinnacles of the great tower. Flash after flash followed in quick succession, and the enthusiast, who seemed wrapped in flame, extended his arms towards Heaven, as if beseeching a further display of its vengeance. Suddenly the lightning ceased to flash and the thunder to roll. A few heavy drops of rain fell. These were succeeded by a deluging shower of such violence, that in less than a quarter of an hour every fire within the city was extinguished, and all was darkness and despair. The deepest gloom and despondency prevailed that night throughout London. The sudden storm was regarded as a manifestation of the displeasure of Heaven, and as an intimation that the arrows of its wrath were not to be turned aside by any human efforts. So impressed were all with this feeling, that when, in less than half an hour, the rain entirely ceased, the clouds cleared off, and the stars again poured down their lustre, no one attempted to relight the quenched embers, fearing to provoke the Divine vengeance. Nor was a monitor wanting to enforce the awful lesson. Solomon Eagle, with his brazier on his head, ran through the streets, calling on the inhabitants to take to heart what had happened, to repent, and prepare for their doom. "The Lord will not spare you," he cried, as he stationed himself in the open space before St. Stephen's, Walbrook. "He will visit your sins upon you. Pray, therefore, that ye may not be destroyed, both body and soul. Little time is allowed you for repentance. Many that hear me shall not live till tomorrow; few shall survive the year!" "Thou, thyself, shalt not survive the night, false prophet," cried a voice from a neighbouring window. And immediately afterwards the barrel of a gun was thrust forth and a shot fired at the enthusiast. But though Solomon Eagle never altered his position, he was wholly uninjured--the ball striking a bystander, who fell to the ground mortally wounded. "You have shot your own son, Mr. Westwood," cried one of the spectators, rushing up to the fallen man. "Who will henceforth doubt that Solomon Eagle is under the care of a special providence?" "Not I," replied another spectator. "I shall never disregard his words in future." Setting down his brazier, the enthusiast bent over the dead man--for dead he was--and noted the placid smile upon his features. By this time the unfortunate father had joined the group, and, on seeing the body of his son, wrung his hands in a pitiable manner, and gave utterance to the wildest expression of despair. No one attempted to seize him, till at length Solomon Eagle, rising from his kneeling posture, laid his hand upon his arm, and regarding him sternly, said, "What wrong have I done you, that you should seek to slay me?" "What wrong?" rejoined Westwood--"such wrong as can never be repaired. Your fearful prophecies and denunciations so terrified my daughter, that she died distracted. My brokenhearted wife was not long in following her; and now you have made me the murderer of my son. Complete the tragedy, and take my life." "I have no desire to do so," replied Solomon Eagle, in a tone of commiseration. "My wish is to save your soul, and the souls of all who listen to me. I wonder not that your anger was at first stirred against me; but if your heart had been properly directed, indignation would have soon given way to better feelings. My mission is not to terrify, but to warn. Why will ye thus continue impenitent when ye are spoken to, not by my voice alone, but by a thousand others?--by the thunder--by the rain--by the pestilence!--and ye shall be spoken to, if ye continue senseless, by fire and by famine. Look at these quenched embers--at these flooded streets--they are types of your vain struggle with a superior power. Now, mark me what you must do to free the city from contagion. You must utterly and for ever abandon your evil courses. You must pray incessantly for remission of your sins. You must resign yourselves without repining to such chastisement as you have provoked, and must put your whole trust and confidence in God. Do this, and do it heartily; it is possible that His wrath may be averted." "I feel the force of your words," faltered Westwood--"would I had felt it sooner!" "Repentance never comes too late," rejoined the enthusiast. "Let this be an example to you all." And snatching up his brazier, he continued his course at the same lightning speed as before. The unfortunate father was taken into his own dwelling, whither likewise the body of his son was conveyed. A strict watch was kept over him during the night, and in the morning he was removed to Newgate, where he perished, in less than a week, of the distemper. The aspect of the streets on the following day was deplorable enough. Not that the weather was unfavourable. On the contrary, it was bright and sunny, while the heated atmosphere, cooled, by the showers, felt no longer oppressive. But the sight of the half-burnt fires struck a chill into every bosom, and it was not until the heaps were removed, that the more timorous ventured forth at all. The result, too, of the experiment was singularly unfortunate. Whether it was from the extraordinary heat occasioned by the lighting of so many fires, or that the smoke did not ascend, and so kept down the pestilential effluvia, or that the number of persons who met together spread the contagion, certain it was that the pestilence was more widely extended than before, and the mortality fearfully increased. On the commencement of the storm, Leonard Holt hurried back to Wood-street, and reached his master's dwelling just as the rain began to descend in torrents. Mr. Bloundel was at the window, and a few words only passed between him and the apprentice when the latter was compelled to take refuge in the hutch. Here he found Dallison the watchman, and they listened in awe-struck silence to the heavy showers, and to the hissing of the blazing embers in their struggle against the hostile element. By-and-by the latter sound ceased. Not a light could be seen throughout the whole length of the street, nor was there any red reflection of the innumerable fires as heretofore in the sky. It was evident all were extinguished; and the pitiless pelting of the rain, the roar of the water-spouts, and the rush of the over-filled kennels, now converted into rivulets, could alone be heard. After awhile the storm cleared off, and Leonard and his companion issued from their retreat, and gazed in silence at the drenched heap before them. While thus occupied, the window above them opened, and the grocer appeared at it. "This is, indeed, a sad and striking lesson," he said, "and I hope will not be lost upon those who have witnessed it. It shows the utter impotency of a struggle against the Divine will, and that when a man relies upon himself for preservation, he depends upon a broken reed. If I did not place myself under Heaven's protection, I should be sure that all my own precautions were unavailing. I am now about to call up my family to prayer. You can join us in our supplications, and I trust they will not be unheard." Closing the window, the grocer retired, and Leonard returned to the hutch, where he fell upon his knees, and as soon as he supposed the family were gathered together, commenced his own prayers. He pictured the whole group assembled--the fervour of the grocer excited to an unwonted pitch by what had just occurred--the earnest countenances of his wife and the younger children--and the exalted looks of Amabel. He could not see her--neither could he hear her voice--but he fancied how she looked, and in what terms she prayed--and it was no slight satisfaction to him to think that his own voice ascended to Heaven coupled with hers. On quitting the hutch, he found Dallison conversing with Doctor Hodges. The physician expressed great surprise at seeing him, and inquired how he came to have left his master's house. Leonard related all that had happened, and besought his assistance in Nizza's behalf. "I will do all I can for her," replied Hodges, "for I feel greatly interested about her. But who is this Sir Paul Parravicin? I never heard of him." "I know nothing more of him than what I have told you, sir," replied Leonard. "He is a friend of the Earl of Rochester." "It must be a feigned name," rejoined Hodges; "but I will speedily find him out. You must lodge at my house tonight. It will be better for you than sleeping in that damp shed. But, first, I must have a word or two with your master. I have been abroad all night, and came hither to ascertain what he thought of this plan of the fires, and what he had done. How do you give the signal to him?" "There is a cord within the hutch by which you can sound a bell within his chamber," returned Leonard; "I will ring it." Accordingly, he did so, and the summons was almost instantly answered by the grocer. A kindly greeting passed between the latter and Hodges, who inquired whether all was going on satisfactorily within, and whether anything could be done for the family. "I would not have disturbed you at this unseasonable hour," he said, "but chancing to be in your neighbourhood, and thinking it likely you would be on the watch, I called to have a word with you. Though I could not foresee what would happen, I entirely disapproved of these fires as likely to increase rather than check the pestilence." "The hand of Heaven has extinguished them because they were lighted in opposition to its decrees," replied Bloundel; "but you have asked me whether all is going on well within. I should answer readily in the affirmative, but that my wife expresses much anxiety respecting Amabel. We have no longer any apprehension of misconduct. She is all we could desire--serious and devout. But we have fears for her health. The confinement may be too much for her. What would you recommend?" "I must see her to be able to speak confidently," replied Hodges. "I know not how that can be accomplished, unless you choose to ascend by a basket attached to the pulley," replied the grocer, with some hesitation, "and it is against my plan to admit you." "But your daughter's life, my good friend," rejoined Hodges; "think of that. If I choose to risk life and limb to visit her, you may surely risk the chance of contagion to admit me. But you need have no fear. Sprinkle your room with spirits of sulphur, and place a phial of vinegar so that I can use it on my first entrance into the house, and I will answer for the safety of your family." These preparations made, Mr. Bloundel lowered the basket, into which Hodges got, and grasping the rope, not without some misgiving on his part, he was drawn up. Leonard witnessed his ascent with a beating heart, and could scarcely repress a feeling of envy when he saw him pass through the window, and knew that he would soon be in the presence of Amabel. But this feeling quickly changed into one of deep anxiety concerning her. Her father's account of her had increased the uneasiness he previously felt, and he was as anxious to know the doctor's opinion of her, as if his own fate had depended upon it. He was kept in this painful state of suspense for nearly an hour, when voices were heard at the window, and presently afterwards Hodges was carefully let down. Bidding the grocer farewell, he desired Leonard to follow him, and led the way towards Cheapside. They proceeded a short distance in silence, when the latter ventured to remark, "You say nothing about Amabel, sir? I fear you found her seriously indisposed." "Do not question me about her just now," rejoined the doctor, in a subdued emotion. "I would rather not discuss the subject." Nothing more was said; for though the apprentice would willingly have continued the conversation, his companion's evident disinclination to pursue it compelled him to desist. In this way, they reached the doctor's residence, where Leonard was immediately shown to a comfortable bed. It was late when he awoke next day, and as the doctor was gone forth, he partook of a plentiful breakfast which was placed before him, and repaired to Wood-street, but his master having no commissions for him to execute, he went back again. By this time, Doctor Hodges had returned, and calling him into his library told him he wished to speak with him. "You were right last night," he said, "in construing my silence into alarm for Amabel. In truth, I fear she is rapidly sinking into a decline, and nothing will arrest the progress of the insidious disease but instant removal to the country. To this she will not consent, neither do I know how it could be accomplished. It is pitiable to see so lovely a creature dying, as I fear she is, of a broken heart." Leonard covered his face with his hands, and wept aloud. "We have not yet spoken of Nizza Macascree," said Hodges, after a pause, tapping him kindly on the shoulder. "I think I have discovered a trace of her." "I am glad to hear it," replied Leonard, rousing himself. "She is another victim of these profligates. But I will be revenged upon them all." "I have before enjoined you to restrain your indignation, just though it be," returned Hodges. "I have not yet found out whither she has been taken. But I have a clue which, unless I am mistaken, will lead me to it. But I must now dismiss you, I have other affairs to attend to, and must give a dangerous and difficult case, on which I have been consulted, undisturbed consideration. Make my house your home as long as you think proper." Warmly thanking the doctor, Leonard then withdrew. Shortly after this, he walked forth, and ascertaining that he was not required by his master, determined to satisfy himself by actual observation of the extent of the ravages of the plague. With this view, he shaped his course along Lad-lane, and traversing Cateaton-street, entered Lothbury. The number of houses which he here found closed, with red crosses on the doors, and the fatal inscription above them, convinced him that the deplorable accounts he had heard were not exaggerated. In passing some of these habitations, he saw such ghastly faces at the windows, and heard such lamentable cries, that he was glad to hurry on and get out of sight and hearing. In Throgmorton-street, nearly opposite Drapers' Hall, a poor wretch suddenly opened a casement, and before his attendants could force him back, threw himself from a great height to the ground, and broke his neck. Another incident, of an equally distressing nature, occurred. A young and richly-dressed young man issued from a tavern in Broad-street, and with a wild and inflamed countenance, staggered along. He addressed some insulting language to Leonard, but the latter, who desired no quarrel, disregarded his remarks, and let him pass. The next person encountered by the drunken man was a young female. Suddenly catching her in his arms, he imprinted a kiss upon her lips: and then, with a frightful laugh, shouted, "I have given you the plague! Look here!" and tearing aside the collar of his shirt, he exhibited a large tumour. The young woman uttered a shriek of terror and fainted, while her ruthless assailant took to his heels, and running as long as his strength lasted, fell down, and was taken to the pest-house, where he was joined that same night by his victim. And this was by no means an uncommon occurrence. The distemper acted differently on different temperaments. Some it inflamed to an ungovernable pitch of madness, others it reduced to the depths of despair, while in many cases it brought out and aggravated the worst parts of the character. Wives conveyed the infection intentionally to their husbands, husbands to their wives, parents to their children, lovers to the objects of their affection, while, as in the case above mentioned, many persons ran about like rabid hounds, striving to communicate it to all they met. Greatly shocked at what had occurred, and yet not altogether surprised at it, for his mind had become familiarized with horrors, Leonard struck down Finch-lane, and proceeded towards Cornhill. On the way, he noticed two dead bodies lying at the mouth of a small alley, and hastening past, was stopped at the entrance to Cornhill by a butcher's apprentice, who was wheeling away the body of an old man, who had just died while purchasing meat at a stall at Stock's Market. Filled with unutterable loathing at this miserable spectacle, Leonard was fain to procure a glass of canary to recruit his spirits. Accordingly he proceeded to the Globe Tavern at the corner of Birchin-lane. As he entered the house, a lively strain of music caught his ear, and glancing in the direction of the sound, he found it proceeded from the blind piper, Mike Macascree, who was playing to some half-dozen roystering youths. Bell lay at her master's feet; and as Leonard approached the party, she pricked up her ears, and being called by name, instantly sprang towards him, and manifested the strongest delight. The piper stopped playing to listen to what was going forward but the young men urged him to proceed, and again filled his glass. "Don't drink any more, Mike," said Leonard, "but step aside with me. I've something to say to you--something about your daughter." "My daughter!" exclaimed the piper, in a half-angry, half-sorrowful voice, while a slight moisture forced itself through his orbless lids. "I don't want to hear anything about her, except that she is dead. She has deserted me, and disgraced herself." "You are mistaken," rejoined Leonard; "and if you will come with me, I will explain the truth to you." "I will listen to no explanation," rejoined the piper, furiously, "she has given me pain enough already. I'm engaged with this jovial company. Fill my glass, my masters--there, fill it again," he added, draining it eagerly, and with the evident wish to drown all thought. "There, now you shall have such a tune, as was never listened to by mortal ears." A loud laugh from the young men followed this proposition, and the piper played away so furiously, that it added to their merriment. Touched with compassion, Leonard walked aside, hoping, when the party broke up, to be able to have a word with the poor man. But the piper's excitement increased. He played faster and drank harder, until it was evident he was no longer in a condition to speak rationally. Leonard, therefore, addressed himself to the drawer, and desired him to look after the piper, engaging to return before midnight to see how he went on. The drawer promising compliance, Leonard departed; and not feeling disposed to continue his walk, returned to Wood-street. Nothing particular occurred during the evening. Leonard did not see Doctor Hodges, who was engaged in his professional duties; and after keeping watch before the grocer's till nearly midnight, he again retraced his steps to the Globe. The drawer was at the door, and about to close the house. "You will be sorry to learn the fate of the poor piper," he said. "Why, what has happened to him?" cried Leonard. "He is dead of the plague," was the reply. "What, so suddenly!" exclaimed the apprentice. "You are jesting with me." "Alas! it is no jest," rejoined the drawer, in a tone that convinced the apprentice of his sincerity. "His entertainers quitted him about two hours ago, and in spite of my efforts to detain him, he left the house, and sat down on those steps. Concluding he would fall asleep, I did not disturb him, and his dog kept careful watch over him. I forgot all about him till a short time ago, when hearing the pest-cart pass, I went forth, and learnt that the drivers having found him dead, as they supposed, of the pestilence, had placed their forks under his belt, and thrown him upon the other dead bodies." "And where is the dog?" cried Leonard. "She would not quit her master," replied the drawer, "so the men threw her into the cart with him, saying, they would bury her in the plague-pit, as all dogs were ordered to be destroyed." "This must be prevented," cried Leonard. "Which way did the dead-cart go?" "Towards Moorgate," replied the drawer. Leonard heard no more; but dashing through a narrow passage opposite the Conduit, passed Bartholomew-lane, and traversing Lothbury, soon reached Coleman-street and the old city gate, to which he had been directed. Here he learnt that the dead-cart had passed through it about five minutes before, and he hurried on towards Finsbury Fields. He had not proceeded far when he heard a sound as of a pipe at a distance, furiously played, and accompanied by the barking of a dog. These sounds were followed by cries of alarm, and he presently perceived two persons running towards him, with a swiftness which only could be occasioned by terror. One of them carried a lantern, and grasping his arm, the apprentice detained him. "What is the matter?" he asked. "The devil's the matter," replied the man--"the piper's ghost has appeared in that cart, and is playing his old tunes again." "Ay, it's either his spirit, or he is come to life again," observed the other man, stopping likewise. "I tossed him into the cart myself, and will swear he was dead enough then." "You have committed a dreadful mistake," cried Leonard. "You have tossed a living man into the cart instead of a dead one. Do you not hear those sounds?" And as he spoke, the notes of the pipe swelled to a louder strain than ever. "I tell you it is the devil--or a ghost," replied the driver; "I will stay here no longer." "Lend me your lantern, and I will go to the cart," rejoined Leonard. "Take it," replied the man; "but I caution you to stay where you are. You may receive a shock you will never survive." Paying no attention to what was said, Leonard ran towards the cart, and found the piper seated upon a pile of dead bodies, most of them stripped of their covering, with Bell by his side, and playing away at a prodigious rate. III. THE DANCE OF DEATH. The condition of the prisons at this season was really frightful. In Newgate, in particular, where the distemper broke out at the beginning of June, it raged with such violence that in less than a week, more than half the prisoners were swept off, and it appeared probable, that, unless its fury abated, not a soul would be left alive within it. At all times, this crowded and ill-kept prison was infested by the gaol-fever and other pestilential disorders, but these were mild in comparison with the present terrible visitation. The atmosphere was noisome and malignant; the wards were never cleansed; and many poor wretches, who died in their cells, were left there till the attendants on the dead-cart chose to drag them forth. No restraint being placed upon the sick, and the rules of the prison allowing them the free use of any strong liquors they could purchase, the scenes that occurred were too dreadful and revolting for description, and could only be paralleled by the orgies of a pandemonium. Many reckless beings, conscious that they were attacked by a fatal disorder, drank as long as they could raise the' cup to their lips, and after committing the wildest and most shocking extravagances, died in a state of frenzy. Newgate became thus, as it were, the very focus of infection, where the plague assumed its worst aspect, and where its victims perished far more expeditiously than elsewhere. Two of the turnkeys had already died of the distemper, and such was the alarm entertained, that no persons could be found to supply their places. To penetrate the recesses of the prison, was almost to insure destruction, and none but the attendants of the dead-cart and the nurses attempted it. Among the latter was Judith. Employed as a nurse on the first outburst of the plague, she willingly and fearlessly undertook the office. The worse the disease became the better pleased she appeared; and she was so utterly without apprehension, that when no one would approach the cell where some wretched sufferer lay expiring, she unhesitatingly entered it. But it was not to render aid, but to plunder, that she thus exercised her functions. She administered no medicine, dressed no tumours, and did not contribute in the slightest degree to the comfort of the miserable wretches committed to her charge. All she desired was to obtain whatever valuables they possessed, or to wring from them any secret that might afterwards be turned to account. Foreseeing that Newgate must ere long be depopulated, and having no fears for herself, she knew that she must then be liberated, and be able once more to renew her mischievous practices upon mankind. Her marvellous preservation throughout all the dangers to which she was exposed seemed almost to warrant the supposition that she had entered into a compact with the pestilence, to extend its ravages by every means in her power, on the condition of being spared herself. Soon after the outbreak of the plague in Newgate, all the debtors were liberated, and if the keepers had had their own way, the common felons would have been likewise released. But this could not be, and they were kept to perish as before described. Matters, however, grew so serious, that it became a question whether the few miserable wretches left alive ought to be longer detained, and at last the turnkeys refusing to act any longer, and delivering their keys to the governor, the whole of the prisoners were set free. On the night of their liberation, Chowles and Judith proceeded to the vaults of Saint Faith's, to deposit within them the plunder they had obtained in the prison. They found them entirely deserted. Neither verger, sexton, nor any other person, was to be seen, and they took up their quarters in the crypt. Having brought a basket of provisions and a few bottles of wine with them, they determined to pass the night in revelry; and, accordingly, having lighted a fire with the fragments of old coffins brought from the charnel, they sat down to their meal. Having done full justice to it, and disposed of the first flask, they were about to abandon themselves to unrestrained enjoyment, when their glee was all at once interrupted by a strange and unaccountable noise in the adjoining church. Chowles, who had just commenced chanting one of his wild melodies, suddenly stopped, and Judith set down the glass she had raised to her lips untested. What could it mean? Neither of them could tell. It seemed like strains of unearthly music, mixed with shrieks and groans as of tortured spirits, accompanied by peals of such laughter as might be supposed to proceed, from demons. "The dead are burst forth from their tombs," cried Chowles, in a quavering voice, "and are attended by a legion of evil spirits." "It would seem so," replied Judith, rising. "I should like to behold the sight. Come with me." "Not for the world!" rejoined Chowles, shuddering, "and I would recommend you to stay where you are. You may behold your dead husband among them." "Do you think so?" rejoined Judith, halting. "I am sure of it," cried Chowles, eagerly. "Stay where you are--stay where you are." As he spoke, there was another peal of infernal laughter, and the strains of music grew louder each moment. "Come what may, I will see what it is," said Judith, emptying her glass, as if seeking courage from the draught. "Surely," she added, in a taunting tone, "you will come with me." "I am afraid of nothing earthly," rejoined Chowles--"but I do not like to face beings of another world." "Then I will go alone," rejoined Judith. "Nay, that shall never be," replied Chowles, tottering after her. As they opened the door and crossed the charnel, such an extraordinary combination of sounds burst upon their ears that they again paused, and looked anxiously at each other. Chowles laid his hand on his companion's arm, and strove to detain her, but she would not be stayed, and he was forced to proceed. Setting down the lamp on the stone floor, Judith passed into the subterranean church, where she beheld a sight that almost petrified her. In the midst of the nave, which was illumined by a blue glimmering light, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, stood a number of grotesque figures, apparelled in fantastic garbs, and each attended by a skeleton. Some of the latter grisly shapes were playing on tambours, others on psalteries, others on rebecs--every instrument producing the strangest sound imaginable. Viewed through the massive pillars, beneath that dark and ponderous roof, and by the mystic light before described, this strange company had a supernatural appearance, and neither Chowles nor Judith doubted for a moment that they beheld before them a congregation of phantoms. An irresistible feeling of curiosity prompted them to advance. On drawing nearer, they found the assemblage comprehended all ranks of society. There was a pope in his tiara and pontifical dress; a cardinal in his cap and robes; a monarch with a sceptre in his hand, and arrayed in the habiliments of royalty; a crowned queen; a bishop wearing his mitre, and carrying his crosier; an abbot, likewise in his mitre, and bearing a crosier; a duke in his robes of state; a grave canon of the church; a knight sheathed in armour; a judge, an advocate, and a magistrate, all in their robes; a mendicant friar and a nun; and the list was completed by a physician, an astrologer, a miser, a merchant, a duchess, a pedler, a soldier, a gamester, an idiot, a robber, a blind man, and a beggar--each distinguishable by his apparel. By-and-by, with a wild and gibbering laugh that chilled the beholders' blood, one of the tallest and grisliest of the skeletons sprang forward, and beating his drum, the whole ghostly company formed, two and two, into a line--a skeleton placing itself on the right of every mortal. In this order, the fantastic procession marched between the pillars, the unearthly music playing all the while, and disappeared at the further extremity of the church. With the last of the group, the mysterious light vanished, and Chowles and his companion were left in profound darkness. "What can it mean?" cried Judith, as soon as she recovered her speech. "Are they human, or spirits?" "Human beings don't generally amuse themselves in this way," returned Chowles. "But hark!--I still hear the music.--They are above--in Saint Paul's." "Then I will join them," said Judith. "I am resolved to see the end of it." "Don't leave me behind," returned Chowles, following her. "I would rather keep company with Beelzebub and all his imps than be alone." Both were too well acquainted with the way to need any light. Ascending the broad stone steps, they presently emerged into the cathedral, which they found illumined by the same glimmering light as the lower church, and they perceived the ghostly assemblage gathered into an immense ring, and dancing round the tall skeleton, who continued beating his drum, and uttering a strange gibbering sound, which was echoed by the others. Each moment the dancers increased the swiftness of their pace, until at last it grew to a giddy whirl, and then, all at once, with a shriek of laughter, the whole company fell to the ground. Chowles and Judith, then, for the first time, understood, from the confusion that ensued, and the exclamations uttered, that they were no spirits they had to deal with, but beings of the same mould as themselves. Accordingly, they approached the party of masquers, for such they proved, and found on inquiry that they were a party of young gallants, who, headed by the Earl of Rochester--the representative of the tall skeleton--had determined to realize the Dance of Death, as once depicted on the walls of an ancient cloister at the north of the cathedral, called Pardon-churchyard, on the walls of which, says Stowe, were "artificially and richly painted the Dance of Macabre, or Dance of Death, commonly called the Dance of Paul's, the like whereof was painted about Saint Innocent's, at Paris. The metres, or poesy of this dance," proceeds the same authority, "were translated out of French into English by John Lydgate, monk of Bury, and, with the picture of Death leading all estates, painted about the cloister, at the special request and expense of Jenkin Carpenter, in the reign of Henry the Sixth." Pardon-churchyard was pulled down by the Protector Somerset, in the reign of Edward the Sixth, and the materials employed in the erection of his own palace in the Strand. It was the discussion of these singular paintings, and of the designs on the same subject ascribed to Holbein, that led the Earl of Rochester and his companions to propose the fantastic spectacle above described. With the disposition which this reckless nobleman possessed to turn the most solemn and appalling subjects to jest, he thought no season so fitting for such an entertainment as the present--just as in our own time the lively Parisians made the cholera, while raging in their city, the subject of a carnival pastime. The exhibition witnessed by Chowles and Judith was a rehearsal of the masque intended to be represented in the cathedral on the following night. Again marshalling his band, the Earl of Rochester beat his drum, and skipping before them, led the way towards the south door of the cathedral, which was thrown open by an unseen hand, and the procession glided through it like a troop of spectres. Chowles, whose appearance was not unlike that of an animated skeleton, was seized with a strange desire to join in what was going forward, and taking off his doublet, and baring his bony arms and legs, he followed the others, dancing round Judith in the same manner that the other skeletons danced round their partners. On reaching the Convocation House, a door was opened, and the procession entered the cloisters; and here Chowles, dragging Judith into the area between him and the beautiful structure they surrounded, began a dance of so extraordinary a character that the whole troop collected round to witness it. Rochester beat his drum, and the other representatives of mortality who were provided with musical instruments struck up a wild kind of accompaniment, to which Chowles executed the most grotesque flourishes. So wildly excited did he become, and such extravagances did he commit, that even Judith stared aghast at him, and began to think his wits were fled. Now he whirled round her--now sprang high into the air--now twined his lean arms round her waist--now peeped over one shoulder, now over the other--and at last griped her neck so forcibly, that he might perhaps have strangled her, if she had not broken from him, and dealt him a severe blow that brought him senseless to the ground. On recovering, he found himself in the arched entrance of a large octagonal chamber, lighted at each side by a lofty pointed window filled with stained glass. Round this chamber ran a wide stone bench, with a richly-carved back of the same material, on which the masquers were seated, and opposite the entrance was a raised seat, ordinarily allotted to the dean, but now occupied by the Earl of Rochester. A circular oak table stood in the midst of the chamber, covered with magnificent silver dishes, heaped with the choicest viands, which were handed to the guests by the earl's servants, all of whom represented skeletons, and it had a strange effect, to behold these ghastly objects filling the cups of the revellers, bending obsequiously before some blooming dame, or crowding round their spectral-looking lord. At first, Chowles was so confused, that he thought he must have awakened in another world, but by degrees he called to mind what had occurred, and ascertained from Judith that he was in the Convocation House. Getting up, he joined the train of grisly attendants, and acquitted himself so well that the earl engaged him as performer in the masque. He was furthermore informed that, in all probability, the king himself, with many of his favourite nobles, and the chief court beauties, would be present to witness the spectacle. The banquet over, word was brought that chairs and coaches were without, and the company departed, leaving behind only a few attendants, who remained to put matters in order. While they were thus occupied, Judith, who had fixed her greedy eyes upon the plate, observed, in an under-tone, to Chowles, "There will be fine plunder for us. We must manage to carry off all that plate while they are engaged in the masque." "You must do it yourself, then," returned Chowles, in the same tone--"for I shall have to play a principal part in the entertainment, and as the king himself will be present, I cannot give up such an opportunity of distinguishing myself." "You can have no share in the prize, if you lend no assistance," replied Judith, with a dissatisfied look. "Of course not," rejoined Chowles; "on this occasion it is all yours. The Dance of Death is too much to my taste to be given up." Perceiving they were noticed, Chowles and Judith then left the Convocation House, and returned to the vault in Saint Faith's, nor did they emerge from it until late on the following day. Some rumour of the masque having gone abroad, towards evening a crowd, chiefly composed of the most worthless order of society, collected under the portico at the western entrance, and the great doors being opened by Chowles, they entered the cathedral. Thus was this sacred building once more invaded--once again a scene of noise, riot, and confusion--its vaulted roofs instead of echoing the voice of prayer, or the choral hymn, resounded with loud laughter, imprecations, and licentious discourse. This disorder, however, was kept in some bounds by a strong body of the royal guard, who soon afterwards arrived, and stationing themselves in parties of three or four at each of the massive columns flanking the aisles, maintained some show of decorum. Besides these, there were others of the royal attendants, bearing torches, who walked from place to place, and compelled all loiterers in dark corners to proceed to the nave. A little before midnight, the great doors were again thrown open, and a large troop of richly-attired personages, all wearing masks, were admitted. For a short time they paced to and fro between its shafted pillars gazing at the spectators grouped around, and evidently, from their jests and laughter, not a little entertained by the scene. As the clock struck twelve, however, all sounds were hushed, and the courtly party stationed themselves on the steps leading to the choir. At the same moment, also, the torches were extinguished, and the whole of the building buried in profound darkness. Presently after, a sound was heard of footsteps approaching the nave, but nothing could be discerned. Expectation was kept on the rack for some minutes, during which many a stifled cry was heard from those whose courage failed them at this trying juncture. All at once, a blue light illumined the nave, and partially revealed the lofty pillars by which it was surrounded. By this light the whole of the ghostly company could be seen drawn up near the western door. They were arranged two and two, a skeleton standing as before on the right of each character. The procession next marched slowly and silently towards the choir, and drew up at the foot of the steps, to give the royal party an opportunity of examining them. After pausing there for a few minutes, Rochester, in the dress of the larger skeleton, started off, and, beating his drum, was followed by the pope and his attendant skeleton. This couple having danced together for some minutes, to the infinite diversion of the spectators, disappeared behind a pillar, and were succeeded by the monarch and a second skeleton. These, in their turn, gave way to the cardinal and his companion, and so on till the whole of the masquers had exhibited themselves, when at a signal from the earl the party re-appeared, and formed a ring round him. The dance was executed with great spirit, and elicited tumultuous applause from all the beholders. The earl now retired, and Chowles took his place. He was clothed in an elastic dress painted of a leaden and cadaverous colour, which fitted closely to his fleshless figure, and defined all his angularities. He carried an hour-glass in one hand and a dart in the other, and in the course of the dance kept continually pointing the latter at those who moved around him. His feats of the previous evening were nothing to his present achievements. His joints creaked, and his eyes flamed like burning coals. As he continued, his excitement increased. He bounded higher, and his countenance assumed so hideous an expression, that those near him recoiled in terror, crying, "Death himself had broke loose among them." The consternation soon became general. The masquers fled in dismay, and scampered along the aisles scarcely knowing whither they were going. Delighted with the alarm he occasioned, Chowles chased a large party along the northern aisle, and was pursuing them across the transept upon which it opened, when he was arrested in his turn by another equally formidable figure, who suddenly placed himself in his path. "Hold!" exclaimed Solomon Eagle--for it was the enthusiast--in a voice of thunder, "it is time this scandalous exhibition should cease. Know all ye who make a mockery of death, that his power will be speedily and fearfully approved upon you. Thine not to escape the vengeance of the Great Being whose temple you have profaned. And you, O king! who have sanctioned these evil doings by your presence, and who by your own dissolute life set a pernicious example to all your subjects, know that your city shall be utterly laid waste, first by plague and then by fire. Tremble! my warning is as terrible and true as the handwriting on the wall." "Who art thou who holdest this language towards me?" demanded Charles. "I am called Solomon Eagle," replied the enthusiast, "and am charged with a mission from on high to warn your doomed people of their fate. Be warned yourself, sire! Your end will be sudden. You will be snatched away in the midst of your guilty pleasure, and with little time for repentance. Be warned, I say again." With this he turned to depart. "Secure the knave," cried Charles, angrily. "He shall be soundly scourged for his insolence." But bursting through the guard, Solomon Eagle ran swiftly up the choir and disappeared, nor could his pursuers discover any traces of him. "Strange!" exclaimed the king, when he was told of the enthusiast's escape. "Let us go to supper. This masque has given me the vapours." "Pray Heaven it have not given us the plague," observed the fair Stewart, who stood beside him, taking his arm. "It is to be hoped not," rejoined Charles; "but, odds fish! it is a most dismal affair." "It is so, in more ways than one," replied Rochester, "for I have just learnt that all my best plate has been carried off from the Convocation House. I shall only be able to offer your majesty and your fair partner a sorry supper." IV. THE PLAGUE-PIT. On being made acquainted by Leonard, who helped him out of the pest-cart, with the danger he had run, the piper uttered a cry of terror, and swooned away. The buriers, seeing how matters stood, and that their superstitious fears were altogether groundless, now returned, and one of them, producing a phial of vinegar, sprinkled the fainting man with it, and speedily brought him to himself. But though so far recovered, his terror had by no means abated, and he declared his firm conviction that he was infected by the pestilence. "I have been carried towards the plague-pit by mistake," he said. "I shall soon be conveyed thither in right earnest, and not have the power of frightening away my conductors on the road." "Pooh! pooh!" cried one of the buriers, jestingly. "I hope you will often ride with us, and play us many a merry tune as you go. You shall always be welcome to a seat in the cart." "Be of good cheer," added Leonard, "and all will be well. Come with me to an apothecary's shop, and I will procure a cordial for you, which shall speedily dispel your qualms." The piper shook his head, and replied, with a deep groan, that he was certain all was over with him. "However, I will not reject your kindness," he added, "though I feel I am past the help of medicine." "With this, he whistled to Bell, who was skipping about Leonard, having recognised him on his first approach, and they proceeded towards the second postern in London-wall, between Moorgate and Cripplegate; while the buriers, laughing heartily at the adventure, took their way towards the plague-pit, and discharged their dreadful load within it. Arrived in Basinghall-street, and looking round, Leonard soon discovered by the links at the door, as well as by the crowd collected before it--for day and night the apothecaries' dwellings were besieged by the sick--the shop of which he was in search. It was long before they could obtain admittance, and during this time the piper said he felt himself getting rapidly worse; but, imagining he was merely labouring under the effect of fright, Leonard paid little attention to his complaints. The apothecary, however, no sooner set eyes upon him, than he pronounced him infected, and, on examination, it proved that the fatal tokens had already appeared. "I knew it was so," cried the piper. "Take me to the pest-house--take me to the pest-house!" "His desire had better be complied with," observed the apothecary. "He is able to walk thither now, but I will not answer for his being able to do so two hours hence. It is a bad case," he added in an under-tone to Leonard. Feeing the apothecary, Leonard set out with the piper, and passing through Cripplegate, they entered the open fields. Here they paused for a moment, and the little dog ran round and round them, barking gleefully. "Poor Bell!" cried the piper; "what will become of thee when I am gone?" "If you will entrust her to me, I will take care of her," replied Leonard. "She is yours," rejoined the piper, in a voice hoarse with emotion. "Be kind to her for my sake, and for the sake of her unfortunate mistress." "Since you have alluded to your daughter," returned Leonard, "I must tell you what has become of her. I have not hitherto mentioned the subject, fearing it might distress you." "Have no further consideration, but speak out," rejoined the piper. "Be it what it may, I will bear it like a man." Leonard then briefly recounted all that had occurred, describing Nizza's disguise as a page, and her forcible abduction by Parravicin. He was frequently interrupted by the groans of his hearer, who at last gave vent to his rage and anguish in words. "Heaven's direst curse upon her ravisher!" he cried. "May he endure worse misery than I now endure. She is lost for ever." "She may yet be preserved," rejoined Leonard. "Doctor Hodges thinks he has discovered her retreat, and I will not rest till I find her." "No--no, you will never find her," replied the piper, bitterly; "or if you do, it will be only to bewail her ruin." His rage then gave way to such an access of grief, that, letting his head fall on Leonard's shoulder, he wept aloud. "There is a secret connected with that poor girl," he said, at length, controlling his emotion by a powerful effort, "which must now go to the grave with me. The knowledge of it would only add to her distress." "You view the matter too unfavourably," replied Leonard; "and if the secret is of any moment, I entreat you to confide it to me. If your worst apprehensions should prove well founded, I promise you it shall never be revealed to her." "On that condition only, I will confide it to you," replied the piper; "but not now--not now--to-morrow morning, if I am alive." "It may be out of your power then," returned Leonard, "For your daughter's sake, I urge you not to delay." "It is for her sake I am silent," rejoined the piper. "Come along--come along," he added, hurrying forward. "Are we far from the pest-house? My strength is failing me." On arriving at their destination, they were readily admitted to the asylum; but a slight difficulty arose, which, however, was speedily obviated. All the couches were filled, but on examining them it was found that one of the sick persons had just been released from his sufferings, and the body being removed, the piper was allowed to take its place. Leonard remained by him for a short time, but, overpowered by the pestilential effluvia, and the sight of so many miserable objects, he was compelled to seek the open air. Returning, however, shortly afterwards, he found the piper in a very perturbed state. On hearing Leonard's voice he appeared greatly relieved, and, taking his gown from beneath his pillow, gave it to him, and desired him to unrip a part of the garment, in which it was evident something was sewn. The apprentice complied, and a small packet dropped forth. "Take it," said the piper; "and if I die,--and Nizza should happily be preserved from her ravisher, give it her. But not otherwise--not otherwise. Implore her to forgive me--to pity me." "Forgive you--her father?" cried Leonard, in astonishment. "That packet will explain all," replied the piper in a troubled tone. "You promised to take charge of poor Bell," he added, drawing forth the little animal, who had crept to the foot of the bed, "here she is. Farewell! my faithful friend," he added, pressing his rough lips to her forehead, while she whined piteously, as if beseeching him to allow her to remain; "farewell for ever." "Not for ever, I trust," replied Leonard, taking her gently from him. "And now you had better go," said the piper. "Return, if you can, to-morrow." "I will,--I will," replied Leonard; and he hurried out of the room. He was followed to the door by the young chirurgeon--the same who had accompanied Mr. Bloundel during his inspection of the pest-house,--and he inquired of him if he thought the piper's case utterly hopeless. "Not utterly so," replied the young man. "I shall be able to speak more positively in a few hours. At present, I think, with care and attention, there _is_ a chance of his recovery." Much comforted by this assurance, Leonard departed, and afraid to put Bell to the ground lest she should run back to her master, he continued to carry her, and endeavoured to attach her to him by caresses and endearments. The little animal showed her sense of his kindness by licking his hands, but she still remained inconsolable, and ever and anon struggled to get free. Making the best of his way to Wood-street, he entered the hutch, and placing a little straw in one corner for Bell, threw himself on a bench and dropped asleep. At six o'clock he was awakened by the barking of the dog, and opening the door beheld Dallison. The grocer was at the window above, and about to let down a basket of provisions to them. To Leonard's eager inquiries after Amabel, Mr. Bloundel replied by a melancholy shake of the head, and soon afterwards withdrew. With a sad heart, the apprentice then broke his fast,--not forgetting at the same time the wants of his little companion,--and finding he was not required by his master, he proceeded to Doctor Hodges' residence. He was fortunate enough to find the friendly physician at home, and, after relating to him what had occurred, committed the packet to his custody. "It will be safer in your keeping than mine," he said; "and if anything should happen to me, you will, I am sure, observe the wishes of the poor piper." "Rely upon it, I will," replied Hodges. "I am sorry to tell you I have been misled as to the clue I fancied I had obtained to Nizza's retreat. We are as far from the mark as ever." "Might not the real name of the villain who has assumed the name of Sir Paul Parravicin be ascertained from the Earl of Rochester?" rejoined Leonard. "So I thought," replied Hodges; "and I made the attempt yesterday, but it failed. I was at Whitehall, and finding the earl in the king's presence, suddenly asked him where I could find his friend Sir Paul Parravicin. He looked surprised at the question, glanced significantly at the monarch, and then carelessly answered that he knew no such person." "A strange idea crosses me," cried Leonard. "Can it be the king who has assumed this disguise?" "At one time I suspected as much," rejoined Hodges; "but setting aside your description of the person, which does not tally with that of Charles, I am satisfied from other circumstances it is not so. After all, I should not wonder if poor Bell," smoothing her long silky ears as she lay in the apprentice's arms, "should help us to discover her mistress. And now," he added, "I shall go to Wood-street to inquire after Amabel, and will then accompany you to the pest-house. From what you tell me the young chirurgeon said of the piper, I do not despair of his recovery." "Poor as his chance may appear, it is better, I fear, than Amabel's," sighed the apprentice. "Ah!" exclaimed Hodges, in a sorrowful tone, "hers is slight indeed." And perceiving that the apprentice was greatly moved, he waited for a moment till he had recovered himself, and then, motioning him to follow him, they quitted the house together. On reaching Mr. Bloundel's habitation, Leonard pulled the cord in the hutch, and the grocer appeared at the window. "My daughter has not left her bed this morning," he said, in answer to the doctor's inquiries, "and I fear she is much worse. My wife is with her. It would be a great satisfaction to me if you would see her again." After some little hesitation, Hodges assented, and was drawn up as before. He returned in about half an hour, and his grave countenance convinced Leonard that his worst anticipations were correct. He therefore forbore to question him, and they walked towards Cripplegate in silence. On emerging into the fields, Hodges observed to his companion, "It is strange that I who daily witness such dreadful suffering should be pained by the gradual and easy decline of Amabel. But so it is. Her case touches me more than the worst I have seen of the plague." "I can easily account for the feeling," groaned Leonard. "I am happy to say I have prevailed on her, if she does not improve in a short time,--and there is not the slightest chance of it,--to try the effect of a removal to the country. Her father also consents to the plan." "I am glad to hear it," replied Leonard. "But whither will she go, and who will watch over her?" "That is not yet settled," rejoined Hodges. "Oh! that I might be permitted to undertake the office!" cried Leonard, passionately. "Restrain yourself," said Hodges, in a tone of slight rebuke. "Fitting attendance will be found, if needed." The conversation then dropped, and they walked briskly forward. They were now within a short distance of the pest-house, and Leonard, hearing footsteps behind him, turned and beheld a closed litter, borne by two stout porters, and evidently containing a plague-patient. He stepped aside to let it pass, when Bell, suddenly pricking her ears, uttered a singular cry, and bursting from him, flew after the litter, leaping against it and barking joyfully. The porters, who were proceeding at a quick pace, tried to drive her away, but without effect, and she continued her cries until they reached the gates of the pest-house. In vain Leonard whistled to her, and called her back. She paid no attention whatever to him. "I almost begin to fear," said Hodges, unable to repress a shudder, "that the poor animal will, indeed, be the means of discovering for us the object of our search." "I understand what you mean," rejoined Leonard, "and am of the same opinion as yourself. Heaven grant we may be mistaken!" And as he spoke, he ran forward, and, followed by Hodges, reached the pest-house just as the litter was taken into it. "Silence that accursed dog," cried one of the porters, "and bid a nurse attend us. We have a patient for the women's ward." "Let me see her," cried Hodges. "I am a physician." "Readily, sir," replied the porter. "It is almost over with her, poor soul! It would have saved time and trouble to take her to the plague-pit at once. She cannot last many hours. Curse the dog! Will it never cease howling?" Leonard here seized Bell, fearing she might do some mischief, and with a sad foreboding beheld the man draw back the curtains of the litter. His fears proved well founded. There, stretched upon the couch, with her dark hair unbound, and flowing in wild disorder over her neck, lay Nizza Macascree. The ghastly paleness of her face could not, however, entirely rob it of its beauty, and her dark eyes were glazed and lustreless. At the sight of her mistress, poor Bell uttered so piteous a cry, that Leonard, moved by compassion, placed her on the pillow beside her, and the sagacious animal did not attempt to approach nearer, but merely licked her cheek. Roused by the touch, Nizza turned to see what was near her, and recognising the animal, made a movement to strain her to her bosom, but the pain she endured was so intense that she sank back with a deep groan. "From whom did you receive this young woman?" demanded Hodges, of one of the porters. "She was brought to us by two richly-attired lacqueys," replied the man, "in this very litter. They paid us to carry her here without loss of time." "You have an idea whose servants they were?" pursued Hodges. "Not the least," replied the fellow; "but I should judge, from the richness of their dress, that they belonged to some nobleman." "Did they belong to the royal household?" inquired Leonard. "No, no," rejoined the man. "I am certain as to that." "The poor girl shall not remain here," observed Hodges, to the apprentice. "You must convey her to my residence in Great Knightrider-street," he added, to the porters. "We will convey her wherever you please," replied the men, "if we are paid for our trouble." And they were about to close the curtains, when Nizza, having caught sight of the apprentice, slightly raised herself, and cried, in a voice of the utmost anxiety, "Is that you, Leonard?" "It is," he replied, approaching her. "Then I shall die happy, since I have seen you once more," she said. "Oh, do not stay near me. You may catch the infection." "Nizza," said Leonard, disregarding the caution, and breathing the words in her ear; "allay my fears by a word. You have not fallen a victim to the villain who carried you away?" "I have not, Leonard," she replied, solemnly, "I resisted his importunities, his threats, his violence, and would have slain myself rather than have yielded to him. The plague, at length, came to my rescue, and I have reason to be grateful to it; for it has not only delivered me from him, but has brought me to you." "I must now impose silence upon you," interposed Hodges, laying his finger on his lips; "further conversation will be hurtful." "One question more, and I have done," replied Nizza. "How came Bell with you--and where is my father? Nothing has happened to him?" she continued, observing Leonard's countenance change. "Speak! do not keep me in suspense. Your silence fills me with apprehension. Speak, I implore you. He is dead?" "No," replied Leonard, "he is not dead--but he is an inmate of this place." "Ah!" exclaimed Nizza, falling back senseless upon the pillow. And in this state she was conveyed with the greatest expedition to the doctor's residence. Leonard only tarried to visit the piper, whom he found slightly delirious, and unable to hold any conversation with him, and promising to return in the evening, he set out after the litter. Nizza was placed in the best apartment of the doctor's house, and attended by an experienced and trustworthy nurse. But Hodges positively refused to let Leonard see her again, affirming that the excitement was too much for her, and might militate against the chance of her recovery. "I am not without hopes of bringing her through," he said, "and though it will be a severe struggle, yet, as she has youth and a good constitution on her side, I do not despair. If she herself would second me, I should be yet more confident." "How mean you?" inquired Leonard. "I think if she thought life worth a struggle--if, in short, she believed you would return her attachment, she would rally," answered Hodges. "I cannot consent to deceive her thus," rejoined Leonard, sadly. "My heart is fixed elsewhere." "Your heart is fixed upon one who will soon be in her grave," replied the doctor. "And with her my affections will be buried," rejoined Leonard, turning away to hide his tears. So well was the doctor's solicitude rewarded, that three days after Nizza had come under his care, he pronounced her out of danger. But the violence of the attack left her so weak and exhausted, that he still would not allow an interview to take place between her and Leonard. During all this time Bell never left her side, and her presence was an inexpressible comfort to her. The piper, too, was slowly recovering, and Leonard, who daily visited him, was glad to learn from the young chirurgeon that he would be able to leave the pest-house shortly. Having ascertained from Leonard that his daughter was under the care of Doctor Hodges, and likely to do well, the piper begged so earnestly that the packet might not be delivered to her, that, after some consultation with Hodges, Leonard restored it to him. He was delighted to get it back, felt it carefully over to ascertain that the seals were unbroken, and satisfied that all was safe, had it again sewn up in his gown, which he placed under his pillow. "I would rather disclose the secret to her by word of mouth than in any other way," he said. Leonard felt doubtful whether the secret would now be disclosed at all, but he made no remark. Night was drawing on as he quitted the pest-house, and he determined to take this opportunity of visiting the great plague-pit, which lay about a quarter of a mile distant, in a line with the church of All-Hallows-in-the-Wall, and he accordingly proceeded in that direction. The pit which he was about to visit was about forty feet long, twenty wide, and the like number deep. Into this tremendous chasm the dead were promiscuously thrown, without regard to sex or condition, generally stripped of their clothing, and covered with a slight layer of earth and quick lime. The sun was setting as Leonard walked towards this dismal place, and he thought he had never witnessed so magnificent a sight. Indeed, it was remarked that at this fatal season the sunsets were unusually splendid. The glorious orb sank slowly behind Saint Paul's, which formed a prominent object in the view from the fields, and threw out its central tower, its massive roof, and the two lesser towers flanking the portico, into strong relief. Leonard gazed at the mighty fabric, which seemed dilated to twice its size by this light, and wondered whether it was possible that it could ever be destroyed, as predicted by Solomon Eagle. Long after the sun had set, the sky was stained with crimson, and the grey walls of the city were tinged with rosy radiance. The heat was intense, and Leonard, to cool himself, sat down in the thick grass--for, though the crops were ready for the scythe, no mowers could be found--and, gazing upwards, strove to mount in spirit from the tainted earth towards heaven. After a while he arose, and proceeded towards the plague-pit. The grass was trampled down near it, and there were marks of frequent cart-wheels upon the sod. Great heaps of soil, thrown out of the excavation, lay on either side. Holding a handkerchief steeped in vinegar to his face, Leonard ventured to the brink of the pit. But even this precaution could not counteract the horrible effluvia arising from it. It was more than half filled with dead bodies; and through the putrid and heaving mass many disjointed limbs and ghastly faces could be discerned, the long hair of women and the tiny arms of children appearing on the surface. It was a horrible sight--so horrible, that it possessed a fascination peculiar to itself, and, in spite of his loathing, Leonard lingered to gaze at it. Strange and fantastic thoughts possessed him. He fancied that the legs and arms moved--that the eyes of some of the corpses opened and glared at him--and that the whole rotting mass was endowed with animation. So appalled was he by this idea that he turned away, and at that moment beheld a vehicle approaching. It was the dead-cart, charged with a heavy load to increase the already redundant heap. The same inexplicable and irresistible feelings of curiosity that induced Leonard to continue gazing upon the loathly objects in the pit, now prompted him to stay and see what would ensue. Two persons were with the cart, and one of them, to Leonard's infinite surprise and disgust, proved to be Chowles. He had no time, however, for the expression of any sentiment, for the cart halted at a little distance from him, when its conductors, turning it round, backed it towards the edge of the pit. The horse was then taken out, and Chowles calling to Leonard, the latter involuntarily knelt down to guide its descent, while the other assistant, who had proceeded to the further side of the chasm, threw the light of a lantern full upon the grisly load, which was thus shot into the gulf below. Shovelling a sufficient quantity of earth and lime into the pit to cover the bodies, Chowles and his companion departed, leaving Leonard alone. He continued there a few moments longer, and was about to follow them, when a prolonged and piercing cry smote his ear; and, looking in the direction of the sound, he perceived a figure running with great swiftness towards the pit. As no pursuers appeared, Leonard could scarcely doubt that this was one of the distracted persons he had heard of, who, in the frenzy produced by the intolerable anguish of their sores, would often rush to the plague-pit and bury themselves, and he therefore resolved, if possible, to prevent the fatal attempt. Accordingly, he placed himself in the way of the runner, and endeavoured, with outstretched arms, to stop him. But the latter dashed him aside with great violence, and hurrying to the brink of the pit, uttered a fearful cry, and exclaiming, "She is here! she is here!--I shall find her amongst them!"--flung himself into the abyss. As soon as he could shake off the horror inspired by this dreadful action, Leonard ran to the pit, and, gazing into it, beheld him by the imperfect light struggling in the horrible mass in which he was partially immersed. The frenzied man had now, however, begun to repent his rashness, and cried out for aid. But this Leonard found it impossible to afford him; and, seeing he must speedily perish if left to himself, he ran after the dead-cart, and overtaking it just as it reached Moor-gate, informed Chowles what had happened, and begged him to return. "There will be no use in helping him out," rejoined Chowles, in a tone of indifference. "We shall have to take him back in a couple of hours. No, no--let him remain where he is. There is scarcely a night that some crazy being does not destroy himself in the same way. We never concern ourselves about such persons except to strip them of their apparel." "Unfeeling wretch!" cried Leonard, unable to restrain his indignation. "Give me your fork, and I will pull him out myself." Instead of surrendering the implement, Chowles flourished it over his head with the intention of striking the apprentice, but the latter nimbly avoided the blow, and snatching it from his grasp, ran back to the plague-pit. He was followed by Chowles and the burier, who threatened him with loud oaths. Regardless of their menaces, Leonard fixed the hook in the dress of the struggling man, and exerting all his strength, drew him out of the abyss. He had just lodged him in safety on the brink when Chowles and his companion came up. "Keep off!" cried Leonard, brandishing his fork as he spoke; "you shall neither commit robbery nor murder here. If you will assist this unfortunate gentleman, I have no doubt you will be well rewarded. If not, get hence, or advance at your peril." "Well," returned Chowles, who began to fancy something might be made of the matter, "if you think we should be rewarded, we would convey the gentleman back to his own home provided we can ascertain where it is. But I am afraid he may die on the way." "In that case you can apply to his friends," rejoined Leonard. "He must not be abandoned thus." "First, let us know who he is," returned Chowles. "Is he able to speak?" "I know not," answered Leonard. "Bring the lantern this way, and let us examine his countenance." Chowles complied, and held the light over the unfortunate person. His attire was rich, but in great disorder, and sullied by the loathsome mass in which he had been plunged. He was in the flower of youth, and his features must have been remarkable for their grace and beauty, but they were now of a livid hue, and swollen and distorted by pain. Still Leonard recognised them. "Gracious Heaven!" he exclaimed. "It is Sir Paul Parravicin." "Sir Paul Parravicin!" echoed Chowles. "By all that's wonderful, so it is! Here is a lucky chance! Bring the dead-cart hither, Jonas--quick, quick! I shall put him under the care of Judith Malmayns." And the burier hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him. "Had I known who it was," exclaimed Leonard, gazing with abhorrence at the miserable object before him, "I would have left him to die the death he so richly merits!" A deep groan broke from the sufferer. "Have no fear, Sir Paul," said Chowles. "You are in good hands. Every care shall be taken of you, and you shall be cured by Judith Malmayns." "She shall not come near me," rejoined Parravicin, faintly. "You will take care of me?" he added in an imploring tone, to Leonard. "You appeal in vain to me," rejoined the apprentice, sternly. "You are justly punished for your treatment of Nizza Macascree." "I am--I am," groaned Parravicin, "but she will be speedily avenged. I shall soon join her in that pit." "She is not there," replied Leonard, bitterly, "She is fast recovering from the plague." "Is she not dead?" demanded Parravicin, with frightful eagerness. "I was told she was thrown into that horrible chasm." "You were deceived," replied Leonard. "She was taken to the pest-house by your orders, and would have perished if she had not found a friend to aid her. She is now out of danger." "Then I no longer desire to die," cried Parravicin, desperately. "I will live--live." "Do not delude yourself," replied Leonard, coldly; "you have little chance of recovery, and should employ the short time left you in praying to Heaven for forgiveness of your sins." "Tush!" exclaimed Parravicin, fiercely, "I shall not weary Heaven with ineffectual supplications. I well know I am past all forgiveness. No," he added, with a fearful imprecation, "since Nizza is alive, I will not die." "Right, Sir Paul, right," rejoined Chowles; "put a bold face on it, and I will answer for it you will get over the attack. Have no fear of Judith Malmayns," he added, in a significant tone. "However she may treat others, she will cure _you_." "I will make it worth her while to do so," rejoined Parravicin. "Here is the cart," cried Chowles, seeing the vehicle approach. "I will take you in the first place to Saint Paul's. Judith must see you as soon as possible." "Take me where you please," rejoined Parravicin, faintly; "and remember what I have said. If I die, the nurse will get nothing--if I am cured, she shall be proportionately rewarded." "I will not forget it," replied Chowles. And with the help of Jonas he placed the knight carefully in the cart. "You need not trouble yourself further about him," he added to Leonard. "Before he quits this place I must know who he is," rejoined the latter, placing himself at the horse's head. "You know his name as well as I do," replied Chowles. "Parravicin is not his real name," rejoined Leonard. "Indeed!" exclaimed Chowles, "this is news to me. But no matter who he is, he is rich enough to pay well. So stand aside, and let us go. We have no time to waste in further parleying." "I will not move till my question is answered," replied Leonard. "We will see to that," said Jonas, approaching him behind, and dealing him so severe a blow on the head that he stretched him senseless on the ground? "Shall we throw him into the pit?" he added to Chowles. The latter hesitated for a moment, and then said, "No, no, it is not worth while. It may bring us into trouble. We have no time to lose." And they then put the cart in motion, and took the way to Saint Paul's. On coming to himself, Leonard had some difficulty in recalling what had happened; and when the whole train of circumstances rushed upon his mind, he congratulated himself that he had escaped further injury. "When I think of the hands I have been placed in," he murmured, "I cannot but be grateful that they did not throw me into the pit, where no discovery could have been made as to how I came to an end. But I will not rest till I have ascertained the name and rank of Nizza's persecutor. I have no doubt they have taken him to Saint Paul's, and will proceed thither at once." With this view, he hastened towards the nearest city gate, and passing towards it, shaped his course towards the cathedral. It was a fine starlight night, and though there was no moon, the myriad lustres glowing in the deep and cloudless vault rendered every object plainly distinguishable. At this hour, little restraint was placed upon the sick, and they wandered about the streets uttering dismal cries. Some would fling themselves upon bulks or steps, where they were not unfrequently found the next morning bereft of life. Most of those not attacked by the distemper kept close house; but there were some few reckless beings who passed the night in the wildest revelry, braving the fate awaiting them. As Leonard passed Saint Michael's church, in Basinghall-street, he perceived, to his great surprise, that it was lighted up, and at first supposed some service was going on within it, but on approaching he heard strains of lively and most irreverent music issuing from within. Pushing open the door, he entered the sacred edifice, and found it occupied by a party of twenty young men, accompanied by a like number of females, some of whom were playing at dice and cards, some drinking, others singing Bacchanalian melodies, others dancing along the aisles to the notes of a theorbo and spinet. Leonard was so inexpressibly shocked by what he beheld, that unable to contain himself he mounted the steps of the pulpit, and called to them in a loud voice to desist from their scandalous conduct, and no longer profane the house of God. But they treated his remonstrances with laughter and derision, and some of the party forming themselves into a group round the pulpit, entreated him to preach to them. "We want a little variety," said one of the group, a good-looking young man, upon whom the wine had evidently made some impression--"we are tired of drinking and play, and may as well listen to a sermon, especially an original one. Hold forth to us, I say." "I would, hold forth till daybreak, if I thought it would produce any impression," returned Leonard. "But I perceive you are too hardened to be aroused to repentance." "Repentance!" cried another of the assemblage. "Do you know whom you address? These gentlemen are the Brotherhood of Saint Michael, and I am the principal. We are determined to enjoy the few days or hours we may have left--that is all. We are not afraid of the future, and are resolved to make the most of the present." "Ay, ay," cried the others, with a great shout of laughter, which, however, was interrupted by a cry of anguish from one of the party. "There is another person seized," said the principal; "take him away, brothers. This is owing to listening to a sermon. Let us return to our wine." "Will you not accept this awful warning?" cried Leonard. "You will all share your companion's fate." "We anticipate nothing else," returned the principal; "and are therefore resolved to banish reflection. A week ago, the Brotherhood of Saint Michael consisted of forty persons. We are already diminished to half the number, but are not the less merry on that account. On the contrary, we are more jovial than ever. We have agreed that whoever shall be seized with the distemper, shall be instantly conveyed to the pest-house, so that the hilarity of the others shall not be interrupted. The poor fellow who has just been attacked has left behind him a beautiful mistress. She is yours if you choose to join us." "Ay, stop with us," cried a young and very pretty woman, taking his hand and drawing him towards the company who were dancing beneath the aisles. But Leonard disengaged himself, and hurried away amid the laughter and hootings of the assemblage. The streets, despite their desolate appearance, were preferable to the spot he had just quitted, and he seemed to breathe more freely when he got to a little distance from the polluted fane. He had now entered Wood-street, but all was as still as death, and he paused to gaze up at his master's window, but there was no one at it. Many a lover, unable to behold the object of his affections, has in some measure satisfied the yearning of his heart by gazing at her dwelling, and feeling he was near her. Many a sad heart has been cheered by beholding a light at a window, or a shadow on its closed curtains, and such would have been Leonard's feelings if he had not been depressed by the thought of Amabel's precarious state of health. While thus wrapt in mournful thought, he observed three figures slowly approaching from the further end of the street, and he instinctively withdrew into a doorway. He had reason to congratulate himself upon the precaution, as, when the party drew nearer, he recognised, with a pang that shot to his heart, the voice of Rochester. A moment's observation from his place of concealment showed him that the earl was accompanied by Sir George Etherege and Pillichody. They paused within a short distance of him, and he could distinctly hear their conversation. "You have not yet told us why you brought us here my lord," said Etherege to Rochester, after the latter had gazed for a few moments in silence at the house. "Are you resolved to make another attempt to carry off the girl--and failing in it, to give her up for ever!" "You have guessed my purpose precisely," returned Rochester. "Doctor Hodges has informed a friend of mine that the pretty Amabel has fallen into a decline. The poor soul is, doubtless, pining for me; and it would be the height of inhumanity to let her perish." Leonard ground his teeth-with suppressed rage. "Then you mean to make her Countess of Rochester, after all," laughed Etherege. "I thought you had determined to carry off Mistress Mallett." "Old Bowley declares he will send me to the Tower if I do," replied Rochester; "and though his threats would scarcely deter me from acting as I think proper, I have no inclination for marriage at present. What a pity, Etherege, that one cannot in these affairs have the money oneself, and give the wife to one's friend." "That is easily accomplished," replied Etherege, laughingly; "especially where you have a friend so devoted as myself. But do you mean to carry off Amabel to-night?" "Ay, now we come to business," interposed Pillichody. "Bolts and barricadoes! your lordship has only to say the word, and I will break into the house, and bear her off for you." "Your former conduct is a good guarantee for your present success, truly," returned Rochester, with a sneer. "No, no; I shall postpone my design for the present. I have ascertained, from the source whence I obtained information of Amabel's illness, that she is to be removed into the country. This will exactly suit my purpose, and put her completely in my power." "Then nothing is to be done to-night?" said Pillichody, secretly congratulating himself on his escape. "By my sword! I feel equal to the most desperate attempt." "Your courage and dexterity must be reserved for some more favourable occasion," replied Rochester. "If not to carry off the girl, I must again inquire why your lordship has come hither?" demanded Etherege. "To be frank with you, my sole motive was to gaze at the house that contains her," replied Rochester, in a voice that bespoke his sincerity. "I have before told you that she has a strong hold upon my heart. I have not seen her for some weeks, and during that time have endeavoured to obliterate her image by making love to a dozen others. But it will not do. She still continues absolute mistress of my affections. I sometimes think, if I can obtain her in no other way, I shall be rash enough to marry her." "Pshaw! this must never be," said Etherege. "Were I to lose her altogether, I should be inconsolable," cried Rochester. "As inconsolable as I am for the rich widow of Watling-street, who died a fortnight ago of the plague, and left her wealth to her footman," replied Pillichody, drawing forth his handkerchief and applying it to his eyes--"oh! oh!" "Silence, fool!" cried Rochester: "I am in no mood for buffoonery. If you shed tears for any one, it should be for your master." "Truly, I am grieved for him," replied Pillichody; "but I object to the term 'master.' Sir Paul Parravicin, as he chooses to be called, is my patron, not my master. He permits me a very close familiarity, not to say friendship." "Well, then, your patron," rejoined Rochester, scornfully. "How is he going on to-night?" "I feared to tell your lordship," replied Pillichody, "lest it should spoil your mirth; but he broke out of his chamber a few hours ago, and has not been discovered since. Most likely, he will be found in the plague-pit or the Thames in the morning, for he was in such an infuriated state, that it is the opinion of his attendants he would certainly destroy himself. You know he was attacked two days after Nizza Macascree was seized by the pestilence, and his brain has been running upon the poor girl ever since." "Alas!" exclaimed Rochester, "it is a sad end. I am wearied of this infected city, and shall be heartily glad to quit it. A few months in the country with Amabel will be enchanting." "_Apropos_ of melancholy subjects," said Etherege, "your masque of the Dance of Death has caused great consternation at court. Mistress Stewart declares she cannot get that strange fellow who performed such fantastic tricks in the skeleton-dance out of her head." "You mean Chowles," replied the earl. "He is a singular being, certainly--once a coffin-maker, and now, I believe, a burier of the dead. He takes up his abode in a crypt of Saint Faith's and leads an incomprehensible life. As we return we shall pass the cathedral, and can see whether he is astir." "Readily," replied Etherege. "Do you desire to tarry here longer, or shall we proceed before you, while you indulge your tender meditations undisturbed?" "Leave me," replied Rochester; "I shall be glad to be alone for a few moments." Etherege and Pillichody then proceeded slowly towards Cheapside, while the earl remained with his arms folded upon his breast, and his gaze fixed upon the house. Leonard watched him with intense curiosity, and had great difficulty in controlling himself. Though the earl was armed, while he had only his staff, he could have easily mastered him by assailing him unawares. But Leonard's generous nature revolted at the unworthy suggestion, and he resolved, if he attacked him at all, to give him time to stand upon his guard. A moment's reflection, however, satisfied him that his wisest course would be to remain concealed. He was now in possession of the earl's plan, and, with the help of Doctor Hodges, could easily defeat it; whereas if he appeared, it would be evident that he had overheard what had passed, and some other scheme, to which he could not be privy, would be necessarily adopted. Influenced by this consideration, he suffered the earl to depart unmolested, and when he had got to some distance followed him. Rochester's companions were waiting for him in Cheapside, and, joining them, they all three proceeded towards the cathedral. They entered the great northern door; and Leonard, who was now well acquainted with all the approaches, passed through the door at the north side of the choir, to which he had been directed on a former occasion by Solomon Eagle. He found the party guided by the old verger--the only one of its former keepers who still lingered about the place--and preparing to descend to Saint Faith's. Leonard followed as near as he could without exposing himself, and, on gaining the subterranean church, easily contrived to screen himself behind the ponderous ranks of pillars. By this time they had reached the door of the charnel It was closed; but Rochester knocked against it, and Chowles presently appeared. He seemed greatly surprised at seeing the earl, nor was the latter less astonished when he learnt that Parravicin was within the vault. He desired to be shown to his friend, and Chowles ushered him into the crypt. Leonard would have followed them; but as Etherege and the others declined entering the charnel, and remained at the door, he could not do so. Shortly after this the sick man was brought out, stretched upon a pallet, borne by Chowles and Judith; and the party proceeded slowly, and occasionally relieving each other, to the great western entrance, where a coach being procured by Pillichody, Parravicin was placed within it, with Judith and Chowles; and orders being given in an under-tone to the driver, he departed. The others then proceeded towards Ludgate, while Leonard, again disappointed, retraced his steps to Wood-street. * * * * * V. HOW SAINT PATHOS WAS USED AS A PEST-HOUSE. The distemper had by this time increased to such a frightful extent, that the pest-houses being found wholly inadequate to contain the number of sick persons sent to them, it was resolved by the civic authorities, who had obtained the sanction of the Dean and Chapter of Saint Paul's for that purpose, to convert the cathedral into a receptacle for the infected. Accordingly, a meeting was held in the Convocation House to make final arrangements. It was attended by Sir John Lawrence, the Lord Mayor; by Sir George Waterman, and Sir Charles Doe, sheriffs; by Doctor Sheldon, Archbishop of Canterbury; by the Duke of Albemarle, the Earl of Craven, and, a few other zealous and humane persons. Several members of the College of Physicians were likewise present, and, amongst others, Doctor Hodges; and the expediency of the measure being fully agreed upon, it was determined to carry it into immediate execution. The cloisters surrounding the Convocation House were crowded with sick persons, drawn thither by the rumour of what was going forward; and when the meeting adjourned to the cathedral, these unfortunate beings followed them, and were with some difficulty kept aloof from the uninfected by the attendants. A very earnest and touching address was next pronounced by the archbishop. Calling upon his hearers to look upon themselves as already dead to the world,--to regard the present visitation as a just punishment of their sins, and to rejoice that their sufferings would be so soon terminated, when, if they sincerely and heartily repented, they would at once be transported from the depths of wretchedness and misery to regions of unfading bliss; he concluded by stating that he, and all those around him, were prepared to devote themselves, without regard to their own safety, to the preservation of their fellow-citizens, and that they would leave nothing undone to stop the ravages of the devouring scourge. It chanced that Leonard Holt was present on this occasion, and as he listened to the eloquent discourse of the archbishop, and gazed at the group around him, all equally zealous in the good cause, and equally regardless of themselves, he could not but indulge a hope that their exertions might be crowned with success. It was indeed a touching sight to see the melancholy congregation to whom his address was delivered--many, nay most of whom were on the verge of dissolution;--and Leonard Holt was so moved by the almost apostolic fervour of the prelate, that, but for the thought of Amabel, he might have followed the example of several of the auditors, and devoted himself altogether to the service of the sick. His discourse concluded, the archbishop and most of his companions quitted the cathedral. Hodges, however, and three of the physicians, remained behind to superintend the necessary preparations. Shortly after, a large number of pallets were brought in, and ranged along the nave and aisles at short distances from each other; and, before night, the interior of the structure presented the complete appearance of an hospital. Acting under the directions of Doctor Hodges, Leonard Holt lent his assistance in arranging the pallets, in covering them with bedding and blankets, and in executing any other service required of him. A sufficient number of chirurgeons and nurses were then sent for, and such was the expedition used, that on that very night most of the pallets were occupied. Thus the cathedral underwent another afflicting change. A blight had come over it, mildewing its holy walls, and tainting and polluting its altars. Its aisles, once trodden by grave and reverend ecclesiastics, and subsequently haunted by rufflers, bullies, and other worthless characters, were now filled with miserable wretches, stricken with a loathsome and fatal distemper. Its chapels and shrines formerly adorned with rich sculptures and costly ornaments, but stripped of them at times when they were looked upon as idolatrous and profane, were now occupied by nurses, chirurgeons, and their attendants; while every niche and corner was filled with surgical implements, phials, drugs, poultices, foul rags, and linen. In less than a week after it had been converted into a pest-house, the cathedral was crowded to overflowing. Upwards of three hundred pallets were set up in the nave, in the aisles, in the transepts, and in the choir, and even in the chapels. But these proving insufficient, many poor wretches who were brought thither were placed on the cold flags, and protected only by a single blanket. At night the scene was really terrific. The imperfect light borne by the attendants fell on the couches, and revealed the livid countenances of their occupants; while the vaulted roof rang with shrieks and groans so horrible and heart-piercing as to be scarcely endured, except by those whose nerves were firmly strung, or had become blunted by their constant recurrence. At such times, too, some unhappy creature, frenzied by agony, would burst from his couch, and rend the air with his cries, until overtaken and overpowered by his attendants. On one occasion, it happened that a poor wretch, who had been thus caught, broke loose a second time, and darting through a door leading to the stone staircase in the northern transept gained the ambulatory, and being closely followed, to escape his pursuers, sprang through one of the arched openings, and falling from a height of near sixty feet, was dashed in pieces on the flagged floor beneath. A walk through this mighty lazar-house would have furnished a wholesome lesson to the most reckless observer. It seemed to contain all the sick of the city. And yet it was not so. Hundreds were expiring in their own dwellings, and the other pest-houses continued crowded as before. Still, as a far greater number of the infected were here congregated, and could be seen at one view, the picture was incomparably more impressive. Every part of the cathedral was occupied. Those who could not find room inside it crouched beneath the columns of the portico on rugs or blankets, and implored the chirurgeons as they passed to attend them. Want of room also drove others into Saint Faith's, and here the scene was, if possible, more hideous. In this dismal region it was found impossible to obtain a free circulation of air, and consequently the pestilential effluvia, unable to escape, acquired such malignancy, that it was almost certain destruction to inhale it. After a time, few of the nurses and attendants would venture thither; and to take a patient to Saint Faith's was considered tantamount to consigning him to the grave. Whether Judith Malmayns had succeeded or not in curing Sir Paul Parravicin, it is not our present purpose to relate. Soon after the cathedral was converted into a lazar-house she returned thither, and, in spite of the opposition of Doctor Hodges, was appointed one of the nurses. It must not be supposed that her appointment was the result of any ill design. Such was the difficulty of obtaining attendance, that little choice was left, and the nurses being all of questionable character, it was supposed she was only a shade worse than her fellows, while she was known to be active and courageous. And this was speedily proved; for when Saint Faith's was deserted by the others, she remained at her post, and quitted it neither night nor day. A large pit was digged in the open space at the north-east corner of the cathedral, and to this great numbers of bodies were nightly conveyed by Chowles and Jonas. But it was soon filled, and they were compelled to resort, as before, to Finsbury Fields, and to another vast pit near Aldgate. When not engaged in this revolting employment, Chowles took up his quarters in the crypt, where, in spite of his propinquity to the sick, he indulged himself in his customary revelry. He and Judith had amassed, in one way or other, a vast quantity of spoil, and frequently planned how they would spend it when the pestilence ceased. Their treasure was carefully concealed in a cell in one of the secret passages with which they were acquainted, leading from Saint Faith's to the upper structure. One night, on his return from Finsbury Fields, as Chowles was seated in the crypt, with a pipe in his mouth, and a half-finished flask of wine before him, he was startled by the sudden entrance of Judith, who, rushing up to him, seized him by the throat, and almost choked him before he could extricate himself. "What is the matter?--would you strangle me, you murderous harridan?" he cried. "Ay, that I would," replied Judith, preparing to renew the attack. "Stand off!" rejoined Chowles, springing back, and snatching up a spade, "or I will dash out your brains. Are you mad?" he continued, gazing fearfully at her. "I am angry enough to make me so," she replied, shaking her clenched fists at him. "But I will be revenged--revenged, I tell you." "Revenged!" cried Chowles, in astonishment--"for what! What have I done!" "You do well to affect ignorance," rejoined Judith, "but you cannot deceive me. No one but you can have done it." "Done what!" exclaimed Chowles, in increased astonishment. "Has our hoard been discovered?" "Ay, and been carried off--by you--you!" screamed Judith, with a look worthy of a fury. "By my soul, you are wrong," cried Chowles. "I have never touched it,--never even approached the hiding-place, except in your presence." "Liar!" returned Judith, "the whole hoard is gone;--the plunder I obtained in Newgate,--the Earl of Rochester's plate,--all the rings, trinkets, and rich apparel I have picked up since,--everything is gone;--and who but you can be the robber?" "It is difficult to say," rejoined Chowles. "But I swear to you, you suspect me wrongfully." "Restore it," replied Judith, "or tell me where it is hidden. If not, I will be the death of you!" "Let us go to the hiding-place," replied Chowles, whose uneasiness was not diminished by the menace. "You may be mistaken, and I hope you are." Though he uttered the latter part of his speech with seeming confidence, his heart misgave him. To conceal his trepidation, he snatched up a lamp, and passing through the secret door, hurried along the narrow stone passage. He was about to open the cell, when he perceived near it the tall figure of the enthusiast. "There is the robber," he cried to Judith. "I have found him. It is Solomon Eagle. Villain! you have purloined our hoard!" "I have done so," replied Solomon Eagle, "and I will carry off all other spoil you may obtain. Think not to hide it from me. I can watch you when you see me not, and track you when you suppose me afar off." "Indeed!" exclaimed Chowles, trembling. "I begin to think he is possessed of supernatural power," he added, in an undertone to Judith. "Go on," pursued Solomon Eagle, "continue to plunder and destroy. Pursue your guilty career, and see what reward you will reap." "Restore what you have robbed us of," cried Judith in a menacing tone, "or dread the consequences." "Woman, you threaten idly," returned Solomon Eagle. "Your ill-gotten treasure is gone--whither, you will never know. Get hence!" he added, in a terrible tone, "or I will rid the earth of you both." So awed were they by his voice and gestures, that they slunk away with a discomfited air, and returned to the crypt. "If we are always to be robbed in this manner," observed Chowles, "we had better shift our quarters, and practise elsewhere." "He shall not repeat the offence with impunity," returned Judith. "I will speedily get rid of him." "Beware!" cried a voice, which they recognised as that of Solomon Eagle, though whence proceeding they could not precisely determine. The pair looked at each other uneasily, but neither spoke a word. Meanwhile, Leonard Holt did not omit to pay a daily visit to the cathedral. It was a painful contemplation, and yet not without deep interest, to behold the constant succession of patients, most of whom were swept away by the scourge in the course of a couple of days, or even in a shorter period. Out of every hundred persons attacked, five did not recover; and whether the virulence of the distemper increased, or the summer heats rendered its victims more easily assailable, certain it is they were carried off far more expeditiously than before. Doctor Hodges was unremitting in his attentions, but his zeal and anxiety availed nothing. He had to contend with a disease over which medicine exercised little control. One morning, as he was about to enter the cathedral, he met Leonard beneath the portico, and as soon as the latter caught sight of him, he hurried towards him. "I have been in search of you," he said, "and was about to proceed to your residence. Mr. Bloundel wishes to see you immediately. Amabel is worse." "I will go with you at once," replied the doctor. And they took the way to Wood-street. "From a few words let fall by my master, I imagine he intends sending Amabel into the country to-morrow," said Leonard, as they proceeded. "I hope so," replied Hodges. "He has already delayed it too long. You will be glad to hear that Nizza Macascree is quite recovered. To-morrow, or the next day, she will be able to see you with safety." "Heaven knows where I may be to-morrow," rejoined Leonard. "Wherever Amabel goes, I shall not be far off." "Faithful to the last!" exclaimed Hodges. "Well, I shall not oppose you. We must take care the Earl of Rochester does not get a hint of our proceeding. At this time a chance meeting (were it nothing more) might prove fatal to the object of our solicitude." Leonard said nothing, but the colour fled his cheek, and his lips slightly quivered. In a few seconds more they reached the grocer's house. They found him at the window anxiously expecting them; and Doctor Hodges, being drawn up in the same way as before, was conducted to Amabel's chamber. She was reclining in an easy-chair, with the Bible on her knee; and though she was much wasted away, she looked more lovely than ever. A slight hectic flush increased the brilliancy of her eyes, which had now acquired that ominous lustre peculiar to persons in a decline. There were other distressing symptoms in her appearance which the skilful physician well knew how to interpret. To an inexperienced eye, however, she would have appeared charming. Nothing could exceed the delicacy of her complexion, or the lovely mould of her features, which, though they had lost much of their fulness and roundness, had gained in expression; while the pencilled brows clearly traced upon her snowy forehead, the long dark eyelashes shading her cheek, and the rich satin tresses drooping over her shoulders, completed her attractions. Her mother stood by her side, and not far from her sat little Christiana, amusing herself with some childish toy, and ever and anon stealing an anxious glance at her sister. Taking Amabel's arm, and sighing to himself to think how thin it was, the doctor placed his finger upon her pulse. Whatever might be his secret opinion, he thought fit to assume a hopeful manner, and looking smilingly at her, said, "You are better than I expected, but your departure to the country must not be deferred." "Since it is my father's wish that I should do so," replied Amabel, gently, "I am quite willing to comply. But I feel it will be of no avail, and I would rather pass the rest of my life here than with strangers. I cannot be happier than I am now." "Perhaps not," replied Hodges; "but a few weeks spent in some salubrious spot will remove all apprehensions as to your health. You will find your strength return, and with it the desire of life." "My life is in the hands of my Maker," replied Amabel, "and I am ready to resign it whenever it shall be required of me. At the same time, however anxious I may be to quit a world which appears a blank to me, I would make every effort, for the sake of those whose happiness is dearer to me than my own, to purchase a complete restoration to health. If my father desires me to try a removal to the country, and you think it will have a beneficial effect, I am ready to go. But do not urge it, unless you think there is a chance of my recovery." "I will tell you frankly," replied the doctor, "if you remain here, you have not many weeks to live." "But if I go, will you promise me health?" rejoined Amabel. "Do not deceive me. Is there a hope?" "Unquestionably," replied the doctor. "Change of air will work wonders." "I beseech you not to hesitate--for my sake do not, dearest daughter," said Mrs. Bloundel, with difficulty repressing tears. "And for mine," added her father, more firmly, yet with deep emotion. "I have already expressed my readiness to accede to your wishes," replied Amabel. "Whenever you have made arrangements for me, I will set out." "And now comes the question--where is she to go?" remarked Hodges. "I have a sister, who lives as housekeeper at Lord Craven's seat, Ashdown Park," replied Mr. Bloundel. "She shall go thither, and her aunt will take every care of her. The mansion is situated amid the Berkshire hills, and the air is the purest and best in England." "Nothing can be better," replied Hodges; "but who is to escort her thither?" "Leonard Holt," replied Mr. Bloundel. "He will gladly undertake the office." "No doubt," rejoined Hodges; "but cannot you go yourself?" "Impossible!" returned the grocer, a shade passing over his countenance. "Neither do I wish it," observed Amabel. "I am content to be under the safeguard of Leonard." "Amabel," said her father, "you know not what I shall endure in thus parting with you. I would give all I possess to be able to accompany you, but a sense of duty restrains me. I have taken the resolution to remain here with my family during the continuance of the pestilence, and I must abide by it. I little thought how severely my constancy would be tried. But hard though it be, I must submit I shall commit you, therefore, to the care of an all-merciful Providence, who will not fail to watch over and protect you." "Have no fear for me, father," replied Amabel; "and do not weep, dear mother," she added to Mrs. Bloundel, who, unable to restrain her grief, was now drowned in tears; "I shall be well cared for. If we meet no more in this world, our reunion is certain in that to come. I have given you much pain and uneasiness, but it will be an additional grief to me if I think you feel further anxiety on my account." "We do not, my dear child," replied Mr. Bloundel. "I am well assured all is for the best, and if it pleases Heaven to spare you, I shall rejoice beyond measure in your return. If not, I shall feel a firm reliance that you will continue in the same happy frame, as at present, to the last, and that we shall meet above, where there will be no further separation." "I cannot bear to part with her," cried Mrs. Bloundel, clasping her arms round her daughter--"I cannot--I cannot!" "Restrain yourself, Honora," said her husband; "you will do her an injury." "She must not be over excited," interposed Hodges, in a low tone, and gently drawing the afflicted mother away. "The sooner," he added to Mr. Bloundel, "she now sets out the better." "I feel it," replied the grocer. "She shall start to-morrow morning." "I will undertake to procure horses," replied Hodges, "and Leonard will be ready at any moment." With this, he took his leave, and descending by the pulley, communicated to Leonard what had occurred. In spite of his fears on her account, the prospect of again beholding Amabel so transported the apprentice that he could scarcely attend to what was said respecting her. When he grew calmer, it was arranged that all should be in readiness at an early hour on the following morning; that a couple of horses should be provided; and that Amabel should be let down fully equipped for the journey. This settled, Leonard, at the doctor's request, accompanied him to his residence. They were scarcely out of sight, when a man, who had been concealed behind the hutch, in such a position that not a word that had passed escaped him, issued from his hiding-place, and darting down the first alley on the right, made the best of his way to Whitehall. Up to this time, Doctor Hodges had not judged it prudent to allow a meeting between Leonard and Nizza Macascree, but now, from reasons of his own, he resolved no longer to delay it. Accordingly, on reaching his dwelling, he took the apprentice to her chamber. She was standing in a pensive attitude, near a window which looked towards the river, and as she turned on his entrance, Leonard perceived that her eyes were filled with tears. Blushing deeply, she advanced towards him, and greeted him with all the warmth of her affectionate nature. She had quite recovered her good looks, and Leonard could not but admit that, had he seen her before his heart was plighted to another, it must have been given to her. Comparisons are ungracious, and tastes differ more perhaps as to beauty than on any other point; but if Amabel and the piper's daughter had been placed together, it would not have been difficult to determine to which of the two the palm of superior loveliness should be assigned. There was a witchery in the magnificent black eyes of the latter--in her exquisitely-formed mouth and pearly teeth--in her clear nut-brown complexion--in her dusky and luxuriant tresses, and in her light elastic figure, with which more perfect but less piquant charms could not compete. Such seemed to be the opinion of Doctor Hodges, for as he gazed at her with unaffected admiration, he exclaimed, as if to himself-- "I'faith, if I had to choose between the two, I know which it would be." This exclamation somewhat disconcerted the parties to whom it referred, and the doctor did not relieve their embarrassment by adding, "Well, I perceive I am in the way. You must have much to say to each other that can in nowise interest me. Excuse me a moment, while I see that the horses are ordered." So saying, and disregarding Leonard's expostulating looks, he hurried out of the room, and shut the door after him. Hitherto, the conversation had been unrestrained and agreeable on both sides, but now they were left alone together, neither appeared able to utter a word. Nizza cast her eyes timidly on the ground, while Leonard caressed little Bell, who had been vainly endeavouring by her gamesome tricks to win his attention. "Doctor Hodges spoke of ordering horses," said Nizza, at length breaking silence. "Are you going on a journey?" "I am about to take Amabel to Ashdown Park, in Berkshire, to-morrow morning," replied Leonard. "She is dangerously ill." "Of the plague?" asked Nizza, anxiously. "Of a yet worse disorder," replied Leonard, heaving a deep sigh--"of a broken heart." "Alas! I pity her from my soul!" replied Nizza, in a tone of the deepest commiseration. "Does her mother go with her?" "No," replied Leonard, "I alone shall attend her. She will be placed under the care of a near female relative at Ashdown." "Would it not be better,--would it not be safer, if she is in the precarious state you describe, that some one of her own sex should accompany her?" said Nizza. "I should greatly prefer it," rejoined Leonard, "and so I am sure would Amabel. But where is such a person to be found?" "I will go with you, if you desire it," replied Nizza, "and will watch over her, and tend her as a sister." "Are you equal to the journey?" inquired Leonard, somewhat doubtfully. "Fully," replied Nizza. "I am entirely recovered, and able to undergo far more fatigues than an invalid like Amabel." "It will relieve me from a world of anxiety if this can be accomplished," rejoined Leonard. "I will consult Doctor Hodges on the subject on his return." "What do you desire to consult me about?" cried the physician, who had entered the room unobserved at this juncture. The apprentice stated Nizza's proposal to him. "I entirely approve of the plan," observed the doctor; "it will obviate many difficulties. I have just received a message from Mr. Bloundel, by Dallison, the porter, to say he intends sending Blaize with you. I will therefore provide pillions for the horses, so that the whole party can be accommodated." He then sat down and wrote out minute instructions for Amabel's treatment, and delivering the paper to Leonard, desired him to give it to the housekeeper at Ashdown Park. "Heaven only knows what the result of all this may be!" he exclaimed. "But nothing must be neglected." Leonard promised that his advice should be scrupulously attended to; and the discourse then turning to Nizza's father, she expressed the utmost anxiety to see him before she set out. Hodges readily assented. "Your father has been discharged as cured from the pest-house," he said, "and is lodged at a cottage, kept by my old nurse, Dame Lucas, just without the walls, near Moorgate. I will send for him." "On no account," replied Nizza. "I will go to him myself." "As you please," returned Hodges. "Leonard shall accompany you. You will easily find the cottage. It is about two hundred yards beyond the gate, on the right, near the old doghouses." "I know the spot perfectly," rejoined Leonard. "I would recommend you to put on a mask," observed the doctor to Nizza; "it may protect you from molestation. I will find you one below." Leading the way to a lower room, he opened a drawer, and, producing a small loo mask, gave it her. The youthful pair then quitted the house, Nizza taking Bell under her arm, as she intended leaving her with her father. The necessity of the doctor's caution was speedily manifested, for as they crossed Saint Paul's churchyard they encountered Pillichody, who, glancing inquisitively at Nizza, seemed disposed to push his inquiries further by attempting to take off her mask; but the fierce look of the apprentice, who grasped his staff in a menacing manner, induced him to abandon his purpose. He, however, followed them along Cheapside, and would have continued the pursuit along the Old Jewry, if Leonard had not come to a halt, and awaited his approach. He then took to his heels, and did not again make his appearance. As they reached the open fields and slackened their pace, Leonard deemed it prudent to prepare his companion for her interview with her father by mentioning the circumstance of the packet, and the important secret which he had stated he had to disclose to her. "I cannot tell what the secret can relate to, unless it is to my mother," rejoined Nizza. "She died, I believe, when I was an infant. At all events, I never remember seeing her, and I have remarked that my father is averse to talking about her. But I will now question him. I have reason to think this piece of gold," and she produced the amulet, "is in some way or other connected with the mystery." And she then explained to Leonard all that had occurred in the vault when the coin had been shown to Judith Malmayns, describing the nurse's singular look and her father's subsequent anger. By this time, they had entered a narrow footpath leading across the fields in the direction of a little nest of cottages, and pursuing it, they came to a garden-gate. Opening it, they beheld the piper seated beneath a little porch covered with eglantine and roses. He was playing a few notes on his pipe, but stopped on hearing their approach. Bell, who had been put to the ground by Nizza, ran barking gleefully towards him. Uttering a joyful exclamation, the piper stretched out his arms, and the next moment enfolded his daughter in a strict embrace. Leonard remained at the gate till the first transports of their meeting were over, and then advanced slowly towards them. "Whose footsteps are those?" inquired the piper. Nizza explained. "Ah, is it Leonard Holt?" exclaimed the piper, extending his hand to the apprentice. "You are heartily welcome," he added; "and I am glad to find you with Nizza. It is no secret to me that she likes you. She has been an excellent daughter, and will make an excellent wife. He who weds her will obtain a greater treasure than he expects." "Not than he expects," said Leonard. "Ay, than he expects," reiterated the piper. "You will one day find out that I speak the truth." Leonard looked at Nizza, who was blushing deeply at her father's remark. She understood him. "Father," she said, "I understand you have a secret of importance to disclose to me. I am about to make a long journey to-morrow, and may not return for some time. At this uncertain season, when those who part know not that they shall meet again, nothing of this sort ought to be withheld." "You cannot know it while I live," replied the piper, "but I will take such precautions that, if anything happens to me, it shall be certainly revealed to you." "I am satisfied," she rejoined, "and will only ask you one farther question, and I beseech you to answer it. Does this amulet refer to the secret?" "It does," replied her father, sullenly; "and now let the subject be dropped." He then led the way into the cottage. The good old dame who kept it, on learning who they were, and that they were sent by Doctor Hodges, gave them a hearty welcome, and placed refreshments before them. Leonard commented upon the extreme neatness of the abode and its healthful situation, and expressed a hope that it might not be visited by the plague. "I trust it will not," rejoined the old woman, shaking her head; "but when I hear the doleful bell at night--when I catch a glimpse of the fatal cart--or look towards yon dreadful place," and she pointed in the direction of the plague-pit, which lay only a few hundred yards to the west of her habitation--"I am reminded that the scourge is not far off, and that it must needs reach me ere long." "Have no fear, Dame Lucas," said the piper; "you see it has pleased a merciful Providence to spare the lives of myself, my child, and this young man, and if you should be attacked, the same benificent Being may preserve you in like manner." "The Lord's will be done!" rejoined Dame Lucas. "I know I shall be well attended to by Doctor Hodges. I nursed him when he was an infant, and he has been like a son to me. Bless his kind heart!" she exclaimed, her eyes filling with tears of gratitude, "there is not his like in London." "Always excepting my master," observed Leonard, with a smile at her enthusiasm. "I except no one," rejoined Dame Lucas. "A worthier man never lived, than Doctor Hodges. If I die of the plague," she continued, "he has promised not to let me be thrown into that horrible pit--ough!--but to bury me in my garden, beneath the old apple-tree." "And he will keep his word, dame, I am sure," replied Leonard. "I would recommend you, however, as the best antidote against the plague, to keep yourself constantly employed, and to indulge as few gloomy notions as possible." "I am seldom melancholy, and still more seldom idle," replied the good dame. "But despondency will steal on me sometimes, especially when the dead-cart passes and I think what it contains." While the conversation was going forward, Nizza and the piper withdrew into an inner room, where they remained closeted together for some time. On their re-appearance, Nizza said she was ready to depart, and taking an affectionate farewell of her father, and committing Bell to his charge, she quitted the cottage with the apprentice. Evening was now advancing, and the sun was setting with the gorgeousness already described as peculiar to this fatal period. Filled with the pleasing melancholy inspired by the hour, they walked on in silence. They had not proceeded far, when they observed a man crossing the field with a bundle in his arms. Suddenly, he staggered and fell. Seeing he did not stir, and guessing what was the matter, Leonard ran towards him to offer him assistance. He found him lying in the grass with his left hand fixed against his heart. He groaned heavily, and his features were convulsed with pain. Near him lay the body of a beautiful little girl, with long fair hair, and finely-formed features, though now disfigured by purple blotches, proclaiming the disorder of which she had perished. She was apparently about ten years old, and was partially covered by a linen cloth. The man, whose features bore a marked resemblance to those of the child, was evidently from his attire above the middle rank. His frame was athletic, and as he was scarcely past the prime of life, the irresistible power of the disease, which could in one instant prostrate strength like his, was terribly attested. "Alas!" he cried, addressing the apprentice, "I was about to convey the remains of my poor child to the plague-pit. But I have been unable to accomplish my purpose. I hoped she would have escaped the polluting touch of those loathly attendants on the dead-cart." "She _shall_ escape it," replied Leonard; "if you wish it, I will carry her to the pit myself." "The blessing of a dying man rest on your head," cried the sufferer; "your charitable action will not pass unrequited." With this, despite the agony he endured, he dragged himself to his child, kissed her cold lips, smoothed her fair tresses, and covered the body carefully with the cloth. He then delivered it to Leonard, who received it tenderly, and calling to Nizza Macascree, who had witnessed the scene at a little distance, and was deeply affected by it, to await his return, ran towards the plague-pit. Arrived there, he placed his little burden at the brink of the excavation, and, kneeling beside it, uttered a short prayer inspired by the occasion. He then tore his handkerchief into strips, and tying them together, lowered the body gently down. Throwing a little earth over it, he hastened to the sick man, and told him what he had done. A smile of satisfaction illumined the sufferer's countenance, and holding out his hand, on which a valuable ring glistened, he said, "Take it--it is but a poor reward for the service you have rendered me;--nay, take it," he added, seeing that the apprentice hesitated; "others will not be so scrupulous." Unable to gainsay the remark, Leonard took the ring from his finger and placed it on his own. At this moment, the sick man's gaze fell upon Nizza, who stood at a little distance from him. He started, and made an effort to clear his vision. "Do my eyes deceive me?" he cried, "or is a female standing there?" "You are not deceived," replied Leonard. "Let her come near me, in Heaven's name!" cried the sick man, staring at her as if his eyes would start from their sockets. "Who are you?" he continued, as Nizza approached. "I am called Nizza Macascree, and am the daughter of a poor piper," she replied. "Ah!" exclaimed the sick man, with a look of deep disappointment. "The resemblance is wonderful! And yet it cannot be. My brain is bewildered." "Whom does she resemble?" asked Leonard, eagerly. "One very dear to me," replied the sick man, with an expression of remorse and anguish, "one I would not think of now." And he buried his face in the grass. "Is there aught more I can do for you?" inquired Leonard, after a pause. "No," replied the sick man; "I have done with the world. With that child, the last tie that bound me to it was snapped. I now only wish to die." "Do not give way thus," replied Leonard; "a short time ago my condition was as apparently hopeless as your own, and you see I am now perfectly recovered." "You had something to live for--something to love," groaned the sick man. "All I lived for, all I loved, are gone." "Be comforted, sir," said Nizza, in a commiserating tone. "Much happiness may yet be in store for you." "That voice!" exclaimed the sick man, with a look denoting the approach of delirium. "It must be my Isabella. Oh! forgive me! sweet injured saint; forgive me!" "Your presence evidently distresses him," said Leonard. "Let us hasten for assistance. Your name, sir?" he added, to the sick man. "Why should you seek to know it?" replied the other. "No tombstone will be placed over the plague-pit." "Not a moment must be lost if you would save him," cried Nizza. "You are right," replied Leonard. "Let us fly to the nearest apothecary's." Accordingly, they set off at a quick pace towards Moorgate. Just as they reached it, they heard the bell ring, and saw the dead-cart approaching. Shrinking back while it passed, they ran on till they came to an apothecary's shop, where Leonard, describing the state of the sick man, by his entreaties induced the master of the establishment and one of his assistants to accompany him. Leaving Nizza in the shop, he then retraced his steps with his companions. The sick man was lying where he had left him, but perfectly insensible. On searching his pockets, a purse of money was found, but neither letter nor tablet to tell who he was. Leonard offered the purse to the apothecary, but the latter declined it, and desired his assistant, who had brought a barrow with him, to place the sick man within it, and convey him to the pest-house. "He will be better cared for there than if I were to take charge of him," he observed. "As to the money, you can return it if he recovers. If not, it of right belongs to you." Seeing that remonstrance would be useless, Leonard did not attempt it, and while the assistant wheeled away the sick man, he returned with the apothecary to his dwelling. Thanking him for his kindness, he then hastened with Nizza Macascree to Great Knightrider-street. He related to the doctor all that had occurred, and showed him the ring. Hodges listened to the recital with great attention, and at its close said, "This is a very singular affair, and excites my curiosity greatly. I will go to the pest-house and see the sick man to-morrow. And now we will proceed to supper; and then you had better retire to rest, for you will have to be astir before daybreak. All is in readiness for the journey." The last night (for such she considered it) spent by Amabel in her father's dwelling, was passed in the kindliest interchanges of affection. Mr. Bloundel had much ado to maintain his firmness, and ever and anon, in spite of his efforts, his labouring bosom and faltering tones proclaimed the struggle within. He sat beside his daughter, with her thin fingers clasped in his, and spoke to her on every consolatory topic that suggested itself. This discourse, however, insensibly took a serious turn, and the grocer became fully convinced that his daughter was not merely reconciled to the early death that to all appearance awaited her, but wishful for it. He found, too, to his inexpressible grief, that the sense of the Earl of Rochester's treachery, combined with her own indiscretion, and the consequences that might have attended it, had sunk deep in her heart, and produced the present sad result. Mrs. Bloundel, it will scarcely be supposed, could support herself so well as her husband, but when any paroxysm of grief approached she rushed out of the room, and gave vent to her affliction alone. All the rest of the family were present, and were equally distressed. But what most strongly affected Amabel was a simple, natural remark of little Christiana, who, fixing her tearful gaze on her, entreated her "to come back soon." Weak as she was, Amabel took the child upon her knee, and said to her, "I am going a long journey, Christiana, and, perhaps may never come back. But if you attend to what your father says to you, if you never omit, morning and evening, to implore the blessing of Heaven, we shall meet again." "I understand what you mean, sister," said Christiana. "The place you are going to is the grave." "You have guessed rightly, Christiana," rejoined Amabel, solemnly. "Do not forget my last words to you, and when you are grown into a woman, think upon the poor sister who loved you tenderly." "I shall always think of you," said Christiana, clasping her arms round her sister's neck. "Oh! I wish I could go to the grave instead of you!" Amabel pressed her to her bosom, and in a broken voice murmured a blessing over her. Mr. Bloundel here thought it necessary to interfere, and, taking the weeping child in his arms, carried her into the adjoining apartment. Soon after this, the household were summoned to prayers, and as the grocer poured forth an address to Heaven for the preservation of his daughter, all earnestly joined in the supplication. Their devotions ended, Amabel took leave of her brothers, and the parting might have been painfully prolonged but for the interposition of her father. The last and severest trial was at hand. She had now to part from her mother, from whom, except on the occasion of her flight with the Earl of Rochester, she had never yet been separated. She had now to part with her, in all probability, for ever. It was a heart-breaking reflection to both. Knowing it would only renew their affliction, and perhaps unfit Amabel for the journey, Mr. Bloundel had prevailed upon his wife not to see her in the morning. The moment had, therefore, arrived when they were to bid each other farewell. The anguish displayed in his wife's countenance was too much for the grocer, and he covered his face with his hands. He heard her approach Amabel--he listened to their mutual sobs--to their last embrace. It was succeeded by a stifled cry, and uncovering his face at the sound, he sprang to his feet just in time to receive his swooning wife in his arms. VI. THE DEPARTURE. It struck four by Saint Paul's as Doctor Hodges, accompanied by Leonard and Nizza Macascree, issued from his dwelling, and proceeded towards Wood-street. The party was followed by a man leading a couple of horses, equipped with pillions, and furnished with saddle-bags, partly filled with the scanty luggage which the apprentice and the piper's daughter took with them. A slight haze, indicative of the intense heat about to follow, hung round the lower part of the cathedral, but its topmost pinnacles glittered in the beams of the newly-risen sun. As Leonard gazed at the central tower, he descried Solomon Eagle on its summit, and pointed him out to Hodges. Motioning the apprentice, in a manner that could not be misunderstood, to halt, the enthusiast vanished, and in another moment appeared upon the roof, and descended to the battlements, overlooking the spot where the little party stood. This was at the northwest corner of the cathedral, at a short distance from the portico. The enthusiast had a small sack in his hand, and calling to Nizza Macascree to take it, flung it to the ground. The ringing sound which it made on its fall proved that it contained gold or silver, while its size showed that the amount must be considerable. Nizza looked at it in astonishment, but did not offer to touch it. "Take it!" thundered Solomon Eagle; "it is your dowry." And perceiving she hesitated to comply with the injunction, he shouted to Leonard. "Give it her. I have no use for gold. May it make you and her happy!" "I know not where he can have obtained this money," observed Hodges; "but I am sure in no unlawful manner, and I therefore counsel Nizza to accept the boon. It may be of the greatest use to her at some future time." His scruples being thus overcome, Leonard took the sack, and placed it in one of the saddle-bags. "You can examine it at your leisure," remarked Hodges to Nizza. "We have no more time to lose." Solomon Eagle, meanwhile, expressed his satisfaction at the apprentice's compliance by his gestures, and, waving his staff round his head, pointed towards the west of the city, as if inquiring whether that was the route they meant to take. Leonard nodded an affirmative; and, the enthusiast spreading out his arms and pronouncing an audible benediction over them, they resumed their course. The streets were silent and deserted, except by the watchmen stationed at the infected dwellings, and a few sick persons stretched on the steps of some of the better habitations. In order to avoid coming in contact with these miserable creatures, the party, with the exception of Doctor Hodges, kept in the middle of the road. Attracted by the piteous exclamations of the sufferers, Doctor Hodges, ever and anon, humanely paused to speak to them; and he promised one poor woman, who was suckling an infant, to visit her on his return. "I have no hopes of saving her," he observed to Leonard, "but I may preserve her child. There is an establishment in Aldgate for infants whose mothers have died of the plague, where more than a hundred little creatures are suckled by she-goats, and it is wonderful how well they thrive under their nurses. If I can induce this poor woman to part with her child, I will send it thither." Just then, their attention was arrested by the sudden opening of a casement, and a middle-aged woman, wringing her hands, cried, with a look of unutterable anguish and despair--"Pray for us, good people! pray for us!" "We _do_ pray for you, my poor soul!" rejoined Hodges, "as well as for all who are similarly afflicted. What sick have you within?" "There were ten yesterday," replied the woman. "Two have died in the night--my husband and my eldest son--and there are eight others whose recovery is hopeless. Pray for us! As you hope to be spared yourselves, pray for us!" And, with a lamentable cry, she closed the casement. Familiarized as all who heard her were with spectacles of horror and tales of woe, they could not listen to this sad recital, nor look upon her distracted countenance, without the deepest commiseration. Other sights had previously affected them, but not in the same degree. Around the little conduit standing in front of the Old Change, at the western extremity of Cheapside, were three lazars laving their sores in the water; while, in the short space between this spot and Wood-street, Leonard counted upwards of twenty doors marked with the fatal red cross, and bearing upon them the sad inscription, "Lord have mercy upon us!" A few minutes' walking brought them to the grocer's habitation, and on reaching it, they found that Blaize had already descended. He was capering about the street with joy at his restoration to freedom. "Mistress Amabel will make her appearance in a few minutes," he said to Leonard. "Our master is with her, and is getting all ready for her departure. I have not come unprovided with medicine," he added to Doctor Hodges. "I have got a bottle of plague-water in one pocket, and a phial of vinegar in the other. Besides these, I have a small pot of Mayerne's electuary in my bag, another of the grand antipestilential confection, and a fourth of the infallible antidote which I bought of the celebrated Greek physician, Doctor Constantine Rhodocanaceis, at his shop near the Three-Kings Inn, in Southampton-buildings. I dare say you have heard of him?" "I _have_ heard of the quack," replied Hodges. "His end was a just retribution for the tricks he practised on his dupes. In spite of his infallible antidote, he was carried off by the scourge. But what else have you got?" "Only a few trifles," replied Blaize, with a chap-fallen look. "Patience has made me a pomander-ball composed of angelica, rue, zedoary, camphor, wax, and laudanum, which I have hung round my neck with a string. Then I have got a good-sized box of rufuses, and have swallowed three of them preparatory to the journey." "A proper precaution," observed Hodges, with a smile. "This is not all," replied Blaize. "By my mother's advice, I have eaten twenty leaves of rue, two roasted figs, and two pickled walnuts for breakfast, washing them down with an ale posset, with pimpernel seethed in it." "Indeed!" exclaimed Hodges. "You must be in a pretty condition for a journey. But how could you bear to part with your mother and Patience?" "The parting from Patience _was_ heart-breaking," replied Blaize, taking out his handkerchief, and applying it to his eyes. "We sat up half the night together, and I felt so much overcome that I began to waver in my resolution of departing. I am glad I did not give way now," he added, in a more sprightly tone. "Fresh air and bright sunshine are very different things from the close rooms in that dark house." "You must not forget that you were there free from the contagion," rejoined Hodges; "while you are here exposed to its assaults." "True," replied Blaize; "that makes a vast difference. I almost wish I was back again." "It is too late to think of returning," said Hodges. "Mount your horse, and I will assist Nizza into the pillion." By the time that Blaize, who was but an indifferent horseman, had got into the saddle, and Nizza had taken her place behind him, the window opened, and Mr. Bloundel appeared at it. Amabel had only retired to rest for a few hours during the night. When left to herself in her chamber, she continued to pray till exhaustion compelled her to seek some repose. Arising about two o'clock, she employed herself for more than an hour in further devotion, and then took a last survey of every object in the room. She had occupied it from her childhood; and as she opened drawer after drawer, and cupboard after cupboard, and examined their contents, each article recalled some circumstance connected with the past, and brought back a train of long-forgotten emotions. While she was thus engaged, Patience tapped at the door, and was instantly admitted. The tenderhearted kitchenmaid assisted her to dress, and to put together some few articles omitted to be packed by her mother. During this employment she shed abundance of tears, and Amabel's efforts to console her only made matters worse. Poor Patience was forced at last to sit down, and indulge a hearty fit of crying, after which she felt considerably relieved. As soon as she was sufficiently recovered to be able to speak, she observed to Amabel, "Pardon what I am about to say to you, my dear young mistress, but I cannot help thinking that the real seat of your disease is in the heart." A slight blush overspread Amabel's pale features, but she made no answer. "I see I am right," continued Patience, "and indeed I have long suspected it. Let me entreat you, therefore, dear young lady, not to sacrifice yourself. Only say the word, and I will find means of making your retreat known to the Earl of Rochester. Blaize is devoted to you, and will do anything you bid him. I cannot wonder you fret after so handsome, so captivating a man as the earl, especially when you are worried to death to marry a common apprentice like Leonard Holt, who is not fit to hold a candle to your noble admirer. Ah! we women can never blind ourselves to the advantages of rank and appearance. We are too good judges for that. I hope you will soon be restored to your lover, and that the happiness you will enjoy will make amends for all the misery you have endured." "Patience," said Amabel, whose cheek, as the other spoke, had returned to its original paleness--"Patience," she said, gravely, but kindly, "I have suffered you to proceed too far without interruption, and must correct the very serious error into which you have fallen. I am so far from pining for an interview with the Earl of Rochester, that nothing in the world should induce me to see him again. I have loved him deeply," she continued in a tremulous tone; "nay, I will not attempt to disguise that I feel strongly towards him still, while I will also freely confess that his conduct towards me has so preyed upon my spirits, that it has impaired, perhaps destroyed, my health. In spite of this, I cannot sufficiently rejoice that I have escaped the earl's snares--I cannot be sufficiently thankful to the merciful Being who, while he has thought fit to chastise me, has preserved me from utter ruin." "Since you are of this mind," returned Patience, in a tone of incredulity, "you are more to be rejoiced with than pitied. But we are not overheard," she added, almost in a whisper, and glancing towards the door. "You may entirely confide in me. The time is arrived when you can escape to your lover." "No more of this," rejoined Amabel, severely, "or I shall command you to leave the room." "This is nothing more than pique," thought Patience. "We women are all hypocrites, even to ourselves. I will serve her whether she will or not. She _shall_ see the earl. I hope there is no harm in wishing you may be happy with Leonard Holt," she added aloud. "_He_ will make you a capital husband." "That subject is equally disagreeable--equally painful to me," said Amabel. "I had better hold my tongue altogether," rejoined Patience, somewhat pertly. "Whatever I say seems to be wrong. It won't prevent me from doing as I would be done by," she added to herself. Amabel's preparations finished, she dismissed Patience, to whom she gave some few slight remembrances, and was soon afterwards joined by her father. They passed half an hour together, as on the former night, in serious and devout conversation, after which Mr. Bloundel left her for a few minutes to let down Blaize. On his return he tenderly embraced her, and led her into the passage. They had not advanced many steps when Mrs. Bloundel rushed forth to meet them. She was in her night-dress, and seemed overwhelmed with affliction. "How is this, Honora?" cried her husband, in a severe tone. "You promised me you would see Amabel no more. You will only distress her." "I could not let her go thus," cried Mrs. Bloundel. "I was listening at my chamber door to hear her depart, and when I caught the sound of her footsteps, I could no longer control myself." So saying, she rushed to her daughter, and clasped her in her arms. Affectionately returning her mother's embrace, Amabel gave her hand to her father, who conducted her to the little room overlooking the street. Nothing more, except a deep and passionate look, was exchanged between them. Both repressed their emotion, and though the heart of each was bursting, neither shed a tear. At that moment, and for the first time, they greatly resembled each other; and this was not surprising, for intense emotion, whether of grief or joy, will bring out lines in the features that lie hidden at other times. Without a word, Mr. Bloundel busied himself in arranging the pulley; and calling to those below to prepare for Amabel's descent, again embraced her, kissed her pale brow, and, placing her carefully in the basket, lowered her slowly to the ground. She was received in safety by Leonard, who carried her in his arms, and placed her on the pillion. The pulley was then drawn up, and her luggage lowered by Mr. Bloundel, and placed in the saddle-bags by the apprentice. Every one saw the necessity of terminating this painful scene. A kindly farewell was taken of Hodges. Amabel waved her hand to her father, when at this moment Patience appeared at the window, and, calling to Blaize, threw a little package tied in a handkerchief to him. Doctor Hodges took up the parcel, and gave it to the porter, who, untying the handkerchief, glanced at a note it enclosed, and, striking his horse with his stick, dashed off towards Cheapside. "Pursue him!" cried Amabel to Leonard; "he is flying to the Earl of Rochester." The intimation was sufficient for the apprentice. Urging his horse into a quick pace, he came up with the fugitive, just as he had reached Cheapside. Blaize's mad career had been checked by Nizza Macascree, who, seizing the bridle, stopped the steed. Leonard, who was armed with a heavy riding-whip, applied it unsparingly to Blaize's shoulders. "Entreat him to hold his hand, dear, good Mistress Amabel," cried the porter; "it was for your sake alone I made this rash attempt. Patience told me you were dying to see the Earl of Rochester, and made me promise I would ride to Whitehall to acquaint his lordship whither you were going. Here is her letter which I was about to deliver." And as he spoke, he handed her the note, which was tied with a piece of packthread, and directed in strange and almost illegible characters. "Do not hurt him more," said Amabel; "he was not aware of the mischief he was about to commit. And learn from me, Blaize, that, so far from desiring to see the Earl of Rochester, all my anxiety is to avoid him." "If I had known that," returned the porter, "I would not have stirred a step. But Patience assured me the contrary." By this time, Doctor Hodges had come up, and an explanation ensued. It was agreed, however, that it would be better not to alarm Mr. Bloundel, but to attribute the porter's sudden flight to mismanagement of his steed. Accordingly, they returned to the residence of the grocer, who was anxiously looking out for them; and after a brief delay, during which the saddlebags were again examined and secured, they departed. Mr. Bloundel looked wistfully after his daughter, and she returned his gaze as long as her blinding eyes would permit her. So unwonted was the sound of horses' feet at this period, that many a melancholy face appeared at the window to gaze at them as they rode by, and Nizza Macascree shuddered as she witnessed the envious glances cast after them by these poor captives. As to Blaize, when they got into Cheapside, he was so terrified by the dismal evidences of the pestilence that met him at every turn, that he could scarcely keep his seat, and it was not until he had drenched himself and his companion with vinegar, and stuffed his mouth with myrrh and zedoary, that he felt anything like composure. On approaching Newgate Market, they found it entirely deserted. Most of the stalls were removed, the shops closed, and the window-shutters nailed up. It was never, in fact, used at all, except by a few countrymen and higglers, who ventured thither on certain days of the week to sell fresh eggs, butter, poultry, and such commodities. The manner of sale was this. The article disposed of was placed on a flag on one side of the market, near which stood a pump and a trough of water. The vendor then retired, while the purchaser approached, took the article, and put its price into the water, whence it was removed when supposed to be sufficiently purified. As the party passed Grey Friars, the tramp of their horses was mistaken for the dead-cart, and a door was suddenly opened and a corpse brought forth. Leonard would have avoided the spectacle had it been possible, but they were now too close to Newgate, where they were detained for a few minutes at the gate, while their bills of health were examined and countersigned by the officer stationed there. During this pause Leonard glanced at the grated windows of the prison, the debtors' side of which fronted the street. But not a single face was to be seen. In fact, as has already been stated, the prison was shut up. The gate was now opened to them, and descending Snow Hill they entered a region completely devastated by the pestilence. So saddening was the sight, that Leonard involuntarily quickened his horse's pace, resolved to get out of this forlorn district as speedily as possible. He was, however, stopped by an unexpected and fearful impediment. When within a short distance of Holborn Bridge, he observed on the further side of it a large black vehicle, and, unable to make out what it was, though a fearful suspicion crossed him, slackened his pace. A nearer approach showed him that it was the pest-cart, filled with its charnel load. The horse was in the shafts, and was standing quite still. Rising in his stirrups to obtain a better view, Leonard perceived that the driver was lying on the ground at a little distance from the cart, in an attitude that proclaimed he had been suddenly seized by the pestilence, and had probably just expired. Not choosing to incur the risk of passing this contagious load, Leonard retraced his course as far as Holborn Conduit, then turning into Seacole-lane, and making the best of his way to Fleet Bridge, crossed it, and entered the great thoroughfare with which it communicated. He had not proceeded far when he encountered a small party of the watch, to whom he showed his certificate, and recounted the fate of the driver of the dead-cart. At Temple Bar he was again obliged to exhibit his passports; and while there detained, he observed three other horsemen riding towards them from the further end of Fleet-street. Though much alarmed by the sight, Leonard did not communicate his apprehensions to his companions, but as soon as the guard allowed him to pass, called out to Blaize to follow him, and urging his horse to a quick pace, dashed up Drury-lane. A few minutes' hard riding, during which nothing occurred to give the apprentice further uneasiness, brought them to a road skirting the open fields, in which a pest-house had just been built by the chivalrous nobleman whose habitation in Berkshire they were about to visit. With a courage and devotion that redound more to his honour than the brilliant qualities that won him so high a reputation in the court and in the field, Lord Craven not merely provided the present receptacle for the sick, but remained in London during the whole continuance of the dreadful visitation; "braving," says Pennant, "the fury of the pestilence with the same coolness that he fought the battles of his beloved mistress, Elizabeth, titular Queen of Bohemia, or mounted the tremendous breach of Creutznach." The spot where this asylum was built, and which is the present site of Golden-square, retained nearly half a century afterwards, the name of the Pest-house Fields. Leonard had already been made acquainted by Doctor Hodges with the earl's generous devotion to the public welfare, and warmly commenting upon it, he pointed out the structure to Amabel. But the speed at which she was borne along did not allow her time to bestow more than a hasty glance at it. On gaining Hyde-park Corner, the apprentice cast a look backwards, and his apprehensions were revived by perceiving the three horsemen again in view, and evidently using their utmost exertions to come up with them. While Leonard was hesitating whether he should make known their danger to Amabel, he perceived Solomon Eagle dart from behind a wall on the left of the road, and plant himself in the direct course of their pursuers, and he involuntarily drew in the rein to see what would ensue. In another moment, the horsemen, who were advancing at full gallop, and whom Leonard now recognised as the Earl of Rochester, Pillichody, and Sir Paul Parravicin, had approached within a few yards of the enthusiast, and threatened to ride over him if he did not get of the way. Seeing, however, that he did not offer to move, they opened on either side of him, and were passing swiftly by, when, with infinite dexterity, he caught hold of the bridle of Rochester's steed, and checking him, seized the earl by the leg, and threw him to the ground. Sir Paul Parravicin pulled up as soon as he could, and, drawing his sword, rode back to assist his friend, and punish the aggressor; but the enthusiast, nothing daunted, met him in full career, and suddenly lifting up his arms, uttered a loud cry, which so startled the knight's high-spirited horse, that it reared and flung him. All this was the work of a few seconds. Pillichody had been borne forward by the impetuosity of his steed to within a short distance of the apprentice, and seeing the fate of his companions, and not liking Leonard's menacing gestures, he chipped spurs into his horse, and rode up Park-lane. Overjoyed at his unexpected deliverance, Leonard, whose attention had been completely engrossed by what was passing, now ventured to look at Amabel, and became greatly alarmed at her appearance. She was as pale as death, except a small scarlet patch on either cheek, which contrasted powerfully with the death-like hue of the rest of her countenance. Her hands convulsively clasped the back of the pillion; her lips were slightly apart, and her eyes fixed upon the prostrate form of the Earl of Rochester. On finding they were pursued, and by whom, her first impulse had been to fling herself from the pillion, and to seek safety by flight; but controlling herself, she awaited the result with forced composure, and was now sinking from the exhaustion of the effort. "Thank Heaven! we are safe," cried the apprentice; "but I fear the shock has been too much for you." "It has," gasped Amabel, falling against his shoulder. "Let us fly--oh! let us fly." Inexpressibly shocked and alarmed, Leonard twined his left arm round her waist so as to hold her on the steed, for she was utterly unable to support herself, and glancing anxiously at Nizza Macascree, struck off on the right into the road skirting the Park, and in the direction of Tyburn, where there was a small inn, at which he hoped to procure assistance. Before reaching this place, he was beyond description relieved to find that Amabel had so far recovered as to be able to raise her head. "The deadly faintness is passed," she murmured; "I shall be better soon. But I fear I am too weak to pursue the journey at present." Leonard spurred on his steed, and in another instant reached Tyburn, and drew up at the little inn. But no assistance could be obtained there. The house was closed; there was a red cross on the door; and a watchman, stationed in front of it, informed him that all the family had died of the plague except the landlord--"and he will be buried beside them in Paddington churchyard before to-morrow morning," added the man; "for his nurse tells me it is impossible he can survive many hours." As he spoke an upper window was opened, and a woman, thrusting forth her head, cried, "Poor Master Sandys has just breathed his last. Come in, Philip, and help me to prepare the body for the dead-cart." "I will be with you in a minute," rejoined the watchman. "You may possibly procure accommodation at the Wheatsheaf at Paddington," he added to Leonard; "it is but a short distance up the road." Thanking him for the information, Leonard took the course indicated. He had not proceeded far, when he was alarmed by hearing a piteous cry of "Stop! stop!" proceeding from Blaize; and, halting, found that the porter had been so greatly terrified by the watchman's account of the frightful mortality in the poor innkeeper's family, that he had applied to his phial of plague-water, and in pulling it put had dropped his box of rufuses, and the jar of anti-pestilential confection. He had just ascertained his loss, and wished to go back, but this Nizza Macascree would not permit. Enraged at the delay, Leonard peremptorily ordered the porter to come on; and Blaize, casting a rueful glance at his treasures, which he perceived at a little distance in the middle of the road, was compelled to obey. At Paddington, another disappointment awaited them. The Wheatsheaf was occupied by two large families, who were flying from the infected city, and no accommodation could be obtained. Leonard looked wistfully at Nizza Macascree, as if to ascertain what to do, and she was equally perplexed; but the difficulty was relieved by Amabel herself, who said she felt much better, and able to proceed a little further. "Do not return to London," she continued with great earnestness. "I would rather die on the road than go home again. Some cottage will receive us. If not, I can rest for a short time in the fields." Thinking it best to comply, Leonard proceeded along the Harrow-road. Soon after crossing Paddington Green, he overtook a little train of fugitives driving a cart filled with children, and laden with luggage. Further on, as he surveyed the beautiful meadows, stretching out on either side of him, he perceived a line of small tents, resembling a gipsy encampment, pitched at a certain distance from each other, and evidently occupied by families who had fled from their homes from fear of infection. This gave a singular character to the prospect. But there were other and far more painful sights on the road, which could not fail to attract attention. For the first half-mile, almost at every hundred yards might be seen some sick man, who, unable to proceed further, had fallen against the hedge-side, and exhibited his sores to move the pity of the passers-by. But these supplications were wholly unheeded. Self-preservation was the first object with all, and the travellers holding handkerchiefs steeped in vinegar to their faces, and averting their heads, passed by on the other side of the way. The pestilence, it may be remarked, had visited with extraordinary rigour the whole of the higher country at the west and north-west of the metropolis. The charmingly-situated, and, at other seasons, healthful villages of Hampstead and Highgate, suffered severely from the scourge; and it even extended its ravages as far as Harrow-on-the-Hill, which it half depopulated. This will account for the circumstance of a large pest-house being erected in the neighbourhood of Westbourne Green, which the party now approached. Two litters were seen crossing the fields in the direction of the hospital, and this circumstance called Leonard's attention to it. Shudderingly averting his gaze, he quickened his pace, and soon reached a small farmhouse on the summit of the hill rising from Kensal Green. Determined to seek a temporary asylum here for Amabel, he opened a gate, and, riding into the yard, fortunately met with owner of the house, a worthy farmer, named Wingfield, to whom he explained her situation. The man at first hesitated, but, on receiving Leonard's solemn assurance that she was free from the plague, consented to receive the whole party. Assisting Amabel to dismount, Wingfield conveyed her in his arms into the house, and delivered her to his wife, bidding her take care of her. The injunction was scarcely needed. The good dame, who was a middle-aged woman, with pleasing features, which lost none of their interest from being stamped with profound melancholy, gazed at her for a moment fixedly, and then observed in an under-tone, but with much emotion, to her husband, "Ah! Robert, how much this sweet creature resembles our poor Sarah!" "Hush! hush! dame," rejoined her husband, hastily brushing away the moisture that sprang to his eyes; "take her to your chamber, and see that she wants nothing. There is another young woman outside, whom I will send to you." So saying, he returned to the yard. Meantime, the others had dismounted, and Wingfield, bidding Nizza Macascree go in, led the way to the barn, where the horses were tied up, and fodder placed before them. This done, he conducted his guests to the house, and placing cold meat, bread, and a jug of ale before them, desired them to fall to--an injunction which Blaize, notwithstanding his previous repast of roasted figs and pickled walnuts, very readily complied with. While they were thus employed, Dame Wingfield made her appearance. She said that the poor creature (meaning Amabel) was too ill to proceed on her journey that day, and begged her husband to allow her to stop till the next morning, when she hoped she would be able to undertake it. "To-morrow morning, say you dame?" cried Wingfield; "she may stop till the day after, and the day after that, if you desire it, or she wishes it. Go tell her so." And as his wife withdrew, well pleased at having obtained her request, Wingfield addressed himself to Leonard, and inquired the cause of Amabel's illness; and as the apprentice saw no necessity for secresy, and felt exceedingly grateful for the kind treatment he had experienced, he acquainted him with the chief particulars of her history. The farmer appeared greatly moved by the recital. "She resembles my poor Sarah very strongly," he said. "My daughter was hurried into an early grave by a villain who won her affections and betrayed her. She now lies in Willesden churchyard, but her seducer is one of the chief favourites of our profligate monarch." "Do you mean the Earl of Rochester?" cried Leonard. "No, no," replied the farmer, whose good-natured countenance had assumed a stern expression. "The villain I mean is worse, if possible, than the earl. He is called Sir Paul Parravicin." "Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Leonard, in astonishment; "what a strange coincidence is this!" And he then proceeded to relate to Wingfield the persecution which Nizza Macascree had endured from the profligate knight The farmer listened to his recital with breathless interest, and when it was ended arose, and, taking a hasty turn round the room, halted at the table and struck it forcibly with his clenched hand. "I hope that man will never cross my path," he said, all the blood mounting to his face, and his eye kindling with fury. "As God shall judge me, I will kill him if I meet him." "Then I hope you never will meet him," observed Leonard. "He has injured you enough already, without putting you out of the pale of Divine mercy." "These rascals have done us all an injury," observed Blaize. "Patience has never been like herself since Major Pillichody entered my master's dwelling, and made love to her. I feel quite uneasy to think how the little hussy will go on during my absence. She can't get out of the house, that's one comfort." "You have mentioned another wretch, who was constantly with Sir Paul," cried Wingfield. "Perdition seize them!" "Ay, perdition seize them!" echoed Blaize, striking the table in his turn--"especially Major Pillichody." "Did you ever suspect Sir Paul to be of higher rank than he pretends?" asked Leonard. "No," rejoined Wingfield; "what motive have you for the question?" Leonard then told him of the inquiries instituted by Doctor Hodges relative to Nizza's retreat, and how they had been baffled. "It is strange," he continued, "that Nizza herself never heard the real name of her persecutor; neither can she tell where the house to which she was conveyed, when in a fainting condition, and from which she was removed when attacked with the plague, is situated." "It is strange indeed," observed the farmer, musingly. Soon after this, Nizza Macascree made her appearance, and informed them that Amabel had fallen into a tranquil slumber, which, in all probability, would completely renovate her. "I hope it will," said Wingfield. "But I shall not part with her to-day." He then entered into conversation with Nizza, and after a little time, proposed to her and Leonard to walk across the fields with him to Willesden, to visit his daughter's grave. "My wife will take charge of Amabel," he said; "you may safely trust her in her hands." Leonard could raise no objection, except the possibility that the Earl of Rochester and his companions might discover their retreat, and carry off Amabel in his absence; but, after a little reflection, considering this altogether unlikely, he assented, and they set out. A pleasant walk across the fields brought them to the pretty little village of Willesden and its old and beautiful church. They proceeded to the grave of poor Sarah Wingfield, which lay at the east of the church, beneath one of the tall elms, and Nizza, as she stood by the rounded sod covering the remains of the unfortunate girl, could not restrain her tears. "This might have been my own fate," she said. "What an escape I have had!" "I did not bring you here to read you a lesson," said Wingfield, in a tone of deep emotion, "but because you, who know the temptation to which the poor creature who lies there was exposed, will pity her. Not alone did remorse for her conduct prey upon her spirits--not alone did she suffer from self-reproach,--but the scoffs and jeers of her sex, who never forgive an erring sister, broke her heart. She is now, however, beyond the reach of human malice, and, I trust, at peace." As he said this, he walked away to hide his emotion, and presently afterwards rejoining them, they quitted the churchyard together. As they recrossed the fields, Wingfield observed two men digging a hole in the ground, and, guessing their object, paused for a few minutes to watch them. Having thrown out the earth to the depth of a couple of feet, one of them took a long hooked pole, and attaching it to the body of a victim to the pestilence, who had wandered into the fields and died there, dragged it towards the pit. As soon as the corpse was pushed into its narrow receptacle, the clay was shovelled over it, and trodden down. "This is a sad mode of burial for a Christian," observed Wingfield. "But it would not do to leave an infected body to rot in the fields, and spread the contagion." "Such a grave is better than the plague-pit," rejoined Leonard, recalling the frightful scenes he had witnessed there. On reaching Wingfield's dwelling, they found from the good dame, that Amabel had awakened from her slumber greatly refreshed; but she gave it as her opinion that she had better remain undisturbed. Accordingly, no one went into the room to her except Nizza Macascree. A substantial dinner was provided for his guests by the hospitable farmer; and Blaize, who had been for some time confined to salt provisions at his master's house, did ample justice to the fresh meat and vegetables. The meal over, Leonard, who felt exceedingly curious to learn what had become of the mysterious stranger whose child he had carried to the plague-pit, and who had appeared so strangely interested in Nizza Macascree, determined to walk to the pest-house in Finsbury Fields and inquire after him. On communicating his intention to his host, Wingfield would have dissuaded him; but as Leonard affirmed he had no fear of infection, he desisted from the attempt. Just as the apprentice was starting, Blaize came up to him, and said,--"Leonard, I have a great curiosity to see a pest-house, and should like to go with you, if you will let me." The apprentice stared at him in astonishment. "You will never dare to enter it," he said. "I will go wherever you go," replied the porter, with a confidence mainly inspired by the hospitable farmer's strong ale. "We shall see," replied Leonard. "I shall keep you to your word." In less than an hour they reached Marylebone Fields (now the Regent's Park), and, crossing them, entered a lane, running in pretty nearly the same direction as the present New-road. It Drought them to Clerkenwell, whence they proceeded to Finsbury Fields, and soon came in sight of the pest-house. When Blaize found himself so near this dreaded asylum, all his courage vanished. "I would certainly enter the pest-house with you," he said to Leonard, "but I have used up all my vinegar, and you know I lost my box of rufuses and the pot of anti-pestilential confection this morning." "That excuse shall not serve your turn," replied Leonard. "You can get plenty of vinegar and plague medicine in the pest-house." "But I have no money to pay for them," rejoined Blaize. "I will lend you some," said Leonard, placing a few pieces in his hand. "Now, come along." Blaize would fain have run away, but, afraid of incurring the apprentice's anger, he walked tremblingly after him. They entered the garden-gate, and soon reached the principal door, which, as usual, stood open. Scarcely able to support himself, the porter tottered into the large room; but as he cast his eyes around, and beheld the miserable occupants of the pallets, and heard their cries and groans, he was so scared that he could not move another step, but stood like one transfixed with terror. Paying little attention to him, Leonard walked forward, and at the further extremity of the chamber found the young chirurgeon whom he had formerly seen, and describing the stranger, inquired where he was placed. "The person you allude to has been removed," returned the chirurgeon. "Doctor Hodges visited him this morning, and had him conveyed to his own dwelling." "Was he sensible at the time?" asked the apprentice. "I think not," replied the chirurgeon; "but the doctor appeared to recognise in him an old friend, though I did not hear him mention his name; and it was on that account, I conclude, that he had him removed." "Is he likely to recover?" asked Leonard, whose curiosity was aroused by what he heard. "That is impossible to say," replied the young man. "But he cannot be in better hands than those of Doctor Hodges." Leonard perfectly concurred with him, and, after a few minutes' further conversation, turned to depart. Not seeing Blaize, he concluded he had gone forth, and expected to find him in the garden, or, at all events, in the field adjoining. But he was nowhere to be seen. While wondering what had become of him, Leonard heard a loud cry, in the voice of the porter, issuing from the barn, which, as has already been stated, had been converted into a receptacle for the sick; and hurrying thither, he found Blaize in the hands of two stout assistants, who had stripped him of his clothes, and were tying him down to a pallet. On seeing Leonard, Blaize implored him to deliver him from the hands of his persecutors; and the apprentice assuring the assistants that the poor fellow was perfectly free from infection, they liberated him. It appeared, on inquiry, that Blaize had fallen against one of the pallets in a state almost of insensibility, and the two assistants, chancing to pass at the time, and taking him for a plague patient, had conveyed him to the barn. On reaching it, he recovered, and besought them to set him free, but they paid no attention to his cries, and proceeded to strip him, and bind him to the bed, as before related. Thus released, the porter lost no time in dressing himself; and Leonard, to allay his terrors, had a strong dose of anti-pestilential elixir administered to him. After which, having procured him a box of rufuses, and a phial of plague-water, Blaize shook off his apprehension, and they set out at a brisk pace for Kensal Green. VII. THE JOURNEY. Blaize was destined to experience a second fright. It has been mentioned that the infected were sometimes seized with a rabid desire of communicating the disorder to such as had not been attacked by it; and as the pair were making the best of their way along the Harrow-road, a poor lazar who was lying against the hedge-side, and had vainly implored their assistance, suddenly started up, and with furious cries and gestures made towards the porter. Guessing his intention, Blaize took to his heels, and, folding himself closely pressed, broke through the hedge on the right, and speeded across the field. In spite of the alarming nature of the occurrence, the apprentice could not help laughing at the unwonted agility displayed by the fat little porter, who ran so swiftly that it appeared probable he would distance his pursuer. To prevent mischief, however, Leonard set off after him, and was fast gaining upon the lazar, whose strength was evidently failing, when the poor wretch uttered a loud cry, and fell to the ground. On coming up, Leonard found him lying with his face in the grass, and convulsed by the agonies of death, and perceiving that all was over, hurried after the porter, whom he found seated on a gate, at the further end of the field, solacing himself with a draught of plague-water. "Oh, Leonard!" groaned the latter, "how little do we know what is for our good! I was delighted to quit my master's house this morning, but I now wish with, all my heart I was back again. I am afraid I shall die of the plague after all. Pray what are the first symptoms?" "Pooh! pooh! don't think about it, and you will take no harm," rejoined Leonard. "Put by your phial, and let us make the best of our way to Farmer Wingfield's dwelling." Being now in sight of the farm, which, from its elevated situation, could be distinguished at a distance of two miles in this direction, they easily shaped their course towards it across the fields. When about halfway up the hill, Leonard paused to look behind him. The view was exquisite, and it was precisely the hour (just before sunset) at which it could be seen to the greatest advantage. On the right, his gaze wandered to the beautiful and well-wooded heights of Richmond and Wimbledon, beyond which he could trace the long line of the Surrey hills, while nearer he perceived Notting Hill, now covered with habitations, but then a verdant knoll, crowned by a few trees, but without so much as a cottage upon it. On the left stood Hampstead; at that time a collection of pretty cottages, but wanting its present chief ornament, the church. At the foot of the hill rich meadows, bordered with fine hedges, interspersed with well-grown timber, spread out as far as the eye could reach. Nothing destroyed the rural character of the prospect; nor was there any indication of the neighbourhood of a great city, except the lofty tower and massive body of Saint Paul's, which appeared above the tops of the intervening trees in the distance. As on former occasions, when contemplating the surrounding country from the summit of the cathedral, Leonard could not help contrasting the beauty of the scene before him with the horrible scourge by which it was ravaged. Never had the country looked so beautiful--never, therefore, was the contrast so forcible; and it appeared to him like a lovely mask hiding the hideous and ghastly features of death. Tinged by the sombre hue of his thoughts, the whole scene changed its complexion. The smiling landscape seemed to darken, and the cool air of evening to become hot and noisome, as if laden with the deadly exhalations of the pestilence. Nor did the workings of his imagination stop here. He fancied even at this distance--nearly seven miles--that he could discern Solomon Eagle on the summit of Saint Paul's. At first the figure looked like a small black speck; but it gradually dilated, until it became twice the size of the cathedral, upon the central tower of which its feet rested, while its arms were spread abroad over the city. In its right hand the gigantic figure held a blazing torch, and in the left a phial, from the mouth of which a stream of dark liquid descended. So vividly did this phantasm present itself to Leonard, that, almost convinced of its reality, he placed his hands before his eyes for a few moments, and, on withdrawing them, was glad to find that the delusion was occasioned by a black cloud over the cathedral, which his distempered fancy had converted into the colossal figure of the enthusiast. Blaize, who had taken the opportunity of his companion's abstraction to sip a little more plague-water, now approached, and told him that Wingfield was descending the hill to meet them. Rousing himself, Leonard ran towards the farmer, who appeared delighted to see them back again, and conducted them to his dwelling. Owing to the tender and truly maternal attention of Dame Wingfield, Amabel was so much better that she was able to join the party at supper, though she took no share in the meal. Wingfield listened to the soft tones of her voice as she conversed with his wife, and at last, unable to control his emotion, laid down his knife and fork, and quitted the table. "What is the matter with your husband?" inquired Amabel of her hostess. "I hope he is not unwell." "Oh! no," replied the good dame; "your voice reminds him of our daughter, whose history I have related to you--that is all." "Alas!" exclaimed Amabel, with a sympathizing look, "I will be silent, if it pains him to hear me speak." "On no account," rejoined Dame Wingfield. "The tears he has shed will relieve him. He could not weep when poor Sarah died, and I feared his heart would break. Talk to him as you have talked to me, and you will do him a world of good." Shortly afterwards, the farmer returned to the table, and the meal proceeded to its close without further interruption. As soon as the board was cleared, Wingfield took a chair by Amabel, who, in compliance with his wife's request, spoke to him about his daughter, and in terms calculated to afford him consolation. Leonard was enraptured by her discourse, and put so little constraint upon his admiration, that Nizza Macascree could not repress a pang of jealousy. As to Blaize, who had eaten as much as he could cram, and emptied a large jug of the farmer's stout ale, he took his chair to a corner, and speedily fell asleep; his hoarse but tranquil breathing proving that the alarms he had undergone during the day did not haunt his slumbers. Before separating for the night, Amabel entreated that prayers might be said, and her request being readily granted, she was about to retire with Nizza, when Wingfield detained them. "I have been thinking that I might offer you a safe asylum here," he said. "If you like it, you shall remain with us till your health is fully reinstated." "I thank you most kindly for the offer," returned Amabel, gratefully; "and if I do not accept it, it is neither because I should not esteem myself safe here, nor because I am unwilling to be indebted to your hospitality, but that I have been specially advised, as my last chance of recovery, to try the air of Berkshire. I have little hope myself, but I owe it to those who love me to make the experiment." "If such is the case," returned the farmer, "I will not attempt to persuade you further. But if at any future time you should need change of air, my house shall be entirely at your service." Dame Wingfield warmly seconded her husband's wish, and, with renewed thanks, Amabel and her companion withdrew. As there was not sufficient room for their accommodation within the house, Leonard and the porter took up their quarters in the barn, and, throwing themselves upon a heap of straw, slept soundly till three o'clock, when they arose and began to prepare for their journey. Wingfield was likewise astir, and, after assisting them to feed and dress their horses, took them into the house, where a plentiful breakfast awaited them. At the close of the meal, Amabel and Nizza, who had breakfasted in their own room, made their appearance. All being in readiness for their departure, Dame Wingfield took leave of her guests with tears in her eyes, and the honest farmer was little less affected. Both gazed after them as long as they continued in sight. Having ascertained from Wingfield the route they ought to pursue, Leonard proceeded about a quarter of a mile along the Harrow-road, and then turned off on the left into a common, which brought them to Acton, from whence they threaded a devious lane to Brentford. Here they encountered several fugitives from the great city, and, as they approached Hounslow, learned from other wayfarers that a band of highwaymen, by whom the heath was infested, had become more than usually daring since the outbreak of the pestilence, and claimed a heavy tax from all travellers. This was bad news to Leonard, who became apprehensive for the safety of the bag of gold given to Nizza by the enthusiast, and he would have taken another road if it had been practicable; but as there was no alternative except to proceed, he put all the money he had about him into a leathern purse, trusting that the highwaymen, if they attacked them, would be content with this booty. When about halfway across the vast heath, which spread around them, in a wild but not unpicturesque expanse, for many miles on either side, Leonard perceived a band of horsemen, amounting perhaps to a dozen, galloping towards them, and, not doubting they were the robbers in question, communicated his suspicions to his companions. Neither Amabel nor Nizza Macascree appeared much alarmed, but Blaize was so terrified that he could scarcely keep his seat, and was with difficulty prevented from turning his horse's head and riding off in the opposite direction. By this time the highwaymen had come up. With loud oaths, two of their number held pistols to the heads of Leonard and Blaize, and demanded their money. The apprentice replied by drawing forth his purse, and besought the fellow to whom he gave it not to maltreat his companion. The man rejoined with a savage imprecation that he "would maltreat them both if they did not instantly dismount and let him search the saddle-bags;" and he was proceeding to drag Amabel from the saddle, when Leonard struck him a violent blow with his heavy riding-whip, which brought him to the ground. He was up again, however, in an instant, and would have fired his pistol at the apprentice, if a masked individual, who was evidently, from the richness of his attire, and the deference paid him by the others, the captain of the band, had not interfered. "You are rightly served, Dick Dosset," said this person, "for your rudeness to a lady. I will have none of my band guilty of incivility, and if this young man had not punished you, I would have done so myself. Pass free, my pretty damsel," he added, bowing gallantly to Amabel; "you shall not be further molested." Meanwhile, Blaize exhibited the contents of his pockets to the other highwayman, who having opened the box of rufuses and smelt at the phial of plague-water, returned them to him with a look of disgust, and bade him follow his companions. As Leonard was departing, the captain of the band rode after him, and inquired whether he had heard at what hour the king meant to leave Whitehall. "The court is about to adjourn to Oxford," he added, "and the king and some of his courtiers will cross the heath to-day, when I purpose to levy the same tax from his majesty that I do from his subjects." Leonard replied, that he was utterly ignorant of the king's movements; and explaining whence he came, the captain left him. The intelligence he had thus accidentally obtained was far from satisfactory to the apprentice. For some distance, their road would be the same as that about to be taken by the monarch and his attendants, amongst whom it was not improbable Rochester might be numbered; and the possibility that the earl might overtake them and discover Amabel filled him with uneasiness. Concealing his alarm, however, he urged his steed to a quicker pace, and proceeded briskly on his way, glad, at least, that he had not lost Solomon Eagle's gift to Nizza. Amabel's weakly condition compelled them to rest at frequent intervals, and it was not until evening was drawing in that they descended the steep hill leading to the beautiful village of Henley-upon-Thames, where they proposed to halt for the night. Crossing the bridge, they found a considerable number of the inhabitants assembled in the main street and in the market-place, in expectation of the king's passing through the town on his way to Oxford, intimation of his approach having been conveyed by avant-couriers. Leonard proceeded to the principal inn, and was fortunate enough to procure accommodation. Having conducted Amabel and Nizza to their room, he was repairing to the stable with Blaize to see after their steeds, when a loud blowing of horns was heard on the bridge, succeeded by the tramp of horses and the rattling of wheels, and the next moment four valets in splendid livery rode up, followed by a magnificent coach. The shouts of the assemblage proclaimed that it was the king. The cavalcade stopped before the inn, from the yard of which six fine horses were brought and attached to the royal carriage, in place of others which were removed. Charles was laughing heartily, and desired his attendants, who were neither numerous nor well-armed, to take care they were not robbed again between this place and Oxford; "Though," added the monarch, "it is now of little consequence, since we have nothing to lose." "Is it possible your majesty can have been robbed?" asked the landlord, who stood cap in hand at the door of the carriage. "I'faith, man, it _is_ possible," rejoined the king. "We were stopped on Hounslow Heath by a band of highwaymen, who carried off two large coffers filled with gold, and would have eased us of our swords and snuff-boxes but for the interposition of their captain, who, as we live, is one of the politest men breathing--is he not, Rochester?" Leonard Holt, who was among the crowd of spectators, started at the mention of this name, and he trembled as the earl leaned forward in answer to the king's question. The eyes of the rivals met at this moment, for both were within a few yards of each other, and Rochester, whose cheek was flushed with anger, solicited the king's permission to alight, but Charles, affirming it was getting late, would not permit him, and as the horses were harnessed, and the drivers mounted, he ordered them to proceed without delay. Inexpressibly relieved by his rival's departure, Leonard returned to the house, and acquainted Amabel with what had occurred. Quitting Henley betimes on the following morning, they arrived in about three hours at Wallingford, where they halted for some time, and, then pursuing their journey, reached Wantage at four o'clock, where they tarried for an hour. Up to this hour, Leonard had doubted the possibility of reaching their destination that night; but Amabel assuring him she felt no fatigue, he determined to push on. Accordingly, having refreshed their steeds, they set forward, and soon began to mount the beautiful downs lying on the west of this ancient town. Crossing these heights, whence they obtained the most magnificent and extensive views of the surrounding country, they reached in about three-quarters of an hour the pretty little hamlet of Kingston Lisle. Here they again paused at a small inn at the foot of a lofty hill, denominated, from a curious relic kept there, the Blowing Stone. This rocky fragment, which is still in existence, is perforated by a number of holes, which emit, if blown into, a strange bellowing sound. Unaware of this circumstance, Leonard entered the house with the others, and had just seated, himself, when they were, astounded by a strange unearthly roar. Rushing forth, Leonard found Blaize with his cheeks puffed out and his mouth applied to the stone, into which he was blowing with all his force, and producing the above-mentioned extraordinary noise. Shortly after this, the party quitted the Blowing Stone, and having toiled up the steep sides of the hill, they were amply repaid on reaching its summit by one of the finest views they had ever beheld. In fact, the hill on which they stood commanded the whole of the extensive and beautiful vale of the White Horse, which was spread out before them as far as the eye could reach, like a vast panorama, disclosing a thousand fields covered with abundant, though as yet immature crops. It was a goodly prospect, and seemed to promise plenty and prosperity to the country. Almost beneath them stood the reverend church of Uffington overtopping the ancient village clustering round it. Numerous other towers and spires could be seen peeping out of groves of trees, which, together with the scattered mansions and farmhouses surrounded by granges and stacks of hay and beans, gave interest and diversity to the prospect. The two most prominent objects in the view were the wooded heights of Farringdon on the one hand, and those of Abingdon on the other. Proceeding along the old Roman road, still distinctly marked out, and running along the ridge of this beautiful chain of hills, they arrived at an immense Roman encampment, vulgarly called Uffingham Castle, occupying the crown of a hill. A shepherd, who was tending a flock of sheep which were browsing on the delicious herbage to be found within the vast circular space enclosed by the inner vallum of the camp, explained its purpose, and they could not but regard it with interest. He informed them that they were in the neighbourhood of the famous White Horse, a figure cut out of the turf on the hillside by the Saxons, and visible for many miles. Conducting them to a point whence they could survey this curious work, their guide next directed them to Ashdown Lodge, which lay, he told them, at about four miles' distance. They had wandered a little out of their course, but he accompanied them for a mile, until they came in sight of a thick grove of trees clothing a beautiful valley, above which could be seen the lofty cupola of the mansion. Cheered by the sight, and invigorated by the fresh breeze blowing in this healthful region, they pressed forward, and soon drew near the mansion, which they found was approached by four noble avenues. They had not advanced far, when a stalwart personage, six feet two high, and proportionately stoutly made, issued from the covert. He had a gun over his shoulder and was attended by a couple of fine dogs. Telling them he was called John Lutcombe, and was the Earl of Craven's gamekeeper, he inquired their business, and, on being informed of it, changed his surly manner to one of great cordiality, and informed them that Mrs. Buscot--such was the name of Amabel's aunt--was at home, and would be heartily glad to see them. "I have often heard her speak of her brother, Mr. Bloundel," he said, "and am well aware that he is an excellent man. Poor soul! she has been very uneasy about him and his family during this awful dispensation, though she had received a letter to say that he was about to close his house, and hoped, under the blessing of Providence, to escape the pestilence. His daughter will be welcome, and she cannot come to a healthier spot than Ashdown, nor to a better nurse than Mrs. Buscot." With this, he led the way to the court-yard, and, entering the dwelling, presently returned with a middle-aged woman, who Amabel instantly knew, from the likeness to her father, must be her aunt. Mrs. Buscot caught her in her arms, and almost smothered her with kisses. As soon as the first transports of surprise and joy had subsided, the good housekeeper took her niece and Nizza Macascree into the house, and desired John Lutcombe to attend to the others. VIII. ASHDOWN LODGE. Erected by Inigo Jones, and still continuing in precisely the same state as at the period of this history, Ashdown Lodge is a large square edifice, built in the formal French taste of the seventeenth century, with immense casements, giving it the appearance of being all glass, a high roof lighted by dormer windows, terminated at each angle by a tall and not very ornamental chimney, and surmounted by a lofty and lantern-like belvedere, crowned in its turn by a glass cupola. The belvedere opens upon a square gallery defended by a broad balustrade, and overlooking the umbrageous masses and lovely hills around it. The house, as has been stated, is approached by four noble avenues, the timber constituting which, is, of course, much finer now than at the period under consideration, and possesses a delightful old-fashioned garden, and stately terrace. The rooms are lofty but small, and there is a magnificent staircase, occupying nearly half the interior of the building. Among other portraits decorating the walls, is one of Elizabeth Stuart, daughter of James the First, and Queen of Bohemia, for whom the first Earl of Craven entertained so romantic an attachment, and to whom he was supposed to be privately united. Nothing can be more secluded than the situation of the mansion, lying as it does in the midst of a gentle valley, surrounded by a thick wood, and without having a single habitation in view. Its chief interest, however, must always be derived from its connection with the memory of the chivalrous and high-souled nobleman by whom it was erected, and who made it occasionally his retreat after the death of his presumed royal consort, which occurred about four years previous to the date of this history. Amabel was delighted with her new abode, and she experienced the kindness of a parent from her aunt, with whom, owing to circumstances, she had not hitherto been personally acquainted, having only seen her when too young to retain any recollection of the event. The widow of a farmer, who had resided on Lord Craven's estate near Kingston Lisle, Mrs. Buscot, after her husband's death, had been engaged as housekeeper at Ashdown Lodge, and had filled the situation for many years to the entire satisfaction of her employer. She was two or three years older than her brother, Mr. Bloundel; but the perfect health she enjoyed, and which she attributed to the salubrious air of the downs, combined with her natural cheerfulness of disposition, made her look much the younger of the two. Her features, besides their kindly and benevolent expression, were extremely pleasing, and must, some years ago, have been beautiful. Even now, what with her fresh complexion, her white teeth, and plump figure, she made no slight pretensions to comeliness. She possessed the same good sense and integrity of character as her brother, together with his strong religious feeling, but entirely unaccompanied by austerity. Having no children, she was able to bestow her entire affections upon Amabel, whose sad story, when she became acquainted with it, painfully affected her; nor was she less concerned at her precarious state of health. For the first day or two after their arrival, Amabel suffered greatly from the effects of the journey; but after that time, she gained strength so rapidly, that Mrs. Buscot, who at first had well-nigh despaired of her recovery, began to indulge a hope. The gentle sufferer would sit throughout the day with her aunt and Nizza Macascree in the gallery near the belvedere, inhaling the pure breeze blowing from the surrounding hills, and stirring the tree-tops beneath her. "I never expected so much happiness," she observed, on one occasion, to Mrs. Buscot, "and begin to experience the truth of Doctor Hodges' assertion, that with returning health, the desire of life would return. I now wish to live." "I am heartily glad to hear you say so," replied Mrs. Buscot, "and hold it a certain sign of your speedy restoration to health. Before you have been a month with me, I expect to bring back the roses to those pale cheeks." "You are too sanguine, I fear, dear aunt," rejoined Amabel, "but the change that has taken place in my feelings, may operate beneficially upon my constitution." "No doubt of it, my dear," replied Mrs. Buscot; "no doubt." The good dame felt a strong inclination at this moment to introduce a subject very near her heart, but, feeling doubtful as to its reception, she checked herself. The devoted attachment of the apprentice to her niece had entirely won her regard, and she fondly hoped she would be able to wean Amabel from all thought of the Earl of Rochester, and induce her to give her hand to her faithful lover. With this view, she often spoke to her of Leonard--of his devotion and constancy, his good looks and excellent qualities; and though Amabel assented to all she said, Mrs. Buscot was sorry to perceive that the impression she desired was not produced. It was not so with Nizza Macascree. Whenever Leonard's name was mentioned, her eyes sparkled, her cheek glowed, and she responded so warmly to all that was said in his praise, that Mrs. Buscot soon found out the state of her heart. The discovery occasioned her some little disquietude, for the worthy creature could not bear the idea of making even her niece happy at the expense of another. As to the object of all this tender interest, he felt far happier than he had done for some time. He saw Amabel every day, and noted with unspeakable delight the gradual improvement which appeared to be taking place in her health. The greater part of his time, however, was not passed in her society, but in threading the intricacies of the wood, or in rambling over the neighbouring downs; and he not only derived pleasure from these rambles, but his health and spirits, which had been not a little shaken by the awful scenes he had recently witnessed, were materially improved. Here, at last, he seemed to have got rid of the grim spectre which, for two months, had constantly haunted him. No greater contrast can be conceived than his present quiet life offered to the fearful excitement he had recently undergone. For hot and narrow thoroughfares reeking with pestilential effluvia, resounding with frightful shrieks, or piteous cries, and bearing on every side marks of the destructive progress of the scourge--for these terrible sights and sounds--for the charnel horrors of the plague-pit--the scarcely less revolting scenes at the pest-house--the dismal bell announcing the dead-cart--the doleful cries of the buriers--for graves surfeited with corruption, and streets filled with the dying and the dead--and, above all, for the ever-haunting expectation that a like fate might be his own,--he had exchanged green hills, fresh breezes, spreading views, the song of the lark, and a thousand other delights, and assurances of health and contentment. Often, as he gazed from the ridge of the downs into the wide-spread vale beneath, he wondered whether the destroying angel had smitten any of its peaceful habitations, and breathed a prayer for their preservation! But the satisfaction he derived from having quitted the infected city was trifling compared with that of Blaize, whose sole anxiety was lest he should be sent back to London. Seldom straying further than the gates of the mansion, though often invited by John Lutcombe to accompany him to some of the neighbouring villages; having little to do, and less to think of, unless to calculate how much he could consume at the next meal,--for he had banished all idea of the plague,--he conceived himself at the summit of happiness, and waxed so sleek and round, that his face shone like a full moon, while his doublet would scarcely meet around his waist. One day, about a fortnight after their arrival, and when things were in this happy state, Amabel, who was seated as usual in the gallery at the summit of the house, observed a troop of horsemen, very gallantly equipped, appear at the further end of the northern avenue. An inexpressible terror seized her, and she would have fled into the house, but her limbs refused their office. "Look there!" she cried to Nizza, who, at that moment, presented herself at the glass door. "Look there!" she said, pointing to the cavalcade; "what I dreaded has come to pass. The Earl of Rochester has found me out, and is coming hither to carry me off. But I will die rather than accompany him." "You may be mistaken," replied Nizza, expressing a hopefulness, which her looks belied; "it may be the Earl of Craven." "You give me new life," rejoined Amabel; "but no--no--my aunt has told me that the good earl will not quit the city during the continuance of the plague. And see! some of the horsemen have distinguished us, and are waving their hats. My heart tells me the Earl of Rochester is amongst them. Give me your arm, Nizza, and I will try to gain some place of concealment." "Ay, let us fly," replied the other, assisting her towards the door; "I am in equal danger with yourself, for Sir Paul Parravicin is doubtless with them. Oh! where--where is Leonard?" "He must be below," cried Amabel "But he could not aid us at this juncture; we must depend upon ourselves." Descending a short staircase, they entered Amabel's chamber, and fastening the door, awaited with breathless anxiety the arrival of the horsemen. Though the room whither they had retreated was in the upper part of the house, they could distinctly hear what was going on below, and shortly afterwards the sound of footsteps on the stairs, blended with merry voices and loud laughter--amid which, Amabel could distinguish the tones of the Earl of Rochester--reached them. While both were palpitating with fright, the handle of the door was tried, and a voice announced that the apprentice was without. "All is lost!" he cried, speaking through the keyhole; "the king is here, and is accompanied by the Earl of Rochester and other profligates." "The king!" exclaimed Amabel, joyfully; "then I am no longer apprehensive." "As yet, no inquiries have been made after you," continued Leonard, unconscious of the effect produced by his intelligence, "but it is evident they know you are here. Be prepared, therefore." "I _am_ prepared," rejoined Amabel. And as she spoke, she threw open the door and admitted Leonard. "Do not stay with us," she added to him. "In case of need, I will throw myself on his majesty's protection." "It will avail you little," rejoined Leonard, distrustfully. "I do not think so," said Amabel, confidently. "I have faith in his acknowledged kindness of heart." "Perhaps you are right," returned Leonard. "Mrs. Buscot is at present with his majesty in the receiving-room. Will you not make fast your door?" "No," replied Amabel, firmly; "if the king will not defend me, I will defend myself." Leonard glanced at her with admiration, but he said nothing. "Is Sir Paul Parravicin here?" asked Nizza Macascree, with great anxiety. "I have not seen him," replied Leonard; "and I have carefully examined the countenances of all the king's attendants." "Heaven be praised!" exclaimed Nizza. At this juncture, Mrs. Buscot entered the room. Her looks bespoke great agitation, and she trembled violently. "You have no doubt heard from Leonard that the king and his courtiers are below," she said. "His majesty inquired whether you were here, and I did not dare to deceive him. He desires to see you, and has sent me for you. What is to be done?" she added, with a look of distraction. "I suppose you must obey." "There is no alternative," replied Amabel; "I will obey his majesty's commands as soon as I can collect myself. Take back that answer, dear aunt." "Has Leonard told you that the Earl of Rochester is here?" pursued Mrs. Buscot. Amabel replied in the affirmative. "God grant that good may come of it!" cried Mrs. Buscot, clasping her hands together, as she quitted the room; "but I am sorely afraid." A half-suppressed groan from the apprentice told that he shared in her apprehensions. "Leave us, Leonard," said Amabel; "I would prepare myself for the interview." The apprentice obeyed, and closing the door after him, stationed himself at the foot of the staircase. Left alone with Nizza, Amabel threw herself on her knees, and besought the support of Heaven on this trying occasion. She then arose, and giving her hand to Nizza, they went down stairs together. Leonard followed them at a little distance, and with a beating heart. Two gentlemen-ushers were posted, at the door of the chamber occupied by the king. Not far from them stood Mrs. Buscot, who, having made known her niece to the officials, they instantly admitted her, but ordered Nizza to remain outside. On entering the room, Amabel at once discovered the king. He was habited in a magnificent riding-dress and was seated on a rich fauteuil, around which were grouped a dozen gaily-attired courtiers. Amongst these were the Earl of Rochester and Sir George Etherege. As Amabel advanced, glances of insolent curiosity were directed towards her, and Rochester, stepping forward, offered to lead her to the king. She, however, declined the attention. Greatly mortified, the earl would have seized her hand; but there was so much dignity in her deportment, so much coldness in her looks, that in spite of his effrontery, he felt abashed. Charles smiled at his favourite's rebuff, but, in common with the others, he could not help being struck by Amabel's extraordinary beauty and natural dignity, and he observed, in an under-tone, to Etherege, "Is it possible this can be a grocer's daughter?" "She passes for such, my liege," replied Etherege, with a smile. "But I cannot swear to her parentage." "Since I have seen her, I do not wonder at Rochester's extravagant passion," rejoined the monarch. "But, odds fish! she seems to care little for him." Having approached within a short distance of the king, Amabel would have prostrated herself before him, but he prevented her. "Nay, do not kneel, sweetheart," he said, "I am fully satisfied of your loyalty, and never exact homage from one of your sex, but, on the contrary, am ever ready to pay it. I have heard much of your attractions, and, what is seldom the case in such matters, find they have not been overrated. The brightest of our court beauties cannot compare with you." "A moment ago, the fair Amabel might be said to lack bloom," observed Etherege; "but your majesty's praises have called a glowing colour to her cheek." "Would you deign to grant me a moment's hearing, my liege?" said Amabel, looking steadfastly at the king. "Not a moment's hearing merely, sweetheart," returned Charles; "but an hour's, if you list. I could dwell on the music of your tones for ever." "I thank your majesty for your condescension," she replied; "but I will not long trespass on your patience. What I have to say concerns the Earl of Rochester." "Stand forward, my lord," said Charles to the earl, "and let us hear what complaint is to be made against you." Rochester advanced, and threw a passionate and half-reproachful glance at Amabel. "It may be improper for me to trouble your majesty on so light a matter," said Amabel; "but your kindness emboldens me to speak unreservedly. You may be aware that this nobleman once entertained, or feigned to entertain, an ardent attachment to me." "I need scarcely assure you, my liege," interposed Rochester, "that it was no feigned passion. And it is needless to add, that however ardently I felt towards my fair accuser then, my passion has in nowise abated." "I should wonder if it had," rejoined Charles, gallantly. "I will not contradict you, my lord," said Amabel; "it _is_ possible you may have loved me, though I find it difficult to reconcile your professions of regard with your conduct--but this is not to the purpose. Whether you loved me or not, I loved _you_--deeply and devotedly. There is no sacrifice I would not have made for him," she continued, turning to the king, "and influenced by these feelings, and deluded by false promises, I forgot my duty, and was rash enough to quit my home with him." "All this I have heard, sweetheart," replied Charles. "There is nothing very remarkable in it. It is the ordinary course of such affairs. I am happy to be the means of restoring your lover to you, and, in fact, came hither for that very purpose." "You mistake me, my liege," replied Amabel. "I do not desire to have him restored to me. Fortunately for myself, I have succeeded in mastering my love for him. The struggle has well-nigh cost me my life--but I _have_ conquered." "I have yet to learn, sweetheart," observed Charles, with an incredulous look, "that woman's love, if deeply fixed, _can_ be subdued." "If I had not been supported by religion, my liege, I could _not_ have subdued it," rejoined Amabel "Night and day, I have passed in supplicating the Great Power that implanted this fatal passion in my breast, and, at length, my prayers have prevailed." "Aha! we have a devotee here!" thought Charles. "Am I to understand, fair saint, that you would reject the earl, if he were to offer you his hand?" he asked. "Unquestionably," replied Amabel, firmly. "This is strange," muttered Charles. "The girl is evidently in earnest. What says your lordship?" he added to Rochester. "That she shall be mine, whether she loves me or not," replied the earl. "My pride is piqued to the conquest." "No wonder!--the resistless Rochester flouted by a grocer's daughter. Ha! ha!" observed Charles, laughing, while the rest of the courtiers joined in his merriment. "Oh! sire," exclaimed Amabel, throwing herself at the king's feet, and bursting into tears, "do not abandon me, I beseech you. I cannot requite the earl's attachment--and shall die if he continues his pursuit. Command him--oh! command him to desist." "I fear you have not dealt fairly with me, sweetheart," said the king. "There is a well-favoured youth without, whom the earl pointed out as your father's apprentice. Have you transferred your affections to him?" "Your majesty has solved the enigma," observed Rochester, bitterly. "You wrong me, my lord," replied Amabel. "Leonard Holt is without. Let him be brought into the royal presence and interrogated; and if he will affirm that I have given him the slightest encouragement by look or word, or even state that he himself indulges a hope of holding a place in my regards, I will admit there is some foundation for the charge. I pray your majesty to send for him." "It is needless," replied Charles, coldly. "I do not doubt your assertion. But you will do the earl an injustice as well as yourself, if you do not allow him a fair hearing." "If you will allow me five minutes alone with you, Amabel, or will take a single turn with me on the terrace, I will engage to remove every doubt," insinuated Rochester. "You would fail to do so, my lord," replied Amabel. "The time is gone by when those accents, once so winning in my ear, can move me." "At least give me the opportunity," implored the earl. "No," replied Amabel, decidedly, "I will never willingly meet you more; for though I am firm in my purpose, I do not think it right to expose myself to temptation. And now that I have put your majesty in full possession of my sentiments," she added to the king; "now that I have told you with what bitter tears I have striven to wash out my error,--I implore you to extend your protecting hand towards me, and to save me from further persecution on the part of the earl." "I shall remain at this place to-night," returned Charles. "Take till to-morrow to consider of it, and if you continue in the same mind, your request shall be granted." "At least, enjoin the earl to leave me unmolested till then," cried Amabel. "Hum!" exclaimed the king, exchanging a look with Rochester. "For pity, sire, do not hesitate," cried Amabel, in a tone of such agony that the good-natured monarch could not resist it. "Well, well," he rejoined; "it shall be as you desire. Rochester, you have heard our promise, and will act in conformity with it." The earl bowed carelessly. "Nay, nay, my lord," pursued Charles, authoritatively, "my commands _shall_ be obeyed, and if you purpose otherwise, I will place you under restraint." "Your majesty's wishes are sufficient restraint," rejoined Rochester; "I am all obedience." "It is well," replied Charles. "Are you satisfied, fair damsel?" "Perfectly," replied Amabel. And making a profound and grateful reverence to the king, she retired. Nizza Macascree met her at the door, and it was fortunate she did so, or Amabel, whose strength began to fail her, would otherwise have fallen. While she was thus engaged, Charles caught sight of the piper's daughter, and being greatly struck by her beauty, inquired her name. "Odds fish!" he exclaimed, when informed of it by Rochester, "a piper's daughter! She is far more beautiful than your mistress." "If I procure her for your majesty, will you withdraw your interdiction from me?" rejoined the earl. "No--no--that is impossible, after the pledge I have given," replied Charles. "But you must bring this lovely creature to me anon. I am enchanted with her, and do not regret this long ride, since it has brought her under my notice." "Your majesty's wishes shall be obeyed," said Rochester. "I will not wait till to-morrow for an interview with Amabel," he added to himself. Supported by Nizza Macascree and her aunt, and followed by Leonard, Amabel contrived to reach her own chamber, and as soon as she was sufficiently recovered from the agitation she had experienced, detailed to them all that had passed in her interview with the king. While the party were consulting together as to the course to be pursued in this emergency, the tap of a wand was heard at the door, and the summons being answered by Mrs. Buscot, she found one of the ushers without, who informed her it was the king's pleasure that no one should leave the house till the following day, without his permission. "To insure obedience to his orders," continued the usher, "his majesty requires that the keys of the stables be delivered to the keeping of his chief page, Mr. Chiffinch, who has orders, together with myself, to keep watch during the night." So saying, he bowed and retired, while Mrs. Buscot returned with this new and alarming piece of intelligence to the others. "Why should the mandate be respected?" cried Leonard, indignantly. "We have committed no crime, and ought not to be detained prisoners. Trust to me, and I will find some means of eluding their vigilance. If you will remain here to-morrow," he added to Amabel, "you are lost." "Do not expect any rational advice from me, my dear niece," observed Mrs. Buscot, "for I am fairly bewildered." "Shall I not forfeit the king's protection by disobeying his injunctions?" replied Amabel. "I am safer here than if I were to seek a new asylum, which would be speedily discovered." "Heaven grant you may not have cause to repent your decision!" cried Leonard, despondingly. "I must now, perforce, quit you, my dear niece," said Mrs. Buscot, "though it breaks my heart to do so. His majesty's arrival has thrown everything into confusion, and if I do not look after the supper, which is commanded at an early hour, it will never be ready. As it is, there will be nothing fit to set before him. What with my distress about you, and my anxiety about the royal repast, I am well-nigh beside myself." With this, she quitted the room, and Amabel signifying to Leonard that she desired to be left alone with Nizza Macascree, he departed at the same time. As Mrs. Buscot had stated, the utmost confusion prevailed below. The royal purveyor and cook, who formed part of the king's suite, were busily employed in the kitchen, and though they had the whole household at their command, they made rather slow progress at first, owing to the want of materials. In a short time, however, this difficulty was remedied. Ducks were slaughtered by the dozen; fowls by the score, and a couple of fat geese shared the same fate. The store ponds were visited for fish by John Lutcombe; and as the country abounded with game, a large supply of pheasants, partridges, and rabbits was speedily procured by the keeper and his assistants. Amongst others, Blaize lent a helping-hand in this devastation of the poultry-yard, and he had just returned to the kitchen, and commenced plucking one of the geese, when he was aroused by a slap on the shoulder, and looking up, beheld Pillichody. "What ho! my little Blaize, my physic-taking porter," cried the bully; "how wags the world with you? And how is my pretty Patience? How is that peerless kitchen-maiden? By the god of love! I am dying to behold her again." "Patience is well enough, for aught I know," replied Blaize, in a surly tone. "But it is useless for you to think of her. She is betrothed to me." "I know it," replied Pillichody; "but do not suppose you are the sole master of her affections. The little charmer has too good taste for that. 'Blaize,' said she to me, 'will do very well for a husband, but he cannot expect me to continue faithful to him.'" "Cannot I?" exclaimed the porter reddening. "Fiends take her! but I do! When did she say this?" "When I last visited your master's house," replied Pillichody. "Sweet soul! I shall never forget her tender looks, nor the kisses she allowed me to snatch from her honeyed lips when your back was turned. The very recollection of them is enchanting." "Zounds and fury!" cried Blaize, transported with rage. "If I am only a porter, while you pretend to be a major, I will let you see I am the better man of the two." And taking the goose by the neck, he swung it round his head like a flail, and began to batter Pillichody about the face with it. "S'death!" cried the bully, endeavouring to draw his sword, "if you do not instantly desist, I will treat you like that accursed bird--cut your throat, pluck, stuff, roast, and eat you afterwards." He was, however, so confounded by the attack, that he could offer no resistance, and in retreating, caught his foot against the leg of a table, and fell backwards on the floor. Being now completely at the porter's mercy, and seeing that the latter was preparing to pursue his advantage with a rolling-pin which he had snatched from the dresser, he besought him piteously to spare him. "Recant all you have said," cried Blaize, brandishing the rolling-pin over him. "Confess that you have calumniated Patience. Confess that she rejected your advances, if you ever dared to make any to her. Confess that she is a model of purity and constancy. Confess all this, villain, or I will break every bone in your body." "I do confess it," replied Pillichody, abjectly. "She is all you describe. She never allowed me greater freedom than a squeeze of the hand." "That was too much," replied the porter, belabouring him with the rolling-pin. "Swear that you will never attempt such a liberty again, or I will pummel you to death. Swear it." "I swear," replied Pillichody. "Before I allow you to rise, I must disarm you to prevent mischief," cried Blaize. And kneeling down upon the prostrate bully, who groaned aloud, he drew his long blade from his side. "There, now you may get up," he added. So elated was Blaize with his conquest, that he could do nothing for some time but strut up and down the kitchen with the sword over his shoulder, to the infinite diversion of the other domestics, and especially of John Lutcombe, who chanced to make his appearance at the time, laden with a fresh supply of game. "Why, Blaize, man," cried the keeper, approvingly, "I did not give you credit for half so much spirit." "No man's courage is duly appreciated until it has been tried," rejoined Blaize. "I would combat with you, gigantic John, if Patience's fidelity were called in question." Pillichody, meanwhile, had retired with a discomfited air into a corner, where he seated himself on a stool, and eyed the porter askance, as if meditating some terrible retaliation. Secretly apprehensive of this, and thinking it becoming to act with generosity towards his foe, Blaize marched up to him, and extended his hand in token of reconciliation. To the surprise of all, Pillichody did not reject his overtures. "I have a great regard for you, friend Blaize," he said, "otherwise I should never rest till I had been repaid with terrible interest for the indignities I have endured." "Nay, heed them not," replied Blaize. "You must make allowances for the jealous feelings you excited. I love Patience better than my life." "Since you put it in that light," rejoined Pillichody, "I am willing to overlook the offence. Snakes and scorpions! no man can be a greater martyr to jealousy than myself. I killed three of my most intimate friends for merely presuming to ogle the widow of Watling-street, who would have been mine, if she had not died of the plague." "Don't talk of the plague, I beseech you," replied Blaize, with a shudder. "It is a subject never mentioned here." "I am sorry I alluded to it, then," rejoined Pillichody. "Give me back my sword. Nay, fear nothing. I entirely forgive you, and am willing to drown the remembrance of our quarrel in a bottle of sack." Readily assenting to the proposition, Blaize obtained the key of the cellar from the butler, and adjourning thither with Pillichody, they seated themselves on a cask with a bottle of sack and a couple of large glasses on a stool between them. "I suppose you know why I am come hither?" observed the major, smacking his lips after his second bumper. "Not precisely," replied Blaize. "But I presume your visit has some reference to Mistress Amabel." "A shrewd guess," rejoined Pillichody. "And this reminds me that we have omitted to drink her health." "Her better health," returned Blaize, emptying his glass. "Heaven be praised! she has plucked up a little since we came here." "She would soon be herself again if she were united to the Earl of Rochester," said Pillichody. "There you are wrong," replied Blaize. "She declares she has no longer any regard for him." "Mere caprice, believe me," rejoined Pillichody. "She loves him better than ever." "It may be so," returned Blaize; "for Patience, who ought to know something of the matter, assured me she was dying for the earl; and if she had not told me the contrary herself, I should not have believed it." "Did she tell you so in the presence of Leonard?" asked Pillichody. "Why, now I bethink me, he _was_ present," replied Blaize, involuntarily putting his hand to his shoulder, as he recalled the horsewhipping he had received on that occasion. "I knew it!" cried Pillichody. "She is afraid to confess her attachment to the earl. Is Leonard as much devoted to her as ever?" "I fancy so," replied Blaize, "but she certainly gives _him_ no encouragement." "Confirmation!" exclaimed Pillichody. "But fill your glass. We will drink to the earl's speedy union with Amabel." "Not so loud," cried Blaize, looking uneasily round the cellar. "I should not like Leonard to overhear us." "Neither should I," returned Pillichody, "for I have something to say to you respecting him." "You need not propose any more plans for carrying off Amabel," cried Blaize, "for I won't take any part in them." "I have no such intention," rejoined Pillichody. "The truth is," he added, mysteriously, "I am inclined to side with you and Leonard. But as we have finished our bottle, suppose we take a turn in the court-yard." "With all my heart," replied Blaize. Immediately after Amabel's departure Charles proceeded with his courtiers to the garden, and continued to saunter up and down the terrace for some time, during which he engaged Rochester in conversation, so as to give him no pretext for absenting himself. The king next ascended to the belvedere, and having surveyed the prospect from it, was about to descend when he caught a glimpse of Nizza Macascree on the great staircase, and instantly flew towards her. "I must have a word with you, sweetheart," he cried, taking her hand, which she did not dare to withdraw. Ready to sink with confusion, Nizza suffered herself to be led towards the receiving-room. Motioning to the courtiers to remain without, Charles entered it with his blushing companion, and after putting several questions to her, which she answered with great timidity and modesty, inquired into the state of her heart. "Answer me frankly," he said. "Are your affections engaged?" "Since your majesty deigns to interest yourself so much about me," replied Nizza, "I will use no disguise. They are." "To whom?" demanded the king. "To Leonard Holt," was the answer. "What! the apprentice who brought Amabel hither!" cried the king. "Why, the Earl of Rochester seemed to intimate that he was in love with Amabel. Is it so?" "I cannot deny it," replied Nizza, hanging down her head. "If this is the case, it is incumbent on me to provide you with a new lover," replied Charles. "What will you say, sweetheart, if I tell you, you have made a royal conquest?" "I should tremble to hear it," replied Nizza. "But your majesty is jesting with me." "On my soul, no!" rejoined the king, passionately. "I have never seen beauty equal to yours, sweetheart--never have been so suddenly, so completely captivated before." "Oh! do not use this language towards me, my liege," replied Nizza, dropping on her knee before him. "I am unworthy your notice. My heart is entirely given to Leonard Holt." "You will speedily forget him in the brilliant destiny which awaits you, child," returned Charles, raising her. "Do not bestow another thought on the senseless dolt who can prefer Amabel's sickly charms to your piquant attractions. By Heaven! you shall be mine." "Never!" exclaimed Nizza, extricating herself from his grasp, and rushing towards the door. "You fly in vain," cried the king, laughingly pursuing her. As he spoke the door opened, and Sir Paul Parravicin entered the room. The knight started on seeing how matters stood, and the king looked surprised and angry. Taking advantage of their embarrassment, Nizza made good her retreat, and hurrying to Amabel's chamber, closed and bolted the door. "What is the matter?" cried Amabel, startled by her agitated appearance. "Sir Paul Parravicin is here," replied Nizza. "I have seen him. But that is not all. I am unlucky enough to have attracted the king's fancy. He has terrified me with his proposals." "Our persecution is never to end," rejoined Amabel; "you are as unfortunate as myself." "And there is no possibility of escape," returned Nizza, bursting into tears; "we are snared like birds in the nets of the fowler." "You can fly with Leonard if you choose," replied Amabel. "And leave you--impossible!" rejoined Nizza. "There is nothing for it, then, but resignation," returned Amabel. "Let us put a firm trust in Heaven, and no ill can befall us." After passing several hours of the greatest disquietude, they were about to retire to rest, when Mrs. Buscot tapped at the door, and making herself known, was instantly admitted. "Alas!" she cried, clasping her niece round the neck, "I tremble to tell you what I have heard. Despite the king's injunctions, the wicked Earl of Rochester is determined to see you before morning, and to force you to compliance with his wishes. You must fly as soon as it is dark." "But how am I to fly, dear aunt?" rejoined Amabel. "You yourself know that the keys of the stable are taken away, and that two of the king's attendants will remain on the watch all night. How will it be possible to elude their vigilance?" "Leave Leonard to manage it," replied Mrs. Buscot. "Only prepare to set out. John Lutcombe will guide you across the downs to Kingston Lisle, where good Mrs. Compton will take care of you, and when the danger is over you can return to me." "It is a hazardous expedient," rejoined Amabel, "and I would rather run all risks, and remain here. If the earl should resort to violence, I can appeal to the king for protection." "If you have any regard for me, fly," cried Nizza Macascree. "I am lost if I remain here till to-morrow." "For _your_ sake I will go, then," returned Amabel. "But I have a foreboding that I am running into the teeth of danger." "Oh! say not so," rejoined Mrs. Buscot. "I am persuaded it is for the best. I must leave you now, but I will send Leonard to you." "It is needless," replied Amabel. "Let him come to us at the proper time. We will be ready." To explain the cause of Mrs. Buscot's alarm, it will be necessary to return to the receiving-room, and ascertain what occurred after Nizza's flight. Charles, who at first had been greatly annoyed by Parravicin's abrupt entrance, speedily recovered his temper, and laughed at the other's forced apologies. "I find I have a rival in your majesty," observed the knight. "It is unlucky for me that you have encountered Nizza. Her charms were certain to inflame you. But when I tell you I am desperately enamoured of her, I am persuaded you will not interfere with me." "I will tell you what I will do," replied the good-humoured monarch, after a moment's reflection. "I remember your mentioning that you once played with a Captain Disbrowe for his wife, and won her from him. We will play for this girl in the same manner." "But your majesty is a far more skilful player than Disbrowe," replied Parravicin, reluctantly. "It matters not," rejoined the monarch; "the chances will be more equal--or rather the advantage will be greatly on your side, for you are allowed to be the luckiest and best player at my court. If I win, she is mine. If, on the contrary, fortune favours you, I resign her." "Since there is no avoiding it, I accept the challenge," replied Parravicin. "The decision shall not be delayed an instant," cried Charles, "What, ho!--dice!--dice!" An attendant answering the summons, he desired that the other courtiers should be admitted, and dice brought. The latter order could not be so easily obeyed, there being no such articles at Ashdown; and the attendants were driven to their wits' ends, when Pillichody chancing to overhear what was going forward, produced a box and dice, which were instantly conveyed to the king, and the play commenced. Charles, to his inexpressible delight and Parravicin's chagrin, came off the winner, and the mortification of the latter was increased by the laughter and taunts of the spectators. "You are not in your usual luck to-day," observed Rochester to him, as they walked aside. "For all this, do not think I will surrender Nizza," replied Parravicin, in a low tone, "I love her too well for that." "I cannot blame you," replied Rochester. "Step this way," he added, drawing him to the further end of the room. "It is my intention to carry off Amabel to-night, notwithstanding old Rowley's injunctions to the contrary, and I propose to accomplish my purpose in the following manner. I will frighten her into flying with Leonard Holt, and will then secretly follow her. Nizza Macascree is sure to accompany her, and will, therefore, be in your power." "I see!" cried Parravicin. "A capital project!" "Pillichody has contrived to ingratiate himself with Blaize," pursued the earl, "and through him the matter can be easily managed. The keys of the stables, which are now intrusted to Chiffinch, shall be stolen--the horses set free--and the two damsels caught in the trap prepared for them, while the only person blamed in the matter will be Leonard." "Bravo!" exclaimed Parravicin. "I am impatient for the scheme to be put into execution." "I will set about it at once," returned Rochester. And separating from Parravicin, he formed some excuse for quitting the royal presence. About an hour afterwards, Pillichody sought out Blaize, and told him, with a very mysterious air, that he had something to confide to him. "You know my regard for the Earl of Rochester and Sir Paul Parravicin," he said, "and that I would do anything an honourable man ought to do to assist them. But there are certain bounds which even friendship cannot induce me to pass. They meditate the worst designs against Amabel and Nizza Macascree, and intend to accomplish their base purpose before daybreak. I therefore give you notice, that you may acquaint Leonard Holt with the dangerous situation of the poor girls, and contrive their escape in the early part of the night. I will steal the keys of the stable for you from Chiffinch, and will render you every assistance in my power. But if you are discovered, you must not betray me." "Not for the world!" replied Blaize. "I am sure we are infinitely obliged to you. It is a horrible design, and must be prevented. I wish all this flying and escaping was over. I desire to be quiet, and am quite sorry to leave this charming place." "There is no alternative now," rejoined Pillichody. "So it appears," groaned Blaize. The substance of Pillichody's communication was immediately conveyed to Leonard, who told Blaize to acquaint his informer that he should have two pieces of gold, if he brought them the keys. To obtain them was not very difficult, and the bully was aided in accomplishing the task by the Earl of Rochester in the following manner. Chiffinch was an inordinate drinker, and satisfied he could turn this failing to account, the earl went into the ball where he was stationed, and after a little conversation, called for a flask of wine. It was brought, and while they were quaffing bumpers, Pillichody, who had entered unperceived, contrived to open a table-drawer in which the keys were placed, and slip them noiselessly into his doublet. He then stole away, and delivered his prize to Blaize, receiving in return the promised reward, and chuckling to himself at the success of his roguery. The keys were conveyed by the porter to Leonard, and the latter handed them in his turn to John Lutcombe, who engaged to have the horses at the lower end of the south avenue an hour before midnight. IX. KINGSTON LISLE. About half-past ten, and when it was supposed that the king and his courtiers had retired to rest (for early hours were kept in those days), Mrs. Buscot and Leonard repaired to Amabel's chamber. The good housekeeper noticed with great uneasiness that her niece looked excessively pale and agitated, and she would have persuaded her to abandon all idea of flight, if she had not feared that her stay might be attended with still worse consequences. Before the party set out, Mrs. Buscot crept down stairs to see that all was safe, and returned almost instantly, with the very satisfactory intelligence that Chiffinch was snoring in a chair in the hall, and that the usher had probably retired to rest, as he was nowhere to be seen. Not a moment, therefore, was to be lost, and they descended the great staircase as noiselessly as possible. So far all had gone well; but on gaining the hall, Amabel's strength completely deserted her, and if Leonard had not caught her in his arms, she must have fallen. He was hurrying forward with his burden towards a passage on the right, when Chiffinch, who had been disturbed by the noise, suddenly started to his feet, and commanded him to stop. At this moment, a figure enveloped in a cloak darted from behind a door, and extinguishing the lamp which Chiffinch had taken from the table, seized him with a powerful grasp. All was now buried in darkness, and while Leonard Holt was hesitating what to do, he heard a voice, which he knew to be that of Pillichody, whisper in his ear, "Come with me--I will secure your retreat. Quick! quick!" Suffering himself to be drawn along, and closely followed by Nizza Macascree and Mrs. Buscot, Leonard crossed the dining-chamber, not without stumbling against some of the furniture by the way, and through an open window into the court, where he found Blaize awaiting him. Without waiting for thanks, Pillichody then disappeared, and Mrs. Buscot, having pointed out the course he ought to pursue, bade him farewell. Hurrying across the court, he reached the south avenue, but had not proceeded far when it became evident, from the lights at the windows, as well as from the shouts and other noises proceeding from the court, that their flight was discovered. Encumbered as he was by his lovely burden, Leonard ran on so swiftly, that Nizza Macascree and Blaize could scarcely keep up with him. They found John Lutcombe at the end of the avenue with the horses, and mounting them, set off along the downs, accompanied by the keeper, who acted as their guide. Striking off on the right, they came to a spot covered over with immense grey stones, resembling those rocky fragments used by the Druids in the construction of a cromlech, and, as it was quite dark, it required some caution in passing through them. Guided by the keeper, who here took hold of the bridle of his horse, Leonard threaded the pass with safety; but Blaize was not equally fortunate. Alarmed by the sounds in the rear, and not attending to the keeper's caution, he urged his horse on, and the animal coming in contact with a stone, stumbled, and precipitated him and Nizza Macascree to the ground. Luckily, neither of them fell against the stone, or the consequences might have been fatal. John Lutcombe instantly flew to their aid, but before he reached them, Nizza Macascree had regained her feet. Blaize, however, who was considerably shaken and bruised by the fall, was not quite so expeditious, and his dilatoriness so provoked the keeper, that, seizing him in his arms, he lifted him into the saddle. Just as Nizza Macascree was placed on the pillion behind him, the tramp of horses was heard rapidly approaching. In another moment their pursuers came up, and the foremost, whose tones proclaimed him the Earl of Rochester, commanded them to stop. Inexpressibly alarmed, Amabel could not repress a scream, and guided by the sound, the earl dashed to her side, and seized the bridle of her steed. A short struggle took place between him and Leonard, in which the hitter strove to break away; but the earl, drawing his sword, held it to his throat. "Deliver up your mistress instantly," he cried, in a menacing tone, "or you are a dead man." Leonard returned a peremptory refusal. "Hold!" exclaimed Amabel, springing from the horse; "I will not be the cause of bloodshed. I implore you, my lord, to desist from this outrage. You will gain nothing by it but my death." "Let him touch you at his peril," cried John Lutcombe, rushing towards them, and interposing his stalwart person between her and the earl. "Stand aside, dog!" cried Rochester furiously, "or I will trample you beneath my horse's hoofs." "You must first get near me to do it," rejoined the keeper. And as he spoke he struck the horse so violent a blow with a stout oaken cudgel with which he was provided, that the animal became unmanageable, and dashed across the downs to some distance with his rider. Meanwhile, Parravicin having ridden up with Pillichody (for they proved to be the earl's companions) assailed Blaize, and commanded him to deliver up Nizza Macascree. Scared almost out of his senses, the porter would have instantly complied, if the piper's daughter had not kept fast hold of him, and reproaching him with his cowardice, screamed loudly for help. Heedless of her cries, Parravicin seized her, and strove to drag her from the horse; but she only clung the closer to Blaize, and the other, expecting every moment to pay another visit to the ground, added his vociferations for assistance to hers. "Leave go your hold," he cried, to Pillichody, who had seized him on the other side by the collar. "Leave go, I say, or you will rend my jerkin asunder. What are you doing here? I thought you were to help us to escape." "So I have done," rejoined Pillichody, bursting into a loud laugh; "and I am now helping to catch you again. What a blind buzzard you must be not to perceive the net spread for you! Deliver up Nizza Macascree without more ado, or, by all the fiends, I will pay you off for your dastardly assault upon me this morning." "I cannot deliver her up," cried Blaize; "she sticks to me as fast as a burr. I shall be torn asunder between you. Help! help!" Parravicin, having dismounted, now tore away Nizza Macascree, and was just about to transfer her to his own steed, when John Lutcombe, having driven away the earl in the manner before described, came to the rescue. One blow from his cudgel stretched the knight on the sod, and liberated Nizza Macascree, who instantly flew to her preserver. Finding how matters stood, and that he was likely to be well backed, Blaize plucked up his courage, and grappled with Pillichody. In the struggle they both tumbled to the ground. The keeper rushed towards them, and seizing Pillichody, began to belabour him soundly. In vain the bully implored mercy. He underwent a severe chastisement, and Blaize added a few kicks to the shower of blows proceeding from the keeper, crying, as he dealt them, "Who is the buzzard now, I should like to know?" By this time, Parravicin had regained his legs, and the Earl of Rochester having forced back his steed, both drew their swords, and, burning for vengeance, prepared to renew the charge. The affair might have assumed a serious aspect, if it had not chanced that at this juncture lights were seen hurrying along the avenue, and the next moment, a large party issued from it. "It is the king?" cried Rochester. "What is to be done?" "Our prey must be abandoned," rejoined Parravicin; "it will never do to be caught here." With this he sprang upon his steed, and disappeared across the downs with the earl. John Lutcombe, on perceiving the approach of the torch-bearers, instantly abandoned Pillichody, and assisting Blaize to the saddle, placed Nizza behind him. Leonard, likewise, who had dismounted to support Amabel, replaced her in the pillion, and in a few seconds the party were in motion. Pillichody, who was the only person now left, did not care to wait for the king's arrival, but snatching the bridle of his steed, which was quietly grazing at a little distance, mounted him, and galloped off in the direction which he fancied had been taken by the earl and his companion. Guided by the keeper, who ran beside them, the fugitives proceeded for a couple of miles at a rapid pace over the downs, when, it not appearing that they were followed, John Lutcombe halted for a moment to recover breath. The fresh air had in some degree revived Amabel, and the circumstance of their providential deliverance raised the spirits of the whole party. Soon after this, they reached the ridge of the downs, the magnificent view from which was completely hidden by the shades of night, and, tracking the old Roman road for about a mile, descended the steep hill in the direction of the Blowing Stone. Skirting a thick grove of trees, they presently came to a gate, which the keeper opened, and led them through an orchard towards what appeared to be in the gloom a moderately-sized and comfortable habitation. "The owner of this house, Mrs. Compton," observed John Lutcombe to Amabel, "is a widow, and the kindest lady in Berkshire. A message has been sent by your aunt to beg her to afford you an asylum for a few days, and I will answer for it you will be hospitably received." As he spoke, the loud barking of a dog was heard, and an old grey-headed butler was seen advancing towards them with a lantern in his hand. At the same time a groom issued from the stable on the right, accompanied by the dog in question, and, hastening towards them, assisted them to dismount. The dog seemed to recognise the keeper, and leaped upon him, licked his hand, and exhibited other symptoms of delight. "What, Ringwood," cried the keeper, patting his head, "dost thou know thy old master again? I see you have taken good care of him, Sam," he added to the groom. "I knew I was placing him into good hands when I gave him to Mrs. Compton." "Ay, ay, he can't find a better home, I fancy," said the groom. "Will it please you to walk this way, ladies?" interposed the butler. "My mistress has been expecting you for some time, and had become quite uneasy about you." So saying, he led the way through a garden, filled with the odours of a hundred unseen flowers, and ushered them into the house. Mrs. Compton, an elderly lady, of very pleasing exterior, received them with great kindness, and conducted them to a comfortable apartment, surrounded with book-shelves and old family portraits, where refreshments were spread out for them. The good old lady seemed particularly interested in Amabel, and pressed her, but in vain, to partake of the refreshments. With extreme delicacy, she refrained from inquiring into the cause of their visit, and seeing that they appeared, much fatigued, rang for a female attendant, and conducted them to a sleeping-chamber, where she took leave of them for the night. Amabel was delighted with her kind hostess, and, contrary to her expectations and to those of Nizza Macascree, enjoyed undisturbed repose. She awoke in the morning greatly refreshed, and, after attiring herself, gazed through her chamber window. It looked upon a trim and beautiful garden, with a green and mossy plot carved out into quaintly-fashioned beds, filled with the choicest flowers, and surrounded by fine timber, amid which a tall fir-tree appeared proudly conspicuous. Mrs. Compton, who, it appeared, always arose with the sun, was busied in tending her flowers, and as Amabel watched her interesting pursuits, she could scarcely help envying her. "What a delightful life your mistress must lead," she observed to a female attendant who was present; "I cannot imagine greater happiness than hers." "My mistress ought to be happy," said the attendant; "for there is no one living who does more good. Not a cottage nor a farm-house in the neighbourhood but she visits to inquire whether she can be of any service to its inmates; and wherever her services _are_ required, they are always rendered. Mrs. Compton's name will never be forgotten in Kingston Lisle." At this moment, Amabel caught sight of the benevolent countenance of the good old lady looking up at the window, and a kindly greeting passed between them. Ringwood, who was a privileged intruder, was careering round the garden, and though his mistress watched his gambols round her favourite flower-beds with some anxiety, she did not check him. Amabel and Nizza now went down stairs, and Mrs. Compton returning from the garden, all the household, including Leonard and Blaize, assembled in the breakfast-room for morning prayers. Breakfast over, Mrs. Compton entered into conversation with Amabel, and ascertained all the particulars of her history. She was greatly interested in it, but did not affect to conceal the anxiety it gave her. "Yours is really a very dangerous position," she said, "and I should be acting unfairly towards you if I told you otherwise. However, I will give you all the protection in my power, and I trust your retreat may not be discovered." Mrs. Compton's remark did not tend to dispel Amabel's uneasiness, and both she and Nizza Macascree passed a day of great disquietude. In the mean time, Leonard and Blaize were treated with great hospitality by the old butler in the servants' hall; and though the former was not without apprehension that their retreat might be discovered, he trusted, if it were so, to some fortunate chance to effect their escape. He did not dare to confide his apprehensions to the butler, nor did the other make any inquiries; but it being understood that their visit was to be secret, every precaution was taken to keep it so. John Lutcombe had tarried no longer than enabled him to discuss a jug of ale, and then set out for Ashdown, promising to return on the following day; but he had not yet made his appearance. Evening arrived, and nothing alarming having occurred, all became comparatively easy; and Mrs. Compton herself, who had looked unusually grave throughout the day, now recovered her wonted cheerfulness. Their satisfaction, however, was not long afterwards disturbed by the arrival of a large train of horsemen at the gate, and a stately personage alighted, and walked at the head of a gallant train, towards the house. At the sight of the new-comers, whom they instantly knew were the king and his suite, Amabel and Nizza Macascree flew upstairs, and shutting themselves in their chamber, awaited the result in the utmost trepidation. They were not kept long in suspense. Shortly after the king's arrival, Mrs. Compton herself knocked at the door, and in a tone of deep commiseration, informed Amabel that his majesty desired to see her. Knowing that refusal was impossible, Amabel complied, and descended to a room looking upon the garden, in which she found the king. He was attended only by Chiffinch, and received her with a somewhat severe aspect, and demanded why she had left Ashdown contrary to his express injunctions? Amabel stated her motives. "What you tell me is by no means satisfactory," rejoined the king; "but since you have chosen to trust to yourself, you can no longer look for protection from me." "I beseech your majesty to consider the strait into which I was driven," returned Amabel, imploringly. "Summon the Earl of Rochester to the presence," said the king, turning from her to Chiffinch. "In pity, sire," cried Amabel, throwing herself at his feet. "Let the injunction be obeyed," rejoined Charles, peremptorily. And the chief page departed. Amabel instantly arose, and drew herself proudly up. Soon afterwards, Rochester made his appearance, and on seeing Amabel, a flush of triumphant joy overspread his features. "I withdraw my interdiction, my lord," said the king to him. "You are at liberty to renew your suit to this girl." "Hear me, Lord Rochester," said Amabel, addressing the earl; "I have conquered the passion I once felt for you, and regard you only as one who has sought my ruin, and from whom I have fortunately escaped. When you learn from my own lips that my heart is dead to you, that I never can love you more, and that I only desire to be freed from your addresses, I cannot doubt but you will discontinue them." "Your declaration only inflames me the more, lovely Amabel," replied the earl, passionately. "You must, and shall be mine." "Then my death will rest at your door," she rejoined. "I will take my chance of that," rejoined the earl, carelessly. Amabel then quitted the king's presence, and returned to her own chamber, where she found Nizza Macascree in a state of indescribable agitation. "All has happened that I anticipated," said she to Nizza Macascree. "The king will no longer protect me, and I am exposed to the persecutions of the Earl of Rochester, who is here." As she spoke, an usher entered, and informed Nizza Macascree that the king commanded her presence. The piper's daughter looked at Amabel with a glance of unutterable anguish. "I fear you must go," said Amabel, "but Heaven will protect you!" They then tenderly embraced each other, and Nizza Macascree departed with the usher. Some time having elapsed, and Nizza not returning, Amabel became seriously uneasy. Hearing a noise below, she looked forth from the window, and perceived the king and all his train departing. A terrible foreboding shot through her heart. She gazed anxiously after them, but could not perceive Nizza Macascree. Overcome at last by her anxiety, she rushed down stairs, and had just reached the last step, when she was seized by two persons. A shawl was passed over her head, and she was forced out of the house. * * * * * BOOK THE FOURTH. SEPTEMBER, 1665. I. THE PLAGUE AT ITS HEIGHT. Amabel's departure for Berkshire caused no change in her father's mode of life. Everything proceeded as before within his quiet dwelling; and, except that the family were diminished in number, all appeared the same. It is true they wanted the interest, and indeed the occupation, afforded them by the gentle invalid, but in other respects, no difference was observable. Devotional exercises, meals, the various duties of the house, and cheerful discourse, filled up the day, which never proved wearisome. The result proved the correctness of Mr. Bloundel's judgment. While the scourge continued weekly to extend its ravages throughout the city, it never crossed his threshold; and, except suffering in a slight degree from scorbutic affections, occasioned by the salt meats to which they were now confined, and for which the lemon and lime-juice, provided against such a contingency, proved an efficacious remedy, all the family enjoyed perfect health. For some weeks after her separation from her daughter, Mrs. Bloundel continued in a desponding state, but after that time she became more reconciled to the deprivation, and partially recovered her spirits. Mr. Bloundel did not dare to indulge a hope that Amabel would ever return; but though he suffered much in secret, he never allowed his grief to manifest itself. The circumstance that he had not received any intelligence of her did not weigh much with him, because the difficulty of communication became greater and greater, as each week the scourge increased in violence, and he was inclined to take no news as good news. It was not so in the present case, but of this he was happily ignorant. In this way, a month passed on. And now every other consideration was merged in the alarm occasioned by the daily increasing fury of the pestilence. Throughout July the excessive heat of the weather underwent no abatement, but in place of the clear atmosphere that had prevailed during the preceding month, unwholesome blights filled the air, and, confining the pestilential effluvia, spread the contagion far and wide with extraordinary rapidity. Not only was the city suffocated with heat, but filled with noisome smells, arising from the carcasses with which the close alleys and other out-of-the-way places were crowded, and which were so far decomposed as not to be capable of removal. The aspect of the river was as much changed as that of the city. Numbers of bodies were thrown into it, and, floating up with the tide, were left to taint the air on its banks, while strange, ill-omened fowl, attracted thither by their instinct, preyed upon them. Below the bridge, all captains of ships moored in the Pool, or off Wapping, held as little communication as possible with those on shore, and only received fresh provisions with the greatest precaution. As the plague increased, most of these removed lower down the river, and many of them put out entirely to sea. Above the bridge, most of the wherries and other smaller craft had disappeared, their owners having taken them up the river, and moored them against its banks at different spots, where they lived in them under tilts. Many hundreds of persons remained upon the river in this way during the whole continuance of the visitation. August had now arrived, but the distemper knew no cessation. On the contrary, it manifestly increased in violence and malignity. The deaths rose a thousand in each week, and in the last week in this fatal month amounted to upwards of sixty thousand! But, terrible as this was, the pestilence had not yet reached its height. Hopes were entertained that when the weather became cooler, its fury would abate; but these anticipations were fearfully disappointed. The bills of mortality rose the first week in September to seven thousand, and though they slightly decreased during the second week--awakening a momentary hope--on the third they advanced to twelve thousand! In less than ten days, upwards of two thousand persons perished in the parish of Aldgate alone; while Whitechapel suffered equally severely. Out of the hundred parishes in and about the city, one only, that of Saint John the Evangelist in Watling-street, remained uninfected, and this merely because there was scarcely a soul left within it, the greater part of the inhabitants having quitted their houses, and fled into the country. The deepest despair now seized upon all the survivors. Scarcely a family but had lost half of its number--many, more than half--while those who were left felt assured that their turn would speedily arrive. Even the reckless were appalled, and abandoned their evil courses. Not only were the dead lying in the passages and alleys, but even in the main thoroughfares, and none would remove them. The awful prediction of Solomon Eagle that "grass would grow in the streets, and that the living should not be able to bury the dead," had come to pass. London had become one vast lazar-house, and seemed in a fair way of becoming a mighty sepulchre. During all this time, Saint Paul's continued to be used as a pest-house, but it was not so crowded as heretofore, because, as not one in fifty of the infected recovered when placed under medical care, it was not thought worth while to remove them from their own abodes. The number of attendants, too, had diminished. Some had died, but the greater part had abandoned their offices from a fear of sharing the fate of their patients. In consequence of these changes, Judith Malmayns had been advanced to the post of chief nurse at the cathedral. Both she and Chowles had been attacked by the plague, and both had recovered. Judith attended the coffin-maker, and it was mainly owing to her that he got through the attack. She never left him for a moment, and would never suffer any one to approach him--a necessary precaution, as he was so much alarmed by his situation that he would infallibly have made some awkward revelations. When Judith, in her turn, was seized, Chowles exhibited no such consideration for her, and scarcely affected to conceal his disappointment at her recovery. This want of feeling on his part greatly incensed her against him, and though he contrived in some degree to appease her, it was long before she entirely forgave him. Far from being amended by her sufferings, she seemed to have grown more obdurate, and instantly commenced a fresh career of crime. It was not, however, necessary now to hasten the end of the sick. The distemper had acquired such force and malignity that it did its work quickly enough--often too quickly--and all she sought was to obtain possession of the poor patients' attire, or any valuables they might possess worth appropriating. To turn to the brighter side of the picture, it must not be omitted that when the pestilence was at its height, and no offers could induce the timorous to venture forth, or render assistance to the sufferers, Sir John Lawrence the Lord Mayor, the Duke of Albermarle, the Earl of Craven, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, devoted themselves to the care of the infected, and supplied them with every necessary they required. Among the physicians, no one deserves more honourable mention than Doctor Hodges, who was unremitting in his attentions to the sufferers. To return to the grocer. While the plague was thus raging around him, and while every house in Wood-street except one or two, from which the inmates had fled, was attacked by the pestilence, he and his family had remained untouched. About the middle of August, he experienced a great alarm. His second son, Hubert, fell sick, and he removed him to one of the upper rooms which he had set aside as an hospital, and attended upon him himself. In a few days, however, his fears were removed and he found, to his great satisfaction, that the youth had not been attacked by the plague, but was only suffering from a slight fever, which quickly yielded to the remedies applied. About the same time, too, he lost his porter, Dallison. The poor fellow did not make his appearance as usual for two days, and intelligence of his fate was brought on the following day by his wife, who came to state that her husband was dead, and had been thrown into the plague-pit at Aldgate. The same night, however, she brought another man, named Allestry, who took the place of the late porter, and acquainted his employer with the deplorable state of the city. Two days afterwards, Allestry himself died, and Mr. Bloundel had no one to replace him. He thus lost all means of ascertaining what was going forward; but the deathlike stillness around him, broken only by the hoarse tolling of a bell, by a wild shriek or other appalling cry, proclaimed too surely the terrible state of things. Sometimes, too, a passenger would go by, and would tell him the dreadful height to which the bills of mortality had risen, assuring him that ere another month had expired, not a soul would be left alive in London. One night, as Solomon Eagle, who had likewise been miraculously preserved, pursued his course through the streets, he paused before Mr. Roundel's house, and looking up at the window, at which the latter had chanced to be stationed, cried in a loud voice, "Be of good cheer. You have served God faithfully, and there shall no evil befall you, neither shall the plague come nigh your dwelling." And raising his arms, as if invoking a blessing upon the habitation, he departed. It was now the second week in September, and as yet Mr. Bloundel had received no tidings of his daughter. At any other season he would have been seriously uneasy, but now, as has been already stated, all private grief was swallowed up in the horror of the general calamity. Satisfied that she was in a healthful situation, and that her chance of preservation from the pestilence was better than that of any other member of his family, he turned his thoughts entirely to them. Redoubling his precautions, he tried by every means to keep up the failing spirits of his household, and but rarely ventured to open his shutter, and look forth on the external world. On the tenth of September, which was afterwards accounted the most fatal day of this fatal month, a young man of a very dejected appearance, and wearing the traces of severe suffering in his countenance, entered the west end of London, and took his way slowly towards the city. He had passed Saint Giles's without seeing a single living creature, or the sign of one in any of the houses. The broad thoroughfare was completely grown over with grass, and the habitations had the most melancholy and deserted air imaginable. Some doors and windows were wide open, discovering rooms with goods and furniture scattered about, having been left in this state by their inmates; but most part of them were closely fastened up. As he proceeded along Holborn, the ravages of the scourge were yet more apparent. Every house, on either side of the way, had a red cross, with the fatal inscription above it, upon the door. Here and there, a watchman might be seen, looking more like a phantom than a living thing. Formerly, the dead were conveyed away at night, but now the carts went about in the daytime. On reaching Saint Andrew's, Holborn, several persons were seen wheeling hand-barrows filled with corpses, scarcely covered with clothing, and revealing the blue and white stripes of the pestilence, towards a cart which was standing near the church gates. The driver of the vehicle, a tall, cadaverous-looking man, was ringing his bell, and jesting with another person, whom the young man recognised, with a shudder, as Chowles. The coffin-maker also recognised him at the same moment, and called to him, but the other paid no attention to the summons and passed on. Crossing Holborn Bridge, he toiled faintly up the opposite hill, for he was evidently suffering from extreme debility, and on gaining the summit was obliged to support himself against a wall for a few minutes, before he could proceed. The same frightful evidences of the ravages of the pestilence were observable here, as elsewhere. The houses were all marked with the fatal cross, and shut up. Another dead-cart was heard rumbling along, accompanied by the harsh cries of the driver, and the doleful ringing of the bell. The next moment the loathly vehicle was seen coming along the Old Bailey. It paused before a house, from which four bodies were brought, and then passed on towards Smithfield. Watching its progress with fearful curiosity, the young man noted how often it paused to increase its load. His thoughts, coloured by the scene, were of the saddest and dreariest complexion. All around wore the aspect of death. The few figures in sight seemed staggering towards the grave, and the houses appeared to be plague-stricken like the inhabitants. The heat was intolerably oppressive, and the air tainted with noisome exhalations. Ever and anon, a window would be opened, and a ghastly face thrust from it, while a piercing shriek, or lamentable cry, was uttered. No business seemed going on--there were no passengers--no vehicles in the streets. The mighty city was completely laid prostrate. After a short rest, the young man shaped his course towards Saint Paul's, and on reaching its western precincts, gazed for some time at the reverend structure, as if its contemplation called up many and painful recollections. Tears started to his eyes, and he was about to turn away, when he perceived the figure of Solomon Eagle stationed near the cross at the western extremity of the roof. The enthusiast caught sight of him at the same moment, and motioned him to come nearer. "What has happened?" he demanded, as the other approached the steps of the portico. The young man shook his head mournfully. "It is a sad tale," he said, "and cannot be told now." "I can conjecture what it is," replied Solomon Eagle. "But come to the small door near the northern entrance of the cathedral at midnight. I will meet you there." "I will not fail," replied the young man. "One of the terrible judgments which I predicted would befall this devoted city has come to pass," cried Solomon Eagle. "Another yet remains--the judgment by fire--and if its surviving inhabitants repent not, of which there is as yet no sign, it will assuredly follow." "Heaven avert it!" groaned the other, turning away. Proceeding along Cheapside, he entered Wood-street, and took his way towards the grocer's dwelling. When at a little distance from it, he paused, and some minutes elapsed before he could muster strength to go forward. Here, as elsewhere, there were abundant indications of the havoc occasioned by the fell disease. Not far from the grocer's shop, and in the middle of the street, lay the body of a man, with the face turned upwards, while crouching in an angle of the wall sat a young woman watching it. As the young man drew nearer, he recognised in the dead man the principal of the Brotherhood of Saint Michael, and in the poor mourner one of his profligate female associates. "What has become of your unhappy companions?" he demanded of the woman. "The last of them lies there," she rejoined mournfully. "All the rest died long ago. My lover was true to his vow; and instead of deploring their fate, lived with me and three other women in mirth and revelry till yesterday, when the three women died, and he fell sick. He did not, however, give in, but continued carousing until an hour before his death." Too much shocked to make any reply, the young man proceeded towards the hutch. Beneath a doorway, at a little distance from it, sat a watchman with a halberd on his shoulder, guarding the house; but it was evident he would be of little further use. His face was covered with his hands, and his groans proclaimed that he himself was attacked by the pestilence. Entering the hutch, the young man pulled the cord of the bell, and the summons was soon after answered by the grocer, who appeared at the window. "What, Leonard Holt!" he exclaimed, in surprise, on seeing the young man--"is it you?--what ails you?--you look frightfully ill." "I have been attacked a second time by the plague," replied the apprentice, "and am only just recovered from it." "What of my child?" cried the grocer eagerly--"what of her?" "Alas! alas!" exclaimed the apprentice. "Do not keep me in suspense," rejoined the grocer. "Is she dead?" "No, not dead," replied the apprentice, "but--" "But what?" ejaculated the grocer. "In Heaven's name, speak!" "These letters will tell you all," replied the apprentice, producing a packet. "I had prepared them to send to you in case of my death. I am not equal to further explanation now." With trembling eagerness the grocer lowered the rope, and Leonard having tied the packet to it, it was instantly drawn up. Notwithstanding his anxiety to ascertain the fate of Amabel, Mr. Bloundel would not touch the packet until he had guarded against the possibility of being infected by it. Seizing it with a pair of tongs, he plunged it into a pan containing a strong solution of vinegar and sulphur, which he had always in readiness in the chamber, and when thoroughly saturated, laid it in the sun to dry. On first opening the shutter to answer Leonard's summons, he had flashed off a pistol, and he now thought to expel the external air by setting fire to a ball composed of quick brimstone, saltpetre, and yellow amber, which being placed on an iron plate, speedily filled the room with a thick vapour, and prevented the entrance of any obnoxious particles. These precautions taken, he again addressed himself, while the packet was drying, to Leonard, whom he found gazing anxiously at the window, and informed him that all his family had hitherto escaped contagion. "A special providence must have watched over you, sir," replied the apprentice, "and I believe yours is the only family in the whole city that has been so spared. I have reason to be grateful for my own extraordinary preservation, and yet I would rather it had pleased Heaven to take me away than leave me to my present misery." "You keep me in a frightful state of suspense, Leonard," rejoined the grocer, regarding the packet wistfully, "for I dare not open your letters till they are thoroughly fumigated. You assure me my child is living. Has she been attacked by the plague?" "Would she had!" groaned Leonard. "Is she still at Ashdown?" pursued the grocer. "Ah! you shake your head. I see!--I must be beside myself not to have thought of it before. She is in the power of the Earl of Rochester." "She is," cried Leonard, catching at the angle of the shed for support. "And I am here!" exclaimed Mr. Bloundel, forgetting his caution, and thrusting himself far out of the window, as if with the intention of letting himself down by the rope--"I am here, when I ought to be near her!" "Calm yourself, I beseech you, sir," cried Leonard; "a moment's rashness will undo all you have done." "True!" replied the grocer, checking himself. "I must think of others as well as of her. But where is she? Hide nothing from me." "I have reason to believe she is in London," replied the apprentice. "I traced her hither, and should not have desisted from my search if I had not been checked by the plague, which attacked me on the night of my arrival. I was taken to the pesthouse near Westbourne Green, where I have been for the last three weeks." "If she was brought to London, as you state," rejoined the grocer, "I cannot doubt but she has fallen a victim to the scourge." "It may be," replied Leonard, moodily, "and I would almost hope it is so. When you peruse my letters, you will learn that she was carried off by the earl from the residence of a lady at Kingston Lisle, whither she had been removed for safety; and after being taken from place to place, was at last conveyed to an old hall in the neighbourhood of Oxford, where she was concealed for nearly a month." "Answer me, Leonard," cried the grocer, "and do not attempt to deceive me. Has she preserved her honour?" "Up to the time of quitting Oxford she had preserved it," replied the apprentice. "She herself assured me she had resisted all the earl's importunities, and would die rather than yield to him. But I will tell you how I obtained an interview with her. After a long search, I discovered the place of her concealment, the old hall I have just mentioned, and climbed in the night, and at the hazard of my life, to the window of the chamber where she was confined. I saw and spoke with her; and having arranged a plan by which I hoped to accomplish her deliverance on the following night, descended. Whether our brief conference was overheard, and communicated to the earl, I know not; but it would seem so, for he secretly departed with her the next morning, taking the road, as I subsequently learnt, to London. I instantly started in pursuit, and had reached Paddington, when I fell ill, as I have related." "What you tell me in some measure eases my mind," replied Mr. Bloundel, after a pause; "for I feel that my daughter, if alive, will be able to resist her persecutor. What has become of your companions?" "Nizza Macascree has met with the same fate as Amabel," replied Leonard. "She was unfortunate enough to attract the king's attention, when he visited Ashdown Lodge in company of the Earl of Rochester, and was conveyed to Oxford, where the court is now held, and must speedily have fallen a victim to her royal lover if she had not disappeared, having been carried off, it was supposed, by Sir Paul Parravicin. But the villain was frustrated in his infamous design. The king's suspicion falling upon him, he was instantly arrested; and though he denied all knowledge of Nizza's retreat, and was afterwards liberated, his movements were so strictly watched, that he had no opportunity of visiting her." "You do not mention Blaize," said Mr. Bloundel. "No ill, I trust, has befallen him?" "I grieve to say he has been attacked by the distemper he so much dreaded," replied Leonard. "He accompanied me to London, but quitted me when I fell sick, and took refuge with a farmer named Wingfield, residing near Kensal Green. I accidentally met Wingfield this morning, and he informed me that Blaize was taken ill the day before yesterday, and removed to the pest-house in Finsbury Fields. I will go thither presently, and see what has become of him. Is Doctor Hodges still among the living?" "I trust so," replied Mr. Bloundel, "though I have not seen him for the last ten days." He then disappeared for a few minutes, and on his return lowered a small basket containing a flask of canary, a loaf which he himself had baked, and a piece of cold boiled beef. The apprentice thankfully received the provisions, and retiring to the hutch, began to discuss them, fortifying himself with a copious draught of canary. Having concluded his repast, he issued forth, and acquainting Mr. Bloundel, who had at length ventured to commence reading the contents of the packet by the aid of powerful glasses, that he was about to proceed to Dr. Hodges's residence, to inquire after him, set off in that direction. Arrived in Great Knightrider-street, he was greatly shocked at finding the door of the doctor's habitation fastened, nor could he make any one hear, though he knocked loudly and repeatedly against it. The shutters of the lower windows were closed, and the place looked completely deserted. All the adjoining houses were shut up, and not a living being could be discerned in the street from whom information could be obtained relative to the physician. Here, as elsewhere, the pavement was overgrown with grass, and the very houses had a strange and melancholy look, as if sharing in the general desolation. On looking down a narrow street leading to the river, Leonard perceived a flock of poultry scratching among the staves in search of food, and instinctively calling them, they flew towards him, as if delighted at the unwonted sound of a human voice. These, and a half-starved cat, were the only things living that he could perceive. At the further end of the street he caught sight of the river, speeding in its course towards the bridge, and scarcely knowing whither he was going, sauntered to its edge. The tide had just turned, and the stream was sparkling in the sunshine, but no craft could be discovered upon its bosom; and except a few barges moored to its sides, all vestiges of the numberless vessels with which it was once crowded were gone. Its quays were completely deserted. Boxes and bales of goods lay untouched on the wharves; the cheering cries with which the workmen formerly animated their labour were hushed. There was no sound of creaking cords, no rattle of heavy chains--none of the busy hum ordinarily attending the discharge of freight from a vessel, or the packing of goods and stores on board. All traffic was at an end; and this scene, usually one of the liveliest possible, was now forlorn and desolate. On the opposite shore of the river it appeared to be the same--indeed, the borough of Southwark was now suffering the utmost rigour of the scourge, and except for the rows of houses on its banks, and the noble bridge by which it was spanned, the Thames appeared as undisturbed as it must have been before the great city was built upon its banks. The apprentice viewed this scene with a singular kind of interest. He had become so accustomed to melancholy sights, that his feelings had lost their acuteness, and the contemplation of the deserted buildings and neglected wharves around him harmonized with his own gloomy thoughts. Pursuing his walk along the side of the river, he was checked by a horrible smell, and looking downward, he perceived a carcass in the last stage of decomposition lying in the mud. It had been washed ashore by the tide, and a large bird of prey was contending for the possession of it with a legion of water-rats. Sickened by the sight, he turned up a narrow thoroughfare near Baynard's Castle, and crossing Thames-street, was about to ascend Addle-hill, when he perceived a man wheeling a hand-barrow, containing a couple of corpses, in the direction of the river, with the intention, doubtless, of throwing them into it, as the readiest means of disposing of them. Both bodies were stripped of their clothing, and the blue tint of the nails, as well as the blotches with which they were covered, left no doubt as to the disease of which they had died. Averting his gaze from the spectacle, Leonard turned off on the right along Carter-lane, and threading a short passage, approached the southern boundary of the cathedral; and proceeding towards the great door opposite him, passed through it. The mighty lazar-house was less crowded than he expected to find it, but its terrible condition far exceeded his worst conceptions. Not more than half the pallets were occupied; but as the sick were in a great measure left to themselves, the utmost disorder prevailed. A troop of lazars, with sheets folded around them, glided, like phantoms, along Paul's Walk, and mimicked in a ghastly manner the air and deportment of the gallants who had formerly thronged the place. No attempt being made to maintain silence, the noise was perfectly stunning; some of the sick were shrieking--some laughing in a wild unearthly manner--some praying--some uttering loud execrations--others groaning and lamenting. The holy building seemed to have become the abode of evil and tormented spirits. Many dead were lying in the beds--the few attendants who were present not caring to remove them; and Leonard had little doubt, that before another sun went down the whole of the ghastly assemblage before him would share their fate. If the habitations he had recently gazed upon had appeared plague-stricken, the sacred structure in which he was now standing seemed yet more horribly contaminated. Ill-kept and ill-ventilated, the air was loaded with noxious effluvia, while the various abominations that met the eye at every turn would have been sufficient to produce the distemper in any one who had come in contact with them. They were, however, utterly disregarded by the miserable sufferers and their attendants. The magnificent painted windows were dimmed by a thick clammy steam, which could scarcely be washed off--while the carved oak screens, the sculptured tombs, the pillars, the walls, and the flagged floors were covered with impurities. Satisfied with a brief survey of this frightful scene, Leonard turned to depart, and was passing the entrance to Saint Faith's, which stood open, when he caught sight of Judith standing at the foot of the broad stone steps, and holding a lamp in her hand. She was conversing with a tall richly-dressed man, whose features he fancied he had seen before, though he could not at the moment call them to mind. After a brief conversation, they moved off into the depths of the vault, and he lost sight of them. All at once it occurred to Leonard that Judith's companion was the unfortunate stranger whose child he had interred, and who had been so strangely affected at the sight of Nizza Macascree. Determined to ascertain the point, he hurried down the steps and plunged into the vault. It was buried in profound darkness, and he had not proceeded far when he stumbled over something lying in his path, and found from the groan that followed that it was a plague-patient. Before he could regain his feet, the unfortunate sufferer whom he had thus disturbed implored him, in piteous accents, which, with a shudder, he recognised as those of Blaize, to remove him. Leonard immediately gave the poor porter to understand that he was near him, and would render him every aid in his power. "Your assistance comes too late, Leonard," groaned Blaize--"it's all over with me now, but I don't like to breathe my last in this dismal vault, without medicine or food, both of which I am denied by that infernal hag Mother Malmayns, who calls herself a nurse, but who is in reality a robber and murderess. Oh! the frightful scenes I have witnessed since I have been brought here! I told you I should not escape the plague. I shall die of it--I am sure I shall." "I thought you were at the pest-house in Finsbury Fields," said Leonard. "I was taken there," replied Blaize; "but the place was full, and they would not admit me, so I was sent to Saint Paul's, where there was plenty of room. Yesterday I did pretty well, for I was in the great ward above, and one of the attendants obeyed my directions implicitly, and I am certain if they had been fully carried out, I should have got well. I will tell you what I did. As soon as I was placed on a pallet, and covered with blankets, I ordered a drink to be prepared of the inner bark of an ash-tree, green walnuts, scabious vervain, and saffron, boiled in two quarts of the strongest vinegar. Of this mixture I drank plentifully, and it soon produced a plentiful perspiration. I next had a hen--a live one, of course--stripped of the feathers, and brought to me. Its bill was held to the large blotch under my arm, and kept there till the fowl died from the noxious matter it drew forth. I next repeated the experiment with a pigeon, and derived the greatest benefit from it. The tumour had nearly subsided, and if I had been properly treated afterwards, I should now be in a fair way of recovery. But instead of nice strengthening chicken-broth, flavoured with succory and marigolds; or water-gruel, mixed with rosemary and winter-savory; or a panado, seasoned with verjuice or wood-sorrel; instead of swallowing large draughts of warm beer; or water boiled with carduus seeds; or a posset drink, made with sorrel, bugloss, and borage;--instead of these remedies, or any other, I was carried to this horrible place when I was asleep, and strapped to my pallet, as you perceive. Unloose me, if you can do nothing else." "That I will readily do," replied Leonard; "but I must first procure a light." With this, he groped his way among the close ranks of ponderous pillars, but though he proceeded with the utmost caution, he could not avoid coming in contact with the beds of some of the other patients, and disturbing them. At length he descried a glimmer of light issuing from a door which he knew to be that of the vestry, and which was standing slightly ajar. Opening it, he perceived a lamp burning on the table, and without stopping to look around him, seized it, and hurried back to the porter. Poor Blaize presented a lamentable, and yet grotesque appearance. His plump person was greatly reduced in bulk, and his round cheeks had become hollow and cadaverous. He was strapped, as he had stated, to the pallet, which in its turn was fastened to the adjoining pillar. A blanket was tightly swathed around him, and a large cloth was bound round his head in lieu of a nightcap. Leonard instantly set about releasing him, and had just unfastened the straps when he heard footsteps approaching, and looking up, perceived the stranger and Judith Malmayns advancing towards him. II. THE SECOND PLAGUE-PIT. Judith, being a little in advance of her companion, took Leonard in the first instance for a chirurgeon's assistant, and called to him, in a harsh and menacing voice, to let her charge alone. On drawing near, however, she perceived her mistake, and recognising the apprentice, halted with a disconcerted look. By this time, the stranger had come up, and remarking her embarrassment, inquired the cause of it. "Look there," cried Judith, pointing towards the apprentice. "Yonder stands the very man you seek." "What! Leonard Holt," cried the other, in astonishment. "Ay, Leonard Holt," rejoined Judith. "You can now put any questions to him you think proper." The stranger did not require the suggestion to be repeated, but instantly hastened to the apprentice. "Do you remember me?" he asked. Leonard answered in the affirmative. "I owe you a large debt of obligation," continued the stranger, "and you shall not find me slow in paying it. But let it pass for the moment. Do you know aught of Nizza Macascree? I know she was taken to Oxford by the king, and subsequently disappeared." "Then you know as much as I do of her, sir," rejoined Leonard. "I was right, you see, Mr. Thirlby," interposed Judith, with a malicious grin. "I told you this youth would be utterly ignorant of her retreat." "My firm conviction is, that she is in the power of Sir Paul Parravicin," observed Leonard. "But it is impossible to say where she is concealed." "Then my last hope of finding her has fallen to the ground," replied Thirlby, with a look of great distress. "Ever since my recovery from the plague, I have been in search of her. I traced her from Ashdown Park to Oxford, but she was gone before my arrival at the latter place; and though I made every possible inquiry after her, and kept strict and secret watch upon the villain whom I suspected, as you do, of carrying her off, I could gain no clue to her retreat. Having ascertained, however, that you were seen in the neighbourhood of Oxford about the time of her disappearance, I had persuaded myself you must have aided her escape. But now," he added, with a groan, "I find I was mistaken." "You were so," replied Leonard, mournfully; "I was in search of my master's daughter, Amabel, who was carried off at the same time by the Earl of Rochester, and my anxiety about her made me neglectful of Nizza." "I am not ignorant of your devoted attachment to her," remarked the stranger. "You will never find Amabel again," observed Judith, bitterly. "What mean you woman?" asked Leonard. "I mean what I say," rejoined Judith. "I repeat, you will never see her again." "You would not speak thus positively without some motive," returned Leonard, seizing her arm. "Where is she? What has happened to her?" "That you shall never learn from me," returned Judith, with a triumphant glance. "Speak, or I will force you to do so," cried Leonard, furiously. "Force me!" cried Judith, laughing derisively; "you know not whom you threaten." "But _I_ do," interposed Thirlby. "This young man _shall_ have an answer to this question," he continued, addressing her in an authoritative tone. "Do you know anything of the girl?" "No," replied Judith; "I was merely jesting with him." "Shame on you, to trifle with his feelings thus," rejoined Thirlby. "Step with me this way, young man, I wish to speak with you." "Do not leave me here, Leonard," cried Blaize, "or I shall die before you come back." "I have no intention of leaving you," rejoined Leonard. "Are you aware whether Doctor Hodges is still alive, sir?" he added to Thirlby. "I have just been to his residence in Great Knight-rider-street, and found it shut up." "He has removed to Watling-street," replied the other; "but I have not seen him since my return to London. If you wish it, I will go to his house at once, and send him to look after your poor friend." Leonard was about to return thanks for the offer, when the design was frustrated by Blaize himself, who was so terrified by Judith's looks, that he could pay no attention to what was going forward; and fearing, notwithstanding Leonard's assurance to the contrary, that he should be left behind, he started to his feet, and wrapping the blanket about him, ran up the steps leading to the cathedral. Leonard and Thirlby followed, and seeing him dart into the southern aisle, would have pursued him along it, but were afraid of coming in contact with the many sick persons by whom it was thronged. They contented themselves, therefore, with watching his course, and were not a little surprised and alarmed to find the whole troop of lazars set off after him, making the sacred walls ring with their cries. Frightened by the clamour, Blaize redoubled his speed, and, with this ghastly train at his heels, crossed the lower part of the mid-aisle, and darting through the pillars, took refuge within Bishop Kempe's Chapel, the door of which stood open, and which he instantly closed after him. Judith, who had followed the party from the subterranean church, laughed heartily at the chase of the poor porter, and uttered an exclamation of regret at its sudden conclusion. Leonard, however, being apprehensive of mischief from the crowd of sick persons collected before the door, some of whom were knocking against it and trying to force it open, addressed himself to a couple of the attendants, and prevailed on them to accompany him to the chapel. The assemblage was speedily dispersed, and Blaize hearing Leonard's voice, instantly opened the door and admitted him; and, as soon as his fears were allayed, he was placed on a pallet within the chapel, and wrapped up in blankets, while such remedies as were deemed proper were administered to him. Committing him to the care of the attendants, and promising to reward them well for their trouble, Leonard told Blaize he should go and bring Doctor Hodges to him. Accordingly, he departed, and finding Thirlby waiting for him at the south door, they went forth together. "I am almost afraid of leaving the poor fellow," said Leonard, hesitating as he was about to descends the steps. "Judith Malmayns is so cunning and unscrupulous, that she may find some means of doing him an injury." "Have no fear," replied Thirlby; "she has promised me not to molest him further." "You appear to have a strange influence over her, then," observed Leonard. "May I ask how you have attained it?" "No matter," replied the other. "It must suffice that I am willing to exercise it in your behalf." "And you are not disposed to tell me the nature of the interest you feel in Nizza Macascree?" pursued Leonard. "Not as yet," replied Thirlby, with a look and tone calculated to put a stop to further inquiries. Passing through Saint Austin's Gate, they approached Watling-street, at the corner of which stood the house where Doctor Hodges had taken up his temporary abode, that he might visit the sick in the cathedral with greater convenience, and be more readily summoned whenever his attendance might be required. Thirlby's knock at the door was answered, to Leonard's great satisfaction, by the old porter, who was equally delighted to see him. It did not escape Leonard that the porter treated the stranger with great respect, and he inferred from this that he was a person of some consideration, as indeed his deportment bespoke him. The old man informed them that his master had been summoned on a case of urgency early in the morning, and had not yet returned, neither was he aware whither he was gone. He promised, however, to acquaint him with Blaize's condition immediately on his return--"and I need not assure you," he added to Leonard, "that he will instantly go to him." Thirlby then inquired of the porter whether Mike Macascree, the blind piper, was still at Dame Lucas's cottage, in Finsbury Fields, and was answered in the affirmative by the old man, who added, however, in a voice of much emotion, that the good dame herself was no more. "She died about a fortnight ago of the plague," he said, "and is buried where she desired to be, beneath an old apple-tree in her garden." "Alas!" exclaimed Leonard, brushing away a tear, "her own foreboding is too truly realised." "I am about to visit the old piper," observed Thirlby to the apprentice. "Will you go with me?" The other readily acquiesced, only stipulating that they should call in Wood-street on the way, that he might inquire whether his master wanted him. Thirlby agreeing to this, and the old porter repeating his assurance that Leonard might make himself quite easy as to Blaize, for he would send his master to him the instant he returned, they set out. On reaching Wood-street the apprentice gave the customary signal, and the grocer answering it, he informed him of his unexpected meeting with Blaize, and of the state in which he had left him. Mr. Bloundel was much distressed by the intelligence, and telling Leonard that he should not require him again that night, besought him to observe the utmost caution. This the apprentice promised, and joining Thirlby, who had walked forward to a little distance, they struck into a narrow street on the right, and proceeding along Aldermanbury, soon arrived at the first postern in the city walls beyond Cripplegate. Hitherto, Thirlby had maintained a profound silence, and appeared lost in melancholy reflection. Except now and then casting a commiserating glance at the wretched objects they encountered on the road, he kept his eyes steadily fixed upon the ground, and walked at a brisky pace, as if desirous of getting out of the city as quickly as possible. Notwithstanding his weakness, Leonard managed to keep up with him, and his curiosity being greatly aroused by what had just occurred, he began to study his appearance and features attentively. Thirlby was full six feet in height, and possessed a powerful and well-proportioned figure, and would have been considered extremely handsome but for a certain sinister expression about the eyes, which were large and dark, but lighted by a fierce and peculiar fire. His complexion was dark, and his countenance still bore the impress of the dreadful disease from which he had recently recovered. A gloomy shade sat about his brow, and it seemed to Leonard as if he had been led by his passions into the commission of crimes of which he had afterwards bitterly repented. His deportment was proud and commanding, and though he exhibited no haughtiness towards the apprentice, but, on the contrary, treated him with great familiarity, it was plain he did so merely from a sense of gratitude. His age was under forty, and his habiliments were rich, though of a sombre colour. Passing through the postern, which stood wide open, the watchman having disappeared, they entered a narrow lane, skirted by a few detached houses, all of which were shut up, and marked by the fatal cross. As they passed one of these habitations, they were arrested by loud and continued shrieks of the most heart-rending nature, and questioning a watchman who stood at an adjoining door, as to the cause of them, he said they proceeded from a poor lady who had just lost the last of her family by the plague. "Her husband and all her children, except one daughter, died last week," said the man, "and though she seemed deeply afflicted, yet she bore her loss with resignation. Yesterday, her daughter was taken ill, and she died about two hours ago, since when the poor mother has done nothing but shriek in the way you hear. Poor soul! she will die of grief, as many have done before her at this awful time." "Something must be done to pacify her," returned Thirlby, in a voice of much emotion,--"she must be removed from her child." "Where can she be removed to?" rejoined the watchman. "Who will receive her?" "At all events, we can remove the object that occasions her affliction," rejoined Thirlby. "My heart bleeds for her. I never heard shrieks so dreadful." "The dead-cart will pass by in an hour," said the watchman; "and then the body can be taken away." "An hour will be too late," rejoined Thirlby. "If she continues in this frantic state, she will be dead before that time. You have a hand-barrow there. Take the body to the plague-pit at once, and I will reward you for your trouble." "We shall find some difficulty in getting into the house," said the watchman, who evidently felt some repugnance to the task. "Not so," replied Thirlby. And pushing forcibly against the door, he burst it open, and, directed by the cries, entered a room on the right. The watchman's statement proved correct. Stretched upon a bed in one corner lay the body of a beautiful girl, while the poor mother was bending over it in a state bordering on distraction. On seeing Thirlby, she fled to the further end of the room, but did not desist from her cries. In fact, she was unable to do so, being under the dominion of the wildest hysterical passion. In vain Thirlby endeavoured to make her comprehend by signs the nature of his errand. Waving him off, she continued shrieking more loudly than ever. Half-stunned by the cries, and greatly agitated by the sight of the child, whose appearance reminded him of his own daughter, Thirlby motioned the watchman, who had followed him into the room, to bring away the body, and rushed forth. His injunctions were obeyed. The remains of the unfortunate girl were wrapped in a sheet, and deposited in the hand-barrow. The miserable mother followed the watchman to the door, but did not attempt to interfere with him, and having seen the body of her child disposed of in the manner above described, turned back. The next moment, a heavy sound proclaimed that she had fallen to the ground, and her shrieks were hushed. Thirlby and Leonard exchanged sad and significant looks, but neither of them went back to see what had happened to her. The watchman shook his head, and setting the barrow in motion, proceeded along a narrow footpath across the fields. Remarking that he did not take the direct road to the plague-pit, Leonard called to him, and pointed out the corner in which it lay. "I know where the old plague-pit is, as well as you," replied the watchman, "but it has been filled these three weeks. The new pit lies in this direction." So saying, he pursued his course, and they presently entered a field, in the middle of which lay the plague-pit, as was evident from the immense mound of clay thrown out of the excavation. "That pit is neither so deep nor so wide as the old one," said the watchman, "and if the plague goes on at this rate, they will soon have to dig another--that is, if any one should be left alive to undertake the job." And chuckling as if he had said a good thing, he impelled his barrow forward more quickly. A few seconds brought them near the horrible chasm. It was more than half full, and in all respects resembled the other pit, except that it was somewhat smaller. There was the same heaving and putrefying mass,--the same ghastly objects of every kind,--the grey-headed old man, the dark-haired maiden, the tender infant,--all huddled together. Wheeling the barrow to the edge of the pit, the watchman cast his load into it; and without even tarrying to throw a handful of soil over it, turned back, and rejoined Thirlby, who had halted at some distance from the excavation. While the latter was searching for his purse to reward the watchman, they heard wild shrieks in the adjoining field, and the next moment perceived the wretched mother running towards them. Guessing her purpose from his former experience, Leonard called to the others to stop her, and stretching out his arms, placed himself in her path. But all their efforts were in vain. She darted past them, and though Leonard caught hold of her, she broke from him, and leaving a fragment of her dress in his grasp, flung herself into the chasm. Well knowing that all help was vain, Thirlby placed a few pieces of money in the watchman's hand, and hurried away. He was followed by Leonard, who was equally eager to quit the spot. It so chanced that the path they had taken led them near the site of the old plague-pit, and Leonard pointed it out to his companion. The latter stopped for a moment, and then, without saying a word, ran quickly towards it. On reaching the spot, they found that the pit was completely filled up. The vast cake of clay with which it was covered had swollen and cracked in an extraordinary manner, and emitted such a horrible effluvium that they both instantly retreated. "And that is the grave of my poor child," cried Thirlby, halting, and bursting into a passionate flood of tears. "It would have been a fitting resting-place for a guilty wretch like me; but for her it is horrible." Allowing time for the violence of his grief to subside, Leonard addressed a few words of consolation to him, and then tried to turn the current of his thoughts by introducing a different subject. With this view, he proceeded to detail the piper's mysterious conduct as to the packet, and concluded by mentioning the piece of gold which Nizza wore as an amulet, and which she fancied must have some connection with her early history. "I have heard of the packet and amulet from Doctor Hodges," said Thirlby, "and should have visited the piper on my recovery from the plague, but I was all impatience to behold Nizza, and could not brook an instant's delay. But you know his cottage. We cannot be far from it." "Yonder it is," replied Leonard, pointing to the little habitation, which lay at a field's distance from them--"and we are certain to meet with him, for I hear the notes of his pipe." Nor was he deceived, for as they crossed the field, and approached the cottage, the sounds of a melancholy air played on the pipe became each instant more distinct. Before entering the gate, they paused for a moment to listen to the music, and Leonard could not help contrasting the present neglected appearance of the garden with the neatness it exhibited when he last saw it. It was overgrown with weeds, while the drooping flowers seemed to bemoan the loss of their mistress. Leonard's gaze involuntarily wandered in search of the old apple-tree, and he presently discovered it. It was loaded with fruit, and the rounded sod beneath it proclaimed the grave of the ill-fated Dame Lucas. Satisfied with this survey, Leonard opened the gate, but had no sooner set foot in the garden than the loud barking of a dog was heard, and Bell rushed forth. Leonard instantly called to her, and on hearing his voice, the little animal instantly changed her angry tones to a gladsome whine, and, skipping towards him, fawned at his feet. While he stooped to caress her, the piper, who had been alarmed by the barking, appeared at the door, and called out to know who was there? At the sight of him, Thirlby, who was close behind Leonard, uttered a cry of surprise, and exclaiming, "It is he!" rushed towards him. The cry of recognition uttered by the stranger caused the piper to start as if he had received a sudden and violent shock. The ruddy tint instantly deserted his cheek, and was succeeded by a deadly paleness; his limbs trembled, and he bent forward with a countenance of the utmost anxiety, as if awaiting a confirmation of his fears. When within a couple of yards of him, Thirlby paused, and having narrowly scrutinized his features, as if to satisfy himself he was not mistaken, again exclaimed, though in a lower and deeper tone than before, "It is he!" and seizing his arm, pushed him into the house, banging the door to after him in such a manner as to leave no doubt in the apprentice's mind that his presence was not desired. Accordingly, though extremely anxious to hear what passed between them, certain their conversation must relate to Nizza Macascree, Leonard did not attempt to follow, but, accompanied by Bell, who continued to gambol round him, directed his steps towards the grave of Dame Lucas. Here he endeavoured to beguile the time in meditation, but in spite of his efforts to turn his thoughts into a different channel, they perpetually recurred to what he supposed to be taking place inside the house. The extraordinary effect produced by Nizza Macascree on Thirlby--the resemblance he had discovered between her and some person dear to him--the anxiety he appeared to feel for her, as evinced by his recent search for her--the mysterious connection which clearly subsisted between him and the piper--all these circumstances convinced Leonard that Thirlby was, or imagined himself, connected by ties of the closest relationship with the supposed piper's daughter. Leonard had never been able to discern the slightest resemblance either in manner or feature, or in those indescribably slight personal peculiarities that constitute a family likeness, between Nizza and her reputed father--neither could he now recall any particular resemblance between her and Thirlby; still he could not help thinking her beauty and high-bred looks savoured more of the latter than the former. He came, therefore, to the conclusion that she must be the offspring of some early and unfortunate attachment on the part of Thirlby, whose remorse might naturally be the consequence of his culpable conduct at that time. His sole perplexity was the piper's connection with the affair; but he got over this difficulty by supposing that Nizza's mother, whoever she was, must have committed her to Macascree's care when an infant, probably with strict injunctions, which circumstances might render necessary, to conceal her even from her father. Such was Leonard's solution of the mystery; and feeling convinced that he had made himself master of the stranger's secret, he resolved to give him to understand as much as soon as he beheld him again. More than half an hour having elapsed, and Thirlby not coming forth, Leonard began to think sufficient time had been allowed him for private conference with the piper, and he therefore walked towards the door, and coughing to announce his approach, raised the latch and entered the house. He found the pair seated close together, and conversing in a low and earnest tone. The piper had completely recovered from his alarm, and seemed perfectly at ease with his companion, while all traces of anger had disappeared from the countenance of the other. Before them on the table lay several letters, taken from a packet, the cover of which Leonard recognised as the one that had been formerly intrusted to him. Amidst them was the miniature of a lady--at least, it appeared so to Leonard, in the hasty glance he caught of it; but he could not be quite sure; for on seeing him, Thirlby closed the case, and placing his hand on the piper's mouth, to check his further speech, arose. "Forgive my rudeness," he said to the apprentice; "but I have been so deeply interested in what I have just heard, that I quite forgot you were waiting without. I shall remain here some hours longer, but will not detain you, especially as I am unable to admit you to our conference. I will meet you at Doctor Hodges's in the evening, and shall have much to say to you." "I can anticipate some part of your communication," replied Leonard. "You will tell me you have a daughter still living." "You are inquisitive, young man," rejoined Thirlby, sternly. "You do me wrong, sir," replied Leonard. "I have no curiosity as regards yourself; and if I had, would never lower myself in my own estimation to gratify it. Feeling a strong interest in Nizza Macascree, I am naturally anxious to know whether my suspicion that a near relationship subsists between yourself and her is correct." "I cannot enter into further explanation now," returned Thirlby. "Meet me at Doctor Hodges's this evening, and you shall know more. And now farewell. I am in the midst of a deeply-interesting conversation, which your presence interrupts. Do not think me rude--do not think me ungrateful. My anxiety must plead my excuse." "None is necessary, sir," replied Leonard. "I will no longer place any restraint upon you." So saying, and taking care not to let Bell out, he passed through the door, and closed it after him. Having walked to some distance across the fields, musing on what had just occurred, and scarcely conscious whither he was going, he threw himself down on the grass, and fell asleep. He awoke after some time much refreshed, and finding he was considerably nearer Bishopsgate than any other entrance into the city, determined to make for it. A few minutes brought him to a row of houses without the walls, none of which appeared to have escaped infection, and passing them, he entered the city gate. As he proceeded along the once-crowded but now utterly-deserted thoroughfare that opened upon him, he could scarcely believe he was in a spot which had once been the busiest of the busy haunts of men--so silent, so desolate did it appear! On reaching Cornhill, he found it equally deserted. The Exchange was closed, and as Leonard looked at its barred gates, a saddening train of reflection passed through his mind. His head declined upon his breast, and he continued lost in a mournful reverie until he was roused by a hand laid upon his shoulder, and starting--for such a salutation at this season was alarming--he looked round, and beheld Solomon Eagle. "You are looking upon that structure," said the enthusiast, "and are thinking how much it is changed. Men who possess boundless riches imagine their power above that of their Maker, and suppose they may neglect and defy him. But they are mistaken. Where are now the wealthy merchants who used to haunt those courts and chambers?--why do they not come here as of old?--why do they not buy and sell, and send their messengers and ships to the farthest parts of the world? Because the Lord hath smitten them and driven them forth--'From the least of them even to the greatest of them,' as the prophet Jeremiah saith, 'every one has been given to covetousness.' The balances of deceit have been in their hands. They have cozened their neighbours, and greedily gained from them, and will find it true what the prophet Ezekiel hath written, that 'the Lord will pour out his indignation upon them, and consume them with the fire of his wrath.' Yea, I tell you, unless they turn from their evil ways--unless they cast aside the golden idol they now worship, and set up the Holy One of Israel in its stead, a fire will be sent to consume them, and that pile which they have erected as a temple to their god shall be burnt to the ground." Leonard's heart was too full to make any answer, and the enthusiast, after a brief pause, again addressed him. "Have you seen Doctor Hodges pass this way? I am in search of him." "On what account?" asked Leonard anxiously. "His advice, I trust, is not needed on behalf of any one in whom I am interested." "No matter," replied Solomon Eagle, in a sombre tone; "have you seen him?" "I have not," rejoined the apprentice; "but he is probably at Saint Paul's." "I have just left the cathedral, and was told he had proceeded to some house near Cornhill," rejoined the enthusiast. "If you have been there, you can perhaps tell me how my master's porter, Blaize Shotterel, is getting on," said Leonard. "I can," replied the enthusiast. "I heard one of the chirurgeons say that Doctor Hodges had pronounced him in a fair way of recovery. But I must either find the doctor or go elsewhere. Farewell!" "I will go with you in search of him," said Leonard. "No, no; you must not--shall not," cried Solomon Eagle. "Wherefore not?" asked the apprentice. "Do not question me, but leave me," rejoined the enthusiast. "Do you know aught of Amabel--of her retreat?" persisted Leonard, who had a strange misgiving that the enthusiast's errand in some way referred to her. "I do," replied Solomon Eagle, gloomily; "but I again advise you not to press me further." "Answer me one question at least," cried Leonard. "Is she with the Earl of Rochester?" "She is," replied Solomon Eagle; "but I shall allay your fears in that respect when I tell you she is sick of the plague." Leonard heard nothing more, for, uttering a wild shriek, he fell to the ground insensible. He was aroused to consciousness by a sudden sense of strangulation, and opening his eyes, beheld two dark figures bending over him, one of whom was kneeling on his chest. A glance showed him that this person was Chowles; and instantly comprehending what was the matter, and aware that the coffin-maker was stripping him previously to throwing him into the dead-cart, which was standing hard by, he cried aloud, and struggled desperately to set himself free. Little opposition was offered; for, on hearing the cry, Chowles quitted his hold, and retreating to a short distance, exclaimed, with a look of surprise, "Why, the fellow is not dead, after all!" "I am neither dead, nor likely to die, as you shall find to your cost, rascal, if you do not restore me the clothes you have robbed me of," cried Leonard, furiously. And chancing to perceive a fork, dropped by Chowles in his hasty retreat, he snatched it up, and, brandishing it over his head, advanced towards him. Thus threatened, Chowles tossed him a rich suit of livery. "These are not mine," said the apprentice, gazing at the habiliments. "They are better than your own," replied Chowles, "and therefore you ought to be glad of the exchange. But give me them back again. I have no intention of making you a present." "This is the livery of the Earl of Rochester," cried Leonard. "To be sure it is," replied Chowles, with a ghastly smile. "One of his servants is just dead." "Where is the profligate noble?" cried Leonard, eagerly. "There is the person who owned these clothes," replied Chowles, pointing to the dead-cart. "You had better ask him." "Where is the Earl of Rochester, I say, villain?" cried Leonard, menacingly. "How should I know?" rejoined Chowles. "Here are your clothes," he added, pushing them towards him. "I will have an answer," cried Leonard. "Not from me," replied Chowles. And hastily snatching up the livery, he put the cart in motion, and proceeded on his road. Leonard would have followed him, but the state of his attire did not permit him to do so. Having dressed himself, he hastened to the cathedral, where he soon found the attendant who had charge of Blaize. "Doctor Hodges has been with him," said the man, in reply to his inquiries after the porter, "and has good hopes of him. But the patient is not entirely satisfied with the treatment he has received, and wishes to try some remedies of his own. Were his request granted, all would soon be over with him." "That I am sure of," replied Leonard. "But let us go to him." "You must not heed his complaints," returned the attendant. "I assure you he is doing as well as possible; but he is so dreadfully frightened at a trifling operation which Doctor Hodges finds it necessary to perform upon him, that we have been obliged to fasten him to the bed." "Indeed!" exclaimed Leonard, suspiciously. "Has Judith Malmayns had no hand in this arrangement?" "Judith Malmayns has been absent during the whole of the afternoon," said the man, "and another nurse has taken her place in Saint Faith's. She has never been near Blaize since I have had charge of him." By this time they had reached the pallet in which the porter was laid. His eyes and a small portion of his snub-nose were alone visible, his head being still enveloped by the linen cloth, while his mouth was covered by blankets. He looked so anxiously at the apprentice, that the latter removed the covering from his mouth, and enabled him to speak. "I am glad to find you are getting on so well," said Leonard, in a cheerful tone. "Doctor Hodges has been with you, I understand?" "He has," groaned Blaize; "but he has done me no good--none whatever. I could doctor myself much better, if I might be allowed; for I know every remedy that has been prescribed for the plague; but he would adopt none that I mentioned to him. I wanted him to place a hot loaf, fresh from the oven, to the tumour, to draw it; but he would not consent. Then I asked for a cataplasm, composed of radish-roots, mustard-seed, onions and garlic roasted, mithridate, salt, and soot from a chimney where wood only has been burnt. This he liked no better than the first. Next, I begged for an ale posset with pimpernel soaked in it, assuring him that by frequently drinking such a mixture, Secretary Naunton drew the infection from his very heart. But the doctor would have none of it, and seemed to doubt the fact." "What did he do?" inquired Leonard. "He applied oil of St. John's wort to the tumour," replied Blaize, with a dismal groan, and said, "if the scar did not fall off, he must cauterize it. Oh! I shall never be able to bear the pain of the operation." "Recollect your life is at stake," rejoined Leonard. "You must either submit to it or die." "I know I must," replied Blaize, with a prolonged groan; "but it is a terrible alternative." "You will not find the operation so painful as you imagine," rejoined Leonard; "and you know I speak from personal experience." "You give me great comfort," said Blaize. "And so you really think I shall get better?" "I have no doubt of it, if you keep up your spirits," replied Leonard. "The worst is evidently over. Behave like a man." "I will try to do so," rejoined Blaize. "I have been told that if a circle is drawn with a blue sapphire round a plague-blotch, it will fall off. Couldn't we just try the experiment?" "It will not do to rely upon it," observed the attendant, with a smile. "You will find a small knob of red-hot iron, which we call the 'button,' much more efficacious." "Oh dear! oh dear!" exclaimed Blaize, "I already feel that dreadful button burning into my flesh." "On the contrary, you won't feel it at all," replied the attendant. "The iron only touches the point of the tumour, in which there is no sensibility." "In that case, I don't care how soon the operation is performed," replied Blaize. "Doctor Hodges will choose his own time for it," said the attendant. "In the mean time, here is a cup of barley-broth for you. You will find it do you good." While the man applied the cup to the poor porter's lips--for he would not unloose the straps, for fear of mischief--Leonard, who was sickened by the terrible scene around him, took his departure, and quitted the cathedral by the great western entrance. Seating himself on one of the great blocks of stone left there by the workmen employed in repairing the cathedral, but who had long since abandoned their task, he thought over all that had recently occurred. Raising his eyes at length, he looked toward the cathedral. The oblique rays of the sun had quitted the columns of the portico, which looked cold and grey, while the roof and towers were glittering in light. In ten minutes more, only the summit of the central tower caught the last reflection of the declining orb. Leonard watched the rosy gleam till it disappeared, and then steadfastly regarded the reverend pile as its hue changed from grey to black, until at length each pinnacle and buttress, each battlement and tower, was lost in one vast indistinct mass. Night had fallen upon the city--a night destined to be more fatal than any that had preceded it; and yet it was so calm, so beautiful, so clear, that it was scarcely possible to imagine that it was unhealthy. The destroying angel was, however, fearfully at work. Hundreds were falling beneath his touch; and as Leonard wondered how many miserable wretches were at that moment released from suffering, it crossed him like an icy chill, that among the number might be Amabel. So forcibly was he impressed by this idea, that he fell on his knees and prayed aloud. He was aroused by hearing the ringing of a bell, which announced the approach of the dead-cart, and presently afterwards the gloomy vehicle approached from Ludgate-hill, and moved slowly towards the portico of the cathedral, where it halted. A great number of the dead were placed within it, and the driver, ringing his bell, proceeded in the direction of Cheapside. A very heavy dew had fallen; for as Leonard put his hand to his clothes, they felt damp, and his long hair was filled with moisture. Reproaching himself with having needlessly exposed himself to risk, he was about to walk away, when he heard footsteps at a little distance, and looking in the direction of the sound, perceived the tall figure of Thirlby. Calling to him, the other, who appeared to be in haste, halted for a moment, and telling the apprentice he was going to Doctor Hodges's, desired him to accompany him thither, and went on. * * * * * III. THE HOUSE IN NICHOLAS-LANE. On reaching Watling-street, Leonard and his companion found Doctor Hodges was from home. This did not much surprise the apprentice, after the information he had received from Solomon Eagle, but Thirlby was greatly disappointed, and eagerly questioned the porter as to the probable time of his master's return. The man replied that it was quite uncertain, adding, "He has been in since you were last here, and has seen Blaize. He had not been gone to the cathedral many minutes when a gentleman arrived, desiring his instant attendance upon a young woman who was sick of the plague." "Did you hear her name?" asked Leonard and Thirlby, in a breath. "No," replied the porter, "neither did I obtain any information respecting her from the gentleman, who appeared in great distress. But I observed that my master, on his return, looked much surprised at seeing him, and treated him with a sort of cold respect." "Was the gentleman young or old?" demanded Leonard, hastily. "As far as I noticed," replied the porter, "for he kept his face covered with a handkerchief, I should say he was young--very young." "You are sure it was not Lord Rochester?" pursued Leonard. "How should I be sure of it," rejoined the porter, "since I have never seen his lordship that I am aware of? But I will tell you all that happened, and you can judge for yourselves. My master, as I have just said, on seeing the stranger, looked surprised and angry, and bowing gravely, conducted him to his study, taking care to close the door after him. I did not, of course, hear what passed, but the interview was brief enough, and the gentleman, issuing forth, said, as he quitted the room, 'You will not fail to come?' To which my master replied, 'Certainly not, on the terms I have mentioned.' With this, the gentleman hurried out of the house. Shortly afterwards the doctor came out, and said to me, 'I am going to attend a young woman who is sick of the plague, and may be absent for some time. If Mr. Thirlby or Leonard Holt should call, detain them till my return.'" "My heart tells me that the young woman he is gone to visit is no other than Amabel," said Leonard Holt, sorrowfully. "I suspect it is Nizza Macascree," cried Thirlby. "Which way did your master take?" "I did not observe," replied the porter, "but he told me he should cross London Bridge." "I will go into Southwark in quest of him," said Thirlby. "Every moment is of consequence now." "You had better stay where you are," replied the old porter. "It is the surest way to meet with him." Thirlby, however, was too full of anxiety to listen to reason, and his impatience producing a corresponding effect upon Leonard, though from a different motive, they set forth together. "If I fail to find him, you may expect me back ere long," were Thirlby's last words to the porter. Hurrying along Watling-street, and taking the first turning on the right, he descended to Thames-street, and made the best of his way towards the bridge. Leonard followed him closely, and they pursued their rapid course in silence. By the time they reached the north gate of the bridge, Leonard found his strength failing him, and halting at one of the openings between the tall houses overlooking the river, where there was a wooden bench for the accommodation of passengers, he sank upon it, and begged Thirlby to go on, saying he would return to Watling-street as soon as he recovered from his exhaustion. Thirlby did not attempt to dissuade him from his purpose, but instantly disappeared. The night, it has before been remarked, was singularly beautiful. It was almost as light as day, for the full harvest moon (alas! there was no harvest for it to smile upon!) having just risen, revealed every object with perfect distinctness. The bench on which Leonard was seated lay on the right side of the bridge, and commanded a magnificent reach of the river, that flowed beneath like a sheet of molten silver. The apprentice gazed along its banks, and noticed the tall spectral-looking houses on the right, until his eye finally settled on the massive fabric of Saint Paul's, the roof and towers of which rose high above the lesser structures. His meditations were suddenly interrupted by the opening of a window in the house near him, while a loud splash in the water told that a body had been thrown into it. He turned away with a shudder, and at the same moment perceived a watchman, with a halberd upon his shoulder, advancing slowly towards him from the Southwark side of the bridge. Pausing as he drew near the apprentice, the watchman compassionately inquired whether he was sick, and being answered in the negative, was about to pass on, when Leonard, fancying he recognised his voice, stopped him. "We have met somewhere before, friend," he said, "though where, or under what circumstances, I cannot at this moment call to mind." "Not unlikely," returned the other, roughly, "but the chances are against our meeting again." Leonard heaved a sigh at this remark. "I now recollect where I met you, friend," he remarked. "It was at Saint Paul's, when I was in search of my master's daughter, who had been carried off by the Earl of Rochester. But you were then in the garb of a smith." "I recollect the circumstance, too, now you remind me of it," replied the other. "Your name is Leonard Holt as surely as mine is Robert Rainbird. I recollect, also, that you offended me about a dog belonging to the piper's pretty daughter, Nizza Macascree, which I was about to destroy in obedience to the Lord Mayor's commands. However, I bear no malice, and if I did, this is not a time to rip up old quarrels." "You are right, friend," returned Leonard. "The few of us left ought to be in charity with each other." "Truly, ought we," rejoined Rainbird. "For my own part, I have seen so much misery within the last few weeks, that my disposition is wholly changed. I was obliged to abandon my old occupation of a smith, because my master died of the plague, and there was no one else to employ me. I have therefore served as a watchman, and in twenty days have stood at the doors of more than twenty houses. It would freeze your blood were I to relate the scenes I have witnessed." "It might have done formerly," replied Leonard; "but my feelings are as much changed as your own. I have had the plague twice myself." "Then, indeed, you _can_ speak," replied Rainbird. "Thank God, I have hitherto escaped it! Ah! these are terrible times--terrible times! The worst that ever London knew. Although I have been hitherto miraculously preserved myself, I am firmly persuaded no one will escape." "I am almost inclined to agree with you," replied Leonard. "For the last week the distemper has raged fearfully--fearfully, indeed," said Rainbird; "but yesterday and to-day have far exceeded all that have gone before. The distempered have died quicker than cattle of the murrain. I visited upwards of a hundred houses in the Borough this morning, and only found ten persons alive; and out of those ten, not one, I will venture to say, is alive now. It will, in truth, be a mercy if they are gone. There were distracted mothers raving over their children,--a young husband lamenting his wife,--two little children weeping over their dead parents, with none to attend them, none to feed them,--an old man mourning over his son cut off in his prime. In short, misery and distress in their worst form,--the streets ringing with shrieks and groans, and the numbers of dead so great that it was impossible to carry them off. You remember Solomon Eagle's prophecy?" "Perfectly," replied Leonard; "and I lament to see its fulfilment." "'The streets shall be covered with grass, and the living shall not be able to bury their dead,'--so it ran," said Rainbird. "And it has come to pass. Not a carriage of any description, save the dead-cart, is to be seen in the broadest streets of London, which are now as green as the fields without her walls, and as silent as the grave itself. Terrible times, as I said before--terrible times! The dead are rotting in heaps in the courts, in the alleys, in the very houses, and no one to remove them. What will be the end of it all? What will become of this great city?" "It is not difficult to foresee what will become of it," replied Leonard, "unless it pleases the Lord to stay his vengeful arm. And something whispers in my ear that we are now at the worst. The scourge cannot exceed its present violence without working our ruin; and deeply as we have sinned, little as we repent, I cannot bring myself to believe that God will sweep his people entirely from the face of the earth." "I dare not hope otherwise," rejoined Rainbird, "though I would fain do so. I discern no symptoms of abatement of the distemper, but, on the contrary, an evident increase of malignity, and such is the opinion of all I have spoken with on the subject. Chowles told me he buried two hundred more yesterday than he had ever done before, and yet he did not carry a third of the dead to the plague-pit. He is a strange fellow that Chowles. But for his passion for his horrible calling there is no necessity for him to follow it, for he is now one of the richest men in London." "He must have amassed his riches by robbery, then," remarked Leonard. "True," returned Rainbird. "He helps himself without scruple to the clothes, goods, and other property, of all who die of the pestilence; and after ransacking their houses, conveys his plunder in the dead-cart to his own dwelling." "In Saint Paul's?" asked Leonard. "No--a large house in Nicholas-lane, once belonging to a wealthy merchant, who perished, with his family, of the plague," replied Rainbird. "He has filled it from cellar to garret with the spoil he has obtained." "And how has he preserved it?" inquired the apprentice. "The plague has preserved it for him," replied Rainbird. "The few authorities who now act have, perhaps, no knowledge of his proceedings; or if they have, have not cared to interfere, awaiting a more favourable season, if it should ever arrive, to dispossess him of his hoard, and punish him for his delinquencies; while, in the mean time, they are glad, on any terms, to avail themselves of his services as a burier. Other people do not care to meddle with him, and the most daring robber would be afraid to touch infected money or clothes." "If you are going towards Nicholas-lane," said Leonard, as if struck with a sudden idea, "and will point out to me the house in question, you will do me a favour." Rainbird nodded assent, and they walked on together towards Fish-street-hill. Ascending it, and turning off on the right, they entered Great Eastcheap, but had not proceeded far when they were obliged to turn back, the street being literally choked up with a pile of carcasses deposited there by the burier's assistants. Shaping their course along Gracechurch-street, they turned off into Lombard-street, and as Leonard gazed at the goldsmiths' houses on either side, which were all shut up, with the fatal red cross on the doors, he could not help remarking to his companion, "The plague has not spared any of these on account of their riches." "True," replied the other; "and of the thousands who used formerly to throng this street not one is left. Wo to London!--wo!--wo!" Leonard echoed the sentiment, and fell into a melancholy train of reflection. It has been more than once remarked that the particular day now under consideration was the one in which the plague exercised its fiercest dominion over the city; and though at first its decline was as imperceptible as the gradual diminution of the day after the longest has passed, yet still the alteration began. On that day, as if death had known that his power was to be speedily arrested, he sharpened his fellest arrows, and discharged them with unerring aim. To pursue the course of the destroyer from house to house--to show with what unrelenting fury he assailed his victims--to describe their sufferings--to number the dead left within their beds, thrown into the streets, or conveyed to the plague-pits--would be to present a narrative as painful as revolting. On this terrible night it was as hot as if it had been the middle of June. No air was stirring, and the silence was so profound, that a slight noise was audible at a great distance. Hushed in the seemingly placid repose lay the great city, while hundreds of its inhabitants were groaning in agony, or breathing their last sigh. On reaching the upper end of Nicholas-lane, Rainbird stood still for a moment, and pointed out a large house on the right, just below the old church dedicated to the saint from which the thoroughfare took its name. They were about to proceed towards it, when the smith again paused, and called Leonard's attention to two figures quickly advancing from the lower end of the street. As the apprentice and his companion stood in the shade, they could not be seen, while the two persons, being in the moonlight, were fully revealed. One of them, it was easy to perceive, was Chowles. He stopped before the door of his dwelling and unfastened it, and while he was thus occupied, the other person turned his face so as to catch the full radiance of the moon, disclosing the features of Sir Paul Parravicin. Before Leonard recovered from the surprise into which he was thrown by this unexpected discovery, they had entered the house. He then hurried forward, but, to his great disappointment, found the door locked. Anxious to get into the house without alarming those who had preceded him, he glanced at the windows; but the shutters were closed and strongly barred. While hesitating what to do, Rainbird came up, and guessing his wishes, told him there was a door at the back of the house by which he might probably gain admittance. Accordingly they hastened down a passage skirting the churchyard, which brought them to a narrow alley lying between Nicholas-lane and Abchurch-lane. Tracking it for about twenty yards, Rainbird paused before a small yard-door, and trying the latch, found it yielded to his touch. Crossing the yard, they came to another door. It was locked, and though they could have easily burst it open, they preferred having recourse to an adjoining window, the shutter of which, being carelessly fastened, was removed without noise or difficulty. In another moment they gained a small dark room on the ground-floor, whence they issued into a passage, where, to their great joy, they found a lighted lantern placed on a chair. Leonard hastily possessed himself of it, and was about to enter a room on the left when his companion arrested him. "Before we proceed further," he said in a low voice, "I must know what you are about to do?" "My purpose will be explained in a word," replied the apprentice in the same tone. "I suspect that Nizza Macascree is confined here by Sir Paul Parravicin and Chowles, and if it turns out I am right in my conjecture, I propose to liberate her. Will you help me?" "Humph!" exclaimed Rainbird, "I don't much fancy the job. However, since I am here, I'll not go back. I am curious to see the coffin-maker's hoards. Look at yon heap of clothes. There are velvet doublets and silken hose enow to furnish wardrobes for a dozen court gallants. And yet, rich as the stuffs are, I would not put the best of them on for all the wealth of London." "Nor I," replied Leonard. "I shall make free, however, with a sword," he added, selecting one from the heap. "I may need a weapon." "I require nothing more than my halberd," observed the smith; "and I would advise you to throw away that velvet scabbard; it is a certain harbour for infection." Leonard did not neglect the caution, and pushing open the door, they entered a large room which resembled an upholsterer's shop, being literally crammed with chairs, tables, cabinets, moveable cupboards, bedsteads, curtains, and hangings, all of the richest description. "What I heard is true," observed Rainbird, gazing around in astonishment. "Chowles must have carried off every thing he could lay hands upon. What can he do with all that furniture?" "What the miser does with his store," replied Leonard: "feast his eyes with it, but never use it." They then proceeded to the next room. It was crowded with books, looking-glasses, and pictures; many of them originally of great value, but greatly damaged by the careless manner in which they were piled one upon another. A third apartment was filled with flasks of wine, with casks probably containing spirits, and boxes, the contents of which they did not pause to examine. A fourth contained male and female habiliments, spread out like the dresses in a theatrical wardrobe. Most of these garments were of the gayest and costliest description, and of the latest fashion, and Leonard sighed as he looked upon them, and thought of the fate of those they had so lately adorned. "There is contagion enough in those clothes to infect a whole city," said Rainbird, who regarded them with different feelings. "I have half a mind to set fire to them." "It were a good deed to do so," returned Leonard; "but it must not be done now. Let us go upstairs. These are the only rooms below." Accordingly, they ascended the staircase, and entered chamber after chamber, all of which were as full of spoil as those they had just visited; but they could find no one, nor was there any symptom that the house was tenanted. They next stood still within the gallery, and listened intently for some sound to reveal those they sought, but all was still and silent as the grave. "We cannot be mistaken," observed Leonard. "It is clear this house is the receptacle for Chowles's plunder. Besides, we should not have found the lantern burning if they had gone forth again. No, no; they must be hidden somewhere, and I will not quit the place till I find them." Their search, however, was fruitless. They mounted to the garrets, opened every door, and glanced into every corner. Still, no one was to be seen. "I begin to think Nizza cannot be here," said the apprentice; "but I am resolved not to depart without questioning Chowles on the subject." "You must find him first," rejoined Rainbird. "If he is anywhere, he must be in the cellar, for we have been into every room in this part of the house. For my own part, I think you had better abandon the search altogether. No good will come of it." Leonard, however, was not to be dissuaded, and they went downstairs. A short flight of stone steps brought them to a spacious kitchen, but it was quite empty, and seemed to have been long disused. They then peeped into the scullery adjoining, and were about to retrace their steps, when Rainbird plucked Leonard's sleeve to call attention to a gleam of light issuing from a door which stood partly ajar, in a long narrow passage leading apparently to the cellars. "They are there," he said, in a whisper. "So I see," replied Leonard, in the same tone. And raising his finger to his lips in token of silence, he stole forward on the points of his feet and cautiously opened the door. At the further end of the cellar--for such it was--knelt Chowles, examining with greedy eyes the contents of a large chest, which, from the hasty glance that Leonard caught of it, appeared to be filled with gold and silver plate. A link stuck against the wall threw a strong light over the scene, and showed that the coffin-maker was alone. As Leonard advanced, the sound of his footsteps caught Chowles's ear, and uttering a cry of surprise and alarm, he let fall the lid of the chest, and sprang to his feet. "What do you want?" he cried, looking uneasily round, as if in search of some weapon. "Are you come to rob me?" "No," replied Leonard; "neither are we come to reclaim the plunder you have taken from others. We are come in search of Nizza Macascree." "Then you have come on a fool's errand," replied Chowles, regaining his courage, "for she is not here. I know nothing of her." "That is false," replied Leonard. "You have just conducted Sir Paul Parravicin to her." This assertion on the part of the apprentice, which he thought himself justified under the circumstances in making, produced a strong effect on Chowles. He appeared startled and confounded. "What right have you to play the spy upon me thus?" he faltered. "The right that every honest man possesses to check the designs of the wicked," replied Leonard. "You admit she is here. Lead me to her hiding-place without more ado." "If you know where it is," rejoined Chowles, who now perceived the trick that had been practised upon him, "you will not want me to conduct you to it. Neither Nizza nor Sir Paul Parravicin are here." "That is false, prevaricating scoundrel," cried Leonard. "My companion and I saw you enter the house with your profligate employer. And as we gained admittance a few minutes after you, it is certain no one can have left it. Lead me to Nizza's retreat instantly, or I will cut your throat." And seizing Chowles by the collar, he held the point of his sword to his breast. "Use no violence," cried Chowles, struggling to free himself, "and I will take you wherever you please. This way--this way." And he motioned as if he would take them upstairs. "Do not think to mislead me, villain," cried Leonard, tightening his grasp. "We have searched every room in the upper part of the house, and though we have discovered the whole of your ill-gotten hoards, we have found nothing else. No one is there." "Well, then," rejoined Chowles, "since the truth must out, Sir Paul is in the next house. But it is his own abode. I have nothing to do with it, nothing whatever. He is accountable for his own actions, and you will be accountable to _him_ if you intrude upon his privacy. Release me, and I swear to conduct you to him. But you will take the consequences of your rashness upon yourself. I only go upon compulsion." "I am ready to take any consequences," replied Leonard, resolutely. "Come along, then," said Chowles, pointing down the passage. "You mean us no mischief?" cried Leonard, suspiciously. "If you do, the attempt will cost you your life." Chowles made no answer, but moved along the passage as quickly as Leonard, who kept fast hold of him and walked by his side, would permit. Presently they reached a door, which neither the apprentice nor Rainbird had observed before, and which admitted them into an extensive vault, with a short staircase at the further end, communicating with a passage that Leonard did not require to be informed was in another house. Here Chowles paused. "I think it right to warn you you are running into a danger from which ere long you will be glad to draw back, young man," he said, to the apprentice. "As a friend, I advise you to proceed no further in the matter." "Waste no more time in talking," cried Leonard, fiercely, and forcing him forward as he spoke, "where is Nizza? Lead me to her without an instant's delay." "A wilful man must have his way," returned Chowles, hurrying up the main staircase. "It is not my fault if any harm befalls you." They had just gained the landing when a door on the right was suddenly thrown open, and Sir Paul Parravicin stood before them. He looked surprised and startled at the sight of the apprentice, and angrily demanded his business. "I am come for Nizza Macascree," replied Leonard, "whom you and Chowles have detained against her will." Parravicin glanced sternly and inquiringly at the coffin-maker. "I have protested to him that she is not here, Sir Paul," said the latter, "but he will not believe me, and has compelled me, by threats of taking my life, to bring him and his companion to you." "Then take them back again," rejoined Parravicin, turning haughtily upon his heel. "That answer will not suffice, Sir Paul," cried Leonard--"I will not depart without her." "How!" exclaimed the knight, drawing his sword. "Do you dare to intrude upon my presence? Begone! or I will punish your presumption." And he prepared to attack the apprentice. "Advance a footstep," rejoined Leonard, who had never relinquished his grasp of Chowles, "and I pass my sword through this man's body. Speak, villain," he continued, in a tone so formidable that the coffin-maker shook with apprehension--"is she here or not?" Chowles gazed from him to the knight, whose deportment was equally menacing and appeared bewildered with terror. "It is needless," said Leonard, "your looks answer for you. She _is_." "Yes, yes, I confess she is," replied Chowles. "You hear what he says, Sir Paul," remarked Leonard. "His fears would make him assert anything," rejoined Parravicin, disdainfully. "If you do not depart instantly, I will drive you forth." "Sir Paul Parravicin," rejoined Leonard, in an authoritative tone, "I command you in the king's name, to deliver up this girl." Parravicin laughed scornfully. "The king has no authority here," he said. "Pardon me, Sir Paul," rejoined Chowles, who began to be seriously alarmed at his own situation, and eagerly grasped at the opportunity that offered of extricating himself from it--"pardon me. If it is the king's pleasure she should be removed, it materially alters the case, and I can be no party to her detention." "Both you and your employer will incur his majesty's severest displeasure, by detaining her after this notice," remarked Leonard. "Before I listen to the young man's request, let him declare that it is his intention to deliver her up to the king," rejoined Parravicin, coldly. "It is my intention to deliver her up to one who has the best right to take charge of her," returned Leonard. "You mean her father," sneered Parravicin. "Ay, but not the person you suppose to be her father," replied Leonard. "An important discovery has been made respecting her parentage." "Indeed!" exclaimed Parravicin, with a look of surprise. "Who has the honour to be her father?" "A gentleman named Thirlby," replied Leonard. "What!" cried Parravicin, starting, and turning pale. "Did you say Thirlby?" The apprentice reiterated his assertion. Parravicin uttered a deep groan, and pressed his hand forcibly against his brow for some moments, during which the apprentice watched him narrowly. He then controlled himself by a powerful effort, and returned his sword to its scabbard. "Come into this room, young man," he said to the apprentice, "and let your companion remain outside with Chowles. Fear nothing. I intend you no injury." "I do not distrust you," replied Leonard, "and if I did, should have no apprehension." And motioning Rainbird to remain where he was, he entered the room with the knight, who instantly closed the door. Parravicin's first proceeding was to question him as to his reasons for supposing Nizza to be Thirlby's daughter, and clearly perceiving the deep interest his interrogator took in the matter, and the favourable change that, from some unknown cause, had been wrought in his sentiments, the apprentice did not think fit to hide anything from him. Parravicin's agitation increased as he listened to the recital; and at last, overcome by emotion, he sank into a chair, and covered his face with his hands. Recovering himself in a short time, he arose, and began to pace the chamber to and fro. "What I have told you seems to have disturbed you, Sir Paul," remarked Leonard. "May I ask the cause of your agitation?" "No, man, you may not," replied Parravicin, angrily. And then suddenly checking himself, he added, with forced calmness, "And so you parted with Mr. Thirlby on London Bridge, and you think he will return to Doctor Hodges's residence in Watling-street." "I am sure of it," replied Leonard. "I must see him without delay," rejoined Parravicin. "I will take you to him," remarked Leonard; "but first I must see Nizza." Parravicin walked to a table, on which stood a small silver bell, and ringing it, the summons was immediately answered by an old woman. He was about to deliver a message to her, when the disturbed expression of her countenance struck him, and he hastily inquired the cause of it. "You must not see the young lady to-night, Sir Paul," said the old woman. "Why not?" demanded the knight, hastily. "Why not?" "Because--but you frighten me so that I dare not speak," was the answer. "I will frighten you still more if you keep me in this state of suspense," rejoined Parravicin, furiously. "Is she ill?" "I fear she has got the plague," returned the old woman. "Now you can see her if you think proper." "_I_ will see her," said Leonard. "I have no fear of infection." The old woman looked hard at Parravicin, as if awaiting his orders. "Yes, yes, you can take him to her room," said the knight, who seemed completely overpowered by the intelligence, "if he chooses to go thither. But why do you suppose it is the plague?" "One cannot well be deceived in a seizure of that kind," replied the old woman, shaking her head. "I thought the disorder never attacked the same person twice," said Parravicin. "I myself am an instance to the contrary," replied Leonard. "And, as you have twice recovered, there may be a chance for Nizza," said Parravicin. "This old woman will take you to her. I will hasten to Doctor Hodges's residence, and if I should fail in meeting him, will not rest till I procure assistance elsewhere. Do not leave her till I return." Leonard readily gave a promise to the desired effect, and accompanying him to the door, told Rainbird what had happened. The latter agreed to wait below to render any assistance that might be required, and went downstairs with Parravicin and Chowles. The two latter instantly quitted the house together, and hastened to Watling-street. With a beating heart, Leonard then followed the old woman to Nizza's chamber. They had to pass through a small anteroom, the door of which was carefully locked. The suite of apartments occupied by the captive girl were exquisitely and luxuriously furnished, and formed a striking contrast to the rest of the house. The air was loaded with perfumes; choice pictures adorned the walls; and the tables were covered with books and china ornaments. The windows, however, were strictly barred, and every precaution appeared to be taken to prevent an attempt at escape. Leonard cast an anxious look round as he entered the anteroom, and its luxurious air filled him with anxiety. His conductress, however, did not allow him time for reflection, but led him into another room, still more richly furnished than the first, and lighted by a large coloured lamp, that shed a warm glow around it. An old dwarfed African, in a fantastic dress, and with a large scimetar stuck in his girdle, stepped forward on their approach, and shook his head significantly. "He is dumb," said the old woman, "but his gestures are easy to be understood. He means that Nizza is worse." Leonard heaved a deep sigh. Passing into a third room, they perceived the poor girl stretched on a couch placed in a recess at one side. She heard their footsteps, and without raising her head, or looking towards them, said, in a weak but determined voice--"Tell your master I will see him no more. The plague has again attacked me, and I am glad of it, for it will deliver me from him. It will be useless to offer me any remedies, for I will not take them." "It is not Sir Paul Parravicin," replied the old woman. "I have brought a stranger, with whose name I am unacquainted, to see you." "Then you have done very wrong," replied Nizza. "I will see no one." "Not even me, Nizza?" asked Leonard, advancing. The poor girl started at the sound of his voice, and raising herself on one arm, looked wildly towards him. As soon as she was satisfied that her fancy did not deceive her, she uttered a cry of delight, and falling backwards on the couch, became insensible. Leonard and the old woman instantly flew to the poor girl's assistance, and restoratives being applied, she speedily opened her eyes and fixed them tenderly and inquiringly on the apprentice. Before replying to her mute interrogatories, Leonard requested the old woman to leave them--an order very reluctantly obeyed--and as soon as they were left alone, proceeded to explain, as briefly as he could, the manner in which he had discovered her place of captivity. Nizza listened to his recital with the greatest interest, and though evidently suffering acute pain, uttered no complaint, but endeavoured to assume an appearance of composure and tranquillity. "I must now tell you all that has befallen me since we last met," she said, as he concluded. "I will not dwell upon the persecution I endured from the king, whose passion increased in proportion to my resistance--I will not dwell upon the arts, the infamous arts, used to induce me to comply with his wishes--neither will I dwell upon the desperate measure I had determined to resort to, if driven to the last strait--nor would I mention the subject at all, except to assure you I escaped contamination where few escaped it." "You need not give me any such assurance," remarked Leonard. "While I was thus almost driven to despair," pursued Nizza, "a young female who attended me, and affected to deplore my situation, offered to help me to escape. I eagerly embraced the offer; and one night, having purloined, as she stated, the key of the chamber in which I was lodged, she conducted me by a back staircase into the palace-gardens. Thinking myself free, I warmly thanked my supposed deliverer, who hurried me towards a gate, at which she informed me a man was waiting to guide me to a cottage about a mile from the city, where I should be in perfect safety." "I see the device," cried Leonard. "But, why--why did you trust her?" "What could I do?" rejoined Nizza. "To stay was as bad as to fly, and might have been worse. At all events, I had no distrust. My companion opened the gate, and called to some person without. It was profoundly dark; but I could perceive a carriage, or some other vehicle, at a little distance. Alarmed at the sight, I whispered my fears to my companion, and would have retreated; but she laid hold of my hand, and detained me. The next moment I felt a rude grasp upon my arm. Before I could cry out, a hand was placed over my mouth so closely as almost to stifle me; and I was forced into the carriage by two persons, who seated themselves on either side of me, threatening to put me to death if I made the slightest noise. The carriage was then driven off at a furious pace. For some miles it pursued the high road, and then struck into a lane, where, in consequence of the deep and dangerous ruts, the driver was obliged to relax his speed. But in spite of all his caution, one of the wheels sunk into a hole, and in the efforts to extricate it, the carriage was overturned. No injury was sustained either by me or the others inside, and the door being forced open without much difficulty, we were let out. One of my captors kept near me, while the other lent his assistance to the coachman to set the carriage to rights. It proved, however, to be so much damaged, that it could not proceed; and, after considerable delay, my conductors ordered the coachman to remain with it till further assistance could be sent; and, taking the horses, one of them, notwithstanding my resistance, placed me beside him, and galloped off. Having ridden about five miles, we crossed an extensive common, and passed an avenue of trees, which brought us to the entrance of an old house. Our arrival seemed to be expected; for the instant we appeared, the gate was opened, and the old woman you have just seen, and who is called Mrs. Carteret, together with a dumb African, named Hassan, appeared at it. Some muttered discourse passed between my conductors and these persons, which ended in my being committed to the care of Mrs. Carteret who led me upstairs to a richly-furnished chamber, and urged me to take some refreshment before I retired to rest, which, however, I declined." "Still, you saw nothing of Sir Paul Parravicin?" asked Leonard. "On going downstairs next morning, he was the first person I beheld," replied Nizza. "Falling upon his knees, he implored my pardon for the artifice he had practised, and said he had been compelled to have recourse to it in order to save me from the king. He then began to plead his own suit; but finding his protestations of passion of no effect, he became yet more importunate; when, at this juncture, one of the men who had acted as my conductor on the previous night suddenly entered the room, and told him he must return to Oxford without an instant's delay, as the king's attendants were in search of him. Casting a look at me that made me tremble, he then departed; and though I remained more than two months in that house, I saw nothing more of him." "Did you not attempt to escape during that time?" asked Leonard. "I was so carefully watched by Mrs. Carteret and Hassan, that it would have been vain to attempt it," she replied. "About a week ago, the two men who had conducted me to my place of captivity, again made their appearance, and told me I must accompany them to London. I attempted no resistance, well aware it would be useless; and as the journey was made by by-roads, three days elapsed before we reached the capital. We arrived at night, and I almost forgot my own alarm in the terrible sights I beheld at every turn. It would have been useless to call out for assistance, for there was no one to afford it. I asked my conductors if they had brought me there to die, and they answered, sternly, 'It depended on myself.' At Ludgate we met Chowles, the coffin-maker, and he brought us to this house. Yesterday, Sir Paul Parravicin made his appearance, and told me he had brought me hither to be out of the king's way. He then renewed his odious solicitations. I resisted him as firmly as before; but he was more determined; and I might have been reduced to the last extremity but for your arrival, or for the terrible disorder that has seized me. But I have spoken enough of myself. Tell me what has become of Amabel?" "She, too, has got the plague," replied Leonard, mournfully. "Alas! alas!" cried Nizza, bursting into tears; "she is so dear to you, that I grieve for her far more than for myself." "I have not seen her since I last beheld you," said Leonard, greatly touched by the poor girl's devotion. "She was carried off by the Earl of Rochester on the same night that you were taken from Kingston Lisle by the king." "And she has been in his power ever since?" demanded Nizza, eagerly. "Ever since," repeated Leonard. "The same power that has watched over me, I trust has protected her," cried Nizza, fervently. "I cannot doubt it," replied Leonard. "She would now not be alive were it otherwise. But I have now something of importance to disclose to you. You remember the stranger we met near the plague-pit in Finsbury Fields, and whose child I buried?" "Perfectly," replied Nizza. "What if I tell you he is your father?" said Leonard. "What!" cried Nizza, in the utmost surprise. "Have I, then, been mistaken all these years in supposing the piper to be my father?" "You have," replied Leonard. "I cannot explain more to you at present; but a few hours will reveal all. Thirlby is the name of your father. Have you ever heard it before?" "Never," returned Nizza. "It is strange what you tell me. I have often reproached myself for not feeling a stronger affection for the piper, who always treated me with the kindness of a parent. But it now seems the true instinct was wanting. Tell me your reasons for supposing this person to be my father." As Leonard was about to reply, the door was opened by Mrs. Carteret, who said that Sir Paul Parravicin had just returned with Doctor Hodges and another gentleman. The words were scarcely uttered, when Thirlby rushed into the room, and, flinging himself on his knees before the couch, cried, "At last I have found you--my child! my child!" The surprise which Nizza must have experienced at such an address was materially lessened by what Leonard had just told her; and, after earnestly regarding the stranger for some time, she exclaimed, in a gentle voice, "My father!" Thirlby sprang to his feet, and would have folded her in his arms, if Doctor Hodges, who by this time had reached the couch, had not prevented him. "Touch her not, or you destroy yourself," he cried. "I care not if I do," rejoined Thirlby. "The gratification would be cheaply purchased at the price of my life; and if I could preserve hers by the sacrifice, I would gladly make it." "No more of this," cried Hodges, impatiently, "or you will defeat any attempt I may make to cure her. You had better not remain here. Your presence agitates her." Gazing wistfully at his daughter, and scarcely able to tear himself away, Thirlby yielded at last to the doctor's advice, and quitted the room. He was followed by Leonard, who received a hint to the same effect. On reaching the adjoining room, they found Sir Paul Parravicin walking to and fro in an agitated manner. He immediately came up to Thirlby, and, in an anxious but deferential tone, inquired how he had found Nizza? The latter shook his head, and, sternly declining any further conversation, passed on with the apprentice to an outer room. He then flung himself into a chair, and appeared lost in deep and bitter reflection. Leonard was unwilling to disturb him; but at last his own anxieties compelled him to break silence. "Can you tell me aught of Amabel?" he asked. "Alas! no," replied Thirlby, rousing himself. "I have had no time to inquire about her, as you shall hear. After leaving you on the bridge, I went into Southwark, and hurrying through all the principal streets, inquired from every watchman I met whether he had seen any person answering to Doctor Hodges's description, but could hear nothing of him. At last I gave up the quest, and, retracing my steps, was proceeding along Cannon-street, when I descried a person a little in advance of me, whom I thought must be the doctor, and, calling out to him, found I was not mistaken. I had just reached him, when two other persons turned the corner of Nicholas-lane. On seeing us, one of them ran up to the doctor, exclaiming, 'By Heaven, the very person I want!' It was Sir Paul Parravicin; and he instantly explained his errand. Imagine the feelings with which I heard his account of the illness of my daughter. Imagine, also, the horror I must have experienced in recognising in her persecutor my--" The sentence was not completed, for at that moment the door was opened by Sir Paul Parravicin, who, advancing towards Thirlby, begged, in the same deferential tone as before, to have a few words with him. "I might well refuse you," replied Thirlby, sternly, "but it is necessary we should have some explanation of what has occurred." "It is," rejoined Parravicin, "and, therefore, I have sought you." Thirlby arose, and accompanied the knight into the outer room, closing the door after him. More than a quarter of an hour--it seemed an age to Leonard--elapsed, and still no one came. Listening intently, he heard voices in the next room. They were loud and angry, as if in quarrel. Then all was quiet, and at last Thirlby reappeared, and took his seat beside him. "Have you seen Doctor Hodges?" inquired the apprentice, eagerly. "I have," replied Thirlby--"and he speaks favourably of my poor child. He has administered all needful remedies, but as it is necessary to watch their effect, he will remain with her some time longer." "And, meanwhile, I shall know nothing of Amabel," cried Leonard, in a tone of bitter disappointment. "Your anxiety is natural," returned Thirlby, "but you may rest satisfied, if Doctor Hodges has seen her, he has done all that human aid can effect. But as you must perforce wait his coming forth, I will endeavour to beguile the tedious interval by relating to you so much of my history as refers to Nizza Macascree." After a brief pause, he commenced. "You must know, then, that in my youth I became desperately enamoured of a lady named Isabella Morley. She was most beautiful--but I need not enlarge upon her attractions, since you have beheld her very image in Nizza. When I first met her she was attached to another, but I soon rid myself of my rival. I quarrelled with him, and slew him in a duel. After a long and urgent suit, for the successful issue of which I was mainly indebted to my rank and wealth, which gave great influence with her parents, Isabella became mine. But I soon found out she did not love me. In consequence of this discovery, I became madly jealous, and embittered her life and my own by constant, and, now I know too well, groundless suspicions. She had borne me a son, and in the excess of my jealous fury, fancying the child was not my own, I threatened to put it to death. This violence led to the unhappy result I am about to relate. Another child was born, a daughter--need I say Nizza, or to give her her proper name, Isabella, for she was so christened after her mother--and one night--one luckless night,--maddened by some causeless doubt, I snatched the innocent babe from her mother's arms, and if I had not been prevented by the attendants, who rushed into the room on hearing their mistress's shrieks, should have destroyed her. After awhile, I became pacified, and on reviewing my conduct more calmly on the morrow, bitterly reproached myself, and hastened to express my penitence to my wife. 'You will never have an opportunity of repeating your violence,' she said; 'the object of your cruel and unfounded suspicions is gone.'--'Gone!' I exclaimed; 'whither?' And as I spoke I looked around the chamber. But the babe was nowhere to be seen. In answer to my inquiries, my wife admitted that she had caused her to be removed to a place of safety, but refused, even on my most urgent entreaties, accompanied by promises of amended conduct, to tell me where. I next interrogated the servants, but they professed entire ignorance of the matter. For three whole days I made ineffectual search for the child, and offered large rewards to any one who would bring her to me. But they failed to produce her; and repairing to my wife's chamber, I threatened her with the most terrible consequences if she persisted in her vindictive project. She defied me, and, transported with rage, I passed my sword through her body, exclaiming as I dealt the murderous blow, 'You have sent the brat to her father--to your lover, madam.' Horror and remorse seized me the moment I had committed the ruthless act, and I should have turned my sword against myself, if I had not been stayed by the cry of my poor victim, who implored me to hold my hand. 'Do not add crime to crime,' she cried; 'you have done me grievous wrong. I have not, indeed, loved you, because my affections were not under my control, but I have been ever true to you, and this I declare with my latest breath. I freely forgive you, and pray God to turn your heart.' And with these words she expired. I was roused from the stupefaction into which I was thrown by the appearance of the servants. Heaping execrations upon me, they strove to seize me; but I broke through them, and gained a garden at the back of my mansion, which was situated on the bank of the Thames, not far from Chelsea. This garden ran down to the river side, and was defended by a low wall, which I leapt, and plunged into the stream. A boat was instantly sent in pursuit of me, and a number of persons ran along the banks, all eager for my capture. But being an excellent swimmer, I tried to elude them, and as I never appeared again, it was supposed I was drowned." "And Nizza, or as I ought now to call her, Isabella, was confided, I suppose, to the piper?" inquired Leonard. "She was confided to his helpmate," replied Thirlby, "who had been nurse to my wife. Mike Macascree was one of my father's servants, and was in his younger days a merry, worthless fellow. The heavy calamity under which he now labours had not then befallen him. On taking charge of my daughter, his wife received certain papers substantiating the child's origin, together with a miniature, and a small golden amulet. The papers and miniature were delivered by her on her death-bed to the piper, who showed them to me to-night." "And the amulet I myself have seen," remarked Leonard. "To resume my own history," said Thirlby--"after the dreadful catastrophe I have related, I remained concealed in London for some months, and was glad to find the report of my death generally believed. I then passed over into Holland, where I resided for several years, in the course of which time I married the widow of a rich merchant, who died soon after our union, leaving me one child." And he covered his face with his hands to hide his emotion. After awhile he proceeded: "Having passed many years, as peacefully as one whose conscience was so heavily burdened as mine could hope to pass them, in Amsterdam, I last summer brought my daughter, around whom my affections were closely twined, to London, and took up my abode in the eastern environs of the city. There again I was happy--too happy!--until at last the plague came. But why should I relate the rest of my sad story?" he added, in a voice suffocated with emotion--"you know it as well as I do." "You said you had a son," observed Leonard, after a pause--"Is he yet living?" "He is," replied Thirlby, a shade passing over his countenance. "On my return to England I communicated to him through Judith Malmayns, who is my foster-sister, that I was still alive, telling him the name I had adopted, and adding, I should never disturb him in the possession of his title and estates." "Title!" exclaimed Leonard. "Ay, title!" echoed Thirlby. "The title I once bore was that of Lord Argentine." "I am glad to hear it," said Leonard, "for I began to fear Sir Paul Parravicin was your son." "Sir Paul Parravicin, or, rather, the Lord Argentine, for such is his rightful title, _is_ my son," returned Thirlby; "and I lament to own I am his father. When among his worthless associates,--nay, even with the king--he drops the higher title, and assumes that by which you have known him; and it is well he does so, for his actions are sufficient to tarnish a far nobler name than that he bears. Owing to this disguise I knew not he was the person who carried off my daughter. But, thank Heaven, another and fouler crime has been spared us. All these things have been strangely explained to me to-night. And thus, you see, young man, the poor piper's daughter turns out to be the Lady Isabella Argentine." Before an answer could be returned, the door was opened by Hodges, and both starting to their feet, hurried towards him. IV. THE TRIALS OF AMABEL. It will now be necessary to return to the period of Amabel's abduction from Kingston Lisle. The shawl thrown over her head prevented her cries from being heard; and, notwithstanding her struggles, she was placed on horseback before a powerful man, who galloped off with her along the Wantage-road. After proceeding at a rapid pace for about two miles, her conductor came to a halt, and she could distinguish the sound of other horsemen approaching. At first she hoped it might prove a rescue; but she was quickly undeceived. The shawl was removed, and she beheld the Earl of Rochester, accompanied by Pillichody, and some half-dozen mounted attendants. The earl would have transferred her to his own steed, but she offered such determined resistance to the arrangement, that he was compelled to content himself with riding by her aide. All his efforts to engage her in conversation were equally unsuccessful. She made no reply to his remarks, but averted her gaze from him; and, whenever he approached, shrank from him with abhorrence. The earl, however, was not easily repulsed, but continued his attentions and discourse, as if both had been favourably received. In this way they proceeded for some miles, one of the earl's attendants, who was well acquainted with the country, being in fact a native of it, serving as their guide. They had quitted the Wantage-road, and leaving that ancient town, renowned as the birthplace of the great Alfred, on the right, had taken the direction of Abingdon and Oxford. It was a lovely evening, and their course led them through many charming places. But the dreariest waste would have been as agreeable as the richest prospect to Amabel. She noted neither the broad meadows, yet white from the scythe, nor the cornfields waving with their deep and abundant, though yet immature crops; nor did she cast even a passing glance at any one of those green spots which every lane offers, and upon which the eye of the traveller ordinarily delights to linger. She rode beneath a natural avenue of trees, whose branches met overhead like the arches of a cathedral, and was scarcely conscious of their pleasant shade. She heard neither the song of the wooing thrush, nor the cry of the startled blackbird, nor the evening hymn of the soaring lark. Alike to her was the gorse-covered common, along which they swiftly speeded, and the steep hill-side up which they more swiftly mounted. She breathed not the delicious fragrance of the new-mown hay, nor listened to the distant lowing herds, the bleating sheep, or the cawing rooks. She thought of nothing but her perilous situation,--heard nothing but the voice of Rochester,--felt nothing but the terror inspired by his presence. As the earl did not desire to pass through any village, if he could help it, his guide led him along the most unfrequented roads; but in spite of his caution, an interruption occurred which had nearly resulted in Amabel's deliverance. While threading a narrow lane, they came suddenly upon a troop of haymakers, in a field on the right, who, up to that moment, had been hidden from view by the high hedges. On seeing them, Amabel screamed loudly for assistance, and was instantly answered by their shouts. Rochester ordered his men to gallop forward, but the road winding round the meadow, the haymakers were enabled to take a shorter cut and intercept them. Leaping the hedge, a stout fellow rushed towards Amabel's conductor, and seized the bridle of his steed. He was followed by two others, who would have instantly liberated the captive girl, if the earl had not, with great presence of mind, cried out, "Touch her not, as you value your lives! She is ill of the plague!" At this formidable announcement, which operated like magic upon Amabel's defenders, and made them fall back more quickly than the weapons of the earl's attendants could have done, they retreated, and communicating their fears to their comrades, who were breaking through the hedge in all directions, and hurrying to their aid, the whole band took to their heels, and, regardless of Amabel's continued shrieks, never stopped till they supposed themselves out of the reach of infection. The earl was thus at liberty to pursue his way unmolested, and laughing heartily at the success of his stratagem, and at the consternation he had created among the haymakers, pressed forward. Nothing further occurred till, in crossing the little river Ock, near Lyford, the horse ridden by Amabel's conductor missed its footing, and precipitated them both into the water. No ill consequences followed the accident. Throwing himself into the shallow stream, Rochester seized Amabel, and placed her beside him on his own steed. A deathly paleness overspread her countenance, and a convulsion shook her frame as she was thus brought into contact with the earl, who, fearing the immersion might prove dangerous in her present delicate state of health, quickened his pace to procure assistance. Before he had proceeded a hundred yards, Amabel fainted. Gazing at her with admiration, and pressing her inanimate frame to his breast, Rochester imprinted a passionate kiss on her cheek. "By my soul!" he mentally ejaculated, "I never thought I could be so desperately enamoured. I would not part with her for the crown of these realms." While considering whither he should take her, and much alarmed at her situation, the man who acted as guide came to his relief. Halting till the earl came up, he said, "If you want assistance for the young lady, my lord, I can take you to a good country inn, not far from this, where she will be well attended to, and where, as it is kept by my father, I can answer that no questions will be asked." "Precisely what I wish, Sherborne," replied Rochester. "We will halt there for the night. Ride on as fast as you can." Sherborne struck spurs into his steed, and passing Kingston Bagpuze, reached the high road between Abingdon and Faringdon, at the corner of which stood the inn in question,--a good-sized habitation, with large stables and a barn attached to it. Here he halted, and calling out in a loud and authoritative voice, the landlord instantly answered the summons; and, on being informed by his son of the rank of his guest, doffed his cap, and hastened to assist the earl to dismount. But Rochester declined his services, and bidding him summon his wife, she shortly afterwards made her appearance in the shape of a stout middle-aged dame. Committing Amabel to her care, the earl then alighted, and followed them into the house. The Plough, for so the inn was denominated, was thrown into the utmost confusion by the arrival of the earl and his suite. All the ordinary frequenters of the inn were ejected, while the best parlour was instantly prepared for the accommodation of his lordship and Pillichody. But Rochester was far more anxious for Amabel than himself, and could not rest for a moment till assured by Dame Sherborne that she was restored to sensibility, and about to retire to rest. He then became easy, and sat down to supper with Pillichody. So elated was he by his success, that, yielding to his natural inclination for hard drinking, he continued to revel so freely and so long with his follower, that daybreak found them over their wine, the one toasting the grocer's daughter, and the other Patience, when they both staggered off to bed. A couple of hours sufficed Rochester to sleep off the effects of his carouse. At six o'clock he arose, and ordered his attendants to prepare to set out without delay. When all was ready, he sent for Amabel, but she refused to come downstairs, and finding his repeated messages of no avail, he rushed into her room, and bore her, shrieking to his steed. In an hour after this, they arrived at an old hall, belonging to the earl, in the neighbourhood of Oxford. Amabel was entrusted to the care of a female attendant, named Prudence, and towards evening, Rochester, who was burning with impatience for an interview, learnt, to his infinite disappointment, that she was so seriously unwell, that if he forced himself into her presence, her life might be placed in jeopardy. She continued in the same state for several days, at the end of which time, the chirurgeon who attended her, and who was a creature of the earl's, pronounced her out of danger. Rochester then sent her word by Prudence that he must see her in the course of that day, and a few hours after the delivery of the message, he sought her room. She was much enfeebled by illness, but received him with great self-possession. "I cannot believe, my lord," she said, "that you desire to destroy me, and when I assure you--solemnly assure you, that if you continue to persecute me thus, my death, will be the consequence, I am persuaded you will desist, and suffer me to depart." "Amabel," rejoined the earl, passionately, "is it possible you can be so changed towards me? Nothing now interferes to prevent our union." "Except my own determination to the contrary, my lord," she replied. "I can never be yours." "Wherefore not?" asked the earl, half angrily, half reproachfully. "Because I know and feel that I should condemn myself to wretchedness," she replied. "Because--for since your lordship will force the truth from me, I must speak out--I have learnt to regard your character in its true light,--and because my heart is wedded to heaven." "Pshaw!" exclaimed the earl, contemptuously; "you have been listening so long to your saintly father's discourses, that you fancy them applicable to yourself. But you are mistaken in me," he added, altering his tone; "I see where the main difficulty lies. You think I am about to delude you, as before, into a mock marriage. But I swear to you you are mistaken. I love you so well that I would risk my temporal and eternal happiness for you. It will rejoice me to raise you to my own rank--to place you among the radiant beauties of our sovereign's court, the brightest of whom you will outshine, and to devote my whole life to your happiness." "It is too late," sighed Amabel. "Why too late?" cried the earl, imploringly. "We have gone through severe trials, it is true. I have been constantly baffled in my pursuit of you, but disappointment has only made me love you more devotedly. Why too late? What is to prevent our nuptials from taking place to-day--to-morrow--when you will? The king himself shall be present at the ceremony, and shall give you away. Will this satisfy your scruples? I know I have offended you. I know I deserve your anger. But the love that prompted me to act thus, must also plead my pardon." "Strengthen me!" she murmured, looking supplicatingly upwards. "Strengthen me, for my trial is very severe." "Be not deceived, Amabel," continued Rochester, yet more ardently; "that you love me I am well assured, however strongly you may at this moment persuade yourself to the contrary. Be not governed by your father's strait-laced and puritanical opinions. Men, such as he is, cannot judge of fiery natures like mine. I myself have had to conquer a stubborn and rebellious spirit,--the demon pride. But I have conquered. Love has achieved the victory,--love for you. I offer you my heart, my hand, my title. A haughty noble makes this offer to a grocer's daughter. Can you--will you refuse me?" "I can and do, my lord," she replied. "I have achieved a yet harder victory. With me, principle has conquered love. I no longer respect you, no longer love you--and, therefore, cannot wed you." "Rash and obstinate girl," cried the earl, unable to conceal his mortification; "you will bitterly repent your inconsiderate conduct. I offer you devotion such as no other person could offer you, and rank such as no other is likely to offer you. You are now in my power, and you _shall_ be mine,--in what way rests with yourself. You shall have a week to consider the matter. At the end of that time, I will again renew my proposal. If you accept it, well and good. If not, you know the alternative." And without waiting for a reply, he quitted the room. He was as good as his word. During the whole of the week allowed Amabel for consideration, he never intruded upon her, nor was his name at any time mentioned by her attendants. If she had been, indeed, Countess of Rochester, she could not have been treated with greater respect than was shown her. The apartment allotted her opened upon a large garden, surrounded by high walls, and she walked within it daily. Her serenity of mind remained undisturbed; her health visibly improved; and, what was yet more surprising, she entirely recovered her beauty. The whole of her time not devoted to exercise, was spent in reading, or in prayer. On the appointed day, Rochester presented himself. She received him with the most perfect composure, and with a bland look, from which he augured favourably. He waved his hand to the attendants, and they were alone. "I came for your answer, Amabel," he said; "but I scarcely require it, being convinced from your looks that I have nothing to fear. Oh! why did you not abridge this tedious interval? Why not inform me you had altered your mind? But I will not reproach you. I am too happy to complain of the delay." "I must undeceive you, my lord," returned Amabel, gravely. "No change has taken place in my feelings. I still adhere to the resolution I had come to when we last parted." "How!" exclaimed the earl, his countenance darkening, and the evil look which Amabel had before noticed taking possession of it. "One moment lured on, and next rebuffed. But no--no!" he added, constraining himself, "you cannot mean it. It is not in woman's nature to act thus. You have loved me--you love me still. Make me happy--make yourself happy." "My lord," she replied, "strange and unnatural as my conduct may appear, you will find it consistent. You have lost the sway you had once over me, and, for the reasons I have already given you, I can never be yours." "Oh, recall your words, Amabel," he cried, in the most moving tones he could command; "if you have no regard for me--at least have compassion. I will quit the court if you desire it; will abandon title, rank, wealth; and live in the humblest station with you. You know not what I am capable of when under the dominion of passion. I am capable of the darkest crimes, or of the brightest virtues. The woman who has a man's heart in her power may mould it to her own purposes, be they good or ill. Reject me, and you drive me to despair, and plunge me into guilt. Accept me, and you may lead me into any course, you please." "Were I assured of this--" cried Amabel. "Rest assured of it," returned the earl, passionately. "Oh, yield to impulses of natural affection, and do not suffer a cold and calculating creed to chill your better feelings. How many a warm and loving heart has been so frozen! Do not let yours be one of them. Be mine! be mine!" Amabel looked at him earnestly for a moment; while he, assured that he had gained his point, could not conceal a slightly triumphant smile. "Now, your answer!" he cried. "My life hangs upon it." "I am still unmoved," she replied, coldly, and firmly. "Ah!" exclaimed the earl with a terrible imprecation, and starting to his feet. "You refuse me. Be it so. But think not that you shall escape me. No, you are in my power, and I will use it. You shall be mine and without the priest's interference. I will not degrade myself by an alliance with one so lowly born. The strongest love is nearest allied to hatred, and mine has become hatred--bitter hatred. You shall be mine, I tell you, and when I am indifferent to you, I will cast you off. Then, when you are neglected, despised, shunned, you will regret--deeply but unavailingly--your rejection of my proposals." "No, my lord, I shall never regret it," replied Amabel, "and I cannot sufficiently rejoice that I did not yield to the momentary weakness that inclined me to accept them. I thank you for the insight you have afforded me into your character." "You have formed an erroneous opinion of me, Amabel," cried the earl, seeing his error, and trying to correct it. "I am well nigh distracted by conflicting emotions. Oh, forgive my violence--forget it." "Readily," she replied; "but think not I attach the least credit to your professions." "Away, then, with further disguise," returned the earl, relapsing into his furious mood, "and recognise in me the person I am--or, rather the person you would have me be. You say you are immovable. So am I; nor will I further delay my purpose." Amabel, who had watched him uneasily during this speech, retreated a step, and taking a small dagger from a handkerchief in which she kept it concealed, placed its point against her breast. "I well know whom I have to deal with, my lord," she said, "and am, therefore, provided against the last extremity. Attempt to touch me, and I plunge this dagger into my heart." "Your sense of religion will not allow you to commit so desperate a deed," replied the earl, derisively. "My blood be upon your head, my lord," she rejoined; "for it is your hand that strikes the blow, and not my own. My honour is dearer to me than life, and I will unhesitatingly sacrifice the one to preserve the other. I have no fear but that the action, wrongful though it be, will be forgiven me." "Hold!" exclaimed the earl, seeing from her determined look and manner that she would unquestionably execute her purpose. "I have no desire to drive you to destruction. Think over what I have said to you, and we will renew the subject tomorrow." "Renew it when you please, my lord, my answer will still be the same," she replied. "I have but one refuge from you--the grave--and thither, if need be, I will fly." And as she spoke, she moved slowly towards the adjoining chamber, the door of which she fastened after her. "I thought I had some experience of her sex," said Rochester to himself, "but I find I was mistaken. To-morrow's mood, however, may be unlike to-day's. At all events, I must take my measures differently." * * * * * V. THE MARRIAGE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. Unwilling to believe he had become an object of aversion to Amabel, Rochester renewed his solicitations on the following day, and calling into play his utmost fascination of manner, endeavoured to remove any ill impression produced by his previous violence. She was proof, however, against his arts; and though he never lost his mastery over himself, he had some difficulty in concealing his chagrin at the result of the interview. He now began to adopt a different course, and entering into long discussions with Amabel, strove by every effort of wit and ridicule, to shake and subvert her moral and religious principles. But here again he failed; and once more shifting his ground, affected to be convinced by her arguments. He entirely altered his demeanour, and though Amabel could not put much faith in the change, it was a subject of real rejoicing to her. Though scarcely conscious of it herself, he sensibly won upon her regards, and she passed many hours of each day in his society without finding it irksome. Seeing the advantage he had gained, and well aware that he should lose it by the slightest indiscretion, Rochester acted with the greatest caution. The more at ease she felt with him, the more deferential did he become; and before she was conscious of her danger, the poor girl was once more on the brink of the precipice. It was about this time that Leonard Holt, as has been previously intimated, discovered her retreat, and contrived, by clambering up a pear-tree which was nailed against the wall of the house, to reach her chamber-window. Having received her assurance that she had resisted all Rochester's importunities, the apprentice promised to return on the following night with means to affect her liberation, and departed. Fully persuaded that she could now repose confidence in the earl, Amabel acquainted him, the next morning, with Leonard's visit, adding that he would now have an opportunity of proving the sincerity of his professions by delivering her up to her friends. "Since you desire it," replied the earl, who heard her with an unmoved countenance, though internally torn with passion, "I will convey you to your father myself. I had hoped," he added with a sigh, "that we should never part again." "I fear I have been mistaken in you, my lord," rejoined Amabel, half-repenting her frankness. "Not so," he replied. "I will do anything you require, except deliver you to this hateful apprentice. If it is your pleasure, I repeat, I will take you back to your father." "Promise me this, my lord, and I shall be quite easy," cried Amabel, joyfully. "I do promise it," he returned. "But oh! why not stay with me, and complete the good work you have begun?" Amabel averted her head, and Rochester sighing deeply, quitted the room. An attendant shortly afterwards came to inform her that the earl intended to start for London without delay, and begged her to prepare for the journey. In an hour's time, a carriage drove to the door, and Rochester having placed her and Prudence in it, mounted his horse, and set forth. Late on the second day they arrived in London, and passing through the silent and deserted streets, the aspect of which struck terror into all the party, shaped their course towards the city. Presently they reached Ludgate, but instead of proceeding to Wood-street, the carriage turned off on the right, and traversing Thames-street, crossed London Bridge. Amabel could obtain no explanation of this change from Prudence; and her uneasiness was not diminished when the vehicle, which was driven down a narrow street on the left immediately after quitting the bridge, stopped at the entrance of a large court-yard. Rochester, who had already dismounted, assisted her to alight, and in answer to her hasty inquiries why he had brought her thither, told her he thought it better to defer taking her to her father till the morrow. Obliged to be content with this excuse, she was led into the house, severely reproaching herself for her indiscretion. Nothing, however, occurred to alarm her that night. The earl was even more deferential than before, and assuring her he would fulfil his promise in the morning, confided her to Prudence. The house whither she had been brought was large and old-fashioned. The rooms had once been magnificently fitted up, but the hangings and furniture were much faded, and had a gloomy and neglected air. This was especially observable in the sleeping-chamber appointed for her reception. It was large and lofty, panelled with black and shining oak, with a highly-polished floor of the same material, and was filled with cumbrous chests and cabinets, and antique high-backed chairs. But the most noticeable object was a large state-bed, with a heavy square canopy, covered, with the richest damask, woven with gold, and hung with curtains of the same stuff, though now decayed and tarnished. A chill crept over Amabel as she gazed around. "I cannot help thinking," she observed to Prudence, "that I shall breathe my last in this room, and in that bed." "I hope not, madam," returned the attendant, unable to repress a shudder. Nothing more was said, and Amabel retired to rest. But not being able to sleep, and having vainly tried to compose herself, she arose and opened the window. It was a serene and beautiful night, and she could see the smooth river sparkling in the starlight, and flowing at a hundred yards' distance at the foot of the garden. Beyond, she could indistinctly perceive the outline of the mighty city, while nearer, on the left, lay the bridge. Solemnly across the water came the sound of innumerable bells, tolling for those who had died of the plague, and were now being borne to their last home. While listening to these sad sounds, another, but more doleful and appalling noise, caught her ears. It was the rumbling of cart-wheels in the adjoining street, accompanied by the ringing of a hand-bell, while a hoarse-voice cried, "Bring out your dead! bring out your dead!" On hearing this cry, she closed the window and retired. Morning broke before sleep visited her weary eyelids, and then, overcome by fatigue, she dropped into a slumber, from which she did not awake until the day was far advanced. She found Prudence sitting by her bedside, and alarmed by the expression of her countenance, anxiously inquired what was the matter? "Alas! madam," replied the attendant, "the earl has been taken suddenly ill. He set out for Wood-street the first thing this morning, and has seen your father, who refuses to receive you. On his return, he complained of a slight sickness, which has gradually increased in violence, and there can be little doubt it is the plague. Advice has been sent for. He prays you not to disturb yourself on his account, but to consider yourself sole mistress of this house, whatever may befall him." Amabel passed a miserably anxious day. A fresh interest had been awakened in her heart in behalf of the earl, and the precarious state in which she conceived him placed did not tend to diminish it. She made many inquiries after him, and learned that he was worse, while the fearful nature of the attack could not be questioned. On the following day Prudence reported that the distemper had made such rapid and terrible progress, that his recovery was considered almost hopeless. "He raves continually of you, madam," said the attendant, "and I have no doubt he will expire with your name on his lips." Amabel was moved to tears by the information, and withdrawing into a corner of the room, prayed fervently for the supposed sufferer. Prudence gazed at her earnestly and compassionately, and muttering something to herself, quitted the room. The next day was the critical one (so it was said) for the earl, and Amabel awaited, in tearful anxiety, the moment that was to decide his fate. It came, and he was pronounced out of danger. When the news was brought the anxious girl, she fainted. A week passed, and the earl, continued to improve, and all danger of infection--if any such existed--being at an end, he sent a message to Amabel, beseeching her to grant him an interview in his own room. She willingly assented, and, following the attendant, found him stretched upon a couch. In spite of his paleness and apparent debility, however, his good looks were but little impaired, and his attire, though negligent, was studiously arranged for effect. On Amabel's appearance he made an effort to rise, but she hastened to prevent him. After thanking her for her kind inquiries, he entered into a long conversation with her, in the course of which he displayed sentiments so exactly coinciding with her own, that the good opinion she had already begun to entertain for him was soon heightened into the liveliest interest. They parted, to meet again on the following day--and on the day following that. The bloom returned to the earl's countenance, and he looked handsomer than ever. A week thus passed, and at the end of it, he said--"To-morrow I shall be well enough to venture forth again, and my first business shall be to proceed to your father, and see whether he is now able to receive you." "The plague has not yet abated, my lord," she observed, blushingly. "True," he replied, looking passionately at her. "Oh, forgive me, Amabel," he added, taking her hand, which she did not attempt to withdraw. "Forgive me, if I am wrong. But I now think your feelings are altered towards me, and that I may venture to hope you will be mine?" Amabel's bosom heaved with emotion. She tried to speak, but could not. Her head declined upon his shoulder, and her tears flowed fast. "I am answered," he cried, scarcely able to contain his rapture, and straining her to his bosom. "I know not whether I am doing rightly," she murmured, gazing at him through her tears, "but I believe you mean me truly. God forgive you if you do not." "Have no more doubts," cried the earl. "You have wrought an entire change in me. Our union shall not be delayed an hour. It shall take place in Saint Saviour's to-night." "Not to-night," cried Amabel, trembling at his eagerness--"to-morrow." "To-night, to-night!" reiterated the earl, victoriously. And he rushed out of the room. Amabel was no sooner left to herself than she repented what she had done. "I fear I have made a false step," she mused; "but it is now too late to retreat, and I will hope for the best. He cannot mean to deceive me." Her meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Prudence, who came towards her with a face full of glee. "My lord has informed me of the good news," she said. "You are to be wedded to him to-day. I have expected it all along, but it is somewhat sudden at last. He is gone in search of the priest, and in the mean time has ordered me to attire you for the ceremony. I have several rich dresses for your ladyship--for so I must now call you--to choose from." "The simplest will suit me best," replied Amabel, "and do not call me ladyship till I have a right to that title." "That will be so soon that I am sure there can be no harm in using it now," returned Prudence. "But pray let me show you the dresses." Amabel suffered herself to be led into another room, where she saw several sumptuous female habiliments, and selecting the least showy of them, was soon arrayed in it by the officious attendant. More than two hours elapsed before Rochester returned, when he entered Amabel's chamber, accompanied by Sir George Etherege and Pillichody. A feeling of misgiving crossed Amabel, as she beheld his companions. "I have had some difficulty in finding a clergyman," said the earl, "for the rector of Saint Saviour's has fled from the plague. His curate, however, will officiate for him, and is now in the church." Amabel fixed a searching look upon him. "Why are these gentlemen here?" she asked. "I have brought them with me," rejoined Rochester, "because, as they were aware of the injury I once intended you, I wish them to be present at its reparation." "I am satisfied," she replied. Taking her hand, the earl then led her to a carriage, which conveyed them to Saint Saviour's. Just as they alighted, the dead-cart passed, and several bodies were brought towards it. Eager to withdraw her attention from the spectacle, Rochester hurried her into the old and beautiful church. In another moment they were joined by Etherege and Pillichody, and they proceeded to the altar, where the priest, a young man, was standing. The ceremony was then performed, and the earl led his bride back to the carriage. On their return they had to undergo another ill-omened interruption. The dead-cart was stationed near the gateway, and some delay occurred before it could be moved forward. Amabel, however, suffered no further misgiving to take possession of her. Deeming herself wedded to the earl, she put no constraint on her affection for him, and her happiness, though short-lived, was deep and full. A month passed away like a dream of delight. Nothing occurred in the slightest degree to mar her felicity. Rochester seemed only to live for her--to think only of her. At the end of this time, some indifference began to manifest itself in his deportment to her, and he evinced a disposition to return to the court and to its pleasures. "I thought you had for ever abandoned them, my dear lord," said Amabel, reproachfully. "For awhile I have," he replied, carelessly. "You must leave me, if you return to them," she rejoined. "If I must, I must," said the earl. "You cannot mean this, my lord," she cried, bursting into tears. "You cannot be so changed." "I have never changed since you first knew me," replied Rochester. "Impossible!" she cried, in a tone of anguish; "you have not the faults--the vices, you once had." "I know not what you call faults and vices, madam," replied the earl sharply, "but I have the same qualities as heretofore. "Am I to understand, then," cried Amabel, a fearful suspicion of the truth breaking upon her, "that you never sincerely repented your former actions?" "You are to understand it," replied Rochester. "And you deceived me when you affirmed the contrary?" "I deceived you," he replied. "I begin to suspect," she cried, with a look of horror and doubt, "that the attack of the plague was feigned." "You are not far wide of the truth," was the reply. "And our marriage?" she cried--"our marriage? Was that feigned likewise?" "It was," replied Rochester, calmly. Amabel looked at him fixedly for a few minutes, as if she could not credit his assertion, and then receiving no contradiction, uttered a wild scream, and rushed out of the room. Rochester followed, and saw her dart with lightning swiftness across the court-yard. On gaining the street, he perceived her flying figure already at some distance; and greatly alarmed, started in pursuit. The unfortunate girl was not allowed to proceed far. Two persons who were approaching, and who proved to be Etherege and Pillichody, caught hold of her, and detained her till Rochester came up. When the latter attempted to touch her, she uttered such fearful shrieks, that Etherege entreated him to desist. With some difficulty she was taken back to the house. But it was evident that the shock had unsettled her reason. She alternately uttered wild, piercing screams, or broke into hysterical laughter. The earl's presence so much increased her frenzy, that he gladly withdrew. "This is a melancholy business, my lord," observed Etherege, as they quitted the room together, "and I am sorry for my share in it. We have both much to answer for." "Do you think her life in danger?" rejoined Rochester. "It would be well if it were so," returned the other; "but I fear she will live to be a perpetual memento to you of the crime you have committed." Amabel's delirium produced a high fever, which continued for three days. Her screams were at times so dreadful, that her betrayer shut himself up in the furthest part of the house, that he might not hear them. When at last she sank into a sleep like that of death, produced by powerful opiates, he stole into the room, and gazed at her with feelings which those who watched his countenance did not envy. It was hoped by the chirurgeon in attendance, that when the violence of the fever abated, Amabel's reason would be restored. But it was not so. Her faculties were completely shaken, and the cause of her affliction being effaced from her memory, she now spoke of the Earl of Rochester with her former affection. Her betrayer once ventured into her presence, but he did not repeat the visit. Her looks and her tenderness were more than even _his_ firmness could bear, and he hurried away to hide his emotion from the attendants. Several days passed on, and as no improvement took place, the earl, who began to find the stings of conscience too sharp for further endurance, resolved to try to deaden the pangs by again plunging into the dissipation of the court. Prudence had been seized by the plague, and removed to the pest-house, and not knowing to whom to entrust Amabel, it at last occurred to him that Judith Malmayns would be a fitting person, and he accordingly sent for her from Saint Paul's, and communicated his wishes to her, offering her a considerable reward for the service. Judith readily undertook the office, and the earl delayed his departure for two days, to see how all went on; and finding the arrangements, to all appearances, answer perfectly, he departed with Etherege and Pillichody. Ever since the communication of the fatal truth had been made to her by the earl, his unfortunate victim had occupied the large oak-panelled chamber, on entering which so sad a presentiment had seized her; and she had never quitted the bed where she thought she would breathe her last. On the night of Rochester's departure she made many inquiries concerning him from Judith Malmayns, who was seated in an old broad-cushioned, velvet-covered chair, beside her, and was told that the king required his attendance at Oxford, but that he would soon return. At this answer the tears gathered thickly in Amabel's dark eyelashes, and she remained silent. By-and-by she resumed the conversation. "Do you know, nurse," she said, with a look of extreme anxiety, "I have forgotten my prayers. Repeat them to me, and I will say them after you." "My memory is as bad as your ladyship's," replied Judith, contemptuously. "It is so long since I said mine, that I have quite forgotten them." "That is wrong in you," returned Amabel, "very wrong. When I lived with my dear father, we had prayers morning and evening, and I was never so happy as then. I feel it would do me good if I could pray as I used to do." "Well, well, all in good time," replied Judith. "As soon as you are better, you shall go back to your father, and then you can do as you please." "No, no, I cannot go back to him," returned Amabel. "I am the Earl of Rochester's wife--his wedded wife. Am I not Countess of Rochester?" "To be sure you are," replied Judith--"to be sure." "I sometimes think otherwise," rejoined Amabel, mournfully. "And so my dear lord is gone to Oxford?" "He is," returned Judith, "but he will be back soon. And now," she added, with some impatience, "you have talked quite long enough. You must take your composing draught, and go to sleep." With this she arose, and stepping to the table which stood by the side of the bed, filled a wine-glass with the contents of a silver flagon, and gave it to her. Amabel drank the mixture, and complaining of its nauseous taste, Judith handed her a plate of fruit from the table to remove it. Soon after this she dropped asleep, when the nurse arose, and taking a light from the table, cautiously possessed herself of a bunch of keys which were placed in a small pocket over Amabel's head, and proceeded to unlock a large chest that stood near the foot of the bed. She found it filled with valuables--with chains of gold, necklaces of precious stones, loops of pearl, diamond crosses, and other ornaments. Besides these, there were shawls and stuffs of the richest description. While contemplating these treasures, and considering how she should carry them off without alarming the household, she was startled by a profound sigh; and looking towards the bed, perceived to her great alarm, that Amabel had opened her eyes, and was watching her. "What are you doing there, nurse?" she cried. "Only looking at these pretty things, your ladyship," replied Judith, in an embarrassed tone. "I hope you are not going to steal them?" said Amabel. "Steal them?" echoed Judith, alarmed. "Oh, no! What should make your ladyship think so?" "I don't know," said Amabel; "but put them by, and bring the keys to me." Judith feigned compliance, but long before she had restored the things to the chest, Amabel had again fallen asleep. Apprised by her tranquil breathing of this circumstance, Judith arose; and shading the candle with her hand, crept noiselessly towards the bed. Dark thoughts crossed her as she gazed at the unfortunate sleeper; and moving with the utmost caution, she set the light on the table behind the curtains, and had just grasped the pillow, with the intention of plucking it from under Amabel's head, and of smothering her with it, when she felt herself restrained by a powerful grasp, and turning in utmost alarm, beheld the Earl of Rochester. VI. THE CERTIFICATE. "Wretch!" cried the earl. "An instinctive dread that you would do your poor charge some injury brought me back, and I thank Heaven I have arrived in time to prevent your atrocious purpose." "Your lordship would have acted more discreetly in staying away," replied Judith, recovering her resolution; "and I would recommend you not to meddle in the matter, but to leave it to me. No suspicion shall alight on you, nor shall it even be known that her end was hastened. Leave the house as secretly as you came, and proceed on your journey with a light heart. She will never trouble you further." "What!" exclaimed Rochester, who was struck dumb for the moment by surprise and indignation, "do you imagine I would listen to such a proposal? Do you think I would sanction her murder?" "I am sure you would, if you knew as much as I do," replied Judith, calmly. "Hear me, my lord," she continued, drawing him to a little distance from the bed, and speaking in a deep low tone. "You cannot marry Mistress Mallet while this girl lives." Rochester looked sternly and inquiringly at her. "You think your marriage was feigned," pursued Judith; "that he was no priest who performed the ceremony; and that no other witnesses were present except Sir George Etherege and Pillichody. But you are mistaken. I and Chowles were present; and he who officiated _was_ a priest. The marriage was a lawful one; and yon sleeping girl, who, but for your ill-timed interference, would, ere this, have breathed her last, is to all intents and purposes Countess of Rochester." "A lie!" cried the earl, furiously. "I will soon prove it to be truth," rejoined Judith. "Your retainer and unscrupulous agent, Major Pillichody, applied to Chowles to find some one to personate a clergyman in a mock marriage, which your lordship wished to have performed, and promised a handsome reward for the service. Chowles mentioned the subject to me, and we speedily contrived a plan to outwit your lordship, and turn the affair to our advantage." The earl uttered an ejaculation of rage. "Being acquainted with one of the minor canons of Saint Paul's, a worthy and pious young man, named Vincent," pursued Judith, utterly unmoved by Rochester's anger, "who resided hard by the cathedral, we hastened to him, and acquainted him with the design, representing ourselves as anxious to serve the poor girl, and defeat your lordship's wicked design--for such we termed it. With a little persuasion, Mr. Vincent consented to the scheme. Pillichody was easily duped by Chowles's statement, and the ceremony was fully performed." "The whole story is a fabrication," cried the earl, with affected incredulity. "I have a certificate of the marriage," replied Judith, "signed by Mr. Vincent, and attested by Chowles and myself. If ever woman was wedded to man, Amabel is wedded to your lordship." "If this is the case, why seek to destroy her?" demanded the earl. "Her life must be of more consequence to you than her removal." "I will deal frankly with you," replied Judith. "She discovered me in the act of emptying that chest, and an irresistible impulse prompted me to make away with her. But your lordship is in the right. Her life _is_ valuable to me, and she _shall_ live. But, I repeat, you cannot marry the rich heiress, Mistress Mallet." "Temptress!" cried the earl, "you put frightful thoughts into my head." "Go your ways," replied Judith, "and think no more about her. All shall be done that you require. I claim as my reward the contents of that chest." "Your reward shall be the gallows," rejoined the earl, indignantly. "I reject your proposal at once. Begone, wretch! or I shall forget you are a woman, and sacrifice you to my fury. Begone!" "As your lordship pleases," she replied; "but first, the Countess of Rochester shall be made acquainted with her rights." So saying, she broke from him, and rushed to the bed. "What are you about to do?" he cried. "Waken her," rejoined Judith, slightly shaking the sleeper. "Ah!" exclaimed Amabel, opening her eyes, and gazing at her with a terrified and bewildered look. "His lordship is returned," said Judith. "Indeed!" exclaimed Amabel, raising herself in the bed. "Where is he?--Ah, I see him.--Come to me, my dear lord," she added, stretching out her arms to him, "Come to me." But evil thoughts kept Rochester motionless. "Oh! come to me, my lord," cried Amabel, in a troubled tone, "or I shall begin to think what I have dreamed is true, and that I am not wedded to you." "It _was_ merely a dream, your ladyship," observed Judith. "I will bear witness you are wedded to his lordship, for I was present at the ceremony." "I did not see you," remarked Amabel. "I was there, nevertheless," replied Judith. "I am sorry to hear it," replied Amabel. "Your ladyship would rejoice if you knew all," returned Judith, significantly. "Why so?" inquired the other, curiously. "Because the clergyman who married you is dead of the plague," was the answer; "and it may chance in these terrible times that the two gentlemen who were present at the ceremony may die of the same distemper, and then there will be no one left but me and another person to prove that your marriage was lawful." "But its lawfulness will never be questioned, my dear lord, will it?" asked Amabel, looking beseechingly at Rochester. "Never," replied Judith, producing a small piece of parchment, "while I hold this certificate." "Give me that document," said the earl, in an undertone, to her. Judith directed her eyes towards the chest. "It is yours," said the earl, in the same tone as before. "What are you whispering, my lord?" inquired Amabel, uneasily. "I am merely telling her to remove that chest, sweetheart," he replied. "Do not send it away," cried Amabel. "It contains all the ornaments and trinkets you have given me. Do you know," she added in a whisper, "I caught her looking into it just now, and I suspect she was about to steal something." "Pshaw!" cried the earl, "she acted by my directions. Take the chest away," he added to Judith. "Has your lordship no further orders?" she rejoined, significantly. "None whatever," he replied, with a frown. "Before you go, give me the certificate," cried Amabel. "I must have it." Judith pretended not to hear her. "Give it her," whispered the earl, "I will remove it when she falls asleep." Nodding acquiescence, Judith took the parchment from her bosom, and returned with it to the bed. While this was passing, the earl walked towards the chest, and cast his eye over such of its contents as were scattered upon the floor. Judith watched him carefully, and when his back was turned, drew a small lancet, and affecting to arrange her dress, slightly punctured Amabel's neck. The pain was trifling, but the poor girl uttered a cry. "What is the matter?" cried the earl, turning suddenly round. "Nothing--nothing," replied Judith; "a pin in my sleeve pricked her as I was fastening her cap, that was all. Her death is certain," she added to herself, "she is inoculated with the plague-venom." She then went to the chest, and replacing everything within it, removed it, by the help of the Earl of Rochester, into the adjoining room. "I will send for it at midnight," she said. "It shall be delivered to your messenger," rejoined the earl; "but you will answer for Chowles's secrecy?" "I will," returned Judith, with a meaning smile. "But you may take my word for it you will not be troubled long with your wife. If I have any judgment respecting the plague, she is already infected." "Indeed!" cried Rochester--"then--" but he checked himself, and added, "I do not believe it. Begone." "He _does_ believe it for all that," muttered Judith, as he slunk away. Rochester returned to Amabel, and sat by her until she fell asleep, when he took the parchment from beneath the pillow where she had placed it. Examining it, he found it, as Judith had stated, a certificate of his marriage, signed by Mark Vincent, the clergyman who had officiated, and duly attested. Having carefully perused it, he held it towards the taper, with the intention of destroying it. As he was about to perpetrate this unworthy action, he looked towards the bed. The soft sweet smile that played upon the sleeper's features, turned him from his purpose. Placing the parchment in his doublet, he left the room, and summoning a female attendant, alleged some reason for his unexpected return, and ordered her to watch by the bedside of her mistress. Giving some further directions, he threw himself upon a couch and sought a few hours' repose. At daybreak, he repaired to Amabel's chamber, and finding her wrapped in a peaceful slumber, he commended her to the attendant, and departed. On awaking, Amabel complained of an uneasy sensation on her neck, and the attendant examining the spot, found, to her great alarm, a small red pustule. Without making a single observation, she left the room, and despatched a messenger after the Earl of Rochester to acquaint him that the countess was attacked by the plague. Such was the terror inspired by this dread disorder, that the moment it was known that Amabel was attacked by it, the whole household, except an old woman, fled. This old woman, whose name was Batley, and who acted as the earl's housekeeper, took upon herself the office of nurse. Before evening, the poor sufferer, who had endured great agony during the whole of the day, became so much worse, that Mrs. Batley ran out in search of assistance. She met with a watchman, who told her that a famous apothecary, from Clerkenwell, named Sibbald, who was celebrated for the cures he had effected, had just entered a neighbouring house, and offered to await his coming forth, and send him to her. Thanking him, Mrs. Batley returned to the house, and presently afterwards, Sibbald made his appearance. His looks and person had become even more repulsive than formerly. He desired to be led to the patient, and on seeing her, shook his head. He examined the pustule, which had greatly increased in size, and turning away, muttered, "I can do nothing for her." "At least make the attempt," implored Mrs. Batley. "She is the Countess of Rochester. You shall be well rewarded--and if you cure her, the earl will make your fortune." "If his lordship would change stations with me, I could not cure her," replied Sibbald. "Let me look at her again," he added, examining the pustule. "There is a strange appearance about this tumour. Has Judith Malmayns attended her?" "She was here yesterday," replied Mrs. Batley. "I thought so," he muttered. "I repeat it is all over with her." And he turned to depart. "Do not leave her thus, in pity do not!" cried the old woman, detaining him. "Make some effort to save her. My lord loves her to distraction, and will abundantly reward you." "All I can do is to give her something to allay the pain," returned Sibbald. And drawing a small phial from his doublet, he poured its contents into a glass, and administered it to the patient. "That will throw her into a slumber," he said, "and when she wakes, she will be without pain. But her end will be not far off." Mrs. Batley took a purse from a drawer in one of the cabinets, and gave it to the apothecary, who bowed and retired. As he had foretold, Amabel fell into a heavy lethargy, which continued during the whole of the night. Mrs. Batley, who had never left her, noticed that an extraordinary and fearful change had taken place in her countenance, and she could not doubt that the apothecary's prediction would be realized. The tumour had increased in size, and was surrounded by a dusky brown circle, which she knew to be a bad sign. The sufferer's eyes, when she opened them, and gazed around, had a dim and glazed look. But she was perfectly calm and composed, and, as had been prognosticated, free from pain. She had, also, fully regained her faculties, and seemed quite aware of her dangerous situation. But the return of reason brought with it no solace. On the contrary, the earl's treachery rushed upon her recollection, and gave her infinitely more anguish than the bodily pain she had recently endured. She bedewed the pillow with her tears, and fervently prayed for forgiveness for her involuntary fault. Mrs. Batley was deeply moved by her affliction, and offered her every consolation in her power. "I would the plague had selected me for a victim instead of your ladyship," she said. "It is hard to leave the world at your age, possessed of beauty, honours, and wealth. At mine, it would not signify." "You mistake the cause of my grief," returned Amabel; "I do not lament that my hour is at hand, but--" and her emotion so overpowered her that she could not proceed. "Do not disturb yourself further, dear lady," rejoined the old woman. "Let the worst happen, I am sure you are well prepared to meet your Maker." "I once was," replied Amabel in a voice of despair, "but now--Oh, Heaven forgive me!" "Shall I fetch some holy minister to pray beside you, my lady?" said Mrs. Batley; "one to whom you can pour forth the sorrows of your heart?" "Do so! oh, do!" cried Amabel, "and do not call me lady. I am not worthy to be placed in the same rank as yourself." "Her wits are clean gone," muttered Mrs. Batley, looking at her compassionately. "Heed me not," cried Amabel; "but if you have any pity for the unfortunate, do as you have promised." "I will--I will," said Mrs. Batley, departing. Half an hour, which scarcely seemed a moment to the poor sufferer, who was employed in fervent prayer, elapsed before Mrs. Batley returned. She was accompanied by a tall man, whom Amabel recognised as Solomon Eagle. "I have not been able to find a clergyman," said the old woman, "but I have brought a devout man who is willing to pray with you." "Ah!" exclaimed the enthusiast, starting as he beheld Amabel. "Can it be Mr. Bloundel's daughter?" "It is," returned Amabel with a groan. "Leave us, my good woman," she added to Mrs. Batley, "I have something to impart to Solomon Eagle which is for his ear alone." The old woman instantly retired, and Amabel briefly related her hapless story to the enthusiast. "May I hope for forgiveness?" she inquired, as she concluded. "Assuredly," replied Solomon Eagle, "assuredly! You have not erred wilfully, but through ignorance, and therefore have committed no offence. _You_ will be forgiven--but woe to your deceiver, here and hereafter." "Oh' say not so," she cried. "May Heaven pardon him as I do. While I have strength left I will pray for him." And she poured forth her supplications for the earl in terms so earnest and pathetic, that the tears flowed down Solomon Eagle's rough cheek. At this juncture, hasty steps were heard in the adjoining passage, and the door opening, admitted the Earl of Rochester, who rushed towards the bed. "Back!" cried Solomon Eagle, pushing him forcibly aside. "Back!" "What do you here?" cried Rochester, fiercely. "I am watching over the death-bed of your victim," returned Solomon Eagle. "Retire, my lord. You disturb her." "Oh, no," returned Amabel, meekly. "Let him come near me." And as Solomon Eagle drew a little aside, and allowed the earl to approach, she added, "With my latest breath I forgive you, my lord, for the wrong you have done me, and bless you." The earl tried to speak, but his voice was suffocated by emotion. As soon as he could find words, he said, "Your goodness completely overpowers me, dearest Amabel. Heaven is my witness, that even now I would make you all the reparation in my power were it needful. But it is not so. The wrong I intended you was never committed. I myself was deceived. I intended a feigned marriage, but it was rightfully performed. Time will not allow me to enter into further particulars of the unhappy transaction, but you may credit my assertion when I tell you you are indeed my wife, and Countess of Rochester." "If I thought so, I should die happy," replied Amabel. "Behold this proof!" said Rochester, producing the certificate. "I cannot read it," replied Amabel. "But you could not have the heart to deceive me now." "I will read it, and you well know _I_ would not deceive you," cried Solomon Eagle, casting his eye over it--"His lordship has avouched the truth," he continued. "It is a certificate of your marriage with him, duly signed and attested." "God be thanked," ejaculated Amabel, fervently. "God be thanked! You have been spared that guilt, and I shall die content." "I trust your life will long be spared," rejoined the earl. Amabel shook her head. "There is but one man in this city who could save her," whispered Solomon Eagle, and I doubt even his power to do so.' "Who do you mean?" cried Rochester, eagerly. "Doctor Hodges," replied the enthusiast. "I know him well," cried the earl. "I will fly to him instantly. Remain with her till I return." "My lord--my dear lord," interposed Amabel, faintly, "you trouble yourself needlessly. I am past all human aid." "Do not despair," replied the earl. "Many years of happiness are, I trust, in store for us. Do not detain me. I go to save you. Farewell for a short time." "Farewell, for ever, my lord," she said, gently pressing his hand. "We shall not meet again. Your name will be coupled with my latest breath." "I shall be completely unmanned if I stay here a moment longer," cried the earl, breaking from her, and rushing out of the room. As soon as he was gone, Amabel addressed herself once more to prayer with Solomon Eagle, and in this way an hour passed by. The earl not returning at the end of that time, Solomon Eagle became extremely uneasy, every moment being of the utmost consequence, and summoning Mrs. Batley, committed the patient to her care, and set off in search of Hodges. He hastened to the doctor's house--he was absent--to Saint Paul's--he was not there, but he learnt that a person answering to the earl's description had been making similar inquiries after him. At last, one of the chirurgeon's assistants told him that he thought the doctor was gone towards Cornhill, and hoping, accidentally, to meet with him, the enthusiast set off in that direction. While passing near the Exchange, he encountered Leonard, as before related, but did not think fit to acquaint him with more than Amabel's dangerous situation; and he had reason to regret making the communication at all, on finding its effect upon the poor youth. There was, however, no help for it, and placing him in what appeared a situation of safety, he left him. Rochester, meanwhile, had been equally unsuccessful in his search for Hodges. Hurrying first in one direction and then in another, at the suggestion of the chirurgeon's assistant, he at last repaired to the doctor's residence, determined to await his return. In half an hour he came, and received the earl, as the old porter stated to Thirlby and Leonard, with angry astonishment. As soon as they were alone, the earl told him all that had occurred, and besought him to accompany him to the poor sufferer. "I will go to her," said Hodges, who had listened to the recital with mixed feelings of sorrow and indignation, "on one condition--and one only--namely, that your lordship does not see her again without my permission." "Why do you impose this restriction upon, me sir?' demanded Rochester. "I do not think it necessary to give my reasons, my lord," returned Hodges; "but I will only go upon such terms." "Then I must perforce submit," replied the earl; "but I entreat you to set forth-without a moment's delay, or you will be too late." "I will follow you instantly," rejoined Hodges. "Your lordship can wait for me at the Southwark side of the bridge." He then opened the door, reiterating the terms upon which alone he would attend, and the earl departed. Shortly afterwards he set out, and making the best of his way, found Rochester at the appointed place. The latter conducted him to the entrance of the habitation, and indicating a spot where he would remain till his return, left him. Hodges soon found his way to the chamber of the sufferer, and at once perceived that all human aid was vain. She exhibited much pleasure at seeing him, and looked round, as if in search of the earl. Guessing her meaning, the physician, who now began to regret the interdiction he had placed upon him, told her that he was the cause of his absence. "It is well," she murmured--"well." She then made some inquiries after her relatives, and receiving a satisfactory answer, said, "I am glad you are come. You will be able to tell my father how I died." "It will be a great comfort to him to learn the tranquil frame in which I have found you," replied Hodges. "How long have I to live?" asked Amabel, somewhat quickly. "Do not deceive me." "You had better make your preparations without delay," returned Hodges. "I understand," she replied; and joining her hands upon her breast, she began to murmur a prayer. Hodges, who up to this moment had had some difficulty in repressing his emotion, withdrew to a short distance to hide his fast-falling tears. He was roused shortly after, by a sudden and startling cry from the old woman. "Oh, sir, she is going! she is going!" ejaculated Mrs. Batley. He found the exclamation true. The eyes of the dying girl were closed. There was a slight quiver of the lips, as if she murmured some name--probably Rochester's--and then all was over. Hodges gazed at her sorrowfully for some time. He then roused himself, and giving some necessary directions to the old woman respecting the body, quitted the house. Not finding the earl at the place he had appointed to meet him, after waiting for a short time, he proceeded, towards his own house. On the way he was net by Thirlby and Parravicin, as previously related, and conducted to the house in Nicholas-lane. It will not be necessary to recapitulate what subsequently occurred. We shall, therefore, proceed to the point of time when he quitted his new patient, and entered the room where Thirlby and Leonard were waiting for him. Both, as has been stated, rushed towards him, and the former eagerly asked his opinion respecting his daughter. "My opinion is positive," replied Hodges. "With care, she will undoubtedly recover." "Heaven be thanked!" cried Thirlby, dropping on his knees. "And now, one word to me, sir," cried Leonard. "What of Amabel?" "Alas!" exclaimed the doctor, "her troubles are ended." "Dead!" shrieked Leonard. "Ay, dead!" repeated the doctor. "She died of the plague to-night." He then proceeded to detail briefly all that had occurred. Leonard listened like one stupefied, till he brought his recital to a close, and then asking where the house in which she had died was situated, rushed out of the room, and made his way, he knew not how, into the street. His brain seemed on fire, and he ran so quickly that his feet appeared scarcely to touch the ground. A few seconds brought him to London Bridge. He crossed it, and turning down the street on the left, had nearly reached the house to which he had been directed, when his career was suddenly checked. The gate of the court-yard was opened, and two men, evidently, from their apparel, buriers of the dead, issued from it. They carried a long narrow board between them, with a body wrapped in a white sheet placed upon it. A freezing horror rooted Leonard to the spot where he stood. He could neither move nor utter a cry. The men proceeded with their burden towards the adjoining habitation, which was marked with a fatal red cross and inscription. Before it stood the dead-cart, partly filled with corpses. The foremost burier carried a lantern, but he held it so low that its light did not fall upon his burden. Leonard, however, did not require to see the body to know whose it was. The moon was at its full, and shed a ghastly light over the group, and a large bat wheeled in narrow circles round the dead-cart. On reaching the door of the house, the burier set down the lantern near the body of a young man which had just been thrust forth. At the same moment, Chowles, with a lantern in his hand, stepped out upon the threshold. "Who have you got, Jonas?" he asked. "I know not," replied the hindmost burier. "We entered yon large house, the door of which stood open, and in one of the rooms found, an old woman in a fainting state, and the body of this young girl, wrapped in a sheet, and ready for the cart. So we clapped it on the board, and brought it away with us." "You did right," replied Chowles. "I wonder whose body it is." As he spoke, he held up his lantern, and unfastening it, threw the light full upon the face. The features were pale as marble; calm in their expression, and like those of one wrapped in placid slumber. The long fair hair hung over the side of the board. It was a sad and touching sight. "Why, as I am a living man, it is the grocer's daughter, Amabel,--somewhile Countess of Rochester!" exclaimed Chowles. "It is, it is!" cried the earl, suddenly rushing from behind a building where he had hitherto remained concealed. "Whither are you about to take her? Set her down--set her down." "Hinder them not, my lord," vociferated another person, also appearing on the scene with equal suddenness. "Place her in the cart," cried Solomon Eagle--for he it was--to the bearers. "This is a just punishment upon you, my lord," he added to Rochester, as his injunctions were obeyed--"oppose them not in their duty." It was not in the earl's power to do so. Like Leonard, he was transfixed with horror. The other bodies were soon placed in the cart, and it was put in motion. At this juncture, the apprentice's suspended faculties were for an instant--and an instant only--restored to him. He uttered a piercing cry, and staggering forward, fell senseless on the ground. BOOK THE FIFTH. DECEMBER, 1665. I. THE DECLINE OF THE PLAGUE. More than two months must be passed over in silence. During that time, the pestilence had so greatly abated as no longer to occasion alarm to those who had escaped its ravages. It has been mentioned that the distemper arrived at its height about the 10th of September, and though for the two following weeks the decline was scarcely perceptible, yet it had already commenced. On the last week in that fatal month, when all hope had been abandoned, the bills of mortality suddenly decreased in number to one thousand eight hundred and thirty-four. And this fortunate change could not be attributed to the want of materials to act upon, for the sick continued as numerous as before, while the deaths were less frequent. In the next week there was a further decrease of six hundred; in the next after that of six hundred; and so on till the end of October, when, the cold weather setting in, the amount was reduced to nearly one thousand. At first, when the distemper began to lose somewhat of its malignancy, a few scared individuals appeared in the streets, but carefully shunned each other. In a few days, however, considerable numbers joined them, and for the first time for nearly three months there was something like life abroad. It is astonishing how soon hope and confidence are revived. Now that it could no longer be doubted that the plague was on the decline, it seemed as if a miracle had been performed in favour of the city. Houses were opened--shopkeepers resumed their business--and it was a marvel to every one that so many persons were left alive. Dejection and despair of the darkest kind were succeeded by frenzied delight, and no bound was put to the public satisfaction. Strangers stopped each other in the streets, and conversed together like old friends. The bells, that had grown hoarse with tolling funerals, were now cracked with joyous peals. The general joy extended even to the sick, and many, buoyed up by hope, recovered, when in the former season of despondency they would inevitably have perished. All fear of the plague seemed to vanish with the flying disorder. Those who were scarcely out of danger joined in the throng, and it was no uncommon sight to see men with bandages round their necks, or supported by staves and crutches, shaking hands with their friends, and even embracing them. The consequence of this incautious conduct may be easily foreseen. The plague had received too severe a check to burst forth anew; but it spread further than it otherwise would have done, and attacked many persons, who but for their own imprudence would have escaped. Amongst others, a barber in Saint Martin's-le-Grand, who had fled into the country in August, returned to his shop in the middle of October, and, catching the disorder from one of his customers, perished with the whole of his family. But these, and several other equally fatal instances, produced no effect on the multitude. Fully persuaded that the virulence of the disorder was exhausted--as, indeed, appeared to be the case--they gave free scope to their satisfaction, which was greater than was ever experienced by the inhabitants of a besieged city reduced by famine to the last strait of despair, and suddenly restored to freedom and plenty. The more pious part of the community thronged to the churches, from which they had been so long absent, and returned thanks for their unexpected deliverance. Others, who had been terrified into seriousness and devotion, speedily forgot their former terrors, and resumed their old habits. Profaneness and debauchery again prevailed, and the taverns were as well filled as the churches. Solomon Eagle continued his midnight courses through the streets; but he could no longer find an audience as before. Those who listened to him only laughed at his denunciations of a new judgment, and told him his preachings and prophesyings were now completely out of date. By this time numbers of those who had quitted London having returned to it, the streets began to resume their wonted appearance. The utmost care was taken by the authorities to cleanse and purify the houses, in order to remove all chance of keeping alive the infection. Every room in every habitation where a person had died of the plague--and there were few that had escaped the visitation--was ordered to be whitewashed, and the strongest fumigations were employed to remove the pestilential effluvia. Brimstone, resin, and pitch were burnt in the houses of the poor; benjamin, myrrh, and other more expensive perfumes in those of the rich; while vast quantities of powder were consumed in creating blasts to carry off the foul air. Large and constant fires were kept in all the houses, and several were burnt down in consequence of the negligence of their owners. All goods, clothes, and bedding, capable of harbouring infection, were condemned to be publicly burned, and vast bonfires were lighted in Finsbury Fields and elsewhere, into which many hundred cart-loads of such articles were thrown. The whole of Chowles's hoard, except the plate, which he managed, with Judith's aid, to carry off and conceal in certain hiding-places in the vaults of Saint Faith's, was taken from the house in Nicholas-lane, and cast into the fire. The cathedral was one of the first places ordered to be purified. The pallets of the sick were removed and burned, and all the stains and impurities with which its floor and columns were polluted were cleansed. Nothing was left untried to free it from infection. It was washed throughout with vinegar, fumigated with the strongest scents, and several large barrels of pitch were set fire to in the aisles. "It shall undergo another species of purification," said Solomon Eagle, who was present during these proceedings; "one that shall search every nook within it--shall embrace all those columns, and pierce every crack and crevice in those sculptured ornaments; and then, and not till then, will it be thoroughly cleansed." During all this time the grocer had not opened his dwelling. The wisdom of this plan was now made fully apparent. The plague was declining fast, and not an inmate of his house had been attacked by it. Soon after the melancholy occurrence, he had been informed by Doctor Hodges of Amabel's death; but the humane physician concealed from him the painful circumstances under which it occurred. It required all Mr. Bloundel's fortitude to support him under the shock of this intelligence, and he did not communicate the afflicting tidings to his wife until he had prepared her for their reception. But she bore them better than he had anticipated; and though she mourned her daughter deeply and truly, she appeared completely resigned to the loss. Sorrow pervaded the whole household for some weeks; and the grocer, who never relaxed his system, shrouded his sufferings under the appearance of additional austerity of manner. It would have been a great consolation to him to see Leonard Holt; but the apprentice had disappeared; and even Doctor Hodges could give no account of him. One night, in the middle of November, Mr. Bloundel signified to his wife his intention of going forth, early on the following morning, to satisfy himself that the plague was really abating. Accordingly, after he had finished his devotions, and broken his fast, he put his design into execution. His first act, after locking the door behind him, which he did as a measure of precaution, was to fall on his knees and offer up prayers to Heaven for his signal preservation. He then arose, and, stepping into the middle of the street, gazed at the habitation which had formed his prison and refuge for nearly six months. There it was, with its shutters closed and barred--a secure asylum, with all alive within it, while every other dwelling in the street was desolate. The grocer's sensations were novel and extraordinary. His first impulse was to enjoy his newly-recovered freedom, and to put himself into active motion. But he checked the feeling as sinful, and proceeded along the street at a slow pace. He did not meet a single person, until he reached Cheapside, where he found matters completely changed. Several shops were already opened, and there were a few carts and other vehicles tracking their way through the broad and yet grass-grown street. It was a clear, frosty morning, and there was a healthful feel in the bracing atmosphere that produced an exhilarating effect on the spirits. The grocer pursued his course through the middle of the street, carefully avoiding all contact with such persons as he encountered, though he cordially returned their greetings, and wandered on, scarcely knowing whither he was going, but deeply interested in all he beheld. The aspect of the city was indeed most curious. The houses were for the most part unoccupied--the streets overgrown with grass--while every object, animate and inanimate, bore some marks of the recent visitation. Still, all looked hopeful, and the grocer could not doubt that the worst was past. The different demeanour of the various individuals he met struck him. Now he passed a young man whistling cheerily, who saluted him, and said, "I have lost my sweetheart by the plague, but I shall soon get another." The next was a grave man, who muttered, "I have lost all," and walked pensively on. Then came others in different moods; but all concurred in thinking that the plague was at an end; and the grocer derived additional confirmation of the fact from meeting numerous carts and other vehicles bringing families back to their houses from the country. After roaming about for several hours, and pondering on all he saw, he found himself before the great western entrance of Saint Paul's. It chanced to be the morning on which the pallets and bedding were brought forth, and he watched the proceeding at a distance. All had been removed, and he was about to depart, when he perceived a person seated on a block of stone, not far from him, whom he instantly recognised. "Leonard," he cried--"Leonard Holt, is it you?" Thus addressed, and in these familiar tones, the apprentice looked up, and Mr. Bloundel started at the change that had taken place in him. Profound grief was written in every line of his thin and haggard countenance; his eyes were hollow, and had the most melancholy expression imaginable; and his flesh was wasted away from the bone. He looked the very image of hopeless affliction. "I am sorry to find you in this state, Leonard," said the grocer, in a tone of deep commiseration; "but I am well aware of the cause. I myself have suffered severely; but I deem it my duty to control my affliction." "I _would_ control it, if it were possible, Mr. Bloundel," replied Leonard. "But hope is dead in my breast. I shall never be happy again." "I trust otherwise," replied the grocer, kindly. "Your trials have been very great, and so were those of the poor creature we both of us deplore. But she is at peace, and therefore we need not lament her." "Alas!" exclaimed Leonard, mournfully, "I am now only anxious to rejoin her." "It is selfish, if not sinful, to grieve in this way," rejoined Mr. Bloundel, somewhat sternly. "You must bear your sorrows like a man. Come home with me. I will be a father to you. Nay, do not hesitate. I will have no refusal." So saying, he took Leonard's arm, and led him in the direction of Wood-street. Nothing passed between them on the way, nor did Leonard evince any further emotion until he entered the door of the grocer's dwelling, when he uttered a deep groan. Mrs. Bloundel was greatly affected at seeing him, as were the rest of the family, and abundance of tears were shed by all, except Mr. Bloundel, who maintained his customary stoical demeanour throughout the meeting. Satisfied that the pestilence had not declined sufficiently to warrant him in opening his house, the grocer determined to await the result of a few weeks. Indeed, that very night, he had reason to think he had defeated his plans by precipitancy. While sitting after prayers with his family, he was seized with a sudden shivering and sickness, which he could not doubt were the precursors of the plague. He was greatly alarmed, but did not lose his command over himself. "I have been most imprudent," he said, "in thus exposing myself to infection. I have symptoms of the plague about me, and will instantly repair to one of the upper rooms which I have laid aside as an hospital, in case of any emergency like the present. None of you must attend me. Leonard will fetch Doctor Hodges and a nurse. I shall then do very well. Farewell, dear wife and children! God bless you all, and watch over you. Remember me in your prayers." So saying, he arose and walked towards the door. His wife and eldest son would have assisted him, but he motioned them away. "Let me go with you, sir," cried Leonard, who had arisen with the others; "I will nurse you; my life is of little consequence, and I cannot be more satisfactorily employed." The grocer reluctantly assented, and the apprentice assisted him upstairs, and helped to place him in bed. No plague-token could be found about his person, but as the same alarming symptoms still continued, Leonard administered such remedies as he thought needful, and then went in search of Doctor Hodges. On reaching Watling-street, he found Doctor Hodges about to retire to rest. The worthy physician was greatly distressed by the apprentice's account of his master's illness; but was somewhat reassured when the symptoms were more minutely described to him. While preparing certain medicines, and arming himself with his surgical implements, he questioned Leonard as to the cause of his long disappearance. "Having seen nothing of you," he said, "since the fatal night when our poor Amabel's sorrows were ended, I began to feel very apprehensive on your account. Where have you been?" "You shall hear," replied Leonard, "though the relation will be like opening my wounds afresh. On recovering from the terrible shock I had received, I found myself stretched upon a bed in a house whither I had been conveyed by Rainbird the watchman, who had discovered me lying in a state of insensibility in the street. For nearly a week I continued delirious, and should, probably, have lost my senses altogether but for the attentions of the watchman. As soon as I was able to move, I wandered to the lesser plague-pit, in Finsbury Fields, you will guess with what intent. My heart seemed breaking, and I thought I should pour forth my very soul in grief, as I gazed into that dreadful gulf, and thought she was there interred. Still my tears were a relief. Every evening, for a month, I went to that sad spot, and remained there till daybreak admonished me to return to Rainbird's dwelling. At last, he was seized by the distemper; but though I nursed him, voluntarily exposing myself to infection, and praying to be carried off, I remained untouched. Poor Rainbird died; and having seen his body thrown into the pit, I set off into Berkshire, and after three days' toilsome travel on foot, reached Ashdown Park. It was a melancholy pleasure to behold the abode where she I had loved passed her last few days of happiness, and where I had been near her. Her aunt, good Mrs. Buscot, though overwhelmed by affliction at the sad tidings I brought her, received me with the utmost kindness, and tried to console me. My sorrow, however, was too deeply seated to be removed. Wandering over the downs, I visited Mrs. Compton at Kingston Lisle, from whose house Amabel was carried off by the perfidious earl. She, also, received me with kindness, and strove, like Mrs. Buscot, to comfort me, and, like her, ineffectually. Finding my strength declining, and persuaded that my days were drawing to a close, I retraced my steps to London, hoping to find a final resting-place near her I had loved." "You are, indeed, faithful to the grave, Leonard," said the physician, brushing away a tear; "and I never heard or read of affection stronger than yours. Sorrow is a great purifier, and you will come out all the better for your trial. You are yet young, and though you never can love as you _have_ loved, a second time, your heart is not utterly seared." "Utterly, sir," echoed Leonard, "utterly." "You think so, now," rejoined the physician. "But you will find it otherwise hereafter. I can tell you of one person who has suffered almost as much from your absence as you have done for the loss of Amabel. The Lady Isabella Argentine has made constant inquiries after you; and though I should be the last person to try to rouse you from your present state of despondency, by awakening hopes of alliance with the sister of a proud noble, yet it may afford you consolation to know that she still cherishes the warmest regard for you." "I am grateful to her," replied Leonard, sadly, but without exhibiting any other emotion. "She was dear to Amabel, and therefore will be ever dear to me. I would fain know," he added, his brow suddenly contracting, and his lip quivering, "what has become of the Earl of Rochester?" "He has married a wealthy heiress, the fair Mistress Mallet," replied Hodges. "Married, and so soon!" cried Leonard. "And he has quite forgotten his victim?" "Apparently so," replied the doctor, with an expression of disgust. "And it was for one who so lightly regarded her that she sacrificed herself," groaned Leonard, his head dropping upon his breast. "Come," cried Hodges, taking his arm, and leading him out of the room; "we must go and look after your master." With this, they made the best of their way to Wood-street. Arrived at the grocer's house, they went upstairs, and Hodges immediately pronounced Mr. Bloundel to be suffering from a slight feverish attack, which a sudorific powder would remove. Having administered the remedy, he descended to the lower room to allay the fears of the family. Mrs. Bloundel received the happy tidings with tears of joy, and the doctor remained a short time to condole with her on the loss she had sustained. The good dame wept bitterly on hearing the whole particulars, with which she had been hitherto unacquainted, attending her daughter's untimely death, but she soon regained her composure. They then spoke of Leonard, who had remained above with his master,--of his blighted hopes, and seemingly incurable affliction. "His is true love, indeed, doctor," sighed Mrs. Bloundel. "Pity it is that it could not be requited." "I know not how it is," rejoined Hodges, "and will not question the decrees of our All-Wise Ruler, but the strongest affection seldom, if ever, meets a return. Leonard himself was insensible to the devotion of one, of whom I may say, without disparagement to our poor Amabel, that she was, in my opinion, her superior in beauty." "And does this person love him still?" inquired Mrs. Bloundel, eagerly. "I ask, because I regard him as a son, and earnestly desire to restore him to happiness." "Alas!" exclaimed Hodges, "there are obstacles in the way that cannot be removed. We must endeavour to cure him of his grief in some other way." The conversation then dropped, and Hodges took his leave, promising to return on the morrow, and assuring Mrs. Bloundel that she need be under no further apprehension about her husband. And so it proved. The powders removed all the grocer's feverish symptoms, and when Doctor Hodges made his appearance the next day, he found him dressed, and ready to go downstairs. Having received the physician's congratulations on his entire recovery, Mr. Bloundel inquired from him when he thought he might with entire safety open his shop. Hodges considered for a moment, and then replied, "I do not see any great risk in doing so now, but I would advise you to defer the step for a fortnight. I would, also, recommend you to take the whole of your family for a short time into the country. Pure air and change of scene are absolutely necessary after their long confinement." "Farmer Wingfield, of Kensal-Green, who sheltered us on our way down to Ashdown Park, will, I am sure, receive you," observed Leonard. "If so, you cannot go to a better place," rejoined the physician. "I will think of it," returned Mr. Bloundel. And leading the way downstairs, he was welcomed by his wife and children with the warmest demonstrations of delight. "My fears, you perceive, were groundless," he remarked to Mrs. Bloundel. "Heaven be praised, they were so!" she rejoined. "But I entreat you not to go forth again till all danger is at an end." "Rest assured I will not," he answered. Soon after this, Doctor Hodges took his leave, and had already reached the street-door, when he was arrested by Patience, who inquired with much anxiety whether he knew anything of Blaize. "Make yourself easy about him, child," replied the doctor; "I am pretty sure he is safe and sound. He has had the plague, certainly; but he left the hospital at Saint Paul's cured. "O then I _shall_ see him again," cried Patience, joyfully. "Poor dear little fellow, it would break my heart to lose him." "I will make inquiries about him," rejoined Hodges, "and if I can find him, will send him home." And without waiting to receive the kitchen-maid's thanks, he departed. For some days the grocer continued to pursue pretty nearly the same line of conduct that he had adopted during the height of the pestilence. But he did not neglect to make preparations for resuming his business; and here Leonard was of material assistance to him. They often spoke of Amabel, and Mr. Bloundel strove, by every argument he was master of, to remove the weight of affliction under which his apprentice laboured. He so far succeeded that Leonard's health improved, though he still seemed a prey to secret sorrow. Things were in this state, when one day a knock was heard at the street-door, and the summons being answered by the grocer's eldest son, Stephen, he returned with the intelligence that a person was without who desired to see Patience. After some consideration, Mr. Bloundel summoned the kitchen-maid, and told her she might admit the stranger into the passage, and hear what he had to say. Patience hastened with a beating heart to the door, expecting to learn some tidings of Blaize, and opening it, admitted a man wrapped in a large cloak and having a broad-leaved hat pulled over his brows. Stepping into the passage, he threw aside the cloak and raised the hat, discovering the figure and features of Pillichody. "What brings you here, sir?" demanded Patience, in alarm, and glancing over her shoulder to see whether any one observed them. "What do you want?" "I have brought you news of Blaize," returned the bully. "But how charmingly you look. By the coral lips of Venus! your long confinement has added to your attractions." "Never mind my attractions, sir," rejoined Patience, impatiently. "Where is Blaize? Why did he not come with you?" "Alas!" replied Pillichody, shaking his head in a melancholy manner, "he could not." "Could not!" half screamed Patience. "Why not?" "Do not question me," replied Pillichody, feigning to brush away a tear. "He was my friend, and I would rather banish him from my memory. The sight of your beauty transports me so, that, by the treasures of Croesus! I would rather have you without a crown than the wealthiest widow in the country." "Don't talk nonsense to me in this way," sobbed Patience "I'm not in the humour for it." "Nonsense!" echoed Pillichody. "I swear to you I am in earnest. By Cupid! I am ravished with your charms." And he would have seized her hand, but Patience hastily withdrew it; and, provoked at his impertinence, dealt him a sound box on the ear. As she did this, she thought she heard a suppressed laugh near her, and looked round, but could see no one. The sound certainly did not proceed from Pillichody, for he looked very red and very angry. "Do not repeat this affront, mistress," he said to her. "I can bear anything but a blow from your sex." "Then tell me what has become of Blaize," she cried. "I will no longer spare your feelings," he rejoined. "He is defunct." "Defunct!" echoed Patience, with a scream. "Oh, dear me!--I shall never survive it--I shall die." "Not while I am left to supply his place," cried Pillichody, catching her in his arms. "You!" cried Patience, contemptuously; "I would not have you for the world. Where is he buried?" "In the plague-pit," replied Pillichody. "I attended him during his illness. It was his second attack of the disorder. He spoke of you." "Did he?--dear little fellow!" she exclaimed. "Oh, what did he say?" "'Tell her,' he cried," rejoined Pillichody, "'that my last thoughts were of her.'" "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" cried Patience, hysterically. "'Tell her also,' he added," pursued Pillichody, "'that I trust she will fulfil my last injunction.'" "That I will," replied Patience. "Name it." "He conjured you to marry me," replied Pillichody. "I am sure you will not hesitate to comply with the request." "I don't believe a word of this," cried Patience. "Blaize was a great deal too jealous to bequeath me to another." "Right, sweetheart, right," cried the individual in question, pushing open the door. "This has all been done to try your fidelity. I am now fully satisfied with your attachment; and am ready to marry you whenever you please." "So this was all a trick," cried Patience, pettishly; "I wish I had known it, I would have retaliated upon you nicely. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Major Pillichody, to lend a helping-hand in such a ridiculous affair." "I did it to oblige my friend Blaize," replied Pillichody. "It was agreed between us that if you showed any inconstancy, you were to be mine." "Indeed!" exclaimed Patience. "I would not advise you to repeat the experiment, Mr. Blaize." "I never intend to do so, my angel," replied the porter. "I esteem myself the happiest and most fortunate of men." "You have great reason to do so," observed Pillichody. "I do not despair of supplanting him yet," he muttered to himself. "And now, farewell!" he added aloud; "I am only in the way, and besides, I have no particular desire to encounter Mr. Bloundel or his apprentice;" and winking his solitary orb significantly at Patience, he strutted away. It was well he took that opportunity of departing, for the lovers' raptures were instantly afterwards interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Bloundel, who was greatly delighted to see the porter, and gave him a hearty welcome. "Ah, sir, I have had a narrow escape," cried Blaize, "and never more expected to see you, or my mother, or Patience. I _have_ had the plague, sir, and a terrible disorder it is." "I heard or your seizure from Leonard Holt," replied Mr. Bloundel. "But where have you been since you left the hospital at Saint Paul's?" "In the country, sir," rejoined Blaize; "sometimes at one farm-house, and sometimes at another. I only returned to London yesterday, and met an old friend, whom I begged to go before me, and see that all was right before I ventured, in." "We have all been providentially spared," observed Mr. Bloundel, "and you will find your mother as well as when you last quitted her. You had better go to her." Blaize obeyed, and was received by old Josyna with a scream of delight. Having embraced him, and sobbed over him, she ran for a bottle of sack, and poured its contents down his throat so hastily as nearly to choke him. She then spread abundance of eatables before him, and after he had eaten and drank his full, offered him as a treat a little of the plague medicine which she had in reserve. "No, thank you, mother," replied Blaize. "I have had enough of _that_. But if there should be a box of rufuses amongst the store, you can bring it, as I think a couple might do me good." Three days after this event, the apprentice was sent forth to ascertain the precise state of the city, as, if all proved favourable, the grocer proposed to open his house on the following day. Leonard set out betimes, and was speedily convinced that all danger was at an end. A severe frost had set in, and had completely purified the air. For the last few days there had been no deaths of the plague, and but little mortality of any kind. Leonard traversed several of the main streets, and some narrow thoroughfares, and found evidences of restored health and confidence everywhere. It is true there were many houses, in which whole families had been swept off, still left untenanted. But these were only memorials of the past calamity, and could not be referred to any existing danger. Before returning to Wood-street, an irresistible impulse led him to Finsbury Fields. He passed through the postern east of Cripplegate, and shaped his way towards the lesser plague-pit. The sun, which had been bright all the morning, was now partially obscured; the air had grown thick, and a little snow fell. The ground was blackened and bound by the hard frost, and the stiffened grass felt crisp beneath his feet. Insensible to all external circumstances, he hurried forward, taking the most direct course, and leaping every impediment in his path. Having crossed several fields, he at length stood before a swollen heap of clay, round which a wooden railing was placed. Springing over the enclosure, and uttering a wild cry that evinced the uncontrollable anguish of his breast, he flung himself upon the mound. He remained for some time in the deepest affliction, and was at last roused by. a hand laid upon his shoulder, and, raising himself, beheld Thirlby. "I thought it must be you," said the new comer, in accents of the deepest commiseration. "I have been visiting yonder plague-pit for the same melancholy purpose as yourself,--to mourn over my lost child. I have been in search of you, and have much to say to you. Will you meet me in this place at midnight tomorrow?" Leonard signified his assent. "I am in danger," pursued Thirlby, "for, by some means, the secret of my existence has been made known, and the officers of justice are in pursuit of me. I suspect that Judith Malmayns is my betrayer. You will not fail me?" "I will not," returned Leonard. Upon this, Thirlby hurried away, and leaping a hedge, disappeared from view. Leonard slowly and sorrowfully returned to Wood-street. On arriving there, he assured his master that he might with entire safety open his house, as he proposed, on the morrow; and Doctor Hodges, who visited the grocer the same evening, confirmed the opinion. Early, therefore, the next morning, Mr. Bloundel summoned his family to prayers; and after pouring forth his supplications with peculiar fervour and solemnity, he went, accompanied by them all, and threw open the street-door. Again, kneeling down at the threshold, he prayed fervently, as before. He then proceeded to remove the bars and shutters from the windows. The transition from gloom and darkness to bright daylight was almost overpowering. For the first time for six months, the imprisoned family looked forth on the external world, and were dazzled and bewildered by the sight. The grocer himself, despite his sober judgment, could scarcely believe he had not been in a trance during the whole period. The shop was scarcely opened before it was filled with customers, and Leonard and Stephen were instantly employed. But the grocer would sell nothing. To those who asked for any article he possessed, he presented them with it, but would receive no payment. He next dispatched Blaize to bring together all the poor he could find, and distributed among them the remainder of his store--his casks of flour, his salted meat, his cheeses, his biscuits, his wine--in short, all that was left. "This I give," he said, "as a thanksgiving to the Lord, and as a humble testimony of gratitude for my signal deliverance." II. THE MIDNIGHT MEETING. The first day of his deliverance being spent by the grocer in the praiseworthy manner before related, he laid his head upon his pillow with a feeling of satisfaction such as he had not for months experienced. A very remarkable dream occurred to him that night, and its recollection afterwards afforded him the greatest consolation. While thinking of Amabel, and of the delight her presence would have afforded him, slumber stole upon him, and his dreams were naturally influenced by his previous meditations. It appeared to him that he was alone within his house, and while visiting one of the upper rooms, which had formerly been appropriated to his lost daughter, he noticed a small door in the wall that had never before attracted his attention. He immediately pushed against it, and yielding to the touch, it admitted him to an apartment with which he seemed acquainted, though he could not recall the time when he had seen it. It was large and gloomy, panelled with dark and lustrous oak, and filled with rich but decayed furniture. At the further end stood a large antique bed, hung round with tarnished brocade curtains. The grocer shuddered at the sight, for he remembered to have heard Doctor Hodges assert, that in such a bed, and in such a room as this, his daughter had breathed her last. Some one appeared to be within the bed, and rushing forward with a throbbing heart, and a foreboding of what was to follow, he beheld the form of Amabel. Yes, there she was, with features like those she wore on earth, but clothed with such celestial beauty, and bearing the impress of such serene happiness, that the grocer felt awe-struck as he gazed at her! "Approach, my father," said the visionary form, in a voice so musical that it thrilled through his frame--"approach, and let what you now hear be for ever graven upon your heart. Do not lament me more, but rather rejoice that I am removed from trouble, and in the enjoyment of supreme felicity. Such a state you will yourself attain. You have run the good race, and will assuredly reap your reward. Comfort my dear mother, my brothers, my little sister, with the assurance of what I tell you, and bid them dry their tears. I can now read the secrets of all hearts, and know how true was Leonard Holt's love for me, and how deep and sincere is his present sorrow. But I am not permitted to appear to him as I now appear to you. Often have I heard him invoke me in accents of the wildest despair, and have floated past him on the midnight breeze, but could neither impart consolation to him nor make him sensible of my presence, because his grief was sinful. Bid him be comforted. Bid him put a due control upon his feelings. Bid him open his heart anew, and he shall yet be happy, yet love again, and have his love requited. Farewell, dear father!" And with these words the curtains of the bed closed. The grocer stretched out his arm to draw them aside, and in the effort awoke. He slept no more that night, but dwelt with unutterable delight on the words he had heard. On rising, his first object was to seek out Leonard, and to relate his vision to him. The apprentice listened in speechless wonder, and remained for some time lost in reflection. "From any other person than yourself, sir," he said, at length, "I might have doubted this singular story, but coming from you, I attach implicit credence to it. I _will_ obey your sainted daughter's injunctions; I _will_ struggle against the grief that overwhelms me, and will try to hope that her words may be fulfilled." "You will do wisely," rejoined Mr. Bloundel. "After breakfast we will walk together to the farmhouse you spoke of at Kensal Green, and if its owner should prove willing to receive my family for a few weeks, I will remove them thither at once." Leonard applauded his master's resolution, expressing his firm conviction that Farmer Wingfield would readily accede to the proposal, and the rest of the family having by this time assembled, they sat down to breakfast. As soon as the meal was over, Mr. Bloundel intrusted the care of the shop to Stephen and Blaize, and accompanied by Leonard, set forth. On the way to the west end of the town, the grocer met one or two of his old friends, and they welcomed each other like men risen from the grave. Their course took them through Saint Giles's, where the plague had raged with the greatest severity, and where many houses were still without tenants. "If all had acted as I have done," sighed the grocer, as he gazed at these desolate habitations, "how many lives, under God's providence, would have been saved!" "In my opinion, sir," replied Leonard, "you owe your preservation as much to your piety as to your prudence." "I have placed my trust on high," rejoined the grocer, "and have not been forsaken. And yet many evil doers have escaped; amongst others--" "I know whom you mean, sir," interrupted Leonard, with some fierceness, "but a day of retribution will arrive for him." "No more of this," rejoined the grocer, severely. "Remember the solemn injunction you have received." At this moment they observed a horseman, richly attired, and followed by a couple of attendants, riding rapidly towards them. Both instantly recognised him. The apprentice's cheek and brow flushed with anger, and Mr. Bloundel had much ado to control his emotion. It was the Earl of Rochester, and on seeing them he instantly dismounted, and flinging his bridle to one of the attendants, advanced towards them. Noticing the fury that gleamed in Leonard's eyes, and apprehending some violence on his part, the grocer laid his hand, upon his arm, and sternly enjoined him to calm himself. By this time, the earl had reached them. "Mr. Bloundel," he said, in a tone of much emotion, and with a look that seemed to bespeak contrition. "I heard that you had opened your house yesterday, and was about to call upon you. I have a few words to say to you on a subject painful to both of us, but doubly painful to me--your daughter." "I must decline to hear them, my lord," replied the grocer, coldly; "nor shall you ever cross my threshold again with my consent. My poor child is now at peace. You can do her no further injury, and must settle your own account with your Maker." "Do not refuse me your forgiveness," implored the earl. "I will make every reparation in my power." "You _can_ make none," replied the grocer, repelling him; "and as to my forgiveness, I neither refuse it nor accord it. I pray your lordship to let me pass. The sole favour I ask of you is to come near me no more." "I obey you," replied the earl. "Stay," he added to Leonard, who stood by, regarding him with a look of deadly animosity. "I would give you a piece of caution. Your life is in danger." "I can easily guess from whom," replied the apprentice, scornfully. "You mistake," rejoined Rochester; "you have nothing to apprehend from me. You have promised to meet some one to-night," he added, in so low a tone as to be inaudible to the grocer. "Do not go." "Your lordship's warning will not deter me," rejoined the apprentice. "As you will," rejoined Rochester, turning away. And springing upon his horse, and striking his spurs into his side, he dashed off, while Leonard and the grocer took the opposite direction. In less than half an hour they reached the little village of Paddington, then consisting of a few houses, but now one of the most populous and important parishes of the metropolis, and speedily gained the open country. Even at this dreary season the country had charms, which Mr. Bloundel, after his long confinement, could fully appreciate. His eye roamed over the wide prospect; and the leafless trees, the bare hedges, and the frost-bound fields seemed pleasant in his sight. He quickened his pace, and being wholly indifferent to the cold, greatly enjoyed the exercise. Leonard pointed out to him the spots where the fugitives from the plague had pitched their tents, and also the pest-house near Westbourne Green, where he himself had been received during his second attack of the distemper, and which was now altogether abandoned. Soon after this, they mounted the hill beyond Kensal Green, and approached the farmhouse. Leonard descried Wingfield near one of the barns, and hailing him, he immediately came forward. On being informed of Mr. Bloundel's desire, he at once assented, and taking them into the house, mentioned the matter to his dame, who was quite of the same opinion as himself. "The only difference between us," he said to Mr. Bloundel, "is as to the payment you propose. Now I will take none--not a farthing. Come when you please, bring whom you please, and stay as long as you please. But don't offer me anything if you would not offend me. Recollect," he added, the moisture forcing itself into his eyes, and his strong clear voice becoming husky with emotion, "that I loved your daughter for her resemblance to my poor child. She, too, is gone. I do this for her sake." Mr. Bloundel shook the worthy man warmly by the hand, but he made no further objection, resolved in his own mind to find some other means of requiting his hospitality. It was then agreed that the grocer should bring his family on the following day, and remain there for a month; and every other arrangement being made, and a hearty meal partaken of, he cordially thanked his host, and returned with Leonard to Wood-street. In spite of his efforts to resist the impression produced by the earl's warning, Leonard could not banish it from his mind; and though he did not for a moment think of abandoning his purpose, he resolved to attend the meeting armed. He told Mr. Bloundel he should go out that night, but did not state his object, and the grocer did not inquire it. Blaize sat up with him, and displayed much anxiety to know whither he was going, but, as may be supposed, his curiosity was not gratified. As the clock struck eleven, Leonard thrust a sword into his girdle, and arming himself furthermore with his staff, proceeded towards the door, and bade Blaize lock it after him. "I shall probably be back in a couple of hours," he said, as he went forth. "You must sit up for me." "I wonder where he is going!" thought Blaize, "From his gloomy looks, and the weapon he has taken with him, I should judge he is about to murder some one--perhaps the Earl of Rochester. It must be prevented." With this view, though perhaps rather more influenced by curiosity than any better feeling, the porter waited a few seconds to allow the apprentice to get out of sight, and then locking the door outside, put the key in his pocket, and followed him. The night was profoundly dark, but he had noticed the direction taken by Leonard, and running noiselessly along the street, soon perceived him a little in advance. Regulating his pace by that of the apprentice, and keeping about fifty yards behind him, he tracked his course along several streets, until he saw him pass through the second postern in the city wall, near Moorgate. Here he debated with himself whether to proceed further or turn back; but at length, curiosity got the best of his fears, and he went on. A few steps brought him into the open fields, and fancying he saw Leonard at a little distance before him, he hurried on in that direction. But he soon found he had been deceived by the stump of a tree, and began to fear he must have taken the wrong course. He looked around in vain for some object to guide him. The darkness was so profound that he could see nothing, and he set off again at random, and not without much self-reproach and misgiving. At last, he reached a hedge, and continued to skirt it, until he perceived through the bushes the light of a lantern in the adjoining field. He immediately called out, but at the cry the light disappeared. This did not prevent him from making towards the spot where he had seen it; but he had not proceeded far when he was forcibly seized by some unseen person, thrown on the ground, and a drawn sword--for he felt the point--placed at his throat. "Utter a cry, and it is your last," cried a stern voice. "Where is he?" "Who--who?" demanded Blaize, half dead with terror. "He whom you appointed to meet," replied the unknown. "I appointed to meet no one," rejoined Blaize. "Liar!" exclaimed the other; "if you do not instantly lead me to him, I will cut your throat." "I will lead you wherever you please, if you will only let me get up," rejoined Blaize, with difficulty repressing a cry. "By the daughters of Nox and Acheron!" exclaimed a voice which sounded like music in the porter's ears, "I think you are mistaken in your man, my lord. It does not sound like the apprentice's voice." "It is _not_ the apprentice's voice, good Major Pillichody," rejoined the porter. "It is mine, your friend--Blaize's." "Blaize!" exclaimed Pillichody, unmasking a dark lantern, and revealing the terror-stricken countenance of the porter; "so it is. In the devil's name, what are you doing here?" "The devil himself, who put it into my head to come, only knows," replied Blaize; "but I followed Leonard Holt." "Which way did he take?" asked the person who had assailed him. "I cannot exactly say," replied Blaize, "but he seemed to go straight into the fields." "He is no doubt gone to the plague-pit," replied the other. "You are now at liberty," he added to Blaize, "and I counsel you to make the best of your way home. Say nothing to your master of what has occurred. The city walls lie in that direction." Overjoyed to be released, Blaize ran off as fast as his legs could carry him, and never stopped till he reached Moorgate. Meanwhile, Leonard had reached the place of meeting. As he stood by the rail surrounding the plague-pit, he thought of Mr. Bloundel's singular dream, and almost hoping to be similarly favoured, flung himself on his knees, and besought Amabel, if it were possible, to appear to him. But his entreaties produced no result. The chill blast whistled past him, and, mindful of what had been told him, he was fain to interpret this into an answer to his request. The night was bitterly cold, and Leonard, whose limbs were almost stiffened by long kneeling, walked round and round the enclosure at a quick pace to put his blood into circulation. As the hour of midnight was tolled forth by the neighbouring churches, he heard footsteps, and could just detect a figure advancing towards him. "Are you there?" was asked in the voice of Thirlby. Leonard replied in the affirmative, and the other instantly joined him. "Have you mentioned our meeting to any one?" inquired Leonard. "I ask, because I was warned by the Earl of Rochester not to attend it." "Strange!" exclaimed Thirlby, musingly. "However, do not let us waste time. I am about to leave London, perhaps this country--for ever. But I could not depart without an interview with you. You are aware of my strong attachment to my poor lost child. My daughter Isabella now supplies her place in my heart. She is the only being I love on earth, for my son has alienated himself from my affections. All I desire is to see her happy. This, I find, can only be accomplished in one way." Here he paused for a moment, but as Leonard made no remark, he proceeded. "Why should I hesitate to declare it," he said, "since it was for that object I brought you hither? She loves you--devotedly loves you--and if her wishes were opposed, I should tremble for the consequences. Now listen to me. Situated as you are, you never can wed her. I will, however, point out a means by which you can raise yourself to distinction in a short time, and so entitle yourself to claim her hand. I will supply you with money--more than you can require--will place you at court--near the king's person--and if you act under my direction, your rise is certain. I have extorted a promise to this effect from my own son. I told him my object, and that if he did not make your fortune, I could ruin him by revealing myself. I may, perhaps, pay the penalty of my crime on the scaffold; but I may also escape. In the latter case, my reappearance would be fatal to him. He has consented to cooperate with me, to watch over your fortunes, and, as soon as you have attained sufficient eminence, to bestow his sister upon you. Now do you understand?" "I do," replied Leonard; "and I understand also against whom the Earl of Rochester warned me." "And you consent," demanded Thirlby. Leonard, was about to answer, when he felt a light and trembling hand placed upon his own. "Do not answer inconsiderately, Leonard," said a low, sweet voice, which he recognised as that of the Lady Isabella; "I am here to receive your determination." "I am glad of it," replied the apprentice. "The deep devotion you have displayed towards me deserves to be requited. I will strive to render myself worthy of you, and I feel that by so doing I shall best fulfil the injunctions of her who lies beside us. Henceforth, Lady Isabella, I wholly devote myself to you." A murmur of delight escaped her. "My blessings on you both!" exclaimed her father. "Give me your hand, Isabella," he added, taking it and placing it in that of the apprentice. "Here, beside the grave of her whom you both loved, I affiance you. Pursue the course I point out to you, Leonard, and she will soon be yours." As he spoke, the light of a lantern was suddenly thrown upon them, disclosing two persons who had noiselessly approached. They were Lord Argentine and Pillichody. "You affirm more than you have warrant for, my lord," said the former. "I will never consent to this ill-assorted and dishonourable union; and, so far from permitting it, will oppose it to the utmost of my power. If this presumptuous apprentice dares to raise his views towards my sister, let him look to himself. Your safety lies in instant flight. The officers are in search of you." "They shall find me," replied Thirlby, sternly. "As you please," rejoined Argentine. "Come with me, Isabella," he added to his sister. But she flew with a cry towards Leonard. "Ah!" exclaimed her brother, drawing his sword. "Do you dare to detain, her? Deliver her to me, villain, instantly!" "Not when thus menaced, my lord," rejoined Leonard, likewise drawing his sword, and standing upon the defensive. "Then look to yourself," replied Argentine, assaulting him. Isabella uttered a wild shriek, and Thirlby tried to rush between them. But before they could be separated, Lord Argentine's fury had exposed him to his adversary, whose sword passed through his body. He fell to the ground, weltering in his blood. While Leonard stood stupefied and confounded at what had occurred, and Isabella, uttering a loud cry, threw herself upon the body and tried to stanch the wound--two men, with halberds in their hands rushed forward, and seizing Thirlby, cried, "We arrest you as a murderer!" Thirlby, who seemed utterly overcome by surprise and horror, offered no resistance. At this juncture Leonard felt his arm seized by a bystander--he did not know whom--and scarcely conscious of what was taking place, suffered himself to be dragged from the scene. BOOK THE SIXTH. SEPTEMBER, 1666. I. THE FIRE-HALL. About nine o'clock on the night of Saturday, the second of September, 1666--and rather more than nine months after the incidents last related,--three men took their way from Smithfield to Islington. They proceeded at a swift pace and in silence, until, having mounted the steep hill on which the suburb in question is situated, they halted at a short distance from the high walls surrounding the great water-works formed by the New-River-head. The night was dark, but free from cloud, in consequence of a strong easterly wind which prevailed at the time. "It is dark in London now," observed one of the three persons to his companions as he cast his eye in the direction of the great city, that lay buried in gloom beneath them; "but there will be light enough soon." "A second dawn, and brighter than the first, shall arise upon it," replied one of his companions, a tall, gaunt man, whose sole covering was a sheepskin, girded round his loins. "Such a flame shall be kindled within it, as hath not been seen since showers of brimstone and fire descended upon the sinful cities of the plain. 'The Lord shall come with flames of fire,'" he added, pointing his long staff towards the city. "'He shall make them like a fiery oven, in the time of his wrath. They shall be utterly consumed.'" "Amen!" exclaimed the third person, who stood near him, in a deep voice, and with something of a foreign accent. "Not so loud, friends," rejoined the first speaker. "Let us set about the task. I will ascertain that no one is on the watch." With this he moved towards the water-works, and skirting the circular walls, to satisfy himself that all was secure, he returned to his companions, and they proceeded to the principal entrance to the place. Noiselessly unlocking the gates, the leader of the party admitted the others into an open space of some extent, in the midst of which was a large reservoir of water. He then gave each of them a small key, and bidding them use despatch, they began to turn the cocks of the leaden pipes connected with the reservoir, while he hastened to the further end of the inclosure, and employed himself in a similar manner. In this way, and in less than a quarter of an hour, the whole of the cocks were stopped. "And now give me the keys," said the leader. Taking them as they were offered, he added his own to the number, and flung them as far as he could into the reservoir, laughing slightly as the noise of the splash occasioned by their fall into the water reached the ears. "They will not be found till this pool is drained," he observed to his companions. "And now let us go. Our business here is done." "Stay yet a moment," cried Solomon Eagle, who was standing at the brink of the reservoir, with his eyes fixed upon it. "Stay!" he cried, arresting him. "A vision rises before me. I see in this watery mirror a representation of the burning city. And what are those fearful forms that feed the flames? Fiends, in our likeness--fiends! And see how wide and far the conflagration spreads. The whole city is swallowed up by an earthquake. It sinks to the bottomless pit--down--down!" "No more of this," cried the leader, impatiently. "Come along." And, followed by the others, he rushed to the gates, and locking them after him, flung the key away. "A hundred pounds were paid to the servant of the chief officer of the works to bring those keys to me," he said, "and he executed his commission faithfully and well. Water will be vainly sought for to quench the conflagration." "I like not the vision I have just beheld," said Solomon Eagle, in a troubled tone. "It seems to portend mischief." "Think of it no more," rejoined the leader, "or regard it as it was--a phantom created by your overheated imagination. Yon city has sinned so deeply, that it is the will of Heaven it should be destroyed; and it has been put into our hearts by the Supreme Power to undertake the terrible task. We are the chosen instruments of the divine displeasure. Everything favours the design--the long-continued dry weather--the strong easterly wind, which will bear the flames into the heart of the city--the want of water, occasioned by the stopping of these pipes, the emptying of the various aqueducts, and the destruction of the Thames water-tower, which we have accomplished. Everything favours it, I say, and proves that the hand of Heaven directs us. Yes, London shall fall! We have received our commission from on high, and must execute it, regardless of the consequences. For my own part, I feel as little compunction to the task, as the thunderbolt launched from on high does for the tree it shivers." "Philip Grant has uttered my sentiments exactly," said the man who, it has been mentioned, spoke with a slight foreign accent. "I have neither misgiving nor compunction. You appear to have forgotten your own denunciations, brother." "Not so, Brother Hubert," rejoined the enthusiast, "and I now recognise in the vision a delusion of the Evil One to turn me from my holy purpose. But it has failed. The impious and impenitent city is doomed, and nothing can save it. And yet I would fain see it once more as I beheld it this morn when day arose upon it for the last time, from the summit of Saint Paul's. It looked so beautiful that my heart smote me, and tears started to my eyes, to think that those goodly habitations, those towers, temples, halls, and palaces, should so soon be levelled with the dust." "Hear what the prophet saith," rejoined Hubert. "'Thou hast defiled thy sanctuaries by the multitude of thine iniquities, by the iniquity of thy traffic. Therefore will I bring forth a fire from the midst of thee, and will bring thee to ashes upon the earth, in the sight of all those that behold thee.'" Solomon Eagle flung himself upon his knees, and his example was imitated by the others. Having recited a prayer in a low deep tone, he arose, and stretching out his arms, solemnly denounced the city. As he pronounced the words, a red and fiery star shot from the dark vault of the sky, and seemed to fall in the midst of the city. "Did you not see that sign?" cried Grant, eagerly. "It heralds us to our task." So saying, he ran swiftly down the hill, and, followed by the others, did not slacken his pace till they reached the city. They then shaped their course more slowly towards Saint Paul's, and having gained the precincts of the cathedral, Solomon Eagle, who now assumed the place of leader, conducted them to a small door on the left of the great northern entrance, and unlocking it, ushered them into a narrow passage behind the rich carved work of the choir. Traversing it, they crossed the mid aisle, and soon reached the steps leading to Saint Faith's. It was profoundly dark, but they were all well acquainted with the road, and did not miss their footing. It required, however, some caution to thread the ranks of the mighty pillars filling the subterranean church. But at last this was accomplished, and they entered the vault beyond the charnel, where they found Chowles and Judith Malmayns. The former was wrapped in a long black cloak, and was pacing to and fro within the narrow chamber. When Solomon Eagle appeared, he sprang towards him, and regarding him inquiringly, cried, "Have you done it?--have you done it?" The enthusiast replied in the affirmative. "Heaven be praised!" exclaimed Chowles. And he skipped about with the wildest expressions of delight. A gleam of satisfaction, too, darted from Judith's savage eyes. She had neither risen nor altered her position on the arrival of the party, but she now got up, and addressed the enthusiast. A small iron lamp, suspended by a chain from the vaulted roof, lighted the chamber. The most noticeable figure amidst the group was that of Solomon Eagle, who, with his blazing eyes, long jet-black locks, giant frame, and tawny skin, looked like a supernatural being. Near him stood the person designated as Robert Hubert. He was a young man, and appeared to have lived a life of great austerity. His features were thin; his large black eyes set in deep caverns; his limbs seemed almost destitute of flesh; and his looks wild and uncertain, like those of an insane person. His tattered and threadbare garb resembled that of a French ecclesiastic. The third person, who went by the name of Philip Grant, had a powerful frame, though somewhat bent, and a haughty deportment and look, greatly at variance with his miserable attire and haggard looks. His beard was long and grizzled, and his features, though sharpened by care, retained some traces of a noble expression. A few minutes having passed in conversation, Grant observed to the enthusiast, "I must now leave you for a short time. Give me the key that I may let myself out." "You are not going to betray us?" cried Chowles, suspiciously. "Why should I betray you?" rejoined Grant, sternly. "I am too anxious for the event to disclose it." "True, true," replied Chowles. "_I_ do not mistrust you, brother," observed Solomon Eagle, giving him the key. "I know whither you are going," observed Judith Malmayns. "You are about to warn Mr. Bloundel and his partner--apprentice no longer--Leonard Holt, of the approaching conflagration. But your care will be thrown away." "Does she speak the truth, brother?" demanded Hubert, raising his eyes from the Bible which he was reading in the corner of the vault. "I will do nothing to endanger the design," rejoined Grant; "of that rest assured." With this, he strode forth, traversed Saint Faith's, and, notwithstanding the gloom, reached, without difficulty, the little door by which he had entered the cathedral. Issuing from it, he took the way, as Judith had surmised, to Wood-street, and pausing before the grocer's door, knocked against it. The summons was presently answered by Blaize; and to Grant's inquiries whether his master was within, he replied, "Which of my masters did you mean? I have two." "The younger," replied Grant, "Leonard Holt." "So far you are fortunate," rejoined Blaize. "Mr. Bloundel has retired to rest, but Mr. Holt is still downstairs. Pray what may be your business with him at this hour? It should be important." "It is important," rejoined Grant, "and does not admit of a moment's delay. Tell him so." Eyeing the stranger with a look of suspicion, the porter was about to enter into a parley with him, when Leonard himself cut it short, and learning the nature of the application, desired Grant to follow him into the adjoining room. The nine months which had passed over Leonard's head since he was last brought under notice, had wrought a material change in his appearance. He had a grave and thoughtful air, somewhat inclining to melancholy, but in other respects he was greatly improved. His health was completely restored, and the thoughtful expression added character to his handsome physiognomy, and harmonised well with his manly and determined bearing. He was habited plainly, but with some degree of taste. As Judith Malmayns had intimated, he was now Mr. Bloundel's partner, and his whole appearance denoted his improved circumstances. The alteration did not escape the notice of the stranger, who regarded him with much curiosity, and closed the door behind him as he entered the room. "You are looking much better than when we last met, Leonard Holt," he said, in tones that made his hearer start, "and I am glad to perceive it. Prosperity seems to attend your path, and you deserve it; whereas misery and every other ill--and I deserve them--dog mine." "I did not recognise you at first, Mr. Thirlby," replied Leonard; "for, in truth, you are much changed. But you desire to speak with me on a matter of importance. Can I aid you? You may need money. Here is my purse." "I do not want it," replied the other, scornfully rejecting the offer. "I have a proposal to make to you." "I shall be glad to hear it," replied Leonard. "But first tell me how you effected your escape after your arrest on that disastrous night when, in self-defence, and unintentionally, I wounded your son, Lord Argentine?" "Would you had killed him!" cried the other, fiercely. "I have lost all feelings of a father for him. He it was who contrived my arrest, and he would have gladly seen me borne to the scaffold, certain it would have freed him from me for ever. I was hurried away by the officers from the scene of strife, and conveyed to the Tun at Cornhill, which you know has been converted into a round-house, and where I was locked up for the night. But while I was lying on the floor of my prison, driven well-nigh frantic by what had occurred, there were two persons without labouring to effect my deliverance--nor did they labour in vain. These were Chowles and Judith, my foster-sister, and whom, you may remember, I suspected--and most unfairly--of intending my betrayal. By means of a heavy bribe, they prevailed on one of the officers to connive at my escape. An iron bar was removed from the window of my prison, and I got through the aperture. Judith concealed me for some days in the vaults of Saint Faith's, after which I fled into the country, where I wandered about for several months, under the name of Philip Grant. Having learnt that my son though severely hurt by you, had recovered from his wound, and that his sister, the Lady Isabella, had accompanied him to his seat in Staffordshire, I proceeded thither, and saw her, unknown to him. I found her heart still true to you. She told me you had disappeared immediately after the termination of the conflict, and had not been heard of till her brother was out of danger, when you returned to Wood-street." "The information was correct," replied Leonard. "I was dragged away by a person whom I did not recognise at the time, but who proved to be the Earl of Rochester. He conducted me to a place of safety, thrust a purse into my hand, and left me. As soon as I could do so with safety, I returned to my master's house. But how long have you been in London?" "Nearly a month," replied Grant. "And now let me ask you one question. Do you ever think of Isabella?" "Often, very often," replied Leonard. "But as I dare not indulge the hope of a union with her, I have striven to banish her image from my mind." "She cannot forget _you_, Leonard," rejoined Grant. "And now to my proposal. I have another plan for your aggrandisement that cannot fail. I am in possession of a monstrous design, the revelation of which will procure you whatever you desire. Ask a title from the king, and he will give it; and when in possession of that title, demand the hand of the Lady Isabella, and her proud brother will not refuse you. Call in your porter--seize me. I will offer a feigned resistance. Convey me before the king. Make your own terms with him. He will accede to them. Will you do it?" "No," replied Leonard, "I will not purchase the daughter at the price of the father's life." "Heed me not," replied Grant, supplicatingly, "I am wholly indifferent to life. And what matters it whether I am dragged to the scaffold for one crime or another?" "You plead in vain," returned Leonard, firmly. "Reflect," cried Grant, in an agonised tone. "A word from you will not only win you Isabella, but save the city from destruction." "Save the city!" exclaimed Leonard. "What mean you?" "Swear to comply with my request, and you shall know. But not otherwise," replied Grant. "I cannot--I cannot," rejoined Leonard; "and unfortunately you have said too much for your own safety. I must, though most reluctantly, detain you." "Hear me, Leonard, and consider well what you do," cried Grant, planting himself before the door. "I love you next to my daughter, and chiefly because she loves you. I have told you I have a design to discover, to which I am a party--a hellish, horrible design--which threatens this whole city with destruction. It is your duty, having told you thus much, to arrest me, and I will offer no resistance. Will you not turn this to your advantage? Will you not make a bargain with the king?" "I have said I will not," rejoined Leonard. "Then be warned by me," rejoined Grant. "Arouse your partner. Pack up all your goods and make preparations for instant flight, for the danger will invade you before you are aware of it." "Is it fire?" demanded Leonard, upon whose mind the denunciations of Solomon Eagle now rushed. "You will see," replied Grant, with a terrible laugh. "You will repent your determination when it is too late. Farewell." "Hold!" cried Leonard, advancing towards him, and trying to lay hands upon him, "I arrest you in the king's name." "Off!" exclaimed Grant, dashing him forcibly backwards. And striking down Blaize, who tried to stop him in the passage, he threw open the street-door, and disappeared. Fearful of pursuit, Grant took a circuitous route to Saint Paul's, and it was full half an hour after the interview above related before he reached the cathedral. Just as he passed through the small door, the clock tolled forth the hour of midnight, and when he gained the mid aisle, he heard footsteps approaching, and encountered his friends. "We had given you up," said Chowles, "and fearing you intended us some treachery, were about to do the job without you." "I have been unavoidably detained," replied Grant. "Let us about it at once." "I have got the fire-balls with me," observed Hubert. "It is well," returned Grant. Quitting the cathedral, they proceeded to Thames-street, and tracking it to Fish-street-hill, struck off on the right into an alley that brought them to Pudding-lane. "This is the house," said Chowles, halting before a two-storied wooden habitation, over the door of which was suspended the sign of the "Wheat Sheaf, with the name THOMAS FARRYNER, BAKER, inscribed beneath it. "And here," said Hubert, "shall begin the great fire of London." As he said this, he gave a fire-ball to Solomon Eagle, who lighted the fuze at Chowles's lantern. The enthusiast then approached a window of the baker's shop, and breaking a small pane of glass within it, threw the fire-ball into the room. It alighted upon a heap of chips and fagots lying near a large stack of wood used for the oven, and in a few minutes the whole pile had caught and burst into a flame, which, quickly mounting to the ceiling, set fire to the old, dry, half-decayed timber that composed it. II. THE FIRST NIGHT OF THE FIRE. Having seen the stack of wood kindled, and the flames attack the building in such a manner as to leave no doubt they would destroy it, the incendiaries separated, previously agreeing to meet together in half an hour at the foot of London Bridge; and while the others started off in different directions, Chowles and Judith retreated to a neighbouring alley commanding a view of the burning habitation. "At last the great design is executed," observed Chowles, rubbing his hands gleefully. "The fire burns right merrily, and will not soon be extinguished. Who would have thought we should have found such famous assistants as the two madmen, Solomon Eagle and Robert Hubert--and your scarcely less mad foster-brother, Philip Grant? I can understand the motives that influenced the two first to the deed, but not those of the other." "Nor I," replied Judith, "unless he wishes in some way or other to benefit Leonard Holt by it. For my part, I shall enjoy this fire quite as much on its own account as for the plunder it will bring us. I should like to see every house in this great city destroyed." "You are in a fair way of obtaining your wish," replied Chowles; "but provided I have the sacking of them, I don't care how many are saved. Not but that such a fire will be a grand sight, which I should be sorry to miss. You forget, too, that if Saint Paul's should be burnt down, we shall lose our hoards. However, there's no chance of that." "Not much," replied Judith, interrupting him. "But see! the baker has at last discovered that his dwelling is on fire. He bursts open the window, and, as I live, is about to throw himself out of it." As she spoke, one of the upper windows in the burning habitation was burst open, and a poor terrified wretch appeared at it in his night-dress, vociferating in tones of the wildest alarm, "Fire! fire!--help! help!" "Shall we go forward?" said Chowles. Judith hesitated for a moment, and then assenting, they hurried towards the spot. "Can we give you any help, friend?" cried Chowles. "Take care of this," rejoined the baker, flinging a bag of money to the ground, "and I will endeavour to let down my wife and children. The staircase is on fire, and we are almost stifled with smoke. God help us!" And the exclamation was followed by fearful shrieks from within, followed by the appearance of a woman, holding two little children in her arms, at the window. "This must be money," said Judith, utterly heedless of the fearful scene occurring above, and taking up the bag and chinking it; "silver, by the sound. Shall we make off with it?" "No, no," replied Chowles, "we must not run any risk for such a paltry booty. Let us bide our time." At this juncture, the baker, who had disappeared for a few seconds from the window, again presented himself at it, and, with some difficulty, forced a feather bed through it, which was instantly placed by Chowles in such a position beneath, as to break the fall of the descending parties. Tying a couple of sheets together, and fastening one end round his wife's waist, the baker lowered her and the children to the ground. They alighted in safety; but just as he was about to follow their example, the floor of the room gave way, and though he succeeded in springing through the window, he missed the feather bed, and broke his leg in the fall. He was picked up by Chowles and Judith, and placed upon the bed in a state of insensibility, and was soon afterwards conveyed with his family to the house of a neighbour. Meanwhile, the fire had spread to the houses on either side of the unfortunate man's habitation, and both of them being built entirely of wood, they were almost instantly in flames. The alarm too had become general; the inhabitants of the adjoining houses were filled with indescribable terror, and the narrow street was speedily crowded with persons of both sexes, who had rushed from their beds to ascertain the extent of the danger. All was terror and confusion. The fire-bells of Saint Margaret's, Saint George's, and Saint Andrew's, in Botolph-lane, began to toll, and shouts were heard on every side, proving that the whole neighbourhood was roused. To add to the general distress, a report was raised that a house in Fish-street-hill was on fire, and it was soon found to be true, as an immense volume of flames burst forth in that quarter. While the rest of the spectators, distracted by this calamity, and hardly knowing what to do, hurried in the direction of the new fire, Chowles and Judith eyed each other askance, and the former whispered to his companion, "This is another piece of Hubert's handiwork." The two wretches now thought it time to bestir themselves. So much confusion prevailed, that they were wholly unobserved, and under the plea of rendering assistance, they entered houses and carried off whatever excited their cupidity, or was sufficiently portable. No wealthy house had been attacked as yet, and therefore their spoil was but trifling. The poor baker seemed to be the bearer of ill-luck, for he had not been many minutes in his new asylum before it likewise caught fire. Another house, too, in Fish-street-hill, and lower down than the first, was observed to be burning, and as this was out of the current of the wind, and consequently could not have been occasioned by the showers of sparks that marked its course, a cry was instantly raised that incendiaries were abroad, and several suspicious-looking persons were seized in consequence. Meantime no efforts had been made to stop the progress of the original conflagration in Pudding-lane, which continued to rage with the greatest fury, spreading from house to house with astonishing rapidity. All the buildings in this neighbourhood being old, and of wood, which was as dry as tinder, a spark alighting upon them would have sufficed to set them on fire. It may be conceived, therefore, what must have been the effect of a vast volume of flame, fanned by a powerful wind. House after house caught, as if constructed of touchwood, and the fire roared and raged to such a degree, that those who stood by were too much terrified to render any effectual assistance. Indeed, the sole thought that now seemed to influence all was the preservation of a portion of their property. No one regarded his neighbour, or the safety of the city. The narrow street was instantly filled with goods and furniture of all kinds, thrown out of the windows or pushed out of the doors; but such was the fierceness of the fire, and the extraordinary rapidity with which it advanced, that the very articles attempted to be saved were seized by it, and thus formed a means of conveying it to the opposite houses. In this way a number of persons were inclosed for a short time between two fires, and seemed in imminent danger of being burned to death. The perilous nature of their situation was, moreover, increased by a sudden and violent gust of wind, which, blowing the flames right across the street, seemed to envelop all within them. The shrieks that burst from the poor creatures thus involved were most appalling. Fortunately, they sustained no greater damage than was occasioned by the fright and a slight scorching, for the next moment the wind shifted, and, sweeping back the flames, they were enabled to effect their retreat. Chowles and Judith were among the sufferers, and in the alarm of the moment lost all the booty they had obtained. Soon after this the whole street was on fire. All idea of preserving their property was therefore abandoned by the inhabitants, and they thought only of saving themselves. Hundreds of half-naked persons of both sexes rushed towards Thames-street in search of a place of refuge. The scene was wholly without parallel for terror. Many fires had occurred in London, but none that raged with such fierceness as the present conflagration, or promised to be so generally destructive. It gathered strength and fury each moment, now rising high into the air in a towering sheet of flame, now shooting forward like an enormous dragon vomiting streams of fire upon its foes. All at once the flames changed colour, and were partially obscured by a thick black smoke. A large warehouse filled with resin, tar, and other combustible matters, had caught fire, and the dense vapour proceeded from the burning pitch. But it cleared off in a few minutes, and the flames burnt more brightly and fiercely than ever. Up to this time, none of the civic authorities having arrived, several persons set off to give information of the calamity to the lord mayor (Sir Thomas Bludworth), and the other magistrates. A small party of the watch were on the spot, but they were unable to render any effectual assistance. As the conflagration advanced, those occupying houses in its track quitted them, and left their goods a prey to the numerous plunderers, who were now gathered together pursuing their vocation like unhallowed beings amid the raging element. The whole presented a scene of the wildest alarm, confusion, and license. Vociferations, oaths, shrieks, and outcries of every description stunned the ear. Night was turned into day. The awful roaring of the flames was ever and anon broken by the thundering fall of some heavy roof. Flakes of fire were scattered far and wide by the driving wind, carrying destruction wherever they alighted, and spreading the conflagration on all sides, till it seemed like a vast wedge of fire driven into the heart of the city. And thus it went on, swallowing up all before it, like an insatiate monster, and roaring for very joy. Meanwhile, the incendiaries had met, as concerted, near the foot of the bridge, and all except Philip Grant seemed to rejoice in the progress of the conflagration. Chowles made some comment upon his moody looks and silence, and whispered in his ear, "You have now an opportunity of retrieving your fortune, and may make yourself richer than your son. Take my advice, and do not let it pass." "Away, tempter!" cried Grant--"I have lighted a fire within my breast which never will be quenched." "Poh, poh!" rejoined Judith; "do not turn faint-hearted now." "The fire rages fiercely," cried Solomon Eagle, gazing at the vast sheet of flame overtopping the buildings near them, "but we must keep it alive. Take the remainder of the fire-balls, Hubert, and cast them into some of the old houses in Crooked-lane." Hubert prepared to obey. "I will go with you, and point out the best spots," said Chowles. "Our next place of rendezvous must be the vaults beneath Saint Faith's." "Agreed!" exclaimed the others. And they again separated, Hubert and Chowles to kindle fresh fires, and Grant to watch the conflagration at a distance. As to Solomon Eagle, he rushed towards the scene of destruction, and forcing himself into the midst of the crowd, mounted a post, crying in a loud voice: "I told you a second judgment would come upon you on account of your iniquities, and you now find that I avouched the truth. The Lord himself hath come to preach to you, as he did in the fiery mount of Sinai, and a terrible exhortation it shall be, and one ye shall not easily forget. This fire shall not be quenched till the whole city is laid prostrate. Ye doubted my words when I told you of the plague; ye laughed at me and scoffed me; but ye became believers in the end, and now conviction is forced upon you a second time. You will vainly attempt to save your dwellings. It is the Lord's will they should be destroyed, and man's efforts to avert the judgment will be ineffectual!" While the majority listened to him with fear and trembling, and regarded him as a prophet, a few took the opposite view of the question, and coupling his appearance with the sudden outbreak of the fire, were disposed to regard him as an incendiary. They therefore cried out--"He has set fire to our houses. Down with him! down with him!" Other voices joined in the outcry, and an attempt was made to carry the menace into effect; but a strong party rallied round the enthusiast, who derided the attempts of his opponents. Planting himself on the steps of Saint Margaret's Church, he continued to pour forth exhortations to the crowd, until he was driven into the interior of the pile by the fast-approaching flames. The whole body of the church was filled with poor wretches who had sought refuge within it, having brought with them such of their goods as they were able to carry off. But it soon became evident that the sacred structure would be destroyed, and their screams and cries on quitting it were truly heartrending. Solomon Eagle was the last to go forth, and he delayed his departure till the flames burst through the windows. Another great storehouse of oil, tar, cordage, hemp, flax, and other highly inflammable articles, adjoining the church, had caught fire, and the flames speedily reached the sacred fabric. The glass within the windows was shivered; the stone bars split asunder; and the seats and other woodwork withinside catching fire, the flames ascended to the roof, and kindled its massive rafters. Great efforts were now made to check the fire. A few of the cumbrous and unmanageable engines of the day were brought to the spot, but no water could be obtained. All the aqueducts, pipes, and sluices were dry, and the Thames water-tower was found to be out of order, and the pipes connected with it empty. To add to the calamity, the tide was out, and it was not only difficult, but dangerous, to obtain water from the river. The scanty supply served rather to increase than check the flames. All sorts of rumours prevailed among the crowd. It could no longer be doubted that the fire, which kept continually breaking out in fresh places, was the work of incendiaries, and it was now supposed that it must have been caused by the French or the Dutch, with both of which nations the country was then at war, and the most fearful anticipations that it was only the prelude of a sudden invasion were entertained. Some conjectured it might be the work of the Papists; and it chancing that a professor of that religion was discovered among the mob, he was with difficulty rescued from their fury by the watch, and conveyed to Newgate. Other persons, who were likewise suspected of being incendiaries, were conveyed with him. This, though it satisfied the multitude, did not check the progress of the fire, nor put a stop to the terror and tumult that prevailed. Every moment a fresh family were turned into the street, and by their cries added to the confusion. The plunderers had formed themselves into bands, pillaging everything they could lay hands on--carrying off boxes, goods, and coffers, breaking into cellars, broaching casks of spirits and ale, and emptying flasks of wine. Hundreds of persons who did not join in the pillage made free with the contents of the cellars, and a large portion of the concourse was soon in a state of intoxication. Thus, wild laughter and exclamations of frenzied mirth were heard amid the wailings of women and the piteous cries of children. It was indeed dreadful to see the old and bed-ridden forced into the street to seek a home where they could; nor yet less dreadful to behold others roused from a bed of sickness at dead of night, and by such a fearful summons. Still, fanned by the wind, and fed by a thousand combustible matters, the fire pressed fearfully on, devouring all before it, and increasing in fury and power each instant; while the drunken mob laughed, roared, shouted, and rejoiced beside it, as if in emulation of the raging flames. To proceed for a moment to Wood Street. When Philip Grant quitted Leonard in the manner before related, the latter followed him to the door, and saw him disappear in the gloom. But he did not attempt pursuit, because he could not persuade himself that any danger was really to be apprehended. He thought it, however, advisable to consult with Mr. Bloundel on the subject, and accordingly proceeded to his room and roused him. After hearing what had occurred, the grocer looked very grave, and said, "I am not disposed to treat this matter so lightly as you do, Leonard. I fear this unhappy man has some desperate design in view. What it is I cannot--dare not--conjecture. But I confess I am full of apprehension. I shall not retire to rest to-night, but shall hold myself in readiness to act in whatever way may be necessary, You had better go forth, and if anything occurs, give notice to the proper authorities. We have not now such a lord mayor as we had during the season of the plague. The firm and courageous Sir John Lawrence is but ill succeeded by the weak and vacillating Sir Thomas Bludworth. Still, the latter may be equal to this emergency, and if anything happens, you must apply to him." "I will follow your advice implicitly," rejoined Leonard. "At the same time, I think there is nothing to apprehend." "It is better to err on the safe side," observed the grocer; "you cannot then reproach yourself with want of caution." Shortly after this, Leonard sallied forth, and having determined what course to pursue in the first instance, proceeded to Saint Paul's. He found every door in the sacred structure fast closed. Not satisfied with this, he knocked at the great northern entrance till the summons was answered by a verger, and stating his object, demanded to be admitted, and to search the cathedral, as well as Saint Faith's. The verger offered no objection, and having examined the old building throughout, without discovering any traces of the person he was in quest of, Leonard quitted it. More than ever convinced that he was right in his supposition, and that no danger was to be apprehended, he was about to return home, when the idea occurred to him that he might perhaps find Grant at the plague-pit in Finsbury Fields, and he accordingly shaped his course thither. A long period had elapsed since he had last visited the melancholy spot, and it was not without much painful emotion that he drew near the vast mound covering the victims of the pestilence. But Grant was not there, and though he paced round and round the dreary inclosure for some time, no one came. He then proceeded to the lesser plague-pit, and kneeling beside the grave of Amabel, bedewed it with his tears. As he arose, with the intention of returning to Wood Street, he observed an extraordinary light in the sky a little to the left, evidently produced by the reflection of a great fire in that direction. On beholding this light, he said to himself, "Mr. Bloundel was right. This is the danger with which the city is threatened. It is now too late to avert it." Determined, however, to ascertain the extent of the calamity without an instant's loss of time, he set off at a swift pace, and in less than half an hour reached Fish Street Hill, and stood beside the conflagration. It was then nearly three o'clock, and a vast chasm of blackening ruins proclaimed the devastation that had been committed. Just as he arrived, the roof of Saint Margaret's fell in with a tremendous crash, and for a few minutes the fire was subdued. It then arose with greater fury than ever; burst out on both sides of the sacred structure, and caught the line of houses leading towards London Bridge. The first house was that of a vintner; and the lower part of the premises--the cellars and vaults--were filled with wine and spirits. These instantly blazed up, and burnt with such intensity that the adjoining habitation was presently in flames. "I know who hath done all this!" exclaimed Leonard, half involuntarily, as he gazed on the work of destruction. "Indeed!" exclaimed a bystander, gazing at him. "Who is it?--the Dutchman or the Frenchman?" "Neither," replied Leonard, who at that moment discovered Grant among the group opposite him. "Yonder stands the incendiary!" III. PROGRESS OF THE FIRE. Instantly surrounded and seized by the mob, Grant offered no resistance, but demanded to be led with his accuser before a magistrate. Almost as the words were uttered, a cry was raised that the lord mayor and the sheriffs were coming along East-cheap, and the prisoner and Leonard were immediately hurried off in that direction. They met the civic authorities at the corner of Saint Clement's-lane; but instead of paying any attention to them, the lord mayor, who appeared to be in a state of great agitation and excitement, ordered the javelin-men, by whom he was attended, to push the mob aside. "I will not delay your worship an instant," cried Leonard; "but this dreadful fire is the work of incendiaries, of whom that man," pointing to Grant, "is the principal. I pray your worship to question him. He may have important revelations to make." "Eh, what?" cried the lord mayor, addressing Grant. "Is it true you are an incendiary? Who are your accomplices? Where are they?" "I have none," replied Grant, boldly--"I deny the charge altogether. Let my accuser prove it if he can." "You hear what he says, young man," said the mayor. "Did you see him set fire to any house? Did you find any fire-balls on his person?" "I did not," replied Leonard. "I searched him, your worship," cried Chowles, who was among the bystanders, "the moment he was seized, and found nothing upon him. It is a false and malicious charge." "It looks like it, I must say," replied the mayor. "On what grounds do you accuse him?" he added, angrily, to Leonard. "On these," replied Leonard. "He came to me three hours ago, and confessed that he had a desperate design against the safety of the city, and made certain proposals to me, to which I would not listen. This is not the season for a full explanation of the matter. But I pray your worship, as you value the welfare of the city, to have him secured." "There can be no harm in that," replied the lord mayor. "His appearance is decidedly against him. Let him be taken care of till the morrow, when I will examine further into the matter. Your name and place of abode, young man?" "I am called Leonard Holt, and my business is that of a grocer, in Wood-street," was the reply. "Enough," rejoined the mayor. "Take away the prisoner. I will hear nothing further now. Lord! Lord! how the fire rages, to be sure. We shall have the whole city burnt down, if we do not take care." "That we shall, indeed," replied Sir Robert Viner, one of the sheriffs, "unless the most prompt and decisive measures are immediately adopted." "What would you recommend?" cried the lord mayor, despairingly. Sir Robert looked perplexed by the question. "If I might offer an opinion," interposed Leonard, "I would advise your worship to pull down all the houses in the way of the fire, as the only means of checking it." "Pull down the houses!" cried the lord mayor. "Who ever heard of such an idea? Why, that would be worse than the fire. No, no; that will never do." "The young man is in the right," observed Sir Joseph Sheldon, the other sheriff. "Well, well--we shall see," replied the mayor. "But we are losing time here. Forward! forward!" And while Grant was borne off to Newgate by a guard of javelin-men, the lord mayor and his company proceeded to Fish-street-hill, where the whole conflagration burst upon them. The moment the lord mayor appeared, he was beset on all sides by hundreds of families soliciting his protection. Others came to give him the alarming intelligence that a very scanty supply of water only could be obtained, and that already two engines had been destroyed, while the firemen who worked them had narrowly escaped with life. Others again pressed him for instructions how to act--some suggesting one plan--some another,--and being of a weak and irresolute character, and utterly unequal to a fearful emergency like the present, he was completely bewildered. Bidding the houseless families take refuge in the churches, he ordered certain officers to attend them, and affecting to doubt the statement of those who affirmed there was no water, advised them to go to the river, where they would find plenty. In vain they assured him the tide was out, the Thames water-tower empty, the pipes and conduits dry. He would not believe anything of the sort, but upbraiding his informants with neglect, bade them try again. As to instructions, he could give none. At last, a reluctant assent being wrung from him by Sir Joseph Sheldon, that a house should be pulled down, as suggested by Leonard, preparations were instantly made for putting the design into execution. The house selected was about four doors from the top of Fish-street-hill, and belonged to a birdcage-maker. But they encountered an unexpected opposition. Having ascertained their purpose, the owner fastened his doors, and refused to admit them. He harangued the mob from one of the upper windows, and producing a pistol, threatened to fire upon them if they attempted to gain a forcible entrance. The officers, however, having received their orders, were not to be intimidated, and commenced breaking down the door. The birdcage-maker then fired, but without effect; and before he had time to reload, the door had yielded to the combined efforts of the multitude, who were greatly enraged at his strange conduct. They rushed upstairs, but finding he had locked himself in the room, left him there, supposing him secure, and commenced the work of demolition. More than a hundred men were engaged in the task; but though they used the utmost exertion, they had little more than unroofed the building, when a cry was raised by those in the street that the house was on fire. Alarmed by the shout, they descended, and found the report true. Flames were issuing from the room lately occupied by the birdcage-maker. The wretch had set fire to his dwelling, and then made his escape with his family by a back staircase. Thus defeated, the workmen, with bitter imprecations on the fugitive, withdrew, and Leonard, who had lent his best assistance to the task, repaired to the lord mayor. He found him in greater consternation than ever. "We must go further off, if we would do any good," said Leonard; "and as the present plan is evidently too slow, we must have recourse to gunpowder." "Gunpowder!" exclaimed the lord mayor. "Would you blow up the city, like a second Guy Fawkes? I begin to suspect you are one of the incendiaries yourself, young man. Lord, Lord! what will become of us?" "If your worship disapproves of my suggestion, at least give orders what is to be done," rejoined Leonard. "I have done all I can," replied the mayor. "Who are you that talk to me thus?" "I have told your worship I am a simple tradesman," replied Leonard. "But I have the welfare of the city at heart, and I cannot stand by and see it burnt to the ground without an effort to save it." "Well, well, I dare say you mean very well, young man," rejoined the lord mayor, somewhat pacified. "But don't you perceive it's impossible to stop such a fire as this without water, or engines. I'm sure I would willingly lay down my life to preserve the city. But what can I do?--what can any man do?" "Much may be done if there is resolution to attempt it," returned Leonard. "I would recommend your worship to proceed, in the first place, to the wharves on the banks of the Thames, and cause the removal of the wood, coal, and other combustible matter with which they are crowded." "Well thought of," cried the lord mayor. "I will go thither at once. Do you stay here. Your advice will be useful. I will examine you touching the incendiary to-morrow--that is, if we are any of us left alive, which I don't expect. Lord, Lord! what will become of us?" And with many similar ejaculations, he hurried off with the sheriffs, and the greater part of his attendants, and taking his way down Saint Michael's-lane, soon reached the river-side. By this time, the fire had approached the summit of Fish-street-hill, and here the overhanging stories of the houses coming so close together as almost to meet at the top, the flames speedily caught the other side, and spread the conflagration in that direction. Two other houses were likewise discovered to be on fire in Crooked-lane, and in an incredibly short space the whole dense mass of habitations lying at the west side of Fish-street-hill, and between Crooked-lane and Eastcheap, were in flames, and threatening the venerable church of Saint Michael, which stood in the midst of them, with instant destruction. To the astonishment of all who witnessed it, the conflagration seemed to proceed as rapidly against the wind, as with it, and to be approaching Thames-street, both by Pudding-lane and Saint Michael's-lane. A large stable, filled with straw and hay, at the back of the Star Inn, in Little Eastcheap, caught fire, and carrying the conflagration eastward, had already conveyed it as far as Botolph-lane. It chanced that a poor Catholic priest, travelling from Douay to England, had landed that night, and taken up his quarters at the hotel above mentioned. The landlord, who had been roused by the cries of fire, and alarmed by the rumours of incendiaries, immediately called to mind his guest, and dragging him from his room, thrust him, half-naked, into the street. Announcing his conviction that the poor priest was an incendiary to the mob without, they seized him, and in spite of his protestations and explanations, which, being uttered in a foreign tongue, they could not comprehend, they were about to exercise summary punishment upon him, by hanging him to the sign-post before the landlord's door, when they were diverted from their dreadful purpose by Solomon Eagle, who prevailed upon them to carry him to Newgate. The conflagration had now assumed so terrific a character that it appalled even the stoutest spectator. It has been mentioned, that for many weeks previous to the direful calamity, the weather had been remarkably dry and warm, a circumstance which had prepared the old wooden houses, abounding in this part of the city, for almost instantaneous ignition. Added to this, if the incendiaries themselves had deposited combustible materials at certain spots to extend the conflagration, they could not have selected better places than accident had arranged. All sorts of inflammable goods were contained in the shops and ware-houses,--oil, hemp, flax, pitch, tar, cordage, sugar, wine, and spirits; and when any magazine of this sort caught fire, it spread the conflagration with tenfold rapidity. The heat of the flames had now become almost insufferable, and the sparks and flakes of fire fell so fast and thick, that the spectators were compelled to retreat to a considerable distance from the burning buildings. The noise occasioned by the cracking of the timbers, and the falling of walls and roofs, was awful in the extreme. All the avenues and thoroughfares near the fire were now choked up by carts, coaches, and other vehicles, which had been hastily brought thither to remove the goods of the inhabitants, and the hurry of the poor people to save a wreck of their property, and the attempts made by the gangs of plunderers to deprive them of it, constituted a scene of unparalleled tumult and confusion. As yet, no troops had appeared to maintain order, and seeing that as much mischief was almost done by the plunderers as by the fire, Leonard determined to go in search of the lord mayor, and acquaint him with the mischief that was occurring. Having heard that the fire had already reached London Bridge, he resolved to ascertain whether the report was true. As he proceeded down Saint Michael's-lane, he found the venerable church from which it was designated on fire, and with some difficulty forcing his way through the crowd, reached Thames-street, where he discovered that the conflagration had even made more fearful progress than he had anticipated. Fishmongers' Hall, a large square structure, was on fire, and burning swiftly,--the flames encircling its high roof, and the turret by which it was surmounted. Streams of fire, too, had darted down the numerous narrow alleys leading to the river-side, and reaching the wharves, had kindled the heaps of wood and coal with which they were filled. The party under the command of the lord mayor had used their utmost exertions to get rid of these combustible materials by flinging them into the Thames; but they came too late, and were driven away by the approach of the fire. Most of the barges and heavy craft were aground, and they, too, caught fire, and were burned, with their contents. Finding he could neither render any assistance, nor obtain speech with the lord mayor, and anxious to behold the terrible yet sublime spectacle from the river, Leonard hastened to Old Swan-Stairs, and springing into a boat, ordered the waterman to row into the middle of the Thames. He could then discern the full extent of the conflagration, and trace the progress it was making. All the houses between Fishmongers' Hall and the bridge were on fire, and behind them rose a vast sheet of flame. Saint Magnus' Church, at the foot of the bridge, was next seized by the flame, and Leonard watched its destruction. An ancient gateway followed, and soon afterwards a large stack of houses erected upon the bridge burst into flames. The inhabitants of the houses on the bridge, having now become thoroughly alarmed, flung bedding, boxes, and articles of furniture, out of their windows into the river. A crowd of boats surrounded the starlings, and the terrified occupants of the structures above descending to them by the staircases in the interior of the piers, embarked with every article they could carry off. The river presented a most extraordinary scene. Lighted by the red and fierce reflection of the fire, and covered with boats, filled with families who had just quitted their habitations either on the bridge or in some other street adjoining it, its whole surface was speckled with pieces of furniture, or goods, that had been cast into it, and which were now floating up with the tide. Great crowds were collected on the Southwark shore to watch the conflagration, while on the opposite side the wharves and quays were thronged with persons removing their goods, and embarking them in boats. One circumstance, noted by Pepys, and which also struck Leonard, was the singular attachment displayed by the pigeons, kept by the owners of several houses on the bridge, to the spots they had been accustomed to. Even when the flames attacked the buildings to which the dovecots were attached, the birds wheeled round and round them, until, their pinions being scorched by the fire, they dropped into the water. Leonard remained on the river nearly two hours. He could not, in fact, tear himself away from the spectacle, which possessed a strange fascination in his eyes. He began to think that all the efforts of men were unavailing to arrest the progress of destruction, and he was for awhile content to regard it as a mere spectacle. And never had he beheld a more impressive--a more terrible sight. There lay the vast and populous city before him, which he had once before known to be invaded by an invisible but extirminating foe, now attacked by a furious and far-seen enemy. The fire seemed to form a vast arch--many-coloured as a rainbow,--reflected in the sky, and re-reflected in all its horrible splendour in the river. Nor was the aspect of the city less striking. The innumerable towers and spires of the churches rose tall and dark through the wavering sheet of flame, and every now and then one of them would topple down or disappear, as if swallowed up by the devouring element. For a short space, the fire seemed to observe a regular progressive movement, but when it fell upon better material, it reared its blazing crest aloft, changed its hues, and burnt with redoubled intensity. Leonard watched it thread narrow alleys, and firing every lesser habitation in its course, kindle some great hall or other structure, whose remoteness seemed to secure it from immediate danger. At this distance, the roaring of the flames resembled that of a thousand furnaces. Ever and anon, it was broken by a sound like thunder, occasioned by the fall of some mighty edifice. Then there would come a quick succession of reports like the discharge of artillery, followed by a shower of fiery flakes and sparks blown aloft, like the explosion of some stupendous firework. Mixed with the roaring of the flames, the thunder of falling roofs, the cracking of timber, was a wild hubbub of human voices, that sounded afar off like a dismal wail. In spite of its terror, the appearance of the fire was at that time beautiful beyond description. Its varying colours--its fanciful forms--now shooting out in a hundred different directions, like lightning-flashes,--now drawing itself up, as it were, and soaring aloft,--now splitting into a million tongues of flame,--these aspects so riveted the attention of Leonard, that he almost forgot in the sight the dreadful devastation going forward. His eyes ached with gazing at the fiery spectacle, and he was glad to rest them on the black masses of building that stood in stern relief against it, and which there could be little doubt would soon become its prey. It was now broad daylight, except for the mighty cloud of smoke, which o'er-canopied the city, creating an artificial gloom. Leonard's troubled gaze wandered from the scene of destruction to Saint Paul's--an edifice, which; from the many events connected with his fortunes that had occurred there, had always a singular interest in his eyes. Calling to mind the denunciations poured forth by Solomon Eagle against this fane, he could not help fearing they would now be fulfilled. What added to his misgivings was, that it was now almost entirely surrounded by poles and scaffolding. Ever since the cessation of the plague, the repairs, suspended during that awful season, had been recommenced under the superintendence of Doctor Christopher Wren, and were now proceeding with renewed activity. The whole of the building was under repair, and a vast number of masons were employed upon it, and it was their scaffolding that impressed Leonard with a dread of what afterwards actually occurred. Accustomed to connect the figure of Solomon Eagle with the sacred structure, he could not help fancying that he discovered a speck resembling a human figure on the central tower. If it were the enthusiast, what must his feelings be at finding his predictions so fatally fulfilled? Little did Leonard think how the prophecy had been accomplished! But his attention was speedily called to the progress of the conflagration. From the increased tumult in the city, it was evident the inhabitants were now thoroughly roused, and actively bestirring themselves to save their property. This was apparent, even on the river, from the multitude of boats deeply laden with goods of all kinds, which were now seen shaping their course towards Westminster. The fire, also, had made rapid progress on all sides. The vast pile of habitations at the north side of the bridge was now entirely in flames. The effect of this was awfully fine. Not only did the flames mount to a greater height, and appear singularly conspicuous from the situation of the houses, but every instant some blazing fragment fell with a tremendous splash into the water, where it hissed for a moment, and then was for ever quenched, floating a black mass upon the surface. From the foot of the bridge to Coal Harbour Stairs, extended what Dryden finely calls "a quay of fire." All the wharves and warehouses were in flames, and burning with astonishing rapidity, while this part of Thames-street, "the lodge of all combustibles," had likewise become a prey to the devouring element. The fire, too, had spread in an easterly direction, and consuming three churches, namely, Saint Andrew's, in Botolph-lane, Saint Mary's, in Love-lane, and Saint Dunstan's in the East, had invaded Tower-street, and seemed fast approaching the ancient fortress. So fascinated was Leonard with the sight, that he could have been well content to remain all day gazing at it, but he now recollected that he had other duties to perform, and directing the waterman to land him at Queenhithe, ascended Bread-street-hill, and betook himself to Wood-street. IV. LEONARD'S INTERVIEW WITH THE KING. Some rumours of the conflagration, as will be supposed, had ere this reached Mr. Bloundel, but he had no idea of the extent of the direful calamity, and when informed of it by Leonard, lifted up his hands despairingly, exclaiming, in accents of the deepest affliction--"Another judgment, then, has fallen upon this sinful city,--another judgment yet more terrible than the first. Man may have kindled this great fire, but the hand of God is apparent in it. 'Alas! alas! for thee, thou great city, Babylon! Alas for thee, thou mighty city! for in one hour is thy judgment come. The kings of the earth shall bewail thee, and lament for thee, when they see the smoke of thy burning.'" "Your dwelling was spared in the last visitation, sir," observed Leonard, after a pause, "and you were able to shut yourself up, as in a strong castle, against the all-exterminating foe. But I fear you will not be able to ward off the assaults of the present enemy, and recommend you to remove your family and goods without delay to some place of security far from this doomed city." "This is the Lord's Day, Leonard, and must be kept holy," replied the grocer. "To-morrow, if I am spared so long, I will endeavour to find some place of shelter." "If the conflagration continues to spread as rapidly as it is now doing, to-morrow will be too late," rejoined Leonard. "It may be so," returned the grocer, "but I will not violate the Sabbath. If the safety of my family is threatened, that is another matter, but I will not attempt to preserve my goods. Do not, however, let me influence you. Take such portion of our stock as belongs to you, and you know that a third of the whole is yours, and convey it where you please." "On no account, sir," interrupted Leonard. "I should never think of acting in opposition to your wishes. This will be a sad Sunday for London." "The saddest she has ever seen," replied the grocer; "for though the voice of prayer was silenced in her churches during the awful season of the plague, yet then men's minds had been gradually prepared for the calamity, and though filled with terror, they were not taken by surprise, as must now be the case. But let us to prayers, and may our earnest supplications avail in turning aside the Divine displeasure." And summoning his family and household, all of whom were by this time stirring, and in the utmost consternation at what they had heard of the fire, he commenced a prayer adapted to the occasion in a strain of the utmost fervour; and as Leonard gazed at his austere countenance, now lighted up with holy zeal, and listened to his earnest intercessions in behalf of the devoted city, he was reminded of the prophet Jeremiah weeping for Jerusalem before the throne of grace. Prayers over, the whole party sat down to their morning repast, after which, the grocer and his eldest son, accompanied by Leonard and Blaize, mounted to the roof of the house, and gazing in the direction of the conflagration, they could plainly distinguish the vast cloud of yellow smoke commingled with flame that marked the scene of its ravages. As the wind blew from this quarter, charged, as has been stated, with a cloud of sparks, many of the fire-drops were dashed in their faces, and compelled them to shade their eyes. The same awful roar which Leonard had heard on the river likewise broke upon their ears, while from all the adjoining streets arose a wild clamour of human voices, the burden of whose cries was "Fire! Fire!" The church bells, which should have been tolling to early devotion, were now loudly ringing the alarm, while their towers were crowded, as were the roofs of most of the houses, with persons gazing towards the scene of devastation. Nothing could be more opposite to the stillness and quiet of a Sabbath morn; and as the grocer listened to the noise and tumult prevailing around him, he could not repress a groan. "I never thought my ears would be so much offended on this day," he said. "Let us go down. I have seen and heard enough." They then descended, and Stephen Bloundel, who was greatly alarmed by what he had just witnessed, strongly urged his father to remove immediately. "There are seasons," said the young man, "when even our duty to Heaven becomes a secondary consideration; and I should be sorry if the fruit of your industry were sacrificed to your religious scruples." "There are no such seasons," replied the grocer, severely; "and I am grieved that a son of mine should think so. If the inhabitants of this sinful city had not broken the Sabbath, and neglected God's commandments, this heavy judgment would not have fallen upon them. I shall neglect no precaution for the personal safety of my family, but I place my worldly goods in the hands of Him from whom I derived them, and to whom I am ready to restore them, whenever it shall please Him to take them." "I am rebuked, father," replied Stephen, humbly; "and entreat your pardon for having ventured to differ with you. I am now fully sensible of the propriety of your conduct." "And I have ever acquiesced in your wishes, be they what they may," said Mrs. Bloundel to her husband; "but I confess I am dreadfully frightened. I hope you will remove the first thing to-morrow." "When midnight has struck, and the Sabbath is past, I shall commence my preparations," replied the grocer. "You must rest content till then." Mrs. Bloundel heaved a sigh, but said no more; and the grocer, retiring to a side-table, opened the Bible, and sat down calmly to its perusal. But though no further remonstrances reached his ears, there was great murmuring in the kitchen on the part of Blaize and Patience. "Goodness knows what will become of us!" cried the latter. "I expect we shall all be burnt alive, owing to our master's obstinacy. What harm can there be in moving on a Sunday, I should like to know? I'm sure I'm too much hurried and flurried to say my prayers as I ought to do." "And so am I," replied Blaize. "Mr. Bloundel is a great deal too particular. What a dreadful thing it would be if the house should be burnt down, and all my mother's savings, which were to form a provision for our marriage, lost." "That would be terrible, indeed," cried Patience, with a look of dismay. "I think the wedding had better take place as soon as the fire is over. It can't last many days if it goes on at this rate." "You are right," returned Blaize. "I have no objection. I'll speak to my mother at once." And stepping into the scullery, where old Josyna was washing some dishes, he addressed her--"Mother, I'm sadly afraid this great fire will reach us before our master will allow us to move. Hadn't you better let me take care of the money you intended giving me on my marriage with Patience?" "No, no, myn goed zoon," replied Josyna, shaking her head--"I musd zee you married virsd." "But I can't be married to-day," cried Blaize--"and there's no time to lose. The fire will be upon us directly." "I cand help dat," returned his mother. "We musd place our drusd in God." "There I quite agree with you, mother," replied Blaize; "but we must also take care of ourselves. If you won't give me the money, at least put it in a box to carry off at a moment's notice." "Don't be afraid, myn zoon," replied Josyna. "I wond forged id." "I'm sadly afraid you will, though," muttered Blaize, as he walked away. "There's no doing any good with her," he added to Patience. "She's as obstinate as Mr. Bloundel. I should like to see the fire of all things; but I suppose I musn't leave the house." "Of course not," replied Patience, pettishly; "at such a time it would be highly improper. I forbid that." "Then I must need submit," groaned Blaize--"I can't even have my own way before marriage." When the proper time arrived, the grocer, accompanied by all his family and household, except old Josyna, who was left in charge of the house, repaired to the neighbouring church of Saint Alban's, but, finding the doors closed, and that no service was to be performed, he returned home with a sorrowful heart. Soon after this, Leonard took Mr. Bloundel apart, and observed to him, "I have a strong conviction that I could be useful in arresting the progress of the conflagration, and, as I cannot attend church service, I will, with your permission, devote myself to that object. It is my intention to proceed to Whitehall, and, if possible, obtain an audience of the king, and if I succeed in doing so, to lay a plan before him, which I think would prove efficacious." "I will not ask what the plan is," rejoined the grocer, "because I doubt its success. Neither will I oppose your design, which is praiseworthy. Go, and may it prosper. Return in the evening, for I may need your assistance--perhaps protection." Leonard then prepared to set forth. Blaize begged hard to accompany him, but was refused. Forcing his way through the host of carts, coaches, drays, and other vehicles thronging the streets, Leonard made the best of his way to Whitehall, where he speedily arrived. A large body of mounted troopers were stationed before the gates of the palace, and a regiment of the foot-guards were drawn up in the court. Drums were beating to arms, and other martial sounds were heard, showing the alarm that was felt. Leonard was stopped at the gate by a sentinel, and refused admittance; and he would in all probability have been turned back, if at that moment the Lords Argentine and Rochester had not come up. On seeing him, the former frowned, and passed quickly on, but the latter halted. "You seem to be in some difficulty," remarked Rochester. "Can I help you?" Leonard was about to turn away, but he checked himself. "I will not suffer my resentful feelings to operate injuriously to others," he muttered. "I desire to see the king, my lord," he added, to the earl. "I have a proposal to make to him, which I think would be a means of checking the conflagration." "Say you so?" cried Rochester. "Come along, then. Heaven grant your plan may prove successful; in which case, I promise you, you shall be nobly rewarded." "I seek no reward, my lord," replied Leonard. "All I desire is to save the city." "Well, well," rejoined Rochester, "it will be time enough to refuse his majesty's bounty when offered." Upon this, he ordered the sentinel to withdraw, and Leonard followed him into the palace. They found the entrance-hall filled with groups of officers and attendants, all conversing together, it was evident from their looks and manner, on the one engrossing topic--the conflagration. Ascending a magnificent staircase, and traversing part of a grand gallery, they entered an ante-room, in which a number of courtiers and pages--amongst the latter of whom was Chiffinch--were assembled. At the door of the inner chamber stood a couple of ushers, and as the earl approached, it was instantly thrown open. As Leonard, however, who followed close behind his leader, passed Chiffinch, the latter caught hold of his arm and detained him. Hearing the movement, Rochester turned, and said quickly to the page, "Let him pass, he is going with me." "Old Rowley is in no humour for a jest to-day, my lord," replied Chiffinch, familiarly. "He is more serious than I have ever before seen him, and takes this terrible fire sadly to heart, as well he may. Mr. Secretary Pepys, of the Admiralty, is with him, and is detailing all particulars of the calamity to him, I believe." "It is in reference to the fire that I have brought this young man with me," returned the earl. "Let him pass, I say. State your plan boldly," he added, as they entered the audience-chamber. At the further end of the long apartment, on a chair of state, and beneath a canopy, sat Charles. He was evidently much disturbed, and looked eagerly at the new-comers, especially at Leonard, expecting to find him the bearer of some important intelligence. On the right of the king, and near an open window, which, looking towards the river, commanded a view of the fire on the bridge, as well as of part of the burning city, stood the Duke of York. The duke did not appear much concerned at the calamity, but was laughing with Lord Argentine, who stood close beside him. The smile fled from the lips of the latter as he beheld Leonard, and he looked angrily at Rochester, who did not, however, appear to notice his displeasure. On the left of the royal chair was Mr. Pepys, engaged, as Chiffinch had intimated, in detailing to the king the progress of the conflagration; and next to the secretary stood the Earl of Craven,--a handsome, commanding, and martial-looking personage, though somewhat stricken in years. Three other noblemen-- namely, the Lords Hollis, Arlington, and Ashley--were likewise present. "Who have you with you, Rochester?" demanded Charles, as the earl and his companion approached him. "A young man, my liege, who desires to make known to you a plan for checking this conflagration," replied the earl. "Ah!" exclaimed the king; "let him accomplish that for us, and he shall ask what he will in return." "I ventured to promise him as much," observed Rochester. "Mine is a very simple and a very obvious plan, sire," said Leonard; "but I will engage, on the peril of my life, if you will give me sufficient authority, and means to work withal, to stop the further progress of this fire." "In what way?" asked Charles, impatiently;--"in what way?" "By demolishing the houses around the conflagration with gunpowder, so as to form a wide gap between those left and the flames," replied Leonard. "A short and summary process, truly," replied the king; "but it would occasion great waste of property, and might be attended with other serious consequences." "Not half so much property will be destroyed as if the slower and seemingly safer course of pulling down the houses is pursued," rejoined Leonard. "That experiment has been tried and failed." "I am of the young man's opinion," observed the Earl of Craven. "And I," added Pepys. "Better lose half the city than the whole. As it is, your majesty is not safe in your palace." "Why, you do not think it can reach Whitehall?" cried the king, rising, and walking to the window. "How say you, brother," he added, to the Duke of York--"shall we act upon this young man's suggestion, and order the wholesale demolition of the houses which he recommends?" "I would not advise your majesty to do so--at least, not without consideration," answered the duke. "This is a terrible fire, no doubt; but the danger may be greatly exaggerated, and if any ill consequences should result from the proposed scheme, the blame will be entirely laid upon your majesty." "I care not for that," replied the king, "provided I feel assured it is for the best." "The plan would do incalculably more mischief than the fire itself," observed Lord Argentine, "and would be met by the most determined opposition on the part of the owners of the habitations condemned to destruction. Whole streets will have to be blown up, and your majesty will easily comprehend the confusion and damage that will ensue." "Lord Argentine has expressed my sentiments exactly," said the Duke of York. "There is nothing for it, then, but for your majesty to call for a fiddle, and amuse yourself, like Nero, while your city is burning," remarked Rochester, sarcastically. "Another such jest, my lord," rejoined the king, sternly, "and it shall cost you your liberty. I will go upon the river instantly, and view the fire myself, and then decide what course shall be adopted." "There are rumours that incendiaries are abroad, your majesty," remarked Argentine, glancing maliciously at Leonard--"it is not unlikely that he who lighted the fire should know how to extinguish it." "His lordship says truly," rejoined Leonard. "There _are_ incendiaries abroad, and the chief of them was taken by my hand, and lodged in Newgate, where he lies for examination." "Ah!" exclaimed the king, eagerly; "did you catch the miscreant in the fact?" "No, my liege," replied Leonard; "but he came to me a few hours before the outbreak of the fire, intimating that he was in possession of a plot against the city--a design so monstrous, that your majesty would give any reward to the discloser of it. He proposed to reveal this plot to me on certain terms." "And you accepted them?" cried the king. "No, my liege," replied Leonard; "I refused them, and would have secured him, but he escaped me at that time. I afterwards discovered him among the spectators near the fire, and caused his arrest." "And who is this villain?" cried the king. "I must refer your majesty to Lord Argentine," replied Leonard. "Do you know anything of the transaction, my lord?" said Charles, appealing to him. "Not I, your majesty," said Argentine, vainly endeavouring to conceal his anger and confusion. "The knave has spoken falsely." "He shall rue it, if he has done so," rejoined the monarch. "What has the man you speak of to do with Lord Argentine?" he added to Leonard. "He is his father," was the reply. Charles looked at Lord Argentine, and became convinced from the altered expression of his countenance that the truth had been spoken. He, therefore, arose, and motioning him to follow him, led him into the recess of a window, where they remained in conversation for some minutes. While this was passing, the Earl of Rochester observed, in an undertone to Leonard, "You have made a mortal foe of Lord Argentine, but I will protect you." "I require no other protection than I can afford myself, my lord," rejoined Leonard, coldly. Shortly after this, Charles stepped forward with a graver aspect than before, and said, "Before proceeding to view this conflagration, I must give some directions in reference to it. To you, my Lord Craven, whose intrepidity I well know, I intrust the most important post. You will station yourself at the east of the conflagration, and if you find it making its way to the Tower, as I hear is the case, check it at all hazards. The old fortress must be preserved at any risk. But do not resort to gunpowder unless you receive an order from me accompanied by my signet-ring. My Lords Hollis and Ashley, you will have the care of the north-west of the city. Station yourselves near Newgate Market. Rochester and Arlington, your posts will be at Saint Paul's. Watch over the august cathedral. I would not have it injured for half my kingdom. Brother," he added to the Duke of York, "you will accompany me in my barge--and you, Mr. Pepys. You, young man," to Leonard, "can follow in my train." "Has your majesty no post for me?" asked Argentine. "No," replied Charles, turning coldly from him. "Had not your majesty better let him have the custody of your gaol of Newgate?" remarked Rochester, sarcastically; "he has an interest in its safe keeping." Lord Argentine turned deadly pale, but he made no answer. Attended by the Duke of York and Mr. Pepys, and followed at a respectful distance by Leonard, the king then passed through the ante-room, and descending the grand staircase, traversed a variety of passages, until he reached the private stairs communicating with the river. At the foot lay the royal barge, in which he embarked with his train. Charles appeared greatly moved by the sight of the thousands of his houseless subjects, whom he encountered in his passage down the Thames, and whenever a feeble shout was raised for him, he returned it with a blessing. When nearly opposite Queenhithe, he commanded the rowers to pause. The conflagration had made formidable progress since Leonard' beheld it a few hours back, and had advanced, nearly as far as the Still-yard on the river-side, while it was burning upwards through thick ranks of houses, almost as far as Cannon-street. The roaring of the flames was louder than ever--and the crash of falling habitations, and the tumult and cries of the affrighted populace, yet more terrific. Charles gazed at the appalling spectacle like one who could not believe his senses, and it was some time before the overwhelming truth could force itself upon him. Tears then started to his eyes, and, uttering an ejaculation of despair, he commanded the rowers to make instantly for the shore. V. HOW LEONARD SAVED THE KING'S LIFE. The royal barge landed at Queenhithe, and Charles instantly disembarking, proceeded on foot, and at a pace that compelled, his attendants to move quickly, to keep up with him, to Thames-street. Here, however, the confusion was so great, owing to the rush of people, and the number of vehicles employed in the removal of goods, that he was obliged to come to a halt. Fortunately, at this moment, a company of the train-bands rode up, and their leader dismounting, offered his horse to the king, who instantly sprang into the saddle, and scarcely waiting till the Duke of York could be similarly accommodated, forced his way through the crowd as far as Brewer-lane, where his progress was stopped by the intense heat. A little more than a hundred yards from this point, the whole street was on fire, and the flames bursting from the windows and roofs of the houses, with a roar like that which might be supposed to be produced by the forges of the Cyclops, united in a vast blazing arch overhead. It chanced, too, that in some places cellars filled with combustible materials extended under the street, and here the ground would crack, and jets of fire shoot forth like the eruption of a volcano. The walls and timbers of the houses at some distance from the conflagration were scorched and blistered with the heat, and completely prepared for ignition; overhead being a vast and momentarily increasing cloud of flame-coloured smoke, which spread all over the city, filling it as with a thick mist, while the glowing vault above looked, as Evelyn expresses it, "like the top of a burning oven." Two churches, namely, Allhallows the Great and Allhallows the Less, were burnt down in the king's sight, and the lofty spire of a third, Saint Lawrence Poulteney, had just caught fire, and looked like a flame-tipped spear. After contemplating this spectacle for some time, Charles roused himself from the state of stupefaction into which he was thrown, and determined, if possible, to arrest the further progress of the devouring element along the river-side, commanded all the houses on the west of Dowgate Dock to be instantly demolished. A large body of men were therefore set upon this difficult and dangerous, and, as it proved, futile task. Another party were ordered to the same duty on Dowgate-hill; and the crash of tumbling walls and beams was soon added to the general uproar, while clouds of dust darkened the air. It was with some difficulty that a sufficient space could be kept clear for carrying these operations into effect; and long before they were half-completed, Charles had the mortification of finding the fire gaining ground so rapidly, that they must prove ineffectual. Word was brought at this juncture that a fresh fire had broken out in Elbow-lane, and while the monarch was listening to this dreary intelligence, a fearful cry was heard near the river, followed, the next moment, by a tumultuous rush of persons from that quarter. The fire, as if in scorn, had leapt across Dowgate Dock, and seizing upon the half-demolished houses, instantly made them its prey. The rapidity with which the conflagration proceeded was astounding, and completely baffled all attempts to check it. The wind continued blowing as furiously as ever, nor was there the slightest prospect of its abatement. All the king's better qualities were called into play by the present terrible crisis. With a courage and devotion that he seldom displayed, he exposed himself to the greatest risk, personally assisting at all the operations he commanded; while his humane attention to the sufferers by the calamity almost reconciled them to their deplorable situation. His movements were almost as rapid as those of the fire itself. Riding up Cannon-street, and from thence by Sweeting's-lane, to Lombard-street, and so on by Fenchurch-street to Tower-street, he issued directions all the way, checking every disturbance, and causing a band of depredators, who had broken into the house of a wealthy goldsmith, to be carried off to Newgate. Arrived in Tower-street, he found the Earl of Craven and his party stationed a little beyond Saint Dunstan's in the East. All immediate apprehensions in this quarter appeared at an end. The church had been destroyed, as before mentioned, but several houses in its vicinity having been demolished, the fire had not extended eastward. Satisfied that the Tower was in no immediate danger, the king retraced his course, and encountering the lord mayor in Lombard-street, sharply reproved him for his want of zeal and discretion. "I do not deserve your majesty's reproaches," replied the lord mayor. "Ever since the fire broke out I have not rested an instant, and am almost worn to death with anxiety and fatigue. I am just returned from Guildhall, where a vast quantity of plate belonging to the city companies has been deposited. Lord! Lord! what a fire this is!" "You are chiefly to blame for its getting so much ahead," replied the king, angrily. "Had you adopted vigorous measures at the outset, it might have easily been got under. I hear no water was to be obtained. How was that?" "It is a damnable plot, your majesty, designed by the Papists, or the Dutch, or the French--I don't know which--perhaps all three," rejoined the lord mayor; "and it appears that the cocks of all the pipes at the waterworks at Islington were turned, while the pipes and conduits in the city were empty. This is no accidental fire, your majesty." "So I find," replied the king; "but it will be time enough to inquire into its origin hereafter. Meantime, we must act, and energetically, or we shall be equally as much to blame as the incendiaries. Let a proclamation be made, enjoining all those persons who have been driven from their homes by the fire to proceed, with such effects as they have preserved, to Moorfields, where their wants shall be cared for." "It shall be made instantly, your majesty," replied the lord mayor. "Your next business will be to see to the removal of all the wealth from the goldsmiths' houses in this street, and in Gracechurch-street, to some places of security, Guildhall, or the Royal Exchange, for instance," continued the king. "Your majesty's directions shall be implicitly obeyed," replied the lord mayor. "You will then pull down all the houses to the east of the fire," pursued the king. "Get all the men you can muster; and never relax your exertions till you have made a wide and clear breach between the flames and their prey." "I will--I will, your majesty," groaned the lord mayor. "About it, then," rejoined the king; and striking spurs into his horse, he rode off with his train. He now penetrated one of the narrow alleys leading to the Three Cranes in the Vintry, where he ascended to the roof of the habitation, that he might view the fire. He saw that it was making such rapid advances towards him, that it must very soon reach the building on which he stood, and, half suffocated with the smoke, and scorched with the fire-drops, he descended. Not long after this, Waterman's Hall was discovered to be on fire; and, stirred by the sight, Charles made fresh efforts to check the progress of the conflagration by demolishing more houses. So eagerly did he occupy himself in the task, that his life had well-nigh fallen a sacrifice to his zeal. He was standing below a building which the workmen were unroofing, when all at once the whole of the upper part of the wall gave way, dragging several heavy beams with it, and would have infallibly crushed him, if Leonard, who was stationed behind him, had not noticed the circumstance, and rushing forward with the greatest promptitude, dragged him out of harm's way. An engineer, with whom the king was conversing at the time of the accident, was buried in the ruins, and when taken out was found fearfully mutilated and quite dead. Both Charles and his preserver were covered with dust and rubbish, and Leonard received a severe blow on the shoulder from a falling brick. On recovering from the shock, which for some moments deprived him of the power of speech, Charles inquired for his deliverer, and, on being shown him, said, with a look of surprise and pleasure, "What, is it you, young man? I am glad of it. Depend, upon it, I shall not forget the important service you have rendered me." "If he remembers it, it will be the first time he has ever so exercised his memory," observed Chiffinch, in a loud whisper to Leonard. "I advise you, as a friend, not to let his gratitude cool." Undeterred by this late narrow escape, Charles ordered fresh houses to be demolished, and stimulated the workmen to exertion by his personal superintendence of their operations. He commanded Leonard to keep constantly near him, laughingly observing, "I shall feel safe while you are by. You have a better eye for a falling house than any of my attendants." Worn out at length with fatigue, Charles proceeded, with the Duke of York and his immediate attendants, to Painters' Hall, in little Trinity-lane, in quest of refreshment, where a repast was hastily prepared for him, and he sat down to it with an appetite such as the most magnificent banquet could not, under other circumstances, have provoked. His hunger satisfied, he despatched messengers to command the immediate attendance of the lord mayor, the sheriffs, and aldermen; and when they arrived, he thus addressed them:--"My lord mayor and gentlemen, it has been recommended to me by this young man," pointing to Leonard, "that the sole way of checking the further progress of this disastrous conflagration, which threatens the total destruction of our city, will be by blowing up the houses with gunpowder, so as to form a wide gap between the flames and the habitations yet remaining unseized. This plan will necessarily involve great destruction of property, and may, notwithstanding all the care that can be adopted, be attended with some loss of life; but I conceive it will be effectual. Before ordering it, however, to be put into execution, I desire to learn your opinion of it. How say you, my lord mayor and gentlemen? Does the plan meet with your approbation?" "I pray your majesty to allow me to confer for a moment with my brethren," replied the lord mayor, cautiously, "before I return an answer. It is too serious a matter to decide upon at once." "Be it so," replied the king. And the civic authorities withdrew with the king. Leonard heard, though he did not dare to remark upon it, that the Duke of York leaned forward as the lord mayor passed him, and whispered in his ear, "Take heed what you do. He only desires to shift the responsibility of the act from his own shoulders to yours." "If they assent," said the king to Leonard, "I will place you at the head of a party of engineers." "I beseech your majesty neither to regard me nor them," replied Leonard. "Use the authority it has pleased Heaven to bestow upon you for the preservation of the city, and think and act for yourself, or you will assuredly regret your want of decision. It has been my fortune, with the assistance of God, to be the humble instrument of accomplishing your majesty's deliverance from peril, and I have your royal word that you will not forget it." "Nor will I," cried the king, hastily. "Then suffer the petition I now make to you to prevail," cried Leonard, falling on his knees. "Be not influenced by the opinion of the lord mayor and his brethren, whose own interests may lead them to oppose the plan; but, if you think well of it, instantly adopt it." Charles looked irresolute, but might have yielded, if the Duke of York had not stepped forward. "Your majesty had better not act too precipitately," said the duke. "Listen to the counsels of your prudent advisers. A false step in such a case will be irretrievable." "Nay, brother," rejoined the king, "I see no particular risk in it, after all, and I incline towards the young man's opinion." "At least, hear what they have got to say," rejoined the duke. "And here they come. They have not been long in deliberation." "The result of it may be easily predicted," said Leonard, rising. As Leonard had foreseen, the civic authorities were adverse to the plan. The lord mayor in the name of himself and his brethren, earnestly solicited the king to postpone the execution of his order till all other means of checking the progress of the conflagration had been tried, and till such time, at least, as the property of the owners of the houses to be destroyed could be removed. He further added, that it was the unanimous opinion of himself and his brethren, that the plan was fraught with great peril to the safety of the citizens, and that they could not bring themselves to assent to it. If, therefore, his majesty chose to adopt it, they must leave the responsibility with him. "I told your majesty how it would be," observed the Duke of York, triumphantly. "I am sorry to find you are right, brother," replied the king, frowning. "We are overruled, you see, friend," he added to Leonard. "Your majesty has signed the doom of your city," rejoined Leonard, mournfully. "I trust not--I trust not," replied Charles, hastily, and with an uneasy shrug of the shoulder. "Fail not to remind me when all is over of the obligation I am under to you." "Your majesty has refused the sole boon I desired to have granted," rejoined Leonard. "And do you not see the reason, friend?" returned the king. "These worthy and wealthy citizens desire to remove their property. Their arguments are unanswerable. I _must_ give them time to do it. But we waste time here," he added, rising. "Remember," to Leonard, "my debt is not discharged. And I command you, on pain of my sovereign displeasure, not to omit to claim its payment." "I will enter it in my memorandum-book, and will put your majesty in mind of it at the fitting season," observed Chiffinch, who had taken a great fancy to Leonard. The king smiled good-humouredly, and quitting the hall with his attendants, proceeded to superintend the further demolition of houses. He next visited all the posts, saw that the different noblemen were at their appointed stations, and by his unremitting exertions, contrived to restore something like order to the tumultuous streets. Thousands of men were now employed in different quarters in pulling down houses, and the most powerful engines of war were employed in the work. The confusion that attended these proceedings is indescribable. The engineers and workmen wrought in clouds of dust and smoke, and the crash of falling timber and walls was deafening. In a short time, the upper part of Cornhill was rendered wholly impassable, owing to the heaps of rubbish; and directions were given to the engineers to proceed to the Poultry, and demolish the houses as far as the Conduit in Cheapside, by which means it was hoped that the Royal Exchange would be saved. Meanwhile, all the wealthy goldsmiths and merchants in Lombard-street and Gracechurch-street had been actively employed in removing all their money, plate, and goods, to places of security. A vast quantity was conveyed to Guildhall, as has been stated, and the rest to different churches and halls remote from the scene of conflagration. But in spite of all their caution, much property was carried off by the depredators, and amongst others by Chowles and Judith, who contrived to secure a mass of plate, gold, and jewels, that satisfied even their rapacious souls. While this was passing in the heart of the burning city, vast crowds were streaming out of its gates, and encamping themselves, in pursuance of the royal injunction, in Finsbury Fields and Spitalfields. Others crossed the water to Southwark, and took refuge in Saint George's Fields; and it was a sad and touching sight to see all these families collected without shelter or food, most of whom a few hours before were in possession of all the comforts of life, but were now reduced to the condition of beggars. To return to the conflagration:--While one party continued to labour incessantly at the work of demolition, and ineffectually sought to quench the flames, by bringing a few engines to play upon them,--a scanty supply of water having now been obtained--the fire, disdaining such puny opposition, and determined to show its giant strength, leaped over all the breaches, drove the water-carriers back, compelled them to relinquish their buckets, and to abandon their engines, which it made its prey, and seizing upon the heaps of timber and other fragments occasioned by the demolition, consumed them, and marched onwards with furious exultation. It was now proceeding up Gracechurch-street, Saint Clement's-lane, Nicholas-lane, and Abchurch-lane at the same time, destroying all in its course. The whole of Lombard-street was choked up with the ruins and rubbish of demolished houses, through which thousands of persons were toiling to carry off goods, either for the purpose of assistance or of plunder. The king was at the west end of the street, near the church of Saint Mary Woolnoth, and the fearful havoc and destruction going forward drew tears from his eyes. A scene of greater confusion cannot be imagined. Leonard was in the midst of it, and, careless of his own safety, toiled amid the tumbling fragments of the houses to rescue some article of value for its unfortunate owner. While he was thus employed, he observed a man leap out of a window of a partly demolished house, disclosing in the action that he had a casket concealed under his cloak. A second glance showed him that this individual was Pillichody, and satisfied that he had been plundering the house, he instantly seized him. The bully struggled violently, but at last, dropping the casket, made his escape, vowing to be revenged. Leonard laughed at his threats, and the next moment had the satisfaction of restoring the casket to its rightful owner, an old merchant, who issued from the house, and who, after thanking him, told him it contained jewels of immense value. Not half an hour after this, the flames poured upon Lombard-street from the four avenues before mentioned, and the whole neighbourhood was on fire. With inconceivable rapidity, they then ran up Birchin-lane, and reaching Cornhill, spread to the right and left in that great thoroughfare. The conflagration had now reached the highest point of the city, and presented the grandest and most terrific aspect it had yet assumed from the river. Thus viewed, it appeared, as Pepys describes it, "as an entire arch of fire from the Three Cranes to the other side of the bridge, and in a bow up the hill, for an arch of above a mile long: _it made me weep to see it_." Vincent also likens its appearance at this juncture to that of a bow. "A dreadful bow it was," writes this eloquent nonconformist preacher, "such as mine eyes have never before seen; a bow which had God's arrow in it with a flaming point; a shining bow, not like that in the cloud which brings water with it, and withal signifieth God's covenant not to destroy the world any more with water, but a bow having fire in it, and signifying God's anger, and his intention to destroy London with fire." As the day drew to a close, and it became darker, the spectacle increased in terror and sublimity. The tall black towers of the churches assumed ghastly forms, and to some eyes appeared like infernal spirits plunging in a lake of flame, while even to the most reckless the conflagration seemed to present a picture of the terrors of the Last Day. Never before had such a night as that which ensued fallen upon London. None of its inhabitants thought of retiring to rest, or if they sought repose after the excessive fatigue they had undergone, it was only in such manner as would best enable them to rise and renew their exertions to check the flames, which were continued throughout the night, but wholly without success. The conflagration appeared to proceed at the same appalling rapidity. Halls, towers, churches, public and private buildings, were burning to the number of more than ten thousand, while clouds of smoke covered the vast expanse of more than fifty miles. Travellers approaching London from the north-east were enveloped in it ten miles off, and the fiery reflection in the sky could be discerned at an equal distance. The "hideous storm," as Evelyn terms the fearful and astounding noise produced by the roaring of the flames and the falling of the numerous fabrics, continued without intermission during the whole of that fatal night. VI. HOW THE GROCER'S HOUSE WAS BURNT. It was full ten o'clock before Leonard could obtain permission to quit the king's party, and he immediately hurried to Wood-street. He had scarcely entered it, when the cry of "fire" smote his ears, and rushing forward in an agony of apprehension, he beheld Mr. Bloundel's dwelling in flames. A large crowd was collected before the burning habitation, keeping guard over a vast heap of goods and furniture that had been removed from it. So much beloved was Mr. Bloundel, and in such high estimation was his character held, that all his neighbours, on learning that his house was on fire, flew to his assistance, and bestirred themselves so actively, that in an extraordinary short space of time they had emptied the house of every article of value, and placed it out of danger in the street. In vain the grocer urged them to desist: his entreaties were disregarded by his zealous friends; and when he told them they were profaning the Sabbath, they replied that the responsibility of their conduct would rest entirely on themselves, and they hoped they might never have anything worse to answer for. In spite of his disapproval of what was done, the grocer could not but be sensibly touched by their devotion, and as to his wife, she said, with tears in her eyes, that "it was almost worth while having a fire to prove what good friends they had." It was at this juncture that Leonard arrived. Way was instantly made for him, and leaping over the piles of chests and goods that blocked up the thoroughfare, he flew to Mr. Bloundel, who was standing in front of his flaming habitation with as calm and unmoved an expression of countenance as if nothing was happening, and presently ascertained from him in what manner the fire had originated. It appeared that while the whole of the family were assembled at prayers, in the room ordinarily used for that purpose, they were alarmed at supper by a strong smell of smoke, which seemed to arise from the lower part of the house, and that as soon as their devotions were ended, for Mr. Bloundel would not allow them to stir before, Stephen and Blaize had proceeded to ascertain the cause, and on going down to the kitchen, found a dense smoke issuing from the adjoining cellar, the door of which stood ajar. Hearing a noise in the yard, they darted up the back steps, communicating with the cellar, and discovered a man trying to make his escape over the wall by a rope-ladder. Stephen instantly seized him, and the man, drawing a sword, tried to free himself from his captor. In the struggle, he dropped a pistol, which Blaize snatching up, discharged with fatal effect against the wretch, who, on examination, proved to be Pillichody. Efforts were made to check the fire, but in vain. The villain had accomplished his diabolical purpose too well. Acquainted with the premises, and with the habits of the family, he had got into the yard by means of a rope-ladder, and hiding himself till the servants were summoned to prayers, stole into the cellar, and placing a fire-ball amid a heap of fagots and coals, and near several large casks of oil, and other inflammable matters, struck a light, and set fire to it. "I shall ever reproach myself that I was away when this calamity occurred," observed Leonard, as the grocer brought his relation to an end. "Then you will do so without reason," replied Mr. Bloundel, "for you could have rendered no assistance, and you see my good neighbours have taken the matter entirely out of my hands." "Whither do you intend removing, sir?" rejoined Leonard. "If I might suggest, I would advise you to go to Farmer Wingfield's, at Kensal Green." "You have anticipated my intention," replied the grocer; "but we must now obtain some vehicles to transport these goods thither." "Be that my part," replied Leonard. And in a short space of time he had procured half a dozen large carts, into which the whole of the goods were speedily packed, and a coach having been likewise fetched by Blaize, Mrs. Bloundel and the three younger children, together with old Josyna and Patience, were placed in it. "I hope your mother has taken care of her money," whispered the latter to the porter, as he assisted her into the vehicle. "Never mind whether she has or not," rejoined Blaize, in the same tone; "we shan't want it. I am now as rich as my master--perhaps richer. On stripping that rascal Pillichody, I found a large bag of gold, besides several caskets of jewels, upon him, all of which I consider lawful spoil, as he fell by my hand." "To be sure," rejoined Patience. "I dare say he did not come very honestly by the treasures, but you can't help that, you know." Blaize made no reply, but pushing her into the coach, shut the door. All being now in readiness, directions were given to the drivers of the carts whither to proceed, and they were put in motion. At this moment the grocer's firmness deserted him. Gazing at the old habitation, which was now wrapped in a sheet of flame, he cried in a voice broken with emotion, "In that house I have dwelt nearly thirty years--in that house all my children were born--in that house I found a safe refuge from the devouring pestilence. It is hard to quit it thus." Controlling his emotion, however, the next moment, he turned away. But his feelings were destined to another trial. His neighbours flocked round him to bid him farewell, in tones of such sympathy and regard, that his constancy again deserted him. "Thank you, thank you," he cried, pressing in turn each hand that was offered him. "Your kindness will never be effaced from my memory. God bless you all, and may He watch over you and protect you!" and with these words he broke from them. So great was the crowd and confusion in Cheapside, that nearly two hours elapsed before they reached Newgate; and, indeed, if it had not been for the interference of the Earl of Rochester, they would not, in all probability, have got out of the city at all. The earl was stationed near the Old 'Change, at the entrance to Saint Paul's Churchyard, and learning their distress, ordered a party of the guard by whom he was attended to force a passage for them. Both Mr. Bloundel and Leonard would have declined this assistance if they had had the power of doing so, but there was no help in the present case. They encountered no further difficulties, but were necessarily compelled to proceed at a slow pace, and did not reach Paddington for nearly two hours, being frequently stopped by persons eagerly asking as to the progress of the fire. One circumstance struck the whole party as remarkable. Such was the tremendous glare of the conflagration, that even at this distance the fire seemed close beside them, and if they had not known the contrary, they would have thought it could not be further off than Saint Giles's. The whole eastern sky in that direction seemed on fire, and glowed through the clouds of yellow smoke with which the air was filled with fearful splendour. After halting for a short time at the Wheat Sheaf, which they found open,--for, indeed, no house was closed that night,--to obtain some refreshment, and allay the intolerable thirst by which they were tormented, the party pursued their journey along the Harrow-road, and in due time approached Wingfield's residence. The honest farmer, who, with his wife and two of his men, was standing in a field at the top of the hill, gazing at the conflagration, hearing the noise occasioned by the carts, ran to the road-side to see what was coming, and encountered Mr. Bloundel and Leonard, who had walked up the ascent a little more quickly than the others. "I have been thinking of you," he said, after a cordial greeting had passed between them, "and wondering what would become of you in this dreadful fire. Nay, I had just told my dame I should go and look after you, and see whether I could be of any service to you. Well, I should be better pleased to see you in any way but this, though you could not be welcomer. I have room in the barn and outhouses for all you have brought, and hope and trust you have not lost much." "I have lost nothing except the old house," replied the grocer, heaving a sigh. "Another will soon be built," rejoined Wingfield, "and till that is done you shall not quit mine." The coach having by this time arrived, Wingfield hastened towards it, and assisted its occupants to alight. Mrs. Bloundel was warmly welcomed by Dame Wingfield, and being taken with her children to the house, was truly happy to find herself under the shelter of its hospitable roof. The rest of the party, assisted by Wingfield and his men, exerting themselves to the utmost, the carts were speedily unloaded, and the goods deposited in the barns and outhouses. This done, the drivers were liberally rewarded for their trouble by Mr. Bloundel, and after draining several large jugs of ale brought them by the farmer, made the best of their way back, certain of obtaining further employment during the night. Fatigued as he was, Leonard, before retiring to rest, could not help lingering on the brow of the hill to gaze at the burning city. The same effect was observable here as at Paddington, and the conflagration appeared little more than a mile off. The whole heavens seemed on fire, and a distant roar was heard like the rush of a high wind through a mighty forest. Westminster Abbey and Saint Paul's could be distinctly seen in black relief against the sheet of flame, together with innumerable towers, spires, and other buildings, the whole constituting a picture unsurpassed for terrific grandeur since the world began, and only to be equalled by its final destruction. Having gazed at the conflagration for some time, and fancied that he could even at this distance discern the fearful progress it made, Leonard retired to the barn, and throwing himself upon a heap of straw, instantly fell asleep. He was awakened the next morning by Farmer Wingfield, who came to tell him breakfast was ready, and having performed his ablutions, they adjourned to the house. Finding Mr. Bloundel comfortably established in his new quarters, Leonard proposed as soon as breakfast was over to proceed to town, and Wingfield volunteered to accompany him. Blaize, also, having placed his treasures, except a few pieces of gold, in the custody of Patience, begged to make one of the party, and his request being acceded to, the trio set out on foot, and gleaning fresh particulars of the fearful progress of the fire, as they advanced, passed along Oxford-road, and crossing Holborn Bridge, on the western side of which they were now demolishing the houses, mounted Snow-hill, and passed through the portal of Newgate. Here they learnt that the whole of Wood-street was consumed, that the fire had spread eastward as far as Gutter-lane, and that Saint Michael's Church, adjoining Wood-street, Goldsmiths' Hall, and the church of Saint John Zachary, were in flames. They were also told that the greater part of Cheapside was on fire, and wholly impassable--while the destructive element was invading at one and the same time Guildhall and the Royal Exchange. They furthermore learnt that the conflagration had spread fearfully along the side of the river, had passed Queenhithe, consuming all the wharves and warehouses in its way, and having just destroyed Paul's Wharf, was at that time assailing Baynard's Castle. This intelligence determined them not to attempt to proceed further into the city, which they saw was wholly impracticable; and they accordingly turned down Ivy-lane, and approached the cathedral with the intention, if possible, of ascending the central tower. They found a swarm of booksellers' porters and assistants at the northern entrance, engaged in transporting immense bales of books and paper to the vaults in Saint Faith's, where it was supposed the stock would be in safety, permission to that effect having been obtained from the dean and chapter. Forcing their way through this crowd, Leonard and his companions crossed the transept, and proceeded towards the door of the spiral staircase leading to the central tower. It was open, and they passed through it. On reaching the summit of the tower, which they found occupied by some dozen or twenty persons, a spectacle that far exceeded the utmost stretch of their imaginations burst upon them. Through clouds of tawny smoke scarcely distinguishable from flame, so thickly were they charged with sparks and fire-flakes, they beheld a line of fire spreading along Cheapside and Cornhill, as far as the Royal Exchange, which was now in flames, and branching upwards in another line through Lawrence-lane to Guildhall, which was likewise burning. Nearer to them, on the north, the fire kindled by the wretched Pillichody, who only, perhaps, anticipated the work of destruction by a few hours, had, as they had heard, proceeded to Goldsmiths' Hall, and was rapidly advancing down Saint Ann's-lane to Aldersgate. But it was on the right, and to the south-east, that the conflagration assumed its most terrific aspect. There, from Bow Church to the river-side, beyond the bridge as far as Billingsgate, and from thence up Mincing-lane, crossing Fenchurch-street and Lime-street to Gracechurch and Cornhill, describing a space of more than two miles in length and one in depth, every habitation was on fire. The appearance of this bed of flame was like an ocean of fire agitated by a tempest, in which a number of barks were struggling, some of them being each moment engulfed. The stunning and unearthly roar of the flames aided this appearance, which was further heightened by the enormous billows of flame that ever and anon rolled tumultuously onward as they were caught by some gust of wind of more than usual violence. The spires of the churches looked like the spars of "tall admirals," that had foundered, while the blackening ruins of the halls and larger buildings well represented the ribs and beams of mighty hulks. Leaving Leonard and his companions to the contemplation of this tremendous spectacle, we shall proceed to take a nearer view of its ravages. Every effort had been used to preserve the Royal Exchange by the city authorities, and by the engineers, headed by the king in person. All the buildings in its vicinity were demolished. But in vain. The irresistible and unrelenting foe drove the defenders back as before, seized upon their barricades, and used them, like a skilful besieger, against the fortress they sought to protect. Solomon Eagle, who was mounted upon a heap of ruins, witnessed this scene of destruction, and uttered a laugh of exultation as the flames seized upon their prey. "I told you," he cried, "that the extortioners and usurers who resorted to that building, and made gold their god, would be driven forth, and their temple destroyed. And my words have come to pass. It burns--it burns--and so shall they, if they turn not from their ways." Hearing this wild speech, and beholding the extraordinary figure of the enthusiast, whose scorched locks and smoke-begrimed limbs gave him almost the appearance of an infernal spirit, the king inquired, with some trepidation, from his attendants, who or what he was, and being informed, ordered them to seize him. But the enthusiast set their attempts at naught. Springing with wonderful agility from fragment to fragment of the ruins, and continuing his vociferations, he at last plunged through the flame into the Exchange itself, rendering further pursuit, of course, impossible, unless those who desired to capture him, were determined to share his fate, which now seemed inevitable. To the astonishment of all, however, he appeared a few minutes afterwards on the roof of the blazing pile, and continued his denunciations till driven away by the flames. He seemed, indeed, to bear a charmed life, for it was rumoured--though the report was scarcely credited--that he had escaped from the burning building, and made good his retreat to Saint Paul's. Soon after this, the Exchange was one mass of flame. Having gained an entrance to the galleries, the fire ran round them with inconceivable swiftness, as was the case in the conflagration of this later structure, and filling every chamber, gushed out of the windows, and poured down upon the courts and walks below. Fearful and prodigious was the ruin that ensued. The stone walls cracked with the intense heat--tottered and fell--the pillars shivered and broke asunder, the statues dropped from their niches, and were destroyed, one only surviving the wreck--that of the illustrious founder, Sir Thomas Gresham. Deploring the fate of the Royal Exchange, the king and his attendants proceeded to Guildhall. But here they were too late, nor could they even rescue a tithe of the plate and valuables lodged within it for security. The effects of the fire as displayed in this structure, were singularly grand and surprising. The greater part of the ancient fabric being composed of oak of the hardest kind, it emitted little flame, but became after a time red hot, and remained in this glowing state till night, when it resembled, as an eye-witness describes, "a mighty palace of gold, or a great building of burnished brass." The greatest fury of the conflagration was displayed at the Poultry, where five distinct fires met, and united their forces--one which came roaring down Cornhill from the Royal Exchange--a second down Threadneedle-street--a third up Walbrook--a fourth along Bucklersbury--and a fifth that marched against the wind up Cheapside, all these uniting, as at a focus, a whirl of flame, an intensity of heat, and a thundering roar were produced, such as were nowhere else experienced. To return to the party on the central tower of the cathedral:--Stunned and half stifled by the roar and smoke, Leonard and his companions descended from their lofty post, and returned to the body of the fane. They were about to issue forth, when Leonard, glancing down the northern aisle, perceived the Earl of Rochester and Lord Argentine standing together at the lower end of it. Their gestures showed that it was not an amicable meeting, and mindful of what had passed at Whitehall, Leonard resolved to abide the result. Presently, he saw Lord Argentine turn sharply round, and strike his companion in the face with his glove. The clash of swords instantly succeeded, and Leonard and Wingfield started forward to separate the combatants. Blaize, followed, but more cautiously, contenting himself with screaming at the top of his voice, "Murder! murder! sacrilege! a duel! a duel!" Wingfield was the first to arrive at the scene of strife, but just as he reached the combatants, who were too much blinded by passion to notice his approach, Lord Argentine struck his adversary's weapon from his grasp, and would have followed up the advantage if the farmer had not withheld his arm. Enraged at the interference, Argentine turned his fury against the newcomer, and strove to use his sword against him--but in the terrible struggle that ensued, and at the close of which they fell together, the weapon, as if directed by the hand of an avenging fate, passed through his own breast, inflicting a mortal wound. "Susan Wingfield is avenged!" said the farmer, as he arose, drenched in the blood of his opponent. "Susan Wingfield!" exclaimed the wounded man--"what was she to you?" "Much," replied the farmer. "She was my daughter." "Ah!" exclaimed Argentine, with an expression of unutterable anguish. "Let me have your forgiveness," he groaned. "You have it," replied Wingfield, kneeling beside him, "and may God pardon us both--you for the wrong you did my daughter, me for being accidentally the cause of your death. But I trust you are not mortally hurt?" "I have not many minutes to live," replied Argentine. "But is not that Leonard Holt?" "It is," said Rochester, stepping forward. "I can then do one rightful act before I die," he said, raising himself on one hand, and holding the other forcibly to his side, so as to stanch in some degree the effusion of blood. "Leonard Holt," he continued, "my sister Isabella loves you--deeply, devotedly. I have tried to conquer the passion, but in vain. You have my consent to wed her." "I am a witness to your words my lord," said Rochester, "and I call upon all present to be so likewise." "Rochester, you were once my friend," groaned Argentine, "and may yet be a friend to the dead. Remember the king sells titles. Teach this young man how to purchase one. My sister must not wed one of his degree." "Make yourself easy on that score," replied Rochester; "he has already sufficient claim upon the king. He saved his life yesterday." "He will trust to a broken reed if he trusts to Charles's gratitude," replied Argentine. "Buy the title--_buy_ it, I say. My sister left me yesterday. I visited my anger on her head, and she fled. I believe she took refuge with Doctor Hodges, but I am sure he can tell you where she is. One thing more," continued the dying man, fixing his glazing eyes on Leonard. "Go to Newgate--to--to a prisoner there--an incendiary--and obtain a document of him. Tell him, with my dying breath I charged you to do this. It will enable you to act as I have directed. Promise me you will go. Promise me you will fulfil my injunctions." "I do," replied Leonard. "Enough," rejoined Argentine. "May you be happy with Isabella." And removing his hand from his side, a copious effusion of blood followed, and, sinking backwards, he expired. VII. THE BURNING OF SAINT PAUL'S. Several other persons having by this time come up, the body of Lord Argentine was conveyed to Bishop Kempe's Chapel, and left there till a fitting season should arrive for its removal. Confounded by the tragical event that had taken place, Leonard remained with his eyes fixed upon the blood-stained pavement, until he was roused by an arm which gently drew him away, while the voice of the Earl of Rochester breathed in his ear, "This is a sad occurrence, Leonard; and yet it is most fortunate for you, for it removes the only obstacle to your union with the Lady Isabella. You see how fleeting life is, and how easily we may be deprived of it. I tried to reason Lord Argentine into calmness; but nothing would satisfy him except my blood; and there he lies, though not by my hand. Let his fate be a lesson to us, and teach us to live in charity with each other. I have wronged you--deeply wronged you; but I will make all the atonement in my power, and let me think I am forgiven." The blood rushed tumultuously to Leonard's heart as he listened to what the earl said, but overcoming his feelings of aversion by a powerful effort, he took the proffered hand. "I do forgive you my lord," he said. "Those words have removed a heavy weight from my soul," replied Rochester; "and if death should trip up my heels as suddenly as he did his who perished on this spot, I shall be better prepared to meet him. And now let me advise you to repair to Newgate without delay, and see the wretched man, and obtain the document from him. The fire will reach the gaol ere long, and the prisoners must of necessity be removed. Amid the confusion his escape might be easily accomplished." "Recollect, my lord, that the direful conflagration now prevailing without is owing to him," replied Leonard. "I will never be accessory to his escape." "And yet his death by the public executioner," urged Rochester. "Think of its effect on his daughter." "Justice must take its course," rejoined Leonard. "I would not aid him to escape if he were my own father." "In that case, nothing more is to be said," replied Rochester. "But at all events, see him as quickly as you can. I would accompany you, but my duty detains me here. When you return from your errand you will find me at my post near the entrance of the churchyard in front of Saint Michael's le Quern; that is, if I am not beaten from it. Having seen the father, your next business must be to seek out the daughter, and remove her from this dangerous neighbourhood. You have heard where she is to be found." Upon this they separated, Leonard and his companions quitting the cathedral by the great western entrance, and proceeding towards Paul's-alley, and the earl betaking himself to the north-east corner of the churchyard. The former got as far as Ivy-lane, but found it wholly impassable, in consequence of the goods and furniture with which it was blocked up. They were, therefore, obliged to return to the precincts of the cathedral, where Blaize, who was greatly terrified by what he had seen, expressed his determination of quitting them, and hurried back to the sacred pile. Leonard and the farmer next essayed to get up Ave Maria-lane; but, finding that also impassable, they made for Ludgate, and, after a long delay and severe struggle, got through the portal. The Old Bailey was entirely filled with persons removing their goods; and they were here informed, to their great dismay, that the conflagration had already reached Newgate Market, which was burning with the greatest fury, and was at that moment seizing upon the gaol. No one, however, in answer to Leonard's inquiries, could tell him what had become of the prisoners. "I suppose they have left them to burn," observed a bystander, who heard the question with a malicious look; "and it is the best way of getting rid of them." Paying no attention to the remark, nor to the brutal laugh accompanying it, Leonard, assisted by Wingfield, fought his way through the crowd till he reached the prison. The flames were bursting through its grated windows, and both wings, as well as the massive gate connecting them, were on fire. Regardless of the risk he ran, Leonard forced his way to the lodge-door, where two turnkeys were standing, removing their goods. "What has become of the prisoners?" he asked. "The debtors are set free," replied the turnkey addressed, "and all but one or two of the common felons are removed." "And where are those poor creatures?" cried Leonard, horror-stricken. "In the Stone Hold," replied the turnkey. "And have you left them to perish there?" demanded Leonard. "We couldn't help it," rejoined the turnkey. "It would have been risking our lives to venture near them. One is a murderer, taken in the fact; and the other is quite as bad, for he set the city on fire; so its right and fair he should perish by his own contrivance." "Where does the Stone Hold lie?" cried Leonard, in a tone that startled the turnkey. "I must get these prisoners out." "You can't, I tell you," rejoined the turnkey, doggedly. "They're burnt to a cinder by this time." "Give me your keys, and show me the way to the cell," cried Leonard, authoritatively. "I will at least attempt to save them." "Well, if you're determined to put an end to yourself, you may try," replied the turnkey; "but I've warned you as to what you may expect. This way," he added, opening a door, from which a thick volume of smoke issued; "if any of 'em's alive, you'll soon know by the cries." And, as if in answer to his remark, a most terrific shriek at that moment burst on their ears. "Here are the keys," cried the turnkey, delivering them to Leonard. "You are not going too?" he added, as Wingfield pushed past him. "A couple of madmen! I shouldn't wonder if they were incendiaries." Directed by the cries, Leonard pressed forward through the blinding and stifling smoke. After proceeding about twenty yards, he arrived at a cross passage where the smoke was not quite so dense, as it found an escape through a small grated aperture in the wall. And here a horrible sight was presented to him. At the further extremity of this passage was a small cell, from which the cries he had heard issued. Not far from it the stone roof had fallen in, and from the chasm thus caused the flames were pouring into the passage. Regardless of the risk he ran, Leonard dashed forward, and reaching the cell, beheld Grant, still living, but in such a dreadful state, that it was evident his sufferings must soon be ended. His hair and beard were singed close to his head and face, and his flesh was blistered, blackened, and scorched to the bone. On seeing Leonard, he uttered a hoarse cry, and attempted to speak, but the words rattled in his throat. He then staggered forward, and, to Leonard's inexpressible horror, thrust his arms through the bars of the cage, which were literally red-hot. Seeing he had something in one hand, though he could not unclose his fingers, Leonard took it from him, and the wretched man fell backwards. At this moment a loud crack was heard in the wall behind. Several ponderous stones dropped from their places, admitting a volume of flame that filled the whole cell, and disclosing another body on the floor, near which lay that of Grant. Horrified by the spectacle, Leonard staggered off, and, catching Wingfield's arm, sought to retrace his steps. This was no easy matter, the smoke being so dense, that they could not see a foot before them, and was obliged to feel their way along the wall. On arriving at the cross passage, Wingfield would fain have turned off to the right, but Leonard drew him forcibly in the opposite direction; and most fortunate was it that he did so, or the worthy farmer would inevitably have perished. At last they reached the lodge, and sank down on a bench from exhaustion. "So, my masters," observed the turnkey, with a grim smile, "you were not able to rescue them, I perceive?" But receiving no answer, he added, "Well, and what did you see?" "A sight that would have moved even your stony heart to compassion," returned Leonard, getting up and quitting the lodge. Followed by Wingfield, and scarcely knowing where he was going, he forced his way through the crowd, and dashing down Snow-hill, did not stop till he reached Holborn Conduit, where, seizing a leathern bucket, he filled it with water, and plunged his head into it. Refreshed by the immersion, he now glanced at the document committed to him by Grant. It was a piece of parchment, and showed by its shrivelled and scorched appearance the agony which its late possessor must have endured, Leonard did not open it, but thrust it with a shudder into his doublet. Meditating on the strange and terrible events that had just occurred, Leonard's thoughts involuntarily wandered to the Lady Isabella, whose image appeared to him like a bright star shining on troubled waters, and for the first time venturing to indulge in a hope that she might indeed be his, he determined immediately to proceed in search of her. It was now high noon, but the mid-day sun was scarcely visible, or not visible at all; as it struggled through the masses of yellow vapour it looked red as blood. Bands of workmen were demolishing houses on the western side of Fleet Ditch, and casting the rubbish into the muddy sluice before them, by which means it was confidently but vainly hoped that the progress of the fire would be checked. Shaping their course along the opposite side of the ditch, and crossing to Fleet Bridge, Leonard and his companion passed through Salisbury-court to Whitefriars, and taking a boat, directed the waterman to land them at Puddle Dock. The river was still covered with craft of every description laden with goods, and Baynard's Castle, an embattled stone structure of great strength and solidity, built at the beginning of the fifteenth century on the site of another castle as old as the Conquest, being now wrapped in flames from foundation to turret, offered a magnificent spectacle. From this point the four ascents leading to the cathedral, namely, Addle-hill, Saint Bennet's-hill, Saint Peter's-hill, and Lambert-hill, with all their throng of habitations, were burning--the black lines of ruined walls standing in bold relief against the white sheet of flame. Billows of fire rolled upwards every moment towards Saint Paul's, and threatened it with destruction. Landing at the appointed place Leonard and his companion ascended Saint Andrew's-hill, and, proceeding along Carter-lane, soon gained the precincts of the cathedral. Here the whole mass of habitations on the summit of Saint Bennet's-hill extending from the eastern, end of Carter-lane to Distaff-lane, was on fire, and the flames were dashed by the fierce wind against the south-east corner of the cathedral. A large crowd was collected at this point, and great efforts were made to save the venerable pile, but Leonard saw that its destruction was inevitable. Forcing a way through the throng with his companion, they reached Doctor Hodges's residence at the corner of Watling-street, and Leonard, without waiting to knock, tried the door, which yielded to his touch. The habitation was empty, and from the various articles scattered about it was evident its inmates must have fled with the greatest precipitation. Alarmed at this discovery, Leonard rushed forth with Wingfield, and sought to ascertain from the crowd without whither Doctor Hodges was gone, but could learn nothing more than that he had departed with his whole household a few hours before. At last it occurred to him that he might obtain some information from the Earl of Rochester, and he was about to cross to the other side of the churchyard, when he was arrested by a simultaneous cry of horror from the assemblage. Looking upwards, for there he saw the general gaze directed, he perceived that the scaffolding around the roof and tower of the cathedral had kindled, and was enveloping the whole upper part of the fabric in a network of fire. Flames were likewise bursting from the belfry, and from the lofty pointed windows below it, flickering and playing round the hoary buttresses, and disturbing the numerous jackdaws that built in their timeworn crevices, and now flew screaming forth. As Leonard gazed at the summit of the tower, be discerned through the circling eddies of smoke that enveloped it the figure of Solomon Eagle standing on the top of the battlements and waving his staff, and almost fancied he could hear his voice. After remaining in this perilous situation for some minutes, as if to raise anxiety for his safety to the highest pitch, the enthusiast sprang upon a portion of the scaffolding that was only partly consumed, and descended from pole to pole, regardless whether burning or not, with marvellous swiftness, and apparently without injury. Alighting on the roof, he speeded to the eastern extremity of the fane, and there commenced his exhortations to the crowd below. It now became evident also, from the strange roaring noise proceeding from the tower, that the flames were descending the spiral staircase, and forcing their way through some secret doors or passages to the roof. Determined to take one last survey of the interior of the cathedral before its destruction, which he now saw was inevitable, Leonard motioned to Wingfield, and forcing his way through the crowd, which was now considerably thinned, entered the southern door. He had scarcely gained the middle of the transept when the door opened behind him, and two persons, whom, even in the brief glimpse he caught of them, he knew to be Chowles and Judith, darted towards the steps leading to Saint Faith's. They appeared to be carrying a large chest, but Leonard was too much interested in what was occurring to pay much attention to them. There were but few persons besides himself and his companion within the cathedral, and these few were chiefly booksellers' porters, who were hurrying out of Saint Faith's in the utmost trepidation. By-and-by, these were gone, and they were alone--alone within that vast structure, and at such a moment. Their situation, though perilous, was one that awakened thrilling and sublime emotions. The cries of the multitude, coupled with the roaring of the conflagration, resounded from without, while the fierce glare of the flames lighted up the painted windows at the head of the choir with unwonted splendour. Overhead was heard a hollow rumbling noise like that of distant thunder, which continued for a short time, while fluid streams of smoke crept through the mighty rafters of the roof, and gradually filled the whole interior of the fabric with vapour. Suddenly a tremendous cracking was heard, as if the whole pile were tumbling in pieces. So appalling was this sound, that Leonard and his companion would have fled, but they were completely transfixed by terror. While they were in this state, the flames, which had long been burning in secret, burst through the roof at the other end of the choir, and instantaneously spread over its whole expanse. At this juncture, a cry of wild exultation was heard in the great northern gallery, and looking up, Leonard beheld Solomon Eagle, hurrying with lightning swiftness around it, and shouting in tones of exultation, "My words have come to pass--it burns--it burns--and will be utterly consumed!" The vociferations of the enthusiast were answered by a piercing cry from below, proceeding from Blaize, who at that moment rushed from the entrance of Saint Faith's. On seeing the porter, Leonard shouted to him, and the poor fellow hurried towards him. At this juncture, a strange hissing sound was heard, as if a heavy shower of rain were descending upon the roof, and through the yawning gap over the choir there poured a stream of molten lead of silvery brightness. Nothing can be conceived more beautiful than this shining yet terrible cascade, which descended with momentarily increasing fury, sparkling, flashing, hissing, and consuming all before it. All the elaborately carved woodwork and stalls upon which it fell were presently in flames. Leonard and his companions now turned to fly, but they had scarcely moved a few paces when another fiery cascade burst through the roof near the great western entrance, for which they were making, flooding the aisles and plashing against the massive columns. At the same moment, too, a third stream began to fall over the northern transept, not far from where Blaize stood, and a few drops of the burning metal reaching him, caused him to utter the most fearful outcries. Seriously alarmed, Leonard and Wingfield now rushed to one of the monuments in the northern aisle, and hastily clambering it, reached a window, which they burst open. Blaize followed them, but not without receiving a few accidental plashes from the fiery torrents, which elicited from him the most astounding yells. Having helped him to climb the monument, Leonard pushed him through the window after Wingfield, and then cast his eye round the building before he himself descended. The sight was magnificent in the extreme. Prom the flaming roof three silvery cascades descended. The choir was in flame, and a glowing stream like lava was spreading over the floor, and slowly trickling down the steps leading to the body of the church. The transepts and the greater part of the nave were similarly flooded. Above the roar of the flames and the hissing plash of the descending torrents, was heard the wild laughter of Solomon Eagle. Perceiving him in one of the arcades of the southern gallery, Leonard shouted to him to descend, and make good his escape while there was yet time, adding that in a few moments it would be too late. "I shall never quit it more," rejoined the enthusiast, in a voice of thunder, "but shall perish with the fire I have kindled. No monarch on earth ever lighted a nobler funeral pyre." And as Leonard passed through the window, he disappeared along the gallery. Breaking through the crowd collected round Wingfield and Blaize, and calling to them to follow him, Leonard made his way to the north-east of the churchyard, where he found a large assemblage of persons, in the midst of which were the king, the Duke of York, Rochester, Arlington, and many others. As Leonard advanced, Charles discerned him amid the crowd, and motioned him to come forward. A passage was then cleared, for him, through which Wingfield and Blaize, who kept close beside him, were permitted to pass. "I am glad to find no harm has happened to you, friend," said Charles, as he approached. "Rochester informed me you were gone to Newgate, and as the gaol had been burnt down, I feared you might have met with the same mishap. I now regret that I did not adopt your plan, but it may not be yet too late." "It is not too late to save a portion of your city, sire," replied Leonard; "but, alas! how much is gone!" "It is so," replied the king, mournfully. Further conversation was here interrupted by the sudden breaking out of the fire from the magnificent rose window of the cathedral, the effect of which, being extraordinarily fine, attracted the monarch's attention. By this time Solomon Eagle had again ascended the roof, and making his way to the eastern extremity, clasped the great stone cross that terminated it with his left hand, while with his right he menaced the king and his party, uttering denunciations that were lost in the terrible roar prevailing around him. The flames now raged with a fierceness wholly inconceivable, considering the material they had to work upon. The molten lead poured down in torrents, and not merely flooded the whole interior of the fabric, but ran down in a wide and boiling stream almost as far as the Thames, consuming everything in its way, and rendering the very pavements red-hot. Every stone, spout, and gutter in the sacred pile, of which there were some hundreds, added to this fatal shower, and scattered destruction far and wide; nor will this be wondered at when it is considered that the quantity of lead thus melted covered a space of no less than six acres. Having burned with incredible fury and fierceness for some time, the whole roof of the sacred structure fell in at once, and with a crash heard at an amazing distance. After an instant's pause, the flames burst forth from every window in the fabric, producing such an intensity of heat, that the stone pinnacles, transom beams, and mullions split and cracked with a sound like volleys of artillery, shivering and flying in every direction. The whole interior of the pile was now one vast sheet of flame, which soared upwards, and consumed even the very stones. Not a vestige of the reverend structure was left untouched--its bells--its plate--its woodwork--its monuments--its mighty pillars--its galleries--its chapels--all, all were destroyed. The fire raged throughout all that night and the next day, till it had consumed all but the mere shell, and rendered the venerable cathedral--"one of the most ancient pieces of piety in the Christian world"--to use the words of Evelyn, a heap of ruin and ashes. VIII. HOW LEONARD RESCUED THE LADY ISABELLA. The course of events having been somewhat anticipated in the last chapter, it will now be necessary to return to an earlier stage in the destruction of the cathedral, namely, soon after the furious bursting forth of the flames from the great eastern windows. While Leonard, in common with the rest of the assemblage, was gazing at this magnificent spectacle, he heard a loud cry of distress behind him, and turning at the sound, beheld Doctor Hodges rush forth from an adjoining house, the upper part of which was on fire, almost in a state of distraction. An elderly man and woman, and two or three female servants, all of whom were crying as loud as himself, followed him. But their screams fell on indifferent ears, for the crowd had become by this time too much accustomed to such appeals to pay any particular attention to them. Leonard, however, instantly rushed towards the doctor, and anxiously inquired what was the matter; the latter was so bewildered that he did not recognise the voice of the speaker, but gazing up at the house with an indescribable anguish, cried, "Merciful God! the flames have by this time reached her room--she will be burned--horror!" "Who will be burned?" cried Leonard, seizing his arm, and gazing at him with a look of apprehension and anguish equal to his own--"Not the Lady Isabella?" "Yes, Isabella," replied Hodges, regarding the speaker, and for the first time perceiving by whom he was addressed. "Not a moment is to be lost if you would save her from a terrible death. She was left in a fainting state in one of the upper rooms by a female attendant, who deserted her mistress to save herself. The staircase is on fire, or I myself would have saved her." "A ladder! a ladder!" cried Leonard. "Here is one," cried Wingfield, pointing to one propped against an adjoining house. And in another moment, by the combined efforts of the crowd, the ladder was brought and placed against the burning building. "Which is the window?" cried Leonard. "That on the right, on the second floor," replied Hodges. "Gracious Heaven! the flames are bursting from it." But Leonard's foot was now on the ladder, and rushing up with inconceivable swiftness, he plunged through the window regardless of the flame. All those who witnessed this daring deed, regarded his destruction as certain, and even Hodges gave him up for lost. But the next moment he appeared at the window, bearing the fainting female form in his arms, and with extraordinary dexterity obtaining a firm footing and hold of the ladder, descended in safety. The shout that burst from such part of the assemblage as had witnessed this achievement, and its successful termination, attracted the king's attention, and he inquired the cause of the clamour. "I will ascertain it for your majesty," replied Rochester, and proceeding to the group, he learnt, to his great satisfaction, what had occurred. Having gained this intelligence, he flew back to the king, and briefly explained the situation of the parties. Doctor Hodges, it appeared, had just removed to the house in question, which belonged to one of his patients, as a temporary asylum, and the Lady Isabella had accompanied him. She was in the upper part of the house when the fire broke out, and was so much terrified that she swooned away, in which condition her attendant left her; nor was the latter so much to blame as might appear, for the stairs were burning at the time, and a moment's delay would have endangered her own safety. "Fate, indeed, seems to have brought these young persons together," replied Charles, as he listened to Rochester's recital, who took this opportunity of acquainting him with Lord Argentine's dying injunctions, "and it would be a pity to separate them." "I am sure your majesty has no such intention," said Rochester. "You will see," rejoined the monarch. And, as he spoke, he turned his horse's head, and moved towards the spot where Leonard was kneeling beside Isabella, and supporting her. Some restoratives having been applied by Doctor Hodges, she had regained her sensibility, and was murmuring her thanks to her deliverer. "She has not lost her beauty, I perceive," cried Charles, gazing at her with admiration, and feeling something of his former passion revive within his breast. "Your majesty, I trust, will not mar their happiness," said Rochester, noticing the monarch's libertine look with uneasiness. "Remember, you owe your life to that young man." "And I will pay the debt royally," replied Charles; "I will give him permission to marry her." "Your majesty's permission is scarcely needed," muttered Rochester. "There you are wrong, my lord," replied the king. "She is now my ward, and I can dispose of her in marriage as I please; nor will I so dispose of her except to her equal in rank." "I discern your majesty's gracious intentions," replied Rochester, gratefully inclining his head. "I almost forget my deliverer's name," whispered Charles, with a smile, "but it is of no consequence, since he will so speedily change it." "His name is Leonard Holt," replied Rochester, in the same tone. "Ah!--true," returned the king. "What ho! good Master Leonard Holt," he added, addressing the young man, "commit the Lady Isabella Argentine to the care of our worthy friend Doctor Hodges for a moment, and stand up before me." His injunctions being complied with, he continued, "The Lady Isabella Argentine and I owe our lives to you, and we must both evince our gratitude--she by devoting that life, which, if I am not misinformed, she will be right willing to do, to you, and I by putting you in a position to unite yourself to her. The title of Argentine has been this day extinguished by most unhappy circumstances; I therefore confer the title on you, and here in this presence create you Baron Argentine, of Argentine, in Staffordshire. Your patent shall be made out with all convenient despatch, and with it you shall receive the hand of the sole representative of that ancient and noble house." "Your majesty overwhelms me," replied Leonard, falling on his knee and pressing the king's hand, which was kindly extended towards him, to his lips. "I can scarcely persuade myself I am not in a dream." "You will soon awaken to the sense of the joyful reality," returned the king. "Have I not now discharged my debt?" he added to Rochester. "Right royally, indeed, my liege," replied the earl, in a tone of unaffected emotion. "My lord," he added, grasping Leonard's hand, "I sincerely congratulate you on your newly-acquired dignities, nor less in the happiness that awaits you there." "If I do not answer you fittingly, my lord," replied the new-made peer, "it is not because I do not feel your kindness. But my brain reels. Pray Heaven my senses may not desert me." "You must not forget the document you obtained this morning, my lord," replied Rochester, endeavouring to divert his thoughts into a new channel. "The proper moment for consulting it may have arrived." Lord Argentine, for we shall henceforth give him his title, thrust his hand into his doublet, and drew forth the parchment. He opened it, and endeavoured to read it, but a mist swam before his eyes. "Let me look at it," said Rochester, taking it from him. "It is a deed of gift," he said, after glancing at it for a moment, "from the late Lord Argentine--I mean the elder baron--of a large estate in Yorkshire, which he possessed in right of his wife, to you, my lord, here described as Leonard Holt, provided you shall marry the Lady Isabella Argentine. Another piece of good fortune. Again and again, I congratulate you." "And now," said Charles, "other and less pleasing matters claim our attention. Let the Lady Isabella be removed, under the charge of Doctor Hodges, to Whitehall, where apartments shall be provided for her at once, together with fitting attendants, and where she can remain till this terrible conflagration is over which, I trust, soon will be, when I will no longer delay her happiness, but give her away in person. Chiffinch," he added to the chief page, "see all this is carried into effect." "I will, my liege, and right willingly," replied Chiffinch. "I would send you with her, my lord," pursued Charles to Argentine, "but I have other duties for you to fulfil. The plan you proposed of demolishing the houses with gunpowder shall be immediately put into operation, under your own superintendence." A chair was now brought, and the Lady Isabella, after a tender parting with her lover, being placed within it, she was thus transported, under the charge of Hodges and Chiffinch, to Whitehall, where she arrived in safety, though not without having sustained some hindrance and inconvenience. She had not been gone many minutes, when the conflagration of the cathedral assumed its most terrific character; the whole of the mighty roof falling in, and the flames soaring upwards, as before related. Up to this time, Solomon Eagle had maintained his position at the eastern end of the roof, and still grasped the stone cross. His situation now attracted universal attention, for it was evident he must speedily perish. "Poor wretch!" exclaimed the king, shuddering, "I fear there is no way of saving him." "None, whatever my liege," replied Rochester, "nor do I believe he would consent to it if there were. But he is again menacing your majesty." As Rochester spoke, Solomon Eagle shook his arm menacingly at the royal party, raising it aloft, as if invoking the vengeance of Heaven. He then knelt down upon the sloping ridge of the roof, as if in prayer, and his figure, thus seen relieved against the mighty sheet of flame, might have been taken for an image of Saint John the Baptist carved in stone. Not an eye in the vast crowd below but was fixed on him. In a few moments he rose again, and tossing his arms aloft, and shrieking, in a voice distinctly heard above the awful roar around him, the single word "_Resurgam!_" flung himself headlong into the flaming abyss. A simultaneous cry of horror rose from the whole assemblage on beholding this desperate action. "The last exclamation of the poor wretch may apply to the cathedral, as well as to himself," remarked the monarch, to a middle-aged personage, with a pleasing and highly intellectual countenance, standing near him: "for the old building shall rise again, like a phoenix from its fires, with renewed beauty, and under your superintendence, Doctor Christopher Wren." The great architect bowed. "I cannot hope to erect such another structure," he said, modestly; "but I will endeavour to design an edifice that shall not disgrace your majesty's city." "You must build me another city at the same time, Doctor Wren," sighed the king. "Ah!" he added, "is not that Mr. Lilly, the almanac-maker, whom I see among the crowd?" "It is," replied Rochester. "Bid him come to me," replied the king. And the order being obeyed, he said to the astrologer, "Well, Mr. Lilly, your second prediction has come to pass. We have had the Plague, and now we have the Fire. You may thank my clemency that I do not order you to be cast into the flames, like the poor wretch who has just perished before our eyes, as a wizard and professor of the black art. How did you obtain information of these fatal events?" "By a careful study of the heavenly bodies, sire," replied Lilly, "and by long and patient calculations, which, if your majesty or any of your attendants had had leisure or inclination to make, would have afforded you the same information. _I_ make no pretence to the gift of prophecy, but this calamity was predicted in the last century." "Indeed! by whom?" asked the king. "By Michael Nostradamus," replied Lilly; "his prediction runs thus:-- 'La sang du juste à Londres fera faute, Bruslez par feu, le vingt et trois, les Six; La Dame antique cherra de place haute, De même secte plusieurs seront occis.'[1] And thus I venture to explain it. The 'blood of the just' refers to the impious and execrable murder of your majesty's royal father of blessed memory. 'Three-and-twenty and six' gives the exact year of the calamity; and it may likewise give us, as will be seen by computation hereafter, the amount of habitations to be destroyed. The 'Ancient Dame' undoubtedly refers to the venerable pile now burning before us, which, as it stands in the most eminent spot in the city, clearly 'falls from its high place.' The expression 'of the same sect' refers not to men, but churches, of which a large number, I grieve to say it, are already destroyed." [Footnote 1: 'The blood of the just shall be wanting in London, Burnt by fire of three-and-twenty, the Six; The ancient Dame shall fall from her high place, Of the same sect many shall be killed.'] "The prophecy is a singular one," remarked Charles, musingly "and you have given it a plausible interpretation." And for some moments he appeared lost in reflection. Suddenly rousing himself, he took forth his tablets, and hastily tracing a few lines upon a leaf, tore it out, and delivered it with his signet-ring to Lord Argentine. "Take this, my lord," he said, "to Lord Craven. You will find him at his post in Tower-street. A band of my attendants shall go with you. Embark at the nearest stairs you can--those at Blackfriars I should conceive the most accessible. Bid the men row for their lives. As soon as you join Lord Craven, commence operations. The Tower must be preserved at all hazards. Mark me!--at all hazards." "I understand your majesty," replied Argentine--"your commands shall be implicitly obeyed. And if the conflagration has not gone too far, I will answer with my life that I preserve the fortress." And he departed on his mission. IX. WHAT BEFEL CHOWLES AND JUDITH IN THE VAULTS OF SAINT FAITH'S. Having now seen what occurred outside Saint Paul's, we shall proceed to the vaults beneath it. Chowles and Judith, it has been mentioned, were descried by Leonard, just before the outbreak of the fire, stealing into Saint Faith's, and carrying a heavy chest between them. This chest contained some of the altar-plate, which they had pillaged from the Convocation House. As they traversed the aisles of Saint Faith's, which were now filled with books and paper, they could distinctly hear the raging of the fire without, and Judith, who was far less intimidated than her companion, observed, "Let it roar on. It cannot injure us." "I am not so sure of that," replied Chowles, doubtfully, "I wish we had taken our hoards elsewhere." "There is no use in wishing that now," rejoined Judith. "And it would have been wholly impossible to get them out of the city. But have no fear. The fire, I tell you, cannot reach us. It could as soon burn into the solid earth as into this place." "It comforts me to hear you say so," replied Chowles. "And when I think of those mighty stone floors above us, I feel we are quite safe. No, no, it can never make its way through them." Thus discoursing, they reached the charnel at the further end of the church, where Chowles struck a light, and producing a flask of strong waters, took a copious draught himself and handed the flask to Judith, who imitated his example. Their courage being thus stimulated, they opened the chest, and Chowles was so enraptured with its glittering contents that he commenced capering round the vault. Recalled to quietude by a stern reproof from Judith, he opened a secret door in the wall, and pushed the chest into a narrow passage beyond it. Fearful of being discovered in their retreat, they took a basket of provisions and liquor with them, and then closed the door. For some time, they proceeded along the passage, pushing the chest before them, until they came to a descent of a few steps, which brought them to a large vault, half-filled with bags of gold, chests of plate, caskets, and other plunder. At the further end of this vault was a strong wooden door. Pushing the chest into the middle of the chamber, Chowles seated himself upon it, and opening the basket of provisions, took out the bottle of spirits, and again had recourse to it. "How comfortable and secure we feel in this quiet place," he said; "while all above us is burning. I declare I feel quite merry, ha! ha!" And he forced a harsh and discordant laugh. "Give me the bottle," rejoined Judith, sternly, "and don't grin like a death's head. I don't like to see the frightful face you make." "It's the first time you ever thought my face frightful," replied Chowles, "and I begin to think you are afraid." "Afraid!" echoed Judith, forcing a derisive laugh in her turn; "afraid--of what?" "Nay, I don't know," replied Chowles; "only I feel a little uncomfortable. What if we should not be able to breathe here? The very idea gives me a tightness across the chest." "Silence!" cried Judith, with a fierceness that effectually insured obedience to her command. Chowles again had recourse to the bottle, and deriving a false courage from it, as before, commenced skipping about the chamber in his usual fantastical manner. Judith, did not attempt to check him, but remained with her chin resting upon her hand gazing at him. "Do you remember the Dance of Death, Judith?" he cried, executing some of the wildest flourishes he had then performed, "and how I surprised the Earl of Rochester and his crew?" "I do," replied Judith, sternly, "and I hope we may not soon have to perform that dance together in reality." "It was a merry night," rejoined Chowles, who did not hear what she said, "a right merry night--and so to-night shall be, in spite of what is occurring overhead. Ha! ha!" And he took another long pull at the flask. "I breathe freely now." And he continued his wild flourishes until he was completely exhausted. He then sat down by Judith, and would have twined his bony arms round her neck, but she roughly repulsed him. With a growl of displeasure, he then proceeded to open and examine the various bags, chests, and caskets piled upon the floor, and the sight of their contents so excited Judith, that shaking off her misgivings, she joined him, and they continued opening case after case, glutting their greedy eyes, until Chowles became aware that the vault was filled with smoke. As soon as he perceived this, he started to his feet in terror. "We are lost--we shall be suffocated!" he cried! Judith likewise arose, and her looks showed that she shared in his apprehensions. "We must not stay here," cried Chowles; "and yet," he added, with an agonised look at the rich store before him, "the treasure! the treasure!" "Ay, let us, at least, take something with us," rejoined Judith, snatching up two or three of the most valuable caskets. While Chowles gazed at the heap before him, hesitating what to select, the smoke grew so dense around them, that Judith seized his arm, and dragged him away. "I come--I come!" he cried, snatching up a bag of gold. They then threaded the narrow passage, Judith leading the way and bearing the light. The smoke grew thicker and thicker as they advanced; but regardless of this, they hurried to the secret door leading to the charnel. Judith touched the spring, but as she did so, a sheet of flame burst in and drove her back. Chowles dashed passed her, and with great presence of mind shut the door, excluding the flame. They then hastily retraced their steps, feeling that not a moment was to be lost if they would escape. The air in the vault, thickened by the smoke, had become so hot that they could scarcely breathe; added to which, to increase their terror, they heard the most awful cracking of the walls overhead, as if the whole fabric were breaking asunder to its foundation. "The cathedral is tumbling upon us! We shall be buried alive!" exclaimed Chowles, as he listened with indescribable terror to the noise overhead! "I owe my death to you, wretch!" cried Judith, fiercely. "You persuaded me to come hither." "I!" cried Chowles. "It is a lie! You were the person who proposed it. But for you I should have left our hoards here, and come for them after the fire was over." "It is you who lie!" returned Judith, with increased fury, "that was my proposal." "Hold your tongue, you she-devil," cried Chowles, "it is you who have brought me into this strait--and if you do not cease taunting me, I will silence you for ever." "Coward and fool!" cried Judith, "I will at least have the satisfaction of seeing you die before me." And as she spoke, she rushed towards him, and a desperate struggle commenced. And thus while the walls were cracking overhead, threatening them with instant destruction, the two wretches continued their strife, uttering the most horrible blasphemies and execrations. Judith, being the stronger of the two, had the advantage, and she had seized her opponent by the throat with the intention of strangling him, when a most terrific crash was heard causing her to loose her gripe. The air instantly became as hot as the breath of a furnace, and both started to their feet. "What has happened?" gasped Chowles. "I know not," replied Judith, "and I dare not look down the passage." "Then I will," replied Chowles, and he advanced a few paces up it, and then hastily returned, shrieking, "it is filled with boiling lead, and the stream is flowing towards us." Scarcely able to credit the extent of the danger, Judith gazed down the passage, and there beheld a glowing silvery stream trickling slowly onwards. She saw too well, that if they could not effect their retreat instantly, their fate was sealed. "The door of the vault!" she cried, pointing towards it, "where is the key? where is the key?" "I have not got it," replied Chowles, distractedly, "I cannot tell where to find it." "Then we are lost!" cried Judith, with a terrible execration. "Not so," replied Chowles, snatching up a pickaxe, "if I cannot unlock the door, I can break it open." With this, he commenced furiously striking against it, while Judith, who was completely horror-stricken, and filled with the conviction that her last moments were at hand, fell on her knees beside him, and gazing down the passage, along which she could see the stream of molten lead, now nearly a foot in depth, gradually advancing, and hissing as it came, shrieked to Chowles to increase his exertions. He needed no incitement to do so, but nerved by fear, continued to deal blow after blow against the door, until at last he effected a small breach just above the lock. But this only showed him how vain were his hopes, for a stream of fire and smoke poured through the aperture. Notwithstanding this, he continued his exertions, Judith shrieking all the time, until the lock at last yielded. He then threw open the door, but finding the whole passage involved in flame, was obliged to close it. Judith had now risen, and their looks at each other at this fearful moment were terrible in the extreme. Retreating to either side of the cell, they glared at each other like wild beasts. Suddenly, Judith casting her eyes to the entrance of the vault, uttered a yell of terror, that caused her companion to look in that direction, and he perceived that the stream of molten lead had gained it, and was descending the steps. He made a rush towards the door at the same time with Judith, and another struggle ensued, in which he succeeded in dashing her upon the floor. He again opened the door, but was again driven backwards by the terrific flame, and perceived that the fiery current had reached Judith, who was writhing and shrieking in its embrace. Before Chowles could again stir, it was upon him. With a yell of anguish, he fell forward, and was instantly stifled in the glowing torrent, which in a short time flooded the whole chamber, burying the two partners in iniquity, and the whole of their ill-gotten gains, in its burning waves. X. CONCLUSION. Lord Argentine proceeded, as directed by the king, to the eastern end of Tower-street, where he found Lord Craven, and having delivered him the king's missive, and shown him the signet, they proceeded to the western side of the Tower Dock, and having procured a sufficient number of miners and engineers, together with a supply of powder from the fortress, commenced undermining the whole of the row of habitations called Tower-bank, on the edge of the dock, having first, it is scarcely necessary to state, taken care to clear them of their inhabitants. The powder deposited, the trains were fired, and the buildings blown into the air. At this time the whole of the western side of the Tower Moat was covered with low wooden houses and sheds, and, mindful of the king's instructions, Lord Argentine suggested to Lord Craven that they should be destroyed. The latter acquiescing, they proceeded to their task, and in a short time the whole of the buildings of whatever description, from the bulwark-gate to the city postern, at the north of the Tower, and nearly opposite the Bowyer Tower, were destroyed. Long before this was accomplished they were joined by the Duke of York, who lent his utmost assistance to the task, and when night came on, a clear space of at least a hundred yards in depth, had been formed between the ancient fortress and the danger with which it was threatened. Meantime the conflagration continued to rage with unabated fury. It burnt throughout the whole of Monday night, and having destroyed Saint Paul's, as before related, poured down Ludgate-hill, consuming all in its way, and, crossing Fleet Bridge, commenced its ravages upon the great thoroughfare adjoining it. On Tuesday an immense tract was on fire. All Fleet-street, as far as the Inner Temple, Ludgate-hill, and the whole of the city eastwards, along the banks of the Thames, up to the Tower Dock, where the devastation was checked by the vast gap of houses demolished, were in flames. From thence the boundary of the fire extended to the end of Mark-lane, Lime-street, and Leadenhall, the strong walls of which resisted its fury. Ascending again by the Standard on Cornhill, Threadneedle-street, and Austin Friars, it embraced Drapers' Hall, and the whole mass of buildings to the west of Throgmorton-street. It next proceeded to the then new buildings behind Saint Margaret's, Lothbury, and so on westward to the upper end of Cateaton-street, whence it spread to the second postern in London Wall, and destroying the ramparts and suburbs as far as Cripplegate, consumed Little Wood-street, Mungwell-street, and the whole of the city wall on the west as far as Aldersgate. Passing a little to the north of Saint Sepulchre's, which it destroyed, it crossed Holborn Bridge, and ascending Saint Andrew's-hill, passed the end of Shoe-lane, and so on to the end of Fetter-lane. The whole of the buildings contained within this boundary were now on fire, and burning with terrific fury. And so they continued till the middle of Wednesday, when the wind abating, and an immense quantity of houses being demolished according to Lord Argentine's plan, the conflagration was got under; and though it broke out in several places after that time, little mischief was done, and it may be said to have ceased on the middle of that day. On Saturday morning in that week, soon after daybreak, a young man, plainly yet richly attired in the habiliments then worn by persons of high rank, took his way over the smouldering heaps of rubbish, and along the ranks of ruined and blackened walls denoting the habitations that had once constituted Fleet-street. It was with no little risk, and some difficulty, that he could force his way, now clambering over heaps of smouldering ashes, now passing by some toppling wall, which fell with a terrific crash after he had just passed it--now creeping under an immense pile of blackened rafters; but he at length reached Fleet Bridge, where he paused to gaze at the scene of devastation around him. It was indeed a melancholy sight, and drew tears to his eyes. The ravages of the fire were almost inconceivable. Great beams were burnt to charcoal--stones calcined, and as white as snow, and such walls and towers as were left standing were so damaged that their instant fall was to be expected. The very water in the wells and fountains was boiling, and even the muddy Fleet sent forth a hot steam. The fire still lingered in the lower parts of many habitations, especially where wine, spirits, or inflammable goods had been kept; and these "voragos of subterranean cellars," as Evelyn terms them, still emitted flames, together with a prodigious smoke and stench. Undismayed by the dangers of the path he had to traverse, the young man ascended Ludgate-hill, still encountering the same devastation, and passing through the ruined gateway, the end of which remained perfect, approached what had once been Saint Paul's Cathedral. Mounting a heap of rubbish at the end of Ludgate street, he gazed at the mighty ruin, which looked more like the remains of a city than those of a single edifice. The solid walls and buttresses were split and rent asunder; enormous stones were splintered and calcined by the heat; and vast flakes having scaled from off the pillars, gave them a hoary and almost ghostly appearance. Its enormous extent was now for the first time clearly seen, and, strange to say it looked twice as large in ruins as when entire. The central tower was still standing, but chipped, broken, and calcined, like the rest of the structure, by the vehement heat of the flames. Part of the roof, in its fall, broke through the solid floor of the choir, which was of immense thickness, into Saint Faith's, and destroyed the magazine of books and paper deposited there by the booksellers. The portico, erected by Inigo Jones, and which found so much favour in Evelyn's eyes, that he describes it as "comparable to any in Europe," and particularly deplores its loss, shared the fate of the rest of the building--the only part left uninjured being the architrave, the inscription on which was undefaced. Having satiated himself with this sad but striking prospect, the young man, with some toil and trouble, crossed the churchyard, and gained Cheapside, where a yet more terrific scene of devastation than that which he had previously witnessed burst upon him. On the right of London Bridge, which he could discern through the chasms of the houses, and almost to the Tower, were nothing but ruins, while a similar waste lay on the left. Such was the terrible change that had been wrought in the aspect of the ruined city, that if the young man had not had some marks to guide him, he would not have known where he was. The tower and ruined walls of Saint Peter's Church pointed out to him the entrance to Wood-street, and, entering it, he traversed it with considerable difficulty--for the narrow thoroughfares were much fuller of rubbish, and much less freed from smoke and fiery vapour, than the wider--until he reached a part of it with which he had once been well acquainted. But, alas! how changed was that familiar spot. The house he sought was a mere heap of ruins. While gazing at them, he heard a voice behind him, and turning, beheld Mr. Bloundel and his son Stephen, forcing their way through what had once been Maiden-lane. A warm greeting passed between them, and Mr. Bloundel gazed for some time in silence upon the wreck of his dwelling. Tears forced themselves into his eyes, and his companions were no less moved. As he turned to depart, he observed to the young man with some severity: "How is it, Leonard, that I see you in this gay apparel? Surely, the present is not a fitting season for such idle display." Lord Argentine, for such it was, now explained to the wonder-stricken grocer all that had occurred to him, adding that he had intended coming to him that very day, if he had not been thus anticipated, to give him the present explanation. "And where are Farmer Wingfield and Blaize?" asked Mr. Bloundel. "We have been extremely uneasy at your prolonged absence." "They are both at the palace," replied Lord Argentine, "and have both been laid up with slight injuries received during the conflagration; but I believe--nay, I am sure--they will get out to-day." "That is well," replied Mr. Bloundel; "and now let me congratulate you, Leonard--that is, my lord--how strange such a title sounds!--on your new dignity. "And accept my congratulations, too, my lord," said Stephen. "Oh! do not style me thus," said Argentine. "With you, at least, let me be ever Leonard Holt." "You are still my old apprentice, I see," cried the grocer, warmly grasping his hand. "And such I shall ever continue in feeling," returned the other, cordially returning the pressure. Three days after this, Lord Argentine was united to the Lady Isabella.--the king, as he had promised, giving away the bride. The Earl of Rochester was present, together with the grocer and his wife, and the whole of their family. Another marriage also took place on the same day between Blaize and Patience. Both unions, it is satisfactory to be able to state, were extremely happy, though it would be uncandid not to mention, that in the latter case, to use a homely but expressive phrase, "the grey mare proved the better horse." Blaize, however, was exceedingly content under his government. He settled at Willesden with his wife, where they lived to a good old age, and where some of his descendants may still be found. Mr. Bloundel sustained only a trifling loss by the fire. Another house was erected on the site of the old habitation, where he carried on his business as respectably and as profitably as before, until, in the course of nature, he was gathered to his fathers, and succeeded by his son Stephen, leaving an unblemished character behind him as a legacy to his family. Nor was it his only legacy, in a worldly sense, for his time had not been misspent, and he had well-husbanded his money. All his family turned out well, and were successful in the world. Stephen rose to the highest civic dignities, and the younger obtained great distinction. Their daughter Christiana became Lady Argentine, being wedded to the eldest son of the baron and baroness. Mike Macascree, the piper, and Bell, found a happy asylum with the same noble family. As to Lord and Lady Argentine, theirs was a life of uninterrupted happiness. Devotedly attached to her lord, the Lady Isabella seemed only to live for him, and he well repaid her affection. By sedulously cultivating his talents and powers, which were considerable, he was enabled to reflect credit upon the high rank to which it had pleased a grateful sovereign to elevate him. He lived to see the new cathedral completed by Sir Christopher Wren, and often visited it with feelings of admiration, but never with the same sentiments of veneration and awe that he had experienced when, in times long gone by, he had repaired to OLD SAINT PAUL'S. THE END. 
13102	----	THE DECAMERON OF GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO Faithfully Translated By J.M. Rigg with illustrations by Louis Chalon VOLUME II CONTENTS - FIFTH DAY - NOVEL I. - Cimon, by loving, waxes wise, wins his wife Iphigenia by capture on the high seas, and is imprisoned at Rhodes. He is delivered by Lysimachus; and the twain capture Cassandra and recapture Iphigenia in the hour of their marriage. They flee with their ladies to Crete, and having there married them, are brought back to their homes. NOVEL II. - Gostanza loves Martuccio Gomito, and hearing that he is dead, gives way to despair, and hies her alone aboard a boat, which is wafted by the wind to Susa. She finds him alive in Tunis, and makes herself known to him, who, having by his counsel gained high place in the king's favour, marries her, and returns with her wealthy to Lipari. NOVEL III. - Pietro Boccamazza runs away with Agnolella, and encounters a gang of robbers: the girl takes refuge in a wood, and is guided to a castle. Pietro is taken, but escapes out of the hands of the robbers, and after some adventures arrives at the castle where Agnolella is, marries her, and returns with her to Rome. NOVEL IV. - Ricciardo Manardi is found by Messer Lizio da Valbona with his daughter, whom he marries, and remains at peace with her father. NOVEL V. - Guidotto da Cremona dies leaving a girl to Giacomino da Pavia. She has two lovers in Faenza, to wit, Giannole di Severino and Minghino di Mingole, who fight about her. She is discovered to be Giannole's sister, and is given to Minghino to wife. NOVEL VI. - Gianni di Procida, being found with a damsel that he loves, and who had been given to King Frederic, is bound with her to a stake, so to be burned. He is recognized by Ruggieri dell' Oria, is delivered, and marries her. NOVEL VII. - Teodoro, being enamoured of Violante, daughter of Messer Amerigo, his lord, gets her with child, and is sentenced to the gallows; but while he is being scourged thither, he is recognized by his father, and being set at large, takes Violante to wife. NOVEL VIII. - Nastagio degli Onesti, loving a damsel of the Traversari family, by lavish expenditure gains not her love. At the instance of his kinsfolk he hies him to Chiassi, where he sees a knight hunt a damsel and slay her and cause her to be devoured by two dogs. He bids his kinsfolk and the lady that he loves to breakfast. During the meal the said damsel is torn in pieces before the eyes of the lady, who, fearing a like fate, takes Nastagio to husband. NOVEL IX. - Federigo degli Alberighi loves and is not loved in return: he wastes his substance by lavishness until nought is left but a single falcon, which, his lady being come to see him at his house, he gives her to eat: she, knowing his case, changes her mind, takes him to husband and makes him rich. NOVEL X. - Pietro di Vinciolo goes from home to sup: his wife brings a boy into the house to bear her company: Pietro returns, and she hides her gallant under a hen-coop: Pietro explains that in the house of Ercolano, with whom he was to have supped, there was discovered a young man bestowed there by Ercolano's wife: the lady thereupon censures Ercolano's wife: but unluckily an ass treads on the fingers of the boy that is hidden under the hen-coop, so that he cries for pain: Pietro runs to the place, sees him, and apprehends the trick played on him by his wife, which nevertheless he finally condones, for that he is not himself free from blame. - SIXTH DAY - NOVEL I. - A knight offers to carry Madonna Oretta a horseback with a story, but tells it so ill that she prays him to dismount her. NOVEL II. - Cisti, a baker, by an apt speech gives Messer Geri Spina to know that he has by inadvertence asked that of him which he should not. NOVEL III. - Monna Nonna de' Pulci by a ready retort silences the scarce seemly jesting of the Bishop of Florence. NOVEL IV. - Chichibio, cook to Currado Gianfigliazzi, owes his safety to a ready answer, whereby he converts Currado's wrath into laughter, and evades the evil fate with which Currado had threatened him. NOVEL V. - Messer Forese da Rabatta and Master Giotto, the painter, journeying together from Mugello, deride one another's scurvy appearance. NOVEL VI. - Michele Scalza proves to certain young men that the Baronci are the best gentlemen in the world and the Maremma, and wins a supper. NOVEL VII. - Madonna Filippa, being found by her husband with her lover, is cited before the court, and by a ready and jocund answer acquits herself, and brings about an alteration of the statute. NOVEL VIII. - Fresco admonishes his niece not to look at herself in the glass, if 'tis, as she says, grievous to her to see nasty folk. NOVEL IX. - Guido Cavalcanti by a quip meetly rebukes certain Florentine gentlemen who had taken him at a disadvantage. NOVEL X. - Fra Cipolla promises to shew certain country-folk a feather of the Angel Gabriel, in lieu of which he finds coals, which he avers to be of those with which St. Lawrence was roasted. - SEVENTH DAY - NOVEL I. - Gianni Lotteringhi hears a knocking at his door at night: he awakens his wife, who persuades him that 'tis the bogey, which they fall to exorcising with a prayer; whereupon the knocking ceases. NOVEL II. - Her husband returning home, Peronella bestows her lover in a tun; which, being sold by her husband, she avers to have been already sold by herself to one that is inside examining it to set if it be sound. Whereupon the lover jumps out, and causes the husband to scour the tun for him, and afterwards to carry it to his house. NOVEL III. - Fra Rinaldo lies with his gossip: her husband finds him in the room with her; and they make him believe that he was curing his godson of worms by a charm. NOVEL IV. - Tofano one night locks his wife out of the house: she, finding that by no entreaties may she prevail upon him to let her in, feigns to throw herself into a well, throwing therein a great stone. Tofano hies him forth of the house, and runs to the spot: she goes into the house, and locks him out, and hurls abuse at him from within. NOVEL V. - A jealous husband disguises himself as a priest, and hears his own wife's confession: she tells him that she loves a priest, who comes to her every night. The husband posts himself at the door to watch for the priest, and meanwhile the lady brings her lover in by the roof, and tarries with him. NOVEL VI. - Madonna Isabella has with her Leonetto, her accepted lover, when she is surprised by one Messer Lambertuccio, by whom she is beloved: her husband coming home about the same time, she sends Messer Lambertuccio forth of the house drawn sword in hand, and the husband afterwards escorts Leonetto home. NOVEL VII. - Lodovico discovers to Madonna Beatrice the love that he bears her: she sends Egano, her husband, into a garden disguised as herself, and lies with Lodovico; who thereafter, being risen, hies him to the garden and cudgels Egano. NOVEL VIII. - A husband grows jealous of his wife, and discovers that she has warning of her lover's approach by a piece of pack-thread, which she ties to her great toe a nights. While he is pursuing her lover, she puts another woman in bed in her place. The husband, finding her there, beats her, and cuts off her hair. He then goes and calls his wife's brothers, who, holding his accusation to be false, give him a rating. NOVEL IX. - Lydia, wife of Nicostratus, loves Pyrrhus, who to assure himself thereof, asks three things of her, all of which she does, and therewithal enjoys him in presence of Nicostratus, and makes Nicostratus believe that what he saw was not real. NOVEL X. - Two Sienese love a lady, one of them being her gossip: the gossip dies, having promised his comrade to return to him from the other world; which he does, and tells him what sort of life is led there. - EIGHTH DAY - NOVEL I. - Gulfardo borrows moneys of Guasparruolo, which he has agreed to give Guasparruolo's wife, that he may lie with her. He gives them to her, and in her presence tells Guasparruolo that he has done so, and she acknowledges that 'tis true. NOVEL II. - The priest of Varlungo lies with Monna Belcolore: he leaves with her his cloak by way of pledge, and receives from her a mortar. He returns the mortar, and demands of her the cloak that he had left in pledge, which the good lady returns him with a gibe. NOVEL III. - Calandrino, Bruno and Buffalmacco go in quest of the heliotrope beside the Mugnone. Thinking to have found it, Calandrino gets him home laden with stones. His wife chides him: whereat he waxes wroth, beats her, and tells his comrades what they know better than he. NOVEL IV. - The rector of Fiesole loves a widow lady, by whom he is not loved, and thinking to lie with her, lies with her maid, with whom the lady's brothers cause him to be found by his Bishop. NOVEL V. - Three young men pull down the breeches of a judge from the Marches, while he is administering justice on the bench. NOVEL VI. - Bruno and Buffalmacco steal a pig from Calandrino, and induce him to essay its recovery by means of pills of ginger and vernaccia. Of the said pills they give him two, one after the other, made of dog-ginger compounded with aloes; and it then appearing as if he had had the pig himself, they constrain him to buy them off, if he would not have them tell his wife. NOVEL VII. - A scholar loves a widow lady, who, being enamoured of another, causes him to spend a winter's night awaiting her in the snow. He afterwards by a stratagem causes her to stand for a whole day in July, naked upon a tower, exposed to the flies, the gadflies, and the sun. NOVEL VIII. - Two men keep with one another: the one lies with the other's wife: the other, being ware thereof, manages with the aid of his wife to have the one locked in a chest, upon which he then lies with the wife of him that is locked therein. NOVEL IX. - Bruno and Buffalmacco prevail upon Master Simone, a physician, to betake him by night to a certain place, there to be enrolled in a company that go the course. Buffalmacco throws him into a foul ditch, and there they leave him. NOVEL X. - A Sicilian woman cunningly conveys from a merchant that which he has brought to Palermo; he, making a shew of being come back thither with far greater store of goods than before, borrows money of her, and leaves her in lieu thereof water and tow. - NINTH DAY - NOVEL I. - Madonna Francesca, having two lovers, the one Rinuccio, the other Alessandro, by name, and loving neither of them, induces the one to simulate a corpse in a tomb, and the other to enter the tomb to fetch him out: whereby, neither satisfying her demands, she artfully rids herself of both. NOVEL II. - An abbess rises in haste and in the dark, with intent to surprise an accused nun abed with her lover: thinking to put on her veil, she puts on instead the breeches of a priest that she has with her: the nun, espying her headgear, and doing her to wit thereof, is acquitted, and thenceforth finds it easier to forgather with her lover. NOVEL III. - Master Simone, at the instance of Bruno and Buffalmacco and Nello, makes Calandrino believe that he is with child. Calandrino, accordingly, gives them capons and money for medicines, and is cured without being delivered. NOVEL IV. - Cecco, son of Messer Fortarrigo, loses his all at play at Buonconvento, besides the money of Cecco, son of Messer Angiulieri, whom, running after him in his shirt and crying out that he has robbed him, he causes to be taken by peasants: he then puts on his clothes, mounts his palfrey, and leaves him to follow in his shirt. NOVEL V. - Calandrino being enamoured of a damsel, Bruno gives him a scroll, averring that, if he but touch her therewith, she will go with him: he is found with her by his wife, who subjects him to a most severe and vexatious examination. NOVEL VI. - Two young men lodge at an inn, of whom the one lies with the host's daughter, his wife by inadvertence lying with the other. He that lay with the daughter afterwards gets into her father's bed and tells him all, taking him to be his comrade. They bandy words: whereupon the good woman, apprehending the circumstances, gets her to bed with her daughter, and by divers apt words re-establishes perfect accord. NOVEL VII. - Talano di Molese dreams that a wolf tears and rends all the neck and face of his wife: he gives her warning thereof, which she heeds not, and the dream comes true. NOVEL VIII. - Biondello gulls Ciacco in the matter of a breakfast: for which prank Ciacco is cunningly avenged on Biondello, causing him to be shamefully beaten. NOVEL IX. - Two young men ask counsel of Solomon; the one, how he is to make himself beloved, the other, how he is to reduce an unruly wife to order. The King bids the one to love, and the other to go to the Bridge of Geese. NOVEL X. - Dom Gianni at the instance of his gossip Pietro uses an enchantment to transform Pietro's wife into a mare; but, when he comes to attach the tail, Gossip Pietro, by saying that he will have none of the tail, makes the enchantment of no effect. - TENTH DAY - NOVEL I. - A knight in the service of the King of Spain deems himself ill requited. Wherefore the King, by most cogent proof, shews him that the blame rests not with him, but with the knight's own evil fortune; after which, he bestows upon him a noble gift. NOVEL II. - Ghino di Tacco, captures the Abbot of Cluny, cures him of a disorder of the stomach, and releases him. The abbot, on his return to the court of Rome, reconciles Ghino with Pope Boniface, and makes him prior of the Hospital. NOVEL III. - Mitridanes, holding Nathan in despite by reason of his courtesy, journey with intent to kill him, and falling in with him unawares, is advised by him how to compass his end. Following his advice, he finds him in a copse, and recognizing him, is shame-stricken, and becomes his friend. NOVEL IV. - Messer Gentile de' Carisendi, being come from Modena, disinters a lady that he loves, who has been buried for dead. She, being reanimated, gives birth to a male child; and Messer Gentile restores her, with her son, to Niccoluccio Caccianimico, her husband. NOVEL V. - Madonna Dianora craves of Messer Ansaldo a garden that shall be as fair in January as in May. Messer Ansaldo binds himself to a necromancer, and thereby gives her the garden. Her husband gives her leave to do Messer Ansaldo's pleasure: he, being apprised of her husband's liberality, releases her from her promise; and the necromancer releases Messer Ansaldo from his bond, and will tale nought of his. NOVEL VI. - King Charles the Old, being conqueror, falls in love with a young maiden, and afterward growing ashamed of his folly bestows her and her sister honourably in marriage. NOVEL VII. - King Pedro, being apprised of the fervent love borne him by Lisa, who thereof is sick, comforts her, and forthwith gives her in marriage to a young gentleman, and having kissed her on the brow, ever after professes himself her knight. NOVEL VIII. - Sophronia, albeit she deems herself wife to Gisippus, is wife to Titus Quintius Fulvus, and goes with him to Rome, where Gisippus arrives in indigence, and deeming himself scorned by Titus, to compass his own death, avers that he has slain a man. Titus recognizes him, and to save his life, alleges that 'twas he that slew the man: whereof he that did the deed being witness, he discovers himself as the murderer. Whereby it comes to pass that they are all three liberated by Octavianus; and Titus gives Gisippus his sister to wife, and shares with him all his substance. NOVEL IX. - Saladin, in guise of a merchant, is honourably entreated by Messer Torello. The Crusade ensuing, Messer Torello appoints a date, after which his wife may marry again: he is taken prisoner, and by training hawks comes under the Soldan's notice. The Soldan recognizes him, makes himself known to him, and entreats him with all honour. Messer Torello falls sick, and by magic arts is transported in a single night to Pavia, where his wife's second marriage is then to be solemnized, and being present thereat, is recognized by her, and returns with her to his house. NOVEL X. - The Marquis of Saluzzo, overborne by the entreaties of his vassals, consents to take a wife, but, being minded to please himself in the choice of her, takes a husbandman's daughter. He has two children by her, both of whom he makes her believe that he has put to death. Afterward, feigning to be tired of her, and to have taken another wife, he turns her out of doors in her shift, and brings his daughter into the house in guise of his bride; but, finding her patient under it all, he brings her home again, and shews her her children, now grown up, and honours her, and causes her to be honoured, as Marchioness. ILLUSTRATIONS TO THE DECAMERON VOLUME II Pietro and Agnolella (fifth day, third story) Gianni and Restituta (fifth day, sixth story) Calandrino singing (ninth day, fifth story) Titus, Gisippus, and Sophronia (tenth day, eighth story) -- Endeth here the fourth day of the Decameron, beginneth the fifth, in which under the rule of Fiammetta discourse is had of good fortune befalling lovers after divers direful or disastrous adventures. -- All the east was white, nor any part of our hemisphere unillumined by the rising beams, when the carolling of the birds that in gay chorus saluted the dawn among the boughs induced Fiammetta to rise and rouse the other ladies and the three gallants; with whom adown the hill and about the dewy meads of the broad champaign she sauntered, talking gaily of divers matters, until the sun had attained some height. Then, feeling his rays grow somewhat scorching, they retraced their steps, and returned to the villa; where, having repaired their slight fatigue with excellent wines and comfits, they took their pastime in the pleasant garden until the breakfast hour; when, all things being made ready by the discreet seneschal, they, after singing a stampita,(1) and a balladette or two, gaily, at the queen's behest, sat them down to eat. Meetly ordered and gladsome was the meal, which done, heedful of their rule of dancing, they trod a few short measures with accompaniment of music and song. Thereupon, being all dismissed by the queen until after the siesta, some hied them to rest, while others tarried taking their pleasure in the fair garden. But shortly after none, all, at the queen's behest, reassembled, according to their wont, by the fountain; and the queen, having seated herself on her throne, glanced towards Pamfilo, and bade him with a smile lead off with the stories of good fortune. Whereto Pamfilo gladly addressed himself, and thus began. (1) A song accompanied by music, but without dancing. NOVEL I. -- Cimon, by loving, waxes wise, wins his wife Iphigenia by capture on the high seas, and is imprisoned at Rhodes. He is delivered by Lysimachus; and the twain capture Cassandra and recapture Iphigenia in the hour of their marriage. They flee with their ladies to Crete, and having there married them, are brought back to their homes. -- Many stories, sweet my ladies, occur to me as meet for me to tell by way of ushering in a day so joyous as this will be: of which one does most commend itself to my mind, because not only has it, one of those happy endings of which to-day we are in quest, but 'twill enable you to understand how holy, how mighty and how salutary are the forces of Love, which not a few, witting not what they say, do most unjustly reprobate and revile: which, if I err not, should to you, for that I take you to be enamoured, be indeed welcome. Once upon a time, then, as we have read in the ancient histories of the Cypriotes, there was in the island of Cyprus a very great noble named Aristippus, a man rich in all worldly goods beyond all other of his countrymen, and who might have deemed himself incomparably blessed, but for a single sore affliction that Fortune had allotted him. Which was that among his sons he had one, the best grown and handsomest of them all, that was well-nigh a hopeless imbecile. His true name was Galesus; but, as neither his tutor's pains, nor his father's coaxing or chastisement, nor any other method had availed to imbue him with any tincture of letters or manners, but he still remained gruff and savage of voice, and in his bearing liker to a beast than to a man, all, as in derision, were wont to call him Cimon, which in their language signifies the same as "bestione" (brute)(1) in ours. The father, grieved beyond measure to see his son's life thus blighted, and having abandoned all hope of his recovery, nor caring to have the cause of his mortification ever before his eyes, bade him betake him to the farm, and there keep with his husbandmen. To Cimon the change was very welcome, because the manners and habits of the uncouth hinds were more to his taste than those of the citizens. So to the farm Cimon hied him, and addressed himself to the work thereof; and being thus employed, he chanced one afternoon as he passed, staff on shoulder, from one domain to another, to enter a plantation, the like of which for beauty there was not in those parts, and which was then--for 'twas the month of May--a mass of greenery; and, as he traversed it, he came, as Fortune was pleased to guide him, to a meadow girt in with trees exceeding tall, and having in one of its corners a fountain most fair and cool, beside which he espied a most beautiful girl lying asleep on the green grass, clad only in a vest of such fine stuff that it scarce in any measure veiled the whiteness of her flesh, and below the waist nought but an apron most white and fine of texture; and likewise at her feet there slept two women and a man, her slaves. No sooner did Cimon catch sight of her, than, as if he had never before seen form of woman, he stopped short, and leaning on his cudgel, regarded her intently, saying never a word, and lost in admiration. And in his rude soul, which, despite a thousand lessons, had hitherto remained impervious to every delight that belongs to urbane life, he felt the awakening of an idea, that bade his gross and coarse mind acknowledge, that this girl was the fairest creature that had ever been seen by mortal eye. And thereupon he began to distinguish her several parts, praising her hair, which shewed to him as gold, her brow, her nose and mouth, her throat and arms, and above all her bosom, which was as yet but in bud, and as he gazed, he changed of a sudden from a husbandman into a judge of beauty, and desired of all things to see her eyes, which the weight of her deep slumber kept close shut, and many a time he would fain have awakened her, that he might see them. But so much fairer seemed she to him than any other woman that he had seen, that he doubted she must be a goddess; and as he was not so devoid of sense but that he deemed things divine more worthy of reverence than things mundane, he forbore, and waited until she should awake of her own accord; and though he found the delay overlong, yet, enthralled by so unwonted a delight, he knew not how to be going. However, after he had tarried a long while, it so befell that Iphigenia--such was the girl's name--her slaves still sleeping, awoke, and raised her head, and opened her eyes, and seeing Cimon standing before her, leaning on his staff, was not a little surprised, and said:--"Cimon, what seekest thou in this wood at this hour?" For Cimon she knew well, as indeed did almost all the country-side, by reason alike of his uncouth appearance as of the rank and wealth of his father. To Iphigenia's question he answered never a word; but as soon as her eyes were open, nought could he do but intently regard them, for it seemed to him that a soft influence emanated from them, which filled his soul with a delight that he had never before known. Which the girl marking began to misdoubt that by so fixed a scrutiny his boorish temper might be prompted to some act that should cause her dishonour: wherefore she roused her women, and got up, saying:--"Keep thy distance, Cimon, in God's name." Whereto Cimon made answer:--"I will come with thee." And, albeit the girl refused his escort, being still in fear of him, she could not get quit of him; but he attended her home; after which he hied him straight to his father's house, and announced that he was minded on no account to go back to the farm: which intelligence was far from welcome to his father and kinsmen; but nevertheless they suffered him to stay, and waited to see what might be the reason of his change of mind. So Cimon, whose heart, closed to all teaching, love's shaft, sped by the beauty of Iphigenia, had penetrated, did now graduate in wisdom with such celerity as to astonish his father and kinsmen, and all that knew him. He began by requesting his father to let him go clad in the like apparel, and with, in all respects, the like personal equipment as his brothers: which his father very gladly did. Mixing thus with the gallants, and becoming familiar with the manners proper to gentlemen, and especially to lovers, he very soon, to the exceeding great wonder of all, not only acquired the rudiments of letters, but waxed most eminent among the philosophic wits. After which (for no other cause than the love he bore to Iphigenia) he not only modulated his gruff and boorish voice to a degree of smoothness suitable to urbane life, but made himself accomplished in singing and music; in riding also and in all matters belonging to war, as well by sea as by land, he waxed most expert and hardy. And in sum (that I go not about to enumerate each of his virtues in detail) he had not completed the fourth year from the day of his first becoming enamoured before he was grown the most gallant, and courteous, ay, and the most perfect in particular accomplishments, of the young cavaliers that were in the island of Cyprus. What then, gracious ladies, are we to say of Cimon? Verily nought else but that the high faculties, with which Heaven had endowed his noble soul, invidious Fortune had bound with the strongest of cords, and circumscribed within a very narrow region of his heart; all which cords Love, more potent than Fortune, burst and brake in pieces; and then with the might, wherewith he awakens dormant powers, he brought them forth of the cruel obfuscation, in which they lay, into clear light, plainly shewing thereby, whence he may draw, and whither he may guide, by his beams the souls that are subject to his sway. Now, albeit by his love for Iphigenia Cimon was betrayed, as young lovers very frequently are, into some peccadillos, yet Aristippus, reflecting that it had turned him from a booby into a man, not only bore patiently with him, but exhorted him with all his heart to continue steadfast in his love. And Cimon, who still refused to be called Galesus, because 'twas as Cimon that Iphigenia had first addressed him, being desirous to accomplish his desire by honourable means, did many a time urge his suit upon her father, Cipseus, that he would give her him to wife: whereto Cipseus always made the same answer, to wit, that he had promised her to Pasimondas, a young Rhodian noble, and was not minded to break faith with him. However, the time appointed for Iphigenia's wedding being come, and the bridegroom having sent for her, Cimon said to himself:--'Tis now for me to shew thee, O Iphigenia, how great is my love for thee: 'tis by thee that I am grown a man, nor doubt I, if I shall have thee, that I shall wax more glorious than a god, and verily thee will I have, or die. Having so said, he privily enlisted in his cause certain young nobles that were his friends, and secretly fitted out a ship with all equipment meet for combat, and put to sea on the look-out for the ship that was to bear Iphigenia to Rhodes and her husband. And at length, when her father had done lavishing honours upon her husband's friends, Iphigenia embarked, and, the mariners shaping their course for Rhodes, put to sea. Cimon was on the alert, and overhauled them the very next day, and standing on his ship's prow shouted amain to those that were aboard Iphigenia's ship:--"Bring to; strike sails, or look to be conquered and sunk in the sea." Then, seeing that the enemy had gotten their arms above deck, and were making ready to make a fight of it, he followed up his words by casting a grapnel upon the poop of the Rhodians, who were making great way; and having thus made their poop fast to his prow, he sprang, fierce as a lion, reckless whether he were followed or no, on to the Rhodians' ship, making, as it were, no account of them, and animated by love, hurled himself, sword in hand, with prodigious force among the enemy, and cutting and thrusting right and left, slaughtered them like sheep; insomuch that the Rhodians, marking the fury of his onset, threw down their arms, and as with one voice did all acknowledge themselves his prisoners. To whom Cimon:--"Gallants," quoth he, "'twas neither lust of booty nor enmity to you that caused me to put out from Cyprus to attack you here with force of arms on the high seas. Moved was I thereto by that which to gain is to me a matter great indeed, which peaceably to yield me is to you but a slight matter; for 'tis even Iphigenia, whom more than aught else I love; whom, as I might not have her of her father in peaceable and friendly sort, Love has constrained me to take from you in this high-handed fashion and by force of arms; to whom I mean to be even such as would have been your Pasimondas: wherefore give her to me, and go your way, and God's grace go with you." Yielding rather to force than prompted by generosity, the Rhodians surrendered Iphigenia, all tears, to Cimon; who, marking her tears, said to her:--"Grieve not, noble lady; thy Cimon am I, who, by my long love, have established a far better right to thee than Pasimondas by the faith that was plighted to him." So saying, he sent her aboard his ship, whither he followed her, touching nought that belonged to the Rhodians, and suffering them to go their way. To have gotten so dear a prize made him the happiest man in the world, but for a time 'twas all he could do to assuage her grief: then, after taking counsel with his comrades, he deemed it best not to return to Cyprus for the present: and so, by common consent they shaped their course for Crete, where most of them, and especially Cimon, had alliances of old or recent date, and friends not a few, whereby they deemed that there they might tarry with Iphigenia in security. But Fortune, that had accorded Cimon so gladsome a capture of the lady, suddenly proved fickle, and converted the boundless joy of the enamoured gallant into woeful and bitter lamentation. 'Twas not yet full four hours since Cimon had parted from the Rhodians, when with the approach of night, that night from which Cimon hoped such joyance as he had never known, came weather most turbulent and tempestuous, which wrapped the heavens in cloud, and swept the sea with scathing blasts; whereby 'twas not possible for any to see how the ship was to be worked or steered, or to steady himself so as to do any duty upon her deck. Whereat what grief was Cimon's, it boots not to ask. Indeed it seemed to him that the gods had granted his heart's desire only that it might be harder for him to die, which had else been to him but a light matter. Not less downcast were his comrades; but most of all Iphigenia, who, weeping bitterly and shuddering at every wave that struck the ship, did cruelly curse Cimon's love and censure his rashness, averring that this tempest was come upon them for no other cause than that the gods had decreed, that, as 'twas in despite of their will that he purposed to espouse her, he should be frustrate of his presumptuous intent, and having lived to see her expire, should then himself meet a woeful death. While thus and yet more bitterly they bewailed them, and the mariners were at their wits' end, as the gale grew hourly more violent, nor knew they, nor might conjecture, whither they went, they drew nigh the island of Rhodes, albeit that Rhodes it was they wist not, and set themselves, as best and most skilfully they might, to run the ship aground. In which enterprise Fortune favoured them, bringing them into a little bay, where, shortly before them, was arrived the Rhodian ship that Cimon had let go. Nor were they sooner ware that 'twas Rhodes they had made, than day broke, and, the sky thus brightening a little, they saw that they were about a bow-shot from the ship that they had released on the preceding day. Whereupon Cimon, vexed beyond measure, being apprehensive of that which in fact befell them, bade make every effort to win out of the bay, and let Fortune carry them whither she would, for nowhere might they be in worse plight than there. So might and main they strove to bring the ship out, but all in vain: the violence of the gale thwarted them to such purpose as not only to preclude their passage out of the bay but to drive them, willing nilling, ashore. Whither no sooner were they come, than they were recognized by the Rhodian mariners, who were already landed. Of whom one ran with all speed to a farm hard by, whither the Rhodian gallants were gone, and told them that Fortune had brought Cimon and Iphigenia aboard their ship into the same bay to which she had guided them. Whereat the gallants were overjoyed, and taking with them not a few of the farm-servants, hied them in hot haste to the shore, where, Cimon and his men being already landed with intent to take refuge in a neighbouring wood, they took them all (with Iphigenia) and brought them to the farm. Whence, pursuant to an order of the Senate of Rhodes, to which, so soon as he received the news, Pasimondas made his complaint, Cimon and his men were all marched off to prison by Lysimachus, chief magistrate of the Rhodians for that year, who came down from the city for the purpose with an exceeding great company of men at arms. On such wise did our hapless and enamoured Cimon lose his so lately won Iphigenia before he had had of her more than a kiss or two. Iphigenia was entertained and comforted of the annoy, occasioned as well by her recent capture as by the fury of the sea, by not a few noble ladies of Rhodes, with whom she tarried until the day appointed for her marriage. In recompense of the release of the Rhodian gallants on the preceding day the lives of Cimon and his men were spared, notwithstanding that Pasimondas pressed might and main for their execution; and instead they were condemned to perpetual imprisonment: wherein, as may be supposed, they abode in dolorous plight, and despaired of ever again knowing happiness. However, it so befell that, Pasimondas accelerating his nuptials to the best of his power, Fortune, as if repenting her that in her haste she had done Cimon so evil a turn, did now by a fresh disposition of events compass his deliverance. Pasimondas had a brother, by name Hormisdas, his equal in all respects save in years, who had long been contract to marry Cassandra, a fair and noble damsel of Rhodes, of whom Lysimachus was in the last degree enamoured; but owing to divers accidents the marriage had been from time to time put off. Now Pasimondas, being about to celebrate his nuptials with exceeding great pomp, bethought him that he could not do better than, to avoid a repetition of the pomp and expense, arrange, if so he might, that his brother should be wedded on the same day with himself. So, having consulted anew with Cassandra's kinsfolk, and come to an understanding with them, he and his brother and they conferred together, and agreed that on the same day that Pasimondas married Iphigenia, Hormisdas should marry Cassandra. Lysimachus, getting wind of this arrangement, was mortified beyond measure, seeing himself thereby deprived of the hope which he cherished of marrying Cassandra himself, if Hormisdas should not forestall him. But like a wise man he concealed his chagrin, and cast about how he might frustrate the arrangement: to which end he saw no other possible means but to carry Cassandra off. It did not escape him that the office which he held would render this easily feasible, but he deemed it all the more dishonourable than if he had not held the office; but, in short, after much pondering, honour yielded place to love, and he made up his mind that, come what might, he would carry Cassandra off. Then, as he took thought what company he should take with him, and how he should go about the affair, he remembered Cimon, whom he had in prison with his men, and it occurred to him that he could not possibly have a better or more trusty associate in such an enterprise than Cimon. Wherefore the same night he caused Cimon to be brought privily to him in his own room, and thus addressed him:--"Cimon, as the gods are most generous and liberal to bestow their gifts on men, so are they also most sagacious to try their virtue; and those whom they find to be firm and steadfast in all circumstances they honour, as the most worthy, with the highest rewards. They have been minded to be certified of thy worth by better proofs than thou couldst afford them, as long as thy life was bounded by thy father's house amid the superabundant wealth which I know him to possess: wherefore in the first place they so wrought upon thee with the shrewd incitements of Love that from an insensate brute, as I have heard, thou grewest to be a man; since when, it has been and is their intent to try whether evil fortune and harsh imprisonment may avail to change thee from the temper that was thine when for a short while thou hadst joyance of the prize thou hadst won. And so thou prove the same that thou wast then, they have in store for thee a boon incomparably greater than aught that they vouchsafed thee before: what that boon is, to the end thou mayst recover heart and thy wonted energies, I will now explain to thee. Pasimondas, exultant in thy misfortune and eager to compass thy death, hastens to the best of his power his nuptials with thy Iphigenia; that so he may enjoy the prize that Fortune, erstwhile smiling, gave thee, and forthwith, frowning, reft from thee. Whereat how sore must be thy grief, if rightly I gauge thy love, I know by my own case, seeing that his brother Hormisdas addresses himself to do me on the same day a like wrong in regard of Cassandra, whom I love more than aught else in the world. Nor see I that Fortune has left us any way of escape from this her unjust and cruel spite, save what we may make for ourselves by a resolved spirit and the might of our right hands: take we then the sword, and therewith make we, each, prize of his lady, thou for the second, I for the first time: for so thou value the recovery, I say not of thy liberty, for without thy lady I doubt thou wouldst hold it cheap, but of thy lady, the gods have placed it in thine own hands, if thou art but minded to join me in my enterprise." These words restored to Cimon all that he had lost of heart and hope, nor pondered he long, before he replied:--"Lysimachus, comrade stouter or more staunch than I thou mightst not have in such an enterprise, if such indeed it be as thou sayst: wherefore lay upon me such behest as thou shalt deem meet, and thou shalt marvel to witness the vigour of my performance." Whereupon Lysimachus:--"On the third day from now," quoth he, "their husbands' houses will be newly entered by the brides, and on the same day at even we too will enter them in arms, thou with thy men, and I with some of mine, in whom I place great trust, and forcing our way among the guests and slaughtering all that dare to oppose us, will bear the ladies off to a ship which I have had privily got ready." Cimon approved the plan, and kept quiet in prison until the appointed time; which being come, the nuptials were celebrated with great pomp and magnificence, that filled the houses of the two brothers with festal cheer. Then Lysimachus having made ready all things meet, and fired Cimon and his men and his own friends for the enterprise by a long harangue, disposed them in due time, all bearing arms under their cloaks, in three companies; and having privily despatched one company to the port, that, when the time should come to embark, he might meet with no let, he marched with the other two companies to the house of Pasimondas, posted the one company at the gate, that, being entered, they might not be shut in or debarred their egress, and, with the other company and Cimon, ascended the stairs, and gained the saloon, where the brides and not a few other ladies were set at several tables to sup in meet order: whereupon in they rushed, and overthrew the tables and seized each his own lady, and placed them in charge of their men, whom they bade bear them off forthwith to the ship that lay ready to receive them. Whereupon the brides and the other ladies and the servants with one accord fell a sobbing and shrieking, insomuch that a confused din and lamentation filled the whole place. Cimon, Lysimachus and their band, none withstanding, but all giving way before them, gained the stairs, which they were already descending when they encountered Pasimondas, who, carrying a great staff in his hand, was making in the direction of the noise; but one doughty stroke of Cimon's sword sufficed to cleave his skull in twain, and lay him dead at Cimon's feet, and another stroke disposed of hapless Hormisdas, as he came running to his brother's aid. Some others who ventured to approach them were wounded and beaten off by the retinue. So forth of the house, that reeked with blood and resounded with tumult and lamentation and woe, sped Simon and Lysimachus with all their company, and without any let, in close order, with their fair booty in their midst, made good their retreat to the ship; whereon with the ladies they one and all embarked, for the shore was now full of armed men come to rescue the ladies, and, the oarsmen giving way, put to sea elate. Arrived at Crete, they met with a hearty welcome on the part of their many friends and kinsfolk; and, having married their ladies, they made greatly merry, and had gladsome joyance of their fair booty. Their doings occasioned, both in Cyprus and in Rhodes, no small stir and commotion, which lasted for a long while: but in the end, by the good offices of their friends and kinsfolk in both islands, 'twas so ordered as that after a certain term of exile Cimon returned with Iphigenia to Cyprus, and in like manner Lysimachus returned with Cassandra to Rhodes; and long and blithely thereafter lived they, each well contented with his own wife in his own land. (1) One of the augmentative forms of bestia. NOVEL II. -- Gostanza loves Martuccio Gomito, and hearing that he is dead, gives way to despair, and hies her alone aboard a boat, which is wafted by the wind to Susa. She finds him alive in Tunis, and makes herself known to him, who, having by his counsel gained high place in the king's favour, marries her, and returns with her wealthy to Lipari. -- Pamfilo's story being ended, the queen, after commending it not a little, called for one to follow from Emilia; who thus began:-- Meet and right it is that one should rejoice when events so fall out that passion meets with its due reward: and as love merits in the long run rather joy than suffering, far gladlier obey I the queen's than I did the king's behest, and address myself to our present theme. You are to know then, dainty ladies, that not far from Sicily there is an islet called Lipari, in which, no great while ago, there dwelt a damsel, Gostanza by name, fair as fair could be, and of one of the most honourable families in the island. And one Martuccio Gomito, who was also of the island, a young man most gallant and courteous, and worthy for his condition, became enamoured of Gostanza; who in like manner grew so afire for him that she was ever ill at ease, except she saw him. Martuccio, craving her to wife, asked her of her father, who made answer that, Martuccio being poor, he was not minded to give her to him. Mortified to be thus rejected by reason of poverty, Martuccio took an oath in presence of some of his friends and kinsfolk that Lipari should know him no more, until he was wealthy. So away he sailed, and took to scouring the seas as a rover on the coast of Barbary, preying upon all whose force matched not his own. In which way of life he found Fortune favourable enough, had he but known how to rest and be thankful: but 'twas not enough that he and his comrades in no long time waxed very wealthy; their covetousness was inordinate, and, while they sought to gratify it, they chanced in an encounter with certain Saracen ships to be taken after a long defence, and despoiled, and, most part of them, thrown into the sea by their captors, who, after sinking his ship, took Martuccio with them to Tunis, and clapped him in prison, and there kept him a long time in a very sad plight. Meanwhile, not by one or two, but by divers and not a few persons, tidings reached Lipari that all that were with Martuccio aboard his bark had perished in the sea. The damsel, whose grief on Martuccio's departure had known no bounds, now hearing that he was dead with the rest, wept a great while, and made up her mind to have done with life; but, lacking the resolution to lay violent hands upon herself, she bethought her how she might devote herself to death by some novel expedient. So one night she stole out of her father's house, and hied her to the port, and there by chance she found, lying a little apart from the other craft, a fishing boat, which, as the owners had but just quitted her, was still equipped with mast and sails and oars. Aboard which boat she forthwith got, and being, like most of the women of the island, not altogether without nautical skill, she rowed some distance out to sea, and then hoisted sail, and cast away oars and tiller, and let the boat drift, deeming that a boat without lading or steersman would certainly be either capsized by the wind or dashed against some rock and broken in pieces, so that escape she could not, even if she would, but must perforce drown. And so, her head wrapped in a mantle, she stretched herself weeping on the floor of the boat. But it fell out quite otherwise than she had conjectured: for, the wind being from the north, and very equable, with next to no sea, the boat kept an even keel, and next day about vespers bore her to land hard by a city called Susa, full a hundred miles beyond Tunis. To the damsel 'twas all one whether she were at sea or ashore, for, since she had been aboard, she had never once raised, nor, come what might, meant she ever to raise, her head. Now it so chanced, that, when the boat grounded, there was on the shore a poor woman that was in the employ of some fishermen, whose nets she was just taking out of the sunlight. Seeing the boat under full sail, she marvelled how it should be suffered to drive ashore, and conjectured that the fishermen on board were asleep. So to the boat she hied her, and finding therein only the damsel fast asleep, she called her many times, and at length awakened her; and perceiving by her dress that she was a Christian, she asked her in Latin how it was that she was come thither all alone in the boat. Hearing the Latin speech, the damsel wondered whether the wind had not shifted, and carried her back to Lipari: so up she started, gazed about her, and finding herself ashore and the aspect of the country strange, asked the good woman where she was. To which the good woman made answer:--"My daughter, thou art hard by Susa in Barbary." Whereupon the damsel, sorrowful that God had not seen fit to accord her the boon of death, apprehensive of dishonour, and at her wits' end, sat herself down at the foot of her boat, and burst into tears. Which the good woman saw not without pity, and persuaded her to come with her into her hut, and there by coaxing drew from her how she was come thither; and knowing that she could not but be fasting, she set before her her own coarse bread and some fish and water, and prevailed upon her to eat a little. Gostanza thereupon asked her, who she was that thus spoke Latin; whereto she answered that her name was Carapresa, and that she was from Trapani, where she had served some Christian fishermen. To the damsel, sad indeed though she was, this name Carapresa, wherefore she knew not, seemed to be of happy augury, so that she began to take hope, she knew not why, and to grow somewhat less fain of death: wherefore without disclosing who or whence she was, she earnestly besought the good woman for the love of God to have pity on her youth, and advise her how best to avoid insult. Whereupon Carapresa, good woman that she was, left her in her hut, while with all speed she picked up her nets; and on her return she wrapped her in her own mantle, and led her to Susa. Arrived there, she said to her:--"Gostanza, I shall bring thee to the house of an excellent Saracen lady, for whom I frequently do bits of work, as she has occasion: she is an old lady and compassionate: I will commend thee to her care as best I may, and I doubt not she will right gladly receive thee, and entreat thee as her daughter: and thou wilt serve her, and, while thou art with her, do all thou canst to gain her favour, until such time as God may send thee better fortune;" and as she said, so she did. The old lady listened, and then, gazing steadfastly in the damsel's face, shed tears, and taking her hand, kissed her forehead, and led her into the house, where she and some other women dwelt quite by themselves, doing divers kinds of handiwork in silk and palm leaves and leather. Wherein the damsel in a few days acquired some skill, and thenceforth wrought together with them; and rose wondrous high in the favour and good graces of all the ladies, who soon taught her their language. Now while the damsel, mourned at home as lost and dead, dwelt thus at Susa, it so befell that, Mariabdela being then King of Tunis, a young chieftain in Granada, of great power, and backed by mighty allies, gave out that the realm of Tunis belonged to him, and having gathered a vast army, made a descent upon Tunis with intent to expel the King from the realm. Martuccio Gomito, who knew the language of Barbary well, heard the tidings in prison, and learning that the King of Tunis was mustering a mighty host for the defence of his kingdom, said to one of the warders that were in charge of him and his comrades:--"If I might have speech of the King, I am confident that the advice that I should give him would secure him the victory." The warder repeated these words to his chief, who forthwith carried them to the King. Wherefore by the King's command Martuccio was brought before him, and being asked by him what the advice, of which he had spoken, might be, answered on this wise:--"Sire, if in old days, when I was wont to visit this country of yours, I duly observed the manner in which you order your battle, methinks you place your main reliance upon archers; and therefore, if you could contrive that your enemy's supply of arrows should give out and your own continue plentiful, I apprehend that you would win the battle." "Ay indeed," replied the King, "I make no doubt that, could I but accomplish that, I should conquer." "Nay but, Sire," returned Martuccio, "you may do it, if you will. Listen, and I will tell you how. You must fit the bows of your archers with strings much finer than those that are in common use, and match them with arrows, the notches of which will not admit any but these fine strings; and this you must do so secretly that your enemy may not know it, else he will find means to be even with you. Which counsel I give you for the following reason:--When your and your enemy's archers have expended all their arrows, you wot that the enemy will fall to picking up the arrows that your men have shot during the battle, and your men will do the like by the enemy's arrows; but the enemy will not be able to make use of your men's arrows, by reason that their fine notches will not suffice to admit the stout strings, whereas your men will be in the contrary case in regard of the enemy's arrows, for the fine string will very well receive the large-notched arrow, and so your men will have an abundant supply of arrows, while the enemy will be at a loss for them." The King, who lacked not sagacity, appreciated Martuccio's advice, and gave full effect to it; whereby he came out of the war a conqueror, and Martuccio, being raised to the chief place in his favour, waxed rich and powerful. Which matters being bruited throughout the country, it came to the ears of Gostanza that Martuccio Gomito, whom she had long supposed to be dead, was alive; whereby her love for him, some embers of which still lurked in her heart, burst forth again in sudden flame, and gathered strength, and revived her dead hope. Wherefore she frankly told all her case to the good lady with whom she dwelt, saying that she would fain go to Tunis, that her eyes might have assurance of that which the report received by her ears had made them yearn to see. The lady fell heartily in with the girl's desire, and, as if she had been her mother, embarked with her for Tunis, where on their arrival they were honourably received in the house of one of her kinswomen. Carapresa, who had attended her, being sent to discover what she might touching Martuccio, brought back word that he was alive, and high in honour and place. The gentlewoman was minded that none but herself should apprise Martuccio of the arrival of his Gostanza: wherefore she hied her one day to Martuccio, and said:--"Martuccio, there is come to my house a servant of thine from Lipari, who would fain speak with thee here privily, and for that he would not have me trust another, I am come hither myself to deliver his message." Martuccio thanked her, and forthwith hied him with her to her house: where no sooner did the girl see him than she all but died for joy, and carried away by her feelings, fell upon his neck with open arms and embraced him, and, what with sorrow of his past woes and her present happiness, said never a word, but softly wept. Martuccio regarded her for a while in silent wonder; then, heaving a sigh, he said:--"Thou livest then, my Gostanza? Long since I heard that thou wast lost; nor was aught known of thee at home." Which said, he tenderly and with tears embraced her. Gostanza told him all her adventures, and how honourably she had been entreated by the gentlewoman with whom she had dwelt. And so long time they conversed, and then Martuccio parted from her, and hied him back to his lord the King, and told him all, to wit, his own adventures and those of the girl, adding that with his leave he was minded to marry her according to our law. Which matters the King found passing strange; and having called the girl to him, and learned from her that 'twas even as Martuccio had said:--"Well indeed," quoth he, "hast thou won thy husband." Then caused he gifts most ample and excellent to be brought forth, part of which he gave to Gostanza, and part to Martuccio, leaving them entirely to their own devices in regard of one another. Then Martuccio, in terms most honourable, bade farewell to the old lady with whom Gostanza had dwelt, thanking her for the service she had rendered to Gostanza, and giving her presents suited to her condition, and commending her to God, while Gostanza shed many a tear: after which, by leave of the King, they went aboard a light bark, taking with them Carapresa, and, sped by a prosperous breeze, arrived at Lipari, where they were received with such cheer as 'twere vain to attempt to describe. There were Martuccio and Gostanza wedded with all pomp and splendour; and there long time in easeful peace they had joyance of their love. NOVEL III. -- Pietro Boccamazza runs away with Agnolella, and encounters a gang of robbers: the girl takes refuge in a wood, and is guided to a castle. Pietro is taken, but escapes out of the hands of the robbers, and after some adventures arrives at the castle where Agnolella is, marries her, and returns with her to Rome. -- Ended Emilia's story, which none of the company spared to commend, the queen, turning to Elisa, bade her follow suit; and she, with glad obedience, thus began:-- 'Tis a story, sweet ladies, of a woeful night passed by two indiscreet young lovers that I have in mind; but, as thereon ensued not a few days of joy, 'tis not inapposite to our argument, and shall be narrated. 'Tis no long time since at Rome, which, albeit now the tail,(1) was of yore the head, of the world, there dwelt a young man, Pietro Boccamazza by name, a scion of one of the most illustrious of the Roman houses, who became enamoured of a damsel exceeding fair, and amorous withal--her name Agnolella--the daughter of one Gigliuozzo Saullo, a plebeian, but in high repute among the Romans. Nor, loving thus, did Pietro lack the address to inspire in Agnolella a love as ardent as his own. Wherefore, overmastered by his passion, and minded no longer to endure the sore suffering that it caused him, he asked her in marriage. Whereof his kinsfolk were no sooner apprised, than with one accord they came to him and strongly urged him to desist from his purpose: they also gave Gigliuozzo Saullo to understand that he were best to pay no sort of heed to Pietro's words, for that, if he so did, they would never acknowledge him as friend or relative. Thus to see himself debarred of the one way by which he deemed he might attain to his desire, Pietro was ready to die for grief, and, all his kinsfolk notwithstanding, he would have married Gigliuozzo's daughter, had but the father consented. Wherefore at length he made up his mind that, if the girl were willing, nought should stand in the way; and having through a common friend sounded the damsel and found her apt, he brought her to consent to elope with him from Rome. The affair being arranged, Pietro and she took horse betimes one morning, and sallied forth for Anagni, where Pietro had certain friends, in whom he placed much trust; and as they rode, time not serving for full joyance of their love, for they feared pursuit, they held converse thereof, and from time to time exchanged a kiss. Now it so befell, that, the way being none too well known to Pietro, when, perhaps eight miles from Rome, they should have turned to the right, they took instead a leftward road. Whereon when they had ridden but little more than two miles, they found themselves close to a petty castle, whence, so soon as they were observed, there issued some dozen men at arms; and, as they drew near, the damsel, espying them, gave a cry, and said:--"We are attacked, Pietro, let us flee;" and guiding her nag as best she knew towards a great forest, she planted the spurs in his sides, and so, holding on by the saddle-bow, was borne by the goaded creature into the forest at a gallop. Pietro, who had been too engrossed with her face to give due heed to the way, and thus had not been ware, as soon as she, of the approach of the men at arms, was still looking about to see whence they were coming, when they came up with him, and took him prisoner, and forced him to dismount. Then they asked who he was, and, when he told them, they conferred among themselves, saying:--"This is one of the friends of our enemies: what else can we do but relieve him of his nag and of his clothes, and hang him on one of these oaks in scorn of the Orsini?" To which proposal all agreeing, they bade Pietro strip himself: but while, already divining his fate, he was so doing, an ambuscade of full five-and-twenty men at arms fell suddenly upon them, crying:--"Death, death!" Thus surprised, they let Pietro go, and stood on the defensive; but, seeing that the enemy greatly outnumbered them, they took to their heels, the others giving chase. Whereupon Pietro hastily resumed his clothes, mounted his nag, and fled with all speed in the direction which he had seen the damsel take. But finding no road or path through the forest, nor discerning any trace of a horse's hooves, he was--for that he found not the damsel--albeit he deemed himself safe out of the clutches of his captors and their assailants, the most wretched man alive, and fell a weeping and wandering hither and thither about the forest, uttering Agnolella's name. None answered; but turn back he dared not: so on he went, not knowing whither he went; besides which, he was in mortal dread of the wild beasts that infest the forest, as well on account of himself as of the damsel, whom momently he seemed to see throttled by some bear or wolf. Thus did our unfortunate Pietro spend the whole day, wandering about the forest, making it to resound with his cries of Agnolella's name, and harking at times back, when he thought to go forward; until at last, what with his cries and his tears and his fears and his long fasting, he was so spent that he could go no further. 'Twas then nightfall, and, as he knew not what else to do, he dismounted at the foot of an immense oak, and having tethered his nag to the trunk, climbed up into the branches, lest he should be devoured by the wild beasts during the night. Shortly afterwards the moon rose with a very clear sky, and Pietro, who dared not sleep, lest he should fall, and indeed, had he been secure from that risk, his misery and his anxiety on account of the damsel would not have suffered him to sleep, kept watch, sighing and weeping and cursing his evil luck. Now the damsel, who, as we said before, had fled she knew not whither, allowing her nag to carry her whithersoever he would, strayed so far into the forest that she lost sight of the place where she had entered it, and spent the whole day just as Pietro had done, wandering about the wilderness, pausing from time to time, and weeping, and uttering his name, and bewailing her evil fortune. At last, seeing that 'twas now the vesper hour and Pietro came not, she struck into a path, which the nag followed, until, after riding some two miles, she espied at some distance a cottage, for which she made with all speed, and found there a good man, well stricken in years, with his wife, who was likewise aged. Seeing her ride up alone, they said:--"Daughter, wherefore ridest thou thus alone at this hour in these parts?" Weeping, the damsel made answer that she had lost her companion in the forest, and asked how far might Anagni be from there? "My daughter," returned the good man, "this is not the road to Anagni; 'tis more than twelve miles away." "And how far off," inquired the damsel, "are the nearest houses in which one might find lodging for the night?" "There are none so near," replied the good man, "that thou canst reach them to-day." "Then, so please you," said the damsel, "since go elsewhither I cannot, for God's sake let me pass the night here with you." Whereto the good man made answer:--"Damsel, welcome art thou to tarry the night with us; but still thou art to know that these parts are infested both by day and by night by bands, which, be they friends or be they foes, are alike ill to meet with, and not seldom do much despite and mischief, and if by misadventure one of these bands should visit us while thou wert here, and marking thy youth and beauty should do thee despite and dishonour, we should be unable to afford thee any succour. This we would have thee know, that if it should so come to pass, thou mayst not have cause to reproach us." The damsel heard not the old man's words without dismay; but, seeing that the hour was now late, she answered:--"God, if He be so pleased, will save both you and me from such molestation, and if not, 'tis a much lesser evil to be maltreated by men than to be torn in pieces by the wild beasts in the forest." So saying, she dismounted, and entered the cottage, where, having supped with the poor man and his wife on such humble fare as they had, she laid herself in her clothes beside them in their bed. She slept not, however; for her own evil plight and that of Pietro, for whom she knew not how to augur aught but evil, kept her sighing and weeping all night long. And towards matins she heard a great noise as of men that marched; so up she got and hied her into a large courtyard that was in rear of the cottage, and part of which was covered with a great heap of hay, which she espying, hid herself therein, that, if the men came there, they might not so readily find her. Scarce had she done so than the men, who proved to be a strong company of marauders, were at the door of the cottage, which they forced open; and having entered, and found the damsel's nag, still saddled, they asked who was there. The damsel being out of sight, the good man answered:--"There is none here but my wife and I; but this nag, which has given some one the slip, found his way hither last night, and we housed him, lest he should be devoured by the wolves." "So!" said the chief of the band, "as he has no owner, he will come in very handy for us." Whereupon, in several parties, they ransacked the cottage from top to bottom; and one party went out into the courtyard, where, as they threw aside their lances and targets, it so befell that one of them, not knowing where else to bestow his lance, tossed it into the hay, and was within an ace of killing the damsel that lay hid there, as likewise she of betraying her whereabouts, for the lance all but grazing her left breast, insomuch that the head tore her apparel, she doubted she was wounded, and had given a great shriek, but that, remembering where she was, she refrained for fear. By and by the company cooked them a breakfast of kid's and other meat, and having eaten and drunken, dispersed in divers directions, as their affairs required, taking the girl's nag with them. And when they were gotten some little way off, the good man asked his wife:--"What became of the damsel, our guest of last night, that I have not seen her since we rose?" The good woman answered that she knew not where the damsel was, and went to look for her. The damsel, discovering that the men were gone, came forth of the hay, and the good man, seeing her, was overjoyed that she had not fallen into the hands of the ruffians, and, as day was breaking, said to her:--"Now that day is at hand, we will, so it like thee, escort thee to a castle, some five miles hence, where thou wilt be in safety; but thou must needs go afoot, because these villains, that are but just gone, have taken thy nag with them." The damsel, resigning herself to her loss, besought them for God's sake to take her to the castle: whereupon they set forth, and arrived there about half tierce. Now the castle belonged to one of the Orsini, Liello di Campo di Fiore by name, whose wife, as it chanced, was there. A most kindly and good woman she was, and, recognizing the damsel as soon as she saw her, gave her a hearty welcome and would fain have from her a particular account of how she came there. So the damsel told her the whole story. The lady, to whom Pietro was also known, as being a friend of her husband, was distressed to hear of his misadventure, and being told where he was taken, gave him up for dead. So she said to the damsel:--"Since so it is that thou knowest not how Pietro has fared, thou shalt stay here with me until such time as I may have opportunity to send thee safely back to Rome." Meanwhile Pietro, perched on his oak in as woeful a plight as might be, had espied, when he should have been in his first sleep, a full score of wolves, that, as they prowled, caught sight of the nag, and straightway were upon him on all sides. The horse, as soon as he was ware of their approach, strained on the reins till they snapped, and tried to make good his escape; but, being hemmed in, was brought to bay, and made a long fight of it with his teeth and hooves; but in the end they bore him down and throttled him and forthwith eviscerated him, and, the whole pack falling upon him, devoured him to the bone before they had done with him. Whereat Pietro, who felt that in the nag he had lost a companion and a comfort in his travail, was sorely dismayed, and began to think that he should never get out of the forest. But towards dawn, he, perched there in the oak, almost dead with cold, looking around him as he frequently did, espied about a mile off a huge fire. Wherefore, as soon as 'twas broad day, he got down, not without trepidation, from the oak, and bent his steps towards the fire; and being come to it, he found, gathered about it, a company of shepherds, eating and making merry, who took pity on him and made him welcome. And when he had broken his fast and warmed himself, he told them the mishap that had befallen him, and how it was that he was come there alone, and asked them if there was a farm or castle in those parts, whither he might betake him. The shepherds said that about three miles away there was a castle belonging to Liello di Campo di Fiore, where his lady was then tarrying. Pietro, much comforted, requested to be guided thither by some of their company; whereupon two of them right gladly escorted him. So Pietro arrived at the castle, where he found some that knew him; and while he was endeavouring to set on foot a search for the damsel in the forest, the lady summoned him to her presence, and he, forthwith obeying, and seeing Agnolella with her, was the happiest man that ever was. He yearned till he all but swooned to go and embrace her, but refrained, for bashfulness, in the lady's presence. And overjoyed as he was, the joy of the damsel was no less. The lady received him with great cheer, and though, when she had heard the story of his adventures from his own lips, she chid him not a little for having set at nought the wishes of his kinsfolk; yet, seeing that he was still of the same mind, and that the damsel was also constant, she said to herself:--To what purpose give I myself all this trouble? they love one another, they know one another; they love with equal ardour; their love is honourable, and I doubt not is well pleasing to God, seeing that the one has escaped the gallows and the other the lance, and both the wild beasts: wherefore be it as they would have it. Then, turning to them, she said:--"If 'tis your will to be joined in wedlock as man and wife, mine jumps with it: here shall your nuptials be solemnized and at Liello's charges, and for the rest I will see that your peace is made with your kinsfolk." So in the castle the pair were wedded, Pietro only less blithe than Agnolella, the lady ordering the nuptials as honourably as might be in her mountain-home, and there they had most sweet joyance of the first fruits of their love. So some days they tarried there, and then accompanied by the lady with a strong escort, they took horse and returned to Rome, where, very wroth though she found Pietro's kinsfolk for what he had done, the lady re-established solid peace between him and them; and so at Rome Pietro and Agnolella lived together to a good old age in great tranquillity and happiness. (1) In reference to the forlorn condition of the city while the seat of the papacy was at Avignon, 1308-1377. NOVEL IV. -- Ricciardo Manardi is found by Messer Lizio da Valbona with his daughter, whom he marries, and remains at peace with her father. -- In silence Elisa received the praise bestowed on her story by her fair companions; and then the queen called for a story from Filostrato, who with a laugh began on this wise:--Chidden have I been so often and by so many of you for the sore burden, which I laid upon you, of discourse harsh and meet for tears, that, as some compensation for such annoy, I deem myself bound to tell you somewhat that may cause you to laugh a little: wherefore my story, which will be of the briefest, shall be of a love, the course whereof, save for sighs and a brief passage of fear mingled with shame, ran smooth to a happy consummation. Know then, noble ladies, that 'tis no long time since there dwelt in Romagna a right worthy and courteous knight, Messer Lizio da Valbona by name, who was already verging upon old age, when, as it happened, there was born to him of his wife, Madonna Giacomina, a daughter, who, as she grew up, became the fairest and most debonair of all the girls of those parts, and, for that she was the only daughter left to them, was most dearly loved and cherished by her father and mother, who guarded her with most jealous care, thinking to arrange some great match for her. Now there was frequently in Messer Lizio's house, and much in his company, a fine, lusty young man, one Ricciardo de' Manardi da Brettinoro, whom Messer Lizio and his wife would as little have thought of mistrusting as if he had been their own son: who, now and again taking note of the damsel, that she was very fair and graceful, and in bearing and behaviour most commendable, and of marriageable age, fell vehemently in love with her, which love he was very careful to conceal. The damsel detected it, however, and in like manner plunged headlong into love with him, to Ricciardo's no small satisfaction. Again and again he was on the point of speaking to her, but refrained for fear; at length, however, he summoned up his courage, and seizing his opportunity, thus addressed her:--"Caterina, I implore thee, suffer me not to die for love of thee." Whereto the damsel forthwith responded:--"Nay, God grant that it be not rather that I die for love of thee." Greatly exhilarated and encouraged, Ricciardo made answer:--"'Twill never be by default of mine that thou lackest aught that may pleasure thee; but it rests with thee to find the means to save thy life and mine." Then said the damsel:--"Thou seest, Ricciardo, how closely watched I am, insomuch that I see not how 'twere possible for thee to come to me; but if thou seest aught that I may do without dishonour, speak the word, and I will do it." Ricciardo was silent a while, pondering many matters: then, of a sudden, he said:--"Sweet my Caterina, there is but one way that I can see, to wit, that thou shouldst sleep either on or where thou mightst have access to the terrace by thy father's garden, where, so I but knew that thou wouldst be there at night, I would without fail contrive to meet thee, albeit 'tis very high." "As for my sleeping there," replied Caterina, "I doubt not that it may be managed, if thou art sure that thou canst join me." Ricciardo answered in the affirmative. Whereupon they exchanged a furtive kiss, and parted. On the morrow, it being now towards the close of May, the damsel began complaining to her mother that by reason of the excessive heat she had not been able to get any sleep during the night. "Daughter," said the lady, "what heat was there? Nay, there was no heat at all." "Had you said, 'to my thinking,' mother," rejoined Caterina, "you would perhaps have said sooth; but you should bethink you how much more heat girls have in them than ladies that are advanced in years." "True, my daughter," returned the lady, "but I cannot order that it shall be hot and cold, as thou perchance wouldst like; we must take the weather as we find it, and as the seasons provide it: perchance to-night it will be cooler, and thou wilt sleep better." "God grant it be so," said Caterina, "but 'tis not wonted for the nights to grow cooler as the summer comes on." "What then," said the lady, "wouldst thou have me do?" "With your leave and my father's," answered Caterina, "I should like to have a little bed made up on the terrace by his room and over his garden, where, hearing the nightingales sing, and being in a much cooler place, I should sleep much better than in your room." Whereupon:--"Daughter, be of good cheer," said the mother; "I will speak to thy father, and we will do as he shall decide." So the lady told Messer Lizio what had passed between her and the damsel; but he, being old and perhaps for that reason a little morose, said:--"What nightingale is this, to whose chant she would fain sleep? I will see to it that the cicalas shall yet lull her to sleep." Which speech, coming to Caterina's ears, gave her such offence, that for anger, rather than by reason of the heat, she not only slept not herself that night, but suffered not her mother to sleep, keeping up a perpetual complaint of the great heat. Wherefore her mother hied her in the morning to Messer Lizio, and said to him:--"Sir, you hold your daughter none too dear; what difference can it make to you that she lie on the terrace? She has tossed about all night long by reason of the heat; and besides, can you wonder that she, girl that she is, loves to hear the nightingale sing? Young folk naturally affect their likes." Whereto Messer Lizio made answer:--"Go, make her a bed there to your liking, and set a curtain round it, and let her sleep there, and hear the nightingale sing to her heart's content." Which the damsel no sooner learned, than she had a bed made there with intent to sleep there that same night; wherefore she watched until she saw Ricciardo, whom by a concerted sign she gave to understand what he was to do. Messer Lizio, as soon as he had heard the damsel go to bed, locked a door that led from his room to the terrace, and went to sleep himself. When all was quiet, Ricciardo with the help of a ladder got upon a wall, and standing thereon laid hold of certain toothings of another wall, and not without great exertion and risk, had he fallen, clambered up on to the terrace, where the damsel received him quietly with the heartiest of cheer. Many a kiss they exchanged; and then got them to bed, where well-nigh all night long they had solace and joyance of one another, and made the nightingale sing not a few times. But, brief being the night and great their pleasure, towards dawn, albeit they wist it not, they fell asleep, Caterina's right arm encircling Ricciardo's neck, while with her left hand she held him by that part of his person which your modesty, my ladies, is most averse to name in the company of men. So, peacefully they slept, and were still asleep when day broke and Messer Lizio rose; and calling to mind that his daughter slept on the terrace, softly opened the door, saying to himself:--Let me see what sort of night's rest the nightingale has afforded our Caterina? And having entered, he gently raised the curtain that screened the bed, and saw Ricciardo asleep with her and in her embrace as described, both being quite naked and uncovered; and having taken note of Ricciardo, he went away, and hied him to his lady's room, and called her, saying:--"Up, up, wife, come and see; for thy daughter has fancied the nightingale to such purpose that she has caught him, and holds him in her hand." "How can this be?" said the lady. "Come quickly, and thou shalt see," replied Messer Lizio. So the lady huddled on her clothes, and silently followed Messer Lizio, and when they were come to the bed, and had raised the curtain, Madonna Giacomina saw plainly enough how her daughter had caught, and did hold the nightingale, whose song she had so longed to hear. Whereat the lady, deeming that Ricciardo had played her a cruel trick, would have cried out and upbraided him; but Messer Lizio said to her:--"Wife, as thou valuest my love, say not a word; for in good sooth, seeing that she has caught him, he shall be hers. Ricciardo is a gentleman and wealthy; an alliance with him cannot but be to our advantage: if he would part from me on good terms, he must first marry her, so that the nightingale shall prove to have been put in his own cage and not in that of another." Whereby the lady was reassured, seeing that her husband took the affair so quietly, and that her daughter had had a good night, and was rested, and had caught the nightingale. So she kept silence; nor had they long to wait before Ricciardo awoke; and, seeing that 'twas broad day, deemed that 'twas as much as his life was worth, and aroused Caterina, saying:--"Alas! my soul, what shall we do, now that day has come and surprised me here?" Which question Messer Lizio answered by coming forward, and saying:--"We shall do well." At sight of him Ricciardo felt as if his heart were torn out of his body, and sate up in the bed, and said:--"My lord, I cry you mercy for God's sake. I wot that my disloyalty and delinquency have merited death; wherefore deal with me even as it may seem best to you: however, I pray you, if so it may be, to spare my life, that I die not." "Ricciardo," replied Messer Lizio, "the love I bore thee, and the faith I reposed in thee, merited a better return; but still, as so it is, and youth has seduced thee into such a transgression, redeem thy life, and preserve my honour, by making Caterina thy lawful spouse, that thine, as she has been for this past night, she may remain for the rest of her life. In this way thou mayst secure my peace and thy safety; otherwise commend thy soul to God." Pending this colloquy, Caterina let go the nightingale, and having covered herself, began with many a tear to implore her father to forgive Ricciardo, and Ricciardo to do as Messer Lizio required, that thereby they might securely count upon a long continuance of such nights of delight. But there needed not much supplication; for, what with remorse for the wrong done, and the wish to make amends, and the fear of death, and the desire to escape it, and above all ardent love, and the craving to possess the beloved one, Ricciardo lost no time in making frank avowal of his readiness to do as Messer Lizio would have him. Wherefore Messer Lizio, having borrowed a ring from Madonna Giacomina, Ricciardo did there and then in their presence wed Caterina. Which done, Messer Lizio and the lady took their leave, saying:--"Now rest ye a while; for so perchance 'twere better for you than if ye rose." And so they left the young folks, who forthwith embraced, and not having travelled more than six miles during the night, went two miles further before they rose, and so concluded their first day. When they were risen, Ricciardo and Messer Lizio discussed the matter with more formality; and some days afterwards Ricciardo, as was meet, married the damsel anew in presence of their friends and kinsfolk, and brought her home with great pomp, and celebrated his nuptials with due dignity and splendour. And so for many a year thereafter he lived with her in peace and happiness, and snared the nightingales day and night to his heart's content. NOVEL V. -- Guidotto da Cremona dies leaving a girl to Giacomino da Pavia. She has two lovers in Faenza, to wit, Giannole di Severino and Minghino di Mingole, who fight about her. She is discovered to be Giannole's sister, and is given to Minghino to wife. -- All the ladies laughed so heartily over the story of the nightingale, that, even when Filostrato had finished, they could not control their merriment. However, when the laughter was somewhat abated, the queen said:--"Verily if thou didst yesterday afflict us, to-day thou hast tickled us to such purpose that none of us may justly complain of thee." Then, as the turn had now come round to Neifile, she bade her give them a story. And thus, blithely, Neifile began:--As Filostrato went to Romagna for the matter of his discourse, I too am fain to make a short journey through the same country in what I am about to relate to you. I say, then, that there dwelt of yore in the city of Fano two Lombards, the one ycleped Guidotto da Cremona and the other Giacomino da Pavia, men advanced in life, who, being soldiers, had spent the best part of their youth in feats of arms. Now Guidotto, being at the point of death, and having no son or any friend or kinsman in whom he placed more trust than in Giacomino, left him a girl of about ten years, and all that he had in the world, and so, having given him to know not a little of his affairs, he died. About the same time the city of Faenza, which had long been at war and in a most sorry plight, began to recover some measure of prosperity; and thereupon liberty to return thither on honourable terms was accorded to all that were so minded. Whither, accordingly, Giacomino, who had dwelt there aforetime, and liked the place, returned with all his goods and chattels, taking with him the girl left him by Guidotto, whom he loved and entreated as his daughter. The girl grew up as beautiful a maiden as was to be found in the city; and no less debonair and modest was she than fair. Wherefore she lacked not admirers; but above all two young men, both very gallant and of equal merit, the one Giannole di Severino, the other Minghino di Mingole, affected her with so ardent a passion, that, growing jealous, they came to hate one another with an inordinate hatred. Right gladly would each have espoused her, she being now fifteen years old, but that his kinsmen forbade it; wherefore seeing that neither might have her in an honourable way, each determined to compass his end as best he might. Now Giacomino had in his house an ancient maid, and a man, by name Crivello, a very pleasant and friendly sort of fellow, with whom Giannole grew familiar, and in due time confided to him all his love, praying him to further the attainment of his desire, and promising to reward him handsomely, if he did so. Crivello made answer:--"Thou must know that there is but one way in which I might be of service to thee in this affair: I might contrive that thou shouldst be where she is when Giacomino is gone off to supper; but, were I to presume to say aught to her on thy behalf, she would never listen to me. This, if it please thee, I promise to do for thee, and will be as good as my word; and then thou canst do whatever thou mayst deem most expedient." Giannole said that he asked no more; and so 'twas arranged. Meanwhile Minghino on his part had made friends with the maid, on whom he had so wrought that she had carried several messages to the girl, and had gone far to kindle her to his love, and furthermore had promised to contrive that he should meet her when for any cause Giacomino should be from home in the evening. And so it befell that no long time after these parleys, Giacomino, by Crivello's management, was to go sup at the house of a friend, and by preconcert between Crivello and Giannole, upon signal given, Giannole was to come to Giacomino's house and find the door open. The maid, on her part, witting nought of the understanding between Crivello and Giannole, let Minghino know that Giacomino would not sup at home, and bade him be near the house, so that he might come and enter it on sight of a signal from her. The evening came; neither of the lovers knew aught of what the other was about; but, being suspicious of one another, they came to take possession, each with his own company of armed friends. Minghino, while awaiting the signal, rested with his company in the house of one of his friends hard by the girl's house: Giannole with his company was posted a little farther off. Crivello and the maid, when Giacomino was gone, did each their endeavour to get the other out of the way. Crivello said to the maid:--"How is it thou takest not thyself off to bed, but goest still hither and thither about the house?" And the maid said to Crivello:--"Nay, but why goest thou not after thy master? Thou hast supped; what awaitest thou here?" And so, neither being able to make the other quit the post, Crivello, the hour concerted with Giannole being come, said to himself:--What care I for her? If she will not keep quiet, 'tis like to be the worse for her. Whereupon he gave the signal, and hied him to the door, which he had no sooner opened, than Giannole entered with two of his companions, and finding the girl in the saloon, laid hands on her with intent to carry her off. The girl struggled, and shrieked amain, as did also the maid. Minghino, fearing the noise, hasted to the spot with his companions; and, seeing that the girl was already being borne across the threshold, they drew their swords, and cried out in chorus:--"Ah! Traitors that ye are, ye are all dead men! 'Twill go otherwise than ye think for. What means this force?" Which said, they fell upon them with their swords, while the neighbours, alarmed by the noise, came hurrying forth with lights and arms, and protested that 'twas an outrage, and took Minghino's part. So, after a prolonged struggle, Minghino wrested the girl from Giannole, and set her again in Giacomino's house. Nor were the combatants separated before the officers of the Governor of the city came up and arrested not a few of them; among them Minghino and Giannole and Crivello, whom they marched off to prison. However, peace being restored and Giacomino returned, 'twas with no little chagrin that he heard of the affair; but finding upon investigation that the girl was in no wise culpable, he was somewhat reassured; and determined, lest the like should again happen, to bestow the girl in marriage as soon as might be. On the morrow the kinsfolk of the two lovers, having learned the truth of the matter, and knowing what evil might ensue to the captives, if Giacomino should be minded to take the course which he reasonably might, came and gave him good words, beseeching him to let the kindly feeling, the love, which they believed he bore to them, his suppliants, count for more with him than the wrong that the hare-brained gallants had done him, and on their part and their own offering to make any amend that he might require. Giacomino, who had seen many things in his time, and lacked not sound sense, made answer briefly:--"Gentlemen, were I in my own country, as I am in yours, I hold myself in such sort your friend that nought would I do in this matter, or in any other, save what might be agreeable to you: besides which, I have the more reason to consider your wishes, because 'tis against you yourselves that you have offended, inasmuch as this damsel, whatever many folk may suppose, is neither of Cremona nor of Pavia, but is of Faenza, albeit neither I nor she, nor he from whom I had her, did ever wot whose daughter she was: wherefore, touching that you ask of me, I will even do just as you bid me." The worthy men found it passing strange that the girl should be of Faenza; and having thanked Giacomino for his handsome answer, they besought him that he would be pleased to tell them how she had come into his hands, and how he knew that she was of Faenza. To whom Giacomino replied on this wise:--"A comrade and friend I had, Guidotto da Cremona, who, being at the point of death, told me that, when this city of Faenza was taken by the Emperor Frederic, he and his comrades, entering one of the houses during the sack, found there good store of booty, and never a soul save this girl, who, being two years old or thereabouts, greeted him as father as he came up the stairs; wherefore he took pity on her, and carried her with whatever else was in the house away with him to Fano; where on his deathbed he left her to me, charging me in due time to bestow her in marriage, and give her all his goods and chattels by way of dowry: but, albeit she is now of marriageable age, I have not been able to provide her with a husband to my mind; though right glad should I be to do so, that nought like the event of yesterday may again befall me." Now among the rest of those present was one Guglielmo da Medicina, who had been with Guidotto on that occasion, and knew well whose house it was that Guidotto had sacked; and seeing the owner there among the rest, he went up to him, and said:--"Dost hear, Bernabuccio, what Giacomino says?" "Ay," answered Bernabuccio, "and I gave the more heed thereto, for that I call to mind that during those disorders I lost a little daughter of just the age that Giacomino speaks of." "'Tis verily she then," said Guglielmo, "for once when I was with Guidotto I heard him describe what house it was that he had sacked, and I wist that 'twas thine. Wherefore search thy memory if there be any sign by which thou thinkest to recognize her, and let her be examined that thou mayst be assured that she is thy daughter." So Bernabuccio pondered a while, and then recollected that she ought to have a scar, shewing like a tiny cross, above her left ear, being where he had excised a tumour a little while before that affair: wherefore without delay he went up to Giacomino, who was still there, and besought him to let him go home with him and see the damsel. Giacomino gladly did so, and no sooner was the girl brought into Bernabuccio's presence, than, as he beheld her, 'twas as if he saw the face of her mother, who was still a beautiful woman. However, he would not rest there, but besought Giacomino of his grace to permit him to lift a lock or two of hair above her left ear; whereto Giacomino consented. So Bernabuccio approached her where she stood somewhat shamefast, and with his right hand lifted her locks, and, seeing the cross, wist that in very truth she was his daughter, and tenderly wept and embraced her, albeit she withstood him; and then, turning to Giacomino, he said:--"My brother, the girl is my daughter; 'twas my house that Guidotto sacked, and so sudden was the assault that my wife, her mother, forgot her, and we have always hitherto supposed, that, my house being burned that same day, she perished in the flames." Catching his words, and seeing that he was advanced in years, the girl inclined to believe him, and impelled by some occult instinct, suffered his embraces, and melting, mingled her tears with his. Bernabuccio forthwith sent for her mother and her sisters and other kinswomen and her brothers, and having shewn her to them all, and told the story, after they had done her great cheer and embraced her a thousand times, to Giacomino's no small delight, he brought her home with him. Which coming to the ears of the Governor of the city, the worthy man, knowing that Giannole, whom he had in ward, was Bernabuccio's son and the girl's brother, made up his mind to deal leniently with Giannole: wherefore he took upon himself the part of mediator in the affair, and having made peace between Bernabuccio and Giacomino and Giannole and Minghino, gave Agnesa--such was the damsel's name--to Minghino to wife, to the great delight of all Minghino's kinsfolk, and set at liberty not only Giannole and Minghino but Crivello, and the others their confederates in the affair. Whereupon Minghino with the blithest of hearts wedded Agnesa with all due pomp and circumstance, and brought her home, where for many a year thereafter he lived with her in peace and prosperity. NOVEL VI. -- Gianni di Procida, being found with a damsel that he loves, and who had been given to King Frederic, is bound with her to a stake, so to be burned. He is recognized by Ruggieri dell' Oria, is delivered, and marries her. -- Neifile's story, with which the ladies were greatly delighted, being ended, the queen called for one from Pampinea; who forthwith raised her noble countenance, and thus began:--Mighty indeed, gracious ladies, are the forces of Love, and great are the labours and excessive and unthought of the perils which they induce lovers to brave; as is manifest enough by what we have heard to-day and on other occasions: howbeit I mean to shew you the same once more by a story of an enamoured youth. Hard by Naples is the island of Ischia, in which there dwelt aforetime with other young damsels one, Restituta by name, daughter of one Marin Bolgaro, a gentleman of the island. Very fair was she, and blithe of heart, and by a young gallant, Gianni by name, of the neighbouring islet of Procida, was beloved more dearly than life, and in like measure returned his love. Now, not to mention his daily resort to Ischia to see her, there were times not a few when Gianni, not being able to come by a boat, would swim across from Procida by night, that he might have sight, if of nought else, at least of the walls of her house. And while their love burned thus fervently, it so befell that one summer's day, as the damsel was all alone on the seashore, picking her way from rock to rock, detaching, as she went, shells from their beds with a knife, she came to a recess among the rocks, where for the sake, as well of the shade as of the comfort afforded by a spring of most cool water that was there, some Sicilian gallants, that were come from Naples, had put in with their felucca. Who, having taken note of the damsel, that she was very fair, and that she was not yet ware of them, and was alone, resolved to capture her, and carry her away; nor did they fail to give effect to their resolve; but, albeit she shrieked amain, they laid hands on her, and set her aboard their boat, and put to sea. Arrived at Calabria, they fell a wrangling as to whose the damsel should be, and in brief each claimed her for his own: wherefore, finding no means of coming to an agreement, and fearing that worse might befall them, and she bring misfortune upon them, they resolved with one accord to give her to Frederic, King of Sicily, who was then a young man, and took no small delight in commodities of that quality; and so, being come to Palermo, they did. Marking her beauty, the King set great store by her; but as she was somewhat indisposed, he commanded that, till she was stronger, she should be lodged and tended in a very pretty villa that was in one of his gardens, which he called Cuba; and so 'twas done. The purloining of the damsel caused no small stir in Ischia, more especially because 'twas impossible to discover by whom she had been carried off. But Gianni, more concerned than any other, despairing of finding her in Ischia, and being apprised of the course the felucca had taken, equipped one himself, and put to sea, and in hot haste scoured the whole coast from Minerva to Scalea in Calabria, making everywhere diligent search for the damsel, and in Scalea learned that she had been taken by Sicilian mariners to Palermo. Whither, accordingly, he hied him with all speed; and there after long search discovering that she had been given to the King, who kept her at Cuba, he was sore troubled, insomuch that he now scarce ventured to hope that he should ever set eyes on her, not to speak of having her for his own, again. But still, holden by Love, and seeing that none there knew him, he sent the felucca away, and tarried there, and frequently passing by Cuba, he chanced one day to catch sight of her at a window, and was seen of her, to their great mutual satisfaction. And Gianni, taking note that the place was lonely, made up to her, and had such speech of her as he might, and being taught by her after what fashion he must proceed, if he would have further speech of her, he departed, but not till he had made himself thoroughly acquainted with the configuration of the place; and having waited until night was come and indeed far spent, he returned thither, and though the ascent was such that 'twould scarce have afforded lodgment to a woodpecker, won his way up and entered the garden, where, finding a pole, he set it against the window which the damsel had pointed out as hers, and thereby swarmed up easily enough. The damsel had aforetime shewn herself somewhat distant towards him, being careful of her honour, but now deeming it already lost, she had bethought her that there was none to whom she might more worthily give herself than to him; and reckoning upon inducing him to carry her off, she had made up her mind to gratify his every desire; and to that end had left the window open that his ingress might be unimpeded. So, finding it open, Gianni softly entered, lay down beside the damsel, who was awake, and before they went further, opened to him all her mind, beseeching him most earnestly to take her thence, and carry her off. Gianni replied that there was nought that would give him so much pleasure, and that without fail, upon leaving her, he would make all needful arrangements for bringing her away when he next came. Whereupon with exceeding great delight they embraced one another, and plucked that boon than which Love has no greater to bestow; and having so done divers times, they unwittingly fell asleep in one another's arms. Now towards daybreak the King, who had been greatly charmed with the damsel at first sight, happened to call her to mind, and feeling himself fit, resolved, notwithstanding the hour, to go lie with her a while; and so, attended by a few of his servants, he hied him privily to Cuba. Having entered the house, he passed (the door being softly opened) into the room in which he knew the damsel slept. A great blazing torch was borne before him, and so, as he bent his glance on the bed, he espied the damsel and Gianni lying asleep, naked and in one another's arms. Whereat he was seized with a sudden and vehement passion of wrath, insomuch that, albeit he said never a word, he could scarce refrain from slaying both of them there and then with a dagger that he had with him. Then, bethinking him that 'twere the depth of baseness in any man--not to say a king--to slay two naked sleepers, he mastered himself, and determined to do them to death in public and by fire. Wherefore, turning to a single companion that he had with him, he said:--"What thinkest thou of this base woman, in whom I had placed my hope?" And then he asked whether he knew the gallant, that had presumed to enter his house to do him such outrage and despite. Whereto the other replied that he minded not ever to have seen him. Thereupon the King hied him out of the room in a rage, and bade take the two lovers, naked as they were, and bind them, and, as soon as 'twas broad day, bring them to Palermo, and bind them back to back to a stake in the piazza, there to remain until tierce, that all might see them, after which they were to be burned, as they had deserved. And having so ordered, he went back to Palermo, and shut himself up in his room, very wroth. No sooner was he gone than there came unto the two lovers folk not a few, who, having awakened them, did forthwith ruthlessly take and bind them: whereat, how they did grieve and tremble for their lives, and weep and bitterly bewail their fate, may readily be understood. Pursuant to the King's commandment they were brought to Palermo, and bound to a stake in the piazza; and before their eyes faggots and fire were made ready to burn them at the hour appointed by the King. Great was the concourse of the folk of Palermo, both men and women, that came to see the two lovers, the men all agog to feast their eyes on the damsel, whom they lauded for shapeliness and loveliness, and no less did the women commend the gallant, whom in like manner they crowded to see, for the same qualities. Meanwhile the two hapless lovers, both exceeding shamefast, stood with bent heads bitterly bewailing their evil fortune, and momently expecting their death by the cruel fire. So they awaited the time appointed by the King; but their offence being bruited abroad, the tidings reached the ears of Ruggieri dell' Oria, a man of peerless worth, and at that time the King's admiral, who, being likewise minded to see them, came to the place where they were bound, and after gazing on the damsel and finding her very fair, turned to look at the gallant, whom with little trouble he recognized, and drawing nearer to him, he asked him if he were Gianni di Procida. Gianni raised his head, and recognizing the admiral, made answer:--"My lord, he, of whom you speak, I was; but I am now as good as no more." The admiral then asked him what it was that had brought him to such a pass. Whereupon:--"Love and the King's wrath," quoth Gianni. The admiral induced him to be more explicit, and having learned from him exactly how it had come about, was turning away, when Gianni called him back, saying:--"Oh! my lord, if so it may be, procure me one favour of him by whose behest I thus stand here." "What favour?" demanded Ruggieri. "I see," returned Gianni, "that die I must, and that right soon. I crave, then, as a favour, that, whereas this damsel and I, that have loved one another more dearly than life, are here set back to back, we may be set face to face, that I may have the consolation of gazing on her face as I depart." Ruggieri laughed as he replied:--"With all my heart. I will so order it that thou shalt see enough of her to tire of her." He then left him and charged the executioners to do nothing more without further order of the King; and being assured of their obedience, he hied him forthwith to the King, to whom, albeit he found him in a wrathful mood, he spared not to speak his mind, saying:--"Sire, wherein have they wronged thee, those two young folk, whom thou hast ordered to be burned down there in the piazza?" The King told him. Whereupon Ruggieri continued:--"Their offence does indeed merit such punishment, but not at thy hands, and if misdeeds should not go unpunished, services should not go unrewarded; nay, may warrant indulgence and mercy. Knowest thou who they are whom thou wouldst have burned?" The King signified that he did not. Whereupon Ruggieri:--"But I," quoth he, "am minded that thou shouldst know them, to the end that thou mayst know with what discretion thou surrenderest thyself to a transport of rage. The young man is the son of Landolfo di Procida, brother of Messer Gianni di Procida, to whom thou owest it that thou art lord and king of this island. The damsel is a daughter of Marin Bolgaro, whose might alone to-day prevents Ischia from throwing off thy yoke. Moreover, these young folk have long been lovers, and 'tis for that the might of Love constrained them, and not that they would do despite to thy lordship, that they have committed this offence, if indeed 'tis meet to call that an offence which young folk do for Love's sake. Wherefore, then, wouldst thou do them to death, when thou shouldst rather do them all cheer, and honour them with lordly gifts?" The King gave ear to Ruggieri's words, and being satisfied that he spoke sooth, repented him, not only of his evil purpose, but of what he had already done, and forthwith gave order to loose the two young folk from the stake, and bring them before him; and so 'twas done. And having fully apprised himself of their case, he saw fit to make them amends of the wrong he had done them with honours and largess. Wherefore he caused them to be splendidly arrayed, and being assured that they were both minded to wed, he himself gave Gianni his bride, and loading them with rich presents, sent them well content back to Ischia, where they were welcomed with all festal cheer, and lived long time thereafter to their mutual solace and delight. NOVEL VII. -- Teodoro, being enamoured of Violante, daughter of Messer Amerigo, his lord, gets her with child, and is sentenced to the gallows; but while he is being scourged thither, he is recognized by his father, and being set at large, takes Violante to wife. -- While they doubted whether the two lovers would be burned, the ladies were all fear and suspense; but when they heard of their deliverance, they all with one accord put on a cheerful countenance, praising God. The story ended, the queen ordained that the next should be told by Lauretta, who blithely thus began:-- Fairest ladies, what time good King Guglielmo ruled Sicily there dwelt on the island a gentleman, Messer Amerigo Abate da Trapani by name, who was well provided, as with other temporal goods, so also with children. For which cause being in need of servants, he took occasion of the appearance in Trapani waters of certain Genoese corsairs from the Levant, who, scouring the coast of Armenia, had captured not a few boys, to purchase of them some of these youngsters, supposing them to be Turks; among whom, albeit most shewed as mere shepherd boys, there was one, Teodoro, by name, whose less rustic mien seemed to betoken gentle blood. Who, though still treated as a slave, was suffered to grow up in the house with Messer Amerigo's children, and, nature getting the better of circumstance, bore himself with such grace and dignity that Messer Amerigo gladly gave him his freedom, and still deeming him to be a Turk, had him baptized and named Pietro, and made him his majordomo, and placed much trust in him. Now among the other children that grew up in Messer Amerigo's house was his fair and dainty daughter, Violante; and, as her father was in no hurry to give her in marriage, it so befell that she became enamoured of Pietro, but, for all her love and the great conceit she had of his qualities and conduct, she nevertheless was too shamefast to discover her passion to him. However, Love spared her the pains, for Pietro had cast many a furtive glance in her direction, and had grown so enamoured of her that 'twas never well with him except he saw her; but great was his fear lest any should detect his passion, for he deemed 'twould be the worse for him. The damsel, who was fain indeed of the sight of him, understood his case; and to encourage him dissembled not her exceeding great satisfaction. On which footing they remained a great while, neither venturing to say aught to the other, much as both longed to do so. But, while they both burned with a mutual flame, Fortune, as if their entanglement were of her preordaining, found means to banish the fear and hesitation that kept them tongue-tied. Messer Amerigo possessed, a mile or so from Trapani, a goodly estate, to which he was wont not seldom to resort with his daughter and other ladies by way of recreation; and on one of these days, while there they tarried with Pietro, whom they had brought with them, suddenly, as will sometimes happen in summer, the sky became overcast with black clouds, insomuch that the lady and her companions, lest the storm should surprise them there, set out on their return to Trapani, making all the haste they might. But Pietro and the girl being young, and sped perchance by Love no less than by fear of the storm, completely outstripped her mother and the other ladies; and when they were gotten so far ahead as to be well-nigh out of sight of the lady and all the rest, the thunder burst upon them peal upon peal, hard upon which came a fall of hail very thick and close, from which the lady sought shelter in the house of a husbandman. Pietro and the damsel, finding no more convenient refuge, betook them to an old, and all but ruinous, and now deserted, cottage, which, however, still had a bit of roof left, whereunder they both took their stand in such close quarters, owing to the exiguity of the shelter, that they perforce touched one another. Which contact was the occasion that they gathered somewhat more courage to disclose their love; and so it was that Pietro began on this wise:--"Now would to God that this hail might never cease, that so I might stay here for ever!" "And well content were I," returned the damsel. And by and by their hands met, not without a tender pressure, and then they fell to embracing and so to kissing one another, while the hail continued. And not to dwell on every detail, the sky was not clear before they had known the last degree of love's felicity, and had taken thought how they might secretly enjoy one another in the future. The cottage being close to the city gate, they hied them thither, as soon as the storm was overpast, and having there awaited the lady, returned home with her. Nor, using all discretion, did they fail thereafter to meet from time to time in secret, to their no small solace; and the affair went so far that the damsel conceived, whereby they were both not a little disconcerted; insomuch that the damsel employed many artifices to arrest the course of nature, but to no effect. Wherefore Pietro, being in fear of his life, saw nothing for it but flight, and told her so. Whereupon:--"If thou leave me," quoth she, "I shall certainly kill myself." Much as he loved her, Pietro answered:--"Nay but, my lady, wherefore wouldst thou have me tarry here? Thy pregnancy will discover our offence: thou wilt be readily forgiven; but 'twill be my woeful lot to bear the penalty of thy sin and mine." "Pietro," returned the damsel, "too well will they wot of my offence, but be sure that, if thou confess not, none will ever wot of thine." Then quoth he:--"Since thou givest me this promise, I will stay; but mind thou keep it." The damsel, who had done her best to keep her condition secret, saw at length by the increase of her bulk that 'twas impossible: wherefore one day most piteously bewailing herself, she made her avowal to her mother, and besought her to shield her from the consequences. Distressed beyond measure, the lady chid her severely, and then asked her how it had come to pass. The damsel, to screen Pietro, invented a story by which she put another complexion on the affair. The lady believed her, and, that her fall might not be discovered, took her off to one of their estates; where, the time of her delivery being come, and she, as women do in such a case, crying out for pain, it so befell that Messer Amerigo, whom the lady expected not, as indeed he was scarce ever wont, to come there, did so, having been out a hawking, and passing by the chamber where the damsel lay, marvelled to hear her cries, and forthwith entered, and asked what it meant. On sight of whom the lady rose and sorrowfully gave him her daughter's version of what had befallen her. But he, less credulous than his wife, averred that it could not be true that she knew not by whom she was pregnant, and was minded to know the whole truth: let the damsel confess and she might regain his favour; otherwise she must expect no mercy and prepare for death. The lady did all she could to induce her husband to rest satisfied with what she had told him; but all to no purpose. Mad with rage, he rushed, drawn sword in hand, to his daughter's bedside (she, pending the parley, having given birth to a boy) and cried out:--"Declare whose this infant is, or forthwith thou diest." Overcome by fear of death, the damsel broke her promise to Pietro, and made a clean breast of all that had passed between him and her. Whereat the knight, grown fell with rage, could scarce refrain from slaying her. However, having given vent to his wrath in such words as it dictated, he remounted his horse and rode to Trapani, and there before one Messer Currado, the King's lieutenant, laid information of the wrong done him by Pietro, in consequence whereof Pietro, who suspected nothing, was forthwith taken, and being put to the torture, confessed all. Some days later the lieutenant sentenced him to be scourged through the city, and then hanged by the neck; and Messer Amerigo, being minded that one and the same hour should rid the earth of the two lovers and their son (for to have compassed Pietro's death was not enough to appease his wrath), mingled poison and wine in a goblet, and gave it to one of his servants with a drawn sword, saying:--"Get thee with this gear to Violante, and tell her from me to make instant choice of one of these two deaths, either the poison or the steel; else, I will have her burned, as she deserves, in view of all the citizens; which done, thou wilt take the boy that she bore a few days ago, and beat his brains out against the wall, and cast his body for a prey to the dogs." Hearing the remorseless doom thus passed by the angry father upon both his daughter and his grandson, the servant, prompt to do evil rather than good, hied him thence. Now, as Pietro in execution of his sentence was being scourged to the gallows by the serjeants, 'twas so ordered by the leaders of the band that he passed by an inn, where were three noblemen of Armenia, sent by the king of that country as ambassadors to Rome, to treat with the Pope of matters of the highest importance, touching a crusade that was to be; who, having there alighted to rest and recreate them for some days, had received not a few tokens of honour from the nobles of Trapani, and most of all from Messer Amerigo. Hearing the tramp of Pietro's escort, they came to a window to see what was toward; and one of them, an aged man, and of great authority, Fineo by name, looking hard at Pietro, who was stripped from the waist up, and had his hands bound behind his back, espied on his breast a great spot of scarlet, not laid on by art, but wrought in the skin by operation of Nature, being such as the ladies here call a rose. Which he no sooner saw, than he was reminded of a son that had been stolen from him by corsairs on the coast of Lazistan some fifteen years before, nor had he since been able to hear tidings of him; and guessing the age of the poor wretch that was being scourged, he set it down as about what his son's would be, were he living, and, what with the mark and the age, he began to suspect that 'twas even his son, and bethought him that, if so, he would scarce as yet have forgotten his name or the speech of Armenia. Wherefore, as he was within earshot he called to him:--"Teodoro!" At the word Pietro raised his head: whereupon Fineo, speaking in Armenian, asked him:--"Whence and whose son art thou?" The serjeants, that were leading him, paused in deference to the great man, and so Pietro answered:--"Of Armenia was I, son of one Fineo, brought hither by folk I wot not of, when I was but a little child." Then Fineo, witting that in very truth 'twas the boy that he had lost, came down with his companions, weeping; and, all the serjeants making way, he ran to him, and embraced him, and doffing a mantle of richest texture that he wore, he prayed the captain of the band to be pleased to tarry there until he should receive orders to go forward, and was answered by the captain that he would willingly so wait. Fineo already knew, for 'twas bruited everywhere, the cause for which Pietro was being led to the gallows; wherefore he straightway hied him with his companions and their retinue to Messer Currado, and said to him:--"Sir, this lad, whom you are sending to the gallows like a slave, is freeborn, and my son, and is ready to take to wife her whom, as 'tis said, he has deflowered; so please you, therefore, delay the execution until such time as it may be understood whether she be minded to have him for husband, lest, should she be so minded, you be found to have broken the law." Messer Currado marvelled to hear that Pietro was Fineo's son, and not without shame, albeit 'twas not his but Fortune's fault, confessed that 'twas even as Fineo said: and having caused Pietro to be taken home with all speed, and Messer Amerigo to be brought before him, told him the whole matter. Messer Amerigo, who supposed that by this time his daughter and grandson must be dead, was the saddest man in the world to think that 'twas by his deed, witting that, were the damsel still alive, all might very easily be set right: however, he sent post haste to his daughter's abode, revoking his orders, if they were not yet carried out. The servant, whom he had earlier despatched, had laid the sword and poison before the damsel, and, for that she was in no hurry to make her choice, was giving her foul words, and endeavouring to constrain her thereto, when the messenger arrived; but on hearing the injunction laid upon him by his lord, he desisted, and went back, and told him how things stood. Whereupon Messer Amerigo, much relieved, hied him to Fineo, and well-nigh weeping, and excusing himself for what had befallen, as best he knew how, craved his pardon, and professed himself well content to give Teodoro, so he were minded to have her, his daughter to wife. Fineo readily accepted his excuses, and made answer:--"'Tis my will that my son espouse your daughter, and, so he will not, let thy sentence passed upon him be carried out." So Fineo and Messer Amerigo being agreed, while Teodoro still languished in fear of death, albeit he was glad at heart to have found his father, they questioned him of his will in regard of this matter. When he heard that, if he would, he might have Violante to wife, Teodoro's delight was such that he seemed to leap from hell to paradise, and said that, if 'twas agreeable to them all, he should deem it the greatest of favours. So they sent to the damsel to learn her pleasure: who, having heard how it had fared, and was now like to fare, with Teodoro, albeit, saddest of women, she looked for nought but death, began at length to give some credence to their words, and to recover heart a little, and answered that, were she to follow the bent of her desire, nought that could happen would delight her more than to be Teodoro's wife; but nevertheless she would do as her father bade her. So, all agreeing, the damsel was espoused with all pomp and festal cheer, to the boundless delight of all the citizens, and was comforted, and nurtured her little boy, and in no long time waxed more beautiful than ever before; and, her confinement being ended, she presented herself before Fineo, who was then about to quit Rome on his homeward journey, and did him such reverence as is due to a father. Fineo, mighty well pleased to have so fair a daughter-in-law, caused celebrate her nuptials most bravely and gaily, and received, and did ever thereafter entreat, her as his daughter. And so he took her, not many days after the festivities were ended, with his son and little grandson, aboard a galley, and brought them to Lazistan, and there thenceforth the two lovers dwelt with him in easeful and lifelong peace. NOVEL VIII. -- Nastagio degli Onesti, loving a damsel of the Traversari family, by lavish expenditure gains not her love. At the instance of his kinsfolk he hies him to Chiassi, where he sees a knight hunt a damsel and slay her and cause her to be devoured by two dogs. He bids his kinsfolk and the lady that he loves to breakfast. During the meal the said damsel is torn in pieces before the eyes of the lady, who, fearing a like fate, takes Nastagio to husband. -- Lauretta was no sooner silent than thus at the queen's behest began Filomena:--Sweet ladies, as in us pity has ever its meed of praise, even so Divine justice suffers not our cruelty to escape severe chastisement: the which that I may shew you, and thereby dispose you utterly to banish that passion from your souls, I am minded to tell you a story no less touching than delightsome. In Ravenna, that most ancient city of Romagna, there dwelt of yore noblemen and gentlemen not a few, among whom was a young man, Nastagio degli Onesti by name, who by the death of his father and one of his uncles inherited immense wealth. Being without a wife, Nastagio, as 'tis the way with young men, became enamoured of a daughter of Messer Paolo Traversaro, a damsel of much higher birth than his, whose love he hoped to win by gifts and the like modes of courting, which, albeit they were excellent and fair and commendable, not only availed him not, but seemed rather to have the contrary effect, so harsh and ruthless and unrelenting did the beloved damsel shew herself towards him; for whether it was her uncommon beauty or her noble lineage that puffed her up, so haughty and disdainful was she grown that pleasure she had none either in him or in aught that pleased him. The burden of which disdain Nastagio found so hard to bear, that many a time, when he had made his moan, he longed to make away with himself. However he refrained therefrom, and many a time resolved to give her up altogether, or, if so he might, to hold her in despite, as she did him: but 'twas all in vain, for it seemed as if, the more his hope dwindled, the greater grew his love. And, as thus he continued, loving and spending inordinately, certain of his kinsfolk and friends, being apprehensive lest he should waste both himself and his substance, did many a time counsel and beseech him to depart Ravenna, and go tarry for a time elsewhere, that so he might at once cool his flame and reduce his charges. For a long while Nastagio answered their admonitions with banter; but as they continued to ply him with them, he grew weary of saying no so often, and promised obedience. Whereupon he equipped himself as if for a journey to France or Spain, or other distant parts, got on horseback and sallied forth of Ravenna, accompanied by not a few of his friends, and being come to a place called Chiassi, about three miles from Ravenna, he halted, and having sent for tents and pavilions, told his companions that there he meant to stay, and they might go back to Ravenna. So Nastagio pitched his camp, and there commenced to live after as fine and lordly a fashion as did ever any man, bidding divers of his friends from time to time to breakfast or sup with him, as he had been wont to do. Now it so befell that about the beginning of May, the season being very fine, he fell a brooding on the cruelty of his mistress, and, that his meditations might be the less disturbed, he bade all his servants leave him, and sauntered slowly, wrapt in thought, as far as the pinewood. Which he had threaded for a good half-mile, when, the fifth hour of the day being well-nigh past, yet he recking neither of food nor of aught else, 'twas as if he heard a woman wailing exceedingly and uttering most piercing shrieks: whereat, the train of his sweet melancholy being broken, he raised his head to see what was toward, and wondered to find himself in the pinewood; and saw, moreover, before him running through a grove, close set with underwood and brambles, towards the place where he was, a damsel most comely, stark naked, her hair dishevelled, and her flesh all torn by the briers and brambles, who wept and cried piteously for mercy; and at her flanks he saw two mastiffs, exceeding great and fierce, that ran hard upon her track, and not seldom came up with her and bit her cruelly; and in the rear he saw, riding a black horse, a knight sadly accoutred, and very wrathful of mien, carrying a rapier in his hand, and with despiteful, blood-curdling words threatening her with death. Whereat he was at once amazed and appalled, and then filled with compassion for the hapless lady, whereof was bred a desire to deliver her, if so he might, from such anguish and peril of death. Wherefore, as he was unarmed, he ran and took in lieu of a cudgel a branch of a tree, with which he prepared to encounter the dogs and the knight. Which the knight observing, called to him before he was come to close quarters, saying:--"Hold off, Nastagio, leave the dogs and me alone to deal with this vile woman as she has deserved." And, even as he spoke, the dogs gripped the damsel so hard on either flank that they arrested her flight, and the knight, being come up, dismounted. Whom Nastagio approached, saying:--"I know not who thou art, that knowest me so well, but thus much I tell thee: 'tis a gross outrage for an armed knight to go about to kill a naked woman, and set his dogs upon her as if she were a wild beast: rest assured that I shall do all I can to protect her." Whereupon:--"Nastagio," replied the knight, "of the same city as thou was I, and thou wast yet a little lad when I, Messer Guido degli Anastagi by name, being far more enamoured of this damsel than thou art now of her of the Traversari, was by her haughtiness and cruelty brought to so woeful a pass that one day in a fit of despair I slew myself with this rapier which thou seest in my hand; for which cause I am condemned to the eternal pains. Nor was it long after my death that she, who exulted therein over measure, also died, and for that she repented her not of her cruelty and the joy she had of my sufferings, for which she took not blame to herself, but merit, was likewise condemned to the pains of hell. Nor had she sooner made her descent, than for her pain and mine 'twas ordained, that she should flee before me, and that I, who so loved her, should pursue her, not as my beloved lady, but as my mortal enemy, and so, as often as I come up with her, I slay her with this same rapier with which I slew myself, and having ripped her up by the back, I take out that hard and cold heart, to which neither love nor pity had ever access, and therewith her other inward parts, as thou shalt forthwith see, and cast them to these dogs to eat. And in no long time, as the just and mighty God decrees, she rises even as if she had not died, and recommences her dolorous flight, I and the dogs pursuing her. And it so falls out that every Friday about this hour I here come up with her, and slaughter her as thou shalt see; but ween not that we rest on other days; for there are other places in which I overtake her, places in which she used, or devised how she might use, me cruelly; on which wise, changed as thou seest from her lover into her foe, I am to pursue her for years as many as the months during which she shewed herself harsh to me. Wherefore leave me to execute the decree of the Divine justice, and presume not to oppose that which thou mayst not avail to withstand." Affrighted by the knight's words, insomuch that there was scarce a hair on his head but stood on end, Nastagio shrank back, still gazing on the hapless damsel, and waited all a tremble to see what the knight would do. Nor had he long to wait; for the knight, as soon as he had done speaking, sprang, rapier in hand, like a mad dog upon the damsel, who, kneeling, while the two mastiffs gripped her tightly, cried him mercy; but the knight, thrusting with all his force, struck her between the breasts, and ran her clean through the body. Thus stricken, the damsel fell forthwith prone on the ground sobbing and shrieking: whereupon the knight drew forth a knife, and having therewith opened her in the back, took out the heart and all the circumjacent parts, and threw them to the two mastiffs, who, being famished, forthwith devoured them. And in no long time the damsel, as if nought thereof had happened, started to her feet, and took to flight towards the sea, pursued, and ever and anon bitten, by the dogs, while the knight, having gotten him to horse again, followed them as before, rapier in hand; and so fast sped they that they were quickly lost to Nastagio's sight. Long time he stood musing on what he had seen, divided between pity and terror, and then it occurred to him that, as this passed every Friday, it might avail him not a little. So, having marked the place, he rejoined his servants, and in due time thereafter sent for some of his kinsfolk and friends, and said to them:--"'Tis now a long while that you urge me to give up loving this lady that is no friend to me, and therewith make an end of my extravagant way of living; and I am now ready so to do, provided you procure me one favour, to wit, that next Friday Messer Paolo Traversaro, and his wife and daughter, and all the ladies, their kinswomen, and as many other ladies as you may be pleased to bid, come hither to breakfast with me: when you will see for yourselves the reason why I so desire." A small matter this seemed to them; and so, on their return to Ravenna, they lost no time in conveying Nastagio's message to his intended guests: and, albeit she was hardly persuaded, yet in the end the damsel that Nastagio loved came with the rest. Nastagio caused a lordly breakfast to be prepared, and had the tables set under the pines about the place where he had witnessed the slaughter of the cruel lady; and in ranging the ladies and gentlemen at table he so ordered it, that the damsel whom he loved was placed opposite the spot where it should be enacted. The last course was just served, when the despairing cries of the hunted damsel became audible to all, to their no small amazement; and each asking, and none knowing, what it might import, up they all started intent to see what was toward; and perceived the suffering damsel, and the knight and the dogs, who in a trice were in their midst. They hollaed amain to dogs and knight, and not a few advanced to succour the damsel: but the words of the knight, which were such as he had used to Nastagio, caused them to fall back, terror-stricken and lost in amazement. And when the knight proceeded to do as he had done before, all the ladies that were there, many of whom were of kin to the suffering damsel and to the knight, and called to mind his love and death, wept as bitterly as if 'twere their own case. When 'twas all over, and the lady and the knight had disappeared, the strange scene set those that witnessed it pondering many and divers matters: but among them all none was so appalled as the cruel damsel that Nastagio loved, who, having clearly seen and heard all that had passed, and being ware that it touched her more nearly than any other by reason of the harshness that she had ever shewn to Nastagio, seemed already to be fleeing from her angered lover, and to have the mastiffs on her flanks. And so great was her terror that, lest a like fate should befall her, she converted her aversion into affection, and as soon as occasion served, which was that very night, sent a trusty chambermaid privily to Nastagio with a request that he would be pleased to come to her, for that she was ready in all respects to pleasure him to the full. Nastagio made answer that he was greatly flattered, but that he was minded with her consent to have his pleasure of her in an honourable way, to wit, by marrying her. The damsel, who knew that none but herself was to blame that she was not already Nastagio's wife, made answer that she consented. Wherefore by her own mouth she acquainted her father and mother that she agreed to marry Nastagio; and, they heartily approving her choice, Nastagio wedded her on the ensuing Sunday, and lived happily with her many a year. Nor was it in her instance alone that this terror was productive of good: on the contrary, it so wrought among the ladies of Ravenna that they all became, and have ever since been, much more compliant with men's desires than they had been wont to be. NOVEL IX. -- Federigo degli Alberighi loves and is not loved in return: he wastes his substance by lavishness until nought is left but a single falcon, which, his lady being come to see him at his house, he gives her to eat: she, knowing his case, changes her mind, takes him to husband and makes him rich. -- So ended Filomena; and the queen, being ware that besides herself only Dioneo (by virtue of his privilege) was left to speak, said with gladsome mien:--'Tis now for me to take up my parable; which, dearest ladies, I will do with a story like in some degree to the foregoing, and that, not only that you may know how potent are your charms to sway the gentle heart, but that you may also learn how upon fitting occasions to make bestowal of your guerdons of your own accord, instead of always waiting for the guidance of Fortune, which most times, not wisely, but without rule or measure, scatters her gifts. You are then to know, that Coppo di Borghese Domenichi, a man that in our day was, and perchance still is, had in respect and great reverence in our city, being not only by reason of his noble lineage, but, and yet more, for manners and merit most illustrious and worthy of eternal renown, was in his old age not seldom wont to amuse himself by discoursing of things past with his neighbours and other folk; wherein he had not his match for accuracy and compass of memory and concinnity of speech. Among other good stories, he would tell, how that there was of yore in Florence a gallant named Federigo di Messer Filippo Alberighi, who for feats of arms and courtesy had not his peer in Tuscany; who, as is the common lot of gentlemen, became enamoured of a lady named Monna Giovanna, who in her day held rank among the fairest and most elegant ladies of Florence; to gain whose love he jousted, tilted, gave entertainments, scattered largess, and in short set no bounds to his expenditure. However the lady, no less virtuous than fair, cared not a jot for what he did for her sake, nor yet for him. Spending thus greatly beyond his means, and making nothing, Federigo could hardly fail to come to lack, and was at length reduced to such poverty that he had nothing left but a little estate, on the rents of which he lived very straitly, and a single falcon, the best in the world. The estate was at Campi, and thither, deeming it no longer possible for him to live in the city as he desired, he repaired, more in love than ever before; and there, in complete seclusion, diverting himself with hawking, he bore his poverty as patiently as he might. Now, Federigo being thus reduced to extreme poverty, it so happened that one day Monna Giovanna's husband, who was very rich, fell ill, and, seeing that he was nearing his end, made his will, whereby he left his estate to his son, who was now growing up, and in the event of his death without lawful heir named Monna Giovanna, whom he dearly loved, heir in his stead; and having made these dispositions he died. Monna Giovanna, being thus left a widow, did as our ladies are wont, and repaired in the summer to one of her estates in the country which lay very near to that of Federigo. And so it befell that the urchin began to make friends with Federigo, and to shew a fondness for hawks and dogs, and having seen Federigo's falcon fly not a few times, took a singular fancy to him, and greatly longed to have him for his own, but still did not dare to ask him of Federigo, knowing that Federigo prized him so much. So the matter stood when by chance the boy fell sick; whereby the mother was sore distressed, for he was her only son, and she loved him as much as might be, insomuch that all day long she was beside him, and ceased not to comfort him, and again and again asked him if there were aught that he wished for, imploring him to say the word, and, if it might by any means be had, she would assuredly do her utmost to procure it for him. Thus repeatedly exhorted, the boy said:--"Mother mine, do but get me Federigo's falcon, and I doubt not I shall soon be well." Whereupon the lady was silent a while, bethinking her what she should do. She knew that Federigo had long loved her, and had never had so much as a single kind look from her: wherefore she said to herself:--How can I send or go to beg of him this falcon, which by what I hear is the best that ever flew, and moreover is his sole comfort? And how could I be so unfeeling as to seek to deprive a gentleman of the one solace that is now left him? And so, albeit she very well knew that she might have the falcon for the asking, she was perplexed, and knew not what to say, and gave her son no answer. At length, however, the love she bore the boy carried the day, and she made up her mind, for his contentment, come what might, not to send, but to go herself and fetch him the falcon. So:--"Be of good cheer, my son," she said, "and doubt not thou wilt soon be well; for I promise thee that the very first thing that I shall do tomorrow morning will be to go and fetch thee the falcon." Whereat the child was so pleased that he began to mend that very day. On the morrow the lady, as if for pleasure, hied her with another lady to Federigo's little house, and asked to see him. 'Twas still, as for some days past, no weather for hawking, and Federigo was in his garden, busy about some small matters which needed to be set right there. When he heard that Monna Giovanna was at the door, asking to see him, he was not a little surprised and pleased, and hied him to her with all speed. As soon as she saw him, she came forward to meet him with womanly grace, and having received his respectful salutation, said to him:--"Good morrow, Federigo," and continued:--"I am come to requite thee for what thou hast lost by loving me more than thou shouldst: which compensation is this, that I and this lady that accompanies me will breakfast with thee without ceremony this morning." "Madam," Federigo replied with all humility, "I mind not ever to have lost aught by loving you, but rather to have been so much profited that, if I ever deserved well in aught, 'twas to your merit that I owed it, and to the love that I bore you. And of a surety had I still as much to spend as I have spent in the past, I should not prize it so much as this visit you so frankly pay me, come as you are to one who can afford you but a sorry sort of hospitality." Which said, with some confusion, he bade her welcome to his house, and then led her into his garden, where, having none else to present to her by way of companion, he said:--"Madam, as there is none other here, this good woman, wife of this husbandman, will bear you company, while I go to have the table set." Now, albeit his poverty was extreme, yet he had not known as yet how sore was the need to which his extravagance had reduced him; but this morning 'twas brought home to him, for that he could find nought wherewith to do honour to the lady, for love of whom he had done the honours of his house to men without number: wherefore, distressed beyond measure, and inwardly cursing his evil fortune, he sped hither and thither like one beside himself, but never a coin found he, nor yet aught to pledge. Meanwhile it grew late, and sorely he longed that the lady might not leave his house altogether unhonoured, and yet to crave help of his own husbandman was more than his pride could brook. In these desperate straits his glance happened to fall on his brave falcon on his perch in his little parlour. And so, as a last resource, he took him, and finding him plump, deemed that he would make a dish meet for such a lady. Wherefore, without thinking twice about it, he wrung the bird's neck, and caused his maid forthwith pluck him and set him on a spit, and roast him carefully; and having still some spotless table linen, he had the table laid therewith, and with a cheerful countenance hied him back to his lady in the garden, and told her that such breakfast as he could give her was ready. So the lady and her companion rose and came to table, and there, with Federigo, who waited on them most faithfully, ate the brave falcon, knowing not what they ate. When they were risen from table, and had dallied a while in gay converse with him, the lady deemed it time to tell the reason of her visit: wherefore, graciously addressing Federigo, thus began she:--"Federigo, by what thou rememberest of thy past life and my virtue, which, perchance, thou hast deemed harshness and cruelty, I doubt not thou must marvel at my presumption, when thou hearest the main purpose of my visit; but if thou hadst sons, or hadst had them, so that thou mightest know the full force of the love that is borne them, I should make no doubt that thou wouldst hold me in part excused. Nor, having a son, may I, for that thou hast none, claim exemption from the laws to which all other mothers are subject, and, being thus bound to own their sway, I must, though fain were I not, and though 'tis neither meet nor right, crave of thee that which I know thou dost of all things and with justice prize most highly, seeing that this extremity of thy adverse fortune has left thee nought else wherewith to delight, divert and console thee; which gift is no other than thy falcon, on which my boy has so set his heart that, if I bring him it not, I fear lest he grow so much worse of the malady that he has, that thereby it may come to pass that I lose him. And so, not for the love which thou dost bear me, and which may nowise bind thee, but for that nobleness of temper, whereof in courtesy more conspicuously than in aught else thou hast given proof, I implore thee that thou be pleased to give me the bird, that thereby I may say that I have kept my son alive, and thus made him for aye thy debtor." No sooner had Federigo apprehended what the lady wanted, than, for grief that 'twas not in his power to serve her, because he had given her the falcon to eat, he fell a weeping in her presence, before he could so much as utter a word. At first the lady supposed that 'twas only because he was loath to part with the brave falcon that he wept, and as good as made up her mind that he would refuse her: however, she awaited with patience Federigo's answer, which was on this wise:--"Madam, since it pleased God that I should set my affections upon you there have been matters not a few, in which to my sorrow I have deemed Fortune adverse to me; but they have all been trifles in comparison of the trick that she now plays me: the which I shall never forgive her, seeing that you are come here to my poor house, where, while I was rich, you deigned not to come, and ask a trifling favour of me, which she has put it out of my power to grant: how 'tis so, I will briefly tell you. When I learned that you, of your grace, were minded to breakfast with me, having respect to your high dignity and desert, I deemed it due and seemly that in your honour I should regale you, to the best of my power, with fare of a more excellent quality than is commonly set before others; and, calling to mind the falcon which you now ask of me, and his excellence, I judged him meet food for you, and so you have had him roasted on the trencher this morning; and well indeed I thought I had bestowed him; but, as now I see that you would fain have had him in another guise, so mortified am I that I am not able to serve you, that I doubt I shall never know peace of mind more." In witness whereof he had the feathers and feet and beak of the bird brought in and laid before her. The first thing the lady did, when she had heard Federigo's story, and seen the relics of the bird, was to chide him that he had killed so fine a falcon to furnish a woman with a breakfast; after which the magnanimity of her host, which poverty had been and was powerless to impair, elicited no small share of inward commendation. Then, frustrate of her hope of possessing the falcon, and doubting of her son's recovery, she took her leave with the heaviest of hearts, and hied her back to the boy: who, whether for fretting, that he might not have the falcon, or by the unaided energy of his disorder, departed this life not many days after, to the exceeding great grief of his mother. For a while she would do nought but weep and bitterly bewail herself; but being still young, and left very wealthy, she was often urged by her brothers to marry again, and though she would rather have not done so, yet being importuned, and remembering Federigo's high desert, and the magnificent generosity with which he had finally killed his falcon to do her honour, she said to her brothers:--"Gladly, with your consent, would I remain a widow, but if you will not be satisfied except I take a husband, rest assured that none other will I ever take save Federigo degli Alberighi." Whereupon her brothers derided her, saying:--"Foolish woman, what is't thou sayst? How shouldst thou want Federigo, who has not a thing in the world?" To whom she answered:--"My brothers, well wot I that 'tis as you say; but I had rather have a man without wealth than wealth without a man." The brothers, perceiving that her mind was made up, and knowing Federigo for a good man and true, poor though he was, gave her to him with all her wealth. And so Federigo, being mated with such a wife, and one that he had so much loved, and being very wealthy to boot, lived happily, keeping more exact accounts, to the end of his days. NOVEL X. -- Pietro di Vinciolo goes from home to sup: his wife brings a boy into the house to bear her company: Pietro returns, and she hides her gallant under a hen-coop: Pietro explains that in the house of Ercolano, with whom he was to have supped, there was discovered a young man bestowed there by Ercolano's wife: the lady thereupon censures Ercolano's wife: but unluckily an ass treads on the fingers of the boy that is hidden under the hen-coop, so that he cries for pain: Pietro runs to the place, sees him, and apprehends the trick played on him by his wife, which nevertheless he finally condones, for that he is not himself free from blame. -- When the queen had done speaking, and all had praised God that He had worthily rewarded Federigo, Dioneo, who never waited to be bidden, thus began:--I know not whether I am to term it a vice accidental and superinduced by bad habits in us mortals, or whether it be a fault seated in nature, that we are more prone to laugh at things dishonourable than at good deeds, and that more especially when they concern not ourselves. However, as the sole scope of all my efforts has been and still shall be to dispel your melancholy, and in lieu thereof to minister to you laughter and jollity; therefore, enamoured my damsels, albeit the ensuing story is not altogether free from matter that is scarce seemly, yet, as it may afford you pleasure, I shall not fail to relate it; premonishing you my hearers, that you take it with the like discretion as when, going into your gardens, you stretch forth your delicate hands and cull the roses, leaving the thorns alone: which, being interpreted, means that you will leave the caitiff husband to abide in sorry plight with his dishonour, and will gaily laugh at the amorous wiles or his wife, and commiserate her unfortunate gallant, when occasion requires. 'Tis no great while since there dwelt at Perugia a rich man named Pietro di Vinciolo, who rather, perchance, to blind others and mitigate the evil repute in which he was held by the citizens of Perugia, than for any desire to wed, took a wife: and such being his motive, Fortune provided him with just such a spouse as he merited. For the wife of his choice was a stout, red-haired young woman, and so hot-blooded that two husbands would have been more to her mind than one, whereas one fell to her lot that gave her only a subordinate place in his regard. Which she perceiving, while she knew herself to be fair and lusty, and felt herself to be gamesome and fit, waxed very wroth, and now and again had high words with her husband, and led but a sorry life with him at most times. Then, seeing that thereby she was more like to fret herself than to dispose her husband to conduct less base, she said to herself:--This poor creature deserts me to go walk in pattens in the dry; wherefore it shall go hard but I will bring another aboard the ship for the wet weather. I married him, and brought him a great and goodly dowry, knowing that he was a man, and supposing him to have the desires which men have and ought to have; and had I not deemed him to be a man, I should never have married him. He knew me to be a woman: why then took he me to wife, if women were not to his mind? 'Tis not to be endured. Had I not been minded to live in the world, I had become a nun; and being minded there to live, as I am, if I am to wait until I have pleasure or solace of him, I shall wait perchance until I am old; and then, too late, I shall bethink me to my sorrow that I have wasted my youth; and as to the way in which I should seek its proper solace I need no better teacher and guide than him, who finds his delight where I should find mine, and finds it to his own condemnation, whereas in me 'twere commendable. 'Tis but the laws that I shall set at nought, whereas he sets both them and Nature herself at nought. So the good lady reasoned, and peradventure more than once; and then, casting about how she might privily compass her end, she made friends with an old beldam, that shewed as a veritable Santa Verdiana, foster-mother of vipers, who was ever to be seen going to pardonings with a parcel of paternosters in her hand, and talked of nothing but the lives of the holy Fathers, and the wounds of St. Francis, and was generally reputed a saint; to whom in due time she opened her whole mind. "My daughter," replied the beldam, "God, who knows all things, knows that thou wilt do very rightly indeed: were it for no other reason, 'twould be meet for thee and every other young woman so to do, that the heyday of youth be not wasted; for there is no grief like that of knowing that it has been wasted. And what the devil are we women fit for when we are old except to pore over the cinders on the hearth? The which if any know, and may attest it, 'tis I, who, now that I am old, call to mind the time that I let slip from me, not without most sore and bitter and fruitless regret: and albeit 'twas not all wasted, for I would not have thee think that I was entirely without sense, yet I did not make the best use of it: whereof when I bethink me, and that I am now, even as thou seest me, such a hag that never a spark of fire may I hope to get from any, God knows how I rue it. Now with men 'tis otherwise: they are born meet for a thousand uses, not for this alone; and the more part of them are of much greater consequence in old age than in youth: but women are fit for nought but this, and 'tis but for that they bear children that they are cherished. Whereof, if not otherwise, thou mayst assure thyself, if thou do but consider that we are ever ready for it; which is not the case with men; besides which, one woman will tire out many men without being herself tired out. Seeing then that 'tis for this we are born, I tell thee again that thou wilt do very rightly to give thy husband thy loaf for his cake, that in thy old age thy soul may have no cause of complaint against thy flesh. Every one has just as much of this life as he appropriates: and this is especially true of women, whom therefore it behoves, much more than men, to seize the moment as it flies: indeed, as thou mayst see for thyself, when we grow old neither husband, nor any other man will spare us a glance; but, on the contrary, they banish us to the kitchen, there to tell stories to the cat, and to count the pots and pans; or, worse, they make rhymes about us:--'To the damsel dainty bits; to the beldam ague-fits;' and such-like catches. But to make no more words about it, I tell thee at once that there is no person in the world to whom thou couldst open thy mind with more advantage than to me; for there is no gentleman so fine but I dare speak my mind to him, nor any so harsh and forbidding but I know well how to soften him and fashion him to my will. Tell me only what thou wouldst have, and leave the rest to me: but one word more: I pray thee to have me in kindly remembrance, for that I am poor; and thou shalt henceforth go shares with me in all my indulgences and every paternoster that I say, that God may make thereof light and tapers for thy dead:" wherewith she ended. So the lady came to an understanding with the beldam, that, as soon as she set eyes on a boy that often came along that street, and of whom the lady gave her a particular description, she would know what she was to do: and thereupon the lady gave her a chunk of salt meat, and bade her God-speed. The beldam before long smuggled into the lady's chamber the boy of whom she had spoken, and not long after another, such being the humour of the lady, who, standing in perpetual dread of her husband, was disposed, in this particular, to make the most of her opportunities. And one of these days, her husband being to sup in the evening with a friend named Ercolano, the lady bade the beldam bring her a boy as pretty and dainty as was to be found in Perugia; and so the beldam forthwith did. But the lady and the boy being set at table to sup, lo, Pietro's voice was heard at the door, bidding open to him. Whereupon the lady gave herself up for dead; but being fain, if she might, to screen the boy, and knowing not where else to convey or conceal him, bestowed him under a hen-coop that stood in a veranda hard by the chamber in which they were supping, and threw over it a sorry mattress that she had that day emptied of its straw; which done she hastened to open the door to her husband; saying to him as he entered:--"You have gulped your supper mighty quickly to-night." Whereto Pietro replied:--"We have not so much as tasted it." "How so?" enquired the lady. "I will tell thee," said Pietro. "No sooner were we set at table, Ercolano, his wife, and I, than we heard a sneeze close to us, to which, though 'twas repeated, we paid no heed; but as the sneezer continued to sneeze a third, a fourth, a fifth, and many another time to boot, we all began to wonder, and Ercolano, who was somewhat out of humour with his wife, because she had kept us a long time at the door before she opened it, burst out in a sort of rage with:--'What means this? Who is't that thus sneezes?' and made off to a stair hard by, beneath which and close to its foot was a wooden closet, of the sort which, when folk are furnishing their houses, they commonly cause to be placed there, to stow things in upon occasion. And as it seemed to him that the sneezing proceeded thence, he undid the wicket, and no sooner had he opened it than out flew never so strong a stench of brimstone; albeit we had already been saluted by a whiff of it, and complained thereof, but had been put off by the lady with:--''Tis but that a while ago I bleached my veils with brimstone, having sprinkled it on a dish, that they might catch its fumes, which dish I then placed under the stair, so that it still smells a little.' "However the door being now, as I have said, open, and the smoke somewhat less dense, Ercolano, peering in, espied the fellow that had sneezed, and who still kept sneezing, being thereto constrained by the pungency of the brimstone. And for all he sneezed, yet was he by this time so well-nigh choked with the brimstone that he was like neither to sneeze nor to do aught else again. As soon as he caught sight of him, Ercolano bawled out:--'Now see I, Madam, why it was that a while ago, when we came here, we were kept waiting so long at the gate before 'twas opened; but woe betide me for the rest of my days, if I pay you not out.' Whereupon the lady, perceiving that her offence was discovered, ventured no excuse, but fled from the table, whither I know not. Ercolano, ignoring his wife's flight, bade the sneezer again and again to come forth; but he, being by this time fairly spent, budged not an inch for aught that Ercolano said. Wherefore Ercolano caught him by one of his feet, and dragged him forth, and ran off for a knife with intent to kill him; but I, standing in fear of the Signory on my own account, got up and would not suffer him to kill the fellow or do him any hurt, and for his better protection raised the alarm, whereby some of the neighbours came up and took the lad, more dead than alive, and bore him off, I know not whither. However, our supper being thus rudely interrupted, not only have not gulped it, but I have not so much as tasted it, as I said before!" Her husband's story shewed his wife that there were other ladies as knowing as she, albeit misfortune might sometimes overtake them and gladly would she have spoken out in defence of Ercolano's wife, but, thinking that, by censuring another's sin, she would secure more scope for her own, she launched out on this wise:--"Fine doings indeed, a right virtuous and saintly lady she must be: here is the loyalty of an honest woman, and one to whom I had lief have confessed, so spiritual I deemed her; and the worst of it is that, being no longer young, she sets a rare example to those that are so. Curses on the hour that she came into the world: curses upon her that she make not away with herself, basest, most faithless of women that she must needs be, the reproach of her sex, the opprobrium of all the ladies of this city, to cast aside all regard for her honour, her marriage vow, her reputation before the world, and, lost to all sense of shame, to scruple not to bring disgrace upon a man so worthy, a citizen so honourable, a husband by whom she was so well treated, ay, and upon herself to boot! By my hope of salvation no mercy should be shewn to such women; they should pay the penalty with their lives; to the fire with them while they yet live, and let them be burned to ashes." Then, calling to mind the lover that she had close at hand in the hen-coop, she fell to coaxing Pietro to get him to bed, for the hour grew late. Pietro, who was more set on eating than sleeping, only asked whether there was aught he might have by way of supper. "Supper, forsooth!" replied the lady. "Ay, of course 'tis our way to make much of supper when thou art not at home. As if I were Ercolano's wife! Now, wherefore tarry longer? Go, get thy night's rest: 'twere far better for thee." Now so it was that some of Pietro's husbandmen had come to the house that evening with divers things from the farm, and had put up their asses in a stable that adjoined the veranda, but had neglected to water them; and one of the asses being exceeding thirsty, got his head out of the halter and broke loose from the stable, and went about nosing everything, if haply he might come by water: whereby he came upon the hen-coop, beneath which was the boy; who, being constrained to stand on all fours, had the fingers of one hand somewhat protruding from under the hen-coop; and so as luck or rather ill-luck would have it, the ass trod on them; whereat, being sorely hurt, he set up a great howling, much to the surprise of Pietro, who perceived that 'twas within his house. So forth he came, and hearing the boy still moaning and groaning, for the ass still kept his hoof hard down on the fingers, called out:--"Who is there?" and ran to the hen-coop and raised it, and espied the fellow, who, besides the pain that the crushing of his fingers by the ass's hoof occasioned him, trembled in every limb for fear that Pietro should do him a mischief. He was one that Pietro had long been after for his foul purposes: so Pietro, recognizing him, asked him:--"What dost thou here?" The boy making no answer, save to beseech him for the love of God to do him no hurt, Pietro continued:--"Get up, have no fear that I shall hurt thee; but tell me:--How, and for what cause comest thou to be here?" The boy then confessed everything. Whereupon Pietro, as elated by the discovery as his wife was distressed, took him by the hand; and led him into the room where the lady in the extremity of terror awaited him; and, having seated himself directly in front of her, said:--"'Twas but a moment ago that thou didst curse Ercolano's wife, and averred that she ought to be burned, and that she was the reproach of your sex: why saidst thou not, of thyself? Or, if thou wast not minded to accuse thyself, how hadst thou the effrontery to censure her, knowing that thou hadst done even as she? Verily 'twas for no other reason than that ye are all fashioned thus, and study to cover your own misdeeds with the delinquencies of others: would that fire might fall from heaven and burn you all, brood of iniquity that ye are!" The lady, marking that in the first flush of his wrath he had given her nothing worse than hard words, and discerning, as she thought, that he was secretly overjoyed to hold so beautiful a boy by the hand, took heart of grace and said:--"I doubt not indeed that thou wouldst be well pleased that fire should fall from heaven and devour us all, seeing that thou art as fond of us as a dog is of the stick, though by the Holy Rood thou wilt be disappointed; but I would fain have a little argument with thee, to know whereof thou complainest. Well indeed were it with me, didst thou but place me on an equality with Ercolano's wife, who is an old sanctimonious hypocrite, and has of him all that she wants, and is cherished by him as a wife should be: but that is not my case. For, granted that thou givest me garments and shoes to my mind, thou knowest how otherwise ill bested I am, and how long it is since last thou didst lie with me; and far liefer had I go barefoot and in rags, and have thy benevolence abed, than have all that I have, and be treated as thou dost treat me. Understand me, Pietro, be reasonable; consider that I am a woman like other women, with the like craving; whereof if thou deny me the gratification, 'tis no blame to me that I seek it elsewhere; and at least I do thee so much honour as not forgather with stable-boys or scurvy knaves." Pietro perceived that she was like to continue in this vein the whole night: wherefore, indifferent as he was to her, he said:--"Now, Madam, no more of this; in the matter of which thou speakest I will content thee; but of thy great courtesy let us have something to eat by way of supper; for, methinks, the boy, as well as I, has not yet supped." "Ay, true enough," said the lady, "he has not supped; for we were but just sitting down to table to sup, when, beshrew thee, thou madest thy appearance." "Go then," said Pietro, "get us some supper; and by and by I will arrange this affair in such a way that thou shalt have no more cause of complaint." The lady, perceiving that her husband was now tranquil, rose, and soon had the table laid again and spread with the supper which she had ready; and so they made a jolly meal of it, the caitiff husband, the lady and the boy. What after supper Pietro devised for their mutual satisfaction has slipped from my memory. But so much as this I know, that on the morrow as he wended his way to the piazza, the boy would have been puzzled to say, whether of the twain, the wife or the husband, had had the most of his company during the night. But this I would say to you, dear my ladies, that whoso gives you tit, why, just give him tat; and if you cannot do it at once, why, bear it in mind until you can, that even as the ass gives, so he may receive. Dioneo's story, whereat the ladies laughed the less for shamefastness rather than for disrelish, being ended, the queen, taking note that the term of her sovereignty was come, rose to her feet, and took off the laurel wreath and set it graciously upon Elisa's head, saying:--"Madam, 'tis now your turn to bear sway." The dignity accepted, Elisa followed in all respects the example of her predecessors: she first conferred with the seneschal, and directed him how meetly to order all things during the time of her sovereignty; which done to the satisfaction of the company:--"Ofttimes," quoth she, "have we heard how with bright sallies, and ready retorts, and sudden devices, not a few have known how to repugn with apt checks the bites of others, or to avert imminent perils; and because 'tis an excellent argument, and may be profitable, I ordain that to-morrow, God helping us, the following be the rule of our discourse; to wit, that it be of such as by some sprightly sally have repulsed an attack, or by some ready retort or device have avoided loss, peril or scorn." The rule being heartily approved by all, the queen rose and dismissed them till supper-time. So the honourable company, seeing the queen risen, rose all likewise, and as their wont was, betook them to their diversions as to each seemed best. But when the cicalas had hushed their chirping, all were mustered again for supper; and having blithely feasted, they all addressed them to song and dance. And the queen, while Emilia led a dance, called for a song from Dioneo, who at once came out with:--'Monna Aldruda, come perk up thy mood, a piece of glad tidings I bring thee.' Whereat all the ladies fell a laughing, and most of all the queen, who bade him give them no more of that, but sing another. Quoth Dioneo:--"Madam, had I a tabret, I would sing:--'Up with your smock, Monna Lapa!' or:--'Oh! the greensward under the olive!' Or perchance you had liefer I should give you:--'Woe is me, the wave of the sea!' But no tabret have I: wherefore choose which of these others you will have. Perchance you would like:--'Now hie thee to us forth, that so it may be cut, as May the fields about.'" "No," returned the queen, "give us another." "Then," said Dioneo, "I will sing:--'Monna Simona, embarrel, embarrel. Why, 'tis not the month of October.'"(1) "Now a plague upon thee," said the queen, with a laugh; "give us a proper song, wilt thou? for we will have none of these." "Never fear, Madam," replied Dioneo; "only say which you prefer. I have more than a thousand songs by heart. Perhaps you would like:--'This my little covert, make I ne'er it overt'; or:--'Gently, gently, husband mine'; or:--'A hundred pounds were none too high a price for me a cock to buy.'" The queen now shewed some offence, though the other ladies laughed, and:--"A truce to thy jesting, Dioneo," said she, "and give us a proper song: else thou mayst prove the quality of my ire." Whereupon Dioneo forthwith ceased his fooling, and sang on this wise:-- So ravishing a light Doth from the fair eyes of my mistress move As keeps me slave to her and thee, O Love. A beam from those bright orbs did radiate That flame that through mine own eyes to my breast Did whilom entrance gain. Thy majesty, O Love, thy might, how great They be, 'twas her fair face did manifest: Whereon to brood still fain, I felt thee take and chain Each sense, my soul enthralling on such wise That she alone henceforth evokes my sighs. Wherefore, O dear my Lord, myself I own Thy slave, and, all obedience, wait and yearn, Till thy might me console. Yet wot I not if it be throughly known How noble is the flame wherewith I burn, My loyalty how whole To her that doth control Ev'n in such sort my mind that shall I none, Nor would I, peace receive, save hers alone. And so I pray thee, sweet my Lord, that thou Give her to feel thy fire, and shew her plain How grievous my disease. This service deign to render; for that now Thou seest me waste for love, and in the pain Dissolve me by degrees: And then the apt moment seize My cause to plead with her, as is but due From thee to me, who fain with thee would sue. When Dioneo's silence shewed that his song was ended, the queen accorded it no stinted meed of praise; after which she caused not a few other songs to be sung. Thus passed some part of the night; and then the queen, taking note that its freshness had vanquished the heat of the day, bade all go rest them, if they would, till the morning. (1) The song is evidently amoebean. -- Endeth here the fifth day of the Decameron, beginneth the sixth, wherein, under the rule of Elisa, discourse is had of such as by some sprightly sally have repulsed an attack, or by some ready retort or device have avoided loss, peril or scorn. -- Still in mid heaven, the moon had lost her radiance, nor was any part of our world unillumined by the fresh splendour of the dawn, when, the queen being risen and having mustered her company, they hied them, gently sauntering, across the dewy mead some distance from the beautiful hill, conversing now of this, now of the other matter, canvassing the stories, their greater or less degree of beauty, and laughing afresh at divers of their incidents, until, the sun being now in his higher ascendant, they began to feel his heat, and turning back by common consent, retraced their steps to the palace, where, the tables being already set, and fragrant herbs and fair flowers strewn all about, they by the queen's command, before it should grow hotter, addressed themselves to their meal. So, having blithely breakfasted, they first of all sang some dainty and jocund ditties, and then, as they were severally minded, composed them to sleep or sat them down to chess or dice, while Dioneo and Lauretta fell a singing of Troilus and Cressida. The hour of session being come, they took their places, at the queen's summons, in their wonted order by the fountain; but, when the queen was about to call for the first story, that happened which had not happened before; to wit, there being a great uproar in the kitchen among the maids and men, the sound thereof reached the ears of the queen and all the company. Whereupon the queen called the seneschal and asked him who bawled so loud, and what was the occasion of the uproar. The seneschal made answer that 'twas some contention between Licisca and Tindaro; but the occasion he knew not, having but just come to quiet them, when he received her summons. The queen then bade him cause Licisca and Tindaro to come thither forthwith: so they came, and the queen enquired of them the cause of the uproar. Tindaro was about to make answer, when Licisca, who was somewhat advanced in years, and disposed to give herself airs, and heated to the strife of words, turned to Tindaro, and scowling upon him said:--"Unmannerly varlet that makest bold to speak before me; leave me to tell the story." Then, turning to the queen, she said:--"Madam, this fellow would fain instruct me as to Sicofante's wife, and--neither more or less--as if I had not known her well--would have me believe that, the first night that Sicofante lay with her, 'twas by force and not without effusion of blood that Master Yard made his way into Dusky Hill; which I deny, averring that he met with no resistance, but, on the contrary, with a hearty welcome on the part of the garrison. And such a numskull is he as fondly to believe that the girls are so simple as to let slip their opportunities, while they wait on the caprice of father or brothers, who six times out of seven delay to marry them for three or four years after they should. Ay, ay indeed, doubtless they were well advised to tarry so long! Christ's faith! I should know the truth of what I swear; there is never a woman in my neighbourhood whose husband had her virginity; and well I know how many and what manner of tricks our married dames play their husbands; and yet this booby would fain teach me to know women as if I were but born yesterday." While Licisca thus spoke, the ladies laughed till all their teeth were ready to start from their heads. Six times at least the queen bade her be silent: but all in vain; she halted not till she had said all that she had a mind to. When she had done, the queen turned with a smile to Dioneo saying:--"This is a question for thee to deal with, Dioneo; so hold thyself in readiness to give final judgment upon it, when our stories are ended." "Madam," replied Dioneo forthwith, "I give judgment without more ado: I say that Licisca is in the right; I believe that 'tis even as she says, and that Tindaro is a fool." Whereupon Licisca burst out laughing, and turning to Tindaro:--"Now did I not tell thee so?" quoth she. "Begone in God's name: dost think to know more than I, thou that art but a sucking babe? Thank God, I have not lived for nothing, not I." And had not the queen sternly bade her be silent, and make no more disturbance, unless she had a mind to be whipped, and sent both her and Tindaro back to the kitchen, the whole day would have been spent in nought but listening to her. So Licisca and Tindaro having withdrawn, the queen charged Filomena to tell the first story: and gaily thus Filomena began. NOVEL I. -- A knight offers to carry Madonna Oretta a horseback with a story, but tells it so ill that she prays him to dismount her. -- As stars are set for an ornament in the serene expanse of heaven, and likewise in springtime flowers and leafy shrubs in the green meadows, so, damsels, in the hour of rare and excellent discourse, is wit with its bright sallies. Which, being brief, are much more proper for ladies than for men, seeing that prolixity of speech, where brevity is possible, is much less allowable to them. But for whatever cause, be it the sorry quality of our understanding, or some especial enmity that heaven bears to our generation, few ladies or none are left to-day that, when occasion prompts, are able to meet it with apt speech, ay, or if aught of the kind they hear, can understand it aright: to our common shame be it spoken! But as, touching this matter, enough has already been said by Pampinea,(1) I purpose not to enlarge thereon; but, that you may know what excellence resides in speech apt for the occasion, I am minded to tell you after how courteous a fashion a lady imposed silence upon a gentleman. 'Tis no long time since there dwelt in our city a lady, noble, debonair and of excellent discourse, whom not a few of you may have seen or heard of, whose name--for such high qualities merit not oblivion--was Madonna Oretta, her husband being Messer Geri Spina. Now this lady, happening to be, as we are, in the country, moving from place to place for pleasure with a company of ladies and gentlemen, whom she had entertained the day before at breakfast at her house, and the place of their next sojourn, whither they were to go afoot, being some considerable distance off, one of the gentlemen of the company said to her:--"Madonna Oretta, so please you, I will carry you great part of the way a horseback with one of the finest stories in the world." "Indeed, Sir," replied the lady, "I pray you do so; and I shall deem it the greatest of favours." Whereupon the gentleman, who perhaps was no better master of his weapon than of his story, began a tale, which in itself was indeed excellent, but which, by repeating the same word three, four or six times, and now and again harking back, and saying:--"I said not well"; and erring not seldom in the names, setting one in place of another, he utterly spoiled; besides which, his mode of delivery accorded very ill with the character of the persons and incidents: insomuch that Madonna Oretta, as she listened, did oft sweat, and was like to faint, as if she were ill and at the point of death. And being at length able to bear no more of it, witting that the gentleman had got into a mess and was not like to get out of it, she said pleasantly to him:--"Sir, this horse of yours trots too hard; I pray you be pleased to set me down." The gentleman, being perchance more quick of apprehension than he was skilful in narration, missed not the meaning of her sally, and took it in all good and gay humour. So, leaving unfinished the tale which he had begun, and so mishandled, he addressed himself to tell her other stories. (1) Cf. First Day, Novel X. NOVEL II. -- Cisti, a baker, by an apt speech gives Messer Geri Spina to know that he has by inadvertence asked that of him which he should not. -- All the ladies and the men alike having greatly commended Madonna Oretta's apt saying, the queen bade Pampinea follow suit, and thus she began:-- Fair ladies, I cannot myself determine whether Nature or Fortune be the more at fault, the one in furnishing a noble soul with a vile body, or the other in allotting a base occupation to a body endowed with a noble soul, whereof we may have seen an example, among others, in our fellow-citizen, Cisti; whom, furnished though he was with a most lofty soul, Fortune made a baker. And verily I should curse Nature and Fortune alike, did I not know that Nature is most discreet, and that Fortune, albeit the foolish imagine her blind, has a thousand eyes. For 'tis, I suppose, that, being wise above a little, they do as mortals ofttimes do, who, being uncertain as to their future, provide against contingencies by burying their most precious treasures in the basest places in their houses, as being the least likely to be suspected; whence, in the hour of their greatest need, they bring them forth, the base place having kept them more safe than the dainty chamber would have done. And so these two arbitresses of the world not seldom hide their most precious commodities in the obscurity of the crafts that are reputed most base, that thence being brought to light they may shine with a brighter splendour. Whereof how in a trifling matter Cisti, the baker, gave proof, restoring the eyes of the mind to Messer Geri Spina, whom the story of his wife, Madonna Oretta, has brought to my recollection, I am minded to shew you in a narrative which shall be of the briefest. I say then that Pope Boniface, with whom Messer Geri Spina stood very high in favour and honour, having sent divers of his courtiers to Florence as ambassadors to treat of certain matters of great moment, and they being lodged in Messer Geri's house, where he treated with them of the said affairs of the Pope, 'twas, for some reason or another, the wont of Messer Geri and the ambassadors of the Pope to pass almost every morning by Santa Maria Ughi, where Cisti, the baker, had his bakehouse, and plied his craft in person. Now, albeit Fortune had allotted him a very humble occupation, she had nevertheless prospered him therein to such a degree that he was grown most wealthy, and without ever aspiring to change it for another, lived in most magnificent style, having among his other good things a cellar of the best wines, white and red, that were to be found in Florence, or the country parts; and marking Messer Geri and the ambassadors of the Pope pass every morning by his door, he bethought him that, as 'twas very hot, 'twould be a very courteous thing to give them to drink of his good wine; but comparing his rank with that of Messer Geri, he deemed it unseemly to presume to invite him, and cast about how he might lead Messer Geri to invite himself. So, wearing always the whitest of doublets and a spotless apron, that denoted rather the miller, than the baker, he let bring, every morning about the hour that he expected Messer Geri and the ambassadors to pass by his door, a spick-and-span bucket of fresh and cool spring water, and a small Bolognese flagon of his good white wine, and two beakers that shone like silver, so bright were they: and there down he sat him, as they came by, and after hawking once or twice, fell a drinking his wine with such gusto that 'twould have raised a thirst in a corpse. Which Messer Geri having observed on two successive mornings, said on the third:--"What is't, Cisti? Is't good?" Whereupon Cisti jumped up, and answered:--"Ay, Sir, good it is; but in what degree I might by no means make you understand, unless you tasted it." Messer Geri, in whom either the heat of the weather, or unwonted fatigue, or, perchance, the gusto with which he had seen Cisti drink, had bred a thirst, turned to the ambassadors and said with a smile:--"Gentlemen, 'twere well to test the quality of this worthy man's wine: it may be such that we shall not repent us." And so in a body they came up to where Cisti stood; who, having caused a goodly bench to be brought out of the bakehouse, bade them be seated, and to their servants, who were now coming forward to wash the beakers, said:--"Stand back, comrades, and leave this office to me, for I know as well how to serve wine as to bake bread; and expect not to taste a drop yourselves." Which said, he washed four fine new beakers with his own hands, and having sent for a small flagon of his good wine, he heedfully filled the beakers, and presented them to Messer Geri and his companions; who deemed the wine the best that they had drunk for a great while. So Messer Geri, having praised the wine not a little, came there to drink every morning with the ambassadors as long as they tarried with him. Now when the ambassadors had received their conge, and were about to depart, Messer Geri gave a grand banquet, to which he bade some of the most honourable of the citizens, and also Cisti, who could by no means be induced to come. However, Messer Geri bade one of his servants go fetch a flask of Cisti's wine, and serve half a beaker thereof to each guest at the first course. The servant, somewhat offended, perhaps, that he had not been suffered to taste any of the wine, took with him a large flask, which Cisti no sooner saw, than:--"Son," quoth he, "Messer Geri does not send thee to me": and often as the servant affirmed that he did, he could get no other answer: wherewith he was fain at last to return to Messer Geri. "Go, get thee back, said Messer Geri, and tell him that I do send thee to him, and if he answers thee so again, ask him, to whom then I send thee." So the servant came back, and said:--"Cisti, Messer Geri does, for sure, send me to thee." "Son," answered Cisti, "Messer Geri does, for sure, not send thee to me." "To whom then," said the servant, "does he send me?" "To Arno," returned Cisti. Which being reported by the servant to Messer Geri, the eyes of his mind were straightway opened, and:--"Let me see," quoth he to the servant, "what flask it is thou takest there." And when he had seen it:--"Cisti says sooth," he added; and having sharply chidden him, he caused him take with him a suitable flask, which when Cisti saw:--"Now know I," quoth he, "that 'tis indeed Messer Geri that sends thee to me," and blithely filled it. And having replenished the rundlet that same day with wine of the same quality, he had it carried with due care to Messer Geri's house, and followed after himself; where finding Messer Geri he said:--"I would not have you think, Sir, that I was appalled by the great flask your servant brought me this morning; 'twas but that I thought you had forgotten that which by my little beakers I gave you to understand, when you were with me of late; to wit, that this is no table wine; and so wished this morning to refresh your memory. Now, however, being minded to keep the wine no longer, I have sent you all I have of it, to be henceforth entirely at your disposal." Messer Geri set great store by Cisti's gift, and thanked him accordingly, and ever made much of him and entreated him as his friend. NOVEL III. -- Monna Nonna de' Pulci by a ready retort silences the scarce seemly jesting of the Bishop of Florence. -- Pampinea's story ended, and praise not a little bestowed on Cisti alike for his apt speech and for his handsome present, the queen was pleased to call forthwith for a story from Lauretta, who blithely thus began:-- Debonair my ladies, the excellency of wit, and our lack thereof, have been noted with no small truth first by Pampinea and after her by Filomena. To which topic 'twere bootless to return: wherefore to that which has been said touching the nature of wit I purpose but to add one word, to remind you that its bite should be as a sheep's bite and not as a dog's; for if it bite like a dog, 'tis no longer wit but discourtesy. With which maxim the words of Madonna Oretta, and the apt reply of Cisti, accorded excellently. True indeed it is that if 'tis by way of retort, and one that has received a dog's bite gives the biter a like bite in return, it does not seem to be reprehensible, as otherwise it would have been. Wherefore one must consider how and when and on whom and likewise where one exercises one's wit. By ill observing which matters one of our prelates did once upon a time receive no less shrewd a bite than he gave; as I will shew you in a short story. While Messer Antonio d'Orso, a prelate both worthy and wise, was Bishop of Florence, there came thither a Catalan gentleman, Messer Dego della Ratta by name, being King Ruberto's marshal. Now Dego being very goodly of person, and inordinately fond of women, it so befell that of the ladies of Florence she that he regarded with especial favour was the very beautiful niece of a brother of the said bishop. And having learned that her husband, though of good family, was but a caitiff, and avaricious in the last degree, he struck a bargain with him that he should lie one night with the lady for five hundred florins of gold: whereupon he had the same number of popolins(1) of silver, which were then current, gilded, and having lain with the lady, albeit against her will, gave them to her husband. Which coming to be generally known, the caitiff husband was left with the loss and the laugh against him; and the bishop, like a wise man, feigned to know nought of the affair. And so the bishop and the marshal being much together, it befell that on St. John's day, as they rode side by side down the street whence they start to run the palio,(2) and took note of the ladies, the bishop espied a young gentlewoman, whom this present pestilence has reft from us, Monna Nonna de' Pulci by name, a cousin of Messer Alesso Rinucci, whom you all must know; whom, for that she was lusty and fair, and of excellent discourse and a good courage, and but just settled with her husband in Porta San Piero, the bishop presented to the marshal; and then, being close beside her, he laid his hand on the marshal's shoulder and said to her:--"Nonna, what thinkest thou of this gentleman? That thou mightst make a conquest of him?" Which words the lady resented as a jibe at her honour, and like to tarnish it in the eyes of those, who were not a few, in whose hearing they were spoken. Wherefore without bestowing a thought upon the vindication of her honour, but being minded to return blow for blow, she retorted hastily:--"Perchance, Sir, he might not make a conquest of me; but if he did so, I should want good money." The answer stung both the marshal and the bishop to the quick, the one as contriver of the scurvy trick played upon the bishop's brother in regard of his niece, the other as thereby outraged in the person of his brother's niece; insomuch that they dared not look one another in the face, but took themselves off in shame and silence, and said never a word more to her that day. In such a case, then, the lady having received a bite, 'twas allowable in her wittily to return it. (1) A coin of the same size and design as the fiorino d'oro, but worth only two soldi. (2) A sort of horse-race still in vogue at Siena. NOVEL IV. -- Chichibio, cook to Currado Gianfigliazzi, owes his safety to a ready answer, whereby he converts Currado's wrath into laughter, and evades the evil fate with which Currado had threatened him. -- Lauretta being now silent, all lauded Nonna to the skies; after which Neifile received the queen's command to follow suit, and thus began:-- Albeit, loving ladies, ready wit not seldom ministers words apt and excellent and congruous with the circumstances of the speakers, 'tis also true that Fortune at times comes to the aid of the timid, and unexpectedly sets words upon the tongue, which in a quiet hour the speaker could never have found for himself: the which 'tis my purpose to shew you by my story. Currado Gianfigliazzi, as the eyes and ears of each of you may bear witness, has ever been a noble citizen of our city, open-handed and magnificent, and one that lived as a gentleman should with hounds and hawks, in which, to say nothing at present of more important matters, he found unfailing delight. Now, having one day hard by Peretola despatched a crane with one of his falcons, finding it young and plump, he sent it to his excellent cook, a Venetian, Chichibio by name, bidding him roast it for supper and make a dainty dish of it. Chichibio, who looked, as he was, a very green-head, had dressed the crane, and set it to the fire and was cooking it carefully, when, the bird being all but roasted, and the fumes of the cooking very strong, it so chanced that a girl, Brunetta by name, that lived in the same street, and of whom Chichibio was greatly enamoured, came into the kitchen, and perceiving the smell and seeing the bird, began coaxing Chichibio to give her a thigh. By way of answer Chichibio fell a singing:--"You get it not from me, Madam Brunetta, you get it not from me." Whereat Madam Brunetta was offended, and said to him:--"By God, if thou givest it me not, thou shalt never have aught from me to pleasure thee." In short there was not a little altercation; and in the end Chichibio, fain not to vex his mistress, cut off one of the crane's thighs, and gave it to her. So the bird was set before Currado and some strangers that he had at table with him, and Currado, observing that it had but one thigh, was surprised, and sent for Chichibio, and demanded of him what was become of the missing thigh. Whereto the mendacious Venetian answered readily:--"The crane, Sir, has but one thigh and one leg." "What the devil?" rejoined Currado in a rage: "so the crane has but one thigh and one leg? thinkst thou I never saw crane before this?" But Chichibio continued:--"'Tis even so as I say, Sir; and, so please you, I will shew you that so it is in the living bird." Currado had too much respect for his guests to pursue the topic; he only said:--"Since thou promisest to shew me in the living bird what I have never seen or heard tell of, I bid thee do so to-morrow, and I shall be satisfied, but if thou fail, I swear to thee by the body of Christ that I will serve thee so that thou shalt ruefully remember my name for the rest of thy days." No more was said of the matter that evening, but on the morrow, at daybreak, Currado, who had by no means slept off his wrath, got up still swelling therewith, and ordered his horses, mounted Chichibio on a hackney, and saying to him:--"We shall soon see which of us lied yesternight, thou or I," set off with him for a place where there was much water, beside which there were always cranes to be seen about dawn. Chichibio, observing that Currado's ire was unabated, and knowing not how to bolster up his lie, rode by Currado's side in a state of the utmost trepidation, and would gladly, had he been able, have taken to flight; but, as he might not, he glanced, now ahead, now aback, now aside, and saw everywhere nought but cranes standing on two feet. However, as they approached the river, the very first thing they saw upon the bank was a round dozen of cranes standing each and all on one foot, as is their wont, when asleep. Which Chichibio presently pointed out to Currado, saying:--"Now may you see well enough, Sir, that 'tis true as I said yesternight, that the crane has but one thigh and one leg; mark but how they stand over there." Whereupon Currado:--"Wait," quoth he, "and I will shew thee that they have each thighs and legs twain." So, having drawn a little nigher to them, he ejaculated, "Oho!" Which caused the cranes to bring each the other foot to the ground, and, after hopping a step or two, to take to flight. Currado then turned to Chichibio, saying:--"How now, rogue? art satisfied that the bird has thighs and legs twain?" Whereto Chichibio, all but beside himself with fear, made answer:--"Ay, Sir; but you cried not, oho! to our crane of yestereve: had you done so, it would have popped its other thigh and foot forth, as these have done." Which answer Currado so much relished, that, all his wrath changed to jollity and laughter:--"Chichibio," quoth he, "thou art right, indeed I ought to have so done." Thus did Chichibio by his ready and jocund retort arrest impending evil, and make his peace with his master. NOVEL V. -- Messer Forese da Rabatta and Master Giotto, the painter, journeying together from Mugello, deride one another's scurvy appearance. -- Neifile being silent, and the ladies having made very merry over Chichibio's retort, Pamfilo at the queen's command thus spoke:--Dearest ladies, if Fortune, as Pampinea has shewn us, does sometimes bide treasures most rich of native worth in the obscurity of base occupations, so in like manner 'tis not seldom found that Nature has enshrined prodigies of wit in the most ignoble of human forms. Whereof a notable example is afforded by two of our citizens, of whom I purpose for a brief while to discourse. The one, Messer Forese da Rabatta by name, was short and deformed of person and withal flat-cheeked and flat-nosed, insomuch that never a Baroncio(1) had a visage so misshapen but his would have shewed as hideous beside it; yet so conversant was this man with the laws, that by not a few of those well able to form an opinion he was reputed a veritable storehouse of civil jurisprudence. The other, whose name was Giotto, was of so excellent a wit that, let Nature, mother of all, operant ever by continual revolution of the heavens, fashion what she would, he with his style and pen and pencil would depict its like on such wise that it shewed not as its like, but rather as the thing itself, insomuch that the visual sense of men did often err in regard thereof, mistaking for real that which was but painted. Wherefore, having brought back to light that art which had for many ages lain buried beneath the blunders of those who painted rather to delight the eyes of the ignorant than to satisfy the intelligence of the wise, he may deservedly be called one of the lights that compose the glory of Florence, and the more so, the more lowly was the spirit in which he won that glory, who, albeit he was, while he yet lived, the master of others, yet did ever refuse to be called their master. And this title that he rejected adorned him with a lustre the more splendid in proportion to the avidity with which it was usurped by those who were less knowing than he, or were his pupils. But for all the exceeding greatness of his art, yet in no particular had he the advantage of Messer Forese either in form or in feature. But to come to the story:--'Twas in Mugello that Messer Forese, as likewise Giotto, had his country-seat, whence returning from a sojourn that he had made there during the summer vacation of the courts, and being, as it chanced, mounted on a poor jade of a draught horse, he fell in with the said Giotto, who was also on his way back to Florence after a like sojourn on his own estate, and was neither better mounted, nor in any other wise better equipped, than Messer Forese. And so, being both old men, they jogged on together at a slow pace: and being surprised by a sudden shower, such as we frequently see fall in summer, they presently sought shelter in the house of a husbandman that was known to each of them, and was their friend. But after a while, as the rain gave no sign of ceasing, and they had a mind to be at Florence that same day, they borrowed of the husbandman two old cloaks of Romagnole cloth, and two hats much the worse for age (there being no better to be had), and resumed their journey. Whereon they had not proceeded far, when, taking note that they were soaked through and through, and liberally splashed with the mud cast up by their nags' hooves (circumstances which are not of a kind to add to one's dignity), they, after long silence, the sky beginning to brighten a little, began to converse. And Messer Forese, as he rode and hearkened to Giotto, who was an excellent talker, surveyed him sideways, and from head to foot, and all over, and seeing him in all points in so sorry and scurvy a trim, and recking nought of his own appearance, broke into a laugh and said:--"Giotto, would e'er a stranger that met us, and had not seen thee before, believe, thinkst thou, that thou wert, as thou art, the greatest painter in the world." Whereto Giotto answered promptly:--"Methinks, Sir, he might, if, scanning you, he gave you credit for knowing the A B C." Which hearing, Messer Forese recognized his error, and perceived that he had gotten as good as he brought. (1) The name of a Florentine family famous for the extraordinary ugliness of its men: whereby it came to pass that any grotesque or extremely ugly man was called a Baroncio. Fanfani, Vocab. della Lingua Italiana, 1891. NOVEL VI. -- Michele Scalza proves to certain young men that the Baronci are the best gentlemen in the world and the Maremma, and wins a supper. -- The ladies were still laughing over Giotto's ready retort, when the queen charged Fiammetta to follow suit; wherefore thus Fiammetta began:--Pamfilo's mention of the Baronci, who to you, Damsels, are perchance not so well known as to him, has brought to my mind a story in which 'tis shewn how great is their nobility; and, for that it involves no deviation from our rule of discourse, I am minded to tell it you. 'Tis no long time since there dwelt in our city a young man, Michele Scalza by name, the pleasantest and merriest fellow in the world, and the best furnished with quaint stories: for which reason the Florentine youth set great store on having him with them when they forgathered in company. Now it so befell that one day, he being with a party of them at Mont' Ughi, they fell a disputing together on this wise; to wit, who were the best gentlemen and of the longest descent in Florence. One said, the Uberti, another, the Lamberti, or some other family, according to the predilection of the speaker. Whereat Scalza began to smile, and said:--"Now out upon you, out upon you, blockheads that ye are: ye know not what ye say. The best gentlemen and of longest descent in all the world and the Maremma (let alone Florence) are the Baronci by the common consent of all phisopholers,(1) and all that know them as I do; and lest you should otherwise conceive me, I say that 'tis of your neighbours the Baronci(2) of Santa Maria Maggiore that I speak." Whereupon the young men, who had looked for somewhat else from him, said derisively:--"Thou dost but jest with us; as if we did not know the Baronci as well as thou!" Quoth Scalza:--"By the Gospels I jest not, but speak sooth; and if there is any of you will wager a supper to be given to the winner and six good fellows whom he shall choose, I will gladly do the like, and--what is more--I will abide by the decision of such one of you as you may choose." Then said one of them whose name was Neri Mannini:--"I am ready to adventure this supper;" and so they agreed together that Piero di Fiorentino, in whose house they were, should be judge, and hied them to him followed by all the rest, eager to see Scalza lose, and triumph in his discomfiture, and told Piero all that had been said. Piero, who was a young man of sound sense, heard what Neri had to say; and then turning to Scalza:--"And how," quoth he, "mayst thou make good what thou averrest?" "I will demonstrate it," returned Scalza, "by reasoning so cogent that not only you, but he that denies it shall acknowledge that I say sooth. You know, and so they were saying but now, that the longer men's descent, the better is their gentility, and I say that the Baronci are of longer descent, and thus better gentlemen than any other men. If, then, I prove to you that they are of longer descent than any other men, without a doubt the victory in this dispute will rest with me. Now you must know that when God made the Baronci, He was but a novice in His art, of which, when He made the rest of mankind, He was already master. And to assure yourself that herein I say sooth, you have but to consider the Baronci, how they differ from the rest of mankind, who all have faces well composed and duly proportioned, whereas of the Baronci you will see one with a face very long and narrow, another with a face inordinately broad, one with a very long nose, another with a short one, one with a protruding and upturned chin, and great jaws like an ass's; and again there will be one that has one eye larger than its fellow, or set on a lower plane; so that their faces resemble those that children make when they begin to learn to draw. Whereby, as I said, 'tis plainly manifest that, when God made them, He was but novice in His art; and so they are of longer descent than the rest of mankind, and by consequence better gentlemen." By which entertaining argument Piero, the judge, and Neri who had wagered the supper, and all the rest, calling to mind the Baronci's ugliness, were so tickled, that they fell a laughing, and averred that Scalza was in the right, and that he had won the wager, and that without a doubt the Baronci were the best gentlemen, and of the longest descent, not merely in Florence, but in the world and the Maremma to boot. Wherefore 'twas not without reason that Pamfilo, being minded to declare Messer Forese's ill-favouredness, said that he would have been hideous beside a Baroncio. (1) In the Italian fisofoli: an evidently intentional distortion. (2) Villani, Istorie Fiorentine, iv. cap. ix., and Dante, Paradiso, xvi. 104, spell the name Barucci. NOVEL VII. -- Madonna Filippa, being found by her husband with her lover, is cited before the court, and by a ready and jocund answer acquits herself, and brings about an alteration of the statute. -- Fiammetta had been silent some time, but Scalza's novel argument to prove the pre-eminent nobility of the Baronci kept all still laughing, when the queen called for a story from Filostrato, who thus began:--Noble ladies, an excellent thing is apt speech on all occasions, but to be proficient therein I deem then most excellent when the occasion does most imperatively demand it. As was the case with a gentlewoman, of whom I purpose to speak to you, who not only ministered gaiety and merriment to her hearers, but extricated herself, as you shall hear, from the toils of an ignominious death. There was aforetime in the city of Prato a statute no less censurable than harsh, which, making no distinction between the wife whom her husband took in adultery with her lover, and the woman found pleasuring a stranger for money, condemned both alike to be burned. While this statute was in force, it befell that a gentlewoman, fair and beyond measure enamoured, Madonna Filippa by name, was by her husband, Rinaldo de' Pugliesi, found in her own chamber one night in the arms of Lazzarino de' Guazzagliotri, a handsome young noble of the same city, whom she loved even as herself. Whereat Rinaldo, very wroth, scarce refrained from falling upon them and killing them on the spot; and indeed, but that he doubted how he should afterwards fare himself, he had given way to the vehemence of his anger, and so done. Nor, though he so far mastered himself, could he forbear recourse to the statute, thereby to compass that which he might not otherwise lawfully compass, to wit, the death of his lady. Wherefore, having all the evidence needful to prove her guilt, he took no further counsel; but, as soon as 'twas day, he charged the lady and had her summoned. Like most ladies that are veritably enamoured, the lady was of a high courage; and, though not a few of her friends and kinsfolk sought to dissuade her, she resolved to appear to the summons, having liefer die bravely confessing the truth than basely flee and for defiance of the law live in exile, and shew herself unworthy of such a lover as had had her in his arms that night. And so, attended by many ladies and gentlemen, who all exhorted her to deny the charge, she came before the Podesta, and with a composed air and unfaltering voice asked whereof he would interrogate her. The Podesta, surveying her, and taking note of her extraordinary beauty, and exquisite manners, and the high courage that her words evinced, was touched with compassion for her, fearing she might make some admission, by reason whereof, to save his honour, he must needs do her to death. But still, as he could not refrain from examining her of that which was laid to her charge, he said:--"Madam, here, as you see, is your husband, Rinaldo, who prefers a charge against you, alleging that he has taken you in adultery, and so he demands that, pursuant to a statute which is in force here, I punish you with death: but this I may not do, except you confess; wherefore be very careful what you answer, and tell me if what your husband alleges against you be true." The lady, no wise dismayed, and in a tone not a little jocund, thus made answer:--"True it is, Sir, that Rinaldo is my husband, and that last night he found me in the arms of Lazzarino, in whose arms for the whole-hearted love that I bear him I have ofttimes lain; nor shall I ever deny it; but, as well I wot you know, the laws ought to be common and enacted with the common consent of all that they affect; which conditions are wanting to this law, inasmuch as it binds only us poor women, in whom to be liberal is much less reprehensible than it were in men; and furthermore the consent of no woman was--I say not had, but--so much as asked before 'twas made; for which reasons it justly deserves to be called a bad law. However, if in scathe of my body and your own soul, you are minded to put it in force, 'tis your affair; but, I pray you, go not on to try this matter in any wise, until you have granted me this trifling grace, to wit, to ask my husband if I ever gainsaid him, but did not rather accord him, when and so often as he craved it, complete enjoyment of myself." Whereto Rinaldo, without awaiting the Podesta's question, forthwith answered, that assuredly the lady had ever granted him all that he had asked of her for his gratification. "Then," promptly continued the lady, "if he has ever had of me as much as sufficed for his solace, what was I or am I to do with the surplus? Am I to cast it to the dogs? Is it not much better to bestow it on a gentleman that loves me more dearly than himself, than to suffer it to come to nought or worse?" Which jocund question being heard by well-nigh all the folk of Prato, who had flocked thither all agog to see a dame so fair and of such quality on her trial for such an offence, they laughed loud and long, and then all with one accord, and as with one voice, exclaimed that the lady was in the right and said well; nor left they the court until in concert with the Podesta they had so altered the harsh statute as that thenceforth only such women as should wrong their husbands for money should be within its purview. Wherefore Rinaldo left the court, discomfited of his foolish enterprise; and the lady blithe and free, as if rendered back to life from the burning, went home triumphant. NOVEL VIII. -- Fresco admonishes his niece not to look at herself in the glass, if 'tis, as she says, grievous to her to see nasty folk. -- 'Twas not at first without some flutterings of shame, evinced by the modest blush mantling on their cheeks, that the ladies heard Filostrato's story; but afterwards, exchanging glances, they could scarce forbear to laugh, and hearkened tittering. However, when he had done, the queen turning to Emilia bade her follow suit. Whereupon Emilia, fetching a deep breath as if she were roused from sleep, thus began:--Loving ladies, brooding thought has kept my spirit for so long time remote from here that perchance I may make a shift to satisfy our queen with a much shorter story than would have been forthcoming but for my absence of mind, wherein I purpose to tell you how a young woman's folly was corrected by her uncle with a pleasant jest, had she but had the sense to apprehend it. My story, then, is of one, Fresco da Celatico by name, that had a niece, Ciesca, as she was playfully called, who, being fair of face and person, albeit she had none of those angelical charms that we ofttimes see, had so superlative a conceit of herself, that she had contracted a habit of disparaging both men and women and all that she saw, entirely regardless of her own defects, though for odiousness, tiresomeness, and petulance she had not her match among women, insomuch that there was nought that could be done to her mind: besides which, such was her pride that had she been of the blood royal of France, 'twould have been inordinate. And when she walked abroad, so fastidious was her humour, she was ever averting her head, as if there was never a soul she saw or met but reeked with a foul smell. Now one day--not to speak of other odious and tiresome ways that she had--it so befell that being come home, where Fresco was, she sat herself down beside him with a most languishing air, and did nought but fume and chafe. Whereupon:--"Ciesca," quoth he, "what means this, that, though 'tis a feast-day, yet thou art come back so soon?" She, all but dissolved with her vapourish humours, made answer:--"Why, the truth is, that I am come back early because never, I believe, were there such odious and tiresome men and women in this city as there are to-day. I cannot pass a soul in the street that I loathe not like ill-luck; and I believe there is not a woman in the world that is so distressed by the sight of odious people as I am; and so I am come home thus soon to avoid the sight of them." Whereupon Fresco, to, whom his niece's bad manners were distasteful in the extreme:--"Daughter," quoth he, "if thou loathe odious folk as much as thou sayest, thou wert best, so thou wouldst live happy, never to look at thyself in the glass." But she, empty as a reed, albeit in her own conceit a match for Solomon in wisdom, was as far as any sheep from apprehending the true sense of her uncle's jest; but answered that on the contrary she was minded to look at herself in the glass like other women. And so she remained, and yet remains, hidebound in her folly. NOVEL IX. -- Guido Cavalcanti by a quip meetly rebukes certain Florentine gentlemen who had taken him at a disadvantage. -- The queen, perceiving that Emilia had finished her story, and that none but she, and he who had the privilege of speaking last, now remained to tell, began on this wise:--Albeit, debonair my ladies, you have forestalled me to-day of more than two of the stories, of which I had thought to tell one, yet one is still left me to recount, which carries at the close of it a quip of such a sort, that perhaps we have as yet heard nought so pregnant. You are to know, then, that in former times there obtained in our city customs excellent and commendable not a few, whereof today not one is left to us, thanks to the greed which, growing with the wealth of our folk, has banished them all from among us. One of which customs was that in divers quarters of Florence the gentlemen that there resided would assemble together in companies of a limited number, taking care to include therein only such as might conveniently bear the expenses, and to-day one, another to-morrow, each in his turn for a day, would entertain the rest of the company; and so they would not seldom do honour to gentlemen from distant parts when they visited the city, and also to their fellow-citizens; and in like manner they would meet together at least once a year all in the same trim, and on the most notable days would ride together through the city, and now and again they would tilt together, more especially on the greater feasts, or when the city was rejoiced by tidings of victory or some other glad event. Among which companies was one of which Messer Betto Brunelleschi was the leading spirit, into which Messer Betto and his comrades had striven hard to bring Guido, son of Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti, and not without reason, inasmuch as, besides being one of the best logicians in the world, and an excellent natural philosopher (qualities of which the company made no great account), he was without a peer for gallantry and courtesy and excellence of discourse and aptitude for all matters which he might set his mind to, and that belonged to a gentleman; and therewithal he was very rich, and, when he deemed any worthy of honour, knew how to bestow it to the uttermost. But, as Messer Betto had never been able to gain him over, he and his comrades supposed that 'twas because Guido, being addicted to speculation, was thereby estranged from men. And, for that he was somewhat inclined to the opinion of the Epicureans, the vulgar averred that these speculations of his had no other scope than to prove that God did not exist. Now one day it so befell that, Guido being come, as was not seldom his wont, from Or San Michele by the Corso degli Adimari as far as San Giovanni, around which were then the great tombs of marble that are to-day in Santa Reparata, besides other tombs not a few, and Guido being between the columns of porphyry, that are there, and the tombs and the door of San Giovanni, which was locked, Messer Betto and his company came riding on to the piazza of Santa Reparata, and seeing him among the tombs, said:--"Go we and flout him." So they set spurs to their horses, and making a mock onset, were upon him almost before he saw them. Whereupon:--"Guido," they began, "thou wilt be none of our company; but, lo now, when thou hast proved that God does not exist, what wilt thou have achieved?" Guido, seeing that he was surrounded, presently answered:--"Gentlemen, you may say to me what you please in your own house." Thereupon he laid his hand on one of the great tombs, and being very nimble, vaulted over it, and so evaded them, and went his way, while they remained gazing in one another's faces, and some said that he had taken leave of his wits, and that his answer was but nought, seeing that the ground on which they stood was common to them with the rest of the citizens, and among them Guido himself. But Messer Betto, turning to them:--"Nay but," quoth he, "'tis ye that have taken leave of your wits, if ye have not understood him; for meetly and in few words he has given us never so shrewd a reprimand; seeing that, if you consider it well, these tombs are the houses of the dead, that are laid and tarry therein; which he calls our house, to shew us that we, and all other simple, unlettered men, are, in comparison of him and the rest of the learned, in sorrier case than dead men, and so being here, we are in our own house." Then none was there but understood Guido's meaning and was abashed, insomuch that they flouted him no more, and thenceforth reputed Messer Betto a gentleman of a subtle and discerning wit. NOVEL X. -- Fra Cipolla promises to shew certain country-folk a feather of the Angel Gabriel, in lieu of which he finds coals, which he avers to be of those with which St. Lawrence was roasted. -- All the company save Dioneo being delivered of their several stories, he wist that 'twas his turn to speak. Wherefore, without awaiting any very express command, he enjoined silence on those that were commending Guido's pithy quip, and thus began:--Sweet my ladies, albeit 'tis my privilege to speak of what likes me most, I purpose not to-day to deviate from that theme whereon you have all discoursed most appositely; but, following in your footsteps, I am minded to shew you with what adroitness and readiness of resource one of the Friars of St. Antony avoided a pickle that two young men had in readiness for him. Nor, if, in order to do the story full justice, I be somewhat prolix of speech, should it be burdensome to you, if you will but glance at the sun, which is yet in mid-heaven. Certaldo, as perchance you may have heard, is a town of Val d'Elsa within our country-side, which, small though it is, had in it aforetime people of rank and wealth. Thither, for that there he found good pasture, 'twas long the wont of one of the Friars of St. Antony to resort once every year, to collect the alms that fools gave them. Fra Cipolla(1)--so hight the friar--met with a hearty welcome, no less, perchance, by reason of his name than for other cause, the onions produced in that district being famous throughout Tuscany. He was little of person, red-haired, jolly-visaged, and the very best of good fellows; and therewithal, though learning he had none, he was so excellent and ready a speaker that whoso knew him not would not only have esteemed him a great rhetorician, but would have pronounced him Tully himself or, perchance, Quintilian; and in all the country-side there was scarce a soul to whom he was not either gossip or friend or lover. Being thus wont from time to time to visit Certaldo, the friar came there once upon a time in the month of August, and on a Sunday morning, all the good folk of the neighbouring farms being come to mass in the parish church, he took occasion to come forward and say:--"Ladies and gentlemen, you wot 'tis your custom to send year by year to the poor of Baron Master St. Antony somewhat of your wheat and oats, more or less, according to the ability and the devoutness of each, that blessed St. Antony may save your oxen and asses and pigs and sheep from harm; and you are also accustomed, and especially those whose names are on the books of our confraternity, to pay your trifling annual dues. To collect which offerings, I am hither sent by my superior, to wit, Master Abbot; wherefore, with the blessing of God, after none, when you hear the bells ring, you will come out of the church to the place where in the usual way I shall deliver you my sermon, and you will kiss the cross; and therewithal, knowing, as I do, that you are one and all most devoted to Baron Master St. Antony, I will by way of especial grace shew you a most holy and goodly relic, which I brought myself from the Holy Land overseas, which is none other than one of the feathers of the Angel Gabriel, which he left behind him in the room of the Virgin Mary, when he came to make her the annunciation in Nazareth." And having said thus much, he ceased, and went on with the mass. Now among the many that were in the church, while Fra Cipolla made this speech, were two very wily young wags, the one Giovanni del Bragoniera by name, the other Biagio Pizzini; who, albeit they were on the best of terms with Fra Cipolla and much in his company, had a sly laugh together over the relic, and resolved to make game of him and his feather. So, having learned that Fra Cipolla was to breakfast that morning in the town with one of his friends, as soon as they knew that he was at table, down they hied them into the street, and to the inn where the friar lodged, having complotted that Biagio should keep the friar's servant in play, while Giovanni made search among the friar's goods and chattels for this feather, whatever it might be, to carry it off, that they might see how the friar would afterwards explain the matter to the people. Now Fra Cipolla had for servant one Guccio,(2) whom some called by way of addition Balena,(3) others Imbratta,(4) others again Porco,(5) and who was such a rascallion that sure it is that Lippo Topo(6) himself never painted his like. Concerning whom Fra Cipolla would ofttimes make merry with his familiars, saying:--"My servant has nine qualities, any one of which in Solomon, Aristotle, or Seneca, would have been enough to spoil all their virtue, wisdom and holiness. Consider, then, what sort of a man he must be that has these nine qualities, and yet never a spark of either virtue or wisdom or holiness." And being asked upon divers occasions what these nine qualities might be, he strung them together in rhyme, and answered:--"I will tell you. Lazy and uncleanly and a liar he is, Negligent, disobedient and foulmouthed, iwis, And reckless and witless and mannerless: and therewithal he has some other petty vices, which 'twere best to pass over. And the most amusing thing about him is, that, wherever he goes, he is for taking a wife and renting a house, and on the strength of a big, black, greasy beard he deems himself so very handsome a fellow and seductive, that he takes all the women that see him to be in love with him, and, if he were left alone, he would slip his girdle and run after them all. True it is that he is of great use to me, for that, be any minded to speak with me never so secretly, he must still have his share of the audience; and, if perchance aught is demanded of me, such is his fear lest I should be at a loss what answer to make, that he presently replies, ay or no, as he deems meet." Now, when he left this knave at the inn, Fra Cipolla had strictly enjoined him on no account to suffer any one to touch aught of his, and least of all his wallet, because it contained the holy things. But Guccio Imbratta, who was fonder of the kitchen than any nightingale of the green boughs, and most particularly if he espied there a maid, and in the host's kitchen had caught sight of a coarse fat woman, short and misshapen, with a pair of breasts that shewed as two buckets of muck and a face that might have belonged to one of the Baronci, all reeking with sweat and grease and smoke, left Fra Cipolla's room and all his things to take care of themselves, and like a vulture swooping down upon the carrion, was in the kitchen in a trice. Where, though 'twas August, he sat him down by the fire, and fell a gossiping with Nuta--such was the maid's name--and told her that he was a gentleman by procuration,(7) and had more florins than could be reckoned, besides those that he had to give away, which were rather more than less, and that he could do and say such things as never were or might be seen or heard forever, good Lord! and a day. And all heedless of his cowl, which had as much grease upon it as would have furnished forth the caldron of Altopascio,(8) and of his rent and patched doublet, inlaid with filth about the neck and under the armpits, and so stained that it shewed hues more various than ever did silk from Tartary or the Indies, and of his shoes that were all to pieces, and of his hose that were all in tatters, he told her in a tone that would have become the Sieur de Chatillon, that he was minded to rehabit her and put her in trim, and raise her from her abject condition, and place her where, though she would not have much to call her own, at any rate she would have hope of better things, with much more to the like effect; which professions, though made with every appearance of good will, proved, like most of his schemes, insubstantial as air, and came to nothing. Finding Guccio Porco thus occupied with Nuta, the two young men gleefully accounted their work half done, and, none gainsaying them, entered Fra Cipolla's room, which was open, and lit at once upon the wallet, in which was the feather. The wallet opened, they found, wrapt up in many folds of taffeta, a little casket, on opening which they discovered one of the tail-feathers of a parrot, which they deemed must be that which the friar had promised to shew the good folk of Certaldo. And in sooth he might well have so imposed upon them, for in those days the luxuries of Egypt had scarce been introduced into Tuscany, though they have since been brought over in prodigious abundance, to the grave hurt of all Italy. And though some conversance with them there was, yet in those parts folk knew next to nothing of them; but, adhering to the honest, simple ways of their forefathers, had not seen, nay for the most part had not so much as heard tell of, a parrot. So the young men, having found the feather, took it out with great glee; and looking around for something to replace it, they espied in a corner of the room some pieces of coal, wherewith they filled the casket; which they then closed, and having set the room in order exactly as they had found it, they quitted it unperceived, and hied them merrily off with the feather, and posted themselves where they might hear what Fra Cipolla would say when he found the coals in its stead. Mass said, the simple folk that were in the church went home with the tidings that the feather of the Angel Gabriel was to be seen after none; and this goodman telling his neighbour, and that goodwife her gossip, by the time every one had breakfasted, the town could scarce hold the multitude of men and women that flocked thither all agog to see this feather. Fra Cipolla, having made a hearty breakfast and had a little nap, got up shortly after none, and marking the great concourse of country-folk that were come to see the feather, sent word to Guccio Imbratta to go up there with the bells, and bring with him the wallet. Guccio, though 'twas with difficulty that he tore himself away from the kitchen and Nuta, hied him up with the things required; and though, when he got up, he was winded, for he was corpulent with drinking nought but water, he did Fra Cipolla's bidding by going to the church door and ringing the bells amain. When all the people were gathered about the door, Fra Cipolla, all unwitting that aught of his was missing, began his sermon, and after much said in glorification of himself, caused the confiteor to be recited with great solemnity, and two torches to be lit by way of preliminary to the shewing of the feather of the Angel Gabriel: he then bared his head, carefully unfolded the taffeta, and took out the casket, which, after a few prefatory words in praise and laudation of the Angel Gabriel and his relic, he opened. When he saw that it contained nought but coals, he did not suspect Guccio Balena of playing the trick, for he knew that he was not clever enough, nor did he curse him, that his carelessness had allowed another to play it, but he inly imprecated himself, that he had committed his things to the keeping of one whom he knew to be "negligent and disobedient, reckless and witless." Nevertheless, he changed not colour, but with face and hands upturned to heaven, he said in a voice that all might hear:--"O God, blessed be Thy might for ever and ever." Then, closing the casket, and turning to the people:--"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "you are to know, that when I was yet a very young man, I was sent by my superior into those parts where the sun rises, and I was expressly bidden to search until I should find the Privileges of Porcellana, which, though they cost nothing to seal, are of much more use to others than to us. On which errand I set forth, taking my departure from Venice, and traversing the Borgo de' Greci,(9) and thence on horseback the realm of Algarve,(10) and so by Baldacca(11) I came to Parione,(12) whence, somewhat athirst, I after a while got on to Sardinia.(13) But wherefore go I about to enumerate all the lands in which I pursued my quest? Having passed the straits of San Giorgio, I arrived at Truffia(14) and Buffia,(15) countries thickly populated and with great nations, whence I pursued my journey to Menzogna,(16) where I met with many of our own brethren, and of other religious not a few, intent one and all on eschewing hardship for the love of God, making little account of others! toil, so they might ensue their own advantage, and paying in nought but unminted coin(17) throughout the length and breadth of the country; and so I came to the land of Abruzzi, where the men and women go in pattens on the mountains, and clothe the hogs with their own entrails;(18) and a little further on I found folk that carried bread in staves and wine in sacks.(19) And leaving them, I arrived at the mountains of the Bachi,(20) where all the waters run downwards. In short I penetrated so far that I came at last to India Pastinaca,(21) where I swear to you by the habit that I wear, that I saw pruning-hooks(22) fly: a thing that none would believe that had not seen it. Whereof be my witness that I lie not Maso del Saggio, that great merchant, whom I found there cracking nuts, and selling the shells by retail! However, not being able to find that whereof I was in quest, because from thence one must travel by water, I turned back, and so came at length to the Holy Land, where in summer cold bread costs four deniers, and hot bread is to be had for nothing. And there I found the venerable father Nonmiblasmetesevoipiace,(23) the most worshipful Patriarch of Jerusalem; who out of respect for the habit that I have ever worn, to wit, that of Baron Master St. Antony, was pleased to let me see all the holy relics that he had by him, which were so many, that, were I to enumerate them all, I should not come to the end of them in some miles. However, not to disappoint you, I will tell you a few of them. In the first place, then, he shewed me the finger of the Holy Spirit, as whole and entire as it ever was, and the tuft of the Seraph that appeared to St. Francis, and one of the nails of the Cherubim, and one of the ribs of the Verbum Caro hie thee to the casement,(24) and some of the vestments of the Holy Catholic Faith, and some of the rays of the star that appeared to the Magi in the East, and a phial of the sweat of St. Michael a battling with the Devil and the jaws of death of St. Lazarus, and other relics. And for that I gave him a liberal supply of the acclivities(25) of Monte Morello in the vulgar and some chapters of Caprezio, of which he had long been in quest, he was pleased to let me participate in his holy relics, and gave me one of the teeth of the Holy Cross, and in a small phial a bit of the sound of the bells of Solomon's temple, and this feather of the Angel Gabriel, whereof I have told you, and one of the pattens of San Gherardo da Villa Magna, which, not long ago, I gave at Florence to Gherardo di Bonsi, who holds him in prodigious veneration. He also gave me some of the coals with which the most blessed martyr, St. Lawrence, was roasted. All which things I devoutly brought thence, and have them all safe. True it is that my superior has not hitherto permitted me to shew them, until he should be certified that they are genuine. However, now that this is avouched by certain miracles wrought by them, of which we have tidings by letter from the Patriarch, he has given me leave to shew them. But, fearing to trust them to another, I always carry them with me; and to tell you the truth I carry the feather of the Angel Gabriel, lest it should get spoiled, in a casket, and the coals, with which St. Lawrence was roasted, in another casket; which caskets are so like the one to the other, that not seldom I mistake one for the other, which has befallen me on this occasion; for, whereas I thought to have brought with me the casket wherein is the feather, I have brought instead that which contains the coals. Nor deem I this a mischance; nay, methinks, 'tis by interposition, of God, and that He Himself put the casket of coals in my hand, for I mind me that the feast of St. Lawrence falls but two days hence. Wherefore God, being minded that by shewing you the coals, with which he was roasted, I should rekindle in your souls the devotion that you ought to feel towards him, guided my hand, not to the feather which I meant to take, but to the blessed coals that were extinguished by the humours that exuded from that most holy body. And so, blessed children, bare your heads and devoutly draw nigh to see them. But first of all I would have you know, that whoso has the sign of the cross made upon him with these coals, may live secure for the whole of the ensuing year, that fire shall not touch him, that he feel it not." Having so said, the friar, chanting a hymn in praise of St. Lawrence, opened the casket, and shewed the coals. Whereon the foolish crowd gazed a while in awe and reverent wonder, and then came pressing forward in a mighty throng about Fra Cipolla with offerings beyond their wont, each and all praying him to touch them with the coals. Wherefore Fra Cipolla took the coals in his hand, and set about making on their white blouses, and on their doublets, and on the veils of the women crosses as big as might be, averring the while that whatever the coals might thus lose would be made good to them again in the casket, as he had often proved. On this wise, to his exceeding great profit, he marked all the folk of Certaldo with the cross, and, thanks to his ready wit and resource, had his laugh at those, who by robbing him of the feather thought to make a laughing-stock of him. They, indeed, being among his hearers, and marking his novel expedient, and how voluble he was, and what a long story he made of it, laughed till they thought their jaws would break; and, when the congregation was dispersed, they went up to him, and never so merrily told him what they had done, and returned him his feather; which next year proved no less lucrative to him than that day the coals had been. (1) Onion. (2) Diminutive of Arriguccio. (3) Whale. (4) Filth. (5) Hog. (6) The works of this painter seem to be lost. (7) One of the humorous ineptitudes of which Boccaccio is fond. (8) An abbey near Lucca famous for its doles of broth. (9) Perhaps part of the "sesto" of Florence known as the Borgo, as the tradition of the commentators that the friar's itinerary is wholly Florentine is not to be lightly set aside. (10) Il Garbo, a quarter or street in Florence, doubtless so called because the wares of Algarve were there sold. Rer. Ital. Script. (Muratori: Suppl. Tartini) ii. 119. Villani, Istorie Fiorentine, iv. 12, xii. 18. (11) A famous tavern in Florence. Florio, Vocab. Ital. e Ingl., ed Torriano, 1659. (12) A "borgo" in Florence. Villani, Istorie Fiorentine, iv. 7. (13) A suburb of Florence on the Arno, ib. ix. 256. (14) The land of Cajolery. (15) The land of Drollery. (16) The land of Lies. (17) I.e. in false promises: suggested by Dante's Pagando di moneta senza conio. Parad. xxix. 126. (18) A reference to sausage-making. (19) I.e. cakes fashioned in a hollow ring, and wines in leathern bottles. (20) Grubs. (21) In allusion to the shapeless fish, so called, which was proverbially taken as a type of the outlandish. (22) A jeu de mots, "pennati," pruning-hooks, signifying also feathered, though "pennuti" is more common in that sense. (23) Takemenottotaskanitlikeyou. (24) Fatti alle finestre, a subterfuge for factum est. (25) Piagge, jocularly for pagine: doubtless some mighty tome of school divinity is meant. Immense was the delight and diversion which this story afforded to all the company alike, and great and general was the laughter over Fra Cipolla, and more especially at his pilgrimage, and the relics, as well those that he had but seen as those that he had brought back with him. Which being ended, the queen, taking note that therewith the close of her sovereignty was come, stood up, took off the crown, and set it on Dioneo's head, saying with a laugh:--"'Tis time, Dioneo, that thou prove the weight of the burden of having ladies to govern and guide. Be thou king then; and let thy rule be such that, when 'tis ended, we may have cause to commend it." Dioneo took the crown, and laughingly answered:--"Kings worthier far than I you may well have seen many a time ere now--I speak of the kings in chess; but let me have of you that obedience which is due to a true king, and of a surety I will give you to taste of that solace, without which perfection of joy there may not be in any festivity. But enough of this: I will govern as best I may." Then, as was the wont, he sent for the seneschal, and gave him particular instruction how to order matters during the term of his sovereignty; which done, he said:--"Noble ladies, such and so diverse has been our discourse of the ways of men and their various fortunes, that but for the visit that we had a while ago from Madam Licisca, who by what she said has furnished me with matter of discourse for to-morrow, I doubt I had been not a little put to it to find a theme. You heard how she said that there was not a woman in her neighbourhood whose husband had her virginity; adding that well she knew how many and what manner of tricks they, after marriage, played their husbands. The first count we may well leave to the girls whom it concerns; the second, methinks, should prove a diverting topic: wherefore I ordain that, taking our cue from Madam Licisca, we discourse to-morrow of the tricks that, either for love or for their deliverance from peril, ladies have heretofore played their husbands, and whether they were by the said husbands detected or no." To discourse of such a topic some of the ladies deemed unmeet for them, and besought the king to find another theme. But the king made answer:--"Ladies, what manner of theme I have prescribed I know as well as you, nor was I to be diverted from prescribing it by that which you now think to declare unto me, for I wot the times are such that, so only men and women have a care to do nought that is unseemly, 'tis allowable to them to discourse of what they please. For in sooth, as you must know, so out of joint are the times that the judges have deserted the judgment-seat, the laws are silent, and ample licence to preserve his life as best he may is accorded to each and all. Wherefore, if you are somewhat less strict of speech than is your wont, not that aught unseemly in act may follow, but that you may afford solace to yourselves and others, I see not how you can be open to reasonable censure on the part of any. Furthermore, nought that has been said from the first day to the present moment has, methinks, in any degree sullied the immaculate honour of your company, nor, God helping us, shall aught ever sully it. Besides, who is there that knows not the quality of your honour? which were proof, I make no doubt, against not only the seductive influence of diverting discourse, but even the terror of death. And, to tell you the truth, whoso wist that you refused to discourse of these light matters for a while, would be apt to suspect that 'twas but for that you had yourselves erred in like sort. And truly a goodly honour would you confer upon me, obedient as I have ever been to you, if after making me your king and your lawgiver, you were to refuse to discourse of the theme which I prescribe. Away, then, with this scruple fitter for low minds than yours, and let each study how she may give us a goodly story, and Fortune prosper her therein." So spake the king, and the ladies, hearkening, said that, even as he would, so it should be: whereupon he gave all leave to do as they might be severally minded until the supper-hour. The sun was still quite high in the heaven, for they had not enlarged in their discourse: wherefore, Dioneo with the other gallants being set to play at dice, Elisa called the other ladies apart, and said:--"There is a nook hard by this place, where I think none of you has ever been: 'tis called the Ladies' Vale: whither, ever since we have been here, I have desired to take you, but time meet I have not found until today, when the sun is still so high: if, then, you are minded to visit it, I have no manner of doubt that, when you are there, you will be very glad you came." The ladies answered that they were ready, and so, saying nought to the young men, they summoned one of their maids, and set forth; nor had they gone much more than a mile, when they arrived at the Vale of Ladies. They entered it by a very strait gorge, through which there issued a rivulet, clear as crystal, and a sight, than which nought more fair and pleasant, especially at that time when the heat was great, could be imagined, met their eyes. Within the valley, as one of them afterwards told me, was a plain about half-a-mile in circumference, and so exactly circular that it might have been fashioned according to the compass, though it seemed a work of Nature's art, not man's: 'twas girdled about by six hills of no great height, each crowned with a palace that shewed as a goodly little castle. The slopes of the hills were graduated from summit to base after the manner of the successive tiers, ever abridging their circle, that we see in our theatres; and as many as fronted the southern rays were all planted so close with vines, olives, almond-trees, cherry-trees, fig-trees and other fruitbearing trees not a few, that there was not a hand's-breadth of vacant space. Those that fronted the north were in like manner covered with copses of oak saplings, ashes and other trees, as green and straight as might be. Besides which, the plain, which was shut in on all sides save that on which the ladies had entered, was full of firs, cypresses, and bay-trees, with here and there a pine, in order and symmetry so meet and excellent as had they been planted by an artist, the best that might be found in that kind; wherethrough, even when the sun was in the zenith, scarce a ray of light might reach the ground, which was all one lawn of the finest turf, pranked with the hyacinth and divers other flowers. Add to which--nor was there aught there more delightsome--a rivulet that, issuing from one of the gorges between two of the hills, descended over ledges of living rock, making, as it fell, a murmur most gratifying to the ear, and, seen from a distance, shewed as a spray of finest, powdered quick-silver, and no sooner reached the little plain, than 'twas gathered into a tiny channel, by which it sped with great velocity to the middle of the plain, where it formed a diminutive lake, like the fishponds that townsfolk sometimes make in their gardens, when they have occasion for them. The lake was not so deep but that a man might stand therein with his breast above the water; and so clear, so pellucid was the water that the bottom, which was of the finest gravel, shewed so distinct, that one, had he wished, who had nought better to do, might have counted the stones. Nor was it only the bottom that was to be seen, but such a multitude of fishes, glancing to and fro, as was at once a delight and a marvel to behold. Bank it had none, but its margin was the lawn, to which it imparted a goodlier freshness. So much of the water as it might not contain was received by another tiny channel, through which, issuing from the vale, it glided swiftly to the plain below. To which pleasaunce the damsels being come surveyed it with roving glance, and finding it commendable, and marking the lake in front of them, did, as 'twas very hot, and they deemed themselves secure from observation, resolve to take a bath. So, having bidden their maid wait and keep watch over the access to the vale, and give them warning, if haply any should approach it, they all seven undressed and got into the water, which to the whiteness of their flesh was even such a veil as fine glass is to the vermeil of the rose. They, being thus in the water, the clearness of which was thereby in no wise affected, did presently begin to go hither and thither after the fish, which had much ado where to bestow themselves so as to escape out of their hands. In which diversion they spent some time, and caught a few, and then they hied them out of the water and dressed them again, and bethinking them that 'twas time to return to the palace, they began slowly sauntering thither, dilating much as they went upon the beauty of the place, albeit they could not extol it more than they had already done. 'Twas still quite early when they reached the palace, so that they found the gallants yet at play where they had left them. To whom quoth Pampinea with a smile:--"We have stolen a march upon you to-day." "So," replied Dioneo, "'tis with you do first and say after?" "Ay, my lord," returned Pampinea, and told him at large whence they came, and what the place was like, and how far 'twas off, and what they had done. What she said of the beauty of the spot begat in the king a desire to see it: wherefore he straightway ordered supper, whereof when all had gaily partaken, the three gallants parted from the ladies and hied them with their servants to the vale, where none of them had ever been before, and, having marked all its beauties, extolled it as scarce to be matched in all the world. Then, as the hour was very late, they did but bathe, and as soon as they had resumed their clothes, returned to the ladies, whom they found dancing a carol to an air that Fiammetta sang, which done, they conversed of the Ladies' Vale, waxing eloquent in praise thereof: insomuch that the king called the seneschal, and bade him have some beds made ready and carried thither on the morrow, that any that were so minded might there take their siesta. He then had lights and wine and comfits brought; and when they had taken a slight refection, he bade all address them to the dance. So at his behest Pamfilo led a dance, and then the king, turning with gracious mien to Elisa:--"Fair damsel," quoth he, "'twas thou to-day didst me this honour of the crown; and 'tis my will that thine to-night be the honour of the song; wherefore sing us whatsoever thou hast most lief." "That gladly will I," replied Elisa smiling; and thus with dulcet voice began:-- If of thy talons, Love, be quit I may, I deem it scarce can be But other fangs I may elude for aye. Service I took with thee, a tender maid, In thy war thinking perfect peace to find, And all my arms upon the ground I laid, Yielding myself to thee with trustful mind: Thou, harpy-tyrant, whom no faith may bind, Eftsoons didst swoop on me, And with thy cruel claws mad'st me thy prey. Then thy poor captive, bound with many a chain, Thou tookst, and gav'st to him, whom fate did call Hither my death to be; for that in pain And bitter tears I waste away, his thrall: Nor heave I e'er a sigh, or tear let fall, So harsh a lord is he, That him inclines a jot my grief to allay. My prayers upon the idle air are spent: He hears not, will not hear; wherefore in vain The more each hour my soul doth her torment; Nor may I die, albeit to die were gain. Ah! Lord, have pity of my bitter pain! Help have I none but thee; Then take and bind and at my feet him lay. But if thou wilt not, do my soul but loose From hope, that her still binds with triple chain. Sure, O my Lord, this prayer thou'lt not refuse: The which so thou to grant me do but deign, I look my wonted beauty to regain, And banish misery With roses white and red bedecked and gay. So with a most piteous sigh ended Elisa her song, whereat all wondered exceedingly, nor might any conjecture wherefore she so sang. But the king, who was in a jolly humour, sent for Tindaro, and bade him out with his cornemuse, and caused them tread many a measure thereto, until, no small part of the night being thus spent, he gave leave to all to betake them to rest. -- Endeth here the sixth day of the Decameron, beginneth the seventh, in which, under the rule of Dioneo, discourse is had of the tricks which, either for love or for their deliverance from peril, ladies have heretofore played their husbands, and whether they were by the said husbands detected, or no. -- Fled was now each star from the eastern sky, save only that which we call Lucifer, which still glowed in the whitening dawn, when uprose the seneschal, and with a goodly baggage-train hied him to the Ladies' Vale, there to make all things ready according to the ordinance and commandment of the king. Nor was it long after his departure that the king rose, being awaked by the stir and bustle that the servants made in lading the horses, and being risen he likewise roused all the ladies and the other gallants; and so, when as yet 'twas scarce clear daybreak, they all took the road; nor seemed it to them that the nightingales and the other birds had ever chanted so blithely as that morning. By which choir they were attended to the Ladies' Vale, where they were greeted by other warblers not a few, that seemed rejoiced at their arrival. Roving about the vale, and surveying its beauties afresh, they rated them higher than on the previous day, as indeed the hour was more apt to shew them forth. Then with good wine and comfits they broke their fast, and, that they might not lag behind the songsters, they fell a singing, whereto the vale responded, ever echoing their strains; nor did the birds, as minded not to be beaten, fail to swell the chorus with notes of unwonted sweetness. However, breakfast-time came, and then, the tables being laid under a living canopy of trees, and beside other goodly trees that fringed the little lake, they sat them down in order as to the king seemed meet. So they took their meal, glancing from time to time at the lake, where the fish darted to and fro in multitudinous shoals, which afforded not only delight to their eyes but matter for converse. Breakfast ended, and the tables removed, they fell a singing again more blithely than before. After which, there being set, in divers places about the little vale, beds which the discreet seneschal had duly furnished and equipped within and without with store of French coverlets, and other bedgear, all, that were so minded, had leave of the king to go to sleep, and those that cared not to sleep might betake them, as each might choose, to any of their wonted diversions. But, all at length being risen, and the time for addressing them to the story-telling being come, the king had carpets spread on the sward no great way from the place where they had breakfasted; and, all having sat them down beside the lake, he bade Emilia begin; which, blithe and smiling, Emilia did on this wise. NOVEL I. -- Gianni Lotteringhi hears a knocking at his door at night: he awakens his wife, who persuades him that 'tis the bogey, which they fall to exorcising with a prayer; whereupon the knocking ceases. -- My lord, glad indeed had I been, that, saving your good pleasure, some other than I had had precedence of discourse upon so goodly a theme as this of which we are to speak--I doubt I am but chosen to teach others confidence; but, such being your will, I will gladly obey it. And my endeavour shall be, dearest ladies, to tell you somewhat that may be serviceable to you in the future: for, if you are, as I am, timorous, and that most especially of the bogey, which, God wot, I know not what manner of thing it may be, nor yet have found any that knew, albeit we are all alike afraid of it, you may learn from this my story how to put it to flight, should it intrude upon you, with a holy, salutary and most efficacious orison. There dwelt of yore at Florence, in the quarter of San Pancrazio, a master-spinner, Gianni Lotteringhi by name, one that had prospered in his business, but had little understanding of aught else; insomuch that being somewhat of a simpleton, he had many a time been chosen leader of the band of laud-singers of Santa Maria Novella, and had charge of their school; and not a few like offices had he often served, upon which he greatly plumed himself. Howbeit, 'twas all for no other reason than that, being a man of substance, he gave liberal doles to the friars; who, for that they got thereof, this one hose, another a cloak, and a third a hood, would teach him good orisons, or give him the paternoster in the vernacular, or the chant of St. Alexis, or the lament of St. Bernard, or the laud of Lady Matilda, or the like sorry stuff, which he greatly prized, and guarded with jealous care, deeming them all most conducive to the salvation of his soul. Now our simple master-spinner had a most beautiful wife, and amorous withal, her name Monna Tessa. Daughter she was of Mannuccio dalla Cuculla, and not a little knowing and keen-witted; and being enamoured of Federigo di Neri Pegolotti, a handsome and lusty gallant, as he also of her, she, knowing her husband's simplicity, took counsel with her maid, and arranged that Federigo should come to chat with her at a right goodly pleasure-house that the said Gianni had at Camerata, where she was wont to pass the summer, Gianni coming now and again to sup and sleep, and going back in the morning to his shop, or, maybe, to his laud-singers. Federigo, who desired nothing better, went up there punctually on the appointed day about vespers, and as the evening passed without Gianni making his appearance, did most comfortably, and to his no small satisfaction, sup and sleep with the lady, who lying in his arms taught him that night some six of her husband's lauds. But, as neither she nor Federigo was minded that this beginning should also be the end of their intercourse, and that it might not be needful for the maid to go each time to make the assignation with him, they came to the following understanding; to wit, that as often as he came and went between the house and an estate that he had a little higher up, he should keep an eye on a vineyard that was beside the house, where he would see an ass's head stuck on one of the poles of the vineyard, and as often as he observed the muzzle turned towards Florence, he might visit her without any sort of misgiving; and if he found not the door open, he was to tap it thrice, and she would open it; and when he saw the muzzle of the ass's head turned towards Fiesole, he was to keep away, for then Gianni would be there. Following which plan, they forgathered not seldom: but on one of these evenings, when Federigo was to sup with Monna Tessa on two fat capons that she bad boiled, it so chanced that Gianni arrived there unexpectedly and very late, much to the lady's chagrin: so she had a little salt meat boiled apart, on which she supped with her husband; and the maid by her orders carried the two boiled capons laid in a spotless napkin with plenty of fresh eggs and a bottle of good wine into the garden, to which there was access otherwise than from the house, and where she was wont at times to sup with Federigo; and there the maid set them down at the foot of a peach-tree, that grew beside a lawn. But in her vexation she forgot to tell the maid to wait till Federigo should come, and let him know that Gianni was there, and he must take his supper in the garden: and she and Gianni and the maid were scarce gone to bed, when Federigo came and tapped once at the door, which being hard by the bedroom, Gianni heard the tap, as did also the lady, albeit, that Gianni might have no reason to suspect her, she feigned to be asleep. Federigo waited a little, and then gave a second tap; whereupon, wondering what it might mean, Gianni nudged his wife, saying:--"Tessa, dost hear what I hear? Methinks some one has tapped at our door." The lady, who had heard the noise much better than he, feigned to wake up, and:--"How? what sayst thou?" quoth she. "I say," replied Gianni, "that, meseems, some one has tapped at our door." "Tapped at it?" quoth the lady. "Alas, my Gianni, wottest thou not what that is? 'Tis the bogey, which for some nights past has so terrified me as never was, insomuch that I never hear it but I pop my head under the clothes and venture not to put it out again until 'tis broad day." "Come, come, wife," quoth Gianni, "if such it is, be not alarmed; for before we got into bed I repeated the Te lucis, the Intemerata, and divers other good orisons, besides which I made the sign of the cross in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit at each corner of the bed; wherefore we need have no fear that it may avail to hurt us, whatever be its power." The lady, lest Federigo, perchance suspecting a rival, should take offence, resolved to get up, and let him understand that Gianni was there: so she said to her husband:--"Well well; so sayst thou; but I for my part shall never deem myself safe and secure, unless we exorcise it, seeing that thou art here." "Oh!" said Gianni, "and how does one exorcise it?" "That," quoth the lady, "I know right well; for t'other day, when I went to Fiesole for the pardoning, one of those anchoresses, the saintliest creature, my Gianni, God be my witness, knowing how much afraid I am of the bogey, taught me a holy and salutary orison, which she said she had tried many a time before she was turned anchoress, and always with success. God wot, I should never have had courage to try it alone; but as thou art here, I propose that we go exorcise it together." Gianni made answer that he was quite of the same mind; so up they got, and stole to the door, on the outside of which Federigo, now suspicious, was still waiting. And as soon as they were there:--"Now," quoth the lady to Gianni, "thou wilt spit, when I tell thee." "Good," said Gianni. Whereupon the lady began her orison, saying:-- "Bogey, bogey that goest by night, Tail erect, thou cam'st, tail erect, take thy flight Hie thee to the garden, and the great peach before, Grease upon grease, and droppings five score Of my hen shalt thou find: Set the flask thy lips to, Then away like the wind, And no scathe unto me or my Gianni do." And when she had done:--"Now, Gianni," quoth she, "spit": and Gianni spat. There was no more room for jealousy in Federigo's mind as he heard all this from without; nay, for all his disappointment, he was like to burst with suppressed laughter, and when Gianni spat, he muttered under his breath:--"Now out with thy teeth." The lady, having after this fashion thrice exorcised the bogey, went back to bed with her husband. Federigo, disappointed of the supper that he was to have had with her, and apprehending the words of the orison aright, hied him to the garden, and having found the two capons and the wine and the eggs at the foot of the peach-tree, took them home with him, and supped very comfortably. And many a hearty laugh had he and the lady over the exorcism during their subsequent intercourse. Now, true it is that some say that the lady had in fact turned the ass's head towards Fiesole, but that a husbandman, passing through the vineyard, had given it a blow with his stick, whereby it had swung round, and remained fronting Florence, and so it was that Federigo thought that he was invited, and came to the house, and that the lady's orison was on this wise:-- "Bogey, a God's name, away thee hie, For whoe'er turned the ass's head, 'twas not I: Another it was, foul fall his eyne; And here am I with Gianni mine." Wherefore Federigo was fain to take himself off, having neither slept nor supped. But a neighbour of mine, a lady well advanced in years, tells me that, by what she heard when she was a girl, both stories are true; but that the latter concerned not Gianni Lotteringhi but one Gianni di Nello, that lived at Porta San Piero, and was no less a numskull than Gianni Lotteringhi. Wherefore, dear my ladies, you are at liberty to choose which exorcism you prefer, or take both if you like. They are both of extraordinary and approved virtue in such cases, as you have heard: get them by heart, therefore, and they may yet stand you in good stead. NOVEL II. -- Her husband returning home, Peronella bestows her lover in a tun; which, being sold by her husband, she avers to have been already sold by herself to one that is inside examining it to see if it be sound. Whereupon the lover jumps out, and causes the husband to scour the tun for him, and afterwards to carry it to his house. -- Great indeed was the laughter with which Emilia's story was received; which being ended, and her orison commended by all as good and salutary, the king bade Filostrato follow suit; and thus Filostrato began:--Dearest my ladies, so many are the tricks that men play you, and most of all your husbands, that, when from time to time it so befalls that some lady plays her husband a trick, the circumstance, whether it come within your own cognizance or be told you by another, should not only give you joy but should incite you to publish it on all hands, that men may be ware, that, knowing as they are, their ladies also, on their part, know somewhat: which cannot but be serviceable to you, for that one does not rashly essay to take another with guile whom one wots not to lack that quality. Can we doubt, then, that, should but the converse that we shall hold to-day touching this matter come to be bruited among men, 'twould serve to put a most notable check upon the tricks they play you, by doing them to wit of the tricks, which you, in like manner, when you are so minded, may play them? Wherefore 'tis my intention to tell you in what manner a young girl, albeit she was but of low rank, did, on the spur of the moment, beguile her husband to her own deliverance. 'Tis no long time since at Naples a poor man, a mason by craft, took to wife a fair and amorous maiden--Peronella was her name--who eked out by spinning what her husband made by his craft; and so the pair managed as best they might on very slender means. And as chance would have it, one of the gallants of the city, taking note of this Peronella one day, and being mightily pleased with her, fell in love with her, and by this means and that so prevailed that he won her to accord him her intimacy. Their times of forgathering they concerted as follows:--to wit, that, her husband being wont to rise betimes of a morning to go to work or seek for work, the gallant was to be where he might see him go forth, and, the street where she dwelt, which is called Avorio, being scarce inhabited, was to come into the house as soon as her husband was well out of it; and so times not a few they did. But on one of these occasions it befell that, the good man being gone forth, and Giannello Sirignario--such was the gallant's name--being come into the house, and being with Peronella, after a while, back came the good man, though 'twas not his wont to return until the day was done; and finding the door locked, he knocked, and after knocking, he fell a saying to himself:--O God, praised be Thy name forever; for that, albeit Thou hast ordained that I be poor, at least Thou hast accorded me the consolation of a good and honest girl for wife. Mark what haste she made to shut the door when I was gone forth, that none else might enter to give her trouble. Now Peronella knew by his knock that 'twas her husband; wherefore:--"Alas, Giannello mine," quoth she, "I am a dead woman, for lo, here is my husband, foul fall him! come back! What it may import, I know not, for he is never wont to come back at this hour; perchance he caught sight of thee as thou camest in. However, for the love of God, be it as it may, get thee into this tun that thou seest here, and I will go open to him, and we shall see what is the occasion of this sudden return this morning." So Giannello forthwith got into the tun, and Peronella went to the door, and let in her husband, and gave him black looks, saying:--"This is indeed a surprise that thou art back so soon this morning! By what I see thou hast a mind to make this a holiday, that thou returnest tools in hand; if so, what are we to live on? whence shall we get bread to eat? Thinkest thou I will let thee pawn my gown and other bits of clothes? Day and night I do nought else but spin, insomuch that the flesh is fallen away from my nails, that at least I may have oil enough to keep our lamp alight. Husband, husband, there is never a woman in the neighbourhood but marvels and mocks at me, that I am at such labour and pains; and thou comest home to me with thy hands hanging idle, when thou shouldst be at work." Which said, she fell a weeping and repeating:--"Alas, alas, woe 's me, in what evil hour was I born? in what luckless moment came I hither, I, that might have had so goodly a young man, and I would not, to take up with one that bestows never a thought on her whom he has made his wife? Other women have a good time with their lovers, and never a one have we here but has two or three; they take their pleasure, and make their husbands believe that the moon is the sun; and I, alas! for that I am an honest woman, and have no such casual amours, I suffer, and am hard bested. I know not why I provide not myself with one of these lovers, as others do. Give good heed, husband, to what I say: were I disposed to dishonour thee, I were at no loss to find the man: for here are gallants enough, that love me, and court me, and have sent me many an offer of money--no stint--or dresses or jewels, should I prefer them; but my pride would never suffer it, because I was not born of a woman of that sort: and now thou comest home to me when thou oughtest to be at work." Whereto the husband:--"Wife, wife, for God's sake distress not thyself: thou shouldst give me credit for knowing what manner of woman thou art, as indeed I have partly seen this morning. True it is that I went out to work; but 'tis plain that thou knowest not, as indeed I knew not, that to-day 'tis the feast of San Galeone, and a holiday, and that is why I am come home at this hour; but nevertheless I have found means to provide us with bread for more than a month; for I have sold to this gentleman, whom thou seest with me, the tun, thou wottest of, seeing that it has encumbered the house so long, and he will give me five gigliats for it." Quoth then Peronella:--"And all this but adds to my trouble: thou, that art a man, and goest abroad, and shouldst know affairs, hast sold for five gigliats a tun, which I, that am but a woman, and was scarce ever out of doors, have, for that it took up so much room in the house, sold for seven gigliats to a good man, that but now, as thou cam'st back, got therein, to see if 'twere sound." So hearing, the husband was overjoyed, and said to the man that was come to take it away:--"Good man, I wish thee Godspeed; for, as thou hearest, my wife has sold the tun for seven gigliats, whereas thou gavest me only five." Whereupon:--"So be it," said the good man, and took himself off. Then said Peronella to her husband:--"Now, as thou art here, come up, and arrange the matter with the good man." Now Giannello, who, meanwhile, had been all on the alert to discover if there were aught he had to fear or be on his guard against, no sooner heard Peronella's last words, than he sprang out of the tun, and feigning to know nought of her husband's return, began thus:--"Where art thou, good dame?" Whereto the husband, coming up, answered:--"Here am I: what wouldst thou of me?" Quoth Giannello:--"And who art thou? I would speak with the lady with whom I struck the bargain for this tun." Then said the good man:--"Have no fear, you can deal with me; for I am her husband." Quoth then Giannello:--"The tun seems to me sound enough; but I think you must have let the lees remain in it; for 'tis all encrusted with I know not what that is so dry, that I cannot raise it with the nail; wherefore I am not minded to take it unless I first see it scoured." Whereupon Peronella:--"To be sure: that shall not hinder the bargain; my husband will scour it clean." And:--"Well and good," said the husband. So he laid down his tools, stripped himself to his vest, sent for a light and a rasp, and was in the tun, and scraping away, in a trice. Whereupon Peronella, as if she were curious to see what he did, thrust her head into the vent of the tun, which was of no great size, and therewithal one of her arms up to the shoulder, and fell a saying:--"Scrape here, and here, and there too, and look, there is a bit left here." So, she being in this posture, directing and admonishing her husband, Giannello, who had not, that morning, fully satisfied his desire, when the husband arrived, now seeing that as he would, he might not, brought his mind to his circumstances, and resolved to take his pleasure as he might: wherefore he made up to the lady, who completely blocked the vent of the tun; and even on such wise as on the open champaign the wild and lusty horses do amorously assail the mares of Parthia, he sated his youthful appetite; and so it was that almost at the same moment that he did so, and was off, the tun was scoured, the husband came forth of it, and Peronella withdrew her head from the vent, and turning to Giannello, said:--"Take this light, good man, and see if 'tis scoured to thy mind." Whereupon Giannello, looking into the tun, said that 'twas in good trim, and that he was well content, and paid the husband the seven gigliats, and caused him carry the tun to his house. NOVEL III. -- Fra Rinaldo lies with his gossip: her husband finds him in the room with her; and they make him believe that he was curing his godson of worms by a charm. -- Filostrato knew not how so to veil what he said touching the mares of Parthia, but that the keen-witted ladies laughed thereat, making as if 'twas at somewhat else. However, his story being ended, the king called for one from Elisa, who, all obedience, thus began:--Debonair my ladies, we heard from Emilia how the bogey is exorcised, and it brought to my mind a story of another incantation: 'tis not indeed so good a story as hers; but, as no other, germane to our theme, occurs to me at present, I will relate it. You are to know, then, that there dwelt aforetime at Siena a young man, right gallant and of honourable family, his name Rinaldo; who, being in the last degree enamoured of one of his neighbours, a most beautiful gentlewoman and the wife of a rich man, was not without hopes that, if he could but find means to speak with her privately, he might have of her all that he desired; but seeing no way, and the lady being pregnant, he cast about how he might become her child's godfather. Wherefore, having ingratiated himself with her husband, he broached the matter to him in as graceful a manner as he might; and 'twas arranged. So Rinaldo, being now godfather to Madonna Agnesa's child, and having a more colourable pretext for speaking to her, took courage, and told her in words that message of his heart which she had long before read in his eyes; but though 'twas not displeasing to the lady to hear, it availed him but little. Now not long afterwards it so befell that, whatever may have been his reason, Rinaldo betook him to friarage; and whether it was that he found good pasture therein, or what not, he persevered in that way of life. And though for a while after he was turned friar, he laid aside the love he bore his gossip, and certain other vanities, yet in course of time, without putting off the habit, he resumed them, and began to take a pride in his appearance, and to go dressed in fine clothes, and to be quite the trim gallant, and to compose songs and sonnets and ballades, and to sing them, and to make a brave shew in all else that pertained to his new character. But why enlarge upon our Fra Rinaldo, of whom we speak? what friars are there that do not the like? Ah! opprobrium of a corrupt world! Sleek-faced and sanguine, daintily clad, dainty in all their accessories, they ruffle it shamelessly before the eyes of all, shewing not as doves but as insolent cocks with raised crest and swelling bosom, and, what is worse (to say nought of the vases full of electuaries and unguents, the boxes packed with divers comfits, the pitchers and phials of artificial waters, and oils, the flagons brimming with Malmsey and Greek and other wines of finest quality, with which their cells are so packed that they shew not as the cells of friars, but rather as apothecaries' or perfumers' shops), they blush not to be known to be gouty, flattering themselves that other folk wot not that long fasts and many of them, and coarse fare and little of it, and sober living, make men lean and thin and for the most part healthy; or if any malady come thereof, at any rate 'tis not the gout, the wonted remedy for which is chastity and all beside that belongs to the regimen of a humble friar. They flatter themselves, too, that others wot not that over and above the meagre diet, long vigils and orisons and strict discipline ought to mortify men and make them pale, and that neither St. Dominic nor St. Francis went clad in stuff dyed in grain or any other goodly garb, but in coarse woollen habits innocent of the dyer's art, made to keep out the cold, and not for shew. To which matters 'twere well God had a care, no less than to the souls of the simple folk by whom our friars are nourished. Fra Rinaldo, then, being come back to his first affections, took to visiting his gossip very frequently; and gaining confidence, began with more insistence than before to solicit her to that which he craved of her. So, being much urged, the good lady, to whom Fra Rinaldo, perhaps, seemed now more handsome than of yore, had recourse one day, when she felt herself unusually hard pressed by him, to the common expedient of all that would fain concede what is asked of them, and said:--"Oh! but Fra Rinaldo, do friars then do this sort of thing?" "Madam," replied Fra Rinaldo, "when I divest myself of this habit, which I shall do easily enough, you will see that I am a man furnished as other men, and no friar." Whereto with a truly comical air the lady made answer:--"Alas! woe's me! you are my child's godfather: how might it be? nay, but 'twere a very great mischief; and many a time I have heard that 'tis a most heinous sin; and without a doubt, were it not so, I would do as you wish." "If," said Fra Rinaldo, "you forego it for such a scruple as this, you are a fool for your pains. I say not that 'tis no sin; but there is no sin so great but God pardons it, if one repent. Now tell me: whether is more truly father to your son, I that held him at the font, or your husband that begot him?" "My husband," replied the lady. "Sooth say you," returned the friar, "and does not your husband lie with you?" "Why, yes," said the lady. "Then," rejoined the friar, "I that am less truly your son's father than your husband, ought also to lie with you, as does your husband." The lady was no logician, and needed little to sway her: she therefore believed or feigned to believe that what the friar said was true. So:-- "Who might avail to answer your words of wisdom?" quoth she; and presently forgot the godfather in the lover, and complied with his desires. Nor had they begun their course to end it forthwith: but under cover of the friar's sponsorship, which set them more at ease, as it rendered them less open to suspicion, they forgathered again and again. But on one of these occasions it so befell that Fra Rinaldo, being come to the lady's house, where he espied none else save a very pretty and dainty little maid that waited on the lady, sent his companion away with her into the pigeon-house, there to teach her the paternoster, while he and the lady, holding her little boy by the hand, went into the bedroom, locked themselves in, got them on to a divan that was there, and began to disport them. And while thus they sped the time, it chanced that the father returned, and, before any was ware of him, was at the bedroom door, and knocked, and called the lady by her name. Whereupon:--"'Tis as much as my life is worth," quoth Madonna Agnesa; "lo, here is my husband; and the occasion of our intimacy cannot but be now apparent to him." "Sooth say you," returned Fra Rinaldo, who was undressed, that is to say, had thrown off his habit and hood, and was in his tunic; "if I had but my habit and hood on me in any sort, 'twould be another matter; but if you let him in, and he find me thus, 'twill not be possible to put any face on it." But with an inspiration as happy as sudden:--"Now get them on you," quoth the lady; "and when you have them on, take your godson in your arms, and give good heed to what I shall say to him, that your words may accord with mine; and leave the rest to me." The good man was still knocking, when his wife made answer:-- "Coming, coming." And so up she got, and put on a cheerful countenance and hied her to the door, and opened it and said:--"Husband mine: well indeed was it for us that in came Fra Rinaldo, our sponsor; 'twas God that sent him to us; for in sooth, but for that, we had to-day lost our boy." Which the poor simpleton almost swooned to hear; and:--"How so?" quoth he. "O husband mine," replied the lady, "he was taken but now, all of a sudden, with a fainting fit, so that I thought he was dead: and what to do or say I knew not, had not Fra Rinaldo, our sponsor, come just in the nick of time, and set him on his shoulder, and said:--'Gossip, 'tis that he has worms in his body, and getting, as they do, about the heart, they might only too readily be the death of him; but fear not; I will say a charm that will kill them all; and before I take my leave, you will see your boy as whole as you ever saw him.' And because to say certain of the prayers thou shouldst have been with us, and the maid knew not where to find thee, he caused his companion to say them at the top of the house, and he and I came in here. And for that 'tis not meet for any but the boy's mother to assist at such a service, that we might not be troubled with any one else, we locked the door; and he yet has him in his arms; and I doubt not that he only waits till his companion have said his prayers, and then the charm will be complete; for the boy is already quite himself again." The good simple soul, taking all this for sooth, and overwrought by the love he bore his son, was entirely without suspicion of the trick his wife was playing him, and heaving a great sigh, said:--"I will go look for him." "Nay," replied the wife, "go not: thou wouldst spoil the efficacy of the charm: wait here; I will go see if thou mayst safely go; and will call thee." Whereupon Fra Rinaldo, who had heard all that passed, and was in his canonicals, and quite at his ease, and had the boy in his arms, having made sure that all was as it should be, cried out:--"Gossip, do I not hear the father's voice out there?" "Ay indeed, Sir," replied the simpleton. "Come in then," said Fra Rinaldo. So in came the simpleton. Whereupon quoth Fra Rinaldo:--"I restore to you your boy made whole by the grace of God, whom but now I scarce thought you would see alive at vespers. You will do well to have his image fashioned in wax, not less than life-size, and set it for a thanksgiving to God, before the statue of Master St. Ambrose, by whose merits you have this favour of God." The boy, catching sight of his father, ran to him with joyous greetings, as little children are wont; and the father, taking him in his arms, and weeping as if he were restored to him from the grave, fell by turns a kissing him and thanking his godfather, that he had cured him. Fra Rinaldo's companion, who had taught the maid not one paternoster only, but peradventure four or more, and by giving her a little purse of white thread that a nun had given him, had made her his devotee, no sooner heard Fra Rinaldo call the simpleton into his wife's room, than he stealthily got him to a place whence he might see and hear what was going on. Observing that the affair was now excellently arranged, he came down, and entered the chamber, saying:--"Fra Rinaldo, those four prayers that you bade me say, I have said them all." "Then well done, my brother," quoth Fra Rinaldo, "well-breathed must thou be. For my part, I had but said two, when my gossip came in; but what with thy travail and mine, God of His grace has vouchsafed-us the healing or the boy." The simpleton then had good wine and comfits brought in, and did the honours to the godfather and his companion in such sort as their occasions did most demand. He then ushered them forth of the house, commending them to God; and without delay had the waxen image made, and directed it to be set up with the others in front of the statue of St. Ambrose, not, be it understood, St. Ambrose of Milan.(1) (1) The statue would doubtless be that of St. Ambrose of Siena, of the Dominican Order. NOVEL IV. -- Tofano one night locks his wife out of the house: she, finding that by no entreaties may she prevail upon him to let her in, feigns to throw herself into a well, throwing therein a great stone. Tofano hies him forth of the house, and runs to the spot: she goes into the house, and locks him out, and hurls abuse at him from within. -- The king no sooner wist that Elisa's story was ended, than, turning to Lauretta, he signified his will that she should tell somewhat: wherefore without delay she began:--O Love, how great and signal is thy potency! how notable thy stratagems, thy devices! Was there ever, shall there ever be, philosopher or adept competent to inspire, counsel and teach in such sort as thou by thine unpremeditated art dost tutor those that follow thy lead? Verily laggard teachers are they all in comparison of thee, as by the matters heretofore set forth may very well be understood. To which store I will add, loving ladies, a stratagem used by a woman of quite ordinary understanding, and of such a sort that I know not by whom she could have been taught it save by Love. Know, then, that there dwelt aforetime at Arezzo a rich man, Tofano by name, who took to wife Monna Ghita, a lady exceeding fair, of whom, for what cause he knew not, he presently grew jealous. Whereof the lady being ware, waxed resentful, and having on divers occasions demanded of him the reason of his jealousy, and gotten from him nought precise, but only generalities and trivialities, resolved at last to give him cause enough to die of that evil which without cause he so much dreaded. And being ware that a gallant, whom she deemed well worthy of her, was enamoured of her, she, using due discretion, came to an understanding with him; which being brought to the point that it only remained to give effect to their words in act, the lady cast about to devise how this might be. And witting that, among other bad habits that her husband had, he was too fond of his cups, she would not only commend indulgence, but cunningly and not seldom incite him thereto; insomuch that, well-nigh as often as she was so minded, she led him to drink to excess; and when she saw that he was well drunken, she would put him to bed; and so not once only but divers times without any manner of risk she forgathered with her lover; nay, presuming upon her husband's intoxication, she grew so bold that, not content with bringing her lover into her house, she would at times go spend a great part of the night with him at his house, which was not far off. Now such being the enamoured lady's constant practice, it so befell that the dishonoured husband took note that, while she egged him on to drink, she herself drank never a drop; whereby he came to suspect the truth, to wit, that the lady was making him drunk, that afterwards she might take her pleasure while he slept. And being minded to put his surmise to the proof, one evening, having drunken nought all day, he mimicked never so drunken a sot both in speech and in carriage. The lady, deeming him to be really as he appeared, and that 'twas needless to ply him with liquor, presently put him to bed. Which done, she, as she at times was wont, hied her forth to her lover's house, where she tarried until midnight. Tofano no sooner perceived that his wife was gone, than up he got, hied him to the door, locked it, and then posted himself at the window to observe her return, and let her know that he was ware of her misconduct. So there he stood until the lady returned, and finding herself locked out, was annoyed beyond measure, and sought to force the door open. Tofano let her try her strength upon it a while, and then:--"Madam," quoth he, "'tis all to no purpose: thou canst not get in. Go get thee back thither where thou hast tarried all this while, and rest assured that thou shalt never recross this threshold, until I have done thee such honour as is meet for thee in the presence of thy kinsfolk and neighbours." Thereupon the lady fell entreating him to be pleased to open to her for the love of God, for that she was not come whence he supposed, but had only been passing the time with one of her gossips, because the nights were long, and she could not spend the whole time either in sleep or in solitary watching. But her supplications availed her nothing, for the fool was determined that all Arezzo should know their shame, whereof as yet none wist aught. So as 'twas idle to entreat, the lady assumed a menacing tone, saying:--"So thou open not to me, I will make thee the saddest man alive." Whereto Tofano made answer:--"And what then canst thou do?" The lady, her wits sharpened by Love, rejoined:--"Rather than endure the indignity to which thou wouldst unjustly subject me, I will cast myself into the well hard by here, and when I am found dead there, all the world will believe that 'twas thou that didst it in thy cups, and so thou wilt either have to flee and lose all that thou hast and be outlawed, or forfeit thy head as guilty of my death, as indeed thou wilt be." But, for all she said, Tofano wavered not a jot in his foolish purpose. So at last:--"Lo, now," quoth the lady, "I can no more abide thy surly humour: God forgive thee: I leave thee my distaff here, which be careful to bestow in a safe place." So saying, away she hied her to the well, and, the night being so dark that wayfarers could scarce see one another as they passed, she took up a huge stone that was by the well, and ejaculating, "God forgive me!" dropped it therein. Tofano, hearing the mighty splash that the stone made as it struck the water, never doubted that she had cast herself in: so, bucket and rope in hand, he flung himself out of the house, and came running to the well to her rescue. The lady had meanwhile hidden herself hard by the door, and seeing him make for the well, was in the house in a trice, and having locked the door, hied her to the window, and greeted him with:--"'Tis while thou art drinking, not now, when the night is far spent, that thou shouldst temper thy wine with water." Thus derided, Tofano came back to the door, and finding his ingress barred, began adjuring her to let him in. Whereupon, changing the low tone she had hitherto used for one so shrill that 'twas well-nigh a shriek, she broke out with:--"By the Holy Rood, tedious drunken sot that thou art, thou gettest no admittance here to-night; thy ways are more than I can endure: 'tis time I let all the world know what manner of man thou art, and at what hour of the night thou comest home." Tofano, on his part, now grew angry, and began loudly to upbraid her; insomuch that the neighbours, aroused by the noise, got up, men and women alike, and looked out of the windows, and asked what was the matter. Whereupon the lady fell a weeping and saying:--"'Tis this wicked man, who comes home drunk at even, or falls asleep in some tavern, and then returns at this hour. Long and to no purpose have I borne with him; but 'tis now past endurance, and I have done him this indignity of locking him out of the house in the hope that perchance it may cause him to mend his ways." Tofano, on his part, told, dolt that he was, just what had happened, and was mighty menacing. Whereupon:--"Now mark," quoth the lady to the neighbours, "the sort of man he is! What would you say if I were, as he is, in the street, and he were in the house, as I am? God's faith, I doubt you would believe what he said. Hereby you may gauge his sense. He tells you that I have done just what, I doubt not, he has done himself. He thought to terrify me by throwing I know not what into the well, wherein would to God he had thrown himself indeed, and drowned himself, whereby the wine of which he has taken more than enough, had been watered to some purpose!" The neighbours, men and women alike, now with one accord gave tongue, censuring Tofano, throwing all the blame upon him, and answering what he alleged against the lady with loud recrimination; and in short the bruit, passing from neighbour to neighbour, reached at last the ears of the lady's kinsfolk; who hied them to the spot, and being apprised of the affair from this, that and the other of the neighbours, laid hands on Tofano, and beat him till he was black and blue from head to foot. Which done, they entered his house, stripped it of all that belonged to the lady, and took her home with them, bidding Tofano look for worse to come. Thus hard bested, and ruing the plight in which his jealousy had landed him, Tofano, who loved his wife with all his heart, set some friends to work to patch matters up, whereby he did in fact induce his lady to forgive him and live with him again, albeit he was fain to promise her never again to be jealous, and to give her leave to amuse herself to her heart's content, provided she used such discretion that he should not be ware of it. On such wise, like the churl and booby that he was, being despoiled, he made terms. Now long live Love, and perish war, and all that wage it! NOVEL V. -- A jealous husband disguises himself as a priest, and hears his own wife's confession: she tells him that she loves a priest, who comes to her every night. The husband posts himself at the door to watch for the priest, and meanwhile the lady brings her lover in by the roof, and tarries with him. -- When Lauretta had done speaking, and all had commended the lady, for that she had done well, and treated her caitiff husband as he had deserved, the king, not to lose time, turned to Fiammetta, and graciously bade her take up her parable; which she did on this wise:--Most noble ladies, the foregoing story prompts me likewise to discourse of one of these jealous husbands, deeming that they are justly requited by their wives, more especially when they grow jealous without due cause. And had our legislators taken account of everything, I am of opinion that they would have visited ladies in such a case with no other penalty than such as they provide for those that offend in self-defence, seeing that a jealous husband does cunningly practise against the life of his lady, and most assiduously machinate her death. All the week the wife stays at home, occupied with her domestic duties; after which, on the day that is sacred to joy, she, like every one else, craves some solace, some peace, some recreation, not unreasonably, for she craves but what the husbandmen take in the fields, the craftsmen in the city, the magistrates in the courts, nay what God Himself took, when He rested from all His labours on the seventh day, and which laws human and Divine, mindful alike of the honour of God and the common well-being, have ordained, appropriating certain days to work, and others to repose. To which ordinance these jealous husbands will in no wise conform; on the contrary by then most sedulously secluding their wives, they make those days which to all other women are gladsome, to them most grievous and dolorous. And what an affliction it is to the poor creatures, they alone know, who have proved it; for which reason, to sum up, I say that a wife is rather to be commended than censured, if she take her revenge upon a husband that is jealous without cause. Know then that at Rimini there dwelt a merchant, a man of great substance in lands and goods and money, who, having a most beautiful woman to wife, waxed inordinately jealous of her, and that for no better reason than that, loving her greatly, and esteeming her exceeding fair, and knowing that she did her utmost endeavour to pleasure him, he must needs suppose that every man loved her, and esteemed her fair, and that she, moreover, was as zealous to stand well with every other man as with himself; whereby you may see that he was a poor creature, and of little sense. Being thus so deeply infected with jealousy, he kept so strict and close watch over her, that some, maybe, have lain under sentence of death and been less rigorously confined by their warders. 'Twas not merely that the lady might not go to a wedding, or a festal gathering, or even to church, or indeed set foot out of doors in any sort; but she dared not so much as shew herself at a window, or cast a glance outside the house, no matter for what purpose. Wherefore she led a most woeful life of it, and found it all the harder to bear because she knew herself to be innocent. Accordingly, seeing herself evilly entreated by her husband without good cause, she cast about how for her own consolation she might devise means to justify his usage of her. And for that, as she might not shew herself at the window, there could be no interchange of amorous glances between her and any man that passed along the street, but she wist that in the next house there was a goodly and debonair gallant, she bethought her, that, if there were but a hole in the wall that divided the two houses, she might watch thereat, until she should have sight of the gallant on such wise that she might speak to him, and give him her love, if he cared to have it, and, if so it might be contrived, forgather with him now and again, and after this fashion relieve the burden of her woeful life, until such time as the evil spirit should depart from her husband. So peering about, now here, now there, when her husband was away, she found in a very remote part of the house a place, where, by chance, the wall had a little chink in it. Peering through which, she made out, though not without great difficulty, that on the other side was a room, and said to herself:--If this were Filippo's room--Filippo was the name of the gallant, her neighbour--I should be already halfway to my goal. So cautiously, through her maid, who was grieved to see her thus languish, she made quest, and discovered that it was indeed the gallant's room, where he slept quite alone. Wherefore she now betook her frequently to the aperture, and whenever she was ware that the gallant was in the room, she would let fall a pebble or the like trifle; whereby at length she brought the gallant to the other side of the aperture to see what the matter was. Whereupon she softly called him, and he knowing her voice, answered; and so, having now the opportunity she had sought, she in few words opened to him all her mind. The gallant, being overjoyed, wrought at the aperture on such wise that albeit none might be ware thereof, he enlarged it; and there many a time they held converse together, and touched hands, though further they might not go by reason of the assiduous watch that the jealous husband kept. Now towards Christmas the lady told her husband that, if he approved, she would fain go on Christmas morning to church, and confess and communicate, like other Christians. "And what sins," quoth he, "hast thou committed, that wouldst be shriven?" "How?" returned the lady; "dost thou take me for a saint? For all thou keepest me so close, thou must know very well that I am like all other mortals. However, I am not minded to confess to thee, for that thou art no priest." Her husband, whose suspicions were excited by what she had said, cast about how he might discover these sins of hers, and having bethought him of what seemed an apt expedient, made answer that she had his consent, but he would not have her go to any church but their own chapel, where she might hie her betimes in the morning, and confess either to their own chaplain or some other priest that the chaplain might assign her, but to none other, and presently return to the house. The lady thought she half understood him, but she answered only that she would do as he required. Christmas morning came, and with the dawn the lady rose, dressed herself, and hied her to the church appointed by her husband, who also rose, and hied him to the same church, where he arrived before her; and having already concerted matters with the priest that was in charge, he forthwith put on one of the priest's robes with a great hood, overshadowing the face, such as we see priests wear, and which he pulled somewhat forward; and so disguised he seated himself in the choir. On entering the church the lady asked for the priest, who came, and learning that she was minded to confess, said that he could not hear her himself, but would send her one of his brethren; so away he hied him and sent her, in an evil hour for him, her husband. For though he wore an air of great solemnity, and 'twas not yet broad day, and he had pulled the hood well over his eyes, yet all did not avail, but that his lady forthwith recognized him, and said to herself:--God be praised! why, the jealous rogue is turned priest: but leave it me to give him that whereof he is in quest. So she feigned not to know him, and seated herself at his feet. (I should tell you that he had put some pebbles in his mouth, that his speech, being impeded, might not betray him to his wife, and in all other respects he deemed himself so thoroughly disguised that there was nought whereby she might recognize him.) Now, to come to the confession, the lady, after informing him that she was married, told him among other matters that she was enamoured of a priest, who came every night to lie with her. Which to hear was to her husband as if he were stricken through the heart with a knife; and had it not been that he was bent on knowing more, he would have forthwith given over the confession, and taken himself off. However he kept his place, and:--"How?" said he to the lady, "does not your husband lie with you?" The lady replied in the affirmative. "How, then," quoth the husband, "can the priest also lie with you?" "Sir," replied she, "what art the priest employs I know not; but door there is none, however well locked, in the house, that comes not open at his touch; and he tells me that, being come to the door of my room, before he opens it, he says certain words, whereby my husband forthwith falls asleep; whereupon he opens the door, and enters the room, and lies with me; and so 'tis always, without fail." "Then 'tis very wrong, Madam, and you must give it up altogether," said the husband. "That, Sir," returned the lady, "I doubt I can never do; for I love him too much." "In that case," quoth the husband, "I cannot give you absolution." "The pity of it!" ejaculated the lady; "I came not hither to tell you falsehoods: if I could give it up, I would." "Madam," replied the husband, "indeed I am sorry for you; for I see that you are in a fair way to lose your soul. However, this I will do for you; I will make special supplication to God on your behalf; and perchance you may be profited thereby. And from time to time I will send you one of my young clerks; and you will tell him whether my prayers have been of any help to you, or no, and if they have been so, I shall know what to do next." "Nay, Sir," quoth the lady, "do not so; send no man to me at home; for, should my husband come to know it, he is so jealous that nothing in the world would ever disabuse him of the idea that he came but for an evil purpose, and so I should have no peace with him all the year long." Madam, returned the husband, "have no fear; rest assured that I will so order matters that you shall never hear a word about it from him." "If you can make sure of that," quoth the lady, "I have no more to say." And so, her confession ended, and her penance enjoined, she rose, and went to mass, while the luckless husband, fuming and fretting, hasted to divest himself of his priest's trappings, and then went home bent upon devising some means to bring the priest and his wife together, and take his revenge upon them both. When the lady came home from church she read in her husband's face that she had spoiled his Christmas for him, albeit he dissembled to the uttermost, lest she should discover what he had done, and supposed himself to have learned. His mind was made up to keep watch for the priest that very night by his own front door. So to the lady he said:--"I have to go out to-night to sup and sleep; so thou wilt take care that the front door, and the mid-stair door, and the bedroom door are well locked; and for the rest thou mayst go to bed, at thine own time." "Well and good," replied the lady: and as soon as she was able, off she hied her to the aperture, and gave the wonted signal, which Filippo no sooner heard, than he was at the spot. The lady then told him what she had done in the morning, and what her husband had said to her after breakfast, adding:--"Sure I am that he will not stir out of the house, but will keep watch beside the door; wherefore contrive to come in to-night by the roof, that we may be together." "Madam," replied the gallant, nothing loath, "trust me for that." Night came, the husband armed, and noiselessly hid himself in a room on the ground floor: the lady locked all the doors, being especially careful to secure the mid-stair door, to bar her husband's ascent; and in due time the gallant, having found his way cautiously enough over the roof, they got them to bed, and there had solace of one another and a good time; and at daybreak the gallant hied him back to his house. Meanwhile the husband, rueful and supperless, half dead with cold, kept his armed watch beside his door, momently expecting the priest, for the best part of the night; but towards daybreak, his powers failing him, he lay down and slept in the ground-floor room. 'Twas hard upon tierce when he awoke, and the front door was then open; so, making as if he had just come in, he went upstairs and breakfasted. Not long afterwards he sent to his wife a young fellow, disguised as the priest's underling, who asked her if he of whom she wist had been with her again. The lady, who quite understood what that meant, made answer that he had not come that night, and that, if he continued to neglect her so, 'twas possible he might be forgotten, though she had no mind to forget him. Now, to make a long story short, the husband passed many a night in the same way, hoping to catch the priest as he came in, the lady and her gallant meanwhile having a good time. But at last the husband, being able to stand it no longer, sternly demanded of his wife what she had said to the priest the morning when she was confessed. The lady answered that she was not minded to tell him, for that 'twas not seemly or proper so to do. Whereupon:--"Sinful woman," quoth the husband, "in thy despite I know what thou saidst to him, and know I must and will who this priest is, of whom thou art enamoured, and who by dint of his incantations lies with thee a nights, or I will sluice thy veins for thee." "'Tis not true," replied the lady, "that I am enamoured of a priest." "How?" quoth the husband, "saidst thou not as much to the priest that confessed thee?" "Thou canst not have had it from him," rejoined the lady. "Wast thou then present thyself? For sure I never told him so." "Then tell me," quoth the husband, "who this priest is; and lose no time about it." Whereat the lady began to smile, and:--"I find it not a little diverting," quoth she, "that a wise man should suffer himself to be led by a simple woman as a ram is led by the horns to the shambles; albeit no wise man art thou: not since that fatal hour when thou gavest harbourage in thy breast, thou wist not why, to the evil spirit of jealousy; and the more foolish and insensate thou art, the less glory have I. Deemest thou, my husband, that I am as blind of the bodily eye as thou art of the mind's eye? Nay, but for sure I am not so. I knew at a glance the priest that confessed me, and that 'twas even thyself. But I was minded to give thee that of which thou wast in quest, and I gave it thee. Howbeit, if thou hadst been the wise man thou takest thyself to be, thou wouldst not have chosen such a way as that to worm out thy good lady's secrets, nor wouldst thou have fallen a prey to a baseless suspicion, but wouldst have understood that what she confessed was true, and she all the while guiltless. I told thee that I loved a priest; and wast not thou, whom I love, though ill enough dost thou deserve it, turned priest? I told thee that there was no door in my house but would open when he was minded to lie with me: and when thou wouldst fain have access to me, what door was ever closed against thee? I told thee that the priest lay nightly with me: and what night was there that thou didst not lie with me? Thou sentest thy young clerk to me: and thou knowest that, as often as thou hadst not been with me, I sent word that the priest had not been with me. Who but thou, that hast suffered jealousy to blind thee, would have been so witless as not to read such a riddle? But thou must needs mount guard at night beside the door, and think to make me believe that thou hadst gone out to sup and sleep. Consider thy ways, and court not the mockery of those that know them as I do, but turn a man again as thou wast wont to be: and let there be no more of this strict restraint in which thou keepest me; for I swear to thee by God that, if I were minded to set horns on thy brow, I should not fail so to take my pastime that thou wouldst never find it out, though thou hadst a hundred eyes, as thou hast but two." Thus admonished, the jealous caitiff, who had flattered himself that he had very cunningly discovered his wife's secret, was ashamed, and made no answer save to commend his wife's wit and honour; and thus, having cause for jealousy, he discarded it, as he had erstwhile been jealous without cause. And so the adroit lady had, as it were, a charter of indulgence, and needed no more to contrive for her lover to come to her over the roof like a cat, but admitted him by the door, and using due discretion, had many a good time with him, and sped her life gaily. NOVEL VI. -- Madonna Isabella has with her Leonetto, her accepted lover, when she is surprised by one Messer Lambertuccio, by whom she is beloved: her husband coming home about the same time, she sends Messer Lambertuccio forth of the house drawn sword in hand, and the husband afterwards escorts Leonetto home. -- Wondrous was the delight that all the company had of Fiammetta's story, nor was there any but affirmed that the lady had done excellent well, and dealt with her insensate husband as he deserved. However, it being ended, the king bade Pampinea follow suit; which she did on this wise:--Not a few there are that in their simplicity aver that Love deranges the mind, insomuch that whoso loves becomes as it were witless: the folly of which opinion, albeit I doubt it not, and deem it abundantly proven by what has been already said, I purpose once again to demonstrate. In our city, rich in all manner of good things, there dwelt a young gentlewoman, fair exceedingly, and wedded to a most worthy and excellent gentleman. And as it not seldom happens that one cannot keep ever to the same diet, but would fain at times vary it, so this lady, finding her husband not altogether to her mind, became enamoured of a gallant, Leonetto by name, who, though of no high rank, was not a little debonair and courteous, and he in like manner fell in love with her; and (as you know that 'tis seldom that what is mutually desired fails to come about) 'twas not long before they had fruition of their love. Now the lady being, as I said, fair and winsome, it so befell that a gentleman, Messer Lambertuccio by name, grew mightily enamoured of her, but so tiresome and odious did she find him, that for the world she could not bring herself to love him. So, growing tired of fruitlessly soliciting her favour by ambassage, Messer Lambertuccio, who was a powerful signior, sent her at last another sort of message in which he threatened to defame her if she complied not with his wishes. Wherefore the lady, knowing her man, was terrified, and disposed herself to pleasure him. Now it so chanced that Madonna Isabella, for such was the lady's name, being gone, as is our Florentine custom in the summer, to spend some time on a very goodly estate that she had in the contado, one morning finding herself alone, for her husband had ridden off to tarry some days elsewhere, she sent for Leonetto to come and keep her company; and Leonetto came forthwith in high glee. But while they were together, Messer Lambertuccio, who, having got wind that the husband was away, had mounted his horse and ridden thither quite alone, knocked at the door. Whereupon the lady's maid hied her forthwith to her mistress, who was alone with Leonetto, and called her, saying:--"Madam, Messer Lambertuccio is here below, quite alone." Whereat the lady was vexed beyond measure; and being also not a little dismayed, she said to Leonetto:--"Prithee, let it not irk thee to withdraw behind the curtain, and there keep close until Messer Lambertuccio be gone." Leonetto, who stood in no less fear of Messer Lambertuccio than did the lady, got into his hiding-place; and the lady bade the maid go open to Messer Lambertuccio: she did so; and having dismounted and fastened his palfrey to a pin, he ascended the stairs; at the head of which the lady received him with a smile and as gladsome a greeting as she could find words for, and asked him on what errand he was come. The gentleman embraced and kissed her, saying:--"My soul, I am informed that your husband is not here, and therefore I am come to stay a while with you." Which said, they went into the room, and locked them in, and Messer Lambertuccio fell a toying with her. Now, while thus he sped the time with her, it befell that the lady's husband, albeit she nowise expected him, came home, and, as he drew nigh the palace, was observed by the maid, who forthwith ran to the lady's chamber, and said:--"Madam, the master will be here anon; I doubt he is already in the courtyard." Whereupon, for that she had two men in the house, and the knight's palfrey, that was in the courtyard, made it impossible to hide him, the lady gave herself up for dead. Nevertheless she made up her mind on the spur of the moment, and springing out of bed "Sir," quoth she to Messer Lambertuccio, "if you have any regard for me, and would save my life, you will do as I bid you: that is to say, you will draw your blade, and put on a fell and wrathful countenance, and hie you downstairs, saying:--'By God, he shall not escape me elsewhere.' And if my husband would stop you, or ask you aught, say nought but what I have told you, and get you on horseback and tarry with him on no account." "To hear is to obey," quoth Messer Lambertuccio, who, with the flush of his recent exertion and the rage that he felt at the husband's return still on his face, and drawn sword in hand, did as she bade him. The lady's husband, being now dismounted in the courtyard, and not a little surprised to see the palfrey there, was about to go up the stairs, when he saw Messer Lambertuccio coming down them, and marvelling both at his words and at his mien:--"What means this, Sir?" quoth he. But Messer Lambertuccio clapped foot in stirrup, and mounted, saying nought but:--"Zounds, but I will meet him elsewhere;" and so he rode off. The gentleman then ascended the stairs, at the head of which he found his lady distraught with terror, to whom he said:--"What manner of thing is this? After whom goes Messer Lambertuccio, so wrathful and menacing?" Whereto the lady, drawing nigher the room, that Leonetto might hear her, made answer:--"Never, Sir, had I such a fright as this. There came running in here a young man, who to me is quite a stranger, and at his heels Messer Lambertuccio with a drawn sword in his hand; and as it happened the young man found the door of this room open, and trembling in every limb, cried out:--'Madam, your succour, for God's sake, that I die not in your arms.' So up I got, and would have asked him who he was, and how bested, when up came Messer Lambertuccio, exclaiming:--'Where art thou, traitor?' I planted myself in the doorway, and kept him from entering, and seeing that I was not minded to give him admittance, he was courteous enough, after not a little parley, to take himself off, as you saw." Whereupon:--"Wife," quoth the husband, "thou didst very right. Great indeed had been the scandal, had some one been slain here, and 'twas a gross affront on Messer Lambertuccio's part to pursue a fugitive within the house." He then asked where the young man was. Whereto the lady answered:--"Nay, where he may be hiding, Sir, I wot not." So:--"Where art thou?" quoth the knight. "Fear not to shew thyself." Then forth of his hiding-place, all of a tremble, for in truth he had been thoroughly terrified, crept Leonetto, who had heard all that had passed. To whom:--"What hast thou to do with Messer Lambertuccio?" quoth the knight. "Nothing in the world," replied the young man: "wherefore, I doubt he must either be out of his mind, or have mistaken me for another; for no sooner had he sight of me in the street hard by the palace, than he laid his hand on his sword, and exclaimed:--'Traitor, thou art a dead man.' Whereupon I sought not to know why, but fled with all speed, and got me here, and so, thanks to God and this gentlewoman, I escaped his hands." "Now away with thy fears," quoth the knight; "I will see thee home safe and sound; and then 'twill be for thee to determine how thou shalt deal with him." And so, when they had supped, he set him on horseback, and escorted him to Florence, and left him not until he was safe in his own house. And the very same evening, following the lady's instructions, Leonetto spoke privily with Messer Lambertuccio, and so composed the affair with him, that, though it occasioned not a little talk, the knight never wist how he had been tricked by his wife. NOVEL VII. -- Lodovico discovers to Madonna Beatrice the love that he bears her: she sends Egano, her husband, into a garden disguised as herself, and lies with Lodovico; who thereafter, being risen, hies him to the garden and cudgels Egano. -- This device of Madonna Isabella, thus recounted by Pampinea, was held nothing short of marvellous by all the company. But, being bidden by the king to tell the next story, thus spake Filomena:--Loving ladies, if I mistake not, the device, of which you shall presently hear from me, will prove to be no less excellent than the last. You are to know, then, that there dwelt aforetime at Paris a Florentine gentleman, who, being by reason of poverty turned merchant, had prospered so well in his affairs that he was become very wealthy; and having by his lady an only son, Lodovico by name, whose nobility disrelished trade, he would not put him in any shop; but that he might be with other gentlemen, he caused him to enter the service of the King of France, whereby he acquired very fine manners and other accomplishments. Being in this service, Lodovico was one day with some other young gallants that talked of the fair ladies of France, and England, and other parts of the world, when they were joined by certain knights that were returned from the Holy Sepulchre; and hearing their discourse, one of the knights fell a saying, that of a surety in the whole world, so far as he had explored it, there was not any lady, of all that he had ever seen, that might compare for beauty with Madonna Beatrice, the wife of Egano de' Galluzzi, of Bologna: wherein all his companions, who in common with him had seen the lady at Bologna, concurred. Which report Lodovico, who was as yet fancy-free, no sooner heard, than he burned with such a yearning to see the lady that he was able to think of nought else: insomuch that he made up his mind to betake him to Bologna to see her, and if she pleased him, to remain there; to which end he gave his father to understand that he would fain visit the Holy Sepulchre, whereto his father after no little demur consented. So to Bologna Anichino--for so he now called himself--came; and, as Fortune would have it, the very next day, he saw the lady at a festal gathering, and deemed her vastly more beautiful than he had expected: wherefore he waxed most ardently enamoured of her, and resolved never to quit Bologna, until he had gained her love. So, casting about how he should proceed, he could devise no other way but to enter her husband's service, which was the more easy that he kept not a few retainers: on this wise Lodovico surmised that, peradventure, he might compass his end. He therefore sold his horses and meetly bestowed his servants, bidding them make as if they knew him not; and being pretty familiar with his host, he told him that he was minded to take service with some worthy lord, it any such he might find. "Thou wouldst make," quoth the host, "the very sort of retainer to suit a gentleman of this city, Egano by name, who keeps not a few of them, and will have all of them presentable like thee: I will mention the matter to him." And so he accordingly did, and before he took leave of Egano had placed Anichino with him, to Egano's complete satisfaction. Being thus resident with Egano, and having abundant opportunities of seeing the fair lady, Anichino set himself to serve Egano with no little zeal; wherein he succeeded so well, that Egano was more than satisfied, insomuch that by and by there was nought he could do without his advice, and he entrusted to him the guidance not only of himself, but of all his affairs. Now it so befell that one day when Egano was gone a hawking, having left Anichino at home, Madonna Beatrice, who as yet wist not of his love, albeit she had from time to time taken note of him and his manners, and had not a little approved and commended them, sat herself down with him to a game of chess, which, to please her, Anichino most dexterously contrived to lose, to the lady's prodigious delight. After a while, the lady's women, one and all, gave over watching their play, and left them to it; whereupon Anichino heaved a mighty sigh. The lady, looking hard at him, said:--"What ails thee, Anichino? Is it, then, such a mortification to thee to be conquered by me?" "Nay, Madam," replied Anichino, "my sigh was prompted by a much graver matter." "Then, if thou hast any regard for me," quoth the lady, "tell me what it is." Hearing himself thus adjured by "any regard" he had for her whom he loved more than aught else, Anichino heaved a yet mightier sigh, which caused the lady to renew her request that he would be pleased to tell her the occasion of his sighs. Whereupon:--"Madam," said Anichino, "I greatly fear me, that, were I to tell it you, 'twould but vex you; and, moreover, I doubt you might repeat it to some one else." "Rest assured," returned the lady, "that I shall neither be annoyed, nor, without thy leave, ever repeat to any other soul aught that thou mayst say." "Then," said Anichino, "having this pledge from you, I will tell it you." And, while the tears all but stood in his eyes, he told her, who he was, the report he had heard of her, and where and how he had become enamoured of her, and with what intent he had taken service with her husband: after which, he humbly besought her, that, if it might be, she would have pity on him, and gratify this his secret and ardent desire; and that, if she were not minded so to do, she would suffer him to retain his place there, and love her. Ah! Bologna! how sweetly mixed are the elements in thy women! How commendable in such a case are they all! No delight have they in sighs and tears, but are ever inclinable to prayers, and ready to yield to the solicitations of Love. Had I but words apt to praise them as they deserve, my eloquence were inexhaustible. The gentlewoman's gaze was fixed on Anichino as he spoke; she made no doubt that all he said was true, and yielding to his appeal, she entertained his love within her heart in such measure that she too began to sigh, and after a sigh or two made answer:--"Sweet my Anichino, be of good cheer; neither presents nor promises, nor any courting by gentleman, or lord, or whoso else (for I have been and am still courted by not a few) was ever able to sway my soul to love any of them: but thou, by the few words that thou hast said, hast so wrought with me that, brief though the time has been, I am already in far greater measure thine than mine. My love I deem thee to have won right worthily; and so I give it thee, and vow to give thee joyance thereof before the coming night be past. To which end thou wilt come to my room about midnight; I will leave the door open; thou knowest the side of the bed on which I sleep; thou wilt come there; should I be asleep, thou hast but to touch me, and I shall awake, and give thee solace of thy long-pent desire. In earnest whereof I will even give thee a kiss." So saying, she threw her arms about his neck, and lovingly kissed him, as Anichino her. Their colloquy thus ended, Anichino betook him elsewhere about some matters which he had to attend to, looking forward to midnight with boundless exultation. Egano came in from his hawking; and after supper, being weary, went straight to bed, whither the lady soon followed him, leaving, as she had promised, the door of the chamber open. Thither accordingly, at the appointed hour, came Anichino, and having softly entered the chamber, and closed the door behind him, stole up to where the lady lay, and laying his hand upon her breast, found that she was awake. Now, as soon as she wist that Anichino was come, she took his hand in both her own; and keeping fast hold of him, she turned about in the bed, until she awoke Egano; whereupon:--"Husband," quoth she, "I would not say aught of this to thee, yestereve, because I judged thou wast weary; but tell me, upon thy hope of salvation, Egano, whom deemest thou thy best and most loyal retainer, and the most attached to thee, of all that thou hast in the house?" "What a question is this, wife?" returned Egano. "Dost not know him? Retainer I have none, nor ever had, so trusted, or loved, as Anichino. But wherefore put such a question?" Now, when Anichino wist that Egano was awake, and heard them talk of himself, he more than once tried to withdraw his hand, being mightily afraid lest the lady meant to play him false; but she held it so tightly that he might not get free, while thus she made answer to Egano:--"I will tell thee what he is. I thought that he was all thou sayst, and that none was so loyal to thee as he, but he has undeceived me, for that yesterday, when thou wast out a hawking, he, being here, chose his time, and had the shamelessness to crave of me compliance with his wanton desires: and I, that I might not need other evidence than that of thine own senses to prove his guilt to thee, I made answer, that I was well content, and that to-night, after midnight, I would get me into the garden, and await him there at the foot of the pine. Now go thither I shall certainly not; but, if thou wouldst prove the loyalty of thy retainer, thou canst readily do so, if thou but slip on one of my loose robes, and cover thy face with a veil, and go down and attend his coming, for come, I doubt not, he will." Whereto Egano:--"Meet indeed it is," quoth he, "that I should go see;" and straightway up he got, and, as best he might in the dark, he put on one of the lady's loose robes and veiled his face, and then hied him to the garden, and sate down at the foot of the pine to await Anichino. The lady no sooner wist that he was out of the room, than she rose, and locked the door. Anichino, who had never been so terrified in all his life, and had struggled with all his might to disengage his hand from the lady's clasp, and had inwardly cursed her and his love, and himself for trusting her, a hundred thousand times, was overjoyed beyond measure at this last turn that she had given the affair. And so, the lady having got her to bed again, and he, at her bidding, having stripped and laid him down beside her, they had solace and joyance of one another for a good while. Then, the lady, deeming it unmeet for Anichino to tarry longer with her, caused him to get up and resume his clothes, saying to him:--"Sweet my mouth, thou wilt take a stout cudgel, and get thee to the garden, and making as if I were there, and thy suit to me had been but to try me, thou wilt give Egano a sound rating with thy tongue and a sound belabouring with thy cudgel, the sequel whereof will be wondrously gladsome and delightful." Whereupon Anichino hied him off to the garden, armed with a staff of wild willow; and as he drew nigh the pine, Egano saw him, and rose and came forward to meet him as if he would receive him with the heartiest of cheer. But:--"Ah! wicked woman!" quoth Anichino; "so thou art come! Thou didst verily believe, then, that I was, that I am, minded thus to wrong my lord? Foul fall thee a thousand times!" And therewith he raised his cudgel, and began to lay about him. Egano, however, had heard and seen enough, and without a word took to flight, while Anichino pursued him, crying out:--"Away with thee! God send thee a bad year, lewd woman that thou art; nor doubt that Egano shall hear of this to-morrow." Egano, having received sundry round knocks, got him back to his chamber with what speed he might; and being asked by the lady, whether Anichino had come into the garden:--"Would to God he had not!" quoth he, "for that, taking me for thee, he has beaten me black and blue with his cudgel, and rated me like the vilest woman that ever was: passing strange, indeed, it had seemed to me that he should have said those words to thee with intent to dishonour me; and now 'tis plain that 'twas but that, seeing thee so blithe and frolicsome, he was minded to prove thee." Whereto:--"God be praised," returned the lady, "that he proved me by words, as thee by acts: and I doubt not he may say that I bear his words with more patience than thou his acts. But since he is so loyal to thee, we must make much of him and do him honour." "Ay, indeed," quoth Egano, "thou sayst sooth." Thus was Egano fortified in the belief that never had any gentleman wife so true, or retainer so loyal, as he; and many a hearty laugh had he with Anichino and his lady over this affair, which to them was the occasion that, with far less let than might else have been, they were able to have solace and joyance of one another, so long as it pleased Anichino to tarry at Bologna. NOVEL VIII. -- A husband grows jealous of his wife, and discovers that she has warning of her lover's approach by a piece of pack-thread, which she ties to her great toe a nights. While he is pursuing her lover, she puts another woman in bed in her place. The husband, finding her there, beats her, and cuts off her hair. He then goes and calls his wife's brothers, who, holding his accusation to be false, give him a rating. -- Rare indeed was deemed by common consent the subtlety shewn by Madonna Beatrice in the beguilement of her husband, and all affirmed that the terror of Anichino must have been prodigious, when, the lady still keeping fast hold of him, he had heard her say that he had made suit of love to her. However, Filomena being silent, the king turned to Neifile, saying:--"'Tis now for you to tell." Whereupon Neifile, while a slight smile died away upon her lips, thus began:--Fair ladies, to entertain you with a goodly story, such as those which my predecessors have delighted you withal, is indeed a heavy burden, but, God helping me, I trust fairly well to acquit myself thereof. You are to know, then, that there dwelt aforetime in our city a most wealthy merchant, Arriguccio Berlinghieri by name, who foolishly, as we wot by daily experience is the way of merchants, thinking to compass gentility by matrimony, took to wife a young gentlewoman, by no means suited to him, whose name was Monna Sismonda. Now Monna Sismonda, seeing that her husband was much abroad, and gave her little of his company, became enamoured of a young gallant, Ruberto by name, who had long courted her: and she being grown pretty familiar with him, and using, perchance, too little discretion, for she affected him extremely, it so befell that Arriguccio, whether it was that he detected somewhat, or howsoever, waxed of all men the most jealous, and gave up going abroad, and changed his way of life altogether, and made it his sole care to watch over his wife, insomuch that he never allowed himself a wink of sleep until he had seen her to bed: which occasioned the lady the most grievous dumps, because 'twas on no wise possible for her to be with her Ruberto. So, casting about in many ways how she might contrive to meet him, and being thereto not a little plied by Ruberto himself, she bethought her at last of the following expedient: to wit, her room fronting the street, and Arriguccio, as she had often observed, being very hard put to it to get him to sleep, but thereafter sleeping very soundly, she resolved to arrange with Ruberto that he should come to the front door about midnight, whereupon she would get her down, and open the door, and stay some time with him while her husband was in his deep sleep. And that she might have tidings of his arrival, yet so as that none else might wot aught thereof, she adopted the device of lowering a pack-thread from the bedroom window on such wise that, while with one end it should all but touch the ground, it should traverse the floor of the room, until it reached the bed, and then be brought under the clothes, so that, when she was abed, she might attach it to her great toe. Having so done, she sent word to Ruberto, that when he came, he must be sure to jerk the pack-thread, and, if her husband were asleep, she would loose it, and go open to him; but, if he were awake, she would hold it taut and draw it to herself, to let him know that he must not expect her. Ruberto fell in with the idea, came there many times, and now forgathered with her and again did not. But at last, they still using this cunning practice, it so befell that one night, while the lady slept, Arriguccio, letting his foot stray more than he was wont about the bed, came upon the pack-thread, and laying his hand upon it, found that it was attached to his lady's great toe, and said to himself:--This must be some trick: and afterwards discovering that the thread passed out of the window, was confirmed in his surmise. Wherefore, he softly severed it from the lady's toe, and affixed it to his own; and waited, all attention, to learn the result of his experiment. Nor had he long to wait before Ruberto came, and Arriguccio felt him jerk the thread according to his wont: and as Arriguccio had not known how to attach the thread securely, and Ruberto jerked it with some force, it gave way, whereby he understood that he was to wait, and did so. Arriguccio straightway arose, caught up his arms, and hasted to the door to see who might be there, intent to do him a mischief. Now Arriguccio, for all he was a merchant, was a man of spirit, and of thews and sinews; and being come to the door, he opened it by no means gingerly, as the lady was wont; whereby Ruberto, who was in waiting, surmised the truth, to wit, that 'twas Arriguccio by whom the door was opened. Wherefore he forthwith took to flight, followed by Arriguccio. But at length, when he had run a long way, as Arriguccio gave not up the pursuit, he being also armed, drew his sword, and faced about; and so they fell to, Arriguccio attacking, and Ruberto defending himself. Now when Arriguccio undid the bedroom door, the lady awoke, and finding the pack-thread cut loose from her toe, saw at a glance that her trick was discovered; and hearing Arriguccio running after Ruberto, she forthwith got up, foreboding what the result was like to be, and called her maid, who was entirely in her confidence: whom she so plied with her obsecrations that at last she got her into bed in her room, beseeching her not to say who she was, but to bear patiently all the blows that Arriguccio might give her; and she would so reward her that she should have no reason to complain. Then, extinguishing the light that was in the room, forth she hied her, and having found a convenient hiding-place in the house, awaited the turn of events. Now Arriguccio and Ruberto being hotly engaged in the street, the neighbours, roused by the din of the combat, got up and launched their curses upon them. Wherefore Arriguccio, fearing lest he should be recognized, drew off before he had so much as discovered who the young gallant was, or done him any scathe, and in a fell and wrathful mood betook him home. Stumbling into the bedroom, he cried out angrily:--"Where art thou, lewd woman? Thou hast put out the light, that I may not be able to find thee; but thou hast miscalculated." And going to the bedside, he laid hold of the maid, taking her to be his wife, and fell a pummelling and kicking her with all the strength he had in his hands and feet, insomuch that he pounded her face well-nigh to pulp, rating her the while like the vilest woman that ever was; and last of all he cut off her hair. The maid wept bitterly, as indeed she well might; and though from time to time she ejaculated an "Alas! Mercy, for God's sake!" or "Spare me, spare me;" yet her voice was so broken by her sobs, and Arriguccio's hearing so dulled by his wrath, that he was not able to discern that 'twas not his wife's voice but that of another woman. So, having soundly thrashed her, and cut off her hair, as we said:--"Wicked woman," quoth he, "I touch thee no more; but I go to find thy brothers, and shall do them to wit of thy good works; and then they may come here, and deal with thee as they may deem their honour demands, and take thee hence, for be sure thou shalt no more abide in this house." With this he was gone, locking the door of the room behind him, and quitted the house alone. Now no sooner did Monna Sismonda, who had heard all that passed, perceive that her husband was gone, than she opened the door of the bedroom, rekindled the light, and finding her maid all bruises and tears, did what she could to comfort her, and carried her back to her own room, where, causing her to be privily waited on and tended, she helped her so liberally from Arriguccio's own store, that she confessed herself content. The maid thus bestowed in her room, the lady presently hied her back to her own, which she set all in neat and trim order, remaking the bed, so that it might appear as if it had not been slept in, relighting the lamp, and dressing and tiring herself, until she looked as if she had not been abed that night; then, taking with her a lighted lamp and some work, she sat her down at the head of the stairs, and began sewing, while she waited to see how the affair would end. Arriguccio meanwhile had hied him with all speed straight from the house to that of his wife's brothers, where by dint of much knocking he made himself heard, and was admitted. The lady's three brothers, and her mother, being informed that 'twas Arriguccio, got up, and having set lights a burning, came to him and asked him on what errand he was come there at that hour, and alone. Whereupon Arriguccio, beginning with the discovery of the pack-thread attached to his lady's great toe, gave them the whole narrative of his discoveries and doings down to the very end; and to clinch the whole matter, he put in their hands the locks which he had cut, as he believed, from his wife's head, adding that 'twas now for them to come for her and deal with her on such wise as they might deem their honour required, seeing that he would nevermore have her in his house. Firmly believing what he told them, the lady's brothers were very wroth with her, and having provided themselves with lighted torches, set out with Arriguccio, and hied them to his house with intent to scorn her, while their mother followed, weeping and beseeching now one, now another, not to credit these matters so hastily, until they had seen or heard somewhat more thereof; for that the husband might have some other reason to be wroth with her, and having ill-treated her, might have trumped up this charge by way of exculpation, adding that, if true, 'twas passing strange, for well she knew her daughter, whom she had brought up from her tenderest years, and much more to the like effect. However, being come to Arriguccio's house, they entered, and were mounting the stairs, when Monna Sismonda, hearing them, called out:--"Who is there?" Whereto one of the brothers responded:--"Lewd woman, thou shalt soon have cause enough to know who it is." "Now Lord love us!" quoth Monna Sismonda, "what would he be at?" Then, rising, she greeted them with:--"Welcome, my brothers but what seek ye abroad at this hour, all three of you?" They had seen her sitting and sewing with never a sign of a blow on her face, whereas Arriguccio had averred that he had pummelled her all over: wherefore their first impression was one of wonder, and refraining the vehemence of their wrath, they asked her what might be the truth of the matter which Arriguccio laid to her charge, and threatened her with direful consequences, if she should conceal aught. Whereto the lady:--"What you would have me tell you," quoth she, "or what Arriguccio may have laid to my charge, that know not I." Arriguccio could but gaze upon her, as one that had taken leave of his wits, calling to mind how he had pummelled her about the face times without number, and scratched it for her, and mishandled her in all manner of ways, and there he now saw her with no trace of aught of it all upon her. However, to make a long story short, the lady's brothers told her what Arriguccio had told them touching the pack-thread and the beating and all the rest of it. Whereupon the lady turned to him with:--"Alas, my husband, what is this that I hear? Why givest thou me, to thy own great shame, the reputation of a lewd woman, when such I am not, and thyself the reputation of a wicked and cruel man, which thou art not? Wast thou ever to-night, I say not in my company, but so much as in the house until now? Or when didst thou beat me? For my part I mind me not of it." Arriguccio began:--"How sayst thou, lewd woman? Did we not go to bed together? Did I not come back, after chasing thy lover? Did I not give thee bruises not a few, and cut thy hair for thee?" But the lady interrupted him, saying:--"Nay, thou didst not lie here to-night. But leave we this, of which my true words are my sole witness, and pass we to this of the beating thou sayst thou gavest me, and how thou didst cut my hair. Never a beating had I from thee, and I bid all that are here, and thee among them, look at me, and say if I have any trace of a beating on my person; nor should I advise thee to dare lay hand upon me; for, by the Holy Rood, I would spoil thy beauty for thee. Nor didst thou cut my hair, for aught that I saw or felt: however, thou didst it, perchance, on such wise that I was not ware thereof: so let me see whether 'tis cut or no." Then, unveiling herself, she shewed that her hair was uncut and entire. Wherefore her brothers and mother now turned to Arriguccio with:--"What means this, Arriguccio? This accords not with what thou gavest us to understand thou hadst done; nor know we how thou wilt prove the residue." Arriguccio was lost, as it were, in a dream, and yet he would fain have spoken; but, seeing that what he had thought to prove was otherwise, he essayed no reply. So the lady turning to her brothers:--"I see," quoth she, "what he would have: he will not be satisfied unless I do what I never would otherwise have done, to wit, give you to know what a pitiful caitiff he is; as now I shall not fail to do. I make no manner of doubt that, as he has said, even so it befell, and so he did. How, you shall hear. This worthy man, to whom, worse luck! you gave me to wife, a merchant, as he calls himself, and as such would fain have credit, and who ought to be more temperate than a religious, and more continent than a girl, lets scarce an evening pass but he goes a boozing in the taverns, and consorting with this or the other woman of the town; and 'tis for me to await his return until midnight or sometimes until matins, even as you now find me. I doubt not that, being thoroughly well drunk, he got him to bed with one of these wantons, and, awaking, found the pack-thread on her foot, and afterwards did actually perform all these brave exploits of which he speaks, and in the end came back to her, and beat her, and cut her hair off, and being not yet quite recovered from his debauch, believed, and, I doubt not, still believes, that 'twas I that he thus treated; and if you will but scan his face closely, you will see that he is still half drunk. But, whatever he may have said about me, I would have you account it as nothing more than the disordered speech of a tipsy man; and forgive him as I do." Whereupon the lady's mother raised no small outcry, saying:--"By the Holy Rood, my daughter, this may not be! A daughter, such as thou, to be mated with one so unworthy of thee! The pestilent, insensate cur should be slain on the spot! A pretty state of things, indeed! Why, he might have picked thee up from the gutter! Now foul fall him! but thou shalt no more be vexed with the tedious drivel of a petty dealer in ass's dung, some blackguard, belike, that came hither from the country because he was dismissed the service of some petty squire, clad in romagnole, with belfry-breeches, and a pen in his arse, and for that he has a few pence, must needs have a gentleman's daughter and a fine lady to wife, and set up a coat of arms, and say:--'I am of the such and such,' and 'my ancestors did thus and thus.' Ah! had my sons but followed my advice! Thy honour were safe in the house of the Counts Guidi, where they might have bestowed thee, though thou hadst but a morsel of bread to thy dowry: but they must needs give thee to this rare treasure, who, though better daughter and more chaste there is none than thou in Florence, has not blushed this very midnight and in our presence to call thee a strumpet, as if we knew thee not. God's faith! so I were hearkened to, he should shrewdly smart for it." Then, turning to her sons, she said:--"My sons, I told you plainly enough that this ought not to be. Now, have you heard how your worthy brother-in-law treats your sister? Petty twopenny trader that he is: were it for me to act, as it is for you, after what he has said of her and done to her, nought would satisfy or appease me, till I had rid the earth of him. And were I a man, who am but a woman, none, other but myself should meddle with the affair. God's curse upon him, the woeful, shameless sot!" Whereupon the young men, incensed by what they had seen and heard, turned to Arriguccio, and after giving him the soundest rating that ever was bestowed upon caitiff, concluded as follows:--"This once we pardon thee, witting thee to be a drunken knave--but as thou holdest thy life dear, have a care that henceforth we hear no such tales of thee; for rest assured that if aught of the kind do reach our ears, we will requite thee for both turns." Which said, they departed. Arriguccio, standing there like one dazed, not witting whether his late doings were actual fact or but a dream, made no more words about the matter, but left his wife in peace. Thus did she by her address not only escape imminent peril, but open a way whereby in time to come she was able to gratify her passion to the full without any farther fear of her husband. NOVEL IX. -- Lydia, wife of Nicostratus, loves Pyrrhus, who to assure himself thereof, asks three things of her, all of which she does, and therewithal enjoys him in presence of Nicostratus, and makes Nicostratus believe that what he saw was not real. -- So diverting did the ladies find Neifile's story that it kept them still laughing and talking, though the king, having bidden Pamfilo tell his story, had several times enjoined silence upon them. However, as soon as they had done, Pamfilo thus began:--Methinks, worshipful ladies, there is no venture, though fraught with gravest peril, that whoso loves ardently will not make: of which truth, exemplified though it has been in stories not a few, I purpose to afford you yet more signal proof in one which I shall tell you; wherein you will hear of a lady who in her enterprises owed far more to the favour of Fortune than to the guidance of reason: wherefore I should not advise any of you rashly to follow in her footsteps, seeing that Fortune is not always in a kindly mood, nor are the eyes of all men equally holden. In Argos, that most ancient city of Achaia, the fame of whose kings of old time is out of all proportion to its size, there dwelt of yore Nicostratus, a nobleman, to whom, when he was already verging on old age, Fortune gave to wife a great lady, Lydia by name, whose courage matched her charms. Nicostratus, as suited with his rank and wealth, kept not a few retainers and hounds and hawks, and was mightily addicted to the chase. Among his dependants was a young man named Pyrrhus, a gallant of no mean accomplishment, and goodly of person and beloved and trusted by Nicostratus above all other. Of whom Lydia grew mighty enamoured, insomuch that neither by day nor by night might her thoughts stray from him: but, whether it was that Pyrrhus wist not her love, or would have none of it, he gave no sign of recognition; whereby the lady's suffering waxing more than she could bear, she made up her mind to declare her love to him; and having a chambermaid, Lusca by name, in whom she placed great trust, she called her, and said:--"Lusca, tokens thou hast had from me of my regard that should ensure thy obedience and loyalty; wherefore have a care that what I shall now tell thee reach the ears of none but him to whom I shall bid thee impart it. Thou seest, Lusca, that I am in the prime of my youth and lustihead, and have neither lack nor stint of all such things as folk desire, save only, to be brief, that I have one cause to repine, to wit, that my husband's years so far outnumber my own. Wherefore with that wherein young ladies take most pleasure I am but ill provided, and, as my desire is no less than theirs, 'tis now some while since I determined that, if Fortune has shewn herself so little friendly to me by giving me a husband so advanced in years, at least I will not be mine own enemy by sparing to devise the means whereby my happiness and health may be assured; and that herein, as in all other matters, my joy may be complete, I have chosen, thereto to minister by his embraces, our Pyrrhus, deeming him more worthy than any other man, and have so set my heart upon him that I am ever ill at ease save when he is present either to my sight or to my mind, insomuch that, unless I forgather with him without delay, I doubt not that 'twill be the death of me. And so, if thou holdest my life dear, thou wilt shew him my love on such wise as thou mayst deem best, and make my suit to him that he be pleased to come to me, when thou shalt go to fetch him." "That gladly will I," replied the chambermaid; and as soon as she found convenient time and place, she drew Pyrrhus apart, and, as best she knew how, conveyed her lady's message to him. Which Pyrrhus found passing strange to hear, for 'twas in truth a complete surprise to him, and he doubted the lady did but mean to try him. Wherefore he presently, and with some asperity, answered thus:--"Lusca, believe I cannot that this message comes from my lady: have a care, therefore, what thou sayst, and if, perchance, it does come from her, I doubt she does not mean it; and if perchance, she does mean it, why, then I am honoured by my lord above what I deserve, and I would not for my life do him such a wrong: so have a care never to speak of such matters to me again." Lusca, nowise disconcerted by his uncompliant tone, rejoined:--"I shall speak to thee, Pyrrhus, of these and all other matters, wherewith I may be commissioned by my lady, as often as she shall bid me, whether it pleases or irks thee; but thou art a blockhead." So, somewhat chafed, Lusca bore Pyrrhus' answer back to her lady, who would fain have died, when she heard it, and some days afterwards resumed the topic, saying:--"Thou knowest, Lusca, that 'tis not the first stroke that fells the oak; wherefore, methinks, thou wert best go back to this strange man, who is minded to evince his loyalty at my expense, and choosing a convenient time, declare to him all my passion, and do thy best endeavour that the affair be carried through; for if it should thus lapse, 'twould be the death of me; besides which, he would think we had but trifled with him, and, whereas 'tis his love we would have, we should earn his hatred." So, after comforting the lady, the maid hied her in quest of Pyrrhus, whom she found in a gladsome and propitious mood, and thus addressed:--"'Tis not many days, Pyrrhus, since I declared to thee how ardent is the flame with which thy lady and mine is consumed for love of thee, and now again I do thee to wit thereof, and that, if thou shalt not relent of the harshness that thou didst manifest the other day, thou mayst rest assured that her life will be short: wherefore I pray thee to be pleased to give her solace of her desire, and shouldst thou persist in thy obduracy, I, that gave thee credit for not a little sense, shall deem thee a great fool. How flattered thou shouldst be to know thyself beloved above all else by a lady so beauteous and high-born! And how indebted shouldst thou feel thyself to Fortune, seeing that she has in store for thee a boon so great and so suited to the cravings of thy youth, ay, and so like to be of service to thee upon occasion of need! Bethink thee, if there be any of thine equals whose life is ordered more agreeably than thine will be if thou but be wise. Which of them wilt thou find so well furnished with arms and horses, clothes and money as thou shalt be, if thou but give my lady thy love? Receive, then, my words with open mind; be thyself again; bethink thee that 'tis Fortune's way to confront a man but once with smiling mien and open lap, and, if he then accept not her bounty, he has but himself to blame, if afterward he find himself in want, in beggary. Besides which, no such loyalty is demanded between servants and their masters as between friends and kinsfolk; rather 'tis for servants, so far as they may, to behave towards their masters as their masters behave towards them. Thinkest thou, that, if thou hadst a fair wife or mother or daughter or sister that found favour in Nicostratus' eyes, he would be so scrupulous on the point of loyalty as thou art disposed to be in regard of his lady? Thou art a fool, if so thou dost believe. Hold it for certain, that, if blandishments and supplications did not suffice, he would, whatever thou mightest think of it, have recourse to force. Observe we, then, towards them and theirs the same rule which they observe towards us and ours. Take the boon that Fortune offers thee; repulse her not; rather go thou to meet her, and hail her advance; for be sure that, if thou do not so, to say nought of thy lady's death, which will certainly ensue, thou thyself wilt repent thee thereof so often that thou wilt be fain of death." Since he had last seen Lusca, Pyrrhus had repeatedly pondered what she had said to him, and had made his mind up that, should she come again, he would answer her in another sort, and comply in all respects with the lady's desires, provided he might be assured that she was not merely putting him to the proof; wherefore he now made answer:--"Lo, now, Lusca, I acknowledge the truth of all that thou sayst; but, on the other hand, I know that my lord is not a little wise and wary, and, as he has committed all his affairs to my charge, I sorely misdoubt me that 'tis with his approbation, and by his advice, and but to prove me, that Lydia does this: wherefore let her do three things which I shall demand of her for my assurance, and then there is nought that she shall crave of me, but I will certainly render her prompt obedience. Which three things are these:--first, let her in Nicostratus' presence kill his fine sparrow-hawk: then she must send me a lock of Nicostratus' beard, and lastly one of his best teeth." Hard seemed these terms to Lusca, and hard beyond measure to the lady, but Love, that great fautor of enterprise, and master of stratagem, gave her resolution to address herself to their performance: wherefore through the chambermaid she sent him word that what he required of her she would do, and that without either reservation or delay; and therewithal she told him, that, as he deemed Nicostratus so wise, she would contrive that they should enjoy one another in Nicostratus' presence, and that Nicostratus should believe that 'twas a mere show. Pyrrhus, therefore, anxiously expected what the lady would do. Some days thus passed, and then Nicostratus gave a great breakfast, as was his frequent wont, to certain gentlemen, and when the tables were removed, the lady, robed in green samite, and richly adorned, came forth of her chamber into the hall wherein they sate, and before the eyes of Pyrrhus and all the rest of the company hied her to the perch, on which stood the sparrow-hawk that Nicostratus so much prized, and loosed him, and, as if she were minded to carry him on her hand, took him by the jesses and dashed him against the wall so that he died. Whereupon:--"Alas! my lady, what hast thou done?" exclaimed Nicostratus: but she vouchsafed no answer, save that, turning to the gentlemen that had sate at meat with him, she said:--"My lords, ill fitted were I to take vengeance on a king that had done me despite, if I lacked the courage to be avenged on a sparrow-hawk. You are to know that by this bird I have long been cheated of all the time that ought to be devoted by gentlemen to pleasuring their ladies; for with the first streaks of dawn Nicostratus has been up and got him to horse, and hawk on hand hied him to the champaign to see him fly, leaving me, such as you see me, alone and ill content abed. For which cause I have oftentimes been minded to do that which I have now done, and have only refrained therefrom, that, biding my time, I might do it in the presence of men that should judge my cause justly, as I trust you will do." Which hearing, the gentlemen, who deemed her affections no less fixed on Nicostratus than her words imported, broke with one accord into a laugh, and turning to Nicostratus, who was sore displeased, fell a saying:--"Now well done of the lady to avenge her wrongs by the death of the sparrow-hawk!" and so, the lady being withdrawn to her chamber, they passed the affair off with divers pleasantries, turning the wrath of Nicostratus to laughter. Pyrrhus, who had witnessed what had passed, said to himself:--Nobly indeed has my lady begun, and on such wise as promises well for the felicity of my love. God grant that she so continue. And even so Lydia did: for not many days after she had killed the sparrow-hawk, she, being with Nicostratus in her chamber, from caressing passed to toying and trifling with him, and he, sportively pulling her by the hair, gave her occasion to fulfil the second of Pyrrhus' demands; which she did by nimbly laying hold of one of the lesser tufts of his beard, and, laughing the while, plucking it so hard that she tore it out of his chin. Which Nicostratus somewhat resenting:--"Now what cause hast thou," quoth she, "to make such a wry face? 'Tis but that I have plucked some half-dozen hairs from thy beard. Thou didst not feel it as much as did I but now thy tugging of my hair." And so they continued jesting and sporting with one another, the lady jealously guarding the tuft that she had torn from the beard, which the very same day she sent to her cherished lover. The third demand caused the lady more thought; but, being amply endowed with wit, and powerfully, seconded by Love, she failed not to hit upon an apt expedient. Nicostratus had in his service two lads, who, being of gentle birth, had been placed with him by their kinsfolk, that they might learn manners, one of whom, when Nicostratus sate at meat, carved before him, while the other gave him to drink. Both lads Lydia called to her, and gave them to understand that their breath smelt, and admonished them that, when they waited on Nicostratus, they should hold their heads as far back as possible, saying never a word of the matter to any. The lads believing her, did as she bade them. Whereupon she took occasion to say to Nicostratus:--"Hast thou marked what these lads do when they wait upon thee?" "Troth, that have I," replied Nicostratus; "indeed I have often had it in mind to ask them why they do so." "Nay," rejoined the lady, "spare thyself the pains; for I can tell thee the reason, which I have for some time kept close, lest it should vex thee; but as I now see that others begin to be ware of it, it need no longer be withheld from thee. 'Tis for that thy breath stinks shrewdly that they thus avert their heads from thee: 'twas not wont to be so, nor know I why it should be so; and 'tis most offensive when thou art in converse with gentlemen; and therefore 'twould be well to find some way of curing it." "I wonder what it could be," returned Nicostratus; "is it perchance that I have a decayed tooth in my jaw?" "That may well be," quoth Lydia: and taking him to a window, she caused him open his mouth, and after regarding it on this side and that:--"Oh! Nicostratus," quoth she, "how couldst thou have endured it so long? Thou hast a tooth here, which, by what I see, is not only decayed, but actually rotten throughout; and beyond all manner of doubt, if thou let it remain long in thy head, 'twill infect its neighbours; so 'tis my advice that thou out with it before the matter grows worse." "My judgment jumps with thine," quoth Nicostratus; "wherefore send without delay for a chirurgeon to draw it." "God forbid," returned the lady, "that chirurgeon come hither for such a purpose; methinks, the case is such that I can very well dispense with him, and draw the tooth myself. Besides which, these chirurgeons do these things in such a cruel way, that I could never endure to see thee or know thee under the hands of any of them: wherefore my mind is quite made up to do it myself, that, at least, if thou shalt suffer too much, I may give it over at once, as a chirurgeon would not do." And so she caused the instruments that are used on such occasions to be brought her, and having dismissed all other attendants save Lusca from the chamber, and locked the door, made Nicostratus lie down on a table, set the pincers in his mouth, and clapped them on one of his teeth, which, while Lusca held him, so that, albeit he roared for pain, he might not move, she wrenched by main force from his jaw, and keeping it close, took from Lusca's hand another and horribly decayed tooth, which she shewed him, suffering and half dead as he was, saying:--"See what thou hadst in thy jaw; mark how far gone it is." Believing what she said, and deeming that, now the tooth was out, his breath would no more be offensive, and being somewhat eased of the pain, which had been extreme, and still remained, so that he murmured not little, by divers comforting applications, he quitted the chamber: whereupon the lady forthwith sent the tooth to her lover, who, having now full assurance of her love, placed himself entirely at her service. But the lady being minded to make his assurance yet more sure, and deeming each hour a thousand till she might be with him, now saw fit, for the more ready performance of the promise she had given him, to feign sickness; and Nicostratus, coming to see her one day after breakfast, attended only by Pyrrhus, she besought him for her better solacement, to help her down to the garden. Wherefore Nicostratus on one side, and Pyrrhus on the other, took her and bore her down to the garden, and set her on a lawn at the foot of a beautiful pear-tree: and after they had sate there a while, the lady, who had already given Pyrrhus to understand what he must do, said to him:--"Pyrrhus, I should greatly like to have some of those pears; get thee up the tree, and shake some of them down." Pyrrhus climbed the tree in a trice, and began to shake down the pears, and while he did so:--"Fie! Sir," quoth he, "what is this you do? And you, Madam, have you no shame, that you suffer him to do so in my presence? Think you that I am blind? 'Twas but now that you were gravely indisposed. Your cure has been speedy indeed to permit of your so behaving: and as for such a purpose you have so many goodly chambers, why betake you not yourselves to one of them, if you must needs so disport yourselves? 'Twould be much more decent than to do so in my presence." Whereupon the lady, turning to her husband:--"Now what can Pyrrhus mean?" said she. "Is he mad?" "Nay, Madam," quoth Pyrrhus; "mad am not I. Think you I see you not?" Whereat Nicostratus marvelled not a little; and:--"Pyrrhus," quoth he, "I verily believe thou dreamest." "Nay, my lord," replied Pyrrhus, "not a whit do I dream; neither do you; rather you wag it with such vigour, that, if this pear-tree did the like, there would be never a pear left on it." Then the lady:--"What can this mean?" quoth she: "can it be that it really seems to him to be as he says? Upon my hope of salvation, were I but in my former health, I would get me up there to judge for myself what these wonders are which he professes to see." Whereupon, as Pyrrhus in the pear-tree continued talking in the same strange strain:--"Come down," quoth Nicostratus; and when he was down:--"Now what," said Nicostratus, "is it thou sayst thou seest up there?" "I suppose," replied Pyrrhus, "that you take me to be deluded or dreaming: but as I must needs tell you the truth, I saw you lying upon your wife, and then, when I came down, I saw you get up and sit you down here where you now are." "Therein," said Nicostratus, "thou wast certainly deluded, for, since thou clombest the pear-tree, we have not budged a jot, save as thou seest." Then said Pyrrhus:--"Why make more words about the matter? See you I certainly did; and, seeing you, I saw you lying upon your own." Nicostratus' wonder now waxed momently, insomuch that he said:--"I am minded to see if this pear-tree be enchanted, so that whoso is in it sees marvels;" and so he got him up into it. Whereupon the lady and Pyrrhus fell to disporting them, and Nicostratus, seeing what they were about, exclaimed:--"Ah! lewd woman, what is this thou doest? And thou, Pyrrhus, in whom I so much trusted!" And so saying, he began to climb down. Meanwhile the lady and Pyrrhus had made answer:--"We are sitting here:" and seeing him descending, they placed themselves as they had been when he had left them, whom Nicostratus, being come down, no sooner saw, than he fell a rating them. Then quoth Pyrrhus:--"Verily, Nicostratus, I now acknowledge, that, as you said a while ago, what I saw when I was in the pear-tree was but a false show, albeit I had never understood that so it was but that I now see and know that thou hast also seen a false show. And that I speak truth, you may sufficiently assure yourself, if you but reflect whether 'tis likely that your wife, who for virtue and discretion has not her peer among women, would, if she were minded so to dishonour you, see fit to do so before your very eyes. Of myself I say nought, albeit I had liefer be hewn in pieces than that I should so much as think of such a thing, much less do it in your presence. Wherefore 'tis evident that 'tis some illusion of sight that is propagated from the pear-tree; for nought in the world would have made me believe that I saw not you lying there in carnal intercourse with your wife, had I not heard you say that you saw me doing that which most assuredly, so far from doing, I never so much as thought of." The lady then started up with a most resentful mien, and burst out with:--"Foul fall thee, if thou knowest so little of me as to suppose that, if I were minded to do thee such foul dishonour as thou sayst thou didst see me do, I would come hither to do it before thine eyes! Rest assured that for such a purpose, were it ever mine, I should deem one of our chambers more meet, and it should go hard but I would so order the matter that thou shouldst never know aught of it." Nicostratus, having heard both, and deeming that what they both averred must be true, to wit, that they would never have ventured upon such an act in his presence, passed from chiding to talk of the singularity of the thing, and how marvellous it was that the vision should reshape itself for every one that clomb the tree. The lady, however, made a show of being distressed that Nicostratus should so have thought of her, and:--"Verily," quoth she, "no woman, neither I nor another, shall again suffer loss of honour by this pear-tree: run, Pyrrhus, and bring hither an axe, and at one and the same time vindicate thy honour and mine by felling it, albeit 'twere better far Nicostratus' skull should feel the weight of the axe, seeing that in utter heedlessness he so readily suffered the eyes of his mind to be blinded; for, albeit this vision was seen by the bodily eye, yet ought the understanding by no means to have entertained and affirmed it as real." So Pyrrhus presently hied him to fetch the axe, and returning therewith felled the pear; whereupon the lady, turning towards Nicostratus:--"Now that this foe of my honour is fallen," quoth she, "my wrath is gone from me." Nicostratus then craving her pardon, she graciously granted it him, bidding him never again to suffer himself to be betrayed into thinking such a thing of her, who loved him more dearly than herself. So the poor duped husband went back with her and her lover to the palace, where not seldom in time to come Pyrrhus and Lydia took their pastime together more at ease. God grant us the like. NOVEL X. -- Two Sienese love a lady, one of them being her gossip: the gossip dies, having promised his comrade to return to him from the other world; which he does, and tells him what sort of life is led there. -- None now was left to tell, save the king, who, as soon as the ladies had ceased mourning over the fall of the pear-tree, that had done no wrong, and were silent, began thus:--Most manifest it is that 'tis the prime duty of a just king to observe the laws that he has made; and, if he do not so, he is to be esteemed no king, but a slave that has merited punishment, into which fault, and under which condemnation, I, your king, must, as of necessity, fall. For, indeed, when yesterday I made the law which governs our discourse of to-day, I thought not to-day to avail myself of my privilege, but to submit to the law, no less than you, and to discourse of the same topic whereof you all have discoursed; but not only has the very story been told which I had intended to tell, but therewithal so many things else, and so very much goodlier have been said, that, search my memory as I may, I cannot mind me of aught, nor wot I that touching such a matter there is indeed aught, for me to say, that would be comparable with what has been said; wherefore, as infringe I must the law that I myself have made, I confess myself worthy of punishment, and instantly declaring my readiness to pay any forfeit that may be demanded of me, am minded to have recourse to my wonted privilege. And such, dearest ladies, is the potency of Elisa's story of the godfather and his gossip, and therewith of the simplicity of the Sienese, that I am prompted thereby to pass from this topic of the beguilement of foolish husbands by their cunning wives to a little story touching these same Sienese, which, albeit there is not a little therein which you were best not to believe, may yet be in some degree entertaining to hear. Know, then, that at Siena there dwelt in Porta Salaia two young men of the people, named, the one, Tingoccio Mini, the other Meuccio di Tura, who, by what appeared, loved one another not a little, for they were scarce ever out of one another's company; and being wont, like other folk, to go to church and listen to sermons, they heard from time to time of the glory and the woe, which in the other world are allotted, according to merit, to the souls of the dead. Of which matters craving, but being unable to come by, more certain assurance, they agreed together that, whichever of them should die first, should, if he might, return to the survivor, and certify him of that which he would fain know; and this agreement they confirmed with an oath. Now, after they had made this engagement, and while they were still constantly together, Tingoccio chanced to become sponsor to one Ambruogio Anselmini, that dwelt in Campo Reggi, who had had a son by his wife, Monna Mita. The lady was exceeding fair, and amorous withal, and Tingoccio being wont sometimes to visit her as his gossip, and to take Meuccio with him, he, notwithstanding his sponsorship, grew enamoured of her, as did also Meuccio, for she pleased him not a little, and he heard her much commended by Tingoccio. Which love each concealed from the other; but not for the same reason. Tingoccio was averse to discover it to Meuccio, for that he deemed it an ignominious thing to love his gossip, and was ashamed to let any one know it. Meuccio was on his guard for a very different reason, to wit, that he was already ware that the lady was in Tingoccio's good graces. Wherefore he said to himself:--If I avow my love to him, he will be jealous of me, and as, being her gossip, he can speak with her as often as he pleases, he will do all he can to make her hate me, and so I shall never have any favour of her. Now, the two young men being thus, as I have said, on terms of most familiar friendship, it befell that Tingoccio, being the better able to open his heart to the lady, did so order his demeanour and discourse that he had from her all that he desired. Nor was his friend's success hidden from Meuccio; though, much as it vexed him, yet still cherishing the hope of eventually attaining his end, and fearing to give Tingoccio occasion to baulk or hamper him in some way, he feigned to know nought of the matter. So Tingoccio, more fortunate than his comrade, and rival in love, did with such assiduity till his gossip's good land that he got thereby a malady, which in the course of some days waxed so grievous that he succumbed thereto, and departed this life. And on the night of the third day after his decease (perchance because earlier he might not) he made his appearance, according to his promise, in Meuccio's chamber, and called Meuccio, who was fast asleep, by his name. Whereupon:--"Who art thou?" quoth Meuccio, as he awoke. "'Tis I, Tingoccio," replied he, "come back, in fulfilment of the pledge I gave thee, to give thee tidings of the other world." For a while Meuccio saw him not without terror: then, his courage reviving:--"Welcome, my brother," quoth he: and proceeded to ask him if he were lost. "Nought is lost but what is irrecoverable," replied Tingoccio: "how then should I be here, if I were lost?" "Nay," quoth then Meuccio; "I mean it not so: I would know of thee, whether thou art of the number of the souls that are condemned to the penal fire of hell." "Why no," returned Tingoccio, "not just that; but still for the sins that I did I am in most sore and grievous torment." Meuccio then questioned Tingoccio in detail of the pains there meted out for each of the sins done here; and Tingoccio enumerated them all. Whereupon Meuccio asked if there were aught he might do for him here on earth. Tingoccio answered in the affirmative; to wit, that he might have masses and prayers said and alms-deeds done for him, for that such things were of great service to the souls there. "That gladly will I," replied Meuccio; and then, as Tingoccio was about to take his leave, he bethought him of the gossip, and raising his head a little, he said:--"I mind me, Tingoccio, of the gossip, with whom thou wast wont to lie when thou wast here. Now what is thy punishment for that?" "My brother," returned Tingoccio, "as soon as I got down there, I met one that seemed to know all my sins by heart, who bade me betake me to a place, where, while in direst torment I bewept my sins, I found comrades not a few condemned to the same pains; and so, standing there among them, and calling to mind what I had done with the gossip, and foreboding in requital thereof a much greater torment than had yet been allotted me, albeit I was in a great and most vehement flame, I quaked for fear in every part of me. Which one that was beside me observing:--'What,' quoth he, 'hast thou done more than the rest of us that are here, that thou quakest thus as thou standest in the fire?' 'My friend,' quoth I, 'I am in mortal fear of the doom that I expect for a great sin that I once committed.' He then asked what sin it might be. ''Twas on this wise,' replied I: 'I lay with my gossip, and that so much that I died thereof.' Whereat, he did but laugh, saying:--'Go to, fool, make thy mind easy; for here there is no account taken of gossips.' Which completely revived my drooping spirits." 'Twas now near daybreak: wherefore:--"Adieu! Meuccio," quoth his friend: "for longer tarry with thee I may not;" and so he vanished. As for Meuccio, having learned that no account was taken of gossips in the other world, he began to laugh at his own folly in that he had already spared divers such; and so, being quit of his ignorance, he in that respect in course of time waxed wise. Which matters had Fra Rinaldo but known, he would not have needed to go about syllogizing in order to bring his fair gossip to pleasure him. The sun was westering, and a light breeze blew, when the king, his story ended, and none else being left to speak, arose, and taking off the crown, set it on Lauretta's head, saying:--"Madam, I crown you with yourself(1) queen of our company: 'tis now for you, as our sovereign lady, to make such ordinances as you shall deem meet for our common solace and delectation;" and having so said, he sat him down again. Queen Lauretta sent for the seneschal, and bade him have a care that the tables should be set in the pleasant vale somewhat earlier than had been their wont, that their return to the palace might be more leisurely; after which she gave him to know what else he had to do during her sovereignty. Then turning to the company:--"Yesterday," quoth she, "Dioneo would have it that to-day we should discourse of the tricks that wives play their husbands; and but that I am minded not to shew as of the breed of yelping curs, that are ever prompt to retaliate, I would ordain that to-morrow we discourse of the tricks that husbands play their wives. However, in lieu thereof, I will have every one take thought to tell of those tricks that, daily, woman plays man, or man woman, or one man another; wherein, I doubt not, there will be matter of discourse no less agreeable than has been that of to-day." So saying, she rose and dismissed the company until supper-time. So the ladies and the men being risen, some bared their feet and betook them to the clear water, there to disport them, while others took their pleasure upon the green lawn amid the trees that there grew goodly and straight. For no brief while Dioneo and Fiammetta sang in concert of Arcite and Palamon. And so, each and all taking their several pastimes, they sped the hours with exceeding great delight until supper-time. Which being come, they sat them down at table beside the little lake, and there, while a thousand songsters charmed their ears, and a gentle breeze, that blew from the environing hills, fanned them, and never a fly annoyed them, reposefully and joyously they supped. The tables removed, they roved a while about the pleasant vale, and then, the sun being still high, for 'twas but half vespers, the queen gave the word, and they wended their way back to their wonted abode, and going slowly, and beguiling the way with quips and quirks without number upon divers matters, nor those alone of which they had that day discoursed, they arrived, hard upon nightfall, at the goodly palace. There, the short walk's fatigue dispelled by wines most cool and comfits, they presently gathered for the dance about the fair fountain, and now they footed it to the strains of Tindaro's cornemuse, and now to other music. Which done, the queen bade Filomena give them a song; and thus Filomena sang:-- Ah! woe is me, my soul! Ah! shall I ever thither fare again Whence I was parted to my grievous dole? Full sure I know not; but within my breast Throbs ever the same fire Of yearning there where erst I was to be. O thou in whom is all my weal, my rest, Lord of my heart's desire, Ah! tell me thou! for none to ask save thee Neither dare I, nor see. Ah! dear my Lord, this wasted heart disdain Thou wilt not, but with hope at length console. Kindled the flame I know not what delight, Which me doth so devour, That day and night alike I find no ease; For whether it was by hearing, touch, or sight, Unwonted was the power, And fresh the fire that me each way did seize; Wherein without release I languish still, and of thee, Lord, am fain, For thou alone canst comfort and make whole. Ah! tell me if it shall be, and how soon, That I again thee meet Where those death-dealing eyes I kissed. Thou, chief Weal of my soul, my very soul, this boon Deny not; say that fleet Thou hiest hither: comfort thus my grief. Ah! let the time be brief Till thou art here, and then long time remain; For I, Love-stricken, crave but Love's control. Let me but once again mine own thee call, No more so indiscreet As erst, I'll be, to let thee from me part: Nay, I'll still hold thee, let what may befall, And of thy mouth so sweet Such solace take as may content my heart So this be all my art, Thee to entice, me with thine arms to enchain: Whereon but musing inly chants my soul. This song set all the company conjecturing what new and delightsome love might now hold Filomena in its sway; and as its words imported that she had had more joyance thereof than sight alone might yield, some that were there grew envious of her excess of happiness. However, the song being ended, the queen, bethinking her that the morrow was Friday, thus graciously addressed them all:--"Ye wot, noble ladies, and ye also, my gallants, that to-morrow is the day that is sacred to the passion of our Lord, which, if ye remember, we kept devoutly when Neifile was queen, intermitting delectable discourse, as we did also on the ensuing Saturday. Wherefore, being minded to follow Neifile's excellent example, I deem that now, as then, 'twere a seemly thing to surcease from this our pastime of story-telling for those two days, and compose our minds to meditation on what was at that season accomplished for the weal of our souls." All the company having approved their queen's devout speech, she, as the night was now far spent, dismissed them; and so they all betook them to slumber. (1) A play upon laurea (laurel wreath) and Lauretta. -- Endeth here the seventh day of the Decameron, beginneth the eighth, in which, under the rule of Lauretta, discourse is had of those tricks that, daily, woman plays man, or man woman, or one man another. -- The summits of the loftiest mountains were already illumined by the rays of the rising sun, the shades of night were fled, and all things plainly visible, when the queen and her company arose, and hied them first to the dewy mead, where for a while they walked: then, about half tierce, they wended their way to a little church that was hard by, where they heard Divine service; after which, they returned to the palace, and having breakfasted with gay and gladsome cheer, and sung and danced a while, were dismissed by the queen, to rest them as to each might seem good. But when the sun was past the meridian, the queen mustered them again for their wonted pastime; and, all being seated by the fair fountain, thus, at her command, Neifile began. NOVEL I. -- Gulfardo borrows moneys of Guasparruolo, which he has agreed to give Guasparruolo's wife, that he may lie with her. He gives them to her, and in her presence tells Guasparruolo that he has done so, and she acknowledges that 'tis true. -- Sith God has ordained that 'tis for me to take the lead to-day with my story, well pleased am I. And for that, loving ladies, much has been said touching the tricks that women play men, I am minded to tell you of one that a man played a woman, not because I would censure what the man did, or say that 'twas not merited by the woman, but rather to commend the man and censure the woman, and to shew that men may beguile those that think to beguile them, as well as be beguiled by those they think to beguile; for peradventure what I am about to relate should in strictness of speech not be termed beguilement, but rather retaliation; for, as it behoves woman to be most strictly virtuous, and to guard her chastity as her very life, nor on any account to allow herself to sully it, which notwithstanding, 'tis not possible by reason of our frailty that there should be as perfect an observance of this law as were meet, I affirm, that she that allows herself to infringe it for money merits the fire; whereas she that so offends under the prepotent stress of Love will receive pardon from any judge that knows how to temper justice with mercy: witness what but the other day we heard from Filostrato touching Madonna Filippa at Prato.(1) Know, then, that there was once at Milan a German mercenary, Gulfardo by name, a doughty man, and very loyal to those with whom he took service; a quality most uncommon in Germans. And as he was wont to be most faithful in repaying whatever moneys he borrowed, he would have had no difficulty in finding a merchant to advance him any amount of money at a low rate of interest. Now, tarrying thus at Milan, Gulfardo fixed his affection on a very fine woman, named Madonna Ambruogia, the wife of a wealthy merchant, one Guasparruolo Cagastraccio, with whom he was well acquainted and on friendly terms: which amour he managed with such discretion that neither the husband nor any one else wist aught of it. So one day he sent her a message, beseeching her of her courtesy to gratify his passion, and assuring her that he on his part was ready to obey her every behest. The lady made a great many words about the affair, the upshot of which was that she would do as Gulfardo desired upon the following terms: to wit, that, in the first place, he should never discover the matter to a soul, and, secondly, that, as for some purpose or another she required two hundred florins of gold, he out of his abundance should supply her necessity; these conditions being satisfied she would be ever at his service. Offended by such base sordidness in one whom he had supposed to be an honourable woman, Gulfardo passed from ardent love to something very like hatred, and cast about how he might flout her. So he sent her word that he would right gladly pleasure her in this and in any other matter that might be in his power; let her but say when he was to come to see her, and he would bring the moneys with him, and none should know of the matter except a comrade of his, in whom he placed much trust, and who was privy to all that he did. The lady, if she should not rather be called the punk, gleefully made answer that in the course of a few days her husband, Guasparruolo, was to go to Genoa on business, and that, when he was gone, she would let Gulfardo know, and appoint a time for him to visit her. Gulfardo thereupon chose a convenient time, and hied him to Guasparruolo, to whom:--"I am come," quoth he, "about a little matter of business which I have on hand, for which I require two hundred florins of gold, and I should be glad if thou wouldst lend them me at the rate of interest which thou art wont to charge me." "That gladly will I," replied Guasparruolo, and told out the money at once. A few days later Guasparruolo being gone to Genoa, as the lady had said, she sent word to Gulfardo that he should bring her the two hundred florins of gold. So Gulfardo hied him with his comrade to the lady's house, where he found her expecting him, and lost no time in handing her the two hundred florins of gold in his comrade's presence, saying:--"You will keep the money, Madam, and give it to your husband when he returns." Witting not why Gulfardo so said, but thinking that 'twas but to conceal from his comrade that it was given by way of price, the lady made answer:--"That will I gladly; but I must first see whether the amount is right;" whereupon she told the florins out upon a table, and when she found that the two hundred were there, she put them away in high glee, and turning to Gulfardo, took him into her chamber, where, not on that night only but on many another night, while her husband was away, he had of her all that he craved. On Guasparruolo's return Gulfardo presently paid him a visit, having first made sure that the lady would be with him, and so in her presence:--"Guasparruolo," quoth he, "I had after all no occasion for the money, to wit, the two hundred florins of gold that thou didst lend me the other day, being unable to carry through the transaction for which I borrowed them, and so I took an early opportunity of bringing them to thy wife, and gave them to her: thou wilt therefore cancel the account." Whereupon Guasparruolo turned to the lady, and asked her if she had had them. She, not daring to deny the fact in presence of the witness, answered:--"Why, yes, I had them, and quite forgot to tell thee." "Good," quoth then Guasparruolo, "we are quits, Gulfardo; make thy mind easy; I will see that thy account is set right." Gulfardo then withdrew, leaving the flouted lady to hand over her ill-gotten gains to her husband; and so the astute lover had his pleasure of his greedy mistress for nothing. (1) Cf. Sixth Day, Novel VII. NOVEL II. -- The priest of Varlungo lies with Monna Belcolore: he leaves with her his cloak by way of pledge, and receives from her a mortar. He returns the mortar, and demands of her the cloak that he had left in pledge, which the good lady returns him with a gibe. -- Ladies and men alike commended Gulfardo for the check that he gave to the greed of the Milanese lady; but before they had done, the queen turned to Pamfilo, and with a smile bade him follow suit: wherefore thus Pamfilo began:--Fair my ladies, it occurs to me to tell you a short story, which reflects no credit on those by whom we are continually wronged without being able to retaliate, to wit, the priests, who have instituted a crusade against our wives, and deem that, when they have made conquest of one of them, they have done a work every whit as worthy of recompense by remission of sin and punishment as if they had brought the Soldan in chains to Avignon: in which respect 'tis not possible for the hapless laity to be even with them: howbeit they are as hot to make reprisals on the priests' mothers, sisters, mistresses, and daughters as the priests to attack their wives. Wherefore I am minded to give you, as I may do in few words, the history of a rustic amour, the conclusion whereof was not a little laughable, nor barren of moral, for you may also gather therefrom, that 'tis not always well to believe everything that a priest says. I say then, that at Varlungo, a village hard by here, as all of you, my ladies, should wot either of your own knowledge or by report, there dwelt a worthy priest, and doughty of body in the service of the ladies: who, albeit he was none too quick at his book, had no lack of precious and blessed solecisms to edify his flock withal of a Sunday under the elm. And when the men were out of doors, he would visit their wives as never a priest had done before him, bringing them feast-day gowns and holy water, and now and again a bit of candle, and giving them his blessing. Now it so befell that among those of his fair parishioners whom he most affected the first place was at length taken by one Monna Belcolore, the wife of a husbandman that called himself Bentivegna del Mazzo. And in good sooth she was a winsome and lusty country lass, brown as a berry and buxom enough, and fitter than e'er another for his mill. Moreover she had not her match in playing the tabret and singing:--The borage is full sappy,(1) and in leading a brawl or a breakdown, no matter who might be next her, with a fair and dainty kerchief in her hand. Which spells so wrought upon Master Priest, that for love of her he grew distracted, and did nought all day long but loiter about the village on the chance of catching sight of her. And if of a Sunday morning he espied her in church, he strove might and main to acquit himself of his Kyrie and Sanctus in the style of a great singer, albeit his performance was liker to the braying of an ass: whereas, if he saw her not, he scarce exerted himself at all. However, he managed with such discretion that neither Bentivegna del Mazzo nor any of the neighbours wist aught of his love. And hoping thereby to ingratiate himself with Monna Belcolore, he from time to time would send her presents, now a clove of fresh garlic, the best in all the country-side, from his own garden, which he tilled with his own hands, and anon a basket of beans or a bunch of chives or shallots; and, when he thought it might serve his turn, he would give her a sly glance, and follow it up with a little amorous mocking and mowing, which she, with rustic awkwardness, feigned not to understand, and ever maintained her reserve, so that Master Priest made no headway. Now it so befell that one day, when the priest at high noon was aimlessly gadding about the village, he encountered Bentivegna del Mazzo at the tail of a well laden ass; and greeted him, asking him whither he was going. "I'faith, Sir," quoth Bentivegna, "for sure 'tis to town I go, having an affair or two to attend to there; and I am taking these things to Ser Buonaccorri da Ginestreto, to get him to stand by me in I wot not what matter, whereof the justice o' th' coram has by his provoker served me with a pertrumpery summons to appear before him." Whereupon:--"'Tis well, my son," quoth the priest, overjoyed, "my blessing go with thee: good luck to thee and a speedy return; and harkye, shouldst thou see Lapuccio or Naldino, do not forget to tell them to send me those thongs for my flails." "It shall be done," quoth Bentivegna, and jogged on towards Florence, while the priest, thinking that now was his time to hie him to Belcolore and try his fortune, put his best leg forward, and stayed not till he was at the house, which entering, he said:--"God be gracious to us! Who is within?" Belcolore, who was up in the loft, made answer:--"Welcome, Sir; but what dost thou, gadding about in the heat?" "Why, as I hope for God's blessing," quoth he, "I am just come to stay with thee a while, having met thy husband on his way to town." Whereupon down came Belcolore, took a seat, and began sifting cabbage-seed that her husband had lately threshed. By and by the priest began:--"So, Belcolore, wilt thou keep me ever a dying thus?" Whereat Belcolore tittered, and said:--"Why, what is't I do to you?" "Truly, nothing at all," replied the priest: "but thou sufferest me not to do to thee that which I had lief, and which God commands." "Now away with you!" returned Belcolore, "do priests do that sort of thing?" "Indeed we do," quoth the priest, "and to better purpose than others: why not? I tell you our grinding is far better; and wouldst thou know why? 'tis because 'tis intermittent. And in truth 'twill be well worth thy while to keep thine own counsel, and let me do it." "Worth my while!" ejaculated Belcolore. "How may that be? There is never a one of you but would overreach the very Devil." "'Tis not for me to say," returned the priest; "say but what thou wouldst have: shall it be a pair of dainty shoes? Or wouldst thou prefer a fillet? Or perchance a gay riband? What's thy will?" "Marry, no lack have I," quoth Belcolore, "of such things as these. But, if you wish me so well, why do me not a service? and I would then be at your command." "Name but the service," returned the priest, "and gladly will I do it." Quoth then Belcolore:--"On Saturday I have to go to Florence to deliver some wool that I have spun, and to get my spinning-wheel put in order: lend me but five pounds--I know you have them--and I will redeem my perse petticoat from the pawnshop, and also the girdle that I wear on saints' days, and that I had when I was married--you see that without them I cannot go to church or anywhere else, and then I will do just as you wish thenceforth and forever." Whereupon:--"So God give me a good year," quoth he, "as I have not the money with me: but never fear that I will see that thou hast it before Saturday with all the pleasure in life." "Ay, ay," rejoined Belcolore, "you all make great promises, but then you never keep them. Think you to serve me as you served Biliuzza, whom you left in the lurch at last? God's faith, you do not so. To think that she turned woman of the world just for that! If you have not the money with you, why, go and get it." "Prithee," returned the priest, "send me not home just now. For, seest thou, 'tis the very nick of time with me, and the coast is clear, and perchance it might not be so on my return, and in short I know not when it would be likely to go so well as now." Whereto she did but rejoin:--"Good; if you are minded to go, get you gone; if not, stay where you are." The priest, therefore, seeing that she was not disposed to give him what he wanted, as he was fain, to wit, on his own terms, but was bent upon having a quid pro quo, changed his tone; and:--"Lo, now," quoth he, "thou doubtest I will not bring thee the money; so to set thy mind at rest, I will leave thee this cloak--thou seest 'tis good sky-blue silk--in pledge." So raising her head and glancing at the cloak:--"And what may the cloak be worth?" quoth Belcolore. "Worth!" ejaculated the priest: "I would have thee know that 'tis all Douai, not to say Trouai, make: nay, there are some of our folk here that say 'tis Quadrouai; and 'tis not a fortnight since I bought it of Lotto, the secondhand dealer, for seven good pounds, and then had it five good soldi under value, by what I hear from Buglietto, who, thou knowest, is an excellent judge of these articles." "Oh! say you so?" exclaimed Belcolore. "So help me God, I should not have thought it; however, let me look at it." So Master Priest, being ready for action, doffed the cloak and handed it to her. And she, having put it in a safe place, said to him:--"Now, Sir, we will away to the hut; there is never a soul goes there;" and so they did. And there Master Priest, giving her many a mighty buss and straining her to his sacred person, solaced himself with her no little while. Which done, he hied him away in his cassock, as if he were come from officiating at a wedding; but, when he was back in his holy quarters, he bethought him that not all the candles that he received by way of offering in the course of an entire year would amount to the half of five pounds, and saw that he had made a bad bargain, and repented him that he had left the cloak in pledge, and cast about how he might recover it without paying anything. And as he did not lack cunning, he hit upon an excellent expedient, by which he compassed his end. So on the morrow, being a saint's day, he sent a neighbour's lad to Monna Belcolore with a request that she would be so good as to lend him her stone mortar, for that Binguccio dal Poggio and Nuto Buglietti were to breakfast with him that morning, and he therefore wished to make a sauce. Belcolore having sent the mortar, the priest, about breakfast time, reckoning that Bentivegna del Mazzo and Belcolore would be at their meal, called his clerk, and said to him:--"Take the mortar back to Belcolore, and say:--'My master thanks you very kindly, and bids you return the cloak that the lad left with you in pledge.'" The clerk took the mortar to Belcolore's house, where, finding her at table with Bentivegna, he set the mortar down and delivered the priest's message. Whereto Belcolore would fain have demurred; but Bentivegna gave her a threatening glance, saying:--"So, then, thou takest a pledge from Master Priest? By Christ, I vow, I have half a mind to give thee a great clout o' the chin. Go, give it back at once, a murrain on thee! And look to it that whatever he may have a mind to, were it our very ass, he be never denied." So, with a very bad grace, Belcolore got up, and went to the wardrobe, and took out the cloak, and gave it to the clerk, saying:--"Tell thy master from me:--Would to God he may never ply pestle in my mortar again, such honour has he done me for this turn!" So the clerk returned with the cloak, and delivered the message to Master Priest; who, laughing, made answer:--"Tell her, when thou next seest her, that, so she lend us not the mortar, I will not lend her the pestle: be it tit for tat." Bentivegna made no account of his wife's words, deeming that 'twas but his chiding that had provoked them. But Belcolore was not a little displeased with Master Priest, and had never a word to say to him till the vintage; after which, what with the salutary fear in which she stood of the mouth of Lucifer the Great, to which he threatened to consign her, and the must and roast chestnuts that he sent her, she made it up with him, and many a jolly time they had together. And though she got not the five pounds from him, he put a new skin on her tabret, and fitted it with a little bell, wherewith she was satisfied. (1) For this folk-song see Cantilene e Ballate, Strambotti e Madrigali, ed. Carducci (1871), p. 60. The fragment there printed maybe freely rendered as follows:-- The borage is full sappy, And clusters red we see, And my love would make me happy; So that maiden give to me. Ill set I find this dance, And better might it be: So, comrade mine, advance, And, changing place with me, Stand thou thy love beside. NOVEL III. -- Calandrino, Bruno and Buffalmacco go in quest of the heliotrope beside the Mugnone. Thinking to have found it, Calandrino gets him home laden with stones. His wife chides him: whereat he waxes wroth, beats her, and tells his comrades what they know better than he. -- Ended Pamfilo's story, which moved the ladies to inextinguishable laughter, the queen bade Elisa follow suit: whereupon, laughing, she thus began:--I know not, debonair my ladies, whether with my little story, which is no less true than entertaining, I shall give you occasion to laugh as much as Pamfilo has done with his, but I will do my best. In our city, where there has never been lack of odd humours and queer folk, there dwelt, no long time ago, a painter named Calandrino, a simple soul, of uncouth manners, that spent most of his time with two other painters, the one Bruno, the other Buffalmacco, by name, pleasant fellows enough, but not without their full share of sound and shrewd sense, and who kept with Calandrino for that they not seldom found his singular ways and his simplicity very diverting. There was also at the same time at Florence one Maso del Saggio, a fellow marvellously entertaining by his cleverness, dexterity and unfailing resource; who having heard somewhat touching Calandrino's simplicity, resolved to make fun of him by playing him a trick, and inducing him to believe some prodigy. And happening one day to come upon Calandrino in the church of San Giovanni, where he sate intently regarding the paintings and intaglios of the tabernacle above the altar, which had then but lately been set there, he deemed time and place convenient for the execution of his design; which he accordingly imparted to one of his comrades: whereupon the two men drew nigh the place where Calandrino sate alone, and feigning not to see him fell a talking of the virtues of divers stones, of which Maso spoke as aptly and pertinently as if he had been a great and learned lapidary. Calandrino heard what passed between them, and witting that 'twas no secret, after a while got up, and joined them, to Maso's no small delight. He therefore continued his discourse, and being asked by Calandrino, where these stones of such rare virtues were to be found, made answer:--"Chiefly in Berlinzone, in the land of the Basques. The district is called Bengodi, and there they bind the vines with sausages, and a denier will buy a goose and a gosling into the bargain; and on a mountain, all of grated Parmesan cheese, dwell folk that do nought else but make macaroni and raviuoli,(1) and boil them in capon's broth, and then throw them down to be scrambled for; and hard by flows a rivulet of Vernaccia, the best that ever was drunk, and never a drop of water therein." "Ah! 'tis a sweet country!" quoth Calandrino; "but tell me, what becomes of the capons that they boil?" "They are all eaten by the Basques," replied Maso. Then:--"Wast thou ever there?" quoth Calandrino. Whereupon:--"Was I ever there, sayst thou?" replied Maso. "Why, if I have been there once, I have been there a thousand times." "And how many miles is't from here?" quoth Calandrino. "Oh!" returned Maso, "more than thou couldst number in a night without slumber." "Farther off, then, than the Abruzzi?" said Calandrino. "Why, yes, 'tis a bit farther," replied Maso. Now Calandrino, like the simple soul that he was, marking the composed and grave countenance with which Maso spoke, could not have believed him more thoroughly, if he had uttered the most patent truth, and thus taking his words for gospel:--"'Tis a trifle too far for my purse," quoth he; "were it nigher, I warrant thee, I would go with thee thither one while, just to see the macaroni come tumbling down, and take my fill thereof. But tell me, so good luck befall thee, are none of these stones, that have these rare virtues, to be found in these regions?" "Ay," replied Maso, "two sorts of stone are found there, both of virtues extraordinary. The one sort are the sandstones of Settignano and Montisci, which being made into millstones, by virtue thereof flour is made; wherefore 'tis a common saying in those countries that blessings come from God and millstones from Montisci: but, for that these sandstones are in great plenty, they are held cheap by us, just as by them are emeralds, whereof they have mountains, bigger than Monte Morello, that shine at midnight, a God's name! And know this, that whoso should make a goodly pair of millstones, and connect them with a ring before ever a hole was drilled in them, and take them to the Soldan, should get all he would have thereby. The other sort of stone is the heliotrope, as we lapidaries call it, a stone of very great virtue, inasmuch as whoso carries it on his person is seen, so long as he keep it, by never another soul, where he is not." "These be virtues great indeed," quoth Calandrino; "but where is this second stone to be found?" Whereto Maso made answer that there were usually some to be found in the Mugnone. "And what are its size and colour?" quoth Calandrino. "The size varies," replied Maso, "for some are bigger and some smaller than others; but all are of the same colour, being nearly black." All these matters duly marked and fixed in his memory, Calandrino made as if he had other things to attend to, and took his leave of Maso with the intention of going in quest of the stone, but not until he had let his especial friends, Bruno and Buffalmacco, know of his project. So, that no time might be lost, but, postponing everything else, they might begin the quest at once, he set about looking for them, and spent the whole morning in the search. At length, when 'twas already past none, he called to mind that they would be at work in the Faentine women's convent, and though 'twas excessively hot, he let nothing stand in his way, but at a pace that was more like a run than a walk, hied him thither; and so soon as he had made them ware of his presence, thus he spoke:--"Comrades, so you are but minded to hearken to me, 'tis in our power to become the richest men in Florence; for I am informed by one that may be trusted that there is a kind of stone in the Mugnone which renders whoso carries it invisible to every other soul in the world. Wherefore, methinks, we were wise to let none have the start of us, but go search for this stone without any delay. We shall find it without a doubt, for I know what 'tis like, and when we have found it, we have but to put it in the purse, and get us to the moneychangers, whose counters, as you know, are always laden with groats and florins, and help ourselves to as many as we have a mind to. No one will see us, and so, hey presto! we shall be rich folk in the twinkling of an eye, and have no more need to go besmearing the walls all day long like so many snails." Whereat Bruno and Buffalmacco began only to laugh, and exchanging glances, made as if they marvelled exceedingly, and expressed approval of Calandrino's project. Then Buffalmacco asked, what might be the name of the stone. Calandrino, like the numskull that he was, had already forgotten the name: so he made answer:--"Why need we concern ourselves with the name, since we know the stone's virtue? methinks, we were best to go look for it, and waste no more time." "Well, well," said Bruno, "but what are the size and shape of the stone?" "They are of all sizes and shapes," said Calandrino, "but they are all pretty nearly black; wherefore, methinks, we were best to collect all the black stones that we see until we hit upon it: and so, let us be off, and lose no more time." "Nay, but," said Bruno, "wait a bit." And turning to Buffalmacco:--"Methinks," quoth he, "that Calandrino says well: but I doubt this is not the time for such work, seeing that the sun is high, and his rays so flood the Mugnone as to dry all the stones; insomuch that stones will now shew as white that in the morning, before the sun had dried them, would shew as black: besides which, to-day being a working-day, there will be for one cause or another folk not a few about the Mugnone, who, seeing us, might guess what we were come for, and peradventure do the like themselves; whereby it might well be that they found the stone, and we might miss the trot by trying after the amble. Wherefore, so you agree, methinks we were best to go about it in the morning, when we shall be better able to distinguish the black stones from the white, and on a holiday, when there will be none to see us." Buffalmacco's advice being approved by Bruno, Calandrino chimed in; and so 'twas arranged that they should all three go in quest of the stone on the following Sunday. So Calandrino, having besought his companions above all things to let never a soul in the world hear aught of the matter, for that it had been imparted to him in strict confidence, and having told them what he had heard touching the land of Bengodi, the truth of which he affirmed with oaths, took leave of them; and they concerted their plan, while Calandrino impatiently expected the Sunday morning. Whereon, about dawn, he arose, and called them; and forth they issued by the Porta a San Gallo, and hied them to the Mugnone, and following its course, began their quest of the stone, Calandrino, as was natural, leading the way, and jumping lightly from rock to rock, and wherever he espied a black stone, stooping down, picking it up and putting it in the fold of his tunic, while his comrades followed, picking up a stone here and a stone there. Thus it was that Calandrino had not gone far, before, finding that there was no more room in his tunic, he lifted the skirts of his gown, which was not cut after the fashion of Hainault, and gathering them under his leathern girdle and making them fast on every side, thus furnished himself with a fresh and capacious lap, which, however, taking no long time to fill, he made another lap out of his cloak, which in like manner he soon filled with stones. Wherefore, Bruno and Buffalmacco seeing that Calandrino was well laden, and that 'twas nigh upon breakfast-time, and the moment for action come:--"Where is Calandrino?" quoth Bruno to Buffalmacco. Whereto Buffalmacco, who had Calandrino full in view, having first turned about and looked here, there and everywhere, made answer:--"That wot not I; but not so long ago he was just in front of us." "Not so long ago, forsooth," returned Bruno; "'tis my firm belief that at this very moment he is at breakfast at home, having left to us this wild-goose chase of black stones in the Mugnone." "Marry," quoth Buffalmacco, "he did but serve us right so to trick us and leave, seeing that we were so silly as to believe him. Why, who could have thought that any but we would have been so foolish as to believe that a stone of such rare virtue was to be found in the Mugnone?" Calandrino, hearing their colloquy, forthwith imagined that he had the stone in his hand, and by its virtue, though present, was invisible to them; and overjoyed by such good fortune, would not say a word to undeceive them, but determined to hie him home, and accordingly faced about, and put himself in motion. Whereupon:--"Ay!" quoth Buffalmacco to Bruno, "what are we about that we go not back too?" "Go we then," said Bruno; "but by God I swear that Calandrino shall never play me another such trick; and as to this, were I nigh him, as I have been all the morning, I would teach him to remember it for a month or so, such a reminder would I give him in the heel with this stone." And even as he spoke he threw back his arm, and launched the stone against Calandrino's heel. Galled by the blow, Calandrino gave a great hop and a slight gasp, but said nothing, and halted not. Then, picking out one of the stones that he had collected:--"Bruno," quoth Buffalmacco, "see what a goodly stone I have here, would it might but catch Calandrino in the back;" and forthwith he discharged it with main force upon the said back. And in short, suiting action to word, now in this way, now in that, they stoned him all the way up the Mugnone as far as the Porta a San Gallo. There they threw away the stones they had picked up, and tarried a while with the customs' officers, who, being primed by them, had let Calandrino pass unchallenged, while their laughter knew no bounds. So Calandrino, halting nowhere, betook him to his house, which was hard by the corner of the Macina. And so well did Fortune prosper the trick, that all the way by the stream and across the city there was never a soul that said a word to Calandrino, and indeed he encountered but few, for most folk were at breakfast. But no sooner was Calandrino thus gotten home with his stones, than it so happened that his good lady, Monna Tessa, shewed her fair face at the stair's head, and catching sight of him, and being somewhat annoyed by his long delay, chid him, saying:--"What the Devil brings thee here so late? Must breakfast wait thee until all other folk have had it?" Calandrino caught the words, and angered and mortified to find that he was not invisible, broke out with:--"Alas! curst woman! so 'twas thou! Thou hast undone me: but, God's faith, I will pay thee out." Whereupon he was upstairs in a trice, and having discharged his great load of stones in a parlour, rushed with fell intent upon his wife, and laid hold of her by the hair, and threw her down at his feet, and beat and kicked her in every part of her person with all the force he had in his arms and legs, insomuch that he left never a hair of her head or bone of her body unscathed, and 'twas all in vain that she laid her palms together and crossed her fingers and cried for mercy. Now Buffalmacco and Bruno, after making merry a while with the warders of the gate, had set off again at a leisurely pace, keeping some distance behind Calandrino. Arrived at his door, they heard the noise of the sound thrashing that he was giving his wife; and making as if they were but that very instant come upon the scene, they called him. Calandrino, flushed, all of a sweat, and out of breath, shewed himself at the window, and bade them come up. They, putting on a somewhat angry air, did so; and espied Calandrino sitting in the parlour, amid the stones which lay all about, untrussed, and puffing with the air of a man spent with exertion, while his lady lay in one of the corners, weeping bitterly, her hair all dishevelled, her clothes torn to shreds, and her face livid, bruised and battered. So after surveying the room a while:--"What means this, Calandrino?" quoth they. "Art thou minded to build thee a wall, that we see so many stones about?" And then, as they received no answer, they continued:--"And how's this? How comes Monna Tessa in this plight? 'Twould seem thou hast given her a beating! What unheard-of doings are these?" What with the weight of the stones that he had carried, and the fury with which he had beaten his wife, and the mortification that he felt at the miscarriage of his enterprise, Calandrino was too spent to utter a word by way of reply. Wherefore in a menacing tone Buffalmacco began again:--"However out of sorts thou mayst have been, Calandrino, thou shouldst not have played us so scurvy a trick as thou hast. To take us with thee to the Mugnone in quest of this stone of rare virtue, and then, without so much as saying either God-speed or Devil-speed, to be off, and leave us there like a couple of gowks! We take it not a little unkindly: and rest assured that thou shalt never so fool us again." Whereto with an effort Calandrino replied:--"Comrades, be not wroth with me: 'tis not as you think. I, luckless wight! found the stone: listen, and you will no longer doubt that I say sooth. When you began saying one to the other:--'Where is Calandrino?' I was within ten paces of you, and marking that you came by without seeing me, I went before, and so, keeping ever a little ahead of you, I came hither." And then he told them the whole story of what they had said and done from beginning to end, and shewed them his back and heel, how they had been mauled by the stones; after which:--"And I tell you," he went on, "that, laden though I was with all these stones, that you see here, never a word was said to me by the warders of the gate as I passed in, though you know how vexatious and grievous these warders are wont to make themselves in their determination to see everything: and moreover I met by the way several of my gossips and friends that are ever wont to greet me, and ask me to drink, and never a word said any of them to me, no, nor half a word either; but they passed me by as men that saw me not. But at last, being come home, I was met and seen by this devil of a woman, curses upon her, forasmuch as all things, as you know, lose their virtue in the presence of a woman; whereby I from being the most lucky am become the most luckless man in Florence: and therefore I thrashed her as long as I could stir a hand, nor know I wherefore I forbear to sluice her veins for her, cursed be the hour that first I saw her, cursed be the hour that I brought her into the house!" And so, kindling with fresh wrath, he was about to start up and give her another thrashing; when Buffalmacco and Bruno, who had listened to his story with an air of great surprise, and affirmed its truth again and again, while they all but burst with suppressed laughter, seeing him now frantic to renew his assault upon his wife, got up and withstood and held him back, averring that the lady was in no wise to blame for what had happened, but only he, who, witting that things lost their virtue in the presence of women, had not bidden her keep aloof from him that day; which precaution God had not suffered him to take, either because the luck was not to be his, or because he was minded to cheat his comrades, to whom he should have shewn the stone as soon as he found it. And so, with many words they hardly prevailed upon him to forgive his injured wife, and leaving him to rue the ill-luck that had filled his house with stones, went their way. (1) A sort of rissole. NOVEL IV. -- The rector of Fiesole loves a widow lady, by whom he is not loved, and thinking to lie with her, lies with her maid, with whom the lady's brothers cause him to be found by his Bishop. -- Elisa being come to the end of her story, which in the telling had yielded no small delight to all the company, the queen, turning to Emilia, signified her will, that her story should ensue at once upon that of Elisa. And thus with alacrity Emilia began:--Noble ladies, how we are teased and tormented by these priests and friars, and indeed by clergy of all sorts, I mind me to have been set forth in more than one of the stories that have been told; but as 'twere not possible to say so much thereof but that more would yet remain to say, I purpose to supplement them with the story of a rector, who, in defiance of all the world, was bent upon having the favour of a gentlewoman, whether she would or no. Which gentlewoman, being discreet above a little, treated him as he deserved. Fiesole, whose hill is here within sight, is, as each of you knows, a city of immense antiquity, and was aforetime great, though now 'tis fallen into complete decay; which notwithstanding, it always was, and still is the see of a bishop. Now there was once a gentlewoman, Monna Piccarda by name, a widow, that had an estate at Fiesole, hard by the cathedral, on which, for that she was not in the easiest circumstances, she lived most part of the year, and with her her two brothers, very worthy and courteous young men, both of them. And the lady being wont frequently to resort to the cathedral, and being still quite young and fair and debonair withal, it so befell that the rector grew in the last degree enamoured of her, and waxed at length so bold, that he himself avowed his passion to the lady, praying her to entertain his love, and requite it in like measure. The rector was advanced in years, but otherwise the veriest springald, being bold and of a high spirit, of a boundless conceit of himself, and of mien and manners most affected and in the worst taste, and withal so tiresome and insufferable that he was on bad terms with everybody, and, if with one person more than another, with this lady, who not only cared not a jot for him, but had liefer have had a headache than his company. Wherefore the lady discreetly made answer:--"I may well prize your love, Sir, and love you I should and will right gladly; but such love as yours and mine may never admit of aught that is not honourable. You are my spiritual father and a priest, and now verging towards old age, circumstances which should ensure your honour and chastity; and I, on my part, am no longer a girl, such as these love affairs might beseem, but a widow, and well you wot how it behoves widows to be chaste. Wherefore I pray you to have me excused; for, after the sort you crave, you shall never have my love, nor would I in such sort be loved by you." With this answer the rector was for the nonce fain to be content; but he was not the man to be dismayed and routed by a first repulse; and with his wonted temerity and effrontery he plied her again and again with letters and ambassages, and also by word of mouth, when he espied her entering the church. Wherefore the lady finding this persecution more grievous and harassing than she could well bear, cast about how she might be quit thereof in such fashion as he deserved, seeing that he left her no choice; howbeit she would do nought in the matter until she had conferred with her brothers. She therefore told them how the rector pursued her, and how she meant to foil him; and, with their full concurrence, some few days afterwards she went, as she was wont, to church. The rector no sooner saw her, than he approached and accosted her, as he was wont, in a tone of easy familiarity. The lady greeted him, as he came up, with a glance of gladsome recognition; and when he had treated her to not a little of his wonted eloquence, she drew him aside, and heaving a great sigh, said:--"I have oftentimes heard it said, Sir, that there is no castle so strong, but that, if the siege be continued day by day, it will sooner or later be taken; which I now plainly perceive is my own case. For so fairly have you hemmed me in with this, that, and the other pretty speech or the like blandishments, that you have constrained me to make nought of my former resolve, and, seeing that I find such favour with you, to surrender myself unto you." Whereto, overjoyed, the rector made answer:--"Madam, I am greatly honoured; and, sooth to say, I marvelled not a little how you should hold out so long, seeing that I have never had the like experience with any other woman, insomuch that I have at times said:--'Were women of silver, they would not be worth a denier, for there is none but would give under the hammer!' But no more of this: when and where may we come together?" "Sweet my lord," replied the lady, "for the when, 'tis just as we may think best, for I have no husband to whom to render account of my nights, but the where passes my wit to conjecture." "How so?" quoth the rector. "Why not in your own house?" "Sir," replied the lady, "you know that I have two brothers, both young men, who day and night bring their comrades into the house, which is none too large: for which reason it might not be done there, unless we were minded to make ourselves, as it were, dumb and blind, uttering never a word, not so much as a monosyllable, and abiding in the dark: in such sort indeed it might be, because they do not intrude upon my chamber; but theirs is so near to mine that the very least whisper could not but be heard." "Nay but, Madam," returned the rector, "let not this stand in our way for a night or two, until I may bethink me where else we might be more at our ease." "Be that as you will, Sir," quoth the lady, "I do but entreat that the affair be kept close, so that never a word of it get wind." "Have no fear on that score, Madam," replied the priest; "and if so it may be, let us forgather to-night." "With pleasure," returned the lady; and having appointed him how and when to come, she left him and went home. Now the lady had a maid, that was none too young, and had a countenance the ugliest and most misshapen that ever was seen; for indeed she was flat-nosed, wry-mouthed, and thick-lipped, with huge, ill-set teeth, eyes that squinted and were ever bleared, and a complexion betwixt green and yellow, that shewed as if she had spent the summer not at Fiesole but at Sinigaglia: besides which she was hip-shot and somewhat halting on the right side. Her name was Ciuta, but, for that she was such a scurvy bitch to look upon, she was called by all folk Ciutazza.(1) And being thus misshapen of body, she was also not without her share of guile. So the lady called her and said:--"Ciutazza, so thou wilt do me a service to-night, I will give thee a fine new shift." At the mention of the shift Ciutazza made answer:--"So you give me a shift, Madam, I will throw myself into the very fire." "Good," said the lady; "then I would have thee lie to-night in my bed with a man, whom thou wilt caress; but look thou say never a word, that my brothers, who, as thou knowest, sleep in the next room, hear thee not; and afterwards I will give thee the shift." "Sleep with a man!" quoth Ciutazza: "why, if need be, I will sleep with six." So in the evening Master Rector came, as he had been bidden; and the two young men, as the lady had arranged, being in their room, and making themselves very audible, he stole noiselessly, and in the dark, into the lady's room, and got him on to the bed, which Ciutazza, well advised by the lady how to behave, mounted from the other side. Whereupon Master Rector, thinking to have the lady by his side, took Ciutazza in his arms, and fell a kissing her, saying never a word the while, and Ciutazza did the like; and so he enjoyed her, plucking the boon which he had so long desired. The rector and Ciutazza thus closeted, the lady charged her brothers to execute the rest of her plan. They accordingly stole quietly out of their room, and hied them to the piazza, where Fortune proved propitious beyond what they had craved of her; for, it being a very hot night, the bishop had been seeking them, purposing to go home with them, and solace himself with their society, and quench his thirst. With which desire he acquainted them, as soon as he espied them coming into the piazza; and so they escorted him to their house, and there in the cool of their little courtyard, which was bright with many a lamp, he took, to his no small comfort, a draught of their good wine. Which done:--"Sir," said the young men, "since of your great courtesy you have deigned to visit our poor house, to which we were but now about to invite you, we should be gratified if you would be pleased to give a look at somewhat, a mere trifle though it be, which we have here to shew you." The bishop replied that he would do so with pleasure. Whereupon one of the young men took a lighted torch and led the way, the bishop and the rest following, to the chamber where Master Rector lay with Ciutazza. Now the rector, being in hot haste, had ridden hard, insomuch that he was already gotten above three miles on his way when they arrived; and so, being somewhat tired, he was resting, but, hot though the night was, he still held Ciutazza in his arms. In which posture he was shewn to the bishop, when, preceded by the young man bearing the light, and followed by the others, he entered the chamber. And being roused, and observing the light and the folk that stood about him, Master Rector was mighty ashamed and affrighted, and popped his head under the clothes. But the bishop, reprimanding him severely, constrained him to thrust his head out again, and take a view of his bed-fellow. Thus made aware of the trick which the lady had played him, the rector was now, both on that score and by reason of his signal disgrace, the saddest man that ever was; and his discomfiture was complete, when, having donned his clothes, he was committed by the bishop's command to close custody and sent to prison, there to expiate his offence by a rigorous penance. The bishop was then fain to know how it had come about that he had forgathered there with Ciutazza. Whereupon the young men related the whole story; which ended, the bishop commended both the lady and the young men not a little, for that they had taken condign vengeance upon him without imbruing their hands in the blood of a priest. The bishop caused him to bewail his transgression forty days; but what with his love, and the scornful requital which it had received, he bewailed it more than forty and nine days, not to mention that for a great while he could not shew himself in the street but the boys would point the finger at him and say:--"There goes he that lay with Ciutazza." Which was such an affliction to him that he was like to go mad. On this wise the worthy lady rid herself of the rector's vexatious importunity, and Ciutazza had a jolly night and earned her shift. (1) An augmentative form, with a suggestion of cagnazza, bitch-like. NOVEL V. -- Three young men pull down the breeches of a judge from the Marches, while he is administering justice on the bench. -- So ended Emilia her story; and when all had commended the widow lady:--"'Tis now thy turn to speak," quoth the queen, fixing her gaze upon Filostrato, who answered that he was ready, and forthwith thus began:--Sweet my ladies, by what I remember of that young man, to wit, Maso del Saggio, whom Elisa named a while ago, I am prompted to lay aside a story that I had meant to tell you, and to tell you another, touching him and some of his comrades, which, notwithstanding there are in it certain words (albeit 'tis not unseemly) which your modesty forbears to use, is yet so laughable that I shall relate it. As you all may well have heard, there come not seldom to our city magistrates from the Marches, who for the most part are men of a mean spirit, and in circumstances so reduced and beggarly, that their whole life seems to be but a petty-foggery; and by reason of this their inbred sordidness and avarice they bring with them judges and notaries that have rather the air of men taken from the plough or the last than trained in the schools of law.(1) Now one of these Marchers, being come hither as Podesta, brought with him judges not a few, and among them one that called himself Messer Niccola da San Lepidio, and looked liker to a locksmith than aught else. However, this fellow was assigned with the rest of the judges to hear criminal causes. And as folk will often go to the court, though they have no concern whatever there, it so befell that Maso del Saggio went thither one morning in quest of one of his friends, and there chancing to set eyes on this Messer Niccola, where he sate, deemed him a fowl of no common feather, and surveyed him from head to foot, observing that the vair which he wore on his head was all begrimed, that he carried an ink-horn at his girdle, that his gown was longer than his robe, and many another detail quite foreign to the appearance of a man of birth and breeding, of which that which he deemed most notable was a pair of breeches, which, as he saw (for the judge's outer garments being none too ample were open in front, as he sate), reached half-way down his legs. By which sight his mind was presently diverted from the friend whom he came there to seek; and forth he hied him in quest of other two of his comrades, the one Ribi, the other Matteuzzo by name, fellows both of them not a whit less jolly than Maso himself; and having found them, he said to them:--"An you love me, come with me to the court, and I will shew you the queerest scarecrow that ever you saw." So the two men hied them with him to the court; and there he pointed out to them the judge and his breeches. What they saw from a distance served to set them laughing: then drawing nearer to the dais on which Master Judge was seated, they observed that 'twas easy enough to get under the dais, and moreover that the plank, on which the judge's feet rested, was broken, so that there was plenty of room for the passage of a hand and arm. Whereupon quoth Maso to his comrades:--"'Twere a very easy matter to pull these breeches right down: wherefore I propose that we do so." Each of the men had marked how it might be done; and so, having concerted both what they should do and what they should say, they came to the court again next morning; and, the court being crowded, Matteuzzo, observed by never a soul, slipped beneath the dais, and posted himself right under the spot where the judge's feet rested, while the other two men took their stand on either side of the judge, each laying hold of the hem of his robe. Then:--"Sir, sir, I pray you for God's sake," began Maso, "that, before the pilfering rascal that is there beside you can make off, you constrain him to give me back a pair of jack boots that he has stolen from me, which theft he still denies, though 'tis not a month since I saw him getting them resoled." Meanwhile Ribi, at the top of his voice, shouted:--"Believe him not, Sir, the scurvy knave! 'Tis but that he knows that I am come to demand restitution of a valise that he has stolen from me that he now for the first time trumps up this story about a pair of jack boots that I have had in my house down to the last day or two; and if you doubt what I say, I can bring as witness Trecca, my neighbour, and Grassa, the tripe-woman, and one that goes about gathering the sweepings of Santa Maria a Verzaia, who saw him when he was on his way back from the farm." But shout as he might, Maso was still even with him, nor for all that did Ribi bate a jot of his clamour. And while the judge stood, bending now towards the one, now towards the other, the better to hear them, Matteuzzo seized his opportunity, and thrusting his hand through the hole in the plank caught hold of the judge's breeches, and tugged at them amain. Whereby down they came straightway, for the judge was a lean man, and shrunk in the buttocks. The judge, being aware of the accident, but knowing not how it had come about, would have gathered his outer garments together in front, so as to cover the defect, but Maso on the one side, and Ribi on the other, held him fast, shouting amain and in chorus:--"You do me a grievous wrong, Sir, thus to deny me justice, nay, even a hearing, and to think of quitting the court: there needs no writ in this city for such a trifling matter as this." And thus they held him by the clothes and in parley, until all that were in the court perceived that he had lost his breeches. However, after a while, Matteuzzo dropped the breeches, and slipped off, and out of the court, without being observed, and Ribi, deeming that the joke had gone far enough, exclaimed:--"By God, I vow, I will appeal to the Syndics;" while Maso, on the other side, let go the robe, saying:--"Nay, but for my part, I will come here again and again and again, until I find you less embarrassed than you seem to be to-day." And so the one this way, the other that way, they made off with all speed. Whereupon Master Judge, disbreeched before all the world, was as one that awakens from sleep, albeit he was ware of his forlorn condition, and asked whither the parties in the case touching the jack boots and the valise were gone. However, as they were not to be found, he fell a swearing by the bowels of God, that 'twas meet and proper that he should know and wit, whether 'twas the custom at Florence to disbreech judges sitting in the seat of justice. When the affair reached the ears of the Podesta, he made no little stir about it; but, being informed by some of his friends, that 'twould not have happened, but that the Florentines were minded to shew him, that, in place of the judges he should have brought with him, he had brought but gowks, to save expense, he deemed it best to say no more about it, and so for that while the matter went no further. (1) It was owing to their internal dissensions that the Florentines were from time to time fain to introduce these stranger Podestas. NOVEL VI. -- Bruno and Buffalmacco steal a pig from Calandrino, and induce him to essay its recovery by means of pills of ginger and vernaccia. Of the said pills they give him two, one after the other, made of dog-ginger compounded with aloes; and it then appearing as if he had had the pig himself, they constrain him to buy them off, if he would not have them tell his wife. -- Filostrato's story, which elicited not a little laughter, was no sooner ended, than the queen bade Filomena follow suit. Wherefore thus Filomena began:--As, gracious ladies, 'twas the name of Maso del Saggio that prompted Filostrato to tell the story that you have but now heard, even so 'tis with me in regard of Calandrino and his comrades, of whom I am minded to tell you another story, which you will, I think, find entertaining. Who Calandrino, Bruno and Buffalmacco were, I need not explain; you know them well enough from the former story; and therefore I will tarry no longer than to say that Calandrino had a little estate not far from Florence, which his wife had brought him by way of dowry, and which yielded them yearly, among other matters, a pig; and 'twas his custom every year in the month of December to resort to the farm with his wife, there to see to the killing and salting of the said pig. Now, one of these years it so happened that his wife being unwell, Calandrino went thither alone to kill the pig. And Bruno and Buffalmacco learning that he was gone to the farm, and that his wife was not with him, betook them to the house of a priest that was their especial friend and a neighbour of Calandrino, there to tarry a while. Upon their arrival Calandrino, who had that very morning killed the pig, met them with the priest, and accosted them, saying:--"A hearty welcome to you. I should like you to see what an excellent manager I am;" and so he took them into his house, and shewed them the pig. They observed that 'twas a very fine pig; and learned from Calandrino that he was minded to salt it for household consumption. "Then thou art but a fool," quoth Bruno. "Sell it, man, and let us have a jolly time with the money; and tell thy wife that 'twas stolen." "Not I," replied Calandrino: "she would never believe me, and would drive me out of the house. Urge me no further, for I will never do it." The others said a great deal more, but to no purpose; and Calandrino bade them to supper, but so coldly that they declined, and left him. Presently:--"Should we not steal this pig from him to-night?" quoth Bruno to Buffalmacco. "Could we so?" returned Buffalmacco. "How?" "Why, as to that," rejoined Bruno, "I have already marked how it may be done, if he bestow not the pig elsewhere." "So be it, then," said Buffalmacco: "we will steal it; and then, perchance, our good host, Master Priest, will join us in doing honour to such good cheer?" "That right gladly will I," quoth the priest. Whereupon:--"Some address, though," quoth Bruno, "will be needful: thou knowest, Buffalmacco, what a niggardly fellow Calandrino is, and how greedily he drinks at other folk's expense. Go we, therefore, and take him to the tavern, and there let the priest make as if, to do us honour, he would pay the whole score, and suffer Calandrino to pay never a soldo, and he will grow tipsy, and then we shall speed excellent well, because he is alone in the house." As Bruno proposed, so they did: and Calandrino, finding that the priest would not suffer him to pay, drank amain, and took a great deal more aboard than he had need of; and the night being far spent when he left the tavern, he dispensed with supper, and went home, and thinking to have shut the door, got him to bed, leaving it open. Buffalmacco and Bruno went to sup with the priest; and after supper, taking with them certain implements with which to enter Calandrino's house, where Bruno thought it most feasible, they stealthily approached it; but finding the door open, they entered, and took down the pig, and carried it away to the priest's house, and having there bestowed it safely, went to bed. In the morning when Calandrino, his head at length quit of the fumes of the wine, got up, and came downstairs and found that his pig was nowhere to be seen, and that the door was open, he asked this, that, and the other man, whether they wist who had taken the pig away, and getting no answer, he began to make a great outcry:--"Alas, alas! luckless man that I am, that my pig should have been stolen from me!" Meanwhile Bruno and Buffalmacco, being also risen, made up to him, to hear what he would say touching the pig. Whom he no sooner saw, than well-nigh weeping he called them, saying:--"Alas! my friends! my pig is stolen from me." Bruno stepped up to him and said in a low tone:--"'Tis passing strange if thou art in the right for once." "Alas!" returned Calandrino, "what I say is but too true." "Why, then, out with it, man," quoth Bruno, "cry aloud, that all folk may know that 'tis so." Calandrino then raised his voice and said:--"By the body o' God I say of a truth that my pig has been stolen from me." "So!" quoth Bruno, "but publish it, man, publish it; lift up thy voice, make thyself well heard, that all may believe thy report." "Thou art enough to make me give my soul to the Enemy," replied Calandrino. "I say--dost not believe me?--that hang me by the neck if the pig is not stolen from me!" "Nay, but," quoth Bruno, "how can it be? I saw it here but yesterday. Dost think to make me believe that it has taken to itself wings and flown away?" "All the same 'tis as I tell thee," returned Calandrino. "Is it possible?" quoth Bruno. "Ay indeed," replied Calandrino; "'tis even so: and I am undone, and know not how to go home. Never will my wife believe me; or if she do so, I shall know no peace this year." "Upon my hope of salvation," quoth Bruno, "'tis indeed a bad business, if so it really is. But thou knowest, Calandrino, that 'twas but yesterday I counselled thee to make believe that 'twas so. I should be sorry to think thou didst befool thy wife and us at the same time." "Ah!" vociferated Calandrino, "wilt thou drive me to despair and provoke me to blaspheme God and the saints and all the company of heaven? I tell thee that the pig has been stolen from me in the night." Whereupon:--"If so it be," quoth Buffalmacco, "we must find a way, if we can, to recover it." "Find a way?" said Calandrino: "how can we compass that?" "Why," replied Buffalmacco, "'tis certain that no one has come from India to steal thy pig: it must have been one of thy neighbours, and if thou couldst bring them together, I warrant thee, I know how to make the assay with bread and cheese, and we will find out in a trice who has had the pig." "Ay," struck in Bruno, "make thy assay with bread and cheese in the presence of these gentry hereabout, one of whom I am sure has had the pig! why, the thing would be seen through: and they would not come." "What shall we do, then?" said Buffalmacco. Whereto Bruno made answer:--"It must be done with good pills of ginger and good vernaccia; and they must be bidden come drink with us. They will suspect nothing, and will come; and pills of ginger can be blessed just as well as bread and cheese." "Beyond a doubt, thou art right," quoth Buffalmacco; "and thou Calandrino, what sayst thou? Shall we do as Bruno says?" "Nay, I entreat you for the love of God," quoth Calandrino, "do even so: for if I knew but who had had the pig, I should feel myself half consoled for my loss." "Go to, now," quoth Bruno, "I am willing to do thy errand to Florence for these commodities, if thou givest me the money." Calandrino had some forty soldi upon him, which he gave to Bruno, who thereupon hied him to Florence to a friend of his that was an apothecary, and bought a pound of good pills of ginger, two of which, being of dog-ginger, he caused to be compounded with fresh hepatic aloes, and then to be coated with sugar like the others; and lest they should be lost, or any of the others mistaken for them, he had a slight mark set upon them by which he might readily recognize them. He also bought a flask of good vernaccia, and, thus laden, returned to the farm, and said to Calandrino:--"To-morrow morning thou wilt bid those whom thou suspectest come hither to drink with thee: as 'twill be a saint's day, they will all come readily enough; and to-night I and Buffalmacco will say the incantation over the pills, which in the morning I will bring to thee here, and for our friendship's sake will administer them myself, and do and say all that needs to be said and done." So Calandrino did as Bruno advised, and on the morrow a goodly company, as well of young men from Florence, that happened to be in the village, as of husbandmen, being assembled in front of the church around the elm, Bruno and Buffalmacco came, bearing a box containing the ginger, and the flask of wine, and ranged the folk in a circle. Whereupon: "Gentlemen," said Bruno, "'tis meet I tell you the reason why you are gathered here, that if aught unpleasant to you should befall, you may have no ground for complaint against me. Calandrino here was the night before last robbed of a fine pig, and cannot discover who has had it; and, for that it must have been stolen by some one of us here, he would have each of you take and eat one of these pills and drink of this vernaccia. Wherefore I forthwith do you to wit, that whoso has had the pig will not be able to swallow the pill, but will find it more bitter than poison, and will spit it out; and so, rather, than he should suffer this shame in presence of so many, 'twere perhaps best that he that has had the pig should confess the fact to the priest, and I will wash my hands of the affair." All professed themselves ready enough to eat the pills; and so, having set them in a row with Calandrino among them, Bruno, beginning at one end, proceeded to give each a pill, and when he came to Calandrino he chose one of the pills of dog-ginger and put it in his hand. Calandrino thrust it forthwith between his teeth and began to chew it; but no sooner was his tongue acquainted with the aloes, than, finding the bitterness intolerable, he spat it out. Now, the eyes of all the company being fixed on one another to see who should spit out his pill, Bruno, who, not having finished the distribution, feigned to be concerned with nought else, heard some one in his rear say:--"Ha! Calandrino, what means this?" and at once turning round, and marking that Calandrino had spit out his pill:--"Wait a while," quoth he, "perchance 'twas somewhat else that caused thee to spit: take another;" and thereupon whipping out the other pill of dog-ginger, he set it between Calandrino's teeth, and finished the distribution. Bitter as Calandrino had found the former pill, he found this tenfold more so; but being ashamed to spit it out, he kept it a while in his mouth and chewed it, and, as he did so, tears stood in his eyes that shewed as large as filberts, and at length, being unable to bear it any longer, he spat it out, as he had its predecessor. Which being observed by Buffalmacco and Bruno, who were then administering the wine, and by all the company, 'twas averred by common consent that Calandrino had committed the theft himself; for which cause certain of them took him severely to task. However, the company being dispersed, and Bruno and Buffalmacco left alone with Calandrino, Buffalmacco began on this wise:--"I never doubted but that thou hadst had it thyself, and wast minded to make us believe that it had been stolen from thee, that we might not have of thee so much as a single drink out of the price which thou gottest for it." Calandrino, with the bitterness of the aloes still on his tongue, fell a swearing that he had not had it. Whereupon:--"Nay, but, comrade," quoth Buffalmacco, "upon thy honour, what did it fetch? Six florins?" Whereto, Calandrino being now on the verge of desperation, Bruno added:--"Now be reasonable, Calandrino; among the company that ate and drank with us there was one that told me that thou hadst up there a girl that thou didst keep for thy pleasure, giving her what by hook or by crook thou couldst get together, and that he held it for certain that thou hadst sent her this pig. And thou art grown expert in this sort of cozenage. Thou tookest us one while adown the Mugnone a gathering black stones, and having thus started us on a wild-goose chase, thou madest off; and then wouldst fain have us believe that thou hadst found the stone: and now, in like manner, thou thinkest by thine oaths to persuade us that this pig which thou hast given away or sold, has been stolen from thee. But we know thy tricks of old; never another couldst thou play us; and, to be round with thee, this spell has cost us some trouble: wherefore we mean that thou shalt give us two pair of capons, or we will let Monna Tessa know all." Seeing that he was not believed, and deeming his mortification ample without the addition of his wife's resentment, Calandrino gave them the two pair of capons, with which, when the pig was salted, they returned to Florence, leaving Calandrino with the loss and the laugh against him. NOVEL VII. -- A scholar loves a widow lady, who, being enamoured of another, causes him to spend a winter's night awaiting her in the snow. He afterwards by a stratagem causes her to stand for a whole day in July, naked upon a tower, exposed to the flies, the gadflies, and the sun. -- Over the woes of poor Calandrino the ladies laughed not a little, and had laughed yet more, but that it irked them that those that had robbed him of the pig should also take from him the capons. However, the story being ended, the queen bade Pampinea give them hers: and thus forthwith Pampinea began:--Dearest ladies, it happens oftentimes that the artful scorner meets his match; wherefore 'tis only little wits that delight to scorn. In a series of stories we have heard tell of tricks played without aught in the way of reprisals following: by mine I purpose in some degree to excite your compassion for a gentlewoman of our city (albeit the retribution that came upon her was but just) whose flout was returned in the like sort, and to such effect that she well-nigh died thereof. The which to hear will not be unprofitable to you, for thereby you will learn to be more careful how you flout others, and therein you will do very wisely. 'Tis not many years since there dwelt at Florence a lady young and fair, and of a high spirit, as also of right gentle lineage, and tolerably well endowed with temporal goods. Now Elena--such was the lady's name--being left a widow, was minded never to marry again, being enamoured of a handsome young gallant of her own choosing, with whom she, recking nought of any other lover, did, by the help of a maid in whom she placed much trust, not seldom speed the time gaily and with marvellous delight. Meanwhile it so befell that a young nobleman of our city, Rinieri by name, who had spent much time in study at Paris, not that he might thereafter sell his knowledge by retail, but that he might learn the reasons and causes of things, which accomplishment shews to most excellent advantage in a gentleman, returned to Florence, and there lived as a citizen in no small honour with his fellows, both by reason of his rank and of his learning. But as it is often the case that those who are most versed in deep matters are the soonest mastered by Love, so was it with Rinieri. For at a festal gathering, to which one day he went, there appeared before his eyes this Elena, of whom we spoke, clad in black, as is the wont of our Florentine widows, and shewing to his mind so much fairer and more debonair than any other woman that he had ever seen, that happy indeed he deemed the man might call himself, to whom God in His goodness should grant the right to hold her naked in his arms. So now and again he eyed her stealthily, and knowing that boons goodly and precious are not to be gotten without trouble, he made up his mind to study and labour with all assiduity how best to please her, that so he might win her love, and thereby the enjoyment of her. The young gentlewoman was not used to keep her eyes bent ever towards the infernal regions; but, rating herself at no less, if not more, than her deserts, she was dexterous to move them to and fro, and thus busily scanning her company, soon detected the men who regarded her with pleasure. By which means having discovered Rinieri's passion, she inly laughed, and said:--'Twill turn out that 'twas not for nothing that I came here to-day, for, if I mistake not, I have caught a gander by the bill. So she gave him an occasional sidelong glance, and sought as best she might to make him believe that she was not indifferent to him, deeming that the more men she might captivate by her charms, the higher those charms would be rated, and most especially by him whom she had made lord of them and her love. The erudite scholar bade adieu to philosophical meditation, for the lady entirely engrossed his mind; and, having discovered her house, he, thinking to please her, found divers pretexts for frequently passing by it. Whereon the lady, her vanity flattered for the reason aforesaid, plumed herself not a little, and shewed herself pleased to see him. Thus encouraged, the scholar found means to make friends with her maid, to whom he discovered his love, praying her to do her endeavour with her mistress, that he might have her favour. The maid was profuse of promises, and gave her mistress his message, which she no sooner heard, than she was convulsed with laughter, and replied:--"He brought sense enough hither from Paris: knowest thou where he has since been to lose it? Go to, now; let us give him that which he seeks. Tell him, when he next speaks to you of the matter, that I love him vastly more than he loves me, but that I must have regard to my reputation, so that I may be able to hold my head up among other ladies; which, if he is really the wise man they say, will cause him to affect me much more." Ah! poor woman! poor woman! she little knew, my ladies, how rash it is to try conclusions with scholars. The maid found the scholar, and did her mistress's errand. The scholar, overjoyed, proceeded to urge his suit with more ardour, to indite letters, and send presents. The lady received all that he sent her, but vouchsafed no answers save such as were couched in general terms: and on this wise she kept him dangling a long while. At last, having disclosed the whole affair to her lover, who evinced some resentment and jealousy, she, to convince him that his suspicions were groundless, and for that she was much importuned by the scholar, sent word to him by her maid, that never since he had assured her of his love, had occasion served her to do him pleasure, but that next Christmastide she hoped to be with him; wherefore, if he were minded to await her in the courtyard of her house on the night of the day next following the feast, she would meet him there as soon as she could. Elated as ne'er another, the scholar hied him at the appointed time to the lady's house, and being ushered into a courtyard by the maid, who forthwith turned the key upon him, addressed himself there to await the lady's coming. Now the lady's lover, by her appointment, was with her that evening; and, when they had gaily supped, she told him what she had in hand that night, adding:--"And so thou wilt be able to gauge the love which I have borne and bear this scholar, whom thou hast foolishly regarded as a rival." The lover heard the lady's words with no small delight, and waited in eager expectancy to see her make them good. The scholar, hanging about there in the courtyard, began to find it somewhat chillier than he would have liked, for it had snowed hard all day long, so that the snow lay everywhere thick on the ground; however, he bore it patiently, expecting to be recompensed by and by. After a while the lady said to her lover:--"Go we to the chamber and take a peep through a lattice at him of whom thou art turned jealous, and mark what he does, and how he will answer the maid, whom I have bidden go speak with him." So the pair hied them to a lattice, wherethrough they could see without being seen, and heard the maid call from another lattice to the scholar, saying:--"Rinieri, my lady is distressed as never woman was, for that one of her brothers is come here to-night, and after talking a long while with her, must needs sup with her, and is not yet gone, but, I think, he will soon be off; and that is the reason why she has not been able to come to thee, but she will come soon now. She trusts it does not irk thee to wait so long." Whereto the scholar, supposing that 'twas true, made answer:--"Tell my lady to give herself no anxiety on my account, until she can conveniently come to me, but to do so as soon as she may." Whereupon the maid withdrew from the window, and went to bed; while the lady said to her lover:--"Now, what sayst thou? Thinkst thou that, if I had that regard for him, which thou fearest, I would suffer him to tarry below there to get frozen?" Which said, the lady and her now partly reassured lover got them to bed, where for a great while they disported them right gamesomely, laughing together and making merry over the luckless scholar. The scholar, meanwhile, paced up and down the courtyard to keep himself warm, nor indeed had he where to sit, or take shelter: in this plight he bestowed many a curse upon the lady's brother for his long tarrying, and never a sound did he hear but he thought that 'twas the lady opening the door. But vain indeed were his hopes: the lady, having solaced herself with her lover until hard upon midnight, then said to him:--"How ratest thou our scholar, my soul? whether is the greater his wit, or the love I bear him, thinkst thou? Will the cold, that, of my ordaining, he now suffers, banish from thy breast the suspicion which my light words the other day implanted there?" "Ay, indeed, heart of my body!" replied the lover, "well wot I now that even as thou art to me, my weal, my consolation, my bliss, so am I to thee." "So:" quoth the lady, "then I must have full a thousand kisses from thee, to prove that thou sayst sooth." The lover's answer was to strain her to his heart, and give her not merely a thousand but a hundred thousand kisses. In such converse they dallied a while longer, and then:--"Get we up, now," quoth the lady, "that we may go see if 'tis quite spent, that fire, with which, as he wrote to me daily, this new lover of mine used to burn." So up they got and hied them to the lattice which they had used before, and peering out into the courtyard, saw the scholar dancing a hornpipe to the music that his own teeth made, a chattering for extremity of cold; nor had they ever seen it footed so nimbly and at such a pace. Whereupon:--"How sayst thou, sweet my hope?" quoth the lady. "Know I not how to make men dance without the aid of either trumpet or cornemuse?" "Indeed thou dost my heart's delight," replied the lover. Quoth then the lady:--"I have a mind that we go down to the door. Thou wilt keep quiet, and I will speak to him, and we shall hear what he says, which, peradventure, we shall find no less diverting than the sight of him." So they stole softly out of the chamber and down to the door, which leaving fast closed, the lady set her lips to a little hole that was there, and with a low voice called the scholar, who, hearing her call him, praised God, making too sure that he was to be admitted, and being come to the door, said:--"Here am I, Madam; open for God's sake; let me in, for I die of cold." "Oh! ay," replied the lady, "I know thou hast a chill, and of course, there being a little snow about, 'tis mighty cold; but well I wot the nights are colder far at Paris. I cannot let thee in as yet, because my accursed brother, that came to sup here this evening, is still with me; but he will soon take himself off, and then I will let thee in without a moment's delay. I have but now with no small difficulty given him the slip, to come and give thee heart that the waiting irk thee not." "Nay but, Madam," replied the scholar, "for the love of God, I entreat you, let me in, that I may have a roof over my head, because for some time past there has been never so thick a fall of snow, and 'tis yet snowing; and then I will wait as long as you please." "Alas! sweet my love," quoth the lady, "that I may not, for this door makes such a din, when one opens it, that my brother would be sure to hear, were I to let thee in; but I will go tell him to get him gone, and so come back and admit thee." "Go at once, then," returned the scholar, "and prithee, see that a good fire be kindled, that, when I get in, I may warm myself, for I am now so chilled through and through that I have scarce any feeling left." "That can scarce be," rejoined the lady, "if it be true, what thou hast so protested in thy letters, that thou art all afire for love of me: 'tis plain to me now that thou didst but mock me. I now take my leave of thee: wait and be of good cheer." So the lady and her lover, who, to his immense delight, had heard all that passed, betook them to bed; however, little sleep had they that night, but spent the best part of it in disporting themselves and making merry over the unfortunate scholar, who, his teeth now chattering to such a tune that he seemed to have been metamorphosed into a stork, perceived that he had been befooled, and after making divers fruitless attempts to open the door and seeking means of egress to no better purpose, paced to and fro like a lion, cursing the villainous weather, the long night, his simplicity, and the perversity of the lady, against whom (the vehemence of his wrath suddenly converting the love he had so long borne her to bitter and remorseless enmity) he now plotted within himself divers and grand schemes of revenge, on which he was far more bent than ever he had been on forgathering with her. Slowly the night wore away, and with the first streaks of dawn the maid, by her mistress's direction, came down, opened the door of the courtyard, and putting on a compassionate air, greeted Rinieri with:--"Foul fall him that came here yestereve; he has afflicted us with his presence all night long, and has kept thee a freezing out here: but harkye, take it not amiss; that which might not be to-night shall be another time: well wot I that nought could have befallen that my lady could so ill brook." For all his wrath, the scholar, witting, like the wise man he was, that menaces serve but to put the menaced on his guard, kept pent within his breast that which unbridled resentment would have uttered, and said quietly, and without betraying the least trace of anger:--"In truth 'twas the worst night I ever spent, but I understood quite well that the lady was in no wise to blame, for that she herself, being moved to pity of me, came down here to make her excuses, and to comfort me; and, as thou sayst, what has not been to-night will be another time: wherefore commend me to her, and so, adieu!" Then, well-nigh paralysed for cold, he got him, as best he might, home, where, weary and fit to die for drowsiness, he threw himself on his bed, and fell into a deep sleep, from which he awoke to find that he had all but lost the use of his arms and legs. He therefore sent for some physicians, and having told them what a chill he had gotten, caused them have a care to his health. But, though they treated him with active and most drastic remedies, it cost them some time and no little trouble to restore to the cramped muscles their wonted pliancy, and, indeed, but for his youth and the milder weather that was at hand, 'twould have gone very hard with him. However, recover he did his health and lustihood, and nursing his enmity, feigned to be vastly more enamoured of his widow than ever before. And so it was that after a while Fortune furnished him with an opportunity of satisfying his resentment, for the gallant of whom the widow was enamoured, utterly regardless of the love she bore him, grew enamoured of another lady, and was minded no more to pleasure the widow in aught either by word or by deed; wherefore she now pined in tears and bitterness of spirit. However, her maid, who commiserated her not a little, and knew not how to dispel the dumps that the loss of her lover had caused her, espying the scholar pass along the street, as he had been wont, conceived the silly idea that the lady's lover might be induced to return to his old love by some practice of a necromantic order, wherein she doubted not that the scholar must be a thorough adept; which idea she imparted to her mistress. The lady, being none too well furnished with sense, never thinking that, if the scholar had been an adept in necromancy, he would have made use of it in his own behoof, gave heed to what her maid said, and forthwith bade her learn of the scholar whether he would place his skill at her service, and assure him that, if he so did, she, in guerdon thereof, would do his pleasure. The maid did her mistress's errand well and faithfully. The scholar no sooner heard the message, than he said to himself:--Praised be Thy name, O God, that the time is now come, when with Thy help I may be avenged upon this wicked woman of the wrong she did me in requital of the great love I bore her. Then, turning to the maid, he said:--"Tell my lady to set her mind at ease touching this matter; for that, were her lover in India, I would forthwith bring him hither to crave her pardon of that wherein he has offended her. As to the course she should take in the matter, I tarry but her pleasure to make it known to her, when and where she may think fit: tell her so, and bid her from me to be of good cheer." The maid carried his answer to her mistress, and arranged that they should meet in the church of Santa Lucia of Prato. Thither accordingly they came, the lady and the scholar, and conversed apart, and the lady, quite oblivious of the ill-usage by which she had well-nigh done him to death, opened all her mind to him, and besought him, if he had any regard to her welfare, to aid her to the attainment of her desire. "Madam," replied the scholar, "true it is that among other lore that I acquired at Paris was this of necromancy, whereof, indeed, I know all that may be known; but, as 'tis in the last degree displeasing to God, I had sworn never to practise it either for my own or for any other's behoof. 'Tis also true that the love I bear you is such that I know not how to refuse you aught that you would have me do for you; and so, were this single essay enough to consign me to hell, I would adventure it to pleasure you. But I mind me that 'tis a matter scarce so easy of performance as, perchance, you suppose, most especially when a woman would fain recover the love of a man, or a man that of a woman, for then it must be done by the postulant in proper person, and at night, and in lonely places, and unattended, so that it needs a stout heart; nor know I whether you are disposed to comply with these conditions." The lady, too enamoured to be discreet, made answer:--"So shrewdly does Love goad me, that there is nought I would not do to bring him back to me who wrongfully has deserted me; but tell me, prithee, wherein it is that I have need of this stout heart." "Madam," returned the despiteful scholar, "'twill be my part to fashion in tin an image of him you would fain lure back to you: and when I have sent you the image, 'twill be for you, when the moon is well on the wane, to dip yourself, being stark naked, and the image, seven times in a flowing stream, and this you must do quite alone about the hour of first sleep, and afterwards, still naked, you must get you upon some tree or some deserted house, and facing the North, with the image in your hand, say certain words that I shall give you in writing seven times; which, when you have done, there will come to you two damsels, the fairest you ever saw, who will greet you graciously, and ask of you what you would fain have; to whom you will disclose frankly and fully all that you crave; and see to it that you make no mistake in the name; and when you have said all, they will depart, and you may then descend and return to the spot where you left your clothes, and resume them and go home. And rest assured, that before the ensuing midnight your lover will come to you in tears, and crave your pardon and mercy, and that thenceforth he will never again desert you for any other woman." The lady gave entire credence to the scholar's words, and deeming her lover as good as in her arms again, recovered half her wonted spirits: wherefore:--"Make no doubt," quoth she, "that I shall do as thou biddest; and indeed I am most favoured by circumstance; for in upper Val d'Arno I have an estate adjoining the river, and 'tis now July, so that to bathe will be delightful. Ay, and now I mind me that at no great distance from the river there is a little tower, which is deserted, save that now and again the shepherds will get them up by the chestnut-wood ladder to the roof, thence to look out for their strayed sheep; 'tis a place lonely indeed, and quite out of ken; and when I have clomb it, as climb it I will, I doubt not 'twill be the best place in all the world to give effect to your instructions." Well pleased to be certified of the lady's intention, the scholar, to whom her estate and the tower were very well known, made answer:--"I was never in those parts, Madam, and therefore know neither your estate nor the tower, but, if 'tis as you say, 'twill certainly be the best place in the world for your purpose. So, when time shall serve, I will send you the image and the orison. But I pray you, when you shall have your heart's desire, and know that I have done you good service, do not forget me, but keep your promise to me." "That will I without fail," quoth the lady; and so she bade him farewell, and went home. The scholar, gleefully anticipating the success of his enterprise, fashioned an image, and inscribed it with certain magical signs, and wrote some gibberish by way of orison, which in due time he sent to the lady, bidding her the very next night do as he had prescribed: and thereupon he hied him privily with one of his servants to the house of a friend hard by the tower, there to carry his purpose into effect. The lady, on her part, set out with her maid, and betook her to her estate, and, night being come, sent the maid to bed, as if she were minded to go to rest herself; and about the hour of first sleep stole out of the house and down to the tower, beside the Arno; and when, having carefully looked about her, she was satisfied that never a soul was to be seen or heard, she took off her clothes and hid them under a bush; then, with the image in her hand, she dipped herself seven times in the river; which done, she hied her with the image to the tower. The scholar, having at nightfall couched himself with his servant among the willows and other trees that fringed the bank, marked all that she did, and how, as she passed by him, the whiteness of her flesh dispelled the shades of night, and scanning attentively her bosom and every other part of her body, and finding them very fair, felt, as he bethought him what would shortly befall them, some pity of her; while, on the other hand, he was suddenly assailed by the solicitations of the flesh which caused that to stand which had been inert, and prompted him to sally forth of his ambush and take her by force, and have his pleasure of her. And, what with his compassion and passion, he was like to be worsted; but then as he bethought him who he was, and what a grievous wrong had been done him, and for what cause, and by whom, his wrath, thus rekindled, got the better of the other affections, so that he swerved not from his resolve, but suffered her to go her way. The lady ascended the tower, and standing with her face to the North, began to recite the scholar's orison, while he, having stolen into the tower but a little behind her, cautiously shifted the ladder that led up to the roof on which the lady stood, and waited to observe what she would say and do. Seven times the lady said the orison, and then awaited the appearance of the two damsels; and so long had she to wait--not to mention that the night was a good deal cooler than she would have liked--that she saw day break; whereupon, disconcerted that it had not fallen out as the scholar had promised, she said to herself:--I misdoubt me he was minded to give me such a night as I gave him; but if such was his intent, he is but maladroit in his revenge, for this night is not as long by a third as his was, besides which, the cold is of another quality. And that day might not overtake her there, she began to think of descending, but, finding that the ladder was removed, she felt as if the world had come to nought beneath her feet, her senses reeled, and she fell in a swoon upon the floor of the roof. When she came to herself, she burst into tears and piteous lamentations, and witting now very well that 'twas the doing of the scholar, she began to repent her that she had first offended him, and then trusted him unduly, having such good cause to reckon upon his enmity; in which frame she abode long time. Then, searching if haply she might find some means of descent, and finding none, she fell a weeping again, and bitterly to herself she said:--Alas for thee, wretched woman! what will thy brothers, thy kinsmen, thy neighbours, nay, what will all Florence say of thee, when 'tis known that thou hast been found here naked? Thy honour, hitherto unsuspect, will be known to have been but a shew, and shouldst thou seek thy defence in lying excuses, if any such may be fashioned, the accursed scholar, who knows all thy doings, will not suffer it. Ah! poor wretch! that at one and the same time hast lost thy too dearly cherished gallant and thine own honour! And therewith she was taken with such a transport of grief, that she was like to cast herself from the tower to the ground. Then, bethinking her that if she might espy some lad making towards the tower with his sheep, she might send him for her maid, for the sun was now risen, she approached one of the parapets of the tower, and looked out, and so it befell that the scholar, awakening from a slumber, in which he had lain a while at the foot of a bush, espied her, and she him. Whereupon:--"Good-day, Madam," quoth he:--"are the damsels yet come?" The lady saw and heard him not without bursting afresh into a flood of tears, and besought him to come into the tower, that she might speak with him: a request which the scholar very courteously granted. The lady then threw herself prone on the floor of the roof; and, only her head being visible through the aperture, thus through her sobs she spoke:--"Verily, Rinieri, if I gave thee a bad night, thou art well avenged on me, for, though it be July, meseemed I was sore a cold last night, standing here with never a thread upon me, and, besides, I have so bitterly bewept both the trick I played thee and my own folly in trusting thee, that I marvel that I have still eyes in my head. Wherefore I implore thee, not for love of me, whom thou hast no cause to love, but for the respect thou hast for thyself as a gentleman, that thou let that which thou hast already done suffice thee to avenge the wrong I did thee, and bring me my clothes, that I may be able to get me down from here, and spare to take from me that which, however thou mightst hereafter wish, thou couldst not restore to me, to wit, my honour; whereas, if I deprived thee of that one night with me, 'tis in my power to give thee many another night in recompense thereof, and thou hast but to choose thine own times. Let this, then, suffice, and like a worthy gentleman be satisfied to have taken thy revenge, and to have let me know it: put not forth thy might against a woman: 'tis no glory to the eagle to have vanquished a dove; wherefore for God's and thine own honour's sake have mercy on me." The scholar, albeit his haughty spirit still brooded on her evil entreatment of him, yet saw her not weep and supplicate without a certain compunction mingling with his exultation; but vengeance he had desired above all things, to have wreaked it was indeed sweet, and albeit his humanity prompted him to have compassion on the hapless woman, yet it availed not to subdue the fierceness of his resentment; wherefore thus he made answer:--"Madam Elena, had my prayers (albeit art I had none to mingle with them tears and honeyed words as thou dost with thine) inclined thee that night, when I stood perishing with cold amid the snow that filled thy courtyard, to accord me the very least shelter, 'twere but a light matter for me to hearken now to thine; but, if thou art now so much more careful of thy honour than thou wast wont to be, and it irks thee to tarry there naked, address thy prayers to him in whose arms it irked thee not naked to pass that night thou mindest thee of, albeit thou wist that I with hasty foot was beating time upon the snow in thy courtyard to the accompaniment of chattering teeth: 'tis he that thou shouldst call to succour thee, to fetch thy clothes, to adjust the ladder for thy descent; 'tis he in whom thou shouldst labour to inspire this tenderness thou now shewest for thy honour, that honour which for his sake thou hast not scrupled to jeopardize both now and on a thousand other occasions. Why, then, call'st thou not him to come to thy succour? To whom pertains it rather than to him? Thou art his. And of whom will he have a care, whom will he succour, if not thee? Thou askedst him that night, when thou wast wantoning with him, whether seemed to him the greater, my folly or the love thou didst bear him: call him now, foolish woman, and see if the love thou bearest him, and thy wit and his, may avail to deliver thee from my folly. 'Tis now no longer in thy power to shew me courtesy of that which I no more desire, nor yet to refuse it, did I desire it. Reserve thy nights for thy lover, if so be thou go hence alive. Be they all thine and his. One of them was more than I cared for; 'tis enough for me to have been flouted once. Ay, and by thy cunning of speech thou strivest might and main to conciliate my good-will, calling me worthy gentleman, by which insinuation thou wouldst fain induce me magnanimously to desist from further chastisement of thy baseness. But thy cajoleries shall not now cloud the eyes of my mind, as did once thy false promises. I know myself, and better now for thy one night's instruction than for all the time I spent at Paris. But, granted that I were disposed to be magnanimous, thou art not of those to whom 'tis meet to shew magnanimity. A wild beast such as thou, having merited vengeance, can claim no relief from suffering save death, though in the case of a human being 'twould suffice to temper vengeance with mercy, as thou saidst. Wherefore I, albeit no eagle, witting thee to be no dove, but a venomous serpent, mankind's most ancient enemy, am minded, bating no jot of malice or of might, to harry thee to the bitter end: natheless this which I do is not properly to be called vengeance but rather just retribution; seeing that vengeance should be in excess of the offence, and this my chastisement of thee will fall short of it; for, were I minded to be avenged on thee, considering what account thou madest of my heart and soul, 'twould not suffice me to take thy life, no, nor the lives of a hundred others such as thee; for I should but slay a vile and base and wicked woman. And what the Devil art thou more than any other pitiful baggage, that I should spare thy little store of beauty, which a few years will ruin, covering thy face with wrinkles? And yet 'twas not for want of will that thou didst fail to do to death a worthy gentleman, as thou but now didst call me, of whom in a single day of his life the world may well have more profit than of a hundred thousand like thee while the world shall last. Wherefore by this rude discipline I will teach thee what it is to flout men of spirit, and more especially what it is to flout scholars, that if thou escape with thy life thou mayst have good cause ever hereafter to shun such folly. But if thou art so fain to make the descent, why cast not thyself down, whereby, God helping, thou wouldst at once break thy neck, be quit of the torment thou endurest, and make me the happiest man alive? I have no more to say to thee. 'Twas my art and craft thus caused thee climb; be it thine to find the way down: thou hadst cunning enough, when thou wast minded to flout me." While the scholar thus spoke, the hapless lady wept incessantly, and before he had done, to aggravate her misery, the sun was high in the heaven. However, when he was silent, thus she made answer:--"Ah! ruthless man, if that accursed night has so rankled with thee, and thou deemest my fault so grave that neither my youth and beauty, nor my bitter tears, nor yet my humble supplications may move thee to pity, let this at least move thee, and abate somewhat of thy remorseless severity, that 'twas my act alone, in that of late I trusted thee, and discovered to thee all my secret, that did open the way to compass thy end, and make me cognizant of my guilt, seeing that, had I not confided in thee, on no wise mightst thou have been avenged on me; which thou wouldst seem so ardently to have desired. Turn thee, then, turn thee, I pray thee, from thy wrath, and pardon me. So thou wilt pardon me, and get me down hence, right gladly will I give up for ever my faithless gallant, and thou shalt be my sole lover and lord, albeit thou sayst hard things of my beauty, slight and shortlived as thou wouldst have it to be, which, however it may compare with others, is, I wot, to be prized, if for no other reason, yet for this, that 'tis the admiration and solace and delight of young men, and thou art not yet old. And albeit I have been harshly treated by thee, yet believe I cannot that thou wouldst have me do myself so shamefully to death as to cast me down, like some abandoned wretch, before thine eyes, in which, unless thou wast then, as thou hast since shewn thyself, a liar, I found such favour. Ah! have pity on me for God's and mercy's sake! The sun waxes exceeding hot, and having suffered not a little by the cold of last night, I now begin to be sorely afflicted by the heat." "Madam," rejoined the scholar, who held her in parley with no small delight, "'twas not for any love that thou didst bear me that thou trustedst me, but that thou mightst recover that which thou hadst lost, for which cause thou meritest but the greater punishment; and foolish indeed art thou if thou supposest that such was the sole means available for my revenge. I had a thousand others, and, while I feigned to love thee, I had laid a thousand gins for thy feet, into one or other of which in no long time, though this had not occurred, thou must needs have fallen, and that too to thy more grievous suffering and shame; nor was it to spare thee, but that I might be the sooner rejoiced by thy discomfiture that I took my present course. And though all other means had failed me, I had still the pen, with which I would have written of thee such matters and in such a sort, that when thou wist them, as thou shouldst have done, thou wouldst have regretted a thousand times that thou hadst ever been born. The might of the pen is greater far than they suppose, who have not proved it by experience. By God I swear, so may He, who has prospered me thus far in this my revenge, prosper me to the end! that I would have written of thee things that would have so shamed thee in thine own--not to speak of others'--sight that thou hadst put out thine eyes that thou mightst no more see thyself; wherefore chide not the sea, for that it has sent forth a tiny rivulet. For thy love, or whether thou be mine or no, nought care I. Be thou still his, whose thou hast been, if thou canst. Hate him as I once did, I now love him, by reason of his present entreatment of thee. Ye go getting you enamoured, ye women, and nought will satisfy you but young gallants, because ye mark that their flesh is ruddier, and their beards are blacker, than other folk's, and that they carry themselves well, and foot it featly in the dance, and joust; but those that are now more mature were even as they, and possess a knowledge which they have yet to acquire. And therewithal ye deem that they ride better, and cover more miles in a day, than men of riper age. Now that they dust the pelisse with more vigour I certainly allow, but their seniors, being more experienced, know better the places where the fleas lurk; and spare and dainty diet is preferable to abundance without savour: moreover hard trotting will gall and jade even the youngest, whereas an easy pace, though it bring one somewhat later to the inn, at any rate brings one thither fresh. Ye discern not, witless creatures that ye are, how much of evil this little shew of bravery serves to hide. Your young gallant is never content with one woman, but lusts after as many as he sets eyes on; nor is there any but he deems himself worthy of her: wherefore 'tis not possible that their love should be lasting, as thou hast but now proved and mayst only too truly witness. Moreover to be worshipped, to be caressed by their ladies they deem but their due; nor is there aught whereon they plume and boast them so proudly as their conquests: which impertinence has caused not a few women to surrender to the friars, who keep their own counsel. Peradventure thou wilt say that never a soul save thy maid, and I wist aught of thy loves; but, if so, thou hast been misinformed, and if thou so believest, thou dost misbelieve. Scarce aught else is talked of either in his quarter or in thine; but most often 'tis those most concerned whose ears such matters reach last. Moreover, they rob you, these young gallants, whereas the others make you presents. So, then, having made a bad choice, be thou still his to whom thou hast given thyself, and leave me, whom thou didst flout, to another, for I have found a lady of much greater charms than thine, and that has understood me better than thou didst. And that thou mayst get thee to the other world better certified of the desire of my eyes than thou wouldst seem to be here by my words, delay no more, but cast thyself down, whereby thy soul, taken forthwith, as I doubt not she will be, into the embrace of the Devil, may see whether thy headlong fall afflicts mine eyes, or no. But, for that I doubt thou meanest not thus to gladden me, I bid thee, if thou findest the sun begin to scorch thee, remember the cold thou didst cause me to endure, wherewith, by admixture, thou mayst readily temper the sun's heat." The hapless lady, seeing that the scholar's words were ever to the same ruthless effect, burst afresh into tears, and said:--"Lo, now, since nought that pertains to me may move thee, be thou at least moved by the love thou bearest this lady of whom thou speakest, who, thou sayst, is wiser than I, and loves thee, and for love of her pardon me, and fetch me my clothes, that I may resume them, and get me down hence." Whereat the scholar fell a laughing, and seeing that 'twas not a little past tierce, made answer:--"Lo, now, I know not how to deny thee, adjuring me as thou dost by such a lady: tell me, then, where thy clothes are, and I will go fetch them, and bring thee down." The lady, believing him, was somewhat comforted, and told him where she had laid her clothes. The scholar then quitted the tower, bidding his servant on no account to stir from his post, but to keep close by, and, as best he might, bar the tower against all comers until his return: which said, he betook him to the house of his friend, where he breakfasted much at his ease, and thereafter went to sleep. Left alone upon the tower, the lady, somewhat cheered by her fond hope, but still exceeding sorrowful, drew nigh to a part of the wall where there was a little shade, and there sate down to wait. And now lost in most melancholy brooding, now dissolved in tears, now plunged in despair of ever seeing the scholar return with her clothes, but never more than a brief while in any one mood, spent with grief and the night's vigil, she by and by fell asleep. The sun was now in the zenith, and smote with extreme fervour full and unmitigated upon her tender and delicate frame, and upon her bare head, insomuch that his rays did not only scorch but bit by bit excoriate every part of her flesh that was exposed to them, and so shrewdly burn her that, albeit she was in a deep sleep, the pain awoke her. And as by reason thereof she writhed a little, she felt the scorched skin part in sunder and shed itself, as will happen when one tugs at a parchment that has been singed by the fire, while her head ached so sore that it seemed like to split, and no wonder. Nor might she find place either to lie or to stand on the floor of the roof, but ever went to and fro, weeping. Besides which there stirred not the least breath of wind, and flies and gadflies did swarm in prodigious quantity, which, settling upon her excoriate flesh, stung her so shrewdly that 'twas as if she received so many stabs with a javelin, and she was ever restlessly feeling her sores with her hands, and cursing herself, her life, her lover, and the scholar. Thus by the exorbitant heat of the sun, by the flies and gadflies, harassed, goaded, and lacerated, tormented also by hunger, and yet more by thirst, and, thereto by a thousand distressful thoughts, she panted herself erect on her feet, and looked about her, if haply she might see or hear any one, with intent, come what might, to call to him and crave his succour. But even this hostile Fortune had disallowed her. The husbandmen were all gone from the fields by reason of the heat, and indeed there had come none to work that day in the neighbourhood of the tower, for that all were employed in threshing their corn beside their cottages: wherefore she heard but the cicalas, while Arno, tantalizing her with the sight of his waters, increased rather than diminished her thirst. Ay, and in like manner, wherever she espied a copse, or a patch of shade, or a house, 'twas a torment to her, for the longing she had for it. What more is to be said of this hapless woman? Only this: that what with the heat of the sun above and the floor beneath her, and the scarification of her flesh in every part by the flies and gadflies, that flesh, which in the night had dispelled the gloom by its whiteness, was now become red as madder, and so besprent with clots of blood, that whoso had seen her would have deemed her the most hideous object in the world. Thus resourceless and hopeless, she passed the long hours, expecting death rather than aught else, until half none was come and gone; when, his siesta ended, the scholar bethought him of his lady, and being minded to see how she fared, hied him back to the tower, and sent his servant away to break his fast. As soon as the lady espied him, she came, spent and crushed by her sore affliction, to the aperture, and thus addressed him:--"Rinieri, the cup of thy vengeance is full to overflowing: for if I gave thee a night of freezing in my courtyard, thou hast given me upon this tower a day of scorching, nay, of burning, and therewithal of perishing of hunger and thirst: wherefore by God I entreat thee to come up hither, and as my heart fails me to take my life, take it thou, for 'tis death I desire of all things, such and so grievous is my suffering. But if this grace thou wilt not grant, at least bring me a cup of water wherewith to lave my mouth, for which my tears do not suffice, so parched and torrid is it within." Well wist the scholar by her voice how spent she was; he also saw a part of her body burned through and through by the sun; whereby, and by reason of the lowliness of her entreaties, he felt some little pity for her; but all the same he made answer:--"Nay, wicked woman, 'tis not by my hands thou shalt die; thou canst die by thine own whenever thou art so minded; and to temper thy heat thou shalt have just as much water from me as I had fire from thee to mitigate my cold. I only regret that for the cure of my chill the physicians were fain to use foul-smelling muck, whereas thy burns can be treated with fragrant rose-water; and that, whereas I was like to lose my muscles and the use of my limbs, thou, for all thy excoriation by the heat, wilt yet be fair again, like a snake that has sloughed off the old skin." "Alas! woe's me!" replied the lady, "for charms acquired at such a cost, God grant them to those that hate me. But thou, most fell of all wild beasts, how hast thou borne thus to torture me? What more had I to expect of thee or any other, had I done all thy kith and kin to death with direst torments? Verily, I know not what more cruel suffering thou couldst have inflicted on a traitor that had put a whole city to the slaughter than this which thou hast allotted to me, to be thus roasted, and devoured of the flies, and therewithal to refuse me even a cup of water, though the very murderers condemned to death by the law, as they go to execution, not seldom are allowed wine to drink, so they but ask it. Lo now, I see that thou art inexorable in thy ruthlessness, and on no wise to be moved by my suffering: wherefore with resignation I will compose me to await death, that God may have mercy on my soul. And may this that thou doest escape not the searching glance of His just eyes." Which said, she dragged herself, sore suffering, toward the middle of the floor, despairing of ever escaping from her fiery torment, besides which, not once only, but a thousand times she thought to choke for thirst, and ever she wept bitterly and bewailed her evil fate. But at length the day wore to vespers, and the scholar, being sated with his revenge, caused his servant to take her clothes and wrap them in his cloak, and hied him with the servant to the hapless lady's house, where, finding her maid sitting disconsolate and woebegone and resourceless at the door:--"Good woman," quoth he, "what has befallen thy mistress?" Whereto:--"Sir, I know not," replied the maid. "I looked to find her this morning abed, for methought she went to bed last night, but neither there nor anywhere else could I find her, nor know I what is become of her; wherefore exceeding great is my distress; but have you, Sir, nought to say of the matter?" "Only this," returned the scholar, "that I would I had had thee with her there where I have had her, that I might have requited thee of thy offence, even as I have requited her of hers. But be assured that thou shalt not escape my hands, until thou hast from me such wage of thy labour that thou shalt never flout man more, but thou shalt mind thee of me." Then, turning to his servant, he said:--"Give her these clothes, and tell her that she may go bring her mistress away, if she will." The servant did his bidding; and the maid, what with the message and her recognition of the clothes, was mightily afraid, lest they had slain the lady, and scarce suppressing a shriek, took the clothes, and, bursting into tears, set off, as soon as the scholar was gone, at a run for the tower. Now one of the lady's husbandmen had had the misfortune to lose two of his hogs that day, and, seeking them, came to the tower not long after the scholar had gone thence, and peering about in all quarters, if haply he might have sight of his hogs, heard the woeful lamentation that the hapless lady made, and got him up into the tower, and called out as loud as he might:--"Who wails up there?" The lady recognized her husbandman's voice, and called him by name, saying:--"Prithee, go fetch my maid, and cause her come up hither to me." The husbandman, knowing her by her voice, replied:--"Alas! Madam, who set you there? Your maid has been seeking you all day long: but who would ever have supposed that you were there?" Whereupon he took the props of the ladder, and set them in position, and proceeded to secure the rounds to them with withies. Thus engaged he was found by the maid, who, as she entered the tower, beat her face and breast, and unable longer to keep silence, cried out:--"Alas, sweet my lady, where are you?" Whereto the lady made answer as loud as she might:--"O my sister, here above am I, weep not, but fetch me my clothes forthwith." Well-nigh restored to heart, to hear her mistress's voice, the maid, assisted by the husbandman, ascended the ladder, which he had now all but set in order, and gaining the roof, and seeing her lady lie there naked, spent and fordone, and liker to a half-burned stump than to a human being, she planted her nails in her face and fell a weeping over her, as if she were a corpse. However, the lady bade her for God's sake be silent, and help her to dress, and having learned from her that none knew where she had been, save those that had brought her her clothes and the husbandman that was there present, was somewhat consoled, and besought her for God's sake to say nought of the matter to any. Thus long time they conversed, and then the husbandman took the lady on his shoulders, for walk she could not, and bore her safely out of the tower. The unfortunate maid, following after with somewhat less caution, slipped, and falling from the ladder to the ground, broke her thigh, and roared for pain like any lion. So the husbandman set the lady down upon a grassy mead, while he went to see what had befallen the maid, whom, finding her thigh broken, he brought, and laid beside the lady: who, seeing her woes completed by this last misfortune, and that she of whom, most of all, she had expected succour, was lamed of a thigh, was distressed beyond measure, and wept again so piteously that not only was the husbandman powerless to comfort her, but was himself fain to weep. However, as the sun was now low, that they might not be there surprised by night, he, with the disconsolate lady's approval, hied him home, and called to his aid two of his brothers and his wife, who returned with him, bearing a plank, whereon they laid the maid, and so they carried her to the lady's house. There, by dint of cold water and words of cheer, they restored some heart to the lady, whom the husbandman then took upon his shoulders, and bore to her chamber. The husbandman's wife fed her with sops of bread, and then undressed her, and put her to bed. They also provided the means to carry her and the maid to Florence; and so 'twas done. There the lady, who was very fertile in artifices, invented an entirely fictitious story of what had happened as well in regard of her maid as of herself, whereby she persuaded both her brothers and her sisters and every one else, that 'twas all due to the enchantments of evil spirits. The physicians lost no time, and, albeit the lady's suffering and mortification were extreme, for she left more than one skin sticking to the sheets, they cured her of a high fever, and certain attendant maladies; as also the maid of her fractured thigh. The end of all which was that the lady forgot her lover, and having learned discretion, was thenceforth careful neither to love nor to flout; and the scholar, learning that the maid had broken her thigh, deemed his vengeance complete, and was satisfied to say never a word more of the affair. Such then were the consequences of her flouts to this foolish young woman, who deemed that she might trifle with a scholar with the like impunity as with others, not duly understanding that they--I say not all, but the more part--know where the Devil keeps his tail.(1) Wherefore, my ladies, have a care how you flout men, and more especially scholars. (1) I.e. are a match for the Devil himself in cunning. NOVEL VIII. -- Two men keep with one another: the one lies with the other's wife: the other, being ware thereof, manages with the aid of his wife to have the one locked in a chest, upon which he then lies with the wife of him that is locked therein. -- Grievous and distressful was it to the ladies to hear how it fared with Elena; but as they accounted the retribution in a measure righteous, they were satisfied to expend upon her but a moderate degree of compassion, albeit they censured the scholar as severe, intemperately relentless, and indeed ruthless, in his vengeance. However, Pampinea having brought the story to a close, the queen bade Fiammetta follow suit; and prompt to obey, Fiammetta thus spoke:--Debonair my ladies, as, methinks, your feelings must have been somewhat harrowed by the severity of the resentful scholar, I deem it meet to soothe your vexed spirits with something of a more cheerful order. Wherefore I am minded to tell you a little story of a young man who bore an affront in a milder temper, and avenged himself with more moderation. Whereby you may understand that one should be satisfied if the ass and the wall are quits, nor by indulging a vindictive spirit to excess turn the requital of a wrong into an occasion of wrong-doing. You are to know, then, that at Siena, as I have heard tell, there dwelt two young men of good substance, and, for plebeians, of good family, the one Spinelloccio Tanena, the other Zeppa di Mino, by name; who, their houses being contiguous in the Camollia,(1) kept ever together, and, by what appeared, loved each other as brothers, or even more so, and had each a very fine woman to wife. Now it so befell that Spinelloccio, being much in Zeppa's house, as well when Zeppa was not, as when he was there, grew so familiar with Zeppa's wife, that he sometimes lay with her; and on this wise they continued to forgather a great while before any one was ware of it. However, one of these days Zeppa being at home, though the lady wist it not, Spinelloccio came in quest of him; and, the lady sending word that he was not at home, he forthwith went upstairs and found the lady in the saloon, and seeing none else there, kissed her, as did she him. Zeppa saw all that passed, but said nothing and kept close, being minded to see how the game would end, and soon saw his wife and Spinelloccio, still in one another's arms, hie them to her chamber and lock themselves in: whereat he was mightily incensed. But, witting that to make a noise, or do aught else overt, would not lessen but rather increase his dishonour, he cast about how he might be avenged on such wise that, without the affair getting wind, he might content his soul; and having, after long pondering, hit, as he thought, upon the expedient, he budged not from his retreat, until Spinelloccio had parted from the lady. Whereupon he hied him into the chamber, and there finding the lady with her head-gear, which Spinelloccio in toying with her had disarranged, scarce yet readjusted:--"Madam, what dost thou?" quoth he. Whereto:--"Why, dost not see?" returned the lady. "Troth do I," rejoined he, "and somewhat else have I seen that I would I had not." And so he questioned her of what had passed, and she, being mightily afraid, did after long parley confess that which she might not plausibly deny, to wit, her intimacy with Spinelloccio, and fell a beseeching him with tears to pardon her. "Lo, now, wife," quoth Zeppa, "thou hast done wrong, and, so thou wouldst have me pardon thee, have a care to do exactly as I shall bid thee; to wit, on this wise: thou must tell Spinelloccio, to find some occasion to part from me to-morrow morning about tierce, and come hither to thee; and while he is here I will come back, and when thou hearest me coming, thou wilt get him into this chest, and lock him in there; which when thou hast done, I will tell thee what else thou hast to do, which thou mayst do without the least misgiving, for I promise thee I will do him no harm." The lady, to content him, promised to do as he bade, and she kept her word. The morrow came, and Zeppa and Spinelloccio being together about tierce, Spinelloccio, having promised the lady to come to see her at that hour, said to Zeppa:--"I must go breakfast with a friend, whom I had lief not keep in waiting; therefore, adieu!" "Nay, but," quoth Zeppa, "'tis not yet breakfast-time." "No matter," returned Spinelloccio, "I have business on which I must speak with him; so I must be in good time." Whereupon Spinelloccio took his leave of Zeppa, and having reached Zeppa's house by a slightly circuitous route, and finding his wife there, was taken by her into the chamber, where they had not been long together when Zeppa returned. Hearing him come, the lady, feigning no small alarm, bundled Spinelloccio into the chest, as her husband had bidden her, and having locked him in, left him there. As Zeppa came upstairs:--"Wife," quoth he, "is it breakfast time?" "Ay, husband, 'tis so," replied the lady. Whereupon:--"Spinelloccio is gone to breakfast with a friend to-day," quoth Zeppa, "leaving his wife at home: get thee to the window, and call her, and bid her come and breakfast with us." The lady, whose fear for herself made her mighty obedient, did as her husband bade her; and after much pressing Spinelloccio's wife came to breakfast with them, though she was given to understand that her husband would not be of the company. So, she being come, Zeppa received her most affectionately, and taking her familiarly by the hand, bade his wife, in an undertone, get her to the kitchen; he then led Spinelloccio's wife into the chamber, and locked the door. Hearing the key turn in the lock:--"Alas!" quoth the lady, "what means this, Zeppa? Is't for this you have brought me here? Is this the love you bear Spinelloccio? Is this your loyalty to him as your friend and comrade?" By the time she had done speaking, Zeppa, still keeping fast hold of her, was beside the chest, in which her husband was locked. Wherefore:--"Madam," quoth he, "spare me thy reproaches, until thou hast heard what I have to say to thee. I have loved, I yet love, Spinelloccio as a brother; and yesterday, though he knew it not, I discovered that the trust I reposed in him has for its guerdon that he lies with my wife, as with thee. Now, for that I love him, I purpose not to be avenged upon him save in the sort in which he offended. He has had my wife, and I intend to have thee. So thou wilt not grant me what I crave of thee, be sure I shall not fail to take it; and having no mind to let this affront pass unavenged, will make such play with him that neither thou nor he shall ever be happy again." The lady hearkening, and by dint of his repeated asseverations coming at length to believe him:--"Zeppa mine," quoth she, "as this thy vengeance is to light upon me, well content am I; so only thou let not this which we are to do embroil me with thy wife, with whom, notwithstanding the evil turn she has done me, I am minded to remain at peace." "Have no fear on that score," replied Zeppa; "nay, I will give thee into the bargain a jewel so rare and fair that thou hast not the like." Which said, he took her in his arms and fell a kissing her, and having laid her on the chest, in which her husband was safe under lock and key, did there disport himself with her to his heart's content, as she with him. Spinelloccio in the chest heard all that Zeppa had said, and how he was answered by the lady, and the Trevisan dance that afterwards went on over his head; whereat his mortification was such that for a great while he scarce hoped to live through it; and, but for the fear he had of Zeppa, he would have given his wife a sound rating, close prisoner though he was. But, as he bethought him that 'twas he that had given the first affront, and that Zeppa had good cause for acting as he did, and that he had dealt with him considerately and as a good fellow should, he resolved that if it were agreeable to Zeppa, they should be faster friends than ever before. However, Zeppa, having had his pleasure with the lady, got down from the chest, and being reminded by the lady of his promise of the jewel, opened the door of the chamber and brought his wife in. Quoth she with a laugh:--"Madam, you have given me tit for tat," and never a word more. Whereupon:--"Open the chest," quoth Zeppa; and she obeying, he shewed the lady her Spinelloccio lying therein. 'Twould be hard to say whether of the twain was the more shame-stricken, Spinelloccio to be confronted with Zeppa, knowing that Zeppa wist what he had done, or the lady to meet her husband's eyes, knowing that he had heard what went on above his head. "Lo, here is the jewel I give thee," quoth Zeppa to her, pointing to Spinelloccio, who, as he came forth of the chest, blurted out:--"Zeppa, we are quits, and so 'twere best, as thou saidst a while ago to my wife, that we still be friends as we were wont, and as we had nought separate, save our wives, that henceforth we have them also in common." "Content," quoth Zeppa; and so in perfect peace and accord they all four breakfasted together. And thenceforth each of the ladies had two husbands, and each of the husbands two wives; nor was there ever the least dispute or contention between them on that score. (1) A suburb of Siena. NOVEL IX. -- Bruno and Buffalmacco prevail upon Master Simone, a physician, to betake him by night to a certain place, there to be enrolled in a company that go the course. Buffalmacco throws him into a foul ditch, and there they leave him. -- When the ladies had made merry a while over the partnership in wives established by the two Sienese, the queen, who now, unless she were minded to infringe Dioneo's privilege, alone remained to tell, began on this wise:--Fairly earned indeed, loving ladies, was the flout that Spinelloccio got from Zeppa. Wherefore my judgment jumps with that which Pampinea expressed a while ago, to wit, that he is not severely to be censured who bestows a flout on one that provokes it or deserves it; and as Spinelloccio deserved it, so 'tis my purpose to tell you of one that provoked it, for I deem that those from whom he received it, were rather to be commended than condemned. The man that got it was a physician, who, albeit he was but a blockhead, returned from Bologna to Florence in mantle and hood of vair. 'Tis matter of daily experience that our citizens come back to us from Bologna, this man a judge, that a physician, and the other a notary, flaunting it in ample flowing robes, and adorned with the scarlet and the vair and other array most goodly to see; and how far their doings correspond with this fair seeming, is also matter of daily experience. Among whom 'tis not long since Master Simone da Villa, one whose patrimony was more ample than his knowledge, came back wearing the scarlet and a broad stripe(1) on the shoulder, and a doctor, as he called himself, and took a house in the street that we now call Via del Cocomero. Now this Master Simone, being thus, as we said, come back, had this among other singular habits, that he could never see a soul pass along the street, but he must needs ask any that was by, who that man was; and he was as observant of all the doings of men, and as sedulous to store his memory with such matters, as if they were to serve him to compound the drugs that he was to give his patients. Now, of all that he saw, those that he eyed most observantly were two painters, of whom here to-day mention has twice been made, Bruno, to wit, and Buffalmacco, who were ever together, and were his neighbours. And as it struck him that they daffed the world aside and lived more lightheartedly than any others that he knew, as indeed they did, he enquired of not a few folk as to their rank. And learning on all hands that they were poor men and painters, he could not conceive it possible that they should live thus contentedly in poverty, but made his mind up that, being, as he was informed, clever fellows, they must have some secret source from which they drew immense gains; for which reason he grew all agog to get on friendly terms with them, or any rate with one of them, and did succeed in making friends with Bruno. Bruno, who had not needed to be much with him in order to discover that this physician was but a dolt, had never such a jolly time in palming off his strange stories upon him, while the physician, on his part, was marvellously delighted with Bruno; to whom, having bidden him to breakfast, and thinking that for that reason he might talk familiarly with him, he expressed the amazement with which he regarded both him and Buffalmacco, for that, being but poor men, they lived so lightheartedly, and asked him to tell him how they managed. At which fresh proof of the doctor's simplicity and fatuity Bruno was inclined to laugh; but, bethinking him that 'twere best to answer him according to his folly, he said:--"Master, there are not many persons to whom I would disclose our manner of life, but, as you are my friend, and I know you will not let it go further, I do not mind telling you. The fact is that my comrade and I live not only as lightheartedly and jovially as you see, but much more so; and yet neither our art, nor any property that we possess, yields us enough to keep us in water: not that I would have you suppose that we go a thieving: no, 'tis that we go the course, and thereby without the least harm done to a soul we get all that we need, nay, all that we desire; and thus it is that we live so lightheartedly as you see." Which explanation the doctor believing none the less readily that he knew not what it meant, was lost in wonder, and forthwith burned with a most vehement desire to know what going the course might be, and was instant with Bruno to expound it, assuring him that he would never tell a soul. "Alas! Master," said Bruno, "what is this you ask of me? 'Tis a mighty great secret you would have me impart to you: 'twould be enough to undo me, to send me packing out of the world, nay, into the very jaws of Lucifer of San Gallo,(2) if it came to be known. But such is the respect in which I hold your quiditative pumpionship of Legnaia, and the trust I repose in you, that I am not able to deny you aught you ask of me; and so I will tell it you, on condition that you swear by the cross at Montesone that you will keep your promise, and never repeat it to a soul." The Master gave the required assurance. Whereupon:--"You are then to know," quoth Bruno, "sweet my Master, that 'tis not long since there was in this city a great master in necromancy, hight Michael Scott, for that he was of Scotland, and great indeed was the honour in which he was held by not a few gentlemen, most of whom are now dead; and when the time came that he must needs depart from Florence, he at their instant entreaty left behind him two pupils, adepts both, whom he bade hold themselves ever ready to pleasure those gentlemen who had done him honour. And very handsomely they did serve the said gentlemen in certain of their love affairs and other little matters; and finding the city and the manners of the citizens agreeable to them, they made up their minds to stay here always, and grew friendly and very intimate with some of the citizens, making no distinction between gentle and simple, rich or poor, so only they were such as were conformable to their ways. And to gratify these their friends they formed a company of perhaps twenty-five men, to meet together at least twice a month in a place appointed by them; where, when they are met, each utters his desire, and forthwith that same night they accomplish it. Now Buffalmacco and I, being extraordinarily great and close friends with these two adepts, were by them enrolled in this company, and are still members of it. And I assure you that, as often as we are assembled together, the adornments of the saloon in which we eat are a marvel to see, ay, and the tables laid as for kings, and the multitudes of stately and handsome servants, as well women as men, at the beck and call of every member of the company, and the basins, and the ewers, the flasks and the cups, and all else that is there for our service in eating and drinking, of nought but gold and silver, and therewithal the abundance and variety of the viands, suited to the taste of each, that are set before us, each in due course, these too be marvels. 'Twere vain for me to seek to describe to you the sweet concord that is there of innumerable instruments of music, and the tuneful songs that salute our ears; nor might I hope to tell you how much wax is burned at these banquets, or compute the quantity of the comfits that are eaten, or the value of the wines that are drunk. Nor, my pumpkin o' wit, would I have you suppose that, when we are there, we wear our common clothes, such as you now see me wear; nay, there is none there so humble but he shews as an emperor, so sumptuous are our garments, so splendid our trappings. But among all the delights of the place none may compare with the fair ladies, who, so one do but wish, are brought thither from every part of the world. Why, you might see there My Lady of the Barbanichs, the Queen of the Basques, the Consort of the Soldan, the Empress of Osbech, the Ciancianfera of Nornieca, the Semistante of Berlinzone, and the Scalpedra of Narsia. But why seek to enumerate them all? They include all the queens in the world, ay, even to the Schinchimurra of Prester John, who has the horns sprouting out of her nether end: so there's for you. Now when these ladies have done with the wine and the comfits, they tread a measure or two, each with the man at whose behest she is come, and then all go with their gallants to their chambers. And know that each of these chambers shews as a very Paradise, so fair is it, ay, and no less fragrant than the cases of aromatics in your shop when you are pounding the cumin: and therein are beds that you would find more goodly than that of the Doge of Venice, and 'tis in them we take our rest; and how busily they ply the treadle, and how lustily they tug at the frame to make the stuff close and compact, I leave you to imagine. However, among the luckiest of all I reckon Buffalmacco and myself; for that Buffalmacco for the most part fetches him the Queen of France, and I do the like with the Queen of England, who are just the finest women in the world, and we have known how to carry it with them so that we are the very eyes of their heads. So I leave it to your own judgment to determine whether we have not good cause to live and bear ourselves with a lighter heart than others, seeing that we are beloved of two such great queens, to say nothing of the thousand or two thousand florins that we have of them whenever we are so minded. Now this in the vulgar we call going the course, because, as the corsairs prey upon all the world, so do we; albeit with this difference, that, whereas they never restore their spoil, we do so as soon as we have done with it. So now, my worthy Master, you understand what we mean by going the course; but how close it behoves you to keep such a secret, you may see for yourself; so I spare you any further exhortations." The Master, whose skill did not reach, perhaps, beyond the treatment of children for the scurf, took all that Bruno said for gospel, and burned with so vehement a desire to be admitted into this company, that he could not have longed for the summum bonum itself with more ardour. So, after telling Bruno that indeed 'twas no wonder they bore them lightheartedly, he could scarce refrain from asking him there and then to have him enrolled, albeit he deemed it more prudent to defer his suit, until by lavishing honour upon him he had gained a right to urge it with more confidence. He therefore made more and more of him, had him to breakfast and sup with him, and treated him with extraordinary respect. In short, such and so constant was their intercourse that it seemed as though the Master wist not how to live without Bruno. As it went so well with him, Bruno, to mark his sense of the honour done him by the doctor, painted in his saloon a picture symbolical of Lent, and an Agnus Dei at the entrance of his chamber, and an alembic over his front door, that those who would fain consult him might know him from other physicians, besides a battle of rats and mice in his little gallery, which the doctor thought an extremely fine piece. And from time to time, when he had not supped with the Master, he would say to him:--"Last night I was with the company, and being a little tired of the Queen of England, I fetched me the Gumedra of the great Can of Tarisi." "Gumedra," quoth the Master; "what is she? I know not the meaning of these words." "Thereat, Master," replied Bruno, "I marvel not; for I have heard tell that neither Porcograsso nor Vannacena say aught thereof." "Thou wouldst say Ippocrasso and Avicenna," returned the Master. "I'faith I know not," quoth Bruno. "I as ill know the meaning of your words as you of mine. But Gumedra in the speech of the great Can signifies the same as Empress in ours. Ah! a fine woman you would find her, and plenty of her! I warrant she would make you forget your drugs and prescriptions and plasters." And so, Bruno from time to time whetting the Master's appetite, and the Master at length thinking that by his honourable entreatment of him he had fairly made a conquest of Bruno, it befell that one evening, while he held the light for Bruno, who was at work on the battle of rats and mice, he determined to discover to him his desire; and as they were alone, thus he spoke:--"God knows, Bruno, that there lives not the man, for whom I would do as much as for thee: why, if thou wast to bid me go all the way from here to Peretola,(3) I almost think I would do so; wherefore I trust thou wilt not deem it strange if I talk to thee as an intimate friend and in confidence. Thou knowest 'tis not long since thou didst enlarge with me on thy gay company and their doings, which has engendered in me such a desire as never was to know more thereof. Nor without reason, as thou wilt discover, should I ever become a member of the said company, for I straightway give thee leave to make game of me, should I not then fetch me the fairest maid thou hast seen this many a day, whom I saw last year at Cacavincigli, and to whom I am entirely devoted; and by the body of Christ I offered her ten Bolognese groats, that she should pleasure me, and she would not. Wherefore I do most earnestly entreat thee to instruct me what I must do to fit myself for membership in the company; and never doubt that in me you will have a true and loyal comrade, and one that will do you honour. And above all thou seest how goodly I am of my person, and how well furnished with legs, and of face as fresh as a rose; and therewithal I am a doctor of medicine, and I scarce think you have any such among you; and not a little excellent lore I have, and many a good song by heart, of which I will sing thee one;" and forthwith he fell a singing. Bruno had such a mind to laugh, that he could scarce contain himself; but still he kept a grave countenance; and, when the Master had ended his song, and said:--"How likes it thee?" he answered:--"Verily, no lyre of straw could vie with you, so artargutically(4) you refine your strain." "I warrant thee," returned the Master, "thou hadst never believed it, hadst thou not heard me." "Ay, indeed, sooth sayst thou," quoth Bruno. "And I have other songs to boot," said the Master; "but enough of this at present. Thou must know that I, such as thou seest me, am a gentleman's son, albeit my father lived in the contado; and on my mother's side I come of the Vallecchio family. And as thou mayst have observed I have quite the finest library and wardrobe of all the physicians in Florence. God's faith! I have a robe that cost, all told, close upon a hundred pounds in bagattines(5) more than ten years ago. Wherefore I make most instant suit to thee that thou get me enrolled, which if thou do, God's faith! be thou never so ill, thou shalt pay me not a stiver for my tendance of thee." Whereupon Bruno, repeating to himself, as he had done many a time before, that the doctor was a very numskull:--"Master," quoth he, "shew a little more light here, and have patience until I have put the finishing touches to the tails of these rats, and then I will answer you." So he finished the tails, and then, putting on an air as if he were not a little embarrassed by the request:--"Master mine," quoth he, "I should have great things to expect from you; that I know: but yet what you ask of me, albeit to your great mind it seems but a little thing, is a weighty matter indeed for me; nor know I a soul in the world, to whom, though well able, I would grant such a request, save to you alone: and this I say not for friendship's sake alone, albeit I love you as I ought, but for that your discourse is so fraught with wisdom, that 'tis enough to make a beguine start out of her boots, much more, then, to incline me to change my purpose; and the more I have of your company, the wiser I repute you. Whereto I may add, that, if for no other cause, I should still be well disposed towards you for the love I see you bear to that fair piece of flesh of which you spoke but now. But this I must tell you: 'tis not in my power to do as you would have me in this matter; but, though I cannot myself do the needful in your behalf, if you will pledge your faith, whole and solid as may be, to keep my secret, I will shew you how to go about it for yourself, and I make no doubt that, having this fine library and the other matters you spoke of a while ago, you will compass your end." Quoth then the Master:--"Nay, but speak freely; I see thou dost yet scarce know me, and how well I can keep a secret. There were few things that Messer Guasparruolo da Saliceto did, when he was Podesta of Forlinpopoli, that he did not confide to me, so safe he knew they would be in my keeping: and wouldst thou be satisfied that I say sooth? I assure you I was the first man whom he told that he was about to marry Bergamina: so there's for thee." "Well and good," said Bruno, "if such as he confided in you, well indeed may I do the like. Know, then, that you will have to proceed on this wise:--Our company is governed by a captain and a council of two, who are changed every six months: and on the calends without fail Buffalmacco will be captain, and I councillor: 'tis so fixed: and the captain has not a little power to promote the admission and enrolment of whomsoever he will: wherefore, methinks, you would do well to make friends with Buffalmacco and honourably entreat him: he is one that, marking your great wisdom, will take a mighty liking to you forthwith; and when you have just a little dazzled him with your wisdom and these fine things of yours, you may make your request to him; and he will not know how to say no--I have already talked with him of you, and he is as well disposed to you as may be--and having so done you will leave the rest to me." Whereupon:--"Thy words are to me for an exceeding great joy," quoth the Master: "and if he be one that loves to converse with sages, he has but to exchange a word or two with me, and I will answer for it that he will be ever coming to see me; for so fraught with wisdom am I, that I could furnish a whole city therewith, and still remain a great sage." Having thus set matters in train, Bruno related the whole affair, point by point, to Buffalmacco, to whom it seemed a thousand years till he should be able to give Master Noodle that of which he was in quest. The doctor, now all agog to go the course, lost no time, and found no difficulty, in making friends with Buffalmacco, and fell to entertaining him, and Bruno likewise, at breakfast and supper in most magnificent style; while they fooled him to the top of his bent; for, being gentlemen that appreciated excellent wines and fat capons, besides other good cheer in plenty, they were inclined to be very neighbourly, and needed no second bidding, but, always letting him understand that there was none other whose company they relished so much, kept ever with him. However, in due time the Master asked of Buffalmacco that which he had before asked of Bruno. Whereat Buffalmacco feigned to be not a little agitated, and turning angrily to Bruno, made a great pother about his ears, saying:--"By the Most High God of Pasignano I vow I can scarce forbear to give thee that over the head that should make thy nose fall about thy heels, traitor that thou art, for 'tis thou alone that canst have discovered these secrets to the Master." Whereupon the Master interposed with no little vigour, averring with oaths that 'twas from another source that he had gotten his knowledge; and Buffalmacco at length allowed himself to be pacified by the sage's words. So turning to him:--"Master," quoth he, "'tis evident indeed that you have been at Bologna, and have come back hither with a mouth that blabs not, and that 'twas on no pippin, as many a dolt does, but on the good long pumpkin that you learned your A B C; and, if I mistake not, you were baptized on a Sunday;(6) and though Bruno has told me that 'twas medicine you studied there, 'tis my opinion that you there studied the art of catching men, of which, what with your wisdom and your startling revelations, you are the greatest master that ever I knew." He would have said more, but the doctor, turning to Bruno, broke in with:--"Ah! what it is to consort and converse with the wise! Who but this worthy man would thus have read my mind through and through? Less quick by far to rate me at my true worth wast thou. But what said I when thou toldst me that Buffalmacco delighted to converse with sages? Confess now; have I not kept my word?" "Verily," quoth Bruno, "you have more than kept it." Then, addressing Buffalmacco:--"Ah!" cried the Master, "what hadst thou said, hadst thou seen me at Bologna, where there was none, great or small, doctor or scholar, but was devoted to me, so well wist I how to entertain them with my words of wisdom. Nay more; let me tell thee that there was never a word I spoke but set every one a laughing, so great was the pleasure it gave them. And at my departure they all deplored it most bitterly, and would have had me remain, and by way of inducement went so far as to propose that I should be sole lecturer to all the students in medicine that were there; which offer I declined, for that I was minded to return hither, having vast estates here, that have ever belonged to my family; which, accordingly, I did." Quoth then Bruno to Buffalmacco:--"How shews it, now, man? Thou didst not believe me when I told thee what he was. By the Gospels there is never a physician in this city that has the lore of ass's urine by heart as he has: verily, thou wouldst not find his like between here and the gates of Paris. Now see if thou canst help doing as he would have thee." "'Tis even as Bruno says," observed the doctor, "but I am not understood here. You Florentines are somewhat slow of wit. Would you could see me in my proper element, among a company of doctors!" Whereupon:--"Of a truth, Master," quoth Buffalmacco, "your lore far exceeds any I should ever have imputed to you; wherefore, addressing you as 'tis meet to address a man of your wisdom, I give you disjointedly to understand that without fail I will procure your enrolment in our company." After this promise the honours lavished by the doctor upon the two men grew and multiplied; in return for which they diverted themselves by setting him a prancing upon every wildest chimera in the world; and promised, among other matters, to give him by way of mistress, the Countess of Civillari,(7) whom they averred to be the goodliest creature to be found in all the Netherlands of the human race; and the doctor asking who this Countess might be:--"Mature my gherkin," quoth Buffalmacco, "she is indeed a very great lady, and few houses are there in the world in which she has not some jurisdiction; nay, the very Friars Minors, to say nought of other folk, pay her tribute to the sound of the kettle-drum. And I may tell you that, when she goes abroad, she makes her presence very sensibly felt, albeit for the most part she keeps herself close: however, 'tis no great while since she passed by your door one night on her way to the Arno to bathe her feet and get a breath of air; but most of her time she abides at Laterina.(8) Serjeants has she not a few that go their rounds at short intervals, bearing, one and all, the rod and the bucket in token of her sovereignty, and barons in plenty in all parts, as Tamagnino della Porta,(9) Don Meta,(10) Manico di Scopa,(11) Squacchera,(12) and others, with whom I doubt not you are intimately acquainted, though you may not just now bear them in mind. Such, then, is the great lady, in whose soft arms we, if we delude not ourselves, will certainly place you, in which case you may well dispense with her of Cacavincigli." The doctor, who had been born and bred at Bologna, and understood not their words, found the lady quite to his mind; and shortly afterwards the painters brought him tidings of his election into the company. Then came the day of the nocturnal gathering, and the doctor had the two men to breakfast; and when they had breakfasted, he asked them after what manner he was to join the company. Whereupon:--"Lo, now, Master," quoth Buffalmacco, "you have need of a stout heart; otherwise you may meet with some let, to our most grievous hurt; and for what cause you have need of this stout heart, you shall hear. You must contrive to be to-night about the hour of first sleep on one of the raised tombs that have been lately placed outside of Santa Maria Novella; and mind that you wear one of your best gowns, that your first appearance may impress the company with a proper sense of your dignity, and also because, as we are informed, for we were not present at the time, the Countess, by reason that you are a gentleman, is minded to make you a Knight of the Bath at her own charges. So you will wait there, until one, whom we shall send, come for you: who, that you may know exactly what you have to expect, will be a beast black and horned, of no great size; and he will go snorting and bounding amain about the piazza in front of you, with intent to terrify you; but, when he perceives that you are not afraid, he will draw nigh you quietly, and when he is close by you, then get you down from the tomb, fearing nothing; and, minding you neither of God nor of the saints, mount him, and when you are well set on his back, then fold your arms upon your breast, as in submission, and touch him no more. Then, going gently, he will bear you to us; but once mind you of God, or the saints, or give way to fear, and I warn you, he might give you a fall, or dash you against something that you would find scarce pleasant; wherefore, if your heart misgives you, you were best not to come, for you would assuredly do yourself a mischief, and us no good at all." Quoth then the doctor:--"You know me not as yet; 'tis perchance because I wear the gloves and the long robe that you misdoubt me. Ah! did you but know what feats I have done in times past at Bologna, when I used to go after the women with my comrades, you would be lost in amazement. God's faith! on one of those nights there was one of them, a poor sickly creature she was too, and stood not a cubit in height, who would not come with us; so first I treated her to many a good cuff, and then I took her up by main force, and carried her well-nigh as far as a cross-bow will send a bolt, and so caused her, willy-nilly, come with us. And on another occasion I mind me that, having none other with me but my servant, a little after the hour of Ave Maria, I passed beside the cemetery of the Friars Minors, and, though that very day a woman had been there interred, I had no fear at all. So on this score you may make your minds easy; for indeed I am a man of exceeding great courage and prowess. And to appear before you with due dignity, I will don my scarlet gown, in which I took my doctor's degree, and it remains to be seen if the company will not give me a hearty welcome, and make me captain out of hand. Let me once be there, and you will see how things will go; else how is it that this countess, that has not yet seen me, is already so enamoured of me that she is minded to make me a Knight of the Bath? And whether I shall find knighthood agreeable, or know how to support the dignity well or ill, leave that to me." Whereupon:--"Well said, excellent well said," quoth Buffalmacco: "but look to it you disappoint us not, either by not coming or by not being found, when we send for you; and this I say, because 'tis cold weather, and you medical gentlemen take great care of your health." "God forbid," replied the doctor, "I am none of your chilly folk; I fear not the cold: 'tis seldom indeed, when I leave my bed a nights, to answer the call of nature, as one must at times, that I do more than throw a pelisse over my doublet; so rest assured that I shall be there." So they parted; and towards nightfall the Master found a pretext for leaving his wife, and privily got out his fine gown, which in due time he donned, and so hied him to the tombs, and having perched himself on one of them, huddled himself together, for 'twas mighty cold, to await the coming of the beast. Meanwhile Buffalmacco, who was a tall man and strong, provided himself with one of those dominos that were wont to be worn in certain revels which are now gone out of fashion; and enveloped in a black pelisse turned inside out, shewed like a bear, save that the domino had the face of a devil, and was furnished with horns: in which guise, Bruno following close behind to see the sport, he hied him to the piazza of Santa Maria Novella. And no sooner wist he that the Master was on the tomb, than he fell a careering in a most wild and furious manner to and fro the piazza, and snorting and bellowing and gibbering like one demented, insomuch that, as soon as the Master was ware of him, each several hair on his head stood on end, and he fell a trembling in every limb, being in sooth more timid than a woman, and wished himself safe at home: but as there he was, he strove might and main to keep his spirits up, so overmastering was his desire to see the marvels of which Bruno and Buffalmacco had told him. However, after a while Buffalmacco allowed his fury to abate, and came quietly up to the tomb on which the Master was, and stood still. The Master, still all of a tremble with fear, could not at first make up his mind, whether to get on the beast's back, or no; but at length, doubting it might be the worse for him if he did not mount the beast, he overcame the one dread by the aid of the other, got down from the tomb, saying under his breath:--"God help me!" and seated himself very comfortably on the beast's back; and then, still quaking in every limb, he folded his arms as he had been bidden. Buffalmacco now started, going on all-fours, at a very slow pace, in the direction of Santa Maria della Scala, and so brought the Master within a short distance of the Convent of the Ladies of Ripoli. Now, in that quarter there were divers trenches, into which the husbandmen of those parts were wont to discharge the Countess of Civillari, that she might afterwards serve them to manure their land. Of one of which trenches, as he came by, Buffalmacco skirted the edge, and seizing his opportunity, raised a hand, and caught the doctor by one of his feet, and threw him off his back and headforemost right into the trench, and then, making a terrific noise and frantic gestures as before, went bounding off by Santa Maria della Scala towards the field of Ognissanti, where he found Bruno, who had betaken him thither that he might laugh at his ease; and there the two men in high glee took their stand to observe from a distance how the bemired doctor would behave. Finding himself in so loathsome a place, the Master struggled might and main to raise himself and get out; and though again and again he slipped back, and swallowed some drams of the ordure, yet, bemired from head to foot, woebegone and crestfallen, he did at last get out, leaving his hood behind him. Then, removing as much of the filth as he might with his hands, knowing not what else to do, he got him home, where, by dint of much knocking, he at last gained admittance; and scarce was the door closed behind the malodorous Master, when Bruno and Buffalmacco were at it, all agog to hear after what manner he would be received by his wife. They were rewarded by hearing her give him the soundest rating that ever bad husband got. "Ah!" quoth she, "fine doings, these! Thou hast been with some other woman, and wast minded to make a brave shew in thy scarlet gown. So I was not enough for thee! not enough for thee forsooth, I that might content a crowd! Would they had choked thee with the filth in which they have soused thee; 'twas thy fit resting-place. Now, to think that a physician of repute, and a married man, should go by night after strange women!" Thus, and with much more to the like effect, while the doctor was busy washing himself, she ceased not to torment him until midnight. On the morrow, Bruno and Buffalmacco, having painted their bodies all over with livid patches to give them the appearance of having been thrashed, came to the doctor's house, and finding that he was already risen, went in, being saluted on all hands by a foul smell, for time had not yet served thoroughly to cleanse the house. The doctor, being informed that they were come to see him, advanced to meet them, and bade them good morning. Whereto Bruno and Buffalmacco, having prepared their answer, replied:--"No good morning shall you have from us: rather we pray God to give you bad years enough to make an end of you, seeing that there lives no more arrant and faithless traitor. 'Tis no fault of yours, if we, that did our best to honour and pleasure you, have not come by a dog's death; your faithlessness has cost us to-night as many sound blows as would more than suffice to keep an ass a trotting all the way from here to Rome; besides which, we have been in peril of expulsion from the company in which we arranged for your enrolment. If you doubt our words, look but at our bodies, what a state they are in." And so, baring their breasts they gave him a glimpse of the patches they had painted there, and forthwith covered them up again. The doctor would have made them his excuses, and recounted his misfortunes, and how he had been thrown into the trench. But Buffalmacco broke in with:--"Would he had thrown you from the bridge into the Arno! Why must you needs mind you of God and the saints? Did we not forewarn you?" "God's faith," returned the doctor, "that did I not." "How?" quoth Buffalmacco, "you did not? You do so above a little; for he that we sent for you told us that you trembled like an aspen, and knew not where you were. You have played us a sorry trick; but never another shall do so; and as for you, we will give you such requital thereof as you deserve." The doctor now began to crave their pardon, and to implore them for God's sake not to expose him to shame, and used all the eloquence at his command to make his peace with them. And if he had honourably entreated them before, he thenceforth, for fear they should publish his disgrace, did so much more abundantly, and courted them both by entertaining them at his table and in other ways. And so you have heard how wisdom is imparted to those that get it not at Bologna. (1) The distinguishing mark of a doctor in those days. Fanfani, Vocab. della Lingua Italiana, 1891, "Batolo." (2) Perhaps an allusion to some frightful picture. (3) About four miles from Florence. (4) In the Italian "artagoticamente," a word of Boccaccio's own minting. (5) A Venetian coin of extremely low value, being reckoned as 1/4 of the Florentine quattrino. (6) I.e. without salt, that Florentine symbol of wit, not being so readily procurable on a holiday as on working-days. (7) A public sink at Florence. (8) In the contado of Arezzo: the equivoque is tolerably obvious. (9) Slang for an ill-kept jakes. (10) Also slang: signifying a pyramidal pile of ordure. (11) Broom-handle. (12) The meaning of this term may perhaps be divined from the sound. NOVEL X. -- A Sicilian woman cunningly conveys from a merchant that which he has brought to Palermo; he, making a shew of being come back thither with far greater store of goods than before, borrows money of her, and leaves her in lieu thereof water and tow. -- How much in divers passages the queen's story moved the ladies to laughter, it boots not to ask: none was there in whose eyes the tears stood not full a dozen times for excess of merriment. However, it being ended, and Dioneo witting that 'twas now his turn, thus spake he:--Gracious ladies, 'tis patent to all that wiles are diverting in the degree of the wiliness of him that is by them beguiled. Wherefore, albeit stories most goodly have been told by you all, I purpose to relate one which should afford you more pleasure than any that has been told, seeing that she that was beguiled was far more cunning in beguiling others than any of the beguiled of whom you have spoken. There was, and perhaps still is, a custom in all maritime countries that have ports, that all merchants arriving there with merchandise, should, on discharging, bring all their goods into a warehouse, called in many places "dogana," and maintained by the state, or the lord of the land; where those that are assigned to that office allot to each merchant, on receipt of an invoice of all his goods and the value thereof, a room in which he stores his goods under lock and key; whereupon the said officers of the dogana enter all the merchant's goods to his credit in the book of the dogana, and afterwards make him pay duty thereon, or on such part as he withdraws from the warehouse. By which book of the dogana the brokers not seldom find out the sorts and quantities of the merchandise that is there, and also who are the owners thereof, with whom, as occasion serves, they afterwards treat of exchanges, barters, sales and other modes of disposing of the goods. Which custom obtained, as in many other places, so also at Palermo in Sicily, where in like manner there were and are not a few women, fair as fair can be, but foes to virtue, who by whoso knows them not would be reputed great and most virtuous ladies. And being given not merely to fleece but utterly to flay men, they no sooner espy a foreign merchant in the city, than they find out from the book of the dogana how much he has there and what he is good for; and then by caressing and amorous looks and gestures, and words of honeyed sweetness, they strive to entice and allure the merchant to their love, and not seldom have they succeeded, and wrested from him great part or the whole of his merchandise; and of some they have gotten goods and ship and flesh and bones, so delightsomely have they known how to ply the shears. Now 'tis not long since one of our young Florentines, Niccolo da Cignano by name, albeit he was called Salabaetto, arrived there, being sent by his masters with all the woollen stuffs that he had not been able to dispose of at Salerno fair, which might perhaps be worth five hundred florins of gold; and having given the invoice to the officers of the dogana and stored the goods, Salabaetto was in no hurry to get them out of bond, but took a stroll or two about the city for his diversion. And as he was fresh-complexioned and fair and not a little debonair, it so befell that one of these ladies that plied the shears, and called herself Jancofiore, began to ogle him. Whereof he taking note, and deeming that she was a great lady, supposed that she was taken by his good looks, and cast about how he might manage this amour with all due discretion; wherefore, saying nought to a soul, he began to pass to and fro before her house. Which she observing, occupied herself for a few days in inflaming his passion, and then affecting to be dying of love for him, sent privily to him a woman that she had in her service, and who was an adept in the arts of the procuress. She, after not a little palaver, told him, while the tears all but stood in her eyes, that for his handsome person and winsome air her mistress was so enamoured of him, that she found no peace by day or by night; and therefore, if 'twere agreeable to him, there was nought she desired so much as to meet him privily at a bagnio: whereupon she drew a ring from her purse, and gave it him by way of token from her mistress. Overjoyed as ne'er another to hear such good news, Salabaetto took the ring, and, after drawing it across his eyes and kissing it, put it on his finger, and told the good woman that, if Madonna Jancofiore loved him, she was well requited, for that he loved her more dearly than himself, and that he was ready to meet her wherever and whenever she might see fit. With which answer the procuress hied her back to her mistress, and shortly afterwards Salabaetto was informed that he was to meet the lady at a certain bagnio at vespers of the ensuing day. So, saying nought to a soul of the matter, he hied him punctually at the appointed hour to the bagnio, and found that it had been taken by the lady; nor had he long to wait before two female slaves made their appearance, bearing on their heads, the one a great and goodly mattress of wadding, and the other a huge and well-filled basket; and having laid the mattress on a bedstead in one of the rooms of the bagnio, they covered it with a pair of sheets of the finest fabric, bordered with silk, and a quilt of the whitest Cyprus buckram, with two daintily-embroidered pillows. The slaves then undressed and got into the bath, which they thoroughly washed and scrubbed: whither soon afterwards the lady, attended by other two female slaves, came, and made haste to greet Salabaetto with the heartiest of cheer; and when, after heaving many a mighty sigh, she had embraced and kissed him:--"I know not," quoth she, "who but thou could have brought me to this, such a fire hast thou kindled in my soul, little dog of a Tuscan!" Whereupon she was pleased that they should undress, and get into the bath, and two of the slaves with them; which, accordingly, they did; and she herself, suffering none other to lay a hand upon him, did with wondrous care wash Salabaetto from head to foot with soap perfumed with musk and cloves; after which she let the slaves wash and shampoo herself. The slaves then brought two spotless sheets of finest texture, which emitted such a scent of roses, that 'twas as if there was nought there but roses, in one of which having wrapped Salabaetto, and in the other the lady, they bore them both to bed, where, the sheets in which they were enfolded being withdrawn by the slaves as soon as they had done sweating, they remained stark naked in the others. The slaves then took from the basket cruets of silver most goodly, and full, this of rose-water, that of water of orange-blossom, a third of water of jasmine-blossom, and a fourth of nanfa(1) water, wherewith they sprinkled them: after which, boxes of comfits and the finest wines being brought forth, they regaled them a while. To Salabaetto 'twas as if he were in Paradise; a thousand times he scanned the lady, who was indeed most beautiful; and he counted each hour as a hundred years until the slaves should get them gone, and he find himself in the lady's arms. At length, by the lady's command, the slaves departed, leaving a lighted torch in the room, and then the lady and Salabaetto embraced, and to Salabaetto's prodigious delight, for it seemed to him that she was all but dissolved for love of him, tarried there a good while. However, the time came when the lady must needs rise: so she called the slaves, with whose help they dressed, regaled them again for a while with wine and comfits, and washed their faces and hands with the odoriferous waters. Then as they were going, quoth the lady to Salabaetto:--"If it be agreeable to thee, I should deem it a very great favour if thou wouldst come to-night to sup and sleep with me." Salabaetto, who, captivated by her beauty and her studied graciousness, never doubted but he was dear to her as her very heart, made answer:--"Madam, there is nought you can desire but is in the last degree agreeable to me; wherefore to-night and ever 'tis my purpose to do whatsoever you may be pleased to command." So home the lady hied her, and having caused a brave shew to be made in her chamber with her dresses and other paraphernalia, and a grand supper to be prepared, awaited Salabaetto; who, being come there as soon as 'twas dark, had of her a gladsome welcome, and was regaled with an excellent and well-served supper. After which, they repaired to the chamber, where he was saluted by a wondrous sweet odour of aloe-wood, and observed that the bed was profusely furnished with birds,(2) after the fashion of Cyprus, and that not a few fine dresses were hanging upon the pegs. Which circumstances did, one and all, beget in him the belief that this must be a great and wealthy lady; and, though he had heard a hint or two to the contrary touching her life, he would by no means credit them; nor, supposing that she had perchance taken another with guile, would he believe that the same thing might befall him. So to his exceeding great solace, he lay with her that night, and ever grew more afire for her. On the morrow, as she was investing him with a fair and dainty girdle of silver, with a goodly purse attached:--"Sweet my Salabaetto," quoth she, "prithee forget me not; even as my person, so is all that I have at thy pleasure, and all that I can at thy command." Salabaetto then embraced and kissed her, and so bade her adieu, and betook him to the place where the merchants were wont to congregate. And so it befell that he, continuing to consort with her from time to time, and being never a denier the poorer thereby, disposed of his merchandise for ready money and at no small profit; whereof not by him but by another the lady was forthwith advised. And Salabaetto being come to see her one evening, she greeted him gaily and gamesomely, and fell a kissing and hugging him, and made as if she were so afire for love of him that she was like to die thereof in his arms; and offered to give him two most goodly silver cups that she had, which Salabaetto would not accept, having already had from her (taking one time with another) fully thirty florins of gold, while he had not been able to induce her to touch so much as a groat of his money. But when by this shew of passion and generosity she had thoroughly kindled his flame, in came, as she had arranged, one of her slaves, and spoke to her; whereupon out of the room she went, and after a while came back in tears, and threw herself prone on the bed, and set up the most dolorous lamentation that ever woman made. Whereat Salabaetto wondering, took her in his arms, and mingled his tears with hers, and said:--"Alas! heart of my body! what ails thee thus of a sudden? Wherefore art thou so distressed? Ah! tell me the reason, my soul." The lady allowed him to run on in this strain for a good while, and then:--"Alas! sweet my lord," quoth she, "I know not either what to do or what to say. I have but now received a letter from Messina, in which my brother bids me sell, if need be, all that I have here, and send him without fail within eight days a thousand florins of gold: otherwise he will forfeit his head. I know not how to come by them so soon: had I but fifteen days, I would make a shift to raise them in a quarter where I might raise a much larger sum, or I would sell one of our estates; but, as this may not be, would I had been dead or e'er this bad news had reached me!" Which said, affecting to be utterly broken-hearted, she ceased not to weep. Salabaetto, the ardour of whose passion had in great measure deprived him of the sagacity which the circumstances demanded, supposed that the tears were genuine enough, and the words even more so. Wherefore:--"Madam," quoth he, "I could not furnish you with a thousand, but if five hundred florins of gold would suffice, they are at your service, if you think you could repay them within fifteen days; and you may deem yourself in luck's way, for 'twas only yesterday that I sold my woollens, which had I not done, I could not have lent you a groat." "Alas" returned the lady, "then thou hast been in straits for money? Oh! why didst thou not apply to me? Though I have not a thousand at my command, I could have given thee quite a hundred, nay indeed two hundred florins. By what thou hast said thou hast made me hesitate to accept the service that thou proposest to render me." Which words fairly delivered Salabaetto into the lady's hands, insomuch that:--"Madam," quoth he, "I would not have you decline my help for such a scruple; for had my need been as great as yours, I should certainly have applied to you." Quoth then the lady:--"Ah! Salabaetto mine, well I wot that the love thou bearest me is a true and perfect love, seeing that, without waiting to be asked, thou dost so handsomely come to my aid with so large a sum of money. And albeit I was thine without this token of thy love, yet, assuredly, it has made me thine in an even greater degree; nor shall I ever forget that 'tis to thee I owe my brother's life. But God knows I take thy money from thee reluctantly, seeing that thou art a merchant, and 'tis by means of money that merchants conduct all their affairs; but, as necessity constrains me, and I have good hope of speedily repaying thee, I will even take it, and by way of security, if I should find no readier method, I will pawn all that I have here." Which said, she burst into tears, and fell upon Salabaetto, pressing her cheek upon his. Salabaetto tried to comfort her; and having spent the night with her, on the morrow, being minded to shew himself her most devoted servant, brought her, without awaiting any reminder, five hundred fine florins of gold: which she, laughing at heart while the tears streamed from her eyes, took, Salabaetto trusting her mere promise of repayment. Now that the lady had gotten the money, the complexion of affairs began to alter; and whereas Salabaetto had been wont to have free access to her, whenever he was so minded, now for one reason or another he was denied admittance six times out of seven; nor did she greet him with the same smile, or shower on him the same caresses, or do him the same cheer as of yore. So a month, two months, passed beyond the time when he was to have been repaid his money; and when he demanded it, he was put off with words. Whereby Salabaetto, being now ware of the cheat which his slender wit had suffered the evil-disposed woman to put upon him, and also that, having neither writing nor witness against her, he was entirely at her mercy in regard of his claim, and being, moreover, ashamed to lodge any complaint with any one, as well because he had been forewarned of her character, as because he dreaded the ridicule to which his folly justly exposed him, was chagrined beyond measure, and inly bewailed his simplicity. And his masters having written to him, bidding him change the money and remit it to them, he, being apprehensive that, making default as he must, he should, if he remained there, be detected, resolved to depart; and having taken ship, he repaired, not, as he should have done, to Pisa, but to Naples; where at that time resided our gossip, Pietro dello Canigiano, treasurer of the Empress of Constantinople, a man of great sagacity and acuteness, and a very great friend of Salabaetto and his kinsfolk; to whom trusting in his great discretion, Salabaetto after a while discovered his distress, telling him what he had done, and the sorry plight in which by consequence he stood, and craving his aid and counsel, that he might the more readily find means of livelihood there, for that he was minded never to go back to Florence. Impatient to hear of such folly:--"'Twas ill done of thee," quoth Canigiano, "thou hast misbehaved thyself, wronged thy masters, and squandered an exorbitant sum in lewdness; however, 'tis done, and we must consider of the remedy." And indeed, like the shrewd man that he was, he had already bethought him what was best to be done; and forthwith he imparted it to Salabaetto. Which expedient Salabaetto approving, resolved to make the adventure; and having still a little money, and being furnished with a loan by Canigiano, he provided himself with not a few bales well and closely corded, and bought some twenty oil-casks, which he filled, and having put all on shipboard, returned to Palermo. There he gave the invoice of the bales, as also of the oil-casks, to the officers of the dogana, and having them all entered to his credit, laid them up in the store-rooms, saying that he purposed to leave them there until the arrival of other merchandise that he expected. Which Jancofiore learning, and being informed that the merchandise, that he had brought with him, was worth fully two thousand florins of gold, or even more, besides that which he expected, which was valued at more than three thousand florins of gold, bethought her that she had not aimed high enough, and that 'twere well to refund him the five hundred, if so she might make the greater part of the five thousand florins her own. Wherefore she sent for him, and Salabaetto, having learned his lesson of cunning, waited on her. Feigning to know nought of the cargo he had brought with him, she received him with marvellous cheer, and began:--"Lo, now, if thou wast angry with me because I did not repay thee thy money in due time:" but Salabaetto interrupted her, saying with a laugh:--"Madam 'tis true I was a little vexed, seeing that I would have plucked out my heart to pleasure you; but listen, and you shall learn the quality of my displeasure. Such and so great is the love I bear you, that I have sold the best part of all that I possess, whereby I have already in this port merchandise to the value of more than two thousand florins, and expect from the Levant other goods to the value of above three thousand florins, and mean to set up a warehouse in this city, and live here, to be ever near you, for that I deem myself more blessed in your love than any other lover that lives." Whereupon:--"Harkye, Salabaetto," quoth the lady, "whatever advantages thee is mighty grateful to me, seeing that I love thee more than my very life, and right glad am I that thou art come back with intent to stay, for I hope to have many a good time with thee; but something I must say to thee by way of excuse, for that, whilst thou wast thinking of taking thy departure, there were times when thou wast disappointed of seeing me, and others when thou hadst not as gladsome a welcome as thou wast wont to have, and therewithal I kept not the time promised for the repayment of thy money. Thou must know that I was then in exceeding great trouble and tribulation, and whoso is thus bested, love he another never so much, cannot greet him with as gladsome a mien, or be as attentive to him, as he had lief; and thou must further know that 'tis by no means an easy matter for a lady to come by a thousand florins of gold: why, 'tis every day a fresh lie, and never a promise kept; and so we in our turn must needs lie to others; and 'twas for this cause, and not for any fault of mine, that I did not repay thee thy money; however, I had it but a little while after thy departure, and had I known whither to send it, be sure I would have remitted it to thee; but, as that I wist not, I have kept it safe for thee." She then produced a purse, in which were the very same coins that he had brought her, and placed it in his hand, saying:--"Count and see if there are five hundred there." 'Twas the happiest moment Salabaetto had yet known, as, having told them out, and found the sum exact, he made answer:--"Madam, I know that you say sooth, and what you have done abundantly proves it; wherefore, and for the love I bear you, I warrant you there is no sum you might ask of me on any occasion of need, with which, if 'twere in my power, I would not accommodate you; whereof, when I am settled here, you will be able to assure yourself." Having thus in words reinstated himself as her lover, he proceeded to treat her as his mistress, whereto she responded, doing all that was in her power to pleasure and honour him, and feigning to be in the last degree enamoured of him. But Salabaetto, being minded to requite her guile with his own, went to her one evening, being bidden to sup and sleep with her, with an aspect so melancholy and dolorous, that he shewed as he had lief give up the ghost. Jancofiore, as she embraced and kissed him, demanded of him the occasion of his melancholy. Whereto he, having let her be instant with him a good while, made answer:--"I am undone, for that the ship, having aboard her the goods that I expected, has been taken by the corsairs of Monaco, and held to ransom in ten thousand florins of gold, of which it falls to me to pay one thousand, and I have not a denier, for the five hundred thou repaidst me I sent forthwith to Naples to buy stuffs for this market, and were I to sell the merchandise I have here, as 'tis not now the right time to sell, I should scarce get half the value; nor am I as yet so well known here as to come by any to help me at this juncture, and so what to do or what to say I know not; but this I know that, if I send not the money without delay, my merchandise will be taken to Monaco, and I shall never touch aught of it again." Whereat the lady was mightily annoyed, being apprehensive of losing all, and bethought her how she might prevent the goods going to Monaco: wherefore:--"God knows," quoth she, "that for the love I bear thee I am not a little sorry for thee: but what boots it idly to distress oneself? Had I the money, God knows I would lend it thee forthwith, but I have it not. One, indeed, there is that accommodated me a day or two ago with five hundred florins that I stood in need of, but he requires a heavy usance, not less than thirty on the hundred, and if thou shouldst have recourse to him, good security must be forthcoming. Now for my part I am ready, so I may serve thee, to pledge all these dresses, and my person to boot, for as much as he will tend thee thereon; but how wilt thou secure the balance?" Salabaetto divined the motive that prompted her thus to accommodate him, and that she was to lend the money herself; which suiting his purpose well, he first of all thanked her, and then said that, being constrained by necessity, he would not stand out against exorbitant terms, adding that, as to the balance, he would secure it upon the merchandise that he had at the dogana by causing it to be entered in the name of the lender; but that he must keep the key of the storerooms, as well that he might be able to shew the goods, if requested, as to make sure that none of them should be tampered with or changed or exchanged. The lady said that this was reasonable, and that 'twas excellent security. So, betimes on the morrow, the lady sent for a broker, in whom she reposed much trust, and having talked the matter over with him, gave him a thousand florins of gold, which the broker took to Salabaetto, and thereupon had all that Salabaetto had at the dogana entered in his name; they then had the script and counterscript made out, and, the arrangement thus concluded, went about their respective affairs. Salabaetto lost no time in getting aboard a bark with his five hundred florins of gold, and being come to Naples, sent thence a remittance which fully discharged his obligation to his masters that had entrusted him with the stuffs: he also paid all that he owed to Pietro dello Canigiano and all his other creditors, and made not a little merry with Canigiano over the trick he had played the Sicilian lady. He then departed from Naples, and being minded to have done with mercantile affairs, betook him to Ferrara. Jancofiore, surprised at first by Salabaetto's disappearance from Palermo, waxed after a while suspicious; and, when she had waited fully two months, seeing that he did not return, she caused the broker to break open the store-rooms. And trying first of all the casks, she found them full of sea-water, save that in each there was perhaps a hog's-head of oil floating on the surface. Then undoing the bales, she found them all, save two that contained stuffs, full of tow, and in short their whole contents put together were not worth more than two hundred florins. Wherefore Jancofiore, knowing herself to have been outdone, regretted long and bitterly the five hundred florins of gold that she had refunded, and still more the thousand that she had lent, repeating many a time to herself:--Who with a Tuscan has to do, Had need of eyesight quick and true. Thus, left with the loss and the laugh against her, she discovered that there were others as knowing as she. (1) Neither the Vocab. degli Accad. della Crusca nor the Ricchezze attempts to define the precise nature of this scent, which Fanfani identifies with that of the orange-blossom. (2) I.e. with a sort of musical boxes in the shape of birds. No sooner was Dioneo's story ended, than Lauretta, witting that therewith the end of her sovereignty was come, bestowed her meed of praise on Pietro Canigiano for his good counsel, and also on Salabaetto for the equal sagacity which he displayed in carrying it out, and then, taking off the laurel wreath, set it on the head of Emilia, saying graciously:--"I know not, Madam, how debonair a queen you may prove, but at least we shall have in you a fair one. Be it your care, then, that you exercise your authority in a manner answerable to your charms." Which said, she resumed her seat. Not so much to receive the crown, as to be thus commended to her face and before the company for that which ladies are wont to covet the most, Emilia was a little shamefast; a tint like that of the newly-blown rose overspread her face, and a while she stood silent with downcast eyes: then, as the blush faded away, she raised them; and having given her seneschal her commands touching all matters pertaining to the company, thus she spake:--"Sweet my ladies, 'tis matter of common experience that, when the oxen have swunken a part of the day under the coercive yoke, they are relieved thereof and loosed, and suffered to go seek their pasture at their own sweet will in the woods; nor can we fail to observe that gardens luxuriant with diversity of leafage are not less, but far more fair to see, than woods wherein is nought but oaks. Wherefore I deem that, as for so many days our discourse has been confined within the bounds of certain laws, 'twill be not only meet but profitable for us, being in need of relaxation, to roam a while, and so recruit our strength to undergo the yoke once more. And therefore I am minded that to-morrow the sweet tenor of your discourse be not confined to any particular theme, but that you be at liberty to discourse on such wise as to each may seem best; for well assured am I that thus to speak of divers matters will be no less pleasurable than to limit ourselves to one topic; and by reason of this enlargement my successor in the sovereignty will find you more vigorous, and be therefore all the more forward to reimpose upon you the wonted restraint of our laws." Having so said, she dismissed all the company until supper-time. All approved the wisdom of what the queen had said; and being risen betook them to their several diversions, the ladies to weave garlands and otherwise disport them, the young men to play and sing; and so they whiled away the hours until supper-time; which being come, they gathered about the fair fountain, and took their meal with gay and festal cheer. Supper ended, they addressed them to their wonted pastime of song and dance. At the close of which the queen, notwithstanding the songs which divers of the company had already gladly accorded them, called for another from Pamfilo, who without the least demur thus sang:-- So great, O Love, the bliss Through thee I prove, so jocund my estate, That in thy flame to burn I bless my fate! Such plenitude of joy my heart doth know Of that high joy and rare, Wherewith thou hast me blest, As, bounds disdaining, still doth overflow, And by my radiant air My blitheness manifest; For by thee thus possessed With love, where meeter 'twere to venerate, I still consume within thy flame elate. Well wot I, Love, no song may e'er reveal, Nor any sign declare What in my heart is pent Nay, might they so, that were I best conceal, Whereof were others ware, 'Twould serve but to torment Me, whose is such content, That weak were words and all inadequate A tittle of my bliss to adumbrate. Who would have dreamed that e'er in mine embrace Her I should clip and fold Whom there I still do feel, Or as 'gainst her face e'er to lay my face Attain such grace untold, And unimagined weal? Wherefore my bliss I seal Of mine own heart within the circuit strait, And still in thy sweet flame luxuriate. So ended Pamfilo his song: whereto all the company responded in full chorus; nor was there any but gave to its words an inordinate degree of attention, endeavouring by conjecture to penetrate that which he intimated that 'twas meet he should keep secret. Divers were the interpretations hazarded, but all were wide of the mark. At length, however, the queen, seeing that ladies and men alike were fain of rest, bade all betake them to bed. -- Endeth here the eighth day of the Decameron, beginneth the ninth, in which, under the rule of Emilia, discourse is had, at the discretion of each, of such matters as most commend themselves to each in turn. -- The luminary, before whose splendour the night takes wing, had already changed the eighth heaven(1) from azure to the lighter blue,(2) and in the meads the flowerets were beginning to lift their heads, when Emilia, being risen, roused her fair gossips, and, likewise, the young men. And so the queen leading the way at an easy pace, and the rest of the company following, they hied them to a copse at no great distance from the palace. Where, being entered, they saw the goats and stags and other wild creatures, as if witting that in this time of pestilence they had nought to fear from the hunter, stand awaiting them with no more sign of fear than if they had been tamed: and so, making now towards this, now towards the other of them as if to touch them, they diverted themselves for a while by making them skip and run. But, as soon as the sun was in the ascendant, by common consent they turned back, and whoso met them, garlanded as they were with oak-leaves, and carrying store of fragrant herbs or flowers in their hands might well have said:--"Either shall death not vanquish these, or they will meet it with a light heart." So, slowly wended they their way, now singing, now bandying quips and merry jests, to the palace, where they found all things in order meet, and their servants in blithe and merry cheer. A while they rested, nor went they to table until six ditties, each gayer than that which went before, had been sung by the young men and the ladies; which done, they washed their hands, and all by the queen's command were ranged by the seneschal at the table; and, the viands being served, they cheerily took their meal: wherefrom being risen, they trod some measures to the accompaniment of music; and then, by the queen's command, whoso would betook him to rest. However, the accustomed hour being come, they all gathered at the wonted spot for their discoursing, and the queen, bending her regard upon Filomena, bade her make a beginning of the day's story-telling, which she with a smile did on this wise:-- (1) I.e. in the Ptolemaic system, the region of the fixed stars. (2) Cilestro: a word for which we have no exact equivalent, the dominant note of the Italian sky, when the sun is well up, being its intense luminosity. NOVEL I. -- Madonna Francesca, having two lovers, the one Rinuccio, the other Alessandro, by name, and loving neither of them, induces the one to simulate a corpse in a tomb, and the other to enter the tomb to fetch him out: whereby, neither satisfying her demands, she artfully rids herself of both. -- Madam, since so it pleases you, well pleased am I that in this vast, this boundless field of discourse, which you, our Lady Bountiful, have furnished us withal, 'tis mine to run the first course; wherein if I do well, I doubt not that those, who shall follow me, will do not only well but better. Such, sweet my ladies, has been the tenor of our discourse, that times not a few the might of Love, how great and singular it is, has been set forth, but yet I doubt the topic is not exhausted, nor would it be so, though we should continue to speak of nought else for the space of a full year. And as Love not only leads lovers to debate with themselves whether they were not best to die, but also draws them into the houses of the dead in quest of the dead, I am minded in this regard to tell you a story, wherein you will not only discern the power of Love, but will also learn how the ready wit of a worthy lady enabled her to disembarrass herself of two lovers, whose love was displeasing to her. Know, then, that there dwelt aforetime in the city of Pistoia a most beauteous widow lady, of whom it so befell that two of our citizens, the one Rinuccio Palermini, the other Alessandro Chiarmontesi, by name, tarrying at Pistoia, for that they were banished from Florence, became, neither witting how it stood with the other, in the last degree enamoured. Wherefore each used all his arts to win the love of Madonna Francesca de' Lazzari--such was the lady's name--and she, being thus continually plied with ambassages and entreaties on the part of both, and having indiscreetly lent ear to them from time to time, found it no easy matter discreetly to extricate herself, when she was minded to be rid of their pestering, until it occurred to her to adopt the following expedient, to wit, to require of each a service, such as, though not impracticable, she deemed none would actually perform, to the end that, they making default, she might have a decent and colourable pretext for refusing any longer to receive their ambassages. Which expedient was on this wise. One day there died in Pistoia, and was buried in a tomb outside the church of the Friars Minors, a man, who, though his forbears had been gentlefolk, was reputed the very worst man, not in Pistoia only, but in all the world, and therewithal he was of form and feature so preternaturally hideous that whoso knew him not could scarce see him for the first time without a shudder. Now, the lady pondering her design on the day of this man's death, it occurred to her that he might in a measure subserve its accomplishment: wherefore she said to her maid:--"Thou knowest to what worry and annoyance I am daily put by the ambassages of these two Florentines, Rinuccio, and Alessandro. Now I am not disposed to gratify either of them with my love, and therefore, to shake them off, I am minded, as they make such great protestations, to put them to the proof by requiring of each something which I am sure he will not perform, and thus to rid myself of their pestering: so list what I mean to do. Thou knowest that this morning there was interred in the ground of the Friars Minors this Scannadio (such was the name of the bad man of whom we spoke but now) whose aspect, while he yet lived, appalled even the bravest among us. Thou wilt therefore go privily, to Alessandro, and say to him:--'Madonna Francesca sends thee word by me that the time is now come when thou mayst win that which thou hast so much desired, to wit, her love and joyance thereof, if thou be so minded, on the following terms. For a reason, which thou shalt learn hereafter, one of her kinsmen is to bring home to her to-night the corpse of Scannadio, who was buried this morning; and she, standing in mortal dread of this dead man, would fain not see him; wherefore she prays thee to do her a great service, and be so good as to get thee this evening at the hour of first sleep to the tomb wherein Scannadio is buried, and go in, and having wrapped thyself in his grave-clothes, lie there, as thou wert Scannadio, himself, until one come for thee, when thou must say never a word, but let him carry thee forth, and bear thee to Madonna Francesca's house, where she will give thee welcome, and let thee stay with her, until thou art minded to depart, and, for the rest, thou wilt leave it to her.' And if he says that he will gladly do so, well and good; if not, then thou wilt tell him from me, never more to shew himself where I am, and, as he values his life, to have a care to send me no more ambassages. Which done, thou wilt go to Rinuccio Palermini, and wilt say to him:--'Madonna Francesca lets thee know that she is ready in all respects to comply with thy wishes, so thou wilt do her a great service, which is on this wise: to-night, about midnight, thou must go to the tomb wherein was this morning interred Scannadio, and saying never a word, whatever thou mayst hear or otherwise be ware of, bear him gently forth to Madonna Francesca's house, where thou shalt learn wherefore she requires this of thee, and shalt have thy solace of her; and if thou art not minded to obey her in this, see that thou never more send her ambassage.'" The maid did her mistress's errand, omitting nothing, to both the men, and received from each the same answer, to wit, that to pleasure the lady, he would adventure a journey to hell, to say nothing of entering a tomb. With which answer the maid returned to the lady, who waited to see if they would be such fools as to make it good. Night came, and at the hour of first sleep Alessandro Chiarmontesi, stripped to his doublet, quitted his house, and bent his steps towards Scannadio's tomb, with intent there to take the dead man's place. As he walked, there came upon him a great fear, and he fell a saying to himself:--Ah! what a fool am I! Whither go I? How know I that her kinsmen, having detected my love, and surmising that which is not, have not put her upon requiring this of me, in order that they may slay me in the tomb? In which event I alone should be the loser, for nought would ever be heard of it, so that they would escape scot-free. Or how know I but that 'tis some machination of one of my ill-wishers, whom perchance she loves, and is therefore minded to abet? And again quoth he to himself:--But allowing that 'tis neither the one nor the other, and that her kinsmen are really to carry me to her house, I scarce believe that 'tis either that they would fain embrace Scannadio's corpse themselves, or let her do so: rather it must be that they have a mind to perpetrate some outrage upon it, for that, perchance, he once did them an evil turn. She bids me say never a word, no matter what I may hear or be otherwise ware of. Suppose they were to pluck out my eyes, or my teeth, or cut off my hands, or treat me to some other horse-play of the like sort, how then? how could I keep quiet? And if I open my mouth, they will either recognize me, and perchance do me a mischief, or, if they spare me, I shall have been at pains for nought, for they will not leave me with the lady, and she will say that I disobeyed her command, and I shall never have aught of her favours. As thus he communed with himself, he was on the point of turning back; but his overmastering love plied him with opposing arguments of such force that he kept on his way, and reached the tomb; which having opened, he entered, and after stripping Scannadio, and wrapping himself in the grave-clothes, closed it, and laid himself down in Scannadio's place. He then fell a thinking of the dead man, and his manner of life, and the things which he had heard tell of as happening by night, and in other less appalling places than the houses of the dead; whereby all the hairs of his head stood on end, and he momently expected Scannadio to rise and cut his throat. However, the ardour of his love so fortified him that he overcame these and all other timorous apprehensions, and lay as if he were dead, awaiting what should betide him. Towards midnight Rinuccio, bent likewise upon fulfilling his lady's behest, sallied forth of his house, revolving as he went divers forebodings of possible contingencies, as that, having Scannadio's corpse upon his shoulders, he might fall into the hands of the Signory, and be condemned to the fire as a wizard, or that, should the affair get wind, it might embroil him with his kinsfolk, or the like, which gave him pause. But then with a revulsion of feeling:-- Shall I, quoth he to himself, deny this lady, whom I so much have loved and love, the very first thing that she asks of me? And that too when I am thereby to win her favour? No, though 'twere as much as my life is worth, far be it from me to fail of keeping my word. So on he fared, and arrived at the tomb, which he had no difficulty in opening, and being entered, laid hold of Alessandro, who, though in mortal fear, had given no sign of life, by the feet, and dragged him forth, and having hoisted him on to his shoulders, bent his steps towards the lady's house. And as he went, being none too careful of Alessandro, he swung him from time to time against one or other of the angles of certain benches that were by the wayside; and indeed the night was so dark and murky that he could not see where he was going. And when he was all but on the threshold of the lady's house (she standing within at a window with her maid, to mark if Rinuccio would bring Alessandro, and being already provided with an excuse for sending them both away), it so befell that the patrol of the Signory, who were posted in the street in dead silence, being on the look-out for a certain bandit, hearing the tramp of Rinuccio's feet, suddenly shewed a light, the better to know what was toward, and whither to go, and advancing targes and lances, cried out:--"Who goes there?" Whereupon Rinuccio, having little leisure for deliberation, let Alessandro fall, and took to flight as fast as his legs might carry him. Alessandro, albeit encumbered by the graveclothes, which were very long, also jumped up and made off. By the light shewn by the patrol the lady had very plainly perceived Rinuccio, with Alessandro on his back, as also that Alessandro had the grave-clothes upon him; and much did she marvel at the daring of both, but, for all that, she laughed heartily to see Rinuccio drop Alessandro, and Alessandro run away. Overjoyed at the turn the affair had taken, and praising God that He had rid her of their harass, she withdrew from the window, and betook her to her chamber, averring to her maid that for certain they must both be mightily in love with her, seeing that 'twas plain they had both done her bidding. Crestfallen and cursing his evil fortune, Rinuccio nevertheless went not home, but, as soon as the street was clear of the patrol, came back to the spot where he had dropped Alessandro, and stooped down and began feeling about, if haply he might find him, and so do his devoir to the lady; but, as he found him not, he supposed the patrol must have borne him thence, and so at last home he went; as did also Alessandro, knowing not what else to do, and deploring his mishap. On the morrow, Scannadio's tomb being found open and empty, for Alessandro had thrown the corpse into the vault below, all Pistoia debated of the matter with no small diversity of opinion, the fools believing that Scannadio had been carried off by devils. Neither of the lovers, however, forbore to make suit to the lady for her favour and love, telling her what he had done, and what had happened, and praying her to have him excused that he had not perfectly carried out her instructions. But she, feigning to believe neither of them, disposed of each with the same curt answer, to wit, that, as he had not done her bidding, she would never do aught for him. NOVEL II. -- An abbess rises in haste and in the dark, with intent to surprise an accused nun abed with her lover: thinking to put on her veil, she puts on instead the breeches of a priest that she has with her: the nun, espying her headgear, and doing her to wit thereof, is acquitted, and thenceforth finds it easier to forgather with her lover. -- So ended Filomena; and when all had commended the address shewn by the lady in ridding herself of the two lovers that she affected not, and contrariwise had censured the hardihood of the two lovers as not love but madness, the queen turned to Elisa, and with a charming air:--"Now, Elisa, follow," quoth she: whereupon Elisa began on this wise:--Dearest ladies, 'twas cleverly done of Madonna Francesca, to disembarrass herself in the way we have heard: but I have to tell of a young nun, who by a happy retort, and the favour of Fortune, delivered herself from imminent peril. And as you know that there are not a few most foolish folk, who, notwithstanding their folly, take upon themselves the governance and correction of others; so you may learn from my story that Fortune at times justly puts them to shame; which befell the abbess, who was the superior of the nun of whom I am about to speak. You are to know, then, that in a convent in Lombardy of very great repute for strict and holy living there was, among other ladies that there wore the veil, a young woman of noble family, and extraordinary beauty. Now Isabetta--for such was her name--having speech one day of one of her kinsmen at the grate, became enamoured of a fine young gallant that was with him; who, seeing her to be very fair, and reading her passion in her eyes, was kindled with a like flame for her: which mutual and unsolaced love they bore a great while not without great suffering to both. But at length, both being intent thereon, the gallant discovered a way by which he might with all secrecy visit his nun; and she approving, he paid her not one visit only, but many, to their no small mutual solace. But, while thus they continued their intercourse, it so befell that one night one of the sisters observed him take his leave of Isabetta and depart, albeit neither he nor she was ware that they had thus been discovered. The sister imparted what she had seen to several others. At first they were minded to denounce her to the abbess, one Madonna Usimbalda, who was reputed by the nuns, and indeed by all that knew her, to be a good and holy woman; but on second thoughts they deemed it expedient, that there might be no room for denial, to cause the abbess to take her and the gallant in the act. So they held their peace, and arranged between them to keep her in watch and close espial, that they might catch her unawares. Of which practice Isabetta recking, witting nought, it so befell that one night, when she had her lover to see her, the sisters that were on the watch were soon ware of it, and at what they deemed the nick of time parted into two companies of which one mounted guard at the threshold of Isabetta's cell, while the other hasted to the abbess's chamber, and knocking at the door, roused her, and as soon as they heard her voice, said:--"Up, Madam, without delay: we have discovered that Isabetta has a young man with her in her cell." Now that night the abbess had with her a priest whom she used not seldom to have conveyed to her in a chest; and the report of the sisters making her apprehensive lest for excess of zeal and hurry they should force the door open, she rose in a trice; and huddling on her clothes as best she might in the dark, instead of the veil that they wear, which they call the psalter, she caught up the priest's breeches, and having clapped them on her head, hied her forth, and locked the door behind her, saying:--"Where is this woman accursed of God?" And so, guided by the sisters, all so agog to catch Isabetta a sinning that they perceived not what manner of headgear the abbess wore, she made her way to the cell, and with their aid broke open the door; and entering they found the two lovers abed in one another's arms; who, as it were, thunderstruck to be thus surprised, lay there, witting not what to do. The sisters took the young nun forthwith, and by command of the abbess brought her to the chapter-house. The gallant, left behind in the cell, put on his clothes and waited to see how the affair would end, being minded to make as many nuns as he might come at pay dearly for any despite that might be done his mistress, and to bring her off with him. The abbess, seated in the chapter-house with all her nuns about her, and all eyes bent upon the culprit, began giving her the severest reprimand that ever woman got, for that by her disgraceful and abominable conduct, should it get wind, she had sullied the fair fame of the convent; whereto she added menaces most dire. Shamefast and timorous, the culprit essayed no defence, and her silence begat pity of her in the rest; but, while the abbess waxed more and more voluble, it chanced that the girl raised her head and espied the abbess's headgear, and the points that hung down on this side and that. The significance whereof being by no means lost upon her, she quite plucked up heart, and:--"Madam," quoth she, "so help you God, tie up your coif, and then you may say what you will to me." Whereto the abbess, not understanding her, replied:--"What coif, lewd woman? So thou hast the effrontery to jest! Think'st thou that what thou hast done is a matter meet for jests?" Whereupon:--"Madam," quoth the girl again, "I pray you, tie up your coif, and then you may say to me whatever you please." Which occasioned not a few of the nuns to look up at the abbess's head, and the abbess herself to raise her hands thereto, and so she and they at one and the same time apprehended Isabetta's meaning. Wherefore the abbess, finding herself detected by all in the same sin, and that no disguise was possible, changed her tone, and held quite another sort of language than before, the upshot of which was that 'twas impossible to withstand the assaults of the flesh, and that, accordingly, observing due secrecy as theretofore, all might give themselves a good time, as they had opportunity. So, having dismissed Isabetta to rejoin her lover in her cell, she herself returned to lie with her priest. And many a time thereafter, in spite of the envious, Isabetta had her gallant to see her, the others, that lacked lovers, doing in secret the best they might to push their fortunes. NOVEL III. -- Master Simone, at the instance of Bruno and Buffalmacco and Nello, makes Calandrino believe that he is with child. Calandrino, accordingly, gives them capons and money for medicines, and is cured without being delivered. -- When Elisa had ended her story, and all had given thanks to God that He had vouchsafed the young nun a happy escape from the fangs of her envious companions, the queen bade Filostrato follow suit; and without expecting a second command, thus Filostrato began:--Fairest my ladies, the uncouth judge from the Marches, of whom I told you yesterday, took from the tip of my tongue a story of Calandrino, which I was on the point of narrating: and as nought can be said of him without mightily enhancing our jollity, albeit not a little has already been said touching him and his comrades, I will now give you the story which I had meant yesterday to give you. Who they were, this Calandrino and the others that I am to tell of in this story, has already been sufficiently explained; wherefore, without more ado, I say that one of Calandrino's aunts having died, leaving him two hundred pounds in petty cash, Calandrino gave out that he was minded to purchase an estate, and, as if he had had ten thousand florins of gold to invest, engaged every broker in Florence to treat for him, the negotiation always falling through, as soon as the price was named. Bruno and Buffalmacco, knowing what was afoot, told him again and again that he had better give himself a jolly time with them than go about buying earth as if he must needs make pellets;(1) but so far were they from effecting their purpose, that they could not even prevail upon him to give them a single meal. Whereat as one day they grumbled, being joined by a comrade of theirs, one Nello, also a painter, they all three took counsel how they might wet their whistle at Calandrino's expense; and, their plan being soon concerted, the next morning Calandrino was scarce gone out, when Nello met him, saying:--"Good day, Calandrino:" whereto Calandrino replied:--"God give thee a good day and a good year." Nello then drew back a little, and looked him steadily in the face, until:--"What seest thou to stare at?" quoth Calandrino. "Hadst thou no pain in the night?" returned Nello; "thou seemest not thyself to me." Which Calandrino no sooner heard, than he began to be disquieted, and:--"Alas! How sayst thou?" quoth he. "What tak'st thou to be the matter with me?" "Why, as to that I have nothing to say," returned Nello; "but thou seemest to be quite changed: perchance 'tis not what I suppose;" and with that he left him. Calandrino, anxious, though he could not in the least have said why, went on; and soon Buffalmacco, who was not far off, and had observed him part from Nello, made up to him, and greeted him, asking him if he was not in pain. "I cannot say," replied Calandrino; "'twas but now that Nello told me that I looked quite changed: can it be that there is aught the matter with me?" "Aught?" quoth Buffalmacco, "ay, indeed, there might be a trifle the matter with thee. Thou look'st to be half dead, man." Calandrino now began to think he must have a fever. And then up came Bruno; and the first thing he said was:--"Why, Calandrino, how ill thou look'st! thy appearance is that of a corpse. How dost thou feel?" To be thus accosted by all three left no doubt in Calandrino's mind that he was ill, and so:--"What shall I do?" quoth he, in a great fright. "My advice," replied Bruno, "is that thou go home and get thee to bed and cover thee well up, and send thy water to Master Simone, who, as thou knowest, is such a friend of ours. He will tell thee at once what thou must do; and we will come to see thee, and will do aught that may be needful." And Nello then joining them, they all three went home with Calandrino, who, now quite spent, went straight to his room, and said to his wife:--"Come now, wrap me well up; I feel very ill." And so he laid himself on the bed, and sent a maid with his water to Master Simone, who had then his shop in the Mercato Vecchio, at the sign of the pumpkin. Whereupon quoth Bruno to his comrades:--"You will stay here with him, and I will go hear what the doctor has to say, and if need be, will bring him hither." "Prithee, do so, my friend," quoth Calandrino, "and bring me word how it is with me, for I feel as how I cannot say in my inside." So Bruno hied him to Master Simone, and before the maid arrived with the water, told him what was afoot. The Master, thus primed, inspected the water, and then said to the maid:--"Go tell Calandrino to keep himself very warm, and I will come at once, and let him know what is the matter with him, and what he must do." With which message the maid was scarce returned, when the Master and Bruno arrived, and the Master, having seated himself beside Calandrino, felt his pulse, and by and by, in the presence of his wife, said:--"Harkye, Calandrino, I speak to thee as a friend, and I tell thee that what is amiss with thee is just that thou art with child." Whereupon Calandrino cried out querulously:--"Woe's me! 'Tis thy doing, Tessa, for that thou must needs be uppermost: I told thee plainly what would come of it," Whereat the lady, being not a little modest, coloured from brow to neck, and with downcast eyes, withdrew from the room, saying never a word by way of answer. Calandrino ran on in the same plaintive strain:--"Alas! woe's me! What shall I do? How shall I be delivered of this child? What passage can it find? Ah! I see only too plainly that the lasciviousness of this wife of mine has been the death of me: God make her as wretched as I would fain be happy! Were I as well as I am not, I would get me up and thrash her, till I left not a whole bone in her body, albeit it does but serve me right for letting her get the upper place; but if I do win through this, she shall never have it again; verily she might pine to death for it, but she should not have it." Which to hear, Bruno and Buffalmacco and Nello were like to burst with suppressed laughter, and Master Scimmione(2) laughed so frantically, that all his teeth were ready to start from his jaws. However, at length, in answer to Calandrino's appeals and entreaties for counsel and succour:--"Calandrino," quoth the Master, "thou mayst dismiss thy fears, for, God be praised, we were apprised of thy state in such good time that with but little trouble, in the course of a few days, I shall set thee right; but 'twill cost a little." "Woe's me," returned Calandrino, "be it so, Master, for the love of God: I have here two hundred pounds, with which I had thoughts of buying an estate: take them all, all, if you must have all, so only I may escape being delivered, for I know not how I should manage it, seeing that women, albeit 'tis much easier for them, do make such a noise in the hour of their labour, that I misdoubt me, if I suffered so, I should die before I was delivered." "Disquiet not thyself," said the doctor: "I will have a potion distilled for thee; of rare virtue it is, and not a little palatable, and in the course of three days 'twill purge thee of all, and leave thee in better fettle than a fish; but thou wilt do well to be careful thereafter, and commit no such indiscretions again. Now to make this potion we must have three pair of good fat capons, and, for divers other ingredients, thou wilt give one of thy friends here five pounds in small change to purchase them, and thou wilt have everything sent to my shop, and so, please God, I will send thee this distilled potion to-morrow morning, and thou wilt take a good beakerful each time." Whereupon:--"Be it as you bid, Master mine," quoth Calandrino, and handing Bruno five pounds, and money enough to purchase three pair of capons, he begged him, if it were not too much trouble, to do him the service to buy these things for him. So away went the doctor, and made a little decoction by way of draught, and sent it him. Bruno bought the capons and all else that was needed to furnish forth the feast, with which he and his comrades and the doctor regaled them. Calandrino drank of the decoction for three mornings, after which he had a visit from his friends and the doctor, who felt his pulse, and then:--"Beyond a doubt, Calandrino," quoth he, "thou art cured, and so thou hast no more occasion to keep indoors, but needst have no fear to do whatever thou hast a mind to." Much relieved, Calandrino got up, and resumed his accustomed way of life, and, wherever he found any one to talk to, was loud in praise of Master Simone for the excellent manner in which he had cured him, causing him in three days without the least suffering to be quit of his pregnancy. And Bruno and Buffalmacco and Nello were not a little pleased with themselves that they had so cleverly got the better of Calandrino's niggardliness, albeit Monna Tessa, who was not deceived, murmured not a little against her husband. (1) I.e. bolts of clay for the cross-bow. (2) I.e. great ape: with a play on Simone. NOVEL IV. -- Cecco, son of Messer Fortarrigo, loses his all at play at Buonconvento, besides the money of Cecco, son of Messer Angiulieri; whom, running after him in his shirt and crying out that he has robbed him, he causes to be taken by peasants: he then puts on his clothes, mounts his palfrey, and leaves him to follow in his shirt. -- All the company laughed beyond measure to hear what Calandrino said touching his wife: but, when Filostrato had done, Neifile, being bidden by the queen, thus began:--Noble ladies, were it not more difficult for men to evince their good sense and virtue than their folly and their vice, many would labour in vain to set bounds to their flow of words: whereof you have had a most conspicuous example in poor blundering Calandrino, who, for the better cure of that with which in his simplicity he supposed himself to be afflicted, had no sort of need to discover in public his wife's secret pleasures. Which affair has brought to my mind one that fell out contrariwise, inasmuch as the guile of one discomfited the good sense of another to the grievous loss and shame of the discomfited: the manner whereof I am minded to relate to you. 'Tis not many years since there were in Siena two young men, both of age, and both alike named Cecco, the one being son of Messer Angiulieri, the other of Messer Fortarrigo. Who, albeit in many other respects their dispositions accorded ill, agreed so well in one, to wit, that they both hated their fathers, that they became friends, and kept much together. Now Angiulieri, being a pretty fellow, and well-mannered, could not brook to live at Siena on the allowance made him by his father, and learning that there was come into the March of Ancona, as legate of the Pope, a cardinal, to whom he was much bounden, resolved to resort to him there, thinking thereby to improve his circumstances. So, having acquainted his father with his purpose, he prevailed upon him to give him there and then all that he would have given him during the next six months, that he might have the wherewith to furnish himself with apparel and a good mount, so as to travel in a becoming manner. And as he was looking out for some one to attend him as his servant, Fortarrigo, hearing of it, came presently to him and besought him with all earnestness to take him with him as his groom, or servant, or what he would, and he would be satisfied with his keep, without any salary whatsoever. Whereto Angiulieri made answer that he was not disposed to take him, not but that he well knew that he was competent for any service that might be required of him, but because he was given to play, and therewithal would at times get drunk. Fortarrigo assured him with many an oath that he would be on his guard to commit neither fault, and added thereto such instant entreaties, that Angiulieri was, as it were, vanquished, and consented. So one morning they took the road for Buonconvento, being minded there to breakfast. Now when Angiulieri had breakfasted, as 'twas a very hot day, he had a bed made in the inn, and having undressed with Fortarrigo's help, he composed himself to sleep, telling Fortarrigo to call him on the stroke of none. Angiulieri thus sleeping, Fortarrigo repaired to the tavern, where, having slaked his thirst, he sate down to a game with some that were there, who speedily won from him all his money, and thereafter in like manner all the clothes he had on his back: wherefore he, being anxious to retrieve his losses, went, stripped as he was to his shirt, to the room where lay Angiulieri; and seeing that he was sound asleep, he took from his purse all the money that he had, and so went back to the gaming-table, and staked it, and lost it all, as he had his own. By and by Angiulieri awoke, and got up, and dressed, and called for Fortarrigo; and as Fortarrigo answered not, he supposed that he must have had too much to drink, and be sleeping it off somewhere, as was his wont. He accordingly determined to leave him alone; and doubting not to find a better servant at Corsignano, he let saddle his palfrey and attach the valise; but when, being about to depart, he would have paid the host, never a coin could he come by. Whereat there was no small stir, so that all the inn was in an uproar, Angiulieri averring that he had been robbed in the house, and threatening to have them all arrested and taken to Siena; when, lo, who should make his appearance but Fortarrigo in his shirt, intent now to steal the clothes, as he had stolen the moneys, of Angiulieri? And marking that Angiulieri was accoutred for the road:--"How is this, Angiulieri?" quoth he. "Are we to start so soon? Nay, but wait a little. One will be here presently that has my doublet in pawn for thirty-eight soldi; I doubt not he will return it me for thirty-five soldi, if I pay money down." And while they were yet talking, in came one that made it plain to Angiulieri that 'twas Fortarrigo that had robbed him of his money, for he told him the amount that Fortarrigo had lost. Whereat Angiulieri, in a towering passion, rated Fortarrigo right soundly, and, but that he stood more in fear of man than of God, would have suited action to word; and so, threatening to have him hanged by the neck and proclaimed an outlaw at the gallows-tree of Siena, he mounted his horse. Fortarrigo, making as if 'twas not to him, but to another, that Angiulieri thus spoke, made answer:--"Come now, Angiulieri, we were best have done with all this idle talk, and consider the matter of substance: we can redeem for thirty-five soldi, if we pay forthwith, but if we wait till to-morrow, we shall not get off with less than thirty-eight, the full amount of the loan; and 'tis because I staked by his advice that he will make me this allowance. Now why should not we save these three soldi?" Whereat Angiulieri waxed well-nigh desperate, more particularly that he marked that the bystanders were scanning him suspiciously, as if, so far from understanding that Fortarrigo had staked and lost his, Angiulieri's money, they gave him credit for still being in funds: so he cried out:--"What have I to do with thy doublet? 'Tis high time thou wast hanged by the neck, that, not content with robbing me and gambling away my money, thou must needs also keep me in parley here and make mock of me, when I would fain be gone." Fortarrigo, however, still persisted in making believe that Angiulieri did not mean this for him, and only said:--"Nay, but why wilt not thou save me these three soldi? Think'st thou I can be of no more use to thee? Prithee, an thou lov'st me, do me this turn. Wherefore in such a hurry? We have time enough to get to Torrenieri this evening. Come now, out with thy purse. Thou knowest I might search Siena through, and not find a doublet that would suit me so well as this: and for all I let him have it for thirty-eight soldi, 'tis worth forty or more; so thou wilt wrong me twice over." Vexed beyond measure that, after robbing him, Fortarrigo should now keep him clavering about the matter, Angiulieri made no answer, but turned his horse's head, and took the road for Torrenieri. But Fortarrigo with cunning malice trotted after him in his shirt, and 'twas still his doublet, his doublet, that he would have of him: and when they had thus ridden two good miles, and Angiulieri was forcing the pace to get out of earshot of his pestering, Fortarrigo espied some husbandmen in a field beside the road a little ahead of Angiulieri, and fell a shouting to them amain:--"Take thief! take thief!" Whereupon they came up with their spades and their mattocks, and barred Angiulieri's way, supposing that he must have robbed the man that came shouting after him in his shirt, and stopped him and apprehended him; and little indeed did it avail him to tell them who he was, and how the matter stood. For up came Fortarrigo with a wrathful air, and:--"I know not," quoth he, "why I spare to kill thee on the spot, traitor, thief that thou art, thus to despoil me and give me the slip!" And then, turning to the peasants:--"You see, gentlemen," quoth he, "in what a trim he left me in the inn, after gambling away all that he had with him and on him. Well indeed may I say that under God 'tis to you I owe it that I have thus come by my own again: for which cause I shall ever be beholden to you." Angiulieri also had his say; but his words passed unheeded. Fortarrigo with the help of the peasants compelled him to dismount; and having stripped him, donned his clothes, mounted his horse, and leaving him barefoot and in his shirt, rode back to Siena, giving out on all hands that he had won the palfrey and the clothes from Angiulieri. So Angiulieri, having thought to present himself to the cardinal in the March a wealthy man, returned to Buonconvento poor and in his shirt; and being ashamed for the time to shew himself in Siena, pledged the nag that Fortarrigo had ridden for a suit of clothes, and betook him to his kinsfolk at Corsignano, where he tarried, until he received a fresh supply of money from his father. Thus, then, Fortarrigo's guile disconcerted Angiulieri's judicious purpose, albeit when time and occasion served, it was not left unrequited. NOVEL V. -- Calandrino being enamoured of a damsel, Bruno gives him a scroll, averring that, if he but touch her therewith, she will go with him: he is found with her by his wife who subjects him to a most severe and vexatious examination. -- So, at no great length, ended Neifile her story, which the company allowed to pass with none too much laughter or remark: whereupon the queen, turning to Fiammetta, bade her follow suit. Fiammetta, with mien most gladsome, made answer that she willingly obeyed, and thus began:--As I doubt not, ye know, ladies most debonair, be the topic of discourse never so well worn, it will still continue to please, if the speaker knows how to make due choice of time and occasion meet. Wherefore, considering the reason for which we are here (how that 'tis to make merry and speed the time gaily, and that merely), I deem that there is nought that may afford us mirth and solace but here may find time and occasion meet, and, after serving a thousand turns of discourse, should still prove not unpleasing for another thousand. Wherefore, notwithstanding that of Calandrino and his doings not a little has from time to time been said among us, yet, considering that, as a while ago Filostrato observed, there is nought that concerns him that is not entertaining, I will make bold to add to the preceding stories another, which I might well, had I been minded to deviate from the truth, have disguised, and so recounted it to you, under other names; but as whoso in telling a story diverges from the truth does thereby in no small measure diminish the delight of his hearers, I purpose for the reason aforesaid to give you the narrative in proper form. Niccolo Cornacchini, one of our citizens, and a man of wealth, had among other estates a fine one at Camerata, on which he had a grand house built, and engaged Bruno and Buffalmacco to paint it throughout; in which task, for that 'twas by no means light, they associated with them Nello and Calandrino, and so set to work. There were a few rooms in the house provided with beds and other furniture, and an old female servant lived there as caretaker, but otherwise the house was unoccupied, for which cause Niccolo's son, Filippo, being a young man and a bachelor, was wont sometimes to bring thither a woman for his pleasure, and after keeping her there for a few days to escort her thence again. Now on one of these occasions it befell that he brought thither one Niccolosa, whom a vile fellow, named Mangione, kept in a house at Camaldoli as a common prostitute. And a fine piece of flesh she was, and wore fine clothes, and for one of her sort, knew how to comport herself becomingly and talk agreeably. Now one day at high noon forth tripped the damsel from her chamber in a white gown, her locks braided about her head, to wash her hands and face at a well that was in the courtyard of the house, and, while she was so engaged, it befell that Calandrino came there for water, and greeted her familiarly. Having returned his salutation, she, rather because Calandrino struck her as something out of the common, than for any other interest she felt in him, regarded him attentively. Calandrino did the like by her, and being smitten by her beauty, found reasons enough why he should not go back to his comrades with the water; but, as he knew not who she was, he made not bold to address her. She, upon whom his gaze was not lost, being minded to amuse herself at his expense, let her glance from time to time rest upon him, while she heaved a slight sigh or two. Whereby Calandrino was forthwith captivated, and tarried in the courtyard, until Filippo called her back into the chamber. Returned to his work, Calandrino sighed like a furnace: which Bruno, who was ever regardful of his doings for the diversion they afforded him, failed not to mark, and by and by:--"What the Devil is amiss with thee, comrade Calandrino?" quoth he. "Thou dost nought but puff and blow." "Comrade," replied Calandrino, "I should be in luck, had I but one to help me." "How so?" quoth Bruno. "Why," returned Calandrino, "'tis not to go farther, but there is a damsel below, fairer than a lamia, and so mightily in love with me that 'twould astonish thee. I observed it but now, when I went to fetch the water." "Nay, but, Calandrino, make sure she be not Filippo's wife," quoth Bruno. "I doubt 'tis even so," replied Calandrino, "for he called her and she joined him in the chamber; but what signifies it? I would circumvent Christ Himself in such case, not to say Filippo. Of a truth, comrade, I tell thee she pleases me I could not say how." "Comrade," returned Bruno, "I will find out for thee who she is, and if she be Filippo's wife, two words from me will make it all straight for thee, for she is much my friend. But how shall we prevent Buffalmacco knowing it? I can never have a word with her but he is with me." "As to Buffalmacco," replied Calandrino: "I care not if he do know it; but let us make sure that it come not to Nello's ears, for he is of kin to Monna Tessa, and would spoil it all." Whereto:--"Thou art in the right," returned Bruno. Now Bruno knew what the damsel was, for he had seen her arrive, and moreover Filippo had told him. So, Calandrino having given over working for a while, and betaken him to her, Bruno acquainted Nello and Buffalmacco with the whole story; and thereupon they privily concerted how to entreat him in regard of this love affair. Wherefore, upon his return, quoth Bruno softly:--"Didst see her?" "Ay, woe's me!" replied Calandrino: "she has stricken me to the death." Quoth Bruno:--"I will go see if she be the lady I take her to be, and if I find that 'tis so, leave the rest to me." Whereupon down went Bruno, and found Filippo and the damsel, and fully apprised them what sort of fellow Calandrino was, and what he had told them, and concerted with them what each should do and say, that they might have a merry time together over Calandrino's love affair. He then rejoined Calandrino, saying:--"'Tis the very same; and therefore the affair needs very delicate handling, for, if Filippo were but ware thereof, not all Arno's waters would suffice to cleanse us. However, what should I say to her from thee, if by chance I should get speech of her?" "I'faith," replied Calandrino, "why, first, first of all, thou wilt tell her that I wish her a thousand bushels of the good seed of generation, and then that I am her servant, and if she is fain of--aught--thou tak'st me?" "Ay," quoth Bruno, "leave it to me." Supper-time came; and, the day's work done, they went down into the courtyard, Filippo and Niccolosa being there, and there they tarried a while to advance Calandrino's suit. Calandrino's gaze was soon riveted on Niccolosa, and such and so strange and startling were the gestures that he made that they would have given sight to the blind. She on her part used all her arts to inflame his passion, primed as she had been by Bruno, and diverted beyond measure as she was by Calandrino's antics, while Filippo, Buffalmacco and the rest feigned to be occupied in converse, and to see nought of what passed. However, after a while, to Calandrino's extreme disgust, they took their leave; and as they bent their steps towards Florence:--"I warrant thee," quoth Bruno to Calandrino, "she wastes away for thee like ice in the sunlight; by the body o' God, if thou wert to bring thy rebeck, and sing her one or two of thy love-songs, she'd throw herself out of window to be with thee." Quoth Calandrino:--"Think'st thou, comrade, think'st thou, 'twere well I brought it?" "Ay, indeed," returned Bruno. Whereupon:--"Ah! comrade," quoth Calandrino, "so thou wouldst not believe me when I told thee to-day? Of a truth I perceive there's ne'er another knows so well what he would be at as I. Who but I would have known how so soon to win the love of a lady like that? Lucky indeed might they deem themselves, if they did it, those young gallants that go about, day and night, up and down, a strumming on the one-stringed viol, and would not know how to gather a handful of nuts once in a millennium. Mayst thou be by to see when I bring her the rebeck! thou wilt see fine sport. List well what I say: I am not so old as I look; and she knows it right well: ay, and anyhow I will soon let her know it, when I come to grapple her. By the very body of Christ I will have such sport with her, that she will follow me as any love-sick maid follows her swain." "Oh!" quoth Bruno, "I doubt not thou wilt make her thy prey: and I seem to see thee bite her dainty vermeil mouth and her cheeks, that shew as twin roses, with thy teeth, that are as so many lute-pegs, and afterwards devour her bodily." So encouraged, Calandrino fancied himself already in action, and went about singing and capering in such high glee that 'twas as if he would burst his skin. And so next day he brought the rebeck, and to the no small amusement of all the company sang several songs to her. And, in short, by frequently seeing her, he waxed so mad with passion that he gave over working; and a thousand times a day he would run now to the window, now to the door, and anon to the courtyard on the chance of catching sight of her; nor did she, astutely following Bruno's instructions, fail to afford him abundance of opportunity. Bruno played the go-between, bearing him her answers to all his messages, and sometimes bringing him messages from her. When she was not at home, which was most frequently the case, he would send him letters from her, in which she gave great encouragement to his hopes, at the same time giving him to understand that she was at the house of her kinsfolk, where as yet he might not visit her. On this wise Bruno and Buffalmacco so managed the affair as to divert themselves inordinately, causing him to send her, as at her request, now an ivory comb, now a purse, now a little knife, and other such dainty trifles; in return for which they brought him, now and again, a counterfeit ring of no value, with which Calandrino was marvellously pleased. And Calandrino, to stimulate their zeal in his interest, would entertain them hospitably at table, and otherwise flatter them. Now, when they had thus kept him in play for two good months, and the affair was just where it had been, Calandrino, seeing that the work was coming to an end, and bethinking him that, if it did so before he had brought his love affair to a successful issue, he must give up all hopes of ever so doing, began to be very instant and importunate with Bruno. So, in the presence of the damsel, and by preconcert with her and Filippo, quoth Bruno to Calandrino:--"Harkye, comrade, this lady has vowed to me a thousand times that she will do as thou wouldst have her, and as, for all that, she does nought to pleasure thee, I am of opinion that she leads thee by the nose: wherefore, as she keeps not her promises, we will make her do so, willy-nilly, if thou art so minded." "Nay, but, for the love of God, so be it," replied Calandrino, "and that speedily." "Darest thou touch her, then, with a scroll that I shall give thee?" quoth Bruno. "I dare," replied Calandrino. "Fetch me, then," quoth Bruno, "a bit of the skin of an unborn lamb, a live bat, three grains of incense, and a blessed candle; and leave the rest to me." To catch the bat taxed all Calandrino's art and craft for the whole of the evening; but having at length taken him, he brought him with the other matters to Bruno: who, having withdrawn into a room by himself, wrote on the skin some cabalistic jargon, and handed it to him, saying:--"Know, Calandrino, that, if thou touch her with this scroll, she will follow thee forthwith, and do whatever thou shalt wish. Wherefore, should Filippo go abroad to-day, get thee somehow up to her, and touch her; and then go into the barn that is hereby--'tis the best place we have, for never a soul goes there--and thou wilt see that she will come there too. When she is there, thou wottest well what to do." Calandrino, overjoyed as ne'er another, took the scroll, saying only:--"Comrade, leave that to me." Now Nello, whom Calandrino mistrusted, entered with no less zest than the others into the affair, and was their confederate for Calandrino's discomfiture; accordingly by Bruno's direction he hied to Florence, and finding Monna Tessa:--"Thou hast scarce forgotten, Tessa," quoth he, "what a beating Calandrino gave thee, without the least cause, that day when he came home with the stones from Mugnone; for which I would have thee be avenged, and, so thou wilt not, call me no more kinsman or friend. He is fallen in love with a lady up there, who is abandoned enough to go closeting herself not seldom with him, and 'tis but a short while since they made assignation to forgather forthwith: so I would have thee go there, and surprise him in the act, and give him a sound trouncing." Which when the lady heard, she deemed it no laughing matter; but started up and broke out with:--"Alas, the arrant knave! is't thus he treats me? By the Holy Rood, never fear but I will pay him out!" And wrapping herself in her cloak, and taking a young woman with her for companion, she sped more at a run than at a walk, escorted by Nello, up to Camerata. Bruno, espying her from afar, said to Filippo:--"Lo, here comes our friend." Whereupon Filippo went to the place where Calandrino and the others were at work, and said:--"My masters, I must needs go at once to Florence; slacken not on that account." And so off he went, and hid himself where, unobserved, he might see what Calandrino would do. Calandrino waited only until he saw that Filippo was at some distance, and then he went down into the courtyard, where he found Niccolosa alone, and fell a talking with her. She, knowing well what she had to do, drew close to him, and shewed him a little more familiarity than she was wont: whereupon Calandrino touched her with the scroll, and having so done, saying never a word, bent his steps towards the barn, whither Niccolosa followed him, and being entered, shut the door, and forthwith embraced him, threw him down on the straw that lay there, and got astride of him, and holding him fast by the arms about the shoulders, suffered him not to approach his face to hers, but gazing upon him, as if he were the delight of her heart:--"O Calandrino, sweet my Calandrino," quoth she, "heart of my body, my very soul, my bliss, my consolation, ah! how long have I yearned to hold thee in my arms and have thee all my own! Thy endearing ways have utterly disarmed me; thou hast made prize of my heart with thy rebeck. Do I indeed hold thee in mine embrace?" Calandrino, scarce able to move, murmured:--"Ah! sweet my soul, suffer me to kiss thee." Whereto:--"Nay, but thou art too hasty," replied Niccolosa. "Let me first feast mine eyes on thee; let me but sate them with this sweet face of thine." Meanwhile Bruno and Buffalmacco had joined Filippo, so that what passed was seen and heard by all three. And while Calandrino was thus intent to kiss Niccolosa, lo, up came Nello with Monna Tessa. "By God, I swear they are both there," ejaculated Nello, as they entered the doorway; but the lady, now fairly furious, laid hold of him and thrust him aside, and rushing in, espied Niccolosa astride of Calandrino. Niccolosa no sooner caught sight of the lady, than up she jumped, and in a trice was beside Filippo. Monna Tessa fell upon Calandrino, who was still on the floor, planted her nails in his face, and scratched it all over: she then seized him by the hair, and hauling him to and fro about the barn:--"Foul, pestilent cur," quoth she, "is this the way thou treatest me? Thou old fool! A murrain on the love I have borne thee! Hast thou not enough to do at home, that thou must needs go falling in love with strange women? And a fine lover thou wouldst make! Dost not know thyself, knave? Dost not know thyself, wretch? Thou, from whose whole body 'twere not possible to wring enough sap for a sauce! God's faith, 'twas not Tessa that got thee with child: God's curse on her, whoever she was: verily she must be a poor creature to be enamoured of a jewel of thy rare quality." At sight of his wife, Calandrino, suspended, as it were, between life and death, ventured no defence; but, his face torn to shreds, his hair and clothes all disordered, fumbled about for his capuche, which having found, up he got, and humbly besought his wife not to publish the matter, unless she were minded that he should be cut to pieces, for that she that was with him was the wife of the master of the house. "Then God give her a bad year," replied the lady. Whereupon Bruno and Buffalmacco, who by this time had laughed their fill with Filippo and Niccolosa, came up as if attracted by the noise; and after not a little ado pacified the lady, and counselled Calandrino to go back to Florence, and stay there, lest Filippo should get wind of the affair, and do him a mischief. So Calandrino, crestfallen and woebegone, got him back to Florence with his face torn to shreds; where, daring not to shew himself at Camerata again, he endured day and night the grievous torment of his wife's vituperation. Such was the issue, to which, after ministering not a little mirth to his comrades, as also to Niccolosa and Filippo, this ardent lover brought his amour. NOVEL VI. -- Two young men lodge at an inn, of whom the one lies with the host's daughter, his wife by inadvertence lying with the other. He that lay with the daughter afterwards gets into her father's bed and tells him all, taking him to be his comrade. They bandy words: whereupon the good woman, apprehending the circumstances, gets her to bed with her daughter, and by divers apt words re-establishes perfect accord. -- Calandrino as on former occasions, so also on this, moved the company to laughter. However, when the ladies had done talking of his doings, the queen called for a story from Pamfilo, who thus spoke:--Worshipful ladies, this Niccolosa, that Calandrino loved, has brought to my mind a story of another Niccolosa; which I am minded to tell you, because 'twill shew you how a good woman by her quick apprehension avoided a great scandal. In the plain of Mugnone there was not long ago a good man that furnished travellers with meat and drink for money, and, for that he was in poor circumstances, and had but a little house, gave not lodging to every comer, but only to a few that he knew, and if they were hard bested. Now the good man had to wife a very fine woman, and by her had two children, to wit, a pretty and winsome girl of some fifteen or sixteen summers, as yet unmarried, and a little boy, not yet one year old, whom the mother suckled at her own breast. The girl had found favour in the eyes of a goodly and mannerly young gentleman of our city, who was not seldom in those parts, and loved her to the point of passion. And she, being mightily flattered to be loved by such a gallant, studied how to comport herself so debonairly as to retain his regard, and while she did so, grew likewise enamoured of him; and divers times, by consent of both their love had had its fruition, but that Pinuccio--such was the gallant's name--shrank from the disgrace that 'twould bring upon the girl and himself alike. But, as his passion daily waxed apace, Pinuccio, yearning to find himself abed with her, bethought him that he were best contrive to lodge with her father, deeming, from what he knew of her father's economy, that, if he did so, he might effect his purpose, and never a soul be the wiser: which idea no sooner struck him, than he set about carrying it into effect. So, late one evening Pinuccio and a trusty comrade, Adriano by name, to whom he had confided his love, hired two nags, and having set upon them two valises, filled with straw or such-like stuff, sallied forth of Florence, and rode by a circuitous route to the plain of Mugnone, which they reached after nightfall; and having fetched a compass, so that it might seem as if they were coming from Romagna, they rode up to the good man's house, and knocked at the door. The good man, knowing them both very well, opened to them forthwith: whereupon:--"Thou must even put us up to-night," quoth Pinuccio; "we thought to get into Florence, but, for all the speed we could make, we are but arrived here, as thou seest, at this hour." "Pinuccio," replied the host, "thou well knowest that I can but make a sorry shift to lodge gentlemen like you; but yet, as night has overtaken you here, and time serves not to betake you elsewhere, I will gladly give you such accommodation as I may." The two gallants then dismounted and entered the inn, and having first looked to their horses, brought out some supper that they had carried with them, and supped with the host. Now the host had but one little bedroom, in which were three beds, set, as conveniently as he could contrive, two on one side of the room, and the third on the opposite side, but, for all that, there was scarce room enough to pass through. The host had the least discomfortable of the three beds made up for the two friends; and having quartered them there, some little while afterwards, both being awake, but feigning to be asleep, he caused his daughter to get into one of the other two beds, while he and his wife took their places in the third, the good woman setting the cradle, in which was her little boy, beside the bed. Such, then, being the partition made of the beds, Pinuccio, who had taken exact note thereof, waited only until he deemed all but himself to be asleep, and then got softly up and stole to the bed in which lay his beloved, and laid himself beside her; and she according him albeit a timorous yet a gladsome welcome, he stayed there, taking with her that solace of which both were most fain. Pinuccio being thus with the girl, it chanced that certain things, being overset by a cat, fell with a noise that aroused the good woman, who, fearing that it might be a matter of more consequence, got up as best she might in the dark, and betook her to the place whence the noise seemed to proceed. At the same time Adriano, not by reason of the noise, which he heeded not, but perchance to answer the call of nature, also got up, and questing about for a convenient place, came upon the cradle beside the good woman's bed; and not being able otherwise to go by, took it up, and set it beside his own bed, and when he had accomplished his purpose, went back, and giving never a thought to the cradle got him to bed. The good woman searched until she found that the accident was no such matter as she had supposed; so without troubling to strike a light to investigate it further, she reproved the cat, and returned to the room, and groped her way straight to the bed in which her husband lay asleep; but not finding the cradle there, quoth she to herself:--Alas! blunderer that I am, what was I about? God's faith! I was going straight to the guests' bed; and proceeding a little further, she found the cradle, and laid herself down by Adriano in the bed that was beside it, taking Adriano for her husband; and Adriano, who was still awake, received her with all due benignity, and tackled her more than once to her no small delight. Meanwhile Pinuccio fearing lest sleep should overtake him while he was yet with his mistress, and having satisfied his desire, got up and left her, to return to his bed; but when he got there, coming upon the cradle, he supposed that 'twas the host's bed; and so going a little further, he laid him down beside the host, who thereupon awoke. Supposing that he had Adriano beside him:--"I warrant thee," quoth Pinuccio to the host, "there was never so sweet a piece of flesh as Niccolosa: by the body of God, such delight have I had of her as never had man of woman; and, mark me, since I left thee, I have gotten me up to the farm some six times." Which tidings the host being none too well pleased to learn, said first of all to himself:--What the Devil does this fellow here? Then, his resentment getting the better of his prudence:--"'Tis a gross affront thou hast put upon me, Pinuccio," quoth he; "nor know I what occasion thou hast to do me such a wrong; but by the body of God I will pay thee out." Pinuccio, who was not the most discreet of gallants, albeit he was now apprised of his error, instead of doing his best to repair it, retorted:--"And how wilt thou pay me out? What canst thou do?" "Hark what high words our guests are at together!" quoth meanwhile the host's wife to Adriano, deeming that she spoke to her husband. "Let them be," replied Adriano with a laugh:--"God give them a bad year: they drank too much yestereve." The good woman had already half recognized her husband's angry tones, and now that she heard Adriano's voice, she at once knew where she was and with whom. Accordingly, being a discreet woman, she started up, and saying never a word, took her child's cradle, and, though there was not a ray of light in the room, bore it, divining rather than feeling her way, to the side of the bed in which her daughter slept; and then, as if aroused by the noise made by her husband, she called him, and asked what he and Pinuccio were bandying words about. "Hearest thou not," replied the husband, "what he says he has this very night done to Niccolosa?" "Tush! he lies in the throat," returned the good woman: "he has not lain with Niccolosa; for what time he might have done so, I laid me beside her myself, and I have been wide awake ever since; and thou art a fool to believe him. You men take so many cups before going to bed that then you dream, and walk in your sleep, and imagine wonders. 'Tis a great pity you do not break your necks. What does Pinuccio there? Why keeps he not in his own bed?" Whereupon Adriano, in his turn, seeing how adroitly the good woman cloaked her own and her daughter's shame:--"Pinuccio," quoth he, "I have told thee a hundred times, that thou shouldst not walk about at night; for this thy bad habit of getting up in thy dreams and relating thy dreams for truth will get thee into a scrape some time or another: come back, and God send thee a bad night." Hearing Adriano thus confirm what his wife had said, the host began to think that Pinuccio must be really dreaming; so he took him by the shoulder, and fell a shaking him, and calling him by his name, saying:--"Pinuccio, wake up, and go back to thy bed." Pinuccio, taking his cue from what he had heard, began as a dreamer would be like to do, to talk wanderingly; whereat the host laughed amain. Then, feigning to be aroused by the shaking, Pinuccio uttered Adriano's name, saying:--"Is't already day, that thou callest me?" "Ay, 'tis so," quoth Adriano: "come hither." Whereupon Pinuccio, making as if he were mighty drowsy, got him up from beside the host, and back to bed with Adriano. On the morrow, when they were risen, the host fell a laughing and making merry touching Pinuccio and his dreams. And so the jest passed from mouth to mouth, while the gallants' horses were groomed and saddled, and their valises adjusted: which done, they drank with the host, mounted and rode to Florence, no less pleased with the manner than with the matter of the night's adventure. Nor, afterwards, did Pinuccio fail to find other means of meeting Niccolosa, who assured her mother that he had unquestionably dreamed. For which cause the good woman, calling to mind Adriano's embrace, accounted herself the only one that had watched. NOVEL VII. -- Talano di Molese dreams that a wolf tears and rends all the neck and face of his wife: he gives her warning thereof, which she heeds not, and the dream comes true. -- When Pamfilo had brought his story to a close, and all had commended the good woman's quick perception, the queen bade Pampinea tell hers; and thus Pampinea began:--A while ago, debonair my ladies, we held discourse of the truths that dreams shew forth, which not a few of us deride; for which cause, albeit the topic has been handled before, I shall not spare to tell you that which not long ago befell a neighbour of mine, for that she disbelieved a dream that her husband had. I wot not if you knew Talano di Molese, a man right worthy to be had in honour; who, having married a young wife--Margarita by name--fair as e'er another, but without her match for whimsical, fractious, and perverse humours, insomuch that there was nought she would do at the instance of another, either for his or her own good, found her behaviour most grievous to bear, but was fain to endure what he might not cure. Now it so befell that Talano and Margarita being together at an estate that Talano had in the contado, he, sleeping, saw in a dream a very beautiful wood that was on the estate at no great distance from the house, and his lady there walking. And as she went, there leapt forth upon her a huge and fierce wolf that griped her by the throat, and bore her down to the ground, and (she shrieking the while for succour) would have carried her off by main force; but she got quit of his jaws, albeit her neck and face shewed as quite disfigured. On the morrow, as soon as he was risen, Talano said to his wife:--"Albeit for thy perversity I have not yet known a single good day with thee, yet I should be sorry, wife, that harm should befall thee; and therefore, if thou take my advice, thou wilt not stir out of doors to-day." "Wherefore?" quoth the lady; and thereupon he recounted to her all his dream. The lady shook her head, saying:--"Who means ill, dreams ill. Thou makest as if thou wast mighty tender of me, but thou bodest of me in thy dream that which thou wouldst fain see betide me. I warrant thee that to-day and all days I will have a care to avoid this or any other calamity that might gladden thy heart." Whereupon:--"Well wist I," replied Talano, "that thou wouldst so say, for such is ever the requital of those that comb scurfy heads; but whatever thou mayst be pleased to believe, I for my part speak to thee for thy good, and again I advise thee to keep indoors to-day, or at least not to walk in the wood." "Good," returned the lady, "I will look to it," and then she began communing with herself on this wise:--Didst mark how artfully he thinks to have scared me from going into the wood to-day? Doubtless 'tis that he has an assignation there with some light o' love, with whom he had rather I did not find him. Ah! he would sup well with the blind, and what a fool were I to believe him! But I warrant he will be disappointed, and needs must I, though I stay there all day long, see what commerce it is that he will adventure in to-day. Having so said, she quitted the house on one side, while her husband did so on the other; and forthwith, shunning observation as best she might, she hied her to the wood, and hid her where 'twas most dense, and there waited on the alert, and glancing, now this way and now that, to see if any were coming. And while thus she stood, nor ever a thought of a wolf crossed her mind, lo, forth of a close covert hard by came a wolf of monstrous size and appalling aspect, and scarce had she time to say, God help me! before he sprang upon her and griped her by the throat so tightly that she might not utter a cry, but, passive as any lambkin, was borne off by him, and had certainly been strangled, had he not encountered some shepherds, who with shouts compelled him to let her go. The shepherds recognized the poor hapless woman, and bore her home, where the physicians by dint of long and careful treatment cured her; howbeit the whole of her throat and part of her face remained so disfigured that, fair as she had been before, she was ever thereafter most foul and hideous to look upon. Wherefore, being ashamed to shew her face, she did many a time bitterly deplore her perversity, in that, when it would have cost her nothing, she would nevertheless pay no heed to the true dream of her husband. NOVEL VIII. -- Biondello gulls Ciacco in the matter of a breakfast: for which prank Ciacco is cunningly avenged on Biondello, causing him to be shamefully beaten. -- All the company by common consent pronounced it no dream but a vision that Talano had had in his sleep, so exactly, no circumstance lacking, had it fallen out according as he had seen it. However, as soon as all had done speaking, the queen bade Lauretta follow suit; which Lauretta did on this wise:--As, most discreet my ladies, those that have preceded me to-day have almost all taken their cue from somewhat that has been said before, so, prompted by the stern vengeance taken by the scholar in Pampinea's narrative of yesterday, I am minded to tell you of a vengeance that was indeed less savage, but for all that grievous enough to him on whom it was wreaked. Wherefore I say that there was once at Florence one that all folk called Ciacco, a man second to none that ever lived for inordinate gluttony, who, lacking the means to support the expenditure which his gluttony demanded, and being, for the rest, well-mannered and well furnished with excellent and merry jests, did, without turning exactly court jester, cultivate a somewhat biting wit, and loved to frequent the houses of the rich, and such as kept good tables; whither, bidden or unbidden, he not seldom resorted for breakfast or supper. There was also in those days at Florence one that was called Biondello, a man very short of stature, and not a little debonair, more trim than any fly, with his blond locks surmounted by a coif, and never a hair out of place; and he and Ciacco were two of a trade. Now one morning in Lent Biondello, being in the fish-market purchasing two mighty fat lampreys for Messer Vieri de' Cerchi, was observed thus engaged by Ciacco, who came up to him, and:--"What means this?" quoth he. "Why," replied Biondello, "'tis that yestereve Messer Corso Donati had three lampreys much finer than these and a sturgeon sent to his house, but as they did not suffice for a breakfast that he is to give certain gentlemen, he has commissioned me to buy him these two beside. Wilt thou not be there?" "Ay, marry, that will I," returned Ciacco. And in what he deemed due time he hied him to Messer Corso Donati's house, where he found him with some of his neighbours not yet gone to breakfast. And being asked by Messer Corso with what intent he was come, he answered:--"I am come, Sir, to breakfast with you and your company." "And welcome art thou," returned Messer Corso, "go we then to breakfast, for 'tis now the time." So to table they went, where nought was set before them but pease and the inward part of the tunny salted, and afterwards the common fish of the Arno fried. Wherefore Ciacco, not a little wroth at the trick that he perceived Biondello had played him, resolved to pay him out. And not many days after Biondello, who had meanwhile had many a laugh with his friends over Ciacco's discomfiture, met him, and after greeting him, asked him with a laugh what Messer Corso's lampreys had been like. "That question," replied Ciacco, "thou wilt be able to answer much better than I before eight days are gone by." And parting from Biondello upon the word, he went forthwith and hired a cozening rogue, and having thrust a glass bottle into his hand, brought him within sight of the Loggia de' Cavicciuli; and there, pointing to a knight, one Messer Filippo Argenti, a tall man and stout, and of a high courage, and haughty, choleric and cross-grained as ne'er another, he said to him:--"Thou wilt go, flask in hand, to Messer Filippo, and wilt say to him:--'I am sent to you, Sir, by Biondello, who entreats you to be pleased to colour this flask for him with some of your good red wine, for that he is minded to have a good time with his catamites.' And of all things have a care that he lay not hands upon thee, for he would make thee rue the day, and would spoil my sport." "Have I aught else to say?" enquired the rogue. "Nothing more," returned Ciacco: "and now get thee gone, and when thou hast delivered the message, bring me back the flask, and I will pay thee." So away went the rogue, and did the errand to Messer Filippo, who forthwith, being a hasty man, jumped to the conclusion that Biondello, whom he knew, was making mock of him, and while an angry flush overspread his face:--"Colour the flask, forsooth!" quoth he, "and 'Catamites!' God send thee and him a bad year!" and therewith up he started, and reached forward to lay hold of the rogue, who, being on the alert, gave him the slip and was off, and reported Messer Filippo's answer to Ciacco, who had observed what had passed. Having paid the rogue, Ciacco rested not until he had found Biondello, to whom:--"Wast thou but now," quoth he, "at the Loggia de' Cavicciuli?" "Indeed no," replied Biondello: "wherefore such a question?" "Because," returned Ciacco, "I may tell thee that thou art sought for by Messer Filippo, for what cause I know not." "Good," quoth Biondello, "I will go thither and speak with him." So away went Biondello, and Ciacco followed him to see what course the affair would take. Now having failed to catch the rogue, Messer Filippo was still very wroth, and inly fumed and fretted, being unable to make out aught from what the rogue had said save that Biondello was set on by some one or another to flout him. And while thus he vexed his spirit, up came Biondello; whom he no sooner espied than he made for him, and dealt him a mighty blow in the face, and tore his hair and coif, and cast his capuche on the ground, and to his "Alas, Sir, what means this?" still beating him amain:--"Traitor," cried he; "I will give thee to know what it means to send me such a message. 'Colour the flask,' forsooth, and 'Catamites!' Dost take me for a stripling, to be befooled by thee?" And therewith he pummelled Biondello's face all over with a pair of fists that were liker to iron than aught else, until it was but a mass of bruises; he also tore and dishevelled all his hair, tumbled him in the mud, rent all his clothes upon his back, and that without allowing him breathing-space to ask why he thus used him, or so much as utter a word. "Colour me the flask!" and "Catamites!" rang in his ears; but what the words signified he knew not. In the end very badly beaten, and in very sorry and ragged trim, many folk having gathered around them, they, albeit not without the utmost difficulty, rescued him from Messer Filippo's hands, and told him why Messer Filippo had thus used him, censuring him for sending him such a message, and adding that thenceforth he would know Messer Filippo better, and that he was not a man to be trifled with. Biondello told them in tearful exculpation that he had never sent for wine to Messer Filippo: then, when they had put him in a little better trim, crestfallen and woebegone, he went home imputing his misadventure to Ciacco. And when, many days afterwards, the marks of his ill-usage being gone from his face, he began to go abroad again, it chanced that Ciacco met him, and with a laugh:--"Biondello," quoth he, "how didst thou relish Messer Filippo's wine?" "Why, as to that," replied Biondello, "would thou hadst relished the lampreys of Messer Corso as much!" "So!" returned Ciacco, "such meat as thou then gavest me, thou mayst henceforth give me, as often as thou art so minded; and I will give thee even such drink as I have given thee." So Biondello, witting that against Ciacco his might was not equal to his spite, prayed God for his peace, and was careful never to flout him again. NOVEL IX. -- Two young men ask counsel of Solomon; the one, how he is to make himself beloved, the other, how he is to reduce an unruly wife to order. The King bids the one to love, and the other to go to the Bridge of Geese. -- None now remained to tell save the queen, unless she were minded to infringe Dioneo's privilege. Wherefore, when the ladies had laughed their fill over the misfortunes of Biondello, thus gaily the queen began:--Observe we, lovesome ladies, the order of things with a sound mind, and we shall readily perceive that we women are one and all subjected by Nature and custom and law unto man, by him to be ruled and governed at his discretion; wherefore she, that would fain enjoy quietude and solace and comfort with the man to whom she belongs, ought not only to be chaste but lowly, patient and obedient: the which is the discreet wife's chief and most precious possession. And if the laws, which in all matters have regard unto the common weal, and use and wont or custom (call it what you will), a power very great and to be had in awe, should not suffice to school us thereto; yet abundantly clear is the witness of Nature, which has fashioned our frames delicate and sensitive, and our spirits timorous and fearful, and has decreed that our bodily strength shall be slight, our voices tunable, and our movements graceful; which qualities do all avouch that we have need of others' governance. And whoso has need of succour and governance ought in all reason to be obedient and submissive and reverent towards his governor. And whom have we to govern and succour us save men? 'Tis then our bounden duty to give men all honour and submit ourselves unto them: from which rule if any deviate, I deem her most deserving not only of grave censure but of severe chastisement. Which reflections, albeit they are not new to me, I am now led to make by what but a little while ago Pampinea told us touching the perverse wife of Talano, on whom God bestowed that chastisement which the husband had omitted; and accordingly it jumps with my judgment that all such women as deviate from the graciousness, kindliness and compliancy, which Nature and custom and law prescribe, merit, as I said, stern and severe chastisement. Wherefore, as a salutary medicine for the healing of those of us who may be afflicted with this disease, I am minded to relate to you that which was once delivered by Solomon by way of counsel in such a case. Which let none that stands not in need of such physic deem to be meant for her, albeit a proverb is current among men; to wit:-- Good steed, bad steed, alike need the rowel's prick, Good wife, bad wife, alike demand the stick. Which whoso should construe as a merry conceit would find you all ready enough to acknowledge its truth. But even in its moral significance I say that it ought to command assent. For women are all by nature apt to be swayed and to fall; and therefore, for the correction of the wrong-doing of such as transgress the bounds assigned to them, there is need of the stick punitive; and also for the maintenance of virtue in others, that they transgress not these appointed bounds, there is need of the stick auxiliary and deterrent. However, to cut short this preachment, and to come to that which I purpose to tell you, I say: That the bruit of the incomparable renown of the prodigious wisdom of Solomon, as also of the exceeding great liberality with which he accorded proof thereof to all that craved such assurance, being gone forth over well-nigh all the earth, many from divers parts were wont to resort to him for counsel in matters of most pressing and arduous importance; among whom was a young man, Melisso by name, a very wealthy nobleman, who was, as had been his fathers before him, of Lazistan, and there dwelt. And as Melisso fared toward Jerusalem, on his departure from Antioch he fell in with another young man, Giosefo by name, who was going the same way, and with whom, after the manner of travellers, he entered into converse. Melisso, having learned from Giosefo, who and whence he was, asked him whither he went, and on what errand: whereupon Giosefo made an answer that he was going to seek counsel of Solomon, how he should deal with his wife, who had not her match among women for unruliness and perversity, insomuch that neither entreaties nor blandishments nor aught else availed him to bring her to a better frame. And thereupon he in like manner asked Melisso whence he was, and whither he was bound, and on what errand: whereto:--"Of Lazistan, I," replied Melisso, "and like thyself in evil plight; for albeit I am wealthy and spend my substance freely in hospitably entertaining and honourably entreating my fellow-citizens, yet for all that, passing strange though it be to think upon, I find never a soul to love me; and therefore I am bound to the self-same place as thou, to be advised how it may come to pass that I be beloved." So the two men fared on together, and being arrived at Jerusalem, were, by the good offices of one of Solomon's barons, ushered into his presence, and Melisso having briefly laid his case before the King, was answered in one word:--"Love." Which said, Melisso was forthwith dismissed, and Giosefo discovered the reason of his coming. To whom Solomon made no answer but:--"Get thee to the Bridge of Geese." Whereupon Giosefo was likewise promptly ushered out of the King's presence, and finding Melisso awaiting him, told him what manner of answer he had gotten. Which utterances of the King the two men pondered, but finding therein nought that was helpful or relevant to their need, they doubted the King had but mocked them, and set forth upon their homeward journey. Now when they had been some days on the road, they came to a river, which was spanned by a fine bridge, and a great caravan of sumpter mules and horses being about to cross, they must needs tarry, until the caravan had passed by. The more part of which had done so, when it chanced that a mule turned sulky, as we know they will not seldom do, and stood stock still; wherefore a muleteer took a stick and fell a beating the mule therewith, albeit at first with no great vigour, to urge the mule forward. The mule, however, swerving, now to this, now to the other side of the bridge, and sometimes facing about, utterly refused to go forward. Whereat the muleteer, wroth beyond measure, fell a belabouring him with the stick now on the head, now on the flanks, and anon on the croup, never so lustily, but all to no purpose. Which caused Melisso and Giosefo ofttimes to say to him:--"How now, caitiff? What is this thou doest? Wouldst kill the beast? Why not try if thou canst not manage him kindly and gently? He would start sooner so than for this cudgelling of thine." To whom:--"You know your horses," replied the muleteer, "and I know my mule: leave me to deal with him." Which said, he resumed his cudgelling of the mule, and laid about him on this side and on that to such purpose that he started him; and so the honours of the day rested with the muleteer. Now, as the two young men were leaving the bridge behind them, Giosefo asked a good man that sate at its head what the bridge was called, and was answered:--"Sir, 'tis called the Bridge of Geese." Which Giosefo no sooner heard than he called to mind Solomon's words, and turning to Melisso:--"Now, comrade, I warrant thee I may yet find Solomon's counsel sound and good, for that I knew not how to beat my wife is abundantly clear to me; and this muleteer has shewn me what I have to do." Now some days afterwards they arrived at Antioch, where Giosefo prevailed upon Melisso to tarry with him and rest a day or two; and meeting with but a sorry welcome on the part of his wife, he told her to take her orders as to supper from Melisso, who, seeing that such was Giosefo's will, briefly gave her his instructions; which the lady, as had been her wont, not only did not obey, but contravened in almost every particular. Which Giosefo marking:--"Wast thou not told," quoth he angrily, "after what fashion thou wast to order the supper?" Whereto:--"So!" replied the lady haughtily: "what means this? If thou hast a mind to sup, why take not thy supper? No matter what I was told, 'tis thus I saw fit to order it. If it like thee, so be it: if not, 'tis thine affair." Melisso heard the lady with surprise and inward disapprobation: Giosefo retorted:--"Ay wife, thou art still as thou wast used to be; but I will make thee mend thy manners." Then, turning to Melisso:--"Friend," quoth he, "thou wilt soon prove the worth of Solomon's counsel: but, prithee, let it not irk thee to look on, and deem that what I shall do is but done in sport; and if thou shouldst be disposed to stand in my way, bear in mind how we were answered by the muleteer, when we pitied his mule." "I am in thy house," replied Melisso, "and thy pleasure is to me law." Thereupon Giosefo took a stout cudgel cut from an oak sapling, and hied him into the room whither the lady had withdrawn from the table in high dudgeon, seized her by the hair, threw her on to the floor at his feet, and fell a beating her amain with the cudgel. The lady at first uttered a shriek or two, from which she passed to threats; but seeing that, for all that, Giosefo slackened not, by the time she was thoroughly well thrashed, she began to cry him mercy, imploring him not to kill her, and adding that henceforth his will should be to her for law. But still Giosefo gave not over, but with ever fresh fury dealt her mighty swingeing blows, now about the ribs, now on the haunches, now over the shoulders; nor had he done with the fair lady, until, in short, he had left never a bone or other part of her person whole, and he was fairly spent. Then, returning to Melisso:--"To-morrow," quoth he, "we shall see whether 'Get thee to the Bridge of Geese' will prove to have been sound advice or no." And so, having rested a while, and then washed his hands, he supped with Melisso. With great pain the poor lady got upon her feet and laid herself on her bed, and having there taken such rest as she might, rose betimes on the morrow, and craved to know of Giosefo what he was minded to have to breakfast. Giosefo, laughing with Melisso over the message, gave her his directions, and when in due time they came to breakfast, they found everything excellently ordered according as it had been commanded: for which cause the counsel, which they had at first failed to understand, now received their highest commendation. Some few days later Melisso, having taken leave of Giosefo, went home, and told a wise man the counsel he had gotten from Solomon. Whereupon:--"And no truer or sounder advice could he have given thee," quoth the sage: "thou knowest that thou lovest never a soul, and that the honours thou payest and the services thou renderest to others are not prompted by love of them, but by love of display. Love, then, as Solomon bade thee, and thou shalt be loved." On such wise was the unruly chastised; and the young man, learning to love, was beloved. NOVEL X. -- Dom Gianni at the instance of his gossip Pietro uses an enchantment to transform Pietro's wife into a mare; but, when he comes to attach the tail, Gossip Pietro, by saying that he will have none of the tail, makes the enchantment of no effect. -- The queen's story evoked some murmurs from the ladies and some laughter from the young men; however, when they were silent, Dioneo thus began:--Dainty my ladies, a black crow among a flock of white doves enhances their beauty more than would a white swan; and so, when many sages are met together, their ripe wisdom not only shews the brighter and goodlier for the presence of one that is not so wise, but may even derive pleasure and diversion therefrom. Wherefore as you, my ladies, are one and all most discreet and judicious, I, who know myself to be somewhat scant of sense, should, for that by my demerit I make your merit shew the more glorious, be more dear to you, than if by my greater merit I eclipsed yours, and by consequence should have more ample license to reveal myself to you as I am; and therefore have more patient sufferance on your part than would be due to me, were I more discreet, in the relation of the tale which I am about to tell you. 'Twill be, then, a story none too long, wherefrom you may gather with what exactitude it behoves folk to observe the injunctions of those that for any purpose use an enchantment, and how slight an error committed therein make bring to nought all the work of the enchanter. A year or so ago there was at Barletta a priest named Dom Gianni di Barolo, who, to eke out the scanty pittance his church afforded him, set a pack-saddle upon his mare, and took to going the round of the fairs of Apulia, buying and selling merchandise. And so it befell that he clapped up a close acquaintance with one Pietro da Tresanti, who plied the same trade as he, albeit instead of a mare he had but an ass; whom in token of friendship and good-fellowship Dom Gianni after the Apulian fashion called ever Gossip Pietro, and had him to his house and there lodged and honourably entreated him as often as he came to Barletta. Gossip Pietro on his part, albeit he was very poor and had but a little cot at Tresanti, that scarce sufficed for himself, his fair, young wife, and their ass, nevertheless, whenever Dom Gianni arrived at Tresanti, made him welcome, and did him the honours of his house as best he might, in requital of the hospitality which he received at Barletta. However, as Gossip Pietro had but one little bed, in which he slept with his fair wife, 'twas not in his power to lodge Dom Gianni as comfortably as he would have liked; but the priest's mare being quartered beside the ass in a little stable, the priest himself must needs lie beside her on the straw. Many a time when the priest came, the wife, knowing how honourably he entreated her husband at Barletta, would fain have gone to sleep with a neighbour, one Zita Carapresa di Giudice Leo, that the priest might share the bed with her husband, and many a time had she told the priest so howbeit he would never agree to it, and on one occasion:--"Gossip Gemmata," quoth he, "trouble not thyself about me; I am well lodged; for, when I am so minded, I turn the mare into a fine lass and dally with her, and then, when I would, I turn her back into a mare; wherefore I could ill brook to part from her." The young woman, wondering but believing, told her husband what the priest had said, adding:--"If he is even such a friend as thou sayst, why dost thou not get him to teach thee the enchantment, so that thou mayst turn me into a mare, and have both ass and mare for thine occasions? We should then make twice as much gain as we do, and thou couldst turn me back into a woman when we came home at night." Gossip Pietro, whose wit was somewhat blunt, believed that 'twas as she said, approved her counsel, and began adjuring Dom Gianni, as persuasively as he might, to teach him the incantation. Dom Gianni did his best to wean him of his folly; but as all was in vain:--"Lo, now," quoth he, "as you are both bent on it, we will be up, as is our wont, before the sun to-morrow morning, and I will shew you how 'tis done. The truth is that 'tis in the attachment of the tail that the great difficulty lies, as thou wilt see." Scarce a wink of sleep had either Gossip Pietro or Gossip Gemmata that night, so great was their anxiety; and towards daybreak up they got, and called Dom Gianni; who, being risen, came in his shirt into Gossip Pietro's little bedroom, and:--"I know not," quoth he, "that there is another soul in the world for whom I would do this, save you, my gossips; however, as you will have it so, I will do it, but it behoves you to do exactly as I bid you, if you would have the enchantment work." They promised obedience, and Dom Gianni thereupon took a light, which he handed to Gossip Pietro, saying:--"Let nought that I shall do or say escape thee; and have a care, so thou wouldst not ruin all, to say never a word, whatever thou mayst see or hear; and pray God that the tail may be securely attached." So Gossip Pietro took the light, and again promised obedience; Dom Gianni caused Gossip Gemmata to strip herself stark naked, and stand on all fours like a mare, at the same time strictly charging her that, whatever might happen, she must utter no word. Then, touching her head and face:--"Be this a fine head of a mare," quoth he; in like manner touching her hair, he said:--"Be this a fine mane of a mare;" touching her arms:--"Be these fine legs and fine hooves of a mare;" then, as he touched her breast and felt its firm roundness, and there awoke and arose one that was not called:--"And be this a fine breast of a mare," quoth he; and in like manner he dealt with her back, belly, croup, thighs, and legs. Last of all, the work being complete save for the tail, he lifted his shirt and took in his hand the tool with which he was used to plant men, and forthwith thrust it into the furrow made for it, saying:--"And be this a fine tail of a mare." Whereat Gossip Pietro, who had followed everything very heedfully to that point, disapproving that last particular, exclaimed:--"No! Dom Gianni, I'll have no tail, I'll have no tail." The essential juice, by which all plants are propagated, was already discharged, when Dom Gianni withdrew the tool, saying:--"Alas! Gossip Pietro, what hast thou done? Did I not tell thee to say never a word, no matter what thou mightst see? The mare was all but made; but by speaking thou hast spoiled all; and 'tis not possible to repeat the enchantment." "Well and good," replied Gossip Pietro, "I would have none of that tail. Why saidst thou not to me:--'Make it thou'? And besides, thou wast attaching it too low." "'Twas because," returned Dom Gianni, "thou wouldst not have known, on the first essay, how to attach it so well as I." Whereupon the young woman stood up, and in all good faith said to her husband:--"Fool that thou art, wherefore hast thou brought to nought what had been for the good of us both? When didst thou ever see mare without a tail? So help me God, poor as thou art, thou deservest to be poorer still." So, after Gossip Pietro's ill-timed speech, there being no way left of turning the young woman into a mare, downcast and melancholy she resumed her clothes; and Gossip Pietro plied his old trade with his ass, and went with Dom Gianni to the fair of Bitonto, and never asked him so to serve him again. What laughter this story drew from the ladies, who understood it better than Dioneo had wished, may be left to the imagination of the fair one that now laughs thereat. However, as the stories were ended, and the sun now shone with a tempered radiance, the queen, witting that the end of her sovereignty was come, stood up and took off the crown, and set it on the head of Pamfilo, whom alone it now remained thus to honour; and said with a smile:--"My lord, 'tis a great burden that falls upon thee, seeing that thou, coming last, art bound to make good my shortcomings and those of my predecessors; which God give thee grace to accomplish, even as He has given me grace to make thee king." With gladsome acknowledgment of the honour:--"I doubt not," replied Pamfilo, "that, thanks to your noble qualities and those of my other subjects, I shall win even such praise as those that have borne sway before me." Then, following the example of his predecessors, he made all meet arrangements in concert with the seneschal: after which, he turned to the expectant ladies, and thus spoke:--"Enamoured my ladies, Emilia, our queen of to-day, deeming it proper to allow you an interval of rest to recruit your powers, gave you license to discourse of such matters as should most commend themselves to each in turn; and as thereby you are now rested, I judge that 'tis meet to revert to our accustomed rule. Wherefore I ordain that for to-morrow you do each of you take thought how you may discourse of the ensuing theme: to wit, of such as in matters of love, or otherwise, have done something with liberality or magnificence. By the telling, and (still more) by the doing of such things, your spirits will assuredly be duly attuned and animated to emprise high and noble; whereby our life, which cannot but be brief, seeing that 'tis enshrined in a mortal body, fame shall perpetuate in glory; which whoso serves not the belly, as do the beasts, must not only covet, but with all zeal seek after and labour to attain." The gay company having, one and all, approved the theme, rose at a word from their new king, and betook them to their wonted pastimes, and so, according as they severally had most lief, diverted them, until they blithely reunited for supper, which being served with all due care and despatched, they rose up to dance, as they were wont, and when they had sung, perhaps, a thousand ditties, fitter to please by their words than by any excellence of musical art, the king bade Neifile sing one on her own account. And promptly and graciously, with voice clear and blithe, thus Neifile sang:-- In prime of maidenhood, and fair and feat 'Mid spring's fresh foison chant I merrily: Thanks be to Love and to my fancies sweet. As o'er the grassy mead I, glancing, fare, I mark it white and yellow and vermeil dight With flowers, the thorny rose, the lily white: And all alike to his face I compare, Who, loving, hath me ta'en, and me shall e'er Hold bounden to his will, sith I am she That in his will findeth her joy complete. Whereof if so it be that I do find Any that I most like to him approve, That pluck I straight and kiss with words of love, Discovering all, as, best I may, my mind; Yea, all my heart's desire; and then entwined I set it in the chaplet daintily, And with my yellow tresses bind and pleat. And as mine eyes do drink in the delight Which the flower yields them, even so my mind, Fired with his sweet love, doth such solace find, As he himself were present to the sight: But never word of mine discover might That which the flower's sweet smell awakes in me: Witness the true tale that my sighs repeat. For from my bosom gentle and hot they fly, Not like the gusty sighs that others heave, Whenas they languish and do sorely grieve; And to my love incontinent they hie: Whereof when he is ware, he, by and by, To meward hasting, cometh suddenly, When:--"Lest I faint," I cry, "come, I entreat." The king and all the ladies did not a little commend Neifile's song; after which, as the night was far spent, the king bade all go to rest until the morrow. -- Endeth here the ninth day of the Decameron, and beginneth the tenth, in which, under the rule of Pamfilo, discourse is had of such as in matters of love, or otherwise, have done something with liberality or magnificence. -- Some cloudlets in the West still shewed a vermeil flush, albeit those of the eastern sky, as the sun's rays smote them anear, were already fringed as with most lucent gold, when uprose Pamfilo, and roused the ladies and his comrades. And all the company being assembled, and choice made of the place whither they should betake them for their diversion, he, accompanied by Filomena and Fiammetta, led the way at a slow pace, followed by all the rest. So fared they no little space, beguiling the time with talk of their future way of life, whereof there was much to tell and much to answer, until, as the sun gained strength, they returned, having made quite a long round, to the palace; and being gathered about the fountain, such as were so minded drank somewhat from beakers rinsed in its pure waters; and then in the delicious shade of the garden they hied them hither and thither, taking their pleasure until breakfast-time. Their meal taken, they slept as they were wont; and then, at a spot chosen by the king, they reassembled, where Neifile, having received his command to lead the way, blithely thus began. NOVEL I. -- A knight in the service of the King of Spain deems himself ill requited. Wherefore the King, by most cogent proof, shews him that the blame rests not with him, but with the knight's own evil fortune; after which, he bestows upon him a noble gift. -- Highly graced, indeed, do I deem myself, honourable my ladies, that our king should have given to me the precedence in a matter so arduous to tell of as magnificence: for, as the sun irradiates all the heaven with his glory and beauty, even so does magnificence enhance the purity and the splendour of every other virtue. I shall therefore tell you a story, which, to my thinking, is not a little pretty; and which, assuredly, it must be profitable to call to mind. You are to know, then, that, among other honourable knights that from days of old even until now have dwelt in our city, one, and perchance the worthiest of all, was Messer Ruggieri de' Figiovanni. Who, being wealthy and magnanimous, reflecting on the customs and manner of life of Tuscany, perceived that by tarrying there he was like to find little or no occasion of shewing his mettle, and accordingly resolved to pass some time at the court of Alfonso, King of Spain, who for the fame of his high qualities was without a peer among the potentates of his age. So, being well provided with arms and horses and retinue suitable to his rank, he hied him to Spain, where he was graciously received by the King. There tarrying accordingly, Messer Ruggieri very soon, as well by the splendid style in which he lived as by the prodigious feats of arms that he did, gave folk to know his high desert. Now, having tarried there some while, and observed the King's ways with much care, and how he would grant castles, cities, or baronies, to this, that, or the other of his subjects, he deemed that the King shewed therein but little judgment, seeing that he would give them to men that merited them not. And for that nought was given to him, he, knowing his merit, deemed himself gravely injured in reputation; wherefore he made up his mind to depart the realm, and to that end craved license of the King; which the King granted him, and therewith gave him one of the best and finest mules that was ever ridden, a gift which Messer Ruggieri, as he had a long journey to make, did not a little appreciate. The King then bade one of his discreet domestics contrive, as best he might, to ride with Messer Ruggieri on such wise that it might not appear that he did so by the King's command, and charge his memory with whatever Messer Ruggieri might say of him, so that he might be able to repeat it; which done, he was on the very next morning to bid Ruggieri return to the King forthwith. The King's agent was on the alert, and no sooner was Ruggieri out of the city, than without any manner of difficulty he joined his company, giving out that he was going towards Italy. As thus they rode, talking of divers matters, Messer Ruggieri being mounted on the mule given him by the King:--"Methinks," quoth the other, it being then hard upon tierce, "that 'twere well to give the beasts a voidance;" and by and by, being come to a convenient place, they voided all the beasts save the mule. Then, as they continued their journey, the squire hearkening attentively to the knight's words, they came to a river, and while there they watered the beasts, the mule made a voidance in the stream. Whereat:--"Ah, foul fall thee, beast," quoth Messer Ruggieri, "that art even as thy master, that gave thee to me!" Which remark, as also many another that fell from Ruggieri as they rode together throughout the day, the squire stored in his memory; but never another word did he hear Ruggieri say touching the King, that was not laudatory to the last degree. On the morrow, when they were gotten to horse, and had set their faces towards Tuscany, the squire apprised Ruggieri of the King's command, and thereupon Ruggieri turned back. On his arrival the King, having already heard what he had said touching the mule, gave him gladsome greeting, and asked him wherefore he had likened him to the mule, or rather the mule to him. Whereto Messer Ruggieri answered frankly:--"My lord, I likened you to the mule, for that, as you bestow your gifts where 'tis not meet, and where meet it were, bestow them not, so the mule where 'twas meet, voided not, and where 'twas not meet, voided." "Messer Ruggieri," replied the King, "'tis not because I have not discerned in you a knight most good and true, for whose desert no gift were too great, that I have not bestowed on you such gifts as I have bestowed upon many others, who in comparison of you are nothing worth: the fault is none of mine but solely of your fortune, which would not suffer me; and that this which I say is true, I will make abundantly plain to you." "My lord," returned Messer Ruggieri, "mortified am I, not that you gave me no gift, for thereof I had no desire, being too rich, but that you made no sign of recognition of my desert; however, I deem your explanation sound and honourable, and whatever you shall be pleased that I should see, that gladly will I, albeit I believe you without attestation." The King then led him into one of the great halls, in which, by his preordinance, were two chests closed under lock and key, and, not a few others being present, said to him:--"Messer Ruggieri, one these chests contains my crown, sceptre and orb, with many a fine girdle, buckle, ring, and whatever else of jewellery I possess; the other is full of earth: choose then, and whichever you shall choose, be it yours; thereby you will discover whether 'tis due to me or to your fortune that your deserts have lacked requital." Such being the King's pleasure, Messer Ruggieri chose one of the chests, which at the King's command being opened and found to be that which contained the earth:--"Now, Messer Ruggieri," quoth the King with a laugh, "your own eyes may warrant you of the truth of what I say touching Fortune; but verily your merit demands that I take arms against her in your cause. I know that you are not minded to become a Spaniard, and therefore I shall give you neither castle nor city; but that chest, which Fortune denied you, I bestow on you in her despite, that you may take it with you to your own country, and there with your neighbours justly vaunt yourself of your deserts, attested by my gifts." Messer Ruggieri took the chest, and having thanked the King in a manner befitting such a gift, returned therewith, well pleased, to Tuscany. NOVEL II. -- Ghino di Tacco captures the Abbot of Cluny, cures him of a disorder of the stomach, and releases him. The abbot, on his return to the court of Rome, reconciles Ghino with Pope Boniface, and makes him prior of the Hospital. -- When an end was made of extolling the magnificence shewn by King Alfonso towards the Florentine knight, the king, who had listened to the story with no small pleasure, bade Elisa follow suit; and forthwith Elisa began:--Dainty my ladies, undeniable it is that for a king to be magnificent, and to entreat magnificently one that has done him service, is a great matter, and meet for commendation. What then shall we say when the tale is of a dignitary of the Church that shewed wondrous magnificence towards one whom he might well have entreated as an enemy, and not have been blamed by a soul? Assuredly nought else than that what in the king was virtue was in the prelate nothing less than a miracle, seeing that for superlative greed the clergy, one and all, outdo us women, and wage war to the knife upon every form of liberality. And albeit all men are by nature prone to avenge their wrongs, 'tis notorious that the clergy, however they may preach longsuffering, and commend of all things the forgiving of trespasses, are more quick and hot to be avenged than the rest of mankind. Now this, to wit, after what manner a prelate shewed magnificence, will be made manifest to you in my story. Ghino di Tacco, a man redoubtable by reason of his truculence and his high-handed deeds, being banished from Siena, and at enmity with the Counts of Santa Fiore, raised Radicofani in revolt against the Church of Rome, and there abiding, harried all the surrounding country with his soldiers, plundering all wayfarers. Now Pope Boniface VIII. being at Rome, there came to court the Abbot of Cluny, who is reputed one of the wealthiest prelates in the world; and having there gotten a disorder of the stomach, he was advised by the physicians to go to the baths of Siena, where (they averred) he would certainly be cured. So, having obtained the Pope's leave, reckless of the bruit of Ghino's exploits, he took the road, being attended by a great and well-equipped train of sumpter-horses and servants. Ghino di Tacco, getting wind of his approach, spread his nets to such purpose as without the loss of so much as a boy to surround the abbot, with all his servants and effects, in a strait pass, from which there was no exit. Which done, he sent one of his men, the cunningest of them all, with a sufficient retinue to the abbot, who most lovingly on Ghino's part besought the abbot to come and visit Ghino at the castle. Whereto the abbot, very wroth, made answer that he would none of it, for that nought had he to do with Ghino; but that he purposed to continue his journey, and would fain see who would hinder him. "Sir," returned the envoy, assuming a humble tone, "you are come to a part of the country where we have no fear of aught save the might of God, and where excommunications and interdicts are one and all under the ban; wherefore you were best be pleased to shew yourself agreeable to Ghino in this particular." As they thus spoke, Ghino's soldiers shewed themselves on every side, and it being thus manifest to the abbot that he and his company were taken prisoners, he, albeit mightily incensed, suffered himself with all his train and effects to be conducted by the envoy to the castle; where the abbot, being alighted, was lodged in a small and very dark and discomfortable room, while his retinue, according to their several conditions, were provided with comfortable quarters in divers parts of the castle, the horses well stabled and all the effects secured, none being in any wise tampered with. Which done, Ghino hied him to the abbot, and:--"Sir," quoth he, "Ghino, whose guest you are, sends me to entreat you to be pleased to inform him of your destination, and the purpose of your journey." The abbot, vailing his pride like a wise man, told whither he was bound and for what purpose. Whereupon Ghino left him, casting about how he might cure him without a bath. To which end he kept a great fire ever burning in the little chamber, and had it closely guarded, and returned not to the abbot until the ensuing morning, when he brought him in a spotless napkin two slices of toast and a great beaker of vernaccia of Corniglia, being of the abbot's own vintage; and:--"Sir," quoth he to the abbot, "Ghino, as a young man, made his studies in medicine, and avers that he then learned that there is no better treatment for disorder of the stomach than that which he will afford you, whereof the matters that I bring you are the beginning; wherefore take them and be of good cheer." The abbot, being far too hungry to make many words about the matter, ate (albeit in high dudgeon) the toast, and drank the vernaccia; which done, he enlarged on his wrongs in a high tone, with much questioning and perpending; and above all he demanded to see Ghino. Part of what the abbot said Ghino disregarded as of no substance, to other part he replied courteously enough; and having assured him that Ghino would visit him as soon as might be, he took his leave of him; nor did he return until the morrow, when he brought him toast and vernaccia in the same quantity as before; and so he kept him several days: then, having marked that the abbot had eaten some dried beans that he had secretly brought and left there of set purpose, he asked him in Ghino's name how he felt in the stomach. "Were I but out of Ghino's hands," replied the abbot, "I should feel myself well, indeed: next to which, I desire most of all a good breakfast, so excellent a cure have his medicines wrought on me." Whereupon Ghino caused the abbot's servants to furnish a goodly chamber with the abbot's own effects, and there on the morrow make ready a grand banquet, at which all the abbot's suite and not a few of the garrison being assembled, he hied him to the abbot, and:--"Sir," quoth he, "'tis time you left the infirmary, seeing that you now feel yourself well;" and so saying, he took him by the hand, and led him into the chamber made ready for him, and having left him there with his own people, made it his chief concern that the banquet should be magnificent. The abbot's spirits revived as he found himself again among his men, with whom he talked a while, telling them how he had been entreated, wherewith they contrasted the signal honour which they, on the other hand, had, one and all, received from Ghino. Breakfast-time came, and with order meet the abbot and the rest were regaled with good viands and good wines, Ghino still suffering not the abbot to know who he was. But when the abbot had thus passed several days, Ghino, having first had all his effects collected in a saloon, and all his horses, to the poorest jade, in the courtyard below, hied him to the abbot and asked him how he felt, and if he deemed himself strong enough to ride. The abbot replied that he was quite strong enough, and that 'twould be well indeed with him, were he once out of Ghino's hands. Ghino then led him into the saloon in which were his effects and all his retinue, and having brought him to a window, whence he might see all his horses:--"Sir Abbot," quoth he, "you must know that 'tis not for that he has an evil heart, but because, being a gentleman, he is banished from his home, and reduced to poverty, and has not a few powerful enemies, that in defence of his life and honour, Ghino di Tacco, whom you see before you, has become a robber of highways and an enemy to the court of Rome. But such as I am, I have cured you of your malady of the stomach, and taking you to be a worthy lord, I purpose not to treat you as I would another, from whom, were he in my hands, as you are, I should take such part of his goods as I should think fit; but I shall leave it to you, upon consideration of my need, to assign to me such portion of your goods as you yourself shall determine. Here are they before you undiminished and unimpaired, and from this window you may see your horses below in the courtyard; wherefore take the part or take the whole, as you may see fit, and be it at your option to tarry here, or go hence, from this hour forth." The abbot marvelled to hear a highway robber speak thus liberally, and such was his gratification that his wrath and fierce resentment departed from him, nay, were transformed into kindness, insomuch that in all cordial amity he hasted to embrace Ghino, saying:--"By God I swear, that to gain the friendship of a man such I now deem thee to be, I would be content to suffer much greater wrong than that which until now, meseemed, thou hadst done me. Cursed be Fortune that constrains thee to ply so censurable a trade." Which said, he selected a very few things, and none superfluous, from his ample store, and having done likewise with the horses, ceded all else to Ghino, and hied him back to Rome; where, seeing him, the Pope, who to his great grief had heard of his capture, asked him what benefit he had gotten from the baths. Whereto the abbot made answer with a smile:--"Holy Father, I found nearer here than the baths a worthy physician who has wrought a most excellent cure on me:" he then recounted all the circumstances, whereat the Pope laughed. Afterwards, still pursuing the topic, the abbot, yielding to the promptings of magnificence, asked a favour of the Pope; who, expecting that he would ask somewhat else than he did, liberally promised to give him whatever he should demand. Whereupon:--"Holy Father," quoth the abbot, "that which I would crave of you is that you restore Ghino di Tacco, my physician, to your favour; seeing that among the good men and true and meritorious that I have known, he is by no means of the least account. And for the evil life that he leads, I impute it to Fortune rather than to him: change then his fortune, by giving him the means whereby he may live in manner befitting his rank, and I doubt not that in a little while your judgment of him will jump with mine." Whereto the Pope, being magnanimous, and an admirer of good men and true, made answer that so he would gladly do, if Ghino should prove to be such as the abbot said; and that he would have him brought under safe conduct to Rome. Thither accordingly under safe conduct came Ghino, to the abbot's great delight; nor had he been long at court before the Pope approved his worth, and restored him to his favour, granting him a great office, to wit, that of prior of the Hospital, whereof he made him knight. Which office he held for the rest of his life, being ever a friend and vassal of Holy Church and the Abbot of Cluny. NOVEL III. -- Mitridanes, holding Nathan in despite by reason of his courtesy, journeys with intent to kill him, and falling in with him unawares, is advised by him how to compass his end. Following his advice, he finds him in a copse, and recognizing him, is shame-stricken, and becomes his friend. -- Verily like to a miracle seemed it to all to hear that a prelate had done aught with magnificence; but when the ladies had made an end of their remarks, the king bade Filostrato follow suit; and forthwith Filostrato began:--Noble ladies, great was the magnificence of the King of Spain, and perchance a thing unheard-of the magnificence of the Abbot of Cluny; but peradventure 'twill seem not a whit less marvellous to you to hear of one who, to shew liberality towards another, did resolve artfully to yield to him his blood, nay, his very life, for which the other thirsted, and had so done, had the other chosen to take them, as I shall shew you in a little story. Beyond all question, if we may believe the report of certain Genoese, and other folk that have been in those regions, there dwelt of yore in the parts of Cathay one Nathan, a man of noble lineage and incomparable wealth. Who, having a seat hard by a road, by which whoso would travel from the West eastward, or from the East westward, must needs pass, and being magnanimous and liberal, and zealous to approve himself such in act, did set on work cunning artificers not a few, and cause one of the finest and largest and most luxurious palaces that ever were seen, to be there builded and furnished in the goodliest manner with all things meet for the reception and honourable entertainment of gentlemen. And so, keeping a great array of excellent servants, he courteously and hospitably did the honours of his house to whoso came and went: in which laudable way of life he persevered, until not only the East, but well-nigh all the West had heard his fame; which thus, what time he was well-stricken in years, albeit not for that cause grown weary of shewing courtesy, reached the ears of one Mitridanes, a young man of a country not far distant. Who, knowing himself to be no less wealthy than Nathan, grew envious of the renown that he had of his good deeds, and resolved to obliterate, or at least to obscure it, by a yet greater liberality. So he had built for himself a palace like that of Nathan, of which he did the honours with a lavish courtesy that none had ever equalled, to whoso came or went that way; and verily in a short while he became famous enough. Now it so befell that on a day when the young man was all alone in the courtyard of the palace, there came in by one of the gates a poor woman, who asked of him an alms, and had it; but, not content therewith, came again to him by the second gate, and asked another alms, and had it, and after the like sort did even unto the twelfth time; but, she returning for the thirteenth time:--"My good woman," quoth Mitridanes, "thou art not a little pertinacious in thy begging:" howbeit he gave her an alms. Whereupon:--"Ah! the wondrous liberality of Nathan!" quoth the beldam:--"thirty-two gates are there to his palace, by every one of which I have entered, and asking alms of him, was never--for aught he shewed--recognized, or refused, and here, though I have entered as yet by but thirteen gates, I am recognized and reprimanded." And therewith she departed, and returned no more. Mitridanes, who accounted the mention of Nathan's fame an abatement of his own, was kindled by her words with a frenzy of wrath, and began thus to commune with himself:--Alas! when shall I attain to the grandeur of Nathan's liberality, to say nought of transcending it, as I would fain, seeing that in the veriest trifles I cannot approach him? Of a surety my labour is in vain, if I rid not the earth of him: which, since old age relieves me not of him, I must forthwith do with mine own hands. And in the flush of his despite up he started, and giving none to know of his purpose, got to horse with a small company, and after three days arrived at the place where Nathan abode; and having enjoined his comrades to make as if they were none of his, and knew him not, and to go quarter themselves as best they might until they had his further orders, he, being thus alone, towards evening came upon Nathan, also alone, at no great distance from his splendid palace. Nathan was recreating himself by a walk, and was very simply clad; so that Mitridanes, knowing him not, asked him if he could shew him where Nathan dwelt. "My son," replied Nathan gladsomely, "that can none in these parts better than I; wherefore, so it please thee, I will bring thee thither." The young man replied that 'twould be mighty agreeable to him, but that, if so it might be, he had a mind to be neither known nor seen by Nathan. "And herein also," returned Nathan, "since 'tis thy pleasure, I will gratify thee." Whereupon Mitridanes dismounted, and with Nathan, who soon engaged him in delightsome discourse, walked to the goodly palace. Arrived there Nathan caused one of his servants take the young man's horse, and drawing close to him, bade him in a whisper to see to it without delay that none in the house should tell the young man that he was Nathan: and so 'twas done. Being come into the palace, Nathan quartered Mitridanes in a most goodly chamber, where none saw him but those whom he had appointed to wait upon him; and he himself kept him company, doing him all possible honour. Of whom Mitridanes, albeit he reverenced him as a father, yet, being thus with him, forbore not to ask who he was. Whereto Nathan made answer:--"I am a petty servant of Nathan: old as I am, I have been with him since my childhood, and never has he advanced me to higher office than this wherein thou seest me: wherefore, howsoever other folk may praise him, little cause have I to do so." Which words afforded Mitridanes some hope of carrying his wicked purpose into effect with more of plan and less of risk than had otherwise been possible. By and by Nathan very courteously asked him who he was, and what business brought him thither; offering him such counsel and aid as he might be able to afford him. Mitridanes hesitated a while to reply: but at last he resolved to trust him, and when with no little circumlocution he had demanded of him fidelity, counsel and aid, he fully discovered to him who he was, and the purpose and motive of his coming thither. Now, albeit to hear Mitridanes thus unfold his horrid design caused Nathan no small inward commotion, yet 'twas not long before courageously and composedly he thus made answer:--"Noble was thy father, Mitridanes, and thou art minded to shew thyself not unworthy of him by this lofty emprise of thine, to wit, of being liberal to all comers: and for that thou art envious of Nathan's merit I greatly commend thee; for were many envious for a like cause, the world, from being a most wretched, would soon become a happy place. Doubt not that I shall keep secret the design which thou hast confided to me, for the furtherance whereof 'tis good advice rather than substantial aid that I have to offer thee. Which advice is this. Hence, perhaps half a mile off, thou mayst see a copse, in which almost every morning Nathan is wont to walk, taking his pleasure, for quite a long while: 'twill be an easy matter for thee to find him there, and deal with him as thou mayst be minded. Now, shouldst thou slay him, thou wilt get thee home with less risk of let, if thou take not the path by which thou camest hither, but that which thou seest issue from the copse on the left, for, though 'tis somewhat more rough, it leads more directly to thy house, and will be safer for thee." Possessed of this information, Mitridanes, when Nathan had left him, privily apprised his comrades, who were likewise lodged in the palace, of the place where they were to await him on the ensuing day; which being come, Nathan, inflexibly determined to act in all respects according to the advice which he had given Mitridanes, hied him forth to the copse unattended, to meet his death. Mitridanes, being risen, took his bow and sword, for other arms he had none with him, mounted his horse, and rode to the copse, through which, while he was yet some way off, he saw Nathan passing, quite alone. And being minded, before he fell upon him, to see his face and hear the sound of his voice, as, riding at a smart pace, he came up with him, he laid hold of him by his head-gear, exclaiming:--"Greybeard, thou art a dead man." Whereto Nathan answered nought but:--"Then 'tis but my desert." But Mitridanes, hearing the voice, and scanning the face, forthwith knew him for the same man that had welcomed him heartily, consorted with him familiarly, and counselled him faithfully; whereby his wrath presently subsided, and gave place to shame. Wherefore, casting away the sword that he held drawn in act to strike, he sprang from his horse, and weeping, threw himself at Nathan's feet, saying:--"Your liberality, dearest father, I acknowledge to be beyond all question, seeing with what craft you did plot your coming hither to yield me your life, for which, by mine own avowal, you knew that I, albeit cause I had none, did thirst. But God, more regardful of my duty than I myself, has now, in this moment of supreme stress, opened the eyes of my mind, that wretched envy had fast sealed. The prompter was your compliance, the greater is the debt of penitence that I owe you for my fault; wherefore wreak even such vengeance upon me as you may deem answerable to my transgression." But Nathan raised Mitridanes to his feet, and tenderly embraced him, saying:--"My son, thy enterprise, howsoever thou mayst denote it, whether evil or otherwise, was not such that thou shouldst crave, or I give, pardon thereof; for 'twas not in malice but in that thou wouldst fain have been reputed better than I that thou ensuedst it. Doubt then no more of me; nay, rest assured that none that lives bears thee such love as I, who know the loftiness of thy spirit, bent not to heap up wealth, as do the caitiffs, but to dispense in bounty thine accumulated store. Think it no shame that to enhance thy reputation thou wouldst have slain me; nor deem that I marvel thereat. To slay not one man, as thou wast minded, but countless multitudes, to waste whole countries with fire, and to raze cities to the ground has been well-nigh the sole art, by which the mightiest emperors and the greatest kings have extended their dominions, and by consequence their fame. Wherefore, if thou, to increase thy fame, wouldst fain have slain me, 'twas nothing marvellous or strange, but wonted." Whereto Mitridanes made answer, not to excuse his wicked design, but to commend the seemly excuse found for it by Nathan, whom at length he told how beyond measure he marvelled that Nathan had not only been consenting to the enterprise, but had aided him therein by his counsel. But Nathan answered:--"Liefer had I, Mitridanes, that thou didst not marvel either at my consent or at my counsel, for that, since I was my own master and of a mind to that emprise whereon thou art also bent, never a soul came to my house, but, so far as in me lay, I gave him all that he asked of me. Thou camest, lusting for my life; and so, when I heard thee crave it of me, I forthwith, that thou mightst not be the only guest to depart hence ill content, resolved to give it thee; and to that end I gave thee such counsel as I deemed would serve thee both to the taking of my life and the preservation of thine own. Wherefore yet again I bid thee, nay, I entreat thee, if so thou art minded, to take it for thy satisfaction: I know not how I could better bestow it. I have had the use of it now for some eighty years, and pleasure and solace thereof; and I know that, by the course of Nature and the common lot of man and all things mundane, it can continue to be mine for but a little while; and so I deem that 'twere much better to bestow it, as I have ever bestowed and dispensed my wealth, than to keep it, until, against my will, it be reft from me by Nature. 'Twere but a trifle, though 'twere a hundred years: how insignificant, then, the six or eight years that are all I have to give! Take it, then, if thou hadst lief, take it, I pray thee; for, long as I have lived here, none have I found but thee to desire it; nor know I when I may find another, if thou take it not, to demand it of me. And if, peradventure, I should find one such, yet I know that the longer I keep it, the less its worth will be; wherefore, ere it be thus cheapened, take it, I implore thee." Sore shame-stricken, Mitridanes made answer:--"Now God forefend that I should so much as harbour, as but now I did, such a thought, not to say do such a deed, as to wrest from you a thing so precious as your life, the years whereof, so far from abridging, I would gladly supplement with mine own." "So then," rejoined Nathan promptly, "thou wouldst, if thou couldst, add thy years to mine, and cause me to serve thee as I never yet served any man, to wit, to take from thee that which is thine, I that never took aught from a soul!" "Ay, that would I," returned Mitridanes. "Then," quoth Nathan, "do as I shall bid thee. Thou art young: tarry here in my house, and call thyself Nathan; and I will get me to thy house, and ever call myself Mitridanes." Whereto Mitridanes made answer:--"Were I but able to discharge this trust, as you have been and are, scarce would I hesitate to accept your offer; but, as too sure am I that aught that I might do would but serve to lower Nathan's fame, and I am not minded to mar that in another which I cannot mend in myself, accept it I will not." After which and the like interchange of delectable discourse, Nathan and Mitridanes, by Nathan's desire, returned to the palace; where Nathan for some days honourably entreated Mitridanes, and by his sage counsel confirmed and encouraged him in his high and noble resolve; after which, Mitridanes, being minded to return home with his company, took his leave of Nathan, fully persuaded that 'twas not possible to surpass him in liberality. NOVEL IV. -- Messer Gentile de' Carisendi, being come from Modena, disinters a lady that he loves, who has been buried for dead. She, being reanimated, gives birth to a male child; and Messer Gentile restores her, with her son, to Niccoluccio Caccianimico, her husband. -- A thing marvellous seemed it to all that for liberality a man should be ready to sacrifice his own life; and herein they averred that Nathan had without doubt left the King of Spain and the Abbot of Cluny behind. However, when they had discussed the matter diversely and at large, the king, bending his regard on Lauretta, signified to her his will that she should tell; and forthwith, accordingly, Lauretta began:--Goodly matters are they and magnificent that have been recounted to you, young ladies; nay, so much of our field of discourse is already filled by their grandeur, that for us that are yet to tell, there is, methinks, no room left, unless we seek our topic there where matter of discourse germane to every theme does most richly abound, to wit, in the affairs of love. For which cause, as also for that our time of life cannot but make us especially inclinable thereto, I am minded that my story shall be of a feat of magnificence done by a lover: which, all things considered, will, peradventure, seem to you inferior to none that have been shewn you; so it be true that to possess the beloved one, men will part with their treasures, forget their enmities, and jeopardize their own lives, their honour and their reputation, in a thousand ways. Know, then, that at Bologna, that most famous city of Lombardy, there dwelt a knight, Messer Gentile Carisendi by name, worshipful alike for his noble lineage and his native worth: who in his youth, being enamoured of a young gentlewoman named Madonna Catalina, wife of one Niccoluccio Caccianimico, and well-nigh despairing, for that the lady gave him but a sorry requital of his love, betook him to Modena, being called thither as Podesta. Now what time he was there, Niccoluccio being also away from Bologna, and his lady gone, for that she was with child, to lie in at a house she had some three miles or so from the city, it befell that she was suddenly smitten with a sore malady of such and so virulent a quality that it left no sign of life in her, so that the very physicians pronounced her dead. And for that the women that were nearest of kin to her professed to have been told by her, that she was not so far gone in pregnancy that the child could be perfectly formed, they, without more ado, laid her in a tomb in a neighbouring church, and after long lamentation closed it upon her. Whereof Messer Gentile being forthwith apprised by one of his friends, did, for all she had been most niggardly to him of her favour, grieve not a little, and at length fell a communing with himself on this wise:--So, Madonna Catalina, thou art dead! While thou livedst, never a glance of thine might I have; wherefore, now that thou art dead, 'tis but right that I go take a kiss from thee. 'Twas night while he thus mused; and forthwith, observing strict secrecy in his departure, he got him to horse with a single servant, and halted not until he was come to the place where the lady was interred; and having opened the tomb he cautiously entered it. Then, having lain down beside her, he set his face against hers; and again and again, weeping profusely the while, he kissed it. But as 'tis matter of common knowledge that the desires of men, and more especially of lovers, know no bounds, but crave ever an ampler satisfaction; even so Messer Gentile, albeit he had been minded to tarry there no longer, now said to himself:--Wherefore touch I not her bosom a while? I have never yet touched it, nor shall I ever touch it again. Obeying which impulse, he laid his hand on her bosom, and keeping it there some time, felt, as he thought, her heart faintly beating. Whereupon, banishing all fear, and examining the body with closer attention, he discovered that life was not extinct, though he judged it but scant and flickering: and so, aided by his servant, he bore her, as gently as he might, out of the tomb; and set her before him upon his horse, and brought her privily to his house at Bologna, where dwelt his wise and worthy mother, who, being fully apprised by him of the circumstances, took pity on the lady, and had a huge fire kindled, and a bath made ready, whereby she restored her to life. Whereof the first sign she gave was to heave a great sigh, and murmur:--"Alas! where am I?" To which the worthy lady made answer:--"Be of good cheer; thou art well lodged." By and by the lady, coming to herself, looked about her; and finding herself she knew not where, and seeing Messer Gentile before her, was filled with wonder, and besought his mother to tell her how she came to be there. Messer Gentile thereupon told her all. Sore distressed thereat, the lady, after a while, thanked him as best she might; after which she besought him by the love that he had borne her, and of his courtesy, that she might, while she tarried in his house, be spared aught that could impair her honour and her husband's; and that at daybreak he would suffer her to return home. "Madam," replied Messer Gentile, "however I did affect you in time past, since God in His goodness has, by means of the love I bore you, restored you to me alive, I mean not now, or at any time hereafter, to entreat you either here or elsewhere, save as a dear sister; but yet the service I have to-night rendered you merits some guerdon, and therefore lief had I that you deny me not a favour which I shall ask of you." Whereto the lady graciously made answer that she would be prompt to grant it, so only it were in her power, and consonant with her honour. Said then Messer Gentile:--"Your kinsfolk, Madam, one and all, nay, all the folk in Bologna are fully persuaded that you are dead: there is therefore none to expect you at home: wherefore the favour I crave of you is this, that you will be pleased to tarry privily here with my mother, until such time--which will be speedily--as I return from Modena. And 'tis for that I purpose to make solemn and joyous donation of you to your husband in presence of the most honourable folk of this city that I ask of you this grace." Mindful of what she owed the knight, and witting that what he craved was seemly, the lady, albeit she yearned not a little to gladden her kinsfolk with the sight of her in the flesh, consented to do as Messer Gentile besought her, and thereto pledged him her faith. And scarce had she done so, when she felt that the hour of her travail was come; and so, tenderly succoured by Messer Gentile's mother, she not long after gave birth to a fine boy. Which event did mightily enhance her own and Messer Gentile's happiness. Then, having made all meet provision for her, and left word that she was to be tended as if she were his own wife, Messer Gentile, observing strict secrecy, returned to Modena. His time of office there ended, in anticipation of his return to Bologna, he appointed for the morning of his arrival in the city a great and goodly banquet at his house, whereto were bidden not a few of the gentlemen of Bologna, and among them Niccoluccio Caccianimico. Whom, when he was returned and dismounted, he found awaiting him, as also the lady, fairer and more healthful than ever, and her little son doing well; and so with a gladness beyond compare he ranged his guests at table, and regaled them with many a course magnificently served. And towards the close of the feast, having premonished the lady of his intention, and concerted with her how she should behave, thus he spoke:--"Gentlemen, I mind me to have once heard tell of (as I deem it) a delightsome custom which they have in Persia; to wit, that, when one would do his friend especial honour, he bids him to his house, and there shews him that treasure, be it wife, or mistress, or daughter, or what not, that he holds most dear; assuring him that yet more gladly, were it possible, he would shew him his heart. Which custom I am minded to observe here in Bologna. You, of your courtesy, have honoured my feast with your presence, and I propose to do you honour in the Persian fashion, by shewing you that which in all the world I do, and must ever, hold most dear. But before I do so, tell me, I pray you, how you conceive of a nice question that I shall lay before you. Suppose that one has in his house a good and most faithful servant, who falls sick of a grievous disorder; and that the master tarries not for the death of the servant, but has him borne out into the open street, and concerns himself no more with him: that then a stranger comes by, is moved to pity of the sick man, and takes him to his house, and by careful tendance and at no small cost restores him to his wonted health. Now I would fain know whether the first master has in equity any just cause to complain of or be aggrieved with the second master, if he retain the servant in his employ, and refuse to restore him, when so required." The gentlemen discussed the matter after divers fashions, and all agreed in one sentence, which they committed to Niccoluccio Caccianimico, for that he was an eloquent and accomplished speaker, to deliver on the part of them all. Niccoluccio began by commending the Persian custom: after which he said that he and the others were all of the same opinion, to wit, that the first master had no longer any right in his servant, since he had not only abandoned but cast him forth; and that by virtue of the second master's kind usage of him he must be deemed to have become his servant; wherefore, by keeping him, he did the first master no mischief, no violence, no wrong. Whereupon the rest that were at the table said, one and all, being worthy men, that their judgment jumped with Niccoluccio's answer. The knight, well pleased with the answer, and that 'twas Niccoluccio that gave it, affirmed that he was of the same opinion; adding:--"'Tis now time that I shew you that honour which I promised you." He then called two of his servants, and sent them to the lady, whom he had caused to be apparelled and adorned with splendour, charging them to pray her to be pleased to come and gladden the gentlemen with her presence. So she, bearing in her arms her most lovely little son, came, attended by the two servants, into the saloon, and by the knight's direction, took a seat beside a worthy gentleman: whereupon:--"Gentlemen," quoth the knight, "this is the treasure that I hold, and mean ever to hold, more dear than aught else. Behold, and judge whether I have good cause." The gentlemen said not a little in her honour and praise, averring that the knight ought indeed to hold her dear: then, as they regarded her more attentively, there were not a few that would have pronounced her to be the very woman that she was, had they not believed that woman to be dead. But none scanned her so closely as Niccoluccio, who, the knight being withdrawn a little space, could no longer refrain his eager desire to know who she might be, but asked her whether she were of Bologna, or from other parts. The lady, hearing her husband's voice, could scarce forbear to answer; but yet, not to disconcert the knight's plan, she kept silence. Another asked her if that was her little boy; and yet another, if she were Messer Gentile's wife, or in any other wise his connection. To none of whom she vouchsafed an answer. Then, Messer Gentile coming up:--"Sir," quoth one of the guests, "this treasure of yours is goodly indeed; but she seems to be dumb: is she so?" "Gentlemen," quoth Messer Gentile, "that she has not as yet spoken is no small evidence of her virtue." "Then tell us, you, who she is," returned the other. "That," quoth the knight, "will I right gladly, so you but promise me, that, no matter what I may say, none of you will stir from his place, until I have ended my story." All gave the required promise, and when the tables had been cleared, Messer Gentile, being seated beside the lady, thus spoke:--"Gentlemen, this lady is that loyal and faithful servant, touching whom a brief while ago I propounded to you my question, whom her own folk held none too dear, but cast out into the open street as a thing vile and no longer good for aught, but I took thence, and by my careful tendance wrested from the clutch of death; whom God, regardful of my good will, has changed from the appalling aspect of a corpse to the thing of beauty that you see before you. But for your fuller understanding of this occurrence, I will briefly explain it to you." He then recounted to them in detail all that had happened from his first becoming enamoured of the lady to that very hour whereto they hearkened with no small wonder; after which:--"And so," he added, "unless you, and more especially Niccoluccio, are now of another opinion than you were a brief while ago, the lady rightly belongs to me, nor can any man lawfully reclaim her of me." None answered, for all were intent to hear what more he would say. But, while Niccoluccio, and some others that were there, wept for sympathy, Messer Gentile stood up, and took the little boy in his arms and the lady by the hand, and approached Niccoluccio, saying:--"Rise, my gossip: I do not, indeed, restore thee thy wife, whom thy kinsfolk and hers cast forth; but I am minded to give thee this lady, my gossip, with this her little boy, whom I know well to be thy son, and whom I held at the font, and named Gentile: and I pray thee that she be not the less dear to thee for that she has tarried three months in my house; for I swear to thee by that God, who, peradventure, ordained that I should be enamoured of her, to the end that my love might be, as it has been, the occasion of her restoration to life, that never with her father, or her mother, or with thee, did she live more virtuously than with my mother in my house." Which said, he turned to the lady, saying:--"Madam, I now release you from all promises made to me, and so deliver you to Niccoluccio." Then, leaving the lady and the child in Niccoluccio's embrace, he returned to his seat. Thus to receive his wife and son was to Niccoluccio a delight great in the measure of its remoteness from his hope. Wherefore in the most honourable terms at his command he thanked the knight, whom all the rest, weeping for sympathy, greatly commended for what he had done, as did also all that heard thereof. The lady, welcomed home with wondrous cheer, was long a portent to the Bolognese, who gazed on her as on one raised from the dead. Messer Gentile lived ever after as the friend of Niccoluccio, and his and the lady's kinsfolk. Now what shall be your verdict, gracious ladies? A king's largess, though it was of his sceptre and crown, an abbot's reconciliation, at no cost to himself, of a malefactor with the Pope, or an old man's submission of his throat to the knife of his enemy--will you adjudge that such acts as these are comparable to the deed of Messer Gentile? Who, though young, and burning with passion, and deeming himself justly entitled to that which the heedlessness of another had discarded, and he by good fortune had recovered, not only tempered his ardour with honour, but having that which with his whole soul he had long been bent on wresting from another, did with liberality restore it. Assuredly none of the feats aforesaid seem to me like unto this. NOVEL V. -- Madonna Dianora craves of Messer Ansaldo a garden that shall be as fair in January as in May. Messer Ansaldo binds himself to a necromancer, and thereby gives her the garden. Her husband gives her leave to do Messer Ansaldo's pleasure: he, being apprised of her husband's liberality, releases her from her promise; and the necromancer releases Messer Ansaldo from his bond, and will take nought of his. -- Each of the gay company had with superlative commendation extolled Messer Gentile to the skies, when the king bade Emilia follow suit; and with a good courage, as burning to speak, thus Emilia began:--Delicate my ladies, none can justly say that 'twas not magnificently done of Messer Gentile; but if it be alleged that 'twas the last degree of magnificence, 'twill perchance not be difficult to shew that more was possible, as is my purpose in the little story that I shall tell you. In Friuli, a country which, though its air is shrewd, is pleasantly diversified by fine mountains and not a few rivers and clear fountains, is a city called Udine, where dwelt of yore a fair and noble lady, Madonna Dianora by name, wife of a wealthy grandee named Giliberto, a very pleasant gentleman, and debonair. Now this lady, for her high qualities, was in the last degree beloved by a great and noble baron, Messer Ansaldo Gradense by name, a man of no little consequence, and whose fame for feats of arms and courtesy was spread far and wide. But, though with all a lover's ardour he left nought undone that he might do to win her love, and to that end frequently plied her with his ambassages, 'twas all in vain. And the lady being distressed by his importunity, and that, refuse as she might all that he asked of her, he none the less continued to love her and press his suit upon her, bethought her how she might rid herself of him by requiring of him an extraordinary and, as she deemed, impossible feat. So one day, a woman that came oftentimes from him to her being with her:--"Good woman," quoth she, "thou hast many a time affirmed that Messer Ansaldo loves me above all else; and thou hast made proffer to me on his part of wondrous rich gifts which I am minded he keep to himself, for that I could never bring myself to love him or pleasure him for their sake; but, if I might be certified that he loves me as much as thou sayst, then without a doubt I should not fail to love him, and do his pleasure; wherefore, so he give me the assurance that I shall require, I shall be at his command." "What is it, Madam," returned the good woman, "that you would have him do?" "This," replied the lady; "I would have this next ensuing January, hard by this city, a garden full of green grass and flowers and flowering trees, just as if it were May; and if he cannot provide me with this garden, bid him never again send either thee or any other to me, for that, should he harass me any further, I shall no longer keep silence, as I have hitherto done, but shall make my complaint to my husband and all my kinsmen, and it shall go hard but I will be quit of him." The gentleman being apprised of his lady's stipulation and promise, notwithstanding that he deemed it no easy matter, nay, a thing almost impossible, to satisfy her, and knew besides that 'twas but to deprive him of all hope that she made the demand, did nevertheless resolve to do his endeavour to comply with it, and causing search to be made in divers parts of the world, if any he might find to afford him counsel or aid, he lit upon one, who for a substantial reward offered to do the thing by necromancy. So Messer Ansaldo, having struck the bargain with him for an exceeding great sum of money, gleefully expected the appointed time. Which being come with extreme cold, insomuch that there was nought but snow and ice, the adept on the night before the calends of January wrought with his spells to such purpose that on the morrow, as was averred by eye-witnesses, there appeared in a meadow hard by the city one of the most beautiful gardens that was ever seen, with no lack of grass and trees and fruits of all sorts. At sight whereof Messer Ansaldo was overjoyed, and caused some of the finest fruits and flowers that it contained to be gathered, and privily presented to his lady, whom he bade come and see the garden that she had craved, that thereby she might have assurance of his love, and mind her of the promise that she had given him and confirmed with an oath, and, as a loyal lady, take thought for its performance. When she saw the flowers and fruits, the lady, who had already heard not a few folk speak of the wondrous garden, began to repent her of her promise. But for all that, being fond of strange sights, she hied her with many other ladies of the city to see the garden, and having gazed on it with wonderment, and commended it not a little, she went home the saddest woman alive, bethinking her to what it bound her: and so great was her distress that she might not well conceal it; but, being written on her face, 'twas marked by her husband, who was minded by all means to know the cause thereof. The lady long time kept silence: but at last she yielded to his urgency, and discovered to him the whole matter from first to last. Whereat Giliberto was at first very wroth; but on second thoughts, considering the purity of the lady's purpose, he was better advised, and dismissing his anger:--"Dianora," quoth he, "'tis not the act of a discreet or virtuous lady to give ear to messages of such a sort, nor to enter into any compact touching her chastity with any man on any terms. Words that the ears convey to the heart have a potency greater than is commonly supposed, and there is scarce aught that lovers will not find possible. 'Twas then ill done of thee in the first instance to hearken, as afterwards to make the compact; but, for that I know the purity of thy soul, that thou mayst be quit of thy promise, I will grant thee that which, perchance, no other man would grant, being also swayed thereto by fear of the necromancer, whom Messer Ansaldo, shouldst thou play him false, might, peradventure, cause to do us a mischief. I am minded, then, that thou go to him, and contrive, if on any wise thou canst, to get thee quit of this promise without loss of virtue; but if otherwise it may not be, then for the nonce thou mayst yield him thy body, but not thy soul." Whereat the lady, weeping, would none of such a favour at her husband's hands. But Giliberto, for all the lady's protestations, was minded that so it should be. Accordingly, on the morrow about dawn, apparelled none too ornately, preceded by two servants and followed by a chambermaid, the lady hied her to Messer Ansaldo's house. Apprised that his lady was come to see him, Messer Ansaldo, marvelling not a little, rose, and having called the necromancer:--"I am minded," quoth he, "that thou see what goodly gain I have gotten by thine art." And the twain having met the lady, Ansaldo gave way to no unruly appetite, but received her with a seemly obeisance; and then the three repaired to a goodly chamber, where there was a great fire, and having caused the lady to be seated, thus spoke Ansaldo:--"Madam, if the love that I have so long borne you merit any guerdon, I pray you that it be not grievous to you to discover to me the true occasion of your coming to me at this hour, and thus accompanied." Shamefast, and the tears all but standing in her eyes, the lady made answer:--"Sir 'tis neither love that I bear you, nor pledged you, that brings me hither, but the command of my husband, who, regarding rather the pains you have had of your unbridled passion than his own or my honour, has sent me hither; and for that he commands it, I, for the nonce, am entirely at your pleasure." If Messer Ansaldo had marvelled to hear of the lady's coming, he now marvelled much more, and touched by Giliberto's liberality, and passing from passion to compassion:--"Now, God forbid, Madam," quoth he, "that, it being as you say, I should wound the honour of him that has compassion on my love; wherefore, no otherwise than as if you were my sister shall you abide here, while you are so minded, and be free to depart at your pleasure; nor crave I aught of you but that you shall convey from me to your husband such thanks as you shall deem meet for courtesy such as his has been, and entreat me ever henceforth as your brother and servant." Whereat overjoyed in the last degree:--"Nought," quoth the lady, "by what I noted of your behaviour, could ever have caused me to anticipate other sequel of my coming hither than this which I see is your will, and for which I shall ever be your debtor." She then took her leave, and, attended by a guard of honour, returned to Giliberto, and told him what had passed; between whom and Messer Ansaldo there was thenceforth a most close and loyal friendship. Now the liberality shewn by Giliberto towards Messer Ansaldo, and by Messer Ansaldo towards the lady, having been marked by the necromancer, when Messer Ansaldo made ready to give him the promised reward:--"Now God forbid," quoth he, "that, as I have seen Giliberto liberal in regard of his honour, and you liberal in regard of your love, I be not in like manner liberal in regard of my reward, which accordingly, witting that 'tis in good hands, I am minded that you keep." The knight was abashed, and strove hard to induce him to take, if not the whole, at least a part of the money; but finding that his labour was in vain, and that the necromancer, having caused his garden to vanish after the third day, was minded to depart, he bade him adieu. And the carnal love he had borne the lady being spent, he burned for her thereafter with a flame of honourable affection. Now what shall be our verdict in this case, lovesome ladies? A lady, as it were dead, and a love grown lukewarm for utter hopelessness! Shall we set a liberality shewn in such a case above this liberality of Messer Ansaldo, loving yet as ardently, and hoping, perchance, yet more ardently than ever, and holding in his hands the prize that he had so long pursued? Folly indeed should I deem it to compare that liberality with this. NOVEL VI. -- King Charles the Old, being conqueror, falls in love with a young maiden, and afterward growing ashamed of his folly bestows her and her sister honourably in marriage. -- Who might fully recount with what diversity of argument the ladies debated which of the three, Giliberto, or Messer Ansaldo, or the necromancer, behaved with the most liberality in the affair of Madonna Dianora? Too long were it to tell. However, when the king had allowed them to dispute a while, he, with a glance at Fiammetta, bade her rescue them from their wrangling by telling her story. Fiammetta made no demur, but thus began:--Illustrious my ladies, I have ever been of opinion that in companies like ours one should speak so explicitly that the import of what is said should never by excessive circumscription afford matter for disputation; which is much more in place among students in the schools, than among us, whose powers are scarce adequate to the management of the distaff and the spindle. Wherefore I, that had in mind a matter of, perchance, some nicety, now that I see you all at variance touching the matters last mooted, am minded to lay it aside, and tell you somewhat else, which concerns a man by no means of slight account, but a valiant king, being a chivalrous action that he did, albeit in no wise thereto actuated by his honour. There is none of you but may not seldom have heard tell of King Charles the Old, or the First, by whose magnificent emprise, and the ensuing victory gained over King Manfred, the Ghibellines were driven forth of Florence, and the Guelfs returned thither. For which cause a knight, Messer Neri degli Uberti by name, departing Florence with his household and not a little money, resolved to fix his abode under no other sway than that of King Charles. And being fain of a lonely place in which to end his days in peace, he betook him to Castello da Mare di Stabia; and there, perchance a cross-bow-shot from the other houses of the place, amid the olives and hazels and chestnuts that abound in those parts, he bought an estate, on which he built a goodly house and commodious, with a pleasant garden beside it, in the midst of which, having no lack of running water, he set, after our Florentine fashion, a pond fair and clear, and speedily filled it with fish. And while thus he lived, daily occupying himself with nought else but how to make his garden more fair, it befell that King Charles in the hot season betook him to Castello da Mare to refresh himself a while, and hearing of the beauty of Messer Neri's garden, was desirous to view it. And having learned to whom it belonged, he bethought him that, as the knight was an adherent of the party opposed to him, he would use more familiarity towards him than he would otherwise have done; and so he sent him word that he and four comrades would sup privily with him in his garden on the ensuing evening. Messer Neri felt himself much honoured; and having made his preparations with magnificence, and arranged the order of the ceremonies with his household, did all he could and knew to make the King cordially welcome to his fair garden. When the King had viewed the garden throughout, as also Messer Neri's house, and commended them, he washed, and seated himself at one of the tables, which were set beside the pond, and bade Count Guy de Montfort, who was one of his companions, sit on one side of him, and Messer Neri on the other, and the other three to serve, as they should be directed by Messer Neri. The dishes that were set before them were dainty, the wines excellent and rare, the order of the repast very fair and commendable, without the least noise or aught else that might distress; whereon the King bestowed no stinted praise. As thus he gaily supped, well-pleased with the lovely spot, there came into the garden two young maidens, each perhaps fifteen years old, blonde both, their golden tresses falling all in ringlets about them, and crowned with a dainty garland of periwinkle-flowers; and so delicate and fair of face were they that they shewed liker to angels than aught else, each clad in a robe of finest linen, white as snow upon their flesh, close-fitting as might be from the waist up, but below the waist ample, like a pavilion to the feet. She that was foremost bore on her shoulders a pair of nets, which she held with her left hand, carrying in her right a long pole. Her companion followed, bearing on her left shoulder a frying-pan, under her left arm a bundle of faggots, and in her left hand a tripod, while in the other hand she carried a cruse of oil and a lighted taper. At sight of whom the King marvelled, and gazed intent to learn what it might import. The two young maidens came forward with becoming modesty, and did obeisance to the King; which done they hied them to the place of ingress to the pond, and she that had the frying-pan having set it down, and afterward the other things, took the pole that the other carried, and so they both went down into the pond, being covered by its waters to their breasts. Whereupon one of Messer Neri's servants, having forthwith lit a fire, and set the tripod on the faggots and oil therein, addressed himself to wait, until some fish should be thrown to him by the girls. Who, the one searching with the pole in those parts where she knew the fish lay hid, while the other made ready the nets, did in a brief space of time, to the exceeding great delight of the King, who watched them attentively, catch fish not a few, which they tossed to the servant, who set them, before the life was well out of them, in the frying-pan. After which, the maidens, as pre-arranged, addressed them to catch some of the finest fish, and cast them on to the table before the King, and Count Guy, and their father. The fish wriggled about the table to the prodigious delight of the King, who in like manner took some of them, and courteously returned them to the girls; with which sport they diverted them, until the servant had cooked the fish that had been given him: which, by Messer Neri's command, were set before the King rather as a side-dish than as aught very rare or delicious. When the girls saw that all the fish were cooked, and that there was no occasion for them to catch any more, they came forth of the pond, their fine white garments cleaving everywhere close to their flesh so as to hide scarce any part of their delicate persons, took up again the things that they had brought, and passing modestly before the King, returned to the house. The King, and the Count, and the other gentlemen that waited, had regarded the maidens with no little attention, and had, one and all, inly bestowed on them no little praise, as being fair and shapely, and therewithal sweet and debonair; but 'twas in the King's eyes that they especially found favour. Indeed, as they came forth of the water, the King had scanned each part of their bodies so intently that, had one then pricked him, he would not have felt it, and his thoughts afterwards dwelling upon them, though he knew not who they were, nor how they came to be there, he felt stir within his heart a most ardent desire to pleasure them, whereby he knew very well that, if he took not care, he would grow enamoured; howbeit he knew not whether of the twain pleased him the more, so like was each to the other. Having thus brooded a while, he turned to Messer Neri, and asked who the two damsels were. Whereto:--"Sire," replied Messer Neri, "they are my twin daughters, and they are called, the one, Ginevra the Fair, and the other, Isotta the Blonde." Whereupon the King was loud in praise of them, and exhorted Messer Neri to bestow them in marriage. To which Messer Neri demurred, for that he no longer had the means. And nought of the supper now remaining to serve, save the fruit, in came the two young damsels in gowns of taffeta very fine, bearing in their hands two vast silver salvers full of divers fruits, such as the season yielded, and set them on the table before the King. Which done, they withdrew a little space and fell a singing to music a ditty, of which the opening words were as follows:-- Love, many words would not suffice There where I am come to tell. And so dulcet and delightsome was the strain that to the King, his eyes and ears alike charmed, it seemed as if all the nine orders of angels were descended there to sing. The song ended, they knelt and respectfully craved the King's leave to depart; which, though sorely against his will, he gave them with a forced gaiety. Supper ended, the King and his companions, having remounted their horses, took leave of Messer Neri, and conversing of divers matters, returned to the royal quarters; where the King, still harbouring his secret passion, nor, despite affairs of state that supervened, being able to forget the beauty and sweetness of Ginevra the Fair, for whose sake he likewise loved her twin sister, was so limed by Love that he could scarce think of aught else. So, feigning other reasons, he consorted familiarly with Messer Neri, and did much frequent his garden, that he might see Ginevra. And at length, being unable to endure his suffering any longer, and being minded, for that he could devise no other expedient, to despoil their father not only of the one but of the other damsel also, he discovered both his love and his project to Count Guy; who, being a good man and true, thus made answer:--"Sire, your tale causes me not a little astonishment, and that more especially because of your conversation from your childhood to this very day, I have, methinks, known more than any other man. And as no such passion did I ever mark in you, even in your youth, when Love should more readily have fixed you with his fangs, as now I discern, when you are already on the verge of old age, 'tis to me so strange, so surprising that you should veritably love, that I deem it little short of a miracle. And were it meet for me to reprove you, well wot I the language I should hold to you, considering that you are yet in arms in a realm but lately won, among a people as yet unknown to you, and wily and treacherous in the extreme, and that the gravest anxieties and matters of high policy engross your mind, so that you are not as yet able to sit you down, and nevertheless amid all these weighty concerns you have given harbourage to false, flattering Love. This is not the wisdom of a great king, but the folly of a feather-pated boy. And moreover, what is far worse, you say that you are resolved to despoil this poor knight of his two daughters, whom, entertaining you in his house, and honouring you to the best of his power, he brought into your presence all but naked, testifying thereby, how great is his faith in you, and how assured he is that you are a king, and not a devouring wolf. Have you so soon forgotten that 'twas Manfred's outrageous usage of his subjects that opened you the way into this realm? What treachery was he ever guilty of that better merited eternal torment, than 'twould be in you to wrest from one that honourably entreats you at once his hope and his consolation? What would be said of you if so you should do? Perchance you deem that 'twould suffice to say:--'I did it because he is a Ghibelline.' Is it then consistent with the justice of a king that those, be they who they may, who seek his protection, as this man has sought yours, should be entreated after this sort? King, I bid you remember that exceeding great as is your glory to have vanquished Manfred, yet to conquer oneself is a still greater glory: wherefore you, to whom belongs the correction of others, see to it that you conquer yourself, and refrain this unruly passion; and let not such a blot mar the splendour of your achievements." Sore stricken at heart by the Count's words, and the more mortified that he acknowledged their truth, the King heaved a fervent sigh or two, and then:--"Count," quoth he, "that enemy there is none, however mighty, but to the practised warrior is weak enough and easy to conquer in comparison of his own appetite, I make no doubt, but, great though the struggle will be and immeasurable the force that it demands, so shrewdly galled am I by your words, that not many days will have gone by before I shall without fail have done enough to shew you that I, that am the conqueror of others, am no less able to gain the victory over myself." And indeed but a few days thereafter, the King, on his return to Naples, being minded at once to leave himself no excuse for dishonourable conduct, and to recompense the knight for his honourable entreatment of him, did, albeit 'twas hard for him to endow another with that which he had most ardently desired for himself, none the less resolve to bestow the two damsels in marriage, and that not as Messer Neri's daughters, but as his own. Wherefore, Messer Neri consenting, he provided both with magnificent dowries, and gave Ginevra the Fair to Messer Maffeo da Palizzi, and Isotta the Blonde to Messer Guglielmo della Magna, noble knights and great barons both; which done, sad at heart beyond measure, he betook him to Apulia, and by incessant travail did so mortify his vehement appetite that he snapped and broke in pieces the fetters of Love, and for the rest of his days was no more vexed by such passion. Perchance there will be those who say that 'tis but a trifle for a king to bestow two girls in marriage; nor shall I dispute it: but say we that a king in love bestowed in marriage her whom he loved, neither having taken nor taking, of his love, leaf or flower or fruit; then this I say was a feat great indeed, nay, as great as might be. After such a sort then did this magnificent King, at once generously rewarding the noble knight, commendably honouring the damsels that he loved, and stoutly subduing himself. NOVEL VII. -- King Pedro, being apprised of the fervent love borne him by Lisa, who thereof is sick, comforts her, and forthwith gives her in marriage to a young gentleman, and having kissed her on the brow, ever after professes himself her knight. -- When Fiammetta was come to the end of her story, and not a little praise had been accorded to the virile magnificence of King Charles, albeit one there was of the ladies, who, being a Ghibelline, joined not therein, Pampinea, having received the king's command, thus began:--None is there of discernment, worshipful my ladies, that would say otherwise than you have said touching good King Charles, unless for some other cause she bear him a grudge; however, for that there comes to my mind the, perchance no less honourable, entreatment of one of our Florentine girls by one of his adversaries, I am minded to recount the same to you. What time the French were driven forth of Sicily there dwelt at Palermo one of our Florentines, that was an apothecary, Bernardo Puccini by name, a man of great wealth, that by his lady had an only and exceeding fair daughter, then of marriageable age. Now King Pedro of Arragon, being instated in the sovereignty of the island, did at Palermo make with his barons marvellous celebration thereof; during which, as he tilted after the Catalan fashion, it befell that Bernardo's daughter, Lisa by name, being with other ladies at a window, did thence espy him in the course, whereat being prodigiously delighted, she regarded him again and again, and grew fervently enamoured of him; nor yet, when the festivities were ended, and she was at home with her father, was there aught she could think of but this her exalted and aspiring love. In regard whereof that which most irked her was her sense of her low rank, which scarce permitted her any hope of a happy issue; but, for all that, give over her love for the King she would not; nor yet, for fear of worse to come, dared she discover it. The King, meanwhile, recking, witting nothing of the matter, her suffering waxed immeasurable, intolerable; and her love ever growing with ever fresh accessions of melancholy, the fair maiden, overborne at last, fell sick, and visibly day by day wasted like snow in sunlight. Distraught with grief thereat, her father and mother afforded her such succour as they might with words of good cheer, and counsel of physicians, and physic; but all to no purpose; for that she in despair of her love was resolved no more to live. Now her father assuring her that there was no whim of hers but should be gratified, the fancy took her that, if she might find apt means, she would, before she died, make her love and her resolve known to the King: wherefore one day she besought her father to cause Minuccio d'Arezzo, to come to her; which Minuccio, was a singer and musician of those days, reputed most skilful, and well seen of King Pedro. Bernardo, deeming that Lisa desired but to hear him play and sing a while, conveyed her message to him; and he, being an agreeable fellow, came to her forthwith, and after giving her some words of loving cheer, sweetly discoursed some airs upon his viol, and then sang her some songs; whereby, while he thought to comfort her, he did but add fire and flame to her love. Presently the girl said that she would fain say a few words to him in private, and when all else were withdrawn from the chamber:--"Minuccio," quoth she, "thee have I chosen, deeming thee most trusty, to be the keeper of my secret, relying upon thee in the first place never to betray it to a soul, and next to lend me in regard thereof such aid as thou mayst be able; and so I pray thee to do. Thou must know, then, Minuccio mine, that on the day when our lord King Pedro held the great festival in celebration of his triumph, I, seeing him tilt, was so smitten with love of him that thereof was kindled within my soul the fire which has brought me, as thou seest, to this pass; and knowing how ill it beseems me to love a king, and being unable, I say not to banish it from my heart, but so much as to bring it within bounds, and finding it exceeding grievous to bear, I have made choice of death as the lesser pain; and die I shall. But should he wot not of my love before I die, sore disconsolate should I depart; and knowing not by whom more aptly than by thee I might give him to know this my frame, I am minded to entrust the communication thereof to thee; which office I entreat thee not to refuse, and having discharged it, to let me know, that dying thus consoled, I may depart this pain." Which said, she silently wept. Marvelling at the loftiness of the girl's spirit and her desperate determination, Minuccio commiserated her not a little; and presently it occurred to him that there was a way in which he might honourably serve her: wherefore:--"Lisa," quoth he, "my faith I plight thee, wherein thou mayst place sure confidence that I shall never play thee false, and lauding thy high emprise, to wit, the setting thine affections upon so great a king, I proffer thee mine aid, whereby, so thou wilt be of good cheer, I hope, and believe, that, before thou shalt see the third day from now go by, I shall have brought thee tidings which will be to thee for an exceeding great joy; and, not to lose time, I will set to work at once." And so Lisa, assuring him that she would be of good cheer, and plying him afresh with instant obsecrations, bade him Godspeed; and Minuccio, having taken leave of her, hied him to one Mico da Siena, a very expert rhymester of those days, who at his instant request made the ensuing song:-- Hence hie thee, Love; and hasting to my King, Give him to know what torment dire I bear, How that to death I fare, Still close, for fear, my passion harbouring. Lo, Love, to thee with clasped hands I turn, And pray thee seek him where he tarrieth, And tell him how I oft for him do yearn, So sweetly he my heart enamoureth; And of the fire, wherewith I throughly burn, I think to die, but may the hour uneath Say, when my grievous pain shall with my breath Surcease; till when, neither may fear nor shame The least abate the flame. Ah! to his ears my woeful story bring. Since of him I was first enamoured, Never hast thou, O Love, my fearful heart With any such fond hope encouraged, As e'er its message to him to impart, To him, my lord, that me so sore bested Holds: dying thus, 'twere grievous to depart: Perchance, were he to know my cruel smart, 'Twould not displease him; might I but make bold My soul to him to unfold, And shew him all my woeful languishing. Love, since 'twas not thy will me to accord Such boldness as that e'er unto my King I may discover my sad heart's full hoard, Or any word or sign thereof him bring: This all my prayer to thee, O sweet my Lord: Hie thee to him, and so him whispering Mind of the day I saw him tourneying With all his paladins environed, And grew enamoured Ev'n to my very heart's disrupturing. Which words Minuccio forthwith set to music after a soft and plaintive fashion befitting their sense; and on the third day thereafter hied him to court, while King Pedro was yet at breakfast. And being bidden by the King to sing something to the accompaniment of his viol, he gave them this song with such sweet concord of words and music that all the folk that were in the King's hall seemed, as it were, entranced, so intent and absorbed stood they to listen, and the King rather more than the rest. And when Minuccio had done singing, the King asked whence the song came, that, as far as he knew, he had never heard it before. "Sire," replied Minuccio, "'tis not yet three days since 'twas made, words and music alike." And being asked by the King in regard of whom 'twas made:--"I dare not," quoth he, "discover such a secret save to you alone." Bent on hearing the story, the King, when the tables were cleared, took Minuccio into his privy chamber; and there Minuccio told him everything exactly as he had heard it from Lisa's lips. Whereby the King was much gratified, and lauded the maiden not a little, and said that a girl of such high spirit merited considerate treatment, and bade Minuccio be his envoy to her, and comfort her, and tell her that without fail that very day at vespers he would come to visit her. Overjoyed to bear the girl such gladsome tidings, Minuccio tarried not, but hied him back to the girl with his viol, and being closeted with her, told her all that had passed, and then sang the song to the accompaniment of his viol. Whereby the girl was so cheered and delighted that forthwith there appeared most marked and manifest signs of the amendment of her health, while with passionate longing (albeit none in the house knew or divined it) she awaited the vesper hour, when she was to see her lord. Knowing the girl very well, and how fair she was, and pondering divers times on what Minuccio had told him, the King, being a prince of a liberal and kindly disposition, grew ever more compassionate. So, about vespers, he mounted his horse, and rode forth, as if for mere pleasure, and being come to the apothecary's house, demanded access to a very goodly garden that the apothecary had, and having dismounted, after a while enquired of Bernardo touching his daughter, and whether he had yet bestowed her in marriage. "Sire," replied Bernardo, "she is not yet married; and indeed she has been and still is very ill howbeit since none she is wonderfully amended." The significance of which amendment being forthwith apprehended by the King:--"In good faith," quoth he, "'twere a pity so fair a creature were reft from the world so early; we would go in and visit her." And presently, attended only by two of his lords and Bernardo, he betook him to her chamber, where being entered, he drew nigh the bed, whereon the girl half reclined, half sate in eager expectation of his coming; and taking her by the hand:--"Madonna," quoth he, "what means this? A maiden like you should be the comfort of others, and you suffer yourself to languish. We would entreat you that for love of us you be of good cheer, so as speedily to recover your health." To feel the touch of his hand whom she loved above all else, the girl, albeit somewhat shamefast, was so enraptured that 'twas as if she was in Paradise; and as soon as she was able:--"My lord," she said, "'twas the endeavour, weak as I am, to sustain a most grievous burden that brought this sickness upon me; but 'twill not be long ere you will see me quit thereof, thanks to your courtesy." The hidden meaning of which words was apprehended only by the King, who momently made more account of the girl, and again and again inly cursed Fortune, that had decreed that she should be the daughter of such a man. And yet a while he tarried with her, and comforted her, and so took his leave. Which gracious behaviour of the King was not a little commended, and accounted a signal honour to the apothecary and his daughter. The girl, glad at heart as was ever lady of her lover, mended with reviving hope, and in a few days recovered her health, and therewith more than all her wonted beauty. Whereupon the King, having taken counsel with the Queen how to reward so great a love, got him one day to horse with a great company of his barons, and hied him to the apothecary's house; and being come into the garden, he sent for the apothecary and his daughter; and there, being joined by the Queen with not a few ladies, who received the girl into their company, they made such cheer as 'twas a wonder to see. And after a while the King and Queen having called Lisa to them, quoth the King:--"Honourable damsel, by the great love that you have borne us we are moved greatly to honour you; and we trust that, for love of us, the honour that we design for you will be acceptable to you. Now 'tis thus we would honour you: to wit, that, seeing that you are of marriageable age, we would have you take for husband him that we shall give you; albeit 'tis none the less our purpose ever to call ourself your knight, demanding no other tribute of all your love but one sole kiss." Scarlet from brow to neck, the girl, making the King's pleasure her own, thus with a low voice replied:--"My lord, very sure am I that, should it come to be known that I was grown enamoured of you, most folk would hold me for a fool, deeming, perchance, that I was out of my mind, and witless alike of my own rank and yours; but God, who alone reads the hearts of us mortals, knows that even then, when first I did affect you, I wist that you were the King, and I but the daughter of Bernardo the apothecary, and that to suffer my passion to soar so high did ill become me; but, as you know far better than I, none loves of set and discreet purpose, but only according to the dictates of impulse and fancy; which law my forces, albeit not seldom opposed, being powerless to withstand, I loved and still love and shall ever love you. But as no sooner knew I myself subjugated to your love, than I vowed to have ever no will but yours; therefore not only am I compliant to take right gladly him whom you shall be pleased to give me for husband, thereby conferring upon me great honour and dignity; but if you should bid me tarry in the fire, delighted were I to obey, so thereby I might pleasure you. How far it beseems me to have you, my King, for my knight, you best know; and therefore I say nought thereof; nor will the kiss which you crave as your sole tribute of my love be granted you save by leave of my Lady the Queen. Natheless, may you have of this great graciousness that you and my Lady the Queen have shewn me, and which I may not requite, abundant recompense in the blessing and favour of God;" and so she was silent. The Queen was mightily delighted with the girl's answer, and deemed her as discreet as the King had said. The King then sent for the girl's father and mother, and being assured that his intention had their approval, summoned to his presence a young man, Perdicone by name, that was of gentle birth, but in poor circumstances, and put certain rings into his hand, and (he nowise gainsaying) wedded him to Lisa. Which done, besides jewels many and precious that he and the Queen gave the girl, he forthwith bestowed upon Perdicone two domains, right goodly and of ample revenues, to wit, Ceffalu and Calatabellotta, saying:--"We give them to thee for thy wife's dowry; what we have in store for thee thou wilt learn hereafter." Which said, he turned to the girl, and:--"Now," quoth he, "we are minded to cull that fruit which is due to us of thy love;" and so, taking her head between both his hands, he kissed her brow. Wherefore, great was the joy of Perdicone, and the father and mother of Lisa, and Lisa herself, and mighty the cheer they made, and gaily did they celebrate the nuptials. And, as many affirm, right well did the King keep his promise to the girl; for that ever, while he lived, he called himself her knight, nor went to any passage of arms bearing other device than that which he had from her. Now 'tis by doing after this sort that sovereigns win the hearts of their subjects, give others occasion of well-doing, and gain for themselves an imperishable renown. At which mark few or none in our times have bent the bow of their understanding, the more part of the princes having become but cruel tyrants. NOVEL VIII. -- Sophronia, albeit she deems herself wife to Gisippus, is wife to Titus Quintius Fulvus, and goes with him to Rome, where Gisippus arrives in indigence, and deeming himself scorned by Titus, to compass his own death, avers that he has slain a man. Titus recognizes him, and to save his life, alleges that 'twas he that slew the man: whereof he that did the deed being witness, he discovers himself as the murderer. Whereby it comes to pass that they are all three liberated by Octavianus; and Titus gives Gisippus his sister to wife, and shares with him all his substance. -- So ceased Pampinea; and when all the ladies, and most of all the Ghibelline, had commended King Pedro, Filomena by command of the king thus began:--Magnificent my ladies, who wots not that there is nought so great but kings, when they have a mind, may accomplish it? As also that 'tis of them that magnificence is most especially demanded? Now whoso, being powerful, does that which it appertains to him to do, does well; but therein is no such matter of marvel, or occasion of extolling him to the skies, as in his deed, of whom, for that his power is slight, less is demanded. Wherefore, as you are so profuse of your words in exaltation of the fine deeds, as you deem them, of monarchs, I make no manner of doubt, but that the doings of our peers must seem to you yet more delectable and commendable, when they equal or surpass those of kings. Accordingly 'tis a transaction, laudable and magnificent, that passed between two citizens, who were friends, that I purpose to recount to you in my story. I say, then, that what time Octavianus Caesar, not as yet hight Augustus, but being in the office called Triumvirate, swayed the empire of Rome, there dwelt at Rome a gentleman, Publius Quintius Fulvus by name, who, having a son, Titus Quintius Fulvus, that was a very prodigy of wit, sent him to Athens to study philosophy, and to the best of his power commended him to a nobleman of that city, Chremes by name, who was his very old friend. Chremes lodged Titus in his own house with his son Gisippus, and placed both Titus and Gisippus under a philosopher named Aristippus, to learn of him his doctrine. And the two youths, thus keeping together, found each the other's conversation so congruous with his own, that there grew up between them a friendship so close and brotherly that 'twas never broken by aught but death; nor knew either rest or solace save when he was with the other. So, gifted alike with pre-eminent subtlety of wit, they entered on their studies, and with even pace and prodigious applause scaled together the glorious heights of philosophy. In which way of life, to the exceeding great delight of Chremes, who entreated Titus as no less his son than Gisippus, they continued for full three years. At the end whereof, it befell (after the common course of things mundane) that Chremes (being now aged) departed this life. Whom with equal grief they mourned as a common father; and the friends and kinsfolk of Chremes were alike at a loss to determine whether of the twain stood in need of the more consolation upon the bereavement. Some months afterward the friends and kinsfolk of Gisippus came to him and exhorted him, as did also Titus, to take a wife, and found him a maiden, wondrous fair, of one of the most noble houses of Athens, her name Sophronia, and her age about fifteen years. So a time was appointed for their nuptials, and one day, when 'twas near at hand, Gisippus bade Titus come see the maiden, whom as yet he had not seen; and they being come into her house, and she sitting betwixt them, Titus, as he were fain to observe with care the several charms of his friend's wife that was to be, surveyed her with the closest attention, and being delighted beyond measure with all that he saw, grew, as inly he extolled her charms to the skies, enamoured of her with a love as ardent, albeit he gave no sign of it, as ever lover bore to lady. However, after they had tarried a while with her, they took their leave, and went home, where Titus repaired to his chamber, and there gave himself over to solitary musing on the damsel's charms, and the longer he brooded, the more he burned for her. Whereon as he reflected, having heaved many a fervent sigh, thus he began to commune with himself:--Ah! woe worth thy life, Titus! Whom makest thou the mistress of thy soul, thy love, thy hope? Knowest thou not that by reason as well of thy honourable entreatment by Chremes and his kin as of the wholehearted friendship that is between thee and Gisippus, it behoves thee to have his betrothed in even such pious regard as if she were thy sister? Whither art thou suffering beguiling love, delusive hope, to hurry thee? Open the eyes of thine understanding, and see thyself, wretched man, as thou art; obey the dictates of thy reason, refrain thy carnal appetite, control thine inordinate desires, and give thy thoughts another bent; join battle with thy lust at the outset, and conquer thyself while there is yet time. This which thou wouldst have is not meet, is not seemly: this which thou art minded to ensue, thou wouldst rather, though thou wert, as thou art not, sure of its attainment, eschew, hadst thou but the respect thou shouldst have, for the claims of true friendship. So, then, Titus, what wilt thou do? What but abandon this unseemly love, if thou wouldst do as it behoves thee? But then, as he remembered Sophronia, his thoughts took the contrary direction, and he recanted all he had said, musing on this wise:--The laws of Love are of force above all others; they abrogate not only the law of human friendship, but the law Divine itself. How many times ere now has father loved daughter, brother sister, step-mother step-son? aberrations far more notable than that a friend should love his friend's wife, which has happened a thousand times. Besides which, I am young, and youth is altogether subject to the laws of Love. Love's pleasure, then, should be mine. The seemly is for folk of riper years. 'Tis not in my power to will aught save that which Love wills. So beauteous is this damsel that there is none but should love her; and if I love her, who am young, who can justly censure me? I love her not because she is the affianced of Gisippus; no matter whose she was, I should love her all the same. Herein is Fortune to blame, that gave her to my friend, Gisippus, rather than to another. And if she is worthy of love, as for beauty she is, Gisippus, if he should come to know that I love her, ought to be less jealous than another. Then, scorning himself that he should indulge such thoughts, he relapsed into the opposing mood, albeit not to abide there, but ever veering to and fro, he spent not only the whole of that day and the ensuing night, but many others; insomuch that, being able neither to eat nor to sleep, he grew so weak that he was fain to take to his bed. Gisippus, who had marked his moodiness for some days, and now saw that he was fairly sick, was much distressed; and with sedulous care, never quitting his side, he tended, and strove as best he might to comfort, him, not seldom and most earnestly demanding to know of him the cause of his melancholy and his sickness. Many were the subterfuges to which Titus resorted; but, as Gisippus was not to be put off with his fables, finding himself hard pressed by him, with sighs and sobs he made answer on this wise:--"Gisippus, had such been the will of the Gods, I were fain rather to die than to live, seeing that Fortune has brought me to a strait in which needs must my virtue be put to the ordeal, and, to my most grievous shame, 'tis found wanting: whereof I confidently expect my due reward, to wit, death, which will be more welcome to me than to live, haunted ever by the memory of my baseness, which, as there is nought that from thee I either should or can conceal, I, not without burning shame, will discover to thee." And so he recounted the whole story from first to last, the occasion of his melancholy, its several moods, their conflict, and with which of them the victory rested, averring that he was dying of love for Sophronia, and that, knowing how ill such love beseemed him, he had, for penance, elected to die, and deemed the end was now not far off. Gisippus, hearing his words and seeing his tears, for a while knew not what to say, being himself smitten with the damsel's charms, albeit in a less degree than Titus; but ere long he made up his mind that Sophronia must be less dear to him than his friend's life. And so, moved to tears by his friend's tears:--"Titus," quoth he between his sobs, "but that thou art in need of comfort, I should reproach thee, that thou hast offended against our friendship in that thou hast so long kept close from me this most distressful passion; and albeit thou didst deem it unseemly, yet unseemly things should no more than things seemly be withheld from a friend, for that, as a friend rejoices with his friend in things seemly, so he does his endeavour to wean his friend from things unseemly: but enough of this for the nonce: I pass to that which, I wot, is of greater moment. If thou ardently lovest Sophronia, my affianced, so far from marvelling thereat, I should greatly marvel were it not so, knowing how fair she is, and how noble is thy soul, and thus the apter to be swayed by passion, the more excelling is she by whom thou art charmed. And the juster the cause thou hast to love Sophronia, the greater is the injustice with which thou complainest of Fortune (albeit thou dost it not in so many words) for giving her to me, as if thy love of her had been seemly, had she belonged to any other but me; whereas, if thou art still the wise man thou wast wont to be, thou must know that to none could Fortune have assigned her, with such good cause for thee to thank her, as to me. Had any other had her, albeit thy love had been seemly, he had loved her as his own, rather than as thine; which, if thou deem me even such a friend to thee as I am, thou wilt not apprehend from me, seeing that I mind me not that, since we were friends, I had ever aught that was not as much thine as mine. And so should I entreat thee herein as in all other matters, were the affair gone so far that nought else were possible; but as it is, I can make thee sole possessor of her; and so I mean to do; for I know not what cause thou shouldst have to prize my friendship, if, where in seemly sort it might be done, I knew not how to surrender my will to thine. 'Tis true that Sophronia is my betrothed, and that I loved her much, and had great cheer in expectation of the nuptials: but as thou, being much more discerning than I, dost more fervently affect this rare prize, rest assured that she will enter my chamber not mine but thine. Wherefore, away with thy moodiness, banish thy melancholy, recover thy lost health, thy heartiness and jollity, and gladsomely, even from this very hour, anticipate the guerdon of thy love, a love worthier far than mine." Delightful as was the prospect with which hope flattered Titus, as he heard Gisippus thus speak, no less was the shame with which right reason affected him, admonishing him that the greater was the liberality of Gisippus, the less it would become him to profit thereby. Wherefore, still weeping, he thus constrained himself to make answer:--"Gisippus, thy generous and true friendship leaves me in no doubt as to the manner in which it becomes me to act. God forefend that her, whom, as to the more worthy, He has given to thee, I should ever accept of thee for mine. Had He seen fit that she should be mine, far be it from thee or any other to suppose that He would ever have awarded her to thee. Renounce not, then, that which thy choice and wise counsel and His gift have made thine, and leave me, to whom, as unworthy, He has appointed no such happiness, to waste my life in tears; for either I shall conquer my grief, which will be grateful to thee, or it will conquer me, and so I shall be quit of my pain." Quoth then Gisippus:--"If our friendship, Titus, is of such a sort as may entitle me to enforce thee to ensue behests of mine, or as may induce thee of thine own free will to ensue the same, such is the use to which, most of all, I am minded to put it; and if thou lend not considerate ear unto my prayers, I shall by force, that force which is lawful in the interest of a friend, make Sophronia thine. I know the might of Love, how redoubtable it is, and how, not once only, but oftentimes, it has brought ill-starred lovers to a miserable death; and thee I see so hard bested that turn back thou mightst not, nor get the better of thy grief, but holding on thy course, must succumb, and perish, and without doubt I should speedily follow thee. And so, had I no other cause to love thee, thy life is precious to me in that my own is bound up with it. Sophronia, then, shall be thine; for thou wouldst not lightly find another so much to thy mind, and I shall readily find another to love, and so shall content both thee and me. In which matter, peradventure, I might not be so liberal, were wives so scarce or hard to find as are friends; wherefore, as 'tis so easy a matter for me to find another wife, I had liefer--I say not lose her, for in giving her to thee lose her I shall not, but only transfer her to one that is my alter ego, and that to her advantage--I had liefer, I say, transfer her to thee than lose thee. And so, if aught my prayers avail with thee, I entreat thee extricate thyself from this thy woeful plight, and comfort at once thyself and me, and in good hope, address thyself to pluck that boon which thy fervent love craves of her for whom thou yearnest." Still scrupling, for shame, to consent that Sophronia should become his wife, Titus remained yet a while inexorable; but, yielding at last to the solicitations of Love, reinforced by the exhortations of Gisippus, thus he made answer:--"Lo now, Gisippus, I know not how to call it, whether 'tis more thy pleasure than mine, this which I do, seeing that 'tis as thy pleasure that thou so earnestly entreatest me to do it; but, as thy liberality is such that my shame, though becoming, may not withstand it, I will even do it. But of this rest assured, that I do so, witting well that I receive from thee, not only the lady I love, but with her my very life. And, Fate permitting, may the Gods grant me to make thee such honourable and goodly requital as may shew thee how sensible I am of the boon, which thou, more compassionate of me than I am of myself, conferrest on me." Quoth then Gisippus:--"Now, for the giving effect to our purpose, methinks, Titus, we should proceed on this wise. Thou knowest that Sophronia, by treaty at length concluded between my family and hers, is become my betrothed: were I now to say that she should not be my wife, great indeed were the scandal that would come thereof, and I should affront both her family and mine own; whereof, indeed, I should make no account, so it gave me to see her become thine; but I fear that, were I to give her up at this juncture, her family would forthwith bestow her upon another, perchance, than thee, and so we should both be losers. Wherefore methinks that, so thou approve, I were best to complete what I have begun, bring her home as my wife, and celebrate the nuptials, and thereafter we can arrange that thou lie with her, privily, as thy wife. Then, time and occasion serving, we will disclose the whole affair, and if they are satisfied, well and good; if not, 'twill be done all the same, and as it cannot be undone, they must perforce make the best of it." Which counsel being approved by Titus, Gisippus brought the lady home as his wife, Titus being now recovered, and quite himself again; and when they had made great cheer, and night was come, the ladies, having bedded the bride, took their departure. Now the chambers of Titus and Gisippus were contiguous, and one might pass from one into the other: Gisippus, therefore, being come into his room, extinguished every ray of light, and stole into that of Titus, and bade him go get him to bed with his lady. Whereat Titus gave way to shame, and would have changed his mind, and refused to go in; but Gisippus, no less zealous at heart than in words to serve his friend, after no small contention prevailed on him to go thither. Now no sooner was Titus abed with the lady, than, taking her in his arms, he, as if jestingly, asked in a low tone whether she were minded to be his wife. She, taking him to be Gisippus, answered, yes; whereupon he set a fair and costly ring on her finger, saying:--"And I am minded to be thy husband." And having presently consummated the marriage, he long and amorously disported him with her, neither she, nor any other, being ever aware that another than Gisippus lay with her. Now Titus and Sophronia being after this sort wedded, Publius, the father of Titus, departed this life. For which cause Titus was bidden by letter to return forthwith to Rome to see to his affairs; wherefore he took counsel with Gisippus how he might take Sophronia thither with him; which might not well be done without giving her to know how matters stood. Whereof, accordingly, one day, having called her into the chamber, they fully apprised her, Titus for her better assurance bringing to her recollection not a little of what had passed between them. Whereat she, after glancing from one to the other somewhat disdainfully, burst into a flood of tears, and reproached Gisippus that he had so deluded her; and forthwith, saying nought of the matter to any there, she hied her forth of Gisippus' house and home to her father, to whom and her mother she recounted the deceit which Gisippus had practised upon them as upon her, averring that she was the wife not of Gisippus, as they supposed, but of Titus. Whereby her father was aggrieved exceedingly, and prolonged and grave complaint was made thereof by him and his own and Gisippus' families, and there was not a little parleying, and a world of pother. Gisippus earned the hatred of both his own and Sophronia's kin, and all agreed that he merited not only censure but severe punishment. He, however, averred that he had done a thing seemly, and that Sophronia's kinsfolk owed him thanks for giving her in marriage to one better than himself. All which Titus witnessed with great suffering, and witting that 'twas the way of the Greeks to launch forth in high words and menaces, and refrain not until they should meet with one that answered them, whereupon they were wont to grow not only humble but even abject, was at length minded that their clavers should no longer pass unanswered; and, as with his Roman temper he united Athenian subtlety, he cleverly contrived to bring the kinsfolk, as well of Gisippus as of Sophronia, together in a temple, where, being entered, attended only by Gisippus, thus (they being intent to hear) he harangued them:--"'Tis the opinion of not a few philosophers that whatsoever mortals do is ordained by the providence of the immortal Gods; for which cause some would have it that nought either is, or ever shall be, done, save of necessity, albeit others there are that restrict this necessity to that which is already done. Regard we but these opinions with some little attention, and we shall very plainly perceive that to censure that which cannot be undone is nought else but to be minded to shew oneself wiser than the Gods; by whom we must suppose that we and our affairs are swayed and governed with uniform and unerring wisdom. Whereby you may very readily understand how vain and foolish a presumption it is to pass judgment on their doings, and what manner and might of chains they need who suffer themselves to be transported to such excess of daring. Among whom, in my judgment, you must one and all be numbered, if 'tis true, what I hear, to wit, that you have complained and do continue to complain that Sophronia, albeit you gave her to Gisippus, is, nevertheless, become my wife; not considering that 'twas ordained from all eternity that she should become, not the wife of Gisippus, but mine, as the fact does now declare. "But, for that discourse of the secret providence and purposes of the Gods seems to many a matter hard and scarce to be understood, I am willing to assume that they meddle in no wise with our concerns, and to descend to the region of human counsels; in speaking whereof I must needs do two things quite at variance with my wont, to wit, in some degree praise myself and censure or vilify another. But, as in either case I mean not to deviate from the truth, and 'tis what the occasion demands, I shall not fail so to do. With bitter upbraidings, animated rather by rage than by reason, you cease not to murmur, nay, to cry out, against Gisippus, and to harass him with your abuse, and hold him condemned, for that her, whom you saw fit to give him, he has seen fit to give me, to wife; wherein I deem him worthy of the highest commendation, and that for two reasons, first, because he has done the office of a friend, and secondly, because he has done more wisely than you did. After what sort the sacred laws of friendship prescribe that friend shall entreat friend, 'tis not to my present purpose to declare; 'twill suffice to remind you that the tie of friendship should be more binding than that of blood, or kinship; seeing that our friends are of our own choosing, whereas our kinsfolk are appointed us by Fortune; wherefore, if my life was more to Gisippus than your goodwill, since I am, as I hold myself, his friend, can any wonder thereat? "But pass we to my second reason; in the exposition whereof I must needs with yet more cogency prove to you that he has been wiser than you, seeing that, methinks, you wot nought of the providence of the Gods, and still less of the consequences of friendship. I say then, that, as 'twas your premeditated and deliberate choice that gave Sophronia to this young philosopher Gisippus, so 'twas his that gave her to another young philosopher. 'Twas your counsel that gave her to an Athenian; 'twas his that gave her to a Roman: 'twas your counsel that gave her to a man of gentle birth; 'twas his that gave her to one of birth yet gentler: wealthy was he to whom your counsel gave her, most wealthy he to whom his counsel gave her. Not only did he to whom your counsel gave her, love her not, but he scarce knew her, whereas 'twas to one that loved her beyond all other blessings, nay, more dearly than his own life, that his counsel gave her. And to the end that it may appear more plainly that 'tis even as I say, and Gisippus' counsel more to be commended than yours, let us examine it point by point. That I, like Gisippus, am young and a philosopher, my countenance and my pursuits may, without making more words about the matter, sufficiently attest. We are also of the same age, and have ever kept pace together in our studies. Now true it is that he is an Athenian, and I am a Roman. But, as touching the comparative glory of the cities, should the matter be mooted, I say that I am of a free city, and he of a city tributary; that I am of a city that is mistress of all the world, and he of one that is subject to mine; that I am of a city that flourishes mightily in arms, in empire, and in arts; whereas he cannot boast his city as famous save in arts. "Moreover, albeit you see me here in the guise of a most humble scholar, I am not born of the dregs of the populace of Rome. My halls and the public places of Rome are full of the antique effigies of my forefathers, and the annals of Rome abound with the records of triumphs led by the Quintii to the Roman Capitol; and so far from age having withered it, to-day, yet more abundantly than ever of yore, flourishes the glory of our name. Of my wealth I forbear, for shame, to speak, being mindful that honest poverty is the time-honoured and richest inheritance of the noble citizens of Rome; but, allowing for the nonce the opinion of the vulgar, which holds poverty in disrepute, and highly appraises wealth, I, albeit I never sought it, yet, as the favoured of Fortune, have abundant store thereof. Now well I wot that, Gisippus being of your own city, you justly prized and prize an alliance with him; but not a whit less should you prize an alliance with me at Rome, considering that there you will have in me an excellent host, and a patron apt, zealous and potent to serve you as well in matters of public interest as in your private concerns. Who, then, dismissing all bias from his mind, and judging with impartial reason, would deem your counsel more commendable than that of Gisippus? Assuredly none. Sophronia, then, being married to Titus Quintius Fulvus, a citizen of Rome, of an ancient and illustrious house, and wealthy, and a friend of Gisippus, whoso takes umbrage or offence thereat, does that which it behoves him not to do, and knows not what he does. "Perchance some will say that their complaint is not that Sophronia is the wife of Titus, but that she became his wife after such a sort, to wit, privily, by theft, neither friend nor any of her kin witting aught thereof; but herein is no matter of marvel, no prodigy as yet unheard-of. I need not instance those who before now have taken to them husbands in defiance of their fathers' will, or have eloped with their lovers and been their mistresses before they were their wives, or of whose marriages no word has been spoken, until their pregnancy or parturition published them to the world, and necessity sanctioned the fact: nought of this has happened in the case of Sophronia; on the contrary, 'twas in proper form, and in meet and seemly sort, that Gisippus gave her to Titus. And others, peradventure, will say that 'twas by one to whom such office belonged not that she was bestowed in marriage. Nay, but this is but vain and womanish querulousness, and comes of scant consideration. Know we not, then, that Fortune varies according to circumstances her methods and her means of disposing events to their predetermined ends? What matters it to me, if it be a cobbler, rather than a philosopher, that Fortune has ordained to compass something for me, whether privily or overtly, so only the result is as it should be? I ought, indeed, to take order, if the cobbler be indiscreet, that he meddle no more in affairs of mine, but, at the same time, I ought to thank him for what he has done. If Gisippus has duly bestowed Sophronia in marriage, it is gratuitous folly to find fault with the manner and the person. If you mistrust his judgment, have a care that it be not in his power to do the like again, but thank him for this turn. "Natheless, you are to know that I used no cunning practice or deceit to sully in any degree the fair fame of your house in the person of Sophronia; and, albeit I took her privily to wife, I came not as a ravisher to despoil her of her virginity, nor in any hostile sort was I minded to make her mine on dishonourable terms, and spurn your alliance; but, being fervently enamoured of her bewitching beauty and her noble qualities, I wist well that, should I make suit for her with those formalities which you, perchance, will say were due, then, for the great love you bear her, and for fear lest I should take her away with me to Rome, I might not hope to have her. Accordingly I made use of the secret practice which is now manifest to you, and brought Gisippus to consent in my interest to that whereto he was averse; and thereafter, ardently though I loved her, I sought not to commingle with her as a lover, but as a husband, nor closed with her, until, as she herself by her true witness may assure you, I had with apt words and with the ring made her my lawful wife, asking her if she would have me to husband, whereto she answered, yes. Wherein if she seem to have been tricked, 'tis not I that am to blame, but she, for that she asked me not who I was. "This, then, is the great wrong, sin, crime, whereof for love and friendship's sake Gisippus and I are guilty, that Sophronia is privily become the wife of Titus Quintius: 'tis for this that you harass him with your menaces and hostile machinations. What more would you do, had he given her to a villein, to a caitiff, to a slave? Where would you find fetters, dungeons, crosses adequate to your vengeance? But enough of this at present: an event, which I did not expect, has now happened; my father is dead; and I must needs return to Rome; wherefore, being fain to take Sophronia with me, I have discovered to you that which otherwise I had, perchance, still kept close. Whereto, if you are wise, you will gladly reconcile yourselves; for that, if I had been minded to play you false, or put an affront upon you, I might have scornfully abandoned her to you; but God forefend that such baseness be ever harboured in a Roman breast. Sophronia, then, by the will of the Gods, by force of law, and by my own love-taught astuteness, is mine. The which it would seem that you, deeming yourselves, peradventure, wiser than the Gods, or the rest of mankind, do foolishly set at nought, and that in two ways alike most offensive to me; inasmuch as you both withhold from me Sophronia, in whom right, as against me, you have none, and also entreat as your enemy Gisippus, to whom you are rightfully bounden. The folly whereof I purpose not at present fully to expound to you, but in friendly sort to counsel you to abate your wrath and abandon all your schemes of vengeance, and restore Sophronia to me, that I may part from you on terms of amity and alliance, and so abide: but of this rest assured, that whether this, which is done, like you or not, if you are minded to contravene it, I shall take Gisippus hence with me, and once arrived in Rome, shall in your despite find means to recover her who is lawfully mine, and pursuing you with unremitting enmity, will apprise you by experience of the full measure and effect of a Roman's wrath." Having so said, Titus started to his feet, his countenance distorted by anger, and took Gisippus by the hand, and with manifest contempt for all the rest, shaking his head at them and threatening them, led him out of the temple. They that remained in the temple, being partly persuaded by his arguments to accept his alliance and friendship, partly terrified by his last words, resolved by common consent that 'twas better to have the alliance of Titus, as they had lost that of Gisippus, than to add to that loss the enmity of Titus. Wherefore they followed Titus, and having come up with him, told him that they were well pleased that Sophronia should be his, and that they should prize his alliance and the friendship of dear Gisippus; and having ratified this treaty of amity and alliance with mutual cheer, they departed and sent Sophronia to Titus. Sophronia, discreetly making a virtue of necessity, transferred forthwith to Titus the love she had borne Gisippus, and being come with Titus to Rome, was there received with no small honour. Gisippus tarried in Athens, held in little account by well-nigh all the citizens, and being involved in certain of their broils, was, not long afterwards, with all his household, banished the city, poor, nay, destitute, and condemned to perpetual exile. Thus hard bested, and at length reduced to mendicancy, he made his way, so as least discomfortably he might, to Rome, being minded to see whether Titus would remember him: and there, learning that Titus lived, and was much affected by all the Romans, and having found out his house, he took his stand in front of it, and watched until Titus came by; to whom, for shame of the sorry trim that he was in, he ventured no word, but did his endeavour that he might be seen of him, hoping that Titus might recognize him, and call him by his name: but Titus passing on, Gisippus deeming that he had seen and avoided him, and calling to mind that which aforetime he had done for him, went away wroth and desperate. And fasting and penniless, and--for 'twas now night--knowing not whither he went, and yearning above all for death, he wandered by chance to a spot, which, albeit 'twas within the city, had much of the aspect of a wilderness, and espying a spacious grotto, he took shelter there for the night; and worn out at last with grief, on the bare ground, wretchedly clad as he was, he fell asleep. Now two men that had that night gone out a thieving, having committed the theft, came towards morning to the grotto, and there quarrelled, and the stronger slew the other, and took himself off. Aroused by the noise, Gisippus witnessed the murder, and deeming that he had now the means of compassing, without suicide, the death for which he so much longed, budged not a jot, but stayed there, until the serjeants of the court, which had already got wind of the affair, came on the scene, and laid violent hands upon him, and led him away. Being examined, he confessed that he had slain the man, and had then been unable to make his escape from the grotto. Wherefore the praetor, Marcus Varro by name, sentenced him to death by crucifixion, as was then the custom. But Titus, who happened at that moment to come into the praetorium, being told the crime for which he was condemned, and scanning the poor wretch's face, presently recognized him for Gisippus, and marvelled how he should come to be there, and in such a woeful plight. And most ardently desiring to succour him, nor seeing other way to save his life except to exonerate him by accusing himself, he straightway stepped forward, and said with a loud voice:--"Marcus Varro, call back the poor man on whom thou hast passed sentence, for he is innocent. 'Tis enough that I have incurred the wrath of the Gods by one deed of violence, to wit, the murder of him whom your serjeants found dead this morning, without aggravating my offence by the death of another innocent man." Perplexed, and vexed that he should have been heard by all in the praetorium, but unable honourably to avoid compliance with that which the laws enjoined, Varro had Gisippus brought back, and in presence of Titus said to him:--"How camest thou to be so mad as, though no constraint was put upon thee, to confess a deed thou never didst, thy life being at stake? Thou saidst that 'twas thou by whom the man was slain last night, and now comes this other, and says that 'twas not thou but he that slew him." Gisippus looked, and seeing Titus, wist well that, being grateful for the service rendered by him in the past, Titus was now minded to save his life at the cost of his own: wherefore, affected to tears, he said:--"Nay but, Varro, in very sooth I slew him, and 'tis now too late, this tender solicitude of Titus for my deliverance." But on his part:--"Praetor," quoth Titus, "thou seest this man is a stranger, and was found unarmed beside the murdered man; thou canst not doubt that he was fain of death for very wretchedness: wherefore discharge him, and let punishment light on me who have merited it." Marvelling at the importunity of both, Varro readily surmised that neither was guilty. And while he was casting about how he might acquit them, lo, in came a young man, one Publius Ambustus, a desperate character, and known to all the Romans for an arrant thief. He it was that had verily committed the murder, and witting both the men to be innocent of that of which each accused himself, so sore at heart was he by reason of their innocence, that, overborne by an exceeding great compassion, he presented himself before Varro, and:--"Praetor," quoth he, "'tis destiny draws me hither to loose the knot of these men's contention; and some God within me leaves me no peace of his whips and stings, until I discover my offence: wherefore know that neither of these men is guilty of that of which each accuses himself. 'Tis verily I that slew the man this morning about daybreak; and before I slew him, while I was sharing our plunder with him, I espied this poor fellow asleep there. Nought need I say to clear Titus: the general bruit of his illustrious renown attests that he is not a man of such a sort. Discharge him, therefore, and exact from me the penalty prescribed by the laws." The affair had by this time come to the ears of Octavianus, who caused all three to be brought before him, and demanded to know the causes by which they had been severally moved to accuse themselves; and, each having told his story, Octavianus released the two by reason of their innocence, and the third for love of them. Titus took Gisippus home, having first chidden him not a little for his faint-heartedness and diffidence, and there, Sophronia receiving him as a brother, did him marvellous cheer; and having comforted him a while, and arrayed him in apparel befitting his worth and birth, he first shared with him all his substance, and then gave him his sister, a young damsel named Fulvia, to wife, and said to him:--"Choose now, Gisippus, whether thou wilt tarry here with me, or go back to Achaia with all that I have given thee." Partly perforce of his banishment from his city, partly for that the sweet friendship of Titus was justly dear to him, Gisippus consented to become a Roman. And so, long and happily they lived together at Rome, Gisippus with his Fulvia, and Titus with his Sophronia, in the same house, growing, if possible, greater friends day by day. Exceeding sacred then, is friendship, and worthy not only to be had in veneration, but to be extolled with never-ending praise, as the most dutiful mother of magnificence and seemliness, sister of gratitude and charity, and foe to enmity and avarice; ever, without waiting to be asked, ready to do as generously by another as she would be done by herself. Rarely indeed is it to-day that twain are found, in whom her most holy fruits are manifest; for which is most shamefully answerable the covetousness of mankind, which, regarding only private interest, has banished friendship beyond earth's farthest bourne, there to abide in perpetual exile. How should love, or wealth, or kinship, how should aught but friendship have so quickened the soul of Gisippus that the tears and sighs of Titus should incline his heart to cede to him the fair and gracious lady that was his betrothed and his beloved? Laws, menaces, terror! How should these, how should aught but friendship, have withheld Gisippus, in lonely places, in hidden retreats, in his own bed, from enfolding (not perchance unsolicited by her) the fair damsel within his youthful embrace? Honours, rewards, gains! Would Gisippus for these, would he for aught but friendship, have made nothing of the loss of kindred--his own and Sophronia's--have made nothing of the injurious murmurs of the populace, have made nothing of mocks and scorns, so only he might content his friend? And on the other hand, for what other cause than friendship had Titus, when he might decently have feigned not to see, have striven with the utmost zeal to compass his own death, and set himself upon the cross in Gisippus' stead? And what but friendship had left no place for suspicion in the soul of Titus, and filled it with a most fervent desire to give his sister to Gisippus, albeit he saw him to be reduced to extreme penury and destitution? But so it is that men covet hosts of acquaintance, troops of kinsfolk, offspring in plenty; and the number of their dependants increases with their wealth; and they reflect not that there is none of these, be he who he may, but will be more apprehensive of the least peril threatening himself than cumbered to avert a great peril from his lord or kinsman, whereas between friends we know 'tis quite contrariwise. NOVEL IX. -- Saladin, in guise of a merchant, is honourably entreated by Messer Torello. The Crusade ensuing, Messer Torello appoints a date, after which his wife may marry again: he is taken prisoner, and by training hawks comes under the Soldan's notice. The Soldan recognizes him, makes himself known to him, and entreats him with all honour. Messer Torello falls sick, and by magic arts is transported in a single night to Pavia, where his wife's second marriage is then to be solemnized, and being present thereat, is recognized by her, and returns with her to his house. -- So ended Filomena her story, and when all alike had commended the magnificence shewn by Titus in his gratitude, the king, reserving the last place for Dioneo, thus began:--Lovesome my ladies, true beyond all question is what Filomena reports of friendship, and with justice did she deplore in her closing words the little account in which 'tis held to-day among mortals. And were we here for the purpose of correcting, or even of censuring, the vices of the age, I should add a copious sequel to her discourse; but as we have another end in view, it has occurred to me to set before you in a narrative, which will be of considerable length, but entertaining throughout, an instance of Saladin's magnificence, to the end that, albeit, by reason of our vices, it may not be possible for us to gain to the full the friendship of any, yet by the matters whereof you shall hear in my story we may at least be incited to take delight in doing good offices, in the hope that sooner or later we may come by our reward thereof. I say, then, that in the time of the Emperor Frederic I., as certain writers affirm, the Christians made common emprise for the recovery of the Holy Land. Whereof that most valiant prince, Saladin, then Soldan of Babylonia, being in good time apprised, resolved to see for himself the preparations made by the Christian potentates for the said emprise, that he might put himself in better trim to meet them. So, having ordered all things to his mind in Egypt, he made as if he were bound on a pilgrimage, and attended only by two of his chiefest and sagest lords, and three servants, took the road in the guise of a merchant. And having surveyed many provinces of Christendom, as they rode through Lombardy with intent to cross the Alps, they chanced, between Milan and Pavia, to fall in with a gentleman, one Messer Torello d'Istria da Pavia, who with his servants and his dogs and falcons was betaking him to a fine estate that he had on the Ticino, there to tarry a while. Now Messer Torello no sooner espied Saladin and his lords than he guessed them to be gentlemen and foreigners; and, being zealous to do them honour, when Saladin asked one of his servants how far off Pavia might still be, and if he might win there in time to enter the town, he suffered not the servant to make answer, but:--"No, gentlemen," quoth he, "by the time you reach Pavia 'twill be too late for you to enter." "So!" replied Saladin, "then might you be pleased to direct us, as we are strangers, where we may best be lodged?" "That gladly will I," returned Messer Torello. "I was but now thinking to send one of these my men on an errand to Pavia; I will send him with you, and he will guide you to a place where you will find very comfortable quarters." Then, turning to one of his most trusty servants, he gave him his instructions, and despatched him with them: after which, he repaired to his estate, and forthwith, as best he might, caused a goodly supper to be made ready, and the tables set in his garden; which done, he stationed himself at the gate on the look-out for his guests. The servant, conversing with the gentlemen of divers matters, brought them by devious roads to his lord's estate without their being ware of it. Whom as soon as Messer Torello espied, he came forth afoot to meet them, and said with a smile:--"A hearty welcome to you, gentlemen." Now Saladin, being very quick of apprehension, perceived that the knight had doubted, when he met them, that, were he to bid them to his house, they might not accept his hospitality; and accordingly, that it might not be in their power to decline it, had brought them to his house by a ruse. And so, returning his greeting:--"Sir," quoth he, "were it meet to find fault with those that shew courtesy, we should have a grievance against you, for that, to say nought of somewhat delaying our journey, you have in guerdon of a single greeting constrained us to accept so noble a courtesy as yours." Whereto the knight, who was of good understanding and well-spoken, made answer:--"Gentlemen, such courtesy as we shew you will, in comparison of that which, by what I gather from your aspect, were meet for you, prove but a sorry thing; but in sooth this side of Pavia you might not anywhere have been well lodged; wherefore take it not amiss that you have come somewhat out of your way to find less discomfortable quarters." And as he spoke, about them flocked the servants, who, having helped them to dismount, saw to their horses; whereupon Messer Torello conducted them to the chambers that were made ready for them, where, having caused them to be relieved of their boots, and refreshed with the coolest of wines, he held pleasant converse with them until supper-time. Saladin and his lords and servants all knew Latin, so that they both understood and made themselves understood very well, and there was none of them but adjudged this knight to be the most agreeable and debonair man, and therewithal the best talker, that he had ever seen; while to Messer Torello, on the other hand, they shewed as far greater magnificoes than he had at first supposed, whereby he was inly vexed that he had not been able that evening to do them the honours of company, and a more ceremonious banquet. For which default he resolved to make amends on the ensuing morning: wherefore, having imparted to one of his servants that which he would have done, he sent him to his most judicious and highminded lady at Pavia, which was close by, and where never a gate was locked. Which done, he brought the gentlemen into the garden, and courteously asked them who they were. "We are Cypriote merchants," replied Saladin, "and 'tis from Cyprus we come, and we are on our way to Paris on business." Quoth then Messer Torello:--"Would to God that our country bred gentlemen of such a quality as are the merchants that I see Cyprus breeds!" From which they passed to discourse of other matters, until, supper-time being come, he besought them to seat them at table; whereat, considering that the supper was but improvised, their entertainment was excellent and well-ordered. The tables being cleared, Messer Torello, surmising that they must be weary, kept them no long time from their rest, but bestowed them in most comfortable beds, and soon after went to rest himself. Meanwhile the servant that he had sent to Pavia did his lord's errand to the lady, who, in the style rather of a queen than of a housewife, forthwith assembled not a few of Messer Torello's friends and vassals, and caused all meet preparation to be made for a magnificent banquet, and by messengers bearing torches bade not a few of the noblest of the citizens thereto; and had store of silken and other fabrics and vair brought in, and all set in order in every point as her husband had directed. Day came, and the gentlemen being risen, Messer Torello got him to horse with them, and having sent for his hawks, brought them to a ford, and shewed them how the hawks flew. By and by, Saladin requesting of him a guide to the best inn at Pavia:--"I myself will be your guide," returned Messer Torello, "for I have occasion to go thither." Which offer they, nothing doubting, did gladly accept, and so with him they set forth; and about tierce, being come to the city, and expecting to be directed to the best inn, they were brought by Messer Torello, to his own house, where they were forthwith surrounded by full fifty of the greatest folk of the city, gathered there to give the gentlemen a welcome; and 'twas who should hold a bridle or a stirrup, while they dismounted. Whereby Saladin and his lords more than guessing the truth:--"Messer Torello," quoth they, "'twas not this that we craved of you. Honour enough had we from you last night, and far in excess of our desires; wherefore thou mightst very well have left us to go our own road." Whereto:--"Gentlemen," replied Messer Torello, "for that which was done yestereve I have to thank Fortune rather than you: seeing that Fortune surprised you on the road at an hour when you must needs repair to my little house: for that which shall be done this morning I shall be beholden to you, as will also these gentlemen that surround you, with whom, if you deem it courteous so to do, you may refuse to breakfast, if you like." Fairly conquered, Saladin and his lords dismounted, and heartily welcomed by the gentlemen, were conducted to the chambers which had been most sumptuously adorned for their use; and having laid aside their riding dress, and taken some refreshment, repaired to the saloon, where all had been made ready with splendour. There, having washed their hands, they sat them down to table, and were regaled with a magnificent repast of many courses, served with all stately and fair ceremony, insomuch that, had the Emperor himself been there, 'twould not have been possible to do him more honour. And albeit Saladin and his lords were grandees and used to exceeding great displays of pomp and state, nevertheless this shewed to them as not a little marvellous, and one of the greatest they had ever seen, having regard to the quality of their host, whom they knew to be but a citizen, and no lord. Breakfast done, and the tables cleared, they conversed a while of high matters, and then, as 'twas very hot, all the gentlemen of Pavia--so it pleased Messer Torello--retired for their siesta, while he remained with his three guests; with whom he presently withdrew into a chamber, whither, that there might be nought that he held dear which they had not seen, he called his noble lady. And so the dame, exceeding fair and stately of person, and arrayed in rich apparel, with her two little boys, that shewed as two angels, on either hand, presented herself before them, and graciously greeted them. Whereupon they rose, and returned her salutation with reverence, and caused her to sit down among them, and made much of her two little boys. But after some interchange of gracious discourse, Messer Torello being withdrawn somewhat apart, she asked them courteously, whence they came and whither they were bound, and had of them the same answer that Messer Torello had received. "So!" quoth the lady with a joyful air, "then I see that my woman's wit will be of service to you; wherefore I pray you as a special favour neither to reject nor to despise the little gift that I am about to present to you; but reflecting that, as women have but small minds, so they make but small gifts, accept it, having regard rather to the good will of the giver than the magnitude of the gift." She then caused bring forth for each of them two pair of robes, lined the one with silk, the other with vair, no such robes as citizens or merchants, but such as lords, use to wear, and three vests of taffeta, besides linen clothes, and:--"Take them," quoth she. "The robes I give you are even such as I have arrayed my lord withal: the other things, considering that you are far from your wives, and have come a long way, and have yet a long way to go, and that merchants love to be neat and trim, may, albeit they are of no great value, be yet acceptable to you." Wondering, the gentlemen acknowledged without reserve that there was no point of courtesy wherein Messer Torello was not minded to acquit himself towards them. And noting the lordly fashion of the robes, unsuited to the quality of merchants, they misdoubted that Messer Torello had recognized them. However, quoth one of them to the lady:--"Gifts great indeed are these, Madam, nor such as lightly to accept, were it not that thereto we are constrained by your prayers, to which we may on no account say, no." Whereupon, Messer Torello being now come back, the lady bade them adieu, and took her leave of them; and in like manner did she cause their servants to be supplied with equipment suitable to them. The gentlemen, being much importuned thereto by Messer Torello, consented to tarry the rest of the day with him; and so, having slept, they donned their robes, and rode a while with him about the city; and supper-time being come, they feasted magnificently, and with a numerous and honourable company. And so in due time they betook them to rest; and at daybreak, being risen, they found, in lieu of their jaded nags, three stout and excellent palfreys, and in like manner fresh and goodly mounts for their servants. Which Saladin marking turned to his lords, and:--"By God," quoth he, "never was gentleman more complete and courteous and considerate than this Messer Torello, and if the Christian kings are as kingly as he is knightly, there is none of them whose onset the Soldan of Babylon might well abide, to say nought of so many as we see making ready to fall upon him." However, knowing that 'twas not permissible to refuse, he very courteously thanked Messer Torello: and so they got them to horse. Messer Torello with a numerous company escorted them far beyond the gate of the city, until, loath though Saladin was to part from him, so greatly did he now affect him, yet as he must needs speed on, he besought him to turn back. Whereupon, albeit it irked him to take leave of them:--"Gentlemen," quoth Messer Torello, "since such is your pleasure, I obey; but this I must say to you. Who you are I know not, nor would I know more than you are pleased to impart; but whoever you may be, you will not make me believe that you are merchants this while; and so adieu!" To whom Saladin, having already taken leave of all his company, thus made answer:--"Peradventure, Sir, we shall one day give you to see somewhat of our merchandise, and thereby confirm your belief: and so adieu!" Thus parted Saladin and his company from Messer Torello, Saladin burning with an exceeding great desire, if life should be continued to him, and the war, which he anticipated, should not undo him, to shew Messer Torello no less honour than he had received at his hands, and conversing not a little with his lords both of Messer Torello himself and of his lady, and all that he did and that in any wise concerned him, ever more highly commending them. However, having with much diligence spied out all the West, he put to sea, and returned with his company to Alexandria; and having now all needful information, he put himself in a posture of defence. Messer Torello, his mind full of his late guests, returned to Pavia; but, though he long pondered who they might be, he came never at or anywhere near the truth. Then with great and general mustering of forces came the time for embarking on the emprise, and Messer Torello, heeding not the tearful entreaties of his wife, resolved to join therein. So, being fully equipped and about to take horse, he said to his lady, whom he most dearly loved:--"Wife, for honour's sake and for the weal of my soul, I go, as thou seest, on this emprise: our substance and our honour I commend to thy care. Certain I am of my departure, but, for the thousand accidents that may ensue, certitude have I none of my return: wherefore I would have thee do me this grace, that, whatever be my fate, shouldst thou lack certain intelligence that I live, thou wilt expect me a year and a month and a day from this my departure, before thou marry again." Whereto the lady, weeping bitterly, made answer:--"Messer Torello, I know not how I shall support the distress in which, thus departing, you leave me; but should my life not fail beneath it, and aught befall thee, live and die secure that I shall live and die the wife of Messer Torello, and of his memory." Whereupon:--"Wife," returned Messer Torello, "well assured I am that, so far as in thee shall lie, this promise of thine will be kept; but thou art young, and fair, and of a great family, and thy virtue is rare and generally known: wherefore I make no doubt that, should there be any suspicion of my death, thou wilt be asked of thy brothers and kinsmen by many a great gentleman: against whose attacks, though thou desire it never so, thou wilt not be able to hold out, but wilt perforce be fain to gratify one or other of them; for which cause it is that I ask thee to wait just so long and no longer." "As I have said," replied the lady, "so, in so far as I may, I shall do; and if I must needs do otherwise, rest assured that of this your behest I shall render you obedience. But I pray God that He bring neither you nor me to such a strait yet a while." Which said, the lady wept, and having embraced Messer Torello, drew from her finger a ring, and gave it to him, saying:--"Should it betide that I die before I see you again, mind you of me, when you look upon it." Messer Torello took the ring, and got him to horse, and having bidden all adieu, fared forth on his journey; and being arrived with his company at Genoa, he embarked on a galley, and having departed thence, in no long time arrived at Acre, and joined the main Christian host; wherein there by and by broke out an exceeding great and mortal sickness; during which, whether owing to Saladin's strategy, or his good fortune, he made an easy capture of well-nigh all the remnant of the Christians that were escaped, and quartered them in divers prisons in many cities; of which captives Messer Torello being one, was brought to Alexandria and there confined. Where, not being known, and fearing to make himself known, he, under constraint of necessity, applied him to the training of hawks, whereof he was a very great master; and thereby he fell under the notice of Saladin, who took him out of the prison, and made him his falconer. The Soldan called him by no other name than "Christian," and neither recognized, nor was recognized by, him, who, his whole soul ever in Pavia, essayed many a time to escape, that he might return thither, but still without success: wherefore, certain Genoese, that were come to Alexandria as ambassadors to the Soldan for the redemption of some of their townsfolk, being about to return, he resolved to write to his lady, how that he lived, and would come back to her, as soon as he might, and that she should expect his return; and having so done, he earnestly besought one of the ambassadors, whom he knew, to see that the letter reached the hands of the Abbot of San Pietro in Ciel d'Oro, who was his uncle. Now, such being the posture of Messer Torello's affairs, it befell one day that, while he talked with Saladin of his hawks, he smiled; whereby his mouth shaped itself in a fashion, of which Saladin had taken particular note, while he was at Pavia. And so, recalling Messer Torello to mind, he fixed his gaze upon him, and it seemed to him that 'twas indeed Messer Torello; wherefore, leaving the matter of which they were conversing:--"Tell me, Christian," quoth he, "of what country art thou in the West?" "My lord," replied Messer Torello, "I am a Lombard, of a city called Pavia, a poor man, and of humble condition." Which when he heard, Saladin, well-nigh resolved of his doubt, said joyfully to himself:--"God has provided me with occasion meet to prove to this man what store I set by his courtesy;" and without another word he brought him into a room where he kept all his wearing apparel, and said:--"Look, Christian, if among these robes there be any that thou hast ever seen before." So Messer Torello examined the robes, and espied those which his lady had given to Saladin; but, deeming they could not be the same, he replied:--"My lord, there is no robe here that I recognize, albeit 'tis true that those two robes are such as I once wore myself, in company with three merchants that came to my house." Whereupon Saladin could refrain himself no longer; but, tenderly embracing him:--"You," quoth he, "are Messer Torello d'Istria, and I am one of those three merchants to whom your lady gave these robes; and now is the time to warrant you of the quality of my merchandise, as, when I parted from you, I told you might come to pass." Which to hear, Messer Torello was at once overjoyed and abashed, overjoyed to have entertained so illustrious a guest, and abashed, for that it seemed to him that he had given him but a sorry entertainment. To whom:--"Messer Torello," quoth Saladin, "since hither has God sent you to me, deem that 'tis no more I that am lord here, but you." And so they made great cheer together; and then Saladin caused Messer Torello to be royally arrayed; and presented him to all his greatest lords, and having extolled his merit in no stinted measure, bade all, as they hoped for grace from him, honour Messer Torello even as himself. And so from that hour did they all; but most especially the two lords that had been with Saladin at Messer Torello's house. The glory, to which Messer Torello thus suddenly found himself raised, somewhat diverted his mind from the affairs of Lombardy, and the more so, for that he entertained no doubt that his letter had reached his uncle's hands. But for that in the camp, or rather army, of the Christians, on the day when they were taken by Saladin, there died and was buried one Messer Torello de Dignes, an obscure knight of Provence, whereas Messer Torello d'Istria was known to all the host for a right noble gentleman, whoso heard tell that Messer Torello was dead, supposed that 'twas Messer Torello d'Istria, and not Messer Torello de Dignes; nor did what happened after, to wit, the capture, avail to undeceive them; for not a few Italians had carried the report home with them; among whom there were some who made bold to say that they had seen Messer Torello d'Istria's dead body, and had been present at its interment. Which rumour coming to the ears of his lady and his kinsfolk, great indeed, nay, immeasurable was the distress that it occasioned not only to them, but to all that had known him. The mode and measure of his lady's grief, her mourning, her lamentation, 'twere tedious to describe. Enough that, after some months spent in almost unmitigated tribulation, her sorrow shewed signs of abatement; whereupon, suit being made for her hand by some of the greatest men of Lombardy, her brothers and other kinsfolk began to importune her to marry again. Times not a few, and with floods of tears, she refused; but, overborne at last, she consented to do as they would have her, upon the understanding that she was to remain unmarried until the term for which she had bound herself to Messer Torello was fulfilled. Now the lady's affairs being in this posture at Pavia, it befell that some eight days or so before the time appointed for her marriage, Messer Torello one day espied in Alexandria one that he had observed go with the Genoese ambassadors aboard the galley that took them to Genoa; wherefore he called him, and asked him what sort of a voyage they had had, and when they had reached Genoa. "My lord," replied the other, "the galley made but a sorry voyage of it, as I learned in Crete, where I remained; for that, while she was nearing Sicily, there arose a terrible gale from the North that drove her on to the shoals of Barbary, and never a soul escaped, and among the rest my two brothers were lost." Which report believing--and 'twas indeed most true--and calling to mind that in a few days the term that he had asked of his wife would be fulfilled, and surmising that there could be no tidings of him at Pavia, Messer Torello made no question but that the lady was provided with another husband; whereby he sank into such a depth of woe that he lost all power to eat, and betook him to his bed and resigned himself to die. Which when Saladin, by whom he was most dearly beloved, learned, he came to him, and having plied him with many and most instant entreaties, learned at length the cause of his distress and sickness; and, having chidden him not a little that he had not sooner apprised him thereof, he besought him to put on a cheerful courage, assuring him, that, if so he did, he would bring it to pass that he should be in Pavia at the time appointed, and told him how. Believing Saladin's words the more readily that he had many times heard that 'twas possible, and had not seldom been done, Messer Torello recovered heart, and was instant with Saladin that he should make all haste. Accordingly Saladin bade one of his necromancers, of whose skill he had already had proof, to devise a method whereby Messer Torello should be transported abed in a single night to Pavia: the necromancer made answer that it should be done, but that 'twere best he put Messer Torello to sleep. The matter being thus arranged, Saladin hied him back to Messer Torello, and finding him most earnestly desirous to be in Pavia at the time appointed, if so it might be, and if not, to die:--"Messer Torello," quoth he, "if you dearly love your lady, and misdoubt that she may become the bride of another, no wise, God wot, do I censure you, for that, of all the ladies that ever I saw, she, for bearing, manners, and address--to say nought of beauty, which is but the flower that perishes--seems to me the most worthy to be lauded and cherished. Much had I been gratified, since Fortune has sent you hither to me, that, while you and I yet live, we had exercised equal lordship in the governance of this my realm, and, if such was not God's will, and this must needs come upon you, that you are fain either to be at Pavia at the time appointed or to die, I had desired of all things to have been apprised thereof at such a time that I might have sent you home with such honourable circumstance and state and escort as befit your high desert; which not being vouchsafed me, and as nought will content you but to be there forthwith, I do what I can, and speed you thither on such wise as I have told you." "My lord," replied Messer Torello, "had you said nought, you have already done enough to prove your goodwill towards me, and that in so high a degree as is quite beyond my deserts, and most assured of the truth of what you say shall I live and die, and so had done, had you not said it; but, seeing that my resolve is taken, I pray you that that, which you promise to do, be done speedily, for that after to-morrow I may no longer count on being expected." Saladin assured him that 'twas so ordered that he should not be disappointed. And on the morrow, it being his purpose to speed him on his journey that same night, he caused to be set up in one of his great halls a most goodly and sumptuous bed composed of mattresses, all, as was their wont, of velvet and cloth of gold, and had it covered with a quilt, adorned at certain intervals with enormous pearls, and most rare precious stones, insomuch that 'twas in after time accounted a priceless treasure, and furnished with two pillows to match it. Which done, he bade array Messer Torello, who was now quite recovered, in a robe after the Saracenic fashion, the richest and goodliest thing of the kind that was ever seen, and wrap about his head, according to their wont, one of their huge turbans. Then, at a late hour, Saladin, attended by certain of his lords, entered the chamber where Messer Torello was, and seating himself beside him, all but wept as thus he began:--"Messer Torello, the time is nigh at hand when you and I must part; wherefore, since I may neither give you my own, nor others' company (the journey that you are about to make not permitting it), I am come here, as 'tis fitting, in this chamber to take my leave of you. Wherefore, before I bid you adieu, I entreat you, by that friendship, that love, which is between us, that you forget me not, and that, if it be possible, when you have settled your affairs in Lombardy, you come at least once, before our days are ended, to visit me, that thereby I may both have the delight of seeing you again, and make good that omission which, by reason of your haste, I must needs now make; and that in the meanwhile it irk thee not to visit me by letter, and to ask of me whatever you shall have a mind to, and be sure that there lives not the man whom I shall content more gladly than you." Messer Torello could not refrain his tears, and so, with words few, and broken by his sobs, he answered that 'twas impossible that the Soldan's generous deeds and chivalrous character should ever be forgotten by him, and that without fail he would do as he bade him, so soon as occasion should serve him. Whereupon Saladin tenderly embraced and kissed him, and with many a tear bade him adieu, and quitted the chamber. His lords then took leave of Messer Torello, and followed Saladin into the hall, where he had had the bed made ready. 'Twas now late, and the necromancer being intent to hasten Messer Torello's transit, a physician brought him a potion, and having first shewn him what he was to give him by way of viaticum, caused him to drink it; and not long after he fell asleep. In which state he was carried by Saladin's command, and laid on the goodly bed, whereon he set a large and fair and most sumptuous crown, marking it in such sort that there could be no mistake that it was sent by Saladin to Messer Torello's wife. He next placed on Messer Torello's finger a ring, in which was set a carbuncle of such brilliance that it shewed as a lighted torch, and of well-nigh inestimable value. After which he girded on him a sword, the appointments of which might not readily be appraised. And therewithal he adorned him in front with a pendant, wherein were pearls, the like of which had never been seen, and not a few other rare jewels. And, moreover, on either side of him he set two vast basins of gold full of pistoles; and strings of pearls not a few, and rings and girdles, and other things, which 'twere tedious to enumerate, he disposed around him. Which done, he kissed Messer Torello again, and bade the necromancer speed him on his journey. Whereupon, forthwith, the bed, with Messer Torello thereon, was borne away from before Saladin's eyes, and he and his barons remained conversing thereof. The bed, as Messer Torello had requested, had already been deposited in the church of San Piero in Ciel d'Oro at Pavia, and Messer Torello, with all the aforesaid jewels and ornaments upon and about him, was lying thereon, and still slept, when, upon the stroke of matins, the sacristan came into the church, light in hand, and presently setting eyes on the sumptuous bed, was not only amazed, but mightily terrified, insomuch that he turned back, and took to flight. Which the abbot and monks observing with no small surprise, asked wherefore he fled and he told them. Whereupon:--"Oh," quoth the abbot, "thou art no longer a child, nor yet so new to this church, that thou shouldst so lightly be appalled: go we now, and see who it is that has given thee this childish fright." So, with a blaze of torches, the abbot, attended by his monks, entered the church, and espied this wondrous costly bed whereon the knight slept, and while, hesitant and fearful, daring not to approach the bed, they scanned the rare and splendid jewels, it befell that, the efficacy of the potion being exhausted, Messer Torello awoke and heaved a great sigh. Whereat the monks and the abbot quaking and crying out:--"Lord, help us!" one and all took to flight. Messer Torello, opening his eyes and looking about him, saw, to his no small satisfaction, that without a doubt he was in the very place where he had craved of Saladin to be; so up he sate, and taking particular note of the matters with which he was surrounded, accounted the magnificence of Saladin to exceed even the measure, great though it was, that he already knew. However, he still kept quiet, save that, perceiving the monks in flight, and surmising the reason, he began to call the abbot by name, bidding him be of good courage, for that he was his nephew, Torello. Whereat the abbot did but wax more terrified, for that he deemed Torello had been many a month dead; but, after a while, as he heard himself still called, sound judgment got the better of his fears, and making the sign of the cross, he drew nigh Torello; who said to him:--"Father, what is't you fear? By God's grace I live, and hither am come back from overseas." Whom, for all he had grown a long beard and was dressed in the Saracenic fashion, the abbot after a while recognized, and now, quite reassured, took by the hand, saying:--"Son, welcome home:" then:--"No cause hast thou to marvel at our fears," he went on, "seeing that there is never a soul in these parts but firmly believes thee to be dead, insomuch that I may tell thee that Madonna Adalieta, thy wife, overborne by the entreaties and menaces of her kinsfolk, and against her will, is provided with another husband, to whom she is this morning to go, and all is made ready for the nuptials and the attendant festivities." Whereupon Messer Torello, being risen from the sumptuous bed, did the abbot and the monks wondrous cheer, and besought them, one and all, to tell never a soul of his return, until he had completed something that he had on hand. After which, having put the costly jewels in safe keeping, he recounted to the abbot all the story of his adventures to that very hour. The abbot, rejoicing in his good fortune, joined with him in offering thanks to God. Messer Torello then asked him who might be his wife's new husband, and the abbot told him. Quoth then Messer Torello:--"Before my return be known, I purpose to see how my wife will comport herself at the nuptials: wherefore, though 'tis not the wont of men of religion to go to such gatherings, I had lief that for love of me you arranged for us to go thither together." The abbot answered that, he would gladly do so, and as soon as 'twas day, he sent word to the bridegroom that he had thoughts of being present at his nuptials, accompanied by a friend; whereto the gentleman made answer that he was much gratified. So, at the breakfast hour Messer Torello, dressed as he was, hied him with the abbot to the bridegroom's house, as many as saw them gazing on him with wonder, but none recognizing him, and the abbot giving all to understand that he was a Saracen sent by the Soldan as ambassador to the King of France. Messer Torello was accordingly seated at a table directly opposite that of his lady, whom he eyed with exceeding great delight, the more so that he saw that in her face which shewed him that she was chagrined by the nuptials. She in like manner from time to time bent her regard on him; howbeit, what with his long beard, and his foreign garb, and her firm persuasion that he was dead, she had still no sort of recollection of him. However, Messer Torello at length deemed it time to make trial of her, whether she would remember him; wherefore he took the ring that the lady had given, him on his departure, and keeping it close in the palm of his hand, he called to him a page that waited upon her, and said to him:--"Tell the bride from me that 'tis the custom in my country, that, when a stranger, such as I, eats with a bride, like herself, at her wedding-feast, she, in token that he is welcome to her board, sends him the cup from which she herself drinks, full of wine; and when the stranger has drunk his fill, he closes the cup, and the bride drinks what is left therein." The page carried the message to the lady, who, being of good understanding and manners, and supposing him to be some very great man, by way of shewing that she was gratified by his presence, commanded that a gilt cup, that was on the table before her, should be rinsed, and filled with wine, and borne to the gentleman. Which being done, Messer Torello, having privily conveyed her ring into his mouth, let it fall (while he drank) into the cup on such wise that none wist thereof; and leaving but a little wine at the bottom, closed the cup and returned it to the lady; who, having taken it, that she might do full honour to the custom of her guest's country, lifted the lid, and set the cup to her mouth; whereby espying the ring, she thereon mutely gazed a while, and recognizing it for that which she had given Messer Torello on his departure, she steadfastly regarded the supposed stranger, whom now she also recognized. Whereupon well-nigh distracted, oversetting the table in front of her, she exclaimed:--"'Tis my lord, 'tis verily Messer Torello;" and rushing to the table at which he sate, giving never a thought to her apparel, or aught that was on the table, she flung herself upon it; and reaching forward as far as she could, she threw her arms about him, and hugged him; nor, for aught that any said or did, could she be induced to release his neck, until Messer Torello himself bade her forbear a while, for that she would have time enough to kiss him thereafter. The lady then stood up, and for a while all was disorder, albeit the feast was yet more gladsome than before by reason of the recovery of so honourable a knight: then, at Messer Torello's entreaty, all were silent, while he recounted to them the story of his adventures from the day of his departure to that hour, concluding by saying that the gentleman who, deeming him to be dead, had taken his lady to wife, ought not to be affronted, if he, being alive, reclaimed her. The bridegroom, albeit he was somewhat crestfallen, made answer in frank and friendly sort, that 'twas for Messer Torello to do what he liked with his own. The lady resigned the ring and the crown that her new spouse had given her, and put on the ring she had taken from the cup, and likewise the crown sent her by the Soldan; and so, forth they hied them, and with full nuptial pomp wended their way to Messer Torello's house; and there for a great while they made merry with his late disconsolate friends and kinsfolk and all the citizens, who accounted his restoration as little short of a miracle. Messer Torello, having bestowed part of his rare jewels upon him who had borne the cost of the wedding-feast, and part on the abbot, and many other folk; and having by more than one messenger sent word of his safe home-coming and prosperous estate to Saladin, acknowledging himself ever his friend and vassal, lived many years thereafter with his worthy lady, acquitting himself yet more courteously than of yore. Such, then, was the end of the troubles of Messer Torello and his dear lady, and such the reward of their cheerful and ready courtesies. Now some there are that strive to do offices of courtesy, and have the means, but do them with so ill a grace, that, ere they are done, they have in effect sold them at a price above their worth: wherefore, if no reward ensue to them thereof, neither they nor other folk have cause to marvel. NOVEL X. -- The Marquis of Saluzzo, overborne by the entreaties of his vassals, consents to take a wife, but, being minded to please himself in the choice of her, takes a husbandman's daughter. He has two children by her, both of whom he makes her believe that he has put to death. Afterward, feigning to be tired of her, and to have taken another wife, he turns her out of doors in her shift, and brings his daughter into the house in guise of his bride; but, finding her patient under it all, he brings her home again, and shews her her children, now grown up, and honours her, and causes her to be honoured, as Marchioness. -- Ended the king's long story, with which all seemed to be very well pleased, quoth Dioneo with a laugh:--"The good man that looked that night to cause the bogey's tail to droop, would scarce have contributed two pennyworth of all the praise you bestow on Messer Torello:" then, witting that it now only remained for him to tell, thus he began:--Gentle my ladies, this day, meseems, is dedicate to Kings and Soldans and folk of the like quality; wherefore, that I stray not too far from you, I am minded to tell you somewhat of a Marquis; certes, nought magnificent, but a piece of mad folly, albeit there came good thereof to him in the end. The which I counsel none to copy, for that great pity 'twas that it turned out well with him. There was in olden days a certain Marquis of Saluzzo, Gualtieri by name, a young man, but head of the house, who, having neither wife nor child, passed his time in nought else but in hawking and hunting, and of taking a wife and begetting children had no thought; wherein he should have been accounted very wise: but his vassals, brooking it ill, did oftentimes entreat him to take a wife, that he might not die without an heir, and they be left without a lord; offering to find him one of such a pattern, and of such parentage, that he might marry with good hope, and be well content with the sequel. To whom:--"My friends," replied Gualtieri, "you enforce me to that which I had resolved never to do, seeing how hard it is to find a wife, whose ways accord well with one's own, and how plentiful is the supply of such as run counter thereto, and how grievous a life he leads who chances upon a lady that matches ill with him. And to say that you think to know the daughters by the qualities of their fathers and mothers, and thereby--so you would argue--to provide me with a wife to my liking, is but folly; for I wot not how you may penetrate the secrets of their mothers so as to know their fathers; and granted that you do know them, daughters oftentimes resemble neither of their parents. However, as you are minded to rivet these fetters upon me, I am content that so it be; and that I may have no cause to reproach any but myself, should it turn out ill, I am resolved that my wife shall be of my own choosing; but of this rest assured, that, no matter whom I choose, if she receive not from you the honour due to a lady, you shall prove to your great cost, how sorely I resent being thus constrained by your importunity to take a wife against my will." The worthy men replied that they were well content, so only he would marry without more ado. And Gualtieri, who had long noted with approval the mien of a poor girl that dwelt on a farm hard by his house, and found her fair enough, deemed that with her he might pass a tolerably happy life. Wherefore he sought no further, but forthwith resolved to marry her; and having sent for her father, who was a very poor man, he contracted with him to take her to wife. Which done, Gualtieri assembled all the friends he had in those parts, and:--"My friends," quoth he, "you were and are minded that I should take a wife, and rather to comply with your wishes, than for any desire that I had to marry, I have made up my mind to do so. You remember the promise you gave me, to wit, that, whomsoever I should take, you would pay her the honour due to a lady. Which promise I now require you to keep, the time being come when I am to keep mine. I have found hard by here a maiden after mine own heart, whom I purpose to take to wife, and to bring hither to my house in the course of a few days. Wherefore bethink you, how you may make the nuptial feast splendid, and welcome her with all honour; that I may confess myself satisfied with your observance of your promise, as you will be with my observance of mine." The worthy men, one and all, answered with alacrity that they were well content, and that, whoever she might be, they would entreat her as a lady, and pay her all due honour as such. After which, they all addressed them to make goodly and grand and gladsome celebration of the event, as did also Gualtieri. He arranged for a wedding most stately and fair, and bade thereto a goodly number of his friends and kinsfolk, and great gentlemen, and others, of the neighbourhood; and therewithal he caused many a fine and costly robe to be cut and fashioned to the figure of a girl who seemed to him of the like proportions as the girl that he purposed to wed; and laid in store, besides, of girdles and rings, with a costly and beautiful crown, and all the other paraphernalia of a bride. The day that he had appointed for the wedding being come, about half tierce he got him to horse with as many as had come to do him honour, and having made all needful dispositions:--"Gentlemen," quoth he, "'tis time to go bring home the bride." And so away he rode with his company to the village; where, being come to the house of the girl's father, they found her returning from the spring with a bucket of water, making all the haste she could, that she might afterwards go with the other women to see Gualtieri's bride come by. Whom Gualtieri no sooner saw, than he called her by her name, to wit, Griselda, and asked her where her father was. To whom she modestly made answer:--"My lord, he is in the house." Whereupon Gualtieri dismounted, and having bidden the rest await him without, entered the cottage alone; and meeting her father, whose name was Giannucolo:--"I am come," quoth he, "to wed Griselda, but first of all there are some matters I would learn from her own lips in thy presence." He then asked her, whether, if he took her to wife, she would study to comply with his wishes, and be not wroth, no matter what he might say or do, and be obedient, with not a few other questions of a like sort: to all which she answered, ay. Whereupon Gualtieri took her by the hand, led her forth, and before the eyes of all his company, and as many other folk as were there, caused her to strip naked, and let bring the garments that he had had fashioned for her, and had her forthwith arrayed therein, and upon her unkempt head let set a crown; and then, while all wondered:--"Gentlemen," quoth he, "this is she whom I purpose to make my wife, so she be minded to have me for husband." Then, she standing abashed and astonied, he turned to her, saying:--"Griselda, wilt thou have me for thy husband?" To whom:--"Ay, my lord," answered she. "And I will have thee to wife," said he, and married her before them all. And having set her upon a palfrey, he brought her home with pomp. The wedding was fair and stately, and had he married a daughter of the King of France, the feast could not have been more splendid. It seemed as if, with the change of her garb, the bride had acquired a new dignity of mind and mien. She was, as we have said, fair of form and feature; and therewithal she was now grown so engaging and gracious and debonair, that she shewed no longer as the shepherdess, and the daughter of Giannucolo, but as the daughter of some noble lord, insomuch that she caused as many as had known her before to marvel. Moreover, she was so obedient and devoted to her husband, that he deemed himself the happiest and luckiest man in the world. And likewise so gracious and kindly was she to her husband's vassals, that there was none of them but loved her more dearly than himself, and was zealous to do her honour, and prayed for her welfare and prosperity and aggrandisement, and instead of, as erstwhile, saying that Gualtieri had done foolishly to take her to wife, now averred that he had not his like in the world for wisdom and discernment, for that, save to him, her noble qualities would ever have remained hidden under her sorry apparel and the garb of the peasant girl. And in short she so comported herself as in no long time to bring it to pass that, not only in the marquisate, but far and wide besides, her virtues and her admirable conversation were matter of common talk, and, if aught had been said to the disadvantage of her husband, when he married her, the judgment was now altogether to the contrary effect. She had not been long with Gualtieri before she conceived; and in due time she was delivered of a girl; whereat Gualtieri made great cheer. But, soon after, a strange humour took possession of him, to wit, to put her patience to the proof by prolonged and intolerable hard usage; wherefore he began by afflicting her with his gibes, putting on a vexed air, and telling her that his vassals were most sorely dissatisfied with her by reason of her base condition, and all the more so since they saw that she was a mother, and that they did nought but most ruefully murmur at the birth of a daughter. Whereto Griselda, without the least change of countenance or sign of discomposure, made answer:--"My lord, do with me as thou mayst deem best for thine own honour and comfort, for well I wot that I am of less account than they, and unworthy of this honourable estate to which of thy courtesy thou hast advanced me." By which answer Gualtieri was well pleased, witting that she was in no degree puffed up with pride by his, or any other's, honourable entreatment of her. A while afterwards, having in general terms given his wife to understand that the vassals could not endure her daughter, he sent her a message by a servant. So the servant came, and:--"Madam," quoth he with a most dolorous mien, "so I value my life, I must needs do my lord's bidding. He has bidden me take your daughter and..." He said no more, but the lady by what she heard, and read in his face, and remembered of her husband's words, understood that he was bidden to put the child to death. Whereupon she presently took the child from the cradle, and having kissed and blessed her, albeit she was very sore at heart, she changed not countenance, but placed it in the servant's arms, saying:--"See that thou leave nought undone that my lord and thine has charged thee to do, but leave her not so that the beasts and the birds devour her, unless he have so bidden thee." So the servant took the child, and told Gualtieri what the lady had said; and Gualtieri, marvelling at her constancy, sent him with the child to Bologna, to one of his kinswomen, whom he besought to rear and educate the child with all care, but never to let it be known whose child she was. Soon after it befell that the lady again conceived, and in due time was delivered of a son, whereat Gualtieri was overjoyed. But, not content with what he had done, he now even more poignantly afflicted the lady; and one day with a ruffled mien:--"Wife," quoth he, "since thou gavest birth to this boy, I may on no wise live in peace with my vassals, so bitterly do they reproach me that a grandson of Giannucolo is to succeed me as their lord; and therefore I fear that, so I be not minded to be sent a packing hence, I must even do herein as I did before, and in the end put thee away, and take another wife." The lady heard him patiently, and answered only:--"My lord, study how thou mayst content thee and best please thyself, and waste no thought upon me, for there is nought I desire save in so far as I know that 'tis thy pleasure." Not many days after, Gualtieri, in like manner as he had sent for the daughter, sent for the son, and having made a shew of putting him to death, provided for his, as for the girl's, nurture at Bologna. Whereat the lady shewed no more discomposure of countenance or speech than at the loss of her daughter: which Gualtieri found passing strange, and inly affirmed that there was never another woman in the world that would have so done. And but that he had marked that she was most tenderly affectionate towards her children, while 'twas well pleasing to him, he had supposed that she was tired of them, whereas he knew that 'twas of her discretion that she so did. His vassals, who believed that he had put the children to death, held him mightily to blame for his cruelty, and felt the utmost compassion for the lady. She, however, said never aught to the ladies that condoled with her on the death of her children, but that the pleasure of him that had begotten them was her pleasure likewise. Years not a few had passed since the girl's birth, when Gualtieri at length deemed the time come to put his wife's patience to the final proof. Accordingly, in the presence of a great company of his vassals he declared that on no wise might he longer brook to have Griselda to wife, that he confessed that in taking her he had done a sorry thing and the act of a stripling, and that he therefore meant to do what he could to procure the Pope's dispensation to put Griselda away, and take another wife: for which cause being much upbraided by many worthy men, he made no other answer but only that needs must it so be. Whereof the lady being apprised, and now deeming that she must look to go back to her father's house, and perchance tend the sheep, as she had aforetime, and see him, to whom she was utterly devoted, engrossed by another woman, did inly bewail herself right sorely: but still with the same composed mien with which she had borne Fortune's former buffets, she set herself to endure this last outrage. Nor was it long before Gualtieri by counterfeit letters, which he caused to be sent to him from Rome, made his vassals believe that the Pope had thereby given him a dispensation to put Griselda away, and take another wife. Wherefore, having caused her to be brought before him, he said to her in the presence of not a few:--"Wife, by license granted me by the Pope, I am now free to put thee away, and take another wife; and, for that my forbears have always been great gentlemen and lords of these parts, whereas thine have ever been husbandmen, I purpose that thou go back to Giannucolo's house with the dowry that thou broughtest me; whereupon I shall bring home a lady that I have found, and who is meet to be my wife." 'Twas not without travail most grievous that the lady, as she heard this announcement, got the better of her woman's nature, and suppressing her tears, made answer:--"My lord, I ever knew that my low degree was on no wise congruous with your nobility, and acknowledged that the rank I had with you was of your and God's bestowal, nor did I ever make as if it were mine by gift, or so esteem it, but still accounted it as a loan. 'Tis your pleasure to recall it, and therefore it should be, and is, my pleasure to render it up to you. So, here is your ring, with which you espoused me; take it back. You bid me take with me the dowry that I brought you; which to do will require neither paymaster on your part nor purse nor packhorse on mine; for I am not unmindful that naked was I when you first had me. And if you deem it seemly that that body in which I have borne children, by you begotten, be beheld of all, naked will I depart; but yet, I pray you, be pleased, in guerdon of the virginity that I brought you and take not away, to suffer me to bear hence upon my back a single shift--I crave no more--besides my dowry." There was nought of which Gualtieri was so fain as to weep; but yet, setting his face as a flint, he made answer:--"I allow thee a shift to thy back; so get thee hence." All that stood by besought him to give her a robe, that she, who had been his wife for thirteen years and more, might not be seen to quit his house in so sorry and shameful a plight, having nought on her but a shift. But their entreaties went for nothing: the lady in her shift, and barefoot and bareheaded, having bade them adieu, departed the house, and went back to her father amid the tears and lamentations of all that saw her. Giannucolo, who had ever deemed it a thing incredible that Gualtieri should keep his daughter to wife, and had looked for this to happen every day, and had kept the clothes that she had put off on the morning that Gualtieri had wedded her, now brought them to her; and she, having resumed them, applied herself to the petty drudgery of her father's house, as she had been wont, enduring with fortitude this cruel visitation of adverse Fortune. Now no sooner had Gualtieri dismissed Griselda, than he gave his vassals to understand that he had taken to wife a daughter of one of the Counts of Panago. He accordingly made great preparations as for the nuptials, during which he sent for Griselda. To whom, being come, quoth he:--"I am bringing hither my new bride, and in this her first home-coming I purpose to shew her honour; and thou knowest that women I have none in the house that know how to set chambers in due order, or attend to the many other matters that so joyful an event requires; wherefore do thou, that understandest these things better than another, see to all that needs be done, and bid hither such ladies as thou mayst see fit, and receive them, as if thou wert the lady of the house, and then, when the nuptials are ended, thou mayst go back to thy cottage." Albeit each of these words pierced Griselda's heart like a knife, for that, in resigning her good fortune, she had not been able to renounce the love she bore Gualtieri, nevertheless:--"My lord," she made answer, "I am ready and prompt to do your pleasure." And so, clad in her sorry garments of coarse romagnole, she entered the house, which, but a little before, she had quitted in her shift, and addressed her to sweep the chambers, and arrange arras and cushions in the halls, and make ready the kitchen, and set her hand to everything, as if she had been a paltry serving-wench: nor did she rest until she had brought all into such meet and seemly trim as the occasion demanded. This done, she invited in Gualtieri's name all the ladies of those parts to be present at his nuptials, and awaited the event. The day being come, still wearing her sorry weeds, but in heart and soul and mien the lady, she received the ladies as they came, and gave each a gladsome greeting. Now Gualtieri, as we said, had caused his children to be carefully nurtured and brought up by a kinswoman of his at Bologna, which kinswoman was married into the family of the Counts of Panago; and, the girl being now twelve years old, and the loveliest creature that ever was seen, and the boy being about six years old, he had sent word to his kinswoman's husband at Bologna, praying him to be pleased to come with this girl and boy of his to Saluzzo, and to see that he brought a goodly and honourable company with him, and to give all to understand that he brought the girl to him to wife, and on no wise to disclose to any, who she really was. The gentleman did as the Marquis bade him, and within a few days of his setting forth arrived at Saluzzo about breakfast-time with the girl, and her brother, and a noble company, and found all the folk of those parts, and much people besides, gathered there in expectation of Gualtieri's new bride. Who, being received by the ladies, was no sooner come into the hall, where the tables were set, than Griselda advanced to meet her, saying with hearty cheer:--"Welcome, my lady." So the ladies, who had with much instance, but in vain, besought Gualtieri, either to let Griselda keep in another room, or at any rate to furnish her with one of the robes that had been hers, that she might not present herself in such a sorry guise before the strangers, sate down to table; and the service being begun, the eyes of all were set on the girl, and every one said that Gualtieri had made a good exchange, and Griselda joined with the rest in greatly commending her, and also her little brother. And now Gualtieri, sated at last with all that he had seen of his wife's patience, marking that this new and strange turn made not the least alteration in her demeanour, and being well assured that 'twas not due to apathy, for he knew her to be of excellent understanding, deemed it time to relieve her of the suffering which he judged her to dissemble under a resolute front; and so, having called her to him in presence of them all, he said with a smile:--"And what thinkst thou of our bride?" "My lord," replied Griselda, "I think mighty well of her; and if she be but as discreet as she is fair--and so I deem her--I make no doubt but you may reckon to lead with her a life of incomparable felicity; but with all earnestness I entreat you, that you spare her those tribulations which you did once inflict upon another that was yours, for I scarce think she would be able to bear them, as well because she is younger, as for that she has been delicately nurtured, whereas that other had known no respite of hardship since she was but a little child." Marking that she made no doubt but that the girl was to be his wife, and yet spoke never a whit the less sweetly, Gualtieri caused her to sit down beside him, and:--"Griselda," said he, "'tis now time that thou see the reward of thy long patience, and that those, who have deemed me cruel and unjust and insensate, should know that what I did was done of purpose aforethought, for that I was minded to give both thee and them a lesson, that thou mightst learn to be a wife, and they in like manner might learn how to take and keep a wife, and that I might beget me perpetual peace with thee for the rest of my life; whereof being in great fear, when I came to take a wife, lest I should be disappointed, I therefore, to put the matter to the proof, did, and how sorely thou knowest, harass and afflict thee. And since I never knew thee either by deed or by word to deviate from my will, I now, deeming myself to have of thee that assurance of happiness which I desired, am minded to restore to thee at once all that, step by step, I took from thee, and by extremity of joy to compensate the tribulations that I inflicted on thee. Receive, then, this girl, whom thou supposest to be my bride, and her brother, with glad heart, as thy children and mine. These are they, whom by thee and many another it has long been supposed that I did ruthlessly to death, and I am thy husband, that loves thee more dearly than aught else, deeming that other there is none that has the like good cause to be well content with his wife." Which said, he embraced and kissed her; and then, while she wept for joy, they rose and hied them there where sate the daughter, all astonied to hear the news, whom, as also her brother, they tenderly embraced, and explained to them, and many others that stood by, the whole mystery. Whereat the ladies, transported with delight, rose from table and betook them with Griselda to a chamber, and, with better omen, divested her of her sorry garb, and arrayed her in one of her own robes of state; and so, in guise of a lady (howbeit in her rags she had shewed as no less) they led her back into the hall. Wondrous was the cheer which there they made with the children; and, all overjoyed at the event, they revelled and made merry amain, and prolonged the festivities for several days; and very discreet they pronounced Gualtieri, albeit they censured as intolerably harsh the probation to which he had subjected Griselda, and most discreet beyond all compare they accounted Griselda. Some days after, the Count of Panago returned to Bologna, and Gualtieri took Giannucolo from his husbandry, and established him in honour as his father-in-law, wherein to his great solace he lived for the rest of his days. Gualtieri himself, having mated his daughter with a husband of high degree, lived long and happily thereafter with Griselda, to whom he ever paid all honour. Now what shall we say in this case but that even into the cots of the poor the heavens let fall at times spirits divine, as into the palaces of kings souls that are fitter to tend hogs than to exercise lordship over men? Who but Griselda had been able, with a countenance not only tearless, but cheerful, to endure the hard and unheard-of trials to which Gualtieri subjected her? Who perhaps might have deemed himself to have made no bad investment, had he chanced upon one, who, having been turned out of his house in her shift, had found means so to dust the pelisse of another as to get herself thereby a fine robe. So ended Dioneo's story, whereof the ladies, diversely inclining, one to censure where another found matter for commendation, had discoursed not a little, when the king, having glanced at the sky, and marked that the sun was now low, insomuch that 'twas nigh the vesper hour, still keeping his seat, thus began:--"Exquisite my ladies, as, methinks, you wot, 'tis not only in minding them of the past and apprehending the present that the wit of mortals consists; but by one means or the other to be able to foresee the future is by the sages accounted the height of wisdom. Now, to-morrow, as you know, 'twill be fifteen days since, in quest of recreation and for the conservation of our health and life, we, shunning the dismal and dolorous and afflicting spectacles that have ceased not in our city since this season of pestilence began, took our departure from Florence. Wherein, to my thinking, we have done nought that was not seemly; for, if I have duly used my powers of observation, albeit some gay stories, and of a kind to stimulate concupiscence, have here been told, and we have daily known no lack of dainty dishes and good wine, nor yet of music and song, things, one and all, apt to incite weak minds to that which is not seemly, neither on your part, nor on ours, have I marked deed or word, or aught of any kind, that called for reprehension; but, by what I have seen and heard, seemliness and the sweet intimacy of brothers and sisters have ever reigned among us. Which, assuredly, for the honour and advantage which you and I have had thereof, is most grateful to me. Wherefore, lest too long continuance in this way of life might beget some occasion of weariness, and that no man may be able to misconstrue our too long abidance here, and as we have all of us had our day's share of the honour which still remains in me, I should deem it meet, so you be of like mind, that we now go back whence we came: and that the rather that our company, the bruit whereof has already reached divers others that are in our neighbourhood, might be so increased that all our pleasure would be destroyed. And so, if my counsel meet with your approval, I will keep the crown I have received of you until our departure, which, I purpose, shall be tomorrow morning. Should you decide otherwise, I have already determined whom to crown for the ensuing day." Much debate ensued among the ladies and young men; but in the end they approved the king's proposal as expedient and seemly; and resolved to do even as he had said. The king therefore summoned the seneschal; and having conferred with him of the order he was to observe on the morrow, he dismissed the company until supper-time. So, the king being risen, the ladies and the rest likewise rose, and betook them, as they were wont, to their several diversions. Supper-time being come, they supped with exceeding great delight. Which done, they addressed them to song and music and dancing; and, while Lauretta was leading a dance, the king bade Fiammetta give them a song; whereupon Fiammetta right debonairly sang on this wise:-- So came but Love, and brought no jealousy, So blithe, I wot, as I, Dame were there none, be she whoe'er she be. If youth's fresh, lusty pride May lady of her lover well content, Or valour's just renown, Hardihood, prowess tried, Wit, noble mien, discourse most excellent, And of all grace the crown; That she am I, who, fain for love to swoun, There where my hope doth lie These several virtues all conjoined do see. But, for that I less wise Than me no whit do other dames discern, Trembling with sore dismay, I still the worst surmise, Deeming their hearts with the same flame to burn That of mine maketh prey: Wherefore of him that is my hope's one stay Disconsolate I sigh, Yea mightily, and daily do me dree. If but my lord as true As worthy to be loved I might approve, I were not jealous then: But, for that charmer new Doth all too often gallant lure to love, Forsworn I hold all men, And sick at heart I am, of death full fain; Nor lady doth him eye, But I do quake, lest she him wrest from me. 'Fore God, then, let each she List to my prayer, nor e'er in my despite Such grievous wrong essay; For should there any be That by or speech or mien's allurements light Of him to rob me may Study or plot, I, witting, shall find way, My beauty it aby! To cause her sore lament such frenesie. As soon as Fiammetta had ended her song, Dioneo, who was beside her, said with a laugh:--"Madam, 'twould be a great courtesy on your part to do all ladies to wit, who he is, that he be not stolen from you in ignorance, seeing that you threaten such dire resentment." Several other songs followed; and it being then nigh upon midnight, all, as the king was pleased to order, betook them to rest. With the first light of the new day they rose, and, the seneschal having already conveyed thence all their chattels, they, following the lead of their discreet king, hied them back to Florence; and in Santa Maria Novella, whence they had set forth, the three young men took leave of the seven ladies, and departed to find other diversions elsewhere, while the ladies in due time repaired to their homes. THE AUTHOR'S EPILOGUE. Most noble damsels, for whose solace I addressed me to this long and toilsome task, meseems that, aided by the Divine grace, the bestowal whereof I impute to the efficacy of your pious prayers, and in no wise to merits of mine, I have now brought this work to the full and perfect consummation which in the outset thereof I promised you. Wherefore, it but remains for me to render, first to God, and then to you, my thanks, and so to give a rest to my pen and weary hand. But this I purpose not to allow them, until, briefly, as to questions tacitly mooted--for well assured I am that these stories have no especial privilege above any others, nay, I forget not that at the beginning of the Fourth Day I have made the same plain--I shall have answered certain trifling objections that one of you, maybe, or some other, might advance. Peradventure, then, some of you will be found to say that I have used excessive license in the writing of these stories, in that I have caused ladies at times to tell, and oftentimes to list, matters that, whether to tell or to list, do not well beseem virtuous women. The which I deny, for that there is none of these stories so unseemly, but that it may without offence be told by any one, if but seemly words be used; which rule, methinks, has here been very well observed. But assume we that 'tis even so (for with you I am not minded to engage in argument, witting that you would vanquish me), then, I say that for answer why I have so done, reasons many come very readily to hand. In the first place, if aught of the kind in any of these stories there be, 'twas but such as was demanded by the character of the stories, which let but any person of sound judgment scan with the eye of reason, and 'twill be abundantly manifest that, unless I had been minded to deform them, they could not have been otherwise recounted. And if, perchance, they do, after all, contain here and there a trifling indiscretion of speech, such as might ill sort with one of your precious prudes, who weigh words rather than deeds, and are more concerned to appear, than to be, good, I say that so to write was as permissible to me, as 'tis to men and women at large in their converse to make use of such terms as hole, and pin, and mortar, and pestle, and sausage, and polony, and plenty more besides of a like sort. And therewithal privilege no less should be allowed to my pen than to the pencil of the painter, who without incurring any, or at least any just, censure, not only will depict St. Michael smiting the serpent, or St. George the dragon, with sword or lance at his discretion; but male he paints us Christ, and female Eve, and His feet that for the salvation of our race willed to die upon the cross he fastens thereto, now with one, now with two nails. Moreover, 'tis patent to all that 'twas not in the Church, of matters whereto pertaining 'tis meet we speak with all purity of heart and seemliness of phrase, albeit among her histories there are to be found not a few that will ill compare with my writings; nor yet in the schools of the philosophers, where, as much as anywhere, seemliness is demanded, nor in any place where clergy or philosophers congregate, but in gardens, in pleasaunces, and among folk, young indeed, but not so young as to be seducible by stories, and at a time when, if so one might save one's life, the most sedate might without disgrace walk abroad with his breeches for headgear, that these stories were told. Which stories, such as they are, may, like all things else, be baneful or profitable according to the quality of the hearer. Who knows not that wine is, as Cinciglione and Scolaio(1) and many another aver, an excellent thing for the living creature, and yet noxious to the fevered patient? Are we, for the mischief it does to the fever-stricken, to say that 'tis a bad thing? Who knows not that fire is most serviceable, nay, necessary, to mortals? Are we to say that, because it burns houses and villages and cities, it is a bad thing? Arms, in like manner, are the safeguard of those that desire to live in peace, and also by them are men not seldom maliciously slain, albeit the malice is not in them, but in those that use them for a malicious purpose. Corrupt mind did never yet understand any word in a wholesome sense; and as such a mind has no profit of seemly words, so such as are scarce seemly may as little avail to contaminate a healthy mind as mud the radiance of the sun, or the deformities of earth the splendours of the heavens. What books, what words, what letters, are more sacred, more excellent, more venerable, than those of Holy Writ? And yet there have been not a few that, perversely construing them, have brought themselves and others to perdition. Everything is in itself good for somewhat, and being put to a bad purpose, may work manifold mischief. And so, I say, it is with my stories. If any man shall be minded to draw from them matters of evil tendency or consequence, they will not gainsay him, if, perchance, such matters there be in them, nor will such matters fail to be found in them, if they be wrested and distorted. Nor, if any shall seek profit and reward in them, will they deny him the same; and censured or accounted as less than profitable and seemly they can never be, if the times or the persons when and by whom they are read be such as when they were recounted. If any lady must needs say paternosters or make cakes or tarts for her holy father, let her leave them alone; there is none after whom they will run a begging to be read: howbeit, there are little matters that even the beguines tell, ay, and do, now and again. In like manner there will be some who will say that there are stories here which 'twere better far had been omitted. Granted; but 'twas neither in my power, nor did it behove me, to write any but such stories as were narrated; wherefore, 'twas for those by whom they were told to have a care that they were proper; in which case they would have been no less so as I wrote them. But, assuming that I not only wrote but invented the stories, as I did not, I say that I should take no shame to myself that they were not all proper; seeing that artist there is none to be found, save God, that does all things well and perfectly. And Charlemagne, albeit he created the Paladins, wist not how to make them in such numbers as to form an army of them alone. It must needs be that in the multitude of things there be found diversities of quality. No field was ever so well tilled but that here and there nettle, or thistle, or brier would be found in it amid the goodlier growths. Whereto I may add that, having to address me to young and unlearned ladies, as you for the most part are, I should have done foolishly, had I gone about searching and swinking to find matters very exquisite, and been sedulous to speak with great precision. However, whoso goes a reading among these stories, let him pass over those that vex him, and read those that please him. That none may be misled, each bears on its brow the epitome of that which it hides within its bosom. Again, I doubt not there will be such as will say that some of the stories are too long. To whom, once more, I answer, that whoso has aught else to do would be foolish to read them, albeit they were short. And though, now that I approach the end of my labours, 'tis long since I began to write, I am not, therefore, oblivious that 'twas to none but leisured ladies that I made proffer of my pains; nor can aught be long to him that reads but to pass the time, so only he thereby accomplish his purpose. Succinctness were rather to be desired by students, who are at pains not merely to pass, but usefully to employ, their time, than by you, who have as much time at your disposal as you spend not in amorous delights. Besides which, as none of you goes either to Athens, or to Bologna, or to Paris to study, 'tis meet that what is meant for you should be more diffuse than what is to be read by those whose minds have been refined by scholarly pursuits. Nor make I any doubt but there are yet others who will say that the said stories are too full of jests and merry conceits, and that it ill beseems a man of weight and gravity to have written on such wise. To these I am bound to render, and do render, my thanks, for that, prompted by well-meant zeal, they have so tender a regard to my reputation. But to that, which they urge against me, I reply after this sort:--That I am of weight I acknowledge, having been often weighed in my time; wherefore, in answer to the fair that have not weighed me, I affirm that I am not of gravity; on the contrary I am so light that I float on the surface of the water; and considering that the sermons which the friars make, when they would chide folk for their sins, are to-day, for the most part, full of jests and merry conceits, and drolleries, I deemed that the like stuff would not ill beseem my stories, written, as they were, to banish women's dumps. However, if thereby they should laugh too much, they may be readily cured thereof by the Lament of Jeremiah, the Passion of the Saviour, or the Complaint of the Magdalen. And who shall question but that yet others there are who will say that I have an evil tongue and venomous, because here and there I tell the truth about the friars? Now for them that so say there is forgiveness, for that 'tis not to be believed but that they have just cause; seeing that the friars are good folk, and eschew hardship for the love of God, and grind intermittently, and never blab; and, were they not all a trifle malodorous, intercourse with them would be much more agreeable. Nevertheless, I acknowledge that the things of this world have no stability, but are ever undergoing change; and this may have befallen my tongue, albeit, no great while ago, one of my fair neighbours--for in what pertains to myself I trust not my own judgment, but forgo it to the best of my power--told me 'twas the goodliest and sweetest tongue in the world; and in sooth, when this occurred, few of the said stories were yet to write; nor, for that those who so tax me do it despitefully, am I minded to vouchsafe them any further answer. So, then, be every lady at liberty to say and believe whatever she may think fit: but 'tis now time for me to bring these remarks to a close, with humble thanks to Him, by whose help and guidance I, after so long travail, have been brought to the desired goal. And may you, sweet my ladies, rest ever in His grace and peace; and be not unmindful of me, if, peradventure, any of you may, in any measure, have been profited by reading these stories. (1) Noted topers of the day. -- Endeth here the tenth and last day of the book called Decameron, otherwise Prince Galeotto. -- THE END. 
52618	----	http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.) THE DECAMERON CONTAINING An hundred pleasant Novels. _Wittily discoursed, betweene seven Honourable Ladies, and three Noble Gentlemen._ The last Five Dayes. London, Printed by Isaac Jaggard, 1620. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE Sir PHILLIP HERBERT, Knight, Lord Baron of Sherland, Earle of Montgomery, and Knight of the most Noble order of the Garter. _Having (by your Honourable command) translated this_ Decameron, _or_ Cento Novelle, _sirnamed_ Il Principe Galeotto, _of ten dayes severall discourses, grounded on variable and singuler Arguments, happening betweene seaven Noble Ladies, and three very Honourable Gentlemen: Although not attyred in such elegantcy of phrase, or nice curiosity of stile, as a quicker and more sprightly wit could have performed, but in such home-borne language, as my ability could stretch unto; yet it commeth (in all duty) to kisse your Noble hand, and to shelter it selfe under your Gracious protection, though not from the leering eye, and over-lavish tongue of snarling Envy; yet from the power of his blasting poyson, and malice of his machinations._ _To the Reader._ Bookes (Courteous Reader) may rightly be compared to _Gardens_; wherein, let the painfull Gardiner expresse never so much care and diligent endeavour; yet among the very fairest, sweetest, and freshest Flowers, as also Plants of most precious Vertue; ill favouring and stinking Weeds, fit for no use but the fire or mucke-hill, will spring and sprout up. So fareth it with Bookes of the very best quality, let the Author bee never so indulgent, and the Printer vigilant: yet both may misse their ayme, by the escape of Errors and Mistakes, either in sense or matter, the one fault ensuing by a ragged Written Copy; and the other thorough want of wary Correction. If then the best Bookes cannot be free from this common infirmity; blame not this then, of farre lighter argument, wherein thy courtesie may helpe us both: His blame, in acknowledging his more sufficiency, then to write so grosse and absurdly: And mine, in pardoning unwilling Errours committed, which thy judgement finding, thy pen can as easily correct. _Farewell._ The Table Dedication. To the Reader. * * * * * THE SIXT DAY, Governed under Madame Eliza. _Wherein the Discourses or Novels there to bee recounted, doe concerne such persons; who by some witty words (when any have taunted them) have revenged themselves, in a sudden, unexpected and discreet answere, thereby preventing losse, danger, scorne and disgrace, retorting them on the busi-headed Questioners._ The Argument of the first Novell. _A Knight requested Madame_ Oretta, _to ride behinde him on horsebacke, and promised, to tell her an excellent Tale by the way. But the Lady perceiving, that his discourse was idle, and much worse delivered: entreated him to let her walke on foote againe._ _The Morall._ Reprehending the folly of such men, as undertake to report discourses, which are beyond their wit and capacity, and gaine nothing but blame for their labour. The Argument of the second Novell. Cistio _a Baker, by a witty answere which he gave unto_ Messer Geri Spina, _caused him to acknowledge a very indiscreet motion, which he had made to the said_ Cistio. _The Morall._ Approving, that a request ought to be civill, before it should be granted to any one whatsoever. The Argument of the third Novell. Madam Nonna de Pulci, _by a sodaine answere, did put to silence a Bishop of_ Florence, _and the Lord Marshall: having mooved a question to the said Lady, which seemed to come short of honesty._ _The Morall._ Wherein is declared, that mockers doe sometimes meet with their matches in mockery, and to their owne shame. The Argument of the fourth Novell. Chichibio, _the Cooke to_ Messer Currado Gianfiliazzi, _by a sodaine pleasant answere which he made to his Master; converted his anger into laughter, and thereby escaped the punishment, that_ Messer _meant to impose on him._ _The Morall._ Whereby plainely appeareth, that a sodaine witty, and merry answere, doth oftentimes appease the furious choller of an angry man. The Argument of the fift Novell. Messer Forese da Rabatte, _and Maister_ Giotto, _a Painter by his profession, comming together from_ Mugello, _scornefully reprehended one another for their deformity of body._ _The Morall._ Whereby may be observed, that such as will speake contemptibly of others, ought (first of all) to looke respectively on their owne imperfections. The Argument of the sixt Novell. _A yong and ingenious Scholler, being unkindly reviled and smitten by his ignorant Father, and through the procurement of an unlearned Vicare; afterward attained to bee doubly revenged on him._ _The Morall._ Serving as an advertisment to unlearned Parents, not to be over-rash, in censuring on Schollers imperfections, through any bad or unbeseeming perswasions. The Argument of the seaventh Novell. Madame Phillippa, _being accused by her Husband_ Rinaldo de Pugliese, _because he tooke her in Adultery, with a yong Gentleman named_ Lazarino de Guazzagliotori: _caused her to bee cited before a Judge. From whom she delivered her selfe, by a sodaine, witty, and pleasant answere, and moderated a severe strict Statute, formerly made against women._ _The Morall._ Wherein is declared, of what worth it is to confesse a truth, with a facetious and witty excuse. The Argument of the eighth Novell. Fresco da Celatico, _counselled and advised his Neece_ Cesca: _That if such as deserved to bee looked on, were offensive to her eyes (as she had often told him;) she should forbeare to looke on any._ _The Morall._ In just scorne of such unsightly and ill-pleasing surly Sluts, who imagine none to bee faire or well-favoured, but themselves. The Argument of the ninth Novell. Signior Guido Cavalcante, _with a sodaine and witty answere, reprehended the rash folly of certaine Florentine Gentlemen, that thought to scorne and flout him._ _The Morall._ Notably discovering the great difference that is betweene learning and ignorance, upon Judicious apprehension. The Argument of the tenth Novell. _Frier_ Onyon _promised certaine honest people of the Country, to shew them a Feather of the same Phoenix, that was with_ Noah _in his Arke. In sted whereof, he found Coales, which he avouched to be those very coales, wherewith the same Phoenix was roasted._ _The Morall._ Wherein may be observed, what palpable abuses doe many times passe, under the counterfeit Cloake of Religion. * * * * * THE SEAVENTH DAY, Governed under the Regiment of DIONEUS. _Wherein the Discourses are directed, for the discovery of such policies and deceits, as women have used for beguiling of their Husbands, either in respect of their love, or for the prevention of some blame or scandall; escaping without sight, knowledge, or otherwise._ The Argument of the first Novell. John _of_ Lorraine _heard one knocke at his doore in the night time, whereupon he awaked his Wife_ Monna Tessa. _Shee made him beleeve, that it was a Spirit which knocked at the doore, and so they arose, going both together to conjure the Spirit with a charme; and afterwards, they heard no more knocking._ _The Morall._ Reprehending the simplicity of some sottish Husbands: And discovering the wanton subtilties of some women, to compasse their unlawfull desires. The Argument of the second Novell. Peronella _hid a yong man her Friend and Lover, under a great brewing Fat, uppon the sodaine returning home of her Husband; who tolde her, that he had sold the saide Fat, and brought him that bought it, to carry it away._ Peronella _replyed, That shee had formerly solde it unto another, who was now underneath it, to see whether it were whole and sound, or no. Whereupon, he being come forth from under it; shee caused her Husband to make it neate and cleane, and so the last buyer carried it away._ _The Morall._ Wherein is declared, what hard and narrow shifts and distresses, such as be seriously linked in Love, are many times enforced to undergoe: according as their owne wit, and capacity of their surprizers, drive them to extremities. The Argument of the third Novell. _Friar_ Reynard, _falling in love with a Gentlewoman, Wife to a man of good account; found the meanes to become her Gossip. Afterward, he being conferring closely with her in her Chamber, and her Husband comming sodainely thither: she made him beleeve, that he came thither for no other ende; but to cure his God-sonne by a charme, of a dangerous disease which he had by wormes._ _The Morall._ Serving as a friendly advertisement to married Women, that Monks, Friars, and Priests may be none of their Gossips, in regard of unavoydable perils ensuing thereby. The Argument of the fourth Novell. Tofano _in the night season, did locke his Wife out of his house, and she not prevailing to get entrance againe, by all the entreaties shee could possibly use: made him beleeve that shee had throwne her selfe into a Well, by casting a great stone into the same Well._ Tofano _hearing the fall of the stone into the Well, and being perswaded that it was his Wife indeede; came forth of his house, and ranne to the Welles side. In the meane while, his Wife gotte into the house, made fast the doore against her Husband, and gave him many reprochfull speeches._ _The Morall._ Wherein is manifested, that the malice and subtilty of a woman, surpasseth all the Art or wit in man. The Argument of the fift Novell. _A jealous man, clouded with the habite of a Priest, became the Confessour to his owne Wife; who made him beleeve, that she was deepely in love with a Priest, which came every night, and lay with her. By meanes of which confession, while her jealous Husband watched the doore of his house; to surprise the Priest when he came: she that never meant to doe amisse, had the company of a secret friend who came over the toppe of the house to visite her, while her foolish Husband kept the doore._ _The Morall._ In just scorne and mockery of such jealous Husbands, that wil be idle headed upon no occasion. And yet when they have good reason for it, doe least of all suspect any such injury. The Argument of the sixth Novell. _Madame_ Isabella, _delighting in the company of her affected friend, named_ Lionello, _and she being likewise beloved by_ Signior Lambertuccio: _At the same time as shee had entertained_ Lionello, _she was also visited by_ Lambertuccio. _Her Husband returning home in the very instant; she caused_ Lambertuccio _to runne foorth with a drawne sword in his hand, and (by that meanes) made an excuse sufficient for_ Lionello _to her Husband._ _The Morall._ Wherein is manifestly discerned, that if Love be driven to a narrow straite in any of his attempts; yet hee can accomplish his purpose by some other supply. The Argument of the seaventh Novell. Lodovico _discovered to his Mistresse Madame_ Beatrix, _how amourously he was affected to her. She cunningly sent_ Egano _her Husband into his garden, in all respects disguised like herselfe; while (friendly)_ Lodovico _conferred with her the meane while. Afterward,_ Lodovico _pretending a lascivious allurement of his Mistresse, thereby to wrong his honest Master, instead of her, beateth_ Egano _soundly in the Garden._ _The Morall._ Whereby is declared, that such as keepe many honest seeming servants, may sometime finde a knave among them, and one that proves to bee over-sawcy with his Master. The Argument of the Eight Novell. Arriguccio Berlinghieri, _became immeasurably jealous of his Wife_ Simonida, _who fastened a thred about her great toe, for to serve as a signall, when her amourous friend should come to visite her._ Arriguccio _findeth the fallacy, and while he pursueth the amorous friend, shee causeth her Maide to lie in her bed against his returne: whom he beateth extreamly, cutting away the lockes of her haire (thinking he had done all this violence to his Wife_ Simonida:) _and afterward fetcheth her Mother and Brethren, to shame her before them, and so be rid of her. But they finding all his speeches to be false; and reputing him to be a drunken jealous foole; all the blame and disgrace falleth on himselfe._ _The Morall._ Whereby appeareth, that an Husband ought to be very well advised, when he meaneth to discover any wrong offered by his Wife; except he himselfe doe rashly run into all the shame and reproch. The Argument of the Ninth Novell. Lydia, _a Lady of great beauty, birth, and honor, being Wife to_ Nicostratus, _Governor of_ Argos, _falling in love with a Gentleman, named_ Pyrrhus; _was requested by him (as a true testimony of her unfeigned affection) to performe three severall actions of her selfe. She did accomplish them all, and imbraced and kissed_ Pyrrhus _in the presence of_ Nicostratus; _by perswading him, that whatsoever he saw, was meerely false._ _The Morall._ Wherein is declared, that great Lords may sometime be deceived by their wives, as well as men of meaner condition. The Argument of the tenth Novell. _Two Citizens of_ Sienna, _the one named_ Tingoccio Mini, _and the other_ Meucio di Tora, _affected both one woman, called_ Monna Mita, _to whom the one of them was a Gossip. The Gossip dyed, and appeared afterward to his companion, according as he had formerly promised him to doe, and told him what strange wonders he had seene in the other world._ _The Morall._ Wherein such men are covertly reprehended, who make no care or conscience at all of those things that should preserve them from sinne. * * * * * THE EIGHTH DAY, Governed under Madame LAURETTA. _Whereon all the Discourses, is, Concerning such Witty deceivings, as have, or may be put in practise, by Wives to their Husbands, Husbands to their Wives, Or one man towards another._ The Argument of the First Novell. Gulfardo _made a match or wager, with the wife of_ Gasparuolo, _for the obtaining of her amorous favour, in regard of a summe of money first to be given her. The money he borrowed of her Husband, and gave it in payment to her, as in case of discharging him from her Husbands debt. After his returne home from_ Geneway, _he told him in the presence of his wife, how hee had payde the whole summe to her, with charge of delivering it to her Husband, which she confessed to be true, albeit greatly against her will._ _The Morall._ Wherein is declared, That such women as will make sale of their honestie, are sometimes over-reached in their payment, and justly served as they should be. The Argument of the second Novell. _A lusty Priest of_ Varlungo, _fell in love with a prety woman, named_ Monna Belcolore. _To compasse his amorous desire, hee left his cloake (as a pledge of further payment) with her. By a subtile sleight afterward, he borrowed a morter of her, which when hee sent home againe in the presence of her husband, he demanded to have his Cloake sent him, as having left it in pawne for the Morter. To pacifie her Husband, offended that she did not lend the Priest the Morter without a pawne: she sent him backe his Cloake againe, albeit greatly against hir will._ _The Morall._ Approving, that no promise is to be kept with such women as will make sale of their honesty for Coine. The Argument of the Third Novell. Calandrino, Bruno, _and_ Buffalmaco, _being Painters by profession, travailed to the Plaine of_ Mugnone, _to finde the precious stone called Helitropium._ Calandrino _perswading himselfe to have found it, returned home to his house heavy loaden with stones. His wife rebuking him for his absence, he groweth into anger, and shrewdly beates her. Afterward, when the case is debated by his other friends_ Bruno _&_ Buffalmaco, _all is found to be meere folly._ _The Morall._ Reprehending the simplicity of such men, as are too much addicted to credulity, and will give credit to every thing they heare. The Argument of the Fourth Novell. _The Provost belonging to the Cathedrall Church of_ Fiesola, _fell in love with a Gentlewoman, being a widdow, and named_ Piccarda, _who hated him as much as he loved her. He immagining that he lay with her: by the Gentlewomans Brethren, and the Bishop under whom he served, was taken in bed with her Mayde, an ugly, foule, deformed Slut._ _The Morall._ Wherein is declared, how love oftentimes is so powerfull in aged men, and driveth them to such doating, that it redoundeth to their great disgrace and punishment. The Argument of the fift Novell. _Three pleasant companions, plaid a merry prank with a Judge (belonging to the Marquesate of_ Ancona) _at_ Florence, _at such time as he sat on the bench, & hearing criminall causes._ _The Morall._ Giving admonition, that for the managing of publike affaires, no other persons are or ought to bee appointed, but such as be honest, and meet to sit on the seate of Authority. The Argument of the sixt Novell. Bruno _and_ Buffalmaco _stole a yong Brawne from_ Calandrino, _and for his recovery thereof, they used a kinde of pretended conjuration, with Pils made of Ginger and strong Malmesey. But insted of this application, they gave him two pils of a Dogges dates or dousets, confected in Alloes, by meanes whereof they made him beleeve, that hee had robd himselfe. And for feare they should report this theft to his Wife, they made him to buy another Brawne._ _The Morall._ Wherein is declared, how easily a plaine and simple man may bee made a foole, when he dealeth with crafty companions. The Argument of the seaventh Novell. _A yong Gentleman being a Scholler, fell in love with a Ladie, named_ Helena, _she being a woman, and addicted in affection unto another Gentleman. One whole night in cold winter, she caused the Scholler to expect her comming, in an extreame frost and snow. In revenge whereof, by his imagined Art and skill, he made her to stand naked on the top of a Tower, the space of a whole day, and in the hot moneth of July, to be Sun-burnt and bitten with Waspes and Flies._ _The Morall._ Serving as an admonition to all Gentlewomen, not to mocke Gentlemen Schollers, when they make meanes of love to them, except they intend to seeke their owne shame by disgracing them. The Argument of the eighth Novell. _Two neere dwelling Neighbours, the one beeing named_ Spinelloccio Tavena, _and the other_ Zeppa di Mino, _frequenting each others company daily together;_ Spinelloccio _Cuckolded his Friend and Neighbour. Which happening to the knowledge of_ Zeppa, _hee prevailed so well with the Wife of_ Spinelloccio, _that he being lockt up in a Chest, hee revenged his wrong at that instant, so that neyther of them complained of his misfortune._ _The Morall._ Wherein is approved, that hee which offereth shame and disgrace to his neighbour, may receive the like injury (if not worse) by the same man. The Argument of the Ninth Novell. _Maestro_ Simone, _an idle headed Doctor of Physicke, was thrown by_ Bruno _and_ Buffalmaco _into a common Leystall of filth: the Physitian fondly beleeving, that (in the night time) he should be made one of a new created company, who usually went to see wonders at_ Corsica, _and there in the Leystall they left him._ _The Morall._ Approving, that titles of honour, learning, and dignity, are not alwayes bestowne on the wisest men. The Argument of the tenth Novell. _A Cicilian Curtezan, named Madam_ Biancafiore, _by her subtle policy deceived a yong Merchant called_ Salabetto, _of all his mony he had taken for his wares at_ Palermo. _Afterward, he making shew of coming thither againe with far richer Merchandises then before: made the meanes to borrow a great summe of money, leaving her so base a pawne, as well requited her for her former cousenage._ _The Morall._ Approving, that such as meet with cunning Harlots, suffering them selves to be deceyved, must sharpen their wits, to make them requitall in the same kind. * * * * * THE NINTH DAY, Governed under Madame �millia. Whereon, the Argument of each severall Discourse, is not limited to any one peculiar subject: but everie one remaineth at liberty, to speake of whatsoever themselves best pleaseth. The Argument of the first Novell. _Madam_ Francesca, _a Widdow of_ Pistoya, _being affected by two Florentine Gentlemen, the one named_ Rinuccio Palermini, _and the other_ Alessandro Chiarmontesi, _and she bearing no good will to either of them, ingeniously freed her selfe from both their importunate suites. One of them shee caused to lye as dead in a grave, and the other to fetch him from thence: so neither of them accomplishing what they were enjoyned, failed of their expectation._ _The Morall._ Approving, that chast and honest women, ought rather to deny importunate suiters, by subtle and ingenious means, then fall into the danger of scandall and slander. The Argument of the second Novell. _Madame_ Usimbalda, _Lady Abbesse of a Monastery of Nuns in_ Lombardie, _arising hastily in the night time without a Candle, to take one of her Daughter Nunnes in bed with a yong Gentleman, whereof she was enviously accused, by certaine of her other Sisters: The Abbesse her selfe (being at the same time in bed with a Priest) imagining to have put on her head her plaited vayle, put on the Priests breeches. Which when the poore Nunne perceyved; by causing the Abbesse to see her owne error, she got her selfe to be absolved, and had the freer liberty afterward, to be more familiar with her frend, then formerly she had bin._ _The Morall._ Whereby is declared, that whosoever is desirous to reprehend sinne in other men, should first examine himselfe, that he be not guiltie of the same crime. The Argument of the third Novell. _Master_ Simon _the Physitian, by the perswasions of_ Bruno, Buffalmaco, _and a third Companion, named_ Nello, _made_ Calandrino _to beleeve, that he was conceived great with childe. And having Physicke ministred to him for the disease: they got both good fatte Capons and money of him, and so cured him, without any other manner of deliverance._ _The Morall._ Discovering the simplicity of some silly witted men, and how easie a matter it is to abuse and beguile them. The Argument of the Fourth Novell. Francesco Fortarigo, _played away all that he had at_ Buonconvento, _and likewise the money of_ Francesco Aniolliero, _being his Master: Then running after him in his shirt, and avouching that hee had robbed him: he caused him to be taken by Pezants of the Country, clothed himselfe in his Masters wearing garments, and (mounted on his horse) rode thence to_ Sienna, _leaving_ Aniolliero _in his shirt, and walked bare-footed._ _The Morall._ Serving as an admonition to all men, for taking Gamesters and Drunkards into their service. The Argument of the fifte Novell. Calandrino _became extraordinarily enamoured of a young Damosell, named_ Nicholetta. Bruno _prepared a Charme or writing for him, avouching constantly to him, that so soone as he touched the Damosell therewith, she should follow him whithersoever hee would have her. She being gone to an appointed place with him, hee was found there by his wife, and dealt withall according to his deserving._ _The Morall._ In just reprehension of those vaine-headed fooles, that are led and governed by idle perswasions. The Argument of the Sixth Novell. _Two yong Gentlemen, the one named_ Panuccio, _and the other_ Adriano, _lodged one night in a poore Inne, whereof one of them went to bed to the Hostes daughter, and the other (by mistaking his way in the darke) to the Hostes wife. He which lay with the daughter, hapned afterward to the Hostes bed, and told him what he had done, as thinking he spake to his owne companion. Discontentment growing betweene them, the mother perceiving her errour, went to bed to her daughter, and with discreete language, made a generall pacification._ _The Morall._ Wherein is manifested, that an offence committed ignorantly, and by mistaking; ought to be covered with good advise, and civill discretion. The Argument of the seaventh Novell. Talano de Molese _dreamed, That a Wolfe rent and tore his wives face and throate. Which dreame he told to her, with advise to keep her selfe out of danger; which she refusing to doe, received what followed._ _The Morall._ Whereby (with some indifferent reason) it is concluded, that Dreames do not alwayes fall out to be leasings. The Argument of the Eight Novell. Blondello _(in a merry manner) caused_ Guiotto _to beguile himselfe of a good dinner: for which deceit,_ Guiotto _became cunningly revenged, by procuring_ Blondello _to be unreasonably beaten and misused._ _The Morall._ Whereby plainly appeareth, that they which take delight in deceiving others, do well deserve to be deceived themselves. The Argument of the Ninth Novell. _Two yong Gentlemen, the one named_ Melisso, _borne in the City of_ Laiazzo: _and the other_ Giosefo _of_ Antioch, _travailed together unto_ Salomon, _the famous King of_ Great Britaine. _The one desiring to learne what he should do, whereby to compasse and winne the love of men. The other craved to be enstructed, by what meanes hee might reclaime an headstrong and unruly wife. And what answeres the wise King gave unto them both, before they departed away from him._ _The Morall._ Containing an excellent admonition, that such as covet to have the love of other men, must first learne themselves, how to love: Also, by what meanes such women as are curst and self willed, may be reduced to civill obedience. The Argument of the tenth Novell. John de Barolo, _at the instance and request of his Gossip_ Pietro da Trefanti, _made an enchantment, to have his Wife become a Mule. And when it came to the fastening on of the taile, Gossip_ Pietro _by saying she should have no taile at all, spoyled the whole enchantment._ _The Morall._ In just reproofe of such foolish men, as will be governed by over-light beleefe. * * * * * THE TENTH DAY, Governed under Pamphilus. _Whereon the severall Arguments doe Concerne such persons, as other by way of Liberality, or in Magnificent manner, performed any worthy action, for love, favor, friendship, or any other honourable occasion._ The Argument of the First Novell. _A Florentine knight, named Signior_ Rogiero de Figiovanni, _became a servant to_ Alphonso, _King of_ Spaine, _who (in his owne opinion) seemed but sleightly to respect and reward him. In regard whereof, by a notable experiment, the King gave him a manifest testimony, that it was not through any defect in him, but onely occasioned by the Knights ill fortune; most bountifully recompensing him afterward._ _The Morall._ Wherein may evidently be discerned, that Servants to Princes and great Lords, are many times recompenced, rather by their good fortune, then in any regard of their dutifull services. The Argument of the second Novell. Ghinotto di Tacco; _tooke the Lord Abbot of_ Clugni _as his prisoner, and cured him of a grievous disease, which he had in his stomacke, and afterward set him at liberty. The same Lord Abbot, when hee returned from the Court of Rome, reconciled_ Ghinotto _to Pope_ Boniface; _who made him a Knight, and Lord Prior of a goodly Hospitall._ _The Morall._ Wherein is declared that good men doe sometimes fall into bad conditions, onely occasioned thereto by necessity: And what meanes are to be used, for their reducing to goodnesse againe. The Argument of the third Novell. Mithridanes _envying the life and liberality of_ Nathan, _and travelling thither, with a setled resolution to kill him: chaunceth to conferre with_ Nathan _unknowne. And being instructed by him, in what manner he might best performe the bloody deede, according as hee gave direction, hee meeteth with him in a small Thicket or Woode, where knowing him to be the same man, that taught him how to take away his life: Confounded with shame, hee acknowledgeth his horrible intention, and becommeth his loyall friend._ _The Morall._ Shewing in an excellent and lively demonstration, that any especiall honourable vertue, persevering and dwelling in a truly noble soule, cannot be violenced or confounded, by the most politicke attemptes of malice and envy. The Argument of the fourth Novell. Signior Gentile de Carisendi, _being come from_ Modena, _tooke a Gentlewoman, named Madam_ Catharina, _forth of a grave, wherein she was buried for dead; which act he did, in regard of his former honest affection to the said Gentlewoman. Madame_ Catharina _remaining there afterward, and delivered of a goodly Sonne: was (by_ Signior Gentile) _delivered to her owne Husband; named_ Signior Nicoluccio Caccianimico, _and the yong infant with her._ _The Morall._ Wherein is shewne, That true love hath alwayes bin, and so still is, the occasion of many great and worthy courtesies. The Argument of the Fift Novell. _Madame_ Dianora, _the Wife of Signior_ Gilberto, _being immodestly affected by Signior_ Ansaldo, _to free herselfe from his tedious importunity, she appointed him to performe (in her judgement) an act of impossibility; namely, to give her a Garden, as plentifully stored with fragrant Flowers in January, as in the flourishing moneth of_ May. Ansaldo, _by meanes of a bond which he made to a Magitian, performed her request. Signior_ Gilberto, _the Ladyes Husband, gave consent, that his Wife should fulfill her promise made to_ Ansaldo. _Who hearing the bountifull mind of her Husband; released her of her promise: And the Magitian likewise discharged Signior_ Ansaldo, _without taking any thing of him._ _The Morall._ Admonishing all Ladies and Gentlewomen, that are desirous to preserve their chastity, free from all blemish and taxation: to make no promise of yeelding to any, under a compact or covenant, how impossible soever it may seeme to be. The Argument of the Sixt Novell. _Victorious_ King Charles, _sirnamed the Aged, and first of that Name, fell in love with a yong Maiden, named_ Genevera, _daughter to an Ancient Knight, called Signior_ Neri degli Uberti. _And waxing ashamed of his Amorous folly, caused both_ Genevera, _and her fayre Sister_ Isotta, _to be joyned in marriage with two Noble Gentlemen; the one named_ Signior Maffeo da Palizzi, _and the other,_ Signior Gulielmo della Magna. _The Morall._ Sufficiently declaring, that how mighty soever the power of Love is: yet a magnanimous and truly generous heart, it can by no meanes fully conquer. The Argument of the seaventh Novell. Lisana, _the Daughter of a Florentine Apothecary, named_ Bernardo Puccino, _being at_ Palermo, _and seeing_ Piero, _King of_ Aragon _run at the Tilt; fell so affectionately enamored of him, that she languished in an extreame and long sickenesse. By her owne devise, and means of a Song, sung in the hearing of the King: he vouchsafed to visite her, and giving her a kisse, terming himselfe also to bee her Knight for ever after, hee honourably bestowed her in marriage on a young Gentleman, who was called_ Perdicano, _and gave him liberall endowments with her._ _The Morall._ Wherein is covertly given to understand, that howsoever a Prince may make use of his absolute power and authority, towards Maides or Wives that are his Subjects: yet he ought to deny and reject all things, as shall make him forgetfull of himselfe, and his true honour. The Argument of the Eight Novell. Sophronia, _thinking her selfe to be the maried wife of_ Gisippus, _was (indeed) the wife of_ Titus Quintus Fulvius, _& departed thence with him to Rome. Within a while after,_ Gisippus _also came thither in very poore condition, and thinking that he was despised by_ Titus, _grew weary of his life, and confessed that he had murdred a man, with full** intent to die for the fact. But_ Titus _taking knowledge of him, and desiring to save the life of_ Gisippus, _charged himself to have done the bloody deed. Which the murderer himself (standing then among the multitude) seeing, truly confessed the deed. By meanes whereof, all three were delivered by the Emperor_ Octavius; _and_ Titus _gave his Sister in mariage to_ Gisippus, _giving them also the most part of his goods & inheritances._ _The Morall._ Declaring, that notwithstanding the frownes of Fortune, diversity of occurrences, and contrary accidents happening: yet love and friendship ought to be preciously preserved among men. The Argument of the Ninth Novell. Saladine, _the great_ Soldan _of_ Babylon, _in the habite of a Merchant, was honourably received and welcommed, into the house of Signior_ Thorello d'Istria. _Who travelling to the Holy Land, prefixed a certaine time to his Wife, for his returne backe to her againe, wherein, if he failed, it was lawfull for her to take another Husband. By clouding himselfe in the disguise of a Faulkner, the_ Soldan _tooke notice of him, and did him many great honours. Afterward,_ Thorello _falling sicke, by Magicall Art, he was conveighed in one night to_ Pavia, _when his Wife was to be married on the morrow: where making himselfe knowne to her, all was disappointed, and shee went home with him to his owne house._ _The Morall._ Declaring what an honourable vertue Courtesie is, in them that truely know how to use them. The Argument of the tenth Novell. _The Marquesse of_ Saluzzo, _named_ Gualtiero, _being constrained by the importunate solliciting of his Lords, and other inferiour people, to joyne himselfe in marriage; tooke a woman according to his owne liking, called_ Grizelda, _she being the daughter of a poore Countriman, named_ Janiculo, _by whom he had two children, which he pretended to be secretly murdered. Afterward, they being grown to yeres of more stature, and making shew of taking in marriage another wife, more worthy of his high degree and Calling: made a seeming publique liking of his owne daughter, expulsing his wife_ Grizelda _poorely from him. But finding her incomparable patience; more dearely (then before) hee received her into favour againe, brought her home to his owne Pallace, where (with her children) hee caused her and them to be respectively honoured, in despight of all her adverse enemies._ _The Morall._ Set downe as an example or warning to all wealthie men, how to have care of marrying themselves. And likewise** to poore and meane women, to be patient in their fortunes, and obedient to their husbands. THE SIXT DAY. _Governed under the Authority of Madam Eliza, and the Argument of the Discourses or Novels there to be recounted, doe concerne such persons; who by some witty words (when any have checkt or taunted them) have revenged themselves, in a sudden, unexpected and discreet answere, thereby preventing loss, danger, scorne and disgrace, retorting them on the busi-headed Questioners._ The Induction. The Moone having past the heaven, lost her bright splendour, by the arising of a more powerfull light, and every part of our world began to looke cleare: when the Queene (being risen) caused all the Company to be called, walking forth afterward upon the pearled dewe (so farre as was supposed convenient) in faire and familiar conference together, according as severally they were disposed, & repetition of divers the passed Novels, especially those which were most pleasing, and seemed so by their present commendations. But the Sunne beeing somewhat higher mounted, gave such a sensible warmth to the ayre, as caused their returne backe to the Pallace, where the Tables were readily covered against their comming, strewed with sweet hearbes and odoriferous flowers, seating themselves at the Tables (before the heat grew more violent) according as the Queene commanded. After dinner, they sung divers excellent Canzonnets, and then some went to sleepe, others played at the Chesse, and some at the Tables: But _Dioneus_ and Madam _Lauretta_, they sung the love-conflict betweene _Troylus_ and _Cressida_. Now was the houre come, of repairing to their former Consistory or meeting place, the Queene having thereto generally summoned them, and seating themselves (as they were wont to doe) about the faire fountaine. As the Queene was commanding to begin the first Novell, an accident suddenly happened, which never had befalne before: to wit, they heard a great noyse and tumult, among the houshold servants in the Kitchin. Whereupon, the Queene caused the Master of the Houshold to be called, demaunding of him, what noyse it was, and what might be the occasion thereof? He made answere, that _Lacisca_ and _Tindaro_ were at some words of discontentment, but what was the occasion thereof, he knew not. Whereupon, the Queene commanded that they should be sent for, (their anger and violent speeches still continuing) and being come into her presence, she demaunded the reason of their discord; and _Tindaro_ offering to make answere, _Lacisca_ (being somewhat more ancient then he, and of a fiercer fiery spirit, even as if her heart would have leapt out of her mouth) turned her selfe to him, and with a scornefull frowning countenance, said. See how this bold, unmannerly and beastly fellow, dare presume to speake in this place before me: Stand by (saucy impudence) and give your better leave to answere; then turning to the Queene, thus shee proceeded. Madam, this idle fellow would maintaine to me, that Signior _Sicophanto_ marrying with _Madama della Grazza_, had the victory of her virginity the very first night: and I avouched the contrary, because shee had been a mother twise before, in very faire adventuring of her fortune. And he dared to affirme beside, that yong Maides are so simple, as to loose the flourishing Aprill of their time, in meere feare of their parents, and great prejudice of their amourous friends. Onely being abused by infinite promises, that this yeare and that yeare they shall have husbands, when, both by the lawes of nature and reason, they are not tyed to tarry so long, but rather ought to lay hold upon opportunity, when it is fairely and friendly offered, so that seldome they come maides to marriage. Beside, I have heard, and know some married wives, that have played divers wanton prancks with their husbands, yet carried all so demurely and smoothly; that they have gone free from publique detection. All which this woodcocke will not credit, thinking me to be so yong a Novice, as if I had been borne but yesterday. While _Lacisca_ was delivering these speeches, the Ladies smiled on one another, not knowing what to say in this case: And although the Queene (five and or severall times) commaunded her to silence; yet such was the earnestnes of her spleen, that she gave no attention, but held on still even untill she had uttered all that she pleased. But after she had concluded her complaint, the Queene (with a smiling countenance) turned towards _Dioneus_ saying. This matter seemeth most properly to belong to you; and therefore I dare repose such trust in you, that when our Novels (for this day) shall be ended, you will conclude the case with a definitive sentence. Whereto _Dioneus_ presently thus replyed. Madam, the verdict is already given, without any further expectation: and I affirme, that _Lacisca_ hath spoken very sensibly, because shee is a woman of good apprehension, and _Tindaro_ is but a puny, in practise and experience, to her. When _Lacisca_ heard this, she fell into a lowd Laughter, and turning her selfe to _Tindaro_, sayde: The honour of the day is mine, and thine owne quarrell hath overthrowne thee in the fielde. Thou that (as yet) hath scarsely learned to sucke, wouldest thou presume to know so much as I doe? Couldst thou imagine mee, to be such a trewant in losse of my time, that I came hither as an ignorant creature? And had not the Queene (looking verie frowningly on her) strictly enjoyned her to silence; shee would have continued still in this triumphing humour. But fearing further chastisement for disobedience, both shee and _Tindaro_ were commanded thence, where was no other allowance all this day, but onely silence and attention, to such as should be enjoyned speakers. And then the Queene, somewhat offended at the folly of the former controversie, commanded Madame _Philomena_, that she should give beginning to the dayes Novels: which (in dutifull manner) shee undertooke to doe, and seating her selfe in formall fashion, with modest and very gracious gesture, thus she began. _A Knight requested Madam_ Oretta, _to ride behinde him on horse-backe, and promised, to tell her an excellent Tale by the way. But the Lady perceiving, that his discourse was idle, and much worse delivered: entreated him to let her walke on foote againe._ The First Novell. _Reprehending the folly of such men, as undertake to report discourses, which are beyond their wit and capacity, and gaine nothing but blame for their labour._ Gracious Ladies, like as in our faire, cleere, and serene seasons, the Starres are bright ornaments to the heavens, and the flowry fields (so long as the spring time lasteth) weare their goodliest Liveries, the Trees likewise bragging in their best adornings: Even so at friendly meetings, short, sweet, and sententious words, are the beauty & ornament of any discourse, savouring of wit and sound judgement, worthily deserving to be commended. And so much the rather, because in few and witty words, aptly suting with the time and occasion, more is delivered then was expected, or sooner answered, then rashly apprehended: which, as they become men verie highly, yet do they shew more singular in women. True it is, what the occasion may be, I know not, either by the badnesse of our wittes, or the especiall enmitie betweene our complexions and the celestiall bodies: there are scarsely any, or very few Women to be found among us, that well knowes how to deliver a word, when it should and ought to be spoken; or, if a question bee mooved, understands to suite it with an apt answere, such as conveniently is required, which is no meane disgrace to us women. But in regard, that Madame _Pampinea_ hath already spoken sufficiently of this matter, I meane not to presse it any further: but at this time it shall satisfie mee, to let you know, how wittily a Ladie made due observation of opportunitie, in answering of a Knight, whose talke seemed tedious and offensive to her. No doubt there are some among you, who either do know, or (at the least) have heard, that it is no long time since, when there dwelt a Gentlewoman in our Citie, of excellent grace and good discourse, with all other rich endowments of Nature remaining in her, as pitty it were to conceale her name: and therefore let me tell ye, that shee was called Madame _Oretta_, the Wife to Signior _Geri Spina_. She being upon some occasion (as now we are) in the Countrey, and passing from place to place (by way of neighbourly invitations) to visite her loving Friends and Acquaintance, accompanied with divers Knights and Gentlewomen, who on the day before had dined and supt at her house, as now (belike) the selfe-same courtesie was intended to her: walking along with her company upon the way; and the place for her welcome beeing further off then she expected: a Knight chanced to overtake this faire troop, who well knowing Madam _Oretta_, using a kinde and courteous salutation, spake thus unto her. Madam, this foot travell may bee offensive to you, and were you so well pleased as my selfe, I would ease your journey behinde mee on my Gelding, even so farre as you shall command me: and beside, will shorten your wearinesse with a Tale worth the hearing. Courteous Sir (replyed the Lady) I embrace your kinde offer with such acceptation, that I pray you to performe it; for therein you shall doe me an especiall favour. The Knight, whose Sword (perhappes) was as unsuteable to his side, as his wit out of fashion for any readie discourse, having the Lady mounted behinde him: rode on with a gentle pace, and (according to his promise) began to tell a Tale, which indeede (of it selfe) deserved attention, because it was a knowne and commendable History, but yet delivered so abruptly, with idle repetitions of some particulars three or foure severall times, mistaking one thing for another, and wandering erroneously from the essentiall subject, seeming neere an end, and then beginning againe: that a poore Tale could not possibly be more mangled, or worse tortured in telling, then this was; for the persons therein concerned, were so abusively nicke-named, their actions and speeches so monstrously misshapen,** that nothing could appeare to be more ugly. Madame _Oretta_, being a Lady of unequalled ingenuitie, admirable in judgement, and most delicate in her speech, was afflicted in soule, beyond all measure; overcome with many colde sweates, and passionate heart-aking qualmes, to see a Foole thus in a Pinne-fold, and unable to get out, albeit the doore stood wide open to him, whereby shee became so sicke; that, converting her distaste to a kinde of pleasing acceptation, merrily thus she spake. Beleeve me Sir, your horse trots so hard, & travels so uneasily; that I entreate you to let me walke on foot againe. The Knight, being (perchance) a better understander, then a Discourser; perceived by this witty taunt, that his Bowle had run a contrarie bias, and he as farre out of Tune, as he was from the Towne. So, lingering the time, untill her company was neerer arrived: hee lefte her with them, and rode on as his Wisedome could best direct him. Cistio _a Baker, by a wittie answer which he gave unto_ Messer Geri Spina, _caused him to acknowledge a very indiscreete motion, which he had made to the said_ Cistio. The Second Novell. _Approving, that a request ought to be civill, before it should be granted to any one whatsoever._ The words of Madame _Oretta_, were much commended by the men and women; and the discourse being ended, the Queene gave command to Madam _Pampinea_, that shee should follow next in order, which made her to begin in this manner. Worthy Ladies, it exceedeth the power of my capacitie, to censure in the case whereof I am to speake, by saying, who sinned most, either Nature, in seating a Noble soule in a vile body, or Fortune, in bestowing on a body (beautified with a noble soule) a base or wretched condition of life. As we may observe by _Cistio_, a Citizen of our owne, and many more beside; for, this _Cistio_ beeing endued with a singular good spirit, Fortune hath made him no better then a Baker. And beleeve me Ladies, I could (in this case) lay as much blame on Nature, as on Fortune; if I did not know Nature to be most absolutely wise, & that Fortune hath a thousand eyes, albeit fooles have figured her to bee blinde. But, upon more mature and deliberate consideration, I finde, that they both (being truly wise and judicious) have dealt justly, in imitation of our best advised mortals, who being uncertaine of such inconveniences, as may happen unto them, do bury (for their own benefit) the very best and choisest things of esteeme, in the most vile and abject places of their houses, as being subject to least suspition, and where they may be sure to have them at all times, for supply of any necessitie whatsoever, because so base a conveyance hath better kept them, then the very best chamber in the house could have done. Even so these two great commanders of the world, do many times hide their most precious Jewels of worth, under the clouds of Arts or professions of worst estimation, to the end, that fetching them thence when neede requires, their splendour may appeare to be the more glorious. Nor was any such matter noted in our homely Baker _Cistio_, by the best observation of _Messer Geri Spina_, who was spoken of in the late repeated Novell, as being the husband to Madame _Oretta_; whereby this accident came to my remembrance, and which (in a short Tale) I will relate unto you. Let me then tell ye, that Pope _Boniface_ (with whom the fore-named _Messer Geri Spina_ was in great regard) having sent divers Gentlemen of his Court to _Florence_ as Ambassadors, about very serious and important businesse: they were lodged in the house of _Messer Geri Spina_, and he employed (with them) in the saide Popes negotiation. It chanced, that as being the most convenient way for passage, every morning they walked on foot by the Church of Saint _Marie d'Ughi_, where _Cistio_ the Baker dwelt, and exercised the trade belonging to him. Now although Fortune had humbled him to so meane a condition, yet shee added a blessing of wealth to that contemptible quality, and (as smiling on him continually) no disasters at any time befell him, but still he flourished in riches, lived like a jolly Citizen, with all things fitting for honest entertainment about him, and plenty of the best Wines (both White and Claret) as _Florence_, or any part thereabout yeelded. Our frolicke Baker perceiving, that _Messer Geri Spina_ and the other Ambassadors, used every morning to passe by his doore, and afterward to returne backe the same way: seeing the season to be somewhat hot & soultry, he tooke it as an action of kindnesse and courtesie, to make them an offer of tasting his white wine. But having respect to his own meane degree, and the condition of _Messer Geri_; hee thought it farre unfitting for him, to be so forward in such presumption; but rather entred into consideration of some such meanes, whereby _Messer Geri_ might bee the inviter of himselfe to taste his Wine. And having put on him a trusse or thin doublet, of very white and fine Linnen cloath, as also breeches, and an apron of the same, and a white cap upon his head, so that he seemed rather to be a Miller, then a Baker: at such times as _Messer Geri_ and the Ambassadors should daily passe by, hee set before his doore a new Bucket of faire water, and another small vessell of _Bologna_ earth (as new and sightly as the other) full of his best and choisest white Wine, with two small Glasses, looking like silver, they were so cleare. Downe he sate, with all this provision before him, and emptying his stomacke twice or thrice, of some clotted flegmes which seemed to offend it: even as the Gentlemen were passing by, he dranke one or two rouses of his Wine so heartily, and with such a pleasing appetite, as might have moved a longing (almost) in a dead man. _Messer Geri_ well noting his behaviour, and observing the verie same course in him two mornings together; on the third day (as he was drinking) he said unto him. Well done _Cistio_, what, is it good, or no? _Cistio_ starting up, forthwith replyed: Yes Sir, the wine is good indeed, but how can I make you to beleeve me, except you taste of it? _Messer Geri_, eyther in regard of the times quality, or by reason of his paines taken, perhaps more then ordinary, or else, because hee saw _Cistio_ had drunke so sprightly, was very desirous to taste of the Wine, and turning unto the Ambassadors, in merriment he saide. My Lords, me thinks it were not much amisse, if we tooke a taste of this honest mans Wine, perhaps it is so good, that we shall not neede to repent our labour. Heereupon, he went with them to _Cistio_, who had caused an handsome seate to be fetched forth of his house, whereon he requested them to sit downe, and having commanded his men to wash cleane the Glasses, he saide. Fellowes, now get you gone, and leave me to the performance of this service; for I am no worse a skinker, then a Baker, and tarry you never so long, you shall not drinke a drop. Having thus spoken, himselfe washed foure or five small glasses, faire and new, and causing a Viall of his best wine to be brought him: hee diligently filled it out to _Messer Geri_ and the Ambassadours, to whom it seemed the very best Wine, that they had drunke of in a long while before. And having given _Cistio_ most hearty thankes for his kindnesse, and the Wine his due commendation: many dayes afterwardes (so long as they continued there) they found the like courteous entertainment, and with the good liking of honest _Cistio_. But when the affayres were fully concluded, for which they were thus sent to _Florence_, and their parting preparation in due readinesse: _Messer Geri_ made a very sumptuous Feast for them, inviting thereto the most part of the honourablest Citizens, and _Cistio_ to be one amongst them; who (by no meanes) would bee seene in an assembly of such State and pompe, albeit he was thereto (by the saide _Messer Geri_) most earnestly entreated. In regard of which deniall, _Messer Geri_ commaunded one of his servants, to take a small Bottle, and request _Cistio_ to fill it with his good Wine; then afterward, to serve it in such sparing manner to the Table, that each Gentleman might be allowed halfe a glasse-full at their down-sitting. The Serving-man, who had heard great report of the Wine, and was halfe offended, because he could never taste thereof: tooke a great Flaggon Bottle, containing foure or five Gallons at the least, and comming there-with unto _Cistio_, saide unto him. _Cistio_, because my Master cannot have your companie among his friends, he prayes you to fill this Bottle with your best Wine. _Cistio_ looking uppon the huge Flaggon, replied thus. Honest Fellow, _Messer Geri_ never sent thee with such a Message to me: which although the Servingman very stoutly maintained, yet getting no other answer, he returned backe therewith to his Master. _Messer Geri_ returned the Servant backe againe unto _Cistio_, saying: Goe, and assure _Cistio_, that I sent thee to him, and if hee make thee any more such answeres, then demaund of him, to what place else I should send thee? Being come againe to _Cistio_, hee avouched that his Maister had sent him, but _Cistio_ affirming, that hee did not: the Servant asked, to what place else hee should send him? Marrie (quoth _Cistio_) unto the River of _Arno_, which runneth by _Florence_, there thou mayest be sure to fill thy Flaggon. When the Servant had reported this answer to _Messer Geri_, the eyes of his understanding beganne to open, and calling to see what Bottle hee had carried with him: no sooner looked he on the huge Flaggon, but severely reproving the sawcinesse of his Servant, hee sayde. Now trust mee, _Cistio_ told thee nothing but trueth, for neither did I send thee with any such dishonest message, nor had the reason to yeeld or grant it. Then he sent him with a bottle of more reasonable competencie, which so soone as _Cistio_ saw: Yea mary my friend, quoth he, now I am sure that thy Master sent thee to me, and he shall have his desire with all my hart. So, commaunding the Bottle to be filled, he sent it away by the Servant, and presently following after him, when he came unto _Messer Geri_, he spake unto him after this manner. Sir, I would not have you to imagine, that the huge flaggon (which first came) did any jotte dismay mee; but rather I conceyved, that the small Viall whereof you tasted every morning, yet filled many mannerly Glasses together, was fallen quite out of your remembrance; in plainer tearmes, it beeing no Wine for Groomes or Peazants, as your selfe affirmed yesterday. And because I meane to bee a Skinker no longer, by keeping Wine to please any other pallate but mine owne: I have sent you halfe my store, and heereafter thinke of mee as you shall please. _Messer Geri_ tooke both his guifte and speeches in most thankefull manner, accepting him alwayes after, as his intimate Friend, because he had so graced him before the Ambassadours. Madame Nonna de Pulci, _by a sodaine answere, did put to silence a Byshop of_ Florence, _and the Lord Marshall: having moved a question to the said Lady, which seemed to come short of honesty._ The Third Novell. _Wherein is declared, that mockers do sometimes meete with their matches in mockery, and to their owne shame._ When Madame _Pampinea_ had ended her Discourse, and (by the whole company) the answere and bounty of _Cistio_, had past with deserved commendation: it pleased the Queene, that Madame _Lauretta_ should next succeed: whereupon verie chearefully thus she beganne. Faire assembly, Madame _Pampinea_ (not long time since) gave beginning, and Madam _Philomena_ hath also seconded the same argument, concerning the slender vertue remaining in our sexe, and likewise the beautie of wittie words, delivered on apt occasion, and in convenient meetings. Now, because it is needlesse to proceede any further, then what hath beene already spoken: let mee onely tell you (over and beside) and commit it to memorie, that the nature of meetings and speeches are such, as they ought to nippe or touch the hearer, like unto the Sheepes nibling on the tender grasse, and not as the sullen Dogge byteth. For, if their biting be answereable to the Dogges, they deserve not to be termed witty jests or quips, but foule and offensive language: as plainly appeareth by the words of Madame _Oretta_, and the merry, yet sensible answer of _Cistio_. True it is, that if it be spoken by way of answer, and the answerer biteth doggedly, because himselfe was bitten in the same manner before: he is the lesse to bee blamed, because hee maketh payment but with coine of the same stampe. In which respect, an especiall care is to bee had, how, when, with whom, and where we jest or gibe, whereof very many proove too unmindfull, as appeared (not long since) by a Prelate of ours, who met with a byting, no lesse sharpe and bitter, then had first come from himselfe before, as verie briefely I intend to tell you how. _Messer Antonio d'Orso_, being Byshoppe of _Florence_, a vertuous, wise, and reverend Prelate; it fortuned that a Gentleman of _Catalogna_, named _Messer Diego de la Ratta_, and Lord Marshall to King _Robert_ of _Naples_, came thither to visite him. Hee being a man of very comely personage, and a great observer of the choysest beauties in Court: among all the other _Florentine_ Dames, one proved to bee most pleasing in his eye, who was a verie faire Woman indeede, and Neece to the Brother of the saide _Messer Antonio_. The Husband of this Gentlewoman (albeit descended of a worthie Family) was, neverthelesse, immeasurably covetous, and a verie vile harsh natured man. Which the Lord Marshall understanding, made such a madde composition with him, as to give him five hundred Ducates of Gold, on condition, that hee would let him lye one night with his wife, not thinking him so base minded as to give consent. Which in a greedy avaritious humour he did, and the bargaine being absolutely agreed on; the Lord Marshall prepared to fit him with a payment, such as it should be. He caused so many peeces of silver to be cunningly guilded, as then went for currant mony in _Florence_, and called _Popolines_, & after he had lyen with the Lady (contrary to her will and knowledge, her husband had so closely carried the businesse) the money was duely paid to the cornuted Coxcombe. Afterwards, this impudent shame chanced to be generally knowne, nothing remaining to the wilfull Wittoll, but losse of his expected gaine, and scorne in every place where he went. The Bishop likewise (beeing a discreete and sober man) would seeme to take no knowledge thereof; but bare out all scoffes with a well setled countenance. Within a short while after, the Bishop and the Lord Marshall (alwaies conversing together) it came to passe, that upon Saint _Johns_ day, they riding thorow the City, side by side, and viewing the brave beauties, which of them might best deserve to win the prize; the Byshop espied a yong married Lady (which our late greevous pestilence bereaved us of) she being named Madame _Nonna de Pulci_, and Cousine to _Messer Alexio Rinucci_, a Gentleman well knowne unto us all. A very goodly beautifull yong woman she was, of delicate language, and singular spirite, dwelling close by S. _Peters_ gate. This Lady did the Bishop shew to the Marshall, and when they were come to her, laying his hand uppon her shoulder, he said. Madam _Nonna_, What thinke you of this Gallant? Dare you adventure another wager with him? Such was the apprehension of this witty Lady, that these words seemed to taxe her honour, or else to contaminate the hearers understanding, whereof there were great plenty about her, whose judgement might be as vile, as the speeches were scandalous. Wherefore, never seeking for any further purgation of her cleare conscience, but onely to retort taunt for taunt, presently thus she replied. My Lord, if I should make such a vile adventure, I would looke to bee payde with better money. These words being heard both by the Bishop and Marshall, they felt themselves touched to the quicke, the one, as the Factor or Broker, for so dishonest a businesse, to the Brother of the Bishop; and the other, as receiving (in his owne person) the shame belonging to his Brother. So, not so much as looking each on other, or speaking one word together all the rest of that day, they rode away with blushing cheekes. Whereby we may collect, that the yong Lady, being so injuriously provoked, did no more then well became her, to bite their basenesse neerely, that so abused her openly. Chichibio, _the Cooke to_ Messer Currado Gianfiliazzi, _by a sodaine pleasant answer which he made to his Master; converted his anger into laughter, and thereby escaped the punishment, that_ Messer _meant to impose on him._ The Fourth Novell. _Whereby plainly appeareth, that a sodaine witty and merry answer, doth oftentimes appease the furious choller of an angry man._ Madam _Lauretta_ sitting silent, and the answer of Lady _Nonna_ having past with generall applause: the Queene commanded Madame _Neiphila_ to follow next in order; who instantly thus began. Although a ready wit (faire Ladies) doth many times affoord worthy and commendable speeches, according to the accidents happening to the speaker: yet notwithstanding, Fortune (being a ready helper divers wayes to the timorous) doth often tippe the tongue with such a present reply, as the partie to speake, had not so much leysure as to thinke on, nor yet to invent; as I purpose to let you perceive, by a prety short Novell. _Messer Currado Gianfiliazzi_ (as most of you have both seene and knowen) living alwayes in our Citie, in the estate of a Noble Citizen, beeing a man bountifull, magnificent, and within the degree of Knighthoode: continually kept both Hawkes and Hounds, taking no meane delight in such pleasures as they yeelded, neglecting (for them) farre more serious imployments, wherewith our present subject presumeth not to meddle. Upon a day, having kilde with his Faulcon a Crane, neere to a Village called _Peretola_, and finding her to be both young and fat, he sent it to his Cooke, a _Venetian_ borne, and named _Chichibio_, with command to have it prepared for his supper. _Chichibio_, who resembled no other, then (as he was indeede) a plaine, simple, honest merry fellow, having drest the Crane as it ought to bee, put it on the spit, and laide it to the fire. When it was well neere fully roasted, and gave forth a very delicate pleasing savour; it fortuned that a young Woman dwelling not far off, named _Brunetta_, and of whom _Chichibio_ was somewhat enamored, entred into the Kitchin, and feeling the excellent smell of the Crane, to please her beyond all savours, that ever she had felt before: she entreated _Chichibio_ verie earnestly, that hee would bestow a legge thereof on her. Whereto _Chichibio_ (like a pleasant companion, and evermore delighting in singing) sung her this answer. _My_ Brunetta, _faire and feat a, Why should you say so? The meate of my Master, Allowes you for no Taster, Go from the Kitchin go._ Many other speeches past betweene them in a short while, but in the end, _Chichibio_, because hee would not have his Mistresse _Brunetta_ angrie with him; cut away one of the Cranes legges from the spit, and gave it to her to eate. Afterward, when the Fowle was served up to the Table before _Messer Currado_, who had invited certain strangers his friends to sup with him, wondering not a little, he called for _Chichibio_ his Cook; demanding what was become of the Cranes other legge? Whereto the _Venetian_ (being a lyar by Nature) sodainely answered: Sir, Cranes have no more but one legge each Bird. _Messer Currado_, growing verie angry, replyed. Wilt thou tell me, that a Crane hath no more but one legge? Did I never see a Crane before this? _Chichibio_ persisting resolutely in his deniall, saide. Beleeve me Sir, I have told you nothing but the truth, and when you please, I will make good my wordes, by such Fowles as are living. Messer _Currado_, in kinde love to the strangers that hee had invited to supper, gave over any further contestation; onely he said. Seeing thou assurest me, to let me see thy affirmation for truth, by other of the same Fowles living (a thing which as yet I never saw, or heard of) I am content to make proofe thereof to morrow morning, till then I shall rest satisfied: but, upon my word, if I finde it otherwise, expect such a sound payment, as thy knavery justly deserveth, to make thee remember it all thy life time. The contention ceassing for the night season, Messer _Currado_, who though he had slept well, remained still discontented in his minde: arose in the morning by breake of day, and puffing & blowing angerly, called for his horses, commanding _Chichibio_ to mount on one of them; so riding on towards the River, where (earely every morning) he had seene plenty of Cranes, he sayde to his man; We shall see anon Sirra, whether thou or I lyed yesternight. _Chichibio_ perceiving, that his Masters anger was not (as yet) asswaged, and now it stood him upon, to make good his lye; not knowing how he should do it, rode after his Master, fearfully trembling all the way. Gladly he would have made an escape, but hee could not by any possible meanes, and on every side he looked about him, now before, and after behinde, to espy any Cranes standing on both their legges, which would have bin an ominous sight to him. But being come neere to the River, he chanced to see (before any of the rest) upon the banke thereof, about a dozen Cranes in number, each of them standing but upon one legge, as they use to do when they are sleeping. Whereupon, shewing them quickly to Messer _Currado_, he said. Now Sir your selfe may see, whether I told you true yesternight, or no: I am sure a Crane hath but one thigh, and one leg, as all here present are apparant witnesses, and I have bin as good as my promise. Messer _Currado_ looking on the Cranes, and well understanding the knavery of his man, replyed: Stay but a little while sirra, & I will shew thee, that a Crane hath two thighes, and two legges. Then riding somwhat neerer to them, he cryed out aloud, Shough, shough, which caused them to set downe their other legs, and all fled away, after they had made a few paces against the winde for their mounting. So going unto _Chichibio_, he said: How now you lying Knave, hath a Crane two legs, or no? _Chichibio_ being well-neere at his wits end, not knowing now what answer hee should make; but even as it came sodainly into his minde, said: Sir, I perceive you are in the right, and if you would have done as much yesternight, and had cryed Shough, as here you did: questionlesse, the Crane would then have set down the other legge, as these heere did: but if (as they) she had fled away too, by that meanes you might have lost your Supper. This sodaine and unexpected witty answere, comming from such a logger-headed Lout, and so seasonably for his owne safety: was so pleasing to _Messer Currado_, that he fell into a hearty laughter, and forgetting all anger, saide. _Chichibio_, thou hast quit thy selfe well, and to my contentment: albeit I advise thee, to teach mee no more such trickes heereafter. Thus _Chichibio_, by his sodaine and merry answer, escaped a sound beating, which (otherwise) his master had inflicted on him. Messer Forese da Rabatte, _and Maister_ Giotto, _a Painter by his profession, comming together from_ Mugello, _scornfully reprehended one another for their deformity of body._ The Fift Novell. _Whereby may bee observed, that such as will speake contemptibly of others, ought (first of all) to looke respectively on their owne imperfections._ So soone as Madame _Neiphila_ sate silent (the Ladies having greatly commended the pleasant answer of _Chichibio_) _Pamphilus_, by command from the Queene, spake in this manner. Woorthy Ladies, it commeth to passe oftentimes, that like as Fortune is observed divers wayes, to hide under vile and contemptible Arts, the most great and unvalewable treasures of vertue (as, not long since, was well discoursed unto us by Madam _Pampinea_:) so in like manner hath appeared; that Nature hath infused very singular spirits into most misshapen and deformed bodies of men. As hath beene noted in two of our owne Citizens, of whom I purpose to speake in fewe words. The one of them was named _Messer Forese de Rabatte_, a man of little and low person, but yet deformed in body, with a flat face, like a Terrier or Beagle, as if no comparison (almost) could bee made more ugly. But notwithstanding all this deformity, he was so singularly experienced in the Lawes, that all men held him beyond any equall, or rather reputed him as a Treasury of civill knowledge. The other man, being named _Giotto_, had a spirit of so great excellency, as there was not any particular thing in Nature, the Mother and Worke-mistresse of all, by continuall motion of the heavens; but hee by his pen and pensell could perfectly portrait; shaping them all so truly alike and resemblable, that they were taken for the reall matters indeede; and, whether they were present or no, there was hardly any possibility of their distinguishing. So that many times it happened, that by the variable devises he made, the visible sence of men became deceived, in crediting those things to be naturall, which were but meerly painted. By which meanes, hee reduced that singular Art to light, which long time before had lyen buried, under the grosse error of some; who, in the mysterie of painting, delighted more to content the ignorant, then to please the judicious understanding of the wise, he justly deserving thereby, to be tearmed one of the _Florentines_ most glorious lights. And so much the rather, because he performed all his actions, in the true and lowly spirit of humility: for while he lived, and was a Master in his Art, above all other Painters: yet he refused any such title, which shined the more majestically in him, as appeared by such, who knew much lesse then he, or his Schollers either: yet his knowledge was extreamly coveted among them. Now, notwithstanding all this admirable excellency in him: he was not (thereby) a jot the handsommer man (either in person or countenance) then was our fore-named Lawyer _Messer Forese_, and therefore my Novell concerneth them both. Understand then, (faire Assemblie) that the possessions and inheritances of _Messer Forese_ and _Giotto_, lay in _Mugello_; wherefore, when Holy-dayes were celebrated by Order of Court, and in the Sommer time, upon the admittance of so apt a vacation; _Forese_ rode thither upon a very unsightly Jade, such as a man can can seldome meet with worse. The like did _Giotto_ the Painter, as ill fitted every way as the other; and having dispatched their busines there, they both returned backe towards _Florence_, neither of them being able to boast, which was the best mounted. Riding on a faire and softly pace, because their Horses could goe no faster: and they being well entred into yeeres, it fortuned (as oftentimes the like befalleth in Sommer) that a sodaine showre of raine over-tooke them; for avoyding whereof, they made all possible haste to a poore Countrey-mans Cottage, familiarly knowne to them both. Having continued there an indifferent while, and the raine unlikely to cease: to prevent all further protraction of time, and to arrive at _Florence_ in due season: they borrowed two old cloakes of the poore man, of over-worn and ragged Country gray, as also two hoodes of the like Complexion, (because the poore man had no better) which did more mishape them, then their owne ugly deformity, and made them notoriously flouted and scorned, by all that met or overtooke them. After they had ridden some distance of ground, much moyled and bemyred with their shuffling Jades, flinging the dirt every way about them, that well they might be termed two filthy companions: the raine gave over, and the evening looking somwhat cleare, they began to confer familiarly together. _Messer Forese_, riding a lofty _French_ trot, everie step being ready to hoise him out of his saddle, hearing _Giottos_ discreete answers to every ydle question he made (for indeede he was a very elegant speaker) began to peruse and surveigh him, even from the foote to the head, as we use to say. And perceiving him to be so greatly deformed, as no man could be worse, in his opinion: without any consideration of his owne misshaping as bad, or rather more unsightly then hee; in a scoffing laughing humour, hee saide. _Giotto_, doest thou imagine, that a stranger, who had never seene thee before, and should now happen into our companie, would beleeve thee to bee the best Painter in the world, as indeede thou art? Presently _Giotto_ (without any further meditation) returned him this answere. Signior _Forese_, I think he might then beleeve it, when (beholding you) hee could imagine that you had learned your A. B. C. Which when _Forese_ heard, he knew his owne error, and saw his payment returned in such Coine, as he sold his Wares for. _A yong and ingenious Scholler, being unkindly reviled and smitten by his ignorant Father, and through the procurement of an unlearned Vicare: afterward attained to be doubly revenged on him._ The Sixth Novell. _Serving as an advertisement to unlearned Parents, not to bee over-rash, in censuring on Schollers perfections, through any badde or unbeseeming perswasions._ The Ladies smiled very heartily, at the ready answer of _Giotto_; untill the Queene charged Madam _Fiammetta_, that shee should next succeed in order: whereupon, thus she began. The verie greatest infelicity that can happen to a man, and most insupportable of all other, is Ignorance; a word (I say) which hath bin so generall, as under it is comprehended all imperfections whatsoever. Yet notwithstanding, whosoever can cull (graine by graine) the defects incident to humane race; will and must confesse, that wee are not all borne to knowledge: but onely such, whom the heavens illuminating by their bright radiance (wherein consisteth the sourse and well-spring of all science) by little & little, do bestow the influence of their bounty, on such and so manie as they please, who are to expresse themselves the more thankfull for such a blessing. And although this grace doth lessen the misfortune of many, which were over-mighty to bee in all; yet some there are, who by sawcie presuming on themselves, doe bewray their ignorance by theyr owne speeches; setting such behaviour on each matter, and soothing every thing with such gravity, even as if they would make comparison: or (to speake more properly) durst encounter in the Listes with great _Salomon_ or _Socrates_. But let us leave them, and come to the matter of our purposed Novell. In a certaine Village of _Piccardie_, there lived a Priest or Vicar, who beeing meerely an ignorant blocke, had yet such a peremptorie presuming spirite: as, though it was sufficiently discerned, yet hee beguiled many thereby, untill at last he deceyved himselfe, and with due chastisement to his folly. A plaine Husbandman dwelling in the same Village, possessed of much Land and Living, but verie grosse and dull in understanding; by the entreaty of divers his Friends and Well-willers, some-thing more intelligable then himselfe: became incited, or rather provoked, to send a Sonne of his to the University of _Paris_, to study there as was fitting for a Scholler. To the end (quoth they) that having but this Son onely, and Fortunes blessings abounding in store for him: hee might like wise have the riches of the minde, which are those true treasures indeede, that _Aristippus_ giveth us advice to be furnished withall. His Friends perswasions having prevailed, and hee continued at _Paris_ for the space of three yeares: what with the documents he had attayned to, before his going thither, and by meanes of a happie memory in the time of his being there, wherewith no young man was more singularly endued (in so short a while) he attained and performed the greater part of his Studies. Now, as oftentimes it commeth to passe, the love of a Father (surmounting all other affections in man) made the olde Farmer desirous to see his Sonne: which caused his sending for him with all convenient speede, and obedience urged his as forward willingnesse thereto. The good olde man, not a little joyfull to see him in so good condition and health, and encreased so much in stature since his parting thence: familiarly told him, that he earnestly desired to know, if his minde and body had attained to a competent and equall growth, which within three or foure dayes he would put in practise. No other helpe had he silly simple man, but Master Vicar must bee the questioner and poser of his son: wherein the Priest was very unwilling to meddle, for feare of discovering his owne ignorance, which passed under better opinion then he deserved. But the Farmer beeing importunate, and the Vicar many wayes beholding to him, durst not returne deniall, but undertooke it very formally, as if he had bene an able man indeede. But see how Fooles are borne to be fortunate, and where they least hope, there they find the best successe; the simplicitie of the Father, must be the meanes for abusing his Schollerly Son, and a skreene to stand betweene the Priest and his ignorance. Earnest is the olde man to know, what and how farre his Sonne had profited at Schoole, and by what note he might best take understanding of his answeres: which jumping fit with the Vicars vanity, and a warrantable cloake to cover his knavery; he appoints him but one word onely, namely _Nescio_, wherewith if he answered to any of his demands, it was an evident token, that hee understood nothing. As thus they were walking and conferring in the Church, the Farmer very carefull to remember the word _Nescio_: it came to passe upon a sodaine, that the young man entred into them, to the great contentment of his Father, who prayed Master Vicar, to make approbation of his Sonne, whether he were learned, or no, and how hee had benefited at the University? After the time of the daies salutations had past betweene them, the Vicar being subtle and crafty, as they walked along by one of the tombs in the Church; pointing with his finger to the Tombe, the Priest uttered these words to the Scholler. _Quis hic est sepultus?_ The yong Scholler (by reason it was erected since his departure, and finding no inscription whereby to informe him) answered, as well hee might, _Nescio_. Immediately the Father, keeping the word perfectly in his memorie, grewe verie angerly passionate; and, desiring to heare no more demaunds: gave him three or foure boxes on the eares; with many harsh and injurious speeches, tearming him an Asse and Villaine, and that he had not learned any thing. His Sonne was pacient, and returned no answer, but plainly perceived, that this was a tricke intended against him, by the malicious treachery of the Priest, on whom (in time) he might be revenged. Within a short while after, the Suffragane of those parts (under whom the Priest was but a Deputy, holding the benefice of him, with no great charge to his conscience) being abroad in his visitation, sent word to the Vicar, that he intended to preach there on the next Sunday, and hee to prepare in a readinesse, _Bonum & Commodum_, because hee would have nothing else to his dinner. Heereat Master Vicar was greatly amazed, because he had never heard such words before, neither could hee finde them in all his _Breviarie_. Hereupon, he went to the yong scholler, whom he had so lately before abused, and crying him mercy, with many impudent and shallow excuses, desired him to reveale the meaning of those words, and what he should understand by _Bonum & Commodum_. The Scholler (with a sober and modest countenance) made answere; That he had bin over-much abused, which (neverthelesse) he tooke not so impaciently, but hee had already both forgot and forgiven it, with promise of comfort in this his extraordinary distraction, and greefe of minde. When he had perused the Suffraganes Letter, well observing the blushlesse ignorance of the Priest: seeming (by outward appearance) to take it strangely, he cryed out alowd, saying; In the name of Vertue, what may be this mans meaning? How? (quoth the Priest) What manner of demand do you make? Alas, replyed the Scholler, you have but one poore Asse, which I know you love deerely, and yet you must stew his genitories very daintily, for your Patron will have no other meat to his dinner. The genitories of mine Asse, answered the Priest? Passion of me, who then shall carrie my Corne to the Mill? There is no remedie, sayde the Scholler, for he hath so set it downe for an absolute resolution. After that the Priest had considered thereon a while by himselfe, remembring the yearely revennewes, which clearely hee put up into his purse, to be ten times of farre greater worth then his Asse: he concluded to have him gelded, what danger soever should ensue thereon, preparing them in readinesse against his comming. So soone as the Suffragan was there arrived, heavily hee complained to him for his Asse: which kinde of Language he not understanding, knew not what he meant, nor how he should answer. But beeing (by the Scholler) acquainted with the whole History, he laughed heartily at the Priests ignorant folly, wishing that all such bold Bayards (from time to time) might be so served. Likewise, that all ignorant Priests, Vicars, and other Grashoppers of Townes or Villages, who sometimes have onely seene _Partes orationis quod sunt_, not to stand over-much on their owne sufficiency, grounded soly upon their Grammar; but to beware whom they jest withall, without medling with Schollers, who take not injuries as dullards doe, least they prove infamous by their disputations. Madam Phillippa, _being accused by her Husband_ Rinaldo de Pugliese, _because he tooke her in Adulterie, with a yong Gentleman named_ Lazarino de Guazzagliotori: _caused her to bee cited before the Judge. From whom she delivered her selfe, by a sodaine, witty and pleasant answer, and moderated a severe strict Statute, formerly made against women._ The Seventh Novell. _Wherein is declared, of what worth it is to confesse a trueth, with a facetious and witty excuse._ After that Madame _Fiammetta_ had given over speaking, and all the Auditory had sufficiently applauded the Schollers honest revenge, the Queene enjoyned _Philostratus_, to proceede on next with his Novell, which caused him to begin thus. Beleeve me Ladies, it is an excellent & most commendable thing, to speak well, and to all purposes: but I hold it a matter of much greater worth, to know how to do it, and when necessity doth most require it. Which a Gentlewoman (of whom I am now to speake) was so well enstructed in, as not onely it yeelded the hearers mirthfull contentment, but likewise delivered her from the danger of death, as (in few words) you shall heare related. In the Citie of _Prato_, there was an Edict or Statute, no lesse blameworthy (to speake uprightly) then most severe and cruell, which (without making any distinction) gave strict command; That everie Woman should be burned with fire, whose husband found her in the acte of Adultery, with any secret or familiar friend, as one deserving to bee thus abandoned, like such as prostituted their bodies to publike sale or hire. During the continuance of this sharpe Edict, it fortuned that a Gentlewoman, who was named _Phillippa_, was found in her Chamber one night, in the armes of a yong Gentleman of the same City, named _Lazarino de Guazzagliotori_, and by her owne husband, called _Rinaldo de Pugliese_, shee loving the young Gallant, as her owne life, because hee was most compleate in all perfections, and every way as deerely addicted to her. This sight was so irkesome to _Rinaldo_, that, being overcom with extreame rage, hee could hardly containe from running on them, with a violent intent to kill them both: but feare of his owne life caused his forbearance, meaning to be revenged by some better way. Such was the heate of his spleene and fury, as, setting aside all respect of his owne shame: he would needs prosecute the rigour of the deadly Edict, which he held lawfull for him to do, although it extended to the death of his Wife. Heereupon, having witnesses sufficient, to approove the guiltinesse of her offence: a day being appointed (without desiring any other counsell) he went in person to accuse her, and required justice against her. The Gentlewoman, who was of an high and undauntable spirite, as all such are, who have fixed their affection resolvedly, and love uppon a grounded deliberation: concluded, quite against the counsell and opinion of her Parents, Kindred, and Friends; to appeare in the Court, as desiring rather to dye, by confessing the trueth with a manly courage, then by denying it, and her love unto so worthy a person as he was, in whole arms she chanced to be taken; to live basely in exile with shame, as an eternall scandall to her race. So, before the Potestate, shee made her apparance, worthily accompanied both with men and women, all advising her to deny the acte: but she, not minding them or their perswasions, looking on the Judge with a constant countenance, and a voyce of setled resolve, craved to know of him, what hee demaunded of her? The Potestate well noting her brave carriage, her singular beautie and praise-worthy parts, her words apparantly witnessing the heighth of her minde: beganne to take compassion on her, and doubted, least shee would confesse some such matter, as should enforce him to pronounce the sentence of death against her. But she boldly scorning all delayes, or any further protraction of time; demanded again, what was her accusation? Madame, answered the Potestate, I am sorry to tel you, what needs I must, your husband (whom you see present heere) is the complainant against you, avouching, that he tooke you in the act of adultery with another man: and therefore he requireth, that, according to the rigour of the Statute heere in force with us, I should pronounce sentence against you, and (consequently) the infliction of death. Which I cannot do, if you confesse not the fact, and therefore be well advised, how you answer me, and tell me the truth, if it be as your Husband accuseth you, or no. The Lady, without any dismay or dread at all, pleasantly thus replied. My Lord, true it is, that _Rinaldo_ is my Husband, and that he found me, on the night named, betweene the Armes of _Lazarino_, where many times heeretofore he hath embraced mee, according to the mutuall love re-plighted together, which I deny not, nor ever will. But you know well enough, and I am certaine of it, that the Lawes enacted in any Countrey, ought to be common, and made with consent of them whom they concerne, which in this Edict of yours is quite contrarie. For it is rigorous against none, but poore women onely, who are able to yeeld much better content and satisfaction generally, then remaineth in the power of men to do. And moreover, when this Law was made, there was not any woman that gave consent to it, neither were they called to like or allow thereof: in which respect, it may deservedly be termed, an unjust Law. And if you will, in prejudice of my bodie, and of your owne soule, be the executioner of so unlawfull an Edict, it consisteth in your power to do as you please. But before you proceede to pronounce any sentence, may it please you to favour me with one small request, namely, that you would demand of my Husband, if at all times, and whensoever he tooke delight in my company, I ever made any curiosity, or came to him unwillingly. Whereto _Rinaldo_, without tarrying for the Potestate to moove the question, sodainly answered; that (undoubtedly) his wife at all times, and oftner then he could request it, was never sparing of her kindnesse, or put him off with any deniall. Then the Lady, continuing on her former speeches, thus replyed. Let me then demand of you my Lord, being our Potestate and Judge, if it be so, by my Husbands owne free confession, that he hath alwaies had his pleasure of me, without the least refusall in me, or contradiction; what should I doe with the over-plus remaining in mine owne power, and whereof he had no need? Would you have mee cast it away to the Dogges? Was it not more fitting for me, to pleasure therewith a worthy Gentleman, who was even at deaths doore for my love, then (my husbands surfetting, and having no neede of me) to let him lye languishing, and dye? Never was heard such an examination before, and to come from a woman of such worth, the most part of the honourable _Pratosians_ (both Lords and Ladies) being there present, who hearing her urge such a necessary question, cryed out all aloud together with one voice (after they had laughed their fill) that the Lady had saide well, and no more then she might. So that, before they departed thence, by comfortable advice proceeding from the Potestate: the Edict (being reputed overcruell) was modified, and interpreted to concerne them onely, who offered injurie to their Husbands for money. By which meanes, _Rinaldo_ standing as one confounded, for such a foolish and unadvised enterprize, departed from the Auditorie: and the Ladie, not a little joyfull to bee thus freed and delivered from the fire, returned home with victorie to her owne house. Fresco da Celatico, _counselled and advised his Neece_ Cesca: _That if such as deserved to be looked on, were offensive to her eyes, as she had often told him; she should forbeare to looke on any._ The Eighth Novell. _In just scorne of such unsightly and ill-pleasing surly Sluts, who imagine none to be faire or well-favoured, but themselves._ All the while as _Philostratus_ was re-counting his Novell; it seemed, that the Ladies (who heard it) found themselves much mooved thereat, as by the wanton blood monting up into their cheekes, it plainly appeared. But in the end, looking on each other with strange behaviour, they could not forbeare smiling: which the Queene interrupting by a command of attention, turning to Madame _�millia_, willed her to follow next. When she, puffing and blowing, as if she had bene newly awaked from sleepe, began in this manner. Faire Beauties; My thoughts having wandred a great distance hence, and further then I can easily collect them together againe; in obedience yet to our Queene, I shall report a much shorter Novell, then otherwise (perhappes) I should have done, if my minde had beene a little neerer home. I shall tell you the grosse fault of a foolish Damosell, well corrected by a witty reprehension of her Uncle; if shee had bin endued but with so much sence, as to have understood it. An honest man, named _Fresco da Celatico_, had a good fulsom wench to his Neece, who for her folly and squemishnes, was generally called _Cesca_, or nice _Francesca_. And althogh she had stature sufficient, yet none of the handsomest, & a good hard favourd countenance, nothing nere such Angelical beauties as we have seen: yet she was endued with such height of minde, and so proud an opinion of her selfe, that it appeared as a custome bred in hir, or rather a gift bestowed on hir by nature (though none of the best) to blame and despise both men and women, yea whosoever she lookt on; without any consideration of her self, she being as unsightly, ill shaped, and ugly faced, as a worse was very hardly to be found. Nothing could be done at any time, to yeilde her liking or content: moreover, she was so waspish, nice, & squemish, that when she cam into the royall Court of _France_, it was hatefull & contemptible to hir. Whensoever she went through the streets, every thing stunke and was noisome to her; so that she never did any thing but stop her nose; as if all men or women she met withall; and whatsoever else she lookt on, were stinking and offensive. But let us leave all further relation of her ill conditions, being every way (indeed) so bad, and hardly becomming any sensible body, that we cannot condemne them so much as we should. It chanced upon a day, that shee comming home to the house where her Uncle dwelt, declared her wonted scurvy and scornfull behaviour; swelling, puffing, and pouting extreamly, in which humour she sat downe by her Uncle, who desiring to know what had displeased her, said. Why how now _Francesca_? what may the meaning of this bee? This being a solemne festivall day, what is the reason of your so soone returning home? She coily biting the lip, and brideling her head, as if she had bene some mans best Gelding, sprucely thus replyed. Indeede you say true Uncle, I am come home verie earely, because, since the day of my birth, I never saw a City so pestered with unhandsome people, both men and women, and worse this high Holyday then ever I did observe before. I walked thorow some store of streetes, and I could not see one proper man: and as for the women, they are the most misshapen and ugly creatures, that, if God had made me such an one, I should be sorry that ever I was borne. And being no longer able to endure such unpleasing sights; you will not thinke (Uncle) in what an anger I am come home. _Fresco_, to whome these stinking qualities of his Neece seemed so unsufferable, that hee could not (with patience) endure them any longer, thus short and quickely answered. _Francesca_, if all people of our Citie (both men and women) be so odious in thy eyes, and offensive to thy nose, as thou hast often reported to me: bee advised then by my counsell. Stay still at home, and look upon none but thy selfe onely, and then thou shalt be sure that they cannot displease thee. But she, being as empty of wit as a pith-lesse Cane, and yet thought her judgement to exceed _Salomons_, could not understand the lest part of hir Uncles meaning, but stood as senselesse as a sheepe. Onely she replyed, that she would resort to some other parts of the country, which if shee found as weakly furnished of handsome people, as heere shee did, shee would conceive better of her selfe, then ever she had done before. Signior Guido Cavalcante, _with a sodaine and witty answer, reprehended the rash folly of certaine Florentine Gentlemen, that thought to scorne and flout him._ The Ninth Novell. _Notably discovering the great difference that is betweene learning and ignorance, upon judicious apprehension._ When the Queene perceived, that Madame _�millia_ was discharged of her Novell, and none remained now to speake next, but onely her selfe, his priviledge alwayes remembred, to whom it belonged to be the last, she began in this manner. Faire Company, you have this day disappointed me of two Novells at the least, whereof I had intended to make use. Neverthelesse, you shall not imagine mee so unfurnished, but that I have left one in store; the conclusion whereof, may minister such instruction, as will not bee reputed for ydle and impertinent: but rather of such materiall consequence, as better hath not this day past among us. Understand then (most faire Ladies) that in former times long since past, our Cittie had many excellent and commendable customes in it; whereof (in these unhappy dayes of ours) we cannot say that poore one remaineth, such hath beene the too much encrease of Wealth and Covetousnesse, the onely supplanters of all good qualities whatsoever. Among which lawdable and friendly observations, there was one well deserving note, namely, that in divers places of _Florence_, men of the best houses in every quarter, had a sociable and neighbourly assemblie together, creating their company to consist of a certaine number, such as were able to supply their expences as this day one, and to morrow another: and thus in a kinde of friendly course, each daily furnished the Table, for the rest of the company. Oftentimes, they did honour to divers Gentlemen and strangers, upon their arrivall in our Citty, by inviting them into their assembly, and many of our worthiest Citizens beside; so that it grew to a customary use, and one especially day in the yeare appointed, in memory of this so loving a meeting, when they would ride (triumphally as it were) on horsebacke thorow the Cittie, sometimes performing Tilts, Tourneyes, and other Martiall exercises, but they were reserved for Feastivall dayes. Among which company, there was one called, _Signior Betto Bruneleschi_, who was earnestly desirous, to procure _Signior Guido Cavalcante de Cavalcanti_, to make one in this their friendly society. And not without great reason: for, over and beside his being one of the best Logitians as those times could not yeeld a better: He was also a most absolute naturall Philosopher (which worthy qualities were little esteemed among these honest meeters) a very friendly Gentleman, singularly well spoken, and whatsoever else was commendable in any man, was no way wanting in him, being wealthy withall, and able to returne equall honors, where he found them to be duly deserved, as no man therein could go beyond him. But _Signior Betto_, notwithstanding his long continued importunitie, could not draw him into their assembly, which made him and the rest of his company conceive, that the solitude of _Guido_, retiring himselfe alwaies from familiar conversing with men: provoked him to many curious speculations: and because he retained some part of the _Epicurean_ Opinion, their vulgare judgement passed on him, that his speculations tended to no other end, but onely to finde out that which was never done. It chanced upon a day, that _Signior Guido_ departing from the Church of Saint _Michaell d'Horta_, and passing along by the _Adamari_, so farre as to Saint _Johns_ Church, which evermore was his customarie Walke: many goodly Marble Tombes were then about the saide Church, as now adayes are at Saint _Reparata_, and divers more beside. He entring among the Collumbes of Porphiry, and the other Sepulchers being there, because the doore of the Church was shut: _Signior Betto_ & his companie, came riding from S. _Reparata_, & espying _Signior Guido_ among the graves and tombes, said. Come, let us go make some jests to anger him. So putting the spurs to their horses, they rode apace towards him: and being upon him before he perceived them, one of them said. _Guido_ thou refusest to be one of our society, & seekest for that which never was: when thou hast found it, tell us, what wilt thou do with it? _Guido_ seeing himselfe round engirt with them, sodainly thus replyed: Gentlemen, you may use mee in your owne house as you please. And setting his hand on one of the Tombes (which was some-what great) he tooke his rising, and leapt quite over it on the further side, as being of an agile and sprightly body, and being thus freed from them, he went away to his owne lodging. They stoode all like men amazed, strangely looking one upon another, and began afterward to murmure among themselves: That _Guido_ was a man without any understanding, and the answer which he had made unto them, was to no purpose, neither savoured of any discretion, but meerely came from an empty brain because they had no more to do in the place where now they were, then any of the other Citizens, and Signior _Guido_ (himselfe) as little as any of them; whereto Signior _Betto_ thus replyed. Alas Gentlemen, it is you your selves that are void of understanding: for, if you had but observed the answer which he made unto us: hee did honestly, and (in verie few words) not onely notably expresse his owne wisedome, but also deservedly reprehend us. Because, if wee observe things as we ought to doe, Graves and Tombes are the houses of the dead, ordained and prepared to be their latest dwellings. He tolde us moreover, that although we have heere (in this life) other habitations and abidings; yet these (or the like) must at last be our houses. To let us know, and all other foolish, indiscreete, and unlearned men, that we are worse then dead men, in comparison of him, and other men equall to him in skill and learning. And therefore, while wee are heere among these Graves and Monuments, it may well be said, that we are not farre from our owne houses, or how soone we shall be possessors of them, in regard of the frailty attending on us. Then every one could presently say, that Signior _Guido_ had spoken nothing but the truth, and were much ashamed of their owne folly, and shallow estimation which they had made of _Guido_, desiring never more after to meddle with him so grossely, and thanking Signior _Betto_, for so well reforming their ignorance, by his much better apprehension. _Fryer_ Onyon, _promised certaine honest people of the Countrey, to shew them a Feather of the same Phoenix, that was with_ Noah _in his Arke. In sted whereof, he found Coales, which he avouched to be those very coals, wherewith the same Phoenix was roasted._ The Tenth Novell. _Wherein may be observed, what palpable abuses do many times passe, under the counterfeit Cloake of Religion._ When all of them had delivered their Novels, _Dioneus_ knowing that it remained in him to relate the last for this day: without attending for any solemne command (after he had imposed silence on them, that could not sufficiently commend the witty reprehension of _Guido_) thus he began. Wise and worthy Ladies, although by the priviledge you have granted, it is lawfull for me to speake any thing best pleasing to my self: yet notwithstanding, it is not any part of my meaning, to varrie from the matter and method, whereof you have spoken to very good purpose. And therefore, following your footsteppes, I entend to tell you, how craftily, and with a Rampiar sodainly raised in his owne defence: a Religious Frier of Saint _Anthonies_ Order, shunned a shame, which two wily companions had prepared for him. Nor let it offend you, if I run into more large discourse, then this day hath bene used by any, for the apter compleating of my Novell: because, if you well observe it, the Sun is as yet in the middest of heaven, and therefore you may the better forbeare me. _Certoldo_, as (perhaps) you know, or have heard, is a Village in the Vale of _Elsa_, and under the authority and commaund of our _Florence_, which although it be but small: yet (in former times) it hath bin inhabited with Gentlemen, and people of especiall respect. A religious Friar of S. _Anthonies_ Order, named Friar _Onyon_, had long time used to resort thither, to receive the benevolent almes, which those charitably affected people in simplicity gave him, & chiefly at divers daies of the year, when their bounty and devotion would extend themselves more largely then at other seasons. And so much the rather, because they thought him to be a good Pastor of holy life in outward appearance, & carried a name of much greater matter, then remained in the man indeed; beside, that part of the country yeilded far more plentifull abundance of Onyons, then all other in _Tuscany_ elsewhere, a kinde of foode greatly affected by those Friars, as men alwaies of hungry & good appetite. This Friar _Onyon_ was a man of little stature, red haire, a chearfull countenance, and the world afforded not a more crafty companion, then he. Moreover, albeit he had very little knowledge or learning, yet he was so prompt, ready & voluble of speech, uttering often he knew not what himselfe: that such as were not wel acquainted with his qualities, supposed him to be a singular Rhetoritian, excelling _Cicero_ or _Quintilian_ themselves; & he was a gossip, friend, or deerely affected, by every one dwelling in those parts. According to his wonted custome, one time he went thither in the month of August, and on a Sunday morning, when all the dwellers thereabout, were present to heare Masse, and in the chiefest Church above all the rest: when the Friar saw time convenient for his purpose, he advanced himselfe, and began to speake in this manner. Gentlemen and Gentlewomen, you know you have kept a commendable custom, in sending yeerly to the poore brethren of our Lord Baron S. _Anthony_, both of your Corne and other provision, some more, some lesse, all according to their power, means, and devotion, to the end that blessed S. _Anthony_ should be the more carefull of your oxen, sheep, asses, swine, pigs, and other cattle. Moreover, you have used to pay (especially such as have their names registred in our Fraternity) those duties which annually you send unto us. For the collection whereof, I am sent by my Superior, namely our L. Abbot, & therefore (with Gods blessing) you may come after noone hither, when you shal heare the Bels of the Church ring: then will I make a predication to you; you shall kisse the Crosse, and beside, because I know you al to be most devout servants to our Lord Baron S. _Anthony_, in especiall grace and favor, I will shew you a most holy and goodly Relique, which I my selfe (long since) brought from the holy Land beyond the seas. If you desire to know what it is, let me tell you, that it is one of the Feathers of the same _Phoenix_, which was in the Arke with the Patriarch _Noah_. And having thus spoken, he became silent, returning backe to heare Masse. While hee delivered these and the like speeches, among the other people then in the church, there were two shrewde and crafty Companions; the one, named _John de Bragoniero_, and the other, _Biagio Pizzino_. These subtile Fellowes, after they had heard the report of Fryer _Onyons_ Relique: althogh they were his intimate friends, and came thither in his company; yet they concluded betweene themselves, to shew him a tricke of Legierdumaine, and to steale the Feather from him. When they had intelligence of Friar _Onyons_ dining that day at the Castle, with a worthy Friend of his: no sooner was he set at the Table, but away went they in all haste, to the Inne where the Fryar frequented, with this determination, that _Biagio_ should hold conference with the Friars boy, while his fellow ransackt the Wallet, to finde the Feather, and carry it away with him, for a future observation, what the Friar would say unto the people, when he found the losse of the Feather, and could not performe his promise to them. The Fryars Boy, whom some called _Guccio Balena_, some _Guccio Imbrata_, and others _Guccio Porco_, was such a knavish Lad, and had so many bad qualities, as _Lippo Topo_ the cunning Painter, or the most curious Poeticall wit, had not any ability to describe them. Friar _Onyon_ himself did often observe his behaviour, and would make this report among his Friends. My Boy (quoth he) hath nine rare qualities in him, and such they are, as if _Salomon, Aristotle,_ or _Seneca_ had onely but one of them: it were sufficient to torment and trouble all their vertue, all their senses, & all their sanctity. Consider then, what manner of man he is like to be, having nine such rarities, yet voide of all vertue, wit, or goodnes. And when it was demaunded of Friar _Onyon_, what these nine rare conditions were: hee having them all readie by heart, and in rime, thus answered: _Boyes I have knowne, and seene, And heard of many:_ But, _For Lying, Loytring, Lazinesse, For Facing, Filching, Filthinesse; For Carelesse, Gracelesse, all Unthriftinesse, My Boy excelleth any._ Now, over and beside all these admirable qualities, hee hath manie more such singularities, which (in favour towards him) I am faine to conceale. But that which I smile most at in him, is that he would have a Wife in every place where he commeth, yea, and a good house to boot too: for, in regard his beard beginneth to shew it selfe, rising thicke in haire, blacke and amiable, he is verily perswaded, that all Women will fall in love with him; and if they refuse to follow him, he will in all hast run after them. But truly, he is a notable servant to mee, for I cannot speake with any one, and in never so great secrecy, but he will be sure to heare his part; and when any question is demanded of me, he standes in such awe and feare of my displeasure: that he will bee sure to make the first answer, yea or no, according as he thinketh most convenient. Now, to proceede where we left, Friar _Onyon_ having left this serviceable youth at his lodging, to see that no bodie should meddle with his commodities, especially his Wallet, because of the sacred things therein contained: _Guccio Imbrata_, who as earnestly affected to be in the Kitchin, as Birds to hop from branch to branch, especially, when anie of the Chamber-maides were there, espyed one of the Hostesses Female attendants, a grosse fat Trugge, low of stature, ill faced, and worse formed, with a paire of brests like two bumbards, smelling loathsomely of grease and sweate; downe shee descended into the Kitchin, like a Kite upon a peece of Carion. This Boy, or Knave, chuse whither you will style him, having carelesly left Fryar _Onyons_ Chamber doore open, and all the holy things so much to be neglected, although it was then the moneth of August, when heate is in the highest predominance, yet hee would needs sit downe by the fire, and began to conferre with this amiable creature, who was called by the name of _Nuta_. Being set close by her, he told her, that he was a Gentleman by Atturniship, and that he had more millions of Crownes, then all his life time would serve him to spend; beside those which he payed away dayly, as having no convenient imployment for them. Moreover, he knew how to speake, and do such things, as were beyond wonder or admiration. And, never remembring his olde tatterd Friars Cowle, which was so snottie and greazie, that good store of kitchin stuffe might have beene boiled out of it; as also a foule slovenly Trusse or halfedoublet, all baudied with bowsing, fat greazie lubberly sweating, and other drudgeries in the Convent Kitchin, where he was an Officer in the meanest credite. So that to describe this sweet youth in his lively colours, both for naturall perfections of body, and artificiall composure of his Garments; never came the fowlest silks out of _Tartaria_ or _India_, more ugly or unsightly to bee lookt upon. And for a further addition to his neate knavery, his breeches were so rent betweene his legges, his shooes and stockings had bin at such a mercilesse massacre: that the gallantest _Commandador_ of _Castile_ (though he had never so lately bin releast out of slavery) could have wisht for better garments, then he; or make larger promises, then he did to his _Nuta_. Protesting to entitle her as his onely, to free her from the Inne and Chamber thraldomes, if she would live with him, be his Love, partaker of his present possessions, and so to succeed in his future Fortunes. All which bravadoes, though they were belcht foorth with admirable insinuations: yet they converted into smoke, as all such braggadochio behaviours do, and he was as wise at the ending, as when he began. Our former named two craftie Companions, seeing _Guccio Porco_ so seriously employed about _Nuta_, was there-with not a little contented, because their intended labour was now more then halfe ended. And perceiving no contradiction to crosse their proceeding, into Friar _Onyons_ chamber entred they, finding it ready open for their purpose: where the first thing that came into their hand in search, was the wallet. When they had opened it, they found a small Cabinet, wrapped in a great many foldings of rich Taffata; and having unfolded it, a fine formall Key was hanging thereat: wherewith having unlockt the Cabinet, they found a faire Feather of a Parrots taile, which they supposed to bee the verie same, that he meant to shew the people of _Certaldo_. And truly (in those dayes) it was no hard matter to make them beleeve anything, because the idle vanities of _�gypt_ and those remoter parts, had not (as yet) bin seene in _Tuscany_, as since then they have bin in great abundance, to the utter ruine (almost) of _Italy_. And although they might then be knowne to very few, yet the inhabitants of the Country generally, understoode little or nothing at all of them. For there, the pure simplicitie of their ancient predecessours still continuing; they had not seene any Parrots, or so much as heard any speech of them. Wherefore the two crafty consorts, not a little joyfull of finding the Feather, tooke it thence with them, and because** they would not leave the Cabinet empty, espying Char-coales lying in a corner of the Chamber, they filled it with them, wrapping it up againe in the Taffata, and in as demure manner as they found it. So, away came they with the Feather, neither seene or suspected by any one, intending now to heare what Friar _Onyon_ would say, uppon the losse of his precious Relique, and finding the Coales there placed insted thereof. The simple men and women of the country, who had bin at morning Masse in the Church, and heard what a wonderfull Feather they should see in the after noone; returned in all hast to their houses, where one telling this newes to another, and gossip with gossip consulting thereon; they made the shorter dinner, and afterward flocked in maine troopes to the Castle, contending who shold first get entrance, such was their devotion to see the holy feather. Friar _Onyon_ having dined, and reposed a little after his wine, he arose from the table to the window, where beholding what multitudes came to see the feather, he assured himselfe of good store of mony. Hereupon, he sent to his Boy _Guccio Imbrata_, that uppon the Bels ringing, he should come and bring the wallet to him. Which (with much ado) he did, so soone as his quarrell was ended in the kitchin, with the amiable Chamber-maid _Nuta_, away then he went with his holy commodities: where he was no sooner arrived, but because his belly was readie to burst with drinking water, he sent him to the Church to ring the bels, which not onely would warme the cold water in his belly, but likewise make him run as gaunt as a Grey-hound. When all the people were assembled in the Church together, Friar _Onyon_ (never distrusting any injurie offered him, or that his close commodities had bin medled withall) began his predication, uttering a thousand lies to fit his purpose. And when he came to shew the feather of the Phoenix (having first in great devotion finisht the confession) he caused two goodly torches to be lighted, & ducking downe his head three severall times, before hee would so much as touch the Taffata, he opened it with much reverence. So soone as the Cabinet came to be seen, off went his Hood, lowly he bowed downe his body, and uttering especial praises of the Phoenix, and sacred properties of the wonderfull Relique, the Cover of the Cabinet being lifted uppe, he saw the same to bee full of Coales. He could not suspect his Villaine boy to do this deede, for he knew him not to be endued with so much wit, onely hee curst him for keeping it no better, and curst himselfe also, for reposing trust in such a careles knave, knowing him to be slothfull, disobedient, negligent, and void of all honest understanding or grace. Sodainly (without blushing) lest his losse should be discerned, he lifted his lookes and hands to heaven, speaking out so loude, as every one might easily heare him, thus: O thou omnipotent providence, for ever let thy power be praised. Then making fast the Cabinet againe, and turning himselfe to the people, with lookes expressing admiration, he proceeded in this manner. Lords, Ladies, and you the rest of my worthy Auditors: You are to understand, that I (being then very young) was sent by my Superiour, into those parts, where the Sun appeareth at his first rising. And I had received charge by expresse command, that I should seeke for (so much as consisted in my power to do) the especiall vertues and priviledges belonging to Porcellane, which although the boyling thereof bee worth but little, yet it is very profitable to any but us. In regard whereof, being upon my journey, and departing from _Venice_, passing along the _Borgo de Grecia_, I proceeded thence (on horseback) through the Realme of _Garbo_, so to _Baldacca_, till I came to _Parione_; from whence, not without great extremity of thirst, I arrived in _Sardignia_. But why do I trouble you with the repetition of so many countries? I coasted on still, after I had past Saint _Georges Arme_, into _Trussia_, and then into _Bussia_, which are Countries much inhabited, and with great people. From thence I went into the _Land of Lying_, where I found store of the Brethren of our Religion, and many other beside, who shunned all paine and labour, onely for the love of God, and cared as little, for the paines and travailes which others tooke, except some benefit arised thereby to them; nor spend they any money in this Country, but such as is without stampe. Thence I went into the Land of _Abruzzi_, where the men and women goe in Galoches over the Mountaines, and make them garments of their Swines guts. Not farre from thence, I found people, that carried bread in their staves, and wine in Satchels, when parting from them, I arrived among the Mountaines of _Bacchus_, where all the waters run downe with a deepe fall, and in short time, I went on so far, that I found my selfe to be in _India Pastinaca_; where I swear to you by the holy habit which I weare on my body, that I saw Serpents flye, things incredible, and such as were never seene before. But because I would be loth to lye, so soone as I departed thence, I met with _Maso de Saggio_, who was a great Merchant there, and whom I found cracking Nuts, and selling Cockles by retale. Neverthelesse, al this while I could not finde what I sought for, and therefore I was to passe from hence by water, if I intended to travaile thither, and so in returning back, I came into the _Holy Land_, where coole fresh bread is sold for fourepence, and the hot is given away for nothing. There I found the venerable Father (blame me not I beseech you) the most woorthie Patriarch of _Jerusalem_, who for the reverence due to the habite I weare, and love to our Lord Baron Saint _Anthony_, would have me to see al the holy Reliques, which he had there under his charge: whereof there were so many, as if I should recount them all to you, I never could come to a conclusion. But yet, not to leave you discomforted, I will relate some few of them to you. First of all, he shewed me the finger of the holy Ghost, so whole and perfect, as ever it was. Next, the nose of the Cherubin, which appeared to Saint _Frances_; with the payring of the naile of a Seraphin; and one of the ribbes of _Verbum caro_, fastened to one of the Windowes, covered with the holy garments of the Catholique Faith. Then he tooke me into a darke Chappel, where he shewed me divers beames of the Starre that appeared to the three Kings in the East. Also a Violl of Saint _Michaels_ sweate, when he combatted with the divell: And the jaw-bone of dead _Lazarus_, with many other precious things beside. And because I was liberall to him, giving him two of the Plaines of _Monte Morello_, in the Vulgare Edition, and some of the Chapters _del Caprezio_, which he had long laboured in search of; he bestowed on me some of his Reliques. First, he gave me one of the eye-teeth of _Santa Crux_; and a little Violl, filled with some part of the sound of those Belles, which hung in the sumptuous Temple of _Salomon_. Next, he gave mee the Feather of the Phoenix, which was with _Noah_ in the Arke, as before I told you. And one of the Woodden Pattens, which the good Saint _Gerrard de Magnavilla_ used to weare in his travailes, and which I gave (not long since) to _Gerrardo di Bousy_ at _Florence_, where it is respected with much devotion. Moreover, he gave me a few of those Coales, wherewith the Phoenix of _Noah_ was roasted; all which things I brought away thence with me. Now, most true it is, that my Superiour would never suffer mee to shew them any where, untill he was faithfully certified, whether they were the same precious Reliques, or no. But perceyving by sundrie Myracles which they have wrought, and Letters of sufficient credence receyved from the reverend Patriarch, that all is true, he hath graunted me permission to shew them, and because I wold not trust any one with matters of such moment, I my selfe brought them hither with me. Now I must tell you, that the Feather of the same Phoenix, I conveyed into a small Cabinet or Casket, because it should not be bent or broken. And the Coales wherewith the said Phoenix was roasted, I put into another Casket, in all respects so like to the former, that many times I have taken one for another. As now at this instant it hath bin my fortune: for, imagining that I brought the Casket with the feather, I mistooke my self, & brought the other with the coales. Wherein doubtles I have not offended, because I am certaine, that we of our Order do not any thing, but it is ordred by divine direction, and our blessed Patron the Lorde Baron Saint _Anthony_. And so much the rather, because about a senight hence, the Feast of Saint _Anthony_ is to bee solemnized, against the preparation whereof, and to kindle your zeale with the greater fervencie: he put the Casket with the Coales into my hand, meaning, to let you see the Feather, at some more fitting season. And therefore my blessed Sonnes and Daughters, put off your Bonnets, and come hither with devotion to looke upon them. But first let me tell you, whosoever is marked by any of these Coales, with the signe of the Crosse: he or she shall live all this yeare happily, and no fire whatsoever shall come neere to touch or hurt them. So, singing a solemne Antheme in the praise of S. _Anthony_, he unveyled the Casket, and shewed the Coales openly. The simple multitude, having (with great admiration and reverence) a long while beheld them, they thronged in crouds to Fryar _Onyon_, giving him farre greater offerings, then before they had, and entreating him to marke them each after other. Whereupon, he taking the coales in his hand, began to marke their garments of white, and the veyles on the Womens heads, with Crosses of no meane extendure: affirming to them, that the more the Coales wasted with making those great crosses, the more they still encreased in the Casket, as often before hee had made triall. In this manner, having crossed all the _Certaldanes_ (to his great benefit) and their abuse: he smiled at his sodaine and dexterious devise, in mockery of them, who thought to have made a scorne of him, by dispossessing him of the Feather. For _Bragoniero_ and _Pizzino_, being present at his Learned predication, and having heard what a cunning shift he found, to come off cleanly, without the least detection, and all delivered with such admirable protestations: they were faine to forsake the Church, least they should have burst with laughing. But when all the people were parted and gone, they met Friar _Onyon_ at his Inne, where closely they discovered to him, what they had done, delivering him his Feather againe: which the yeare following, did yeeld him as much money, as now the Coales had done. * * * * * This Novell affoorded equall pleasing to the whole companie, Friar _Onyons_ Sermon being much commended, but especially his long Pilgrimage, and the Reliques he had both seene, and brought home with him. Afterward, the Queene perceiving, that her reigne had now the full expiration, graciously she arose, and taking the Crowne from off her owne head, placed on the head of _Dioneus_, saying. It is high time _Dioneus_, that you should taste part of the charge & paine, which poore women have felt and undergone in their soveraigntie and government: wherefore, be you our King, and rule us with such awefull authority, that the ending of your dominion may yeelde us all contentment. _Dioneus_ being thus invested with the Crowne, returned this answer. I make no doubt (bright Beauties) but you many times have seene as good, or a better King among the Chesse-men, then I am. But yet of a certainty, if you would be obedient to me, as you ought in dutie unto a true King: I should grant you a liberall freedome of that, wherein you take the most delight, and without which, our choisest desires can never be compleate. Neverthelesse, I meane, that my government shall be according to mine owne minde. So, causing the Master of the Houshold to be called for, as all the rest were wont to do for conference with him: he gave him direction, for al things fitting the time of his Regiment, and then turning to the Ladies, thus he proceeded. Honest Ladies, we have alreadie discoursed of variable devises, and so many severall manners of humane industry, concerning the busines wherewith _Licisca_ came to acquaint us: that her very words, have ministred me matter, sufficient for our morrowes conference, or else I stand in doubt, that I could not have devised a more convenient Theame for us to talke on. She (as you have all heard) saide, that shee had not anie neighbour, who came a true Virgin to her Husband, and added moreover, that she knew some others, who had beguiled their Husbandes, in very cunning and crafty manner. But setting aside the first part, concerning the proofe of children, I conceive the second to bee more apte for our intended argument. In which respect, my will is (seeing _Licisca_ hath given us so good an occasion) that our discoursing to morrow,** may onely concerne such slye cunning and deceits, as women have heeretofore used, for satisfying their owne appetites, and beguiling their Husbands, without their knowledge, or suspition, and cleanly escaping with them, or no. This argument seemed not very pleasing to the Ladies, and therefore they urged an alteration thereof, to some matter better suting with the day, and their discoursing: whereto thus he answered. Ladies, I know as well as your selves, why you would have this instant argument altered: but, to change me from it you have no power, considering the season is such, as shielding all (both men and women) from medling with any dishonest action; it is lawfull for us to speake of what wee please. And know you not, that through the sad occasion of the time, which now over-ruleth us, the Judges have forsaken their venerable benches, the Lawes (both divine and humane) ceasing, granting ample license to every one, to do what best agreeth with the conservation of life? Therefore, if your honesties doe straine themselves a little, both in thinking and speaking, not for prosecution of any immodest deede, but onely for familiar and blamelesse entercourse: I cannot devise a more convenient ground, at least that carrieth apparant reason, for reproofe of perils, to ensue by any of you. Moreover, your company, which hath bin most honest, since the first day of our meeting, to this instant: appeareth not any jot to be disgraced, by any thing either said or done, neither shall be (I hope) in the meanest degree. And what is he, knowing your choise and vertuous dispositions, so powerfull in their owne prevailing, that wanton words cannot misguide your wayes, no nor the terror of death it selfe, that dare insinuate a distempred thought? But admit, that some slight or shallow judgements, hearing you (perhaps sometimes) talke of such amorous follies, should therefore suspitiously imagine you to be faulty, or else you would bee more sparing of speech? Their wit and censure are both alike, favouring rather of their owne vile nature, who would brand others with their basebred imperfections. Yet there is another consideration beside, of some great injury offered to mine honor, and whereof I know not how you can acquit your selves. I that have bin obedient to you all, and borne the heavy load of your businesse, having now (with full consent) created mee your King, you would wrest the law out of my hands, and dispose of my authoritie as you please. Forbeare (gentle Ladies) all frivolous suspitions, more fit for them that are full of bad thoughts, then you, who have true Vertue shining in your eyes; and therefore, let every one freely speake their minde, according as their humours best pleaseth them. When the Ladies heard this, they made answer, that all should bee answerable to his minde. Whereupon, the King gave them all leave to dispose of themselves till supper time. And because the Sun was yet very high, in regard all the re counted Novels had bin so short: _Dioneus_ went to play at the Tables with another of the yong Gentlemen, & Madame _Eliza_, having withdrawne the Ladies aside, thus spake unto them. During the time of our being heere, I have often bene desirous to let you see a place somwhat neere at hand, and which I suppose you have never seene, it being called _The Valley of Ladies_. Till now, I could not finde any convenient time to bring you thither, the Sunne continuing still aloft, which fitteth you with the apter leysure, and the sight (I am sure) can no way discontent you. The Ladies replyed, that they were all ready to walk with her thither: and calling one of their women to attend on them, they set on, without speaking a word to any of the men. And within the distance of halfe a mile, they arrived at the _Valley of Ladies_, whereinto they entred by a strait passage at the one side, from whence there issued forth a cleare running River. And they found the saide Valley to bee so goodly and pleasant, especially in that season, which was the hottest of all the yeare; as all the world was no where able to yeeld the like. And, as one of the said Ladies (since then) related to mee, there was a plaine in the Valley so directly round, as if it had beene formed by a compasse, yet rather it resembled the Workmanship of Nature, then to be made by the hand of man: containing in circuite somewhat more then the quarter of a mile, environed with sixe small hils, of no great height, and on each of them stood a little Palace, shaped in the fashion of Castles. The ground-plots descending from those hils or mountaines, grew lesse and lesse by variable degrees, as wee observe at entering into our Theaters, from the highest part to the lowest, succinctly to narrow the circle by order. Now, concerning these ground-plottes or little Meadowes, those which the Sun Southward looked on, were full of Vines, Olive-trees, Almond-trees, Cherry-trees, and Figge-trees, with divers other Trees beside, so plentifully bearing fruites, as you could not discerne a hands bredth of losse. The other Mountaines, whereon the Northerne windes blow, were curiously covered with small Thickets or Woods of Oakes, Ashes, and other Trees so greene and straite, as it was impossible to behold fairer. The goodly plaine it selfe, not having any other entrance, but where the Ladies came in, was planted with Trees of Firre, Cipresse, Laurell, and Pines; so singularly growing in formall order, as if some artificiall or cunning hand had planted them, the Sun hardly piercing through their branches, from the top to the bottome, even at his highest, or any part of his course. All the whole field was richly spred with grasse, and such variety of delicate Flowers, as Nature yeilded out of her plenteous Store-house. But that which gave no lesse delight then any of the rest, was a small running Brooke, descending from one of the Vallies, that divided two of the little hils, and fell through a Veine of the intire Rocke it selfe, that the fall and murmure thereof was most delightfull to heare, seeming all the way in the descent, like Quicke-silver, weaving it selfe into artificiall workes, and arriving in the plaine beneath, it was there receyved into a small Channell, swiftly running through the midst of the plaine, to a place where it stayed, and shaped it selfe into a Lake or Pond, such as our Citizens have in their Orchards or Gardens, when they please to make use of such a commodity. This Pond was no deeper, then to reach the breast of a man, and having no mud or soyle in it, the bottome thereof shewed like small beaten gravell, with prety pibble stones intermixed, which some that had nothing else to do, would sit downe and count them as they lay, as very easily they might. And not onely was the bottome thus apparantly seene, but also such plenty of Fishes swimming every way, as the mind was never to be wearied in looking on them. Nor was this water bounded in with any bankes, but onely the sides of the plain Medow, which made it appeare the more sightly, as it arose in swelling plenty. And alwayes as it super-abounded in his course, least it should overflow disorderly: it fell into another Channell, which conveying it along the lower Valley, ran forth to water other needfull places. When the Ladies were arrived in this goodly valley, and upon advised viewing it, had sufficiently commended it: in regard the heat of the day was great, the place tempting, and the Pond free from sight of any, they resolved there to bathe themselves. Wherefore they sent the waiting Gentlewoman to have a diligent eye on the way where they entered, least any one should chance to steale upon them. All seven of them being stript naked, into the water they went, which hid their delicate white bodies, like as a cleare Glasse concealeth a Damask Rose within it. So they being in the Pond, and the water nothing troubled by their being there, they found much prety pastime together, running after the Fishes, to catch them with their hands, but they were over-quicke and cunning for them. After they had delighted themselves there to their owne contentment, and were cloathed with their garments, as before: thinking it fit time for their returning backe againe, least their over-long stay might give offence, they departed thence in an easie pace, dooing nothing else all the way as they went, but extolling the _Valley of Ladies_ beyond all comparison. At the Palace they arrived in a due houre, finding the three Gentlemen at play, as they left them, to whom Madame _Pampinea_ pleasantly thus spake. Now trust me Gallants, this day wee have very cunningly beguiled you. How now? answered _Dioneus_, begin you first to act, before you speake? Yes truly Sir, replyed Madame _Pampinea_: Relating to him at large, from whence they came, what they had done there, the beautie of the place, and the distance thence. The King (upon hir excellent report) being very desirous to see it; sodainely commaunded Supper to be served in, which was no sooner ended, but they and their three servants (leaving the Ladies) walked on to the _Valley_, which when they had considered, no one of them having ever bin there before; they thought it to be the Paradise of the World. They bathed themselves there likewise, as the Ladies formerlie had done, and being re-vested, returned backe to their Lodgings, because darke night drew on apace: but they found the Ladies dauncing, to a Song which Madame _Fiammetta_ sung. When the dance was ended, they entertained the time with no other discourse, but onely concerning the _Valley of Ladies_, whereof they all spake liberally in commendations. Whereupon, the King called the Master of the Houshold, giving him command, that (on the morrow) dinner should be readie betimes, and bedding to be thence carried, if any desired rest at mid-time of the day. All this being done, variety of pleasing Wines were brought, Banquetting stuffe, and other dainties; after which they fell to Dauncing. And _Pamphilus_, having receyved command, to begin an especial dance, the King turned himselfe unto Madame _Eliza_, speaking thus. Faire Lady, you have done me so much honour this day, as to deliver mee the Crowne: in regard whereof, be you this night the Mistresse of the song: and let it be such as best may please your selfe. Whereunto Madam _Eliza_, with a modest blush arising in her face, replyed; That his will should be fulfilled, and then (with a delicate voyce) she beganne in this manner. _The Song._ The CHORUS sung by all. _Love, if I can scape free from forth thy holde, Beleeve it for a truth, Never more shall thy falshoode me enfolde._ _When I was yong, I entred first thy fights, Supposing there to finde a solemne peace: I threw off all my Armes, and with delights Fed my poore hopes, as still they did encrease. But like a Tyrant, full of rancorous hate Thou tookst advantage: And I sought refuge, but it was too late. Love, if I can scape free, &c._ _But being thus surprized in thy snares, To my misfortune, thou madst me her slave; Was onely borne to feede me with despaires, And keepe me dying in a living grave. For I saw nothing dayly fore mine eyes, But rackes and tortures: From which I could not get in any wise. Love, if I can scape free, &c._ _My sighes and teares I vented to the winde, For none would heare or pittie my complaints; My torments still encreased in this kinde, And more and more I felt these sharpe restraints. Release me now at last from forth this hell. Asswage thy rigour, Delight not thus in cruelty to dwell, Love, if I can scape free, &c._ _If this thou wilt not grant, be yet so kinde, Release me from these worse then servile bands, Which new vaine hopes have bred, wherein I finde; Such violent feares, as comfort quite withstands. Be now (at length) a little moov'd to pittie, Be it nere so little: Or in my death listen my Swan-like Dittie._ _Love, if I can scape free from forth thy holde, Beleeve it for a truth, Never more shall thy falshood me enfolde._ After that Madame _Eliza_ had made an end of her Song, which shee sealed up with an heart-breaking sigh: they all sate amazedly wondering at her moanes, not one among them being able to conjecture, what should be the reason of her singing in this manner. But the King being in a good and pleasing temper, calling _Tindaro_, commaunded him to bring his Bagge-pipe, by the sound whereof they danced divers daunces: And a great part of the night being spent in this manner, they all gave over, and departed to their Chambers. _The End of the Sixth Day._ The Seventh Day. _When the Assembly being met together, and under the Regiment of_ Dioneus: _the Discourses are directed, for the discoverie of such policies and deceites, as women have used for beguiling of their Husbandes, either in respect of their love, or for the prevention of some blame or scandal, escaping without sight, knowledge or otherwise._ The Induction to the Dayes Discourses. All the Starres were departed out of the East, but onely that, which we commonly cal bright _Lucifer_, or the Day-Star, gracing the morning very gloriously: when the Master of the household, being risen, went with all the provision, to the _Valley of Ladies_, to make everie thing in due and decent readines, according as his Lord over-night had commanded him. After which departure of his, it was not long before the King arose, beeing awaked with the noise which the carriages made; and when he was up, the other two Gentlemen and the Ladies were quickly readie soone after. On they set towards the _Valley_, even as the Sunne was rising: and all the way as they went, never before had they heard so many sweete Nightingales, and other pretty Birds melodiously singing, as they did this morning, which keeping them company thoroughout the journey, they arrived at the _Valley of Ladies_, where it seemed to them, that infinit Quires of delicate Nightingales, and other Birds, had purposely made a meeting, even as it were to give them a glad welcome thither. Divers times they walked about the _Valley_, never satisfied with viewing it from one end to the other; because it appeared farre more pleasing unto them, then it had done the precedent day: and because the dayes splendour was much more conforme to the beauty thereof. After they had broken their fast, with excellent Wines and Banquetting stuffe, they began to tune their instruments and sing; because (therein) the sweet Birds should not excell them, the _Valley_ (with delicate Echoes) answering all their notes. When dinner time drew neere, the Tables were covered under the spreading trees, and by the goodly Ponds side, where they sate downe orderly by the Kings direction: and all dinner while, they saw the Fishes swimme by huge shoales in the Pond, which sometimes gave them occasion to talke, as well as gaze on them. When dinner was ended, and the Tables withdrawne, in as jocond manner as before, they renewed againe their hermonious singing. In divers places of this pleasant _Valley_, were goodly field-Beds readily furnished, according as the Master of the Houshold gave enstruction, enclosed with Pavillions of costly stuffes, such as are sometimes brought out of _France_. Such as were so disposed, were licensed by the King to take their rest: and they that would not, he permitted them to their wonted pastimes, each according to their minds. But when they were risen from sleepe, and the rest from their other exercises, it seemed to be more then high time, that they should prepare for talke and conference. So, sitting downe on Turky Carpets, which were spred abroad on the green grasse, and close by the place where they had dined: the King gave command, that Madam _�millia_ should first begin, whereto she willingly yeelding obedience, and expecting such silent attention, as formerly had bin observed, thus she began. John _of_ Lorraine _heard one knocke at his doore in the night time, whereuppon he awaked his Wife_ Monna Tessa. _She made him beleeve, that it was a Spirit which knocked at the doore, and so they arose, going both together to conjure the Spirit with a prayer; and afterwardes, they heard no more knocking._ The First Novell. _Reprehending the simplicity of some sottish Husbands: And discovering the wanton subtilties of some women, to compasse their unlawfull desires._ My Gracious Lord (quoth Madame _�millia_) it had bene a matter highly pleasing to mee, that any other (rather than my selfe) should have begun to speake of this argument, which it hath pleased you to apoint. But seeing it is your Highnesse pleasure, that I must make a passage of assurance for all the rest; I will not be irregular, because obedience is our cheefe Article. I shall therefore (Gracious Ladies) strive, to speake something, which may bee advantageable to you heereafter, in regard, that if other women bee as fearfull as we, especially of Spirits, of which all our sexe have generally bin timorous (although, upon my credite, I know not what they are, nor ever could meete with any, to tell me what they be) you may by the diligent observation of my Novell: learne a wholesome and holy prayer, very availeable, and of precious power, to conjure and drive them away, whensoever they shall presume to assault you in any place. There dwelt sometime in _Florence_, and in the street of Saint _Brancazio_, a woollen Weaver, named _John_ of _Lorrayne_; a man more happy in his Art, then wise in any thing else beside: because, favouring somewhat of the _Gregorie_, and (in very deede) little lesse then an Ideot; Hee was many times made Captain of the Woollen-Weavers, in the quarters belonging to _Santa Maria Novella_, and his house was the Schoole or receptacle, for all their meetings and assemblies. He had divers other petty Offices beside, by the dignity and authority whereof, hee supposed himselfe much exalted or elevated, above the common pitch of other men. And this humour became the more tractable to him, because he addicted himselfe oftentimes (as being a man of an easie inclination) to be a benefactor to the holy Fathers of _Santa Maria Novella_, giving (beside his other charitable Almes) to someone a paire of Breeches, to another a Hood, and to another a whole habit. In reward whereof, they taught him (by heart) many wholesome prayers, as the _Pater noster_ in the vulgar tongue; the Song of Saint _Alexis_; the Lamentations of Saint _Bernard_, the Hymne of Madame _Matilda_, and many other such like matters, which he kept charily, and repeated usually, as tending to the salvation of his soule. This man, had a very faire and lovely wife, named _Monna Tessa_, the daughter of _Manuccio della Cuculia_, wise and well advised; who knowing the simplicity of her Husband, and affecting _Frederigo di Neri Pegolotti_, who was a comely yong Gentleman, fresh, and in the floure of his time, even as she was, therefore they agreed the better together. By meanes of her Chamber-maid, _Frederigo_ and shee met often together, at a Countrie Farme of _John_ of _Lorraynes_, which hee had neere to _Florence_, and where she used to lodge all the Summer time, called _Camerata_, whether _John_ resorted somtimes to Supper, and lodge for a night, returning home againe to his City house the next morning; yet often he would stay there longer with his owne companions. _Frederigo_, who was no meane man in his Mistresses favor, and therefore these private meetings the more welcome to him; received a summons or assignation from her, to be there on such a night, when hir husband had no intent of comming thither. There they supped merrily together, and (no doubt) did other things, nothing appertaining to our purpose, she both acquainting, and well instructing him, in a dozen (at the least) of her Husbands devout prayers. Nor did shee make any account, or _Frederigo_ either, that this should be the last time of their meeting, because (indeede) it was not the first: and therefore they set down an order and conclusion together (because the Chambermaide must be no longer the messenger) in such manner as you shall heare. _Frederigo_ was to observe especially, that alwayes when hee went or came from his owne house, which stood much higher then _John_ of _Lorraynes_ did, to looke upon a Vine, closely adjoyning to her house, where stood the scull of an Asses head, advanced upon an high pole; & when the face thereof looked towards _Florence_, he might safely come, it being an assured signe, that _John_ kept at home. And if he found the doore fast shut, he should softly knocke three severall times, and thereon bee admitted entrance. But if the face stood towards _Fiesola_; then he might not come, for it was the signe of _Johns_ being there, and then there might be no medling at all. Having thus agreed upon this conclusion, and had many merry meetings together: one night above the rest, where _Frederigo_ was appointed to suppe with _Monna Tessa_, who had made ready two fat Capons, drest in most dainty and delicate manner: it fell out so unfortunately, that _John_ (whose Kue was not to come that night) came thither very late, yet before _Frederigo_, wherewith she being not a little offended, gave _John_ a slight supper, of Lard, Bacon, and such like coarse provision, because the other was kept for a better guest. In the meane time, and while _John_ was at supper, the Maide (by her Mistresses direction) had conveighed the two Capons, with boyled Egges, Bread and a Bottle of Wine (all folded up in a faire cleane table cloth) into her Garden, that had a passage to it, without entering into the house, and where shee had divers times supt with _Frederigo_. She further willed the Maide, to set all those things under a Peach-tree, which adjoyned to the fields side: but, so angry she was at her husbands unexpected comming, that shee forgot to bid her tarrie there, till _Frederigoes_ comming; and to tell him of _Johns_ being there: as also, to take what he found prepared readie for his Supper. _John_ and she being gone to bed together, and the Maide likewise, it was not long after, before _Frederigo_ came, and knocking once softly at the doore, which was very neere to their lodging Chamber, _John_ heard the noise, and so did his wife. But to the end, that _John_ might not have the least scruple of suspition, she seemed to be fast asleepe; and _Frederigo_ pausing a while, according to the order directed, knockt againe the second time. _John_ wondering thereat very much, jogd his wife a little, and saide to her: _Tessa_, hearest thou nothing? Me thinkes one knocketh at our doore. _Monna Tessa_, who was better acquainted with the knocke, then plaine honest meaning _John_ was, dissembling as if shee awaked out of a drowsie dreame, saide: Alas Husband, dost thou know what this is? In the name of our blessed Ladie, be not affraid, this is but the Spirit which haunts our Countrey houses, whereof I have often told thee, and it hath many times much dismayed me, living heere alone without thy comfort. Nay, such hath bin my feare, that in divers nights past, so soone as I heard the knockes: I was feigne to hide my selfe in the bedde over-head and eares (as we usually say) never daring to be so bold, as to looke out, untill it was broad open day. Arise good wife (quoth _John_) and if it be such a Spirit of the Countrey, as thou talkest of, never be affraid; for before we went to bed, I said the _Telucis_, the _Intemerata_, with many other good prayers beside. Moreover, I made the signe of the Crosse at every corner of our bed, in the name of the Father, Son, and holy Ghost, so that no doubt at all needs to be made, of any power it can have to hurt or touch us. _Monna Tessa_, because (perhaps) _Frederigo_ might receive some other suspition, and so enter into distaste of her by anger or offence: determined to arise indeede, and to let him covertly understand, that _John_ was there, and therefore saide to her husband. Beleeve me _John_, thy counsell is good, and every one of thy words hath wisedome in it: but I hold it best for our owne safety, thou being heere; that wee should conjure him quite away, to the end he may never more haunt our house. Conjure him Wife? Quoth _John_, By what meanes? and how? Bee patient good man (quoth _Tessa_) and I will enstruct thee. I have learned an excellent kinde of conjuration; for, the last weeke, when I went to procure the pardons at _Fiesola_, one of the holy recluse Nuns, who (indeede _John_) is my indeered Sister and Friend, and the most sanctimonius in life of them all; perceiving me to be troubled and terrified by Spirits; taught me a wholesome and holy prayer, and protested withall, that shee had often made experiment thereof, before she became a Recluse, & found it (alwayes) a present helpe to her. Yet never durst I adventure to essay it, living heere by my selfe all alone: but honest _John_, seeing thou art heere with me, we will go both together, and conjure this Spirit. _John_ replyed, that he was very willing; and being both up, they went fayre and softly to the doore, where _Frederigo_ stoode still without, and was growne somewhat suspitious of his long attendance. When they were come to the doore, _Monna Tessa_ said to _John_: Thou must cough and spet, at such time as I shall bid thee. Well (quoth _John_) I will not faile you. Immediately she beganne her prayer in this manner. _Spirit, that walkst thus in the night, Poore Countrey people to affright: Thou hast mistane thy marke and ayme, The head stood right, but_ John _home came, And therefore thou must packe away, For I have nothing else to say: But to my Garden get the gone, Under the Peach-tree stands alone, There shalt thou finde two Capons drest, And Egges laide in mine owne Hennes nest, Bread, and a Bottle of good wine, All wrapt up in a cloath most fine. Is not this good Goblins fare? Packe and say you have your share; Not doing harme to_ John _or me, Who this night keepes me companie._ No sooner had she ended her devoute conjuring prayer, but she saide to her husband: Now _John_, cough and spet: which _John_ accordingly did. And _Frederigo_, being all this while without, hearing her witty conjuration of a Spirit, which he himselfe was supposed to be, being ridde of his former jealous suspition: in the middst of all his melancholy, could very hardly refraine from laughing, the jest appeared so pleasing to him: But when _John_ cought and spet, softly he said to himselfe: When next thou spetst, spet out all thy teeth. The woman having three severall times conjured the Spirite, in such manner you have already heard; returned to bed againe with her husband: and _Frederigo_, who came as perswaded to sup with her, being supperlesse all this while; directed by the words of _Monna Tessa_ in hir praier, went into the Garden. At the foot of the Peach-tree, there he found the linnen cloth, with the two hot Capons, Bread, Egges, and a Bottle of Wine in it, all which he carried away with him, and went to Supper at better leysure. Oftentimes afterward, upon other meetings of _Frederigo_ and she together, they laughed heartily at her enchantment, and the honest beleefe of silly _John_. I cannot deny, but that some do affirme, that the Woman had turned the face of the Asses head towards _Fiesola_, and a Country Travailer passing by the Vine, having a long piked staffe on his necke; the staffe, (by chance) touched the head, and made it turne divers times about, & in the end faced _Florence_, which being the cal for _Frederigoes_ comming, by this meanes he was disappointed. In like manner some say, that _Monna Tessaes_ prayer for conjuring the Spirit, was in this order. _Spirit, Spirit, go thy way, And come againe some other day, It was not I that turnd the head, But some other. In our Bed Are John and I: Go from our dore, And see thou trouble us no more._ So that _Frederigo_ departed thence, both with the losse of his labour & supper. But a neighbour of mine, who is a woman of good yeares, told me, that both the one and other were true, as she her selfe heard, when she was a little Girle. And concerning the latter accident, it was not to _John_ of _Lorrayne_, but to another, named _John de Nello_, that dwelt at S. _Peters_ Gate, and of the same profession as _John_ of _Lorrayne_ was. Wherefore (faire Ladies) it remaineth in your owne choice, to entertain which of the two prayers you please, or both together if you will: for they are of extraordinary vertue in such strange occurrences, as you have heeretofore heard, and (upon doubt) may prove by experience. It shall not therefore be amisse for you, to learne them both by hart, for (peradventure) they may stand you in good sted, if ever you chance to have the like occasion. Peronella _hid a yong man her friend and Lover, under a great brewing Fat, upon the sodaine returning home of her Husband; who told her, that hee had solde the saide Fat, and brought him that bought it, to carry it away._ Peronella _replyed, that shee had formerly solde it unto another, who was nowe underneath it, to see whether it were whole and sound, or no. Whereupon, he being come forth from under it; she caused her Husband to make it neate and cleane, and so the last buyer carried it away._ The Second Novell. _Wherein is declared, what hard and narrow shifts and distresses, such as bee seriously linked in Love, are many times enforced to undergo: According as their owne wit, and capacitie of their surprizers, drive them to in extremities._ Not without much laughter and good liking, was the Tale of Madame _�millia_ listened unto, and both the prayers commended to be sound and soveraigne: but it being ended, the King commaunded _Philostratus_, that hee should follow next in order, whereupon thus he began. Deare Ladies, the deceites used by men towards your sexe, but especially Husbands, have bene so great and many, as when it hath sometime happened, or yet may, that husbands are requited in the self-same kinde: you need not finde fault at any such accident, either by knowledge thereof afterward, or hearing the same reported by any one; but rather you should referre it to generall publication, to the end, that immodest men may know, and finde it for trueth, that if they have apprehension and capacity; women are therein not a jote inferiour to them. Which cannot but redound to your great benefite, because, when any one knoweth, that another is as cunning and subtile as himselfe; he will not be so rashly adventurous in deceite. And who maketh any doubt, that if those sleights and trickes, whereof this dayes argument may give us occasion to speake, should afterwardes be put in execution by men: would it not minister just reason, of punishing themselves for beguiling you, knowing, that (if you please) you have the like abilitie in your owne power? Mine intent therefore is to tell you, what a woman (though but of meane quality) did to her husband, upon a sodaine, and in a moment (as it were) for her owne safety. Not long since, there lived in _Naples_, an honest meane man, who did take to Wife, a fayre and lustie young Woman, being named _Peronella_. He professing the Trade of a Mason, and shee Carding and Spinning, maintained themselves in a reasonable condition, abating and abounding as their Fortunes served. It came to passe, that a certayne young man, well observing the beauty and good parts of _Peronella_, became much addicted in affection towardes her: and by his often and secret sollicitations, which he found not to be unkindly entertayned; his successe proved answerable to his hope, no unindifferencie appearing in their purposes, but where her estate seemed weakest, his supplies made an addition of more strength. Now, for their securer meeting, to stand cleare from all matter of scandal or detection, they concluded in this order between themselves. _Lazaro_, for so was _Peronellaes_ Husband named, being an earely riser every morning, either to seeke for worke, or to effect it being undertaken: this amorous friend being therewith acquainted, and standing in some such convenient place, where hee could see _Lazaroes_ departure from his house, and yet himselfe no way discerned; poore _Lazaro_ was no sooner gone, but presently he enters the house, which stood in a verie solitarie street, called the _Avorio_. Many mornings had they thus met together, to their no meane delight and contentation, till one especiall morning among the rest, when _Lazaro_ was gone forth to worke, and _Striguario_ (so was the amorous young man named) visiting _Peronella_ in the house: upon a very urgent occasion, _Lazaro_ returned backe againe, quite contrary to his former wont, keeping foorth all day, and never comming home till night. Finding his doore to be fast lockt, and he having knockt softlie once or twice, he spake in this manner to himselfe. Fortune I thanke thee, for albeit thou hast made mee poore, yet thou hast bestowed a better blessing on me, in matching me with so good, honest, & loving a Wife. Behold, though I went early out of my house, her selfe hath risen in the cold to shut the doore, to prevent the entrance of theeves, or any other that might offend us. _Peronella_ having heard what her husband sayde, and knowing the manner of his knocke, said fearfully to _Striguario_. Alas deare friend, what shall wee doe? I am little lesse then a dead Woman: For, _Lazaro_ my Husband is come backe again, and I know not what to do or say. He never returned in this order before now, doubtlesse, hee saw when you entred the doore; and for the safety of your honour and mine: creepe under this brewing Fat, till I have opened the doore, to know the reason of his so soone returning. _Striguario_ made no delaying of the matter, but got himselfe closelie under the Fat, and Peronella opening the doore for her husbands enterance, with a frowning countenance, spake thus unto him. What meaneth this so early returning home againe this morning? It seemeth, thou intendest to do nothing to day, having brought backe thy tooles in thy hands. If such be thine intent, how shall we live? Where shall we have bread to fill our bellies? Dooest thou thinke, that I will suffer thee to pawne my gowne, and other poore garments, as heeretofore thou hast done? I that card and spinne both night and day, till I have worne the flesh from my fingers; yet all will hardly finde oyle to maintaine our Lampe. Husband, husband, there is not one neighbour dwelling by us, but makes a mockerie of me, and tels me plainly, that I may be ashamed to drudge and moyle as I do; wondering not a little, how I am able to endure it; and thou returnest home with thy hands in thy hose, as if thou hadst no worke at all to do this day. Having thus spoken, she fell to weeping, and then thus began again. Poore wretched woman as I am, in an unfortunate houre was I borne, and in a much worse, when I was made thy Wife. I could have had a proper, handsome yong man; one, that would have maintained mee brave and gallantly: but, beast as I was, to forgoe my good, and cast my selfe away on such a beggar as thou art, and whom none wold have had, but such an Asse as I. Other women live at hearts ease, and in jollity, have their amorous friends and loving Paramours, yea, one, two, three at once, making their husbands looke like a Moone cressent, whereon they shine Sun-like, with amiable lookes, because they know not how to helpe it: when I (poore foole) live heere at home a miserable life, not daring once to dreame of such follies, an innocent soule, heartlesse and harmelesse. Many times, sitting and sighing to my selfe: Lord, thinke I, of what mettall am I made? Why should not I have a Friend in a corner, as well as others have? I am flesh and blood, as they are, not made of brasse or iron, and therefore subject to womens frailty. I would thou shouldest know it husband, and I tell it thee in good earnest; That if I would doe ill, I could quickely finde a friend at a neede. Gallants there are good store, who (of my knowledge) love me dearely, and have made me very large and liberall promises, of Golde, Silver, Jewels, and gay Garments, if I would extend them the least favour. But my heart will not suffer me, I never was the daughter of such a mother, as had so much as a thought of such matters: no, I thanke our blessed Ladie, and S. _Friswid_ for it: and yet thou returnest home againe, when thou shouldst be at Worke. _Lazaro_, who stoode all this while like a well-beleeving Logger-head, demurely thus answered. Alas good Wife! I pray you bee not so angry, I never had so much as an ill thought of you, but know wel enough what you are, and have made good proofe thereof this morning. Understand therefore patiently (sweet Wife) that I went forth to my work as dayly I use to do, little dreaming (as I thinke you doe not) that it had bene Holy-day. Wife, this is the Feast day of Saint _Galeone_; whereon we may in no wise worke, and this is the reason of my so soone returning. Neverthelesse (deare Wife) I was not carelesse of our Houshold provision: For, though we worke not, yet we must have foode, which I have provided for more then a moneth. Wife, I remembred the brewing Fat, whereof wee have little or no use at all, but rather it is a trouble to the house, then otherwise. I met with an honest Friend, who stayeth without at the doore, to him I have sold the Fat for ten _Gigliatoes_, and he tarrieth to take it away with him. How Husband? replied _Peronella_, Why now I am worse offended then before. Thou that art a man, walkest every where, and shouldst be experienced in worldly affaires: wouldst thou bee so simple, as to sell such a brewing Fat for ten _Gigliatoes_? Why, I that am a poore ignorant woman, a house-Dove, sildome going out of my doore: have sold it already for twelve _Gigliatoes_, to a very honest man, who (even a little before thy comming home) came to me, we agreed on the bargaine, and he is now underneath the Fat, to see whether it be sound or no. When credulous _Lazaro_ heard this, he was better contented then ever, and went to him that taried at the doore, saying. Good man, you may goe your way, for, whereas you offered me but ten _Gigliatoes_ for the Fat, my loving wife hath sold it for twelve, and I must maintaine what shee hath done: so the man departed, and the variance ended. _Peronella_ then saide to her husband. Seeing thou art come home so luckily, helpe me to lift up the Fat, that the man may come foorth, and then you two end the bargaine together. _Striguario_, who though he was mewed up under the tubbe, had his eares open enough; and hearing the witty excuse of _Peronella_, tooke himselfe free from future feare: and being come from under the Fat, pretending also, as if he had herd nothing, nor saw _Lazaro_, looking round about him, said. Where is this good woman? _Lazaro_ stepping forth boldly like a man, replyed: Heere am I, what wold you have Sir? Thou? quoth _Striguario_, what art thou? I ask for the good wife, with whom I made my match for the Fat. Honest Gentleman (answered _Lazaro_) I am that honest Womans Husband, for lacke of a better, and I will maintaine whatsoever my Wife hath done. I crie you mercie Sir, replyed _Striguario_, I bargained with your Wife for this brewing Fat, which I finde to be whole and sound: only it is uncleane within, hard crusted with some dry soile upon it, which I know not well how to get off, if you will be the meanes of making it cleane, I have the money heere ready for it. For that Sir (quoth _Peronella_) take you no care, although no match at all had beene made, what serves my Husband for, but to make it cleane? Yes forsooth Sir, answered sily _Lazaro_, you shall have it neate and cleane before you pay the mony. So, stripping himselfe into his shirt, lighting a Candle, and taking tooles fit for the purpose; the Fat was whelmed over him, and he being within it, wrought untill he sweated, with scraping and scrubbing. So that these poore Lovers, what they could not accomplish as they wold, necessity enforced them to performe as they might. And _Peronella_, looking in at the vent-hole, where the Liquor runneth forth for the meshing; seemed to instruct her husband in the businesse, as espying those parts where the Fat was fowlest, saying: There, there _Lazaro_, tickle it there, the Gentleman payes well for it, and is worthy to have it: but see thou do thy selfe no harme good Husband. I warrant thee Wife, answered _Lazaro_, hurt not your selfe with leaning your stomacke on the Fat, and leave the cleansing of it to me. To be breefe, the Brewing Fat was neatly cleansed, _Peronella_ and _Striguario_ both well pleased, the money paide, and honest meaning _Lazaro_ not discontented. _Friar_ Reynard, _falling in love with a Gentlewoman, Wife to a man of good account; found the meanes to become her Gossip. Afterward, he being conferring closely with her in her Chamber, and her Husband coming sodainly thither: she made him beleeve, that he came thither for no other end; but to cure his God-sonne by a charme, of a dangerous disease which he had by Wormes._ The Third Novell. _Serving as a friendly advertisement to married women, that Monks, Friars, and Priests may be none of their Gossips, in regard of unavoydable perilles ensuing thereby._ _Philostratus_ told not this Tale so covertly, concerning _Lazaros_ simplicity, and _Peronellaes_ witty policy; but the Ladies found a knot in the rush, and laughed not a little, at his queint manner of discoursing it. But upon the conclusion, the King looking upon Madam _Eliza_, willed her to succeede next, which as willingly she granted, and thus began. Pleasant Ladies, the charme or conjuration wherewith Madam _�millia_ laid her night-walking Spirit, maketh me remember a Novell of another enchantment; which although it carrieth not commendation equall to the other, yet I intend to report it, because it suteth with our present purpose, and I cannot sodainly be furnisht with another, answerable thereto in nature. You are to understand then, that there lived in _Siena_, a proper yong man, of good birth and well friended, being named _Reynard_. Earnestly he affected his neere dwelling neighbour, a beautifull Gentlewoman, and wife to a man of good esteeme: of whom hee grew halfe perswaded, that if he could (without suspition) compasse private conference with her, he should reach the height of his amorous desires. Yet seeing no likely meanes wherewith to further his hope, and shee being great with childe, he resolved to become a Godfather to the childe, at such time as it should be brought to Christening. And being inwardly acquainted with her Husband, who was named _Credulano_; such familiar entercourses passed betweene them, both of _Reynards_ kinde offer, and _Credulanoes_ as courteous acceptance, that hee was set downe for a Gossippe. _Reynard_ being thus embraced for Madam _Agnesiaes_ Gossip, and this proving the onely colourable meanes, for his safer permission of speech with her, to let her now understand by word of mouth, what long before she collected by his lookes and behaviour: it fell out no way beneficiall to him, albeit _Agnesia_ seemed not nice or scrupulous in hearing, yet she had a more precious care of her honor. It came to passe, within a while after (whether by seeing his labour vainly spent, or some other urgent occasion moving him thereto, I know not) _Reynard_ would needs enter into Religion, and whatsoever strictnesse or austeritie hee found to be in that kinde of life, yet he determined to persevere therein, whether it were for his good or ill. And although within a short space, after he was thus become a Religious Monke, hee seemed to forget the former love which he bare to his gossip _Agnesia_, and divers other enormous vanities beside: yet let me tell you, successe of time tutord him in them againe; and, without any respect to his poore holy habite, but rather in contempt thereof (as it were) he tooke an especiall delight, in wearing garments of much richer esteeme, yet favoured by the same Monasticall profession, appearing (in all respects) like a Court-Minion or Favourite, of a sprightly and Poeticall disposition, for composing Verses, Sonnets, and Canzons, singing them to sundry excellent instruments, and yet not greatly curious of his company, so they were some of the best, and Madame _Agnesia_ one, his former Gossip. But why doe I trouble my selfe, in talking thus of our so lately converted Friar, holy Father _Reynard_, when they of longer standing, and reputed meerely for Saints in life, are rather much more vile then hee? Such is the wretched condition of this world, that they shame not (fat, soggie, and nastie Abbey-lubbers) to shew how full fedde they live in their Cloysters, with cherry cheekes, and smooth shining lookes, gay and gaudy garments, far from the least expression of humility, not walking in the streets like Doves: but high-crested like Cockes, with well cramd gorges. Nay, which is worse, if you did but see their Chambers furnished with Gally-pots of Electuaries, precious Unguents, Apothecary Boxes, filled with various Confections, Conserves, excellent Perfumes, and other goodly Glasses of artificiall Oyles and Waters: beside Rundlets and small Barrels full of Greeke Wine, _Muscatella, Lachrime Christi,_ and other such like most precious Wines, so that (to such as see them) they seeme not to bee Chambers of Religious men; but rather Apothecaries Shoppes, or appertaining to Druggists, Grocers, or Perfumers. It is no disgrace to them to be Gowty; because when other men know it not, they alledge, that strict fasting, feeding on grosse meates (though never so little,) continuall studying, and such like restraints from the bodies freer exercise, maketh them subject to many infirmities. And yet, when any one of them chanceth to fall sicke, the Physitian must minister no such counsell to them, as Chastity, Abstinence from voluptuous meats, Discipline of the body, or any of those matters appertaining to a modest religious life. For, concerning the plaine, vulgar, and Plebeian people, these holy Fathers are perswaded, that they know nothing really belonging to a sanctimonious life; as long watching, praying, discipline and fasting, which (in themselves) are not able, to make men look leane, wretched, and pale. Because Saint _Dominicke_, Saint _Fraunces_, and divers other holy Saints beside, observed the selfesame religious orders and constitutions, as now their carefull successors do. Moreover, in example of those fore-named Saints, who went wel cloathed, though they had not three Garments for one, nor made of the finest Woollen excellent cloath: but rather of the very coarsest of all other, and of the common ordinary colour, to expell cold onely, but not to appear brave or gallant, deceyving thereby infinite simple credulous soules, whose purses (neverthelesse) are their best pay-masters. But leave we this, and returne wee backe to vertuous Fryar _Reynard_, who falling againe to his former appetites; became an often visitant of his Gossip _Agnesia_, and now hee had learned such a blushlesse kinde of boldnesse; that he durst be more instant with her (concerning his privie sute) then ever formerly he had bin, yea, even to solicite the enjoying of his immodest desires. The good Gentlewoman, seeing her selfe so importunately pursued, and Fryar _Reynard_ appearing now (perhappes) of sweeter and more delicate complexion, then at his entrance into Religion: at a set time of his secret communing with her; she answered him in as apt tearmes, as they use to do, who are not greatly squeamish, in granting matters demanded of them. Why how now Friar _Reynard_? quoth shee, Doe God-fathers use to move such questions? Whereto the Friar thus replyed. Madam, when I have laide off this holy habite (which is a matter very easie for mee to do) I shall seeme in your eye, in all respects made like another man, quite from the course of any Religious life. _Agnesia_, biting the lip with a prety smile, said, O my faire Starres! You will never bee so unfriendly to me. What? You being my Gossip, would you have me consent unto such a sinne? Our blessed Lady shield mee, for my ghostly Father hath often told me, that it is utterly unpardonable: but if it were, I feare too much confiding on mine owne strength. Gossip, Gossip, answered the Friar, you speake like a Foole, and feare (in this case) is wholly frivolous, especially, when the motions mooved by such an one as my selfe, who (upon repentance) can grant you pardon and indulgence presently. But I pray you let mee aske you one question, Who is the neerest Kinsman to your Son; either I, that stood at the Font for his Baptisme, or your Husband that begot him? The Lady made answere, that it was her Husband. You say very true Gossip, replyed the Friar, and yet notwithstanding, doth not your Husband (both at boord and bed) enjoy the sweet benefit of your company? Yes, said the Lady, why shold he not? Then Lady (quoth _Reynard_) I, who am not so neere a Kinsman to your Sonne, as your Husband is, why may ye not afford mee the like favour, as you do him? _Agnesia_, who was no Logitian, and therefore could not stand on any curious answer, especially being so cuningly moved; beleeved, or rather made shew of beleeving, that the Godfather said nothing but truth, and thus answered. What woman is she (Gossip) that knoweth how to answer your strange speeches? And, how it came to passe, I know not, but such an agreement passed betweene them, that, for once onely (so it might not infrindge the league of Gossip-ship, but that title to countenance their further intent) such a favour should be affoorded, so it might stand cleare from suspition. An especiall time being appointed, when this amorous Combate should be fought in loves field, Friar _Reynard_ came to his Gossips house, where none being present to hinder his purpose, but onely the Nursse which attended on the child, who was an indifferent faire & proper woman: his holy brother that came thither in his company (because Friars were not allowed to walke alone) was sent aside with her into the Pigeon loft, to enstruct her in a new kinde of _Pater noster_, lately devised in their holy Convent. In the meane while, as Friar _Reynard_ and _Agnesia_ were entring into hir chamber, she leading her little son by the hand, and making fast the doore for their better safety: the Friar laide by his holie habit, Cowle, Hood, Booke, and Beads, to bee (in all respects) as other men were. No sooner were they thus entred the Chamber, but her husband _Credulano_, being come into the house, and unseen of any, staid not till he was at the Chamber doore, where hee knockt, and called for his Wife. She hearing his voice: Alas Gossip (quoth she) what shall I do? My Husband knocketh at the doore, and now he will perceive the occasion of our so familiar acquaintance. _Reynard_ being stript into his Trusse and straite Strouses, began to tremble and quake exceedingly. I heare your Husbands tongue Gossip, said he, and seeing no harme as yet hath bin done, if I had but my garments on againe; wee would have one excuse or other to serve the turne, but till then you may not open the doore. As womens wits are sildome gadding abroad, when any necessitie concerneth them at home: even so _Agnesia_, being sodainly provided of an invention, both how to speake and carry her selfe in this extreamitie, saide to the Friar. Get on your garments quickely, and when you are cloathed, take your little God-son in your armes, and listning wel what I shall say, shape your answeres according to my words, and then refer the matter to me. _Credulano_ had scarsely ended his knocking, but _Agnesia_ stepping to the doore said: Husband, I come to you. So she opened the doore, and (going forth to him) with a chearefull countenance thus spake. Beleeve me Husband, you could not have come in a more happy time, for our yong Son was sodainly extreamly sicke, and (as good Fortune would have it) our loving Gossip _Reynard_ chanced to come in; and questionlesse, but by his good prayers and other religious paynes, we had utterly lost our childe, for he had no life left in him. _Credulano_, being as credulous as his name imported, seemed ready to swoune with sodaine conceit: Alas good wife (quoth he) how hapned this? Sit downe sweet Husband said she, and I will tell you al. Our child was sodainly taken with a swouning, wherein I being unskilful, did verily suppose him to be dead, not knowing what to doe, or say. By good hap, our Gossip _Reynard_ came in, and taking the childe up in his armes, said to me. Gossip, this is nothing else but Wormes in the bellie of the childe, which ascending to the heart, must needs kill the child, without all question to the contrary. But be of good comfort Gossip, and feare not, for I can charme them in such sort, that they shall all die, and before I depart hence, you shall see your Son as healthfull as ever. And because the manner of this charm is of such nature, that it required prayer and exorcising in two places at once: Nurse went up with his Holye Brother into our Pigeon loft, to exercise their devotion there, while we did the like heere. For none but the mother of the childe must bee present at such a mystery, nor any enter to hinder the operation of the charme; which was the reason of making fast the Chamber doore. You shall see Husband anon the Childe, which is indifferently recovered in his armes, and if Nurse and his holy Brother were returned from theyr meditations; he saith, that the charme would then be fully effected: for the child beginneth to looke chearefull and merry. So deerely did _Credulano_ love the childe, that hee verily beleeved, what his Wife had saide, never misdoubting any other treachery: and, lifting up his eyes, with a vehement sigh, said. Wife, may not I goe in and take the child into my armes? Oh no, not yet good husband (quoth she) in any case, least you should overthrow all that is done. Stay but a little while, I will go in againe, and if all bee well, then will I call you. In went _Agnesia_ againe, making the doore fast after her, the Fryar having heard all the passed speeches, by this time he was fitted with his habite, and taking the childe in his armes, he said to _Agnesia_. Gossip methought I heard your Husbands voice, is hee at your Chamber doore? Yes Gossip _Reynard_ (quoth _Credulano_ without, while _Agnesia_ opened the doore, and admitted him entrance) indeede it is I. Come in Sir, I pray you, replyed the Friar, and heere receive your childe of mee, who was in great danger, of your ever seeing him any more alive. But you must take order, to make an Image of waxe, agreeing with the stature of the childe, to be placed on the Altar before the Image of S. _Frances_, by whose merites the childe is thus restored to health. The childe, beholding his Father, made signes of comming to him, rejoycing merrily, as yong infants use to do; and _Credulano_ clasping him in his armes, wept with conceite of joy, kissing him infinitely, and heartily thanking his Gossip _Reynard_, for the recovery of his God-son. The Friars brotherly Companion, who had given sufficient enstructions to the Nurse, and a small purse full of Sisters white thred, which a Nunne (after shrift) had bestowed on him, upon the husbands admittance into the Chamber (which they easily heard) came in also to them, and seeing all in very good tearmes, they holpe to make a joyfull conclusion, the Brother saying to Friar Reynard: Brother, I have finished all those foure Jaculatory prayers, which you commanded me. Brother, answered _Reynard_, you have a better breath then I, and your successe hath prooved happier then mine, for before the arrivall of my Gossip _Credulano_, I could accomplish but two Jaculatory prayers onely. But it appeareth, that we have both prevailed in our devout desires, because the childe is perfectly cured. _Credulano_ calling for Wine and good cheare, feasted both the Friars very jocondly, and then conducting them forth of his house, without any further intermission, caused the childs Image of waxe to be made, and sent it to be placed on the Altar of Saint _Frances_, among many other the like oblations. Tofano _in the night season, did locke his wife out of his house, and shee not prevailing to get entrance againe, by all the entreaties she could possiblie use: made him beleeve that she had throwne her selfe into a Well, by casting a great stone into the same Well_. Tofano _hearing the fall of the stone into the Well, and being perswaded that it was his Wife indeed; came forth of his house, and ran to the Welles side. In the meane while, his wife gotte into the house, made fast the doore against her Husband, and gave him many reproachfull speeches._ The Fourth Novell. _Wherein is manifested, that the malice and subtilty of a Woman, surpasseth all the Art or Wit in man._ So soone as the King perceyved, that the Novell reported by Madame _Eliza_ was finished: hee turned himselfe to Madame _Lauretta_, and told her it was his pleasure, that she should now begin the next, whereto she yeelded in this manner. O Love: What, and how many are thy prevailing forces? How straunge are thy foresights? And how admirable thine attempts? Where is, or ever was the Philosopher or Artist, that could enstruct the wiles, escapes, preventions, and demonstrations, which sodainly thou teachest such, as are thy apt and understanding Schollers indeede? Certaine it is, that the documents and eruditions of all other whatsoever, are weak, or of no worth, in respect of thine: as hath notably appeared, by the remonstrances already past, and whereto (worthy Ladies) I will adde another of a simple woman, who taught her husband such a lesson, as shee never learned of any, but Love himselfe. There dwelt sometime in _Arezzo_ (which is a faire Village of _Tuscany_) a rich man, named _Tofano_, who enjoyed in marriage a young beautifull woman, called _Cheta_: of whom (without any occasion given, or reason knowne to himselfe) he became exceeding jealous. Which his wife perceyving, she grew much offended thereat, and tooke it in great scorne, that she should be servile to so vile and slavish a condition. Oftentimes, she demanded of him, from whence this jealousie in him received originall, he having never seene or heard of any; he could make her no other answer, but what his owne bad humour suggested, and drove him every day (almost) to deaths doore, by feare of that which no way needed. But, whether as a just scourge for this his grosse folly, or a secret decree, ordained to him by Fortune and the Fates, I am not able to distinguish: It came so to passe, that a young Gallant made meanes to enjoy her favour, and she was so discreetly wise in judging of his worthinesse; that affection passed so farre mutually betweene them, as nothing wanted, but effects to answere words, suited with time and place convenient, for which order was taken as best they might, yet to stand free from all suspition. Among many other evill conditions, very frequent and familiar in her husband _Tofano_; he tooke a great delight in drinking, which not only he held to be a commendable quality, but was alwaies so often solicited thereto: that _Cheta_ her selfe began to like and allow it in him, feeding his humour so effectually, with quaffing and carowsing, that (at any time when she listed) she could make him bowsie beyonde all measure: and leaving him sleeping in this drunkennesse, would alwayes get her selfe to bed. By helpe heereof, she compassed the first familiarity with her friend, yea, divers times after, as occasion served: and so confidently did she builde on her husbands drunkennesse, that not onely shee adventured to bring her friend home into her owne house; but also would as often go to his, which was some-what neere at hand, and abide with him there, the most part of the night season. While _Cheta_ thus continued on these amorous courses, it fortuned, that her slye suspitious husband, beganne to perceive, that though shee drunke very much with him, yea, untill he was quite spent and gone: yet she remained fresh and sober still, and thereby imagined strange matters, that he being fast asleepe, his wife then tooke advantage of his drowsinesse, and might ---- and so forth. Beeing desirous to make experience of this his distrust, hee returned home at night (not having drunke any thing all the whole day) dissembling both by his words and behaviour, as if he were notoriously drunke indeede. Which his Wife constantly beleeving, saide to her selfe: That hee had now more neede of sleepe, then drinke; getting him immediately into his warme bed; and then going downe the staires againe, softly went out of doores unto her Friends house, as formerly she had used to do, and there shee remained untill midnight. _Tofano_ perceiving that his Wife came not to bed, and imagining to have heard his doore both open and shut: arose out of his bed, and calling his Wife _Cheta_ divers times, without any answere returned: hee went downe the staires, and finding the doore but closed too, made it fast and sure on the inside, and then got him up to the window, to watch the returning home of his wife, from whence shee came, and then to make her conditions apparantly knowne. So long there he stayed, till at the last she returned indeede, and finding the doore so surely shut, shee was exceeding sorrowfull, essaying how she might get it open by strength: which when _Tofano_ had long suffered her in vaine to approove, thus hee spake to her. _Cheta, Cheta,_ all thy labour is meerely lost, because heere is no entrance allowed for thee; therefore return to the place from whence thou camest, that all thy friends may judge of thy behaviour, and know what a night-walker thou art become. The woman hearing this unpleasing language, began to use all humble entreaties, desiring him (for charities sake) to open the doore and admit her entrance, because she had not bin in any such place, as his jelous suspition might suggest to him: but onely to visit a weak & sickly neighbour, the nights being long, she not (as yet) capable of sleepe, nor willing to sit alone in the house. But all her perswasions served to no purpose, he was so setled in his owne opinion, that all the Town should now see her nightly gading, which before was not so much as suspected. _Cheta_ seeing, that faire meanes would not prevaile, shee entred into roughe speeches and threatnings, saying: If thou wilt not open the doore and let me come in, I will so shame thee, as never base man was. As how I pray thee? answered _Tofano_, what canst thou do to me? The woman, whom love had inspired with sprightly counsell, ingeniously enstructing her what to do in this distresse, stearnly thus replyed. Before I will suffer any such shame as thou intended towards mee, I will drowne my selfe heere in this Well before our doore, where being found dead, and thy villanous jealousie so apparantly knowne, beside thy more then beastly drunkennesse: all the neighbours will constantly beleeve, that thou didst first strangle me in the house, and afterwardes threw me into this Well. So either thou must flie upon the supposed offence, or lose all thy goodes by banishment, or (which is much more fitting for thee) have thy head smitten off as a wilfull murtherer of thy wife; for all will judge it to be no otherwise. All which wordes, mooved not _Tofano_ a jot from his obstinat determination: but he still persisting therein, thus she spake. I neither can nor will longer endure this base Villanie of thine: to the mercy of heaven I commit my soul, and stand there my wheele, a witnesse against so hard-hearted a murtherer. No sooner had she thus spoke, but the night being so extreamly dark, as they could not discerne one another; Cheta went to the Well, where finding a verie great stone, which lay loose upon the brim of the Well, even as if it had beene layde there on purpose, shee cried out aloud, saying. Forgive me faire heavens, and so threw the stone downe into the Well. The night being very still & silent, the fall of the great stone made such a dreadfull noise in the Well; that he hearing it at the Windowe, thought verily she had drowned her selfe indeede. Whereupon, running downe hastily, and taking a Bucket fastened to a strong Cord: he left the doore wide open, intending speedily to helpe her. But she standing close at the doores entrance, before he could get to the Wels side; she was within the house, softly made the doore fast on the inside, and then went up to the Window, where _Tofano_ before had stood talking to her. While he was thus dragging with his Bucket in the Well, crying and calling _Cheta_, take hold good _Cheta_, and save thy life: she stood laughing in the Window, saying. Water should bee put into Wine before a man drinkes it, and not when he hath drunke too much already. _Tofano_ hearing his Wife thus to flout him out of his Window, went back to the doore, and finding it made fast against him: he willed hir to grant him entrance. But she, forgetting all gentle Language, which formerly she had used to him: in meere mockery and derision (yet intermixed with some sighes and teares, which women are saide to have at command) out aloud (because the Neighbours should heare her) thus she replyed. Beastly drunken Knave as thou art, this night thou shalt not come within these doores, I am no longer able to endure thy base behaviour, it is more then high time, that thy course of life should bee publiquely known, and at what drunken houres thou returnest home to thy house. _Tofano_, being a man of very impatient Nature, was as bitter unto her in words on the other side, which the Neighbours about them (both men and Women) hearing; looked forth of their Windowes, and demaunding a reason for this their disquietnesse, _Cheta_ (seeming as if she wept) sayde. Alas my good Neighbours, you see at what unfitting houres, this bad man comes home to his house, after hee hath lyen in a Taverne all day drunke, sleeping and snorting like a Swine. You are my honest witnesses, how long I have suffered this beastlinesse in him, yet neyther your good counsell, nor my too often loving admonitions, can worke that good which wee have expected. Wherefore, to try if shame can procure any amendment, I have shut him out of doores, until his drunken fit be over-past, and so he shall stand to coole his feet. _Tofano_ (but in very uncivill manner) told her being abroad that night, and how she had used him: But the Neighbours seeing her to be within the house, and beleeving her, rather then him, in regard of his too wellknowne ill qualities; very sharpely reproved him, gave him grosse speeches, pittying that any honest Woman should be so continually abused. Now my good Neighbours (quoth she) you see what manner of man he is. What would you thinke of me, if I should walk the streets thus in the night time, or be so late out of mine owne house, as this dayly Drunkard is? I was affraid least you would have given credit to his dissembling speeches, when he told you, that I was at the Welles side, and threw something into the Well: but that I know your better opinion of me, and how sildome I am to be seene out of doores, although he would induce your sharper judgement of me, and lay that shame upon me, wherein he hath sinned himselfe. The Neighbours, both men and Women, were all very severely incensed against _Tofano_, condemning him for his great fault that night committed, and avouching his wife to be vertuous and honest. Within a little while, the noise passing from Neighbour to Neighbour, at the length it came to the eares of her Kindred, who forthwith resorted thither, and hearing how sharpely the Neighbours reprehended _Tofano_: they tooke him, soundly bastanadoed him, and hardly left any bone of him unbruised. Afterward, they went into the house, tooke all such things thence as belonged to hir, taking hir also with them to their dwelling, and threatning _Tofano_ with further infliction of punishment, both for his drunkennesse, and causlesse jealousie. _Tofano_ perceyving how curstly they had handled him, and what crooked meanes might further be used against him, in regard her Kindred & Friends were very mightie: thought it much better, patiently to suffer the wrong alreadie done him, then by obstinate contending, to proceed further, and fare worse. He became a suter to her Kindred, that al might be forgotten and forgiven, in recompence whereof; he would not onely refraine from drunkennesse, but also, never more be jelous of his wife. This being faithfully promised, and _Cheta_ reconciled to her Husband, all strife was ended, she enjoyed her friends favour, as occasion served, but yet with such discretion, as it was not noted. Thus the Coxcombe foole, was faine to purchase his peace, after a notorious wrong sustained, and further injuries to bee offered. _A jealous man, clouded with the habite of a Priest, became the Confessour to his owne Wife; who made him beleeve, that she was deepely in love with a Priest, which came every night, and lay with her. By meanes of which confession, while her jealous Husband watched the doore of his house; to surprize the Priest when he came: she that never meant to do amisse, had the company of a secret Friend, who came over the toppe of the house to visite her, while her foolish Husband kept the doore._ The fift Novell. _In just scorne and mockery of such jealous Husbands, that will be so idle headed upon no occasion. And yet when they have good reason for it, do least of all suspect any such injury._ Madam _Lauretta_ having ended her Novell, and every one commended the Woman, for fitting _Tofano_ in his kinde; and, as his jealousie and drunkennesse justly deserved: the King (to prevent all losse of time) turned to Madame _Fiammetta_, commaunding her to follow next: whereuppon, very graciously, shee beganne in this manner. Noble Ladies, the precedent Novell delivered by Madame _Lauretta_, maketh me willing to speake of another jealous man; as being halfe perswaded, that whatsoever is done to them by their Wives, and especially upon no occasion given, they doe no more then well becommeth them. And if those grave heads, which were the first instituters of lawes, had diligently observed all things; I am of the minde, that they would have ordained no other penalty for Women, then they appointed against such, as (in their owne defence) do offend any other. For jealous husbands, are meere insidiators of their Wives lives, and most diligent pursuers of their deaths, being lockt up in their houses all the Weeke long, imployed in nothing but domesticke drudging affayres: which makes them desirous of high Festivall dayes, to receive some little comfort abroad, by an honest recreation or pastime, as Husbandmen in the fields, Artizans in our Citie, or Governours in our judiciall Courtes; yea, or as our Lord himselfe, who rested the seaventh day from all his travailes. In like manner, it is so willed and ordained by the Lawes, as well divine as humane, which have regard to the glory of God, and for the common good of every one; making distinction betweene those dayes appointed for labour, and the other determined for rest. Whereto jealous persons (in no case) will give consent, but all those dayes (which for other women are pleasing and delightfull) unto such, over whom they command, are most irksome, sadde and sorrowfull, because then they are lockt up, and very strictly restrained. And if question were urged, how many good women do live and consume away in this torturing hel of affliction: I can make no other answere, but such as feele it, are best able to discover it. Wherefore to conclude the proheme to my present purpose, let none be over rash in condemning women: for what they do to their husbands, being jealous without occasion; but rather commend their wit and providence. Somtime (faire Ladies) there lived in _Arimino_, a Merchant, very rich in wealth and worldly possessions, who having a beautifull Gentlewoman to his wife, he became extreamly jelous of her. And he had no other reason for this foolish conceit; but, like as he loved hir dearly, and found her to be very absolutely faire: even so he imagined, that althogh she devised by her best meanes to give him content; yet others would grow enamored of her, because she appeared so amiable to al. In which respect, time might tutor her to affect some other beside himselfe: the onely common argument of every bad minded man, being weake and shallow in his owne understanding. This jelous humour** increasing in him more and more, he kept her in such narrow restraint: that many persons condemned to death, have enjoyed larger libertie in their imprisonment. For, she might not bee present at Feasts, Weddings, nor goe to Church, or so much as to be seen at her doore: Nay, she durst not stand in her Window, nor looke out of her house, for any occasion whatsoever. By means whereof, life seemed most tedious and offensive to her, and she supported it the more impatiently, because shee knew her selfe not any way faulty. Seeing her husband still persist in this shamefull course towards her; she studied, how she might best comfort her selfe in this desolate case: by devising some one meane or other (if any at all were to bee founde) whereby he might be requited in his kind, and wear that badge of shame whereof he was now but onely affraid. And because she could not gain so small a permission, as to be seene at any window, where (happily) she might have observed some one passing by in the street, discerning a little parcell of her love: she remembred at length, that, in the next house to her Husbands (they both joyning close together) there dwelt a comely yong proper Gentleman, whose perfections carried correspondencie with her desires. She also considered with her selfe, that if there were any partition wall; such a chinke or cranny might easily be made therein, by which (at one time or other) she should gaine a sight of the young Gentleman, and finde an houre so fitting, as to conferre with him, and bestow her lovely favour on him, if he pleased to accept it. If successe (in this case) proved answerable to her hope, then thus she resolved to outrun the rest of her wearisome dayes, except the frensie of jealousie did finish her husbands loathed life before. Walking from one roome to another, thorough every part of the house; and no wall escaping without diligent surveying; on a day, when her Husband was absent from home, she espyed in a corner very secret, an indifferent cleft in the Wall, which though it yeelded no full view on the other side, yet she plainly perceived it to be an handsome Chamber, and grew more then halfe perswaded, that either it might be the Chamber of _Philippo_ (for so was the neighbouring yong Gentleman named) or else a passage guiding thereto. A Chambermaid of hers, who compassioned her case very much; made such observance, by her Mistresses direction, that she found it to be _Philippoes_ bed Chamber, and where alwayes he used to lodge alone. By often visiting this rift or chinke in the Wall, especially when the Gentleman was there; and by throwing in little stones, flowers, and such like things, which fell still in his way as he walked: so farre she prevailed, that he stepping to the chinke, to know from whence they came; shee called softly to him, who knowing her voyce, there they had such private conference together, as was not any way displeasing to either. So that the chinke being made a little larger; yet so, as it could not be easily discerned: their mouthes might meete with kisses together, and their hands folded each in other; but nothing else to be performed, for continuall feare of her jelous husband. Now the Feast of Christmasse drawing neere, the Gentlewoman said to her Husband; that, if it stood with his liking: she would do such duty as fitted with so solemne a time, by going earely in a morning unto Church, there to be confessed, and receive her Saviour, as other Christians did. How now? replied the jealous Asse, what sinnes have you committed, that should neede confession? How Husband? quoth she, what do you thinke me to be a Saint? Who knoweth not, I pray you, that I am as subject to sinne, as any other Woman living in the world? But my sins are not to be revealed to you, because you are no Priest. These words enflamed his jealousie more violently then before, and needes must he know what sinnes she had committed, & having resolved what to do in this case, made her answer: That hee was contented with her motion, alwaies provided, that she went to no other Church, then unto their owne Chappel, betimes in a morning; and their own Chaplaine to confesse her, or some other Priest by him appointed, but not any other: and then she to returne home presently againe. She being a woman of acute apprehension, presently collected his whole intention: but seeming to take no knowledge thereof, replyed, that she would not swerve from his direction. When the appointed day was come, she arose very earely, and being prepared answerable to her owne liking, to the Chappell shee went as her Husband had appointed, where her jealous Husband (being much earlier risen than she) attended for her comming: having so ordred the matter with his Chaplaine, that he was cloathed in his Cowle, with a large Hood hanging over his eyes, that she should not know him, and so he went and sate downe in the Confessors place. Shee being entred into the Chappell, and calling for the Priest to heare her confession, he made her answer: that he could not intend it, but would bring her to another holy Brother, who was at better leysure than hee. So to her Husband he brought her, that seemed (in all respects) like the Confessor himselfe: save onely his Hood was not so closely veyled, but shee knew his beard, and said to her selfe. What a mad world is this, when jealousie can metamorphose an ordinary man into a Priest? But, let me alone with him, I meane to fit him with that which he lookes for. So, appearing to have no knowledge at all of him, downe she fell at his feete, and he had conveyed a few Cherry stones into his mouth, to trouble his speech from her knowledge; for, in all things else, he thought himselfe to be sufficiently fitted for her. In the course of her confession, she declared, that she was married to a most wicked jealous Husband, and with whom she lead a very hatefull life. Neverthelesse (quoth she) I am indifferently even with him, for I am beloved of an Holie Fryar, that every night commeth and lyeth with me. When the jealous Husband heard this, it stabbed him like a dagger to the heart, and, but for this greedy covetous desire to know more; he would faine have broke off confession, and got him gone. But, perceiving that it was his wisest course, he questioned further with his wife, saying: Why good Woman, doth not your husband lodge with you? Yes Sir, quoth she. How is it possible then (replyed the Husband) that the Friar can lodge there with you too? She, dissembling a farre fetcht sigh, thus answered. Reverend Sir, I know not what skilfull Art the Fryar useth, but this I am sure, every doore in our house will flye open to him, so soone as he doth but touch it. Moreover, he told me, that when he commeth unto my Chamber doore, he speaketh certaine words to himselfe, which immediately casteth my Husband into a dead sleepe, and, understanding him to bee thus sleepily entranced: he openeth the doore, entreth in, lieth downe by me, and this every night he faileth not to do. The jealous Coxcomb angerly scratching his head, and wishing his wife halfe hangd, said: Mistresse, this is very badly done, for you should keepe your selfe from all men, but your husband onely. That shall I never doe, answered shee, because (indeed) I love him dearely. Why then (quoth our supposed Confessor) I cannot give you any absolution. I am the more sorry Sir, said she, I came not hither to tell you any leasings, for if I could, yet I would not, because it is not good to fable with such Saint-like men as you are. You do therein (quoth hee) the better, and surely I am very sorry for you, because in this dangerous condition, it will bee the utter losse of your soule: neverthelesse, both for your husbands sake and your owne, I will take some paines, and use such especiall prayers in your name, which may (perchance) greatly avayle you. And I purpose now and then, to send you a Novice or young Clearke of mine, whom you may safely acquaint with your minde, and signifie to me, by him, whether they have done you good, or no: and if they prove helpefull, then will we further proceed therein. Alas Sir, said she, never trouble your selfe, in sending any body to our house; because, if my Husband should know it, he is so extreamly jelous, as all the world cannot otherwise perswade him, but that he commeth thither for no honest intent, and so I shall live worse then now I do. Fear not that, good woman, quoth he, but beleeve it certainly, that I will have such a care in this case, as your Husband shall never speake thereof to you. If you can doe so Sir, sayde she, proceed I pray you, and I am well contented. Confession being thus ended, and she receiving such pennance as hee appointed, she arose on her feete, and went to heare Masse; while our jealous Woodcocke (testily puffing and blowing) put off his Religious habite, returning home presently to his house, beating his braines al the the way as he went, what meanes he might best devise, for the taking of his wife and the Friar together, whereby to have them both severely punished. His wife being come home from the Chappell, discerned by her Husbands lookes, that he was like to keepe but a sorry Christmasse: yet he used his utmost industry, to conceale what he had done, & which she knew as well as himself. And he having fully resolved, to watch his own street doore the next night ensuing in person, in expectation of the Friars comming, saide to his Wife. I have occasion both to suppe and lodge out of my house this night, wherefore see you the streete doore to be surely made fast on the inside, and the doore at the middest of the staires, as also your own Chamber doore, and then (in Gods name) get you to bed. Whereto she answered, that all should be done as hee had appointed. Afterward, when she saw convenient time, she went to the chink in the Wall, and making such a signe as shee was woont to doe: _Phillippo_ came thither, to whom she declared all her mornings affayres, & what directions her husband had given her. Furthermore she saide, certaine I am, that he will not depart from the house, but sit and watch the doore without, to take one that comes not heere. If therefore, you can climbe over the house top, and get in at our gutter Window, you and I may conferre more familiarly together. The young Gentleman being no dullard, had his lesson quickly taught him; and when night was come, _Geloso_ (for so must wee tearme the Cocke-braind husband) armes himselfe at all points, with a browne Bill in his hand, and so he sits to watch his owne doore. His Wife had made fast all the doores, especially that on the midst of the stayres, because he should not (by any means) come to her Chamber; and so, when the houre served, the Gentleman adventured over the house top, found the gutter Window, and the way conducting him to her Chamber, where I leave them to their further amorous conference. _Geloso_, more then halfe mad with anger, first, because hee had lost his supper: next, having sitten almost all the night (which was extreamely cold and windie) his Armor much molesting him, and yet he could see no Friar come: when day drew neere, and hee ashamed to watch there any longer; conveighed himselfe to some more convenient place, where putting off his Armes, and seeming to come from the place of his Lodging; about the ninth houre, he found his doore open, entred in, & went up the stayres, going to dinner with his Wife. Within a while after, according as _Geloso_ had ordred the businesse, a youth came thither, seeming to be the Novice sent from the Confessor, and he being admitted to speake with her, demanded, whether shee were troubled or molested that night passed, as formerly she had bin, and whether the partie came or no? The Woman, who knew well enough the Messenger (notwithstanding all his formall disguise) made answer: That the party expected, came not: but if hee had come, it was to no purpose; because her minde was now otherwise altred, albeit she changed not a jote from her amorous conclusion. What should I now further say unto you? _Geloso_ continued his watch many nights afterward, as hoping to surprize the Friar at his entrance, and his wife kept still her contented quarter, according as opportunitie served. In the conclusion, _Geloso_ being no longer able to endure his bootlesse watching, nor some (more then ordinary) pleasing countenance in his wife: one day demaunded of her (with a very stearne and frowning brow) what secret sinnes shee had revealed to the ghostly Father, upon the day of her shrift? The Woman replyed, that she would not tell him, neyther was it a matter reasonable, or lawfull for her to doe. Wicked Woman, answered _Geloso_: I knowe them all well enough, even in despight of thee, and every word that thou spakest unto him. But Huswife, now I must further know, what the Fryar is, with whom you are so farre in love, and (by meanes of his enchantments) lyeth with you every night; tell me what and who he is, or else I meane to cut your throate. The Woman immediately made answer, it was not true, that she was in love with any Fryar. How? quoth _Geloso_, didst thou not thou confesse so much to the Ghostly Father, the other day when thou wast at shrift? No Sir, sayde she, but if I did, I am sure he would not disclose it to you, except hee suffered you to bee there present, which is an Article beyonde his dutie. But if it were so, then I confesse freely, that I did say so unto him. Make an end then quickely Wife (quoth _Geloso_) and tell mee who the Friar is. The Woman fell into a hearty laughter, saying. It liketh me singularly well, when a wise man will suffer himselfe to be ledde by a simple Woman, even as a Sheepe is to the slaughter, and by the hornes. If once thou wast wise, that wisedome became utterly lost, when thou felst into that divellish frensie of jealousie, without knowing anie reason for it: for, by this beastlike and no manly humour, thou hast eclipsed no meane part of my glory, and womanly reputation. Doest thou imagine Husband, that if I were so blinded in the eyes of my head, as thou art in them which should informe thine understanding; I could have found out the Priest, that would needs bee my Confessor? I knew thee Husband to be the man, and therefore I prepared my wit accordingly, to fit thee with the foolish imagination which thou soughtest for, and (indeed) gave it thee. For, if thou hadst beene wise, as thou makest the world to beleeve by outward apparance, thou wouldest never have expressed such a basenesse of minde, to borrow the coulour of a sanctified cloake, thereby to undermine the secrets of thine honest meaning Wife. Wherefore, to feede thee in thy fond suspition, I was the more free in my Confession, and tolde thee truely, with whom, and how heinously I had transgressed. Did I not tell thee, that I loved a Fryar? And art not thou he whom I love, being a Fryar, and my ghostly Father, though (to thine owne shame) thou madst thy selfe so? I said moreover, that there is not any doore in our house, that can keepe it selfe shut against him, but (when he pleaseth) he comes and lies with me. Now tell me Husband, What doore in our house hath (at any time) bin shut against thee, but they are freely thine owne, & grant thee entrance? Thou art the same Friar that confest me, and lieth every night with me, and so often as thou sentst thy yong Novice or Clearke to me, as often did I truly returne thee word, when the same Fryar lay with me. But (by jealousie) thou hast so lost thine understanding, that thou wilt hardly beleeve all this. Alas good man, like an armed Watchman, thou satst at thine owne doore all a cold Winters night, perswading mee (poore silly credulous woman) that, upon urgent occasions, thou must needs suppe and lodge from home. Remember thy selfe therefore better heereafter, become a true understanding man, as thou shouldst bee, and make not thy selfe a mocking stocke to them, who knoweth thy jealous qualities, as well as I do, and be not so watchfull over me, as thou art. For I sweare by my true honesty, that if I were but as willing, as thou art suspitious: I could deceive thee, if thou hadst an hundred eyes, as Nature affords thee but two, and have my pleasures freely, yet thou be not a jot the wiser, or my credit any way impaired. Our wonderfull wise _Geloso_, who (very advisedly considred) that he had wholly heard his wives secret confession, and dreamed now on no other doubt beside, but (perceiving by her speeches) how hee was become a scorne to al men: without returning other answer, confirmed his wife to bee both wise and honest, and now when he hadde just occasion to be jealous indeede, hee utterly forsware it, and counted them all Coxcombes that would be so misguided. Wherefore, she having thus wisely wonne the way to her owne desires, and he reduced into a more humane temper: I hope there was no more neede, of clambring over houses in the night time like Cats, nor walking in at gutter Windowes, but all abuses were honestly reformed. _Madame_ Isabella, _delighting in the company of her affected Friend, named_ Lionello, _and she being likewise beloved by_ Signior Lambertuccio: _At the same time as shee had entertained_ Lionello, _shee was also visited by_ Lambertuccio. _Her Husband returning home in the very instant: shee caused_ Lambertuccio _to run forth with a drawne sword in his hand, and (by that meanes) made an excuse sufficient for_ Lionello _to her husband._ The Sixth Novell. _Wherein is manifestly discerned, that if Love be driven to a narrow straite in any of his attempts, yet hee can accomplish his purpose by some other supply._ Wondrously pleasing to all the company, was the reported Novell of Madame _Fiammetta_, every one applauding the Womans wisedome, and that she had done no more, then as the jealous foole her husband justly deserved. But shee having ended, the King gave order unto Madame _Pampinea_, that now it was her turne to speake, whereupon, thus she began. There are no meane store of people who say (though very false and foolishly,) that Love maketh many to be out of their wits, and that such as fall in Love, do utterly loose their understanding. To mee this appeareth a very ydle opinion, as already hath beene approved by the related discourses, and shall also bee made manifest by another of mine owne. In our City of _Florence_, famous for some good, though as many bad qualities, there dwelt (not long since) a Gentlewoman, endued with choice beauty and admirable perfections, being wife to Signior _Beltramo_, a very valiant Knight, and a man of great possessions. As oftentimes it commeth to passe, that a man cannot alwayes feede on one kind of bread, but his appetite will be longing after change: so fared it with this Lady, named _Isabella_, she being not satisfied with the delights of her Husband; grew enamoured of a young Gentleman, called _Lionello_, compleate of person and commendable qualities, albeit not of the fairest fortunes, yet his affection every way sutable to hers. And full well you know (faire Ladies) that where the mindes irreciprocally accorded, no dilligence wanteth for the desires execution: so this amorous couple, made many solemne protestations, untill they should bee friended by opportunity. It fortuned in the time of their hopefull expectation a Knight, named Signior _Lambertuccio_, fell likewise in love with _Isabella_: but because he was somewhat unsightly of person, and utterly unpleasing in the eye, she grew regardlesse of his frequent solicitings, and would not accept either tokens, or letters. Which when hee saw, (being very rich and of great power) hee sought to compasse his intent by a contrary course, threatning her with scandall and disgrace to her reputation, and with his associates to bandie against her best friends. She knowing what manner of man he was, and how able to abuse any with infamous imputations, wisely returned him hopefull promises, though never meaning to performe any, but onely (Lady-like) to flatter and foole him therewith. Some few miles distant from _Florence, Beltramo_ had a Castle of pleasure, and there his Lady _Isabella_ used to live all Summer, as all other doe the like, being so possessed. On a day, _Beltramo_ being ridden from home, and she having sent for _Lionello_, to take the advantage of her Husbands absence; accordingly he went, not doubting but to winne what he had long expected. Signior _Lambertuccio_ on the other side, meeting _Beltramo_ riding from his Castle, and _Isabella_ now fit to enjoy his company: gallops thither with all possible speede, because hee would bee no longer delayed. Scarcely was _Lionello_ entred the Castle, and receiving directions by the waiting woman, to her Ladies Chamber: but _Lambertuccio_ gallopped in at the Gate, which the woman perceiving, ranne presently and acquainted her Lady with the comming of _Lambertuccio_. Now was shee the onely sorrowfull woman of the world; for nothing was now to bee feared, but stormes and tempests, because _Lambertuccio_, spake no other, then Lightning and Thunder, and _Lionello_, (being no lesse affraide then shee) by her perswasion crept behind the bed, where he hid himselfe very contentedly. By this time _Lambertuccio_ was dismounted from his Courser, which he fastened (by the bridle) to a ring in the wall, and then the waiting woman came to him, to guide him to her Lady and Mistresse: who stood ready at the staires head, graced him with a very acceptable welcome, yet marvelling much at his so sodaine comming. Lady (quoth he) I met your Husband upon the way, which granting mine accesse to see you; I come to claime your long delayed promise, the time being now so favourable for it. Before he had uttered halfe these words, _Beltramo_, having forgot an especiall evidence in his Study, which was the onely occasion of his journey, came gallopping backe againe into the Castell Court, and seeing such a goodly Gelding stand fastened there, could not redily imagine who was the owner thereof. The waiting woman, upon the sight of her Masters entring into the Court, came to her Lady, saying: My Master _Beltramo_ is returned backe, newly alighted, and (questionlesse) comming up the staires. Now was our Lady _Isabella_, ten times worse affrighted then before, (having two severall amourous suters in her house, both hoping, neither speeding, yet her credite lying at the stake for either) by this unexpected returne of her Husband. Moreover, there was no possible meanes, for the concealing of Signior _Lambertuccio_, because his Gelding stood in the open Court, and therefore made a shrewde presumption against her, upon the least doubtfull question urged. Neverthelesse, as womens wits are alwayes best upon sudden constraints, looking forth of her window, and espying her Husband preparing to come up: she threw her selfe on her day Couch, speaking thus (earnestly) to _Lambertuccio_. Sir, if ever you loved mee, and would have me faithfully to beleeve it, by the instant safety both of your owne honour, and my life, doe but as I advise you. Forth draw your Sword, and, with a stearne countenance, threatning death and destruction: run downe the staires, and when you are beneath, say. I sweare by my best fortunes, although I misse of thee now heere, yet I will be sure to finde thee some where else. And if my Husband offer to stay you, or moove any question to you: make no other answere, but what you formerly spake in fury. Beside, so soone as you are mounted on horsebacke, have no further conference with him, upon any occasion whatsoever; to prevent all suspition in him, of our future intendments. _Lambertuccio_ sware many terrible oathes, to observe her directions in every part, and having drawne forth his Sword, grasping it naked in his hand, and setting worse lookes one the businesse, then ever nature gave him, because he had spent so much labour in vaine; he failed not in a jot of the Ladies injunction. _Beltramo_ having commanded his horse to safe custody, and meeting _Lambertuccio_ discending downe the staires, so armed, swearing, and most extreamely storming, wondring extraordinarily as his threatning words, made offer to imbrace him, and understand the reason of his distemper. _Lambertuccio_ repulsing him rudely, and setting foote in the stirrup, mounted on his Gelding, and spake nothing else but this. I sweare by the fairest of all my fortunes, although I misse of thee heere: yet I will be sure to find thee some where else, and so he gallopped mainely away. When _Beltramo_ was come up into his wives Chamber, hee found her cast downe upon her Couch, weeping, full of feare, and greatly discomforted; wherefore he said unto her, What is hee that Signior _Lambertuccio_ is so extreamely offended withall, and threatneth in such implacable manner? The Lady arising from her Couch, and going neere to the Beds, because _Lionello_ might the better heare her; returned her Husband this answere. Husband (quoth she) never was I so dreadfully affrighted till now; for, a young Gentleman, of whence, or what he is, I know not, came running into our Castle for rescue, being pursued by Signior _Lambertuccio_; with a weapon ready drawne in his hand. Ascending up our stayres, by what fortune, I know not, he found my chamber doore standing open, finding me also working on my Sampler, and in wonderfull feare and trembling. Good Madame (quoth hee) for Gods sake helpe to save my life, or else I shall be slaine heere in your Chamber. Hearing his pittious cry, and compassionating his desperate case; I arose from my worke, and in my demaunding of whence, and what he was, that durst presume so boldly into my bed-chamber: presently came up Signior _Lambertuccio_ also, in the same uncivill sorte, as before I tolde you, swaggering and swearing, where is this traiterous villaine? Heereupon, I stept (somewhat stoutly) to my Chamber doore, and as hee offered to enter, with a womans courage I resisted him, which made him so much enraged against mee, that when hee saw mee to debarre his entrance; after many terrible and vile oathes and vowes, hee ranne downe the stayres againe, in such like manner as you chaunced to meete him. Now trust mee deare wife (said _Beltramo_) you behaved your selfe very well and worthily: for, it would have beene a most notorious scandall to us, if a man should bee slaine in your bed-chamber: and Signior _Lambertuccio_ carryed himselfe most dishonestly, to pursue any man so outragiously, having taken my Castle as his Sanctuary. But alas wife, what is become of the poore affrighted Gentleman? Introth Sir (quoth she) I know not, but (somewhere or other) heereabout hee is hidden. Where art thou honest friend? said plaine meaning _Beltramo_; Come forth and feare not, for thine enemy is gone. _Lionello_, who had heard all the fore-passed discourse, which shee had delivered to her Husband _Beltramo_, came creeping forth amazedly (as one now very fearefully affrighted indeede) from under the further side of the bedde, and _Beltramo_ saide to him, What a quarrell was this, between thee and furious _Lambertuccio_? Not any at all Sir, replyed _Lionello_, to my knowledge, which verily perswadeth me; that either he is not well in his wits, or else he mistaketh me for some other; because, so soone as he saw me on the way, somewhat neere to this your Castle, he drew forth his Sword, and swearing an horrible oath, said. Traitor thou art a dead man. Upon these rough words, I stayed not to question the occasion of mine offending him: but fled from him so fast as possibly I could; but confesse my selfe (indeede) over-bold, by presuming into your Ladies bed chamber, which yet (equalled with her mercie) hath bin the onely meanes at this time, of saving my life. She hath done like a good Lady, answered _Beltramo_, and I do verie much commend her for it. But, recollect thy dismayed spirits together, for I will see thee safely secured hence, afterward, looke to thy selfe so well as thou canst. Dinner being immediately made ready, and they having merrily feasted together: he bestowed a good Gelding on _Lionello_, and rode along with him to _Florence_, where he left him quietly in his owne lodging. The selfe-same Evening (according as _Isabella_ had given enstruction) _Lionello_ conferred with _Lambertuccio_: and such an agreement passed betweene them, that though some rough speeches were noised abroad, to set the better colour on the businesse; yet al matters were so cleanly carried, that _Beltramo_ never knew this queint deceitfull policy of his Wife. Lodovico _discovered to his Mistresse Madame_ Beatrix, _how amorously he was affected to her. She cunningly sent_ Egano _her Husband into his garden, in all respects disguised like herselfe, while (friendly)_ Lodovico _conferred with her in the meane while. Afterward,_ Lodovico _pretending a lascivious allurement of his Mistresse, thereby to wrong his honest Master, insted of her, beateth_ Egano _soundly in the Garden._ The Seventh Novell. _Whereby is declared, that such as keepe many honest seeming servants, may sometime finde a knave among them, and one that proves to be over-sawcy with his Master._ This so sodaine dexterity of wit in _Isabella_, related in verie modest manner by Madame _Pampinea_, was not onely admired by all the company; but likewise passed with as generall approbation. But yet Madam _Philomena_ (whom the King had commanded next to succeede) peremptorily sayde. Worthy Ladies, if I am not deceived; I intend to tell you another Tale presently; as much to be commended as the last. You are to understand then, that it is no long while since, when there dwelt in _Paris_ a _Florentine_ Gentleman, who falling into decay of his estate, by over-bountifull expences; undertooke the degree of a Merchant, and thrived so well by his trading, that he grew to great wealth, having one onely sonne by his wife, named _Lodovico_. This Sonne, partaking somewhat in his Fathers former height of minde, and no way inclineable to deale in Merchandize, had no meaning to be a Shop-man, and therefore accompanied the Gentlemen of _France_, in sundry services for the King; among whom, by his singular good carriage and qualities, he happened to be not meanly esteemed. While thus he continued in the Court, it chanced, that certaine Knights, returning from _Jerusalem_, having there visited the holy Sepulcher, and comming into company where _Lodovico_ was: much familiar discourse passed amongst them, concerning the faire women of _France, England,_ and other parts of the world where they had bin, and what delicate beauties they had seene. One in the company constantly avouched, that of all the Women by them so generally observed, there was not any comparable to the Wife of _Egano de Galluzzi_, dwelling in _Bologna_, and her name Madam _Beatrix_, reputed to be the onely faire woman of the world. Many of the rest maintained as much, having bin at _Bologna_, and likewise seene her. _Lodovico_ hearing the woman to be so highly commended, and never (as yet) feeling any thought of amorous inclination; became sodainely toucht with an earnest desire of seeing her, and his minde could entertaine no other matter, but onely of travailing thither to see her, yea, and to continue there, if occasion so served. The reason for his journey urged to his Father, was to visit _Jerusalem_, and the holy Sepulcher, which with much difficulty, at length he obtained his leave. Being on his journey towards _Bologna_, by the name of _Anichino_, and not of _Lodovico_, and being there arrived; upon the day following, and having understood the place of her abiding: it was his good happe, to see the Lady at her Window; she appearing in his eye farre more faire, then all reports had made her to be. Heereupon, his affection became so enflamed to her, as he vowed, never to depart from _Bologna_, untill he had obtained her love. And devising by what meanes he might effect his hopes, he grew perswaded (setting all other attempts aside) that if he could be entertained into her Husbands service, and undergo some businesse in the house, time might tutor him to obtaine his desire. Having given his attendants sufficient allowance, to spare his company, and take no knowledge of him, selling his Horses also, and other notices which might discover him: he grew into acquaintance with the Hoste of the house where he lay, revealing an earnest desire in himselfe, to serve some Lord or worthy Gentleman, if any were willing to give him entertainment. Now beleeve me Sir (answered the Hoste) you seeme worthy to have a good service indeede, and I know a Noble Gentleman of this Cittie, who is named _Egano_: he will (without all question) accept your offer, for hee keepeth many men of verie good deserving, and you shall have my furtherance therein so much as may be. As he promised, so he performed, and taking _Anichino_ with him unto _Egano_: so farre he prevailed by his friendly protestations, and good opinion of the young Gentleman; that _Anichino_ was (without more ado) accepted into _Eganoes_ service, then which, nothing could be more pleasing to him. Now had he the benefit of dayly beholding his hearts Mistresse, and so acceptable proved his service to _Egano_, that he grew very farre in love with him: not undertaking any affayres whatsoever, without the advice and direction of _Anichino_, so that he reposed his most especiall trust in him, as a man altogether governed by him. It fortuned upon a day, that _Egano_ being ridden to flye his Hawke at the River, and _Anichino_ remaining behinde at home, Madame _Beatrix_, who (as yet) had taken no notice of _Anichinoes_ love to her (albeit her selfe, observing his fine carriage and commendable qualities, was highly pleased to have so seeming a servant) called him to play at the Chesse with her: and _Anichino_, coveting nothing more then to content her, carried himselfe so dexteriously in the game, that he permitted hir still to win, which was no little joy to her. When all the Gentle-women, and other friends there present, as spectators to behold their play, had taken their farewell, and were departed, leaving them all alone, yet gaming still: _Anichino_ breathing forth an intire sigh, Madame _Beatrix_ looking merrily on him, said. Tell me _Anichino_, art not thou angrie, to see me win? It should appeare so by that solemne sigh. No truly Madame, answered _Anichino_, a matter of farre greater moment, then losse of infinite games at the Chesse, was the occasion why I sighed. I pray thee (replyed the Lady) by the love thou bearest me, as being my Servant (if any love at all remain in thee towards me) give me a reason for that harty sigh. When he heard himselfe so severely conjured, by the love he bare to her, and loved none else in the world beside: he gave a farre more hart-sicke sigh, then before. Then his Lady and Mistresse entreated him seriously, to let her know the cause of those two deepe sighes: whereto _Anichino_ thus replyed. Madam, if I should tell you, I stand greatly in feare of offending you: and when I have told you, I doubt your discovery thereof to some other. Beleeve me _Anichino_ (quoth she) therein thou neither canst, or shalt offend me. Moreover, assure thy selfe, that I will never disclose it to any other, except I may do it with thy consent. Madame (saide hee) seeing you have protested such a solemne promise to mee, I will reveale no meane secret unto you. So, with teares standing in his eyes, he told her what he was; where he heard the first report of her singular perfections, and instantly became** enamored of her, as the maine motive of his entring into her service. Then, most humbly he entreated her, that if it might agree with her good liking, she would be pleased to commisserate his case; and grace him with her private favours. Or, if shee might not be so mercifull to him; that yet she would vouchsafe, to let him live in the lowly condition as he did, and thinke it a thankefull duty in him, onely to love her. O singular sweetnesse, naturally living in faire feminine blood! How justly art thou worthy of praise in the like occasions? Thou couldst never be wonne by sighes and teares; but hearty imprecations have alwayes prevailed with thee, making thee apt and easie to amorous desires. If I had praises answerable to thy great and glorious deservings, my voice should never faint, nor my pen waxe weary, in the due and obsequious performance of them. Madam _Beatrix_, well observing _Anichino_ when he spake, and giving credit to his so solemne protestations; they were so powerfull in prevailing with her, that her senses (in the same manner) were enchanted; and sighes flew as violently from her, as before he had vented them: which stormy tempest being a little over-blowne, thus she spake. _Anichino_, my hearts deere affected Friend, live in hope, for I tell thee truly, never could gifts, promises, nor any Courtings used to me by Lords, Knights, Gentlemen, or other (although I have bin solicited by many) winne the lest grace or favour at my hand, no, nor move me to any affection. But thou, in a minute of time (compared with their long and tedious suing) hast expressed such a soveraigne potency in thy sweet words, that thou hast made me more thine, then mine owne: and beleeve it unfeinedly, I hold thee to be worthy of my love. Wherefore, with this kisse I freely give it thee, and make thee a further promise, that before this night shall be fully past, thou shalt in better manner perceive it. Adventure into my Chamber about the houre of midnight, I will leave the doore open: thou knowest, on which side of the bed I use to rest, come thither and feare not: if I sleep, the least gentle touch of thy hand will wake me, and then thou shalt see how much I love thee. So, with a kinde kisse or two, the bargaine was concluded, she licensing his departure for that time, and he staying in hope of his hearts happinesse, till when, he thought every houre a yeare. In the meane while, _Egano_ returned home from Hawking, and so soone as he had supt (being very weary) he went to bed, and his Ladie likewise with him, leaving her Chamber doore open, according as she had promised. At the houre appointed, _Anichino_ came, finding the doore but easily put too, which (being entred) softly he closed againe, in the same manner as he found it. Going to the beds side where the Lady lay, and gently touching her brest with his hand, he found her to be awake, and perceiving he was come according unto promise, shee caught his hand fast with hers, and held him very strongly. Then, turning (as she could) towards _Egano_, she made such meanes, as hee awaked, whereupon she spake unto him as followeth. Sir, yesternight I would have had a fewe speeches with you: but, in regard of your wearinesse and early going to bed, I could not have any opportunity. Now, this time and place being most convenient, I desire to bee resolved by you: Among all the men retained into your service; which of them you do thinke to be the best, most loyall, and worthiest to enjoy your love? _Egano_ answered thus: Wife, why should you move such a question to me? Do not you know, that I never had any servant heeretofore, or ever shall have heereafter, in whom I reposed the like trust as I have done, and do in _Anichino_? But to what end is this motion of yours? I will tell you Sir (quoth she) and then be Judge yourself, whether I have reason to move this question, or no. Mine opinion every way equalled yours, concerning _Anichino_, & that he was more just and faithfull to you, then any could be amongest all the rest: But Husband, like as where the water runneth stillest, the Foord is deepest, even so, his smooth lookes have beguiled both you and me. For, no longer agoe, then this verie day, no sooner were you ridden foorth on Hauking, but he (belike purposely) tarrying at home, watching such a leysure as best fitted his intent: was not ashamed to solicite mee, both to abuse your bed, and mine owne spotlesse honor. Moreover, he prosecuted his impious purpose with such alluring perswasions: that being a weake woman, and not willing to endure over many Amorous proofes (onely to acquaint you with his most sawcie immodestie, and to revenge your selfe uppon him as best you may; your selfe beeing best able to pronounce him guiltie) I made him promise, to meete him in our Garden, presently after midde-night, and to finde mee sitting under the Pine-Tree, never meaning (as I am vertuous) to be there. But, that you may know the deceite and falshoode of your Servant, I would have you to put on my Night-gowne, my head Attire, and Chinne-cloath, and sitting but a short while there underneath the Pine-Tree: such is his insatiate desire, as he will not faile to come, and then you may proceede, as you finde occasion. When _Egano_ heard these Words, sodainely hee started out of Bed, saying. Doe I foster such a Snake in mine owne bosome? Gramercie Wife for this politicke promise of thine, and beleeve mee, I meane to follow it effectually. So, on he put his Ladies Night-gown, her formall head Attire and Chin-cloth, going presently downe into the Garden, to expect _Anichinoes_ comming to the Pine-Tree. But before the matter grew to this issue, let me demand of you faire Ladies, in what a lamentable condition (as you may imagine) was poore _Anichino_; to bee so strongly detained by her, heare all his amorous suite discovered, and likely to draw very heavy afflictions on him? Undoubtedly, he looked for immediate apprehension by _Egano_, imprisonment and publike punishment for his so malapert presumption: and had it proved so, she had much renowned her selfe, and dealt with him but as he had justlie deserved. But frailtie in our feminine sex is too much prevalent, and makes us wander from vertuous courses, when we are wel onward in the way to them. Madam _Beatrix_, whatsoever passed betweene her and _Anichino_, I know not, but, either to continue this new begunne league for further time, or, to be revenged on her husbands simplicity, in over-rashlie giving credit to so smooth a ly; this was her advise to him. _Anichino_ quoth she, Take a good Cudgell in thy hand, then go into the Garden so farre as the Pine; and there, as if formerly thou hadst solicited mee unto this secret meeting, only but by way of approving my honestie: in my name, revile thy master so bitterly as thou canst, bestowing manie sound blowes on him with thy cudgell; yet urge the shame still (as it were) to mee, and never leave him, till thou hast beaten him out of the garden, to teach him keepe his bed another time. Such an apt Scholler as _Anichino_ was in this kind, needs no tuturing, but a word is enough to a ready Wit. To the Garden goes he, with a good willow cudgell in his hand, and comming neere to the Pine-tree, there he found _Egano_ disguised like to his Lady, who arising from the place where he sate, went with chearefull gesture to welcome him; but _Anichino_ (in rough and stearne manner) thus spake unto him. Wicked, shamelesse, and most immodest Woman, Art thou come, according to thine unchaste and lascivious promise? Couldest thou so easily credite, (though I tempted thee, to trie the vertue of thy continencie) I would offer such a damnable wrong to my worthy Master, that so deerely loves me, and reposeth his especiall confidence in me? Thou art much deceived in me, and shalt finde, that I hate to be false to him. So lifting up the Cudgell, he gave him therewith halfe a score good bastinadoes, laying them on soundly, both on his armes and shoulders: and _Egano_ feeling the smart of them, durst not speake one Worde, but fled away from him so fast as hee could, _Anichino_ still following, and multiplying many other injurious speeches against him, with the Epithites of Strumpet, lustfull and insatiate Woman. Go thou lewde beast (quoth he) most unworthy the title of a Lady, or to be Wife unto so good a natured man, as my Mayster is, to whom I will reveale thy most ungracious incivility to Morrow, that he may punish thee a little better then I have done. _Egano_ being thus well beaten for his Garden walke, got within the doore, and so went up to his Chamber againe: his Lady there demanding of him, whether _Anichino_ came according to his promise, or no? Come? quoth Egano, Yes Wife, he came, but deerely to my cost: for hee verily taking me for thee, hath beaten me most extreamly, calling me an hundred Whores and Strumpets, reputing thee to bee the wickedest Woman living. In good sadnesse _Beatrix_, I wondred not a little at him, that he would give thee any such vile speeches, with intent to wrong mee in mine honour. Questionlesse, because hee saw thee to be joviall spirited, gracious and affable towardes all men; therefore hee intended to make triall of thine honest carriage. Well Sir (sayde shee) twas happy that hee tempted mee with words, and let you taste the proofe of them by deeds: and let him thinke, that I brooke those words as distastably, as you do or can, his ill deeds. But seeing he is so just, faithfull, and loyall to you, you may love him the better, and respect him as you finde occasion. Whereto _Egano_ thus replyed. Now trust me wife, thou hast said very well: And drawing hence the argument of his setled perswasion; that he had the chastest Woman living to his wife, and so just a Servant, as could not be fellowed: there never was any further discoverie of this Garden-night accident. Perhaps, Madame _Beatrix_ and _Anichino_ might subtilly smile thereat in secret, in regard that they knew more then any other else beside did. But, as for honest meaning _Egano_, hee never had so much as the verie least mistrust of ill dealing, either in his Lady, or _Anichino_; whom hee loved and esteemed farre more respectively uppon this proofe of his honestie towards him, then hee would or could possibly have done, without a triall so playne and pregnant. Arriguccio Berlinghieri, _became immeasurably jelous of his Wife_ Simonida, _who fastened a thred about her great toe, for to serve as a signall, when her amorous friend should come to visite her._ Arriguccio _findeth the fallacie, and while he pursueth the amorous friend, shee causeth her Maide to lye in her bed against his returne: whom he beateth extreamly, cutting away the lockes of her haire (thinking he had doone all this violence to his wife_ Simonida:) _and afterward fetcheth her Mother & Brethren, to shame her before them, and so be rid of her. But they finding all his speeches to be utterly false; and reputing him to bee a drunken jealous foole; all the blame and disgrace falleth on himselfe._ The Eight Novell. _Whereby appeareth, that an Husband ought to be very well advised, when he meaneth to discover any wrong offered his wife; except hee himselfe do rashly run into all the shame and reproach._ It seemed to the whole assembly, that Madam _Beatrix_, dealte somewhat strangely, in the manner of beguiling her husband; and affirmed also, that _Anichino_ had great cause of fear, when she held him so strongly by her beds side, and related all his amorous temptation. But when the King perceyved, that Madame _Philomena_ sate silent, he turned to Madam _Neiphila_, willing her to supply the next place; who modestly smiling, thus began. Faire Ladies, it were an heavy burthen imposed on me, and a matter much surmounting my capacity, if I should vainely imagine, to content you with so pleasing a Novell, as those have already done, by you so singularly reported: neverthelesse, I must discharge my dutie, and take my fortune as it fals, albeit I hope to finde you mercifull. You are to know then, that sometime there lived in our Citie, a very welthy Merchant, named _Arriguccio Berlinghieri_, who (as many Merchants have done) fondly imagined, to make himselfe a Gentleman by marriage. Which that he might the more assuredly do, he took to wife a Gentlewoman, one much above his degree or element, she being named _Simonida_. Now, in regard that he delighted (as it is the usuall life of a Merchant) to be often abroad, and little at home, whereby shee had small benefit of his company; shee grew very forward in affection with a young Gentleman, called Signior _Roberto_, who had solicited hir by many amorous meanes, and (at length) prevailed to win her favor. Which favour being once obtained; affection gaddes so farre beyond al discretion, and makes Lovers so heedelesse of their private conversations: that either they are taken tardy in their folly, or else subjected to scandalous suspition. It came to passe, that _Arriguccio_, either by rumour, or some other more sensible apprehension, had received such intelligence concerning his Wife _Simonida_, as he grew into extraordinarie jealousie of her, refraining travaile abroad, as formerly he was wont to doe, and ceassing from his verie ordinary affayres, addicting all his care and endeavour, onely to be watchfull of his Wife; so that he never durst sleepe, untill she were by him in the bed, which was no meane molestation to her, being thus curbd from her familiar meetings with _Roberto_. Neverthelesse, having a long while consulted with her wittes, to find some apte meanes for conversing with him, being thereto also very earnestlie still solicited by him; you shall heare what course she undertooke. Her Chamber being on the streete side, and somewhat juttying over it, she observed the disposition of her Husband, that every night it was long before he fell asleepe: but beeing once falne into it, no noyse whatsoever, could easily wake him. This his solemne and sound sleeping, emboldned her so farre, as to meete with _Roberto_ at the streete doore, which (while her Husband slept) softly she would open to him, and there in private converse with him. But, because shee would know the certaine houre of his comming, without the least suspition of any: she hung a thred forth of her Chamber Window, descending downe, within the compasse of _Robertoes_ reach in the street, and the other end thereof, guided from the Window to the bed, being conveyed under the cloathes, and shee being in bed, she fastned it about her left great Toe, wherewith _Roberto_ was sufficiently acquainted, and thus enstructed withall; that at his comming, he should plucke the thred, & if her husband was in his dead sleep, she would let go the thred, and come downe to him: but if he slept not, she would hold it strongly, and then his tarrying would prove but in vaine; there could be no meeting that night. This devise was highly pleasing both to _Roberto_ and _Simonida_, being the intelligencer of their often meeting, and many times also advising the contrary. But in the end, as the quaintest cunning may faile at one time or another; so it fortuned one night, that _Simonida_ being in a sound sleepe, and _Arriguccio_ waking, because his drowsie houre was not as yet come: as he extended forth his legge in the bed, he found the thred, which feeling in his hand, and perceiving it was tyed to his wives great toe; it prooved apt tinder to kindle further Jealousie, and now hee suspected some treachery indeede, and so much the rather because the thred guided (under the cloathes) from the bed to the window, and there hanging downe into the streete, as a warning to some further businesse. Now was _Arriguccio_ so furiously enflamed, that hee must needes bee further resolved in this apparant doubt: and because therein hee would not be deceived, softly he cut the thred from his wives toe, and made it fast about his owne; to trye what successe would ensue thereon. It was not long before _Roberto_ came, and according as hee used to doe, hee pluckt the thred, which _Arriguccio_ felt, but because hee had not tyed it fast, and _Roberto_ pulling it over-hardly, it fell downe from the window into his hand, which he understood as his lesson, to attend her comming, and so hee did. _Arriguccio_ stealing softly out of bed from his wife, and taking his Sword under his arme, went downe to the doore, to see who it was, with full intent of further revenge. Now, albeit he was a Merchant, yet he wanted not courage, and boldnesse of spirit, and opening the doore without any noyse, onely as his wife was wont to doe: _Roberto_, there waiting his entrance, perceived by the doores unfashionable opening, that it was not _Simonida_, but her Husband, whereupon he betooke himselfe to flight, and _Arriguccio_ fiercely followed him. At the length, _Roberto_ perceiving that flight avayled him not, because his enemy still pursued him: being armed also with a Sword, as _Arriguccio_ was; he returned backe upon him, the one offering to offend, as the other stood upon his defence, and so in the darke they fought together. _Simonida_ awaking, even when her Husband went foorth of the Chamber, and finding the thred to be cut from her toe; conjectured immediately, that her subtle cunning was discovered, and supposing her Husband in pursuite of _Roberto_, presently she arose; and, considering what was likely to ensue thereon, called her Chamber-maide (who was not ignorant in the businesse) and by perswasions prevailed so with her, that she lay downe in her place in the bed, upon solemne protestations and liberall promises, not to make her selfe knowne, but to suffer all patiently, either blowes, or other ill usage of her Husband, which shee would recompence in such bountifull sort, as she should have no occasion to complaine. So, putting out the watch-light, which every night burned in the Chamber, she departed thence, and sate downe in a close corner of the house, to see what would be the end of all this stirre, after her Husbands comming home. The fight (as you have formerly heard) continuing betweene _Roberto_ and _Arriguccio_, the neighbours hearing of the clashing of their Swords in the streets; arose out of their beds, and reproved them in very harsh manner. In which respect _Arriguccio_, fearing to be knowne, and ignorant also what his adversary was (no harme being as yet done on either side) permitted him to depart; and extreamely full of anger, returned backe againe to his house. Being come up into his bed-chamber, Thus he began; Where is this lewde and wicked woman? what? hast thou put out the light, because I should not finde thee? that shall not avayle thee, for I can well enough finde a drab in the darke. So, groping on to the beds side, and thinking hee had taken hold on his wife, he grasped the Chamber-maide, so beating her with his fists, and spurning her with his feet, that all her face was bloody & bruised. Next, with his knife he cut off a great deal of her haire: giving her the most villanous speeches as could be devised: swearing, that he would make her a shame to all the world. You need make no doubt, but the poore maide wept exceedingly, as she had good occasion to doe: and albeit many times she desired mercy, and that hee would not bee so cruell to her: yet notwithstanding, her voyce was so broken with crying, and his impacience so extreame, that rage hindered all power of distinguishing, or knowing his wives tongue from a strangers. Having thus madly beaten her, and cut the lockes off from her head, thus he spake to her. Wicked woman, and no wife of mine, be sure I have not done with thee yet; for, although I meane not now to beate thee any longer: I will goe to thy brethren, and they shall understand thy dishonest behaviour. Then will I bring them home with me, and they perceiving how much thou hast abused both their honour and thine owne; let them deale with thee as they finde occasion, for thou art no more a companion for me. No sooner had he uttered these angry words, but hee went forth of the Chamber, bolting it fast on the outward side, as meaning to keepe her safely inclosed, & out of the house he went alone by himselfe. _Simonida_, who had heard all this tempestuous conflict, perceiving that her Husband had lockt the streete doore after him, and was gone whether he pleased: unbolted the Chamber doore, lighted a waxe candle, and went in to see her poore maide, whom she found to be most pittifully misused. She comforted her as well as she could, brought her into her owne lodging Chamber, where washing her face and hurts in very soveraigne waters, and rewarding her liberally with _Arriguccioes_ owne Gold; she held her selfe to bee sufficiently satisfyed. So, leaving the maide in her lodging, and returning againe to her owne Chamber: she made up the bed in such former manner, as if no body had lodged therein that night. Then hanging up her Lampe fresh fild with oyle, and clearly lighted, she deckt her selfe in so decent sort, as if she had bin in no bed all that night. Then taking sowing worke in her hand, either shirts or bands of her Husbands; hanging the Lampe by her, and sitting downe at the stayres head, she fell to worke in very serious manner, as if shee had undertaken some imposed taske. On the other side, _Arriguccio_ had travelled so farre from his house, till he came at last to the dwelling of _Simonidaes_ brethren: where hee knockt so soundly, that he was quickely heard, and (almost as speedily) let in. _Simonidaes_ brethren, and her mother also, hearing of _Arriguccioes_ comming thither so late. Rose from their beds, and each of them having a Waxe Candle lighted came presently to him, to understand the cause of this his so unseasonable visitation. _Arriguccio_, beginning at the originall of the matter, the thred found tyed about his wives great toe, the fight and houshold conflict after following: related every circumstance to them. And for the better proofe of his words, he shewed them the thred it selfe, the lockes supposed of his wives haire, and adding withall; that they might now dispose of _Simonida_ as themselves pleased, because she should remaine no longer in his house. The brethren to _Simonida_ were exceedingly offended at this relation, in regard they beleeved it for truth, and in this fury, commanded Torches to be lighted, preparing to part thence with _Arriguccio_ home to his house, for the more sharpe reprehension of their Sister. Which when their mother saw, she followed them weeping, first entreating one, and then the other, not to be over rash in crediting such a slander, but rather to consider the truth thereof advisedly: because the Husband might be angry with his Wife upon some other occasion, and having outraged her, made this the meanes in excuse of himselfe. Morever she said, that she could not chuse but wonder greatly, how this matter should thus come to passe; because she had good knowledge of her daughter, during the whole course of her education, faultlesse and blamelesse in every degree; with many other good words of her beside, as proceeding from naturall affection of a mother. Being come to the house of _Arriguccio_, entring in, and ascending up the stayres: they heard _Simonida_ sweetly singing at her working; but pausing, upon hearing their rude trampling, shee demaunded, who was there. One of the angry brethren presently answered: Lewde woman as thou art, thou shalt know soone enough who is heere: Our blessed Lady be with us (quoth _Simonida_) and sweet Saint Frances helpe to defend me, who dare use such unseemely speeches? Starting up and meeting them on the staire head: Kinde brethren, (said she) is it you? What, and my loving mother too? For sweet Saint Charities sake, what may be the reason of your comming hither in this manner. Shee being set downe againe to her worke, so neatly apparelled, without any signe of outrage offered her, her face unblemished, her haire comely ordered, and differing wholly from the former speeches of her Husband: the Brethren marvelled thereat not a little; and asswaging somewhat the impetuous torrent of their rage; began to demaund in coole blood, (as it were) from what ground her Husbands complaints proceeded, and threatning her roughly, if she would not confesse the truth intirely to them. Ave Maria (quoth _Simonida_, crossing her selfe) Alas deare Brethren, I know not what you say, or meane, nor wherein my Husband should bee offended, or make any complaint at all of me. _Arriguccio_ hearing this, looked on her like a man that had lost his Senses: for well he remembred, how many cruell blowes he had given her on the face, beside scratches of his nailes, and spurnes of his feet, as also the cutting of her haire, the the least shew of all which misusage, was not now to be seene. Her brethren likewise briefly told her, the whole effect of her Husbands speeches, shewing her the thred, and in what cruell manner he sware hee did beate her. _Simonida_, turning then to her Husband, and seeming as confounded with amazement, said. How is this Husband? what doe I heare? would you have me supposed (to your owne shame and disgrace) to be a bad woman, and your selfe a cruell curst man, when (on either side) there is no such matter? When were you this night heere in the house with mee? Or when should you beate mee, and I not feele nor know it. Beleeve me (sweete heart) all these are meerely miracles to me. Now was _Arriguccio_ ten times more mad in his minde, then before, saying. Divell, and no woman, did wee not this night goe both together to bed? Did not I cut this thred from thy great toe, tyed it to mine, and found the craftie compact betweene thee and thy Minnion? Did not I follow and fight with him in the streets? Came I not backe againe, and beate thee as a Strumpet should be? And are not these the locks of haire, which I my selfe did cut from thy head? Alas Sir (quoth she) where have you been? doe you know what you say? you did not lodge in this house this night, neither did I see you all the whole day and night, till now. But leaving this, and come to the matter now in question, because I have no other testimony then mine owne words. You say, that you did beate me, and cut those lockes of haire from my head. Alas Sir, why should you slander your selfe? In all your life time you did never strike me. And to approve the truth of my speeches, doe you your selfe, and all else heere present, looke on me advisedly, if any signe of blow or beating is to be seene on me. Nor were it an easie matter for you to doe either to smite, or so much as lay your hand (in anger) on me, it would cost dearer then you thinke for. And whereas you say, that you did cut those lockes of haire from my head; it is more then either I know, or felt, nor are they in colour like to mine: but, because my Mother and brethren shall be my witnesses therein, and whether you did it without my knowledge; you shall all see, if they be cut, or no. So, taking off her head attyre, she displayed her hayre over her shoulders, which had suffered no violence, neither seemed to bee so much as uncivilly or rudely handled. When the mother and brethren saw this, they began to murmure against _Arriguccio_, saying, What thinke you of this Sir? you tell us of strange matters which you have done, and all proving false, we wonder how you can make good the rest. _Arriguccio_ looked wilde, and confusedly, striving still to maintaine his accusation: but seeing every thing to bee flatly against him, he durst not attempt to speake one word. _Simonida_ tooke advantage of this distraction in him, and turning to her brethren, saide. I see now the marke whereat he aymeth, to make me doe what I never meante: Namely, that I should acquaint you with his vile qualities, and what a wretched life I leade with him, which seeing hee will needes have me to reveale; beare with me if I doe it upon compulsion. Mother and Brethren, I am verily perswaded, that those accidents which he disclosed to you, hath doubtlesse (in the same manner) happened to him, and you shall heare how. Very true it is, that this seeming honest man, to whom (in a lucklesse houre) you married me, stileth himselfe by the name of a Merchant, coveting to be so accounted and credited, as holy in outward appearance, as a Religious Monke, and as demure in lookes, as the modestest Maide: like a notorious common drunkard, is a Taverne hunter, where making his luxurius matches, one while with one Whore, then againe with another; hee causeth mee every night to sit tarrying for him, even in the same sort as you found me: sometimes till midnight, and otherwhiles till broad day light in the morning. And questionlesse, being in his wounted drunken humour, hee hath lyen with one of his sweet Consorts, about whose toe he found the thred, and finding her as false to him, as he hath alwayes been to me: Did not onely beat her, but also cut the haire from her head. And having not yet recovered his sences, is verily perswaded, and cannot be altered from it; but that hee performed all this villany to me. And if you doe but advisedly observe his countenance, he appeareth yet to be more then halfe drunke. But whatsoever he hath said concerning me, I make no account at all thereof, because he spake it in his drunkennesse, and as freely as I forgive him, even so (good Mother and kinde Brethren) let mee entreate you to do the like. When the Mother had heard these words, and confidently beleeved her Daughter: she began to torment her selfe with anger, saying. By the faith of my body Daughter, this unkindnesse is not be endured, but rather let the dogge be hanged, that his qualities may be knowne, he being utterly unworthy, to have so good a woman to his wife, as thou art. What could he have done more, if he had taken thee in the open streete, and in company of some wanton Gallants? In an unfortunate houre wast thou married to him, base jealous Coxecombe as he is, and it is quite against sense, or reason, that thou shouldest be subject to his fooleries. What was hee, but a Merchant of Eale-skinnes or Orenges; bred in some paltry countrey village; taken from Hogge-rubbing; clothed in Sheepes-Sattin, with Clownish Startops, Leather stockings, and Caddies garters: His whole habite not worth three shillings: And yet he must have a faire Gentlewoman to his Wife, of honest fame, riches and reputation; when, comparing his pedegree with hers, hee is farre unfit to wipe her shooes. Oh my deare Sonnes, I would you had followed my counsell, and permitted her to match in the honourable family of _Count Guido_, which was much mooved, and seriously pursued. But you would needs bestow her on this goodly Jewell; who, although shee is one of the choysest beauties in Florence, chaste, honest and truely vertuous: Is not ashamed at midnight, to proclaime her for a common whore, as if we had no better knowledge of her. But by the blessed mother of Saint _John_, if you would be ruled by mine advise; our law should make him dearely smart for it. Alas my sonnes, did I not tell you at home in our owne house, that his words were no way likely to prove true? Have not your eyes observed his unmannerly behaviour to your Sister? If I were as you are, hearing what he hath said, and noting his drunken carriage beside; I should never give over, as long as he had any life left in him. And were I a man, as I am a woman; none other then my selfe should revenge her wrongs, making him a publike spectacle to all drabbing drunkards. When the brethren had heard and observed all these occurrences; in most bitter manner they railed on _Arriguccio_, bestowing some good bastinadoes on him beside, concluding thus with him in the end. Quoth one of them, Wee will pardon this shamefull abusing of our Sister, because thou art a notorious drunkard: but looke to it (on perill of thy life) that we have no more such newes hereafter; for, beleeve it unfainedly, if any such impudent rumours happen to our eares, or so much as a flying fame thereof; thou shalt surely be paide for both faults together. So home againe went they, and _Arriguccio_ stood like one that had neither life or motion, not knowing (whether what he had done) was true, or no, or if he dreamed all this while, and so (without uttering any word) he left his Wife, and went quietly to bed. Thus by her wisdome, she did not onely prevent an imminent perill: but also made a free and open passage, to further contentment with her amourous friend, yet dreadlesse of any distaste or suspition in her Husband. Lydia, _a Lady of great beauty, birth, and honor, being wife to_ Nicostratus, _Governour of_ Argos, _falling in love with a Gentleman, named_ Pyrrhus; _was requested by him (as a true testimony of her unfeigned affection) to performe three severall actions of her selfe. She did accomplish them all, and imbraced and kissed_ Pyrrhus _in the presence of_ Nicostratus; _by perswading him, that whatsoever he saw, was meerely false._ The Ninth Novell. _Wherein is declared, that great Lords may sometime be deceived by their Wives, as well as men of meaner condition._ The Novell delivered, by Madame _Neiphila_ seemed so pleasing to all the Ladies; as they could not refraine from hearty laughter, beside much liberality of speech. Albeit the King did oftentimes urge silence, and commanded _Pamphilus_ to follow next. So, when attention was admitted, _Pamphilus_ began in this order. I am of opinion, faire Ladies, that there is not any matter, how uneasie or doubtfull soever it may seeme to be; but the man or woman that affecteth fervently, dare boldly attempt, and effectually accomplish. And this perswasion of mine, although it hath beene sufficiently approved, by many of our passed Novels: Yet notwithstanding, I shall make it much apparent to you, by a present discourse of mine owne. Wherein I have occasion to speake of a Lady, to whom Fortune was more favourable, then either reason or judgement, could give direction. In which regard, I would not advise any of you, to entertaine so high an imagination of minde, as to tracke her footsteps of whom I am now to speake: because Fortune containeth not alwayes one and the same disposition, neither can all mens eyes be blinded after one manner. And so proceed we to our Tale. In _Argos_, a most ancient Citie of _Achaya_, much more renowned by her precedent Kings, then wealth, or any other great matter of worth: there lived as Lieutenant or Governour thereof, a Noble Lord, named _Nicostratus_, on whom (albeit hee was well stept into yeares) Fortune bestowed in a marriage a great Lady, no lesse bold of spirit, then choisely beautifull. _Nicostratus_, abounding in treasure and wealthy possessions, kept a goodly trains of Servants, Horses, Houndes, Hawkes, and what else not, as having an extraordinary felicity in all kinds of game, as singular exercises to maintaine his health. Among his other Servants and Followers, there was a yong Gentleman, gracefull of person, excellent in speech, and every way as active as no man could be more: his name _Pyrrhus_, highly affected of _Nicostratus_, and more intimately trusted then all the rest. Such seemed the perfections of this _Pyrrhus_, that _Lydia_ (for so was the Lady named) began to affect him very earnestly, and in such sort, as day or night shee could take no rest, but devised all meanes to compasse her harts desire. Now, whether he observed this inclination of her towards him, or else would take no notice thereof, it could not be discerned by any outward apprehension: which moved the more impatiency in her, & drove her hopes to dispairing passions. Wherein to finde some comfort and ease, she called an ancient Gentlewoman of her Chamber, in whom shee reposed especiall confidence, and thus she spake to her. _Lesca_, The good turnes and favours thou hast received from me, should make thee faithfull and obedient to me: and therefore set a locke uppon thy lippes, for revealing to any one whatsoever, such matters as now I shall impart to thee; except it be to him that I command thee. Thou perceivest _Lesca_, how youthfull I am, apt to all sprightly recreations, rich, and abounding in all that a woman can wish to have, in regard of Fortunes common & ordinary favours: yet I have one especiall cause of complaint: namely, the inequality of my Mariage, my Husband being over-ancient for me; in which regard, my youth finds it selfe too highly wronged, being defeated of those duties and delights, which women (farre inferiour to me) are continuallie cloyed withall, and I am utterly deprived of. I am subject to the same desires they are, and deserve to taste the benefit of them, in as ample manner, as they do or can. Hitherto I have lived with the losse of time, which yet (in some measure) may be releeved and recompenced: For, though Fortune were mine enemy in Mariage, by such a disproportion of our conditions: yet she may befriend in another nature, and kindely redeeme the injury done me. Wherefore _Lesca_, to be as compleate in this case, as I am in all the rest beside; I have resolved upon a private Friend, and one more worthy then any other; Namely, my Servant _Pyrrhus_, whose youth carieth some correspondency with mine; and so constantly have I setled my love to him, as I am not well, but when I thinke on him, or see him: and (indeede) shall dye, except the sooner I may enjoy him. And therefore, if my life and well-fare be respected by thee, let him understand the integrity of mine affection, by such good means as thou findest it most expedient to be done: entreating him from me, that I may have some conference with him, when he shall thereto be solicited by me. The Chamber-Gentlewoman _Lesca_, willingly undertooke the Ladies Embassie; and so soone as opportunity did favor her: having withdrawne _Pyrrhus_ into an apt and commodious place, shee delivered the Message to him, in the best manner she could devise. Which _Pyrrhus_ hearing, did not a little wonder thereat, never having noted any such matter; and therefore sodainly conceyved, that the Lady did this onely to try him; whereupon, somewhat roundly and roughly, hee returned this answere. _Lesca_, I am not so simple, as to credite any such Message to be sent from my Lady, and therefore be better advised of thy words. But admit that it should come from her, yet I cannot be perswaded, that her soule consented to such harsh Language, far differing from a forme so full of beauty**. And yet admit againe, that her hart and tongue herein were relatives: My Lord and Master hath so farre honoured mee, and so much beyond the least part of merite in mee: as I will rather dye, then any way offer to disgrace him: And therefore I charge thee, never more to move mee in this matter. _Lesca_, not a jot danted at his stearne words, presently she saide. _Pyrrhus_, Both in this and all other Messages my Lady shall command me, I will speake to thee whensoever shee pleaseth, receive what discontent thou canst thereby; or make presumption of what doubts thou maist devise. But as I found thee a senselesse fellow, dull, and not shaped to any understanding, so I leave thee: And in that anger parted from him, carrying backe the same answer to her Lady. She no sooner heard it, but instantly shee wished her selfe to be dead; and within some few dayes after, she conferred againe with her Chamber-woman, saying. _Lesca_, thou knowest well enough, that the Oxe falleth not at the first blow of the Axe, neither is the victory won, upon a silly and shallow adventure: Wherefore, I thinke it convenient, that once more thou shouldst make another tryall of him, who (in prejudice to me) standeth so strictly on his loyalty, and choosing such an houre as seemeth most commodious, soundly possesse him with my tormenting passions. Bestirre thy Wittes, and tippe thy tongue with a Womans eloquence, to effect what I so earnestly desire: because, by languishing in this love-sicke affliction, it well bee the danger of my death, and some severe detriment to him, to be the occasion of so great a losse. _Lesca_, comforted her Lady, so much as lay in her power to doe, and having sought for _Pyrrhus_, whom she found at good leysure; and, in a pleasing humour, thus she beganne. _Pyrrhus_, some few dayes since I tolde thee, in what extreame Agonies thy Lady and mine was, onely in regarde of her love to thee: and now againe I come once more, to give thee further assurance thereof: Wherefore, beleeve it unfeignedly, that if thy obstinacie continue still, in like manner as the other day it did, expect very shortly to heare the tydings of her death. It is my part therefore, to entreat thee, to comfort her long languishing desires: but if thou persist in thy harsh opinion, in stead of reputing thee a wise and fortunate yong man, I shall confesse thee to bee an ignoraunt Asse. What a glorie is it to thee, to be affected of so faire and worthy a Lady, beyond all men else whatsoever? Next to this, tell me, how highly maist thou confesse thy selfe beholding to Fortune, if thou but duly consider, how shee hath elected thee as sole soveraigne of her hopes, which is a crowne of honour to thy youth, and a sufficient refuge against all wants and necessities? Where is any to thy knowledge like thy selfe, that can make such advantage of his time, as thou maist do, if thou wert wise? Where canst thou find any one to go beyond thee in Armes, Horses, sumptuous garments, and Gold, as will be heaped on thee, if _Lydia_ may be the Lady of thy love? Open then thine understanding to my words, returne into thine owne soule, and bee wise for thy selfe. Remember (_Pyrrhus_) that Fortune presents her selfe but once before any one, with cheerefull lookes, and her lappe wide open of richest favours, where if choice be not quickely made, before she folde it up, and turn her backe: let no complaint afterward be made of her, if the Fellow that had so faire an offer, proove to be miserable, wretched, and a Beggar, only thorow his owne negligence. Beside, what else hath formerly bin saide, there is now no such neede of loyaltie in servants to their Ladies, as should be among deare Friends and Kindred: but servants ought rather (as best they may) be such to their Masters, as they are to them. Doest thou imagine, that if thou hadst a faire Wife, Mother, Daughter, or Sister, pleasing in the eye of our _Nicostratus_; he would stand on such nice tearmes of duty or Loyaltie, as now thou doest to his Ladie? Thou wert a verie foole to rest so perswaded. Assure thy selfe, that if entreaties and faire meanes might not prevaile, force, and compulsion (whatsoever ensued thereon) woulde winne the masterie. Let us then use them, and the commodities unto them belonging, as they would us and ours. Use the benefit of thy Fortune, & beware of abusing her favour. She yet smiles on thee; but take heede least she turne her backe, it will then be over-late to repent thy folly. And if my Ladie die through thy disdaine, be assured, that thou canst not escape with life, beside open shame and disgrace for ever. _Pyrrhus_, who had often considered on _Lescaes_ first message, concluded with himselfe; that if any more she moved the same matter: hee would returne her another kinde of answere, wholly yeelding to content his Lady; provided, that he might remaine assured, concerning the intyre truth of the motion, and that it was not urged onely to trie him, wherefore, thus he replyed. _Lesca_, do not imagine mee so ignorant, as not to know the certaintie of all thy former allegations, confessing them as freely as thou doest, or canst. But yet let mee tell thee withall, that I knowe my Lord to be wise and judicious, and having committed all his affaires to my care and trust: never blame mee to misdoubt; least my Ladie (by his counsell and advice) make thee the messenger of this motion, thereby to call my Fidelitie in question. To cleare which doubt, and for my further assurance of her well meaning toward me; if she will undertake the performance of three such things as I must needes require in this case: I am afterward her owne, in any service she can command me. The first of them, is, that in the presence of my Lord and Master, she kill his faire Faulcon, which so dearly hee affecteth. The second, to send me a locke or tuft of his beard, being puld away with her owne hand. The third and last, with the same hand also, to pluck out one of his best and soundest teeth, and send it mee as her loves true token. When I finde all these three effectually performed, I am wholly hers, & not before. These three strict impositions, seemed to _Lesca_, and her Ladie likewise, almost beyond the compasse of all possibility. Nevertheles Love, being a powerfull Oratour in perswading, as also adventurous even on the most difficult dangers; gave her courage to undertake them all: sending _Lesca_ backe againe to him, with full assurance, of these more then _Herculean_ labours. Moreover, her selfe did intend to adde a fourth taske, in regard of his strong opinion concerning the great Wisedome of his Lord and Maister. After she had effected all the other three, she would not permit him to kisse her, but before his Lords face: which yet should be accomplished in such sort, as _Nicostratus_ himselfe should not beleeve it, although apparantly he saw it. Well, (quoth _Pyrrhus_) when all these wonders are performed, assure my Ladie, that I am truelie hers. Within a short while after, _Nicostratus_ made a solemne Feastivall (according as yearely he used to doe) in honour of his birth day, inviting many Lords and Ladies thereto. On which rejoycing day, so soone as dinner was ended, and the Tables withdrawne: _Lydia_ came into the great Hall, where the Feast was solemnly kept; very rich and costly apparrelled; and there, in presence of _Pyrrhus_, and the whole assemblie, going to the Perch whereon the Faulcone sate, wherein her Husband tooke no little delight, and having untyed her, as if shee meant to beare her on her Fist: tooke her by the Jesses, and beating her against the wal, killed her. _Nicostratus_ beholding this, called out aloud unto her, saying. Alas Madame! what have you done? She making him no answere, but turning to the Lords and Ladies, which had dined there, spake in this manner. Ill should I take revenge on a King, that had offended me, if I had not so much heart, as to wreake my spleene on a paltry Hawke. Understand then, worthy Lords and Ladies, that this Faulcone hath long time robbed me of those delights, which men (in meere equitie) ought to have with their wives: because continually, so soone as breake of day hath appeared, my Husband, starting out of bed, makes himselfe readie, presently to Horsse, and with this Faulcon on his Fist, rides abroad to his recreation in the Fields. And I, in such forsaken sort as you see, am left all alone in my bed, discontented and despised: often vowing to my selfe, to bee thus revenged as now I am, being with-held from it by no other occasion, but onely want of a fit and apt time, to do it in the presence of such persons, as might bee just Judges of my wrongs, and as I conceive you all to be. The Lords and Ladies hearing these words, and beleeving this deed of hers to be done no otherwise, but out of her entire affection to _Nicostratus_, according as her speeches sounded: compassionately turning towards him (who was exceedingly displeased) and all smiling, said. Now in good sadnesse Sir; Madame _Lydia_ hath done well, in acting her just revenge upon the Hawke, that bereft her of her Husbands kinde companie; then which nothing is more precious to a loving wife, and a hell it is to live without it. And _Lydia_, being sodainly withdrawne into her chamber; with much other friendly and familiar talke, they converted the anger of _Nicostratus_ into mirth and smiling. _Pyrrhus_, who had diligently observed the whole cariage of this businesse, saide to himselfe. My Ladie hath begun well, and proceeding on with no worse successe, will (no doubt) bring her love to an happy conclusion. As for the Lady her selfe, she having thus kild the Hawke, it was no long while after, but being in the Chamber with her husband, and they conversing familiarly together: she began to jest with him, & hee in the like manner with her, tickling and toying each the other, till at the length she played with his beard, and now she found occasion aptly serving, to effect the second taske imposed by _Pyrrhus_. So, taking fast hold on a small tuft of his beard, she gave a sodaine snatch, and plucked it away quite from his chin. Whereat _Nicostratus_ beeing angerly moved, she (to appease his distaste) pleasantly thus spake. How now my Lord? Why do you looke so frowningly? What? Are you angry for a few loose haires of your beard? How then should I take it, when you plucke mee by the haire of my head, and yet I am not a jot discontented, because I know you do it but in jesting manner? These friendly speeches cut off all further contention, and she kepte charily the tuft of her Husbands beard, which (the verie selfe-same day) shee sent to _Pyrrhus_ her hearts chosen friend. But now concerning the third matter to be adventured, it drove her to a much more serious consideration, then those two which shee had already so well and exactly performed. Notwithstanding, like a Ladie of unconquerable spirit, and (in whom) Love enlarged his power more and more: she sodainly conceited, what course was best to bee kept in this case, forming her attempt in this manner. Upon _Nicostratus_ wayted two young Gentlemen, as Pages of his Chamber, whose Fathers had given them to his service, to learne the manners of honourable Courtship, and those qualities necessarily required in Gentlemen. One of them, when _Nicostratus_ sate downe to dinner or supper, stood in Office of his Carver, delivering him all the meats whereon he fed. The other (as Taster) attended on his Cup, and he dranke no other drinke, but what hee brought him, and they both were highly pleasing unto him. On a day, _Lydia_ called these two youths aside; and, among some other speeches, which served but as an induction to her intended policy; she perswaded them, that their mouths yeelded an unsavoury & ill-pleasing smell, whereof their Lord seemed to take dislike. Wherefore she advised them, that at such times as they attended on him in their severall places: they should (so much as possibly they could) withdraw their heads aside from him, because their breath might not be noyous unto him. But withall, to have an especiall care, of not disclosing to any one, what she had told them; because (out of meere love) she had acquainted them therewith: which very constantly they beleeved, and followed the same direction as she had advised, being loath to displease, where service bound them to obey. Choosing a time fitting for her purpose, when _Nicostratus_ was in private conference with her, thus she began. Sir, you observe not the behaviour of your two pages, when they wait on you at the Table? Yes but I do wife (quoth he) how squemishly they turn their heads aside from me, and it hath often bin in my minde, to understand a reason why they do so. Seating herselfe by him, as if shee had some weighty matter to tell him; she proceeded in this manner. Alas my Lord, you shall not need to question them, because I can sufficiently resolve you therein: which (neverthelesse) I have long concealed, because I would not be offensive to you. But in regard, it is now manifestly apparant, that others have tasted, what (I immagined) none but my selfe did, I will no longer hide it from you. Assuredly Sir, there is a most strange and unwonted ill-savour, continually issuing from your mouth, smelling most noysomely, and I wonder what should be the occasion. In former times, I never felt any such foule breathing to come from you: and you, who do daily converse with so many worthy persons, should seeke meanes to be rid of so great an annoyance. You say verie true wife (answered _Nicostratus_) and I protest to you on my Credite, I feele no such ill smell, neither know what should cause it, except I have some corrupted tooth in my mouth. Perhaps Sir (quoth she) it may be so, and yet you feele not the savour which others do, yea, very offensively. So, walking with her to a Window, he opened wide his mouth, the which nicely shee surveyed on either side, and, turning her head from him, as seeming unable to endure the savour: starting, and shrieking out alowd, she said. Santa Maria! What a sight is this? Alas my good Lord, How could you abide this, and for so long a while? Heere is a tooth on this side, which (so farre as I can perceive) is not onely hollow and corrupted: but also wholly putrified and rotten, and if it continue still in your head, beleeve it for a truth, that it will infect and spoile all the rest neere it. I would therefore counsell you, to let it be pluckt out, before it breede your further danger. I like your counsell well _Lydia_, replyed _Nicostratus_, and presently intend to follow it; Let therefore my Barber be sent for, and, without any longer delay, he shall plucke it forth instantly. How Sir? (quoth she,) your Barber? Uppon mine Honour, there shall come no Barber heere. Why Sir, it is such a rotten Tooth, and standeth so fairely for my hand: that, without helpe or advice of any Barber, let mee alone for plucking it forth, without putting you to any paine at all. Moreover, let me tell you Sir, those Tooth-drawers are so rude and cruell, in performing such Offices, as my heart cannot endure, that you should come within compasse of their currish courtesie, neither shall you Sir, if you will be ruled by me. If I should faile in the manner of their facilitie, yet love & duty hath enstructed me, to forbeare your least paining, which no unmannerly Barber will do. Having thus spoken, and he well contented with her kinde offer, the instruments were brought, which are used in such occasions, all being commanded forth of the Chamber, but onely _Lesca_, who evermore kept still in her company. So, locking fast the doore, and _Nicostratus_ being seated, as she thought fittest for her purpose, she put the Tanacles into his mouth, catching fast hold on one of his soundest teeth: which, notwithstanding his loud crying, _Lesca_ held him so strongly, that forth she pluckt it, and hid it, having another tooth readie made hot & bloody, very much corrupted and rotten, which she helde in the Tanacles, and shewed to him, who was well-neere halfe dead with anguish. See Sir (quoth she) was this Tooth to be suffered in your head, and to yeeld so foule a smell as it did? He verily beleeving what she said, albeit hee had endured extreame paine, and still complained on her harsh and violent pulling it out: rejoyced yet, that he was now ridde of it, and she comforting him on the one side, and the anguish asswaging him on the other, he departed forth of the Chamber. In the mean while, by _Lesca_ she sent the sound tooth to _Pyrrhus_, who (wondering not a little at her so many strange attempts; which hee urged so much the rather, as thinking their performance impossible, and, in meere loyall duty to his Lord) seeing them all three to be notably effected; he made no further doubt of her intire love towardes him, but sent her assurance likewise, of his readinesse and serviceable diligence, whensoever she would command him. Now, after the passage of all these adventures, hardly to bee undertaken by any other Woman: yet she held them insufficient for his security, in the grounded perswasion of her love to him, except shee performed another of her owne, and according as shee had boldly promised. Houres do now seeme dayes, and dayes multiplicitie of yeeres, till the kisse may be given, and receyved in the presence of _Nicostratus_, yet hee himselfe to avouch the contrary. Madam _Lydia_ (upon a pretended sicknesse) keepeth her chamber, and as women can hardly be exceeded in dissimulation: so, shee wanted no wit, to seeme exquisitely cunning, in all the outwarde apparances of sicknesse. One day after dinner, shee being visited by _Nicostratus_, and none attending on him but _Pyrrhus_ onely: she earnestly entreated, that as a mitigation, to some inward afflictions which she felt, they would helpe to guide her into the Garden. Most gladly was her motion graunted, and _Nicostratus_ gently taking her by one arme, and _Pyrrhus_ by the other, so they conducted her into the Garden, seating her in a faire floury Grasse-plot, with her backe leaning to a Peare-tree. Having sitten there an indifferent while, and _Pyrrhus_, being formerly enstructed, in the directions which she had given him, thus shee spake, some-what faintly. _Pyrrhus_, I have a kinde of longing desire upon a sodaine, to taste of these Peares: Wherefore, climbe up into the Tree, and cast me downe one or two; which instantly hee did. Being aloft in the Tree, and throwing downe some of the best and ripest Peares; at length (according to his premeditated Lesson) looking downe, he said. Forbeare my Lord, Do you not see, in how weake and feeble condition my Ladie is, being shaken with so violent a sicknesse? And you Madam, how kinde and loving soever you are to my Lord, Are you so little carefull of your health, being but now come forth of your sicke Chamber, to be ruffled and tumbled in such rough manner? Though such dalliances are not amisse in you both; being fitter for the private Chamber, then an open garden, and in the presence of a servant: yet time and place should alwaies bee respectively considered, for the avoiding of ill example, and better testimonie of your owne Wisedomes, which ever should be like your selves. But if so soone, and even in the heate of a yet turbulent sickenesse, your equall love can admit these kisses and embraces: your private Lodginges were much more convenient, where no Servants eye can see such Wantonnesse, nor you be reproved of indiscretion, for being too publique in your Familiaritie. Madame _Lydia_, sodainely starting, and turning unto her Husband, sayde. What doth _Pyrrhus_ prate? Is he well in his wittes? Or is he franticke? No Madame, replyed _Pyrrhus_, I am not franticke. Are you so fond as to thinke that I do not see your folly? _Nicostratus_ wondering at his Words, presently answered. Now trust me _Pyrrhus_, I think thou dreamest. No my Lord, replyed _Pyrrhus_, I dreame not a jot, neither do you, or my Ladie: but if this Tree could affoord the like kindnesse to me, as you do to her, there would not a Peare bee left uppon it. How now _Pyrrhus_? (quoth _Lydia_) this language goeth beyond our understanding, it seemeth thou knowest not what thou saist. Beleeve me husband, if I were as well as ever I have bin, I would climb this tree, to see those idle wonders which hee talketh of: for, while he continueth thus above, it appeareth, hee can finde no other prattle, albeit he taketh his marke amisse. Heereupon, he commanded _Pyrrhus_ to come downe, and being on the ground: Now _Pyrrhus_ (quoth he) tell me what thou saydst. _Pyrrhus_, pretending an alteration into much amazement, straungely looking about him, saide; I know not verie well (my Lord) what answere I should make you, fearing least my sight hath bin abused by error: for when I was aloft in that Tree, it seemed manifestly to me: that you embraced my Lady (though somewhat rudely, in regard of her perillous sicknesse, yet lovingly) and as youthfully as in your yonger daies, with infinite kisses, and wanton dalliances, such as (indeede) deserved a far more private place in my poore opinion. But in my descending downe, mee thought you gave over that amorous familiaritie, and I found you seated as I left you. Now trust mee _Pyrrhus_, answered _Nicostratus_, Thy tongue and wit have very strangely wandred, both from reason and all reall apprehension: because we never stirred from hence, since thou didst climbe up into the Tree, neither mooved otherwise, then as now thou seest us. Alas my Lord (saide _Pyrrhus_) I humbly crave pardon for my presumption, in reprooving you for medling with your owne: which shall make me hereafter better advised, in any thing what soever I heare or see. Mervaile and amazement, encreased in _Nicostratus_ far greater then before, hearing him to avouch still so constantly what he had seene, no contradiction being able to alter him, which made him rashly sweare and say. I will see my selfe, whether this Peare-tree bee enchanted, or no: and such wonders to be seene when a man is up in it, as thou wouldst have us to beleeve. And being mounted up so hy, that they were safe from his sodaine comming on them, _Lydia_ had soone forgotten her sicknes, and the promised kisse cost her above twenty more, beside verie kinde and hearty embraces, as lovingly respected and entertained by _Pyrrhus_. Which _Nicostratus_ beholding aloft in the tree; cryed out to her, saying. Wicked woman, What doest thou meane? And thou villain _Pyrrhus_, Darst thou abuse thy Lord, who hath reposed so much trust in thee? So, descending in haste downe againe, yet crying so to them still: _Lydia_ replyed, Alas my Lord, Why do you raile and rave in such sort? So, hee found her seated as before, and _Pyrrhus_ waiting with dutifull reverence, even as when he climbed up the Tree: but yet he thought his sight not deceyved, for all their demure and formall behaviour, which made him walke up and downe, extreamely fuming and fretting unto himselfe, and which in some milder manner to qualifie, _Pyrrhus_ spake thus to him. I deny not (my good Lord) but freely confesse, that even as your selfe, so I, being above in the Tree, had my sight most falsely deluded: which is so apparantly confirmed by you, and in the same sort, as there needeth no doubt of both our beguiling; in one and the same suspitious nature. In which case to be the more assuredly resolved, nothing can be questioned, but whether your beleefe do so farre misleade you, as to thinke, that my Ladie (who hath alwayes bene most wise, loyall, and vertuous,) would so shamefullie wrong you: yea, and to performe it before your face, wherein I dare gadge my life to the contrary. Concerning my selfe, it is not fit for mee, to argue or contest in mine owne commendation: you that have ever knowne the sincerity of my service, are best able to speake in my behalfe: and rather wold I be drawne in peeces with foure wilde horses, then bee such an injurious slave to my Lord and Master. Now then, it can be no otherwise, but we must needs rest certainely perswaded, that the guile and offence of this false appearance, was occasioned by thee onely. For all the world could not make me otherwise beleeve, but that I saw you kisse and most kindely imbrace my Lady: if your owne eyes had not credited the like behaviour in me to her, of which sinne, I never conceived so much as a thought. The Lady (on the other side) seeming to be very angerly incensed, starting faintly upon her feet, yet supporting her selfe by the tree, said. It appeareth Sir, that you have entertained a goodly opinion of me as, if I were so lewde and lasciviously disposed, or addicted to the very least desire of wantonnesse: that I would bee so forgetfull of mine owne honour, as to adventure it in your sight, and with a servant of my house? Oh Sir, such women as are so familiarly affected, need learne no wit of men in amourous matters; their private Chambers shall be better trusted, then an open blabing and tell-tale Garden. _Nicostratus_, who verily beleeved what they had both said, and that neither of them would adventure such familiarity before his face: would talke no more of the matter, but rather studyed of the rarity of such a miracle, not seene, but in the height of the tree, and changing againe upon the descent. But _Lydia_, containing still her collourable kinde of impatience, and angerly frowning upon _Nicostratus_, stearnely saide. If I may have my will, this villanous and deceiving tree, shall never more shame me, or any other woman: and therefore _Pyrrhus_, runne for an Axe, and by felling it to the ground, in an instant, revenge both thy wrong and mine. Doest not thou serve a worthy Lord? And have not I a wise Husband, who, without any consideration, will suffer the eye of his understanding to be so dazeled, with a foolish imagination beyond all possibility? For, although his eyes did apprehend such a folly, and it seemed to be a truth indeed: yet, in the depth of setled judgement, all the world should not perswade him, that it was so. _Pyrrhus_ had quickely brought the Axe, and hewing downe the tree, so soone as the Lady saw it fall; turning her selfe to _Nicostratus_, she said. Now that I have seene mine honour and honesties enemy laid along; mine anger is past, and Husband, I freely pardon you: intreating you heartily henceforward, not to presume or imagine, that my love eyther is, or can bee altred from you. Thus the mocked and derided _Nicostratus_, returned in againe with his Lady and _Pyrrhus_; where perhaps (although the Peare-tree was cut downe) they could find as cunning meanes to over-reach him. _Two Citizens of_ Siena, _the one named_ Tingoccio Mini, _& the other_ Meucio di Tora, _affected both one woman, called_ Monna Mita, _to whom the one of them was a Gossip. The Gossip dyed, and appeared afterward to his companion, according as he had formerly promised him to doe, and tolde him what strange wonders he had seene in the other world._ The Tenth Novell. _Wherein such men are covertly reprehended, who make no care or conscience at all of those things that should preserve them from sinne._ Now there remained none but the King himselfe, last of all to recount his Novell; who, after hee heard the Ladies complaints indifferently pacified, for the rash felling downe of such a precious Peare-tree; thus he began. Faire Ladies, it is a case more then manifest, that every King, who will be accounted just and upright: should first of all, and rather then any other, observe those Lawes which he himselfe hath made; otherwise he ought to be reputed as a servant, worthy of punishment, and no King. Into which fault and reprehension, I your King, shall well neere be constrained to fall; for yesterday I enacted a Law, upon the forme of our discoursing, with full intent, that this day I would not use any part of my priviledge; but being subject (as you all are) to the same Law, I should speake of that argument, which already you have done. Wherein, you have not onely performed more then I could wish, upon a subject so sutable to my minde: but in every Novell, such variety of excellent matter, such singular illustrations, and delicate eloquence hath flowne from you all; as I am utterly unable to invent any thing (notwithstanding the most curious search of my braine) apt or fit for the purpose, to paragon the meanest of them already related. And therefore seeing I must needs sinne in the Law established by my selfe; I tender my submission, as worthy of punishment, or what amends else you please to enjoyne mee. Now, as returned to my wonted priviledge, I say, that the Novell recounted by Madame _Eliza_, of the Fryar Godfather and his Gossip _Agnesia_, as also the sottishnesse of the _Senese_ her Husband, hath wrought in me (worthy Ladies) to such effect; as, forbearing to speake any more of these wily prancks, which witty wives exercise on their simple Husbands; I am to tell you a pretty short Tale; which, though there is matter enough in it, not worthy the crediting, yet partly it will bee pleasing to heare. Sometime there lived in _Sienna_ two popular men; the one being named _Tingoccio Mini_ and the other _Meucio de Tora_; Men simple, and of no understanding, both of them dwelling in _Porta Salaia_. These two men lived in such familiar conversation together, and expressed such cordiall affection each to other, as they seldome walked asunder; but (as honest men use to doe) frequented Churches and Sermons, oftentimes hearing, both what miseries and beatitudes were in the world to come, according to the merits of their soules that were departed out of this life, and found their equall repaiment in the other. The manifold repetition of these matters, made them very earnestly desirous to know, by what meanes they might have tydings from thence, for their further confirmation. And finding all their endeavours utterly frustrated, they made a solemne vow and promise (each to other under oath) that hee which first dyed of them two, should returne backe againe (so soone as possibly he could) to the other remaining alive, and tell him such tydings as hee desired to heare. After the promise was thus faithfully made, and they still keeping company, as they were wont to doe: It fortuned, that _Tingoccio_ became Gossip to one, named _Ambrosito Anselmino_, dwelling in _Camporeggio_, who by his wife, called _Monna Mita_, had a sweet and lovely Sonne. _Tingoccio_ often resorting thither, and consorted with his companion _Meucio_; the she-Gossip, being a woman worthy the loving, faire and comely of her person: _Tingoccio_, notwithstanding the Gossipship betweene them, had more then a moneths minde to his Godchilds Mother. _Meucio_ also fell sicke of the same disease, because shee seemed pleasing in his eye, and _Tingoccio_ gave her no meane commendations; yet, carefully they concealed their love to themselves, but not for one & the same occasion. Because _Tingoccio_ kept it closely from _Meucio_, lest he should hold it disgracefull in him, to beare amourous affection to his Gossip, and thought it unfitting to bee knowne. But _Meucio_ had no such meaning, for hee knew well enough that _Tingoccio_ loved her, and therefore conceived in his minde, that if he discovered any such matter to him: He will (quoth he) be jealous of me, and being her Gossip, which admitteth his conference with her when himselfe pleaseth; he may easily make her to distaste me, and therefore I must rest contented as I am. Their love continuing on still in this kinde, _Tingoccio_ prooved so fortunate in the businesse, that having better meanes then his companion, and more prevayling courses, when, where, and how to Court his Mistresse, which seemed to forward him effectually. All which _Meucio_ plainely perceived, and though it was tedious and wearisome to him, yet hoping to finde some successe at length: he would not take notice of any thing, as fearing to infringe the amity betweene him and _Tingoccio_, and so his hope to be quite supplanted. Thus the one triumphing in his loves happinesse, and the other hoping for his felicity to come; a lingaring sickenesse seazed on _Tingoccio_, which brought him to so low a condition, as at the length he dyed. About some three or foure nights after, _Meucio_ being fast asleepe in his bed, the ghoste of _Tingoccio_ appeared to him, and called so loude, that _Meucio_ awaking, demanded who called him? I am thy friend _Tingoccio_, replied the ghoste, who according to my former promise made, am come again in vision to thee, to tell thee tidings out of the nether world. _Meucio_ was a while somewhat amazed; but, recollecting his more manly spirits together, boldly he said. My brother and friend, thou art heartily welcome: but I thought thou hadst beene utterly lost. Those things (quoth _Tingoccio_) are lost, which cannot be recovered againe, and if I were lost, how could I then be heere with thee? Alas _Tingoccio_, replyed _Meucio_, my meaning is not so: but I would be resolved, whether thou art among the damned soules, in the painefull fire of hell torments, or no? No (quoth _Tingoccio_) I am not sent thither, but for divers sinnes by mee committed I am to suffer very great and grievous paines. Then _Meucio_ demaunded particularly, the punishments inflicted there, for the severall sinnes committed heere: Wherein _Tingoccio_ fully resolved him. And upon further question, what hee would have to be done for him here, made answere, That _Meucio_ should cause Masses, Prayers and Almes deeds to be performed for him, which (he said) were very helpefull to the soules abiding there, and _Meucio_ promised to see them done. As the ghost was offering to depart, _Meucio_ remembred _Tingoccioes_ Gossip _Monna Mita_, and raysing himselfe higher upon his pillowe, said. My memorie informeth me, friend _Tingoccio_, of your kinde Gossip _Monna Mita_, with whom (when you remained in this life) I knew you to be very familiar: let me intreat you then to tell me, what punishment is inflicted on you there, for that wanton sinne committed heere? Oh Brother _Meucio_, answered _Tingoccio_, so soone as my soule was landed there, one came immediately to me, who seemed to know all mine offences readily by heart, and forthwith commanded, that I should depart thence into a certaine place, where I must weepe for my sinnes in very grievous paines. There I found more of my companions, condemned to the same punishment as I was, and being among them, I called to minde some wanton dalliances, which had passed betweene my Gossip and me, and expecting therefore farre greater afflictions, then as yet I felt (although I was in a huge fire, and exceedingly hot) yet with conceite of feare, I quaked and trembled wondrously. One of my other Consorts being by me, and perceiving in what an extreame agony I was; presently said unto me. My friend, what hast thou done more, then any of us here condemned with thee, that thou tremblest and quakest, being in so hot a fire? Oh my friend (quoth I) I am in feare of a greater judgement then this, for a grievous offence by mee heretofore committed while I lived. Then hee demaunded of mee what offence it was, whereto thus I answered. It was my chance in the other world, to be Godfather at a childs Christning, and afterward I grew so affectionate to the childs mother, as (indeed) I kissed her twice or thrise. My companyon laughing at me in mocking manner, replyed thus. Goe like an Asse as thou art, and be no more afraid hereafter, for here is no punishment inflicted, in any kinde whatsoever, for such offences of frailty committed, especially with Gossips, as I my selfe can witnesse. Now day drew on, and the Cockes began to crow, a dreadfull hearing to walking spirits, when _Tingoccio_ said to _Meucio_. Farewell my friendly companion, for I may tarry no longer with thee, and instantly hee vanished away. _Meucio_ having heard this confession of his friend, and verily beleeving it for a truth, that no punishment was to be inflicted in the future world, for offences of frailty in this life, and chiefly with Gossips: began to condemne his owne folly, having bin a Gossip to many wives, yet modesty restrained him from such familiar offending. And therefore being sorry for this grosse ignorance, hee made a vowe to be wiser hereafter. And if Fryar _Reynard_ had been acquainted with this kind of shrift (as doubtlesse he was, though his Gossip _Agnesia_ knew it not) he needed no such Syllogismes, as he put in practise, when he converted her to his lustfull knavery, in the comparison of kinred by him moved, concerning her husband, the childe and himselfe. But, these are the best fruits of such Fryerly Confessions, to compasse the issue of their inordinate appetites; yet clouded with the cloake of Religion, which hath beene the overthrow of too many. * * * * * By this time the gentle blast of _Zephirus_ began to blow, because the Sunne grew neere his setting, wherewith the King concluded his Novell, and none remaining more to be thus imployed: taking the Crowne from off his owne head, he placed it on Madame _Laurettaes_, saying, Madame, I Crowne you with your owne Crowne, as Queene of our Company. You shall henceforth command as Lady and Mistresse, in such occasions as shall be to your liking, and for the contentment of us all; With which words he set him downe. And Madame _Lauretta_ being now created Queene, shee caused the Master of the houshold to bee called, to whom she gave command, that the Tables should be prepared in the pleasant vally, but at a more convenient houre, then formerly had beene, because they might (with better ease) returne backe to the Pallace. Then shee tooke order likewise, for all such other necessary matters, as should bee required in the time of her Regiment: and then turning her selfe to the whole Company, she began in this manner. It was the Will of _Dioneus_ yesternight, that our discourses for this day, should concerne the deceits of wives to their Husbands. And were it not to avoyde taxation, of a spleenitive desire to be revenged, like the dog being bitten, biteth againe: I could command our to morrows conference, to touch mens treacheries towards their wives. But because I am free from any such fiery humour, let it be your generall consideration, to speake of such queint beguylings, as have heretofore past, either of the woman to the man, the man to the woman, or of one man to another: and I am of opinion, that they will yeeld us no lesse delight, then those related (this day) have done. When she had thus spoken, she rose; granting them all liberty, to goe recreate themselves untill Supper time. The Ladies being thus at their owne disposing, some of them bared their legges and feete, to wash them in the coole current. Others, not so minded, walked on the greene grasse, and under the goodly spreading trees. _Dioneus_ and Madame _Fiammetta_, they sate singing together, the love-warre betweene _Arcit_ and _Palemon_. And thus with diversity of disports, in choice delight and much contentment, all were imployed, till Supper drew neere. When the houre was come, and the Tables covered by the Ponds side: we need not question their dyet and dainties, infinite Birds sweetly singing about them, as no musicke in the world could be more pleasing; beside calme windes, fanning their faces from the neighbouring hilles (free from flyes, or the least annoyance) made a delicate addition to their pleasure. No sooner were the Tables withdrawne, and all risen: but they fetcht a few turnings about the vally, because the Sunne was not (as yet) quite set. Then in the coole evening, according to the Queenes appointment: in a soft and gentle pace, they walked homeward: devising on a thousand occasions, as well those which the dayes discourses had yeelded, as others of their owne inventing beside. It was almost darke night, before they arrived at the Pallace; where, with variety of choice Wines, and abounding plenty of rare Banquetting, they out-wore the little toile and wearinesse, which the long walke had charged them withall. Afterward, according to their wonted order, the Instruments being brought and played on, they fell to dancing about the faire Fountaine; _Tindaro_ intruding (now and then) the sound of his Bagpipe, to make the musicke seeme more melodious. But in the end, the Queene commanded Madame _Philomena_ to sing; whereupon the Instruments being tuned fit for the purpose, thus she began. The Song. The Chorus Sung by the whole Company. _Wearisome is my life to me, Because I cannot once againe returne; Unto the place which made me first to mourne._ _Nothing I know, yet feele a powerfull fire, Burning within my brest, Through deepe desire; To be once more where first I felt unrest, Which cannot be exprest. O my sole good! O my best happinesse! Why am I thus restrainde? Is there no comfort in this wretchednesse? Then let me live content, to be thus painde. Wearisome is my life to me, &c._ _I cannot tell what was that rare delight, Which first enflamde my soule, And gave command in spight, That I should find no ease by day or night, But still live in controule. I see, I heare, and feele a kinde of blisse, Yet find no forme at all: Other in their desire, finde blessednesse, But I have none, nor thinke I ever shall. Wearisome is my life to me, &c._ _Tell me if I may hope in following dayes, To have but one poore sight, Of those bright Sunny rayes, Dazeling my sence, did o'recome me quite, Bequeath'd to wandring wayes. If I be posted off and may not prove. To have the smallest grace: Or but to know, that this proceeds from love, Why should I live despisde in every place? Wearisome is my life to me, &c._ _Me thinkes milde favour whispers in mine eare, And bids me not despaire; There will a time appeare To quell and quite confound consuming care, And joy surmount proud feare. In hope that gracious time will come at length, To cheare my long dismay: My spirits reassume your former strength, And never dread to see that joyfull day. Wearisome is my life to me, Because I cannot once againe returne; Unto the place which made me first to mourne._ This Song gave occasion to the whole Company, to imagine, that some new and pleasing apprehension of Love, constrained Madame _Philomena_ to sing in this manner. And because (by the discourse thereof) it plainely appeared, that shee had felt more then shee saw, shee was so much the more happy, and the like was wished by all the rest. Wherefore, after the Song was ended; the Queene remembring, that the next day following was Friday, turning her selfe graciously to them all, thus she spake. You know noble Ladies, and you likewise most noble Gentlemen, that to morrow is the day consecrated to the Passion of our blessed Lord and Saviour, which (if you have not forgotten it, as easily you cannot) we devoutly celebrated, Madame _Neiphila_ being then Queene, ceasing from all our pleasant discoursing, as we did the like on the Saturday following, sanctifying the sacred Sabboth, in due regard of it selfe. Wherefore, being desirous to imitate precedent good example, which in worthy manner shee began to us all: I hold it very decent and necessary, that we should asttaine to morrow, and the day ensuing, from recounting any of our pleasant Novels, reducing to our memories, what was done (as on those dayes) for the salvation of our soules. This holy and Religious motion made by the Queene, was commendably allowed by all the assembly, and therefore, humbly taking their leave of her, and an indifferent part of the night being already spent; severally they betooke themselves to their Chambers. _The end of the Seaventh day._ THE EIGHT DAY. Whereon all the Discourses, passe under the Rule and Government, of the Honourable Ladie LAURETTA. And the Argument imposed, is, Concerning such Wittie deceyvings; as have, or may be put in practise, by Wives to their Husbands; Husbands to their Wives: Or one man towards another. The Induction. Earely on the Sonday Morning, _Aurora_ shewing her selfe bright and lovely; the Sunnes Golden beames beganne to appeare, on the toppes of the neere adjoyning Mountaines; so, that Hearbes, Plants, Trees, and all things else, were verie evidently to be discerned. The Queene and her Companie, being all come foorth of their Chambers, and having walked a while abroad, in the goodly greene Meadowes, to taste the sweetnesse of the fresh and wholesome ayre, they returned backe againe into the Palace, because it was their dutie so to do. Afterward, betweene the houres of seaven and eight, they went to heare Masse, in a faire Chappell neere at hand, and thence returned to their Lodgings. When they had dined merrily together, they fell to their wonted singing and dauncing: Which beeing done, such as were so pleased (by License of the Queene first obtained) went either to their rest, or such exercises as they tooke most delight in. When midday, and the heate thereof was well over-past, so that the aire seemed mild and temperate: according as the Queene had commanded; they were all seated againe about the Fountaine, with intent to prosecute their former pastime. And then Madame _Neiphila_, by the charge imposed on her, as first speaker for this day, beganne as followeth. Gulfardo _made a match or wager, with the Wife of_ Gasparuolo, _for the obtaining of her amorous favour, in regard of a summe of money first to be given her. The money hee borrowed of her Husband, and gave it in payment to her, as in case of discharging him from her Husbands debt. After his returne home from_ Geneway, _hee told him in the presence of his wife, how he had payde the whole summe to her, with charge of delivering it to her Husband, which she confessed to be true, albeit greatly against her will._ The First Novell. _Wherein is declared, that such women as will make sale of their honestie, are sometimes over-reached in their payment, and justly served as they should be._ Seeing it is my fortune, Gracious Ladies, that I must give beginning to this dayes discoursing, by some such Novel which I thinke expedient; as duty bindeth me, I am therewith well contented. And because the deceits of Women to men, have beene at large and liberally related; I will tell you a subtile tricke of a man to a Woman. Not that I blame him for the deede, or thinke the deceyte not well fitted to the woman: but I speake it in a contrarie nature, as commending the man, and condemning the woman very justly, as also to shew, how men can as well beguile those crafty companions, which least beleeve any such cunning in them, as they that stand most on their artificiall skill. Howbeit, to speake more properly, the matter by me to be reported, deserveth not the reproachfull title of deceite, but rather of a recompence duly returned: because women ought to be chaste and honest, & to preserve their honour as their lives, without yeelding to the contamination thereof, for any occasion whatsoever. And yet (neverthelesse, in regard of our frailty) many times we proove not so constant as we should be: yet I am of opinion, that she which selleth her honestie for money, deserveth justly to be burned. Whereas on the contrary, she that falleth into the offence, onely through intire affection (the powerfull lawes of Love beeing above all resistance) in equity meriteth pardon, especially of a Judge not over-rigorous: as not long since wee heard from _Philostratus_, in revealing what hapned to Madam _Phillippa de Prato_, upon the dangerous Edict. Understand then, my most worthy Auditors, that there lived sometime in _Millaine_ an _Almaigne_ Soldiour, named _Gulfardo_, of commendable carriage in his person, and very faithfull to such as he served, a matter not common among the _Almaignes_. And because he made just repayment, to every one which lent him monies; he grew to such especiall credit, and was so familiar with the very best Marchants; as (manie times) he could not be so ready to borrow, as they were willing alwaies to lend him. He thus continuing in the Cittie of _Millaine_, fastened his affection on a verie beautifull Gentlewoman, named Mistresse _Ambrosia_, Wife unto a rich Merchant, who was called Signior _Gasparuolo Sagastraccio_, who had good knowledge of him, and respectively used him. Loving this Gentlewoman with great discretion, without the least apprehension of her husband: he sent upon a day to entreate conference with her, for enjoying the fruition of her love, and she should find him ready to fulfill whatsoever she pleased to command him, as, at any time he would make good his promise. The Gentlewoman, after divers of these private solicitings, resolutely answered, that she was as ready to fulfill the request of _Gulfardo_, provided, that two especiall considerations might ensue thereon. First, the faithfull concealing thereof from any person living. Next, because she knew him to be rich, and she had occasion to use two hundred Crowns, about businesse of important consequence: he should freely bestow so many on her, and (ever after) she was to be commanded by him. _Gulfardo_ perceiving the covetousnesse of this woman, who (notwithstanding his doting affection) he thought to be intirely honest to her Husband: became so deepely offended at her vile answere, that his fervent love converted into as earnest loathing her; determining constantlie to deceive her, and to make her avaritious motion, the only means whereby to effect it. He sent her word, that he was willing to performe her request, or any farre greater matter for her: in which respect, he onely desired for to know, when she would be pleased to have him come see her, and to receive the money of him? No creature hee acquainted with his setled purpose, but onely a deere friend and kinde companion, who alwayes used to keepe him company, in the neerest occasions that concerned him. The Gentlewoman, or rather most disloyall wife, uppon this answer sent her, was extraordinarily jocond and contented, returning him a secret Letter, wherein she signified: that _Gasparuolo_ her husband, had important affaires which called him to _Geneway_: but he should understand of his departure, and then (with safety) he might come see her, as also his bringing of the Crownes. In the meane while, _Gulfardo_ having determined what he would do, watched a convenient time, when he went unto _Gasparuolo_, and sayde: Sir, I have some businesse of maine importance, and shall neede to use but two hundred Crownes onely: I desire you to lend me so many Crownes, upon such profite as you were wont to take of mee, at other times when I have made use of you, and I shall not faile you at my day. _Gasparuolo_ was well contented with the motion, and made no more adoe, but counted downe the Crownes: departing thence (within few dayes after) for _Geneway_, according** to his Wives former message; she giving _Gulfardo_ also intelligence of his absence, that now (with safety) hee might come see her, and bring the two hundred Crownes with him. _Gulfardo_, taking his friend in his company, went to visite Mistresse _Ambrosia_, whom he found in expectation of his arrivall, and the first thing he did, he counted downe the two hundred Crownes; and delivering them to her in the presence of his friend, saide: Mistresse _Ambrosia_, receive these two hundred Crownes, which I desire you to pay unto your Husband on my behalfe, when he is returned from _Geneway. Ambrosia_, receyved the two hundred Crownes, not regarding wherefore _Gulfardo_ used these words: because shee verily beleeved, that hee spake in such manner, because his friend should take no notice, of his giving them to her, upon any covenant passed betweene them; whereuppon, she sayde. Sir, I will pay them to my Husband for you; and cause him to give you a sufficient discharge: but first I will count them over my selfe, to see whether the summe be just, or no. And having drawne them over upon the Table, the summe containing truly two hundred Crownes (wherewith she was most highly contented) she lockt them safe uppe in her Cuppe-boord, and _Gulfardoes_ Friend being gone (as formerly it was compacted betweene them) shee came to converse more familiarly with him, having provided a banquet for him. What passed between them afterward, both then, and oftentimes beside, before her Husbande returned home, is a matter out of my element, and rather requires my ignorance then knowledge. When _Gasparuolo_ was come from _Geneway, Gulfardo_ observing a convenient time, when he was sitting at the doore with his Wife; tooke his Friend with him, and comming to _Gasparuolo_, said. Worthy Sir, the two hundred Crownes which you lent me, before your journy to _Geneway_, in regard they could not serve my turne, to compasse the businesse for which I borrowed them: within a day or two after, in the presence of this Gentleman my friend, I made repayment of them to your wife, and therefore I pray you crosse me out of your booke. _Gasparuolo_ turning to his Wife, demanded; Whether it was so, or no? She beholding the witnesse standing by, who was also present at her receyving them: durst not make deniall, but thus answered. Indeede Husband, I received two hundred Crownes of the Gentleman, and never remembred, to acquaint you therewith since your comming home: but hereafter I will be made no more your receiver, except I carried a quicker memory. Then saide _Gasparuolo_: Signior _Gulfardo_, I finde you alwaies a most honest Gentleman, and will be readie at any time, to doe you the like, or a farre greater kindnesse; depart at your pleasure, and feare not the crossing of my Booke. So _Gulfardo_ went away merrily contented, and _Ambrosia_ was served as she justly merited; she paying the price of her owne leudnesse to her Husband, which she had a more covetous intent to keepe, questionlesse, not caring how many like lustfull matches shee coulde make, to be so liberally rewarded, if this had succeeded to her minde: whereas he shewed himselfe wise and discreete, in paying nothing for his pleasure, and requiting a covetous queane in her kinde. _A lustie youthfull Priest of_ Varlungo, _fell in love with a pretty woman, named_ Monna Belcolore. _To compasse his amorous desire, hee lefte his Cloake (as a pledge of further payment) with her. By a subtile sleight afterward, he made meanes to borrow a Morter of her, which when hee sent home againe in the presence of her Husband; he demaunded to have his Cloake sent him, as having left it in pawne for the Morter. To pacifie her Husband, offended that shee did not lend the Priest the Morter without a pawne: she sent him backe his Cloake againe, albeit greatly against her will._ The Second Novell. _Approving, that no promise is to be kept with such Women as will make sale of their honesty for coyne. A warning also for men, not to suffer Priests to be over familiar with their wives._ Both the Gentlemen and Ladies gave equall commendations, of _Gulfardoes_ queint beguiling the _Millaine_ Gentlewoman _Ambrosia_, and wishing all other (of her minde) might alwaies be so served. Then the Queene, smiling on _Pamphilus_, commaunded him to follow next: whereupon, thus he began. I can tell you (faire Ladies) a short Novell, against such as are continually offensive to us, yet we being no way able to offend him; at least, in the same manner as they do injurie us. And for your better understanding what and who they be, they are our lusty Priests, who advance their Standard, and make their publike predications against our wives, winning such advantage over them, that they can pardon them both of the sinne and punishment, whensoever they are once subjected unto theyr perswasions, even as if they brought the Soldane bound and captived, from _Alexandria_ to _Avignon_. Which imperious power, we (poore soules) cannot exercise on them, considering, we have neither heart nor courage, to do our devoire in just revenge on their Mothers, Sisters, Daughters, and Friends, with the like spirit as they rise in armes against our wives. And therefore, I meant to tell you a tale of a Country mans wife, more to make you laugh at the conclusion thereof; then for any singularity of words or matter: yet this benefite you may gaine thereby, of an apparant proofe that such Sinamon, amorous and perswading Priests, are not alwayes to be credited on their words or promises. Let me then tell you, that at _Varlungo_, which you know to bee not farre distant hence, there dwelt an youthfull Priest, lustie, gallant, and proper of person (especially for Womens service) commonly called by the name of sweet Sir _Simon_. Now, albeit he was a man of slender reading, yet notwithstanding, he had store of Latine sentences by heart; some true, but twice so many maimed and false, Saint-like shewes, holy speeches, and ghostly admonitions, which hee would preach under an Oake in the fields, when he had congregated his Parishioners together. When women lay in childe-bed, hee was their daily comfortable visitant, and would man them from their houses, when they had any occasion to walke abroad: carrying alwaies a bottle of holy water about him, wherewith he would sprinkle them by the way, peeces of hallowed Candles, and Chrisome Cakes, which pleased women extraordinarily, and all the Country affoorded not such another frolicke Priest, as this our nimble and active sweet Sir _Simon_. Among many other of his feminine Parishioners, all of them being hansome and comely Women: yet there was one more pleasing in his wanton eye, then any of the rest, named _Monna Belcolore_, and wife to a plaine mecanicke man, called _Bentivegna del Mazzo_. And, to speake uprightly, few Countrey Villages yeelded a Woman, more fresh and lovely of complexion, although not admirable for beauty, yet sweete Sir _Simon_ thought her a Saint, and faine would be offering at her shrine. Divers prety pleasing qualities she had, as sounding the Cymball, playing artificially on the Timbrill, and singing thereto as it had beene a Nightingale, dancing also so dexteriously, as happy was the man that could dance in her company. All which so enflamed sweet Sir _Simon_, that he lost his wonted sprightly behaviour, walked sullen, sad and melancholly, as if he had melted all his mettall, because hee could hardly have a sight of her. But on the Sonday morning, when hee heard or knew that she was in the Church, hee would tickle it with a _Kyrie_ and a _Sanctus_, even as if hee contended to shewe his singular skill in singing, when it had beene as good to heare an Asse bray. Whereas on the contrary, when she came not to Church, Masse, and all else were quicklie shaken uppe, as if his devotion waited onely on her presence. Yet he was so cunning in the carriage of his amorous businesse, both for her credite and his owne; as _Bentivegna_ her husband could not perceive it, or any neighbour so much as suspect it. But, to compasse more familiar acquaintance with _Belcolore_, hee sent her sundry gifts and presents, day by day, as sometime a bunch of dainty greene Garlicke, whereof he had plenty growing in his Garden, which he manured with his owne hands, and better then all the countrey yeelded; otherwhiles a small basket of Pease or Beanes, and Onyons or Scallions, as the season served. But when he could come in place where she was; then he darted amourous wincks and glances at her, with becks, nods, and blushes, Loves private Ambassadours, which shee (being but countrey-bred) seeming by outward appearance, not to see, retorted disdainefully, and forthwith would absent her selfe, so that sweet Sir _Simon_ laboured still in vaine, and could not compasse what he coveted. It came to passe within a while after, that on a time, (about high noone) Sir _Simon_ being walking abroad, chanced to meete with _Bentivegna_, driving an Asse before him, laden with divers commodities, and demaunding of him, whither he went, _Bentivegna_, thus answered. In troth Sir _Simon_, I am going to the City, about some especiall businesse of mine owne, and I carry these things to Signior _Bonacorci da Cinestreto_, because he should helpe me before the Judge, when I shall be called in question concerning my patrimony. Sir _Simon_ looking merrily on him, said. Thou doest well _Bentivegna_, to make a friend sure before thou need him; goe, take my blessing with thee, and returne againe with good successe. But if thou meet with _Laguccio_, or _Naldino_, forget not to tell them, that they must bring me my shooe-tyes before Sunday. _Bentivegna_ said, hee would discharge his errand, and so parted from him, driving his Asse on towards _Florence_. Now began Sir _Simon_ to shrug, and scratch his head, thinking this to be a fit convenient time, for him to goe visite _Belcolore_, and to make triall of his fortune: wherefore, setting aside all other businesse, he stayed no where till he came to the house, whereinto being entred, he saide: All happinesse be to them that dwell heere. _Belcolore_ being then above in the Chamber, when she heard his tongue, replyed. Sweet Sir _Simon_! you are heartely welcome, whether are you walking, if the question may bee demaunded? Beleeve me dainty Ducke, answered Sir _Simon_, I am come to sit a while with thee, because I met thy Husband going to the Citie. By this time, _Belcolore_ was descended downe the stayres, and having once againe given welcome to Sir _Simon_, she sate downe by him, cleansing of Colewort seeds from such other course chaffe, which her Husband had prepared before his departure. Sir _Simon_ hugging her in his armes, and fetching a vehement sigh, said. My _Belcolore_, how long shall I pine and languish for thy love? How now Sir _Simon_? answered she, is this behaviour fitting for an holy man? Holy-men _Belcolore_, (quoth Sir _Simon_) are made of the same matter as others be, they have the same affections, and therefore subject to their infirmities. Santa Maria, answered _Belcolore_, Dare Priests doe such things as you talke of? Yes _Belcolore_ (quoth he) and much better then other men can, because they are made for the very best businesse, in which regard they are restrained from marriage. True (quoth _Belcolore_) but much more from medling with other mens wives. Touch not that Text _Belcolore_, replyed Sir _Simon_, it is somewhat above your capacity: talke of that I come for, namely thy love, my Ducke, and my Dove. Sir _Simon_ is thine, I pray thee be mine. _Belcolore_ observing his smirking behaviour, his proper person, pretty talke, and queint insinuating; felt a motion to female frailty, which yet she would withstand so long as she could, and not be over-hasty in her yeelding. Sir _Simon_ promiseth her a new paire of shoes, garters, ribbands, girdles, or what else she would request. Sir _Simon_ (quoth she) all these things which you talke of, are fit for women: but if your love to mee be such as you make choice of, fulfill what I will motion to you, and then (perhaps) I shall tell you more. Sir _Simons_ heate made him hasty to promise whatsoever she would desire; whereupon, thus shee replyed. On Saturday, said she, I must goe to _Florence_, to carry home such yarne as was sent me to spinne, and to amend my spinning wheele: if you will lend mee ten Florines, wherewith I know you are alwayes furnished, I shall redeeme from the Usurer my best petticote,** and my wedding gowne (both well neere lost for lacke of repaiment) without which I cannot be seene at Church, or in any other good place else, and then afterward other matters may be accomplished. Alas sweet _Belcolore_ answered Sir _Simon_, I never beare any such sum about me, for men of our profession, doe seldome carry any money at all: but beleeve me on my word, before Saturday come, I will not faile to bring them hither. Oh Sir (quoth _Belcolore_) you men are quicke promisers, but slow performers. Doe you thinke to use me, as poore _Billezza_ was, who trusted to as faire words, and found her selfe deceived? Now Sir _Simon_, her example in being made scandall to the world, is a sufficient warning for me: if you be not so provided, goe and make use of your friend, for I am not otherwise to be moved. Nay _Belcolore_ (quoth he) I hope you will not serve me so, but my word shall be of better worth with you. Consider the conveniency of time, wee being so privately here alone: whereas at my returning hither againe, some hinderance may thwart me, and the like opportunity be never obtained. Sir, Sir, (said she) you have heard my resolution; if you will fetche the Florines, doe; otherwise, walke about your businesse, for I am a woman of my word. Sir _Simon_ perceiving, that she would not trust him upon bare words, nor any thing was to be done, without _Salvum me fac_, whereas his meaning was _Sine custodia_; thus answered. Well _Belcolore_, seeing you dare not credit my bringing the tenne Florines, according to my promised day: I will leave you a good pawne, my very best cloake, lyned quite thorough with rich Silke, and made up in the choysest manner. _Belcolore_ looking on the Cloake, said. How much may this Cloake bee worth? How much? quoth Sir _Simon_, upon my word _Belcolore_, it is of a right fine Flanders Serdge, and not above eight dayes since, I bought it thus (ready made) of _Lotto_ the Fripperer, and payed for it sixe and twenty Florines, a pledge then sufficient for your ten. Is it possible, said shee, that it should cost so much? Well, Sir _Simon_, deliver it me first, I will lay it up safe for you against Saturday, when if you fetch it not; I will redeeme mine owne things with it, and leave you to release it your selfe. The Cloake is laid up by _Belcolore_, and Sir _Simon_ so forward in his affection; that (in briefe) he enjoyed what hee came for; and departed afterward in his light tripping Cassocke, but yet thorow by-Lanes, and no much frequented places, smelling on a Nosegay, as if hee had beene at some wedding in the Countrey, and went thus lightly without his Cloake, for his better ease. As commonly after actions of evill, Repentance knocketh at the doore of Conscience, and urgeth a guilty remembrance, with some sence of sorrow: so was it now with sweet Sir _Simon_, who survaying over all his Vailes of offering Candles, the validity of his yearely benefits, and all comming nothing neere the summe of (scarce halfe) sixe and twenty Florines; he began to repent his deed of darkenesse, although it was acted in the day-time, and considered with himselfe, by what honest (yet unsuspected meanes) hee might recover his Cloake againe, before it went to the Broaker, in redemption of _Belcolores_ pawned apparrell, and yet to send her no Florines neither. Having a cunning reaching wit, especially in matters for his owne advantage, and pretending to have a dinner at his lodging, for a few of some invited friends: he made use of a neighbours Boy, sending him to the house of _Belcolore_, with request of lending him her Stone Morter, to make Greene-sawce in for his guests, because hee had meate required such sawce. _Belcolore_ suspecting no treachery, sent him the Stone Morter with the Pestell, and about dinner time, when he knew _Bentivegna_ to bee at home with his wife, by a spye which was set for the purpose; hee called the Clearke (usually attending on him) and said. Take this Morter and Pestell, beare them home to _Belcolore_, and tell her: Sir _Simon_ sends them home with thankes, they having sufficiently served his turne, and desire her likewise, to send me my Cloake, which the Boy left as a pledge for better remembrance, and because she would not lend it without a pawne. The Clearke comming to the house of _Belcolore_, found her sitting at dinner with her Husband, and delivering her the Pestell and Morter, performed the rest of Sir _Simons_ message. _Belcolore_ hearing the Cloake demaunded, stept up to make answere: But _Bentivegna_, seeming (by his lookes) to be much offended, roughly replyed. Why how now wife? Is not Sir _Simon_ our especiall friend, and cannot be be pleasured without a pawne? I protest upon my word, I could find in my heart to smite thee for it. Rise quickely thou wert best, and send him backe his Cloake; with this warning hereafter, that whatsoever he will have, be it your poore Asse, or any thing else being ours, let him have it: and tell him (Master Clearke) he may command it. _Belcolore_ rose grumbling from the Table, and fetching the Cloake forth of the Chest, which stood neere at hand in the same roome; shee delivered it to the Clearke, saying. Tell Sir _Simon_ from me, and boldly say you heard me speake it: that I made a vow to my selfe, he shall never make use of my Morter hereafter, to beat any more of his sawcinesse in, let my Husband say whatsoever he will, I speake the word, and will performe it. Away went the Clearke home with the Cloake, and told Sir _Simon_ what she had said, whereto he replyed. If I must make use of her Morter no more; I will not trust her with the keeping of my Cloake, for feare it goe to gage indeed. _Bentivegna_ was a little displeased at his wives words, because hee thought she spake but in jest; albeit _Belcolore_ was so angry with Sir _Simon_, that she would not speake to him till vintage time following. But then Sir _Simon_, what by sharpe threatenings of her soule to be in danger of hell fire, continuing so long in hatred of a holy Priest, which words did not a little terrifie her; besides daily presents to her, of sweet new Wines, roasted Chesse-nuts, Figges and Almonds: all unkindnesse became converted to former familiarity; the garments were redeemed; he gave her Sonnets which she would sweetly sing to her Cimbale, and further friendship increased betweene her and sweet Sir _Simon._ Calandrino, Bruno, _and_ Buffalmaco, _all of them being Painters by profession, travelled to the Plaine of_ Mugnone, _to finde the precious Stone called_ Helitropium. Calandrino _perswaded himselfe to have found it; returned home to his house heavily loaden with stones. His Wife rebuking him for his absence, hee groweth into anger, and shrewdly beateth her. Afterward, when the case is debated among his other friends_ Bruno _and_ Buffalmaco, _all is found to be meere foolery._ The Third Novell. _Justly reprehending the simplicity of such men, as are too much addicted to credulitie, and will give credit to every thing they heare._ _Pamphilus_ having ended his Novell, whereat the Ladies laughed exceedingly, so that very hardly they could give over: The Queene gave charge to Madame _Eliza_, that shee should next succeed in order; when, being scarcely able to refraine from smyling, thus she began. I know not (Gracious Ladies) whether I can move you to as hearty laughter, with a briefe Novell of mine owne, as _Pamphilus_ lately did with his: yet I dare assure you, that it is both true and pleasant, and I will relate it in the best manner I can. In our owne Citie, which evermore hath contained all sorts of people, not long since there dwelt, a Painter, named _Calandrino_, a simple man; yet as much addicted** to matters of novelty, as any man whatsoever could be. The most part of his time, he spent in the company of two other Painters, the one called _Bruno_, and the other _Buffalmaco_, men of very recreative spirits, and of indifferent good capacity; often resorting to the said _Calandrino_, because they tooke delight in his honest simplicity, and pleasant order of behaviour. At the same time likewise, there dwelt in _Florence_, a yong Gentleman of singular disposition, to every generous and witty conceite, as the world did not yeeld a more pleasant companion, he being named _Maso del Saggio_, who having heard somwhat of _Calandrinos_ sillinesse: determined to jest with him in merry manner, and to suggest his longing humours after Novelties, with some conceit of extraordinary nature. He happening (on a day) to meete him in the Church of Saint _John_, and seeing him seriously busied, in beholding the rare pictures, and the curious carved Tabernacle, which (not long before) was placed on the high Altar in the said Church: considered with himselfe, that he had now fit place and opportunity, to effect what hee had long time desired. And having imparted his minde to a very intimate friend, how he intended to deale with simple _Calandrino_: they went both very neere him, where he sate all alone, and making shew as if they saw him not; began to consult between themselves, concerning the rare properties of precious stones; whereof _Maso_ discoursed as exactly, as he had beene a most skilfull Lapidarie; to which conference of theirs, _Calandrino_ lent an attentive eare, in regard it was matter of singular rarity. Soone after, _Calandrino_ started up, and perceiving by their loude speaking, that they talked of nothing which required secret Counsell: he went into their company (the onely thing which _Maso_ desired) and holding on still the former Argument; _Calandrino_ would needs request to know, in what place these precious stones were to be found, which had such excellent vertues in them? _Maso_ made answere, that the most of them were to be had in _Berlinzona_, neere to the City of _Bascha_, which was in the Territory of a Countrey, called _Bengodi_, where the Vines were bound about with Sawcidges, a Goose was sold for a penny, and the Goslings freely given in to boote. There was also an high mountaine, wholly made of _Parmezane_, grated Cheese, whereon dwelt people, who did nothing else but make _Mocharones_ and _Raviuolies_, boiling them with broth of Capons, and afterward hurled them all about, to whosoever can or will catch them. Neere to this mountaine runneth a faire River, the whole streame being pure white Bastard, none such was ever sold for any money, and without one drop of water in it. Now trust me Sir, (said _Calandrino_) that is an excellent Countrey to dwell in: but I pray you tell me Sir, what doe they with the Capons after they have boyld them? The _Baschanes_ (quoth _Maso_) eate them all. Have you Sir, said _Calandrino_, at any time beene in that Countrey? How? answered _Maso_, doe you demaund if I have beene there? Yes man, above a thousand times, at the least. How farre Sir, I pray you (quoth _Calandrino_) is that worthy Countrey, from this our City? In troth replyed _Maso_, the miles are hardly to be numbred, for the most part of them we travell when we are nightly in our beddes, and if a man dreame right; he may be there upon a sudden. Surely Sir, said _Calandrino_, it is further hence, then to _Abruzzi_? Yes questionlesse, replyed _Maso_; but, to a willing minde, no travell seemeth tedious. _Calandrino_ well noting, that _Maso_ delivered all these speeches, with a stedfast countenance, no signe of smyling, or any gesture to urge the least mislike: he gave such credit to them, as to any matter of apparent and manifest truth, and upon this assured confidence, he said. Beleeve me Sir, the journey is over-farre for mee to undertake, but if it were neerer; I could affoord to goe in your Company; onely to see how they make these _Macherones_, and to fill my belly with them. But now wee are in talke Sir, I pray you pardon mee to aske, whether any such precious stones, as you spake off, are to be found in that Countrey, or no? Yes indeed, replyed _Maso_, there are two kinds of them to be found in those Territories, both being of very great vertue. One kind, are gritty stones, of _Settignano_, and of _Montisca_, by vertue of which places, when any Mill-stones or Grind-stones are to bee made, they knede the sand as they use to doe meale, and so make them of what bignesse they please. In which respect, they have have a common saying there: that Nature maketh common stones, but _Montisca_ Mill-stones. Such plenty are there of these Mill-stones, so slenderly here esteemed among us, as Emeralds are with them, whereof they have whole mountaines, farre greater then our _Montemorello_, which shine most gloriously at midnight. And how meanly soever we account of their Mill-stones; yet there they drill them, and enchase them in Rings, which afterward they send to the great Soldane, and have whatsoever they will demaund for them. The other kinde is a most precious Stone indeede, which our best Lapidaries call the _Helitropium_, the vertue whereof is so admirable; as whosoever beareth it about him, so long as he keepeth it, it is impossible for any eye to discerne him, because he walketh meerely invisible. O Lord Sir (quoth _Calandrino_) these stones are of rare vertue indeede: but where else may a man finde that _Helitropium_? Whereto _Maso_ thus answered: That Countrey onely doth not containe the _Helitropium_; for they be many times found upon our plaine of _Mugnone_. Of what bignesse Sir (quoth _Calandrino_) is the Stone, and what coulour? The _Helitropium_, answered _Maso_, is not alwayes of one quality, because some are bigge, and others lesse; but all are of one coulour, namely blacke. _Calandrino_ committing all these things to respective memory, and pretending to be called thence by some other especiall affaires; departed from _Maso_, concluding resolvedly with himselfe, to finde this precious stone, if possibly hee could: yet intending to doe nothing, untill hee had acquainted _Bruno_ and _Buffalmaco_ therewith, whom he loved dearly: he went in all hast to seeke them; because, (without any longer trifling the time) they three might bee the first men, that should find out this precious stone, spending almost the whole morning, before they were all three met together. For they were painting at the Monastery of the Sisters of _Faenza_, where they had very serious imployment, and followed their businesse diligently: where having found them, and saluting them in such kinde manner, as continually he used to doe, thus he began. Loving friends, if you were pleased to follow mine advise, wee three will quickely be the richest men in _Florence_; because, by information from a Gentleman (well deserving to be credited) on the Plaine of _Mugnone_: there is a precious stone to be found, which whosoever carrieth it about him, walketh invisible, and is not to be seene by any one. Let us three be the first men to goe and finde it, before any other heare thereof, and goe about it, and assure our selves that we shall finde it, for I know it (by discription) so soone as I see it. And when wee have it, who can hinder us from bearing it about us. Then will we goe to the Tables of our Bankers, or money changers, which we see daily charged with plenty of gold and silver, where we may take so much as wee list, for they (nor any) are able to descrie us. So, (in short time) shall wee all be wealthy, never needing to drudge any more, or paint muddy walles, as hitherto we have done; and, as many of our poore profession are forced to doe. _Bruno_ and _Buffalmaco_ hearing this, began to smile, and looking merrily each on other, they seemed to wonder thereat, and greatly commended the counsell of _Calandrino. Buffalmaco_ demaunding how the stone was named. Now it fortuned, that _Calandrino_ (who had but a grosse and blockish memory) had quite forgot the name of the stone, and therefore said. What neede have wee of the name, when we know, and are assured of the stones vertue? Let us make no more adoe, but (setting aside all other businesse) goe seeke where it is to be found. Well my friend (answered _Bruno_) you say wee may find it, but how, and by what meanes? There are two sorts of them (quoth _Calandrino_) some bigge, others smaller, but all carry a blacke colour: therefore (in mine opinion) let us gather all such stones as are blacke, so shall we be sure to finde it among them, without any further losse of time. _Buffalmaco_ and _Bruno_, liked and allowed the counsell of _Calandrino_, which when they had (by severall commendations) given him assurance of, _Bruno_ saide. I doe not thinke it a convenient time now, for us to go about so weighty a businesse: for the Sun is yet in the highest degree, and striketh such a heate on the plaine of _Mugnone_, as all the stones are extreamly dryed, and the very blackest will nowe seeme whitest. But in the morning, after the dew is falne, and before the Sunne shineth forth, every stone retaineth his true colour. Moreover, there be many Labourers now working on the plaine, about such businesse as they are severally assigned, who seeing us in so serious a search:** may imagine what we seeke for, & partake with us in the same inquisition, by which meanes they may chance to speed before us, and so wee may lose both our trot and amble. Wherefore, by my consent, if your opinion jumpe with mine, this is an enterprise onely to be perfourmed in an early morning, when the blacke stones are to be distinguisht from the white, and a Festivall day were the best of all other, for then there will be none to discover us. _Buffalmaco_ applauded the advice of _Bruno_, and _Calandrino_ did no lesse, concluding all together; that Sunday morning (next ensuing) should be the time, and then they all three would go seeke the Stone. But _Calandrino_ was verie earnest with them, that they shold not reveale it to any living body, because it was tolde him as an especiall secret: disclosing further to them, what hee had heard concerning the Countrey of _Bengodi_, maintaining (with solemn oaths and protestations) that every part thereof was true. Uppon this agreement, they parted from _Calandrino_, who hardly enjoyed anie rest at all, either by night or day, so greedie he was to bee possessed of the stone. On the Sonday morning, hee called up his Companions before breake of day, and going forth at S. _Galls_ Port, they stayed not, till they came to the plaine of _Mugnone_, where they searched all about to finde this strange stone. _Calandrino_ went stealing before the other two, and verilie perswaded himselfe, that he was borne to finde the _Helitropium_, and looking on every side about him, hee rejected all other Stones but the blacke, whereof first he filled his bosome, and afterwards, both his Pockets. Then he tooke off his large painting Apron, which he fastened with his girdle in the manner of a sacke, and that he filled full of stones likewise. Yet not so satisfied, he spred abroad his Cloake, which being also full of stones, hee bound it up carefully, for feare of loosing the very least of them. All which _Buffalmaco_ and _Bruno_ well observing (the day growing on, and hardly they could reach home by dinner time) according as merrily they had concluded, and pretending not to see _Calandrino_, albeit he was not farre from them: What is become of _Calandrino_? saide _Buffalmaco. Bruno_ gazing strangely every where about him, as if hee were desirous to finde him, replyed. I saw him not long since, for then he was hard by before us; questionlesse, he hath given us the slippe, is privilie gone home to dinner, and making starke fooles of us, hath lefte us to picke up blacke stones, upon the parching plaines of _Mugnone_. Well (quoth _Buffalmaco_) this is but the tricke of an hollow-hearted friend, and not such as he protested himselfe to be, to us. Could any but wee have bin so sottish, to credit his frivolous perswasions, hoping to finde any stones of such vertue, and here on the fruitlesse plains of _Mugnone_? No, no, none but we would have beleeved him. _Calandrino_ (who was close by them) hearing these wordes, and seeing the whole manner of their wondering behaviour: became constantly perswaded, that hee had not onely founde the precious stone; but also had some store of them about him, by reason he was so neere to them, and yet they could not see him, therefore he walked before them. Now was his joy beyond all compasse of expression, and being exceedingly proud of so happy an adventure: did not meane to speake one word to them, but (heavily laden as hee was) to steale home faire and softly before them, which indeede he did, leaving them to follow after, if they would. _Bruno_ perceiving his intent, said to _Buffalmaco_: What remaineth now for us to doe? Why should not we go home, as well as hee? And reason too, replyed _Bruno_, It is in vaine to tarry any longer heere: but I solemnly protest, _Calandrino_ shall no more make an Asse of me: and were I now as neere him, as not long since I was, I would give him such a remembrance on the heele with this Flint stone, as should sticke by him this moneth, to teach him a lesson for abusing his friends. Hee threw the stone, and hit him shrewdly on the heele therewith; but all was one to _Calandrino_, whatsoever they saide, or did, as thus they still followed after him. And although the blow of the stone was painfull to him; yet he mended his pace so wel as he was able, in regard of beeing over-loaden with stones, and gave them not one word all the way, because he tooke himselfe to bee invisible, and utterly unseene of them. _Buffalmaco_ taking uppe another Flint-stone, which was indifferent heavie and sharp, said to _Bruno_. Seest thou this Flint? Casting it from him, he smote _Calandrino_ just in the backe therewith, saying. Oh that _Calandrino_ had bin so neere, as I might have hit him on the backe with the stone. And thus all the way on the plaine of _Mugnone_, they did nothing else but pelt him with stones, even so farre as the Port of S. _Gall_, where they threwe downe what other stones they had gathered, meaning not to molest him any more, because they had done enough already. There they stept before him unto the Port, and acquainted the Warders with the whole matter, who laughing heartily at the jest, the better to upholde it; would seeme not to see _Calandrino_ in his passage by them, but suffered him to go on, sore wearied with his burthen, and sweating extreamly. Without resting himselfe in any place, he came home to his house, which was neere to the corner of the Milles, Fortune being so favourable to him in the course of this mockery, that as he passed along the Rivers side, and afterward through part of the City; he was neither met nor seen by any, in regard they were all in their houses at dinner. _Calandrino_, every minute ready to sinke under his weightie burthen, entred into his owne house, where (by great ill luck) his wife, being a comely and very honest woman, and named _Monna Trista_, was standing aloft on the stayres head. She being somewhat angry for his so long absence, and seeing him come in grunting and groaning, frowningly said. I thought that the divell would never let thee come home, all the whole Citie have dined, and yet wee must remaine without our dinner. When _Calandrino_ heard this, & perceived that he was not invisible to his Wife: full of rage and wroth, hee began to raile, saying. Ah thou wicked woman, where art thou? Thou hast utterly undone me: but (as I live) I will pay thee soundly for it. Up the staires he ascended into a small Parlour, where when he hadde spred all his burthen of stones on the floore: he ran to his wife, catching her by the haire of the head, and throwing her at his feete; giving her so many spurns and cruel blowes, as shee was not able to moove either armes or legges, notwithstanding all her teares, and humble submission. Now _Buffalmaco_ and _Bruno_, after they had spent an indifferent while, with the Warders at the Port in laughter; in a faire & gentle pace, they followed _Calandrino_ home to his house, and being come to the doore, they heard the harsh bickering betweene him and his Wife, and seeming as if they were but newly arrived, they called out alowd to him. _Calandrino_ being in a sweate, stamping and raving still at his Wife: looking forth of the window, entreated them to ascend up to him, which they did, counterfetting greevous displeasure against him. Being come into the roome, which they saw all covered over with stones, his Wife sitting in a corner, all the haire (well-neere) torne off her head, her face broken and bleeding, and all her body cruelly beaten; on the other side, _Calandrino_ standing unbraced and ungirded, strugling and wallowing, like a man quite out of breath: after a little pausing, _Bruno_ thus spake. Why how now _Calandrino_? What may the meaning of this matter be? What, art thou preparing for building, that thou hast provided such plenty of stones? How sitteth thy poore wife? How hast thou misused her? Are these the behaviours of a wise or honest man? _Calandrino_, utterly over-spent with travaile, and carrying such an huge burthen of stones, as also the toylesome beating of his Wife, (but much more impatient and offended, for that high good Fortune, which he imagined to have lost:) could not collect his spirits together, to answer them one ready word, wherefore hee sate fretting like a mad man. Whereupon, _Buffalmaco_ thus began to him. _Calandrino_, if thou be angry with any other, yet thou shouldest not have made such a mockery of us, as thou hast done: in leaving us (like a couple of coxcombes) to the plaine of _Mugnone_, whether thou leddest us with thee, to seeke a precious stone called _Helitropium_. And couldst thou steale home, never bidding us so much as farewell? How can we but take it in very evill part, that thou shouldest so abuse two honest neighbours? Well, assure thy selfe, this is the last time that ever thou shalt serve us so. _Calandrino_ (by this time) being somewhat better come to himselfe, with an humble protestation of courtesie, returned them this answer. Alas my good friends, be not you offended, the case is farre otherwise then you immagine. Poore unfortunate man that I am, I found the rare precious stone that you speake of: and marke me well, if I do not tell you the truth of all. When you asked one another (the first time) what was become of me; I was hard by you: at the most, within the distance of two yards length; and perceiving that you saw mee not, (being still so neere, and alwaies before you:) I went on, smiling to my selfe, to heare you brabble and rage against me. So, proceeding on in his discourse, he recounted every accident as it hapned, both what they had saide and did unto him, concerning the severall blowes, with the two Flint-stones, the one hurting him greevously in the heele, and the other paining him as extreamly in the backe, with their speeches used then, and his laughter, notwithstanding hee felt the harme of them both, yet beeing proud that he did so invisibly beguile them. Nay more (quoth he) I cannot forbeare to tell you, that when I passed thorow the Port, I saw you standing with the Warders; yet, by vertue of that excellent Stone, undiscovered of you all. Beside, going along the streets, I met many of my Gossips, friends, and familiar acquaintance, such as used daylie to converse with me, and drinking together in every Tavern: yet not one of them spake to me, neyther used any courtesie or salutation; which (indeede) I did the more freely forgive them, because they were not able to see me. In the end of all, when I was come home into mine owne house, this divellish and accursed woman, being aloft uppon my stayres head, by much misfortune chanced to see me; in regard (as it is not unknowne to you) that women cause all things to lose their vertue. In which respect, I that could have stild my selfe the onely happy man in _Florence_, am now made most miserable. And therefore did I justly beate her, so long as she was able to stand against mee, and I know no reason to the contrary, why I should not yet teare her in a thousand peeces: for I may well curse the day of our mariage, to hinder and bereave me of such an invisible blessednesse. _Buffalmaco_ and _Bruno_ hearing this, made shew of verie much mervailing thereat, and many times maintained what _Calandrino_ had said; being well neere ready to burst with laughter; considering, how confidently he stood upon it, that he had found the wonderfull stone, and lost it by his wives speaking onely to him. But when they saw him rise in fury once more, with intent to beat her againe: then they stept betweene them; affirming, That the woman had no way offended in this case, but rather he himself: who knowing that women cause all things to lose their vertue, had not therefore expresly commanded her, not to be seene in his presence all that day, untill he had made full proofe of the stones vertue. And questionles, the consideration of a matter so availeable and important, was quite taken from him, because such an especiall happinesse, should not belong to him only; but (in part) to his friends, whom he had acquainted therewith, drew them to the plaine with him in companie, where they tooke as much paines in search of the stone, as possibly he did, or could; and yet (dishonestly) he would deceive them, and beare it away covetously, for his owne private benefit. After many other, as wise and wholesome perswasions, which he constantly credited, because they spake them, they reconciled him to his wife, and she to him: but not without some difficulty in him; who falling into wonderfull greefe and melancholy, for losse of such an admirable precious stone, was in danger to have dyed, within lesse then a month after. _The Provost belonging to the Cathedrall Church of_ Fiesola, _fell in love with a Gentlewoman, being a widdow, and named_ Piccarda, _who hated him as much as he loved her. He imagining, that he lay with her: by the Gentlewomans Bretheren, and the Byshop under whom he served, was taken in bed with her Mayde, an ugly, foule, deformed Slut._ The Fourth Novell. _Wherein is declared, how love oftentimes is so powerfull in aged men, and driveth them to such doating, that it redoundeth to their great disgrace and punishment._ Ladie _Eliza_ having concluded her Novell, not without infinite commendations of the whole company: the Queen turning her lookes to Madame _�millia_, gave her such an expresse signe, as she must needs follow next after Madame _Eliza_, whereupon she began in this manner. Vertuous Ladies, I very well remember (by divers Novels formerly related) that sufficient hath beene sayde, concerning Priests and Religious persons, and all other carrying shaven Crownes, in their luxurious appetites and desires. But because no one can at any time say so much, as thereto no more may be added: beside them alreadie spoken of, I will tel you another concerning the Provost of a Cathedrall Church, who would needes (in despight of all the world) love a Gentlewoman whether she would or no: and therefore, in due chastisement both unto his age and folly, she gave him such entertainment as he justly deserved. It is not unknowne unto you all, that the Cittie of _Fiesola_, the mountaine whereof we may very easily hither discerne, hath bene (in times past) a very great and most ancient City: although at this day it is well-neere all ruined: yet neverthelesse, it alwaies was, and yet is a Byshops See, albeit not of the wealthiest. In the same Citie, and no long while since, neere unto the Cathedrall Church, there dwelt a Gentlewoman, being a Widdow, and commonlie there stiled by the name of Madame _Piccarda_, whose house and inheritance was but small, wherewith yet she lived very contentedly (having no wandering eye, or wanton desires) and no company but her two Brethren, Gentlemen of especiall honest and gracious disposition. This Gentlewoman, being yet in the flourishing condition of her time, did ordinarily resort to the Cathedrall Church, in holie zeale, and religious devotion; where the Provost of the place, became so enamored of her, as nothing (but the sight of her) yeelded him any contentment. Which fond affection of his, was forwarded with such an audacious and bold carriage, as hee dared to acquaint her with his love, requiring her enterchange of affection, and the like opinion of him, as he had of her. True it is, that he was very farre entred into yeares, but yong and lustie in his own proud conceite, presuming strangely beyond his capacity, and thinking as well of his abilitie, as the youthfullest gallant in the World could doe. Whereas (in verie deede) his person was utterly displeasing, his behaviour immodest and scandalous, and his usuall Language, favouring of such sensualitie, as, very fewe or none cared for his company. And if any Woman seemed respective of him, it was in regard of his outside and profession, and more for feare, then the least affection, and alwayes as welcome to them, as the head-ake. His fond and foolish carriage still continuing to this Gentlewoman; she being wise and vertuously advised, spake thus unto him. Holy Sir, if you love me according as you protest, & manifest by your outward behaviour: I am the more to thanke you for it, being bound in dutie to love you likewise. But if your Love have any harshe or unsavourie taste, which mine is no way able to endure, neyther dare entertaine in anie kinde whatsoever: you must and shall hold mee excused, because I am made of no such temper. You are my ghostly and spirituall Father, an Holy Priest. Moreover, yeares have made you honorably aged; all which severall weighty considerations, ought to confirme you in continency & chastity. Remember withall (good sir) that I am but a child to you in years, & were I bent to any wanton appetites, you shold justly correct me by fatherly counsell, such as most beautifieth your sacred profession. Beside, I am a Widdow, and you are not ignorant, how requisite a thing honestie is in widdowes. Wherefore, pardon mee (Holy Father:) for, in such manner as you make the motion: I desire you not to love mee, because I neither can or will at any time so affect you. The Provoste gaining no other grace at this time, would not so give over for this first repulse, but pursuing her still with unbeseeming importunity; many private meanes he used to her by Letters, tokens, and insinuating ambassages; yea, whensoever shee came to the Church, he never ceased his wearisome solicitings. Whereat she growing greatly offended, and perceyving no likelyhood of his desisting; became so tyred with his tedious suite, that she considered with her selfe, how she might dispatch him as he deserved, because she saw no other remedy. Yet shee would not attempte anie thing in this case, without acquainting her Bretheren first therewith. And having tolde them, how much shee was importuned by the Provost, and also what course she meant to take (wherein they both counselled and encouraged her:) within a few daies after, shee went to Church as she was wont to do; where so soone as the Provost espyed her: forthwith he came to her, and according to his continued course, he fell into his amorous courting. She looking upon him with a smiling countenance, and walking aside with him out of any hearing: after he had spent many impertinent speeches, shee (venting foorth manie a vehement sighe) at length returned him this answer. Reverend Father, I have often heard it saide: That there is not any Fort or Castle, how strongly munited soever it bee; but by continuall assayling, at length (of necessity) it must and will be surprized. Which comparison, I may full well allude to my selfe. For, you having so long time solicited me, one while with affable language, then againe with tokens and entisements, of such prevailing power: as have broken the verie barricado of my former deliberation, and yeelded mee uppe as your prisoner, to be commanded at your pleasure, for now I am onely devoted yours. Well may you (Gentle Ladies) imagine, that this answere was not a little welcome to the Provost; who, shrugging with conceyte of joy, presently thus replyed. I thanke you Madame _Piccarda_, and to tell you true, I held it almost as a miracle, that you could stand upon such long resistance, considering, it never so fortuned to mee with anie other. And I have many times saide to my selfe, that if women were made of silver, they hardly could be worth a pennie, because there can scarsely one be found of so good allay, as to endure the test and essay. But let us breake off this frivolous conference, and resolve upon a conclusion; How, when and where we may safely meete together. Worthy Sir, answered _Piccarda_, your selfe may appoint the time whensoever you please, because I have no Husband, to whom I should render any account of my absence, or presence: but I am not provided of any place. A pretty while the Provoste stood musing, and at last saide. A place Madame? where can be more privacie, then in your owne house? Alas Sir (quoth she) you know that I have two Gentlemen my brethren who continually are with me, & other of their friends beside: My house also is not great, wherefore it is impossible to be there, except you could be like a dumbe man, without speaking one word, or making the very least noyse; beside, to remaine in darkenesse, as if you were blinde, and who can be able to endure all these? And yet (without these) there is no adventuring, albeit they never come into my Chamber: but their lodging is so close to mine, as there cannot any word be spoken, be it never so low or in whispering manner, but they heare it very easily. Madame said the Provoste, for one or two nights, I can make hard shift. Why Sir (quoth she) the matter onely remaineth in you, for if you be silent and suffering, as already you have heard, there is no feare at all of safty. Let me alone Madame, replyed the Provoste, I will bee governed by your directions: but, in any case, let us begin this night. With all my heart, saide shee. So appointing him how and when hee should come; hee parted from her, and shee returned home to her house. Heere I am to tell you, that this Gentlewoman had a servant, in the nature of an old maide, not indued with any well featured face, but instead thereof, she had the ugliest and most counterfeit countenance, as hardly could be seene a worse. She had a wrie mouth, huge great lippes, foule teeth, great and blacke, a monstrous stinking breath, her eyes bleared, and alwayes running, the complexion of her face betweene greene and yellow, as if shee had not spent the Summer season in the Citie, but in the parching Countrey under a hedge; and beside all these excellent parts, shee was crooke backt, poult footed, and went like a lame Mare in Fetters. Her name was _Ciuta_, but in regard of her flat nose, lying as low as a Beagles, shee was called _Ciutazza_. Now, notwithstanding all this deformity in her, yet she had a singuler opinion of her selfe, as commonly all such foule Sluts have: in regard whereof, Madame _Piccarda_ calling her aside, Thus began. _Ciutazza_, if thou wilt doe for me one nights service, I shall bestow on thee a faire new Smocke. When _Ciutazza_ heard her speake of a new Smocke, instantly she answered. Madame, if you please to bestow a new Smocke on me, were it to runne thorow the fire for you, or any businesse of farre greater danger, you onely have the power to command me, and I will doe it. I will not (said _Piccarda_) urge thee to any dangerous action, but onely to lodge in my bed this night with a man, and give him courteous entertainement, who shall reward thee liberally for it. But have an especiall care that thou speake not one word, for feare thou shouldst be heard by my Brethren, who (as thou knowest) lodge so neere by: doe this, and then demaund thy Smocke of me. Madame (quoth _Ciutazza_) if it were to lye with sixe men, rather then one; if you say the word, it shall be done. When night was come, the Provoste also came according to appointment, even when the two brethren were in their lodging, where they easily heard his entrance, as _Piccarda_ (being present with them) had informed them. In went the Provoste without any candle, or making the least noise to be heard, & being in _Piccardaes_ Chamber, went to bed: _Ciutazza_ tarrying not long from him, but (as her Mistresse had instructed her) she went to bed likewise, not speaking any word at all, and the Provoste, imagining to have her there, whom he so highly affected, fell to imbracing and kissing _Ciutazza_, who was as forward in the same manner to him, and there for a while I intend to leave them. When _Piccarda_ had performed this hot piece of businesse, she referred the effecting of the remainder to her Brethren, in such sort as it was compacted betweene them. Faire and softly went the two brethren forth of their Chamber, and going to the Market place, Fortune was more favourable to them then they could wish, in accomplishing the issue of their intent. For the heat being somwhat tedious, the Lord Bishop was walking abroad very late, with purpose to visit the Brethren at the Widdowes house, because he tooke great delight in their company, as being good Schollers, and endued with other singular parts beside. Meeting with them in the open Market place, he acquainted them with his determination; whereof they were not a little joyfull, it jumping so justly with their intent. Being come to the Widdowes house, they passed through a small nether Court, where lights stood ready to welcome him thither; and entring into a goodly Hall, there was store of good wine and banquetting, which the Bishop accepted in very thankefull manner: and courteous complement being overpassed, one of the Brethren, thus spake. My good Lord, seeing it hath pleased you to honour our poore Widdowed Sisters house with your presence, for which wee shall thanke you while we live: We would intreate one favour more of you, onely but to see a sight which we will shew you. The Lord Bishop was well contented with the motion: so the Brethren conducting him by the hand, brought him into their Sisters Chamber, where the the Provoste was in bed with _Ciutazza_, both soundly sleeping, but enfolded in his armes, as wearied (belike) with their former wantonning, and whereof his age had but little need. The Courtaines being close drawne about the bed, although the season was exceeding hot, they having lighted Torches in their hands; drew open the Curtaines, and shewed the Bishop his Provoste, close snugging betweene the armes of _Ciutazza_. Upon a sudden the Provoste awaked, and seeing so great a light, as also so many people about him: shame and feare so daunted him, that hee shrunke downe into the bed, and hid his head. But the Bishop being displeased at a sight so unseemely, made him to discover his head againe, to see whom he was in bed withall. Now the poore Provoste perceiving the Gentlewomans deceite, and the proper hansome person so sweetly embracing him: it made him so confounded with shame, as he had not the power to utter one word: but having put on his cloathes by the Bishops command, hee sent him (under sufficient guard) to his Pallace, to suffer due chastisement for his sinne committed; and afterward he desired to know, by what meanes hee became so favoured of _Ciutazza_, the whole Historie whereof, the two brethren related at large to him. When the Bishop had heard all the discourse, highly he commended the wisedome of the Gentlewoman, and worthy assistance of her brethren, who contemning to soile their hands in the blood of a Priest, rather sought to shame him as hee deserved. The Bishop enjoyned him a pennance of repentance for forty dayes after, but love and disdaine made him weepe nine and forty: Moreover, it was a long while after, before he durst be seene abroad. But when he came to walke the streets, the Boyes would point their fingers at him, saying. Behold the Provoste that lay with _Ciutazza_: Which was such a wearisome life to him, that he became (well neere) distracted in his wits. In this manner the honest Gentlewoman discharged her dutie, and rid her selfe of the Provosts importunity: _Ciutazza_ had a merry night of it, and a new Smocke also for her labour. _Three pleasant Companions, plaide a merry pranke with a Judge (belonging to the Marquesate of_ Ancona) _at_ Florence, _at such time as he sate on the Bench, and hearing criminall causes._ The Fift Novell. _Giving admonition, that for the mannaging of publique affaires, no other persons are or ought to be appointed, but such as be honest, and meet to sit on the seate of Authority._ No sooner had Madam _�millia_ finished her Novell, wherein, the excellent wisedome of _Piccarda_, for so worthily punishing the luxurious old Provoste, had generall commendations of the whole Assembly: but the Queene, looking on _Philostratus_, said. I command you next to supply the place: whereto he made answere, that hee was both ready and willing, and then thus began. Honourable Ladies, the merry Gentleman, so lately remembred by Madame _Eliza_, being named _Maso del Saggio_; causeth me to passe over an intended Tale, which I had resolved on when it came to my turne: to report another concerning him, and two men more, his friendly Companions, which although it may appeare to you somewhat unpleasing, in regard of a little grosse and unmannerly behavior: yet it will move merriment without any offence, and that is the maine reason why I relate it. It is not unknowne to you, partly by intelligence from our reverend predecessours, as also some understanding of your owne, that many time have resorted to our City of _Florence_, Potestates and Officers, belonging to the Marquesate of _Anconia_; who commonly were men of lowe spirit, and their lives so wretched and penurious, as they rather deserved to be tearmed Misers, then men. And in regard of this their naturall covetousnesse and misery, the Judges would bring also in their company, such Scribes or Notaries, as being paralelde with their Masters: they all seemed like Swaines come from the Plough, or bred up in some Coblers quality, rather then Schollers, or Students of Law. At one time (above all the rest) among other Potestates and Judges, there came an especiall man, as pickt out of purpose, who was named _Messer Niccolao da San Lepidio_, who (at the first beholding) looked rather like a Tinker, then any Officer in authority. This hansome man (among the rest) was deputed to heare criminall causes. And, as often it happeneth, that Citizens, although no businesse inviteth them to Judiciall Courts, yet they still resort thither, sometimes accidentally: So it fortuned, that _Maso del Saggio_, being one morning in search of an especiall friend, went to the Court-house, and being there, observed in what manner _Messer Niccolao_ was seated; who looking like some strange Fowle, lately come forth of a farre Countrey; he began to survay him the more seriously, even from the head to the foot, as we use to say. And albeit he saw his Gowne furred with Miniver, as also the hood about his necke, a Penne and Inkehorne hanging at his girdle, and one skirt of his Garment longer then the other, with more misshapen sights about him, farre unfitting for a man of so civill profession: yet he spyed one errour extraordinary, the most notable (in his opinion) that ever he had seene before. Namely, a paultry paire of Breeches, wickedly made, and worse worne, hanging downe so lowe as halfe his legge, even as he sate upon the Bench, yet cut so sparingly of the Cloath, that they gaped wide open before, as a wheele-barrow might have full entrance allowed it. This strange sight was so pleasing to him; as leaving off further search of his friend, and scorning to have such a spectacle alone by himselfe: hee went upon another Inquisition; Namely, for two other merry Lads like himselfe, the one being called _Ribi_, and the other _Matteuzzo_, men of the same mirth-full disposition as he was, and therefore the fitter for his Company. After he had met with them, these were his salutations: My honest Boyes, if ever you did me any kindnesse, declare it more effectually now, in accompanying me to the Court-house, where you shall behold such a singular spectacle, as (I am sure) you never yet saw the like. Forthwith they went along altogether, and being come to the Court-house, he shewed them the Judges hansome paire of Breeches, hanging down in such base and beastly manner; that (being as yet farre off from the Bench) their hearts did ake with extreamity of laughter. But when they came neere to the seat whereon _Messer Niccolao_ sate, they plainely perceived, that it was very easie to be crept under, and withall, that the board whereon he set his feet, was rotten and broken, so that it was no difficult matter, to reach it, and pull it downe as a man pleased, and let him fall bare Breecht to the ground. Cheare up your spirits (my hearts) quoth _Maso_, and if your longing be like to mine; we will have yonder Breeches a good deale lower, for I see how it may be easily done. Laying their heads together, plotting and contriving severall wayes, which might be the likelyest to compasse their intent: each of them had his peculiar appointment, to undertake the businesse without fayling, and it was to be performed the next morning. At the houre assigned, they met there againe, and finding the Court well filled with people, the Plaintiffes and Defendants earnestly pleading: _Matteuzzo_ (before any body could descry him) was cunningly crept under the Bench, and lay close by the board whereon the Judge placed his feete. Then stept in _Maso_ on the right hand of _Messer Niccolao_, and tooke fast hold on his Gowne before; the like did _Ribi_ on the left hand, in all respects answerable to the other. Oh my Lord Judge (cryed _Maso_ out aloud) I humbly intreat you for charities sake, before this pilfering knave escape away from hence; that I may have Justice against him, for stealing my drawing-over stockeings, which he stoutly denyeth, yet mine owne eyes beheld the deed, it being now not above fifteene dayes since, when first I bought them for mine owne use. Worthy Lord Judge (cryed _Ribi_, on the other side) doe not beleeve what he saith, for he is a paltry lying fellow, and because hee knew I came hither to make my complaint for a Male or Cloakebag which he stole from me: hee urgeth this occasion for a paire of drawing Stockeings, which he delivered me with his owne hands. If your Lordship will not credit me, I can produce as witnesses, _Trecco_ the Shoemaker, with _Monna Grassa_ the Souse-seller, and he that sweepes the Church of _Santa Maria a Verzaia_, who saw him when he came posting hither. _Maso_ haling and tugging the Judge by the sleeve, would not suffer him to heare _Ribi_, but cryed out still for Justice against him, as he did the like on the contrary side. During the time of this their clamourous contending, the Judge being very willing to heare either party: _Matteuzzo_, upon a signe received from the other, which was a word in _Masoes_ pleading, laide holde on the broken boord, as also on the Judges low-hanging Breech, plucking at them both so strongly, that they fell downe immediately, the Breeches being onely tyed but with one Poynt before. He hearing the boards breaking underneath him, and such maine pulling at his Breeches; strove (as he sate) to make them fast before, but the Poynt being broken, and _Maso_ crying in his eare on the one side, as _Ribi_ did the like in the other; hee was at his wits end to defend himselfe. My Lord (quoth _Maso_) you may bee ashamed that you doe me not Justice, why will you not heare mee, but wholly lend your eare to mine Adversary? My Lord (said _Ribi_) never was Libell preferd into this Court, of such a paltry trifling matter, and therefore I must, and will have Justice. By this time the Judge was dismounted from the Bench, and stood on the ground, with his slovenly Breeches hanging about his heeles; _Matteuzzo_ being cunningly stolne away, and undiscovered by anybody. _Ribi_, thinking he had shamed the Judge sufficiently, went away, protesting, that he would declare his cause in the hearing of a wiser Judge. And _Maso_ forbearing to tugge his Gowne any longer, in his departing, said. Fare you well Sir, you are not worthy to be a Magistrate, if you have no more regard of your honour and honesty, but will put off poore mens suites at your pleasure. So both went severall wayes, and soone were gone out of publike view. The worshipfull Judge _Messer Niccolao_ stood all this while on the ground; and, in presence of all the beholders, trussed up his Breeches, as if hee were new risen out of his bed: when better bethinking himselfe on the matters indifference, he called for the two men, who contended for the drawing stockings and the Cloake-bag; but no one could tell what was become of them. Whereupon, he rapt out a kinde of Judges oath, saying: I will know whether it be Law or no heere in _Florence_, to make a Judge sit bare Breecht on the Bench of Justice, and in the hearing of criminall Causes; whereat the chiefe Potestate, and all the standers by laughed heartily. Within fewe dayes after, he was informed by some of his especiall Friends, that this had never happened to him, but onely to testifie, how understanding the _Florentines_ are, in their ancient constitutions and customes, to embrace, love and honour, honest, discreet worthy Judges and Magistrates; Whereas on the contrary, they as much condemne miserable knaves, fooles, and dolts, who never merit to have any better entertainment. Wherefore, it would be best for him, to make no more enquiry after the parties; lest a worse inconvenience should happen to him. Bruno _and_ Buffalmaco, _did steale a young Brawne from_ Calandrino, _and for his recovery thereof, they used a kinde of pretended conjuration, with Pilles made of Ginger and strong Malmesey. But instead of this application, they gave him two Pilles of a Dogges Dates, or Dowsets, confected in Alloes, which he received each after the other; by meanes whereof they made him beleeve, that hee had robde himselfe. And for feare they should report this theft to his wife; they made him to goe buy another Brawne._ The Sixt Novell. _Wherein is declared, how easily a plaine and simple man may be made a foole, when he dealeth with crafty companions._ _Philostratus_ had no sooner concluded his Novell, and the whole Assembly laughed heartily thereat: but the Queen gave command to Madame _Philomena_, that shee should follow next in order; whereupon thus shee began. Worthy Ladies, as _Philostratus_, by calling to memorie the name of _Maso del Saggio_, hath contented you with another merry Novell concerning him: in the same manner must I intreat you, to remember once againe _Calandrino_ and his subtle Consorts, by a pretty tale which I meane to tell you; how, and in what manner they were revenged on him, for going to seeke the invisible Stone. Needlesse were any fresh relation to you, what manner of people those three men were, _Calandrino, Bruno,_ and _Buffalmaco,_ because already you have had sufficient understanding of them. And therefore, as an induction to my discourse, I must tell you, that _Calandrino_ had a small Country-house, in a Village some-what neere to _Florence_, which came to him by the marriage of his Wife. Among other Cattle and Poultry, which he kept there in store, hee had a young Boare readie fatted for Brawne, whereof yearly he used to kill one for his owne provision; and alwaies in the month of December, he and his wife resorted to their village house, to have a Brawne both killed and salted. It came to passe at this time concerning my Tale, that the Woman being somewhat crazie and sickly, by her Husbands unkinde usage, whereof you heard so lately; _Calandrino_ went alone to the killing of his Boare, which comming to the hearing of _Bruno_ and _Buffalmaco_, and that the Woman could by no meanes be there: to passe away the time a little in merriment, they went to a friendlie Companion of theirs, an honest joviall Priest, dwelling not farre off from _Calandrinoes_ Countrey house. The same morning as the Boare was kilde, they all three went thither, and _Calandrino_ seeing them in the Priests companie: bad them all heartily welcome; and to acquaint them with his good Husbandry, hee shewed them his house, and the Boare where it hung. They perceyving it to be faire and fat, knowing also, that _Calandrino_ intended to salt it for his owne store, _Bruno_ saide unto him: Thou art an Asse _Calandrino_, sell thy Brawne, and let us make merrie with the money: then let thy wife know no otherwise, but that it was stolne from thee, by those theeves which continually haunt country houses, especially in such scattering Villages. Oh mine honest friends, answered _Calandrino_, your counsell is not to be followed, neither is my wife so easie to be perswaded: this were the readiest way to make your house a hell, and she to become the Master-Divell: therefore talke no further, for flatly I will not doe it. Albeit they laboured him very earnestly, yet all proved not to anie purpose: onely he desired them to suppe with him, but in so colde a manner, as they denyed him, and parted thence from him. As they walked on the way, _Bruno_ saide to _Buffalmaco_. Shall we three (this night) rob him of his Brawne? Yea marry (quoth _Buffalmaco_) how is it to be done? I have (saide _Bruno_) alreadie found the meanes to effect it, if he take it not from the place where last we saw it. Let us doe it then (answered _Buffalmaco_) why should we not do it? Sir Domine heere and we, will make good cheare with it among our selves. The nimble Priest was as forward as the best; and the match being fully agreed on, _Bruno_ thus spake. My delicate Sir Domine, Art and cunning must be our maine helps: for thou knowest _Buffalmaco_, what a covetous wretch _Calandrino_ is, glad and readie to drink alwaies on other mens expences: let us go take him with us to the Tavern, where the Priest (for his owne honour and reputation) shall offer to make paiment of the whole reckoning, without receiving a farthing of his, whereof he will not be a little joyfull, so shall we bring to passe the rest of the businesse, because there is no body in the house, but onely himselfe: for he is best at ease without company. As _Bruno_ had propounded, so was it accordingly performed, & when _Calandrino_ perceyved, that the Priest would suffer none to pay, but himselfe, he dranke the more freely; and when there was no neede at all, tooke his Cuppes couragiously, one after another. Two or three houres of the night were spent, before they parted from the Taverne, _Calandrino_ going directly home to his house, and instantly to bed, without any other supper, imagining that he had made fast his doore, which (indeede) he left wide open: sleeping soundly, without suspition of any harme intended unto him. _Buffalmaco_ and _Bruno_ went and supt with the Priest, and so soone as supper was ended, they tooke certaine Engines, for their better entering into _Calandrinoes_ house, and so went on to effect theyr purpose. Finding the doore standing readie open, they entered in, tooke the Brawne, carried it with them to the Priests house, and afterward went all to bed. When _Calandrino_ had well slept after his Wine, he arose in the morning, and being descended downe the staires, finding the street doore wide open, he looked for the Brawne, but it was gone. Enquiring of the neighbours dwelling neere about him, hee could heare no tydings of his Brawne, but became the wofullest man in the world, telling every one that his Brawne was stolne. _Bruno_ and _Buffalmaco_ being risen in the morning, they went to visite _Calandrino_, to heare how he tooke the losse of his Brawne: and hee no sooner had a sight of them, but he called them to him; and with the teares running downe his cheekes, sayde: Ah my deare friendes, I am robde of my Brawne. _Bruno_ stepping closely to him, sayde in his eare: It is wonderfull, that once in thy life time thou canst bee wise. How? answered _Calandrino_, I speake to you in good earnest. Speake so still in earnest (replied _Bruno_) and cry it out so loud as thou canst, then let who list beleeve it to be true. _Calandrino_ stampt and fretted exceedingly, saying: As I am a true man to God, my Prince, and Countrey, I tell thee truly, that my Brawne is stolne. Say so still I bid thee (answered _Bruno_) and let all the world beleeve thee, if they list to do so, for I will not. Wouldst thou, (quoth _Calandrino_) have me damne my selfe to the divell? I see thou dost not credit what I say: but would I were hanged by the necke, if it be not true, that my Brawne is stolne. How can it possible be, replyed _Bruno_? Did not I see it in thy house yesternight? Wouldst thou have me beleeve, that it is flowne away? Although it is not flowne away (quoth _Calandrino_) yet I am certain, that it is stolne away: for which I am weary of my life, because I dare not go home to mine owne house, in regard my wife will never beleeve it; and yet if she should credite it, we are sure to have no peace for a twelvemonths space. _Bruno_, seeming as if he were more then halfe sorrowfull, yet supporting still his former jesting humour, saide: Now trust mee _Calandrino_, if it be so; they that did it are much too blame. If it be so? answered _Calandrino_, Belike thou wouldst have mee blaspheme Heaven, and all the Saints therein: I tell thee once againe _Bruno_, that this last night my Brawne was stolne. Be patient good _Calandrino_, replyed _Buffalmaco_, and if thy Brawne be stolne from thee, there are means enow to get it againe. Meanes enow to get it againe? said _Calandrino_, I would faine heare one likely one, and let all the rest go by. I am sure _Calandrino_, answered _Buffalmaco_, thou art verily perswaded, that no Theefe came from _India_, to steale thy Brawne from thee: in which respect, it must needes then be some of thy Neighbours: whom if thou couldst lovingly assemble together, I knowe an experiment to be made with Bread and Cheese, whereby the party that hath it, will quickly be discovered. I have heard (quoth _Bruno_) of such an experiment, and helde it to be infallible; but it extendeth onely unto persons of Gentilitie, whereof there are but few dwelling heere about, and in the case of stealing a Brawne, it is doubtfull to invite them, neither can there be any certainty of their comming. I confesse what you say, aunswered _Buffalmaco_, to be very true: but then in this matter, so nerely concerning us to be done, and for a deare Friend, what is your advice? I would have Pilles made of Ginger, compounded with your best and strongest _Malmesey_,** then let the ordinary sort of people be invited (for such onely are most to be mistrusted) and they will not faile to come, because they are utterly ignorant of our intention. Besides, the Pilles may as well bee hallowed and consecrated, as bread and cheese on the like occasion. Indeede you say true (replyed _Buffalmaco_) but what is the opinion of _Calandrino_? Is he willing to have this tryall made, or no? Yes, by all meanes, answered _Calandrino_, for gladly I would know who hath stolne my Brawne, and your good words have (more then halfe) comforted me already in this case. Well then (quoth _Bruno_) I will take the paines to go to _Florence_, to provide all things necessarie for this secret service; but I must bee furnished with money to effect it. _Calandrino_ had some forty shillings then about him, which he delivered to _Bruno_, who presently went to _Florence_, to a frend of his an Apothecarie, of whom he bought a pound of white Ginger, which hee caused him to make uppe in small Pilles: and two other beside of a Dogges-dates or Dowsets, confected all over with strong Aloes, yet well moulded in Sugare, as all the rest were: and because they should the more easily bee knowne from the other, they were spotted with Gold, in verie formall and Physicall manner. He bought moreover, a big Flaggon of the best Malmesey, returning backe with all these things to _Calandrino_, and directing him in this order. You must put some friend in trust, to invite your Neighbours (especially such as you suspect) to a breakfast in the morning: and because it is done as a feast in kindnesse, they will come to you the more willingly. This night will I and _Buffalmaco_ take such order, that the Pilles shall have the charge imposed on them, and then wee will bring them hither againe in the morning: and I my selfe (for your sake) will deliver them to your guests, and performe whatsoever is to bee sayde or done. On the next morning, a goodly company being assembled, under a faire Elme before the Church; as well young _Florentynes_ (who purposely came to make themselves merry) as neighbouring Husbandmen of the Village: _Bruno_ was to begin the service, with the Pils in a faire Cup, and _Buffalmaco_ followed him with another Cup, to deliver the wine out of the Flaggon, all the company beeing set round, as in a circle; and _Bruno_ with _Buffalmaco_ being in the midst of them, _Bruno_ thus spake. Honest friends, it is fit that I should acquaint you with the occasion, why we are thus met together, and in this place: because if anie thing may seeme offensive to you; afterward you shall make no complaint of me. From _Calandrino_ (our loving friend heere present) yesternight there was a new-kild fat Brawne taken, but who hath done the deede, as yet he knoweth not; and because none other, but some one (or more) heere among us, must needs offend in this case: he, desiring to understand who they be, would have each man to receive one of these Pilles, and afterward to drinke of this Wine; assuring you all, that whosoever stole the Brawne hence, cannot be able to swallow the Pill: for it will be so extreme bitter in his mouth, as it will enforce him to Coughe and spet extraordinarily. In which respect, before such a notorious shame be received, and in so goodly an assembly, as now are heere present: it were much better for him or them that have the Brawne, to confesse it in private to this honest Priest, and I will abstaine from urging anie such publike proofe. Every one there present answered, that they were well contented both to eate and drinke, and let the shame fall where it deserved; whereupon, _Bruno_ appointing them how they should sit, and placing _Calandrino_ as one among them: he began his counterfeite exorcisme, giving each man a Pill, and _Buffalmaco_ a Cup of Wine after it. But when he came to _Calandrino_, hee tooke one of them, which was made of the Dogges dates or Dowsets, and delivering it into his hand, presently hee put it into his mouth and chewed it. So soone as his tongue tasted the bitter Aloes, he began to coughe and spet extreamly, as being utterly unable, to endure the bitternesse and noysome smell. The other men that had receyved the Pils, beganne to gaze one upon another, to see whose behaviour should discover him; and _Bruno_ having not (as yet) delivered Pils to them all, proceeded on still in his businesse, as seeming not to heare any coughing, till one behinde him, saide. What meaneth _Calandrino_ by this spetting and coughing? _Bruno_ sodainely turning him about, and seeing _Calandrino_ to cough and spet in such sort, saide to the rest. Be not too rash (honest Friends) in judging of any man, some other matter (then the Pille) may procure this Coughing, wherefore he shall receive another, the better to cleare your beleefe concerning him. He having put the second prepared Pill into his mouth, while _Bruno_ went to serve the rest of the Guests: if the first was exceeding bitter to his taste, this other made it a great deale worse, for teares streamed forth of his eyes as bigge as Cherry-stones, and champing and chewing the Pill, as hoping it would overcome his coughing; he coughed and spette the more violently, and in grosser manner then he did before, nor did they give him any wine to helpe it. _Buffalmaco, Bruno,_ and the whole company, perceiving how he continued still his coughing and spetting; saide all with one voyce, That _Calandrino_ was the Theefe to himselfe: and gave him manie grosse speeches beside, all departing home into their houses, very much displeased and angry with him. After they were gone, none remained with him but the Priest, _Bruno_ and _Buffalmaco_, who thus spake to _Calandrino_. I did ever thinke, that thou wast the theefe thy selfe, yet thou imputedst thy robbery to some other, for feare we should once drinke freely of thy purse, as thou hast done many times of ours. _Calandrino_, who had not yet ended his coughing and spetting, sware many bitter Oathes, that his Brawne was stolne from him. Talke so long as thou wilt, quoth _Buffalmaco_, thy knavery is both knowne and seene, and well thou mayst be ashamed of thy selfe. _Calandrino_ hearing this, grew desperately angry; and to incense him more, _Bruno_ thus pursued the matter. Hear me _Calandrino_, for I speake to thee in honest earnest, there was a man in the company, who did eate and drinke heere among thy neighbours, and plainly told me, that thou keptst a young Lad heere to do thee service, feeding him with such victuals as thou couldst spare, by him thou didst send away thy Brawne, to one that bought it of thee for foure Crownes, onely to cousen thy poore wife and us. Canst thou not yet learne to leave thy mocking and scorning? Thou hast forgotte, how thou broughtst us to the plaine of _Mugnone_, to seeke for black invisible stones: which having found, thou concealedst them to thy selfe, stealing home invisibly before us, and making us follow like fooles after thee. Now likewise, by horrible lying Oathes, and perjured protestations, thou wouldst make us to beleeve, that the Brawne (which thou hast cunningly sold for ready money) was stolne from thee out of thy house, when thou art onely the Theefe to thy selfe, as by that excellent rule of Art (which never faileth) hath plainly, to thy shame, appeared. Wee being so well acquainted with thy delusions, and knowing them perfectly; now do plainly tell thee, that we mean not to be foold any more. Nor is it unknowne to thee, what paines wee have taken, in making this singular peece of proofe. Wherefore we inflict this punishment on thee, that thou shalt bestow on this honest Priest and us, two couple of Capons, and a Flaggon of Wine, or else we will discover this knavery of thine to thy Wife. _Calandrino_ perceiving, that all his protestations could winne no credit with them, who had now the Law remaining in their owne hands, and purposed to deale with him as they pleased: apparently saw, that sighing and sorrow did nothing availe him. Moreover, to fall into his wives tempestuous stormes of chiding, would bee worse to him then racking or torturing: he gladly therefore gave them money, to buy the two couple of Capons and Wine, being heartily contented likewise, that hee was so well delivered from them. So the merry Priest, _Bruno_, and _Buffalmaco_, having taken good order for salting the Brawne; closely carried it with them to _Florence_, leaving _Calandrino_ to complaine of his losse, and well requited, for mocking them with the invisible stones. _A young Gentleman being a Scholler, fell in love with a Ladie, named_ Helena, _she being a Widdow, and addicted in affection to another Gentleman. One whole night in cold winter, she caused the Scholler to expect her comming, in an extreame frost and snow. In revenge whereof, by his imagined Art and skill, he made her to stand naked on the top of a Tower, the space of a whole day, and in the hot moneth of July, to be Sun-burnt and bitten with Waspes and Flies._ The Seventh Novell. _Serving as an admonition to all Ladies and Gentlewomen, not to mock or scorne Gentlemen-Schollers, when they make meanes of love to them; Except they intend to seeke their owne shame, by disgracing them._ Greatly did the Ladies commend Madame _Philomenaes_ Novell, laughing heartily at poore _Calandrino_, yet grieving withall, that he should be so knavishly cheated, not onely of his Brawne, but two couple of Capons, and a Flaggon of Wine beside. But the whole discourse being ended; the Queene commanded Madame _Pampinea_, to follow next with her Novell, and presently she thus began. It hapneth oftentimes, (bright beauties) that mockery falleth onto him, that intended the same unto another: And therefore I am of opinion, that there is very little wisedom declared on him or her, who taketh delight in mocking any person. I must needs confesse, that we have smiled at many mockeries and deceits, related in those excellent Novels, which we have already heard; without any due revenge returned, but onely in this last of silly _Calandrino_. Wherefore, it is now my determination, to urge a kind of compassionate apprehension, upon a very just retribution, happening to a Gentlewoman of our Citie, because her scorne fell deservedly upon her selfe, remaining mocked, and to the perill of her life. Let me then assure you, that your diligent attention may redound to your benefit, because if you keepe your selves (henceforward) from being scorned by others: you shall expresse the greater wisedome, and be the better warned by their mishaps. As yet there are not many yeares over-past, since there dwelt in _Florence_, a yong Lady, descended of Noble parentage, very beautifull, of sprightly courage, and sufficiently abounding in the goods of Fortune, she being named Madame _Helena_. Her delight was to live in the estate of Widdow-hood, desiring to match her selfe no more in marriage, because she bare affection to a gallant young Gentleman, whom she had made her private election of, and with whom (having excluded all other amorous cares and cogitations) by meanes of her Waiting-woman, she had divers meetings, and kinde conferences. It chanced at the verie same time, another young Gentleman of our Citie, called _Reniero_, having long studied in the Schooles at _Paris_, returned home to _Florence_, not to make sale of his Learning and experience, as many doe: but to understand the reason of things, as also the causes and effects of them, which is mervailously fitting for any Gentleman. Being greatly honoured and esteemed of everyone, as well for his courteous carriage towards all in generall, as for his knowledge and excellent parts: he lived more like a familiar Citizen, then in the nature of a Courtly Gentleman, albeit he was choisely respected in either estate. But, as oftentimes it commeth to passe, that such as are endued with the best judgement and understanding in naturall occasions, are soonest caught and intangled in the snares of Love: so fel it out with our Scholler _Reniero_, who being invited to a solemne Feast, in company of other his especiall Friends; this Lady _Helena_, attyred in her blacke Garments (as Widdowes commonly use to wear) was likewise there a Guest. His eye observing her beauty and gracious demeanour, she seemed in his judgement, to be a Woman so compleate and perfect, as he had never seene her equall before: & therefore, he accounted the man more then fortunate, that was worthy to embrace her in his armes. Continuing this amorous observation of her from time to time, and knowing withall, that rare and excellent things are not easily obtained, but by painefull study, labour, and endeavour: hee resolved with himselfe constantly, to put in practise all his best parts of industry, onely to honour and please her, and attaining to her contentation, it would be the means to winne her love, and compasse thereby his hearts desire. The yong Lady, who fixed not her eyes on inferiour subjects (but esteemed her selfe above ordinary reach or capacity) could moove them artificially, as curious women well know how to doe, looking on every side about her, yet not in a gadding or grosse manner; for she was not ignorant in such darting glaunces, as proceeded from an enflamed affection, which appearing plainely in _Reniero_; with a pretty smile, shee said to her selfe. I am not come hither this day in vaine; for, if my judgement faile me not, I thinke I have caught a Woodcocke by the Bill. And lending him a cunning looke or two, queintly caried with the corner of her eye; she gave him a kinde of perswading apprehension, that her heart was the guide to her eye. And in this artificiall** Schoole-tricke of hers, shee carryed therewith another consideration, to wit, that the more other eyes fedde themselves on her perfections, and were (well-neere) lost in them beyond recovery: so much the greater reason had he to account his fortune beyond comparison, that was the sole master of her heart, and had her love at his command. Our witty Scholler having set aside his Philosophicall considerations, strove how he might best understand her carriage toward him, and beleeving that she beheld him with pleasing regards; hee learned to know the house where shee dwelt, passing daily by the doore divers times, under colour of some more serious occasions: wherein the Lady very proudly gloried, in regard of the reasons before alleadged, and seemed to affoord him lookes of good liking. Being led thus with a hopefull perswasion, hee founde the meanes to gaine acquaintance with her waiting-woman, revealing to her his intire affection, desiring her to worke for him in such sort with her Lady, that his service might be gracious in her acceptance. The Gentlewoman made him a very willing promise, and immediately did his errand to her Lady; who heard her with no small pride and squemishnesse, and breaking forth into a scornefull laughter, thus she spake. _Ancilla_ (for so she was named) dost thou not observe, how this Scholler is come to lose all the wit heere, which he has studyed so long for in the University of _Paris_? Let us make him our onely Table argument, and seeing his folly soareth so high, we will feed him with such a dyet as hee deserveth. Yet when thou speakest next with him, tell him, that I affect him more then he can doe me: but it becommeth me to be carefull of mine honour, and to walke with an untainted brow, as other Ladies and Gentlewomen doe: which he is not to mislike, if he be so wise as he maketh shew of, but rather will the more commend me. Alas good Lady lack-wit, little did she understand (faire assembly) how dangerous a case it is to deale with Schollers. At his next meeting with the waiting woman, shee delivered the message, as her Lady had command her, whereof poore _Reniero_ was so joyfull: that hee pursued his love-suite the more earnestly, and began to write letters, send gifts, and tokens, all which were still received, yet without any other answere to give hope, but onely in generall, and thus shee dallied with him a long while. In the end, she discovered this matter to her secret chosen friend, who fell suddenly sicke of the head-ake, onely through meere conceit of jealousie: which she perceiving, and grieving to be suspected without any cause, especially by him whom shee esteemed above all other; shee intended to rid him quickely of that Idle disease. And being more and more solicited by the Scholler, she sent him word by her maide _Ancilla_, that (as yet) she could find no convenient opportunity, to yeeld him such assurance, as hee should not any way be distrustfull of her love. But the Feast of Christmas was now neere at hand, which afforded leisures much more hopefull, then any other formerly passed. And therefore, the next night after the first Feasting day, if he pleased to walke in the open Court of her house: she would soone send for him, into a place much better beseeming, and where they might freely converse together. Now was our Scholler the onely jocond man of the world, and failed not the time assigned him, but went unto the Ladies house, where _Ancilla_ was ready to give him entertainment, conducting him into the base Court, where she lockt him up fast, untill her Lady should send for him. This night shee had privately sent for her friend also, and sitting merrily at supper with him, told him, what welcome she had given the Scholler, and how she further meant to use him, saying. Now Sir, consider with yourselfe, what hot affection I beare to him, of whom you became so fondly jealous. The which words were very welcome to him, and made him extraordinarily joyfull; desiring to see them as effectually performed, as they appeared to him by her protestations. Heere you are to understand (Gracious Ladies) that according to the season of the yeare, a great snow had falne the day before, so as the whole Court was covered therewith, and being an extreame frost upon it, our Scholler could not boast of any warme walking, when the teeth quivered in his head with cold, as a Dog could not be more discourteously used: yet hope of enjoying Loves recompence at length, made him to support all this injury with admirable patience. Within a while after, Madame _Helena_ said to her friend. Walke with me (deare heart) into my Chamber, and there at a secret little window, I shall shew thee what he doth, that drove thee to such a suspition of me, and we shall heare beside, what answere he will give my maide _Ancilla_, whom I will send to comfort him in his coldnesse. When she had so said, they went to the appointed chamber window, where they could easily see him, but he not them: and then they heard _Ancilla_ also, calling to him forth of another windowe, saying. Signior _Reniero_, my Lady is the wofullest woman in the world, because (as yet) she cannot come to you, in regard that one of her brethren came this evening to visite her, and held her with much longer discourse then she expected: whereby she was constrained to invite him to sup with her, and yet he is not gone; but shortly I hope hee will, and then expect her comming presently; till when, she entreateth your gentle sufferance. Poore _Reniero_, our over-credulous Scholler, whose vehement affection to Madame _Helena_, so hood-winkt the sight of his understanding, as he could not be distrustfull of any guilt; returned this answere to _Ancilla_. Say to your Lady that I am bound in duty, to attend the good houre of her leisure, without so much as the very least prejudicate conceite in me: Neverthelesse, entreat her, to let it bee so soone as she possibly may, because here is miserable walking, and it beginneth againe to snow extreamely. _Ancilla_ making fast the Casement, went presently to bed; when _Helena_ spake thus to her amorous friend. What saist thou now? Doest thou thinke that I loved him, as thou wast afraid of? if I did, he should never walke thus in the frost and snow. So, away went they likewise from their close gazing window, and spent wanton dalliances together, laughing, and deriding (with many bitter taunts and jests) the lamentable condition of poore _Reniero_. About the Court walked hee numberlesse times, finding such exercises as he could best devise, to compasse warmth in any manner: no seate or shelter had he any where, either to ease himselfe by sitting downe a while, or keepe him from the snow, falling continually on him, which made him bestow many curses on the Ladies Brother, for his so long tarrying with her, as beleeving him verily to be in the house, else she would (long before) have admitted his entrance, but therein his hope was meerely deceived. It grew now to be about the houre of midnight, and _Helena_ had delighted her selfe with her friend extraordinarily, till at last she spake to him. What is thine opinion of my amourous Scholler? Which dost thou imagine to be the greatest, either his sense and judgement, or the affection I beare to him? Is not this cold sufferance of this, able to quench the violent heate of his loves extremitie, and having so much snow broth to helpe it? Beleeve me (sweet Lady) quoth her friend, as hee is a man, and a learned Scholler, I pitty that he should bee thus ungently dealt withall: but as he is my rivall and loves enemy, I cannot allow him the least compassion, resting the more confidently assured of your love to me, which I will alwayes esteeme most precious. When they had spent a long while in this or the like conference, with infinite sweet kisses and embraces intermixed; then she began againe in this manner. Deare love (quoth she) cast thy Cloake about thee, as I intend to doe with my night mantle, and let us step to the little window once more, to see whether the flaming fire, which burned in the Schollers brest (as daily avouched to me in his love letters) be as yet extinct or no. So going to the window againe, and looking downe into the Court; there they saw the Scholler dancing in the snow, to the cold tune of his teeths quivering and chattering, and clapping his armes about his body, which was no pleasing melody to him. How thinkest thou now sweet heart (saide shee) cannot I make a man daunce without the sound of a Taber, or of a Bagpipe? Yes beleeve me Lady (quoth he) I plaine perceive you can, and would be very lothe, that you should exercise your cunning on me. Nay, said shee, we will yet delight our selves a little more; let us softly descend downe the stayres, even so farre as to the Court doore; thou shalt not speake a word, but I will talke to him, and heare some part of his quivering language, which cannot choose but bee passing pleasing for us to heare. Out of the Chamber went they, and descended downe the stayres to the Court doore; where, without opening it, she laide her mouth to a small cranny, and in a low soft kinde of voyce, called him by his name: which the Scholler hearing, was exceeding joyfull, as beleeving verily, that the houre of his deliverance was come, and entrance now should be admitted him. Upon the hearing of her voyce, hee stept close to the doore, saying. For charities sake, good Lady, let me come in, because I am almost dead with cold; whereto thus she answered in mocking manner. I make no doubt (my deare friend _Reniero_) but the night is indifferent colde, and yet somewhat the warmer by the Snowes falling: and I have heard that such weather as this, is tenne-times more extreame at _Paris_, then heere in our warmer Countrey. And trust me, I am exceeding sorrowfull, that I may not (as yet) open the door, because mine unhappy brother, who came (unexpected) yester-night to suppe with mee, is not yet gone, as within a short while (I hope) he will, and then shall I gladly set open the doore to you, for I made an excuse to steale a little from him, onely to cheare you with this small kind of comfort, that his so long tarrying might be the lesse offensive to you. Alas sweet Madame, answered quaking and quivering _Reniero_, bee then so favourable to me, as to free me from forth this open Court, where there is no shelter or helpe for me, the snow falling still so exceedingly, as a man might easily be more then halfe buried in it: let me be but within your doore, and there I will wait your own good leisure. Alas deare _Reniero_ (answered _Helena_) I dare not doe it, because the doore maketh such a noyse in the opening, as it will be too easily heard by my Brother: but I will goe and use such meanes, as shortly hee shall get him gone, and then I dare boldly give you entrance. Doe so good Madame, replyed _Reniero_, and let there be a faire fire made ready, that when I am within, I may the sooner warme my selfe; for I am so strangely benummed with colde, as well neere I am past all sence of feeling. Can it be possible (quoth _Helena_) that you should be so benummed with colde? Then I plainely perceive, that men can lye in their love letters, which I can shew under your own hand, how you fryed in flames, and all for my love, and so have you written to me in every letter. Poore credulous women are often thus deluded, in beleeving what men write and speake out of passion: but I will returne backe to my Brother, and make no doubt of dispatch, because I would gladly have your Company. The amourous Friend to _Helena_, who stood by all this while, laughing at the Schollers hard usage, returned up againe with her to her Chamber, where they could not take a jote of rest, for flouting and scorning the betrayed Scholler. As for him poore man, hee was become like the Swanne, coldly chattering his teeth together, in a strange new kinde of harmony to him. And perceiving himselfe to be meerely mocked, he attempted to get open the doore, or how he might passe forth at any other place: but being no way able to compasse it, he walked up and downe like an angry Lyon, cursing the hard quality of the time, the discourtesie of the Lady, the over-tedious length of the night; but (most of all) his owne folly and simplicity, in being so basely abused and gulde. Now began the heat of his former affection to _Helena_, altered into as violent a detestation of her; Yea, extremity of hatred in the highest degree; beating his braines, and ransacking every corner of invention, by what meanes he might best be revenged on her, which now he more earnestly desired to effect, then to enjoy the benefit of her love, or to be embraced betweene her armes. After that the sad and discomfortable night had spent it selfe, & the break of day was beginning to appeare; _Ancilla_ the waiting-woman, according as she was instructed by her Lady, went downe and opened the Court doore, and seeming exceedingly to compassionate the Schollers unfortunate night of sufferance, saide unto him. Alas courteous Gentleman, in an unblessed houre came my Ladyes brother hither yester-night, inflicting too much trouble upon us, and a grievous time of affliction to you. But I am not ignorant, that you being vertuous, and a judicious Scholler, have an invincible spirit of pacience, and sufficient understanding withall; that what this night could not affoord, another may make a sound amends for. This I can and dare sufficiently assure you, that nothing could be more displeasing to my Lady, neither can she well be quieted in her mind: untill she have made a double and treble requitall, for such a strange unexpected inconvenience, whereof she had not the very least suspition. _Reniero_ swelling with discontentment, yet wisely clouding it from open apprehension, and knowing well enough, that such golden speeches and promises, did alwaies favour of what intemperate spleene would more lavishly have vented foorth, and therefore in a modest dissembling manner; without the least shew of any anger, thus he answered. In good sadnesse _Ancilla_, I have endured the most miserablest night of colde, frost and snow, that ever any poore Gentleman suffered; but I know well enough, your Lady was not in any fault thereof, neither meriteth to be blamed, for in her owne person (as being truely compassionate of my distresse) she came so farre as the doore of this Court, to excuse her selfe, and comfort mee. But as you saide, and very well too, what hath failed this night, another hereafter may more fortunately performe: in hope whereof, commend my love and duteous service to her, and (what else remaineth mine) to your gentle selfe. So our halfe frozen Scholler, scarcely able to walke upon his legges, returned home, (so well as hee could) to his owne lodging; where, his Spirits being grievously out of order, and his eyes staring gastly through lacke of sleepe: he lay downe on his bed, and after a little rest, he found himselfe in much worse condition then before, as meerely taken lame in his armes and his legges. Whereupon he was inforced to send for Phisitions, to be advised by their councell, in such an extremity of cold received. Immediately, they made provision for his healthes remedie (albeit his nerves and sinewes could very hardly extend themselves) yet in regard he was yong, & Summer swiftly drawing on; they had the better hope of affecting his safty, out of so great and dangerous a cold. But after he was become almost well and lusty againe, hee used to be seldome seene abroad for an indifferent while; concealing his intended revenge secret to himselfe, yet appearing more affectionate to Madame _Helena_, then formerly he had beene. Now, it came to passe (within no long while after) that Fortune being favourable to our injured Scholler, prepared a new accident, whereby he might fully effect his harts desire. For the lusty yong Gallant, who was Madame _Helenaes_ deare darling and delight, and (for whose sake) she dealt so inhumanely with poore _Reniero_: became weary of her amourous service, and was falne in liking of another Lady, scorning and disdaining his former Mistresse; whereat shee grew exceedingly displeased, and began to languish in sighes and teares. But _Ancilla_ her waiting-woman, compassionating the perilous condition of her Lady, and knowing no likely meanes whereby to conquer this oppressing melancholly, which shee suffered for the losse of her hearts chosen friend: at length she began to consider, that the Scholler still walked daily by the doore, as formerly hee was wont to doe, and (by him) there might some good be done. A fond and foolish opinion overswayed her, that the Scholler was extraordinarily skilfull in the Art of Nigromancy, and could thereby so over-rule the heart of her lost friend, as hee should bee compelled to love her againe, in as effectuall manner as before; herewith immediately she acquainted her Lady, who being as rashly credulous, as her maide was opinionative (never considring, that if the Scholler had any experience in Negromancy, hee would thereby have procured his owne successe) gave releefe to her surmise, in very Joviall and comfortable manner, and entreated her in all kindnes, to know of him, whether he could worke such a businesse, or no, and (upon his undertaking to effect it) shee would give absolute assurance, that (in recompence thereof) he should unfainedly obtaine his hearts desire. _Ancilla_ was quicke and expeditious, in delivering this message to discontented _Reniero_, whose soule being ready to mount out of his body, onely by conceit of joy; chearefully thus he said within himselfe. Gracious Fortune! how highly am I obliged to thee for this so great a favour? Now thou hast blest me with a happy time, to be justly revenged on so wicked a woman, who sought the utter ruine of my life, in recompence of the unfaigned affection I bare her. Returne to thy Lady (quoth he) and saluting her first on my behalfe, bid her to abandon all care in this businesse; for, if her amourous Friend were in India, I would make him come (in meere despight of his heart) and crave mercy of her for his base transgression. But concerning the meanes how, and in what manner it is to bee done, especially on her owne behalfe: I will impart it to her so soone as she pleaseth: faile not to tell her so constantly from me, with all my utmost paines at her service. _Ancilla_ came jocondly home with her answere, and a conclusion was set downe for their meeting together at _Santa Lucia del prato_, which accordingly was performed, in very solemne conference between them. Her fond affection had such power over her, that shee had forgot, into what peril she brought his life, by such an unnatural night-walke: but disclosed all her other intention to him, how loth she was to lose so deare a friend, and desiring him to exercise his utmost height of skil, with large promises of her manifold favours to him, whereto our Scholler thus replyed. Very true it is Madam, that among other studies at _Paris_, I learned the Art of Negromancy, the depth whereof I am as skilful in, as anie other Scholler whatsoever. But, because it is greatly displeasing unto God, I made a vow never to use it, either for my selfe, or anie other. Neverthelesse, the love I beare you is of such power, as I know not well how to denie, whatsoever you please to command me: in which respect, if in doing you my very best service, I were sure to bee seized on by all the divels: I will not faile to accomplish your desire, you onely having the power to command me. But let me tell you Madame, it is a matter not so easie to be performed, as you perhaps may rashly imagine, especially, when a Woman would repeale a man to love her, or a man a woman: because, it is not to be done, but by the person whom it properly concerneth. And therefore it behoveth, that such would have this businesse effected, must be of a constant minde, without the least scruple of feare: because it is to be accomplished in the darke night season, in which difficulties I doe not know, how you are able to warrant your selfe, or whether you have such courage of spirit, as (with boldnes) to adventure. Madame _Helena_, more hot in pursuite of her amorous contentment, then any way governed by temperate discretion, presently thus answered. Sir, Love hath set such a keene edge on my unconquerable affection, as there is not any daunger so difficult, but I dare resolutely undertake it, for the recovery of him, who hath so shamefully refused my kindnesse: wherefore (if you please) shew mee, wherein I must be so constant and dreadlesse. The Scholler, who had (more then halfe) caught a right Ninny-hammer by the beake; thus replyed. Madame, of necessity I must make an image of Tin, in the name of him whom you desire to recall. Which when I have sent you, the Moone being then in her full, and your selfe stript starke naked: immediately after your first sleepe, seaven times you must bathe your selfe with it in a swift running River. Afterward, naked as you are, you must climbe up upon some tree, or else upon an uninhabited house top, where standing dreadlesse of any perill, and turning your face to the North, with the Image in your hand, seaven times you must speake such wordes, as I will deliver to you in writing. After you have so often spoken them, two goodly Ladies (the very fairest that ever you beheld) will appeare unto you, very graciously saluting you, and demanding what you would have them to performe for you. Safely you may speake unto them, and orderly tel them what you desire: but be very carefull, that you name not one man insted of another. When you have uttered your mind, they will depart from you, and then you may descend againe, to the place where you did leave your garments, which having putte on, then returne to your house. And undoubtedly, before the midst of the next night following, your friend will come in teares to you, and humbly crave your pardon on his knees; beeing never able afterward to be false to you, or leave your Love for any other whatsoever. The Lady hearing these words, gave very setled beleefe to them, imagining unfainedly, that shee had (more then halfe) recovered her friend already, and held him embraced betweene her armes: in which jocond perswasion, the chearfull** blood mounted up into hir cheekes, and thus she replyed. Never make you any doubt Sir, but that I can sufficiently performe whatsoever you have said, and am provided of the onely place in the world, where such a weighty businesse is to be effected. For I have a Farme or dairy house, neere adjoyning to the vale of _Arno_, & closely bordering upon the same River. It beeing now the moneth of July, the most convenientest time of all the yeare to bathe in; I can bee the easier induced thereunto. Moreover, there is hard by the Rivers side a small Tower or Turret uninhabited; whereinto few people do sildome enter, but onely Heardsmen or Flocke-keepers, who ascend uppe (by the helpe of a wodden Ladder) to a Tarrasse on the top of the saide Tower, to looke all about for their beasts, when they are wandred astray: it standing in a solitary place, and out of the common way or resort. There dare I boldly adventure to mount up, and with the invincible courage of a wronged Lady (not fearing to looke death himself in the face) do al that you have prescribed, yea, and much more, to recover my deare lost Lover againe, whom I value equal with my owne Life. _Reniero_, who perfectly knew both the Dairy Farme, and the old smal Turret, not a little joyfull, to heare how forward shee was to shame her selfe, answered in this manner. Madame, I was never in those parts of the Country, albeit they are so neere to our City, & therefore I must needs be ignorant, not onely of your Farme, but the Turret also. But if they stand in such convenient manner as you have described, all the world could not yeelde the like elsewhere, so apt and sutable to your purpose: wherefore, with such expedition as possibly I can use, I will make the Image, and send it you, as also the charme, verie fairely written. But let me entreate you, that when you have obtayned your hearts desire, and are able to judge truely of my love and service: not to be unmindfull of me, but (at your best leysure) to performe what you have with such protestations promised; which shee gave him her hand and faith to do, without any impeach or hindrance: and so parting, she returned home to her house. Our over-joyed Scholler, applauding his happy Starres, for furthering him with so faire a way to his revenge; immagining that it was already halfe executed, made the Image in due forme, & wrote an old Fable, in sted of a Charme; both which he sent to the Lady, so soone as he thought the time to be fitting: and this admonition withall, that the Moone being entering into the full, without any longer delay, she might venter on the businesse the next night following, and remaine assured to repossesse her friend. Afterward for the better pleasing of himselfe, he went secretly attended, onely by his servant, to the house of a trusty frend of his, who dwelt somwhat neere to the Turret, there to expect the issue of this Lady-like enterprize. And Madam _Helena_ accompanied with none but _Ancilla_, walked on to her dairy Farme, where the night ensuing, pretending to take her rest sooner then formerly she used to doe, she commanded _Ancilla_ to go to bed, referring her selfe to her best liking. After she had slept her first sleepe (according to the Schollers direction) departing softly out of her chamber, she went on towards the ancient Tower, standing hard by the river of _Arno_, looking every way heedfully about hir, least she should be spied by any person. But perceiving hir selfe to be so secure as she could desire; putting off all her garments, she hid them in a small brake of bushes: afterward, holding the Image in hir hand, seven times she bathd hir body in the river, and then returned back with it to the Tower. The Scholler, who at the nights closing up of day, had hid himselfe among the willowes & other trees, which grew very thick about the Tower, saw both hir going and returning from the River, and as she passed thus naked by him, he plainly perceyved, that the nights obscurity could not cloud the delicate whitenes of hir body, but made the Starres themselves to gaze amorously on her, even as if they were proud to behold her bathing, and (like so many twinkling Tapers) shewed hir in emulation of another _Diana_. Now, what conflicts this sight caused in the mind of our Scholler, one while, quenching his hatefull spleen towards hir, al coveting to imbrace a piece of such perfection: another while, thinking it a purchase fit for one of _Cupids_ soldiers, to seize and surprize hir uppon so faire an advantage, none being neere to yeild her rescue: in the fiery triall of such temptations, I am not able to judge, or to say, what resistance flesh and blood could make, being opposed with such a sweet enemy. But he well considering what she was, the greatnes of his injury, as also how, and for whom: he forgot all wanton allurements of Love, scorning to entertaine a thought of compassion, continuing constant in his resolution, to let her suffer, as he himselfe had done. So, _Helena_ being mounted up on the Turret, and turning her face towards the North; she repeated those idle frivolous words (composed in the nature of a charme) which shee had received from the Scholler. Afterward, by soft and stealing steps, hee went into the old Tower, and tooke away the Ladder, whereby she ascended to the Tarras, staying and listening, how shee proceeded in her amorous exorcisme. Seven times she rehearsed the charme to the Image, looking still when the two Ladies would appeare in their likenesse, and so long she held on her imprecations (feeling greater cold, then willinglie she would have done) that breake of day began to shew it selfe, and halfe despairing of the Ladies comming, according as the Scholler had promised, she said to her selfe: I much misdoubt, that _Reniero_ hath quitted me with such another peece of night-service, as it was my lucke to bestow on him: but if he have done it in that respect, hee was but ill advised in his revenge, because the night wants now three parts of the length, as then it had: and the cold which he suffered, was far superior in quality to mine, albeit it is more sharp now in the morning, then all the time of night it hath bin. And, because day-light should not discover her on the Tarrasse, she went to make her descent downe againe: but finding the Ladder to be taken away, & thinking how her publike shame was now inevitable, her heart dismayed, and shee fell downe in a swoune on the Tarras: yet recovering her senses afterward, her greefe and sorrow** exceeded all capacity of utterance. For, now she became fully perswaded, that this proceeded from the Schollers malice, repenting for her unkinde usage towards him, but much more condemning her selfe, for reposing any trust in him, who stood bound (by good reason) to be her enemy. Continuing long in this extreame affliction, and surveighing all likely meanes about her, whereby she might descend from the Tarras, whereof she was wholly disappointed: she began to sighe and weepe exceedingly, and in this heavy perplexity of spirit, thus shee complained to her selfe. Miserable and unfortunate _Helena_, what will be saide by thy Bretheren, Kindred, Neighbours, and generallie throughout all _Florence_, when they shall know, that thou wast founde heere on this Turret, starke naked? Thine honourable carriage, and honesty of life, heeretofore free from a thought of suspition, shall now be branded with detestation; and if thou wouldst cloud this mishappe of thine, by such lies and excuses, as are not rare amongst women: yet _Reniero_ that wicked Scholler, who knoweth all thy privy compacting, will stand as a thousand witnesses against thee, and shame thee before the whole City, so both thine honor and loved friend are lost for ever. Having thus consulted with her selfe, many desperate motions entred her minde, to throw her selfe headlong from off the Tarras; till better thoughts wone possession of her soule. And the Sunne being risen, shee went to every corner of the Tarras, to espye any Lad come abroad with his beasts, by whom she might send for her waiting-woman. About this instant, the Scholler who lay sleeping (all this while) under a bush, suddenly awaking; saw her looke over the wall, and she likewise espyed him; whereupon hee said unto her. Good morrow Madame _Helena_, What? are the Ladies come yet or no? _Helena_ hearing his scorning question, and grieving that hee should so delude her; in teares and lamentations, she intreated him to come neere the Tower, because she desired to speake with him. Which courtesie he did not deny her, and she lying groveling upon her brest on the Tarras, to hide her body that no part thereof might be seene, but her head; weeping, she spake thus to him. _Reniero_, upon my credit, if I gave thee an ill nights rest, thou hast well revenged that wrong on me; for, although wee are now in the moneth of _July_, I have beene plagued with extremity of colde (in regard of my nakednesse) even almost frozen to death: beside my continuall teares and lamenting, that folly perswaded me to beleeve thy protestations, wherein I account it well-neere miraculous, that mine eyes should be capable of any sight. And therefore I pray thee, not in respect of any love which thou canst pretend to beare me; but for regard of thine owne selfe, being a Gentleman and a Scholler, that this punishment which thou hast already inflicted upon me, may suffise for my former injuries towards thee, and to hold thy selfe revenged fully, as also permit my garments to be brought me, that I may descend from hence, without taking that from me, which afterward (although thou wouldst) thou canst never restore me, I meane mine honour. And consider with thy selfe, that albeit thou didst not injoy my company that unhappy night, yet thou hast power to command me at any time whensoever, with making many diversities of amends, for one nights offence only committed. Content thy selfe then good _Reniero_, and as thou art an honest Gentleman, say thou art sufficiently revenged on me, in making me dearely confesse mine owne errour. Never exercise thy malice upon a poore weake woman, for the Eagle disdaineth to pray on the yeelding Dove: and therefore in meere pitty, and for manhoods sake, be my release from open shame and reproch. The Scholler, whose envious spleene was swolne very great, in remembring such a malicious cruelty exercised on him, beholding her to weepe and make such lamentations; found a fierce conflict in his thoughts, betweene content and pitty. It did not a little joy and content him, that the revenge which hee so earnestly desired to compasse, was now by him so effectually inflicted. And yet (in meere humanity) pitty provoked him to commisserate the Ladies distressed condition: but clemency being over-weake to withstand his rigor, thus he replied. Madame _Helena_, if my entreaties (which, to speake truly, I never knew how to steepe in tears, nor wrap up my words in sugar Candie, so cuningly as you women know how to do) could have prevailed, that miserable night, when I was well-neere frozen to death with cold, and meerly buried with snow in your Court, not having anie place of rescue or shelter; your complaints would now the more easily over-rule me. But if your honor in estimation, bee now more precious to you then heretofore, and it seemeth so offensive to stand there naked: convert your perswasions & prayers to him, in whose armes you were that night imbraced, both of your triumphing in my misery, when poor I, trotted about your Court, with the teeth quivering in my head, and beating mine armes about my body, finding no compassion in him, or you. Let him bring thee thy Garments, let him come helpe thee down with the Ladder, and let him have the care of thine honour, on whom thou hast bene so prodigall heretofore in bestowing it, and now hast unwomanly throwne thy selfe in perill, onely for the maintenance of thine immodest desires. Why dost thou not call on him to come helpe thee? To whom doeth it more belong, then to him? For thou art his, and he thine, why then shold any other but he help thee in this distresse? Call him (foole as thou art) and try, if the love he beareth thee, and thy best understanding joyned with his, can deliver thee out of my sottish detaining thee. I have not forgot, that when you both made a pastime of my misery, thou didst demand of him, which seemed greatest in his opinion, either my sottish simplicity, or the love thou barest him. I am not now so liberall or courteous, to desire that of thee, which thou wouldst not grant, if I did request it: No, no, reserve those night favours for thy amorous friend, if thou dost escape hence alive to see him againe. As for my selfe, I leave thee freely to his use and service: because I have sufficiently payde for a womans falshood, & wise men take such warning, that they scorne to bee twice deceived, & by one woman. Proceed on still in thy flattering perswasions, terming me to be a Gentleman and a Scholler, thereby to win such favor from me, that I should think thy villany toward me, to be already sufficiently punished. No, trecherous _Helena_, thy blandishments cannot now hoodwink the eies of my understanding, as when thou didst out-reach me with thy disloyall promises and protestations. And let me now tell thee plainely, that all the while I continued in the Universitie of _Paris_, I never attained unto so perfect an understanding of my selfe, as in that one miserable night thou diddest enstruct mee. But admit, that I were enclined unto a mercifull and compassionate minde, yet thou art none of them, on whome milde and gracious mercy should any way declare her effects. For, the end of pennance among savage beasts, such as thou art, and likewise of due vengeance, ought to be death: whereas among men, it should suffice according to thine owne saying. Wherefore, in regard that I am neither an Eagle, nor thou a Dove, but rather a most venomous Serpent: I purpose with my utmost hatred, and as an ancient enemy to all such as thou art, to make my revenge famous on thee. I am not ignorant, that whatsoever I have already done unto thee, cannot properly be termed revenge, but rather chastisement; because revenge ought alwayes to exceede the offence, which (as yet) I am farre enough from. For, if I did intend to revenge my wrongs, and remembred thy monstrous cruelty to me: thy life, if I tooke it from thee, and an hundred more such as thy selfe, were farre insufficient, because in killing thee, I should kill but a vile inhumane beast, yea, one that deserved not the name of a Woman. And, to speake truely, Art thou any more, or better (setting aside thy borrowed haire, and painted beauty, which in few yeares will leave thee wrinkled and deformed) then the basest beggarly Chamber-stuffe that can bee? Yet thou soughtest the death of a Gentleman and Scholler as (in scorne) not long since, thou didst terme me: whose life may hereafter be more beneficiall unto the world, then millions of such as thou art, to live in the like multiplicity of ages. Therefore, if this anguish be sensible to thee, learne what it is to mocke men of apprehension, and (amongst them especially) such as are Schollers: to prevent thy falling hereafter into the like extremity, if it be thy good lucke to escape out of this. It appeareth to me, that thou art verie desirous to come downe hither on the ground; the best counsell that I can give thee, is to leape downe headlong, that by breaking thy necke (if thy fortune be so faire) thy life and lothsome qualities ending together, I may sit and smile at thy deserved destruction. I have no other comfort to give thee, but only to boast my happinesse, in teaching thee the way to ascend that Tower, and in thy descending downe (even by what means thy wit can best devise) make a mockery of me, and say thou hast learned more, then all my Schollership could instruct thee. All the while as _Reniero_ uttered these speeches, the miserable Lady sighed and wept very grievously, the time running on, and the Sunne amending higher and higher; but when she heard him silent, thus she answered. Unkinde and cruell man, if that wretched night was so greevous to thee, and mine offence appeared so great, as neither my youth, beautie, teares, and humble intercessions, are able to derive any mercy from thee; yet let the last consideration moove thee to some remorse: namely, that I reposed new confidence in thee (when I had little or no reason at all to trust thee) and discovered the integritie of my soule unto thee, whereby thou didst compasse the meanes, to punish me thus deservedly for my sinne. For, if I had not reposed confidence in thee, thou couldst not (in this manner) have wrought revenge on me, which although thou didst earnestly covet, yet my rash credulitie was thy onely helpe. Asswage then thine anger, and graciously pardon me, wherein if thou wilt be so mercifull to me, and free me from this fatall Tower: I do heere faithfully promise thee, to forsake my most false and disloyall friend, electing thee as my Lord and constant Love for ever. Moreover, although thou condemnest my beauty greatly, esteeming it as a trifle, momentary, and of slender continuance; yet, such as it is (being comparable with any other womans whatsoever) I am not so ignorant, that were there no other reason to induce liking thereof: yet men in the vigour of their youth (as I am sure you think yourselfe not aged) do hold it for an especiall delight, ordained by nature for them to admire and honour. And notwithstanding all thy cruelty extended to mee, yet I cannot be perswaded, that thou art so flinty or Iron-hearted, as to desire my miserable death, by casting my selfe headlong downe (like a desperate madde woman) before thy face so to destroy that beauty, which (if thy Letters lyed not) was once so highly pleasing in thine eyes. Take pitty then on mee for charities sake, because the Sunne beginneth to heate extreamely: and as over-much colde (that unhappy night) was mine offence, so let not over-violent warmth be now my utter ruine and death. The Scholler, who (onely to delight himselfe) maintained this long discoursing with her, returned her this answere. Madame, you did not repose such confidence in me, for any good will or affection in you towards me, but in hope of recovering him whom you had lost; wherein you merit not a jot of favour, but rather the more sharpe and severe infliction. And whereas you inferre, that your over-rash credulity, gave the onely meanes to my revenge: Alas! therein you deceive your selfe; for I have a thousand crochets working continually in my brain, whereby to entrap a wiser creature then a woman, yet veiled all under the cunning cloake of love, but sauced with the bitter Wormewood of hate. So that, had not this hapned as now it doth, of necessity you must have falne into another: but, as it hath pleased my happy stars to favour mee therein, none could proove more to your eternall scandall and disgrace, then this of your owne devising, which I made choise of, not in regard of any ease to you, but onely to content my selfe. But if all other devises els had failed, my pen was and is my prevayling Champion, where-with I would have written such and so many strange matters, concerning you in your very dearest reputation; that you should have curst the houre of your conception, & wisht your birth had bin abortive. The powers of the pen are too many & mighty, whereof such weake wits as have made no experience, are the lesse able to use any relation. I sweare to you Lady, by my best hopes, that this revenge which (perhappes) you esteeme great and dishonourable, is no way compareable to the wounding Lines of a Penne, which can carracter downe so infinite infamies (yet none but guilty and true taxations) as will make your owne hands immediate instruments, to teare the eyes from forth your head, and so bequeath your after dayes unto perpetuall darkenesse. Now, concerning your lost lover, for whose sake you suffer this unexpected pennance; although your choise hath proved but bad, yet still continue your affection to him: in regard that I have another Ladie and Mistresse, of higher and greater desert then you, and to whome I will continue for ever constant. And whereas you thinke, the warme beames of the Sunne, will be too hot and scorching for your nice bodie to endure: remember the extreame cold which you caused mee to feele, and if you can intermixe some part of that cold with the present heat, I dare assure you, the Sun (in his highest heate) will be far more temperate for your feeling. The disconsolate Lady perceiving, that the Schollers wordes favoured of no mercy, but rather as coveting her desperate ending; with the teares streaming downe her cheekes, thus she replied. Wel Sir, seeing there is no matter of worth in me, whereby to derive any compassion from you: yet for that Ladies sake, whom you have elected worthy to enjoy your love, and so farre excelleth mee in Wisedome; vouchsafe to pardon mee, and suffer my garments to be brought me, wherewith to cover my nakednesse, and so to descend downe from this Tower, if it may stand with your gentle Nature to admit it. Now beganne _Reniero_ to laughe very heartily, and perceiving how swiftly the day ran on in his course, he saide unto her. Beleeve me Madame _Helena_, you have so conjured me by mine endeered Ladie and Mistresse, that I am no longer able to deny you; wherefore, tell me where your garments are, and I will bring them to you, that you may come downe from the Turret. She beleeving his promise, tolde him where she had hid them, and _Reniero_ departing from the Tower, commanded his servant, not to stirre thence: but to abide still so neere it, as none might get entrance there till his returning. Which charge was no sooner given to his man, but hee went to the house of a neere neighbouring friend, where he dined well, and afterward laid him downe to sleepe. In the meane while, Madame _Helena_ remaining still on the Tower, began to comfort her selfe with a little vaine hope, yet sighing and weeping incessantly, seating her selfe so well as shee could, where any small shelter might yeelde the least shade, in expectation of the Schollers returning: one while weeping, then againe hoping, but most of all despairing, by his so long tarrying away with her Garments; so that beeing over-wearied with anguish and long watching, she fell into a little slumbering. But the Sunne was so extreamly hot, the houre of noone being already past, that it meerly parched her delicate body, and burnt her bare head so violently: as not onely it seared all the flesh it touched; but also cleft & chinkt it strangely, beside blisters and other painfull scorchings in the flesh which hindred her sleeping, to help her self (by all possible means) waking. And the Turret being covered with Lead, gave the greater addition to her torment; for, as she removed from one place to another, it yeelded no mitigation to the burning heate, but parched and wrinkled the flesh extraordinarily, even as when a piece of parchment is throwne into the fire, and recovered out againe, can never be extended to his former forme. Moreover, she was so grievously payned with the head-ake, as it seemed to split in a thousand pieces, whereat there needed no great marvaile, the Lead of the Turret being so exceedingly hot, that it affoorded not the least defence against it, or any repose to qualifie the torment: but drove her still from one place to another, in hope of ease, but none was there to be found. Nor was there any winde at all stirring, whereby to asswage the Sunnes violent scalding, or keepe away huge swarmes of Waspes, Hornets, and terrible byting Flyes, which vexed her extreamely, feeding on those parts of her body, that were rifte and chinkt, like crannies in a mortered wall, and pained her like so many points of pricking Needles, labouring still with her hands to beate them away, but yet they fastned on one place or other, and afflicted her in grievous manner, causing her to curse her owne life, hir amorous friend, but (most of all) the Scholler, that promised to bring her Garments, and as yet returned not. Now began she to gaze upon every side about her, to espy some labouring Husbandmen in the fields, to whom she might call or cry out for helpe, not fearing to discover her desperate condition: but Fortune therein also was adverse to her, because the heats extreamity, had driven all the village out of the fields, causing them to feede their Cattle about theyr owne houses, or in remote and shadie Valleyes: so that shee could see no other creatures to comfort her, but Swannes swimming in the River of _Arno_, and wishing her selfe there a thousand times with them, for to coole the extreamity of her thirst, which so much the more encreased, onely by the sight thereof, and utterly disabled of having any. She saw beside in many places about her, goodly Woods, fayre coole shades, and Country houses here and there dispersed; which added the greater violence to hir affliction, that her desires (in all these) could no way be accomplished. What shall I say more concerning this disastrous Lady? The parching beames of the Sunne above her, the scalding heat of the Lead beneath her, the Hornets and Flyes everie way stinging her, had made such an alteration of her beautifull bodie: that, as it checkt and controlled the precedent nights darkenesse, it was now so metamorphosed with rednesse, yea, and blood issuing forth in infinite places, as she seemed (almost) loathsome to looke on, continuing still in this agonie of torment, quite voyde of all hope, and rather expecting death, then any other comfort. _Reniero_, when some three houres of the afternoone were overpast, awaked from sleeping: and remembring Madame _Helena_, he went to see in what estate she was; as also to send his servant unto dinner, because he had fasted all that day. She perceyving his arrivall, being altogether weake, faint, and wonderously over-wearied, she crept on her knees to a corner of the Turret, and calling to him, spake in this manner. _Reniero_, thy revenge exceedeth al manhoode and respect: For, if thou wast almost frozen in my Court, thou hast roasted me all day long on this Tower, yea, meerly broyled my poore naked bodie, beside starving mee thorough want of Food and drinke. Be now then so mercifull (for manhoods sake) as to come uppe hither, and inflict that on me, which mine owne hands are not strong enough to do, I meane the ending of my loathed and wearisome life, for I desire it beyond all comfort else, and I shall honour thee in the performance of it. If thou deny me this gracious favour; at least send me uppe a glasse of Water, onely to moisten my mouth, which my teares (being all meerly dried up) are not able to doe, so extreame is the violence of the Sunnes burning heate. Well perceived the Scholler, by the weaknesse of her voyce, and scorching of her body by the Suns parching beames, that shee was brought now to great extremity: which sight, as also her humble intercession, began to touch him with some compassion, nevertheles, thus he replied. Wicked woman, my hands shall be no means of thy death, but make use of thine owne, if thou be so desirous to have it: and as much water shalt thou get of me to asswage thy thirst, as thou gavest me fire to comfort my freezing, when thou wast in the luxurious heat of thy immodest desires, and I wel-neere frozen to death with extremity of cold. Pray that the Evening may raine downe Rose-water on thee, because that in the River of _Arno_ is not good enough for thee: for as little pitty doe I take on thee now, as thou didst extend compassion to me then. Miserable Woman that I am, answered _Helena_; Why did the heavens bestow beautie on mee, which others have admired and honoured, and yet (by thee) is utterly despised? More cruell art thou then any savage Beast; thus to vexe and torment mee in such mercilesse manner. What greater extreamity couldst thou inflict on me, if I had bin the destruction of all thy Kindred, and lefte no one man living of thy race? I am verily perswaded, that more cruelty cannot be used against a Traitor, who was the subversion of a whole Cittie, then this tyranny of thine, roasting me thus in the beames of the Sun, and suffering my body to be devoured with Flies, without so small a mercie; as to give mee a little coole water, which murtherers are permitted to have, being condemned by Justice, and led to execution: yea Wine also, if they request it. But, seeing thou art so constant in thy pernitious resolve, as neither thine owne good Nature, nor this lamentable sufferance in me, are able to alter thee: I will prepare my self for death patiently, to the end, that Heaven may be mercifull to my soul, and reward thee justly, according to thy cruelty. Which words being ended, she withdrew her selfe towards the middest of the Tarras, despairing of escaping (with life) from the heates violence; and not once onely, but infinite times beside (among her other grievous extreamities) she was ready to dye with drought, bemoaning incessantly her dolorous condition. By this time the day was well neere spent, and night beganne to hasten on apace: when the Scholler (immagining that he afflicted her sufficiently) tooke her Garments, and wrapping them up in his mans Cloake, went thence to the Ladies house, where he found _Ancilla_ the Waiting-woman sitting at the doore, sad and disconsolate for her Ladies long absence, to whom thus he spake. How now _Ancilla_? Where is thy Lady and Mistris? Alas Sir (quoth she) I know not. I thought this morning to have found her in her bed, as usually I was wont to do, and where I left her yesternight at our parting: but there she was not, nor in any place else of my knowledge, neyther can I imagine what is become of her, which is to me no meane discomfort. But can you (Sir) say any thing of her? _Ancilla_, said he, I would thou hadst bin in her company, and at the same place where now she is, that some punishment for thy fault might have falne uppon thee, as already it hath done on her. But beleeve it assuredly, that thou shalt not freely escape from my fingers, till I have justly paide thee for thy paines, to teach thee to abuse any Gentleman, as thou didst me. Having thus spoken, hee called to his servant, saying. Give her the Garments, and bid her go looke her Lady, if she will. The Servingman fulfilled his Masters command, and _Ancilla_ having receyved her Ladies cloaths, knowing them perfectly, and remembring (withall) what had bin said: she waxed very doubtfull, least they had slaine her, hardly refraining from exclaiming on them, but that greefe and heavie weeping overcame her; so that uppon the Schollers departing, she ranne in all hast with the garments towardes the Tower. Upon this fatall and unfortunate day to Madame _Helena_, it chanced, that a Clowne or Countrey Peazant belonging to her Farme or Dairy house, having two of his young Heyfers wandred astray, and he labouring in diligent search to finde them: within a while after the Schollers departure, came to seeke them in Woods about the Tower, and, notwithstanding all his crying and calling for his beasts, yet he heard the Ladies greevous moanes and lamentations. Wherefore, he cryed out so lowd as he could, saying: Who is it that mourneth so aloft on the Tower? Full well she knew the voyce of her peazant, and therefore called unto him, and sayd in this manner. Go (quoth she) I pray thee for my Waiting-woman _Ancilla_, and bid her make some meanes to come up hither to me. The Clowne knowing his Lady, sayde. How now Madame? Who hath carried you up there so high? Your Woman _Ancilla_ hath sought for you all this day, yet no one could ever have immagined you to bee there. So looking about him, he espyed the two sides of the Ladder, which the Scholler had pulled in sunder; as also the steppes, which he had scattered thereabout; placing them in due order againe as they should bee, and binding them fast with Withies and Willowes. By this time _Ancilla_ was come thither, who so soone as shee was entred into the Tower, could not refrain from teares & complaints, beating her hands each against other, and crying out. Madam, Madam, my deare Lady and Mistresse! Alas, Where are you? So soone as she heard the tongue of _Ancilla_, she replyed (so well as she could) saying: Ah my sweet Woman, I am heere aloft uppon the Tarras; weepe not, neyther make any noyse, but quickely bring me some of my Garments. When shee heard her answer in such comfortable manner, she mounted up the Ladder, which the peazant had made very firme and strong, holding it fast for her safer ascending; by which meanes she went upon the Tarras. Beholding her Ladie in so strange a condition, resembling no humane body, but rather the trunke of a Tree halfe burned, lying flat on her face, naked, scorched and strangely deformed: shee beganne to teare the lockes of her owne hayre, raving and raging in as pittifull manner, as if her Ladie had beene quite dead. Which storming tempest, Madame _Helena_ soone pacified, entreating her to use silence, and helpe to put on her garments. Having understood by her, that no one knew of her being there, but such as brought her cloathes, and the poore peazant, attending there still to do her any service: shee became the better comforted, entreating them by all meanes, that it might bee concealed from any further discovery, which was on eyther side, most faithfullie protested. The poore Clowne holpe to beare downe his Lady uppon his backe, because the Ladder stood not conveniently enough for her descending, neither were her limbes plyable for her owne use, by reason of their rifts and smarting. _Ancilla_ following after, and being more respective of her Lady, then her owne security in descending; missing the step in the midst of the Ladder, fell downe to the ground, and quite brake her legge in the fall, the paine whereof was so greevous to her, that she cried and roared extraordinarily, even like a Lyon in the desert. When the Clowne had set his Lady safe on a faire green banke, he returned to see what the waiting woman ayled, and finding her leg to be quite broken: he caried her also to the same banke, & there seated her by her Lady: who perceiving what a mischance had hapned, and she, from whom she expected her onely best helpe, to bee now in far greater necessity her selfe: shee lamented exceedingly, complaining on Fortunes cruel malice toward her, in thus heaping one misery upon another, and never ceasing to torment her, especially now in the conclusion of all, and when shee thought all future perils to be past. Now was the Sun upon his setting, when the poore honest country-man, because darke night should not overtake them, conducted the Lady home to his owne house: and gaining the assistance of his two brethren and wife, setting the waiting-woman in a Chaire, thither they brought her in like manner. And questionles, there wanted no diligence and comfortable language, to pacifie the Ladyes continuall lamentations. The good wife, led the Lady into hir own poore lodging, where (such cates as they had to feede on) lovingly she set before her: conveying her afterward into her owne bed, and taking such good order, that _Ancilla_ was carried in the night time to _Florence_, to prevent all further ensuing danger, by reason of her legs breaking. Madame _Helena_, to colour this misfortune of her owne: as also the great mishap of her woman: forged an artificiall and cunning tale, to give some formall apparance of hir being in the Tower, perswading the poore simple Country people, that in a straunge accident of thunder and lightning, and by the illusions of wicked spirits, all this adventure hapned to her. Then Physitians were sent for; who, not without much anguish and affliction to the Ladie (by reason of her fleshes flaying off, with the Medicines and Emplaysters applyed to the body) was glad to suffer whatsoever they did, beside falling into a very dangerous Feaver; out of which she was not recovered in a long while after, but continued in daily dispayre of her life; beside other accidents hapning in her time of Physicke, utterly unavoydable in such extreamities: and hardly had _Ancilla_ her legge cured. By this unexpected pennance imposed on Madame _Helena_, she utterly forgot her amorous friend, and (from thence forward) carefully kept her selfe from fond loves allurements, and such scornfull behaviour, wherein she was most disorderly faulty. And _Reniero_ the Scholler, understanding that _Ancilla_ had broken her leg, which he reputed as a punishment sufficient for her, held himselfe satisfyed, because neither the Mistresse nor her Maide, could now make any great boast, of his nights hard entertainment, and so concealed all matters else. Thus a wanton-headed Lady, could finde no other subject to worke her mocking folly on, but a learned Scholler, of whom shee made no more respect, then any other ordinary man. Never remembring, that such men are expert (I cannot say all, but the greater part of them) to helpe the frenzie of foolish Ladies, that must injoy their loose desires, by Negromancy, and the Divelles meanes. Let it therefore (faire Ladies) be my loving admonition to you, to detest all unwomanly mocking and scorning, but more especiallie to Schollers. _Two neere dwelling Neighbours, the one beeing named_ Spinelloccio Tavena, _and the other_ Zeppa di Mino, _frequenting each others company daily together;_ Spinelloccio _Cuckolded his Friend and Neighbour. Which happening to the knowledge of_ Zeppa, _he prevailed so well with the Wife of_ Spinelloccio, _that he being lockt up in a Chest, he revenged his wrong at that instant, so that neither of them complained of his misfortune._ The Eight Novell. _Wherein is approved, that he which offereth shame and disgrace to his Neighbour; may receive the like injury (if not in worse manner) by the same man._ Greevous, and full of compassion, appeared the hard Fortunes of Madame _Helena_ to be, having much discontented, and (well-neere) wearied all the Ladies in hearing them recounted. But because they were very justly inflicted upon her, and according as (in equity) shee had deserved, they were the more moderate in their commisseration: howbeit, they reputed the Scholler not onely over-obstinate, but also too strict, rigorous and severe. Wherefore, when Madame _Pampinea_ had finished hir Novell, the Queene gave command to Madame _Fiammetta_, that she should follow next with her discourse; whereto shee shewing obedience, thus beganne. Because it appeareth in my judgement (faire Ladyes) that the Schollers cruelty hath much displeased you, making you more melancholly then this time requireth: I holde it therefore very convenient, that your contristed spirits should be chearfully revived, with matter more pleasing and delightfull. And therefore, I mean to report a Novell of a certaine man, who tooke an injury done him, in much milder manner, and revenged his wrong more moderately, then the furious incensed Scholler did. Whereby you may comprehend, that it is sufficient for any man, and so he ought to esteeme it, to serve another with the same sawce, which the offending party caused him first to taste of: without coveting any stricter revenge, then agreeth with the quality of the injury received. Know then (Gracious assembly) that, as I have heretofore heard, there lived not long since in _Sienna_, two young men, of honest parentage and equall condition, neither of the best, nor yet the meanest calling in the City: the one being named _Spinelloccio Tavena_, and the other tearmed _Zeppa di Mino_, their houses Neighbouring together in the streete _Camollia_. Seldome the one walked abroade without the others Company, and their houses allowed equall welcome to them both; so that by outward demonstrations, & inward mutuall affection, as far as humane capacity had power to extend, they lived and loved like two Brethren, they both beeing wealthy, and married unto two beautifull women. It came to passe, that _Spinelloccio_, by often resorting to the house of _Zeppa_, as well in his absence, as when he abode at home; beganne to glance amorous looks on _Zeppaes_ wife, and pursued his unneighbourly purpose in such sort: that hee being the stronger perswader, and she (belike) too credulous in beleeving, or else over-feeble in resisting; from private imparlance, they fell to action; and continued their close fight a long while together, unseene and without suspition, no doubt to their equall joy and contentment. But, whether as a just punishment, for breaking so loving a league of friendship and neighbour-hood, or rather a fatall infliction, evermore attending on the closest Cuckoldry, their felicity still continuing in this kinde: it fortuned on a day, _Zeppa_ abiding within doors, contrary to the knowledge of his wife, _Spinelloccio_ came to enquire for him, and she answering (as she verily supposed) that he was gon abroad: uppe they went both together into the Hall, and nobodie being there to hinder what they intended, they fell to their wonted recreation without any feare, kissing and embracing as Lovers use to do. _Zeppa_ seeing all this, spake not one word, neither made any noise at all; but kept himselfe closely hidden, to observe the yssue of this amorous conflict. To be briefe, he saw _Spinelloccio_ goe with his wife into the Chamber, and make the doore fast after them, whereat he could have beene angry, which he held to be no part of true wisedome. For he knew well enough, that to make an out crie in this case, or otherwise to reveale this kinde of injury, it could no way make it lesse, but rather give a greater addition of shame and scandall: he thought this no course for him to take; wiser considerations entred his braine, to have this wrong fully revenged, yet with such a discreete and orderly carriage, as no neighbours knowledge should by any meanes apprehend it, or the least signe of discontent in himselfe blabbe it, because they were two daungerous evils. Many notable courses wheeled about his conceit, every one promising fairely, and ministring meanes of formall apparance, yet one (above the rest) wonne his absolute allowance, which he intended to prosecute as best he might. In which resolution, he kept still very close, so long as _Spinelloccio_ was with his Wife; but hee being gone, he went into the Chamber, where he found his wife, amending the forme of her head attyre, which _Spinelloccio_ had put into a disordred fashion. Wife (quoth he) what art thou doing? Why? Do you not see Husband? answered she. Yes that I do wife, replied _Zeppa_, and something else happened to my sight, which I could wish that I had not seene. Rougher Language growing betweene them, of his avouching, and her as stout denying, with defending her cause over-weakely, against the manifest proofes both of eye and eare; at last she fell on her knees before him, weeping incessantly, and no excuses now availing, she confest her long acquaintance with _Spinelloccio_, and most humbly entreated him to forgive her. Uppon the which penitent confession and submission, _Zeppa_ thus answered. Wife, if inward contrition be answerable to thy outward seeming sorrow, then I make no doubt, but faithfully thou dost acknowledge thine owne evill dooing: for which, if thou expectest pardon of me; determine then to fulfill effectually, such a busines as I must enjoyne, and thou performe. I command thee to tell _Spinelloccio_, that to morrow morning, about nine of the clocke, we being both abroad walking, he must finde some apt occasion to leave my company, and then come hither to visit thee. When he is here, sodainly will I returne home; and upon thy hearing of my entraunce: to save his owne credite, and thee from detection, thou shalt require him to enter this Chest, untill such time as I am gone forth againe; which he doing, for both your safeties, so soon as he is in the chest, take the key and locke him up fast. When thou hast effected this, then shall I acquaint thee with the rest remaining, which also must be done by thee, without dread of the least harme to him or thee, because there is no malicious meaning in me, but such as (I am perswaded) thou canst not justly mislike. The wife, to make some satisfaction for her offence committed, promised that she would performe it, and so she did. On the morrow morning, the houre of nine being come, when _Zeppa_ and _Spinelloccio_ were walking abroad together, _Spinelloccio_ remembring his promise unto his Mistresse, and the clocke telling him the appointed houre, hee saide to _Zeppa_. I am to dine this day with an especiall friend of mine, who I would be loath should tarry for my comming; and therefore holde my departure excused. How now? answered _Zeppa_, the time for dinner is yet farre enough off, wherefore then should we part so soone? Yea but _Zeppa_, replied _Spinelloccio_, wee have weighty matters to confer on before dinner, which will require three houres space at the least, and therefore it behoveth me to respect due time. _Spinelloccio_ being departed from Zeppa (who followed faire and softly after him) being come to the house, and kindly welcommed by the wife: they were no sooner gone up the staires, and entering in at the Chamber doore; but the Woman heard her Husband cough, and also his comming up the staires. Alas deare _Spinelloccio_ (quoth she) what shall we do? My Husband is comming uppe, and we shall be both taken tardie, step into this Chest, lye downe there and stirre not, till I have sent him forth againe, which shall be within a very short while. _Spinelloccio_ was not a little joyfull for her good advice; downe in the Chest lay he, and she lockt him in: by which time _Zeppa_ was entred the Chamber. Where are you Wife? said he, (speaking so loud, as hee in the Chest might heare him) What, is it time to go to dinner? It will be anon Sir, answered she, as yet it is overearly; but seeing you are come, the more hast shall be made, and every thing will be ready quickly. _Zeppa_, sitting downe upon the Chest, wherein _Spinelloccio_ lay not a little affrighted, speaking still aloud, as formerly he did: Come hither Wife (quoth he) how shall we do for some good companie to dine with us? Mine honest kinde neighbour _Spinelloccio_ is not at home, because he dineth forth to day with a deare friend of his, by which meanes, his wife is left at home alone: give her a call out at our Window, and desire her to come dine with us: for we two can make no merry Musicke, except some more come to fill up the consort. His Wife being very timorous, yet diligent to doe whatsoever he commanded, so prevailed with the Wife of _Spinelloccio_: that she came to them quickely, and so much the rather, because her Husband dined abroad. Shee being come up into the Chamber, _Zeppa_ gave her most kinde entertainment, taking her gently by the hand, and winking on his Wife, that she should betake her selfe to the kitchin, to see dinner speedily prepared, while he sat conversing with his neighbour in the Chamber. His wife being gone, he shut the doore after her, which the new-come Neighbour perceyving, she sayde. Our blessed Lady defend me. _Zeppa_, What is your meaning in this? Have you caused me to come hither to this intent? Is this the love you beare to _Spinelloccio_, and your professed loyalty in friendshippe? _Zeppa_, seating her downe on the Chest, wherein her Husband was inclosed, entreating her patience, thus began. Kinde and loving Neighbour, before you adventure too farre in anger, vouchsafe to heare what I shall tell you. I have loved, and still doe love, _Spinelloccio_ as my brother, but yesterday (albeit he knoweth it not) I found, the honest trust I reposed in him, deserved no other, or better recompence, but even to be bold with my wife, in the selfesame manner as I am, and as hee ought to do with none but you. Now, in regard of the love which I beare him, I intend to be no otherwise revenged on him, but in the same kinde as the offence was committed. He hath bin more then familiar with my wife, I must borrow the selfe-same courtesie of you, which in equity you cannot deny mee, weighing the wrong you have sustained by my wife. Our injuries are alike, in your Husband to me, and in my wife to you: let then their punishment and ours be alike also, as they, so we; for in this case there can be no juster revenge. The Woman hearing this, and perceiving the manifolde confirmations thereof, protested (on solemne oath) by _Zeppa_; hir beliefe grew setled, and thus she answered. My loving neighbour** _Zeppa_, seeing this kinde of revenge is (in meere justice) imposed on mee, and ordained as a due scourge, as well to the breach of friendship and neighbour-hood, as abuse of his true and loyall wife: I am the more willing to consent: alwaies provided, that it be no imbarrement of love betweene your wife and mee, albeit I have good reason to alledge, that she began the quarrell first: and what I do is but to right my wrong, as any other woman of spirit would do: Afterwards, we may the more easily pardon one another. For breach of peace (answered _Zeppa_) between my wife and you, take my honest word for your warrant. Moreover, in requitall of this favour to mee, I will bestowe a deare and precious Jewell on you, excelling all the rest which you have beside. In delivering these words, he sweetly kissed and embraced her, as she sat on the Chest wherein her husband lay: now, what they did else beside, in recompence of the wrong received, I leave to your imagination, as rather deserving silence, then immodest blabbing. _Spinelloccio_, being all this while in the Chest, hearing easily all the words which _Zeppa_ had uttered, the answer of his wife, as also what Musicke they made over his head: you may guesse in what a case he was, his heart being ready to split with rage, and, but that hee stood in feare of _Zeppa_, he would have railde and exclaimed on his wife, as thus hee lay shut up in the Chest. But entering into better consideration, that so great an injury was first begun by himselfe, & _Zeppa_ did no more, then in reason and equity he might well do (having evermore carried himselfe like a kinde neighbour and frend towards him, without the least offer of distaste) he faithfully resolved, to be a firmer friend to _Zeppa_ then formerly hee had bin, if it might be embraced and accepted on the other side. Delights and pleasures, be they never so long in contenting and continuance, yet they come to a period and conclusion at last: So _Zeppa_, having ended his amorous combate, and over the head of his perfidious friend, thought himselfe sufficiently revenged. But now, in consideration of a further promise made on the bargaine; _Spinelloccioes_ wife challengeth the Jewell, then which kind of recompence, nothing can be more welcome to women. Heereupon, _Zeppa_ calling for his owne wife, commanded her to open the Chest; which shee did, and he merrily smiling, saide. Well wife, you have given mee a Cake insted of bread, and you shall lose nothing for your labour. So _Spinelloccio_ comming forth of the Chest, it requireth a better witte then mine, to tell you, which of them stood most confounded with shame, either _Spinelloccio_ seeing _Zeppa_, and knowing well enough what he had done: or the woman beholding her husband, who easily heard all their familiar conference, and the action thereupon so deservedly performed. See neighbour, is not this your dearest Jewell? Having kept it awhile in my wives custody; according to my promise, here I deliver it you. _Spinelloccio_ being glad of his deliverance out of the Chest, albeit not a little ashamed of himselfe; without using many impertinent words, saide. _Zeppa_, our wrongs are equally requited on each other, and therefore I allow thy former speeches to my Wife, that thou wast my friend, as I am the like to thee, and so I pray thee let us still continue. For nothing else is now to bee divided betweene us, seeing we have shared alike in our wives, which none knowing but our selves, let it be as closely kept to our selves. _Zeppa_ was wel pleased with the motion, and so all foure dined lovingly together, without any variance or discontentment. And thence forward, each of the Women had two Husbands, as either Husband enjoyed two Wives, without further contention or debate. _Maestro_ Simone, _an ydle-headed Doctor of Physicke, was throwne by_ Bruno _and_ Buffalmaco, _into a common Leystall of Filth: The Physitian fondly beleeving, that (in the night time) he should bee made one of a new created Company, who usually went to see wonders, at_ Corsica; _and there in the Leystall they left him._ The Ninth Novell. _Wherein is approved, that Titles of Honour, Learning, and Dignity, are not alwayes bestowne on the wisest men._ After that the Ladies had a while considered, on the communication betweene the two Wives of _Sienna_, and the falshood in friendship of their Husbands: the Queene, who was the last to recount her Novell, without offering injurie to _Dioneus_, began to speake thus. The reward for a precedent Wrong committed, which _Zeppa_ retorted upon _Spinelloccio_, was answerable to his desert, and no more then equity required, in which respect, I am of opinion, that such men ought not to be over-sharpely reproved, as do injurie to him, who seeketh for it, and justly should have it, althogh Madam _Pampinea_ (not long since) avouched the contrary. Now, it evidently appeareth, that _Spinelloccio_ well deserved what was done to him, and I purpose to speake of another, who needs would seeke after his owne disgrace. The rather to confirme my former speeches, that they which beguile such wilfull foolish men; are not to bee blamed, but rather commended. And he unto whom the shame was done, was a Physitian, which came from _Bologna_ to _Florence_; and returned thither againe like unto a Beast, notoriously baffulled and disgraced. It is a matter well knowne to us, and (almost) observed day by day, that divers of our Citizens, when they returne from their studying at _Bologna_: one becommeth an Advocate, another a Physitian, and a third a Notarie, with long & large gowns, some of Scarlet, and hoods furred with Minever, beside divers other great apparances, succeeding effectually daily in their severall kinds. Among whom, there returned (not long since) thence, one Master _Simon da Villa_, more rich in possessions left him by his parents, then anie knowledge thereto obtained: yet cloathed in Scarlet, with his Miniver hood, and styled a Doctor of Physicke, which title hee onely bestowed on himselfe, and tooke a goodly house for his dwelling, in the street which wee commonly call _La via del Cocomero_. This Master Doctor _Simon_, being thus newly come thither, among other notable qualities in him, had one more especial then any of the rest, namely, to know the names and conditions of such persons, as daily passed by his doore, and what professions they were of, whereby any likelyhood might be gathered of needing his helpe, and being his patients, observing them all with very vigilant care. But, among all the rest by him thus warily noted, he most observed two Painters, of whom we have heeretofore twice discoursed, _Bruno_ and _Buffalmaco_, who walked continually together, and were his neere dwelling neighbours. The matter which most of al he noted in them, was; that they lived merrily, and with much lesse care, then any else in the Cittie beside, and verily they did so in deede. Wherefore, he demanded of divers persons, who had good understanding of them both, of what estate and condition they were. And hearing by every one, that they were but poore men & Painters: he greatly mervailed, how it could be possible for them, that they should live so jocondly, and in such poverty. It was related to him further beside, that they were men of a quicke and ingenious apprehension, whereby hee politikely imagined, that theyr poore condition could not so well maintaine them; without some courses else, albeit not publiquely knowne unto men, yet redounding to their great commoditie and profite. In which regard, he grew exceeding desirous, by what meanes he might become** acquainted, and grow into familiarity with them both, or any of them, at the least; wherein (at the length) he prevailed, and _Bruno_ proved to be the man. Now _Bruno_ plainly perceiving (within a short while of this new begun acquaintance) that the Physitian was a Logger-head, and meerely no better then a _Gregorian_ Animall: he beganne to have much good pastime with him, by telling him strange and incredible Tales, such as none but a Coxcombe would give credit too; yet they delighted Doctor Dunce extraordinarily, and _Brunoes_ familiarity was so highly pleasing to him, that he was a daily guest at dinner and supper with him, and hee was not meanly proud of enjoying his company. One day, as they sate in familiar conference together, he told _Bruno_ that he wondred not a little at him and _Buffalmaco_, they being both so poore people, yet lived far more jovially then Lords, and therefore desired to understand, by what secret meanes they compassed such mirthfull maintenance. _Bruno_, hearing the Doctors demaund, & perceiving that it favoured more of the foole, then any the very least taste of wisedome: smiled unto himselfe, and determined to returne him such an answere, as might be fitting for his folly, whereupon, thus he replied. Beleeve me Master Doctor, I would not impart to many people, what private helpes we have for our maintenance: but yet I dare boldly acquaint you therewith, in regard you are one of our most intimate friends, and of such secrecie, as (I know) you will not reveale it to any. True it is, that mine honest neighbour and my selfe, do leade our lives in such merry manner as you see, and better then all the world is aware of, for I cannot imagine you to bee so ignorant, but are certainly perswaded: that if we had no better means, then our poore manuall trade and profession; we might sit at home with bread and water, and be nothing so lively spirited as wee are. Yet Sir, I would not have you to conceive, that wee do eyther rob or steale, or use any other unlawfull courses: onely we travayle to _Corsica_, from whence we bring (without the least prejudice to anie other) all things we stand in need of, or whatsoever wee can desire. Thus do we maintaine our selves well and honestly, and live in this mirthfull disposition. Master Doctor hearing this Discourse, and beleeving it constantly, without any further instruction or intelligence: became possessed with verie much admiration, and had the most earnest desire in the world, to know what this Travailing to _Corsica_ might meane: entreating _Bruno_ with very great instances, to tell him what it was, and made many protestations never to disclose it to anie one. How now Master Doctor? answered _Bruno_, What a strange motion do you make to mee? It is too great a secret, which you desire to know, yea, a matter of mine owne ruine, and an utter expulsion out of this Worlde, with condemnation into the mouth of _Lucifer da San Gallo_, if any man whatsoever should know it from me, wherefore I pray you to urge it no more. O my deer and honest neighbour _Bruno_ (quoth the Doctor) assure thy selfe upon my soul, that whatsoever thou revealest to me, shall be under seale from all, but onely our selves. Fie, fie Master Doctor, answered _Bruno_, you are too pressing and importunate. So sitting smiling to himselfe, shaking his head, and beating his breast, as if hee were in some straunge distraction of minde, stamping with his feete, and beating his Fiste oftentimes on the Table, at last he started uppe, and spake in this manner. Ah Master Doctor, the love I beare to your capricious and rarely circumcised experience, and likewise the confidence I repose in your scrutinous taciturnitie, are both of such mighty and prevailing power; as I cannot conceale any thing from you, which you covet to know. And therefore, if you will sweare unto me by the crosse of _Monteson_, that never (as you have already faithfully promised) you will disclose a secret so admirable; I will relate it unto you, and not otherwise. The Doctor sware, and sware againe, and then _Bruno_ thus began. Know then my learned and judicious Doctor, that it is not long time since, when there lived in this Citie of ours, a man very excellent in the Art of Nigromancie, who named himselfe _Michale Scoto_, because he was a Scottishman borne, of many woorthy Gentlemen (very few of them being now living) hee was much honoured and respected. When he grew desirous to depart from hence, upon their earnest motion and entreaty; he left here two of his Schollers behinde him, men of absolute skill and experience: giving them especial charge and command, to do all possible services they could devise, for those Gentlemen who had so highly honoured him. The two famous Schollers, were very helpefull to those Gentlemen, in divers of their amorous occasions, and verie many other matters besides. Not long after, they finding the Citie, and behaviour of the people sufficiently pleasing to them; they resolved on their continuance heere, entering into a league of love and friendshippe with divers, never regarding, whether they were Gentlemen, or no, or distinguishing the poore from the rich: but only in being conforme to their complexions, sociable and fit for friendship. They created a kinde Society, consisting of about five and twenty men, who should meete together twice in a moneth, & in a place reputed convenient for them: where being so assembled, every man uttered his minde to those two Schollers, in such cases as they most desired, to have wherewith they were all satisfied the self-same night. It came so to passe, that _Buffalmaco_ and I, grew into acquaintance with those two worthy Schollers, and our private familiarity together proved so prosperous, that we were admitted into the same Society, and so have ever since continued. Now Sir, I am to tell you matter deserving admiration, & which (in very good judgements) would seeme to exceed all beleefe. For, at every time when we were assembled together: you are not able to imagine, what sumptuous hangings of Tapistrie, did adorne the Hall where we sate at meate, the Tables covered in such Royall manner, waited on by numberlesse Noble and goodly attendants, both Women and Men, serving readily, at each mans command of the company. The Basins, Ewers, Pots, Flaggons, & all the vessels else which stood before, and for the service of our diet, being composed onely of Gold and Silver, and out of no worse did we both eate and drinke: the viands being very rare and dainty, abounding in plenty and variety, according to the appetite of everie person, as nothing could be wished for, but it was instantly obtained. In good sadnesse Sir, I am not able to remember and tell you (within the compasse of a thousand yeares) what, and how manie severall kindes of Musicall Instruments, were continually played on before us; what multiplicity of Waxe lights burned in all partes of the roomes; neither the excessive store of rich Drugs, Marchpanes, Comfites, and rare Banquetting stuffe, consumed there at one Feasting, wherein there wanted no bounty of the best and purest wines. Nor do I (Master Doctor) repute you so weakly witted, as to think, that in the time of our being thus assembled there, any of us al were cloathed in such simple and meane Garments, as ordinarily are worne in the streets on mens bodies, or any so silly as the verie best you have: No Sir, not any one man among us, but appeared by his apparrell, equall to the greatest Emperour on the earth, his robe most sumptuously imbroidered with precious stones, Pearles, and Carbuncles, as all the world affoordeth not the like. But above all the rest, the delights and pleasures there, are beyond my capacity to expresse, or (indeede) any comparison: as namely, store of goodly and beautifull women, brought thither from all parts of the world; alwayes provided, if men bee desirous of their company: but for your easier comprehension, I will make some briefe relation of them to you, according as I heard them there named. There is the great Lady of _Barbanicchia_; the Queene of _Baschia_; the Wife to the great _Soldane_, the Empresse of _Osbeccho_; the _Ciancianfera_ of _Norniera_; the _Bemistante_ of _Berlinzona_;** and the _Scalpedra_ of _Narsia_. But why do I breake my braine, in numbering up so many to you? All the Queenes of the world are there, even so farre as to the _Schinchimurra_ of _Prester John_, that hath a horne in the midst of her posteriores, albeit not visible to every eye. Now I am further to tell you, that after we have tasted a Cup of precious Wine, fed on a few delicate Comfits, and danced a dance or two to the rare Musicke: every one taketh a Lady by the hand, of whom he pleaseth to make his election, and she conducteth him to her Chamber, in very grave and gracious manner. Concerning the Chambers there, each of them resembleth a Paradise to looke on, they are so faire and goodly; and no lesse odorifferous in smell, then the sweetest perfumes in your Apothecaries shoppes, or the rare compounds of Spices, when they are beaten in an open Morter. And as for the Beds, they are infinitely richer, then the verie costliest belonging to the Duke of _Venice_: yet (in such) each man is appointed to take his rest, the Musicke of rare Cymbals lasting all night long, much better to be by you considered, then in my rude eloquence expressed. But of all those rich and sumptuous Beds (if pride of mine owne opinion do not deceive me) them two provided for _Buffalmaco_ and me, had hardly any equall: he having the Queene of _France_ as his Lady and Mistresse, and I, the renowned Queene of _England_, the onely two choise beauties of the whole World, and wee appeared so pleasing in their eyes, as they would have refused the greatest Monarkes on the earth, rather then to bee rejected by us. Now therefore, you may easily consider with your selfe, what great reason we have to live more merrily, then any other men can doe: in regard we enjoy the gracious favour of two such Royall Queenes, receyving also from them (whensoever wee please to commaund them) a thousand or two thousand Florines at the least, which are both truly and duly sent us. Enjoying thus the benefit of this high happinesse, we that are companions of this Society, do tearme it in our vulgar Language, _The Pyrats voyage to Corsica_. Because, as Rovers or Pyrats robbe and take away the goodes of such as they meete withall, even so do we: only there remaineth this difference betweene us, that they never restore what they have taken: which we do immediately afterward, whether it be required or no. And thus Master Doctor, as to my most endeered friend, I have now revealed the meaning of sayling to _Corsica_, after the manner of our private Pyracie, and how important the close retention of the voiage is, you are best able your selfe to judge: In which regarde, remember your Oathes and faithfull promises, or else I am undone forever. Our worthy wise Doctor, whose best skill scarsely extended so farre, as to cure the itch in Children; gave such sound beleefe to the relation of _Bruno_, as any man could doe, to the most certaine truth of life or death: having his desire immeasurably enflamed, to bee made a member of this straunge Societie, which hee more coveted, then any thing in the world beside, accounting it a felicity farre beyond all other. Whereupon he answered _Bruno_, that it was no great matter of mervaile, if he lived so merrily as he did, having such a singular supply, to avoide all necessities whatsoever: and very hardly could he refraine from immediate request, to be accepted into the company. But yet he thought fit to deferre it further, untill he had made _Bruno_ more beholding to him, by friendly entertainments and other courtesies, when he might (with better hope) be bold to move the motion. Well may you conceive, that nothing more hammerd in the Doctors head, then this rare voyage to _Corsica_, and _Bruno_ was his daily guest at dinner and supper, with such extraordinary apparances of kindnesse and courtesie, as if the Physitian could not live, except he had the company of _Bruno_. Who seeing himselfe to bee so lovingly respected, and hating ingratitude, for favours so abundantly heaped on him: hee painted the whole story of Lent about his Hall, and an _Agnus Dei_ fairely gilt, on the portall of his Chamber, as also a goodly Urinall on his street doore, to the end, that such as had neede of his counsell, might know where so judicious a Doctour dwelt. In a Gallery likewise by his Garden, he painted the furious Battaile betweene the Rats and Cats, which did (not a little) delight Master Doctor. Moreover, at such times as Bruno had not supt with our Physitian, he would bee sure to tell him on the morrow, that the night passed, he had bin with the Company which he did wot of. And there (quoth he) the Queene of _England_ having somewhat offended mee, I commanded, that the _Gomedra_, belonging to the _Grand Cham_ of _Tartaria_, should be brought me, and instantly shee was. What may be the meaning of _Gomedra_ be? saide the Doctor, I understand not those difficult names. I beleeve you Sir, answered _Bruno_, nor do I need to marvaile thereat: and yet I have heard _Porcograsso_ speake, and also _Vannacenna_, and both unexperienced in our Language. You would say (replyed the Doctour) _Hippocrates_ and _Avicenna_, who were two admirable Physitians. It may be so (said _Bruno_) & as hardly do I understand your names, as you mine: but _Gomedra_, in the _Grand Chams_ language, signifies Empresse in ours. But had you once seene her Sir, she would make you forget all Physicall observations, your arguments, receits and medicines, onely to be in her heavenly presence, which words he used (perceiving his forward longing) to enflame him the more. Not long after, as the doctor was holding the candle to _Bruno_, at the perfecting the bloody Battayle of the Cattes and Rattes, because he could never bee wearied in his Companie, and therefore was the more willing, to undergoe the office of the Candle-holder: he resolved to acquaint him with his minde, and being all alone by themselves, thus he began. _Bruno_, as heaven knoweth, there is not this day any creature living, for whom I would gladly do more, then for thee, and the very least word of thy mouth, hath power to commaund mee to goe bare-footed, even from hence so farre as to _Peretola_, and account my labour well employed for thy sake: wherefore, never wonder at my continuall kindnesse towards thee, using thee as my Domesticke companion, and embracing thee as my bosome friend, and therefore I am the bolder in mooving one request unto thee. As thou well knowest, it is no long while since, when thou diddest acquaint me with the behaviour of the _Corsicane_ Roving Company, to be one in so rare and excellent a Society, such hath bin my earnest longing ever since, as day nor night have I enjoyed anie rest, but should thinke my felicity beyond all compare, if I could be entertained in fellowship among you. Nor is this desire of mine but upon great occasion, as thou thy selfe shalt perceive, if I prove accepted into your Societie, and let me then be made a mocking stocke for ever, if I cause not to come thither, one of the most delicate young women, that ever anie eye beheld, and which I my selfe saw (not above a yeare since) at _Cacavinciglia_, on whom I bestowed my intirest affection, and (by the best Urinall that ever I gazed on) would have given her tenne faire _Bologninaes_, to yeeld the matter I moved to her, which yet I could not (by any meanes) compasse. Therefore, with all the flowing faculties of my soule I entreate thee, and all the very uttermost of my all indeede; to instruct me in those wayes and meanes, whereby I may hope to be a member of you. Which if thou dooest accomplish for me, and I may finde it effectually performed: I shall not onely be thy true and loyall friend for ever, but will honour thee beside, beyond all men living. I know thee to bee a man of judgement, deepely informed in all well-grounded experience: thou seest what a propper, portly, and comely man I am, how fitly my legges are answerable to my body, my lookes amiable, lovely, and of Rosie colour; beside I am a Doctor of Physicke, of which profession (being only most expedient) I thinke you have not one in your Society. I have many commendable qualities in me, as, playing on divers instruments, exquisite in singing, and composing rare ditties, whereof I will instantly sing thee one. And so he began to sing. _Bruno_ was swolne so bigge with desire of laughter, that hee had scarsely any power to refraine from it: neverthelesse, he made the best meanes he could devise: and the Song being ended, the Physition saide. How now _Bruno_? What is thine Opinion of my singing? Beleeve me Sir, replyed _Bruno_, the Vialles of _Sagginali_, will loose their very best tunes, in contending against you, so mirilifficially are the sweet accents of your voice heard. I tell thee truly _Bruno_ (answered Master Doctor) thou couldst not by any possibility have beleeved it, if thou hadst not heard it. In good sadness Sir (said _Bruno_) you speake most truly. I could (quoth the Doctor) sing thee infinite more beside, but at this time I must forbeare them. Let mee then further informe thee _Bruno_, that beside the compleat perfections thou seest in me, my father was a Gentleman, althogh he dwelt in a poore Country village, and by my mothers side, I am derived from them of _Vallecchio_. Moreover, as I have formerly shewn thee, I have a goodly Library of Bookes, yea, and so faire and costly garments, as few Physitians in _Florence_ have the like. I protest to thee upon my faith, I have one gowne, which cost me (in readie money) almost an hundred poundes in _Bagattinoes_, and it is not yet above ten yeares old. Wherefore let me prevaile with thee, good _Bruno_, to worke so with the rest of thy friends, that I may bee one of your singular Society; and, by the honest trust thou reposest in mee, bee boldly sick whensoever thou wilt, my paines and Physicke shall be freely thine, without the payment of one single peny. _Bruno_ hearing his importunate words, and knowing him (as all men else did beside) to be a man of more words then wit, saide. Master Doctor, snuffe the candle I pray you, and lend me a little more light with it hitherward, until I have finished the tailes of these Rats, and then I will answer you. When the Rats tailes were fully finished, _Bruno_ declaring by outward behaviour, that he greatly distasted the matter mooved, thus answered. Worthy Master Doctor, the courtesies you have already extended towards me, and the bountifull favours promised beside, I know to be exceeding great, and farre beyond the compasse of any merit in me. But concerning your request, albeit in respect of your admired braine and Wisedome, it is of little or no moment at all; yet it appeareth over-mighty to mee, and there is not any man now living in the world, that hath the like Authoritie over me, and can more commaund me, then you (with one poore syllable) easily may doe: as well in regarde of my Love and Dutie, as also your singular and sententious speeches, able not onelie to make me breake a sound and setled resolution, but (almost) to move Mountaines out of their places, and the more I am in your Learned company, so much the faster am I lincked unto you, in immooveable affection, so farre am I in love with your admirable qualities. And had I no other reason, to affect you in such endeared manner, as I doe; yet because you are enamoured of so rare a beauty, as you have already related to me, it onely were a motive sufficient to compell me. But indeed I must needs tel you, that I have not so much power in this case, as you (perhaps) do imagine, which barreth me from such forward readines, as otherwise needed not to be urged. Neverthelesse, having so solemnly ingaged your faith to me, and no way misdoubting your faithfull secrecy, I shall instruct you in some meanes to be observed; and it appeareth plainly to me, that being furnished with such plenty of Bookes, as you are, and other rich endowments, as you have before rehersed, you cannot but attaine to the full period of your longing desire. Speake boldly thy minde _Bruno_, answered the Doctour: for, I perceive thou hast no perfect knowledge of me as yet, neither what an especiall gift I have of secrecy. _Messer Gasparino da Salicete_, when he was Judge and Potestat over the people of _Forlini_, made choise of mee (among infinite of his dearest friends) to acquaint with a secret of no meane moment. And such a faithfull Secretary he found me, as I was the onely man, that knew his mariage with _Bergamino_; why then should any distrust be made of me? If it be so as you say Sir (answered _Bruno_) your credit is the sounder, and I dare the better adventure on your fidelity: the meanes then which you are to worke by, I shall now direct you in. We have alwayes in this noble Society of ours, a Captaine, and two Counsellors, which are changed at every six months end. And now at Christmas next (so neere drawing on) _Buffalmaco_ shall be elected Captaine, and my selfe one of the Counsellers, for so it is already agreed on, and orderly set downe. Now, he that is Captain, may doe much more then any other can, and appoint matters as himselfe pleaseth. Wherefore I thinke it very expedient, that so soone as possibly you may, you procure acquaintance with _Buffalmaco_, entreating him with all respective courtesie. Hee is a man, who when he perceyveth you to be so wonderfully Wise and discreete, he will be immediatly in love with you: so, when you have your best senses about you, and your richest wearing Garments on (alwayes remembred, that your acquaintance first be fully confirmed) then never feare to urge your request, for he can have no power at all to denie you; because I have already spoken of you to him, and find him to stand affected unto you verie intirely: thus when you have begunne the businesse, leave me to deale with him in the rest. Now trust me kinde friend _Bruno_, replyed the Physitian, I like your advice exceeding well. For, if hee be a man, that taketh delight to converse with men of skill and judgement, and you have made the way for his knowing me: he will then thirst, and long to follow after mee, to understand the incredible eloquence flowing from me, and the rare composition of my Musicall Ditties, out of which he may learne no meane wisedome. When the matter was thus agreed on betweene them, _Bruno_ departed thence, & acquainted _Buffalmaco_ with everie circumstance: which made him thinke everie day a yeare, untill he might joyne in the fooling of Mayster Doctour, according to his owne fancie. Who beeing also as desirous on the other side, to make one in the _Corsicane_ Voyage; could take no manner of rest either by day or night, till he was linked in friendship with _Buffalmaco_, which very quickely after hee compassed. For now there wanted no costly dinners and suppers, with al delicates could be devised, for the entertainement of _Buffalmaco_ and _Bruno_; who, like Guests very easie to be invited, where rich wines and good cheare are never wanting, needed little sending for, because his house was as familiar to them, as their owne. In the end, when the Physitian espyed an opportunitie apt for the purpose, he made the same request to _Buffalmaco_, as formerly hee had done to _Bruno_. Whereat _Buffalmaco_, sodainly starting, and looking frowningly on _Bruno_, as if he were extraordinarily incensed against him: clapping his hand furiously on the Table, he sayde. I sweare by the great God of _Pasignano_, that I can hardly refrayne from giving thee such a blow on the face, as should make thy Nose to fall at thy heeles: vile Traitor as thou art: for none beside thy selfe, could discover so rare and excellent a secret unto this famous Physitian. The Doctour, with verie plausible and pleasing tearmes, excused the matter verie artificially; protesting, that another had revealed it unto him: and after many wise circumstantiall Allegations, at length hee prevailed so farre, that _Buffalmaco_ was pacified; who afterwardes turning in kinde manner, thus hee beganne. Master Doctour, you have lived both at _Bologna_, and heere in these partes with us, having (no doubt) sufficiently understoode, what it is to carry a close mouth, I meane the true Charracter of taciturnitie. Questionlesse, you never learned the A. B. C. as now foolish Ideots do, blabbing their lessons all about the towne, which is much better apprehended by rumination; and surely (if I be not much deceyved) your Nativity happened on a Sonday morning, Sol being at that time, Lord of the ascendent, joyned with _Mercurie_ in a fierie Triplicitie. By such conference as I have had with _Bruno_, I conceyved (as he himselfe also did) that you were verie singular in Physicke onely: but it seemeth, your Studies reached a higher straine, for you have learned, and know verie skilfullie, how to steale mens hearts from them, yea, to bereave them of their verie soules, which I perceyve that you can farre better doe, then any man else living to my knowledge, only by your wise, witty, judicious, and more then meere _Mercurian_ eloquence, such as I never heard before. The Physitian interrupting him bashfully, turned himselfe unto _Bruno_, saying. Did not I tell thee this before? Observe what a notable thing it is, to speake well, and to frequent the company of the Wise. A thousand other, meerely blockes and dullardes by Nature, could never so soone comprehend all the particularities of my knowledge, as this honest and apprehensive man hath done. Thou didst not search into it halfe so soone, nor (indeed) did I expresse a quarter of my ingenuity to thee, as (since his comming) hath prodigally flowne from me. Well do I remember thy words, that _Buffalmaco_ delighted to be among men of Wisedome: and have I not now fitted him unto his owne desire? How thinkest thou _Bruno_? The best (quoth _Bruno_) that any man living in the World could do. Ah worthy _Buffalmaco_, answered the Physitian: What wouldst thou then have sayde, if thou hadst seene me at _Bologna_, where there was neyther great nor small, Doctor nor Scholler, but thought themselves happy by being in my company? If I ought any debts, I discharged them with my very wittie words; and whensoever I spake, I could set them al on a hearty laughter, so much pleasure they tooke in hearing mee. And when I departed thence, no men in the world could bee more sorrowfull then they, as desiring nothing more then my remayning among them, which they expressed so apparantly, that they made humble suite and intercession to me, to bee cheefe Reader of the Physicke-Lecture, to all the Schollers studying our profession. But I could not be so perswaded, because my minde was wholly addicted hither, to enjoy those Goods, Landes, and Inheritances, belonging lineally to them of our house, and accordingly I did performe it. How now _Buffalmaco_ (quoth _Bruno_) what is thine opinion now? Thou wouldst not beleeve me when I told thee, that there is not a Doctor in all these parts, more skilfull in distinguishing the Urine of an Asse, from any other, then this most expert and singular man: and I dare boldly maintaine it, that his fellow is not to bee found, from hence to the very gates of _Paris_. Go then, and doe the uttermost endeavour that thou canst, to grant the request which he hath made. Beleeve me _Buffalmaco_, saide the Doctor, _Bruno_ hath spoken nothing but truth, for I am scarsely knowne heere in this City, where (for the most part) they are all grosse-witted people, rather then any jot judicious; but I would thou hadst seene me among the Doctors, in manner as I was wont to be. Introth Sire, replyed _Buffalmaco_, you are my much more Learned then ever I imagined, in which respect, speaking unto you as it becommeth me, to a man so excellent in wit and understanding: I dare assure you that (without any faile) I will procure you to be one of our Company. After this promise thus made, the good cheare, favors and kindnesses done by the Doctor to them, was beyond the compasse of all relation: whereof they made no more then a meere mockery, flouting him to his face, and yet his Wisedome could not discerne it. Moreover, they promised, that they would give him to Wife, the faire Countesse _di Civillari_, who was the onely goodliest creature to be found in the whole _Culattario_ of humane generation. The Doctor demanded, what Countesse that was? Oh Sir, answered _Buffalmaco_, she is a great Lady, one worthy to have issue by; and few houses are there in the world, where she hath not some jurisdiction and command: so that not meane people onely, but even the greatest Lords, at the sound of her Trumpets, do very gladlie pay her tribute. And I dare boldly affirme, that whensoever shee walketh to any place, shee yeeldeth a hot and sensible favour, albeit she keepeth most of all close. Yet once every night, shee duely observeth it (as a Custome) to passe from her owne house, to bathe her feete in the River of _Arno_, and take a little of the sweeter Ayre: albeit her continuall residencie, is within the Kingdome of _Laterino_. She seldome walketh abroad, but goeth with her attending Officers about her, who (for more demonstration of her greatnesse) do carry the Rod and plummet of Lead. Store of her Lords and Barons are every where to be seene; as the _Tamagaino della porta, Don Meta di Sirropa; Manico di Scopa; Signior Squacchera,_ and others beside, who are (as I suppose) oftentimes your daily visitants, when of necessity they must be remembred. All our care and courtesie shall extend so farre (if we doe not faile in our enterprize) to leave you in the armes of so Majestick a Ladie, quite forgetting hir of _Cacavinciglia_. The Physitian, who was borne and brought up at _Bologna_, and therefore understoode not these _Florentine_ tearmes: became fully contented to enjoy the Ladie; and, within some few dayes following, the Painters brought him tydings, that they had prepared the way for his entertainment into the Societie of Rovers. The day being come, when the supposed assembly was to be made the night following: the Physitian invited them both to dinner; when he demanding, what provision he shold make for his entrance into their company, _Buffalmaco_ returned him this answer, whereto he gave very heedfull attention. Master Doctor, you must be first of all, strongly armed with resolution and confidence: for if you be not, you may not only receyve hindrance, but also do us great harme beside: and now you shall heare, in what manner, and how you are to be bold and constant. You must procure the meanes, this instant night, when all the people are in their soundest sleepe, to stand upon one of those high exalted Tombs or Monuments, which are in the Churchyard of _Santa Maria Novella_, with the very fairest gowne you have about you, because you may appeare in the more honorable condition, before the assembly seated together, and likewise to make good our speeches already delivered of you, concerning your qualitie & profession: that the Countesse, perceyving you to bee a woorthie Gentlemen, may have you first honoured with the Bathe, and afterward Knighted at her owne cost and charge. But you must continue still upon the Tombe (dreadlesse of nightly apparitions & visions) untill such time as we send for you. And for your better information in every particulare; a Beast, blacke and horned, but of no great stature, will come to fetch you: perhaps he will use some gastly noises, straunge leapes, and loftie trickes, onely to terrifie and affright you: but when he perceiveth that he cannot daunt you, hee will gently come neere you, which when he hath done, you may descend from off the Tombe; and, without naming or thinking on God, or any of his Saintes, mount boldly on his backe, for he will stand ready to receive you. Being so seated, crosse your armes over your brest, without presuming to touch or handle the Beast, for he will carry you thence softly, and so bring you along to the company. But if in all this time of your travaile, you call on heaven, any Saint, or bee possessed with the least thought of feare: I must plainely tell you, that either hee will cast you dangerously, or throw you into some noysom place. And therefore, if you know your selfe, not to be of a constant courage, and sprightly bold, to undertake such an adventure as this: never presume any further, because you may doe us a great deale of injurie, without any gaine or benefite to your selfe, but rather such wrong, as we would be very sorry should happen unto so deere a Friend. Alas honest _Buffalmaco_, answered the Physitian, thou art not halfe acquainted with me as yet: because I walke with gloves upon my hands, and in a long Gowne, thou perhappes doest imagine mee a faint-hearted fellow. If thou didst know, what I have heeretofore done at _Bologna_ in the night time, when I and my Consorts went to visite pretty wenches, thou wouldst wonder at my couragious attempts. As I am a Gentleman, one night, we met with a young _Bona Roba_, a paltry greene-sicknesse baggage, scarsely above a Cubite in height, & because she refused to go with us willingly, I gave her a kicke on the bum, and spurnde her more then a Crosse-bowe shoote in distance from me, and made her walke with us whether she would, or no. Another time I remember, when having no other company but my boy, I went thorow the Churchyard of the Fryars Minors, after the sounding of _Ave Maria_: a woman hadde beene buried there the very same day, and yet I was not a jotte affraid. Wherefore, never be distrustfull of mee, but resolvedly builde upon my courage. And in regard of my more honourable entertainment, I will then weare my Scarlet Gowne and Hood, wherein I receyved my graduation; and then do both of you observe, what a rejoycing will be among the whole company, at the entertaining of such as a man as I am, enough to create me Captaine immediatly. You shall perceive also how the case will go, after I have beene there but a while, in regard that the Countesse (having as yet never seene me) is so deepely enamored of mee: she cannot choose but bestow the Bathe and Knight-hood on me, which shee shall have the more honour of, in regard I am well able to maintaine it, therefore referre all the rest to mee, and never misdoubt your injurie or mine. Spoken like a Gallant, replyed _Buffalmaco_, and I feare not now, but we shall winne credite by your company. But be carefull I pray you, that you make not a mockery of us, and come not at all, or fayle to be there, when the Beast shall be sent for you; I speake it the rather, because it is cold weather, and you Gentlemen Physitians can hardly endure it. You are carefull of mee (quoth the Doctor) and I thanke you for it, but I applaud my faire Starres, I am none of your nice or easie-frozen fellowes, because cold weather is very familiar to me. I dare assure you, when I arise in the night time for that naturall office whereto all men are subject, I weare no warmer defence, then my thin wastcoat over my shirt, and finde it sufficient for the coldest weather at any time. When _Bruno_ and _Buffalmaco_ had taken their leave, the Physitian, so soone as night drew neere, used many apt excuses to his wife, stealing forth his Scarlet Gowne and Hood unseene of any, wherewith being clothed: at the time appointed, he got upon one of the Marble Tombes, staying there (quaking with cold) awaiting when the Beast should come. _Buffalmaco_, being a lusty tall man of person, had got an ugly masking suite, such as are made use of in Tragedies and Playes, the out-side being of black shagged haire, wherewith being cloathed, he seemed like a strange deformed Beare, and a Divels vizard over his face, with two gastly horrible hornes, and thus disguised, _Bruno_ following him, they went to behold the issue of the businesse, so farre as the new Market place, closely adjoining to _Santa Maria Novella_. Having espyed Master Doctor uppon the Tombe, _Buffalmaco_ in his misshapen habite, began to bound, leape, and carriere, snuffling and blowing in mad and raging manner: which when the Physitian saw, his haire stood on end, he quaked and trembled, as being more fearfull then a Woman, wishing himselfe at home againe in his house, rather then to behold a sight so dreadfull. But because he was come forth, and had such an earnest desire, to see the wonders related to him; he made himselfe so coragious as possibly he could, and bare all out in formall manner. After that _Buffalmaco_ had (an indifferent while) plaide his horse-trickes, ramping and stamping somewhat strangely: seeming as become of much milder temper, he went neere to the Tomb whereon the Physitian stood, and there appeared to stay contentedly. Master Doctor, trembling and quaking still extreamely, was so farre dismayed, as he knew not what was best to be done, either to mount on the beasts backe, or not to mount at all. In the end, thinking no harme could happen to him, if he were once mounted, with the second feare, hee expelled the former, and descending downe softly from the Tombs, mounted on the beast, saying out alowde: God, Saint Dominicke, and my good Angell helpe to defend mee. Seating himselfe so well as he could, but trembling still exceedingly; he crossed his armes over his stomacke, according to the Lesson given him. Then did _Buffalmaco_ shape his course in milde manner, toward _Santa Maria della Scala_, and groping to finde his way in the darke, went on so farre as the Sisters of _Ripole_, commonly called the _Virgin Sanctuary_. Not farre off from thence, were divers trenches & ditches, wherein such men as are imployed in necessary night-services, used to empty the Countesse _di Civillari_, and afterward imployed it for manuring Husbandmens grounds. _Buffalmaco_, being come neere one of them, he stayed to breath himselfe awhile, and then catching fast hold on one of the Doctours feete, raysed him somewhat higher on his back, for the easier discharging of his burthen, and so pitched him (with his head forwardes) into the Lay-stall. Then began he to make a dreadfull kinde of noise, stamping and trampling with his feete, passing backe againe to _Santa Maria della Scala_, and to _Prato d'Ognissanti_, where hee met with _Bruno_, who was constrained to forsake him, because he could not refraine from lowde Laughter, then both together went backe once more, to see how the Physitian would behave himselfe, being so sweetely embrued. Master Doctor, seeing himselfe to bee in such an abhominable stinking place, laboured with all his utmost endeavour, to get himself released thence: but the more he contended and strove for getting forth, he plunged himselfe the further in, being most pitifully myred from head to foot, sighing and sorrowing extraordinarily, because much of the foule water entred in at his mouth. In the end, being forced to leave his hood behinde him, scrambling both with his hands and feet, he got landing out of his stinking Labyrinth, & having no other means, home he returned to his own house, where knocking at the doore, he was at length admitted entrance. The doore being scarse made fast againe after his letting in, _Buffalmaco_ and _Bruno_ were there arrived, listning how M. Doctor should bee welcomd home by his angry wife: who scolding and railing at him with wonderfull impatience, gave him most hard and bitter speeches, terming him the vilest man living. Where have you bin Sir? quoth she. Are you becom** a night-walker after other Women? And could no worse garments serve your turne, but your Doctors gown of Scarlet? Am I to suffer this behaviour? Or am not I sufficient to content you, but you must be longing after change? I would thou hadst bin stifled in that foule filth, where thy fouler life did justly cast thee. Behold goodly Master Doctor of the Leystall, who being maried to an honest woman must yet go abroad in the night time, insatiatly lusting after whores and harlots. With these and the like intemperate speeches, she ceased not to afflict and torment him, till the night was almost spent, and the Doctor brought into a sweeter savour. The next morning, _Bruno_ and _Buffalmaco_, having colourd their bodyes with a strange kinde of painting, resembling blisters, swellings, and bruises, as if they had bin extreamly beaten; came to the Physitians house, finding him to be newly up, al the house yet smelling of his foule savour (although it had bin very well perfumed) and being admitted to him in the Garden, hee welcommed them with the mornings salutations. But _Bruno_ and _Buffalmaco_ (being otherwise provided for him) delivering stearne and angry lookes, stamping and chafing, _Bruno_ thus replyed. Never speake so faire and flattering to us, for we are moved beyond all compasse of patience. All misfortunes in the worlde fall upon you, and an evill death may you dye, like the most false and perfidious Traitor living on the earth. We must beate our braines, and move all our most endeared friends, onely for your honor and advancement: while wee were well neere starved to death in the cold like Dogs, and, by your breach of promise, have bin this night so extreamly beaten, as if (like Asses) we should have beene driven to _Rome_. But that which is most greevous of all, is danger of excluding out of the Society, where wee tooke good order for your admittance, and for your most honourable entertainment. If you will not credit us, behold our bodies, and let your owne eyes be witnesses, in what cruell manner we have bin beaten. So taking him aside under the Gallery, where they might not be discovered by over-much light, they opened their bosomes, shewed him their painted bodies, and sodainly closed them up againe. The Physitian laboured to excuse himselfe, declaring his misfortunes at large, and into what a filthy place he was throwne. It maketh no matter (answered _Buffalmaco_) I would you had bin throwen from off the Bridge into _Arno_, where you might have beene recommended to the Divell, and all his Saints. Did not I tell you so much before. In good sadnesse (quoth the Doctor) I neyther commended my selfe to God, nor any of his Saints. How? sayde _Buffalmaco_, I am sure you will maintaine an untrueth, you used a kinde of recommendation: for our messenger told us, that you talked of God, S. _Dominicke_, and your good Angell, whom you desired to assist you, being so affrighted with feare, that you trembled like a leafe upon a tree, not knowing indeede where you were. Thus have you unfaithfully dealt with us, as never any man shall doe the like againe, in seeking honour, and losing it through your own negligence. Master Doctor humbly entreated pardon, and that they would not revile him any more, labouring to appease them by the best words he could use, as fearing least they should publish this great disgrace of him. And whereas (before) he gave them gracious welcomes; now he redoubled them with farre greater courtesies, feasting them daily at his own table, and evermore delighting in their company. Thus (as you have heard) two poore Painters of _Florence_, taught Master Doctor better Wit, then all the Learned at _Bologna_. _A Cicilian Courtezane, named Madame_ Biancafiore, _by her craftie wit and policie, deceived a young Merchant, called_ Salabetto, _of all the money he had taken for his Wares at_ Palermo. _Afterward, he making shew of comming hither againe, with farre richer Merchandises then hee brought before: made the meanes to borrow a great summe of Money of her, leaving her so base a pawne, as well requited her for her former cozenage._ The Tenth Novell. _Whereby appeareth, that such as meet with cunning Harlots, and suffer themselves to be deceived by them: must sharpen their Wits, to make them requitall in the selfesame kinde._ Needlesse it were to question, whether the Novell related by the Queene, in divers passages thereof, mooved the Ladies to hearty laughter, and likewise to compassionate sighes and teares; as pittying Madame _Helena_ in her hard misfortune, and yet applauding the Scholler for his just revenge. But the discourse being ended, _Dioneus_, who knew it was his Office to be the last speaker every day, after silence was commanded, he began in this manner. Worthy Ladies, it is a matter very manifest, that deceits do appeare so much the more pleasing, when (by the selfe-same meanes) the subtle deceyver is artificially deceived. In which respect, though you all have reported very singular deceits: yet I meane to tel you one, that may prove as pleasing to you, as any of your owne. And so much the rather, because the woman deceived, was a great and cunning Mistris in beguiling others; equalling (if not excelling) any of your former beguilers. It hath bene observed heretofore, and (happily) at this very day it is as frequent, that in all Cities and Townes upon the Sea-coasts, having Ports for the benefit and venting Merchandises; Merchants use to bring their wealthy laden Vessels thither. And when they unlade any Ship of great fraught, there are prepared Store-houses, which in many places are called _Magazines_ or _Doganaes_, at the charge of the Communalty, or Lord of the Towne or City, for the use whereof, they receive yearly gain and benefit. Into those warehouses, they deliver (under writing, and to the owners of them in especiall charge) all their goods and merchandises, of what price or valew soever they are. Such as be the Owners of these Magazines, when the Wares are thus stored uppe in them, doe safely locke them up there with their keyes, having first registred downe truly all the goods, in the Register belonging to the Custome-house, that the Merchant may have a just account rendred him, and the rights payed to the Custome-house, according to the Register, and as they are either in part, or in all made sale of. Brokers are continually there attending, being informed in the quality of the Merchandises stored, and likewise to what Merchants they appertaine: by meanes of these men, and according as the goods come to their hands, they devise to have them exchaunged, trucked, vented, and such other kinds of dispatches, answerable to the mens minds, and worth of the Commodities. As in many other Kingdomes and Countries, so was this custome observed at _Palermo_ in _Sicily_, where likewise then were, and (no doubt) now a-dayes are, store of Women, faire and comely of person, but yet vowed enemies to honesty. Neverthelesse, by such as know them not, they are held and reputed to be blamelesse Women, and by yeilding their bodyes unto generall use, are the occasion of infinite misfortunes to men. For so soone as they espy a Merchant-stranger there arrived, they win information from the Booke belonging to the Magazin, what wares are therein stored, of what valew they bee, and who is the Owner of them. Afterwards, by amorous actions, and affable speeches, they allure yong Merchants to take knowledge of them, to bee familiar in their company, till from some they get most part of their wealth, from others all. Nay, divers have gone so farre, as to make Port-sale of Ship, Goods, and Person, so cunningly they have bene shaven by these Barbers, and yet without any Razor. It came to passe, and no long time since, that a young _Florentine_ of ours, named _Niccolo da Cignano_, but more usually called _Salabetto_, imployed as Factor for his Maister, arrived at _Palermo_; his Ship stored with many Woollen Cloathes, a remainder of such as had bin sold at the Mart of _Salerno_, amounting in valew to above five hundred Florines of Gold. When he had given in his packet to the Custome-house, and made them up safe in his Ware-house; without making shew of desiring any speedy dispatch, he delighted to view all parts of the City, as mens minds are continuallie addicted to Novelties. He being a very faire and affable yong man, easie to kindle affection in a very modest eie: it fortuned, that a Courtezane, one of our before remembred shavers, who termed hir selfe Madame _Biancafiore_, having heard somewhat concerning his affairs, beganne to dart amorous glances at him. Which the indiscreete youth perceyving, and thinking her to be some great Lady: began also to grow halfe perswaded, that his comely person was pleasing to her, and therefore he would carrie this good fortune of his somewhat cautelously. Without imparting his mind unto any one, he would daily passe too and fro before her doore; which she observing, and having indifferently wounded him with her wanton piercing lookes: she began to use the first tricke of her Trade, by pretending her enflamed affection towards him, which made her pine and consume away in care, except he might be moved to pitty her. Whereupon, she sent one of her _Pandoraes_ unto him, perfectly instructed in the Art of a _Maquerella_, who (after many cunning counterfetted sighes, and teares, which she had alwayes ready at command) told him; that his comely person and compleate perfections, had so wounded the very soule of her Mistresse, as she could enjoy no rest in any place, either by day or night. In regard whereof, she desired (above all things else) to meete with him privately in a Bathe: with which Wordes, she straightway tooke a Ring forth of her pursse, and in most humble manner, delivered it unto him, as a token from her Mistresse. _Salabetto_ having heard this Message, was the onely joyfull man that could be: and having receyved the Ring, looking on it advisedly; first kissed it, and then put it upon his finger. Then in answer to the Messenger, he sayd: That if her Mistresse _Biancafiore_ affected him, she sustained no losse thereby, in regard he loved her as fervently, and was ready to be commanded by her, at any time whensoever she pleased. She having delivered this message to her Mistresse, was presently returned backe againe to him, to let him understand, in which of the Bathes she meant to meet him, on the next morrow in the evening. This being counsell for himselfe onely to keepe, he imparted it not to any friend whatsoever; but when the houre for their meeting was come, he went unto the place where he was appointed, a Bathe (belike) best agreeing with such businesse. Not long had he taried there, but two Women slaves came laden to him, the one bearing a Mattresse of fine Fustian on hir head, and the other a great Basket filled with many things. Having spred the Mattresse in a faire Chamber on a Couch-bed, they covered it with delicate white Linnen sheets, all about embroidred with faire Fringes of gold, then laid they on costly quilts of rich Silkes, artificially wrought with gold and silver knots, having pearles and precious stones interwoven among them, and two such rich pillowes, as sildome before had the like bin seene. _Salabetto_ putting off his garments, entred the Bath prepared for him, where the two Slaves washed his body very neatly. Soone after came _Biancafiore_ hirselfe, attended on by two other women slaves, and seeing _Salabetto_ in the Bathe; making him a lowly reverence, breathing forth infinite dissembled sighes, and teares trickling downe her cheekes, kissing and embracing him, thus she spake. I know not what man else in the worlde, beside thy selfe, could have the power to bring me hither: the fire flew from thy faire eies (O thou incompareable lovely _Tuscane_) that melted my soule, and makes me onely live at thy command. Then hurling off her light wearing garment (because she came prepared for the purpose) shee stept into the bathe to him, and, not permitting the Slaves a-while to come neere, none but her selfe must now lave his body, with Muske compounded Sope and Gilly-floures. Afterward, the slaves washed both him and her, bringing two goodly sheetes, softe and white, yeelding such a delicate smell of Roses, even as if they had bene made of Rose-leaves. In the one, they folded _Salabetto_, and her in the other, and so conveyed them on their shoulders unto the prepared Bed-Couch, where because they should not sweate any longer, they tooke the sheets from about them, and laid them gently in the bed. Then they opened the Basket, wherein were divers goodly Silver bottles, some filled with Rosewaters, others with flowers of Orenges, and Waters distilled of Gelsomine, Muske, and Amber-Greece, wherewith (againe) the slaves bathed their bodyes in the bed, & afterward presented them with variety of Comfites, as also very precious Wines, serving them in stead of a little Collation. _Salabetto_ supposed himself to be in Paradise: for this appeared to be no earthly joy, bestowing a thousand gladsome gazes on her, who (questionlesse) was a most beautifull creature, and the tarrying of the Slaves, seemed millions of yeares to him, that hee might more freely embrace his _Biancafiore_. Leaving a Waxe Taper lighted in the Chamber, the slaves departed, and then shee sweetly embracing _Salabetto_, bestowed those further favours on him, which hee came for, and she was not squeamish in the affoording; whereof he was exceedingly joyfull, because he imagined, that they proceeded from the integrity of her affection towards him. When she thought it convenient time to depart thence, the slaves returned; they cloathed themselves, and had a Banquet standing ready prepared for them; where-with they cheared their wearyed spirits, after they had first washed in odorifferous waters. At parting: _Salabetto_ (quoth she) whensoever thy leysures shall best serve thee, I will repute it as my cheefest happinesse, that thou wilt accept a Supper and Lodging in my house, which let it be this instant night, if thou canst. He being absolutely caught, both by hir beauty and flattering behaviour: beleeved faithfully, that he was as intirely beloved of her, as the heart is of the body: whereuppon hee thus answered. Madame, whatsoever pleaseth you, must needes be much more acceptable unto mee: and therefore, not onely may command my service this night, but likewise the whole employment of my life, to be onely yours in my very best studies and endeavours. No sooner did she heare this answer, but she returned home to her owne house, which she decked in most sumptuous manner, and also made ready a costly Supper, expecting the arrivall of _Salabetto_: who when the darke night was indifferently well entred, went thither, and was welcommed with wonderfull kindnesse, wanting no costly Wines and Delicates all the Supper while. Being afterward conducted into a goodly Chamber, he smelt there admirable sweete senting savours, such as might well beseeme a Princes Pallace. He beheld a most costly Bed, and very rich furniture round about the roome: which when he had duly considered to himself, he was constantly perswaded, that she was a Lady of infinit wealth. And although he had heard divers flying reports concerning her life, yet hee would not credite any thing amisse of her, for albeit she might (perhappes) beguile some other; yet shee affected him (he thought) in better manner, and no such misfortune could happen to him. Having spent all the night with her in wanton dalliances, & being risen in the morning; to enflame his affection more and more towards her, and to prevent any ill opinion he might conceyve of her, she bestowed a rich and costly Girdle on him, as also a pursse most curiously wrought, saying to him. My sweet _Salabetto_, with these testimonies of my true affection to thee, I give thee faithfully to understand, that as my person is onely subjected thine; so this house and all the riches in it, remaineth absolutely at thy disposition, or whatsoever hereafter shall happen within the compasse of my power. He being not a little proud of this her bountifull offer (having never bestowed any gift on her, because by no meanes shee would admit it) after many sweet kisses and embraces; departed thence, to the place where the Merchants usually frequented: resorting to her (from time to time) as occasion served, and paying not one single peny for all his wanton pleasure, by which cunning baytes (at length) she caught him. It came to passe, that having made sale of all his Clothes, whereby hee had great gaines, and the moneyes justly payed him at the times appointed: _Biancafiore_ got intelligence thereof; yet not by him, but from one of the Brokers. _Salabetto_ comming one night to sup with her, she embraced and kissed him as she was wont to doe, and seemed so wonderfully addicted in love to him, even as if shee would have dyed with delight in his armes. Instantly, shee would needs bestow two goodly gilt standing Cuppes on him, which _Salabetto_ by no meanes would receive, because she had formerly bin very bountifull to him, to above the value of an hundred Crowns, and yet she would not take of him so much as a mite. At length, pressing still more tokens of her love and bounty on him, which he as courteously denied, as she kindly offered: one of her Women-slaves (as shee had before cunningly appointed) sodainely calling her, forthwith she departed out of her Chamber. And when she had continued a pretty while absent, she returned againe weeping; and throwing her selfe downe upon her Pallet, breathed forth such sighes and wofull lamentations, as no Woman could possibly doe the like. _Salabetto_ amazedly wondering thereat, tooke her in his Armes, and weeping also with her, said. Alas my deare Love, what sodain accident hath befalne you, to urge this lamentable alteration? If you love me, hide it not from me. After he had often entreated her in this manner, casting her armes about his necke, and sighing as if her heart would breake, thus she replyed. Ah _Salabetto_, the onely Jewell of my joy on earth, I knowe not what to do, or say, for (even now) I received Letters from _Messina_, wherein my Brother writes to me, that although it cost the sale of all my goods, or whatsoever else I have beside, I must (within eight dayes space) not faile to send him a thousand Florins of gold, or else he must have his head smitten off, and I know not by what meanes to procure them so soone. For, if the limitation of fifteene dayes might serve the turne; I could borrow them in a place, where I can command a farre greater summe, or else I would sell** some part of our Lands. But beeing no way able to furnish him so soone, I would I had died before I heard these dismall tydings. And in the uttering of these words, she graced them with such cunning dissembled sorrow, as if she had meant truly indeed. _Salabetto_, in whom the fury of his amorous flames, had consumed a great part of his necessary understanding; beleeving these counterfetted tears and complaints of hers, to proceed from an honest meaning soule; rashly and foolishly thus replied. Deare _Biancafiore_, I cannot furnish you with a thousand golden Florines, but am able to lend you five hundred, if I were sure of their repayment at fifteene dayes, wherein you are highly beholding to Fortune, that I have made sale of all my Cloathes; which if they had lyen still on my hand, my power could not stretch to lend you five Florines. Alas deare heart (quoth she) would you be in such want of money, and hide it from her that loves you so loyally? Why did you not make your need knowne to me? Although I am not furnished of a thousand Florines; yet I have alwaies ready three or foure hundred by me, to do any kinde office for my friend. In thus wronging me, you have robd me of all boldnes, to presume upon your offer made me. _Salabetto_, far faster inveigled by these words then before, said. Let not my folly (bright _Biancafiore_) cause you to refuse my friendly offer, in such a case of extreme necessity: I have them ready prepared for you, and am heartily sorry, that my power cannot furnish you with the whole summe. Then catching him fast in her armes, thus she answered. Now I plainly perceive, my dearest _Salabetto_, that the love thou bearest me is true and perfect; when, without expectation of being requested, thou art readie to succour me in such an urgent neede, & with so faire a summe of Florines. Sufficiently was I thine owne before, but now am much more ingaged by so high deserving; with this particular acknowledgement for ever, that my Brothers head was redeemed by thy goodnesse onely. Heaven beareth me record, how unwilling I am to be beholding in this kind, considring that you are a Merchant, & Merchants furnish al their affairs with ready monis: but seeing necessity constraineth me, and I make no doubt of repaiment at the time appointed: I shall the more boldly accept your kindnes, with this absolute promise beside, that I will rather sell all the houses I have, then breake my honest word with you. Counterfeit teares still drayning downe her cheeks, and _Salabetto_ kindly comforting her; he continued there with hir all that night, to expresse himselfe her most liberall servant. And, without expecting any more requesting, the next morning he brought her the five hundred Florines, which she received with a laughing heart, but outward dissembled weeping eies; _Salabetto_ never demanding any other security, but onely her single promise. _Biancafiore_, having thus received the five hundred Florines, the indiction of the Almanacke began to alter: and whereas (before) _Salabetto_ could come see her whensoever he pleased, many occasions now happened, whereby he came seven times for once, and yet his entrance was scarsely admitted, neither was his entertainment so affable, or his cheare so bountifull, as in his former accesses thither. Moreover, when the time for repaiment was come, yea a moneth or two over-past, and he demanded to have his money; hee could have nothing but words for paiment. Now he began to consider on the craft and cunning of this wicked Woman, as also his owne shallow understanding, knowing he could make no proofe of his debt, but what her selfe listed to say, having neither witnes, specialty, bill or bond to shew: which made his folly so shamefull to him, that he durst not complaine to any person, because he had received some advertisements before, whereto he wold by no means listen, and now should have no other amends, but publike infamie, scorne and disgrace, which made him almost weary of his life, and much to bemoane his owne unhappinesse. He received also divers Letters from his Master, to make returne of the 500. Florines over by way of banke, according as he had used to do: but nowe could performe no such matter. Hereupon, because his error should not be discovered, he departed in a small vessell thence, not making for _Pisa_, as he should have done, but directly for _Naples_ hee shaped his course. At that instant lodged there, _Don Pietro della Canigiano_, Treasurer of the Empresse of _Constantinople_, a man of great wisedome and understanding, as also very ingenious and politike, he being an especiall Favourer of _Salabetto_ and all his friendes, which made him presume the more boldly (being urged thereto by meere necessity, the best corrector of wandering wits) to acquaint him with his lamentable misfortune, in every particular as it had hapned, requesting his aid and advice, how he might best weare out the rest of his dayes, because hee never meant to visit _Florence_ any more. _Canigiano_ being much displeased at the repetition of his Follie, sharply reproved him, saying. Thou hast done leudly, in carying thy selfe so loosely, and spending thy Masters goods so carelesly, which though I cannot truly tearme spent, but rather art meerely cousened and cheated of them, yet thou seest at what a deere rate thou hast purchased pleasure, which yet is not utterly helplesse, but may by one meanes or other be recovered. And being a man of woonderfull apprehension, advised him instantly what was to bee done, furnishing him also with a summe of money, wherewith to adventure a second losse, in hope of recovering the first againe: he caused divers Packes to be well bound up, with the Merchants markes orderly made on them, and bought about twenty Buttes or Barrelles, all filled (as it were) with Oyle, and these pretended commodities being shipt, _Salabetto_ returned with them to _Palermo_. Where having given in his packets to the Custome-house, and entred them all under his owne name, as being both owner and factor: all his Wares were lockt up in his _Magazine_,** with open publication, that he would not vent any of them, before other merchandises (which he daily expected) were there also arrived. _Biancafiore_ having heard thereof, and understanding withall, that he had brought Merchandises now with him, amounting to above two thousand Florins, staying also in expectation of other commodities, valewing better then three thousand more, she beganne to consider with her selfe, that she had not yet gotten money enough from him, and therefore would cast a figure for a farre bigger booty. Which that she might the more fairely effect, without so much as an imagination of the least mistrust: she would repay him backe his five hundred Florines, to winne from him a larger portion of two or three thousand at the least, and having thus setled her determination, she sent to have him come speake with her. _Salabetto_, having bene soundly bitten before, and therefore the better warranted from the like ranckling teeth; willingly went to her, not shewing any signe of former discontent: & she, seeming as if she knew nothing of the wealth he brought with him; gracing him in as loving manner as ever she had done, thus she spake. I am sure _Salabetto_, you are angry with mee, because I restored not your Florines at my promised day. _Salabetto_ smiling, presently answered. Beleeve me Lady (quoth he) it did a little distast me, even as I could have bin offended with him, that should plucke out my heart to bestow it on you, if it would yeelde you any contentment. But to let you know unfainedly, how much I am incensed with anger against you: such and so great is the affection I beare you, that I have solde the better part of my whole estate, converting the same into Wealthy Merchandises, which I have alreadie brought hither with mee, and valewing above two thousand Florines, all which are stored up in in my _Magazine_. There must they remaine, till another Ship come forth of the Western parts, wherein I have a much greater adventure, amounting unto more then three thousand Florines. And my purpose is, to make my aboade heere in this City, which hath won the sole possession of my heart, onely in regard of my _Biancafiore_, to whom I am so intirely devoted, as both my selfe, and whatsoever else is mine (now or hereafter) is dedicated onely to her service; whereto thus she replyed. Now trust me _Salabetto_, whatsoever redoundeth to thy good and benefite, is the cheefest comfort of my soule, in regard I prize thy love dearer then mine owne life, and am most joyfull of thy returne hither againe; but much more of thy still abiding heere, because I intend to live onely with thee, so soone as I have taken order for some businesse of import. In the meane while, let me entreate thee to hold me excused, because before thy departure hence, thou camest sometimes to see me, without thy entrance admitted; and other-whiles againe, found not such friendly entertainement, as formerly had bene affoorded. But indeede, and above all the rest, in not re-paying thy money according to my promise. But consider good _Salabetto_, in what great trouble and affliction of minde I then was, both in regard of my Brothers danger, and other important occurrences beside, which molestations do much distract the senses, and hinder kinde courtesies, which otherwise would bee extended liberally. Last of all consider also, how difficult a thing it is for a woman, so sodainly to raise the summe of a thousand golden Florines, when one friend promiseth, and performeth not; another protesteth, yet hath no such meaning; a third sweareth, and yet proveth a false Lyar: so that by being thus ungently used, a breach is made betweene the best friends** living. From hence it proceeded, and no other defect else, that I made not due returne of your five hundred Florins. No sooner were you departed hence, but I had them readie, and as many more, and could I have knowne whither to send them, they had bene with you long time since, which because I could not (by any meanes) compasse, I kept them still for you in continuall readinesse, as hoping of your comming hither againe. So causing a purse to be brought, wherein the same Florines were, which hee had delivered her; she gave it into his hand, and prayed him to count them over, whether there were so many, or no. Never was _Salabettoes_ heart halfe so joyfull before; and having counted them, found them to be his owne five hundred Florines: then, putting them up into his pocket, he saide. Comfort of my life, Full well I know that whatsoever you have saide, is most certaine; but let us talke no more of falshood in friendship, or casuall accidents happening unexpected: you have dealt with mee like a most loyall Mistresse, and heere I protest unfainedly to you, that as well in respect of this kinde courtesie, as also the constancy of mine affection to you, you cannot request hereafter a far greater summe of me, to supply any necessarie occasion of yours; but (if my power can performe it) you shall assuredly finde it certaine: make proofe thereof whensoever you please, after my other goods are Landed, and I have established my estate here in your City. Having in this manner renewed his wonted amity with her, and with words farre enough off from all further meaning: _Salabetto_ began againe to frequent her company, she expressing all former familiarity, and shewing her selfe as lavishly bountifull to him, in all respects as before she had done, nay, many times in more magnificent manner. But he intending to punish her notorious trechery towards him, when she left him as an open scorne to the World, wounded with disgrace, and quite out of credit with all his friends: she having (on a day) solemnly invited him, to suppe and lodge in her house all night; he went, both with sad and melancholly lookes, seeming as overcome with extreamity of sorrow. _Biancafiore_ mervayling at this strange alteration in him, sweetly kissing and embracing him: would needs know the reason of his passionate affliction, & he permitting her to urge the question oftentimes together, without returning any direct answere; to quit her in her kind, and with coine of her owne stampe, after a few dissembled sighes, he began in this manner. Ah my dearest Love, I am utterly undone, because the Shippe containing the rest of mine expected Merchandises, is taken by the Pyrates of _Monago_, and put to the ransome of tenne thousand Florines of Gold, and my part particularly, is to pay one thousand. At this instant I am utterly destitute of money, because the five hundred Florines which I received of you, I sent hence the next daie day following to _Naples_, to buy more cloathes, which likewise are to be sent hither. And if I should now make sale of the Merchandizes in my Magazine (the time of generall utterance being not yet come) I shall not make a pennyworth for a penny. And my misfortune is the greater, because I am not so well knowne heere in your City, as to find some succour in such an important distresse; wherefore I know not what to do or say. Moreover, if the money be not speedily sent, our goods will be carried into _Monago_, and then they are past all redemption utterly. _Biancafiore_ appearing greatly discontented, as one verily perswaded, that this pretended losse was rather hers, then his, because she aymed at the mainest part of all his wealth: began to consider with her selfe, which was the likeliest course to be taken, for saving the goods from carriage to _Monago_: whereupon thus she replied. Heaven knoweth (my dearest _Salabetto_) how thy love maketh me sorrowfull for this misfortune, and it greeveth me to see thee any way distressed: for if I had mony lying by mee (as many times I have) thou shouldst finde succour from my selfe onely, but indeede I am not able to helpe thee. True it is, there is a friend of mine, who did lend me five hundred Florines in my need, to make uppe the other summe which I borrowed of thee: but he demandeth extreme interest, because he will not abate any thing of thirty in the hundred, and if you should bee forced to use him, you must give him some good security. Now for my part, the most of my goods here I will pawne for thee: but what pledge can you deliver in to make up the rest? Wel did _Salabetto_ conceive, the occasion why she urged this motion, and was so diligent in doing him such a pleasure: for it appeared evidently to him, that herselfe was to lend the mony, whereof he was not a little joyfull, seeming very thankfull to hir. Then he told her, that being driven to such extremity, how unreasonable soever the usury was, yet he would gladly pay for it. And for her Friends further security, hee would pawne him all the goods in his _Magazine_, entering them downe in the name of the party, who lent the money. Onely he desired to keepe the Keyes of the Ware-house, as well to shew his Merchandises, when any Merchant should bee so desirous: as also to preserve them from ill using, transporting or changing, before his redemption of them. She found no fault with his honest offer, but sayde, hee shewed himselfe a well-meaning man, and the next morning shee sent for a Broker, in whom she reposed especiall trust; and after they had privately consulted together, shee delivered him a thousand Golden Florines, which were caried by him presently to _Salabetto_, and the Bond made in the Brokers name, of all the goods remaining in _Salabettoes_ ware-house, with composition and absolute agreement, for the prefixed time of the monies repaiment. No sooner was this tricke fully accomplished, but _Salabetto_ seeming as if he went to redeeme his taken goods: set saile for _Naples_ towards _Pietro della Canigiano_, with fifteene hundred Florines of Gold: from whence also he sent contentment to his Master at _Florence_ (who imployd him as his Factor at _Palermo_) beside his owne packes of Cloathes. He made repayment likewise to _Canigiano_, for the monies which furnished him in this last voyage, and any other to whom hee was indebted. So there he stayed awhile with _Canigiano_, whose counsell thus holpe him to out-reach the _Sicillian_ Courtezane: and meaning to deale in Merchandise no more, afterward he returned to _Florence_ and there lived in good reputation. Now as concerning _Biancafiore_, when she saw that _Salabetto_ returned not againe to _Palermo_, she beganne to grow somewhat abashed, as halfe suspecting that which followed. After she had tarried for him above two moneths space, and perceived hee came not, nor any tydings heard of him: shee caused the Broker to breake open the Magazine, casting forth the Buttes or Barrels, which shee beleeved to bee full of good Oyles. But they were all filled with Sea-Water, each of them having a small quantity of Oyle floating on the toppe, onely to serve when a tryall should bee made. And then unbinding the Packes, made up in formall and Merchantable manner: there was nothing else in them, but Logges and stumpes of Trees; wrapt handsomely in hurdles of Hempe and Tow; onely two had Cloathes in them. So that (to bee briefe) the whole did not value two hundred Crownes: which when she saw, and observed how cunningly she was deceived: a long while after shee sorrowed, for repaying backe the five hundred Florines, and folly in lending a thousand more, using it as a Proverbe alwaies after to hir selfe: _That whosoever dealt with a Tuscane, had neede to have found sight and judgement._ So remaining contented (whither she would or no) with her losse: she plainly perceyved, that although she lived by cheating others, yet now at the length she had mette with her match. * * * * * So soone as _Dioneus_ had ended his Novell, Madame _Lauretta_ also knew, that the conclusion of her Regiment was come; whereupon, when the counsell of _Canigiano_ had past with generall commendation, and the wit of _Salabetto_ no lesse applauded, for fitting it with such an effectuall prosecution; shee tooke the Crowne of Laurell from her owne head, and set it upon Madame _�milliaes_, speaking graciously in this manner. Madam, I am not able to say, how pleasant a Queene we shall have of you, but sure I am, that we shall enjoy a faire one: let matters therefore be so honourably carried; that your government may be answerable to your beautifull perfections; which words were no sooner delivered, but she sate downe in her mounted seate. Madame _�millia_ being somewhat bashfull, not so much of hir being created Queene, as to heare her selfe thus publikely praysed, with that which Women do most of all desire: her face then appearing, like the opening of the Damaske Rose, in the goodlyest morning. But after she had a while dejected her lookes, and the Vermillion blush was vanished away: having taken order with the Master of the houshold, for all needefull occasions befitting the assembly, thus she began. Gracious Ladies, wee behold it daily, that those Oxen which have laboured in the yoake most part of the day, for their more convenient feeding, are let forth at liberty, and permitted to wander abroad in the Woods. We see moreover, that Gardens and Orchards, being planted with variety of the fairest fruit Trees, are equalled in beauty by Woods and Forrests, in the plentifull enjoying of as goodly spreading branches. In consideration whereof, remembring how many dayes wee have already spent (under the severitie of Lawes imposed) shaping all our discourses to a forme of observation: I am of opinion, that it will not onely well become us, but also prove beneficiall for us, to live no longer under such restraint, and like enthralled people, desirous of liberty, wee should no more be subjected to the yoke, but recover our former strength in walking freely. Wherefore, concerning our pastime purposed for to morrow, I am not minded to use any restriction, or tye you unto any particular ordination: but rather do liberally graunt, that every one shall devise and speake of arguments agreeing with your owne dispositions. Besides, I am verily perswaded, that variety of matter uttered so freely, will be much more delightfull, then restraint to one kinde of purpose onely. Which being thus granted by me, whosoever shall succeede me in the government may (as being of more power and preheminence) restraine all backe againe to the accustomed lawes. And having thus spoken, she dispensed with their any longer attendance, untill it should be Supper time. Every one commended the Queenes appointment, allowing it to rellish of good wit and judgement; and being all risen, fell to such exercises as they pleased. The Ladies made Nosegaies and Chaplets of Flowers, the men played on their Instruments, singing divers sweete Ditties to them, and thus were busied untill Supper time. Which beeing come, and they supping about the beautifull Fountains: after Supper, they fell to singing and dauncing. In the end, the Queene, to imitate the order of her predecessors, commanded _Pamphilus_, that notwithstanding all the excellent songs formerly sung: he should now sing one, whereunto dutifully obeying, thus he began. THE SONG. The Chorus sung by all. _Love, I found such felicitie, And joy, in thy captivitie: As I before did never prove, And thought me happy, being in Love._ _Comfort abounding in my hart, Joy and Delight In soule and spright I did possesse in every part; O Soveraigne Love by thee. Thy Sacred fires, Fed my desires, And still aspires, Thy happy thrall to bee. Love, I found such felicity, &c._ _My Song wants power to relate, The sweets of minde Which I did finde In that most blissefull state, O Soveraigne Love by thee. No sad despaire, Or killing care Could me prepare; Still thou didst comfort me. Love, I found such felicity, &c._ _I hate all such as do complaine, Blaspheming thee With Cruelty, And sleights of coy disdaine. O Soveraigne Love, to mee Thou hast bene kinde: If others finde. Thee worse inclinde, Yet I will honour thee._ _LOVE, I found such felicitie, And joy in thy Captivitie: As I before did never prove, But thought me happie, being in Love._ Thus the Song of _Pamphilus_ ended, whereto all the rest (as a Chorus) answered with their Voyces, yet every one particularly (according as they felt their Love-sicke passions) made a curious construction thereof, perhaps more then they needed, yet not Divining what _Pamphilus_ intended. And although they were transported with variety of imaginations; yet none of them could arrive** at his true meaning indeed. Wherefore the Queene, perceiving the Song to be fully ended, and the Ladies, as also the young Gentlemen, willing to go take their rest: she commaunded them severally to their Chambers. _The End of the Eight Day._ THE NINTH DAY. _Whereon, under the Government of Madame_ �MILLIA, _the Argument of each severall Discourse, is not limitted to any one peculiar subject: but every one remaineth at liberty, to speak of whatsoever themselves best pleaseth._ The Induction. Faire _Aurora_, from whose bright and chearefull lookes, the duskie darke night flyeth as an utter enemy, had already reached so high as the eight Heaven, converting it all into an Azure colour, and the pretty Flowrets beganne to spred open their Leaves: when Madame _�millia_, beeing risen, caused all her female attendants, and the yong Gentlemen likewise, to be summoned for their personall appearance. Who being all come, the Queen leading the way, and they following her Majesticke pace, walked into a little Wood, not farre off distant from the Palace. No sooner were they there arrived, but they beheld store of Wilde Beasts, as Hindes, Hares, Goats, and such like; so safely secured from the pursuite of Huntsmen (by reason of the violent Pestilence then reigning) that they stood gazing boldly at them, as dreadlesse of any danger, or as if they were become tame and Domesticke. Approaching neerer them, first to one, then unto another, as if they purposed to play gently with them, they then beganne to skippe and runne, making them such pastime with their pretty tripping, that they conceyved great delight in beholding of them. But when they beheld the Sunne to exalt itselfe, it was thought convenient to return back again, shrouding themselves under the Trees spreading armes, their hands full of sweete Flowers and Odorifferous Hearbes, which they had gathered in their Walking. So that such as chanced to meete them, could say nothing else: but that death knew not by what meanes to conquer them, or els they had set down an absolute determination, to kill him with their Joviall disposition. In this manner, singing, dancing, or prettily pratling, at length they arrived at the Palace, where they found all things readily prepared, and their Servants duly attending for them. After they hadde reposed themselves awhile, they would not (as yet) sit downe at the Table, untill they had sung halfe a dozen of Canzonets, some more pleasant then another, both the women and men together. Then they fell to washing hands, and the Maister of the Houshold caused them to sit downe, according as the Queene had appointed, and Dinner was most sumptuously served in before them. Afterward, when the Tables were with-drawne, they all tooke handes to dance a Roundelay; which being done, they plaied on their Instruments a while; and then, such as so pleased, tooke their rest. But when the accustomed houre was come, they all repaired to the place of discoursing, where the Queen, looking on Madam _Philomena_, gave her the honor of beginning the first Novell for that day: whereto shee dutifully condiscending, began as followeth. _Madam_ Francesca, _a Widdow of_ Pistoya, _being affected by two_ Florentine _Gentlemen, the one named_ Rinuccio Palermini, _and the other_ Alessandro Chiarmontesi, _and she bearing no good will to eyther of them; ingeniously freed her selfe from both their importunate suites. One of them she caused to lye as dead in a grave, and the other to fetch him from thence: so neither of them accomplishing what they were enjoyned, fayled of obtaining his hoped expectation._ The First Novell. _Approving, that chaste and honest Women, ought rather to deny importunate suiters, by subtile and ingenious meanes, then fall into the danger of scandall and slander._ Madame, it can no way discontent mee (seeing it is your most gracious pleasure) that I should have the honour, to breake the first staffe of freedome in this faire company (according to the injunction of your Majesty) for liberty of our own best liking arguments: wherein I dismay not (if I can speake well enough) but to please you all as well, as any other that is to follow me. Nor am I so oblivious (worthy Ladies) but full well I remember, that many times hath bene related in our passed demonstrations, how mighty and variable the powers of love are: and yet I cannot be perswaded, that they have all bene so sufficiently spoken of, but something may bee further added, and the bottome of them never dived into, although we should sit arguing a whole yeare together. And because it hath beene alreadie approved, that Lovers have bene led into divers accidents, not onely inevitable dangers of death, but also have entred into the verie houses of the dead, thence to convey their amorous friends: I purpose to acquaint you with a Novell, beside them which have bene discoursed; whereby you may not onely comprehend the power of Love, but also the wisedome used by an honest Gentlewoman, to rid her selfe of two importunate suiters, who loved her against her owne liking, yet neither of them knowing the others affection. In the City of _Pistoya_, there dwelt sometime a beautifull Gentlewoman, being a Widdow, whom two of our _Florentines_ (the one named _Rinuccio Palermini_, and the other _Alessandro Chiarmontesi_), having withdrawne themselves to _Pistoya_ desperately affected, the one ignorant of the others intention, but each carrying his case closely, as hoping to be possessed of her. This Gentlewoman, named Madame _Francesca de Lazzari_, being often solicited by their messages, and troublesomely pestered with their importunities: at last (lesse advisedly then she intended) shee granted admittance to heare either of them speake. Which she repenting, and coveting to be rid of them both, a matter not easie to be done: she wittily devised the onely meanes, namely, to move such a motion to them, as neither would willingly undertake, yet within the compasse of possibility; but they failing in the performance, shee might have the more honest occasion, to bee free from all further molestation by them, and her politike intention was thus projected. On the same day, when she devised this peece of service, a man was buried in _Pistoya_, and in the Church-yard belonging unto the gray Friars, who being descended of good and worthie parentage: yet himselfe was very infamous, and reputed to be the vilest man living, not onely there in _Pistoya_, but throughout the whole World beside. Moreover, while he lived, he had such a strange misshapen body, and his face so ugly deformed, that such as knew him not, would stand gastly affrighted at the first sight of him. In regarde whereof, shee considered with her selfe, that the foule deformitie of this loathed fellow, would greatly avayle in her determination, and consulting with her Chamber-maid, thus she spake. Thou knowest (my most true and faithfull servant) what trouble and affliction of minde I suffer dayly, by the messages and Letters of the two _Florentines, Rinuccio_ and _Alessandro,_ how hatefull their importunity is to me, as being utterly unwilling to hear them speake, or yeeld to any thing which they desire. Wherefore, to free my selfe from them both together, I have devised (in regard of their great and liberall offers) to make triall of them in such a matter, as I am assured they will never performe. It is not unknowne to thee, that in the Church-yard of the Gray Friars, and this instant morning, _Scannadio_ (for so was the ugly fellow named) was buried; of whom, when he was living, as also now being dead, both men, women, and children, doe yet stand in feare, so gastly and dreadfull alwayes was his personall appearance to them. Wherefore, first of all go thou to _Alessandro_, and say to him thus. My Mistris _Francesca_ hath sent me to you, to tell you, that now the time is come, wherein you may deserve to enjoy her love, and gaine the possession of her person, if you will accomplish such a motion as she maketh to you. For some especiall occasion, wherewith hereafter you shall bee better acquainted, a neere Kinsman of hers, must needs have the body of _Scannadio_ (who was buried this morning) brought to her house. And she, being as much affraid of him now he is dead, as when he was living, by no meanes would have his body brought thither. In which respect, as a Token of your unfeigned love to her, and the latest service you shall ever do for her: shee earnestly entreateth you, that this night, in the very deadest time thereof, you would go to the grave, where _Scannadio_ lyeth yet uncovered with earth untill to morrow, and attyring your selfe in his garments, even as if you were the man himselfe, so to remaine there untill her kinsman doe come. Then, without speaking any one word, let him take you foorth of the grave, & bring you thence (insted of _Scannadio_) to hir house: where she will give you gentle welcome, and disappoint her Kinsman in his hope, by making you Lord of her, and all that is hers, as afterward shall plainly appeare. If he say he will do it, it is as much as I desire: but if hee trifle and make deniall, then boldly tell him, that he must refraine all places wheresoever I am, and forbeare to send me any more Letters, or messages. Having done so, then repaire to _Rinuccio Palermini_, and say. My Mistresse _Francesca_ is ready to make acceptance of your love; provided, that you will do one thing for her sake. Namely, this ensuing night, in the midst & stillest season thereof, to go to the grave where _Scannadio_ was this morning buried, & (without making any noise) or speaking one word, whatsoever you shall heare or see: to take him forth of the grave, and bring him home to her house, where you shall know the reason of this strange businesse, and enjoy her freely as your owne for ever. But if he refuse to do it, then I commaund him, never hereafter to see me, or move further suite unto mee, by any meanes whatsoever. The Chamber-maide went to them both, and delivered the severall messages from her Mistresse, according as she had given her in charge; whereunto each of them answered, that they woulde (for her sake) not onely descend into a Grave, but also into hell, if it were her pleasure. She returning with this answer unto her Mistresse, _Francesca_ remained in expectation, what the issue of these fond attemptes in them, would sort unto. When night was come, and the middle houre thereof already past, _Alessandro Chiarmontesi_, having put off all other garments to his doublet and hose, departed secretly from his lodging, walking towards the Church-yard, where _Scannadio_ lay in his grave: but by the way as he went, hee became surprized with divers dreadfull conceites and imaginations, and questioned with himselfe thus. What a beast am I? What a businesse have I undertaken? And whither am I going? What do I know, but that the Kinsman unto this Woman, perhappes understanding mine affection to her, and crediting some such matter, as is nothing so; hath laide this politicke traine for me, that he may murther me in the grave? Which (if it should so happen) my life is lost, and yet the occasion never knowne whereby it was done. Or what know I, whether some secret enemy of mine (affecting her in like manner, as I do) have devised this stratagem (out of malice) against mee, to draw my life in danger, and further his owne good Fortune? Then, contrary motions, overswaying these suspitions, he questioned his thoughts in another nature. Let me (quoth he) admit the case, that none of these surmises are intended, but her Kinsman (by and in this manner devised) must bring me into her house: I am not therefore perswaded, that he or they do covet, to have the body of _Scannadio_, either to carry it thither, or present it to her, but rather do aime at some other end. May not I conjecture, that my close murthering is purposed, and this way acted, as on him that (in his life time) had offended them? The Maid hath straitly charged me, that whatsoever is said or done unto me, I am not to speake a word. What if they pul out mine eies, teare out my teeth, cut off my hands, or do me any other mischiefe: Where am I then? Shall all these extremities barre me of speaking? On the other side, if I speake, then I shall be knowne, and so much the sooner (perhaps) be abused. But admit that I sustaine no injurie at all, as being guilty of no transgression: yet (perchance) I shall not be carried to her house, but to some other baser place, and afterward she shall reprove me, that I did not accomplish what shee commanded, and so all my labour is utterly lost. Perplexed with these various contradicting opinions, he was willing divers times to turne home backe againe: yet such was the violence of his love, and the power thereof prevailing against all sinister arguments; as he went to the grave, and removing the boordes covering it, whereinto he entred; and having despoiled _Scannadio_ of his garments, cloathed himselfe with them, & so laid him down, having first covered the grave againe. Not long had hee tarryed there, but he began to bethinke him, what manner of man _Scannadio_ was, and what strange reports had bene noised of him, not onely for ransicking dead mens graves in the night season, but many other abhominable Villanies committed by him, which so fearfully assaulted him; that his haire stoode on end, every member of him quaked, and every minute he imagined _Scannadio_ rising, with intent to strangle him in the grave. But his fervent affection overcoming all these idle feares, and lying stone still, as if he had beene the dead man indeede; he remained to see the end of his hope. On the contrary side, after midnight was past, _Rinuccio Palermini_ departed from his lodging, to do what hee was enjoyned by his hearts Mistresse, and as hee went along, divers considerations also ran in his minde, concerning occasions possible to happen. As, falling into the hands of Justice, with the body of _Scannadio_ upon his backe, and being condemned for sacriledge, in robbing graves of the dead; either to be burned, or otherwise so punished, as might make him hatefull to his best friends, and meerely a shame to himselfe. Many other the like conceits molested him, sufficient to alter his former determination: but affection was much more prevayling in him, and made him use this consultation. How now _Rinuccio_? Wilt thou dare to deny the first request, being mooved to thee by a Gentlewoman, whom thou dearly lovest, and is the onely meanes, whereby to gaine assurance of her gracious favour? Undoubtedly, were I sure to die in the attempt, yet I will accomplish my promise. And so he went on with courage to the grave. _Alessandro_ hearing his arrivall, and also the removall of the bords, although he was exceedingly affraid; yet he lay quietly still, and stirred not, and _Rinuccio_ beeing in the grave, tooke _Alessandro_ by the feete, haling him forth, and (mounting him uppon his backe) went on thus loden, towards the house of Madam _Francesca_. As he passed along the streets, unseene or unmet by any, _Alessandro_ suffered many shrewd rushings and punches, by turnings at the streets corners, and jolting against bulkes, poasts, and stalles, which _Rinuccio_ could not avoyd, in regard the night was so wonderfully darke, as hee could not see which way he went. Being come somewhat neere to the Gentlewomans house, and she standing readie in the Window with her Maide, to see when _Rinuccio_ should arrive there with _Alessandro_, provided also of an apt excuse, to send them thence like a couple of Coxcombes; it fortuned, that the Watchmen, attending there in the same streete, for the apprehension of a banished man, stolne into the City contrarie to order; hearing the trampling of _Rinuccioes_ feete, directed their course as they heard the noise, having their Lanthorne and light closely covered, to see who it should be, and what he intended, and beating their weapons against the ground, demanded, Who goes there? _Rinuccio_ knowing their voyces, and that now was no time for any long deliberation: let fall _Alessandro_, and ran away as fast as his legs could carry him. _Alessandro_ being risen againe (although he was cloathed in _Scannadioes_ Garments, which were long and too bigge for him) fledde away also as _Rinuccio_ did. All which Madame _Francesca_ easily discerned by helpe of the Watchmens Lanthorne, and how _Rinuccio_ carried _Alessandro_ on his backe, beeing attired in the Garments of _Scannadio_: whereat she mervailed not a little, as also the great boldnesse of them both. But in the midst of her mervailing, she laughed very heartily, when she saw the one let the other fall, and both to runne away so manfully. Which accident pleasing her beyond all comparison, and applauding her good Fortune, to bee so happily delivered from their daily molestation: she betooke herselfe to hir Chamber with the Maide, avouching solemnly to her, that (questionlesse) they both affected her dearely, having undertaken such a straunge imposition, and verie neere brought it to a finall conclusion. _Rinuccio_, being sadly discontented, and curssing his hard fortune, would not yet returne home to his Lodging: but, when the watch was gone forth of that streete, came backe to the place where he let fall _Alessandro_, purposing to accomplish the rest of his enterprize. But not finding the body, and remaining fully perswaded, that the Watchmen were possessed thereof; hee went away, greeving extreamly. And _Alessandro_, not knowing now what should become of him: confounded with the like griefe and sorrow, that all his hope was thus utterly overthrowne, retired thence unto his owne house, not knowing who was the Porter which carried him. The next morning, the grave of _Scannadio_ being found open, & the body not in it, because _Alessandro_ had thrown it into a deep ditch neere adjoyning: all the people of _Pistoya_ were possessed with sundry opinions, some of the more foolish sort verily beleeving, that the divell had caried away the dead body. Neverthelesse, each of the Lovers, severally made knowne to Madam _Francesca_, what he had done, and how disappointed, either excusing himselfe, that though her command had not bin fully accomplished, yet to continue her favour towards him. But she, like a wise and discreet Gentlewoman, seeming not to credit either the one or other: discharged her selfe honestly of them both, with a cutting answere, That shee would never (afterward) expect any other service from them, because they had fayled in their first injunction. _Madame_ Usimbalda, _Lady Abbesse of a Monastery of Nuns in_ Lombardie, _arising hastily in the night time without a Candle, to take one of her Daughter Nunnes in bed with a yong Gentleman, whereof she was enviously accused, by certaine of her other Sisters: The Abbesse her selfe (being at the same time in bed with a Priest) imagining to have put on her head her plaited vayle, put on the Priests breeches. Which when the poore Nunne perceyved; by causing the Abbesse to see her owne error, she got her selfe to be absolved, and had the freer liberty afterward, to be more familiar with her frend, then formerly she had bin._ The Second Novell. _Whereby is declared, that whosoever is desirous to reprehend sinne in other men, should first examine himselfe, that he be not guiltie of the same crime._ By this time, Madame _Philomena_ sate silent, and the wit of _Francesca_, in freeing her selfe from them whom she could not fancie, was generally commended: as also on the contrary, the bold presumption of the two amorous suiters, was reputed not to be love, but meerely folly. And then the Queene, with a gracious admonition, gave way for Madam Eliza to follow next; who presently thus began. Worthy Ladies, Madame _Francesca_ delivered her selfe discreetly from trouble, as already hath bin related: but a yong Nun, by the helpe and favour of Fortune, did also free her selfe (in speaking advisedly) from an inconvenience sodainly falling on her. And as you well know, there wants none of them, who (like bold Bayards) will be very forward in checking other mens misdemeanours, when themselves, as my Novell will approve, deserve more justly to bee corrected. As hapned to a Lady Abbesse, under whose governement the same young Nunne was, of whom I am now to speake. You are then to understand (Gracious Auditors) that in _Lombardie_ there was a goodly Monastery, very famous for Holinesse and Religion, where, among other sanctified Sisters, there was a yong Gentlewoman, endued with very singular beautie, being named _Isabella_, who on a day, when a Kinsman of hers came to see her at the grate, became enamored of a young Gentleman, being then in his company. He likewise, beholding her to be so admirably beautifull, & conceyving by the pretty glances of her eye, that they appeared to bee silent intelligencers of the hearts meaning, grew also as affectionately inclined towards her, and this mutuall love continued thus concealed a long while, but not without great affliction unto them both. In the end, either of them being circumspect and provident enough, the Gentleman contrived a meanes, whereby he might secretly visite his Nunne, wherewith she seemed no way discontented: and this visitation was not for once or twice, but verie often, and closely concealed to themselves. At length it came to passe, that either through their owne indiscreete carriage, or jelous suspition in some others: it was espied by one of the Sisters, both the Gentlemans comming and departing, yet unknowne to him or _Isabella_. The saide Sister, disclosing the same to two or three more: they agreed together, to reveale it to the Lady Abbesse, who was named Madame _Usimbalda_, a holy and devout Lady, in common opinion of all the Nunnes, and whosoever else knew her. They further concluded (because _Isabella_ should not deny theyr accusation) to contrive the businesse so cunningly: that the Ladie Abbesse should come her selfe in person, and take the yong Gentleman in bed with the Nun. And uppon this determination, they agreed to watch nightly by turnes, because by no meanes they wold be prevented: so to surprise poore _Isabella_, who beeing ignorant of their treachery, suspected nothing. Presuming thus still on this secret felicitie, and fearing no disaster to befall her: it chaunced (on a night) that the yong Gentleman being entred into the Nuns Dorter, the Scowts had descried him, & intended to be revenged on her. After some part of the night was overpast, they divided themselves into two bands, one to guard _Isabellaes_ Dorter doore, the other to carry newes to the Abbesse, and knocking at her Closet doore, saide. Rise quickely Madame, and use all the hast you may, for we have seene a man enter our Sister _Isabellaes_ Dorter, and you may take her in bed with him. The Lady Abbesse, who (the very same night) had the company of a lusty Priest in bed with her selfe, as oftentimes before she had, and he being alwayes brought thither in a Chest: hearing these tidings, and fearing also, lest the Nunnes hastie knocking at her doore, might cause it to fly open, and so (by their entrance) have her owne shame discovered: arose very hastily, and thinking she had put on her plaited vaile, which alwayes she walked with in the night season, and used to tearme her Psalter; she put the Priests breeches upon her head, and so went away in all hast with them, supposing them verily to be her Psalter: but making fast the Closet doore with her keye, because the Priest should not be discovered. Away shee went in all haste with the Sisters, who were so forward in the detection of poore _Isabella_, as they never regarded what manner of vaile the Lady Abbesse wore on her head. And being come to the Dorter doore, quickly they lifted it off from the hookes, and being entred, found the two Lovers sweetly imbracing: but yet so amazed at this sudden surprisall, as they durst not stirre, nor speake one word. The young Nunne _Isabella_, was raised forthwith by the other Sisters, and according as the Abbesse had commaunded, was brought by them into the Chapter-house: the young Gentleman remaining still in the Chamber, where he put on his garments, awaiting to see the issue of this businesse, and verily intending to act severe revenge on his betrayers, if any harme were done to _Isabella_, and afterward to take her thence away with him, as meaning to make her amends by marriage. The Abbesse being seated in the Chapter house, and all the other Nunnes then called before her, who minded nothing else but the poore offending Sister: she began to give her very harsh and vile speeches, as never any transgressor suffered the like, and as to her who had (if it should be openly knowne abroad) contaminated by her lewde life and actions, the sanctity and good renowne of the whole Monastery, and threatned her with very severe chastisement. Poore _Isabella_, confounded with feare and shame, as being no way able to excuse her fault, knew not what answer to make, but standing silent, made her case compassionable to all the rest, even those hard-hearted Sisters which betrayed her. And the Abbesse still continuing her harsh speeches, it fortuned, that _Isabella_, raising her head, which before she dejected into hir bosome, espied the breeches on her head, with the stockings hanging on either side of her; the sight whereof did so much encourage her, that boldly she said. Madam, let a poore offender advise you for to mend your veile, and afterward say to me what you will. The Abbesse being very angry; and not understanding what she meant, frowningly answered. Why how now saucy companion? What vaile are you prating of? Are you so malapert, to bee chatting already? Is the deed you have done, to be answered in such immodest manner? _Isabella_ not a jot danted by her sterne behaviour, once againe said. Good Madam let me perswade you to sette your vaile right, and then chide me as long as you will. At these words, all the rest of the Nunnes exalted their lookes, to behold what vaile the Abbesse wore on her head, wherewith _Isabella_ should finde such fault, and she her selfe lift up her hand to feele it: and then they all perceyved plainly, the reason of _Isabellas_ speeches, and the Abbesse saw her owne error. Hereupon, when the rest observed, that she had no help to cloud this palpable shame withall, the tide began to turne, and hir tongue found another manner of Language, then her former fury to poore _Isabella_, growing to this conclusion, that it is impossible to resist against the temptations of the flesh. And therefore she saide: Let all of you take occasion, according as it offereth it selfe, as both we and our predecessors have done: to be provident for your selves, take time while you may, having this sentence alwaies in remembrance, _Si non caste, tamen caute_. So, having granted the yong Nunne _Isabella_ free absolution: the Lady Abbesse returned backe againe to bed to the Priest, and _Isabella_ to the Gentleman. As for the other Sisters, who (as yet) were without the benefit of friends; they intended to provide themselves so soone as they could, being enduced thereto by so good example. _Master_ Simon _the Physitian, by the perswasions of_ Bruno, Buffalmaco, _and a third Companion, named_ Nello, _made_ Calandrino _to beleeve, that he was conceived great with childe. And having Physicke ministred to him for the disease: they got both good fatte Capons and money of him, and so cured him, without any other manner of deliverance._ The Third Novell. _Discovering the simplicity of some silly witted men, and how easie a matter it is to abuse and beguile them._ After that Madame _Eliza_ had concluded her Novell, and every one of the company given thankes to Fortune, for delivering poore _Isabella_ the faire young Nunne, from the bitter reprehensions of the as faulty Abbesse, as also the malice of her envious Sisters: the Queene gave command unto _Philostratus_, that he should be the next in order, and hee (without expecting anie other warning) began in this manner. Faire Ladies, the paltry Judge of the Marquisate, whereof yesterday I made relation to you; hindred mee then of another Novell, concerning silly _Calandrino_, wherewith I purpose now to acquaint you. And because whatsoever hath already bin spoken of him, tended to no other end but matter of meriment, hee and his companions duly considered: the Novel which I shall now report, keepeth within the selfesame compasse, and aimeth also at your contentment, according to the scope of imposed variety. You have already heard what manner of man _Calandrino_ was, and likewise the rest of his pleasant Companions, who likewise are now againe to be remembred, because they are actors in our present discourse. It came so to passe, that an Aunt of _Calandrinoes_ dying, left him a legacy of two hundred Florines, wherewith he purposed to purchase some small Farme-house in the countrey, or else to enlarge the other, whereof he was possessed already. And, as if hee were to disburse some ten thousand Florines, there was not a Broker in all _Florence_, but understood what he intended to doe; and all the worst was, that the strings of his purse could stretch no higher. _Bruno_, and _Buffalmaco_ (his auncient Confederates) who heard of this good Fortune befalne him, advised him in such manner as they were wont to do; allowing it much better for him, to make merrie with the money in good cheare among them, then to lay it out in paltry Land, whereto he would not by any meanes listen, but ridde himselfe of them with a dinners cost, as loath to bee at anie further charge with them. These merry Laddes meant not to leave him so; but sitting one day in serious consultation, and a third man in their companie, named _Nello_; they all three layde their braines in steep, by what means to wash their mouths well, and _Calandrino_ to bee at the cost thereof. And having resolved what was to bee done, they met togither the next morning, even as _Calandrino_ was comming foorth of his house, and sundering themselves, to avoyd all suspition, yet beeing not farre distant each from other; _Nello_ first met him, and saide unto him, Good Morrow _Calandrino_: which he requited backe agayne with the same salutation. But then _Nello_ standing still, looked him stedfastly in the face: whereat _Calandrino_ mervailing, sayd: _Nello_, why dost thou behold me so advisedly? Whereunto _Nello_ answered, saying Hast thou felt any paine this last night past? Thou lookest nothing so well, as thou didst yesterday. _Calandrino_ began instantly to wax doubtfull, and replyed thus. Dost thou see any alteration in my face, whereby to imagine, I should feele some paine? In good faith _Calandrino_ (quoth _Nello_) me thinks thy countenance is strangely changed, and surely it proceedeth from some great cause, and so he departed away from him. _Calandrino_ being very mistrustfull, scratched his head, yet felte he no grievance at all; and going still on; _Buffalmaco_ sodainely encountred him, upon his departure from _Nello_, and after salutations passing betweene them; in a manner of admiration, demanded what he ayled. Truly (quoth _Calandrino_) well enough to mine owne thinking, yet notwithstanding, I met with _Nello_ but even now; and he told me, that my countenance was very much altred; Is it possible that I should bee sicke, and feele no paine or distaste in any part of me? _Buffalmaco_ answered; I am not so skilfull in judgement, as to argue on the Nature of distemper in the body: but sure I am, that thou hast some daungerous inward impediment, because thou lookst (almost) like a man more then halfe dead. _Calandrino_ began presently to shake, as if hee had had a Feaver hanging on him, and then came _Bruno_ looking fearefully on him, and before he would utter any words, seemed greatly to bemoane him, saying at length. _Calandrino_? Art thou the same man, or no? How wonderfully art thou changed since last I saw thee, which is no longer then yester day? I pray thee tell mee, How dooest thou feele thy health? _Calandrino_ hearing, that they all agreed in one opinion of him; he beganne verily to perswade himselfe, that some sodaine sicknes, had seised upon him, which they could discerne, although hee felt no anguish at all: and therefore, like a man much perplexed in minde, demanded of them, What he should do? Beleeve mee _Calandrino_ (answered _Bruno_) if I were worthy to give thee counsell, thou shouldst returne home presently to thy house, and lay thee downe in thy warme Bedde, covered with so many cloathes as thou canst well endure. Then to Morrow morning, send thy Water unto Learned Mayster Doctor the Physitian, who (as thou knowest) is a man of most singular skill and experience: he will instruct thee presently what is the best course to be taken, and we that have ever beene thy loving friends, will not faile thee in any thing that lieth in our power. By this time, _Nello_ being come againe unto them, they all returned home with _Calandrino_ unto his owne house, whereinto he entering very faintly, hee saide to his Wife: Woman, make my Bed presently ready, for I feele my selfe to be growne extreamely sicke, and see that thou layest cloathes enow upon me. Being thus laide in his Bedde, they left him for that night, and returned to visite him againe the verie next morning, by which time, he had made a reservation of his Water, and sent it by a young Damosell unto Maister Doctor, who dwelt then in the olde market place, at the signe of the Muske Mellone. Then saide _Bruno_ unto his Companions; Abide you heere to keepe him company, and I will walke along to the Physitian, to understand what he will say: and if neede be, I can procure him to come hither with me. _Calandrino_ very kindely accepted his offer, saying withall. Well _Bruno_, thou shewst thy selfe a friend in the time of necessity, I pray thee know of him, how the case stands with me, for I feele a very strange alteration within mee, far beyond all compasse of my conceite. _Bruno_ being gone to the Physitian, he made such expedition, that he arrived there before the Damosell, who carried the Water, and informed Master _Simon_ with the whole tricke intended: wherefore, when the Damosell was come, and hee had passed his judgement concerning the water, he said to her. Maide, go home againe, and tell _Calandrino_, that he must keepe himselfe very warme: and I my selfe will instantly be with him, to enstruct him further in the quality of his sicknesse. The Damosell delivered her message accordingly, and it was not long before Mayster Doctor _Simon_ came, with _Bruno_ also in his company, and sitting downe on the beds side by _Calandrino_, hee began to taste his pulse, and within a small while after, his Wife being come into the Chamber, he said. Observe me well _Calandrino_, for I speake to thee in the nature of a true friend; thou hast no other disease, but only thou art great with child. So soone as _Calandrino_ heard these words, in dispairing manner he beganne to rage, and cry out aloud, saying to his wife. Ah thou wicked woman, this is long of thee, and thou hast done me this mischeefe: for alwayes thou wilt be upon me, ever railing at mee, and fighting, untill thou hast gotten me under thee. Say thou divellish creature, do I not tell thee true? The Woman, being of verie honest and civill conversation, hearing her husband speake so foolishly: blushing with shame, and hanging downe her head in bashfull manner; without returning any answer, went forth of her Chamber. _Calandrino_ continuing still in his angry humour, wringing his hands, and beating them upon his brest, said: Wretched man that I am, What shall I do? How shall I be delivered of this child? Which way can it come from me into the world? I plainly perceyve, that I am none other then a dead man, and all through the wickednesse of my Wife: heaven plague her with as many mischiefes, as I am desirous to finde ease. Were I now in as good health, as heeretofore I have beene, I would rise out of my bed, and never cease beating her, untill I had broken her in a thousand peeces. But if Fortune will be so favourable to me, as to helpe mee out of this dangerous agony: hang me, if ever she get me under her againe, or make me such an Asse, in having the mastery over mee, as divers times she hath done. _Bruno, Buffalmaco_ and _Nello_, hearing these raving speeches of _Calandrino_, were swolne so bigge with laughter, as if their ribbes would have burst in sunder; neverthelesse, they abstained so well as they were able; but Doctor _Simon_ gaped so wide with laughing as one might easily have pluckt out all his teeth. In the end, because he could tarry there no longer, but was preparing to depart: _Calandrino_ thanked him for his paines, requesting that hee would be carefull of him, in aiding him with his best advise and counsell, and he would not be unmindfull of him. Honest neighbour _Calandrino_, answered the Phisition, I would not have you to torment your selfe, in such an impatient and tempestuous manner, because I perceive the time so to hasten on, as we shall soone perceive (and that within very few dayes space) your health well restored, and without the sense of much paine; but indeed it will cost expences. Alas Sir, said _Calandrino_, mak not any spare of my purse, to procure that I may have safe deliverance. I have two hundred Florines, lately falne to me by the death of mine Aunt, wherewith I intended to purchase a Farme in the Countrey: take them all if need be, onely reserving some few for my lying in Childbed. And then Master Doctor, Alas, I know not how to behave my selfe, for I have heard the grievous complaint of women in that case, oppressed with bitter pangs and throwes; as questionlesse they will bee my death, except you have the greater care of me. Be of good cheere neighbour _Calandrino_, replyed Doctor _Simon_, I will provide an excellent distilled drinke for you, marvellously pleasing in taste, and of soveraigne vertue, which will resolve all in three mornings, making you as whole and as sound as a Fish newly spawned. But you must have an especiall care afterward, being providently wise, least you fall into the like follies againe. Concerning the preparation of this precious drinke, halfe a dozen of Capons, the very fairest and fattest, I must make use of in the distillation: what other things shall bee imployed beside, you may deliver forty Florines to one of these your honest friends, to see all the necessaries bought, and sent me home to my house. Concerning my businesse, make you no doubt thereof, for I will have all distilled against to morrow, and then doe you drinke a great Glasse full every morning, fresh and fasting next your heart. _Calandrino_ was highly pleased with his words, returning master Doctor infinite thankes, and referring all to his disposing. And having given forty Florines to _Bruno_, with other money beside, to buy the halfe dozen of Capons: he thought himselfe greatly beholding to them all, and protested to requite their kindenesse. Master Doctor being gone home to his house, made ready a bottel of very excellent Hypocrasse, which he sent the next day according to his promise: and _Bruno_ having bought the Capons, with other junkets, fit for the turne, the Phisitian and his merry Companions, fed on them hartely for the givers sake. As for _Calandrino_, he liked his dyet drinke excellently well, quaffing a large Glassefull off three mornings together: afterward Master Doctor and the rest came to see him, and having felt his pulse, the Phisition said. _Calandrino_, thou art now as sound in health, as any man in all _Florence_ can be: thou needest not to keepe within doores any longer, but walke abroad boldly, for all is well and the childe gone. _Calandrino_ arose like a joyfull man, and walked daily through the streets, in the performance of such affaires as belonged to him: and every acquaintance he met withall, he told the condition of his sudden sickenesse; and what a rare cure Master Doctor _Simon_ had wrought on him, delivering him (in three dayes space) of a childe, and without the feeling of any paine. _Bruno, Buffalmaco,_ and _Nello,_ were not a little jocond, for meeting so well with covetous _Calandrino_: but how the Wife liked the folly of her Husband, I leave to the judgement of all good Women. Francesco Fortarigo, _played away all that he had at_ Buonconvento, _and likewise the money of_ Francesco Aniolliero, _being his Master. Then running after him in his shirt, and avouching that hee had robbed him: he caused him to be taken by Pezants of the Country, clothed himselfe in his Masters wearing garments, and (mounted on his horse) rode thence to_ Sienna, _leaving_ Aniolliero _in his shirt, and walked bare-footed._ The fourth Novell. _Serving as an admonition to all men, for taking Gamesters and Drunkards into their service._ The ridiculous words given by _Calandrino_ to his Wife, all the whole company hartily laughed at: but _Philostratus_ ceassing, Madame _Neiphila_ (as it pleased the Queene to appoint) began to speake thus. Vertuous Ladies, if it were not more hard and uneasie for men, to make good their understanding and vertue, then apparant publication of their disgrace and folly; many would not labour in vaine, to curbe in their idle speeches with a bridle, as you have manifestly observed by the weake wit of _Calandrino_. Who needed no such fantastick circumstance, to cure the strange disease, which he imagined (by sottish perswasions) to have: had hee not been so lavish of his tongue, and accused his Wife of over-mastering him. Which maketh me remember a Novell, quite contrary to this last related, namely, how one man may strive to surmount another in malice; yet he to sustaine the greater harme, that had (at the first) the most advantage of his enemy, as I will presently declare unto you. There dwelt in _Sienna_, and not many yeeres since, two young men of equall age, both of them bearing the name of _Francesco_: but the one was descended of the _Aniollieri_, and the other likewise of the _Fortarigi_; so that they were commonly called _Aniolliero_, and _Fortarigo_, both Gentlemen, and well derived. Now, although in many other matters, their complexions did differ very much: Yet notwithstanding, they varied not in one bad qualitie, namely too great neglect of their Fathers, which caused their more frequent conversation, as very familiar and respective friends. But _Aniolliero_ (being a very goodly and faire conditioned young Gentleman) apparently perceiving, that he could not maintaine himselfe at _Sienna_, in such estate as he liked, and upon the pension allowed him by his Father, hearing also, that at the Marquisate of _Ancona_, there lived the Popes Legate, a worthy Cardinall, his much indeared good Lord and friend: he intended to goe visite him, as hoping to advance his fortunes by him. Having acquainted his Father with this determination, he concluded with him, to have that from him in a moment which might supply his wants for many moneths, because he would be clothed gallantly, and mounted honourably. And seeking for a servant necessary to attend on him, it chanced that _Fortarigo_ hearing thereof, came presently to _Aniolliero_, intreating him in the best manner he could, to let him waite on him as his serving man, promising both dutifull and diligent attendance: yet not to demaund any other wages, but onely payment of his ordinary expences. _Aniolliero_ made him answere, that he durst not give him entertainment, not in regard of his insufficiency, and unaptnesse for service: but because he was a great Gamester, and divers times would be beastly drunke? whereto _Fortarigo_ replyed that hee would refraine from both those foule vices, and addict all his endeavour wholly to please him, without just taxation of any grosse errour; making such solemne vowes and protestations beside, as conquered _Aniolliero_, and won his consent. Being entred upon his journey, and arriving in a morning at _Buonconvento_, there _Aniolliero_ determined to dine, and afterward, finding the heate to be unfit for travaile; he caused a bed to be prepared, wherein being laid to rest by the helpe of _Fortarigo_, he gave him charge, that after the heates violence was overpast, hee should not faile to call and awake him. While _Aniolliero_ slept thus in his bed, _Fortarigo_, never remembring his solemne vowes and promises: went to the Taverne, where having drunke indifferently, and finding company fit for the purpose, he fell to play at the dice with them. In a very short while, he had not onely lost his money, but all the cloathes on his backe likewise, and coveting to recover his losses againe; naked in his shirt, he went to _Aniollieroes_ Chamber, where finding him yet soundly sleeping, he tooke all the money he had in his purse, and then returned backe to play, speeding in the same manner as hee did before, not having one poore penny left him. _Aniolliero_ chancing to awake, arose and made him ready, without any servant to helpe him; then calling for _Fortarigo_, and not hearing any tydings of him: he began immediately to imagine, that he was become drunke, and so had falne asleepe in one place or other, as very often he was wont to doe. Wherefore, determining so to leave him, he caused the male and Saddle to be set on his horse; & so to furnish himselfe with a more honest servant at _Corsignano_. But when hee came to pay his hoste, hee found not any penny left him: whereupon (as well he might) he grew greatly offended, and raised much trouble in the house, charged the hoasts people to have robde him, and threatening to have them sent as prisoners to _Sienna_. Suddenly entred _Fortarigo_ in his shirt, with intent to have stolne _Aniollieroes_ garments, as formerly hee did the money out of his purse, and seeing him ready to mount on horsebacke, hee saide. How now _Aniolliero_? What shall we goe away so soone? I pray you Sir tarry a little while, for an honest man is comming hither, who hath my Doublet engaged for eight and thirty shillings; and I am sure that he will restore it me back for five and thirty, if I could presently pay him downe the money. During the speeches, an other entred among them, who assured _Aniolliero_, that _Fortarigo_ was the Thiefe which robde him of his money, shewing him also how much hee had lost at the Dice: Wherewith _Aniolliero_ being much mooved, very angerly reprooved _Fortarigo_, and, but for feare of the Law, would have offered him outrage, thretning to have him hangd by the neck, or else condemned to the Gallies belonging to _Florence_, and so mounted on his horse. _Fortarigo_ making shew to the standers by, as if _Aniolliero_ menaced some other body, and not him, said. Come _Aniolliero_, I pray thee let us leave this frivilous prating, for (indeede) it is not worth a Button, and minde a matter of more importance: my Doublet will bee had againe for five and thirty shillings, if the money may bee tendered downe at this very instant, whereas if we deferre it till to morrow, perhaps hee will then have the whole eight and thirty which he lent me, and he doth me this pleasure, because I am ready (at another time) to affoord him the like courtesie; why then should we loose three shillings, when they may so easily be saved. _Aniolliero_ hearing him speake in such confused manner, and perceiving also, that they which stood gazing by, beleeved (as by their lookes appeared) that _Fortarigo_ had not played away his Masters mony at the Dice, but rather that he had some stocke of _Fortarigoes_ in his custody; angerly answered; Thou sawcy companion, what have I to doe with thy Doublet? I would thou wert hangd, not only for playing away my money, but also by delaying thus my journey, and yet boldly thou standest out-facing mee, as if I were no better then thy fellow. _Fortarigo_ held on still his former behaviour, without using any respect or reverence to _Aniolliero_, as if all the accusations did not concerne him, but saying, Why should wee not take the advantage of three shillings profit? Thinkest thou, that I am not able to doe as much for thee? why, lay out so much money for my sake, and make no more haste then needs we must, because we have day-light enough to bring us (before night) to _Torreniero_. Come, draw thy purse, and pay the money, for upon mine honest word, I may enquire throughout all _Sienna_, and yet not find such another Doublet as this of mine is. To say then, that I should leave it, where it now lyeth pawned, and for eight and thirty shillings, when it is richly more worth then fifty, I am sure to suffer a double endammagement thereby. You may well imagine, that _Aniolliero_ was now enraged beyond all patience, to see himselfe both robde of his money, and overborne with presumptuous language: wherefore, without making any more replications, he gave the spurre to his horse, and rode away towards _Torreniero_. Now fell _Fortarigo_ into a more knavish intention against _Aniolliero_, and being very speedy in running, followed apace after him in his shirt, crying out still aloude to him all the way, to let him have his Doublet againe. _Aniolliero_ riding on very fast, to free his eares from this idle importunity, it fortuned that _Fortarigo_ espied divers countrey Pezants, labouring in the fields about their businesse, and by whom _Aniolliero_ (of necessity) must passe: To them he cryed out so loude as he could; Stay the Thiefe, Stop the Thiefe, he rides away so fast, having robde me. They being provided, some with Prongges, Pitchforkes and Spades, and others with the like weapons fit for Husbandry, stept into the way before _Aniolliero_: and beleeving undoubtedly, that he had robde the man which pursued him in his shirt, stayed and apprehended him. Whatsoever _Aniolliero_ could doe or say, prevailed not any thing with the unmannerly Clownes, but when _Fortarigo_ was arrived among them, he braved _Aniolliero_ most impudently, saying. What reason have I to spoile thy life (thou traiterous Villaine) to rob and spoyle thy Master thus on the high way? Then turning to the Countrey Boores: How much deare friends (quoth he) am I beholding to you for this unexpected kindnesse? You behold in what manner he left me in my Lodging, having first playd away all my money at the Dice, and then deceiving me of my horse and garments also: but had not you (by great good lucke) thus holpe mee to stay him; a poore Gentleman had bin undone for ever, and I should never have found him againe. _Aniolliero_ avouched the truth of his wrong received, but the base peazants, giving credite onely to _Fortarigoes_ lying exclamations: tooke him from his horse, despoyled him of all his wearing apparrell, even to the very Bootes from off his Legges: suffered him to ride away from him in that manner, and _Aniolliero_ left so in his shirt, to dance a bare-foote Galliard after him, either towards _Sienna_, or any place else. Thus _Aniolliero_, purposing to visite his Cousin the Cardinal like a Gallant, and at the Marquisate of _Ancona_, returned backe poorly in his shirt unto _Buonconvento_, and durst not (for shame) repaire to _Sienna_. In the end, he borrowed money on the other horse which _Fortarigo_ rode on, and remained there in the Inne, whence riding to _Corsignano_, where he had divers Kinsmen and Friends, he continued there so long with them, till he was better furnished from his Father. Thus you may perceive, that the cunning Villanies of _Fortarigo_, hindred the honest intended enterprise of _Aniolliero_, howbeit in fit time and place, nothing afterward was left unpunished. Calandrino _became extraordinarily enamoured of a young Damosell, named_ Nicholetta. Bruno _prepared a Charme or writing for him, avouching constantly to him, that so soone as he touched the Damosell therewith, she should follow him whithersoever hee would have her. She being gone to an appointed place with him, hee was found there by his wife, and dealt withall according to his deserving._ The fift Novell. _In just reprehension of those vaine-headed fooles, that are led and governed by idle perswasions._ Because the Novell reported by Madame _Neiphila_ was so soone concluded, without much laughter, or commendation of the whole Company: the Queene turned hir selfe towards Madam _Fiammetta_, enjoyning her to succeed in apt order; & she being as ready as sodainly commanded, began as followeth. Most gentle Ladies, I am perswaded of your opinion in judgement with mine, that there is not any thing, which can bee spoken pleasingly, except it be conveniently suited with apt time and place: in which respect, when Ladies and Gentlewomen are bent to discoursing, the due election of them both are necessarily required. And therefore I am not unmindfull, that our meeting heere (ayming at nothing more, then to out-weare the time with our generall contentment) should tye us to the course of our pleasure and recreation, to the same conveniency of time and place, not sparing, though some have bin nominated oftentimes in our passed arguments; yet, if occasion serve, and the nature of variety be well considered, wee may speake of the selfsame persons againe. Now, notwithstanding the actions of _Calandrino_ have been indifferently canvazed among us; yet, remembring what _Philostratus_ not long since saide, That they intended to nothing more then matter of mirth: I presume the boldlier, to report another Novell of him, beside them already past. And, were I willing to conceale the truth, and cloath it in more circumstantiall manner: I could make use of contrary names, and paint it in a poeticall fiction, perhaps more probable, though not so pleasing. But because wandring from the truth of things, doth much diminish (in relation) the delight of the hearers: I will build boldly on my fore-alledged reason, and tel you truly how it hapned. _Niccholao Cornocchini_ was once a Citizen of ours, and a man of great wealth; who, among other his rich possessions in _Camerata_, builded there a very goodly house, which being perfected ready for painting: he compounded with _Bruno_ and _Buffalmaco_, who because** their worke required more helpe then their owne, they drew _Nello_ and _Calandrino_ into their association, and began to proceed in their businesse. And because there was a Chamber or two, having olde moveables in them, as Bedding, Tables, and other Houshold stuffe beside, which were in the custody of an old Woman that kepte the house, without the helpe of any other servants else, a Son unto the saide _Niccholao_, beeing named _Phillippo_, resorted thither divers times, with one or other prety Damosell in his company (in regard he was unmarried) where he would abide a day or two with her, & then convey her home againe. At one time among the rest, it chanced that he brought a Damosell thither named _Nicholetta_, who was maintained by a wily companion, called _Magione_, in a dwelling which hee had at _Camaldoli_, and (indeed) no honester then she should be. She was a very beautifull young woman, wearing garments of great value, and (according to her quality) well spoken, and of commendable carriage. Comming forth of her Chamber one day, covered with a White veyle, because her haire hung loose about her, which shee went to wash at a Well in the middle Court, bathing there also her face and hands: _Calandrino_ going (by chance) to the same Well for water, gave her a secret salutation. She kindly returning the like courtesie to him, began to observe him advisedly: more, because he looked like a man newly come thither, then any handsomnesse she perceyved in him. _Calandrino_ threw wanton glances at her, and seeing she was both faire and lovely, began to finde some occasion of tarrying, so that he returned not with water to his other associates, yet neither knowing her, or daring to deliver one word. She, who was not to learn her lesson in alluring, noting what affectionate regards (with bashfulnesse) he gave her: answered him more boldly with the like; but meerly in scorning manner, breathing forth divers dissembled sighs among them: so that _Calandrino_ became foolishly inveigled with her love, and would not depart out of the Court, untill _Phillippo_, standing above in his Chamber window called her thence. When _Calandrino_ was returned backe to his businesse, he could do nothing else, but shake the head, sigh, puffe, and blowe, which being observed by _Bruno_ (who alwayes fitted him according to his folly, as making a meer mockery of his very best behaviour) sodainly he said. Why how now _Calandrino_? Sigh, puff, and blow man? What may be the reason of these unwonted qualities? _Calandrino_ immediately answered, saying: My friendly Companion _Bruno_, if I had one to lend me a little helpe, I should very quickely become well enough. How? quoth _Bruno_, doth any thing offend thee, and wilt thou not reveale it to thy friends? Deare _Bruno_, said _Calandrino_, there is a proper handsome woman here in the house, the goodliest creature that every any eye beheld, much fairer then the Queen of Fairies her selfe, who is so deeply falne in love with mee, as thou wouldst thinke it no lesse then a wonder; and yet I never sawe her before, till yet while when I was sent to fetch water. A very strange case, answered _Bruno_, take heede _Calandrino_, that shee bee not the lovely friend to _Phillippo_, our yong Master, for then it may prove a dangerous matter. _Calandrino_ stood scratching his head an indifferent while, and then sodainly replyed thus. Now trust me _Bruno_, it is to bee doubted, because he called her at his Window, and she immediatly went up to his Chamber. But what doe I care if it be so? Have not the Gods themselves bene beguiled of their Wenches, who were better men then ever _Phillippo_ can be, and shall I stand in feare of him? _Bruno_ replied: Be patient _Calandrino_, I will enquire what Woman she is, and if she be not the wife or friend to our young master _Phillippo_, with faire perswasions I can over-rule the matter, because shee is a familiar acquaintance of mine. But how shall wee doe, that _Buffalmaco_ may not know heereof? I can never speake to her, if hee be in my company. For _Buffalmaco_ (quoth _Calandrino_) I have no feare of all, but rather of _Nello_, because he is a neer Kinsman to my wife, and he is able to undo me quite, if once it should come to his hearing. Thou saist well, replyed _Bruno_, therefore the matter hath neede to be very cleanly carried. Now let me tell you, the Woman was well enough knowne to _Bruno_, as also her quality of life, which _Phillippo_ had acquainted him withall, and the reason of her resorting thither. Wherefore, _Calandrino_ going forth of the roome where they wrought, onely to gaine another sight of _Nicholetta, Bruno_ revealed the whole history to _Buffalmaco_ and _Nello_; they all concluding together, how this amorous fit of the foole was to be followed. And when _Calandrino_ was returned backe againe; in whispering manner _Bruno_ said to him. Hast thou once more seene her? Yes, yes _Bruno_, answered _Calandrino_: Alas, she hath slaine me with her very eye, and I am no better then a dead man. Be patient said _Bruno_, I will goe and see whether she be the same woman which I take her for, or no: and if it prove so, then never feare, but refer the businesse unto me. _Bruno_ descending downe the staires, found _Phillippo_ and _Nicholetta_ in conference together, and stepping unto them, discoursed at large, what manner of man _Calandrino_ was, and how farre he was falne in love with her: so that they made a merry conclusion, what should be performed in this case, onely to make a pastime of his hot begun love. And being come backe againe to _Calandrino_, he saide. It is the same woman whereof I told thee, and therefore wee must worke wisely in the businesse: for if _Phillippo_ perceive any thing, all the water in _Arno_ will hardly serve to quench his fury. But what wouldst thou have me say to her on thy behalfe, if I compasse the meanes to speake with her? First of all (quoth _Calandrino_) and in the prime place, tell her, that I wish infinite bushels of those blessings, which makes Maides Mothers, and begetteth children. Next, that I am onely hers, in any service she will command me. Dooest thou understand me what I say? Sufficiently answered _Bruno_, leave all to me. When supper time was come, that they gave over working, and were descended downe into the Court: there they found _Phillippo_ and _Nicholetta_ readily attending to expect some beginning of amorous behaviour, and _Calandrino_ glanced such leering lookes at her, coughing and spetting with hummes and haes, yea in such close and secret manner, that a starke blinde sight might verie easily have perceyved it. She also on the other side, returned him such queint and cunning carriage, as enflamed him farre more furiously, even as if hee were ready to leape out of himselfe. In the meane while, _Phillippo, Buffalmaco_ and the rest that were there present, seeming as if they were seriouslie consulting together, and perceived nothing of his fantastick behavior, according as _Bruno_ had appointed, could scarse refraine from extremity of laughter, they noted such antick trickes in _Calandrino_. Having spent an indifferent space in this foppish folly, the houre of parting came, but not without wonderfull affliction to _Calandrino_; and as they were going towards _Florence, Bruno_ saide closely to _Calandrino_. I dare assure thee, that thou hast made her to consume and melt, even like ice against the warme Sunne. On my word, if thou wouldst bring thy Gitterne, and sit downe by us, singing some few amorous songs of thine owne making, when we are beneath about our businesse in the Court: shee would presently leape out of the Window, as being unable to tarry from thee. I like thy counsell well _Bruno_, answered _Calandrino_; but shall I bring my Gitterne thither indeed? Yes, in any case, replied _Bruno_, for Musicke is a matter of mighty prevailing. Ah _Bruno_ (quoth _Calandrino_) thou wouldst not credit me in the morning, when I tolde thee, how the very sight of my person had wounded her: I perceived it at the very first looke of her owne, for shee had no power to conceale it. Who but my selfe could so soone have enflamed her affection, and being a woman of such worth and beauty as shee is? There are infinite proper handsome fellowes, that daily haunt the company of dainty Damosels, yet are so shallow in the affayres of love, as they are not able to win one wench of a thousand, no, not with all the wit they have, such is their extreame follie and ill fortune. Then pausing a while, and sodainely rapping out a Lovers Oath or two, thus he proceeded. My dearest _Bruno_, thou shalt see how I can tickle my Gitterne, and what good sport will ensue thereon. If thou dost observe me with judgement, why man, I am not so old as I seeme to be, and she could perceive it at the very first view; yea, and she shall finde it so too, when we have leysure to consult upon further occasions: I finde my selfe in such a free and frolicke jocunditie of spirit, that I will make her to follow me, even as a fond woman doth after her child. But beware, saide _Bruno_, that thou do not gripe her over-hard, and in kissing, bee carefull of biting, because the teeth stand in thy head like the pegges of a Lute, yet make a comely shew in thy faire wide mouth, thy cheekes looking like two of our artificiall Roses, swelling amiably, when thy jawes are well fild with meat. _Calandrino_ hearing these hansome commendations, thought himselfe a man of action already, going, singing, and frisking before his companie so lively, as if he had not bin in his skin. On the morrow, carrying his Gitterne thither with him, to the no little delight of his companions, hee both played and sung a whole Bed-role of Songs, not addicting himselfe to any worke all the day: but loitering fantastically, one while he gazed out at the window, then ran to the gate, and oftentimes downe into the Court, onely to have a sight of his Mistresse. She also (as cunningly) encountred all his follies, by such directions as _Bruno_ gave her, and many more beside of her owne devising, to quicken him still with new occasions; _Bruno_ plaid the Ambassador betweene them, in delivering the messages from _Calandrino_, and then returning her answers to him. Sometimes when she was absent thence (which often hapned as occasions called her) then he would write letters in her name, & bring them, as if they were sent by her, to give him hope of what hee desired, but because she was then among her kindred, yet she could not be unmindfull of him. In this manner, _Bruno_ and _Buffalmaco_ (who had the managing of this amorous businesse) made a meere Gregory of poore _Calandrino_, causing him somtimes to send her, one while a pretty peece of Ivory, then a faire wrought purse, and a costly paire of knives, with other such like friendly tokens: bringing him backe againe, as in requitall of them, counterfetted Rings of no valew, Bugles and bables, which he esteemed as matters of great moment. Moreover, at divers close and sodain meetings, they made him pay for many dinners & suppers, amounting to indifferent charges, onely to be carefull** in the furtherance of his love-suit, and to conceale it from his wife. Having worne out three or foure months space in this fond and frivolous manner, without any other successe then as hath bene declared; and _Calandrino_ perceiving, that the works undertaken by him and his fellowes, grew very neere uppon the finishing, which would barre him of any longer resorting thither: hee began to solicite _Bruno_ more importunately, then all the while before he hadde done. In regard whereof, _Nicholetta_ being one day come thither, & _Bruno_ having conferred both with her and _Phillippo_, with full determination what was to be done, he began with _Calandrino_, saying. My honest Neighbour and Friend, this Woman hath made a thousand promises, to graunt what thou art so desirous to have, and I plainly perceive that she hath no such meaning, but meerely plaies with both our noses. In which respect, seeing she is so perfidious, and will not perfourme one of all her faithfull-made promises: if thou wilt content to have it so, she shall be compelled to do it whether she will or no. Yea marry _Bruno_, answered _Calandrino_, that were an excellent course indeede, if it could be done, and with expedition. _Bruno_ stood musing awhile to himselfe, as if he had some strange stratagem in his braine, & afterward said. Hast thou so much corage _Calandrino_, as but to handle a peece of written parchment, which I will give thee? Yes, that I have answered _Calandrino_, I hope that needed not to be doubted. Well then, saide _Bruno_, procure that I may have a piece of Virgin Parchment brought mee, with a living Bat or Reremouse; three graines of Incense, and an hallowed Candle, then leave me to effect what shall content thee. _Calandrino_ watched all the next night following, with such preparation as he could make, onely to catch a Bat; which being taken at the last, he broght it alive to _Bruno_ (with all the other materials appointed) who taking him alone into a backer Chamber, there hee wrote divers follies on the Parchment, in the shape of strange and unusuall Charracters, which he delivered to _Calandrino_, saying: Be bold _Calandrino_, and build constantly uppon my wordes, that if thou canst but touch her with this sacred Charractred charme, she will immediately follow thee, and fulfil whatsoever thou pleasest to command hir. Wherefore, if _Phillippo_ do this day walke any whither abroad from this house, presume to salute her, in any manner whatsoever it be, & touching her with the written lines, go presently to the barn of hay, which thou perceivest so neere adjoyning, the onely convenient place that can be, because few or none resort thither. She shall (in despight of her blood) follow thee; and when thou hast her there, I leave thee then to thy valiant victory. _Calandrino_ stood on tiptoe, like a man newly molded by Fortune, and warranted _Bruno_ to fulfil all effectually. _Nello_, whom _Calandrino_ most of all feared and mistrusted, had a hand as deepe as any of the rest in this deceite, and was as forward also to have it performed, by _Brunoes_ direction, hee went unto _Florence_, where being in company with _Calandrinoes_ Wife, thus hee began. Cousine, thine unkinde usage by thine husband, is not unknown to me, how he did beate thee (beyond the compasse of all reason) when he brought home stones from the plain of _Mugnone_; in which regard, I am very desirous to have thee revenged on him: which if thou wilt not do; never repute me heereafter for thy Kinsman and Friend. He is falne in love with a Woman of the common gender, one that is to be hired for money: he hath his private meetings with her, and the place is partly knowne to me, as by a secret appointment (made very lately) I am credibly given to understand; wherefore walke presently along with me, and thou shalt take him in the heat of his knavery. All the while as these words were uttering to her, shee could not dissemble her inward impatience, but starting up as halfe franticke with fury, she said. O notorious villaine! Darest thou abuse thine honest wife so basely? I sweare by blessed Saint _Bridget_, thou shalt be paid with coyne of thine owne stampe. So casting a light wearing Cloake about her, and taking a yong woman in her company; shee went away with _Nello_ in no meane haste. _Bruno_ seeing her comming a farre off, said to _Phillippo_: You Sir, you know what is to be done, act your part according to your appointment. _Phillippo_ went immediately into the roome, where _Calandrino_ and his other Consorts were at worke, and said to them. Honest friends, I have certaine occasions which command mine instant being at _Florence_: worke hard while I am absent, and I will not be unthankefull for it. Away hee departed from them, and hid himselfe in a convenient place, where he could not be descryed, yet see whatsoever _Calandrino_ did: who when he imagined _Phillippo_ to be farre enough off, descended downe into the Court, where he found _Nicholetta_ sitting alone, and going towards her, began to enter into discoursing with her. She knowing what remained to bee done on her behalfe, drew somewhat neere him, and shewed her selfe more familiar then formerly she had done: by which favourable meanes, he touched her with the charmed Parchment, which was no sooner done; but without using any other kinde of language, hee went to the hay-Barne, whither _Nicholetta_ followed him, and both being entred, he closed the Barne doore, and then stood gazing on her, as if hee had never seene her before. Standing still as in a study, or bethinking himselfe what he should say: she began to use affable gesture to him, and taking him by the hand, made shew as if shee meant to kisse him, which yet she refrained, though he (rather then his life) would gladly have had it. Why how now deare _Calandrino_ (quoth she) jewell of my joy, comfort of my heart, how many times have I longed for thy sweet Company? And enjoying it now, according to mine owne desire, dost thou stand like a Statue, or man _alla morte_? The rare tunes of the Gitterne, but (much more) the melodious accents of thy voyce, excelling _Orpheus_ or _Amphion_, so ravished my soule, as I know not how to expresse the depth of mine affection; and yet hast thou brought me hither, onely to looke babies in mine eyes, and not so much as speake one kinde word to me? _Bruno_ and _Buffalmaco_, having hid themselves close behinde _Phillippo_, they both heard and saw all this amourous conflict, and as _Calandrino_ was quickning his courage, and wiping his mouth, with intent to kisse her: his wife and _Nello_ entred into the Barne, which caused _Nicholetta_ to get her gone presently, sheltring her self where _Phillippo_ lay scouting. But the enraged woman ranne furiously upon poore daunted _Calandrino_, making such a pitiful massacre with her nailes, and tearing the haire from his head, as hee meerely looked like an infected Anatomy. Fowle loathsome dog (quoth she) must you be at your minions, and leave mee hunger-starved at home? An olde knave with (almost) never a good tooth in thy head, and yet art thou neighing after young wenches? hast thou not worke enough at home, but must bee gadding in to other mens grounds? Are these the fruites of wandring abroad? _Calandrino_ being in this pittifull perplexity, stood like one neither alive nor dead, nor daring to use any resistance against her; but fell on his knees before his Wife, holding up his hands for mercy, and entreating her (for charities sake) not to torment him any more: for he had committed no harme at all, and the Gentlewoman was his Masters Wife, who came with no such intent thither, as shee fondly imagined. Wife, or wife not (quoth she) I would have none to meddle with my Husband, but I that have the most right to him. _Bruno_ and _Buffalmaco_, who had laughed all this while heartily at this pastime, with _Phillippo_ and _Nicholetta_; came running in haste to know the reason of this loude noise, and after they had pacified the woman with gentle perswasions: they advised _Calandrino_ to walke with his Wife to _Florence_, and returne no more to worke there againe, least _Phillippo_ hearing what had hapned, should be revenged on him with some outrage. Thus poore _Calandrino_ miserably misused and beaten, went home to _Florence_ with his Wife, scoulded and raild at all the way, beside his other molestations** (day and night) afterward: his Companions, _Phillippo_ and _Nicholetta_, making themselves merry at his mis-fortune. _Two yong Gentlemen, the one named_ Panuccio, _and the other_ Adriano, _lodged one night in a poore Inne, where one of them went to bed to the Hostes Daughter, and the other (by mistaking his way in the darke) to the Hostes wife. He which lay with the daughter, happened afterward to the Hostes bed, and told him what he had done, as thinking he spake to his owne companyon. Discontentment growing betweene them, the Mother perceiving her errour, went to bed to her daughter, and with discreete language, made a generall pacification._ The Sixt Novell. _Wherein is manifested, that an offence committed ignorantly, and by mistaking; ought to be covered with good advise, and civill discretion._ _Calandrino_, whose mishaps had so many times made the whole assembly merry, and this last passing among them with indifferent commendations: upon a generall silence commanded, the Queene gave order to _Pamphilus_, that hee should follow next, as indeed he did, beginning thus. Praise-worthy Ladies, the name of _Nicholetta_, so fondly affected by _Calandrino_, putteth mee in minde of a Novell, concerning another _Nicholetta_, of whom I purpose to speake: to the ende you may observe how by a sudden wary fore-sight, a discreet woman compassed the meanes to avoyde a notorious scandall. On the plaine of _Mugnone_, neere to _Florence_, dwelt (not long since) an honest meane man, who kept a poore Inne or Ostery for travellers, where they might have some slender entertainement for their money. As he was but a poore man, so his house affoorded but very small receit of guests, not lodging any but on necessity, and such as he had some knowledge of. This honest poore hoste had a woman (sufficiently faire) to his wife, by whom hee had also two children, the one a comely young maiden, aged about fifteene yeares, and the other a sonne, not fully (as yet) a yeare old, and sucking on the mothers brest. A comely youthfull Gentleman of our City, became amorously affected to the Damosell, resorting thither divers times as hee travelled on the way, to expresse how much he did respect her. And she accounting her fortune none of the meanest, to bee beloved by so youthfull a Gallant, declared such vertuous and modest demeanour, as might deserve his best opinion of her: so that their love grew to an equall simpathy, and mutuall contentment of them both, in expectation of further effects; he being named _Panuccio_, and she _Nicholetta_. The heate of affection thus encreasing day by day, _Panuccio_ grew exceedingly desirous to enjoy the fruits of his long continued liking, and divers devises mustred in his braine, how he might compasse one nights lodging in her fathers house, whereof hee knew every part and parcell, as not doubting to effect what hee desired, yet undiscovered by any, but the maide her selfe. According as his intention aymed, so he longed to put it in execution, and having imparted his mind to an honest loyall friend, named _Adriano_, who was acquainted with the course of his love: hyring two horses, and having Portmantues behind them, filled with matters of no moment, they departed from _Florence_, as if they had some great journey to ride. Having spent the day time where themselves best pleased, darke night being entred, they arrived on the plaine of _Mugnone_, where, as if they were come from the parts of _Romanio_, they rode directly to this poore Inne, and knocking at the doore, the honest Hoste (being familiar and friendly to all commers) opened the doore, when _Panuccio_ spake in this manner to him. Good man, we must request one nights lodging with you, for we thought to have reached so farre as _Florence_, but dark night preventing us, you see at what a late houre wee are come hither. Signior _Panuccio_, answered the hoste, it is not unknowne to you, how unfitting my poore house is, for entertaining such guests as you are: Neverthelesse, seeing you are overtaken by so unseasonable an houre, and no other place is neere for your receite; I will gladly lodge you so well as I can. When they were dismounted from their horses, and entred into the simple Inne: having taken order for feeding their horses, they accepted such provision, as the place and time afforded, requesting the Hoste to suppe with them. Now I am to tell you, that there was but one small Chamber in the house, wherein stood three beds, as best the Hoste had devised to place them, two of them standing by the walles side, and the third fronting them both, but with such close and narrow passage, as very hardly could one step betweene them. The best of these three beds was appointed for the Gentlemen, and therein theyd lay them down to rest, but sleepe they could not, albeit they dissembled it very formally. In the second Bed was _Nicholetta_ the daughter, lodged by her selfe, and the father and mother in the third, and because she was to give the child sucke in the night time, the Cradle (wherein it lay) stood close by their beds side, because the childes crying or any other occasion concerning it, should not disquiet the Gentlemen. _Panuccio_ having subtily observed all this, and in what manner they went to bed; after such a space of time, as he imagined them to be all fast asleepe, he arose very softly, and stealing to the bed of _Nicholetta_, lay downe gently by her. And albeit she seemed somewhat afraid at the first, yet when she perceived who it was, shee rather bad him welcome, then shewed her selfe any way discontented. Now while _Panuccio_ continued thus with the maide, it fortuned that a Cat threw down somewhat in the house, the noise whereof awaked the wife, and fearing greater harme, then (indeed) had hapned, she arose without a Candle, and went groping in the darke, towards the place where shee heard the noyse. _Adriano_, who had no other meaning but well, found occasion also to rise, about some naturall necessity, and making his passage in the darke, stumbled on the childes Cradle (in the way) where the woman had set it, and being unable to passe by, without removing it from the place: tooke and set it by his owne beds side, and having done the businesse for which he rose, returned to his bed againe, never remembring to set the Cradle where first he found it. The Wife having found the thing throwne downe being of no value or moment, cared not for lighting any candle; but rating the Cat, returned backe, feeling for the bed where her Husband lay, but finding not the Cradle there, she said to her selfe. What a foolish woman am I, that cannot well tell my selfe what I doe? Instead of my Husbands bed, I am going to both my guests. So, stepping on a little further, she found the childes Cradle, and laid her selfe downe by _Adriano_, thinking shee had gone right to her Husband. _Adriano_ being not yet falne asleepe, feeling the hostesse in bed with him: tooke advantage of so faire an occasion offered, and what he did, is no businesse of mine, (as I heard) neither found the woman any fault. Matters comming to passe in this strange manner, and _Panuccio_ fearing, lest sleepe seazing on him, he might disgrace the maides reputation: taking his kinde farewell of her, with many kisses and sweet imbraces: returned againe to his owne Bed, but meeting with the Cradle in his way, and thinking it stood by the hostes Bed, (as truely it did so at the first) went backe from the Cradle, and stept into the hostes Bed indeed, who awaked upon his very entrance, albeit he slept very soundly before. _Panuccio_ supposing that he was laid downe by his loving friend _Adriano_, merrily said to the Hoste. I protest to thee, as I am a Gentleman, _Nicholetta_ is a dainty delicate wench, and worthy to be a very good mans wife: this night shee hath given mee the sweetest entertainement, as the best Prince in the world can wish no better, and I have kist her most kindly for it. The Hoste hearing these newes, which seemed very unwelcome to him, said first to himself: What make such a devill heere in my Bedde? Afterward being more rashly angry, then well advised, hee said to _Panuccio_. Canst thou makes vaunt of such a mounstrous villany? Or thinkest thou, that heaven hath not due vengeance in store, to requite all wicked deeds of darkenesse? If all should sleepe, yet I have courage sufficient to right my wrong, and yet as olde as I am thou shalt be sure to finde it. Our amorous _Panuccio_ being none of the wisest young men in the world, perceiving his errour; sought not to amend it, (as well he might have done) with some queint straine of wit, carried in quicke and cleanly manner, but angerly answered. What shall I find that thou darst doe to me? am I any way afraid of thy threatnings? The Hostes imagining she was in bed with her Husband, said to _Adriano_: Harke Husband, I thinke our Guests are quarrelling together, I hope they will doe no harme to one another. _Adriano_ laughing outright, answered. Let them alone, and become friends againe as they fell out: perhaps they dranke too much yesternight. The woman perceiving that it was her husband that quarrelled, and distinguishing the voyce of _Adriano_ from his: knew presently where shee was, and with whom; wherefore having wit at will, and desirous to cloude an error unadvisedly committed, and with no willing consent of her selfe: without returning any more words, presently she rose, and taking the Cradle with the child in it, removed it thence to her daughters bed side, although shee had no light to helpe her, and afterward went to bed to her, where (as if she were but newly awaked) she called her Husband, to understand what angry speeches had past betweene him and _Panuccio_. The Hoste replyed, saying. Didst thou not heare him wife, brag & boast, how he hath lyen this night with our daughter _Nicholetta_? Husband (quoth she) he is no honest Gentleman; if hee should say so, and beleeve me it is a manifest lye, for I am in bed with her my selfe, and never yet closed mine eyes together, since the first houre I laid me downe: it is unmannerly done of him to speake it, and you are little lesse then a logger-head, if you doe beleeve it. This proceedeth from your bibbing and swilling yesternight, which (as it seemeth) maketh you to walke about the roome in your sleepe, dreaming of wonders in the night season: it were no great sinne if you brake your necks, to teach you keepe a fairer quarter; and how commeth it to passe, that Signior _Panuccio_ could not keepe himselfe in his owne bed? _Adriano_ (on the other side) perceiving how wisely the woman excused her owne shame and her daughters; to backe her in a businesse so cunningly begun, he called to _Panuccio_, saying. Have not I tolde thee an hundred times, that thou art not fit to lye any where; out of thine owne lodging? What a shame is this base imperfection to thee, by rising and walking thus in the night-time, according as thy dreames doe wantonly delude thee, and cause thee to forsake thy bed, telling nothing but lies and fables, yet avouching them for manifest truthes? Assuredly this will procure no meane perill unto thee: Come hither, and keepe in thine owne bedde for meere shame. When the honest meaning Host heard, what his own Wife and _Adriano_ had confirmed: he was verily perswaded, that _Panuccio_ spake in a dreame all this while: And to make it the more constantly apparant, _Panuccio_ (being now growne wiser by others example) lay talking and blundring to himselfe, even as if dreames or perturbations of the minde did much molest him, with strange distractions in franticke manner. Which the Hoste perceiving, and compassionating his case, as one man should do anothers: he tooke him by the shoulders, jogging and hunching him, saying. Awake Signior _Panuccio_, and get you gone hence to your owne bed. _Panuccio_, yawning and stretching out his limbes, with unusuall groanes and respirations, such as (better) could bee hardly dissembled: seemed to wake as out of a traunce, and calling his friend _Adriano_, said. _Adriano_, is it day, that thou dost waken me? It may be day or night replyed _Adriano_, for both (in these fits) are alike to thee. Arise man for shame, and come to thine lodging. Then faining to be much troubled and sleepie, he arose from the hoast, and went to _Adrianoes_ bed. When it was day, and all in the house risen, the hoast began to smile at _Panuccio_, mocking him with his idle dreaming and talking in the night. So, falling from one merry matter to another, yet without any mislike at all: the Gentlemen, having their horses prepared, and their Portmantues fastened behind, drinking to their hoast, mounted on horsebacke, and they roade away towards _Florence_, no lesse contented with the manner of occasions happened, then the effects they sorted to. Afterward, other courses were taken, for the continuance of this begun pleasure with _Nicholetta_, who made her mother beleeve, that _Panuccio_ did nothing else but dreame. And the mother her selfe remembring how kindely _Adriano_ had used her (a fortune not expected by her before:) was more then halfe of the minde, that she did then dreame also, while she was waking. Talano de Molese _dreamed, That a Wolfe rent and tore his wives face and throate. Which dreame he told to her, with advise to keep her selfe out of danger; which she refusing to doe, received what followed._ The Seventh Novell. _Whereby (with some indifferent reason) it is concluded, that Dreames do not alwayes fall out to be leasings._ By the conclusion of _Pamphilus_ his Novel, wherein the womans ready wit, at a time of such necessity, carried deserved commendations: the Queen gave command to Madam _Pampinea_, that she should next begin with hers, and so she did, in this manner. In some discourses (gracious Ladies) already past among us, the truth of apparitions in dreames hath partly bin approved, whereof very many have made a mockery. Neverthelesse, whatsoever hath heeretofore bin sayde, I purpose to acquaint you with a very short Novell, of a strange accident happening unto a neighbour of mine, in not crediting a Dreame which her Husband told her. I cannot tell, whether you knew _Talano de Molese_, or no, a man of much honour, who tooke to wife a yong Gentlewoman, named _Margarita_, as beautifull as the best: but yet so peevish, scornefull, and fantasticall, that she disdained any good advice given her; neyther could any thing be done, to cause her contentment; which absurd humours were highly displeasing to her husband: but in regard he knew not how to helpe it, constrainedly he did endure it. It came to passe, that _Talano_ being with his wife, at a summer-house of his owne in the country, he dreamed one night, that he saw his Wife walking in a faire wood, which adjoyned neere unto his house, and while she thus continued there, he seemed to see issue foorth from a corner of the said Wood, a great and furious Wolfe, which leaping sodainly on her, caught her by the face and throate, drawing her downe to the earth, and offering to drag her thence. But he crying out for helpe, recovered her from the Wolfe, yet having her face and throat very pitifully rent and torne. In regard of this terrifying dreame, when _Talano_ was risen in the morning, and sate conversing with his wife, he spake thus unto hir. Woman, although thy froward wilfull Nature be such, as hath not permitted me one pleasing day with thee, since first we becam man and wife, but rather my life hath bene most tedious to me, as fearing still some mischeefe should happen to thee: yet let mee now in loving manner advise thee, to follow my counsell, and (this day) not to walke abroad out of this house. She demanded a reason for this advice of his. He related to her every particular of his dreame, adding with all these speeches. True it is Wife (quoth he) that little credit should bee given to dreames: neverthelesse, when they deliver advertisement of harmes to ensue, there is nothing lost by shunning and avoiding them. She fleering in his face, and shaking her head at him, replyed. Such harmes as thou wishest, such thou dreamest of. Thou pretendest much pittie and care of me, but all to no other end: but what mischeefes thou dreamest happening unto mee, so wouldest thou see them effected on me. Wherefore, I will well enough looke to my selfe, both this day, and at all times else: because thou shalt never make thy selfe merry, with any such misfortune as thou wishest unto me. Well Wife, answered _Talano_, I knew well enough before, what thou wouldst say: An unsound head is soone scratcht with the very gentlest Combe: but beleeve as thou pleasest. As for my selfe, I speake with a true and honest meaning soule, and once againe I do advise thee, to keepe within our doores all this day: at least wife beware, that thou walke not into our wood, bee it but in regard of my dreame. Well sir (quoth she scoffingly) once you shall say, I followed your counsell: but within her selfe she fell to this murmuring. Now I perceive my husbands cunning colouring, & why I must not walke this day into our wood: he hath made a compact with some common Queane, closely to have her company there, and is afraide least I shold take them tardy. Belike he would have me feed among blinde folke, and I were worthy to bee thought a starke foole, if I should not prevent a manifest trechery, being intended against me. Go thither therefore I will, and tarry there all the whole day long; but I will meet with him in his merchandize, and see the Pink wherein he adventures. After this her secret consultation, her husband was no sooner gone forth at one doore, but shee did the like at another, yet so secretly as possibly she could devise to doe, and (without any delaying) she went to the Wood, wherein she hid her selfe very closely, among the thickest of the bushes, yet could discerne every way about her, if any body should offer to passe by her. While shee kept her selfe in this concealment, suspecting other mysterious matters, as her idle imagination had tutord her, rather then the danger of any Wolfe; out of a brakie thicket by her, sodainly rushed a huge & dreadfull Wolfe, as having found her by the sent, mounting uppe, and grasping her throat in his mouth, before she saw him, or could call to heaven for mercy. Being thus seised of her, he carried her as lightly away, as if shee had bin no heavier then a Lambe, she being (by no meanes) able to cry, because he held her so fast by the throate, and hindred any helping of her selfe. As the Wolfe carried her thus from thence, he had quite strangled her, if certaine Shepheards had not met him, who with their outcries and exclaimes at the Wolfe, caused him to let her fall, and hast away to save his owne life. Notwithstanding the harme done to her throat and face, the shepheards knew her, and caried her home to her house, where she remained a long while after, carefully attended by Physitians and Chirurgians. Now, although they were very expert and cunning men all, yet could they not so perfectly cure her, but both her throate, and part of her face were so blemished, that whereas she seemed a rare creature before, she was now deformed and much unsightly. In regard of which strange alteration, being ashamed to shew her selfe in any place, where formerly she had bene seene: she spent her time in sorrow and mourning, repenting her insolent and scornfull carriage, as also her rash running forth into danger, upon a foolish and jealous surmise, beleeving her husbands dreames the better for ever after. Blondello _(in a merry manner) caused_ Guiotto _to beguile himselfe of a good dinner: for which deceit,_ Guiotto _became cunningly revenged, by procuring_ Blondello _to be unreasonably beaten and misused._ The Eight Novell. _Whereby plainly appeareth, that they which take delight in deceiving others, do well deserve to be deceived themselves._ It was a generall opinion in the whole Joviall Companie, that whatsoever _Talano_ saw in his sleepe, was not anie dreame, but rather a vision: considring, every part thereof fell out so directly, without the lest failing. But when silence was enjoyned, then the Queene gave forth by evident demonstration, that Madam _Lauretta_ was next to succeed, whereupon she thus began. As all they (judicious hearers) which have this day spoken before me, derived the ground or project of their Novels, from some other argument spoken of before: even so, the cruell revendge of the Scholler, yesterday discoursed at large by Madame _Pampinea_, maketh me to remember another Tale of like nature, some-what greevous to the sufferer, yet not in such cruell measure inflicted, as that on Madam _Helena_. There dwelt sometime in _Florence_, one who was generally called by the name of _Guiotto_, a man being the greatest Gourmand, and grossest feeder, as ever was seene in any Countrey, all his meanes & procurements meerly unable to maintaine expences for filling his belly. But otherwise he was of sufficient and commendable carriage, fairely demeaned, and well discoursing on any argument: yet, not as a curious and spruce Courtier, but rather a frequenter of rich mens Tables, where choice of good cheere is sildome wanting, & such should have his company, albeit not invited, yet (like a bold intruder) he had the courage to bid himselfe welcome. At the same time, and in our City of _Florence_ also, there was another man, named _Blondello_, very low of stature; yet comly formed, quicke witted, more neat and brisk then a Butter flye, alwaies wearing a wrought silke cap on his head, and not a haire staring out of order, but the tuft flourishing above the forehead, and he such another trencher-fly for the table, as our forenamed _Guiotto_ was. It so fel out on a morning in the Lent time, that hee went into the Fish-market, where he bought two goodly Lampreyes, for _Messer Viero de Cherchi_, and was espied by _Guiotto_, who (comming to _Blondello_) said. What is the meaning of this cost, and for whom is it? Whereto _Blondello_ thus answered. Yesternight, three other Lampries, far fairer and fatter then these, and a whole Sturgeon, were sent unto _Messer Corso Donati_, and being not sufficient to feede divers Gentlemen, whom hee hath invited this day to dine with him, hee caused me to buy these two beside: Doest not thou intend to make one among them? Yes I warrant thee, replied _Guiotto_, thou knowst I can invite my selfe thither, without any other bidding. So parting; about the houre of dinner time, _Guiotto_ went to the house of the saide _Messer Corso_, whom he found sitting and talking with certain of his neighbours, but dinner was not (as yet) ready, neither were they come thither to dinner. _Messer Corso_ demaunded of _Guiotto_, what newes with him, and whither he went? Why Sir (said _Guiotto_) I come to dine with you, and your good company. Whereto _Messer Corso_ answered, That he was welcome, & his other friends being gone, dinner was served in, none els thereat present but _Messer Corso_ and _Guiotto_: al the diet being a poore dish of Pease, a little piece of Tunny, & a few small dishes fried, without any other dishes to follow after. _Guiotto_ seeing no better fare, but being disapointed of his expectation, as longing to feed on the Lampries and Sturgeon, and so to have made a full dinner indeed: was of a quick apprehension, & apparantly perceived, that _Blondello_ had meerly guld him in a knavery, which did not a little vex him, and made him vow to be revenged on _Blondello_, as he could compasse occasion afterward. Before many daies were past, it was his fortune to meete with _Blondello_, who having told this jest to divers of his friends, and much good merriment made thereat: he saluted _Guiotto_ in ceremonious manner, saying. How didst thou like the fat Lampreyes and Sturgeon, which thou fedst on at the house of _Messer Corso Donati_? Wel Sir (answered _Guiotto_) perhaps before eight dayes passe over my head, thou shalt meet with as pleasing a dinner as I did. So, parting away from _Blondello_, he met with a Porter or burthen-bearer, such as are usually sent on errands; and hyring him to deliver a message for him, gave him a glasse bottle, and bringing him neere to the Hal-house of _Cavicciuli_, shewed him there a knight, called _Signior Phillippo Argenti_, a man of huge stature, stout, strong, vainglorious, fierce and sooner mooved to anger then any other man. To him (quoth _Guiotto_) thou must go with this bottle in thy hand, and say thus to him. Sir, _Blondello_ sent me to you, and courteously entreateth you, that you would enrubinate this glasse bottle with your best Claret Wine; because he would make merry with a few friends of his. But beware he lay no hand on thee, because he may bee easily induced to misuse thee, and so my businesse be disappointed. Well Sir replied the Porter, shall I say any thing else unto him? No (quoth _Guiotto_) only go and deliver this message, and when thou art returned, Ile pay thee for thy paines. The Porter being gone to the house, delivered his message to the knight, who being a man of no great civill breeding, but furious, rash, and inconsiderate: presently conceived, that _Blondello_ (whom he knew well enough) sent this message in meere mockage of him, and starting up with fiery lookes, said: What enrubination of Claret should I send him? and what have I to do with him, or his drunken friends? Let him and thee go hang your selves together. So he stept to catch hold on the Porter, but he (being well warnd before) was quicke and nimble, and escaping from him, returned backe to _Guiotto_ (who observed all) and told him the answer of Signior _Phillippo. Guiotto_ not a little contented, paied the Porter, and taried not in any place till he met with _Blondello_, to whom he said. When wast thou at the Hall of _Cavicciuli_? Not a long while, answerd _Blondello_, but why dost thou demand such a question? Because (quoth _Guiotto_) Signior _Phillippo_ hath sought about for thee, yet knowe not I what he would have with thee. Is it so? replied _Blondello_, then I will walke thither presently, to understand his pleasure. When _Blondello_ was thus parted from him, _Guiotto_ folowed not farre off behind him, to behold the issue of this angry businesse; and Signior _Phillippo_, because he could not catch the Porter, continued much distempred, fretting and fuming, in regard he could not comprehend the meaning of the Porters message: but onely surmized, that _Blondello_ (by the procurement of some body else) had done this in scorne of him. While he remained thus deeply discontented, he espied _Blondello_ comming towards him, and meeting him by the way, he stept close to him, and gave him a cruell blow on the face, causing his nose to fall out a bleeding. Alas Sir, said _Blondello_, wherefore do you strike me? Signior _Phillippo_, catching him by the haire of the head, trampled his wrought night-cap in the dirt, & his cloke also; when, laying many violent blowes on him, he said. Villanous Traitor as thou art, Ile teach thee what it is to enrubinate with Claret, either thy selfe, or any of thy cupping companions: Am I a child, to be jested withall? Nor was he more furious in words, then in strokes also, beating him about the face, hardly leaving any haire on his head, and dragging him along in the mire, spoyling all his garments, and he not able (from the first blow given) to speake a word in defence of himselfe. In the end, Signior _Phillippo_ having extreamly beaten him, and many people gathering about them, to succour a man so much misused, the matter was at large related, and manner of the message sending. For which, they all present, did greatly reprehend _Blondello_, considering he knew what kinde of man _Phillippo_ was, not any way to be jested withall. _Blondello_ in teares constantly maintained, that he never sent any such message for wine, or intended it in the least degree: so, when the tempest was more mildly calmed, and _Blondello_ (thus cruelly beaten and durtied) had gotten home to his owne house, he could then remember, that (questionles) this was occasioned by _Guiotto_. After some few dayes were passed over, and the hurts in his face indifferently cured; _Blondello_ beginning to walke abroade againe, chanced to meet with _Guiotto_: who laughing heartily at him, sayde. Tell me _Blondello_, how doost thou like the enrubinating Clarret of Signior _Phillippo_? As well (quoth _Blondello_) as thou didst the Sturgeon and Lampreyes at _Messer Corso Donaties_. Why then (sayde _Guiotto_) let these two tokens continue familiar betweene thee and me, when thou wouldst bestow such another dinner on mee, then will I enrubinate thy nose with a bottle of the same Claret. But _Blondello_ perceived (to his cost) that hee had met with the worser bargaine, and _Guiotto_ got cheare, without any blowes: and therefore desired a peacefull attonement, each of them (alwayes after) abstaining from flouting one another. _Two yong Gentlemen, the one named_ Melisso, _borne in the City of_ Laiazzo: _and the other_ Giosefo _of_ Antioche, _travailed together unto_ Salomon, _the famous King of_ Great Britaine. _The one desiring to learne what he should do, whereby to compasse and winne the love of men. The other craved to be enstructed, by what meanes hee might reclaime an headstrong and unruly wife. And what answeres the wise King gave unto them both, before they departed away from him._ The Ninth Novell. _Containing an excellent admonition, that such as covet to have the love of other men, must first learne themselves, how to love: Also, by what meanes such women as are curst and self-willed, may be reduced to civill obedience._ Upon the conclusion of Madame _Laurettaes_ Novell, none now remained to succeede next in order, but onely the Queene her selfe, the priviledge reserved, granted to _Dioneus_; wherefore, after they had all smiled at the folly of _Blondello_, with a chearfull countenance thus the Queene began. Honourable Ladies, if with advised judgement, we do duly consider the order of all things, we shall very easily perceyve, That the whole universall multiplicitie of Women, by Nature, custome, and lawes, are & ought to be subject to men, yea, and to be governd by their discretion. Because every one desiring to enjoy peace, repose and comfort with them, under whose charge they are; ought to be humble, patient and obedient, over and beside her spotlesse honesty, which is the crowne and honour of every good woman. And although those lawes, which respect the common good of all things, or rather use & custome (as our wonted saying is) the powers whereof are very great, and worthy to be referenced, should not make us wise in this case. Yet Nature hath given us a sufficient demonstration, in creating our bodies more soft and delicate, yea, and our hearts timorous, fearefull, benigne and compassionable, our strength feeble, our voyces pleasing, and the motion of our members sweetly plyant; all which are apparant testimonies, that wee have neede of others government. Now, it is not to be denyed, that whosoever hath need of helpe, and is to bee governed: meerely reason commandeth, that they should bee subject and obedient to their governour. Who then should we have for our helps and governours, if not men? Wherefore, we should be intirely subject to them, in giving them due honour and reverence, and such a one as shall depart from this rule: she (in mine opinion) is not onely worthy of grievous reprehension, but also severe chastisement beside. And to this exact consideration (over and above divers other important reasons) I am the rather induced, by the Novel which Madame _Pampinea_ so lately reported, concerning the froward and wilfull wife of _Talano_, who had a heavier punishment inflicted on her, then her Husband could devise to doe. And therefore it is my peremptory sentence, that all such women as will not be gracious, benigne and pleasing: doe justly deserve (as I have already said) rude, rough and harsh handling, as both nature, custome and lawes have commanded. To make good what I have said, I will declare unto you the counsell & advise, given by _Salomon_, the wise and famous King of Great Britaine, as a most wholesome and soveraigne medicine for the cure of such a dangerous disease, in any woman so fouly infected. Which counsell (notwithstanding) all such women as have no need of this Phisicke, I would not have them to imagine, that it was meant for them, albeit men have a common Proverbe, to wit. _As the good horse and bad horse, doe both need the spurre. So a good wife and bad wife, a wand will make stirre._ Which saying, whosoever doth interpret it in such pleasing manner as they ought, shall find it (as you al will affirm no lesse) to be very true: especially in the morall meaning, it is beyond all contradiction. Women are naturally all unstable, and easily enclining to misgovernment; wherefore to correct the iniquity of such a distemperature in them that out-step the tearmes and bounds of womanhood, a wand hath been allowed for especiall phisicke. As in the like manner, for support of vertue, in those of contrary condition, shaming to be sullyed with so grosse a sinne: the correcting Wand may serve as a walking staffe, to protect them from all other feares. But, forbearing to teach any longer; let mee proceed to my purpose, and tell you my Novell. In those ancient and reverend dayes, whereof I am now to speake, the high renowne and admirable wisedome of _Salomon_, King of Great Brittain, was most famous throughout all parts of the world; for answering all doubtfull questions and demaunds whatsoever, that possibly could be propounded to him. So that many resorted to him, from the most remote and furthest off countreyes, to heare his miraculous knowledge and experience, yea, and to crave his counsell, in matters of greatest importance. Among the rest of them which repaired thither, was a rich yong Gentleman, honourably descended, named _Melisso_, who came from the City of _Laiazzo_, where he was both borne, and dwelt. In his riding towards _France_, as he passed by _Naples_, hee overtooke another yong Gentleman, a native of _Antioch_, and named _Giosefo_, whose journey lay the same way as the others did. Having ridden in company some few dayes together, as it is a custome commonly observed among Travellers, to understand one anothers Countrey and condition, as also to what part his occasions call him: so happened it with them, _Giosefo_ directly telling him, that he journyed towards the wise King _Salomon_, to desire his advise what meanes he should observe, in the reclaiming of a wilfull wife, the most froward and selfe-willed woman that ever lived; whom neither faire perswasions, nor gentle courtesies could in any manner prevaile withall. Afterward he demaunded of _Melisso_, to know the occasion of his travell, and whither. Now trust me Sir, answered _Melisso_, I am a native of _Laiazzo_, and as you are vexed with one great misfortune, even so am I offended with another. I am young, wealthy, well derived by birth, and allow liberall expences, for maintaining a worthy table in my house, without distinguishing persons by their rancke and quality, but make it free for all commers, both of the city, & all places els. Notwithstanding all which bounty and honourable entertainement, I cannot meet with any man that loveth me. In which respect, I journey to the same place as you doe, to crave the counsell of so wise a King, what I should doe, whereby I might procure men to love me. Thus like two well-met friendly companions, they rode on together, untill they arrived in Great Britaine, where, by meanes of the Noble Barons attending on the King; they were brought before him. _Melisso_ delivered his minde in very few words, whereto the King made no other answere, but this: Learne to love. Which was no sooner spoken, but _Melisso_ was dismissed from the Kings presence. _Giosefo_ also relating, wherefore he came thither; the King replyed onely thus; Goe to the Goose Bridge: and presently _Giosefo_ had also his dismission from the King. Comming forth, he found _Melisso_ attending for him, and revealed in what manner the King had answered him: whereupon, they consulted together, concerning both their answeres, which seemed either to exceed their comprehension, or else was delivered them in meere mockery, and therefore (more then halfe discontented) they returned homeward againe. After they had ridden on a few dayes together, they came to a River, over which was a goodly Bridge, and because a great company of Horses and Mules (heavily laden, and after the manner of a _Caravan_ of Camels in _Egypt_) were first to passe over the saide Bridge; they gladly stayed to permit their passe. The greater number of them being already past over, there was one shie and skittish Mule (belike subject to fearefull starting, as oftentimes we see horses have the like ill quality) that would not passe over the Bridge by any meanes, wherefore one of the Muletters tooke a good Cudgell, and smote her at the first gently, as hoping so to procure her passage. Notwithstanding, starting one while backeward, then againe forward, side-wayes, and every way indeed, but the direct Road way she would not goe. Now grew the Muletter extreamely angry, giving her many cruell stroakes, on the head, sides, flancks and all parts else, but yet they proved to no purpose, which _Melisso_ and _Giosefo_ seeing, and being (by this meanes) hindred of their passage, they called to the Muletter, saying. Foolish fellow, what doest thou? Intendest thou to kill the Mule? why dost thou not leade her gently, which is the likelier course to prevaile by, then beating and misusing her as thou dost? Content your selves Gentlemen (answered the Muletter) you know your horses qualities, as I doe my Mules, let mee deale with her as I please. Having thus spoken, he gave her so many violent strokes, on head, sides, hippes, and every where else, as made her at last passe over the Bridge quietly, so that the Muletter wonne the Mastery of his Mule. When _Melisso_ and _Giosefo_ had past over the Bridge, where they intended to part each from other; a sudden motion happened into the minde of _Melisso_, which caused him to demaund of an aged man (who sate craving almes of Passengers at the Bridge foot) how the Bridge was called: Sir, answered the old man, this is called, The Goose Bridge. Which words when _Giosefo_ heard, hee called to minde the saying of King _Salomon_, and therefore immediately saide to _Melisso_. Worthy friend, and partner in my travell, I dare now assure you, that the counsell given me by King _Salomon_, may fall out most effectuall and true: For I plainely perceive, that I knew not how to handle my selfe-will'd-wife, untill the Muletter did instruct me. So, requesting still to enjoy the others Company, they journeyed on, till at the length they came to _Laiazzo_, where _Giosefo_ retained _Melisso_ still with him, for some repose after so long a journey, and entertained him with very honourable respect and courtesie. One day _Giosefo_ said to his Wife: Woman, this Gentleman is my intimate friend, and hath borne me company in all my travell: such dyet therefore as thou wilt welcome him withall, I would have it ordered (in dressing) according to his direction. _Melisso_ perceiving that _Giosefo_ would needs have it to be so; in few words directed her such a course, as (for ever) might be to her Husbands contentment. But she, not altring a jote from her former disposition, but rather farre more froward and tempestuous: delighted to vexe and crosse him, doing every thing, quite contrary to the order appointed. Which _Giosefo_ observing, angerly he said unto her. Was it not tolde you by my friend, in what manner he would have our Supper drest? She turning fiercely to him, replyed. Am I to be directed by him or thee? Supper must and shall bee drest as I will have it: if it pleaseth mee, I care not who doth dislike it; if thou wouldst have it otherwise, goe seeke both your Suppers where you may have it. _Melisso_ marvelling at her froward answere, rebuked her for it in very kind manner: whereupon, _Giosefo_ spake thus to her. I perceive wife, you are the same woman as you were wount to be: but beleeve me on my word, I shall quite alter you from this curst complexion. So turning to _Melisso_, thus he proceeded. Noble friend, we shall try anone, whether the counsell of King _Salomon_ bee effectuall, or no; and I pray you, let it not be offensive to you to see it; but rather hold all to be done in merriment. And because I would not be hindered by you, doe but remember the answere which the Muletter gave us, when we tooke compassion on his Mule. Worthy friend, replyed _Melisso_, I am in your owne house, where I purpose not to impeach whatsoever you doe. _Giosefo_, having provided a good Holly-wand, went into the Chamber, where his wife sate railing, and despitefully grumbling, where taking her by the haire of her head, he threw her at his feete, beating her entreamely with the wand. She crying, then cursing, next railing, lastly fighting, biting and scratching, when she felt the cruell smart of the blowes, and that all her resistance served to no end: then she fell on her knees before him, and desired mercy for charities sake. _Giosefo_ fought still more and more on head, armes, shoulders, sides, and all parts else, pretending as if he heard not her complaints, but wearied himselfe wel neere out of breath: so that (to be briefe) she that never felt his fingers before, perceived and confessed, it was now too soone. This being done, hee returned to _Melisso_, and said: To morrow we shall see a miracle, and how availeable the councell is of going to the Goose Bridge. So sitting a while together, after they had washed their hands, and supt, they withdrew to their lodgings. The poore beaten woman, could hardly raise her selfe from the ground, which yet (with much adoe) she did, and threw her selfe upon the bed, where she tooke such rest as she could: but arising early the next morning, she came to her Husband, and making him a very low courtesie, demaunded what hee pleased to have for his dinner; he smiling heartely thereat, with _Melisso_, tolde her his mind. And when dinner time came, every thing was ready according to the direction given: in which regard, they highly commended the counsell, whereof they made such an harsh construction at the first. Within a while after, _Melisso_ being gone from _Giosefo_, and returned home to his owne house: hee acquainted a wise and reverend man, with the answere which king _Salomon_ gave him, whereto hee received this reply. No better or truer advise could possibly be given you, for well you know, that you love not any man; but the bountiful banquets you bestow on them, is more in respect of your owne vaine-glory, then any kind affection you beare to them: Learne then to love men, as _Salomon_ advised, and you shall be beloved of them againe. Thus our unruly Wife became mildely reclaimed, and the yong Gentleman, by loving others, found the fruits of reciprocall affection. John de Barolo, _at the instance and request of his Gossip_ Pietro da Trefanti, _made an enchantment, to have his wife become a Mule. And when it came to the fastening on of the taile; Gossip_ Pietro _by saying she should have no taile at all, spoyled the whole enchantment._ The Tenth Novell. _In just reproofe of such foolish men, as will be governed by over-light beleefe._ This Novell reported by the Queene, caused a little murmuring among the Ladies, albeit the men laughed heartely thereat: but after they were all growne silent, _Dioneus_ began in this manner. Gracious Beauties, among many white Doves, one blacke Crow will seeme more sightly, then the very whitest Swanne can doe. In like manner, among a multitude of wise men, sometimes one of much lesse wisedome and discretion, shall not onely increase the splendour and Majestie of their maturity, but also give an addition of delight and solace. In which regard, you all being modest and discreet Ladies, and my selfe more much defective in braine, then otherwise able: in making your vertues shine gloriously, through the evident apparance of mine owne weakenesse, you should esteeme the better of mee, by how much I seeme the more cloudy and obscure. And consequently, I ought to have the larger scope of liberty, by plainely expressing what I am, and be the more patiently endured by you all, in saying what absurdly I shall; then I should be if my speeches favoured of absolute wisdome. I will therefore tell you a Tale, which shall not be of any great length, whereby you may comprehend, how carefully such things should be observed, which are commanded by them, as can effect matters by the power of enchantment, and how little delayance also ought to be in such, as would not have an enchantment so be hindered. About a yeare already past since, there dwelt at _Barletta_, an honest man, called _John de Barolo_, who because he was of poore condition; for maintenance in his contented estate, provided himselfe of a Mule, to carry commodities from place to place, where Faires and Markets were in request, but most especially to _Apuglia_, buying and selling in the nature of a petty Chapman. Travelling thus thorow the Countreyes, he grew into great and familiar acquaintance, with one who named himselfe _Pietro da Trefanti_, following the same Trade of life as he did, carrying his commodities upon an Asse. In signe of amitie, according to the Countreyes custome, he never tearmed him otherwise, then by the name of Gossip _Pietro_ and alwayes when he came to _Barletta_, he brought him to his own house, taking it as his Inne, entreating him very friendly, and in the best manner he could devise to doe. On the other side, Gossip _Pietro_ being very poore, having but one simple habitation in the village of _Trefanti_, hardly sufficient for him, and an handsome young woman which he had to his wife, as also his Asse: evermore when _John de Barolo_ came to _Trefanti_, he would bring him to his poore abiding, with all his uttermost abilitie of entertainement, in due acknowledgement of the courtesie he afforded to him at _Barletta_. But when he came to take repose in the night-season, Gossip _Pietro_ could not lodge him as gladly he would: because he had but one silly bed, wherein himselfe and his wife lay; so that _John de Barolo_ was faigne to lie on a little straw, in a small stable, close adjoyning by his owne Mule and the Asse. The woman understanding, what good and honest welcome, Gossip _John_ afforded her husband, when he came to _Barletta_, was often very willing to goe lodge with an honest neighbour of hers, called _Carapresa di Giudice Leo_, because the two Gossips might both lie together in one bed; wherewith divers times she acquainted her Husband, but by no meanes he would admit it. At one time among the rest, as she was making the same motion againe to her Husband, that his friend might be lodged in better manner: Gossip _John_ thus spake to her. Good _Zita Carapresa_, never molest your selfe for me, because I lodge to mine owne contentment, and so much the rather, in regard that whensoever I list: I can convert my Mule into a faire young woman, to give mee much delight in the night-season, and afterward make her a Mule againe: thus am I never without her company. The young woman wondring at these words, and beleeving he did not fable in them: she told them to her Husband, with this addition beside, _Pietro_ (quoth she) if he be such a deare friend to thee, as thou hast often avouched to me; with him to instruct thee in so rare a cunning, that thou maist make a Mule of me; then shalt thou have both an Asse and a Mule to travell withall about thy businesse, whereby thy benefit will be double: and when we returne home to our house; then thou maist make mee thy wife againe, in the same condition as I was before. Gossip _Pietro_, who was (indeed) but a very Coxecombe; beleeved also the words to be true, yeelding therefore the more gladly to her advise; and moving the matter to his Gossip _John_, to teach him such a wonderfull secret, which would redound so greatly to his benefit: but _John_ began to disswade him from it, as having spoken it in merriment, yet perceiving, that no contradiction would serve to prevaile, thus he began. Seeing you will needs have it so, let us rise to morrow morning before day, as in our travell we use to doe, and then I will shew you how it is to be done: onely I must and doe confesse, that the most difficult thing of all the rest, is, to fasten on the taile, as thou shalt see. Gossip _Pietro_ and his wife, could hardly take any rest all the night long, so desirous they were to have the deed done; and therefore when it drew towards day, up they arose, and calling Gossip _John_, he came presently to them in his shirt, & being in the Chamber with them, he said. I know not any man in the world, to whom I would disclose this secret, but to you, and therefore because you so earnestly desire it, I am the more willing to doe it. Onely you must consent, to doe whatsoever I say, if you are desirous to have it done. Faithfully they promised to performe all, whereupon _John_ delivering a lighted Candle to Gossip _Pietro_, to hold in his hand, said. Marke well what I doe, and remember all the words I say: but be very carefull, that whatsoever thou hearest or seest, thou doe not speake one word, for then the enchantment will be utterly overthrowne, onely wish that the taile may be well set on, for therein consisteth all the cunning. Gossip _Pietro_ holding the Candle, and the woman being prepared as _John_ had appointed her, she bowed her selfe forwardes with her hands set to the ground, even as if she stood upon foure feete. First with his hands he touched her head and face, saying, Heere is the goodly head of a Mule: then handling her disheveld haire, termed them the goodly mane of a Mule. Afterwardes, touching the body, armes, legs, and feete, gave them all the apt names (for those parts) belonging to a Mule, nothing else remaining, but onely the forming of the taile, which when _Pietro_ perceived, how _John_ was preparing to fasten it on (having no way misliked all his former proceeding) he called to him, saying: Forbeare Gossippe _John_, my Mule shall have no taile at all, I am contented to have her without a taile. How now Gossip _Pietro_? answered _John_, What hast thou done? Thou hast mard all by this unadvised speaking, even when the worke was almost fully finished. It is no matter Gossip (answered _Pietro_) I can like my Mule better without a taile, then to see it set on in such manner. The fond yong woman, more covetously addicted to gayne and commodity, then looking into the knavish intention of her Gossip _John_; began to grow greatly offended. Beast as thou art (quoth she to her Husband) why hast thou overthrowne both thine own good Fortune and mine? Diddest thou ever see a Mule without a taile? Wouldst thou have had him made me a monster? Thou art wretchedly poore, and when we might have bin enriched for ever, by a secret knowne to none but our selves, thou art the Asse that hast defeated all, and made thy friend to become thine enemy. Gossippe _John_ began to pacifie the woman, with solemne protestations of his still continuing friendship, albeit (afterwards) there was no further desiring of any more Mule-making: but Gossip _Pietro_ fel to his former Trading onely with his Asse, as he was no lesse himselfe, and hee went no more with Gossip _John_ to the Faires in _Apuglia_, neyther did he ever request, to have the like peece of service done for him. * * * * * Although there was much laughing at this Novell, the Ladies understanding it better, then _Dioneus_ intended that they should have done, yet himselfe scarsely smiled. But the Novels being all ended, and the Sunne beginning to loose his heate; the Queene also knowing, that the full period of her government was come: dispossessing her selfe of the Crowne, shee placed it on the head of _Pamphilus_, who was the last of all to be honoured with this dignity; wherefore (with a gracious smile) thus she spake to him. Sir, it is no meane charge which you are to undergo, in making amends (perhaps) for all the faults committed by my selfe and the rest, who have gone before you in the same authority; and, may it prove as prosperous unto you, as I was willing to create you our King. _Pamphilus_ having received the Honour with a chearfull mind, thus answered. Madam, your sacred vertues, and those (beside) remaining in my other Subjects, will (no doubt) worke so effectually for me, that (as the rest have done) I shall deserve your generall good opinion. And having given order to the Master of the Houshold (as all his predecessors had formerly done, for every necessary occasion) he turned to the Ladies, who expected his gracious favour, and said. Bright Beauties, it was the discretion of your late Soveraigne & Queene, in regard of ease and recreation unto your tyred spirits, to grant you free liberty, for discoursing on whatsoever your selves best pleased: wherefore, having enjoyed such a time of rest, I am of opinion, that it is best to returne once more to our wonted Law, in which respect, I would have every one to speake in this manner to morrow. Namely, of those men or women, who have done any thing bountifully or magnificently, either in matter of amity, or otherwise. The relation of such worthy arguments, will (doubtlesse) give an addition to our very best desires, for a free and forward inclination to good actions, whereby our lives (how short soever they bee) may perpetuate an ever-living renowne and fame, after our mortall bodies are converted into dust, which (otherwise) are no better then those of bruite beasts, reason onely distinguishing this difference, that as they live to perish utterly, so we respire to reigne in eternity. The Theame was exceedingly pleasing to the whole Company; who being all risen, by permission of the new King, every one fel to their wonted recreations, as best agreed with their owne disposition; untill the houre for Supper came, wherein they were served very sumptuously. But being risen from the Table, they began their dances, among which, many sweet Sonnets were enterlaced, with such delicate Tunes as moved admiration. Then the King commanded Madam _Neiphila_, to sing a song in his name, or how her selfe stood best affected. And immediatly with a cleare and rare voice, thus she began. _THE SONG._ The Chorus sung by all the Companie. _In the Spring season, Maides have best reason, To dance and sing; With Chaplets of Flowers, To decke up their Bowers, And all in honour of the Spring._ _I heard a Nimph that sate alone, By a Fountaines side: Much her hard Fortune to bemone, For still she cride: Ah! Who will pitty her distresse, That findes no foe like ficklenesse? For truth lives not in men: Poore soule, why live I then? In the Spring season, &c._ _Oh, How can mighty Love permit, Such a faithlesse deed, And not in justice punish it As treasons meed? I am undone through perjury, Although I loved constantly: But truth lives not in men, Poore soule, why live I then? In the Spring season,&c._ _When I did follow Dyans traine, As a loyall Maide, I never felt oppressing paine, Nor was dismaide. But when I listened Loves alluring, Then I wandred from assuring. For truth lives not in men: Poore soule, why live I then? In the Spring season, &c._ _Adiew to all my former joyes, When I lived at ease, And welcome now those sad annoies Which do most displease. And let none pitty her distresse, That fell not, but by ficklenesse. For truth lives not in men, Alas! why live I then?_ _In the Spring season, Maides have best reason, To dance and sing; With Chaplets of Flowers, To decke up their Bowers, And all in honour of the Spring._ This Song, most sweetly sung by Madame _Neiphila_, was especially commended, both by the King, & all the rest of the Ladies. Which being fully finished, the King gave order, that everie one should repaire to their Chambers, because a great part of the night was already spent. _The end of the Ninth Day._ The Tenth and last Day. _Whereon, under the government of Pamphilus, the severall Arguments do concerne such persons, as either by way of Liberality, or in Magnificent manner, performed any worthy action, for love, favour, friendship, or any other honourable occasion._ The Induction. Already began certaine small Clouds in the West, to blush with a Vermillion tincture, when those in the East (having reached to their full heighth) looked like bright burnished Gold, by splendour of the Sun beames drawing neere unto them: when _Pamphilus_ being risen, caused the Ladies, and the rest of his honourable companions to be called. When they were all assembled, and had concluded together on the place, whither they should walke for their mornings recreation: the King ledde on the way before, accompanied with the two Noble Ladies _Philomena_ and _Fiammetta_, all the rest following after them, devising, talking, and answering to divers demands both what that day was to be don, as also concerning the proposed imposition. After they had walked an indifferent space of time, and found the rayes of the Sunne to be over-piercing for them: they returned backe againe to the Pallace, as fearing to have their blood immoderately heated. Then rinsing their Glasses in the coole cleare running current, each tooke their mornings draught, & then walked into the milde shades about the Garden, untill they should bee summoned to dinner. Which was no sooner over-past, and such as slept, returned waking: they mette together againe in their wonted place, according as the King had appointed, where he gave command unto Madame _Neiphila_, that shee should (for that day) begin the first Novell, which she humbly accepting, thus began. _A Florentine knight, named Signior_ Rogiero de Figiovanni, _became a servant to_ Alphonso, _King of_ Spaine, _who (in his owne opinion) seemed but sleightly to respect and reward him. In regard whereof, by a notable experiment, the King gave him a manifest testimony, that it was not through any defect in him, but onely occasioned by the Knights ill fortune; most bountifully recompensing him afterward._ The First Novell. _Wherein may evidently be discerned, that Servants to Princes and great Lords, are many times recompenced, rather by their good fortune, then in any regard of their dutifull services._ I doe accept it (Worthy Ladies) as no mean favour, that the King hath given me the first place, to speake of such an honourable Argument, as Bounty and Magnificence is, which precious Jewell, even as the Sunne is the beauty, or ornament and bright glory of al heaven; so is bounty and magnificence the Crowne of all vertues. I shall then recount to you a short Novell, sufficiently pleasing, in mine owne opinion, and I hope (so much I dare rely on your judgements) both profitable, and worthy to be remembred. You are to know then, that among other valiant Knights, which of long have lived in our City, one of them, and (perhappes) of as great merit as any, was one, named Signior _Rogiero d'Figiovanni_. He being rich, of great courage, and perceiving, that (in due consideration) the quality belonging to life, and the customes observed among our _Tuscanes_, were not answerable to his expectation, nor agreed with the disposition of his valour; determined to leave his native Countrey, and belong in service (for some time) to _Alfonso_, King of _Spaine_, whose fame was generally noised in all places, for excelling all other Princes in those times, for respect of mens well deservings, and bountifull requitall of their paines. Being provided in honorable order, both of Horses, Armes, & a competent train, he travelled to _Spaine_, where he was worthily entertained. Signior _Rogiero_ continuing there, living in honorable manner, and performing many admirable actions of arms; in short time he made himselfe sufficiently knowne, for a very valiant and famous man. And having remained there an indifferent long while, observing divers behaviours in the king: he saw, how he enclined himselfe first to one man, then to another, bestowing on one a Castle, a Towne on another, and Baronnies on divers, some-what indiscreetly, as giving away bountifully to men of no merit. And restraining all his favors from him, as seeming close fisted, and parting with nothing: he took it as a diminishing of his former reputation, and a great empayring of his fame, wherefore he resolved on his departure thence, & made his suit to the king that he might obtaine it. The king did grant it, bestowing on him one of the very best Mules, and the goodliest that ever was backt, a gift most highly pleasing to _Rogiero_, in regarde of the long journy he intended to ride. Which being deliverd, the king gave charge to one of his Gentlemen, to compasse such convenient meanes, as to ride thorow the country, and in the company of Signior _Rogiero_, yet in such manner, as he should not perceive, that the King had purposely sent him so to do. Respectively he should observe whatsoever he said concerning the king, his gesture, smiles, and other behavior, shaping his answers accordingly, and on the nexte morning to command his returne backe with him to the King. Nor was the Gentleman slacke in this command, but noting _Rogieroes_ departing forth of the city, he mounted on horseback likewise, and immediatly after came into his company, making him beleeve, that he journied towards _Italy. Rogiero_ rode on the Mule which the king had given him, with diversity of speeches passing between them. About three of the clocke in the afternoone, the Gentleman said. It were not amisse Sir, (having such fit opportunitie) to Stable our horses for a while, till the heate be a little more overpast. So taking an Inne, and the horses being in the stable, they all staled except the Mule. Being mounted againe, and riding on further, the Gentleman duely observed whatsoever _Rogiero_ spake, and comming to the passage of a small River or Brooke: the rest of the beasts dranke, and not the Mule, but staled in the River: which Signior _Rogiero_ seeing, clapping his hands on the Mules mane, hee said. What a wicked beast art thou? thou art just like thy Master that gave thee to mee. The Gentleman committed the words to memory, as he did many other passing from _Rogiero_, riding along the rest of the day, yet none in disparagement of the King, but rather highly in his commendation. And being the next morning mounted on horseback, seeming to hold on still the way for _Tuscane_: the Gentleman fulfilled the Kings command, causing Signior _Rogiero_ to turne back againe with him, which willingly he yeelded to doe. When they were come to the Court, and the King made acquainted with the words, which _Rogiero_ spake to his Mule; he was called into the presence, where the King shewed him a gracious countenance, & demanded of him, why he had compared him to his Mule? Signior _Rogiero_ nothing daunted, but with a bold and constant spirit, thus answered. Sir, I made the comparison, because, like as you give, where there is no conveniency, and bestow nothing where reason requireth: even so, the Mule would not stale where she should have done, but where was water too much before, there she did it. Beleeve me Signior _Rogiero_, replyed the King, if I have not given you such gifts, as (perhaps) I have done to divers other, farre inferiour to you in honour and merit; this happened not thorough any ignorance in me, as not knowing you to be a most valiant Knight, and well-worthy of speciall respect: but rather through your owne ill fortune, which would not suffer me to doe it, whereof she is guilty, and not I, as the truth thereof shall make it selfe apparent to you. Sir, answered _Rogiero_, I complaine not, because I have received no gift from you, as desiring thereby covetously to become the richer: but in regard you have not as yet any way acknowledged, what vertue is remaining in me. Neverthelesse, I allow your excuse for good and reasonable, and am heartely contented, to behold whatsoever you please; although I doe confidently credit you, without any other testimony. The King conducted him then into the great Hall, where (as hee had before given order) stood two great Chests, fast lockt; & in the presence of all his Lords, the King thus spake. Signior _Rogiero_, in out of these Chests is mine imperiall Crowne, the Scepter Royall, the Mound, & many more of my richest girdles, rings, plate, & Jewels, even the very best that are mine: the other is full of earth onely. Chuse one of these two, and which thou makest election of; upon my Royall word thou shalt enjoy it. Hereby shalt thou evidently perceive, who hath bin ingreatful to the deservings, either I, or thine owne bad fortune. _Rogiero_ seeing it was the kings pleasure to have it so; chose one of them, which the King caused presently to be opened, it approving to be the same that was full of earth, whereat the King smyling, said thus unto him. You see Signior _Rogiero_, that what I said concerning your ill fortune, is very true: but questionlesse, your valour is of such desert, as I ought to oppose my selfe against all her malevolence. And because I know right, that you are not minded to become a Spaniard; I will give you neither Castle nor dwelling place: but I will bestow the Chest on you (in meer despight of your malicious fortune) which she so unjustly tooke away from you. Carry it home with you into your Countrey, that there it may make an apparant testimoney, in the sight of all your well-willers, both of your owne vertuous deservings, and my bounty. Signior _Rogiero_ humbly receiving the Chest, and thanking his Majestie for so liberall a gift, returned home joyfully therewith, into his native Countrey of _Tuscane_. Ghinotto di Tacco; _tooke the Lord Abbot of_ Clugni _as his prisoner, and cured him of a grievous disease, which he had in his stomacke, and afterward set him at liberty. The same Lord Abbot, when hee returned from the Court of Rome, reconciled_ Ghinotto _to Pope_ Boniface; _who made him a Knight, and Lord Prior of a goodly Hospitall._ The second Novell. _Wherein is declared that good men doe sometimes fall into bad conditions, onely occasioned thereto by necessity: And what meanes are to be used, for their reducing to goodnesse againe._ The magnificence and Royall bounty, which King _Alphonso_ bestowed on the Florentine knight, passed through the whole assembly with no mean applause; & the King (who gave it the greatest praise of al) commanded Madame _Eliza_, to take the second turne in order; whereupon, thus she began. Faire Ladies, if a king shewed himselfe magnificently minded, and expressed his liberall bounty to such a man, as had done him good and honourable services: it can be termed no more then a vertuous deed well done, and becomming a King. But what will we say, when we heare that a Prelate of the Church, shewed himselfe wondrously magnificent, and to such a one as was his enemy: can any malicious tongue speake ill of him? Undoubtedly, no other answere is to be made, but the action of the King was meerely vertue, and that of the Prelate, no lesse then a miracle: for how can it be otherwise, when they are more greedily covetous then women, and deadly enemies to all liberality? And although every man (naturally) desireth revenge for injuries and abuses done unto him: yet men of the Church, in regard that dayly they preached patience, and commaund (above all things else) remission of sinnes: it would appeare a mighty blemish in them, to be more froward and furious then other men. But I am to speake of a reverend Prelate of the Church, as also concerning his munificent bounty, to one that was his enemy, and yet became his reconciled friend, as you shall perceive by my Novell. _Ghinotto di Tacco_, for his insolent and stout robberies, became a man very farre famed, who being banished from _Sienna_, and an enemy to the Countes _Disanta Fiore_: prevailed so by his bold and headstrong perswasions, that the Towne of _Raticonfani_ rebelled against the Church of Rome, wherein he remaining; all passengers whatsoever, travelling any way thereabout, were robde and rifled by his theeving Companions. At the time whereof now I speake, _Boniface_ the eight, governed as Pope at Rome, and the Lord Abbot of _Clugni_ (accounted to be one of the richest Prelates in the world) came to Rome, and there either by some surfeit, excesse of feeding, or otherwise, his stomacke being grievously offended and pained; the Phisitians advised him, to travell to the Bathes at _Sienna_, where he should receive immediate cure. In which respect, his departure being licenced by the Pope, to set onward thither, with great and pompous Cariages, of Horses, Mules, and a goodly traine, without hearing any rumour of the theevish Consorts. _Ghinotto di Tacco_, being advertised of his comming, spred about his scouts and nettes, and without missing so much as one Page, shut up the Abbot, with all his traine and baggage, in a place of narrow restraint, out of which he could by no meanes escape. When this was done, he sent one of his most sufficient attendants, (well accompanyed) to the Lord Abbot, who said to him in his Masters name, that if his Lordship were so pleased, hee might come and visite _Ghinotto_ at his Castle. Which the Abbot hearing, answered chollerickly, that he would not come thither, because hee had nothing to say to _Ghinotto_: but meant to proceed on in his journy, and would faine see, who durst presume to hinder his passe. To which rough words, the messenger thus mildely answered. My Lord (quoth he) you are arrived in such a place, where we feare no other force, but the all-controlling power of heaven, clearely exempted from the Popes thunder-cracks, of maledictions, interdictions, excommunications, or whatsoever else: and therefore it would bee much better for you, if you pleased to do as _Ghinotto_ adviseth you. During the time of this their interparlance, the place was suddenly round ingirt with strongly armed theeves, and the Lord Abbot perceiving, that both he and all his followers were surprized: tooke his way (though very impatiently) towards the Castle, and likewise all his company and carriages with him. Being dismounted, hee was conducted (as _Ghinotto_ had appointed) all alone, into a small Chamber of the Castle, it being very darke and uneasie: but the rest of his traine, every one according to his ranck and quality, were all well lodged in the Castle, their horses, goods and all things else, delivered into secure keeping, without the least touch of injury or prejudice. All which being orderly done, _Ghinotto_ himselfe went to the Lord Abbot, and said. My Lord, _Ghinotto_, to whom you are a welcome guest, requesteth, that it might be your pleasure to tell him, whither you are travelling, and upon what occasion? The Lord Abbot being a very wise man, and his angry distemper more moderately qualified; revealed whither he went, and the cause of his going thither. Which when _Ghinotto_ had heard, hee departed courteously from him, and began to consider with himselfe, how he might cure the Abbot; yet without any Bathe. So, commanding a good fire to be kept continually in his small Chamber, and very good attendance on him: the next morning, he came to visite him againe, bringing a faire white Napkin on his arme, and in it two slices or toasts of fine Manchet, a goodly cleare Glasse, full of the purest white-Bastard of _Corniglia_ (but indeed, of the Abbots owne provision brought thither with him) and then hee spoke to him in this manner. My Lord, when _Ghinotto_ was yonger then now he is, he studyed Physicke, and he commanded me to tell you, that the very best medicine, he could ever learne, against any disease in the stomacke, was this which he had provided for your Lordship, as an especial preparative, and which he should finde to be very comfortable. The Abbot, who had a better stomacke to eate, then any will or desire to talke: although hee did it somewhat disdainfully, yet hee eate up both the toastes, and roundly dranke off the Glasse of Bastard. Afterward, divers other speeches passed betweene them, the one still advising in Phisicall manner, and the other seeming to care little for it: but moved many questions concerning _Ghinotto_, and earnestly requesting to see him. Such speeches as favoured of the Abbots discontentment, and came from him in passion; were clouded with courteous acceptance, & not the least signe of any mislike: but assuring his Lordship, that _Ghinotto_ intended very shortly to see him, and so they parted for that time. Nor returned he any more, till the next morning with the like two toastes of bread, and such another Glasse of white Bastard, as he had brought him at the first, continuing the same course for divers dayes after: till the Abbot had eaten (and very hungerly too) a pretty store of dryed Beanes, which _Ghinotto_ purposely, (yet secretly) had hidden in the Chamber. Whereupon he demaunded of him (as seeming to be so enjoyned by his pretended master) in what temper he found his stomacke now? I should finde my stomacke well enough (answered the Lord Abbot) if I could get forth of thy masters fingers, and then have some good food to feed on: for his medicines have made me so soundly stomackt, that I am ready to starve with hunger. When _Ghinotto_ was gone from him, hee then prepared a very faire Chamber for him, adorning it with the Abbots owne rich hangings, as also his Plate and other moveables, such as were alwayes used for his service. A costly dinner he provided likewise, whereto he invited divers of the Towne, and many of the Abbots chiefest followers: then going to him againe the next morning, he said. My Lord, seeing you doe feele your stomacke so well, it is time you should come forth of the Infirmary. And taking him by the hand, he brought him into the prepared Chamber, where he left him with his owne people, and went to give order for the dinners serving in, that it might be performed in magnificent manner. The Lord Abbot recreated himselfe a while with his owne people, to whom he recounted, the course of his life since hee saw them; and they likewise told him, how kindly they had bin initeated by _Ghinotto_. But when dinner time was come, the Lord Abbot and all his company, were served with Costly viands and excellent Wines, without _Ghinottoes_ making himselfe knowne to the Abbot: till after he had beene entertained some few dayes in this order: into the great Hall of the Castle, _Ghinotto_ caused all the Abbots goods and furniture to bee brought, and likewise into a spacious Court, whereon the windowes of the said Court gazed, all his mules and horses, with their sumpters, even to the very silliest of them, which being done, _Ghinotto_ went to the Abbot, and demaunded of him, how he felt his stomacke now, and whether it would serve him to venter on horsebacke as yet, or no? The Lord Abbot answered, that he found his stomacke perfectly recovered, his body strong enough to endure travell, and all things well, so hee were delivered from _Ghinotto_. Hereupon, he brought him into the hall where his furniture was, as also all his people, & commanding a window to be opned, whereat he might behold his horses, he said. My Lord, let me plainely give you to understand, that neither cowardise, or basenesse of minde, induced _Ghinotto di Tacco_ (which is my selfe) to become a lurking robber on the high-wayes, an enemy to the Pope, and so (consequently) to the Romane Court: but onely to save his owne life and honour, knowing himselfe to be a Gentleman cast out of his owne house, and having (beside) infinite enemies. But because you seeme to be a worthy Lord, I will not (although I have cured your stomacks disease) deale with you as I doe to others, whose goods (when they fall into my power) I take such part of as I please: but rather am well contented, that my necessities being considered by your selfe, you spare me out a proportion of the things you have heere, answerable to your owne liking. For all are present here before you, both in this Hall, and in the Court beneath, free from any spoyle, or the least impairing. Wherefore, give a part, or take all, if you please, and then depart hence when you will, or abide heere still, for now you are at your owne free liberty. The Lord Abbot wondred not a little, that a robber on the high wayes, should have such a bold and liberall spirit, which appeared very pleasing to him; and instantly, his former hatred and spleene against _Ghinotto_, became converted into cordiall love and kindnes, so that (imbracing him in his armes) he said. I protest upon my vow made to Religion, that to win the love of such a man, as I plainely perceive thee to be: I would undergo far greater injuries, then those which I have received at thy hands. Accursed be cruell destiny, that forced thee to so base a kind of life, and did not blesse thee with a fairer fortune. After he had thus spoken, he left there the greater part of all his goods, and returned back againe to Rome, with fewer horses, and a meaner traine. During these passed accidents, the Pope had received intelligence of the Lord Abbots surprizall, which was not a little displeasing to him: but when he saw him returned, he demaunded, what benefit he received at the Bathes? Whereto the Abbot, merrily smyling, thus replyed. Holy Father, I met with a most skilfull Physitian neerer hand, whose experience is beyond the power of the Bathes, for by him I am very perfectly cured: and so discoursed all at large. The Pope laughing heartely, and the Abbot continuing on still his report, moved with an high and magnificent courage, he demaunded one gracious favour of the Pope: who imagining that he would request a matter of greater moment, then he did, freely offered to grant, whatsoever he desired. Holy Father, answered the Lord Abbot, all the humble suit which I make to you, is, that you would be pleased to receive into your grace and favor, _Ghinotto di Tacco_ my Physitian, because among all the vertuous men, deserving to have especial account made of them I never met with any equall to him both in honour and honesty. Whatsoever injury he did to me, I impute it as a greater in-fortune, then any way he deserveth to be charged withall. Which wretched condition of his, if you were pleased to alter, and bestow on him some better meanes of maintenance, to live like a worthy man, as he is no lesse: I make no doubt, but (in very short time) hee will appeare as pleasing to your holinesse, as (in my best judgement) I thinke him to be. The Pope, who was of a magnanimious spirit, and one that highly affected men of vertue, hearing the commendable motion made by the Abbot; returned answere, that he was as willing to grant it, as the other desired it, sending Letters of safe conduct for his comming thither. _Ghinotto_ receiving such assurance from the Court of Rome, came thither immediatly, to the great joy of the Lord Abbot: and the Pope finding him to be a man of valour and worth, upon reconciliation, remitted all former errors, creating him knight, and Lord Prior of the very chiefest Hospitall in Rome. In which Office he lived long time after, as a loyall servant to the Church, and an honest thankefull friend to the Lord Abbot of _Clugny_. Mithridanes _envying the life and liberality of_ Nathan, _and travelling thither, with a setled resolution to kill him: chaunceth to conferre with_ Nathan _unknowne. And being instructed by him, in what manner he might best performe the bloody deede, according as hee gave direction, hee meeteth with him in a small Thicket or Woode, where knowing him to be the same man, that taught him how to take away his life: Confounded with shame, hee acknowledgeth his horrible intention, and becommeth his loyall friend._ The third Novell. _Shewing in an excellent and lively demonstration, that any especiall honourable vertue, persevering and dwelling in a truly noble soule, cannot be violenced or confounded, by the most politicke attemptes of malice and envy._ It appeared to the whole assembly, that they had heard a matter of mervaile, for a Lord Abbot to performe any magnificent action: but their admiration ceasing in silence, the King commanded _Philostratus_ to follow next, who forthwith thus began. Honourable Ladies, the bounty and magnificence of _Alphonso_ King of _Spaine_, was great indeede, and that done by the Lord Abbot of _Clugny_, a thing (perhaps) never heard of in any other. But it will seeme no lesse mervailous to you, when you heare, how one man, in expression of great liberality to another man, that earnestly desired to kill him; should bee secretly disposed to give him his life, which had bin lost, if the other would have taken it, as I purpose to acquaint you withall, in a short Novell. Most certaine it is, at least, if Faith may bee given to the report of certaine _Genewayes_, and other men resorting to those remote parts, that in the Country of _Cathaya_, there lived somtime a Gentleman, rich beyond comparison, and named _Nathan_. He having his living adjoyning to a great common rode-way, whereby men travayled from the East to the West (as they did the like from the West unto the East, as having no other means of passage) and being of a bountifull and chearfull disposition, which he was willing to make knowen by experience: he summoned together many Master Masons and Carpenters, and there erected (in a short time) one of the greatest, goodliest, and most beautifull houses (in manner of a Princes Pallace) that ever was seene in all those quarters. With movables and all kinde of furnishment, befitting a house of such outward apparance, hee caused it to be plentifully stored, onely to receive, entertaine, and honor all Gentlemen or other Travailers whatsoever, as had occasion to passe that way, being not unprovided also of such a number of servants, as might continuallie give attendance on all commers and goers. Two and fifty severall gates, standing al way wide open, & over each of them in great golden carracters was written, _Welcome, welcome,_ and gave free admission to all commers whatsoever. In this honourable order (observed as his estated custom) he persevered so long a while, as not onely the East parts, but also those in the west, were every where acquainted with his fame & renown. Being already well stept into yeares, but yet not wearie (therefore) of his great charge and liberality: it fortuned, that the rumour of his noble Hospitality, came to the eare of another gallant Gentleman, named _Mithridanes_, living in a Countrey not farre off from the other. This Gentleman, knowing himself no lesse wealthy then _Nathan_, and enviously repining at his vertue and liberality, determined in his mind, to dim and obscure the others bright splendour, by making himselfe farre more famous. And having built a Palace answerable to that of _Nathans_, with like windings of gates, and welcome inscriptions; he beganne to extend immeasurable courtesies, unto all such as were disposed to visite him: so that (in a short while) hee grew very famous in infinite places. It chanced on a day, as _Mithridanes_ sate all alone within the goodly Court of his Pallace: a poore woman entred at one of the gates, craving an almes of him, which she had; and returned in againe at a second gate, comming also to him, and had a second almes; continuing so still a dozen times; but at the thirteenth returning, _Mithridanes_ saide to her: Good Woman, you goe and come very often, and still you are served with almes. When the old Woman heard these words, she said. O the liberality of _Nathan_! How honourable and wonderfull is that? I have past through two and thirty gates of his Palace, even such as are here, and at every one I receyved an almes, without any knowledgement taken of me, either by him, or any of his followers: and heere I have past but through thirteene gates, and am there both acknowledged and taken. Fare well to this house, for I never meane to visit it any more; with which words shee departed thence, and never after came thither againe. When _Mithridanes_ had a while pondered on her speeches, hee waxed much discontented, as taking the words of the olde woman, to extoll the renowne of _Nathan_, and darken or ecclipse his glorie, whereupon he said to himselfe. Wretched man as I am, when shall I attaine to the height of liberality, and performe such wonders, as _Nathan_ doth? In seeking to surmount him, I cannot come neere him in the very meanest. Undoubtedly, I spend all my endeavour but in vaine, except I rid the world of him, which (seeing his age will not make an end of him) I must needs do with my own hands. In which furious and bloody determination (without revealing his intent to any one) he mounted on horse-backe, with few attendants in his company, and after three dayes journey, arrived where _Nathan_ dwelt. He gave order to his men, to make no shew of beeing his servants, or any way to acknowledge him: but to provide them selves of convenient lodgings, untill they heard other tydings from him. About Evening, and (in this manner) alone by himselfe, neere to the Palace of _Nathan_, he met him solitarily walking, not in pompous apparrell, whereby to bee distinguished from a meaner man: and, because he knew him not, neyther had heard any relation of his description, he demanded of him, if he knew where _Nathan_ then was? _Nathan_, with a chearfull countenance, thus replyed. Faire Syr, there is no man in these parts, that knoweth better how to shew you _Nathan_ then I do; and therefore, if you be so pleased, I will bring you to him. _Mithridanes_ said, therein he should do him a great kindnesse: albeit (if it were possible) he would bee neyther knowne nor seene of _Nathan_. And that (quoth he) can I also do sufficiently for you, seeing it is your will to have it so, if you will goe along with me. Dismounting from his horse, he walked on with _Nathan_, diversly discoursing, untill they came to the Pallace, where one of the servants taking _Mithridanes_ his horse, _Nathan_ rounded the fellow in the eare, that he should give warning to all throughout the House, for revealing to the Gentleman, that he was _Nathan_; as accordingly it was performed. No sooner were they within the Pallace, but he conducted _Mithridanes_ into a goodly chamber, where none (as yet) had seene him, but such as were appointed to attend on him reverently; yea, and he did himselfe greatly honor him, as being loth to leave his company. While thus _Mithridanes_ conversed with him, he desired to know (albeit he respected him much for his yeares) what he was. Introth Sir, answered _Nathan_, I am one of the meanest servants to _Nathan_, and from my child-hood, have made my selfe thus olde in his service: yet never hath he bestowed any other advancement on mee, then as you now see; in which respect, howsoever other men may commend him, yet I have no reason at all to do it. These Words, gave some hope to _Mithridanes_, that with a little more counsell, he might securely put in execution his wicked determination. _Nathan_ likewise demaunded of him (but in very humble manner) of whence, and what he was, as also the businesse inviting him thither: offering him his utmost aide and counsell, in what soever consisted in his power. _Mithridanes_ sat an indifferent while meditating with his thoughts before he would returne any answer: but at the last, concluding to repose confidence in him (in regard of his pretended discontentment) with many circumstantiall perswasions, first for fidelity, next for constancie, and lastly for counsell and assistance, he declared to him truly what he was, the cause of his comming thither, and the reason urging him thereto. _Nathan_ hearing these words, and the detestable deliberation of _Mithridanes_, became quite changed in himself: yet wisely making no outward appearance thereof, with a bold courage and setled countenance, thus he replyed. _Mithridanes_, thy Father was a Noble Gentleman, and (in vertuous qualities) inferiour to none, from whom (as now I see) thou desirest not to degenerate, having undertaken so bold & high an enterprise, I meane, in being liberall and bountifull to all men. I do greatly commend the envy which thou bearest to the vertue of _Nathan_: because if there were many more such men, the world that is now wretched and miserable, would become good and conformable. As for the determination which thou hast disclosed to mee, I have sealed it up secretly in my soule: wherein I can better give thee counsell, then any especiall helpe or furtherance: and the course which I would have thee to observe, followeth thus in few words. This window, which we now looke forth at, sheweth thee a small wood or thicket of trees, being little more then the quarter of a miles distance hence; whereto _Nathan_ usually walketh every morning, and there continueth time long enough: there maist thou very easily meet him, and do whatsoever thou intended to him. If thou kilst him, because thou maist with safety returne home unto thine owne abiding, take not the same way which guided thee thither, but another, lying on the left hand, & directing speedily out of the wood, as being not so much haunted as the other, but rather free from all resort, and surest for visiting thine owne countrey, after such a dismall deed is done. When _Mithridanes_ had receyved this instruction, and _Nathan_ was departed from him, hee secretly gave intelligence to his men, (who likewise were lodged, as welcome strangers, in the same house) at what place they should stay for him the next morning. Night being passed over, and _Nathan_ risen, his heart altred not a jot from his counsell given to _Mithridanes_, much lesse changed from anie part thereof: but all alone by himselfe, walked on to the wood, the place appointed for his death. _Mithridanes_ also being risen, taking his Bow & Sword (for other weapons had he none) mounted on hors-backe, and so came to the wood, where (somewhat farre off) hee espyed _Nathan_ walking, and no creature with him. Dismounting from his horse, he had resolved (before he would kill him) not onely to see, but also to heare him speake: so stepping roughly to him, and taking hold of the bonnet on his head, his face being then turned from him, he sayde. Old man, thou must dye. Whereunto _Nathan_ made no other answer, but thus: Why then (belike) I have deserved it. When _Mithridanes_ heard him speake, and looked advisedly on his face, he knew him immediatly to be the same man, that had entertained him so lovingly, conversed with him so familiarly, and counselled him so faithfully: all which overcomming his former fury, his harsh nature became meerly confounded with shame: So throwing downe his drawne sword, which he held readily prepared for the deede: he prostrated himselfe at _Nathans_ feet, and in teares, spake in this manner. Now do I manifestly know (most loving Father) your admired bounty and liberalitie; considering, with what industrious providence, you made the meanes for your comming hither, prodigally to bestow your life on me, which I have no right unto, although you were so willing to part with it. But those high and supreame powers, more carefull of my dutie, then I my selfe: even at the very instant, and when it was most needfull, opened the eyes of my better understanding, which infernall envy had closed up before. And therefore, looke how much you have bin forward to pleasure me; so much the more shame and punishment, I confesse my heinous transgression hath justly deserved: take therefore on me (if you please) such revenge, as you thinke (in justice) answerable to my sin. _Nathan_ lovingly raised _Mithridanes_ from the ground, then kissing his cheeke, and tenderly embracing him, he said. Sonne, thou needed not to aske, much lesse to obtaine pardon, for any enterprise of thine, which thou canst not yet terme to be good or bad: because thou soughtest not to bereave me of my life, for any hatred thou barest me, but onely in coveting to be reputed the Woorthier man. Take then this assurance of me, and beleeve it constantly, that there is no man living, whom I love and honour, as I do thee: considering the greatnesse of thy minde, which consisteth not in the heaping up of money, as wretched and miserable Worldlings make it their onely felicity; but, contending in bounty to spend what is thine, didst hold it for no shame to kill me, thereby to make thy selfe so much the more worthily famous. Nor is it any matter to be wondred at, in regard that Emperors, and the greatest Kings, hadde never made such extendure of their Dominions, and consequently of their renowne, by any other Art, then killing; yet not one man onely, as thou wouldst have done: but infinite numbers, burning whole Countries, and making desolate huge Townes and Cities, onely to enlarge their dominion, and further spreading of their fame. Wherefore, if for the increasing of thine owne renowne, thou wast desirous of my death: it is no matter of novelty, and therefore deserving the lesse mervaile, seeing men are slaine daily, and all for one purpose or other. _Mithridanes_, excusing no further his malevolent deliberation, but rather commending the honest defence, which _Nathan_ made on his behalfe; proceeded so farre in after discoursing, as to tel him plainely, that it did wondrously amaze him, how he durst come to the fatall appointed place, himselfe having so exactly plotted and contrived his owne death: whereunto _Nathan_ returned this aunswere. I would not have thee _Mithridanes_, to wonder at my counsell or determination; because, since age hath made mee Maister of mine owne will, and I resolved to doe that, wherein thou hast begun to follow me: never came any man to mee, whom I did not content (if I could) in any thing he demanded of mee. It was thy fortune to come for my life, which when I saw thee so desirous to have it, I resolved immediately to bestow it on thee: and so much the rather, because thou shouldst not be the onely man, that ever departed hence, without enjoying whatsoever hee demanded. And, to the end thou mightst the more assuredly have it, I gave thee that advice, least by not enjoying mine, thou shouldest chance to loose thine owne. I have had the use of it full fourescore yeares, with the consummation of all my delights and pleasures: and well I know, that according to the course of Nature (as it fares with other men, and generally all things else) it cannot bee long before it must leave mee. Wherefore, I hold it much better for me to give it away freely, as I have alwayes done my goods and treasure; then bee curious in keeping it, and suffer it to be taken from me (whether I will or no) by Nature. A small gift it is, if time make me up the full summe of an hundred yeares: how miserable is it then, to stand beholding but for foure or five, and all of them vexation too? Take it then I intreate thee, if thou wilt have it; for I never met with any man before (but thy selfe) that did desire it, nor (perhaps) shall finde any other to request it: for the longer I keepe it, the worse it will be esteemed: and before it grow contemptible, take it I pray thee. _Mithridanes_, being exceedingly confounded with shame, bashfully sayde: Fortune fore-fend, that I should take away a thing so precious as your life is, or once to have so vile a thought of it as lately I had; but rather then I would diminish one day thereof, I could wish, that my time might more amply enlarge it. Forthwith aunswered _Nathan_, saying. Wouldst thou (if thou couldst) shorten thine owne dayes, onely to lengthen mine? Why then thou wouldest have me to do that to thee, which (as yet) I never did unto any man, namely, robbe thee, to enrich my selfe. I will enstruct thee in a much better course, if thou wilt be advised by mee. Lusty and young, as now thou art, thou shalt dwell heere in my house, and be called by the name of _Nathan_. Aged, and spent with yeares, as thou seest I am, I will goe live in thy house, and bee called by the name of _Mithridanes_. So, both the name and place shall illustrate thy Glorie, and I live contentedly, without the very least thought of envie. Deare Father, answered _Mithridanes_, if I knew so well howe to direct mine owne actions, as you doe, and alwayes have done, I would gladly accept your most liberall offer: but because I plainlie perceive, that my very best endeavours, must remayne darkened by the bright renowne of _Nathan_: I will never seeke to impayre that in another, which I cannot (by any means) increase in my selfe, but (as you have worthily taught me) live contented with my owne condition. After these, and many more like loving speeches had passed between them, according as _Nathan_ very instantly requested, _Mithridanes_ returned back with him to the Pallace, where many dayes he highly honored & respected him, comforting & counselling him, to persever alwayes in his honourable determination. But in the end, when _Mithridanes_ could abide there no longer, because necessary occasions called him home: he departed thence with his men, having found by good experience, that hee could never goe beyond _Nathan_ in liberality. Signior Gentile de Carisendi, _being come from_ Modena, _took a Gentlewoman, named Madam_ Catharina, _forth of a grave, wherein she was buried for dead: which act he did, in regard of his former honest affection to the said Gentlewoman. Madame_ Catharina _remaining afterward, and delivered of a goodly Sonne: was (by_ Signior _there_ Gentile) _delivered to her owne Husband, named_ Signior Nicoluccio Caccianimico, _and the yong infant with her._ The Fourth Novell. _Wherein is shewne, That true love hath alwayes bin, and so still is, the occasion of many great and worthy courtesies._ By judgment of all the honorable assembly, it was reputed wonderfull, that a man should be so bountifull, as to give away his owne life, and to his hatefull enemy. In which respect, it passed with generall affirmation, that _Nathan_ (in the vertue of liberallity) had exceeded _Alphonso_, King of _Spaine_, but (especially) the Abbot of _Clugny_. So, after every one had delivered their opinion, the King, turning himselfe to Madame _Lauretta_, gave her such a signe, as well instructed her understanding, that she should be the next in order, whereto she gladly yeelding, began in this manner. Youthfull Ladies, the discourses already past, have been so worthy and magnificent, yea, reaching to such a height of glorious splendour; as (me thinkes) there remaineth no more matter, for us that are yet to speake, whereby to enlarge so famous an Argument, and in such manner as it ought to be: except we lay hold on the actions of love, wherein is never any want of subject, it is so faire and spacious a field to walke in. Wherefore, as well in behalfe of the one, as advancement of the other, whereto our instant age is most of all inclined: I purpose to acquaint you with a generous and magnificent act, of an amourous Gentleman, which when it shall be duely considered on, perhaps will appeare equall to any of the rest. At least, if it may passe for currant, that men may give away their treasures, forgive mighty injuries, and lay downe life it selfe, honour and renowne (which is farre greater) to infinite dangers, only to attaine any thing esteemed and affected. Understand then (Gracious hearers) that in _Bologna_, a very famous City of _Lombardie_, there lived sometime a Knight, most highly respected for his vertues, named Signior _Gentile de Carisendi_, who (in his yonger dayes) was enamoured of a Gentlewoman, called Madam _Catharina_, the Wife of Signior _Nicoluccio Caccianimico_. And because during the time of his amourous pursuite, he found but a sorry enterchange of affection from the Lady; hee went (as hopelesse of any successe) to be Potestate of _Modena_, whereto he was called by place and order. At the same time, Signior _Nicoluccio_ being absent from _Bologna_, and his Lady at a Farme-house of his in the Countrey (about three miles distant from the City) because she was great with child, and somewhat neere the time of her teeming: it came to passe, that some dangerous accident befell her, which was so powerfull in operation, as no signe of life appeared remained in her, but she was reputed (even in the judgement of the best Phisitians, whereof she wanted no attendance) to be verily dead. And because in the opinion of her parents and neerest kinred, the time for her deliverance was yet so farre off, as the Infant within her, wanted much of a perfect creature: they made the lesse mourning; but in the next Church, as also the vault belonging to her Ancestors, they gave her buriall very speedily. Which tydings comming to the hearing of Signior _Gentile_, by one that was his endeared friend: Although (while she lived) he could never be gracious in her favour, yet her so sudden death did greatly grieve him, whereupon he discoursed in this sort with himselfe. Deare Madame _Catharina_, I am not a little sorry for thy death, although (during thy life-time) I was scarcely worthy of one kind looke: Yet now being dead, thou canst not prohibite me, but I may robbe thee of a kisse. No sooner had hee spoke the words, but it beeing then night, and taking such order, as none might know of his departure: hee mounted on horse-backe, accompanied onely with one servant, and stayed no where, till hee came to the vault where the Lady was buried. Which when he had opened, with instruments convenient for the purpose, he descended downe into the vault, and kneeled downe by the Beere whereon she lay, and in her wearing garments, according to the usuall manner, with teares trickling mainly downe his cheekes, he bestowed infinite sweet kisses on her. But as we commonly see, that mens desires are never contented, but still will presume on further advantages, especially such as love entirely: so fared it with _Gentile_, who being once minded to get him gone, as satisfied with the oblation of his kisses; would needs yet step backe againe, saying. Why should I not touch her yvory breast, the Adamant that drew all desires to adore her? Ah let me touch it now, for never hereafter can I bee halfe so happy. Overcome with this alluring appetite, gently he laid his hand upon her breast, with the like awefull respect, as if she were living, and holding it so an indifferent while: either he felt, or his imagination so perswaded him, the heart of the Lady to beate and pant. Casting off all fond feare, and the warmth of his increasing the motion: his inward soule assured him, that she was not dead utterly, but had some small sense of life remaining in her, whereof he would needs be further informed. So gently as possible he could, and with the helpe of his man, he tooke her forth of the monument, & laying her softly on his horse before him, conveighed her closely to his house in _Bologna_. Signior _Gentile_ had a worthy Lady to his Mother, a woman of great wisdome and vertue, who understanding by her Sonne, how matters had happened; moved with compassion, and suffering no one in the house to know what was done, made a good fire, and very excellent Bathe, which recalled back againe wrong-wandering life. Then fetching a vehement sigh, opening her eyes, & looking very strangely about her, she said. Alas! where am I now? whereto the good old Lady kindly replyed, saying. Comfort your selfe Madame, for you are in a good place. Her spirits being in better manner met together, and she still gazing every way about her, not knowing well where she was, and seeing Signior _Gentile_ standing before her: he entreated his mother to tell her by what meanes she came thither; which the good old Lady did, _Gentile_ himselfe helping to relate the whole history. A while she grieved and lamented, but afterward gave them most hearty thankes, humbly requesting, that, in regard of the love he had formerly borne her, in his house she might finde no other usage, varying from the honour of her selfe and her Husband, and when day was come, to be conveighed home to her owne house. Madame, answered Signior _Gentile_, whatsoever I sought to gaine from you in former dayes, I never meane, either here, or any where else, to motion any more. But seeing it hath been my happy fortune, to prove the blessed means, of reducing you from death to life: you shall find no other entertainment here, then as if you were mine owne Sister. And yet the good deed which I have this night done for you, doth well deserve some courteous requitall: in which respect, I would have you not to deny me one favour, which I will presume to crave of you. Whereto the Lady lovingly replyed, that she was willing to grant it; provided, it were honest, and in her power: whereto Signior _Gentile_ thus answered. Madame, your parents, kindred and friends, and generally all throughout _Bologna_, doe verily thinke you to be dead, wherefore there is not any one, that will make any inquisition after you: in which regard, the favour I desire from you, is no more but to abide here secretly with my Mother, untill such time as I returne from _Modena_, which shall be very speedily. The occasion why I move this motion, aymeth at this end, that in presence of the chiefest persons of our City, I may make a gladsome present of you to your Husband. The Lady knowing her selfe highly beholding to the Knight, and the request he made to be very honest: disposed her selfe to doe as he desired (although she earnestly longed, to glad her parents and kindred with seeing her alive) and made her promise him on her faith, to effect it in such manner, as he pleased to appoint and give her direction. Scarcely were these words concluded, but she felt the custome of women to come upon her, with the paines and throwes incident to childing: wherefore, with helpe of the aged Lady, Mother to Signior _Gentile_, it was not long before her deliverance of a goodly Sonne, which greatly augmented the joy of her and _Gentile_, who tooke order, that all things belonging to a Woman in such a case, were not wanting, but she was as carefully respected, even as if she had been his owne Wife. Secretly he repaired to _Modena_, where having given direction for his place of authority; he returned back againe to _Bologna_, and there made preparation for a great and solemne feast, appointing who should be his invited guests, the very chiefest persons in _Bologna_, and (among them) Signior _Nicoluccio Caccianimico_ the especiall man. After he was dismounted from horsebacke, and found so good company attending for him (the Lady also, more faire and healthful then ever, and the Infant lively disposed) he sate downe at the Table with his guests, causing them to be served in most magnificent manner, with plenty of all delicates that could be devised, and never before was there such a Joviall feast. About the ending of dinner, closely he made the Lady acquainted with his further intention, and likewise in what order every thing should be done, which being effected, he returned to his company, & used these speeches. Honourable friends, I remember a discourse sometime made unto me, concerning the Countrey of _Persia_, and a kind of custome there observed, not to be misliked in mine opinion. When any one intended to honour his friend in effectuall manner, he invited him home to his house, and there would shew him the thing, which with greatest love he did respect; were it Wife, Friend, Sonne, Daughter, or any thing else whatsoever; wherewithall hee spared not to affirme, that as he shewed him those choyce delights, the like view he should have of his heart, if with any possibility it could be done; and the very same custome I meane now to observe here in our City. You have vouchsafed to honour me with your presence, at this poore homely dinner of mine, and I will welcome you after the _Persian_ manner, in shewing you the Jewell, which (above all things else in the world) I ever have most respectively esteemed. But before I doe it, I crave your favourable opinions in a doubt, which I will plainely declare unto you. If any man having in his house a good and faithfull servant, who falling into extremity of sickenesse, shall be throwne forth into the open street, without any care or pitty taken on him; A stranger chanceth to passe by, and (moved with compassion of his weakenesse) carryeth him home to his owne house, where using all charitable diligence, and not sparing any cost, he recovereth the sicke person to his former health. I now desire to know, if keeping the said restored person, and imploying him about his owne businesse: the first Master (by pretending his first right) may lawfully complaine of the second, and yeeld him backe againe to the first master, albeit he doe make challenge of him? All the Gentlemen, after many opinions passing among them, agreed altogether in one sentence, and gave charge to Signior _Nicoluccio Caccianimico_, (because he was an excellent and elegant speaker) to give answere for them all. First, he commended the custome observed in _Persia_, saying, he jumpt in opinion with all the rest, that the first Master had no right at all to the servant, having not onely (in such necessity) forsaken him, but also cast him forth into the comfortlesse street. But for the benefits and mercy extended to him; it was more then manifest, that the recovered person, was become justly servant to the second Master, and in detayning him from the first, hee did not offer him any injury at all. The whole Company sitting at the Table (being all very wise & worthy men) gave their verdict likewise with the confession of Signior _Nicoluccio Caccianimico_. Which answere did not a little please the Knight; and so much the rather, because _Nicoluccio_ had pronounced it, affirming himselfe to be of the same minde. So, sitting in a pretended musing a while, at length he said. My honourable guests, it is now more then high time, that I should doe you such honour, as you have most justly deserved, by performing the promise made unto you. Then calling two of his servants, he sent them to Madame _Catharina_ (whom he had caused to adorne her self in excellent manner) entreating her, that she would be pleased to grace his guests with her presence. _Catharina_, having deckt her child in costly habiliments, layed it in her armes, and came with the servants into the dyning Hall, and sate down (as the Knight had appointed) at the upper end of the Table, and then Signior _Gentile_ spake thus. Behold, worthy Gentlemen, this is the Jewell which I have most affected, and intend to love none other in the world; be you my Judges, whether I have just occasion to doe so, or no? The Gentlemen saluting her with respective reverence, said to the Knight; that he had great reason to affect her: And viewing her advisedly, many of them thought her to be the very same woman (as indeed she was) but that they beleeved her to be dead. But above all the rest _Nicoluccio Caccianimico_ could never be satisfied with beholding her; and, enflamed with earnest desire, to know what she was, could not refraine (seeing the Knight was gone out of the roome) but demaunded of her, whether she were of _Bologna_, or a stranger? when the Lady heard her selfe to be thus questioned, and by her Husband, it seemed painefull to her, to containe from answering: Neverthelesse, to perfect the Knights intended purpose, she sate silent. Others demaunded of her, whether the sweet Boy were hers, or no; and some questioned, if she were _Gentiles_ Wife, or no, or else his Kinsewoman; to all which demaunds, she returned not any answere. But when the Knight came to them againe, some of them said to him. Sir, this woman is a goodly creature, but she appeareth to be dumbe, which were great pitty, if it should be so. Gentlemen (quoth he) it is no small argument of her vertue, to sit still and silent at this instant. Tell us then (said they) of whence, and what she is. Therein (quoth he) I will quickely resolve you, upon your conditionall promise: that none of you do remove from his place, whatsoever shall be said or done, untill I have fully delivered my minde. Every one bound himselfe by solemne promise, to perform what he had appointed, and the Tables being voided, as also the Carpets laid; then the Knight (sitting downe by the Lady) thus began. Worthy Gentlemen, this Lady is that true and faithfull servant, whereof I moved the question to you, whom I tooke out of the cold street, where her parents, kindred and friends (making no account at all of her) threw her forth, as a thing vile and unprofitable. Neverthelesse, such hath been my care and cost, that I have rescued her out of deaths griping power; and, in a meere charitable disposition, which honest affection caused me to beare her; of a body, full of terror & affrighting (as then she was) I have caused her to become thus lovely as you see. But because you may more apparantly discerne, in what manner this occasion happened; I will lay it open to you in more familiar manner. Then he began the whole history, from the originall of his unbeseeming affection to her (in regard she was a worthy mans wife) and consequently, how all had happened to the instant houre, to the no meane admiration of all the hearers, adding withall. Now Gentlemen (quoth he) if you varry not from your former opinion, and especially Signior _Nicoluccio Caccianimico_: this Lady (by good right) is mine, and no man else, by any just title, can lay any claime to her. All sate silent, without answering one word, as expecting what he intended further to say: but in the meane while, _Nicoluccio_, the parents and kindred, but chiefely the Lady her selfe, appeared as halfe melted into teares with weeping. But Signior _Gentile_, starting up from the Table, taking the Infant in his arme, and leading the Lady by the hand, going to _Nicoluccio_, thus spake. Rise Sir, I will not give thee thy wife, whom both her kindred and thine, threw forth into the street: but I will bestow this Lady on thee, being my Gossip, and this sweet Boy my God-sonne, who was (as I am verily perswaded) begotten by thee, I standing witnesse for him at the Font of Baptisme, and give him mine owne name _Gentile_. Let me entreat thee, that, although she hath lived here in mine house, for the space of three monethes, she should not be lesse welcome to thee, then before: for I sweare to thee upon my soule, that my former affection to her (how unjust soever) was the onely meanes of preserving her life: and more honestly she could not live, with Father, Mother, or thy selfe, then she hath done here with mine owne Mother. Having thus spoken, he turned to the Lady, saying. Madame, I now discharge you of all promises made me, delivering you to your Husband franke and free: And when he had given him the Lady, and the child in his armes, he returned to his place, and sate downe againe. _Nicoluccio_, with no meane joy and hearty contentment received both his wife and childe, being before farre from expectation of such an admirable comfort; returning the Knight infinite thankes (as all the rest of the Company did the like) who could not refraine from weeping for meere joy, for such a strange and wonderfull accident: everyone highly commending _Gentile_, & such also as chanced to heare thereof. The Lady was welcommed home to her owne house, with many moneths of Joviall feasting, and as she passed through the streets, all beheld her with admiration, to be so happily recovered from her grave. Signior _Gentile_ lived long after, a loyall friend to _Nicoluccio_ and his Lady, and all that were well-willers to them. What thinke you now Ladies? Can you imagine, because a King gave away his Crowne and Scepter; and an Abbot (without any cost to himselfe) reconciled a Malefactor to the Pope; and an old idle-headed man, yeelding to the mercy of his enemy: that all those actions are comparable to this of Signior _Gentile_? Youth and ardent affection, gave him a just and lawfull title, to her who was free (by imagined death) from Husbands, Parents, and all friends else, she being so happily wonne into his owne possession. Yet honesty not onely over-swayed the heate of desire, which in many men is violent and immoderate: but with a bountifull and liberall soule, that which he coveted beyond all hopes else, and had within his owne command; he freely gave away. Beleeve me (bright Beauties) not any of the other (in a true and unpartiall judgement) are worthy to be equalled with this, or stiled by the name of magnificent actions. _Madame_ Dianora, _the Wife of Signior_ Gilberto, _being immodestly affected by Signior_ Ansaldo, _to free herselfe from his tedious importunity, she appointed him to performe (in her judgement) an act of impossibility, namely, to give her a Garden, as plentifully stored with fragrant Flowers in January, as in the flourishing moneth of_ May. Ansaldo, _by meanes of a bond which he made to a Magitian, performed her request. Signior_ Gilberto, _the Ladyes Husband, gave consent, that his Wife should fulfill her promise made to_ Ansaldo. _Who hearing the bountifull mind of her Husband; released her of her promise: And the Magitian likewise discharged Signior_ Ansaldo, _without taking any thing of him._ The fift Novell. _Admonishing all Ladies and Gentlewomen, that are desirous to preserve their chastity, free from all blemish and taxation: to make no promise of yeelding to any, under a compact or covenant, how impossible soever it may seeme to be._ Not any one in all the Company, but extolled the worthy Act of Signior _Gentile_ to the skies; till the King gave command to Madame _�millia_, that she should follow next with her Tale, who boldly stepping up, began in this order. Gracious Ladies, I thinke there is none heere present among us, but (with good reason) may maintaine, that Signiour _Gentile_ performed a magnificent deede: but whosoever saith, it is impossible to do more; perhaps is ignorant in such actions, as can and may be done, as I meane to make good unto you, by a Novell not over-long or tedious. The Countrey of _Fretulium_, better knowne by the name of _Forum Julii_; although it be subject to much cold, yet it is pleasant, in regard of many goodly Mountaines, Rivers, and cleare running Springs, wherewith it is not meanly stored. Within those Territories, is a City called _Udina_, where sometime lived a faire and Noble Lady, named Madame _Dianora_, Wife to a rich and woorthie Knight, called Signior _Gilberto_, a man of very great fame and merite. This beautifull** Lady, beeing very modest and vertuously inclined, was highly affected by a Noble Baron of those parts, tearmed by the name of Signior _Ansaldo Gradense_, a man of very great spirit, bountifull, active in Armes, and yet very affable and courteous, which caused him to be the better respected. His love to this Lady was extraordinary, hardly to bee contained within any moderate compasse, striving to bee in like manner affected of her: to which end, she wanted no daily solicitings, Letters, Ambassages and Love-tokens, all proving to no purpose. This vertuous Lady, being wearied with his often temptations, and seeing, that by denying whatsoever he demanded, yet he wold not give over his suite, but so much the more importunatly still pursued her: began to bethinke herselfe, how she might best be rid of him, by imposing some such taske upon him, as should bee impossible (in her opinion) for him to effect. An olde woman, whom hee imployed for his continual messenger to her, as shee came one day about her ordinary errand, with her she communed in this manner. Good woman (quoth she) thou hast so often assured me, that Signior _Ansaldo_ loveth me above all other Women in the world, offering me wonderfull gifts and presents in his name, which I have alwayes refused, and so still will do, in regard I am not to be woon by any such allurements: yet if I could be soundly perswaded, that his affection is answerable to thy peremptory protestations, I shoulde (perhaps) be the sooner wonne, to listen to his suite in milder manner, then hitherto I have done. Wherefore, if he will give me assurance, to perform such a businesse as I mean to enjoyne him, he shall the speedier heare better answer from me, and I will confirme it with mine oath. Wonderfully pleased was Mistresse _Maquerella_, to heare a reply of such comfortable hope; and therefore desired the Lady, to tel hir what she wold have done. Listen to me wel (answerd Madam _Dianora_) the matter which I would have him to effect for me, is; without the wals of our City, and during the month of Januarie nexte ensuing, to provide me a Garden, as fairely furnished with all kind of fragrant flowers, as the flourishing month of May can yeelde no better. If he be not able to accomplish this imposition, then I command him, never hereafter to solicite me any more, either by thee, or any other whatsoever; for, if he do importune me afterward, as hitherto I have concealed his secret conspiring, both from my husband, and all my friends; so will I then lay his dishonest suite open to the world, that he may receive punishment accordingly, for offering to wrong a Gentleman in his wife. When Signior _Ansaldo_ heard her demand, and the offer beside thereupon** made him (although it seemed no easie matter; but a thing meerly impossible to be done) he considered advisedly, that she made this motion to no other end, but onely to bereave him of all his hope, ever to enjoy what so earnestly hee desired: neverthelesse, he would not so give it utterly over, but would needs approve what could be done. Heereupon, hee sent into divers partes of the world, to find out any one that was able to advise him in this doubtfull case. In the end, one was brought to him, who beeing well recompenced for his paines, by the Art of Nigromancie would undertake to do it. With him Signior _Ansaldo_ covenanted, binding himselfe to pay a great summe of mony, upon performance of so rare a deed, awaiting (in hopefull expectation) for the month of Januaries comming. It being come, and the weather then in extreamity of cold, every thing being covered with ice and snow; the Magitian prevailed so by his Art, that after the Christmas Holy dayes were past, and the Calends of January entred: in one night, and without the Cittie Wals, the goodliest Garden of flowers and fruites, was sodainely sprung up, as (in opinion of such as beheld it) never was the like seen before. Now Ladies, I think I need not demand the question, whether Signior _Ansaldo_ were wel pleased, or no, who going to beholde it, saw it most plenteously stored, with al kind of fruit trees, flowers, herbes and plants, as no one could be named, that was wanting in this artificiall garden. And having gathered some pretty store of them, secretly he sent them to Madam _Dianora_, inviting hir to come see her Garden, perfected according to her owne desire, and uppon view thereof, to confesse the integrity of his love to her; considering and remembring withall, the promise shee had made him under solemne oath, that she might be reputed for a woman of her word. When the Lady beheld the fruites and flowers, and heard many other thinges re-counted, so wonderfully growing in the same Garden: she began to repent her rash promise made; yet not withstanding her repentance, as Women are covetous to see all rarities; so, accompanied with divers Ladies and Gentlewomen more, she went to see the Garden; and having commended it with much admiration, she returned home againe, the most sorrowfull Woman as ever lived, considering what she had tyed her selfe to, for enjoying this Garden. So excessive grew her griefe and affliction, that it could not be so clouded or concealed: but her Husband tooke notice of it, and would needs understand the occasion thereof. Long the Lady (in regard of shame and modesty) sate without returning any answer; but being in the end constrained, she disclosd the whole History to him. At the first, Signior _Gilberto_ waxed exceeding angry, but when he further considered withall, the pure and honest intention of his Wife; wisely he pacified his former distemper, and saide. _Dianora_, it is not the part of a wise and honest woman, to lend an eare to ambassages of such immodest nature, much lesse to compound or make agreement for her honesty, with any person, under any condition whatsoever. Those perswasions which the heart listeneth to, by allurement of the eare, have greater power then many do imagine, & nothing is so uneasie or difficult, but in a lovers judgement it appeareth possible. Ill didst thou therefore first of all to listen, but worse (afterward) to contract. But, because I know the purity of thy soule, I will yeelde (to disoblige thee of thy promise) as perhaps no wise man else would do: mooved thereto onely by feare of the Magitian, who seeing Signior _Ansaldo_ displeased, because thou makest a mockage of him; will do some such violent wrong to us, as we shall be never able to recover. Wherefore, I would have thee go to Signior _Ansaldo_, and if thou canst (by any meanes) obtaine of him, the safe-keeping of thy honour, and full discharge of thy promise; it shall be an eternall fame to thee, and the crowne of a most victorious conquest. But if it must needs be otherwise, lend him thy body onely for once, but not thy will: for actions committed by constraint, wherein the will is no way guilty, are halfe pardonable by the necessity. Madame _Dianora_, hearing her husbands words, wept exceedingly, and avouched, that shee had not deserved any such especiall grace of him, and therefore she would rather dye, then doe it. Neverthelesse, it was the will of her Husband to have it so, and therefore (against her will) she gave consent. The next morning, by the breake of day, _Dianora_ arose, and attiring her selfe in her very meanest garments, with two servingmen before her, and a waiting Woman following, she went to the lodging of Signior _Ansaldo_, who hearing that Madam _Dianora_ was come to visite him, greatly mervailed, and being risen, he called the Magitian to him, saying. Come go with me, and see what effect will follow upon thine Art. And being come into her presence, without any base or inordinate appetite, he did her humble reverence, embracing her honestly, and taking her into a goodly Chamber, where a faire fire was readilie prepared, causing her to sit downe by him, he sayde unto her as followeth. Madam, I humbly intreat you to resolve me, if the affection I have long time borne you, and yet do still, deserve any recompence at all: you would be pleased then to tel me truly, the occasion of your instant comming hither, and thus attended as you are. _Dianora_, blushing with modest shame, and the teares trickling mainly down her faire cheekes, thus answered. Signior _Ansaldo_, not for any Love I beare you, or care of my faithfull promise made to you, but onely by the command of my husband (who respecting more the paynes and travels of your inordinate love, then his owne reputation and honor, or mine;) hath caused me to come hither: and by vertue of his command, am ready (for once onely) to fulfill your pleasure, but far from any will or consent in my selfe. If Signior _Ansaldo_ were abashed at the first, hee began now to be more confounded with admiration, when he heard the Lady speake in such strange manner: & being much moved with the liberall command of her husband, he began to alter his inflamed heate, into most honourable respect and compassion, returning her this answer. Most noble Lady, the Gods forbid (if it be so as you have sayd) that I should (Villain-like) soile the honour of him, that takes such unusuall compassion of my unchaste appetite. And therefore, you may remaine heere so long as you please, in no other condition, but as mine owne naturall borne Sister; and likewise, you may depart freely when you will: conditionally, that (on my behalfe) you render such thankes to your husband, as you thinke convenient for his great bounty towards me, accounting me for ever heereafter, as his loyall Brother and faithfull servant. _Dianora_ having well observed his answer, her heart being ready to mount out at her mouth with joy, said. All the world could never make mee beleeve (considering your honourable minde and honesty) that it would happen otherwise to me, then now it hath done; for which noble courtesie, I will continually remaine obliged to you. So, taking her leave, she returned home honorably attended to her husband, and relating to him what had happened, it proved the occasion of begetting intire love and friendship, betweene himselfe and the Noble Lord _Ansaldo_. Now concerning the skilfull Magitian, to whom _Ansaldo_ meant to give the bountifull recompence agreed on betweene them, hee having seene the strange liberality, which the husband expressed to Signior _Ansaldo_, and that of _Ansaldo_ to the Lady, hee presently saide. Great _Jupiter_ strike me dead with thunder, having my selfe seene a husband so liberall of his honour, and you Sir of true noble kindnesse, if I should not be the like of my recompence: for, perceiving it to be so worthily imployed, I am well contented that you shall keepe it. The Noble Lord was modestly ashamed, and strove (so much as in him lay) that he should take all, or the greater part thereof: but seeing he laboured meerly in vaine, after the third day was past, and the Magitian had destroyed the Garden againe, hee gave him free liberty to depart, quite controlling all fond and unchaste affection in himselfe, either towards _Dianora_, or any Lady else, and living (ever after) as best becommeth any Nobleman to do. What say you now Ladies? Shall wee make any account of the woman wel-neere dead, and the kindnesse growne cold in Signiour _Gentile_, by losse of his former hopes, comparing them with the liberality of Signior _Ansaldo_, affecting more fervently, then ever the other did? And being (beyond hope) possessed of the booty, which (above all things else in the world) he most desired to have, to part with it meerly in fond compassion? I protest (in my judgement) the one is no way comparable to the other; that of _Gentile_, with this last of Signior _Ansaldo_. _Victorious_ King Charles, _sirnamed the Aged, and first of that Name, fell in love with a yong Maiden, named_ Genevera, _daughter to an ancient Knight, called Signior_ Neri degli Uberti. _And waxing ashamed of his amorous folly, caused both_ Genevera, _and her fayre Sister_ Isotta, _to be joyned in marriage with two Noble Gentlemen; the one named_ Signior Maffeo da Palizzi, _and the other,_ Signior Gulielmo della Magna. The Sixt Novell. _Sufficiently declaring, that how mighty soever the power of Love is: yet a magnanimous and truly generous heart, it can by no meanes fully conquer._ Who is able to expresse ingeniously, the diversity of opinions, which hapned among the Ladies, in censuring on the act of Madame _Dianora_, and which of them was most liberall, either Signior _Gilberto_ the Husband, Lord _Ansaldo_ the importunate suiter, or the Magitian, expecting to bee bountifully rewarded. Surely, it is a matter beyond my capacity: but after the King had permitted their disputation a long while, looking on Madam _Fiammetta_, he commanded that she should report her Novel to make an end of their controversie; and she (without any further delaying) thus began. I did alwaies (Noble Ladies) hold it fit and decent, that in such an assembly as this of ours is, every one ought to speake so succinctly and plainly: that the obscure understanding, concerning the matters spoken of, should have no cause of disputation. For disputes do much better become the Colledges of Scholars, then to be among us, who hardly can manage our Distaves or Samplers. And therefore I, doe intend to relate something, which (peradventure) might appeare doubtfull: will forbeare (seeing you in such a difference; for that which hath bin spoken alreadie) to use any difficult discourse; but will speake of one, a man of no meane ranke or quality, being both a valiant and vertuous King, and what he did, without any impeach or blemish to his honor. I make no doubt, but you have often heard report, of king _Charles_ the Aged, and first of that name, by reason of his magnificent enterprises, as also his most glorious victory, which he obtaind against King _Manfred_, when the _Ghibellines_ were expulsed foorth of _Florence_, and the _Guelphes_ returned thither againe. By which occasion, an ancient knight, named Signior _Neri degli Uberti_; forsaking then the City, with all his family and great store of wealth, woulde live under any other obedience, then the awful power or command of King _Charles_. And coveting to be in some solitary place, where he might finish the remainder of his dayes in peace, he went to _Castello da Mare_; where, about a Bow shoote distance from all other dwelling houses, hee bought a parcel of ground, plentifully stored with variety of Trees, bearing Olives, Chesnuts, Orenges, Lemons, Pomcitrons, and other excellent frutages, wherewith the Countrey flourisheth abundantly. There he built a very faire and commodious house, and planted (close by it) a pleasant Garden, in the middst whereof, because he had great plenty of water: according as other men use to do, being in the like case so wel provided; he made a very goodly Pond, which forthwith had all kinde of Fish swimming in it, it being his daily care and endeavour**, to tend his Garden, and encrease his Fish-pond. It fortuned, that King _Charles_ (in the Summer time) for his pleasure and recreation, went to repose himselfe (for some certayne dayes) at _Castello de Mare_, where having heard report of the beautie and singularitie of Signiour _Neries_ Garden; hee grew very desirous to see it. But when he understoode to whome it belonged, then he entred into consideration with himselfe, that hee was an ancient Knight, maintaining a contrarie faction to his: wherefore, he thought it fit to goe in some familiar manner, and with no trayne attending on him. Whereupon he sent him word, that he wold come to visit him, with foure Gentlemen onely in his companie, meaning to sup with him in his Garden the next night ensuing. The newes was very welcome to _Signior Neri_, who took order in costly manner for all things to bee done, entertaining the King most joyfully into his beautifull Garden. When the King had survayed all, and the house likewise, he commended it beyond all other comparison, and the Tables being placed by the Ponds side, he washed his hands therein, & then sat down at the table, commanding the Count, Sir _Guy de Montforte_ (who was one of them which came in his company) to sitte downe by him, and Signior _Neri_ on his other side. As for the other three of the traine, hee commaunded them to attend on his service, as Signior _Neri_ had given order. There wanted no exquisite Viandes and excellent Wines, all performed in most decent manner, and without the least noise or disturbance, wherein the King tooke no little delight. Feeding thus in this contented manner, and facying the solitude of the place: sodainly entred into the garden, two yong Damosels, each aged about some fifteene yeares, their haire resembling wyars of Gold, and curiously curled, having Chaplets (made like provinciall Crownes) on their heades, and their delicate faces, expressing them to be rather Angels, then mortall creatures, such was the appearance of their admired beauty. Their under-garments were of costly Silke, yet white as the finest snow, framed (from the girdle upward) close to their bodies, but spreading largely downward, like the extendure of a Pavillion, and so descending to the feet. She that first came in sight, caried on her shoulder a couple of fishing Netts, which she held fast with her left hand, and in the right she carryed a long staffe. The other following her, had on her left shoulder a Frying-pan, and under the same arme a small Faggot of woodde, with a Trevit in her hand; and in the other hand a pot of Oyle, as also a brand of fire flaming. No sooner did the King behold them, but he greatly wondered what they should be; and, without uttering one word, attended to listen what they wold say. Both the yong damosels, when they were come before the King, with modest and bashfull gesture, they performed very humble reverence to him, and going to the place of entrance into the Pond, she who held the Trevit, set it downe on the ground, with the other things also; and taking the staffe which the other Damosell carried: they both went into the Pond, the water whereof reached so high as to their bosomes. One of the Servants to Signior _Neri_, presently kindled the fire, setting the Trevit over it, and putting Oyle into the Frying-panne, held it uppon the Trevit, awaiting untill the Damosels should cast him uppe Fish. One of them did beate a place with the staffe, where she was assured of the Fishes resort, and the other hadde lodged the Nets so conveniently, as they quickly caught great store of Fish, to the Kings high contentment, who observed their behaviour very respectively. As the Fishes were throwne up to the servant, alive as they were, he tooke the best and fairest of them, and brought them to the Table, where they skipt and mounted before the King, Count _Guy de Montfort_ and the Father: some leaping from the Table into the Pond againe, and others, the King (in a pleasing humour) voluntarily threw backe to the Damosels. Jesting and sporting in this manner, till the servant had drest divers of them in exquisite order, and served them to the Table, according as Signior _Neri_ had ordained. When the Damosels saw the Fishes service performed, and perceived that they had fished sufficiently: they came forth of the water, their garments then (being wet) hanging close about them, even as if they hid no part of their bodies. Each having taken those things againe, which at first they brought with them, and saluting the king in like humility as they did before, returned home to the mansion house. The King and Count likewise, as also the other attending Gentlemen, having duely considered the behavior of the Damosels: commended extraordinarily their beauty and faire feature, with those other perfections of Nature so gloriously shining in them. But (beyond all the rest) the King was boundlesse in his praises given of them, having observed their going into the water, the equall carriage there of them both, their comming forth, and gracious demeanor at their departing (yet neither knowing of whence, or what they were) he felt his affection very violently flamed, and grew into such an amourous desire to them both, not knowing which of them pleased him most, they so choisely resembled one another in all things. But after he had dwelt long enough upon these thoughts, he turned him selfe to Signior _Neri_, and demanded of him, what Damosels they were. Sir (answered _Neri_) they are my Daughters, both brought into the world at one birth, and Twinnes, the one being named _Genevera_ the faire, and the other _Isotta_ the amiable. The King began againe to commend them both, and gave him advise to get them both married: wherein he excused himselfe, alleadging, that he wanted power to doe it. At the same time instant, no other service remaining to be brought to the table, except Fruit and Cheese, the two Damosels returned againe, attyred in goodly Roabes of Carnation Sattin, formed after the Turkish fashion, carrying two fayre Silver dishes in their hands, filled with divers delicate Fruits, such as the season then afforded, setting them on the Table before the King. Which being done, they retyred a little backeward, and with sweet melodious voyces, sung a ditty, beginning in this manner. _Where Love presumeth into place: Let no one sing in Loves disgrace._ So sweet and pleasing seemed the Song to the King (who tooke no small delight, both to heare and behold the Damosels) even as if all the Hirarchies of Angels, were descended from the Heavens to sing before him. No sooner was the Song ended, but (humbly on their knees) they craved favour of the King for their departing. Now, although their departure was greatly grieving to him, yet (in outward appearance) he seemed willing to grant it. When Supper was concluded, and the King and his Company remounted on horsebacke: thankefully departing from Signior _Neri_, the King returned to his lodging, concealing there closely his affection to himselfe, and whatsoever important affaires happened: yet he could not forget the beauty, & gracious behaviour of _Genevera_ the faire (for whose sake he loved her Sister likewise) but became so linked to her in vehement manner, as he had no power to think on any thing else. Pretending other urgent occasions, he fell into great familiarity with Signior _Neri_, visiting very often his goodly Garden; onely to see his faire Daughter _Genevera_, the Adamant which drew him thither. When he felt his amourous assaults, to exeed all power of longer sufferance: he resolved determinately with himselfe, (being unprovided of any better meanes) to take her away from her Father, and not onely she, but her Sister also; discovering both his love and intent to Count _Guy de Montforte_, who being a very worthy and vertuous Lord, and meet to be a Counseller for a King, delivered his mind in this manner. Gracious Lord, I wonder not a little at your speeches, and so much the greater is my admiration, because no man els can be subject to the like, in regard I have knowne you from the time of your infancy; even to this instant houre, and alwayes your carriage to bee one and the same. I could never perceive in your youthfull dayes (when love should have the greatest meanes to assaile you) any such oppressing passions: which is now the more novell and strange to me, to heare it but said, that you being old, and called the Aged; should be growne amorous, surely to me it seemeth a miracle. And if it appertained to me to reprehend you in this case, I know well enough what I could say. Considering, you have yet your Armour on your backe, in a Kingdome newly conquered, among a Nation not knowne to you, full of falsehoods, breaches, and treasons; all which are no meane motives to care and needfull respect. But having now wone a little leisure, to rest your selfe a while from such serious affaires; can you give way to the idle suggestions of Love? Beleeve me Sir, it is no act becomming a magnanimious King; but rather the giddy folly of a young braine. Moreover you say (which most of all I mislike) that you intend to take the two Virgines from the Knight, who hath given you entertainment in his house beyond his ability, and to testifie how much he honoured you, he suffered you to have a sight of them, meerely (almost) in a naked manner: witnessing thereby, what constant faith he reposed in you, beleeving verily, that you were a just King, and not a ravenous Woolfe. Have you so soone forgot, that the rapes and violent actions, done by King _Manfred_ to harmelesse Ladies, made your onely way of entrance into this Kingdome? What treason was ever committed, more worthy of eternall punishment, then this will be in you: to take away from him (who hath so highly honoured you) his chiefest hope and consolation? What will be said by all men, if you doe it? Peradventure you thinke, it will be a sufficient excuse for you, to say: I did it, in regard hee was a _Ghibelline_. Can you imagine this to be justice in a King, that such as get into their possession in this manner (whatsoever it be) ought to use it in this sort? Let me tell you Sir, it was a most worthy victory for you, to conquer King _Manfred_: but it is farre more famous victory, for a man to conquer himselfe. You therefore, who are ordained to correct vices in other men, learne first to subdue them in your selfe, and (by brideling this inordinate appetite) set not a foule blemish on so faire a fame, as will be honour to you to preserve spotlesse. These words pierced the heart of the King deepely, and so much the more afflicted him, because he knew them to be most true: wherefore, after he had ventred a very vehement sigh, thus he replyed. Beleeve me noble Count, there is not any enemy, how strong soever he be, but I hold him weake and easie to be vanquished, by him who is skilfull in the warre, where a man may learne to conquere his owne appetite. But because he shall find it a laborious taske, requiring inestimable strength and courage: your words have so toucht me to the quicke, that it becommeth me to let you effectually perceive (and within the compasse of few dayes) that as I have learned to conquer others, so I am not ignorant, in expressing the like power upon my selfe. Having thus spoken, within some few dayes after, the King being returned to _Naples_, he determined, as well to free himself from any the like ensuing follie, as also to recompence Signior _Neri_, for the great kindnesse he had shewne to him (although it was a difficult thing, to let another enjoy, what he rather desired for himselfe) to have the two Damosels married, not as the Daughters of Signior _Neri_, but even as if they were his owne. And by consent of the Father, he gave _Genevera_ the faire, to Signior _Maffeo da Pallizzi_, and _Isotta_ the amiable, to Signior _Gulielmo della Magna_, two Noble Knights and honourable Barons. After he had thus given them in marriage, in sad mourning he departed thence into _Apuglia_, where by following worthy and honourable actions, he so well overcame all inordinate appetites: that shaking off the enthralling fetters of love, he lived free from all passions, the rest of his life time, and dyed as an honourable King. Some perhaps will say, it was a small matter for a King, to give away two Damosels in marriage, and I confesse it: but I maintaine it to be great, and more then great, if we say, that a King, being so earnestly enamoured as this King was; should give her away to another, whom he so dearely affected himselfe, without receiving (in recompence of his affection) so much as a leaffe, flowre, or the least fruit of love. Yet such was the vertue of this magnificent King, expressed in so highly recompencing the noble Knights courtesie, honouring the two daughters so royally, and conquering his owne affections so vertuously. Lisana, _the Daughter of a Florentine Apothecary, named_ Bernardo Puccino, _being at_ Palermo, _and seeing_ Piero, _King of_ Aragon _run at the Tilt; fell so affectionately enamored of him, that she languished in an extreame and long sickenesse. By her owne devise, and means of a Song, sung in the hearing of the King: he vouchsafed to visite her, and giving her a kisse, terming himselfe also to bee her Knight for ever after, hee honourably bestowed her in marriage on a young Gentleman, who was called_ Perdicano, _and gave him liberall endowments with her._ The Seventh Novell. _Wherein is covertly given to understand, that howsoever a Prince may make use of his absolute power and authority, towards Maides or Wives that are his Subjects: yet he ought to deny and reject all things, as shall make him forgetfull of himselfe, and his true honour._ Madame _Fiammetta_ being come to the end of her Novell, and the great magnificence of King _Charles_ much commended (howbeit, some of the Company, affecting the _Ghibelline_ faction, were otherwise minded) Madame _Pampinea_, by order given from the King, began in this manner. There is no man of good understanding (honourable Ladies) but will maintaine what you have said of victorious _Charles_; except such as cannot wish well to any. But because my memory hath instantly informed me, of an action (perhaps) no lesse commendable then this, done by an enemy of the said King _Charles_, and to a yong Maiden of our City; I am the more willing to relate it, upon your gentle attention vouchsafed, as hitherto it hath been courteously granted. At such time as the French were driven out of _Sicilie_, there dwelt at _Palermo_ a _Florentine_ Apothecary, named _Bernardo Puccino_, a man of good wealth and reputation, who had by his Wife one onely Daughter, of marriageable yeares, and very beautifull. _Piero_, King of _Arragon_, being then become Lord of that Kingdom, he made an admirable Feast Royall at _Palermo_, accompanyed with his Lords and Barons. In honour of which publique Feast, the King kept a triumphall day (of Justs and Turnament) at _Catalana_, and whereat it chanced, that the Daughter of _Bernardo_, named _Lisana_, was present. Being in a window, accompanied with other Gentlewomen, she saw the King runne at the Tilt, who seemed so goodly a person in her eye; that being never satisfied with beholding him, she grew enamoured, and fell into extremity of affection towards him. When the Feastivall was ended, she dwelling in the house of her Father, it was impossible for her to thinke on any thing else, but onely the love, which she had fixed on a person of such height. And that which most tormented her in this case, was the knowledge of her owne condition, being but meane and humble in degree; whereby she confessed, that she could not hope for any successefull issue of her proud love. Neverthelesse, she would not refraine from affecting the King, who taking no note of this kindnesse in her, by any perceivable meanes; must needs be the more regardles, which procured (by wary observation) her afflictions to be the greater and intollerable. Whereon it came to passe, that this earnest love encreasing in her more and more, and one melancholly conceit taking hold on another: the faire Maide, when she could beare the burden of her griefe no longer; fell into a languishing sickenesse, consuming away daily (by evident appearance) even as the Snow melteth by the warme beames of the Sunne. The Father and Mother, much dismayed and displeased at this haplesse accident, applying her with continuall comforts, Phisicke, and the best skill remayning in all the Phisitions, sought all possible meanes wayes to give her succour: but all proved to no effect, because in regard of her choyce (which could sort to none other then a desperate end) she was desirous to live no longer. Now it fortuned, that her parents offering her whatsoever remained in their power to performe, a sudden apprehension entred her minde, to wit, that (if it might possible be done) before she dyed, she would first have the King to know, in what manner she stood affected to him. Wherefore, one day she entreated her Father, that a Gentleman, named _Manutio de Arezza_, might be permitted to come see her. This _Manutio_ was (in those times) held to be a most excellent Musitian, both for his voyce in singing, and exquisite skill in playing on Instruments, for which he was highly in favour with King _Piero_, who made (almost) daily use of him, to heare him both sing and play. Her tender and loving father conceived immediately, that shee was desirous to heare his playing and singing, both being comfortable to a body in a languishing sickenesse, whereupon, he sent presently for the Gentleman, who came accordingly, and after he had comforted _Lisana_ with kind and courteous speeches; he played dexteriously on his Lute, which purposely hee had brought with him, and likewise he sung divers excellent Ditties, which insted of his intended consolation to the Maid, did nothing else but encrease her fire and flame. Afterward, she requested to have some conference with _Manutio_ alone, and every one being gone forth of the Chamber, she spake unto him in this manner. _Manutio_, I have made choyce of thee, to be the faithfull Guardian of an especial secret, hoping first of al, that thou wilt never reveale it to any living body, but onely to him whom I shall bid thee: And next, to helpe me so much as possibly thou canst, because my onely hope relyeth in thee. Know then my dearest friend _Manutio_, that on the solemne festivall day, when our Soveraigne Lord the King honoured his exaltation, with the noble exercises of Tilt and Turney; his brave behaviour kindled such a sparke in my soule, as since brake forth into a violent flame, and brought me to this weake condition as now thou seest. But knowing and confessing, how farre unbeseeming my love is, to aime so ambitiously at a King, and being unable to controule it, or in the least manner to diminish it: I have made choyce of the onely and best remedy of all, namely, to dye, and so I am most willing to doe. True it is, that I shall travaile in this my latest journey, with endlesse torment and affliction of soule, except he have some understanding thereof before, and not knowing by whom to give him intelligence, in so oft and convenient order, as by thee: I doe therefore commit this last office of a friend to thy trust, desiring thee, not to refuse me in the performance thereof. And when thou hast done it, to let me understand what he saith, that I may dye the more contentedly, and disburdened of so heavy an oppression, the onely comfort to a parting spirit: and so she ceased, her teares flowing forth abundantly. _Manutio_ did not a little wonder at the Maides great spirit, and her desperate resolution, which moved him to exceeding commiseration, and suddenly he conceived, that honestly he might discharge this duty for her, whereupon, he returned her this answer. _Lisana_, here I engage my faith to thee, that thou shalt find me firme and constant, and die I will, rather then deceive thee. Greatly I doe commend thy high attempt, in fixing thy affection on so Potent a King, wherein I offer thee my utmost assistance: and I make no doubt (if thou wouldest be of good comfort) to deale in such sort, as, before three dayes are fully past, to bring such newes as will content thee, and because I am loath to loose the least time, I will goe about it presently. _Lisana_ the yong Maiden, once againe entreated his care and diligence, promising to comfort her selfe so well as she could, commending him to his good fortune. When _Manutio_ was gone from her, hee went to a Gentleman, named _Mico de Sienna_, one of the best Poets in the composing of verses, as all those parts yeelded not the like. At his request, _Mico_ made for him this ensuing Dittie. The Song sung in the hearing of King _Piero_, on the behalfe of Love-sicke _Lisana._ _Goe Love, and tell the torments I endure, Say to my Soveraigne Lord, that I must die Except he come, some comfort to procure, For tell I may not, what I feele, and why._ _With heaved hands Great Love, I call to thee, Goe see my Soveraigne, where he doth abide, And say to him, in what extremity, Thou hast (for him) my firm affection tryed. To die for him, it is my sole desire, For live with him I may not, nor aspire, To have my fortunes thereby dignified, Onely his sight would lend me life a while: Grant it (great love) mine anguish to beguile. Goe love and tell the torments, &c._ _Since the first houre that love enthralled me, I never had the heart, to tell my griefe, My thoughts did speake, for thoughts be alwayes free, Yet hopefull thoughts doe find but poore reliefe. When Gnats will mount to Eagles in the ayre, Alas! they scorne them, for full well they know, They were not bred to prey so base and low, Aloft they look, to make their flight more faire. And yet his sight would lend me life a while: Grant it (great love) mine anguish to beguile. Goe love, and tell the torments, &c._ _If sight shall be denyed, then tell them plaine, His high triumphall day procurd my death, The Launce that won him Honour, hath me slaine, For instantly it did bereave my breath. That speake I could not, nor durst be so bold, To make the Ayre acquainted with my woe: Alas! I lookt so high, and doing so, Justly deserve by death to be controld. Yet mercies sight would lend me life a while, Grant it (great love) mine anguish to beguile._ _Goe love, and tell the torments I endure, Say to my Soveraigne Lord, that I must die: Except he come, some comfort to procure, For tell I may not, what I feele, and why._ The lines contained in this Ditty, _Manutio_ fitted with noates so mooving and singularly musicall, that every word had the sensible motion of life in it, where the King being (as yet) not risen from the Table, he commanded him to use both his Lute and voyce. This seemed a happy opportunity to _Manutio_, to sing the dittie so purposely done and devised: which hee delivered in such excellent manner, the voice and Instrument concording so extraordinary pleasing; that all the persons then in the Presence, seemed rather Statues, then living men, so strangely they were wrapt with admiration, and the King himselfe farre beyond all the rest, transported with a rare kinde of alteration. When _Manutio_ had ended the Song, the King demanded of him, whence this Song came, because he had never heard it before? My gracious Lord, answered _Manutio_, it must needes seeme straunge to your Majesty, because it is not fully three dayes, since it was invented, made, and set to the note. Then the King asked, whom it concerned? Sir (quoth _Manutio_) I dare not disclose that to any but onely your selfe. Which answer made the King much more desirous, and being risen from the Table, he tooke him into his Bed-chamber, where _Manutio_ related all at large to him, according to the trust reposed in him. Wherewith the King was wonderfully well pleased, greatly commending the courage of the Maide, and said, that a Virgin of such a valiant spirit, did well deserve to have her case commiserated: and commanded him also, to goe (as sent from him) and comfort her, with promise, that the very same day, in the evening, he would not faile to come and see her. _Manutio_, more then contented, to carry such glad tydings to _Lisana_; without staying in any place, and taking his Lute also with him, went to the Apothecaries house, where speaking alone with the Maide: he told her what he had done, and afterward sung the song to her, in as excellent manner as he had done before, wherein _Lisana_ conceived such joy and contentment, as even in the very same moment, it was observed by apparant signes, that the violence of her fits forsooke her, and health began to get the upper hand of them. So, without suffering any one in the house to know it, or by the least meanes to suspect it; she comforted her selfe till the evening, in expectation of her Soveraignes arrivall. _Piero_ being a Prince, of most liberall and benigne nature, having afterward divers times considered on the matters which _Manutio_ had revealed to him, knowing also the yong Maiden, to bee both beautifull and vertuous: was so much moved with pitty of her extremitie, as mounting on horse-backe in the evening, and seeming as if he rode abroad for his private recreation; he went directly to the Apothecaries house, where desiring to see a goodly garden, appertaining then to the Apothecarie, he dismounted from his horse. Walking into the garden, he began to question with _Bernardo_, demaunding him for his Daughter, and whether he had (as yet) marryed her, or no? My Gracious Lord, answered _Bernardo_, as yet shee is not marryed, neither likely to bee, in regard shee hath had a long and tedious sickenesse: but since Dinner time, she is indifferently eased of her former violent paine, which we could not discerne the like alteration in her, a long while before. The King understood immediately, the reason of this so sudden alteration, and said. In good faith _Bernardo_, the world would sustaine a great maine & imperfection, by the losse of thy faire daughter; wherefore, we will goe our selfe in person to visite her. So, with two of his Lords onely, and the Father, he ascended to the Maides Chamber & being entred, he went to the Beds side, where she sate, somewhat raised, in expectation of his comming, and taking her by the hand, he said. Faire _Lisana_, how commeth this to passe? You being so faire a Virgin, yong, and in the delicacy of your daies, which should be the chiefest comfort to you, will you suffer your selfe to be over-awed with sickenesse? Let us intreat you, that (for our sake) you will be of good comfort, and thereby recover your health the sooner, especially, when it is requested by a King, who is sorry to see so bright a beauty sicke, and would helpe it, if it consisted in his power. _Lisana_, feeling the touch of his hand, whom she loved above all things else in the world, although a bashfull blush mounted up into her cheekes: yet her heart was seazed with such a rapture of pleasure, that she thought her selfe translated into Paradise, and, so well as she could, thus she replyed. Great King, by opposing my feeble strength, against a burden of over-ponderous weight, it became the occasion of this grievous sickenesse: but I hope that the violence thereof is (almost) already kild, onely by this soveraigne mercy in you; and doubtlesse it will cause my speedy deliverance. The King did best understand this so well palliated answere of _Lisana_, which as he did much commend, in regard of her high adventuring; so he did againe as greatly condemne Fortune, for not making her more happy in her birth. So, after he had stayed there a good while, and given her many comfortable speeches, he returned backe to the Court. This humanity in the King, was reputed a great honour to the Apothecary and his daughter, who (in her owne mind) received as much joy and contentment thereby, as ever any wife could have of her owne Husband. And being assisted by better hopes, within a short while after, she became recovered, and farre more beautifull (in common judgment) then ever she was before. _Lisana_ being now in perfect health, the King consulted with his Queene, what meete recompence he should gratifie her withall, for loving and affecting him in such fervent manner. Upon a day determined, the King mounting on horsebacke, accompanied with many of his cheefest Lords and Barons, he rode to the Apothecaries house, where walking in his beautifull Garden, hee called for _Bernardo_ and his daughter _Lisana_. In the meane space, the Queene also came thither, Royally attended on by her Ladies, and _Lisana_ being admitted into their company, they expressed themselves very gracious to her. Soone after, the King and the Queene cald _Lisana_, and the King spake in this manner to her. Faire Virgin, the extraordinary love which you bare to us, calleth for as great honour from us to you; in which respect, it is our Royall desire, by one meanes or other to requite your kinde Love. In our opinion, the chiefe honour we can extend to you, is, that being of sufficient yeares for marriage, you would grace us so much, as to accept him for your Husband, whom we intend to bestow on you. Beside this further grant from us, that (notwithstanding whatsoever else) you shall call us your Knight; without coveting any thing else from you, for so great favour, but only one kisse, and thinke not to bestow it nicely on a King, but grant it the rather, because he begges it. _Lisana_, whose lookes, were dyed with a vermillian tincture, or rather converted into a pure maiden blush, reputing the Kings desire to be her owne; in a low and humbled voyce, thus answered. My Lord, most certaine am I, that if it had beene publikely knowne, how none but your highnes, might serve for me to fixe my love on, I should have been termed the foole of all fooles: they perhaps beleeving, that I was forgetfull of my selfe, in being ignorant of mine owne condition, and much lesse of yours. But the Gods are my witnesses (because they know the secrets of all hearts) that even in the very instant, when Loves fire tooke hold on my yeelding affection: I knew you to be a King, and my selfe the daughter of poore _Bernardo_ the Apothecary: likewise, how farre unfitting it was for me, to be so ambitious in my loves presuming. But I am sure your Majestie doth know (much better then I am able to expresse) that no one becommeth amourous, according to the duty of election, but as the appetite shapeth his course, against whose lawes my strength made many resistances, which not prevailing, I presumed to love, did, and so for ever shall doe, your Majestie. Now Royall Soveraigne, I must needes confesse, that so soone as I felt my selfe thus wholly conquered by loving you, I resolved for ever after, to make your will mine owne, and therefore, am not onely willing to accept him for my Husband, whom you shall please to appoint, befitting my honor and degree: but if you will have me to live in a flaming fire, my obedience shall sacrifice it selfe to your will, with the absolute conformity of mine owne. To stile you by the name of my Knight, whom I know to be my lawfull King and Soveraigne; you are not ignorant, how farre unfitting a word that were for me to use: As also the kisse which you request, in requitall of my love to you; to these two I will never give consent, without the Queenes most gracious favour and license first granted. Neverthelesse, for such admirable benignity used to me, both by your Royall selfe, and your vertuous Queene: heaven shower downe all boundlesse graces on you both, for it exceedeth all merit in me, and so she ceased speaking, in most dutifull manner. The answer of _Lisana_ pleased the Queene exceedingly, in finding her to be so wise and faire, as the King himself had before informed her: who instantly called for her Father and Mother, and knowing they would be well pleased with whatsoever he did; he called for a proper yong Gentleman, but some what poore, being named _Perdicano_, and putting certaine Rings into his hand, which he refused not to receive, caused him there to espouse _Lisana_. To whome the King gave immediately (besides Chaines and Jewels of inestimable valew, delivered by the Queene to the Bride) _Ceffala_ and _Calatabelotta_, two great territories abounding in divers wealthy possessions, saying to _Perdicano_. These wee give thee, as a dowry in marriage with this beautifull Maid, and greater gifts we will bestow on thee hereafter, as we shall perceive thy love and kindnesse to her. When he had ended these words, hee turned to _Lisana_, saying: Heere doe I freely give over all further fruits of your affection towards me, thanking you for your former love: so taking her head betweene his hands, he kissed her faire forhead, which was the usuall custome in those times. _Perdicano_, the Father and Mother of _Lisana_, and she her selfe likewise, extraordinarily joyfull for this so fortunate a marriage, returned humble and hearty thankes both to the King and Queene, and (as many credible Authors doe affirme) the King kept his promise made to _Lisana_, because (so long as he lived) he alwaies termed himselfe by the name of her Knight, and in al actions of Chivalry by him undertaken, he never carried any other devise, but such as he received still from her. By this, and divers other like worthy deeds, not onely did he win the hearts of his subjects; but gave occasion to the whole world beside, to renowne his fame to all succeeding posterity. Whereto (in these more wretched times of ours) few or none bend the sway of their understanding: but rather how to bee cruell and tyrranous Lords, and thereby win the hatred of their people. Sophronia, _thinking her selfe to be the maried wife of_ Gisippus, _was (indeed) the wife of_ Titus Quintus Fulvius, _& departed thence with him to Rome. Within a while after,_ Gisippus _also came thither in very poore condition, and thinking that he was despised by_ Titus, _grew weary of his life, and confessed that he had murdred a man, with full intent to die for the fact. But_ Titus _taking knowledge of him, and desiring to save the life of_ Gisippus, _charged himself to have done the bloody deed. Which the murderer himself (standing then among the multitude) seeing, truly confessed the deed. By meanes whereof, all three were delivered by the Emperor_ Octavius; _and_ Titus _gave his Sister in mariage to_ Gisippus, _giving them also the most part of his goods & inheritances._ The eight Novell. _Declaring, that notwithstanding the frownes of Fortune, diversity of occurrences, and contrary accidents happening: yet love and friendship ought to be preciously preserved among men._ By this time Madam _Philomena_, at command of the King, (Madam _Pampinea_ ceasing) prepared to follow next in order, whereupon thus she began. What is it (Gracious Ladies) that Kings can not do (if they list) in matters of greatest importance, and especially unto such as most they should declare their magnificence? He then that performeth what he ought to do, when it is within his owne power, doth well. But it is not so much to bee admired, neither deserveth halfe the commendations, as when one man doth good to another, when least it is expected, as being out of his power, and yet performed. In which respect, because you have so extolled king _Piero_, as appearing not meanly meritorious in your judgements; I make no doubt but you will be much more pleased, when the actions of our equals are duly considered, and shall paralell any of the greatest Kings. Wherefore I purpose to tell you a Novel, concerning an honorable curtesie of two worthy friends. At such time as _Octavius Cæsar_ (not as yet named _Augustus_, but only in the office called _Triumveri_) governed the _Romane_ Empire, there dwelt in _Rome_ a Gentleman, named _Publius Quintus Fulvius_, a man of singular understanding, who having one son, called _Titus Quintus Fulvius_, of towardly yeares and apprehension, sent him to _Athens_ to learne Philosophy; but with letters of familiar commendations, to a Noble _Athenian_ Gentleman, named _Chremes_, being his ancient friend, of long acquaintance. This Gentleman lodged _Titus_ in his owne House, as companion to his son, named _Gisippus_, both of them studying together, under the tutoring of a Philosopher, called _Aristippus_. These two yong Gentlemen living thus in one Citty, House, and Schoole, it bred betweene them such a brother-hoode and amity, as they could not be severed from one another; but only by the accident of death; nor could either of them enjoy any content, but when they were both together in company. Being each of them endued with gentle spirits, and having begun their studies together: they arose (by degrees) to the glorious height of Philosophy, to their much admired fame and commendation. In this manner they lived, to the no meane comfort of _Chremes_, hardly distinguishing the one from the other for his Son, & thus the Scholars continued the space of three yeares. At the ending whereof (as it hapneth in al things else) _Chremes_ died, whereat both the young Gentlemen conceived such hearty griefe, as if he had bin their common father; nor could the kinred of _Chremes_ discerne, which of the two had most need of comfort, the losse touched them so equally. It chanced within some few months after, that the kinred of _Gisippus_ came to see him, and (before _Titus_) avised him to marriage, and with a yong Gentlewoman of singular beauty, derived from a most noble house in _Athens_, and she named _Sophronia_, aged about fifteen years. This mariage drawing neere, _Gisippus_ on a day, intreated _Titus_ to walk along with him thither, because (as yet) he had not seene her. Comming to the house, and she sitting in the midst betweene them, _Titus_ making himselfe a considerator of beauty, & especially on his friends behalfe; began to observe her very judicially, & every part of her seemed so pleasing in his eie, that giving them al a privat praise, yet answerable to their due deserving; he becam so enflamed with affection to her, as never any lover could bee more violentlie surprized, so sodainly doth beauty beguile our best senses. After they had sate an indifferent while with her, they returned home to their lodging, where _Titus_ being alone in his chamber, began to bethink himselfe on her, whose perfections had so powerfully pleased him: and the more he entred into this consideration, the fiercer he felt his desires enflamed, which being unable to quench, by any reasonable perswasions, after hee had vented foorth infinite sighes, thus he questioned with himselfe. Most unhappie _Titus_ as thou art, whether doost thou transport thine understanding, love, and hope? Dooest thou not know as well by the honourable favours, which thou hast received of _Chremes_ and his house, as also the intire amity betweene thee and _Gisippus_ (unto whom faire _Sophronia_ is the affianced friend) that thou shouldst holde her in the like reverent respect, as if shee were thy true borne Sister? Darest thou presume to fancie her? Whether shall beguiling Love allure thee, and vaine immaging hopes carrie thee? Open the eyes of thy better understanding, and acknowledge thy selfe to bee a most miserable man. Give way to reason, bridle thine intemperate appetites, reforme all irregulare desires, and guide thy fancy to a place of better direction. Resist thy wanton and lascivious will in the beginning, and be master of thy selfe, while thou hast opportunity, for that which thou aimest at, is neither reasonable nor honest. And if thou wert assured to prevaile upon this pursuite, yet thou oughtst to avoide it, if thou hast any regard of true friendship, and the duty therein justly required. What wilt thou do then _Titus_? Fly from this inordinate affection, if thou wilt be reputed to be a man of sensible judgement. After he had thus discoursed with himselfe, remembring _Sophronia_, and converting his former allegations, into a quite contrarie sense, in utter detestation of them, and guided by his idle appetite, thus he began againe. The lawes of love are of greater force, then any other whatsoever, they not only breake the bands of friendship, but even those also of more divine consequence. How many times hath it bin noted, the father to affect his own daughter, the brother his sister, and the stepmother her son in law, matters far more monstrous, then to see one friend love the wife of another, a case happening continually? Moreover, I am yong, and youth is wholly subjected to the passions of Love: is it reasonable then, that those should be bard from me, which are fitting and pleasing to Love? Honest things, belong to men of more years and maturity, then I am troubled withall, and I can covet none, but onely those wherein Love is directer. The beauty of _Sophronia_ is worthy of generall love, and if I that am a yongman do love her, what man living can justly reprove me for it? Shold not I love her, because she is affianced to _Gisippus_? That is no matter to me, I ought to love her, because she is a woman, and women were created for no other occasion, but to bee Loved. Fortune had sinned in this case, and not I, in directing my friends affection to her, rather then any other; and if she ought to be loved, as her perfections do challenge, _Gisippus_ understanding that I affect her, may be the better contented that it is I, rather then any other. With these, and the like crosse entercourses, he often mockt himselfe, falling into the contrary, and then to this againe, and from the contrary, into another kind of alteration, wasting and consuming himselfe, not only this day and the night following, but many more afterward, till he lost both his feeding & sleepe, so that through debility of body, he was constrained to keepe his bed. _Gisippus_, who had divers dayes noted his melancholly disposition, and now his falling into extreamitie of sicknesse, was very sorry to behold it: and with all meanes and inventions he could devise to use, hee both questioned the cause of this straunge alteration, and essayed everie way, how hee might best comfort him, never ceassing to demaunde a reason, why he should become thus sad and sickely. But _Titus_ after infinite importuning, which still he answered with idle and frivolous excuses, farre from the truth indeede, and (to the no meane affliction of his friend) when he was able to use no more contradictions; at length, in sighes and teares, thus he replyed. _Gisippus_, were the Gods so wel pleased, I could more gladly yeild to dye, then continue any longer in this wretched life, considering, that Fortune hath brought mee to such an extremity, as proofe is now to be made of my constancie and vertue; both which I finde conquered in me, to my eternall confusion and shame. But my best hope is, that I shall shortly be requited, as I have in justice deserved, namely with death, which will be a thousand times more welcome to me, then a loathed life, with remembrance of my base dejection in courage, which because I can no longer conceale from thee; not without blushing shame, I am well contented for to let thee know it. Then began hee to recount, the whole occasion of this straunge conflict in him, what a maine battaile hee had with his private thoughts, confessing that they got the victory, causing him to die hourely for the love of _Sophronia_, and affirming withall, that in due acknowledgement, how greatly hee had transgressed against the lawes of friendship, he thought no other penance sufficient for him, but onely death, which he willingly expected every houre, and with all his heart would gladly bid welcome. _Gisippus_ hearing this discourse, and seeing how _Titus_ bitterly wept, in agonies of most moving afflictions: sat an indifferent while sad and pensive, as being wounded with affection to _Sophronia_, but yet in a well-governed and temperate manner. So, without any long delaying, hee concluded with himselfe; that the life of his friend ought to be accounted much more deare, then any love hee could beare unto _Sophronia_: And in this resolution, the teares of _Titus_ forcing his eyes to flow forth like two Fountaines, thus he replyed. _Titus_, if thou hadst not neede of comfort, as plainly I see thou hast, I would justly complaine of thee to my selfe, as of the man who hath violated our friendship, in keeping thine extreamitie so long time concealed from mee, which hath beene over-tedious for thee to endure. And although it might seeme to thee a dishonest case, and therefore kept from the knowledge of thy friend, yet I plainly tell thee, that dishonest courses (in the league of amitie) deserve no more concealment, then those of the honestest nature. But leaving these impertinent wandrings, let us come to them of much greater necessitie. If thou doest earnestly love faire _Sophronia_, who is betroathed and affianced to me, it is no matter for me to marvaile at: but I should rather be much abashed, if thou couldst not intyrely affect her, knowing how beautifull she is, and the nobility of her minde, being as able to sustaine passion, as the thing pleasing is fullest of excellence. And looke how reasonably thou fanciest _Sophronia_, as unjustly thou complainest of thy fortune, in ordaining her to be my wife, although thou doest not speake it expresly: as being of opinion, that thou mightest with more honesty love her, if she were any others, then mine. But if thou art so wise, as I have alwayes held thee to be, tell me truely upon thy faith, to whom could Fortune better guide her, and for which thou oughtest to be more thankfull, then in bestowing her on me? Any other that had enjoyed her, although thy love were never so honest, yet he would better affect her himselfe, then for thee, which thou canst not (in like manner) looke for from me, if thou doest account me for thy friend, and as constant now as ever. Reason is my warrant in this case, because I cannot remember, since first our entrance into friendship, that ever I enjoyed any thing, but it was as much thine, as mine. And if our affaires had such an equall course before, as otherwise they could not subsist; must they not now be kept in the same manner? Can any thing more perticularly appertaine to me, but thy right therein is as absolute as mine? I know not how thou maist esteeme of my friendship, if in any thing concerning my selfe, I can plead my priviledge to be above thine. True it is, that _Sophronia_ is affianced to me, and I love her dearely, daily expecting when our nuptials shall be celebrated. But seeing thou doest more fervently affect her, as being better able to judge of the perfections, remaining in so excellent a creature as she is, then I doe: assure thy selfe, and beleeve it constantly, that she shall come to my bed, not as my wife, but onely thine. And therefore leave these despairing thoughts, shake off this cloudy disposition, reassume thy former Joviall spirit, with comfort and what else can content thee: in expectation of the happy houre, and the just requitall of thy long, loving, and worthy friendship, which I have alwayes valued equall with mine owne life. _Titus_ hearing this answer of _Gisippus_, looke how much the sweet hope of that which he desired gave him pleasure, as much both duty and reason affronted him with shame; setting before his eyes this du consideration, that the greater the liberality of _Gisippus_ was, farre greater and unreasonable it appeared to him in disgrace, if hee should unmannerly accept it. Wherefore, being unable to refrain from teares, and with such strength as his weaknesse would give leave, thus he replyed. _Gisippus_, thy bounty and firme friendship suffereth me to see apparantly, what (on my part) is no more then ought to be done. All the Gods forbid, that I should receive as mine, her whom they have adjudged to be thine, by true respect of birth and desert. For if they had thought her a wife fit for me, doe not thou or any else imagine, that ever she should have beene granted to thee. Use freely therefore thine owne election, and the gracious favour wherewith they have blessed thee: leave me to consume away in teares, a mourning garment by them appointed for me, as being a man unworthy of such happinesse; for either I shall conquer this disaster, and that will be my crowne, or else will vanquish me, and free me from all paine: whereto _Gisippus_ presently thus answered. Worthy _Titus_, if our amity would give me so much licence, as but to contend with my selfe, in pleasing thee with such a thing as I desire, and could also induce thee therein to be directed: it is the onely end whereat I aime, and am resolved to pursue it. In which regard, let my perswasions prevaile with thee, and thereto I conjure thee, by the faith of a friend, suffer me to use mine authority, when it extendeth both to mine owne honour, and thy good, for I will have _Sophronia_ to bee onely thine. I know sufficiently, how farre the forces of love doe extend in power, and am not ignorant also, how not once or twice, but very many times, they have brought lovers to unfortunate ends, as now I see thee very neere it, and so farre gone, as thou art not able to turne backe againe, nor yet to conquer thine owne teares, but proceeding on further in this extremity, thou wilt be left vanquished, sinking under the burthen of loves tyrannicall oppression, and then my turne is next to follow thee. And therefore, had I no other reason to love thee, yet because thy life is deare to me, in regard of mine owne depending thereon; I stand the neerer thereto obliged. For this cause, _Sophronia_ must and shall be thine, for thou canst not find any other so conforme to thy fancy: albeit I who can easily convert my liking to another wife, but never to have the like friend againe, shall hereby content both thee, and my selfe. Yet perhaps this is not a matter so easily done, or I to expresse such liberality therein, if wives were to be found with the like difficultie, as true and faithfull friends are: but, (being able to recover another wife) though never such a worthy friend; I rather chuse to change, I doe not say loose her (for in giving her to thee, I loose her not my selfe) and by this change, make that which was good before, tenne times better, and so preserve both thee and my selfe. To this end therefore, if my prayers and perswasions have any power with thee, I earnestly entreat thee, that, by freeing thy selfe out of this affliction, thou wilt (in one instant) make us both truely comforted, and dispose thy selfe (living in hope) to embrace that happinesse, which the fervent love thou bearest to _Sophronia_, hath justly deserved. Now although _Titus_ was confounded with shame, to yeeld consent, that _Sophronia_ should be accepted as his wife, and used many obstinate resistances: yet notwithstanding, Love pleading on the one side powerfully, and _Gisippus_ as earnestly perswading on the other, thus he answered. _Gisippus_, I know not what to say, neither how to behave my selfe in this election, concerning the fitting of mine contentment, or pleasing thee in thy importunate perswasion. But seeing thy liberality is so great, as it surmounteth all reason or shame in me, I will yeeld obedience to thy more then noble nature. Yet let this remaine for thine assurance, that I doe not receive this grace of thine, as a man not sufficiently understanding, how I enjoy from thee, not onely her whom most of all I doe affect, but also doe hold my very life of thee. Grant then you greatest Gods (if you be the Patrones of this mine unexpected felicitie) that with honor and due respect, I may hereafter make apparantly knowne: how highly I acknowledge this thy wonderfull favour, in being more mercifull to me, then I could be to my selfe. For abridging of all further circumstances, answered _Gisippus_, and for easier bringing this matter to full effect, I hold this to be our onely way. It is not unknowne to thee, how after much discourse had between my kindred, and those belonging to _Sophronia_, the matrimoniall conjunction was fully agreed on, and therefore, if now I shall flye off, and say, I will not accept thee as my wife: great scandall would arise thereby, and make much trouble among our friends, which could not be greatly displeasing to me, if that were the way to make her thine. But I rather stand in feare, that if I forsake her in such peremptory sort, her kinred and friends will bestow her on some other, and so she is utterly lost, without all possible meanes of recovery. For prevention therefore of all sinister accidents, I thinke it best, (if thy opinion jumpe with mine) that I still pursue the busines, as already I have begun, having thee alwaies in my company, as my dearest friend and onely associate. The nuptials being performed with our friends, in secret manner at night (as we can cunningly enough contrive it) thou shalt have her maiden honour in bed, even as if she were thine owne wife. Afterward, in apt time and place, we will publiquely make knowne what is done; if they take it well, we will be as jocond as they: if they frowne and waxe offended, the deed is done, over-late to be recalled, and so perforce they must rest contented. You may well imagine, this advise was not a little pleasing to _Titus_, whereupon _Gisippus_ received home _Sophronia_ into his house, with publike intention to make her his wife, according as was the custome then observed, and _Titus_ being perfectly recovered, was present at the Feast very ceremonially observed. When night was come, the Ladies and Gentlewomen conducted _Sophronia_ to the Bride-Chamber, where they left her in her Husbands bed, and then departed all away. The Chamber wherein _Titus_ used to lodge, joyned close to that of _Gisippus_, for their easier accesse each to the other, at all times whensoever they pleased, and _Gisippus_ being alone in the Bride-Chamber, preparing as if he were comming to bed: extinguishing the light, he went softly to _Titus_, willing him to goe to bed to his wife. Which _Titus_ hearing, overcome with shame and feare, became repentant, and denyed to goe. But _Gisippus_, being a true intyre friend indeed, and confirming his words with actions: after a little lingring dispute, sent him to the Bride, and so soone as he was in the bed with her, taking _Sophronia_ gently by the hand, softly he moved the usuall question to her, namely, if she were willing to be his wife. She beleeving verily that he was _Gisippus_, modestly answered. Sir, I have chosen you to be my Husband, reason requires then, that I should be willing to be your Wife. At which words, a costly Ring, which _Gisippus_ used daily to weare, he put upon her finger, saying. With this Ring, I confesse my selfe to be your Husband, and bind you (for ever) my Spouse and Wife; no other kind of marriage was observed in those dayes; and so he continued all the night with her, she never suspecting him to be any other then _Gisippus_, and thus was the marriage consumated, betweene _Titus_ and _Sophronia_, albeit the friends (on either side) thought otherwise. By this time, _Publius_, the father of _Titus_, was departed out of this mortall life, & letters came to _Athens_, that with all speed he should returne to _Rome_, to take order for occasions there concerning him, wherefore he concluded with _Gisippus_ about his departure, and taking _Sophronia_ thither with him, which was no easie matter to be done, until it were first known, how occasions had bin caried among them. Whereupon, calling her one day into her Chamber, they told her entirely, how all had past, which _Titus_ confirmed substantially, by such direct passages betweene themselves, as exceeded all possibility of denyall, and moved in her much admiration; looking each on other very discontentedly, she heavily weeping and lamenting, & greatly complaining of _Gisippus_, for wronging her so unkindly. But before any further noyse was made in the house, shee went to her Father, to whom, as also to her Mother, shee declared the whole trecherie, how much both they and their other friends were wronged by _Gisippus_, avouching her selfe to be the wife of _Titus_, and not of _Gisippus_, as they supposed. These newes were highly displeasing to the Father of _Sophronia_, who with hir kinred, as also those of _Gisippus_, made great complaints to the Senate, very dangerous troubles and commotions arising daily betweene them, drawing both _Gisippus_ and _Sophronia_ into harsh reports; he being generally reputed, not onely worthy of all bitter reproofe, but also the severest punishment. Neverthelesse, hee maintained publikely what he had done, avouching it for an act both of honour and honestie, wherewith _Sophronia's_ friends had no reason to bee offended, but rather to take it in very thankfull part, having married a man of farre greater worth and respect, than himselfe was, or could be. On the other side, _Titus_ hearing these uncivill acclamations, became much moved and provoked at them, but knowing it was a custome observed among the _Greekes_, to be so much the more hurried away with rumours and threatnings, as lesse they finde them to be answered, and when they finde them, shew themselves not onely humble enough, but rather as base men, and of no courage; he resolved with himselfe, that their braveries were no longer to be endured, without some some bold and manly answere. And having a Romane heart, as also an Athenian understanding, by politique perswasions, he caused the kinred of _Gisippus_ and _Sophronia_, to be assembled in a Temple, and himselfe comming thither, accompanied with none but _Gisippus_ onely, he began to deliver his minde before them all, in this manner following. The Oration uttered by _Titus Quintus Fulvius_, in the hearing of the Athenians, being the kinred and friends to _Gisippus_ and _Sophronia_. _Many Philosophers doe hold opinion, that the actions performed by mortall men, doe proceed from the disposing and ordination of the immortall gods. Whereupon some doe maintaine, that things which be done, or never are to be done, proceed of necessity: howbeit some other doe hold, that this necessity is onely referred to things done. Both which opinions (if they be considered with mature judgment) doe most manifestly approve, that they who reprehend any thing which is irrevocable, doe nothing else but shew themselves, as if they were wiser then the Gods, who we are to beleeve, that with perpetuall reason, and void of any error, doe dispose and governe both us, and all our actions; In which respect, how foolish and beast-like a thing it is, presumptuously to checke or controule their operations, you may very easily consider; and likewise, how justly they deserve condigne punishment, who suffer themselves to be transported in so temerarious a manner._ _In which notorious transgression, I understand you all to be guiltie, if common fame speake truely, concerning the marriage of my selfe and_ Sophronia, _whom you imagined as given to_ Gisippus; _for you never remember that it was so ordained from eternitie, shee to be mine, and no Wife for_ Gisippus, _as at this instant is made manifest by full effect. But because the kinde of speaking, concerning divine providence, and intention of the Gods, may seeme a difficult matter to many, and somewhat hard to bee understood: I am content to presuppose, that they meddle not with any thing of ours, and will onely stay my selfe on humane reasons, and in this nature of speech, I shall be enforced to doe two things, quite contrary to my naturall disposition. The one is, to speake somewhat in praise and commendation of my selfe: And the other, justly to blame and condemne other mens seeming estimation. But because both in the one and the other, I doe not intend to swerve a jot from the Truth, and the necessitie of the present case in question, doth not onely require, but also command it, you must pardon what I am to say._ _Your complaints doe proceed, rather from furie then reason, and (with continuall murmurings, or rather seditious) slander, backe-bite and condemne_ Gisippus, _because (of his owne free will and noble disposition) hee gave her to be my Wife, whom (by your election) was made his; wherein I account him most highly praise-worthy: and the reasons inducing mee thereunto, are these. The first, because he hath performed no more then what a friend ought to doe: And the second, in regard he hath dealt more wisely, then you did. I have no intention, to display (at this present) what the sacred law of amitie requireth, to be acted by one friend towards another, it shall suffice mee onely to informe you, that the league of friendship (farre stronger then the bond of bloud and kinred) confirmed us in our election of either at the first, to be true, loyall and perpetuall friends; whereas that of kinred, commeth onely by fortune or chance. And therefore if_ Gisippus _affected more my life, then your benevolence, I being ordained for his friend, as I confesse my selfe to be; none of you ought to wonder thereat, in regard it is no matter of mervaile._ _But let us come now to our second reason, wherein, with farre greater instance I will shew you, that he hath (in this occasion) shewen himselfe to be much more wise, then you did, or have done: because it plainely appeareth, that you have no feeling of the divine providence, and much lesse knowledge in the effects of friendship. I say, that your foresight, councell and deliberation, gave_ Sophronia _to_ Gisippus, _a yong Gentleman, and a Philosopher:_ Gisippus _likewise hath given her to a yong Gentleman, and a Philosopher, as himselfe is. Your discretion gave her to an Athenian; the gift of_ Gisippus_, is to a Romaine. Yours, to a Noble and honest man; that of_ Gisippus, _to one more Noble by race, and no lesse honest then himselfe. Your judgement hath bestowed her on a rich young man:_ Gisippus _hath given her to one farre richer. Your wisedome gave her to one who not onely loved her not, but also one that had no desire to know her:_ Gisippus _gave her unto him, who, above all felicitie else, yea, more than his owne life, both entirely loved and desired her._ _Now, for proofe of that which I have said, to be most true and infallible, and that his deede deserveth to bee much more commended then yours, let it bee duely considered on, point by point. That I am a young man and a Philosopher, as_ Gisippus _is; my yeares, face, and studies, without seeking after further proofe, doth sufficiently testifie: One selfe-same age is both his and mine, in like quality of course have wee lived and studied together. True it is, that hee is an Athenian, and I am a Romaine. But if the glory of these two Cities should bee disputed on: then let mee tell you, that I am of a Citie that is Francke and Free, and hee is of a Tributarie Citie. I say, that I am of a Citie, which is chiefe Lady and Mistresse of the whole World, and hee is of a Citie subject to mine. I say that I am of a Citie, that is strong in Arms, Empire, and studies: whereas his can commend it selfe but for Studies onely. And although you see me heere to bee a Scholler, in appearance meane enough, yet I am not descended of the simplest stocke in Rome._ _My houses and publique places, are filled with the ancient Statues of my Predecessors, and the Annales recorde the infinite triumphs of the Quintii, brought home by them into the Romane Capitole, and yeares cannot eate out the glory of our name, but it will live and flourish to all posteritie._ _Modest shame makes me silent in my wealth and possessions, my minde truely telling mee, that honest contented povertie, is the most ancient and richest inheritance, of our best and Noblest Romanes, which opinion, if it bee condemned by the understanding of the ignorant multitude, and heerein wee shall give way to them by preferring riches and worldly treasures, then I can say that I am aboundantly provided, not as ambitious, or greedily covetous, but sufficiently stored with the goods of Fortune._ _I know well enough, that you held it as a desired benefit,_ Gisippus _being a Native of your Citie, should also be linked to you by alliance: but I know no reason, why I should not be as neere and deere to you at Rome, as if I lived with you heere. Considering, when I am there, you have a ready and well wishing friend, to stead you in all beneficiall and serviceable offices, as carefull and provident for your support, yea, a protectour of you and your affaires, as well publique as particular. Who is it then, not transported with partiall affection, that can (in reason) more approve your act, then that which my friend_ Gisippus _hath done? Questionlesse, not any one, as I thinke._ Sophronia _is married to_ Titus Quintus Fulvius, _a Noble Gentleman by antiquitie, a rich Citizen of Rome, and (which is above all) the friend of_ Gisippus: _therefore, such a one as thinkes it strange, is sorrie for it, or would not have it to be; knoweth not what he doth._ _Perhaps there may be some, who will say, they doe not so much complain, that_ Sophronia _is the wife to_ Titus; _but of the manner whereby it was done, as being made his wife secretly, and by theft, not any of her parents, kinred or friends called thereto: no, nor so much as advertised thereof. Why Gentlemen, this is no miraculous thing, but heeretofore hath oftentimes happened, and therefore no noveltie._ _I cannot count unto you, how many there have beene, who (against the will of their Fathers) have made choice of their husbands; nor them that have fled away with their lovers into strange Countries, being first friends, before they were wives: nor of them who have sooner made testimonie of marriage by their bellies, then those ceremonies due to matrimonie, or publication thereof by the tongue; so that meere necessity & constraint, hath forced the parents to yeeld consent: which hath not so happened to_ Sophronia, _for she was given to me by_ Gisippus _discreetly, honestly, and orderly._ _Others also may say, that shee is married to him, to whom it belonged not to marrie her. These complaints are foolish, and womanish, proceeding from verie little, or no consideration at all. In these daies of ours, Fortune makes no use of novell or inconsiderate meanes, whereby to bring matters to their determined effect. Why should it offend me, if a Cobler, rather than a Scholler, hath ended a businesse of mine, either in private or publique, if the end be well made? Well I may take order, if the Cobler bee indiscreet, that hee meddle no more with any matters of mine, yet I ought, in courtesie, to thanke him for that which hee did._ _In like manner, if_ Gisippus _hath married_ Sophronia _well, it is foolish and superfluous, to finde fault with the manner hee used in her marriage. If you mislike his course in the case, beware of him hereafter, yet thanke him because it is no worse._ _Neverthelesse, you are to understand, that I sought not by fraud or deceit, (but onely by witte) any opportunitie, whereby any way to sullie the honestie and cleere Nobilitie of your bloud, in the person of_ Sophronia: _for although in secret I made her my wife, yet I came not as an enemie, to take her perforce, nor (like a ravisher) wronged her virginitie, to blemish your noble titles, or despising your alliance. But fervently, enflamed by her bright beauty, and incited also by her unparalleld vertues, I shaped my course; knowing well enough, that if I tooke the ordinarie way of wiving, by moving the question to you, I should never winne your consent, as fearing, lest I would take her with me to Rome, and so conveigh out of your sight, a Jewell by you so much esteemed, as she is._ _For this, and no other reason, did I presume to use the secret cunning which now is openly made knowne unto you: and_ Gisippus _disposed himselfe thereunto, which otherwise hee never determined to have done, in contracting the marriage for mee, and shee consenting to me in his name._ _Moreover, albeit most earnestly I affected her, I sought to procure your union, not like a lover, but as a true husband, nor would I immodestly touch her, till first (as herselfe can testifie) with the words becomming wedlocke, and the Ring also I espoused her, demanding of her, if shee would accept mee as her husband, and shee answered mee, with her full consent. Wherein, if it may seeme that shee was deceived, I am not any way to be blamed, but she, for not demanding, what, and who I was._ _This then is the great evill, the great offence, and the great injurie committed by my friend_ Gisippus, _and by mee as a Lover: that_ Sophronia _is secretly become the wife of_ Titus Quintus Fulvius. _And for this cause, like spies you watch him, threaten him daily, as if you intended to teare him in pieces. What could you doe more, if hee had given her to a man of the very vilest condition? to a villaine, to a slave? What prisons? what fetters? Or what torments are sufficient for this fact? But leaving these frivolous matters, let us come to discourse of more moment, and better beseeming your attention._ _The time is come, that I may no longer continue heere, because_ Publius _my Father is dead, and I must needs returne to Rome, wherefore being minded to take_ Sophronia _thither with mee, I was the more willing to acquaint you therewith, as also what else I have said, which otherwise had still beene concealed from you. Nor can you but take it in good part, if you be wise, and rest well contented with what is done: considering, if I had any intention eyther to deceive, or otherwise wrong you; I could have basely left her, and made a scorne both of her and you, you not having any power to stay mee heere. But the Gods will never permitte that any couragious Romane, should ever conceive so vile and degenerate a thought._ Sophronia, _by ordination of the Gods, by force of humane Lawes, and by the laudable consent of my friend_ Gisippus, _as also the powerfull command of Love is mine. But you perchance, imagining your selves to be wiser then the Gods, or any other men whatsoever; may thinke ill of it, and more brutishly then beasts, condemne their working in two kinds, which would be offensive to mee. The one is your detaining of_ Sophronia _from mee, of whom you have no power, but what pleaseth mee. The other, is your bitter threatnings against_ Gisippus _my deare friend, to whom you are in duty obliged. In both which cases, how unreasonablie soever you carrie your selves, I intend not at this time to presse any further. But rather let mee counsell you like a friend, to cease your hatred and disdaine, and suffer_ Sophronia _to be delivered mee, that I may depart contentedly from you as a kinsman, and (being absent) remaine your friend: assuring you, that whether what is done shall please or displease you, if you purpose to proceed any otherwise: I will take_ Gisippus _along with mee, and when I come to Rome, take such sure order, to fetch her hence, who in Justice is mine, even in meere despight of you all, and then you shall feele by sound experience, how powerfull is the just indignation of the wronged Romanes._ * * * * * When Titus had thus concluded his Oration, he arose with a sterne and discontented countenance, and tooke _Gisippus_ by the hand, plainly declaring, that he made small account of all the rest that were in the Temple; and shaking his head at them, rather menaced then any other wise seemed to care for them. They which tarried, when they were gone, considering partly on the reasons alleadged by _Titus_, and partly terrified by his latest speeches; became induced, to like well of his alliance and amitie, as (with common consent) they concluded: that it was much better to accept _Titus_ as their kinsman (seeing _Gisippus_ had made manifest refusall thereof) than to lose the kinred of the one, and procure the hatred of the other. Wherefore they went to seeke _Titus_, and said unto him, they were very well contented that _Sophronia_ should bee his Wife, hee their deare and loving kinsman, and _Gisippus_ to remaine their much respected friend. And embracing one another, making a solemne feast, such as in the like cases is necessarilie required, they departed from him, presently sending _Sophronia_ to him, who making a vertue of necessity, converted her love (in short time after) to _Titus_, in as effectuall manner, as formerly shee had done to _Gisippus_, and so was sent away with him to Rome, where she was received and welcommed with very great honour. _Gisippus_ remaining still at _Athens_, in small regard of eyther theirs or his owne friends: not long after by meanes of sundry troublesome Citizens; and partialities happening among the common people, was banished from _Athens_, and hee, as also all his familie, condemned to perpetuall exile: during which tempestuous time, _Gisippus_ was become not onely wretchedly poore, but wandred abroad as a common begger; in which miserable condition he travelled to _Rome_, to try if _Titus_ would take any acknowledgement of him. Understanding that he was living, and one most respected among the Romanes, as being a great Commander and a Senator: he enquired for the place where hee dwelt, and going to be neere about his house, stayed there so long, till _Titus_ came home, yet not daring to manifest himselfe, or speake a word to him, in regard of his poore and miserable estate, but strove to have him see him, to the end, that hee might acknowledge and call him by his name; notwithstanding, _Titus_ passed by him without either speech, or looking on him. Which when _Gisippus_ perceived, and making full account, that (at the least) he would remember him, in regard of former courtesies, done to him: confounded with griefe and desperate thoughts, hee departed thence, never meaning to see him any more. Now, in regard it was night, he having eaten nothing all that day, nor provided of one penny to buy him any food, wandred he knew not whether, desiring rather to die than live; hee came at last to an old ruinous part of the City, over-spred with briers and bushes, and seldome resorted unto by any: where finding a hollow Cave or vault, he entred into it, meaning there to weare away the comfortlesse night, and laying himselfe downe on the hard ground, almost starke naked, and without any warme garments, over-wearied with weeping, at last he fell into a sleepe. It fortuned that two men, who had beene abroad the same night, committing thefts and robberies together; somwhat very earlie in the morning, came to the same Cave, intending there to share and divide their booties, and difference happening betweene them about it, hee that was the stronger person, slew there the other, and then went away with the whole purchase. _Gisippus_ having heard and seene the manner of this accident, was not a little joyfull, because he had now found a way to death, without laying any violent hand on himselfe; for life being very loathsome to him, it was his only desire to die. Wherefore, he would not budge from the place, but taried there so long, till the Sergeants and Officers of Justice (by information of him that did the deede) came thither well attended, and furiously ledde _Gisippus_ thence to prison. Being examined concerning this bloudy fact, he plainly confessed, that hee himselfe had committed the murder, and afterward would not depart from the Cave, but purposely stayed for apprehension, as being truely toucht with compunction for so foule an offence: upon which peremptorie confession, _Marcus Varro_ being then _Prætor_, gave sentence that he should be crucified on a Crosse, as it was the usuall manner of death in those dayes. _Titus_ chancing to come at the same time into _Prætorium_, advisedly beholding the face of the condemned man (as hee sate upon the bench) knew him to bee _Gisippus_, not a little wondring at this strange accident, the povertie of his estate, and what occasion should bring him thither, especially in the questioning for his life, and before the Tribunall of Justice. His soule earnestly thirsting, by all possible meanes to helpe and defend him, and no other course could now be taken for safetie of his life, but by accusing himselfe, to excuse and cleare the other of the crime: hee stept from off the judgement bench, and crouding through the throng to the Barre, called out to the _Prætor_ in this manner. _Marcus Varro_, recall thy sentence given on the condemned man sent away, because hee is truely guiltlesse and innocent: With one bloudie blow have I offended the Gods, by killing that wretched man, whom the Serjeants found this morning slaine, wherefore Noble _Prætor_, let no innocent mans bloud be shed for it, but onely mine that have offended. _Marcus Varro_ stood like a man confounded with admiration, being very sorrie, for that which the whole assistants had both seene and heard, yet hee could not (with honour) desist from what must needs be done, but would performe the Lawes severe injunction. And sending for condemned _Gisippus_ backe againe, in the presence of _Titus_, thus he spake to him. How becamest thou so madly incensed, as (without any torment inflicted on thee) to confesse an offence by thee never committed? Art thou wearie of thy life? Thou chargest thy selfe falsly, to be the person who this last night murdered the man in the Cave, and there is another that voluntarily also doth confesse his guiltinesse. _Gisippus_ lifting up his eyes, and perceiving it was _Titus_, conceived immediately, that he had done this onely for his deliverance, as one that remembred him sufficiently, and would not be ungratefull for former kindnesses received. Wherefore, the teares flowing abundantly down his cheekes, he said to the Judge _Varro_, it was none but I that murdered the man, wherefore, I commiserate the case of this Noble Gentleman _Titus_, who speakes now too late for the safety of my life. _Titus_ on the other side, said. Noble Prætor, this man (as thou seest) is a stranger heere, and was found without any weapon, fast asleepe by the dead body: thou mayst then easily perceive, that meerely the miserable condition wherein he is, hath made him desperate, and he would make mine offence the occasion of his death. Absolve him, and send me to the Crosse, for none but I have deserved to die for this fact. _Varro_ was amazed, to observe with what earnest instance each of them strove to excuse the other, which halfe perswaded him in his soule, that they were both guiltlesse. And as he was starting up, with full intent to acquaint them: a yong man, who had stood there all this while, and observed the hard pleading on either side; he crowded into the Barre, being named _Publius Ambustus_, a fellow of lewd life, and utterly out of hopes, as being debauched in all his fortunes, and knowne among the _Romaines_ to be a notorious theefe, who verily had committed the murder. Well knew his conscience, that none of them were guilty of the crime, wherewith each so wilfully charged himselfe: being therefore truely toucht with remorse, he stept before _Marcus Varro_, saying. Honourable Prætor, mine owne horrid and abominable actions, have induced me thus to intrude my selfe, for clearing the strict contention betweene these two persons. And questionlesse, some God or greater power, hath tormented my wretched soule, and so compunctually solicited me, as I cannot chuse, but make open confession of my sinne. Here therefore, I doe apparantly publish, that neither of these men is guilty of the offence, wherewith so wilfully each chargeth himselfe. I am the villaine, who this morning murdered the man in the Cave, one of no greater honesty then my selfe, and seeing this poore man lie there sleeping, while we were dividing the stolne booties betweene us; I slew my Companyon, because I would be the sole possessor. As for Noble Lord _Titus_, he had no reason thus to accuse himselfe, because is a man of no such base quality: let them both then be delivered, and inflict the sentence of death on me. _Octavius Cæsar_, to whom tydings was brought of this rare accident, commanding them al three to be brought before him; would needs understand the whole History, in every particular as all had happened, which was substantially related to him. Whereupon, _Octavius_ pleased them all three: the two noble friendes, because they were innocent, and the third, for openly revealing the very truth. _Titus_ tooke home with him his friend _Gisippus_, and after he had sharpely reproved him for his distrust, and cold credence of his friendship: he brought him to _Sophronia_, who welcomed him as lovingly, as if he had bin her naturall borne brother, bemoaning his hard and disastrous fortune, and taking especiall care, to convert all passed distresses, into as happy and comfortable a change, fitting him with garments and attendants, beseeming his degree both in Nobility and vertue. _Titus_, out of his honourable bounty, imparted halfe his lands and rich possessions to him, and afterward gave him in marriage, his owne Sister, a most beautifull Lady, named _Fulvia_, saying to him beside. My deare friend _Gisippus_, it remaineth now in thine owne election, whether thou wilt live here still with me, or returne backe to _Athens_, with all the wealth which I have bestowed on thee. But _Gisippus_, being one way constrayned, by the sentence of banishment from his native City, & then againe, in regard of the constant love, which he bare to so true and thankefull friend as _Titus_ was: concluded to live there as a loyall _Roman_, where he with his _Fulvia_, and _Titus_ with his faire _Sophronia_, lived long after together in one and the same house, augmenting daily (if possible it might be) their amity beyond all other equalizing. A most sacred thing therefore is cordiall amity, worthy not onely of singuler reverence, but also to be honoured with eternall commendation, as being the onely wise Mother of all magnificence and honesty, the Sister of Charity and Gratitude, the enemy to hatred and avarice, and which is alwayes ready (without attending to be requested) to extend all vertuous actions to others, which she would have done to her selfe. Her rare and divine effects, in these contrary times of ours, are not to be found between two such persons, which is a mighty fault, and greatly checketh the miserable covetousnesse of men, who respecting nothing but onely their particular benefit; have banished true Amity, to the utmost confines of the whole earth, and sent her into perpetuall exile. What love, what wealth, or affinity of kindred, could have made _Gisippus_ feele (even in the intyrest part of his soule) the fervent compassion, the teares, the sighes of _Titus_, and with such efficacy as plainely appeared: to make him consent, that his faire elected Spouse, by him so dearely esteemed, should become the wife of his Companion, but onely the precious league of Amity? What Lawes, what threatnings, what feares, could cause the yong armes of _Gisippus_ to abstaine embraces, betaking himselfe to solitary walkes, and obscure places, when in his owne bedde, he might have enjoyed so matchlesse a beauty (who perhaps desired it so much as himselfe) but onely the gracious title of Amity? What greatnesse, what merits or precedence, could cause _Gisippus_ not to care, for the losse of his kindred, those of _Sophronia_, yea, of _Sophronia_ her selfe, not respecting the dishonest murmurings of base minded people, their vile and contemptible language, scornes and mockeries, and all to content and satisfie a friend, but onely Divine Amity? Come now likewise to the other side. What occasions could compell Noble _Titus_, so promptly and deliberatly, to procure his owne death, to rescue his friend from the crosse, and inflict the pain and shame upon himselfe, pretending not see or know _Gisippus_ at all, had it not bin wrought by powerfull Amity? What cause else could make _Titus_ so liberall, in dividing (with such willingnesse) the larger part of his patrimony to _Gisippus_, when Fortune had dispossest him of his owne, but onely heaven-borne Amity? What else could have procured _Titus_ without any further dilation, feare or suspition, to give his Sister _Fulvia_ in marriage to _Gisippus_, when he saw him reduced to such extreame poverty, disgrace and misery, but onely infinite Amity? To what end doe men care then, to covet and procure great multitudes of kinred, store of brethren, numbers of children, and to encrease (with their owne monyes) plenty of servants: when by the least losse and dammage happening, they forget all duty to Father, Brother, or Master? Amity and true friendship is of a quite contrary nature, satisfying (in that sacred bond) the obligation due to all degrees, both of parentage, and all alliences else. Saladine, _the great_ Soldan _of_ Babylon, _in the habite of a Merchant, was honourably received and welcommed, into the house of Signior_ Thorello d'Istria. _Who travelling to the Holy Land, prefixed a certaine time to his Wife, for his returne backe to her againe, wherein, if he failed, it was lawfull for her to take another Husband. By clouding himselfe in the disguise of a Faulkner, the_ Soldan _tooke notice of him, and did him many great honours. Afterward,_ Thorello _falling sicke, by Magicall Art, he was conveighed in one night to_ Pavia, _when his Wife was to be married on the morrow: where making himselfe knowne to her, all was disappointed, and shee went home with him to his owne house._ The Ninth Novell. _Declaring what an honourable vertue Courtesie is, in them that truely know how to use them._ Madam _Philomena_ having concluded her discourse, and the rare acknowledgement, which _Titus_ made of his esteemed friend _Gisippus_, extolled justly as it deserved by all the Company: the King, reserving the last office to _Dioneus_ (as it was at the first granted him) began to speake thus. Without all question to the contrary (worthy Ladies) nothing can be more truely said, then what Madame _Philomena_, hath delivered, concerning Amity, and her complaint in the conclusion of her Novell, is not without great reason, to see it so slenderly reverenced and respected (now-a-dayes) among all men. But if we had met here in duty onely for correcting the abuses of iniquity, and the malevolent courses of this preposterous age; I could proceed further in this just cause of complaint. But because our end aimeth at matters of other nature, it commeth to my memory to tel you of a History, which (perhaps) may seeme somewhat long, but altogether pleasant, concerning a magnificent act of great _Saladine_: to the end, that by observing those things which you shall heare in my Novell, if we cannot (by reason of our manifold imperfections) intirely compasse the amity of any one; yet (at least) we may take delight, in stretching our kindnesse (in good deeds) so farre as we are able, in hope one day after, some worthy reward will ensue thereon, as thereto justly appertaining. Let me tell you then, that (as it is affirmed by many) in the time of the Emperour Frederick, first of that name, the Christians, for the better recovery of the holy land, resolved to make a generall voyage over the Seas. Which being understood by _Saladine_, a very worthy Prince, and then _Soldan_ of Babylon: he concluded with himselfe, that he would (in person) goe see, what preparation the Christian Potentates made for this Warre, that hee might the better provide for himselfe. Having setled all things orderly in �gypt for the busines, and making an outward appearance, as if he purposed a pilgrimage to _Mecha_: he set onward on his journey, habited like a Merchant, attended onely with two of his most Noble and wisest Baschaes, and three waiting servants. When he had visited many Christian Provinces, and was riding thorow _Lombardie_, to passe the mountaines; it fortuned, in his journeying from _Millaine_ to _Pavia_, and the day being very farre spent, so that night hastened speedily on him: he met with a Gentleman, named Signior _Thorello d'Istria_, but dwelling at _Pavia_, who with his men, Hawkes and Hounds, went to a house of his, seated in a singular place, and on the River of _Ticinum_. Signior _Thorello_ seeing such men making towardes him, presently imagined, that they were some Gentle-strangers, and such hee desired to respect with honor. Wherefore, _Saladine_ demanding of one of _Thorelloes_ men, how farre (as then) it was to _Pavia_, and whether they might reach thither by such an houre, as would admit their entrance into the Citty: _Thorello_ would not suffer his servant to returne the answer, but replyed thus himselfe. Sir (quoth he) you cannot reach _Pavia_, but night will abridge you of any entraunce there. I beseech you then Sir, answered _Saladine_, favour us so much (because we are all strangers in these parts) as to tell us where we may be well lodged. That shall I Sir, said _Thorello_, and very gladly too. Even at the instant Sir, as we met with you, I had determined in my mind, to send one of my servants somewhat neere to _Pavia_, about a businesse concerning my selfe: he shall go along with you, and conduct you to a place, where you will be very well entertayned. So, stepping to him, who was of best discretion amongst his men, he gave order to him what should bee done, and sent him with them. Himselfe, making hast by a farre neerer way, caused Supper to be prepared in worthy manner, and the Tables to be covered in his Garden; and all things being in good readinesse, he sate downe at his doore, to attend the comming of his guests. The Servingman, discoursing with the Gentlemen on divers occasions, guided them by such unusuall passages, as (before they could discerne it) he brought them to his Masters house; where so soone as _Thorello_ saw them arrived, he went forth to meet them, assuring them all of most hearty welcome. _Saladine_, who was a man of accute understanding, did well perceive, that this Knight _Thorello_ misdoubted his going with him, if (when he met him) hee should have invited him; and therefore, because he would not be denied, of entertaining him into his house; he made choise of this kinde and honourable course, which caused him to returne this answer. Gentle Sir, if courtesie in one man to another, do deserve condemning, then may we justly complaine of you, who meeting us upon the way, which you have shortened by your kindnesse; and which we are no way able to deserve, wee are constrained to accept, taking you to bee the mirrour of courtesie. _Thorello_ being a Knight of ingenious apprehension, and wel languaged, replyed thus. Gentlemen; this courtesie (seeing you terme it so) which you receive of me, in regard of that justly belonging to you, as your faces do sufficiently informe mee, is matter of very slender account. But assuredly out of _Pavia_, you could not have any lodging, deserving to be termed good. And therefore, let it not bee displeasing to you, if you have a little gone forth of the common rode way, to have your entertainment somewhat bettered, as many travaylers are easily induced to do. Having thus spoken, all the people of the house shewed themselves, in serviceable manner to the Gentlemen, taking their horses as they dismounted, and _Thorello_ himselfe, conducted the three Gentlemen, into three severall faire Chambers, which in costly manner were prepared for them, where their boots were pluckt off, faire Napkins with Manchets lay ready, and delicate Wines to refresh their wearied spirits, much prety conference being entercoursed, till Supper time invited them thence. _Saladine_, and they that were with him, spake the Latine tongue very readily, by which meanes they were the better understoode; and _Thorello_ seemed (in their judgement) to bee the most gracious, compleate, and best spoken Gentleman, as ever they met with in all their journey. It appeared also (on the other side) to Signiour _Thorello_, that his guests were men of great merit, and worthy of much more esteeme, then there he could use towards them: wherefore, it did highly distast him, that he had no more friends there this night to keepe them company, or himselfe better provided for their entertainment, which hee intended (on the morrow) to recompence with larger amends at dinner. Heereupon, having instructed one of his men with what hee intended, he sent him to _Pavia_, which was not farre off (and where he kept no doore shut) to his Wife, named Madam _Adalietta_; a Woman singularly wise, and of a Noble spirit, needing little or no direction, especially when she knew her Husbands minde. As they were walking in the Garden, _Thorello_ desired to understand, of whence, and what they were? Whereto _Saladine_ thus answered. Sir, wee are _Cyprian_ Marchants, comming now from _Cyprus_, and are travailing to _Paris_, about affaires of importance. Now trust me Syr, replyed _Thorello_, I could heartily wish, that this Countrey of ours would yeeld such Gentlemen, as your _Cyprus_ affordeth Marchants. So, falling from one discourse unto another, Supper was served in; and looke howe best themselves pleased, so they sate at the Table, where (we neede make no doubt) they were respected in honourable order. So soone as the Tables were withdrawne, _Thorello_ knowing they might be weary, brought them againe to their Chambers, where committing them to their good rest, himselfe went to bed soone after. The Servant sent to _Pavia_, delivered the message to his Lady; who, not like a woman of ordinary disposition, but rather truely Royall, sent _Thorelloes_ servants into the City, to make preparation for a Feast indeed, and with lighted Torches (because it was somewhat late) they invited the very greatest and noblest persons of the Citie, all the roomes being hanged with the richest Arras, Clothes of Golde worke, Velvets, Silkes, and all other rich adornments, in such manner as her husband had commanded, and answerable to her owne worthy mind, being no way to learne, in what manner to entertaine strangers. On the morrow morning, the Gentlemen arose, and mounting on horsebacke with Signior _Thorello_, he called for his Hawkes and Hounds, brought them to the River, where he shewed two or three faire flights: but _Saladine_ desiring to know, which was the fayrest Hostery in all _Pavia, Thorello_ answered. Gentlemen, I will shew you that my selfe, in regard I have occasion to ride thither. Which they beleeving, were the better contented, and rode on directly unto _Pavia_; arriving there about nine of the clocke, and thinking he guided them to the best Inne, he brought them to his owne house; where, above fifty of the worthiest Citizens, stood ready to welcome the Gentlemen, imbracing them as they lighted from their Horsses. Which _Saladine_, and his associates perceiving, they guessed as it was indeede, and _Saladine_ sayd. Beleeve me worthy _Thorello_, this is not answerable to my demand; you did too much yester-night, and much more then we could desire or deserve: Wherefore, you might wel be the sooner discharged of us, and let us travaile on our journey. Noble Gentlemen, replyed _Thorello_ (for in mine eye you seeme no lesse) that courtesie which you met with yester-night, I am to thanke Fortune for, more then you, because you were then straited by such necessity, as urged your acceptance of my poore Country house. But now this morning, I shall account my selfe much beholding to you (as the like will all these worthy Gentlemen here about you) if you do but answer kindnes with kindnes, and not refuse to take a homely dinner with them. _Saladine_ and his friends, being conquerd with such potent perswasions, and already dismounted from their horses, saw that all deniall was meerly in vaine: and therefore thankfully condiscending (after some few ceremonious complements were over-past) the Gentlemen conducted them to their Chambers, which were most sumptuously prepared for them, and having laid aside their riding garments, being a little refreshed with Cakes and choice Wines: they descended into the dining Hall, the pompe whereof I am not able to report. When they had washed, and were seated at the Tables, dinner was served in most magnificent sort; so that if the Emperor himself had bin there, he could not have bin more sumptuously served. And although _Saladine_ and his Baschaes were very Noble Lords, and wonted to see matters of admiration: yet could they do no lesse now, but rather exceeded in marvaile, considering the qualitie of the Knight, whom they knew to bee a Citizen, and no Prince or great Lord. Dinner being ended, and divers familiar conferences passing amongst them: because it was exceeding hot, the Gentlemen of _Pavia_ (as it pleased _Thorello_ to appoint) went to repose themselves awhile, and he keeping company with his three guests, brought them into a goodly Chamber, where, because he would not faile in the least scruple of courtesie, or conceale from them the richest Jewell which he had; he sent for his Lady and wife, because (as yet) they had not seene her. She was a Lady of extraordinary beauty, tall stature, very sumptuously attired, and having two sweet Sonnes (resembling Angels) she came with them waiting before her, and graciously saluted her guests. At her comming, they arose, and having received hir with great reverence, they seated her in the midst, kindly cherishing the two Children. After some gracious Language past on eyther side, she demanded of whence, and what they were, which they answered in the same kind as they had done before to her husband. Afterward, with a modest smiling countenance, she sayd. Worthy Gentlemen, let not my weake Womanish discretion appeare distastable, in desiring to crave one especiall favour from you, namely, not to refuse or disdaine a small gift, wherewith I purpose to present you. But considering first, that women (according to their simple faculty) are able to bestow but silly gifts: so you would be pleased, to respect more the person that is the giver, then the quality or quantity of the gift. Then causing to be brought (for each of them) two goodly gowns or Robes (made after the _Persian_ manner) the one lyned thorough with cloth of Gold, and the other with the costlyest Fur; not after such fashion as Citizens or Marchants use to weare, but rather beseeming Lords of greatest account, and three light under-wearing Cassocks or Mandillions, of Carnatian Sattin, richly Imbroidred with Gold and Pearles, and lined thorow with White Taffata, presenting these gifts to him, she sayd. I desire you Gentlemen to receive these meane trifles, such as you see my Husband weares the like, and these other beside, considering you are so far from your Wives, having travailed a long way already, and many miles more yet to overtake; also Marchants (being excellent men) affect to be comely and handsome in their habits; although these are of slender value, yet (in necessity) they may do you service. Now was _Saladine_ and his Baschaes halfe astonyed with admiration, at the magnificent minde of Signiour _Thorello_, who would not forget the least part of courtesie towardes them, and greatly doubted (seeing the beauty and riches of the Garments) least they were discovered by _Thorello_. Neverthelesse, one of them thus answered the Lady. Beleeve me Madame, these are rich guiftes, not lightly either to be given, or receyved: but in regard of your strict imposition, we are not able to deny them. This being done, with most gracious and courteous demeanour, she departed from them, leaving her Husband to keepe them still companie; who furnished their servants also, with divers worthy necessaries fitting for their journey. Afterward, _Thorello_ (by very much importunitie) wonne them to stay with him all the rest of the day; wherefore, when they had rested themselves awhile, being attyred in their newly given robes; they rode on Horsebacke thorow the Citty. When supper time came, they supt in most honourable and worthy company, beeing afterwards Lodged in most faire and sumptuous Chambers, and being risen in the morning, in exchange of their horses (over-wearied with Travaile) they found three other very richly furnished, and their men also in like manner provided. Which when _Saladine_ had perceyved, he tooke his Baschaes aside, and spake in this manner. By our greatest Gods, I never met with any man, more compleat in all noble perfections, more courteous and kinde then _Thorello_ is. If all the Christian Kings, in the true and heroicall nature of Kings, do deale as honourably as I see this Knight doeth, the Soldane of _Babylon_ is not able to endure the comming of one of them, much lesse so many, as wee see preparing to make head against us. But beholding, that both refusall and acceptation, was all one in the minde of _Thorello_: after much kinde Language had bin intercoursed betweene them, _Saladine_ (with his Attendants) mounted on horsebacke. Signiour _Thorello_, with a number of his honourable Friends (to the number of an hundred Horsse) accompanied them a great distance from the Citie, and although it greeved _Saladine_ exceedingly, to leave the company of _Thorello_, so dearely he was affected to him; but necessity (which controlleth the power of all lawes whatsoever) must needs divide them: yet requesting his returne agayne that way, if possibly it might be granted; which _Saladine_ promised but did not performe. Well Gentlemen (quoth _Thorello_ at parting) I know not what you are, neither (against your will) do I desire it: but whether you be Marchants or no, remember me in your kindnesse, and so to the heavenly powers I commend you. _Saladine_, having taken his leave of all them that were with _Thorello_, returned him this answer. Sir, it may one day hereafter so happen, as we shall let you see some of our Marchandises, for the better confirmation of your beleefe, and our profession. Thus parted Signior _Thorello_ and his friends, from _Saladine_ and his company, who verily determined in the heighth of his minde, if he should be spared with life, and the warre (which he expected) concluded: to requite _Thorello_ with no lesse courtesie, then hee had already declared to him; conferring a long while after with his Baschaes, both of him and his beauteous Lady, not forgetting any of their courteous actions, but gracing them all with deserved commendation. But after they had (with very laborious paines) surveyed most of the Westerne parts, they all tooke Shipping, and returned into _Alexandria_: sufficiently informed, what preparation was to be made for their owne defence. And Signior _Thorello_ being come backe againe to _Pavia_, consulted with his privat thoughts (many times after) what these three travailers should be, but came farre short of knowing the truth, till (by experience) hee became better informed. When the time was come, that the Christians were to make their passage, and wonderfull great preparations, in all places performed: Signiour _Thorello_, notwithstanding the teares and intreaties of his Wife, determined to be one in so woorthy and honourable a voyage: and having made his provision ready, nothing wanting but mounting on Horsebacke, to go where he should take shipping; to his Wife (whom he most intirely affected) thus hee spake. Madame, I goe as thou seest in this famous Voyage, as well for mine Honour, as also the benefite of my soule; all our goodes and possessions, I commit to thy vertuous care. And because I am not certaine of my returning backe againe, in regard of a thousand accidents which may happen, in such a Countrey as I goe unto: I desire onely but one favour of thee, whatsoever daunger shall befall mee; Namely, when any certaine tydings shall be brought mee of my death; to stay no longer before thy second marriage, but one yeare, one month, and one day; to begin on this day of my departing from thee. The Lady, who wept exceedingly, thus answered. Alas Sir: I know not how to carry my selfe, in such extremity of greefe, as now you leave me; but if my life surmount the fortitude of sorrow, and whatsoever shall happen to you for certainty, either life or death: I will live and dye the Wife of Signiour _Thorello_, and make my obsequies in his memory onely. Not so Madame (replyed her Husband) not so; Be not overrash in promising any thing, albeit I am well assured, that so much as consisteth in thy strength, I make no question of thy performance. But consider withall (deare heart) thou art a yong woman, beautifull, of great parentage, and no way thereto inferior in the blessings of Fortune. Thy Vertues are many, and universally both divulged and knowen, in which respect, I make no doubt; but divers and sundrie great Lords and Gentlemen (if but the least rumour of my death be noysed) will make suite for thee to thy parents and brethren, from whose violent solicitings, wouldst thou never so resolutely make resistance, yet thou canst not be able to defend thy selfe; but whether thou wilt or no, thou must yeeld to please them; and this is the only reason, why I would tie thee to this limited time, and not one day or minute longer. _Adalietta_, sweetly hugging him in her armes, and melting her selfe in kisses, sighes, and teares on his face, said. Well Sir, I will do so much as I am able, in this your most kinde and loving imposition: and when I shall bee compelled to the contrary: yet rest thus constantly assured, that I will not breake this your charge, so much as in thought. Praying ever heartily to the heavenly powers, that they will direct your course home againe to me, before your prefixed date, or else I shall live in continual languishing. In the knitting up of this wofull parting, embracing and kissing either infinit times, the Lady tooke a Ring from off her finger, and giving it to her husband, said. If I chaunce to die before I see you againe, remember me when you looke on this. He receiving the Ring, and bidding all the rest of his Friends farewell, mounted on horsebacke, and rode away wel attended. Being come unto _Geneway_, he and his company boorded a Galley, and (in few dayes after) arrived at _Acres_, where they joyned themselves with the Christian Army, wherein there happened a verie dangerous mortality: During which time of so sharpe visitation (the cause unknowne whence it proceeded) whether thorough the industrie, or rather the good Fortune of _Saladine_, well-neere all the rest of the Christians (which escaped death) were surprized his prisoner (without a blow strucken) and sundred and imprisoned in divers Townes and Citties. Amongest the which number of prisoners, it was Signior _Thorelloes_ chaunce to be one, and walked in bonds to _Alexandria_, where being unknowne, and fearing least he should be discovered: constrained thereto meerly by necessity, hee shewed himselfe in the condition of a Faulconer; wherein he was very excellently experienced, and by which means his profession was made knowne to _Saladine_, hee delivered out of prison, and created the Soldans Faulconer. _Thorello_ (whom the Soldane called by no other name, then the Christian, neyther of them knowing the other) sadly now remembred his departure from _Pavia_, devising and practising many times, how he might escape thence, but could not compasse it by any possible meanes. Wherefore, certaine Ambassadours beeing sent by the _Genewaye_, to redeeme divers Cittizens of theirs, there detained as prisoners, and being ready to returne home againe: he purposed to write to his Wife, that he was living, and wold repaire to her so soone as he could, desiring the still continued remembrance** of her limited time. By close and cunning meanes hee wrote the Letter, earnestly intreating one of the Ambassadors (who knew him perfectly, but made no outward apparance thereof) to deale in such sort for him, that the Letter might be delivered to the handes of the Abbot _Di San Pietro in Ciel d'Oro_, who was (indeede) his Uncle. While _Thorello_ remayned in this his Faulconers condition, it fortuned uppon a day, that _Saladine_, conversing with him about his Hawkes: _Thorello_ chanced to smile, and used such a kinde of gesture or motion with his Lippes, which _Saladine_ (when he was in his house at _Pavia_) had heedfully observed, and by this note, instantly he remembred Signior _Thorello_, and began to eye him very respectively, perswading himselfe that he was the same man. And therefore falling from their former kinde of discoursing: Tell mee Christian (quoth _Saladine_) what Country-man art thou of the West? Sir, answered Signiour _Thorello_, I am by Country a Lombard, borne in a Citty called _Pavia_, a poore man, and of as poore condition. So soone as _Saladine_ had heard these Words; becomming assured in that which (but now) he doubted, he saide within himselfe. Now the Gods have given me time, wherein I may make knowne to this man, how thankefully I accepted his kinde courtesie, and cannot easily forget it. Then, without saying any thing else, causing his Guard-robe to be set open, he tooke him with him thither, and sayde. Christian, observe well all these Garments, and quicken thy remembrance, in telling mee truly, whether thou hast seene any of them before now, or no. Signiour _Thorello_ looked on them all advisedly, and espyed those two especiall Garments, which his Wife had given one of the strange Merchants; yet he durst not credit it, or that possibly it could be the same, neverthelesse he said. Sir, I doe not know any of them, but true it is, that these two doe resemble two such Robes, as I was wont to weare my selfe, and these (or the like) were given to three Merchants, that happened to visite my poore house. Now could _Saladine_ containe no longer, but embracing him joyfully in his armes, he said. You are Signior _Thorello d'Istria_, and I am one of those three Merchants, to whom your Wife gave these Roabes: and now the time is come to give you credible intelligence of my Merchandise, as I promised at my departing from you, for such a time (I told you) would come at length. _Thorello_, was both glad, and bashfull together: glad, that he had entertained such a Guest, and bashfully ashamed, that his welcome had not exceeded in more bountifull manner. _Thorello_, replyed _Saladine_, seeing the Gods have sent you so happily to me: account your selfe to be soly Lord here, for I am now no more then a private man. I am not able to expresse their counterchanges of courtesie, _Saladine_ commanding him to be cloathed in Royall garments, and brought into the presence of his very greatest Lords, where having spoken liberally in his due commendation, he commanded them to honour him as himselfe, if they expected any grace or favour from him, which every one did immediatly, but (above all the rest) those two Baschaes, which accompanied _Saladine_ at his house. The greatnesse of this pompe and glory, so suddenly throwne on Signior _Thorello_, made him halfe forget all matters of _Lomberdie_; and so much the rather, because he had no doubt at all, but that his letters, were safely come to the hands of his Uncle. Here I am to tell you, that in the Campe or Army of the Christians, on the day when _Saladine_ made his surprizall, there was a Provinciall Gentleman dead and buried, who was Signior _Thorello de Dignes_, a man of very honourable and great esteeme, in which respect (Signior _Thorello d'Istria_, knowne throughout the Army, by his Nobility and valour) whosoever heard that Signior _Thorello_ was dead: beleeved it to be _Thorello d'Istria_, and not he of _Dignes_, so that _Thorello d'Istriaes_ unknowne surprizall and thraldome, made it also to passe for an assured truth. Beside, many Italians returning home, and carrying this report for credible; some were so audaciously presumptuous, as they avouched upon their oathes, that not onely they saw him dead, but were present at his buriall likewise. Which rumour comming to the eare of his Wife, and likewise to his kinred and hers: procured a great and grievous mourning among them, and all that happened to heare thereof. Over-tedious time it would require, to relate at large, the publique griefe and sorrow, with the continuall lamentations of his Wife, who (within some few moneths after) became tormented with new marriage solicitings, before she had halfe sighed for the first: the very greatest persons of _Lomberdie_ making the motion, being daily followed and furthered by her owne brothers and friends. Still (drowned in teares) she returned denyall, till in the end, when no contradiction could prevaile, to satisfie her parents, and the importunate pursuers: she was constrained to reveale, the charge imposed on her by her Husband, which shee had vowed infallibly to keepe, and till that very time, she would in no wise consent. While wooing for a second wedding with _Adalietta_, proceeded in this manner at _Pavia_, it chanced on a day, that Signior _Thorello_ had espied a man in _Alexandria_, whom he saw with the _Geneway_ Ambassadours, when they set thence towards _Geneway_ with their Gallies. And causing him to be sent for, he demaunded of him, the successe of the voyage, and when the Gallies arrived at _Geneway_; whereto he returned him this answere. My Lord, our Gallies made a very fatall voyage, as it is (already) too well knowne in _Creete_, where my dwelling is. For when we drew neere _Sicilie_, there suddenly arose a very dangerous North-West-winde, which drove us on the quicke-Sands of _Barbarie_, where not any man escaped with life, onely my selfe excepted, but (in the wracke) two of my brethren perished. Signior _Thorello_, giving credit to the mans words, because they were most true indeed, and remembring also, that the time limitted to his Wife, drew neere expiring within very few dayes, and no newes now possibly to be sent thither of his life, his Wife would questionlesse be marryed againe: he fell into such a deepe conceited melancholly, as food and sleepe forsooke him, whereupon, he kept his bed, setting downe his peremptory resolution for death. When _Saladine_ (who dearely loved him) heard thereof, he came in all haste to see him, and having (by many earnest perswasions and entreaties) understood the cause of his melancholly and sickenesse: he very severely reproved him, because he could no sooner acquaint him therewith. Many kind and comfortable speeches, he gave him, with constant assurance, that (if he were so minded) he would so order the businesse for him; as he should be at _Pavia_, by the same time as he had appointed to his Wife, and revealed to him also the manner how. _Thorello_ verily beleeved the _Soldanes_ promise, because he had often heard the possibility of performance, and others had effected as much, divers times else-where: whereupon he began to comfort himselfe, soliciting the _Soldan_ earnestly that it might be accomplished. _Saladine_ sent for one of his Sorcerers (of whose skill he had formerly made experience) to take a direct course, how Signior _Thorello_ should be carryed (in one night) to _Pavia_, and being in his bed. The Magitian undertooke to doe it, but, for the Gentlemans more ease, he must first be possessed with an entraunced dead sleep. _Saladine_ being thus assured of the deeds full effecting, he came againe to _Thorello_, and finding him to be setled for _Pavia_ (if possibly it might be accomplished by the determined time, or else no other expectation but death) he said unto him as followeth. Signior _Thorello_, if with true affection you love your Wife, and misdoubt her marriage to some other man: I protest unto you, by the supreme powers, that you deserve no reprehension in any manner whatsoever. For, of all the Ladyes that ever I have seene, she is the onely woman, whose carriage, vertues, and civile speaking (setting aside beauty, which is but a fading flowre) deserveth most graciously to be respected, much more to be affected in the highest degree. It were to me no meane favour of our Gods, (seeing Fortune directed your course so happily hither) that for the short or long time we have to live, we might reigne equally together in these Kingdomes under my subjection. But if such grace may not be granted me, yet, seeing it stands mainly upon the perill of your life, to be at _Pavia_ againe by your own limitted time, it is my chiefest comfort, that I am therewith acquainted, because I intended to have you conveighed thither, yea, even into your owne house, in such honourable order as your vertues doe justly merit, which in regard it cannot be so conveniently performed, but as I have already informed you, and as the necessity of the case urgently commandeth; accept it as it may be best accomplished. Great _Saladine_ (answered _Thorello_) effects (without words) have already sufficiently warranted your Gracious disposition towards me, farre beyond any requitall remayning in me; your word onely being enough for my comfort in this case, either dying or living. But in regard you have taken such order for my departure hence, I desire to have it done with all possible expedition, because to morrow is the very last day, that I am to be absent. _Saladine_ protested that it should be done, and the same evening in the great Hall of his Pallace, commanded a rich and costly Bedde to be set up, the mattras formed after the _Alexandrian_ manner, of Velvet and cloth Gold, the Quilts, counter-points and coverings, sumptuously imbroydered with Orient Pearles and Precious Stones, supposed to be of inestimable value, and two rarely wrought Pillowes, such as best beseemed so stately a Bedde, the Curtaines and Vallans every way equall to the other pompe. Which being done, he commanded that _Thorello_ (who was indifferently recovered) should be attyred in one of his owne sumptuous _Saracine_ Roabes, the very fairest and richest that ever was seene, and on his head a Majesticall Turbant, after the manner of his owne wearing, and the houre appearing to be somewhat late, he with many of his best Baschaes, went to the Chamber where _Thorello_ was, and sitting downe a while by him, in teares thus he spake. Signior _Thorello_, the houre for sundering you and me, is now very neere, and because I cannot beare you company, in regard of the businesse you goe about, and which by no meanes will admit it: I am to take my leave of you in this Chamber, and therefore am purposely come to doe it. But before I bid you farewell, let me entreat you, by the love and friendship confirmed betweene us, to be mindfull of me, and to take such order (your affaires being fully finished in _Lombardie_) that I may once more enjoy the sight of you here, for a mutuall solace and satisfaction of our mindes, which are now divided by this urgent hast. Till which may be granted, let me want no visitation of your kind letters, commanding thereby of me, whatsoever here can possibly be done for you; assuring your selfe, no man living can command me as you doe. Signior _Thorello_ could not forbeare weeping, but being much hindred thereby, answered in few words. That he could not possibly forget, his Gracious favours and extraordinary benefits used towards him, but would accomplish whatsoever hee commaunded, according as heaven did enable him. Hereupon, _Saladine_ embracing him, and kissing his forehead, said. All my Gods goe with you, and guard you from any perill, departing so out of the Chamber weeping, and his Baschaes (having likewise taken their leave of _Thorello_) followed _Saladine_ into the Hall, whereas the Bedde stood readily prepared. Because it waxed very late, and the Magitian also there attending for his dispatch: the Phisitian went with the potion to _Thorello_, and perswading him, in the way of friendship, that it was onely to strengthen him after his great Weaknes: he drank it off, being thereby immediately entraunced, and so presently sleeping, was (by _Saladines_ command) laid on the sumptuous and costly Bed, whereon stood an Imperiall Crowne of infinite value, appearing (by a description engraven on it) that _Saladine_ sent it to Madame _Adalietta_, the wife of _Thorello_. On his finger also hee put a Ring, wherein was enchased an admirable Carbuncle, which seemed like a flaming Torche, the value thereof not to bee estimated. By him likewise hee laid a rich sword, with the girdle, hangers, and other furniture, such as seldome can be seene the like. Then hee laid a Jewell on the Pillow by him, so sumptuouslie embelished with Pearles and precious Stones, as might have beseemed the greatest Monarch in the World to weare. Last of all, on either side of them, hee set two great Basons of pure Gold, full of double ducates, many cords of Orient Pearles, Rings, Girdles, and other costly Jewells (over-tedious to bee recounted) and kissing him once more as hee lay in the bedde, commanded the Magitian to dispatch and be gone. Instantly, the bedde and _Thorello_ in it, in the presence of _Saladine_, was invisibly carried thence, and while he sate conferring with his Baschaes, the bed, Signior _Thorello_, and all the rich Jewells about him, was transported and set in the Church of _San Pietro in Ciel d'Ore_ in _Pavia_, according to his own request, and soundly sleeping, being placed directly before the high Altar. Afterward, when the bells rung to Mattines, the Sexton entring the Church with a light in his hand (where hee beheld a light of greater splendour) and suddenly espied the sumptuous bedde there standing: not only was he smitten into admiration, but hee ranne away also very fearefully. When the Abbot and the Monkes mette him thus running into the Cloyster, they became amazed, and demanded the reason why he ranne in such haste, which the Sexton told them. How? quoth the Abbot, thou art no childe, or a new-come hither, to be so easilie affrighted in our holy Church, where Spirits can have no power to walke, God and Saint _Peter_ (wee hope) are stronger for us then them so: wherefore turne backe with us, and let us see the cause of thy feare. Having lighted many Torches, the Abbot and his Monkes entred with the Sexton into the Church, where they beheld the wonderfull riche bedde, and the Knight lying fast a-sleepe in it. While they stood all in amazement, not daring to approach neere the bedde, whereon lay such costly Jewells: it chanced that Signior _Thorello_ awaked, and breathed forth a vehement sigh. The Monkes and the Abbot seeing him to stirre, ranne all away in feare, crying aloud, God and S. _Peter_ defend us. By this time _Thorello_ had opened his eyes, and looking round about him, perceived that hee was in the place of _Saladines_ promise, whereof hee was not a little joyfull. Wherefore, sitting up in the bedde, and particularly observing all the things about him: albeit he knew sufficiently the magnificence of _Saladine_, yet now it appeared far greater to him, and imagined more largely thereof, then hee could doe before. But yet, without any other ceremony, seeing the flight of the Monkes, hearing their cry, and perceiving the reason; he called the Abbot by his name, desiring him not to be afraid, for he was his Nephew _Thorello_, and no other. When the Abbot heard this, hee was ten times worse affrighted then before, because (by publique fame) hee had beene so many moneths dead and buried; but receiving (by true arguments) better assurance of him, and hearing him still call him by his name: blessing himselfe with the signe of the Crosse, hee went somewhat neerer to the bed, when _Thorello_ said. My loving Uncle, and religious holy Father, whereof are you afraid? I am your loving Nephew, newly returned from beyond the Seas. The Abbot, seeing his beard to be grown long, and his habit after the Arabian fashion, did yet collect some resemblance of his former countenance; and being better perswaded of him, tooke him by the hand, saying: Sonne thou art happily returned, yet there is not any man in our Citie, but doth verily beleeve thee to bee dead, and therefore doe not much wonder at our feare. Moreover, I dare assure thee, that thy Wife _Adalietta_, being conquered by the controuling command, and threatnings of her kinred (but much against her owne minde) is this very morning to be married to a new husband, and the marriage feast is solemnly prepared, in honour of this second nuptialls. _Thorello_ arising out of the bedde, gave gracious salutations to the Abbot and his Monkes, intreating earnestly of them all, that no word might be spoken of his returne, untill he had compleated an important businesse. Afterward, having safely secured the bedde, and all the rich Jewells, he fully acquainted the Abbot with all his passed fortunes, whereof he was immeasurably joyfully, & having satisfied him, concerning the new elected husband, _Thorello_ said unto the Abbot. Uncle, before any rumour of my returne, I would gladly see my wives behavior at this new briding feast, & although men of religion are seldome seene at such Joviall meetings: yet (for my sake) doe you so order the matter, that I (as an Arabian stranger) may be a guest under your protection; whereto the Abbot very gladly condescended. In the morning, he sent to the Bridegroom, and advertised him, that he (with a stranger newly arrived) intented to dine with him, which the Gentleman accepted in thankefull manner. And when dinner time came, _Thorello_ in his strange disguise went with the Abbot to the Bridegroomes house, where he was lookt on with admiration of all the guests, but not knowne or suspected by any one; because the Abbot reported him to be a _Sarracine_, and sent by the Soldane (in Ambassage) to the King of France. _Thorello_ was seated at a by-table, but directly opposite to the new Bride, whom hee much delighted to looke on, and easily collected by her sad countenance, that shee was scarcely well pleased with this new nuptialls. She likewise beheld him very often, not in regard of any knowlege she took of him: for the bushiness of his beard, strangeness of habit, (but most of all) firm beleefe of his death, was the maine prevention. At such time as _Thorello_ thought it convenient, to approve how farre he was falne out of her remembrance; he took the ring which she gave him at his departure, and calling a young Page that waited on none but the Bride, said to him in Italian: Faire youth, goe to the Bride, and saluting her from me, tell her, it is a custome observed in my Country, that when any Stranger (as I am heere) sitteth before a new married Bride, as now shee is, in signe that hee is welcome to her feast, she sendeth the same Cup (wherein she drinketh her selfe) full of the best wine, and when the stranger hath drunke so much as him pleaseth, the Bride then pledgeth him with all the rest. The Page delivered the message to the Bride, who, being a woman of honourable disposition, and reputing him to be a Noble Gentleman, to testifie that his presence there was very acceptable to her, shee commanded a faire Cuppe of gold (which stood directlie before her) to bee neately washed, and when it was filled with excellent Wine, caused it to bee carried to the stranger, and so it was done. _Thorello_ having drunke a heartie draught to the Bride, conveyed the Ring into the Cuppe, before any person could perceive it, and having left but small store of Wine in it, covered the Cuppe, and sent it againe to the Bride, who received it very graciously, and to honour the Stranger in his Countries custome, dranke up the rest of the Wine, and espying the Ring, shee tooke it forth undetected by any: Knowing it to be the same Ring which shee gave Signior _Thorello_ at his parting from her; she fixed her eyes often on it, & as often on him, whom she thought to be a stranger, the cheerfull bloud mounting up into her cheeks, and returning againe with remembrance to her heart, that (howsoever thus disguised) he only was her husband. Like one of _Bacchus_ Froes, up furiously she started, and throwing downe the Table before her, cried out aloud: This is my Lord and Husband, this truely is my Lord _Thorello_. So running to the Table where he sate, without regard of all the riches thereon, down she threw it likewise, and clasping her armes about his necke, hung so mainly on him (weeping, sobbing, and kissing him) as she could not be taken off by any of the company, nor shewed any moderation in this excesse of passion, till _Thorello_ spake, and entreated her to be more patient, because this extremity was over-dangerous for her. Thus was the solemnitie much troubled, but every one there very glad and joyfull for the recovery of such a famous and worthy Knight, who intreated them all to vouchsafe him silence, and so related all his fortunes to them, from the time of his departure, to the instant houre. Concluding withall, that hee was no way offended with the new Bride-groome, who upon the so constant report of his death, deserved no blame in making election of his wife. The Bridegroome, albeit his countenance was somewhat cloudie, to see his hope thus disappointed: yet granted freely, that _Adalietta_ was _Thorello's_ wife in equitie, and hee could not justly lay any claime to her. She also resigned the Crown and Rings which she had so lately received of her new Spouse, and put that on her finger which she found in the Cup, and that Crowne was set upon her head, in honor sent her from great _Saladine_. In which triumphant manner, she left the new Bridegrooms abiding, and repayred home to _Thorello's_ house, with such pompe and magnificence as never had the like been seene in _Pavia_ before, all the Citizens esteeming it as a miracle, that they had so happily recovered Signior _Thorello_ againe. Some part of the Jewells he gave to him, who had beene at cost with the marriage feasting, and some to his Uncle the Abbot, beside a bountie bestowed on the Monkes. Then he sent a messenger to _Saladine_, with Letters of his whole successe, and confessing himselfe (for ever) his obliged servant: living many yeeres (after) with his wife _Adalietta_, and using greater curtesies to strangers, then ever before he had done. In this manner ended the troubles of Signior _Thorello_, and the afflictions of his dearely affected Lady, with due recompence to their honest and ready courtesies. Many strive (in outward shew) to doe the like, who although they are sufficiently able, doe performe it so basely, as it rather redoundeth to their shame, then honour. And therefore if no merit ensue thereon, but onely such disgrace as justly should follow; let them lay the blame upon themselves. _The Marquesse of_ Saluzzo, _named_ Gualtiero, _being constrained by the importunate solliciting of his Lords, and other inferiour people, to joyne himselfe in marriage; tooke a woman according to his owne liking, called_ Grizelda, _she being the daughter of a poore Countriman, named_ Janiculo, _by whom he had two children, which he pretended to be secretly murdered. Afterward, they being grown to yeres of more stature, and making shew of taking in marriage another wife, more worthy of his high degree and Calling: made a seeming publique liking of his owne daughter, expulsing his wife_ Grizelda _poorely from him. But finding her incomparable patience; more dearely (then before) hee received her into favour againe, brought her home to his owne Pallace, where (with her children) hee caused her and them to be respectively honoured, in despight of all her adverse enemies._ The Tenth Novell. _Set downe as an example or warning to all wealthie men, how to have care of marrying themselves. And likewise to poore and meane women, to be patient in their fortunes, and obedient to their husbands._ Questionlesse, the Kings Novell did not so much exceed the rest in length, but it proved as pleasing to the whole assembly, & past with their generall approbation, till _Dioneus_ (in a merry jesting humour) said. The plaine honest simple man, that stood holding the Candle, to see the setting on of his Mules tayle; deserved two penny-worth of more praise, then all our applauding of Signior _Thorello_: And knowing himselfe to bee left for the last speaker, thus he began. Milde & modest Ladies, for ought I can perceive to the contrary, this day was dedicated to none but Kings, Soldanes, and great Potentates, not in favour of any inferiour or meaner persons. And therefore, because I would be loth to dis-ranke my selfe from the rest, I purpose to speake of a Lord Marquesse, not any matter of great magnificence, but rather in a more humble nature, and sorted to an honest end: which yet I will not advise any to immitate, because (perhaps) they cannot so well digest it, as they did whom my Novell concerneth; thus then I begin. It is a great while since, when among those that were Lord Marquesses of _Saluzzo_, the very greatest and worthiest man of them al, was a young Noble Lord, named _Gualtiero_, who having neyther wife nor childe, spent his time in nothing else but hawking & hunting: nor had he any minde of marriage, or to enjoy the benefit of children, wherein many did repute him the wiser. But this being distastfull to his subjects, they very often earnestly solicited him, to match himselfe with a wife, to the end, that hee might not decease without an heire, nor they be left destitute of a succeeding Lord; offering themselves to provide him of such a one, so well descended by Father and Mother, as not only should confirm their hope, but also yeeld him high contentment; whereto the Lord Marquess thus answered. Worthie friends, you would constraine me to the thing, wherewith I never had any intent to meddle, considering, how difficult a case it is to meet with such a woman, who can agree with a man in all his conditions, and how great the number is of them, who daily happen on the contrarie: but most (and worst of all the rest) how wretched and miserable prooves the life of man, who is bound to live with a wife not fit for him. And in saying, you can learn to understand the custome and qualities of children, by behaviour of the fathers and mothers, and so to provide mee of a wife, it is a meere argument of folly: for neither shall I comprehend, or you either, the secret inclinations of parents; I meane of the Father, and much lesse the complexion of the mother. But admitte it were within compasse of power to know them; yet it is a frequent sight, and observed every day; that daughters doe resemble neither father nor mother, but that they are naturally governed by their owne instinct. But because you are so desirous to have me fettered in the chains of wedlocke; I am contented to grant what you request. And because I would have no complaint made of any but my selfe, if matters should not happen answerable to expectation; I will make mine owne eyes my electors, and not see by any others sight. Giving you this assurance before, that if she whom I shall make choice of, be not of you honoured and respected as your Lady and Mistresse: it will ensue to your detriment, how much you have displeased me, to take a wife at your request, and against mine owne will. The Noble men answered, that they were well satisfied, provided that he tooke a wife. Some indifferent space of time before, the beauty, manners, and well-seeming vertues, of a poore Countrie-mans daughter, dwelling in no farre distant village, had appeared very pleasing to the Lord Marquesse, and gave him full perswasion, that with her hee should lead a comfortable life. And therefore without any further search or inquisition, he absolutely resolved to marry her, and having conferred with her Father, agreed, that his daughter should be his wife. Whereupon, the Marquesse made a generall Convocation of all his Lords, Barons, and other of his especiall friends, from all parts of his Dominion; and when they were assembled together, hee then spake unto them in manner as followeth. Honourable friends, it appeared pleasing to you all; and yet (I thinke) you are of the same minde, that I should dispose my selfe to take a wife: and I thereto condescended, more to yeeld you contentment, then for any particular desire in my selfe. Let mee now remember you of your solemne made promise, with full consent to honor and obey her (whosoever) as your Soveraigne Lady and Mistresse, that I shall elect to make my wife: and now the time is come, for my exacting the performance of that promise, and which I look you must constantly keepe. I have made choyce of a yong virgine, answerable to mine owne heart and liking, dwelling not farre off hence, whom I intend to make my wife, and (within few daies) to have her brought home to my Pallace. Let your care and diligence then extend so farre, as to see that the feast may be sumptuous, and her entertainment to bee most honourable: to the end that I may receive as much contentment in your promise performed, as you shall perceive I doe in my choice. The Lords and all the rest, were wondrously joyfull to heare him so well inclined, expressing no lesse by their shouts and jocund suffrages: protesting cordially, that she should be welcommed with pompe and majestie, and honoured of them all, as their Liege Ladie and Soveraigne. Afterward, they made preparation for a princely and magnificent feast, as the Marquesse did the like, for a marriage of extraordinary state and qualitie, inviting all his kinred, friends, and acquaintance in all parts and Provinces, about him. Hee made also readie most riche and costly garments, shaped by the body of a comely young Gentlewoman, who he knew to be equall in proportion and stature, to her of whom hee hade made his election. When the appointed nuptiall day was come, the Lord Marques, about nine of the clocke in the morning, mounted on horse-backe, as all the rest did, who came to attend him honourably, and having all things in due readinesse with them, he said: Lords, it is time for us to goe fetch the Bride. So on hee rode with his traine, to the same poore Village whereas shee dwelt, and when hee was come to her Fathers house, hee saw the maiden returning very hastily from a Well, where shee had beene to fetch a paile of Water, which shee set downe, and stood (accompanied with other maidens) to see the passage by of the Lord Marquesse and his traine. _Gualtiero_ called her by her name, which was _Grizelda_, and asked her, where her Father was: who bashfully answered him, and with an humble courtesie, saying. My gracious Lord, hee is in the house. Then the Marquesse dismounted from his horse, commanding every one to attend him, then all alone hee entred into the poore Cottage, where he found the maides father, being named _Janiculo_, and said unto him. God speed good Father, I am come to espouse thy daughter _Grizelda_: but first I have a few demands to make, which I will utter to her in thy presence. Then hee turned to the maide, and saide. Faire _Grizelda_, if I make you my wife, will you doe your best endeavour to please me, in all things which I shall doe or say? will you also be gentle, humble, and patient? with divers other the like questions: whereto she still answered, that she would, so neere as heaven (with grace) should enable her. Presently he tooke her by the hand, so led her forth of the poore homely house, and in the presence of all his company, with his owne hands, he took off her meane wearing garments, smocke and all, and cloathed her with those Robes of State which he had purposely brought thither for her, and plaiting her haire over her shoulders, hee placed a Crowne of gold on her head, whereat every one standing as amazed, and wondring not a little, hee said: _Grizelda_, wilt thou have me to thy husband. Modestly blushing, and kneeling on the ground, she answered. Yes my gracious Lord, if you will accept so poore a maiden to be your wife. Yes _Grizelda_, quoth hee, with this holy kisse, I confirme thee for my wife; and so espoused her before them all. Then mounting her on a milke-white Palfray, brought thither for her, shee was thus honourably conducted to her Pallace. Now concerning the marriage feast and triumphes, they were performed with no lesse pompe, then if she had beene daughter to the King of France. And the young Bride apparantly declared, that (with her garments) her minde and behavior were quite changed. For indeed shee was (as it were shame to speake otherwise) a rare creature, both of person and perfections, and not onely was shee absolute for beautie, but so sweetely amiable, gracious, and goodlie; as if she were not the daughter of poore _Janiculo_, and a Countrie Shepheardesse, but rather of some Noble Lord, whereat every one wondred that formerly had knowne her. Beside all this, shee was so obedient to her husband, so fervent in all dutifull offices, and patient, without the very least provoking: as hee held himselfe much more then contented, and the onely happy man of the world. In like manner, towards the subjects of her Lord and Husband, she shewed her selfe alwayes so benigne and gracious; as there was not any one, but the more they lookt on her, the better they loved her, honouring her voluntarily, and praying to the heavens, for her health, dignity and well-fares long continuance. Speaking now (quite contrary to their former opinion of the Marquesse) honourably and worthily, that he had shewne him selfe a singular wise man, in the election of his Wife, which few else (but he) in the world would have done: because their judgement might fall farre short, of discerning those great and precious vertues, veiled under a homely habite, and obscured in a poore Countrey cottage. To be briefe, in very short time, not onely the Marquisate it selfe, but all neighbouring Provinces round about, had no other common talke, but of her rare course of life, devotion, charity, and all good actions else; quite quailing all sinister Instructions of her Husband, before he received her in marriage. About foure or five yeeres after the birth of her daughter, shee conceived with child againe, and (at the limitted houre of deliverance) had a goodly Sonne, to the no little liking of the Marquesse. Afterward, a strange humour entred into his braine, namely, that by a long continued experience, and courses of intollerable quality; he would needes make proofe of his faire Wives patience. First he began to provoke her by injurious speeches, shewing fierce and frowning lookes to her, intimating; that his people grew displeased with him, in regard of his Wives base birth and education, and so much the rather, because she was likely to bring children, who (by her blood) were no better then beggars, and murmured at the daughter already borne. Which words when _Grizelda_ heard, without any alteration of countenance, for the least distemperature in any appearing action she said. My honourable and gracious Lord, dispose of me, as you thinke best, for your owne dignity and contentment, for I shall therewith be well pleased: as she that knowes her selfe, farre inferiour to the meanest of your people, much lesse worthy of the honour, whereto you liked to advance me. This answere was very welcome to the Marquesse, as apparantly perceiving hereby, that the dignity whereto hee had exalted her, or any particular favours beside, could not infect her with any pride, coynesse, or disdaine. Not long after, having told her in plaine and open speeches, that his subjects could not endure her so late borne daughter: he called a trusty servant of his, and having instructed him what he should doe, sent him to _Grizelda_, and he being alone with her, looking very sadde, and much perplexed in mind, he saide. Madame, except I intend to loose mine owne life, I must accomplish what my Lord hath strictly enjoyned me, which is, to take this your yong daughter, and then I must: So breaking off abruptly, the Lady hearing his words, and noting his frowning lookes, remembring also what the Marquesse himselfe had formerly said; she presently imagined, that he had commanded his servant to kill the childe. Suddenly therefore, she tooke it out of the Cradle, and having sweetly kissed, and bestowne her blessing on it (albeit her heart throbbed, with the inward affection of a Mother) without any alteration of countenance, she tenderly laid it in the servants armes, and said. Here friend, take it, and doe with it as thy Lord and mine hath commanded thee: but leave it in no rude place, where birds or savage beasts may devoure it, except it be his will to have it so. The servant departing from her with the child, and reporting to the Marquesse what his Lady had said; he wondered at her incomparable constancy. Then he sent it by the same servant to _Bologna_, to an honourable Lady his kinsewoman, requesting her (without revealing whose child it was) to see it both nobly and carefully educated. At time convenient afterward, being with child againe, and delivered of a Princely Sonne (then which nothing could be more joyfull to the Marquesse) yet all this was not sufficient for him; but with farre ruder language then before, and lookes expressing harsh intentions, he said unto her. _Grizelda_, though thou pleasest me wonderfully, by the birth of this Princely Boy, yet my subjects are not therewith contented, but blunder abroad maliciously; that the grand-child of _Janiculo_, a poore countrey pezant, when I am dead and gone, must be their Soveraigne Lord and Master. Which makes me stand in feare of their expulsion, and to prevent that, I must be rid of this childe, as well as the other, and then send thee away from hence, that I may take another wife, more pleasing to them. _Grizelda_, with a patient sufferent soule, hearing what he had said, returned no other answere but this. Most Gracious and Honourable Lord, satisfie and please your owne Royall minde, and never use any respect of me: for nothing is precious or pleasing to mee, but what may agree with your good liking. Within a while after, the Noble Marquesse in the like manner as he did before for the Daughter, so he sent the same servant for the Sonne, and seeming as if he had sent it to have been slaine, conveighed it to be nursed at _Bologna_, in company of his sweete Sister. Whereat the Lady shewed no other discontentment in any kinde, then formerly she had done for her Daughter, to the no meane marvell of the Marquesse, who protested in his soule, that the like woman was not in all the world beside. And were it not for his heedfull observation, how loving and carefull she was of her children, prizing them as dearely as her owne life: rash opinion might have perswaded him, that she had no more in her, then a carnall affection, not caring how many she had, so shee might thus easily be rid of them; but he knew her to be a truely vertuous mother, and wisely liable to endure his severest impositions. His Subjects beleeving, that he had caused the children to bee slaine, blamed him greatly, thought him to be a most cruell man, and did highly compassionate the Ladies case: who when shee came in company of other Gentlewomen, which mourned for their deceased children, would answere nothing else: but that they could not be more pleasing to her, then they were to the father that begot them. Within certaine yeares after the birth of these children, the Marquesse purposed with himselfe, to make his last and finall proofe of faire _Grizeldaes_ patience, and said to some neere about him: that he could no longer endure, to keepe _Grizelda_ as his wife, confessing, he had done foolishly, and according to a young giddie braine, when he was so rash in the marriage of her. Wherefore he would send to the Pope, and purchase a dispensation from him, to repudiate _Grizelda_, and take another Wife. Wherein although they greatly reproved him; yet he told them plainely, that it must needes be so. The Lady hearing these newes, and thinking she must returne againe to her poore fathers house, and (perhaps) to her old occupation of keeping sheepe, as in her yonger dayes she had done, understanding withall, that another woman must enjoy him, whom shee dearely loved and honoured; you may well thinke (worthy Ladies) that her patience was now put to the maine proofe indeede. Neverthelesse, as with an invincible true vertuous courage, she had outstood all the other injuries of Fortune; so did she constantly settle her soule, to beare this with an undaunted countenance and behaviour. At such time as was prefixed for the purpose, counterfeit Letters came to the Marquesse (as sent from _Rome_) which he caused to be publikely read in the hearing of his subjects: that the Pope had dispensed with him, to leave _Griselda_, and marry with another Wife, wherefore, sending for her immediatly, in presence of them all, thus he spake to her. Woman, by concession sent me from the Pope, he hath dispensed with me, to make choyce of another Wife, and to free my selfe from thee. And because my predecessors have beene Noblemen, and great Lords in this Country, thou being the daughter of a poore Countrey Clowne, and their blood and mine notoriously imbased, by my marriage with thee; I intend to have thee no longer my Wife, but will returne thee home to thy Fathers house, with all the rich Dowry thou broughtest me; and then I will take another Wife, with whom I am already contracted, better beseeming my birth, and farre more contenting and pleasing to my people. The Lady hearing these words (not without much paine and difficulty) restrayned her teares, quite contrary to the naturall inclination of women, and thus answered. Great Marquesse, I never was so empty of discretion, but did alwayes acknowledge, that my base and humble condition, could not in any manner sute with your high blood and Nobility, and my being with you, I ever acknowledged, to proceed from heaven and you, not any merit of mine, but onely as a favour lent me, which you being now pleased to recall backe againe, I ought to be pleased (and so am) that it bee restored. Here is the Ring, wherewith you Espoused me; here (in all humility) I deliver it to you. You command me, to carry home the marriage Dowry which I brought with me: there is no need of a Treasurer to repay it me, neither any new purse to carry it in, much lesse any Sumpter to be laden with it. For (Noble Lord) it was never out of my memory, that you tooke me starke naked; and if it shall seeme sightly to you, that this body which hath borne two children, and begotten by you, must againe be seene naked; willingly must I depart hence naked. But I humbly beg of your Excellency, in recompence of my Virginity, which I brought you blamelesse, so much as in thought: that I may have but one of my wedding Smocks, onely to conceale the shame of nakednesse, and then I depart rich enough. The Marquesse whose heart wept bloody teares, as his eyes would likewise gladly have yeelded their naturall tribute; covered all with a dissembled angry countenance, and starting up, said. Goe, give her a Smocke onely, and so send her gadding. All there present about him, entreated him to let her have a petticote, because it might not be said, that she who had been his Wife thirteene yeares and more, was sent away so poorely in her Smocke: but all their perswasions prevailed not with him. Naked in her Smocke, without hose or shooes, bareheaded, and not so much as a Cloth about her necke, to the great griefe and mourning of all that saw her, she went home to her old fathers house. And he (good man) never beleeving, that the Marquesse would long keepe his daughter as his Wife, but rather expected daily, what now had happened: safely laid up the garments, whereof the Marquesse despoyled her, the same morning when he espoused her. Wherefore he delivered them to her, and she fell to her fathers houshold businesse, according as formerly she had done; sustayning with a great and unconquerable spirit, all the cruell assaults of her enemy Fortune. About such time after, as suted with his owne disposition, the Marquesse made publiquely knowne to his subjects, that he meant to joyne in marriage again, with the daughter to one of the Counts of _Panago_, and causing preparation to be made for a sumptuous wedding; he sent for _Grizelda_, and she being come, thus he spake to her. The Wife that I have made the new election of, is to arrive here within very few dayes, and at her first comming, I would have her to be most honourably entertained. Thou knowest I have no women in my house, that can decke up the Chambers, and set all requisite things in due order, befitting for so solemne a Feast: and therefore I sent for thee, who knowing (better then any other) all the partes, provision and goods in the house, set every thing in such order, as thou shalt thinke necessary. Invite such Ladies and Gentlewomen as thou wilt, and give them welcome, even as if thou wert the Lady of the house: and when the marriage is ended, returne then home to thy father againe. Although these words pierced like wonding daggers, the heart of poore (but Noble patient) _Grizelda_, as being unable to forget the unequal'd love she bare to the Marquesse, though the dignitie of her former fortune, more easily slipt out of her remembrance; yet neverthelesse, thus she answered. My Gracious Lord, I am glad I can doe you any service; wherein you shall find mee both willing and ready. In the same poore garments, as she came from her fathers house, (although shee was turned out in her Smocke) she began to sweep and make cleane the Chambers, rubbe the stooles and benches in the Hall, and ordered every in the Kitchin, as if she were the worst maide in all the house, never ceasing or giving over, till all things were in due and decent order, as best beseemed in such a case. After all which was done, the Marquesse, having invited all the Ladies of the Countrey, to be present at so great a Feast: when the marriage day came, _Grizelda_, in her gowne of Countrey gray, gave them welcome, in honourable manner, and graced them all with very cheerefull countenance. _Gualtiero_ the Marquesse, who had caused his two children to be nobly nourished at _Bologna_, with a neere kinswoman of his, who had married with one of the Counts of _Panago_, his daughter being now aged twelve yeares old, and some-what more, as also the Son about sixe or seven. He sent a Gentleman expresly to his kindred, to have them come and visite him at _Saluzza_, bringing his daughter and Sonne with them, attended in very honourable manner, and publishing every where as they came along, that the young Virgin (knowne to none but himselfe and them) should be the Wife to the Marquesse, and that onely was the cause of her comming. The Gentleman was not slacke, in the execution of the trust reposed in him: but having made convenient preparation, with the kindred, Sonne, daughter, and a worthy company attending on them, arrived at _Saluzza_ about dinner time, where wanted no resort, from all neighbouring parts round about, to see the comming of the Lord Marquesses new Spouse. By the Lords and Ladies she was joyfully entertained, and comming into the great Hall, where the Tables were readily covered: _Grizelda_, in her homely Country habite, humbled her selfe before her, saying. Gracious welcome, to the new elected Spouse of the Lord Marquesse. All the Ladies there present, who had very earnestly importuned _Gualtiero_ (but in vaine) that _Grizelda_, might better be shut up in some Chamber, or else to lend her the wearing of any other garments, which formerly had been her owne, because she should not be so poorely seene among strangers: being seated at the Tables, she waited on them very serviceably. The yong Virgin was observed by every one, who spared not to say; that the Marquesse had made an excellent change: but above them all, _Grizelda_ did most commend her, and so did her brother likewise, as young as he was, yet not knowing her to be his Sister. Now was the Marquesse sufficiently satisfied in his soule, that he had seene so much as he desired, concerning the patience of his Wife, who in so many hart-grieving trials, was never noated so much as to alter her countenance. And being absolutely perswaded, that this proceeded not from any want of understanding in her, because he knew her to be singularly wise: he thought it high time now, to free her from these afflicting oppressions, and give her such assurance as she ought to have. Wherefore, commanding her into his presence, openly before all his assembled friends, smiling on her, he said. What thinkst thou _Grizelda_ of our new chosen Spouse? My Lord (quoth she) I like her exceeding well, and if she be so wise, as she is faire (which verely I thinke she is) I make no doubt but you shall live with her, as the onely happy man of the world. But I humbly entreat your Honour (if I have any power in me to prevaile by) that you would not give her such cutting and unkind language, as you did to your other wife: for I cannot thinke her armed with such patience, as should (indeed) support them: as wel in regard she is much yonger, as also her more delicate breeding and education, whereas she who you had before, was brought up in continual toile and travaile. When the Marquesse perceyved, that _Grizelda_ beleeved verily, this yong daughter of hers should be his wife, and answered him in so honest and modest manner: he commanded her to sit downe by him, and saide. _Grizelda_, it is now more then fitte time, that thou shouldst taste the fruite of thy long admired patience, and that they who have thought me cruell, harsh and uncivill natured, should at length observe, that I have done nothing basely, or unadvisedly. For this was a worke premeditated before, for enstructing thee, what it is to be a married wife, and to let them know (whosoever they be) how to take and keepe a wife. Which hath begotten (to me) perpetuall joy and happinesse, so long as I have a day to live with thee: a matter whereof I stoode before greatly in feare, and which (in marriage I thought) would never happen to me. It is not unknown to thee, in how many kinds (for my first proofe) I gave thee harsh and unpleasing speeches, which drawing no discontentment from thee, either in lookes, words, or behaviour, but rather such comfort as my soule desired, and so in my other succeedings afterward: in one minute now, I purpose to give thee that consolation, which I bereft thee of in many tempestuous stormes, and make a sweet restauration, for all thy former sower sufferinges. My faire and dearly affected _Grizelda_, shee whom thou supposest for my new elected Spouse, with a glad and cheerfull hart, imbrace for thine owne daughter, and this also her Brother, beeing both of them thy children and mine, in common opinion of the vulgar multitude, imagined to be (by my command) long since slaine. I am thy honourable Lord and Husband, who doth, and will love thee farre above all women else in the world; giving thee justly this deserved praise and commendation, That no man living hath the like Wife, as I have. So, sweetly kissing her infinitely, and hugging her joyfully in his armes (the teares now streaming like new-let-loose Rivers, downe her faire face, which no disaster before could force from her) hee brought her, and seated her by her daughter, who was not a little amazed at so rare an alteration. Shee having (in zeale of affection) kissed and embraced them both, all else there present being clearely resolved from the former doubt which too long deluded them; the Ladies arose jocondly from the tables, and attending on _Grizelda_ to her Chamber, in signe of a more successefull augury to follow: tooke off her poor contemptible rags, and put on such costly robes, which (as Lady Marchionesse) she used to weare before. Afterward, they waited on her into the Hall againe, being their true Soveraigne Lady and Mistresse, as she was no lesse in her poorest Garments; where all rejoycing for the new restored Mother, & happy recovery of so noble a son and daughter, the Festivall continued many months after. Now every one thought the Marquesse to be a noble and wise Prince, though somewhat sharpe and unsufferable, in the severe experiences made of his wife: but (above al) they reputed _Grizelda_, to be a most wise, patient, & vertuous Lady. The Count of _Panago_, within few daies after returned backe to _Bologna_; and the Lord Marques, fetching home old _Janiculo_ from his country drudgery, to live with him (as his Father in law) in his Princely Palace, gave him honorable maintenance, wherein hee long continued, and ended his daies. Afterward, he matched his daughter in a Noble marriage: he and _Grizelda_ living long time together, in the highest honor that possibly could be. What can now be saide to the contrary, but that poore Country Cottages, may yeeld as divine & excellent spirits, as the most stately and Royall mansions, which breed and bring uppe some, more worthy to be Hog-rubbers, then hold any soveraignty over men? Where is any other (beside _Grizelda_) who not only without a wet eye, but imboldned by a valiant and invincible courage: that can suffer the sharpe rigours, and (never the like heard of proofes) made by the Marquesse? Perhaps he might have met with another, who would have quitted him in a contrary kinde, and for thrusting her forth of doores in her smocke, could have found better succor somewhere else, rather then walke so nakedly in the cold streets. * * * * * _Dioneus_ having thus ended his Novel, and the Ladies delivering their severall judgements, according to their owne fancies, some holding one conceite, others leaning to the contrary; one blaming this thing, and another commending that, the King lifting his eyes to heaven, and seeing the Sun began to fall** low, by rising of the Evening Starre; without arising from his seat, spake as followeth. Discreet Ladies, I am perswaded you know sufficiently, that the sense and understanding of us mortals, consisteth not onely (as I think) by preserving in memory things past, or knowledge of them present; but such as both by the one and other, know how to foresee future occasions, are worthily thought wise, and of no common capacity. It will be (to morrow) fifteene dayes, since we departed from the City of _Florence_, to come hither for our pastime and comfort, the conservation of our lives, and support of our health, by avoyding those melanchollies, griefes, and anguishes, which we beheld daylie in our City, since the pestilentiall visitation beganne there, wherein (by my judgement) we have done well and honestly. Albeit some light Novels, perhaps attractive to a little wantonnes, as some say, and our Joviall feasting with good cheare, singing and dancing, may seeme matters inciting to incivility, especially in weake and shallow understandings. But I have neither seene, heard, or knowne, any acte, word, or whatsoever else, either on your part or ours, justly deserving to be blamed: but all has bin honest, as in a sweete and hermonious concord, such as might well beseeme the communitie of Brethren and Sisters; which assuredly, as well in regard of you, as us, hath much contented me. And therefore, least by over-long consuetude, something should take life, which might be converted to a bad construction, & by our country demourance for so many dayes, some captious conceit may wrest out an ill imagination; I am of the minde (if yours be the like) seeing each of us hath had the honor, which now remaineth still on me: that it is very fitting for us, to returne thither from whence we came. And so much the rather, because this sociable meeting of ours, which already hath wonne the knowledge of many dwellers here about us, should not grow to such an increase, as might make our purposed pastime offensive to us. In which respect (if you allow of my advise) I will keepe the Crowne till our departing hence; the which I intend shall be to morrow: but if you determine otherwise, I am the man ready to make my resignation. Many imaginations passed amongst the Ladies, and likewise the men, but yet in the end, they reputed the Kings counsell to bee the best and wisest, concluding to do as he thought convenient. Whereupon, hee called the Master of the housholde, and conferred with him, of the businesse belonging to the next morning, and then gave the company leave to rise. The Ladies and the rest, when they were risen, fel some to one kinde of recreation, and others as their fancies served them, even as (before) they had done. And when Supper time came, they dispatcht it in very loving manner. Then they began to play on instruments, sing and dance, and Madame _Lauretta_ leading the dance: the King commaunded Madame _Fiammetta_ to sing a song, which pleasantly she began in this manner. _THE SONG._ The Chorus sung by all the rest of the Company. _If Love were free from Jealousie, No Lady living, Had lesse heart-greeving, Or liv'd so happily as I._ _If gallant youth In a faire friend, a woman could content, If vertues prize, valour and hardiment, Wit, carriage, purest eloquence, Could free a woman from impatience: Then I am she can vaunt (if I were wise) All these in one faire flower, Are in my power, And yet I boast no more but trueth. If Love were free from jealousie, &c._ _But I behold That other Women are as wise as I Which killes me quite, Fearing false sirquedrie. For when my fire begins to flame Others desires misguide my aim, And so bereaves me of secure delight. Onely through fond mistrust, he is unjust: Thus are my comforts hourely hot and cold. If Love were free, &c._ _If in my friend, I found like faith, as manly minde I know; Mistrust were slaine. But my fresh griefes still grow, By sight of such as do allure, So I can thinke none true, none sure, But all would rob me of my golden gaine. Loe thus I dye, in Jelousie, For losse of him, on whom I most depend. If Love were free, &c._ _Let me advise Such Ladies as in Love are bravely bold, Not to wrong me, I scorne to be controld. If any one I chance to finde. By winkes, words, smiles, in crafty kinde, Seeking for that, which onely mine should be: Then I protest, to do my best, And make them know, that they are scarsly wise._ _If Love were free from jealousie, I know no Lady living, Could have lesse heart-greeving, Or live so happily as I._ So soone as Madam _Fiammetta_ had ended her Song; _Dioneus_, who sate by her, smiling said. Truly Madam, you may do us a great courtesie, to express your selfe more plainly to us all, least (thorow ignorance) the possession may be imposed on your selfe, and so you remaine the more offended. After the Song was past, divers other were sung beside, and it now drawing wel-neere midnight, by the Kings command, they all went to bed. And when new day appeared, and all the world awaked out of sleepe, the Master of the Houshold having sent away the carriages; they returned (under the conduct of their discreet King) to _Florence_, where the three Gentlemen left the seven Ladies at the Church of _Santa Maria Novella_, from whence they went with them at the first. And having parted with kinde salutations; the Gentlemen went whether themselves best pleased, and the Ladies repaired home to their houses. _The End of the Tenth and Last Day._ 
35155	----	http://www.archive.org/details/betrothed00manzuoft THE BETROTHED From the Italian of ALESSANDRO MANZONI [Illustration: _The street was deserted before him; but, behind him, the terrible cry still resounded. "Seize him! stop him! a poisoner!"_] London: Richard Bentley, (_Successor to H. Colburn_) Cumming, Dublin. Bell and Bradfute, Edinburgh. Galignani, Paris. 1834 [Illustration: THE BETROTHED. _So saying, he passed his arm around the neck of the Unknown, who after resisting a moment, yielded, quite vanquished by this impulse of kindness, and fell on the neck of the Cardinal in an agony of repentance._] STANDARD NOVELS. Nº XLIII. "No kind of literature is so generally attractive as Fiction. Pictures of life and manners, and Stories of adventure, are more eagerly received by the many than graver productions, however important these latter may be. APULEIUS is better remembered by his fable of Cupid and Psyche than by his abstruser Platonic writings; and the Decameron of BOCCACCIO has outlived the Latin Treatises, and other learned works of that author." THE BETROTHED. Complete in One Volume. London: Richard Bentley, 8. New Burlington Street (Successor to Henry Colburn): Bell, and Bradfute, Edinburgh; and Cumming, Dublin. 1834. London: Printed by A. Spottiswoode, New-Street-Square. CRITICAL REMARKS on MANZONI'S BETROTHED: BY THE COUNT O'MAHONY. [Translated from the Italian.] To publish a novel, to analyse, to eulogise it, and recommend its perusal to the good and pious, will appear no doubt very extraordinary, and offend the prejudices of many who have agreed among themselves to consider a novel, whoever may be its author, and whatever may be its subject, form, and design, as a pestilent production. If you ask them why? "Because," they will reply--"because it is a novel!" The answer is as wise as it is peremptory and decisive, and we will spare ourselves the useless trouble of replying to arguments so profound and powerful. We will, however, submit a few serious reflections to minds of a less elevated order, were it only to prove that we can talk reasonably, even on the subject of novels. Certainly, if we are understood to designate by the appellation of _Novel_, the written dreams and extravagant imaginations of a corrupt mind and depraved heart, where illusions are substituted for realities, vice transformed into virtue, crime justified by the passions that lead to its perpetration, and fallacious pictures presented of an ideal world, or criminal apologies for a world too real; if, we say, such are the novels to be condemned and proscribed, none more than ourselves will be disposed to confirm the sentence. The unhappy influence which productions like these have exerted over the minds of youth, and above all, the ravages which their multiplication has within a few years produced, is a fact acknowledged by all, by those who have escaped the contagion of their perusal, as well as by those whom that perusal has injured. With respect to this, the wise and the good are unanimous in their testimony and their anathemas; it is one of those self-evident truths, about which an Englishman or a German might still elaborate many a learned dissertation, but of which we shall take no further notice, certain that we should only repeat much less forcibly and eloquently, that which a thousand writers or orators have said before us. But there is another point of view under which we must consider novels, or rather the works so called, but which bear, to those which morals and good taste reprobate, no other resemblance than the name. These are, it is true, unhappily few in number, and therefore have not been classed by themselves, but have been comprehended in the common appellation, and included in the general proscription; like an honest man, who, bearing the same name as a rogue, partakes with him the odium of his reputation. But this is an injustice for which we are disposed to claim reparation. Every work of imagination, in which the author causes ideal personages to speak, think, and act, according to his pleasure, has been stigmatised as a _Novel_. But, if we allow this rigorous definition, the apologue, so dear to the moralist, is a _Novel_, and deserving of proscription. We will go further; the parable, which also creates its characters and invents their words and actions, is a _novel_! But who would dare to call them so? Who would dare profane by this name, those profound allegories, those holy fables, so excellent in truth, and so replete with instruction, which God himself has related to man? Finally, if we peruse the works of the most austere philosophers, and the most severe moralists, without excepting ecclesiastical writers, we shall find among them all, pictures of fancy or ideal histories of imaginary persons, fiction serving as a veil, or rather (we must acknowledge it) as an apology for truth. Now, we ask, by what unjust caprice would we condemn in the novelist that which we admire and applaud in the moralist and philosopher; or rather, by what title do we interdict to the former the right of being equally philosophical and moral with the latter? If man were without weaknesses and society without imperfections, truth would prevail of itself, and in order to be loved and obeyed, it would need only to be shown in its unadorned purity and undisguised nakedness. But, from the beginning of the world, pride has precipitated man into darkness. Corrupt and blind, a jealous susceptibility is developed in his character, which continually increases in proportion to his blindness and corruptions,--that is to say, the deeper he is plunged in darkness, the more he dreads the light, and it is but by degrees, and under various disguises, that we can hope ultimately to make him endure its full blaze. Besides, fiction, under divers forms, such as fables, apologues, novels, allegories, and tales, constitutes a large portion of the literature of every nation; to this we may add the utility, nay, even the necessity of disguising truth, in order to make it acceptable to our imperfection; and more than all, the good frequently resulting from these modest productions ought to stimulate those on whom Heaven has bestowed the same kind of talent, to employ it in exposing vice and reforming the corruptions of society. But if the imperfection and weakness of our hearts render fiction necessary to us, a similar necessity results from the languor and inaction of our minds: for in proportion to the extent of public corruption, individual application of the mind to severe and serious study diminishes. Insensibly all continued exercise of the powers of his understanding becomes irksome to man, and he finally considers thought and _ennui_ to be synonymous terms. This is, without doubt, a deplorable and alarming symptom of the decline of society; but we are obliged to confess its existence, and, not possessing the power of changing, we must submit to its caprices and satisfy its necessities. Now, whether from instinct or observation, writers appear for some years past to have generally understood the demands of the age; and throughout Europe, men of distinguished talents have employed themselves in answering them. It might be said that Germany, England, Switzerland, and Italy, have formed as it were a literary alliance, which will probably endure longer than their _political alliance_. As to France, her attention has for fifteen years been attracted to literature as well as to politics; but she has thought it sufficient for her glory to translate foreign books, and for her prosperity to translate foreign constitutions.[1] [1] In this assertion we do not agree with the critic. France, in common with other European nations, has unquestionably manifested much curiosity regarding foreign literature, and has availed herself of its treasures; but, by the original works of her own writers, the advantage has been reciprocated, particularly in the novels lately produced in Paris by such men as M. de Vigny and M. Victor Hugo. The "Notre Dame de Paris" of the latter has attained an European celebrity, and has accordingly been incorporated in the present series of "Standard Novels."--_English Ed._ However this may be, the new taste for foreign literature is remarkable. Numerous works of imagination have appeared simultaneously of an elevated style and uncommon erudition. The choice, and we may add the gravity, of the subjects, the importance of the action, the extent of the developements, and the fidelity of the descriptions, stamp them with a peculiar character, and oblige us to assign to their authors a distinct rank among novel writers. Although unequal in merit, they may be arranged into two classes. The one, beholding how history was neglected, has endeavoured to restore its influence by reviving our ancient chronicles, and presenting to us in an elegant undress, the same characters from whom we avert our eyes, in the magnificent and stiff accompaniments of their historical costume. The other, less numerous, but, in our opinion, much more happily inspired, afflicted by the cold indifference with which the most excellent works on morals and politics are received, or by the insulting contempt which discards them altogether, has undertaken to allure and amuse the prejudices of the age, in order to correct them. In an imaginary picture, they have specially devoted themselves to describe the great springs of human action, and to bring prominently forward those traits of character, those inflexible criticisms on society, which under such a form will attract attention, when every direct and serious admonition would be rejected. Now, it is to this class of novel writers that Alessandro Manzoni essentially belongs. And here, a great difficulty presents itself; a work of which the action is so simple, that an analysis of it might be given in half a page, and yet so rich in beauties, that a volume might be written in its praise; between these two extremes, the middle path is not easy to find. For, if we should content ourselves with stating that two villagers, who were betrothed, and about to be united, had been separated by the menaces of a rich and titled robber, calumniated, betrayed by a seeming friend, and aided by the unlooked-for benevolence of an enemy; again persecuted by the tyranny of the great, and then almost immolated by the tyranny of the people, and finally delivered by the pestilence itself; if, we repeat, we confine ourselves to this exposition, we shall have presented to our readers the abstract of the work; but shall we have given them a single idea of its beauties? If, on the contrary, we would enter on an examination of the characters, and follow them in their developement, what a task we impose on ourselves! For here, what beauty! what truth! what originality! The character of Don Abbondio alone would furnish matter for extensive remark, as it is assuredly one of the most profoundly comic creations of the genius of romance. A coward by nature, and selfish from habit, entering the ecclesiastical order only to find in it powerful protection against future enemies, and a refuge against present terrors, during his whole life he pursues, without a single deviation, the tyrannical vocation of _fear_. Ever disturbed by the apprehension of being disturbed, and giving himself prodigious trouble in order to secure his tranquillity, the care of his repose takes from him all repose. "_A friend to all_," is his device, and "_Be quiet_," his habitual reply. For him, the evil committed in secret is preferable to the good which might excite dangerous remark. However, at the bottom of his heart, he still esteems the good and virtuous; as to the wicked, he caresses, and where there is necessity, flatters them; in every controversy, he deems the strongest party to be in the right, but his fear of mistake often prevents him from deciding which _is_ the strongest. In discussions where he is personally involved, he acts not less prudently; he does not grant concessions, he does more, he freely offers them, as by so doing he saves the honour of his authority. Indeed, he does not drop a word nor risk a gesture, of which he has not previously weighed the consequences. So that by calculation and foresight, he is prepared for all, except the performance of duty under circumstances of peril and difficulty; to this he closes his ears and his eyes, and thus compromises with the world and his conscience. And here, let us add, that if any of our readers discover, in this character, the intention, or even the possibility, of an application injurious to religion, they understand but little the mind of the author, which is constantly animated by the most ardent faith, and imbued, we may say, with its highest inspirations. The curate Abbondio appears before us chiefly to give greater relief to the sublime figures of the friar Christopher, and the holy archbishop of Milan, and to furnish materials for scenes between these three characters, where the weakness, the cowardice, and the selfishness of the one serves to brighten, by contrast, the courage, devotion, and heroism of the others. It is an eminently philosophical conception to portray three men entering the priesthood from such different motives, in the course of their long lives, disclosing faithfully in their actions, the sources of their primitive choice. A lesson indeed! from which we may learn what religion can do with men, when they obey its laws and devote themselves to its service, and what men can do with religion, when they subject it to their caprices, or prostitute it to their interests. But it is in the conversion of the formidable Unknown, that religion appears in all its power, and its pontiff in all the majesty of his benevolence. The interview between these two persons, the one the terror, the other the beloved of his country; the proud criminal humbling himself before the most humble of the just; the former preserving in his profound humiliation the traces of his habitual wickedness and pride, and the latter, with humility equally profound, the majestic authority of unsullied virtue. This scene, conceived and executed with equal genius, combines within itself the deepest interest, and the highest beauty. As an illustration of the ingenuity and discernment of the author, we will offer one remark further; he has placed before us two wicked men; the one a subaltern robber, a libertine of the second rank, a swaggerer in debauch, vainer of his vices than jealous of his pleasures. The other a superior genius, who has measured how far man could descend in crime, and himself reached its depths, where he governs human corruption as its sovereign, committing no act of violence without leaving the impression of his unlimited power and inexorable will. One of these is to be converted; which will it be? The least guilty? No; coward in vice, where would he find courage to repent? He will die hardened and impenitent. It is the grand criminal who will be drawn from the abyss, for he has descended into it with all his power, and it will need a repentance proportioned to the measure of his iniquities to restore him to the favour of his God. There is evinced in this developement, great knowledge of the human heart, and a very striking revelation of the mysterious dealings of a just and compassionate God. We find the same sagacity of observation in other parts of the work; it appears under an altogether original form in the episode of Gertrude; irresistibly conducted to the cloister, notwithstanding her insurmountable repugnance, when she could by a single word free herself from such a condemnation, dooming her own self to a sacrifice she detests; yielding without having been conquered; the slave of her very liberty, and the victim to a voluntary fatality! It is not in a rapid sketch that we can give an idea of this singular and altogether novel character. To appreciate its excellence, we must give an attentive perusal. But Alessandro Manzoni is not only a skilful painter of individual portraits, he excels also in grand historical representations. In that of the plague at Milan, and the famine preceding it, his manner becomes bolder, his touch more free and majestic, without, however, losing any of its exquisite delicacy. When he represents an entire people rebelling against hunger, or vanquished by disease and death, we deeply feel the horror of the picture, at the same time that an occasional smile is elicited by the comic genius of the artist, which exercises itself even amidst the agonies of famine and pestilence, so that, through the grand design of the exhibition, the delicate touches of the pencil are still visible, and individual character perceptible through the very depths of bold and general description; it is Van Dyck painting on the reverse of one of Michael Angelo's pictures. We will not take leave of this interesting production without indulging ourselves in one more observation, which is, that in this succession of adventures, where appear, by turns or simultaneously, two robber chiefs and their followers, an unbridled soldiery, a people in rebellion, famine, and pestilence, all the evil specially resulting to the virtuous, is the consequence of the cowardice of a single man! What a lesson may we derive from such a _Novel_! THE BETROTHED. CHAPTER I. That branch of the Lake of Como, which turns toward the south between two unbroken chains of mountains, presenting to the eye a succession of bays and gulfs, formed by their jutting and retiring ridges, suddenly contracts itself between a headland to the right and an extended sloping bank on the left, and assumes the flow and appearance of a river. The bridge by which the two shores are here united, appears to render the transformation more apparent, and marks the point at which the lake ceases, and the Adda recommences, to resume, however, the name of _Lake_ where the again receding banks allow the water to expand itself anew into bays and gulfs. The bank, formed by the deposit of three large mountain streams, descends from the bases of two contiguous mountains, the one called St. Martin, the other by a Lombard name, _Resegone_, from its long line of summits, which in truth give it the appearance of a saw; so that there is no one who would not at first sight, especially viewing it in front, from the ramparts of Milan that face the north, at once distinguish it in all that extensive range from other mountains of less name and more ordinary form. The bank, for a considerable distance, rises with a gentle and continual ascent, then breaks into hills and hollows, rugged or level land, according to the formation of the mountain rocks, and the action of the floods. Its extreme border, intersected by the mountain torrents, is composed almost entirely of sand and pebbles; the other parts of fields and vineyards, scattered farms, country seats, and villages, with here and there a wood which extends up the mountain side. Lecco, the largest of these villages, and which gives its name to the district, is situated at no great distance from the bridge, upon the margin of the lake; nay, often, at the rising of the waters, is partly embosomed within the lake itself; a large town at the present day, and likely soon to become a city. At the period of our story, this village was also fortified, and consequently had the honour to furnish quarters to a governor, and the advantage of possessing a permanent garrison of Spanish soldiers, who gave lessons in modesty to the wives and daughters of the neighbourhood, and toward the close of summer never failed to scatter themselves through the vineyards, in order to thin the grapes, and lighten for the rustics the labours of the vintage. From village to village, from the heights down to the margin of the lake, there are innumerable roads and paths: these vary in their character; at times precipitous, at others level; now sunk and buried between two ivy-clad walls, from whose depth you can behold nothing but the sky, or some lofty mountain peak; then crossing high and level tracts, around the edges of which they sometimes wind, occasionally projecting beyond the face of the mountain, supported by prominent masses resembling bastions, whence the eye wanders over the most varied and delicious landscape. On the one side you behold the blue lake, with its boundaries broken by various promontories and necks of land, and reflecting the inverted images of the objects on its banks; on the other, the Adda, which, flowing beneath the arches of the bridge, expands into a small lake, then contracts again, and holds on its clear serpentining course to the distant horizon: above, are the ponderous masses of the shapeless rocks; beneath, the richly cultivated acclivity, the fair landscape, the bridge; in front, the opposite shore of the lake, and beyond this, the mountain, which bounds the view. Towards evening, on the 7th day of November, 1628, Don Abbondio, curate of one of the villages before alluded to (but of the name of which, nor of the house and lineage of its curate, we are not informed), was returning slowly towards his home, by one of these pathways. He was repeating quietly his office; in the pauses of which he held his closed breviary in his hand behind his back; and as he went, with his foot he cast listlessly against the wall the stones that happened to impede his path; at the same time giving admittance to the idle thoughts that tempted the spirit, while the lips of the worthy man were mechanically performing their function; then raising his head and gazing idly around him, he fixed his eyes upon a mountain summit, where the rays of the setting sun, breaking through the openings of an opposite ridge, illumined its projecting masses, which appeared like large and variously shaped spots of purple light. He then opened anew his breviary, and recited another portion at an angle of the lane, after which angle the road continued straight for perhaps seventy paces, and then branched like the letter Y into two narrow paths; the right-hand one ascended towards the mountain, and led to the parsonage (_Cura_); that on the left descended the valley towards a torrent, and on this side the wall rose out to the height of about two feet. The inner walls of the two narrow paths, instead of meeting at the angle, ended in a little chapel, upon which were depicted certain long, sinuous, pointed shapes, which, in the intention of the artist, and to the eyes of the neighbouring inhabitants, represented flames, and amidst these flames certain other forms, not to be described, that were meant for souls in purgatory; souls and flames of a brick colour, upon a ground of blackish grey, with here and there a bare spot of plaster. The curate, having turned the corner, directed, as was his wont, a look toward the little chapel, and there beheld what he little expected, and would not have desired to see. At the confluence, if we may so call it, of the two narrow lanes, there were two men: one of them sitting astride the low wall; his companion leaning against it, with his arms folded on his breast. The dress, the bearing, and what the curate could distinguish of the countenance of these men, left no doubt as to their profession. They wore upon their heads a green network, which, falling on the left shoulder, ended in a large tassel, from under which appeared upon the forehead an enormous lock of hair. Their mustachios were long, and curled at the extremities; the margin of their doublets confined by a belt of polished leather, from which were suspended, by hooks, two pistols; a little powder-horn hung like a locket on the breast; on the right-hand side of the wide and ample breeches was a pocket, out of which projected the handle of a knife, and on the other side they bore a long sword, of which the great hollow hilt was formed of bright plates of brass, combined into a cypher: by these characteristics they were, at a glance, recognised as individuals of the class of bravoes. This species, now entirely extinct, flourished greatly at that time in Lombardy. For those who have no knowledge of it, the following are a few authentic records, that may suffice to impart an idea of its principal characteristics, of the vigorous efforts made to extirpate it, and of its obstinate and rank vitality. As early as the 8th of April, 1583, the most illustrious and most excellent lord Don Charles of Arragon, Prince of Castelvetrano, Duke of Terranova, Marquis of Avola, Count of Burgeto, High Admiral and High Constable of Sicily, Governor of Milan, and Captain General of His Catholic Majesty in Italy, "fully informed of the intolerable misery which the city of Milan has endured, and still endures, by reason of bravoes and vagabonds," publishes his decree against them, "declares and designates all those comprehended in this proclamation to be regarded as bravoes and vagabonds,----who, whether foreigners or natives, have no calling, or, having one, do not follow it,----but, either with or without wages, attach themselves to any knight, gentleman, officer, or merchant,----to uphold or favour him, or in any manner to molest others." All such he commands, within the space of six days, to leave the country; threatens the refractory with the galleys, and grants to all officers of justice the most ample and unlimited powers for the execution of his commands. But, in the following year, on the 12th of April, the said lord, having perceived "that this city still continues to be filled with bravoes, who have again resumed their former mode of life; their manners unchanged, and their number undiminished," puts forth another edict still more energetic and remarkable, in which, among other regulations, he directs "that any person whatsoever, whether of this city or from abroad, who shall, by the testimony of two witnesses, be shown to be regarded and commonly reputed as a bravo, even though no criminal act shall have been proved against him, may, nevertheless, upon the sole ground of his reputation, be condemned by the said judges to the rack for examination; and although he make no confession of guilt, he shall, notwithstanding, be sentenced to the galleys for the said term of three years, solely for that he is regarded as, and called a bravo, as above-mentioned;" and this "because His Excellency is resolved to enforce obedience to his commands." One would suppose that at the sound of such denunciations from so powerful a source, all the bravoes must have disappeared for ever. But testimony, of no less authority, obliges us to believe directly the reverse. This testimony is the most illustrious and most excellent lord Juan Fernandez de Velasco, Constable of Castile, High Chamberlain of His Majesty, Duke of the city of Freas, Count of Haro and Castelnuovo, Lord of the house of Velasco, and of that of the Seven Infanti of Lara, Governor of the State of Milan, &c. On the 5th of June, 1593, he also, fully informed "how great an injury to the common weal, and how insulting to justice, is the existence of such a class of men," requires them anew to quit the country within six days, repeating very nearly the same threats and injunctions as his predecessor. On the 23d of May, then, 1598, "having learnt, with no little displeasure, that the number of bravoes and vagabonds is increasing daily in this state and city, and that nothing is heard of them but wounds, murders, robberies, and every other crime, to the commission of which these bravoes are encouraged by the confidence that they will be sustained by their chiefs and abettors," he prescribes again the same remedies, increasing the dose, as is usual in obstinate disorders. "Let every one, then," he concludes, "carefully beware that he do not, in any wise, contravene this edict; since, in place of experiencing the mercy of His Excellency, he shall prove his rigour and his wrath--he being resolved and determined that this shall be a final and peremptory warning." But this again did not suffice; and the illustrious and most excellent lord, the Signor Don Pietro Enriquez de Acevedo, Count of Fuentes, Captain and Governor of the State of Milan, "fully informed of the wretched condition of this city and state, in consequence of the great number of bravoes that abound therein, and resolved wholly to extirpate them," publishes, on the 5th of December, 1600, a new decree, full of the most rigorous provisions, and "with firm purpose that in all rigour, and without hope of remission, they shall be wholly carried into execution." We are obliged, however, to conclude that he did not, in this matter, exhibit the same zeal which he knew how to employ in contriving plots and exciting enemies against his powerful foe, Henry IV., against whom history attests that he succeeded in arming the Duke of Savoy, whom he caused to lose more towns than one; and in engaging in a conspiracy the Duke of Biron, whom he caused to lose his head. But as regards the pestilent race of bravoes, it is very certain they continued to increase until the 22d day of September, 1612; on which day the most illustrious and most excellent lord Don Giovanni de Mendoza, Marchese de la Hynojosa, gentleman, & c., Governor, & c., thought seriously of their extirpation. He addressed to Pandolfo and Marco Tullio Malatesti, printers of the Royal Chamber, the customary edict, corrected and enlarged, that they might print it, to accomplish that end. But the bravoes still survived, to experience, on the 24th December, 1618, still more terrific denunciations from the most illustrious and most excellent lord, Don Gomez Suarez de Figueroa, Duke of Feria, Governor, & c.; yet, as they did not fall even under these blows, the most illustrious and most excellent lord Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova, under whose government we are made acquainted with Don Abbondio, found himself obliged to republish the usual proclamation against the bravoes, on the 5th day of October, 1627, that is, a year, a month, and two days previous to the commencement of our story. Nor was this the last publication; but of those that follow, as of matters not falling within the period of our history, we do not think it proper to make mention. The only one of them to which we shall refer, is that of the 13th day of February, 1632, in which the most illustrious and most excellent lord, the Duke of Feria, for the second time governor, informs us, "that the greatest and most heinous crimes are perpetrated by those styled bravoes." This will suffice to prove that, at the time of which we treat, the bravoes still existed. It appeared evident to Don Abbondio that the two men above mentioned were waiting for some one, and he was alarmed at the conviction that it was for himself; for on his appearance, they exchanged a look, as if to say, "'tis he." Rising from the wall, they both advanced to meet him. He held his breviary open before him, as though he were employed in reading it; but, nevertheless, cast a glance upward in order to espy their movements. Seeing that they came directly toward him, he was beset by a thousand different thoughts. He considered, in haste, whether between the bravoes and himself there were any outlet from the road, and he remembered there was none. He took a rapid survey of his conduct, to discover if he had given offence to any powerful or revengeful man; but in this matter, he was somewhat reassured by the consoling testimony of his conscience. The bravoes draw near, and kept their eyes upon him. He raised his hand to his collar, as if adjusting it, and at the same time turned his head round, to see if any one were coming; he could discover no one. He cast a glance across the low stone wall upon the fields; no one! another on the road that lay before him; no one, except the bravoes! What is to be done? Flight was impossible. Unable to avoid the danger, he hastened to encounter it, and to put an end to the torments of uncertainty. He quickened his pace, recited a stanza in a louder tone, did his utmost to assume a composed and cheerful countenance, and finding himself in front of the two gallants, stopped short. "Signor Curate," said one of them, fixing his eyes upon him,-- "Your pleasure, sir," suddenly raising his eyes from his book, which he continued to hold open before him. "You intend," pursued the other, with the threatening and angry mien of one who has detected an inferior in an attempt to commit some villany, "you intend to-morrow to unite in marriage Renzo Tramaglino and Lucy Mondella." "That is," said Don Abbondio with a faltering voice, "that is to say--you gentlemen, being men of the world, are very well aware how these things are managed: the poor curate neither meddles nor makes--they settle their affairs amongst themselves, and then--then, they come to us, as if to redeem a pledge; and we--we are the servants of the public." "Mark now," said the bravo in a low voice, but in a tone of command, "this marriage is not to take place, neither to-morrow, nor at any other time." "But, my good sirs," replied Don Abbondio, with the mild and gentle tone of one who would persuade an impatient listener, "but, my good sirs, deign to put yourselves in my situation. If the thing depended on myself--you see plainly, that it does not in the least concern----" "Hold there," said the bravo, interrupting him, "this matter is not to be settled by prating. We neither know nor care to know any more about it. A man once warned--you understand us." "But, fair sirs, you are too just, too reasonable----" "But," interrupted the other comrade, who had not before spoken, "but this marriage is not to be performed, or (with an oath) he who performs it will not repent of it, because he'll not have time" (with another oath). "Hush, hush," resumed the first orator, "the Signor Curate knows the world, and we are gentlemen who have no wish to harm him if he conducts himself with judgment. Signor Curate, the most illustrious Signor Don Roderick, our patron, offers you his kind regards." As in the height of a midnight storm a vivid flash casts a momentary dazzling glare around and renders every object more fearful, so did this _name_ increase the terror of Don Abbondio: as if by instinct, he bowed his head submissively, and said-- "If it could but be suggested to me." "Oh! suggested to _you_, who understand Latin!" exclaimed the bravo, laughing; "it is for you to manage the matter. But, above all, be careful not to say a word concerning the hint that has been given you for your good; for if you do, ehem!--you understand--the consequences would be the same as if you performed the marriage ceremony. But say, what answer are we to carry in your name to the most illustrious Signor Don Roderick?" "My respects----" "Speak more clearly, Signor Curate." "That I am disposed, ever disposed, to obedience." And as he spoke the words he was not very certain himself whether he gave a promise, or only uttered an ordinary compliment. The bravoes took, or _appeared_ to take them, in the more serious sense. "'Tis very well; good night, Signor Curate," said one of them as he retired, together with his companion. Don Abbondio, who a few minutes before would have given one of his eyes to avoid the ruffians, was now desirous to prolong the conversation. "Gentlemen----" he began, as he shut his book. Without again noticing him, however, they passed on, singing a loose song, of which we will not transcribe the words. Poor Don Abbondio remained for a moment, as if spell-bound, and then with heavy and lagging steps took the path which led towards his home. The reader will better understand the state of his mind, when he shall have learned something more of his disposition, and of the condition of the times in which it was his lot to live. Don Abbondio was not (as the reader may have perceived) endowed with the courage of a lion. But from his earliest years he had been sensible that the most embarrassing situation in those times was that of an animal, furnished with neither tusks nor talons, at the same time having no wish to be devoured. The arm of the law afforded no protection to a man of quiet, inoffensive habits, who had no means of making himself feared. Not that laws and penalties were wanting for the prevention of private violence: the laws were most express; the offences enumerated, and minutely particularised; the penalties sufficiently extravagant; and if that were not enough, the legislator himself, and, a hundred others to whom was committed the execution of the laws, had power to increase them. The proceedings were studiously contrived to free the judge from every thing that might prevent his passing sentence of condemnation; the passages we have cited from proclamations against the bravoes, may be taken as a faithful specimen of these decrees. Notwithstanding this, or, it may be, in _consequence_ of this, these proclamations, reiterated and reinforced from time to time, served only to proclaim in pompous language the impotence of those who issued them; or, if they produced any immediate effect, it was _that_ of adding to the vexations which the peaceful and feeble suffered from the disturbers of society. Impunity was organised and effected in so many ways as to render the proclamations powerless. Such was the consequence of the sanctuaries and asylums; and of the privileges of certain classes, partly acknowledged by the legal power, partly tolerated in silence, or feebly opposed; but which, in _fact_, were sustained and guarded by almost every individual with interested activity and punctilious jealousy. Now this impunity, threatened and assailed, but not destroyed, by these proclamations, would naturally, at every new attack, employ fresh efforts and devices to maintain itself. The proclamations were efficient, it is true, in fettering and embarrassing the honest man, who had neither power in himself nor protection from others; inasmuch as, in order to reach every person, they subjected the movements of each private individual to the arbitrary will of a thousand magistrates and executive officers. But he, who before the commission of his crime had prepared himself a refuge in some convent or palace where bailiffs never dared to enter; or who simply wore a livery, which engaged in his defence the vanity or the interest of a powerful family; such a one was free in his actions, and could laugh to scorn every proclamation. Of those very persons whose part it was to ensure the execution of these decrees, some belonged by birth to the privileged class, others were its clients and dependants; and as the latter as well as the former had, from education, from habit, from imitation, embraced its maxims, they would be very careful not to violate them. Had they however, been bold as heroes, obedient as monks, and devoted as martyrs, they could never have accomplished the execution of the laws, inferior as they were in number to _those_ with whom they must engage, and with the frequent probability of being abandoned, or even sacrificed, by him who, in a moment of theoretical abstraction, might require them to act. But, in addition to this, their office would be regarded as a base one in public opinion, and their name stamped with reproach. It was therefore very natural that, instead of risking, nay, throwing away, their lives in a fruitless attempt, they should sell their inaction, or, rather, their connivance, to the powerful; or, at least, exercise their authority only on those occasions when it might be done with safety to themselves; that is, in oppressing the peaceable and the defenceless. The man who acts with violence, or who is constantly in fear of violence from others, seeks companions and allies. Hence it happened that, during these times, individuals displayed so strong a tendency to combine themselves into classes, and to advance, as far as each one was able, the power of that to which he belonged. The clergy was vigilant in the defence and extension of its immunities; the nobility, of its privileges; the military, of its exemptions; the merchants and artisans were enrolled in companies and fraternities; the lawyers were united in leagues, and even the physicians formed a corporation. Each of these little oligarchies had its own appropriate power,--in each of them the individual found the advantage of employing for himself, in proportion to his influence and dexterity, the united force of numbers. The more honest availed themselves of this advantage merely for their defence; the crafty and the wicked profited by it to assure themselves of success in their rogueries, and impunity from their results. The strength, however, of these various combinations was far from being equal; and, especially in the country, the wealthy and overbearing nobleman, with a band of bravoes, and surrounded by peasants accustomed to regard themselves as subjects and soldiers of their lord, exercised an irresistible power, and set all laws at defiance. Don Abbondio, neither noble, rich, nor valiant, had from early youth found himself alone and unaided in such a state of society, like an earthen vessel thrown amidst iron jars; he therefore readily obeyed his parents, who wished him to become a priest. He did, to say the truth, not regard the obligations and the noble ends of the ministry to which he dedicated himself, but was only desirous to secure the means of living, and to connect himself with a powerful and respected class. But no class provided for the individual, or secured his safety, _further_ than to a certain point; none rendered it unnecessary for him to adopt for himself a system of his own. The system of Don Abbondio consisted chiefly in shunning all disputes; he maintained an unarmed neutrality in all the contests that broke out around him;--between the clergy and the civil power, between persons in office and nobles and magistrates, bravoes and soldiers, down to the squabbles of the peasantry themselves, terminated by the fist or the knife. By keeping aloof from the overbearing, by affecting not to notice their acts of violence, by bowing low and with the most profound respect to all whom he met, the poor man had succeeded in passing over sixty years without encountering any violent storms; not but that he also had some small portion of gall in his composition; and this continual exercise of patience exacerbated it to such a degree, that, if he had not had it in his power occasionally to give it vent, his health must have suffered. But as there were a few persons in the world connected with himself whom he knew to be powerless, he could, from time to time, discharge on them his long pent-up ill-humour. He was, moreover, a severe censor of those who did not regulate their conduct by his example, provided he could censure without danger. According to his creed, the poor fellow who had been cudgelled had been a little imprudent; the murdered man had always been turbulent; the man who maintained his right against the powerful, and met with a broken head, must have been somewhat wrong; which is, perhaps, true enough, for in all disputes the line can never be drawn so finely as not to leave a little wrong on both sides. He especially declaimed against those of his confraternity, who, at their own risk, took part with the oppressed against a powerful oppressor. "This," he said, "was to purchase trouble with ready money, to kick at snarling dogs, and an intermeddling in profane things that lowered the dignity of the sacred ministry." He had, in short, a favourite maxim, that an honest man, who looked to himself and minded his own affairs, never met with any rough encounters. From all that has been said, we may imagine the effect the meeting just described must have had upon the mind of poor Don Abbondio. Those fierce countenances, the threats of a lord who was well known not to speak idly, his plan of quiet life and patient endurance disconcerted in an instant, a difficulty before him from which he saw no possibility of extrication; all these thoughts rushed confusedly through his mind. "If Renzo could be quietly dismissed with a refusal, all would be well; but he will require reasons--and what can I say to him? he too has a head of his own; a lamb, if not meddled with--but once attempt to cross him---- Oh!--and raving after that Lucy, as much enamoured as---- Young idiots! who, for want of something else to do, fall in love, and must be married, forsooth, thinking of nothing else, never concerning themselves about the trouble they bring upon an honest man like me. Wretch that I am! Why should those two scowling faces plant themselves exactly in my path, and pick a quarrel with me? What have I to do in the matter? Is it I that mean to wive? Why did they not rather go and speak---- Ah! truly, that which is to the purpose always occurs to me after the right time: if I had but thought of suggesting to them to go and bear their message----" But here he was disturbed by the reflection, that to repent of not having been the counsellor and abettor of evil, was too iniquitous a thing; and he therefore turned the rancour of his thoughts against the individual who had thus robbed him of his tranquillity. He did not know Don Roderick, except by sight and by report; his sole intercourse with him had been to touch chin to breast, and the ground with the corner of his hat, the few times he had met him on the road. He had, on more than one occasion, defended the reputation of that Signor against those who, in an under-tone, with sighs and looks raised to heaven, had execrated some one of his exploits. He had declared a hundred times that he was a respectable cavalier. But at this moment he, in his own heart, readily bestowed upon him all those titles to which he would never lend an ear from another. Having, amidst the tumult of these thoughts, reached the entrance of his house, which stood at the end of the little glebe, he unlocked the door, entered, and carefully secured it within. Anxious to find himself in society that he could trust, he called aloud, "Perpetua, Perpetua," advancing towards the little parlour where she was, doubtless, employed in preparing the table for his supper. Perpetua was, as the reader must be aware, the housekeeper of Don Abbondio; an affectionate and faithful domestic, who knew how to obey or command as occasion served; to bear the grumbling and whims of her master at times, and at others to make him bear with hers. These were becoming every day more frequent; she had passed the age of forty in a single state; the consequences, _she_ said, of having refused all the offers that had been made her; her _female friends_ asserted that she had never found any one willing to take her. "Coming," said Perpetua, as she set in its usual place on the little table the flask of Don Abbondio's favourite wine, and moved slowly toward the parlour door: before she reached it he entered, with steps so disordered, looks so clouded, and a countenance so changed, that an eye less practised than that of Perpetua could have discovered at a glance that something unusual had befallen him. "Mercy on me! What is it ails my master?" "Nothing, nothing," said Don Abbondio, as he sank upon his easy chair. "How, nothing! Would you have me believe that, looking as you do? Some dreadful accident has happened." "Oh! for the love of Heaven! When I say nothing, it is either nothing, or something I cannot tell." "That you cannot tell, not even to me? Who will take care of your health? Who will give you advice?" "Oh! peace, peace! Do not make matters worse. Give me a glass of my wine." "And you will still pretend to me that nothing is the matter?" said Perpetua, filling the glass, but retaining it in her hand, as if unwilling to present it except as the reward of confidence. "Give here, give here," said Don Abbondio, taking the glass with an unsteady hand, and hastily swallowing its contents. "Would you oblige me then to go about, asking here and there what it is has happened to my master?" said Perpetua, standing upright before him, with her hands on her sides, and looking him steadfastly in the face, as if to extract the secret from his eyes. "For the love of Heaven, do not worry me, do not kill me with your pother; this is a matter that concerns--concerns my life." "Your life!" "My life." "You know well, that, when you have frankly confided in me, I have never----" "Yes, forsooth, as when----" Perpetua was sensible she had touched a false string; wherefore, changing suddenly her note, "My dear master," said she, in a moving tone of voice, "I have always had a dutiful regard for you, and if I now wish to know this affair, it is from zeal, and a desire to assist you, to give you advice, to relieve your mind." The truth is, that Don Abbondio's desire to disburden himself of his painful secret was as great as that of Perpetua to obtain a knowledge of it; so that, after having repulsed, more and more feebly, her renewed assaults; after having made her swear many times that she would not breathe a syllable of it, he, with frequent pauses and exclamations, related his miserable adventure. When it was necessary to pronounce the dread name of him from whom the prohibition came, he required from Perpetua another and more solemn oath: having uttered it, he threw himself back on his seat with a heavy sigh, and, in a tone of command, as well as supplication, exclaimed,-- "For the love of Heaven!"-- "Mercy upon me!" cried Perpetua, "what a wretch! what a tyrant! Does he not fear God?" "Will you be silent? or do you want to ruin me completely?" "Oh! we are here alone, no one can hear us. But what will my poor master do?" "See there now," said Don Abbondio, in a peevish tone, "see the fine advice you give me. To ask of me, what I'll do? what I'll do? as if you were the one in difficulty, and it was for me to help you out!" "Nay, I could give you my own poor opinion; but then--" "But--but then, let us know it." "My opinion would be, that, as every one says our archbishop is a saint, a man of courage, and not to be frightened by an ugly phiz, and who will take pleasure in upholding a curate against one of these tyrants; I should say, and do say, that you had better write him a handsome letter, to inform him as how----" "Will you be silent! will you be silent! Is this advice to offer a poor man? When I get a pistol bullet in my side--God preserve me!--will the archbishop take it out?" "Ah! pistol bullets are not given away like sugarplums; and it were woful if those dogs should bite every time they bark. If a man knows how to show his teeth, and make himself feared, they hold him in respect: we should not have been brought to such a pass, if you had stood upon your rights. Now, all come to us (by your good leave) to----" "Will you be silent?" "Certainly; but it is true though, that when the world sees one is always ready, in every encounter, to lower----" "Will you be silent? Is this a time for such idle talk?" "Well, well, you'll think of it to-night; but in the meantime do not be the first to harm yourself; to destroy your own health: eat a mouthful." "I'll think of it," murmured Don Abbondio; "certainly I'll think of it. I _must_ think of it;" and he arose, continuing--"No! I'll take nothing, nothing; I've something else to do. But, that this should have fallen upon me----" "Swallow at least this other little drop," said Perpetua, as she poured the wine. "You know it always restores your stomach." "Oh! there wants other medicine than that, other medicine than that, other medicine than that----" So saying, he took the light, and muttering, "A pretty business this! To an honest man like me! And to-morrow, what is to be done?" with other like exclamations, he went towards his bedchamber. Having reached the door, he stopped a moment, and before he quitted the room, exclaimed, turning towards Perpetua, with his finger on his lips--"For the love of Heaven, be silent!" CHAPTER II. It is related that the Prince of Condé slept soundly the night preceding the battle of Rocroi; but then, he was greatly fatigued, and moreover had made every arrangement for the morrow. It was not thus with Don Abbondio; he only knew the morrow would be a day of trouble, and consequently passed the night in anxious anticipation. He could not for a moment think of disregarding the menaces of the bravoes, and solemnising the marriage. To confide to Renzo the occurrence, and consult with him as to the means--God forbid!--He remembered the warning of the bravo, "not to say one word"--otherwise, _ahem!_ and this dreadful _ahem_ of the bravo resounded in the ears of Don Abbondio; so that he already repented of his communication to Perpetua. To fly was impossible--and where _could_ he fly? At the thought, a thousand obstacles presented themselves.--After long and painful deliberation, he resolved to endeavour to gain time, by giving Renzo some fanciful reasons for the postponement of the marriage. He recollected that in a few days more the time would arrive, during which marriages were prohibited. "And if I can keep this youngster at bay for a few days, I shall then have two months before me; and in two months who can tell what may happen?" He thought of various pretexts for his purpose; and though they were rather flimsy, he persuaded himself that his authority would give them weight, and that his experience would prevail over the mind of an ignorant youth. "We will see," said he to himself: "he thinks of his love, but I think of myself; I am, therefore, the party most interested; I must call in all my cunning to assist me. I cannot help it, young man, if you suffer; I must not be the victim." Having somewhat composed his mind with this determination, he at length fell asleep. But his dreams, alas! how horrible--bravoes, Don Roderick, Renzo, roads, rocks, cries, bullets. The arousing from sleep, after a recent misfortune, is a bitter moment; the mind at first habitually recurs to its previous tranquillity, but is soon depressed by the thought of the contrast that awaits it. When alive to a sense of his situation, Don Abbondio recapitulated the plans of the night, made a better disposal of them, and after having risen, awaited with dread and impatience the moment of Renzo's arrival. Lorenzo, or as he was called, Renzo, did not make him wait long; at an early hour he presented himself before the curate with the joyful readiness of one who was on this day to espouse her whom he loved. He had been deprived of his parents in his youth, and now practised the trade of a weaver of silk, which was, it might be said, hereditary in his family. This trade had once been very lucrative; and although now on the decline, a skilful workman might obtain from it a respectable livelihood. The continual emigration of the tradesmen, attracted to the neighbouring states by promises and privileges, left sufficient employment for those who remained behind. Besides, Renzo possessed a small farm, which he had cultivated himself when otherwise unoccupied; so that, for one of his condition, he might be called wealthy: and although the last harvest had been more deficient than the preceding ones, and the evils of famine were beginning to be felt; yet, from the moment he had given his heart to Lucy, he had been so economical as to preserve a sufficiency of all necessaries, and to be in no danger of wanting bread. He appeared before Don Abbondio gaily dressed, and with a joyful countenance. The mysterious and perplexed manner of the curate formed a singular contrast to that of the handsome young man. "What is the matter now?" thought Renzo; but without waiting to answer his own question, "Signor Curate," said he, "I am come to know at what hour of the day it will be convenient for you that we should be at the church?" "Of what day do you speak?" "How! of what day? do you not remember that this is the day appointed?" "To-day?" replied Don Abbondio, as if he heard it for the first time, "to-day? to-day? be patient, I cannot to-day----" "You cannot to-day? why not?" "In the first place I am not well----" "I am sorry for it; but we shall not detain you long, and you will not be much fatigued." "But then--but then----" "But then, what, sir?" "There are difficulties." "Difficulties! How can that be?" "People should be in our situation, to know how many obstacles there are to these matters; I am too yielding, I think only of removing impediments, of rendering all things easy, and promoting the happiness of others. To do this I neglect my duty, and am covered with reproaches for it." "In the name of Heaven, keep me not thus in suspense, but tell me at once what is the matter?" "Do you know how many formalities are required before the marriage can be celebrated?" "I must, indeed, know something of them," said Renzo, beginning to grow angry, "since you have racked my brains with them abundantly these few days back. But are not all things now ready? have you not done all there was to do?" "All, all, you expect; but be patient, I tell you. I have been a blockhead to neglect my duty, that I might not cause pain to others;--we poor curates--we are, as may be said, ever between a hawk and a buzzard. I pity you, poor young man! I perceive your impatience, but my superiors----Enough, I have reasons for what I say, but I cannot tell all--we, however, are sure to suffer." "But tell me what this other formality is, and I will perform it immediately." "Do you know how many obstacles stand in the way?" "How can I know any thing of obstacles?" "Error, conditio, votum, cognatis, crimen, cultus disparitas, vis, ordo.... Si sit affinis...." "Oh! for Heaven's sake--how should I understand all this Latin?" "Be patient, dear Renzo; I am ready to do----all that depends on me. I--I wish to see you satisfied--I wish you well---- And when I think that you were so happy, that you wanted nothing when the whim entered your head to be married----" "What words are these, Signor?" interrupted Renzo, with a look of astonishment and anger. "I say, do be patient--I say, I wish to see you happy. In short--in short, my dear child, I have not been in fault; I did not make the laws. Before concluding a marriage, we are required to search closely that there be no obstacles." "Now, I beseech you, tell me at once what difficulty has occurred?" "Be patient--these are not points to be cleared up in an instant. There _will_ be nothing, I hope; but whether or not, we must search into the matter. The passage is clear and explicit,--'antiquam matrimonium denunciet----'" "I'll not hear your Latin." "But it is necessary to explain to you----" "But why not do this before? Why tell me all was prepared? Why wait----" "See there now! to reproach me with my kindness! I have hastened every thing to serve you; but--but there has occurred----well, well, I know----" "And what do you wish that I should do?" "Be patient for a few days. My dear child, a few days are not eternity; be patient." "For how long a time then?" "We are coming to a good conclusion," thought Don Abbondio. "Come," said he, gently, "in fifteen days I will endeavour----" "Fifteen days! Oh! this is something new. To tell me now, on the very day you yourself appointed for my marriage, that I must wait fifteen days! Fifteen," resumed he, with a low and angry voice. Don Abbondio interrupted him, earnestly seizing his hand, and with an imploring tone beseeching him to be quiet. "Come, come, don't be angry; for the love of Heaven! I'll see, I'll see if in a week----" "And what shall I say to Lucy?" said Renzo, softening. "That it has been a mistake of mine." "And to the world?" "Say also it is my fault; that through too great haste I have made some great blunder: throw all the blame on me. Can I do more than this? Come in a week." "And then there will be no further difficulties?" "When I say a thing----" "Well, well, I will be quiet for a week; but be assured, I will be put off with no further excuses:--for the present, I take my leave." So saying, he departed, making a bow to Don Abbondio less profound than usual, and giving him a look more expressive than respectful. With a heavy heart he approached the house of his betrothed, his mind dwelling on the strange conversation which had just taken place. The cold and embarrassed reception of Don Abbondio, his constrained and impatient air, his mysterious hints, all combined to convince him there was still something he had not been willing to communicate. He stopped for a moment, debating with himself whether he should not return and compel him to be more frank; raising his eyes, however, he beheld Perpetua entering a little garden a few steps distant from the house. He called to her, quickened his pace, and detaining her at the gate, endeavoured to enter into discourse with her. "Good day, Perpetua; I expected to have received your congratulations to-day." "But it must be as God pleases, my poor Renzo." "I want to ask a favour of you: the Signor Curate has offered reasons I cannot comprehend; will you explain to me the true cause why he is unable or unwilling to marry us to-day?" "Oh! you think then that I know the secrets of my master." "I was right in supposing there was a mystery," thought Renzo. "Come, come, Perpetua," continued he, "we are friends; tell me what you know,--help a poor young man." "It is a bad thing to be born poor, my dear Renzo." "That is true," replied he, still more confirmed in his suspicions--"that is true; but it is not becoming in the clergy to behave unjustly to the poor." "Hear me, Renzo; I can tell you nothing, because--I know nothing. But I can assure you my master would not wrong you or any one; and he is not to blame." "Who then is to blame?" asked Renzo, carelessly, but listening intently for a reply. "I have told you already I know nothing. But I may be allowed to speak in defence of my master; poor man! if he has erred, it has been through too great kindness. There are in this world men who are overpowerful, knavish, and who fear not God." "Overpowerful! knavish!" thought Renzo; "these cannot be his superiors."--"Come," said he, with difficulty concealing his increasing agitation, "come, tell me who it is." "Ah! you would persuade me to speak, and I must not, because--I know nothing. I will keep silence as faithfully as if I had promised to do so. You might put me to the torture, and you could not draw any thing from me. Adieu! it is lost time for both of us." Thus saying, she re-entered the garden hastily, and shut the gate. Renzo turned very softly, lest at the noise of his footsteps she might discern the road he took: when fairly beyond her hearing, he quickened his steps, and in a moment was at the door of Don Abbondio's house; he entered, rushed towards the little parlour where he had left him, and finding him still there, approached him with a bold and furious manner. "Eh! eh! what has happened now?" said Don Abbondio. "Who is this powerful personage?" said Renzo, with the air of one resolved to obtain an explicit answer; "who is he that forbids me to marry Lucy?" "What! what! what!" stammered Don Abbondio, turning pale with surprise. He arose from his chair, and made an effort to reach the door. But Renzo, who expected this movement, was upon his guard; and locking the door, he put the key in his pocket. "Ah! will you speak now, Signor Curate? Every one knows the affair but myself; and, by heavens! I'll know it too. Who is it, I say?" "Renzo, Renzo, for the love of charity, take care what you do; think of your soul." "I must know it at once--this moment." So saying, he placed his hand on his dagger, but perhaps without intending it. "Mercy!" exclaimed Don Abbondio, in a stifled voice. "I _must_ know it." "Who has told you?" "Come, no more excuses. Speak plainly and quickly." "Do you mean to kill me?" "I mean to know that which I have a right to know." "But if I speak, I die. Must I not preserve my life?" "Speak, then." The manner of Renzo was so threatening and decided, that Don Abbondio felt there was no possibility of disobeying him. "Promise me--swear," said he, "never to tell----" "Tell me, tell me quickly his name, or----" At this new adjuration, the poor curate, with the trembling look of a man who feels the instrument of the dentist in his mouth, feebly articulated, "Don----" "Don?" replied Renzo, inclining his ear towards him, eager to hear the rest. "Don?" "Don Roderick!" muttered he hastily, trembling at the sound that escaped his lips. "Ah! dog!" shouted Renzo; "and how has he done it? what has he said to you to----" "What? what?" said Don Abbondio, in an almost contemptuous tone, already gaining confidence by the sacrifice he had made. "I wish you were like myself, you would then meddle with nothing, and certainly you would not have had so many whims in your head." He, however, related in terrible colours the ugly encounter; his anger, which had hitherto been subdued by fear, displayed itself as he proceeded; and perceiving that Renzo, between rage and astonishment, remained motionless, with his head bent down, he continued in a lively manner, "You have made a pretty business of it, indeed! You have rendered me a notable service. Thus to attack an honest man, your curate, in his own house! in a sacred place! You have done a fine thing, truly. To wrest from my mouth, that which I concealed, from prudence, for your own good. And now that you know it, what will you do? When I gave you good advice this morning, I had judgment for you and me; but believe me, this is no jesting matter, no question of right or wrong, but superior power. At all events, open the door; give me the key." "I may have been to blame," replied Renzo with a softened voice, but in which might be perceived smothered anger towards his concealed enemy, "I may have been to blame, but if you had been in my situation----" He drew the key from his pocket, and advanced towards the door. "Swear to me," said Don Abbondio with a serious and anxious face. "I may have been to blame--forgive me," replied Renzo, moving to depart. "Swear first," said Don Abbondio, holding him tremblingly by the arm. "I may have been to blame," said Renzo, freeing himself from his grasp, and immediately springing out of the room. "Perpetua! Perpetua!" cried Don Abbondio, after having in vain called back the fugitive. Perpetua did not answer. The poor man was so overwhelmed by his innumerable difficulties, his increasing perplexities, and so apprehensive of some fresh attack, that he conceived the idea of securing to himself a safe retreat from them all, by going to bed and giving out that he had a fever. His malady, indeed, was not altogether imaginary; the terror of the past day, the anxious watching of the night, the dread of the future, had combined to produce really the effect. Weary and stupified, he slumbered in his large chair, muttering occasionally in a feeble but passionate voice, "Perpetua."--Perpetua arrived at last with a great cabbage under her arm, and with as unconcerned a countenance as if nothing had happened. We will spare the reader the reproaches, the accusations, and denials that passed between them; it is sufficient that Don Abbondio ordered Perpetua to bolt the door, not to put her foot outside, and if any one knocked, to reply from the window that the curate was gone to bed with a fever. He then slowly ascended the stairs and put himself really in bed, where we will leave him. Renzo, meanwhile, with hurried steps, and with a mind unsettled and distracted as to the course he should pursue, approached his home. Those who injure others are guilty, not only of the evils they commit, but also of the effects produced by these evils on the characters of the injured persons. Renzo was a quiet and peaceful youth, but now his nature appeared changed, and his thoughts dwelt only on deeds of violence. He would have run to the house of Don Roderick to assault him there; but he remembered that it was a fortress, furnished with bravoes within, and well guarded without; that only those known to be friends and servants could enter without the minutest scrutiny; and that not even a tradesman could be seen there without being examined from head to foot; and he, above all, would be, alas! but too well known. He then imagined himself placed behind a hedge, with his arquebuss in his hand, waiting till Roderick should pass by alone; rejoicing internally at the thought, he pictured to himself an approaching footstep; the villain appears, he takes aim, fires, and he falls; he exults a moment over his dying struggles, and then escapes for his life beyond the confines! And Lucy? This name recalled his wiser and better thoughts: he remembered the last instructions of his parents; he thought of God, the Holy Virgin, and the Saints; and he tremblingly rejoiced that he had been guilty of the deed only in imagination. But how many hopes, promises, and anticipations did the idea of Lucy suggest? And this day so ardently desired! How announce to her the dreadful news? And then, what plan to pursue? How make her his own in spite of the power of this wicked lord? And now a tormenting suspicion passed through his mind. Don Roderick must have been instigated to this injury by a brutal passion for Lucy! And she! He could not for a moment endure the maddening thought that she had given him the slightest encouragement. But was she not informed of his designs? Could he have conceived his infamous purpose, and have advanced so far towards its completion, without her knowledge? And Lucy, his own beloved, had never uttered a syllable to him concerning it! These reflections prevailing in his mind, he passed by his own house, which was situated in the centre of the village, and arrived at that of Lucy, which was at the opposite extremity. It had a small court-yard in front, which separated it from the road, and which was encircled by a low wall. Entering the yard, Renzo heard a confused murmur of voices in the upper chamber; he rightly supposed it to be the wedding company, and he could not resolve to appear before them with such a countenance. A little girl, who was standing at the door, ran towards him, crying out, "The bridegroom! the bridegroom!" "Hush, Betsy, hush," said Renzo, "come hither; go to Lucy, and whisper in her ear--but let no one hear you--whisper in her ear, that I wish to speak with her in the lower chamber, and that she must come at once." The little girl hastily ascended the stairs, proud of having a secret commission to execute. Lucy had just come forth, adorned from the hands of her mother, and surrounded by her admiring friends. These were playfully endeavouring to steal a look at the blooming bride; while she, with the timidity of rustic modesty, attempted to conceal her blushing countenance with her bending arm, from beneath which a smiling mouth nevertheless appeared. Her black tresses, parted on her white forehead, were folded up in multiplied circles on the back of her head, and fastened with pins of silver, projecting on every side like the rays of the sun: this is still the custom of the Milanese peasantry. Around her throat she had a necklace of garnets, alternated with beads of gold filagree; she wore a boddice embroidered in flowers, the sleeves tied with ribands; a short petticoat of silk, with numerous minute plaits; crimson stockings, and embroidered silk slippers. But beyond all these ornaments was the modest and beautiful joy depicted on her countenance; a joy, however, troubled by a slight shade of anxiety. The little Betsy intruded herself into the circle, managed to approach Lucy, and communicated her message. "I shall return in a moment," said Lucy to her friends, as she hastily quitted the room. On perceiving the altered and unquiet appearance of Renzo, "What is the matter?" said she, not without a presentiment of evil. "Lucy," replied Renzo, "all is at a stand, and God knows whether we shall ever be man and wife!" "How!" said Lucy, alarmed. Renzo related briefly the history of the morning; she listened with anguish: when he uttered the name of Don Roderick, "Ah!" exclaimed she, blushing and trembling, "has it then come to this?" "Then you knew!" said Renzo. "Too well," replied Lucy. "What did you know?" "Do not make me speak now, do not make me weep! I'll call my mother and dismiss the company. We must be alone." As she departed, Renzo whispered, "And you have never spoken of it to me!" "Ah, Renzo!" replied Lucy, turning for a moment to gaze at him. He understood well what this action meant; it was as if she had said, "Can you doubt me?" Meanwhile the good Agnes (so the mother of Lucy was called) had descended the stairs, to ascertain the cause of her daughter's disappearance. She remained with Renzo; while Lucy returned to the company, and, assuming all the composure she could, said to them, "The Signor Curate is indisposed, and the wedding cannot take place to-day." The ladies departed, and lost no time in relating amongst the gossips of the neighbourhood all that had occurred, while they made particular enquiries respecting the reality of Don Abbondio's sickness. The truth of this cut short the conjectures which they had already begun to intimate by brief and mysterious hints. CHAPTER III. Lucy entered the lower room as Renzo was sorrowfully informing Agnes of that, to which she as sorrowfully listened. Both turned towards her from whom they expected an explanation which could not but be painful; the suspicions of both were, however, excited in the midst of their grief, and the displeasure they felt towards Lucy differed only according to their relative situation. Agnes, although anxious to hear her daughter speak, could not avoid reproaching her--"To say nothing to thy mother!" "Now, I will tell you all," said Lucy, wiping her eyes with her apron. "Speak, speak!" cried at once her mother and her lover. "Holy Virgin!" exclaimed Lucy, "that it should come to this!"--and with a voice interrupted by tears, she related that a few days previously, as she returned from weaving, and was loitering behind her companions, Don Roderick came up with her, in company with another gentleman; that the former sought to engage her in idle conversation; that she quickened her pace, without lending him an ear, and rejoined her companions; in the mean while she heard the other gentleman laugh, and Don Roderick say, "I'll lay a wager with you." The day following, on their return, they met them again, but Lucy kept in the midst of her companions, with her head down; the other gentleman burst into laughter, and Don Roderick said, "We will see, we will see." "Happily for me," continued Lucy, "this day was the last of the weaving. I related the adventure immediately----" "To whom didst thou relate it?" asked Agnes quickly, indignant at the idea of any one being preferred before her as a confidant. "To Father Christopher, in confession, mamma," replied Lucy, in a tone of apology. "I told him all, the last time you and I went to the church of the convent; you may perhaps recollect my contrivances for delay on that morning, until there should pass some villagers in whose company we might go into the street; because I was so afraid----" The indignation of Agnes subsided at once, at the mention of a name so revered as Father Christopher's. "Thou didst well, my child," said she; "but why not tell it also to thy mother?" For this, Lucy had had two very good reasons; the one, a desire not to disturb and frighten her mother with a circumstance she could not have prevented; the other, the dread of placing a secret, which she wished to be buried in her own bosom in danger of becoming known to all the village: of these two reasons she only alleged the first. "And could I," said she, turning to Renzo, in a gentle and reproachful voice, "could I speak to you of this?--Alas! that you should know it now!" "And what did the Father say to you?" asked Agnes. "He told me to endeavour to hasten my nuptials, and in the mean while to keep myself within doors; to pray much to God; and he hoped that if Don Roderick should not see me, he would cease to think of me. And it was then," continued she, turning again towards Renzo, without, however, raising her eyes, and blushing deeply, "it was then that I compelled myself, at the risk of appearing very forward, to request you to conclude the marriage before the appointed time. Who can tell what you must have thought of me? But I did it for the best, and from advice--and this morning I little thought----" She could articulate no longer, and burst into a flood of tears. "Ah! the scoundrel! the villain!" exclaimed Renzo, pacing the room in a violent paroxysm of rage. He stopped suddenly before Lucy, regarded her with a countenance agitated by various passions, and said, "This is the last wicked deed this wretch will perform." "Ah! no, Renzo, for the love of Heaven!" cried Lucy; "no, no, for the love of Heaven! There is a God who watches over the oppressed; but do you think he will protect us if we do evil?" "No, no, for the love of Heaven!" repeated Agnes. "Renzo," said Lucy, with a more resolved and tranquil air, "you have a trade, and I know how to work: let us go away into some distant place, that he may hear of us no more." "Ah, Lucy! but we are not yet man and wife! If we were married, then, indeed----" Lucy relapsed into tears, and all three remained silent; the deep despondency of their countenances formed a mournful contrast to the festive character of their dress. "Hear me, my children; listen to me," said Agnes, after a few moments; "I came into the world before you, and I know it a little better than you do. The devil is not so frightful as they paint him. To us poor people the skeins appear more entangled, because we do not know where to look for the end; but sometimes advice from a learned man----I know what I mean to say.--Do as I tell you, Renzo; go to Lecco; find the Doctor _Azzecca Garbugli_[2]; relate to him----But you must not call him by this name--it is a nick-name. Say to the doctor----what do they call him? Oh dear! I can't think of his real name, every one calls him _Azzecca Garbugli_. Well, well, find this tall, stiff, bald doctor, with a red nose, and a face as red----" [2] Seek quarrel. "I know the man by sight," said Renzo. "Well, very well," continued Agnes, "there's a man for you! I have seen more than one troubled wretch who did not know which way to turn himself; I have known him remain an hour with the Doctor _Azzecca Garbugli_ (be careful you don't call him so), and go away laughing at himself for his uneasiness. Take with you these fowls; I expected to have wrung their necks, poor little things! for the banquet of to-night; however, carry them to him, because one must never go empty-handed to these gentlemen. Relate to him all that has happened, and he will tell you at once that which would never enter our heads in a year." Renzo and Lucy approved of this advice; Agnes, proud of having given it, with great complacency took the poor fowls one by one from the coop, tied their legs together as if she were making a nosegay, and consigned them to his hands. After having exchanged words of hope, he departed, avoiding the high road and crossing the fields, so as not to attract notice. As he went along, he had leisure to dwell on his misfortunes, and revolve in his mind his anticipated interview with the Doctor _Azzecca Garbugli_. I leave the reader to imagine the condition of the unfortunate fowls swinging by the legs with their heads downwards in the hands of a man agitated by all the tumults of passion; and whose arm moved more in accordance with the violence of his feelings, than with sympathy for the unhappy animals whose heads became conscious of sundry terrific shocks, which they resented by pecking at one another,--a practice too frequent with companions in misfortune. He arrived at the village, asked for the house of the doctor, which being pointed out to him, he proceeded thither. On entering, he experienced the timidity so common to the poor and illiterate at the near approach to the learned and noble; he forgot all the speeches he had prepared, but giving a glance at the fowls, he took courage. He entered the kitchen, and demanded of the maid servant, "If he could speak with the Signor Doctor?" As if accustomed to similar gifts, she immediately took the fowls out of his hand, although Renzo drew them back, wishing the doctor to know that it was he who brought them. The doctor entered as the maid was saying, "Give here, and pass into the study." Renzo bowed low to him; he replied with a kind "Come in, my son," and led the way into an adjoining chamber. This was a large room, on the three walls of which were distributed portraits of the twelve Cæsars, while the fourth was covered with a large bookcase of old and dusty books; in the middle stood a table laden with memorials, libels, and proclamations, with three or four seats around; on one side of it was a large arm-chair with a high and square back, terminated at each corner by ornaments of wood in the fashion of horns; the nails which had fallen out here and there from its leathern covering, left the corners of it at liberty to roll themselves up in all directions. The doctor was in his morning gown, that is, enveloped in a faded toga, which had served him long since to appear in at Milan, on some great occasion. He closed the door, and encouraged the young man with these words: "My son, tell me your case." "I wish to speak a word to you in confidence." "Well, say on," replied the doctor, as he seated himself in the arm-chair. Renzo stood before the table twirling his hat in his hand, and began, "I wish to know from one as learned as yourself----" "Tell me the affair just as it is," interrupted the doctor, "in as few words as possible." "You must pardon me, Signor Doctor; we poor people know not how to speak to such as you are. I wish then to know----" "Bless the people! they are all alike; instead of relating facts, they ask questions; and that because their own opinions are already settled!" "Excuse me, Signor Doctor. I wish, then, to know if there is a punishment for threatening a curate, to prevent him from performing a marriage ceremony?" "I understand," said the doctor, who in truth had _not_ understood--"I understand." And suddenly assuming an air of seriousness and importance, "A serious case, my son--a case contemplated. You have done well to come to me; it is a clear case, noticed in a hundred proclamations, and in one, of the year just elapsed, by the actual governor. You shall see, you shall see! Where can it be?" said he, plunging his hand amidst the chaos of papers; "it must surely be here, as it is a decree of great importance. Ah! here it is, here it is!" He unfolded it, looked at the date, and with a serious face exclaimed, "Fifteenth of October, 1627. Yes, yes, this is it; a new edict; these are those which cause terror--Do you know how to read, my son?" "A little, Signor Doctor." "Well now, come behind me, and you will see for yourself." Holding the proclamation extended before him, he began to read, stammering rapidly over some passages, and pausing distinctly with great expression on others, according to the necessity of the case. "_Although by the proclamation published by order of the Signor Duke di Feria, on the 14th of December, 1620, and ratified by the most illustrious, and most excellent lord, Signor Gonsalez Fernandez de Cordova,_ &c. &c.--_had by extraordinary and rigorous remedies provided against the oppressions, exactions, and other tyrannical acts committed against the devoted vassals of His Majesty; the frequency of the excesses, however,_ &c. &c., _has arrived at such a point that His Excellency is under the necessity,_ &c. &c._--wherefore, with the concurrence of the Senate and Convention,_ &c. &c._--has resolved to publish the present decree." "And from the tyrannical acts which the skill of many in the villages, as well as in the cities._"--"Do you hear"--umph--"_exact and oppress the weak in various ways, making violent contracts of purchase, of rent,_ &c."--"Where is it? Ah! here it is, listen, listen,"--"_who, whether matrimony follow or not_." "Ah! that's my case!" said Renzo. "Listen, listen, here is more; now we will find the punishment." Umph--"_that they leave the place of their abode_, &c. &c.--_that if one pays a debt he must not be molested_." "All this has nothing to do with us. Ah! here it is!" "_the priest refusing to do that to which he is obliged by his office_,"--"Eh?" "It appears the proclamation was made purposely for me." "Ah! is it not so? listen, listen." "_And other similar oppressions which flow from the vassals, nobility, middle and lower classes._" "None escape, they are all here--it is like the valley of Jehoshaphat. Hear now the penalty." "_For all these and other similar evil deeds, which having been prohibited, it is nevertheless necessary to exact with rigour_, &c.--_His Excellency, not annulling, orders and commands, that whoever the offenders be, they shall be subjected to pecuniary and corporal punishment--to banishment, the galleys, or to death_," "a mere trifle!" "_at the will of His Excellency, or of the Senate. And from this there is no escape_, &c. &c." "And see here the signature," "_Gonsalez Fernandez de Cordova_;" "and lower down," "_Platonas_;" "and here again"--"_Videt Ferrar_," "nothing is wanting." Whilst the doctor was reading, Renzo had kept his eyes on the paper, seeking to ascertain for himself its real meaning. The doctor, perceiving his new client more attentive than dismayed, marvelled greatly. "He must be enrolled as one of the bravoes," said he to himself; "Ah! ah!" exclaimed he, addressing Renzo, "you have shaved off the long lock! Well, well, it was prudent; but placing yourself in my hands, you need not have done so. The case is a serious one--you can have no idea how much resolution is required to conduct these matters wisely." To understand this mistake of the doctor's, it should be known, that the bravoes by profession used to wear a long lock of hair, which they pulled over the face as a mask in enterprises that required prudence as well as strength. The proclamation had not been silent with regard to this custom. "_His Excellency commands, that whosoever shall wear hair of such a length as to cover the forehead to the eyebrows, will incur the penalty of a fine of three hundred crowns; in case of incapability of payment, three years in the galleys for the first offence; and for the second, in addition to the aforesaid, greater punishments still, at the will of His Excellency._" The long lock had become a distinctive mark of the loose and disorderly. "Indeed, indeed," replied Renzo, "I have never worn a long lock in my life." "I can do nothing," replied the doctor, shaking his head, with a knowing and rather impatient smile, "nothing, if you do not trust me. He who utters falsehoods to the doctor is a fool who will tell the truth to the judge. It is necessary to relate things plainly to the lawyer, but it rests with us to render them more intricate. If you wish me to help you, you must tell all from beginning to end, as to your confessor: you must name the person who commissioned you to do the deed; doubtless he is a person of consequence; and, considering this, I will go to his house to perform an act of duty. I will not betray you at all, be assured; I will tell him I come to implore his protection for a poor calumniated youth; and we will together use the necessary means to finish the affair in a satisfactory manner. You understand; in securing himself, he will likewise secure you. If, however, the business has been all your own, I will not withdraw my protection: I have extricated others from worse difficulties; provided you have not offended a person of _consequence_;--you understand--I engage to free you from all embarrassment, with a little expense--you understand. As to the curate, if he is a person of judgment, he will keep his own counsel; if he is a fool, we will take care of him. One may escape clear out of every trouble; but for this, a _man_, a _man_ is necessary. Your case is a very, very serious one--the edict speaks plainly; and if the thing rested between you and the law, to be candid, it would go hard with you. If you wish to pass smoothly--money and obedience!" Whilst the doctor poured forth this rhapsody, Renzo had been regarding him with mute astonishment, as the countryman watches the juggler, whom he sees cramming his mouth with handful after handful of tow; when, lo! he beholds immediately drawn forth from the same mouth a never-ending line of riband. When at last he perceived his meaning, he interrupted him with, "Oh! Signor Doctor, how you have misunderstood me! the matter is directly the reverse; I have threatened no one--not I--I never do such things; ask my companions, all of them, and they will tell you I never had any thing to do with the law. The injury is mine, and I have come to you to know how I can obtain justice, and am well satisfied to have seen this proclamation." "The devil!" exclaimed the doctor, opening wide his eyes; "what a cock and a bull story you have made! So it is; you are all alike: is it possible you can't tell a plain fact?" "But, Signor Doctor, you must pardon me, you have not given me time; now I will tell you all. Know, then, that I was to have been married to-day"--and here his voice trembled--"was to have been married to-day to a young person to whom I have been some time betrothed; to-day was the day fixed upon by the Signor Curate, and every thing was in readiness. The Signor Curate began to make excuses--and--not to weary you--I compelled him to tell me the cause; and he confessed that he had been forbidden, on pain of death, to perform the ceremony. This powerful Don Roderick----" "Eh!" hastily interrupted the doctor, contracting his brow and wrinkling his red nose, "away with you; what have I to do with these idle stories? Tell them to your companions, and not to one of my condition. Begone; do you think I have nothing to do but listen to tales of this sort----" "I protest----" "Begone, I say; what have I to do with your protestations? I wash my hands from them!" and pacing the room, he rubbed his hands together, as if really performing that act. "Hereafter learn when to speak; and do not take a gentleman by surprise." "But hear me, hear me," vainly repeated Renzo. The doctor, still growling, pushed him towards the door, set it wide open, called the maid, and said to her, "Return this man immediately what he brought, I will have nothing to do with it." The woman had never before been required to execute a similar order, but she did not hesitate to obey; she took the fowls and gave them to Renzo with a compassionate look, as if she had said, "You certainly have made some very great blunder." Renzo wished to make apologies; but the doctor was immovable. Confounded, therefore, and more enraged than ever, he took back the fowls and departed, to render an account of the ill success of his expedition. At his departure, Agnes and Lucy had exchanged their nuptial robes for their humble daily habits, and then, sorrowful and dejected, occupied themselves in suggesting fresh projects. Agnes expected great results from Renzo's visit to the doctor; Lucy thought that it would be well to let Father Christopher know what had happened, as he was a man who would not only advise, but assist whenever he could serve the unfortunate; Agnes assented, but how was it to be accomplished? the convent was two miles distant, and at this time _they_ certainly could neither of them hazard a walk thither. Whilst they were weighing the difficulties, some one knocked at the door, and they heard a low but distinct _Deo Gracias_. Lucy, imagining who it was, hastened to open it; and, bowing low, there entered a capuchin collector of contributions, with his wallet swung over his left shoulder. "Oh! brother Galdino!" said Agnes. "The Lord be with you," said the brother; "I come for your contribution of nuts." "Go, get the nuts for the fathers," said Agnes. Lucy obeyed; but before she quitted the room, she gave her mother a kind and impressive look, as much as to say, "Be secret." The capuchin, looking significantly at Agnes, said, "And the wedding? It was to have taken place to-day; what has happened?" "The curate is sick, and we are obliged to defer it," replied the dame, in haste; "but what success in the contributions?" continued she, anxious to change the subject, which she would willingly have prolonged, but for Lucy's earnest look. "Very poor, good dame, very poor. This is all," said he, swinging the wallet from his shoulder--"this is all; and for this I have been obliged to knock at ten doors." "But the year is a scarce one, brother Galdino, and when we have to struggle for bread, our alms are necessarily small." "If we wish abundance to return, my good dame, we must give alms. Do you not know the miracle of the nuts, which happened many years ago in our convent of Romagna?" "No, in truth; tell me." "Well you must know, then, that in this convent there was one of our fathers who was a saint; he was called Father Macario. One winter's day, passing by a field of one of our patrons,--a worthy man he was,--he saw him standing near a large nut tree, and four peasants with their axes raised to level it to the ground. 'What are you doing to the poor tree?' demanded father Macario. 'Why, father, it is unfruitful, and I am about to cut it down.' 'Do not do so, do not do so,' said the father; 'I tell you that next year it will bear more nuts than leaves. The master ordered the workmen to throw at once the earth on the roots which had been already bared; and, calling after the Father Macario, said, 'Father Macario, the half of the crop shall be for the convent.' The prediction was noised about, and every one went to look at the tree. In fact, when spring arrived, there were flowers in abundance, and afterwards nuts in abundance! But there was a greater miracle yet, as you shall hear. The owner, who, before the nut season, was called hence to enjoy the fruits of his charity, left a son of a very different character from himself. Now, at the time of harvest, the collector went to receive his appointed portion; but the son affected entire ignorance, and presumptuously replied, he never had understood that the capuchins knew how to make nuts. Now guess what happened then. One day he had invited to dinner some friends, and, making merry, he amused them with the story of the nuts; they desired to visit his granary, to behold his abundance; he led the way, advanced towards the corner where they had been placed, looked--and what do you think he saw?--a heap of dry nut leaves! Was not this a miracle? And the convent gained, instead of suffering loss; the profusion of nuts bestowed upon it in consequence was so great, that one of our patrons, compassionating the poor collector, gave him a mule to assist in carrying them home. And so much oil was made, that it was freely given to the poor; like the sea, which receives waters from every part, and distributes abundantly to the rivers." Lucy now reappeared with her apron so loaded with nuts, that she could with difficulty support the burthen. Whilst Friar Galdino untied his wallet to receive them, Agnes cast an astonished and displeased glance at her for her prodigality; she returned it with a look which seemed to say, "I will satisfy you." The friar was liberal of thanks, and, replacing his wallet, was about to depart, when Lucy called him back. "I wish you to do me a service," said she; "I wish you to say to Father Christopher that I have a great desire to speak with him, and request him to have the goodness to come hither immediately, as it is impossible for me to go to the convent." "Willingly; an hour shall not elapse before Father Christopher shall be informed of your wish." "I rely on you." "Trust me," said he, "I will be faithful," and moved off, bending under the increased weight of his wallet. We must not suppose, from the readiness with which Lucy sent this request to Father Christopher, and the equal readiness of Father Galdino to carry it, that the father was a person of no consequence; on the contrary, he was a man of much authority amongst his companions, and throughout all the neighbourhood. To serve the feeble, and to be served by the powerful; to enter the palace and the hut; to be at one time a subject of pastime, and at another regarded with profound respect; to seek alms, and to bestow them;--to all these vicissitudes a capuchin was well accustomed. The name of _Friar_, at this period, was uttered with the greatest respect, and with the most bitter contempt; of both of which sentiments, perhaps, the capuchins were, more than any other order, the objects. They possessed no property, wore a coarser habit than others, and made a more open profession of humility; they therefore exposed themselves, in a greater degree, to the veneration or the scorn which might result from the various characters among men. The Friar Galdino being gone, "Such a quantity of nuts!" exclaimed Agnes, "and in a year of scarcity!"--"I beg pardon," replied Lucy; "but if we had been as penurious as others in our charity, who can tell how long the friar would have been in reaching home, or, amongst all the gossipings, whether he would have remembered----" "True, true, it was a good thought; and besides, charity always produces good fruit," said Agnes, who, with all her defects, was a kind-hearted woman, and would have sacrificed every thing she had in the world for the sake of her child, in whom she had reposed all her happiness. Renzo entered at this moment, with an angry and mortified countenance. "Pretty advice you gave me!" said he to Agnes. "You sent me to a fine man, indeed! to one truly who aids the distressed!" And he briefly related his interview with the doctor. The dame, astonished at the issue, endeavoured to prove that the advice was good, and that the failure must have been owing to Renzo himself. Lucy interrupted the debate, by informing him of her message to Father Christopher: he seized with avidity the new hopes inspired by the expectation of assistance from so holy a man. "But if the father," said he, "should not extricate us from our difficulties, I will do it myself by some means or other." Both mother and daughter implored him to be patient and prudent. "To-morrow," said Lucy, "Father Christopher will certainly be here, and he will no doubt suggest to us some plan of action which we ourselves would not have thought of in a year." "I hope so," said Renzo; "but if not, I will obtain redress, or find another to do it for me; for surely there must be justice to be had in the world." Their mournful conversation might have continued much longer, but approaching night warned him to depart. "Good night!" said Lucy mournfully, to Renzo, who could hardly resolve to go. "Good night!" replied he, yet more sadly. "Some saint will watch over us," said she. "Be patient and prudent." The mother added some advice of the like nature. But the disappointed bridegroom, with a tempest in his heart, left them, repeating the strange proposition--"Surely, there's justice in the world." So true is it that, under the influence of great misfortune, men no longer know what they say. CHAPTER IV. The sun had not yet risen above the horizon, when Father Christopher left the convent of Pescarenico, to go to the cottage where he was so anxiously expected. Pescarenico is a small hamlet on the left bank of the Adda, or, rather, of the Lake, a few steps below the bridge; a group of houses, inhabited for the most part by fishermen, and adorned here and there with nets spread out to dry. The convent was situated (the building still subsists) at a short distance from them, half way between Lecco and Bergamo. The sky was clear and serene. As the sun rose behind the mountain, its rays brightened the opposite summits, and thence rapidly spread themselves over the declivities and valleys; a light autumn breeze played through the leaves of the mulberry trees, and brought them to the ground. The vineyards were still brilliant with leaves of various hues; and the newly made nets appeared brown and distinct amid the fields of stubble, which were white and shining with the dew. The scene was beautiful; but the misery of the inhabitants formed a sad contrast to it. At every moment you met pale and ragged beggars, some grown old in the trade, others youthful, and induced to it from extreme necessity. They passed quietly by Father Christopher, and although they had nothing to hope from him, since a capuchin never touches money, they bowed low in thanks for the alms they had received, or might hereafter receive at the convent. The spectacle of the labourers scattered in the fields was still more mournful; some were sowing thinly and sparingly their seed, as if hazarding that which was too precious; others put the spade into the earth with difficulty, and wearily turned up the clods. The pale and sickly child was leading the meagre cattle to the pasture ground, and as he went along plucked carefully the herbs found in his path, as food for his family. This melancholy picture of human misery increased the sadness of Father Christopher, who, when he left the convent, had been filled with presentiments of evil. But why did he feel so much for Lucy? And why, at the first notice, did he hasten to her with as much solicitude as if he had been sent for by the Father Provincial. And who was this Father Christopher? We must endeavour to satisfy all these enquiries. Father Christopher, of ----, was a man nearer sixty than fifty years of age. His head was shaven, with the exception of the band of hair allowed to grow round it like a crown, as was the custom of the capuchins; the expression of his countenance was habitually that of deep humility, although occasionally there passed over it flashes of pride and inquietude, which were, however, succeeded by a deeper shade of self-reproach and lowliness. His long grey beard gave more character to the shape of the upper part of his head, on which habitual abstinence had stamped a strong expression of gravity. His sunken eyes were for the most part bent to the earth, but brightened at times with unexpected vivacity, which he ever appeared to endeavour to repress. His name, before entering the convent, had been Ludovico; he was the son of a merchant of ----, who, having accumulated great wealth, had renounced trade in the latter part of his life, and having resolved to live like a gentleman, he studied every means to cause his former mode of life to be forgotten by those around him. He could not, however, forget it himself; the shop, the goods, the day-book, the yard measure, rose to his memory, like the shade of Banquo to Macbeth, amidst the pomp of the table and the smiles of his parasites; whose continual effort it was to avoid any word which might appear to allude to the former condition of the host. Ludovico was his only child: he caused him to be nobly educated, as far as the laws and customs permitted him to do so; and died, bequeathing him a splendid fortune. Ludovico had contracted the habits and feelings of a gentleman, and the flatterers who had surrounded him from infancy had accustomed him to the greatest deference and respect. But he found the scene changed when he attempted to mingle with the nobility of the city; and that in order to live in their company he must school himself to patience and submission, and bear with contumely on every occasion. This agreed neither with his education nor his disposition. He retired from them in disgust, but unwillingly, feeling that such should naturally have been his companions; he then resolved to outdo them in pomp and magnificence, thereby increasing the enmity with which they had already regarded him. His open and violent nature soon engaged him in more serious contests: he sincerely abhorred the extortions and injuries committed by those to whom he had opposed himself; he therefore habitually took part with the weak against the powerful, so that by degrees he had constituted himself the defender of the oppressed, and the vindicator of their wrongs. The office was onerous; and fruitful in evil thoughts, quarrels, and enmities against himself. But, besides this external warfare, he perhaps suffered still more from inward conflicts; for often, in order to compass his objects, he was obliged to adopt measures of circumvention and violence, which his conscience disapproved. He was under the painful necessity of keeping in pay a band of ruffians for his own security, as well as to aid him in his enterprises; and for these purposes he was necessarily obliged to select the boldest, that is, the vilest, and to live with vagabonds from a love of justice; so that, disgusted with the world and its conflicts, he had many times seriously thought of entering some monastery, and retiring from it for ever. Such intentions were more strongly entertained on the failure of some of his enterprises, or the perception of his own danger, or the annoyance of his vicious associates, and would probably have still continued _intentions_, but for one of the most serious and terrible events of his hazardous mode of life. He was walking one day through the streets of the city, accompanied by a former shopman, who had been transformed by his father into a steward, followed by two bravoes. The name of the shopman was Christopher; he was a man about fifty years of age, devoted to the master whom he had tended in infancy, and upon whose liberality he supported himself, his wife, and a large family of children. Ludovico saw a gentleman approaching at a distance, with whom he had never spoken in his life, but whom he hated for his arrogance and pride, which hatred the other cordially returned. He had in his train four bravoes; he advanced with a haughty step, and an expression of insolence and disdain on his countenance. It was Ludovico's right, being on the left side, to pass nearest the wall, according to the custom of the day, and every one was tenacious of this privilege. As they met they stopped face to face, like two figures on a bass relief, neither of them being disposed to yield to the other. The gentleman, eyeing Ludovico proudly and imperiously, said, with a corresponding tone of voice, "Pass on the outside." "Pass there yourself," replied Ludovico, "the street is mine." "With persons of your condition the street is always mine." "Yes, if your arrogance were a law to others." The attendants of each stood still, with their hands on their daggers, prepared for battle. The passers-by retreated to a distance to watch the event. "Pass on, vile mechanic, or I will teach you the civility due to a gentleman." "You lie; I am not vile." "Ha! Do you give me the lie? If you were a gentleman I would soon settle matters with my sword." "You are a coward also, or you would not hesitate to support by deeds the insolence of your words." "Throw this rascal in the dirt," said the gentleman, turning to his followers. "Let us see who will dare to do so," said Ludovico, stepping back and laying his hand on his sword. "Rash man," cried the other, unsheathing his own, "I will break this in pieces when it shall have been stained with your base blood." They rushed violently on each other; the servants of both sprang to the defence of their masters. The combat was unequal in numbers, and also unequal from Ludovico's desire to defend himself rather than to wound his enemy; whilst the latter intended nothing less than murder. Ludovico was warding off the dagger of one of the bravoes, after having received a slight scratch on the cheek, when his enemy thrust at him from behind; Christopher, seeing his master's peril, went to his assistance; upon this the anger of the enraged cavalier was turned against the shopman, and he thrust him through the heart with his sword. Ludovico, as if beside himself at the sight, buried his weapon in the breast of the murderer, who fell almost at the same instant with the poor Christopher! The attendants of the gentleman, beholding him on the ground, took to flight; and Ludovico found himself alone, in the midst of a crowd, with two bodies lying at his feet. "What has happened? One--two--he has been thrust through the body. Who is killed? A nobleman.--Holy Virgin! what destruction! who seeks, finds.--A moment pays all.--What a wound!--It must have been a serious affair!--And this unfortunate man!--Mercy! what a spectacle!--Save, save him.--It will go hard with him also.--See how he is wounded--he is covered with blood!--Escape, poor man, escape; do not let yourself be taken." These words expressed the common suffrage, and with advice came also assistance; the affair had taken place near a church of the capuchins, an asylum impenetrable to the officers of justice. The murderer, bleeding and stupified, was carried thither by the crowd; the brotherhood received him from their hands with this recommendation, "He is an honest man who has made a proud rascal cold; but he did it in his own defence." Ludovico had never before shed blood, and although in these times murder was a thing so common that all ceased to wonder at it, yet the impression which he received from the recollection of the dying (dying through his instrumentality,) was new and indescribable; a revelation of feelings hitherto unknown. The fall of his enemy, the alteration of those features, passing in a moment from angry threatenings to the solemn stillness of death; this was a spectacle which wrought an instantaneous change in the soul of the murderer. Whilst they were carrying him to the convent he had been insensible to what was passing; returning to his senses, he found himself in a bed of the infirmary, in the hands of a friar who was dressing his wounds. Another, whose particular duty it was to administer comfort to the dying, had been called to the scene of combat. He returned in a short time, and approaching Ludovico's bed, said, "Console yourself; he has died in peace, has forgiven you, and hoped for your forgiveness." At these words the soul of Ludovico was filled with remorse and sorrow. "And the other?" asked he anxiously. "The other had expired before I arrived." In the mean time the avenues and environs of the convent swarmed with people; the officers of justice arrived, dispersed the crowd, and placed themselves in ambush at a short distance from the gates, so that no one could pass through them unobserved. A brother of the deceased and some of his family appeared in full armour with a large attendance of bravoes, and surrounded the place, watching with a threatening aspect the bystanders, who did not dare say, he is safe, but they had it written on their faces. Scarcely had Ludovico recalled his scattered thoughts, when he asked for a father confessor, prayed him to seek out the widow of Christopher, to ask forgiveness in his name for having been (however involuntarily) the cause of her affliction, and to assure her that he would take the care of her family on himself. Reflecting further on his own situation, his determination was made to become a friar. It seemed as if God himself had willed it, by placing him in a convent at such a conjuncture. He immediately sent for the superior of the monastery, and expressed to him his intention. He replied to him, that he should be careful not to form a resolution precipitately, but that, if he persisted, he would be accepted. Ludovico then sent for a notary, and made a donation of all his estate to the widow and family of Christopher. The resolution of Ludovico happened opportunely for his hosts, who felt themselves embarrassed concerning him. To send him from the monastery, and thus expose him to justice and the vengeance of his enemies, was not to be thought of a moment; it would be the same as a renunciation of their privileges, a discrediting of the convent amongst the people; and they would draw upon themselves the animadversion of all the capuchins of the universe for this relinquishment of the rights of the order, this defiance of the ecclesiastical authorities, who then considered themselves the guardians of these rights. On the other hand, the family of the deceased, rich, and powerful in adherents, were determined on vengeance, and disposed to consider as enemies whoever should place obstacles to its accomplishment. History declares, not that they grieved much for the dead, or that a single tear was shed for him amongst his whole race, but that they were urged on by scenting the blood of his opponent. But Ludovico, by assuming the habit of a capuchin, removed all difficulties: to a certain degree he made atonement; imposed on himself penitence; confessed his fault; withdrew from the contest; he was, in short, an enemy who laid down his arms. The relations of the deceased could, if they pleased, believe and boast that he had become a friar through despair and dread of their revenge. And at all events, to reduce a man to dispossess himself of his wealth, to shave his head, to walk bare-footed, to sleep on straw, and to live on alms, might appear a punishment competent to the offence. The superior presented himself before the brother of the deceased with an air of humility; after a thousand protestations of respect for his illustrious house, and of desire to comply with its wishes as far as was practicable, he spoke of the repentance and resolution of Ludovico, politely hoping that the family would grant their accordance; and then insinuating, mildly and dexterously, that, agreeable or not agreeable, the thing would take place. After some little vapouring, he agreed to it on one condition; that the murderer of his brother should depart immediately from the city. To this the capuchin assented, as if in obedience to the wishes of the family, although it had been already so determined. The affair was thus concluded to the satisfaction of the illustrious house, of the capuchin brotherhood, of the popular feeling, and, above all, of our generous penitent himself. Thus, at thirty years of age, Ludovico bade farewell to the world; and having, according to custom, to change his name, he took one which would continually recall to him his crime,--thus he became _Friar Christopher_! Hardly was the ceremony of assuming the habit completed, when the superior informed him he must depart on the morrow to perform his noviciate at ----, sixty miles' distance. The noviciate bowed submissively. "Permit me, father," said he, "before I leave the scene of my crime, to do all that rests with me now to repair the evil; permit me to go to the house of the brother of him whom I have murdered, to acknowledge my fault, and ask forgiveness; perhaps God will take away his but too just resentment." It appeared to the superior that such an act, besides being praiseworthy in itself, would serve still more to reconcile the family to the monastery. He therefore bore the request himself to the brother of the murdered man; a proposal so unexpected was received with a mixture of scorn and complacency. "Let him come to-morrow," said he, and appointed the hour. The superior returned to Father Christopher with the desired permission. The gentleman reflected that the more solemn and public the apology was, the more it would enhance his credit with the family and the world; he made known in haste to the members of the family, that on the following day they should assemble at his house to receive a common satisfaction. At mid-day the palace swarmed with nobility of either sex; there was a blending of veils, feathers, and jewels; a heavy motion of starched and crisped bands; a confused entangling of embroidered trains. The antechambers, the courts, and the street, were crowded with servants, pages, and bravoes. Father Christopher experienced a momentary agitation at beholding all this preparation, but recovering himself, said, "It is well; the deed was committed in public, the reparation should be public." Then, with his eyes bent to the earth, and the father, his companion, at his elbow, he crossed the court, amidst a crowd who eyed him with unceremonious curiosity; he entered, ascended the stairs, and passing through another crowd of lords, who made way for him at his approach, he advanced towards the master of the mansion, who stood in the middle of the room waiting to receive him, with downcast looks, grasping with one hand the hilt of his sword, and with the other pressing the cape of his Spanish cloak on his breast. The countenance and deportment of Father Christopher made an immediate impression on the company; so that all were convinced that he had not submitted to this humiliation from fear of man. He threw himself on his knees before him whom he had most injured, crossed his hands on his breast, and bending his head, exclaimed, "I am the murderer of your brother! God knows, that to restore him to life I would sacrifice my own; but as this cannot be, I supplicate you to accept my useless and late apology, for the love of God!" All eyes were fixed in breathless and mute attention on the novice, and on the person to whom he addressed himself; there was heard through the crowd a murmur of pity and respect; the angry scorn of the nobleman relaxed at this appeal, and bending towards the kneeling supplicant, "Rise," said he, with a troubled voice. "The offence--the deed truly--but the habit you wear--not only this--but on your own account--rise, father!--my brother--I cannot deny it--was a cavalier--of a hasty temper. Do not speak of it again. But, father, you must not remain in this posture." And he took him by the arm to raise him. Father Christopher, standing with his eyes still bent to the ground, continued, "I may, then, hope that you have granted me your pardon. And if I obtain it from you, from whom may I not expect it? Oh! if I could hear you utter the word!" "Pardon!" said the nobleman; "I pardon you with all my heart, and all----" turning to the company----"All! all!" resounded at once through the room. The countenance of the father expanded with joy, under which, however, was still visible an humble and profound compunction for the evil, which the remission of men could not repair. The nobleman, entirely vanquished, threw his arms around his neck, and the kiss of peace was given and received. Loud exclamations of applause burst from the company; and all crowded eagerly around the father. In the meanwhile the servants entered, bearing refreshments; the master of the mansion, again addressing Father Christopher, said, "Father, afford me a proof of your friendship by accepting some of these trifles." "Such things are no longer for me," replied the father; "but if you will allow me a loaf of bread, as a memorial of your charity and your forgiveness, I shall be thankful." The bread was brought, and with an air of humble gratitude he put it in his basket. He then took leave of the company; disentangled himself with difficulty from the crowd in the antechambers, who would have kissed the hem of his garment, and pursued his way to the gate of the city, whence he commenced his pedestrian journey towards the place of his noviciate. It is not our design to write the history of his cloistral life; we will only say, he executed faithfully the offices ordinarily assigned to him, of preaching, and of comforting the dying; but beyond these, "the oppressor's wrongs, the proud man's contumely," aroused in him a spirit of resistance which humiliation and remorse had not been able entirely to extinguish. His countenance was habitually mild and humble, but occasionally there passed over it a shade of former impetuosity, which was with difficulty restrained by the high and holy motives which now predominated in his soul. His tone of voice was gentle as his countenance; but in the cause of justice and truth, his language assumed a character of solemnity and emphasis singularly impressive. One who knew him well, and admired his virtues, could often perceive, by the smothered utterance or the change of a single word, the inward conflict between the natural impetus and the resolved will, which latter never failed to gain the mastery. If one unknown to him in the situation of Lucy had implored his assistance, he would have granted it immediately; with how much more solicitude, then, did he direct his steps to the cottage, knowing and admiring her innocence, trembling for her danger, and experiencing a lively indignation at the persecution of which she had become the object. Besides, he had advised her to remain quiet, and not make known the conduct of her persecutor, and he felt or feared that his advice might have been productive of bad consequences. His anxiety for her welfare, and his inadequate means to secure it, called up many painful feelings, which the good often experience. But while we have been relating his history, he arrived at the dwelling; Agnes and her daughter advanced eagerly towards him, exclaiming in one breath, "Oh! Father Christopher, you are welcome." CHAPTER V. Father Christopher perceived immediately, from the countenances of Lucy and her mother, that some evil had occurred. "Is all well with you?" said he. Lucy replied by a flood of tears. "Quiet yourself, poor child," continued he; "and do you," turning to Agnes, "tell me what is the matter." Whilst the good dame proceeded with the melancholy relation, he experienced a variety of painful emotions. The story being done, he buried his face in his hands, and exclaimed, "Oh, blessed God! how long?"--He then turned to Lucy; "Poor child! God has, indeed, visited you," said he. "You will not abandon us, father?" said Lucy, sobbing. "Abandon you!" replied he. "How should I dare ask the protection of Almighty God for myself, if I abandoned _you_! You, so defenceless!--you, whom he has confided to me! Take courage! He will assist you--His eye beholds you--He can even make use of a feeble instrument like myself to confound a ----. Let us think what can be done." Thus saying, he grasped his beard and chin with his hand, as if to concentrate more completely the powers of his mind. But the more clearly he perceived the pressing nature of the case, the more uncertain and dangerous appeared every mode of meeting it. To endeavour to make Don Abbondio sensible of a failure in duty? This appeared hopeless; fear was more powerful with him than either shame or duty. To inform the cardinal archbishop, and invoke his authority? That would require time; and, in the meanwhile, what was to be done? To resist Don Roderick? How? Impossible! The affair being one of a private nature, he would not be sustained by the brethren of his order: he would, perhaps, be raising a storm against himself; and, what was worse, by a useless attempt render the condition of Lucy more hopeless and deplorable. After many reflections he came to the conclusion to go to Don Roderick himself, and to endeavour by prayers and representations of the punishments of the wicked in another state, to win him from his infamous purpose. At least he might at the interview discover something of his intentions, and determine his measures accordingly. At this moment Renzo, who, as the reader will readily imagine, could not long be absent at so interesting a crisis, appeared at the door of the room; the father raised his head and bowed to him affectionately, and with a look of intense pity. "Have they told you, father?" enquired he, with a troubled voice. "Yes, my son; and on that account I am here." "What do you say of the villain?" "What do I say of _him_? I say to _you_, dear Renzo, that you must confide in God, and He will not abandon you." "Blessed words!" exclaimed the youth: "you are not one of those who wrong the poor. But the curate and this doctor----" "Do not torment yourself uselessly: I am but a poor friar; but I repeat to you that which I have already said to Lucy and her mother--poor as I am, I will never abandon you." "Oh! you are not like the friends of the world--rascals--when I was in prosperity, abundant in protestations; ready to shed their blood for me, to sustain me against the devil! Had I an enemy, they would soon put it out of his power to molest me! And now, to see them withdraw themselves!" He was interrupted in his vituperations by the dark shade which passed over the countenance of his auditor; he perceived the blunder he had made, and attempting to remedy it, became perplexed and confused. "I would say--I did not at all intend--that is, I meant to say----" "What did you mean to say? You have already begun to mar my undertaking. It is well that thou art undeceived in time. What! thou didst seek friends! and what friends! they could not have aided thee, had they been willing. And thou didst not apply to the only friend who can and will protect thee;--dost thou not know that God is the friend of all who trust in Him? dost thou not know that to spread the talons does little good to the weak? and even if----" at these words he grasped forcibly Renzo's arm; his countenance, without losing his wonted authority, displayed an affecting remorse; his eyes were fixed on the ground; and his voice became slow and sepulchral: "and even if that little should be gained, how terribly awful! Renzo, will you confide in me?--that I should say in me! a worm of the dust! will you not confide in God?" "Oh! yes!" replied Renzo; "He only is the Lord." "Promise me, then, that you will not meet or provoke any one; that you will suffer yourself to be guided by me." "I promise," said Renzo. Lucy drew a long breath, as if relieved from a weight, and Agnes was loud in applauses. "Listen, my children," resumed Father Christopher: "I will go myself to-day to speak to this man: if God touches his heart through my words, well; if not, _He_ will provide some other remedy. In the mean time keep yourselves quiet and retired; this evening, or to-morrow at the latest, you shall see me again." Having said this, he departed amidst thanks and blessings. He arrived at the convent in time to perform his daily duty in the choir, dined, and then pursued his way towards the den of the wild beast he had undertaken to tame. The palace of Don Roderick stood by itself, on the summit of one of the promontories that skirt the coast; it was three or four miles distant from the village; at the foot of the promontory nearest the lake, there was a cluster of decayed cottages inhabited by peasantry belonging to Don Roderick. This was the little capital of his little kingdom. As you cast a glance within their walls, you beheld suspended to them various kinds of arms, with spades, mattocks, and pouches of powder, blended promiscuously. The persons within appeared robust and strong, with a daring and insulting expression of countenance, and wearing a long lock of hair on the head, which was covered with net-work. The aged, that had lost their teeth, seemed ready to show their gums at the slightest call: masculine women, with sinewy arms, seemed disposed to use them with as much indifference as their tongues; the very children exhibited the same daring recklessness as the parent stock. Friar Christopher passed through the hamlet, ascending a winding path which conducted him to the little esplanade in the front of the castle. The door was shut, which was a sign that the chief was dining and did not wish to be disturbed. The few windows that looked on the road were small and decayed by time; they were, however, secured by large iron bars; and the lowest of them were more than ten feet from the ground. A profound silence reigned within, and a traveller might have believed the mansion deserted, but for the appearance of four animals, two alive and two dead, in front of the castle. Two large vultures, with their wings expanded, were nailed each at the posts of the gate; and two bravoes, extended at full length on the benches on either side, were keeping guard until their master should have finished his repast. The father stopped, as if willing also to wait. "Father, father, come on," said one, "we do not make the capuchins wait here; we are the friends of the convent; I have been within its walls when the air on the outside of them was not very wholesome for me; it was well the fathers did not refuse me admittance." So saying, he gave two strokes with the knocker: at the sound, the howls of mastiffs were heard from within; and in a few moments there appeared an aged domestic. On seeing the father, he bowed reverently, quieted the animals with his voice, introduced the guest into a narrow court, and closed the gate. Then escorting him into a saloon, and regarding him with an astonished and respectful look, said, "Is not this--the Father Christopher of Pescarenico?" "The same." "And here!" "As you see, good man." "It must be to do good," continued he, murmuring between his teeth; "good can be done every where." He then guided him through two or three dark halls, and led the way to the banqueting room: here was heard a confused noise of plates, and knives and forks, and discordant voices. Whilst Father Christopher was urging the domestic to suffer him to remain in some other apartment until the dinner should be finished, the door opened. A certain Count Attilio, a cousin of the noble host, (of whom we have already spoken, without giving his name,) was seated opposite: when he saw the bald head and habit of the father, and perceived his motion to withdraw, "Ho! father," cried he, "you sha'n't escape us; reverend father, forward, forward!" Don Roderick seconded somewhat unwillingly this boisterous command, as he felt some presentiment of the object of his visit. "Come, father, come in," said he. Seeing there was no retreating, Father Christopher advanced, saluting the nobleman and his guests. An honest man is generally fearless and undaunted in presence of the wicked; nevertheless, the father, with the testimony of a good conscience and a firm conviction of the justice of his cause, with a mixture of horror and compassion for Don Roderick, felt a degree of embarrassment in approaching him. He was seated at table, surrounded by guests; on his right was Count Attilio, his colleague in libertinism, who had come from Milan to visit him. To the left was seated, with respectful submissiveness, tempered, however, with conscious security, the _podestà_ of the place,--he whose duty it was, according to the proclamation, to cause justice to be done to Renzo Tramaglino, and to inflict the allotted penalty on Don Roderick. Nearly opposite to the _podestà_ sat our learned Doctor _Azzecca Garbugli_, with his black cap and his red nose; and over against him two obscure guests, of whom our story says nothing beyond a general mention of their toad-eating qualities. "Give a seat to the father," said Don Roderick. A servant presented a chair, and the good father apologised for having come at so inopportune an hour. "I would speak with you alone on an affair of importance," added he, in a low tone, to Don Roderick. "Very well, father, it shall be so," replied he; "but in the meanwhile bring the father something to drink." Father Christopher would have refused, but Don Roderick, raising his voice above the tumult of the table, cried, "No, by Bacchus, you shall not do me this wrong; a capuchin shall never leave this house without having tasted my wine, nor an insolent creditor without having tasted the wood of my forests." These words produced a universal laugh, and interrupted for a moment the question which was hotly agitated between the guests. A servant brought the wine, of which Father Christopher partook, feeling the necessity of propitiating the host. "The authority of Tasso is against you, respected Signor _Podestà_," resumed aloud the Count Attilio: "this great man was well acquainted with the laws of knighthood, and he makes the messenger of Argantes, before carrying the defiance of the Christian knights, ask permission from the pious Bouillon." "But that," replied vociferously the _podestà_, "that is poetical licence merely: an ambassador is in his nature inviolable, by the law of nations, _jure gentium_; and moreover, the ambassador, not having spoken in his own name, but merely presented the challenge in writing----" "But when will you comprehend that this ambassador was a daring fool, who did not know the first----" "With the good leave of our guests," interrupted Don Roderick, who did not wish the argument to proceed farther, "we will refer it to the Father Christopher, and submit to his decision." "Agreed," said Count Attilio, amused at submitting a question of knighthood to a capuchin; whilst the _podestà_ muttered between his teeth, "Folly!" "But, from what I have comprehended," said the father, "it is a subject of which I have no knowledge." "As usual, modest excuses from the father," said Don Roderick; "but we will not accept them. Come, come, we know well that you came not into the world with a cowl on your head; you know something of its ways. Well, how stands the argument?" "The facts are these," said the Count Attilio---- "Let me tell, who am neutral, cousin," resumed Don Roderick. "This is the story: a Spanish knight sent a challenge to a Milanese knight; the bearer, not finding him at home, presented it to his brother, who, having read it, struck the bearer many blows. The question is----" "It was well done; he was perfectly right," cried Count Attilio. "There was no right about it," exclaimed the _podestà_. "To beat an ambassador--a man whose person is sacred! Father, do _you_ think this was an action becoming a knight?" "Yes, sir; of a knight," cried the count, "I think I know what belongs to a knight. Oh! if it had been an affair of fists, that would have been quite another thing, but a cudgel soils no one's hands." "I am not speaking of this, Sir Count; I am speaking of the _laws_ of knighthood. But tell me, I pray you, if the messengers that the ancient Romans sent to bear defiance to other nations, asked permission to deliver the message; find, if you can, a writer who relates that such messenger was ever cudgelled." "What have the ancient Romans to do with us? a people well enough in some things, but in others, far, far behind. But according to the laws of modern knighthood, I maintain that a messenger, who dared place in the hands of a knight a challenge without having previously asked permission, is a rash fool who deserves to be cudgelled." "But answer me this question----" "No, no, no." "But hear me. To strike an unarmed person is an act of treachery. _Atqui_ the messenger _de quo_ was without arms. _Ergo_----" "Gently, gently, Signor _Podestà_." "How? gently." "Gently, I tell you; I concede that under other circumstances this might have been called an act of treachery, but to strike a low fellow! It would have been a fine thing truly, to say to him, as you would to a gentleman, Be on your guard! And you, Sir Doctor, instead of sitting there grinning your approbation of my opinion, why do you not aid me to convince this gentleman?" "I," replied the doctor in confusion; "I enjoy this learned dispute, and am thankful for the opportunity of listening to a war of wit so agreeable. And moreover, I am not competent to give an opinion; his most illustrious lordship has appointed a judge--the father." "True," said Don Roderick; "but how can the judge speak when the disputants will not keep silence?" "I am dumb," said the Count Attilio. The _podestà_ made a sign that he would be quiet. "Well! father! at last!" said Don Roderick, with comic gravity. "I have already said, that I do not comprehend----" "No excuses! we must have your opinion." "If it must be so," replied the father, "I should humbly think there was no necessity for challenges, nor bearers, nor blows." The guests looked in wonder at each other. "Oh! how ridiculous!" said the Count Attilio. "Pardon me, father; but this is exceedingly ridiculous. It is plain you know nothing of the world." "He?" said Don Roderick; "he knows as much of it as you do, cousin. Is it not so, father?" Father Christopher made no reply; but to himself he said, "submit thyself to every insult for the sake of those for whom thou art here." "It may be so," said the count; "but the father----how is the father called?" "Father Christopher," replied more than one. "But, Father Christopher, your reverend worship, with your maxims you would turn the world upside down--without challenges! without blows! Farewell, the point of honour! Impunity to ruffians! Happily, the thing is impossible." "Stop, doctor," cried Don Roderick, wishing to divert the dispute from the original antagonists. "You are a good man for an argument; what have you to say to the father?" "Indeed," replied the doctor, brandishing his fork in the air--"indeed I cannot understand how the Father Christopher should not remember that his judgment, though of just weight in the pulpit, is worth nothing--I speak with great submission--on a question of knighthood. But perhaps he has been merely jesting, to relieve himself from embarrassment." The father not replying to this, Don Roderick made an effort to change the subject. "Apropos," said he, "I understand there is a report at Milan of an accommodation." There was at this time a contest regarding the succession to the dukedom of Mantua, of which, at the death of Vincenzo Gonzaga, who died without male issue, the Duke de Nevers, his nearest relation, had obtained possession. Louis XIII., or rather the Cardinal de Richelieu, wished to sustain him there; Philip IV., or rather the Count d'Olivares, commonly called the Count Duke, opposed him. The dukedom was then a fief of the empire, and the two parties employed intrigue and importunity at the court of the Emperor Ferdinand II. The object of one was to obtain the investiture of the new duke; of the other, the denial of his claim, and also assistance to oblige him to relinquish it. "I rather think," said the Count Attilio, "that the thing will be arranged satisfactorily. I have reasons----" "Do not believe it, count, do not believe it," added the _podestà_; "I have an opportunity of knowing, because the Spanish keeper of the castle, who is my friend, and who is the son of a dependant of the Count Duke, is informed of every thing." "I tell you I have discoursed on the subject daily at Milan; and I know from good authority that the pope, exceedingly interested as he is for peace, has made propositions----" "That may be, the thing is in order; his Holiness does his duty; a pope should always endeavour to make peace between Christian princes; but the Count Duke has his own policy, and----" "And, and, and, do you know, Signor _Podestà_, how much thought the emperor now gives to it? Do you believe there is no place but Mantua in the world! There are many things to provide for, signor, mind. Do you know, for instance, how far the emperor can trust this Prince of Valdistano, or di Vallistai, as they call him; and if----" "His name, in the German language," interrupted the magistrate, "is Wallenstein, as I have heard it uttered many times by the Spanish keeper of the castle. But be of good courage----" "Do you dare teach me," replied the count. Here Don Roderick whispered to him to cease contradiction, as there would be no end to it. He obeyed; and the _podestà_, like a vessel unimpeded by shoals, continued with full sails the course of his eloquence. "Wallenstein gives me but little anxiety; because the Count Duke has his eye every where; and if Wallenstein carries matters with a high hand, he will soon set him right. He has his eye every where, I say, and unlimited power; and if it is his policy that the Signor Duke of Nevers should not take root in Mantua, he will never flourish there, be assured. It makes me laugh to see the Signor Cardinal de Richelieu contend with an Olivares. The Count Duke, gentlemen," pursued he, with the wind still in his favour, and much wondering at not meeting with opposition, "the Count Duke is an old fox--speaking with due respect--who would make any one lose his track: when he appears to go to the right, it would be safest to follow him to the left: no one can boast of knowing his designs; they who are to execute them, they who write the despatches, know nothing of them. I speak from authority, for the keeper of the castle deigns to confide in me. The Count Duke knows well enough how the pot boils in all the courts in Europe; and these politicians have hardly laid a plan, but he begins to frustrate it. That poor man, the Cardinal Richelieu, attempts and dissembles, toils and strives; and what does it all produce? When he has dug the mine, he finds a countermine already prepared by the Count Duke----" None can tell when the magistrate would have cast anchor, if Don Roderick had not interrupted him. "Signor _Podestà_," said he, "and you, gentlemen, a bumper to the Count Duke, and you shall then judge if the wine is worthy of the personage." The _podestà_ bowed low in gratitude for an honour he considered as paid to himself in part for his eloquent harangue. "May Don Gaspero Guzman, Count de Olivares, Duke of St. Lucar, live a thousand years!" said he, raising his glass. "May he live a thousand years!" exclaimed all the company. "Help the father," said Don Roderick. "Excuse me," replied he, "I could not----" "How!" said Don Roderick; "will you not drink to the Count Duke? Would you have us believe that you hold to the Navarre party?" This was the contemptuous term applied to the French interest at the time of Henry IV. There was no reply to be made to this, and the father was obliged to taste the wine. All the guests were loud in its praise, except the doctor, who had kept silence. "Eh! doctor," asked Don Roderick, "what think _you_ of it?" "I think," replied the doctor, withdrawing his ruddy and shining nose from the glass, "that this is the Olivares of wines: there is not a liquor resembling it in all the twenty-two kingdoms of the king our master, whom God protect! I maintain that the dinners of the most illustrious Signor Don Roderick exceed the suppers of Heliogabalus, and that scarcity is banished for ever from this palace, where reigns a perpetual and splendid abundance." "Well said! bravo! bravo!" exclaimed with one voice the guests; but the word _scarcity_, which the doctor had accidentally uttered, suggested a new and painful subject. All spoke at once:--"There is no famine," said one, "it is the speculators who----" "And the bakers, who conceal the grain. Hang them!" "That is right; hang them, without mercy." "Upon fair trial," cried the magistrate. "What trial?" cried Attilio, more loudly; "summary justice, I say. Take a few of them who are known to be the richest and most avaricious, and hang them." "Yes, hang them! hang them! and there will be grain scattered in abundance." Thus the party continued absorbing the wine, whose praises, mixed with sentences of economical jurisprudence, formed the burthen of the conversation; so that the loudest and most frequent words were, _Nectar, and hang 'em_. Don Roderick had, from time to time, during this confusion, looked at the father: perceiving him calmly, but firmly, awaiting his leisure for the interview which had been promised him, he relinquished the hope of wearying him by its postponement. To send away a capuchin, without giving him an audience, was not according to his policy; and since it could not be avoided, he resolved to meet it at once: he rose from the table, excused himself to his guests, and saying proudly, "At your service, father," led the way to another room. CHAPTER VI. "In what can I serve you?" said Don Roderick, as soon as they entered into the room. Such were his words, but his manner said plainly, "Remember before whom thou standest, weigh well thy words, and be expeditious." There were no means more certain to impart courage to Father Christopher than arrogance or pride. He had stood for a moment in some embarrassment, passing through his fingers the beads of the rosary that hung suspended from his girdle; but he soon "resumed new courage, and revived," at the haughty air of Don Roderick. He had, however, sufficient command over himself to reply with caution and humility. "I come to supplicate you to perform an act of justice: some wicked persons have, in the name of your lordship, frightened a poor curate, and have endeavoured to prevent his fulfilling his duty towards an innocent and unoffending couple. You can by a word confound their machinations, and impart consolation to the afflicted. You can--and having it in your power--conscience, honour----" "Speak to me of conscience, when I ask your advice on the subject; and as to my honour, know that I only am the guardian of it, and that whoever dares to meddle with it is a rash man." Friar Christopher, warned by these words that the intention of Don Roderick was to turn the conversation into a dispute, so as to win him from his original purpose, determined to bear whatever insult might be offered him, and meekly replied, "It was certainly not my intention to say any thing to displease you: correct me, reprove me; but deign to listen to me. By the love of Heaven, by that God before whom we must all appear, I charge thee, do not obstinately refuse to do justice to the innocent and oppressed! Think that God watches over them, that their imprecations are heard above, and----" "Stop," interrupted Don Roderick, rudely. "The respect I bear to your habit is great; but if any thing could make me forget it, it would be to see it worn by one coming as a spy into my house." These words spread an indignant glow over the face of the father; but swallowing them as a bitter medicine, he resumed: "You do not believe that I am such; you feel in your heart that I am here on no vile or contemptible errand. Listen to me, Signor Don Roderick; and Heaven grant that the day may never arrive, when you shall repent of not having listened to me! Listen to me, and perform this deed of justice and benevolence. Men will esteem you! God will esteem you! you have much in your power, but----" "Do you know," again interrupted Don Roderick with warmth, but with something like remorse, "that when the whim takes me to hear a sermon, I can go to church? But, perhaps," continued he, with a forced smile of mockery, "you are putting regal dignity on me, and giving me a preacher in my own palace." "And to God princes are responsible for the reception of his messages; to God you are responsible; he now sends into your palace a message by one of his ministers, the most unworthy----" "In short, father," said Don Roderick, preparing to go, "I do not comprehend you: I suppose you have some affair of your own on hand; make a confidant of whom you please; but use not the freedom of troubling a gentleman any farther." "Don Roderick, do not say _No_ to me; do not keep in anguish the heart of an innocent child! a word from you would be sufficient." "Well," said Don Roderick, "since you think I have so much in my power, and since you are so much interested----" "Yes!" said Father Christopher, anxiously regarding him. "Well, advise her to come, and place herself under my protection; she will want for nothing, and no one shall disturb her, as I am a gentleman." At such a proposal, the indignation of the friar, which had hitherto been restrained with difficulty, loudly burst forth. All his prudence and patience forsook him: "Your protection!" exclaimed he, stepping back, and stretching forth both his hands towards Don Roderick, while he sternly fixed his eyes upon him, "your protection! You have filled the measure of your guilt by this wicked proposal, and I fear you no longer." "Dare you speak thus to me?" "I dare; I fear you no longer; God has abandoned you, and you are no longer an object of fear! Your protection! this innocent child is under the protection of God; you have, by your infamous offer, increased my assurance of her safety. Lucy, I say; see with what boldness I pronounce her name before you; Lucy----" "How! in this house----" "I compassionate this house; the wrath of God is upon it! You have acted in open defiance of the great God of heaven and earth; you have set at naught his counsel; you have oppressed the innocent; you have trampled on the rights of those whom you should have been the first to protect and defend. The wrath of God is upon you! A day will come!" "Villain!" said Don Roderick, who at first was confounded between rage and astonishment; but when he heard the father thundering forth this prediction, a mysterious and unaccountable dread took possession of his soul. Hastily seizing his outstretched arm, and raising his voice in order to drown the maledictions of the monk, he cried aloud, "Depart from me, rash villain, cowled spy!" These words instantly cooled the glowing enthusiasm of Father Christopher. The ideas of insult and injury in his mind had long been habitually associated with those of suffering and silence. His usual habits resumed their sway, and he became calm; he awaited what farther might be said, as, after the strength of the whirlwind has passed, an aged tree naturally recomposes its branches, and receives the hail as Heaven sends it. "Villain! scoundrel! talk to your equals," said Don Roderick; "but thank the habit you bear for saving you from the chastisement which is your due. Begone this instant, and with unscathed limbs, or we shall see." So saying, he pointed imperiously to an opposite door. The friar bowed his head, and departed, leaving Don Roderick to measure with hasty and agitated steps the field of battle. When he had closed the door behind him, the father perceived a man stealing softly away through another, and he recognised him as the aged domestic who had been his guide to the presence of Don Roderick. Before the birth of that nobleman, he had been in the service of his father, who was a man of a very different character. At his death, the new master expelled all the domestics, with the exception of this one, whom he retained on account of two valuable qualifications; a high conception of the dignity of the house, and a minute knowledge of the ceremonial required to support that dignity. The poor old man had never dared even to hint disapprobation of the daily proceedings at the castle before the signor, but he would sometimes venture to allow an exclamation of grief and disapproval to escape him before his fellow servants, who were infinitely diverted by his simple honesty, and his warm love of the good old times. His censures did not reach his master's ears unaccompanied by a relation of the raillery bestowed upon them, so that he became an object of general ridicule. On the days of formal entertainment, therefore, the old man was a person of great importance. Father Christopher bowed to him as he passed by him, and pursued his way; but the old man approached him with a mysterious air, and made a sign that he should follow him into a dark passage, where, speaking in an under tone, he said, "Father! I have heard all, and I want to speak to you." "Speak at once, then, good man." "Here! oh no! Woe be to us if the master suspect it! But I shall be able to discover much, and I will endeavour to come to-morrow to the convent." "Is there any base plot?" "There is something hatching, certainly; I have long suspected it; but now I shall be on the look out, and I will come at the truth. These are strange doings--I live in a house where----But I wish to save my soul." "God bless you!" said the friar, placing his hands on his head, as he bent reverently towards him; "God reward you! Do not forget then to come to-morrow." "I will not," replied the domestic; "but go, now, for the love of Heaven, and do not betray me." So saying, he looked cautiously on all sides, and led the way through the passage into a large hall, which fronted the court-yard, and pointing to the door, silently bade him "Farewell." When once in the street, and freed from this den of depravity, the father breathed more freely; he hastened down the hill, pale in countenance, and agitated and distressed by the scene he had witnessed, and in which he had taken so leading a part. But the unlooked-for proffer of the servant came like a cordial. It seemed as if Heaven had sent a visible sign of its protection--a clue to guide him in his intricate undertaking--and in the very house where it was least likely to be found. Occupied with these thoughts, he raised his eyes towards the west, and beheld the sun declining behind the mountain, and felt that he had but a few minutes in which to reach the monastery, without violating the absolute law of the capuchins, that none of the brotherhood should remain beyond the walls after sunset. Meanwhile, in the cottage of Lucy there had been plans agitated of which it is necessary to inform the reader. After the departure of the father, they had continued some time in silence; Lucy, with a heavy heart, prepared the dinner; Renzo, wavering and anxious, knew not how to depart; Agnes was apparently absorbed with her reel, but she was really maturing a thought, which she in a few moments thus declared:-- "Listen, my children. If you will have the necessary courage and dexterity; if you will confide in your mother; I pledge myself to free you from perplexity, sooner than Father Christopher could do, although he is the best man in the world." Lucy looked at her mother with an expression of astonishment rather than confidence, in a promise so magnificent. "Courage! dexterity!" cried Renzo, "say, say, what can I do?" "Is it not true," said Agnes, "that if you were married, your chief difficulty would be removed, and that for the rest we would easily find a remedy!" "Undoubtedly," said Renzo, "if we were married--The world is before us; and at a short distance from this, in Bergamo, a silk weaver is received with open arms. You know how often my cousin Bartolo has solicited me to go there, and enter into business with him; how many times he has told me that I should make a fortune, as he has done; and if I never listened to his request, it was--because my heart was here. Once married, we would all go together, and live happily far from the clutches of this villain, far from the temptation to do a rash deed. Is it not so, Lucy?" "Yes," said Lucy, "but how----" "As I said," resumed Agnes, "courage and dexterity, and the thing is easy." "Easy!" exclaimed they, in wonder. "Easy," replied Agnes, "if you are prudent. Hear me patiently, and I will endeavour to make you comprehend my project. I have heard it said by persons who knew, and moreover I have seen one instance of it myself, that a curate's _consent_ is not necessary to render a marriage ceremony lawful, provided you have his presence." "How so?" asked Renzo. "You shall hear. There must be two witnesses, nimble and cunning. You go to the curate; the point is to catch him unexpectedly, that he may have no time to escape. You say, 'Signor Curate, this is my wife;' Lucy says, 'Signor Curate, this is my husband;' you must speak so distinctly that the curate and the witnesses hear you, and the marriage is as inviolable as if the pope himself had celebrated it. When the words are once uttered, the curate may fret, and fume, and scold; it will be of no use, you are man and wife." "Is it possible?" exclaimed Lucy. "Do you think," said Agnes, "that the thirty years I was in the world before you, I learned nothing? The thing is as I tell you." The fact was truly such as Agnes represented it; marriages contracted in this manner were at that time held valid. Such an expedient was, however, not recurred to, but in cases of great necessity, and the priests made use of every precaution to avoid this compulsive co-operation. "If it be true, Lucy!" said Renzo, regarding her attentively, with a supplicating expression. "_If_ it be true!" exclaimed Agnes. "Do you think I would say that which is _not_ true? Well, well, get out of the difficulty as you can, I wash my hands from it." "Ah, no! do not abandon us!" said Renzo; "I mean not to suggest a doubt of it. I place myself in your hands; I look to you as to a mother." The momentary anger of Agnes vanished. "But why, mamma," said Lucy, in her usual modest tone, "why did not Father Christopher think of this?" "Think you that it did not come into his mind?" replied Agnes; "but he would not speak of it." "Why?" exclaimed they, both at once. "Why?--because, if you must know it, the friars do not approve of it." "If it is not right," said Lucy, "we must not do it." "What!" said Agnes, "do you think I would advise you to do that which is not right? If, against the advice of your parents, you were going to marry a rogue--but, on the contrary, I am rejoiced at your choice, and he who _causes_ the disturbance is the only villain; and the curate----" "It is as clear as the sun," said Renzo. "It is not necessary to speak of it to Father Christopher," continued Agnes. "Once over, what do you think he will say to you? 'Ah! daughter, it was a great error; but it is done.' The friars must talk thus; but, believe me, in his heart he will be well content." Lucy made no reply to an argument which did not appear to her very powerful; but Renzo, quite encouraged, said, "If it be thus, the thing is done." "Softly," said Agnes; "there is need of caution. We must procure the witnesses; and find means to present ourselves to the curate unexpectedly. He has been two days concealed in his house; we must make him remain there. If he suspects your intention, he will be as cunning as a cat, and flee as Satan from holy water." Lucy here gained courage to offer her doubts of the propriety of such a course. "Until now we have lived with candour and sincerity," said she; "let us continue to do so; let us have faith in God, and God will aid us. Father Christopher said so: let us listen to his advice." "Be guided by those who know better than you do," said Agnes gravely. "What need of advice? God tells us, 'Help thyself, and I will help thee.' We will tell the father all about it, when it is over." "Lucy," said Renzo, "will you fail me now? Have we not done all that we could do, like good Christians? Had not the curate himself fixed the day and the hour? And whose is the blame if we are now obliged to use a little management? No, you will not fail me. I go at once to seek the witnesses, and will return to tell you my success." So saying, he hastily departed. Disappointment sharpens the wit; and Renzo, who, in the straightforward path he had hitherto travelled, had not been required to subtilise much, now conceived a plan which would have done honour to a lawyer. He went directly to the house of one Anthony, and found him in his kitchen, employed in stirring a _polenta_ of wheat, which was on the fire, whilst his mother, brother, and his wife, with three or four small children, were seated at the table, eagerly intent on the earthen pan, and awaiting the moment when it should be ready for their attack. But, on this occasion, the pleasure was wanting which the sight of dinner usually produces in the aspect of the labourer who has earned it by his industry. The size of the _polenta_ was proportioned to the scantiness of the times, and not to the number and appetite of the assailants: and in casting a dissatisfied look on the common meal, each seemed to be considering the extent of appetite likely to survive it. Whilst Renzo was exchanging salutations with the family, Tony poured out the pudding on the pewter trencher prepared for its reception, and it appeared like a little moon within a large circumference of vapour. Nevertheless, the wife of Tony said courteously to Renzo, "Will you be helped to something?" This was a compliment that the peasants of Lombardy, however poor, paid to those who were, from any accident, present at their meals. "I thank you," replied Renzo; "I only came to say a few words to Tony; and, Tony, not to disturb your family, we can go and dine at the inn, and we shall then have an opportunity to converse." The proposal was as agreeable as it was unexpected. Tony readily assented to it, and departed with Renzo, leaving to his family his portion of the _polenta_. They arrived at the inn, seated themselves at their ease in a perfect solitude, since the penury of the times had driven away the daily frequenters of the place. After having eaten, and emptied a bottle of wine, Renzo, with an air of mystery, said to Tony, "If you will do me a small service, I will do you a _great_ one." "Speak, speak, command me," said Tony, filling his glass; "I will go through fire to serve you." "You are twenty-five livres in debt to the curate, for the rent of his field, that you worked last year." "Ah! Renzo, Renzo! why do you mention it to me now? You've spoiled your kindness, and put to flight my good wishes." "If I speak to you of your debt," said Renzo, "it is because I intend to give you the means of paying it." "Do you really?" "Really; would this content you?" "Content me! that it would, indeed; if it were only to be freed from those infernal shakings of the head the curate makes me every time I meet him. And then always, '_Tony, remember; Tony, when shall we see each other for this business?_' When he preaches, he fixes his eyes on me in such a manner, I am almost afraid he will speak to me from the pulpit. I have wished the twenty-five livres to the devil a thousand times: and I was obliged to pawn my wife's gold necklace, which might be turned into so much _polenta_. But----" "But, if you will do me a small favour, the twenty-five livres are ready." "Agreed." "But," said Renzo, "you must be silent and talk to no one about it." "Need you tell me that?" said Tony; "you know me." "The curate has some foolish reason for putting off my marriage, and I wish to hasten it. I am told that the parties going before him with two witnesses, and the one saying, _This is my wife_, and the other, _This is my husband_, that the marriage is lawful. Do you understand me?" "You wish me to go as a witness?" "Yes." "And you will pay the twenty-five livres?" "Yes." "Done; I agree to it." "But we must find another witness." "I have found him already," said Tony. "My simpleton of a brother, Jervase, will do whatever I tell him; but you will pay him with something to drink?" "And to eat," replied Renzo. "But will he be able?" "I'll teach him; you know I was born with brains for both." "To-morrow." "Well." "Towards evening." "Very well." "But be silent," said Renzo. "Poh!" said Tony. "But if thy wife should ask thee, as without doubt she will?" "I am in debt to my wife for lies already; and for so much, that I don't know if we shall ever balance the account. I will tell her some idle story or other to set her heart at rest." With this good resolution he departed, leaving Renzo to pursue his way back to the cottage. In the meanwhile Agnes had in vain solicited Lucy's consent to the measure; she could not resolve to act without the approbation of Father Christopher. Renzo arrived, and triumphantly related his success. Lucy shook her head, but the two enthusiasts minded her not. They were now determined to pursue their plan, and by authority and entreaties induce her finally to accede to it. "It is well," said Agnes, "it is well, but you have not thought of every thing." "What have I not thought of?" replied Renzo. "Perpetua! You have not thought of Perpetua. Do you believe that she would suffer Tony and his brother to enter? How then is it probable she would admit you and Lucy?" "What shall we do?" said Renzo, pausing. "I will tell you. I will go with you; I have a secret to tell her, which will engage her so that she will not see you. I will take her aside, and will touch such a chord--you shall see." "Bless you!" exclaimed Renzo, "I have always said you were our best support." "But all this will do no good," said Agnes, "if we cannot persuade Lucy, who obstinately persists that it is sinful." Renzo made use of all his eloquence, but Lucy was not to be moved. "I know not what to say to your arguments," replied she. "I perceive that to do this, we shall degrade ourselves so far as to lie and deceive. Ah! Renzo, let us not so abase ourselves! I would be your wife" (and a blush diffused itself over her lovely countenance), "I would be your wife, but in the fear of God--at the altar. Let us trust in Him who is able to provide. Do you not think He will find a way to help us, far better than all this deception? And why make a mystery of it to Father Christopher?" The contest still continued, when a trampling of sandals announced Father Christopher. Agnes had barely time to whisper in the ear of Lucy, "Be careful to tell him nothing," when the friar entered. CHAPTER VII. "Peace be with you!" said the friar as he entered. "There is nothing more to hope from man: so much the greater must be our confidence in God; and I've already had a pledge of his protection." None of the three entertained much hope from the visit of Father Christopher: for it would have been not only an unusual, but an absolutely unheard-of fact, for a nobleman to desist from his criminal designs at the mere prayer of his defenceless victim. Still, the sad certainty was a painful stroke. The women bent down their heads; but in the mind of Renzo anger prevailed over disappointment. "I would know," cried he, gnashing his teeth, and raising his voice as he had never done before in the presence of Father Christopher, "I would know what reasons this dog has given, that my wife should not _be_ my wife?" "Poor Renzo!" said the father, with an accent of pity, and with a look which greatly enforced moderation; "poor Renzo! if those who commit injustice were always obliged to give a reason for it, things would not be as they are!" "He has said, then, the dog! that he will not, because he will not?" "He has not even said _so_, poor Renzo! There would be something gained, if he would make an open confession of his iniquity." "But he has said something; _what_ has this firebrand of hell said?" "I could not repeat his words. He flew into a passion at me for my suspicions, and at the same time confirmed me in them: he insulted me, and then called himself offended; threatened, and complained. Ask no farther. He did not utter the name of Lucy, nor even pretend to know you: he affected to intend nothing. In short, I heard enough to feel that he is inexorable. But confidence in God! Poor children! be patient, be submissive! And thou, Renzo! believe that I sympathise with all that passes in thy heart.--But _patience_! It is a poor word, a bitter word to those who want faith; but, Renzo, will you not let God work? Will you not trust Him? Let Him work, Renzo; and, for your consolation, know that I hold in my hand a clue, by which I hope to extricate you from your distress. I cannot say more now. To-morrow I shall not be here; I shall be all day at the convent employed for you. Renzo, if thou canst, come there to me; but, if prevented by any accident, send some trusty messenger, by whom I can make known to you the success of my endeavours. Night approaches; I must return to the convent. Farewell! Faith and courage!" So saying, he departed, and hastened by the most abrupt but shortest road, to reach the convent in time, and escape the usual reprimand; or, what was worse, the imposition of some penance, which might disenable him, for the following day, from continuing his efforts in favour of his protégés. "Did you hear him speak of a clue which he holds to aid us?" said Lucy; "it is best to trust in him; he is a man who does not make rash promises." "He ought to have spoken more clearly," said Agnes; "or at least have taken me aside, and told me what it was." "I'll put an end to the business; I'll put an end to it," said Renzo, pacing furiously up and down the room. "Oh! Renzo!" exclaimed Lucy. "What do you mean?" said Agnes. "What do I mean? I mean to say that he may have a hundred thousand devils in his soul, but he is flesh and blood notwithstanding." "No, no, for the love of Heaven!" said Lucy, but tears choked her voice. "It is not a theme for jesting," said Agnes. "For jesting?" cried Renzo, stopping before her, with his countenance inflamed by anger; "for jesting! you will see if I am in jest." "Oh! Renzo!" said Lucy, sobbing, "I have never seen you thus before!" "Hush, hush!" said Agnes, "speak not in this manner. Do you not fear the law, which is always to be had against the poor? And, besides, how many arms would be raised at a word!" "I fear nothing," said Renzo; "the villain is well protected, dog that he is! but no matter. Patience and resolution! and the time will come. Yes! justice shall be done! I will free the country! People will bless me! Yes, yes." The horror which Lucy felt at this explicit declaration of his purpose inspired her with new resolution. With a tearful countenance, but determined voice, she said to Renzo, "It can no longer be of any consequence to you, that I should become yours; I promised myself to a youth who had the fear of God in his heart; but a man who had once----were you safe from the law, were you secure from vengeance, were you the son of a king----" "Well!" cried Renzo, in a voice of uncontrollable passion, "well! I shall not have you, then; but neither shall he; of _that_ you may----" "For pity's sake, do not talk thus; do not talk so fiercely!" said Lucy imploringly. "You to implore me!" said he, somewhat appeased. "You! who will do nothing for _me_! What proof do you give me of your affection? Have I not supplicated in vain? Have I been able to obtain----" "Yes, yes," replied Lucy, hastily, "I will go to the curate's to-morrow; now, if you wish it. Only be yourself again; I will go." "Do you promise me?" said Renzo, softening immediately. "I promise." "Well, I am satisfied." "God be praised!" said Agnes, much relieved. "I have promised you," said Lucy, with an accent of timid reproach, "but you have also promised me to refer it to Father Christopher." "Ha! will you now draw back?" said Renzo. "No, no," said Lucy, again alarmed, "no, no, I have promised, and will perform. But you have compelled me to it by your own impetuosity. God forbid that----" "Why will you prognosticate evil, Lucy? God knows we wrong no person." "Well, well," said Lucy, "I will hope for the best." Renzo would have wished to prolong the conversation, in order to allot to each their several parts for the morrow, but the night drew on, and he reluctantly felt himself compelled to depart. The night was passed, by all three, in that state of agitation and trouble which always precedes an important enterprise whose issue is uncertain. Renzo returned early in the morning, and Agnes and he busied themselves in concerting the operations of the evening. Lucy was a mere spectator; but although she disapproved these measures in her heart, she still promised to do the best she could. "Will you go to the convent, to speak to Father Christopher, as he desired you last night?" said Agnes to Renzo. "Oh! no," replied he, "the father would soon read in my countenance that there was something on foot; and if he interrogated me, I should be obliged to tell him. You had better send some one." "I will send Menico." "Yes, that will do," replied Renzo, as he hurried off to make farther arrangements. Agnes went to a neighbouring house to obtain Menico, a smart lad of twelve years of age, who, by the way of cousins and sisters-in-law, was a sort of nephew to the dame. She asked and obtained permission of his parents to keep him all day "for a particular service." She took him home, and after giving him breakfast, told him he must go to Pescarenico, and show himself to Father Christopher, who would send him back with a message. "_Father Christopher_, you understand; that nice old man, with a white beard; him they call the Saint." "I know him, I know him!" said Menico: "he speaks so kindly to the children, and often gives them pictures." "Yes! that is he; and if, Menico, if he tells you to wait near the convent until he has an answer ready, don't stray away; don't go to the lake to throw stones in the water with the boys; nor to see them fish, nor----" "Poh! aunt, I am no longer a baby." "Well, behave well, and when you return with the answer, I will give you these new _parpagliole_."[3] [3] A sort of coin. During the remainder of this long morning, several strange things occurred, calculated to infuse suspicion into the already troubled minds of Lucy and her mother. A mendicant, but not in rags like others of his kind, and with a dark and sinister countenance, narrowly observing every object around him, entered to ask alms. A piece of bread was presented to him, which he received with ill-dissembled indifference. Then, with a mixture of impudence and hesitation, he made many enquiries, to which Agnes endeavoured to return evasive replies. When about to depart, he pretended to mistake the door, and went through the one that led to the stairs. They called to him, "Stay, stay! where are you going, good man? this way." He returned, excusing himself with an affectation of humility, to which he felt it difficult to compose his hard and stern features. After him, they saw pass, from time to time, other strange people. One entered the house, under pretence of asking the road; another stopped before the gate, and glanced furtively into the room, as if to avoid suspicion. Agnes went often to the door of the house during the remainder of the day, with an undefined dread of seeing some one approach who might cause them alarm. These mysterious visitations, however, ceased towards noon, but they had left an impression of impending evil on their minds, which they felt it impossible altogether to suppress. To explain to the reader the true character of these suspicious wanderers, we must recur to Don Roderick, whom we left alone, in the hall of his palace, at the departure of Father Christopher. The more he reflected on his interview with the friar, the more was he enraged and ashamed, that he should have dared to come to him with the rebuke of Nathan to David on his lips. He paced with hurried steps through the apartment, and as he gazed at the portraits of his ancestors, warriors, senators, and abbots, which hung against its walls, he felt his indignation at the insult which had been offered him increase. A base-born friar to speak thus to one of noble birth! He formed plans of vengeance, and discarded them, without his being willing to acknowledge it to himself. The prediction of the father again sounded in his ears, and caused an unaccustomed perplexity. Restless and undetermined, he rang the bell, and ordered a servant to excuse him to the company, and to say to them, that urgent business prevented his seeing them again. The servant returned with the intelligence that the guests had departed. "And the Count Attilio?" asked Don Roderick. "He has gone with the gentlemen, my lord." "Well; six followers to accompany me; quickly. My sword, cloak, and hat. Be quick." The servant left the room, and returned in a few moments with a rich sword, which his master girded on; he then threw the cloak around his shoulders, and donned his hat with its waving plumes with an air of proud defiance. He then passed into the street, followed by six armed ruffians, taking the road to Lecco. The peasantry and tradesmen shrunk from his approach; their profound and timid salutations received no notice from him; indeed, he acknowledged but by a slight inclination of the head those of the neighbouring gentry, whose rank, however, was incontestably inferior to his own. Indeed, the only man whose salutations he condescended to return upon an equal footing was the Spanish governor. In order to get rid of his _ennui_, and banish the idea of the monk and his imprecations, he entered the house of a gentleman, where a party was met together, and was received with that apparent cordiality which it is a necessary policy to manifest towards the powerful who are held in fear. On his return at night to his palace, he found Count Attilio seated at supper. Don Roderick, full of thought, took a chair, but said little. Scarcely was the table cleared, and the servants departed, when the count, beginning to rally his dull companion, said, "Cousin, when will you pay me my wager?" "San Martin's day has not yet passed." "Well, you will have to pay it; for all the saints in the calendar may pass, before you----" "We will see about that!" said Don Roderick. "Cousin, you would play the politician, but you cannot deceive me; I am so certain that I have won the wager, that I stand ready for another." "Why!" "Why? because the father--the father--in short, this friar has converted you." "One of your fine imaginations, truly!" "Converted, cousin, converted, I tell you; I rejoice at it; it will be a fine spectacle to see you penitent, with your eyes cast down! And how flattering to the father! he don't catch such fish every day. Be assured, he will bring you forward as an example to others; your actions will be trumpeted from the pulpit!" "Enough, enough!" interrupted Don Roderick, half annoyed, and half disposed to laugh. "I will double the wager with you, if you please." "The devil! perhaps _you_ have converted the father!" "Do not speak of him; but as to the wager, San Martin will decide." The curiosity of the count was aroused; he made many enquiries, which Don Roderick evaded, referring him to the day of decision. The following morning, when he awoke, Don Roderick was "himself again." The various emotions that had agitated him after his interview with the father, had now resolved themselves into the simple desire of revenge. Hardly risen, he sent for Griso.--"Something serious," muttered the servant to whom the order was given; as this _Griso_ was nothing less than the leader of the _bravoes_ to whom was intrusted the most dangerous and daring enterprises, who was the most trusted by the master, and the most devoted to him, from gratitude and interest. This man had been guilty of murder; he had fled from the pursuit of justice to the palace of Don Roderick, who took him under his protection, and thus sheltered him from the pursuit of the law. He, therefore, stood pledged to the performance of any deed of villany that should be imposed on him. "Griso," said Don Roderick, "you must show your skill in this emergency. Before to-morrow, this Lucy must be in this palace." "It shall never be said that Griso failed to execute a command from his illustrious protector." "Take as many men as are necessary, and dispose of them as appears to you best; only let the thing succeed. But be careful that no harm be done to her." "Signor, a little fright--we cannot do less." "Fright--may be unavoidable. But touch not a hair of her head; and, above all, treat her with the greatest respect. Do you hear?" "Signor, I could not take a flower from the bush, and carry it to your Highness, without touching it; but I will do only what is absolutely necessary." "Well; I trust thee. And--how wilt thou do it?" "I was thinking, signor. It is fortunate that her cottage is at the extremity of the village; we have need of some place of concealment; and not far from her house there is that old uninhabited building in the middle of the fields, that one--but, your Highness knows nothing of these matters--which was burnt a few years ago, and, not having been repaired, is now deserted, except by the witches, who keep all cowardly rascals away from it; so that we may take safe possession." "Well; what then?" Here Griso went on to propose, and Don Roderick to approve, until they had agreed upon the manner of conducting the enterprise to the desired conclusion, without leaving a trace of the authors of it: and also upon the manner of imposing silence, not only upon poor Agnes, but also upon the more impatient and fiery Renzo. "If this rash fellow fall in your way by chance," added Don Roderick, "you had best give him, on his shoulders, something he will remember; so that he will be more likely to obey the order to remain quiet, which he will receive to-morrow. Do you hear?" "Yes, yes, leave it to me," said Griso, as, with an air of importance, he took his leave. The morning was spent in reconnoitring,--the mendicant of whom we have spoken was Griso; the others were the villains whom he employed, to gain a more perfect knowledge of the scene of action. They returned to the palace to arrange and mature the enterprise;--all these mysterious movements were not effected without rousing the suspicions of the old domestic, who, partly by listening, and partly by conjecture, came to the knowledge of the concerted attempt of the evening. This knowledge came a little too late, for already a body of ruffians were laying in wait in the old house. However, the poor old man, although well aware of the dangerous game he played, did not fail to perform his promise; he left the palace on some slight pretence, and hurried to the convent. Griso and his band left shortly after, and met at the old building,--the former had previously left orders at the palace, that, at the approach of night, there should be a litter brought thither,--he then despatched three of the bravoes to the village inn; one to remain at its entrance to observe the movements on the road, and to give notice when the inhabitants should have retired to rest; the other two to occupy themselves within as idlers, gaming and drinking. Griso, with the rest of the troop, continued in ambush, on the watch. All this was going forward, and the sun was about to set, when Renzo entered the cottage, and said to Lucy and her mother, "Tony and Jervase are ready; I am going with them to sup at the inn; at the sound of the 'Ave Maria,' we will come for you; take courage, Lucy, all depends on a moment." "Oh, yes," said Lucy, "courage;" with a voice that contradicted her words. When Renzo and his companions arrived at the inn, they found the door blockaded by a sentinel, who, leaning on one side of it, with his arms folded on his breast, occupied half its width; at the same time rolling his eagle eyes first to the right and then to the left, displaying alternately their blacks and their whites. A flat cap of crimson velvet, placed sideways, covered the half of the _long lock_, which, parted on a dark forehead, was fastened behind with a comb. He held in his hand a club; his arms, properly speaking, were concealed beneath his garments. When Renzo evinced a desire to enter, he looked at him fixedly without moving; of this, the young man, wishing to decline all conversation, took no notice, but, beckoning to his companions to follow his example, slid between the figure and the door-post. Having gained an entrance, he beheld the other two bravoes with a large mug between them, seated at play; they stared at him with a look of enquiry, making signs to each other, and then to their comrade at the door. This was not unobserved by Renzo, and his mind was filled with a vague sentiment of suspicion and alarm. The innkeeper came for his orders; which were, "a private room, and supper for three." "Who are those strangers?" asked he of the landlord, when he came in to set the table. "I do not know them," replied he. "How! neither of them?" "The first rule of our trade," said he, spreading the cloth, "is, not to meddle with the affairs of others; and, what is wonderful, even our women are not curious. It is enough for us that customers pay well; who they are, or who they are not, matters nothing. And now, I will bring you a dish of polpette, the like of which you have never eaten." When he returned to the kitchen, and was employed in taking the polpette from the fire, one of the bravoes approached, and said, in an under tone, "Who are those men?" "Good people of this village," replied the host, pouring the mince-meat into a dish. "Well; but what are their names? Who are they?" insisted he, in a rough voice. "One is called Renzo," replied the host; "esteemed a good youth, and an excellent weaver of silk. The other is a peasant, whose name is Tony; a jovial fellow,--it is a pity he has no more money, for he would spend it all here. The other is a simpleton, who eats when they feed him. By your leave----" So saying, he slipped past him, with the dish in his hand, and carried it to the place of its destination. "How do you know?" said Renzo, continuing the conversation from the point at which it had been dropped, "how do you know that they are honest men, when you are not acquainted with them?" "From their actions, my good fellow; men are known by their actions. He who drinks wine without criticising it; he who shows the face of the king on the counter without prattling; he who does not quarrel with other customers, and, if he has a blow or two to give, goes away from the inn, so that the poor host need not suffer from it; _he_ is an honest man. But what the devil makes you so inquisitive, when you are engaged to be married, and should have other things in your head? And with this mince-meat before you, which would make the dead revive?" So saying, he returned to the kitchen. The supper was not very agreeable; the two guests would have lingered over the unusual luxury; but Renzo, preoccupied, and troubled and uneasy at the singular appearance of the strangers, longed for the hour of departure. He conversed in brief sentences, and in an under tone, so that he might not be overheard by them. "What an odd thing it is," blundered Jervase, "that Renzo wishes to be married, and has needed----" Renzo looked sternly at him. "Keep silence, you beast!" said Tony to him, accompanying the epithet with a cuff. Jervase obeyed, and the remainder of the repast was consumed in silence. Renzo observed a strict sobriety, in order to keep his companions under some restraint. Supper being over, he paid the reckoning, and prepared to depart: they were obliged to pass the three men again, and encounter a repetition of their eager gaze. When a few steps distant from the inn, Renzo, looking back, perceived that he was followed by the two whom he had left seated in the kitchen. He stopped; observing this, they stopped also, and retraced their steps. If he had been near enough, he would have heard a few words of strange import; "It would be a glorious thing," said one of the scoundrels, "without reckoning the cash, if we could tell at the palace how we had flattened their ribs,--without the direction, too, of Signor Griso." "And spoil the whole work," added the other; "but see! he stops to look at us! Oh! if it were only later! But let us turn back, not to create suspicion. People are coming on all sides; let us wait till they go to their rests." Then was heard in the village the busy hum of the evening, which precedes the solemn stillness of the night; then were seen women returning from their daily labour, with their infants on their backs, and leading by the hand the older children, to whom they were repeating the evening prayers; men with their spades, and other instruments of culture, thrown over their shoulders. At the opening of the cottage doors, was discerned the bright light of the fires, kindled in order to prepare their meagre suppers; in the street there were salutations given and returned, brief and mournful observations on the poverty of the harvest, and the scarcity of the year; and at intervals was heard the measured strokes of the bell which announced the departure of the day. When Renzo saw that the two men no longer followed him, he continued his way, giving instructions, in a low voice, from time to time, to his two companions. It was dark night when they arrived at the cottage of Lucy. "Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream." Lucy endured many hours the anguish of such a dream; and Agnes, even Agnes, the author of the plot, was thoughtful and silent. But, in the moment of action, new and various emotions pass swiftly through the mind: at one instant, that which had appeared difficult becomes perfectly easy; at another, obstacles present themselves which were never before thought of, the imagination is filled with alarm, the limbs refuse their office, and the heart fails at the promise it had given with such security. At the gentle knock of Renzo, Lucy was seized with such terror, that, at the moment, she resolved to suffer any thing, to endure a separation from him for ever, rather than execute her resolution; but when, with an assured and encouraging air, he said, "All is ready; let us begone," she had neither heart nor time to suggest difficulties. Agnes and Renzo placed her between them, and the adventurous company set forward. Slowly and quietly they took the path that led around the village,--it would have been nearer to pass directly through it, to Don Abbondio's house, but their object was to avoid observation. Upon reaching the house, the lovers remained concealed on one side of it, Agnes a little in advance, so as to be prepared to speak to Perpetua as soon as she should make her appearance. Tony, with Jervase, who did nothing, but _without_ whom nothing could be done, courageously knocked at the door. "Who is there, at this hour?" cried a voice from the window, which they recognised to be that of Perpetua. "No one is sick, that I know of. What is the matter?" "It is I," replied Tony, "with my brother; we want to speak with the curate." "Is this an hour for Christians?" replied Perpetua, briskly. "Come to-morrow." "Hear me; I will come, or not, as I choose; I have received I can't tell how much money, and I have come to balance the small account that you know of. I have here twenty-five fine new pieces; but if he cannot see me,--well--I know how and where to spend them." "Wait, wait. I will speak to you in a moment. But why come at this hour?" "If you can change the hour, I am willing; as for me, I am here, and, if you don't want me to stay, I'll go away." "No, no, wait a moment; I will give you an answer." So saying, she closed the window. As soon as she disappeared, Agnes separated herself from the lovers, saying to Lucy, in a low voice, "Courage, it is but a moment." She then entered into conversation with Tony at the door, that Perpetua, on opening it, might suppose she had been accidentally passing by, and that Tony had detained her. CHAPTER VIII. "Carneades! who was he?" said Don Abbondio to himself, seated in his large chair, with a book open before him. "Carneades! this name I have either heard or read of; he must have been a man of study, a scholar of antiquity; but who the devil _was_ he?" Now, it should be known, that it was Don Abbondio's custom to read a little every day, and that a curate, his neighbour, who had a small library, furnished him with books, one after the other, as they came to hand. That with which he was at this moment engaged, was a panegyric on St. Carlos, delivered many years before in the cathedral of Milan. The saint was there compared for his love of study to Archimedes; which comparison the poor curate well understood, inasmuch as this did not require, from the various anecdotes related of him, an erudition very extensive. But the author went on to liken him also to Carneades, and here the poor reader was at fault. At this moment, Perpetua announced the visit of Tony. "At such an hour?" said Don Abbondio. "What do you expect? They have no discretion. But if you do not shoot the bird flying----" "Who knows if I shall ever be able to do it?" continued he. "Let him come in. But are you very sure that it is Tony?" "The devil!" said Perpetua, as she descended, and, opening the door, demanded, "Where are you?" Tony appeared, in company with Agnes, who accosted Perpetua by name. "Good evening, Agnes," said she; "whence come you at this hour?" "I come from----," naming a neighbouring village. "And do you know," she continued, "that I have been delayed on your account?" "On my account!" exclaimed she; and turning to the two brothers, said, "Go in, and I will follow you." "Because," resumed Agnes, "a gossiping woman of the company said--would you believe it?--obstinately persisted in saying, that you were never engaged to Beppo Suolavecchia, nor to Anselmo Lunghigna, because they would not have you. I maintained that you had refused them both----" "Certainly I did. Oh! what a liar! oh! what a great liar! Who was it?" "Don't ask me; I don't wish to make mischief." "You must tell me; you must tell me. Oh! what a lie!" "So it was; but you can't believe how sorry I felt not to know all the story, that I might have confuted her." "It is an infamous lie," said Perpetua. "As to Beppo, every one knows----" In front of Don Abbondio's house, there was a short and narrow lane, between two old cottages, which opened at the farther end into the fields. Agnes drew Perpetua thither, as if for the purpose of talking with her more freely. When they were at a spot, from which they could not see what passed before the curate's house, Agnes coughed loudly. This was the concerted signal, which, being heard by Renzo, he, with Lucy on his arm, crept quietly along the wall, approached the door, opened it softly, and entered the passage, where the two brothers were waiting their approach. They all ascended the stairs on tiptoe; the brothers advanced towards the door of the chamber; the lovers remained concealed on the landing. "_Deo gratias_," said Tony, in a clear voice. "Tony, eh? come in," replied the voice from within. Tony obeyed, opening the door just enough to admit himself and brother, one at a time. The rays of light, which shone unexpectedly through this opening on the darkness by which Renzo and Lucy were protected, made the latter tremble as if already discovered. The brothers entered, and Tony closed the door; the lovers remained motionless without; the beating of poor Lucy's heart might be heard in the stillness. Don Abbondio was, as we have said, seated in his arm chair, wrapped in a morning-gown, with an old cap on his head, in the fashion of a tiara, which formed a sort of cornice around his face, and shaded it from the dim light of a little lamp. Two thick curls which escaped from beneath the cap, two thick eyebrows, two thick mustachios, a dense tuft along his chin, all quite grey, and studding his sun-burnt and wrinkled visage, might be compared to snowy bushes projecting from a rock by moonlight. "Ah! ah!" was his salutation, as he took off his spectacles and placed them on his book. "Does the curate think I have come at too late an hour?" said Tony, bowing: Jervase awkwardly followed his example. "Certainly, it is late; late on all accounts. Do you know that I am ill?" "Oh! I am sorry." "Did you not hear that I was sick, and could not be seen? But why is this boy with you?" "For company, Signor Curate." "Well; let us see." "Here are twenty-five new pieces, with the image of St. Ambrose on horseback," said Tony, drawing forth a little bundle from his pocket. "Give here," said Don Abbondio; and taking the bundle, he opened it, counted the money, and found it correct. "Now, sir, you will give me the necklace of my Teela." "Certainly," replied Don Abbondio; and going to an old press, he drew forth the pledge, and carefully returned it. "Now," said Tony, "you will please to put it in black and white?" "Eh!" said Don Abbondio, "how suspicious the world has become! Do you not trust me?" "How! Sir. If I trust you! you do me wrong. But since my name is on your book on the side of debtor----" "Well, well," interrupted Don Abbondio; and seating himself at the table, he began to write, repeating, with a loud voice, the words as they came from his pen. In the meanwhile, Tony, and, at a sign from him, Jervase, placed themselves before the table, in such a manner as to deprive the writer of a view of the door; and, as if from heedlessness, moved their feet about on the floor, as a signal to those without, and also for the purpose of drowning the noise of their footsteps; of this Don Abbondio, occupied in writing, took no notice. At the grating sounds of the feet Renzo drew Lucy trembling into the room, and stood with her behind the brothers. Don Abbondio, having finished writing, read it over attentively, folded the paper, and reaching it to Tony, said, "Will you be satisfied now?" Tony, on receiving it, retired on one side, Jervase on the other, and, behold, in the midst, Renzo and Lucy! Don Abbondio, affrighted, astonished, and enraged, took an immediate resolution; and while Renzo was uttering the words, "Sir Curate, in the presence of these witnesses, this is my wife," and the poor Lucy had begun, "And this is----" he had snatched from the table the cloth which covered it, throwing on the ground books, pen, ink, and paper, and in haste letting fall the light, he threw it over and held it wrapped around the face of Lucy, at the same time roaring out, "Perpetua! Perpetua! treachery! help!" The wick, dying in the socket, sent a feeble and flickering light over the figure of Lucy, who, entirely overcome, stood like a statue, making no effort to free herself. The light died away, and left them in darkness; Don Abbondio quitted the poor girl, and felt cautiously along the wall for a door that led to an inner chamber; having found it, he entered, and locked himself in, crying out, "Perpetua! treachery! help! out of the house! out of the house!" All was confusion in the apartment he had quitted; Renzo, groping in the dark to find the curate, had followed the sound of his voice, and was knocking at the door of the room, crying, "Open, open; don't make such an outcry;" Lucy calling to Renzo, in a supplicating voice, "Let us go, let us go, for the love of God!" Tony, creeping on all fours, and feeling along the floor for his receipt, which had been dropped in the tumult; the poor Jervase, crying and jumping, and endeavouring to find the door on the stairs, so as to escape with whole bones. In the midst of this turmoil, we cannot stop to make reflections; but Renzo, causing disturbance at night in another person's house, and holding the master of it besieged in an inner room, has all the appearance of an oppressor; when in fact he was the oppressed. Don Abbondio, assaulted in his own house, while he was tranquilly attending to his affairs, appeared the victim; when, in fact, it was he who had inflicted the injury. Thus goes the world, or rather, thus it went in the seventeenth century. The besieged, seeing that the enemy gave no signs of retreat, opened a window which looked out upon the churchyard, and cried, "Help, help!" The moon shone brightly--every object could be clearly discerned as in the day; but a deep repose rested over all--there was no indication of a living soul. Contiguous to the church, and on that side of it which fronted the parsonage, was a small habitation in which slept the sexton. Aroused by this strange outcry, he jumped from his bed, opened the small window, with his eyelids glued together all the time, and cried, "What is the matter?" "Run, Ambrose, run! help! people in the house!" cried Don Abbondio. "I come in a moment," replied he, drawing in his head; he closed his curtain, and half stupid, and half affrighted, thought of an expedient to bring more help than had been required of him, without risking his own life in the contest, whatever it might be. He hastily took his breeches from the bed, and putting them under his arm, like an opera hat, ran to the belfry and pulled away lustily. _Ton, Ton, Ton_; the peasant aroused, sat up in his bed; the boy, sleeping in the hay-loft, listened eagerly, and sprang on his feet; "What is the matter? What is it? Fire! Robbers!" Each woman entreated her husband not to stir, but to leave it to others: such as were cowards obeyed, whilst the inquisitive and courageous took their arms, and ran towards the noise. Long before this, however, the alarm had been given to other personages of our story; the bravoes in one place; and Agnes and Perpetua in another. It is necessary to relate briefly how the former had been occupied, since we last took leave of them; those at the old house, and those at the inn. The latter, when they ascertained that the inhabitants of the village had retired to rest, and that the road was clear, went to the cottage of Lucy, and found that a perfect stillness reigned within. They then returned to the old house to give in their report to Signor Griso. He immediately put on a slouched hat, with a pilgrim's habit, and staff, saying, "Let us act as becometh soldiers; cautious, quiet, and attentive to orders." Then leading the way, he, with his company, arrived at the cottage, by a route different from that taken by our poor cottagers. Griso kept the band a few steps off, went forward alone to explore, and seeing all deserted and quiet on the outside, he beckoned to two of them, ordered them to mount very carefully and quietly the wall which enclosed the court-yard, and to conceal themselves on the other side behind a thick fig-tree, which he had observed in the morning. That being done, he knocked gently at the door, with the intention to call himself a pilgrim, who had wandered from his way, and request shelter until the morning. No answer; he knocked again, louder; not a sound! He then called a third robber, made him also descend into the yard, with orders to unfasten the bolt on the inside, so that they might have free entrance. All was performed with the utmost caution, and the most complete success. Griso then called the rest, and made some of them conceal themselves by the side of those behind the fig-tree; he then opened the door very softly, placed two centinels on the inside of it, and advanced to the lower chamber. He knocked; he waited--and well might wait; he raised the latch; no one from within said, "Who is there?" Nothing could go on better. He then called the robbers from the fig-tree, and with them entered the room where he had in the morning so villanously received the loaf of bread. He drew out his flint, tinder-box, and matches, and striking a light, proceeded to the inner chamber; it was empty! He returned to the stairs, and listened; solitude and silence! He left two to keep watch below, and with the others carefully ascended the stairs, cursing in his heart the creaking of the steps. He reached the summit, pushed softly open the door of the first room, and listened if any one breathed or moved: no one! He advanced, shading his face with the lamp, and perceived a bed; it was made, and perfectly smooth, with the covering arranged in order on the bolster! He shrugged his shoulders, and returning to the company, made a sign to them, that he was going into the other room, and that they should remain quietly behind,--he did so, and had the same success; all deserted and quiet. "What the devil's this?" said he aloud; "some traitorous dog has played the spy!" They then searched with less ceremony the rest of the house, putting every thing out of its place. Meanwhile those at the doorway heard a light step approaching in the street,--they kept very quiet, thinking it would pass on; but, behold! it stopped exactly in front of the cottage! It was Menico, who had come in haste from the convent, to warn Agnes and her daughter to escape from the house, and take refuge _there_, because--the _because_ is already known. He was surprised to find the door unbolted, and entering with a vague sentiment of alarm, found himself seized by two ruffians, who said in a menacing tone, "Hush! be quiet, or you die!" He uttered a cry, at which one struck him a blow on the mouth, the other placed his hand on his sword to inspire him with fear. The boy trembled like a leaf, and did not attempt to stir; but all at once was heard the first sound of the bell, and immediately after, a thundering peel burst forth. "The wicked are always cowards," says a Milanese proverb; alarmed at the sound, the bravoes let go in haste the arms of Menico, and fled away hastily to the old house, to join the main body of their comrades. Menico, finding himself free, also fled, by the way of the fields, towards the belfry, naturally supposing he would find some one there. As to the other villains above stairs, the terrible sound made the same impression on them; amazed and perplexed, they hit one against the other, in striving to find the nearest way to the door. Nevertheless, they were brave, and accustomed to confront any known danger; but here was something unusual, an undetermined peril, and they became panic-struck. It now required all the superiority of Griso to keep them together, so that there should be a retreat, and not a flight. He succeeded, however, in assembling them in the middle of the court-yard. "Halt, halt," cried he, "pistols in hand, knives ready, all in order, and then we will march. Cowards! for shame! fall behind me, and keep together." Reduced to order, they followed him in silence. We will leave them, in order to give an account of Agnes and Perpetua, whom we left at the end of the little lane, engaged in conversation. Agnes had managed to draw the latter off to some distance, by dint of appearing to give great heed to her story, which she urged on by an occasional "Certainly; now I comprehend; that is plain; and then? and he? and you?" In the midst of an important part of her narrative, the deep silence of the night was broken by the cry of Don Abbondio for "_help!_" "Mercy! what is the matter?" cried Perpetua, and prepared to run. "What is the matter? what is the matter?" cried Agnes, holding her by the gown. "Mercy! did you not hear?" replied she, struggling to get free. "What is the matter? what is the matter?" repeated Agnes, holding her firmly by the arm. "Devil of a woman!" exclaimed Perpetua, still struggling. Then was heard at a distance the light scream of Menico. "Mercy!" cried Agnes also, and they both ran at full speed; the sound of the bell, which now succeeded, spurred them on. Perpetua arrived first, and, behold, at the door, Tony, Jervase, Renzo, and Lucy, who had found the stairs, and, at the terrible sound of the bell, were flying to some place of safety. "What is the matter? What is the matter?" demanded Perpetua, out of breath, of the brothers. They answered her with a violent push, and fled away. "And you! what are you here for?" said she then to Renzo and Lucy. They made no reply. She then ascended the stairs in haste, to seek her master. The two lovers (still lovers) stood before Agnes, who, alarmed and grieved, said, "Ah! you are here! How has it gone? Why did the bell ring?" "Home, home!" said Renzo, "before the people gather." But Menico now appeared running to meet them. He was out of breath, and hardly able to cry out, "Back! back! by the way of the convent. There is the devil at the house," continued he, panting; "I saw him, I did; he was going to kill me. The Father Christopher says you must come quickly.--I saw him, I did.--I am glad I found you all here,--I will tell you all when we are safe off." Renzo, who was the most self-possessed of the party, thought it best to follow his advice. "Let us follow him," said he, to the females. They silently obeyed, and the little company moved on. They hastily crossed the churchyard, passing through a private street, into the fields. They were not many paces distant, before the people began to collect, each one asking of his neighbour what was the matter, and no one being able to answer the question. The first that arrived ran to the door of the church: it was fastened. They then looked through a little window into the belfry, and demanded the cause of the alarm. When Ambrose heard a known voice, and knew, by the hum, that there was an assemblage of people without, he hastily slipped on that part of his dress which he had carried under his arm, and opened the church door. "What is all this tumult? What is the matter? Where is it?" "Where is it? Do you not know? Why, in the curate's house. Run, run." They rushed in a crowd thither; looked,--listened. All was quiet. The street door was fastened; not a window open; not a sound within. "Who is within there? Holla! holla! Signor Curate, Signor Curate!" Don Abbondio, who, as soon as he was relieved by the flight of the invaders, had retired from the window, and closed it, was now quarrelling with Perpetua for leaving him to bear the brunt of the battle alone. When he heard himself called by name, by the people outside, he repented of the rashness which had produced this undesired result. "What has happened? Who are they? Where are they? What have they done to you?" cried a hundred voices at a time. "There is no one here now; I am much obliged to you.--Return to your houses." "But who _has_ been here? Where have they gone? What has happened?" "Bad people, bad people, who wander about in the night; but they have all fled.--Return to your houses. I thank you for your kindness." So saying, he retired and shut the window. There was a general murmur of disappointment through the crowd. Some laughed, some swore, some shrugged up their shoulders and went home; but at this moment a person came running towards them, panting and breathless. He lived at the house opposite to the cottage of Lucy, and had witnessed from the window the alarm of the bravoes, when Griso endeavoured to collect them in the court-yard. When he recovered breath, he cried, "What do you do here, friends? The devil is not here, he is down at the house of Agnes Mondella. Armed people are in it. It seems they wish to murder a pilgrim; but who knows what the devil it is?" "What! what! what!" And then began a tumultuous conversation. "Let us go. How many are there? How many are we? Who are they?--The constable! the constable!" "I am here," replied the constable, from the midst of the crowd, "I am here, but you must assist me; you must obey.--Quick;--where is the sexton? To the bell, to the bell. Quick; some one run to Lecco to ask for succour.--Come this way." The tumult was great, and as they were about to depart for the cottage of Agnes, another messenger came flying, and exclaimed, "Run, friends;--robbers who are carrying off a pilgrim. They are already out of the village! On! on! this way." In obedience to this command they moved in a mass, without waiting the orders of their leader, towards the cottage of Lucy. While the army advances, many of those at the head of the column, slacken their pace, not unwilling to leave the post of honour to their more adventurous friends in the rear. The confused multitude at length reach the scene of action. The traces of recent invasion were manifest,--the door open, the bolts loosened, but the invaders, where were they? They entered the court, advanced into the house, and called loudly, "Agnes! Lucy! Pilgrim! Where is the pilgrim! Did Stephano dream that he saw him? No, no, Carlandrea saw him also. Hallo! Pilgrim! Agnes! Lucy! No reply! They have killed them! they have killed them!" There was then a proposition to follow the murderers, which would have been acceded to, had not a voice from the crowd cried out, that Agnes and Lucy were in safety in some house. Satisfied with this, they soon dispersed to their homes, to relate to their wives that which had happened. The next day, however, the constable being in his field, and, with his foot resting on his spade, meditating on the mysteries of the past night, was accosted by two men, much resembling, in their appearance, those whom Don Abbondio had encountered a few days before. They very unceremoniously forbade him to make a deposition of the events of the night before the magistrate, and, if questioned by any of the gossips of the villagers, to maintain a perfect silence on pain of death. Our fugitives for a while continued their flight, rapidly and silently, utterly overwhelmed by the fatigue of their flight, by their late anxiety, by vexation and disappointment at their failure, and a confused apprehension of some future danger. As the sound of the bell died away on the ear, they slackened their pace. Agnes, gathering breath and courage, first broke the silence, by asking Renzo what had been done at the curate's? He related briefly his melancholy story. "And who," said she to Menico, "was the devil in the house? What did you mean by that?" The boy narrated that of which he had been an eye-witness, and which imparted a mingled feeling of alarm and gratitude to the minds of his auditors,--alarm at the obstinacy of Don Roderick in pursuing his purpose, and gratitude that they had thus escaped his snares. They caressed affectionately the boy who had been placed in so great danger on their account: Renzo gave him a piece of money in addition to the new coin already promised, and desired him to say nothing of the message given him by Father Christopher. "Now, return home," said Agnes, "because thy family will be anxious about thee: you have been a good boy; go home, and pray the Lord that we may soon meet again." The boy obeyed, and our travellers advanced in silence. Lucy kept close to her mother, dexterously but gently declining the arm of her lover. She felt abashed, even in the midst of all this confusion, at having been so long and so familiarly alone with him, while expecting that a few moments longer would have seen her his wife: but this dream had vanished, and she felt most sensitively the apparent indelicacy of their situation. They at length reached the open space before the church of the convent. Renzo advanced towards the door, and pushed it gently. It opened, and they beheld, by the light of the moon, which then fell upon his pallid face and silvery beard, the form of Father Christopher, who was there in anxious expectation of their arrival. "God be thanked!" said he, as they entered. By his side stood a capuchin, whose office was that of sexton to the church, whom he had persuaded to leave the door half open, and to watch with him. He had been very unwilling to submit to this inconvenient and dangerous condescension, which it required all the authority of the holy father to overcome; but, perceiving who the company were, he could endure no longer. Taking the father aside, he whispered, to him, "But Father--Father--at night--in the church--with women--shut--the rules--but Father!----" "Omnia munda mundis," replied he, turning meekly to Friar Fazio, and forgetting that he did not understand Latin. But this forgetfulness was exactly the most fortunate thing in the world. If the father had produced arguments, Friar Fazio would not have failed to oppose them; but these mysterious words, he concluded, must contain a solution of all his doubts. He acquiesced, saying, "Very well; you know more than I do." Father Christopher then turned to our little company, who were standing in suspense, by the light of a lamp which was flickering before the altar. "Children," said he, "thank the Lord, who has preserved you from great peril. Perhaps at this moment----" and he entered into an explanation of the reasons which had induced him to send for them to the convent, little suspecting that they knew more than he did, and supposing that Menico had found them tranquil at their home, before the arrival of the robbers. No one undeceived him, not even Lucy, although suffering the keenest anguish at practising dissimulation with such a man; but it was a night of confusion and duplicity. "Now," continued he, "you perceive, my children, that this country is no longer safe for you. It is your country, I know; you were born here; you have wronged no one: but such is the will of God! It is a trial, children, support it with patience, with faith, without murmuring; and be assured, there will come a day, in which you will see the wisdom of all that now befalls you. I have procured you a refuge for a season, and I hope you will soon be able to return safely to your home; at all events, God will provide, and I his minister will faithfully exert myself to serve you, my poor persecuted children. You," continued he, turning to the females, "can remain at ----. There you will be beyond danger, and yet not far from home; go to our convent in that place, ask for the superior, give him this letter, he will be to you another Friar Christopher. And thou, my Renzo, thou must place thyself in safety from the impetuosity of others, and your own. Carry this letter to Father Bonaventura, of Lodi, in our convent at the eastern gate of Milan; he will be to you a father, will advise you, and find you work, until you can return to live here tranquilly. Now, go to the border of the lake, near the mouth of the Bione" (a stream a short distance from the convent); "you will see there a small boat fastened; you must say, 'A boat;' you will be asked for whom, answer, 'Saint Francis.' The boatman will receive you, will take you to the other side, where you will find a carriage, which will conduct you to ----. If any one should ask how Father Christopher came to have at his disposal such means of transport by land and by water, he would show little knowledge of the power possessed by a capuchin who held the reputation of a saint." The charge of the houses remained to be thought of; the father received the keys of them; Agnes, on consigning hers, thought with a sigh, that there was no need of keys, the house was open, the devil had been there, and it was doubtful if there remained any thing to be cared for. "Before you go," said the father, "let us pray together to the Lord, that he may be with you in this journey, and always, and above all, that he may give you strength to submit cheerfully to that which he has ordained." So saying, he knelt down; all did the same. Having prayed a few moments in silence, he pronounced with a low but distinct voice the following words: "We pray thee also for the wretched man who has brought us to this state. We should be unworthy of thy mercy if we did not earnestly solicit it for him: he has most need of it. We, in our sorrow, have the consolation of trusting in thee; we can still offer thee our supplications, with thankfulness. But he--he is an enemy to thee! Oh wretched man! He dares to strive against thee: have pity on him, O Lord! touch his heart, soften his rebellious will, and bestow on him all the good we would desire for ourselves." Rising hastily, he then said, "Away, my children, there is no time to lose; God will go with you, his angel protect you: away." They kept silence from emotion, and as they departed, the father added, "My heart tells me we shall soon meet again." Without waiting for a reply, he retired; the travellers pursued their way to the appointed spot, found the boat, gave and received the watchword, and entered into it. The boatmen made silently for the opposite shore: there was not a breath of wind; the lake lay polished and smooth in the moonlight, agitated only by the dipping of the oars, which quivered in its gleam. The waves breaking on the sands of the shore, were heard deadly and slowly at a distance, mingled with the rippling of the waters between the pillars of the bridge. The silent passengers cast a melancholy look behind at the mountains and the landscape, illumined by the moon, and varied by multitudes of shadows. They discerned villages, houses, cottages; the palace of Don Roderick, raised above the huts that crowded the base of the promontory, like a savage prowling in the dark over his slumbering prey. Lucy beheld it, and shuddered; then cast a glance beyond the declivity, towards her own little home, and beheld the top of the fig-tree which towered in the court-yard; moved at the sight, she buried her face in her hands, and wept in silence. Farewell, ye mountains, source of waters! farewell to your varied summits, familiar as the faces of friends! ye torrents, whose voices have been heard from infancy! Farewell! how melancholy the destiny of one, who, bred up amid your scenes, bids you farewell! If voluntarily departing with the hope of future gain at this moment, the dream of wealth loses its attraction, his resolution falters, and he would fain remain with you, were it not for the hope of benefiting you by his prosperity. The more he advances into the level country, the more his view becomes wearied with its uniform extent; the air appears heavy and lifeless: he proceeds sorrowfully and thoughtfully into the tumultuous city; houses crowded against houses, street uniting with street, appears to deprive him of the power to breathe; and in front of edifices admired by strangers, he stops to recall, with restless desire, the image of the field and the cottage which had long been the object of his wishes, and which, on his return to his mountains, he will make his own, should he acquire the wealth of which he is in pursuit. But how much more sorrowful the moment of separation to him, who, having never sent a transient wish beyond the mountains, feels that they comprise the limit of his earthly hopes, and yet is driven from them by an adverse fate; who is compelled to quit them to go into a foreign land, with scarcely a hope of return! Then he breaks forth into mournful exclamations. "Farewell native cottage! where, many a time and oft, I have listened with eager ear, to distinguish, amidst the rumour of footsteps, the well-known sound of those long expected and anxiously desired. Farewell, ye scenes, where I had hoped to pass, tranquil and content, the remnant of my days! Farewell, thou sanctuary of God, where my soul has been filled with admiring thoughts of him, and my voice has united with others to sing his praise! Farewell! He, whom I worshipped within your walls, is not confined to temples made with hands; heaven is his dwelling place, and the earth his footstool; he watches over his children, and, if he chastises them, it is in love, to prepare them for higher and holier enjoyments." Of such a nature, if not precisely the same, were the reflections of Lucy and her companions, as the bark carried them to the right bank of the Adda. CHAPTER IX. The shock which the boat received, as it struck against the shore, aroused Lucy from her reverie; they quitted the bark, and Renzo turned to thank and reward the boatman. "I will take nothing--nothing," said he: "we are placed on earth to aid one another." The carriage was ready, the driver seated; its expected occupants took their places, and the horses moved briskly on. Our travellers arrived then at Monza, which we believe to have been the name of the place to which Father Christopher had directed Renzo, a little after sunrise. The driver turned to an inn, where he appeared to be well acquainted, and demanded for them a separate room. He, as well as the boatman, refused the offered recompence of Renzo; like the boatman, he had in view a reward, more distant indeed, but more abundant; he withdrew his hand, and hastened to look after his beast. After an evening such as we have described, and a night passed in painful thoughts both in regard to recent events and future anticipations--disturbed, indeed, by the frequent joltings of their incommodious vehicle,--our travellers felt a little rest in their retired apartment at the inn highly necessary. They partook of a small meal together, not more in proportion to the prevailing want, than to their own slender appetites; and recurred with a sigh to the delightful festivities, which, two days before, were to have accompanied their happy union. Renzo would willingly have remained with his companions all the day, to secure their lodging and perform other little offices. But they strongly alleged the injunctions of Father Christopher, together with the gossiping to which their continuing together would give rise, so that he at length acquiesced. Lucy could not conceal her tears; Renzo with difficulty restrained his; and, warmly pressing the hand of Agnes, he pronounced with a voice almost choked, "Till we meet again." The mother and daughter would have been in great perplexity, had it not been for the kind driver, who had orders to conduct them to the convent, which was at a little distance from the village. Upon their arrival there, the guide requested the porter to call the superior: he appeared, and the letter of Father Christopher was delivered to him. "Oh, from Father Christopher!" said he, recognising the handwriting. His voice and manner told evidently that he uttered the name of one whom he regarded as a particular friend. During the perusal of the letter, he manifested much surprise and indignation, and, raising his eyes, fixed them on Lucy and her mother with an expression of pity and interest. When he had finished reading, he remained for a moment thoughtful, and then exclaimed, "There is no one but the signora; if the signora would take upon herself this obligation----" and then addressing them, "My friends," said he, "I will make the effort, and I hope to find you a shelter, more than secure, more than honourable; so that God has provided for you in the best manner. Will you come with me?" The females bowed reverently in assent; the friar continued, "Come with me, then, to the monastery of the signora. But keep yourselves a few steps distant, because there are people who delight to speak evil of others, and God knows how many fine stories might be told, if the superior of the convent was seen walking with a beautiful young woman--with women, I mean." So saying, he went on before: Lucy blushed; the guide looked at Agnes, who could not conceal a momentary smile; and they all three obeyed the command of the friar, and followed him at a distance. "Who is the signora?" said Agnes, addressing their conductor. "The signora," replied he, "is not a nun; that is, not a nun like the others. She is not the abbess, nor the prioress; for they say that _she_ is one of the youngest of them; but she is from Adam's rib, and her ancestors were great people, who came from Spain; and they call her the _signora_, to signify that she is a great lady,--every one calls her so, because they say that in this monastery they have never had so noble a person; and her relations down at Milan are very powerful, and in Monza still more so; because her father is the first lord in the country; for which reason she can do as she pleases in the convent,--and moreover people abroad bear her a great respect, and if she undertakes a thing, she makes it succeed; and if this good father induces her to take you under her protection, you will be as safe as at the foot of the altar." When the superior arrived at the gate of the town, which was defended at that time by an old tower, and part of a dismantled castle, he stopped and looked back to see if they followed him--then advanced towards the monastery, and, remaining on the threshold, awaited their approach. The guide then took his leave, not without many thanks from Agnes and her daughter for his kindness and faithfulness. The superior led them to the portress's chamber, and went alone to make the request of the signora. After a few moments he re-appeared, and with a joyful countenance told them that she would grant them an interview: on their way, he gave them much advice concerning their deportment in her presence. "She is well disposed towards you," said he, "and has the power to protect you. Be humble, and respectful; reply with frankness to the questions she will ask you, and when not questioned, be silent." They passed through a lower chamber, and advanced towards the parlour. Lucy, who had never been in a monastery before, looked around as she entered it for the signora; but there was no one there; in a few moments, however, she observed the friar approach a small window or grating, behind which she beheld a nun standing. She appeared about twenty-five years of age; her countenance at first sight produced an impression of beauty, but of beauty prematurely faded. A black veil hung in folds on either side of her face; below the veil a band of white linen encircled a forehead of different, but not inferior whiteness; another plaited band encompassed the face, and terminated under the chin in a neck handkerchief, or cape, which, extending over the shoulders, covered to the waist the folds of her black robe. But her forehead was contracted from time to time, as if by some painful emotion; now, her large black eye was fixed steadfastly on your face with an expression of haughty curiosity, then hastily bent down as if to discover some hidden thought; in certain moments an attentive observer would have deemed that they solicited affection, sympathy, and pity; at others, he would have received a transient revelation of hatred, matured by a cruel disposition; when motionless and inattentive, some would have imagined them to express haughty aversion, others would have suspected the labouring of concealed thought, the effort to overcome some secret feeling of her soul, which had more power over it than all surrounding objects. Her cheeks were delicately formed, but extremely pale and thin; her lips, hardly suffused with a feeble tinge of the rose, seemed to soften into the pallid hue of the cheeks; their movements, like those of her eyes, were sudden, animated, and full of expression and mystery. Her loftiness of stature was not apparent, owing to an habitual stoop; as well as to her rapid and irregular movements, little becoming a nun, or even a lady. In her dress itself there was an appearance of studied neglect, which announced a singular character; and from the band around her temples was suffered to escape, through forgetfulness or contempt of the rules which prohibited it, a curl of glossy black hair. These things made no impression on the minds of Agnes and Lucy, unaccustomed as they were to the sight of a nun; and to the superior it was no novelty--he, as well as many others, had become familiarised to her habit and manners. She was, as we have said, standing near the grate, against which she leaned languidly, to observe those who were approaching. "Reverend mother, and most illustrious lady," said the superior, bending low, "this is the poor young woman for whom I have solicited your protection, and this is her mother." Both mother and daughter bowed reverently. "It is fortunate that I have it in my power," said she, turning to the father, "to do some little service to our good friends the capuchin fathers. But tell me a little more particularly, the situation of this young woman, that I may be better prepared to act for her advantage." Lucy blushed, and held down her head. "You must know, reverend mother," said Agnes--but the father interrupted her;--"This young person, most illustrious lady," continued he, "has been recommended to me, as I have told you, by one of my brethren. She has been obliged to depart secretly from her native place, in order to escape heavy perils; and she has need for some time of an asylum, where she can remain unknown, and where no one will dare to molest her." "What perils?" demanded the lady. "Pray, father, do not talk so enigmatically: you know, we nuns like to hear stories minutely." "They are perils," replied the father, "that should not be told to the pure ears of the reverend mother."--"Oh, certainly," said the lady, hastily, and slightly blushing. Was this the blush of modesty? He would have doubted it, who should have observed the rapid expression of disdain which accompanied it, or have compared it with that which from time to time diffused itself over the cheek of Lucy. "It is sufficient to say," resumed the friar, "that a powerful lord--it is not all the rich and noble who make use of the gifts of God for the promotion of his glory, as you do, most illustrious lady--a powerful lord, after having persecuted for a long time this innocent creature with wicked allurements, finding them unavailing, has had recourse to open force, so that she has been obliged to fly from her home." "Approach, young woman," said the signora. "I know that the father is truth itself; but no one can be better informed than you with regard to this affair. To you it belongs to tell us if this lord was an odious persecutor." Lucy obeyed the first command, and approached the grating; but the second, accompanied as it was with a certain malicious air of doubt, brought a blush over her countenance, and a sense of painful embarrassment, which she found it impossible to overcome. "Lady----mother----reverend----" stammered she. Agnes now felt herself authorised to come to her assistance. "Most illustrious lady," said she, "I can bear testimony that my daughter hates this lord as the devil hates holy water. I would call him the devil, were it not for your reverend presence. The case is this: this poor maiden was promised to a good and industrious youth; and if the curate had done his duty----" "You are very ready to speak without being interrogated," interrupted the lady, with an expression of anger on her countenance, which changed it almost to deformity. "Silence; I have not to be informed that parents have always an answer prepared in the name of their children." Agnes drew back mortified, and the father guardian signified to Lucy by a look, as well as by a movement of the head, that now was the time to rouse her courage, and not leave her poor mother in the dilemma. "Reverend lady," said she, "what my mother has told you is the truth. I willingly engaged myself to the poor youth (and here she became covered with blushes)---- Pardon me this boldness; but I would not have you think ill of my mother. And as to this lord (God forgive him!) I would rather die than fall into his hands. And if you do this deed of charity, be certain, signora, none will pray for you more heartily than those whom you have thus sheltered." "I believe you," said the lady, with a softened voice; "but we will see you alone. Not that I need farther explanation, nor other motives to accede to the wishes of the father superior," added she, turning to him with studied politeness. "Nay," continued she, "I have been thinking, and this is what has occurred to me. The portress of the monastery has bestowed in marriage, a few days since, her last daughter; these females can occupy her room, and supply her place in the little services which it was her office to perform." The father would have expressed his thanks, but the lady interrupted him. "There is no need of ceremony; in case of need, I would not hesitate to ask assistance of the capuchin fathers. In short," continued she, with a smile, in which appeared a degree of bitter irony, "are we not brothers and sisters?" So saying, she called a nun, her attendant (by a singular distinction she had two assigned for her private service), and sent her to inform the abbess; she then called the portress, and made with her and Agnes the necessary arrangements. Then taking leave of the superior, she dismissed Agnes to her room, but retained Lucy. The signora, who, in presence of a capuchin, had studied her actions and her words, thought no longer of putting a restraint on them before an inexperienced country girl. Her discourse became by degrees so strange, that, in order to account for it, we will relate the previous history of this unhappy and misguided person. She was the youngest daughter of the Prince ***, a great Milanese nobleman, who was among the wealthiest of the city. The magnificent ideas he entertained of his rank, made him suppose his wealth hardly sufficient to support it properly; he therefore determined to preserve his riches with the greatest care. How many children he had does not clearly appear; it is only known that he had destined to the cloister all the youngest of both sexes, in order to preserve his fortune for the eldest son. The condition of the unhappy signora had been settled even before her birth; it remained only to be decided whether she were to be a monk or a nun. At her birth, the prince her father, wishing to give her a name which could recall at every moment the idea of a cloister, and which had been borne by a saint of a noble family, called her Gertrude. Dolls, clothed like nuns, were the first toys that were put into her hands; then pictures of nuns; and these gifts were accompanied with many injunctions to be careful of them, for they were precious things. When the prince or princess, or the young prince, who was the only one of the children brought up at home, wished to praise the beauty of the infant, they found no way of expressing their ideas, except in exclamations of this sort, "What a mother abbess!" But no one ever said directly to her, "Thou must be a nun;" such an intention, however, was understood, and included in every conversation regarding her future destiny. If, sometimes, the little Gertrude betrayed perversity and impetuosity of temper, they would say to her, "Thou art but a child, and these manners are not becoming: wait till thou art the mother abbess, and then thou shalt command with a rod; thou shalt do whatever pleases thee." At other times, reprehending her for the freedom and familiarity of her manners, the prince would say, "Such should not be the deportment of one like you; if you wish at some future day to have the respect of all around you, learn now to have more gravity; remember that you will be the first in the monastery, because noble blood bears sway every where." By such conversations as these the implicit idea was produced in the mind of the child, that she was to be a nun. The manners of the prince were habitually austere and repulsive; and, with respect to the destination of the child, his resolution appeared fixed as fate. At six years of age she was placed for her education in the monastery where we find her: her father, being the most powerful noble in Monza, enjoyed there great authority; and his daughter, consequently, would receive those distinctions, with those allurements, which might lead her to select it for her perpetual abode. The abbess and nuns, rejoicing at the acquisition of such powerful friendship, received with great gratitude the honour conferred in preference on them, and entered with avidity into the views of the prince; Gertrude experienced all sorts of favours and indulgences, and, child as she was, the respectful attention of the nuns towards her was exercised with the same deference as if she had been the abbess herself! Not that they were all pledged to draw the poor child into the snare; many acted with simplicity, and through tenderness, merely following the example of those around them; if the suspicions of others were excited, they kept silence, so as not to cause useless disturbance; some, indeed, more discriminating and compassionate, pitied the poor child as being the object of artifices, to the like of which they themselves had been the victims. Things would have proceeded agreeably to the wishes of all concerned, had Gertrude been the only child in the monastery; but this was not the case; and there were some among her school companions who were destined for the matrimonial state. The little Gertrude, filled with the idea of her superiority, spoke proudly of her future destiny, expecting thereby to excite their envy at her peculiar honours: with scorn and wonder she perceived that their estimation of them was very different. To the majestic but circumscribed and cold images of the power of an abbess, they opposed the varied and bright pictures of husband, guests, cities, tournaments, courts, dress, and equipage. New and strange emotions arose in the mind of Gertrude: her vanity had been cultivated in order to make the cloister desirable to her; and now, easily assimilating itself with the ideas thus presented, she entered into them with all the ardour of her soul. She replied, that no one could oblige her to take the veil, without her own consent; that she could also marry, inhabit a palace, and enjoy the world; that she could if she wished it; that she _would_ wish it, and _did_ wish it. The necessity of her own consent, hitherto little considered, became henceforth the ruling thought of her mind; she called it to her aid, at all times, when she desired to luxuriate in the pleasing images of future felicity. But her fancied enjoyment was impaired by the reflection, which at such moments intruded itself, that her father had irrevocably decided her destiny; and she shuddered at the recollection of his austere manners, which impressed upon all around him the sentiments of a fatal necessity as being necessarily conjoined with whatever he should command. Then would she compare her condition to that of her more fortunate companions; and envy soon grew into hatred. This would manifest itself by a display of present superiority, and sometimes of ill-nature, sarcasm, and spite; at other times her more amiable and gentle qualities would obtain a transitory ascendency. Thus she passed the period allotted for her education, in dreams of future bliss, mingled with the dread of future misery. That which she anticipated most distinctly, was external pomp and splendour; and her fancy would often luxuriate in imaginary scenes of grandeur, constructed out of such materials as her memory could faintly and confusedly furnish forth, and the descriptions of her companions supply. There were moments when these brilliant imaginings were disturbed by the idea of religion; but the religion which had been inculcated to the poor girl did not proscribe pride, but, on the contrary, sanctified it, and proposed it as a means of obtaining terrestrial felicity. Thus despoiled of its essence, it was no longer religion, but a phantom, which, assuming at times a power over her mind, the unhappy girl was tormented with superstitious dread, and, filled with a confused idea of duties, imagined her repugnance to the cloister to be a crime, which could only be expiated by her voluntary dedication. There was a law, that no young person could be accepted for the monastic life, without being examined by an ecclesiastic, called the vicar of the nuns, so that it should be made manifest that it was the result of her free election; and this examination could not take place until a year after she had presented her petition for admission, in writing, to the vicar. The nuns, therefore, who were aware of the projects of her father, undertook to draw from her such a petition; encountering her in one of those moments, when she was assailed by her superstitious fears, they suggested to her the propriety of such a course, and assured her, nevertheless, that it was a mere formality (which was true), and would be without efficacy, unless sanctioned by some after-act of her own. The petition, however, had scarcely been sent to its destination, when Gertrude repented of having written it; she then repented of this repentance, passing months in incessant vicissitude of feeling. There was another law, that, at this examination, a young person should not be received, without having remained at least a month at her paternal home. A year had nearly passed since the petition had been sent, and Gertrude had been warned that she would soon be removed from the monastery, and conducted to her father's house, to take the final steps towards the consummation of that which they held certain. Not so the poor girl; her mind was busied with plans of escape: in her perplexity, she unbosomed herself to one of her companions, who counselled her to inform her father by letter of the change in her views. The letter was written and sent; Gertrude remained in great anxiety, expecting a reply, which never came. A few days after, the abbess took her aside, and, with a mixed expression of contempt and compassion, hinted to her the anger of the prince, and the error she had committed; but that, if she conducted herself well for the future, all would be forgotten. The poor girl heard, and dared not ask farther explanation. The day, so ardently desired and so greatly feared, came at last. The anticipation of the trials that awaited her was forgotten in her tumultuous joy at the sight of the open country, the city, and the houses. She might well feel thus, after having been for eight years enclosed within the walls of the monastery! She had previously arranged with her new confidant the part she was to act. Oh! they will try to force me, thought she: but I will persist, humbly and respectfully; the point is, not to say _Yes_; and I will _not_ say it. Or, perhaps they will endeavour to shake my purpose by kindness: but I will weep, I will implore, I will excite their compassion, I will beseech them not to sacrifice me. But none of her anticipations were verified: her parents and family, with the usual artful policy in such cases, maintained a perfect silence with regard to the subject of her meditations; they regarded her with looks of contemptuous pity, and appeared to avoid all conversation with her, as if she had rendered herself unworthy of it. A mysterious anathema appeared to hang over her, and to keep at a distance every member of the household. If, wearied with this proscription, she endeavoured to enter into conversation, they made her understand indirectly, that by obedience alone could she regain the affections of the family. But this was precisely the condition to which she could not assent: she therefore continued in her state of excommunication, which unhappily appeared to be, at least partially, the consequence of her own conduct. Such a state of things formed a sad contrast to the radiant visions which had occupied her imagination. Her confinement was as strict at home as it had been in the monastery; and she, who had fancied she should enjoy, at least for this brief period, the pleasures of the world, found herself an exile from all society. At every announcement of a visiter, she was compelled to retire with the elderly persons of the family; and always dined apart whenever a guest was present. Even the servants of the family appeared to concur with the designs of their master, and to treat her with carelessness, ill concealed by an awkward attempt at formality. There was one among them, however, who seemed to feel towards her respect and compassion. This was a handsome page, who equalled, in her imagination, the ideal images of loveliness she had so often fondly cherished. There was soon apparent a change in her manner, a love of reverie and abstraction, and she no longer appeared to covet the favour of her family; some engrossing thought had taken possession of her mind. To be brief, she was detected one day in folding a letter, which it had been better she had not written, and which she was obliged to relinquish to her female attendant, who carried it to the prince, her father. He came immediately to her apartment with the letter in his hand, and in few but terrible words told her, that for the present she should be confined to her chamber, with the society only of the woman who had made the discovery; and intimated for the future still darker punishments. The page was dismissed, with an imperative command of silence, and solemn threatenings of punishment should he presume to violate it. Gertrude was then left alone, with her shame, her remorse, and her terror; and the sole company of this woman, whom she hated, as the witness of her fault, and the cause of her disgrace. The hatred was cordially returned, inasmuch as the attendant found herself reduced to the annoying duty of a jailer, and was made the guardian of a perilous secret for life. The first confused tumult of her feelings having in some measure subsided, she recalled to mind the dark intimations of her father with regard to some future punishment: what could this be? It most probably was a return to the monastery at Monza, not as the signorina, but as a guilty wretch, who, loaded with shame, was to be inclosed within its walls for ever! Now, indeed, her fancy no longer dwelt on the bright visions with which it had been so often busied; they were too much opposed to the sad reality of her present condition. Such an act would repair all her errors, and change (could she doubt it) in an instant her condition. The only castle in which Gertrude could imagine a tranquil and honourable asylum, and which was not in the _air_, was the monastery, in which she now resolved to place herself for ever! Opposed to this resolution rose up the contemplations of many years past: but times were changed, and to the depth in which Gertrude had fallen, the condition of a nun, revered, obeyed, and feared, formed a bright contrast. She was perpetually tormented also by her jailer, who, to revenge herself for the confinement imposed on her, failed not to taunt her for her misdemeanor, and to repeat the menaces of her father; or whenever she seemed disposed to relent, and to show something like pity, her tone of protection was still more intolerable. The predominant desire of Gertrude was to escape from her clutches, and to raise herself to a condition above her anger or her pity. At the end of four or five long days, with her patience exhausted by the bitter railings of her keeper, she sat herself down in a corner of the chamber, and covering her face with her hands, wept in bitterness of soul. She experienced an absolute craving for other faces and other sounds than those of her tormentor; and a sudden joy imparted itself to her mind, from the reflection, that it depended only on herself to be restored to the good-will and attentions of the family. Mingled with this joy, came repentance for her fault, and a desire to expiate it. She arose, went to a small table, and taking a pen, wrote to her father, expressing her penitence and her hope, imploring his pardon, and promising to do all that might be required of her. CHAPTER X. There are moments in which the mind, particularly of the young, is so disposed, that a little importunity suffices to obtain from it any thing that has the appearance of virtuous sacrifice; as a flower scarcely budded abandons itself on its fragile stem, ready to yield its sweets to the first breeze which plays around it. These moments, which ought to be regarded by others with timid respect, are exactly those of which interested cunning makes use, to insnare the unguarded will. On the perusal of this letter, the prince saw the way opened to the furtherance of his views. He sent for Gertrude; she obeyed the command, and, in his presence, threw herself at his feet, and had scarcely power to exclaim, "Pardon!" He made a sign to her to rise, and in a grave voice answered, that it was not enough merely to confess her fault, and ask forgiveness, but that it was necessary to merit it. Gertrude asked submissively, "what he would have her do?" To this the prince did not reply directly, but spoke at length of the fault of Gertrude: the poor girl shuddered as at the touch of a hand on a severe wound. He continued, that even if he had entertained the project of settling her in the world, she had herself placed an insuperable obstacle to it; since he could never, as a gentleman of honour, permit her to marry, after having given such a specimen of herself. The miserable listener was completely humbled! The prince, then, by degrees softened his voice and manner to say, that for all faults there was a remedy, and that the remedy for hers was clearly indicated; that she might perceive, in this fatal accident, a warning that the world was too full of dangers for her---- "Oh, yes!" exclaimed Gertrude, overwhelmed with shame and remorse. "Ah, you perceive it yourself!" resumed the prince. "Well, we will speak no more of the past; all is forgotten. You have taken the only honourable way that remains for you; and because you _have_ taken it voluntarily, it rests with me to make it turn to your advantage, and to make the merit of the sacrifice all your own." So saying, he rang the bell, and said to the servant who appeared, "The princess and the prince immediately." He continued to Gertrude, "I wish to make them the sharers of my joy; I wish that they should begin at once to treat you as you deserve. You have hitherto found me a severe judge; you shall now prove that I am a loving father." At these words Gertrude remained stupified; she thought of the "yes" she had so precipitately suffered to escape from her lips, and would have recalled it; but she did not dare; the satisfaction of the prince appeared so entire, his condescension so conditional, that she could not presume to utter a word to disturb it. The princess and prince came into the room. On seeing Gertrude there, they appeared full of doubt and surprise; but the prince, with a joyful countenance, said to them, "Behold here the lost sheep! and let these be the last words that shall recall painful recollections. Behold the consolation of the family! Gertrude has no longer need of advice; she has voluntarily chosen her own good. She has resolved, she has signified to me that she has resolved----" She raised to him a look of supplication, but he continued more plainly, "that she has resolved to take the veil." "Well done, well done," exclaimed they both, overwhelming her with embraces, which Gertrude received with tears, which they chose to interpret as tears of joy. Then the prince enlarged on the splendid destiny of his daughter, on the distinction she would enjoy in the monastery and in the country, as the representative of the family. Her mother and her brother renewed their congratulations and praises. Gertrude stood as if possessed by a dream. It was then necessary to fix the day for the journey to Monza, for the purpose of making the request of the abbess. "How rejoiced she will be!" said the prince; "I am sure all the nuns will appreciate the honour Gertrude does them. But why not go there to-day? Gertrude will willingly take the air." "Let us go, then," said the princess. "I will order the carriage," said the young prince. "But----" said Gertrude submissively. "Softly, softly," said the prince, "let her decide; perhaps she does not feel disposed to go to-day, and would rather wait until to-morrow. Say, do you wish to go to-day or to-morrow?" "To-morrow," said Gertrude, in a feeble voice, glad of a short reprieve. "To-morrow," said the prince, solemnly; "she has decided to go to-morrow. Meanwhile I will see the vicar of the nuns, to have him to appoint a day for the examination." He did so, and the vicar named the day after the next. In the interval Gertrude was not left a moment to herself. She would have desired some repose for her mind after so many contending emotions; to have reflected on the step she had already taken, and what remained to be done--but the machine once in motion at her direction, it was no longer in her power to arrest its progress; occupations succeeded each other without interruption. The princess herself assisted at her toilette, which was completed by her own maid. This effected, dinner was announced, and poor Gertrude was made to pass through the crowd of servants, who nodded their congratulations to each other. She found at the table a few relations of the family, who had been invited in haste to participate in the general joy. The young bride--thus they called young persons about to enter the monastic life--the young bride had enough to do to reply to the compliments which were paid to her; she felt that each reply was a confirmation of her destiny; but how act differently? After dinner came the hour of riding, and Gertrude was placed in a carriage with her mother and two uncles, who had been among the guests. They entered the street Marina, which then crossed the space now occupied by the public gardens, and was the public promenade, where the nobility refreshed themselves after the fatigues of the day. The uncles conversed much with Gertrude, and one of them in particular, who appeared to know every body, every carriage, and every livery, had something to tell of signor such an one, and signora such an one; but checking himself, he said to his niece, "Ah! you little rogue! you turn your back upon all these follies; you are the righteous person; you leave us worldlings far behind; you are going to lead a happy life, and take yourself to paradise in a coach." They returned home in the dusk of the evening, and the servants, appearing with torches, announced to them that numerous visiters had arrived. The report had spread, and a multitude of relations and friends had come to offer their congratulations. The young bride was the idol, the amusement, the victim of the evening. Finally, Gertrude was left alone with the family. "At last," said the prince, "I have had the consolation of seeing my daughter in society becoming her rank and station. She has conducted herself admirably, and has evinced that there will be no preventive to her obtaining the highest honours, and supporting the dignity of the family." They supped hastily, so as to be ready early in the morning. At the request of Gertrude, her attendant, of whose insolence she bitterly complained to her father, was removed, and another placed in her stead. This was an old woman, who had been nurse to the young prince, in whom was centred all her hopes and her pride. She was overjoyed at the decision of Gertrude, who, as a climax to her trials, was obliged to listen to her congratulations and praises. She talked of her numerous aunts and relatives, who were so happy as nuns; of the many visits she would doubtless receive. She further spoke of the young prince, and the lady who was to be his wife, and the visit which they would doubtless pay to Gertrude at the monastery, until, wearied out with the conflicts of the day, the poor girl fell asleep. She was aroused in the morning by the harsh voice of the old woman, "Up, up, signora, young bride! it is day; the princess is up, and waiting for you. The young prince is impatient. He is as brisk as a hare, the young devil; he was so from an infant. But when he is ready, you must not make him wait; he is the best temper in the world, but that always makes him impatient and noisy. Poor fellow, we must pity him, it is the effect of temperament; in such moments he has respect to no one but the head of the household; however, one day he will be the head; may that day be far off! Quick, quick, signorina! You should have been out of your nest before this." The idea of the young prince, risen and impatient, recalled the scattered thoughts of Gertrude, and hastily she suffered herself to be dressed, and descended to the saloon, where her parents and brother were assembled. A cup of chocolate was brought her, and the carriage was announced. Before their departure, the prince took his daughter aside, and said to her, "Courage, Gertrude; yesterday you did well, to-day you must excel yourself; the point is now to make a suitable appearance in the country and in the monastery, where you are destined to hold the first station. They expect you, and all eyes will be on you. Dignity and ease. The abbess will ask you what is your request; it is a mere form, but you must reply that you wish to be admitted to take the veil in this monastery, where you have been educated, and treated so kindly; which is the truth. Speak these words with a free unembarrassed air, so as not to give occasion for scandal. These good mothers know nothing of the unhappy occurrence; that must remain buried with the family. However, an anxious countenance might excite suspicion; show whose is the blood in your veins; be polite and modest; but remember also, that in this country, out of the family, there is none your superior." During their ride, the troubles and the trials of the world, and the blessed life of the cloister, were the principal subjects of conversation. As they approached the monastery, the crowd collected from all parts; as the carriage stopped before the walls, the heart of Gertrude beat more rapidly: they alighted amidst the concourse; all eyes were fastened on her, and compelled her to study the movements of her countenance; and, above all, those of her father, upon whom she could not help fixing her regards, notwithstanding the fear he inspired. They crossed the first court, entered the second, and here appeared the interior cloister, wide open, and occupied by nuns. In front was the abbess, surrounded by the most aged of the sisterhood; behind these the others, raised promiscuously on tiptoe, and farther back the lay sisters, standing on benches and overlooking the scene; whilst here and there were seen, peeping between the cowls, some youthful faces, which Gertrude recognised as those of her school companions. As she stood fronting the abbess, the latter demanded, with grave solemnity, "What she desired to have in this place, where nothing could be denied her?" "I am here," began Gertrude; but, about to utter the words which were to decide her destiny irrevocably, she felt her heart fail, and hesitating, she fixed her eyes on the crowd before her. She beheld there the well-known face of one of her companions, who regarded her with looks of compassion and malice, as if to say, "They have caught the brave one." This sight required all her courage, and she was about to give a reply very different from that which was expected from her, when, glancing at her father, she caught from his eye such an anxious and threatening expression, that, overcome by terror, she proceeded, "I am here to ask admittance into this monastery, where I have been instructed so kindly." The abbess immediately expressed her regret, that the regulations were such as to prohibit an immediate answer, which must be given by the common suffrage of the sisterhood; but that Gertrude knew well the sentiments they entertained towards her; and might judge what that answer would be. In the mean time nothing prevented them from manifesting their joy at her request. There was then heard a confused murmur of congratulations and rejoicing. Whilst the nuns were surrounding their new companion, and offering their congratulations to all the party, the abbess expressed her wish to address a few words to the prince at the parlour grating. "Signor," said she, "in obedience to our rules--to fulfil a necessary form--I must inform you--that whenever a young person desires to assume--the superior, which I am, though unworthily, is obliged to make known to the parents that if--they have forced the will of their daughter, they will incur the pains of excommunication. You will excuse----" "Oh! yes, yes, reverend mother. Your exactitude is very praiseworthy, very just. But you cannot doubt----" "Oh! imagine, prince, if--but I merely speak by order; besides----" "True--true, reverend mother." After these few words, and a renewal of compliments and thanks, they departed. Gertrude was silent during their ride; overcome and occupied by conflicting thoughts, ashamed of her own want of resolution, vexed with others as well as herself, she was still meditating some way of escape, but every time she looked at her father, she felt her destiny to be irrevocable. After the various engagements of the day were over,--the dinner, the visits, the drive, the _conversazione_, the supper,--the prince brought another subject under discussion, which was the choice of a godmother (so they called the lady who is selected as chaperone to the young candidate in the interval between the request for admission, and the putting on of the habit); the duty of this person was to visit, with her charge, the churches, public palaces, the _conversazioni_, in short, every thing of note in the city and its environs; so as to afford a peep at that world they were about to quit for ever. "We must think of a godmother," said the prince, "because to-morrow the vicar of the nuns will be here for the examination, and soon after that, Gertrude will be finally accepted. Now the choice shall come from Gertrude herself, although contrary to usage; but she deserves to be made an exception, and we may confidently trust to her judgment in the selection." And then, turning to her, as if bestowing a singular favour, he continued, "Any one of the ladies who were at the _conversazione_ this evening, possesses the necessary qualifications for a godmother; any one of them will consider it an honour; make your selection." Gertrude instantly felt that the choice would be a renewal of consent; but the proposal was made with such an air of condescension, that a refusal would have appeared to spring from contempt or ingratitude. Thus she took another step, and named a lady who had been forward in attentions to her during the whole evening. "A perfectly wise choice," said the prince, who had expected no less. The affair had all been previously arranged; this lady had been so much with Gertrude at the _conversazione_, and had displayed such kindness of manner, that it would have been an effort for her to think of another. The attentions, however, of this lady were not without their object: she had also for a long time contemplated making the young prince her son; she, therefore, naturally interested herself in all that concerned the family, and felt the deepest interest in her dear Gertrude. On the morrow, the imagination of Gertrude was occupied with the expected examination, and with a vague hope of some opportunity to retract. At an early hour she was sent for by the prince, who addressed her in these words:--"Courage, my daughter; you have as yet conducted yourself admirably; to-day you must crown the work. All that has been done, has been done with your consent. If, in the meanwhile, you had any doubts, any misgivings, you should have expressed them; but at the point to which things have now arrived, it will no longer do to play the child. The worthy man who is to come this morning, will put a hundred questions to you, concerning your vocation; such as, whether you go voluntarily, and the why and the wherefore. If you falter in your replies, he will continue to urge you; this will produce pain to yourself, but might become the source of a more serious evil. After all the public demonstrations that we have made, the slightest hesitation on your part might place my honour in danger, by conveying the idea that I had taken a mere youthful whim for a confirmed resolution, and that I had thus acted precipitately; in this case, I should feel myself under the necessity, in order to preserve my character inviolate, to reveal the true motive----" But, seeing the countenance of Gertrude all on flame, and contracting itself like the leaves of a flower in the heat which precedes a tempest, he stopped a moment, and then resumed, "Well, well, all depends on yourself. I know you will not show yourself a child; but recollect, you must reply with freedom, so as not to create suspicion in the mind of this worthy man." He then suggested the answers to be made to the probable questions that would be put, and concluded with various remarks upon the happiness that awaited Gertrude at the convent. At this moment the servant announced the arrival of the vicar, and the prince was obliged to leave his daughter alone to receive him. The good man had come with a preconceived opinion that Gertrude went voluntarily to the cloister, because the prince had told him so. It was one of his maxims, however, to preserve himself unprejudiced, and to depend only on the assertions of the candidates themselves. "Signorina," said he, "I come to play the part of the tempter; I come to suggest doubts where you have affirmed certainties; I come to place before your eyes difficulties, and ascertain if you have well considered them. You will allow me to trouble you with some interrogatories?" "Say on," replied Gertrude. The good priest then began to interrogate her in the form prescribed. "Do you feel in your heart a free spontaneous resolution to become a nun? Have menaces, or allurements, or authority been made use of? Speak without reserve to one whose duty it is to ascertain the true state of your feelings, and to prevent violence being done to them." The true reply to such a question presented itself suddenly to the mind of Gertrude, with terrible reality. But to come to an explanation, to say she was threatened, to relate the unfortunate story--from this her spirit shrank, and she brought herself to the resolution of saying, "I become a nun, freely, from inclination." "How long have you had this intention?" asked the good priest. "I have always had it," said Gertrude, finding it easier after the first step to proceed in falsehood. "But what is the principal motive which has induced you?" The interrogator was not aware of the chord he touched; and Gertrude, making a great effort to preserve the tranquillity of her countenance, amid the tumult of her soul, replied. "The motive is, to serve God, and to fly the perils of the world." "Has there never been any disgust? any--excuse me--caprice? Often trifling causes make impressions which we deem will be perpetual, but the causes cease----" "No, no," replied Gertrude, hastily; "the cause is that which I have said." The vicar, in order to execute his duty fully, persisted in his enquiries, but Gertrude was determined to deceive him. She could not for a moment think of rendering the good man acquainted with her weakness; she knew, indeed, that he could prevent her being a nun, but that this would be the extent of his authority and his protection. When he should be gone, she would still be left alone, to endure fresh trials from her father and the family. Finding, therefore, a uniform answer to all his questions, he became somewhat wearied of putting them, and, concluding that all was as it should be, with many prayers for her welfare, he took his leave. As he crossed the hall he met the prince, and congratulated him on the good dispositions of his daughter. This put an end to a very painful state of suspense and anxiety on the part of the prince; who, forgetting his usual gravity, ran to his daughter, and loaded her with praises, caresses, and promises, and with a tenderness of affection in great measure sincere: such is the inconsistency of the human heart. Then ensued a round of spectacles and diversions, during which we cannot attempt to describe minutely or in order the emotions to which the heart of Gertrude was subjected. The perpetual change of objects, the freedom enjoyed by this change, rendered more odious to her the idea of her prison; still more pungent were the impressions she received in the festivals and assemblies of the city. The pomp of the palaces, the splendour of their furniture, the buzzing and festal clamour of the _conversazione_, communicated to her such an intoxication, such an eager desire for happiness, that she thought she could encounter all the consequences of a recantation, or even suffer death, rather than return to the cold shades of the cloister. But all such resolutions instantly fled as her eyes rested on the austere countenance of the prince. Meanwhile, the vicar of the nuns had made the necessary deposition, and liberty was given to hold a chapter for the acceptation of Gertrude. The chapter was held, and she was received! Wearied out with her long conflicts, she requested immediate admittance, which was readily granted. After a noviciate of twelve days, full of resolves and counter-resolves, the moment arrived when she finally pronounced the fatal "yes," which was to exclude her from the world for ever. But even in the depths of the monastery she found no repose; she had not the wisdom to make a virtue of necessity, but was continually and uselessly recurring to the past. She could not call religion to her aid, for religion had no share in the sacrifice she had made; and heavily and bitterly she bore the yoke of bondage. She hated the nuns, because she remembered their artifices, and regarded them in some measure as the authors of her misfortune; she tyrannised over them with impunity, because they dared not rebel against her authority, and incur the resentment of the powerful lord, her father. Those nuns who were really pious and harmless, she hated for their piety itself, as it seemed to cast a tacit reproach on her weakness; and she suffered no occasion to escape without railing at them as bigots and hypocrites. It might, however, have mitigated her asperity towards them, had she known that the black balls to oppose her entrance had been cast into the urn by their sympathetic generosity. She found, however, one consolation, in the unlimited power she possessed, in being courted and flattered, and in hearing herself called the "signora." But what a consolation! Her soul felt its insufficiency, but had not the courage nor the virtue to seek happiness from the only source where it could be found. Thus she lived many years, tyrannising over and feared by all around her, till an occasion presented itself for a further developement of her habitual, but secret feelings. Among other privileges which had been accorded to her in the monastery, was that of having her apartments on a side of the building little frequented by the other nuns. Opposite to this quarter of the convent was a house, inhabited by a young man, a villain by profession, one of those who, at this period, by their mutual combinations were enabled to set at nought the public laws. His name was Egidio. From his small window, which overlooked the court-yard, he had often seen Gertrude wandering there from listlessness and melancholy. Allured rather than intimidated by the danger and iniquity of the act, he dared one day to speak to her. The wretched girl replied! Then was experienced a new but not unmixed satisfaction; into the painful void of her soul was infused a powerful stimulus, a fresh principle of vitality: but this enjoyment resembled the restoring beverage which the ingenious cruelty of the ancients presented to the criminal, in order to strengthen him to sustain his martyrdom. A change came also over her whole deportment; she was regular, tranquil, endearing, and affable; in such a degree, that the sisters congratulated themselves upon the circumstance, little imagining the true motive, and that the alteration was none other than hypocrisy added to her other defects. This outward improvement, however, did not last long; she soon returned to her customary caprices, and, moreover, was heard to utter bitter imprecations against the cloistral prison, in unusual and unbecoming language. The sisters bore these vicissitudes as well as they could, and attributed them to the light and capricious nature of the signora. For some time it did not appear that the suspicions of any one of them were excited; but one day the signora had been speaking with one of the sisters, her attendant, and reviling her beyond measure for some trifling matter: the sister suffered a while, and gnawed the bit in silence; but finally, becoming impatient, declared that she was mistress of a secret, and could advise the signora in her turn. From this time forward her peace was lost. Not many days after, however, this very sister was missing from her accustomed offices; they sought her in her cell, and did not find her; they called, and she answered not; they searched diligently in every place, but without success. And who knows what conjectures might have arisen, if there had not been found a great opening in the wall of the orchard, through which she had probably made her escape. They sent messengers in various directions to pursue, and restore her, but they never heard of her more! Perhaps they would not have been so unfortunate in their search, if they had dug near the garden wall! Finally, the nuns concluded that she must have gone to a great distance, and because one of them happened to say, she has taken refuge in Holland, "O yes," said they, "she has, without doubt, taken refuge in Holland." The signora did not believe this, but she had certain reasons for encouraging the opinion, and this she did not fail to do. Thus the minds of the nuns became satisfied; but who can tell the torments of the signora's soul? Who can tell how many times a day the image of this sister came unbidden into her mind, and fastened itself there with terrible tenacity? Who can tell how many times she desired to behold the real and living person, for the company of this empty, impassible, terrible shade? Who can tell with what delight she would have heard the very words of the threat repeated in her mental ear, rather than this continual and fantastic murmur of those very words, sounding with a pertinacity of which no living voice could have been capable. It was about a year after this event, that we find Lucy at the monastery, and under the protection of the signora. The reader may remember, that after Agnes and the portress had left the room, the signora and Lucy had entered into conversation alone; the former continued her questions concerning Don Roderick, with a fearlessness which filled the mind of Lucy with astonishment, little supposing that the curiosity of the nuns ever exercised itself upon such subjects. The opinions which were blended with these enquiries, were not less strange; she laughed at the dread which Lucy expressed herself to have of Don Roderick, asking her if he was not handsome; and surmising that Lucy would have liked him very well, if it had not been for her preference of Renzo. When again with her mother, the poor girl expressed her astonishment at such observations from such a source, but Agnes, as more experienced, solved the mystery. "Do not be surprised," said she; "when you have known the world as I have, you will cease to wonder at any thing. The nobility, some more, some less, some one way, some another, have all a little oddity. We must let them talk, especially when we have need of them; we must appear to listen to them seriously, as if they were talking very wisely. Did you not hear how she interrupted me, as if I had uttered some absurdity? I did not wonder at it; they are all so. Notwithstanding that, Heaven be thanked, she seems to have taken a liking to you, and is willing to protect us; and if we would retain her favour, we must let her say that which it shall please her to say." A desire to oblige the superior, the complacency experienced in protecting, the thought of the good opinions which would be the result of a protection thus piously extended, a certain inclination towards Lucy, and also a degree of self-satisfaction in doing good to an innocent creature, in succouring and consoling the oppressed, had really disposed the signora to take to heart the fate of our poor fugitives. The mother and daughter congratulated themselves on their safe and honourable asylum. They would have wished to remain unknown to all; but this, in a convent, was impossible; and one there was, besides, too far interested in obtaining an account of one of the two, stimulated as his passion had been by the opposition he had encountered. We will leave them for the present in their safe retreat, and return to the palace of Don Roderick, at the hour in which he was anxiously expecting the result of his wicked and villanous enterprise. CHAPTER XI. As a pack of blood-hounds, after having in vain tracked the hare, return desponding towards their master, with their ears down, and tails hanging, so, in this night of confusion, returned the bravoes to the palace of Don Roderick, who was pacing, in the dark, the floor of an upper uninhabited chamber. Full of impatience and uncertainty as to the issue of the expedition, and not without anxiety for the possible consequences, his ear was attentive to every sound, and his eye to every movement on the esplanade. This was the most daring piece of villany he had ever undertaken; but he felt that the precautions he had used would preserve him from suspicion. "And who will dare to come here, and ask if she is not in this palace? Should this young fellow do so, he will be well received, I promise him. Let the friar come! yea, let him come. If the old woman presumes so far, she shall be sent to Bergamo. As for the law, I do fear it not; the _podestà_ is neither a boy nor a fool! Pshaw! there's nothing to fear. How will Attilio be surprised to-morrow morning; he will find I am not a mere boaster. But if any difficulty should arise, he'll assist--the honour of all my relatives will be pledged." But these anxious thoughts subsided as he reverted to Lucy.--"She will be frightened to find herself alone, surrounded only by these rough visages: by Bacchus, the most human face here is my own, and she will be obliged to have recourse to me--to entreaty." In the midst of these calculations he heard a trampling of feet, approached the window, and looking out exclaimed, "It is they! But the litter! the devil! where is the litter? Three, five, eight, they are all there; but where is the litter? The devil! Griso shall render me an account of this." He then advanced to the head of the stairs to meet Griso. "Well," cried he, "Signor Bully, Signor Captain, Signor 'Leave it to me!'" "It is hard," said Griso,--"it is hard to meet with reproach, when one has hazarded one's life to perform his duty." "How has it happened? Let us hear, let us hear," said he, as he advanced towards the room, followed by Griso, who related, as clearly as he could, the occurrences of the night. "Thou hast done well," said Don Roderick; "thou hast done all that thou couldst--but to think that this roof harbours a spy! If I discover him I will settle matters for him; and I tell thee, Griso, I suspect the information was given the day of the dinner." "I have had the same suspicion," said Griso; "and if my master discovers the scoundrel, he has only to trust him to me. He has made me pass a troublesome night, and I wish to pay him for it. But there must be, I think, some other cause, which we cannot at present fathom; to-morrow, Signor, to-morrow we will see clear water." "Have you been recognised by any one?" Griso thought not; and after having given him many orders for the morrow, and wishing to make amends for the impetuosity with which he had at first greeted him, Don Roderick said, "Go to rest, poor Griso! you must indeed require it. Labouring all day, and half the night, and then to be received in this manner! Go to rest now; for we may yet be obliged to put your friendship to a severer test. Good night." The next morning Don Roderick sought the Count Attilio, who, receiving him with a laugh, said, "San Martin!" "I will pay the wager," said Don Roderick. "I thought indeed to have surprised you this morning, and therefore have kept from you some circumstances. I will now tell you all." "The friar's hand is in this business," said his cousin, after having heard him through: "this friar, with his playing at bo-peep, and giving advice; I know him for a busybody and a rascal! And you did not confide in me, and tell me what brought him here the other day to trifle with you. If I had been in your place he should not have gone out as he came in, of that be assured." "What! would you wish me to incur the resentment of all the capuchins in Italy?" "In such a moment," said the count, "I should have forgotten there was any other capuchin in the world than this daring rascal; but the means are not wanting, within the pale of prudence, to take satisfaction even of a capuchin. It is well for him that he has escaped the punishment best suited to him; but I take him henceforth under my protection, and will teach him how to speak to his superiors." "Do not make matters worse." "Trust me for once; I will serve you as a relation and a friend." "What do you mean to do?" "I don't know yet; but I will certainly pay the friar. Let me see--the count my uncle, who is one of the secret council, will do the service; dear uncle! How pleased I am when I can make him work for me, a politician of his stamp! The day after to-morrow I will be at Milan, and in some way or other the friar shall have his due." Meanwhile breakfast was brought in, which however did not interrupt the important discussion. Count Attilio interested himself in the cause from his friendship for his cousin, and the honour of the name, according to his notions of friendship and honour; yet he could hardly help laughing every now and then at the ridiculous issue of the adventure. But Don Roderick, who had calculated upon making a master-stroke, was vexed at his signal failure, and agitated by various passions. "Fine stories will be circulated," said he, "of last night's affair, but no matter; as to justice, I defy it: it does not exist; and if it did, I should equally defy it. Apropos, I have sent word this morning to the constable, to make no deposition respecting the affair, and he will be sure to follow my advice; but tattling always annoys me,--it is enough that _you_ have it in your power to laugh at me." "It is well you have given the constable his message," said the count; "this great empty-headed, obstinate proser of a _podestà_ is however a man who knows his duty, and we must be careful not to place him in difficulty. If a fellow of a constable makes a deposition, the _podestà_, however well intentioned, is obliged to----" "But you," interrupted Don Roderick, with a little warmth,--"you spoil my affairs, by contradicting him, and laughing at him on every occasion. Why the devil can't you suffer a magistrate to be an obstinate beast, while in other things that suit our convenience he is an honest man?" "Do you know, cousin," said the count, regarding him with an expression of affected surprise, "do you know that I begin to think you capable of fear? You take the _podestà_ and myself to be in earnest." "Well, well, have not you yourself said that we should be careful?" "Certainly; and when the question is serious, I will show you I am not a boy. Shall I tell you what I will do for you? I will go in person to make the _podestà_ a visit; do you not think he will be pleased with the honour? And I will let him talk by the half hour of the count duke, and the Spanish keeper of the castle, and then I will throw in some remarks about the signor count of the secret council, my uncle; you know what effect this will have. Finally, he has more need of our protection, than you have of his condescension. He knows this well enough, and I shall leave him better disposed than I find him, that you may depend upon." So saying, he took his departure, leaving Don Roderick alone to wait the return of Griso, who had been, in obedience to his orders, reconnoitring the ground, and ascertaining the state of the public mind with regard to the events of the preceding night. He came at last, at the hour of dinner, to give in his relation. The tumult of this night had been so loud, and the disappearance of three persons from the village so mysterious, that strict and indefatigable search would naturally be made for them; and on the other hand, those who were possessed of partial information on the subject were too numerous to preserve an entire silence. Perpetua was assailed every where to tell what had caused her master such a fright, and she, perceiving how she had been deceived by Agnes, and feeling exasperated at her perfidy, had need of a little self-restraint; not that she complained of the deception practised on herself, of that she did not breathe a syllable; but the injury done to her poor master could not pass in silence, and that such an injury should have been attempted by such worthy people! Don Abbondio could command and entreat her to be silent, and she could reply that there was no necessity for inculcating a thing so obvious and proper, but certain it is that the secret remained in the heart of the poor woman as new wine in an old cask, which ferments and bubbles, and if it does not send the bung into the air, works out in foam between the staves, and drops here and there, so that one can drink it, and tell what sort of wine it is. Jervase, who could scarcely believe that for once he knew a little more than others, and who felt himself a man, since he had been an accomplice in a criminal affair, was dying to communicate it. And Tony, however alarmed at the thoughts of further enquiries and investigation, was bursting, in spite of all his prudence, till he had told the whole secret to his wife, who was not dumb. The one who spoke least was Menico, because his parents, alarmed at his coming into collision with Don Roderick, had kept him in the house for several days; they themselves, however, without wishing to appear to know more than others, insinuated that the fugitives had taken refuge at Pescarenico. This report, then, became current among the villagers. But no one could account for the attack of the bravoes: all agreed in suspecting Don Roderick; but the rest was total obscurity. The presence of the three bravoes at the inn was discussed, and the landlord was interrogated; but his memory was, on this point, as defective as ever. His inn, he concluded as usual, was just like a sea-port. Who was this pilgrim, seen by Stefano and Carlandrea, and whom the robbers wished to murder, and had carried off? For what purpose had he been at the cottage? Some said it was a good spirit, come to the assistance of the inmates; others, that it was the spirit of a wicked pilgrim, who came at night to join such companions, and perform such deeds, as he had been accustomed to while living; others, again, went so far as to conjecture that it was one of these very robbers, clothed like a pilgrim; so that Griso, with all his experience, would have been at a loss to discover who it was, if he had expected to acquire this information from others. But, as the reader knows, that which was perplexity to them, was perfect clearness to Griso. He was enabled, therefore, from these various sources, to obtain a sufficiently distinct account for the ear of Don Roderick. He related the attempt upon Don Abbondio, which accounted for the desertion of the cottage, without the necessity of imagining a spy in the palace: he told of their flight, which might be accounted for by the fear of the discovery of their trick upon Don Abbondio, or by the intelligence that their cottage had been broken into, and that they had probably gone together to Pescarenico. "Fled together!" cried Don Roderick, hoarse with rage: "together! and this rascal friar! this friar shall answer it! Griso, this night I must know where they are. I shall have no peace; ascertain if they are at Pescarenico; quick; fly; four crowns immediately, and my protection for ever! this rascal! this friar!" Griso was once more in the field; and on the evening of this very day reported to his worthy master the desired intelligence, and by the following means. The good man by whom the little party had been conducted to Monza, returning with his carriage to Pescarenico at the hour of vespers, chanced to meet, before he reached his home, a particular friend, to whom he related, in great confidence, the good work he had accomplished; so that Griso could, two hours after, inform Don Roderick that Lucy and her mother had taken refuge in a convent of Monza, and that Renzo had proceeded on his way to Milan. Don Roderick felt his hopes revive at this separation; and having, during great part of the night, revolved in his mind the measures for effecting his wicked purpose, he aroused Griso early in the morning, and gave him the orders he had premeditated. "Signor?" said Griso, hesitating. "Well, have I have not spoken clearly?" "If you would send some other----" "How?" "Most illustrious signor, I am ready to sacrifice my life for my master, and it is my duty to do so; but you, you would not desire me to place it in peril?" "Well?" "Your illustrious lordship knows well these few murders that are laid to my account, and----Here I am under the protection of your lordship, and in Milan the livery of your lordship is known, but in Monza _I_ am known. And, your lordship knows, I do not say it boastingly, he who should deliver me up to justice would be well rewarded, a hundred good crowns, and permission to liberate two banditti." "What, the devil!" said Don Roderick, "you are like a vile cur, who has scarce courage to rush at the legs of such as pass by the door; and, not daring to leave the house, keeps himself within the protection of his master." "I think I have given proof, signor," said Griso. "Well?" "Well," resumed Griso, boldly, thus put on his mettle, "your lordship must forget my hesitation; heart of a lion, legs of a hare, I am ready to go." "But you shall not go alone; take with you two of the best; _Cut-face_ and _Aim-well_, and go boldly, and show yourself to be still Griso. The devil! people will be well content to let such faces as yours pass without molestation! And as to the bailiffs of Monza, they must have become weary of life to place it in such danger, for the chance of a hundred crowns! But I do not believe that I am so far unknown there, that the stamp of my service should pass for nothing." Griso, having received ample and minute instructions, took his departure, accompanied by the two bravoes; cursing in his heart the whims of his master. It now became the design of Don Roderick to contrive some way, by which Renzo, separated as he was from Lucy, should be prevented from attempting to return. He thought that the most certain means would be to have him sent out of the state, but this required the sanction of the law; he could, for example, give a colouring to the attempt at the curate's house, and represent it as a seditious act, and through Doctor Azzecca Garbugli give the _podestà_ to understand that it was his duty to apprehend Renzo. But while he thought of the doctor as the man the most suitable for this service, Renzo himself put an end to much further deliberation on the subject by withdrawing himself. Like the boy who drives his little Indian pigs to the fold, whose obstinacy impels them divers ways, and thus obliges him first to apply to one and then to another till he can succeed in penning them all, so are we obliged to play the same game with the personages of our story. Having secured Lucy, we ran to Don Roderick. Him we now quit to give an account of Renzo. After the mournful parting which we have related, he set out, discouraged and disheartened, on his way to Milan. To bid farewell to his home and his country, and what was more, to Lucy! to find himself among strangers, not knowing where to rest his head, and all on account of this villain! When these thoughts presented themselves to the mind of Renzo, he was, for the moment, absorbed by rage and the desire of revenge; but when he recollected the prayer that he had uttered with the good friar in the convent of Pescarenico, his better feelings prevailed, and he was enabled to acquire some degree of resignation to the chastisements of which he stood so much in need. The road lay between two high banks; it was muddy, stony, and furrowed by deep wheel tracks, which, after a rain, became rivulets, overflowing the road, and rendering it nearly impassable. In such places small raised footpaths indicated that others had found a way by the fields. Renzo ascended one of these paths to the high ground, whence he beheld, as if rising from a desert, and not in the midst of a city, the noble structure of the cathedral, and he forgot all his misfortunes in contemplating, even at a distance, this eighth wonder of the world, of which he had heard so much from his infancy. But looking back, he saw in the horizon the notched ridge of mountains, and distinctly perceiving, among them, his own _Resegone_, he gazed at it mournfully a while, and then with a beating heart went on his way; steeples, towers, cupolas, and roofs soon appeared: he descended into the road, and when he perceived that he was very near the city, he accosted a traveller, with the civility which was natural to him, "Will you be so good, sir----" "What do you want, my good young man?" "Will you be so good as to direct me by the shortest way to the convent of the capuchins, where Father Bonaventura resides?" He replied, very affably, "My good lad, there is more than one convent; you must tell me more clearly what and whom you seek." Renzo then took from his bosom the letter of Father Christopher, and presented it to the gentleman, who, after having read it, returned it, saying, "The eastern gate; you are fortunate, young man--the convent you seek is but a short distance from this. Take this path to the left; it is a by-way, and in a little while you will find yourself by the side of a long and low building; that is the _lazaretto_; keep along the ditch that encircles it, and you will soon be at the eastern gate. Enter, and a few steps further on you will see before you an open square with fine elm trees; the convent is there--you cannot mistake it. God be with you!" And accompanying his last words with a kind wave of his hand, he proceeded on his way. Renzo was astonished at the good manners of the citizens to countrymen, not knowing that it was an extraordinary day, a day in which cloaks humbled themselves to doublets. He followed the path which had been pointed out to him, and arrived at the eastern entrance, which consisted of two pilasters, with a roofing above to secure the gates, and on one side was a small house for the toll-gatherer. The openings of the rampart descended irregularly, and their surface was filled with rubbish. The street of the suburb which led from this gate was not unlike the one which now opens from the Tosa gate. A small ditch ran in the midst of it, until within a few steps of the gate, and divided it into two small crooked streets, covered with dust or mud, according to the season. At the place where was, and is still, the collection of houses called the Borghetto, the ditch empties itself into a common sewer, and thence into another ditch which runs along the walls. At this point was a column with a cross oh it, dedicated to _San Dionigi_; to the right and left were gardens enclosed by hedges, and at intervals, small houses inhabited for the most part by washerwomen. Renzo passed through the gate, without being stopped by the toll-gatherer, which appeared to him very remarkable, as he had heard those few of his townsmen, who could boast of having been at Milan, relate wonderful stories of the strict search and close enquiries to which those were subjected who entered its gates. The street was deserted, and if he had not heard the humming of a crowd at a distance, he might have thought he was entering a city which had been abandoned by its inhabitants. As he advanced, he saw on the pavement something scattered here and there, which was as white as snow, but snow at this season it could not be; he touched it, and found that it was flour. "There must be a great plenty in Milan," said he, "if they thus throw away the gifts of God. They give out that famine is every where; this they do to keep poor people abroad quiet." But in a few moments he arrived in front of the column, and saw on the steps of the pedestal certain things scattered, which were not assuredly stones, and which, if they had been on a baker's counter, he would not have hesitated to call loaves of bread. But Renzo dared not so easily trust his eyes, because truly this was not a place for bread. "Let us see what this is," said he, and approaching the column, he took one in his hand; it was, indeed, a very white loaf of bread, such as Renzo was accustomed to eat only on festival days. "It is really bread!" said he, in wonder. "Do they scatter it thus here? And in a year like this? And do they suffer it to lie here, and not take the trouble to gather it? This must be a fine place to live in!" After ten miles of travel, in the fresh air of the morning, the sight of the bread awaked his appetite. "Shall I take it?" said he again. "Poh! they have left it to the dogs; surely, a Christian may take advantage of it; and if the owner should come, I can pay him at any rate." So saying, he put in one pocket that which he had in his hand, took a second, and put it in the other, and a third, which he began to eat, and resumed his way, full of wonder at the strangeness of the incident. As he moved on he saw people approaching from the interior of the city; and his attention was drawn to those who appeared first; a man, a woman, and a boy, each with a load which seemed beyond their strength, and exhibiting each a grotesque appearance. Their clothes, or rather their rags, powdered with meal, their faces the same, and excessively heated; they walked, not only as if overcome by the weight, but as if their limbs had been beaten and bruised. The man supported with difficulty a great bag of flour, which having holes here and there, scattered its contents at every unequal movement. But the figure of the woman was still more remarkable: she had her petticoat turned up, filled with as much flour as it could hold, and a little more; so that from time to time it flew over the pavement. She was, indeed, a grotesque picture, with her arms stretched out to encompass her burden, and staggering under its weight, her bare legs were seen beneath it. The boy held with both hands a basket full of bread on his head, but he was detained behind his parents to pick up the loaves which were constantly falling from it. "If you let another fall, you ugly little dog----" said the mother, in a rage. "I don't let them fall; they fall of themselves. How can I help it?" replied he. "Eh! it's well for thee that my hands are full," resumed the woman. "Come, come," said the man, "now that we have a little plenty, let us enjoy it in peace." Meanwhile there had arrived a company of strangers, and one of them addressed the woman, "Where are we to go for bread?"--"On, on," replied she, and added, muttering, "These rascal countrymen will sweep all the shops and warehouses, and leave none for us." "There is a share for every one, chatterer," said her husband; "plenty, plenty." From all that Renzo saw and heard, he gathered that there was an insurrection in the city, and that each one provided for himself, in proportion to his will and strength. Although we would desire to make our poor mountaineer appear to the most advantage, historical truth obliges us to say that his first sentiment was that of complacency. He had so little to rejoice at, in the ordinary course of affairs, that he congratulated himself on a change, of whatever nature it might be. And for the rest, he, who was not a man superior to the age in which he lived, held the common opinion that the scarcity of bread had been caused by the speculators and bakers, and that any method would be justifiable, of wresting from them the aliment which they cruelly denied to the people. However, he determined to keep away from the tumult, and congratulated himself on the good fortune of having for his friend a capuchin, who would afford him shelter and good advice. Occupied with such reflections, and noticing from time to time as more people came up loaded with plunder, he proceeded to the convent. The church and convent of the capuchins was situated in the centre of a small square, shaded by elm trees; Renzo placed in his bosom his remaining half loaf, and with his letter in his hand, approached the gate and rung the bell. At a small grated window appeared the face of a friar, porter to the convent, to ask "who was there?" "One from the country, who brings a letter to Father Bonaventura, from Father Christopher." "Give here," said the friar, thrusting his hand through the grate. "No, no," said Renzo, "I must give it into his own hands." "He is not in the convent." "Suffer me to enter and wait for him," replied Renzo. "You had best wait in the church," said the friar; "perhaps that may be of service to you. Into the convent you do not enter at present." So saying, he hastily closed the window, leaving Renzo to receive the repulse with the best grace he could. He was about to follow the advice of the porter, when he was seized with the desire to give a glance at the tumult. He crossed the square, and advanced towards the middle of the city, where the disturbance was greatest. Whilst he is proceeding thither, we will relate, as briefly as possible, the causes of this commotion. CHAPTER XII. This was the second year of the scarcity; in the preceding one, the provisions, remaining from past years, had supplied in some measure the deficiency, and we find the population neither altogether satisfied, nor yet starved; but certainly unprovided for in the year 1628, the period of our story. Now this harvest, so anxiously desired, was still more deficient than that of the past year, partly from the character of the season itself (and that not only in the Milanese but also in the surrounding country), and partly from the instrumentality of men. The havoc of the war, of which we have before made mention, had so devastated the state, that a greater number of farms than ordinary remained uncultivated and deserted by the peasants, who, instead of providing, by their labour, bread for their families, were obliged to beg it from door to door. We say a greater number of farms than ordinary, because the insupportable taxes, levied with a cupidity and folly unequalled; the habitual conduct, even in time of peace, of the standing troops (conduct which the mournful documents of the age compare to that of an invading army), and other causes which we cannot enumerate, had for some time slowly operated to produce these sad effects in all the Milanese,--the particular circumstances of which we now speak were, therefore, like the unexpected exasperation of a chronic disease. Hardly had this harvest been gathered, when the supplies for the army, and the waste which always accompanies them, caused an excessive scarcity, and with it its painful but profitable concomitant, a high price upon provisions; but this, attaining a certain point, always creates in the mind of the multitude a suspicion that scarcity is not in reality the cause of it. They forget that they had both feared and predicted it: they imagine all at once that there must be grain sufficient, and that the evil lies in an unwillingness to sell it for consumption. Preposterous as these suppositions were, they were governed by them, so that the speculators in grain, real or imaginary, the farmers, the bakers, became the object of their universal dislike. They could tell certainly where there were magazines overflowing with grain, and could even enumerate the number of sacks: they spoke with assurance of the immense quantity of corn which had been despatched to other places, where probably the people were deluded with a similar story, and made to believe that the grain raised among _them_ had been sent to Milan! They implored from the magistrate those precautions, which always appear equitable and simple to the populace. The magistrates complied, and fixed the price on each commodity, threatening punishment to such as should refuse to sell; notwithstanding this, the evil continued to increase. This the people attributed to the feebleness of the remedies, and loudly called for some of a more decided character; unhappily they found a man that was willing to grant them all they should ask. In the absence of the Governor Don Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova, who was encamped beyond Casale, in Montferrat, the High Chancellor Antonio Ferrer, also a Spaniard, supplied his place in Milan. He considered the low price of bread to be in itself desirable, and vainly imagined that an order from him would be sufficient to accomplish it. He fixed the limit, therefore, at the price the bread would have had when corn was thirty-three livres the bushel; whereas it was now as high as eighty. Over the execution of these laws the people themselves watched, and were determined to receive the benefit of them quickly. They assembled in crowds before the bakers' houses to demand bread at the price fixed; there was no remedy; the bakers were employed night and day in supplying their wants, inasmuch as the people, having a confused idea that the privilege would be transient, ceased not to besiege their houses, in order to enjoy to the utmost their temporary good fortune. The magistrates threatened punishment--the multitude murmured at every delay of the bakers in furnishing them. These remonstrated incessantly against the iniquitous and insupportable weight of the burden imposed on them; but Antonio Ferrer replied, that they had possessed great advantages in times past, and now owed the public some reparation. Finally, the council of ten (a municipal magistracy composed of nobles, which lasted until the ninety-seventh year of the century just elapsed,) informed the governor of the state in which things were, hoping that he would find some remedy. Don Gonzalo, immersed in the business of war, named a council, upon whom he conferred authority to fix a reasonable price upon bread, so that both parties should be satisfied. The deputies assembled, and after much deliberation felt themselves compelled to augment the price of it: the bakers breathed, but the people became furious. The evening preceding the day on which Renzo arrived at Milan, the streets swarmed with people, who, governed by one common feeling, strangers or friends, had intuitively united themselves in companies throughout the city. Every observation tended to increase their rage and their resentment; various opinions were given, and many exclamations uttered; here, one declaimed aloud to a circle of bystanders, who applauded vehemently; there, another more cautious, but not less dangerous, was whispering in the ear of a neighbour or two, that something must and would be done: in short, there was an incessant and discordant din from the medley of men, women, and children, which composed the various assemblages. There was now only required an impetus to set the machine in motion, and reduce words to deeds; and an opportunity soon presented itself. At the break of day little boys were seen issuing from the bakers' shops with baskets on their heads, loaded with bread, which they were about to carry to their usual customers. The appearance of one of these unlucky boys in an assembly of people was like a squib thrown into a gunpowder mill. "Here is bread!" cried a hundred voices at once. "Yes, for our tyrants, who swim in abundance, and wish to make us die in hunger," said one, who drew near the boy, and seizing the basket, cried out, "Let us see." The boy coloured, grew pale, trembled, and would have entreated them to let him pass on, but the words died on his lips; he then endeavoured to free himself from the basket. "Down with the basket" was heard on all sides; it was seized by many hands, and placed on the earth: they raised the napkin which covered it, and a tepid fragrance diffused itself around. "We are Christians also," said one; "and have a right to eat bread as well as other people:" so saying, he took a loaf and bit it; the rest followed his example; and it is unnecessary to add, that in a few moments the contents of the basket had disappeared. Those who had not been able to secure any for themselves were irritated at the sight of their neighbours' gains, and animated by the facility of the enterprise, went in search of other boys with baskets; as many, therefore, as they met were stopped and plundered. Still the number who remained unsatisfied was beyond comparison the greatest, and even the gainers were only stimulated by their success to ampler enterprises; so that simultaneously there was a shout from the crowd of "To the bake-house! to the bake-house!" In the street called the _Corsia de' Servi_ there was, and is still, a bakery of the same name,--a name that signifies in Tuscan the _Shop of the Crutches_, and in Milanese is composed of such barbarous words, that it is impossible to discover their sound from any rule of the language.[4] To this place the throng approached: the shopkeepers were listening to the sad relation of the boys, who had but just escaped with their lives, when they heard a distant murmur, and beheld the crowd advancing. [4] El prestin di scansc. "Shut, shut! quick, quick!" some ran to ask aid from the sheriff; others in haste closed the shop, and barricadoed and secured the doors from within. The throng thickened in front, and cries of "Bread, bread! open, open!" were heard from every quarter. The sheriff arrived with a troop of halberdiers. "Make way, make way, friends! home, home! make way for the sheriff," cried they. The people gave way a little, so that they could draw themselves up in front of the door of the shop. "But, friends," cried the sheriff from this place, "what do you do here? Home, home! have you no fear of God? What will our lord the king say? We do not wish you harm; but go home. There is no good to be gained here for soul or body. Home, home!" The crowd, regardless of his expostulations, pressed forward, themselves being urged on by increasing multitudes behind. "Make them draw back, that I may recover breath," continued he to the halberdiers, "but harm no one--we will endeavour to get into the shop--make them keep back, and knock at the door."--"Back, back," cried the halberdiers, presenting the but-ends of their arms; the throng retreated a little; the sheriff knocked, crying to those within to open; they obeyed, and he and his guard contrived to intrench themselves within the house; then, appearing at a window above, "Friends," cried he, "go home. A general pardon to whoever shall return immediately to their houses." "Bread, bread! open, open!" vociferated the crowd in reply. "You shall have justice, friends; but return to your houses. You shall have bread; but this is not the way to obtain it. Eh! what are you doing below there? At the door of the house! hah! hah! Take care; it is a criminal act. Eh! away with those tools! take down those hands! hah! hah! You Milanese, who are famous throughout the world for your benevolence, who have always been accounted good citi---- Ah! rascals!" This rapid change of style was occasioned by a stone thrown by one of these good citizens at the sheriff's head. "Rascals! rascals!" continued he, closing the window in a rage. The confusion below increased; stones were thrown at the doors and windows, and they had nearly opened a way into the shop. Meanwhile the master and boys of the shop, who were at the windows of the story above, with a supply of stones (obtained probably from the court-yard), threatened to throw them upon the crowd if they did not disperse. Perceiving their threats to be of no avail, they commenced putting them in execution. "Ah! villains! ah! rogues! Is this the bread you give to the poor?" was screamed from below. Many were wounded, two were killed; the fury of the multitude increased; the doors were broken open, and the torrent rushed through all the passages. At this, those within took refuge under the shop floor; the sheriff and the halberdiers hid themselves beneath the tiles; others escaped by the skylights, and wandered upon the roofs like cats. The sight of their prey made the conquerors forget their designs of sanguinary vengeance; some rushed to the chests, and plundered them of bread; others hastened to force the locks of the counter, and took from thence handfulls of money, which they pocketed, and then returned to take more bread, if there should remain any. Others, again, entered the interior magazines, and, throwing out part of the flour, reduced the bags to a portable size; some attacked a kneading trough, and made a booty of the dough; a few had made a prize of a bolting cloth, which they raised in the air as in triumph, and, in addition to all, men, women, and children were covered with a cloud of white powder. While this shop was so ransacked, none of the others in the city remained quiet, or free from danger. But at none had the people assembled in such numbers as to be very daring; in some, the owners had provided auxiliaries, and were on the defensive; in others, the owners less strong in numbers, and more affrighted, endeavoured to compromise matters; they distributed bread to those who crowded around their shops, and thus got rid of them. And these did not depart so much because they were content with the acquisition, as from fear of the halberdiers and officers of justice, who were now scattered throughout the city, in companies sufficient to keep these little bands of mutineers in subjection. In the mean time the tumult and the crowd increased in front of the unfortunate bakery, as the strength of the populace had here the advantage. Things were in this situation, when Renzo, coming from the eastern gate, approached, without knowing it, the scene of tumult. Hurried along by the crowd, he endeavoured to extract from the confused shouting of the throng some more positive information of the real state of affairs. "Now the infamous imposition of these rascals is discovered," said one; "they said there was neither bread, flour, nor corn. Now we know things just as they are, and they can no longer deceive us." "I tell you that all this answers no purpose," said another; "it will do no good unless justice be done to us. Bread will be cheap enough, 'tis true, but they will put poison in it to make the poor die like flies. They have already said we are too numerous, I know they have; I heard it from one of my acquaintances, who is a friend of a relation of a scullion of one of the lords." "Make way, make way, gentlemen, I beseech you; make way for a poor father of a family who is carrying bread to five children!" This was said by one who came staggering under the weight of a bag of flour. "I," said another, in an under tone, to one of his companions, "I am going away. I am a man of the world, and I know how these things go. These clowns, who now make so much noise, will prove themselves cowards to-morrow. I have already perceived some among the crowd who are taking note of those who are present, and when all is over, they will make up the account, and the guilty will pay the penalty." "He who protects the bakers," cried a sonorous voice, which attracted the attention of Renzo, "is the superintendent of provisions." "They are all rogues," said a neighbour. "Yes, but he is the chief," replied the one who had first spoken. The superintendent of provisions, elected every year by the governor from a list of seven nobles formed from the council of ten, was the president of the court of provision, which, composed of twelve nobles, had, with other duties, that of superintending the corn for the citizens. Persons in such a station would naturally, in times of starvation and ignorance, be considered as the authors of all the evil. "Cheats!" exclaimed another; "can they do worse? They have had the audacity to say that the high chancellor is a childish old man, and they wish to take the government into their own hands. We ought to make a great coop, and put them in, to feed upon dry peas and cockleweed, as they would fain have us do." While listening to such observations as the above, Renzo continued to make his way through the crowd, and at last arrived in front of the bakery. On viewing its dilapidated and ruinous state, after the assault just sustained, "This cannot be a good deed," thought he: "if they treat all the bake-houses in this manner, where will they make bread?" From time to time, some were seen issuing from the house, loaded with pieces of chests, or troughs, or a bench, basket, or some other relic of the poor building, and crying, "Make way, make way!" passed through the crowd. These were all carried in the same direction, and it appeared to a place agreed upon. Renzo's curiosity being excited, he followed one who carried a bundle of pieces of board and chips on his shoulder, and found that he took the direction of the cathedral. On passing it, the mountaineer could not avoid stopping a moment to gaze with admiring eyes on the magnificent structure. He then quickened his steps to rejoin him whom he had taken as a guide, and, keeping behind him, they drew near the middle of the square. The crowd was here more dense, but they opened a way for the carrier, and Renzo, skilfully introducing himself in the void left by him, arrived with him in the very midst of the multitude. Here there was an open space, in the centre of which was a bonfire, a heap of embers, the remains of the tools mentioned above; surrounding it was heard a clapping of hands and stamping of feet, the tumult of a thousand cries of triumph and imprecation. He of the boards threw them on the embers, and some, with pieces of half-burnt shovel, stirred them until the flame ascended, upon which their shouts were renewed louder than before. The flame sank again, and the company, for want of more combustibles, began to be weary, when a report spread, that at the Cordusio (a square or cross-way not far from there) they were besieging a bakery: then was heard on all sides, "Let us go, let us go;" and the crowd moved on. Renzo was drawn along with the current, but in the mean while held counsel with himself, whether he had not best withdraw from the fray, and return to the convent in search of Father Bonaventura; but curiosity again prevailed, and he suffered himself to be carried forward, with the determination, however, of remaining a mere spectator of the scene. The multitude passed through the short and narrow street of Pescheria, and thence by the crooked arch to the square de' Mercanti. Here there were very few, who, in passing before the niche that divides towards the centre the terrace of the edifice then called the College of Doctors, did not give a slight glance at the great statue contained in it of Philip II., who even from the marble imposed respect, and who, with his arm extended, appeared to be menacing the populace for their rebellion. This niche is now empty, and from a singular circumstance. About one hundred and sixty years after the events we are now relating, the head of the statue was changed, the sceptre taken from its hand, and a dagger substituted in its place, and beneath it was written _Marcus Brutus_. Thus inserted it remained perhaps a couple of years, until one day, some persons, who had no sympathies with Marcus Brutus, but rather an aversion to him, threw a rope around the statue, pulled it down, and, reducing it to a shapeless mass, dragged it, with many insulting gestures, beyond the walls of the city. Who would have foretold this to Andrea Biffi when he sculptured it? From the square de' Mercanti, the clamorous troop at length arrived at the Cordusio. Each one immediately looked towards the shop; but, instead of the crowd of friends which they expected to find engaged on its demolition, there were but a few, at a distance from the shop, which was shut, and defended from the windows by armed people. They fell back, and there was a murmur through the crowd of unwillingness to risk the hazard of proceeding, when a voice was heard to cry aloud, "Near by is the house of the superintendent of provision; let us do justice, and plunder it." There was a universal acceptance of the proposal, and "To the superintendent's! to the superintendent's!" was the only sound that could be heard. The crowd moved with unanimous fury towards the street where the house, named in such an evil moment, was situated. CHAPTER XIII. The unfortunate superintendent was at this moment painfully digesting his miserable dinner, whilst awaiting anxiously the termination of this hurricane; he was, however, far from suspecting that its greatest fury was to be spent on himself. Some benevolent persons hastened forward to inform him of his urgent peril. The servants, drawn to the door by the uproar, beheld, in affright, the dense mass advancing. While they listened to the friendly notice, the vanguard appeared; one hastily informed his master; and while he, for a moment, deliberated upon flight, another came to say there was no longer time for it; in hurry and confusion they closed and barricadoed the windows and the doors. The howling without increased; each corner of the house resounded with it; and in the midst of the vast and mingled noise was heard, fearfully and distinctly, the blows of stones upon the door. "The tyrant! the tyrant! the causer of famine! we must have him, living or dead!" The poor man wandered from room to room in a state of insupportable alarm, commending himself to God, and beseeching his servants to be firm, and to find for him some way of escape! He ascended to the highest floor, and, from an opening between the garret and the roof, he looked anxiously out upon the street, and beheld it filled with the enraged populace; more appalled than ever, he withdrew to seek the most secure and secret hiding-place. Here, concealed, he listened intently to ascertain if at any time the importunate transport of passion should weaken, if the tumult should in any degree subside; but his heart died within him to hear the uproar continue with aggravated and savage ferocity. Renzo at this time found himself in the thickest of the confusion, not now carried there by the press, but by his own inclination. At the first proposal of blood-shedding, he felt his own curdle in his veins; as to the plundering, he was not quite certain whether it was right or wrong; but the idea of murder caused him unmixed horror. And although he was greatly persuaded that the vicar was the primary cause of the famine, the grand criminal, still, having, at the first movement of the crowd, heard, by chance, some expressions which indicated a willingness to make any effort to save him, he had suddenly determined to aid such a work, and had therefore pressed near the door, which was assailed in a thousand ways. Some were pounding the lock to break it in pieces; others assisted with stakes, and chisels, and hammers; others, again, tore away the plastering, and beat in pieces the wall, in order to effect a breach. The rest, who were unable to get near the house, encouraged by their shouts those who were at the work of destruction; though, fortunately, through the eagerness with which they pressed forward, they impeded its progress. The magistrates, who were the first to have notice of the fray, despatched a messenger to ask military aid of the commander of the castle, which was then called, from the gate, Giovia; and he forthwith detached a troop, which arrived when the house was encompassed with the throng, and undergoing its tremendous assault; and was therefore obliged to halt at a distance from it, and at the extremity of the crowd. The officer who commanded it did not know what course to pursue; at the order to disperse and make way, the people replied by a deep and continued murmur, but no one moved. To fire on the crowd appeared not only savage, but perilous, inasmuch as the most harmless might be injured, and the most ferocious only irritated, and prepared for further mischief; and moreover his instructions did not authorise it. To break the crowd, and go forward with his band to the house, would have been the best, if success could have been certain; but who could tell if the soldiers could proceed united and in order? The irresolution of the commander seemed to proceed from fear: the populace were unmoved by the appearance of the soldiers, and continued their attacks on the house. At a little distance there stood an ill-looking, half-starved old man, who, contracting an angry countenance to a smile of diabolical complacency, brandished above his hoary head a hammer, with which he said he meant to nail the vicar to the posts of his door, alive as he was. "Oh, shame! shame!" exclaimed Renzo. "Shame! would you take the hangman's business out of his hand? to assassinate a Christian? How can you expect God will give us bread, if we commit such iniquity? He will send us his thunders, and not bread!" "Ah! dog! ah! traitor to the country!" cried one who had heard these words, turning to Renzo with the countenance of a demon. "It is a servant of the vicar's disguised like a countryman; it is a spy!" A hundred voices were heard exclaiming, "Who is it? where is he?"--"A servant of the vicar's--a spy--the vicar himself, escaping in the disguise of a peasant!"--"Where is he? where is he?" Renzo would have shrunk into nothingness,--some of the more benevolent contrived to help him to disappear through the crowd; but that which preserved him most effectually was a cry of "Make way, here comes our help, make way!" which attracted the attention of the throng. This was a long scaling ladder, supported by a few persons who were endeavouring to penetrate the living mass, and by which they meant to gain entrance to the house. But, happily, this was not easy of execution; the length of the machine precluded the possibility of its being carried easily through such a multitude; it came, however, just in time for Renzo, who profited by the confusion, and escaped to a distance, with the intention of making his way, as soon as he could, to the convent, in search of Father Bonaventura. Suddenly a new movement began at one extremity, and diffused itself through the crowd:--"Ferrer, Ferrer!" resounded from every side. Some were surprised, some rejoiced, some were exasperated, some applauded, some affirmed, some denied, some blessed, some cursed! "Is he here? It is not true; it is not true. Yes, yes, long live Ferrer, he who makes bread cheap.--No, no! He is here--here in a carriage! Why does he come?--we don't want him.--Ferrer! long live Ferrer! the friend of the poor! he comes to take the vicar prisoner.--No, no, we would revenge _ourselves_, we would fight our own battles; back, back.--Yes, yes, Ferrer! Let him come! to prison with the vicar!" At the extremity of the crowd, on the side opposite to that where the soldiers were, Antonio Ferrer, the high chancellor, was approaching in his carriage, who, probably condemning himself as the cause of this commotion, had come to avert at least its most terrific and irreparable effects, to spend worthily a popularity unworthily acquired. In popular tumults there are always some who, from heated passion, or fanaticism, or wicked design, do what they can to push things to the worst; proposing and promoting the most barbarous counsels, and assisting to stir the fire whenever it appears to slacken. But, on the other hand, there are always those who, perhaps with equal ardour, and equal perseverance, employ their efforts for the production of contrary effects; some led by friendship or partiality for the persons in danger, others without other impulse than that of horror of bloodshed and atrocity. The mass, then, is ever composed of a mixed assemblage, who, by indefinite gradations, hold to one or the other extreme; prompt to rage or compassion, to adoration or execration, according as the occasion presents itself for the developement of either of these sentiments: _life_ and _death_ are the words involuntarily uttered, and with equal facility; and he who succeeds in persuading them that such an one does not deserve to be quartered, has but little more to do, to convince them that he ought to be carried in triumph. While these various interests were contending for superiority in the mob, before the house of the vicar, the appearance of Antonio Ferrer gave instantly a great advantage to the humane, who were manifestly yielding to the greater strength of the ferocious and blood-thirsty. The man himself was acceptable to the multitude, from his having previously favoured their cause, and from his heroic resistance to any arguments against it. Those already favourably inclined towards him were now much more affected by the courageous confidence of an old man, who, without guards or retinue, came thus to confront an angry and stormy multitude. The announcement that his purpose was to take the vicar prisoner, produced at once a wonderful effect; and the fury against that unhappy person, which would have been aggravated by any attempt at defiance, or refusal of concession, now, with the promise of satisfaction, and, to speak in the Milanese fashion, with this bone in the mouth, became in a degree appeased, and gave place to other opposite sentiments, which began to prevail over their minds. The partisans of peace, having recovered breath, aided Ferrer in various ways; those who were near him, while endeavouring by their own to perpetuate the general applause, sought at the same time to keep off the crowd, so as to open a passage for the carriage; others applauded and repeated his words, or such as appeared appropriate to his undertaking and his peril; imposed silence on the obstinately furious, or contrived to turn against _them_ the anger of the fickle assembly. "Who is it that will not say, Long live Ferrer? You don't wish bread to be cheap, then, eh? They are rogues who are not willing to receive justice at the hands of a Christian, and there are some among them who cry louder than the rest, to allow the vicar to escape. To prison with the superintendent! Long live Ferrer! Make way for Ferrer!" The numbers of those who spoke in this manner increasing continually, the numbers of the opposite party diminished in proportion; so that the former, from admonishing, had recourse to blows, in order to silence those who were still disposed to pursue the work of destruction. The menaces and threatenings of the weaker party were of no longer avail; the cause of blood had ceased to predominate, and in its place were heard only the cries of "Prison, justice, Ferrer!" The rebellious spirits were finally silenced: the remainder took possession of the door, in order to defend it from fresh attacks, and also to prepare a passage for Ferrer; and some among them called to those within (openings were not wanting) that succour had arrived, and that the vicar must get ready "to go quickly--to prison--hem! do you hear?" "Is this the Ferrer who helps in making the proclamations?" asked our Renzo of one of his new neighbours, remembering the _vidit Ferrera_ that the doctor had shown him appended to the famous proclamation, and which he had reiterated in his ears with so great a degree of pertinacity. "The same, the high chancellor," replied he. "He is a worthy man, is he not?" "He is more than worthy; it is he who has lowered the price of bread, against the wishes of others in power, and now he comes to carry the vicar to prison, because he has not acted justly." It is unnecessary to say, that Renzo's feelings were immediately enlisted on the side of Ferrer. He was desirous to approach near him, but the undertaking was no easy one; however, with the decision and strength of a mountaineer, he continued to elbow himself through the crowd, and finally reached the side of the carriage. The carriage had already penetrated into the midst of the crowd, but was here suddenly stopped by one of those obstructions, the unavoidable consequence of a journey like this. The aged Ferrer presented, now at one window of his carriage, now at the other, a countenance full of humility, of sweetness, and benevolence; a countenance which he had always kept in reserve for the day in which he should appear before Don Philip IV.; but he was constrained to make use of it on this occasion. He spoke; but the noise and buzzing of so many voices, and the shouts of applause which they bestowed on him, allowed but little of his discourse to be heard. He had recourse also to gestures; now placing his fingers on his lips, to take from thence a kiss, which his enclosed hands distributed to right and left, as if to render thanks for the favour with which the public regarded him; then he extended them, waving them slowly beyond the window as if to entreat a little space; and now again lowering them politely, as if to request a little silence. When he had succeeded in obtaining, in some measure, his last request, those who were nearest to him heard and repeated his words:--"Bread, abundance. I come to do justice; a little space, if you please." Then, as if stifled and suffocated with the press, and the continual buzzing of so many voices, he threw himself back in the carriage, and with difficulty drawing a long breath, said to himself, "_Por mi vida, que de gente_."[5] [5]: Upon my life, what a multitude. "Long live Ferrer; there is no occasion for fear; you are a brave man. Bread! bread!" "Yes, bread, bread," replied Ferrer, "in abundance! _I_ promise you, I do," placing his hand on his heart. "Clear a passage for me," added he, then, in the loudest voice he could command; "I come to carry him to prison, to inflict on him a just punishment;" and he added, in a very low tone, "_Si esta culpable_."[6] Then leaning forward to the coachman, he said hastily, "_Adelante, Pedro, si puedes_."[7] [6] If he is guilty. [7] Go on, Pedro, if you can. The coachman smiled also on the people with an affected politeness, as if he were some great personage; and, with ineffable grace, he waved the whip slowly from right to left, as if requesting his inconvenient neighbours to retire a little on either side. "Be so kind, gentlemen," said he, "a little space, ever so little, just enough to let us pass." Meanwhile the most active and officious employed themselves in preparing the passage so politely requested. Some made the crowd retire from before the horses with good words, placing their hands on their breast, and pushing them gently, "There, there, a little space, gentlemen." Others pursued the same plan at the sides of the carriage, so that it might pass on without damage to those who surrounded it; which would have subjected the popularity of Antonio Ferrer to great hazard. Renzo, after having been occupied for a few moments in admiring the respectable old man, a little disturbed by vexation, overwhelmed with fatigue, but animated by solicitude, embellished, so to speak, by the hope of wresting a fellow-creature from the pains of death,--Renzo, I say, threw away all idea of retreat. He resolved to assist Ferrer in every way that lay in his power, and not to abandon him until he had accomplished his designs. He united with the others to free the way, and he was certainly not one of the least active or industrious. A passage was opened. "Come on, come on," said a number of them to the coachman, retiring in front of the crowd to maintain the passage clear. "_Adelante, presto, con juicio_[8]," said his master also to him, and the carriage moved forward. In the midst of the salutes which he lavished promiscuously on the public, Ferrer, with a smile of intelligence, bestowed particular thanks upon those whom he beheld busily employed for him; more than one of these smiles was directed to Renzo, who, in truth, deserved them richly, serving the high chancellor on this day with more devoted zeal than the most intrepid of his secretaries. The young mountaineer was delighted with his condescension, and proud of the honour of having, as he thought, formed a friendship with Antonio Ferrer. [8] On, on, but be careful. The carriage, once in motion, continued its way with more or less slowness, and not without being frequently brought to a full stop. The space to be traversed was short, but, with respect to the time it occupied, it would have appeared interminable, even to one not governed by the holy motive of Ferrer. The people thronged around the carriage, to right and left, as dolphins around a vessel, hurried forward by a tempest. The noise was more piercing and discordant than that of a tempest itself. Ferrer continued to speak to the populace the whole length of the way. "Yes, gentlemen, bread in abundance. I will conduct him to prison; he shall be punished--_si esta culpable_.[9] Yes, yes, I will order it so; bread shall be cheap. _Asi es._ So it shall, I mean. The king our master does not wish his faithful subjects to suffer from hunger. _Oh, oh! guardaos._[10] Take care that we do not hurt you, gentlemen, _Pedro, adelante, con juicio._[11] Abundance! abundance! a little space, for the love of Heaven! Bread, bread! To prison! to prison! What do you want?" demanded he of a man who had thrust himself partly within the window to howl at him some advice, or petition, or applause, no matter what; but he, without having heard the question, had been drawn back by another, who saw him in danger of being crushed by the wheel. Amidst all this clamour, Ferrer at last gained the house, thanks to his kind auxiliaries. [9] If he is guilty. [10] Oh, oh! take care. [11] On, Pedro, but be careful. Those who had stationed themselves there had equally laboured to procure the desired result, and had succeeded in dividing the crowd in two, and keeping them back, so that between the door and the carriage there should be an empty space, however small. Renzo, who in acting as a scout and a guide had arrived with the carriage, was able to find a place, whence he could, by making a rampart of his powerful shoulders, see distinctly all that passed. Ferrer breathed again on seeing the place free, and the door still shut, or, to speak more correctly, not yet open. However, the hinges were nearly torn from their fastenings, and the panels shivered in many pieces; so that an opening was made, through which it could be seen that what held it together was the bolt, which, however, was almost twisted from its socket. Through this breach some one cried to those within to open the door, another ran to let down the steps of the carriage, and the old man descended from it, leaning on the arm of this benevolent person. The crowd pressed forward to behold him: curiosity and general attention caused a moment's silence. Ferrer stopped an instant on the steps, turned towards them, and putting his hand to his heart, said, "Bread and justice." Clothed in his toga, with head erect, and step assured, he continued to descend, amid the loud applause that rent the skies. In the mean while the people of the house had opened the door, so as to permit the entrance of so desired a guest; taking care, however, to contract the opening to the space his body would occupy. "Quick, quick!" said he, "open, so that I may enter; and you, brave men, keep back the people, do not let them come behind me--for the love of Heaven! Open a way for us, presently.--Eh! eh! gentlemen, one moment," said he to the people of the house; "softly with this door; let me pass. Oh, my ribs, take care of my ribs. Shut now--no, my gown, my gown!" It would have remained caught within the door if Ferrer had not hastily withdrawn it. The doors, closed in the best manner they could be, were nevertheless supported with bars from within. On the outside, those who had constituted themselves the bodyguard of Ferrer worked with their shoulders, their arms, and their voice to keep the place empty, praying from the bottom of their hearts that they would be expeditious. "Quick, quick!" said Ferrer, as he reached the portico, to the servants who surrounded him, crying, "May your excellency be rewarded! What goodness! Great God, what goodness!" "Quick, quick," repeated Ferrer, "where is this poor man?" The superintendent descended the stairs half led, half carried by his domestics, and pale as death. When he saw who had come to his assistance, he sighed deeply, his pulse returned, and a slight colour tinged his cheek. He hastened to meet Ferrer, saying, "I am in the hands of God and your excellency; but how go hence? we are surrounded on all sides by people who desire my death." "_Venga con migo usted_[12], and take courage. My carriage is at the door; quick, quick!" He took him by the hand, and, continuing to encourage him, led him towards the door, saying in his heart, however, _Aqui esta el busilis! Dios nos valga!_[13] [12] Come with me. [13] Now for the difficult point! God help us! The door, opened; Ferrer appeared first; the superintendent followed, shrinking with fear, and clinging to the protecting toga, as an infant to the gown of its mother. Those who had maintained the space free raised their hands and waved their hats; making in this manner a sort of cloud to conceal the superintendent from the view of the people, and to enable him to enter the carriage, and place himself out of sight. Ferrer followed, and the carriage was closed. The people drew their own conclusions as to what had taken place, and there arose, in consequence, a mingled sound of applauses and imprecations. The return of the carriage might seem to be even more difficult and dangerous; but the willingness of the public to suffer the superintendent to be carried to prison was sufficiently manifest; and the friends of Ferrer had been busy in keeping the way open whilst he was at the house, so that he could return with a little more speed than he went. As it advanced, the crowd, ranged on either side, closed and united their ranks behind it. Ferrer, as soon as he was seated, whispered the superintendent to keep himself concealed in the bottom of the carriage, and not to let himself be seen, for the love of Heaven; there was, however, no need of this advice. It was the policy of the high chancellor, on the contrary, to attract as much of the attention of the populace as possible, and during all this passage, as in the former, he harangued his changeable auditory with a great quantity of sound, and very little sense; interrupting himself continually to breathe into the ear of his invisible companion a few hurried words of Spanish. "Yes, gentlemen, bread and justice. To the castle, to prison under my care. Thanks, thanks, a thousand thanks! No, no, he shall not escape! _Por ablanderlos._[14] It is too just, we will examine, we will see. I wish you well. A severe punishment. _Esto lo digo por su bien._[15] A just and moderate price, and punishment to those who oppose it. Keep off a little, I pray you. Yes, yes; I am the friend of the people. He shall be punished; it is true; he is a villain, a rascal. _Perdone usted._[16] He shall be punished, he shall be punished--_si esta culpable_.[17] Yes, yes; we will make the bakers do that which is just. Long live the king! long live the good Milanese, his faithful subjects! _Animo estamos ya quasi afuera._"[18] [14] It is to coax them. [15] I say that for your good. [16] Pardon me. [17] If he is guilty. [18] Courage, we are almost out of danger. They had, in fact, passed through the thickest of the throng, and were rapidly advancing to a place of safety; and now Ferrer gave his lungs a little repose, and looking forward, beheld the succours from Pisa, those Spanish soldiers, who had at last rendered themselves of service, by persuading some of the people to retire to their homes, and by keeping the passage free for the final escape. Upon the arrival of the carriage, they made room, and presented arms to the high chancellor, who bowed to right and left; and to the officer who approached the nearest to salute him he said, accompanying his words with a wave of his hand, "_Beso à usted las manos_[19]," which the officer interpreted to signify, You have given me much assistance! [19] I kiss your hands. He might have appropriately added, _Cedant arma togæ_; but the imagination of Ferrer was not at this moment at liberty to occupy itself with quotations, and, moreover, they would have been addressed to the wind, as the officer did not understand Latin. Pedro felt his accustomed courage revive at the sight of these files of muskets, so respectfully raised; and recovering entirely from his amazement, he urged on his horses, without deigning to take further notice of the few, who were now harmless from their numbers. "_Levantese, levantese, estamos afueras_[20]," said Ferrer to the superintendent, who, re-assured by the cessation of the tumult, the rapid motion of the carriage, and these words of encouragement, drew himself from his corner, and overwhelmed his liberator with thanks. The latter, after having condoled with him on account of his peril, and rejoiced at his deliverance, exclaimed, "_Ah! que dira de esto su excelencia_[21], who is already weary of this cursed Casale, because it will not surrender? _que dira el conde duque?_[22] who trembles if a leaf makes more noise than usual? _Que dira el rey nuestro señor?_[23] who must necessarily be informed of so great a tumult? And is it at an end? _Dios lo sabe._"[24]--"Ah, as for me, I will have nothing more to do with it," said the superintendent. "I wash my hands of it. I resign my office into the hands of your excellency, and I will go and live in a cavern on a mountain, as a hermit, far, very far from this savage people." [20] Rise, rise, we are beyond danger. [21] What will his excellency say to this? [22] What will the count duke say? [23] What will the king our master say? [24] God knows. "_Usted_[25] will do that which is best _por el servicio de su majestad_," replied the high chancellor, gravely. [25] You--for his majesty's service. "His majesty does not desire my death," replied the superintendent. "Yes, yes, in a cavern, in a cavern far from these cruel people." It is not known what became of this project, as, after conducting the poor man in safety to his castle, our author makes no farther mention of him. CHAPTER XIV. The crowd began to disperse; some went home to take care of their families, some wandered off from the desire to breathe more freely, after such a squeeze, and others sought their acquaintances, to chat with them over the deeds of the day. The other end of the street was also thinning, so that the detachment of Spanish soldiers could without resistance advance near the superintendent's house. In front of it there still remained, so to speak, the dregs of the commotion; a company of the seditious, who, discontented with "so lame and impotent a conclusion," of that which promised so much, muttered curses at the disappointment, and united themselves in knots to consult with each other on the possibility of yet attempting something; and, to afford themselves proof that this was in their power, they attacked and pounded the poor door, which had been propped up anew from within. At the arrival of the troop, however, their valour diminished, and without further consultation they dispersed, leaving the place free to the soldiers, who took possession, in order to serve as a guard to the house and road. But the streets and small squares of the vicinity were full of little gatherings; where three or four individuals stopped, twenty were soon added to them; there was a confused and constant babbling; one narrated with emphasis the peculiar incidents of which he had been the witness, another related his own feats, another rejoiced that the affair had ended so happily, loaded Ferrer with praises, and predicted serious consequences to the superintendent; to which another still replied, that there was no danger of it, because wolves do not eat wolves; others, in anger, muttered that they had been duped, and that they were fools to allow themselves to be deceived in this manner. Meanwhile the sun had set, and twilight threw the same indistinct hue over every object. Many, fatigued with the day, and wearied with conversing in the dark, returned to their houses. Our hero, after having assisted the carriage as far as was necessary, rejoiced when he beheld it in safety, and as soon as it was in his power left the crowd, so that he might, once more, breathe freely. Hardly had he taken a few steps in the open air, when he experienced a re-action after such excitement, and began to feel the need of food and repose; he therefore looked upward on either side, in search of a sign, which might hold out to him the prospect of satisfying his wants, as it was too late to think of going to the convent. Thus, walking with his eyes directed upward, he stumbled on one of these groups, and his attention was attracted by hearing them speak of designs and projects for the morrow; it appeared to him that he, who had been such a labourer in the field, had a right to give his opinion. Persuaded from all he had witnessed during the day, that, in order to secure the success of an enterprise, it was only necessary to gain the co-operation of the populace, "Gentlemen," cried he, in a tone of exordium, "allow me to offer my humble opinion. My humble opinion is this; it is not only in the matter of bread that iniquity is practised: and since we have discovered to-day, that we have only to make ourselves heard, to obtain justice, we must go on, until we obtain redress for all their other knavish tricks--until we compel them to act like Christians. Is it not true, gentlemen, that there is a band of tyrants who reverse the tenth commandment; who commit injuries on the peaceful and the poor, and in the end make it out that they act justly? And even when they have committed a greater villany than usual, they carry their heads higher then ever. There are some such even in Milan." "Too many," said a voice. "I say it, I do," resumed Renzo; "it has even reached our ears. And then the thing speaks for itself. By way of illustration, let us suppose one of those to whom I allude to have one foot in Milan, and the other elsewhere; if he is a devil there, will he be an angel here? Tell me, gentlemen, have you ever seen one of these people with a countenance like Ferrer's? But what renders their practices more wicked, I assure you that there are printed proclamations against them, in which their evil deeds are clearly pointed out, and a punishment assigned to each, and it is written, '_Whoever he be, ignoble and plebeian_, &c. &c.' But go now to the doctors, scribes, and pharisees, and demand justice according to the proclamation; they listen to you as the pope does to rogues: it is enough to make an honest man turn rascal! It is evident, that the king and those who govern would willingly punish the villains, but they can do nothing, because there is a league among them. We must break it up, then; we must go to-morrow to Ferrer, who is a good worthy man; it was plain how delighted he was to-day to find himself among the poor; how he tried to hear what was said to him, and how kindly he answered them. We must go, then, to Ferrer, and inform him how things are situated; and I, for my part, can tell him something that will astonish him; I, who have seen with my own eyes a proclamation, with ever so many coats of arms at the head of it, and which had been made by three of the rulers; their names were printed at the bottom, and one of these names was Ferrer; this I saw with my own eyes! Now this proclamation was exactly suited to my case; so that I demanded justice from the doctor, since it was the desire of these three lords, among whom was Ferrer; but in the eyes of this very doctor, who had himself shown me this fine proclamation, I appeared to be a madman. I am sure that when this dear old man shall hear these doings, especially in the country, he will not let the world go on in this manner, but will quickly find some remedy. And then, they themselves, if they issue proclamations, they should wish to see them obeyed; for it is an insult, an epitaph, with their _name_, if counted for nothing. And if the nobility will not lower their pretensions, and cease their evil doings, we must compel them as we have done to-day. I do not say that he should go in his carriage to take all the rascals to gaol--it would need Noah's ark for that; he must give orders to those whose business it is, not only at Milan but elsewhere, to put the proclamations in force, to enter an action against such as have been guilty of those iniquities, and where the edict says, 'Prison,' then prison; where it says, 'The galleys,' the galleys; and to say to the various _podestà_ that they must conduct themselves uprightly, or they shall be dismissed and others put in their place, and then, as I say, we will be there also to lend a helping hand, and to command the doctors to listen to the poor, and talk reasonably. Am I not right, gentlemen?" Renzo had spoken so vehemently, that he had attracted the attention of the assembly, and, dropping by degrees all other discourse, they had all become his listeners. A confused clamour of applause, a "bravo! certainly! assuredly! he is right, it is but too true," followed his harangue. Critics, however, were not wanting. "It is a pretty thing, indeed," said one, "to listen to a mountaineer! they are all lawyers!" and he turned on his heel. "Now," muttered another, "every barefooted fellow will give his opinion, and with this rage for meddling, we shall at last not have bread at a low price, and that is all that disturbs us." Compliments, however, were all that reached the ears of Renzo; they seized his hands, and exclaimed,-- "We will see you again to-morrow." "Where?" "On the square of the cathedral." "Yes, very well. And something shall be done, something shall be done." "Which of these good gentlemen will show me an inn, where I may obtain refreshment and repose for the night?" said Renzo. "I am the one for your service, worthy youth," said one, who had listened to the sermon very attentively, but had not yet opened his mouth; "I know an inn, that will suit you exactly; I will recommend you to the keeper, who is my friend, and moreover a very honest man." "Near by?" "Not very far off." The assembly dissolved; and Renzo, after many shakes of the hand, from persons unknown, followed his guide, adding many thanks for his courtesy. "It is nothing, it is nothing," said he; "one hand washes the other, and both the face. We ought to oblige our neighbour." As they walked along, he put many questions to Renzo, by way of discourse. "It is not from curiosity, nor to meddle with your affairs, but you appear to be fatigued. From what country do you come?" "All the way from Lecco, all the way from Lecco." "All the way from Lecco! Are you from Lecco?" "From Lecco; that is to say, from the province." "Poor youth! From what I have understood of your discourse, it appears you have been hardly treated." "Ah! my dear and worthy man, I have been obliged to use much skill in speaking, not to make the public acquainted with my affairs; but--it is enough that they will one day be known, and then---- But I see here a sign, and, by my faith, I don't wish to go farther." "No, no; come to the place I told you of, it is but a short distance off. You will not be well accommodated here." "Oh yes. I am not a gentleman accustomed to delicacies; any thing to satisfy my hunger; and a little straw will answer my purpose: that which I have most at heart is to find them both very soon, under Providence!" And he entered a large gate, from which hung a sign of the _Full Moon_. "Well, I will conduct you here, since you desire it," said the unknown; and Renzo followed him. "There is no necessity for troubling you longer," replied Renzo; "but," he added, "do me the favour to go in, and take a glass with me." "I accept your obliging offer," said he; and preceding Renzo as being more accustomed to the house, he entered a little court-yard, approached a glass door, and opening it, advanced into the kitchen with his companion. It was lighted by two lamps suspended from the beam of the ceiling. Many people, all busy, were seated on benches which surrounded a narrow table, occupying almost all one side of the apartment; at intervals napkins were spread, and dishes of meat; cards played, and dice thrown; and bottles and wine-glasses amid them all. _Berlinghe_, _reali_, and _parpagliole_[26], were also scattered in profusion over the table, which, could they have spoken, would probably have said, "We were this morning in a baker's counter, or in the pocket of some spectator of the tumult, who, occupied with public affairs, neglected the care of private affairs." The confusion was great; a boy ran to and fro busily engaged in attending to the dinner and gaming tables; the host was seated on a low bench under the mantle-tree of the chimney, apparently occupied in tracing figures in the ashes with the tongs, but in reality deeply attentive to all that passed around him. He raised his head at the sound of the latch, and turned towards the new comers. When he saw the guide, "Curse the fellow," said he to himself, "he must always be under my feet, when I wish him at the devil!" Casting a rapid glance towards Renzo, he continued, "I know you not; but if you come with such a hunter, you are either a dog or a hare. When you shall have spoken a few words, I shall know which of the two you are." [26] Different coins. Nothing of this mute soliloquy could be traced, however, in the countenance of the host, who was motionless as a statue: his eyes were small and without expression, his face fat and shining, and his short and thick beard of a reddish hue. "What are your orders, gentlemen?" said he. "First, a good flagon of wine," said Renzo, "and then something to eat." So saying, he threw himself on a bench at one end of the table, and uttered a loud and sonorous _Ah!_ as if to say, "It is a good thing to sit down after having been so long on one's feet." But recollecting the table at which he had been seated the evening before with Agnes and Lucy, he sighed deeply. The host brought the wine; his companion had seated himself opposite to him; Renzo filled a glass for him, saying, "To wet your lips," and another for himself, which he swallowed at a draught. "What can you give me to eat?" said he, addressing the host. "A good piece of stewed meat," replied he. "Well, sir, a good piece of stewed meat." "You shall be served immediately," said the host, and calling to the boy, "Serve this gentleman. But," resumed he, turning again to Renzo, "I have no bread to-day." "As for bread," said Renzo, in a loud voice, and laughing, "Providence has provided that." And he drew forth the third and last loaf, picked up under the cross of _St. Dionigi_, and holding it up, cried, "Here is the bread of Providence!" At this exclamation many of the company turned round, and seeing this trophy in the air, one of them cried, "Bread for ever at a low price!" "At a low price!" said Renzo; "_gratis et amore_." "Better still, better still." "But," added he, "I do not wish these gentlemen to think evil of me. I have not stolen it--I found it on the ground; and if I could find the owner, I am ready to pay him." "Bravo, bravo!" cried they, laughing louder still, not imagining that he was in earnest. "They think that I jest, but it is really so," said Renzo to his guide, and turning the bread in his hand; "see how they have formed it--you would call it a cake, but they were so packed one on the other. If there were any with the crust a little tender, one might know they were fresh." Then devouring three or four mouthfulls of the bread, he washed them down with another glass of wine, adding, "The bread will not go down alone--my throat was never so dry--a glorious uproar we made!" "Prepare a good bed for this young man," said the guide; "he is going to pass the night here." "Do you wish to sleep here?" said the host to Renzo, approaching the table. "Certainly; I shall be content with any bed, provided the sheets are white; for although poor, I am accustomed to cleanliness." "Oh, as to that----" said the host. So saying, he went to his counter, which was in a corner of the kitchen, and returned, bringing in his hand paper, pen, and ink. "What does this mean?" swallowing a piece of the stew which had been placed before him, and smiling with an air of surprise; "is that the white sheet?" The host, without replying, placed the paper on the table, and himself in an attitude to write, and with the pen in his hand, leaning towards Renzo, he said, "Do me the favour to tell me your name and country." "What!" said Renzo, "what has this to do with the bed?" "I do my duty," said the host, looking at the guide. "We are obliged to give an exact account of all who lodge at our house. _Name and surname, and from what country they are; why they are here; if they have arms; and how long they expect to remain in the city._ These are the very words of the proclamation." Before answering, Renzo emptied another glass; it was the third, but I fear for the future we shall not find it possible to count them. "Ah, ah!" exclaimed he, "you have the proclamation. Well, I pride myself on being a doctor of laws, and I know what importance is attached to proclamations." "I speak in earnest," said the host, looking again at the mute companion of Renzo; and returning to his desk, he drew from it a large sheet of paper, which he unfolded before Renzo, as an exact copy of the proclamation. "Ah! there it is!" cried he, quickly emptying the contents of the glass which he held in his hand. "Ah! there it is! the fine sheet! I rejoice to see it. I know these arms; I know what this pagan head means with a noose around its neck." (The proclamations of that time were headed by the arms of the governor, and in those of Don Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova was seen a Moorish king, chained by the throat.) "This face means, Command who can, and obey who will. When the Signor Don----shall have been sent to the galleys--well, well, I know what I would say--I have seen another leaf just like this. When he shall have so taken measures that an honest young man can, without molestation, marry her to whom he is betrothed, and by whom he is beloved, then I will tell my name to this face, and will give him a kiss in the bargain. I may have very good reasons for not telling my name; it's a fine thing, truly! And if a robber, who might have under his command a band of villains, because if he were alone----" He hesitated a moment, finishing the phrase with a gesture, and then proceeded, "If a robber wished to know who I was, in order to do me some evil turn, I ask you if that face would move from the paper to help me. Am I obliged to tell my business? Truly, this is something new. Suppose, for instance, that I have come to Milan to confess--I would wish to do it to a capuchin father, and not to the landlord of an inn." The host kept silence, looking at the guide, who appeared not to notice any thing that passed. Renzo, it grieves us to say, swallowed another glass, and continued, "I will give you reasons enough to satisfy you, my dear host; if those proclamations which speak favourably of good Christians are worth nothing, those which speak unfavourably are worth less than nothing. Take away, then, all these encumbrances, and bring in exchange another flagon, because this one is broken." So saying, he struck it lightly with his hand, adding, "Don't you hear how it is cracked?" The discourse of Renzo had again attracted the general attention of the company, and when he concluded, there was a general murmur of applause. "What must I do?" said the host, looking at the strange companion, who was, however, no stranger to him. "Yes, yes," cried many of the company, "this countryman is right; they are vexatious impositions. New laws to-day! new laws to-day!" The stranger took advantage of the noise to say to the host, in a tone of reproach for his too abrupt demand, "Leave him to his own way a little; do not raise a disturbance." "I have done my duty," said the host aloud, "and secured myself," continued he, lowering his voice; "and that is all I care for." He removed the pen, ink, and paper, and gave the empty flagon to the boy. "Bring the same kind of wine," said Renzo, "for it suits my taste exactly; and we will send it to sleep with the other, without asking its name, surname, nor what is its business, nor whether it is going to remain long in this city." "Of the same kind," said the host to the boy, giving him the flagon, and returning to his seat by the chimney. "He is no other than a hare," thought he, raking in the ashes. "And in what hands art thou fallen, poor silly youth! If you will drown, drown; but the host of the _Full Moon_ will not go halves with thy folly." Renzo returned thanks to his guide, and to all those who had taken his side. "Worthy friends," said he, "I know that honest people support each other." Then striking the table, and placing himself in the attitude of an orator, "Is it not an unheard of thing," cried he, "that those who govern must always introduce paper, pen, and ink? Always the pen in hand! Such a passion for the pen!" "Eh! young and worthy stranger! would you know the reason?" said one of the gamesters, laughing. "Let us hear it," replied Renzo. "The reason is, as these lords eat geese, they have so many quills, they know not what to do with them." "Oh, oh!" said Renzo, "you are a poet! You have poets here, then? I have also a vein for poetry, and I sometimes make verses--but it is when things go on well." To comprehend this witticism of poor Renzo, it is necessary to be informed, that in the eyes of the vulgar of Milan, and more particularly in its environs, the name of poet did not signify, as among cultivated people, a sublime genius, an inhabitant of Pindus, a pupil of the muses, but a whimsicality and eccentricity in discourse and conduct, which had more of singularity than sense; and an absurd wresting of words from their legitimate signification. "But I will tell the true reason," added Renzo, "it is because they themselves hold the pen, and, therefore, they do not record their own words; but let a poor man speak, they are very attentive, and in a moment, _there_ it is, in black and white for some future occasion. They are cunning, also; and when they want to perplex a poor youth, who does not know how to read, but who has a little----I know well----" beating his forehead with his hand, and pointing to it with his finger, to make himself understood; "and when they perceive that he begins to comprehend the difficulty, they throw into the conversation some Latin, to make him lose the thread of their argument, to put him at his wits' end, to confuse his brains. This custom must be broken up: to-day, every thing has been done after the people's fashion, without paper, pen, and ink. To-morrow, if they know how to conduct themselves, we shall do still better, without hurting a hair of any one's head; all in the way of justice." In the mean while some of the company had engaged again in play, and some in eating; some went away, others came in their place. The unknown guide continued to remain; and without appearing to have any business to detain him, lingered to talk a little more with Renzo, and resumed the conversation about bread. "If I had the control, I would order things better," said he. "What would you do?" said Renzo, endeavouring to exhibit every appearance of attention. "What would I do? Every one should have bread--the poor as well as the rich." "Ah! that is right." "See how I would do. I would fix a reasonable rate within the ability of every one; then bread should be distributed according to the number of mouths, because there are gluttons who seize all they can get for themselves, and leave the poor still in want. We must then divide it. And how shall we do this? Why in this way. Give a ticket to every family in proportion to the mouths, to authorise them to get bread from the bakers. For example: they give me a ticket expressed in this manner; Ambrose Fusella, by trade a sword cutler, with a wife and four children, all old enough to eat bread (mind that); he must be furnished with so much bread at such a price. But the thing must be done in order, always with regard to the number of mouths. For instance, they should give you a ticket for--your name?" "Lorenzo Tramaglino," said the young man, who, enchanted with the project, did not reflect that it all depended on pen, ink, and paper; and that the first point towards its success was to collect the names of the persons to be served. "Very well," said the unknown; "but have you a wife and children?" "I ought to have--children, no--not yet--but a wife--if people had acted as their duty required----" "Ah, you are single! then have patience; they will only give you a smaller portion." "That is but just. But if soon, as I hope--by the help of God--enough; suppose I have a wife." "Then the ticket must be changed, and the portion increased, as I have said, according to the mouths," replied the unknown, rising. "That would be very good," cried Renzo, thumping the table with his fist; "and why don't they make such a law?" "How can I tell you? meanwhile I wish you a good night, as my wife and children must have been expecting me this long while." "Another drop, another drop," filling his glass, and endeavouring to force him to sit down again; "another drop!" But his friend contrived to disengage himself; and leaving Renzo, pouring forth a torrent of entreaties and reproaches, he departed. Renzo continued to talk until he was in the street, and then fell back on his seat. He looked at the glass which he had filled to the brim; and seeing the boy pass before the table, he beckoned to him, as if he had something particular to communicate. He pointed to the glass, and with a tone of solemnity said, "See there! I prepared it for that worthy man; you see it is full, as it should be for a friend; but he would not have it. Sometimes people have singular ideas; however, I have shown my good will; but now, since the thing is done, it must not be lost." So saying, he emptied it at one draught. "I understand," said the boy, moving off. "You understand too, do you? It is true, when the reasons are sufficient----" Here we have need of all our love of truth to induce us to pursue faithfully our hero's history; at the same time this same impartiality leads us to inform the reader, that this was his first error of a similar character; and precisely because he was so unaccustomed to merry-making did this prove so fatal. The few glasses of wine which he swallowed so rapidly, contrary to his custom, partly to cool his throat, and partly from an exaltation of spirits, which deprived him of the power of reflection, went immediately to his head. Upon an habitual drinker it would have produced no visible effect; our author observes this, that "temperate and moderate habits have this advantage, that the more a man practises them, the more he finds a departure from them to be disagreeable and inconvenient; so that his fault itself serves as a lesson to him for the future." However this may be, when these first fumes had mounted to the brain of Renzo, wine and words continued to flow without rule or reason. He felt a great desire to speak, and for a while his words were arranged with some degree of order, but by little and little he found it difficult to form a connected sentence. The thoughts which presented themselves to his mind were cloudy and indistinct, and his expressions, in consequence, unconnected and obscure: to relieve his perplexity, by one of those false instincts which, under similar circumstances, lead men to the accomplishment of their own ruin, he had recourse to the flagon. We will relate only a few of the words which he continued to ejaculate, during the remainder of this miserable evening. "Ah! host, host," resumed he, following him with his eye around the table, or gazing at him where he was not, and taking no notice of the noise of the company, "host that thou art! I cannot swallow it--this request of name, surname, and business. To a peaceable youth like me! you have not behaved well! what satisfaction, what advantage, what pleasure--to put a poor youth on paper? Am I not right--speak, gentlemen? Hosts should stand by good fellows. Listen, listen, host, I wish to make a comparison for you--for the reason----They laugh, do they? I am a little gay, I know; but the reasons, I say, are just. Tell me, if you please, who is it that brings custom to your house? Poor young men, is it not? Do these lords, they of the proclamations, ever come here to wet their lips?" "They are all water-drinkers," said one who sat near Renzo. "They wish to keep possession of their understandings, so as to tell lies skilfully," added another. "Ah!" cried Renzo, "that is the poet who spoke. Then hear my reasons. Answer me, host. Ferrer, who is the best of all of them, has he ever been here to drink the health of any one, and to spend so much as a farthing? And this dog of an assassin, this Don ----? I must be silent, because I am too much in the humour for babbling. Ferrer, and Father Crr----, I know, are two honest men. But there are few honest men. The old are worse than the young; and the young--are much worse than the old. I am glad there was no blood shed, these are things we must leave to the hangman. Bread! Oh yes, for that I have had many a thrust, but I have also given some. Make way! Abundance! _vivat!_ And Ferrer too--some words in Latin,--_Si es baraos trapolorum._ Cursed fault! _vivat!_ justice! bread! Ah, those are good words! We had need of them. When we heard that cursed ton, ton, ton, and then again, ton, ton, ton, the question was not of flight; but hold the signor curate to--I, I know what I am thinking of." At these words he hung down his head, and remained for a time as if absorbed by some new imagination; then, sighing deeply, he raised it again, and looked up with such a mournful and silly expression, as excited the amusement of all around. In short, he became the laughingstock of the whole company. Not that they were all perfectly sober, but, to say truth, they were so in comparison with poor Renzo. They provoked and angered him with silly questions, and with mock civilities; sometimes he pretended to be offended, then, without noticing them at all, spoke of other things; then replied, then interrogated, and always wide of the mark. By good fortune, in his folly, he seemed from instinct to avoid pronouncing the names of persons; so that the one most deeply graven in his memory was not uttered. We should have been sorry ourselves if this name, for which we feel so much love and respect, had passed from mouth to mouth, and been made a theme of jesting by these vulgar and degraded wretches. CHAPTER XV. The host, seeing that the game was about to be carried too far, approached Renzo, and entreating the others to be quiet, endeavoured to make him understand that he had best go to bed. But our mountaineer could think of nothing but _name_, _surname_, and _proclamations_; yet the words _bed_ and _sleep_, repeated frequently in his ear, made at last some impression, and producing a sort of lucid interval, made him feel that he really had need of both. The little sense that remained to him enabled him to perceive that the greater part of the company had departed; and with his hands resting on the table before him, he endeavoured to stand on his feet; his efforts would have been, however, unavailing, without the assistance of the host, who led him from between the table and the bench, and taking a lantern in one hand, managed partly to lead and partly to drag him to the stairs, and thence up the narrow staircase to the room designed for him. At the sight of the bed, he endeavoured to look kindly upon the host; but his eyes at one time sparkled, at another disappeared, like two fireflies: he endeavoured to stand erect, and stretched out his hand to pat the shoulder of his host in testimony of his gratitude; but in this he failed: however he did succeed in saying, "Worthy host, I see now that you are an honest man; but I don't like your rage for _name_ and _surname_. Happily I am also----" The host, who did not expect to hear him utter one connected idea, and who knew from experience how prone men in his situation were to sudden changes of feeling, wishing to profit by this lucid interval, made another attempt. "My dear fellow," said he, in a tone of persuasion, "I have not intended to vex you, nor to pry into your affairs. What would you have had me do? There is a law, and if we innkeepers do not obey it, we shall be the first to be punished; therefore it is better to conform. And after all, as regards yourself, what is it? A hard thing, indeed! just to say two words. It is not for them, but to do me a favour. Now, here, between ourselves, tell me your _name_, and then you shall go to bed in peace." "Ah, rascal! knave!" cried Renzo, "do you dare to bring up this cursed _name_ and _surname_ and _business_ again?" "Hush! you fool! and go to bed," said the host. But Renzo continued to bellow, "I understand it, you belong to the league. Wait, wait, till I settle matters for you;" and turning to the door, he bellowed down the stairs, "Friends! the host is of the----" "I spoke in jest," cried the host, pushing him towards the bed, "in jest; did you not perceive I spoke in jest?" "Ah, in jest; now you talk reasonably. Since you said it in jest--they are just the thing to make a jest of----." And he fell on the bed. "Undress yourself quickly," said the host; and adding his assistance to his advice, the thought occurred to him, to ascertain if there were any money in Renzo's pockets, as on the morrow it would fall into hands from which an innkeeper would have but little chance of recovering it; he therefore hazarded another attempt, saying to Renzo, "You are an honest youth, are you not?" "Yes, an honest youth," replied Renzo, still endeavouring to rid himself of his clothes. "Well, settle this little account with me now, because to-morrow I am obliged to leave home on business." "That's right," said Renzo "I am honest. But the money--we must find the money----!" "Here it is," said the host; and calling up all his patience and skill, he succeeded in obtaining the reckoning. "Lend me your hand to finish undressing, host," said Renzo; "I begin to comprehend, do you see, that----I am very sleepy." The host rendered him the desired service, and covering him with the quilt, bade him "Good night." The words were scarcely uttered before poor Renzo snored. The host stopped to contemplate him a moment by the light of his lantern; "Mad blockhead!" said he to the poor sleeper, "thou hast accomplished thy own ruin! dunces, who want to travel over the world, without knowing where the sun rises, to entangle themselves with affairs they know nothing of, to their own injury and that of their neighbour!" So saying, he left the apartment, having locked the door outside, and calling to his wife, told her to take his place in the kitchen, "Because," said he, "I must go out for a while, thanks to a stranger who is here, unhappily for me;" he then briefly related the annoying circumstance, adding, "And now keep an eye on all, and above all be prudent. There is below a company of dissolute fellows, who, between drink and their natural disposition, are very very free of speech. Enough--if any of them should dare----" "Oh! I am not a child! I know what I ought to do. It could never be said----" "Well, well. Be careful to make them pay. If they talk of the superintendant of provision, the governor, Ferrer, and the council of ten, and the gentry, and Spain and France, and other follies, pretend not to hear them, because, if you contradict them, it may go ill with you now, and if you argue with them, it may go ill with you hereafter; and take care, when you hear any dangerous remarks, turn away your head, and call out 'Coming, sir.' I will endeavour to return as soon as possible." So saying, he descended with her into the kitchen, put on his hat and cloak, and taking a cudgel in his hand, departed. As he walked along the road, he resumed the thread of his apostrophe to poor Renzo. "Headstrong mountaineer!"--for that Renzo was such, had been manifest from his pronunciation, countenance, and manners, although he vainly tried to conceal it,--"on a day like this, when by dint of skill and prudence I had kept my hands clean, you must come at the end of it to spoil all I have done! Are there not inns enough in Milan, that you must come to mine! at least, if you had been alone, I would have winked at it for to-night, and made you understand matters to-morrow. But no; my gentleman must come in company, and, to do the thing better, in company with an informer." At this moment he perceived a patrole of soldiers approaching; drawing on one side to let them pass, and eyeing them askance, he continued, "There go the fool-punishers. And thou, great booby, because thou saw'st a few people making a little noise, thou must think the world was turned upside down; and on this fine foundation thou hast ruined thyself and would have ruined me; I have done all I could to save thee, now thou must get thyself out of trouble. As if I wanted to know thy name from curiosity! What was it to me whether it were Thaddeus or Bartholomew? I have truly great satisfaction in taking a pen in my hand! I know well enough that there are proclamations which are disregarded; just as if we had need of a mountaineer to tell us that! And dost thou not know, thou fool! what would be done to a poor innkeeper, who should be of thy opinion (since upon them the proclamation bear hardest), and should not inform himself of the name of any one who did him the favour to lodge at his house. _Under penalty of whoever of the above-said hosts, tavern keepers, and others, of three hundred crowns_,--behold three hundred crowns hatched; and now to spend them well,--_two thirds to be applied to the royal chamber, and the other third to the accuser or informer. And in case of inability, five years in the galleys, and greater pecuniary and corporal punishments, at the discretion of his Excellency._ Very much obliged for such favours, indeed!" He ended his soliloquy, finding himself at his destined point, the palace of the _Capitano di Giustizia_. There, as in all the offices of the secretaries, there was a great deal of business going on; on all sides, persons were employed in issuing orders to ensure the peace of the following day, to take from rebellion every pretext, to cool the audacity of those who were desirous of fresh disorders, and to concentrate power in the hands of those accustomed to exercise it. The number of the soldiers who protected the house of the superintendant was increased; the ends of the streets were defended by large pieces of timber thrown across them; the bakers were ordered to bake bread without intermission; expresses were sent to all the surrounding villages, with orders to send corn into the city; and at every baker's some of the nobility were stationed, to watch over the distribution, and to restrain the discontented by fair words and the authority of their presence. But to give, as they said, a blow to the hoop, and another to the cask, and increase the efficacy of their caresses by a little awe, they took measures to seize some of the seditious, and this was the principal duty of the _Capitano di Giustizia_. His blood-hounds had been in the field since the commencement of the tumult; and this self-styled Ambrose Fusella was a police officer in disguise, who, having listened to the famous sermon of Renzo, concluded him to be fair game. Finding that he had but newly arrived from his village, he would have conducted him immediately to prison, as the safest inn in the city; but in this, as we have seen, he did not succeed. He could, however, carry to the police certain information of his _name_, _surname_, and _country_, besides many other conjectures; so that when the host arrived to tell what he knew of Renzo, their knowledge was already more precise than his. He entered the accustomed hall, and gave in his deposition, that a stranger had come to lodge at his house, who would not tell his name. "You have done your duty in giving us the information," said a notary, laying down his pen; "but we know it already." "That is very singular!" thought the host; "you must have a great deal of cunning." "And we know also," continued the notary, "this famous name." "The devil! the name also. How do they know that?" thought the host again. "But," resumed the notary, with a serious air, "you do not tell all." "What is there more to tell?" "Ah! ah! we know well that this man carried to your house a quantity of stolen bread--bread acquired by theft and sedition." "A man comes with bread in his pocket; am I to know where he got it? if it was on my death-bed, I can say, I only saw him have one loaf." "Thus it is! you are always excusing and defending yourselves! If we were to take your word for it, you are all honest people. How can you prove that this bread was honestly acquired?" "Why need I prove it? it is nothing to me. I am an innkeeper." "You cannot, however, deny, that this, your customer, had the audacity to complain of the proclamations, and make indecent jokes on the arms of his Excellency." "Pardon me, signor; how could he be my customer, when I never saw him before? It was the devil, saving your presence, who sent him to my house. If I had known him, there would have been no need of asking his name, as your honour knows." "However, in your inn, and in your presence, seditious and inflammatory conversation has been held; your customers have been riotous, clamorous, and complaining." "How would your honour expect me to pay attention to the absurdities uttered by a parcel of brawlers. I attend only to my own affairs, for I am a poor man. And then your honour knows, that those who are lavish of their tongue, are often lavish of their fists, especially when there are many together." "Yes, yes, they may have their way now; to-morrow--to-morrow, we will see if the heat is dislodged from their brains. What do you think?" "I don't know." "That the mob will become masters in Milan?" "Certainly!" "You shall see, you shall see." "I understand--I know the king will be always the king; but he who has taken any thing will keep it. Naturally a poor father of a family has no desire to give back; your honours have the power; that belongs to you." "Have you still some people at your house?" "A number." "And this your customer, what is he about? Is he still labouring to excite the people to sedition?" "This stranger, your honour means; he is gone to sleep." "Then you have a number? Well, be careful not to let them go away." "Am I to play the constable?" thought the host, but said nothing. "Return to your house, and be prudent," resumed the notary. "I have always been prudent. Your honour can say that I have never made any disturbance." "Well, well; but do not think that justice has lost its power." "I! Good heavens! I think nothing. I am an innkeeper." "The same old tune. Have you nothing more to say?" "What else would your honour have me say? Truth is one." "Well; you have done enough for to-day: but to-morrow, we will see; you must give more full information, and answer all questions that shall be put to you." "What information have I to give? I know nothing; I have hardly brains enough to attend to my own affairs." "Take care not to let him go away." "I hope your honour will remember that I have done my duty. Your honour's humble servant." On the following morning, Renzo was still in a sound and deep sleep, when he was suddenly roused by a shaking of the arms, and by a voice at the foot of the bed, crying, "Lorenzo Tramaglino!" He sat up, and rubbing his eyes, perceived a man clothed in black standing at the foot of his bed, and two others, one on each side of the bolster. Between surprise, sleep, and the fumes of the wine, he remained a moment stupified, believing himself to be still dreaming. "Ah! you have heard at last! Lorenzo Tramaglino," said the man in black, the notary of the preceding evening. "Up, up; get up, and come with us." "Lorenzo Tramaglino!" said Renzo Tramaglino. "What does this mean? What do you want with me? Who has told you my name?" "Few words, and get up quickly," said one of the men at his side, seizing him by the arm. "Oh! oh! what violence is this?" cried Renzo, drawing away his arm. "Host! oh! host!" "Shall we carry him off in his shirt?" said one of the officers; turning to the notary. "Did you hear what he said?" said he to Renzo; "we will do so, if you do not rise quickly, and come with us!" "Why?" demanded Renzo. "You will hear that from the _Capitano di Giustizia_." "I! I am an honest man; I have done nothing; I am astonished----" "So much the better for you! so much the better for you! In two words you will be dismissed, and then go about your affairs." "Let me go now, then; there is no reason why I should go before the _capitano_." "Come, let us finish the business," said an officer. "We shall be obliged to carry him off!" said the other. "Lorenzo Tramaglino!" said the notary. "How does your honour know my name?" "Do your duty," said he to the men, who attempted to draw Renzo from the bed. "Oh! don't touch me! I can dress _myself_." "Dress yourself, then, and get up," said the notary. "I will," said Renzo, and he gathered his clothes, scattered here and there on the bed, like the fragments of a shipwreck on the coast. Whilst engaged in the act of dressing, he continued, "but I will not go to the _Capitano di Giustizia_; I have nothing to do with him: since you put this affront on me, I wish to be conducted to Ferrer; I am acquainted with him; I know he is an honest man, and he is under obligations to me." "Yes, yes, my good fellow, you shall be conducted to Ferrer," replied the notary. In other circumstances he would have laughed heartily at the absurdity of such a proposition, but he felt that this was not a moment for merriment. On his way to the inn, he had perceived so many people abroad, such a stirring--some collecting in small quantities, others gathering in crowds--that he was not able to determine whether they were the remnants of the old insurrection not entirely suppressed, or the beginnings of a new one. And now, without appearing to do so, he listened, and thought the buzzing increased. He felt haste to be of importance; but he did not dare to take Renzo against his will, lest, finding himself in the street, he might take advantage of public sympathy, and endeavour to escape from his hands. He made a sign to his officers to be patient, and not exasperate the youth; whilst he himself sought to appease him with fair words. Renzo meanwhile began to have a confused recollection of the events of the preceding day, and to comprehend that the _proclamations_, _name_, and _surname_, were the cause of all this trouble; but how the devil did this man know his name? And what the devil had happened during the night, that they should come to lay hands on one, who, the day before, had such a voice in the assembly, which could not be yet dispersed, because he also heard a growing murmur in the street. He perceived also the agitation which the notary vainly endeavoured to conceal; therefore, to feel his pulse, and clear up his own conjectures, as well as to gain time, he said, "I comprehend the cause of all this, it is on account of the _name_ and _surname_. Last night, 'tis true, I was a little merry; these hosts have such treacherous wine and, you know, often when wine passes through the channel of speech, it will have its say too. But if that is all the difficulty, I am ready to give you every satisfaction. Besides, you know my name already. Who the devil told it to you?" "Bravo! my good fellow, bravo!" replied the notary in a tone of encouragement. "I see you are in the right, and you must believe that I am also. I am only following my trade. You are more tractable than others. It is the easiest way to get out of the difficulty quickly. With such an accommodating spirit, you will soon be set at liberty; but my hands are tied, and I cannot release you now, although I would wish to do so. Be of good courage, and come on boldly. When they see who you are--and I will tell--Leave it to me--quick, quick, my good fellow!" "Ah! you cannot! I understand," said Renzo. "Shall we pass by the square of the cathedral?" "Where you choose. We will go the shortest road, that you may be the sooner at liberty," said he, inwardly cursing his stars at being unable to follow up this mysterious demand of Renzo's, which might have been made the subject of a hundred interrogatories. "Miserable that I am!" thought he, "here is a fellow fallen into my hands, who likes no better fun than to prate. Were there but a little time, he would confess all in the way of friendly discourse, without the aid of rope. Ay! and without perceiving it too. But that he should fall into my hands at such an unlucky moment.--Well, it can't be helped," thought he, while turning his head and listening to the noise without, "there is no remedy: this will be a hotter day than yesterday!" That which gave rise to this last thought was an extraordinary uproar in the street, which tempted him to open the window and reconnoitre. There was a concourse of citizens, who, at the order given them by the patrole to separate, had resisted for a while, and then moved off, on all sides, in evident discontent. It was a fatal sign to the eyes of the notary, that the soldiers treated them with much politeness. He closed the window, and remained for a moment undecided, whether he should conduct the enterprise to an end, or, leaving Renzo in the care of the bailiffs, go himself to the _Capitano di Giustizia_, and relate the whole difficulty. "But," thought he, "he will tell me I am a poltroon, a coward, and that it was my business to execute orders. We are at the ball; we must dance, it seems. Cursed crowd! what a damned business!" He, however addressed Renzo in a tone of kind entreaty, "Come, my worthy fellow, do let us be off, and make haste." Renzo, however, was not without his thoughts. He was almost dressed, with the exception of his doublet, into the pockets of which he was fumbling. "Oh!" said he, regarding the notary significantly, "Oh! I had a letter, and some money here, once, sir!" "When these formalities are over, all shall be faithfully restored to you. Come, come, let us be off." "No, no, no!" said Renzo, shaking his head, "that won't do: I must have what belongs to me, sir. I will render an account of my actions, but I must have what belongs to me." "I will show you that I have confidence in you; here they are. And now make haste," said the notary, drawing from his bosom the sequestered goods, and consigning them, with something like a sigh, to Renzo, who muttered between his teeth, as he put them in his pocket, "You have so much to do with thieves, that you have learned the trade!" "If I get you once safe out of the house, you shall pay this with interest," thought the notary. As Renzo was putting on his hat, the notary made a sign to the officers, that one of them should go before, and the other follow the prisoner; and as they passed through the kitchen, and whilst Renzo was saying, "And this blessed host, where has he fled?" they seized, one his right hand, the other the left, and skilfully slipped over his wrists, hand-fetters, as they were called, which, according to the customs of the times, consisted of a cord, a little longer than the usual size of the fist, which had at the two ends two small pieces of wood. The cord encircled the wrist of the patient; the captor held the pegs in his hand, so that he could, by twisting them, tighten the cord at will, and this enabled him, not only to secure the prisoner, but also to torment him, if restless; and, to ensure this more effectually, the cord was full of knots. Renzo struggled and exclaimed, "What treachery is this? to an honest man!" But the notary, who had fair words prepared for every occasion, said, "Be patient, they only do their duty. What would you have? It is a mere ceremony. We cannot treat people as we would wish. If we did not obey orders, we should be worse off than you. Be patient." As he spoke, the two operators twisted the pegs; Renzo plunged like a skittish horse upon the bit, and cried, "Patience, indeed!" "But, worthy young man," said the notary, "it is the only way to come off well in these affairs. It is troublesome, I confess, but it will soon be over; and since I see you so well disposed, I feel an inclination to serve you, and will give you another piece of advice for your good, which is, to pass on quietly, looking neither to right nor left, so as to attract notice. If you do this, no one will pay any attention to you, and you will preserve your honour. In one hour you will be at liberty. There are so many other things to be done, that your business will soon be despatched; and then I will tell them----. You shall have your liberty, and no one will know you have been in the hands of the law. And you," pursued he, addressing his followers in a tone of severity, "do him no harm, because I take him under my protection. You must do your duty, I know; but remember that this is a worthy and honest youth, who in a little while will be at liberty, and who has a regard for his honour. Let nothing appear but that you are three peaceable men, walking together. You understand me!" and smoothing his brow, and twisting his face into a gracious smile, he said to Renzo, "A little prudence,--do as I tell you; do not look about; trust to one who has your interest at heart! And now let us begone." And the convoy moved forward. But of all these fine speeches Renzo believed not a word. He understood very well the fears that prevailed over the mind of the notary, and his exhortations only served to confirm him in his purpose to escape; and to this end to act directly contrary to the advice given him. No one must conclude from this that the notary was an inexperienced knave. On the contrary, he was master of his trade, but at the present moment his spirits were agitated. At another time he would have ridiculed any one for pursuing the measures he had now himself employed, but his agitation had deprived him of his accustomed cunning and self-possession. We would recommend, therefore, to all knaves by trade, to maintain on all occasions their _sang froid_, or, what is better, never to place themselves in difficult circumstances. Renzo, then, hardly found himself in the street, when he began to look around, and listen eagerly. There was not, however, an extraordinary concourse of people; and although on the countenance of more than one passer-by you could read an expression of discontent and sedition, yet each one pursued his way in quietness. "Prudence! prudence!" murmured the notary behind him. "Your honour, young man, your honour." But when Renzo heard three men, who were approaching, talk of a bakery, of flour concealed, of justice, he began to make signs to them, and cough in such a manner, as indicated any thing but a cold. They looked attentively at the convoy, and stopped; others who had passed by, turned back, and kept themselves a short distance off. "Take care; be prudent, my good fellow; do not spoil all; your honour, your reputation," said the notary in a low voice, but unheeded by Renzo. The men again twisted the pegs. "Ah! ah! ah!" cried the prisoner. At this cry the crowd thickened around; they gathered from all parts of the street. The convoy was stopped! "He is a wicked fellow," said the notary in a whisper to those nearest him; "he is a thief taken in the fact. Draw back, and let justice have its way." But Renzo perceived that the occasion was favourable: he saw the officers pale and almost dead with fright. "If I do not help myself now," thought he, "so much the worse for me;" and raising his voice, he cried, "My friends; they are carrying me off, because I cried, 'Bread! and justice!' yesterday. I have done nothing; I am an honest man! Help me, do not abandon me, my friends." He was answered by a light murmur, which soon changed to an unanimous cry in his favour. The officers ordered, requested, and entreated those nearest them to go off, and leave their passage free; but the crowd continued to press around. The officers, at the sight of the danger, left their prisoner, and endeavoured to lose themselves in the throng, for the purpose of escaping without being observed; and the notary desired heartily to do the same, but found it more difficult on account of his black cloak. Pale as death, he endeavoured, by twisting his body to work his way through the crowd. He studied to appear a stranger, who, passing accidentally, had found himself in the crowd like a bit of straw in the ice; and finding himself face to face with a man who looked at him more intently and sternly than the rest, he composed his countenance to a smile, and asked, "What is this confusion?" "Oh! you ugly raven!" replied he. "A raven! a raven!" resounded from all sides. To the cries they added threats, so that, finally, partly with his own legs, partly with the elbows of others, he succeeded in obtaining a release from the squabble. CHAPTER XVI. "Fly, fly, honest man! Here is a convent, there is a church; this way! this way!" was shouted to Renzo from every side. The advice was not necessary; from the moment that he conceived the hope of extricating himself from the talons of the police, he had determined, if he succeeded, to depart immediately, not only from the city, but the dukedom. "Because," thought he, "however they may have procured it, they have my name on their books; and with name and surname, they will take me again if they choose to do so." As to an asylum, he was determined not to have recourse to it, but in the last extremity. "Because," thought he, "if I can be a bird of the woods, I will not be a bird of the cage." He then determined to seek his cousin Bartolo in the territory of Bergamo, who had often urged him to establish himself there; but to find the road was the difficulty! In a part of the city entirely unknown to him, he did not know which gate led to Bergamo; nor if he had known it, would he have been able to find it. He thought a moment of asking directions from his liberators, but he had for some time had strange suspicions with regard to the obliging sword-cutler, father of four children; so that he did not dare openly declare his design, lest, amidst the crowd, there might be another of the same stamp. He determined therefore to hasten from this spot, and ask the way when he should arrive at a place where there would be nothing to fear from the curiosity or the character of others. He said to his liberators, "Thanks, a thousand thanks! friends! may Heaven reward you!" and quitting the crowd through a passage made for him, he ran down lanes and narrow streets, without knowing whither. When he thought himself sufficiently removed from the scene of peril, he slackened his steps, and began to look around for some countenance which might inspire him with confidence enough to make his enquiries. But the enquiry would of itself be suspicious; time pressed; the police, recovering from their fright, would, without doubt, pursue their fugitive; the noise of his escape might have reached even there; and in so great a multitude Renzo might pass many judgments in physiognomy before he should find one which seemed favourable. After suffering many to pass whose appearance was unpropitious, he at last summoned courage to address a man, who seemed in such haste, that Renzo deemed he would not hesitate to answer his questions, in order to get rid of him. "Will you be so good, sir, as to tell me through which gate to go to Bergamo?" "To Bergamo? through the eastern gate. Take this street to the left; you will come to the square of the cathedral; then----" "That is enough, sir; I know the way after that; God reward you!" And he went on hastily by the way pointed out to him, and arrived at the square of the cathedral. He crossed it, passed by the remains of the extinguished bonfire, at which he had assisted the day before; the bake-house of the Crutches half demolished, and still guarded by soldiers; and finally, reaching the convent of the capuchins, and looking at the door of the church, he said to himself, sighing, "The friar gave me good advice yesterday, when he told me it would be best for me to wait patiently in the church." He stopped a moment, and seeing that many persons guarded the gate through which he had to pass, he felt a repugnance to confront them; and hesitated whether it would not be his wisest plan to seek this asylum and deliver his letter. But he soon resumed courage, saying, "A bird of the woods as long as I can be. Who knows me? Certainly the police cannot be waiting for me at all the gates." He looked around, therefore, and perceiving that no one appeared to notice him, and, whistling as he went, as if from carelessness, he approached the gate. A company of custom-house officers, with a reinforcement of Spanish soldiers, were stationed precisely at its entrance, to keep out persons from abroad, who might be attracted, by the noise of the tumult, to rush into the city; their attention was therefore directed beyond the gate, and Renzo, taking advantage of this, contrived, with a quiet and demure look, to pass through, as if he were some peaceful traveller; but his heart beat violently. He pursued a path on the right, to avoid the high road, and for some distance did not dare to look behind him. On! on! he passed hamlets and villages, without asking the name of them; hoping that, whilst he was removing from Milan, he was approaching Bergamo. He looked behind him from time to time, while pressing onwards, and rubbing first one wrist, then the other, which bore the red marks from the painful pressure of the manacles. His thoughts were a confused medley of repentance, anxiety, and resentment; and he wearily retraced the circumstances of the preceding night, to ascertain what had plunged him into these difficulties, and above all, how they came to know his name. His suspicions rested on the cutler, whose curiosity he well remembered, and he had also a confused recollection that after his departure he had continued to talk, but with whom, his memory did not serve to inform him. The poor fellow was lost in these speculations; the past was a chaos. He then endeavoured to form some plan for the future; but all other considerations were soon swallowed up in the necessity which he was under of ascertaining the road; and to do this, he was obliged to address himself to some one. He was reluctant to name Bergamo, lest it might excite suspicion: why it should, he knew not; but his mind was a prey to vague apprehensions of evil. However, he could not do otherwise; and, as at Milan, he accosted the first passenger whose appearance promised favourably. "You are out of the road," replied the traveller; and directed him to a path by which he might regain the high road. Renzo thanked him, and followed the direction, with the intention, however, of keeping the high road in sight, without exposing himself to hazard by travelling on it. The project was more easily conceived than executed; in pursuing a zigzag course, from right to left, and left to right, and endeavouring still to keep the general direction of the way, he had probably traversed twelve miles, when he was only six miles from Milan; and as to Bergamo, it was a chance if he was not farther from it, than when he began his journey. He reflected that this would never do, and he must seek some other expedient; that which occurred to him, was to inform himself of the name of some village near the frontier, which he would reach by crossroads, and asking the way to that, be enabled to avoid the mention of this dreaded Bergamo, which seemed to him so likely to cause distrust and suspicion. Whilst he was reflecting on the best method of pursuing this plan without awakening conjectures, he saw a green branch hanging from the door of a lonely cottage, some distance beyond a village; and as he had for some time felt the need of refreshment, he thought he could now kill two birds with one stone, and therefore entered the humble dwelling. There was no one within, but an old woman, with her distaff by her side, and spindle in her hand. He asked for a mouthful to eat; she offered him some _stracchino_[27], and some wine. He accepted the food, but refused the wine; of which he felt an intuitive horror since the events of the preceding night. The old woman then began to assail her guest with enquiries of his trade, his journey, and of the news from Milan, of the disturbances of which she had heard some rumours. To her question, "Where are you going?" he replied, "I am obliged to go to many places, but if I find a moment of time, I should like to stop awhile at the village on the road to Bergamo, near the frontier, but in the territory of Milan--what do they call it?--There must be some village there," thought he. [27] A kind of soft cheese. "Gorgonzola, you mean," replied the old woman. "Gorgonzola," repeated Renzo, as if to fix it in his memory, "is it far from here?" "I don't know for certain; perhaps ten or twelve miles. If one of my children were here, they could tell you." "And do you think I could reach there by keeping on these pleasant paths, without taking the high road, where there is so much dust? such a quantity of dust! It is so long since we have had any rain!" "I think you can. You can ask at the first village to the right,"--naming it. "Thank you," said Renzo, carrying off the remains of his bread, which was much coarser than what he had lately eaten from the foot of the Cross of St. Dionysius; and paying the bill, departed. He took the road to the right, and with the name of Gorgonzola in his mouth, from village to village, he succeeded in reaching it an hour before sunset. He had on his way intended to halt here for some more substantial refreshment; he felt also the need of sleep; but rather than indulge himself in this, he would have dropped dead on the road. His design was to inform himself, at the inn, of the distance from the Adda, to contrive to obtain some direction to the cross paths which led to it, and after having eaten, to go on his way. Born at the second source of this river, he had often heard that at a certain point, and for some distance, its waters marked the confines of the Milanese and Venetian states. He had no precise idea of the spot where this boundary commenced, but, at this time, the principal matter was to reach the river. Provided he could not accomplish it by daylight, he decided to travel as long as the darkness and his strength would permit, and then to wait the approach of day in a field, among brambles, or any where, where it should please God, an inn excepted. After advancing a few steps in Gorgonzola, he saw a sign, and entering the house, asked the host for a mouthful to eat, and a half-pint of wine, his horror of which had been subdued by his excessive fatigue. "I pray you to be in haste," added he, "for I must continue my journey immediately." And he said this, not only because it was the truth, but from fear that the host, imagining he was going to lodge there, might ask him his _name_, _surname_, and _whence he came_, and _what was his business_! The host replied that he should have what he requested, and Renzo seated himself at the end of a bench near the door. There were in the room some idle people of the neighbourhood, who, after having discussed the great news from Milan of the preceding day, wondered how affairs were going on; as the circumstances of the rebellion had left their curiosity unsatisfied as to its termination; a sedition neither suppressed nor successful; suspended rather than terminated; an unfinished work; the end of an act rather than of a drama. One of them detached himself from the company, and, approaching the new-comer, asked him, "If he came from Milan?" "I?" said Renzo, endeavouring to collect his thoughts for a reply. "You; if the enquiry be lawful." Renzo, contracting his mouth, made a sort of inarticulate sound, "Milan, from what I hear--from what they say--is not a place where one would go now, unless necessity required it." "The tumult continues, then?" asked he, with eagerness. "One must have been on the spot, to know if it were so," said Renzo. "But do you not come from Milan?" "I come from Liscate," replied the youth, who, in the mean while had prepared his answer. He had, indeed, come from that place, as he had passed through it. He had learned its name from a traveller who had mentioned it, as the first village on his road to Gorgonzola. "Oh!" said his interrogator, "I wish you had come from Milan. But patience--and did you hear nothing from Milan at Liscate?" "It is very possible that others knew something," replied our mountaineer; "but I have heard nothing." The inquisitive person rejoined his companions. "How far is it from this to the Adda?" said Renzo to the host, in a low careless tone, as he set before him something to eat. "To the Adda? to cross the river?" "That is--yes--to the Adda." "Would you cross the bridge of Cassano, or the ferry of Canonica?" "Where are they?--I ask simply from curiosity." "Ah! I name them because they are the places chosen by honest people, who are willing to give an account of themselves." "That is right. And how far are they?" "It must be about six miles." "Six miles! I did not know that," said he. "But," resuming an air of indifference, "if one wished to shorten the distance, are there not other places, where one might cross?" "Certainly," replied the host, looking at him with an expression of malignant curiosity, which restrained Renzo from any further enquiry. He drew the dish towards him, and looking at the decanter the host had put on the table, said, "Is this wine pure?" "As gold. Ask all the inhabitants of the village, and hereabouts. But you can judge yourself." So saying, he joined the other customers. "Curse the hosts!" said Renzo, in his heart. "The more I know of them, the worse I find them." He began to eat, listening at the same time to the conversation, to learn what was thought, in this place, of the events in which he had acted so principal a part; and also to discover if there were not some honest man among the company, of whom a poor youth might ask his way without fear of being compelled in return to tell his business. "But," said one, "to-morrow, at the latest, we shall know something from Milan." "I am sorry I did not go to Milan this morning," said another. "If you will go to-morrow, I will go with you," said two or three. "That which I wish to know," replied the first speaker, "is, if these gentlemen of Milan will think of poor people abroad, or if they will only think of obtaining advantages for themselves. You know how they are. The citizens are proud--they think only of themselves; the villagers are treated as if they were not Christians." "We have mouths also, to eat, and to give our reasons," said another in a voice as timid as the remark was daring, "and since the thing has begun----" But he did not think to finish his sentence. "It is not only in Milan, that they conceal grain," said another, with a mysterious air--when suddenly they heard approaching the trampling of a horse. They ran to the door, and recognising the person who arrived, they went out to receive him. It was a merchant of Milan, who, going frequently to Bergamo on business, was accustomed to pass the night at this inn, and as he had almost always found there the same company, he had formed an acquaintance with all of them. They crowded around him--one held the bridle, another the stirrup. "You are welcome." "And I am glad to find you all here." "Have you made a good journey?" "Very good. And you all, how do you do?" "Well, well. What news from Milan?" "Ah! there is great news truly," said the merchant, dismounting, and leaving his horse in the care of a boy. "But," continued he, entering the house with the company, "perhaps you know by this time better than I do." "Truly, we know nothing." "Is it possible?--Well, you will hear fine news, or rather bad news. Eh! host! is my bed unoccupied? It is well. A glass of wine, and my usual dish. Quick, quick! because I must go to bed early, in order to rise early, as I must be at Bergamo to dinner. And you," pursued he, seating himself at the table opposite to Renzo, who continued silent and attentive, "you know nothing of the mischief of yesterday!" "We heard about yesterday." "I knew that you must have heard it, being here always on guard to watch travellers." "But to-day? What has been done to-day?" "Ah! to-day! Then you know nothing of to-day?" "Nothing at all. No one has passed." "Then let me wet my lips, and I will tell you what has happened to-day." He filled the glass, swallowed its contents, and continued: "To-day, my dear friends, little was wanting to make the tumult worse than yesterday. And I can hardly believe that I am here to tell you, for I had nearly given up all thoughts of coming, that I might stay to guard my shop." "What was the matter, then?" said one of his auditors. "What was the matter? I will tell you." And beginning to eat, he at the same time pursued his relation; the company standing on his right and left, listened with open mouths and ears. Renzo, without appearing to hear him, was, in fact, the most attentive of all; and ate his last mouthful very, very slowly. "This morning, then, those vagabonds who made such a hurly-burly yesterday, met at the points agreed on, and began to run from street to street, sending forth cries in order to collect a crowd. You know it is with such people, as when one sweeps a house; the more you sweep, the more dirt you have. When they thought there were people enough, they approached the house of the superintendant of provision, as if the atrocities they committed yesterday were not enough, to a gentleman of his character. Oh! the rascals! And the abuse they bestowed on him! All invention and falsehood: he is a worthy punctual man; I can say it, for I know; and I furnish him cloth for his liveries. They hurried then towards his house--such a mob! such faces! They passed before my shop. Such faces--the Jews of the _Via Crucis_ are nothing to them. And the blasphemies they uttered! enough to make one stop one's ears, had it not been for fear of observation. Their intention was to plunder, but----" "But?" said they all. "But they found the street barricadoed, and a company of musketeers on guard. When they saw this ceremony--what would you have done?" "Turn back." "Certainly; and that is precisely what they did. But see if the devil did not carry them there. When they came on the Cordusio, they saw the baker that they had wanted to plunder the day before; and what do you think they were doing at this baker's? They were distributing bread to purchasers; the first gentlemen of the land were there, watching over its distribution. The mob, instigated by the devil, rushed upon them furiously, and, in the twinkling of an eye, gentlemen, bakers, purchasers, bread, counters, benches, loaves, bags, flour, all topsy-turvy." "And the musketeers?" "The musketeers had the vicar's house to guard. One can't sing and carry the cross too. It was done in the twinkling of an eye, I say. Plunder, plunder; every thing was carried off. And then they proposed the amusement of yesterday, to burn what remained, in the square, and make a bonfire. And immediately they began, the rascals! to drag every thing out of the house, when one among them----Guess what fine proposal he made!" "What?" "What! to gather every thing in the shop in a heap, and set fire to it and the shop at the same time. No sooner said than done----" "Did they set fire to it?" "Wait a bit. An honest man in the neighbourhood had an inspiration from Heaven. He ran into the house, ascended the stairs, took a crucifix, and hung it in front of a window; took from the head of the bed two wax candles which had been blessed, lit them, and placed them right and left of the crucifix. The crowd looked up; there is a little fear of God yet, in Milan, it must be confessed; the crowd retired--a few would have been sacrilegious enough to set fire to paradise itself; but seeing the rest not of their opinion, they were obliged to be quiet. Guess what happened then! All the lords of the cathedral in procession, with the cross elevated, and in pontifical robes; and my lord the arch-priest began to preach on one side, and my lord the _penitenziere_ on the other, and then others here and there: '_But, honest people, what would you do? Is this the example you set to your children? Return to your homes; you shall have bread at a fair price; you can see, yourselves, the rate is affixed at every corner!_'" "Was it true?" "Can you doubt it? Do you think the lords of the cathedral would come in their robes and declare falsehoods?" "And what did the people do?" "By little and little they dispersed; they ran to the corners of the streets; the rate was there for those who knew how to read. Eight ounces of bread for a penny!" "What good fortune." "The vine is fine, if its fruitfulness continues. Do you know how much flour has been consumed since yesterday? As much as would supply the dukedom two months." "And have they made no good law for us country people?" "What they have done at Milan is for the city alone. I know not what to tell you; for you, it must be as God shall direct. The tumult has entirely ceased for the present; I have not told you all yet. Here is the best----" "What! is there any thing more?" "Yesterday evening, or this morning, they have arrested some of the leaders, and they have been told that four will be hung. Hardly was this known, when every one betook himself home by the shortest road, so as not to be the fifth. Milan, when I left it, resembled a convent of monks." "But will they really hang them?" "Undoubtedly, and very soon," replied the merchant. "And what will the people do?" "The people will go to see them," said the merchant. "They desired so much to see a man hung, that the rascals were about to satisfy their curiosity on the superintendent of provision. They will see instead, four rogues, accompanied by capuchins and friars of the _buona morte_[28]; well, they have richly deserved it. It is a providence, you see; it was a necessary thing. They had begun to enter the shops, and take what they wanted, without putting their hand to their purse. If they had been suffered to go on their own way, after bread, it would have been wine, and then something else--and I assure you, as an honest man, keeping a shop, it was not a very agreeable idea." [28] Good death. A confraternity which exists under the same name in the south of France. "Assuredly not," said one of his auditors. "Assuredly not," repeated the others in chorus. "And," continued the merchant, "it had been in preparation a long while. There was a league, you know?" "A league!" "A league. Cabals instigated by the Navarrese, by that cardinal of France, you know, who has a half-barbarous name, and who every day offers some new affront to the crown of Spain. But he aims chiefly at Milan, because he knows, the knave, that the strength of the king lies there." "Indeed!" "Would you have a proof of it? Those who made the most noise were strangers; people who were never seen before in Milan. I have forgotten, after all, to tell you something I heard; one of these had been caught in an inn----" When this chord was touched, poor Renzo felt a cold shiver, and could with difficulty conceal his agitation. No one however perceived it, and the orator proceeded:-- "They do not yet know whence he came, by whom he was sent, nor what kind of man he was; but he was certainly one of the leaders. Yesterday, in the height of the tumult, he played the devil; then, not content with that, he began to exhort, and propose a fine thing truly! to murder all the lords! Rascal! how would poor people live, if the lords were killed? He was taken, however, and they found on him an enormous packet of letters, after which they were taking him to prison. But what do you think? his companions, who were keeping watch round the inn, came in great force, and delivered him. The rogue!" "And what has become of him?" "It is not known. He has escaped, or is concealed in Milan. These people find lodging and concealment any where, although they have neither house nor home of their own. The devil helps them; but they are sometimes taken in the snare, when they least expect it. When the pear is ripe, it must fall. It is well known that these letters are in the hands of government, that they contain an account of the whole plot, that many people are implicated, that they have turned the city upside down, and would have done much worse. Some say the bakers are rogues, and so say I: but they ought to be hanged at least in a legal manner. There certainly is corn concealed; and the government ought to have spies and find it out, and hang up all that keep it back in company with the bakers; and if they don't, all the city ought to remonstrate again and again, but never allow the villainous practice of entering shops and warehouses for plunder." The little that Renzo had eaten had become poison. It appeared like an age before he dared rise to quit. He felt nailed to the spot. To have moved from the inn and the village, in the midst of the conversation, would have incurred suspicion. He determined to wait till the babbler should cease to speak of him and apply to some other subject. "And I," said one of the company, "who have some experience, know that a tumult like this is no place for an honest man; therefore I have not suffered my curiosity to conquer me, and have remained quietly at home." "And did I move?" said another. "And I," added a third, "if by any chance I had been at Milan, I would have left my business unfinished, and returned home." At this moment the host approached the corner of the table, to see how the stranger came on. Renzo gathered courage to speak, asked for his bill, settled it, and rapidly crossed the threshold, trusting himself to the guardian care of a kind Providence. CHAPTER XVII. The discourse of the merchant had plunged our poor Renzo into inexpressible agitation and alarm; there was no doubt that his adventure was noised abroad--that people were in search of him? Who could tell how many bailiffs were in pursuit of him? Who could tell what orders had been given to watch at the villages, inns, and along the roads? True it was, that two only of the officers were acquainted with his person, and he didn't bear his name stamped on his forehead. Yet he had heard strange stories of fugitives being discovered by their suspicious air, or some unexpected mark; in short, he was alarmed at every shadow. Although at the moment he quitted Gorgonzola, the bells struck the _Ave Maria_, and the increasing darkness diminished his danger, he unwillingly took the high road, with the intention, however, of entering the first path which should appear to him to lead in the right direction. He met some travellers, but, his imagination filled with apprehensions, he dared not interrogate them. "The host called it six miles," said he; "if, in travelling through by-paths, I make it eight or ten, these good limbs will not fail me, I know. I am certainly not going towards Milan, and must therefore be approaching the Adda. If I keep on, sooner or later I must arrive there; the Adda has a voice sufficiently loud to be heard at some distance, and when I hear it, there will be no longer any need of direction. If there is a boat there, I shall cross immediately; if not, I will wait until morning in a field, upon the ground, like the sparrows, which will be far better than a prison." He saw a cross-road open to the left, and he pursued it: "_I_ play the devil!" continued he, "_I_ assassinate the lords! A packet of letters! My companions keeping watch! I would give something to meet this merchant face to face, on the other side of the Adda; (Oh! when shall I reach the beautiful stream?) I would ask him politely where he picked up that fine story. Know, my good sir, that, devil as I am, it was I who aided Ferrer, and like a good Christian saved your superintendent of provisions from a rough joke that those ruffians, my friends, were about to play on him. Ay, while you were keeping watch over your shop----and that enormous packet of letters--in the hands of the government. See, sir, here it is; a single letter, written by a worthy man, a monk; a hair of whose beard is worth----but in future learn to speak with more charity of your neighbours." However, after a while, these thoughts of the poor traveller gave way to more urgent considerations of his present difficulties; he no longer feared pursuit or discovery; but darkness, solitude, and fatigue combined to distress him and retard his progress. A chill north wind penetrated his light clothing, his wedding suit; and, uncomfortable and disheartened, he wandered on, in hopes of finding some place where he might obtain concealment and repose for the night. He passed through villages, but did not dare ask shelter; the dogs howled at his approach, and induced him to quicken his steps. At single houses near the road-side his fatigue tempted him to knock for shelter; but the apprehension of being saluted with the cry of "Help, thieves! robbers!" banished the idea from his mind. Leaving the cultivated country, he found himself in a plain, covered with fern and broom; and thinking this a favourable symptom of the near vicinity of the river, he followed the path across it. When he had advanced a few steps, he listened, but in vain. The desolation of the place increased the depression of his spirits. Strange forms and apparitions, the birth of former tales and legends, began to haunt his imagination; and to drive them away he began to chant the prayers for the dead. He passed through a thicket of plum-trees and oaks, and found himself on the borders of a wood; he conquered his repugnance to enter it, but as he proceeded into its depths, every object excited his apprehensions. Strange forms appeared beneath the bushes; and the shade of the trees, trembling on his moon-lit path, with the crackling of the dead leaves between his footsteps, inspired him with dread. He would have hastened through the perilous passage, but his limbs refused their office; the wind blew cold and sharp, and penetrating his weakened frame, almost subdued its small remains of vigour. His senses, affected by undefined horrors, appeared to be leaving him; aroused to his danger, he made a violent effort to regain some degree of resolution, in order to return through the wood, and seek shelter in the last village he had passed through, even if it should be in an inn! As he stopped for a moment, before putting his design in execution, the wind brought a new sound to his ear--the murmur of running water. Intently listening, to ascertain if his senses did not deceive him, he cried out, "It is the Adda!" His fatigue vanished, his pulse returned, his blood flowed freely through his veins, his fears disappeared; and guided by the friendly sound, he went forward. He soon reached the extremity of the plain, and found himself on the edge of a steep precipice, whence looking downward, he discovered, through the bushes, the long-desired river, and, on the other side of it, villages scattered here and there, with hills in the distance; and on the summit of one of these a whitish spot, which in the dimness he took to be a city; Bergamo certainly! He descended the declivity, and throwing aside the bushes with his hands, looked beyond them, to spy if some friendly bark were moving on the flood, or if he could not, by listening, hear the sound of oars cleaving the water; but he saw, he heard nothing. If it had been any stream less than the Adda, he would have attempted to ford it, but this he well knew to be impracticable. He was uncertain what plan to pursue: to lie down on the grass for the next six hours, and wait until morning, exposed to the north wind and the damps of the night; or to continue walking to and fro, to protect himself from the cold, until the day should dawn: neither of these held out much prospect of comfort. He suddenly recollected to have seen, in a neighbouring part of the uncultivated heath, a _cascinotto_;--this was the name given by the peasants of the Milanese to cabins covered with straw, constructed with the trunks and branches of trees, and the crevices filled with mud, where they were in the habit of placing the crop, gathered during the day, until a more convenient opportunity for removing it; they were therefore abandoned except at such seasons. Renzo found his way thither, pushed open the door, and perceiving a bundle of straw on the ground, thought that sleep, even in such a place, would be very welcome. Before, however, throwing himself on the bed Providence had provided for him, he kneeled, and returned thanks for the blessing, and for all the assistance which had been this day afforded him, and then implored forgiveness for the errors of the previous day; then gathering the straw around him as some defence against the cold, he closed his eyes to sleep; but sleep was not so soon to visit our poor traveller. Confused images began to throng his fancy; the merchant, the notary, the bailiffs, the cutler, the host, Ferrer, the superintendent, the company at the inn, the crowds in the streets, assailed his imagination by turns; then came the thought of Don Abbondio, Roderick, Lucy, Agnes, and the good friar. He remembered the paternal counsels of the latter, and reflected with shame and remorse on his neglect of them; and what bitter retrospection did the image of Lucy produce! and Agnes! poor Agnes! how ill had she been repaid for her motherly solicitude on his behalf! an outcast from her home, solitary, uncertain of the future, reaping misery from what seemed to promise the happiness of her declining years! Poor Renzo! what a night didst thou pass! what an apartment! what a bed for a matrimonial couch! tormented, too, with apprehensions of the future! "I submit to the will of God," said he, speaking aloud, "to the will of God! He does only that which is right; I accept it all as a just chastisement for my sins. Lucy, however, is so good! the Lord will not long afflict her with suffering." In the mean time he despaired of obtaining any repose; the cold was insupportable; his teeth chattered; he ardently wished for day, and measured with impatience the slow progress of the hours; this he was enabled to do, as he heard, every half hour, in the deep silence, the heavy sound of some distant clock, probably that of Trezzo. When the time arrived which he had fixed on for his departure, half benumbed with exposure to the night air, he stretched his stiffened limbs, and opening the door of the _cascinotto_, looked out, to ascertain if any one were near, and finding all silent around, he resumed his journey along the path he had quitted. The sky announced a beautiful day; the setting moon shone pale in an immense field of azure, which, towards the east, mingled itself lightly with the rosy dawn. Near the horizon were scattered clouds of various hues and forms; it was, in fact, the sky of Lombardy, beautiful, brilliant, and calm. If Renzo had had a mind at ease, he would no doubt have stopped to contemplate this splendid ushering in of day, so different from that which he had been accustomed to witness amidst his mountains; but his thoughts were otherwise occupied. He reached the brow of the precipice where he had stood the preceding night, and looking below, perceived, through the bushes, a fisherman's bark, which was slowly stemming the current, near the shore. He descended the precipice, and standing on the bank, made a sign to the fisherman to approach. He intended to do this with a careless air, as if it were of little importance, but in spite of himself, his manner was half supplicatory. The fisherman, after having for a moment surveyed the course of the water, as if to ascertain the practicability of reaching the shore, directed the boat towards it; before it touched the bank, Renzo, who was standing on the water's edge, awaiting its approach, seized the prow, and jumped into it. "Do me a service, and I will pay you for it," said he; "I wish to cross to the other shore." The fisherman having divined his object, had already turned his boat in that direction. Renzo, perceiving another oar in the bottom of the bark, stooped to take it. "Softly, softly," said the fisherman. But seeing with what skill the young man managed the oar, "Ah! ah!" added he, "you know the trade." "A very little," replied Renzo, and he continued to row with a vigour and skill beyond that of a mere amateur in the art. With all his efforts, however, the bark moved slowly; the current, setting strong against it, drove it continually from the line of its direction, and impeded the rapidity of its course. New perplexities presented themselves to the mind of Renzo; now that the Adda was almost passed, he began to fear that it might not, at this place, serve for the boundary between the states, and that, this obstacle surmounted, there would yet be others remaining. He spoke to the fisherman, and pointing to the white spot he had noticed the night before, and which was now much more distinct, "Is that Bergamo?" said he. "The city of Bergamo," replied the fisherman. "And the other shore, does it belong to Bergamo?" "It is the territory of St. Mark." "Long live St. Mark!" cried Renzo. The fisherman made no reply. The boat reached the shore, at last; Renzo thanked God in his heart, as he stepped upon it; and turning to the fisherman took from his pocket a _berlinga_ and gave it to him. The man took it in silence, and with a significant look, placed his forefinger on his lip; and saying, "A good journey to you," returned to his employment. In order to account for the prompt and discreet civility of this man towards a perfect stranger, we must inform the reader, that he was accustomed to render similar favours to smugglers and outlaws, not so much for the sake of the little gain which accrued to him thereby, as not to create enemies among these classes of people. He rendered these services, therefore, when he was sure of not being seen by the custom-house officers, bailiffs, or spies. Thus he endeavoured to act with an impartiality, which should give offence to neither party. Renzo stopped a moment to contemplate the shore he had quitted, and where he had suffered so much; "I am at last safely beyond it," was his first thought; then the remembrance of those he had left behind rushed over his mind, overwhelming it with regret and shame; for, with the calm and virtuous image of Lucy, came the recollection of his extravagances in Milan. He shook off, however, these oppressive thoughts, and went on, taking the direction of the whitish mass on the declivity of the mountain, until he should meet some one who could direct him on his way. And now with what a different and careless air he accosted travellers! he hesitated no more, he pronounced boldly the name of the place where his cousin lived, to ask the way to it; from the information given him by the first traveller he met, he found that he had still nine miles to travel. His journey was not agreeable. Without referring to his own causes of trouble, Renzo was affected every moment by the sight of painful and distressing objects; so that he foresaw, that he should find in this country the poverty he had left in his own. All along the way he was assailed by mendicants,--mendicants of necessity, not of choice,--peasants, mountaineers, tradesmen, whole families reduced to poverty, and to the necessity of begging their bread. This sight, besides the compassion it excited, made him naturally recur to his own prospects. "Who knows," thought he, mournfully, "if I shall find work to do? perhaps things are not as they were in preceding years. Bartolo wishes me well, I know; he is a good fellow; he has made money; he has invited me many times to come to him; I am sure he will not abandon me. And then Providence has aided me until now; and will continue to do so." Meanwhile, the walk had sharpened his appetite; he could indeed have well waited to the end of his journey, which was only two miles farther, but he did not like to make his first appearance before his cousin as a hungry beggar; he therefore drew all his wealth from his pocket, and counting it on the palm of his hand, found that he had more than sufficient to procure a slight repast; after paying for which, he would still have a few pence remaining. As he came out of the inn at which he had rested, to proceed on his journey, he saw, lying near the door, two women: the one was elderly, and the other more youthful, with an infant in her arms, which was in vain seeking sustenance from its exhausted mother; both were of the complexion of death: by them stood a man, whose countenance and limbs gave signs of former vigour; now lost from long inanition. All three stretched forth their hands, but spoke not--what prayer could be so moving as their appearance. Renzo sighed; "There is a Providence," said he, as he placed in the nearest hand the last remnant of his wealth. The slight repast he had made, and the good deed he had performed (for we are composed of body and soul), had equally tended to refresh and invigorate him. If, to afford relief to these unhappy persons, Providence had kept in reserve the last farthing of a fugitive stranger, would he leave the wants of that stranger unsupplied? He looked with renewed hope to the future; he pictured to himself the return of abundant harvests, and in the mean time he had his cousin Bartolo and his own industry to depend on, and moreover he had left at home a small sum of money, the fruit of his economy, which he could send for, if needed. "Then," said he, "plenty will eventually return, and trade will be profitable again; the Milanese workmen will be in demand, and can set a high price on their labour; I shall have more than enough to satisfy my wants, and can lay by money, and can furnish my nice house, and then write to Agnes and Lucy to come--and then--But why wait for this? We should have been obliged to live, had we remained at home; we should have been obliged to live during this winter, upon my little savings, and we can do the same here. There are curates every where, and they can come shortly. Oh! what joy will it be to walk together on this same road; to go to the borders of the Adda, where I will point out to them the place where I embarked, the woods through which I passed, the spot where I stood watching for a boat." He reached at last the village of his cousin; at its entrance, he saw a very high house, with numerous windows, and perceived it to be a silk manufactory; he entered, and amidst the noise of the water and machinery loudly demanded, "if Bartolo Castagneri was within?" "Signor Bartolo? there he is." "Signor! that's a good sign," thought Renzo. He perceived his cousin, and ran towards him, exclaiming, "I am come at last!" Bartolo made an exclamation of surprise, and embraced him; he then took him into another chamber, apart from the noise of the machinery and the notice of the inquisitive, and said, "I am glad to see you, but you are a droll fellow. I have invited you many times to come hither; you have always refused, and now choose a most unfavourable moment." "What shall I say to you? I have not now come of my own free will," said Renzo; and he briefly, and with much emotion, related the mournful story. "That's another affair truly," said Bartolo. "Poor Renzo! you have relied on me, and I will not abandon you. To say truth, workmen are not in much demand at present; and it is with difficulty that those already engaged are kept by their employers. But my master regards me, and he has money; and besides, without boasting, we are equally dependent on each other--he has the capital, and I the skill, such as it is! I am his first workman, his _factotum_! Poor Lucy Mondella! I remember her as if it was but yesterday that I last saw her! An excellent girl! always so modest at church; and if you passed by her cottage--I see it now, the little cottage beyond the village, with a large fig-tree against the wall----" "No, no," said Renzo, "do not speak of it." "I meant to say, that if you passed it, you always heard the noise of her reel. And Don Roderick! even before I left, showed symptoms of his character; but now, it seems, he plays the devil outright, until God shall put a bridle on his neck. Well, as I said, we suffer here also the consequences of scarce harvests.--But, apropos, are you not hungry?" "It is not long since I have eaten," said Renzo. "And how are you off for money?" Renzo extended the palm of his hand and shook his head. "No matter," said Bartolo: "I have plenty. Cheer up; things will change for the better soon, and then you can repay me." "I have a small sum at home, and I will send for it." "Well, in the mean while, depend on me. God has given me wealth to spend for others, and above all, for my relations and friends." "I knew that you would befriend me," said Renzo, affectionately pressing his cousin's hand. "Well, what a fuss they have made at Milan," continued Bartolo; "the people seem to me to be mad. The report has reached us, but I shall be glad to know the particulars from you. I think we shall have enough to talk about, shall we not? Here, however, things are conducted with more judgment. The city purchased two thousand loads of corn from a merchant of Venice; the corn comes from Turkey. Now, what do you think happened? The governors of Verona and Brescia forbade the transit of the corn. What did the people of Bergamo do then, do you think? They sent to Venice a man that knew how to talk, I can tell you: he went to the doge, and made a speech which they say deserves to be printed! Immediately an order was sent to let the corn pass: the governors were obliged to obey. The country, too, has been thought of. Another good man informed the senate that the people here were famishing, and the senate granted us four thousand bushels of millet, which makes very good bread. And then, if there is no bread, you and I can eat meat; God has given me wealth I tell you. Now I will conduct you to my patron. I have often spoken of you to him; he will make you welcome. He is a native of Bergamo, a man of an excellent disposition. 'Tis true, he did not expect you at this time, but when he learns your story--And then he knows how to value skilful workmen, because scarcity lasts but a little while, and business must finally go on.--But I must hint to you one thing; do you know what name they give to us Milanese in this country?" "What name they give us?" "They call us simpletons."[29] [29] Baggiani. "That is certainly not a very agreeable name." "What matters it? Whoever is born in the territory of Milan, and would gain his living in that of Bergamo, must put up with it. As to the people here, they call a Milanese a simpleton as freely as they call a gentleman _sir_." "They say so, I suppose, to those who will suffer it." "My good fellow, if you are not disposed to submit to be called simpleton, till it becomes familiar to your taste, you must not expect to live in Bergamo. You would always be obliged to carry your knife in hand; and when you had killed three or four, you might be killed yourself, and have to appear before the bar of God with three or four murders to answer for?" "And a Milanese who understands his trade?" "It is all the same; he would still be a simpleton. Do you know how my master expresses himself when he talks of me to his friends? _Heaven has sent me this simpleton to carry on my business. If it were not for this simpleton I should never get on._ It is the custom." "It is a silly custom, to say the least of it; and especially as it is we who have brought the art hither, and who carry it on. Is it possible that there is no remedy?" "None. Time may accomplish it. The next generation may be different, but at present we must submit. And after all, what is it?" "Why, if there is no other evil----" "Ah! now that you are convinced, all will be well. Let us go to my master. Be of good courage." In fact, the promises of Bartolo were realised, and all _was_ well. It was truly a kind Providence; for we shall see how little dependence Renzo could place on the treasure he had left at home,--the savings of his labour. CHAPTER XVIII. On this same day, the 13th of November, there arrived a courier extraordinary to the signor _podestà_ of Lecco. The courier brought an express from the head of the police, containing an order to make every possible search for a young man of the name of Lorenzo Tramaglino, silk weaver, who, having escaped from the hands "_of the illustrious head above cited_," had probably returned to the territory of Lecco. That, in case of his discovery, he should be committed to prison, and an account rendered to the police of his wicked practices, his ostensible means of procuring subsistence, and his accomplices. And furthermore, that an execution should be put into the house of the above-said Lorenzo Tramaglino, and every thing taken from thence that might aid in throwing light on his nefarious deeds. The signor podestà, after ascertaining as well as he could, that Renzo had not returned to the village, took with him the constable of the place, and obeyed these injunctions, accompanied by a large escort of notary, constable, and officers. The key of the house was not to be found; the door was accordingly forced. The report of this transaction spread around, and soon reached the ears of Father Christopher. The good man was surprised and afflicted; and not being able to gain satisfactory information with regard to Renzo, he wrote to the Father Bonaventura for intelligence concerning him. In the mean while the relations and friends of Renzo were summoned to give in their testimony, with regard to his depravity of character. To bear the name of Tramaglino became a disgrace; the village was all in commotion. By little and little, it was understood that Renzo had escaped from the hands of justice, even in the heart of Milan, and had disappeared: it was whispered that he had committed some enormous crime, the nature of which remained unknown. The more enormous, however, the less it was believed, for Renzo was known by every body to be a worthy youth; the greatest number thought, therefore, that it was a machination of Don Roderick to ruin his poor rival. Thus it is true, that judging from inference, and without the indispensable knowledge of facts, we often wrongfully suspect even the wicked. But we, who have the facts in our hands, can affirm, that if Don Roderick had no share in creating these misfortunes, he rejoiced in them as if they had been his own work; and made them a subject of merriment with his friends, and above all with Count Attilio, who had been deterred from prosecuting his intended journey to Milan by the account received of the disturbances there: but this order from the police gave him to understand that things had resumed their usual course. He then determined to depart immediately, and, exhorting his cousin to persist in his undertaking, and to surmount every obstacle, he promised to use his efforts to rid him of the friar. Attilio had hardly taken his departure, when Griso arrived, safe and sound, from Monza, and gave in his report to his master of all he had been able to collect. He told him that Lucy had been taken into the convent under the protection of the signora; that she lived there as secluded as if she were a nun, never putting her foot without the walls; that she assisted at the ceremonies of the church behind a grated window; and that it was impossible to obtain a view of her. This relation put the devil into Roderick, or rather rendered the one more uncontrollable that sojourned there already. So many favourable circumstances concurring to forward his designs, inflamed the medley of spleen, rage, and infamous desire, which he dignified by the name of love. Renzo absent, expelled, banished, every measure against him became lawful; his betrothed herself might be considered in some sort as the property of a rebel. The only man who could and would take her under his protection, the friar, would soon be deprived of the power to do so; but, amidst so many unlooked-for facilities, one obstacle appeared to render them unavailable. A monastery of Monza, even if there were no _signora_ there, was an obstacle not to be surmounted even by Don Roderick. He in vain wandered, in his imagination, around this asylum, not being able to devise any means of violating it, either by force or intrigue. He was upon the point of renouncing the enterprise, of going to Milan, of mixing in its pleasures, and thus drowning all remembrance of Lucy; but, in place of relief, would he not find there fresh food for vexation? Attilio had certainly told the story, and every one would ask him about the mountain girl! What reply would he be obliged to give? He had been outwitted by a capuchin and a clown; and, moreover, when a happy unexpected chance had rid him of the one, and a skilful friend removed the other, then he, like a simpleton, abandoned the undertaking! There was enough in this to prevent his ever lifting up his head in the society of his equals; or else to compel him to go among them sword in hand! And on the other hand, how could he return and remain in this spot, where he would be tormented by the remembrance of his passion, and the disgrace of its failure. How resolve? What do? Shall he go forward? Shall he draw back? A means presented itself to his mind, by which his enterprise might succeed. This was to call to his aid the assistance of a man whose power could accomplish whatever he thought fit to undertake, and for whom the difficulty of an enterprise would be only an additional motive for engaging in it. But this project had nevertheless its inconveniences and dangers, the consequences of which it was impossible to calculate. No one could foresee the termination of an affair, when they had once embarked in it with this man; a powerful auxiliary, assuredly, but a guide not less absolute than dangerous. Such reflections kept Don Roderick many days in a state of painful irresolution: he received, in the meanwhile, a letter from his cousin, informing him that the intrigue was prospering. After the lightning came the thunder. One fine morning he heard that Father Christopher had left the convent of Pescarenico! Such complete and prompt success, and the letter of Attilio, who encouraged him by his advice and vexed him by his jokes, inclined him to hazard every thing; and what above all confirmed him in his intention, was the unexpected intelligence that Agnes had returned to the village, and was at her own house! We will relate these two events for the information of the reader. Lucy and her mother had hardly entered their asylum, when the news of the terrible insurrection at Milan spread through Monza, and even penetrated the walls of the convent. The accounts were various and contradictory. The portress, who from necessity went much abroad, heard all the news, and related them to her guests. "They have put several in prison," said she; "some were taken before the bakers of the Crutches, others in front of the house inhabited by the superintendant of provision----But listen to this; there was one who escaped, who was from Lecco, or thereabouts. I don't know his name, but I will ascertain it from some one; perhaps you may know him." This intelligence, joined to the circumstance that Renzo must have arrived in Milan precisely on this fatal day, gave some uneasiness to Lucy and her mother; judge what must have been their feelings, when the portress came again to tell them, "He that fled to avoid hanging is from your village, a silk weaver, one Tramaglino. Do you know him?" Lucy was seated, busy at her work; it fell from her hands; she turned pale, and her emotion must certainly have attracted the attention of the portress, had she not been too eagerly engaged in delivering her report to Agnes, who was standing by the door at some distance from the poor girl. Agnes, notwithstanding she was much agitated, avoided any exhibition of her feelings. She made an effort to reply, that in a small village every one was known, but she could hardly believe this to be true of Tramaglino, as he was a quiet worthy youth. She asked if it was true that he had escaped, and if it was known where he was? "Escaped, he certainly has, for every one knows it; but where, no one knows. Perhaps they may take him again, perhaps he is in safety; but if your peaceful youth falls into their hands----" Here very fortunately the portress was called away; you may imagine the feelings of Agnes and her daughter! The poor woman and the desolate Lucy remained more than a day in cruel uncertainty, imagining the details and the probable consequences of this unhappy event. Tormented with vain hopes and anxious fears, their only relief was in each other's sympathy. At length, a man arrived at the convent, and asked to see Agnes; he was a fishmonger of Pescarenico, who was going, according to custom, to Milan, to sell his fish; the good Christopher had desired him to stop at the convent, to relate what he knew of the unhappy affair of Renzo to Lucy and her mother, and exhort them, in his name, to have patience and to confide in God. As for him, he should certainly not forget them, and would seize every possible opportunity to aid them; in the meanwhile he would not fail to send them news every week, by this or some other means. All that the messenger could tell them further of Renzo was, that it was considered certain that he had taken refuge in Bergamo. Such a certainty was a great balm to the affliction of Lucy; her tears flowed less bitterly, and she experienced some comfort in discoursing upon it with her mother; and they united in heartfelt thanks to the Great Being who had saved them from so many dangers. Gertrude made Lucy often visit her in her private parlour, and conversed much with her, finding a charm in the ingenuousness and sweetness of the poor girl, and delighted with listening to expressions of gratitude from her mouth. She changed insensibly the suspicions of Lucy with regard to her into a sentiment of the deepest compassion, by relating to her, in confidence, a part of her history, that part of it which she dared avow. Lucy found in the relation reasons more than sufficient to explain what had appeared strange in the manners of her benefactress. She was very careful, however, not to return the confidence Gertrude placed in her, by speaking of her new fears and misfortunes, lest she should thereby extend the knowledge of Renzo's supposed crime and disgrace. She avoided as much as possible replying to the repeated enquiries of the signora on that part of her history, which preceded the promise of marriage; to her modesty and innocence it appeared an impossible thing to converse freely on such a subject. Gertrude was often tempted to quarrel with her shyness, but how could she? Lucy was nevertheless so respectful, so grateful, so trusting! Sometimes her shrinking and susceptible modesty might displease her, from other motives; but all was lost in the sweetness of the thought that to Lucy, if to no other human being, she was doing good. And this was true; for besides the asylum she afforded her, her conversation and endearments encouraged the timid mind of the maiden; whose only other resource was constant employment. The nuns, at her solicitation, furnished her with occupation; and, as from morning till night she plied her needle, her reel, her beloved but now forsaken reel, recurred to her memory, bringing with it a throng of painful recollections. The following week another message was received from Father Christopher, confirming the flight of Renzo, but with regard to the extent or nature of his misdemeanor, there was no further information. The friar had hoped for satisfaction on this point from his brother at Milan, to whom he had recommended him; but had received for answer that he had neither seen the young man, nor received the letter; that some one from abroad had been at the convent to ask for him, and not finding him there, had gone away. The third week there was no messenger, which not only deprived them of a desired and expected consolation, but also produced a thousand uneasy suspicions. Before this, Agnes had thought of taking a journey home, and this disappointment confirmed her resolution. Lucy was unwilling to be separated from her mother, but her anxiety to gain more satisfactory intelligence of Renzo, and the security she felt in her sacred asylum, reconciled her. It was therefore agreed between them, that Agnes should wait on the road the following day for the return of the fishmonger from Milan, and should ask the favour of a seat in his cart, in order to go to her mountains. Upon seeing him approach, therefore, she asked him if Father Christopher had not sent any message by him. The fishmonger had been occupied the whole day before his departure in fishing, and had received no message from the friar! She then preferred her request, and having obtained a compliance with it, bade farewell to her daughter and the signora, promising a speedy return. The journey was without accident; early in the morning they arrived at Pescarenico. Here Agnes took leave of her conductor, with many thanks for the obligation he had conferred on her; and as she was before the convent gates, she determined to speak with the good friar before she proceeded homeward. She pulled the bell--the friar Galdino, whom we may remember as the nut collector, appeared to answer it. "Oh! good dame, what good wind brings you here?" "I come to see Father Christopher!" "Father Christopher? He is not here!" "No? will it be long before he returns? Where is he gone?" "To Rimini." "To----?" "To Rimini." "Where is that?" "Eh! eh! eh!" replied the friar, extending his arms, as if to indicate a great distance. "Miserable that I am! But why did he go so suddenly?" "Because the father provincial would have it so." "And why did they send away one who did so much good here? Oh! unhappy me!" "If our superiors were obliged to give reasons for what they do, where would be our obedience, my good woman?" "But this is such a loss!" "Shall I tell you how it has happened? they have probably wanted a good preacher at Rimini; (we have them in every place to be sure, but sometimes a particular man is needed;) the father provincial of that place has written to the father provincial of this, to know if there were such a person in this convent; the father provincial returned for answer, that there was none but Father Christopher who corresponded to the description." "Oh! unfortunate! When did he go?" "The day before yesterday." "Oh! if I had only come a few days sooner, as I wished to do! And do they not know when he will return?" "Why! my dear woman! the father provincial knows, if any one does; but when one of our preachers has taken his flight, it is impossible to say on what branch he will rest. They want him here; they want him there; for we have convents in the four quarters of the world. Father Christopher will make a great noise at Rimini, with his Lent sermon; the fame of this great preacher will resound every where, and it is our duty to give him up, because we live on the charity of others, and it is but right we should serve all the world." "Oh! misery! misery!" cried Agnes, weeping; "what shall I do without this good man? He was a father to us; what a loss! what a loss!" "Hear me, good woman--Father Christopher was truly a good man, but we have others equally so; there is Father Antanasio, Father Girolamo, Father Zaccaria! Father Zaccaria is a worthy man! And you must not wonder, as some ignorant people do, at his shrill voice and his little beard; I do not say that he is a preacher, because every one has his talent; but to give advice, he is the man." "Oh! holy patience!" cried Agnes, with a mixture of gratitude and vexation one feels at an offer containing more good-will than suitableness; "What is it to me what another man is, when he who is gone knew our affairs, and had every thing prepared to help us!" "Then you must have patience." "I know that. Excuse the trouble I have given you." "That is of no consequence, my good woman; I pity you; if you decide upon asking advice of one of the fathers, you will find the convent still in its place. But let me see you soon, when I collect the oil." "God preserve you," said Agnes; and she proceeded homeward, confused and disconcerted as a blind man who had lost his staff. Having more information than Friar Galdino, we are enabled to relate the truth of this affair. Attilio, immediately on his arrival at Milan, performed his promise to Don Roderick, and visited his uncle of the secret council; (this was a committee composed of thirteen members, whose sanction was necessary to the proceedings of government; in case of the absence or death of the governor, the council assumed temporarily the control.) The count, one of the oldest members of the council, enjoyed in it some authority, which he did not fail to make known on all occasions. His language was ambiguous; his silence significant; he had the art of flattering, without absolutely promising; of menacing, without perhaps the power to perform; but these flatteries and menaces produced in the minds of others an impression of his unlimited power, which was the end and purpose of all his actions. Towards this point he lately made a great stride on an extraordinary occasion. He had been sent on an embassy to Madrid! And to hear him describe his reception there! Among other honours, the count-duke had treated him with particular attention, had admitted him to his confidence, so far as to ask him in the presence of the whole court, _if he were pleased with Madrid_? and to tell him on another occasion, at a window, that _the cathedral of Milan was the most magnificent church in the king's dominions_. After having paid his duty to the count, and presented the compliments of his cousin, Attilio, with a seriousness which he knew well how to assume, said, "I believe it to be my duty to inform the signor, my uncle, of an affair in which Roderick is concerned, and which requires the interference of your lordship to avert the serious consequences that----" "Ah! one of his pranks, I suppose." "In truth, I must say that the injury has not been committed by Roderick, but he is exasperated, and none but my uncle can----" "What is it? what is it?" "There is in his neighbourhood a capuchin friar who sets himself in array against my cousin, who hates him, and the matter stands thus----" "How often have I told you both to let the friars manage their own affairs? It is enough for those to whom it belongs--but you, you can avoid having any thing to do with them----" "Signor uncle, it is my duty to inform you that Roderick would have avoided it, if it had been possible. It is the friar who has quarrelled with him, and he has used every means----" "What the devil can the friar have in common with my nephew?" "First of all, he is known to be a quarrelsome fellow; he protects a peasant girl of the village, and regards her with a benevolence, to say the least of it, very suspicious." "I comprehend," said his uncle; and a ray of malice passed over the depth of dulness which nature had stamped on his countenance. "For some time," continued Attilio, "the friar has suspected Roderick of designs on this young girl----" "_He_ has suspected, indeed! I know the signor Roderick too well myself, not to need to be told that he is incorrigible in such matters!" "That Roderick, signor uncle, may have had some trifling conversation with this girl, I can very well believe; he is young, and, moreover, not a capuchin,--but these are idle tales, not worth engaging your attention. The serious part of the affair is, that the friar speaks of Roderick as if he were a villain, and instigates all the country against him----" "And the other friars?" "They do not meddle with it, because they know him to be hot-headed, though they have great respect for Roderick; but then, on the other hand, the friar passes for a saint with the villagers, and----" "I imagine he does not know Roderick is my nephew." "Does he not know it? it is that, precisely, which animates him to this course of conduct." "How? how?" "He takes pleasure, and he tells it to every one, he takes the more pleasure in vexing Roderick, because he has a protector as powerful as your lordship; he laughs at the nobility, and at diplomatists, and exults at the thought, that the girdle of Saint Francis can tie up all the swords, and that----" "Oh! the presumptuous man! what is his name?" "Friar Christopher, of ***," said Attilio. The count drew his portfolio towards him, and inscribed the name. Meanwhile, Attilio proceeded: "He has always had this character; his life is well known; he was a plebeian, and having some wealth, wished to associate with gentlemen, and not being able to succeed, killed one of them for rage; and to escape the gallows he assumed the habit of a friar." "Bravo! well done! we will see, we will see," said the count in a fume. "Now," continued Attilio, "he is more enraged than ever, because he has failed in a project he had much at heart. It is by this that your lordship can see what kind of a man he is. He wished to have this girl married, to remove her from the dangers of the world, you understand; and he had found his man, a fellow whose name you have doubtless heard, because I have understood that the secret council has been obliged to take notice of the worthy youth." "Who is he?" "A silk weaver, Lorenzo Tramaglino, he who----" "Lorenzo Tramaglino!" cried the count. "Well done, friar! Truly--now I remember--he had a letter for a--it is a pity that--but no matter. And pray, why did Don Roderick say nothing of all this? why did he suffer things to go so far, before he acquainted one who has the power and the will to support him?" "I will tell you also the truth with respect to that: knowing the multitude of cases which you have to perplex you, he has not been willing to add to them; and, besides, since I must say it, he is beside himself on account of the insults offered him by the friar, and would wish to wreak summary justice on him himself, rather than obtain it from prudence and the power of your lordship. I have tried to cool his ardour, but finding it impossible, I thought it my duty to inform your lordship, who, after all, is the prop and chief column of the house." "You ought to have spoken sooner." "That is true. But I hoped the affair would finish of itself, or that the friar would regain his reason, or that he would leave the convent, as often happens to these friars, who are sometimes here, sometimes there; and then all would have been settled. But----" "The arrangement of the business now rests with me." "That is what I thought; I said to myself, the signor our uncle is the only one who can save the honour of Don Roderick; he has a thousand means that I know not of: I know that the father provincial has a great respect for him, and if our uncle should think that the best thing for this friar would be a change of air, he can in a few words----" "Will your lordship leave the care of the business to him to whom it appertains?" said the count, sharply. "Ah! that is true," cried Attilio; "am I the man to give advice to your lordship? But the regard I have for the honour of the family made me speak. And I am afraid I have committed another folly," added he, affecting a pensive air: "I am afraid I have injured Don Roderick in your opinion; I should have no rest if you doubted Roderick's confidence in you, and submission to your will. I hope the signor our uncle will believe, that in this case, it is truly----" "Well, well, you two will be always friends, until one of you become prudent. Ever in fault, and relying on me to repair it! You give me more trouble than all the affairs of state!" continued he, with an expression of grave importance. Attilio proffered a few more excuses, promises, and compliments, and took his leave, with a parting injunction from his uncle _to be prudent_! CHAPTER XIX. The signor count formed the resolution to make use of the father provincial to cut the knot of these perplexities; whether he would have thought of this, had it not been suggested by Attilio, it is impossible to determine, inasmuch as he would never have acknowledged this to be the case. It was important that one of his family, his nephew, should not be obliged to yield in an open controversy; it was a point essential to the reputation of his power, which he had so much at heart. The satisfaction which his nephew might himself take of his adversary would be a remedy worse than the disease. Should he order him to leave his castle, when obedience would seem like flying from the field of battle? Legal force could have no power over the capuchin; the clergy were entirely exempt from secular jurisdiction. All that he could attempt against such an adversary was to endeavour to have him removed and the power to do this rested with the father provincial. Now the count and the father provincial were old acquaintances; they saw each other rarely, but always with great demonstrations of friendship, and reiterated offers of service. When all was matured in his mind, the count invited the father provincial to a dinner, where he found a company of choice guests; noblemen, who, by their deportment, their native boldness, and lordly disdain, impressed those around them with the idea of their superiority and power. There were also present some clients, who, attached to the house by hereditary devotion, and the service of a life, sat at their lord's table, in a spirit of implicit submission, "devouring his discourse" and his dinner with unqualified and equal approbation. At table, the count led the conversation to Madrid; he spoke of the court, the count-duke, the ministers, the family of the governor; of the bull-fights, which he could well describe, having seen them from a distinguished place; of the escurial, of which he could speak in its most minute details, because a page of the count-duke had conducted him into every nook of it. For some time all the company were attentive to him alone; then they divided into separate parties. He continued for a while to relate a number of anecdotes, as in confidence, to the father provincial, who was seated near him. But suddenly he gave a turn to the conversation, and spoke of Cardinal Barberini, who was a capuchin, and brother to the reigning pope, Urban VIII. As they left the table, the count invited the father provincial to go with him into another apartment. The noble lord gave a seat to the reverend father, and taking one himself, said, "Considering the friendship that exists between us, I thought I was authorised to speak to your reverence of an affair equally interesting to us both, and which had best be concluded between us without going farther, which might--and I will tell you frankly what it is, as I am certain we shall have the same opinion on the subject. Tell me, in your convent of Pescarenico, is there not a Father Christopher of ***?" The father provincial bowed assent. "I pray your reverence to tell me, frankly, as a friend,--this man--this father--I have no personal acquaintance with him, 'tis true; I know many fervent, prudent, humble capuchins, who are worth their weight in gold; I have been the friend of the order from infancy; but in a numerous family there is always some individual----And I have reason to think that Friar Christopher is a man--a little fond of quarrelling--who has not all the prudence he might have: I imagine he has caused your reverence much anxiety." "I perceive there is some intrigue," thought the father provincial; "it is my fault; I knew that this holy man should have been sent from pulpit to pulpit, and not have been suffered to remain six months in a convent in the country.--Oh," said he, aloud, "I am truly sorry that your excellency has conceived such an opinion of Father Christopher; for I know that his conduct in the convent is exemplary, and that he is esteemed by every body." "I understand very well; your reverence ought----However, I would as a friend inform you of a matter which it is necessary you should know. This Father Christopher has taken under his protection a young man of that country, one of whom your reverence must have heard; him who recently escaped from the hands of justice, on the terrible day of San Martin--Lorenzo Tramaglino!" "I had not heard of this," said the father provincial; "but your excellency knows that it is the duty of our order to seek those who have gone astray, for the purpose of leading them back." "That is true; but I thought it best to give you this information, because, if ever his holiness--the intelligence of it may have been sent to Rome." "I am much obliged to your excellency for the information. However, I am certain, that if the affair is enquired into, it will be found that Father Christopher has had no connection with this man but for the purpose of doing him good. I know the father well." "Your reverence knows, then, better than I, what he was in the world, and the pranks of his youth." "It is the glory of our habit, signor count, that whatever a man may have been in the world, once clothed with that, he is quite another person; and since the Father Christopher has belonged to our order----" "I believe it from the bottom of my heart, I believe it; but sometimes--as the proverb says--The habit does not make the monk." The proverb was not much to the purpose, but the count had cited it, in place of another which occurred to him,--"The wolf may change his skin, but he does not become a dog." "I have certain information," pursued he. "If your excellency knows positively that the father has committed a fault (we are all liable to err), I wish you would inform me of it. I am his superior--unworthily, 'tis true; but it is my duty to watch over, and, if necessary, correct----" "Besides the circumstance of his granting protection to the man I have mentioned, this same Father Christopher has undertaken to contend--but we can settle it together with my nephew, Don Roderick." "Oh, I am sorry for that, I am sorry for that, truly." "My nephew is young, rash, and not accustomed to provocation." "It becomes my duty to obtain the best information on the subject. Your excellency, with your experience of the world, knows better than I, that we are all frail, liable to error--some one way, some another; and if our Father Christopher has failed----" "But these are things which had better be settled between ourselves; to spread them abroad would only increase the evil. These trifles are often the cause of numerous embarrassments and difficulties, which might have been prevented by some decisive act in the commencement. That is now our business; my nephew is young; the monk, from what I hear, has still the spirit, the inclinations of a young man; but we, who are advanced in years, (too true, is it not, reverend father?) must have prudence to act for the young, and apply a remedy to their follies. Happily there is yet time; we must remove the fire from the straw. An individual who does not do well in one place may in another; your reverence might see to his being removed, might find a suitable station for the friar at a sufficient distance--all may be easily arranged--or rather, there's no harm done." The father provincial had expected this conclusion from the commencement of the conversation. "I perceive," thought he, "where you would lead me; when a poor friar gives one of you the least umbrage, the superior must make him march, right or wrong." When the count had finished, the provincial said aloud, "I understand what the signor count would say; but before taking a step----" "It is a step, and it is not a step, very reverend father: it is only a natural event, such as might happen in the ordinary course of affairs; and if we do not do it quickly, I foresee a deluge of disorders, a mountain of grievances. If we do not put a stop to the affair between ourselves, it is not possible it should remain a secret. And then it is not only my nephew--you raise a wasp's nest, very reverend father. We are a powerful house--we have adherents." The father bowed in assent. The count proceeded. "You understand me; they are all people who have blood in their veins, and who in the world--count as something. They are proud of their honour; the affair will become theirs, and then---- Even those who are the friends of peace---- It would be a grief of heart to me to be obliged---- I, who have always had such a friendship for the capuchins! The fathers, for their ministry to be efficient, should be in harmony with all men--no misunderstandings: besides, they have relations abroad--and these affairs of punctilio extend, ramify---- I, too, have a certain dignity to maintain---- His excellency----my noble colleagues---- It becomes a party matter----" "It is true," said the provincial, "that Father Christopher is a preacher; I had already the intention--I have even been solicited to do it--but under these circumstances, and just at this time, it might be considered as a punishment; and to punish without being well acquainted----" "But it is not a punishment; it is a prudent precaution, an honest means of preventing evils that might----I have explained myself." "The signor count and myself understand each other very well; but the facts being those which your excellency has adduced, it is impossible but that they should in part be known through the country: there are every where firebrands, or idle spirits, who find pleasure in the contests of the monks and the nobility, and love to make malignant observations. Each one has his own dignity to preserve; and I, in the character of a superior, have an express duty--the honour of the habit--it is not my own affair--it is a deposit which--and since the signor your nephew is so irritated, as your excellency has said, he might take it as a satisfaction offered to him, and--I do not say boast of it, but----" "You jest, reverend father, surely; my nephew is a cavalier of consideration in the world, as he should be; but in his relations with me, he is but a child, and will do neither more nor less than I prescribe to him. And, moreover, he shall never know it. The thing is done between ourselves; there is no necessity for rendering an account to him. Let not that give you any uneasiness; I am accustomed to keep silence on important subjects. As to the idle talk of others, what can be said? It is a very common thing to see a friar leave one place to go and preach at another." "However, in order to prevent malicious observations, it would be necessary, on this occasion, that the nephew of your excellency should give some demonstration of friendship, of deference,--not for us, but for the order." "Certainly, certainly, that is but right; it is not necessary, however; I know that the capuchins are highly esteemed by my nephew, as well as by our whole family. But, in this case, something more signal is very proper. Leave it to me, very reverend father: I will give such orders to my nephew--that is to say, it shall be prudently suggested to him, that he may not suspect what has passed between us, because we need not apply a plaster where there is no wound. As to that which we have agreed on, the sooner it is done the better; and if you had a place at some distance--to remove every occasion----" "They want a preacher at Rimini; and perhaps without this motive I should have thought----" "That is very opportune, very opportune. And when?" "Since the thing is to be done, it shall be quickly." "Certainly, certainly; better to-day than to-morrow. And," continued he, rising, "if I or my adherents can render any service to the good father capuchins----" "We have often experienced the kindness of the house," said the father provincial, also rising, and following his vanquisher to the door of the apartment. "We have extinguished a spark," said the count,--"a spark, very reverend father, which might have excited a great conflagration. Between good friends, things are easily arranged." They then entered the next apartment, and mixed with the rest of the company. The count obtained his end: Friar Christopher was made to travel on foot from Pescarenico to Rimini, as we shall see. One evening a capuchin from Milan arrived at Pescarenico, with a packet for the superior: it was an order for Father Christopher to repair to Rimini for the purpose of preaching the Lent sermons. The letter contained instructions to the superior, to insinuate to the friar, that he should give up every attention to any business he might have on hand in the country he must leave, and that he should not maintain any correspondence there. The friar, who was the bearer of the order, was to be the companion of his journey. The superior said nothing that night, but in the morning he sent for Father Christopher, showed him the order, and told him to take his basket, staff, and girdle, and with the friar, whom he presented to him, commence his journey. Imagine what a blow this was for our good father. Renzo, Lucy, Agnes, passed rapidly over his mind, and he thought, "Great God! what will these unfortunate people do, when I am no longer here?" but raising his eyes to heaven, he placed his hope and confidence there. He crossed his hands on his breast, and bowed his head in token of obedience; he then went to his cell, took his basket, his staff, and his breviary, and after having bid farewell to his brethren, and obtained the benediction of his superior, took, with his companion, the route prescribed. We have said that Don Roderick, more than ever determined on the accomplishment of his infamous enterprise, had resolved to seek the assistance of a powerful man. We cannot give his name, nor even hazard a conjecture with regard to it; this is the more astonishing, inasmuch as we find notices of this personage in several histories of the time. The identity of the facts does not leave a doubt of the identity of the man; but there is evidently an extreme care to avoid the mention of his name. Francesco Rivola, in his life of the Cardinal Federigo Borromeo, speaking of him, says, "He was a lord as powerful from his wealth as illustrious from his birth," and nothing further. Giuseppe Ripamonti makes farther mention of him, as a _man_, this _man_, a _person_, this _person_. "I will relate," says he, "the case of a man, who, belonging to the most powerful family in the city, chose the country for his residence; and there, assuring himself of impunity by the force of crime, he set at nought the law and the magistrates, the king and the nobles. Placed on the extreme confines of the state, he led an independent life; he offered an asylum to the outlaw; he was outlawed himself, and then absolved from the sentence which had led----" We will hereafter quote from this author other passages, which will confirm the history we are about to relate. To do that which was forbidden by the laws; to be the arbiter, the supreme judge in the affairs of others, without other interest than a thirst for power; to be feared by all, even by those who were the objects of fear to all men; these had ever been the controlling principles which actuated the conduct of this man. From his youth he had been filled with impatient envy at the power and authority of others; superior to the greater number in riches and retinue, and to all perhaps in birth and audacity, he constrained them to renounce all competition with him; he took some into his friendship, but was far from admitting any equality between himself and them; his proud and disdainful spirit could only be content with those who were willing to acknowledge their inferiority, and to yield to him on all occasions. When, however, they found themselves in any difficulty, they did not fail to solicit the aid of so powerful an auxiliary; and a refusal from him would have been the destruction of his reputation, and of the high station which he had assumed. So that, for himself and others, he had performed such deeds that not all his own power and that of his family could prevent his banishment and outlawry; and he was obliged to leave the state. I believe that it is to this circumstance Ripamonti alludes:-- "He was obliged to leave the country: but his audacity was unsubdued; he went through the city on horseback, followed by a pack of hounds, and with the sound of the trumpet; passing by the court of the palace, he sent an abusive message to the governor by one of the guards." In his absence he did not desist from his evil practices; he maintained a correspondence with his friends, "who were united to him," says Ripamonti, "in a secret league of atrocious deeds." It appears that he even contracted new habits, of which the same historian speaks with mysterious brevity. "Foreign princes had recourse to him for important murders, and they even sent him reinforcements of soldiers to act under his orders." At last, whether the proclamation of his outlawry was withdrawn from some powerful intercession, or that the audacity of the man outweighed all authority, he resolved to return home; not exactly to Milan, but to a castle on the frontier of the Bergamascan territory, which then belonged to the Venetian state. "This house," says Ripamonti, "was a focus of sanguinary mandates. The household was composed of such as had been guilty of great crimes; the cooks, and the scullions even, were not free from the stain of murder." Besides this notable household, he had men resembling them, stationed in different places of the two states, on the confines of which he lived. All, however tyrannical themselves, had been obliged to choose between the friendship or enmity of this tyrannical man, and it fared ill with those who dared resist him. It was in vain to hope to preserve neutrality or independence; his orders to do such or such a thing, or to refrain, were arbitrary, and resistance was useless. Recourse was had to him on all occasions, and by all sorts of people, good as well as bad, for the arrangements of their difficulties; so that he occasionally became the protector of the oppressed, who could not have obtained redress in any other way, public or private. He was almost always the minister of wickedness, revenge, and caprice; but the various ways in which he had employed his power impressed upon all minds a great idea of his capability to devise and perform his acts in defiance of every obstruction, whether lawful or unlawful. The fame of ordinary tyrants was confined to their own districts, and every district had its tyrant; but the fame of this extraordinary man was spread throughout the Milanese; his life was the subject of popular tales, and his name carried with it something powerful and mysterious. Every tyrant was suspected of alliance with him, every assassin of acting under his orders; at every extraordinary crime, of the author of which they were ignorant, the name of this man was uttered, whom, thanks to the circumspection of our historians, we are obliged to call the Unknown. The distance between his castle and that of Don Roderick was not more than six miles. The latter had long felt the necessity of keeping on good terms with such a neighbour, and had proffered his services, and entitled himself to the same sort of friendship, as the rest; he was however, careful to conceal the nature and strictness of the union between them. Don Roderick liked to play the tyrant, but not openly; tyranny was with him a means, not an end; he wished to live at ease in the city, and enjoy the advantages, pleasures, and honours of civilised life. To insure this, he was obliged to exhibit management, to testify a great esteem for his relations, to cultivate the friendship of persons in place, in order to sway the balance of justice for his own peculiar purposes. Now, an intimacy with such a man would not have advanced his interests in such points, and especially with his uncle; but a slight acquaintance with him might be considered unavoidable under the circumstances, and therefore in some degree excusable. One morning Don Roderick, equipped for the chase, with an escort of retainers, among whom was Griso, took the road to the castle of the Unknown. CHAPTER XX. The castle of the Unknown was situated above a narrow and shady valley, on the summit of a cliff, which, belonging to a rugged chain of mountains, was nevertheless separated from them by banks, caverns, and precipices. It was only accessible on the side which overlooked the valley. This was a declivity rather steep, but equal, and continued towards the summit: it was occupied as pasture ground, and its lower borders were cultivated, having habitations scattered here and there. The bottom was a bed of stones, through which flowed, according to the season, a small brook, or a large torrent, which served for a boundary between the two territories. The opposite chain of mountains, which formed, as it were, the other wall of the valley, was slightly cultivated towards its base; the rest was composed of precipitous rocks without verdure, and thrown together irregularly and wildly. The scene altogether was one of savage grandeur. From this castle, as the eagle from his eyrie, its lawless owner overlooked his domain, and heard no human sound above him. He could embrace at a view all the environs, the declivities, the abyss, the practicable approaches. To the eyes of one viewing it from above, the winding path which ascended towards the terrible habitation could be perceived throughout its whole course, and from the windows and loopholes, the signor could leisurely count the steps of the person ascending, and examine him with the closest scrutiny. With the garrison of bravoes which he kept at the castle he could defy an army, which he would have crushed in the valley beneath, before an individual could reach the summit. But none, except such as were friends with the master of the castle, dared set foot even in the valley. Tragical stories were related of some who had attempted the dangerous enterprise, but these stories were already of times long past, and none of the young vassals could remember to have encountered a human being in this place, except under his lord's authority. Don Roderick arrived in the middle of the valley, at the foot of the cliff, at the commencement of the rugged and winding path; at this point was a tavern, which might have been called a guard-house; an old sign, with a rising sun painted on both sides, was suspended before the door; but the people gave the place the more appropriate name of _Malanotte_. At the noise of the approaching cavalcade a young boy, well furnished with swords and pistols, appeared on the threshold of the door; and casting a rapid glance at the party, informed three ruffians, who were playing at cards within the house, of its approach. He who appeared to be the chief among them arose, and recognising a friend of his master, saluted him respectfully; Don Roderick returned the salutation with much politeness, and asked if the signor was at the castle. The man replied in the affirmative; and he, dismounting, threw his horse's bridle to Aimwell, one of his retinue. Then, taking his musket from his shoulder, he gave it to _Montanarolo_, as if to relieve himself from an useless encumbrance, but in reality because he knew that on this cliff none were permitted to bear arms. Drawing from his pocket some _berlinghe_, he gave them to _Tanabuso_, saying, "Wait here till my return; and in the mean time amuse yourselves with these honest people." Then presenting to the chief of the band some crowns of gold for himself and his companions, he ascended the path with Griso. Another bravo belonging to the Unknown, who was on his way to the castle, bore him company; thus sparing him the trouble of declaring his name to whomsoever he should meet. When he arrived at the castle (Griso was left at the gate) he was conducted through a long succession of dark galleries, and various halls hung with muskets, sabres, and other weapons of warfare; each of these halls was guarded by a bravo. After having waited some time, he was admitted to the presence of the Unknown, who advanced to meet him, replying to his salutation, and at the same time, as was his custom, even with his oldest friends, eying him from head to foot. He was tall in stature; and from the baldness of his head, and the deep furrows of his countenance, appeared to be much older than sixty, which was his real age; his countenance and movements, the firmness of his features, and the fire which sparkled from his eyes, indicated a vigour of body as well as of mind which would have been remarkable even in a young man. Don Roderick told him he had come for advice and assistance; that, having embarked in a difficult enterprise, from which his honour did not suffer him to withdraw, he had remembered the promises of one who never promised in vain; and he then related his abominable intrigue. The Unknown, who had already heard something of it, listened with much attention to the recital, both because he naturally loved such relations, and because Friar Christopher, that avowed enemy of tyrants, was concerned in it. Don Roderick spoke of the difficulty of the undertaking, the distance of the place, a monastery, the _signora_,--but the Unknown, as if prompted by the demon in his heart, interrupted him, saying, that he took the charge of the affair on himself. He wrote down the name of the poor Lucy, and dismissed Don Roderick, saying, "In a little while you will receive news from me." The reader may remember the villain Egidio, who lived near the walls of the monastery into which Lucy had been received; now, he was one of the most intimate colleagues in crime of the Unknown; and this accounts for the promptness with which this lord assumed the charge of the undertaking. However, no sooner was he left alone than he repented of his precipitation. He had for some time experienced, not remorse, but a vague uneasiness on account of his crimes; at every new addition to them, the remembrance of those he had previously committed pressed upon his memory, if not upon his conscience, and loaded it with an intolerable weight. An undefinable repugnance to the commission of crime, such as he had experienced and subdued at the outset of his career, returned with all its force to overwhelm his spirit. The thoughts of the future contributed to render the past more painful. "To grow old! to die! and then?" And the image of death, which he had so often met undaunted, in face of an enemy, and which seemed to inflame his courage and double his energy--this same image now, in the midnight silence of his castle, quelled his spirit, and impressed him with an awe which he in vain endeavoured to resist. Formerly, the frequent spectacle of violence and murder, inspiring him with a ferocious emulation, had served as a kind of authority against his conscience; now the confused but terrible idea arose in his mind of individual responsibility at the bar of God. The idea of having risen above the crowd of vulgar criminals, and of having left them far behind, an idea which once flattered his pride, now impressed him with a sentiment of fearful solitude; and experiencing at certain moments of despondence the power and presence of that God whose existence he had hitherto neither admitted nor denied, having been wholly immersed in himself, his accumulated crimes rose up, to justify the sentence which was about to condemn him to eternal banishment from the divine presence. But this uneasiness was not suffered to appear, either in his words or his actions; he carefully concealed it under the appearance of more profound and intense ferocity. Regretting the time when he was accustomed to commit iniquity without remorse, without any other solicitude than for its success, he made every effort to recall these habits and feelings; to take pleasure in wickedness; and glory in his shame, in order to convince himself that he was still the same man. This accounts for the promptitude of his promise to Don Roderick: he wished to deprive himself of the chance of hesitation; but, scarcely alone, he felt his resolution fail, and thoughts arose in his mind which almost tempted him to break his word, and expose his weakness to an inferior accomplice. But with a violent effort he put an end to the painful conflict. He sent for Nibbio[30], one of the most skilful and resolute ministers of his atrocities, and of whom he had made use in his correspondence with Egidio, and ordered him to mount his horse, to go to Monza, to inform Egidio of the affair he had undertaken, and to require his assistance for its accomplishment. [30] Kite. The messenger returned sooner than his master expected him with the reply of Egidio; the enterprise was easy and safe; the Unknown had only to send a carriage with two or three bravoes, well disguised; Egidio took charge of the rest. The Unknown, whatever passed in his mind, gave orders to Nibbio to arrange every thing, and to set out immediately on the expedition. If, to perform the horrible service which had been required of him, Egidio had depended only on his ordinary means, he would not certainly have sent back so explicit an answer. But in the asylum of the convent, where every thing appeared as an obstacle, the villain had a means known to himself alone; and that which would have been an insurmountable difficulty to others was to him an instrument of success. We have related how the unhappy signora once lent an ear to his discourse, and the reader may have surmised that this was not the last time; it was only the first step in the path of abomination and blood. The same voice which then addressed her, become imperious through crime, now imposed on her the sacrifice of the innocent girl who had been intrusted to her care. The proposition appeared frightful to Gertrude; to lose Lucy in any manner would have seemed to her a misfortune, a punishment; and to deprive herself of her with criminal perfidy, to add to her crimes by dealing treacherously with the confiding girl, was to take away the only gleam of virtuous enjoyment which had shone upon her mysterious and wicked career. She tried every method to avoid obedience; every method, except the only infallible one, that was in her power. Crime is a severe and inflexible master, against whom we are strong only when we entirely rebel. Gertrude could not resolve on that, and obeyed. The day agreed on came; the hour approached; Gertrude, alone with Lucy, bestowed on her more caresses than ordinary, which the poor girl returned with increasing tenderness, as the lamb licks the hand of the shepherd who entices it without the fold into the murderous power of the butcher who there awaits it. "I want you to do me a great favour; many are ready to obey me, but there is none but yourself whom I can trust. I must speak immediately on an affair of great importance, which I will relate to you some other time, to the superior of the capuchins, who brought you hither, my dear Lucy; but no one must know that I have sent for him. I rely on you to carry a secret message----" Lucy was astonished at such a request, and alleged her reasons for declining to perform it; without her mother! without a companion! in a solitary road! in a strange country! But Gertrude, instructed in an infernal school, showed great astonishment and displeasure at her refusal, after having been loaded with so many benefits; she affected to treat her excuses as frivolous. "In open day! a short distance! a road that Lucy had travelled a few days before!" She said so much, that the poor girl, touched with gratitude and shame, enquired, "What was to be done?" "Go to the convent of the capuchins; ask for the superior, tell him to come here immediately, but to let no one suspect that he comes at my request." "But what shall I say to the portress, who has never seen me go out, and will ask me where I am going?" "Endeavour to pass without being seen; and if you cannot, say you are going to some church to perform your orisons." A new difficulty for Lucy! to tell a falsehood! but the signora was so offended at her refusal, and so ridiculed her for preferring a vain scruple to her gratitude, that the unhappy girl, alarmed rather than convinced, replied, "Well, I will go; may God be my guide and protector." Gertrude, from her grated window, followed her with anxious looks, and when she saw her about to cross the threshold, overcome by irresistible emotion, she cried, "Stop, Lucy." Lucy returned to the window; but another idea, the one accustomed to predominate, had resumed its sway over the mind of the unhappy Gertrude. She affected dissatisfaction at the directions she had given; described the road again to Lucy, and dismissed her: "Do exactly as I have told you, and return quickly." Lucy passed the door of the cloister unobserved, and proceeding on her way with downcast eyes, found, with the aid of the directions given, and her own recollections, the gate of the suburb; timid and trembling, she continued on the high road, until she arrived at that which led to the convent. This road was buried, like the bed of a river, between two high banks, bordered with trees, whose branches united to form an arch above it. On finding it entirely deserted, she felt her fears revive; she hurried on, but gained courage from the sight of a travelling carriage which had stopped a short distance before her; before the door of it, which was open, there stood two travellers looking about, as if uncertain of their way. As she approached, she heard one of them say, "Here is a good girl, who will tell us the way." As she came on a line with the carriage, this same man addressed her: "My good girl, can you tell us the way to Monza?" "You are going in the wrong direction," replied the poor girl; "Monza lies there." As she turned to point it out, his companion (it was Nibbio) seized her by the waist, and lifted her from the ground. Lucy screamed from surprise and terror; the ruffian threw her into the carriage; a third, who was seated in the bottom of it, seized her, and compelled her to sit down before him; another put a handkerchief over her mouth, and stifled her cries. Nibbio then entered the carriage, the door was closed, and the horses set off on a gallop. He who had asked her the perfidious question remained behind; he was an emissary of Egidio, who had watched Lucy when she quitted the convent, and had hastened by a shorter road to inform his colleagues, and wait for her at the place agreed on. But who can describe the terror and anguish of the unfortunate girl? Who can tell what passed in her heart? Cruelly anxious to ascertain her horrible situation, she wildly opened her eyes, but closed them again at the sight of those frightful faces. She struggled in vain. The men held her down in the bottom of the carriage: if she attempted to cry, they drew the handkerchief tightly over her mouth. In the mean while, three gruff voices, endeavouring to assume a tone of humanity, said to her, "Be quiet, be quiet: do not be afraid; we do not wish to harm you." After a while her struggles ceased, she languidly opened her eyes, and the horrible faces before her appeared to blend themselves into one monstrous image; her colour fled, and she fell lifeless into their arms. "Courage, courage," said Nibbio; but Lucy was now beyond the reach of his horrible voice. "The devil! she appears to be dead," said one of them. "If she should really be dead!" "Poh!" said the other, "these fainting fits are common to women; they don't die in this way." "Hush," said Nibbio, "be attentive to your duty, and do not meddle with other affairs. Keep your muskets ready, because this wood we are entering is a nest for robbers. Don't keep them in your hands--the devil! put them behind you. Do you not see that this girl is a tender chicken, who faints at nothing? If she sees that you have arms, she may die in reality. When she comes to her senses, be careful not to frighten her. Touch her not, unless I tell you to do so. I can hold her. Keep quiet, and let me talk to her." Meanwhile the carriage entered the wood. Poor Lucy awoke as from a profound and painful slumber. She opened her eyes, and her horrible situation rushed with full force upon her mind. She struggled again in vain, she attempted to scream, but Nibbio said to her, holding up the handkerchief, "Be tranquil; it is the best thing you can do. We do not wish to harm you; but if you do not keep silence, we must make you." "Let me go. Who are you? Where are you taking me? Why am I here? Let me go, let me go." "I tell you, don't be frightened. You are not a child, and you ought to know that we will not harm you. We might have murdered you before this, if such had been our intention. Be quiet, then." "No, no, let me go; I know you not." "We know you well enough, however." "Oh, holy Virgin! Let me go, for charity's sake. Who are you? Why have you brought me here?" "Because we have been ordered to do so." "Who? who? who ordered you to do it?" "Hush!" said Nibbio, in a severe tone. "Such questions must not be answered." Lucy attempted to throw herself from the door of the carriage, but finding the effort vain, she had recourse again to entreaties, and with her cheeks bathed in tears, and her voice broken by sobs, she continued, "Oh, for the love of heaven, and the holy Virgin, let me go! What harm have I done you? I am a poor creature, who have never injured you; I forgive you all that you have done, and will pray to God for you. If you have a daughter, a wife, or a mother, think what they would suffer in my situation. Remember that we must all die, and that one day you will hope that God will show mercy to you. Let me go, let me go; the Lord will guide me on my way." "We cannot." "You cannot? Great God! why can you not? Where are you taking me?" "We cannot; your supplications are useless. Do not be frightened; we will not harm you. Be quiet; no one shall harm you." More than ever alarmed to perceive that her words produced no effect, Lucy turned to Him who holds in his powerful hand the hearts of men, and can, if he sees fit, soften the most ferocious. She crossed her arms on her breast, and prayed from the depth of her heart, fervently; then again vainly implored to be set free: but we have not the heart to relate more at length this painful journey, which lasted four hours, and which was to be succeeded by many hours of still deeper anguish. At the castle, the Unknown was waiting her arrival with extraordinary solicitude and agitation of mind. Strange, that he who had coldly and calmly disposed of so many lives, and had regarded as nothing the torments he inflicted, should now feel an impression of remorse, almost of terror, at the tyranny he exercised over an unknown girl, an humble peasant! From a high window of his castle, he had for some time looked down upon the valley beneath; at last he saw the carriage approaching slowly at a distance, as if the horses were wearied with their rapid journey. He perceived it, and felt his heart beat violently. "Is she there?" thought he. "What trouble this girl gives me! I must free myself from it." And he prepared himself to send one of his ruffians to meet the carriage, and tell Nibbio to conduct the girl immediately to the castle of Don Roderick; but an imperious _No_, which made itself heard by his conscience, caused him to relinquish his design. Tormented, however, by the necessity of ordering something to be done, and insupportably weary of waiting the slow approach of the carriage, he sent for an old woman who was attached to his service. This woman had been born in the castle, and had passed her life in it. She had been impressed from infancy with an opinion of the unlimited power of its masters; and her principal maxim was implicit obedience towards them. To the ideas of duty were united sentiments of respect, fear, and servile devotion. When the Unknown became lord of the castle, and began to make such horrible use of his power, she experienced a degree of pain, and at the same time a more profound sentiment of subjection. In time she became habituated to what was daily acting before her: the powerful and unbridled will of such a lord she viewed as an exercise of fated justice. When somewhat advanced in years, she had espoused a servant of the house, who being sent on a hazardous expedition, left his body on the high road, and his wife a widow in the castle. The revenge that her lord took for his death imparted to her a savage consolation, and increased her pride at being under his protection. From that day she rarely set foot beyond the castle walls, and by degrees there remained to her no other idea of human beings, than that of those by whom she was daily surrounded. She was not employed in any particular service, but each one gave her something to do as it pleased him. She had sometimes clothes to mend, food to prepare, and wounds to dress. Commands, reproaches, and thanks were equally mingled with abusive raillery: she went by the appellation of the _old woman_, and the tone with which the name was uttered varied according to the circumstances and humour of the speaker. Disturbed in her idleness and irritated in her self-love, which were her two ruling passions, she returned these compliments with language in which Satan might have recognised more of his own genius than in that of her persecutors. "You see that carriage below there," said the Unknown. "I do," said she. "Have a litter prepared immediately, and let it carry you to _Malanotte_. Quick, quick; you must arrive before the carriage; it approaches with the slow step of death. In this carriage there is--there ought to be--a young girl. If she is there, tell Nibbio from me, that he must place her in the litter, and that he must come at once to me. You will get into the litter with her; and when you arrive here, you must take her to your room. If she asks you where you are leading her, whose is this castle, be careful----" "Oh, do not doubt me," said the old woman. "But," pursued the Unknown, "comfort her, encourage her." "What can I say to her?" "What can you say to her? Comfort her, I tell you. Have you arrived at this age, and know not how to administer consolation to the afflicted? Have you never had any sorrow? Have you never been visited by fear? Do you not know the language that consoles in such moments? Speak this language to _her_ then; find it in the remembrance of your own misfortunes. Go directly." When she was gone, he remained some time at the window, gazing at the approaching carriage; he then looked at the setting sun, and the glorious display of clouds about the horizon. He soon withdrew, closed the window, and kept pacing the apartment in a state of uneasy excitement. CHAPTER XXI. The old woman hastened to obey, and gave orders, under authority of that name which, by whomsoever pronounced, set the whole castle in motion, as no one imagined that any one would dare to use it unauthorised. She reached _Malanotte_ a little before the carriage: when it was near at hand, she left the litter; and making a sign to the coachman to stop, approached the window, and whispered in the ear of Nibbio the will of her master. Lucy, sensible that the motion of the carriage had ceased, shook off the lethargy into which she had for some time been plunged, and in an agony of terror looked around her. Nibbio had drawn himself back on the seat, and the old woman, resting her chin on the window, said to Lucy, "Come, my child; come, poor girl; come with me. I have orders to treat you kindly, and to offer you every consolation." At the sound of a female voice the unfortunate girl felt a momentary relief, which was, however, succeeded by deeper terror as she looked at the person from whom it proceeded. "Who are you?" said she, anxiously fixing her eyes upon her. "Come, come, poor girl," repeated the old woman. Nibbio and his two companions, inferring the designs of their master from the extraordinary deportment of the old woman, endeavoured to persuade the poor girl to obey; but Lucy kept gazing at the wild and savage solitude around, which left her no ray of hope. However, she attempted to cry out; but seeing Nibbio give a look to the handkerchief, she stopped, trembled, was seized, and then placed in the litter. The old woman was placed beside her; and Nibbio left the two villains for their escort, and hastened forward at the call of his master. Lucy, aroused to momentary energy by the near approach of the deformed and withered features of her companion, cried, "Where am I? Where are you taking me?" "To one who wishes you well; to a great--you are a lucky girl; be happy, do not be afraid; be happy. He has told me to encourage you; you will tell him that I have done so, will you not?" "Who is this man? What is he? What does he want with me? I do not belong to him. Tell me where I am. Let me go. Tell these men to let me go, to take me to some church. Oh, you, who are a woman, in the name of the holy Virgin, I entreat you." This holy and tender name, so often pronounced with respect in her early years, and for so long a time neglected and forgotten, produced on the mind of the wretched woman, who had not heard it for so long a time, a confused impression, like the remembrance of lights and shadows on the mind of one blind from infancy. Meanwhile the Unknown, standing at the door of the castle, looked below, and saw the litter slowly ascending, and Nibbio walking a few steps in advance of it. At the sight of his master, he hurried forward. "Come here," said the signor to him, and led the way to an inner hall. "Well?" said he, stopping.--"All has been done according to your wishes," replied Nibbio, bowing. "The order in time, the young girl in time, no one near the place, a single cry, no one alarmed, the coachman diligent, the horses swift; but----" "But what?" "But, to say truth, I would rather have received orders to plunge a dagger in her heart at once, than to have been obliged to look at her, and hear her entreaties." "What is this? What is this? What do you mean?" "I would say that during the whole journey--yes, during the whole journey--she has excited my compassion." "Compassion! What dost thou know of compassion? What _is_ compassion?" "I have never understood what it is until to-day; it is something like fear; if it takes possession of one, one is no longer a man." "Let me hear, then, what she has done to excite your compassion?" "Oh, most illustrious signor, she wept, implored, and looked so piteously; then turned pale, pale as death; then wept, and prayed again, and said such words----" "I will not have this girl in the castle," thought the Unknown. "I was wrong to embark in this business; but I have promised, I have promised: when she is far away----" And looking imperiously at Nibbio, "Now," said he, "put an end to your compassion; mount a horse, take with you two or three companions, if you wish; go to the castle of Don Roderick, thou knowest it. Tell him to send immediately, immediately--or otherwise----" But another _No_, more imperious than the first, whose sound was heard in the depth of his soul, prevented his proceeding. "_No_," said he in a determined tone, as if expressing the command of this secret voice,--"_no_; go to bed; and to-morrow morning you shall do what I shall then order." "This girl must have some demon who protects her," thought he, as he remained alone, with his arms crossed on his breast, regarding the fitful shadows cast by the rays of the moon on the floor, which darted through the grating of the lofty windows. "She must have some demon or an angel who protects her. Compassion in Nibbio! To-morrow morning, to-morrow morning at the latest, she shall be sent away; she must submit to her destiny, that is certain. And," continued he, with the tone of one who gives a command to a wayward child, under the conviction that he will not obey it, "we will think of it no more. This animal Don Roderick must not come to torment me with thanks, for--I do not wish to hear her spoken of. I have served him--because I promised to do so; and I promised, because it was my destiny. But Don Roderick shall pay me with usury. Let us see----" And he endeavoured to imagine some difficult enterprise in which to engage Don Roderick as a punishment; but his thoughts involuntarily recurred to another subject. "Compassion in Nibbio! What has she done? I must see her. No! Yes! I must see her." He passed through several halls, and arriving at the apartment of the old woman, knocked with his foot at the door. "Who is there?" "Open." At the sound of this voice, the old woman quickly obeyed, and flung the door wide open. The Unknown threw a glance around the chamber, and by the light of the lantern, which stood on the table, saw Lucy on the floor in one corner of it. "Why did you place her there?" said he, with a frowning brow. "She placed herself there," replied she, timidly. "I have done all I could to encourage her; but she will not listen to me." "Rise," said he to Lucy, who, at the noise of his step, and at the sound of his voice, had been seized with new terror. She buried her face in her hands, and remained silent and trembling before him. "Rise; I will not harm you; I can befriend you," said the signor. "Rise!" repeated he, in a voice of thunder, irritated at having spoken in vain. As if alarm had restored her exhausted strength, the unfortunate girl fell on her knees, clasped her hands on her breast, as if before a sacred image, then with her eyes fixed on the earth, exclaimed, "Here I am, murder me if you will." "I have already told you that I will not harm you," replied the Unknown, in a more gentle tone, gazing at her agonised and altered features. "Courage, courage," said the old woman. "He tells you himself that he will not harm you." "And why," resumed Lucy, in a voice in which indignation and despair were mingled with alarm and dismay,--"why make me suffer the torments of hell? What have I done to you?" "Perhaps they have not treated you kindly? Speak!" "Oh, kindly treated! They have brought me hither by treachery and force. Why, why did they bring me? Why am I here? Where am I? I am a poor creature. What have I done to you? In the name of God----" "God! God! always God!" said the Unknown. "Those who are too weak to defend themselves, always make use of the name of God, as if they knew something concerning him! What! do you mean by this word to make me----" and he left the sentence unfinished. "Oh, signor, what could I mean, a poor girl like me, except that you should have pity on me? God pardons so many deeds for one act of mercy! Let me go; for pity, for charity, let me go. Do not make a poor creature suffer thus! Oh, you, who have it in your power, tell them to let me go. They brought me hither by force. Put me again in the carriage with this woman, and let it carry me to my mother. O holy Virgin! My mother! my mother! Perhaps she is not far from here--I thought I saw my mountains! Why do you make me suffer? Carry me to a church; I will pray for you all my life. Does it cost you so much to say one word? Oh, I see that you are touched! Say but the word, say it. God pardons so many deeds for one act of mercy." "Oh, why is she not the daughter of one of the cowards who outlawed me?" thought the Unknown. "I should then enjoy her sufferings; but now----" "Do not stifle so good an inspiration," pursued Lucy, on seeing hesitation in the countenance of her persecutor. "If you do not grant me mercy, the Lord will; he will send death to relieve me, and all will be over. But you--one day, perhaps, you also--but no, no--I will pray the Lord to preserve you from evil. What would it cost you to say one word? If ever you experience these torments----" "Well, well, take courage," said the Unknown, with a gentleness that astonished the old woman. "Have I done you any harm? Have I menaced you?" "Oh, no. I see that you have a good heart, and that you pity a poor creature. If you chose, you could alarm me more than any of them, you could make me die with fear; and on the contrary, you have--you have given me some consolation. God reward you! Accomplish the work you have begun; save me, save me." "To-morrow morning." "Oh, save me now, now!" "To-morrow morning I will see you again, I tell you. Be of good courage. Rest yourself. You must need food; it shall be brought to you." "No, no, I shall die if any one comes into this room, I shall die. Take me away, God will reward you." "A servant will bring you something to eat," said the Unknown; "and you," continued he, turning to the old woman, "persuade her to eat, and to repose on the bed. If she consents to have you sleep with her, well; if not, you can sleep very well on the floor. Be kind to her, I say; and take care that she makes no complaint of you." He hastily quitted the room, before Lucy could renew her entreaties. "Oh, miserable that I am! Shut, shut the door!" said Lucy, returning to seat herself in her corner. "Oh, miserable that I am! Who shall I implore now? Where am I? Tell me, tell me, for charity, who is this signor? Who has been talking to me? who is he?" "Who is he? Do you wish me to tell you? you must wait awhile first. You are proud, because he protects you; provided you are satisfied, no matter what becomes of me. Ask _him_ his name. If I should tell you, he would not speak to me so gently as he did to you. I am an old woman, I am an old woman," continued she, grumbling: but hearing the sobs of Lucy, she remembered the threat of her master; and addressing her in a less bitter tone, "Well! I have said no harm. Be cheerful. Do not ask me what I cannot tell you, but have courage. How satisfied most people would be, should he speak to them as he has spoken to you! Be cheerful! Directly, you shall have something to eat; and from what he said, I know it will be something good. And then, you must lie down, and you will leave a little room for me," added she, with an accent of suppressed rancour. "I cannot eat; I cannot sleep. Leave me, approach me not. You will not go away?" "No, no," said the old woman, seating herself on a large arm-chair, and regarding her with a mingled expression of alarm and rage. She looked at the bed, and did not very well relish the idea of being banished from it for the night, as it was very cold; but she hoped at least for a good supper. Lucy felt neither cold nor hunger; she remained stupified with grief and terror; her ideas became vague and confused as in the delirium of a fever. She shuddered at hearing a knock at the door. "Who is there?" cried she, "who is there? Don't let any one come in." "It is only Martha, bringing something to eat." "Shut, shut the door!" cried Lucy. "Certainly," replied the old woman. Taking a basket from the hands of Martha, she placed it on the table, and closed the door. She invited Lucy to taste the delicious food, bestowing on it profuse praises, and on the wine too, which was such as the signor himself drank with his friends; but seeing that they were useless she said, "It is your own fault, you _must_ not forget to tell him that I asked you. I will eat, however, and leave enough for you, if you should come to your senses." When her supper was finished she approached Lucy again, and renewed her solicitations. "No, no, I wish nothing," replied she, in a faint and exhausted voice. "Is the door shut?" she exclaimed, with momentary energy; "is it well secured?" The old woman approached the door, and showed her that it was firmly bolted. "You see," said she, "it is well fastened. Are you satisfied now?" "Oh! satisfied! satisfied! in this place!" said Lucy, sinking into her corner. "But God knows that I am here." "Come to bed. What would you do there, lying like a dog? How silly to refuse comforts when you can have them!" "No, no, leave me to myself." "Well, remember it is your own fault; if you wish to come to bed, you can--I have left room enough for you; remember I have asked you very often." Thus saying, she drew the clothes over her, and soon all was profound silence. Lucy remained motionless, with her face buried in her hands, which rested on her knees; she was neither awake nor asleep, but in a dreamy state of the imagination, painful, vague, and changeful. At first, she recalled with something of self-possession the minutest circumstances of this horrible day; then her reason for a moment forsook its throne, vainly struggling against the phantoms conjured by uncertainty and terror; at last, weary and exhausted, she sunk on the floor, in a state approaching to, and resembling, sleep. But suddenly she awoke, as at an internal call, and strove to recall her scattered senses, to know where she was, and why she had been brought thither. She heard a noise, and listened; it was the heavy breathing of the old woman, in a deep slumber; she opened her eyes on the objects around her, which the flickering of the lamp, now dying in its socket, rendered confused and indistinct. But soon her recent impressions returned distinctly to her mind, and the unfortunate girl recognised her prison; and with the knowledge came associated all the terrors of this horrible day; and, overcome anew by anxiety and terror, she wished earnestly for death. She could only pray, and as the words fell from her trembling lips, she felt her confidence revive. Suddenly a thought presented itself to her mind; that her prayer would be more acceptable if united with an offering of something dear to her; she remembered the object to which she had clung for her happiness, and resolved to sacrifice it; then clasping her hands over her chaplet, which hung upon her neck, and raising her tearful eyes to heaven, she cried, "O most holy Virgin! thou to whom I have so often prayed, and who hast so often consoled me--thou who hast suffered so much sorrow, and art now so glorious--thou who hast performed so many miracles for the afflicted--holy Virgin! succour me, take me from this peril, mother of God! return me safely to my mother, and I pledge myself to remain devoted to thy service; I renounce for ever the unfortunate youth, and from this time devote myself to thee!" After this consecration of herself, she felt her confidence and faith increase; she remembered the "_to-morrow morning_" uttered by the Unknown, and took it as a promise of safety. Her wearied senses yielded to this new sentiment, and she slept profoundly and peacefully with the name of her protectress on her lips. But in this same castle was one who could not sleep: after having quitted Lucy, and given orders for her supper, he had visited the posts of his fortress; but her image remained stamped on his mind, her words still resounded in his ears. He retired to his chamber, and threw himself on his bed; but in the stillness around this same image of Lucy in her desolation and anguish took possession still more absolutely of his thoughts, and rendered sleep hopeless. "What new feelings are these?" thought he. "Nibbio was right; but what is there in a woman's tears to unman me thus? Did I never see a woman weep before? Ay, and how often have I beheld their deepest agonies unmoved? But now----" And here he recalled, without much difficulty, many an instance when neither prayers nor tears were able to make him swerve from his atrocious purposes; but instead of deriving augmented resolution, as he had hoped, from the recollection, he experienced an emotion of alarm, of consternation; so that even, as a relief from the torment of retrospection, he thought of Lucy. "She lives still," said he, "she is here; there is yet time. I have it in my power to say to her, Go in peace! I can also ask her forgiveness. Forgiveness! I ask forgiveness of a woman! Ah, if in that word existed the power to drive this demon from my soul, I would say it; yes, I feel that I would say it. To what am I reduced? I am no longer myself! Well, well! many a time have such follies passed through my head; this will take its flight also." And to procure the desired forgetfulness, he endeavoured to busy himself with some new project; but in vain: all appeared changed! that which at another time would have been a stimulus to action, had now lost its charm; his imagination was overwhelmed with the insupportable weight of remembered crimes. Even the idea of continuing to associate with those whom he had employed as the instruments of his daring and licentious will was revolting to his soul; and, disgusted and weary, he found relief only in the thought that by the dawn of morning he would set at liberty the unfortunate Lucy. "I will save her; yes, I will save her. As soon as the day breaks, I will fly to her, and say, Go, go in peace. But my promise! Ay, who is Don Roderick that I should hold sacred a promise made to _him_?" With the perplexity of a man to whom a superior addresses unexpectedly an embarrassing question, the Unknown endeavoured to reply to this his own, or, rather, that was whispered by this new principle, that had of a sudden sprung up so awfully in his soul, to pass judgment upon him. He wondered how he could have resolved to engage himself to inflict suffering, without any motive of hatred or fear, on an unfortunate being whom he did not know, only to render a service to this man. He could not find any excuse for it; he could not even imagine how he had been led to do it. The hasty determination had been the impulse of a mind obedient to its habitual feelings, the consequence of a thousand previous deeds; and from an examination of the motives which had led him to commit a single deed, he was led to the retrospection of his whole life. In looking back from year to year, from enterprise to enterprise, from crime to crime, from blood to blood, each one of his actions appeared abstracted from the feelings which had induced their perpetration, and therefore exposed in all their horrible deformity, but which those feelings had hitherto veiled from his view. They were all his own, he was responsible for all; they comprised his life; the horror of this thought filled him with despair; he grasped his pistol, and raised it to his head--but at the moment in which he would have terminated his miserable existence, his thoughts rushed onwards to the time that must continue to flow on after his end. He thought of his disfigured corpse, without sense or motion, in the power of the vilest men; the astonishment and confusion which would take place in the castle, the conversation it would excite in the neighbourhood and afar off, and, more than all, the rejoicing of his enemies. The darkness and silence of the night inspired him with other apprehensions still; it appeared to him that he would not have hesitated to perform the deed in open day, in the presence of others. "And, after all, what was it? but a moment, and all would be over." And now another thought rose to his mind: "If that other life, of which they tell, is an invention of priests, is a mere fabrication, why should I die? Of what consequence is all that I have done? It is a trifle--but if there should be another life!" At such a doubt, he was filled with deeper despair, a despair from which death appeared no refuge. The pistol dropped from his grasp--both hands were applied to his aching head--and he trembled in every limb. Suddenly the words he had heard a few hours before came to his memory, "God pardons so many deeds for one act of mercy." They did not come to him clothed in the humble tone of supplication, with which he had heard them pronounced, but in one of authority which offered some gleam of hope. It was a moment of relief: he brought to mind the figure of Lucy, when she uttered them; and he regarded her, not as a suppliant, but as an angel of consolation. He waited with anxiety the approach of day, that he might hear from her mouth other words of hope and life. He imagined himself conducting her to her mother, "And then, what shall I do to-morrow? what shall I do for the rest of the day? what shall I do the day after, and the next day? and the night? the night which will so soon return? Oh, the night! let me not think of the night!" And, plunged in the frightful void of the future, he sought in vain for some employment of time, some method of living through the days and nights. Now he thought of abandoning his castle, and flying to some distant country, where he had never been heard of; but, could he fly from himself? Then he felt a confused hope of recovering his former courage and habits; and that he should regard these terrors of his soul but as a transient delirium: now, he dreaded the approach of day, which should exhibit him so miserably changed to his followers; then he longed for its light, as if it would bring light also to his troubled thoughts. As the day broke, a confused sound of merriment broke upon his ear. He listened; it was a distant chiming of bells, and he could hear the echo of the mountains repeat the harmony, and mingle itself with it. From another quarter, still nearer, and then from another, similar sounds were heard. "What means this?" said he. "For what are these rejoicings? What joyful event has taken place?" He rose from his bed of thorns, and opened the window. The mountains were still half veiled in darkness, the heavens appeared enveloped in a heavy and vast cloud; but he distinguished, through the faint dawn of the morning, crowds passing towards the opening on the right of the castle, villagers in their holyday garments. "What are those people doing? what has happened to cause all this joy?" And calling a bravo, who slept in the adjoining room, he asked him the cause of the commotion. The man replied that he was ignorant of it, but would go immediately and enquire. His master remained at the window, contemplating the moving spectacle, which increasing day rendered more distinct every moment. He saw crowds passing in succession; men, women, and children, as guided by one impulse, directing their steps in one direction. They appeared animated by a common joy; and the bells, with their united sound of merriment, seemed to be an echo of the general hilarity. The Unknown looked on intently, and felt an eager curiosity to know what could have communicated such happiness to such a multitude of people. CHAPTER XXII. The bravo hastened back with the intelligence, that the Cardinal Frederick Borromeo, Archbishop of Milan, had arrived the evening before at ***, and was expected to pass the day there. The report of his arrival being spread abroad, the people had been seized with a desire to see him; and the bells were rung in testimony of the happiness his presence conferred, and also to give wider notice of his arrival. The Unknown, left alone, continued to look down into the valley--"For a man! all crowding, all eager to see a man! And, nevertheless, each one of them has some demon that torments him; but none, none, a demon like mine; not one has passed such a night as I have. What is there in this man to excite such joy? Some silver which he will scatter among them.--But _all_ are not actuated by such a motive. Well, a few words--Oh! if he had a few words of consolation for me! Yes--why should I not go to him? Why not? I _will_ go. What better can I do? I will go and speak to him; speak to him alone. What shall I say to him? Why, why, that which----I will hear what he will say to me." Having come to this vague determination, he threw over his shoulders a military cloak, put his pistol and dagger in his girdle, and took from the wall, where it hung, a carabine almost as famous as himself; thus accoutred, he proceeded to Lucy's chamber, and leaving his carabine at the door, he knocked and demanded admittance. The old woman hastened to open the door; he entered, and looking around the room saw Lucy tranquil and silent in the corner of it. "Does she sleep?" asked he in a low voice. "Why did you suffer her to sleep there? Were these my orders?" "I did all I could; but she would neither eat nor come----" "Let her sleep then in peace; be careful not to trouble her, and when she wakes--Martha will be in the next chamber, and you must send her for whatever she may want--when she wakes--tell her I----that the signor has gone out for a little while, that he will return, and that--he will do all that she wishes." The old woman was astonished; "She must be some princess," thought she. The Unknown departed, took his carabine, gave orders to Martha to be in waiting, and to a bravo to guard the chamber, and not suffer any one to approach; then leaving the castle, with rapid steps he descended into the valley. The bravoes whom he met ascending the hill, stopped respectfully at his approach, expecting and awaiting orders for some expedition, and were astonished at his whole appearance, and the looks with which he returned their salute. When he reached the public road, his presence made a very different impression; at his approach every one gave way, regarding him with looks of suspicion and wonder; each individual whom he met, cast at him a troubled look, bowed, and slackened his pace, in order to remain behind. He arrived at the village in the midst of the throng; his name quickly spread from mouth to mouth, and a passage was instantly made for him to pass. He enquired of one near him where the cardinal was. "In the house of the curate," replied the person, respectfully pointing to it. He went to it, entered a small court where there were several priests, who looked at him with astonishment and suspicion. He saw, opposite to him, a door open, which led to a small hall, in which were also a great collection of priests. He left his carabine in a corner of the court, and entered the hall. He was received here, likewise, with doubting looks, and whispers; and his name was repeated with infinite awe. He accosted one of them, asking to be directed to the cardinal, as he wished to speak with him. "I am a stranger," replied the priest; and looking around upon the assembly, he called the cross-bearer, who at the time was saying to one near him, "He here!--the famous----What can have brought him here? Make room!" At this call, which resounded in the general silence, he felt himself compelled to advance. He bowed before the Unknown, raised his eyes in uneasy curiosity to his face, and understanding his request, he stammered out, "I do not know if his illustrious lordship--at this time--is--can--however, I will go and see." And he went, against his will, to carry the message to the cardinal. At this period of our history we cannot do otherwise than rest a while, as the traveller worn out and weary with a long journey through a sterile and savage land, refreshes himself for a season under the shade of a tree, near a fountain of living water. We are about to introduce a person whose name and memory cause an emotion of respect and sympathy; and this emotion is the more grateful from our previous contemplation of wickedness and crime. We trust our readers will excuse our devoting a few moments to this great and good man. Frederick Borromeo, born in the year 1564, was one of those rare characters who have employed a fine genius, the resources of great wealth, the advantages of privileged rank, and unceasing industry, for the discovery and practice of that which was for the good of mankind. His life was like a stream, which, issuing limpid from its native rock, moves on undefiled over various lands; and, clear and limpid still, unites itself with the ocean. In the midst of the pomps and pleasures of the world, he applied himself from his earliest youth to study and obey the precepts of religion; and this application produced in his heart its legitimate fruits. He took truth for the rule of his thoughts and actions. He was taught by it not to look upon this life as a burthen to the many, and a pleasure to the few; but as a scene of activity for all, and of which all must render their account; and the chief aim of his thoughts had ever been to render his life useful and holy. In 1580, he declared his resolution to devote himself to the ministry of the church, and he took the habit from the hands of his cousin Carlos, whom the public voice, even to the present day, has uniformly acknowledged as a saint.[31] He entered a short time after into the college at Pavia, founded by that holy man, and which still bears the name of the family. There, whilst applying himself with assiduity to the occupations prescribed by its rules, he voluntarily imposed on himself, in addition, the task of instructing the poor and ignorant in the principles of the Christian religion, and of visiting, consoling, and aiding the sick. He made use of the authority which was conceded to him by all, to induce his companions to second him in these deeds of benevolence; he steadily refused all worldly advantages, and led a life of self-denial and devotion to the cause of religion and virtue. The complaints of his kindred, who thought the dignity of the house degraded by his plain and simple habits of life, were unavailing. He had another conflict to sustain with the ecclesiastical authorities, who wished to impel him forward to distinction, and make him appear as the prince of the place. From all this, however, he carefully withdrew himself, although at the time but a youth. [31] Saint Charles Borromeo. It would not have been astonishing that, during the life of his cousin Carlos, Frederick should have imitated the example and followed the counsel of so good a man; but it was surprising, that after his death no one could perceive that Frederick, although only twenty years of age, had lost his guardian and guide. The increasing splendour of his talents, his piety, the support of many powerful cardinals, the authority of his family, the name itself, to which Carlos had caused to be associated an idea of sanctity and sacerdotal superiority, all concurred to point him out as a proper subject for ecclesiastical dignity. But he, persuaded in the depth of his soul of that which no true Christian can deny, that a man has no real superiority over others, but in devotion to their good, dreaded distinction, and sought to avoid it. He did not wish to escape from the obligation to serve his neighbour; his life was but one scene of such services; but he did not esteem himself worthy of so high and responsible an office. Governed by such feelings, in 1595, when Clement VIII. offered him the archbishopric of Milan, he refused it without hesitation, but was finally obliged to yield to the express command of the pope. Such demonstrations are neither difficult nor rare; it is no greater effort for hypocrisy to assume them, than for raillery to deride them. But are they not also the natural expression of wise and virtuous feeling? The life is the test of sincerity; and though all the hypocrites in the world had assumed the expression of virtuous sentiments, yet the sentiments themselves will always command our respect and veneration, when their genuineness is evinced by a life of disinterestedness and self-sacrifice. Frederick, as archbishop, was careful to reserve for himself only that which was barely necessary, of his time and his wealth: he said, as all the world says, that the ecclesiastical revenues are the patrimony of the poor; and we shall see how he put this maxim in practice. He caused an estimate to be made of the sum necessary for his expenses, and for those employed in his service: finding it to be 600 sequins, he ordered that amount to be taken from his patrimonial revenues for the supply of his table. He exercised such minute economy with regard to himself, that he did not relinquish any article of dress until it was entirely worn out; but he joined to these habits of extreme simplicity, an exquisite neatness, which was remarkable in this age of luxury and uncleanliness. He did more: in order that nothing should be lost from the fragments of his frugal table, he assigned them to a hospital for the poor, and a servant came every day to gather the remnants for that purpose. From the attention which he paid to such minutiæ, we might form a contracted idea of his mind, as being incapable of elevating itself to more extensive designs, were it not for the Ambrosian library, which remains a monument of his liberality and magnificence. To furnish it with books and manuscripts, besides those which he had already collected, he sent eight of the most skilful and learned men to make purchases of them in France, Spain, Germany, Italy, Flanders, Greece, Lebanon, and Jerusalem. He succeeded in collecting 30,000 printed volumes, and 14,000 manuscripts. He joined to the library a college of doctors: these doctors were nine in number, and supported by him as long as he lived; after his death, the ordinary revenues not being sufficient for the expense, they were reduced to two. Their duty consisted in the cultivation of the various branches of human knowledge, theology, history, belles lettres, ecclesiastical antiquities, and Oriental languages. Each one was obliged to publish some work on the subject to which he had particularly applied himself. He added to this a college, which he called _Trilingue_[32], for the study of the Greek, Latin, and Italian languages; and a college of pupils, who were instructed in these languages to become professors in their turn. He united to these also a printing establishment for the Oriental languages, for Hebrew, Chaldee, Arabic, Persian, and Armenian; a gallery of pictures, and another of statues; and a school for the three principal arts of design. For the latter, he was at no loss to find professors; but this was not the case with regard to the Eastern languages, which were at this time but little cultivated in Europe. In the orders which he left for the government and regulations of the library, we perceive a perpetual attention to utility, admirable in itself, and much in advance of the ordinary ideas of his time. He prescribed to the librarian the cultivation of a regular correspondence with the learned men of Europe, to keep himself acquainted with the state of science, and to procure every new and important work; he also charged him to point out to young students the books necessary for them, and, whether natives or foreigners, to afford them every possible facility in making use of those of the library. There is a history of the Ambrosian library by one Pierpaolo Bosca, who was librarian after the death of Frederick, in which all the excellent regulations are minutely detailed. Other libraries existed in Italy, but with little benefit to the studious: the books were carefully concealed from view in their cases, and inaccessible to all, except on rare occasions, and with the utmost difficulty. A book might then be seen, but not studied. It is useless to enquire what were the fruits of these establishments of Borromeo, but we must admire the generosity, judgment, and benevolence of the man who could undertake and execute such things, in the midst of the ignorance, inertness, and general indifference which surrounded him. And in attention to public, he was not unmindful of private benevolence; indeed, his whole life was a perpetual almsgiving; on the occasion of the famine of which our history has spoken, we may have to relate more than one instance of his wisdom and generosity. [32] Three languages. The inexhaustible charity of the man shone as much in his private charities, as in his splendid and magnificent public establishments already recorded. On one occasion he saved a young lady from being immured in a convent against her wish. Her selfish father pretended he could not marry her suitably without a portion of 4000 crowns. The bishop advanced the money. Easy of access, he made it a principle to receive the poor who applied to him, with kindness and affection. And on this point he was obliged to dispute with the nobility, who wished to keep him to their standard of action. One day, whilst visiting among the mountaineers, and instructing some poor children, Frederick bestowed caresses on them. A nobleman who was present, warned him to be careful, as the children were dirty and disgusting. The good bishop, not without indignation, replied, "These souls are committed to my care; these children may never see me again; and are you not willing that I should embrace them?" He, however, seldom felt indignation or anger: he was admired for a placability, a sweetness of manner nearly imperturbable; which, however, was not natural to him, but the effect of continual combat against a quick and hasty disposition. If ever he appeared harsh, it was to those subordinate pastors, whom he found guilty of avarice, or negligence, or any other vice opposed to the spirit of their high calling. With regard to his own interests or temporal glory, he exhibited no emotion, either of joy or regret; admirable indeed, if his spirit was in reality not affected by these emotions; but more admirable still, if viewed as the result of continued and unremitted effort to subdue them. And amidst all the important cares with which he was occupied, he did not neglect the cultivation of his mind; he devoted himself to literature with so much ardour, that he became one of the most learned men of his time. We must not, however, conceal that he adopted with firm persuasion, and maintained with constancy, certain opinions, which at this day would appear singular and ill-founded; these, however, were the errors of his time, and not his own. Our readers may perhaps enquire, if so learned and studious a man has left no monument of his labours and studies? His works, great and small, Latin and Italian, printed as well as manuscript, amount to more than a hundred; they are preserved with care in the library which he founded. They are composed of moral treatises, sermons, historical dissertations, sacred and profane antiquities, literature, the fine arts, &c. And what is the reason that they are so little known, so little sought for? We cannot enter into the causes of this phenomenon, as our explanation might not be satisfactory to our readers. So that we had better resume the course of our history, in relating facts concerning this extraordinary man. CHAPTER XXIII. The Cardinal Frederick was engaged in study, as was his custom, preparatory to the hour of divine service, when the cross-bearer entered, with a disturbed and unquiet air. "A strange visit,--strange indeed, most illustrious signor." "From whom?" asked the cardinal. "From the signor ----," replied the chaplain; pronouncing the name which we are unable to repeat to our readers. "He is without, in person, and asks admittance to the presence of your lordship." "Indeed!" said the cardinal, closing his book and rising from his seat, his countenance brightening; "let him come in, let him come in immediately." "But----," replied the chaplain, "does your lordship know who this man is? It is the famous outlaw ----." "And is it not a happy circumstance for a bishop, that such a man should have come to seek him?" "But----," insisted the chaplain, "we never dare speak of certain things, because my lord says they are idle tales. However, in this case it appears to be a duty----. Zeal makes enemies, my lord, and we know that more than one ruffian has boasted that sooner or later----" "And what have they done?" "This man is an enterprising, desperate villain, who is in strict correspondence with other villains, as desperate as himself, and who, perhaps, have sent him----" "Oh! what discipline is this!" said the cardinal, smiling; "the soldiers exhort the general to cowardice!" Then, with a grave and pensive air, he resumed, "Saint Carlo would not have deliberated a moment, whether he should receive such a man; he would have gone to seek him. Let him enter immediately; he has already waited too long." The chaplain moved towards the door, saying in his heart, "There is no remedy; these saints are always obstinate." He opened the door, and reaching the hall, where he had left the ecclesiastics, he beheld them collected together in one corner of the room, and the Unknown standing alone in another. As he approached him, he eyed him keenly to ascertain whether he had not arms concealed about his person. "Truly, before introducing him, we might at least propose----," but his resolution failed him. He spoke--"My lord expects your lordship. Be kind enough to come with me." And he led the way into the presence of Frederick, who came forward to meet the Unknown with a pleased and serene countenance, making a sign to the chaplain to quit the room. The Unknown and the cardinal remained for some moments silent and undecided; the former experienced at the same time a vague hope of finding some relief to his internal torments, and also a degree of irritation and shame at appearing in this place as a penitent, to confess his sins, and implore pardon of a man. He could not speak; indeed, he hardly wished to do so. However, as he raised his eyes to the cardinal's face, he was seized with an irresistible sentiment of respect, which increasing his confidence, and subduing his pride without offending it, nevertheless kept him silent. The person of Frederick was indeed fitted to inspire respect and love. His figure was naturally majestic and noble, and was neither bent nor wasted by years; his eye was grave and piercing, his brow serene and pensive; his countenance still shone with the animation of youth, notwithstanding the paleness of his face, and the visible traces it presented of abstinence, meditation, and laborious exertion. All his features indicated that he had once been more than ordinarily handsome; the habit of solemn and benevolent thought, the internal peace of a long life, love for mankind, and the influence of an ineffable hope, had substituted for the beauty of youth, the more dignified and superior beauty of an old age, to which the magnificent simplicity of the _purple_ added an imposing and inexpressible charm. He kept his eyes for a few moments fixed on the Unknown, as if to read his thoughts; and imagining he perceived in his dark and troubled features something corresponding to the hope he had conceived, "Oh!" cried he in an animated voice, "what a welcome visit is this! and how I ought to thank you for it, although it fills me with self-reproach." "Reproach!" cried the Unknown, in astonishment; but he felt re-assured by his manner, and the gentleness of his words, and he was glad that the cardinal had broken the ice, and commenced the conversation. "Certainly, it is a subject of self-reproach that I should have waited till you came to me! How many times I might, and ought to have sought _you_!" "You! seek _me_! Do you know who I am? Have they told you my name?" "Do you believe I could have felt this joy, which you may read in my countenance--do you believe I could have felt it, at the sight of one unknown to me? It is you who are the cause of it--you, whom it was my duty to seek--you, for whom I have so wept and prayed--you, who are that one of my children (and I love them all with the whole strength of my affections)--that one, whom I would most have desired to see and embrace, if I could have ever dared to indulge the hope of so doing. But God alone can work miracles, and he supplies the weakness and tardiness of his poor servants." The Unknown was amazed at the kindness and warmth of this reception; agitated and bewildered by such unlooked-for benevolence, he kept silence. "And," resumed Frederick, more affectionately, "you have some good news for me; why do you hesitate to tell it me?" "Good news! I! I have hell in my soul, and how can I bring _you_ good news! Tell me, tell me, if you know, what good news could you expect from such a one as I?" "That God has touched your heart, and is drawing you to himself," replied the cardinal calmly. "God! God! If I could see! If I could hear him! Where is God?" "Do you ask me? you! And who more than yourself has felt his presence? Do you not now feel him in your heart, disturbing, agitating you, not leaving you a moment of repose, and at the same time drawing you towards him, and imparting a hope of tranquillity and of consolation; of consolation which shall be full and unlimited, as soon as you acknowledge _Him_, confess your sins, and implore his mercy!" "Oh! yes, yes; something indeed oppresses, something consumes me. But God--if it be God, if it be He, of whom you speak, what can he do with me?" These words were uttered in a tone of despair; but Frederick calmly and solemnly replied, "What can God do with you? Through you he can exhibit his power and goodness. He would draw from you a glory, which none other could render him; you, against whom, the cries of the world have been for so long a time raised--you, whose deeds are detested----" (The Unknown started at this unaccustomed language, but was astonished to find that it excited no anger in his bosom, but rather communicated to it a degree of alleviation.) "What glory," pursued Frederick, "will accrue to God? A general cry of supplication has risen against you before his throne; among your accusers, some no doubt have been stimulated by jealousy of the power you have exercised; but more, by the deplorable security of your own heart, which has endured until this day. But, when _you_ yourself shall rise to condemn your life, and become your own accuser, then, oh! then, God will be glorified! And you ask what he can do with you? What am I, feeble mortal! that I should presume to tell you what are his designs respecting you; what he will do with this impetuous will, and imperturbable constancy, when he shall have animated and warmed it with love, hope, and repentance? Who are you, feeble mortal, that you should think yourself able to execute and imagine greater things for the promotion of evil and vice, than God can make you accomplish for that of good and virtue? What can God do with you? Forgive you! save you! accomplish in you the work of redemption! Are not these things worthy of him? Oh! speak. If I, an humble creature--I, so miserable, and nevertheless so full of myself--I, such as I am,--if I so rejoice at your salvation, that to assure it, I would joyfully give (God is my witness) the few years that remain to me in life, Oh! think! what must be the love of Him who inspires me with the thought, and commands me to regard you with such devotion as this!" The countenance and manner of Frederick breathed celestial purity and love, in accordance with the vows which came from his mouth. The Unknown felt the stormy emotions of his soul gradually calming under such heavenly influence, and giving place to sentiments of deep and profound interest. His eyes, which from infancy "had been unused to tears, became swoln;" and burying his face in his hands, he wept the reply he could not utter. "Great and good God!" cried Frederick, raising his hands and eyes to heaven, "what have I ever done--I, thy unprofitable servant--that thou shouldst have invited me to this banquet of thy grace,--that thou shouldst have thought me worthy of being thy instrument to the accomplishment of such a miracle!" So saying, he extended his hand to take that of the Unknown. "No!" cried he; "no! Approach me not! Pollute not that innocent and beneficent hand! You know not what deeds have been committed by the hand you would place within your own!" "Suffer," said Frederick, taking it with gentle violence,--"suffer me to clasp this hand, which is about to repair so many wrongs, to scatter so many blessings; which will comfort so many who are in affliction, which will offer itself, peaceably and humbly, to so many enemies." "It is too much," said the Unknown, sobbing aloud; "leave me, my lord! good Frederick! leave me! Crowds eagerly await your presence, among whom are pure and innocent souls, who have come from far to see and hear you, and you remain here to converse----with whom?" "We will leave the ninety and nine sheep," replied the cardinal; "they are in safety on the mountain. I must now remain with the one which was lost. These people are perhaps now more satisfied than if they had the poor bishop with them; perhaps God, who has visited you with the riches and wonders of his grace, may even now be filling their hearts with a joy, of which they divine not the cause; perhaps they are united to us without knowing it; perhaps the Holy Spirit animates their hearts with the fervour of charity and benevolence; inspires them with a spirit of prayer; with, on your account, a spirit of thanksgiving of which you are the unknown object." So saying, he passed his arm around the neck of the Unknown, who, after resisting a moment, yielded, quite vanquished by this impulse of kindness, and fell on the neck of the cardinal, in an agony of repentance. His burning tears dropped on the stainless purple of Frederick, and the pure hands of the bishop were clasped affectionately around him, who had hitherto been only habituated to deeds of violence and treachery. The Unknown, after a long embrace, covering his face with his hands, raised his head, exclaiming, "Oh! God! Thou who art truly great and good! I know myself now; I comprehend what I am; my iniquities are all before me; I abhor myself; but still--still I experience a consolation, a joy--yes, a joy which I have never before known in all my horrible life!" "God accords to you this grace," said Frederick, "to attract you to his service, to strengthen you to enter resolutely the new way he has opened to you, where you have so much to undo, to repair, to weep for!" "Miserable that I am!" cried he, "there is so much--so much--that I can only weep over. But at least, there are some things but just undertaken, that I can arrest--yes, there is at least one evil that I can repair." He then briefly related, in the most energetic terms of self-execration, the story of Lucy, with the sufferings and terrors of the unfortunate girl; her entreaties, and the species of frenzy that her supplications had excited in his soul; adding, that she was still in the castle. "Ah! let us lose no time!" cried Frederick, moved with pity and solicitude. "What happiness for you! You may behold in this, the pledge of pardon! God makes you the instrument of safety to her, to whom you were to have been the instrument of ruin. God has indeed blessed you!--Do you know the native place of the unhappy girl?" The Unknown named the village. "It is not far from this," said the cardinal; "God be praised! And probably----" so saying, he approached a table, and rang a little bell. The chaplain entered, with an unquiet look; in amazement he beheld the altered countenance of the Unknown, on which the traces of tears were still visible; and glancing at that of the cardinal, he perceived, through its wonted calmness, an expression of great satisfaction, mingled with extraordinary solicitude. He was roused from the astonishment which the contemplation excited, by a question of the cardinal, if, among the curates in the hall, "there was one from ***?" "There is, most illustrious lord," replied the chaplain. "Bring him hither immediately," said Frederick, "and with him, the curate of this parish." The chaplain obeyed, and went to the hall where the priests were assembled. All eyes were turned towards him. He cried aloud, "His most illustrious and reverend lordship asks for the curate of this parish and the curate of ***." The former advanced immediately, and at the same time was heard, amidst the crowd, a _me?_ uttered in a tone of surprise. "Are you not the curate of ***?" said the chaplain. "Certainly; but----" "His most illustrious and reverend lordship asks for you." "Me?" replied he, and Don Abbondio advanced from the crowd with an air of amazement and anxiety. The chaplain led the way, and introduced them both to the presence of the cardinal. The cardinal let go the hand of the Unknown as they entered, and taking the curate of the parish aside, related in few words the facts of the story, asking him if he knew some kind female, who would be willing to go to the castle in a litter, to remove Lucy thence; a devoted, charitable woman, capable of acting with judgment in so novel an expedition, and of exerting the best means to tranquillise the poor girl, to whom deliverance itself, after such anguish and alarm, might produce new and overwhelming apprehensions. After having reflected a moment, the curate took upon himself the affair, and departed. The cardinal then ordered the chaplain to have a litter prepared, and two mules ready saddled. The chaplain quitted the room to obey his orders, and the cardinal was left alone with Don Abbondio and the Unknown. The former, who had kept himself aloof, regarding with eager curiosity the faces of the Unknown and the cardinal, now came forward, saying, "I was told that your illustrious lordship wished to see me; but I suppose it was a mistake." "There is no mistake;" replied Frederick, "I have both a novel and agreeable commission to give you. One of your parishioners, whom you have regarded as lost, Lucy Mondella, is found; she is near this, in the house of my good friend here. I wish you to go with him, and a good woman whom the curate of this parish will provide, and bring the poor girl, who must be so dear to you, to this place." Don Abbondio did his best to conceal the extreme alarm which such a proposition caused him; and bowed profoundly, in sign of obedience, first to the cardinal, and then to the Unknown, but with a piteous look, which seemed to say, "I am in your hands; be merciful: _parcere subjectis_." The cardinal asked him of Lucy's relations. "She has no near relation but her mother, with whom she lives," replied Don Abbondio. "Is _she_ at home?" "Yes, my lord." "Since," replied Frederick, "this poor child cannot yet go home, it would be a great consolation for her to see her mother; if the curate of this village does not return before I go to church, I beg you will desire him to send some prudent person to bring the good woman hither." "Perhaps I had better go myself," said Don Abbondio. "No, no; I have other employment for you." "Her mother," resumed Don Abbondio, "is a very sensitive woman, and it will require a good deal of discretion to prepare her for the meeting." "That is the reason that I have named some prudent person. You, however, will be more useful elsewhere," replied the cardinal. He could have added, had he not been deterred by a regard to the feelings of the Unknown--"This poor child needs much to behold some person whom she knows, after so many hours of alarm, and in such terrible uncertainty of the future." It appeared strange, however, that Don Abbondio should not have inferred it from his manner, or that he should not have thought so himself; the reluctance he evinced to comply with the request of the cardinal appeared so out of place, that the latter imagined there must be some secret cause for it. He looked at the curate attentively, and quickly discovering the fears of the poor man at becoming the companion of this formidable lord, or entering his abode, even for a few moments, he felt an anxiety to dissipate these terrors; and in order to do this, and not injure the feelings of his new friend by talking privately to Don Abbondio in his presence, he addressed his conversation to the Unknown himself, so that Don Abbondio might perceive by his answers, that he was no longer a man to be feared. "Do not believe," said he, "that I shall be satisfied with this visit to-day. You will return, will you not, in company with this worthy ecclesiastic?" "_Will_ I return!" replied the Unknown: "Oh! if ever you should refuse to see me, I would remain at your door as a beggar. I must talk to you, I must hear you, I must see you, I cannot do without you!" Frederick took his hand, and pressing it affectionately, said, "Do us the favour, then, the curate of the village and myself, to dine with us; I shall expect you. In the mean time, whilst you are gathering the first fruits of repentance and compassion, I will go and offer supplications and thanksgivings to God with the people." Don Abbondio, at this exhibition of confidence and affection, was like a timid child, who beholds a man caressing fearlessly a rough-looking mastiff, renowned for his ferocity and strength. It is in vain that the master assures him the dog is a good quiet beast: he looks at him, neither contradicting nor assenting; he looks at the dog, and dares not approach him, lest the good beast might show his teeth, if only from habit; he dares not retreat, from fear of the imputation of cowardice; but he heartily wishes himself safe "at home!" The cardinal, as he was quitting the room, still holding the Unknown by the hand, perceived that the curate remained behind, embarrassed and motionless, and thinking that perhaps he was mortified at the little attention that was paid to him, compared with that which was bestowed on one so criminal, he turned towards him, stopped a moment, and with an amiable smile said, "Signor Curate, you have always been with me in the house of our Father; but this man _perierat, et inventus est_." "Oh! how I rejoice at it!" said the curate, bowing to them both very reverently. The archbishop passed on, and entering the hall, the admirable pair presented themselves to the eager gaze of the clergy who were there assembled. They regarded with intense curiosity those two countenances, on which were depicted different, but equally profound emotions. The venerable features of Frederick breathed a grateful and humble joy; in those of the Unknown might be traced an embarrassment blended with satisfaction, an unusual modesty, a keen remorse, through which, however, the lingerings of his severe and savage nature were apparent. More than one of the spectators thought of that passage of Isaiah, "The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid." Behind them came Don Abbondio, whom no one noticed. When they had reached the middle of the apartment, the servant of the cardinal entered, to inform him that he had executed the orders of the chaplain, that the litter was ready, and that they only waited for the female whom the curate was to bring. The cardinal told him to inform Don Abbondio when the curate should have arrived, and that afterwards all would be subject to his orders and those of the Unknown, to whom he bade an affectionate farewell, saying, "I shall expect you." Bowing to Don Abbondio, he directed his steps, followed by the clergy in procession, to the church. Don Abbondio and the Unknown were left alone in the apartment; the latter was absorbed in his own thoughts, impatient for the moment to arrive when he should take _his_ Lucy from sorrow and prison; for she was indeed _his_ Lucy, but in a sense very different from the preceding night. His countenance expressed concentrated agitation, which to the suspicious eye of Don Abbondio appeared something worse: he looked at him with a desire to begin a friendly conversation. "But what can I say to him?" thought he. "Shall I repeat to him that I rejoice? I rejoice! at what? That having been a demon, he has formed the resolution to become an honest man? A pretty salutation, indeed! Eh! eh! _however_ I should arrange my words, my _I rejoice_ would signify nothing else! And can one believe that he has become an honest man all in a moment! Assertions prove nothing; it is so easy to make them! But, nevertheless, I must go with him to the castle! Oh! who would have told me this, this morning! Oh! if ever I am so happy as to get home again, Perpetua shall answer for having urged me to come here! Oh! miserable that I am! I must however say something to this man!" He had at least thought of something to say,--"I never expected the pleasure of being in such respectable company,"--and had opened his mouth to speak, when the servant entered with the curate of the village, who informed them that the good woman was in the litter awaiting them. Don Abbondio, approaching the servant, said to him, "Give me a gentle beast, for, to say truth, I am not a skilful horseman." "Be quite easy," replied the valet, with a smile; "it is the mule of the secretary, a grave man of letters." "Well," replied Don Abbondio, and continued to himself, "Heaven preserve me!" The Unknown had advanced towards the door, but looking back, and seeing Don Abbondio behind, he suddenly recollected himself, and bowing with a polite and humble air, waited to let him pass before. This circumstance re-assured the poor man a little; but he had scarcely reached the little court, when he saw the Unknown resume his carbine, and fling it over his shoulder, as if performing the military exercise. "Oh! oh! oh!" thought Don Abbondio, "what does he want with this tool? That is a strange ornament for a converted person! And if some whim should enter his head! what would become of me! what would become of me!" If the Unknown had had the least suspicion of the thoughts that were passing in the mind of his companion, he would have done his utmost to inspire him with confidence; but he was far from such an imagination, as Don Abbondio was very careful not to let his distrust appear. They found the mules ready at the door: the Unknown mounted one which was presented to him by a groom. "Is she not vicious in the least?" asked Don Abbondio of the servant, with his foot in the stirrup. "Be quite easy, she is a lamb," replied he. Don Abbondio climbed to the saddle, by the aid of the servant, and was at last safely mounted. The litter, which was a few steps in advance, moved at a call from the driver, and the convoy departed. They had to pass before the church, which was crowded with people, and through a small square, which was filled with villagers from abroad, who had not been able to find a place within the walls of the church. The report had already spread; and when they saw the carriage appear, and beheld the man who a few hours before had been the object of terror and execration, a confused murmur of applause rose from the crowd. They made way to let him pass; at the same time each one endeavoured to obtain a sight of him. When he arrived in front of the church, he took off his hat, and bowed his head in reverence, amidst the tumultuous din of many voices, which exclaiming "God bless you!" Don Abbondio took off his hat also, bent his head, and commended himself to the protection of heaven; and, hearing the voices of his brethren in the choir, he could not restrain his tears. But when they reached the open country, in the windings of the almost deserted road, a darker veil came over his thoughts; there was nothing that he could regard with confidence but the driver, who, belonging to the establishment of the cardinal, must certainly be honest, and moreover did not look like a coward. From time to time they passed travellers crowding to see the cardinal. The sight of them was a transient balm to Don Abbondio; but still he approached this formidable valley, where they would meet none but the vassals of the Unknown! And what vassals! He desired more than ever to enter into conversation with his companion, to keep him in good humour; but, seeing him preoccupied, he dared not attempt to interrupt his thoughts. He was then obliged to hold colloquy with himself, of which we will transcribe a part for the benefit of the reader. "Is it not an astonishing thing that the saints, as well as the wicked, have always quicksilver in their veins; and, not contented with making a bustle themselves, they would make all mankind, if they could, join the dance with them! Is there not a fatality in it, that the most troublesome come to me,--to me who never meddled with any body; they take me almost by the hair, and thrust me into their concerns! me! who desire nothing, but to live tranquilly, if they will let me do so. This mad knave Don Roderick. What was there wanting to make him the happiest man in the world, but a little prudence? He is rich, young, respected, courted; but happiness is a burthen to him, it seems; so that he must seek trouble for himself and his neighbour. He must set up, forsooth, for a molester of women,--the most silly, the most villanous, the most insane conduct in the world. He might ride to paradise in a coach; and he prefers to go halting to the devil's dwelling. And this man before me," continued he, regarding him as if he feared he could hear his thoughts, "and this man, after having, by his villanies, turned the world upside down, now turns it upside down by his conversion--if he is really converted! Meanwhile, it is I who am to put it to the test! Some people always want to make a noise! Is it so difficult to act an honest part, all one's life, as I have? Not at all! but they prefer to murder, kill, and play the devil.--Oh! unhappy man that I am! they must always be in a bustle, even in doing penance! just as if one could not repent at home, in private, without so much noise,--without giving others so much trouble.--And his illustrious lordship! to receive him all at once with open arms; to call him his dear friend, his worthy friend; to listen to his least words as if he had seen him work miracles, to give him his public approbation to assist him in all his undertakings; I should call this precipitation! And without any pledge or security, to place a poor curate in his hands! A holy bishop--and he is such assuredly--a holy bishop should regard his curates as the apple of his eye. A little prudence, a little coolness, a little charity, are things which, in my opinion, are not inconsistent with sanctity. And should this be all hypocrisy? Who can tell the designs of such a man? To think that I must accompany him into the castle? There must be some deviltry in it! Am I not unhappy enough? Let me not think of it. But how has Lucy fallen into the clutches of this man? It is a secret between him and my lord the cardinal, and they don't deign to inform me concerning it: I don't care to meddle with the affairs of others, but when one's life is in danger one has a right to know something.--But poor Lucy--I shall be satisfied if she escapes. Heaven knows what she has suffered. I pity her, but she was born to be my ruin. And if this man is really converted, what need has he of me? Oh! what a chaos! But Heaven owes me its protection, since I did not get myself into the difficulty. If I could only read in the countenance of this man what passes in his soul! Look at him; now he looks like Saint Anthony in the desert, and now like Holofernes himself." In truth, the thoughts which agitated the Unknown passed over his countenance, as in a stormy day the clouds fly over the face of the sun, producing a succession of light and shade. His soul, calmed by the gentle language of Frederick, felt elated at the hope of mercy, pardon, and love; but then he sank again under the weight of the terrible past. Agitated and uneasy, he retraced in his memory those iniquities which were reparable, and considered what remedies would be the safest and quickest. And this unfortunate girl! how much she has suffered! how much he had caused her to suffer! At this thought his impatience to deliver her increased, and he made a sign to the coachman to hasten. They entered at last into the valley. In what a situation was now our poor Don Abbondio! to find himself in this famous valley, of which he had heard such black and horrible tales. These famous men, the flower of the bravoes of Italy, these men without pity or fear, to see them in flesh and blood,--to meet them at every step! They bowed, it is true, respectfully, in the presence of their lord, but who knows what passed in their hearts, and what wicked design against the poor priest might, even then, be forming in their brains. They reached _Malanotte_; bravoes were at the door, who bowed to the Unknown, glancing with eager curiosity at his companion, and the litter. If the departure of their master alone, at the break of day, had been regarded as extraordinary, his return was considered not less so. Is it a prize which he conducts? And how has he taken possession of it alone? And what is this strange litter? And whose is this livery? They did not stir, however; knowing, from the countenance of their master, that their silence was what he desired. They reached the castle; the bravoes who were on the esplanade and at the door, retired on both sides to leave the passage free. The Unknown made a sign to them not to go farther off. Spurring his mule, he passed before the litter, and beckoning to Don Abbondio and the coachman to follow him, he entered a first court, and thence a second: approaching a small door, and with a gesture keeping back a bravo, who advanced to hold his stirrup, he said, "Remain there yourself, and let none approach nearer." He dismounted, and with the reins in his hand, drew near the woman, who had withdrawn the curtains of the litter, saying to her in a low voice, "Hasten to comfort her; and make her understand at once that she is free, and with friends. God will reward you!" He then advanced to the curate, and helping him to dismount, said, "Signor Curate, I will not ask your forgiveness for the trouble you have taken on my account; you suffer for one who will reward you well, and for this poor girl." His countenance not less than his words restored the courage of Don Abbondio; drawing a full breath, which had been long pent up in his breast, he replied, "Your lordship jests, surely? But--but--" and accepting the hand offered to him so courteously, he slid from the saddle. The Unknown took the bridle, and gave both animals to the care of the driver, ordering him to wait there until their return. Taking a key from his pocket, he opened the little door, and followed by his two companions, the curate and the female, ascended the stairs. CHAPTER XXIV. Lucy had just risen. She was endeavouring to collect her senses, to separate the turbid visions of sleep from the remembrance of the sad reality, which appeared to her a dismal dream, when the old woman, in a voice which she meant to be humble and gentle, said to her, "Ah! you have slept! You would have done better to go to bed; I told you so a hundred times." Receiving no answer, she continued, "Eat a little; you have need of something; if you do not, he will complain of me when he returns." "No, no, I wish to go to my mother. Your master promised me, he said, _to-morrow morning_. Where is he?" "He has gone away; but he left word that he would return soon, and do all that you should desire." "Did he say so? did he say so? Well; I wish to go to my mother, now, now." Suddenly they heard steps in the adjoining chamber, and a knock at the door. The old woman demanded, "Who is there?" "Open," replied the well-known voice. The old woman drew the bolt, and holding the door open, the Unknown let Don Abbondio and the good woman pass in; then closing the door, and remaining outside himself, he sent away the old woman to a distant part of the castle. The first appearance of other persons increased the agitation of Lucy, to whom any change brought an accession of alarm. She looked, and beholding a priest and a female, felt somewhat reassured; she looked again! Can it be? Recognising Don Abbondio, her eyes remained fixed as by the wand of an enchanter. The kind woman bent over her, and with an affectionate and anxious countenance, said, "Alas! my poor child! come, come with us." "Who are you?" said Lucy,--but, without waiting her reply, she turned again to Don Abbondio, exclaiming, "Is it you? Is it you indeed, Signor Curate? Where are we? Oh! unhappy girl! I am no longer in my right mind!" "No, no, it is I, in truth; take courage. We have come to take you away. I am indeed your curate, come for this purpose----" As if restored to strength in an instant, Lucy stood up, and fixing her eyes again on their faces, she said, "The Virgin has sent you, then!" "I have no doubt of it," said the good lady. "But is it true, that we may go away? Is it true indeed?" resumed Lucy, lowering her voice to a timid and fearful tone. "And all these people," continued she, with her lips compressed, and trembling from alarm and horror; "and this lord--this man--he promised me indeed." "He is here also in person with us," said Don Abbondio. "He is without, expecting us; let us go at once; we must not make such a man wait." At this moment the Unknown appeared at the door. Lucy, who, a few moments before, had desired earnestly to see him--nay, having no other hope in the world, had desired to see none but him--now that she was so unexpectedly in the presence of friends, was, for a moment, overcome with terror. Shuddering with horror, she hid her face on the shoulder of the good dame. Beholding the innocent girl, on whom the evening before he had not had resolution to fix his eyes; beholding her countenance, pale, and changed, from fasting and prolonged suffering, the Unknown hesitated; but perceiving her impulse of terror, he cast down his eyes, and, after a moment's silence, exclaimed, "It is true! forgive me!" "He comes to save you; he is not the same man; he has become good. Do you hear him ask your forgiveness?" whispered the dame in the ear of Lucy. "Could any one say more? Come, lift up your head; do not play the child. We can go away now, immediately," said Don Abbondio. Lucy raised her head, looked at the Unknown, and beholding his humble and downcast expression, she was affected with a mingled feeling of gratitude and pity: "Oh! my lord! may God reward you for your compassion to an unfortunate girl!" cried she; "and may he recompense you a hundred-fold for the consolation you afford me by these words!" So saying, he advanced towards the door, and went out, followed by Lucy; who, quite encouraged, was supported by the arm of the good lady, Don Abbondio bringing up the rear. They descended the stairs, passed through the courts, and reached the litter; into which, the Unknown with almost timid politeness (a new thing for him!) assisted Lucy and her new companion to enter. He then aided Don Abbondio to reseat himself in the saddle. "Oh! what complaisance!" said the latter, moving much more lightly than he had done on first mounting. The convoy resumed their way; as soon as the Unknown was mounted, his head was raised, and his countenance resumed its accustomed expression of command and authority. The robbers whom they met on their road discovered in it marks of strong thought and extraordinary solicitude; but they did not, they could not, comprehend the cause. They knew nothing as yet of the great change which had taken place in the soul of the man, and certainly such a conjecture would not have entered into their minds. The good dame hastened to draw the curtains around the litter; pressing the hands of Lucy affectionately, she endeavoured to encourage her by words of piety, congratulation, and tenderness. Seeing, however, that besides the exhaustion from so much suffering, the confusion and obscurity of all that had happened prevented the poor girl from being alive to the satisfaction of her deliverance; she said what she thought would be most likely to restore her thoughts to their ordinary course. She mentioned the village to which she belonged, and towards which they were hastening. "Yes, indeed!" said Lucy, remembering that this village was but a short distance from her own. "Oh! holy Virgin! I render thee thanks. My mother! my mother!" "We will send for her immediately," said her friend, not knowing that it had already been done. "Yes, yes; God will reward you. And you,--who are you? How is it that you have come here?" "Our curate sent me, because this lord, whose heart God has touched, (blessed be his holy name!) came to our village to see the cardinal archbishop, who is visiting among us, the dear man of God! This lord has repented of his horrible sins, and wishes to change his life; and he told the cardinal that he had carried off an innocent girl, with the connivance of another, whose name the curate did not mention to me." Lucy raised her eyes to heaven. "You know it, perhaps," continued the lady. "Well, the lord cardinal thought, that a young girl being in the question, a female should be found to accompany her; he told the curate to look for one, and the curate kindly came to me----" "Oh! may God reward you for your goodness!" "And the curate desired me to encourage you, my poor child, to relieve you from uneasiness at once, and to make you understand, how the Lord has miraculously preserved you." "Oh! miraculously indeed, through the intercession of the Virgin!" "He told me to comfort you, to advise you to pardon him who has done you this evil, to rejoice that God has shown compassion towards him, and even to pray for him; for, besides its being a duty, you will derive comfort from it to your own heart." Lucy replied with a look which expressed assent as clearly as if she had made use of words, and with a sweetness which words could not have expressed. "Worthy young woman!" resumed the friend. "And as your curate was also in our village, the lord cardinal judged it best to send him with us, thinking that he might be of some assistance. I had already heard that he was a poor sort of a timid man; and on this occasion, he has been wholly taken up with himself, like a hen with one chick." "And he----he who is thus changed----who is he?" "How! do you not know?" said the good dame, repeating his name. "Oh! merciful heaven!" cried Lucy. For many times had she heard this name repeated with horror, in more than one story, in which he had appeared like the _Ogre_ of the fairy tale. At the idea of having been in his terrible power, and of now being under his protection,--at the thought of such peril, and such deliverance, in reflecting who this man was that had appeared to her so ferocious, and then so humble and so gentle, she was lost in astonishment, and could only exclaim, from time to time, "Oh! merciful Heaven!" "Yes, it is indeed a great mercy! it is a great happiness for half the world in this neighbourhood, and afar off. When one thinks how many people he kept in continual alarm; and now, as our curate says----But you have only to look in his face to know that he is truly changed. And, besides, by 'their works' ye shall know them." We should not tell the truth, did we say that the good dame had no curiosity to learn more of an affair in which she played so important a part; but, to her praise it must be added, that, feeling a respectful pity for Lucy, and estimating the weight and dignity of the charge confided to her, she did not for a moment think of asking her an indiscreet or idle question. All her discourse in their short journey was composed of expressions of tenderness and interest for the poor girl. "It must be long since you have eaten any thing." "I do not remember----It must indeed be some time." "Poor child! you must need something to restore your strength." "Yes," replied Lucy, in a faint voice. "At my house, thanks be to God, we shall find something presently. Be of good cheer, it is but a short distance off." Lucy, wearied and exhausted by her various emotions, fell languidly to the bottom of the litter, overcome by drowsiness; and her kind companion left her to a short repose. As to Don Abbondio, the descent from the castle did not cause him so much fright as the ascent thither; but it was nevertheless not agreeable. When his alarm had first ceased, he felt relieved from an intolerable burthen; but he now began to torment himself in various ways, and found materials for such an operation in the present as well as in the future. His manner of travelling, to which he was not accustomed, he found to be exceedingly unpleasant, especially in the descent from the castle to the valley. The driver, obedient to a sign from the Unknown, made his beasts set off at a quick pace; the two mules kept up with the litter; and thus poor Don Abbondio, subjected to the unusual bounding and rebounding, which was more perilous from the steepness of the declivity they were descending, was obliged to hold fast by the saddle in order to keep his seat, not daring to ask his companions to abate somewhat of their speed. Moreover, if the road lay on a height, along a ridge, the mule, according to the custom of these animals, would obstinately keep on the outside, and place his feet literally on the very edge of the precipice. "Thou also," said he in his heart to the beast, "thou also hath this cursed desire to seek danger, when there are so many other paths!" He tightened the rein on the other side, but in vain; so that, although dying of vexation and fear, he suffered himself, as was his custom, to be led by the will of another. The bravoes no longer caused him much uneasiness now that he felt confidence in their master. "But," thought he, nevertheless, "if the news of this great conversion spreads, while we are yet here, who knows how these people may take it? Who knows what might be the result? Perhaps they might take it in their heads to think I had come as a missionary! and then (heaven preserve me!) they would make me suffer martyrdom!" But we have said enough of the terrors of Don Abbondio. The company at last arrived at the extremity of the valley; the countenance of the Unknown became more serene, and Don Abbondio recovered in some degree his usual composure; but still his mind was occupied with more distant evils. "What will this fool Don Roderick say? To be exposed thus to scoffs and jests--how sorely will he feel it! he'll certainly play the devil outright! Perhaps he will seek another quarrel with me because I have been engaged in this cursed business! Having had the heart to send those two demons to attack me in the road, what he will do now, heaven knows. He cannot molest my lord the cardinal, because he is obviously beyond his reach; he will be obliged to champ the bit. However, the poison will be in his veins, and he will need to discharge it somewhere. It is well known how these affairs end; the blows always fall on the weakest. The cardinal will busy himself with placing Lucy in safety; this other poor devil is beyond his reach, but what is to become of me? And what will the cardinal do to defend me, after having engaged me in the business? Can he hinder this atrocious being from serving me a worse turn than before? And then he has so many things to think of! he cannot pay attention to every body! They who do good, do it in the gross, and enjoy their satisfaction without regarding minute consequences: but your evil-doer is more diligent; he lingers behind till he sees the last result, because of the fear that torments him. Shall I say I have acted by my lord archbishop's command, and against my own will? But it will seem that I favour villany! I--for the pleasure it gives me! Heaven forbid! but enough--I'll tell Perpetua the whole story, and leave her to circulate it--if indeed, his reverend lordship should not take up the fancy to make the whole matter public, and thrust me forward as a chief actor. However, I am determined on one thing: I will take leave of my lord the cardinal as soon as we arrive at the village, and go to my home. Lucy has no longer any need of me; she is under good protection; and, after so many fatigues, I may claim the right to take some repose.--But, should my lord be seized with the desire to know all her story, and I be compelled to relate the affair of the marriage! there would then be nothing wanting to complete my misery. And if he should visit my parish! Oh! let come what will, I will not torment myself beforehand! I have cares enough. For the present I shall shut myself up at home. But I foresee too well that my last days must be passed in trouble and vexation." The little troop arrived before the services of the church were over; and passing, as they had previously done, through the crowd, they proceeded to the house of Lucy's companion. Hardly had Don Abbondio alighted from his mule, when, making the most profuse compliments to the Unknown, he begged him to apologise for him to the cardinal, as he was obliged to return directly to his parish on some urgent business. He then went in search of a staff that he had left in the hall, and which he was accustomed to call his horse, and proceeded homewards. The Unknown remained at the cardinal's house, awaiting his return from the church. The good dame hastened to procure Lucy some refreshment to recruit her exhausted powers; she put some dry branches under a kettle which she replaced over the fire, and in which swam a good fowl; after having suffered it to boil a moment, she filled a plate with the soup, and offered it to Lucy, congratulating herself that the affair had happened on a day, when, as she said, "the cat was not on the hearth." "It is a day of feasting for all the world," added she, "except for those unfortunate creatures who can hardly obtain bread of vetches, and a polenta of millet; they hope, however, to receive something from our charitable cardinal. As for us, thank heaven, we are not in that situation; between the trade of my husband and a small piece of land, we manage to live comfortably. Eat, then, poor child, with a good appetite; the fowl will be done presently, and you shall have something better." She then set about making preparations for dinner for the family. As Lucy's spirits and strength returned, the necessity of arranging her dress occurred to her mind; she therefore tied up her long disordered tresses, and adjusted the handkerchief about her neck; in doing this, her fingers entwined themselves in the chaplet, which was there suspended: she gazed at it with much emotion, and the recollection of the vow she had made, this recollection which had been suspended by so many painful sensations, now rose clearly and distinctly to her mind. All the newly-awakened powers of her soul were again in a moment subdued. And if she had not been prepared for this by a life of innocence, resignation, and confidence, the consternation she experienced would have terminated in despair. After the first tumult of her thoughts had in some measure subsided, she exclaimed, "Oh! unhappy girl! what have I done!" But hardly had she pronounced the words, when she was terrified at having done so; she recalled all the circumstances of her vow, her intolerable anguish, without hope of human aid, the fervour of her petition, the fulness of resolution with which the promise had been made; and to repent of this promise, after having obtained the favour she had implored, appeared to her sacrilegious ingratitude, perfidy towards God and the Virgin. It seemed to her that such infidelity would certainly draw upon her new and more terrible evils, and if these should indeed be its consequences she could no longer hope for an answer to her prayers; she therefore hastened to abjure her momentary regret, and drawing the chaplet reverently from her neck, and holding it in her trembling hand, she confirmed her vow; at the same time fervently praying to God that he would grant her strength to fulfil it, and to drive from her thoughts circumstances which might, if they did not move her resolution, still increase but too much the severity of the sacrifice. The absence of Renzo, without any probability of his return, which had at first been so bitter, appeared now to her a design of Providence, to make the two events conduce to the same end, and she endeavoured to find in one a consolation for the other. She also remembered that Providence would, to finish the work, find means to make Renzo resigned, and cause him to forget----But scarcely had this idea entered her mind, when a new terror overwhelmed her. Conscious that her heart had still need of repentance, the unfortunate girl again had recourse to prayer, and mental conflict; and at length arose, if the expression may be allowed, like a victor wearied and wounded, having disarmed his enemy. Suddenly footsteps and joyous exclamations were heard; they proceeded from the children of the family, who were returning from church. Two little girls and a little boy ran into the room; stopping a moment to eye the stranger, they then came to their mother, one asking the name of their unknown guest, another wanting to relate the wonders they had seen. The good dame replied to them all with "Be quiet; silence!" The master of the house then entered with a calmer step; but with joy diffused over his countenance. He was the tailor of the village and its environs; a man who knew how to read, and who had even read, more than once, the Legend of the Saints and the _Reali di Francia_; he was regarded by the peasants as a man of knowledge, and when they lavished their praises on him, he repelled them with much modesty, only saying that he had indeed mistaken his vocation, and that, perhaps, if he had studied---- Notwithstanding this little vanity he was the best natured man in the world. He had been present when the curate requested his wife to undertake her benevolent journey, and had not only given his approbation, but would have added his own persuasions, if that had been necessary; and now that the ceremonies of the church, and above all, the sermon of the cardinal, had given an impetus to his amiable feelings, he returned home with an ardent desire to know if the enterprise had succeeded, and to see the poor innocent girl in safety. "See here!" said his wife to him as he entered, pointing to Lucy, who rose from her seat blushing, and stammering forth some apology. He advanced towards her, and, with a friendly tone, cried, "You are welcome! welcome! You bring the blessing of Heaven on this house! How glad I am to see you here! I knew that you would arrive safely to a haven, because I have never known the Lord commence a miracle without accomplishing it; but I am well content to see you here. Poor child! It is a great thing however to have been the subject of a miracle!" We must not believe he was the only one who characterised the event by this term, and that because he had read the legendary. Throughout the village, and the surrounding country, it was spoken of in no other terms, as long as its remembrance lasted; and to say truth, if we regard its attendant circumstances, it would be difficult to find another name for it. He then approached his wife, who was employed in taking the kettle from off the fire, and said in a low voice, "Has all gone well?" "Very well. I will tell you another time." "Well, well, at your leisure." When the dinner was ready, the mistress of the house made Lucy sit down with them at the table, and helping her to a wing of the chicken, entreated her to eat. The husband began to dilate with much animation on the events of the day; not without many interruptions from the children, who stood round the table eating their dinner, and who had seen too many extraordinary things to be satisfied with playing the part of mere listeners. He described the solemn ceremonies, and then recurred to the miraculous conversion; but that which had made the most impression on his mind, and of which he spoke the oftenest, was the sermon of the cardinal. "To see him before the altar," said he, "a lord like him, to see him before the altar, as a simple curate----" "And that golden thing he had on his head," said one of the little girls. "Hush, be quiet. When one thinks, I say, that a lord like him, a man so learned, who, as they say, has read all the books in the world, a thing which no one else has done, not even in Milan; when one thinks that he has adapted himself so to the comprehension of others, that every one understood him----" "I understood, I did," said the other little chatterer. "Hush, be quiet. What did you understand, you?" "I understood that he explained the Gospel, instead of the curate." "Be quiet. I do not say that he was understood by those only who know something, but even those who were the most stupid and ignorant, caught the sense perfectly. You might go now, and ask them to repeat his discourse; perhaps they might not remember a single word, but they would have its whole meaning in their head. And how easy it was to perceive that he alluded to this _signor_, although he never pronounced his name! But one might have guessed it from the tears which flowed from his eyes. And all the people wept----" "That is true," cried the little boy. "But why did they all cry like little children?" "Be quiet. And there are, nevertheless, hard hearts in this country. He has made us feel that although there is a scarcity, we must return thanks to God, and be satisfied; be industrious; do what we can, and then be content, because unhappiness does not consist at all in suffering and poverty; unhappiness is the result of wicked actions. These are not fine words merely; it is well known that he lives like a poor man, that he takes the bread from his mouth to give to those that are in need, when he might live an easier life than any one. Oh, then, there is great satisfaction in hearing him speak. He is not like many others, who say, 'Do as I say, and not as I do;' and besides, he has made it very apparent, that those even who are not what they call _gentlemen_, but who have more than is necessary, are bound to impart to those who are in want." And here he stopped, as if pained by some recollection; after a moment's silence, he filled a plate with meat from the table, and adding a loaf of bread to it, tied up the whole in a napkin. "Take that," said he to the oldest of the children, and putting in her other hand a bottle of wine, "carry that to the widow Martha, and tell her to feast with her children. But be very careful what you say to her, don't seem to be doing a charity, and don't say a word of it, should you meet any one; and take care not to break any thing." Lucy was touched, even to tears, and her soul was filled with a tenderness that withdrew her from the contemplation of her own sorrows. The conversation of this worthy man had already imparted a relief, that a direct appeal to her feelings would have failed to procure. Her spirit, yielding to the charm of the description of the august pomp of the church, of the emotions of piety there excited, and partaking of the enthusiasm of the narrator, forgot its woes, and, when obliged to recur to them, felt itself strengthened. The thought even of the great sacrifice she had imposed on herself, without having lost its bitterness, had assumed the character of austere and solemn tranquillity. A few moments after, the curate of the village entered, saying that he was sent by the cardinal for intelligence concerning Lucy, and also to inform her that he desired to see her that day; then he thanked, in his lordship's name, her kind hosts for their benevolence and hospitality. All three, moved to tears, could not find words to reply to such a message from such a person. "Has your mother not yet arrived?" said the curate to Lucy. "My mother!" cried she. Learning that the good archbishop had sent for her mother, that it was his own kind thought, her heart was overpowered, she raised her apron to her eyes, and her tears continued to flow long after the departure of the curate. As these tumultuous emotions, called forth by such unexpected benevolence, gradually subsided, the poor girl remembered that she had expressly solicited this very happiness of again beholding her mother, as a condition to her vow. "_Return me safely to my mother._" These words recurred distinctly to her memory. She was confirmed more than ever in her purpose to keep her vow, and repented again bitterly of the regret which she had for a moment experienced. Agnes, indeed, even whilst they were speaking of her, was very near; it is easy to imagine the feelings of the poor woman at so unexpected an invitation, at the intelligence, necessarily confused and incomplete, of a peril which was passed, but of a frightful peril, of an obscure adventure, of which the messenger knew not the circumstances, and could give no explanation, and for which she could find no clue from previous facts. "Ah, great God! ah, holy Virgin!" escaped from her lips, mingled with useless questions, during the journey. On the road she met Don Abbondio, who, by the aid of his staff, was travelling homewards. Uttering an exclamation of surprise, Agnes made the driver stop. She alighted, and with the curate withdrew into a grove of chestnuts, which was on the side of the road. Don Abbondio informed her of all he had seen and known: much obscurity still rested upon his statement, but at least Agnes ascertained that Lucy was now in safety. Don Abbondio then introduced another subject of conversation, and would have given her ample instruction on the manner of conducting herself with the archbishop, if he, as was probable, should wish to see her and her daughter. He said it would not answer for her to speak of the marriage; but Agnes, perceiving that he spoke only from his own interest, was determined to promise nothing, because she said, "she had other things to think of," and bidding him farewell, she proceeded on her journey. The carriage at last reached the house of the tailor, and the mother and daughter were folded in each other's arms. The good wife, who was the only witness of the scene, endeavoured to soothe and calm their feelings; and then prudently left them alone, saying that she would go and prepare a bed for them. Their first tumultuous joy having in some measure subsided, Agnes requested to hear the adventures of Lucy, who attempted to relate them; but the reader knows that it was a history with which no one was entirely acquainted, and to Lucy herself there was much that was inexplicable, particularly the fatal coincidence of the carriage being at that place precisely at the moment that Lucy had gone there by an extraordinary chance. With regard to this, the mother and daughter lost themselves in conjecture, without even approaching the real cause. As to the principal author of this plot, however, they neither of them doubted that it was Don Roderick. "Ah, that firebrand!" cried Agnes; "but his hour will come. God will reward him according to his works, and then he will know----" "No, no, mother, no!" cried Lucy. "Do not wish harm to him! do not wish it to any one! If you knew what it is to suffer! if you had experienced it! No, no! rather let us pray to God and the Virgin for him, that God would touch his heart as he has done that of the other lord, who was worse than he, and who is now a saint." The horror that Lucy felt in retracing events so painful and recent made her hesitate more than once. More than once she said she had not the heart to proceed, and, choked by her tears, she with difficulty went on with her narrative. But she was embarrassed by a different sentiment at a certain point of her recital, at the moment when she was about to speak of her vow. She feared her mother would accuse her of imprudence and precipitation; she feared that she would, as she had done in the affair of the marriage, bring forward her broad rules of conscience, and make them prevail; she feared that the poor woman would tell it to some one in confidence, if it were only to gain light and advice, and thus render it public. These reflections made Lucy experience insupportable shame, and an inexplicable repugnance to speak on the subject. She therefore passed over in silence this important circumstance, determining in her heart to communicate it first to Father Christopher; but how great was her sorrow at learning that he was no longer at the convent, that he had been sent to a distant country, a country called---- "And Renzo?" enquired Agnes. "He is in safety, is he not?" said Lucy, hastily. "It must be so, since every one says so. They say that he has certainly gone to Bergamo, but no one knows the place exactly, and there has been no intelligence from himself. He probably has not been able to find the means of informing us." "Oh, if he is in safety, God be thanked!" said Lucy, commencing another subject of conversation, which was, however, interrupted by an unexpected event--the arrival of the cardinal archbishop. After having returned from the church, and having learnt from the Unknown the arrival of Lucy, he had seated himself at table, placing the Unknown on his right hand; the company was composed of a number of priests, who gazed earnestly at the countenance of their once formidable companion, so softened without weakness, so humbled without meanness, and compared it with the horrible idea they had so long entertained of him. Dinner being over, the Unknown and the cardinal retired together. After a long interview, the former departed for his castle, and the latter sent for the curate of the parish, and requested him to conduct him to the house where Lucy had received an asylum. "Oh, my lord," replied the curate, "suffer me, suffer me. I will send for the young girl and her mother, if she has arrived,--the hosts themselves, if my lord desires it." "I wish to go to them myself," replied Frederick. "There is no necessity that you should inconvenience yourself; I will send for them immediately," insisted the curate, who did not understand that, by this visit, the cardinal wished to do honour to misfortune, innocence, hospitality, and to his own ministry. But the superior repeating his desire, the inferior bowed, and they proceeded on their way. When they appeared in the street, a crowd immediately collected around them. The curate cried, "Come, come, back, keep off."--"But," said Frederick, "suffer them," and he advanced, now raising his hands to bless the people, now lowering them to embrace the children, who obstructed his progress. They reached the house, and entered it, whilst the crowd remained without. But amidst the throng was the tailor, who had followed with others; his eyes fixed, and his mouth open, wondering where the cardinal was going. When he beheld him entering his own house, he bustled his way through the crowd, crying out, "Make room for those who have a right to enter," and followed into the house. Agnes and Lucy heard an increasing murmur in the street; and whilst they were surmising the cause, the door opened, and, behold, the cardinal and the curate! "Is this she?" asked the former of the curate, and at a sign in the affirmative he approached Lucy, who with her mother was standing, motionless and mute with surprise and extreme diffidence: but the tones of the voice, the countenance, and above all, the words of Frederick, soon removed their embarrassment. "Poor young woman," said he, "God has permitted you to be subjected to a great trial; but he has also made you see that he watches over you, and has never forgotten you. He has saved you, and in addition to that blessing, has made use of you to accomplish a great work through you, to impart the wonders of his grace and mercy to one man, and at the same time to comfort the hearts of many." Here the mistress of the house entered the room with her husband: perceiving their guests engaged in conversation, they respectfully retired to a distant part of the apartment. The cardinal bowed to them courteously, and continued the conversation with Lucy and her mother. He mixed with the consolation he offered many enquiries, hoping to find from their answers some way of rendering them still farther services after their sufferings. "It is a pity all the clergy were not like your lordship, and then they would take the part of the poor, and not help to bring them into difficulty for the sake of drawing themselves out of it," said Agnes, encouraged by the familiar and affable manner of Frederick, and vexed that Don Abbondio, after having sacrificed others to his own selfishness, should dare to forbid her making the least complaint to one so much above him, when by so fortunate a chance the occasion presented itself. "Say all that you think," said the cardinal; "speak freely." "I would say, that if our curate had done his duty, things would not have been as they are." The cardinal begging her to explain herself more clearly, she found some embarrassment in relating a history, in which she had at one time played a part, which she felt very unwilling to communicate to such a man. However, she got over the difficulty; she related the projected marriage, the refusal of Don Abbondio, and the pretext he had offered with respect to his _superiors_ (oh, Agnes!); and passing to the attempt of Don Roderick, she told in what manner, being informed of it, they had been able to escape. "But, indeed," added she in conclusion, "it was escaping to fall into another snare. If the curate had told us sincerely the difficulty, and had married my poor children, we would have left the country immediately, and gone where no one would have known us, not even the wind. Thus time was lost, and that which has happened, has happened." "The curate shall render me an account of this," said the cardinal. "No, my lord, no," resumed Agnes. "I did not speak on that account, do not reprove him; because what is done, is done; and it would answer no purpose. He is a man of such a character, that if the thing were to do over again, he would act precisely in the same way." But Lucy, dissatisfied with this manner of telling the story, added, "We have also been to blame; it is plain that it was the will of God the thing should not succeed." "How can you have been to blame, my poor child?" said Frederick. Lucy, notwithstanding the winks of her mother, related in her turn the history of the attempt made in the house of Don Abbondio, saying, as she concluded, "We did wrong, and God has punished us." "Accept from his hand the chastisement you have endured, and take courage," said Frederick; "for who has a right to rejoice and hope, if not those who have suffered, and who accuse themselves?" He then asked where was the betrothed; and learning from Agnes (Lucy stood silent with downcast eyes) the fact of his flight, he expressed astonishment and displeasure, and asked the reason of it. Agnes told what she knew of the story of Renzo. "I have heard of him before," said the cardinal; "but how could a man, who was engaged in affairs of this nature, be in treaty of marriage with this young girl?" "He was a worthy young man," said Lucy, blushing, but in a firm voice. "He was a peaceable youth, too peaceable, perhaps," added Agnes; "your lordship may ask any one if he was not, even the curate. Who knows what intrigues and plots may have been going on at Milan? There needs little to make poor people pass for rogues." "That is but too true," said the cardinal; "I will enquire about him, without doubt." He took a memorandum of the name of the young man, adding that he expected to be at their village in a few days; that during his sojourn there, Lucy could return home without fear, and in the mean while he would procure her an asylum till all was arranged for the best. Turning to the master and mistress of the house, they came forward; he renewed the thanks he had addressed to them by the mouth of the curate, and asked them if they would be willing to keep the guests God had sent them for a few days. "Oh yes, my lord," replied the dame, with a manner which said more than this timid reply; but her husband, quite animated by the presence of such a man, by the desire to do himself honour on an occasion of such importance, studied to make a fine answer. He wrinkled his forehead, strained his eyes, and compressed his mouth, but nevertheless felt a confusion of ideas, which prevented him from uttering a syllable. But time pressed; the cardinal appeared to have interpreted his silence. The poor man opened his mouth, and said, "Imagine----" Not a word more could he say. His failure not only filled him with shame on that day, but ever after, the unfortunate recollection intruded itself to mar the pleasure of the great honour he had received. How many times, in thinking of this circumstance, did a crowd of words come to his mind, every one of which would have been better than "_Imagine!_" But the cavities of our brains are full enough of thoughts when it is too late to employ them. The cardinal departed, saying, "May the blessing of Heaven rest on this house!" That evening he asked the curate in what way it would be best to indemnify the tailor, who could not be rich, for his hospitality. The curate replied, that truly neither the profits of his trade, nor his income from some little fields that the good tailor possessed, would at this time have enabled him to be liberal to others; but from having saved something the few years previous, he was one of the most easy in circumstances in the district; that he could allow himself to exercise some hospitality without inconvenience, and that he would do it with pleasure; and that he was confident he would be hurt if money was offered to him. "He has probably," said the cardinal, "some demands on people who are unable to pay." "You may judge, my lord; the poor people pay with the overplus of the harvest; this year there has been no overplus; on the contrary, every one is behind in point even of necessities." "Well, I take upon myself all these debts. You will do me the favour to obtain from him the memoranda, and cancel them." "It may be a very large sum." "So much the better. And perhaps you have but too many who are more miserable, having no debts, because they have no credit?" "Oh yes! indeed too many! they do what they can; but how can they supply their wants in these hard times?" "Have them clothed at my expense; it is true that it seems to be robbery to spend any thing this year, except for bread; but this is a particular case." We cannot finish our record of the history of this day without briefly relating the conduct of the Unknown. Before his second return to the castle, the report of his conversion had preceded him; it had spread through the valley, and excited surprise, anxiety, and numerous conjectures. As he approached the castle he made a sign to all the _bravoes_ he met to follow him: filled with unusual apprehension, but with their accustomed submission, they obeyed; their number increased every moment. Reaching the castle, he entered the first court, and there, resting on his saddle bow, in a voice of thunder he gave a loud call, the wonted signal which all habitually obeyed. In a moment those who were scattered about the castle hastened to join the troop collected around their leader. "Go and wait for me in the great hall," said he; as they departed, he dismounted from his beast, and leading it himself to the stable, thence approached the hall. The whispering which was heard among them ceased at his appearance; retiring to one corner they left a large space around him. The Unknown raised his hand to enforce the silence that his presence alone had already effected; then raising his head, which yet was above that of any of his followers, he said, "Listen to me, all of you; and let no one speak, unless I ask him a question. My friends, the way which we have followed until to-day leads to hell. I do not wish to reproach you, I could not effect the important change, inasmuch as I have been your leader in our abominable career; I have been the most guilty of all; but listen to what I am about to say. "God in his mercy has called me to a change of life, and I have obeyed his call. May this same God do as much for you! Know, then, and hold for certain, that I would rather now die than undertake any thing against his holy law. I recall all the iniquitous orders which I may have given any one of you; you understand me. And farther, I order you to do nothing which I have hitherto prescribed to you. Hold equally for certain, that no one can hereafter commit evil under my protection, and in my service. Those who will remain with me on these conditions, I shall regard as children. I should be happy, in the day of famine, to share with them the last mouthful that remained to me. To those who do not wish to continue here, shall be paid what is due of their salaries, and a further donative; they have liberty to depart, but they must never return, unless they repent and intend to lead a new life, and under such circumstances they shall be received with open arms. Think of it this night; to-morrow morning I will receive your answer, and then I will give you your orders. Now, every one to his post. May God, who has shown compassion towards me, incline your hearts to repentance and good dispositions." He ceased, and all kept silence. Although strange and tumultuous thoughts fermented in their minds, no indication of them was visible. They had been habituated to listen to the voice of their lord, as to a manifestation of absolute authority, to which it was necessary to yield implicit obedience. His will proclaimed itself changed, but not enfeebled: it did not therefore enter their minds, that because he was converted they might become bold in his presence, or reply to him as they would to another man. They regarded him as a saint, indeed, but a saint sword in hand. In addition to the fear with which he inspired them, they felt for him (especially those who were born in his service, and these were the greater number) the affection of vassals. Their admiration partook of the nature of love, mingled with that respect which the most rebellious and turbulent spirits feel for a superior, whom they have voluntarily recognised as such. The sentiments he expressed were certainly hateful to their ears, but they knew they were not false, neither were they entirely strange to them. If their custom had been to make them subjects of pleasantry, it was not from disbelief of their verity, but to drive away, by jesting, the apprehensions the contemplation of them might otherwise have excited. And now, there was none among them who did not feel some compunction at beholding their power exerted over the invincible courage of their master. Moreover, some of them had heard the extraordinary intelligence beyond the valley, and had witnessed and related the joy of the people, the new feeling with which the Unknown was regarded by them, the veneration which had succeeded their former hatred--their former terror. They beheld the man whom they had never regarded without trembling, even when they themselves constituted, to a great degree, his strength; they beheld him now, the wonder, the idol of the multitude,--still elevated above all others, in a different manner, no doubt, but in one not less imposing,--always above the world, always the first. They were confounded, and each was doubtful of the course he should pursue. One reflected hastily where he could find an asylum and employment; another questioned with himself his power to accommodate himself to the life of an honest man; another, moved by what he had said, felt some inclination for it; and another still was willing to promise any thing so as to be entitled to the share of a loaf, which had been so cordially proffered, and which was so scarce in those days. No one, however, broke the silence. The Unknown, at the conclusion of his speech, waved his hand imperiously for them to retire: obedient as a flock of sheep, they all quietly left the hall. He followed them, and stopping in the centre of the court, saw them all branch off to their different stations. He returned into the castle, visited the corridors, halls, and every avenue, and, finding all quiet, he retired to sleep,--yes, to sleep, for he was very sleepy. In spite of all the urgent and intricate affairs in which he was involved, more than at any former conjuncture, he was sleepy. Remorse had banished sleep the night before; its voice, so far from being subdued, was still more absolute--was louder--yet he was sleepy. The order of his household so long established, the absolute devotion of his faithful followers, his power and means of exercising it, its various ramifications, and the objects on which it was employed, all tended to create uncertainty and confusion in his mind,--still he was sleepy. To his bed then he went, that bed which the night before had been a bed of thorns; but first he knelt to pray. He sought, in the remotest corner of his memory, the words of prayer taught him in his days of childhood. They came one by one: an age of vice had not effaced them. And who shall define the sentiments that pervaded his soul at this return to the habits of happy innocence? He slept soundly. CHAPTER XXV. The next morning, in the village of Lucy, and throughout all the territory of Lecco, nothing was talked of but herself, the Unknown, the archbishop, and another person, who, although generally desirous to be talked of, would willingly have been forgotten on this occasion,--we mean Don Roderick. Not that, previous to this period, the villagers had not conversed much of his actions, in secret, to those in whom they had perfect confidence; but now they could no longer contain themselves, nor surpress many enquiries on the marvellous events in which two persons so famous had played a part. In comparison of these two personages, Signor Don Roderick appeared rather insignificant, and all agreed in rejoicing over the ill success of his iniquitous designs; but these rejoicings were still, in some measure, moderated by fears of the _bravoes_ by whom he was surrounded. A good portion of the public censure was bestowed on his friends and courtiers. It did not spare the Signor _Podestà_, always deaf and dumb and blind to the deeds of this tyrant, but these opinions were expressed in an under-tone, because the _Podestà_ had his officers. Such regard was not paid to Doctor _Azzecca Garbugli_, who had only his _tricks_ and his _verbiage_ to employ for his defence; and as to the whole tribe of sycophants, resembling him, they were so pointed at, and eyed askance, that for some time they thought it most prudent to keep themselves within doors. Don Roderick, struck, as by a thunderbolt, with the unexpected intelligence, so different from that which he had been anticipating from day to day, kept himself shut up in his castle, alone with his bravoes, devouring his rage for the space of two days, and on the third set off for Milan. If there had only existed the murmurs of the people, notwithstanding things had gone so far, he would perhaps have remained expressly to brave them; but he felt himself compelled to quit the field of contest, by the certain information that the cardinal was coming to the village. The count, his uncle, who knew nothing of the story but what Attilio had told him, would certainly require him to be one of the first to visit the cardinal, in order to obtain in public the most distinguished reception from him. The count would require it, because it was an important opportunity for making known in what esteem the house was held by his powerful eminence. To escape such a dilemma, Don Roderick, having risen before the sun, threw himself into a carriage with Griso, and, followed by the rest of the _bravoes_, retired like a fugitive, like (if we may be permitted to elevate him by such a comparison), like Catiline from Rome, foaming with rage, and threatening a speedy return to accomplish his revenge. Meanwhile the cardinal approached, visiting every day one of the parishes situated in the territory of Lecco. On the day he was expected in the village, great preparations were made for his reception. At the entrance of the village, near the cottage of Agnes, a triumphal arch was erected, constructed of wood, covered with moss and straw, and ornamented with green boughs of birch and holly. The front of the church was adorned with tapestry; from every window of the houses were suspended quilts and sheets, intended for drapery; every thing, in short, whether in good taste or bad, was displayed in honour of this extraordinary occasion. At the hour of vespers (which was the hour Frederick usually selected to arrive at the churches which he visited), those who had not gone to church, the old men, women, and the youngest of the children, went forth, in procession, to meet their expected guest, headed by Don Abbondio. The poor curate was sad in the midst of the public joy; the tumult bewildered him; the movement of so many people, before and behind, disturbed him; and, moreover, he was tormented by the secret apprehension that the women had tattled, and that he should be obliged to render an account of his conduct to the cardinal. Frederick appeared at last, or rather the crowd appeared, in the midst of which was his litter, and the retinue surrounding it. The persons who followed Don Abbondio scattered and mingled themselves with the crowd, notwithstanding all his remonstrances; and he, poor man, finding himself deserted by them, went to the church, there to await the cardinal's approach. The cardinal advanced, bestowing benedictions with his hands, and receiving them in return from the mouths of the people, who were with difficulty kept back by his attendants. Being of the same village as Lucy, these peasants were desirous of rendering to the archbishop peculiar demonstrations of respect, but this was not practicable, inasmuch as, wherever he went, he was received with every possible honour. In the very commencement of his pontificate, at his first solemn entrance into the cathedral, the concourse had been so great that his life was in peril. Some gentlemen, who were near him, drew their swords to keep back and alarm the crowd. Such was the rude violence of the times, that even in the general disposition to do honour to their archbishop, they were on the point of crushing him: and this defence would not have been sufficient, if two priests, of great vigour and presence of mind, had not raised him in their arms, and carried him from the church door to the foot of the great altar. His very first entrance into the church, therefore, might be recorded amidst his pastoral labours and the dangers he had run. Entering the church, the cardinal advanced to the altar, and after having prayed some time, he addressed, as was his custom, some words to the people, on his love for them, on his desire for their salvation, and how they should dispose their minds for the duties of the morrow. He then withdrew to the house of the curate, and among other questions which he put to him, he interrogated him with regard to the character and conduct of Renzo. Don Abbondio replied that he was rather choleric and obstinate: but as the cardinal made more special and precise enquiries, he was obliged to confess that he was an honest peaceable youth, and even he himself could not comprehend how he had committed at Milan the conduct which had been imputed to him. "As to the young girl," continued the cardinal, "do you think she can return now with safety to her house?" "At present," replied Don Abbondio, "she can come and remain for a while. I say, at present, but," added he with a sigh, "your illustrious lordship should be always near at hand." "God is always present," said the cardinal. "But I will use my efforts to secure a place of safety for her." Before dismissing Don Abbondio, he ordered him to send a litter, on the following day, for Lucy and her mother. Don Abbondio went away quite pleased that the cardinal had talked to him of the young couple, without even alluding to his refusal to marry them. "He knows nothing of it," said he; "Agnes has kept silence! wonderful! She will see him again, 'tis true, but she shall have further instructions from me, so she shall." He little thought, poor man, that Frederick had only deferred the enquiry until he should have more leisure to learn the reasons of his conduct. But the solicitude of the good prelate for the disposal of Lucy had been rendered useless, by a circumstance which we will relate. The two females had as far as possible resumed, for the few days they had to pass under the hospitable roof of the tailor, their usual manner of life. As she had done at the monastery, Lucy, in a small chamber apart, employed herself in sewing; and Agnes, keeping much at home, remained for the most part with her daughter. Their conversations were affectionate and sorrowful; both were prepared for a separation, since the sheep could not dwell in the neighbourhood of the wolf. But how long was this separation to continue? The future was dark and inexplicable, but Agnes, notwithstanding, was full of agreeable anticipation. "After all," said she, "if no irreparable misfortune has befallen Renzo, we shall soon hear from him. If he has found employment, (and who can doubt it?) and if he keeps the faith he has sworn to you, why cannot we go and live with him?" Her daughter felt as much sorrow in listening to her hopes, as difficulty in replying to them. She still kept her secret in her heart; and although troubled at the idea of concealment with so good a mother, she was nevertheless restrained by a thousand fears from communicating it. Her plans were, indeed, very different from those of her mother, or rather, she had none, having committed the future into the hands of Providence; she therefore endeavoured to change the subject, saying in general terms that her only hope was to be permanently re-united to her mother. "Do you know why you feel thus?" said Agnes; "you have suffered so much, that it seems impossible to you that things can turn out happily. But let God work; and if---- Let a ray of hope come--a single ray, and then we shall see that you will think differently." Lucy and her mother entertained a lively friendship for their kind hosts, which was warmly reciprocated; and between whom can friendship exist more in its purity, than between the benefactor and the recipients of the benefit, when both have kind hearts! Agnes, especially, had long gossips with the mistress of the house, and the tailor afforded them much amusement by his tales and moral discourses; at dinner particularly he had always something to relate of the sword of Roland, or of the Fathers of the Thebaid. At some miles' distance from the village there dwelt a certain Don Ferrante, and Donna Prassede his wife; the latter was a woman of high birth, somewhat advanced in age, and exceedingly inclined to do good; which is surely the most praiseworthy employment one can be engaged on in this world; but which, indulged in without judgment, may be rendered hurtful, like all other good things. To do good, we must have correct ideas of good in itself considered, and this can be acquired only by control over our own hearts. Donna Prassede governed herself with her ideas, as some do with their friends; she had very few, but to these she was much attached. Among these few, were a number unfortunately a little narrow and unreasonable, and they were not those she loved the least. Thence it happened that she regarded things as good, which were not really so, and that she used means which were calculated to promote the very opposite of that which she intended; to this perversion of her intellect may also be attributed the fact, that she esteemed all measures to be lawful to her who was bent on the performance of duty. In short, with good intentions, her moral perceptions were in no small degree distorted. Hearing the wonderful story of Lucy, she was seized with a desire to know her, and immediately sent her carriage for the mother and daughter. Lucy, having no desire to go, requested the tailor to find some excuse for her; if they had been _common people_, who desired to make her acquaintance, the tailor would willingly have rendered her the service, but, under such circumstances, refusal appeared to him a species of insult. He uttered so many exclamations, such as, that it was not customary--that it was a high family--that it was out of the question to say _No_ to such people--that it might make their fortune--and that, in addition to all this, Donna Prassede was a saint,--that Lucy was finally obliged to yield, especially as Agnes seconded the remonstrances and arguments of the tailor. The high-born dame received them with many congratulations; she questioned and advised them with an air of conscious superiority, which was, however, tempered by so many soft and humble expressions, and mingled with so much zeal and devotion, that Agnes and Lucy soon felt themselves relieved from the painful restraint her mere presence had at first imposed on them. In brief, Donna Prassede, learning that the cardinal wished to procure an asylum for Lucy, and impelled by the desire to second, and at the same time to anticipate, his good intention, offered to take the young girl to her house, where there would be no other service required of her than to direct the labours of the needle or the spindle. She added, that she herself would inform the cardinal of the arrangement. Besides the obvious and ordinary benefit conferred by her invitation, Donna Prassede proposed to herself another, which she deemed to be peculiarly important; this was to school impatience, and to place in the right path a young creature who had much need of guidance. The first time she heard Lucy spoken of, she was immediately persuaded that in one so young, who had betrothed herself to a robber, a criminal, a fugitive from justice such as Renzo, there must be some corruption, some concealed vice. "_Tell me what company you keep, and I will tell you who you are._" The visit of Lucy had confirmed her opinion; she appeared, indeed, to be an artless girl, but who could tell the cause of her downcast looks and timid replies? There was no great effort of mind necessary to perceive that the maiden had opinions of her own. Her blushes, sighs, and particularly her large and beautiful eyes, did not please Donna Prassede at all. She regarded it as certain as if she had been told it by having authority, that the misfortunes of Lucy were a punishment from Heaven for her connection with that villain, and a warning to withdraw herself from him entirely. That settled the determination to lend her co-operation to further so desirable a work; for as she frequently said to herself and others, "Was it not her constant study to second the will of Heaven?" But, alas! she often fell into the terrible mistake of taking for the will of Heaven, the vain imaginings of her own brain. However, she was on the present occasion very careful not to exhibit any of her proposed intentions. It was one of her maxims, that the first rule to be observed in accomplishing a good design, is to keep your motives to yourself. Excepting the painful necessity of separation the offer appeared to both mother and daughter very inviting, were it only on account of the short distance from the castle to their village. Reading in each other's countenance their mutual assent, they accepted with many thanks the kindness of Donna Prassede, who renewing her kind promises, said she would soon send them a letter to present to the cardinal. The two females having departed, she requested Don Ferrante to write a letter, who, being a literary and learned man, was employed as her secretary on occasions of importance. In an affair of this sort, Don Ferrante did his best, and he gave the original to his wife in order that she could copy it; he warmly recommended to her an attention to the orthography, as orthography was among the great number of things he had studied, and among the small number over which he had control in his family. The letter was forthwith copied and sent to the tailor's house. These events occurred a few days before the cardinal had despatched a litter to bring the mother and daughter to their abode. Upon their arrival they went to the parsonage; orders having been left for their immediate admittance to the presence of the cardinal. The chaplain, who conducted them thither, gave them many instructions with regard to the ceremony to be used with him, and the titles to be given him; it was a continual torment to the poor man to behold the little ceremony that reigned around the good archbishop in this respect. "This results," he was accustomed to say, "from the excessive goodness of this blessed man--from his great familiarity." And he added that he had "even heard people address him with _Yes, sir_, and _No, sir_!" At this moment, the cardinal was conversing with Don Abbondio on the affairs of his parish; so that the latter had no opportunity to repeat his instructions to the females; however, in passing by them as they entered, he gave them a glance, to make them comprehend that he was well satisfied with them, and that they should continue, like honest and worthy women, to keep silence. After the first reception, Agnes drew from her bosom the letter of Donna Prassede, and gave it to the cardinal, saying, "It is from the Signora Donna Prassede, who says that she knows your illustrious lordship well, my lord, as naturally is the case with great people. When you have read, you will see." "It is well," said Frederick, after having read the letter, and extracted its meaning from the trash of Don Ferrante's flowers of rhetoric. He knew the family well enough to be certain that Lucy had been invited into it with good intentions, and that she would be sheltered from the snares and violence of her persecutor. As to his opinion of Donna Prassede, we do not know it precisely; probably she was not a person he would have chosen for Lucy's protectress; but it was not his habit to undo things, apparently ordered by Providence, in order to do them better. "Submit, without regret, to this separation also, and to the suspense in which you are left," said he. "Hope for the best, and confide in God! and be persuaded, that all that He sends you, whether of joy or sorrow, will be for your permanent good." Having received the benediction which he bestowed on them, they took their leave. Hardly had they reached the street, when they were surrounded by a swarm of friends, who were expecting them, and who conducted them in triumph to their house. Their female acquaintances congratulated them, sympathised with them, and overwhelmed them with enquiries. Learning that Lucy was to depart on the following morning, they broke forth in exclamations of regret and disappointment. The men disputed with each other the privilege of offering their services; each wished to remain for the night to guard their cottage, which reminds us of a proverb; "_If you would have people willing to confer favours on you, be sure not to need them._" This warmth of reception served a little to withdraw Lucy from the painful recollections which crowded upon her mind, at the sight of her loved home. At the sound of the bell which announced the commencement of the ceremonies, all moved towards the church. The ceremonies over, Don Abbondio, who had hastened home to see every thing arranged for breakfast, was told that the cardinal wished to speak with him. He proceeded to the chamber of his illustrious guest, who accosted him as he entered, with "Signor Curate, why did you not unite in marriage, Lucy to her betrothed?" "They have emptied the sack this morning," thought Don Abbondio, and he stammered forth, "Your illustrious lordship has no doubt heard of all the difficulties of that business. It has been such an intricate affair, that it cannot even now be seen into clearly. Your illustrious lordship knows that the young girl is here, only by a miracle; and that no one can tell where the young man is." "I ask if it is true, that, before these unhappy events, you refused to celebrate the marriage on the day agreed upon? and why you did so?" "Truly--if your illustrious lordship knew--what terrible orders I received--" and he stopped, indicating by his manner, though respectfully, that it would be imprudent in the cardinal to enquire farther. "But," said Frederick, in a tone of much more gravity than he was accustomed to employ, "it is your bishop, who, from a sense of duty, and for your own justification, would learn from you, why you have not done that which, in the ordinary course of events, it was your strict duty to do?" "My lord," said Don Abbondio, "I do not mean to say,--but it appears to me, that as these things are now without remedy, it is useless to stir them up--However, however, I say, that I am sure your illustrious lordship would not betray a poor curate, because, you see, my lord, your illustrious lordship cannot be every where present, and I--I remain here, exposed--However, if you order me, I will tell all." "Speak; I ask for nothing but to find you free from blame." Don Abbondio then related his melancholy story, suppressing the name of the principal personage, and substituting in its place, "_a great lord_,"--thus giving to prudence the little that was left him in such an extremity. "And you had no other motive?" asked the cardinal, after having heard him through. "Perhaps I have not clearly explained myself. It was under pain of death that they ordered me not to perform the ceremony." "And this reason appeared sufficient to prevent the fulfilment of a rigorous duty?" "I know my obligation is to do my duty, even to my greatest detriment; but when life is at stake----" "And when you presented yourself to the church," said Frederick, with increased severity of manner, "to be admitted to the holy ministry, were there any such reservations made? Were you told that the duties imposed by the ministry were free from every obstacle, exempt from every peril? Were you told that personal safety was to be the guide and limit of your duty? Were you not told expressly the reverse of all this? Were you not warned that you were sent as a lamb among wolves? Did you not even then know that there were violent men in the world, who would oppose you in the performance of your duty? He, whose example should be our guide, in imitation of whom we call ourselves shepherds, when he came on earth to accomplish the designs of his benevolence, did he pay regard to his own safety? And if your object be to preserve your miserable existence, at the expense of charity and duty, there was no necessity for your receiving holy unction, and entering into the priesthood. The world imparts this virtue, teaches this doctrine. What do I say? O shame! the world itself rejects it. It has likewise its laws, which prescribe good, and prohibit evil; it has also its gospel, a gospel of pride and hatred, which will not admit the love of life to be offered as a plea for the transgression of its laws. It commands, and is obeyed; but we, we children and messengers of the promise! what would become of the church, if your language was held by all your brethren? Where would she now be, if she had originally come forth with such doctrines?" Don Abbondio hung down his head; he felt under the weight of these arguments as a chicken under the talons of a hawk, who holds him suspended in an unknown region, in an atmosphere he had never before breathed. Seeing that a reply was necessary, he said, more alarmed than convinced,-- "My lord, I have done wrong; since we should pay no regard to life, I have nothing more to say. But when one has to do with certain powerful people, who will not listen to reason, I do not see what is to be gained by carrying things with a high hand." "And know you not that our gain is to suffer for the sake of justice? If you are ignorant of this, what is it you preach? What do you teach? What is the _good news_ which you proclaim to the poor? Who has required this at your hand, to overcome force by force? Certainly you will not be asked at the day of judgment, if you have vanquished the powerful, for you have neither had the commission nor the means to do so. But, you _will_ be asked, if you have employed the means which have been placed in your power, to do that which was prescribed to you, even when man had the temerity to forbid it." "These saints are odd creatures," thought Don Abbondio; "extract the essence of this discourse, and it will be found that he has more at heart the love of two young people, than the life of a priest." He would have been delighted to have had the conversation terminate here, but he well perceived that such was not the intention of the cardinal, who appeared to be waiting a reply, or apology, or something of the kind. "I say, my lord," replied he, "that I have done wrong--We cannot give ourselves courage." "And why, then, I might say to you, have you undertaken a ministry which imposes on you the task of warring with the passions of the world? But, I will rather say, how is it that you have forgotten, that where courage is necessary to fulfil the obligations of this holy vocation, the Most High would assuredly impart it to you, were you earnestly to implore it? Do you think the millions of martyrs had courage naturally? that they had naturally a contempt for life, young Christians who had just begun to taste its charms, children, mothers! All had courage, simply because courage was necessary, and they trusted in God to impart it. Knowing your own weakness, have you ever thought of preparing yourself for the difficult situations in which you might be placed? Ah! if, during so many years of pastoral care, you had loved your flock, (and how could you refrain from loving them?) if you had reposed in them your affections, your dearest cares, your greatest delights, you would not have failed in courage: love is intrepid; if you had loved those who were committed to your spiritual guardianship, those whom you call children--if you had really loved them, when you beheld two of them threatened at the same time with yourself. Ah! certainly, charity would have made you tremble for them, as the weakness of the flesh made you tremble for yourself. You would have humbled yourself before God for the first risings of selfish terror; you would have considered it a temptation, and have implored strength to resist it. But, you would have eagerly listened to the holy and noble anxiety for the safety of others, for the safety of your children; you would have been unable to find a moment of repose; you would have been impelled, constrained to do all that you could to avert the evil that threatened them. With what then has this love, this anxiety, inspired you? What have you done for them? How have you been engaged in their service?" And he paused for a reply. CHAPTER XXVI. Don Abbondio uttered not a word. It must be confessed that we ourselves, who have nothing to fear but the criticisms of our readers, feel a degree of repugnance in thus urging the unfashionable precepts of charity, courage, indefatigable solicitude for others, and unlimited sacrifice of self. But the reflection that these things were said by a man who practised what he preached, encourages us to proceed in our relation. "You do not answer," resumed the cardinal. "Ah! if you had followed the dictates of charity and duty, whatever had been the result, you would now have been at no loss for a reply. Behold, then, what you have done; you having obeyed iniquity, regardless of the requirements of duty; you have obeyed her promptly; she had only to show herself to you, and signify her desire, and she found you ready at her call. But she would have had recourse to artifice with one who was on his guard against her, she would have avoided exciting his suspicion, she would have employed concealment, that she might mature at leisure her projects of treachery and violence; she has, on the contrary, boldly ordered you to infringe your duty, and keep silence; you have obeyed, you have infringed it, and you have kept silence. I ask you now, if you have done nothing more. Tell me if it is true, that you have advanced false pretences for your refusal, so as not to reveal the true motive----" "They have told this also, the tattlers!" thought Don Abbondio, but as he gave no indication of addressing himself to speech, the cardinal pursued,--"Is it true, that you told these young people falsehoods to keep them in ignorance and darkness?--I am compelled, then, to believe it; it only remains for me to blush for you, and to hope that you will weep with me. Behold where it has led you, (merciful God! and you advanced it as a justification!) behold to what it has conducted you, this solicitude for your life! It has led you----(repel freely the assertion if it appear to you unjust: take it as a salutary humiliation if it is not) it has led you to deceive the feeble and unfortunate, to lie to your children!" "This is the way of the world!" thought Don Abbondio again; "to this devil incarnate," (referring to the Unknown,) "his arms around his neck; and to me, for a half lie, reproaches without end! But you are our superiors; of course you are right. It is my star, that all the world is against me, not excepting the saints." He continued aloud,--"I have done wrong! I see that I have done wrong. But what could I do in so embarrassing a situation?" "Do you still ask? Have I not told you? And must I repeat it? You should have loved, my son, you should have loved and prayed; you would then have felt that iniquity might threaten, but not enforce obedience; you would have united, according to the laws of God, those whom man desired to separate; you would have exercised the ministry these children had a right to expect from you. God would have been answerable for the consequences, as you were obeying His orders; now, since you have obeyed man, the responsibility falls on yourself. And what consequences, just Heaven! And why did you not remember that you had a superior? How would he now dare to reprimand you for having failed in your duty, if he did not at all times feel himself obliged to aid you in its performance? Why did you not inform your bishop of the obstacles which infamous power exerted to prevent the exercise of your ministry?" "Just the advice of Perpetua," thought Don Abbondio vexed, to whose mind, even in the midst of these touching appeals, the images which most frequently presented themselves, were those of the bravoes and Don Roderick, alive and well, and returning at some future time, triumphant, and inflamed with rage. Although the presence, the aspect, and the language of the cardinal embarrassed him, and impressed him with a degree of apprehension, it was, however, an embarrassment and an apprehension which did not subjugate his thoughts, nor prevent him from reflecting that, after all, the cardinal employed neither arms nor bravoes. "Why did you not think," pursued Frederick, "that if no other asylum was open to these innocent victims, I could myself receive them, and place them in safety, if you had sent them to me; sent them afflicted and desolate to their bishop; as therefore belonging to him, as the most precious part, I say not of his charge, but of his wealth! And as for you, I should have been anxious for you; I would not have slept until certain that not a hair of your head would be touched; and do you not suppose that this man, however audacious he may be, would have lost something of his audacity, when convinced that his designs were known by me, that I watched over them, and that I was decided to employ for your defence all the means within my power! Know you not, that if man promises too often more than he performs, he threatens also more than he dare execute? Know you not that iniquity does not depend solely on its own strength, but on the credulity and cowardice of others?" "Just the reasoning of Perpetua," thought Don Abbondio, without considering that this singular coincidence in judgment of Frederick Borromeo and his servant, was an additional argument against him. "But you," pursued the cardinal, "you have only contemplated your own danger. How is it possible that your personal safety can have appeared of importance enough to sacrifice every thing to it?" "Because I saw them, I saw those frightful faces," escaped from Don Abbondio. "I heard those horrible words. Your illustrious worship talks well, but you should have been in the place of your poor priest, and have had the same thing happen to you." No sooner had he uttered these words than he bit his tongue, perceiving that he had suffered himself to be overcome by vexation; he muttered in a low voice, "Now for the storm!" and raising his eyes timidly, he was astonished to see the cardinal, whom he never could comprehend, pass from the severe air of authority and rebuke, to that of a soft and pensive gravity. "It is but too true," said Frederick. "Such is our terrible and miserable condition! We exact rigorously from others, that which it may be we would not be willing to render ourselves; we judge, correct, and reprimand, and God alone knows what we would do in the same situation, what we _have_ done in similar situations. But, woe be to me, if I take my weakness for the measure of another's duty, for the rule of my instruction! Nevertheless it is certain, that while imparting precepts, I should also afford an example to my neighbour, and not resemble the pharisee, who imposes on others enormous burthens, which he himself would not so much as touch with his finger. Hear me then, my son, my brother; the errors of those in authority, are oftener better known to others than to themselves; if you know that I have, from cowardice, or respect to the opinions of men, neglected any part of my duty, tell me of it frankly, so that where I have failed in example, I may at least not be wanting in humble confession. Show me freely my weakness, and then words from my mouth will be more available, because you will be conscious that they do not proceed from me, but that they are the words of Him who can give to us both the necessary strength to do what He prescribes." "Oh! what a holy man, but what a troublesome one!" thought Don Abbondio. "He censures himself, and wishes that I should examine, criticise, and control even _his_ actions!" He continued aloud,--"Oh! my lord jests, surely! Who does not know the courage and indefatigable zeal of your illustrious lordship?" "Yes," added he to himself, "by far too indefatigable!" "I do not desire praise that makes me tremble, because God knows my imperfections, and what I know of them myself is sufficient to humble me. But I would desire that we should humble ourselves together; I would desire that you should feel what your conduct has been, and that your language is opposed to the law you preach, and according to which you will be judged." "All turns against me. But these persons who have told your lordship these things, have they not also told you that they introduced themselves treacherously into my house, for the purpose of compelling me to perform the marriage ceremony, in a manner unauthorised by the church?" "They _have_ told me, my son; but what afflicts and depresses me, is to see you still seeking excuses; still excusing yourself by accusing others; still accusing others of that which should have formed a part of your own confession. Who placed these unfortunates, I do not say under the necessity, but under the temptation, to do what they have? Would they have sought this irregular method, if the legitimate way had not been closed to them? Would they have thought of laying snares for their pastor, if they had been received, aided, and advised by him? of surprising him, if he had not concealed himself? And you wish to make them bear the blame; and you are indignant that, after so many misfortunes, what do I say? in the very midst of misfortune, they have suffered a word of complaint to escape before their pastor and yours? that the complaints of the oppressed and the afflicted should be hateful to the world, is not astonishing; but to us! and what advantage would their silence have been to you? Would you have been the gainer from their cause having been committed entirely to the judgment of God? Is it not an additional reason to love them, that they have afforded you the occasion to hear the sincere voice of your pastor; that they have provided for you the means to understand more clearly, and quite as far as may be in your power, the great debt you have contracted to them? Ah! if they had even been the aggressors, I would tell you to love them for that very reason. Love them, because they have suffered, and do suffer; love them, because they are a part of your flock, because you yourself have need of pardon and of their prayers." Don Abbondio kept silence, but no longer from vexation, and an unwillingness to be persuaded; he kept silence from having more things to think of than to say. The words which he heard were unexpected conclusions, a new application of familiar doctrine. The evil done to his neighbour, which apprehension on his own account had hitherto prevented him from beholding in its true light, now made a novel and striking impression on his mind. If he did not feel all the remorse which the cardinal's remonstrances were calculated to produce, he experienced at least secret dissatisfaction with himself and pity for others; a blending of tenderness and shame; as, if we may be permitted to use the comparison, a humid and crushed taper at first hisses and smokes, but by degrees receives warmth, and imparts light, from the flame of a great torch to which it is presented. Don Abbondio would have loudly accused himself, and deplored his conduct, had not the idea of Don Roderick still obtruded itself into his thoughts; however, his feeling was sufficiently apparent to convince the cardinal that his words had at last produced some effect. "Now," pursued Frederick, "one of these unfortunate beings is a fugitive afar off, the other on the point of departure; both have but too much reason to keep asunder, without any present probability of being re-united. Now, alas! they have no need of you; now, alas! you have no longer the opportunity to do them good, and our short foresight can assure us of but little of the future. But who knows, if God in his compassion is not preparing the occasion for you? Ah! do not let it escape; seek it, watch for it, implore it as a blessing." "I shall not fail, my lord--I shall not fail to do so, I assure you," replied Don Abbondio, in a tone that came from the heart. "Ah! yes, my son, yes!" cried Frederick with affectionate dignity; "Heaven knows that I would have desired to hold other converse with you. We have both had a long pilgrimage through life. Heaven knows how painful it has been to me, to grieve your old age by reproaches; how much more I should have loved to occupy the time of this interview in mutual consolation, and mutual anticipation of the heavenly hope which is so near our grasp! God grant that the language I have been obliged to hold may be useful to both of us! Act in such a manner, that He will not call me to account on the great and terrible day, for having retained you in a ministry of which you were unworthy. Let us redeem the time; the night is far spent; the spouse will not linger; let us keep our lamps trimmed and burning. Let us offer to God our poor and miserable hearts, that he may fill them with his love!" So saying he arose to depart; Don Abbondio followed him. We must now return to Donna Prassede, who came, according to agreement, on the following morning, for Lucy, and also to pay her duty to the cardinal. Frederick bestowed many praises on Lucy, and recommended her warmly to the kindness of Donna Prassede; Lucy separated herself from her mother with many tears, and again bade farewell to her cottage and her village. But she was cheered by the hope of seeing her mother once more before their final departure, as Donna Prassede informed them that it was her intention to remain for a few days at her villa, and Agnes promised to visit it again to take a last farewell. The cardinal was on the point of setting out for another parish, when the curate of the village near which the castle of the Unknown was situated, demanded permission to see him. He presented a small packet, and a letter from that lord, in which Frederick was requested to present to Lucy's mother a hundred crowns of gold, to serve as a dowry for the maiden, or for any other purpose she might desire. The Unknown also requested him to tell them, that if ever they should be in need of his services, the poor girl knew but too well the place of his abode, and as for him, he should consider it a high privilege to afford her protection and assistance. The cardinal sent immediately for Agnes, and informed her of the commission he had received. She heard it with equal surprise and joy. "God reward this signor!" said she; "your illustrious lordship will thank him in our name, but do not say a word of the matter to any one, because we live in a world--you will excuse me, I know a man like your lordship does not tattle about such things, but--you understand me." Returning to her house, she shut herself up in her chamber, and untied the packet; although she was prepared for the sight, she was filled with wonder at seeing in her own power and in one heap such a quantity of those coins which she had rarely ever seen before, and never more than one at a time. She counted them over and over again, and wrapping them carefully in a leather covering, concealed them under one corner of her bed. The rest of the day was employed in reverie and projects for the future, and desires for the arrival of the morrow; the night was passed in restless dreams, and vain imaginings of the blessings to be produced by this gold; at break of day, she arose, and departed for the villa of Donna Prassede. The repugnance Lucy had felt to mention her vow, had not all diminished, but she resolved to overcome it, and to disclose the circumstance to her mother in this conversation, which would probably be the last they should have for a long time. No sooner were they left alone, than Agnes, with an animated countenance, but in a low voice, said, "I have great news to tell you," and she related her unexpected good fortune. "God bless this signor," said Lucy; "you have now enough to live comfortably yourself, and also to benefit others." "Oh! yes, we can do a great deal with this money! Listen, I have only you, that is, I have only you two in the world, for from the moment that Renzo first addressed you, I have considered him as my son. We will hope that no misfortune has befallen him, and that we shall soon hear from him. As for myself, I would have wished to lay my bones in my own country, but now that you cannot stay here on account of this villain, (oh! even to think that he was near me, would make me dislike any place!) I am quite willing to go away. I would have gone with you to the end of the earth before this good fortune, but how could we do it without money? The poor youth had indeed saved a few pence, of which the law deprived him, but in recompence God has sent us a fortune. So then, when he has informed us that he is living, and where he is, and what are his intentions, I will go to Milan for you--yes, I will go for you. Formerly I would not have dreamt of such a thing, but misfortune gives courage and experience. I have been to Monza, and I know what it is to travel. I will take with me a man of resolution; for instance, Alessio di Maggianico; I will pay the expense, and--do you understand?" But perceiving that Lucy, instead of exhibiting sympathy with her plans, could with difficulty conceal her agitation and distress, she stopped in the midst of her harangue, exclaiming, "What is the matter? are you not of my opinion?" "My poor mother!" cried Lucy, throwing her arms around her neck, and concealing on her bosom her face, bathed in tears. "What is the matter?" said Agnes, in alarm. "I ought to have told you sooner, but I had not the heart to do it. Have pity on me." "But speak, speak then." "I cannot be the wife of that unfortunate youth." "Why? how?" Lucy, with downcast looks and flowing tears, confessed at last the vow which she had made. She clasped her hands, and asked pardon of her mother for having concealed it from her, conjuring her to speak of it to no one, and to lend her aid to enable her to fulfil it. Agnes was overwhelmed with consternation; she would have been angry with her daughter for so long maintaining silence towards her, had not the grave thoughts that the circumstance itself excited, stifled all feeling of resentment. She would have blamed her for her vow, had it not appeared to her to be contending against Heaven; for Lucy described to her again, in more lively colours than before, that horrible night, her utter desolation, and unexpected preservation! Agnes listened attentively; and a hundred examples that she had often heard related, that she _herself_ even had related to her daughter, of strange and horrible punishments for violated vows, came to her memory. "And what wilt thou do now?" said she. "It is with the Lord that care rests; the Lord and the holy Virgin. I have placed myself in their hands; they have never yet abandoned me, they will not abandon me now that----The favour I ask of God, the only favour, after the safety of my soul, is to be restored to you, my beloved mother! He will grant it, yes, he will grant it. That fatal day----in the carriage----Oh! most holy Virgin! Those men----who would have thought I should be the next day with you?" "But why not tell your mother at once?" "Forgive me, I had not the heart----What use was there in afflicting you sooner?" "And Renzo?" said Agnes, shaking her head. "Ah!" cried Lucy, starting, "I must think no more of the poor youth. God has not intended----You see it appears to be his will that we should separate. And who knows?----But no, no; the Lord will preserve him from every danger, and render him, perhaps, happier without me." "But, nevertheless, if you had not bound yourself for ever, provided no misfortune has happened to Renzo, with this money, I would have found a remedy for all our other evils." "But, my mother, would this money have been ours if I had not passed that terrible night? It is God's will that all should be thus; his will be done!" And her voice became inarticulate through tears. At this unexpected argument, Agnes maintained a mournful silence. After some moments, Lucy, suppressing her sobs, resumed,--"Now that the thing is done, we must submit cheerfully; and you, dear mother, you can aid me, first in praying to the Lord for your poor daughter, and then it is necessary that Renzo should know it. When you ascertain where he is, have him written to, find a man,--your cousin Alessio, for instance, who is prudent and kind, who has always wished us well, and who will not tattle. Make Alessio write to him, and inform him of the circumstance as it occurred, where I was, and how I suffered; tell him that God has ordered it thus, and that he must set his heart at rest; that, as for me, I can never be united to any one. Make him understand the matter clearly; when he knows that I have promised the Virgin----he always has been pious----And you, as soon as you hear from him, get some one to write to me, let me know that he is safe and well----and, nothing more." Agnes, with much emotion, assured her daughter that all should be done as she desired. "I would say something more; that which has befallen the poor youth, would never have occurred to him, if he had never thought of me. He is a wanderer, a fugitive; he has lost all his little savings; he has been deprived of every thing he possessed, poor fellow! and you know why--and we, we have so much money! Oh! mother, since the Lord has sent us wealth, and since the unfortunate----you regard him as your son, do you not? Ah! divide it, share it with him! Endeavour to find a safe man, and send him the half of it. God knows how much he may need it!" "That is just what I was thinking of," replied Agnes. "Yes, I will do it certainly. Poor youth! And why did you think I was so pleased with the money, if it were not----but--I came here well pleased,'tis true; but, since matters are so, I will send it to him. Poor youth! he also----I know what I mean. Certainly money gives pleasure to those who have need of it; but this money--Ah! it is not this that will make him prosper." Lucy returned thanks to her mother for her prompt and liberal accordance with her request, so fervently, that an observer would have imagined her heart to be still devoted to Renzo, more than she herself was aware of. "And without thee, what shall I do--I, thy poor mother?" said Agnes, weeping in her turn. "And I, without you, my dear mother? and in a house of strangers, at Milan? But the Lord will be with us both, and will re-unite us. In eight or nine months we shall see each other again; let us leave it to him. I will incessantly implore this favour from the Virgin; if I had any thing more to offer her, I would not hesitate; but she is so compassionate, she will surely grant my prayer." The mother and daughter parted with many tears, promising to see each other again, the coming autumn, at the latest, as if it depended on themselves! A long time elapsed before Agnes heard any thing of Renzo; neither message nor letter was received from him; the people of the village were as ignorant concerning him as herself. She was not the only one whose enquiries had been fruitless; it was not a mere ceremony in the cardinal Frederick, when he promised Lucy and Agnes, to inform himself of the history and fate of Renzo; he fulfilled that promise, by writing immediately to Bergamo for the purpose. While at Milan, on his return from visiting his diocese, he received a reply, in which he was informed that little was known of the young man; that he had made, it was true, a short sojourn in such a place, but that one morning he had suddenly disappeared; that a relation of his, with whom he had lived while there, knew not what had become of him; he thought that he had probably enlisted for the Levant, or had passed into Germany, or, which was most likely, that he had perished in crossing the river. It was added, however, that should any more definite intelligence be received concerning him, his illustrious lordship should immediately be informed of it. These reports eventually travelled to Lecco, and reached the ears of Agnes. The poor woman did her best to ascertain the truth of them; but she was kept in a state of suspense and anxiety by the contradictory accounts which were given, and which were, in fact, all without foundation. The governor of Milan, lieutenant-general under Don Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova, had complained bitterly to the lord resident of Venice at Milan, that a robber, a villain, an instigator of pillage and massacre, the famous Lorenzo Tramaglino, had been received in the Bergamascan territory. The resident replied, that he knew nothing of the matter, but that he would write to Venice for information concerning it, in order to give some explanation to his Excellency. It was a maxim at Venice to encourage the tendency of the Milanese workmen in silk, to establish themselves in the Bergamascan territory, by making them find it to their advantage to do so. For this reason, Bortolo was warned confidentially, that Renzo was not safe in his present residence, and that he would do wisely to place him in some other manufactory, and even cause him to change his name for a while. Bortolo, who was quick of apprehension, made no objections, related the matter to his cousin, and taking him to another place fifteen miles off, he presented him, under the name of _Antonio Rivolta_, to the master of the manufactory, who was a native of Milan, and moreover his old acquaintance. He, although the times were hard, did not require much entreaty to induce him to receive a workman so warmly recommended by an old friend. He saw reason afterwards to congratulate himself on the acquisition, although, at first, the young man appeared rather heedless, because, when they called _Antonio_, he scarcely ever answered. A short time after, an order arrived from Venice to the captain of Bergamo, to inform himself, and send word to government, whether there was not within his jurisdiction, and particularly in such a village, such an individual. The captain having obeyed in the best manner he could, transmitted a reply in the negative, which was transmitted to the resident at Milan, in order that he should transmit it to Don Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova. There were not wanting inquisitive people, who enquired of Bortolo why the young man had left him. The first time the question was put to him, he simply replied, "He has disappeared." To relieve himself, however, from the most persevering, he framed the stories we have already related, at the same time offering them as mere reports that he had heard; without, however, placing much reliance on them. But when enquiry came to be made by order of the cardinal, or rather, by order of some great person, as his name was not mentioned, Bortolo became more uneasy, and judged it prudent to maintain his ordinary method of reply, with this addition, that he gave to the stories he had fabricated an air of greater verity and plausibility. We must not conclude, however, that Don Gonzalo had any personal dislike to our poor mountaineer; we must not conclude that, informed perhaps of his disrespect and ill-timed jests upon his _Moorish king enchained by the throat_, he wished to wreak his vengeance on him, nor that he considered him a person dangerous enough to be pursued even in his flight, as was Hannibal by the Roman senate. Don Gonzalo had too many things to think of, to trouble himself with the actions of Renzo, and if he appeared to do so, it was the result of a singular concurrence of circumstances; by which the poor fellow, without wishing it, or even knowing why, found himself attached, as by an invisible thread, to numerous and important affairs. CHAPTER XXVII. We have had occasion to mention more than once a war which was then fermenting, for the succession to the states of the Duke Vincenzo Gonzaga, the second of the name; we have said that, at the death of this duke, his nearest heir, Carlos Gonzaga, chief of a younger branch transplanted to France, where he possessed the duchies of Nevers and Rhetel, had entered into possession of Mantua and Montferrat; the Spanish minister, who wished, at any price, to exclude from these two fiefs the new prince, and wanted some pretence to advance for his exclusion, had declared his intention to support the claims upon Mantua of another Gonzaga, Ferrante, Prince of Guastalla; and those upon Montferrat of Carlos Emanuel the First, Duke of Savoy, and Margherita Gonzaga, Duchess dowager of Lorraine. Don Gonzalo, who was descended from the great captain whose name he bore, had already made war in Flanders; and as he was desirous beyond measure to direct one in Italy, he made the greatest efforts to promote it. By interpreting the intentions, and by going beyond the orders of the minister, he had, in the mean time, concluded with the Duke of Savoy a treaty for the invasion and division of Montferrat; and easily obtained the ratification of it, by the count duke, by persuading him that the acquisition of Casale, which was the point the best defended, of the portion granted to the King of Spain, was extremely easy. However, he still continued to protest, in the name of his sovereign, that he desired to occupy the country only as a trust, until the decision of the emperor should be declared. But in the meantime the emperor, influenced by others as well as by motives of his own, had refused the investiture to the new duke, and ordered him to leave in sequestration, the states which had been the subject of contention; promising, after he should have heard both parties, to give it to the one whom he should deem justly entitled to it. The Duke of Nevers would not submit to these conditions. The duke had high and powerful friends, being supported by the Cardinal Richelieu, the senate of Venice, and the pope. But the first of these, absorbed at the time by the siege of Rochelle, embarrassed in a war with England, thwarted by the party of the queen mother, Mary de' Medici, who, for particular reasons, was hostile to the house of Nevers, could only hold out hopes and promises. The Venetians would not stir in the contest, until a French army arrived in Italy; and while secretly aiding the duke, they confined themselves, in their negotiations with the court of Madrid, and the government of Milan, to protests, offers, or even threats, according to circumstances. Urban VIII. recommended the Duke of Nevers to his friends, interceded for him with his adversaries, and made propositions of peace; but he never afforded him any military aid. The two powers, allied for offensive operations, could then securely begin their enterprise; Carlos Emanuel entered Montferrat, and Don Gonzalo gladly undertook the siege of Casale; but he did not meet with the success he had anticipated. The court did not afford him all the supplies he demanded; his ally, on the contrary, was too liberal in his aid to the cause; for, after having taken his own portion, he also took that which had been assigned to the King of Spain. Don Gonzalo, inexpressibly enraged, but fearing, if he made the least complaint, that Carlos, as active in intrigue, and as brave in arms, as he was fickle in disposition, and false to his promises, would throw himself on the side of France; was constrained to shut his eyes, to champ the bit, and to maintain a satisfied appearance. Whether from the firm resistance of the besieged, or from the small number of troops employed against them, or, according to some statements, from the numerous mistakes of Don Gonzalo, the siege, although protracted, was finally unsuccessful. It was at this very period that the sedition of Milan obliged Don Gonzalo to go thither in person. In the relation that was there made to him, the flight of Renzo was mentioned, and the facts, real or supposed, which had caused his arrest; he was also informed that this man had taken refuge in the territory of Bergamo. This latter circumstance attracted the attention of Don Gonzalo; he knew that the Venetians had taken an interest in the insurrection of Milan, and that, in the beginning of it, they had imagined that, on that account alone, he would be obliged to raise the siege of Casale, and thus incur a heavy disappointment to his hopes. In addition to this, immediately after this event, the news was received, so much desired by the senate, and so much dreaded by Gonzalo, of the surrender of Rochelle. Stung to the quick, as a man and a politician, and vexed at his loss of reputation, he sought out every occasion to convince the Venetians, that he had lost none of his former boldness and determination; he therefore ventured to make loud complaints of the conduct of the senate. The resident of Venice, having come to pay his respects to him, and endeavouring to read in his features and deportment what was passing in his mind, Don Gonzalo spoke lightly of the tumult, as a thing already quieted, making use, however, of the reception of Renzo, in the Bergamascan territory, as a pretext for complaint against the Venetians. The result is known to our readers. When he had answered his own purposes, with the affair, it was entirely forgotten by him. But Renzo, who was far from suspecting the little importance that was in reality attached to him, had, for a long time, no other thought but to keep himself concealed. It may well be supposed that he desired ardently to send intelligence to Lucy and her mother, and to hear from them in return. But to this, there were two very great obstacles. It was necessary to confide in an amanuensis, as he himself was unable to write,--an accomplishment in those days not very usual in his class; and how could he venture to do this where all were strangers to him? The other difficulty was to find a trusty messenger, to take charge of the letter. He finally succeeded in overcoming these difficulties, and found one of his companions who could write for him. But not knowing whether Lucy and Agnes were still at Monza, he thought it best to enclose the letter under cover to Father Christopher, with a few lines in addition to him. The writer engaged to send it, and gave it to a man who was to pass near Pescarenico, and who left it in an inn on the route, in a neighbouring place to the convent, and with many injunctions for its safe delivery. As the cover was directed to a capuchin, it was carried to Pescarenico, but it was never known what farther became of it. Renzo, not receiving an answer, caused another letter to be written, and enclosed it to one of his relations at Lecco. This time the letter reached its destination. Agnes requested her cousin Alessio to read it for her; and to write an answer, which was sent to Antonio Rivolta, at the place of his abode; all this, however, was not done so quickly as we tell it. Renzo received the answer, and wrote a reply; in short, there was a correspondence, however irregular, established between them. But the manner of carrying on such a correspondence, which is the same, perhaps, at this day, we will explain. The absent party who can't write, selects one who possesses the art, from amongst his own class, in which he can more securely trust. To him he explains with more or less clearness his subject and his thoughts. The man of letters comprehends part, guesses the rest, gives an opinion, proposes an alteration, and finishes with "leave it to me." Then begins the translation of the spoken into the written thoughts.--The writer corrects, improves, overcharges, diminishes, or even omits, according to his opinion of the graces of style. The finished letter is, accordingly, often wide of the mark aimed at. But when, at length, it reaches the hands of a correspondent, equally deficient in the art of reading running hand, he is under the like necessity of finding a learned clerk of the same calibre to interpret the hieroglyphics. Hereupon arise questions upon the various meanings. Towards their elucidation, the one supplies philological notices upon the text; the other, commentaries upon the hidden matter; so that, after mature discussion, they may come to the same understanding between themselves, however remote that may be from the intention of the originator of the perplexity. This was precisely the condition of our two correspondents. The first letter from Renzo contained many details; he informed Agnes of the circumstance of his flight, his subsequent adventures, and his actual situation. These events, however, were rather hinted at, than clearly explained, so that Agnes and her interpreter were far from drawing any definite conclusions from the relation of them. He spoke of secret information, of a change of name; that he was in safety, but that he was obliged to keep himself concealed; further, the letter contained pressing and passionate enquiries with regard to Lucy, with some obscure references to the reports which had reached him, mingled with vague expressions of hope, and plans for the future, and affectionate exhortations to constancy and patience. Some time after the receipt of this letter, Agnes sent Renzo an answer, with the fifty crowns that had been assigned him by Lucy. At the sight of so much gold, he did not know what to think; and, with his mind agitated by reflections by no means agreeable, he went in search of his amanuensis, requesting him to interpret the letter, and afford him a clue to the developement of the mystery. The amanuensis of Agnes, after some complaints on the want of clearness in Renzo's epistle, described the wonderful history of _this person_ (so he called the Unknown), and thus accounted for the fifty crowns; then he mentioned the vow, but only periphrastically; adding more explicitly the advice, to set his heart at rest, and not to think of Lucy any more. Renzo was very near quarrelling with his interpreter; he trembled; he was enraged with what he had understood, and with what he had not understood. He made him read three or four times this melancholy epistle, sometimes understanding it better, sometimes finding obscure and inexplicable that which at first had appeared clear. In the delirium of his passion, he desired his amanuensis to write an answer immediately. After the strongest expressions of pity and horror at the misfortunes of Lucy; "Write," pursued he, "that I do not wish to set my heart at rest, and that I never will; that this is not advice to give me; and that, moreover, I will never touch the money, but will keep it in trust, as the dowry of the young girl; that Lucy belongs to me, and that I will not abide by her vow; that I have always heard that the Virgin interests herself in our affairs, for the purpose of aiding the afflicted, and obtaining favour for them; but that I have never heard that she will protect those who do evil, and fail to perform their promises; say that, as such cannot be the case, her vow is good for nothing; that with this money we can establish ourselves here, and that, if our affairs are now a little perplexed, it is a storm which will soon pass away." Agnes received this letter, sent an answer, and the correspondence continued for some time, as we have related. When her mother informed Lucy that Renzo was well and in safety, she derived great relief from the intelligence, desiring but one thing more, which was, that he should forget, or rather, that he should endeavour to forget her. On her part she made a similar resolution, with respect to him, a hundred times a day; and employing every means of which she was mistress to accomplish so desirable an end, she applied herself incessantly to labour, endeavouring to give to it all the powers of her soul. When the image of Renzo occurred to her mind, she tried to banish it by prayer; but, while thinking of her mother, (and how could she avoid thinking of her mother?) the image of Renzo intruded himself as a third into the place so often occupied by the real Renzo. However, if she did not succeed in forgetting, she contrived at least to think less frequently of him; and in this she would have been more successful, had she been left to prosecute the work alone; but, alas! Donna Prassede, who, on her part, was determined to drive the poor youth from her mind, thought there was no better expedient for the purpose than to talk of him incessantly; "Well," said she, "do you still think of him?" "I think of no one," said Lucy. Donna Prassede, who was not a woman to be satisfied with such an answer, replied, "that she wanted actions, not words." Discussing at length, the tendencies of young girls, she said, "When they have once given their heart to a libertine, it is impossible to withdraw their affections. If their love for an honest man is, by whatever means, unfortunate, they are soon comforted, but love for a libertine is an incurable wound." And then beginning the panegyric of poor Renzo, of this rascal, who wished to deluge Milan in blood, and reduce it to ashes, she concluded, by insisting that Lucy should confess the crimes of which he had been guilty in his own country. Lucy, with a voice trembling from shame, grief, and from as much indignation as her gentle disposition and humble station permitted her, declared and protested, that in her village this poor youth had always acted peaceably and honourably, and had obtained a good reputation. "She wished," she said, "that one of his countrymen were present to bear testimony to the truth." Even respecting the events at Milan, of which, 'twas true, she knew not the details, she defended him, and solely on account of the acquaintance she had had with his habits from infancy. She defended him (or rather, she _meant_ to defend him) from the pure duty of charity, from love of truth, and as being her neighbour. But Donna Prassede deduced, from this defence, new arguments to convince Lucy, that this man still held a place in her heart, of which he was not worthy. At the degrading portrait which the old lady drew of him, the habitual feelings of her heart, with regard to him, and her knowledge and estimate of his character, revived with double force and distinctness. Her recollections, which she had had so much difficulty in subduing, returned vividly to her imagination; in proportion to the aversion and contempt manifested by Donna Prassede towards the unfortunate youth, just in such proportion did she recall her former motives for esteem and sympathy; this blind and violent hatred excited in her heart stronger pity and tenderness. Such conversations could not be much prolonged without resolving Lucy's words into tears. If Donna Prassede had been led to this course of conduct by hatred towards Lucy, the tears of the latter, which flowed freely during these examinations, might have subdued her to silence, but as she was moved to speak by the desire of doing good, she never suffered herself to be softened by them; for groans and supplications may arrest the arm of an enemy, but not the friendly lance of the surgeon. After having reproached her for her wickedness, she passed to exhortations and advice, mingling also a few praises, to temper the bitter with the sweet, and obtain more certainly the effect she desired. These disputes, which had nearly the same beginning, middle, and end, did not, however, leave any trace of resentment against her severe lecturer in the gentle bosom of Lucy; she was, in other respects, treated with much kindness by the lady, and she believed her, even in this matter, to be guided by good, though mistaken intentions. There did follow them, however, such agitation, such uneasy awakening of slumbering thoughts, that much time and effort were requisite to restore her to any degree of tranquillity. It was a happiness for Lucy that Donna Prassede's sphere of usefulness was somewhat extensive; consequently these tiresome conversations could not be so frequently repeated. Besides her immediate household, composed, according to her opinion, of persons that had more or less need of correction and regulation; and besides all the other occasions which presented themselves for her rendering the same office from pure benevolence to persons who required not the duty at her hands; she had five daughters, neither of whom lived at home, but they gave her the more trouble from that very cause. Three were nuns; and two were married. Donna Prassede consequently had three monasteries and two families to govern; a vast and complicated machinery, and the more troublesome, as two husbands, supported by a numerous kindred, three abbesses, defended by other dignitaries, and a great number of nuns, would not accept her superintendence. There was a continual warfare, polite indeed, but active and vigilant; a perpetual attention to avoid her solicitude, to close up the avenues to her advice, to elude her enquiries, and to keep her in as much ignorance as possible of their affairs. In her own family, however, her zeal could display itself freely; all were governed by her authority, and submissive to her, in every respect, with the exception of Don Ferrante; with him things were conducted in a peculiar manner. A man of study, he neither loved to obey nor command; he was perfectly willing that his wife should be mistress in all things pertaining to household affairs, but not that he should be her slave; and if, at her request, he lent upon occasion the services of his pen, it was because he had a particular taste for such employments. And, moreover, he could refuse to do it, when not convinced of the propriety of her demand. "Well," he would say, "do it yourself, since the matter appears so plain to you." Donna Prassede, after vainly trying to induce him to submission, took refuge in grumbling against him as an original, a man who would have his own way, a mere scholar; which latter title, however, she never gave him without a degree of complacency, mingling itself with her displeasure. Don Ferrante passed much time in his study, where he had a considerable collection of choice books; he had selected the most famous works on many different subjects, in each of which he was more or less versed. In astrology he was justly considered more than an amateur, because he not only possessed the general notions, and the common vocabulary of influences, aspects, and conjunctions, but he could speak to the point, and, like a professor, of the twelve houses of heaven, of the great and lesser circles, of degrees, lucid and obscure, of exaltations, passages, and revolutions; in short, of the principles the most certain and most recondite of the science. For more than twenty years, in long and frequent disputes, he had sustained the pre-eminence of _Cardan_ against another learned man attached to the system of _Alcabizio_, "from pure obstinacy," said Don Ferrante, who, in acknowledging voluntarily the superiority of the ancients, could not, however, endure the prejudice which would never accord to the moderns, even that which they evidently deserved. He had also a more than ordinary acquaintance with the history of the science; he could cite the most celebrated predictions which had been verified, and reason very skilfully and learnedly on other celebrated predictions which had _not_ been verified, demonstrating that the failure was not owing to any deficiency in the science, but to the ignorance which could not apply its principles. He had acquired as much ancient philosophy as would have contented a man of ordinary ambition, but he was continually adding to his stock from the study of Diogenes Laertius; however, as we cannot adhere to every system, and as, from among them all, a choice is necessary to him who desires the reputation of a philosopher, Don Ferrante made choice of Aristotle, who, as he was accustomed to say, was neither ancient nor modern. He possessed many works of the wisest and most subtle disciples of the school of Aristotle among the moderns; as to those of his opponents, he would not read them, "because it would be a waste of time," he said, "nor buy them, because it would be a waste of money." In the judgment of the learned, therefore, Don Ferrante passed for an accomplished peripatetic, although this was not the judgment he passed on himself, for, more than once, he was heard to declare, with singular modesty, that the essence, the universals, the soul of the world, and the nature of things, were not matters so clear as people thought. As to natural philosophy, he had made it more a pastime than a study: he had rather read than digested the works of Aristotle himself on the subject. Nevertheless, with a slight acquaintance with that author, and the knowledge he had incidentally gathered from other treatises of general philosophy, he could, when necessary, entertain an assembly of learned persons in reasoning most acutely on the wonderful virtues and singular characteristics of many plants. He could describe exactly the forms and habits of the syrens, and the phoenix, the only one of its kind; he could explain how it was that the salamander lived in fire, how drops of dew became pearls in the shell, how the chameleon lived on air, and a thousand other secrets of the same nature. He was, however, much more addicted to the study of magic and sorcery, as this was a science more in vogue, and withal more serviceable, and the facts of which were of pre-eminent importance. It is not necessary to add that, in devotion to such a science, he had no other purpose than to obtain an accurate knowledge of the worst artifices of the sorcerers, in order to guard himself against them. Guided by the great _Martino Delrio_, he was able to discourse, _ex professo_, on the enchantment of love, the enchantment of sleep, the enchantment of hatred, and on the innumerable species of these three chief enchantments, which, alas! are witnessed every day in their destructive and baneful effects. His knowledge of history, especially universal history, was not less vast and solid. "But," said he often, "what is history without politics? a guide who conducts without teaching any one the way; as politics without history, is a man without a guide to conduct him." Here was then a small place on his shelf assigned to statistics; there, among others of the second rank, were seen Bodin, Cavalcanti, Sansovino, Paruta, and Boccalini. There were, however, two books that Don Ferrante preferred to all others on the subject; two, which he called, for a long time, the first of the kind, without deciding to which of the two this rank exclusively belonged. One was _Il Principe_ and the _Discorsi_ of the celebrated secretary of Florence. "A rascal, 'tis true," said he, "but profound;" the other, _La Ragion di Stato_, of the not less celebrated Giovanni Botero. "An honest man, 'tis true," said he, "but cunning." But, a short time before the period to which our history belongs, a work appeared which had terminated the question of pre-eminence; a work in which was comprised and condensed a relation of every vice, in order to enable men to avoid it, and every virtue, in order to enable men to practise it,--a book of few leaves, indeed, but all of gold; in a word, the _Statista Regnante_ of _Don Valeriano Castiglione_; of the celebrated man upon whom the most learned men emulated each other in bestowing praises, and for whose notice the greatest personages contended; whom Pope Urban VIII. honoured with a magnificent eulogium; whom Cardinal Borghese and the Viceroy of Naples, Don Pietro de Toledo, solicited to write, the first, the life of Pope Paul V., the second, the wars of the Catholic king in Italy, and both in vain; whom Louis XIII., King of France, with the advice of Cardinal Richelieu, named his historiographer; upon whom the Duke Carlos Emanuel, of Savoy, conferred the same office; and in praise of whom the Duchess Christina, daughter to his most Christian majesty, Henry IV., added in a diploma, after many other titles, "the renown he had obtained in Italy as the first writer of the age." But if Don Ferrante might be said to be well versed in all the above sciences, there was one in which he deserved, and really obtained, the title of professor, the science of chivalry. He not only spoke of it as a master, but was often requested to interfere in nice points of honour, and give his decision. He had in his library, and, we may add, in his head also, the works of the most esteemed writers on this subject, particularly Torquato Tasso, whom he had always ready; and he could, if required, cite from memory all the passages of the Jerusalem Delivered, which might be brought forward as authority in these matters. We might speak more at large of this learned man, but we feel it to be time to resume the thread of our history. Nothing of importance occurred to any of the personages of our story before the following autumn, when Agnes and Lucy expected to meet again; but a great public event disappointed this hope. Other events followed, which produced no material change in their destiny. Then occurred new misfortunes, powerful and overwhelming, coming upon them like a hurricane, which impetuously tears up and scatters every object in its way, sweeping the land, and bearing off, with its irresistible and mighty power, every vestige of peace and prosperity. That the particular facts which remain to be related may not appear obscure, we must recur for awhile to the farther recital of general facts. CHAPTER XXVIII. After the famous sedition on St. Martin's day, it may be said that abundance flowed into Milan, as if by enchantment. The shops were well stored with bread, the price of which was no higher than in the most fruitful years; those who, on that terrible day, had howled through the streets, and committed every excess in their power, had now reason to congratulate themselves. But, with the cessation of their alarm, they had not resumed their accustomed quiet; on the squares, and in the inns, there were congratulations and boastings (although in an under tone) at having hit on a mode of reducing the price of bread. However, in the midst of these popular rejoicings, there reigned a vague apprehension and presentiment that this happiness would be of short duration. They besieged the bakers and vendors of flour with the same pertinacity as during the period of the former factitious and transient abundance, produced by the first tariff of Antony Ferrer. He who had some pence by him converted them immediately into bread and flour, which was piled in chests, in small casks, and even in vessels of earthen ware. In thus attempting to extend the advantages of the moment, their long duration was rendered, I do not say impossible, for it was so already; but even their momentary continuance thus became still more difficult. On the fifteenth of November, Antony Ferrer, "_by the order of his excellency_," published a decree in which it was forbidden to any one, having any quantity of grain or flour in his house, to purchase more; and to the rest of the people to buy bread beyond that which was necessary for two days, "_under pecuniary and corporal penalties at the discretion of his excellency_." The decree ordered the _anziani_ (officers of justice), and invited every body, as a duty, to denounce the offenders; it commanded the judges to cause search to be made in every house which might be mentioned to them, issuing at the same time a new command to the bakers to keep their shops well furnished with bread, "_under penalty of five years in the galleys, and still greater punishment at the discretion of his excellency_." A great effort of imagination would be required to believe that such orders were easy of execution. In commanding the bakers to make such a quantity of bread, means ought to have been afforded for the supply of the material of which it was to be made. In seasons of scarcity, there is always an endeavour to make into bread various kinds of aliment, which, under ordinary circumstances, are consumed under other forms. In this way rice was introduced into the composition of a bread which was called mistura.[33] On the 23d of November, there was a decree issued, which placed at the order of the vicar and twelve members of provision the half of the rice that each possessed; under penalty for selling it without the permission of those lords of the loss of the entire commodity, and a fine of three crowns the bushel. [33] Mixture. But this rice had to be paid for at a price very disproportioned to that of bread. The burden of supplying this enormous difference was imposed on the city: but the council of ten resolved to send a remonstrance to the governor, on the impossibility of sustaining such a tax; and the governor fixed, by a decree of the 13th of December, the price of rice at twelve livres the bushel. It is also probable, though nowhere expressly stated, that the maximum price for other sorts of grain was fixed by other proclamations. Whilst, by these various measures, bread and flour were kept at a low price in Milan, it consequently happened that crowds of people rushed into the city to supply their wants. Don Gonzalo, to remedy this inconvenience, forbade, by another decree of the 15th of December, the carrying out of the city bread to the value of more than twenty pence; the penalty was a fine of "_twenty-five crowns, and in case of inability, a public flogging, and greater punishments still, at the discretion of his excellency_." The populace wished to procure abundance by pillage and conflagration, the legal power wished to maintain it by the galleys and the rope. Every method was resorted to to accomplish their purpose, but the reader will soon learn the total failure of them all. It is, besides, easy to see, and not useless to observe, that these strange means had an intimate and necessary connection with each other; each was the inevitable consequence of the preceding, and all, in fact, flowed from the first error, that of fixing upon bread a price so disproportioned to that which ought to have resulted from the real state of things. Such an expedient, however, has always appeared to the populace not only conformable to equity, but very simple and easy of execution; it is then very natural that in the agonies and misery which are the necessary effects of scarcity, they should, if it be in their power, adopt it. But as the consequences begin to be felt, the government is obliged to repair the evil by new laws, forbidding men to do that which previous laws had recently prescribed to them. The principal fruits of the insurrection were these; the destruction or loss of much provision in the insurrection itself, and the rapid consumption of the small quantity of grain then on hand, which should otherwise have lasted until the next harvest. To these general effects may be added, the punishment of four of the populace, who were hung as leaders of the sedition, two before the baker's shop of the crutches, and two at the corner of the street in which was situated the house of the superintendent of provision. The historical relations of this epoch are handed down to us with so little clearness, that it is difficult to ascertain when this arbitrary tariff ceased. But we have numerous accounts of the situation of the country, and especially the city, in the winter of that year and the following spring. In every quarter shops were closed; and the manufactories were, for the most part, deserted; the streets afforded a terrible spectacle of sorrow and desolation; mendicants by profession, now the smallest number, were confounded with the new multitude, disputing for alms with those from whom they had formerly been accustomed to receive them; clerks and servants, dismissed by the merchants and shopkeepers, hardly existing upon some scanty savings; merchants and shopkeepers themselves failing and ruined by the stoppage of trade; artificers wandering from door to door, lying along the pavement, by the houses and churches, soliciting charity, and hesitating between want and shame, emaciated and feeble, reduced by long fasting, and the rigours of the cold which penetrated their tattered clothing; servants, dismissed by their masters, who were incapable of maintaining their accustomed numerous and sumptuous establishments; and the numerous dependents upon the labour of these various classes, old men, women, and children, grouped around their former supporters, or wandered in search of support elsewhere. Among the wretched crowds also might be distinguished, by their _long lock_, by the remnants of their magnificent apparel, by their carriage and gestures, and by the traces which habit impresses on the countenance, many _bravoes_, who, having lost in the common misery their criminal means of support, were reduced to an equality of suffering, and with difficulty dragged themselves along the city that they had so often traversed with a proud and ferocious bearing, magnificently armed and attired; they now extended with humility the hand which they had so frequently raised to menace with insolence, or to strike with treachery. But the most dense, livid, and hideous swarm was that of the villagers. These were seen in entire families; husbands with their wives, dragging along their little ones, and supporting in their arms their wretched babies, whilst their own aged and helpless parents followed behind,--all flocked into the city in hopes of obtaining bread. Some, whose houses had been invaded and despoiled by the soldiery, had fled in despair; some, to excite compassion, and render their misery more striking, showed the wounds and bruises they had received in defending their homes; and others, whom this scourge had not reached, had been driven, by the two scourges from which no corner of the country was exempt, sterility and the consequent increase on the price of provisions, to the city, as to the abode of abundance and pious munificence. The new comers might be recognised by their air of angry astonishment and disappointment at finding such an excess of misery where they had hoped to be themselves the peculiar objects of compassion and benevolence. Here, too, might be recognised, in all their varieties of ragged habiliments, in the midst of the general wretchedness, the pale dweller of the marsh, the bronzed countenance of the plain or hill countryman, and the sanguine complexion of the mountaineer, all, however, alike in the hollow eye, ferocious or insane countenance, knotted hair, long and matted beard, attenuated body, shrivelled skin and bony breast,--all alike reduced to the lowest condition of languor, of infantine debility. Heaps of straw and stubble were seen along the walls, and by the gutters, which appeared to be a particular provision of charity for these unfortunate creatures; there their limbs reposed during the night; and in the day they were occupied by those who, exhausted by fatigue and suffering, could no longer bear the weight of their emaciated bodies; sometimes, upon the damp straw a dead body lay extended; sometimes, the miserable spark of life was rekindled in its feeble tenement by timely succour from a hand rich in the means and in the disposition to do good, the hand of the pious Frederick. He had made choice of six priests of ardent charity and robust constitution; and, dividing them into three companies, assigned to each the third of the city as their charge; they were accompanied by porters, laden with food, cordials, and clothing. Each morning these worthy messengers of benevolence passed through the streets, approached those whom they beheld stretched on the pavement, and gave to each their kindly assistance. Those who were too ill to be benefited by temporal succour received from them the last offices of religion. Their assistance was not limited to present relief: the good bishop requested them, wherever it was possible, to furnish more efficacious and permanent comfort, by giving to those who should be in some measure restored to strength money for their future necessities, lest returning want should again plunge them into wretchedness and misery; and to obtain shelter for others who lay exposed in the street in the neighbouring houses, by requesting their inhabitants to receive the poor afflicted ones as boarders, whose expenses would be paid by the cardinal himself. Frederick had not waited for the evil to attain its height, in order to exercise his benevolence, and to devote all the powers of his mind towards its amelioration. By uniting all his means, by practising strict economy, by drawing upon the sums destined to other liberalities, and which had now become of secondary importance, he endeavoured to amass money, in order to employ it entirely for those who were suffering from hunger and its consequences. He bought a quantity of grain, and sent it to the most destitute parts of his diocese; but as the succour was far from adequate to the necessity, he sent with it a great quantity of salt, "with which," says Ripamonti[34], relating the fact, "the herbs of the field and the leaves of trees were made food for men." He distributed grain and money to the curates of the city; and he himself travelled over it, administering alms, and secretly aiding many indigent families. In the episcopal palace, rice was boiled every day, and dealt out to the necessities of the people, to the extent of 2000 measures. Besides these splendid efforts of a single individual, many other excellent persons, though with less powerful means, strove to mitigate the horrible sufferings of the people: of these sufferers, thousands struggled to grasp the broth or other food provided at different quarters, and thus prolong for a day, at least, their miserable lives; but thousands were still left behind in the struggle, and these generally the weakest,--the aged women and children; and these might be seen, dead and dying from inanition, in every part. But in the midst of these calamities not the least disposition to insurrection appeared. [34] Historia Patriæ, decad. v. lib. vi. p. 386. The void that mortality created each day in the miserable multitude was each day more than replenished; there was a perpetual concourse, at first from the neighbouring villages, then from the more distant territories, and, finally, from the Milanese cities. The ordinary spectacle of ordinary times, the contrast of magnificent apparel with rags, and of luxury with poverty, had entirely disappeared. The nobility even wore coarse clothing; some, because the general misery had affected their fortune; others, because they would not insult the wretchedness of the people, or because they feared to provoke the general despair by the display of luxury at such a time. Thus passed the winter and the spring; already had the Tribunal of Health remonstrated with the Tribunal of Provision on the danger to which such mass of misery exposed the city. To prevent contagious diseases, a proposal was made to confine the vagabond beggars in the various hospitals. Whilst this project was under discussion, some approving and others condemning, dead bodies incumbered the streets. The Tribunal of Provision, however, proposed another expedient as more easy and expeditious, which was, to shut up all the mendicants, healthy or diseased, in the lazaretto, and to maintain them there at the expense of the city. This measure was resolved upon, notwithstanding the remonstrances of the Tribunal of Health, who objected that, in so numerous an assemblage, the evil to which they wished to apply a remedy would be greatly augmented. The little order that reigned in the lazaretto, the bad quality of the food, and the standing water which was drank plentifully, soon created numerous maladies. To these causes of mortality, so much the more active from operating on bodies already exhausted or enfeebled, was added the unfavourableness of the season; obstinate rains, followed by more obstinate drought, and violent heat. To these physical evils were added others of a moral nature, despair and wearisomeness in captivity, desire for accustomed habits, regret for cherished beings of whom these unfortunate beings had been deprived; painful apprehension for those who were living, and the continual dread of death, which had itself become a new and powerful cause of the extension of disease. It is not to be wondered at that mortality increased in this species of prison to such a degree as to assume the appearance and deserve the name of _pestilence_. The number of deaths in the lazaretto soon amounted to a hundred daily. Whilst within these wretched walls, grief, fear, anguish, and rage prevailed, in the Tribunal of Provision, shame, astonishment, and irresolution were equally apparent. They consulted, and now listened to the advice of the Tribunal of Health: finding they could do no better than to undo what they had done, at so much expense and trouble, they opened the doors of the lazaretto, and released all who were well enough to leave it. The city was thus again filled with its former cries, but feebler, and more interrupted; the sick were transported to Santa Maria della Stella, which was then the hospital for the poor, and the greater part perished there. However, the fields began to yield the harvest so long desired, and the troops of peasants left the city for their long prayed for and accustomed labours. The ingenious and inexhaustible charity of the good Frederick still exerted itself; he made a present of a giulio[35] and a sickle to each peasant, who solicited it at the palace. [35] A coin worth about 6_d._ With a plentiful harvest, scarcity ceased to be felt; the mortality, however, continued, in a greater or less degree, until the middle of autumn. It was on the point of ceasing, when a new scourge overwhelmed the city and country. Many events of high historical importance had occurred in this interval of time. The Cardinal Richelieu, after having taken Rochelle, and made a treaty of peace with England, had proposed, effected by his powerful influence in the councils of the French king, that efficacious aid should be sent to the Duke of Nevers; he had also persuaded the king to lead the expedition in person. Whilst the preparations were in progress, the Count of Nassau, imperial commissary, suggested to the new duke in Mantua the expediency of replacing his states in the hands of Ferdinand; intimating that, in case of refusal, an army would be immediately sent by the emperor to occupy them. The duke, who in the most desperate circumstances had rejected so hard a condition, encouraged now by the promised succours from France, was determined still longer to defend himself. The commissary departed, declaring that force would soon decide the matter. In the month of March, the Cardinal Richelieu with the king, at the head of an army, demanded a free passage from the Duke of Savoy; he entered into treaties for the purpose, but nothing was concluded. After a rencounter, in which the French obtained the advantage, a new treaty was entered into, in which the duke stipulated that Don Gonzalo de Cordova should raise the siege of Casale, engaging, in case of his refusal, to unite with the French, and invade the duchy of Milan. Don Gonzalo raised the siege of Casale, and a body of French troops entered it, to reinforce the garrison. The Cardinal Richelieu decided to return to France, on business which he regarded as more urgent; but Girolamo Soranzo, envoy from Venice, offered the most powerful reasons to divert him from this resolution. To these the king and the cardinal paid no attention; they returned with the greatest part of the army, leaving only 6000 men at Suza to occupy the passes and maintain the treaty. Whilst this army departed on one side, that of Ferdinand, commanded by the Count of Collato, advanced on the other. It had invaded the country of the Grisons, and the Valtelline, and was preparing to come down on the Milanese. Besides the usual terrors which such an expectation was calculated to excite, the report was spread, that the plague lurked in the imperial army. Alessandro Tadino, one of the conservators of the public health, was charged by the tribunal to state to the governor the frightful danger which threatened the country, if this army should obtain the pass which opened on Mantua. It appears from all the actions of Gonzalo, that he was possessed by a desire to occupy a great place in history; but, as often happens, history has failed to register one of his most remarkable acts, the answer he returned to this Doctor Tadino; which was, "that he knew not what could be done; that reasons of interest and honour, which had induced the march of the army, were of greater weight than the danger represented; that he would, however, endeavour to act for the best, and that they must trust to Providence." In order, then, to act for the best, their two physicians proposed to the tribunal to forbid, under the most severe penalty, the purchase of any articles of clothing from the soldiers who were about to pass. As to Don Gonzalo, his reply to Doctor Tadino was one of his last acts at Milan, as the ill success of the war, which had been instigated and directed by him, caused him to be displaced in the course of the summer. He was succeeded by Marquis Ambrosio Spinola, who had already acquired the military celebrity in the wars of Flanders which still endures. Meanwhile the German troops had received definite orders to march upon Mantua, and in the month of September they entered the duchy of Milan. At this epoch armies were composed, for the greater part, of adventurers, enlisted by _condottieri_, who held their commission from some prince, and who sometimes pursued the occupation on their own account, so as to be able to sell themselves and followers together. Men were drawn to this vocation much less by the pay which was assigned to them, than by the hope of pillage, and the charms of licence. There was no fixed or general discipline; and as their pay was very uncertain, the spoils of the countries which they over-ran were tacitly accorded to them by their commanders. It was a saying of the celebrated Wallenstein's, that it was easier to maintain an army of 100,000 men than one of 12,000. And this army of which we are now speaking was part of that which in the thirty years' war had desolated all Germany; it was commanded by one of Wallenstein's lieutenants, and consisted of 28,000 infantry, and 7000 horse. In descending from the Valtelline towards Milan, they had to coast along the Adda, to the place where it empties into the Po; eight days' march in the duchy of Milan. A great proportion of the inhabitants retired to the mountains, carrying with them their most precious possessions; some remained to watch the sick, or to preserve their dwellings from the flames, or to watch the valuable property which they had buried or concealed; and others remained because they had nothing to lose. When the first detachment arrived at the place where they were to halt, the soldiers scattered themselves through the country; and subjected it at once to pillage; all that could be eaten or carried off disappeared; fields were destroyed, and cottages burnt to the ground; every hiding-place, every method to which people had resorted, in their despair, for the defence of their property, became useless, nay, often resulted in the peculiar injury of the proprietor. Strict search was made throughout every house by the soldiers; they easily detected in the gardens the earth which had been newly dug; they penetrated the caverns in search of the opulent inhabitants, who had taken refuge there, and dragging them to their houses, forced them to declare where they had concealed their treasures. At last they departed; their drums and trumpets were heard receding in the distance, and a temporary calm succeeded to these hours of tumult and affright; but, alas! the sound of drums was again heard, announcing the arrival of another detachment, the soldiers of which, furious at not finding booty, destroyed what the first work of desolation had spared; burned the furniture and the houses, and manifested the most cruel and savage disposition towards the inhabitants. This continued for a period of twenty days, the army containing that number of divisions. Colico was the first territory of the duchy that these demons invaded; they then threw themselves on Bellano, from which they entered and spread themselves in the Valsassina, whence they marched into the territory of Lecco. CHAPTER XXIX. Here, among those who were expecting the arrival of the army in alarm and consternation, we find persons of our acquaintance. He who did not behold Don Abbondio on the day when the report was spread of the descent of the army, of its near approach, and its excesses, can have no idea of the power of fright upon a feeble mind. All sorts of reports were afloat. They are coming--thirty, forty, fifty thousand men. They have sacked Cortenova; burnt Primaluna; plundered Introbbio, Pasturo, Barsio. They have been seen at Balobbio; to-morrow they will be here. Such were the statements in circulation. The villagers assembled in tumultuous crowds, hesitating whether to fly or remain, while the women lamented aloud over their miserable fate. Don Abbondio, to whom flight had immediately suggested itself, saw in it, nevertheless, invincible obstacles, and frightful dangers. "What shall I do?" cried he; "where shall I go?" The mountains, without speaking of the difficulty of ascending them, were not safe; the foot soldiers climbed them like cats, if they had the slightest indication or hope of booty; the waters of the lake were swollen; it was blowing violently; in addition to which, the greater part of the watermen, fearing to be forced to pass soldiers or baggage, had taken refuge with their boats on the opposite shore; the few barks that remained were already filled with people, and endangered by the weather. It was impossible to find a carriage or horse, or any mode of conveyance. Don Abbondio did not dare venture on foot, incurring, as he would, the probability of being stopped on the road. The confines of the Bergamascan territory were not so distant, but that he could have walked there in a little while; but a report had reached the village, that a squadron of _cappelletri_ had been sent in haste from Bergamo, to guard the frontiers against the German foot-soldiers. These were not less devils incarnate than those they were commissioned to oppose. The poor man was beside himself with terror; he endeavoured to concert with Perpetua some plan of escape, but Perpetua was quite occupied in collecting and concealing his valuables; with her hands full, she replied, "Let me place this in safety; we will then do as other people do." Don Abbondio desired eagerly to discuss with her the best means to be pursued, but Perpetua, between hurry and fright, was less tractable than usual: "Others will do the best they can," said she, "and so will we. Excuse me, but you only hinder one. Do you not think they have skins to save as well as we?" Relieving herself thus from his importunities, she went on with her occupation; the poor man, as a last resource, went to a window, and cried, in a piteous tone, to the people who were passing, "Do your poor curate the favour to bring him a horse or a mule; is it possible no one will come to help me? Wait for me at least; wait till I can go with you; abandon me not. Would you leave me in the power of these dogs? Know you not that they are Lutherans, and that the murder of a priest will seem to them a meritorious deed? Would you leave me here to be martyred?" But to whom did he address this appeal? to men who were themselves incumbered with the weight of their humble movables, or, disturbed by the thoughts of what they had been obliged to leave behind, exposed to the ravages of the destroyer. One drove his cow before him; another conducted his children, who were also laden with burdens, his wife perhaps with an infant in her arms. Some went on their way without replying or looking at him; others merely said, "Eh, sir, do as you can; you are fortunate in having no family to think of; help yourself; do the best you can." "Oh, poor me!" cried Don Abbondio, "oh, what savages! they have no feeling; they give not a thought to their poor curate!" And he went again in search of Perpetua. "Oh, you are come just in time," said she, "where is your money?" "What shall we do with it?" "Give it to me; I will bury it in the garden with the plate." "But----" "But, but, give it to me; keep a few pence for necessity, and let me manage the rest." Don Abbondio obeyed, and drawing his treasure from his strong box, gave it to Perpetua. "I will bury it in the garden, at the foot of the fig-tree," said she, as she disappeared. She returned in a few moments, with a large basket, full of provisions, and a small one, which was empty; into the latter she put a few articles of clothing for herself and master. "You must take your breviary with you," said she. "But where are we going?" "Where every one else goes. We will go into the street, and then we shall hear and see what we must do." At this moment Agnes entered with a small basket in her hand, and with the air of one about to make an important proposal. She had decided not to wait the approach of the dangerous guests, alone as she was, and with the gold of the Unknown in her possession; but had remained some time in doubt where to seek an asylum. The residue of the crowns, which in time of famine would have been so great a treasure, was now the principal cause of her anxiety and irresolution; as, under the present circumstances, those who had money were worse off than others; being exposed at the same time to the violence of strangers, and the treachery of their companions. It is true, none knew of the wealth which had thus, as it were, fallen to her from heaven, except Don Abbondio, to whom she had often applied to change a crown, leaving him always some part of it for those more unfortunate than herself. But hidden property, above all, to those not accustomed to such a possession, keeps the possessor in continual suspicion of others. Now, whilst she reflected on the peculiar dangers to which she was exposed, by the very generosity itself of the Unknown, the offer of unlimited service, which had accompanied the gift, suddenly occurred to her recollection. She remembered the descriptions she had heard of his castle, as situated in a high place, where, without the concurrence of the master, none dared venture but the birds of heaven. Resolving to go thither, and reflecting on the means of making herself known to this signor, her thoughts recurred to Don Abbondio, who, since the conversation with the archbishop, had been very particular in his expression of good feeling towards her, as he could at present be, without compromising himself, there being but little probability, from the situation of affairs, that his benevolence would be put to the test. She naturally supposed, that in a time of such consternation, the poor man would be more alarmed than herself, and might acquiesce in her plan; this was, therefore, the purpose of her visit. Finding him alone with Perpetua, she made known her intentions. "What do you say to it, Perpetua?" asked Don Abbondio. "I say that it is an inspiration from Heaven, and that we must lose no time, and set off immediately." "But then----" "But then, but then; when we have arrived safely there, we shall be very glad, that's all. It is well known that this signor thinks of nothing now but doing good to others, and he will afford us an asylum with the greatest pleasure. There, on the frontiers, and almost in the sky, the soldiers will not trouble us. But then--but then, we shall have enough to eat, no doubt. On the top of the mountains, the provisions we have here with us would not serve us long." "Is it true that he is really converted?" "Can you doubt it, after all you have seen?" "And if, after all, we should be voluntarily placing ourselves in prison?" "What prison? With this trifling, excuse me, we shall never come to any conclusion. Worthy Agnes! your plan is an excellent one." So saying, she placed the basket on the table, and having passed her arms through the straps, swung it over her shoulders. "Could we not procure," said Don Abbondio, "some man to accompany us? Should we encounter some ruffian on the way, what assistance would you be to me?" "Not done yet! always losing time!" cried Perpetua. "Go then, and look for a man, and you will find every one engaged in his own business, I warrant you. Come, take your breviary, and your hat, and let us be off." Don Abbondio was obliged to obey, and they departed. They passed through a small door into the churchyard. Perpetua closed it from custom; not for the security it could now give. Don Abbondio cast a look towards the church,--"It is for the people to guard it," thought he; "it is their church: let them see to it, if they have the heart." They took the by-paths through the fields, but were in continual apprehension of encountering some one, who might arrest their progress. They met no one, however; all were employed, either in guarding their houses, or packing their furniture, or travelling, with their moveables, towards the mountains. Don Abbondio, after many sighs and interjections, began to grumble aloud: he complained of the Duke of Nevers, who could have remained to enjoy himself in France, had he not been determined to be Duke of Mantua, in despite of all the world; of the emperor, and above all, of the governor, whose duty it was to keep this scourge from the country, and not invoke it by his taste for war. "Let these people be, they cannot help us now," said Perpetua. "These are your usual chatterings, excuse me, which mean nothing. That which gives me the most uneasiness----" "What is it?" Perpetua, who had been leisurely recalling to mind the things which she had so hastily concealed, remembered that she had forgotten such an article, and had not safely deposited such another; that she had left traces which might impart information to the depredators. "Well done!" cried Don Abbondio, in whom the security he was beginning to feel with regard to his life allowed his anxiety to appear for his property; "well done! Is this what you have been doing? Where were your brains?" "How!" replied Perpetua, stopping for a moment, and attempting, as far as her load would permit, to place her arms a-kimbo; "do you find fault, when it was yourself who teased me out of my wits, instead of helping me as you ought to have done? I have thought more of my master's goods than my own; and if there is any thing lost, I can't help it, I have done more than my duty." Agnes interrupted these disputes by introducing her own troubles: she was obliged to relinquish the hope of seeing her dear Lucy, for some time at least; for she could not expect that Donna Prassede would come into this vicinity under such circumstances. The sight of the well-remembered places through which they were passing increased the anguish of her feelings. Leaving the fields, they had taken the high road, the same which the poor woman had travelled, in re-conducting, for so short a time, her daughter to her home, after having been with her at the tailor's. As they approached the village, "Let us go and visit these worthy people," said Agnes. "And rest a little, and eat a mouthful," said Perpetua, "for I begin to have enough of this basket." "On condition that we lose no time, for this is not by any means a journey for amusement," said Don Abbondio. They were received with open arms, and cordially welcomed; Agnes, embracing the good hostess, wept bitterly; replying with sobs to the questions her husband and she asked concerning Lucy. "She is better off than we are," said Don Abbondio; "she is at Milan, sheltered from danger, far from these horrible scenes." "The signor curate and his companions are fugitives, are they not?" said the tailor. "Yes," replied, at the same time, Perpetua and her master. "I sympathise with your misfortunes." "We are going to the castle of----" "That is well thought of; you will be as safe as in Paradise." "And are you not afraid here?" "We are too much off the road. If they should turn out of their way, we shall be warned in time." The three travellers decided to take a few hours' rest: as it was the hour of dinner, "Do me the honour," said the tailor, "to partake of my humble fare." Perpetua said she had provisions enough in her basket wherewith to break her fast; after a little ceremony, however, on both sides, they agreed to seat themselves at the dinner table. The children had joyfully surrounded their old friend Agnes; the tailor ordered one of them to roast some early chestnuts; "and you," said he to another, "go to the garden, and bring some peaches; all that are ripe. And you," to a third, "climb the fig-tree, and gather the best figs; it is a business to which you are well accustomed." As for himself, he left the room to tap a small cask of wine, while his wife went in search of a table-cloth. All being prepared, they seated themselves at the friendly board, if not with unmingled joy, at least with much more satisfaction than they could have anticipated from the events of the morning. "What does the signor curate say to the disasters of the times? I can fancy I'm reading the history of the Moors in France," said the tailor. "What do I say? That even that misfortune might have befallen me," replied Don Abbondio. "You have chosen an excellent asylum, however; for none can ascend those heights without the consent of the master. You will find a numerous company there. Many people have already fled thither, and there are fresh arrivals every day." "I dare to hope we shall be well received. I know this worthy signor: when I had the honour to be in his company he was all politeness." "And," said Agnes, "he sent me word by his illustrious lordship, that if ever I should need assistance, I had only to apply to him." "What a wonderful conversion!" resumed Don Abbondio. "And he perseveres? does he _not_ persevere?" The tailor spoke at length of the holy life of the Unknown, and said, that after having been the scourge of the country, he had become its best example and benefactor. "And the people of his household--that band?" asked Don Abbondio, who had heard some contradictory stories concerning them, and did not feel, therefore, quite secure. "The greater part have left him," replied the tailor, "and those who have remained have changed their manner of life; in short, this castle has become like the Thebaid. The signor curate understands me." Then retracing with Agnes the visit of the cardinal, "What a great man!" said he, "a great man, indeed! what a pity he remained so short a time with us! I wished to do him honour. Oh, if I had only been able to address him again, more at my leisure!" When they rose from table, he showed them an engraving of the cardinal, which he had hung on the door, from veneration to his virtues, and also to enable him to assure every body that it was no likeness; he knew it was not, as he had regarded him closely at his leisure in this very room. "Did they mean that for him?" said Agnes. "The habit is the same, but----" "It is no likeness, is it?" said the tailor; "that is what I always say, but other things being wanting, there is at least his name under it, which tells who it is." Don Abbondio being impatient to be gone, the tailor went in search of a vehicle to carry the little company to the foot of the ascent, and returned in a few moments to inform them it was ready. "Signor curate," said he, "if you wish a few books to carry with you, I can lend you some; for I amuse myself sometimes with reading. They are not like yours, to be sure, being in the vulgar tongue, but----" "A thousand thanks, but under present circumstances I have scarcely brains enough to read my breviary." After an exchange of thanks, invitations, and promises, they bade farewell, and pursued, with a little more tranquillity of mind, the remainder of their journey. The tailor had told Don Abbondio the truth, with regard to the new life of the Unknown. From the day that we took our leave of him, he had continued to put in practice his good intentions, by repairing injuries, reconciling himself with his enemies, and succouring the distressed and unfortunate. The courage he had formerly evinced in attack and defence he now employed in avoiding all occasion both for the one and the other. He went unarmed and alone; disposed to suffer the possible consequences of the violences he had committed; persuaded that it would be adding to his crimes to employ any methods of defence for himself, as he was a debtor to all the world; and persuaded also, that though the evil done to him would be sin against God, it would be but a just retribution against himself; and that he had left himself no right to revenge an injury, however unprovoked it might be at the time. But he was not less inviolable than when he bore arms to insure his safety; the recollection of his former ferocity, and the contrast of his present gentleness, the former exciting a desire of revenge, and the latter rendering this revenge so easy, conspired to subdue hatred, and, in its place, to substitute an admiration which served him as a safeguard. The man whom no one could humble, but who had humbled himself, was regarded with the deepest veneration. Those whom he had wronged had obtained, beyond their hopes, and without incurring any danger, a satisfaction which they could never have promised themselves from the most complete revenge, the satisfaction of seeing him repent of his wrongs, and participate, so to speak, in their indignation. In his voluntary abasement, his countenance and manner had acquired, without his own knowledge, something elevated and noble; his outward demeanour was as dauntless as ever. This change, also, in addition to other reasons, secured him from public retribution at the instigation of those in authority. His rank and family, which had always been a species of defence to him, still prevailed in his favour; and to his name, already famous, was joined the personal esteem which was now due to him. The magistrates and nobility had rejoiced at his conversion, as well as the people; as this conversion produced compensations that they were neither accustomed to ask nor obtain. Probably, also, the name of the Cardinal Frederick, whose interest in his conversion, and subsequent friendship for him, were well known, served him as an impenetrable shield. Upon the arrival of the German troops, when fugitives from the invaded countries fled to the castle, delighted that his walls, so long the object of dread and execration to the feeble, should now be regarded as a place of security and protection, the Unknown received them rather with gratitude than politeness. He caused it to be made public, that his doors would be open to all, and employed himself immediately in placing not only the castle but the valley beneath in a state of defence: assembling the servants who had remained with him, he addressed them on the opportunity God had afforded them, as well as himself, to serve those whom they had so frequently oppressed and terrified. With his old accent of command, expressing the certainty of being obeyed, he gave them general orders, as to their deportment, so that those who should take refuge with him might behold in them only defenders and friends. He gave their arms to them again, of which they had been deprived; as also to the peasants of the valley, who were willing to engage in its defence: he named officers, and appointed to them their duty and their different stations, as he had been accustomed to do in his former criminal life. He himself, however, whether from principle, or that he had made a vow to that effect, remained unarmed at the head of his garrison. He also employed the females of the household in preparing beds, straw, mattresses, sacks, in various rooms intended as temporary dormitories. He ordered abundant provisions to be brought to the castle for the use of the guests God should send him; and in the mean while he was himself never idle, visiting every post, examining every defence, and maintaining the most perfect order by his authority and his presence. CHAPTER XXX. As our fugitives approached the valley, they were joined by many companions in misfortune, who were on the same errand to the castle with themselves: under similar circumstances of distress and anguish, intimacies are soon matured, and they listened to the relation of each other's peril with mutual interest and sympathy; some had fled, like the curate and our females, without waiting the arrival of the troops; others had actually seen them, and could describe, in lively colours, their savage and horrible appearance. "We are fortunate, indeed," said Agnes; "let us thank Heaven. We may lose our property, but at least our lives are safe." But Don Abbondio could not see so much reason for congratulation; the great concourse of people suggested new causes of alarm. "Oh," murmured he to the females when no one was near enough to hear him; "oh, do you not perceive that by assembling here in such crowds we shall attract the notice of the soldiery? As every one flies and no one remains at home, they will believe that our treasures are up here, and this belief will lead them hither. Oh, poor me! why was I so thoughtless as to venture here!" "What should they come here for?" said Perpetua, "they are obliged to pursue their route; and, at all events, where there is danger, it is best to have plenty of company." "Company, company, silly woman! don't you know that every lansquenet could devour a hundred of them? and then, if any of them should commit some foolish violence, it would be a fine thing to find ourselves in the midst of a battle! It would have been better to have gone to the mountains. I don't see why they have all been seized with a mania to go to one place. Curse the people! all here; one after the other, like a frightened flock of sheep!" "As to that," said Agnes, "they may say the same of us." "Hush, hush! it is of no use to talk," said Don Abbondio; "that which is done, _is_ done: we are here, and here we must remain. May Heaven protect us!" But his anxiety was much increased by the appearance of a number of armed men at the entrance of the valley. It is impossible to describe his vexation and alarm. "Oh, poor me!" thought he; "I might have expected this from a man of his character. What does he mean to do? Will he declare war? Will he act the part of a sovereign? Oh, poor me! poor me! In this terrible conjuncture he ought to have concealed himself as much as possible; and, behold, he seeks every method to make himself known. It is easy to be seen he wants to provoke them." "Do you not see, sir," said Perpetua, "that these are brave men who are able to defend us? Let the soldiers come; these men are not at all like our poor devils of peasants, who are good for nothing but to use their legs." "Be quiet," replied Don Abbondio, in a low but angry tone, "be quiet; you know not what you say. Pray Heaven that the army may be in haste to proceed on its march, so that they may not gain information of this place being disposed like a garrison. They would ask for nothing better; an assault is mere play to them, and putting every one to the sword like going to a wedding. Oh, poor me! perhaps I can secure a place of safety on one of these precipices. I will never be taken in battle! I will never be taken in battle! I never will!" "If you are even afraid of being defended----" returned Perpetua; but Don Abbondio sharply interrupted her. "Be quiet, and take care not to relate this conversation. Remember you must always keep a pleasant countenance here, and appear to approve all that you see." At Malanotte they found another company of armed men. Don Abbondio took off his hat and bowed profoundly, saying to himself, "Alas, alas! I am really in a camp." They here quitted the carriage to ascend the pass on foot, the curate having in haste paid and dismissed the driver. The recollection of his former terrors in this very place increased his present forebodings of evil, by mingling themselves with his reflections, and enfeebling more and more his understanding. Agnes, who had never before trod this path, but who had often pictured it to her imagination, was filled with different but keenly painful remembrances. "Oh, signor curate," cried she, "when I think how my poor Lucy passed this very road." "Will you be quiet, foolish woman?" cried Don Abbondio in her ear. "Are these things to speak of in this place? Are you ignorant that we are on his lands? It is fortunate no one heard you. If you speak in this manner----" "Oh," said Agnes, "now that he is a saint----" "Be quiet," repeated Don Abbondio: "think you we can tell the saints all that passes through our brains? Think rather of thanking him for the kindness he has done you." "Oh, as to that I have already thought of it; do you think I have no manners, no politeness?" "Politeness, my good woman, does not consist in telling people things they don't like to hear. Have a little discretion, I pray you. Weigh well your words, speak but little, and that only when it is indispensable. There is no danger in silence." "You do much worse with all your----" began Perpetua. But "Hush," said Don Abbondio, and, taking off his hat, he bowed profoundly. The Unknown was coming to meet them, having recognised the curate approaching. "I could have wished," said he, "to offer you my house on a more agreeable occasion; but, under any circumstances, I esteem myself happy in serving you." "Confiding in the great kindness of your illustrious lordship, I have taken the liberty to trouble you at this unhappy time; and, as your illustrious lordship sees, I have also taken the liberty to bring company with me. This is my housekeeper----" "She is very welcome." "And this is a female to whom your lordship has already rendered great benefits. The mother of--of----" "Of Lucy," said Agnes. "Of Lucy!" cried the Unknown, turning to Agnes; "rendered benefits! I! Just God! It is you who render benefits to me by coming hither; to me--to this dwelling. You are very welcome. You bring with you the blessing of Heaven!" "Oh, I come rather to give you trouble." Approaching him nearer, she said, in a low voice, "I have to thank you----" The Unknown interrupted her, asking with much interest concerning Lucy. He then conducted his new guests to the castle. Agnes looked at the curate, as if to say, "See if there is any need of your interfering between us with your advice." "Has the army arrived in your parish?" said the Unknown to Don Abbondio. "No, my lord, I would not wait for the demons. Heaven knows if I should have escaped alive from their hands, and been able to trouble your illustrious lordship!" "You may be quite at ease; you are now in safety; they will not come here. If the whim should seize them, we are ready to receive them." "Let us hope they will not come," said Don Abbondio. "And on that side," added he, pointing to the opposite mountains, "on that side, also, wanders another body of troops; but--but----" "It is true. But, doubt not, we are ready for them also." "Between two fires!" thought Don Abbondio, "precisely between two fires! Where have I suffered myself to be led? And by two women! And this lord appears to delight in such business! Oh, what people there are in the world!" When they entered the castle, the Unknown ordered Agnes and Perpetua to be conducted to a room, in the quarter assigned to the women, which was three of the four wings of the second court, in the most retired part of the edifice. The men were accommodated in the wings of the other court to the right and left; the body of the building was filled, partly with provisions, and partly with the effects that the refugees brought with them. In the quarter devoted to the men was a small apartment destined to the ecclesiastics who might arrive. The Unknown accompanied Don Abbondio thither, who was the first to take possession of it. Our fugitives remained three or four and twenty days in the castle, in the midst of continual bustle and alarm. Not a day passed without some reports; at each account, the Unknown, unarmed as he was, led his band beyond the precincts of the valley to ascertain the extent of the peril; it was a singular thing, indeed, to behold him, without any personal defence, conducting a body of armed men. Not to encroach too far on the benevolence of the Unknown, Agnes and Perpetua employed themselves in performing services in the household. These occupations, with occasional conversations with the acquaintances they had formed at the castle, enabled them to pass away the time with less weariness. Poor Don Abbondio, who had nothing to do, was notwithstanding prevented from becoming listless and inactive by his fears: as to the dread of an attack, it was in some measure dissipated, but still the idea of the surrounding country, occupied on every side by soldiers, and of the numerous consequences which might at any moment result from such a state, kept him in perpetual alarm. All the time he remained in this asylum he never thought of going beyond the defences; his only walk was on the esplanade; he surveyed every side of the castle, observing attentively the hollows and precipices, to ascertain if there were any practicable passage by which he might seek escape in case of imminent danger. Every day there were various reports of the march of the soldiers; some newsmongers by profession gathered greedily all these reports, and spread them among their companions. On such a day, such a regiment arrived in such a territory; the next day they would ravage such another, where, in the mean time, another detachment had been plundering before them. An account was kept of the regiments that passed the bridge of Lecco, as they were then considered fairly out of the country. The cavalry of Wallenstein passed, then the infantry of Marrados, then the cavalry of Anzalt, then the infantry of Brandenburgh, and, finally, that of Galasso. The flying squadron of Venetians also removed, and the country was again free from invaders. Already the inhabitants of the different villages had begun to quit the castle; some departed every day, as after an autumn storm the birds of heaven leave the leafy branches of a great tree, under whose shelter they had sought and obtained protection. Our three friends were the last to depart, as Don Abbondio feared, if he returned so soon to his house, to find there some loitering soldiers. Perpetua in vain repeated, that the longer they delayed, the greater opportunity they afforded to the thieves of the country to take possession of all that might have been left by the spoilers. On the day fixed for their departure, the Unknown had a carriage ready at Malanotte, and, taking Agnes aside, he made her accept a bag of crowns, to repair the damage she would find at home; although she protested she was in no need of them, having still some of those he had formerly sent her. "When you see your good Lucy," said he, "(I am certain that she prays for me, as I have done her much evil,) tell her that I thank her, and that I trust in God that her prayer will return in blessings on herself." They finally departed; they stopped for a few moments at the house of the tailor, where they heard sad relations of this terrible march,--the usual story of violence and plunder. The tailor's family, however, had remained unmolested, as the army did not pass that way. "Ah, signor curate!" said the tailor, as he was bidding him farewell, "here is a fine subject to appear in print!" After having proceeded a short distance, our travellers beheld melancholy traces of the destruction they had heard related. Vineyards despoiled, not by the vintager, but as if by a tempest; vines trampled under foot; trees wounded and lopped of their branches; hedges destroyed; in the villages, doors broken open, window-frames dashed in, and streets filled with different articles of furniture and clothing, broken and torn to pieces. In the midst of lamentations and tears, the peasants were occupied in repairing, as well as they could, the damage done; while others, overcome by their miseries, remained in a state of silent despair. Having passed through these scenes of complicated woe, they at last succeeded in reaching their own dwellings, where they witnessed the same destruction. Agnes immediately occupied herself in reducing to order the little furniture that was left her, and in repairing the damage done to her doors and windows; but she did not forget to count over in secret her crowns, thanking God in her heart, and her generous benefactor, that in the general overthrow of order and safety she at least had fallen on her feet. Don Abbondio and Perpetua entered their house without being obliged to have recourse to keys. In addition to the miserable destruction of all their furniture, whose various fragments impeded their entrance, the most horrible odours for a time drove them back; and when these obstacles were at last surmounted, and the rooms were entered, they found indignity added to mischief. Frightful and grotesque figures of priests, with their square caps and bands, were drawn with pieces of coal upon the walls in all sorts of ridiculous attitudes. "Ah, the hogs!" cried Perpetua.--"Ah, the thieves!" exclaimed Don Abbondio. Hastening into the garden, they approached the fig-tree, and beheld the earth newly turned up, and, to their utter dismay, the tomb was opened, and the dead was gone. Don Abbondio scolded Perpetua for her bad management, who was not slack in repelling his complaints. Both pointing backwards to the unlucky hiding place, at length returned to the house, and set about endeavouring to purify it of some of its accumulated filth, as at such a time it was impossible to procure assistance for the purpose. With money lent them by Agnes, they were in some measure enabled to replace their articles of furniture. For some time this disaster was the source of continual disputes between Perpetua and her master; the former having discovered that some of the property, which they supposed to have been taken by the soldiers, was actually in possession of certain people of the village, she tormented him incessantly to claim it. There could not have been touched a chord more hateful to Don Abbondio, since the property was in the hands of that class of persons with whom he had it most at heart to live in peace. "But I don't wish to know these things," said he. "How many times must I tell you that what has happened has? Must I get myself into trouble again, because my house has been robbed?" "You would suffer your eyes to be pulled from your head, I verily believe," said Perpetua; "others hate to be robbed, but you, you seem to like it." "This is pretty language to hold, indeed! Will you be quiet?" Perpetua kept silence, but continually found new pretexts for resuming the conversation; so that the poor man was obliged to suppress every complaint at the loss of such or such a thing, as she would say, "Go and find it at such a person's house, who has it, and who would not have kept it until now if he had not known what kind of a man he had to deal with." But here we will leave poor Don Abbondio, having more important things to speak of than his fears, or the misery of a few villagers from a transient disaster like this. CHAPTER XXXI. The pestilence, as the Tribunal of Health had feared, did enter the Milanese with the German troops. It is also known that it was not limited to that territory, but that it spread over and desolated a great part of Italy. Our story requires us, at present, to relate the principal circumstances of this great calamity, as far as it affected the Milanese, and principally the city of Milan itself, for the chroniclers of the period confine their relations chiefly to this place. At the same time we cannot avoid giving a general though brief sketch of an event in the history of our country more talked of than understood. Many partial narratives written at the time are still extant; but these convey but an imperfect view of the subject, historically speaking. It is true they serve to illustrate and confirm one another, and furnish materials for a history; but the history is still wanting. Strange to say, no writer has hitherto attempted to reduce them to order, and exhibit all the various events, public and private acts, causes and conjectures, relative to this calamity, in a concatenated series. Ripamonti's narrative, though far more ample than any other, is still very defective. We shall, therefore, attempt, in the following pages, to present the reader with a succinct, but accurate and continuous, statement of this fatal scourge. In all the line of country which had been over-run by the army, dead bodies had been found in the houses, as well as on the roads. Soon after, throughout the whole country, entire families were attacked with violent disorders, accompanied with unusual symptoms, which the aged only remembered to have seen at the time of the plague, which, fifty-three years before, had desolated a great part of Italy, and principally the Milanese, where it was and still is known by the name of the Plague of San Carlo. It derives this appellation from the noble, beneficent, and disinterested conduct of that great man, who at length became its victim. Ludovico Settala, a physician distinguished so long ago as during the former plague, announced to the Tribunal of Health, by the 20th of October, that the contagion had indisputably appeared at Lecco; but no measures were taken upon this report. Further notices of a like import induced them to despatch a commissioner, with a physician of Como, who, most unaccountably, upon the report of an old barber of Bellano, announced that the prevailing disease arose merely from the autumnal exhalation from the marshes, aggravated by the sufferings caused by the passage of the German troops. Meanwhile, further intelligence of the new disease, and of the number of deaths, arriving from all parts, two commissioners were sent to examine the places where it had appeared, and, if necessary, to use precautions to prevent its increase. The scourge had already spread to such an extent, as to leave no doubt of its character. The commissioners passed through the territories of Lecco, the borders of the lake of Como, the districts of Monte-Brianza, and Gera-d'Adda, and found the villages every where in a state of barricade, or deserted, and the inhabitants flying, or encamped in the middle of the fields, or dispersed abroad throughout the country; "like so many wild creatures," says Doctor Tadino, one of the envoys, "they were carrying about them some imaginary safeguard against the dreaded disease, such as sprigs of mint, rue, or rosemary, and even vinegar." Informing themselves of the number of deaths, the commissioners became alarmed, and visiting the sick and the dead, recognised the terrible and infallible evidences of the _plague_! Upon this information, orders were given to close the gates of Milan. The Tribunal of Health, on the 14th of November, directed the commissioners to wait on the governor, in order to represent to him the situation of affairs. He replied, that he was very sorry for it; but that the cares of war were much more pressing: this was the second time he had made the same answer under similar circumstances. Two or three days after, he published a decree, prescribing public rejoicings on the birth of Prince Charles, the first son of Philip IV., without troubling himself with the danger which would result from so great a concourse of people at such a time; just as if things were going on in their ordinary course, and no dreadful evil was hanging over them. This man was the celebrated Ambrose Spinola, who died a few months after, and during this very war which he had so much at heart,--not in the field, but in his bed, and through grief and vexation at the treatment he experienced from those whose interests he had served. History has loudly extolled his merits; she has been silent upon his base inhumanity in risking the dissemination of that worst of mortal calamities, plague, over a country committed to his trust. But that which diminishes our astonishment at his indifference is the indifference of the people themselves, of that part of the population which the contagion had not yet reached, but who had so many motives to dread it. The scarcity of the preceding year, the exactions of the army, and the anxiety of mind which had been endured, appeared to them more than sufficient to explain the mortality of the surrounding country. They heard with a smile of incredulity and contempt any who hazarded a word on the danger, or who even mentioned the plague. The same incredulity, the same blindness, the same obstinacy, prevailed in the senate, the council of ten, and in all the judicial bodies. Cardinal Frederick alone enjoined his curates to impress upon the people the importance of declaring every case, and of sequestrating all infected or suspected goods. The Tribunal of Health, prompted by the two physicians, who fully apprehended the danger, did take some tardy measures; but in vain. A proclamation to prevent the entrance of strangers into the city was not published until the 29th of November. This was too late; the plague was already in Milan. It must be difficult, however interesting, to discover the first cause of a calamity which swept off so many thousands of the inhabitants of the city; but both Tadino and Ripamonti agree that it was brought thither by an Italian soldier in the service of Spain, who had either bought or stolen a quantity of clothes from the German soldiers. He was on a visit to his parents in Milan, when he fell sick, and, being carried to the hospital, died on the fourth day. The Tribunal of Health condemned the house he had lived in; his clothes and the bed he had occupied in the hospital were consigned to the flames. Two servants and a good friar, who had attended him, fell sick a few days after; but the suspicions from the first entertained of the nature of the malady, and the precautions used, prevented its extension for the present. But in the house from which the soldier had been taken there were several attacked by the disease; upon which all the inhabitants of it were conducted to the lazaretto, by order of the Tribunal of Health. The contagion made but little progress during the rest of this year and the beginning of the following. From time to time there were a few persons attacked, but the rarity of the occurrence diminished the suspicion of the plague, and confirmed the multitude in their disbelief of its existence. Added to this, most of the physicians joined with the people in laughing at the unhappy presages and threatening opinions of the smaller number of their brethren: the cases that did occur they pretended to explain upon other grounds; and the account of these cases was seldom presented to the Tribunal of Health. Fear of the lazaretto kept all on the alert; the sick were concealed, and false certificates were obtained from some subaltern officers of health, who were deputed to inspect the dead bodies. Those physicians, who, convinced of the reality of the contagion, proposed precautions against it, were the objects of general animadversion. But the principal objects of execration were Tadino and the senator Settala, who were stigmatised as enemies of their country, men whose best exertions had been directed towards mitigating the severity of the coming mischief. Even the illustrious Settala, the aged father of the senator, whose talents were equalled by his benevolence, was obliged to take refuge in a friend's house from the popular fury, because he had constantly urged the necessity of precautionary measures. Towards the end of the month of March, at first in the suburb of the eastern gate, then in the rest of the city, deaths, attended by singular symptoms, such as spasms, delirium, livid spots and buboes, began to be more frequent. Sudden deaths, too, were frequent, without any previous illness. The physicians still perversely held out; but the magistracy were aroused. The Tribunal of Health called on them to enforce their directions; to raise the requisite funds for the growing expenses of the lazaretto, as well as the helpless poor. The malady advanced rapidly. In the lazaretto all was confusion, bad arrangement, and anarchy. In their difficulty on this point the Tribunal had recourse to the capuchins, and conjured the father provincial to give them a man capable of governing this region of desolation. He offered them Father Felice Casati, who enjoyed a high reputation for charity, activity, and kindness of disposition, added to great strength of mind, and as a companion to him, Father Michele Pozzobonelli, who, although young, was of a grave and thoughtful character. They were joyfully accepted, and on the 30th of March they entered on their duties. As the crowd in the lazaretto increased, other capuchins joined them, willingly performing every office both of spiritual and of temporal kindness, even the most menial; the Father Felice, indefatigable in his labours, watched with unceasing and parental care over the multitude. He caught the plague, was cured, and resumed his duties even with greater alacrity. Most of his brethren joyfully sacrificed their lives in this cause of afflicted humanity. Not being able longer to deny the terrible effects of the malady, which had now reached the family of the physician Settala, and was spreading its ravages in many noble families, those medical men who had been incredulous were still unwilling to acknowledge its true cause, which would have been a tacit condemnation of themselves; they therefore imagined one entirely conformable to the prejudices of the time. It was at that period a prevailing opinion in all Europe, that enchanters existed, diabolical operators, who at this time conspired to spread the plague, by the aid of venomous poisons and witchcraft. Similar things had been affirmed and believed in other epidemics; particularly at Milan, in that of the preceding century. Moreover, towards the end of the preceding year, a despatch had arrived from King Philip IV. giving information that four Frenchmen, suspected of spreading poisons and pestilential substances, had escaped from Madrid, and ordering that watch should be kept to ascertain if by chance they had arrived at Milan. The governor communicated the despatch to the senate, and the Tribunal of Health. It then excited no attention; but when the plague broke out, and was acknowledged by all, this intelligence was remembered, and it served to confirm the vague suspicion of criminal agency: two incidents converted this vague suspicion into conviction of a positive and real conspiracy. Some persons who imagined they saw, on the evening of the 17th of May, individuals rubbing a partition of the cathedral, carried the partition out of the church in the night, together with a great quantity of benches. The president of the senate, with four persons of his tribunal, visited the partition, the benches, and the basins of holy water, and found nothing which confirmed the ridiculous suspicion of poison. However, to satisfy the disturbed imaginations of the populace, it was decided that the partition should be washed and purified. But the incident became a text for conjecture to the people; it was affirmed, that the poisoners had rubbed all the benches and walls of the cathedral, and even the bell-ropes. The next morning a new and more strange and significant spectacle struck the wondering eyes of the citizens. In all parts of the city the doors of the houses and the walls were plastered with long streaks of whitish yellow dirt, which appeared to have been rubbed on with a sponge. Whether it was a wicked pleasantry to excite more general and thrilling alarm, or that it had been done from the guilty design of increasing the public disorder; whatever was the motive, the fact is so well attested, that it cannot be attributed to imagination. The city, already alarmed, was thrown into the utmost confusion; the owners of houses purified all infected places; strangers were stopped in the streets on suspicion, and conducted to prison, where they underwent long interrogatories which naturally ended in proving none of these absurd and imaginary practices against them. The Tribunal of Health published a decree, offering a reward to whomsoever should discover the author or authors of this attempt; but they did this, as they wrote to the governor, only to satisfy the people and calm their fears,--a weak and dangerous expedient, and calculated to confirm the popular belief. In the mean time many attributed this story of the poisoned ointment to the revenge of Gonsalvo Fernandez de Cordova; others to Cardinal Richelieu, in order the more easily to get possession of Milan; others again affixed the crime to various Milanese gentlemen. There were still many who were not persuaded that it was the plague, because if it were, every one infected would die of it; whereas a few recovered. To dissipate every doubt, the Tribunal of Health made use of an expedient conformable to the necessity of the occasion; they made an address to the eyes, such as the spirit of the times suggested. On one of the days of the feast of Pentecost, the inhabitants of the city were accustomed to go to the burying ground of San Gregorio, beyond the eastern gate, in order to pray for the dead in the last plague. Turning the season of devotion into one of amusement, every one was attired in his best; on that day a whole family, among others, had died of the plague. At the hour in which the concourse was most numerous, the dead bodies of this family were, by order of the Tribunal of Health, drawn naked on a carriage towards this same burying ground; so that the crowd might behold for themselves the manifest traces, the hideous impress of the disease. A cry of alarm and horror arose wherever the car passed; their incredulity was at least shaken, but it is probable that the great concourse tended to spread the infection. Still it was not absolutely the _plague_; the use of the word was prohibited, it was a pestilential fever, the adjective was preferred to the substantive,--then, not the true plague,--that is to say, the plague, but only in a certain sense,--and further, combined with poison and witchcraft. Such is the absurd trifling with which men seek to blind themselves, wilfully abstaining from a sound exercise of judgment to arrive at the truth. Meanwhile, as it became from day to day more difficult to raise funds to meet the painful exigencies of circumstances, the council of ten resolved to have recourse to government. They represented, by two deputies, the state of misery and distress of the city, the enormity of the expense, the revenues anticipated, and the taxes withheld in consequence of the general poverty which had been produced by so many causes, and especially by the pillaging of the soldiery. That according to various laws, and a special decree of Charles V., the expense of the plague ought by right to devolve upon government. Finally, they proceeded to make four demands: that the taxes should be suspended; that the chamber should advance funds; that the governor should make known to the king the calamitous state of the city and province; and that the duchy, already exhausted, should be excused from providing quarters for the soldiery. Spinola replied with new regrets and exhortations; declaring himself grieved not to be able to visit Milan in person, in order to employ himself for the preservation of the city, but hoping that the zeal of the magistrates would supply his place: in short, he made evasive answers to all their requests. Afterwards, when the plague was at its height, he transferred, by letters patent, his authority to the high chancellor Ferrer, being, as he said, obliged to devote himself entirely to the cares of the war. The council of ten then requested the cardinal to order a solemn procession, for the purpose of carrying through the streets the body of San Carlos. The good prelate refused; this confidence in a doubtful means disturbed him, and he feared that, if the effect should not be obtained, confidence would be converted into infidelity, and rebellion against God. He also feared that if there really were poisoners, this procession would be a favourable occasion for their machinations; and if there were not, so great a collection would have a tendency to spread the contagion. The doors of public edifices and private houses had been again anointed as at first. The news flew from mouth to mouth; the people, influenced by present suffering, and by the imminence of the supposed danger, readily embraced the belief. The idea of subtle instantaneous poison seemed sufficient to explain the violence, and the almost incomprehensible circumstances, of the disease. Add to this the idea of enchantment, and any effect was possible, every objection was rendered feeble, every difficulty was explained. If the effects did not immediately succeed the first attempt, the cause was easy to assign: it had been done by those to whom the art was new; and now that it was brought to perfection, the perpetrators were more confirmed in their infernal resolution. If any one had dared to suggest its having been done in jest, or denied the existence of a dark plot, he would have passed for an obstinate fool, if he did not incur the suspicion of being himself engaged in it. With such persuasions on their minds, all were on the alert to discover the guilty; the most indifferent action excited suspicion, suspicion was changed to certainty, and certainty to rage. As illustrations of this, Ripamonti cites two examples which fell under his own observation, and such were of daily occurrence. In the church of St. Antonio, on a day of some great solemnity, an old man, after having prayed for some time on his knees, rose to seat himself, and before doing so, wiped the dust from the bench with his handkerchief. "The old man is poisoning the bench," cried some women, who beheld the action. The crowd in the church threw themselves upon him, tore his white hair, and after beating him, drew him out half dead, to carry him to prison and to torture. "I saw the unfortunate man," says Ripamonti; "I never knew the end of his painful story, but at the time I thought he had but a few moments to live." The other event occurred the next day; it was as remarkable, but not as fatal. Three young Frenchmen having come to visit Italy, and study its antiquities, had approached the cathedral, and were contemplating it very attentively. Some persons, who were passing by, stopped; a circle was formed around them; they were not lost sight of for a moment, having been recognised as strangers, and especially Frenchmen. As if to assure themselves that the wall was marble, the young artists extended their hands to touch it. This was enough. In a moment they were surrounded, and, with imprecations and blows, dragged to prison. Happily, however, they were proved to be innocent, and released. These things were not confined to the city; the frenzy was propagated equally with the contagion. The traveller encountered off the high road, the stranger whose habits or appearance were in any respect singular, were judged to be poisoners. At the first intelligence of a new comer, at the cry even of a child, the alarm bell was rung; and the unfortunate persons were assailed with showers of stones, or seized and conducted to prison. And thus the prison itself was, during a certain period, a place of safety. Meanwhile, the council of ten, not silenced by the refusal of the wise prelate, again urged their request for the procession, which the people seconded by their clamours. The cardinal again resisted, but finding resistance useless, he finally yielded; he did more, he consented that the case which enclosed the relics of San Carlos should be exposed for eight days on the high altar of the cathedral. The Tribunal of Health and the other authorities did not oppose this proceeding; they only ordained some precautions, which, without obviating the danger, indicated too plainly their apprehensions. They issued severe orders to prevent people from abroad entering the city; and, to insure their execution, commanded the gates to be closed. They also nailed up the condemned houses; "the number of which," says a contemporary writer, "amounted to about five hundred." Three days were employed in preparation; on the 11th of June the procession left the cathedral at daybreak: a long file of people, composed for the most part of women, their faces covered with silk masks, and many of them with bare feet, and clothed in sackcloth, appeared first. The tradesmen came next, preceded by their banners; the societies, in habits of various forms and colours; then the brotherhoods, then the secular clergy, each with the insignia of his rank, and holding a lighted taper in his hand. In the midst, among the brilliant light of the torches, and the resounding echo of the canticles, the case advanced, covered with a rich canopy, and carried alternately by four canons, sumptuously attired. Through the crystal were seen the mortal remains of the saint, clothed in his pontifical robes, and his head covered with a mitre. In his mutilated features might still be distinguished some traces of his former countenance, such as his portraits represent him, and such as some of the spectators remembered to have beheld and honoured. Behind the remains of the holy prelate, and resembling him in merit, birth, and dignity, as well as in person, came the Archbishop Frederick. The rest of the clergy followed him, and with them the magistrates in their robes, then the nobility, some magnificently clothed, as if to do honour to the pomp of the celebration, and others as penitents, in sackcloth and bare-footed, each bearing a torch in his hand. A vast collection of people terminated the procession. The streets were ornamented as on festival days: the rich sent out their most precious furniture; and thus the fronts of the poorest houses were decorated by their more wealthy neighbours, or at the expense of the public. Here, in the place of hangings, and there, over the hangings themselves, were suspended branches of trees; on all sides hung pictures, inscriptions, devices; on the balconies were displayed vases, rich antiquities, and valuable curiosities; with burning flambeaux at various stations. From many of the windows the sequestrated sick looked out upon the procession, and mingled their prayers with those of the people as they passed. The procession returned to the cathedral about the middle of the day. But the next day, whilst presumptuous and fanatical assurance had taken possession of every mind, the number of deaths augmented in all parts of the city in a progression so frightful, and in a manner so sudden, that none could avoid confessing the cause to have been the procession itself. However, (astonishing and deplorable power of prejudice!) this effect was not attributed to the assemblage of so many people, and to the increase of fortuitous contact, but to the facility afforded to the poisoners to execute their infernal purposes. But as this opinion could not account for so vast a mortality, and as no traces of strange substances had been discovered on the road of the procession, recourse was had to another invention, admitted by general opinion in Europe--magical and poisoned powders! It was asserted that these powders, scattered profusely in the road, attached themselves to the skirts of the gowns, and to the feet of those who had been on that day barefooted: thus the human mind delights itself with contending against phantoms of its own creating. The violence of the contagion increased daily; in short, there was hardly a house that was not infected; the number of souls in the lazaretto amounted to 12,000, and sometimes to 16,000. The daily mortality, which had hitherto exceeded 500, soon increased to 1200 and 1500. We may imagine the agony of the council of ten, on whom rested the weighty burden of providing for the public necessities, and of repairing what was reparable in such a disaster: they had to replace every day, and every day to add to the number of individuals charged with public services of all kinds. Of these individuals there were three remarkable classes; the first was that of the _monatti_: this appellation, of doubtful origin, was applied to those men who were devoted to the most painful and dangerous employment in times of contagion; the taking of the dead bodies from the houses, from the streets, and from the lazaretto, carrying them to their graves, and burying them; also, bringing the sick to the lazaretto, and burning and purifying suspected or infected objects; the second class was that of the _apparitori_, whose special function was to precede the funeral cars, ringing a bell to warn passengers to retire; and the third was that of the commissaries, who presided over both the other classes, under the immediate orders of the Tribunal of Health. It was necessary to keep the lazaretto furnished with medicine, surgeons, food, and all the requisites of an infirmary; and it was also necessary to find and prepare new habitations for new cases. Cabins of wood and straw were hastily constructed in the interior enclosure of the lazaretto; then a second lazaretto, a little beyond, was erected, capable of containing 4000 persons. Two others were ordered, but means, men, and courage failed, and they were never completed: despair and weakness had attained such a point, that the most urgent and painful wants were unprovided for; each day, for example, children, whose mothers had perished of the plague, died from neglect. The Tribunal of Health proposed to found an hospital for these innocent creatures, but could obtain no assistance for the purpose; all supplies were for the army, "because," said the governor, "it is a time of war, and we must treat the soldiers well." Meanwhile the immense ditch which had been dug near the lazaretto was filled with dead bodies; a number still remained without sepulture, as hands were wanting for the work. Without extraordinary aid this calamity must have remained unremedied. The president of the senate addressed himself in tears to the two intrepid friars who governed the lazaretto, and the Father Michele pledged himself to relieve in four days the city of the unburied dead, and to dig, in the course of a week, another ditch sufficient not only for present wants, but even for those which might be anticipated in future. Followed by another friar, and public officers chosen by the president, he went into the country to procure peasants, and partly by the authority of the tribunal, partly by that of his habit, he gathered 200, whom he employed to dig the earth. He then despatched _monatti_ from the lazaretto to collect the dead. At the appointed time his promise was fulfilled. At one time the lazaretto was left without physicians, and it was only after much trouble and time, and great offers of money and honours, that others could be prevailed on to supply their place. Provisions were often so scarce, as to create apprehensions of starvation, but more than once these necessities were unexpectedly supplied by the charity of individuals. In the midst of the general stupor, or the indifference to the miseries of others, occasioned by personal apprehension, some were found whose hands and hearts had ever been open to the wretched, and others with whom the virtue of benevolence had commenced with the loss of all their terrestrial happiness. So also, amidst the destruction of the flight of so many men charged with watching over and providing for the public safety, others were seen, who, well in body and firm in mind, ever remained faithful at their post, and some even, who, by an admirable self-devotion, sustained with heroic constancy cares to which their duty did not call them. The most entire self-devotion was especially conspicuous among the clergy; at the lazarettos, in the city, their assistance was always at hand; they were found, wherever there was suffering, always in attendance on the sick and the dying; very often languishing and dying themselves: with spiritual, they bestowed, as far as they could, temporal succour. More than sixty clergymen in the city alone died from the contagion, which was nearly eight out of nine. Frederick, as might be expected, was an example to all; after having seen all his household perish around him, he was solicited by his family, by the first magistrates, and by the neighbouring princes, to fly the peril, but he rejected their advice and their solicitations with the same firmness which induced him to write to the clergy of his diocese:--"Be disposed to abandon life rather than these sufferers, who are your children, and your family; go with the same joy into the midst of the pestilence, as to a certain reward, since you may, by these means, win many souls to Christ." He neglected no precaution compatible with his duty: he even gave instructions to his clergy on this point; but he betrayed no anxiety, nor did he even appear to perceive danger, where it was necessary to incur it, in order to do good. He was always with the ecclesiastics, to praise and direct the zealous, and to excite the lukewarm; he visited the lazarettos to console the sick, and encourage those who assisted them; he travelled over the city, carrying aid to the miserable who were sequestered in their houses, stopping at their doors and under their windows, to listen to their complaints, and to give them words of consolation and encouragement. Having thus thrown himself into the midst of the contagion, it was truly wonderful that he never was attacked by it. In seasons of public calamity, when confusion takes the place of order, we often behold a display of the sublimest virtue, but more frequently, alas! an increase of vice and crime. Instances of the latter were not wanting during the present unhappy period. The profligate, spared by the plague, found in the common confusion, and in the slackening of the restraints of law, new occasions for mischief, and new assurances of impunity. And further, power itself had passed into the hands of the boldest among them. There were scarcely found for the functions of _monatti_ and _apparitori_ any, but those over whom the attraction of rapine and licence had more sway than dread of the contagion. Strict rules had been prescribed to them, and severe penalties threatened for infringing them, which had some power for awhile; but the number of deaths, and the increasing desolation, and the universal alarm, soon relieved them from all superintendence, and they constituted themselves (the _monatti_ in particular) the arbiters of every thing. They entered houses as masters and enemies; and, not to mention their robberies, and the cruel treatment which those unhappy persons experienced whom the plague condemned to their authority, they applied their infected and criminal hands to those in health, threatening to carry them to the lazaretto, unless they purchased their exemption with money. At other times they refused to carry off the dead bodies already in a state of putrefaction, without a high price being paid them; it is even said, that they designedly let fall from their carts infected clothing, in order to propagate the infection from which their wealth was derived. Many ruffians, too, assuming the garb of these wretches, carried on extensive robberies in the houses of the sick, dying, and helpless. In the same proportion as vice increased, folly increased; the foolish idea was again revived of _poisonings_; the dread of this fantastic danger beset and tormented the minds of men more than the real and present danger. "While," says Ripamonti, "the heaps of dead bodies lying before the eyes of the living made the city a vast tomb, there was something more afflicting and hideous still--reciprocal distrust and extravagant suspicion; and this not only between friends, neighbours, and guests; but husbands, wives, and children, became objects of terror to one another, and, horrible to tell! even the domestic board and the nuptial bed were dreaded as snares, as places were poison might be concealed." Besides ambition and cupidity, the motives commonly attributed to the poisoners, it was imagined that this action included an indefinable, diabolical voluptuousness of enjoyment, an attractiveness stronger than the will. The ravings of the sick, who accused themselves of that which they had dreaded in others, were considered as so many involuntary revelations, which rendered belief irresistible. Among the stories recorded of this delirium, there is one which deserves to be related, on account of the extensive credence it obtained. It was said that on a certain day, a citizen had seen an equipage with six horses stop in the square of the cathedral. Within it was a person of a noble and majestic figure, dark complexion, eyes inflamed, and lips compressed and threatening. The spectator being invited to enter the carriage, complied. After a short circuit, it made a halt before the gate of a magnificent palace. Entering it he beheld mingled scenes of delight and horror, frightful deserts and smiling gardens, dark caverns and magnificent saloons. Phantoms were seated in council. They showed him large boxes of money, telling him he might take as many of them as he chose, provided he would accept at the same time a little vase of poison, and consent to employ it against the citizens. He refused, and in a moment found himself at the place from which he had been taken. This story, generally believed by the people, spread all over Italy. An engraving of it was made in Germany. The Archbishop of Mayence wrote to Cardinal Frederick, asking him what credence might be attached to the prodigies related of Milan. He received for answer, that they were all idle dreams. The dreams of the learned, if they were not of the same nature as those of the vulgar, did not exceed them in value; the greater part beheld the forerunner and the cause of these calamities, in a comet which appeared in 1628, and in the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn. Another comet that appeared in June in the same year announced the poisonous anointings. All writings were ransacked that contained any passages respecting poisons; amongst the ancients, Livy was cited, Tacitus, Dionysius, even Homer and Ovid were searched. Among the moderns, Cesalpino, Cardan, Grevino, Salio, Pareo Schenchio, Zachia, and lastly the fatal Delrio, whose _Disquisitions on Magic_ became the text book on such subjects, the future rule, and, in fact, the powerful impulse to horrible and frequent legal murders. The physicians yielded to the popular belief, and attributed to poison and diabolical conjurations the ordinary symptoms of the malady. Even Tadino himself, one of the most celebrated physicians of his day, who had witnessed the entrance of the disorder, anticipated its ravages, studied its symptoms, and admitted it to be _the plague_, even he, such is the strange perversity of human reason, drew from all these facts an argument in proof of the dissemination of some subtle poison, by means of ointments. Nor was the enlightened Cardinal Frederick himself altogether uninfected by the general mania. In a small tract of his on the subject in the Ambrosian Library, he says, "Of the mode of compounding and dispensing these ointments, various statements have been made, some of which we hold for true, while others appear imaginary." On the other hand, Muratori tells us, that he had met with well-informed persons in Milan, whose ancestors were decidedly convinced of the absurdity of this widely spread and extraordinary error, but whose safety rendered it imperative on them to keep their sentiments on the subject to themselves. The magistrates employed the little vigilance and resolution which remained to them in searching out the poisoners, and unhappily thought they had detected them. A recital of these and similar cases would form a remarkable feature in the history of jurisprudence. But it is high time we should resume the thread of our story. CHAPTER XXXII. One night, towards the end of the month of August, in the very height of the pestilence, Don Roderick returned to his house at Milan, accompanied by his faithful Griso, one of the small number of his servants who still survived. He had just left a company of friends, who were accustomed to assemble together, to banish by debauchery the melancholy of the times; at each meeting there were new guests added, and old ones missing. On that day Don Roderick had been one of the gayest, and, among other subjects of merriment which he introduced, he had made the company laugh at a mock funeral sermon on Count Attilio, who had been carried off by the pestilence a few days before. After leaving the house where he had held his carousal, he was conscious of an uneasiness, a faintness, a weariness of his limbs, a difficulty of breathing, and an internal heat, which he was ready to attribute to the wine, the late hour, and the influence of the season. He spoke not a word during the whole route. Arriving at his house, he ordered Griso to light him to his chamber. Griso, perceiving the change in his master's countenance, kept at a distance, as, in these dangerous times, every one was obliged to keep for himself, as was said, a medical eye. "I feel very well, do you see," said Don Roderick, reading in the features of Griso the thoughts which were passing through his mind,--"I feel very well; but I have drank a little too much. The wine was so fine! With a good sleep all will be well again. I am overcome by sleep. Take away the light; I cannot bear it; it troubles me." "It is the effect of the wine, signor," said Griso, still keeping at a distance; "but go to bed, sleep will do you good." "You are right; if I could sleep---- I am well, were it not for the want of sleep. Place the little bell near me, in case I should want something; and be attentive if I ring. But I shall need nothing. Carry away that cursed light," added he; "it troubles me more than I can tell." Griso carried off the light; and, wishing his master a good night, he quitted the apartment as Don Roderick crouched beneath the bed-clothes. But the bed-clothes weighed upon him like a mountain; throwing them off, he endeavoured to compose himself to sleep; hardly had he closed his eyes when he awoke with a start, as if he had been roused by a blow, and he felt that the pain and fever had increased. He endeavoured to find the cause of his sufferings in the heat of the weather, the wine, and the debauch in which he had just been engaged; but one idea involuntarily mingled itself with all his reflections, an idea at which he had been laughing all the evening with his companions, as it was easier to make it a subject of raillery than to drive it away,--the idea of the plague. After having struggled a long time, he at last fell asleep, but was tormented by frightful dreams. It appeared to him that he was in a vast church, in the midst of a crowd of people. How he came there he could not tell, nor how the thought to do so could have entered his head, especially at such a time. Looking on those by whom he was surrounded, he perceived them to be lean, livid figures, with wild and glaring eyes; the garments of these hideous creatures fell in shreds from their bodies, and through them might be seen frightful blotches and swellings. He thought he cried, "Give way, you rascals!" as he looked towards the door, which was far, far off, accompanying the cry with a menacing expression of countenance, and wrapping his arms around his body to prevent coming in contact with them, for they seemed to be touching him on every side. But they moved not, nor even seemed to hear him: it appeared to him, however, that some one amongst them, with his elbow, pressed his left side near his heart, where he felt a painful pricking. Trying to withdraw himself from so irksome a situation, he experienced a recurrence of the sensation. Irritated beyond measure, he stretched out his hand for his sword, and, behold, it had glided the whole length of his body, and the hilt of it was pressing him in this very place. Vainly did he endeavour to remove it, every effort only increased his agonies. Agitated and out of breath, he again cried aloud; at the sound, all those wild and hideous phantoms rushed to one side of the church, leaving the pulpit exposed to view, in which stood, with his venerable countenance, his bald head and white beard, Father Christopher. It appeared to Don Roderick that the capuchin, after having looked over the assembly, fixed his eyes upon him, with the same expression as on the well-remembered interview in his castle, and, at the same time, raised his arm, and held it suspended above his head; making an effort to arrest the blow, a cry which struggled in his throat escaped him, and he awoke. He opened his eyes; the light of day, which was already advanced, pressed upon his brain, and imparted as keen an anguish as the torch of the preceding night. Looking around on his bed and his room, he comprehended that it was a dream; the church, the crowd, the friar, all had vanished; but not so the pain in his left side. He was sensible of an agonising and rapid beating of his heart, a buzzing in his ears, an internal heat which consumed him, and a weight and weariness in his limbs greater than when he went to bed. He could not resolve to look at the spot where he felt the pain; but, finally gathering courage to do so, he beheld with horror a hideous tumour of a livid purple. Don Roderick saw that he was lost. The fear of death took possession of him, and with it came the apprehension, stronger perhaps than the dread of death itself, of becoming the prey of the _monatti_, and of being thrown into the lazaretto. Endeavouring to think of some means of avoiding this terrible fate, he experienced a confusion and obscurity in his ideas which told him that the moment was fast approaching when he should have no feeling left but of despair. Seizing the bell, he shook it violently. Griso, who was on the watch, appeared immediately; stopping at a distance from the bed, he looked attentively at his master, and became certain of that which he had only conjectured the night before. "Griso," said Don Roderick, with difficulty raising himself in his bed, "you have always been my favourite." "Yes, my lord." "I have always done well by you." "The consequence of your goodness." "I can trust you, I think. I am ill, Griso." "I perceived that you were." "If I am cured, I will do still more for you than I have ever yet done." Griso made no answer, waiting to see to what this preamble would lead. "I would not trust any one but you," resumed Don Roderick; "do me a favour." "Command me." "Do you know where the surgeon Chiodo lives?" "I do." "He is an honest man, who, if he be well paid, keeps secret the sick. Go to him; tell him I will give him four or six crowns a visit,--more, if he wishes it. Tell him to come here immediately; act with prudence; let no one get knowledge of it." "Well thought of," said Griso; "I will return immediately." "First, Griso, give me a little water; I burn with thirst." "No, my lord, nothing without the advice of a physician. This is a rapid disease, and there is no time to lose. Be tranquil. In the twinkling of an eye, I will be here with the signor Chiodo." So saying, he left the room. Don Roderick followed him in imagination to the house of Chiodo, counted his steps, measured the time. He often looked at his side, but, horror-struck, could only regard it a moment. Continuing to listen intently for the arrival of the surgeon, this effort of attention suspended the sense of suffering, and left him the free exercise of his thoughts. Suddenly he heard a noise of small bells, which appeared to come from some of the apartments, and not from the street. Listening again, he heard it louder, and at the same time a sound of steps. A horrible suspicion darted across his mind. He sat up, listened still more attentively, and heard a sound in the next chamber, as of a chest carefully placed on the floor; he threw his limbs out of bed, so as to be ready to rise; and kept his eyes fastened on the door; it opened, and, behold, two _monatti_ with their diabolical countenances, and cursed liveries, advancing towards the bed, whilst from the half-open door was seen the figure of Griso, awaiting the success of his sordid treachery. "Ah, infamous traitor! Begone, rascals! Biondino, Carlotto, help! murder!" cried Don Roderick, extending his hand under his pillow for his pistol. At his very first cry the _monatti_ had rushed towards the bed, and the most active of the two was upon him before he could make another movement; jerking the pistol from his hand, and throwing it on the floor, he forced him to lie down, crying in an accent of rage and mockery, "Ah, scoundrel! against the _monatti_! against the ministers of the tribunal!" "Keep him down until we are ready to carry him out," said the other, as he advanced to a strong box. Griso entered the room, and with him commenced forcing its lock. "Villain!" shouted Don Roderick, struggling to get free: "let me kill this infamous rascal," said he to the _monatti_, "and then you may do with me what you will." He then called again loudly on his other servants, but in vain; the abominable Griso had sent them far away with orders as if from his master, before he himself went to propose this expedition, and a share of its spoils, to the _monatti_. "Be quiet, be quiet," said the man, who held him extended on the bed, to the unhappy Don Roderick; then, turning to those who were taking the booty, he said, "Behave like honest men." "You! you!" murmured Don Roderick to Griso, "you! after---- Ah, demon of hell! I may still be cured! I may still be cured!" Griso spoke not a word, and was careful to avoid looking at his master. "Hold him tight," said the other _monatto_, "he is frantic." The unfortunate man, after many violent efforts, became suddenly exhausted; but from time to time was seen to struggle feebly and vainly, for a moment, against his persecutors. The _monatti_ deposited him on a hand-barrow which had been left in the outer room; one of them returned for the booty, then raising their miserable burden, they carried him off. Griso remained awhile to make a selection of such articles as were valuable and portable; he had been very careful not to touch the _monatti_, nor be touched by them; but, in his thirst for gain, his prudence forsook him; taking the different articles of his master's dress from off the bed, he shook them, for the purpose of ascertaining if there was money in them. He had, however, occasion to remember his want of caution the next day; whilst carousing in a tavern, he was seized with a shivering, his eyes grew dim, his strength failed, and he fell lifeless. Abandoned by his companions, he fell into the hands of the _monatti_, who, after having plundered him, threw him on a car, where he expired, before arriving at the lazaretto to which his master had been carried. We must leave Don Roderick in this abode of horror, and return to Renzo, whom our readers may remember we left in a manufactory under the name of Antony Rivolta. He remained there five or six months; after which, war being declared between the republic and the King of Spain, and all fear on his account having ceased, Bortolo hastened to bring him back, both because he was attached to him, and because Renzo was a great assistance to the _factotum_ of a manufactory, without the possibility of his ever aspiring to be one himself, on account of his inability to write. Bortolo was a good man, and in the main generous, but, like other men, he had his failings; and as this motive really had a place in his calculations, we have thought it our duty to state it. From this time Renzo continued to work with his cousin. More than once, and especially after having received a letter from Agnes, he felt a desire to turn soldier; and opportunities were not wanting, for at this epoch the republic was in want of recruits. The temptation was the stronger, as there was a talk of invading the Milanese, and it appeared to him that it would be a fine thing to return there as a conqueror, see Lucy again, and have an explanation with her; but Bortolo always diverted him from this resolution. "If they go there," said he, "they can go without you, and you can go afterwards at your leisure. If they return with broken heads, you will be glad to have been out of the scrape. The Milanese is not a mouthful to be easily swallowed; and then the question, my friend, turns on the power of Spain. Have a little patience. Are you not well here? I know what you will say; but if it is written above that the affair shall succeed, succeed it will, without your committing more follies. Some saint will come to your assistance. Believe me, war is not a trade for you. It needs men expressly trained to the business." At other times Renzo thought of returning home in disguise, under a false name, but Bortolo dissuaded him from this project also. The plague afterwards spreading over all the Milanese, and advancing to the Bergamascan territory----don't be alarmed, reader, our design is not to relate its history; all that we would say is, that Renzo was attacked with it, and recovered. He was at death's door; but his strong constitution repelling the disease, in a few days he was out of danger. With life, the hopes and recollections and projects of life returned with greater vigour than ever; more than ever were his thoughts occupied with his Lucy: what had become of her in these disastrous times? "To be at so short distance from her, and to know nothing concerning her, and to remain, God knows how long, in this uncertainty! and then her vow! I will go myself, I will go and relieve these terrible doubts," said he. "If she lives, I will find her; I will hear herself explain this promise; I will show her that it is not binding; and I will bring her here, and poor Agnes also, who has always wished me well, and I am sure does so still,--yes, I will go in search of them." As soon as he was able to walk, he went in search of Bortolo, who had kept himself shut up in his house, on account of the pestilence. He called to him to come to the window. "Ah, ah," said Bortolo, "you have recovered. It is well for you." "I have still some weakness in my limbs, as you see, but I am out of danger." "Oh, I wish I was on your legs. Formerly, when one said, _I am well_, it expressed all that could be desired; but now-a-days that is of little consequence. When one can say _I am better_, that's the word for you!" Renzo informed his cousin of his determination. "Go now, and may Heaven bless you," replied he; "avoid the law as I shall avoid the pestilence; and if it is the will of God, we shall see each other again." "Oh, I shall certainly return. If I were only sure of not returning alone! I hope for the best." "Well, I join in your hopes; if God wills, we will work, and live together here. Heaven grant you may find me here, and that this devilish disease may have ceased." "We shall meet again, we shall meet again, I am sure." "I say again, God bless you." In a few days Renzo, finding his strength sufficiently restored, prepared for his departure; he put on a girdle in which he placed the fifty crowns sent him by Agnes, together with his own small savings; he took under his arm a small bundle of clothes, and secured in his pocket his certificate of good conduct from his second master; and having armed himself with a good knife, a necessary appendage to an honest man in those days, he commenced his journey towards the end of August, three days after Don Roderick had been carried to the lazaretto. He took the road to Lecco, before venturing into Milan, as he hoped to find Agnes there, and learn from her some little of what he desired so much to know. The small number of those who had been cured of the plague formed a privileged class amidst the rest of the population; those who had not been attacked by the disease lived in perpetual apprehension of it; they walked about with precaution, with an unquiet air, with a hurried and hesitating step; the former, on the contrary, nearly certain of security (for to have the plague twice was rather a prodigy than a rarity), advanced into the very midst of the pestilence with boldness and unconcern. With such security, tempered, however, by his own peculiar anxieties, and by the spectacle of the misery of a whole people, Renzo travelled towards his village, under a fine sky, and through a beautiful country; meeting on the way, after long intervals of dismal solitude, men more like shadows and wandering phantoms than living beings; or dead bodies about to be consigned to the trench without funeral rites. Towards the middle of the day he stopped in a grove to eat his meat and bread; he was bountifully supplied with fruits from the gardens by the road, for the year was remarkably fertile, the trees along the road were laden with figs, peaches, plums, apples, and other various kinds, with hardly a living creature to gather them. Towards evening he discovered his village; although prepared for the sight, he felt his heart beat, and he was assailed in a moment by a crowd of painful recollections and harrowing presentiments: a deathlike silence reigned around. His agitation increased as he entered the churchyard, and became hardly supportable at the end of the lane--it was there, where stood the house of Lucy--one only of its inmates could now be there, and the only favour he asked from Heaven was to find Agnes still living; he hoped to find an asylum at her cottage, as he judged truly that his own roust be in ruins. As he went on he looked attentively before him, fearing, and at the same time hoping, to meet some one from whom he might obtain information. He saw at last a man seated on the ground, leaning against a hedge of jessamines, in the listless attitude of an idiot. He thought it must be the poor simpleton Jervase, who had been employed as a witness in his unsuccessful expedition to the curate's house. But approaching nearer, he recognised it to be Anthony. The disease had affected his mind, as well as his body, so that in every act a slight resemblance to his weak brother might be traced. "Oh, Tony," said Renzo, stopping before him, "is it you?" Tony raised his eyes, but not his head. "Tony, do you not know me?" "Is it my turn? Is it my turn?" replied he. "Poor Tony! do you indeed not know me?" "Is it my turn? Is it my turn?" replied he, with an idiotic smile, and then stood with his mouth open. Renzo, seeing he could draw nothing from him, passed on still more afflicted than before. Suddenly, at a turn of the path, he beheld advancing towards him a person whom he recognised to be Don Abbondio. His pale countenance and general appearance showed that he also had not escaped the tempest. The curate, seeing a stranger, anxiously examined his person, whose costume was that of Bergamo. At length he recognised Renzo with much surprise. "Is it he, indeed?" thought he, and raised his hands with a movement of wonder and dismay. His wasted arms seemed trembling in his sleeves, which before could hardly contain them. Renzo, hastening towards him, bowed profoundly; for, although he had quitted him in anger, he still felt respect for him as his curate. "You here! you!" cried Don Abbondio. "Yes, I am here, as you see. Do you know any thing of Lucy?" "How should I know? nothing is known of her. She is at Milan, if she is still in this world. But you----" "And Agnes, is she living?" "Perhaps she is; but who do you think can tell? she is not here. But----" "Where is she?" "She has gone to Valsassina, among her relatives at Pasturo; for they say that down there the pestilence has not made such ravages as it has here. But you, I say----" "I am glad of that. And Father Christopher?" "He has been gone this long time. But you----" "I heard that,--but has he not returned?" "Oh no, we have heard nothing of him. But you----" "I am sorry for it." "But you, I say, what do you do here? For the love of Heaven, have you forgotten that little circumstance of the order for your apprehension?" "What matters it? people have other things to think of now. I came here to see about my own affairs." "There is nothing to see about; there is no one here now. It is the height of rashness in you to venture here, with this little difficulty impending. Listen to an old man who has more prudence than yourself, and who speaks to you from the love he bears you. Depart at once, before any one sees you, return whence you came. Do you think the air of this place good for you? Know you not that they have been here on the search for you?" "I know it too well, the rascals." "But then----" "But, I tell you, they think no more about it. And _he_, does _he_ yet live? is _he_ here?" "I tell you there is no one here; I tell you to think no more of the affairs of this place; I tell you that----" "I ask you if _he_ is here;" "Oh, just Heaven! Speak in another manner. Is it possible you still retain so much warmth, after all that has happened?" "Is _he_ here, or is _he_ not?" "He is not. But the plague, my son, the plague keeps every one from travelling at present." "If the pestilence was all that we need fear--I speak for myself, I have had it, and I fear it not." "You had better render thanks to Heaven. And----" "I do, from the bottom of my heart." "And not go in search of other evils, I say. Listen to my advice." "You have had it also, sir, if I am not mistaken." "That I have, truly! most terrible it was! it is by a miracle I am here; you see how it has left me. I have need of repose to restore my strength; I was beginning to feel a little better. In the name of Heaven, what do you do here? Go away, I beseech you." "You always return to your _go away_. If I ought to go away, I would not have come. You keep saying, _What do you come for? what do you come for?_ Sir, I am come home." "Home!" "Tell me, have there been many deaths here?" "Many!" cried Don Abbondio; and beginning with Perpetua, he gave a long list of individuals, and even whole families. Renzo expected, it is true, a similar recital; but hearing the names of so many acquaintances, friends, and relations, he was absorbed by his affliction, and could only exclaim, from time to time, "Misery! misery! misery!" "And it is not yet over," pursued Don Abbondio. "If those who remain do not listen to reason, and calm the heat of their brains, it will be the end of the world." "Do not concern yourself; I do not intend to remain here." "Heaven be praised! you talk reason at last. Go at once----" "Do not trouble yourself about it; the affair belongs to me. I think I have arrived at years of discretion. I hope you will tell no one that you have seen me. You are a priest, and I am one of your flock; you will not betray me?" "I understand," said Don Abbondio, angrily, "I understand. You would ruin yourself, and me with you. What you have suffered, what I have suffered, is not sufficient. I understand, I understand." And continuing to mutter between his teeth, he proceeded on his way. Renzo, afflicted and disappointed, reflected where he should seek another asylum. In the catalogue of deaths given to him by Don Abbondio, there was a family which had all been carried off by the pestilence, with the exception of a young man nearly of his own age, who had been his companion from infancy. The house was a short distance off, a little beyond the village; he bent his steps thither, to seek the hospitality which it might afford him. On his way he passed his own vineyard. The vines were cut, the wood carried off. Weeds of various kinds and most luxuriant growth, principally of the parasitical order, covered the place, displaying the most brilliant flowers above the loftiest branches of the vines, and obstructing the progress of the miserable owner. The garden beyond presented a similar scene of varied and luxuriant wildness. The house, that had not escaped the visitation of the lansquenets, was deformed with filth, dust, and cobwebs. Poor Renzo turned away with imbittered feelings, and moved slowly onwards to his friend's. It was evening. He found him seated before the door, on a small bench, his arms crossed on his breast, with the air of a man stupified by distress, and suffering from solitude. At the sound of steps he turned, and the twilight and the foliage not permitting him to distinguish objects distinctly, he said, "Are there not others besides me? Did I not do enough yesterday? Leave me in quiet; it will be an act of charity." Renzo, not knowing what this meant, called him by name. "Renzo?" replied he. "It is indeed," said Renzo, and they ran towards each other. "Is it you indeed?" said his friend: "oh, how happy I am to see you! who would have thought it? I took you for one of those persons who torment me daily to help to bury the dead. Know you that I am left alone? alone! alone as a hermit!" "I know it but too well," said Renzo. They entered the cottage together, each making numerous enquiries of the other. His friend began to prepare the table for supper; he went out, and returned in a few moments with a pitcher of milk, a little salt meat, and some fruit. They seated themselves at table, at which the polenta was not forgotten, mutually congratulating each other on their interview. An absence of two years, and the circumstances under which they met, revived and added new vigour to their former friendship. No one, however, could supply the place of Agnes to Renzo, not only on account of the particular affection she bore him, but she alone possessed the key to the solution of all his difficulties. He hesitated awhile whether he had not best go in search of her, as she was not very far off; but recollecting that he knew nothing of the fate of Lucy, he adhered to his first intention of gaining all the information he could concerning her, and carrying the result to her mother. He learnt from his friend, however, many things of which he was ignorant, others were explained which he only knew by halves, with regard to the adventures of Lucy, and the persecutions she had undergone. He was also informed that Don Roderick had left the village, and had not returned. Renzo learnt, moreover, to pronounce the name of Don Ferrante properly; Agnes, it is true, had caused it to be written to him, but Heaven knows how it was written; and the Bergamascan interpreter had given it so strange a sound, that if he had not received some instruction from his friend, probably no one in Milan would have guessed whom he meant, although this was the only clue he had to guide him to Lucy. As far as the law was in question his mind was set at rest. The signor Podestà was dead, and most of the officers; the others were removed, or had other matters too pressing to occupy their attention. He related, in his turn, his own adventures to his friend, receiving in exchange an account of the passage of the army, the pestilence, the poisoners, and the prodigies. "Dreadful as are our afflictions," said he, as he led him for the night to a little chamber which the epidemic had deprived of its inhabitants, "there is a mournful consolation in speaking of them to our friends." At the break of day they both arose, and Renzo prepared to depart. "If all goes well," said he, "if I find her living--if--I will return. I will go to Pasturo and carry the joyful news to poor Agnes, and then--but if, by a misfortune, which may God avert--then, I know not what I shall do, nor where I shall go; but you will never see me here again." As he stood on the threshold of the door, about to resume his journey, he contemplated for a moment, with a mixture of tenderness and anguish, his village, which he had not beheld for so long a time. His friend accompanied him a short distance on his road, and bade him farewell, prognosticating a happy return, and many days of prosperity and enjoyment. Renzo travelled leisurely, because there was ample time for him to arrive within a short distance of Milan, so as to enter it on the morrow. His journey was without accident, except a repetition of the same wretched scenes that the roads at that time presented. As he had done the day before, he stopped in a grove to make a slight repast, which the generosity of his friend had bestowed on him. Passing through Monza, he saw loaves of bread displayed in the window of a shop; he bought two of them, but the shopkeeper called to him not to enter; stretching out a shovel, on which was a small bowl of vinegar and water, he told him to throw the money into it; then with a pair of tongs he reached the bread to him, which Renzo put in his pocket. Towards evening he passed through Greco, and quitting the high road, went into the fields in search of some small house where he might pass the night, as he did not wish to stop at an inn. He found a better shelter than he anticipated; perceiving an opening in a hedge which surrounded the yard of a dairy, he entered it boldly. There was no one within: in one corner of it was a barn full of hay, and against the door of it a ladder placed. After looking around, Renzo ascended the ladder, settled himself for the night, and slept profoundly until the break of day. When he awoke, he descended the ladder very cautiously, and proceeded on his way, taking the dome of the cathedral for his polar star. He soon arrived before the walls of Milan near the eastern gate. CHAPTER XXXIII. Renzo had heard vague mention made of severe orders, forbidding the entrance of strangers into Milan, without a certificate of health; but these were easily evaded, for Milan had reached a point when such prohibition was useless, even if it could have been put into execution. Whoever ventured there, might rather appear careless of his own life, than dangerous to that of others. With this conviction, Renzo's design was to attempt a passage at the first gate, and in case of difficulty to wander on the outside of the walls until he should find one easy of access. It would be difficult to say how many gates he thought Milan had. When he arrived before the ramparts, he looked around him; there was no indication of living being, except on a point of the platform, a thick cloud of dense smoke arising; this was occasioned by clothing, beds, and infected furniture, which were committed to the flames; every where along the ramparts appeared the traces of these melancholy conflagrations. The weather was close, the air heavy, the sky covered by a thick cloud, or fog, which excluded the sun, without promising rain. The surrounding country was neglected and sterile; all verdure extinct, and not a drop of dew on the dry and withering leaves. The depth, solitude, and silence, so near a large city, increased the gloom of Renzo's thoughts; he proceeded, without being aware of it, to the gate _Nuova_, which had been hid from his view by a bastion, behind which it was then concealed. A noise of bells, sounding at intervals, mingled with the voices of men, saluted his ear; turning an angle of the bastion, he saw before the gate a sentry-box, and a sentinel leaning on his musket, with a wearied and careless air. Exactly before the opening was a sad obstacle, a hand-barrow, upon which two _monatti_ were extending an unfortunate man, to carry him off; it was the chief of the toll-gatherers, who had just been attacked by the pestilence. Renzo awaited the departure of the convoy, and no one appearing to close the gate, he passed forwards quickly; the sentinel cried out "Holla!" Renzo stopping, showed him a half ducat, which he drew from his pocket; whether he had had the pestilence, or that he feared it less than he loved ducats, he signed to Renzo to throw it to him; seeing it at his feet, he cried, "Go in, quickly," a permission of which Renzo readily availed himself. He had hardly advanced forty paces when a toll-collector called to him to stop. He pretended not to hear, and passed on. The call was repeated, but in a tone more of anger than of resolution to be obeyed--and this being equally unheeded, the collector shrugged his shoulders and turned back to his room. Renzo proceeded through the long street opposite the gate which leads to the canal _Naviglio_, and had advanced some distance into the city without encountering a single individual; at last he saw a man coming towards him, from whom he hoped he might gain some information; he moved towards him, but the man showed signs of alarm at his approach. Renzo, when he was at a little distance, took off his hat, like a polite mountaineer as he was, but the man drew back, and raising a knotty club, armed with a spike, he cried, "Off! off! off!" "Oh! oh!" cried Renzo; he put on his hat, and having no desire for a greeting of this fashion, he turned his back on the discourteous passenger and went on his way. The citizen retired in an opposite direction, shuddering and looking back in alarm: when he reached home he related how a poisoner had met him with humble and polite manners, but with the air of an infamous impostor, and with a phial of poison or the box of powder (he did not know exactly which) in the lining of his hat, to poison him, if he had not kept him at a distance. "It was unlucky," said he, "that we were in so private a street; if it had been in the midst of Milan, I would have called the people, and he would have been seized: but alone, it was enough to have saved myself--but who knows what destruction he may not already have effected in the city:"--and years after, when the poisoners were talked of, the poor man maintained the truth of the fact, as "he had had ocular proof." Renzo was far from suspecting the danger he had escaped; and, reflecting on this reception, he was more angry than fearful. "This is a bad beginning," thought he; "my star always seems unpropitious when I enter Milan. To enter is easy enough, but, once here, misfortunes thicken. However--by the help of God--if I find--if I succeed in finding--all will be well." The streets were silent and deserted; no human being could he see; a single disfigured corpse met his eye in the channel between the street and the houses. Suddenly he heard a cry, which appeared addressed to him; and he perceived, not far off, on the balcony of a house, a woman, surrounded by a group of children, making a sign to him to approach. As he did so, "O good young man!" said she, "do me the kindness to go to the commissary, and tell him that we are forgotten here. They have nailed up the house as suspected, because my poor husband is dead; and since yesterday morning no one has brought us any thing to eat, and these poor innocents are dying of hunger." "Of hunger!" cried Renzo. "Here, here," said he, drawing the two loaves from his pocket. "Lower something in which I may put them." "God reward you! wait a moment," said the woman, as she went in search of a basket and cord to suspend it. "As to the commissary, my good woman," said he, putting the loaves in the basket, "I cannot serve you, because, to tell truth, I am a stranger in Milan, and know nothing of the place. However, if I meet any one a little humane and tractable, to whom I can speak, I will tell him." The woman begged him to do so, and gave him the name of the street in which she lived. "You can also render me a service, without its costing you any thing," said Renzo. "Can you tell me where there is a nobleman's house in Milan, named ***?" "I know there is a house of that name, but I do not know where it is. Further on in the city you will probably find some one to direct you. And remember to speak of us." "Do not doubt me," said Renzo, as he passed on. As he advanced, he heard increasing a sound that had already attracted his attention, whilst stopping to converse with the poor woman; a sound of wheels and horses' feet, with the noise of little bells, and occasionally the cracking of whips and loud cries. As he reached the square of San Marco, the first objects he saw were two beams erected, with a cord and pulleys. He recognised the horrible instrument of torture! These were placed on all the squares and widest streets, so that the deputies of each quarter of the city, furnished with the most arbitrary power, could subject to them whoever quitted a condemned house, or neglected the ordinances, or by any other act appeared to merit the punishment; it was one of those extreme and inefficacious remedies, which, at this epoch, were so absurdly authorised. Now, whilst Renzo was gazing at this machine, he heard the sounds increasing, and beheld a man appear, ringing a little bell; it was an _apparitore_, and behind him came two horses, who advanced with difficulty, dragging a car loaded with dead; after this car came another, and another, and another; _monatti_ walked by the side of the horses, urging them on with their whips and with oaths. The bodies were for the most part naked; some were half covered with rags, and heaped one upon another; at each jolt of the wretched vehicles, heads were seen hanging over, the long tresses of women were displayed, arms were loosened and striking against the wheels, thrilling the soul of the spectator with indescribable horror! The youth stopped at a corner of the square to pray for the unknown dead. A frightful thought passed over his mind. "There, perhaps, there, with them--O God! avert this misfortune! let me not think of it!" The funeral convoy having passed on, he crossed the square, and reached the Borgo Nuovo by the bridge Marcellino. He perceived a priest standing before a half-open door, in an attitude of attention, as if he were confessing some one. "Here," said he, "is my man. If a priest, and in the discharge of his duty, has no benevolence, there is none left in the world who has." When he was at a few paces distance from him, he took off his hat, and made a sign that he wished to speak with him, keeping, however, at a discreet distance, so as not to alarm the good man unnecessarily. Renzo having made his request, was directed to the hotel. "May God watch over you now and for ever!" said Renzo, "and," added he, "I would ask another favour." And he mentioned the poor forgotten woman. The worthy man thanked him for affording him the opportunity to bestow help where it was so greatly needed, and bade him farewell. Renzo found it difficult enough to recollect the various turnings pointed out by the priest, disturbed as his mind was by apprehensions for the issue of his enquiries. An end was about to be put to his doubts and fears; he was to be told, "she is living," or, "she is dead!" This idea took such powerful possession of his mind, that at this moment, he would rather have remained in his former ignorance, and have been at the commencement of the journey, to the end of which he so nearly approached. He gathered courage, however. "Ah!" cried he, "if I play the child now, how will it end!" Plunging therefore into the heart of the city, he soon reached one of its most desolated quarters, that which is called the _Carrobio di Porta Nuova_. The fury of the contagion here, and the infection from the scattered bodies, had been so great, that those who had survived had been obliged to fly: so that, whilst the passenger was struck with the aspect of solitude and death, his senses were painfully affected by the traces of recent life. Renzo hastened on, hoping to find an improvement in the scene, before he should arrive at the end of his journey. In fact, he soon reached what might still be called the city of the living, but, alas! what living! Every door was closed from distrust and terror, except such as had been left open by the flight of the inhabitants, or by the _monatti_; some were nailed on the outside, because there were within people dead, or dying of the pestilence; others were marked with a cross, for the purpose of informing the _monatti_ that their services were required, and much of this was done more by chance than otherwise; as a commissary of health happened to be in one spot rather than in another, and chose to enforce the regulations. On every side were seen infected rags and bandages, clothes and sheets, which had been thrown from the windows; dead bodies which had been left in the streets until a car should pass to take them up, or which had fallen from the cars themselves, or been thrown from the houses; so much bad the long duration and the violence of the pest brutalised men's minds, and subdued every spark of human feeling or sympathy. The customary sounds of human occupation or pleasure had ceased; and this silence of death was interrupted only by the funeral cars, the lamentations of the sick, the shrieks of the frantic, or the vociferations of the _monatti_. At the break of day, at noon, and at night, a bell of the cathedral gave the signal for reciting certain prayers, which had been ordered by the archbishop, and this was followed by the bells of the other churches. Then persons were seen at the windows, and a confused blending of voices and groans was heard, which inspired a sorrow, not however unmixed with consolation. It is probable that at this time not less than two thirds of the inhabitants had died, and of the remainder many were sick or had left the city. Every one you met exhibited signs of the dreadful calamity. The usual dress was changed of every order of persons. The cloak of the gentleman, the robe of the priest, the cowl of the monk, in short, every loose appendage of dress that might occasion contact, was carefully dismissed; every thing was as close on the person as possible. Men's beards and hair were alike neglected, from fear of treachery on the part of the barbers. Every man walked with a stick, or even a pistol, to prevent the approach of others. Equal care was shown in keeping the middle of the street to avoid what might be thrown from windows, and in avoiding the noxious matters in the road. But if the aspect of the uninfected was appalling, how shall we describe the condition of the wretched sick in the street, tottering or falling to rise no more--beggars, children, women. Renzo had travelled far on his way, through the midst of this desolation, when he heard a confused noise, in which was distinguishable the horrible and accustomed tinkling of bells. At the entrance of one of the most spacious streets, he perceived four cars standing; _monatti_ were seen entering houses, coming forth with burthens on their shoulders, and laying them on the cars; some were clothed in their red dress, others without any distinctive mark, but the greater number with a mark, more revolting still than their customary dress,--plumes of various colours, which they wore with an air of triumph in the midst of the public mourning, and whilst people from the different windows around were calling to them to remove the dead. Renzo avoided, as much as possible, the view of the horrid spectacle; but his attention was soon attracted by an object of singular interest; a female, whose aspect won the regards of every beholder, came out of one of the houses, and approached the cars. In her features was seen beauty, veiled and clouded, but not destroyed, by the mortal debility which seemed to oppress her; the soft and majestic beauty which shines in the Lombard blood. Her step was feeble, but decided; she wept not, although there were traces of tears on her countenance. There was a tranquillity and profundity in her grief, which absorbed all her powers. But it was not _her_ appearance alone which excited compassion in hearts nearly closed to every human feeling; she held in her arms a young girl about nine years of age, dead, but dressed with careful precision; her hair divided smoothly on her pale forehead, and clothed in a robe of the purest white. She was not lying, but was seated, on the arm of the lady, her head leaning on her shoulder; you would have thought she breathed, if a little white hand had not hung down with inanimate weight, and her head reposed on the shoulder of her mother, with an abandonment more decided than that of sleep. Of her mother! it was indeed her mother! If the resemblance of their features had not told it, you would have known it by the expression of that fair and lovely countenance! A hideous _monatto_ approached the lady, and with unusual respect offered to relieve her of her burthen. "No," said she, with an appearance neither of anger nor disgust, "do not touch her yet; it is I who must place her on the car. Take this," and she dropped a purse into the hands of the _monatto_; "promise me not to touch a hair of her head, nor to let others do it, and bury her thus." The _monatto_ placed his hand on his heart, and respectfully prepared a place on the car for the infant dead. The lady, after having kissed her forehead, placed her on it, as carefully as if it were a couch, spread over her a white cloth, and took a last look; "Farewell! Cecilia! rest in peace! To-night we will come to you, and then we shall be separated no more!" Turning again to the _monatto_, "As you pass to-night," said she, "you will come for me; and not for me only!" She returned into the house, and a moment after appeared at a window, holding in her arms another cherished child, who was still living, but with the stamp of death on her countenance. She contemplated the unworthy obsequies of Cecilia, until the car disappeared from her eyes, and then left the window with her mournful burthen. And what remained for them, but to die together, as the flower which proudly lifts its head, falls with the bud, under the desolating scythe which levels every herb of the field. "O God!" cried Renzo, "save her! protect her! her and this innocent creature! they have suffered enough! they have suffered enough!" He then proceeded on his way, filled with emotions of distress and pity. Another convoy of wretched victims encountered him at a cross street on their way to the lazaretto. Some were imploring to be allowed to die on their own beds in peace; some moving on with imbecile apathy, women as usual with their little ones, and even some of these supported and encouraged with manly devotion by their brothers a little older than themselves, and whom alone the plague had for a time spared for this affecting office. When the miserable crowd had nearly passed, he addressed a commissary whose aspect was a little less savage than the rest; and enquired of him the street and the house of Don Ferrante. He replied, "The first street to the right, the last hotel to the left." The young man hastened thither, with new and deeper trouble at his heart. Easily distinguishing the house, he approached the door, raised his hand to the knocker, and held it suspended awhile, before he could summon resolution to knock. At the sound, a window was half opened, and a female appeared at it, looking towards the door with a countenance which appeared to ask, "Is it _monatti_? thieves? or poisoners?" "Signora," said Renzo, but in a tremulous voice, "is there not here in service a young villager of the name of Lucy?" "She is no longer here; begone," replied the woman, about to close the window. "A moment, I beseech you. She is no longer here! Where is she?" "At the lazaretto." "A moment, for the love of Heaven! With the pestilence?" "Yes. It is something very uncommon, is it not? Begone then." "Wait an instant. Was she very ill? Is it long since?" But this time the window was closed entirely. "Oh! signora, signora! one word, for charity! Alas! alas! one word!" But he might as well have talked to the wind. Afflicted by this intelligence, and vexed with the rude treatment of the woman, Renzo seized the knocker again, and raised it for the purpose of striking. In his distress, he turned to look at the neighbouring houses, with the hope of seeing some one, who would give him more satisfactory information. But the only person he discovered, was a woman, about twenty paces off, who, with an appearance of terror, anger, and impatience, was making signs to some one to approach; and this she did, as if not wishing to attract Renzo's notice. Perceiving him looking at her, she shuddered with horror. "What the devil!" said Renzo, threatening her with his fist, but she, having lost the hope of his being seized unexpectedly, cried aloud, "A poisoner! catch him! catch him! stop the poisoner!" "Who? I! old sorceress! be silent," cried Renzo, as he approached her in order to compel her to be so. But he soon perceived that it was best to think of himself, as the cry of the woman had gathered people from every quarter; not in so great numbers as would have been seen three months before under similar circumstances, but still many more than one man could resist. At this moment, the window was again opened, and the same discourteous woman appeared at it, crying, "Seize him, seize him; he must be one of the rascals who wander about to poison the doors of people." Renzo determined in an instant that it was better to fly than to stop to justify himself. Rapidly casting his eyes around to see on which side there were the fewest people, and fighting his way through those that opposed him, he soon freed himself from their clutches. The street was deserted before him; but behind him the terrible cry still resounded, "Seize him! stop him! a poisoner!" It gained on him, steps were close at his heels. His anger became rage; his agony, despair; drawing his knife from his pocket, and brandishing it in the air, he turned, crying aloud, "Let him who dares come here, the rascal, and I will poison him indeed with this." But he saw, with astonishment and pleasure, that his persecutors had already stopped, as if some obstacle opposed their path; and were making frantic gestures to persons beyond him. Turning again, he beheld a car approaching, and even a file of cars with their usual accompaniments. Beyond them was another little band of people prepared to seize the poisoner, but prevented by the same obstacle. Seeing himself thus between two fires, it occurred to Renzo, that _that_ which was an object of terror to these people, might be to him a source of safety. Reflecting that this was not a moment for fastidious scruples, he advanced towards the cars, passed the first, and perceiving in the second a space large enough to receive him, threw himself into it. "Bravo! bravo!" cried the _monatti_ with one shout. Some of them were following the convoy on foot, others were seated on the cars, others on the dead bodies, drinking from an enormous flagon, which they passed around. "Bravo! that was well done!" "You have placed yourself under the protection of the _monatti_; you are as safe as if you were in a church," said one, who was seated on the car into which Renzo had thrown himself. The enemy was obliged to retreat, crying, however, "Seize him! seize him! he is a poisoner!" "Let me silence them!" said the _monatto_; and drawing from one of the dead bodies a dirty rag, he tied it up in a bundle, and made a gesture as if intending to throw it among them, crying, "Here, rascals!" At the sight, all fled away in horror! A howl of triumph arose from the _monatti_. "Ah! ah! you see we can protect honest people," said the _monatto_ to Renzo, "one of us is worth a hundred of those cowards." "I owe my life to you," said Renzo, "and I thank you sincerely." "'Tis a trifle, a trifle; you deserve it; 'tis plain to be seen you're a brave fellow; you do well to poison this rabble; extirpate the fools, who, as a reward for the life we lead, say, that the plague once over, they will hang us all. They must all be finished, before the plague ceases; the _monatti_ alone must remain to sing for victory, and to feast in Milan." "Life to the pestilence, and death to the rabble!" cried another, putting the flagon to his mouth, from which he drank freely, and then offered it to Renzo, saying, "Drink to our health." "I wish it to you all," said Renzo, "but I am not thirsty, and do not want to drink now." "You have been terribly frightened, it seems," said the _monatto_; "you appear to be a harmless sort of a person; you should have another face than that for a poisoner." "Give me a drop," said a _monatto_, who walked by the side of the cars; "I would drink to the health of the nobleman, who is here in such good company--in yonder carriage!" And with a malignant laugh he pointed to the car in which poor Renzo was seated. Then brutally composing his features to an expression of gravity, he bowed profoundly, saying, "Will you permit, my dear master, a poor devil of a _monatto_ to taste a little wine from your cellar? Do now, because we lead rough lives, and moreover, we are doing you the favour to take you a ride into the country. And besides, you are not accustomed to wine, and it might harm your lordship; but the poor _monatti_ have good stomachs." His companions laughed loudly; he took the flagon, and before he drank, turned again to Renzo, and with an air of insulting compassion said, "The devil with whom you have made a compact, must be very young; if we had not saved you, you would have been none the better for his assistance." His companions laughed louder than before, and he applied the flagon to his lips. "Leave some for us! some for us!" cried those from the forward car. After having taken as much as he wanted, he returned the flagon to his companions, who passed it on; the last of the company having emptied it, threw it on the pavement, crying, "Long live the pestilence!" Then they commenced singing a lewd song, in which they were accompanied by all the voices of the horrible choir. This infernal music, blended with the tingling of the bells, the noise of the wheels, and of the horses' feet, resounded in the empty silence of the streets, echoed through the houses, wringing the hearts of the very few who still inhabited them! But the danger of the preceding moment had rendered more than tolerable to Renzo, the company of these wretches and the dead they were about to inter; and even this music was almost agreeable to his ears, as it relieved him from the embarrassment of such conversation. He returned thanks to Providence for having enabled him to escape from his peril, without receiving or doing an injury; and he prayed God to help him now to deliver himself from his liberators. He kept on the watch to seize the first opportunity of quietly quitting the car, without exciting the opposition of his protectors. At last they reached the lazaretto. At the appearance of a commissary, one of the two _monatti_ who were on the car with Renzo jumped to the ground, in order to speak with him: Renzo hastily quitting the ear, said to the other, "I thank you for your kindness; God reward you." "Go, go, poor poisoner," replied he, "it will not be you who will destroy Milan!" Fortunately no one heard him. Renzo hastened onwards by the wall, crossed the bridge, passed the convent of the capuchins, and then perceived the angle of the lazaretto. In front of the inclosure a horrible scene presented itself to his view. Arrived in front of the lazaretto, throngs of sick were pressing into the avenues which led to the building; some were seated or lying in the ditch, which bordered the road on either side, their strength not having sufficed to enable them to reach their asylum, or who, having quitted it in desperation, were too weak to go further; others wandered by themselves, stupified, and insensible to their condition; one was quite animated, relating his imaginations to a miserable companion, who was stretched on the ground, oppressed by suffering; another was furious from despair; a third, more horrible still! was singing, in a voice above all the rest, and with heart-rending hilarity, one of the popular songs of love, gay and playful, which the Milanese call _villanelle_. Already weary, and confounded at the view of so much misery concentrated within so small a space, our poor Renzo reached the gate of the lazaretto. He crossed the threshold, and stood for a moment motionless under the portico. CHAPTER XXXIV. The reader may imagine the lazaretto, peopled with sixteen thousand persons infected with the plague: the vast enclosure was encumbered with cabins, tents, cars, and human beings. Two long ranges of porticoes, to the right and left, were crowded with the dying or the dead, extended upon straw; and from the immense receptacle of woe, was heard a deep murmur, similar to the distant voice of the waves, agitated by a tempest. Renzo went forward from hut to hut, carefully examining every countenance he could discern within--whether broken down by suffering, distorted by spasm, or fixed in death. Hitherto he met none but men, and judged, therefore, that the women were distributed in some other part of the inclosure. The state of the atmosphere seemed to add to the horror of the scene: a dense and dark fog involved all things. The disc of the sun, as if seen through a veil, shed a feeble light in its own part of the sky, but darted down a heavy deathlike blast of heat: a confused murmuring of distant thunder might be heard. Not a leaf moved, not a bird was seen--save the swallow only, which descended to the plain, and, alarmed at the dismal sounds around, remounted the air, and disappeared. Nature seemed at war with human existence--hundreds seemed to grow worse--the last struggle more afflictive--and no hour of bitterness was comparable to that. Renzo had, in his search, witnessed, as he thought, every variety of human suffering. But a new sound caught his ear--a compound of children's crying and goats' bleating: looking through an opening of the boards of a hut, he saw children, infants, lying upon sheets or quilts upon the floor, and nurses attending them; but the most singular part of the spectacle, was a number of she-goats supplying the maternal functions, and with all the appearance of conscious sympathy hastening, at the cries of the helpless little ones, to afford them the requisite nutrition. The women were aiding these efficient coadjutors, in rendering their supplies available to the poor bereft babies. Whilst observing this wretched scene, an old capuchin entered with two infants, just taken from their lifeless mother, to seek among the flock for one to supply her place. Quitting this spot, and looking about on every side, a sudden apparition struck his sight, and set his thoughts in commotion. He saw at some distance, among the tents, a capuchin, whom he instantly recognised to be Father Christopher! The history of the good friar, from the moment in which we lost sight of him until this meeting, may be related in few words. He had not stirred from Rimini, and he would not now have thought of doing so if the plague breaking out at Milan had not afforded him the opportunity, so long desired, of sacrificing his life for the benefit of others. He demanded, as a favour, permission to go and assist those who were infected with the disease. The count, he of the secret council, was dead; and moreover, at this time, there was a greater want of guardians to the sick, than of politicians: his request was readily granted. He had now been in the lazaretto nearly three months. But the joy of Renzo at seeing the good father was not unalloyed. It was he indeed; but, alas! how changed! how wan! Exhausted nature appeared to be sustained for a while by the mind, that had acquired new vigour from the perpetual demand on its sympathies and activity. "Oh, Father Christopher!" said Renzo, when he was near enough to speak to him. "You here!" said the friar, rising. "How are you, my father, how are you?" "Better than these unfortunate beings that you see," replied the friar. His voice was feeble--hollow and changed as his person. His eye alone "had not lost its original brightness"--benevolence and charity appeared to have imparted to it a lustre superior to that which bodily weakness was gradually extinguishing. "But you," pursued he, "why are you here? Why do you thus come to brave the pestilence?" "I have had it, thank Heaven! I come----in search of----Lucy." "Lucy! Is Lucy here?" "Yes. At least I hope so." "Is she thy wife?" "My dear father! alas! no, she is not my wife. Do you know nothing, then, of what has happened?" "No, my son. Since God removed me from you, I have heard nothing. But now that he sends you to me, I wish much to know. And your banishment?" "You know, then, what they did to me?" "But you, what did _you_ do?" "My father, if I were to say I was prudent on that day at Milan, I should tell a falsehood; but I committed no bad action wilfully." "I believe you; I have always thought so." "Now then I will tell you all." "Wait a moment." He approached a cabin, and called "_Father Victor_." In a few moments a young capuchin appeared. "Do me the favour, Father Victor," said he, "to take my place in watching over our poor patients for a little while. If, however, any should particularly ask for me, be so good as to call me." The young friar complied, and Father Christopher, turning to Renzo, "Let us enter here," said he. "But," added he, "you appear much exhausted, you have need of food." "It is true. Now that you make me think of it, I have not tasted any thing to-day." "Wait, then, a moment." He soon brought Renzo a bowl of broth, from a large kettle, the common property of the establishment, and making him sit down on his bed, the only seat his cabin afforded, and placing some wine on a little table by his side, he seated himself next him. "Now tell me about my poor child," said he, "and be in haste, for time is precious, and I have much to do, as you perceive." Renzo related the history of Lucy; that she had been sheltered in the convent of Monza, and carried off from her asylum. At the idea of such treatment and peril, and at the thought, too, that it was he who had unwittingly exposed her to it, the good friar was breathless with attention; but he recovered his tranquillity when he heard of her miraculous deliverance, her restoration to her mother, and her having been placed under the protection of Donna Prassede. Renzo then briefly related his journey to Milan, his flight, and his return home; that he had not found Agnes there; and at Milan had learned that Lucy was in the lazaretto. "And I am here," concluded he, "I am here in search of her; to see if she yet lives, and if----she still thinks of me----because----sometimes----" "But what direction did they give you? Did they tell you where she was placed when she came here?" "I know nothing, dear father, nothing; only that she is here, if she still lives, which may God grant!" "Oh, poor child! But what have you done here until now?" "I have searched, and searched, but have seen hardly any but men. I think the females must be in another part by themselves; you can tell me if this is the case?" "Know you not that it is forbidden to men to enter there unless their duty calls them?" "Oh, well! what can happen to me if I should attempt?" "The law is a good one, my dear son; and if our weight of affliction does not permit us to enforce it, is that a reason why an honest man should infringe it?" "But, Father Christopher, Lucy should have been my wife; you know how we have been separated; it is twenty months since I have suffered, and taken my misfortunes patiently; I have come here, risking every thing to behold her, and now----" "I know not what to say," resumed the friar; "you are, no doubt, guided by a praiseworthy motive; would to God that all those who have free access to these places conducted themselves as well as I am sure you will. God, who certainly blesses thy perseverance of affection, thy fidelity in desiring and seeking her whom he has given thee, God, who is more rigorous than man, but also more indulgent, will not regard what may be irregular in this enquiry for one so dear." So saying, he arose, and Renzo followed him. While listening to him, he had been confirmed in his resolution not to acquaint the father with Lucy's vow. "If he learns that," thought he, "he will certainly raise new difficulties. Either I shall find her, and we can then disclose, or----and then----what use would it be?" After having conducted him to the opening of the cabin, towards the north, "From yonder little temple," said he, "rising above the miserable tents, Father Felix is about to lead in procession the small remnant who are convalescent, to another station, to finish their quarantine. Avoid notice, but watch them as they pass. If she is not of the number, this side," added he, pointing to the edifice before them, "this side of the building and a part of the field before it are assigned to the women. You will perceive a railing which divides that quarter from this, but so broken, in many places, that you can easily pass through. Once there, if you do nothing to offend, probably no one will speak to you. If, however, there is any difficulty, say that Father Christopher knows you, and will answer for you. Seek her, then, seek her with confidence--and with resignation; for remember, it is an unusual expectation, a person alive within the walls of the lazaretto! Go, then, and be prepared for whatever result----" "Yes, I understand!" said Renzo, a dark cloud overshadowing his countenance; "I understand, I will seek in every place, from one end of the lazaretto to the other----And if I do not find her!" "If you do not find her?" repeated the father, in a serious and admonitory tone. But Renzo, giving vent to the wrath which had been for some time pent up in his bosom, pursued, "If I do not find her, I will find _another_ person. Either at Milan, or in his abominable palace, or at the end of the world, or in the house of the devil, I will find the villain who separated us; but for whom Lucy would have been mine twenty months ago; and if we had been destined to die, at least we should have died together. If he still lives, I will find him----" "Renzo!" said the friar, seizing him by the arm, and looking at him severely. "And if I find him," continued Renzo, entirely blinded by rage, "if the pestilence has not already done justice--the time is past when a poltroon, surrounded by bravoes, can reduce men to despair, and laugh at them! the time is come when men meet face to face, and I will do myself justice." "Unhappy youth!" cried Father Christopher, with a voice which had suddenly become strong and sonorous, his head raised, and eyes darting forth more than their wonted fire; "unhappy youth! look around you! Behold who punishes and who judges; who punishes and pardons! But you, feeble worm, you would do yourself justice! Do you know what justice is? Unhappy youth! begone! I hoped----yes, I hoped that before I died, God would afford me the consolation to learn that my poor Lucy still lived; to see her, perhaps, and to hear her promise that she would send a prayer to yonder grave where I shall rest. Begone, you have taken away my hope. God has not left her on the earth for thee, and you certainly have not the audacity to believe yourself worthy that God should think of consoling you. Go, I have no time to listen to you farther." And he dropped the arm of Renzo, which he had grasped, and moved towards a cabin. "Oh, my father!" said Renzo, following him with a supplicating look, "will you send me away thus?" "How!" resumed the capuchin, but in a gentler tone, "would you dare ask me to steal the time from these poor afflicted ones, who are expecting me to speak to them of the pardon of God, in order to listen to thy accents of rage--thy projects of vengeance? I listened to you, when you asked consolation and advice, but now that you have revenge in your heart, what do you want with me? Begone, I have listened to the forgiveness of the injured, and the repentance of the aggressor; I have wept with both; but what have I to do with thee?" "Oh, I pardon him! I pardon him! I pardon him for ever!" said the young man. "Renzo," said the friar, in a calmer tone, "think of it, and tell me how often you have pardoned him?" He kept silence some time, and not receiving an answer, he bowed his head, and, with a voice trembling from emotion, continued, "You know why I wear this habit?" Renzo hesitated. "You know it?" repeated the old man. "I know it." "I likewise hated, I, who have reprimanded you for a thought, a word. The man I hated, I killed." "Yes, but it was a noble, one of those----" "Silence!" interrupted the friar. "If that were justification, believe you I should not have found it in thirty years? Ah! if I could now make you experience the sentiment I have since had, and that I now have for the man I hated! If _I_ could _I_!--but God can. May he do it! Hear me, Renzo. He is a better friend to you, than you are to yourself; you have thought of revenge, but He has power enough, pity enough, to prevent it; you know you have often said that he can arrest the arm of the powerful; but learn, also, that he can arrest that of the vindictive. And because you are poor, because you are injured, can he not defend against you a man created in his image? Will he suffer you to do all you wish? No! but he can cast you off for ever; he can, for this sentiment which animates you, embitter your whole life, since, whatever happens to you, hold for certain, that all will be punishment until you have pardoned, pardoned freely and for ever!" "Yes, yes," said Renzo, with much emotion, "I feel that I have never truly pardoned him; I have spoken as a brute and not as a Christian; and now, by the help of God, I pardon him from the bottom of my soul." "And should you see him?" "I would pray God to grant me patience, and to touch his heart." "Do you remember that the Lord has not only told us to pardon our enemies, but to love them? Do you remember that he loved them so as to die for them?" "Yes, I do." "Well, come and behold him. You have said you would find him; you shall do so; come, and you will see against whom you preserve hatred, to whom you desire evil, against what life you would arm yourself!" He took the hand of Renzo, who followed him, without daring to ask a question. The friar led the way into one of the cabins. The first object Renzo beheld was a sick person seated on a bed of straw, who appeared to be convalescent. On seeing the father, he shook his head, as if to say _No_. The father bowed his with an air of sorrow and resignation. Renzo, meanwhile, gazing with uneasy curiosity around the cabin, beheld in the corner of it a sick person lying on a feather bed, wrapped up in a sheet, and covered with a cloak. Looking attentively, he recognised Don Roderick! The unfortunate man lay motionless; his eyes wide open, but without any cognisance of the objects around him; the stamp of death was on his face, which was covered with black spots; his lips were swollen and black: you would have thought it the face of the dead, if a violent contraction about the mouth had not revealed a tenacity of life; his respiration was painful, and his livid hand, extending on the outside of the covering, was firmly grasping his cloak, and pressing it upon his heart, as if conscious that _there_ was his deepest agony. "Behold!" said the friar, in a low solemn voice; "the sentiment you hold towards this man, who has offended you, such will God hold towards you on the great day. Bless him, and be blessed! For four days he has been here in this condition, without giving any sign of perception. Perhaps the Lord is disposed to grant him an hour of repentance, but he would have you pray for it; perhaps he desires that you should pray for him with this innocent girl; perhaps he reserves this favour for thy prayer alone, for the prayer of an afflicted and resigned heart. Perhaps the salvation of this man and thine own depend at this moment upon thyself, upon thy pity, upon thy love." He kept silence, and clasping his hands, bowed his head as in prayer, and Renzo, completely subdued, followed his example. Their supplications were interrupted in a short time by the striking of a bell: they immediately arose and left the cabin. "The procession is about to move," said the father; "go then, prepared to make a sacrifice, to praise God, whatever may be the issue of your search; and whatever that may be, return to me, and we will praise him together." Here they separated; the one to resume his painful duties, the other to the little temple, which was close at hand. CHAPTER XXXV. Who would have told Renzo some moments before, that at the very time of his greatest suspense and anxiety, his heart should be divided between Lucy and Don Roderick? And nevertheless it was so. The thought of him mingled itself with all the bright or painful images which hope or fear called up as he proceeded. The words the friar had uttered by that bed of pain, blended themselves with the cruel uncertainty of his soul. He could not utter a prayer, for the happy issue of his present undertaking, without adding to it one for the miserable object of his former resentment and revenge. He saw the Father Felix on the portico of the church, and by his attitude comprehended that the holy man was addressing the assembled convalescents. He placed himself where he could overlook the audience. In the midst were the women, covered with veils; Renzo gazed at them intently, but finding that, from the place where he stood, it would be a vain scrutiny, he directed his attention to the father. He was touched by his venerable figure; and listened with all the attention his own solicitude would allow, to the reverend speaker, who thus proceeded in his affecting address:-- "Let us think for a moment," said he, "of the thousands who have gone forth thither," pointing to a gate behind him, leading to the burying ground of San Gregory, which was then but one mighty grave. "Let us look at the thousands who remain here, uncertain of their destiny; let us also look at ourselves! May the Lord be praised! praised in his justice! praised in his mercy! praised in death! praised in life! praised in the choice he has made of us! Oh! why has he done it, my children, if not to preserve a people corrected by affliction, and animated by gratitude? That we may be deeply sensible that life is his gift, that we may value it accordingly, and employ it in works which he will approve? That the remembrance of our sufferings may render us compassionate, and actively benevolent to others. May those with whom we have suffered, hoped, and feared, and among whom we leave friends and kindred, may they as we pass amidst them derive edification from our deportment! May God preserve us from any exhibition of self-congratulation, or carnal joy, at escaping that death against which they are still struggling! May they see us depart, rendering thanks to Heaven for ourselves, and praying for them; that they may say, _Even beyond these walls they will remember us, they will continue to pray for us!_ Let us begin from this moment, from the first step we shall take into the world, a life of charity! Let those who have regained their former strength, lend a fraternal arm to the feeble; let the young sustain the old; let those who are left without children become parents to the orphan, and thus your sorrows will be softened, and your lives will be acceptable to God!" Here a deep murmur of sighs and sobs, which had been increasing in the assembly, was suddenly suspended, on seeing the friar place a cord around his neck and fall on his knees. All was intense attention and profound silence. "For myself," said he, "and for all my companions, who have been chosen to the high privilege of serving Christ in you, I humbly ask your forgiveness if we have not worthily fulfilled so great a ministry. If indolence, or the waywardness of the flesh, has rendered us less attentive to your wants, less prompt to your call than duty demanded; if unjust impatience, or culpable disgust, have caused us sometimes to appear severe and wearied in your presence; if, indeed, the miserable thought that you had need of us, has led us to be deficient in humility towards you; if our frailty has made us commit any action which may have given you pain, pardon us! May God remit also your offences, and bless you!" We have here related, if not the very words, at least the sense of that which he uttered; but we cannot describe the accent which accompanied them. It was that of a man who called it a privilege to serve the afflicted, because he really considered it such; who confessed not to have worthily exercised this privilege, because he truly felt his deficiency; who asked pardon, because he was persuaded he had need of it. But his hearers, who had beheld these capuchins only occupied in serving them, who had beheld so many of them die in the service, and he who now spoke in the name of all, always the first in toil as he was the first in authority, his hearers could only answer him with tears. The good friar then took a cross which rested against a pillar, and holding it up before him, took off his sandals, passing through the crowd, which opened respectfully to give him a passage, and placed himself at their head. Renzo, overcome with emotion, drew on one side, and placed himself near a cabin, where, half concealed, he awaited, with his eyes open, his heart palpitating, but with renewed confidence, the result of the emotion excited by the touching scene of which he had been a witness. Father Felix proceeded barefooted at the head of the procession, with the cord about his neck, bearing that long and heavy cross; he advanced slowly but resolutely, as one who would spare the weakness of others, but whose ideas of duty enabled him to rise above his own. The largest children followed immediately behind him, for the most part barefooted, and very few entirely clothed; then came the women, nearly all of them leading a child, and singing alternately the _miserere_. The feeble sound of the voices, the paleness and languor of the countenances, would have excited commiseration in the heart of a mere spectator. But Renzo was occupied with his own peculiar anxieties; the slow progress of the procession enabled him to scan with ease every face as it passed. He looked and looked again, and always in vain! His eye wandered from rank to rank, from face to face--they came, they passed--in vain, in vain--none but unknown features! A new ray of hope dawned upon his mind as he beheld some cars approaching, in which were the convalescents who were still too feeble to support the fatigue of walking. They approached so slowly that Renzo had full leisure to examine each in turn. But he was again disappointed; the cars had all passed, and Father Michael, with his staff in his hand, brought up the rear as regulator of the procession. Thus nearly vanished his hopes, and with them his resolution. His only ground of hope now was to find Lucy still under the power of the disease; to this sad and feeble hope, he clung with all the ardour of his nature. He fell on his knees at the last step of the temple, and breathed forth an unconnected, but fervent prayer; he arose, strengthened in hope; and passing the railing pointed out by the father, entered into the quarter allotted to the women. As he entered it, he saw on the ground one of the little bells that the _monatti_ carried on their feet, with its leather straps attached to it. Thinking it might serve him as a passport, he tied it to his foot, and then began his painful search. Here new scenes of sorrow met his eye, similar in part to those he had already witnessed, partly dissimilar. Under the weight of the same calamity, he discerned a more patient endurance of pain, and a greater sensibility to the afflictions of others; they to whom bodily suffering is a lot and an inheritance, acquire from it fortitude to bear their own woes, and sympathy to bestow on the woes of others. Renzo had proceeded some distance on his search, when he heard behind him a "Ho!" which appeared to be addressed to him. Turning, he saw at a distance a commissary, who cried, "Go there into those rooms; they want you there; they have not finished carrying all off." Renzo perceived that he took him for a _monatto_, and that the little bell had caused the mistake. He determined to extricate himself from it as soon as he could. Making a sign of obedience, he hid himself from the commissary, by passing between two cabins which were very near each other. As he stooped to unloose the strap of the little bell, he rested his head against the straw wall of one of the cabins; a voice reached his ear. O Heaven! is it possible? His whole soul was in his ear, he scarcely breathed. Yes! yes! it was that voice! "Fear of what?" said that gentle voice; "we have passed through worse dangers than a tempest. He who has watched over us until now, will still continue to do so." Renzo scarcely breathed, his knees trembled, his sight became dim; with a great effort recovering his faculties, he went to the door of the cabin, and beheld her who had spoken! She was standing, leaning over a bed; she turned at the sound of his steps, and gazed for a moment bewildered; at last she exclaimed, "Oh! blessed Lord!" "Lucy! I have found you again! I have found you again! It is, indeed, you! You live!" cried Renzo, advancing with trembling steps. "Oh! blessed Lord!" cried Lucy, greatly agitated; "is it indeed you? How? Why? the pestilence----" "I have had it. And you?" "Yes. I have had it also. And my mother?" "I have not seen her yet; she is at Pasturo. I believe, however, that she is well. But you are still suffering! how feeble you appear! you are cured, however; you are, is it not so?" "The Lord has seen fit to leave me a little longer here below," said Lucy. "But, Renzo! why are you here?" "Why?" said Renzo, approaching her, "do you ask me why I am here? Must I tell you? Whom do I think of then? Am I not Renzo? Are you no longer Lucy?" "Oh! why speak thus! Did not my mother write to you?" "Yes! she wrote to me! kind things, truly, to write to a poor unfortunate man, an exile from his native land, one, at least, who never injured you!" "But Renzo! Renzo! since you knew--why come, why?" "Why come! O Lucy! why come, do you say! After so many promises! Are we no longer the same! Is all forgotten?" "O God!" cried Lucy, sorrowfully clasping her hands, and raising her eyes to heaven; "why didst thou not take me to thyself! O Renzo! what have you done! Alas! I hoped----that with time----I should have driven from my memory----" "A kind hope indeed! and to say so to me!" "Oh! what have you done! in this place! in the midst of these sorrows! Here, where there is nothing but death, you have dared----" "We must pray to God for those who die, and trust that they will be happy; but their calamity is no reason why those who live must live in despair----" "But Renzo! Renzo! you know not what you say; a promise to the Virgin! a vow!" "I tell you, such promises are good for nothing." "Oh! where have you been all this time? with whom have you associated, that you speak thus?" "I speak as a good Christian. I think better of the Virgin than you do, because I do not believe vows to the injury of others are acceptable to her. If the Virgin had spoken herself, oh! then indeed----but it is simply an idea of your own!" "No, no, you know not what you say; you know not what it is to make a vow! Leave me, leave me, for the love of Heaven!" "Lucy!" said Renzo, "tell me at least, tell me, if this reason did not exist----would you feel the same towards me?" "Unfeeling man!" said Lucy, with difficulty restraining her tears; "would it satisfy you to hear me confess that which might be sinful, and would certainly be useless! Leave me, oh! leave me! forget me! we were not destined for each other. We shall meet again above; we have not long to remain in the world. Go! tell my mother that I am cured, that even here God has assisted me, that I have found a good soul, this worthy woman who has been a mother to me; tell her we shall meet _when_ it is the will of God, and _as_ it is his will. Go! for the love of Heaven! and remember me no more----except when you pray to God!" And as if wishing to withdraw from the temptation to prolong the conversation, she drew near the bed where the female was lying of whom she had spoken. "Hear me, Lucy, hear me!" said Renzo, without however approaching her. "No, no; go away! for charity!" "Hear me, Father Christopher----" "How!" "He is here." "Here! where? how do you know?" "I have just spoken with him; a man like him it appears to me----" "He is here! to assist the afflicted, no doubt. Has he had the plague?" "Ah! Lucy! I fear, I greatly fear----" As Renzo hesitated to utter his fears, she had unconsciously again approached him, with a look of anxious enquiry----"I fear he has it now!" "Oh! poor man! But what do I say? poor man! he is rich, rich in the favour of God! How is he? Is he confined to his bed? Has he assistance?" "He is, on the contrary, still assisting others----but if you were to see him! Alas! there can be no mistake!" "Oh! is he indeed within these walls?" said Lucy. "Here, and not far off; hardly farther than from your cottage to mine----if you remember----" "Oh! most holy Virgin!" "Shall I tell you what he said to me? He said I did well to come in search of you, that God would approve it, and that he would assist me to find you----Thus, then, you see----" "If he spoke thus, it was because he did not know--" "What use would there be in his knowing a mere imagination of your own? A man of sense, such as he is, never thinks of things of that sort. But oh! Lucy! Shall I tell you what I have seen?"----And he related his visit to the cabin. Lucy, although familiarised in this abode of horrors to spectacles of wretchedness and despair, was shocked at the recital. "And at the side of that bed," said Renzo, "if you could have heard the holy man! He said, that God has perhaps resolved to look in mercy on this unfortunate--(I can now give him no other name)--that he designs to subdue him to himself, but that he desires that we should pray together for him--together! do you understand?" "Yes, yes, we will pray each, there where the Lord shall place us. He can unite our prayers." "But if I tell you his very words----" "But, Renzo, he does not know----" "But can you not comprehend, when such a man speaks, it is God who speaks in him, and that he would not have spoken thus, if it ought not to be exactly so? And the soul of this unfortunate! I have prayed, and will pray for him; I have prayed with all my heart, as if he were my brother. But what, think you, will be his condition in the other world, if we do not repair some of the evil he has done? If you return to reason, all will be set in order. That which has been, has been--he has had his punishment here below----" "No, Renzo, no! God would not have us do evil that good may come. Leave to him the care of this unfortunate man; our duty is to pray for him. If I had died that fatal night, would not God have been able to pardon him? And if I am not dead, if I have been delivered----" "And your mother, poor Agnes, who desired so much to see us man and wife, has she not told you it was a foolish imagination?". "My mother! think you my mother would advise me to break a vow? Would you desire that she should? But, Renzo, you are not in your right mind!" "Oh! you women cannot be made to comprehend reason! Father Christopher told me to return, and inform him whether I had found you--I will go, and get his advice----" "Yes, yes, go to the holy man! Tell him I pray for him, and that I desire his prayers! But, for the love of Heaven! for your soul's sake, and for mine, do not return here, to trouble, to----tempt me! Father Christopher will explain matters to you, and make you return to yourself; he will set your heart at rest." "My heart at rest! Oh! don't encourage an idea of that sort! You have, before now, caused such language to be written to me! and the suffering it caused me! and now you have the heart to tell it to me! As for me, I declare to you plainly, that I will never set my heart at rest. Lucy! you have told me to forget you; forget you! how can I do it? After so many trials! so many promises! Who have I thought of ever since we parted? Is it because I have suffered, that you treat me thus? because I have been unfortunate? because the world has persecuted me? because I have been so long away from you? because the first moment I was able, I came to seek you?" "Oh! holy Virgin!" exclaimed Lucy, as the tears flowed from her eyes, "come to my help. You have aided me hitherto; aid me now. Since that night such a moment as this have I never passed." "Yes, Lucy, you do well to invoke the Virgin. She is the mother of compassion, and will take no pleasure in our sufferings. But, if this is an excuse--if I have become odious to you--tell me, speak frankly----" "For pity, Renzo, for pity, stop--stop. Do not make me die. Go to Father Christopher; commend me to him. Do not return here--do not return here." "I go, but think not I will not return. I would return from the end of the world; yes, I would return!" and he disappeared. Lucy threw herself on the floor near the bed, upon which she rested her head, and wept bitterly. The good woman, who had been a silent spectator of the painful scene, demanded the cause of her anguish and her tears? But, perhaps, the reader will wish to know something of this benevolent person: we will satisfy the desire in a few words. She was a rich tradeswoman, about thirty years of age: she had beheld her husband and children die of the plague. Attacked by it herself, she had been brought to the lazaretto, and placed in the cabin with Lucy, who was just beginning to recover her senses, which had forsaken her from the commencement of her attack in the house of Don Ferrante. The humble roof could only accommodate two guests, and there grew up, in their affliction, a strict and intimate friendship between them. They derived great consolation from each other's society, and had pledged themselves not to separate, after quitting the lazaretto. The good woman, whose wealth was now far more ample than were her desires, wished to retain Lucy with her as a daughter: the proposition was received with gratitude, and accepted, on condition of the permission and approval of Agnes. Lucy had, however, never made known to her the circumstances of her intended marriage, and her other extraordinary adventures; but now she related, as distinctly as tears permitted her to do so, her sad story. Meanwhile Renzo went in search of Father Christopher: he found him with no small difficulty, and engaged in administering consolation to a dying man. The scene was soon closed. The father remained a short time in silent prayer. He then arose, and seeing Renzo approach, exclaimed, "Well, my son!" "She is there; I have found her!" "In what state?" "Convalescent, and out of danger." "God be praised!" said the friar. "But----" said Renzo, "there is another difficulty!" "What do you mean?" "I mean that----you know how good this poor girl is; but she is sometimes a little fanciful. After so many promises, she tells me now she cannot marry me, because on that night of fear she made a vow to the Virgin! These things signify nothing, do they? Is it not true that they are not binding, at least on people such as we are?" "Is she far from this?" "Oh no; a few steps beyond the church." "Wait a moment," said the friar, "and we will go together." "Will you give her to understand that----?" "I know not, my son: I must hear what she will say." And they proceeded to Lucy's cabin. The clouds were gathering in the heavens, and a tempest coming on. Rapid lightning, cleaving the increasing darkness, illumined at moments the long roofs and arcades of the building, and the cupola of the little church: loud claps of thunder resounded with prolonged echoes through the heavens. Renzo suppressed his impatience, and accommodated his steps to the strength of the father, who, exhausted by fatigue, oppressed by disease, and breathing in pain, could, with difficulty, drag his failing limbs to the performance of this last act of benevolence. As they reached the door of the cabin, Renzo stopped, saying, in a trembling voice, "She is there!" They entered. Lucy arose, and ran towards the old man, crying--"Oh, what I do see! Oh, Father Christopher!" "Well, Lucy! through how much peril has God preserved you! you must be rejoiced that you have always trusted in Him." "Ah! yes.--But you, my father! how you are changed! how do you feel? say, how are you?" "As God wills, and as, through his grace, I will also," replied the friar, with a serene countenance. Drawing her aside, he said, "Hear me, I have but a few moments to spare. Are you disposed to confide in me, as in times past?" "Oh, are you not still my father?" "Well, my child, what is this vow of which Renzo speaks?" "It is a vow I made to the Virgin never to marry." "But did you forget that you were bound by a previous promise? God, my daughter, accepts of offerings from that which is our own. It is the heart he desires, the will; but you cannot offer the will of another to whom you had pledged yourself." "I have done wrong." "No, poor child, think not so; I believe the holy Virgin has accepted the intention of your afflicted heart, and has offered it to God for you. But tell me, did you ask the advice of any one about this matter?" "I did not deem it a sin, or I would have confessed it, and the little good one does, one ought not to mention." "Have you no other motive for preventing the fulfilment of your promise to Renzo?" "As to that----for myself----what motive?--no other," replied Lucy, with a hesitation which implied any thing rather than uncertainty; and a blush passed over her pale and lovely countenance. "Do you believe," resumed the old man, "that God has given the church authority to remit the obligations that man may have contracted to him?" "Yes, I believe it." "Learn, then, that the care of souls in this place, being committed to us, we have the most ample powers from the church; and I can, if you ask it, free you from the obligation you have contracted by this vow." "But is it not a sin to repent of a promise made to the Virgin?" said Lucy, violently agitated by unexpected hope. "Sin, my child," said the father, "sin, to recur to the church, and to ask her minister to use the authority which he has received from her, and which she receives from God! I bless him that he has given me, unworthy that I am, the power to speak in his name, and to restore to you your vow. If you ask me to absolve you from it, I shall not hesitate to do so; and I even hope you will." "Then--then--I ask it," said Lucy, with a modest confidence. The friar beckoned to Renzo, who was watching the progress of the dialogue with the deepest solicitude, to approach, and said aloud to Lucy, "With the authority I hold from the church, I declare you absolved from your vow, and liberate you from all the obligations you may have contracted by it." The reader may imagine the feelings of Renzo at these words. His eyes expressed the warmth of his gratitude to him who had uttered them; but they sought in vain for Lucy's. "Return in peace and safety to your former attachment," said the father. "And do you remember, my son, that in giving you this companion, the church does it not to insure simply your temporal happiness, but to prepare you both for happiness without end. Thank Heaven that you have been brought to this state through misery and affliction: your joy will be the more temperate and durable. If God should grant you children, bring them up in his fear, and in love to all men--for the rest you cannot greatly err. And now, Lucy, has Renzo told you whom he has beheld in this place?" "Yes, father, he has told me." "You will pray for him, and for me also, my children. You will remember your poor friar?" And drawing from his basket a small wooden box, "Within this box are the remains of the loaf--the first I asked for charity--the loaf of which you have heard; I leave it to you; show it to your children; they will come into a wicked world; they will meet the proud and insolent. Tell them always to forgive, always! every thing, every thing! And let them pray for the poor friar!" Lucy took the box from his hands with reverence, and he continued, "Now tell me what you mean to do here at Milan? and who will conduct you to your mother?" "This good lady has been a mother to me," said Lucy; "we shall leave this place together, and she will provide for all." "May God bless her!" said the friar, approaching the bed. "May he bestow his blessing upon you!" said the widow, "for the joy you have given to the afflicted, although it disappoints my hope of having Lucy as a companion. But I will accompany her to her village, and restore her to her mother, and," added she, in a low voice, "I will give the outfit. I have much wealth, and of those who should have enjoyed it with me none are left." "The service will be acceptable to God," said the father, "who has watched over you both in affliction. Now," added he, turning to Renzo, "we must begone; I have remained too long already." "Oh, my father," said Lucy, "shall I see you again? I have recovered from this dreadful disease, I who am of no use in the world; and you----" "It is long since," replied the old man with a serious and gentle tone, "I asked a great favour from Heaven; that of ending my days in the service of my fellow-men. If God grants it to me now, all those who love me should help me to return him thanks. And now give Renzo your commissions for your mother." "Tell her all," said Lucy to her betrothed; "tell her I have found here another mother, and that we will come to her as soon as we possibly can." "If you have need of money," said Renzo, "I have here all that you sent----" "No, no," said the widow, "I have more than sufficient." "Farewell, Lucy, and you, too, good signora, till we meet again," said Renzo, not having words to express his feelings at this moment. "Who knows whether we shall all meet again?" cried Lucy. "May God ever watch over you and bless you!" said the friar, as he quitted the cabin with Renzo. As night was not far distant, the capuchin offered the young man a shelter in his humble abode: "I cannot bear you company," said he, "but you can at least repose yourself, in order to be able to prosecute your journey." Renzo, however, felt impatient to be gone; as to the hour or the weather it might be said that, night or day, rain or shine, heat or cold, were equally indifferent to him; the friar pressed his hand as he departed, saying, "If you find, which may God grant! the good Agnes, remember me to her; tell her, as well as all those who remember Friar Christopher, to pray for me." "Oh, dear father, shall we never meet again?" "Above, I hope. Farewell, farewell!" CHAPTER XXXVI. As Renzo passed without the walls of the lazaretto, the rain began to fall in torrents. Instead of lamenting, he rejoiced at it: he was delighted with the refreshing air, and with the sound of the falling drops from the plants and foliage which seemed to have new life imparted to them; and breathing more freely in this change of nature, he felt more vividly the change that had occurred in his own destiny. But much would his enjoyment have been increased, could he have surmised what would be seen a few days after. This water carried off, washed away, so to speak, the contagion. If the lazaretto did not restore to the living all the living it still contained, at least from that day it received no more into its vast abyss. At the end of a week, shops were opened, people returned to their houses, quarantine was hardly spoken of, and there remained of the pestilence but a few scattered traces. Our traveller proceeded on full of joy, without having thought _where_ or _when_ he should stop for the night; anxious only to go forward to reach the village, and to proceed immediately to Pasturo in search of Agnes. In the midst of the reminiscences of the horrors and the dangers of the day, there was always present the thought, "I have found her! she is well! she is mine!" And then again he recalled his doubts, his difficulties, his fears, his hopes, that had agitated him that eventful morning! He fancied himself with his hand on the knocker of Don Ferrante's house! And the unfavourable answer! And then those fools who were about to attack him in their madness! And the lazaretto, that vast sepulchre! To have hurried thither to find her, and to have found her! And the procession! What a moment! And now it appeared nothing to him! And the quarter set apart for the women! And there, behind that cabin when he least expected it, that voice! that voice itself! And to see her there! But then her vow! It exists no longer. And his violent hatred against Don Roderick, which had augmented his grief, and shed its venom over his hopes! That also was gone. Indeed, had it not been for his uncertainty concerning Agnes, his anxiety about Father Christopher, and the consciousness that the pestilence still existed, his happiness would have been without alloy. He arrived at Sesto in the evening; the rain had as yet no appearance of ceasing. But Renzo did not stop, his only inconvenience was an extraordinary appetite, which the vicinity of a baker's shop enabled him to mitigate the violence of. When he passed through Monza it was dark night; he succeeded, however, in leaving it by the right road; but what a road! buried between two banks, almost like the bed of a river, it might then, indeed, have been called a river, or rather, an aqueduct; in numerous places were deep holes, from which Renzo could with difficulty extricate himself. But he did as well as he could, without impatience or regret. He reflected that every step brought him nearer to the end of his journey; that the rain would cease when God should please; that day would come in its own time; and that in the mean time the road he had passed over he should not have to travel again. At the break of day he found himself near the Adda. It had not ceased raining; there was still a drizzling shower; the light of the dawn enabled Renzo to see around him. He was in his own country! Who can express his sensations? Those mountains, the _Resegone_, the territory of Lecco, appeared to belong to him, to be his own! But, looking at himself, he felt that his outward aspect was rather at variance with the exuberant joyousness of his heart; his clothes were wet and clinging to his body, his hat bent out of shape and full of water; his hair hanging straight about his face; while his lower man was encased in a dense covering of mud. He reached Pescate; travelled along the Adda, giving a melancholy glance at Pescarenico; passed the bridge, and crossed the fields, to the house of his friend, who, just risen, was at the door, looking out upon the weather. He beheld the strange figure, covered with mud, and wet to the skin, and yet, so joyous and animated! in his life he had never seen a man, so accoutred, appear so satisfied with himself. "How!" said he, "already here! and in such weather! How have things gone with you?" "She is there! she is there! she is there!" "Well and safe?" "Convalescent, which is better! I have wonderful things to tell you." "But what a state you are in!" "A pretty pickle indeed!" "In truth you might squeeze water enough from your upper half to wash away the mud from the lower. But wait a moment; I will make a fire." "I shall be glad to feel its warmth, I assure you. Do you know where the rain overtook me? Precisely at the door of the lazaretto; but no matter, the weather does its business, and I mine." His friend soon kindled a bright blaze. "Now do me another favour," said Renzo, "bring me the bundle I left above; for before my clothes dry----" Returning with the bundle, his friend said, "You must be hungry; you have had drink enough, no doubt, on the way, but as to eating----" "I bought two loaves yesterday at dusk, but truly, I have not eaten them." "Well, I will provide for you." He poured some water in a kettle which hung over the fire, adding, "I will go and milk the cow, and when I return with the milk, the water will be ready, and we will have a good _polenta_. You, in the mean while, change your clothes." After having allowed him time to perform the troublesome operation, his friend returned, and commenced making the _polenta_. "I have much to tell you," said Renzo. "If you were to see Milan! and the lazaretto! She is there! you will soon see her here; she will be my wife; you shall be at the wedding, and, pestilence or not, we will be happy for a few hours." On the following morning Renzo set out for Pasturo. On his arrival, he asked concerning Agnes, and learnt that she was in health and safety. He approached her residence, which had been pointed out to him, and called her by name from the street. At the sound of his voice, she rushed to the window, and Renzo, without allowing her time to speak, cried, "Lucy is well; I saw her the day before yesterday; she will be at home shortly; oh, I have so many things to tell you." Overcome by various emotions, Agnes could only articulate, "I will open the door for you." "Stop, stop," said Renzo. "You have not had the plague, I believe?" "No. Have you?" "Yes; but you ought to be prudent. I come from Milan; and have been for two days in the midst of it. It is true I have changed my clothes, but the contagion attaches itself to the flesh, like witchcraft; and since God has preserved you until now, you must take care of yourself until all danger is over; for you are our mother, and I trust we shall live long together as a compensation for the sufferings we have endured, _I_ at least." "But----" "There is no longer any _but_; I know what you would say. You will soon see there is no longer any _but_; come into the open air, where I may speak to you in safety, and I will tell you all about it." Agnes pointed to a garden adjoining the house. Renzo entered it, and was immediately joined by the anxious and impatient Agnes. They seated themselves opposite each other on two benches. The events he described are already known to our reader, and we will leave to his imagination the numerous exclamations of grief, horror, surprise, and joy, that interrupted the progress of the narrative every moment. The result, however, was an agreement to settle all together at Bergamo, where Renzo had already an advantageous engagement; _when_ would depend on the pestilence and other circumstances; Agnes was to remain where she was, until it should be safe for her to return home; and in the interval she should have regular information of all their movements. He departed, with the additional consolation of having found one so dear to him safe and well. He remained the rest of that day and the following night with his friend, and on the morrow set out for the country of his adoption. He found Bortolo in good health, and in less apprehension of losing it, as within a few days things had rapidly changed for the better. The malignity of the distemper had subsided, and given place to fever indeed, accompanied with tumours, but much more easily cured. The country presented a new aspect; those who had survived the pestilence began to resume their business; masters were preparing for the employment of workmen in every trade; and, above all, in that of weaving silk. Renzo made some preparations for the accommodation of his family, by purchasing and furnishing a neat little cottage, from his hitherto untouched treasure, which the ravages of the plague enabled him to do at small cost. After a few days' stay, he returned by the way of Pasturo, and conducted Agnes to her village home: we will not attempt to describe her feelings at beholding again those well remembered places. She found all things in her cottage as she had left them: it seemed as if angels had watched over the poor widow and her child. Her first care was to get ready with all speed an apartment in her humble abode for that kind friend who had been to her child a second mother. Renzo, on his side, was not idle. He laboured alternately at the widow's garden, and in the service of his hospitable friend. As to his own cottage, it pained him to witness the scene of desolation it presented; and he resolved to dispose of it, and transfer its value to his new country. His re-appearance in the village was a cause of much congratulation to those who had survived the plague. All were anxious to learn his adventures, which had given rise to so many reports among the neighbours. As to Don Abbondio, he exhibited the same apprehension of the marriage as before; the mention of which conjured up to his affrighted fancy the dreaded Don Roderick and his train on the one side, and the almost equally feared cardinal and his arguments on the other. We will now transport the reader for a few moments to Milan. Some days after the visit of Renzo to the lazaretto, Lucy left it with the good widow. A general quarantine having been ordered, they passed the period of it together in the house of the latter. The time was employed in preparing Lucy's wedding clothes; and, the quarantine terminated, they set off on their journey. We could add, _they arrived_, but, notwithstanding our desire to yield to the impatience of the reader, there are three circumstances which we must not pass over in silence. The first is, that while Lucy was relating her adventures more minutely to the good widow, she recurred to the signora, who had afforded her an asylum, in the convent of Monza, and in return learnt many things which afforded her the solution to numerous mysteries, and filled her with sorrow and astonishment. She learnt, too, that the unfortunate signora, falling afterwards under the most horrible suspicions, had been, by order of the cardinal, transferred to a convent at Milan; that there, after having given herself up for a time to rage and despair, she had at last made her confession and repented of her crimes; and that her present life was one of severe and voluntary penance. If any one desires to know the details of her sad history, it will be found in the author we have so often quoted.[36] [36] Ripamonti. The second is, that Lucy, making enquiries concerning Father Christopher, of every capuchin from the lazaretto, learnt with more grief than surprise that he had died of the pestilence. And the third is, that before quitting Milan, Lucy had a desire to know something concerning her former patrons. The widow accompanied her to their house, where they were informed that both had died of the plague. When we say of Donna Prassede she _died_, we have said all that is necessary; not so with Don Ferrante, he deserves a little more of our attention, considering his learning. From the commencement of the pestilence, Don Ferrante was one of the most resolute in denying its existence, not indeed like the multitude, with cries of rage, but with arguments which none could accuse of want of concatenation. "In _rerum natura_," said he, "there are but two kinds of things, substances and accidents; and if I prove that the contagion can neither be one nor the other of these I shall have proved that it does not exist; that it is a chimera. Thus, then: substances are either material or spiritual; that the contagion is a spiritual substance, is so absurd an opinion, that no one would presume to advance it; it is, then, useless to speak of it. Material substances are either simple or compound. Now, the contagion is not a simple substance, and I will prove it in three words. It is not an aerial substance, because, if it were, instead of passing from one body to another, it would fly off to its sphere; it is not a watery substance, because it would be dried up by the wind; it is not igneous, because it would burn; it is not earthy, because it would be visible. Moreover, it is not a compound substance, because it would be sensible to the eye, or to the touch; and who has seen it? or touched it? It remains to see if it be an accident. This is still less probable. The doctors say it is communicated from body to body; this is their Achilles; the pretext for so many useless regulations. Now, supposing it an accident, it would be a transferable accident, which is an incongruity. There is not in all philosophy a more evident thing than this, that an accident cannot pass from one subject to another; so if, to avoid this Scylla, they are reduced to call it an accident produced, they avoid Scylla by falling into Charybdis, because if it be produced, it does not communicate itself, it does not propagate, as they declare. These principles allowed, what is the use of talking of botches and carbuncles?" "It is folly," said one of his hearers. "No, no," resumed Don Ferrante, "I do not say so. Science is science; we must only know how to employ it. Swellings, purple botches, and black carbuncles, are respectable terms, which have a good and proper signification; but I say they have nothing to do with the question. Who denies that there may be and are such things? We must only prove whence they come." Here began the vexations of Don Ferrante. So long as he laughed at the contagion, he found respectful and attentive listeners; but when he came to distinguish and demonstrate that the error of the doctors was, not in affirming that there existed a general and terrible disease, but rather in assigning its cause, then he found them intractable and rebellious, then he no longer dared expose his doctrine, but by shreds and patches. "Here is the true reason," said he, "and those even who maintain other fancies are obliged to acknowledge it. Let them deny, if they can, that there is a fatal conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn. And when has it been said that influences propagate? And would these gentlemen deny the existence of influences? Will they say there are no planets? or will they say that they keep up above, doing nothing, as so many pins in a pincushion? But that which I cannot understand from these doctors is, that they confess we are under so malign a conjunction, and then they tell us, don't touch this, don't touch that, and you will be safe! as if, in avoiding the material contact of terrestrial bodies, we could prevent the virtual effect of celestial bodies. And such a work in burning rags! Poor people! will you burn Jupiter? will you burn Saturn?" _His fretus_, that is to say, on these grounds, he took no precautions against the pestilence; he caught it, and died, like Metastasio's hero, complaining of the stars. CHAPTER XXXVII. One fine evening Agnes heard a carriage drive up to the door of her cottage. It was Lucy and the good widow. We can easily imagine the joy of the meeting. The following morning Renzo made his appearance, at an early hour, little expecting to find Lucy with her mother. "How are you, Renzo?" said Lucy, with downcast eyes, and in a tone--oh how different from that with which she addressed all besides! Renzo was conscious that it was meant for him alone. "I am always well when I see you," replied the young man. "Our poor Father Christopher," said Lucy, "pray for his soul, although we may be almost sure he is now in heaven, praying for us." "I expected no less," said Renzo mournfully, "I expected to hear that he was taken away from this world of sorrow and trouble." Notwithstanding the sadness of their recollections, joy was the predominant feeling of their hearts. The good widow was an agreeable addition to the little company. When Renzo saw her in the miserable cabin at the lazaretto, he could not have believed her to be of so facile and gay a disposition; but the lazaretto and the country, death and a wedding, are not at all the same things. During the evening Renzo left them, for the purpose of visiting the curate. "Signor Curate," said he, with a respectful but jocular air, "the headache, which, you said, prevented you from marrying us, has it passed off? The bride is here, and I am come to have you appoint an hour, but, I pray you, not to let it be far distant." Don Abbondio did not say he would not; but he began to offer excuses and insinuations. "Why come forward into public view with this order for his apprehension hanging over him? and the thing could be easily done elsewhere, and then this, and then that." "I understand," said Renzo, "you have still a little pain in your head, but listen to me." And he described the state in which he had seen Don Roderick. "That has nothing to do with us," said Don Abbondio. "Did I say no to you? However, while there is life there is hope, you know. Look at me; I have also been nearer the other world than this, and here I am nevertheless; and if new troubles do not fall upon me, I hope to remain here a little longer." The conversation was prolonged some time, without coming to any satisfactory conclusion, and Renzo returned home to relate it. "I came off," said he, "because I feared I should lose all patience. At times he behaved exactly as he did before, and I verily believe if I had remained a little longer, he would have spoken Latin again. I see that all this portends a tedious business. It would be better to do as he says, and go and be married where we intend to live." "Let us go and see what we can do," said the widow, "perhaps he will be more tractable to the ladies." They followed this advice, and in the afternoon proceeded to the parsonage. The curate evinced much pleasure on seeing Lucy and Agnes, and much politeness towards the stranger. He endeavoured to divert the discourse from that which he knew to be the purport of their visit. He begged from Lucy a recital of all her woes, and availed himself of the account of the lazaretto to draw the stranger into the conversation. He then expatiated on his own miseries, which he detailed at full length. The pause so long watched for came at last. One of the widows broke the ice; but Don Abbondio was no longer the same man; he did not say _no_; but he returned to his doubts and his difficulties, jumping like a bird from branch to branch. "It would be necessary," said he, "to get free from this unlucky order. You, signora, who live at Milan, you ought to know the course of these things; if we had the protection of some powerful man, all wounds would be healed. After all, the shortest way would be to have the ceremony performed where these young people are going, and where this proscription cannot affect them. Here, with this order, which is known to every one, to utter from the altar the name of Lorenzo Tramaglino is a thing I should be very unwilling to do. I wish him too well; it would be rendering him an ill service." While Agnes and the widow were endeavouring to reply to these reasons, which the subtle curate as often reproduced under another form, Renzo entered the room, with the air of one bringing important intelligence, "The Lord Marquis *** has arrived!" said he. "What do you mean? arrived! where?" said Don Abbondio, rising. "He has arrived at his castle, which was Don Roderick's: he is the heir by feoffment of trust, as they say. So that there is no longer a doubt on the subject. And as to the marquis, he is a most worthy man." "That he is," said Don Abbondio; "I have often heard him spoken of as an excellent lord. But is it really true that----" "Will you believe your sexton?" "Why----" "Because he saw him with his own eyes. Will you hear Ambrose? I made him wait without expressly." Renzo called the sexton, who confirmed the intelligence. "Ah, he is dead then! he is really gone!" said Don Abbondio. "You see, my children, the hand of Providence. It is a happy thing for this poor country: we could not live with this man. The plague has been a great scourge, but it has also been, as it were, a serviceable broom; it has swept off certain people, of whom, my children, we could never have delivered ourselves. In the twinkling of an eye they have disappeared by the hundred. We shall no longer see him wandering about with that haughty air, followed by his cut throats, and looking at every body as if they were all placed on earth for his pleasure. He is gone, and we are still here! He will send no more messages to honest people. He has made us all pass a sad life; and now we are at liberty to say so." "I pardon him," said Renzo, "with all my heart." "And you do well; it is your duty; but we may also thank Heaven for delivering us from him. Now, if you wish to be married, I am ready. As to the _order for your seizure_, that is of little importance; the plague has carried off that too. If you choose--to-day is Thursday--on Sunday, I will publish the banns, and then I shall have the happiness of uniting you." "You know we came for that purpose," said Renzo. "Very well; and I will send word of it to his Eminence." "Who is his Eminence?" asked Agnes. "His Eminence? our lord cardinal archbishop, whom may God preserve!" "Oh, as to that, you are mistaken; I can tell you they do not call him so, because the second time we went to speak with him, one of the priests drew me aside, and told me I must call him your illustrious lordship, and my lord." "And now, if that same priest were to tell you, he would say you must call him _Your Eminence_; the pope has ordered, that this title be given to the cardinals. And do you know why? Because _Most Illustrious_ was assumed by so many people who had no right to it. By and by, they will call the bishops _Your Eminence_, then the abbots will claim it, then the canons----" "And the curates," said the widow. "No, no, let the curates alone for that; they will be only _Your Reverence_ to the end of the world. But to return to our affairs. On Sunday, I will publish the banns at the church, and obtain, in the mean time, a dispensation for omitting the two other publications. There will be plenty of similar applications, if things go on elsewhere as they do here; the fire has taken; no one will wish to live alone, I imagine; I have already three marriages on hand besides yours; what a pity Perpetua is dead, she might find a husband! And at Milan, signora, I imagine it is the same thing." "Yes, indeed. In my parish alone there were fifty marriages last Sunday." "Well, the world wo'n't end yet. And you, signora, has no butterfly begun to fly around you?" "No, no, I think not of it; I do not mean to think of it." "Oh, yes, yes; would you be alone indeed? Agnes also, Agnes also----" "You have a mind to jest," said Agnes. "To be sure I have; it is high time. We may hope that the few days that remain to us will be less sad. As for me, poor old man! there is no remedy for years, as they say, _Senectus ipsa est morbus_." "Oh, now," said Renzo, "you may speak Latin as much as you like; I don't care about it now." "You still quarrel with Latin, do you? Well, I will not forget you. When you come before me with Lucy, to pronounce some little words in Latin, I will say to you, You do not like Latin, go in peace. Eh?" "Ah, it is not that Latin I dislike, pure and holy like that of the mass; I speak of the Latin which falls on one as a traitor, in the very midst of conversation. For example, now that we are here, and all is past, the Latin you spoke there, in that corner, to make me understand that you could not, and----I know not what. Tell me now in language I can understand, will you?" "Hush! you mischievous fellow, hush!" said Don Abbondio. "Do not stir up old grievances: if we were to settle our accounts, I do not know which of us would be in debt to the other. I have forgiven you, but you also played me an ill turn. As for you, it did not astonish me, because you are a good-for-nothing fellow; but I speak of this silent--this little saint; one would have thought it a sin to distrust her. But I know who advised her; I know I do," added he, pointing to Agnes. It is impossible to describe the change which had come over him. His mind, so long the slave of continual apprehension, was now emancipated from its fetters, and his tongue, liberated from its bonds, recurred to its former habits. He playfully prolonged the conversation, even following them to the door, with some parting jest. The following morning, Don Abbondio received a visit, as agreeable as it was unexpected, from the lord marquis, whose appearance confirmed all that report had said of him. "I come," said he, "to bring you the salutations of the cardinal archbishop." "Oh, what condescension in both of you!" "When I took leave of that incomparable man, who honours me with his friendship, he spoke to me of two young people of this parish who have suffered much from the unfortunate Don Roderick. My lord wishes to hear of them. Are they living? Are their affairs settled?" "Their affairs are settled; and I had thought of writing to his Eminence about it, but now that I have the honour----" "Are they here?" "Yes; and as soon as possible, they will be man and wife." "I request you to tell me what I can do for them, and the best manner of doing it. You will render me a service by enabling me to dispose of some of my superfluous wealth for their benefit." "May Heaven reward you! I thank you in the name of my children," said Don Abbondio; "and since your lordship allows me, I have an expedient to suggest which perhaps will not displease you. These good people have resolved to establish themselves elsewhere, and to sell the little that belongs to them here. The best charity you can render them, is to buy their property, as otherwise it will be sold for little or nothing. But your lordship will decide, I have spoken in obedience to your commands." The marquis thanked Don Abbondio, telling him he should leave it to him to fix the price, and to do so entirely to their advantage, as it was an object with him to make the amount as large as possible. He then proposed that they should go together to the cottage of Lucy. On their way, Don Abbondio, quite overjoyed continued the conversation,--"Since your lordship is so disposed to benefit this people, there is another service you can render them. The young man has an order for his apprehension out against him, for some folly he committed two years ago at Milan, on the day of the great Tumult. A recommendation, a word, from a man like yourself, might hereafter be of service to him." "Are there not heavy charges against him?" "They made a great deal of noise about it; but really there was nothing in it." "Well, well; I will take it upon myself to free him from all embarrassment." We may imagine the surprise of our little company, at a visit from such a guest. He entered agreeably into conversation with them and after a while, made his proposal. Don Abbondio, being requested by him to fix the price, did so; the purchaser said he was well satisfied, and, if he had not understood him, in repeating it, doubled the sum. He would not hear of rectifying the mistake, and ended the conversation by inviting the company to dinner the day after the wedding, when the affair could be settled with every necessary formality. "Ah!" thought Don Abbondio when he returned home, "if the pestilence acted everywhere with so much discrimination, it would be a pity to speak ill of it. We should want one every generation." The happy day at length arrived. The betrothed went to the church where they were united by Don Abbondio. The day after, the wedding party made their visit at the castle. We will leave the reader to imagine their reflections on entering those walls! In the midst of their joy, however, they felt that the presence of the good Father Christopher was wanting to complete it. "But," said Lucy, "he is even happier than we are, assuredly." The contract was drawn up by a doctor, but not _Azzecca Garbugli_! He was gone to _Canterelli_. For those who are not of this country, an explanation of this expression may be necessary. About half a mile above Lecco, and nearly on the borders of the other territory, called Castello, is _Canterelli_. This was a spot where two roads cross. Near the point of junction there is a small eminence, an artificial hill, surmounted by a cross. This was a heap of bodies, dead of this epidemic. It is true, tradition simply says, _the dead of the epidemic_; but it must have been this one, as it was the last, and most severe within the memory of man: and we know that tradition says very little of itself, unless we render it some assistance. On their return, no other inconvenience was felt, than the weight of the money which Renzo had to sustain. However, he did not look upon this as one of the greatest hardships he had had to encounter. There was, however, one matter which perplexed him not a little. How should he employ it? Should it be in agriculture? Should it be in business? Or why choose at all? Were not both in turn, like one's legs, better than either singly? It will be asked, Did they feel no regrets on quitting their native village--their native mountains? Don Roderick and his wretched agents could no longer disturb them. Regrets they did feel; but the old recollections of happiness enjoyed amidst its scenes, had been greatly weakened by recent distresses and apprehensions, and new hopes had arisen connected with their new country; so that they could look to their change of abode without any feelings of grief. The little company now thought only of preparing for their journey,--the _Tramaglino_ family to their new country, and the widow to Milan. Many tears were shed, many thanks given, and many promises to meet again. The separation of Renzo and the friend who had treated him so hospitably, was not less tender. Neither did they part coldly from Don Abbondio: they had always preserved a certain respect for their curate, and he, in his heart, had always wished them well. It is these unfortunate affairs of the world which perplex our affections. But who would believe that, in this new abode, where Renzo had expected such happiness, he should find only vexation! This was the result of trifles, doubtless; but it requires so little to disturb a state of happiness in this life! The reports the Bergamascans had heard of Lucy, together with Renzo's extraordinary attachment to her--perhaps, too, the representations of some partial friend--had contributed to excite an extravagant idea of her beauty. When Lucy appeared, they began to shrug their shoulders, and say, "Is this the woman? We expected something very different! What is she, after all? A peasant, like a thousand others! Women like her, and fairer than she, are to be found every where!" Unfortunately, some kind friends told Renzo these things, perhaps added to what they had heard, and roused his indignation. "And what consequence is it to you?" said he. "Who told you what to expect? Did I ever do so? Did I tell you she was beautiful? She is a peasant, forsooth! Did I ever say I would bring a princess here? She does not please you. Do not look at her, then: you have beautiful women; look at them." Thus did he make himself unhappy; and believing that all were disposed to criticise his Lucy, he showed ill nature in return. It would have gone ill with him, if he had been condemned to remain in the place; but fortune smiled on him in this respect. The master of another manufactory, situated near the gates of Bergamo, being dead, the inheritor of it, a young libertine, was willing to sell it half price, for ready money. Bortolo proposed to his cousin that they should make the purchase together. They did so; and when they entered into possession, Lucy was much pleased, and Renzo also, and not the less so for having heard that more than one person amongst his neighbours had said, "Have you seen this beautiful simpleton who is just come?" Their affairs now went on prosperously. Before the year was completed, a beautiful little creature made her appearance, as if to give them the earliest opportunity of fulfilling Lucy's vow. Be assured it was named Maria. In the course of time, they were surrounded by others of both sexes, whom Agnes was delighted to carry about one after the other, calling them little rogues, and loading them with kisses. They were all taught to read and write; "for," said Renzo, "as this notion is in the country, we may as well take advantage of it." It was highly pleasing to hear him relate his adventures: he always concluded by naming the great things he had learnt, by which to govern his conduct for the future. "I have learnt," said he, "not to mix in quarrels; not to preach in public; not to drink more than I want; not to keep my hand on the knocker of a door, when the inhabitants of the place are all crazy; not to tie a little bell to my feet, before I think of the consequences." "And I!" said Lucy, who thought that the doctrine of her moralist, though sound, was rather confused, and certainly incomplete--"what have I learnt?" said she. "I have not sought misfortunes, they have sought me. Unless you say," smiling affectionately, "that my error was in loving you, and promising myself to you." They settled the question, by deciding that misfortunes most commonly happen to us from our own misconduct or imprudence; but sometimes from causes independent of ourselves; that the most innocent and prudent conduct cannot always preserve us from them; and that, whether they arise from our own fault or not, trust in God softens them, and renders them useful in preparing us for a better life. Although this was said by poor peasants, it appears to us so just, that we offer it here as the moral of our story. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Original spelling, even where inconsistent, and punctuation have been preserved. Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Typographical errors corrected in the text (in brackets the original): 12 - the most excellent works o [part of word missing, "on" inserted] morals 21 - most excellent [excellen] lord Juan Fernandez 116 - Without [Witout] waiting for a reply 250 - union between [betwen] them 281 - and asks admittance [admiitance] 306 - Throughout [Thoughout] the village 325 - accepted with many thanks the kind [part of word missing, "kindness" inserted] 
52617	----	http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.) THE DECAMERON CONTAINING An hundred pleasant Novels. _Wittily discoursed, betweene seaven Honourable Ladies, and three Noble Gentlemen._ London, printed by Isaac Jaggard, 1620. The Epistle Dedicatory. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, SIR PHILLIP HERBERT, Knight of the Bath at the Coronation of our Soveraigne Lord King James, Lord Baron of Sherland, Earle of Montgomery, and Knight of the most Noble Order of the Garter, &c. _The Philosopher Zeno (Right Honourable, and my most worthily esteemed Lord) being demaunded on a time by what meanes a man might attaine to happinesse; made answere:_ By resorting to the dead, and having familiar conversation with them. _Intimating thereby:_ The reading of ancient and moderne Histories, and endeavouring to learne such good instructions, as have bene observed in our Predecessors. _A Question also was mooved by great King_ Ptolomy, _to one of the learned wise Interpreters. In what occasions a King should exercise himselfe, whereto thus hee replyed:_ To know those things which formerly have bin done: And to read Bookes of those matters which offer themselves dayly, or are fittest for our instant affaires. And lastly, in seeking those things whatsoever, that make for a Kingdomes preservation, and the correction of evill manners or examples. _Upon these good and warrantable grounds (most Noble Lord) beside many more of the same Nature, which I omit, to avoide prolixity, I dare boldly affirme, that such as are exercised in the reading of Histories, although they seeme to be but yong in yeares, and slenderly instructed in worldly matters: yet gravity and gray-headed age speaketh maturely in them, to the no meane admiration of common and vulgar judgement. As contrariwise, such as are ignorant of things done and past, before themselves had any being: continue still in the estate of children, able to speake or behave themselves no otherwise; and, even within the bounds of their Native Countries (in respect of knowledge or manly capacity) they are no more then well-seeming dumbe Images. In due consideration of the precedent allegations, and uppon the command, as also most Noble encouragement of your Honour from time to time; this Volume of singular and exquisite Histories, varied into so many and exact natures, appeareth in the worlds view, under your Noble patronage and defence, to be safely sheelded from foule-mouthed slander and detraction, which is too easily throwne upon the very best deserving labours. I know (most worthy Lord) that many of them have (long since) bene published before, as stolne from the first originall Author, and yet not beautified with his sweete stile and elocution of phrases, neither favouring of his singular morall applications. For, as it was his full scope and ayme, by discovering all Vices in their ugly deformities, to make their mortall enemies (the sacred Vertues) to shine the clearer, being set downe by them, and compared with them: so every true and upright judgement, in observing the course of these well-carried Novels, shall plainly perceive, that there is no spare made of reproofe in any degree whatsoever, where sin is embraced, and grace neglected; but the just deserving shame and punishment thereon inflicted, that others may be warned by their example. In imitation of witty_ Æsope; _who reciteth not a Fable, but graceth it with a judicious morall application; as many other worthy Writers have done the like. For instance, let me heere insert one. A poore man, having a pike staffe on his shoulder, and travailing thorow a Countrey Village, a great Mastive Curre ran mainly at him, so that hardly he could defend himselfe from him. At the length, it was his chance to kill the Dogge: for which, the Owner immediately apprehending him, and bringing him before the Judge, alledged, that he had slaine his servant, which defended his life, house, and goods, and therefore challenged satisfaction. The Judge leaning more in favour to the Plaintiffe, as being his friend, neighbour, and familiar, then to the justice and equity of the cause; reprooved the poore fellow somewhat sharpely, and peremptorily commanded him, to make satisfaction, or else he would commit him to prison. That were injustice replyed the poore man, because I kilde the dogge in defence of mine owne life, which deserveth much better respect then a million of such Curres. Sirra, sirra, saide the Judge, then you should have turned the other end of your staffe, and not the pike, so the dogges life had beene saved, and your owne in no danger. True Sir (quoth the fellow) if the dog would have turn'd his taile, and bit mee with that, and not his teeth, then we both had parted quietly. I know your honour to be so truly judicious, that your selfe can make the moral allusion, both in defence of my poore paines, and acceptation of the same into your protection: with most humble submission of my selfe, and all my uttermost endeavours, to bee alwayes ready at your service._ _The Authors Prologue, to the Lords, Ladies, and Gentlewomen._ It is a matter of humanity, to take compassion on the afflicted, and although it be fitting towards all in generall, yet to such as are most tied by bond of duty, who having already stood in neede of comfort, do therefore most needfully deserve to enjoy it. Among whom, if ever any were in necessity, found it most precious, and thereby received no small contentment, I am one of them; because from my verie yongest yeeres, even untill this instant: mine affections became extraordinarily enflamed, in a place high and Noble, more (perhaps) then beseemed my humble condition, albeit no way distasted in the judgement of such as were discreete, when it came truly to their knowledge and understanding. Yet (indeed) it was very painfull for me to endure, not in regard of her cruelty, whom I so deerely loved; as for want of better government in mine owne carriage; being altogether swayed by rash and peevish passions, which made my afflictions more offensive to mee, then either wisedome allowed, or suited with my private particular. But, as counsell in misery is no meane comfort, so the good advice of a worthy friend, by many sound and singular perswasions, wrought such a deliberate alteration; as not onely preserved my life (which was before in extreame perill) but also gave conclusion to my inconsiderate love, which in my precedent refractarie carriage, no deliberation, counsell, evident shame, or whatsoever perill should ensue thereon, could in any manner contradict; beganne to asswage of it selfe in time, bestowing not onely on me my former freedome; but delivering me likewise from infinite perplexities. And because the acknowledgement of good turnes or courtesies received (in my poore opinion) is a vertue among all other highly to bee commended, and the contrary also to be condemned: to shewe my selfe not ingratefull, I determined (so soone as I saw my selfe in absolute liberty) in exchange of so great a benefit bestowne on mee, to minister some mitigation, I will not say to such as releeved me, because their owne better understanding, or blessednesse in Fortune, may defend them from any such necessity; but rather to them which truly stand in need. And although that my comfort, may some way or other availe the common needie, yet (methinkes) where greefe is greatest, and calamity most insulteth; there ought to be our paines soundly imployed, and our gravest instructions and advise wholly administred. And who can deny, but that it is much more convenient, to commisserate the distresse of Ladies and Gentlewomen, then the more able condition of men? They, as being naturally bashfull and timorous, have their soft and gentle soules, often enflamed with amorous afflictions, which lie there closely concealed, as they can best relate the power of them, that have bin subject to the greatest proofe. Moreover, they being restrained from their wils and desires, by the severity of Fathers, Mothers, Bretheren, and Husbands, are shut up (most part of their time) in their Chambers, where constrainedly sitting idle, diversity of straunge cogitations wheele up and downe their braines, forging as many severall imaginations, which cannot be alwayes pleasant and contenting. If melancholly, incited by some amorous or lovely apprehension, oppresse their weake and unresisting hearts: they must be glad to beare it patiently (til by better Fortune) such occasions happen, as may overcome so proud an usurpation. Moreover, we cannot but confesse, that they are lesse able, then men, to support such oppressions: for if men grow affectionate, wee plainely perceive, when any melancholly troublesome thoughts, or what greefes else can any way concerne them, their soules are not subject to the like sufferings. But admit they should fall into such necessity, they can come and go whither they will, heare and see many singular sights, hawk, hunt, fish, fowle, ride, or saile on the Seas, all which exercises have a particular power in themselves, to withdraw amorous passions, and appropriate the will to the pleasing appetite, either by alteration of ayre, distance of place, or protraction of time, to kill sorrow, and quicken delight. Wherefore, somewhat to amend this error in humane condition, and where least strength is, as we see to bee in you most gracious Ladies and Gentlewomen, further off (then men) from all fraile felicities: for such as feele the weighty insultations of proud and imprious love, and thereby are most in neede of comfort (and not they that can handle the Needle, Wheele, and Distaffe) I have provided an hundred Novelles, Tales, Fables, or Histories, with judicious moralles belonging to them, for your more delight, and queinter exercise. In a faire and worthy assembly, of seven Honourable Ladies, and three Noble Gentlemen, they were recounted within the compasse of ten dayes, during the wofull time of our so late dangerous sicknesse, with apt Sonnets or Canzons, for the conclusion of each severall day. In which pleasing Novels, may be observed many strange accidents of Love, and other notable adventures, happening as well in our times, as those of graver antiquity: by reading whereof, you may receyve both pleasure and profitable counsell, because in them you shal perceive, both the sin to be shunned, and the vertue to be embraced; which as I wholly hate the one, so I do (and ever will) honour the others advancement. _The Table._ The Epistle Dedicatory. The Authors Prologue, to the Lords, Ladies, and Gentlewomen. The First Day, Governed by Madam Pampinea. 1. Novell. _Messire Chappelet du Prat, by making a false confession, beguiled an holy religious man, and after dyed. And having during his life time, bene a very bad man, at his death was reputed to be a Saint, and called S. Chappelet._ 2. Novell. _Abraham a Jew, beeing admonished or advised by a friend of his, named Jehannot de Chevigny, travailed from Paris unto Rome: And beholding there, the wicked behaviour of men in the Church, returned to Paris againe, where (neverthelesse) he became a Christian._ 3. Novell. _Melchisedech a Jewe, by recounting a tale of three Rings, to the great Soldan, named Saladine, prevented a great danger which was prepared for him._ 4. Novell. _A monke having committed an offence, deserving to be very greevously punished; freed himselfe from the paine to be inflicted on him, by wittily reprehending his Abbot, with the very same fault._ 5. Novell. _Lady Marquesse of Montferrat, with a Banket of Hens, and divers other gracious speeches beside, repressed the fond love of the King of France._ 6. Novell. _An honest plaine meaning man (simply & conscionably) reprehended the malignity, hypocrisie, and misdemeanour of many religious persons._ 7. Novell. _Bergamino, by telling a Tale of a skilfull man, named Primasso, and of an Abbot of Clugni; honestly checked a new kinde of covetousnesse, in Master Can de la Scala._ 8. Novell. _Guillaume Boursieur, with a few quaint & familiar words, checkt the miserable covetousness of Signior Herminio de Grimaldi._ 9. Novell. _How the King of Cyprus was wittily reprehended, by the words of a Gentlewoman of Gascoignie, and became vertuously altered from his vicious disposition._ 10. Novell. _Master Albert of Bullen, honestly made a Lady to blush, that thought to have done as much to him, because she perceived him to be amorously affected towardes her._ The second Day, governed by Madam Philomena. 1. Novell. _Martellino counterfetting to bee lame of his members, caused himselfe to bee set on the body of Saint Arriguo, where hee made shew of his sodaine recovery: but when his dissimulation was discovered, he was well beaten, being afterward taken prisoner, and in great danger of being hanged and strangled by the necke, and yet escaped in the end._ 2. Novell. _Rinaldo de Este, after he was robbed by theeves arrived at Chasteau Guillaume, where he was friendly lodged by a faire Widow, and recompenced likewise for all his losses; returning afterward safe and well home unto his owne house._ 3. Novell. _Of three yong Gentlemen, being Brethren, and having spent all their Landes and possessions vainly, became poore. A Nephew of theirs (falling almost into as desperate a condition) became acquainted with an Abbot, whom hee afterward found to be the King of Englands Daughter, and made him her Husband in marriage, recompencing all his Unckles losses, and seating them again in good estate._ 4. Novell. _Landolpho Ruffolo, falling into poverty, became a Pirate on the Seas, and beeing taken by the Genewayes, hardly escaped drowning: Which yet (neverthelesse) he did, upon a little chest or coffer full of very rich Jewels, beeing carried thereon to Corfu, where he was well entertained by a good woman: and afterward, returned richly home to his owne house._ 5. Novell. _Andrea de Piero, travelling from Perouse unto Naples to buy Horses, was (in the space of one night) surprized by three admirable accidents, out of all which he fortunately escaped, and with a rich Ring, returned home to his owne house._ 6. Novell. _Madame Beritola Caracalla, was found in an Island with two Goates, having lost her two sons, and thence travailed into Lunigiana: where one of her Sonnes became servant to the Lord thereof, and was found some-what over-familiar with his Maisters daughter, who therefore caused him to be imprisoned. Afterward, when the Country of Sicily rebelled against King Charles, the aforesaid Sonne chanced to be known by his Mother, & was married to his Masters daughter. And his brother being found likewise, they both returned to great estate and credite._ 7. Novell. _The Soldane of Babylon sent one of his Daughters, to be joyned in marriage with the King of Cholcos; who by divers accidents (in the space of foure yeares) happened into the custodie of nine men, and in sundry places. At length, being restored back to her Father, she went to the said king of Cholcos, as a Maide, and as at first she was intended to be his Wife._ 8. Novell. _Count D'Angiers being falsely accused, was banished out of France, and left his two children in England in divers places. Returning afterward (unknowne) thorough Scotland, hee found them advanced unto great dignity: Then, repairing in the habit of a Servitor, into the King of Fraunce his army, and his innocency made publikely knowen, he was reseated in his former honourable degree._ 9. Novell. _Bernardo, a Merchant of Geneway, being deceived by another Merchant, named Ambrosio, lost a great part of his goods: and commanding his innocent wife to be murthered, she escaped, and in the habit of a man, became servant to the Soldan. The deceiver being found at last, she compassed such means, that her husband Bernardo came into Alexandria, and there after due punishment inflicted on the false deceiver, she resumed the garments againe of a woman, and returned home with her Husband to Geneway._ 10. Novell. _Pagamino da Monaco, a roving Pyrate on the seas, caried away the faire Wife of Signieur Ricciardo di Chinzica, who understanding where shee was, went thither; and falling into friendship with Pagamino, demanded his wife of him; whereto he yeelded, provided, that she would willingly go away with him: shee denied to part thence with her husband, and Signior Ricciardo dying, shee became the wife of Pagamino._ The third day, governed by Madame _Neiphila_. 1. Novell. _Massetto di Lamporechio, by counterfetting himselfe dumbe, became a Gardiner in a Monastery of Nuns, where he had familiar conversation with them all._ 2. Novell. _A querry of the stable belonging to Agilulffo, K. of the Lombards, found the meanes of accesse to the Queenes bedde, without any knowledge or consent in her. This beeing secretly discovered by the King, and the party knowne, hee gave him a marke, by shearing the hair of his head. Whereuppon, hee that was so shorne sheared likewise the heads of all his fellowes in the lodging and so escaped the punishment intended towards him._ 3. Novell. _Under colour of confession and of a most pure conscience, a faire yong Gentlewoman, being amorously affected to an honest man; induced a devout and solemne religious Friar, to advise her in the meanes (without his suspition or perceiving) how to enjoy the benefit of her friend, and bring her desires to their full effect._ 4. Novell. _A yong scholler named Felice, enstructed Puccio di Rinieri, how to become rich in a very short time. While Puccio made experience of the instructions taught him; Felice obtained the favour of his daughter._ 5. Novell. _Ricciardo, surnamed the Magnifico, gave a horse to signior Francesco Vergellisi, upon condition; that by his leave and license, he might speak to his wife in his presence, which he did, and she not returning him any answer, made answer to himself on her behalfe, and according to his answer, so the effect followed._ 6. Novell. _Ricciardo Minutolo fel in love with the Wife of Philippello Fighinolfi, and knowing her to bee very jealous of her husband, gave her to understand, that he was greatly enamored of his Wife, and had appointed to meete her privatly in a bathing house, on the next day following: where shee hoping to take him tardy with his close compacted Mistresse, found her selfe to be deceived by the said Ricciardo._ 7. Novell. _Thebaldo Elisei, having received an unkinde repulse by his beloved, departed from Florence, & returning thither againe (a long while after) in the habit of a pilgrime, hee spake with her, and made his wrongs knowne unto her. Hee delivered her husband from the danger of death, because it was proved that he had slaine Thebaldo, he made peace with his brethren, and in the end, wisely enjoyed his hearts desire._ 8. Novell. _Ferando, by drinking a certaine kind of pouder, was buried for dead & by the Abbot who was enamored of his wife, was taken out of his grave, and put into a darke prison, where they made him beleeve that he was in purgatory: afterward when time came that he should be raised to life againe, he was made to keepe a childe, which the Abbot had got by his wife._ 9. Novell. _Juliet of Narbona, cured the King of France of a dangerous Fistula: in recompence whereof, she requested to enjoy as her husband in mariage, Bertrand the Count of Roussillion. He having maried her against his wil, as utterly despising her, went to Florence, where he made love to a yong Gentlewoman. Juliet, by a queint and cunning policy, compassed the meanes (insted of his chosen friend) to lye with her owne husband, by whom shee had two sonnes; which being afterward made knowne unto the Count, hee accepted her into his favour againe, and loved her as his loyall and honourable wife._ 10. Novell. _The wonderfull and chaste resolved continencie of faire Serictha, daughter to Siwalde King of Denmarke, who beeing sought and sued unto by many worthy persons, that did affect her dearely, would not looke any man in the face, untill such time as she was maried._ The Fourth Day, governed by Philostratus. 1. Novell. _Tancrede, Prince of Salerne, caused the amorous friend of his daughter to be slaine, and sent her his heart in a cup of Golde: which afterward she steeped in an impoysoned water, & then drinking it, so dyed._ 2. Novell. _Friar Albert made a yong Venetian Gentlewoman beleeve, that God Cupid was falne in love with her, and he resorted oftentimes unto her, in disguise of the same God: afterward, being frighted by the Gentlewomans kindred and friends hee cast himselfe out of her chamber window, and was hidden in a poore mans house. On the day following, in the shape of a wilde or savage man, he was brought upon the Rialto of S. Mark, & being there publikely knowne by the Brethren of his Order, he was committed to prison._ 3. Novell. _Three yong Gentlemen affecting three Sisters, fled with them into Canaie. The eldest of them (through jealousie) becommeth the death of her Lover. The second, by consenting to the Duke of Canaies request, is the meanes of saving her life. Afterward, her owne friend killeth her, & thence flyeth away with the elder sister. The third couple, both man and woman are charged with her death, and being committed to prison, they confesse the fact: and fearing death, by corruption of money they prevaile with their keepers, escaping from thence to Rhodes, where they died in great poverty._ 4. Novell. _Gerbino, contrarie to the former plighted faith of his Grandfather King Gulielmo, soughte with a ship at sea belonging to the King of Thunis to take away his daughter, who was then in the same ship. She being slaine by them that had the possession of her, he likewise slew them; and afterward had his owne head smitten off._ 5. Novell. _The three Brethren to Isabella, slew a Gentleman that secretly loved her. His ghost appeared to her in her sleepe, and shewed her in what place they had buried his body. She (in silent manner) brought away his head, and putting it into a pot of earth, such as Flowers, Basile, or other sweet herbes are usually set in, she watered it (a long while) with her teares: whereof her Brethren having intelligence; soone after she died, with meere conceite of sorrow._ 6. Novell. _A beautifull yong Virgin, named Andreana, became enamored of a young Gentleman, called Gabriello. In conference together, shee declared a dreame of hers to him, and he another of his unto her; whereupon Gabriello fell down sodainly dead. She, and her Chamber-maid were apprehended by the Officers belonging unto the Seigneury, as they were carrying Gabriello, to lay them before his owne doore. The Potestate offering violence to the virgin, and she resisting him vertuously: it came to the understanding of her Father, who approved the innocence of his daughter, and compassed her deliverance. But she afterward, being wearie of all worldly felicities, entred into Religion, & became a Nun._ 7. Novell. _Faire Simonida affecting Pasquino, and walking with him in a pleasant garden, it fortuned that Pasquino rubbed his teeth with a leaf of Sage, and immediately fell downe dead. Simonida being brought before the bench of Justice, and charged with the death of Pasquino: she rubbed her teeth likewise, with one of the leaves of the same Sage, as declaring what she saw him do, & thereon she dyed also in the same manner._ 8. Novell. _Jeronimo affecting a yong Mayden named Silvestra was constrained by the earnest importunity of his Mother, to take a journey to Paris. At his returne home from thence againe, he found his love Silvestra maried. By secret meanes he got entrance into her house and dyed upon the bed lying by her. Afterward, his body being caried unto the Church to receive buriall, shee likewise died there instantly upon his coarse._ 9. Novell. _Messer Guiglielmo of Rossiglione having slaine Messer Guiglielmo Guardastagno, whom he imagined to love his wife, gave her his hart to eat. Which she knowing afterward; threw her self out of an high window to the ground: and being dead, was then buried with her friend._ 10. Novell. _A Physitians wife laid a Lover of her maids, supposing him to be dead, in a chest, by reason that he had drunke water which usually was given to procure a sleepy entrancing. Two Lombard Usurers, stealing the chest, in hope of a rich booty, caried it into their owne house, where afterwardes the man awaking, was apprehended for a Theefe. The Chamber-maid to the Physitians wife, going before the bench of Justice, accuseth her self for putting the imagined dead body into the chest, whereby he escaped hanging: and the Theeves which stole away the chest, were condemned to pay a very great summe of money._ The Fift day, Governed by Madame Fiammetta. 1. Novell. _Chynon, by falling in love, became wise, and by force of Armes, winning his faire Ladye Iphigenia on the seas, was afterward imprisoned at Rhodes. Being delivered by one name Lysimachus with him he recovered his Iphigenia againe, and faire Cassandra even in the middest of their mariage. They fled with them into Candye, where after they had maried them, they wer called home to their owne dwelling._ 2. Novell. _Faire Constance of Liparis, fell in Love with Martuccio Gomito: and hearing that hee was dead, desperately she entred into a Barke which being transported by the winds to Susa in Barbary, from thence she went to Thunis, where she found him to be living. There she made her selfe knowne to him, and he being in great authority, as a privy Counsellor to the King: he maried the saide Constance, and returned richly home to her, to the Island of Liparis._ 3. Novell. _Pedro Bocamazzo, escaping away with a yong Damosel which he loved, named Angelina, met with Theeves in his journey. The Damosel flying fearfully into a Forest, by chaunce commeth to a Castle. Pedro being taken by the theeves, & hapning afterward to escape from them, accidentally came to the same Castle where Angelina was: & marying her, they then returned home to Rome._ 4. Novell. _Ricciardo Manardy, was found by Messer Lizio da Valbonna, as he sat fast asleep at his daughters chamber window, having his hand fast in hirs and sleeping in the same manner. Whereupon they were joyned together in mariage, and their long loyall love mutually recompenced._ 5. Novell. _Guidotto of Cremona, departing out of this mortall life, left a daughter of his with Jacomino of Pavia. Giovanni di Severino, and Menghino da Minghole, fel both in love with the yong Maiden, and fought for her; who being afterward knowne to be the sister to Giovanni, shee was given in mariage to Menghino._ 6. Novell. _Guion di Procida, being found familiarly conversing with a yong Damosel which he loved, and had bene given formerly to Frederigo King of Sicily: was bound to a stake to bee consumed with fire. From which danger (neverthelesse) hee escaped; being knowne by Don Rogiero de Oria, Lorde Admirall of Sicily, and afterward marryed the Damosel._ 7. Novell. _Theodoro falling in love with Violenta, the daughter to his Master, named Amarigo, and she conceyving with childe by him, was condemned to be hanged. As they were leading him unto the gallowes, beating and misusing him all the way: hee happened to bee knowne by his owne Father, whereupon he was released, and afterward injoyed Violenta in mariage._ 8. Novell. _Anastasio, a Gentleman of the Family of the Honesti by loving the daughter to Signior Paulo Traversario, lavishly wasted a great part of his substance, without receiving any love from her againe. By perswasion of some of his kindred and friends, he went to a countrey dwelling of his called Chiasso, where hee saw a Knight desperately pursue a yong Damosell, whom he slew, & afterward gave her to be devoured by his hounds. Anastasio invited his friends, and hers also whom he so dearly loved, to take part of a dinner with him, who likewise sawe the same Damosell so torne in peeces: which his unkind love perceiving, & fearing least the like ill fortune should happen to her, she accepted Anastasio to bee her husband._ 9. Novell. _Frederigo, of the Alberighi Family, loved a Gentlewoman, and was not requited with like love againe. By bountifull expences, and over liberal invitations, hee wasted and consumed all his lands and goods, having nothing lefte him, but a Hawke or Faulcon. His unkinde Mistresse, happeneth to come visit him, and he not having any other food for her dinner, made a dainty dish of his Faulcon for her to feed on. Being conquered by this his exceeding kinde courtesie, she changed her former hatred towards him, accepting him as her husband in marriage, and made him a man of wealthy possessions._ 10. Novell. _Pedro di Vinciolo, went to sup at a friends house in the City. His wife (in the meane while) had a yong man whom she loved, at supper with her. Pedro returning home upon a sodaine, the young man was hidden under a Coope for Hens. Pedro, in excuse of his so soone coming home, declareth; how in the house of Herculano (with whome hee should have supt) a friend of his wives was found, which was the reason of the suppers breaking off. Pedroes wife reproving the error of Herculanoes wife: an Asse (by chance) treades on the young mans fingers that lay hidden under the Henne-Coope. Upon his crying out, Pedro steppeth thither, sees him, knowes him, and findeth the fallacie of his wife: with whom (neverthelesse) he groweth to agreement, in regard of some imperfections in himselfe._ The End of the Table. THE DECAMERON, Containing, an Hundred pleasant NOVELLES. _Wherein, after demonstration made by the Author, upon what occasion it hapned, that the persons (of whom we shall speake heereafter) should thus meete together, to make so queint a Narration of Novels: Hee declareth unto you, that they first begin to devise and conferre, under the government of Madam Pampinea, and of such matters as may be most pleasing to them all._ The Induction of the Author, to the following Discourses. Gracious Ladies, so often as I consider with my selfe, and observe respectively, how naturally you are enclined to compassion; as many times do I acknowledge, that this present worke of mine, will (in your judgement) appeare to have but a harsh and offensive beginning, in regard of the mournfull remembrance it beareth at the verie entrance of the last Pestilentiall mortality, universally hurtfull to all that beheld it, or otherwise came to knowledge of it. But for all that, I desire it may not be so dreadfull to you, to hinder your further proceeding in reading, as if none were to looke thereon, but with sighes and teares. For, I could rather wish, that so fearefull a beginning, should seeme but as an high and steepy hill appeares to them, that attempt to travell farre on foote, and ascending the same with some difficulty, come afterward to walk upon a goodly even plaine, which causeth the more contentment in them, because the attaining thereto was hard and painfull. For, even as pleasures are cut off by griefe and anguish; so sorrowes cease by joyes most sweete and happie arriving. After this breefe molestation, briefe I say, because it is contained within small compasse of Writing; immediately followeth the most sweete and pleasant taste of pleasure, whereof (before) I made promise to you. Which (peradventure) could not bee expected by such a beginning, if promise stoode not thereunto engaged. And indeed, if I could wel have conveyed you to the center of my desire, by any other way, then so rude and rocky a passage as this is, I would gladly have done it. But because without this Narration, we could not demonstrate the occasion how and wherefore the matters hapned, which you shall reade in the ensuing Discourses: I must set them downe (even as constrained thereto by meere necessity) in writing after this manner. The yeare of our blessed Saviours incarnation, 1348. that memorable mortality happened in the excellent City, farre beyond all the rest in _Italy_; which plague, by operation of the superiour bodies, or rather for our enormous iniquities, by the just anger of God was sent upon us mortals. Some few yeeres before, it tooke beginning in the Easterne partes, sweeping thence an innumerable quantity of living soules: extending it selfe afterward from place to place Westward, untill it seized on the said City. Where neither humane skill or providence, could use any prevention, notwithstanding it was cleansed of many annoyances, by diligent Officers thereto deputed: besides prohibition of all sickly persons enterance, and all possible provision dayly used for conservation of such as were in health, with incessant prayers and supplications of devoute people, for the asswaging of so dangerous a sicknesse. About the beginning of the yeare, it also began in very strange manner, as appeared by divers admirable effects; yet not as it had done in the East Countries, where Lord or Lady being touched therewith, manifest signes of inevitable death followed thereon, by bleeding at the nose. But here it began with yong children, male and female, either under the armpits, or in the groine by certaine swellings, in some to the bignesse of an Apple, in others like an Egge, and so in divers greater or lesser, which (in their vulgar Language) they termed to be a Botch or Byle. In very short time after, those two infected parts were grown mortiferous, and would disperse abroad indifferently, to all parts of the body; whereupon, such was the qualitie of the disease, to shew it selfe by blacke or blew spottes, which would appeare on the armes of many, others on their thighes, and everie part else of the body: in some great and few, in others small and thicke. Now as the Byle (at the beginning) was an assured signe of neere approaching death; so prooved the spots likewise to such as had them: for the curing of which sicknesse it seemed, that the Physitians counsell, the vertue of Medicines, or any application else, could not yeeld any remedy: but rather it plainely appeared, that either the nature of the disease would not endure it, or ignorance in the Physitians could not comprehend, from whence the cause proceeded, and so by consequent, no resolution was to be determined. Moreover, beside the number of such as were skilfull in Art, many more both women and men, without ever having any knowledge in Physicke, became Physitians: so that not onely few were healed, but (well-neere) all dyed, within three dayes after the saide signes were seene; some sooner, and others later, commonly without either Feaver, or any other accident. And this pestilence was yet of farre greater power or violence; for, not onely healthfull persons speaking to the sicke, comming to see them, or ayring cloathes in kindnesse to comfort them, was an occasion of ensuing death: but touching their garments, or any foode whereon the sicke person fed, or any thing else used in his service, seemed to transferre the disease from the sicke to the sound, in very rare and miraculous manner. Among which matter of marvell, let me tell you one thing, which if the eyes of many (as well as mine owne) had not seene, hardly could I be perswaded to write it, much lesse to beleeve it, albeit a man of good credit should report it. I say, that the quality of this contagious pestilence was not onely of such efficacy, in taking and catching it one of another, either men or women: but it extended further, even in the apparant view of many, that the cloathes, or any thing else, wherein one died of that disease, being toucht, or lyen on by any beast, farre from the kind or quality of man, they did not onely contaminate and infect the said beast, were it Dogge, Cat, or any other; but also it died very soone after. Mine owne eyes (as formerly I have said) among divers other, one day had evident experience hereof, for some poore ragged cloathes of linnen and wollen, torne from a wretched body dead of that disease, and hurled in the open streete; two Swine going by, and (according to their naturall inclination) seeking for foode on every dung-hill, tossed and tumbled the cloathes with their snouts, rubbing their heads likewise uppon them; and immediately, each turning twice or thrice about, they both fell downe dead on the saide cloathes, as being fully infected with the contagion of them: which accident, and other the like, if not far greater, begat divers feares and imaginations in them that beheld them, all tending to a most inhumane and uncharitable end; namely, to flie thence from the sicke, and touching any thing of theirs, by which meanes they thought their health should be safely warranted. Some there were, who considered with themselves, that living soberly, with abstinence from all superfluity; it would be a sufficient resistance against all hurtfull accidents. So combining themselves in a sociable manner, they lived as separatists from all other company, being shut up in such houses, where no sicke body should be neere them. And there, for their more security, they used delicate viands and excellent wines, avoiding luxurie, and refusing speech to one another, not looking forth at the windowes, to heare no cries of dying people, or see any coarses carried to buriall; but having musicall instruments, lived there in all possible pleasure. Others were of a contrary opinion, who avouched, that there was no other physicke more certaine, for a disease so desperate, then to drinke hard, be merry among themselves, singing continually, walking every where, and satisfying their appetites with whatsoever they desired, laughing, and mocking at every mournefull accident, and so they vowed to spend day and night: for now they would goe to one Taverne, then to another, living without any rule or measure; which they might very easilie doe, because every one of them, (as if he were to live no longer in this World) had even forsaken all things that he had. By meanes whereof the most part of the houses were become common, and all strangers, might doe the like (if they pleased to adventure it) even as boldly as the Lord or owner, without any let or contradiction. Yet in all this their beastly behaviour, they were wise enough, to shun (so much as they might) the weake and sickly: In which misery and affliction of our City, the venerable authority of the Lawes, as well divine as humane, was even destroyed, as it were, through want of the awefull Ministers of them. For they being all dead, or lying sicke with the rest, or else lived so solitary, in such great necessity of servants and attendants, as they could not execute any office, whereby it was lawfull for every one to doe as he listed. Betweene these two rehearsed extremities of life, there were other of a more moderate temper, not being so daintily dieted as the first, nor drinking so dissolutely as the second; but used all things sufficient for their appetites, and without shutting up themselves, walked abroade, some carrying sweete nose-gayes of flowers in their hands; others odoriferous herbes, and others divers kinds of spiceries, holding them to their noses, and thinking them most comfortable for the braine, because the ayre seemed to be much infected, by the noysome smell of dead carkases, and other hurtfull savours. Some other there were also of more inhumane minde (howbeit peradventure it might be the surest) saying, that there was no better physicke against the pestilence, nor yet so good; as to flie away from it, which argument mainely moving them, and caring for no body but themselves, very many, both men and women, forsooke the City, their owne houses, their Parents, kindred, friends, and goods, flying to other mens dwellings else-where. As if the wrath of God, in punishing the sinnes of men with this plague, would fall heavily upon none, but such as were enclosed within the City wals; or else perswading themselves, that not any one should there be left alive, but that the finall ending of all things was come. Now albeit these persons in their diversity of opinions died not all, so undoubtedly they did not all escape; but many among them becomming sicke, and making a generall example of their flight and folly, among them that could not stirre out of their beds, they languished more perplexedly then the other did. Let us omit, that one Citizen fled after another, and one neighbour had not any care of another, Parents nor kinred never visiting them, but utterly they were forsaken on all sides: this tribulation pierced into the hearts of men, and with such a dreadfull terror, that one Brother forsooke another; the Unkle the Nephew, the Sister the Brother, and the Wife her Husband: nay, a matter much greater, and almost incredible; Fathers and Mothers fled away from their owne Children, even as if they had no way appertained to them. In regard whereof, it could be no otherwise, but that a countlesse multitude of men and women fell sicke; finding no charity among their friends, except a very few, and subjected to the avarice of servants, who attended them constrainedly, for great and unreasonable wages, yet few of those attendants to be found any where too. And they were men or women but of base condition, as also of groser understanding, who never before had served in any such necessities, nor indeed were any way else to be imployed, but to give the sicke person such things as he called for, or to awaite the houre of his death; in the performance of which services, oftentimes for gaine, they lost their owne lives. In this extreame calamity, the sicke being thus forsaken of neighbours, kinred, and friends, standing also in such need of servants; a custome came up among them, never heard of before, that there was not any woman, how noble, young, or faire soever shee was, but falling sicke, shee must of necessity have a man to attend her, were he young or otherwise, respect of shame or modesty no way prevailing, but all parts of her body must be discovered to him, which (in the like urgency) was not to be seene by any but women: whereon ensued afterward, that upon the parties healing and recovery, it was the occasion of further dishonesty, which many being more modestly curious of, refused such disgracefull attending, chusing rather to die, then by such helpe to be healed. In regard whereof, as well through the want of convenient remedies, (which the sicke by no meanes could attain unto) as also the violence of the contagion, the multitude of them that died night and day, was so great, that it was a dreadfull sight to behold, and as much to heare spoken of. So that meere necesssity (among them that remained living) begat new behaviours, quite contrary to all which had beene in former times, and frequently used among the City Inhabitants. The custome of precedent dayes (as now againe it is) was, that women, kinred, neighbours, and friends, would meete together at the deceased parties house, and there, with them that were of neerest alliance, expresse their hearts sorrow for their friends losse. If not thus, they would assemble before the doore, with many of the best Cittizens and kindred, and (according to the quality of the deceased) the Clergy met there likewise, and the dead body was carried (in comely manner) on mens shoulders, with funerall pompe of Torch-light, and singing, to the Church appointed by the deceased. But these seemely orders, after that the fury of the pestilence began to encrease, they in like manner altogether ceased, and other new customes came in their place; because not onely people died, without having any women about them, but infinites also past out of this life, not having any witnesse, how, when, or in what manner they departed. So that few or none there were, to deliver outward shew of sorrow and grieving: but insteed thereof, divers declared idle joy and rejoycing, a use soone learned of immodest women, having put off al feminine compassion, yea, or regard of their owne welfare. Very few also would accompany the body to the grave, and they not any of the Neighbours, although it had beene an honourable Cittizen, but onely the meanest kinde of people, such as were grave-makers, coffin-bearers, or the like, that did these services onely for money, and the beere being mounted on their shoulders, in all haste they would runne away with it, not perhaps to the Church appointed by the dead, but to the neerest at hand, having some foure or sixe poore Priests following, with lights or no lights, and those of the silliest; short service being said at the buriall, and the body unreverently throwne into the first open grave they found. Such was the pittifull misery of poore people, and divers, who were of better condition, as it was most lamentable to behold; because the greater number of them, under hope of healing, or compelled by poverty, kept still within their houses weake and faint, thousands falling sick daily, and having no helpe, or being succoured any way with foode or physicke, all of them died, few or none escaping. Great store there were, that died in the streetes by day or night, and many more beside, although they died in their houses; yet first they made it knowne to their neighbours, that their lives perished, rather by the noysome smell of dead and putrified bodies, then by any violence of the disease in themselves. So that of these and the rest, dying in this manner every where, the neighbours observed one course of behaviour, (moved thereto no lesse by feare, that the smell and corruption of dead bodies should harme them, then charitable respect of the dead) that themselves when they could, or being assisted by some bearers of coarses, when they were able to procure them, wold hale the bodies (alreadie dead) out of their houses, laying them before their doores, where such as passed by, especially in the mornings, might see them lying in no meane numbers. Afterward, Bieres were brought thither, and such as might not have the helpe of Bieres, were glad to lay them on tables, and Bieres have bin observed, not onely to be charged with two or three dead bodies at once, but many times it was seene also, that the wife with the husband, two or three Brethren together; yea, the Father and the mother, have thus beene carried along to the grave upon one Biere. Moreover, oftentimes it hath bene seene, that when two Priests went with one Crosse to fetch the body; there would follow (behind) three or foure bearers with their Bieres, and when the Priests intended the buriall but of one bodie, sixe or eight more have made up the advantage, and yet none of them being attended by any seemly company, lights, teares, or the very least decencie, but it plainly appeared, that the verie like account was then made of men or Women, as if they had bene Dogges or Swine. Wherein might manifestly bee noted, that that which the naturall course of things could not shewe to the wise, with rare and little losse, to wit, the patient support of miseries and misfortunes, even in their greatest height: not onely the wise might now learne, but also the verie simplest people; & in such sort, that they should alwaies be prepared against all infelicities whatsoever. Hallowed ground could not now suffice, for the great multitude of dead bodies, which were daily brought to every Church in the City, and every houre in the day; neither could the bodies have proper place of buriall, according to our ancient custome: wherefore, after that the churches and Church-yards were filled, they were constrained to make use of great deepe ditches, wherein they were buried by hundreds at once, ranking dead bodies along in graves, as Merchandizes are laide along in ships, covering each after other with a small quantity of earth, & so they filled at last up the whole ditch to the brim. Now, because I would wander no further in everie particularity, concerning the miseries happening in our Citie: I tell you, that extremities running on in such manner as you have heard; little lesse spare was made in the Villages round about; wherein (setting aside enclosed Castles, which were now filled like to small Cities) poore Labourers and Husband-men, with their whole Families, dyed most miserably in out-houses, yea, and in the open fieldes also; without any assistance of physicke, or helpe of servants; & likewise in the high-wayes, or their ploughed landes, by day or night indifferently, yet not as men, but like brute beasts. By meanes whereof, they became lazie and slothfull in their daily endeavours, even like to our Citizens; not minding or medling with their wonted affaires: but, as awaiting for death every houre, imployed all their paines, not in caring any way for themselves, their cattle, or gathering the fruits of the earth, or any of their accustomed labours; but rather wasted and consumed, even such as were for their instant sustenance. Whereupon, it fell so out, that their Oxen, Asses, Sheepe, and Goates, their Swine, Pullen, yea their verie Dogges, the truest and faithfullest servants to men, being beaten and banished from their houses, went wildly wandring abroad in the fields, where the Corne grew still on the ground without gathering, or being so much as reapt or cut. Many of the fore-said beasts (as endued with reason) after they had pastured themselves in the day time, would returne full fed at night home to their houses, without any government of Heardsmen, or any other. How many faire Palaces! How many goodly Houses! How many noble habitations, filled before with families of Lords and Ladies, were then to be seene emptie, without any one there dwelling, except some silly servant? How many Kindreds, worthy of memory! How many great inheritances! And what plenty of riches, were left without any true successours? How many good men! How many woorthy Women! How many valiant and comely yong men, whom none but _Galen, Hippocrates,_ and _Æsculapius_ (if they were living) could have reputed any way unhealthfull; were seene to dine at morning, with their Parents, Friends, and familiar confederates, and went to sup in another world with their Predecessors? It is no meane breach to my braine, to make repetition of so many miseries; wherefore, being willing to part with them as easily as I may: I say that our Citie being in this case, voide of inhabitants, it came to passe (as afterward I understoode by some of good credite) that in the venerable Church of S. _Marie la Neufue_, on a Tuesday morning, there being then no other person, after the hearing of divine Service, in mourning habits (as the season required) returned thence seven discreet yong Gentlewomen, all allyed together, either by friendship, neighbour-hood, or parentage. She among them that was most entred into yeares, exceeded not eight and twenty, and the yongest was no lesse then eighteene; being of Noble descent, faire forme, adorned with exquisite behaviour, and gracious modesty. Their names I could report, if just occasion did not forbid it, in regard of the occasions following by them related, and because times heereafter shall not taxe them with reproofe; the lawes of pleasure being more straited now adayes (for the matters before revealed) then at that time they were, not onely to their yeares, but to many much riper. Neither will I likewise minister matter to rash heades (over-readie in censuring commendable life) any way to impaire the honestie of Ladies, by their idle detracting speeches. And therefore, to the end that what each of them saith, may be comprehended without confusion; I purpose to stile them by names, wholly agreeing, or (in part) conformable to their qualities. The first and most aged, we will name _Pampinea_; the second _Fiammetta_; the third _Philomena_; the fourth _Æmilia_; the fift _Lauretta_; the sixt _Neiphila_; and the last we terme (not without occasion) _Elissa_, or _Eliza_. All of them being assembled at a corner of the Church, not by any deliberation formerly appointed, but meerely by accident, and sitting as it were in a round ring: after divers sighs severally delivered, they conferred on sundry matters answerable to the sad qualitie of the time, and within a while after, Madam _Pampinea_ began in this manner. Faire Ladies, you may (no doubt as well as I) have often heard, that no injury is offered to any one, by such as make use but of their owne right. It is a thing naturall for everie one which is borne in this World, to aide, conserve, and defend her life so long as shee can; and this right hath bene so powerfully permitted, that although it hath sometimes happened, that (to defend themselves) men have beene slaine without any offence: yet Lawes have allowed it to be so, in whose solicitude lieth the best living of all mortals. How much more honest and just is it then for us, and for every other well-disposed person, to seeke for (without wronging any) and to practise all remedies that wee can, for the conservation of our lives? When I well consider, what we have heere done this morning, and many other already past; remembring (withall) what likewise is proper and convenient for us: I conceive (as all you may do the like) that everie one of us hath a due respect of her selfe, and then I mervaile not, but rather am much amazed (knowing none of us to be deprived of a Womans best judgement) that wee seeke not after some remedies for our selves, against that, which every one among us, ought (in reason) to feare. Heere we meete and remaine (as it seemeth to mee) in no other manner, then as if we would or should be witnesses, to all the dead bodies at rest in their graves; or else to listen, when the religious Sisters here dwelling (whose number now are well-neere come to be none at all) sing Service at such houres as they ought to do; or else to acquaint all commers hither (by our mourning habites) with the quality and quantitie of our hearts miseries. And when we part hence, we meete with none but dead bodies; or sicke persons transported from one place to another; or else we see running thorow the City (in most offensive fury) such as (by authoritie of publike Lawes) were banished hence, onely for their bad and brutish behaviour in contempt of those Lawes, because now they know, that the executors of them are dead and sicke. And if not these, more lamentable spectacles present themselves to us, by the base rascality of the Citie; who being fatted with our blood, tearme themselves Grave-makers, and in meere contemptible mockerie of us, are mounted on horse-backe, gallopping everie where, reproaching us with our losses and misfortunes, with lewd and dishonest songs: so that we can hear nothing else but such and such are dead, and such and such lie a dying; heere hands wringing, and everie where most pittifull complaining. If we returne home to our houses (I know not whether your case bee answerable to mine) when I can finde none of all my Family, but onely my poore waiting Chamber-maide; so great are my feares, that the verie haire on my head declareth my amazement, and wheresoever I go or sit downe, me thinkes I see the ghostes and shadowes of deceased friends, not with such lovely lookes as I was wont to behold them, but with most horrid and dreadfull regards, newly stolne upon them I know not how. In these respects, both heere, else-where, and at home in my house, methinkes I am alwaies ill, and much more (in mine owne opinion) then any other bodie, not having meanes or place of retirement, as all we have, and none to remaine heere but onely we. Moreover, I have often heard it said, that in tarrying or departing, no distinction is made in things honest or dishonest; onely appetite will be served; and be they alone or in company, by day or night, they do whatsoever their appetite desireth: not secular persons onely, but such as are recluses, and shut up within Monasteries, breaking the Lawes of obedience, and being addicted to pleasures of the flesh, are become lascivious and dissolute, making the world beleeve, that whatsoever is convenient for other women, is no way unbeseeming them, as thinking in that manner to escape. If it be so, as manifestlie it maketh shew of it selfe; What do we here? What stay we for? And whereon do we dreame? Why are we more respectlesse of our health, then all the rest of the Citizens? Repute we our selves lesse precious then all the other? Or do we beleeve, that life is linked to our bodies with stronger chaines, then to others, and that therefore we should not feare any thing that hath power to offend us? Wee erre therein, and are deceived. What brutishnesse were it in us, if wee should urge any such beleefe? So often as wee call to minde, what, and how many gallant yong men and women, have beene devoured by this cruell pestilence; wee may evidently observe a contrary argument. Wherefore, to the end, that by being over-scrupulous and carelesse, we fall not into such danger, whence when we would (perhaps) we cannot recover our selves by any meanes: I thinke it meete (if your judgement therein shall jumpe with mine) that all of us as we are (at least, if we will doe as divers before us have done, and yet daily endeavour to doe) shunning death by the honest example of other, make our retreate to our Countrey houses, wherewith all of us are sufficiently furnished, and thereto delight our selves as best we may, yet without transgressing (in any act) the limits of reason. There shall we heare the pretty birds sweetly singing, see the hilles and plaines verdantly flourishing; the Corne waving in the field like the billowes of the Sea; infinite store of goodly trees, and the Heavens more fairely open to us, then here we can behold them: And although they are justly displeased, yet will they not there denie us better beauties to gaze on, then the walles in our City (emptied of Inhabitants) can affoord us. Moreover, the Ayre is much fresh and cleere, and generally, there is farre greater abundance of all things whatsoever, needefull at this time for preservation of our health, and lesse offence or molestation then wee find here. And although Countrey people die, as well as heere our Citizens doe, the griefe notwithstanding is so much the lesse, as the houses and dwellers there are rare, in comparison of them in our City. And beside, if we well observe it, here wee forsake no particular person, but rather wee may tearme our selves forsaken; in regard that our Husbands, Kinred, and Friends, either dying, or flying from the dead, have left us alone in this great affliction, even as if we were no way belonging unto them. And therefore, by following this counsell, wee cannot fall into any reprehension; whereas if we neglect and refuse it, danger, distresse, and death, (perhaps) may ensue thereon. Wherefore, if you thinke good, I would allow it for well done, to take our waiting women, with all such things as are needfull for us, and (as this day) betake our selves to one place, to morrow to another, taking there such pleasure and recreation, as so sweete a season liberally bestoweth on us. In which manner we may remaine, till we see (if death otherwise prevent us not) what ende the gracious Heavens have reserved for us. I would have you also to consider, that it is no lesse seemely for us to part hence honestly, then a great number of other Women to remaine here immodestly. The other Ladies and Gentlewomen, having heard Madam _Pampinea_, not onely commended her counsell, but desiring also to put it in execution; had already particularly consulted with themselves, by what means they might instantly depart from thence. Neverthelesse, Madam _Philomena_, who was very wise, spake thus. Albeit faire Ladies, the case propounded by Madam _Pampinea_ hath beene very wel delivered; yet (for all that) it is against reason for us to rush on, as we are over-ready to doe. Remember that we are all women, and no one among us is so childish, but may consider, that when wee shall be so assembled together, without providence or conduct of some man, we can hardly governe our selves. We are fraile, offensive, suspicious, weake spirited, and fearefull: in regard of which imperfections, I greatly doubt (if we have no better direction then our owne) this society will sooner dissolve it selfe, and (perchance) with lesse honour to us, then if we never had begunne it. And therefore it shall be expedient for us, to provide before wee proceede any further. Madam _Elissa_ hereon thus replied. Most true it is, that men are the chiefe or head of women, and without their order, sildome times doe any matters of ours sort to commendable ende. But what meanes shal we make for men? we all know well enough, that the most part of our friends are dead, and such as are living, some be dispearsed here, others there, into divers places and companies, where we have no knowledge of their being. And to accept of strangers, would seeme very inconvenient; wherefore as we have such care of our health, so should wee be as respective (withall) in ordering our intention: that wheresoever wee aime at our pleasure and contentment, reproofe and scandall may by no meanes pursue us. While this discourse thus held among the Ladies, three young Gentlemen came forth of the Church (yet not so young, but the youngest had attained to five and twenty yeeres) in whom, neither malice of the time, loss of friends or kinred, nor any fearefull conceit in themselves, had the power to quench affection; but (perhaps) might a little coole it, in regard of the queazy season. One of them called himselfe _Pamphilus_, the second _Philostratus_, and the last _Dioneus_. Each of them was very affable and well conditioned, and walked abroade (for their greater comfort in such a time of tribulation) to trie if they could meete with their faire friends, who (happily) might all three be among these seaven, and the rest kinne unto them in one degree or other. No sooner were these Ladies espyed by them, but they met with them also in the same advantage; whereupon Madam _Pampinea_ (amiably smiling) saide. See how graciously Fortune is favourable to our beginning, by presenting our eyes with three so wise and worthy young Gentlemen, who will gladly be our guides and servants, if we doe not disdaine them the office. Madam _Neiphila_ beganne immediatly to blush, because one of them had a love in the company, and saide; Good Madam _Pampinea_ take heed what you say, because (of mine owne knowledge) nothing can be spoken but good of them all; and I thinke them all to be absolutely sufficient, for a farre greater employment then is here intended: as being well worthy to keepe company, not onely with us, but them of more faire and precious esteeme then we are. But because it appeareth plainely enough, that they beare affection to some here among us: I feare, if wee should make the motion, that some dishonour or reproofe may ensue thereby, and yet without blame either in us or them. That is nothing at all, answered Madam _Philomena_, let mee live honestly, and my conscience not checke me with any crime; speake then who can to the contrary, God and truth shal enter armes for me. I wish that they were as willing to come, as all wee are to bid them welcome: for truly (as Madam _Pampinea_ saide) wee may very well hope that Fortune will bee furtherous to our purposed journey. The other Ladies hearing them speake in such manner, not onely were silent to themselves, but all with one accord and consent saide, that it were well done to call them, and to acquaint them with their intention, entreating their company in so pleasant a voyage. Whereupon, without any more words, Madam _Pampinea_ mounting on her feete (because one of the three was her Kinsman) went towards them, as they stood respectively observing them; and (with a pleasing countenance) giving them a gracious salutation, declared to them their deliberation, desiring (in behalfe of all the rest) that with a brotherly and modest minde, they would vouchsafe to beare them company. The Gentlemen imagined at the first apprehension, that this was spoken in mockage of them, but when they better perceived, that her words tended to solemne earnest; they made answer, that they were all heartily ready to doe them any service. And without any further delaying, before they parted thence, tooke order for their aptest furnishing with all convenient necessaries, and sent word to the place of their first appointment. On the morrow, being Wednesday, about breake of day, the Ladies, with certaine of their attending Gentlewomen, and the three Gentlemen, having three servants to waite on them; left the City to beginne their journey, and having travelled about a leagues distance, arrived at the place of their first purpose of stay; which was seated on a little hill, distant (on all sides) from any high way, plentifully stored with faire spreading Trees, affoording no meane delight to the eye. On the top of all stood a stately Pallace, having a large and spacious Court in the middest, round engirt with galleries, hals and chambers, every one separate alone by themselves, and beautified with pictures of admirable cunning. Nor was there any want of Gardens, Meadowes, and other pleasant walkes, with welles and springs of faire running waters, all encompassed with branching vines, fitter for curious and quaffing bibbers, then women sober and singularly modest. This Pallace the company found fully fitted and prepared, the beddes in the Chambers made and daintily ordered, thickly strewed with variety of flowers, which could not but give them the greater contentment. _Dioneus_, who (above the other) was a pleasant young gallant, and full of infinite witty conceits, saide; Your wit (faire Ladies) hath better guided us hither, then our providence. I know not how you have determined to dispose of your cares; as for mine owne, I left them at the City gate, when I came thence with you: and therefore let your resolution be, to spend the time here in smiles and singing (I meane, as may fittest agree with your dignity) or else give me leave to goe seeke my sorrowes againe, and so to remaine discontented in our desolate City. Madam _Pampinea_ having in like manner shaken off her sorrowes, delivering a modest and bashfull smile, replied in this manner. _Dioneus_, well have you spoken, it is fit to live merrily, and no other occasion made us forsake the sicke and sad Citie. But, because such things as are without meane or measure, are subject to no long continuance. I, who began the motion, whereby this society is thus assembled, and ayme at the long lasting thereof: doe hold it very convenient, that wee should all agree, to have one chiefe commaunder among us, in whom the care and providence should consist, for direction of our merriment, performing honour and obedience to the party, as to our Patrone and sole Governour. And because every one may feele the burthen of sollicitude, as also the pleasure of commaunding, and consequently have a sensible taste of both, whereby no envie may arise on any side: I could wish, that each one of us (for a day onely) should feele both the burthen and honour, and the person so to be advanced, shall receive it from the election of us all. As for such as are to succeede, after him or her that hath had the dayes of dominion: the party thought fit for succession, must be named so soone as night approacheth. And being in this eminencie (according as he or she shall please) hee may order and dispose, how long the time of his rule shall last, as also of the place and manner, where best we may continue our delight. These words were highly pleasing to them all, and, by generall voyce, Madame _Pampinea_ was chosen Queene for the first day. Whereupon, Madame _Philomena_ ranne presently to a Bay-tree, because she had often heard, what honour belonged to those branches, and how worthy of honour they were, that rightfully were crowned with them, plucking off divers branches, she made of them an apparant and honourable Chaplet, placing it (by generall consent) upon her head, and this, so long as their company continued, manifested to all the rest, the signall of dominion and Royall greatnesse. After that Madame _Pampinea_ was thus made Queene, she commanded publique silence, and causing the Gentlemens three servants, and the waiting women also (being foure in number) to be brought before her, thus shee began. Because I am to give the first example to you all, whereby (proceeding on from good to better) our company may live in order and pleasure, acceptable to all, and without shame to any: I create _Parmeno_ (servant to _Dioneus_) Maister of the Houshold, hee taking the care and charge of all our trayne, and for whatsoever appertaineth to our Hall service. I appoint also that _Silisco_ (servant to _Pamphilus_) shall be our Dispencer and Treasurer, performing that which _Parmeno_ shall commaund him. And that _Tindaro_ serve as Groome of the Chamber, to _Philostratus_ his Maister, and the other two, when his fellowes (impeached by their offices) cannot be present. _Misia_ my Chambermaid, and _Licisca_ (belonging to Philomena) shall serve continually in the Kitchin, and diligently make ready such vyands, as shall be delivered them by _Parmeno. Chimera_, wayting-woman to _Lauretta_, and _Stratilia_ (appertaining to _Fiammetta_) shall have the charge and governement of the Ladies Chambers, and preparing all places where we shall be present. Moreover, we will and commaund every one of them (as they desire to deserve our grace) that wheresoever they goe or come, or whatsoever they heare or see: they especially respect to bring us tydings of them. After shee had summarily delivered them these orders, very much commended of every one; shee arose fairely, saying. Heere wee have Gardens, Orchards, Meadowes, and other places of sufficient pleasure, where every one may sport & recreate themselves: but so soone as the ninth houre striketh, then all to meete here againe, to dine in the coole shade. This jocund company having received licence from their Queene to disport themselves, the Gentlemen walked with the Ladies into a goodly Garden, making Chaplets and Nosegayes of divers flowers, and singing silently to themselves. When they had spent the time limitted by the Queene, they returned into the house, where they found that _Parmeno_ had effectually executed his office. For, when they entred into the Hall, they saw the Tables covered with delicate white naperie, and the Glasses looking like silver, they were so transparantly cleare, all the roome beside streawed with floures of Juniper. When the Queene and all the rest had washed; according as _Parmeno_ gave order, so every one was seated at the Table: the vyands (delicately drest) were served in, and excellent wines plentifully delivered, none attending but the three servants, and little or no loud table-talke passing among them. Dinner being ended, and the tables withdrawne (all the Ladies, and the Gentlemen likewise, being skilfull both in singing and dauncing, and playing on instruments artificially) the Queene commaunded, that divers instruments should be brought, and (as she gave charge) _Dioneus_ tooke a Lute, and _Fiammetta_ a Violl _de gamba_, and began to play an excellent daunce. Whereupon the Queene, with the rest of the Ladies, and the other two young Gentlemen (having sent their attending servants to dinner) paced foorth a daunce very majestically. And when the daunce was ended, they sung sundry excellent Canzonets, out-wearing so the time, untill the Queene commaunded them all to rest, because the houre did necessarily require it. The Gentlemen having their Chambers farre severed from the Ladies, curiously strewed with flowers, and their beds adorned in exquisite manner, as those of the Ladies were not a jote inferiour to them: the silence of the night bestowed sweet rest on them all. In the morning, the Queene and all the rest being risen, accounting overmuch sleepe to be very hurtfull: they walked abroade into a goodly Meadowe, where the grasse grew verdantly, and the beames of the Sunne heated not over-violently, because the shades of faire spreading trees gave a temperate calmenesse, coole and gentle winds fanning their sweet breath pleasingly among them. All of them being there set downe in a round ring, and the Queene in the middest, as being the appointed place of eminencie, she spake in this manner. You see (faire company) that the Sunne is highly mounted, the heate (else-where) too extreme for us, and therefore here is our fittest refuge, the aire being so coole, delicate, and acceptable, and our folly well worthie reprehension, if we should walke further, and speede worse. Heere are Tables, Cards, and Chesse, as your dispositions may be addicted. But if mine advice might passe for currant, I would admit none of those exercises, because they are too troublesome both to them that play, and such as looke on. I could rather wish, that some quaint discourse might passe among us, a tale or fable related by some one, to urge the attention of all the rest. And so wearing out the warmth of the day, one prety Novell will draw on another, until the Sun be lower declined, and the heates extremity more diminished, to solace our selves in some other place, as to our minds shal seeme convenient. If therefore what I have sayde be acceptable to you (I purposing to follow in the same course of pleasure) let it appeare by your immediate answer; for, til the Evening, I think we can devise no exercise more commodious for us. The Ladies & Gentlemen allowed of the motion, to spend the time in telling pleasant tales; whereupon the Queene saide: Seeing you have approoved mine advice, I grant free permission for this first day, that every one shall relate, what to him or her is best pleasing. And turning her selfe to _Pamphilus_ (who was seated on her right hand) gave him favour, with one of his Novels, to begin the recreation: which he not daring to deny, and perceiving generall attention prepared for him, thus he began. _Messire Chappelet du Prat, by making a false confession, beguyled an holy Religious man, and after dyed. And having (during his life time) bene a verie bad man, at his death was reputed to be a Saint, and called S. Chappelet._ The first Novell. _Wherein is contained, how hard a thing it is, to distinguish goodnesse from hypocrisie; and how (under the shadow of holinesse) the wickednes of one man, may deceive many._ It is a matter most convenient (deare Ladies) that a man ought to begin whatsoever he doth, in the great and glorious name of him, who was the Creator of all thinges. Wherefore, seeing that I am the man appointed, to begin this your invention of discoursing Novelties: I intend to begin also with one of his wonderfull workes. To the end, that this beeing heard, our hope may remaine on him, as the thing onely permanent, and his name for ever to be praised by us. Now, as there is nothing more certaine, but that even as temporall things are mortall and transitory, so are they both in and out of themselves, full of sorrow, paine, and anguish, and subjected to infinite dangers: So in the same manner, we live mingled among them, seeming as part of them, and cannot (without some error) continue or defend ourselves, if God by his especiall grace and favour, give us not strength and good understanding. Which power we may not beleeve, that either it descendeth to us, or liveth in us, by any merites of our owne; but of his onely most gracious benignity. Mooved neverthelesse, and entreated by the intercessions of them, who were (as we are) mortals; and having diligently observed his commandements, are now with him in eternall blessednes. To whom (as to advocates and procurators, informed by the experience of our frailty) wee are not to present our prayers in the presence of so great a Judge; but only to himselfe, for the obtaining of all such things as his wisedome knoweth to be most expedient for us. And well may we credit, that his goodnesse is more fully enclined towards us, in his continuall bounty and liberality; then the subtilty of any mortal eye, can reach into the secret of so divine a thought: and sometimes therefore we may be beguiled in opinion, by electing such and such as our intercessors before his high Majesty, who perhaps are farre off from him, or driven into perpetuall exile, as unworthy to appeare in so glorious a presence. For he, from whom nothing can be hidden, more regardeth the sincerity of him that prayeth, then ignorant devotion, committed to the trust of a heedlesse intercessor; and such prayers have alwaies gracious acceptation in his sight. As manifestly will appeare, by the Novell which I intend to relate; manifestly (I say) not as in the judgement of God, but according to the apprehension of men. There was one named, _Musciatto Francesi_, who from beeing a most rich and great merchant in _France_, was become a Knight, and preparing to go into _Tuscany_, with Monsieur _Charles without Land_, Brother to the King of _France_ (who was desired and incited to come thither by Pope _Boniface_) found his affaires greatly intricated here and there (as oftentimes the matters of Merchants fall out to bee) and that very hardly hee should sodainly unintangle them, without referring the charge of them to divers persons. And for all he tooke indifferent good order, onely he remained doubtfull, whom he might sufficiently leave, to recover his debts among many _Burgundians_. And the rather was his care the more herein, because he knew the _Burgundians_ to be people of badde nature, rioters, brablers, full of calumny, and without any faithfulnesse; so that he could not bethinke himselfe of any man (how wicked soever he was) in whom he might repose trust to meete with their lewdnesse. Having a long while examined his thoughts upon this point, at last hee remembred one master _Chappelet du Prat_, who ofttimes had resorted to his house in _Paris_. And because he was a man of little stature, yet handsome enough, the French not knowing what this word _Chappelet_ might mean, esteeming he should be called rather (in their tongue) _Chappell_; imagined, that in regard of his small stature, they termed him _Chappelet_, and not _Chappell_, and so by the name of _Chappelet_ he was every where known, and by few or none acknowledged for _Chappel_. This master _Chappelet_, was of so good and commendable life; that, being a Notarie, he held it in high disdaine, that any of his Contractes (although he made but few) should be found without falshoode. And looke how many soever hee dealt withall, he would be urged and required thereto, offering them his paines and travaile for nothing, but to be requited otherwise then by money; which prooved to bee his much larger recompencing, and returned to him the farre greater benefit. Hee tooke the onely pleasure of the world, to beare false witnesse, if hee were thereto entreated, and (oftentimes) when hee was not requested at all. Likewise, because in those times, great trust and beleefe was given to an oath, he making no care or conscience to be perjured: greatly advantaged himselfe by Law suites, in regard that many matters relyed upon his oath, and delivering the truth according to his knowledge. He delighted (beyond measure) and addicted his best studies, to cause enmities & scandals between kindred and friends, or any other persons, agreeing well together; and the more mischiefe he could procure in this kind, so much the more pleasure and delight tooke he therein. If he were called to kil any one, or to do any other villanous deede, he never would make deniall, but go to it very willingly; and divers times it was wel knowen, that many were cruelly beaten, ye slaine by his hands. Hee was a most horrible blasphemer of God and his Saints, upon the very least occasion, as being more addicted to choller, then any other man could be. Never would he frequent the Church, but basely contemned it, with the Sacraments and religious rites therein administred, accounting them for vile and unprofitable things: but very voluntarily would visit Tavernes, and other places of dishonest accesse, which were continually pleasing unto him, to satisfie his lust and inordinate lubricitie. Hee would steale both in publike and private, even with such a conscience, as if it were given to him by nature so to do. He was a great glutton and a drunkarde, even till he was not able to take any more: being also a continuall gamester, and carrier of false Dice, to cheate with them the verie best Friendes he had. But why do I waste time in such extent of words? When it may suffice to say, that never was there a worse man borne; whose wickednesse was for long time supported, by the favour, power, and Authoritie of Monsieur _Musciatto_, for whose sake many wrongs and injuries were patiently endured, as well by private persons (whom hee would abuse notoriously) as others of the Court, betweene whom he made no difference at all in his vile dealing. This Master _Chappelet_, being thus remembred by _Musciatto_ (who very well knew his life and behaviour) he perfectly perswaded himselfe, that this was a man apt in all respects, to meete with the treachery of the Burgundians: whereupon, having sent for him, thus he beganne. _Chappelet_, thou knowest how I am wholly to retreate my selfe from hence, and having some affaires among the Burgundians, men full of wickednesse and deceite; I can bethinke my selfe of no meeter a man then _Chappelet_, to recover such debts as are due to me among them. And because it falleth out so well, that thou art not now hindered by any other businesse; if thou wilt undergoe this office for me, I will procure thee favourable Letters from the Court, and give thee a reasonable portion in all thou recoverest. Master _Chappelet_, seeing himselfe idle, and greedy after worldly goods, considering _Mounsieur Musciatto_ (who had beene alwayes his best buckler) was now to depart from thence, without any dreaming on the matter, and constrained thereto (as it were) by necessity, set downe his resolution, and answered that hee would gladly doe it. Having made their agreement together, and received from _Musciatto_ his expresse procuration, as also the Kings gracious Letters; after that _Musciatto_ was gone on his journey, Master _Chappelet_ went to _Dijon_ [Sidenote: To Borgogna saith the Italian.], where he was unknowne (well neere) of any. And there (quite from his naturall disposition) he beganne benignely and graciously, in recovering the debts due; which course he tooke the rather, because they should have a further feeling of him in the ende. Being lodged in the house of two Florentine brethren, that lived on their monies usance; and (for _Mounsieur Musciattoes_ sake) using him with honour and respect: It fortuned that he fell sicke, and the two brethren sent for Physicions to attend him, allowing their servants to be diligent about him, making no spare of any thing, which gave the best likelyhood of restoring his health. But all their paines proved to no purpose, because he (honest man) being now growne aged, and having lived all his life time very disordredly, fell day by day (according to the Physicions judgement) from bad to worse, as no other way appeared but death, whereat the brethren greatly greeved. Upon a day, neere to the Chamber where the sicke man lay, they entred into this communication. What shall we doe (quoth the one to the other) with this man? We are much hindered by him, for to send him away (sicke as he is) we shall be greatly blamed thereby, and it will be a manifest note of our weake wisedome: the people knowing that first of all we gave him entertainement, and have allowed him honest physical attendance, and he not having any way injuried or offended us, to let him be suddenly expulsed our house (sicke to death as he is) it can be no way for our credit. On the other side, we are to consider also, that he hath bin so badde a man, as he will not now make any confession thereof, neither receive the blessed Sacrament of the Church, and dying so without confession; there is no Church that will accept his body, but it must be buried in prophane ground, like to a Dogge. And yet if he would confesse himselfe, his sinnes are so many and monstrous; as the like case also may happen, because there is not any Priest or Religious person, that can or will absolve him. And being not absolved, he must be cast into some ditch or pit, and then the people of the Towne, as well in regard of the account we carry heere, (which to them appeareth so little pleasing, as we are daily pursued with their worst words) as also coveting our spoile and overthrow; upon this accident will cry out and mutiny against us; _Beholde these Lombard dogs, which are not to be received into the Church, why should we suffer them to live heere among us?_ In furious madnesse will they come upon us, and our house, where (peradventure) not contented with robbing us of our goods, our lives will remaine in their mercy and danger; so that, in what sort soever it happen, this mans dying heere, must needs be banefull to us. Master _Chappelet_, who (as we have formerly saide) was lodged neere to the place where they thus conferred, having a subtle attention (as oftentimes we see sicke persons to bee possessed withall) heard all these speeches spoken of him, and causing them to be called unto him, thus hee spake. I would not have you to be any way doubtfull of me; neither that you shold receive the least damage by me: I have heard what you have said, and am certaine, that it will happen according to your words, if matters should fall out as you conceite; but I am minded to deale otherwise. I have committed so many offences against our Lord God, in the whole current of my life; that now I intend one action at the hour of my death, which I trust will make amends for all. Procure therefore, I pray you, that the most holy and religious man that is to be found (if there bee any one at all) may come unto me, and referre the case then to me, for I will deale in such sort for you and my selfe, that all shall be well, and you no way discontented. The two Brethren, although they had no great hope in his speeches, went yet to a Monastery of Gray-Friars, and requested; that some one holy and learned man, might come to heare the confession of a _Lombard_, that lay verie weake and sicke in their house. And one was granted unto them, beeing an aged religious Frier, a great read master in the sacred Scriptures, a very venerable person, who beeing of good and sanctified life, all the Citizens held him in great respect & esteem, and on he went with them to their house. When he was come up into the Chamber where Master _Chappelet_ lay, and being there seated downe by him; he beganne first to comfort him very lovingly, demanding also of him, howe many times he had bin at confession? Whereto master _Chappelet_ (who never had bin shriven in all his life time) thus replied. Holy Father, I alwayes used (as a common custome) to bee confessed once (at the least) every weeke, albeit sometimes much more often, but true it is, that being faln into this sicknesse, now eight dayes since; I have not bene confest, so violent hath bene the extremity of my weakenesse. My sonne (answered the good old man) thou hast done well, and so keep thee still hereafter in that minde: but I plainly perceive, seeing thou hast so often confessed thy selfe, that I shall take the lesse labour in urging questions to thee. Master _Chappelet_ replied: Say not so good Father, for albeit I have bene so oftentimes confessed, yet am I willing now to make a generall confession, even of all sinnes comming to my remembrance, from the very day of my birth, until this instant houre of my shrift. And therefore I intreate you (holy Father) to make a particular demand of every thing, even as if I had never bene confessed at al, and to make no respect of my sicknesse: for I had rather be offensive to mine owne flesh, then by favouring or allowing it ease, to hazard the perdition of my soule, which my Redeemer bought with so precious a price. These words were highly pleasing to the holy Frier, and seemed to him as an argument of a good conscience: Wherefore, after hee had much commended this forwardnesse in him, he began to demand of him if he had never offended with any Woman? Whereunto master _Chappelet_ (breathing foorth a great sigh) answered. Holy Father, I am halfe ashamed to tell you the truth in this case, as fearing least I should sinne in vaine-glory. Whereto the Confessor replyed: Speake boldly Sonne, and feare not; for in telling the truth, be it in confession or otherwise, a man can never sinne. Then sayde Maister _Chappelet_, Father, seeing you give me so good an assurance, I will resolve you faithfully heerein. I am so true a Virgin-man in this matter, even as when I issued forth of my Mothers wombe. O Sonne (quoth the Frier) how happie and blessed of God art thou? Well hast thou lived, and therein hast not meanly merited: having hadde so much libertie to doo the contrary if thou wouldst, wherein very few of us can so answer for our selves. Afterward, he demanded of him, how much displeasing to God hee had beene in the sinne of Gluttony? When (sighing againe greatly) he answered: Too much, and too often, good Father. For, over and beside the Fasts of our Lent season, which everie yeare ought to bee dulie observed by devout people, I brought my selfe to such a customarie use, that I could fast three dayes in every Weeke, with Bread and Water. But indeede (holy Father) I confesse, that I have drunke water with such a pleasing appetite and delight (especially in praying, or walking on pilgrimages) even as greedy drunkards do, in drinking good Wine. And many times I have desired such Sallades of small hearbes, as Women gather abroad in the open fields, and feeding onely upon them, without coveting after any other kinde of sustenance; hath seemed much more pleasing to me, then I thought to agree with the nature of Fasting, especially, when as it swerveth from devotion, or is not done as it ought to bee. Sonne, Sonne, replied the Confessour, these sinnes are naturall, and very light, and therefore I would not have thee to charge thy conscience with them, more then is needfull. It happeneth to every man (how holy soever he be) that after he hath fasted over-long, feeding will be welcome to him, and drinking good drinke after his travaile. O Sir (said Maister _Chappelet_) never tell me this to comfort me, for well you know, and I am not ignorant therein, that such things as are done for the service of God, ought all to be performed purely, and without any blemish of the minde; what otherwise is done, savoureth of sinne. The Friar being well contented with his words, said: It is not amisse that thou understandest it in this manner, and thy conscience thus purely cleared, is no little comfort to me. But tell me now concerning Avarice, hast thou sinned therein? by desiring more then was reasonable, or withholding from others, such things as thou oughtst not to detaine? whereto Maister _Chappelet_ answered. Good Father, I would not have you to imagine, because you see me lodged here in the house of two usurers, that therefore I am of any such disposition. No truly Sir, I came hither to no other end, but onely to chastise and admonish them in friendly manner, to cleanse their mindes from such abhominable profit: And assuredly, I should have prevailed therein, had not this violently sicknesse hindered mine intention. But understand (holy Father) that my parents left me a rich man, and immediatly after my fathers death, the greater part of his goods I gave away for Gods sake, and then, to sustaine mine owne life, and to helpe the poore members of Jesus Christ, I betooke my selfe to a meane estate of Merchandise, desiring none other then honest gaine thereby, and evermore whatsoever benefit came to me; I imparted halfe thereof to the poore, converting mine owne small portion about my necessary affaires, which that other part would scarcely serve to supply: yet alwayes God gave thereto such a mercifull blessing, that my businesse dayly thrived more and more, arising still from good to better. Well hast thou done therein good Sonne, said the Confessour: but how often times hast thou beene angry? Oh Sir (said Maister _Chappelet_) therein I assure yee, I have often transgressed. And what man is able to forbeare it, beholding the dayly actions of men to be so dishonest? No care of keeping Gods commaundements, nor any feare of his dreadfull judgements. Many times in a day, I have rather wished my selfe dead then living, beholding youth pursuing idle vanities, to sweare and forsweare themselves, tipling in Tavernes, and never haunting Churches; but rather affecting the worlds follies, then any such duties as they owe to God. Alas Sonne (quoth the Friar) this is a good and holy anger, and I can impose no penance on thee for it. But tell me, hath not rage or furie at any time so over-ruled thee, as to commit murther or manslaughter, or to speake evill of any man, or to doe any other such kinde of injurie? Oh Father (answered Maister _Chappelet_) you that seeme to be a man of God, how dare you use any such vile words? If I had had the very least thought, to doe any such act as you speake, doe you thinke that God would have suffered me to live? These are deedes of darknesse, fit for villaines and wicked livers; of which hellish crue, when at any time I have happened to meete with some one of them; I have said, Goe, God convert thee. Worthy, and charitable words, replied the Friar; but tell me Sonne, Didst thou ever beare false witnesse against any man, or hast spoken falsly, or taken ought from any one, contrary to the will of the owner? Yes indeede Father, said Maister _Chappelet_, I have spoken ill of another, because I have sometime seene one of my neighbours, who with no meane shame of the world, would doe nothing else but beate his wife: and of him once I complained to the poore mans parents, saying, that he never did it, but when he was overcome with drinke. Those were no ill words, quoth the Friar; but I remember, you said that you were a Merchant: Did you ever deceive any, as some Merchants use to doe? Truly Father, answered Maister _Chappelet_, I thinke not any, except one man, who one day brought me money which he owed me, for a certaine piece of cloath I solde him, and I put it into a purse without accounting it: about a moneth afterward, I found that there were foure small pence more then was due to me. And never happening to meete with the man againe, after I had kept them the space of a whole yeare, I then gave them away to foure poore people for Gods sake. A small matter, said the Friar, & truly payed back again to the owner, in bestowing them upon the poore. Many other questions hee demaunded of him, whereto still he answered in the same manner: but before he proceeded to absolution, Maister _Chappelet_ spake thus. I have yet one sinne more, which I have not revealed to you: when being urged by the Friar to confesse it, he said. I remember, that I should afford one day in the weeke, to cleanse the house of my soule, for better entertainement to my Lord and Saviour, and yet I have done no such reverence to the Sunday or Sabaoth, as I ought to have done. A small fault Sonne, replied the Friar. O no (quoth Maister _Chappelet_) doe not terme it a small fault, because Sunday being a holy day, is highly to be reverenced: for, as on that day, our blessed Lord arose from death to life. But (quoth the Confessour) hast thou done nothing else on that day? Yes, said he, being forgetfull of my selfe, once I did spet in Gods Church. The Friar smiling, said: Alas Sonne, that is a matter of no moment, for wee that are Religious persons, doe use to spet there every day. The more is your shame, answered Maister _Chappelet_, for no place ought to be kept more pure and cleane then the sacred Temple, wherein our dayly sacrifices are offered up to God. In this manner he held on an houre and more, uttering the like transgressions as these; and at last began to sigh very passionately, and to shed a few teares, as one that was skilfull enough in such dissembling prankes; whereat the Confessour being much mooved, said: Alas Sonne, what aylest thou? Oh Father (quoth _Chappelet_) there remaineth yet one sinne more upon my conscience, whereof I never at any time made confession, so shamefull it appeareth to me to disclose it; and I am partly perswaded, that God will never pardon me for that sinne. How now Sonne? said the Friar, never say so; for if all the sinnes that ever were committed by men, or shall be committed so long as the World endureth, were onely in one man, and he repenting them, and being so contrite for them, as I see thou art; the grace and mercy of God is so great, that upon penitent confession, he will freely pardon him, and therefore spare not to speak it boldly. Alas Father (said _Chappelet_, still in pretended weeping) this sinne of mine is so great, that I can hardly beleeve (if your earnest prayers doe not assist me) that ever I shall obtaine remission for it. Speake it Sonne, said the Friar, and feare not, I promise that I will pray to God for thee. Master _Chappelet_ still wept and sighed, and continued silent, notwithstanding all the Confessors comfortable perswasions; but after hee had helde him a long while in suspence, breathing forth a sighe, even as if his very heart would have broken, he saide; Holy Father, seeing you promise to pray to God for me, I will reveale it to you: Know then, that when I was a little boy, I did once curse my Mother; which he had no sooner spoken, but he wrung his hands, and greeved extraordinarily. Oh good Son, saide the Friar, doth that seeme so great a sinne to thee? Why, men doe daily blaspheme our Lord God, and yet neverthelesse, upon their hearty repentance, he is alwayes ready to forgive them; and wilt not thou beleeve to obtaine remission, for a sinne so ignorantly committed? Weepe no more deare Sonne, but comfort thy selfe, and rest resolved, that if thou wert one of them, who nayled our blessed Saviour to his Crosse; yet being so truly repentant, as I see thou art, he would freely forgive thee. Say you so Father? quoth _Chappelet_. What? mine owne deare Mother? that bare me in her wombe nine moneths, day and night, and afterwards fed me with her breasts a thousand times, can I be pardoned for cursing her? Oh no, it is too haynous a sinne, and except you pray to God very instantly for me, he will not forgive me. When the religious man perceived, that nothing more was to be confessed by Master _Chappelet_; he gave him absolution, and his owne benediction beside, reputing him to be a most holy man, as verily beleeving all that he had said. And who would not have done the like, hearing a man to speake in that manner, and being upon the very point of death? Afterward, he saide unto him; Master _Chappelet_, by Gods grace you may be soone restored to health, but if it so come to passe, that God doe take your blessed and well disposed soule to his mercy, will it please you to have your body buried in our Convent? Whereto Master _Chappelet_ answered; I thanke you Father for your good motion, and sorry should I be, if my friends did bury me any where else, because you have promised, to pray to God for me; and beside, I have alwayes carried a religious devotion to your Order. Wherefore, I beseech you, so soone as you are come home to your Convent, prevaile so much by your good meanes, that the holy Eucharist, consecrated this morning on your high Altar, may be brought unto me: for although I confesse my selfe utterly unworthy, yet I purpose (by your reverend permission) to receive it, as also your holy and latest unction; to this ende, that having lived a greevous sinner, I may yet (at the last) die a Christian. These words were pleasing to the good olde man, and he caused every thing to be performed, according as Master _Chappelet_ had requested. The two Brethren, who much doubted the dissembling of _Chappelet_, being both in a small partition, which sundered the sicke mans Chamber from theirs, heard and understood the passage of all, betweene him and the ghostly Father, being many times scarcely able to refrain from laughter, at the fraudulent course of his confession. And often they said within themselves; what manner of man is this, whom neither age, sicknesse, nor terror of death so neere approaching, and sensible to his owne soule, nor that which is much more, God, before whose judgement he knowes not how soone he shall appeare, or else be sent to a more fearefull place; none of these can alter his wicked disposition, but that he will needes die according as he hath lived? Notwithstanding, seeing he had so ordered the matter, that he had buriall freely allowed him, they cared for no more. After that _Chappelet_ had received the Communion, and the other ceremonies appointed for him; weakenesse encreasing on him more and more, the very same day of his goodly confession, he died (not long after) towards the evening. Whereupon the two Brethren tooke order, that all needefull things should be in a readinesse, to have him buried honourably; sending to acquaint the Fathers of the Convent therewith, that they might come to say their _Vigilles_, according to precedent custome, and then on the morrow to fetch the body. The honest Friar that had confessed him, hearing he was dead, went to the Prior of the Convent, and by sound of the house Bell, caused all the Brethren to assemble together, giving them credibly to understand, that Master _Chappelet_ was a very holy man, as appeared by all the parts of his confession, and made no doubt, but that many miracles would be wrought by his sanctified body, perswading them to fetch it thither with all devoute solemnity and reverence; whereto the Prior, and all the credulous Brethren presently condiscended very gladly. When night was come, they went all to visit the dead body of Master _Chappelet_, where they used an especiall and solemne _Vigill_; and on the morrow, apparrelled in their richest Coapes and Vestiments, with books in their hands, and the Crosse borne before them, singing in the forme of a very devoute procession, they brought the body pompeously into their Church, accompanied with all the people of the Towne, both men and women. The Father Confessor, ascending up into the Pulpit, preached wonderfull things of him, and the rare holinesse of his life; his fastes, his virginity, simplicity, innocency, and true sanctity, recounting also (among other especiall observations) what _Chappelet_ had confessed, as this most great and greevous sinne, and how hardly he could be perswaded, that God would grant him pardon for it. Whereby he tooke occasion to reprove the people then present, saying; And you (accursed of God) for the verie least and trifling matter hapning, will not spare to blaspheme God, his blessed Mother, and the whole Court of heavenly Paradise: Oh, take example by this singular man, this Saint-like man, nay, a verie Saint indeede. Many additions more he made, concerning his faithfulnesse, truth, & integrity; so that, by the vehement asseveration of his words (whereto all the people there present gave credible beleefe) he provoked them unto such zeale and earnest devotion; that the Sermon was no sooner ended, but (in mighty crowds and throngs) they pressed about the Biere, kissing his hands and feete, and all the garments about him were torne in peeces, as precious Reliques of so holy a person, and happy they thought themselves, that could get the smallest peece or shred or anie thing that came neere to his body, and thus they continued all the day, the body lying still open, to be visited in this manner. When night was come, they buried him in a goodly Marble tombe, erected in a faire Chappell purposely; and for many dayes after following, it was most strange to see, how the people of the country came thither on heapes, with holy Candles and other offerings, with Images of waxe fastened to the Tombe, in signe of Sacred and solemne Vowes, to this new created Saint. And so farre was spread the fame and renowne of his sanctity, devotion, and integrity of life, maintained constantly by the Fathers of the Convent; that if any one fell sicke in neede, distresse, or adversity, they would make their Vowes to no other Saint but him: naming him (as yet to this day they do) Saint _Chappelet_, affirming upon their Oathes, that infinite miracles were there daily performed by him, and especially on such, as came in devotion to visit his shrine. In this manner lived and died Master _Chappelet du Prat_, who before he became a Saint, was as you have heard: and I will not deny it to be impossible, but that he may be at rest among other blessed bodies. For, although he lived lewdly and wickedly, yet such might be his contrition in the latest extreamity, that (questionlesse) he might finde mercie. But, because such things remaine unknowne to us, and speaking by outwarde appearance, vulgar judgement will censure otherwise of him, and thinke him to be rather in perdition, then in so blessed a place as Paradice. But referring that to the Omnipotent appointment, whose clemencie hath alwayes beene so great to us, that he regards not our errors, but the integrity of our Faith, making (by meanes of our continuall Mediator) of an open enemy, a converted sonne and servant. And as I began in his name, so will I conclude, desiring that it may evermore be had in due reverence, and referre we our selves thereto in all our necessities, with this setled assurance, that he is alwayes readie to heare us. And so he ceased. _Abraham a Jew, being admonished or advised by a friend of his, named Jehannot de Chevigny, travailed from Paris unto Rome: And beholding there the wicked behaviour of men in the Church, returned backe to Paris again, where yet (neverthelesse) he became a Christian._ The Second Novell. _Wherein is contained and expressed, the liberality and goodnesse of God, extended to the Christian Faith._ The Novell recited by _Pamphilus_ was highly pleasing to the company, and much commended by the Ladies: and after it had beene diligently observed among them, the Queen commanded Madam _Neiphila_ (who was seated neerest to _Pamphilus_) that, in relating another of hers, she should follow on in the pastime thus begun. She being no lesse gracious in countenance, then merrily disposed; made answer, that shee would obey her charge, and began in this manner. _Pamphilus_ hath declared to us by his Tale, how the goodnesse of God regardeth not our errors, when they proceede from things which wee cannot discerne. And I intend to approove by mine, what argument of infallible truth, the same benignity delivereth of it selfe, by enduring patiently the faults of them, that (both in word and worke) should declare unfaigned testimony of such gracious goodnesse, and not to live so dissolutely as they doe. To the end, that others illumined by their light of life, may beleeve with the stronger constancy of minde. As I have heeretofore heard (Gracious Ladies) there lived a wealthy Marchant in _Paris_, being a Mercer, or seller of Silkes, named _Jehannot de Chevigny_, a man of faithful, honest, and upright dealing; who held great affection and friendship with a very rich Jew, named _Abraham_, that was a Merchant also, and a man of very direct conversation. _Jehannot_ well noting the honesty and loyall dealing of this Jew, began to have a Religious kind of compassion in his soule, much pittying, that a man so good in behaviour, so wise and discreete in all his actions, should be in danger of perdition thorow want of Faith. In which regard, lovingly he began to entreate him, that he would leave the errors of his Jewish beleefe, and follow the truth of Christianity, which he evidently saw (as being good and holy) daily to prosper and enlarge it selfe, whereas (on the contrary) his profession decreased, and grew to nothing. The Jew made answer, that he beleeved nothing to be so good & holy, as the Jewish Religion, and having beene borne therein, therein also he purposed to live and dye, no matter whatsoever, being able to remove him from that resolution. For all this stiffe deniall, _Jehannot_ would not so give him over; but pursued him still day by day, reitterating continually his former speeches to him: delivering infinite excellent and pregnant reasons, that Merchants themselves were not ignorant, how farre the Christian faith excelled the Jewish falshoods. And albeit the Jew was a very learned man in his owne law, yet notwithstanding, the intire amity hee bare to _Jehannot_, or (perhaps) his words fortified by the blessed Spirit, were so prevalent with him: that the Jew felt a pleasing apprehension in them, though his obstinacie stood (as yet) farre off from conversion. But as hee thus continued strong in opinion, so _Jehannot_ left not hourely to labour him: in so much that the Jew, being conquered by such earnest and continuall importunity, one day spake to _Jehannot_ thus. My worthy friend _Jehannot_, thou art extremely desirous, that I should convert to Christianity, and I am well contended to doe it, onely upon this condition. That first I will journey to Rome, to see him (whom thou sayest) is Gods generall vicar here on earth, and to consider on the course of his life and manners, and likewise of his Colledge of Cardinals. If he and they doe appeare such men to me, as thy speeches affirmes them to be, and thereby I may comprehend, that thy faith and Religion is better then mine, as (with no meane paines) thou endeavourest to perswade me: I will become a Christian as thou art, but if I finde it otherwise, I will continue a Jew as I am. When _Jehannot_ heard these words, he became exceeding sorrowfull, saide within himselfe. I have lost all the paines, which I did thinke to be well imployed, as hoping to have this man converted here: For, if he goe to the Court of Rome, and behold there the wickednes of the Priests lives; farewell all hope in me, of ever seeing him to become a Christian. But rather, were he already a Christian, without all question, he would turne Jew: And so (going neerer to _Abraham_) he said. Alas my loving friend, why shouldst thou undertake such a tedious travell, and so great a charge, as thy journey from hence to Rome will cost thee? Consider, that to a rich man (as thou art) travaile by land or sea is full of infinite dangers. Doest thou not thinke, that here are Religious men enow, who will gladly bestowe Baptisme upon thee. To me therefore it plainely appeareth, that such a voyage is to no purpose. If thou standest upon any doubt or scruple, concerning the faith whereto I wish thee; where canst thou desire conference with greater Doctours, or men more learned in all respects, then this famous Citie doth affoord thee, to resolve thee in any questionable case? Thou must thinke, that the Prelates are such there, as here thou seest them to be, and yet they must needes be in much better condition at Rome, because they are neere to the principall Pastour. And therefore, if thou wilt credit my counsell, reserve this journey to some time more convenient, when the Jubilee of generall pardon happeneth, and then (perchance) I will beare thee company, and goe along with thee as in vowed pilgrimage. Whereto the Jew replied. I beleeve _Jehannot_, that all which thou hast said may be so. But, to make short with thee, I am fully determined (if thou wouldst have me a Christian, as thou instantly urgest me to be) to goe thither, for otherwise, I will continue as I am. _Jehannot_ perceiving his setled purpose, said: Goe then in Gods name. But perswaded himselfe, that hee would never become a Christian, after hee had once seene the Court of Rome: neverthelesse, he counted his labour not altogether lost, in regard he bestowed it to a good end, and honest intentions are to be commended. The Jew mounted on horse-backe, and made no lingering in his journey to Rome, where being arrived, he was very honourably entertained by other Jewes dwelling in Rome. And during the time of his abiding there (without revealing to any one, the reason of his comming thither) very heedfully he observed, the manner of the Popes life, of the Cardinals, Prelates, and all the Courtiers. And being a man very discreete and judicious, he apparantly perceived, both by his owne eye, and further information of friends; that from the highest to the lowest (without any restraint, remorse of conscience, shame, or feare of punishment) all sinned in abhominable luxurie, and not naturally onely, but in foule Sodomie, so that the credit of Strumpets and Boyes was not small, and yet might be too easily obtained. Moreover, drunkards, belly-Gods, and servants of the paunch, more then of any thing else (even like brutish beasts after their luxurie) were every where to be met withall. And, upon further observation, hee saw all men so covetous and greedy of coyne, that every thing was bought and solde for ready money, not onely the blood of men, but (in plaine termes) the faith of Christians, yea, and matters of divinest qualities, how, or to whomsoever appertaining, were it for sacrifices or benefices, whereof was made no meane Merchandize, and more Brokers were there to be found (then in _Paris_ attending upon all Trades) of manifest Symonie, under the nice name of Negotiation, and for gluttony, not sustentation: even as if God had not knowne the signification of vocables, nor the intentions of wicked hearts, but would suffer himselfe to be deceived by the outward names of things, as wretched men commonly use to doe. These things, and many more (fitter for silence, then publication) were so deepely displeasing to the Jew, being a most sober and modest man; that he had soone seene enough, resolving on his returne to _Paris_, which very speedily he performed. And when _Jehannot_ heard of his arrivall, crediting much rather other newes from him, then ever to see him a converted Christian; he went to welcome him, and kindly they feasted one another. After some fewe dayes of resting, _Jehannot_ demaunded of him; what he thought of our holy father the Pope and his Cardinals, and generally of all the other Courtiers? Whereto the Jew readily answered; It is strange _Jehannot_, that God should give them so much as he doth. For I will truly tell thee, that if I had beene able to consider all those things, which there I have both heard and seene: I could then have resolved my selfe, never to have found in any Priest, either sanctity, devotion, good worke, example of honest life, or any good thing else beside. But if a man desire to see luxury, avarice, gluttony, and such wicked things, yea, worse, if worse may be, and held in generall estimation of all men; let him but goe to _Rome_, which I thinke rather to be the forge of damnable actions, then any way leaning to grace or goodnesse. And, for ought I could perceive, me thinkes your chiefe Pastour, and (consequently) all the rest of his dependants, doe strive so much as they may (with all their engine arte and endeavour) to bring to nothing, or else to banish quite out of the world, Christian Religion, whereof they should be the support and foundation. But because I perceive, that their wicked intent will never come to passe, but contrariwise, that your faith enlargeth itselfe, shining every day much more cleare and splendant: I gather thereby evidently, that the blessed Spirit is the true ground and defence thereof, as being more true and holy then any other. In which respect, whereas I stood stiffe and obstinate against the good admonitions, and never minded to become a Christian: now I freely open my heart unto thee, that nothing in the world can or shall hinder me, but I will be a Christian, as thou art. Let us therefore presently goe to the Church, and there (according to the true custome of your holy faith) helpe me to be baptized. _Jehannot_, who expected a farre contrary conclusion, then this, hearing him speake it with such constancy; was the very gladdest man in the world, and went with him to the Church of _Nostre Dame_ in _Paris_, where he requested the Priests there abiding, to bestow baptisme on _Abraham_, which they joyfully did, hearing him so earnestly to desire it. _Jehannot_ was his Godfather, and named him _John_, and afterward, by learned Divines he was more fully instructed in the grounds of our faith; wherein he grew of greatly understanding, and led a very vertuous life. _Melchisedech a Jew, by recounting a Tale of three Rings, to the great Soldan, named Saladine, prevented a great danger which was prepared for him._ The third Novell. _Whereby the Author, approving the Christian Faith, sheweth, how beneficiall a sodaine and ingenious answer may fall out to bee, especially when a man finds himselfe in some evident danger._ Madame _Neiphila_ having ended her Discourse, which was well allowed of by all the company; it pleased the Queene, that Madam _Philomena_ should next succeede in order, who thus began. The Tale delivered by _Neiphila_, maketh mee remember a doubtfull case, which sometime hapned to another Jew. And because that God, and the truth of his holy Faith, hath bene already very wel discoursed on: it shall not seeme unfitting (in my poore opinion) to descend now into the accidents of men. Wherefore, I will relate a matter unto you, which being attentively heard and considered; may make you much more circumspect, in answering to divers questions and demands, then (perhaps) otherwise you would be. Consider then (most woorthy assembly) that like as folly or dulnesse, many times hath overthrowne some men from place of eminencie, into most great and greevous miseries: even so, discreet sense and good understanding, hath delivered many out of irksome perils, and seated them in safest security. And to prove it true, that folly hath made many fall from high authority, into poore and despised calamity; may be avouched by infinite examples, which now were needeless to remember: But, that good sense and able understanding, may proove to be the occasion of great desolation, without happy prevention, I will declare unto you in very few words, and make it good according to my promise. _Saladine_, was a man so powerfull and valiant, as not onely his very valour made him Soldan of Babylon, but also gave him many signall victories, over Kings of the Sarrazens, and of Christians likewise. Having in divers Warres, and other magnificent employments of his owne, wasted all his treasure, and (by reason of some sodaine accident happening to him) standing in neede to use some great summe of money, yet not readily knowing where, or how to procure it; he remembred a rich Jew named _Melchisedech_, that lent out money to use or interest in the City of _Alexandria_. This man he imagined best able to furnish him, if he could be won to do it willingly: but he was knowne to be so gripple and miserable, that hardly any meanes would drawe him to it. In the end, constrained by necessity, and labouring his wits for some apt device whereby he might have it: he concluded, though hee might not compell him to do it, yet by a practise shadowed with good reason to ensnare him. And having sent for him entertained him very familiarly in his Court, and sitting downe by him, thus began. Honest man, I have often heard it reported by many, that thou art very skilfull, and in cases concerning God, thou goest beyond all other of these times: wherefore, I would gladly be informed by thee, which of those three Lawes or Religions, thou takest to be truest; that of the Jew, the other of the Sarazen, or that of the Christian? The Jew, being a very wise man, plainly perceived, that _Saladine_ sought to entrap him in his answer, and so to raise some quarrell against him. For, if he commended any one of those Lawes above the other, he knew that _Saladine_ had what he aymed at. Wherefore, bethinking himselfe to shape such an answer, as might no way trouble or entangle him: summoning all his sences together, and considering, that dallying with the Soldane might redound to his no meane danger, thus he replied. My Lord, the question propounded by you, is faire and worthy, & to answer mine opinion truly thereof, doth necessarily require some time of consideration, if it might stand with your liking to allow it: but if not, let me first make entrance to my reply, with a pretty tale, and well worth the hearing. I have oftentimes heard it reported, that (long since) there was a very wealthy man, who (among other precious Jewels of his owne) had a goodly Ring of great valew; the beauty and estimation whereof, made him earnestly desirous to leave it as a perpetuall memory and honour to his successors. Whereupon, he willed and ordained, that he among his male children, with whom this Ring (being left by the Father) should be found in custody after his death; hee and none other was to bee reputed his heire, and to be honoured and reverenced by all the rest, as being the prime and worthiest person. That Sonne, to whom this Ring was left by him, kept the same course to his posterity, dealing (in all respects) as his predecessor had done; so that (in short time) the Ring (from hand to hand) had many owners by Legacie. At length, it came to the hand of one, who had three sonnes, all of them goodly and vertuous persons, and verie obedient to their Father: in which regard, he affected them all equally, without any difference or partiall respect. The custome of this ring being knowne to them, each one of them (coveting to beare esteeme above the other) desired (as hee could best make his meanes) his father, that in regard he was now grown very old, he would leave that Ring to him, whereby he should bee acknowledged for his heire. The good man, who loved no one of them more then the other, knew not how to make his choise, nor to which of them he should leave the Ring: yet having past his promise to them severally, he studied by what meanes to satisfie them all three. Wherefore, secretly having conferred with a curious and excellent Goldsmith, hee caused two other Rings to bee made, so really resembling the first made Ring, that himself (when he had them in his hand) could not distinguish which was the right one. Lying upon his death-bed, and his Sonnes then plying him by their best opportunities, he gave to each of them a Ring. And they (after his death) presuming severally upon their right to the inheritance & honour, grew to great contradiction and square: each man producing then his Ring, which were so truly all alike in resemblance, as no one could know the right Ring from the other. And therefore, suite in Law, to distinguish the true heire to his Father; continued long time, and so it dooth yet to this very day. In like manner my good Lord, concerning those three Lawes given by God the Father, to three such people as you have propounded: each of them do imagine that they have the heritage of God, and his true Law, and also duely to performe his Commandements; but which of them do so indeede, the question (as of the three Ringes) is yet remaining. _Saladine_ well perceyving, that the Jew was too cunning to be caught in his snare, and had answered so well, that to doe him further violence, would redound unto his perpetuall dishonour; resolved to reveale his neede and extremity, and try if he would therein friendly sted him. Having disclosed the matter, and how he purposed to have dealt with him, if he had not returned so wise an answer; the Jew lent him so great a sum of money as hee demanded, and _Saladine_ repayed it againe to him justly, giving him other great gifts beside: respecting him as his especiall friend, and maintaining him in very honourable condition, neere unto his owne person. _A Monke, having committed an offence, deserving to be very grievously punished; freede himselfe from the paine to be inflicted on him, by wittily reprehending his Abbot, with the very same fault._ The fourth Novell. _Wherein may be noted, that such men as will reprove those errors in others, which remaine in themselves, commonly are the Authors of their owne reprehension._ So ceased Madam _Philomena_, after the conclusion of her Tale, when _Dioneus_ sitting next unto her, (without tarrying for any other command from the Queene, knowing by the order formerly begunne, that he was to follow in the same course) spake in this manner. Gracious Ladies, if I faile not in understanding your generall intention; we are purposely assembled here to tell Tales, and especially such as may please our selves. In which respect, because nothing should be done disorderly, I hold it lawfull for every one (as our Queene decreed before her dignity) to relate such a novelty, as (in their owne judgement) may cause most contentment. Wherefore having heard, that by the good admonitions of _Jehannot de Chevigny_, _Abraham_ the Jew was advised to the salvation of his soule, and _Melchisedech_ (by his witty understanding) defended his riches from the traines of _Saladine_: I now purpose to tell you in a few plaine words, (without feare of receiving any reprehension) how cunningly a Monke compassed his deliverance, from a punishment intended towards him. There was in the Country of _Lunigiana_ (which is not farre distant from our owne) a Monastery, which sometime was better furnished with holinesse and Religion, then nowadayes they are; wherein lived (among divers other) a young novice Monke, whose hot and lusty disposition (being in the vigour of his yeeres) was such, as neither fastes nor prayers had any great power over him. It chanced on a fasting day about high noone, when all the other Monkes were asleepe in their Dormitaries or Dorters, this frolicke Friar was walking alone in their Church, which stood in a very solitary place, where ruminating on many matters by himselfe, hee espied a pretty hansome wench (some Husbandmans daughter in the Countrey, that had beene gathering rootes and hearbes in the field) uppon her knees before an Altar, whom he had no sooner seene, but immediately hee felt effeminate temptations, and such as ill fitted with his profession. Lascivious desire, and no religious devotion, made him draw neere her, and whether under shrift (the onely cloake to compasse carnall affections) or some other as close conference, to as pernicious and vile a purpose, I know not: but so farre he prevailed upon her frailety, and such a bargaine passed betweene them, that (from the Church) he wonne her to his Chamber, before any person could perceive it. Now, while this yong lusty Monke (transported with over-fond affection) was more carelesse of his dalliance, then he should have beene; the Lord Abbot, being newly arisen from sleepe, and walking softly about the Cloyster, came to the Monkes Dorter doore, where hearing what noyse was made between them, and a feminine voyce, more strange then hee was wont to heare; he layed his eare close to the Chamber doore, and plainly perceived, that a woman was within. Wherewith being much moved, he intended suddenly to make him open the doore; but (upon better consideration) hee conceived it farre more fitting for him, to returne backe to his owne chamber, and tary untill the Monke should come forth. The Monke, though his delight with the Damosel was extraordinary, yet feare and suspition followed upon it: for, in the very height of all his wantonnesse, he heard a soft treading about the doore. And prying thorow a small crevice in the same doore, perceived apparantly, that the Abbot himselfe stood listening there, and could not be ignorant, but that the Maide was with him in the Chamber. As after pleasure ensueth paine, so the veneriall Monke knew well enough (though wanton heate would not let him heede it before) that most greevous punishment must be inflicted on him; which made him sad beyond all measure. Neverthelesse, without disclosing his dismay to the young Maiden, he began to consider with himselfe on many meanes, whereby to find out one that might best fit his turne. And suddenly conceited an apt stratagem, which sorted to such effect as he would have it: whereupon seeming satisfied for that season, hee tolde the Damosell, that (being carefull of her credit) as he had brought her in unseen of any, so he would free her from thence again, desiring her to tarrie there (without making any noyse at all) until such time as he returned to her. Going forth of the Chamber, and locking it fast with the key, he went directly to the Lord Abbots lodging, and delivering him the saide key (as every Monke used to doe the like, when he went abroade out of the Convent) setting a good countenance on the matter, boldly saide; My Lord, I have not yet brought in all my part of the wood, which lieth ready cut downe in the Forrest; and having now convenient time to doe it, if you please to give me leave, I will goe and fetch it. The Abbot perswading himselfe, that he had not beene discovered by the Monke, and to be resolved more assuredly in the offence committed; being not a little jocund of so happy an accident, gladly tooke the key, and gave him leave to fetch the wood. No sooner was he gone, but the Abbot beganne to consider with himselfe, what he were best to doe in this case, either (in the presence of all the other Monkes) to open the Chamber doore, that so the offence being knowne to them all, they might have no occasion of murmuring against him, when he proceeded in the Monkes punishment; or rather should first understand of the Damosell her selfe, how, and in what manner shee was brought thither. Furthermore, he considered, that shee might be a woman of respect, or some such mans daughter, as would not take it well, to have her disgraced before all the Monkes. Wherefore he concluded, first to see (himselfe) what shee was, and then (afterward) to resolve upon the rest. So going very softly to the Chamber, and entring in, locked the doore fast with the key, when the poore Damosell thinking it had beene the gallant young Monke; but finding it to be the Lord Abbot, shee fell on her knees weeping, as fearing now to receive publike shame, by being betrayed in this unkinde manner. My Lord Abbot looking demurely on the Maide, and perceiving her to be faire, feate, and lovely; felt immediately (although he was olde) no lesse spurring on to fleshly desires, then the young Monke before had done; whereupon he beganne to conferre thus privately with himselfe. Why should I not take pleasure, when I may freely have it? Cares and molestations I endure every day, but sildome find such delights prepared for me. This is a delicate sweete young Damosell, and here is no eye that can discover me. If I can enduce her to doe as I would have her, I know no reason why I should gaine-say it. No man can know it, or any tongue blaze it abroade; and sinne so concealed, is halfe pardoned. Such a faire fortune as this is, perhaps hereafter will never befall me; and therefore I hold it wisedome, to take such a benefit when a man may enjoy it. Upon this immodest meditation, and his purpose quite altered which he came for; he went neerer to her, and very kindly began to comfort her, desiring her to forbeare weeping, and (by further insinuating speeches) acquainted her with his amorous intention. The Maide, who was made neither of yron nor diamond, and seeking to prevent one shame by another, was easily wonne to the Abbots will, which caused him to embrace and kisse her often. Our lusty young novice Monke, whom the Abbot imagined to be gone for wood, had hid himselfe aloft upon the roofe of the Dorter, where, when he saw the Abbot enter alone into the Chamber, hee lost a great part of his former feare, promising to himselfe a kinde of perswasion, that somewhat would ensue to his better comfort; but when he beheld him lockt into the Chamber, then his hope grew to undoubted certainty. A little chincke or crevice favoured him, whereat he could both heare and see, whatsoever was done or spoken by them: so, when the Abbot thought hee had staide long enough with the Damosell, leaving her still there, and locking the doore fast againe, hee returned thence to his owne Chamber. Within some short while after, the Abbot knowing the Monke to be in the Convent, and supposing him to be lately returned with the wood, determined to reprove him sharpely, and to have him closely imprisoned, that the Damosell might remaine solie to himselfe. And causing him to be called presently before him, with a very stearne and angry countenance giving him many harsh and bitter speeches, commanded, that he should be clapt in prison. The Monke very readily answered, saying. My good Lord, I have not yet beene so long in the order of Saint _Benedict_, as to learne all the particularities thereto belonging. And beside Sir, you never shewed mee or any of my brethren, in what manner we young Monkes ought to use women, as you have otherwise done for our custome of prayer and fasting. But seeing you have so lately therein instructed mee, and by your owne example how to doe it: I heere solemnely promise you, if you please to pardon me but this one error, I will never faile therein againe, but dayly follow what I have seene you doe. The Abbot, being a man of quicke apprehension, perceived instantly by this answere; that the Monke not onely knew as much as he did, but also had seene (what was intended) that hee should not. Wherefore, finding himselfe to be as faulty as the Monke, and that hee could not shame him, but worthily had deserved as much himselfe; pardoning him, and imposing silence on eithers offence: they convayed the poore abused Damosell forth of their doores, she purposing (never after) to transgresse in the like manner. _The Lady Marquesse of_ Montferrat, _with a Banquet of Hennes, and divers other gracious speeches beside, repressed the fond love of the King of_ France. The fift Novell. _Declaring, that wise and vertuous Ladies, ought to hold their chastitie in more esteeme, then the greatnesse and treasures of Princes: and that a discreete Lord should not offer modestie violence._ The tale reported by _Dioneus_, at the first hearing of the Ladies, began to rellish of some immodestie, as the bashfull blood mounting up into their faces, delivered by apparant testimonie. And beholding one another with scarse-pleasing lookes, during all the time it was in discoursing, no sooner had hee concluded: but with a fewe milde and gentle speeches, they gave him a modest reprehension, and meaning to let him know, that such tales ought not to be tolde among women. Afterward, the Queene commaunded Madame _Fiammetta_, (sitting on a banke of flowers before her) to take her turne as next in order: and she, smiling with such a virgin-blush, as very beautifully became her, began in this manner. It is no little joy to me, that wee understand so well (by the discourses already past) what power consisteth in the delivery of wise and ready answeres; And because it is a great part offence and judgement in men, to affect women of great birth and quality, then themselves, as also an admirable fore-sight in women, to keepe off from being surprized in love, by Lords going beyond them in degree: a matter offereth it selfe to my memory, well deserving my speech and your attention, how a Gentlewoman (both in word and deede) should defend her honour in that kind, when importunity laboureth to betray it. The Marquesse of _Montferrat_ was a worthy and valiant Knight, who being Captaine Generall for the Church, the necessary service required his company on the Seas, in a goodly Army of the Christians against the Turkes. Upon a day, in the Court of King _Philip_, sirnamed the one eyed King (who likewise made preparation in _France_, for a royall assistance to that expedition) as many speeches were delivered, concerning the valour and manhood of this Marquesse: it fortuned, that a Knight was then present, who knew him very familiarly, and hee gave an addition to the former commendation, that the whole world contained not a more equall couple in mariage, then the Marquesse & his Lady. For, as among all Knights, the Marquesse could hardly be paraleld for Armes and honour; even so his wife, in comparison of all other Ladies, was scarcely matchable for beauty and vertue. Which words were so waighty in the apprehension of King _Philip_, that suddainly (having as yet never seene her) he began to affect her very earnestly, concluding to embarque himselfe at _Gennes_ or _Genoua_, there to set forward on the intended voyage, and journeying thither by land: hee would shape some honest excuse to see the Lady Marquesse, whose Lord being then from home, opinion perswaded him over-fondly, that he should easily obtaine the issue of his amorous desire. When hee was come within a dayes journey, where the Lady Marquesse then lay; he sent her word, that she should expect his company on the morrow at dinner. The Lady, being singularly wise and judicious; answered the Messenger, that she reputed the Kings comming to her, as an extraordinary grace and favour, and that hee should be most heartily welcome. Afterward, entring into further consideration with her selfe, what the King might meane by this private visitation, knowing her husband to be from home, and it to be no meane barre to his apter entertainement: at last she discreetly conceited (and therein was not deceived) that babling report of her beauty and perfections, might thus occasion the Kings comming thither, his journy lying else a quite contrary way. Notwithstanding, being a Princely Lady, and so loyall a wife as ever lived, shee intended to give him her best entertainement: summoning the chiefest Gentlemen in the Country together, to take due order (by their advise) for giving the King a gracious welcome. But concerning the dinner, and diet for service to his table; that remained onely at her owne disposing. Sending presently abroade, and buying all the Hennes that the Country afforded; shee commaunded her Cookes, that onely of them (without any other provision beside) they should prepare all the services that they could devise. On the morrow, the King came according to his promise, and was most honourable welcommed by the Lady, who seemed in his eye (farre beyond the Knights speeches of her) the fairest creature that ever he had seene before; whereat he mervailed not a little, extolling her perfections to be peerelesse, which much the more enflamed his affections, and (almost) made his desires impatient. The King being withdrawne into such Chambers, as orderly were prepared for him, and as beseemed so great a Prince: the houre of dinner drawing on, the King and the Lady Marquesse were seated at one Table, and his attendants placed at other tables, answerable to their degrees of honour. Plenty of dishes being served in, and the rarest wines that the Countrey yeelded, the King had more minde to the faire Lady Marquesse, then any meate that stood on the Table. Neverthelesse, observing each service after other, and that all the Viands (though variously cooked, and in divers kindes) were nothing else but Hennes onely; he began to wonder, and so much the rather, because he knew the Countrey to be of such quality, that it affoorded all plenty both of Fowles and Venyson: beside, after the time of his comming was heard, they had respite enough, both for hawking and hunting; and therefore it encreased his marvell the more, that nothing was provided for him, but Hennes onely: wherein to be the better resolved, turning a merry countenance to the Lady, thus he spake. Madam, are Hennes onely bred in this Countrey, and no Cockes? The Lady Marquesse, very well understanding his demand, which fitted her with an apt opportunity, to thwart his idle hope, and defend her owne honour; boldly returned the King this answere. Not so my Lord, but women and wives, howsoever they differ in garments and graces one from another; yet notwithstanding, they are all heere as they be in other places. When the King heard this reply, he knew well enough the occasion of his Henne dinner, as also, what vertue lay couched under her answer; perceiving apparantly, that wanton words would prove but in vaine, and such a woman was not easily to be seduced; wherefore, as hee grew enamored on her inconsiderately, so he found it best fitting for his honour, to quench this heate with wisedome discreetely. And so, without any more words, or further hope of speeding in so unkingly a purpose, dinner being ended, by a sudden departing, he smoothly shadowed the cause of his comming, and thanking her for the honour shee had done him, commended her to her chaste disposition, and posted away with speede to _Gennes_. _An honest plaine meaning man, (simply and conscionably) reprehended the malignity, hypocrisie, and misdemeanour of many Religious persons._ The sixt Novell. _Declaring, that in few, discreete, and well placed words, the covered craft of Church-men may be justly reproved, and their hypocrisie honestly discovered._ Madam _Æmilia_ sitting next to the gentle Lady _Fiammetta_, perceiving the modest chastisement, which the vertuous Lady Marquesse had given to the King of _France_, was generally graced by the whole Assembly; began (after the Queene had thereto appointed her) in these words. Nor will I conceale the deserved reprehension, which an honest simple lay-man, gave to a covetous holy Father, in very few words; yet more to be commended, then derided. Not long since (worthy Ladies) there dwelt in our owne native City, a Friar Minor, an Inquisitor after matters of Faith, who, although he laboured greatly to seeme a sanctified man, and an earnest affecter of Christian Religion, (as all of them appeare to be in outward shew;) yet he was a much better Inquisitor after them, that had their purses plenteously stored with money, then of such as were slenderly grounded in Faith. By which diligent continued care in him, he found out a man, more rich in purse, then understanding; and yet not so defective in matters of faith, as misguided by his owne simple speaking, and (perhaps) when his braine was well warmed with wine, words fell more foolishly from him, then in better judgement they could have done. Being on a day in company, (very little differing in quality from himselfe) he chanced to say; that he had beene at such good wine, as God himselfe did never drinke better. Which words (by some Sicophant then in presence) being carried to this curious Inquisitor, and he well knowing, that the mans faculties were great, and his bagges swolne up full with no meane abundance: _cum gladiis & fustibus_; With Booke, Bell, and Candle, he raysed an hoast of execrations against him, and the Sumner cited him with a solemne Processe to appeare before him, understanding sufficiently, that this course would sooner fetch money from him, then amend any misbeliefe in the man; for no further reformation did he seeke after. The man comming before him, he demanded, if the accusation intimated against him, was true or no? Whereto the honest man answered, that he could not denie the speaking of such words, and declared in what manner they were uttered. Presently the Inquisitor, most devoutly addicted to Saint _John_ with the golden beard, saide; What? Doest thou make our Lord a drinker, and a curious quaffer of wines, as if he were a glutton, belly-god, or a Taverne haunter, as thou, and other drunkards are. Being an hypocrite, as thou art, thou thinkest this to be but a light matter, because it may seeme so in thine owne opinion: but I tell thee plainly, that it deserveth fire and faggot, if I should proceede in Justice to inflict it on thee: with these, and other such like threatning words, as also a very stearn and angry countenance, he made the man believe himselfe to be an Epicure, and that hee denied the eternity of the soule; whereby he fell into such a trembling feare, as doubting indeed, least he should be burned, that, to be more mercifully dealt withall, he rounded him in the eare, and (by secret means) so annointed his hands with Saint _Johns_ golden grease, (a very singular remedy against the disease pestilentiall in covetous Priests, especially Friars Minors, that dare touch no money) as the case became very quickly altered. This soveraigne unction was of such vertue (though _Galen_ speakes not a word thereof among all his chiefest medicines) and so farre prevailed; that the terrible threatening words of fire and fagot, became meerely frozen up, and gracious language blew a more gentle and calmer ayre; the Inquisitor delivering him an hallowed Crucifixe, creating him a Souldier of the Crosse (because he had payed Crosses good store for it) and even as if he were to travell under that Standard to the holy Land; so did hee appoint him a home-paying pennance, namely, to visit him thrice every weeke in his Chamber, and to annoint his hands with the selfe-same yellow unguent, and afterward, to heare a Masse of the holy Crosse, visiting him also at dinner time, which being ended, to doe nothing all the rest of the day, but according as he directed him. The simple man, yet not so simple, but seeing that this weekely greasing the Inquisitors hands, would (in time) graspe away all his gold; grew weary of this annointing, and beganne to consider with himselfe, how to stay the course of this chargeable penance: And comming one morning, (according to his injunction) to heare Masse, in the Gospell he observed these wordes; _You shall receive an hundred for one, and so possesse eternall life_; which saying he kept perfectly in his memory, and, as hee was commanded, at dinner time, he came to the Inquisitor, finding him (among his fellowes) seated at the Table. The Inquisitor presently demanded of him, whether he had heard Masse that morning, or no? Yes Sir, replied the man very readily. Hast thou heard any thing therein (quoth the Inquisitor) whereof thou art doubtfull, or desirest to be further informed? Surely Sir, answered the plaine meaning man, I make no doubt of any thing I have heard, but doe beleeve all constantly; onely one thing troubleth me much, and maketh me very compassionate of you, and of all these holy Fathers your brethren, perceiving in what wofull and wretched estate you will be, when you shall come into another World. What words are these, quoth the Inquisitor? And why art thou moved to such compassion of us? O good Sir, saide the man, doe you remember the words in the Gospell this morning? you shall receive an hundred for one. That is very true, replied the Inquisitor, but what moveth thee to urge those words? I will tell you Sir, answered the plaine fellow, so it might please you to be not offended. Since the time of my resorting hither, I have daily seene many poore people at your doore, and (out of your abundance) when you and your brethren have fed sufficiently, every one hath had a good messe of pottage: now Sir, if for every dishfull given, you are sure to receive an hundred againe, you will all be meerely drowned in pottage. Although the rest (sitting at the Table with the Inquisitor) laughed heartily at this jest; yet he found himselfe toucht in another nature, having (hypocritically) received for one poore offence, above three hundred peeces of gold, and not a mite to be restored againe. But fearing to be further disclosed, yet threatning him with another Processe in Law, for abusing the words of the Gospell; he was content to dismisse him for altogether, without any more golden greasing in the hand. _Bergamino, by telling a Tale of a skilfull man, named_ Primasso, _and of an Abbot of Clugni; honestly checked a new kinde of covetousnesse, in Master_ Can de la Scala. The seaventh Novell. _Approving, that it is much unfitting for a Prince, or great person, to be covetous; but rather to be liberall to all men._ The curteous demeanour of Madam _Æmilia_, and the quaintnesse of her discourse, caused both the Queene, and the rest of the company, to commend the invention of carrying the Crosse, and the golden oyntment appointed for pennance. Afterward, _Philostratus_, who was in order to speake next, began in this manner. It is a commendable thing (faire Ladies) to hit a But that never stirreth out of his place: but it is a matter much more admirable, to see a thing (suddenly appearing, and sildome or never frequented before) to be as suddenly hit by an ordinary Archer. The vicious and polluted lives of Priests, yeeldeth matter of it selfe in many things, deserving speech and reprehension, as a true But of wickednesse, and well worthy to be sharply shot at. And therefore, though that honest meaning man did wisely, in touching Master Inquisitor to the quicke, with the hypocriticall charity of Monkes and Friars, in giving such things to the poore, as were more meete for swine, or to be worse throwne away; yet I hold him more to be commended, who (by occasion of a former tale, and which I purpose to relate) pleasantly reproved Master _Can de la Scala_, a Magnifico and mightie Lord, for a sudden and unaccustomed covetousnesse appearing in him, figuring by other men, that which he intended to say of him, in manner following. Master _Can de la Scala_, as fame ranne abroade of him in all places, was (beyond the infinite favours of Fortune towards him) one of the most notable and magnificent Lords that ever lived in _Italy_, since the dayes of _Fredericke_ the second Emperour. He determining to procure a very solemne assembly at _Verona_, and many people being met there from divers places, especially Gentlemen of all degrees; suddenly (upon what occasion I know not) his minde altered, and hee would not goe forward with his intention. Most of them hee partly recompenced which were come thither, and they dismissed to depart at their pleasure, one onely man remained unrespected, or in any kinde sort sent away, whose name was _Bergamino_, a man very pleasantly disposed, and so wittily ready in speaking and answering, as none could easily credit it, but such as heard him; and although his recompence seemed over long delayed, yet hee made no doubt of a beneficiall ending. By some enemies of his, Master _Can de la Scala_ was incensed, that whatsoever he gave or bestowed on him; was as ill imployed and utterly lost, as if it were throwne into the fire, and therefore he neither did or spake any thing to him. Some fewe dayes being passed over, and _Bergamino_ perceiving, that hee was neither called, nor any account made of, notwithstanding many manly good parts in him; observing beside, that hee found a shrewd consumption in his purse, his Inne, horses, and servants being chargeable to him: he began to grow extremely melancholly, and yet hee attended in expectation day by day, as thinking it farre unfitting for him, to depart before he was bidden farewell. Having brought with him thither three goodly rich garments, which had beene given him by sundry Lords, for his more sightly appearance at this great meeting: the importunate Host being greedy of payment, first he delivered him one of them, and yet not halfe the score being wiped off, the second must needes follow, and beside, except he meant to leave his lodging, hee must live upon the third so long as it would last, till hee saw what end his hopes would sort to. It fortuned, during the time of living thus upon his latest refuge, that he met with Maister _Can_ one day at dinner, where he presented himselfe before him, with a discontented countenance: which Master _Can_ well observing, more to distaste him, then take delight in any thing that could come from him, he said. _Bergamino_, how chearest thou? Thou art very melancholly, I pray thee tell us why? _Bergamino_ suddenly, without any premeditation, yet seeming as if he had long considered thereon, reported this Tale. Sir, I have heard of a certaine man, named _Primasso_, one skilfully learned in the Grammar, and (beyond all other) a very witty and ready versifier: in regard whereof, he was so much admired, and farre renowned, that such as never saw him, but onely heard of him, could easily say, this is _Primasso_. It came to passe, that being once at _Paris_, in poore estate, as commonly hee could light on no better fortune (because vertue is slenderly rewarded, by such as have the greatest possessions) he heard much fame of the Abbot of _Clugni_, a man reputed (next to the Pope) to be the richest Prelate of the Church. Of him he heard wonderfull and magnificent matters, that he alwayes kept an open and hospitable Court, and never made refusall of any (from whence so ever hee came or went) but they did eate and drinke freely there; provided, that they came when the Abbot was set at the Table. _Primasso_ hearing this, and being an earnest desirer, to see magnificent and vertuous men; he resolved to goe see this rare bounty of the Abbot, demaunding how far he dwelt from _Paris_. Being answered, about some three leagues thence; _Primasso_ made account, that if he went on betimes in the morning, he should easily reach thither before the houre for dinner. Being instructed in the way, and not finding any to walke along with him; fearing, if he went without some furnishment, and should stay long there for his dinner, he might (perhaps) complaine of hunger: he therefore caried three loaves of bread with him, knowing that he could meete with water every where, albeit he used to drinke but little. Having aptly convayed his bread about him, he went on his journey, and arrived at the Lord Abbots Court, an indifferent while before dinner time: wherefore, entring into the great Hall, and so from place to place, beholding the great multitude of Tables, bountifull preparation in the Kitchin, and what admirable provision there was for dinner; he said to himselfe, Truly this man is more magnificent, then Fame hath made him, because shee speakes too sparingly of him. While thus he went about, considering on all these things, he saw the Maister of the Abbots houshold (because then it was the houre of dinner) commaund water to be brought for washing hands, and every one sitting downe at the Table: it fell to the lot of _Primasso_, to sit directly against the doore, whereat the Abbot must enter into the Hall. The custome in this Court was such, that no foode should be served to any, of the Tables, untill the Lord Abbot was himselfe first sette: whereupon, every thing being fitte and readie, the Maister of the houshold, went to tell his Lord, that nothing now wanted but his presence onely. The Abbot comming from his Chamber to enter the Hall, looking about him, as hee was wont to doe; the first man hee saw was _Primasso_, who being but in homely habite, and he having not seene him before to his remembrance; a present bad conceite possessed his braine, that he never saw an unworthier person, saying within himselfe: See how I give my goods away to be devoured. So returning backe to his Chamber againe, commaunded the doore to be made fast, demaunding of every man neere about him, if they knew the base Knave that sate before his entrance into the Hall, and all his servants answered no. _Primasso_ being extreamely hungry, with travailing on foote so farre, and never used to fast so long; expecting still when meate would be served in, and that the Abbot came not at all: drew out one of his loaves which hee brought with him, and very heartily fell to feeding. My Lord Abbot, after he had stayed within an indifferent while, sent forth one of his men, to see if the poore fellow was gone, or no. The servant told him, that he still stayed there, and fed upon dry bread, which it seemed he had brought thither with him. Let him feede on his owne (replyed the Abbot) for he shall taste of none of mine this day. Gladly wold the Abbot, that _Primasso_ should have gone thence of himselfe, and yet held it scarsely honest in his Lordship, to dismisse him by his owne command. _Primasso_ having eaten one of his Loaves, and yet the Abbot was not come; began to feede upon the second: the Abbot still sending to expect his absence, and answered as he was before. At length, the Abbot not comming, and _Primasso_ having eaten up his second loafe, hunger compeld him to begin with the third. When these newes were carried to the Abbot, sodainly he brake forth and saide. What new kinde of needy tricke hath my braine begotte this day? Why do I grow disdainfull against any man whatsoever? I have long time allowed my meate to be eaten by all commers that did please to visit me, without exception against any person, Gentleman, Yeoman, poore or rich, Marchant or Minstrill, honest man or knave, never refraining my presence in the Hall, by basely contemning one poore man. Beleeve me, covetousnesse of one mans meate, doth ill agree with mine estate and calling. What though he appeareth a wretched fellow to mee? He may be of greater merit then I can imagine, and deserve more honour then I am able to give him. Having thus discoursed with himselfe, he would needs understande of whence and what he was, and finding him to be _Primasso_, come onely to see the magnificence which he had reported of him, knowing also (by the generall fame noysed every where of him) that he was reputed to bee a learned, honest, and ingenious man: he grew greatly ashamed of his own folly, and being desirous to make him an amends, strove many waies how to do him honour. When dinner was ended, the Abbot bestowed honourable garments on him, such as beseemed his degree and merit, and putting good store of money in his purse, as also giving him a good horsse to ride on, left it at his owne free election, whether hee would stay there still with him, or depart at his pleasure. Wherewith _Primasso_ being highly contented, yeelding him the heartiest thankes he could devise to doe, returned to _Paris_ on horse-back, albeit he came poorly thether on foot. Master _Can de la Scala_, who was a man of good understanding, perceyved immediately (without any further interpretation) what _Bergamino_ meant by this morall, and smiling on him, saide: _Bergamino_, thou hast honestly expressed thy vertue and necessities, and justly reprooved mine avarice, niggardnesse, and base folly. And trust me _Bergamino_, I never felt such a fit of covetousness come upon me, as this which I have dishonestly declared to thee: and which I will now banish from me, with the same correction as thou hast taught mee. So, having payed the Host all his charges, redeeming also his robes or garments, mounting him on a good Gelding, and putting plenty of Crownes in his purse, hee referd it to his owne choise to depart, or dwell there still with him. _Guillaume Boursier, with a few quaint and familiar words, checkt the miserable covetousnesse of Signior_ Herminio de Grimaldi. The eight Novell. _Which plainly declareth, that a covetous Gentleman, is not worthy of any honour or respect._ Madam _Lauretta_, sitting next to _Philostratus_, when she had heard the witty conceite of _Bergamino_; knowing, that shee was to say somewhat, without injunction or command, pleasantly thus began. This last discourse (faire and vertuous company) induceth mee to tell you, how an honest Courtier reprehended in like manner (and nothing unprofitably) base covetousnesse in a Merchant of extraordinary wealth. Which Tale, although (in effect) it may seeme to resemble the former; yet perhaps, it will prove no lesse pleasing to you, in regard it sorted to as good an end. It is no long time since, that there lived in _Genes_ or _Geneway_, a Gentleman named Signior _Herminio de Grimaldi_, who (as every one wel knew) was more rich in inheritances, and ready summes of currant mony, then any other knowne Citizen in _Italy_. And as hee surpassed other men in wealth, so did he likewise excell them in wretched Avarice, being so miserably greedy and covetous, as no man in the world could be more wicked that way; because, not onely he kept his purse lockt up from pleasuring any, but denied needful things to himself, enduring many miseries & distresses, onely to avoide expences, contrary to the _Genewayes_ generall custome, who alwayes delighted to be decently cloathed, and to have their dyet of the best. By reason of which most miserable basenesse, they tooke from him the sir-name of _Grimaldi_, whereof hee was in right descended: and called him master _Herminio_ the covetous Mizer, a nickname very notably agreeing with his gripple nature. It came to passe, that in this time of his spending nothing, but multiplying daily by infinite meanes, that a civill honest Gentleman (a Courtier, of ready wit, and discoursive in Languages) came to _Geneway_, being named _Guillaume Boursier_. A man very farre differing from divers Courtiers in these dayes, who for soothing shamefull and gracelesse manners, in such as allow them maintenance, are called and reputed to bee Gentlemen, yea especiall favourites: whereas much more worthily, they should be accounted as knaves and villaines, being borne and bred in all filthinesse, and skilfull in every kinde of basest behaviour, not fit to come in Princes Courts. For, whereas in passed times, they spent their dayes and paines in making peace, when Gentlemen were at warre or dissention, or treating on honest marriages, betweene friends and familiars, & (with loving speeches) would recreate disturbed mindes, desiring none but commendable exercises in Court, and sharpely reprooving (like fathers) disordred life, or ill actions in any, albeit with recompence little, or none at all: these upstarts now adayes, employ all their paines in detractions, sowing questions and quarrels betweene one another, making no spare of lyes & falshoods. Nay which is worse, they will do this in the presence of any man, upbraiding him with injuries, shames, and scandals (true or not true) upon the very least occasion. And by false and deceitfull flatteries and villanies of their own inventing, they make Gentlemen to become as vile as themselves. For which detestable qualities, they are better beloved and respected of theyr misdemeanour'd Lords, and recompenced in more bountifull manner, then men of vertuous carriage and desert. Which is an argument sufficient, that goodnesse is gone up to heaven, and hath quite forsaken these loathed lower Regions, where men are drowned in the mud of all abhominable vices. But returning where I left (being led out of my way by a just and religious anger against such deformity) this Gentleman, Master _Guillaume Boursier_, was willingly seene, and gladly welcommed by all the best men in _Geneway_. Having remayned some few dayes in the City, & (among other matters) heard much talke of the miserable covetousness of master _Herminio_, he grew verie desirous to have a sight of him. Master _Herminio_ had already understood, that this Gentleman, Master _Guillaume Boursier_, was vertuously disposed, and (how covetously soever he was inclined) having in him some sparkes of noble nature; gave him very good words, and gracious entertainement, discoursing with him on divers occasions. In company of other _Genewayes_ with him, he brought him to a new erected house of his, a building of great cost and beauty, where, after he had shewen him all the variable rarities, he beganne thus. Master _Guillaume_, no doubt but you have heard and seene many things, and you can instruct me in some quaint conceit or devise, to be fairely figured in painting, at the entrance into the great Hall of my House. Master _Guillaume_ hearing him speake so simply, returned him this answere; Sir, I cannot advise you in any thing, so rare or unseen as you talke of: but how to sneeze (after a new manner) upon a full and overcloyed stomacke, to avoide base humours that stupifie the braine, or other matters of the like quality. But if you would be taught a good one indeede, and had a disposition to see it fairely effected; I could instruct you in an excellent Embleme, wherewith (as yet) you never came acquainted. Master _Herminio_ hearing him say so, and expecting no such answere as he had saide; Good Master _Guillaume_, tell me what it is, and on my faith I will have it fairely painted. Whereto Master _Guillaume_ suddenly replied: Doe nothing but this Sir; Paint over the Portall at your Halles entrance, the lively picture of Liberality, to bid all your friends better welcome, then hitherto they have beene. When Master _Herminio_ heard these words, he became possessed with such a sudden shame, that his complexion changed from the former palenesse, and answered thus. Master _Guillaume_, I will have your advice so truly figured over my gate, and shee shall give so good welcome to all my guests, that both you, and all these Gentlemen shall say; I have both seene her, and am become reasonably acquainted with her. From that time forward, the words of Master _Guillaume_ were so effectuall with Signior _Herminio_, that he became the most bountifull and best house-keeper, which lived in his time in _Geneway_; no man more honouring and friendly welcoming both strangers and Citizens, then he continually used to doe. _The King of Cyprus was wittily reprehended, by the words of a Gentlewoman of Gascoignie, and became vertuously altered from his vicious disposition._ The ninth Novell. _Giving all men to understand, that Justice is necessary in a King, above all things else whatsoever._ The last command of the Queene, remained upon Madam _Elissa_, or _Eliza_, who without any delaying, thus beganne. Young Ladies, it hath often beene seene, that much paine hath beene bestowed, and many reprehensions spent in vaine, till a word happening at adventure, and perhaps not purposely determined, hath effectually done the deede: as appeareth by the Tale of Madam _Lauretta_, and another of mine owne, wherewith I intend briefly to acquaint you, approving, that when good words are discreetly observed, they are of soveraigne power and vertue. In the dayes of the first King of _Cyprus_, after the Conquest made in the holy Land by _Godfrey_ of _Bullen_, it fortuned, that a Gentlewoman of _Gascoignie_, travelling in pilgrimage, to visit the sacred Sepulcher in _Jerusalem_, returning home againe, arrived at _Cyprus_, where shee was villanously abused by certaine base wretches. Complaining thereof, without any comfort or redresse, shee intended to make her moane to the King of the Countrey. Whereupon it was tolde her, that therein shee should but loose her labour, because hee was so womanish, and faint-hearted; that not onely he refused to punish with justice the offences of others, but also suffered shamefull injuries done to himselfe. And therefore, such as were displeased by his negligence, might easily discharge their spleene against him, and doe him what dishonour they would. When the Gentlewoman heard this, despairing of any consolation, or revenge for her wrongs, shee resolved to checke the Kings deniall of justice, and comming before him weeping, spake in this manner. Sir, I presume not into your presence, as hoping to have redresse by you, for divers dishonourable injuries done unto me; but, as a full satisfaction for them, doe but teach me how you suffer such vile abuses, as daily are offered to your selfe. To the ende, that being therein instructed by you, I may the more patiently beare mine owne; which (as God knoweth) I would bestow on you very gladly, because you know so well how to endure them. The King, who (till then) had beene very bad, dull, and slothfull, even as sleeping out his time of governement; beganne to revenge the wrongs done to this Gentlewoman very severely, and (thenceforward) became a most sharpe Justicer, for the least offence offered against the honour of his Crowne, or to any of his subjects beside. _Master_ Albert _of Bullen, honestly made a Lady to blush, that thought to have done as much to him, because shee perceived him, to be amorously affected towards her._ The tenth Novell. _Wherein is declared, that honest love agreeth with people of all ages._ After that Madam _Eliza_ sate silent, the last charge and labour of the like employment, remained to the Queene her selfe; whereupon shee beganne thus to speake: Honest and vertuous young Ladies, like as the Starres (when the Ayre is faire and cleere) are the adorning and beauty of Heaven, and flowers (while the Spring time lasteth) doe graciously embellish the Meadowes; even so sweete speeches and pleasing conferences, to passe the time with commendable discourses, are the best habit of the minde, and an outward beauty to the body: which ornament of words, when they appeare to be short and sweete, are much more seemely in women, then in men; because long and tedious talking (when it may be done in lesser time) is a greater blemish in women, then in men. Among us women, this day, I thinke few or none have therein offended, but as readily have understood short and pithy speeches, as they have beene quicke and quaintly delivered. But when answering suteth not with understanding, it is generally a shame in us, and all such as live; because our moderne times have converted that vertue, which was within them who lived before us, into garments of the bodie, and shew whose habites were noted to bee most gaudie, fullest of imbroyderies, and fantastick fashions: she was reputed to have most matter in her, and therefore to be more honoured and esteemed. Never considering, that whosoever loadeth the backe of an Asse, or puts upon him the richest braverie; he becommeth not thereby a jote the wiser, or merriteth any more honour then an Asse should have. I am ashamed to speake it, because in detecting other, I may (perhaps) as justly taxe my selfe. Such imbroydered bodies, tricked and trimmed in such boasting bravery, are they any thing else but as Marble Statues, dumbe, dull, and utterly insensible? Or if (perchaunce) they make an answere, when some question is demaunded of them; it were much better for them to be silent. For defence of honest devise and conference among men and women, they would have the world to thinke, that it proceedeth but from simplicity and precise opinion, covering their owne folly with the name of honesty: as if there were no other honest woman, but shee that conferres onely with her Chamber-maide, Laundresse, or Kitchin-woman, as if nature had allowed them (in their owne idle conceite) no other kinde of talking. Most true it is, that as there is a respect to be used in the action of other things; so, time and place are necessarily to be considered, and also whom we converse withall; because sometimes it happeneth, that a man or woman, intending (by a word of jest and merriment) to make another body blush or be ashamed: not knowing what strength of wit remaineth in the opposite, doe convert the same disgrace upon themselves. Therefore, that we may the more advisedly stand upon out owne guard, and to prevent the common proverbe, _That Women (in all things) make choyse of the woorst:_ I desire that this dayes last tale, which is to come from my selfe, may make us all wise. To the end, that as in gentlenesse of minde we conferre with other; so by excellency in good manners, we may shew our selves not inferiour to them. It is not many yeares since (worthy assembly) that in _Bulloigne_ there dwelt a learned Physitian, a man famous for skill, and farre renowned, whose name was Master _Albert_, and being growne aged, to the estimate of threescore and tenne yeares: hee had yet such a sprightly disposition, that though naturall heate and vigour had quite shaken hands with him, yet amorous flames and desires had not wholly forsaken him. Having seene (at a Banquet) a very beautifull woman, being then in the estate of widdowhood, named (as some say) Madame _Margaret de Chisolieri_, shee appeared so pleasing in his eye; that his sences became no lesse disturbed, then as if he had beene of farre younger temper, and no night could any quietnesse possesse his soule, except (the day before) he had seene the sweet countenance of this lovely widdow. In regard whereof, his dayly passage was by her doore, one while on horsebacke, and then againe on foote; as best might declare his plaine purpose to see her. Both shee and other Gentlewomen, perceiving the occasion of his passing and repassing; would privately jest thereat together, to see a man of such yeares and discretion, to be amorously addicted, or over-swayed by effeminate passions. For they were partly perswaded, that such wanton Ague fits of Love, were fit for none but youthfull apprehensions, as best agreeing with their chearefull complexion. Master _Albert_ continuing his dayly walkes by the widdowes lodging, it chaunced upon a Feastivall day, that shee (accompanied with divers other women of great account) being sitting at her doore; espied Master _Albert_ (farre off) comming thitherward, and a resolved determination among themselves was set downe, to allow him favourable entertainement, and to jest (in some merry manner) at his loving folly, as afterward they did indeede. No sooner was he come neere, but they all arose, and courteously invited him to enter with them, conducting him into a goodly Garden, where readily was prepared choyse of delicate wines and banquetting. At length, among other pleasant and delightfull discourses, they demanded of him: how it was possible for him, to be amorously affected towards so beautifull a woman, both knowing and seeing, how earnestly she was sollicited by many gracious, gallant, and youthfull spirits, aptly suting with her yeares and desires? Master _Albert_ perceiving, that they had drawne him in among them, onely to scoffe and make a mockery of him; set a merry countenance on the matter, and honestly thus answered. Beleeve mee Gentlewoman (speaking to the widdowe her selfe) it should not appeare strange to any of wisedome and discretion, that I am amorously enclined, and especially to you, because you are well worthy of it. And although those powers, which naturally appertaine to the exercises of Love, are bereft and gone from aged people; yet goodwill thereto cannot be taken from them, neither judgement to know such as deserve to be affected: for, by how much they exceede youth in knowledge and experience, by so much the more hath nature made them meet for respect and reverence. The hope which incited me (being aged) to love you, that are affected of so many youthfull Gallants, grew thus. I have often chaunced into divers places, where I have seene Ladies and Gentlewomen, being disposed to a Collation or rere-banquet after dinner, to feede on Lupines, and young Onions or Leekes, and although it may be so, that there is little or no goodnesse at all in them; yet the heads of them are least hurtfull, and most pleasing in the mouth. And you Gentlewomen generally (guided by unreasonable appetite) will hold the heads of them in your hands, and feede upon the blades or stalkes; which not onely are not good for any thing, but also are of very bad savour. And what know I (Lady) whether among the choise of friends, it may fit your fancy to doe the like? For, if you did so, it were no fault of mine to be chosen of you, but thereby were all the rest of your suters the sooner answered. The widdowed Gentlewoman, and all the rest in her company, being bashfully ashamed of her owne and their folly, presently said. Master _Albert_, you have both well and worthily chastised our over-bold presumption, and beleeve mee Sir, I repute your love and kindnesse of no meane merit, comming from a man so wise and vertuous: And therefore (mine honour reserved) commaund my uttermost, as alwayes ready to do you any honest service. Master _Albert_, arising from his seat, thanking the faire widdow for her gentle offer; tooke leave of her and all the company, and she blushing, as all the rest were therein not much behinde her, thinking to checke him, became chidden her selfe, whereby (if wee be wise) let us all take warning. The Sunne was now somewhat farre declined, and the heates extremity well worne away, when the Tales of the seaven Ladies and three Gentlemen were thus finished, whereupon their Queene pleasantly said. For this day (faire company) there remaineth nothing more to be done under my regiment, but onely to bestow a new Queene upon you, who (according to her judgement) must take her turne, and dispose what next is to be done, for continuing our time in honest pleasure. And although the day should endure till darke night, in regard, that when some time is taken before, the better preparation may be made for occasions to follow, to the end also, that whatsoever the new Queene shall please to appoint, may be the better fitted for the morrow: I am of opinion, that at the same houre as we now cease, the following dayes shall severally begin. And therefore, in reverence to him that giveth life to all things, and in hope of comfort by our second day; Madame _Philomena_, a most wise young Lady, shall governe as Queene this our Kingdome. So soone as she had thus spoken, arising from her seate of dignity, and taking the Lawrell Crowne from off her owne head; she reverently placed it upon Madame _Philomenaes_, she first of all humbly saluting her, and then all the rest, openly confessing her to be their Queene, made gracious offer to obey whatsoever she commaunded. _Philomena_, her cheekes delivering a scarlet tincture, to see her selfe thus honoured as their Queene, and well remembring the words, so lately uttered by Madame _Pampinea_; that dulnesse or neglect might not be noted in her, tooke cheerefull courage to her, and first of all, she confirmed the officers, which _Pampinea_ had appointed the day before, then shee ordained for the morrowes provision, as also for the supper so neere approaching, before they departed away from thence, and then thus began. Lovely Companions, although that Madam _Pampinea_, more in her owne courtesie, then any matter of merit remaining in mee, hath made me your Queene: I am not determined, to alter the forme of our intended life, nor to be guided by mine owne judgement, but to associate the same with your assistance. And because you may know what I intend to do, and so (consequently) adde or diminish at your pleasure; in verie few words, you shall plainly understand my meaning. If you have well considered on the course, which this day hath bene kept by Madam _Pampinea_, me thinkes it hath bene very pleasing and commendable; in which regard, untill by over-tedious continuation, or other occasions of irkesome offence, it shall seeme injurious, I am of the minde, not to alter it. Holding on the order then as we have begun to do, we will depart from hence to recreate our selves awhile, and when the Sun groweth towards setting, we will sup in the fresh and open ayre: afterward, with Canzonets and other pastimes, we will out-weare the houres till bed time. To morrow morning, in the fresh and gentle breath thereof, we will rise & walke to such places, as every one shall finde fittest for them, even as already this day we have done; untill due time shall summon us hither againe, to continue our discoursive Tales, wherein (me thinkes) consisteth both pleasure and profit, especially by discreete observation. Very true it is, that some things which Madam _Pampinea_ coulde not accomplish, by reason of her so small time of authority, I will beginne to undergo, to wit, in restraining some matters whereon we are to speake, that better premeditation may passe upon them. For, when respite and a little leysure goeth before them, each discourse will savour of the more formality; and if it might so please you, thus would I direct the order. As since the beginning of the world, all men have bene guided (by Fortune) thorow divers accidents and occasions: so beyond all hope & expectation, the issue and successe hath bin good and succesfull, and accordingly should every one of our arguments be chosen. The Ladies, and the yong Gentlemen likewise, commended her advice, and promised to imitate it; onely _Dioneus_ excepted, who when every one was silent, spake thus. Madam, I say as all the rest have done, that the order by you appointed, is most pleasing and worthy to bee allowed. But I intreate one speciall favour for my selfe, and to have it confirmed to me, so long as our company continueth; namely, that I may not be constrained to this Law of direction, but to tell my Tale at liberty, after mine owne minde, and according to the freedome first instituted. And because no one shall imagine, that I urge this grace of you, as being unfurnished of discourses in this kinde, I am well contented to be the last in every dayes exercise. The Queene, knowing him to be a man full of mirth and matter, began to consider very advisedly, that he would not have mooved this request, but onely to the end, that if the company grew wearied by any of the Tales re-counted, hee would shut uppe the dayes disport with some mirthfull accident. Wherefore willingly, and with consent of al the rest he had his suite granted. So, arising all, they walked to a Christall river, descending downe a little hill into a vally, graciously shaded with goodly Trees; where washing both their hands and feete, much pretty pleasure passed among them; till supper time drawing nere, made them returne home to the Palace. When supper was ended, and bookes and instruments being laide before them, the Queene commanded a dance, & that Madam _Æmilia_, assisted by Madam _Lauretta_ and _Dioneus_, shold sing a sweet ditty. At which command, _Lauretta_ undertooke the dance, and led it, _Æmilia_ singing this song ensuing. _The Song. So much delight my beauty yeelds to mee, That any other Love, To wish or prove; Can never sute it selfe with my desire. Therein I see, upon good observation, What sweete content due understanding lends: Olde or new thoughts cannot in any fashion Rob me of that, which mine owne soule commends. What object then, (mongst infinites of men) Can I ever finde to dispossesse my minde, And plant therein another new desire? So much delight, &c. But were it so, the blisse that I would chuse, Is, by continuall sight to comfort me: So rare a presence never to refuse, Which mortall tongue or thought, what ere it be; Must still conceale, not able to reveale, Such a sacred sweete, for none other meete, But hearts enflamed with the same desire. So much delight, &c._ The Song being ended, the Chorus whereof was aunswered by them all, it passed with generall applause: and after a few other daunces, the night being well run on, the Queene gave ending to this first dayes Recreation. So, lights being brought, they departed to their severall Lodgings, to take their rest till the next morning. _The End of the first Day._ The Second Day. _Wherein, all the Discourses are under the government of Madam Philomena: Concerning such men or women, as (in divers accidents) have beene much molested by Fortune, and yet afterward, contrary to their hope and expectation, have had a happy and successefull deliverance._ Already had the bright Sunne renewed the day every where with his splendant beames, and the Birds sate merrily singing on the blooming branches, yeelding testimony thereof to the eares of all hearers; when the seven Ladies, and the three Gentlemen (after they were risen) entered the Gardens, and there spent some time in walking, as also making of Nose-gayes and Chaplets of Flowers. And even as they had done the day before, so did they now follow the same course; for, after they had dined, in a coole and pleasing aire they fell to dancing, and then went to sleepe awhile, from which being awaked, they tooke their places (according as it pleased the Queene to appoint) in the same faire Meadow about her. And she, being a goodly creature, and highly pleasing to beholde, having put on her Crowne of Laurell, and giving a gracious countenance to the whole company; commanded Madam _Neiphila_ that her Tale should begin this daies delight. Whereupon she, without returning any excuse or deniall, began in this manner. Martellino _counterfetting to be lame of his members, caused himselfe to be set on the body of Saint_ Arriguo, _where he made shew of his sudden recovery; but when his dissimulation was discovered, he was well beaten, being afterward taken prisoner, and in great danger of being hanged and strangled by the necke, and yet he escaped in the ende._ The first Novell. _Wherein is signified, how easie a thing it is, for wicked men to deceive the world, under the shadow and colour of miracles: and that such trechery (oftentimes) redoundeth to the harme of the deviser._ Faire Ladies, it hath happened many times, that hee who striveth to scorne and floute other men, and especially in occasions deserving to be respected, proveth to mocke himselfe with the selfe-same matter, yea, and to his no meane danger beside. As you shall perceive by a Tale, which I intend to tell you, obeying therein the command of our Queene, and according to the subject by her enjoyned. In which discourse, you may first observe, what great mischance happened to one of our Citizens; and yet afterward, how (beyond all hope) he happily escaped. Not long since there lived in the City of _Trevers_, an _Almaine_ or _Germaine_, named _Arriguo_, [Sidenote: Or Arrigo.] who being a poore man, served as a Porter, or burden-bearer for money, when any man pleased to employ him. And yet, notwithstanding his poore and meane condition, he was generally reputed, to be of good and sanctified life. In which regard (whether it were true or no, I know not) it happened, that when he died (at least as the men of _Trevers_ themselves affirmed) in the very instant houre of his departing, all the Belles in the great Church of _Trevers_, (not being pulled by the helpe of any hand) beganne to ring: which being accounted for a miracle, every one saide; that this _Arriguo_ had been, and was a Saint. And presently all the people of the City ran to the house where the dead body lay, and carried it (as a sanctified body) into the great Church, where people, halt, lame, and blinde, or troubled with any other diseases, were brought about it, even as if every one should forth-with be holpen, onely by their touching the bodie. It came to passe, that in so great a concourse of people, as resorted thither from all parts; three of our Cittizens went to _Trevers_, one of them being named _Stechio_, the second _Martellino_, and the third _Marquiso_, all being men of such condition, as frequented Princes Courts, to give them delight by pleasant & counterfeited qualities. None of these men having ever beene at _Trevers_ before, seeing how the people crowded thorow the streetes, wondred greatly thereat: but when they knew the reason, why the throngs ranne on heapes in such sort together, they grew as desirous to see the Shrine, as any of the rest. Having ordered all affaires at their lodging, _Marquiso_ saide; It is fit for us to see this Saint, but I know not how we shall attaine thereto, because (as I have heard) the place is guarded by Germane Souldiers, and other warlike men, commanded thither by the Governours of this City, least any outrage should be there committed: And beside, the Church is so full of people, as wee shall never compasse to get neere. _Martellino_ being also as forward in desire to see it, presently replied: All this difficulty cannot dismay me, but I will goe to the very body of the Saint it selfe. But how? quoth _Marquiso_. I will tell thee, answered _Martellino_. I purpose to goe in the disguise of an impotent lame person, supported on the one side by thy selfe, and on the other by _Stechio_, as if I were not able to walke of my selfe: And you two thus sustaining me, desiring to come neere the Saint to cure me; every one will make way, and freely give you leave to goe on. This devise was very pleasing to _Marquiso_ and _Stechio_, so that (without any further delaying) they all three left their lodging, and resorting into a secret corner aside, _Martellino_ so writhed and mishaped his hands, fingers, and armes, his legges, mouth, eyes, and whole countenance, that it was a dreadfull sight to looke upon him, and whosoever beheld him, would verily have imagined, that hee was utterly lame of his limbes, and greatly deformed in his body. _Marquiso_ and _Stechio_, seeing all sorted so well as they could wish, tooke and led him towards the Church, making very pitious moane, and humbly desiring (for Gods sake) of every one that they met, to grant them free passage, whereto they charitably condiscended. Thus leading him on, crying still; Beware there before, and give way for Gods sake, they arrived at the body of Saint _Arriguo_, that (by his helpe) he might be healed. And while all eyes were diligently observing, what miracle would be wrought on _Martellino_, hee having sitten a small space upon the Saints bodie, and being sufficiently skilfull in counterfeiting; beganne first to extend forth one of his fingers, next his hand, then his arme, and so (by degrees) the rest of his body. Which when the people saw, they made such a wonderfull noyse in praise of Saint _Arriguo_, even as if it had thundered in the Church. Now it chanced by ill fortune, that there stood a _Florentine_ neere to the body, who knew _Martellino_ very perfectly; but appearing so monstrously misshapen, when he was brought into the Church, hee could take no knowledge of him. But when he saw him stand up and walke, hee knew him then to be the man indeede; whereupon he saide. How commeth it to passe, that this fellow should be so miraculously cured, that never truly was any way impotent? Certaine men of the City hearing these words, entred into further questioning with him, demanding, how he knew that the man had no such imperfection? Well enough (answered the _Florentine_) I know him to be as direct in his limbes and body, as you; I, or any of us all are: but indeede, he knowes better how to dissemble counterfeit trickes, then any man else that ever I saw. When they heard this, they discoursed no further with the _Florentine_, but pressed on mainely to the place where _Martellino_ stood, crying out aloude. Lay holde on this Traytor, a mocker of God, and his holy Saints, that had no lamenesse in his limbes; but to make a mocke of our Saint and us, came hither in false and counterfeit manner. So laying hands uppon him, they threw him against the ground, haling him by the haire on his head, and tearing the garments from his backe, spurning him with their feete, and beating him with their fists, that many were much ashamed to see it. Poore _Martellino_ was in a pittifull case, crying out for mercy, but no man would heare him; for, the more he cried, the more still they did beat him, as meaning to leave no life in him, which _Stechio_ and _Marquiso_ seeing, considered with themselves, that they were likewise in a desperate case; and therefore, fearing to be as much misused, they cryed out among the rest; Kill the counterfeit knave, lay on loade, and spare him not; neverthelesse, they tooke care how to get him out of the peoples handes, as doubting, least they would kill him indeede, by their extreame violence. Sodainly, _Marquiso_ bethought him how to do it, and proceeded thus. All the Sergeants for Justice standing at the Church doore, hee ran with all possible speede to the _Potestates_ Lieutenant, and said unto him. Good my Lord Justice, helpe me in an hard case; yonder is a villaine that hath cut my purse, I desire he may bee brought before you, that I may have my money againe. He hearing this, sent for a dozen of the Sergeants, who went to apprehend unhappy _Martellino_, and recover him from the peoples fury, leading him on with them to the Palace, no meane crowds thronging after him, when they heard that he was accused to bee a Cut-purse. Now durst they meddle no more with him, but assisted the Officers; some of them charging him in like manner, that he had cut theyr purses also. Upon these clamours and complaints, the _Potestates_ Lieutenant (being a man of rude quality) tooke him sodainly aside, and examined him of the crimes wherewith he was charged. But _Martellino_, as making no account of these accusations, laughed, and returned scoffing answeres. Whereat the Judge, waxing much displeased, delivered him over to the Strappado, and stood by himselfe, to have him confesse the crimes imposed on him, and then to hang him afterward. Beeing let downe to the ground, the Judge still demaunded of him, whether the accusations against him were true, or no? Affirming, that it nothing avayled him to deny it: whereupon hee thus spake to the Judge. My Lord, I am heere ready before you, to confesse the truth; but I pray you, demaund of all them that accuse me, when and where I did cut their purses, & then I will tell you that, which (as yet) I have not done, otherwise I purpose to make you no more answers. Well (quoth the Judge) thou requirest but reason; & calling divers of the accusers, one of them saide, that he lost his purse eight dayes before; another saide six, another foure, and some saide the very same day. Which _Martellino_ hearing, replyed. My Lord, they al lie in their throats, as I will plainly prove before you. I would to God I had never set foote within this City, as it is not many houres since my first entrance, and presently after mine arrivall, I went (in an evill houre I may say for me) to see the Saints body, where I was thus beaten as you may beholde. That all this is true which I say unto you, the Seigneuries Officer that keeps your Booke of presentations, will testifie for me, as also the Host where I am lodged. Wherefore good my Lord, if you finde all no otherwise, then as I have said, I humbly entreate you, that upon these bad mens reportes and false informations, I may not be thus tormented, and put in perill of my life. While matters proceeded in this manner, _Marquiso_ and _Stechio_, understanding how roughly the _Potestates_ Lieutenant dealt with _Martellino_ and that he had already given him the Strappado; were in heavy perplexity, saying to themselves; we have carried this businesse very badly, redeeming him out of the Frying-pan, and flinging him into the Fire. Whereupon, trudging about from place to place, & meeting at length with their Host, they told him truly how all had happened, whereat hee could not refraine from laughing. Afterward, he went with them to one Master _Alexander Agolante_, who dwelt in _Trevers_, and was in great credite with the Cities cheefe Magistrate, to whom hee related the whole Discourse; all three earnestly entreating him, to commisserate the case of poore _Martellino_. Master _Alexander_, after he had laughed heartily at this hotte peece of service, went with him to the Lord of _Trevers_; prevailing so well with him, that he sent to have _Martellino_ brought before him. The Messengers that went for him, found him standing in his shirt before the Judge, very shrewdly shaken with the Strappado, trembling and quaking pittifully. For the Judge would not heare any thing in his excuse; but hating him (perhaps) because hee was a Florentine: flatly determined to have him hangde by the necke, and would not deliver him to the Lorde, untill in meere despight he was compeld to do it. The Lord of _Trevers_, when _Martellino_ came before him, and had acquainted him truly with every particular: Master _Alexander_ requested, that he might be dispatched thence for _Florence_, because he thought the halter to be about his necke, and that there was no other helpe but hanging. The Lord, smiling (a long while) at the accident, & causing _Martellino_ to be handsomely apparrelled, delivering them also his Passe, they escaped out of further danger, and tarried no where, till they came unto _Florence_. _Rinaldo de Este, after he was robbed by Theeves, arrived at Chasteau Guillaume, where he was friendly lodged by a faire widdow, and recompenced likewise for all his losses; returning afterward safe and well home into his owne house._ The second Novell. _Whereby wee may learne, that such things as sometime seeme hurtfull to us, may turne to our benefit and commodity._ Much merriment was among the Ladies, hearing this Tale of _Martellinos_ misfortunes, so familiarly reported by Madam _Neiphila_, and of the men, it was best respected by _Philostratus_, who sitting neerest unto _Neiphila_, the Queene commanded his Tale to be the next, when presently he began to speake thus. Gracious Ladies, I am to speake of universall occasions, mingled with some misfortunes in part, and partly with matters leaning to love: as many times may happen to such people, that trace the dangerous pathes of amorous desires, or have not learned perfectly, to say S. _Julians pater noster_, having good beds of their owne, yet (casually) meete with worser lodging. In the time of _Azzo_, Marquesse of _Ferrara_, there was a Marchant named _Rinaldo de Este_, who being one day at _Bologna_, about some especiall businesse of his owne; his occasions there ended, and riding from thence towards _Verona_, he fell in company with other Horsemen, seeming to be Merchants like himselfe; but indeede were Theeves, men of most badde life and conversation; yet he having no such mistrust of them, rode on, conferring with them very familiarly. They perceiving him to be a Merchant, and likely to have some store of money about him, concluded betweene themselves to rob him, so soone as they found apt place and opportunity. But because he should conceive no such suspition, they rode on like modest men, talking honestly & friendly with him, of good parts and disposition appearing in him, offering him all humble and gracious service, accounting themselves happy by his companie, as hee returned the same courtesie to them, because he was alone, and but one servant with him. Falling from one discourse to another, they began to talke of such prayers, as men (in journey) use to salute God withall; and one of the Theeves (they being three in number), spake thus to _Rinaldo_. Sir, let it be no offence to you, that I desire to know, what prayer you most use when thus you travell on the way? Whereto _Rinaldo_ replyed in this manner. To tell you true Sir, I am a man grosse enough in such Divine matters, as medling more with Marchandize, then I do with Bookes. Neverthelesse, at all times when I am thus in journey, in the morning before I depart my Chamber, I say a _Pater noster_ and an _Ave Maria_, for the souls of the father and mother of Saint _Julian_, and after that, I pray God and S. _Julian_ to send me a good lodging at night. And let me tell you Sir, that very oftentimes heeretofore, I have met with many great dangers upon the way, from all which I still escaped, and evermore (when night drewe on) I came to an exceeding good Lodging. Which makes mee firmely beleeve, that Saint _Julian_ (in honour of whom I speake it) hath begd of God such great grace for me; and mee thinkes, that if any day I should faile of this prayer in the morning: I cannot travaile securely, nor come to a good lodging. No doubt then Sir (quoth the other) but you have saide that prayer this morning? I would be sorry else, saide _Rinaldo_, such an especiall matter is not to be neglected. He and the rest, who had already determined how to handle him before they parted, saide within themselves: Looke thou hast said thy praier, for when we have thy money, Saint _Julian_ and thou shift for thy lodging. Afterward, the same man thus againe conferd with him. As you Sir, so I have ridden many journies, and yet I never used any such praier, although I have heard it very much commended, and my lodging hath prooved never the worser. Perhaps this verie night will therein resolve us both, whether of us two shall be the best lodged; you that have sayde the prayer, or I that never used it at all. But I must not deny, that in sted thereof, I have made use of some verses, as _Dirupisti_, or the _Jutemerata_, or _Deprofundis_, which are (as my Grandmother hath often told mee) of very great vertue and efficacy. Continuing thus in talke of divers things, winning way, and beguiling the time, still waiting when their purpose should sort to effect: it fortuned, that the Theeves seeing they were come neere to a Towne, called _Casteau Guillaume_, by the foord of a River, the houre somewhat late, the place solitarie, and thickely shaded with trees, they made their assault; and having robd him, left him there on foote, stript into his shirt, saying to him. Goe now and see, whether thy Saint _Julian_ will allow thee this night a good lodging, or no, for our owne we are sufficiently provided; so passing the River, away they rode. _Rinaldoes_ servant, seeing his Master so sharply assayled, like a wicked villaine, would not assist him in any sort: but giving his horse the spurres, never left gallowping, untill hee came to _Chasteau Guillaume_, where hee entred upon the point of night, providing himselfe of a lodging, but not caring what became of his Master. _Rinaldo_ remaining there in his shirt, bare-foote and bare-legged, the weather extremely colde, and snowing incessantly, not knowing what to doe, darke night drawing on, and looking round about him, for some place where to abide that night, to the end he might not dye with colde: he found no helpe at all there for him, in regard that (no long while before) the late warre had burnt and wasted all, and not so much as the least Cottage left. Compelled by the coldes violence, his teeth quaking, and all his body trembling, hee trotted on towards _Chasteau Guillaume_, not knowing, whether his man was gone thither or no, or to what place else: but perswaded himselfe, that if he could get entrance, there was no feare of finding succour. But before he came within halfe a mile of the Towne, the night grew extreamely darke, and arriving there so late, hee found the gates fast lockt, and the Bridges drawne up, so that no entrance might be admitted. Grieving greatly hereat, and being much discomforted, rufully hee went spying about the walls, for some place wherein to shrowd himselfe, at least, to keepe the snow from falling upon him. By good hap, hee espied an house upon the wall of the Towne, which had a terrace jutting out as a penthouse, under which he purposed to stand all the night, and then to get him gone in the morning. At length, hee found a doore in the wall, but very fast shut, and some small store of strawe lying by it, which he gathered together, and sitting downe thereon very pensively; made many sad complaints to Saint _Julian_, saying: This was not according to the trust he reposed in her. But Saint _Julian_, taking compassion upon him, without any over-long tarying; provided him of a good lodging, as you shall heare how. In this towne of _Chasteau Guillaume_, lived a young Lady, who was a widdow, so beautifull and comely of her person, as sildome was seene a more lovely creature. The Marquesse _Azzo_ most dearely affected her, and (as his choysest Jewell of delight) gave her that house to live in, under the terrace whereof poore _Rinaldo_ made his shelter. It chaunced the day before, that the Marquesse was come thither, according to his frequent custome, to weare away that night in her company, she having secretly prepared a Bath for him, and a costly supper beside. All things being ready, and nothing wanting but the Marquesse his presence: suddenly a Post brought him such Letters, which commanded him instantly to horsebacke, and word hee sent to the Lady, to spare him for that night, because urgent occasions called him thence, and hee rode away immediately. Much discontented was the Lady at this unexpected accident, and not knowing now how to spend the time, resolved to use the Bath which hee had made for the Marquesse, and (after supper) betake her selfe to rest, and so she entred into the Bath. Close to the doore where poore _Rinaldo_ sate, stoode the Bath, by which meanes, shee being therein, heard all his quivering moanes, and complaints, seeming to be such, as the Swanne singing before her death: whereupon, shee called her Chamber-maide, saying to her. Goe up above, and looke over the terrace on the wall downe to this doore, and see who is there, and what hee doth. The Chamber-maide went up aloft, and by a little glimmering in the ayre, she saw a man sitting in his shirt, bare on feete and legges, trembling in manner before rehearsed. Shee demaunding, of whence, and what hee was; _Rinaldoes_ teeth so trembled in his head, as very hardly could hee forme any words, but (so well as he could) tolde her what hee was, and how hee came thither: most pittifully entreating her, that if shee could affoord him any helpe, not to suffer him starve there to death with colde. The Chamber-maide, being much moved to compassion, returned to her Lady, and tolde her all; she likewise pittying his distresse, and remembring shee had the key of that doore, whereby the Marquesse both entred and returned, when he intended not to be seene of any, said to her Maide. Goe, and open the doore softly for him; we have a good supper, and none to helpe to eate it, and if he be a man likely, we can allow him one nights lodging too. The Chamber-maide, commending her Lady for this charitable kindnesse, opened the doore, and seeing hee appeared as halfe frozen, shee said unto him. Make hast good man, get thee into this Bath, which yet is good and warme, for my Lady her selfe came but newly out of it. Whereto very gladly he condiscended, as not tarrying to be bidden twise; finding himselfe so singularly comforted with the heate thereof, even as if hee had beene restored from death to life. Then the Lady sent him garments, which lately were her deceased husbands, and fitted him so aptly in all respects, as if purposely they had beene made for him. Attending in further expectation, to know what else the Lady would commaund him; hee began to remember God and Saint _Julian_, hartily thanking her, for delivering him from so bad a night as was threatned towards him, and bringing him to so good entertainement. After all this, the Lady causing a faire fire to be made in the neerest Chamber beneath, went and sate by it her selfe, demaunding how the honest man fared. Madame, answered the Chamber-maide, now that he is in your deceased Lords garments, he appeareth to be a very goodly Gentleman, and (questionlesse) is of respective birth and breeding, well deserving this gracious favour which you have afforded him. Goe then (quoth the Lady) and conduct him hither, to sit by this fire, and sup here with mee, for I feare he hath had but a sorrie supper. When _Rinaldo_ was entred into the Chamber, and beheld her to be such a beautifull Lady, accounting his fortune to exceede all comparison, hee did her most humble reverence, expressing so much thankefulnesse as possibly hee could, for this her extraordinary grace and favour. The Lady fixing a stedfast eye upon him, well liking his gentle language and behaviour, perceiving also, how fitly her deceased husbands apparell was formed to his person, and resembling him in all familiar respects, he appeared (in her judgement) farre beyond the Chambermaides commendations of him; so praying him to sit downe by her before the fire, shee questioned with him, concerning this unhappy nights accident befalne him, wherein he fully resolved her, and shee was the more perswaded, by reason of his servants comming into the Towne before night, assuring him, that he should be found for him early in the morning. Supper being served in to the Table, and hee seated according as the Lady commanded, shee began to observe him very considerately; for he was a goodly man, compleate in all perfections of person, a delicate pleasing countenance, a quicke alluring eye, fixed and constant, not wantonly gadding, in the joviall youthfulnesse of his time, and truest temper for amorous apprehension; all these were as battering engines against a Bulwarke of no strong resistance, and wrought strangely upon her flexible affections. And though hee fed heartily, as occasion constrained, yet her thoughts had entertained a new kinde of diet, digested onely by the eye; yet so cunningly concealed, that no motive to immodesty could be discerned. Her mercy thus extended to him in misery, drew on (by Table discourse) his birth, education, parents, friends, and alies; his wealthy possessions by Merchandize, and a sound stability in his estate, but above all (and best of all) the single and sole condition of a batcheler; an apt and easie steele to strike fire, especially upon such quicke taking tinder, and in a time favoured by Fortune. No imbarment remained, but remembrance of the Marquesse, and that being summond to her more advised consideration, her youth and beauty stood up as conscious accusers, for blemishing her honour and faire repute, with lewd and luxurious life; farre unfit for a Lady of her degree, and well worthy of generall condemnation. What should I further say? upon a short conference with her Chambermaide, repentance for sinne past, and solemne promise of a constant conversion, thus shee delivered her minde to _Rinaldo_. Sir, as you have related your fortunes to me, by this your casuall happening hither, if you can like the motion so well as shee that makes it, my deceased Lord and husband living so perfectly in your person; this house, and all mine, is yours; and of a widow I will become your wife, except (unmanly) you denie me. _Rinaldo_ hearing these words, and proceeding from a Lady of such absolute perfections, presuming upon so proud an offer, and condemning himselfe of folly if he should refuse it, thus replied. Madam, considering that I stand bound for ever hereafter, to confesse that you are the gracious preserver of my life, and I no way able to returne requitall; if you please so to shadow mine insufficiency, and to accept me and my fairest fortunes to doe you service: let me die before a thought of deniall, or any way to yeeld you the least discontentment. Here wanted but a Priest to joyne their hands, as mutuall affection already had done their hearts, which being sealed with infinite kisses; the Chamber-maide called up Friar _Roger_ her Confessor, and wedding and bedding were both effected before the bright morning. In briefe, the Marquesse having heard of the marriage, did not mislike it, but confirmed it by great and honourable gifts; and having sent for his dishonest servant, he dispatched him (after sound reprehension) to _Ferrara_, with Letters to _Rinaldoes_ Father and friends, of all the accidents that had befalne him. Moreover, the very same morning, the three theeves, that had robbed, and so ill entreated _Rinaldo_, for another facte by them the same night committed; were taken, and brought to the Towne of _Chasteau Guillaume_, where they were hanged for their offences, and _Rinaldo_ with his wife rode to _Ferrara_. _Three young Gentlemen, being brethren, and having spent all their Lands and possessions vainely, became poore. A Nephew of theirs (falling almost into as desperate a condition) became acquainted with an Abbot, whom he afterward found to be the King of_ Englands _Daughter, and made him her Husband in marriage, recompencing all his Uncles losses, and seating them againe in good estate._ The third Novell. _Wherein is declared the dangers of Prodigalitie, and the manifold mutabilities of Fortune._ The fortunes of _Rinaldo de Este_, being heard by the Ladies and Gentlemen, they admired his happinesse, and commended his devotion to Saint _Julian_, who (in such extreame necessity) sent him so good succour. Nor was the Lady to be blamed, for leaving base liberty, and converting to the chaste embraces of the marriage bed, the dignity of womens honour, and eternall disgrace living otherwise. While thus they descanted on the happy night betweene her and _Rinaldo_, Madam _Pampinea_ sitting next to _Philostratus_, considering, that her discourse must follow in order, and thinking on what shee was to say; the Queene had no sooner sent out her command, but shee being no lesse faire then forward, beganne in this manner. Ladies of great respect, the more we conferre on the accidents of Fortune, so much the more remaineth to consider on her mutabilities, wherein there is no need of wonder, if discreetly we observe, that all such things as we fondly tearme to be our owne, are in her power, and so (consequently) change from one to another, without any stay or arrest (according to her concealed judgement) or setled order (at least) that can bee knowne to us. Now, although these things appeare thus daily to us, even apparantly in all occasions, and as hath beene discerned by some of our precedent discourses; yet notwithstanding, seeing it pleaseth the Queene, that our arguments should ayme at these ends, I will adde to the former tales another of my owne, perhaps not unprofitable for the hearers, nor unpleasing in observation. Sometime heeretofore, there dwelt in our Citie, a Knight named Signior _Thebaldo_, who (according as some report) issued from the Family of _Lamberti_, but others derive him of the _Agolanti_; guiding (perhaps) their opinion heerein, more from the traine of children, belonging to the saide _Thebaldo_ (evermore equall to that of the _Agolanti_) then any other matter else. But setting aside, from which of these two houses he came, I say, that in his time he was a very welthy Knight, & had three Sonnes; the first being named _Lamberto_, the second _Thebaldo_, & the third _Agolanto_, all goodly and gracefull youths: howbeit, the eldest had not compleated eighteene yeares, when Signior _Thebaldo_ the father deceased, who left them all his goods and inheritances. And they, seeing them selves rich in readie monies and revennewes, without any other government then their owne voluntary disposition, kept no restraint upon their expences, but maintained many servants, and store of unvalewable horses, beside Hawkes and Hounds, with open house for all commers; and not onely all delights else fit for Gentlemen, but what vanities beside best agreed with their wanton and youthfull appetites. Not long had they run on this race, but the treasures lefte them by their Father, began greatly to diminish; and their revennewes suffised not, to support such lavish expences as they had begun: but they fell to engaging and pawning their inheritances, selling one to day, and another to morrow, so that they saw themselves quickly come to nothing, and then poverty opened their eyes, which prodigality had before closed up. Heereupon, _Lamberto_ (on a day) calling his Brethren to him, shewed them what the honours of their Father had beene, to what height his wealth amounted, and now to what an ebbe of poverty it was falne, onely thorow their inordinate expences. Wherefore hee counselled them, (as best he could) before further misery insulted over them; to make sale of the small remainder that was left, and then to betake themselves unto some other abiding, where fairer Fortune might chance to shine uppon them. This advice prevailed with them; and so, without taking leave of any body, or other solemnity then closest secrecy, they departed from _Florence_, not tarrying in any place untill they were arrived in _England_. Comming to the City of London, and taking there a small house upon yearly rent, living on so little charge as possible might be, they began to lend out money at use: wherein Fortune was so favourable to them, that (in few yeares) they had gathered a great summe of mony: by means whereof it came to passe, that one while one of them, and afterward another, returned backe againe to _Florence_: where, with those summes, a great part of their inheritances were redeemed, and many other bought beside. Linking themselves in marriage, and yet continuing their usances in England; they sent a Nephew of theirs thither, named _Alessandro_, a yong man, and of faire demeanour, to maintaine their stocke in employment: while they three remained still at _Florence_, and growing forgetful of their former misery, fell againe into as unreasonable expences as ever, never respecting their houshold charges, because they had good credite among the Merchants, and the monies still sent from _Alessandro_, supported their expences divers yeares. The dealings of _Alessandro_ in England grew very great, for hee lent out much money to many Gentlemen, Lords, and Barons of the Land, upon engagement of their Manours, Castles, and other revennues: from whence he derived immeasurable benefite. While the three Brethren held on in their lavish expences, borrowing moneys when they wanted untill their supplyes came from England, whereon (indeede) was their onely dependance: it fortuned, that (contrary to the opinion of al men) warre happened betweene the King of England, and one of his sonnes, which occasioned much trouble in the whole Countrey, by taking part on either side, some with the Sonne, and other with the Father. In regard whereof, those Castles and places pawned to _Alessandro_, were sodainely seized from him, nothing then remaining that returned him any profit. But living in hope day by day, that peace would be concluded betweene the Father and the Sonne, he never doubted, but all things then should be restored to him, both the principall and interest, & therefore he would not depart out of the Country. The three Brethren at _Florence_, bounding within no limites their disordered spending, borrowed daily more and more. And after some few yeares, the Creditors seeing no effect of their hopes to come from them, all credit being lost with them, and no repayment of promised dues; they were imprisoned, their landes and all they had, not suffising to pay the moity of debts, but their bodies remained in prison for the rest, theyr Wives and yong children being sent thence, some to one village, some to another, so that nothing now was to be expected, but poverty & misery of life forever. As for honest _Alessandro_, who had awaited long time for peace in England, perceyving there was no likelyhood of it; and considering also, that (beside his tarrying there in vaine to recover his dues) he was in danger of his life; without any further deferring, hee set away for _Italy_. It came to passe, that as he issued foorth of _Bruges_, hee saw a yong Abbot also journeying thence, being cloathed in white, accompanied with divers Monkes, and a great traine before, conducting the needefull carriage. Two ancient Knights, Kinsmen to the King, followed after, with whom _Alessandro_ acquainted himselfe, as having formerly known them, and was kindly accepted into their company. _Alessandro_ riding along with them, courteously requested to know, what those Monks were that rode before, and such a traine attending on them? Whereto one of the Knights thus answered. He that rideth before, is a yong Gentleman, and our Kinsman, who is newly elected Abbot of one of the best Abbeyes in England; & because he is more yong in yeares, then the decrees for such a dignity doe allow, we travaile with him to _Rome_, to entreat our Holy Father, that his youth may be dispensed withall, and he confirmed in the sayd dignity; but hee is not to speake a word to any person. On rode this new Abbot, sometimes before his traine, and other whiles after, as we see great Lords use to do, when they ride upon the High-wayes. It chanced on a day, that _Alessandro_ rode somewhat neere to the Abbot, who stedfastly beholding him, perceived that he was a verie comely young man, so affable, lovely, and gracious, that even in this first encounter, he hadde never seene any man before, that better pleased him. Calling him a little closer, he began to conferre familiarly with him, demanding what he was, whence he came, and whether he travelled. _Alessandro_ imparted freely to him all his affaires, in every thing satisfying his demands, and offering (although his power was small) to doe him all the service he could. When the Abbot had heard his gentle answers, so wisely & discreetly delivered, considering also (more particularly) his commendable cariage; he tooke him to be (at the least) a well-borne Gentleman, and far differing from his owne logger-headed traine. Wherefore, taking compassion on his great misfortunes, he comforted him very kindly, wishing him to live alwayes in good hope. For, if hee were vertuous and honest, he should surely attaine to the seate from whence Fortune had throwne him, or rather much higher. Entreating him also, that seeing he journied towards _Tuscany_, as he himselfe did the like, to continue still (if he pleased) in his company. _Alessandro_ most humbly thanked him for such gracious comfort; protesting, that he would be alwaies ready, to doe whatsoever he commanded. The Abbot riding on, with newer crochets in his braine, then hee had before the sight of _Alessandro_; it fortuned, that after divers dayes of travaile, they came to a small countrey Village, which affoorded little store of lodging, and yet the Abbot would needs lye there. _Alessandro_, being well acquainted with the Host of the house, willed him, to provide for the Abbot and his people, and then to lodge him where hee thought meetest. Now, before the Abbots comming thither, the Harbinger that marshalled all such matters, had provided for his traine in the Village, some in one place, and others elsewhere, in the best manner that the Towne could yeelde. But when the Abbot had supt, a great part of the night being spent, and every one else at his rest; _Alessandro_ demaunded of the Host, what provision he had made for him; and how hee should be lodged that night? In good sadnesse Sir (quoth the Host) you see that my house is full of Guests, so that I and my people, must gladly sleepe on the tables & benches: Neverthelesse, next adjoining to my Lord Abbots Chamber, there are certaine Corn-lofts, whether I can closely bring you, and making shift there with a slender Pallet-bed, it may serve for one night, insted of a better. But mine Host (quoth _Alessandro_) how can I passe thorow my Lords Chamber, which is so little, as it would not allowe Lodging for any of his Monkes? If I had remembred so much (said the Host) before the Curtaines were drawne, I could have lodgd his Monkes in those Corn-lofts, and then both you and I might have slept where now they do. But feare you not, my Lords Curtaines are close drawne, hee sleepeth (no doubt) soundly, and I can conveigh you thither quietly enough, without the least disturbance to him, and a Pallet-bed shal be fitted there for you. _Alessandro_ perceyving, that all this might bee easilie done, and no disease offered to the Abbot, accepted it willingly, & went thither without any noyse at all. My Lord Abbot, whose thoughtes were so busied about amorous desires, that no sleepe at all could enter his eyes; heard all this talke betweene the Host and _Alessandro_, and also where hee was appointed to lodge, wherefore he sayd to himselfe. Seeing Fortune hath fitted me with a propitious time, to compasse the happines of my hearts desire; I know no reason why I should refuse it. Perhaps, I shall never have the like offer againe, or ever be enabled with such an opportunity. So, being fully determined to prosecute his intention, and perswading himselfe also, that the silence of night had bestowed sleepe on all the rest; with a lowe and trembling voyce, he called _Alessandro_, advising him to come and lye downe by him, which (after some few faint excuses) he did, and putting off his cloaths, lay downe by the Abbot, being not a little prowde of so gracious a favour. The Abbot, laying his arme over the others body, began to imbrace and hugge him; even as amorous friends (provoked by earnest affection) use to do. Whereat _Alessandro_ very much marvayling, and being an _Italian_ himselfe, fearing least this folly in the Abbot, would convert to foule and dishonest action, shrunk modestly from him. Which the Abbot perceiving, and doubting, least _Alessandro_ would depart and leave him, pleasantly smiling, and with bashfull behaviour, baring his stomack, he tooke _Alessandroes_ hand, and laying it thereon, saide; _Alessandro_, let all bad thoughts of bestiall abuse be farre off from thee, and feele here, to resolve thee from all such feare. _Alessandro_ feeling the Abbots brest, found there two pretty little mountainets, round, plumpe, and smooth, appearing as if they had beene of polished Ivory; whereby he perceived, that the Abbot was a woman: which, setting an edge on his youthfull desires, made him fall to embracing, and immediately he offered to kisse her; but shee somewhat rudely repulsing him, as halfe offended, saide. _Alessandro_, forbeare such boldnesse, upon thy lives perill, and before thou further presume to touch me, understand what I shall tell thee. I am (as thou perceivest) no man, but a woman; and departing a Virgin from my Fathers House, am travelling towards the Popes holinesse, to the end that he should bestow me in mariage. But the other day, when first I beheld thee, whether it proceeded from thy happinesse in fortune, or the fatall houre of my owne infelicity for ever, I know not; I conceived such an effectuall kinde of liking towards thee, as never did woman love a man more truly, then I doe thee, having sworne within my soule to make thee my Husband before any other; and if thou wilt not accept mee as thy wife, set a locke upon thy lippes concerning what thou hast heard, and depart hence to thine owne bed againe. No doubt, but that these were strange newes to _Alessandro_, and seemed meerely as a miracle to him. What shee was, he knew not, but in regard of her traine and company, hee reputed her to be both noble and rich, as also shee was wonderfull faire and beautifull. His owne fortunes stood out of future expectation by his kinsmens overthrow, and his great losses in _England_; wherefore, upon an opportunity so fairely offered, hee held it no wisedome to returne refusall, but accepted her gracious motion, and referred all to her disposing. Shee arising out of her bed, called him to a little Table standing by, where hung a faire Crucifix upon the wall; before which, and calling him to witnesse, that suffered such bitter and cruell torments on his Crosse, putting a Ring upon his finger, there she faithfully espoused him, refusing all the World, to be onely his: which being on either side confirmed solemnely, by an holy vow, and chaste kisses; shee commanded him backe to his Chamber, and shee returned to her bed againe, sufficiently satisfied with her Loves acceptation, and so they journied on till they came to _Rome_. When they had rested themselves there for some few dayes, the supposed Abbot, with the two Knights, and none else in company but _Alessandro_, went before the Pope, and having done him such reverence as beseemed, the Abbot began to speake in this manner. Holy Father (as you know much better then any other) every one that desireth to live well and vertuously, ought to shunne (so farre as in them lieth) all occasions that may induce to the contrary. To the ende therefore, that I (who desire nothing more) then to live within the compasse of a vertuous conversation, may perfect my hopes in this behalfe: I have fled from my Fathers Court, and am come hither in this habite as you see, to crave therein your holy and fatherly furtherance. I am daughter to the King of _England_, and have sufficiently furnished my selfe with some of his treasures, that your holinesse may bestow me in marriage; because mine unkind Father, never regarding my youth and beauty (inferior to few in my native Country) would marry me to the King of _North-wales_, an aged, impotent, and sickly man. Yet let me tell your sanctity, that his age and weakenesse hath not so much occasioned my flight, as feare of mine owne youth and frailety; when being married to him, instead of loyall and unstained life, lewd and dishonest desires might make me to wander, by breaking the divine Lawes of wedlocke, and abusing the royall blood of my Father. As I travailed hither with this vertuous intention, our Lord, who onely knoweth perfectly, what is best fitting for all his creatures; presented mine eyes (no doubt in his meere mercy and goodnesse) with a man meete to be my husband, which (pointing to _Alessandro_) is this young Gentleman standing by me, whose honest, vertuous, and civill demeanour, deserveth a Lady of farre greater worth, although (perhaps) nobility in blood be denied him, and may make him seeme not so excellent, as one derived from Royall discent. Holy and religious vowes have past betweene us both, and the Ring on his finger, is the firme pledge of my faith and constancie; never to accept any other man in marriage, but him onely, although my Father, or any else doe dislike it. Wherefore (holy Father) the principall cause of my comming hither, being already effectually concluded on, I desire to compleat the rest of my pilgrimage, by visiting the sanctified places in this City, whereof there are great plenty; And also, that sacred marriage, being contracted in the presence of God onely, betweene _Alessandro_ and my selfe, may by you be publiquely confirmed, and in an open congregation. For, seeing God hath so appointed it, and our soules have so solemnely vowed it, that no disaster whatsoever can alter it: you being Gods vicar here on earth, I hope will not gaine-say, but confirme it with your fatherly benediction, that wee may live in Gods feare, and dye in his favour. Perswade your selves (faire Ladies) that _Alessandro_ was in no meane admiration, when hee heard, that his wife was daughter to the King of _England_; unspeakeable joy (questionlesse) wholly overcame him: but the two Knights were not a little troubled and offended, at such a strange and unexpected accident, yea, so violent were their passions, that had they beene any where else, then in the Popes presence, _Alessandro_ had felt their fury, and (perhaps) the Princesse her selfe too. On the other side, the Pope was much amazed, at the habite she went disguised in, and likewise at the election of her husband; but, perceiving there was no resistance to be made against it, hee yeelded the more willingly to satisfie her desire. And therefore, having first comforted the two Knights, and made peace betweene them, the Princesse and _Alessandro_; he gave order for the rest that was to be done. When the appointed day for the solemnity was come, hee caused the Princesse (cloathed in most rich and royall garments) to appeare before all the Cardinals, and many other great persons then in presence, who were come to this worthy Feast, which hee had caused purposely to be prepared, where she seemed so faire & goodly a Lady, that every eye was highly delighted to behold her, commending her with no mean admiration. In like manner was _Alessandro_ greatly honoured by the two Knights, being most sumptuous in appearance, and not like a man that had lent money to usury, but rather of very royall quality; the Pope himselfe celebrating the marriage betweene them, which being finished, with the most magnificent pompe that could be devised, hee gave them his benediction, and licenced their departure thence. _Alessandro_, his Princesse and her traine thus leaving _Rome_, they would needes visite _Florence_, where the newes of this accident was (long before) noysed, and they received by the Citizens in royall manner. There did shee deliver the three brethren out of prison, having first payed all their debts, and reseated them againe (with their wives) in their former inheritances and possessions. Afterward, departing from _Florence_, and _Agolanto_, one of the Uncles travailing with them to _Paris_; they were there also most honourably entertained by the King of _France_. From whence the two Knights went before for _England_, and prevailed so succesfully with the King; that hee received his daughter into grace and favour, as also his Sonne in law her husband, to whom hee gave the order of Knighthoode, and (for his greater dignitie) created him Earle of _Cornewall_. And such was the noble Spirit of _Alessandro_, that he pacified the troubles betweene the King and his sonne, whereon ensued great comfort to the Kingdome, winning the love and favour of all the people; and _Agolanto_ (by the meanes of _Alessandro_) recovered all that was due to him and his brethren in _England_, returning richly home to _Florence_, Counte _Alessandro_ (his kinsman) having first dubd him Knight. Longtime hee lived in peace and tranquility, with the faire Princesse his wife, proving to be so absolute in wisedome, and so famous a Souldier; that (as some report) by assistance of his Father in law, hee conquered the Realme of _Ireland_, and was crowned King thereof. Landolpho Ruffolo, _falling into poverty, became a Pirate on the Seas, and being taken by the Genewayes, hardly escaped drowning: Which yet (neverthelesse) he did, upon a little Chest or Coffer, full of very rich Jewels, being caried thereon to_ Corfu, _where he was well entertained by a good woman; And afterward, returned richly home to his owne house._ The fourth Novell. _Whereby may be discerned, into how many dangers a man may fall, through a covetous desire to enrich himselfe._ Madame _Lauretta_, sitting next to Madame _Pampinea_, and seeing how triumphantly shee had finished her discourse; without attending any thing else, spake thus. Gracious Ladies, wee shall never behold (in mine opinion) a greater act of Fortune, then to see a man so suddainly exalted, even from the lowest depth of poverty, to a Royall estate of dignity; as the discourse of Madame _Pampinea_ hath made good, by the happy advancement of _Alessandro_. And because it appeareth necessary, that whosoever discourseth on the subject proposed, should no way varie from the very same termes; I shall not shame to tell a tale, which, though it containe farre greater mishaps then the former, may sort to as happy an issue, albeit not so noble and magnificent. In which respect, it may (perhaps) merit the lesse attention; but howsoever that fault shall be found in you, I meane to discharge mine owne duty. Opinion hath made it famous for long time, that the Sea-coast of _Rhegium_ to _Gaieta_, is the onely delectable part of all _Italy_, wherein, somewhat neere to _Salerno_, is a shore looking upon the Sea, which the inhabitants there dwelling, doe call the coast of _Malfy_, full of small Townes, Gardens, Springs and wealthy men, trading in as many kindes of Merchandizes, as any other people that I know. Among which Townes, there is one, named _Ravello_, wherein (as yet to this day there are rich people) there was (not long since) a very wealthy man, named _Landolpho Ruffolo_, who being not contented with his riches, but coveting to multiply them double and trebble, fell in danger, to loose both himselfe and wealth together. This man (as other Merchants are wont to doe) after hee had considered on his affaires, bought him a very goodly Ship, lading it with divers sorts of Merchandizes, all belonging to himselfe onely, and making his voyage to the Isle of _Cyprus_. Where he found, over and beside the Merchandizes he had brought thither, many Ships more there arrived, and all laden with the selfe same commodities, in regard whereof, it was needefull for him, not onely to make a good Mart of his goods; but also was further constrained (if hee meant to vent his commodities) to sell them away (almost) for nothing, endangering his utter destruction and overthrow. Whereupon, grieving exceedingly at so great a losse, not knowing what to doe, and seeing, that from very aboundant wealth, hee was likely to fall into as low poverty: hee resolved to dye, or to recompence his losses upon others, because he would not returne home poore, having departed thence so rich. Meeting with a Merchant, that bought his great Ship of him; with the money made thereof, and also of his other Merchandizes, hee purchased another, being a lighter vessell, apt and proper for the use of a Pirate, arming and furnishing it in ample manner, for roving and robbing upon the Seas. Thus hee began to make other mens goods his owne, especially from the Turkes he tooke much wealth, Fortune being alwayes therein so favourable to him, that hee could never compasse the like by trading. So that, within the space of one yeare, hee had robd and taken so many Gallies from the Turke; that he found himselfe well recovered, not onely of all his losses by Merchandize, but likewise his wealth was wholly redoubled. Finding his losses to be very liberally requited, and having now sufficient, it were folly to hazard a second fall; wherefore, conferring with his owne thoughts, and finding that he had enough, and needed not to covet after more: he fully concluded, now to returne home to his owne house againe, and live upon his goods thus gotten. Continuing still in feare, of the losses he had sustained by traffique, & minding, never more to imploy his mony that way, but to keep this light vessel, which had holpen him to all his wealth: he commanded his men to put forth their Oares, and shape their course for his owne dwelling. Being aloft in the higher Seas, darke night over-taking them, and a mighty winde suddainly comming upon them: it not onely was contrary to their course, but held on with such impetuous violence; that the small vessell, being unable to endure it, made to land-ward speedily, and in expectation of a more friendly wind, entred a little port of the Sea, directing up into a small Island, and there safely sheltred it selfe. Into the same port which _Landolpho_ had thus taken for his refuge, entred (soone after) two great Carrackes of _Genewayes_ lately come from _Constantinople_. When the men in them had espied the small Barke, and lockt uppe her passage from getting foorth; understanding the Owners name, and that report had famed him to be very rich, they determined (as men evermore addicted naturally, to covet after money and spoile) to make it their owne as a prize at Sea. Landing some store of their men, well armed with Crosse-bowes and other weapons, they tooke possession of such a place, where none durst issue forth of the small Barke, but endangered his life with their Darts & Arrowes. Entering aboord the Barke, and making it their owne by full possession, all the men they threw over-boord, without sparing any but _Landolpho_ himselfe, whom they mounted into one of the Carrackes, leaving him nothing but a poore shirt of Maile on his backe, and having rifled the Barke of all her riches, sunke it into the bottome of the sea. The day following, the rough windes being calmed, the Carrackes set saile againe, having a prosperous passage all the day long; but uppon the entrance of darke night, the windes blew more tempestuously then before, and sweld the Sea in such rude stormes, that the two Carracks were sundered each from other, and by violence of the tempest it came to passe, that the Carracke wherein lay poore miserable _Landolpho_ (beneath the Isle of _Cephalonia_) ran against a rocke, and even as a glasse against a wall, so split the Carracke in peeces, the goods and merchandizes floating on the Sea, Chests, Coffers, Beds, and such like other things, as often hapneth in such lamentable accidents. Now, notwithstanding the nights obscurity, and impetuous violence of the billowes; such as could swimme, made shift to save their lives by swimming. Others caught hold on such things, as by Fortunes favour floated neerest to them, among whom, distressed _Landolpho_, desirous to save his life, if possibly it might be, espied a Chest or Coffer before him, ordained (no doubt) to be the meanes of his safety from drowning. Now although the day before, he had wished for death infinite times, rather then to returne home in such wretched poverty; yet, seeing how other men strove for safety of their lives by any helpe, were it never so little, he tooke advantage of this favour offred him, and the rather in a necessitie so urgent. Keeping fast upon the Coffer so well as he could, and being driven by the winds & waves, one while this way, and anon quite contrarie, he made shift for himselfe till day appeared; when looking every way about him, seeing nothing but clouds, the seas and the Coffer, which one while shrunke from under him, and another while supported him, according as the windes and billowes carried it: all that day and night thus he floated up and downe, drinking more then willingly hee would, but almost hunger-starved thorow want of foode. The next morning, either by the appointment of heaven, or power of the Windes, _Landolpho_ who was (well-neere) become a Spundge, holding his armes strongly about the Chest, as wee have seene some doe, who (dreading drowning) take hold on any the very smallest helpe; drew neere unto the shore of the Iland _Corfu_, where (by good fortune) a poore woman was scowring dishes with the salt water and sand, to make them (house-wife like) neate and cleane. When shee saw the Chest drawing neere her, and not discerning the shape of any man, shee grew fearefull, and retyring from it, cried out aloude. He had no power of speaking to her, neither did his sight doe him the smallest service; but even as the waves and windes pleased, the Chest was driven still neerer to the Land, and then the woman perceived that it had the forme of a Coffer, and looking more advisedly, beheld two armes extended over it, and afterward, shee espied the face of a man, not being able to judge, whether he were alive, or no. Moved by charitable and womanly compassion, shee stept in among the billowes, and getting fast holde on the haire of his head, drew both the Chest and him to the Land, and calling forth her Daughter to helpe her, with much adoe shee unfolded his armes from the Chest, setting it up on her Daughters head, and then betweene them, _Landolpho_ was led into the Towne, and there conveyed into a warme Stove, where quickly he recovered (by her pains) his strength benummed with extreame cold. Good wines and comfortable broathes shee cherished him withall, that his sences being indifferently restored, hee knew the place where he was; but not in what manner he was brought thither, till the good woman shewed him the Cofer that had kept him floating upon the waves, and (next under God) had saved his life. The Chest seemed of such slender weight, that nothing of any value could be expected in it, either to recompence the womans great paines and kindnesse bestowne on him, or any matter of his owne benefit. Neverthelesse, the woman being absent, he opened the Chest, and found innumerable precious stones therein, some costly and curiously set in gold, and others not fixed in any mettall. Having knowledge of their great worth and value (being a Merchant, and skild in such matters) he became much comforted, praysing God for this good successe, and such an admirable meanes of deliverance from danger. Then considering with himselfe, that (in a short time) hee had beene twice well buffeted and beaten by Fortune, and fearing, least a third mishap might follow in like manner; hee consulted with his thoughts, how he might safest order the businesse, and bring so rich a booty (without perill) to his owne home. Wherefore, wrapping up the Jewels in very unsightly cloutes, that no suspition at all should be conceived of them, hee saide to the good woman, that the Chest would not doe him any further service; but if shee pleased to lende him a small sacke or bagge, shee might keepe the Cofer, for in her house it would divers way stead her. The woman gladly did as he desired, and _Landolpho_ returning her infinite thankes, for the loving kindnesse shee had affoorded him, throwing the sacke on his necke, passed by a Barke to _Brundusiam_, and from thence to _Tranium_, where Merchants in the City bestowed good garments on him, hee acquainting them with his disasterous fortunes, but not a word concerning his last good successe. Being come home in safety to _Ravello_, hee fell on his knees, and thanked God for all his mercies towards him. Then opening the sacke, and viewing the Jewels at more leysure then formerly he had done, he found them to be of so great estimation, that selling them but at ordinary and reasonable rates, he was three times richer, then when hee departed first from his house. And having vented them all, he sent a great sum of money to the good woman at _Corfu_, that had rescued him out of the Sea, and saved his life in a danger so dreadfull: The like hee did to _Tranium_, to the Merchants that had newly cloathed him; living richly upon the remainder, and never adventuring more to the Sea, but ended his dayes in wealth and honour. Andrea de Piero, _travelling from_ Perouse _to_ Naples _to buy Horses, was (in the space of one night) surprised by three admirable accidents, out of all which hee fortunately escaped, and, with a rich Ring, returned home to his owne house._ The fift Novell. _Comprehending, how needfull a thing it is, for a man that travelleth in affaires of the World, to be provident and well advised, and carefully to keepe himselfe from the crafty and deceitfull allurements of Strumpets._ The precious Stones and Jewels found by _Landolpho_, maketh mee to remember (said Madam _Fiammetta_, who was next to deliver her discourse) a Tale, containing no lesse perils, then that reported by Madam _Lauretta_: but somewhat different from it, because the one happened in sundry yeeres, and this other had no longer time, then the compasse of one poore night, as instantly I will relate unto you. As I have heard reported by many, there sometime lived in _Perouse_ or _Perugia_, a young man, named _Andrea de Piero_, whose profession was to trade about Horses, in the nature of a Horse-courser, or Horse-master, who hearing of a good Faire or Market (for his purpose) at _Naples_, did put five hundred Crownes of gold in his purse, and journeyed thither in the company of other Horse-coursers, arriving there on a Sunday in the evening. According to instructions given him by his Host, he went the next day into the Horse-market, where he saw very many Horses that he liked, cheapening their prices as he went up and downe, but could fall to no agreement; yet to manifest that he came purposely to buy, and not as a cheapener onely, often times (like a shalow-brainde trader in the world) he shewed his purse of gold before all passengers, never respecting who, or what they were that observed his follie. It came to passe, that a young _Sicillian_ wench (very beautifull, but at commaund of whosoever would, and for small hire) passing then by, and (without his perceiving) seeing such store of gold in his purse; presently she said to her selfe: why should not all those crownes be mine, when the foole that owes them, can keepe them no closer? And so she went on. With this young wanton there was (at the same time) an olde woman (as commonly such stuffe is alwayes so attended) seeming to be _Sicillian_ also, who so soone as shee saw _Andrea_, knew him, and, leaving her youthfull commodity, ranne to him, and embraced him very kindly. Which when the younger Lasse perceived, without proceeding any further, she stayed, to see what would ensue thereon. _Andrea_ conferring with the olde Bawde, and knowing her (but not for any such creature) declared himselfe very affable to her; she making him promise, that shee would come and drinke with him at his lodging. So, breaking off further Speeches for that time, shee returned to her young _Cammerado_; and _Andrea_ went about buying his horses, still cheapning good store, but did not buy any all that morning. The Punke that had taken notice of _Andreaes_ purse, upon the olde womans comming backe to her (having formerly studied, how shee might get all the gold, or the greater part thereof) cunningly questioned with her, what the man was, whence hee came, and the occasion of his businesse there? wherein she fully informed her particularly, and in as ample manner as himselfe could have done: That shee had long time dwelt in _Sicily_ with his Father, and afterward at _Perouse_; recounting also, at what time she came thence, and the cause which now had drawne him to _Naples_. The witty young housewife, being thorowly instructed, concerning the Parents and kindred of _Andrea_, their names, quality, and all other circumstances thereto leading; began to frame the foundation of her purpose thereupon, setting her resolution downe constantly, that the purse and gold was (already) more then halfe her owne. Being come home to her owne house, away shee sent the olde Pandresse about other businesse, which might hold her time long enough of employment, and hinder her returning to _Andrea_ according to promise, purposing, not to trust her in this serious piece of service. Calling a young crafty Girle to her, whom she had well tutoured in the like ambassages, when evening drew on, she sent her to _Andreas_ lodging, where (by good fortune) she found him sitting alone at the dore, and demanding of him, if he knew an honest Gentleman lodging there, whose name was _Signior Andrea de Piero_; he made her answere, that himselfe was the man. Then taking him aside, shee said. Sir, there is a worthy Gentlewoman of this Citie, that would gladly speake with you, if you pleased to vouchsafe her so much favour. _Andrea_, hearing such a kinde of salutation, and from a Gentlewoman, named of worth; began to grow proud in his owne imaginations, and to make no meane estimation of himselfe: As (undoubtedly) that he was an hansome proper man, and of such cariage and perfections, as had attracted the amorous eye of this Gentlewoman, and induced her to like and love him beyond all other, _Naples_ not contayning a man of better merit. Whereupon he answered the Mayde, that he was ready to attend her Mistresse, desiring to know, when it should be, and where the Gentlewoman would speake with him? So soone as you please Sir, replied the Damosell, for she tarieth your comming in her owne house. Instantly _Andrea_ (without leaving any direction of his departure in his lodging, or when he intended to returne againe) said to the Girle: Goe before, and I will follow. This little Chamber-commodity, conducted him to her Mistresses dwelling, which was in a streete named _Malpertuis_, a title manifesting sufficiently the streetes honesty: but hee, having no such knowledge thereof, neither suspecting any harme at all, but that he went to a most honest house, and to a Gentlewoman of good respect; entred boldly, the Mayde going in before, and guiding him up a faire payre of stayres, which he having more then halfe ascended, the cunning young Queane gave a call to her Mistresse, saying; _Signior Andrea_ is come already, whereupon, she appeared at the stayres-head, as if she had stayed there purposely to entertaine him. She was young, very beautifull, comely of person, and rich in adornements, which _Andrea_ well observing, & seeing her descend two or three steps, with open armes to embrace him, catching fast hold about his neck; he stood as a man confounded with admiration, and she contained a cunning kinde of silence, even as if she were unable to utter one word, seeming hindered by extremity of joy at his presence, and to make him effectually admire her extraordinary kindnesse, having teares plenteously at commaund, intermixed with sighes and broken speeches, at last, thus she spake. _Signior Andrea_, you are the most welcom friend to me in all the world; sealing this salutation with infinite sweet kisses and embraces: whereat (in wonderfull amazement) he being strangely transported, replied; Madame, you honour me beyond all compasse of merit. Then, taking him by the hand, shee guided him thorow a goodly Hall, into her owne Chamber, which was delicately embalmed with Roses, Orenge-flowres, and all other pleasing smelles, and a costly bed in the middest, curtained round about, very artificiall Pictures beautifying the walles, with many other embellishments, such as those Countries are liberally stored withall. He being meerely a novice in these kinds of wanton carriages of the World, and free from any base or degenerate conceit; firmely perswaded himselfe, that (questionlesse) shee was a Lady of no meane esteeme, and he more then happy, to be thus respected and honoured by her. They both being seated on a curious Chest at the Beds feete, teares cunningly trickling downe her cheekes, and sighes intermedled with inward sobbings, breathed forth in sad, but very seemely manner; thus shee beganne. I am sure _Andrea_, that you greatly marvell at me, in gracing you with this solemne and kinde entertainment, and why I should so melt my selfe in sighes and teares, at a man that hath no knowledge of me, or (perhaps) sildome or never heard any Speeches of me: but you shall instantly receive from mee matter to augment your greater marvell, meeting heere with your owne sister, beyond all hope or expectation in either of us both. But seeing that Heaven hath beene so gracious to me, to let mee see one of my brethren before I die (though gladly I would have seene them all) which is some addition of comfort to me, and that which (happily) thou hast never heard before, in plaine and truest manner, I will reveale unto thee. _Piero_, my Father and thine, dwelt long time (as thou canst not chuse but to have understood) in _Palermo_, where, through the bounty, and other gracious good parts remaining in him, he was much renowned; and (to this day) is no doubt remembred, by many of his loving friends and well-willers. Among them that most intimately affected _Piero_, my mother (who was a Gentlewoman, and at that time a widow) did dearest of all other love him; so that forgetting the feare of her Father, brethren, yea, and her owne honour, they became so privately acquainted, that I was begotten, and am here now such as thou seest me. Afterward, occasions so befalling our Father, to abandon _Palermo_, and returne to _Perouse_, he left my mother and me his little daughter, never after (for ought that I could learne) once remembring either her or me: so that (if he had not beene my Father) I could have much condemned him, in regard of his ingratitude to my Mother, and love which hee ought to have shewne me as his childe, being borne of no Chamber-maide, neither of a City sinner; albeit I must needes say, that shee was blame-worthy, without any further knowledge of him (moved onely thereto by most loyal affection) to commit both her selfe, and all the wealth shee had, into his hands: but things ill done, and so long time since, are more easily controled, then amended. Being left so young at _Palermo_, and growing (well neere) to the stature as now you see me; my mother, being wealthy, gave mee in marriage to one of the _Gergentes_ Family, a Gentleman, and of great revenewes, who in his love to me and my mother, went and dwelt at _Palermo_: where falling into the _Guelphes_ faction, and making one in the enterprize with _Charles_ our King; it came to passe, that they were discovered to _Fredericke_ King of _Arragon_, before their intent could be put in execution, whereupon, we were enforced to flie from _Sicilie_, even when my hope stood fairely to have beene the greatest Lady in all the Iland. Packing up then such few things as wee could take with us, few I may well call them, in regard of our wealthy possessions, both in Pallaces, Houses, and Lands, all which we were constrained to forgoe: we made our recourse to this City, where wee found King _Charles_ so benigne and gracious to us, that recompencing the greater part of our losses, he bestowed Lands and Houses on us here, beside a continuall large pension to my husband your brother in Law, as hereafter himselfe shall better acquaint you withall. Thus came I hither, and thus remaine here, where I am able to welcome my brother _Andrea_, thankes more to Fortune, then any friendlinesse in him: with which words she embraced and kissed him many times, sighing and weeping as shee did before. _Andrea_ hearing this fable so artificially delivered, composed from point to point, with such likely protestations, without faltring or failing in any one words utterance; and remembring perfectly for truth, that his Father had formerly dwelt at _Palermo_; knowing also (by some sensible feeling in himselfe) the custome of young people, who are easily conquered by affection in their youthfull heate; seeing beside the teares, trembling speeches, and earnest embracings of this cunning commodity: he tooke all to be faithfully true by her thus spoken, and upon her silence, thus he replied. Lady, let it not seeme strange to you, that your words have raised marvell in me, because (indeede) I had no knowledge of you, even no more then as if I had never seene you, never also having heard my Father to speake either of you or your Mother (for some considerations best knowne to himselfe) or if at any time he used such language, either my youth then, or defective memory since, hath utterly lost it. But truly, it is no little joy and comfort to me, to finde a sister here, where I had no such hope or expectation, and where also my selfe am a meere stranger. For to speake my mind freely of you, and the perfections gracefully appearing in you, I know not any man, of how great repute or quality soever, but you may well beseeme his acceptance, much rather then mine, that am but a meane Merchant. But faire sister, I desire to be resolved in one thing, to wit, by what meanes you had understanding of my being in this City? whereto readily shee returned him this answer. Brother, a poore woman of this City, whom I employ sometimes in houshold occasions, came to me this morning, and (having seene you) tolde me, that shee dwelt a long while with our Father, both at _Palermo_, and _Perouse_. And because I held it much better beseeming my condition, to have you visit me in mine owne dwelling, then I to come see you at a common Inne; I made the bolder to send for you hither. After which words, in very orderly manner, shee enquired of his chiefest kindred and friends, calling them readily by their proper names, according to her former instructions. Whereto _Andrea_ still made her answer, confirming thereby his beliefe of her the more strongly, and crediting whatsoever shee saide, farre better then before. Their conference having long time continued, and the heate of the day being somewhat extraordinary, shee called for _Greeke_ wine, and banquetting stuffe, drinking to _Andrea_; and he pledging her very contentedly. After which, he would have returned to his lodging, because it drew neere supper time; which by no meanes shee would permit, but seeming more then halfe displeased, shee saide. Now I plainely perceive brother, how little account you make of me, considering, you are with your owne Sister, who (you say) you never saw before, and in her owne House, whether you should alwayes resort when you come to this City; and would you now refuse her, to goe and sup at a common Inne. Beleeve me brother, you shall sup with me, for although my Husband is now from home, to my no little discontentment: yet you shall find brother, that his wife can bid you welcome, and make you good cheere beside. Now was _Andrea_ so confounded with this extremity of courtesie, that he knew not what to say, but onely thus replied. I love you as a Sister ought to be loved, and accept of your exceeding kindnesse: but if I returne not to my lodging, I shall wrong mine Host and his guests too much, because they will not sup untill I come. For that (quoth shee) we have a present remedy, one of my servants shal goe and give warning, whereby they shall not tarry your comming. Albeit, you might doe me a great kindnesse, to send for your friends to sup with us here, where I assure ye they shall finde that your Sister (for your sake) will bid them welcome, and after supper, you may all walke together to your Inne. _Andrea_ answered, that he had no such friends there, as should be so burthenous to her: but seeing shee urged him so farre, he would stay to sup with her, and referred himselfe solely to her disposition. Ceremonious shew was made, of sending a servant to the Inne, for not expecting _Andreas_ presence at Supper, though no such matter was performed; but, after divers other discoursings, the table being covered, and variety of costly viands placed thereon, downe they sate to feeding, with plenty of curious Wines liberally walking about, so that it was darke night before they arose from the table. _Andrea_ then offring to take his leave, she would (by no meanes) suffer it, but tolde him that _Naples_ was a Citie of such strict Lawes and Ordinances, as admitted no night-walkers, although they were Natives, much lesse strangers, but punished them with great severity. And therefore, as she had formerly sent word to his Inne, that they should not expect his comming to supper, the like had she done concerning his bed, intending to give her Brother _Andrea_ one nights lodging, which as easily she could affoord him, as she hadde done a Supper. All which this new-caught Woodcocke verily crediting, and that he was in company of his owne Sister _Fiordeliza_ (for so did she cunningly stile her selfe, and in which beleefe hee was meerely deluded) he accepted the more gladly her gentle offer, and concluded to stay there all that night. After supper, their conference lasted very long, purposely dilated out in length, that a great part of the night might therein be wasted: when, leaving _Andrea_ to his Chamber, and a Lad to attend, that he shold lacke nothing; she with her women went to their lodgings, and thus our brother and supposed Sister were parted. The season then being somewhat hot and soultry, _Andrea_ put off his hose and doublet, and beeing in his shirt alone, layed them underneath the beds boulster, as seeming carefull of his money. But finding a provocation to the house of Office, he demanded of the Lad, where hee might find it; who shewed him a little doore in a corner of the Chamber, appointing him to enter there. Safely enough he went in, but chanced to tread upon a board, which was fastened at neither ende to the joynts whereon it lay, being a pit-fall made of purpose, to entrap any such coxecombe, as would be trained to so base a place of lodging, so that both he and the board fell downe together into the draught; yet such being his good fortune, to receive no harme in the fall (although it was of extraordinary height) onely the filth of the place, (it being over full) had fowly myred him. Now for your better understanding the quality of the place, and what ensued thereupon, it is not unnecessary to describe it, according to a common use observed in those parts. There was a narrow passage or entrie, as often we see reserved betweene two houses, for eithers benefit to such a needfull place; and boards loosely lay upon the joynts, which such as were acquainted withall, could easily avoide any perill, in passing to or from the stoole. But our so newly created brother, not dreaming to find a queane to his Sister, receiving so foule a fall into the vaulte, and knowing not how to helpe himselfe, being sorrowfull beyond measure; cryed out to the boy for light and aide, who intended not to give him any. For the crafty wag, (a meete attendant for so honest a Mistresse) no sooner heard him to be fallen, but presently he ranne to enforme her thereof, and shee as speedily returned to the Chamber, where finding his cloathes under the beds head, shee needed no instruction for search in his pockets. But having found the gold, which _Andrea_ indiscreetely carried alwayes about him, as thinking it could no where else be so safe: This was all shee aymed at, and for which shee had ensnared him, faigning her selfe to be of _Palermo_, and Daughter to _Piero_ of _Perouse_, so that not regarding him any longer, but making fast the house of Office doore, there shee left him in that miserable taking. Poore _Andrea_ perceiving, that his calles could get no answer from the Lad; cryed out louder, but all to no purpose: when seeing into his owne simplicity, and understanding his error, though somewhat too late, hee made such meanes constrainedly, that he got over a wall, which severed that foule sinke from the Worlds eye; and being in the open streete, went to the doore of the House, which then he knew too well to his cost, making loude exclaimes with rapping and knocking, but all as fruitlesse as before. Sorrowing exceedingly, and manifestly beholding his misfortune; Alas (quoth he) how soone have I lost a Sister, and five hundred Crownes besides? with many other words, loude calles, and beatings upon the doore without intermission, the neighbours finding themselves diseased, and unable to endure such ceaselesse vexation, rose from their beds, and called to him, desiring him to be gone and let them rest. A maide also of the same House, looking forth at the window, and seeming as newly raised from sleepe, called to him, saying; What noyse is that beneath? Why Virgin (answered _Andrea_) know you not me? I am _Andrea de Piero_, Brother to your Mistresse _Fiordeliza_. Thou art a drunken knave, replied the Maide, more full of drinke then wit, goe sleepe, goe sleepe, and come againe to morrow: for I know no _Andrea de Piero_, neither hath my Mistresse any such Brother, get thee gone good man, and suffer us to sleepe I pray thee. How now (quoth _Andrea_) doest thou not understand what I say? Thou knowest that I supt with thy Mistresse this night; but if our _Sicilian_ kindred be so soone forgot, I pray thee give me my cloathes which I left in my Chamber, and then very gladly will I get mee gone. Hereat the Maide laughing out aloude, saide; Surely the man is mad, or walketh the streetes in a dreame; and so clasping fast the window, away shee went and left him. Now could _Andrea_ assure himselfe, that his gold and cloathes were past recovery, which moving him to the more impatience, his former intercessions became converted into fury, and what hee could not compasse by faire entreats, he entended to winne by outrage and violence, so that taking up a great stone in his hand, hee layed upon the doore very powerfull strokes. The neighbours hearing this molestation still, admitting them not the least respite of rest, reputing him for a troublesome fellow, and that he used those counterfeit words, onely to disturbe the Mistresse of the House, and all that dwelled neere about her; looking againe out at their windowes, they altogether began to rate and reprove him, even like so many bawling Curres, barking at a strange dog passing thorow the streete. This is shamefull villany (quoth one) and not to be suffered, that honest women should be thus molested in their houses, with foolish idle words, and at such an unseasonable time of the night. For Gods sake (good man) be gone, and let us sleepe; if thou have any thing to say to the Gentlewoman of the House, come to morrow in the day time, and no doubt but shee will make thee sufficient answer. _Andrea_ being somewhat pacified with these speeches, a shag-hairde swash-buckler, a grim-visagde Ruffian (as sildome bawdy houses are without such swaggering Champions) not seene or heard by _Andrea_, all the while of his being in the house rapping out two or three terrible oathes, opened a casement, and with a stearne dreadfull voyce, demaunded who durst keepe that noyse beneath? _Andrea_ fearefully looking up, and (by a little glimmering of the Moone) seeing such a rough fellow, with a blacke beard, strowting like the quilles of a Porcupine, and patches on his face, for hurts received in no honest quarels, yawning also and stretching, as angry to have his sleepe disturbed: trembling and quaking, answered; I am the Gentlewomans brother of the house. The Ruffian interrupting him, and speaking more fiercely then before; sealing his words with horrible oathes, said. Sirra, Rascall, I know not of whence or what thou art, but if I come downe to thee, I will so bombast thy prating coxcombe, as thou was never better beaten in all thy life, like a drunken slave and beast as thou art, that all this night wilt not let us sleepe; and so hee clapt to the window againe. The neighbours, well acquainted with this Ruffians rude conditions, speaking in gentle manner to _Andrea_, said. Shift for thy selfe (good man) in time, and tarrie not for his comming downe to thee; except thou art wearie of thy life, be gone therefore, and say thou hast a friendly warning. These words dismaying _Andrea_, but much more the stearne oathes and ugly sight of the Ruffian, incited also by the neighbours counsell, whom he imagined to advise him in charitable manner: it caused him to depart thence, taking the way homeward to his Inne, in no meane affliction and torment of minde, for the monstrous abuse offered him, and losse of his money. Well he remembred the passages, whereby (the day before) the young Girle had guided him, but the loathsome smell about him, was so extreamely offensive to himselfe: that, desiring to wash him at the Sea side, he strayed too farre wide on the contrary hand, wandring up the streete called _Ruga Gatellana_. Proceeding on still, even to the highest part of the Citie, hee espied a Lanthorne and light, as also a man carrying it, and another man with him in company, both of them comming towards him. Now, because he suspected them two of the watch, or some persons that would apprehend him: he stept aside to shunne them, and entred into an olde house hard by at hand. The other mens intention was to the very same place, and going in, without any knowledge of _Andreaes_ being there, one of them layd downe divers instruments of yron, which he had brought thither on his backe, and had much talke with his fellow concerning those engines. At last one of them said, I smell the most abhominable stinke, that ever I felt in all my life. So, lifting up his Lanthorne, he espied poore pittifull _Andrea_, closely couched behinde the wall. Which sight somewhat affrighting him, he yet boldly demaunded, what and who hee was: whereto _Andrea_ aunswered nothing, but lay still and held his peace. Neerer they drew towards him with their light, demaunding how hee came thither, and in that filthy manner. Constraint having now no other evasion, but that (of necessity) all must out: hee related to them the whole adventure, in the same sort as it had befalne him. They greatly pittying his misfortune, one of them said to the other. Questionlesse, this villanie was done in the house of _Scarabone Buttafuoco_; And then turning to _Andrea_, proceeded thus. In good faith poore man, albeit thou hast lost thy money, yet art thou highly beholding to Fortune, for falling (though in a foule place) yet in succesfull manner, and entring no more backe into the house. For, beleeve mee friend, if thou hadst not falne, but quietly gone to sleepe in the house; that sleepe had beene thy last in this world, and with thy money, thou hadst lost thy life likewise. But teares and lamentations are now helplesse, because, as easily mayest thou plucke the Starres from the firmament, as get againe the least doyt of thy losse. And for that shag-haird Slave in the house, he will be thy deaths-man, if he but understand, that thou makest any enquiry after thy money. When he had thus admonished him, he began also in this manner to comfort him. Honest fellow, we cannot but pitty thy present condition, wherefore, if thou wilt friendly associate us, in a businesse which wee are instantly going to effect: thy losse hath not beene so great, but on our words wee will warrant thee, that thine immediate gaine shall farre exceede it. What will not a man (in desperate extremity) both well like and allow of, especially, when it carrieth apparance of present comfort? So fared it with _Andrea_, hee perswaded himselfe, worse then had already happened, could not befall him; and therefore he would gladly adventure with them. The selfe same day preceding this disastrous night to _Andrea_, in the chiefe Church of the Citie, had beene buried the Archbishop of _Naples_, named _Signior Philippo Minutolo_, in his richest pontificall roabes and ornaments, and a Ruby on his finger, valued to be worth five hundred duckets of gold: this dead body they purposed to rob and rifle, acquainting _Andrea_ with their whole intent, whose necessity (coupled with a covetous desire) made him more forward then well advised, to joyne with them in this sacriligious enterprise. On they went towards the great Church, _Andreaes_ unsavourie perfume much displeasing them, whereupon the one said to his fellow. Can we devise no ease for this foule and noysome inconvenience? the very smell of him will be a meanes to betray us. There is a Well-pit hard by, answered the other, with a pulley and bucket descending downe into it, and there we may wash him from this filthinesse. To the Well-pit they came, where they found the rope and pulley hanging ready, but the bucket (for safety) was taken away: whereon they concluded, to fasten the rope about him, and so let him downe into the Well-pit, and when he had washed himselfe, hee should wagge the rope, and then they would draw him up againe, which accordingly they forth-with performed. Now it came to passe, that while hee was thus washing himselfe in the Well-pit, the watch of the Citie walking the round, and finding it to be a very hote and sweltring night; they grew dry and thirsty, and therefore went to the Well to drinke. The other two men, perceiving the Watch so neere upon them: left _Andrea_ in the Pit to shift for himselfe, running away to shelter themselves. Their flight was not discovered by the Watch, but they comming to the Well-pit, _Andrea_ remained still in the bottome, and having cleansed himselfe so well as hee could, sate wagging the rope, expecting when hee should be haled up. This dumbe signe the Watch discerned not, but sitting downe by the Wells side, they layde downe their Billes and other weapons, tugging to draw up the rope, thinking the Bucket was fastened thereto, and full of water. _Andrea_ being haled up to the Pits brim, left holding the rope any longer, catching fast hold with his hands for his better safety: and the Watch at the sight heereof being greatly affrighted, as thinking that they had dragd up a Spirit; not daring to speake one word, ranne away with all the hast they could make. _Andrea_ hereat was not a little amazed, so that if he had not taken very good hold on the brim: he might have falne to the bottome, and doubtlesse there his life had perished. Being come forth of the Well, and treading on Billes and Halbards, which he well knew that his companions had not brought thither with them; his mervaile so much the more encreased, ignorance and feare still seizing on him, with silent bemoaning his many misfortunes, away thence he wandred, but hee wist not whither. As he went on, he met his two fellowes, who purposely returned to drag him out of the Well, and seeing their intent already performed, desired to know who had done it: wherein _Andrea_ could not resolve them, rehearsing what hee could, and what weapons hee found lying about the Well. Whereat they smiled, as knowing, that the Watch had haled him up, for feare of whom they left him, and so declared to him the reason of their returne. Leaving off all further talke, because now it was about midnight, they went to the great Church, where finding their entrance to be easie: they approached neere the Tombe, which was very great, being all of Marble, and the cover-stone weighty, yet with crowes of yron and other helps, they raised it so high, that a man might without perill passe into it. Now began they to question one another, which of the three should enter into the Tombe. Not I, said the first; so said the second: No, nor I, answered _Andrea_. Which when the other two heard, they caught fast hold of him, saying. Wilt not thou goe into the Tombe? Be advised what thou sayest, for, if thou wilt not goe in: we will so beat thee with one of these yron crowes, that thou shalt never goe out of this Church alive. Thus poore _Andrea_ is still made a property, and Fortune (this fatall night) will have no other foole but he, as delighting in his hourly disasters. Feare of their fury makes him obedient, into the grave he goes, and being within, thus consults with himselfe. These cunning companions suppose me to be simple, & make me enter the Tombe, having an absolute intention to deceive me. For, when I have given them all the riches that I finde here, and am ready to come forth for mine equall portion: away will they runne for their owne safety, and leaving me here, not onely shall I loose my right among them, but must remaine to what danger may follow after. Having thus meditated, he resolved to make sure of his owne share first, and remembring the rich Ring, whereof they had tolde him: forthwith hee tooke it from the Archbishops finger, finding it indifferently fitte for his owne. Afterward, hee tooke the Crosse, Miter, rich garments, Gloves and all, leaving him nothing but his shirt, giving them all these severall parcels; protesting, that there was nothing else. Still they pressed upon him, affirming that there was a Ring beside, urging him to search diligently for it; yet still he answered, that hee could not finde it, and for their longer tarying with him, seemed as if he serched very carefully, but all appeared to no purpose. The other two fellowes, as cunning in craft as the third could be, still willed him to search, and watching their aptest opportunity: tooke away the props that supported the Tombe-stone, and running thence with their got booty, left poore _Andrea_ mewed up in the grave. Which when he perceived, and saw this misery to exceede all the rest, it is farre easier for you to guesse at his greefe, then I am any way able to expresse it. His head, shoulders, yea all his utmost strength he employeth, to remove that over-heavy hinderer of his liberty: but all his labour beeing spent in vaine, sorrow threw him in a swoond upon the Byshoppes dead body, where if both of them might at that instant have bene observed, the Arch-byshops dead body, and _Andrea_ in greefe dying, very hardly had bene distinguished. But his senses regaining their former offices, among his silent complaints, consideration presented him with choyse of these two unavoydable extremities. Dye starving must he in the tombe, with putrifaction of the dead body; or if any man came to open the Grave, then must he be apprehended as a sacrilegious Theefe, and so be hanged, according to the lawes in that case provided. As he continued in these strange afflictions of minde, sodainely hee heard a noise in the Church of divers men, who (as he imagined) came about the like businesse, as hee and his fellowes had undertaken before; wherein he was not a jot deceived, albeit his feare the more augmented. Having opened the Tombe, and supported the stone, they varied also among themselves for entrance, and an indiffrent while contended about it. At length, a Priest being one in the company, boldly said. Why how now you white-liver'd Rascals? What are you affraid of? Do you thinke he will eate you? Dead men cannot bite, and therefore I my selfe will go in. Having thus spoken, he prepared his entrance to the Tombe in such order, that he thrust in his feete before, for his easier descending downe into it. _Andrea_ sitting upright in the Tombe, and desiring to make use of this happy opportunity, caught the Priest fast by one of his legges, making shew as if he meant to dragge him downe. Which when the Priest felt, he cryed out aloud, getting out with all the hast he could make, and all his companions, being well neere frighted out of their wits, ranne away amaine, as if they had bene followed by a thousand divels. _Andrea_ little dreaming on such fortunate successe, made meanes to get out of the grave, and afterward forth of the Church, at the very same place where he entred. Now began day-light to appeare, when hee, having the rich Ring on his finger, wandred on hee knew not whether: till comming to the Sea-side, he found the way directing to his Inne, where all his company were with his Host, who had bene very carefull for him. Having related his manifold mischances, his Hoste friendly advised him with speede to get him out of _Naples_. As instantly he did, returning home to _Perouse_, having adventured his five hundred Crownes on a Ring, where-with hee purposed to have bought Horses, according to the intent of his journey thither. _Madame Beritola Caracalla, was found in an Island with two Goates, having lost her two Sonnes, and thence travailed into Lunigiana: where one of her Sonnes became servant to the Lord thereof, and was found somewhat over-familiar with his Masters daughter, who therefore caused him to bee imprisoned. Afterward, when the Country of Sicily rebelled against K. Charles, the aforesaid Sonne chanced to be knowne by his Mother, and was married to his Masters daughter. And his Brother being found likewise; they both returned to great estate and credit._ The sixt Novell. _Heerein all men are admonished, never to distrust the powerfull hand of Heaven, when Fortune seemeth to be most adverse against them._ The Ladies and Gentlemen also, having smiled sufficiently at the severall accidents which did befall the poore Traveller _Andrea_, reported at large by Madame _Fiammetta_, the Lady _Æmillia_, seeing her tale to be fully concluded, began (by commandement of the Queene) to speake in this manner. The diversitie of changes and alterations in Fortune as they are great, so must they needs be greevous; and as often as we take occasion to talk of them, as often do they awake and quicken our understandings, avouching, that it is no easie matter to depend upon her flatteries. And I am of opinion, that to heare them recounted, ought not any way to offend us, be it of men wretched or fortunate; because, as they enstruct the one with good advise, so they animate the other with comfort. And therefore, although great occasions have beene already related, yet I purpose to tell a Tale, no lesse true then lamentable; which albeit it sorted to a successefull ending, yet notwithstanding, such and so many were the bitter thwartings, as hardly can I beleeve, that ever any sorrow was more joyfully sweetened. You must understand then (most gracious Ladies) that after the death of _Fredericke_ the second Emperour, one named _Manfred_, was crowned King of _Sicilie_, about whom lived in great account and authority, a _Neapolitane_ Gentleman, called _Henriet Capece_, who had to Wife a beautifull Gentlewoman, and a _Neapolitane_ also, named Madam _Beritola Caracalla_. This _Henriet_ held the government of the Kingdome of _Sicilie_, and understanding, that King _Charles_ the first, had wonne the battle of _Beneventum_, and slaine King _Manfred_; the whole Kingdome revolting also to his devotion, and little trust to be reposed in the _Sicillians_, or he willing to subject himselfe to his Lords enemy; provided for his secret flight from thence. But this being discovered to the _Sicillians_, he and many more, who had beene loyall servants to King _Manfred_, were suddenly taken and imprisoned by King _Charles_, and the sole possession of the Iland confirmed to him. Madam _Beritola_ not knowing (in so sudden and strange an alteration of State affaires) what was become of her Husband, fearing also greatly before, those inconveniences which afterward followed; being overcome with many passionate considerations, having left and forsaken all her goods, going aboard a small Barke with a Sonne of hers, aged about some eight yeeres, named _Geoffrey_, and growne great with childe with another; shee fled thence to _Lipary_, where shee was brought to bed of another Sonne, whom shee named (answerable both to his and her hard fortune) _The poore expelled_. Having provided her selfe of a Nurse, they altogether went aboard againe, setting sayle for _Naples_ to visit her Parents; but it chanced quite contrary to her expectation, because by stormie windes and weather, the vessell being bound for _Naples_, was hurried to the Ile of _Ponzo_, where entring into a small Port of the Sea, they concluded to make their aboade, till a time more furtherous should favour their voyage. As the rest, so did Madam _Beritola_ goe on shore in the Iland, where having found a separate and solitary place, fit for her silent and sad meditations, secretly by her selfe, shee sorrowed for the absence of her husband. Resorting daily to this her sad exercise, and continuing there her complaints, unseene by any of the Marriners, or whosoever else: there arrived suddenly a Galley of Pyrates, who seazing on the small Barke, carried it and all the rest in it away with them. When _Beritola_ had finished her wofull complaints, as daily shee was accustomed to doe, shee returned backe to her children againe; but finding no person there remaining, whereat she wondered not a little: immediately (suspecting what had happened indeede) she lent her lookes on the Sea, and saw the Galley, which as yet had not gone farre, drawing the smaller vessell after her. Heereby plainly she perceyved, that now she had lost her children, as formerly shee had done her husband; being left there poore, forsaken, and miserable, not knowing when, where, or how to finde any of them againe, and calling for her husband and children, shee fell downe in a swound uppon the shore. Now was not any body neere, with coole water or any other remedy, to helpe the recovery of her lost powers; wherefore her spirites might the more freely wander at their own pleasure: but after they were returned backe againe, and had won their wonted offices in her body, drowned in teares, and wringing her hands, shee did nothing but call for her children and husband, straying all about, in hope to finde them, seeking in Caves, Dennes, and every where else, that presented the verie least glimpse of comfort. But when she saw all her paines sort to no purpose, and darke night drawing swiftly on, hope and dismay raising infinit perturbations, made her yet to be somewhat respective of her selfe, & therefore departing from the sea-shore, she returned to the solitary place, where she used to sigh and mourne alone by her selfe. The night being over-past with infinite feares and affrights, & bright day saluting the world againe, with the expence of nine hours and more, she fell to her former fruitlesse travailes. Being somewhat sharply bitten with hunger, because the former day and night shee hadde not tasted any food: she made therefore a benefit of necessity, and fed on the green hearbes so well as she could, not without many piercing afflictions, what should become of her in this extraordinary misery. As shee walked in these pensive meditations, she saw a Goate enter into a Cave, and (within a while after) come forth againe, wandering along thorow the woods. Whereupon she stayed, and entred where she saw the beast issue forth, where she found two yong Kids, yeaned (as it seemed) the selfesame day, which sight was very pleasing to her, and nothing (in that distresse) could more content her. As yet she had milke freshly running in both her brests, by reason of her so late delivery in child-bed; wherefore shee lay downe unto the two yong Kids, and taking them tenderly in her armes, suffered each of them to sucke a teate, whereof they made not any refusall, but tooke them as lovingly as their dammes, and from that time forward, they made no distinguishing betweene their damme and her. Thus this unfortunate Lady, having found some company in this solitary desert, fed on hearbes & roots, drinking faire running water, and weeping silently to her selfe, so often as she remembred her husband, children, and former dayes past in much better manner. Here shee resolved now to live and dye, being at last deprived both of the damme and yonger Kids also, by theyr wandering further into the neere adjoining Woods, according to their Naturall inclinations; whereby the poore distressed Lady became more savage and wilde in her daily conditions, then otherwise shee would have bene. After many monthes were over-passed, at the very same place where she tooke landing; by chance, there arrived another small vessell of certaine _Pisans_, which remained there divers dayes. In this Bark was a Gentleman, named _Conrado de Marchesi Malespini_, with his holy and vertuous wife, who were returned backe from a Pilgrimage, having visited all the sanctified places, that then were in the Kingdome of _Apulia_, & now were bound homeward to their owne abiding. This Gentleman, for the expelling of melancholy perturbations, one especiall day amongst other, with his wife, servants, and waiting hounds, wandered up into the Iland, not far from the place of Madam _Beritolaes_ desert dwelling. The hounds questing after game, at last happened on the two Kiddes where they were feeding, and (by this time) had attained to indifferent growth: and finding themselves thus pursued by the hounds, fled to no other part of the wood, then to the Cave where _Beritola_ remained, and seeming as if they sought to be rescued only by her, she sodainly caught up a staffe, and forced the hounds thence to flight. By this time, _Conrado_ and his wife, who had followed closely after the hounds, was come thither, and seeing what had hapned, looking on the Lady, who was become blacke, swarthy, meager, and hairy, they wondered not a little at her, and she a great deale more at them. When (upon her request) _Conrado_ had checkt back his hounds, they prevailed so much by earnest intreaties, to know what she was, and the reason of her living there; that she intirely related her quality, unfortunate accidents, and strange determination for living there. Which when the Gentleman had heard, who very well knew her husband, compassion forced teares from his eyes, and earnestly he laboured by kinde perswasions, to alter so cruel a deliberation; making an honourable offer, for conducting her home to his owne dwelling, where shee should remaine with him in noble respect, as if she were his owne sister, without parting from him, till Fortune should smile as fairely on her, as ever she had done before. When these gentle offers could not prevaile with her, the Gentleman left his wife in her company, saying, that he would go fetch some foode for her; and because her garments were all rent and torne, hee woulde bring her other of his wives, not doubting but to winne her thence with them. His wife abode there with _Beritola_, very much bemoaning her great disasters, and when both viands and garments were brought: by extremity of intercession, they caused her to put them on, and also to feede with them, albeit she protested, that shee would not part thence into any place, where any knowledge should be taken of her. In the end, they perswaded her, to go with them into _Lunigiana_, carrying also with her the two yong Goats and their damme, which were then in the Cave altogether, prettily playing before _Beritola_, to the great admiration of _Conrado_ and his wife, as also the servants attending on them. When the windes and weather grew favourable for them, Madam _Beritola_ went aboard with _Conrado_ and his wife, being followed by the two young Goates and their Damme; and because her name should bee knowne to none but _Conrado_, and his wife onely, shee would be stiled no otherwise, but the Goatherdesse. Merrily, yet gently blew the gale, which brought them to enter the River of _Macra_, where going on shore, and into their owne Castell, _Beritola_ kept company with the wife of _Conrado_, but in a mourning habite, and a wayting Gentlewoman of hers, honest, humble, and very dutifull, the Goates alwayes familiarly keeping them company. Returne wee now to the Pyrates, which at _Ponzo_ seized on the small Barke, wherein Madam _Beritola_ was brought thither, and carried thence away, without any sight or knowledge of her. With such other spoiles as they had taken, they shaped their course for _Geneway_, and there (by consent of the Patrones of the Galley) made a division of their booties. It came to passe, that (among other things) the Nurse that attended on _Beritola_, and the two Children with her, fell to the share of one _Messer Gasparino d'Oria_, who sent them together to his owne House, there to be employed in service as servants. The Nurse weeping beyond measure for the losse of her Lady, and bemoaning her owne miserable fortune, whereinto shee was now fallen with the two young Laddes; after long lamenting, which shee found utterly fruitlesse and to none effect, though she was used as a servant with them, and being but a very poore woman, yet was shee wise and discreetly advised. Wherefore, comforting both her selfe, and them so well as she could, and considering the depth of their disaster; shee conceited thus, that if the Children should be knowne, it might redounde to their greater danger, and shee be no way advantaged thereby. Hereupon, hoping that Fortune (early or late) would alter her stearne malice, and that they might (if they lived) regaine once more their former condition: shee would not disclose them to any one whatsoever, till shee should see the time aptly disposed for it. Being thus determined, to all such as questioned her concerning them, she answered that they were her owne Children, naming the eldest not _Geoffrey_, but _Jehannot de Procida_. [Sidenote: Or Grannotto da Prochyta.] As for the youngest, shee cared not greatly for changing his name, and therefore wisely enformed _Geoffrey_, upon what reason shee had altered his name, and what danger he might fall into, if he should otherwise be discovered; being not satisfied with thus telling him once, but remembring him thereof very often, which the gentle youth (being so well instructed by the wise and carefull Nurse) did very warily observe. The two young Laddes, very poorely garmented, but much worse hosed and shodde, continued thus in the house of _Gasparino_, where both they and the Nurse were long time imployed, about very base and drudging Offices, which yet they endured with admirable patience. But _Jehannot_, aged already about sixteene yeeres, having a loftier spirit, then belonged to a slavish servant, despising the basenesse of his servile condition; departed from the drudgery of _Messer Gasparino_, and going aboard the Gallies, which were bound for _Alexandria_, fortuned into many places, yet none of them affoording him any advancement. In the ende, about three or foure yeares after his departure from _Gasparino_, being now a brave young man, and of very goodly forme: he understood, that his Father (whom he supposed to be dead) was as yet living; but in captivity, and prisoner to King _Charles_. Wherefore, despairing of any successefull fortune, hee wandred here and there, till he came to _Lunigiana_, and there (by strange accident) he became servant to _Messer Conrado Malespina_, where the service proved well liking to them both. Very sildome times hee had a sight of his Mother, because shee alwayes kept company with _Conradoes_ wife; and yet when they came within view of each other, shee knew not him, nor he her, so much yeeres had altered them both, from what they were wont to be, and when they saw each other last. _Jehannot_ being thus in the service of _Messer Conrado_, it fortuned that a daughter of his, named _Spina_, being the Widdow of one _Messer Nicolas Grignan_, returned home to her Fathers House. Very beautifull and amiable shee was, young likewise, aged but little above sixteene; growing wonderously amorous of _Jehannot_, and he of her, in extraordinary and most fervent manner; which love was not long without full effect, continuing many moneths before any person could perceive it: which making them to build on the more assurance, they began to carrie their meanes with lesse discretion, then is required in such nice cases, and which cannot be too providently managed. Upon a day, he and shee walking to a goodly wood, plentifully furnished with spreading Trees, having out-gone the rest of their company; they made choise of a pleasant place, very daintily shaded, and beautified with all sorts of floures. There they spent sometime in amorous discourse, beside some other sweete embraces, which though it seemed over-short to them, yet was it so unadvisedly prolonged; that they were on a sudden surprized, first by the Mother, and next by _Messer Conrado_ himselfe: who greeving beyond measure, to be thus trecherously dealt withall, caused them to be apprehended by three of his servants, and (without telling them any reason why) ledde bound to another Castle of his, and fretting with extremity of rage, concluded in his minde, that they should both shamefully be put to death. The Mother to this regardlesse Daughter, having heard the angry words of her Husband, and how hee would be revenged on the faultie; could not endure that he should be so severe: wherefore, although shee was likewise much afflicted in minde, and reputed her Daughter worthy (for so great an offence) of all cruell punishment: yet shee hasted to her displeased husband, and began to entreate, that he would not runne on in such a furious spleene, now in his aged yeares, to be the murtherer of his owne childe, and soile his hands in the blood of his servant. Rather he might finde out some milde course for the satisfaction of his Anger, by committing them to close imprisonment, there to remaine & mourne for their follie committed. The vertuous and religious Lady alledged so many commendable examples, and used such plenty of mooving perswasions; that she quite altred his minde, from putting them to death, and he commanded onely, that they should separately bee imprisoned, with little store of foode, and lodging of the uneasiest, untill hee should otherwise determine of them, and so it was done. What their life now was in captivity and continuall teares, with stricter abstinence then was needefull for them; all this I must commit to your consideration. _Jehannot_ and _Spina_ remaining in this comfortlesse condition, and an whole yeere being now out-worne, yet _Conrado_ keeping them thus still imprisoned: it came to passe, that _Don Pedro_ King of _Arragon_, by the meanes of _Messer John de Procida_, caused the Isle of _Sicily_ to revolt, and tooke it away from King _Charles_, whereat _Conrado_ (he being of the _Ghibbiline_ faction) not a little rejoyced. _Jehannot_ having intelligence thereof, by some of them that had him in custody, breathing foorth a vehement sigh, spake in this manner. Alas poore miserable wretch as I am! that have already gone begging through the world above fourteene yeares, in expectation of nothing else but this opportunity; and now it is come, must I be in prison, to the end, that I should never more hope for any future happinesse? And how can I get forth of this prison, except it be by death onely? How now, replied the Officer of the Guard? What doth this businesse of great Kings concerne thee? What affaires hast thou in _Sicily_? Once more _Jehannot_ sighed extreamly, and returned him this answer. Me thinkes my heart (quoth hee) doth cleave in sunder, when I call to minde the charge which my Father had there, for although I was but a little boy when I fled thence: yet I can well remember, that I sawe him Governour there, at such time as King _Manfred_ lived. The Guard, pursuing on still his purpose, demanded of him, what, and who his Father was? My Father (replyed _Jehannot_) I may now securely speake of him, being out of the perill which neerely concerned me if I had beene discovered. He was the named (and so still if he be living) _Henriet Capece_, and my name is _Geoffrey_, not _Jehannot_; and I make no doubt, but if I were free from hence, and might be returned home to _Sicily_, I should (for his sake) be placed in some authority. The honest man of the Guard, without seeking after any further information; so soone as he could compasse the leysure, reported all to _Messer Conrado_, who having heard these newes (albeit he made no shew thereof to the revealer) went to Madam _Beritola_, graciously demaunding of her, if she had any sonne by her husband, who was called _Geoffrey_. The Lady replyed in teares, that if her eldest sonne were as yet living, hee was so named, and now aged about two and twenty yeares. _Conrado_ hearing this, imagined this same to be the man, considering further withall, that if it fell out to prove so: he might have the better meanes of mercie, and closely concealing his daughters shame, joyfully joyne them in marriage together. Hereupon he secretly caused _Jehannot_ to be brought before him, examining him particularly of all his passed life, and finding (by most manifest arguments) that his name was truly _Geoffrey_, & he the eldest son of _Henriet Capece_, he spake to him alone in this manner. _Jehannot_, thou knowest how great the injuries are which thou hast done me, & my deare daughter, gently entreating thee (as became a good & honest servant) that thou shouldest alwayes have bin respective of mine honour, and all that do appertain unto me. There are many noble Gentlemen, who sustaining the wrong which thou hast offred me, they would have procured thy shameful death, which pitty & compassion will not suffer in me. Wherefore seeing (as thou informest me) that thou art honourably derived both by father & mother; I will give end to all thine anguishes, even when thy self art so pleased, releasing thee from the misery & captivity, wherein I have so long time kept thee, and in one instant, reduce thine honour & mine into compleat perfection. As thou knowest, my Daughter _Spina_, whom thou hast embraced in kindnesse as a friend (although farre unfitting for thee or her) is a widow, and her mariage is both great and good; what her manners and conditions are, thou indifferently knowest, and art not ignorant of her Father and Mother: concerning thine owne estate, as now I purpose not to speake any thing. Therefore, when thou wilt, I am so determined, that whereas thou hast immodestly affected her, she shall become thy honest wife, and accepting thee as my Son, to remain with me so long as you both please. Imprisonment had somewhat misshapen _Jehannot_ in his outward forme, but not impaired a jot of that noble spirit, really derived from his famous progenitors, much lesse the true love he bare to his faire friend. And although most earnestly he desired that, which _Conrado_ now so franckly offered him, and was in his power onely to bestow on him; yet could he not cloude any part of his greatnesse, but with a resolved judgement, thus replied. My Lord, affectation of rule, desire of wealthy possessions, or any other matter whatsoever, could never make me a traytor to you or yours; but that I have loved, do love & for ever shal love your beautious daughter; if that be treason, I freely confesse it, & will die a thousand deaths, before you or any else shal enforce me to denie it; for I hold her highly worthy of my love. If I have bin more unmannerly with her, then became me, according to the opinion of vulgar judgment, I have committed but that error, which evermore is so attendant upon youth; that to denie it, is to denie youth also. And if reverend age would but remember, that once he was young, & measure others offences by his own; they would not be thought so great or greevous, as you (& many more) account them to be, mine being committed as a friend, & not as an enemy: what you make offer of so willingly to do, I have alwayes desired, & if I had thought it would have bin granted, long since I had most humbly requested it; and so much the more acceptable would it have bin to me, by how much the further off it stood from my hopes. But if you be so forward as your words doe witnesse, then feede mee not with any further fruitlesse expectation: but rather send me backe to prison, and lay as many afflictions on mee as you please: for my endeared love to your Daughter _Spina_, maketh mee to love you the more for her sake; how hardly soever you entreate me, & bindeth me in the greater reverence to you, as being the father of my fairest friend. _Messer Conrado_ hearing these words, stood as one confounded with admiration, reputing him to be a man of lofty spirit, and his affection most fervent to his Daughter, which was not a little to his liking. Wherefore, embracing him, and kissing his cheeke, without any longer dallying, hee sent in like manner for his Daughter. Her restraint in prison had made her lookes meager, pale and wanne, and very weake was shee also of her person, farre differing from the woman shee was wont to be, before her affection to _Jehannot_; there in presence of her Father, and with free consent of either, they were contracted as man and wife, and the espousals agreed on according to custome. Some few dayes after, (without any ones knowledge of that which was done) having furnished them with all things fit for the purpose, and time aptly serving, that the Mothers should be partakers in this joy; he called his wife, and Madam _Beritola_, to whom first he spake in this manner. What will you say Madam, if I cause you to see your eldest Son, not long since married to one of my Daughters? whereunto _Beritola_ thus replied. My Lord, I can say nothing else unto you, but that I shall be much more obliged to you, then already I am, and so much the rather, because you will let me see the thing which is dearer to me then mine owne life; and rendring it unto mee in such manner as you speake of, you will recall backe some part of my former lost hopes: and with these words the teares streamed aboundantly from her eyes. Then turning to his wife, he saide; And you deare Love, if I shew you such a Sonne in Law, what will you thinke of it? Sir (quoth shee) what pleaseth you, must and shall satisfie me, be he Gentleman, or a beggar. Well said Madam, answered _Messer Conrado_, I hope (within few dayes) to make you both joyfull. So when the amorous couple had recovered their former feature, and honourable garments were prepared for them, privately thus he said to _Geoffrey_; Beyond the joy which already thou art inriched withall, how would it please thee to meet with thine owne Mother here? I cannot beleeve Sir, replied _Geoffrey_, that her greevous misfortunes have suffered her to live so long: yet notwithstanding, if Heaven hath beene so merciful to her, my joyes were incomparable, for by her gracious counsell, I might well hope to recover no meane happinesse in _Sicilie_. Within a while after, both the Mothers were sent for, who were transported with unspeakable joyes, when they beheld the so lately maried couple; being also much amazed, when they could not guesse what inspiration had guided _Conrado_ to this extraordinary benignity, joyning _Jehannot_ in mariage with _Spina_. Hereupon Madam _Beritola_, remembring the speeches between her and _Conrado_, began to observe him very advisedly, and by a hidden vertue, which long had silently slept in her, and now with joy of spirit awaked, calling to minde the lineatures of her Sonnes Infancy, without awaiting for any other demonstrations, shee folded him in her armes with earnest affection. Motherly joy and pitty now contended so violently together, that shee was not able to utter one word, the sensitive vertues being so closely combined, that (even as dead) shee fell downe in the armes of her Sonne. And he wondering greatly thereat, making a better recollection of his thoughts, did well remember, that he had often before seene her in the Castell, without any other knowledge of her. Neverthelesse, by meere instinct of Nature, whose power (in such actions) declares it selfe to be highly predominant; his very soule assured him, that shee was his Mother, and blaming his understanding, that he had not before beene better advised, he threw his armes about her, and wept exceedingly. Afterward, by the loving paines of _Conradoes_ wife, as also her daughter _Spina_, Madam _Beritola_ (being recovered from her passionate trance, and her vitall spirits executing their Offices againe;) fell once more to the embracing of her Sonne, kissing him infinite times, with teares and speeches of motherly kindnesse, he likewise expressing the same dutifull humanity to her. Which ceremonious courtesies being passed over and over, to no little joy in all the beholders, beside repetition of their severall misfortunes. _Messer Conrado_ made all knowne to his friends, who were very glad of this new alliance made by him, which was honoured with many solemn & magnificent feastings. Which being all concluded, _Geoffrey_ having found out fit place and opportunity, for conference with his new created Father, without any sinister opposition; began as followeth. Honourable Father, you have raised my contentment to the highest degree, and have heaped also many gracious favours on my noble Mother; but now in the finall conclusion, that nothing may remaine uneffected, which consisteth in your power to performe: I would humbly entreate you, to honour my Mother with your company, at a Feast of my making, where I would gladly also have my Brother present. _Messer Gasparino d'Oria_ (as I have once heretofore told you) questing as a common Pyrate on the Seas, tooke us, and sent us home to his house as slaves, where (as yet he detaineth him.) I would have you likewise send one into _Sicilie_, who informing himselfe more amply in the state of the Country; may understand what is become of _Henriet_ my Father, and whether he be living or no. If he remaine alive, to know in what condition he is; and being secretly instructed in all things, then to returne backe againe to you. This motion made by _Geoffrey_, was so pleasing to _Conrado_, that without any reference to further leysure, hee dispatched thence two discreete persons, the one to _Genewaye_, and the other to _Sicilie_: he which went for _Geneway_, having met with _Gasparino_, earnestly entreated him, (on the behalfe of _Conrado_) to send him the _Poore expelled_; and his Nurse recounting every thing in order, which _Conrado_ had tolde him, concerning _Geoffrey_ and his Mother: when _Gasparino_ had heard the whole discourse, he marvelled greatly thereat, and saide; True it is, that I will doe any thing for _Messer Conrado_, which may be to his love and liking, provided, that it lie in my power to performe; and (about some foureteene yeeres since) I brought such a Lad as you seeke for, with his Mother home to my house; whom I will gladly send unto him. But you may tell him from me, that I advise him from over-rash crediting the fables of _Jehannot_, that now tearms himselfe by the name of _Geoffrey_, because hee is a more wicked boy, then he taketh him to be, and so did I find him. Having thus spoken, and giving kinde welcome to the Messenger, secretly he called the Nurse unto him, whom he heedfully examined concerning this case. Shee having heard the rebellion in the Kingdome of _Sicilie_, and understanding withall, that _Henriet_ was yet living; joyfully threw off all her former feare, relating every thing to him orderly, and the reasons moving her, to conceale the whole businesse in such manner as shee had done. _Gasparino_ well perceiving, that the report of the Nurse, and the message received from _Conrado_, varied not in any one circumstance, beganne the better to credit her wordes. And being a man most ingenious, making further inquisition into the businesse, by all the possible meanes he could devise, and finding every thing to yeeld undoubted assurance; ashamed of the vile and base usage, wherein hee had so long time kept the Ladde, and desiring (by his best meanes) to make him amends; he had a faire Daughter, aged about thirteene yeeres, and knowing what manner of man he was, his father _Henriet_ also yet living, he gave her to him in marriage, with a very bountifull and honourable dowry. The joviall dayes of feasting being past, he went aboard a Galley, with the _Poore expelled_; his Daughter, the Ambassadour, and the Nurse, departing thence to _Lericy_, where they were nobly welcommed by _Messer Conrado_, and his Castle being not farre from thence, with an honourable traine they were conducted thither, and entertained with all possible kindnesse. Now concerning the comfort of the Mother, meeting so happily with both her Sonnes, the joy of the Brethren and Mother together, having also found the faithfull Nurse, _Gasparino_ and his Daughter, in company now with _Conrado_ and his Wife, friends, familiars, and all generally in a Jubilee of rejoycing: it exceedeth capacity in me to expresse it, and therefore I referre it to your more able imagination. In the time of this mutuall contentment, to the ende that nothing might be wanting, to compleat and perfect this universall joy; our Lord, a most aboundant bestower where he beginneth, added long wished tydings, concerning the life and good estate of _Henriet Capece_. For, even as they were feasting, and the concourse great of worthy guests, both of Lords and Ladies: the first service was scarcely set on the Tables, but the Ambassador which was sent to _Sicilie_, arrived there before them. Among many other important matters, he spake of _Henriet_, who being so long a time detained in prison by King _Charles_, when the commotion arose in the City against the King; the people (grudging at _Henriets_ long imprisonment) slew the Guards, and let him at liberty. Then as capitall enemy to King _Charles_, he was created Captaine generall, following the chase, and killing the French. By meanes whereof, he grew great in the grace of King _Pedro_, who replanted him in all the goods and honours which he had before, with very high and eminent authority. Hereunto the Ambassadour added, that he was entertained with extraordinary grace, and delivery of publike joy and exaltation, when his Wife and Sonne were knowne to be living, of whom no tydings had at any time beene heard, since the houre of his surprizall. Moreover, that a swift winged Barke was now sent thither (upon the happy hearing of this newes) well furnished with noble Gentlemen, to attend till their returning backe. We neede to make no doubt concerning the tydings brought by this Ambassadour, nor of the Gentlemens welcome, thus sent to Madam _Beritola_ and _Geoffrey_; who before they would sit downe at the Table, saluted _Messer Conrado_ and his kinde Lady (on the behalfe of _Henriet_) for all the great graces extended to her and her Sonne, with promise of any thing, lying in the power of _Henriet_, to rest continually at their command. The like they did to _Signior Gasparino_, (whose liberall favours came unlooked for) with certaine assurance, that when _Henriet_ should understand what hee had done for his other Sonne, the _Poore expelled_; there would be no defailance of riciprocall courtesies. As the longest joyes have no perpetuity of lasting, so all these gracefull ceremonies had their conclusion, with as many sighes and teares at parting, as joyes abounded at their first encountring. Imagine then, that you see such aboard, as were to have here no longer abiding, Madam _Beritola_ and _Geoffrey_, with the rest, as the _Poore expelled_, the so late married Wives, and the faithfull Nurse bearing them company. With prosperous windes they arrived in _Sicilie_, where the Wife, Sonnes, and Daughters, were joyfully met by _Henriet_ at _Palermo_, and with such honourable pompe, as a case so important equally deserved. The Histories make further mention, that there they lived (a long while after) in much felicity, with thankfull hearts (no doubt) to Heaven, in acknowledgement of so many great mercies received. _The Soldan of Babylon sent one of his Daughters, to be joyned in marriage with the King of_ Cholcos; _who by divers accidents (in the space of foure yeeres) happened into the custody of nine men, and in sundry places. At length being restored backe to her Father, shee went to the saide King of_ Cholcos, _as a Maide, and as at first shee was intended to be his wife._ The seaventh Novell. _A lively demonstration, that the beauty of a Woman, (oftentimes) is very hurtfull to her selfe, and the occasion of many evils, yea, and of death, to divers men._ Peradventure the Novell related by Madam _Æmilia_, did not extend it selfe so farre in length, as it moved compassion in the Ladies mindes, hearing the hard fortunes of _Beritola_ and her Children, which had incited them to weeping: but that it pleased the Queene (upon the Tales conclusion) to command _Pamphilus_, to follow (next in order) with his discourse, and hee being thereto very obedient, beganne in this manner. It is a matter of no meane difficulty (vertuous Ladies) for us to take intire knowledge of every thing we doe, because (as oftentimes hath beene observed) many men, imagining if they were rich, they should live securely, and without any cares. And therefore, not onely have their prayers and intercessions aimed at that end, but also their studies and daily endeavours, without refusall of any paines or perils have not meanely expressed their hourely solicitude. And although it hath happened accordingly to them, and their covetous desires fully accomplished; yet at length they have met with such kinde of people, who likewise thirsting after their wealthy possessions, have bereft them of life, being their kinde and intimate friends, before they attained to such riches. Some other, being of low and base condition, by adventuring in many skirmishes and foughten battels, trampling in the bloud of their brethren and friends, have beene mounted to the soveraigne dignity of Kingdomes, (beleeving that therein consisted the truest happinesse) but bought with the dearest price of their lives. For, beside their infinite cares and feares, wherewith such greatnesse is continually attended, at their royall Tables, they have drunke poyson in a golden pot. Many other in like manner (with most earnest appetite) have coveted beauty and bodily strength, not foreseeing with any judgement, that these wishes were not without perill; when being endued with them, they either have beene the occasion of their death, or such a lingering lamentable estate of life, as death were a thousand times more welcome to them. But because I would not speake particularly of all our fraile and humane affections, I dare assure ye, that there is not any one of these desires, to be elected among us mortals, with entire foresight or providence, warrantable against their ominous issue. Wherefore, if we would walke directly, wee should dispose our willes and affections, to be ordered and guided onely by him, who best knoweth what is needfull for us, and will bestow them at his good pleasure. Nor let me lay this blamefull imputation upon men onely, for offending in many things through over lavish desires: because you your selves (gracious Ladies) sinne highly in one, as namely, in coveting to be beautifull. So that it is not sufficient for you, to enjoy those beauties bestowne on you by Nature: but you practise to encrease them, by the rarities of Art. Wherefore, let it not offend you, that I tell you the hard fortune of a faire Sarrazines, to whom it happened (by strange adventures) within the compasse of foure yeares, nine severall times to be maried, and onely for her beauty. It is now a long time since, that there lived a Soldane in _Babylon_, named _Beminidab_, to whom (while he lived) many things happened, answerable to his owne desires. Among divers other children both male and female, he had a daughter, called _Alathiella_, and shee (according to the common voyce of every one that saw her) was the fayrest Lady then living in all the world. And because the King of _Cholcos_ had wonderfully assisted him, in a valiant foughten battaile, against a mighty Armie of _Arabes_, who on a suddaine had assailed him: hee demaunded his faire daughter in marriage, which likewise was kindly granted to him. A goodly and well armed Ship was prepared for her, with full furnishment of all necessary provision, and accompanied with an honourable traine, both Lords and Ladies, as also most costly and sumptuous accoustrements; commending her to the mercy of heaven, in this manner was shee sent away. The time being propitious for their parting thence, the Mariners hoised their sayles, leaving the part of _Alexandria_, and sayling prosperously many dayes together. When they had past the Country of _Sardignia_, and (as they imagined) were well neere to their journeyes end: suddainly arose boisterous and contrary windes, which were so impetuous beyond all measure, and so tormented the Ship wherein the Lady was; that the Mariners, seeing no signe of comfort, gave over all hope of escaping with life. Neverthelesse, as men most expert in implacable dangers, they laboured to their uttermost power, and contended with infinite blustring tempests, for the space of two dayes and nights together, hoping the third day would prove more favourable. But therein they saw themselves deceived, for the violence continued still, encreasing in the night time more and more, being no way able to comprehend, either where they were, or what course they tooke, neither by marivall judgement, or any apprehension else whatsoever, the heavens were so clouded, and the nights darknesse so extreame. Being (unknowne to them) neere the Isle of _Majorica_, they felt the Ship to split in the bottome, by meanes whereof, perceiving now no hope of escaping (every one caring for himselfe, and not any other) they threw forth a Squiffe on the troubled waves, reposing more confidence of safety that way, then abiding any longer in the broken Ship. Howbeit, such as were first descended downe, made stout resistance against all other followers, with their drawne weapons: but safety of life so farre prevailed, that what with the tempests violence, and over-lading of the Squiffe, it sunke to the bottome, and all perished that were therein. The Ship being thus split, and more then halfe full of water, tossed and tormented by the blustring windes, first one way, and then another: was at last driven into a strand of the Isle _Majorica_, no other persons remaining therein; but onely the Lady and her women, all of them (through the rude tempest, and their owne conceived feare) lying still, as if they were more then halfe dead. And there, within a stones cast of the neighbouring shore, the Ship (by the rough surging billowes) was fixed fast in the sands, and so continued all the rest of the night, without any further molestation of the windes. When day appeared, and the violent stormes were more mildly appeased, the Lady, who seemed well-neere dead, lifted up her head, and began (weake as she was) to call first one, and then another: but she called in vaine, for such as she named were farre enough from her. Wherefore, hearing no answere, nor seeing any one, she wondered greatly, her feares encreasing then more and more. Raysing her selfe so well as shee could, she beheld the Ladies that were of her company, and some other of her women, lying still without any stirring: whereupon, first jogging one, and then another, and calling them severally by their names; shee found them bereft of understanding, and even as if they were dead, their hearts were so quailed, and their feare so over-ruling, which was no meane dismay to the poore Lady her selfe. Neverthelesse, necessity now being her best counsallour, seeing her selfe thus all alone, and not knowing in what place she was, she used such meanes to them that were living, that (at the last) they came better to knowledge of themselves. And being unable to guesse, what was become of the men and Mariners, seeing the Ship also driven on the sands, and filled with water: she began (with them) to lament most grievously, and now it was about the houre of mid-day, before they could descry any person on the shore, or any else to pitty them in so urgent a necessity. At length, noone being past, a Gentleman, named _Bajazeth_, attended by divers of his followers on horseback, and returning from a Country house belonging to him, chanced to ride by on the sands. Upon sight of the Ship lying in that case, he imagined truely what had happened, and commanded one of his men to enter aboord it, which (with some difficulty) hee did, to resolve his Lord what remayned therein. There hee found the faire young Lady, with such small store of company as was left her, fearefully hidden under the prow of the Ship. So soone as they saw him, they held up their hands, wofully desiring mercy of him: but he perceiving their lamentable condition, and that hee understoode not what they said to them; their affliction grew the greater, labouring by signes and gestures, to give him knowledge of their misfortune. The servant, gathering what he could by their outward behaviour, declared to his Lord, what hee had seene in the Ship: who caused the women to be brought on shore, and all the precious things remaining with them, conducting them with him to a place not farre off, where, with foode and warmth he gave them comfort. By the rich garments which the Lady was cloathed withall, hee reputed her to be a Gentlewoman well derived, as the great reverence done to her by the rest, gave him good reason to conceive. And although her lookes were pale and wan, as also her person mightily altered, by the tempestuous violence of the Sea: yet notwithstanding, she appeared faire and lovely in the eye of _Bajazeth_, whereupon forthwith he determined, that if she were not maried, he would enjoy her as his owne in mariage, or if he could not winne her to be his wife, yet (at the least) shee should be his friend, because shee remained now in his power. _Bajazeth_ was a man of sterne lookes, rough and harsh both in speech and behaviour: yet causing the Lady to be honourably used divers dayes together, she became thereby well comforted and recovered. And seeing her beauty to exceede all comparison, he was afflicted beyond measure, that he could not understand her, nor she him, whereby hee could not know, of whence or what she was. His amorous flames encreasing more and more; by kinde, courteous, and affable actions, hee laboured to compasse what he aymed at. But all his endeavour proved to no purpose, for shee refused all familiar privacie with him, which so much the more kindled the fury of his desire. This being well observed by the Lady, having now remayned there a moneth & more, and collecting by the customes of the Countrey, that she was among Turkes, and in such a place, where although she were knowne, yet it would little advantage her, beside, that long protraction of time would provoke _Bajazeth_, by faire meanes or force to obtaine his will: she propounded to her selfe (with magnanimity of spirit) to tread all misfortunes under her feete, commaunding her women (whereof she had but three now remaining alive) that they should not disclose what she was; except it were in some such place, where manifest signes might yeeld hope of regaining their liberty. Moreover, shee admonished them, stoutly to defend their honour and chastity, affirming, that shee had absolutely resolved with her selfe, that never any other should enjoy her, but her intended husband; wherein her women did much commend her, promising to preserve their reputation, according as she had commanded. Day by day were the torments of _Bajazeth_ wonderfully augmented, yet still his kinde offers scornefully refused, and he as farre off from compassing his desires, as when hee first began to moove the matter: wherefore, perceiving that all faire courses served to no effect, hee resolved to compasse his purpose by craft and subtilty, reserving rigorous extremity for his finall conclusion. And having once observed, that wine was very pleasing to the Lady, she being never used to drinke any at all, because (by her Countries law) it was forbidden her, and no meane store having beene lately brought to _Bajazeth_ in a Barke of _Geneway_: hee resolved to surprize her by meanes thereof, as a chiefe Minister of _Venus_, to heate the coolest blood. And seeming now in his outward behaviour, as if he had given over his amorous pursuite, and which she strove by all her best endeavours to withstand: one night, after a very majestick and solemne manner, he prepared a delicate and sumptuous supper, whereto the Lady was invited: and hee had given order, that hee who attended on her Cup, should serve her with many wines compounded and mingled together, which hee accordingly performed, as being cunning enough in such occasions. _Alathiella_, mistrusting no such trecherie intended against her, and liking the wines pleasing taste extraordinarily; dranke more then stoode with with her precedent modest resolution, and forgetting all her passed adversities, became very frollick and merry: so that seeing some women daunce after the manner observed therein _Majorica_, she also fell to dauncing, according to the _Alexandrian_ custome. Which when _Bajazeth_ beheld, he imagined the victory to be more then halfe wone, and his hearts desire very neere the obtaining: plying her still with wine upon wine, and continuing this revelling the most part of the night. At the length, the invited guests being all gone, the Lady retired then to her chamber, attended on by none but _Bajazeth_ himselfe, and as familiarly, as if hee had beene one of her women, shee no way contradicting his bold intrusion, so faire had wine over-gone her sences, and prevailed against all modest bashfulnesse. These wanton embracings, strange to her that had never tasted them before, yet pleasing beyond measure, by reason of his trecherous advantage: afterward drew on many more of the like carowsing meetings, without so much as a thought of her passed miseries, or those more honourable and chaste respects, that ever ought to attend on Ladies. Now, Fortune envying these their stolne pleasures, and that she, being the purposed wife of a potent King, should thus become the wanton friend of a much meaner man, whose onely glory was her shame: altered the course of their too common pastimes, by preparing a farre greater infelicity for them. This _Bajazeth_ had a Brother, aged about five and twenty yeares, of most compleate person, in the very beauty of his time, and fresh as the sweetest smelling Rose, he being named _Amurath_. After he had once seene this Lady (whose faire feature pleased him beyond all womens else) she seemed in his suddaine apprehension, both by her outward behaviour and civill apparancie, highly to deserve his very best opinion, for she was not meanely entred into his favour. Now he found nothing to his hinderance, in obtayning the height of his hearts desire, but onely the strict custody and guard, wherein his brother _Bajazeth_ kept her: which raised a cruell conceit in his minde, whereon followed (not long after) as cruell an effect. It came to passe, that at the same time, in the Port of the Citie, called _Caffa_, there lay then a Ship laden with Merchandize, being bound thence for _Smirna_, of which Ship two _Geneway_ Merchants (being brethren) were the Patrones and owners, who had given direction for hoysing the sayles, to depart thence when the winde should serve. With these two _Genewayes Amurath_ had covenanted, for himselfe to goe abord the Ship the night ensuing, and the Lady in his company. When night was come, having resolved with himselfe what was to be done: in a disguised habite hee went to the house of _Bajazeth_, who stood not any way doubtfull of him, and with certaine of his most faithfull confederates (whom he had sworne to the intended action) they hid themselves closely in the house. After some part of the night was over-past, hee knowing the severall lodgings both of _Bajazeth_ and _Alathiella_: slew his brother soundly sleeping, and seizing on the Lady, whom hee found awake and weeping, threatned to kill her also, if shee made any noyse. So, being well furnished, with the greater part of costly Jewels belonging to _Bajazeth_, unheard or undescried by anybody, they went presently to the Port, and there, without any further delay, _Amurath_ and the Lady were received into the Ship, but his companions returned backe againe; when the Mariners, having their sayles ready set, and the winde aptly fitting for them, launched forth merrily into the maine. You may well imagine, that the Lady was extraordinarily afflicted with griefe for her first misfortune, and now this second chancing so suddainly, must needes offend her in greater manner: but _Amurath_ did so kindly comfort her, with milde, modest, and manly perswasions; that all remembrance of _Bajazeth_ was quickly forgotten, and shee became converted to lovely demeanour, even when Fortune prepared a fresh misery for her, as not satisfied with those whereof shee had tasted already. The Lady being enriched with unequalled beauty (as wee have often related before) her behaviour also in such exquisite and commendable kinde expressed: the two brethren, owners of the Ship, became so deepely enamoured of her, that forgetting all their more serious affaires, they studied by all possible meanes, to be pleasing and gracious in her eye, yet with such a carefull cariage, that _Amurath_ should neither see or suspect it. When the brethren had imparted their loves extremity each to the other, and plainely perceived, that though they were equally in their fiery torments, yet their desires were utterly contrary: they began severally to consider, that gaine gotten by Merchandize, admitted an equall and honest division, but this purchase was of a different quality, pleading the title of a sole possession, without any partner or intruder. Fearefull and jealous were they both, least either should ayme at the others intention, yet willing enough to shake hands, in ridding _Amurath_ out of the way, who onely was the hinderer of their hopes. Whereupon they concluded together, that on a day, when the Ship sayled on very swiftly, and _Amurath_ was sitting upon the deck, studiously observing, how the billowes combatted each with other, and not suspecting any such treason in them towards him: stealing softly behinde him, suddainly they threw him into the Sea, the Ship fleeting on above halfe a leagues distance, before any perceived his fall into the Sea. When the Lady heard thereof, and saw no likely meanes of recovering him againe, she fell to her wonted teares and lamentations: but the two Lovers came quickly to comfort her, using kinde words and pithie perswasions (albeit shee understood them not, or at the most very little) to appease the violence of her passions; and, to speake uprightly, shee did not so much bemoane the loss of _Amurath_, as the multiplying of her owne misfortunes, still one succeeding in the necke of another. After divers long and well delivered Orations, as also very faire and courteous behaviour, they had indifferently pacified her complaynings: they began to discourse and commune with themselves, which of them had most right and title to _Alathiella_, and (consequently) ought to enjoy her. Now that _Amurath_ was gone, each pleaded his priviledge to be as good as the others, both in the Ship, goods, and all advantages else whatsoever happening: which the elder brother absolutely denied, alleadging first his propriety of birth, a reason sufficient, whereby his younger ought to give him place; likewise his right and interest both in ship and goods, to be more then the others, as being heire to his Father, and therefore in justice to be highest preferred. Last of all, that his strength onely threw _Amurath_ into the Sea, and therefore gave him the full possession of his prize, no right at all remaining to his brother. From temperate and calme speeches, they fell to frownes and ruder language, which heated their blood in such violent manner, that forgetting brotherly affection, and all respect of Parents or friends, they drew forth their Poniards, stabbing each other so often and desperately, that before any in the shippe had the power or meanes to part them, both of them being very dangerously wounded, the younger brother fell downe dead, the elder being in little better case, by receiving so many perilous hurts, remained (neverthelesse) living. This unhappy accident displeased the Lady very highly, seeing her selfe thus left alone, without the help or counsell of any body, and fearing greatly, least the anger of the two Brethrens Parents and Friends, should now be laide to her charge, and thereon follow severity of punishment. But the earnest entreaties of the wounded surviver, and their arrivall at _Smirna_ soone after, delivered him from the danger of death, gave some ease to her sorrow, and there with him shee went on shore. Remaining there with him in a common Inne, while he continued in the Chirurgians cure, the fame of her singular and much admired beauty was soone spread abroade throughout all the City; and amongst the rest, to the hearing of the Prince of _Ionia_, who lately before (on very urgent occasions) was come to _Smirna_. This rare rumour, made him desirous to see her, and after he had seene her, shee seemed farre fairer in his eye, then common report had noysed her to be, and suddenly grew so enamored of her, that shee was the onely Idea of his best desires. Afterward, understanding in what manner shee was brought thither, he devised how to make her his owne; practising all possible meanes to accomplish it: which when the wounded brothers Parents heard of, they not onely made tender of their willingnesse therein, but also immediately sent her to him: a matter most highly pleasing to the Prince, and likewise to the Lady her selfe; because shee thought now to be freed from no meane perill, which (otherwise) the wounded Merchants friends might have inflicted on her. The Prince perceiving, that beside her matchlesse beauty, shee had the true character of royall behaviour; greeved the more, that he could not be further informed of what Countrey shee was. His opinion being so stedfastly grounded, that (lesse then Noble) shee could not be, was a motive to set a keener edge on his affection towards her, yet not to enjoy her as in honourable and loving complement onely, but as his espoused Lady and Wife. Which appearing to her by apparant demonstrations, though entercourse of speech wanted to confirme it; remembrance of her so many sad disasters, and being now in a most noble and respected condition, her comfort enlarged it selfe with a setled hope, her feares grew free from any more molestations, and her beauties became the onely theame and argument of private and publike conference in all _Natolia_, that (welneere) there was no other discourse, in any Assembly whatsoever. Hereupon the Duke of _Athens_, being young, goodly, and valiant of person, as also a neere Kinsman to the Prince, had a desire to see her; and under colour of visiting his noble Kinsman, (as oftentimes before he had done) attended with an honourable traine, to _Smirna_ he came, being there most royally welcommed, and bounteously feasted. Within some few dayes of his there being, conference passed betweene them, concerning the rare beauty of the Lady; the Duke questioning the Prince, whether shee was of such wonder, as fame had acquainted the World withall? Whereto the Prince replied; Much more (noble Kinsman) then can be spoken of, as your owne eyes shall witnesse, without crediting any words of mine. The Prince solliciting the Duke thereto very earnestly, they both went together to see her; and shee having before heard of their comming, adorned her selfe the more majestically, entertaining them with ceremonious demeanour (after her Countries custome) which gave most gracious and unspeakable acceptation. At the Princes affable motion, shee sate downe betweene them, their delight being beyond expression, to behold her, but abridged of much more felicity, because they understood not any part of her language: so that they could have no other conference, but by lookes and outward signes onely; and the more they beheld her, the more they marvelled at her rare perfections, especially the Duke, who hardly credited that shee was a mortall creature. Thus not perceiving, what deepe carowses of amorous poyson, his eyes dranke downe by the meere sight of her, yet thinking thereby onely to be satisfied; he lost both himselfe and his best sences, growing in love (beyond all measure) with her. When the Prince and he were parted from her, and hee was at his owne private amorous meditations in his Chamber; he reputed the Prince far happier then any man else whatsoever, by the enjoying of such a peerelesse beauty. After many intricate and distracted cogitations, which molested his braines incessantly, regarding more his loves wanton heate, then reason, kindred, and honourable hospitality; he resolutely determined (whatsoever ensued thereupon) to bereave the Prince of his faire felicity, that none but himselfe might possesse such a treasure, which he esteemed to be the height of all happinesse. His courage being conformable to his bad intent, with all hast it must be put in execution; so that equity, justice, and honesty, being quite abandoned, nothing but subtill stratagems were now his meditations. On a day, according to a fore compacted treachery, which he had ordered with a Gentleman of the Princes Chamber, who was named _Churiacy_; he prepared his horses to be in readinesse, and dispatched all his affaires else for a sudden departure. The night following, he was secretly conveyed by the said _Churiacy_, and a friend of his with him (being both armed) into the Princes Chamber, where he (while the Lady was soundly sleeping) stood at a gazing window towards the Sea, naked in his shirt, to take the coole ayre, because the season was exceeding hot. Having formerly enstructed his friend what was to be done, verie softly they stept to the Prince, and running their weapons quite thorow his body, immediately they threw him forth of the window. Here you are to observe, that the Pallace was seated on the Sea shore, and very high, and the window whereat the Prince then stood looking foorth, was directly over divers houses, which the long continuance of time, and incessant beating on by the surges of the Sea, had so defaced and ruined them, as sildome they were visited by any person; whereof the Duke having knowledge before, was the easier perswaded, that the falling of the Princes body in so vaste a place, could neither be heard, or descried by any. The Duke and his companion having thus executed what they came for, proceeded yet in their cunning a little further; casting a strangling coard about the necke of _Churiacy_, seeming as if they hugged and embraced him: but drew it with so maine strength, that he never spake one word after, and so threw him downe after the Prince. This done, and plainely perceiving that they were not heard or seene, either by the Lady, or any other: the Duke tooke a light in his hand, going on to the bed, where the Lady lay most sweetely sleeping; whom the more he beheld, the more he admired and commended: but if in her garments shee appeared so pleasing, what did shee now in a bed of such state and Majesty? Being no way daunted by his so late committed sinne, but swimming rather in surfet of joy, his hands all bloody, and his soule much more uglie; he laide him downe on the bed by her, bestowing infinite kisses and embraces on her, she supposing him to be the Prince all this while, nor opening her eyes to be otherwise resolved. But this was not the delight he aimed at, neither did he thinke it safe for him, to delay time with any longer tarying there: wherefore having his agents at hand fit and convenient for the purpose, they surprized her in such sort, that she could not make any noise or outcry, and carrying her thorough the same false posterne, whereat themselves had entred, laying her in a Princely litter; away they went with all possible speede, not tarrying in any place, untill they were arrived neere _Athens_. But thither hee would not bring her, because himselfe was a married man, but rather to a goodly Castle of his owne, not distant farre off from the City; where he caused her to be kept very secretly (to her no little greefe and sorrow) yet attended on and served in most honourable manner. The Gentlemen usually attending on the Prince, having waited all the next morning till noone, in expectation of his rising, and hearing no stirring in the Chamber: did thrust at the doore, which was but onely closed together, & finding no body there, they presently imagined, that he was privately gone to some other place, where (with the Lady, whom he so deerely affected) hee might remaine some few dayes for his more contentment, and so they relied verily perswaded. Within some fewe dayes following, while no other doubt came in question, the Princes Foole, entering by chance among the ruined houses, where lay the dead bodies of the Prince and _Churiacy_: tooke hold of the corde about _Churiacyes_ necke, and so went along dragging it after him. The bodye being knowne to many, with no meane mervaile, how hee should bee murthered in so vile manner: by giftes and faire perswasions they wonne him, to bring them to the place where hee found it. And there (to the no little greefe of all the Cittie) they found the Princes body also, which they caused to bee interred with all the most majesticke pomp that might bee. Upon further inquisition, who should commit so horrid a deed, perceyving likewise, that the Duke of _Athens_ was not to be found, but was closely gone: they judged (according to the truth) that he had his hand in this bloody businesse, and had carried away the Lady with him. Immediately, they elected the Princes brother to bee their Lord and Soveraigne, inciting him to revenge so horrid a wrong, and promising to assist him with their utmost power. The new chosen Prince being assured afterward, by other more apparant and remarkeable proofes, that his people informed him with nothing but truth: sodainly, and according as they had concluded, with the helpe of neighbours, kindred, and friends, collected from divers places; he mustred a goodly and powerful army, marching on towards _Athens_, to make war against the Duke. No sooner heard he of this warlike preparation made against him, but he likewise levied forces for his owne defence, and to his succour came many great States: among whom, the Emperor of _Constantinople_ sent his Sonne _Constantine_, attended on by his Nephew _Emanuell_, with troopes of faire and towardly force, who were most honourably welcommed and entertained by the Duke, but much more by the Dutchesse, because she was their sister in law. Military provision thus proceeding on daily more and more, the Dutches making choise of a fit and convenient houre, took these two Princes with her to a with-drawing Chamber; and there in flouds of teares flowing from her eyes, wringing her hands, and sighing incessantly, shee recounted the whole History, occasion of the warre, and how dishonourably the Duke had dealt with her about this strange woman, whom he purposed to keepe in despight of her, as thinking that she knew nothing thereof, and complaining very earnestly unto them, entreated that for the Dukes honour, and her comfort, they would give their best assistance in this case. The two young Lords knew all this matter, before shee thus reported it to them; and therefore, without staying to listen her any longer, but comforting her so wel as they could, with promise of their best employed paines: being informed by her, in what place the Lady was so closely kept, they tooke their leave, and parted from her. Often they had heard the Lady much commended, and her incomparable beauty highly extolled, yea, even by the Duke himselfe; which made them the more desirous to see her: wherefore earnestly they solicited him, to let them have a sight of her, and he (forgetting what happened to the Prince, by shewing her so unadvisedly to him) made them promise to grant their request. Causing a magnificent dinner to be prepared, & in a goodly garden, at the Castle where the Lady was kept: on the morrow morning, attended on by a small train, away they rode to dine with her. _Constantine_ being seated at the Table, he began (as one confounded with admiration) to observe her judiciously, affirming secretly to his soule that he had never seene so compleat a woman before; and allowing it for justice, that the Duke, or any other whosoever, if (to enjoy so rare a beauty) they had committed treason, or any mischiefe else beside, yet in reason they ought to be held excused. Nor did he bestow so many lookes upon her, but his prayses infinitely surpassed them, as thinking that he could not sufficiently commend her, following the Duke step by step in affection: for being now growne amorous of her, and remembrance of the intended warre utterly abandoned; no other thoughts could come neerer him, but how to bereave the Duke of her, yet concealing his love, and not imparting it to any one. While his fancies were thus amorously set on fire, the time came, that they must make head against the Prince, who already was marching within the Dukes Dominions: wherefore the Duke _Constantine_ and all the rest, according to a counsell held among them, went to defend certaine of the frontiers, to the end that the Prince might passe no further. Remaining there divers dayes together, _Constantine_, who could thinke on nothing else, but the beautifull Lady, considered with himselfe, that while the Duke was now so far off from her, it was an easie matter to compasse his intent: hereupon, the better to colour his present returne to _Athens_, he seemed to be surprized with a sudden extreame sicknesse, in regard whereof (by the Dukes free lisence, and leaving all his power to his Cousen _Emanuel_) forthwith he journeyed backe to _Athens_. After some conference had with his sister, concerning her dishonourable wrongs endured at his hands only by the Lady: he solemnly protested, that if shee were so pleased, he would aide her powerfully in the matter, by taking her from the place where she was, and never more afterward, to be seene in that Countrey any more. The Dutchesse being faithfully perswaded, that he would doe this onely for her sake, and not in any affection he bare to the Lady, made answer that it highly pleased her; alwayes provided, that it might be performed in such sort, as the Duke her Husband should never understand, that ever shee gave any consent thereto, which _Constantine_ sware unto her by many deep oathes, whereby she referred all to his owne disposition. _Constantine_ hereupon secretly prepared in readinesse a subtill Barke, sending it (in an evening) neere to the garden where the Lady resorted; having first informed the people which were in it, fully in the businesse that was to be done. Afterward, accompanied with some other of his attendants, hee went to the Palace to the Lady, where he was gladly entertained, not only by such as waited on her, but also by the Lady her selfe. Leading her along by the arme towards the Garden, attended on by two of her servants, and two of his owne, seeming as if he was sent from the Duke, to conferre with her: they walked alone to a Port opening on the Sea, which standing ready open, upon a signe given by him to one of his complices, the Barke was brought close to the shore, and the Lady being suddenly seized on, was immediately conveyed into it; and he returning backe to her people, with his sword drawne in his hand, saide: Let no man stirre, or speake a word, except he be willing to loose his life: for I intend not to rob the Duke of his faire friend, but to expel the shame and dishonour which he hath offered to my Sister, no one being so hardy as to returne him any answer. Aboard went _Constantine_ with his consorts, and sitting neer to the Lady, who wrung her hands, and wept bitterly; he commanded the Marriners to launch forth, flying away on the wings of the wind, till about the breake of day following, they arrived at _Melasso_. There they tooke landing, and reposed on shore for some few dayes, _Constantine_ labouring to comfort the Lady, even as if shee had been his owne Sister, shee having good cause to curse her infortunate beauty. Going aboard the Barke againe, within few dayes they came to _Setalia_, and there fearing the reprehension of his Father, and least the Ladie should be taken from him; it pleased _Constantine_ to make his stay, as in a place of no meane security. And (as before) after much kinde behaviour used towards the Lady, without any meanes in her selfe to redresse the least of all these great extremities: shee became more milde and affable, for discontentment did not a jot quaile her. While occurrences passed on in this manner, it fortuned, that _Osbech_ the King of _Turky_ (who was in continuall war with the Emperour) came by accident to _Laiazzo_: and hearing there how lasciviously _Constantine_ spent his time in _Setalia_, with a Lady which he had stolne, being but weake and slenderly guarded; in the night with certaine well provided ships, his men & he entred the Towne, & surprized many people in their beds, before they knew of their enemies comming, killing such as stood upon their defence against them, (among whom was _Constantine_) and burning the whole Towne, brought their booty and prisoners aboard their ships, wherewith they returned backe to _Laiazzo_. Being thus come to _Laiazzo, Osbech_, who was a brave and gallant young man, upon a review of the pillage; found the faire Lady, whom hee knew to be the beloved of _Constantine_, because shee was found lying on his bed. Without any further delay, he made choyse of her to be his Wife; causing his nuptials to be honourably sollemnized, and many moneths hee lived there in great joy with her. But before occasions grew to this effect, the Emperour made a confederacy with _Bassano_, King of _Cappadocia_, that hee should descend with his forces; one way upon _Osbech_, and hee would assault him with his power on the other. But he could not so conveniently bring this to passe, because the Emperour would not yeeld to _Bassano_, in any unreasonable matter he demanded. Neverthelesse, when he understood what had happened to his Son (for whom his griefe was beyond all measure) he granted the King of _Cappadociaes_ request, solliciting him with all instancy, to be the more speedy in assailing _Osbech_. It was not long, before hee heard of this conjuration made against him; and therefore speedily mustered up all his forces, ere he would be encompassed by two such potent Kings, and marched on to meete the King of _Cappadocia_, leaving his Lady and Wife, (for her safety) at _Laiazzo_, in the custodie of a true and loyall servant of his. Within a short while after, he drew neere the Campe belonging to the King of _Cappadocia_, where boldly he gave him battell; chancing therein to be slaine, his Army broken and discomfited, by meanes whereof the King of _Cappadocia_ remaining Conquerour, marched on towards _Laiazzo_, every one yeelding him obeysance all the way as he went. In the meane space, the servant to _Osbech_, who was named _Antiochus_, and with whom the faire Lady was left in guard; although hee was aged, yet seeing shee was so extraordinarily beautifull, he fell in love with her, forgetting the sollemne vowes he had made to his Master. One happinesse hee had in this case to helpe him, namely, that he understood and could speake her language, a matter of no meane comfort to her; who constrainedly had lived divers yeeres together, in the state of a deafe or dumbe woman, because every where else they understood her not, nor shee them, but by shewes and signes. This benefit of familiar conference, beganne to embolden his hopes, elevate his courage, and make him seeme more youthfull in his owne opinion, then any ability of body could speake unto him, or promise him in the possession of her, who was so farre beyond him, and so unequall to be enjoyed by him; yet to advance his hopes a great deale higher, newes came, that _Osbech_ was vanquished and slaine, and that _Bassano_ made everie where havocke of all: whereon they concluded together, not to tarrie there any longer, but storing themselves with the goods of _Osbech_, secretly they departed thence to _Rhodes_. Being seated there in some indifferent abiding, it came to passe, that _Antiochus_ fell into a deadly sicknesse, to whom came a _Cyprian_ Merchant, one much esteemed by him, as being an intimate friend and kinde acquaintance, and in whom hee reposed no small confidence. Feeling his sicknesse to encrease more and more upon him dayly, hee determined, not onely to leave such wealth as hee had to this Merchant, but the faire Lady likewise; and calling them both to his beds side, he brake his minde unto them in this manner. Deare Love, and my most worthily respected friend, I perceive plainly and infallibly, that I am drawing neere unto my end, which much discontenteth me; because my hope was, to have lived longer in this world, for the enjoying of your kinde and most esteemed company. Yet one thing maketh my death very pleasing and welcome to me, namely, that lying thus in my bed of latest comfort in this life: I shall expire and finish my course, in the armes of those two persons, whom I most affected in all this world, as you my ever dearest friend, and you faire Lady, whom (since the very first sight of you) I loved and honoured in my soule. Irksome and very grievous it is to me, that (if I dye) I shall leave you here a stranger, without the counsaile and helpe of any body: and yet much more offensive would it become, if I had not such a friend as you here present, who I am faithfully perswaded, will have the like care and respect of her (even for my sake) as of myselfe, if time had allotted my longer tarying here. And therefore (worthy friend) most earnestly I desire you, that if I dye, all mine affaires and she may remaine to your trusty care, as being (by my selfe) absolutely commended to your providence, and so to dispose both of the one and other, as may best agree with the comfort of my soule. As for you (choise beauty) I humbly entreate, that after my death you would not forget mee, to the end, I may make my vaunt in another world, that I was affected here, by the onely fairest Lady that ever Nature framed. If of these two things you will give me assurance; I shall depart from you with no meane comfort. The friendly Merchant, and likewise the Lady, hearing these words, wept both bitterly, and after hee had given over speaking: kindly they comforted him, with promise and solemne vowes, that if hee dyed, all should be performed which he had requested. Within a short while after, he departed out of this life, and they gave him very honourable buriall, according to that Country custome. Which being done, the Merchant dispatching all his affaires at _Rhodes_, was desirous to returne home to _Cyprus_, in a Carrack of the Catelans then there being: moving the Lady in the matter, to understand how shee stood enclined, because urgent occasions called him thence to _Cyprus_. The Lady made answere, that she was willing to passe thither with him, hoping for the love hee bare to deceased _Antiochus_, that he would respect her as his Sister. The Merchant was willing to give her any contentment, but yet resolved her, that under the title of being his Sister, it would be no warrant of security to them both; wherefore hee rather advised her, to stile him as her husband, and hee would terme her his wife, and so hee should be sure to defend her from all injuries whatsoever. Being abord the Carrack, they had a Cabine and small bed conveniently allowed them, where they slept together, that they might the better be reputed as man and wife; for, to passe otherwise, would have beene very dangerous to them both. And questionlesse, their faithfull promise made at _Rhodes_ to _Antiochus_, sicknesse on the Sea, and mutuall respect they had of each others credit, was a constant restraint to all wanton desires, and a motive rather to incite chastity, then otherwise, and so (I hope) you are perswaded of them. But howsoever, the windes blewe merrily, the Carrack sayled lustily, and (by this time) they are arrived at _Baffa_, where the _Cyprian_ Merchant dwelt, and where shee continued a long while with him, no one knowing otherwise, but that shee was his wife indeede. Now it fortuned, that there arrived also at the same _Baffa_ (about some especiall occasions of his) a Gentleman, whose name was _Antigonus_, well stept into yeares, and better stored with wisedome then wealth: because by medling in many matters, while hee followed the service of the King of _Cyprus_, Fortune had beene very adverse to him. This ancient Gentleman, passing (on a day) by the house where the Lady lay, and the Merchant being gone about his businesse into _Armenia_: hee chanced to see the Lady at a window of the house, and because shee was very beautifull, he observed her the more advisedly, recollecting his sences together, that doubtlesse he had seene her before, but in what place hee could not remember. The Lady her selfe likewise, who had so long time beene Fortunes tennis ball, and the terme of her many miseries drawing now neere ending: began to conceive (upon the very first sight of _Antigonus_) that she had formerly seene him in _Alexandria_, serving her Father in place of great degree. Hereupon, a suddaine hope perswaded her, that by the advice and furtherance of this Gentleman, she should recover her wonted Royall condition: and opportunity now aptly fitting her, by the absence of her pretended Merchant husband, she sent for him, requesting to have a few words with him. When he was come into the house, she bashfully demanded of him, if he was not named _Antigonus_ of _Famagosta_, because shee knew one (like him) so called? Hee answered, that he was so named, saying moreover: Madame, me thinkes that I should know you, but I cannot remember where I have seene you, wherefore I would entreate (if it might stand with your good liking) that my memory might be quickned with better knowledge of you. The Lady perceiving him to be the man indeede, weeping incessantly, she threw her armes about his necke, and soone after asked _Antigonus_ (who stood as one confounded with mervaile) if hee had never seene her in _Alexandria_? Upon these words, _Antigonus_ knew her immediatly to be _Alathiella_, daughter to the great Soldane, who was supposed (long since) to be drowned in the Sea: and offering to doe her such reverence as became him, she would not permit him, but desired, that he would be assistant to her, and willed him also to sit downe a while by her. A goodly Chaire being brought him, in very humble manner he demanded of her, what had become of her in so long a time: because it was verily beleeved throughout all Egypt, that shee was drowned in the Sea. I would it had bin so, answered the Lady, rather then to leade such a life as I have done; and I thinke my Father himselfe would wish it so, if ever he should come to the knowledge thereof. With these words the teares rained downe her faire cheekes: wherefore _Antigonus_ thus spake unto her. Madame, discomfort not your selfe before you have occasion, but (if you be so pleased) relate your passed accidents to mee, and what the course of your life hath bene: perhaps, I shall give you such friendly advice as may stand you in sted, and no way be injurious to you. Fetching a sigh, even as if her heart would have split in sunder, thus she replyed. Ah _Antigonus_, me thinkes when I looke on thee, I seeme to behold my royall Father, and therefore mooved with the like religious zeale and charitable love, as (in duty) I owe unto him: I will make knowne to thee, what I rather ought to conceale, and hide from any person living. I know thee to bee honourable, discreete, and truely wise, though I am a fraile, simple, and weake woman, therefore I dare discover to thee, rather then any other that I know, by what straunge and unexpected misfortunes, I have lived so long obscurely in the world. And if in thy great and grave judgement (after the hearing of my many miseries) thou canst any way restore me to my former estate, I pray thee do it: but if thou perceive it impossible to bee done, as earnestly likewise I entreate thee, never to reveale to any living person, that either thou hast seene me, or heard any speech of me. After these words, the teares still streaming from her faire eyes, shee recounted the whole passage of her rare mishaps, even from her shipwracke in the Sea of _Majorica_, until that very instant houre; speaking them in such harsh manner as they hapned, and not sparing any jot of them. _Antigonus_ being mooved to much compassion, declared how hee pitied her by his teares, and having bene silent an indifferent while, as considering in this case, what was best to be done, thus he began. Madam, seeing you have past through such a multitude of misfortunes, yet undiscovered, what and who you are: I will render you as blamelesse to your Father, and estate you as fairely in his love, as at the hour when you parted from him, and afterward make you wife to the King of _Cholcos_. She demanding of him, by what meanes possibly this could be accomplished: breefely he made it knowne to her, how, and in what manner hee would performe it. To cut off further tedious circumstances, forthwith he returned to _Famagosta_, and going before the King of the country, thus he spake to him. Sir, you may (if so you will be pleased) in an instant, do me an exceeding honour, who have bene impoverished by your service, and also a deed of great renowne to your selfe, without any much matter of expence and cost. The King demanding how? _Antigonus_ thus answered. The fayre daughter of the Soldane, so generally reported to be drowned, is arrived at _Baffa_, and to preserve her honour from blemishing, hath suffered many crosses and calamities: being at this instant in very poore estate, yet desirous to re-visite her father. If you please to send her home under my conduct, it will be great honour to you, and no meane benefite to mee; which kindnesse will for ever be thankfully remembred by the Soldan. The King in royall magnificence, replied sodainly, that he was highly pleased with these good tydings; & having sent honourably for her from _Baffa_, with great pompe she was conducted to _Famagosta_, and there most graciously welcommed both by the King and Queene, with solemne triumphes, bankets, and revelling, performed in most Majesticke manner. Being questioned by the King and Queene, concerning so large a time of strange misfortunes: according as _Antigonus_ had formerly enstructed her, so did she shape the forme of her answers, and satisfied (with honour) all their demands. So, within few dayes after, upon her earnest & instant request, with an honourable traine of Lords and Ladies, shee was sent thence, and conducted all the way by _Antigonus_, untill she came unto the Soldans Court. After some few dayes of her reposing there, the Soldan was desirous to understand, how she could possibly live so long, in any Kingdome or Province whatsoever, and yet no knowledge to bee taken of her? The Lady, who perfectly retained by heart, and had all her lessons at her fingers ends, by the warie instructions which _Antigonus_ had given her, answered her father in this manner. Sir, about the twentith day after my departure from you, a verie terrible and dreadfull tempest over-tooke us, so that in dead time of the night, our ship being split in sunder upon the sands, neere to a place called _Varna_; what became of all the men that were aboord, I neither know, or ever heard of. Onely I remember, then when death appeared, and I being recovered from death to life, certaine pezants of the countrey, comming to get what they could finde in the ship so wrackt, I was first (with two of my women) brought and set safely on the shore. No sooner were we there, but certaine rude shagge-haird villaines set upon us, carrying away from me both my women, then haling me along by the haire of my head, neither teares or intercessions could draw any pitty from them. As thus they dragd me into a spacious Woodd, foure horsemen on a sodaine came riding by, who seeing how dishonourably the villaines used me, rescued me from them, and forced them to flight. But the foure horsemen, seeming (in my judgement) to bee persons of power and authority, letting them go, came to mee, urging sundry questions to me, which neither I understood, or they mine answers. After many deliberations held among themselves, setting me upon one of their horses, they brought me to a Monastery of religious women, according to the custome of their law: and there, whatsoever they did or sayde, I know not, but I was most benignely welcommed thither, and honoured of them extraordinarily, where (with them in devotion) I dedicated my selfe to the Goddesse of chastity, who is highly reverenced and regarded among the women of that Countrey, and to her religious service, they are wholly addicted. After I had continued some time among them, and learned a little of their language; they asked me, of whence, and what I was. Reason gave me so much understanding, to be fearfull of telling them the trueth, for feare of expulsion from among them, as an enemy to their Law and Religion: wherefore I answered (according as necessity urged) that I was daughter to a Gentleman of _Cyprus_, who sent me to bee married in _Candie_; but our fortunes (meaning such as had the charge of mee) fell out quite contrary to our expectation, by losses, Shipwracke, and other mischances; adding many matters more beside, onely in regard of feare, & yeelding obediently to observe their customes. At length, she that was in cheefest preheminence among these Women (whom they termed by the name of their Lady Abbesse) demaunded of me, whither I was willing to abide in that condition of life, or to returne home againe into _Cyprus_. I answerd, that I desired nothing more. But she, being very carefull of mine honour, would never repose confidence in any that came for _Cyprus_; till two honest Gentlemen of _France_, who hapned thither about two moneths since, accompanied with their wives, one of them being a neere kinswoman to the Lady Abbesse. And she well knowing, that they travelled in pilgrimage to _Jerusalem_, to visit the holy Sepulcher, where (as they beleeve) that he whom they held for their God was buried, after the Jewes had put him to death: recommended me to their loving trust, with especial charge, for delivering me to my Father in _Cyprus_. What honourable love and respect I found in the company of those Gentlemen and their wives, during our voyage backe to _Cyprus_: the history would be over-tedious in reporting, neither is it much material to our purpose, because your demand is to another end. Sayling on prosperously in our Ship, it was not long, before wee arrived at _Baffa_, where being landed, and not knowing any person, neither what I should say to the Gentlemen, who onely were carefull for delivering me to my Father, according as they were charged by the reverend Abbesse: it was the will of heaven doubtlesse (in pitty and compassion of my passed disasters) that I was no sooner come on shore at _Baffa_: but I should there haply meete with _Antigonus_, whome I called unto in our countrey Language, because I would not be understood by the Gentlemen nor their wives, requesting him to acknowledge me as his Daughter. Quickly he apprehended mine intention, accomplishing what I requested, and (according to his poore power) most bounteously feasted the Gentlemen and their wives, conducting me to the K. of _Cyprus_, who received me royally, and sent me home to you with so much honour, as I am no way able to relate. What else remaineth to be said, _Antigonus_ who hath oft heard the whole story of my fortunes, at better leisure will report. _Antigonus_ then turning to the Soldan, said: My Lord, as shee hath often told me, and by relation both of the Gentlemen and their wives, she hath delivered nothing but trueth. Onely shee hath forgotten somewhat worth the speaking, as thinking it not fit for her to utter, because (indeede) it is not so convenient for her. Namely, how much the Gentlemen and their wives (with whom she came) commended the rare honesty and integrity of life, as also the unspotted vertue, wherein she lived, among those chaste Religious women, as they constantly (both with teares and solemne protestations) avouched to me, when kindly they resigned their charge to mee. Of all which matters, and many more beside, if I should make discourse to your Excellencie; this whole day, the night ensuing, and the next dayes full extendure, are not sufficient to acquaint you withall. Let it suffice then, that I have said so much, as (both by the reports, and mine owne understanding) may give you faithfull assurance, to make your Royall vaunt; of having the fayrest, most vertuous, and honest Lady to your Daughter, of any King or Prince whatsoever. The Soldane was joyfull beyond all measure, welcomming both him and the rest in most stately manner, oftentimes entreating the Gods very heartily, that he might live to requite them with equall recompence, who had so graciously honoured his daughter: but (above all the rest) the King of _Cyprus_, who sent her home so majestically. And having bestowne great gifts on _Antigonus_, within a few dayes after, hee gave him leave to returne to _Cyprus_: with thankfull favours to the King as well by Letters, as also by Ambassadours espresly sent, both from himselfe and his daughter. When as this businesse was fully finished, the Soldane, desiring to accomplish what formerly was intended and begun, namely, that shee might be wife to the King of _Cholcos_: he gave him intelligence of all that had happened, writing moreover to him, that (if he were so pleased) hee would yet send her in Royall manner to him. The King of _Cholcos_ was exceeding joyfull of these glad tydings, and dispatching a worthy trayne to fetch her, she was convayed thither very pompously, and she who had beene embraced by so many, was received by him as an honest virgine, living long time after with him in much joy and felicity. And therefore, it hath beene said as a common Proverbe: The mouth well kist comes not short of good fortune, but is still renewed like the Moone. _The Count_ D'Angiers _being falsly accused, was banished out of_ France, _& left his two children in_ England _in divers places. Returning afterward (unknowne) thorow_ Scotland, _hee found them advanced unto great dignity. Then, repayring in the habite of a Servitour, into the King of_ France _his Armie, and his innocencie made publiquely knowne; hee was reseated in his former honourable degree._ The eight Novell. _Whereby all men may plainely understand, that loyalty faithfully kept to the Prince (what perils so ever doe ensue) doth yet neverthelesse renowne a man, and bring him to farre greater honour._ The Ladies sighed very often, hearing the variety of wofull miseries happening to _Alathiella_: but who knoweth, what occasion moved them to those sighes? Perhaps there were some among them, who rather sighed they could not be so often married as she was, rather then for any other compassion they had of her disasters. But leaving that to their owne construction, they smiled merrily at the last speeches of _Pamphilus_, and the Queene perceiving the Novell to be ended: shee fixed her eye upon Madame _Eliza_, as signifying thereby, that she was next to succeede in order, which shee joyfully embracing, spake as followeth. The field is very large and spacious, wherein all this day we have walked, and there is not any one here, so wearied with running the former races, but nimbly would adventure on as many more, so copious are the alterations of Fortune, in sad repetition of her wonderfull changes; and among the infinity of her various courses, I must make addition of another, which I trust will no way discontent you. When the Romaine Empire was translated from the French to the Germains, mighty dissentions grew between both the nations, insomuch that it drew a dismall and a lingring warre. In which respect, as well for the safety of his owne Kingdome, as to annoy and disturbe his enemies; the King of _France_ and one of his sonnes, having congregated the forces of their owne dominions, as also of their friends and confederates, they resolved manfully to encounter their enemies. But before they would adventure on any rash proceeding; they held it as the chiefest part of pollicie and Royall providence, not to leave the State without a chiefe or Governour. And having had good experience of _Gualtier_, Counte _D'Angiers_, to be a wise, worthy, and most trusty Lord, singularly expert in militarie discipline, and faithfull in all affaires of the Kingdome (yet fitter for ease and pleasure, then laborious toyle and travaile:) hee was elected Lieutenant Governour in their sted, over the whole Kingdome of _France_, and then they went on in their enterprize. Now began the Counte to execute the office committed to his trust, by orderly proceeding, and with great discretion, yet not entring into any businesse, without consent of the Queene and her faire daughter in law: who although they were left under his care and custodie, yet (notwithstanding) he honoured them as his superiours, and as the dignity of their quality required. Heere you are to observe, concerning Counte _Gualtier_ himselfe, that he was a most compleat person, aged little above forty yeares; as affable and singularly conditioned, as any Noble man possibly could be, nor did those times afford a Gentleman, that equalled him in all respects. It fortuned, that the King and his sonne being busie in the afore-named warre, the wife and Lady of Counte _Gualtier_ died in the meane while, leaving him onely a sonne and a daughter, very young and of tender yeares, which made his owne home the lesse welcome to him, having lost his deare Love and second selfe. Hereupon, hee resorted to the Court of the said Ladies the more frequently, often conferring with them, about the waighty affaires of the Kingdome: in which time of so serious interparlance, the Kings Sonnes wife, threw many affectionate regards upon him, convaying such conspiring passions to her heart (in regard of his person and vertues) that her love exceeded all capacity of governement. Her desires out-stepping all compasse of modesty, or the dignity of her Princely condition; throwes off all regard of civill and sober thoughts, and guides her into a Labyrinth of wanton imaginations. For, she regards not now the eminencie of his high authority, his gravity of yeares, and those parts that are the true conducts to honour: but lookes upon her owne loose and lascivious appetite, her young, gallant, and over-ready yeelding nature, comparing them with his want of a wife, and likely hope (thereby) of her sooner prevailing; supposing, that nothing could be her hinderance, but onely bashfull shame-facednesse, which she rather chose utterly to forsake and set aside, then to faile of her hote enflamed affection, and therefore, shee would needes be the discoverer of her owne disgrace. Upon a day, being alone by her selfe, and the time seeming suteable to her intention: shee sent for the Counte, under colour of some other important conference with him. The Counte _D'Angiers_, whose thoughts were quite contrary to hers: immediately went to her, where they both sitting downe together on a beds side in her Chamber, according as formerly shee had plotted her purpose; twice hee demaunded of her, upon what occasion she had thus sent for him. She sitting a long while silent, as if she had no answere to make him: pressed by the violence of her amorous passions, a vermillion tincture leaping up into her face, yet shame enforcing teares from her eyes, with words broken and halfe confused, at last she began to deliver her minde in this manner. Honourable Lord, and my dearely respected friend, being so wise a man as you are, it is no difficult matter for you to know, what a fraile condition is imposed both on men and women; yet (for divers occasions) much more upon the one, then the other. Wherefore desertfully, in the censure of a just and upright Judge, a fault of divers conditions (in respect of the person) ought not to be censured with one and the same punishment. Beside, who will not say, that a man or woman of poore and meane estate, having no other helpe for maintainance, but laborious travaile of their bodies should worthily receive more sharpe reprehension, in yeelding to amorous desires, or such passions as are incited by love; then a wealthy Lady whose living relieth not on her paines or cares, neither wanteth any thing that she can wish to have: I dare presume, that you your selfe will allow this to be equall and just. In which respect, I am of the minde, that the fore-named allegations, ought to serve as a sufficient excuse, yea, and to the advantage of her who is so possessed, if the passions of love should over-reach her: alwayes provided, that shee can pleade (in her owne defence) the choise of a wise and vertuous friend, answerable to her owne condition and quality, and no way to be taxed with a servile or vile election. These two especiall observations, allowable in my judgement, and living now in me, seazing on my youthfull blood and yeares: have found no mean inducement to love, in regard of my husbands far distance from me, medling in the rude uncivill actions of warre, when he should rather be at home in more sweet imployment. You see Sir, that these Orators advance themselves here in your presence, to acquaint you with the extremity of my over-commanding agony: and if the same power hath dominion in you, which your discretion (questionlesse) cannot be voide of; then let me entreate such advise from you, as may rather helpe, then hinder my hopes. Beleeve it then for trueth Sir, that the long absence of my husband from me, the solitary condition wherein I am left, ill agreeing with the hot blood running in my veines, & the temper of my earnest desires: have so prevailed against my strongest resistances, that not onely so weake a woman as I am, but any man of much more potent might (living in ease and idlenesse as I doe) cannot withstand such continuall assaults, having no other helpe then flesh and blood. Nor am I so ignorant, but publique knowledge of such an error in me, would be reputed a shrewd taxation of honesty: whereas (on the other side) secret carriage, and heedfull managing such amorous affaires, may passe for currant without any reproach. And let me tell you Noble Counte, that I repute Love highly favourable to mee, by guiding my judgement with such moderation, to make election of a wise, worthy, and honourable friend, fit to enjoy the grace of a farre greater Lady then I am, and the first letter of his name, is the Count _D'Angiers_. For if error have not misled mine eye, as in Love no Lady can be easily deceived: for person, perfections, and all parts most to be commended in a man, the whole Realme of _France_ containeth not your equall. Observe beside, how forward Fortune sheweth her selfe to us both in this case, you to be destitute of a wife, as I am of an husband; for I count him as dead to me, when he denies me the duties belonging to a wife. Wherefore, in regard of the unfaigned affection I beare you, and compassion, which you ought to have of Royall Princesse, even almost sicke to death for your sake: I earnestly entreate you, not to denie me your loving society, but pittying my youth and fiery afflictions (never to be quenched but by your kindnesse) I may enjoy my hearts desire. As shee uttered these words, the teares streamed aboundantly downe her faire cheekes, preventing her of any further speech: so that dejecting her head into her bosome, overcome with the predominance of her passions; shee fell upon the Countes knee, whereas else shee had falne upon the ground. When hee, like a loyall and most honourable man, sharply reprehended her fonde and idle love, and when shee would have embraced him about the necke; hee repulsed her roughly from him, protesting upon his honourable reputation, that rather then hee would so wrong his Lord and Maister, he would endure a thousand deathes. The Lady seeing her desire disappointed, and her fond expectation utterly frustrated: grewe instantly forgetfull of her intemperate love, and falling into extremity of rage, converted her former gentle speeches, into this harsh and ruder language. Villaine (quoth shee) shall the longing comforts of my life, be abridged by thy base and scornefull deniall? Shall my destruction bee wrought by thy currish unkindnesse, and all my hoped joyes be defeated in a moment? Know slave, that I did not so earnestly desire thy sweet embracements before, but now as deadly I hate and despise them, which either thy death or banishment shall dearely pay for. No sooner had shee thus spoken, but tearing her haire, and renting her garments in pieces, shee ranne about like a distracted woman, crying out aloude: Helpe, helpe, the Count _D'Angiers_ will forcibly dishonour mee, the lustfull Count will violence mine honour. _D'Angiers_ seeing this, and fearing more the malice of the over-credulous Court, then either his owne conscience, or any dishonourable act by him committed, beleeving likewise, that her slanderous accusation would bee credited, above his true and spotlesse innocency: closely he conveyed himselfe out of the Court, making what hast hee could, home to his owne house, which being too weake for warranting his safety upon such pursuite as would be used against him, without any further advice or counsell, he seated his two children on horsebacke, himselfe also being but meanly mounted, thus away thence hee went to _Calice_. Upon the clamour and noise of the Lady, the Courtiers quickly flocked thither; and, as lies soone winne beleefe in hasty opinions, upon any silly or shallow surmise: so did her accusation passe for currant, and the Counts advancement being envied by many, made his honest carriage (in this case) the more suspected. In hast and madding fury, they ran to the Counts houses, to arrest his person, and carry him to prison: but when they could not finde him, they raced his goodly buildings downe to the ground, and used all shamefull violence to them. Now, as il newes sildome wants a speedy Messenger; so, in lesse space then you will imagine, the King and Dolphin heard thereof in the Camp, and were therewith so highly offended, that the Count had a sodaine and severe condemnation, all his progeny being sentenced with perpetuall exile, and promises of great and bountifull rewards, to such as could bring his body alive or dead. Thus the innocent Count, by his over-hasty and sodaine flight, made himselfe guilty of this foule imputation: and arriving at _Callice_ with his children, their poore and homely habites, hid them from being knowne, and thence they crossed over into England, staying no where untill hee came to London. Before he would enter into the City, he gave divers good advertisements to his children, but especially two precepts above all the rest. First, with patient soules to support the poore condition, whereto Fortune (without any offence in him or them) had thus dejected them. Next, that they should have most heedfull care, at no time to disclose from whence they came, or whose children they were, because it extended to the perill of their lives. His Sonne, being named _Lewes_, and now about nine yeares old, his daughter called _Violenta_, and aged seaven yeares, did both observe their fathers direction, as afterward it did sufficiently appeare. And because they might live in the safer securitie, hee thought it for the best to change their names, calling his sonne _Perotto_, and his daughter _Gianetta_, for thus they might best escape unknowne. Being entred into the City, and in the poore estate of beggers, they craved every bodies mercy and almes. It came to passe, that standing one morning at the Cathedral Church-doore, a great Lady of England, being then wife to the Lord high Marshall, comming forth of the Church, espied the Count and his children there begging. Of him she demanded what Countrey-man he was? and whether those children were his owne, or no? The Count replyed, that he was borne in _Picardy_, and for an unhappy fact committed by his eldest sonne (a stripling of more hopefull expectation, then proved) hee was enforced, with those his two other children to forsake his country. The Lady being by nature very pittiful, looking advisedly on the yong Girle, beganne to grow in good liking of her; because (indeede) she was amiable, gentle, and beautifull, whereupon shee saide. Honest man, thy daughter hath a pleasing countenance, and (perhaps) her inward disposition may proove answerable to hir outward goods parts: if therefore thou canst bee content to leave her with me, I will give her entertainment, and upon her dutifull carriage and behaviour, if she live to such yeares as may require it, I will have her honestly bestowne in marriage. This motion was verie pleasing to the Count, who readily declared his willing consent thereto, and with the teares trickling downe his cheekes, in thankfull manner he delivered his prettie daughter to the Lady. Shee being thus happily bestowne, hee minded to tarry no longer in _London_; but, in his wonted begging manner, travailing thorough the Country with his sonne _Perotto_, at length hee came into _Wales_: but not without much weary paine and travell, being never used before, to journey so far on foote. There dwelt another Lord, in office of Marshalship to the King of _England_, whose power extended over those partes; a man of very great authority, keeping a most noble and bountifull house, which they termed the _President of Wales his Court_; whereto the Count and his son oftentimes resorted, as finding there good releefe and comfort. On a day, one of the Presidents sons, accompanied with divers other Gentlemens children, were performing certaine youthfull sports & pastimes, as running, leaping, and such like, wherein _Perotto_ presumed to make one among them, excelling all the rest in such commendable manner, as none of them came any thing nere him. Divers times the President had taken notice thereof, and was so well pleased with the Lads behaviour, that he enquired, of whence he was? Answer was made, that hee was a poore mans son, that every day came for an almes to his gate. The President being desirous to make the boy his, the Count (whose dayly prayers were to the same purpose) frankly gave his son to the Nobleman: albeit naturall and fatherly affection, urged some unwillingnesse to part so with him; yet necessity and discretion, found it to bee for the benefit of them both. Being thus eased of care for his son and daughter, and they (though in different places) yet under good and woorthie government: the Count would continue no longer in _England_: but, as best he could procure the meanes, passed over into _Ireland_, and being arrived at a place called _Stanford_, became servant to an Earle of that Country, a Gentleman professing Armes, on whom he attended as a serving man, & lived a long while in that estate very painfully. His daughter _Violenta_, clouded under the borrowed name of _Gianetta_, dwelling with the Lady at _London_, grew so in yeares, beauty, comelinesse of person, and was so gracefull in the favour of her Lord and Lady, yea, of every one in the house beside, that it was wonderfull to behold. Such as but observed her usuall carriage, and what modesty shined clearely in her eyes, reputed her well worthy of honourable preferment; in which regard, the Lady that had received her of her Father, not knowing of whence, or what shee was; but as himselfe had made report, intended to match her in honourable mariage, according as her vertues worthily deserved. But God, the just rewarder of all good endeavours, knowing her to be noble by birth, and (causelesse) to suffer for the sinnes of another; disposed otherwise of her, and that so worthy a Virgin might be no mate for a man of ill conditions, no doubt ordained what was to be done, according to his owne good pleasure. The noble Lady, with whom poore _Gianetta_ dwelt, had but one onely Sonne by her Husband, and he most deerely affected of them both, as well in regard hee was to be their heire, as also for his vertues and commendable qualities, wherein he excelled many young Gentlemen. Endued he was with heroycal valour, compleate in all perfections of person, and his mind every way answerable to his outward behaviour, exceeding _Gianetta_ about sixe yeeres in age. Hee perceiving her to be a faire and comely Maiden, grew to affect her so entirely, that all things else he held contemptible, and nothing pleasing in his eye but shee. Now, in regard her parentage was reputed poore, hee kept his love concealed from his Parents, not daring to desire her in marriage: for loth hee was to loose their favour, by disclosing the vehemency of his afflictions, which proved a greater torment to him, then if it had beene openly knowne. It came to passe, that love over-awed him in such sort, as he fell into a violent sicknesse, and score of Physicions were sent for, to save him from death, if possibly it might be. Their judgements observing the course of his sicknesse, yet not reaching to the cause of the disease, made a doubtfull question of his recovery; which was so displeasing to his parents, that their griefe and sorrow grew beyond measure. Many earnest entreaties they moved to him, to know the occasion of his sicknesse, whereto he returned no other answer, but heart-breaking sighes, and incessant teares, which drew him more and more into weakenesse of body. It chanced on a day, a Physicion was brought unto him, being young in yeeres, but well experienced in his practise, and as hee made triall of his pulse, _Gianetta_ (who by his Mothers command, attended on him very diligently) upon some especial occasion entred into the Chamber, which when the young Gentleman perceived, and that shee neither spake word, nor so much as looked towards him, his heart grew great in amorous desire, and his pulse did beate beyond the compasse of ordinary custome; whereof the Physicion made good observation, to note how long that fit would continue. No sooner was _Gianetta_ gone forth of the Chamber, but the pulse immediately gave over beating, which perswaded the Physicion, that some part of the disease had now discovered it selfe apparantly. Within a while after, pretending to have some speech with _Gianetta_, and holding the Gentleman still by the arme, the Physicion caused her to be sent for, and immediately shee came. Upon her very entrance into the Chamber, the pulse began to beate againe extreamely, and when shee departed, it presently ceased. Now was he thorowly perswaded, that hee had found the true effect of his sicknesse; when taking the Father and mother aside, thus he spake to them. If you be desirous of your Sons health, it consisteth not either in Physicion or physicke, but in the mercy of your faire Maide _Gianetta_; for manifest signes have made it knowne to me, and he loveth the Damosell very dearely: yet (for ought I can perceive, the Maide doth not know it) now if you have respect of his life, you know (in this case) what is to be done. The Nobleman and his Wife hearing this, became somewhat satisfied, because there remained a remedy to preserve his life: but yet it was no meane griefe to them, if it should so succeede, as they feared, namely, the marriage betweene their Sonne and _Gianetta_. The Physicion being gone, and they repairing to their sicke Sonne, the Mother began with him in this manner. Sonne, I was alwayes perswaded, that thou wouldest not conceale any secret from me, or the least part of thy desires; especially, when without enjoying them, thou must remaine in the danger of death. Full well art thou assured, or in reason oughtest to be, that there is not any thing for thy contentment, be it of what quality soever, but it should have beene provided for thee, and in as ample manner as for mine owne selfe. But though thou hast wandred so farre from duty, and hazarded both thy life and ours, it commeth so to passe, that Heaven hath been more mercifull to thee, then thou wouldest be to thy selfe or us. And to prevent thy dying of this disease, a dreame this night hath acquainted me with the principall occasion of thy sickenesse, to wit, extraordinary affection to a young Maiden, in some such place as thou hast seene her. I tell thee Sonne, it is a matter of no disgrace to love, and why shouldst thou shame to manifest as much, it being so apt and convenient for thy youth? For if I were perswaded, that thou couldst not love, I should make the lesse esteeme of thee. Therefore deare Sonne, be not dismayed, but freely discover thine affections. Expel those disastrous drouping thoughts, that have indangered thy life by this long lingering sicknesse. And let thy soule be faithfully assured, that thou canst not require any thing to be done, remaining within the compasse of my power, but I will performe it; for I love thee as dearely as mine owne life. Set therefore aside this nice conceit of shame and feare, revealing the truth boldly to me, if I may stead thee in thy love; resolving thy selfe unfaignedly, that if my care stretch not to compasse thy content, account me for the most cruell Mother living, and utterly unworthy of such a Sonne. The young Gentleman having heard these protestations made by his Mother, was not a little ashamed of his owne follie; but recollecting his better thoughts together, and knowing in his soule, that no one could better further his hopes, then shee; forgetting all his former feare, he returned her this answere; Madam, and my dearely affected Mother, nothing hath more occasioned my loves so strict concealement, but an especiall error, which I finde by daily proofe in many, who being growne to yeeres of grave discretion, doe never remember, that they themselves have bin yong. But because heerein I find you to be both discreet and wise, I will not onely affirme, what you have seen in me to be true, but also will confesse, to whom it is: upon condition, that the effect of your promise may follow it, according to the power remaining in you, whereby you onely may secure my life. His Mother, desirous to bee resolved, whether his confession would agree with the Physitians words, or no, and reserving another intention to her selfe: bad him feare nothing, but freely discover his whole desire, and forthwith she doubted not to effect it. Then Madame (quoth hee) the matchlesse beauty, and commendable qualities of your maid _Gianetta_, to whom (as yet) I have made no motion, to commisserate this my languishing extremity, nor acquainted any living creature with my love: the concealing of these afflictions to my selfe, hath brought mee to this desperate condition: and if some meane bee not wrought, according to your constant promise, for the full enjoying of my longing desires, assure your selfe (most noble Mother) that the date of my life is very short. The Lady well knowing, that the time now rather required kindest comfort, then any severe or sharpe reprehension; smiling on him, saide. Alas deere sonne, wast thou sicke for this? Be of good cheare, and when thy strength is better restored, then referre the matter to me. The young Gentleman, being put in good hope by his mothers promise, began (in short time) to shew apparant signes of well-forwarded amendment: to the Mothers great joy and comfort, disposing her selfe daily to proove, how in honour she might keepe promise with her Son. Within a short while after, calling _Gianetta_ privately to her, in gentle manner, and by the way of pleasant discourse, she demanded of her, whither she was provided of a Lover, or no. _Gianetta_, being never acquainted with any such questions, a scarlet Dye covering all her modest countenance, thus replied. Madam, I have no neede of any Lover, and very unseemly were it, for so poore a Damosell as I am, to have so much as a thought of Lovers: being banished from my friends and kinsfolke, and remaining in service as I do. If you have none (answered the Lady) wee will bestowe one on you, which shall content your minde, and bring you to a more pleasing kinde of life; because it is farre unfit, that so faire a Maid as you are, should remaine destitute of a lover. Madam, sayde _Gianetta_, considering with my selfe, that since you received me of my poore Father, you have used me rather like your daughter, then a servant; it becommeth mee to doe as pleaseth you. Notwithstanding, I trust (in the regard of mine own good and honour) never to use any complaint in such a case: but if you please to bestow a husband on me, I purpose to love and honour him onely, & not any other. For, of all the inheritance left me by my progenitors, nothing remaineth to me but honourable honesty, and that shall bee my legacie so long as I live. These words were of a quite contrary complexion, to those which the Lady expected from her, and for effecting the promise made unto hir Sonne: howbeit (like a wise and noble Lady) much shee inwardly commended the maids answers, and saide unto her. But tell me _Gianetta_, what if my Lord the King (who is a gallant youthfull Prince, and you so bright a beauty as you are) should take pleasure in your love, would ye denie him? Sodainly the Maide returned this answer; Madam, the King (perhaps) might enforce me; but with my free consent, hee shall never have any thing of me that is not honest. Nor did the Lady mislike her Maides courage and resolution, but breaking off all her further conference, intended shortly to put her project in proofe, saying to her son, that when he was fully recovered, he should have private accesse to _Gianetta_, whom shee doubted not but would be tractable enough to him; for she held it no meane blemish to her honour, to moove the Maide any more in the matter, but let him compasse it as he could. Farre from the yong Gentlemans humour was this answer of his Mother, because he aimed not at any dishonourable end: true, faithfull, & honest love was the sole scope of his intention, foule and loathsome lust he utterly defied; whereupon, he fell into sickenesse againe, rather more violently then before. Which the Lady perceiving, revealed her whole intent to _Gianetta_, and finding her constancie beyond common comparison, acquainted her Lord with all she had done, and both consented (though much against their mindes) to let him enjoy her in honourable marriage: accounting it better, for preservation of their onely sons life, to match him farre inferiour to his degree, then (by denying his desire) to let him pine away, and die for her love. After great consultation with kindred and friendes, the match was agreed upon, to the no little joy of _Gianetta_, who devoutly returned infinite thankes to heaven, for so mercifully respecting her dejected poore estate, after the bitter passage of so many miseries, and never tearming her selfe any otherwise, but the daughter of a poore _Piccard_. Soone was the yong Gentleman recovered and married, no man alive so well contented as he, and setting downe an absolute determination, to lead a loving life with his _Gianetta_. Let us now convert our lookes to _Wales_, to _Perotto_; being lefte there with the other Lord Marshall, who was the President of that Countrey. On he grew in yeares, choisely respected by his Lord, because hee was most comely of person, and addicted to all valiant attempts: so that in Tourneyes, Justes, and other actions of Armes, his like was not to bee found in all the Island, being named onely _Perotto_ the valiant _Piccard_, and so was he famed farre and neere. As God had not forgotten his Sister, so in mercy he became as mindefull of him; for, a contagious mortalitie hapning in the Country, the greater part of the people perished thereby, the rest flying thence into other partes of the Land, whereby the whole Province became dispeopled and desolate. In the time of this plague and dreadfull visitation, the Lord President, his Lady, Sonnes, Daughters, Brothers, Nephewes, and Kindred dyed, none remaining alive, but one onely Daughter marriageable, a few of the houshold servants, beside _Perotto_, whom (after the sicknesse was more mildly asswaged) with counsaile and consent of the Country people, the young Lady accepted to be her husband, because hee was a man so worthy and valiant, and of all the inheritance left by her deceased Father, she made him Lord and sole commaunder. Within no long while after, the King of _England_, understanding that his President of _Wales_ was dead, and fame liberally relating, the vertues, valour, and good parts of _Perotto_ the Piccard: hee created him to be his President there, and to supply the place of his deceased Lord. These faire fortunes, within the compasse of so short a time, fell to the two innocent children of the Count _D'Angiers_, after they were left by him as lost and forlorne. Eighteene yeares were now fully over-past, since the Count _D'Angiers_ fled from _Paris_, having suffered (in miserable sort) many hard and lamentable adversities, and seeing himselfe now to be growne aged, hee was desirous to leave Ireland, and to know (if hee might) what was become of both his children. Hereupon, perceiving his wonted forme to be so altered, that such as formerly had conversed most with him, could now not take any knowledge of him, & feeling his body (through long labour and exercise endured in service) more lusty, then in his idle youthfull yeares, especially when he left the Court of _France_, hee purposed to proceede in his determination. Being very poore and simple in apparell, hee departed from the Irish Earle his Maister, with whom hee had continued long in service, to no advantage or advancement, and crossing over into _England_, travailed to the place in _Wales_, where he left _Perotto_: and where hee found him to be Lord Marshall and President of the Country, lusty and in good health, a man of goodly feature, and most honourably respected and reverenced of the people. Well may you imagine, that this was no small comfort to the poore aged Countes heart, yet would he not make himselfe knowne to him or any other about him? but referred his joy to a further enlarging or diminishing, by sight of the other limme of his life, his dearely affected daughter _Gianetta_, denying rest to his body in any place, untill such time as he came to _London_. Making there secret enquiry, concerning the Lady with whom he had left his daughter: hee understoode, that a young Gentlewoman, named _Gianetta_, was married to that Ladies onely Son; which made a second addition of joy to his soule, accounting all his passed adversities of no value, both his children being living, and in so high honour. Having found her dwelling, and (like a kinde Father) being earnestly desirous to see her; he dayly resorted neere to the house, where Sir _Roger Mandavill_ (for so was _Gianettaes_ husband named) chauncing to see him, being moved to compassion because he was both poore and aged: commaunded one of his men, to take him into the house, and to give him some foode for Gods sake, which (accordingly) the servant performed. _Gianetta_ had divers children by her husband, the eldest of them being but eight yeares olde, yet all of them so faire and comely as could be. As the olde Count sate eating his meate in the Hall, the children came all about him, embracing, hugging, and making much of him, even as if Nature had truly instructed them, that this was their aged, though poore Grandfather, and hee as lovingly receiving these kinde relations from them, wisely and silently kept all to himselfe, with sighes, teares, and joyes entermixed together. So that the children would not part from him, though their Tutour and Maister called them often, which being tolde to their Mother, shee came foorth of the neere adjoining Parlour, and threatned to beate them, if they would not doe what their Maister commanded them. Then the children began to cry, saying, that they would tarie still by the good olde man, because he loved them better then their Maister did; whereat both the Lady and the Count began to smile. The Count, like a poore beggar, and not as father to so great a Lady, arose, and did her humble reverence, because shee was now a Noble woman, conceiving wonderfull joy in his soule, to see her so faire and goodly a creature: yet could she take no knowledge of him, age, want and misery had so mightily altred him, his head all white, his beard without any comely forme, his garments so poore, and his face so wrinkled, leane and meager, that hee seemed rather some Carter, then a Count. And _Gianetta_ perceiving, that when her children were fetcht away, they returned againe to the olde man, and would not leave him; desired their Maister to let them alone. While thus the children continued making much of the good olde man, Lord _Andrew Mandevile_, Father to Sir _Roger_, came into the Hall, as being so willed to doe by the Childrens Schoolemaister. He being a hastie minded man, and one that ever despised _Gianetta_ before, but much more since her mariage to his sonne, angerly said. Let them alone with a mischiefe, and so befall them, their best company ought to be with beggers, for so are they bred and borne by the Mothers side: and therefore it is no mervaile, if like will to like, a beggers brats to keepe company with beggers. The Count hearing these contemptible words, was not a little greeved thereat, and although his courage was greater, then his poore condition would permit him to expresse; yet, clouding all injuries with noble patience, hanging downe his head, and shedding many a salt teare, endured this reproach, as hee had done many, both before and after. But honourable Sir _Roger_, perceiving what delight his children tooke in the poore mans company; albeit he was offended at his Fathers harsh words, by holding his wife in such base respect; yet favoured the poore Count so much the more, and seeing him weepe, did greatly compassionate his case, saying to the poore man, that if hee would accept of his service, he willingly would entertaine him. Whereto the Count replied, that very gladly he would embrace his kinde offer: but hee was capable of no other service, save onely to be an horse-keeper, wherein he had imployed the most part of his time. Heereupon, more for pleasure and pitty, then any necessity of his service, he was appointed to the keeping of one Horse, which was onely for his Daughters saddle, and daily after he had done his diligence about the Horse, he did nothing elsee but play with the children. While Fortune pleased thus to dally with the poore Count _D'Angiers_, & his children, it came to passe, that the King of _France_ (after divers leagues of truces passed between him & the _Germaines_) died, and next after him, his Son the dolphin was crowned King, and it was his wife that wrongfully caused the Counts banishment. After expiration of the last league with the _Germains_, the warres began to grow much more fierce and sharpe, and the King of _England_, (upon request made to him by his new brother of _France_) sent him very honourable supplies of his people, under the conduct of _Perotto_, his lately elected President of _Wales_, and Sir _Roger Mandevile_, Son to his other Lord high Marshall; with whom also the poore Count went, and continued a long while in the Campe as a common Souldier, where yet like a valiant Gentleman (as indeed he was no lesse) both in advice and actions; he accomplished many more notable matters, then was expected to come from him. It so fell out, that in the continuance of this warre, the Queen of _France_ fell into a grievous sicknes, and perceiving her selfe to be at the point of death, shee became very penitently sorrowfull for all her sinnes, earnestly desiring that shee might be confessed by the Archbishop of _Roane_, who was reputed to be an holy and vertuous man. In the repetition of her other offences, she revealed what great wrong she had done to the Count _D'Angiers_, resting not so satisfied, with disclosing the whole matter to him alone; but also confessed the same before many other worthy persons, and of great honour, entreating them to worke so with the King; that (if the Count were yet living, or any of his Children) they might be restored to their former honour againe. It was not long after, but the Queene left this life, and was most royally enterred, when her confession being disclosed to the King, after much sorrow for so injuriously wronging a man of so great valour and honour: Proclamation was made throughout the Camp, and in many other parts of _France_ beside, that whosoever could produce the Count _D'Angiers_, or any of his Children, should richly be rewarded for each one of them; in regard he was innocent of the foule imputation, by the Queenes owne confession, and for his wrongfull exile so long, he should be exalted to his former honour with farre greater favours, which the King franckely would bestow upon him. When the Count (who walked up and downe in the habite of a common servitor) heard this Proclamation, forth-with he went to his Master Sir _Roger Mandevile_, requesting his speedy repaire to Lord _Perotto_, that being both assembled together, he would acquaint them with a serious matter, concerning the late Proclamation published by the King. Being by themselves alone in the Tent, the Count spake in this manner to _Perotto_. Sir, S. _Roger Mandevile_ here, your equal competitor in this military service, is the husband to your naturall sister, having as yet never received any dowry with her, but her inherent unblemishable vertue & honour. Now because she may not still remain destitute of a competent Dowry: I desire that Sir _Roger_, and none other, may enjoy the royall reward promised by the King. You Lord _Perotto_, whose true name is _Lewes_, manifest your selfe to be nobly borne, and sonne to the wrongfull banished Count _D'Angiers_: avouch moreover, that _Violenta_, shadowed under the borrowed name of _Gianetta_, is your owne Sister; and deliver me up as your Father, the long exiled Count _D'Angiers. Perotto_ hearing this, beheld him more advisedly, and began to know him: then, the tears flowing abundantly from his eyes, he fell at his feete, and often embracing him, saide: My deere and noble Father! a thousand times more deerely welcome to your Sonne _Lewes_. Sir _Roger Mandevile_, hearing first what the Count had said, and seeing what _Perotto_ afterward performed; became surprized with such extraordinary joy and admiration, that he knew not how to carry himselfe in this case. Neverthelesse, giving credite to his words, and being somewhat ashamed, that he had not used the Count in more respective manner, & remembring beside, the unkinde language of his furious Father to him: he kneeled downe, humbly craving pardon, both for his fathers rudenes and his owne, which was courteously granted by the Count, embracing him lovingly in his armes. When they had a while discoursed their severall fortunes, sometime in teares, and then againe in joy, _Perotto_ and Sir _Roger_, would have the Count to be garmented in better manner, but in no wise he would suffer it; for it was his onely desire, that Sir _Roger_ should be assured of the promised reward, by presenting him in the Kings presence, and in the homely habit which he did then weare, to touch him with the more sensible shame, for his rash beleefe, and injurious proceeding. Then Sir _Roger Mandevile_, guiding the Count by the hand, and _Perotto_ following after, came before the King, offering to present the Count and his children, if the reward promised in the Proclamation might be performed. The king immediately commanded, that a reward of inestimable valew should be produced; desiring Sir _Roger_ uppon the sight thereof, to make good his offer, for forthwith presenting the Count and his children. Which hee made no longer delay of, but turning himselfe about, delivered the aged Count, by the title of his servant, and presenting _Perotto_ next, said. Sir, heere I deliver you the Father and his Son, his daughter who is my wife, cannot so conveniently be heere now, but shortly, by the permission of heaven, your Majesty shall have a sight of her. When the King heard this, stedfastly he looked on the Count; and, notwithstanding his wonderfull alteration, both from his wonted feature and forme: yet, after he had very seriously viewed him, he knew him perfectly; and the teares trickling downe his cheekes, partly with remorsefull shame, and joy also for his so happy recovery, he tooke up the Count from kneeling, kissing, and embracing him very kindely, welcomming _Perotto_ in the selfesame manner. Immediately also he gave commaund, that the Count should be restored to his honours, apparrell, servants, horses, and furniture, answerable to his high estate and calling, which was as speedily performed. Moreover, the King greatly honoured Sir _Roger Mandevile_, desiring to be made acquainted with all their passed fortunes. When Sir _Roger_ had received the royall reward, for thus surrendring the Count and his Sonne, the Count calling him to him, saide. Take that Princely remuneration of my soveraigne Lord the King, and commending me to your unkinde Father, tell him that your Children are no beggars brats, neither basely borne by their Mothers side. Sir _Roger_ returning home with his bountifull reward, soone after brought his Wife and Mother to _Paris_, and so did _Perotto_ his Wife, where in great joy and triumph, they continued a long while with the noble Count; who had all his goods and honours restored to him, in farre greater measure then ever they were before: his Sonnes in Law returning home with their Wives into _England_, left the Count with the King at _Paris_, where he spent the rest of his dayes in great honour and felicity. Bernardo, _a Merchant of_ Geneway, _being deceived by another Merchant, named_ Ambroginolo, _lost a great part of his goods. And commanding his innocent Wife to be murthered, shee escaped, and (in the habite of a man) became servant to the Soldane. The deceiver being found at last, shee compassed such meanes, that her Husband_ Bernardo _came into_ Alexandria, _and there, after due punishment inflicted on the false deceiver, shee resumed the garments againe of a woman, and returned home with her Husband to_ Geneway. The ninth Novell. _Wherein is declared, that by over-liberall commending the chastity of Women, it falleth out (oftentimes) to be very dangerous, especially by the meanes of treacherers, who yet (in the ende) are justly punished for their treachery._ Madam _Eliza_ having ended her compassionate discourse, which indeede had moved all the rest to sighing; the Queene, who was faire, comely of stature, and carrying a very majesticall countenance, smiling more familiarly then the other, spake to them thus. It is very necessary, that the promise made to _Dioneus_, should carefully be kept, and because now there remaineth none, to report any more Novelse, but onely he and my selfe: I must first deliver mine, and he (who takes it for an honour) to be the last in relating his owne, last let him be for his owne deliverance. Then pausing a little while, thus shee began againe. Many times among vulgar people, it hath passed as a common Proverbe: That the deceiver is often trampled on, by such as he hath deceived. And this cannot shew it selfe (by any reason) to be true, except such accidents as awaite on treachery, doe really make a just discovery thereof. And therefore according to the course of this day observed, I am the woman, that must make good what I have saide for the approbation of that Proverbe; no way (I hope) distastfull to you in the hearing, but advantageable to preserve you from any such beguiling. There was a faire and good Inne in _Paris_, much frequented by many great _Italian_ Merchants, according to such variety of occasions and businesse, as urged their often resorting thither. One night among many other, having had a merry Supper together, they began to discourse on divers matters, and falling from one relation to another; they communed in very friendly manner, concerning their wives, lefte at home in their houses. Quoth the first, I cannot well imagine what my wife is now doing, but I am able to say for my selfe, that if a pretty female should fall into my company: I could easily forget my love to my wife, and make use of such an advantage offered. A second replyed; And trust me, I should do no lesse, because I am perswaded, that if my wife be willing to wander, the law is in her owne hand, and I am farre enough from home: dumbe walles blab no tales, & offences unknowne are sildome or never called in question. A thirde man jumpt in censure, with his former fellowes of the Jury; and it plainly appeared, that al the rest were of the same opinion, condemning their wives over-rashly, and alledging, that when husbands strayed so far from home, their wives had wit enough to make use of their time. Onely one man among them all, named _Bernardo Lomellino_, & dwelling in _Geneway_, maintained the contrary; boldly avouching, that by the especiall favour of Fortune, he had a wife so perfectly compleat in al graces and vertues, as any Lady in the world possibly could be, and that _Italy_ scarsely contained her equall. For, she was goodly of person, and yet very young, quicke, quaint, milde, and courteous, and not any thing appertaining to the office of a wife, either for domesticke affayres, or any other imployment whatsoever, but in woman-hoode shee went beyond all other. No Lord, Knight, Esquire, or Gentleman, could bee better served at his table, then himselfe dayly was, with more wisedome, modesty and discretion. After all this, hee praised her for riding, hawking, hunting, fishing, fowling, reading, writing, enditing, and most absolute keeping his Bookes of accounts, that neither himselfe, or any other Merchant could therein excell her. After infinite other commendations, he came to the former point of their argument, concerning the easie falling of women into wantonnesse, maintaining (with a solemne oath) that no woman possibly could be more chaste and honest then she: in which respect, he was verily perswaded, that if he stayed from her ten yeares space, yea (all his life time) out of his house; yet never would shee falsifie her faith to him, or be lewdly allured by any other man. Among these Merchants thus communing together, there was a young proper man, named _Ambroginolo_ of _Placentia_, who began to laugh at the last praises, which _Bernardo_ had used of his wife, and seeming to make a mockerie thereat, demaunded, if the Emperour had given him this priviledge, above all other married men? _Bernardo_ being somewhat offended, answered: No Emperour hath done it, but the especiall blessing of heaven, exceeding all the Emperours on the earth in grace, and thereby have received this favour; whereto _Ambroginolo_ presently thus replied. _Bernardo_, without all question to the contrary, I beleeve that what thou hast said, is true, but, for ought I can perceive, thou hast slender judgement in the nature of things: because, if thou didst observe them well, thou couldst not be of so grosse understanding; for, by comprehending matters in their true kinde and nature, thou wouldst speake of them more correctly then thou doest. And to the end, thou mayest not imagine, that wee who have spoken of our wives, doe thinke any otherwise of them, then as well and honestly as thou canst of thine, nor that any thing elsee did urge these speeches of them, or falling into this kinde of discourse, but onely by a naturall instinct and admonition; I will proceede familiarly a little further with thee, upon the matter already propounded. I have ever more understood, that man was the most noble creature, formed by God to live in this world, and woman in the next degree to him: but man, as generally is beleeved, and as is discerned by apparant effects, is the most perfect of both. Having then the most perfection in him, without all doubt, he must be so much the more firme and constant. So in like manner, it hath beene, and is universally graunted, that woman is more various and mutable, and the reason thereof may be approved, by many naturall circumstances, which were needlesse now to make any mention of. If a man then be possessed of the greater stability, and yet cannot containe himselfe from condiscending, I say not to one that entreates him, but to desire any other that may please him, and beside, to covet the enjoying of his owne pleasing contentment (a thing not chancing to him once in a moneth, but infinite times in a dayes space.) What can you then conceive of a fraile woman, subject (by nature) to entreaties, flatteries, gifts, perswasions, and a thousand other enticing meanes, which a man (that is affected to her) can use? Doest thou think then that shee hath any power to containe? Assuredly, though thou shouldst rest so resolved, yet cannot I be of the same opinion. For I am sure thou beleevest, and must needes confesse it, that thy wife is a woman, made of flesh and blood, as other women are: if it be so, shee cannot be without the same desires, and the weakenesse or strength as other women have, to resist such naturall appetites as her owne are. In regard whereof, it is meerely impossible (although shee be most honest) but she must needs do that which other women do; for there is nothing elsee possible, either to be denied or affirmed to the contrary, as thou most unadvisedly hast done. _Bernardo_ answered in this manner. I am a Merchant, and no Philosopher, and like a Merchant I meane to answere thee. I am not to learne, that these accidents by thee related, may happen to fooles, who are void of understanding or shame: but such as are wise, and endued with vertue, have alwayes such a precious esteeme of their honour, that they will containe those principles of constancie, which men are meerely carelesse of, and I justifie my wife to be one of them. Beleeve me _Bernardo_ (replied _Ambroginolo_) if so often as thy wives minde is addicted to wanton folly, a badge of scorne should arise on thy forehead, to render testimonie of her female frailty; I beleeve the number of them would be more, then willingly you would wish them to be. And among all married men, in every degree, the notes are so secret of their wives imperfections, that the sharpest sight is not able to discerne them; and the wiser sort of men are willing not to know them; because shame and losse of honour is never imposed, but in cases evident and apparant. Perswade thy selfe then _Bernardo_, that, what women may accomplish in secret, they will rarely faile to doe: or if they abstaine, it is through feare and folly. Wherefore, hold it for a certaine rule, that that woman is onely chaste, that never was solicited personally, or if she endured any such sute, either shee answered yea, or no. And albeit I know this to be true, by many infallible and naturall reasons, yet could I not speake so exactly as I doe; if I had not tried experimentally, the humours and affections of divers women. Yea, and let me tell thee more _Bernardo_, were I in private company with thy wife, howsoever pure and precise thou presumest her to be: I should account it a matter of no impossibility, to finde in her the selfe same frailty. _Bernardoes_ blood began now to boile, and patience being a little put downe by choller, thus hee replied. A combat of words requires over-long continuance, for I maintaine the matter, which thou deniest, and all this sorts to nothing in the end. But seeing thou presumest, that all women are so apt and tractable, and thy selfe so confident of thine owne power: I willingly yeeld (for the better assurance of my wifes constant loyalty) to have my head smitten off, if thou canst winne her to any such dishonest act, by any meanes whatsoever thou canst use unto her; which if thou canst not doe, thou shalt onely loose a thousand duckets of gold. Now began _Ambroginolo_ to be heated with these words, answering thus. _Bernardo_, if I had won the wager, I know not what I should doe with thy head; but if thou be willing to stand upon the proofe, pawne downe five thousand Duckets of gold, (a matter of much lesse value then thy head) against a thousand Duckets of mine, granting me a lawfull limitted time, which I require to be no more then the space of three moneths, after the day of my departing hence. I will stand bound to goe for _Geneway_, and there winne such kinde consent of thy Wife, as shall be to mine owne consent. In witnesse whereof, I will bring backe with me such private and especiall tokens, as thou thy selfe shalt confesse that I have not failed. Provided, that thou doe first promise upon thy faith, to absent thy selfe thence during my limitted time, and be no hinderance to me by thy Letters, concerning the attempt by me undertaken. _Bernardo_ saide, be it a bargaine, I am the man that will make good my five thousand Duckets; and albeit the other Merchants then present, earnestly laboured to breake the wager, knowing great harme must needs ensue thereon: yet both the parties were so hot and fiery, as all the other men spake to no effect, but writings were made, sealed, and delivered under either of their hands, _Bernardo_ remaining at _Paris_, and _Ambroginolo_ departing for _Geneway_. There he remained some few dayes, to learne the streetes name where _Bernardo_ dwelt, as also the conditions and qualities of his Wife, which scarcely pleased him when he heard them; because they were farre beyond her Husbands relation, and shee reputed to be the onely wonder of women; whereby he plainely perceived, that he had undertaken a very idle enterprise, yet would he not give it over so, but proceeded therein a little further. He wrought such meanes, that he came acquainted with a poore woman, who often frequented _Bernardoes_ house, and was greatly in favour with his wife; upon whose poverty he so prevailed, by earnest perswasions, but much more by large gifts of money, that he won her to further him in this manner following. A faire and artificiall Chest he caused to be purposely made, wherein himselfe might be aptly contained, and so conveyed into the House of _Bernardoes_ Wife, under colour of a formall excuse; that the poore woman should be absent from the City two or three dayes, and shee must keepe it safe till he returne. The Gentlewoman suspecting no guile, but that the Chest was the receptacle of all the womans wealth; would trust it in no other roome, then her owne Bed-chamber, which was the place where _Ambroginolo_ most desired to bee. Being thus conveyed into the Chamber, the night going on apace, and the Gentlewoman fast asleepe in her bed, a lighted Taper stood burning on the Table by her, as in her Husbands absence shee ever used to have: _Ambroginolo_ softly opened the Chest, according as cunningly hee had contrived it; and stepping forth in his sockes made of cloath, observed the scituation of the Chamber, the paintings, pictures, and beautifull hangings, with all things elsee that were remarkable, which perfectly he committed to his memory. Going neere to the bed, he saw her lie there sweetly sleeping, and her young Daughter in like manner by her, shee seeming then as compleate and pleasing a creature, as when shee was attired in her best bravery. No especiall note or marke could hee descrie, whereof he might make credible report, but onely a small wart upon her left pappe, with some few haires growing thereon, appearing to be as yellow as gold. Sufficient had he seene, and durst presume no further; but taking one of her Rings, which lay upon the Table, a purse of hers, hanging by on the wall, a light wearing Robe of silke, and her girdle, all which he put into the Chest; and being in himselfe, closed it fast as it was before, so continuing there in the Chamber two severall nights, the Gentlewoman neither mistrusting or missing any thing. The third day being come, the poore woman, according as formerly was concluded, came to have home her Chest againe, and brought it safely into her owne house; where _Ambroginolo_ comming forth of it, satisfied the poore woman to her own liking, returning (with all the forenamed things) so fast as conveniently he could to _Paris_. Being arrived there long before his limitted time, he called the Merchants together, who were present at the passed words and wager; avouching before _Bernardo_, that he had won his five thousand Duckets, and performed the taske he undertooke. To make good his protestation, first he described the forme of the Chamber, the curious pictures hanging about it, in what manner the bed stood, and every circumstance elsee beside. Next he shewed the severall things, which he brought away thence with him, affirming that he had received them of her selfe. _Bernardo_ confessed, that his description of the Chamber was true, and acknowledged moreover, that these other things did belong to his Wife: But (quoth he) this may be gotten, by corrupting some servant of mine, both for intelligence of the Chamber, as also of the Ring, Purse, and what elsee is beside; all which suffice not to win the wager, without some other more apparant and pregnant token. In troth, answered _Ambroginolo_, me thinks these should serve for sufficient proofes; but seeing thou art so desirous to know more: I plainely tell thee, that faire _Genevra_ thy Wife, hath a small round wart upon her left pappe, and some few little golden haires growing thereon. When Bernardo heard these words, they were as so many stabs to his heart, yea, beyond all compasse of patient sufferance, and by the changing of his colour, it was noted manifestly, (being unable to utter one word) that _Ambroginolo_ had spoken nothing but the truth. Within a while after, he saide; Gentlemen, that which _Ambroginolo_ hath saide, is very true, wherefore let him come when he will, and he shall be paide; which accordingly he performed on the very next day, even to the utmost penny, departing then from _Paris_ towards _Geneway_, with a most malicious intention to his Wife: Being come neere to the City, he would not enter it, but rode to a Countrey house of his, standing about tenne miles distant thence. Being there arrived, he called a servant, in whom hee reposed especiall trust, sending him to _Geneway_ with two Horses, writing to his Wife, that he was returned, and shee should come thither to see him. But secretly he charged his servant, that so soone as he had brought her to a convenient place, he should there kill her, without any pitty or compassion, and then returne to him againe. When the servant was come to _Geneway_, and had delivered his Letter and message, _Genevra_ gave him most joyful welcome, and on the morrow morning mounting on Horse-backe with the servant, rode merrily towards the Countrey house; divers things shee discoursed on by the way, til they descended into a deepe solitary valey, very thickly beset with high and huge spreading Trees, which the servant supposed to be a meete place, for the execution of his Masters command. Suddenly drawing forth his Sword, and holding _Genevra_ fast by the arme, he saide; Mistresse, quickly commend your soule to God, for you must die, before you passe any further. _Genevra_ seeing the naked Sword, and hearing the words so peremptorily delivered, fearefully answered; Alas deare friend, mercy for Gods sake; and before thou kill me, tell me wherein I have offended thee, and why thou must kill me? Alas good Mistresse replied the servant, you have not any way offended me, but in what occasion you have displeased your Husband, it is utterly unknowne to me: for he hath strictly commanded me, without respect of pitty or compassion, to kill you by the way as I bring you, and if I doe it not, he hath sworne to hang me by the necke. You know good Mistresse, how much I stand obliged to him; and how impossible it is for me, to contradict any thing that he commandedeth. God is my witnesse, that I am truly compassionate of you, and yet (by no meanes) may I let you live. _Genevra_ kneeling before him weeping, wringing her hands, thus replied. Wilt thou turne Monster, and be a murtherer of her that never wronged thee, to please another man, and on a bare command? God, who truly knoweth all things, is my faithfull witnesse, that I never committed any offence, whereby to deserve the dislike of my Husband, much lesse so harsh a recompence as this is. But flying from mine owne justification, and appealing to thy manly mercy, thou mayest (wert thou but so well pleased) in a moment satisfie both thy Master and me, in such manner as I will make plaine and apparant to thee. Take thou my garments, spare me onely thy doublet, and such a Bonnet as is fitting for a man, so returne with my habite to thy Master, assuring him, that the deede is done. And here I sweare to thee, by that life which I enjoy but by thy mercy, I will so strangely disguise my selfe, and wander so farre off from these Countries, as neither he or thou, nor any person belonging to these parts, shall ever heare any tydings of me. The servant, who had no great good will to kill her, very easily grew pittifull, tooke off her upper garments, and gave her a poore ragged doublet, a sillie Chapperone, and such small store of money as he had, desiring her to forsake that Countrey, and so left her to walke on foote out of the vally. When he came to his Maister, and had delivered him her garments, he assured him, that he had not onely accomplished his commaund, but also was most secure from any discovery: because he had no sooner done the deede, but foure or five very ravenous Wolfes, came presently running to the dead body, and gave it buriall in their bellies. _Bernardo_ soone after returning to _Geneway_, was much blamed for such unkinde cruelty to his wife; but his constant avouching of her treason to him (according then to the Countries custome) did cleare him from all pursuite of law. Poore _Genevra_, was left thus alone and disconsolate, and night stealing fast upon her, shee went to a silly village neere adjoining, where (by the meanes of a good olde woman) she got such provision as the place afforded, making the doublet fit to her body, and converting her petticote to a paire of breeches, according to the Mariners fashion: then cutting her haire, and queintly disguised like to a Sayler, shee went to the Sea coast. By good fortune, she met there with a Gentleman of _Cathalogna_, whose name was _Signior Enchararcho_, who came on land from his Ship, which lay hulling there about _Albagia_, to refresh himselfe at a pleasant Spring. _Enchararcho_ taking her to be a man, as shee appeared no otherwise by her habite; upon some conference passing betweene them, shee was entertained into his service, and being brought aboord the Ship, she went under the name of _Sicurano da Finale_. There shee had better apparell bestowne on her by the Gentleman, and her service proved so pleasing and acceptable to him, that hee liked her care and diligence beyond all comparison. It came to passe within a short while after, that this Gentleman of _Cathalogna_ sayled (with some charge of his) into _Alexandria_, carying thither certaine peregrine Faulcons, which hee presented to the Soldane: who oftentimes welcommed this Gentleman to his table, where hee observed the behaviour of _Sicurano_, attending on his Maisters trencher, and therewith was so highly pleased; that he requested to have him from the Gentleman, who (for his more advancement) willingly parted with his so lately entertained servant. _Sicurano_ was so ready and discreete in his dayly services; that he grew in as great grace with the Soldane, as before he had done with _Enchararcho_. At a certaine season in the yeare, as customarie order (there observed) had formerly beene, in the Citie of _Acres_, which was under the Soldanes subjection: there yearely met a great assembly of Merchants, as Christians, Moores, Jewes, Sarrazines, and many other Nations beside, as at a common Mart or Fayre. And to the end, that the Merchants (for the better sale of their goods) might be there in the safer assurance; the Soldane used to send thither some of his ordinarie Officers, and a strong guard of Souldiers beside, to defend them from all injuries and molestation, because he reaped thereby no meane benefit. And who should be now sent about this businesse, but his new elected favourite _Sicurano_; because she was skilfull and perfect in the languages. _Sicurano_ being come to _Acres_, as Lord and Captaine of the Guard for the Merchants, and for the safety of their Merchandizes: she discharged her office most commendably, walking with her traine through every part of the Fayre, where shee observed a worthy company of Merchants, Sicilians, Pisanes, Genewayes, Venetians, and other Italians, whom the more willingly shee noted, in remembrance of her native Countrey. At one especiall time, among other, chancing into a Shop or Boothe belonging to the Venetians; she espied (hanging up with other costly wares) a Purse and a Girdle, which suddainly shee remembred to be sometime her owne, whereat she was not a little abashed in her mind. But, without making any such outward shew, courteously she requested to know, whose they were, and whether they should be sold, or no. _Ambroginolo_ of _Placentia_, was likewise come thither, and great store of Merchandizes hee had brought with him, in a Carrack appertaining to the Venetians, and hee, hearing the Captaine of the Guard demaund, whose they were; stepped foorth before him, and smiling, answered: That they were his, but not to be solde, yet if hee liked them gladly, hee would bestowe them on him. _Sicurano_ seeing him smile, suspected, least himselfe had (by some unfitting behaviour) beene the occasion thereof: and therefore, with a more setled countenance, hee said. Perhaps thou smilest, because I that am a man, professing Armes, should question after such womanish toyes. _Ambroginolo_ replied. My Lord, pardon me, I smile not at you, or your demaund; but at the manner how I came by these things. _Sicurano_, upon this answere, was ten times more desirous then before, and said. If Fortune favoured thee in friendly manner, by the obtaining of these things: if it may be spoken, tell me how thou hadst them. My Lord (answered _Ambroginolo_) these things (with many more beside) were given me by a Gentlewoman of _Geneway_, named Madame _Genevra_, the wife to one _Bernardo Lomellino_, in recompence of one nights lodging with her, and she desired me to keepe them for her sake. Now, the maine reason of my smiling, was the remembrance of her husbands folly, in waging five thousand Duckets of golde, against one thousand of mine, that I should not obtaine my will of his wife, which I did, and thereby wone the wager. But hee, who better deserved to be punished for his folly, then shee, who was but sicke of all womens disease: returning from _Paris_ to _Geneway_, caused her to be slaine, as afterward it was reported by himselfe. When _Sicurano_ heard this horrible lye, immediatly shee conceived, that this was the occasion of her husbands hatred to her, and all the hard haps which she had since suffered: whereupon, shee reputed it for more then a mortall sinne, if such a villaine should passe without due punishment. _Sicurano_ seemed to like well this report, and grew into such familiarity with _Ambroginolo_, that (by her perswasions) when the Fayre was ended, she tooke him higher with her into _Alexandria_, and all his Wares along with him, furnishing him with a fit and convenient Shop, where he made great benefit of his Merchandizes, trusting all his monies in the Captaines custody, because it was the safest course for him; and so he continued there with no meane contentment. Much did shee pitty her Husbands perplexity, devising by what good and warrantable meanes, she might make knowne her innocency to him; wherein her place and authority did greatly sted her, and shee wrought with divers gallant Merchants of _Geneway_, that then remained in _Alexandria_, and by vertue of the _Soldans_ friendly Letters, beside to bring him thither upon an especiall occasion. Come he did, albeit in poore and meane order, which soone was better altered by her appointment, and he very honourably (though in private) entertained by divers of her worthy friends, till time did favour what shee further intended. In the expectation of _Bernardoes_ arrivall, shee had so prevailed with _Ambroginolo_, that the same tale which he formerly tolde to her, he delivered againe in presence of the _Soldane_, who seemed to be well pleased with it: But after shee had once seene her Husband, shee thought upon her more serious businesse; providing her selfe of an apt opportunity, when shee entreated such favour of the _Soldane_, that both the men might be brought before him, where if _Ambroginolo_ would not confesse (without constraint) that which he had made his vaunt of concerning _Bernardoes_ Wife, he might be compelled thereto perforce. _Sicuranoes_ word was a Law with the _Soldane_, so that _Ambroginolo_ and _Bernardo_ being brought face to face, the _Soldane_, with a sterne and angry countenance, in the presence of a most Princely Assembly; commanded _Ambroginolo_ to declare the truth, yea, upon peril of his life, by what means he won the wager, of the five thousand golden Duckets he received of _Bernardo. Ambroginolo_ seeing _Sicurano_ there present, upon whose favour he wholly relied, yet perceiving her lookes likewise to be as dreadfull as the _Soldanes_, and hearing her threaten him with most greevous torments, except he revealed the truth indeede: you may easily guesse (faire company) in what condition he stood at that instant. Frownes and fury he beheld on either side, and _Bernardo_ standing before him, with a world of famous witnesses, to heare his lie confounded by his owne confession, and his tongue to denie what it had before so constantly avouched. Yet dreaming on no other paine or penalty, but restoring backe the five thousand Duckets of gold, and the other things by him purloyned, truly he revealed the whole forme of his falshood. Then _Sicurano_ according as the _Soldane_ had formerly commanded him, turning to _Bernardo_, saide. And thou, upon the suggestion of this foule lie, what didst thou to thy Wife? Being (quoth _Bernardo_) overcome with rage, for the losse of my money, and the dishonour I supposed to receive by my Wife; I caused a servant of mine to kill her, and as he credibly avouched, her body was devoured by ravenous Wolves in a moment after. These things being thus spoken and heard, in the presence of the _Soldane_, and no reason (as yet) made knowne, why the case was so seriously urged, and to what end it would succeede: _Sicurano_ spake in this manner to the Soldane. My gracious Lord, you may plainely perceive, in what degree that poore Gentlewoman might make her vaunt, being so well provided, both of a loving friend, and a husband. Such was the friends love, that in an instant, and by a wicked lye, hee robbed her both of her renowne and honour, and bereft her also of her husband. And her husband, rather crediting anothers falshood, then the invincible trueth, whereof he had faithfull knowledge, by long and very honourable experience; caused her to be slaine, and made foode for devouring Wolves. Beside all this, such was the good will and affection, borne to that woman both by friend and husband, that the longest continuer of them in her company, makes them alike in knowledge of her. But because your great wisedome knoweth perfectly, what each of them have worthily deserved: if you please (in your ever knowne gracious benignity) to permit the punishment of the deceiver, and pardon the party so deceived; I will procure such meanes, that she shall appeare here in your presence, and theirs. The Soldane, being desirous to give _Sicurano_ all manner of satisfaction, having followed the course so industriously: bad him to produce the woman, and hee was well contented. Whereat _Bernardo_ stoode much amazed, because he verily beleeved that she was dead. And _Ambroginolo_ foreseeing already a preparation for punishment, feared, that the repayment of the money would not now serve his turne: not knowing also what he should further hope or suspect, if the woman her selfe did personally appeare, which hee imagined would be a miracle. _Sicurano_ having thus obtayned the Soldanes permission, in teares, humbling her selfe at his feete, in a moment shee lost her manly voyce and demeanour, as knowing, that she was now no longer to use them, but must truely witnesse what she was indeede, and therefore thus spake. Great Soldane, I am the miserable and unfortunate _Genevra_, that, for the space of sixe whole yeares, have wandered through the world, in the habite of a man, falsly and most maliciously slaundered, by this villainous traytour _Ambroginolo_, and by this unkinde cruell husband, betrayed to his servant to be slaine, and left to be devoured by savage beasts. Afterward, desiring such garments as better fitted for her, and shewing her brests; she made it apparant, before the Soldane and his assistants, that she was the very same woman indeede. Then turning her selfe to _Ambroginolo_, with more then manly courage, she demaunded of him, when, and where it was, that he lay with her, as (villainously) he was not ashamed to make his vaunt. But hee, having alreadie acknowledged the contrarie, being stricken dumbe with shamefull disgrace, was not able to utter one word. The Soldane, who had alwayes reputed _Sicurano_ to be a man, having heard and seene so admirable an accident: was so amazed in his minde, that many times he was very doubtfull, whether this was a dreame, or an absolute relation of trueth. But, after hee had more seriously considered thereon, and found it to be reall and infallible: with extraordinary gracious praises, he commended the life, constancie, conditions and vertues of _Genevra_, whom (till that time) he had alwayes called _Sicurano_. So committing her to the company of honourable Ladies, to be changed from her manly habite: he pardoned _Bernardo_ her husband (according to her request formerly made) although hee had more justly deserved death; which likewise himselfe confessed, and falling at the feete of _Genevra_, desired her (in teares) to forgive his rash transgression, which most lovingly she did, kissing and embracing him a thousand times. Then the Soldane strictly commaunded, that on some high and eminent place of the Citie, _Ambroginolo_ should be bound and impaled on a Stake, having his naked body annointed all over with honey, and never to be taken off, untill (of it selfe) it fell in pieces, which, according to the sentence, was presently performed. Next, he gave expresse charge, that all his mony and goods should be given to _Genevra_, which valued above ten thousand double Duckets. Forth-with a solemne feast was prepared, wherein, much honour was done to _Bernardo_, being the husband of _Genevra_: and to her, as to a most worthy woman, and matchlesse wife, he gave in costly Jewelse, as also vesselse of gold and silver plate, so much as amounted to above ten thousand double Duckets more. When the feasting was finished, he caused a Ship to be furnished for them, graunting them licence to depart for _Geneway_ when they pleased: whither they returned most rich and joyfully, being welcommed home with great honour, especially Madame _Genevra_, whom every one supposed to be dead, and alwayes after, so long as shee lived, shee was most famous for her manifold vertues. But as for _Ambroginolo_, the very same day that he was impaled on the Stake, annointed with honey, and fixed in the place appointed, to his no meane torment: he not onely died, but likewise was devoured to the bare bones, by Flyes, Waspes and Hornets, whereof the Countrey notoriously aboundeth. And his bones, in full forme and fashion, remained strangely blacke for a long while after, knit together by the sinewes; as a witnesse to many thousands of people, which afterward beheld his carkasse of his wickednesse against so good and vertuous a woman, that had not so much as a thought of any evill towards him. And thus was the Proverbe truly verified, that shame succeedeth after ugly sinne, and the deceiver is trampled and trod, by such as himselfe hath deceived. Pagamino da Monaco, _a roving Pirate on the Seas, caried away the faire Wife of_ Signior Ricciardo di Chinzica, _who understanding where shee was, went thither; and falling into friendship with_ Pagamino, _demaunded his Wife of him; whereto he yeelded, provided, that shee would willingly goe away with him. She denied to part thence with her Husband, and_ Signior Ricciardo _dying; she became the Wife of_ Pagamino. The tenth Novell. _Wherein olde men are wittily reprehended, that will match themselves with younger women, then is fit for their yeares and insufficiencie; never considering, what afterward may happen to them._ Every one in this honest and gracious assembly, most highly commended the Novell recounted by the Queene: but especially _Dioneus_, who remained, to finish that dayes pleasure with his owne discourse; and after many praises of the former tale were past, thus he began. Faire Ladies, part of the Queenes Novell, hath made an alteration of my minde, from that which I intended to proceede next withall, and therefore I will report another. I cannot forget the unmanly indiscretion of _Bernardo_, but much more the base arrogancie of _Ambroginolo_, how justly deserved shame fell upon him; as well it may happen to all other, that are so vile in their owne opinions, as he apparantly approved himselfe to be. For, as men wander abroade in the world, according to their occasions in diversity of Countries, and observation of the peoples behaviour: so are their humours as variously transported. And if they finde women wantonly disposed abroade, the like judgement they give of their wives at home; as if they had never knowne their birth and breeding, or made proofe of their loyall carriage towards them. Wherefore, the Tale that I purpose to relate, will likewise condemne all the like kinde of men; but more especially such, as suppose themselves to be endued with more strength, then Nature ever meant to bestow upon them, foolishly beleeving, that they can cover and satisfie their owne defects, by fabulous demonstrations; and thinking to fashion other of their owne complexions, that are meerely strangers to such grosse follies. Let me tell you then, that there lived in _Pisa_ (about some hundred yeeres before _Tuscanie_ & _Liguria_ came to embrace the Christian Faith) a Judge better stored with wisdome and ingenuity, then corporall abilities of the body, he being named _Signior Ricciardo di Cinzica_. He being more then halfe perswaded, that he could content a woman with such satisfaction as he daily bestowed on his studies, being a widdower, and extraordinarily wealthy; laboured (with no meane paines and endeavour) to enjoy a faire and youthfull wife in marriage: both which qualities he should much rather have avoyded, if he could have ministred as good counsell to himselfe, as he did to others, resorting to him for advice. Upon this his amorous and diligent inquisition, it came so to passe, that a worthy Gentlewoman, called _Bertolomea_, one of the very fairest and choysest young Maides in _Pisa_, whose youth did hardly agree with his age; but mucke was the motive of this mariage, and no expectation of mutuall contentment. The Judge being maried, and the Bride brought solemnly home to his house, we need make no question of brave cheare & banqueting, wel furnished by their friends on either side: other matters were now hammering in the Judges head, for though he could please all his Clyents with counsell; yet now such a sute was commenced against himself, and in Beauties Court of continuall requests, that the Judge failing in plea for his owne defence, was often non-suited by lacke of answer; yet he wanted neither good wines, drugges, and all restauratives, to comfort the heart, and encrease good blood; but all avayled not in this case. But well fare a good courage, where performance faileth, he could liberally commend his passed joviall dayes, and make a promise of as faire felicities yet to come; because his youth would renew it selfe, like to the Eagle, and his vigour in as full force as before. But beside all these idle allegations, he would needs instruct his wife in an Almanack or Calender, which (long before) he had bought at _Ravenna_, and wherein he plainely shewed her, that there was not any one day in the yeere, but it was dedicated to some Saint or other. In reverence of whom, and for their sakes, he approved by divers arguments & reasons, that a man & his wife ought to abstaine from bedding together. Hereto he added, that those Saints dayes had their fasts & feasts, beside the foure seasons of the yeere, the vigils of the Apostles, and a thousand other holy dayes, with Fridayes, Saturdayes, & Sundayes, in honour of our Lords rest, and all the sacred time of Lent; as also certaine observations of the Moone, & infinite other exceptions beside; thinking perhaps, that it was as convenient for men to refraine from their wives conversation, as he did often times from sitting in the Court. These were his daily documents to his young wife, wherewith (poore soule) she became so tired, as nothing could be more irksome to her; and very carefull he was, lest any other shold teach her what belonged to working daies, because he wold have her know none but holidaies. Afterward it came to passe, that the season waxing extremely hot, _Signior Ricciardo_ would goe recreate himselfe at his house in the Countrey, neere unto the black Mountaine, where for his faire wives more contentment, he continued divers dayes together. And for her further recreation, he gave order, to have a day of fishing; he going aboard a small Pinnace among the Fishers, and shee was in another, consorted with divers other Gentlewomen, in whose company shee shewed her selfe very well pleased. Delight made them launch further into the Sea, then either the Judge was willing they should have done, or agreed with respect of their owne safety. For suddenly a Galliot came upon them, wherein was one _Pagamino_, a Pyrate very famous in those dayes, who espying the two Pinnaces, made out presently to them, and seized on that wherein the women were. When he beheld there so faire a young woman, he coveted after no other purchase; but mounting her into his Galliot, in the sight of _Signior Ricciardo_, who (by this time) was fearefully landed, he caried her away with him. When _Signior_ Judge had seene this theft (he being so jealous of his wife, as scarcely he would let the ayre breathe on her) it were a needlesse demand, to know whether he was offended, or no. He made complaint at _Pisa_, and in many other places beside, what injury he had sustained by those Pyrates, in carying his wife thus away from him: but all was in vaine, he neither (as yet) knew the man, nor whether he had conveyed her from him. _Pagamino_ perceiving what a beautifull woman she was, made the more precious esteeme of his purchase, and being himselfe a bachelar, intended to keepe her as his owne; comforting her with kind and pleasing speeches, not using any harsh or uncivill demeanour to her, because shee wept and lamented grievously. But when night came, her husbands Calendar falling from her girdle, and all the fasts & feasts quite out of her remembrance; she received such curteous consolations from _Pagamino_, that before they could arrive at _Monaco_, the Judge & his Law cases, were almost out of her memory, such was his affable behaviour to her, and she began to converse with him in more friendly manner, and he entreating her as honourably, as if shee had beene his espoused wife. Within a short while after, report had acquainted _Ricciardo_ the Judge, where, & how his wife was kept from him; whereupon he determined, not to send any one, but rather to go himselfe in person, & to redeem her from the Pyrate, with what sums of mony he should demand. By Sea he passed to _Monaco_, where he saw his wife, and shee him, as (soone after) shee made known to _Pagamino_. On the morrow following, _Signior Ricciardo_ meeting with _Pagamino_, made means to be acquainted with him, & within lesse then an houres space, they grew into familiar & private conference: _Pagamino_ yet pretending not to know him, but expected what issue this talke would sort to. When time served, the Judge discoursed the occasion of his comming thither, desiring him to demand what ransome he pleased, & that he might have his wife home with him; whereto _Pagamino_ thus answered. My Lord Judge, you are welcome hither, and to answer you breefely very true it is, that I have a yong Gentlewoman in my house, whome I neither know to be your wife, of any other mans elsee whatsoever: for I am ignorant both of you and her, albeit she hath remained a while here with me. If you bee her husband, as you seeme to avouch, I will bring her to you, for you appeare to be a worthy Gentleman, and (questionles) she cannot chuse but know you perfectly. If she do confirme that which you have said, and be willing to depart hence with you: I shall rest well satisfied, and will have no other recompence for her ransome (in regard of your grave and reverent yeares) but what your selfe shall please to give me. But if it fall out otherwise, and prove not to be as you have affirmed: you shall offer me great wrong, in seeking to get her from me; because I am a young man, and can as well maintaine so faire a wife, as you, or any man elsee that I know. Beleeve it certainly, replied the Judge, that she is my wife, and if you please to bring me where she is, you shall soone perceive it: for, she will presently cast her armes about my neck, and I durst adventure the utter losse of her, if shee denie to doe it in your presence. Come on then, said _Pagamino_, and let us delay the time no longer. When they were entred into _Pagaminoes_ house, and sate downe in the Hall, he caused her to be called, and shee, being readily prepared for the purpose, came forth of her Chamber before them both, where friendly they sate conversing together; never uttering any one word to _Signior Ricciardo_, or knowing him from any other stranger, that _Pagamino_ might bring in to the house with him. Which when my Lord the Judge beheld, (who expected to finde a farre more gracious welcome) he stoode as a man amazed, saying to himselfe. Perhaps the extraordinary griefe and melancholly, suffered by me since the time of her losse; hath so altred my wonted complexion, that shee is not able to take knowledge of me. Wherefore, going neerer to her, hee said. Faire Love, dearely have I bought your going on fishing, because never man felt the like afflictions, as I have done since the day when I lost you: but by this your uncivill silence, you seeme as if you did not know me. Why dearest Love, seest thou not that I am thy husband _Ricciardo_, who am come to pay what ransome this Gentleman shall demaund, even in the house where now we are: so to convay thee home againe, upon his kinde promise of thy deliverance, after the payment of thy ransome? _Bertolomea_ turning towards him, and seeming as if shee smiled to her selfe, thus answered. Sir, speake you to me? Advise your selfe well, least you mistake me for some other, because, concerning my selfe, I doe not remember, that ever I did see you till now. How now quoth _Ricciardo_? consider better what you say, looke more circumspectly on me, and then you will remember, that I am your loving husband, and my name is _Ricciardo di Cinzica_. You must pardon me Sir, replied _Bertolomea_, I know it not so fitting for a modest woman (though you (perhaps) are so perswaded) to stand gazing in the faces of men: and let mee looke upon you never so often, certaine I am, that (till this instant) I have not seene you. My Lord Judge conceived in his mind, that thus she denied all knowledge of him, as standing in feare of _Pagamino_, and would not confesse him in his presence. Wherefore hee entreated of _Pagamino_, to affoord him so much favour, that he might speake alone with her in her Chamber. _Pagamino_ answered, that he was well contented therewith, provided, that he should not kisse her against her will. Then he requested _Bertolomea_, to goe with him alone into her Chamber, there to heare what he could say, and to answere him as shee found occasion. When they were come into the Chamber, and none there present but he and shee, _Signior Ricciardo_ began in this manner. Heart of my heart, life of my life, the sweetest hope that I have in this world; wilt thou not know thine owne _Ricciardo_, who loveth thee more then he doth himselfe? Why art thou so strange? Am I so disfigured, that thou knowest me not? Behold me with a more pleasing eye, I pray thee. _Bertolomea_ smiled to her selfe, and without suffering him to proceed any further in speech, returned him this answere. I would have you to understand Sir, that my memory is not so oblivious, but I know you to be _Signior Ricciardo di Cinzica_, and my husband by name or title; but during the time that I was with you, it very ill appeared that you had any knowledge of me. For if you had been so wise and considerate, as (in your own judgement) the world reputed you to be, you could not be voide of so much apprehension, but did apparantly perceive, that I was young, fresh, and cheerefully disposed; and so (by consequent) meet to know matters requisite for such young women, beside allowance of food & garments, though bashfulnesse & modesty forbid to utter it. But if studying the Lawes were more welcome to you then a wife, you ought not to have maried, & you loose the worthy reputation of a Judge, when you fall from that venerable profession, and make your selfe a common proclaimer of feasts and fasting dayes, lenten seasons, vigils, & solemnities due to Saints, which prohibite the houshold conversation of husbands and wives. Here am I now with a worthy Gentleman, that entertained mee with very honourable respect, and here I live in this chamber, not so much as hearing of any feasts or fasting daies; for, neither Fridaies, Saturdaies, vigils of Saints, or any lingering Lents, enter at this doore: but here is honest and civill conversation, better agreeing with a youthfull disposition, then those harsh documents wherewith you tutord me. Wherefore my purpose is to continue here with him, as being a place sutable to my mind & youth, referring feasts, vigils, & fasting dayes, to a more mature & stayed time of age, when the body is better able to endure them, & the mind may be prepared for such ghostly meditations: depart therefore at your owne pleasure, and make much of your Calender, without enjoying any company of mine, for you heare my resolved determination. The Judge hearing these words, was overcome with exceeding griefe, & when she was silent, thus he began. Alas deare Love, what an answer is this? Hast thou no regard of thine owne honour, thy Parents, & friends? Canst thou rather affect to abide here, for the pleasures of this man, and so sin capitally, then to live at _Pisa_ in the state of my wife? Consider deare heart, when this man shall waxe weary of thee, to thy shame & his owne disgrace, he will reject thee. I must and shall love thee for ever, and when I dye, I leave thee Lady and commandresse of all that is mine. Can an inordinate appetite, cause thee to be carelesse of thine honour, and of him that loves thee as his owne life? Alas, my fairest hope, say no more so, but returne home with me, and now that I am acquainted with thy inclination; I will endeavour heereafter to give thee better contentment. Wherefore (deare heart) doe not denie me, but change thy minde, and goe with me, for I never saw merry day since I lost thee. Sir (quoth she) I desire no body to have care of mine honour, beside my selfe, because it cannot be here abused. And as for my parents, what respect had they of me, when they made me your wife: if then they could be so carelesse of mee, what reason have I to regard them now? And whereas you taxe me, that I cannot live here without capitall sin; farre is the thought thereof from me, for, here I am regarded as the wife of _Pagamino_, but at _Pisa_, you reputed me not worthy your society: because, by the point of the Moone, and the quadratures of Geomatrie; the Planets held conjunction betweene you and me, whereas here I am subject to no such constellations. You say beside, that hereafter you will strive to give me better contentment then you have done: surely, in mine opinion it is no way possible, because our complexions are so farre different, as Ice is from fire, or gold from drosse. As for your allegation, of this Gentlemans rejecting me, when his humour is satisfied; should if it prove to be so (as it is the least part of my feare) what fortune soever shall betide me, never will I make any meanes to you, what miseries or misadventures may happen to me; but the world will affoord me one resting place or other, and more to my contentment, then if I were with you. Therefore I tell you once againe, to live secured from all offence to holy Saints, and not to injury their feasts, fasts, vigills, and other ceremonious seasons: here is my demourance, and from hence I purpose not to part. Our Judge was now in a wofull perplexity, and confessing his folly, in marying a wife so yong, and far unfit for his age and abilitie: being halfe desperate, sad and displeased, he came forth of the Chamber, using divers speeches to _Pagamino_, whereof he made little or no account at all, and in the end, without any other successe, left his wife there, & returned home to _Pisa_. There, further afflictions fell upon him, because the people began to scorne him, demanding dayly of him, what was become of his gallant young wife, making hornes, with ridiculous pointings at him: whereby his sences became distracted, so that he ran raving about the streetes, and afterward died in very miserable manner. Which newes came no sooner to the eare of _Pagamino_, but, in the honourable affection hee bare to _Bertolomea_, he maried her, with great solemnity; banishing all Fasts, Vigils, and Lents from his house, and living with her in much felicity. Wherefore (faire Ladies) I am of opinion, that _Bernardo_ of _Geneway_, in his disputation with _Ambroginolo_, might have shewne himselfe a great deale wiser, and spared his rash proceeding with his wife. This tale was so merrily entertained among the whole company, that each one smiling upon another, with one consent commended _Dioneus_, maintaining that he spake nothing but the truth, & condemning _Bernardo_ for his cruelty. Upon a generall silence commanded, the Queene perceiving that the time was now very farre spent, and every one had delivered their severall Novelse, which likewise gave a period to her Royalty: shee gave the Crowne to Madam _Neiphila_, pleasantly speaking to her in this order. Heereafter, the government of these few people is committed to your trust and care, for with the day concludeth my dominion. Madam _Neiphila_, blushing at the honour done unto her, her cheekes appeared of a vermillion tincture, her eyes glittering with gracefull desires, and sparkling like the morning Starre. And after the modest murmure of the Assistants was ceased, and her courage in chearfull manner setled, seating her selfe higher then she did before, thus she spake. Seeing it is so, that you have elected me your Queene, to varie somewhat from the course observed by them that went before me, whose government you have all so much commended: by approbation of your counsell, I am desirous to speake my mind, concerning what I wold have to be next followed. It is not unknown to you all, that to morrow shal be Friday, and Saturday the next day following, which are daies somewhat molestuous to the most part of men, for preparation of their weekly food & sustenance. Moreover, Friday ought to be reverendly respected, in remembrance of him, who died to give us life, and endured his bitter passion, as on that day; which makes me to hold it fit and expedient, that wee should mind more weighty matters, and rather attend our prayers & devotions, then the repetition of tales or Novelse. Now concerning Saturday, it hath bin a custom observed among women, to bath & wash themselves from such immundicities as the former weekes toile hath imposed on them. Beside, it is a day of fasting, in honour of the ensuing Sabath, whereon no labour may be done, but the observation of holy exercises. By that which hath bin saide, you may easily conceive, that the course which we have hitherto continued, cannot bee prosecuted, in one and the same manner: wherefore, I would advice and do hold it an action wel performed by us, to cease for these few dayes, from recounting any other Novelse. And because we have remained here foure daies already, except we would allow the enlarging of our company, with some other friends that may resort unto us: I think it necessary to remove from hence, & take our pleasure in another place, which is already by me determined. When we shal be there assembled, and have slept on the discourses formerly delivered, let our next argument be still the mutabilities of Fortune, but especially to concerne such persons, as by their wit and ingenuity, industriously have attained to some matter earnestly desired, or elsee recovered againe, after the losse. Heereon let us severally study and premeditate, that the hearers may receive benefit thereby, with the comfortable maintenance of our harmlesse recreations; the priviledge of _Dioneus_ alwayes reserved to himselfe. Every one commended the Queens deliberation, concluding that it shold be accordingly prosecuted: and thereupon, the master of the houshold was called, to give him order for that evenings Table service, and what elsee concerned the time of the Queenes Royalty, wherein he was sufficiently instructed: which being done, the company arose, licensing every one to doe what they listed. The Ladies and Gentlemen walked to the Garden, and having sported themselves there a while; when the houre of supper came, they sate downe, and fared very daintily. Being risen from the Table, according to the Queenes command, Madam _Æmilia_ led the dance, and the ditty following, was sung by Madam _Pampinea_, being answered by all the rest, as a Chorus. _The Song. And if not I, what Lady elsee can sing, Of those delights, which kind contentment bring? Come, come, sweet Love, the cause of my chiefe good, Of all my hopes, the firme and full effect; Sing we together, but in no sad moode, Of sighes or teares, which joy doth counterchecke: Stolne pleasures are delightfull in the taste, But yet Loves fire is often times too fierce; Consuming comfort with ore-speedy haste, Which into gentle hearts too far doth pierce. And if not I, &c. The first day that I felt this fiery heate, So sweete a passion did possesse my soule, That though I found the torment sharpe, and great; Yet still me thought t'was but a sweete controule. Nor could I count it rude, or rigorous, Taking my wound from such a piercing eye: As made the paine most pleasing, gracious, That I desire in such assaults to die. And if not I, &c. Grant then great God of Love, that I may still Enjoy the benefit of my desire; And honour her with all my deepest skill, That first enflamde my heart with holy fire. To her my bondage is free liberty, My sicknesse health, my tortures sweet repose; Say shee the word, in full felicity, All my extreames joyne in an happy close. Then if not I, what Lover elsee can sing, Of those delights which kind contentment bring._ After this Song was ended, they sung divers other beside, and having great variety of instruments, they played to them as many pleasing dances. But the Queene considering that the meete houre for rest was come, with their lighted Torches before them they all repaired to their Chambers; sparing the other dayes next succeeding, for those reasons by the Queene alleaged, and spending the Sunday in solemne devotion. _The ende of the second Day._ The Third Day. _Upon which Day, all matters to be discoursed on, doe passe under the regiment of Madam_ Neiphila: _concerning such persons as (by their wit and industry) have attained to their long wished desires, or recovered something, supposed to be lost. The Induction to the ensuing Discourses._ The morning put on a vermillion countenance, and made the Sunne to rise blushing red, when the Queene (and all the faire company) were come abroade forth of their Chambers; the Seneshall or great Master of the Houshold, having (long before) sent all things necessary to the place of their next intended meeting. And the people which prepared there every needfull matter, suddainely when they saw the Queen was setting forward, charged all the rest of their followers, as if it had been preparation for a Campe; to make hast away with the carriages, the rest of the Familie remaining behind, to attend upon the Ladies and Gentlemen. With a milde, majesticke, and gentle peace, the Queen rode on, being followed by the other Ladies, and the three young Gentlemen, taking their way towards the West; conducted by the musicall notes of sweete singing Nightingales, and infinite other pretty Birds beside, riding in a tract not much frequented, but richly abounding with faire hearbes and floures, which by reason of the Sunnes high mounting, beganne to open their bosome, and fill the fresh Ayre with their odorifferous perfumes. Before they had travelled two small miles distance, all of them pleasantly conversing together; they arrived at another goodly Palace, which being somewhat mounted above the plaine, was seated on the side of a little rising hill. When they were entred there into, and had seene the great Hall, the Parlours, and beautifull Chambers, every one stupendiously furnished, with all convenient commodities to them belonging, and nothing wanting, that could be desired; they highly commended it, reputing the Lord thereof for a most worthy man, that had adorned it in such Princely manner. Afterward, being descended lower, and noting the most spacious and pleasant Court, the Sellars stored with the choysest Wines, and delicate Springs of water every where running, their prayses then exceeded more and more. And being weary with beholding such variety of pleasures, they sate downe in a faire Gallery, which took the view of the whole Court, it being round engirt with trees and floures, whereof the season then yeelded great plenty. And then came the discreete Master of the Houshold, with divers servants attending on him, presenting them with Comfits, and other Banquetting, as also very singular Wines, to serve in sted of a breakefast. Having thus reposed themselves a while, a Garden gate was set open to them, coasting on one side of the Pallace, and round inclosed with high mounted walles. Whereinto when they were entred, they found it to be a most beautifull Garden, stored with all varieties that possibly could be devised; and therefore they observed it the more respectively. The walkes and allyes were long and spacious, yet directly straite as an arrow, environed with spreading vines, whereon the grapes hung in copious clusters; which being come to their full ripenesse, gave so rare a smell throughout the Garden, with other sweete savours intermixed among, that they supposed to feele the fresh spiceries of the East. It would require large length of time, to describe all the rarities of this place, deserving much more to be commended, then my best faculties will affoord me. In the middest of the Garden, was a square plot, after the resemblance of a Meadow, flourishing with high grasse, hearbes, and plants, beside a thousand diversities of floures, even as if by the art of painting they had beene there deputed. Round was it circkled with very verdant Orenge and Cedar Trees, their branches plentiously stored with fruite both old and new, as also the floures growing freshly among them, yeelding not onely a rare aspect to the eye, but also a delicate savour to the smell. In the middest of this Meadow, stood a Fountaine of white Marble, whereon was engraven most admirable workemanship, and within it (I know not whether it were by a naturall veine, or artificiall) flowing from a figure, standing on a Collomne in the midst of the Fountaine, such aboundance of water, and so mounting up towards the Skies, that it was a wonder to behold. For after the high ascent, it fell downe againe into the wombe of the Fountaine, with such a noyse and pleasing murmur, as the streame that glideth from a mill. When the receptacle of the Fountaine did overflow the bounds, it streamed along the Meadow, by secret passages and chanelse, very faire and artificially made, returning againe into every part of the Meadow, by the like wayes of cunning conveighance, which allowed it full course into the Garden, running swiftly thence down towards the plaine; but before it came thether, the very swift current of the streame, did drive two goodly Milles, which brought in great benefit to the Lord of the soile. The sight of this Garden, the goodly grafts, plants, trees, hearbes, frutages, and flowers, the Springs, Fountaines, and prety rivolets streaming from it, so highly pleased the Ladies and Gentlemen, that among other infinite commendations, they spared not to say: if any Paradise remayned on the earth to be seene, it could not possibly bee in any other place, but onely was contained within the compasse of this Garden. With no meane pleasure and delight they walked round about it, making Chaplets of flowers, and other faire branches of the trees, continually hearing the Birds in mellodious notes, ecchoing and warbling one to another, even as if they envied each others felicities. But yet another beauty (which before had not presented it selfe unto them) on a sodaine they perceyved; namely divers prety creatures in many parts of the Gardens. In one place Conies tripping about; in another place Hares: in a third part Goats browsing on the hearbes, & little yong Hindes feeding every where: yet without strife or warring together, but rather living in such a Domesticke and pleasing kinde of company, even as if they were appoynted to enstruct the most noble of all creatures, to imitate their sociable conversation. When their senses had sufficiently banquetted on these several beauties, the tables were sodainly prepared about the Fountaine, where first they sung sixe Canzonets; and having paced two or three dances, they sate downe to dinner, according as the Queene ordained, being served in very sumptuous manner, with all kinde of costly and delicate viands, yet not any babling noise among them. The Tables being withdrawne, they played againe upon their instruments, singing and dancing gracefully together: till, in regard of the extreame heate, the _Queene_ commanded to give over, and permitted such as were so pleased, to take their ease and rest. But some, as not satisfied with the places pleasures, gave themselves to walking: others fell to reading the lives of the Romanes; some to the Chesse, and the rest to other recreations. But, after the dayes warmth was more mildely qualified, and everie one had made benefit of their best content: they went (by order sent from the _Queene_) into the Meadow where the Fountaine stood, and being set about it, as they used to do in telling their Tales (the argument appointed by the _Queene_ being propounded) the first that had the charge imposed, was _Philostratus_, who began in this manner. Massetto di Lamporechio, _by counterfetting himselfe to be dumbe, became a Gardiner in a Monastery of Nunnes, where he had familiar conversation with them all._ The first Novell. _Wherein is declared, that virginity is very hardly to be kept, in all places._ Most woorthy Ladies, there wantes no store of men and women, that are so simple, as to credit for a certainty, that so soon as a yong virgin hath the veile put on hir head (after it is once shorn and filletted) & the blacke Cowle given to cover her withall: shee is no longer a woman, nor more sensible of feminine affections, then as if in turning Nun, shee became converted to a stone. And if (perchance) they heard some matters, contrary to their former setled perswasion; then they growe so furiously offended, as if one had committed a most foul and enormous sinne, directly against the course of nature. And the torrent of this opinion hurries them on so violently, that they will not admit the least leisure to consider, how (in such a full scope of liberty) they have power to do what they list, yea beyonde all meanes of sufficient satisfying; never remembring withall, how potent the priviledge of idlenesse is, especially when it is backt by solitude. In like manner, there are other people now, who do verily believe, that the Spade and Pickaxe, grosse feeding and labour, do quench all sensuall and fleshly concupiscences, yea, in such as till and husband the grounds, by making them dull, blockish, and (almost) meere senslesse of understanding. But I will approve (according as the Queene hath commanded me, and within the compasse of her direction) and make it apparant to you al, by a short and pleasant Tale; how greatly they are abused by error, that build upon so weake a foundation. Not far from _Alexandria_, there was (and yet is) a great & goodly Monastery, belonging to the Lord of those parts, who is termed the Admirall. And therein, under the care and trust of one woman, divers virgins were kept as recluses or Nunnes, vowed to chastity of life; out of whose number, the Soldan of _Babylon_ (under whom they lived in subjection) at every three yeares end, had usually three of these virgins sent him. At the time whereof I am now to speak, there remained in the Monastery, no more but eight religious Sisters only, beside the Governesse or Lady Abbesse, and an honest poore man, who was a Gardiner, and kept the garden in commendable order. His wages being small, and he not well contented therewith, would serve there no longer: but making his accounts even, with the _Factotum_ or Bayliffe belonging to the house, returned thence to the village of _Lamporechio_, being a native of the place. Among many other that gave him welcom home, was a yong Hebrew pezant of the country, sturdy, strong, and yet comely of person, being named _Masset_. But because he was born not farre off from _Lamporechio_, and had there bin brought up all his yonger dayes, his name of _Masset_ (according to their vulgar speech) was turned to _Massetto_, and therefore he was usually called and knowne, by the name of _Massetto_ of _Lamporechio_. _Massetto_, falling in talke with the honest poore man, whose name was _Lurco_, demanded of him what services hee had done in the Monasterie, having continued there so long a time? Quoth _Lurco_ I laboured in the Garden, which is very faire and great; then I went to the Forest to fetch home wood, and cleft it for their Chamber fuell, drawing uppe all their water beside, with many other toilesome services elsee: but the allowance of my wages was so little, as it would not pay for the shooes I wore. And that which was worst of all, they being all yong women, I thinke the devill dwelse among them, for a man cannot doe any thing to please them. When I have bene busie at my worke in the Garden, one would come & say, Put this heere, put that there; and others would take the dibble out of my hand, telling me, that I did not performe any thing well, making me so weary of their continuall trifling, as I have lefte all businesse, gave over the Garden, and what for one molestation, as also many other; I intended to tarry no longer there, but came away, as thou seest. And yet the _Factotum_ desired me at my departing, that if I knew any one, who would undertake the aforesaid labours, I should send him thither, as (indeed) I promised to do; but let mee fall sicke and dye, before I helpe to send them any. When _Massetto_ had heard the Words of _Lurco_, hee was so desirous to dwell among the Nunnes, that nothing elsee now hammered in his head: for he meant more subtilly, then poore _Lurco_ did, and made no doubt, to please them sufficiently. Then considering with himselfe, how best he might bring his intent to effect; which appeared not easily to be done, he could question no further therein with _Lurco_, but onely demanded other matters of him, and among them said. Introth thou didst well _Lurco_, to come away from so tedious a dwelling; had he not need to be more then a man that is to live with such women? It were better for him to dwell among so many divelse, because they understand not the tenth part that womens wily wits can dive into. After their conference was ended, _Massetto_ began to beat his braines, how he might compasse to dwell among them, & knowing that he could well enough performe all the labours, whereof _Lurco_ had made mention: he cared not for any losse he should sustaine thereby: but onely stoode in doubt of his entertainment, because he was too yong and sprightly. Having pondered on many imaginations, he saide to himselfe. The place is farre enough distant hence, and none there can take knowledge of mee; if I have wit sufficient, cleanely to make them beleeve that I am dumbe, then (questionlesse) I shall be received. And resolving to prosecute this determination, he tooke a Spade on his shoulder, and without revealing to any body, whether he went, in the disguise of a poore labouring countryman, he travelled to the Monastery. When he was there arrived, he found the great gate open, and entering in boldly, it was his good hap to espy the _Fac-totum_ in the court, according as _Lurco_ had given description of him. Making signes before him, as if he were both dumbe and deafe; he manifested, that he craved an Almes for Gods sake, making shewes beside, that if need required, he could cleave wood, or do any reasonable kinde of service. The _Fac-totum_ gladly gave him food, and afterward shewed him divers knotty logs of wood, which the weake strength of _Lurco_ had left uncloven; but this fellow being more active and lusty, quickly rent them all to pieces. Now it so fell out, that the _Fac-totum_ must needs go to the Forrest, and tooke _Massetto_ along with him thither: where causing him to fell divers Trees, by signes he bad him to lade the two Asses therewith, which commonly carried home all the wood, and so drive them to the Monasterie before him, which _Massetto_ knew well enough how to do, and performed it very effectually. Many other servile offices were there to bee done, which caused the _Fac-totum_ to make use of his paines divers other dayes beside: in which time, the Lady Abbesse chancing to see him, demanded of the _Fac-totum_ what he was? Madam (quoth hee) a poore labouring man, who is both deafe and dumbe: hither he came to crave an almes the other day, which in charity I could do no lesse but give him; for which hee hath done many honest services about the house. It seemes beside, that hee hath some pretty skill in Gardening, so that if I can perswade him to continue here, I make no question of his able services: for the old silly man is gone, and we have neede of such a stout fellow, to do the businesse belonging unto the Monastery, and one fitter for the turne, comes sildome hither. Moreover, in regard of his double imperfections, the Sisters can sustaine no impeachment by him. Whereto the Abbesse answered, saying; By the faith of my body, you speake but the truth: understand then, if hee have any knowledge in Gardening, and whether hee will dwell heere, or no: which compasse so kindly as you can. Let him have a new paire of shoes, fill his belly daily full of meate, flatter, and make much of him, for wee shall finde him worke enough to do. All which, the _Fac-totum_ promised to fulfill sufficiently. _Massetto_, who was not farre off from them all this while, but seemed seriously busied, about sweeping and making cleane the Court, hearde all these speeches; and being not a little joyfull of them, saide to himselfe. If once I come to worke in your Garden, let the proofe yeelde praise of my skill and knowledge. When the _Fac-totum_ perceived, that he knew perfectly how to undergo his businesse, and had questioned him by signes, concerning his willingnesse to serve there still, and received the like answer also, of his dutifull readinesse thereto; he gave him order, to worke in the Garden, because the season did now require it; and to leave all other affayres for the Monastery, attending now onely the Gardens preparation. As _Massetto_ was thus about his Garden emploiment, the Nunnes began to resort thither, and thinking the man to bee dumbe and deafe indeede, were the more lavish of their language, mocking and flowting him very immodestly, as being perswaded, that he heard them not. And the Lady Abbesse, thinking he might as well be an Eunuch, as deprived both of hearing and speaking, stood the lesse in feare of the Sisters walks, but referred them to their owne care and providence. On a day, _Massetto_ having laboured somewhat extraordinarily, lay downe to rest him selfe awhile under the trees, and two delicate yong Nunnes, walking there to take the aire, drew neere to the place where he dissembled sleeping; and both of them observing his comelinesse of person, began to pity the poverty of his condition, but much more the misery of his great defectes. Then one of them, who had a little livelier spirit then the other, thinking _Massetto_ to be fast asleepe, began in this manner. Sister (quoth she) if I were faithfully assured of thy secrecie, I would tell thee a thing which I have often thought on, and it may (perhaps) redound to thy profit. [Sidenote: Example, at least excuses formed to that intent prevaileth much with such kind of religious women.] Sister, replyed the other Nun, speake your minde boldly, and beleeve it (on my Maiden-head) that I will never reveale it to any creature living. Encouraged by this solemne answer, the first Nun thus prosecuted her former purpose, saying. I know not Sister, whether it hath entred into thine understanding or no, how strictly we are here kept and attended, never any man daring to adventure among us, except our good and honest _Fac-totum_, who is very aged; and this dumbe fellow, maimed, and made imperfect by nature, and therefore not woorthy the title of a man. Ah Sister, it hath oftentimes bin told me, by Gentle-women comming hither to visite us, that all other sweetes in the world, are meere mockeries, to the incomparable pleasures of man and woman, of which we are barred by our unkind parents, binding us to perpetuall chastity, which they were never able to observe themselves. A Sister of this house once told me, that before her turne came to be sent to the Soldane, she fell in frailty, with a man that was both lame and blinde, and discovering the same to her Ghostly Father in confession; he absolved her of that sinne; affirming, that she had not transgressed with a man, because he wanted his rationall and understanding parts. Behold Sister, heere lyes a creature, almost formed in the selfe-same mold, dumb and deafe, which are two the most rational and understanding parts that do belong to any man, and therefore no Man, wanting them. If folly & frailty should be committed with him (as many times since hee came hither it hath run in my minde) hee is by Nature, sworne to such secrecie, that he cannot (if he would) be a blabbe thereof. Beside, the Lawes and constitutions of our Religion doth teach us, that a sinne so assuredly concealed, is more then halfe absolved. _Ave Maria_ Sister (said the other Nunne) what kinde of words are these you utter? Doe not you know, that wee have promised our virginity to God? Oh Sister (answered the other) how many things are promised to him every day, and not one of a thousand kept or performed? If wee have made him such a promise, and some of our weaker witted Sisters do performe it for us, no doubt but he will accept it in part of payment. Yea but Sister, replied the second Nunne againe, there is another danger lying in our way: If wee prove to be with childe, how shall we doe then? Sister (quoth our couragious Wench) thou art afraid of a harme, before it happen, if it come so to passe, let us consider on it then: thou art but a Novice in matters of such moment, and wee are provided of a thousand meanes, whereby to prevent conception. Or, if they should faile, wee are so surely fitted, that the world shall never know it: let it suffice, our lives must not be (by any) so much as suspected, our Monasterie questioned, or our Religion rashly scandalized. Thus shee schooled her younger Sister in wit, albeit as forward as she in will, and longed as desirously, to know what kinde a creature a man was. After some other questions, how this intention of theirs might be safely brought to full effect: the sprightly Nunne, that had wit at will, thus answered. You see Sister (quoth she) it is now the houre of midday, when all the rest of our Sisterhood are quiet in their Chambers, because we are then allowed to sleepe, for our earlier rising to morning Mattins. Here are none in the Garden now but our selves, and, while I awake him, be you the watch, and afterward follow me in my fortune, for I will valiantly leade you the way. _Massetto_ imitating a dogges sleepe, heard all this conspiracie intended against him, and longed as earnestly, till shee came to awake him. Which being done, he seeming very simply sottish, and she chearing him with flattering behaviour: into the close Arbour they went, which the Sunnes bright eye could not pierce into, and there I leave it to the Nunnes owne approbation, whether _Massetto_ was a man rationall, or no. Ill deedes require longer time to contrive, then act, and both the Nunnes, having beene with _Massetto_ at this new forme of confession, were enjoyned (by him) such an easie and silent penance, as brought them the oftner to shrift, and made him to proove a perfect Confessour. Desires obtained, but not fully satisfied, doe commonly urge more frequent accesse, then wisdome thinkes expedient, or can continue without discoverie. Our two Joviall Nunnes, not a little proud of their private stolne pleasures, so long resorted to the close Arbour; till an other Sister, who had often observed their haunt thither, by meanes of a little hole in her window; that shee began to suspect them with _Massetto_, and imparted the same to two other Sisters, all three concluding, to accuse them before the Lady Abbesse. But upon a further conference had with the offenders, they changed opinion, tooke the same oath as the forewoman had done, and because they would be free from any taxation at all: they revealed their adventures to the other three ignorants, and so fell all eight into one formall confederacie, but by good and warie observation, least the Abbesse her selfe should descry them; finding poore _Massetto_ such plenty of Garden-worke, as made him very doubtfull in pleasing them all. It came to passe in the end, that the Lady Abbesse, who all this while imagined no such matter, walking all alone in the Garden on a day, found _Massetto_ sleeping under an Almond tree, having then very little businesse to doe, because he had wrought hard all the night before. Shee observed him to be an hansome man, young, lusty, well limbde, and proportioned, having a mercifull commisseration of his dumbnesse and deafenesse, being perswaded also in like manner, that if he were an Eunuch too, he deserved a thousand times the more to be pittied. The season was exceeding hot, and he lay downe so carelesly to sleepe, that something was noted, wherein shee intended to be better resolved, almost falling sicke of the other Nunnes disease. Having awaked him, she commanded him (by signes) that he should follow her to her chamber, where he was kept close so long, that the Nunnes grew offended, because the Gardener came not to his dayly labour. Well may you imagine that _Massetto_ was no misse-proud man now, to be thus advanced from the Garden to the Chamber, and by no worse woman, then the Lady Abbesse her selfe, what signes, shewes, or what language he speaks there, I am not able to expresse; onely it appeard that his behaviour pleased her so well, as it procured his daily repairing thither; and acquainted her with such familiar conversation, as shee would have condemned in the Nuns her daughters, but that they were wise enough to keepe it from her. Now began _Massetto_ to consider with himselfe, that he had undertaken a taske belonging to great _Hercules_, in giving contentment to so many, and by continuing dumbe in this manner, it would redound to his no meane detriment. Whereupon, as hee was one night sitting by the Abbesse, the string that restrained his tongue from speech, brake on a sodaine, and thus he spake. Madam, I have often heard it said, that one Cocke may doe service to ten severall Hennes, but ten men can (very hardly) even with all their best endeavour, give full satisfaction every way to one woman; and yet I am tied to content nine, which is farre beyond the compasse of my power to doe. Already have I performed so much Garden and Chamber-worke, that I confesse my selfe starke tired, and can travaile no further; and therefore let me entreate you to lysence my departure hence, or finde some meanes for my better ease. The Abbesse hearing him speake, who had so long served there dumbe; being stricken into admiration, and accounting it almost a miracle, saide. How commeth this to passe? I verily beleeved thee to be dumbe. Madam (quoth _Massetto_) so I was indeed, but not by Nature; onely I had a long lingering sicknesse, which bereft me of speech, and which I have not onely recovered againe this night, but shall ever remaine thankfull to you for it. The Abbesse verily credited his answer, demanding what he meant, in saying, that he did service to nine? Madam, quoth he, this were a dangerous question, and not easily answered before all the eight Sisters. Upon this reply, the Abbesse plainly perceived, that not onely shee had fallen into folly, but all the Nunnes likewise cried guilty too: wherefore being a woman of sound discretion, she would not grant that _Massetto_ should depart, but to keepe him still about the Nunnes businesse, because the Monastery should not be scandalized by him. And the _Fac-totum_ being dead a little before, his strange recovery of speech revealed, and some things elsee more neerely concerning them: by generall consent, & with the good liking of _Massetto_, he was created the _Fac-totum_ of the Monasterie. All the neighbouring people dwelling thereabout, who knew _Massetto_ to be dumbe, by fetching home wood daily from the Forrest, and divers employments in other places; were made to beleeve that by the Nunnes devoute prayers and discipline, as also the merits of the Saint, in whose honour the Monastery was built and erected, _Massetto_ had his long restrained speech restored, and was now become their sole _Fac-totum_, having power now to employ others in drudgeries, and ease himselfe of all such labours. And albeit he make the Nunnes to be fruitfull, by encreasing some store of yonger Sisters; yet all matters were so close & cleanly carried, as it was never talkt of, till after the death of the Ladie Abbesse, when _Massetto_ beganne to grow in good yeares, and desired, to returne home to his Native abiding, which (within a while after) was granted him. Thus _Massetto_, being rich and old, returned home like a wealthy Father, taking no care for the nursing of his children, but bequeathed them to the place where they were bred and born, having (by his wit and ingenious apprehension) made such a benefit of his youthfull years, that now he merrily tooke ease in his age. _A Querry of the Stable, belonging to_ Agilulffo; _King of the Lombards, found the meanes of accesse to the Queenes bed, without any knowledge or consent in her. This being secretly discovered by the King, and the party knowne, he gave him a marke, by shearing the haire of his head. Whereupon, he that was so shorne, sheared likewise the heads of all his fellowes in the lodging, and so escaped the punishment intended towards him._ The second Novell. _Wherein is signified, the providence of a wise man, when he shall have reason to use revenge. And the cunning craft of another, when hee compasseth meanes to defend himselfe from perill._ When the Novell of _Philostratus_ was concluded, which made some of the Ladies blush, and the rest to smile: it pleased the Queene, that Madam _Pampinea_ should follow next, to second the other gone before; when she, smiling on the whole assembly, began thus. There are some men so shallow of capacity, that they will (neverthelesse) make shew of knowing and understanding such things, as neither they are able to doe, nor appertaine to them: whereby they will sometimes reprehend other mens errors, and such faults as they have unwillingly committed, thinking thereby to hide their owne shame, when they make it much more apparant and manifest. For proofe whereof, faire company, in a contrary kinde I will shew you the subtill cunning of one, who (perhaps) might be reputed of lesse reckoning then _Massetto_; and yet hee went beyond a King, that thought himselfe to be a much wiser man. _Agilulffo_, King of _Lombardie_, according as his Predecessours had done before him, made the principall seate of his Kingdome, in the Citie of _Pavia_, having embraced in mariage, _Tendelinga_, the late left widdow of _Vetario_, who likewise had beene King of the _Lombards_; a most beautifull, wise and vertuous Lady, but made unfortunate by a mischance. The occurrences and estate of the whole Realme, being in an honourable, quiet and well setled condition, by the discreete care and providence of the King; a Querrie appertaining to the Queenes Stable of Horse, being a man but of meane and lowe quality, though comely of person, and of equall stature to the King; became immeasurably amorous of the Queene. And because his base and servile condition, had endued him with so much understanding, as to know infallibly, that his affection was mounted, beyond the compasse of conveniencie; wisely hee concealed it to himselfe, not acquainting any one therewith, or daring so much, as to discover it either by lookes, or any other affectionate behaviour. And although hee lived utterly hopelesse, of ever attaining to his hearts desires; yet notwithstanding, hee proudly gloried, that his love had soared so high a pitch, as to be enamoured of a Queene. And dayly, as the fury of his flame encreased; so his cariage was farre above his fellowes and companions, in the performing of all such serviceable duties, as any way he imagined might content the Queene. Whereon ensued, that whensoever shee roade abroad to take the ayre, shee used oftner to mount on the Horse, which this Querrie brought when shee made her choise, then any of the other that were led by his fellowes. And this did he esteeme as no meane happinesse to him, to order the stirrope for her mounting, and therefore gave dayly his due attendance: so that, to touch the Stirrope, but (much more) to put her foote into it, or touch any part of her garments, he thought it the onely heaven on earth. But, as we see it oftentimes come to passe, that by how much the lower hope declineth, so much the higher love ascendeth; even so fel it out with this poore Querry; for, most irkesome was it to him, to endure the heavy waight of his continuall oppressions, not having any hope at all of the very least mitigation. And being utterly unable to relinquish his love divers times he resolved on some desperate conclusion, which might yet give the world an evident testimony, that he dyed for the love he bare to the Queene. And upon this determination, hee grounded the successe of his future fortune, to dye in compassing some part of his desire, without either speaking to the Queene, or sending any missive of his love; for to speake or write, were meerely in vaine, and drew on a worser consequence then death, which he could bestow on himselfe more easily, and when he listed. No other course now beleagers his braines, but onely for secret accesse to the Queenes bed, and how he might get entrance into her Chamber, under colour of the King, who (as he knew very well) slept manie nights together from the Queene. Wherefore, to see in what manner, & what the usuall habit was of the King, when he came to keepe companie with his Queene: he hid himselfe divers nights in a Gallery, which was betweene both their lodging Chambers. At length, he saw the King come forth of his Chamber, himselfe all alone, with a faire night-mantle wrapt about him, carrying a lighted Taper in the one hand, and a small white Wand in the other, so went he on to the Queenes lodging; and knocking at the doore once or twice with the wand, and not using any word, the doore opened, the light was left without, and he entered the Chamber, where he stayed not long, before his returning backe againe, which likewise very diligently he observed. So familiar was he in the Wardrobe, by often fetching and returning the King and Queenes furnitures; that the fellowe to the same Mantle, which the King wore when he went to the Queene, very secretly he conveighed away thence with him, being provided of a Light, and the verie like Wand. Now bestowes he costly bathings on his body, that the least sent of the Stable might not be felt about him; and finding a time sutable to his desire, when he knew the King to be at rest in his owne Lodging, and all elsee sleeping in their beds; closely he steals into the Gallery, where alighting his Taper, with Tinder purposely brought thither, the Mantle folded about him, and the Wand in his hand, valiantly he adventures upon his lives perill. Twice hee knockt softly at the doore, which a wayting woman immediately opened, and receyving the Light, went forth into the Gallery, while the supposed King, was conversing with the Queene. Alas good Queene, heere is sinne committed, without any guiltie thought in thee, as (within a while after) it plainely appeared. For, the Querry having compassed what he most coveted, and fearing to forfeite his life by delay, when his amorous desire was indifferently satisfied: returned backe as he came, the sleepy waiting woman not so much as looking on him, but rather glad, that she might get her to rest againe. Scarcely was the Querrie stept into his bed, unheard or discerned by any of his fellowes, divers of them lodging both in that and the next Chamber: but it pleased the King to visite the Queene, according to his wonted manner, to the no little mervaile of the drowsie wayting woman, who was never twice troubled in a night before. The King being in bed, whereas alwayes till then, his resort to the Queene, was altogether in sadnesse and melancholly, both comming and departing without speaking one word: now his Majestie was become more pleasantly disposed, whereat the Queene began not a little to mervaile. Now trust mee Sir, quoth shee, this hath been a long wished, and now most welcome alteration, vouchsafing twice in a night to visite me, and both within the compasse of one houre; for it cannot be much more, since your being here, and now comming againe. The King hearing these words, sodainly presumed, that by some counterfeit person or other, the Queene had been this night beguiled: wherefore (very advisedly) hee considered, that in regard the party was unknowne to her, and all the women about her; to make no outward appearance of knowing it, but rather concealed it to himselfe. Farre from the indiscretion of some hare-braind men, who presently would have answered and sworne; I came not hither this night, till now. Whereupon many dangers might ensue, to the dishonour and prejudice of the Queene; beside, hir error being discovered to hir, might afterward be an occasion, to urge a wandring in her appetite, and to covet after change againe. But by this silence, no shame redounded to him or her, whereas prating, must needes be the publisher of open infamie: yet was hee much vexed in his minde, which neither by lookes or words hee would discover, but pleasantly said to the Queene. Why Madame, although I was once heere before to night, I hope you mislike not my second seeing you, nor if I should please to come againe. No truely Sir, quoth she, I only desire you to have care of your health. Well, said the King, I will follow your counsaile, and now returne to mine owne lodging againe, committing my Queene to her good rest. His blood boyling with rage and distemper, by such a monstrous injurie offered him; he wrapt his night-mantle about him, and leaving his Chamber, imagining, that whatsoever he was, needes he must be one of his owne house: he tooke a light in his hand, and convayed it into a little Lanthorne, purposing to be resolved in his suspition. No guests or strangers were now in his Court, but onely such as belonged to his houshold, who lodged altogether about the Escurie and Stables, being there appointed to divers beds. Now, this was his conceite, that whosoever had beene so lately familiar with the Queene, his heart and pulse could (as yet) be hardly at rest, but rather would be troubled with apparant agitation, as discovering the guilt of so great an offender. Many Chambers had hee passed thorow, where all were soundly sleeping, and yet he felt both their brests and pulses. At last he came to the lodging of the man indeede, that had so impudently usurped his place, who could not as yet sleepe, for joy of his atchieved adventure. When he espied the King come in, knowing well the occasion of his search, he began to waxe very doubtfull, so that his heart and pulse beating extremely, he felt a further addition of feare, as being confidently perswaded, that there was now no other way but death, especially if the King discovered his agony. And although many considerations were in his braine, yet because he saw that the King was unarmed, his best refuge was, to make shew of sleepe, in expectation what the King intended to doe. Among them all he had sought, yet could not find any likelihood, whereby to gather a grounded probability; untill he came to this Querry, whose heart and pulses laboured so sternely, that he said to himselfe; yea mary, this is the man that did the deede. Neverthelesse, purposing to make no apparance of his further intention, he did nothing elsee to him, but drawing foorth a paire of sheares, which purposely he brought thither with him, he clipped away a part of his lockes, which (in those times) they used to weare very long, to the end that he might the better know him the next morning, and so returned backe to his lodging againe. The Querry, who partly saw, but felt what was done to him; perceived plainely (being a subtill ingenious fellow) for what intent he was thus marked. Wherefore, without any longer dallying, up he rose, and taking a paire of sheares, wherewith they used to trim their Horses; softly he went from bed to bed, where they all lay yet soundly sleeping, and clipt away each mans locke from his right eare, in the selfe same manner as the King had done his, and being not perceived by any one of them, quietly he laide him downe againe. In the morning, when the King was risen, he gave command that before the Pallace gates were opened, all his whole Family should come before him, as instantly his will was fulfilled. Standing all uncovered in his presence, he began to consider with himselfe, which of them was the man that he had marked. And seeing the most part of them to have their lockes cut, all after one and the selfe same manner; marvailing greatly, he saide to himselfe. The man whom I seeke for, though he be but of meane and base condition, yet it plainely appeareth, that he is of no deject or common understanding. And seeing, that without further clamour and noyse, he could not find out the party he looked for; he concluded, not to win eternall shame, by compassing a poore revenge: but rather (by way of admonition) to let the offender know in a word, that he was both noted and observed. So turning to them all, he saide; He that hath done it, let him be silent, and doe so no more, and now depart about your businesse. Some other turbulent spirited man, no imprisonments, tortures, examinations, and interrogatories, could have served his turne; by which course of proceeding, he makes the shame to be publikely knowne, which reason requireth to keepe concealed. But admit that condigne vengeance were taken, it diminisheth not one title of the shame, neither qualifieth the peoples bad affections, who will lash out as liberally in scandall, and upon the very least babling rumor. Such therefore as heard the Kings words, few though they were, yet truly wise; marvelled much at them, and by long examinations among themselves, questioned, but came far short of his meaning; the man onely excepted, whom indeede they concerned, and by whom they were never discovered, so long as the King lived, neither did he dare at any time after, to hazard his life in the like action, under the frownes or favour of Fortune. _Under colour of Confession, and of a most pure conscience, a faire young Gentlewoman, being amourously affected to an honest man; induced a devoute and solemne religious Friar, to advise her in the meanes (without his suspition or perceiving) how to enjoy the benefit of her friend, and bring her desires to their full effect._ The third Novell. _Declaring, that the leude and naughty qualities of some persons, doe oftentimes misguide good people, into very great and greevous errors._ When Madam _Pampinea_ sate silent, and the Querries boldnesse equalled with his crafty cunning, and great wisedome in the King had passed among them with generall applause; the Queene, turning her selfe to Madam _Philomena_, appointed her to follow next in order, and to hold rancke with her discourse, as the rest had done before her: whereupon _Philomena_ graciously began in this manner. It is my purpose, to acquaint you with a notable mockery, which was performed (not in jest, but earnest) by a faire Gentlewoman, to a grave and devoute religious Friar, which will yeelde so much the more pleasure and recreation, to every secular understander, if but diligently he or shee doe observe; how commonly those religious persons (at least the most part of them) like notorious fooles, are the inventers of new courses and customes, as thinking themselves more wise and skilful in all things then any other; yet prove to be of no worth or validity, addicting the very best of all their devises, to expresse their owne vilenesse of minde, and fatten themselves in their sties, like to pampered Swine. And assure your selves worthy Ladies, that I doe not tell this Tale onely to follow the order enjoyned me; but also to informe you that such Saint-like holy Sirs, of whom we are too opinative and credulous, may be, yea, and are (divers times) cunningly met withall, in their craftinesse, not onely by men, but likewise some of our owne sexe, as I shall make it apparant to you. In our owne City (more full of craft and deceit, then love or faithfull dealing) there lived not many yeeres since a Gentlewoman, of good spirit, highly minded, endued with beauty and all commendable qualities, as any other woman (by nature) could be. Her name, or any others, concerned in this Novell, I meane not to make manifest, albeit I know them, because some are yet living, and thereby may be scandalized; and therefore it shall suffice to passe them over with a smile. This Gentlewoman, seeing her selfe to be descended of very great parentage, and (by chance) married to an Artezen, a Clothier or Drapier, that lived by the making and selling of Cloth: shee could not (because he was a Trades-man) take downe the height of her minde; conceiving, that no man of meane condition (how rich soever) was worthy to enjoy a Gentlewoman in marriage. Observing moreover, that with all his wealth and treasure, he understood nothing better, then to open skeines of yarne, fill shuttles, lay webbes in Loomes, or dispute with his Spinsters, about their businesse. Being thus over-swayed with her proud opinion, shee would no longer be embraced, or regarded by him in any manner, saving onely because she could not refuse him; but would find some other for her better satisfaction, who might seeme more worthy of her respect, then the Drapier her Husband did. Hereupon shee fell so deepe in love, with a very honest man of our City also, and of indifferent yeeres; as what day shee saw him not, shee could take no rest the night ensuing. The man himselfe knew nothing hereof, and therefore was the more neglect and carelesse, and she being curious, nice, yet wisely considerate; durst not let him understand it, neither by any womans close conveyed message, nor yet by Letters, as fearing the perils which happen in such cases. But her eye observing his daily walkes and resorts, gave her notice of his often conversing with a religious Friar, who albeit he was a fat and corpulent man, yet notwithstanding, because he seemed to leade a sanctimonious life, and was reported to be a most honest man; she perswaded her selfe, that he might be the best meanes, betweene her and her friend. Having considered with her selfe, what course was best to be observed in this case; upon a day, apt and convenient, shee went to the Convent, where he kept, and having caused him to be called, shee told him, that if his leysure so served, very gladly shee would be confessed, and onely had made her choyce of him. The holy man seeing her, and reputing her to be a Gentlewoman, as indeede shee was no lesse; willingly heard her, and when shee had confessed what shee could, shee had yet another matter to acquaint him withall, and thereupon thus she began. Holy Father, it is no more then convenient, that I should have recourse to you, to be assisted by your help and councell, in a matter which I will impart unto you. I know, that you are not ignorant of my parents and husband, of whom I am affected as dearely as his life, for proofe whereof, there is not any thing that I can desire, but immediatly I have it of him, he being a most rich man, and may very sufficiently affoord it. In regard whereof, I love him equally as my selfe, and, setting aside my best endeavours for him; I must tell you one thing, if I should do anything contrary to his liking and honour, no woman can more worthily deserve death, then my selfe. Understand then, good Father, that there is a man, whose name I know not, but hee seemeth to be honest, and of good worth; moreover (if I am not deceived) hee resorteth oftentimes to you, being faire and comely of person, going alwayes in blacke garments of good price and value. This man, imagining (perhaps) no such minde in me, as truely there is; hath often attempted mee, and never can I be at my doore, or window, but hee is alwayes present in my sight, which is not a little displeasing to me; he watcheth my walkes, and much I mervaile, that he is not now here. Let me tell you holy Sir, that such behaviours, doe many times lay bad imputations upon very honest women, yet without any offence in them. It hath often run in my minde, to let him have knowledge thereof by my brethren: but afterward I considered, that men (many times) deliver messages in such sort, as draw on very ungentle answeres, whereon grow words, and words beget actions. In which respect, because no harme or scandall should ensue, I thought it best to be silent; determining, to acquaint you rather therewith, then any other, as well because you seeme to be his friend, as also in regard of your office, which priviledgeth you, to correct such abuses, not onely in friends, but also in strangers. Enowe other women there are, (more is the pitty) who (perhaps) are better disposed to such suites, then I am, and can both like and allowe of such courting, otherwise then I can doe; as being willing to embrace such offers, and (happily) loath to yeeld deniall. Wherefore, most humbly I entreat you, good Father (even for our blessed Ladies sake) that you would give him a friendly reprehension, and advise him, to use such unmanly meanes no more hereafter. With which words, shee hung downe her head in her bosome, cunningly dissembling, as if shee wept, wiping her eyes with her Handkerchife, when not a teare fell from them, but indeed were dry enough. The holy Religious man, so soone as he heard her description of the man, presently knew whom shee meant, and highly commending the Gentlewoman, for her good and vertuous seeming disposition, beleeved faithfully all that shee had said: promising her, to order the matter so well and discreetly, as shee should not be any more offended. And knowing her to be a woman of great wealth (after all their usuall manner, when they cast forth their fishing nets for gaine:) liberally he commended Almes-deedes, and dayly workes of charity, recounting to her (beside) his owne perticular necessities. Then, giving him two pieces of gold, she said. I pray you (good Father) to be mindfull of me, and if he chance to make any deniall: tell him boldly, that I spake it my selfe to you, and by the way of a sad complaint her confession being ended, and penance easie enough enjoyned her, shee promised to make her parents bountifull benefactours to the Convent, and put more money into his hand, desiring him in his Masses, to remember the soules of her deceased friends, and so returned home to her house. Within a short while after her departure, the Gentleman, of whom she had made this counterfeit complaint, came thither, as was his usuall manner, and having done his duty to the holy Father; they sate downe together privately, falling out of one discourse into another. At the length, the Frier (in very loving and friendly sort) mildly reproved him, for such amorous glaunces, and other pursuites, which (as he thought) hee dayly used to the Gentlewoman, according to her owne speeches. The Gentleman mervailed greatly thereat, as one that had never seene her, and very sildome passed by the way where she dwelt, which made him the bolder in his answeres; wherein the Confessour interrupting him, said. Never make such admiration at the matter, neither waste more words in these stout denials, because they cannot serve thy turne: I tell thee plainely, I heard it not from any neighbours, but even of her owne selfe, in a very sorrowfull and sad complaint. And though (perhaps) hereafter, thou canst very hardly refraine such follies; yet let mee tell thee so much of her (and under the seale of absolute assurance) that she is the onely woman of the world, who (in my true judgement) doth hate and abhorre all such base behaviour. Wherefore, in regard of thine owne honour, as also not to vexe & prejudice so vertuous a Gentlewoman: I pray thee refrain such idlenes henceforward, & suffer hir to live in peace. The Gentleman, being a little wiser then his ghostly Father, perceived immediatly (without any further meditating on the matter) the notable pollicie of the woman: whereupon, making somewhat bashfull appearance of any error already committed; hee said, hee would afterward be better advised. So, departing from the Frier, he went on directly, to passe by the house where the Gentlewoman dwelt, and she stood alwayes ready on her watch, at a little window, to observe, when hee should walke that way: And seeing him comming, she shewed her selfe so joyfull, and gracious to him, as he easily understood, whereto the substance of the holy Fathers chiding tended. And, from that time forward, hee used dayly, though in covert manner (to the no little liking of the Gentlewoman and himselfe) to make his passage through that streete, under colour of some important occasions there, concerning him. Soone after, it being plainely discerned on either side, that the one was as well contented with these walkes, as the other could be: shee desired to enflame him a little further, by a more liberall illustration of her affection towards him, when time and place affoorded convenient opportunity. To the holy Father againe shee went, (for shee had been too long from shrift) and kneeling downe at his feete, intended to begin her confession in teares; which the Friar perceiving, sorrowfully demanded of her, what new accident had happened? Holy Father (quoth shee) no novell accident, but onely your wicked and ungracious friend, by whom (since I was here with you, yea, no longer agoe then yesterday) I have beene so wronged, as I verily beleeve that hee was borne to be my mortall enemie, and to make me doe something to my utter disgrace for ever; and whereby I shall not dare to be seene any more of you, my deare Father. How is this? answered the Friar, hath he not refrained from afflicting you so abusively? Pausing a while, and breathing foorth many a dissembled sigh, thus shee replyed. No truly, holy Father, there is no likelyhood of his abstaining; for since I made my complaint to you, he belike taking it in evill part, to be contraried in his wanton humours, hath (meerely in despight) walked seaven times in a day by my doore, whereas formerly, he never used it above once or twice. And well were it (good Father) if he could be contented with those walkes, and gazing glaunces which hee dartes at me: but growne he is so bolde and shamelesse, that even yesterday, (as I tolde you) he sent a woman to me, one of his _Pandoraes_, as it appeared, and as if I had wanted either Purses or Girdles, he sent me (by her) a Purse and a Girdle. Whereat I grew so grievously offended, as had it not beene for my due respect and feare of God, and next the sacred reverence I beare to you my ghostly Father; doubtlesse, I had done some wicked deede. Neverthelesse, happily I withstood it, and will neither say or doe any thing in this case, till first I have made it knowne to you. Then I called to minde, that having redelivered the Purse and Girdle to his shee messenger, (which brought them) with lookes sufficient to declare my discontentment: I called her backe againe, fearing least shee would keepe them to her selfe, and make him beleeve, that I had received them (as I have heard such kind of women use to doe sometimes) and in anger I snatcht them from her, and have brought them hither to you, to the end that you may give him them againe; and tell him, I have no neede of any such things, thankes be to Heaven and my husband, as no woman can be better stored then I am. Wherefore good Father, purposely am I now come to you, and I beseech you accept my just excuse, that if he will not abstaine from thus molesting me, I will disclose it to my Husband, Father, and Brethren, whatsoever shall ensue thereon: for I had rather he should receive the injury (if needs it must come) then I to be causelesly blamed for him; wherein good Father tell me, if I doe not well. With many counterfeit sobbes, sighes, and teares, these wordes were delivered; and drawing foorth from under her gowne, a very faire and rich purse, as also a Girdle of great worth, shee threw them into the Friers lap. He verily beleeving all this false report, being troubled in his minde thereat beyond measure, tooke the Gentlewoman by the hand, saying: Daughter, if thou be offended at these impudent follies, assuredly I cannot blame thee, not will any wise man reproove thee for it; and I commend thee for following my counsell. But let me alone for schooling of my Gentleman: ill hath he kept his promise made to mee; wherefore, in regard of his former offence, as also this other so lately committed, I hope to set him in such a heate, as shall make him leave off from further injurying thee. And in Gods name, suffer not thy selfe to be conquered by choler, in disclosing this to thy kindred or husband, because too much harme may ensue thereon. But feare not any wrong to thy selfe; for, both before God and men, I am a true witnesse of thine honesty and vertue. Now began she to appeare somewhat better comforted; & forbearing to play on this string any longer, as wel knowing the covetousness of him and his equals, she said. Holy Father, some few nights past, me thought in my sleepe, that divers spirits of my kindred appeared to me in a vision, who (me thought) were in very great paines, and desired nothing else but Almes; especially my God-mother, who seemed to bee afflicted with such extreme poverty, that it was most pittifull to behold. And I am half perswaded, that her torments are the greater, seeing mee troubled with such an enemy to goodnesse. Wherefore (good Father) to deliver her soule and the others, out of those fearfull flames; among your infinite other devout prayers, I would have you to say the fortie Masses of S. _Gregory_, as a meanes for their happy deliverance, and so she put ten ducates into his hand. Which the holy man accepted thankfully, and with good words, as also many singular examples, confirmed her bountifull devotion: and when he had given her his benediction, home she departed. After that the Gentlewoman was gone, hee sent for his friend, whom she so much seemed to be troubled withall; and when he was come, hee beholding his Holy Father to looke discontentedly: thought, that now he should heare some newes from his Mistresse, and therefore expected what he would say. The Frier, falling into the course of his former reprehensions, but yet in more rough and impatient manner, sharpely checkt him for his immodest behaviour towards the Gentlewoman, in sending her the Purse and Girdle. The Gentleman, who as yet could not guesse whereto his speeches tended; somewhat coldly and temperately, denied the sending of such tokens to her, to the end that he would not be utterly discredited with the good man, if so bee the Gentlewoman had shewne him any such things. But then the Frier, waxing much more angry, sternly said. Bad man as thou art, how canst thou deny a manifest trueth? See sir, these are none of your amorous tokens? No, I am sure you doe not know them, nor ever saw them till now. The Gentleman, seeming as if he were much ashamed, saide. Truely Father I do know them, and confesse that I have done ill, and very greatly offended: but now I will sweare unto you, seeing I understande how firmely she is affected, that you shall never heare any more complaints of me. Such were his vowes and protestations, as in the end the ghostly Father gave him both the Purse and Girdle: then after he had preached, & severely conjured him, never more to vexe her with any gifts at all, and he binding himselfe thereto by a solemne promise, he gave him license to depart. Now grew the Gentleman very jocond, being so surely certified of his Mistresses love, and by tokens of such worthy esteeme; wherefore no sooner was hee gone from the Frier, but hee went into such a secret place, where he could let her behold at her Window, what precious tokens he had receyved from her, whereof she was extraordinarily joyfull, because her devices grew still better and better; nothing now wanting, but her husbands absence, upon some journey from the City, for the full effecting of her desire. Within a few dayes after, such an occasion hapned, as her husband of necessity must journey to _Geneway_; and no sooner was hee mounted on horsebacke, taking leave of her and all his friends: but she, being sure hee was gone, went in all hast to her Ghostly Father; and, after a few faigned outward shewes, thus she spake. I must now plainly tell you, holy father, that I can no longer endure this wicked friend of yours; but because I promised you the other day, that I would not do any thing, before I had your counsell therein, I am now come to tell you, the just reason of my anger, and full purpose to avoid all further molestation. Your friend I cannot terme him, but (questionles) a very divel of hell. This morning, before the breake of day, having heard (but how, I know not) that my husband was ridden to _Geneway_: got over the wall into my Garden, and climbing up a tree which standeth close before my chamber window, when I was fast asleepe, opened the Casement, and would have entred in at the window. But, by great good fortune, I awaked, and made shew of an open out-cry: but that he entreated mee, both for Gods sake and yours, to pardon him this error, and never after he would presume any more to offend me. When he saw, that (for your sake) I was silent, he closed fast the window againe, departed as he came, and since I never saw him, or heard any tidings of him. Now judge you, holy Father, whether these be honest courses, or no, and to be endured by any civil Gentlewoman; neither would I so patiently have suffered this, but onely in my dutifull reverence to you. The Ghostly Father hearing this, became the sorrowfullest man in the world, not knowing how to make her any answer, but only demanded of her divers times, whether she knew him so perfectly, that she did not mistake him for some other? Quoth she, I would I did not know him from any other. Alas deere daughter (replied the Frier) what can more be sayd in this case, but that it was over-much boldnesse, and very il done; & thou shewedst thy selfe a worthy wise woman, in sending him away so mercifully, as thou didst. Once more I would entreat thee (deare and vertuous daughter) seeing grace hath hitherto kept thee from dishonour, and twice already thou hast credited my counsell, let me now advise thee this last time. Spare speech, or complaining to any other of thy friends, and leave it to me, to try if I can overcome this unchained divel, whom I tooke to be a much more holy man. If I can recall him from this sensuall appetite, I shall account my labour well employed; but if I cannot do it, henceforward (with my blessed benediction) I give thee leave to do, even what thy heart will best tutor thee to. You see Sir (said shee) what manner of man he is, yet would I not have you troubled or disobeyed, only I desire to live without disturbance, which work (I beseech you) as best you may: for I promise you, good Father, never to solicite you more uppon this occasion: And so, in a pretended rage, shee returned backe from the ghostly Father. Scarsely was she gone forth of the Church, but in commeth the man that had (supposedly) so much transgressed; and the Fryer taking him aside, gave him the most injurious words that could be used to a man, calling him disloyall, perjured, and a traitor. Hee who had formerly twice perceived, how high the holy mans anger mounted, did nothing but expect what he wold say; and, like a man extreamly perplexed, strove how to get it from him, saying; Holy Father, how come you to be so heinously offended? What have I done to incense you so strangely? Heare mee dishonest wretch answered the Frier, listen what I shall say unto thee. Thou answerest me, as if it were a yeare or two past, since so foule abuses were by thee committed, & they almost quite out of thy remembrance. But tell me wicked man, where wast thou this morning, before breake of the day? Wheresoever I was, replyed the Gentleman, mee thinkes the tidings come very quickly to you. It is true, said the Frier, they are speedily come to me indeed, and upon urgent necessity. After a little curbing in of his wrath, somewhat in a milder strain, thus he proceeded. Because the Gentlewomans husband is journeyed to _Geneway_, proves this a ladder to your hope, that to embrace her in your armes, you must climbe over the Garden wall, like a treacherous robber in the night season, mount up a tree before her Chamber window, open the Casement, as hoping to compasse that by importunity, which her spotlesse chastity will never permit. There is nothing in the world, that possibly she can hate more then you, and yet you will love her whether she will or no. Many demonstrations her selfe hath made to you, how retrograde you are to any good conceit of her, & my loving admonishments might have had better successe in you, then as yet they shewe by outward apparance. But one thing I must tell you, her silent sufferance of your injuries all this while, hath not bin in any respect of you, but at my earnest entreaties, and for my sake. But now shee will be patient no longer, and I have given her free license, if ever heereafter you offer to attempt her any more, to make her complaint before her Brethren, which will redound to your no meane danger. The Gentleman, having wisely collected his Love-lesson out of the Holy Fathers angry words, pacified the good old man so wel as he could with very solemne promises and protestations, that he should heare (no more) any misbehaviour of his. And being gone from him, followed the instructions given in her complaint, by climbing over the Garden Wall, ascending the Tree, and entering at the Casement, standing ready open to welcome him. Thus the Friers simplicity, wrought on by her most ingenuous subtiltie, made way to obtaine both their longing desires. _A yong Scholler, named_ Felice, _enstructed_ Puccio di Rinieri, _how to become rich in a very short time. While_ Puccio _made experience of the instructions taught him;_ Felice _obtained the favour of his Daughter._ The fourth Novell. _Wherein is declared, what craft and subtilty some wily wits can devise, to deceive the simple, and compasse their owne desires._ After that _Philomena_ had finished her Tale, she sate still; and _Dioneus_ with faire and pleasing Language, commended the Gentlewomans quaint cunning, but smiled at the Confessors witlesse simplicity. Then the _Queen_, turning with chearefull looks towards _Pamphilus_, commaunded him to continue on their delight; who gladly yeelded, and thus began. Madame, many men there are, who while they strive to climbe from a good estate, to a seeming better; doe become in much worse condition then they were before. As happened to a neighbour of ours, and no long time since, as the accident will better acquaint you withall. According as I have heard it reported, neere to Saint _Brancazio_, there dwelt an honest man, and some-what rich, who was called _Puccio di Rinieri_, and who addicted all his paines and endeavours to Alchimy: wherefore, he kept no other family, but onely a widdowed daughter, and a servant; and because he had no other Art or exercise, hee used often to frequent the market place. And in regard he was but a weake witted man, and a gourmand or grosse feeder; his language was the more harsh and rude, like to our common Porters or loutish men, and his carriage also absurd, boore-like, and clownish. His daughter, being named _Monna Isabetta_, aged not above eight and twenty, or thirty yeers; was a fresh indifferent faire, plumpe, round woman, cherry cheekt, like a Queene-Apple; and, to please her Father, fed not so sparingly, as otherwise she wold have done, but when she communed or jested with any body, she would talke of nothing, but onely concerning the great vertue in Alchimy, extolling it above all other Arts. Much about this season of the yeare, there returned a young Scholler from _Paris_, named _Felice_, faire of complexion, comely of person, ingeniously witted, and skilfully learned, who (soone after) grew into familiarity with _Puccio_: now because he could resolve him in many doubts, depending on his profession of Alchimy, (himselfe having onely practise, but no great learning) he used many questions to him, shewed him very especiall matters of secrecy, entertaining him often to dinners and suppers, whensoever he pleased to come and converse with him; and his daughter likewise, perceiving with what favour her Father respected him, became the more familiar with him, allowing him good regard and reverence. The young man continuing his resort to the House of _Puccio_, and observing the widow to be faire, fresh, and prettily formall; he began to consider with himselfe, what those things might be, wherein shee was most wanting; and (if he could) to save anothers labour, supply them by his best endeavours. Thus not alwayes carrying his eyes before him, but using many backe and circumspect regards, he proceeded so farre in his wylie apprehensions, that (by a few sparkes close kept together) he kindled part of the same fire in her, which began to flame apparantly in him. And he very wittily observing the same, as occasion first smiled on him, and allowed him favourable opportunity, so did hee impart his intention to her. Now albeit he found her plyant enough, to gaine physick for her owne griefe, as soone as his; yet the meanes and manner were (as yet) quite out of all apprehension. For shee in no other part of the World, would trust her selfe in the young mans company, but onely in her Fathers house; and that was a place out of all possibility, because _Puccio_ (by a long continued custome) used to watch well neere all the night, as commonly he did, each night after other, never stirring foorth of the roomes, which much abated the edge of the young mans appetite. After infinite intricate revolvings, wheeling about his busied braine, he thought it not altogether an _Herculian_ taske, to enjoy his happinesse in the house, and without any suspition, albeit _Puccio_ kept still within doores, and watched as hee was wont to doe. Upon a day as he sate in familiar conference with _Puccio_, he began to speake unto him in this manner; I have many times noted, kinde friend _Puccio_, that all thy desire and endeavour is, by what meanes thou mayest become very rich, wherein (me thinkes) thou takest too wide a course, when there is a much neere and shorter way, which _Mighell, Scotus,_ and other his associates, very diligently observed and followed, yet were never willing to instruct other men therein; whereby the misterie might be drowned in oblivion, and prosecuted by none but onely great Lords, that are able to undergoe it. But because thou art mine especiall friend, and I have received from thee infinite kind favours; whereas I never intended, that any man (by me) should be acquainted with so rare a secret; if thou wilt imitate the course as I shall shew thee, I purpose to teach it thee in full perfection. _Puccio_ being very earnestly desirous to understand the speediest way to so singular a mysterie, first began to entreat him (with no meane instance) to acquaint him with the rules of so rich a Science; and afterward sware unto him, never to disclose it to any person, except hee gave his consent thereto; affirming beside, that it was a rarity, not easie to be comprehended by very apprehensive judgements. Well (quoth _Felice_) seeing thou hast made me such a sound and solemne promise, I will make it knowne unto thee. Know then friend _Puccio_, the Philosophers do hold, that such as covet to become rich indeed, must understand how to make the Stone: as I will tell thee how, but marke the manner very heedfully. I do not say, that after the Stone is obtained, thou shalt be even as rich as now thou art; but thou shalt plainly perceive, that the very grosest substance, which hitherto thou hast seene, all of them shal be made pure golde, and such as afterward thou makest, shall be more certaine, then to go or come with _Aqua fortis_, as now they do. Most expedient is it therefore, that when a man will go diligently about this businesse, and purposeth to prosecute such a singular labour, which will and must continue for the space of 40 nights, he must give very carefull attendance, wholly abstaining from sleepe, slumbering, or so much as nodding all that while. Moreover, in some apt and convenient place of thy house, there must be a forge or furnace erected, framed in decent and formall fashion, and neere it a large table placed, ordered in such sort, as standing upright on thy feete, and leaning the reines of thy backe against it; thou must stande stedfastly in that manner every night, without the least motion or stirring, untill the breake of day appeareth, and thine eyes still uppon the Furnace fixed, to keepe ever in memory, the true order which I have prescribed. So soone as the morning is seene, thou mayst (if thou wilt) walke, or rest a little upon thy bed, and afterward go about thy businesse, if thou have any. Then go to dinner, attending readily till the evenings approch, preparing such things as I will readily set thee downe in writing, without which there is not any thing to bee done; and then returne to the same taske againe, not varying a jot from the course directed. Before the time be fully expired, thou shalt perceive many apparant signes, that the stone is still in absolute forwardnesse, but it will bee utterly lost if thou fayle in the least of all the observances. And when the experience hath crowned thy labour, thou art sure to have the Philosophers stone, and thereby shalt be able to enrich all, and worke wonders beside. _Puccio_ instantly replied. Now trust me Sir, there is no great difficultie in this labour; neither doth it require any extraordinary length of time: but it may very easily be followed and performed, and (by your friendly favour, in helping to direct the Furnace and Table, according as you imagine most convenient) on Sunday at night next, I will begin my task. The Scholler being gone, he went to his daughter, and tolde her all the matter, and what he had determined to do: which shee immediately understood sufficiently, and what would ensue on his nightly watching in that manner, returning him answer, that whatsoever he liked and allowed of, it became not her any way to mislike. Thus they continued in this kinde concordance, till Sunday night came. When _Puccio_ was to begin his experience, and _Felice_ to set forward upon his adventure. Concluded it was, that every night the Scholler must come to Supper, partly to bee a witnesse of his constant performance, but more especially for his owne advantage. The place which _Puccio_ had chosen, for his hopefull attaining to the Philosophers Stone, was close to the Chamber where his daughter lay, having no other separation or division, but an old ruinous tottring wall. So that, when the Scholler was playing his prize, _Puccio_ heard an unwonted noise in the house, which he had never observed before, neither knew the wall to have any such motion: wherefore, not daring to stirre from his standing, least all should be marrd in the very beginning, he called to his daughter, demanding, what busie labour she was about? The widdow, being much addicted to frumping, according as questions were demanded of her, and (perhaps) forgetting who spake to her, pleasantly replied: Whoop Sir, where are we now? Are the Spirits of Alchimy walking in the house, that we cannot lye quietly in our beds? _Puccio_ mervailing at this answer, knowing she never gave him the like before; demanded againe, what she did? The subtle wench, remembring that she had not answered as became her, said: Pardon mee Father, my wits were not mine owne, when you demanded such a sodaine question; and I have heard you say an hundred times, that when folke go supperles to bed, either they walke in their sleepe, or being awake, talke very idely, as (no doubt) you have discernde by me. Nay daughter (quoth he) it may be, that I was in a waking dreame, and thought I heard the olde wall totter: but I see I was deceived, for now it is quiet and still enough. Talke no more good Father, saide she, least you stirre from your place, and hinder your labour: take no care for mee, I am able enough to have care of my selfe. To prevent any more of these nightly disturbances, they went to lodge in another part of the house, where they continued out the time of _Puccioes_ paines, with equall contentment to them both, which made her divers times say to _Felice_: You teach my father the cheefe grounds of Alchimy, while we helpe to waste away his treasure. Thus the Scholler being but poore, yet well forwarded in Learning, made use of _Puccioes_ folly, and found benefit thereby, to keepe him out of wants, which is the bane and overthrow of numberlesse good wits. And _Puccio_ dying, before the date of his limitted time, because hee failed of the Philosophers Stone, _Isabetta_ joyned in marriage with _Felice_, to make him amends for enstructing her father, by which meanes he came to be her husband. Ricciardo, _surnamed the Magnifico, gave a Horse to_ Signior Francesco Vergellisi, _upon condition, that (by his leave and lisence) he might speake to his Wife in his presence; which he did, and shee not returning him any answere, made answer to himselfe on her behalfe, and according to his answer, so the effect followed._ The fifth Novell. _Wherein is described the frailety of some Women, and folly of such Husbands, as leave them alone to their owne disposition._ _Pamphilus_ having ended the Novell of _Puccio_ the Alchimist, the Queene fixing her eye on Madam _Eliza_, gave order, that shee should succeede with hers next. When shee looking somewhat more austerely, then any of the rest, not in any spleen, but as it was her usuall manner, thus began. The World containeth some particular people who doe beleeve (because themselves know something) that others are ignorant in all things; who for the most part, while they intend to make a scorne of other men, upon the proofe, doe finde themselves to carry away the scorne. And therefore I account it no meane follie in them, who (upon no occasion) will tempt the power of another mans wit or experience. But because all men and women (perhaps) are not of mine opinion; I meane that you shall perceive it more apparantly, by an accident happening to a Knight of _Pistoia_, as you shall heare by me related. In the Towne of _Pistoia_, bordering upon _Florence_, there lived not long since, a Knight named Signior _Francesco_; descended of the linage or family of the _Vergellisi_, a man very rich, wise, and in many things provident, but gripple, covetous, and too close handed, without respect to his worth and reputation. He being called to the Office of _Podesta_ in the City of _Millaine_, furnished himselfe with all things (in honourable manner) beseeming such a charge; only, a comely horse (for his owne saddle) excepted, which he knew not by any meanes how to compasse, so loath he was to lay out money, albeit his credit much depended thereon. At the same time, there lived in _Pistoya_ likewise, a young man, named _Ricciardo_, derived of meane birth, but very wealthy, quicke witted, and of commendable person, alwayes going so neate, fine, and formall in his apparrell, that he was generally tearmed the _Magnifico_, who had long time affected, yea, and closely courted, (though without any advantage or successe) the Lady and Wife of _Signior Francesco_, who was very beautifull, vertuous, and chaste. It so chanced, that this _Magnifico_ had the very choysest and goodliest ambling Gelding in all _Tuscanie_, which he loved dearely, for his faire forme, and other good parts. Upon a flying rumor throughout _Pistoria_, that he daily made love to the fore-said Lady: some busie body, put it into the head of _Signior Francesco_, that if he pleased to request the Gelding, the _Magnifico_ would frankly give it him, in regard of the love he bare to his Wife. The base minded Knight, coveting to have the Horse, and yet not to part with any money, sent for the _Magnifico_, desiring to buy his faire Gelding of him, because he hoped to have him of free gift. The _Magnifico_ hearing his request, was not a little joyfull hereof, and thus answered; Sir, if you would give me all the wealth which you possesse in this World, I will not sell you my Horse, rather I will bestow him on you as a Gentlemanly gift; but yet upon this condition, that before you have him delivered, I may with your lisence, and in your presence speake a few words to your vertuous Ladie, and so farre off in distance from you, as I may not be heard by any, but onely her selfe. _Signior Francesco_, wholly conducted by his base avaricious desire, and meaning to make a scorne at the _Magnifico_, made answere; that he was well contented, to let him speake with her when he would, and leaving him in the great Hall of the house, he went to his Wives Chamber, and told her, how easily he might enjoy the Horse; commanding her forth-with, to come and heare what he could say to her, onely shee should abstaine, and not returne him any answer. The Lady with a modest blush, much condemned this folly in him, that his covetousnesse should serve as a cloake, to cover any unfitting speeches, which her chaste eares could never endure to heare: neverthelesse, being to obey her Husbands will, shee promised to doe it, and followed him downe into the House, to heare what the _Magnifico_ would say. Againe, he there confirmed the bargaine made with her Husband, and sitting downe by her in a corner of the Hall, farre enough off from any ones hearing, taking her curteously by the hand, thus he spake. Worthy Lady, it appeareth to me for a certainty, that you are so truly wise, as you have (no doubt) a long while since perceived, what unfained affection your beauty (farre excelling all other womens that I know) hath compelled me to beare you. Setting aside those commendable qualities, and singular vertues, gloriously shining in you, and powerfull enough to make a conquest of the very stoutest courage: I held it utterly needlesse, to let you understand by words, how faithfull the love is I beare you, were it not much more fervent and constant, then ever any other man can expresse to a woman. In which condition it shall still continue, without the least blemish or impaire, so long as I enjoy life or motion; yea, and I dare assure you, that if in the future World, affection may containe the same powerfull dominion, as it doth in this; I am the man, borne to love you perpetually. Whereby you may rest confidently perswaded, that you enjoy not any thing, how poore or precious soever it be, which you can so solemnely account to be your owne, and in the truest title of right, as you may my selfe, in all that I have, or for ever shall be mine. To confirme your opinion in this case, by any argument of greater power, let me tell you, that I should repute it as my fairest and most gracious fortune, if you would command me some such service, as consisteth in mine ability to performe, and in your courteous favour to accept, yea, if it were to travaile thorow the whole world, right willing am I, and obedient. In which regard, faire Madame, if I be so much yours, as you heare I am, I may boldly adventure (and not without good reason) to acquaint your chaste eares with my earnest desires, for on you onely dependeth my happinesse, life and absolute comfort, and as your most humble servant, I beseech you (my dearest good, and sole hope of my soule) that rigour may dwell no longer in your gentle brest, but Lady-like pitty and compassion: whereby I shal say, that as your divine beauty enflamed mine affections, even so it extended such a mercifull qualification, as exceeded all my hope, but not the halfe part of your pitty. Admit (miracle of Ladies) that I should die in this distresse: Alas, my death would be but your dishonour; I cannot be termed mine owne murtherer, when the Dart came from your eye that did it, and must remaine a witnesse of your rigour. You cannot then chuse but call to minde, and say within your owne soule: Alas! what a sinne have I committed, in being so unmercifull to my _Magnifico_. Repentance then serves to no purpose, but you must answere for such unkinde cruelty. Wherefore, to prevent so blacke a scandall to your bright beauty, beside the ceaselesse acclamations, which will dogge your walkes in the day time, and breake your quiet sleepes in the night season, with fearefull sights and gastly apparitions, hovering and haunting about your bed; let all these move you to milde mercy, and spill not life, when you may save it. So the _Magnifico_ ceasing, with teares streaming from his eyes, and sighes breaking from his heart, he sate still in exspectation of the Ladies answere, who made neither long or short of the matter, neither Tilts not Tourneying, nor many lost mornings and evenings, nor infinite other such like offices, which the _Magnifico_ (for her sake) from time to time had spent in vaine, without the least shew of acceptation, or any hope at all to winne her love: Moved now in this very houre, by these solemne protestations, or rather most prevailing asseverations; she began to finde that in her, which (before) she never felt, namely Love. And although (to keepe her promise made to her husband) shee spake not a word: yet her heart heaving, her soule throbbing, sighes intermixing, and complexion altering, could not hide her intended answere to the _Magnifico_, if promise had beene no hinderance to her will. All this while the _Magnifico_ sate as mute as she, and seeing she would not give him any answere at all; he could not chuse but wonder thereat, yet at length perceived, that it was thus cunningly contrived by her husband. Notwithstanding, observing well her countenance, that it was in a quite contrary temper, another kinde of fire sparkling in her eye, other humours flowing, her pulses strongly beating, her stomack rising, and sighes swelling; all these were arguments of a change, and motives to advance his hope. Taking courage by this tickling perswasion, and instructing his minde with a new kinde of counsell: he would needes answere himselfe on her behalfe, and as if she had uttered the words, he spake in this manner. _Magnifico_, and my friend, surely it is a long time since, when I first noted thine affection towards me, to be very great and most perfect: but now I am much more certaine thereof, by thine owne honest and gentle speeches, which content me as they ought to doe. Neverthelesse, if heretofore I have seemed cruell and unkinde to thee, I would not have thee thinke, that my heart was any way guilty of my outward severity; but did evermore love thee, and held thee dearer then any man living. But yet it became me to doe so, as well in feare of others, as for the renowne of mine owne reputation. But now the time is at hand, to let thee know more clearely, whether I doe affect thee or no: as a just guerdon of thy constant love, which long thou hast, and still doest beare to me. Wherefore comfort thy selfe, and dwell upon this undoubted hope, because _Signior Francesco_ my husband, is to be absent hence for many dayes, being chosen _Podesta_ at _Millaine_, as thou canst not chuse but heare, for it is common through the Country. I know (for my sake) thou hast given him thy goodly ambling Gelding, and so soone as hee is gone, I promise thee upon my word, and by the faithfull love I beare thee: that I will have further conference with thee, and let thee understand somewhat more of my minde. And because this is neither fitting time nor place, to discourse on matters of such serious moment; observe heereafter, as a signall, when thou seest my crimson skarfe hanging in the window of my Chamber, which is upon the Garden side; that evening (so soone as it is night) come to the Garden gate, with wary respect, that no eye doe discover thee, and there thou shalt finde me walking, and ready to acquaint thee with other matters, according as I shall finde occasion. When the _Magnifico_, in the person of the Lady, had spoken thus, then hee returned her this answere. Most vertuous Lady, my spirits are so transported with extraordinary joy, for this your gracious and welcome answere; that my sences so fayle mee, and all my faculties quite forsake me, as I cannot give you such thankes as I would. And if I could speake equally to my desire, yet the season sutes not therewith, neither were it convenient that I should be so troublesome to you. Let me therefore humbly beseech you, that the desire I have to accomplish your will (which words availe not to expresse) may remaine in your kinde consideration. And, as you have commaunded me, so will I not faile to performe it accordingly, and in more thankfull manner, then as yet I am able to let you know. Now there resteth nothing elsee to doe, but, under the protection of your gracious pardon, I to give over speech, and you to attend your worthy husband. Notwithstanding all that hee had spoken, yet shee replied not one word, wherefore the _Magnifico_ arose, and returned to the Knight, who went to meete him, saying in a loude laughter. How now man? have I not kept my promise with thee? No Sir, answered the _Magnifico_, for you promised I should speake with your wife, and you have made mee talke to a marble Statue. This answere was greatly pleasing to the Knight, who, although hee had an undoubted opinion of his wife; yet this did much more strengthen his beliefe, and hee said. Now thou confessest thy Gelding to bee mine? I doe, replied the _Magnifico_, but if I had thought, that no better successe would have ensued on the bargaine; without your motion for the horse, I would have given him you: and I am sorie that I did not, because now you have bought my horse, and yet I have not sold him. The Knight laughed heartily at this answere, and being thus provided of so faire a beast, he rode on his journey to _Millaine_, and there entred into his authority of _Podesta_. The Lady remained now in liberty at home, considering on the _Magnificoes_ words, and likewise the Gelding, which (for her sake) was given to her husband. Oftentimes shee saw him passe to and fro before her windowe, still looking when the Flagge of defiance should be hanged forth, that hee might fight valiantly under her Colours. The Story saith, that among many of her much better meditations, she was heard to talke thus idely to herselfe. What doe I meane? Wherefore is my youth? The olde miserable man is gone to _Millaine_, and God knoweth when hee comes backe againe, ever, or never. Is dignity preferred before wedlockes holy duty, and pleasures abroade, more then comforts at home? Ill can age pay youths arrerages, when time is spent, and no hope sparde. Actions omitted, are often times repented, but done in due season, they are sildome sorrowed for. Upon these un-Lady-like private consultations, whether the window shewed the signall or no; it is no matter belonging to my charge: I say, husbands are unwise, to graunt such ill advantages, and wives much worse, if they take hold of them, onely judge you the best, and so the Tale is ended. Ricciardo Minutolo _fell in love with the Wife of_ Philippello Fighinolfi, _and knowing her to be very jealous of her Husband, gave her to understand, that he was greatly enamoured of his wife, and had appointed to meete her privately in a Bathing house, on the next day following: Where she hoping to take him tardie with his close compacted Mistresse, found herselfe to be deceived by the said_ Ricciardo. The sixth Novell. _Declaring, how much perseverance, and a couragious spirit is availeable in love._ No more remained to be spoken by Madame _Eliza_, but the cunning of the _Magnifico_, being much commended by all the company: the Queene commanded Madame _Fiammetta_, to succeede next in order with one of her Novelse, who (smilingly) made answere that she would, and began thus. Gracious Ladies, me thinkes wee have spoken enough already, concerning our owne Citie, which as it aboundeth copiously in all commodities, so is it an example also to every convenient purpose. And as Madam _Eliza_ hath done, by recounting occasions happening in another World, so must we now leape a little further off, even so farre as _Naples_, to see how one of those Saint-like Dames, that nicely seemes to shun Loves allurings, was guided by the good spirit to a friend of hers, and tasted of the fruite, before shee knew the flowers. A sufficient warning for you, to apprehend before hand, what may follow after; and to let you see beside, that when an error is committed, how to be discreete in keeping it from publike knowledge. In the City of _Naples_, it being of great antiquity, and (perhaps) as pleasantly scituated, as any other City in all _Italie_, there dwelt sometime a young Gentleman, of noble parentage, and well knowne to be wealthy, named _Ricciardo Minutolo_, who, although hee had a Gentlewoman (of excellent beauty, and worthy the very kindest affecting) to his wife; yet his gadding eye gazed elsee-where, and he became enamoured of another, which (in generall opinion) surpassed all the _Neapolitane_ women elsee, in feature, favour, and the choysest perfections, shee being named Madam _Catulla_, wife to as gallant a young Gentleman, called _Philippello Fighinolfi_, who most dearely he loved beyond all other, for her vertue and admired chastity. _Ricciardo_ loving this Madam _Catulla_, and using all such meanes, whereby the grace and liking of a Lady might be obtained; found it yet a matter beyond possibility, to compasse the height of his desire: so that many desperate and dangerous resolutions beleagred his braine, seeming so intricate, and unlikely to affoord any hopefull issue, as he wished for nothing more then death. And death (as yet) being deafe to all his earnest imprecations, delayed him on in lingering afflictions, and continuing still in such an extreame condition, he was advised by some of his best friends, utterly to abstaine from this fond pursuite, because his hopes were meerely in vaine, and Madam _Catulla_ prized nothing more precious to her in the World, then unstayned loyaltie to her Husband; and yet shee lived in such extreme jealousie of him, as fearing least some bird flying in the Ayre, should snatch him from her. _Ricciardo_ not unacquainted with this her jealous humour, as well by credible hearing thereof, as also by daily observation; began to consider with himselfe, that it were best for him, to dissemble amorous affection in some other place, and (hence-forward) to set aside all hope, of ever enjoying the love of Madam _Catulla_, because he was now become the servant to another Gentlewoman, pretending (in her honour) to performe many worthy actions of Armes, Jousts, Tournaments, and all such like noble exercises, as he was wont to doe for Madam _Catulla_. So that almost all the people of _Naples_, but especially Madam _Catulla_, became verily perswaded, that his former fruitlesse love to her was quite changed, and the new elected Lady had all the glory of his best endeavours, persevering so long in this opinion, as now it passed absolutely for currant. Thus seemed he now as a meere Stranger to her, whose house before he familiarly frequented; yet (as a neighbour) gave her the dayes salutations, according as he chanced to see her, or meete her. It came to passe, that it being now the delightfull Summer season, when all Gentlemen and Gentlewomen used to meete together (according to a custome long observed in that Countrey) sporting along on the Sea Coast, dining and supping there very often. _Ricciardo Minutolo_ happened to heare, that Madam _Catulla_ (with a company of her friends) intended also to be present there among them, at which time, consorted with a seemely traine of his confederates, he resorted thither, and was graciously welcommed by Madam _Catulla_, where he pretended no willing long time of tarrying; but that _Catulla_ and the other Ladies were faine to entreate him, discoursing of his love to his new elected Mistresse: which _Minutolo_ graced with so solemne a countenance, as it ministred much more matter of conference, all coveting to know what shee was. So farre they walked, and held on this kinde of discoursing, as every Lady and Gentlewoman, waxing weary of too long a continued argument, began to separate her selfe with such an associate as shee best liked, and as in such walking women are wont to doe; so that Madam _Catulla_ having few females left with her, stayed behind with _Minutolo_, who suddenly shot foorth a word, concerning her husband _Philippello_, & of his loving another woman beside her selfe. She that was overmuch jealous before, became so suddenly set on fire, to know what shee was of whom _Minutolo_ spake; as shee sate silent a long while, till being able to containe no longer, shee entreated _Ricciardo_, even for the Ladies sake, whose love he had so devoutly embraced, to resolve her certainely, in this strange alteration of her Husband; whereunto thus he answered. Madam, you have so straitly conjured me, by urging the remembrance of her; for whose sake I am not able to denie any thing you can demand, as I am ready therein to pleasure you. But first you must promise me, that neither you, or any other person for you, shall at any time disclose it to your Husband, untill you have seene by effect, that which I have tolde you proveth to be true: and when you please, I will instruct you how your selfe shall see it. The Lady was not a little joyfull, to be thus satisfied in her Husbands follie, and constantly crediting his words to be true, shee sware a solemne oath, that no one alive should ever know it. So stepping a little further aside, because no listening eare should heare him, thus he beganne. Lady, if I did love you now so effectually, as heretofore I have done, I should be very circumspect, in uttering any thing which I imagined might distaste you. I know not whether your Husband _Philippello_, were at any time offended; because I affected you, or beleeved, that I received any kindnesse from you: but whether it were so or no, I could never discerne it by any outward apparance. But now awaiting for the opportunity of time, which he conceived should affoord me the least suspition; he seekes to compasse that, which (I doubt) he feares I would have done to him, in plaine termes Madam, to have his pleasure of my wife. And as by some carriages I have observed, within few dayes past, he hath solicited and pursued his purpose very secretly, by many Ambassages, and other meanes, as (indeede) I have learned from her selfe, and alwayes shee hath returned in such answers, as shee received by my direction. And no longer agoe Madam, then this very morning, before my comming hither, I found a woman messenger in my House, in very close conference with my Wife, when growing doubtfull of that which was true indeede, I called my Wife, enquiring, what the woman would have with her; and shee tolde me it was another pursuite of _Philippello Fighinolfi_, who (quoth shee) upon such answers as you have caused me to send him from time to time, perhaps doth gather some hope of prevailing in the ende, which maketh him still to importune me as he doth. And now he adventureth so farre, as to understand my finall intention, having thus ordered his complot, that when I please, I must meete him secretly in an house of this City, where he hath prepared a Bath ready for me, and hopeth to enjoy the ende of his desire, as very earnestly he hath solicited me thereto. But if you had not commanded me, to hold him in suspence with so many frivolous answers; I would (long ere this) have sent him such a message, as should have beene little to his liking. With patience (Madam) I endured all before, but now (me thinkes) he proceedeth too farre, which is not any way to be suffered; and therefore I intended to let you know it, whereby you may perceive, how well you are rewarded, for the faithfull and loyall love you beare him, and for which I was even at the doore of death. Now, because you may be the surer of my speeches, not to be any lies or fables, and that you may (if you be so pleased) approve the trueth by your owne experience: I caused my Wife to send him word, that shee would meete him to morrow, at the Bathing-house appointed, about the houre of noone-day, when people repose themselves, in regard of the heates violence; with which answere the woman returned very jocondly. Let me now tell you Lady, I hope you have better opinion of my wit, then any meaning in me, to send my wife thither; I rather did it to this ende, that having acquainted you with his treacherous intent, you should supply my wives place, by saving both his reputation and your owne, and frustrating his unkind purpose to me. Moreover, upon the view of his owne delusion, wrought by my wife in meere love to you, he shall see his foule shame, and your most noble care, to keepe the rites of marriage betweene you still unstained. Madame _Catulla_, having heard this long and unpleasing report; without any consideration, either what he was that tolde the tale, or what a treason he intended against her: immediatly (as jealous persons use to doe) she gave faith to his forgerie, and began to discourse many things to him, which imagination had often misguided her in, against her honest minded husband, and enflamed with rage, suddenly replied; that shee would doe according as he had advised her, as being a matter of no difficulty. But if he came, she would so shame and dishonour him, as no woman whatsoever should better schoole him. _Ricciardo_ highly pleased herewith; & being perswaded, that his purpose would take the full effect: confirmed the Lady in her determination with many words more; yet putting her in memory, to keepe her faithfull promise made, without revealing the matter to any living person, as shee had sworne upon her faith. On the morrow morning, _Ricciardo_ went to an auncient woman of his acquaintance, who was the Mistresse of a Bathing-house, and there where he had appointed Madame _Catulla_, that the Bath should be prepared for her, giving her to understand the whole businesse, and desiring her to be favourable therein to him. The woman, who had beene much beholding to him in other matters, promised very willingly to fulfill his request, concluding with him, both what should be done and said. She had in her house a very darke Chamber, without any window to affoord it the least light, which Chamber shee had made ready, according to _Ricciardoes_ direction, with a rich Bed therein, so soft and delicate as possible could be, wherein he entred so soone as he had dined, to attend the arrivall of Madame _Catulla_. On the same day, as she had heard the speeches of _Ricciardo_, and gave more credit to them then became her; shee returned home to her house in wonderfull impatience. And _Philippello_ her husband came home discontentedly too, whose head being busied about some worldly affaires, perhaps he looked not so pleasantly, neither used her so kindly, as he was wont to doe. Which _Catulla_ perceiving, shee was ten times more suspicious then before, saying to herselfe. Now apparant trueth doth disclose it selfe, my husbands head is troubled now with nothing elsee, but _Ricciardoes_ wife, with whom (to morrow) he purposeth his meeting; wherein he shall be disappointed, if I live; taking no rest at all the whole night, for thinking how to handle her husband. What shall I say more? On the morrow, at the houre of mid-day, accompanied onely with her Chamber-mayde, and without any other alteration in opinion; shee went to the house where the Bath was promised; and meeting there with the olde woman, demaunded of her, if _Philippello_ were come thither as yet or no? The woman, being well instructed by _Ricciardo_, answered: Are you shee that should meete him heere. Yes, replied _Catulla_. Goe in then to him (quoth the woman) for he is not farre off before you. Madame _Catulla_, who went to seeke that which she would not finde, being brought vailed into the darke Chamber where _Ricciardo_ was, entred into the Bath, hoping to finde none other there but her husband, and the custome of the Countrey, never disallowed such meetings of men with their wives, but held them to be good and commendable. In a counterfeit voyce he bad her welcome, and she, not seeming to be any other then she was indeed, entertained his embracings in as loving manner; yet not daring to speake, least he should know her, but suffered him to proceede in his owne error. Let passe the wanton follies passing betweene them, and come to Madame _Catulla_, who finding it a fit and convenient time, to vent forth the tempest of her spleene, began in this manner. Alas! how mighty are the misfortunes of women, and how ill requited is the loyall love, of many wives to their husbands? I, a poore miserable Lady, who, for the space of eight yeares now fully compleated, have loved thee more dearely then mine owne life, finde now (to my hearts endlesse griefe) how thou wastest and consumest thy desires, to delight them with a strange woman, like a most vile and wicked man as thou art. With whom doest thou now imagine thy selfe to be? Thou art with her, whom thou hast long time deluded by false blandishments, feigning to affect her, when thou doatest in thy desires elsee-where. I am thine owne _Catulla_, and not the wife of _Ricciardo_, trayterous and unfaithfull man, as thou art. I am sure thou knowest my voyce, and I thinke it a thousand yeares, untill wee may see each other in the light, to doe thee such dishonour as thou justly deserveth, dogged, disdainefull, and villainous wretch. By conceiving to have another woman in thy wanton embraces, thou hast declared more joviall disposition, and demonstrations of farre greater kindnesse, then domesticke familiarity. At home thou lookest sower, sullen or surly, often froward, and sildome well pleased. But the best is, whereas thou intendest this husbandrie for another mans ground, thou hast (against thy will) bestowed it on thine owne, and the water hath runne a contrary course, quite from the current where thou meantst it. What answere canst thou make, devill, and no man? What, have my words smitten thee dumbe? Thou mayest (with shame enough) hold thy peace, for with the face of a man, and love of an husband to his wife, thou art not able to make any answere. _Ricciardo_ durst not speake one word, but still expressed his affable behaviour towards her, bestowing infinite embraces and kisses on her: which so much the more augmented her rage and anger, continuing on her chiding thus. If by these flatteries and idle follies, thou hopest to comfort or pacifie me, thou runnest quite byas from thy reckoning: for I shall never imagine my selfe halfe satisfied, untill in the presence of my parents, friends, and neighbours, I have revealed thy base behaviour. Tell mee, treacherous man, am not I as faire, as the wife of _Ricciardo_? Am I not as good a Gentlewoman borne, as shee is? What canst thou more respect in her, then is in mee? Villaine, monster, why doest thou not answere mee? I will send to _Ricciardo_, who loveth mee beyond all other women in _Naples_, and yet could never vaunt, that I gave him so much as a friendly looke: he shall know, what a dishonour thou hadst intended towards him; which both he and his friends will revenge soundly upon thee. The exclamations of the Lady were so tedious and irksome, that _Ricciardo_ perceiving, if she continued longer in these complaints, worse would ensue thereon, then could be easily remedied: resolved to make himselfe knowne to her, to reclaime her out of this violent extasie, and holding her somewhat strictly, to prevent her escaping from him, he said. Madam, afflict your selfe no further, for, what I could not obtaine by simply loving you, subtilty hath better taught me, and I am your _Ricciardo_, which she hearing, and perfectly knowing him by his voyce; shee would have leapt out of the Bath, but shee could not, and to avoyde her crying out, he layde his hand on her mouth, saying. Lady, what is done, cannot now be undone, albeit you cried out all your lifetime. If you exclaime, or make this knowne openly by any meanes; two unavoydable dangers must needes ensue thereon. The one (which you ought more carefully to respect) is the wounding of your good renowne and honour, because, when you shall say, that by treacherie I drew you hither: I will boldly maintaine the contrary, avouching, that having corrupted you with gold, and not giving you so much as covetously you desired; you grew offended, and thereon made the out-cry, and you are not to learne, that the world is more easily induced to beleeve the worst, then any goodnesse, be it never so manifest. Next unto this, mortall hatred must arise betweene your husband and me, and (perhaps) I shall as soone kill him, as he mee; whereby you can hardly live in any true contentment after. Wherefore, joy of my life, doe not in one moment, both shame your selfe, and cause such perill betweene your husband and me: for you are not the first, neither can be the last, that shall be deceived. I have not beguiled you, to take any honour from you, but onely declared, the faithfull affection I beare you, and so shall doe for ever, as being your bounden and most obedient servant; and as it is a long time agoe, since I dedicated my selfe and all mine to your service, so hence-forth must I remaine for ever. You are wise enough (I know) in all other things; then shew your selfe not to be silly or simple in this. _Ricciardo_ uttered these words, teares streaming aboundantly downe his cheekes, and Madame _Catulla_ (all the while) likewise showred forth her sorrowes equally to his, now, although she was exceedingly troubled in minde, and saw what her owne jealous folly had now brought her to, a shame beyond all other whatsoever: in the midst of her tormenting passions, she considered on the words of _Ricciardo_, found good reason in them, in regard of the unavoydable evils, whereupon shee thus spake. _Ricciardo_, I know not how to beare the horrible injurie, and notorious treason used by thee against me, grace and goodnesse having so forsaken me, to let me fall in so foule a manner. Nor becommeth it me, to make any noyse or out-cry heere, whereto simplicity, or rather devillish jealousie, did conduct me. But certaine I am of one thing, that I shall never see any one joyfull day, till (by one meanes or other) I be revenged on thee. Thou hast glutted thy desire with my disgrace, let me therefore goe from thee, never more to looke upon my wronged husband, or let any honest woman ever see my face. _Ricciardo_ perceiving the extremity of her perplexed minde, used all manly and milde perswasions, which possibly he could devise to doe, to turne the torrent of this high tide, to a calmer course; as by outward shew shee made apparance of, untill (in frightfull feares shunning every one shee met withall, as arguments of her guiltinesse) shee recovered her owne house, where remorse so tortured her distressed soule, that shee fell into so fierce a melancholy, as never left her till shee died. Upon the report whereof, _Ricciardo_ becomming likewise a widdower, and grieving extraordinarily for his haynous transgression, penitently betooke himselfe to live in a wildernesse, where (not long after) he ended his dayes. Thebaldo Elisei, _having received an unkinde repulse by his beloved, departed from Florence, and returning thither againe (a long while after) in the habite of a Pilgrime; he spake with her, and made his wrongs knowne unto her. He delivered her Father from the danger of death, because it was proved, that he had slaine_ Thebaldo: _he made peace with his brethren, and in the ende, wisely enjoyed his hearts desire._ The seaventh Novell. _Wherein is signified the power of Love, and the diversity of dangers, whereinto men may daily fall._ So ceased _Fiammetta_ her discourse, being generally commended, when the Queene, to prevent the losse of time, commanded _Æmillia_ to follow next, who thus began. It liketh me best (gracious Ladies) to returne home againe to our owne City, which it pleased the former two discoursers to part from: And there I will shew you, how a Citizen of ours, recovered the kindnesse of his Love, after he had lost it. Sometime there dwelt in _Florence_ a young gentleman, named _Thebaldo Elisei_, descended of a noble House, who became earnestly enamored of a Widdow, called _Hermelina_, the daughter to _Aldobrandino Palermini_: well deserving, for his vertues and commendable qualities, to enjoy of her whatsoever he could desire. Secretly they were espoused together, but Fortune, the enemy to Lovers felicities, opposed her malice against them, in depriving _Thebaldo_ of those deare delights, which sometime he held in free possession, and making him as a stranger to her gracious favours. Now grew shee contemptibly to despise him, not onely denying to heare any message sent from him, but scorning also to vouchsafe so much as a sight of him, causing in him extreme griefe and melancholy, yet concealing all her unkindnesse so wisely to himselfe, as no one could understand the reason of his sadnesse. After he had laboured by all hopefull courses, to obtaine that favour of her, which he had formerly lost, without any offence in him, as his innocent soule truly witnessed with him, and saw that all his further endeavours were fruitlesse and in vaine; he concluded to retreate himselfe from the World, and not to be any longer irkesome in her eye, that was the onely occasion of his unhappinesse. Hereupon, storing himselfe with such summes of money, as suddenly he could collect together, secretly he departed from _Florence_, without speaking any word to his friends or kindred; except one kind companion of his, whom he acquainted with most of his secrets, and so travelled to _Ancona_, where he termed himselfe by the name of _Sandolescio_. Repairing to a wealthy Merchant there, he placed himselfe as his servant, and went in a Ship of his with him to _Cyprus_; his actions and behaviour proved so pleasing to the Merchant, as not onely he allowed him very sufficient wages, but also grew into such association with him; as he gave the most of his affaires into his hands, which he guided with such honest and discreete care, that he himselfe (in few yeeres compasse) proved to be a rich Merchant, and of famous report. While matters went on in this successefull manner, although he could not chuse, but still he remembred his cruell Mistresse, and was very desperately transported for her love, as coveting (above all things elsee) to see her once more; yet was he of such powerfull constancy, as 7 whole yeers together, he vanquished all those fierce conflicts. But on a day it chanced he heard a song sung in _Cyprus_, which he himselfe had formerly made, in honour of the love he bare to his Mistresse, and what delight he conceived, by being daily in her presence; whereby he gathered, that it was impossible for him to forget her, and proceeded on so desirously, as he could not live, except he had a sight of her once more, and therefore determined on his returne to _Florence_. Having set all his affaires in due order, accompanied with a servant of his onely, he passed to _Ancona_, where when he was arrived, he sent his Merchandises to _Florence_, in name of the Merchant of _Ancona_, who was his especiall friend and partner; travayling himselfe alone with his servant, in the habite of a Pilgrime, as if he had beene newly returned from _Jerusalem_. Being come to _Florence_, he went to an Inne kept by two bretheren, neere neighbours to the dwelling of his Mistresse, and the first thing he did, was passing by her doore, to get a sight of her if he were so happie. But he found the windowes, doores, and all parts of the house fast shut up, whereby he suspected her to be dead, or elsee to be changed from her dwelling: wherefore (much perplexed in minde) he went on to the two brothers Inne, finding foure persons standing at the gate, attired in mourning, whereat he marvelled not a little; knowing himselfe to be so transfigured, both in body and habite, farre from the manner of common use at his parting thence, as it was a difficult matter to know him: he stept boldly to a Shooe-makers shop neere adjoining, and demanded the reason of their wearing mourning. The Shoo-maker made answer thus; Sir, those men are clad in mourning, because a brother of theirs, being named _Thebaldo_ (who hath beene absent hence a long while) about some fifteene dayes since was slaine. And they having heard, by proofe made in the Court of Justice, that one _Aldobrandino Palermini_ (who is kept close prisoner) was the murtherer of him, as he came in a disguised habite to his daughter, of whom he was most affectionately enamoured; cannot chuse, but let the World know by their outward habites, the inward affliction of their hearts, for a deede so dishonourably committed. _Thebaldo_ wondered greatly hereat, imagining, that some man belike resembling him in shape, might be slaine in this manner, and by _Aldobrandino_, for whose misfortune he grieved marvellously. As concerning his Mistresse, he understood that shee was living, and in good health; and night drawing on apace, he went to his lodging, with infinite molestations in his minde, where after supper, he was lodged in a Corne-loft with his man. Now by reason of many disturbing imaginations, which incessantly wheeled about his braine, his bed also being none of the best, and his supper (perhaps) somewhat of the coursest; a great part of the night was spent, yet could he not close his eyes together. But lying still broade awake, about the dead time of night, he heard the treading of divers persons over his head, who discended downe a paire of stayres by his Chamber, into the lower parts of the house, carrying a light with them, which he discerned by the chinkes and crannies in the wall. Stepping softly out of his bed, to see what the meaning hereof might be, he espied a faire young woman, who carried the light in her hand, and three men in her company, descending downe the stayres together, one of them speaking thus to the young woman. Now we may boldly warrant our safety, because we have heard it assuredly, that the death of _Thebaldo Elisei_, hath beene sufficiently approved by the Brethren, against _Aldobrandino Palermini_, and he hath confessed the fact; whereupon the sentence is already set downe in writing. But yet it behoveth us notwithstanding, to conceale it very secretly, because if ever hereafter it should be knowne, that we are they who murthered him, we shall be in the same danger, as now _Aldobrandino_ is. When _Thebaldo_ had heard these words, hee began to consider with himselfe, how many and great the dangers are, wherewith mens minds may daily be molested. First, he thought on his owne brethren in their sorrow, and buried a stranger in steed of him, accusing afterward (by false opinion, and upon the testimony of as false witnesses) a man most innocent, making him ready for the stroke of death. Next, he made a strict observation in his soule, concerning the blinded severity of Law, and the Ministers thereto belonging, who pretending a diligent and carefull inquisition for trueth, doe oftentimes (by their tortures and torments) heare lies avouched (onely for ease of paine) in the place of a true confession, yet thinking themselves (by doing so) to be the Ministers of God and Justice, whereas indeede they are the Divelse executioners of his wickednesse. Lastly, converting his thoughts to _Aldobrandino_, the imagined murtherer of a man yet living, infinite cares beleagured his soule, in devising what might best be done for his deliverance. So soone as he was risen in the morning, leaving his servant behinde him in his lodging, he went (when he thought it fit time) all alone toward the house of his Mistresse, where finding by good fortune the gate open, he entred into a small Parlour beneath, and where he saw his Mistresse sitting on the ground, wringing her hands, and wofully weeping, which (in meere compassion) moved him to weepe likewise; and going somewhat neere her, he saide. Madam, torment your selfe no more, for your peace is not farre off from you. The Gentlewoman hearing him say so, lifted up her head, and in teares spake thus. Good man, thou seemest to me to be a Pilgrim stranger; what doest thou know, either concerning my peace, or mine affliction? Madam (replied the Pilgrime) I am of _Constantinople_, and (doubtlesse) am conducted hither by the hand of Heaven, to convert your teares into rejoycing, and to deliver your Father from death. How is this? answered shee: If thou be of _Constantinople_, and art but now arrived here; doest thou know who we are, either I, or my Father? The Pilgrime discoursed to her, even from one end to the other, the history of her Husbands sad disasters, telling her, how many yeeres since shee was espoused to him, and many other important matters, which wel shee knew, and was greatly amazed thereat, thinking him verily to be a Prophet, and kneeling at his feete, entreated him very earnestly, that if hee were come to deliver her Father _Aldobrandino_ from death, to doe it speedily, because the time was very short. The Pilgrime appearing to be a man of great holinesse, saide. Rise up Madam, refraine from weeping, and observe attentively what I shall say; yet with this caution, that you never reveale it to any person whatsoever. This tribulation whereinto you are falne, (as by revelation I am faithfully informed) is for a grievous sinne by you heretofore committed, whereof divine mercy is willing to purge you, and to make a perfect amends by a sensible feeling of this affliction; as seeking your sound and absolute recovery, least you fall into farre greater danger then before. Good man (quoth shee) I am burthened with many sinnes, and doe not know for which any amends should be made by me, any one sooner then another: wherefore if you have intelligence thereof, for charities sake tell it me, and I will doe so much as lieth in me, to make a full satisfaction for it. Madam, answered the Pilgrime; I know well enough what it is, and will demand it no more of you, to winne any further knowledge thereof, then I have already: but because in revealing it yourselfe, it may touch you with the more true compunction of soule; let us goe to the point indeede, and tell me, doe you remember, that at any time you were married to an Husband, or no? At the hearing of these words, shee breathed foorth a very vehement sigh, and was stricken with admiration at this question, beleeving that not any one had knowledge thereof. Howbeit, since the day of the supposed _Thebaldoes_ buriall, such a rumour ran abroade, by meanes of some speeches, rashly dispersed by a friend of _Thebaldoes_, who (indeede) knew it; whereupon shee returned him this answere. It appeareth to me (good man) that divine ordinativation hath revealed unto you all the secrets of men; and therefore I am determined, not to conceale any of mine from you. True it is, that in my younger yeeres, being left a widow, I entirely affected an unfortunate young Gentleman, who (in secret) was my Husband, and whose death is imposed on my Father. The death of him I have the more bemoaned, because (in reason) it did neerely concerne me, by shewing my selfe so savage and rigorous to him before his departure: neverthelesse, let me assure you Sir, that neither his parting, long absence from me, or his untimely death, never had the power to bereave my heart of his remembrance. Madame, saide the Pilgrime, the unfortunate young Gentleman that is slaine, did never love you; but sure I am, that _Thebaldo Elisei_ loved you dearely. But tell me, what was the occasion whereby you conceived such hatred against him? Did he at any time offend you? No trulie Sir, quoth shee; but the reason of my anger towards him, was by the wordes and threatnings of a religious Father, to whom once I revealed (under confession) how faithfully I affected him, and what private familiarity had passed betweene us. When instantly he used such dreadfull threatnings to me, and which (even yet) doe afflict my soule, that if I did not abstaine, and utterly refuse him, the Divell would fetch me quicke to Hell, and cast me into the bottome of his quenchlesse and everlasting fire. These menaces were so prevailing with me, as I refused all further conversation with _Thebaldo_, in which regard, I would receive neither letters or messages from him. Howbeit, I am perswaded, that if he had continued here still, and not departed hence in such desperate manner as he did, seeing him melt and consume daily away, even as Snowe by power of the Sunne-beames: my austere deliberation had beene long agoe quite altered, because not at any time (since then) life hath allowed me one merry day, neither did I, or ever can love any man like unto him. At these wordes the Pilgrime sighed, and then proceeded on againe thus. Surely Madam, this one onely sin, may justly torment you, because I know for a certainty, that _Thebaldo_ never offered you any injury, since the day he first became enamoured of you; and what grace or favour you affoorded him, was your owne voluntary gift, and (as he tooke it) no more then in modesty might well become you; for he loving you first, you had beene most cruell and unkinde, if you should not have requited him with the like affection. If then he continued so just and loyall to you, as (of mine owne knowledge) I am able to say he did; what should move you to repulse him so rudely? Such matters ought well to be considered on before hand; for if you did imagine, that you should repente it as an action ill done, yet you could not doe it, because as he became yours, so were you likewise onely his; and he being yours, you might dispose of him at your pleasure, as being truely obliged to none but you. How could you then with-draw your selfe from him, being onely his, and not commit most manifest theft, a farre unfitting thing for you to doe, except you had gone with his consent? Now Madam, let me further give you to understand, that I am a religious person, and a pilgrime, and therefore am well acquainted with all the courses of their dealing; if therefore I speake somewhat more amply of them, and for your good, it cannot be so unseeming for me to doe it, as it would appeare ugly in another. In which respect, I will speake the more freely to you, to the ende, that you may take better knowledge of them, then (as it seemeth) hitherto you have done. In former passed times such as professed Religion, were learned and most holy persons; but our religious professours now adayes, and such as covet to be so esteemed; have no matter at all of Religion in them, but onely the outward shew & habite. Which yet is no true badge of Religion neither, because it was ordained by religious institutions, that their garments should be made of narrow, plaine, and coursest spun cloth, to make a publike manifestation to the world, that (in meere devotion, and religious disposition) by wrapping their bodies in such base clothing, they condemned and despised all temporall occasions. But now adayes they make them large, deepe, glistering, and of the finest cloth or stuffes to be gotten, reducing those habites to so proude and pontificall a forme, that they walke Peacock-like rustling, and strouting with them in the Churches; yea, and in open publike places, as if they were ordinary secular persons, to have their pride more notoriously observed. And as the Angler bestoweth his best cunning, with one line and baite to catch many fishes at one strike; even so do these counterfeited habite-mongers, by their dissembling and crafty dealing, beguile many credulous widowes, simple women, yea, and men of weake capacity, to credit whatsoever they doe or say, and herein they doe most of all excercise themselves. And to the end, that my speeches may not savour of any untruth against them; these men which I speake of, have not any habite at all of religious men, but onely the colour of their garments, and whereas they in times past, desired nothing more then the salvation of mens soules; these fresher witted fellowes, covet after women & wealth, and employ all their paines by their whispering confessions, and figures of painted feareful examples, to affright and terrifie unsetled and weake consciences, by horrible and blasphemous speeches; yet adding a perswasion withall, that their sinnes may be purged by Almes-deedes and Masses. To the end, that such as credit them in these their dayly courses, being guided more by apparance of devotion, then any true compunction of heart, to escape severe penances by them enjoyned: may some of them bring bread, others wine, others coyne, all of them matter of commoditie and benefit, and simply say, these gifts are for the soules of their good friends deceased. I make not any doubt, but Almes-deedes and prayers, are very mighty, and prevailing meanes, to appease heavens anger for some sinnes committed; but if such as bestow them, did either see or know, to whom they give them: they would more warily keepe them, or elsee cast them before Swine, in regard they are altogether so unworthy of them. But come we now to the case of your ghostly father, crying out in your eare, that secret mariage was a most greevous sinne: Is not the breach thereof farre greater. Familiar conversation betweene man and woman, is a concession meerely naturall: but to rob, kill, or banish anyone, proceedeth from the mindes malignity. That you did rob _Thebaldo_, your selfe hath already sufficiently witnessed, by taking that from him, which with free consent in mariage you gave him. Next I must say, that by all the power remaining in you, you kild him, because you would not permit him to remaine with you, declaring your selfe in the very height of cruelty, that hee might destroy his life by his owne hands. In which case the Law requireth, that whosoever is the occasion of an ill act committed, hee or she is as deepe in the fault, as the party that did it. Now concerning his banishment, and wandring seaven yeares in exile thorow the world; you cannot denie, but that you were the onely occasion thereof. In all which three severall actions, farre more capitally have you offended; then by contracting of mariage in such clandestine manner. But let us see, whether _Thebaldo_ deserved all these severall castigations, or not. In trueth he did not, your selfe have confessed (beside that which I know) that hee loved you more dearely then himselfe, and nothing could be more honoured, magnified and exalted, then dayly you were by him, above all other women whatsoever. When hee came in any place, where honestly, and without suspition hee might speake to you: all his honour, and all his liberty, lay wholly committed into your power. Was he not a noble young Gentleman? Was hee (among all those parts that most adorne a man, and appertaine to the very choycest respect) inferiour to any one of best merit in your Citie? I know that you cannot make deniall to any of these demands. How could you then by the perswasion of a beast, a foole, a villaine, yea, a vagabond, envying both his happinesse and yours, enter into so cruell a minde against him? I know not what error misguideth women, in scorning and despising their husbands: but if they entred into a better consideration, understanding truly what they are, and what nobility of nature God hath endued man withall, farre above all other creatures; it would bee their highest title of glory, when they are are so preciously esteemed of them, so dearely affected by them, and so gladly embraced in all their best abilities. This is so great a sinne, as the divine Justice (which in an equal ballance bringeth all operations to their full effect) did purpose not to leave unpunished; but, as you enforced against all reason, to take away _Thebaldo_ from your selfe: even so your Father _Aldobrandino_, without any occasion given by _Thebaldo_, is in perill of his life, and you a partaker of his tribulation. Out of which if you desire to be delivered, it is very convenient that you promise one thing which I shall tell you, and may much better be by you performed. Namely, that if _Thebaldo_ doe at any time returne from his long banishment, you shall restore him to your love, grace, and good acceptation; accounting him in the selfe same degree of favour and private entertainement, as he was at the first, before your wicked ghostly father so hellishly incensed you against him. When the Pilgrime had finished his speeches, the Gentlewoman, who had listened to them very attentively (because all the alleaged reasons appeared to be plainely true) became verily perswaded, that all these afflictions had falne on her and her Father, for the ingratefull offence by her committed, and therefore thus replied. Worthy man, and the friend to goodnesse, I know undoubtedly, that the words which you have spoken are true, and also I understand by your demonstration, what manner of people some of those religious persons are, whom heretofore I have reputed to be Saints, but find them now to be far otherwise. And to speake truly, I perceive the fault to be great and grievous, wherein I have offended against _Thebaldo_, and would (if I could) willingly make amends, even in such manner as you have advised. But how is it possible to be done? _Thebaldo_ being dead, can be no more recalled to this life; and therefore, I know not what promise I should make, in a matter which is not to be performed. Whereto, the Pilgrime without any longer pausing, thus answered. Madam, by such revelations as have beene shewne to me, I know for a certainety, that _Thebaldo_ is not dead, but living, in health, and in good estate; if he had the fruition of your grace and favour. Take heede what you say Sir (quoth the Gentlewoman) for I saw him lie slaine before my doore, his body having received many wounds, which I folded in mine armes, and washed his face with my brinish teares; whereby (perhaps) the scandall arose, that flew abroade to my disgrace. Beleeve me Madam, (replied the Pilgrime) say what you will, I dare assure you that _Thebaldo_ is living, and if you dare make promise, concerning what hath beene formerly requested, and keepe it inviolably; I make no doubt, but you your selfe shall shortly see him. I promise it (quoth shee) and binde my selfe thereto by a sacred oath, to keepe it faithfully: for never could any thing happen, to yeeld me the like contentment, as to see my Father free from danger, and _Thebaldo_ living. At this instant _Thebaldo_ thought it to be a very apt and convenient time to disclose himselfe, and to comfort the Lady, with an assured signall of hope, for the deliverance of her Father, wherefore he saide. Lady, to the ende that I may comfort you infallibly, in this dangerous perill of your Fathers life; I am to make knowne an especiall secret to you, which you are to keepe carefully (as you tender your owne life) from ever being revealed to the world. They were then in a place of sufficient privacy, and alone by themselves, because shee reposed great confidence in the Pilgrimes sanctity of life, as thinking him none other, then as he seemed to be. _Thebaldo_ tooke out of his Purse a Ring, which shee gave him, the last night of their conversing together, and he had kept with no meane care, and shewing it to her, he saide. Doe you know this Ring Madam? So soone as shee saw it, immediately shee knew it, and answered. Yes Sir, I know the Ring, and confesse that heretofore I gave it unto _Thebaldo_. Hereupon the Pilgrime stood up, and suddenly putting off his poore linnen Frocke, as also the Hood from his head; using then his _Florentine_ tongue, he saide. Then tell me Madam, doe you not know me? When shee had advisedly beheld him, and knew him indeede to be _Thebaldo_; she was stricken into a wonderfull astonishment, being as fearefull of him, as shee was of the dead body, which shee saw lying in the streete. And I dare assure you, that shee durst not goe neere him, to respect him, as _Thebaldo_ so lately come from _Cyprus_: but (in terror) fled away from him; as if _Thebaldo_ had beene newly risen out of his grave, and came thither purposely to affright her; wherefore he saide. Be not afraide Madam, I am your _Thebaldo_, in health, alive, and never as yet died, neither have I received any wounds to kill mee, as you and my bretheren have formerly imagined. Some better assurance getting possession of her soule, as knowing him perfectly by his voyce, and looking more stedfastly on his face, which constantly avouched him to be _Thebaldo_; the teares trickling amaine downe her faire cheekes, shee ran to embrace him, casting her armes about his necke, and kissing him a thousand times, saying; _Thebaldo_, my true and faithfull Husband, nothing in the World can be so welcome to me. _Thebaldo_ having most kindly kissed and embraced her, said; Sweete wife, time will not now allow us those ceremonious curtesies, which (indeede) so long a separation doe justly challenge; but I must about a more weightie businesse, to have your Father safe and soundly delivered, which I hope to doe before to morrow at night, when you shall heare tydings to your better contentment. And questionlesse, if I speede no worse then my good hope perswadeth me, I will see you againe to night, and acquaint you at better leysure, in such things as I cannot doe now at this present. So putting on his Pilgrimes habite againe, kissing her once more, and comforting her with future good successe, he departed from her, going to the prison where _Aldobrandino_ lay, whom he found more pensive, as being in hourely expectation of death, then any hope he had to be freed from it. Being brought neerer to him by the prisoners favour, as seeming to be a man, come onely to comfort him; sitting downe by him, thus he began. _Aldobrandino_, I am a friend of thine, whom Heaven hath sent to doe thee good, in meere pitty and compassion of thine innocency. And therefore, if thou wilt grant me one small request, which I am earnestly to crave at thy hands; thou shalt heare (without any failing) before to morrow at night, the sentence of thy free absolution, whereas now thou expectest nothing but death; whereunto _Aldobrandino_ thus answered. Friendly man, seeing thou art so carefull of my safety (although I know thee not, neither doe remember that ever I saw thee till now) thou must needs (as it appeareth no lesse) be some especiall kind friend of mine. And to tell thee the trueth, I never committed the sinfull deede, for which I am condemned to death. Most true it is, I have other heynous and grievous sinnes, which (undoubtedly) have throwne this heavy judgement upon me, and therefore I am the more willing to undergoe it. Neverthelesse, let me thus farre assure thee, that I would gladly, not onely promise something, which might to the glory of God, if he were pleased in this case to take mercy on me; but also would as willingly performe and accomplish it. Wherefore, demand whatsoever thou pleasest of me, for unfainedly (if I escape with life) I will truly keepe promise with thee. Sir, replied the Pilgrime, I desire nor demand any thing of you, but that you wold pardon the foure brethren of _Thebaldo_, who have brought you to this hard extremity, as thinking you to be guilty of their brothers death, and that you would also accept them as your brethren and friends, upon their craving pardon for what they have done. Sir, answered _Aldobrandino_, no man knoweth how sweete revenge is, nor with what heate it is to be desired, but onely the man who hath been wronged. Notwithstanding, not to hinder my hope, which onely aymeth at Heaven; I freelie forgive them, and henceforth pardon them for ever; intending moreover, that if mercy give me life, and cleere me from this bloody imputation, to love and respect them so long as I shall live. This answer was most pleasing to the Pilgrime, and without any further multiplication of speeches, he entreated him to be of good comfort, for he feared not but before the time prefixed, he should heare certaine tydings of his deliverance. At his departing from him, he went directly to the _Signoria_, and prevailed so farre, that he spake privately with a Knight, who was then one of the States chiefest Lords, to whom he saide. Sir, a man ought to bestow his best paines and diligence, that the truth of things should be apparantly knowne; especially, such men as hold the place and office as you doe: to the ende, that those persons which have committed no foule offence, should not be punished, but onely the guilty and haynous transgressors. And because it will be no meane honour to you, to lay the blame where it worthily deserveth; I am come hither purposely, to informe you in a case of most weighty importance. It is not unknowne to you, with what rigour the State hath proceeded against _Aldobrandino Palermini_, and you thinke verily he is the man that hath slaine _Thebaldo Elisei_, whereupon your law hath condemned him to dye. I dare assure you Sir, that a very unjust course hath beene taken in this case, because _Aldobrandino_ is falsly accused, as you your selfe will confesse before midnight, when they are delivered into your power, that were the murderers of the man. The honest Knight, who was very sorrowfull for _Aldobrandino_, gladly gave attention to the Pilgrime, and having conferred on many matters, appertaining to the fact committed: the two brethren, who were _Thebaldoes_ Hostes, and their Chamber-mayd, upon good advise given, were apprehended in their first sleepe, without any resistance made in their defence. But when the tortures were sent for, to understand truely how the case went; they would not endure any paine at all, but each aside by himselfe, and then altogether, confessed openly, that they did the deede, yet not knowing him to bee _Thebaldo Elisei_. And when it was demanded of them, upon what occasion they did so foule an act. They answered, that they were so hatefull against the mans life, because he would luxuriously have abused one of their wives, when they both were absent from their owne home. When the Pilgrime had heard this their voluntary confession, hee tooke his leave of the Knight, returning secretly to the house of Madame _Hermelina_, and there, because all her people were in their beds, she carefull awaited his returne, to heare some glad tydings of her father, and to make a further reconciliation betweene her and _Thebaldo_, when, sitting downe by her, hee said. Deare Love, be of good cheare, for (upon my word) to morrow you shall have your father home safe, well, and delivered from all further danger: and to confirme her the more confidently in his words, hee declared at large the whole cariage of the businesse. _Hermelina_ being wondrously joyfull, for two such suddaine and succesfull accidents to enjoy her husband alive and in health, and also to have her father freed from so great a danger; kissed and embraced him most affectionately, welcomming him lovingly into her bed, whereto so long time he had beene a stranger. No sooner did bright day appeare, but _Thebaldo_ arose, having acquainted her with such matters as were to be done, and once more earnestly desiring her, to conceale (as yet) these occurrences to her selfe. So, in his Pilgrimes habite, he departed from her house, to awaite convenient opportunity, for attending on the businesse belonging to _Aldobrandino_. At the usuall houre appointed, the Lords were all set in the _Signioria_, and had received full information, concerning the offence imputed to _Aldobrandino_: setting him at liberty by publique consent, and sentencing the other malefactors with death, who (within a fewe dayes after) were beheaded in the place where the murther was committed. Thus _Aldobrandino_ being released, to his exceeding comfort, and no small joy of his daughters, kindred and friends, all knowing perfectly, that this had happened by the Pilgrimes meanes: they conducted him home to _Aldobrandinoes_ house, where they desired him to continue so long as himselfe pleased, using him with most honourable and gracious respect; but especially _Hermelina_, who knew (better then the rest) on whom shee bestowed her liberall favours, yet concealing all closely to her selfe. After two or three dayes were over-past, in these complementall entercoursings of kindnesse, _Thebaldo_ began to consider, that it was high time for reconciliation, to be solemnely past betweene his brethren and _Aldobrandino_. For, they were not a little amazed at his strange deliverance, and went likewise continually armed, as standing in feare of _Aldobrandino_ and his friends; which made him the more earnest, for accomplishment of the promise formerly made unto him. _Aldobrandino_ lovingly replied, that he was ready to make good his word. Whereupon, the Pilgrime provided a goodly Banquet, whereat he purposed to have present, _Aldobrandino_, his daughter, kindred, and their wives. But first, himselfe would goe in person, to invite them in peace to his Banquet, to performe this desired pacification, and conferred with his brethren, using many pregnant and forcible arguments to them, such as are requisite in the like discordant cases. In the end, his reasons were so wise, and prevailing with them, that they willingly condiscended, and thought it no disparagement to them, for the recoverie of _Aldobrandinoes_ kindnesse againe, to crave pardon for their great error committed. On the morrow following, about the houre of dinner time, the foure brethren of _Thebaldo_, attired in their mourning garments, with their wives and friends, came first to the house of _Aldobrandino_, who purposely attended for them, and having layd downe their weapons on the ground: in the presence of all such, as _Aldobrandino_ had invited as his witnesses, they offered themselves to his mercy, and humbly required pardon of him, for the matter wherein they had offended him. _Aldobrandino_, shedding teares, most lovingly embraced them, and (to bee briefe) pardon whatsoever injuries he had received. After this, the sisters and wives, all clad in mourning, courteously submitted themselves, and were graciously welcommed by Madame _Hermelina_, as also divers other Gentlewomen there present with her. Being all seated at the Tables, which were furnished with such rarities as could be wished for; all things elsee deserved their due commendation, but onely sad silence, occasioned by the fresh remembrance of sorrow, appearing in the habites of _Thebaldoes_ friends and kindred, which the Pilgrime himselfe plainely perceived, to be the onely disgrace to him and his feast. Wherefore, as before hee had resolved, when time served to purge away this melancholly; hee arose from the Table, when some (as yet) had scarce begun to eate, and thus spake. Gracious company, there is no defect in this Banquet, or more debarres it of the honour it might elsee have, but onely the presence of _Thebaldo_, who having beene continually in your company, it seemes you are not willing to take knowledge of him, and therefore I meane my selfe to shew him. So, uncasing himselfe out of his Pilgrimes clothes, and standing in his Hose and Doublet: to their no little admiration, they all knew him, yet doubted (a good while) whether it were he or no. Which hee perceiving, hee repeated his bretherens and absent kindreds names, and what occurrences had happened betweene them from time to time, beside the relation of his owne passed fortunes, inciting teares in the eyes of his brethren, and all elsee there present, every one hugging and embracing him, yea, many beside, who were no kin at all to him, _Hermelina_ onely excepted, which when _Aldobrandino_ saw, he said unto her. How now _Hermelina_? Why doest thou not welcome home _Thebaldo_, so kindely as all here elsee have done? She making a modest courtesie to her Father, and answering so loude as every one might heare her, said. There is not any in this assembly, that more willingly would give him all expression of a joyfull welcom home, and thankfull gratitude for such especiall favours received, then in my heart I could afford to do: but only in regard of those infamous speeches, noysed out against me, on the day when wee wept for him, who was supposed to be _Thebaldo_, which slander was to my great discredit. Goe on boldly, replied _Aldobrandino_, doest thou thinke that I regard any such praters? In the procuring of my deliverance, hee hath approved them to be manifest liers, albeit I my selfe did never credit them. Goe then I command thee, and let me see thee both kisse and embrace him. She who desired nothing more, shewed her selfe not slothfull in obeying her Father, to do but her duty to her husband. Wherefore, being risen; as all the rest had done, but yet in farre more effectual manner, she declared her unfeigned love to _Thebaldo_. These bountifull favours of _Aldobrandino_, were joyfully accepted by _Thebaldoes_ brethren, as also every one elsee there present in company; so that all former rancour and hatred, which had caused heavy variances betweene them, was now converted to mutuall kindnesse, and solemne friendship on every side. When the feasting dayes were finished, the garments of sad mourning were quite layde aside, and those, becomming so generall a joy, put on, to make their hearts and habites suteable. Now, concerning the man slaine, and supposed to be _Thebaldo_, hee was one, that in all parts of body, and truenesse of complexion so neerely resembled him, as _Thebaldoes_ owne brethren could not distinguish the one from the other: but hee was of _Lunigiana_, named _Fatinolo_, and not _Thebaldo_, whom the two brethren Inne-keepers maliced, about some idle suspition conceived, and having slaine him, layde his body at the doore of _Aldobrandino_, where, by the reason of _Thebaldoes_ absence, it was generally reputed to be he, and _Aldobrandino_ charged to doe the deede, by vehement perswasion of the brethren, knowing what love had passed betweene him and his daughter _Hermelina_. But happy was the Pilgrimes returne, first to heare those words in the Inne, the meanes to bring the murther to light; and then the discreete cariage of the Pilgrime, untill hee plainely approved himselfe, to be truly _Thebaldo_. Ferando, _by drinking a certaine kinde of Powder, was buried for dead. And by the Abbot, who was enamoured of his wife, was taken out of his Grave, and put into a darke prison, where they made him beleeve, that hee was in Purgatorie. Afterward, when time came that hee should bee raised to life againe; hee was made to keepe a childe, which the Abbot had got by his Wife._ The eight Novell. _Wherein is displayed, the apparant folly of jealousie: And the subtilty of some religious carnall minded men, to beguile silly and simple maried men._ When the long discourse of Madame _Æmilia_ was ended, not displeasing to any, in regard of the length, but rather held too short, because no exceptions could be taken against it, comparing the raritie of the accidents, and changes together: the Queene turned to Madame _Lauretta_, giving her such a manifest signe, as she knew, that it was her turne to follow next, and therefore shee tooke occasion to begin thus. Faire Ladies, I intend to tell you a Tale of trueth, which (perhaps) in your opinions, will seeme to sound like a lye: and yet I heard by the very last relation, that a dead man was wept and mournd for, in sted of another being then alive. In which respect, I am now to let you know, how a living man was buried for dead, and being raised againe, yet not as living, himselfe, and divers more beside, did beleeve that he came forth of his grave, and adored him as a Saint, who was the occasion thereof, and who (as a bad man) deserved justly to be condemned. In _Tuscanie_ there was sometime an Abby, seated, as now we see commonly they are, in a place not much frequented with people, and thereof a Monke was Abbot, very holy and curious in all things elsee, save onely a wanton appetite to women: which yet hee kept so cleanly to himselfe, that though some did suspect it, yet it was knowne to very few. It came to passe, that a rich Country Franklin, named _Ferando_, dwelt as a neere neighbour to the said Abby, hee being a man materiall, of simple and grosse understanding, yet he fell into great familiarity with the Abbot; who made use of this friendly conversation to no other end, but for divers times of recreation; when he delighted to smile at his silly and sottish behaviour. Upon this his private frequentation with the Abbot, at last he observed, that _Ferando_ had a very beautifull woman to his wife, with whom he grew so deepely in love, as hee had no other meditations either by day or night, but how to become acceptable in her favour. Neverthelesse, he concealed his amorous passions privately to himselfe, and could plainely perceive, that although Ferando (in all things elsee) was meerely a simple fellow, and more like an Idiot, then of any sensible apprehension: yet was he wise enough in loving his wife, keeping her carefully out of all company, as one (indeede) very jealous, least any should kisse her, but onely himselfe, which drove the Abbot into despaire, for ever attaining the issue of his desire. Yet being subtill, crafty, and cautelous, he wrought so on the flexible nature of _Ferando_, that hee brought his wife with him divers dayes to the Monasterie; where they walked in the goodly Garden, discoursing on the beatitudes of eternall life, as also the most holy deedes of men and women, long since departed out of this life, in mervailous civill and modest manner. Yet all these were but traines to a further intention, for the Abbot must needes bee her ghostly Father, and shee come to be confessed by him; which the foole _Ferando_ tooke as an especiall favour, and therefore he gave his consent the sooner. At the appointed time, when the woman came to confession to the Abbot, and was on her knees before him, to his no small contentment, before she would say any thing elsee, thus she began: Sacred Father, if God had not given me such an husband as I have, or elsee had bestowed on me none at all; I might have beene so happy, by the meanes of your holy doctrine, very easily to have entred into the way, whereof you spake the other day, which leadeth to eternall life. But when I consider with my selfe, what manner of man _Ferando_ is, and thinke upon his folly withall; I may well terme my selfe to be a widdow, although I am a maried wife, because while he liveth, I cannot have any other husband. And yet (as sottish as you see him) he is (without any occasion given him) so extreamely jealous of me; as I am not able to live with him, but onely in continuall tribulation & hearts griefe. In which respect, before I enter into confession, I most humbly beseech you, that you would vouchsafe (in this distresse) to assist me with your fatherly advise and counsell, because, if thereby I cannot attaine to a more pleasing kinde of happinesse; neither confession, or any thing elsee, is able to doe me any good at all. These words were not a little welcome to my Lord Abbot, because (thereby) he halfe assured himselfe, that Fortune had laid open the path to his hoped pleasures, whereupon he said. Deare daughter, I make no question to the contrary, but it must needes be an exceeding infelicity, to so faire and goodly a young woman as you are, to be plagued with so sottish an husband, brain-sick, and without the use of common understanding; but yet subject to a more hellish affliction then all these, namely jealousie, and therefore you being in this wofull manner tormented, your tribulations are not only so much the more credited, but also as amply grieved for, & pittied. In which heavy and irksome perturbations, I see not any meanes of remedy, but onely one, being a kinde of physicke (beyond all other) to cure him of his foolish jealousie; which medicine is very familiar to me, because I know best how to compound it, alwayes provided, that you can be of so strong a capacity, as to be secret in what I shall say unto you. Good Father (answered the Woman) never make you any doubt thereof, for I would rather endure death it selfe, then disclose any thing which you enjoyne me to keepe secret: wherefore, I beseech you Sir to tell me, how, and by what meanes it may be done. If (quoth the Abbot) you desire to have him perfectly cured, of a disease so dangerous and offensive, of necessity he must be sent into Purgatory. How may that be done, saide the woman, he being alive? He must needs die, answered the Abbot, for his more speedy passage thither; and when he hath endured so much punishment, as may expiate the quality of his jealousie, we have certaine devoute and zealous prayers, whereby to bring him backe againe to life, in as able manner as ever he was. Why then, replyed the woman, I must remaine in the state of a Widdow? Very true, saide the Abbot, for a certaine time, in all which space, you may not (by any meanes) marrie againe, because the heavens will therewith be highly offended: but _Ferando_ being returned to life againe, you must repossesse him as your Husband, but never to be jealous any more. Alas Sir (quoth the woman) so that he may be cured of his wicked jealousie, and I no longer live in such an hellish imprisonment, doe as you please. Now was the Abbot (well neere) on the highest step of his hope, making her constant promise, to accomplish it: But (quoth he) what shall be my recompence when I have done it? Father, saide shee, whatsoever you please to aske, if it remaine within the compasse of my power: but you being such a vertuous and sanctified man, and I a woman of so meane worth or merit; what sufficient recompence can I be able to make you? Whereunto the Abbot thus replyed. Faire Woman, you are able to doe as much for me, as I am for you, because as I doe dispose my selfe, to performe a matter for your comfort and consolation, even so ought you to be as mindfull of me, in any action concerning my life and welfare. In any such matter Sir (quoth shee) depending on your benefit so strictly, you may safely presume to command me. You must then (saide the Abbot) grant me your love, and the kinde embracing of your person; because so violent are mine affections, as I pine and consume away daily, till I enjoy the fruition of my desires, and none can help me therein but you. When the woman heard these words, as one confounded with much amazement, this shee replied. Alas, holy Father! what a strange motion have you made to me? I beleeved very faithfully, that you were no lesse then a Saint, and is it convenient, that when silly women come to aske counsell of such sanctified men, they should returne them such unfitting answeres? Be not amazed good woman, saide the Abbot, at the motion which I have made unto you, because holinesse is not thereby impaired a jot in me; for it is the inhabitant of the soule, the other is an imperfection attending on the body: but be it whatsoever, your beauty hath so powerfully prevailed on me, that entire love hath compelled me to let you know it. And more may you boast of your beauty, then any that ever I beheld before, considering, it is so pleasing to a sanctified man, that it can draw him from divine contemplations, to regard a matter of so humble an equalitie. Let me tell you moreover, woorthy Woman, that you see me reverenced here as Lord Abbot, yet am I but as other men are, and in regard I am neither aged, nor misshapen, me thinkes the motion I have made, should be the lesse offensive to you, and therefore the sooner granted. For, all the while as _Ferando_ remaineth in Purgatory, doe you but imagine him to be present with you, and your perswasion will the more absolutely be confirmed. No man can, or shall be privy to our close meetings, for I carrie the same holy opinion among all men, as you your selfe conceived of me, and none dare be so saucie, as to call in question whatsoever I doe or say, because my wordes are Oracles, and mine actions more then halfe miracles; doe you not then refuse so gracious an offer. Enow there are, who would gladly enjoy that, which is francke and freely presented to you, and which (if you be a wise Woman) is meerely impossible for you to refuse. Richly am I possessed of Gold and Jewelse, which shall be all yours, if you please in favour to be mine; wherein I will not be gaine-saide, except your selfe doe denie me. The Woman having her eyes fixed on the ground, knew not wel how shee should denie him; and yet in plaine words, to say shee consented, shee held it to be over-base and immodest, and ill agreeing with her former reputation: when the Abbot had well noted this attention in her, and how silent shee stood without returning any answer; he accounted the conquest to be more then halfe his owne: so that continuing on his formall perswasions, hee never ceased, but allured her still to beleeve whatsoever he saide. And shee much ashamed of his importunity, but more of her owne flexible yeelding weakenesse, made answer, that shee would willingly accomplish his request; which yet shee did not absolutelie grant, untill _Ferando_ were first sent into Purgatory. And till then (quoth the Abbot) I will not urge any more, because I purpose his speedy sending thither: but yet, so farre lend me your assistance, that either to morrow, or elsee the next day, he may come hither once more to converse with me. So putting a faire gold Ring on her finger, they parted till their next meeting. Not a little joyfull was the Woman of so rich a gift, hoping to enjoy a great many more of them, and returning home to her neighbours, acquainted them with wonderfull matters, all concerning the sanctimonious life of the Abbot, a meere miracle of men, and worthy to be truely termed a Saint. Within two dayes after, _Ferando_ went to the Abbye againe, and so soone as the Abbot espyed him, hee presently prepared for his sending of him into Purgatorie. He never was without a certaine kinde of drugge, which being beaten into powder, would worke so powerfully upon the braine, and all the other vitall sences, as to entrance them with a deadly sleepe, and deprive them of all motion, either in the pulses, or any other part elsee, even as if the body were dead indeede; in which operation it would so hold and continue, according to the quantity given and drunke, as it pleased the Abbot to order the matter. This powder or drugge, was sent him by a great Prince of the East, and therewith he wrought wonders upon his Novices, sending them into Purgatory when he pleased, and by such punishments as he inflicted on them there, made them (like credulous asses) beleeve whatsoever himselfe listed. So much of this powder had the Abbot provided, as should suffice for three dayes entrauncing, and having compounded it with a very pleasant Wine, calling _Ferando_ into his Chamber, there gave it him to drinke, and afterward walked with him about the Cloyster, in very friendly conference together, the silly sot never dreaming on the treachery intended against him. Many Monkes beside were recreating themselves in the Cloyster, most of them delighting to behold the follies of _Ferando_, on whom the potion beganne so to worke, that he slept in walking, nodding and reeling as hee went, till at the last hee fell downe, as if he had beene dead. The Abbot pretending great admiration at this accident, called his Monkes about him, all labouring by rubbing his temples, throwing cold water and vinegar in his face, to revive him againe; alleaging that some fume or vapour in the stomacke, had thus over-awed his understanding faculties, and quite deprived him of life indeede. At length, when by tasting the pulse, and all their best employed paines, they saw that their labour was spent in vaine; the Abbot used such perswasions to the Monkes, that they all beleeved him to be dead: whereupon they sent for his Wife and friends, who crediting as much as the rest did, were very sad and sorrowfull for him. The Abbot (cloathed as he was) laide him in a hollow vault under a Tombe, such as there are used in stead of Graves; his Wife returning home againe to her House, with a young Sonne which shee had by her Husband, protesting to keepe still within her House, and never more to be seene in any company, but onely to attend her young Sonne, and be very carefull of such wealth as her Husband had left unto her. From the City of _Bologna_, that very instant day, a well staide and governed Monke there arrived, who was a neere kinsman to the Abbot, and one whom he might securely trust. In the dead time of the night, the Abbot and this Monke arose, and taking _Ferando_ out of the vault, carried him into a darke dungeon or prison, which he termed by the name of Purgatory, and where hee used to discipline his Monkes, when they had committed any notorious offence, deserving to be punished in Purgatory. There they tooke off his usuall wearing garments, and cloathed him in the habite of a Monke, even as if he had beene one of the house; and laying him on a bundle of straw, so left him untill his sences should be restored againe. On the day following, late in the evening, the Abbot, accompanied with his trusty Monke, (by way of visitation) went to see and comfort the supposed widow; finding her attired in blacke, very sad and pensive, which by his wonted perswasions, indifferently he appeased; challenging the benefit of her promise. Shee being thus alone, not hindered by her Husbands jealousie, and espying another goodly gold Ring on his finger, how frailety and folly over-ruled her, I know not, shee was a weake woman, he a divelish deluding man; and the strongest holdes by over-long battery and besieging, must needes yeeld at the last, as I feare shee did: for very often afterward, the Abbot used in this manner to visit her, and the simple ignorant Countrey people, carrying no such ill opinion of the holy Abbot, and having seene _Ferando_ lying for dead in the vault, and also in the habite of a Monke; were verily perswaded, that when they saw the Abbot passe by to and fro, but most commonly in the night season, it was the ghost of _Ferando_, who walked in this manner after his death, as a just pennance for his jealousie. When _Ferandoes_ sences were recovered againe, and he found himselfe to be in such a darkesome place; not knowing where he was, he beganne to crie and make a noyse. When presently the Monke of _Bologna_ (according as the Abbot had tutured him) stept into the dungeon, carrying a little waxe candle in the one hand, and a smarting whip in the other, going to _Ferando_, he stript off his cloathes, and began to lash him very soundly. _Ferando_ roaring and crying, could say nothing elsee, but, where am I? The Monke (with a dreadfull voyce) replyed: Thou art in Purgatory. How? saide _Ferando_; what? Am I dead? Thou art dead (quoth the Monke) and began to lash him lustily againe. Poore _Ferando_, crying out for his Wife and little Sonne, demanded a number of idle questions, whereto the Monke still fitted him with as fantasticke answers. Within a while after, he set both foode and wine before him, which when _Ferando_ sawe, he saide; How is this? Doe dead men eate and drinke? Yes, replyed the Monke, and this foode which here thou seest, thy Wife brought hither to their Church this morning, to have Masses devoutly sung for thy soule; and as to other, so must it be set before thee, for such is the command of the Patrone of this place. _Ferando_ having lyen entranced three dayes and three nights, felt his stomacke well prepared to eate, and feeding very heartily, still saide; O my good Wife, O my loving Wife, long mayest thou live for this extraordinary kindnesse. I promise thee (sweete heart) while I was alive, I cannot remember, that ever any foode and wine was halfe so pleasing to me. O my deare Wife; O my hony Wife. Canst thou (quoth the Monke) prayse and commend her now, using her so villainously in thy life time? Then did he whip him more fiercely then before, when _Ferando_ holding up his hands, as craving for mercy, demanded wherefore he was so severely punished? I am so commanded (quoth the Monke) by supreme power, and twice every day must thou be thus disciplinde. Upon what occasion? replyed _Ferando_. Because (quoth the Monke) thou wast most notoriously jealous of thy Wife, shee being the very kindest woman to thee, as all the Countrey containeth not her equall. It is too true, answered _Ferando_, I was over-much jealous of her indeede: but had I knowne, that jealousie was such a hatefull sinne against Heaven, I never would have offended therein. Now (quoth the Monke) thou canst confesse thine owne wilfull follie, but this should have beene thought on before, and whilest thou wast living in the World. But if the Fates vouchsafe to favour thee so much, as hereafter to send thee to the World once more; remember thy punishment here in Purgatory, and sinne no more in that foule sinne of jealousie. I pray you Sir tell me, replyed _Ferando_, after men are dead, and put into Purgatory, is there any hope of their ever visiting the World any more? Yes, saide the Monke, if the fury of the Fates be once appeased. O that I knew (quoth _Ferando_) by what meanes they would be appeased, and let me visite the World once againe: I would be the best Husband that ever lived, and never more be jealous, never wrong so good a Wife, nor ever use one unkind word against her. In the meane while, and till their anger may be qualified; when next my Wife doth send me foode, I pray you worke so much, that some Candles may be sent me also, because I live here in uncomfortable darknesse; and what should I doe with foode, if I have no light. Shee sends Lights enow, answered the Monke, but they are burnt out on the Altar in Masse-time, and thou canst have none other here, but such as I must bring my selfe; neither are they allowed, but onely for the time of thy feeding and correcting. _Ferando_ breathing foorth a vehement sigh, desired to know what he was, being thus appointed to punish him in Purgatory? I am (quoth the Monke) a dead man, as thou art, borne in _Sardignia_, where I served a very jealous Master; and because I soothed him in his jealousie, I had this pennance imposed on me, to serve thee here in Purgatory with meate and drinke, and (twice every day) to discipline thy body, untill the Fates have otherwise determined both for thee and me. Why? saide _Ferando_, are any other persons here, beside you and I? Many thousands, replyed the Monke, whom thou canst neither heare nor see, no more then they are able to doe the like by us. But how farre, saide _Ferando_, is Purgatory distant from our native Countries? About some fifty thousand leagues, answered the Monke; but yet passable in a moment, whensoever the offended Fates are pleased: and many Masses are daily saide for thy soule, at the earnest entreaty of thy Wife, in hope of thy conversion; and becomming a new man, hating to be jealous any more hereafter. In these and such like speeches, as thus they beguiled the time, so did they observe it for a dayly course, sometime discipling, other whiles eating and drinking, for the space of ten whole moneths together: in the which time, the Abbot sildome failed to visite _Ferandoes_ wife, without the least suspition in any of the neighbours, by reason of their setled opinion, concerning the nightly walking of _Ferandoes_ ghost. But, as all pleasures cannot bee exempted from some following paine or other, so it came to passe, that _Ferandoes_ wife proved to be conceived with childe, and the time was drawing on for her deliverance. Now began the Abbot to consider, that _Ferandoes_ folly was sufficiently chastised, and hee had beene long enough in Purgatory: wherefore, the better to countenance all passed inconveniences, it was now thought high time, that _Ferando_ should be sent to the world againe, and set free from the paines of Purgatory, as having payed for his jealousie dearely, to teach him better wisedome hereafter. Late in the dead time of the night the Abbot himselfe entred into the darke dungeon, and in an hollow counterfeited voyce, called to _Ferando_, saying. Comfort thy selfe _Ferando_, for the Fates are now pleased, that thou shalt bee released out of Purgatory, and sent to live in the world againe. Thou didst leave thy wife newly conceived with childe, and this very morning she is delivered of a goodly Sonne, whom thou shalt cause to be named _Bennet_: because, by the incessant prayers of the holy Abbot, thine owne loving wife, and for sweet Saint _Bennets_ sake, this grace and favour is afforded thee. _Ferando_ hearing this, was exceeding joyfull, and returned this answere: For ever honoured be the Fates, the holy Lord Abbot, blessed Saint _Bennet_, and my most dearely beloved wife, whom I will faithfully love for ever, and never more offend her by any jealousie in me. When the next foode was sent to _Ferando_, so much of the powder was mingled with the wine, as would serve onely for foure houres entrauncing, in which time, they clothed him in his owne wearing apparell againe, the Abbot himselfe in person, and his honest trusty Monke of _Bologna_, conveying and laying him in the same vault under the Tombe, where at the first they gave him buriall. The next morning following, about the breake of day, _Ferando_ recovered his sences, and thorow divers chinkes and crannies of the Tombe, descried day-light, which hee had not seene in tenne moneths space before. Perceiving then plainely, that he was alive, he cried out aloude, saying: Open, open, and let mee forth of Purgatory, for I have beene heere long enough in conscience. Thrusting up his head against the cover of the Tombe, which was not of any great strength, neither well closed together; hee put it quite off the Tombe, and so got forth upon his feete: at which instant time, the Monks having ended their morning Mattins, and hearing the noyse, ran in hast thither, and knowing the voyce of _Ferando_, saw that he was come forth of the Monument. Some of them were ancient Signiors of the house, and yet but meere Novices (as all the rest were) in these cunning and politique stratagems of the Lord Abbot, when hee intended to punish any one in Purgatory, and therefore, being affrighted, and amazed at this rare accident; they fled away from him running to the Abbot, who making a shew to them, as if he were but new come forth of his Oratory, in a kinde of pacifying speeches, saide; Peace my deare Sonnes, bee not affraide, but fetch the Crosse and Holy-water hither; then follow me, and I will shew you, what miracle the Fates have pleased to shew in our Convent, therefore be silent, and make no more noise; all which was performed according to his command. _Ferando_ looking leane and pale, as one, that in so long time hadde not seene the light of heaven, and endured such strict discipline twice everie day: stood in a gastly amazement by the Tombes side, as not daring to adventure any further, or knowing perfectly, whether he was (as yet) truly alive, or no. But when he saw the Monkes and Abbot comming, with their lighted Torches, and singing in a solemne manner of Procession, he humbled himselfe at the Abbots feete, saying. Holy Father, by your zealous prayers (as hath bin miraculously revealed to me) and the prayers of blessed S. _Bennet_; as also of my honest, deare, and loving Wife, I have bin delivered from the paines of Purgatory, and brought againe to live in this world; for which unspeakable grace and favour, most humbly I thank the well-pleased Fates, S. _Bennet_, your Father-hood, and my kinde Wife, and will remember all your loves to me for ever. Blessed be the Fates, answered the Abbot, for working so great a wonder heere in our Monastery. Go then my good Son, seeing the Fates have bin so gracious to thee; Go (I say) home to thine owne house, and comfort thy kind wife, who ever since thy departure out of this life, hath lived in continuall mourning, love, cherish, and make much of her, never afflicting her henceforth with causlesse jealousie. No I warrant you good Father, replyed _Ferando_; I have bin well whipt in Purgatory for such folly, and therefore I might be called a starke foole, if I should that way offend any more, either my loving wife, or any other. The Abbot causing _Miserere_ to be devoutly sung, sprinkling _Ferando_ well with Holy-water, and placing a lighted Taper in his hand, sent him home so to his owne dwelling Village: where when the Neighbours beheld him, as people halfe frighted out of their wits, they fledde away from him, so scared and terrified, as if they had seene some dreadfull sight, or gastly apparition; his wife being as fearfull of him, as any of the rest. He called to them kindly by their severall names, telling them, that hee was newly risen out of his grave, and was a man as he had bin before. Then they began to touch and feele him, growing into more certaine assurance of him, perceiving him to be a living man indeede: whereupon, they demanded many questions of him; and he, as if he were become farre wiser then before, tolde them tydings, from their long deceased Kindred and Friends, as if he had met with them all in Purgatory, reporting a thousand lyes and fables to them, which (neverthelesse) they beleeved. Then he told them what the miraculous voice had said unto him, concerning the birth of another young Sonne, whom (according as he was commanded) he caused to be named _Bennet Ferando_. Thus his returne to life againe, and the daily wonders reported by him, caused no meane admiration in the people, with much commendation of the Abbots Holynesse, and _Ferandoes_ happy curing of his jealousie. Juliet of Narbona, _cured the King of France of a daungerous Fistula, in recompence whereof, she requested to enjoy as her husband in marriage,_ Bertrand _the Count of_ Roussillion. _Hee having married her against his will, as utterly despising her, went to Florence, where he made love to a young Gentlewoman._ Juliet, _by a queint and cunning policy, compassed the meanes (insted of his chosen new friend) to lye with her owne husband, by whom shee conceived, and had two Sonnes; which being afterward made knowne unto Count_ Bertrand, _he accepted her into his favour again, and loved her as his loyall and honourable wife._ The Ninth Novell. _Commending the good judgement and understanding in Ladies or Gentlewomen, that are of a quicke and apprehensive spirit._ Now there remained no more (to preserve the priviledge granted to _Dioneus_ uninfringed) but the Queene onely, to declare her Novell. Wherefore, when the discourse of Madam _Lauretta_ was ended, without attending any motion to bee made for her next succeeding, with a gracious and pleasing disposition, thus she began to speake. Who shall tell any Tale heereafter, to carry any hope or expectation of liking, having heard the rare and wittie discourse of Madame _Lauretta_? Beleeve me, it was verie advantageable to us all, that she was not this dayes first beginner, because few or none would have had any courage to follow after her, & therefore the rest yet remaining, are the more to be feared and suspected. Neverthelesse, to avoid the breach of order, and to claime no priviledge by my place, of not performing what I ought to do: prove as it may, a Tale you must have, and thus I proceed. There lived sometime in the kingdom of _France_, a Gentleman named _Isnarde_, being the Count of _Roussillion_, who because hee was continually weake, crazie and sickly, kept a Physitian daily in his house, who was called Master _Gerard_ of _Narbona_. Count _Isnarde_ had one onely Sonne, very young in yeares, yet of towardly hope, faire, comely, and of pleasing person, named _Bertrand_; with whom, many other children of his age, had their education: and among them, a daughter of the fore-named Physitian, called _Juliet_; who, even in these tender yeares, fixed her affection upon yong _Bertrand_, with such an earnest and intimate resolution, as was most admirable in so yong a maiden, and more then many times is noted in yeares of greater discretion. Old Count _Isnard_ dying, yong _Bertrand_ fell as a Ward to the King, and being sent to _Paris_, remained there under his royall custodie and protection, to the no little discomfort of yong _Juliet_, who became greevously afflicted in minde, because shee had lost the company of _Bertrand_. Within some few yeeres after, the Physitian her Father also dyed, and then her desires grew wholly addicted, to visite _Paris_ her selfe in person, onely because she would see the yong Count, awaiting but time & opportunitie, to fit her stolne journey thither. But her kindred and friends, to whose care and trust she was committed, in regard of her rich dowrie, and being left as a fatherlesse Orphane: were so circumspect of her walks and daily behaviour, as she could not compasse any meanes of escaping. Her yeeres made her now almost fit for marriage, which so much more encreased her love to the Count, making refusall of many woorthie husbands, and laboured by the motions of her friends and kindred, yet all denyed, they not knowing any reason for her refusalles. By this time the Count was become a gallant goodly Gentleman, and able to make election of a wife, whereby her affections were the more violently enflamed, as fearing least some other should be preferred before her, & so her hopes be utterly disappointed. It was noysed abroad by common report, that the King of _France_ was in a very dangerous condition, by reason of a strange swelling on his stomacke, which failing of apt and convenient curing, became a Fistula, afflicting him daily with extraordinary paine and anguish, no Chirurgeon or Physitian being found, that could minister any hope of healing, but rather encreased the greefe, and drove it to more vehement extreamitie, compelling the King, as dispairing utterly of all helpe, to give over any further counsell or advice. Heereof faire _Juliet_ was wondrously joyful, as hoping that this accident would prove the meanes, not only of hir journey to _Paris_, but if the disease were no more then shee imagined; shee could easily cure it, and thereby compasse Count _Bertrand_ to be her husband. Heereupon, quickning up her wits, with remembrance of those rules of Art, which (by long practise and experience) she had learned of her skilfull Father, shee compounded certaine hearbes together, such as she knew fitting for that kinde of infirmity, and having reduced hir compound into a powder, away she rode forthwith to Paris. Being there arrived, all other serious matters set aside, first shee must needs have a sight of Count _Bertrand_, as being the onely Saint that caused her pilgrimage. Next she made meanes for her accesse to the King, humbly entreating his Majesty, to vouchsafe her the sight of his Fistula. When the King saw her, her modest lookes did plainly deliver, that she was a faire, comely, and discreete young Gentlewoman; wherefore, hee would no longer hide it, but layed it open to her view. When shee had seene and felt it, presently she put the King in comfort; affirming, that she knew her selfe able to cure his Fistula, saying: Sir, if your Highnesse will referre the matter to me, without any perill of life, or any the least paine to your person, I hope (by the helpe of heaven) to make you whole and sound within eight dayes space. The King hearing her words, beganne merrily to smile at her, saying: How is it possible for thee, being a yong Maiden, to do that which the best Physitians in Europe, are not able to performe? I commend thy kindnesse, and will not remaine unthankefull for thy forward willingnesse: but I am fully determined, to use no more counsell, or to make any further triall of Physicke or Chirurgery. Whereto faire _Juliet_ thus replied: Great King, let not my skill and experience be despised, because I am young, and a Maiden; for my profession is not Physicke, neither do I undertake the ministering thereof, as depending on mine owne knowledge; but by the gracious assistance of heaven, & some rules of skilfull observation, which I learned of reverend _Gerard_ of _Narbona_, who was my worthy Father, and a Physitian of no meane fame, all the while he lived. At the hearing of these words, the King began somewhat to admire at her gracious carriage, and saide within himselfe. What know I, whether this virgin is sent to me by the direction of heaven, or no? Why should I disdaine to make proofe of her skill? Her promise is, to cure mee in a small times compasse, and without any paine or affliction to me: she shall not come so farre, to returne againe with the losse of her labour, I am resolved to try her cunning, and thereon saide. Faire Virgin, if you cause me to breake my setled determination, and faile of curing mee, what can you expect to follow thereon? Whatsoever great King (quoth she) shall please you. Let me bee strongly guarded, yet not hindred, when I am to prosecute the businesse: and then if I doe not perfectly heale you within eight daies, let a good fire be made, and therein consume my bodie unto ashes. But if I accomplish the cure, and set your Highnesse free from all further greevance, what recompence then shall remaine to me? Much did the King commend the confident perswasion which she had of her owne power, and presently replyed. Faire beauty (quoth he) in regard that thou art a Maide and unmarried, if thou keepe promise, and I finde my selfe to be fully cured: I will match thee with some such Gentleman in marriage, as shal be of honourable and worthy reputation, with a sufficient dowry beside. My gracious Soveraigne saide she, willing am I, and most heartily thankful withall, that your Highnesse shal bestow me in marriage: but I desire then, to have such a husband, as I shal desire or demand by your gracious favour, without presuming to crave any of your Sonnes, Kindred, or Alliance, or appertaining unto your Royall blood. Whereto the King gladly granted. Young _Juliet_ began to minister her Physicke, and within fewer dayes then her limited time, the King was sound and perfectly cured; which when he perceyved, hee sayd unto her. Trust me vertuous Mayde, most woorthily hast thou wonne a Husband, name him, and thou shalt have him. Royall King (quoth she) then have I won the Count _Bertrand_ of _Roussillion_, whom I have most entirely loved from mine Infancy, and cannot (in my soule) affect any other. Very loath was the King to grant her the young Count, but in regard of his solemne passed promise, and his royal word engaged, which he would not by any meanes breake; he commanded, that the Count should be sent for, and spake thus to him. Noble Count, it is not unknowne to us, that you are a Gentleman of great honour, and it is our royall pleasure, to discharge your wardship, that you may repaire home to your owne House, there to settle your affaires in such order, as you may be the readier to enjoy a Wife, which we intend to bestow upon you. The Count returned his Highnesse most humble thankes, desiring to know of whence, and what shee was? It is this Gentlewoman, answered the King, who (by the helpe of Heaven) hath beene the meanes to save my life. Well did the Count know her, as having very often before seene her; and although shee was very faire and amiable, yet in regard of her meane birth, which he held as a disparagement to his Nobility in bloud; he made a scorne of her, and spake thus to the King. Would your Highnesse give me a Quacksalver to my Wife, one that deales in drugges and Physicarie? I hope I am able to bestow my selfe much better then so. Why? quoth the King, wouldst thou have us breake our faith; which for the recovery of our health, wee have given to this vertuous virgin, and shee will have no other reward, but onely Count _Bertrand_ to be her husband? Sir, replied the Count, you may dispossesse me of all that is mine, because I am your Ward and Subject, and any where elsee you may bestow me: but pardon me to tell you, that this marriage cannot be made with any liking or allowance of mine, neither will I ever give consent thereto. Sir, saide the King, it is our will that it shall be so, vertuous she is, faire and wise; she loveth thee most affectionately, and with her mayest thou leade a more Noble life, then with the greatest Lady in our Kingdome. Silent, and discontented stoode the Count, but the King commaunded preparation for the marriage; and when the appointed time was come, the Count (albeit against his will) received his wife at the Kings hand; she loving him deerely as her owne life. When all was done, the Count requested of the King, that what elsee remained for further solemnization of the marriage, it might be performed in his owne Countrey, reserving to himselfe what elsee he intended. Being mounted on horseback, and humbly taking their leave of the King, the Count would not ride home to his owne dwelling, but into _Tuscany_, where he heard of a warre betweene the _Florentines_ and the _Senesi_, purposing to take part with the _Florentines_, to whom he was willingly and honourably welcommed, being created Captain of a worthy Company, and continuing there a long while in service. The poore forsaken new married Countesse, could scarsely be pleased with such dishonourable unkindnes, yet governing her impatience with no meane discretion, and hoping by her vertuous carriage, to compasse the meanes of his recall: home she rode to _Roussillion_, where all the people received her very lovingly. Now, by reason of the Counts so long absence, all things were there farre out of order; mutinies, quarrelse, and civill dissentions, having procured many dissolute irruptions, to the expence of much blood in many places. But shee, like a jolly stirring Lady, very wise and provident in such disturbances, reduced all occasions to such civility againe, that the people admired her rare behaviour, and condemned the Count for his unkindnesse towards her. After that the whole countrey of _Roussillion_ (by the policy and wisedome of this worthy Lady was fully re-established) in their ancient liberties; she made choise of two discreet knights, whom she sent to the Count her husband, to let him understand, that if in displeasure to her, hee was thus become a stranger to his owne countrey: upon the return of his answer, to give him contentment, shee would depart thence, and by no meanes disturbe him. Roughly and churlishly he replied; Let her doe as she list, for I have no determination to dwel with her, or neere where she is. Tell her from me, when she shall have this Ring, which you behold heere on my finger, and a sonne in her armes begotten by me; then will I come live with her, and be her love. The Ring he made most precious and deere account of, and never tooke it off from his finger, in regard of an especial vertue and property, which he well knew to be remaining in it. And these two Knights, hearing the impossibility of these two strict conditions, with no other favour elsee to be derived from him; sorrowfully returned backe to their Ladie, and acquainted her with this unkinde answer, as also his unalterable determination, which wel you may conceive, must needs be verie unwelcome to her. After she had an indifferent while considered with her selfe, her resolution became so undauntable; that she would adventure to practise such meanes, whereby to compasse those two apparant impossibilities, and so to enjoy the love of her husband. Having absolutely concluded what was to be done, she assembled all the cheefest men of the country, revealing unto them (in mournfull manner) what an attempt she had made already, in hope of recovering her husbands favour, and what a rude answer was thereon returned. In the end, she told them, that it did not sute with her unworthinesse, to make the Count live as an exile from his owne inheritance, upon no other inducement, but only in regard of her: wherefore, she had determined betweene heaven and her soule, to spend the remainder of her dayes in Pilgrimages and prayers, for preservation of the Counts soule and her owne; earnestly desiring them, to undertake the charge and government of the Countrey, and signifying unto the Count, how she had forsaken his house, and purposed to wander so far thence, that never would she visite _Roussillion_ any more. In the deliverie of these words, the Lords and gentlemen wept and sighed extraordinarily, using many earnest imprecations to alter this resolve in her, but all was in vaine. Having taken her sad and sorrowfull farewell of them all, accompanied onely with her Maide, and one of her Kinsmen, away she went, attired in a Pilgrims habite, yet well furnished with money and precious Jewelse, to avoide all wants which might befall her in travaile; not acquainting any one whether she went. In no place stayed she, untill she was arrived at Florence, where happening into a poore Widdowes house, like a poore Pilgrim, she seemed well contented therewith. And desiring to heare some tydings of the Count, the next day she saw him passe by the house on horse-backe, with his company. Now, albeit shee knew him well enough, yet she demanded of the good old Widdow, what Gentleman he was? She made answer, that he was a stranger there, yet a Nobleman, called Count _Bertrand_ of _Roussillion_, a verie courteous Knight, beloved and much respected in the City. Moreover, that he was farre in love with a neighbour of hers, a yong Gentlewoman, but verie poore and meane in substance, yet of honest life, vertuous, and never taxed with any evill report: onely her povertie was the maine imbarment of her marriage, dwelling in house with her mother, who was a wise, honest, and worthy Lady. The Countesse having wel observed her words, and considered thereon from point to point; debated soberly with her owne thoughts, in such a doubtfull case what was best to be done. When she had understood which was the house, the ancient Ladies name, and likewise her daughters, to whom her husband was now so affectionately devoted; she made choise of a fit and convenient time, when (in her Pilgrims habit), secretly she went to the house. There she found the mother and daughter in poore condition, and with as poore a family: whom after she had ceremoniously saluted, she told the old Lady, that shee requested but a little conference with her. The Ladie arose, and giving her courteous entertainment, they went together into a withdrawing chamber, where being both set downe, the Countesse began in this manner. Madame, in my poore opinion, you are not free from the frownes of Fortune, no more then I my selfe am: but if you were so well pleased, there is no one that can comfort both our calamities in such manner, as you are able to do. And beleeve me answered the Lady, there is nothing in the world that can bee so welcome to mee, as honest comfort. The Countesse proceeding on in her former speeches said: I have now need (good Madame) both of your trust and fidelity, whereon if I should rely, and you faile me, it will be your owne undooing as well as mine. Speake then boldly, replied the olde Ladie, and remaine constantly assured, that you shall no way be deceived by me. Heereupon, the Countesse declared the whole course of her love, from the verie originall to the instant, revealing also what she was, and the occasion of her comming thither, relating every thing so perfectly, that the Ladie verily beleeved her, by some reports which she had formerly heard, and which mooved her the more to compassion. Now, when all circumstances were at full discovered, thus spake the Countesse. Among my other miseries and misfortunes, which hath halfe broken my heart in the meere repetition, beside the sad and afflicting sufferance; two things there are, which if I cannot compasse to have, all hope is quite frustrate for ever, of gaining the grace of my Lord and Husband. Yet those two things may I obtaine by your helpe, if all be true which I have heard, and you can therein best resolve mee. Since my comming to this City, it hath credibly bene told me, that the Count my husband, is deeply in love with your daughter. If the Count (quoth the Ladie) love my daughter, and have a wife of his owne, he must thinke, and so shall surely finde it, that his greatnesse is no priviledge for him, whereby to worke dishonour upon her poverty. But indeed, some apparances there are, and such a matter as you speake of, may be so presumed; yet so farre from a very thought of entertaining in her or me; as whatsoever I am able to do, to yeeld you any comfort and content, you shall find me therein both willing and ready: for I prize my daughters spotles poverty as at high a rate, as he can do the pride of his honour. Madam, quoth the Countesse, most heartily I thanke you. But before I presume any further on your kindnesse, let me first tell you, what faithfully I intend to do for you, if I can bring my purpose to effect. I see that your daughter is beautifull, and of sufficient yeares for mariage; and is debarred thereof (as I have heard) onely by lack of a competent dowry. Wherefore Madame, in recompence of the favour I expect from you, I will enrich her with so much ready money as you shall thinke sufficient to match her in the degree of honour. Poverty made the poore Lady, very well to like of such a bountifull offer, and having a noble heart she said: Great Countesse say, wherein am I able to do you any service, as can deserve such a gracious offer? If the action bee honest, without blame or scandall to my poore, yet undejected reputation, gladly I will do it; and it being accomplished, let the requitall rest in your owne noble nature. Observe me then Madam, replyed the Countesse. It is most convenient for my purpose, that by some trusty and faithfull messenger, you should advertise the Count my husband, that your daughter is, and shall be at his command: but because she may remain absolutely assured, that his love is constant to her, and above all other: shee must entreate him, to send her (as a testimony thereof) the Ring which he weareth upon his little finger, albeit she hath heard, that he loveth it dearly. If he send the Ring, you shal give it me, & afterward send him word, that your daughter is readie to accomplish his pleasure; but, for the more safety and secrecie, he must repaire hither to your house, where I being in bed insted of your daughter, faire Fortune may so favour mee, that (unknowne to him) I may conceive with childe. Uppon which good successe, when time shall serve, having the Ring on my finger, and a child in my armes begotten by him, his love and liking may bee recovered, and (by your meanes) I continue with my Husband, as everie vertuous Wife ought to doe. The good old Ladie imagined, that this was a matter somewhat difficult, and might lay a blamefull imputation on her daughter: Neverthelesse, considering, what an honest office it was in her, to bee the meanes, whereby so worthy a Countesse should recover an unkinde husband, led altogether by lust, and not a jot of cordiall love; she knew the intent to be honest, the Countesse vertuous, and her promise religious, and therefore undertooke to effect it. Within few dayes after, verie ingeniously, and according to the instructed order, the Ring was obtained, albeit much against the Counts will; and the Countesse, in sted of the Ladies vertuous daughter, was embraced by him in bed: the houre proving so auspicious, and _Juno_ being Lady of the ascendent, conjoyned with the witty _Mercury_, she conceived of two goodly Sonnes, and her deliverance agreed correspondently with the just time. Thus the old Lady, not at this time only, but at many other meetings beside; gave the Countesse free possession of her husbands pleasures, yet alwayes in such darke and concealed secrecie, as it was never suspected, nor knowne by any but themselves, the Count lying with his owne wife, and disappointed of her whom he more deerely loved. Alwayes at his uprising in the mornings (which usually was before the breake of day, for preventing the least scruple of suspition) many familiar conferences passed betweene them, with the gifts of divers faire and costly Jewelse; all which the Countesse carefully kept, and perceiving assuredly, that shee was conceived with childe, she would no longer bee troublesome to the good old Lady; but calling her aside, spake thus to her. Madam, I must needs give thankes to heaven and you, because my desires are amply accomplished, and both time and your deserts doe justly challenge, that I should accordingly quite you before my departure. It remaineth nowe in your owne power, to make what demand you please of me, which yet I will not give you by way of reward, because that would seeme to bee base and mercenary: but onely whatsoever you shall receive of me, is in honourable recompence of faire & vertuous deservings, such as any honest and well-minded Lady in the like distresse, may with good credit allow, and yet no prejudice to her reputation. Although poverty might well have tutored the Ladies tongue, to demand a liberall recompence for her paines; yet she requested but an 100 pounds, as a friendly helpe towards her daughters marriage, and that with a bashfull blushing was uttered too; yet the Countesse gave hir five hundred pounds, beside so many rich and costly Jewelse, as amounted to a farre greater summe. So she returned to her wonted lodging, at the aged widdowes house, where first she was entertained at her comming to _Florence_; and the good old Lady, to avoide the Counts repairing to her house any more, departed thence sodainly with her daughter, to divers friends of hers that dwelt in the Country, whereat the Count was much discontented; albeit afterward, he did never heare any more tidings of hir or her daughter, who was worthily married, to her Mothers great comfort. Not long after, Count _Bertrand_ was re-called home by his people: and he having heard of his wives absence, went to _Roussillion_ so much the more willingly. And the Countesse knowing her husbands departure from _Florence_, as also his safe arrivall at his owne dwelling, remained still in _Florence_, untill the time of her deliverance, which was of two goodly Sonnes, lively resembling the lookes of their Father, and all the perfect lineaments of his body. Perswade your selves, she was not a little carefull of their nursing; and when she saw the time answerable to her determination, she tooke her journey (unknowne to any) and arrived with them at _Montpellier_, where shee rested her selfe for divers dayes, after so long and wearisome a journey. Upon the day of all Saints, the Count kept a solemne Festivall, for the assembly of his Lords, Knights, Ladies, and Gentlewomen: uppon which Joviall day of generall rejoycing, the Countesse attired in her wonted Pilgrimes weed, repaired thither, entering into the great Hall, where the Tables were readily covered for dinner. Preassing thorough the throng of people, with her two children in her armes, she presumed unto the place where the Count sate, & falling on her knees before him, the teares trickling abundantly downe her cheekes, thus she spake. Worthy Lord, I am thy poor, despised, and unfortunate wife; who, that thou mightst returne home, and not bee an exile from thine owne abiding, have thus long gone begging through the world. Yet now at length, I hope thou wilt be so honourably-minded, as to performe thine own too strict imposed conditions, made to the two Knights which I sent unto thee, and which (by thy command) I was enjoyned to do. Behold here in mine armes, not onely one Sonne by thee begotten, but two Twins, and thy Ring beside. High time is it now, if men of honour respect their promises, that after so long and tedious travell, I should at last bee welcommed as thy true wife. The Counte hearing this, stoode as confounded with admiration; for full well he knew the Ring: and both the children were so perfectly like him, as he was confirmed to be their Father by generall judgement. Upon his urging by what possible meanes this could be broght to passe: the Countesse in presence of the whole assembly, and unto her eternall commendation, related the whole history, even in such manner as you have formerly heard it. Moreover, she reported the private speeches in bed, uttered betweene himselfe and her, being witnessed more apparantly, by the costly Jewelse there openly shewn. All which infallible proofes, proclaiming his shame, and her most noble carriage to her husband; hee confessed, that she had told nothing but the truth in every point which she had reported. Commending her admirable constancy, excellency of wit, & sprightly courage, in making such a bold adventure; hee kissed the two sweete boyes, and to keepe his promise, whereto he was earnestly importuned, by all his best esteemed friends there present, especially the honourable Ladies, who would have no deniall, but by forgetting his former harsh and uncivill carriage towardes her, to accept her for ever as his lawfull wife: folding her in his armes, and sweetly kissing her divers times together, he bad her welcome to him, as his vertuous, loyall, & most loving wife, and so (for ever after) he would acknowledge her. Well knew he that she had store of better beseeming garments in the house, and therefore requested the Ladies to walke with her to her Chamber, to uncase her of those pilgrimes weeds, and cloath her in her owne more sumptuous garments, even those which she wore on her wedding day, because that was not the day of his contentment, but onely this: for now he confessed her to be his wife indeede, and now he would give the King thanks for her, and now was Count _Bertrand_ truly married to the faire _Juliet_ of _Narbona_. _The wonderfull and chaste resolved continency of faire Serictha, daughter to Siwalde King of Denmark, who being sought and sued unto by many worthy persons, that did affect her dearly, would not looke any man in the face, untill such time as she was married._ The tenth Novell. _A very singular and worthy president, for all yong Ladies and Gentlewomen: not rashly to bestow themselves in mariage, without the knowledge and consent of their Parents and Friends._ _Dioneus_ having diligently listened to the Queens singular discourse, so soone as she had concluded, and none now remaining but himselfe, to give a full period unto that dayes pleasure: without longer trifling the time, or expecting any command from the Queene, thus he began. Gracious Ladies, I know that you do now expect from me, some such queint Tale, as shall be suteable to my merry disposition; rather savouring of wantonnesse, then any discreet and sober wisedom; and such a purpose indeed, I once had entertained. But having well observed all your severall relations, grounded on grave & worthy examples, especially the last, so notably delivered by the Queene: I cannot but commend faire _Juliet_ of _Narbona_, in perfourming two such strange impossibilities, and conquering the unkindnesse of so cruel a husband. If my Tale come short of the precedent excellency, or give not such content as you (perhaps) expect; accept my good will, and let me stand engaged for a better heereafter. The Annales of _Denmarke_ do make mention, that the King of the said country, who was first set downe as Prince, contrary to the ancient custom and lawes observed among the _Danes_, namely _Hunguinus_; had a son called _Siwalde_, who succeeded him in the estates and kingdome, belonging to his famous predecessors. That age, and the Court of that Royall Prince, was verie highly renowned, by the honour of faire _Serictha_, Daughter to the sayde _Siwalde_; who beside her generall repute, of being a myracle of Nature, in perfection of beautie, and most compleate in all that the heart of man could desire to note, in a body full of grace, gentlenesse, and whatsoever elsee, to attract the eyes of everie one to beholde her: was also so chaste, modest, and bashfull, as it was meerely impossible, to prevaile so farre with her, that any man should come to speake with her. For, in those dayes, marriages were pursued and sought by valour, and by the onely opinion, which stoute Warriours conceived, of the vertuous qualities of a Ladie. Notwithstanding, never could any man make his vaunt, that she had given him so much as a looke, or ever any one attained to the favour, to whisper a word in her eare. Because both the custome and will of Parents then (very respectively kept in those Northerne parts of the world) of hearing such speak, as desired their daughters in marriage; grew from offering them some worthy services; and thereby compassed meanes, to yeeld their contentation, by some gracious and kinde answers. But she, who was farre off from the desire of any such follies, referring her selfe wholly to the will and disposition of the King her Lord and Father; was so contrary, to give any living man an answer, that her eye never looked on any one speaking to her, appearing as sparing in vouchsafing a glance, as her heart was free from a thought of affection. For, she had no other imagination, but that Maides, both in their choise & will, ought to have any other disposition, but such as should bee pleasing to their parents, either to graunt, or denie, according as they were guided by their grave judgement. In like manner, so well had shee brideled her sensuall appetites, with the curbe of Reason, Wisedome, and Providence; setting such a severe and constant restraint, on the twinkling or motions of her eyes, in absolute obedience to her Father; as never was she seene to turne her head aside, to lend one looke on any man of her age. A worthy sight it was, to behold Knights errant, passing, repassing to _Denmarke_, and backe againe, labouring to conquer those setled eyes, to win the least signe of grace and favour, from her whom they so dutiously pursued, to steale but a silly glimpse or glance, and would have thought it a kind of honourable theft. But this immovable rock of beauty, although she knew the disseignes of them which thus frequented the Court of the King her Father, and could not pretend ignorance of their endeavour, ayming onely at obtaining her in mariage: yet did she not lend any look of her eye, yeelding the least signall of the hearts motion, in affecting any thing whatsoever, but what it pleased her Father she should do. _Serictha_ living in this strange and unusuall manner, it mooved manie Princes and great Lords, to come and court her, contending both by signes and words, to change her from this severe constancie, and make knowne (if possible it might be) whether a woman would or could be so resolute, as to use no respect at all towards them, coming from so manie strange countries, to honour her in the Courts of the King her father. But in these dayes of ours, if such a number of gallant spirits should come, to aske but one looke of some of our beauties; I am halfe affraide, that they should finde the eyes of many of our dainty darlings, not so sparing of their glances, as those of _Serictha_ were. Considering, that our Courtiers of these times, are this way emulous one of another, and women are so forward in offering themselves, that they performe the office of suters, as fearing lest they should not be solicited, yea, though it bee in honest manner. The King, who knew well enough, that a daughter was a treasure of some danger to keepe, and growing doubtfull withall least (in the end) this so obstinate severity would be shaken, if once it came to passe, that his daughter should feele the piercing apprehensions of love, & whereof (as yet) she never had any experience; he determined to use some remedy for this great concourse of lovers, and strange kinde of carriage in the Princesse his daughter. For, hee apparantly perceived, that such excelling beauty as was in _Serictha_, with those good and commendable customes, and other ornaments of his daughters mind, could never attaine to such an height of perfection; but yet there would be found some men, so wittily accute and ingenious, as to convert and humour a maid, according to their will, and make a mockery of them, who were (before) of most high esteeme. Beside, among so great a troope of Lords, as daily made tender of their amorous service, some one or other would prove so happy, as (at the last) she should be his Mistresse. And therefore forbearing what otherwhise he had intended, as a finall conclusion of all such follies: calling his daughter alone to himselfe in his Chamber, and standing cleere from all other attention, hee used to her this, or the like Language. I know not faire daughter, what reason may move you to shew your selfe so disdainfull towards so many Noble and worthy men, as come to visite you, and honour my Court with their presence, offering me their love and loyall service, under this onely pretence (as I perceive) of obtaining you, and compassing the happinesse (as it appeareth in plaine strife among them) one day to winne the prize, you being the maine issue of all their hope. If it be bashfull modesty, which (indeede) ought to attend on all virgins of your yeares, and so veyles your eyes, as (with honour) you cannot looke on any thing, but what is your owne, or may not justly vouchsafe to see; I commend your maidenly continencie, which yet neverthelesse, I would not have to bee so severe; as (at length) your youth falling into mislike thereof, it maybe the occasion of some great misfortune, either to you, or me, or elsee to us both together: considering what rapes are ordinarily committed in these quarters, and of Ladies equall every way to your selfe; which happening, would presently be the cause of my death. If it be in regard of some vow which you have consecrated to virginity, and to some one of our Gods: I seeke not therein to hinder your disseignes, neither will bereave the celestiall powers, of whatsoever appertaineth to them. Albeit I could wish, that it should bee kept in a place more straited, and separate from the resort of men; to the end, that so bright a beauty as yours is, should cause no discords among amorous suters, neither my Court prove a Campe destinied unto the conclusion of such quarrelse, or you be the occasion of ruining so many, whose service would beseeme a much more needfull place, then to dye heere by fond and foolish opinion of enjoying a vaine pleasure, yet remaining in the power of another bodie to grant. If therefore I shall perceive, that these behaviours in you do proceede from pride, or contempt of them, who endeavour to do you both honour and service, and in sted of granting them a gracious looke, in arrogancie you keepe from them, making them enemies to your folly and my sufferance: I sweare to you by our greatest God, that I will take such due order, as shall make you feele the hand of an offended Father, and teach you (hencefoorth) to bee much more affable. Wherefore deere daughter, you shall do me a singular pleasure, freely to acquaint me with your minde, and the reasons of your so stricte severity: promising you, upon the word and faith of a King, nay more, of a loving and kinde Father, that if I finde the cause to bee just and reasonable, I will desist so farre from hindering your intent, as you shal rather perceive my fatherly furtherance, and rest truly resolved of my help and favour. Wherefore faire daughter, neither blush or dismay, or feare to let me understand your will; for evidently I see, that meere virgin shame hath made a rapture of your soule, beeing nothing elsee but those true splendours of vertue derived from your Auncestors, and shining in you most gloriously, gracing you with a much richer embellishing, then those beauties bestowed on you by Nature. Speake therefore boldly to your Father, because there is no law to prohibit your speech to him: for when he commandeth, he ought to bee obeyed: promising uppon mine oath once againe, that if your reasons are such as they ought to be, I will not faile to accommodate your fancy. The wise and vertuous Princesse, hearing the King to alledge such gracious reasons, and to lay so kinde a command on her; making him most lowe and humble reverence, in signe of dutifull accepting such favour, thus she answered. Royall Lord and Father, seeing that in your Princely Court, I have gathered whatsoever may be termed vertuous in me, & you being the principall instructer of my life, from whom I have learned those lessons, how maides (of my age) ought to governe and maintaine themselves: you shall apparently perceive, that neither gazing lookes, which I ought not to yeelde without your consent, nor pride or arrogancie, never taught me by you, or the Queene my most honourable Lady and Mother, are any occasion of my cariage towards them, which come to make ostentation of their folly in your Court, as if a meere look of _Serictha_, were sufficient to yeeld assurance effectually of their desires victory. Nothing (my most Royall Lord and Father) induceth mee to this kinde of behaviour, but onely due respect of your honour & mine owne: and to the end it may not be thought, that I belye my selfe, in not eying the affectionate offers of amorous pursuers, or have any other private reserved meaning, then what may best please King _Siwalde_ my Father: let it suffice Sir, that it remaineth in your power onely, to make an apt election and choice for me; for I neither ought, nor will allowe the acceptance of any suters kindnesse, so much as by a looke (much lesse then by words) untill your Highnesse shall nominate the man, to be a meete husband for _Serictha_. It is onely you then (my Lord) that beares the true life-blood of our Ancestors. It is the untainted life of the Queene my Mother, that sets a chaste and strict restraint on mine eyes, from estranging my heart, to the idle amorous enticements of young giddy-headed Gentlemen, and have sealed up my soule with an absolute determination, rather to make choise of death, then any way to alter this my warrantable severity. You being a wise King, and the worthie Father of _Serictha_, it is in you to mediate, counsell, and effect, what best shall beseeme the desseignes of your daughter: because it is the vertue of children, yea, and their eternall glory and renowne, to illustrate the lives and memories of their parents. It consisteth in you, either to grant honest license to such Lords as desire me, or to oppose them with such discreete conditions, as both your selfe may sit free from any further afflicting, and they rest defeated of dangerous dissentions, according as you foresee what may ensue. Which yet (neverthelesse) I hold as a matter impossible, if their discord should be grounded on the sole apprehension of their soules: and the onely prevention thereof, is, not to yeeld any signe, glance of the eie, or so much as a word more to one man then another: for, such is the setled disposition of your daughters soule, and which shee humbly entreateth, may so be still suffered. Many meanes there are, whereby to winne the grace of the greatest King, by employing their paines in worthy occasions, answerable unto their yeeres and vertue, if any such sparkes of honour doe shine in their soules; rather then by gaining heere any matter of so meane moment, by endeavouring to shake the simplicity of a bashfull maide: Let them cleare the Kings high-wayes of Theeves, who make the passages difficult: or let them expell Pirates from off the Seas, which make our _Danish_ coasts every way inaccessible. These are such Noble meanes to merit, as may throw deserved recompence uppon them, and much more worthily, then making Idols of Ladies lookes, or gazing for babies in their wanton eyes. So may you bestowe on them what is your owne, granting _Serictha_ to behold none, but him who you shall please to give her: for otherwise, you know her absolute resolve, never to looke any living man in the face, but onely you my gracious Lord and Father. The King hearing this wise and modest answer of his daughter, could not choose but commend her in his heart; and smiling at the counsell which she gave him, returned her this answer. Understand me wel, faire daughter; neither am I minded to breake your determination wholly, nor yet to governe my selfe according to your fancie. I stand indifferently contented, that untill I have otherwise purposed, you shall continue the nature of your ancient custome: yet conditionally, that when I command an alteration of your carriage, you faile not therein to declare your obedience. What elsee remaineth beside, for so silly a thing as a Woman is, and for the private pleasing of so many great Princes and Lords, I will not endanger any of their lives; because their parents and friends (being sensible of such losses) may seeke revenge, perhaps to their owne ruine, and some following scourge to my indiscretion. For I consider (daughter) that I have neighbours who scarsely love me, and of whom (in time) I may right my selfe, having received (by their meanes) great wrongs & injuries. Also I make no doubt, but to manage your love-sute with discretion, and set such a pleasing proceeding betweene them, as neyther shall beget any hatred in them towards me, nor yet offend them in their affections pursuite, till fortune may smile so favourably upon some one man, to reach the height of both our wished desires. _Siwalde_ was thus determinately resolved, to let his daughter live at her owne discretion, without any alteration of her continued severitie, perceiving day by day, that many came still to request her in mariage; & he could not give her to them all, nor make his choise of any one, least all the rest should become his enemies, and fall in quarrell one with another. Onely this therefore was his ordination, that among such a number of amorous suters, he onely should weare the Lawrell wreath of victory, who could obtaine such favour of _Serictha_, as but to looke him in the face. This condition seemed to bee of no meane difficulty, yea, and so impossible, that many gave over their amorous enterprize: whereof _Serictha_ was wondrouslie joyfull, seeing her selfe eased of such tedious importunitie, dulling her eares with their proffered services, and foppish allegations of fantasticke servitude: such as ydle-headed Lovers do use to protest before their Mistresses, wherein they may beleeve them, if they list. Among all them that were thus forward in their heate of affection, there was a young _Danish_ Lord, named _Ocharus_, the sonne of a Pirate, called _Hebonius_, the same man, who having stolne the Sister unto King _Hunguinus_, and Sister to _Siwalde_, & affiancing himselfe to her, was slaine by King _Haldune_, and by thus killing him, enjoyed both the Lady, and the kingdome of the _Gothes_ also, as her inheritance. This _Ocharus_, relying much on his comelinesse of person, wealth, power, and valour, but (above all the rest) on his excellent and eloquent speaking; bestowed his best endeavour to obtaine _Serictha_, notwithstanding the contemptible carriage of the rest towards him; whereupon prevailing for his accesse to the Princesse, and admitted to speake, as all the other did, he reasoned with her in this manner. Whence may it proceede, Madam, that you being the fairest and wisest Princesse living at this day in all the Northerne parts, should make so small account of your selfe, as to denie that, which with honour you may yeeld to them, as seeke to doe you most humble service; and forgetting the rank you hold, doe refuse to deigne them recompence in any manner whatsoever, seeking onely to enjoy you in honourable marriage? Perhaps you are of opinion, that the gods should become slaves to your beauty, in which respect, men are utterly unworthy to crave any such acquaintance of you. If it be so, I confesse my selfe conquered: But if the gods seeke no such association with women, and since they forsooke the World, they left this legacy to us men; I thinke you covet after none, but such as are extracted of their blood, or may make vaunt of their neere kindred and alliance to them. I know that many have wished, and doe desire you: I know also, that as many have requested you of the King your Father, but the choyce remaineth in your power, and you being ordained the Judge, to distinguish the merit of all your Sutors; me thinkes you doe wrong to the office of a Judge; in not regarding the parties which are in suite, to sentence the desert of the best and bravest, and so to delay them with no more lingering. I cannot thinke Madam, that you are so farre out of your selfe, and so chill cold in your affection, but desire of occasions, equall to your vertue and singular beauty, doe sometime touch you feelingly, and make you to wish for such a man, answerable to the greatnesse of your excellency. And if it should be otherwise (as I imagine it to be impossible) yet you ought to breake such an obstinate designe, onely to satisfie the King your Father, who can desire nothing more, then to have a Sonne in Law, to revenge him on the Tyrant of _Swetia_; who, as you well know, was sometime the murtherer of your Grand-father _Hunguinus_, and also of his Father. If you please to vouchsafe me so much grace and favour, as to make me the man, whom your heart hath chosen to be your Husband; I sweare unto you by the honour of a Souldier, that I will undergoe such service, as the King shall be revenged, you royally satisfied, and my selfe advanced to no meane happinesse, by being the onely fortunate man of the World. Gentle Princesse, the most beautifull daughter to a King, open that indurate heart, and so soften it, that the sweete impressions of love may be engraven therein; see there the loyall pursuite of your _Ocharus_, who, to save his life, cannot so much as winne one looke from his divine Mistresse. This nicenesse is almost meerely barbarous, that I, wishing to adventure my life prodigally in your service, you are so cruell, as not to deigne recompence to this duty of mine, with the least signe of kindnesse that can be imagined. Faire _Serictha_, if you desire the death of your friendly servant _Ocharus_, there are many other meanes whereby to performe it, without consuming him in so small a fire, and suffering him there to languish without any answere. If you will not looke upon me; if my face be so unworthy, that one beame of your bright Sunnes may not shine upon it: If a word of your mouth be too precious for me; make a signe with your hand, either of my happinesse or disaster. If your hand be envious of mine ease, let one of your women be shee, to pronounce the sentence of life or death; because, if my life be hatefull to you, this hand of mine may satisfie your will, and sacrifice it to the rigour of your disdaine. But if (as I am rather perswaded) the ruine of your servants be against your more mercifull wishes; deale so that I may perceive it, and expresse what compassion you have of your _Ocharus_, who coveteth nothing more, then your daily hearts ease and contentment, with a priviledge of honour above other Ladies. All this discourse was heard by _Serictha_, but so little was shee moved therewith, as shee was farre enough off from returning him any answer, neither did any of the Gentlewomen attending on her, ever heare her use the very least word to any of her amorous sollicitors, nor did shee know any one of them, but by speech onely, which drove them all into an utter despaire, perceiving no possible meanes whereby to conquer her. The Histories of the Northerne Countries doe declare, that in those times, the rapes of women were not much respected; and such as pursued any Lady or Gentlewoman with love, were verily perswaded, that they never made sufficient proofe of their amourous passions, if they undertooke not all cunning stratagems, with adventure of their lives to all perils whatsoever, for the rape or stealth of them, whom they purposed to enjoy in marriage. As we reade in the _Gothes_ History of _Gramo_, Sonne to the King of _Denmarke_, who being impatiently amourous of the daughter to the King of the _Gothes_, and winning the love of the Lady, stole her away, before her Parents or friends had any notice thereof; by meanes of which rape, there followed a most bloody warre betweene the _Gothes_ and the _Danes_. In recompence of which injury, _Sibdagerus_, King of _Norway_, being chosen chiefe Commander of the _Swetians_ & _Gothes_, entred powerfully into _Denmarke_, where first he violated the Sister to King _Gramo_, and led away her Daughter, whom in the like manner he made his Spouse, as the _Dane_ had done the Daughter of _Sigtruge_, Prince of the _Gothes_. I induce these briefe narrations, onely to shew, that while _Ocharus_ made honest and affable meanes, to win respect from _Serictha_, and used all honourable services to her, as the Daughter of so great a Prince worthily deserved: some there were, not halfe so conscientious as he, especially one of the amourous sutors, who being weary of the strange carriages of _Serictha_, dissembling to prosecute his purpose no further; prevailed so farre, that he corrupted one of her Governesses, for secretly training her to such a place, where the ravisher should lie in ambush to carry her away, so to enjoy her by pollicy, seeing all other meanes failed for to compasse his desire. Behold to what a kind of foolish rage, which giddy headed dullards doe terme a naturall passion, they are led, who, being guided more by sensuality, then reason or discretion, follow the braine-sicke motions of their rash apprehensions. He which pursueth, and protesteth to love a Lady for her gentillity and vertue; knoweth not how to measure what love is, neither seeth or conceiveth, how farre the permission of his owne endeavour extendeth. Moreover, you may observe, that never any age was so grosse, or men so simple, but even almost from the beginning, avarice did hood-winke the hearts of men, and that (with gold) the very strongest Fortification in the World hath beene broken, yea, and the best bard gates laide wide open. _Serictha_, who shunned the light of all men, and never distrusted them which kept about her; shee who never knew (except some naturall sparke gave light to her understanding) what belonged to the embracements of men, must now (without dreaming thereon) fall as foode to the insatiable appetite of a wretch, who compassed this surprisall of her, to glory in his owne lewdnesse, and make a mocke of the Princesses setled constancy. Shee, good Lady, following the councell of her trayterous guide, went abroade on walking, but weakely accompanied, as one that admitted no men to attend her, which shee might have repented very dearely, if Heaven had not succoured her innocency, by the helpe of him, who wished her as well as the ravisher, though their desires were quite contrary; the one to enjoy her by violence, but the other affecting rather to die, then doe the least act which might displease her. No sooner was _Serictha_ arrived at the destined place, where her false Governesse was to deliver her; but behold a second _Paris_ came, and seized on her, hurrying her in haste away, before any helpe could possibly rescue her; the place being farre off from any dwelling. Now the ravisher durst not convey her to his owne abiding, to enjoy the benefit of his purchase; but haled her into a small thicket of trees, where, although shee knew the evident perill, whereinto her severe continency had now throwne her: yet notwithstanding, shee would not lift up her eyes, to see what he was that had thus stolne her, so firmely shee dwelt upon grounded deliberation, and such was the vigor of her chaste resolve. And albeit shee knew a wickednesse (worse then death) preparing for her, who had no other glory then in her vertue, and desire to live contentedly; yet was shee no more astouned thereat, then if hee had led her to the Palace of the King her Father: perswading herselfe, that violence done to the body, is no prejudice to honour, when the mind is free and cleere from consent. As thus this robber of beauty was preparing to massacre the modesty of the faire Princesse, shee resisted him with all her power, yea, and defended her selfe so worthily, that he could not get one looke of her eye, one kisse of her cheeke, nor any advantage whatsoever, crying out shrilly, and strugling against him strongly: her outcryes were heard by one, who little imagined that shee was so neere, whom he loved more dearely then his owne life, namely, _Ocharus_; who was walking accidentally alone in this wood, devising by what meanes hee might winne grace from his sterne Mistresse. No sooner tooke he knowledge of her, and saw her (in the armes of another) to be ravished; but he cryed out to the thiefe, saying; Hand off villaine, let not such a slave as thou, prophane with an unreverend touch the sacred honour of so chaste a Princesse, who deserveth to be more royally respected, then thus rudely hurried: Hand off I say, or elsee I sweare by her divine perfections, whom I esteeme above all creatures in this World, to make thee die more miserably, then ever any man as yet did. Whosoever had seene a Lyon or an Ounce rouse himselfe, chafing when any one adventureth to rob him of his prey; and then with fierce eyes, mounted creasts, writhed tayles, and sharpened pawes, make against him that durst to molest him. In the like manner did the ravisher shew himselfe, and one while snarling, another while bristling the darted disdainefull lookes at _Ocharus_, and spake to him in this manner. Vile and base Sea-thiefe, as thou art, welcome to thy deserved wages, and just repayment for thy proud presuming. It glads my heart not a little, to meete thee here, where thou shalt soone perceive what good will I beare thee, and whether thou be worthy or no to enjoy the honour of this Lady, now in mine owne absolute possession. It will also encrease her more ample perswasion of my worth, and pleade my merit more effectually in her favour; when shee shall see what a powerfull arme I have, to punish this proud insolence of a Pirate. This harsh language was so distastfull to _Ocharus_, that like a Bull, made angry by the teeth of some Mastive Dogge, or pricked by the point of a weapon, he ran upon his enemy, and was so roughly welcommed by him, as it could not easilly be judged which of them had the better advantage. But in the end Fortune favoured most the honest man, and _Ocharus_ having overthrowne the robber, hee smote the head of him quite from his shoulders, which he presented to her, whom he had delivered out of so great a peril, and thus he spake. You may now behold Madam, whether _Ocharus_ be a true lover of _Sericthaes_ vertues, or no, and your knowledge fully resolved, at what end his affection aimeth; as also, how farre his honest desert extendeth, for you both to love him, and to recompence the loyall respect he hath used towards you. Never looke on the villaines face, who strove to shame the King your Fathers Court, by violation of theevery, the chastest Princesse on the Earth; but regard _Ocharus_, who is readie to sacrifice himselfe, if you take as much pleasure in his ruine, as (he thinketh) hee hath given you contentment, by delivering you from this Traytor. Doth it not appeare unto you Madam, that I have as yet done enough, whereby to be thought a worthy Husband, for the royall Daughter of _Denmarke_? Have I not satisfied the Kings owne Ordinance, by delivering his Daughter, as already I have done? Will _Serictha_ be so constant in her cruelty, as not to turne her eye towards him, who exposed his life, to no meane perill and daunger, onely in the defence of her Chastity? Then I plainely perceive, that the wages of my devoire, is ranked amongest those precedent services, which I have performed for so hurtfull a beautie. Yet gentle Princesse, let me tell you, my carriage hath bin of more importance, then all the others can be, and my merit no way to be compared with theirs; at least, if you pleased to make account of him, who is an unfeigned lover of your modesty, and devoutly honoureth your vertuous behaviour. And yet Madame, shall I have none other answere from you, but your perpetuall silence? Can you continue so obstinate in your opinion, in making your selfe still as strange to your _Ocharus_, as to the rest, who have no other affection, but onely to the bare outside of beauty? Why then, Royall Ladie, seeing (at this instant time) all my labour is but lost, and your heart seemeth much more hardned, in acknowledging any of my honest services: at least yet let me bee so happy, as to conduct you backe to the Palace, and restore you to that sacred safetie, which will be my soules best comfort to behold. No outward signe of kinde acceptation, did any way expresse itselfe in her, but rather as fearing, lest the commodiousnesse of the place shold incite this young Lord, to forget all honest respect, and imitate the other in like basenesse. But he, who rather wished a thousand deathes, then any way to displease his Mistresse, as if hee were halfe doubtfull of her suspition, made offer of guiding her backe to the place, from whence shee had before bene stolne, where she found her company still staying, as not daring to stirre thence, to let the King know his daughters ill fortune; but when they saw her returne, and in the company of so worthie a Knight, they grew resolved, that no violence had bene done unto her. The Princesse, sharpely rebuking her women, for leaving her so basely as they had done, gave charge to one of them (because she would not seeme altogether negligent & discourteous) that she being gone thence, she should not faile to thanke _Ocharus_, for the honest and faithfull service he had done unto her, which she would continually remember, and recompence as it lay in her power. Neverthelesse, shee advised him withall, not to hope of any more advantage thereby, then reason should require. For, if it were the will of the Gods, that she should be his wife, neither she or any other could let or hinder it: but if her destiny reserved her for another, all his services would availe to no purpose, but rather to make her the more rigorous towards him. This gracious answer, thus given him by her Gentlewoman, although it gave some small contentment to the poore languishing lover: yet hee saw no assured signe whereon to settle his resolve, but his hopes vanished away in smoake, as fast as opinion bred them in his braine. And gladly he would have given over all further amorous solicitings, but by some private perswasions of her message sent him, which in time might so advance his services done for her sake, as would derive far greater favours from her. Whereupon, he omitted no time or place, but as occasion gave him any gracious permission, still plied her memorie, with his manly rescuing her from the ravisher, sufficient to pleade his merite to her Father, and that (in equity) she ought to bee his wife, by right both of Honour and Armes; no man being able to deserve her, as he had done. So long he pursued her in this manner, that his speeches seemed hatefull to her, and devising how to be free from his daily importunities, at length, in the habite of a poore Chamber-maide, she secretly departed out of the Court, wandering into the solitary parts of the country; where she entered into service, and had the charge of keeping Sheepe. It may seeme strange, that a Kings onely daughter should stray in such sort, and despising Courtly life, betake herselfe to paines and servility: but such was her resolution, and women delighting altogether in extremes, spare no attempts to compasse their owne wils. All the Court was in an uprore for the Ladies losse, the Father in no meane affliction, the Lovers well-nere beside their wits, and every one elsee most greevously tormented, that a Lady of such worth should so sodainly be gone, and all pursuit made after her, gaine no knowledge of her. In this high tide of sorrow and disaster, what shall we say of the gentle Lord _Ocharus_? What judgement can sound the depth of his wofull extreamity? Fearing least some other theefe had now made a second stealth of his divine Goddesse; he must needs follow her againe, seeking quite throughout the world, never more returning backe to the Court, nor to the place of his owne abiding, untill hee heard tidings of his Mistresse, or ended his dayes in the search of her. No Village, Town, Cottage, Castle, or any place elsee of note or name, did hee leave unsought, but diligently he searched for _Serictha_; striving to get knowledge, under what habit she lived thus concealed, but all his labour was to no effect: which made him leave the places so much frequented, and visite the solitary desert shades, entering into all Caves and rusticke habitations, whereon hee could fasten his eye, to seeke for the lost Treasure of his soule. On a day, as hee wandred along in a spacious valley, seated betweene two pleasant hilles, taking delight to heare the gentle murmure of the rivers, running by the sides of two neighbouring rockes, planted with all kinde of trees, and very thickely spred with mosse: hee espied a flocke of Sheepe feeding on the grasse, and not farre off from them sate a Maide spinning on her Distaffe; who having got a sight of him, presently covered her face with a veile. Love, who sate as Sentinell both in the heart and eye of the gentle _Norwegian_ Lord, as quickly discovered the subtilty of the faire Shephearddesse, enstructing the soule of _Ocharus_, that thus she hid her face, as coveting not to be knowne: whereupon he gathered, that doubtlesse this was shee, for whom he hadde sought with such tedious travaile, and therefore going directly unto her, thus hee spake. Gentle Princesse; wherefore do you thus hide your selfe from mee? Why do you haunt these retreats and desolate abodes, having power to command over infinite men, that cannot live but by your presence? What hath moved you Madame, to flye from company, to dwel among desert Rockes, and serve as a slave, to such as are no way worthy of your service? Why do you forsake a potent King, whose onely daughter and hope you are; leaving your countrey and royall traine of Ladies, and so farre abasing your selfe, to live in the dejected state of a servant, and to some rusticke clowne or peazant? What reason have you, to despise so many worthy Lords, that dearely love and honour you, but (above them all) your poore slave _Ocharus_, who hath made no spare of his owne life, for the safety of yours, and also for the defence of your honour? Royal maid, I am the same man that delivered you from the villaine, who would have violated your faire chastity; and since then, have not spared any payne or travell in your search: for whose losse, King _Siwalde_ is in extreme anguish, the _Danes_ in mourning habites, and _Ocharus_ even at the doore of death, being no way able to endure your absence. Are you of the minde, worthy Madame, that I have not hitherto deserved so much as one good looke or glance of your eye, in recompence of so many good & loyall services? If Alas! I am neither ravisher, nor demander of any unjust requests, or elsee incivill in my motions: I may merit one regard of my Mistresse. I require onely so silly a favour, that her eyes may pay me the wages for all which I have hitherto done in her service. What would you do Madam, if I were an importunate solicitor, and requested farre greater matters of you, in just recompence of my labours? I do not desire, that you should embrace me. I am not so bold, as to request a kisse of _Sericthaes_, more then immortall lips. Nor doe I covet, that she should any otherwise entreate mee, then with such severity as beseemeth so great a Princesse. I aske no more, but onely to elevate your chaste eyes, and grace me with one little looke, as being the man, who for his vertue and loyall affection, hath deserved more then that favour, yea, a much greater and excellent recompence. Can you then be so cruell, as to denie me so small a thing, without regarde of the maine debt, wherein you stand engaged to your _Ocharus_? The Princesse perceiving that it availed nothing to conceale hir selfe, being by him so apparantly discovered; began now to speake (which she had never done before, either to him, or any other of her amorous suters) answering him in this manner. Lord _Ocharus_, it might suffice you, that your importunity made me forsake my Fathers Court, and causeth me to live in this abased condition, which I purpose to prosecute all my life time; or so long (at the least) as you, and such as you are, pursue me so fondly as you have presumed to do. For I am resolved, never to favour you any otherwise, then hitherto I have done; desiring you therefore, that _Serictha_ wanting an Interpreter to tell you her will, you would now receive it from her owne mouth, determining sooner to dye, then alter a jot of her intended purpose. _Ocharus_ hearing this unwelcome answer, was even upon the point to have slaine himselfe: but yet, not to lose the name of a valiant man, or to be thought of an effeminate or cowardly spirite, that a Woman should force him to an acte, so farre unfitting for a man of his ranke; hee tooke his leave of her, solemnly promising, not to forget her further pursuite, but at all times to obey her so long as he lived, although her commaund was very hard for him to endure. So hee departed thence, not unto the Court, she being not there, that had the power to enjoyne his presence: but home to his owne house, where he was no sooner arrived, but he began to waxe wearie of his former folly; accusing himselfe of great indiscretion, for spending so much time in vaine, and in her service, who utterly despised him, and all his endeavours which he undertooke. He began to accuse her of great ingratitude, laying over-much respect uppon her vertue, to have no feeling at all of his loyall sufferings; but meerely made a mockery of his martyrdome. Heereupon, he concluded to give over all further affection, to languish no longer for her sake, that hated him and all his actions. While he continued in these melancholly passions, the Princesse, who all this while had persisted in such strict severity, as astonished the courages of her stoutest servants; considering (more deliberately) on the sincere affection of _Ocharus_, and that vertue onely made him the friend to her modesty, and not wanton or lascivious appetite; she felt a willing readinesse in her soule, to gratifie him in some worthy manner, and to recompence some part of his travailes. Which to effect, she resolved to follow him (in some counterfeite habite) even to the place of his own abiding, to try, if easily he could take knowledge of her, whom so lately he saw in the garments of a Shephearddesse. Being thus minded, shee went to her Mistresse whom she served, and who had likewise seen Lord _Ocharus_ (of whom she had perfect knowledge) when hee conferred with the Shephearddesse, and enquiring the cause, why hee resorted in that manner to her; _Serictha_ returned her this answer. Mistresse, I make no doubt, but you will be somewhat amazed, and (perhaps) can hardly credit when you heare, that she who now serveth you in the poore degree of Shephearddesse, is the onely daughter to _Siwalde_ King of the _Danes_: for whose love, so many great Lords have continually laboured; and that I onely attracted hither _Ocharus_, the Noble Sonne of valiant _Hebonius_, to wander in these solitary deserts, to finde out her that fled from him, and helde him in as high disdaine, as I did all the rest of his fellow rivals. But if my words may not heerein sufficiently assure you, I would advise you, to send where _Ocharus_ dwelleth, & there make further enquiry of him, to the end that you may not imagine me a lyar. If my speeches do otherwise prevaile with you, and you remain assured, that I am she, whom your Noble neighbour so deerely affecteth, albeit I never made any account at all of him: then I do earnestly intreat you, so much to stand my friend, as to provide some convenient means for me, whereby I may passe unknowne to the Castle of _Ocharus_, to revenge my selfe on his civill honesty, & smile at him hereafter, if he prove not so cleerely sighted, as to know her being neere him, whom he vaunteth to love above all women elsee. The good Countrey-woman hearing these wordes, and perceyving that she had the Princesse in her house, of whose speeches she made not any doubt, in regard of her stout countenance, gravity, and faire demeanour, began to rellish something in her minde, farre differing from matter of common understanding, and therefore roundly replied in this kind of language. Madam (for servant I may no longer call you) I make no question to the contrary, but that you are derived of high birth; having observed your behaviour, and womanly carriage. And so much the more I remaine assured thereof, having seene such great honour done unto you, by the Noble Lord, and worthy Warriour _Ocharus_: wherefore, it lieth not in my power, to impeach your desseignes, much lesse to talke of your longer service, because you are the Princesse _Serictha_, whom I am to performe all humble dutie unto, as being one of your meanest subjects. And although you were not shee, yet would I not presume any way to offend you, in regarde of the true and vertuous love, which that good Knight _Ocharus_ seemeth to beare you. If my company bee needefull for you, I beseech you to accept it: if not, take whatsoever is mine, which may any way sted you; for, to make you passe unknowne, I can and will provide sufficiently, even to your own contentment, and in such strange manner, as _Ocharus_ (were he never so cleerely sighted) shal be deceived, you being attired in those fashion garments, which heere in these parts are usually worne. _Serictha_ being wonderously joyfull at her answer, suffred hir to paint, or rather soile her faire face, with the juice of divers hearbes and rootes, and cloathed her in such an habite as those women use to weare that live in the mountaines of _Norway_, upon the sea-coast fronting _Great-Britain_. Being thus disguised, confidently she went, to beguile the eie of her dearest friend, and so to returne backe againe from him, having affoorded him such a secret favour, in requitall of his honourable services; delivering her out of so great a danger, and comming to visite her in so solitarie a life. Nor would she have the womans company any further, then till she came within the sight of _Ocharus_ his Castle; where when she was arrived (he being then absent) the mother unto the Noble Gentleman, gave her courteous welcom; and, notwithstanding her grosse & homely outward appearance, yet she collected by her countenance, that there was a matter of much more worth in her, then to bee a woman of base breeding. When _Ocharus_ was returned home, he received advertisement by his mother, concerning the arrivall of this stranger, when as sodainely his soule halfe perswaded him, of some kinde courtesie to proceede from his sweet rebell, pretending now some feigned excuse, in recompence of all his travailes, and passed honest offices. Observing all her actions and gestures, her wonted rigour never bending one jot, or gave way to her eye to looke upon any man; he grew the better assured, that she was the daughter to King _Siwalde_. Yet feigning to take no knowledge thereof, he bethought himselfe of a queint policy, whereby to make triall, whether secret kindnesse had conducted this Lady thither, or no, to conclude his torments, and give a final end to his greevous afflictions. Upon a watch-word given to his Mother, he pretended, and so caused it to be noised through the house, that he was to marry a very honourable Lady; which the constant and chaste maide verily beleeved; and therefore gave the more diligent attendance (as a new-come servant) to see all things in due decency, as no one could expresse herselfe more ready, because she esteemed him above all other men. Yet such was the obstinate opinion she concerned of her owne precisenesse, as she would rather suffer all the flames of love, then expresse the least shew of desire to any man living. Neverthelesse, she was inwardly offended, that any other should have the honour, to make her vaunt of enjoying _Ocharus_; whom (indeed) she coveted, and thought him only worthy in her heart, to be Son in law to the King of _Denmarke_. Now, as the Mother was very seriously busied in preparing the Castle, for receiving the pretended Bride; shee employed her new Mayde (_Serictha_ I meane) as busily as any of the rest. In the meane while, _Ocharus_ was laid upon a bed, well noting all her carriage and behaviour, shee having a lighted Candle in her hand, without any Candlesticke to hold it in. As all the servants (both men and maids) were running hastily from place to place, to cary such occasions as they were commanded, the candle was consumed so neere to _Sericthaes_ fingers, that it burned hir hand. She, not to faile a jote in her height of mind, and to declare that her corage was invincible; was so farre off from casting away the small snuffe which offended her, that she rather graspt it the more strongly, even to the enflaming of her owne flesh, which gave light to the rest about their businesse. A matter (almost) as marvellous, as the acte of the noble _Romane_, who gave his hand to be burned, in presence of the _Tuscane_ King, that had besiedged _Rome_. Thus this Lady would needs make it apparantly knowne, by this generous acte of hers, that her heart could not be enflamed or conquered, by all the fires of concupiscence, in suffering so stoutly and couragiously, the burning of this materiall fire. _Ocharus_, who (as we have already saide) observed every thing that _Serictha_ did; perceiving that she spake not one worde, albeit her hand burned in such fierce manner, was much astonished at her sprightly mind. And as he was about to advise her, to hurle away the fire so much offending her; Curiositie (meerely naturall unto Women) made the Ladie lift uppe her eyes, to see (by stealth) whether her friend had noted her invincible constancy, or no. Heereby _Ocharus_ won the honour of his long expected victory; and leaping from off the bed, hee ranne to embrace her, not with any such feare as he had formerly used, in not daring so much as to touch her: but boldly now clasping his armes about her, he said. At this instant Madam, the King your Fathers decree is fully accomplished, for I am the first man that ever you lookt in the face, & you are onely mine, without making any longer resistance. You are the Princely Lady and wife, by me so constantly loved and desired, whom I have followed with such painefull travelse, exposing my life to infinite perils in your service: you have seene and lookt on him, who never craved any thing of you, but onely this favour, whereof you cannot bereave me againe, because the Gods themselves, at such time as I least expected it, have bestowne it on me, as my deserved recompence, and worthy reward. In the delivery of these words, he kissed and embraced her a thousand times, shee not using any great resistance against him, but onely as somewhat offended with her selfe, either for being so rash in looking on him, or elsee for delaying his due merit so long; or rather, because with her good will shee had falne into the transgression. Shee declared no violent or contending motion, as loath to continue so long in his armes; but rather, evident signes of hearty contentment, yet in very bashfull and modest manner, willing enough to accept his loving kindnesse, yet not wandring from her wonted chaste carriage. He being favourably excused, for the outward expression of his amourous behaviour to her, and certified withall, that since the time of freeing her from the wretch, who sought the violating of her chastity, shee had entirely respected him, (albeit, to shun suspition of lightnesse, and to win more assurance, of what shee credited sufficiently already, shee continued her stiffe opinion against him) yet alwayes this resolution was set downe in her soule, never (with her will) to have any other Husband but _Ocharus_, who (above all other) had best deserved her, by his generosity, vertue, manly courage, and valiancy; whereof he might the better assure himselfe, because (of her owne voluntary disposition) shee followed to find him out, not for any other occasion, but to revenge her selfe (by this honest Office) for all that he had done or undertaken, to winne the grace and love of the King of _Denmarkes_ Daughter, to whom he presented such dutifull service. _Ocharus_, who would not loose this happinesse, to be made King of all the Northerne Ilands, with more then a thankfull heart, accepted all her gracious excuses. And being desirous to waste no longer time in vaine, lest Fortune should raise some new stratagem against him, to dispossesse him of so faire a felicity; left off his counterfeit intended marriage, and effected this in good earnest, and was wedded to his most esteemed _Serictha_. Not long had these lovers lived in the lawfull and sacred rites of marriage, but King _Siwalde_ was advertised, that his Daughter had given her consent to _Ocharus_, and received him as her noble Husband. The party was not a jot displeasing to him, hee thought him to be a worthy Son in Law, and the condition did sufficiently excuse the match; onely herein lay the error and offence, that the marriage was sollemnized without his knowledge and consent, he being not called thereto, or so much as acquainting him therewith, which made him condemne _Ocharus_ of overbold arrogancy, he being such a great and powerfull King, to be so lightly respected by his Subject, and especially in the marriage of his Daughter. But _Serictha_, who was now metamorphosed from a maide to a wife, and had lyen a few nights by the side of a Soldiour, was become much more valiant and adventurous then she was before. She took the matter in hand, went to her Father, who welcommed her most lovingly, and so pleasing were her speeches, carried with such wit and womanly discretion, that nothing wanted to approve what she had done. Matters which he had never knowne, or so much as heard of, were now openly revealed, how _Ocharus_ had delivered her from the ravisher, what worthie respect he then used towards her, and what honour he extended to her in the deserts, where she tended her flocke as a Shephearddesse, with manie other honourable actions beside: that the Kings anger became mildely qualified, and so farre he entred into affection, that he would not do any thing thence-forward, without the counsell and advise of his Sonne in Law, whom so highly he esteemed, and liked so respectively of him, and his race; that his Queene dying, hee married with the Sister to _Ocharus_, going hand in band with the gentle and modest Princesse _Serictha_. This Novell of _Dioneus_, was commended by all the company, and so much the rather, because it was free from all folly and obscennesse. And the Queene perceiving, that as the Tale was ended, so her dignitie must now be expired: she tooke the Crowne of Laurell from off her head, & graciously placed it on the head of _Philostratus_, saying; The worthy Discourse of _Dioneus_, being out of his wonted wanton element, causeth mee (at the resignation of mine Authority) to make choise of him as our next Commander, who is best able to order and enstruct us all; and so I yeeld both my place and honour to _Philostratus_, I hope with the good liking of all our assistants: as plainly appeareth by their instant carriage towards him, with all their heartiest love and sufferages. Whereupon _Philostratus_, beginning to consider on the charge committed to his care, called the Maister of the houshold, to knowe in what estate all matters were, because where any defect appeared, everie thing might be the sooner remedied, for the better satisfaction of the company, during the time of his authority. Then returning backe to the assembly, thus he began. Lovely Ladies, I would have you to knowe, that since the time of ability in me, to distinguish betweene good and evill, I have alwayes bene subject (perhaps by the meanes of some beautie heere among us) to the proud and imperious dominion of love, with expression of all duty, humility, and most intimate desire to please: yet all hath prooved to no purpose, but still I have bin rejected for some other, whereby my condition hath falne from ill to worse, and so still it is likely, even to the houre of my death. In which respect, it best pleaseth me, that our conferences to morrow, shal extend to no other argument, but only such cases as are most conformable to my calamity, namely of such, whose love hath had unhappy ending, because I await no other issue of mine; nor willingly would I be called by any other name, but onely, the miserable and unfortunate Lover. Having thus spoken, he arose againe; granting leave to the rest, to recreate themselves till supper time. The Garden was very faire and spacious, affoording large limits for their severall walkes; the Sun being already so low descended, that it could not be offensive to anyone, the Connies, Kids, and young Hindes skipping every where about them, to their no meane pleasure and contentment. _Dioneus_ & _Fiammetta_, sate singing together, of _Messire Guiglielmo_ and the Lady of _Vertue. Philomena_ and _Pamphilus_ playing at the Chesse, all sporting themselves as best they pleased. But the houre of Supper being come, and the Tables covered about the faire fountaine, they sate downe and supt in most loving manner. Then _Philostratus_, not to swerve from the course which had beene observed by the Queenes before him, so soone as the Tables were taken away, gave command, that Madam _Lauretta_ should beginne the dance, and likewise to sing a Song. My gracious Lord (quoth shee) I can skill of no other Songs, but onely a peece of mine owne, which I have already learned by heart, & may well beseeme this faire assembly: if you please to allow of that, I am ready to performe it with all obedience. Lady, replyed the King, you your selfe being so faire and lovely, so needs must be whatsoever commeth from you, therefore let us heare such as you have. Madam _Lauretta_, giving enstruction to the Chorus, prepared, and began in this manner. _The Song. No soule so comfortlesse, Hath more cause to expresse, Like woe and heavinesse, As I poore amorous Maide. He that did forme the Heavens and every Starre, Made me as best him pleased, Lovely and gracious, no Element at jarre, Or elsee in gentle breasts to moove sterne Warre, But to have strifes appeased Where Beauties eye should make the deepest scarre. And yet when all things are confest, Never was any soule distrest, Like mine poore amorous Maide. No soule so comfortlesse, &c. There was a time, when once I was helde deare, Blest were those happy dayes: Numberlesse Love-suites whispred in mine eare, All of faire hope, but none of desperate feare; And all sung Beauties praise. Why should blacke clowdes obscure so bright a cleare? And why should others swimme in joy, And no heart drowned in annoy, Like mine poore amorous Maide? No soule so comfortlesse, &c. Well may I curse that sad and dismall day, When in unkinde exchange; Another Beauty did my hopes betray, And stole my dearest Love from me away: Which I thought very strange, Considering vowes were past, and what elsee may Assure a loyall Maidens trust, Never was Lover so unjust, Like mine poore amorous Maide. No soule so comfortlesse, &c. Come then kinde Death, and finish all my woes, Thy helpe is now the best. Come lovely Nymphes, lend hands mine eyes to close, And let him wander wheresoere he goes, Vaunting of mine unrest; Beguiling others by his treacherous showes, Grave on my Monument, No true love was worse spent, Then mine poore amorous Maide. No soule so comfortlesse, &c._ So did Madam _Lauretta_ finish her Song, which beeing well observed of them all, was understood by some in divers kinds: some alluding it one way, & others according to their own apprehensions, but all consenting, that both it was an excellent Ditty, well devised, and most sweetly sung. Afterward, lighted Torches being brought, because the Stars had already richly spangled all the heavens, and the fit houre of rest approaching: the King commanded them all to their Chambers, where wee meane to leave them untill the next morning. _The End of the Third Day._ The Fourth Day. _Wherein all the severall Discourses, are under the Government of Honourable_ Philostratus: _And concerning such persons, whose Loves have had successelesse ending._ The Induction unto the ensuing Novelles. Most worthy Ladies, I have alwayes heard, as well by the sayings of the judicious, as also by mine owne observation and reading, that the impetuous and violent windes of envy, do sildome blow turbulently; but on the highest Towers and tops of the trees most eminently advanced. Yet (in mine opinion) I have found my selfe much deceived; because, by striving with my very uttermost endeavour, to shunne the outrage of those implacable winds; I have laboured to go, not onely by plaine and even pathes, but likewise through the deepest vallies. As very easily may be seene and observed in the reading of these few small Novelse, which I have written not only in our vulgar _Florentine_ prose, without any ambitious title: but also in a most humble stile, so low and gentle as possibly I could. And although I have bene rudely shaken, yea, almost halfe unrooted, by the extreame agitation of those blustering winds, and torne in peeces by that base back-biter, envy: yet have I not (for all that) discontinued, or broken any part of mine intended enterprize. Wherefore, I can sufficiently witnesse (by mine owne comprehension) the saying so much observed by the wise, to bee most true; That nothing is without envy in this world, but misery onely. Among variety of opinions, faire Ladies; some, seeing these Novelties, spared not to say; That I have bene over-pleasing to you, and wandered too farre from mine owne respect, imbasing my credit and repute, by delighting my selfe too curiously, for the fitting of your humours, and have extolled your worth too much, with addition of worse speeches then I meane to utter. Others, seeming to expresse more maturity of judgment, have likewise said, That it was very unsuteable for my yeares, to meddle with womens wanton pleasures, or contend to delight you by the verie least of my labours. Many more, making shew of affecting my good fame and esteeme, say; I had done much more wisely, to have kept mee with the Muses at _Parnassus_, then to confound my studies with such effeminate follies. Some other beside, speaking more despightfully then discreetly, saide; I had declared more humanity, in seeking means for mine owne maintenance, and wherewith to support my continuall necessities, then to glut the worlde with gulleries, and feede my hopes with nothing but winde. And others, to calumniate my travailes, would make you beleeve, that such matters as I have spoken of, are meerly disguised by me, and figured in a quite contrary nature, quite from the course as they are related. Whereby you may perceive (vertuous Ladies) how while I labour in your service, I am agitated and molested with these blusterings, and bitten even to the bare bones, by the sharpe and venomous teeth of envy; all which (as heaven best knoweth) I gladly endure, and with good courage. Now, albeit it belongeth onely to you, to defend me in this desperate extremity; yet, notwithstanding all their utmost malice, I will make no spare of my best abilities, and, without answering them any otherwise then is fitting, will quietly keepe their slanders from mine eares, with some sleight reply, yet not deserving to be dreamt on. For I apparantly perceive, that (having not already attained to the third part of my pains) they are growne to so great a number, and presume very farre uppon my patience: they may encrease, except they be repulsed in the beginning, to such an infinitie before I can reach to the end, as with their verie least paines taking, they will sinke me to the bottomlesse depth, if your sacred forces (which are great indeede) may not serve for me in their resistance. But before I come to answer any one of them, I will relate a Tale in mine owne favour; yet not a whole Tale, because it shall not appeare, that I purpose to mingle mine, among those which are to proceed from a company so commendable. Onely I will report a parcell thereof, to the end, that what remaineth untold, may sufficiently expresse, it is not to be numbred among the rest to come. By way then of familiar discourse, and speaking to my malicious detractors, I say, that a long while since, there lived in our City, a Citizen who was named _Philippo Balduccio_, a man but of meane condition, yet verie wealthy, well qualified, and expert in many things appertaining unto his calling. He had a wife whom he loved most intirely, as she did him, leading together a sweet and peaceable life, studying on nothing more, then how to please each other mutually. It came to passe, that as all flesh must, the good woman left this wretched life for a better, leaving one onely sonne to her husband, about the age of two yeares. The husband remained so disconsolate for the losse of his kinde Wife, as no man possibly could be more sorrowfull, because he had lost the onely jewell of his joy. And being thus divided from the company which he most esteemed: he determined also to separate himselfe from the world, addicting al his endeavours to the service of God; and applying his yong sonne likewise, to the same holy exercises. Having given away all his goods for Gods sake, he departed to the Mountaine _Asinaio_, where he made him a small Cell, and lived there with his little sonne, onely upon charitable almes, in abstinence and prayer, forbearing to speak of any worldly occasions, or letting the Lad see any vaine sight: but conferred with him continually, on the glories of eternall life, of God and his Saints, and teaching him nothing elsee but devout prayers, leading this kinde of life for many yeares together, not permitting him ever to goe forth of the Cell, or shewing him any other but himselfe. The good old man used divers times to go to _Florence_, where having received (according to his opportunities) the almes of divers well disposed people, he returned backe againe to his hermitage. It fortuned, that the boy being now about eighteene yeeres olde, and his Father growne very aged; he demanded of him one day, whether hee went? Wherein the old man truly resolved him: whereuppon, the youth thus spake unto him. Father, you are now growne very aged, and hardly can endure such painfull travell: why do you not let me go to _Florence_, that by making me knowne to your well disposed friends, such as are devoutly addicted both to God, and you; I, who am young, and better able to endure travaile then you are, may go thither to supply our necessities, and you take your ease in the mean while? The aged man, perceiving the great growth of his Sonne, and thinking him to be so well instructed in Gods service, as no wordly vanities could easily allure him from it; did not dislike the Lads honest motion, but when he went next to _Florence_, tooke him thither along with him. When he was there, and had seene the goodly Palaces, Houses, and Churches, with all other sights to be seene in so populous a Cittie: hee began greatly to wonder at them, as one that had never seene them before, at least within the compasse of his remembrance; demanding many things of his Father, both what they were, and how they were named: wherein the old man still resolved him. The answers seemed to content him highly, and caused him to proceede on in further questionings, according still as they found fresh occasions: till at the last, they met with a troope of very beautifull women, going on in seemely manner together, as returning backe from a Wedding. No sooner did the youth behold them, but he demanded of his Father, what things they were; whereto the olde man replyed thus. Sonne, cast downe thy lookes unto the ground, and do not seeme to see them at all, because they are bad things to behold. Bad things Father? answered the Lad: How do you call them? The good olde man, not to quicken any concupiscible appetite in the young boy, or any inclinable desire to ought but goodnesse; would not terme them by their proper name of Women, but tolde him that they were called young Gozlings. Heere grew a matter of no meane mervaile, that hee who had never seene any women before now; appeared not to respect the faire Churches, Palaces, goodly horses, Golde, Silver, or any thing elsee which he had seene; but, as fixing his affection onely upon this sight, sodainly said to the old man. Good Father, do so much for me, as to let me have one of these Gozlings. Alas Sonne (replyed the Father) holde thy peace I pray thee, and do not desire any such naughty things. Then by way of demand, he thus proceeded, saying. Father, are these naughty things made of themselves? Yes Sonne, answered the old man. I know not Father (quoth the Lad) what you meane by naughtinesse, nor why these goodly things should be so badly termed; but in my judgement, I have not seene any thing so faire and pleasing in mine eye, as these are, who excell those painted Angelse, which heere in the Churches you have shewn me. And therefore Father, if either you love me, or have any care of me, let mee have one of these Gozlings home to our Cell, where we can make means sufficient for her feeding. I will not (said the Father) be so much thine enemy, because neither thou, or I, can rightly skill of their feeding. Perceiving presently, that Nature had farre greater power then his Sonnes capacity and understanding; which made him repent, for fondly bringing his sonne to _Florence_. Having gone so farre in this fragment of a Tale, I am content to pause heere, and will returne againe to them of whom I spake before; I meane my envious depravers: such as have saide (faire Ladies) that I am double blame-worthy, in seeking to please you, and that you are also over-pleasing to me; which freely I confesse before all the world, that you are singularly pleasing to me, and I have stroven how to please you effectually. I would demand of them (if they seeme so much amazed heereat,) considering, I never knew what belonged to true love kisses, amorous embraces, and their delectable fruition, so often received from your graces; but onely that I have seene, and do yet daily behold, your commendable conditions, admired beauties, noble adornments by nature, and (above all the rest) your womenly and honest conversation. If hee that was nourished, bred, and educated, on a savage solitary Mountain, within the confines of a poore small Cell, having no other company then his Father: If such a one, I say, uppon the very first sight of your sexe, could so constantly confesse, that women were onely worthy of affection, and the object which (above all things elsee) he most desired; why should these contumelious spirits so murmure against me, teare my credite with their teeth, and wound my reputation to the death, because your vertues are pleasing to mee, and I endeavour likewise to please you with my utmost paines? Never had the auspitious heavens allowed me life, but onely to love you; and from my very infancie, mine intentions have alwaies bene that way bent: feeling what vertue flowed from your faire eies, understanding the mellifluous accents of your speech, whereto the enkindled flames of your sighes gave no meane grace. But remembring especially, that nothing could so please an Hermite, as your divine perfections, an unnurtured Lad, without understanding, and little differing from a meere brutish beast: undoubtedly, whosoever loveth not women, and desireth to be affected of them againe; may well be ranked among these women-haters, speaking out of cankred spleene, and utterly ignorant of the sacred power (as also the vertue) of naturall affection, whereof they seeming so carelesse, the like am I of their depraving. Concerning them that touch me with mine age; Do not they know, that although Leeks have white heads, yet the blades of them are alwaies greene? But referring them to their flouts and taunts, I answer, that I shal never hold it any disparagement to mee, so long as my life endureth, to delight my selfe with those exercises, which _Guido Cavalconti_, and _Dante Alighieri_, already aged, as also _Messer Cino de Pistoia_, older then either of them both, held to be their chiefest honour. And were it not a wandering too farre from our present argument, I would alledge Histories to approove my words, full of very ancient and famous men, who in the ripest maturity of all their time, were carefully studious for the contenting of women, albeit these cock-braines neither know the way how to do it, nor are so wise as to learne it. Now, for my dwelling at _Parnassus_ with the Muses, I confesse their counsell to be very good: but wee cannot alwayes continue with them, nor they with us. And yet neverthelesse, when any man departeth from them, they delighting themselves, to see such things as may bee thought like them, do not therein deserve to be blamed. Wee finde it recorded, that the Muses were women, and albeit women cannot equall the performance of the Muses; yet in their very prime aspect, they have a lively resemblance with the Muses: so that, if women were pleasing for nothing elsee, yet they ought to be generally pleasing in that respect. Beside all this, women have bin the occasion of my composing a thousand Verses, whereas the Muses never caused me to make so much as one. Verie true it is, that they gave me good assistance, and taught me how I shold compose them, yea, and directed me in writing of these Novelse. And how basely soever they judge of my studies, yet have the Muses never scorned to dwell with me, perhaps for the respective service, and honourable resemblance of those Ladies with themselves, whose vertues I have not spared to commend by them. Wherefore, in the composition of these varieties, I have not strayed so farre from _Parnassus_, nor the Muses; as in their silly conjectures they imagine. But what shall I say to them, who take so great compassion on my povertie, as they advise me to get something, whereon to make my living? Assuredly, I know not what to say in this case, except by due consideration made with my selfe, how they would answer mee, if necessitie should drive me to crave kindnesse of them; questionles, they would then say: Goe, seeke comfort among thy fables and follies. Yet I would have them know, that poore Poets have alwayes found more among their fables & fictions; then many rich men ever could do, by ransacking all their bags of treasure. Beside, many other might be spoken of, who made their age and times to flourish, meerely by their inventions and fables: whereas on the contrary, a great number of other busier braines, seeking to gaine more then would serve them to live on; have utterly runne uppon their owne ruine, and overthrowne themselves for ever. What should I say more? To such men, as are either so suspitious of their owne charitie, or of my necessity, whensoever it shall happen: I can answere (I thanke my God for it) with the Apostle; I know how to abounde, & how to abate, yea, how to endure both prosperity and want; and therefore, let no man be more carefull of me, then I am of my selfe. For them that are so inquisitive into my discourses, to have a further construction of them, then agrees with my meaning, or their own good manners, taxing me with writing one thing, but intending another; I could wish, that their wisedom would extend so farre, as but to compare them with their originals, to finde them a jot discordant from my writing; and then I would freely confesse, that they had some reason to reprehend me, and I should endeavour to make them amends. But untill they can touch me with any thing elsee, but words onely; I must let them wander in their owne giddy opinions, and followe the course projected to my selfe, saying of them, as they do of me. Thus holding them all sufficiently answered for this time, I say (most worthy Ladies) that by heavens assistance and yours, whereto I onely leane: I will proceede on, armed with patience; and turning my backe against these impetuous windes, let them breath till they burst, because I see nothing can happen to harme me, but onely the venting of their malice. For the roughest blastes, do but raise the smallest dust from off the ground, driving it from one place to another; or, carrying it up to the aire, many times it falleth downe againe on mens heads, yea, upon the Crownes of Emperors and Kings, and sometimes on the highest Palaces and tops of Towers; from whence, if it chance to descend again by contrarie blasts, it can light no lower, then whence it came at the first. And therefore, if ever I strove to please you with my uttermost abilities in any thing, surely I must now contend to expresse it more then ever. For, I know right well, that no man can say with reason, except some such as my selfe, who love and honour you, that we do any otherwise then as nature hath commanded us; and to resist her lawes, requires a greater and more powerfull strength then ours: and the contenders against her supreame priviledges, have either laboured meerely in vaine, or elsee incurred their owne bane. Which strength, I freely confesse my selfe not to have, neither covet to be possessed of it in this case: but if I had it, I wold rather lend it to some other, then any way to use it on mine own behalfe. Wherefore, I would advise them that thus checke and controule mee, to give over, and be silent; and if their cold humours cannot learne to love, let them live still in their frostie complexion, delighting themselves in their corrupted appetites: suffering me to enjoy mine owne, for the little while I have to live; and this is all the kindnesse I require of them. But now it is time (bright beauties) to returne whence we parted, and to follow our former order begun, because it may seeme we have wandered too farre. By this time the Sun had chased the Starre-light from the heavens, and the shadie moisture from the ground, when _Philostratus_ the King being risen, all the company arose likewise. When being come into the goodly Garden, they spent the time in varietie of sports, dining where they had supt the night before. And after that the Sun was at his highest, and they had refreshed their spirits with a little slumbering, they sate downe (according to custome) about the faire Fountaine. And then the King commanded Madam _Fiammetta_, that she should give beginning to the dayes Novelse: when she, without any longer delaying, began in this gracious manner. Tancrede, _Prince of_ Salerne, _caused the amorous friend of his daughter to be slaine, and sent her his heart in a cup of Gold: which afterward she steeped in an impoysoned water, and then drinking it so dyed._ The first Novell. _Wherein is declared the power of Love, and their cruelty justly reprehended, who imagine to make the vigour thereof cease, by abusing or killing one of the Lovers._ Our King (most Noble and vertuous Ladies) hath this day given us a subject, very rough and stearne to discourse on, and so much the rather, if we consider, that we are come hither to be merry & pleasant, where sad Tragicall reports are no way suteable, especially, by reviving the teares of others, to bedew our owne cheekes withall. Nor can any such argument be spoken of, without moving compassion both in the reporters, and hearers. But (perhaps) it was his highnesse pleasure, to moderate the delights which we have already had. Or whatsoever elsee hath provoked him thereto, seeing it is not lawfull for mee, to alter or contradict his appointment; I will recount an accident very pittiful, or rather most unfortunate, and well worthy to bee graced with our teares. _Tancrede_, Prince of _Salerne_ (which City, before the Consulles of _Rome_ held dominion in that part of _Italy_, stoode free, and thence (perchance) tooke the moderne title of a Principality) was a very humane Lord, and of ingenious nature; if, in his elder yeares, he had not soiled his hands in the blood of Lovers, especially one of them, being both neere and deere unto him. So it fortuned, that during the whole life time of this Prince, he had but one onely daughter (albeit it had bene much better, if he had had none at all) whom he so choisely loved and esteemed, as never was any childe more deerely affected of a Father: and so farre extended his over-curious respect of her, as he would sildome admit her to be foorth of his sight; neither would he suffer her to marry, although she had outstept (by divers yeares) the age meete for marriage. Neverthelesse, at length, he matched her with the Sonne to the Duke of _Capua_, who lived no long while with her; but left her in a widdowed estate, and then shee returned home to her father againe. This Lady, had all the most absolute perfections, both of favour and feature, as could be wished in any woman, yong, queintly disposed, and of admirable understanding, more (perhappes) then was requisite in so weake a bodie. Continuing thus in Court with the King her Father, who loved her beyond all his future hopes; like a Lady of great and glorious magnificence, she lived in all delights & pleasure. She well perceiving, that her Father thus exceeding in his affection to her, had no mind at all of re-marrying her, and holding it most immodest in her, to solicite him with any such suite: concluded in her mindes private consultations, to make choise of some one especiall friend or favourite (if Fortune would prove so furtherous to her) whom she might acquaint secretly, with her sober, honest, and familiar purposes. Her Fathers Court beeing much frequented, with plentifull accesse of brave Gentlemen, and others of inferiour quality, as commonly the Courts of Kings & Princes are, whose carriage and demeanour she very heedfully observed. There was a yong Gentleman among all the rest, a servant to her Father, and named _Guiscardo_, a man not derived from any great descent by bloode, yet much more Noble by vertue and commendable behaviour, then appeared in any of the other, none pleased her opinion, like as he did; so that by often noting his parts and perfections, her affection being but a glowing sparke at the first, grewe like a Bavin to take flame, yet kept so closely as possibly she could; as Ladies are warie enough in their love. The yong Gentleman, though poore, being neither blocke nor dullard, perceived what he made no outward shew of, and understood himselfe so sufficiently, that holding it no meane happinesse to bee affected by her, he thought it very base and cowardly in him, if he should not expresse the like to her againe. So loving mutually (yet secretly) in this manner, and shee coveting nothing more, then to have private conference with him, yet not daring to trust anyone with so important a matter; at length she devised a new cunning stratageme, to compasse her longing desire, and acquaint him with her private purpose, which proved to bee in this manner. Shee wrote a Letter, concerning what was the next day to be done, for their secret meeting together; and conveying it within the joynt of an hollow Cane, in jesting manner threw it to _Guiscardo_, saying; Let your man make use of this, insted of a paire of bellowes, when he meaneth to make fire in your chamber. _Guiscardo_ taking up the Cane, and considering with himselfe, that neither was it given, or the wordes thus spoken, but doubtlesse on some important occasion: went unto his lodging with the Cane, where viewing it respectively, he found it to be cleft, and opening it with his knife, found there the written Letter enclosed. After he had reade it, and well considered on the service therein concerned; he was the most joyfull man of the world, and began to contrive his aptest meanes, for meeting with his gracious Mistresse, and according as she had given him direction. In a corner of the Kings Palace, it being seated on a rising hill, a cave had long beene made in the body of the same hill, which received no light into it, but by a small spiracle or vent-loope, made out ingeniously on the hills side. And because it hadde not in long time bene frequented, by the accesse of any body, that vent-light was over-growne with briars and bushes, which almost engirt it round about. No one could descend into this cave or vault, but only by a secret paire of staires, answering to a lower Chamber of the Palace, and very neere to the Princesses lodging, as beeing altogether at her command, by meanes of a strong barred and defensible doore, whereby to mount or descend at her pleasure. And both the cave it selfe, as also the degrees conducting downe into it, were now so quite worne out of memory (in regard it had not bene visited by any one in long time before) as no man remembred that there was any such thing. But Love, from whose bright discerning eies, nothing can be so closely concealed, but at the length it commeth to light: had made this amorous Lady mindefull thereof, and because she would not bee discovered in her intention, many dayes together, her soule became perplexed; by what meanes that strong doore might best be opened, before shee could compasse to performe it. But after that she had found out the way, and gone downe her selfe alone into the cave; observing the loope-light, & had made it commodious for her purpose, shee gave knowledge thereof to _Guiscardo_, to have him devise an apt course for his descent, acquainting him truly with the height, and how farre it was distant from the ground within. After he had found the souspirall in the hills side, and given it a larger entrance for his safer passage; he provided a Ladder of cords, with steppes sufficient for his descending and ascending, as also a wearing sute made of leather, to keepe his skinne unscratched of the thornes, and to avoide all suspition of his resorting thither. In this manner went he to the saide loope-hole the night following, and having fastened the one end of his corded ladder, to the strong stumpe of a tree being closely by it; by meanes of the saide ladder, he descended downe into the cave, and there attended the comming of his Lady. She, on the morrow morning, pretending to her waiting woman, that she was scarsly well, and therefore would not be diseased the most part of that day; commanded them to leave her alone in her Chamber, and not to returne untill she called for them, locking the doore her selfe for better security. Then opened she the doore of the cave, and going downe the staires, found there her amorous friend _Guiscardo_, whom she saluting with a chaste and modest kisse; caused him to ascend up the stayres with her into her chamber. This long desired, and now obtained meeting, caused the two deerely affecting Lovers, in kinde discourse of amorous argument (without incivill or rude demeanour) to spend there the most part of that day, to their hearts joy and mutuall contentment. And having concluded on their often meeting there, in this cunning & concealed sort; _Guiscardo_ went downe into the cave againe, the Princesse making the doore fast after him, and then went forth among her Women. So in the night season, _Guiscardo_ ascended uppe againe by his Ladder of cords, and covering the loope-hole with brambles and bushes, returned (unseene of any) to his owne lodging: the cave being afterward guilty of their often meeting there in this manner. But Fortune, who hath alwayes bin a fatall enemy to lovers stolne felicities, became envious of their thus secret meeting, and overthrew (in an instant) all their poore happinesse, by an accident most spightfull and malicious. The King had used divers dayes before, after dinner time, to resort all alone to his daughters Chamber, there conversing with her in most loving manner. One unhappy day amongst the rest, when the Princesse, being named _Ghismonda_, was sporting in her privat Garden among her Ladies, the King (at his wonted time) went to his daughters Chamber, being neither heard or seene by any. Nor would he have his daughter called from her pleasure, but finding the windowes fast shut, and the Curtaines close drawne about the bed; he sate downe in a chaire behind it, and leaning his head upon the bed; his body being covered with the curtaine, as if he hid himselfe purposely; hee mused on so many matters, untill at last he fell fast asleepe. It hath bin observed as an ancient Adage, that when disasters are ordained to any one, commonly they prove to be inevitable, as poore _Ghismonda_ could witnesse too well. For, while the King thus slept, shee having (unluckily) appointed another meeting with _Guiscardo_, left hir Gentlewomen in the Garden, and stealing softly into her Chamber, having made all fast and sure, for being descried by any person: opened the doore to _Guiscardo_, who stood there ready on the staire-head, awaiting his entrance; and they sitting downe on the bed side (according as they were wont to do) began their usuall kinde conference againe, with sighes and loving kisses mingled among them. It chanced that the King awaked, & both hearing and seeing this familiarity of _Guiscardo_ with his Daughter, he became extreamly confounded with greefe thereat. Once he intended, to cry out for helpe, to have them both there apprehended; but he helde it a part of greater wisedome, to sit silent still, and (if hee could) to keepe himselfe so closely concealed: to the end, that he might the more secretly, and with far less disgrace to himselfe, performe what hee had rashly intended to do. The poore discovered Lovers, having ended their amorous interparlance, without suspition of the Kings being so neer in person, or any else, to betray their over-confident trust; _Guiscardo_ descended againe into the Cave, and she leaving the Chamber, returned to her women in the Garden; all which _Tancrede_ too well observed, and in a rapture of fury, departed (unseene) into his owne lodging. The same night, about the houre of mens first sleepe, and according as he had given order; _Guiscardo_ was apprehended, even as he was comming forth of the loope-hole, & in his homely leather habite. Very closely was he brought before the King, whose heart was swolne so great with greefe, as hardly was hee able to speake: notwithstanding, at the last he began thus. _Guiscardo_, the love & respect I have used towards thee, hath not deserved the shameful wrong which thou hast requited me withall, and as I have seene with mine owne eyes this day. Whereto _Guiscardo_ could answer nothing elsee, but onely this: Alas my Lord! Love is able to do much more, then either you, or I. Whereupon, _Tancrede_ commanded, that he should bee secretly well guarded, in a neere adjoining Chamber, and on the next day, _Ghismonda_ having (as yet) heard nothing heereof, the Kings braine being infinitely busied and troubled, after dinner, and as he often had used to do: he went to his daughters chamber, where calling for her, and shutting the doores closely to them, the teares trickling downe his aged white beard, thus he spake to her. _Ghismonda_, I was once grounded in a setled perswasion, that I truely knew thy vertue, and honest integrity of life; and this beleefe could never have bene altred in mee, by any sinister reports whatsoever, had not mine eyes seene, and mine eares heard the contrary. Nor did I so much as conceive a thought either of thine affection, or private conversing with any man, but onely he that was to be thy husband. But now, I my selfe being able to avouch thy folly, imagine what an heart-breake this will be to me, so long as life remaineth in this poore, weak, and aged body. Yet, if needs thou must have yeelded to this wanton weakenesse, I would thou hadst made choise of a man, answerable to thy birth & Nobility: whereas on the contrary, among so many worthy spirits as resort to my Court, thou likest best to converse with that silly yong man _Guiscardo_, one of very meane and base descent, and by mee (even for Gods sake) from his very youngest yeares, brought uppe to this instant in my Court; wherein thou hast given me much affliction of minde, and so overthrowne my senses, as I cannot wel imagine how I should deale with thee. For him, whom I have this night caused to be surprized, even as he came forth of your close contrived conveyance, and detaine as my prisoner, I have resolved how to proceed with him: but concerning thy selfe, mine oppressions are so many and violent, as I know not what to say of thee. One way, thou hast meerly murthered the unfeigned affection I bare thee, as never any father could expresse more to his child: and then againe, thou hast kindled a most just indignation in me, by thine immodest and wilfull folly, and whereas Nature pleadeth pardon for the one, yet justice standeth up against the other, and urgeth cruell severity against thee: neverthelesse, before I will determine upon any resolution, I come purposely first to heare thee speake, and what thou canst say for thy selfe, in a bad case, so desperate and dangerous. Having thus spoken, he hung downe the head in his bosome, weeping as abundantly, as if it had beene a childe severely disciplinde. On the other side, _Ghismonda_ hearing the speeches of her Father, and perceiving withall, that not onely her secret love was discovered, but also _Guiscardo_ was in close prison, the matter which most of all did torment her; shee fell into a very strange kinde of extasie, scorning teares, and entreating tearmes, such as feminine frailety are alwayes aptest unto: but rather, with height of courage, controling feare or servile basenesse, and declaring invincible fortitude in her very lookes, shee concluded with her selfe, rather then to urge any humble perswasions, shee would lay her life downe at the stake. For plainely shee perceived, that _Guiscardo_ already was a dead man in Law, and death was likewise as welcome to her, rather then the deprivation of her Love; and therefore, not like a weeping woman, or as checkt by the offence committed, but carelesse of any harme happening to her: stoutly and couragiously, not a teare appearing in her eye, or her soule any way to be perturbed, thus shee spake to her Father. _Tancrede_, to denie what I have done, or to entreate any favour from you, is now no part of my disposition: for as the one can little availe me, so shall not the other any way advantage me. Moreover, I covet not, that you should extend any clemency or kindnesse to me, but by my voluntary confession of the truth; doe intend (first of all) to defend mine honour, with reasons sound, good, and substantiall, and then vertuously pursue to full effect, the greatnesse of my minde and constant resolution. True it is, that I have loved, and still doe, honourable _Guiscardo_, purposing the like so long as I shall live, which will be but a small while: but if it bee possible to continue the same affection after death, it is for ever vowed to him onely. Nor did mine owne womanish weaknesse so much thereto induce me, as the matchlesse vertues shining cleerely in _Guiscardo_, and the little respect you had of marrying me againe. Why royall Father, you cannot be ignorant, that you being composed of flesh and blood, have begotten a Daughter of the selfe same composition, and not made of stone or yron. Moreover, you ought to remember (although now you are farre stept in yeeres) what the Lawes of youth are, and with what difficulty they are to be contradicted. Considering withall, that albeit (during the vigour of your best time) you evermore were exercised in Armes; yet you should likewise understand, that negligence and idle delights, have mighty power, not onely in yong people, but also in them of greatest yeeres. I being then made of flesh and blood, and so derived from your selfe; having had also so little benefit of life, that I am yet in the spring, and blooming time of my blood: by either of these reasons, I must needs be subject to naturall desires, wherein such knowledge as I have once already had, in the estate of my marriage, perhaps might move a further intelligence of the like delights, according to the better ability of strength, which exceeding all capacity of resistance, induced a second motive to affection, answerable to my time and youthful desires, and so (like a yong woman) I became amorous againe; yet did I strive, even with all my utmost might, and best vertuous faculties abiding in me, no way to disgrace either you or my selfe, as (in equall censure) yet I have not done. But Nature is above all humane power, and Love, commanded by Nature, hath prevailed for Love, joyning with Fortune: in meere pity and commiseration of my extreme wrong, I found them both most benigne and gracious, teaching me a way secret enough, whereby I might reach the height of my desires, howsoever you became instructed, or (perhaps) found it out by accident; so it was, and I denie it not. Nor did I make election of _Guiscardo_ by chance, or rashly, as many women doe, but by deliberate counsell in my soule, and most mature advise; I chose him above all other, and having his honest harmelesse conversation, mutually we enjoyed our hearts contentment. Now it appeareth, that I having not offended but by love; in imitation of vulgar opinion, rather then truth: you seeke to reprove me bitterly, alleaging no other maine argument for your anger, but onely my not choosing a gentleman, or one more worthy. Wherein it is most evident, that you doe not so much checke my fault, as the ordination of Fortune; who many times advanceth men of meanest esteeme, and abaseth them of greater merit. But leaving this discourse, let us looke into the originall of things, wherein wee are first to observe, that from one masse or lumpe of flesh, both we, and all other received our flesh, and one Creator hath created all things; yea, all creatures, equally in their forces and faculties, and equall likewise in their vertue: which vertue was the first that made distinction of our birth and equality, in regard, that such as had the most liberall portion thereof, and performed actions thereto answerable, were thereby termed noble, all the rest remaining unnoble: now although contrary use did afterward hide and conceale this Law, yet was it not therefore banished from Nature or good manners. In which respect, whosoever did execute all his actions by vertue, declared himselfe openly to be noble; and he that tearmed him otherwise, it was an error in the miscaller, and not in the person so wrongfully called; as the very same priviledge is yet in full force among us at this day. Cast an heedfull eye then (good Father) upon all your Gentlemen, and advisedly examine their vertues, conditions and manner of behaviour. On the other side, observe those parts remaining in _Guiscardo_: and then, if you will judge truly, and without affection, you will confesse him to be most noble, and that all your Gentlemen (in respect of him) are but base Groomes and villaines. His vertues and excelling perfections, I never credited from the report or judgement of any person; but onely by your speeches, and mine owne eyes as true witnesses. Who did ever more commend _Guiscardo_, extolling all those singularities in him, most requisite to be in an honest vertuous man; then you your selfe have done? Nor neede you to be sorry, or ashamed of your good opinion concerning him; for, if mine eyes have not deceived my judgement, you never gave him the least part of praise, but I have knowne much more in him, then ever your words were able to expresse: wherefore, if I have beene any way deceived, truly the deceit proceeded onely from you. How will you then maintaine, that I have throwne my liking on a man of base condition? In troth (Sir) you cannot. Perhaps you will alleadge, that he is meane and poore; I confesse it, and surely it is to your shame, that you have not bestowne place of more preferment, on a man so honest and well deserving, and having beene so long a time your servant. Neverthelesse, poverty impaireth not any part of noble Nature, but wealth hurries it into horrible confusions. Many Kings and great Princes have heretofore beene poore, when divers of them that have delved into the Earth, and kept Flockes in the Feld, have beene advanced to riches, and exceeded the other in wealth. Now, as concerning your last doubt, which most of all afflicteth you, namely, how you shall deale with me; boldly rid your braine of any such disturbance, for if you have resolved now in your extremity of yeeres, to doe that which your younger dayes evermore despised, I meane, to become cruell; use your utmost cruelty against me, for I will never entreate you to the contrary, because I am the sole occasion of this offence, if it doe deserve the name of an offence. And this I dare assure you, that if you deale not with me, as you have done already, or intend to _Guiscardo_, mine owne hands shall act as much: and therefore give over your teares to women, and if you purpose to be cruel, let him and me in death drinke both of one cup, at least, if you imagine that we have deserved it. The King knew well enough the high spirit of his Daughter, but yet (neverthelesse) he did not beleeve, that her words would prove actions, or shee doe as shee saide. And therefore parting from her, and without intent of using any cruelty to her; concluded, by quenching the heate of another, to coole the fiery rage of her distemper, commanding two of his followers (who had the custody of _Guiscardo_) that without any rumour or noyse at all, they should strangle him the night ensuing, and taking the heart forth of his body, to bring it to him, which they performed according to their charge. On the next day, the King called for a goodly standing Cup of Gold, wherein he put the heart of _Guiscardo_, sending it by one of his most familiar servants to his Daughter, with command also to use these words to her. Thy Father hath sent thee this present, to comfort thee with that thing which most of all thou affectest, even as thou hast comforted him with that which he most hated. _Ghismonda_, nothing altered from her cruell deliberation, after her Father was departed from her, caused certaine poysonous rootes & hearbs to be brought her, which shee (by distillation) made a water of, to drinke suddenly, whensoever any crosse accident should come from her Father; whereupon, when the messenger from her Father had delivered her the present, and uttered the words as he was commanded: shee tooke the Cup, and looking into it with a setled countenance, by sight of the heart, and effect of the message, shee knew certainely, that it was the heart of _Guiscardo_; then looking stearnely on the servant, thus she spake unto him. My honest friend, it is no more then right and justice, that so worthy a heart as this is, should have any worser grave then gold, wherein my Father hath dealt most wisely. So, lifting the heart up to her mouth; and sweetly kissing it, shee proceeded thus. In all things, even till this instant, (being the utmost period of my life) I have evermore found my Fathers love most effectuall to me; but now it appeareth farre greater, then at any time heretofore: and therefore from my mouth, thou must deliver him the latest thankes that ever I shall give him, for sending me such an honourable present. These words being ended, holding the Cup fast in her hand, and looking seriously upon the heart, shee began againe in this manner. Thou sweete entertainer of all my dearest delights, accursed be his cruelty, that causeth me thus to see thee with my corporall eyes, it being sufficient enough for me, alwayes to behold thee with the sight of my soule. Thou hast runne thy race, and as Fortune ordained, so are thy dayes finished: for as all flesh hath an ending; so hast thou concluded, albeit too soone, and before thy due time. The travailes and miseries of this World, have now no more to meddle with thee, and thy very heaviest enemy, hath bestowed such a grave on thee, as thy greatnesse in vertue worthily deserveth; now nothing elsee is wanting, wherewith to beautifie thy Funerall, but onely her sighes & teares, that was so deare unto thee in thy life time. And because thou mightest the more freely enjoy them, see how my mercilesse Father (on his owne meere motion) hath sent thee to me; and truly I will bestow them frankly on thee, though once I had resolved, to die with drie eyes, and not shedding one teare, dreadlesse of their utmost malice towards me. And when I have given thee the due oblation of my teares, my soule, which sometime thou hast kept most carefully, shall come to make a sweete conjunction with thine: for in what company elsee can I travaile more contentedly, and to those unfrequented silent shades, but onely in thine? As yet I am sure it is present here, in this Cup sent me by my Father, as having a provident respect to the place, for possession of our equall and mutuall pleasures; because thy soule affecting mine so truely, cannot walke alone, without his deare companion. Having thus finished her complaint, even as if her head had been converted into a well-spring of water, so did teares abundantly flow from her faire eyes, kissing the heart of _Guiscardo_ infinite times. All which while, her women standing by her, neither knew what heart it was, nor to what effect her speeches tended: but being moved to compassionate teares, they often demanded (albeit in vaine) the occasion of her sad complaining, comforting her to their utmost power. When shee was not able to weepe any longer, wiping her eyes, and lifting up her head, without any signe of the least dismay, thus shee spake to the heart. Deare heart, all my duty is performed to thee, and nothing now remaineth uneffected; but onely breathing my last, to let my ghost accompany thine. Then calling for the glasse of water, which shee had readily prepared the day before, and powring it upon the heart lying in the Cup, couragiously advancing it to her mouth, shee dranke it up every drop; which being done, shee lay downe upon her bed, holding her Lovers heart fast in her hand, and laying it so neere to her owne as she could. Now although her women knew not what water it was, yet when they had seene her to quaffe it off in that manner, they sent word to the King, who much suspecting what had happened, went in all haste to his Daughters chamber, entring at the very instant, when shee was laide upon her bed; beholding her in such passionate pangs, with teares streaming downe his reverend beard, he used many kinde words to comfort her, when boldly thus shee spake unto him. Father (quoth she) well may you spare these teares, because they are unfitting for you, and not any way desired by me; who but your selfe, hath seene any man to mourne for his owne wilfull offence. Neverthelesse, if but the least jot of that love doe yet abide in you, whereof you have made such liberall profession to me; let me obtaine this my very last request, to wit, that seeing I might not privately enjoy the benefit of _Guiscardoes_ love, and while he lived; let yet (in death) one publike grave containe both our bodies, that death may affoord us, what you so cruelly in life denied us. Extremity of griefe and sorrow, with-held his tongue from returning any answer, and shee perceiving her end approaching, held the heart still closed to her owne bare brest, saying; Here Fortune, receive two true hearts latest oblation, for, in this manner are we comming to thee. So closing her eyes, all sense forsooke her, life leaving her body breathlesse. Thus ended the haplesse love of _Guiscardo_, and _Ghismonda_, for whose sad disaster, when the King had mourned sufficiently, and repented fruitlessly; he caused both their bodies to be honourably embalmed, and buried in a most royall Monument, not without generall sorrow of the subjects of _Salerne_. _Fryar_ Albert _made a young Venetian Gentlewoman beleeve, that God_ Cupid _was falne in love with her, and he resorted oftentimes unto her, in the disguise of the same God. Afterward, being frighted by the Gentlewomans kindred and friends, he cast himselfe out of her Chamber window, and was hidden in a poore mans House; on the day following, in the shape of a wilde or savage man, he was brought upon the Rialto of Saint_ Marke, _and being there publikely knowne by the Brethren of his Order; he was committed to Prison._ The second Novell. _Reprehending the lewd lives of dissembling hypocrites; and checking the arrogant pride of vaine-headed women._ The Novell recounted by Madam _Fiammetta_, caused teares many times in the eyes of all the company; but it being finished, the King shewing a stearne countenance, saide; I should much have commended the kindnesse of fortune, if in the whole course of my life, I had tasted the least moity of that delight, which _Guiscardo_ received by conversing with faire _Ghismonda_. Nor neede any of you to wonder thereat, or how it can be otherwise, because hourely I feele a thousand dying torments, without enjoying any hope of ease or pleasure: but referring my fortunes to their owne poore condition, it is my will, that Madam _Pampinea_ proceed next in the argument of successelesse love, according as Madam _Fiammetta_ hath already begun, to let fall more dew-drops on the fire of mine afflictions. Madam _Pampinea_ perceiving what a taske was imposed on her, knew well (by her owne disposition) the inclination of the company, whereof shee was more respective, then of the Kings command: wherefore, chusing rather to recreate their spirits, then to satisfie the Kings melancholy humour; shee determined to relate a Tale of mirthfull matter, and yet to keepe within compasse of the purposed Argument. It hath been continually used as a common Proverbe; that a bad man, taken and reputed to be honest and good, may commit many evils, yet neither credited, or suspected: which proverbe giveth mee very ample matter to speake of, and yet not varying from our intention, concerning the hypocrisie of some religious persons, who having their garments long and large, their faces made artificially pale, their language meeke and humble, to get mens goods from them; yet sower, harsh, and stearne enough, in checking and controuling other mens errors, as also in urging others to give, and themselves to take, without any other hope or meanes of salvation. Nor doe they endeavour like other men, to worke out their soules health with feare and trembling; but, even as if they were sole owners, Lords, and possessors of Paradice, will appoint to every dying person, places (there) of greater or lesser excellency, according as they thinke good, or as the legacies left by them are in quantity, whereby they not onely deceive themselves, but all such as give credit to their subtile perswasions. And were it lawfull for me, to make knowne no more then is meerely necessary; I could quickly disclose to simple credulous people, what craft lieth concealed under their holy habites: and I would wish, that their lies and deluding should speed with them, as they did with a _Franciscane_ Friar, none of the younger Novices, but one of them of greatest reputation, and belonging to one of the best Monasteries in _Venice_. Which I am the rather desirous to report, to recreate your spirits, after your teares for the death of faire _Ghismonda_. Sometime (Honourable Ladies) there lived in the City of _Imola_, a man of most lewd and wicked life; named, _Bertho de la massa_, whose shamelesse deedes were so well knowne to all the Citizens, and won such respect among them; as all his lies could not compasse any beleefe, no, not when he delivered a matter of sound truth. Wherefore, perceiving that his lewdnesse allowed him no longer dwelling there; like a desperate adventurer, he transported himselfe thence to _Venice_, the receptacle of all foule sinne and abhomination, intending there to exercise his wonted bad behaviour, and live as wickedly as ever he had done before. It came to passe, that some remorse of conscience tooke hold of him, for the former passages of his dissolute life, and he pretended to be surprized with very great devotion, becomming much more Catholike then any other man, taking on him the profession of a _Franciscane Cordelier_, and calling himselfe Fryar _Albert_ of _Imola_. In this habite and outward appearance, hee seemed to leade an austere and sanctimonious life, highly commending penance & abstinence, never eating flesh, or drinking wine, but when hee was provided of both in a close corner. And before any person could take notice thereof, hee became (of a theefe) Ruffian, forswearer and murtherer, as formerly he had beene a great Preacher; yet not abandoning the forenamed vices, when secretly he could put any of them in execution. Moreover, being made Priest, when he was celebrating Masse at the Altar, if he saw himselfe to be observed by any; he would most mournefully reade the passion of our Saviour, as one whose teares cost him little, whensoever hee pleased to use them: so that, in a short while, by his preaching and teares, he fed the humours of the _Venetians_ so pleasingly; that they made him executour (well neere) of all their Testaments, yea, many chose him as depositary or Guardion of their monies; because he was both Confessour and Councellor, almost to all the men and women. By this well seeming out-side of sanctity, the Wolfe became a Shepheard, and his renown for holinesse was so famous in those parts, as Saint _Frances_ himselfe had hardly any more. It fortuned, that a young Gentlewoman, being somewhat foolish, wanton and proud minded, named Madam _Lisetta de Caquirino_, wife to a wealthy Merchant, who went with certaine Gallies into _Flanders_, and there lay as Lieger long time, in company of other Gentlewomen, went to be confessed by this ghostly Father; kneeling at his feete, although her heart was high enough, like a proud minded woman, (for _Venetians_ are presumptuous, vaine-glorious, and witted much like to their skittish Gondoloes) she made a very short rehearsall of her sinnes. At length Fryar _Albert_ demanded of her, whether shee had any amorous friend or lover? Her patience being exceedingly provoked, stearne anger appeared in her lookes, which caused her to returne him this answer. How now Sir _Domine_? what? have you no eyes in your head? Can you not distinguish between mine, and these other common beauties? I could have Lovers enow, if I were so pleased; but those perfections remaining in me, are not to be affected by this man, or that. How many beauties have you beheld, any way answerable to mine, and are more fit for Gods, then mortals. Many other idle speeches shee uttered, in proud opinion of her beauty, whereby Friar _Albert_ presently perceived, that this Gentlewoman had but a hollow braine, and was fit game for folly to flye at; which made him instantly enamoured of her, and that beyond all capacity of resisting, which yet he referred to a further, and more commodious time. Neverthelesse, to shew himselfe an holy and religious man now, he began to reprehend her, and told her plainely, that she was vain-glorious, and overcome with infinite follies. Hereupon, she called him a logger headed beast, and he knew not the difference between an ordinary complexion, and beauty of the highest merit. In which respect, Friar _Albert_, being loth to offend her any further; after confession was fully ended, let her passe away among the other Gentlewomen, she giving him divers disdainfull lookes. Within some few dayes after, taking one of his trusty brethren in his company, he went to the House of Madam _Lisetta_, where requiring to have some conference alone with her selfe; shee tooke him into a private Parlour, and being there, not to be seene by any body, he fell on his knees before her, speaking in this manner. Madam, for charities sake, and in regard of your own most gracious nature, I beseech you to pardon those harsh speeches, which I used to you the other day, when you were with me at confession: because, the very night ensuing thereon, I was chastised in such cruell manner, as I was never able to stirre forth of my bed, untill this very instant morning; whereto the weake witted Gentlewoman thus replyed. And who I pray you (quoth she) did chastise you so severely? I will tell you Madam, said Friar _Albert_, but it is a matter of admirable secrecie. Being alone by my selfe the same night in my Dorter, and in very serious devotion, according to my usuall manner: suddenly I saw a bright splendour about me, and I could no sooner arise to discerne what it might be, and whence it came, but I espied a very goodly young Lad standing by me, holding a golden Bow in his hand, and a rich Quiver of Arrowes hanging at his back. Catching fast hold on my Hood, against the ground he threw me rudely, trampling on me with his feete, and beating me with so many cruell blowes, that I thought my body to be broken in peeces. Then I desired to know, why he was so rigorous to me in his correction? Because (quoth he) thou didst so saucily presume this day, to reprove the celestiall beauty of Madam _Lisetta_, who (next to my Mother _Venus_) I love most dearely. Whereupon I perceived, he was the great commanding God _Cupid_, and therefore I craved most humbly pardon of him. I will pardon thee (quoth he) but upon this condition, that thou goe to her so soone as conveniently thou canst, and (by lowly humility) prevaile to obtaine her free pardon: which if she will not vouchsafe to grant thee, then shall I in stearne anger returne againe, and lay so many torturing afflictions on thee, that all thy whole life time shall be most hateful to thee. And what the displeased God saide elsee beside, I dare not disclose, except you please first to pardon me. Mistresse shallow braine, being swolne big with this wind, like an empty bladder; conceived no small pride in hearing these words, constantly crediting them to be true, and therefore thus answered. Did I not tel you Father _Albert_, that my beauty was celestiall? But I sweare by my beauty, notwithstanding your idle passed arrogancy, I am heartily sorry for your so severe correction; which that it may no more be inflicted on you, I doe freely pardon you; yet with this _proviso_, that you tell me, what the God elsee saide unto you; whereto Fryar _Albert_ thus replyed. Madam, seeing you have so graciously vouchsafed to pardon me, I will thankfully tell you all: but you must be very carefull and respective, that whatsoever I shall reveale unto you, must so closely be concealed, as no living creature in the World may know it; for you are the onely happy Lady now living, and that happinesse relieth on your silence and secrecie: with solemne vowes and protestations shee sealed up her many promises, and then the Fryar thus proceeded. Madam, the further charge imposed on me by God _Cupid_, was to tell you, that himselfe is so extremely enamoured of your beauty, and you are become so gracious in his affection; as, many nights he hath come to see you in your Chamber, sitting on your pillow, while you slept sweetly, and desiring very often to awake you, but onely fearing to affright you. Wherefore, now he sends you word by me, that one night he intendeth to come visite you, and to spend some time in conversing with you. But in regard he is a God, and meerely a spirit in forme, whereby neither you or any elsee have capacity of beholding him, much lesse to touch or feele him: he saith, that (for your sake) he will come in the shape of a man, giving me charge also to know of you, when you shall please to have him come, and in whose similitude you would have him to come, whereof he will not faile; in which respect, you may justly thinke your selfe to be the onely happy woman living, and farre beyond all other in your good fortune. Mistris want-wit presently answered, shee was well contented, that God _Cupid_ should love her, and she would returne the like love againe to him; protesting withall, that wheresoever shee should see his majesticall picture, she would set a hallowed burning Taper before it. Moreover, at all times he should be most welcome to her, whensoever hee would vouchsafe to visite her; for, he should alwayes finde her alone in her private Chamber: on this condition, that his olde Love _Psyches_, and all other beauties elsee whatsoever, must be set aside, and none but her selfe only to be his best Mistresse, referring his personall forme of appearance, to what shape himselfe best pleased to assume, so that it might not be frightfull, or offensive to her. Madam (quoth Friar _Albert_) most wisely have you answered, & leave the matter to me; for I will take order sufficiently, and to your contentment. But you may do me a great grace, and without any prejudice to your selfe, in granting me one poore request; namely, to vouchsafe the Gods appearance to you, in my bodily shape and person, and in the perfect forme of a man as now you behold me, so may you safely give him entertainment, without any taxation of the world, or ill apprehension of the most curious inquisition. Beside, a greater happinesse can never befall me: for, while he assumeth the soule out of my body, and walketh on the earth in my humane figure: I shall be wandering in the joyes of Lovers Paradise, feeling the fruition of their felicities; which are such, as no mortality can be capeable of, no, not so much as in imagination. The wise Gentlewoman replied, that she was well contented, in regard of the severe punishment inflicted on him by God _Cupid_, for the reproachfull speeches he had given her; to allow him so poore a kinde of consolation, as he had requested her to grant him. Whereuppon Fryar _Albert_ saide: Be ready then Madam to give him welcome to morrow in the evening, at the entering into your house, for comming in an humane body, he cannot but enter at your doore, whereas, if (in powerfull manner) he made use of his wings, he then would flye in at your window, and then you could not be able to see him. Upon this conclusion, _Albert_ departed, leaving _Lisetta_ in no meane pride of imagination, that God _Cupid_ should bee enamored of her beauty; and therefore she thought each houre a yeare, till she might see him in the mortall shape of Friar _Albert_. And now was his braine wonderfully busied, to visite her in more then common or humane manner; and therefore he made him a sute (close to his body) of white Taffata, all poudred over with Starres, and spangles of Gold, a Bow and Quiver of Arrowes, with wings also fastened to his backe behinde him, and all cunningly covered with his Friars habit, which must be the sole meanes for his safe passage. Having obtained licence of his Superiour, and being accompanyed with an holy Brother of the Convent, yet ignorant of the businesse by him intended; he went to the house of a friend of his, which was his usuall receptacle, whensoever he went about such deeds of darkness. There did he put on his dissembled habit of God _Cupid_, with his winges, Bowe, and Quiver, in formall fashion; and then (clouded over with his Monkes Cowle) leaves his companion to awaite his returning backe, while he visited foolish _Lisetta_, according to her expectation, readily attending for the Gods arrivall. _Albert_ being come to the house, knocked at the doore, and the Maid admitting him entrance, according as her Mistresse had appointed, shee conducted him to her Mistresses Chamber, where laying aside his Friars habite, and she seeing him shine with such glorious splendour, adding action also to his assumed dissimulation, with majesticke motion of his body, wings, and bow, as if he had bene God _Cupid_, indeede converted into a body much bigger of stature, then Painters commonly do describe him, her wisedome was so overcome with feare and admiration, that she fell on her knees before him, expressing all humble reverence unto him. And he spreading his wings over her, as with wiers and strings hee had made them pliant; shewed how graciously he accepted her humiliation; folding her in his armes, and sweetly kissing her many times together, with repetition of his entire love and affection towards her. So delicately was he perfumed with odorifferous favours, and so compleate of person in his spangled garments, that she could do nothing elsee, but wonder at his rare behaviour, reputing her felicity beyond all Womens in the world, and utterly impossible to bee equalled, such was the pride of her presuming. For he told her divers tales and fables, of his awefull power among the other Gods, and stolne pleasures of his upon the earth; yet gracing her praises above all his other Loves, and vowes made now, to affect none but her onely, as his often visitations should more constantly assure her, that shee verily credited all his protestations, and thought his kisses and embraces, farre to exceed any mortall comparison. After they had spent so much time in amorous discoursing, as might best fit with this their first meeting, and stand cleare from suspition on either side: our _Albert-Cupid_, or _Cupid-Albert_, which of them you best please to terme him, closing his spangled winges together againe behinde his backe, fastening also on his Bow and Quiver of Arrowes, over-clouds all with his religious Monkes Cowle, and then with a parting kisse or two, returned to the place where he had left his fellow and companion, perhaps imployed in as devout an exercise, as he had bin in his absence from him; whence both repayring home to the Monastery, all this nightes wandering was allowed as tollerable, by them who made no spare of doing the like. On the morrow following, Madam _Lisetta_ immediately after dinner, being attended by her Chamber-maid, went to see Friar _Albert_, finding him in his wonted forme and fashion, and telling him what had hapned betweene her and God _Cupid_, with all the other lies and tales which hee had told her. Truly Madam (answered _Albert_) what your successe with him hath beene, I am no way able to comprehend; but this I can assure you, that so soone as I had acquainted him with your answer, I felt a sodaine rapture made of my soule, and visibly (to my apprehension) saw it carried by Elves and Fairies, into the floury fields about _Elisium_, where Lovers departed out of this life, walk among the beds of Lillies and Roses, such as are not in this world to be seene, neither to be imagined by any humane capacity. So super-abounding was the pleasure of this joy and solace, that, how long I continued there, or by what meanes I was transported hither againe this morning, it is beyond all ability in mee to expresse, or how I assumed my body againe after that great God hadde made use thereof to your service. Well Friar _Albert_ (quoth shee) you may see what an happinesse hath befalne you, by so grosse an opinion of my perfections, and what a felicity you enjoy, and still are like to do, by my pardoning your error, and granting the Gods accesse to me in your shape: which as I envy not, so I wish you heereafter to be wiser, in taking upon you to judge of beautie. Much other idle folly proceeded from hir, which still he soothed to her contentment, and (as occasion served) many meetings they had in the former manner. It fortuned within a few dayes after, that Madam _Lisetta_ being in company with one of her Gossips, and their conference (as commonly it falleth out to be) concerning other women of the City; their beautie, behaviour, amorous suters and servants, and generall opinion conceived of their worth and merit; wherein _Lisetta_ was over-much conceyted of her selfe, not admitting any other to be her equall. Among other speeches, favouring of an unseasoned braine: Gossip (quoth she) if you knew what account is made of my beauty, and who holdes it in no meane estimation, you would then freely confesse, that I deserve to bee preferred before any other. As women are ambitious in their owne opinions, so commonly are they covetous of one anothers secrets, especially in matter of emulation, whereupon the Gossip thus replyed. Beleeve me Madam, I make no doubt but your speeches may bee true, in regard of your admired beauty, and many other perfections beside: yet let me tell you, priviledges, how great and singular soever they be, without they are knowen to others, beside such as do particularly enjoy them; they carrie no more account, then things of ordinary estimation. Whereas on the contrary, when any Lady or Gentlewoman hath some eminent and peculiar favour, which few or none other can reach unto, and it is made famous by generall notion: then do all women elsee admire and honour her, as the glory of their kinde, and a miracle of Nature. I perceive Gossip said _Lisetta_ whereat you ayme, & such is my love to you, as you should not lose your longing in this case, were I but constantly secured of your secrecy, which as hitherto I have bene no way able to tax, so would I be loth now to be more suspitious of then needs. But yet this matter is of such maine moment, that if you will protest as you are truely vertuous, never to reveale it to any living body, I will disclose to you almost a miracle. The vertuous oath being past, with many other solemne protestations beside, _Lisetta_ then proceeded in this manner. I know Gossip, that it is a matter of common & ordinary custome, for Ladies and Gentlewomen to be graced with favourites, men of fraile & mortall conditions, whose natures are as subject to inconstancy, as their very best endeavours dedicated to folly, as I could name no mean number of our Ladies heere in _Venice_. But when Soveraigne deities shal feele the impression of our humane desires, and behold subjects of such prevailing efficacy, as to subdue their greatest power, yea, and make them enamored of mortall creatures: you may well imagine Gossip, such a beauty is superiour to any other. And such is the happy fortune of your friend _Lisetta_, of whose perfections, great _Cupid_ the awefull commanding God of Love himselfe, conceived such an extraordinary liking: as he hath abandoned his seate of supreme Majesty, and appeared to me in the shape of a mortall man, with lively expression of his amorous passions, and what extremities of anguish he hath endured, onely for my love. May this be possible? replyed the Gossip. Can the Gods be toucht with the apprehension of our fraile passions? True it is Gossip, answered _Lisetta_, and so certainly true, that his sacred kisses, sweet embraces, and most pleasing speeches, with proffer of his continuall devotion towards me, hath given me good cause to confirme what I say, and to thinke my felicity farre beyond all other womens, being honoured with his often nightly visitations. The Gossip inwardly smiling at her idle speeches, which (nevertheles) she avouched with very vehement asseverations; fell instantly sicke of womens naturall disease, thinking every minute a tedious month, till she were in company with some other Gossips, to breake the obligation of her vertuous promise, and that others (as well as her selfe) might laugh at the folly of this shallow-witted woman. The next day following, it was her hap to be at a wedding, among a great number of other women, whom quickly she acquainted with this so strange a wonder; as they did the like to their husbands: and passing so from hand to hand, in lesse space then two daies, all _Venice_ was fully possessed with it. Among the rest, the brethren to this foolish woman, heard this admirable newes concerning their Sister; and they discreetly concealing it to themselves, closely concluded to watch the walks of this pretended god: and if he soared not too lofty a flight, they would clip his wings, to come the better acquainted with him. It fortuned, that the Friar hearing his Cupidicall visitations over-publikely discovered, purposed to check and reprove _Lisetta_ for her indiscretion. And being habited according to his former manner, his Friarly Cowle covering al his former bravery, he left his companion where he used to stay, and closely walked along unto the house. No sooner was he entred, but the Brethren being ambushed neer to the doore, went in after him, and ascending the staires, by such time as he had uncased himselfe, and appeared like God _Cupid_, with his spangled wings displayed: they rushed into the Chamber, and he having no other refuge, opened a large Casement, standing directly over the great gulfe or River, and presently leapt into the water; which being deepe, and hee skilfull in swimming, he had no other harme by his fall, albeit the sodain affright did much perplex him. Recovering the further side of the River, he espied a light, & the doore of an house open, wherein dwelt a poore man, whom he earnestly intreated, to save both his life and reputation, telling him many lies and tales by what meanes he was thus disguised, and throwne by night-walking Villaines into the water. The poore man, being moved to compassionate his distressed estate, laid him in his owne bed, ministring such other comforts to him, as the time and his poverty did permit; and day drawing on, he went about his businesse, advising him to take his rest, and it should not be long till he returned. So, locking the doore, and leaving the counterfeit God in bed, away goes the poore man to his daily labour. The Brethren to _Lisetta_, perceiving God _Cupid_ to bee fled and gone, and shee in melancholly sadnesse sitting by them: they tooke up the Reliques he had left behind him, I meane the Friars hood and Cowle, which shewing to their sister, and sharply reproving her unwomanly behaviour: they lefte her in no meane discomfort, returning home to their owne houses, with their conquered spoiles of the forlorne Friar. During the time of these occurrences, broad day speeding on, & the poore man returning homeward by the _Rialto_, to visit his guest so lefte in bed: he beheld divers crouds of people, and a generall rumor noysed among them, that God _Cupid_ had beene that night with Madame _Lisetta_, where being over-closely pursued by her Brethren, for fear of being surprized, he leapt out of her window into the gulfe, and no one could tell what was become of him. Heereupon, the poore man beganne to imagine, that the guest entertained by him in the night time, must needs bee the same supposed God Cupid, as by his wings and other embellishments appeared: wherefore being come home, and sitting downe on the beds side by him, after some few speeches passing between them, he knew him to be Friar Albert, who promised to give him fifty ducates, if hee would not betray him to _Lisettaes_ brethren. Upon the acceptation of this offer, the money being sent for, and paied downe; there wanted nothing now, but some apt and convenient meanes, whereby _Albert_ might safely be conveyed into the Monasterie, which being wholly referred to the poore mans care and trust, thus hee spake. Sir, I see no likely-hoode of your cleare escaping home, except in this manner as I advise you. We observe this day as a merry Festivall, & it is lawfull for any one, to disguise a man in the skin of a Beare, or in the shape of a savage man, or any other forme of better device. Which being so done, he is brought upon S. _Marks_ market place, where being hunted a while with dogs, upon the huntings conclusion, the Feast is ended; and then each man leades his monster whether him pleaseth. If you can accept any of these shapes, before you bee seene heere in my poore abiding, then can I safely (afterward) bring you where you would bee. Otherwise, I see no possible meanes, how you may escape hence unknown; for it is without all question to the contrary, that the Gentlewomans brethren, knowing your concealment in some one place or other, will set such spies and watches for you throughout the City, as you must needs be taken by them. Now, although it seemed a most severe imposition, for _Albert_ to passe in any of these disguises: yet his exceeding feare of _Lisettaes_ brethren and friends, made him gladly yeelde, and to undergo what shape the poore man pleased, which thus he ordered. Annointing his naked body with Hony, he then covered it over with downy small Feathers, and fastning a chaine about his necke, and a strange ugly vizard on his face; hee gave him a great staffe in the one hand, and two huge Mastive dogs chained together in the other, which he had borrowed in the Butchery. Afterward, he sent a man to the _Rialto_, who there proclaimed by the sound of Trumpet: That all such as desired to see God _Cupid_, which the last night had descended downe from the skies, and fell (by ill hap) into the _Venetian_ gulfe, let them repaire to the publike Market place of S. _Marke_, and there he would appeare in his owne likenesse. This being done, soone after he left his house, and leading him thus disguised along by his chaine, hee was followed by great crowds of people, every one questioning of whence, and what he was. In which manner, he brought him to the Market place, where an infinite number of people were gathered together, as well of the followers, as of them that before heard the proclamation. There he made choise of a pillar, which stood in a place somewhat highly exalted, whereto he chained his savage man, making shew, as if he meant to awaite there, till the hunting shold begin: in which time, the Flies, Waspes, and Hornets, did so terribly sting his naked body, being annointed with Hony, that he endured thereby unspeakable anguish. When the poore man saw, that there needed no more concourse of people; pretending, as if he purposed to let loose his Salvage man; he tooke the maske or vizard from _Alberts_ face, and then he spake aloud in this manner. Gentlemen and others, seeing the wilde Boare commeth not to our hunting, because I imagine that he cannot easily be found: I meane (to the end you may not lose your labour in comming hither) to shew you the great God of Love called _Cupid_, whom Poets feigned long since to be a little boy, but now growne to manly stature. You see in what manner he hath left his high dwelling, onely for the comfort of our _Venetian_ beauties: but belike, the night-fogs over-flagging his wings, he fell into our gulfe, and comes now to present his service to you. No sooner had he taken off his vizard, but every one knew him to be Friar _Albert_; and sodainly arose such shoutes and out-cries, with most bitter words breathed forth against him, hurling also stones, durt and filth in his face, that his best acquaintance then could take no knowledge of him, and not any one pittying his abusing. So long continued the offended people in their fury, that newes thereof was carried to the Convent, and six of his Religious brethren came, who casting an habite about him, and releasing him from his chain, they led him to the Monastery, not without much molestation and trouble of the people; where imprisoning him in their house, severitie of some inflicted punishment, or rather conceite for his open shame, shortned his dayes, and so he dyed. Thus you see faire Ladies, when licentious life must be clouded with a cloake of sanctity, and evill actions dayly committed, yet escaping uncredited: there will come a time at length, for just discovering of all, that the good may shine in their true luster of glory, and the bad sinke in their owne deserved shame. _Three yong Gentlemen affecting three Sisters, fledde with them into_ Candie. _The eldest of them (through jealousie) becommeth the death of her Lover: The second, by consenting to the Duke of_ Candies _request, is the meanes of saving her life. Afterward, her owne Friend killeth her, and thence flyeth away with the elder Sister. The third couple, both man & woman, are charged with her death, and being committed prisoners, they confesse the facte: And fearing death, by corruption of money they prevaile with their keepers, escaping from thence to_ Rhodes, _where they died in great poverty._ The third Novell. _Heerein is declared, how dangerous the occasion is, ensuing by anger and despight, in such as entirely love, especially, being injuried and offended by them that they love._ When the King perceived, that Madame _Pampinea_ had ended her discourse; he sat sadly a prety while, without uttering one word, but afterward spake thus. Little goodnesse appeared in the beginning of this Novell, because it ministred occasion of mirth; yet the ending proved better, and I could wish, that worse inflictions had falne on the venerious Friar. Then turning towards Madam _Lauretta_, he said; Lady, do you tell us a better tale, if possible it may be. She smiling, thus answered the King: Sir, you are over-cruelly bent against poore Lovers, in desiring, that their amourous processions should have harsh and sinister concludings. Neverthelesse, in obedience to your severe command, among three persons amourously perplexed, I will relate an unhappy ending; whereas all may be saide to speede as unfortunately, being equally alike, in enjoying the issue of their desires, and thus I purpose for to proceede. Every vice (choise Ladies) as very well you know, redoundeth to the great disgrace and prejudice, of him or her by whom it is practised, and oftentimes to others. Now, among those common hurtfull enemies, the sinne or vice which most carrieth us with full carrere, and draweth us into unavoidable perils and dangers; in mine opinion, seemeth to be that of choller or anger, which is nothing elsee, but a sudden and inconsiderate moving, provoked by some received injury, which having excluded all respect of reason, and dimde (with darke vapours) the bright discerning sight of the understanding, enflameth the minde with most violent furie. And albeit this inconvenience happeneth most to men, and more to some few, then others; yet notwithstanding, it hath been noted, that women have felt the selfe same infirmity, and in more extreme manner, because it much sooner is kindled in them, and burneth with the brighter flame, in regard they have the lesser consideration, and therefore not to be wondred at. For if we will advisedly observe, we shall plainely perceive, that fire (even of his owne nature) taketh hold on such things as are light and tender, much sooner then it can on hard and weighty substances; and some of us women (let men take no offence at my words) are farre more soft and delicate then they be, and therefore more fraile. In which regard, seeing we are naturally enclined hereto, and considering also, how much our affability and gentlenesse, doe shew themselves pleasing and full of content, to those men with whom we are to live; and likewise, how anger and fury are compacted of extraordinary perils; I purpose (because we may be the more valiant in our courage, to outstand the fierce assaults of wrath and rage) to shew you by mine ensuing Novel, how the loves of three young Gentlemen, and of as many Gentlewomen, came to fatall and unfortunate successe, by the tempestuous anger of one among them, according as I have formerly related unto you. _Marseilles_ (as you are not now to learne) is in _Provence_, seated on the Sea, and is also a very ancient and most noble City, which hath beene (heretofore) inhabited with farre richer and more wealthy Merchants, then at this instant time it is. Among whom there was one, named _Narnaldo Civada_, a man but of meane condition, yet cleare in faith and reputation, and in lands, goods, and ready monies, immeasurably rich. Many children he had by his Wife, among whom were three Daughters, which exceeded his Sonnes in yeeres. Two of them being twinnes, and borne of one body, were counted to be fifteene yeares old; the third was foureteene, and nothing hindered marriage in their Parents owne expectation, but the returne home of _Narnaldo_, who was then abroade in _Spaine_ with his Merchandises. The eldest of these Sisters was named _Ninetta_, the second _Magdalena_, and the third _Bertella_. A Gentleman (albeit but poore in fortunes) and called _Restagnone_, was so extraordinarily enamoured of _Ninetta_, as no man possibly could be more, and shee likewise as earnest in affection towards him; yet both carrying their loves proceeding with such secresie, as long time they enjoyed their hearts sweete contentment, yet undiscovered by any eye. It came to passe, that two other young Gallants, the one named _Folco_, and the other _Hugnetto_, (who had attained to incredible wealth, by the decease of their Father) were also as farre in love, the one with _Magdalena_, and the other with _Bertella_. When _Restagnone_ had intelligence thereof, by the meanes of his faire friend _Ninetta_; he purposed to releeve his poverty, by friendly furthering both their love, and his owne: and growing into familiarity with them, one while he would walke abroade with _Folco_, and then againe with _Hugnetto_, but oftner with them both together, to visite their Mistresses, and continue worthy friendship. On a day, when hee saw the time sutable to his intent, and that hee had invited the two Gentlemen home to his House, hee fell into this like conference with them. Kind friends (quoth he) the honest familiarity which hath past betweene us, may render you some certaine assurance, of the constant love I beare to you both, being as willing to worke any meanes that may tend to your good, as I desire to compasse mine owne. And because the truth of mine affection cannot conceale it selfe to you, I meane to acquaint you with an intention, wherewith my braine hath a long while travelled, and now may soone be delivered of, if it may passe with your liking and approbation. Let me then tell you, that except your speeches savour of untruth, and your actions carry a double understanding, in common behaviour both by night and day, you appeare to pine and consume away, in the cordiall love you beare to two of the Sisters, as I suffer the same afflictions for the third, with reciprocall requitall of their dearest affection to us. Now, to qualifie the heate of our tormenting flames, if you will condescend to such a course as I shall advise you, the remedy will yeeld them equall ease to ours, and we may safely enjoy the benefit of contentment. As wealth aboundeth with you both, so doth want most extremely tyrannize over me: but if one banke might be made of both your rich substances, I embraced therein as a third partaker, and some quarter of the World dissigned out by us, where to live at hearts ease upon your possessions; I durst engage my credite, that all the Sisters, (not meanly stored with their Fathers treasure) shall beare us company to what place soever we please. There each man freely enjoying his owne dearest love, we may live like three brethren, without any hinderance to our mutuall contentment; it remaineth now in you Gentlemen, to accept this comfortable offer, or to refuse it. The two Brothers, whose passions exceeded their best meanes for support, perceiving some hope how to enjoy their loves; desired no long time of deliberation, or greatly disputed with their thoughts what was best to be done: but readily replyed, that let happen any danger whatsoever, they would joyne with him in this determination, and he should partake with them in their wealthiest fortunes. After _Restagnone_ had heard their answer, within some few dayes following, he went to conferre with _Ninetta_, which was no easie matter for him to compasse. Neverthelesse, opportunity proved so favourable to him, that meeting with her at a private place appointed, he discoursed at large, what had passed betweene him and the other two young Gentlemen, maintaining the same with many good reasons, to have her like and allow of the enterprize. Which although (for a while) he could very hardly doe; yet, in regard shee had more desire then power, without suspition to be daily in his company, she franckly thus answered. My hearts chosen friend, I cannot any way mislike your advise, and will take such order with my Sisters, that they shall agree to our resolution: let it therefore be your charge, that you and the rest make every thing ready, to depart from hence so soone, as with best convenient meanes we may be enabled. _Restagnone_ being returned to _Folco_ and _Hugnetto_, who thought every houre a yeere, to heare what would succeed upon the promise past betweene them; he told them in plaine termes, that their Ladies were as free in consent as they, and nothing wanted now, but furnishment for their sudden departing. Having concluded, that Candye should be their harbour for entertainment, they made sale of some few inheritances, which lay the readiest for their purpose, as also the goods in their Houses, and then, under colour of venting Merchandises abroade; they bought a nimble Pinnace, fortified with good strength and preparation, and waited but for a convenient wind. On the other side, _Ninetta_, who was sufficiently acquainted with the forwardnesse of her Sisters desires and her owne; had so substantially prevailed with them, that a good voyage now was the sole expectation. Whereupon, the same night when they should set away, they opened a strong barred Chest of their Fathers, whence they tooke great store of gold and costly Jewelse, wherewith escaping secretly out of the House; they came to the place where their Lovers attended for them, and going all aboard the Pinnace, the windes were so furtherous to them; that without touching any where, the night following they arrived at _Geneway_. There being out of peril or pursuite, they all knit the knot of holy wedlocke, and then freely enjoyed their long wished desires, from whence setting sayle againe, and being well furnished with all things wanting; passing on from Port to Port, at the end of eight dayes they landed in _Candie_, not meeting with any impeachment by the way. Determining there to spend their dayes, first they provided themselves of faire and goodly Lands in the Countrey, and then of beautifull dwelling Houses in the City, with all due furnishments belonging to them, and Families well beseeming such worthy Gentlemen, and all delights elsee for their daily recreations, inviting their Neighbours, and they them againe in loving manner; so that no Lovers could wish to live in more ample contentment. Passing on their time in this height of felicity, and not crossed by any sinister accidents, it came to passe (as often wee may observe in the like occasions, that although delights doe most especially please us, yet they breed surfet, when they swell too over-great in abundance) that _Restagnone_, who most deerely affected his faire _Ninetta_, and had her now in his free possession, without any perill of loosing her: grew now also to bee wearie of her, and consequently, to faile in those familiar performances, which formerly had passed betweene them. For, being one day invited to a Banket, hee saw there a beautifull Gentle-woman of that Countrey, whose perfections pleasing him beyond all comparison: hee laboured (by painfull pursuite) to win his purpose; and meeting with her in divers private places, grew prodigall in his expences upon her. This could not be so closely carried, but beeing seene and observed by _Ninetta_, she became possessed with such extreame jelousie, that hee could not doe any thing whatsoever, but immediately he had knowledge of it: which fire, growing to a flame in her, her patience became extreamely provoked, urging rough and rude speeches from her to him, and daily tormenting him beyond power of sufferance. As the enjoying of anything in too much plenty, makes it appeare irkesome and loathing to us, and the deniall of our desires, do more and more whet on the appetite: even so did the angry spleene of _Ninetta_ proceede on in violence, against this newe commenced love of _Restagnone_. For in succession of time, whether hee enjoyed the embracements of his new Mistresse, or no: yet _Ninetta_ (by sinister reports, but much more through her owne jealous imaginations) held it for infallible, and to be most certaine. Heereupon, she fell into an extreame melancholly, which melancholly begat implacable fury, and (consequently) such contemptible disdaine: as converted her former kindly love to _Restagnone_, into most cruell and bloudie hatred; yea, and so strangely was reason or respect confounded in her, as no revenge elsee but speedy death, might satisfie the wrongs shee imagined to receive by _Restagnone_ and his Minion. Upon enquiry, by what meanes shee might best compasse her bloody intention, she grew acquainted with a _Græcian_ woman, and wonderfully expert in the compounding of poysons, whom shee so perswaded, by gifts and bounteous promises, that at the length shee prevailed with her. A deadly water was distilled by her, which (without any other counsell to the contrary) on a day when _Restagnone_ had his blood some-what over-heated, and little dreamed on any such Treason conspired against him by his Wife, she caused him to drinke a great draught thereof, under pretence, that it was a most soveraigne and cordiall water: but such was the powerfull operation thereof, that the very next morning, _Restagnone_ was found to be dead in his bed. When his death was understood by _Folco, Hugnetto_ and their Wives, and not knowing how hee came to bee thus empoysoned (because their sister seemed to bemoane his sodaine death, with as apparant shewes of mourning as they could possibly expresse) they buried him very honourably, and so all suspition ceased. But as Fortune is infinite in her fagaries, never acting disaster so closely, but as cunningly discovereth it againe: so it came to passe, that within a few dayes following, the _Græcian_ woman, that had delivered the poyson to _Ninetta_, for such another deede of damnation, was apprehended even in the action. And being put upon the tortures, among many other horrid villanies by her committed, she confessed the empoysoning of _Restagnone_, and every particle thereto appertaining. Whereupon, the Duke of _Candie_, without any noyse or publication, setting a strong guard (in the night time) about the house of _Folco_, where _Ninetta_ then was lodged; there sodainly they seized on her, & upon examination, in maintainance of her desperate revenge; voluntarily confessed the fact, and what elsee concerned the occasion of his death, by the wrongs which hee had offered her. _Folco_ and _Hugnetto_ understanding secretly, both from the Duke, & other intimate friends, what was the reason of _Ninettaes_ apprehension, which was not a little displeasing to them, laboured by all their best pains and endeavour, to worke such meanes with the Duke, that her life might not perish by fire, although she had most justly deserved it; but all their attempts prooved to no effect, because the Duke had concluded to execute justice. Heere you are to observe, that _Magdalena_ (beeing a very beautifull Woman, yong, and in the choisest flower of her time:) had often before bin solicited by the Duke, to entertaine his love and kindnesse, whereto by no meanes she would listen or give consent. And being now most earnestly importuned by her, for the safety of her Sisters life, shee tooke hold on this her daily suite to him, and in private told her, that if she was so desirous of _Ninettaes_ life: it lay in her power to obtaine it, by granting him the fruition of her love. She apparantly perceiving, that _Ninetta_ was not likely to live, but by the prostitution of her chaste honour, which she preferred before the losse of her owne life, or her Sisters; concluded, to let her dye, rather then run into any such disgrace. But having an excellent ingenious wit, quicke, and apprehensive in perillous occasions, shee intended now to make a trial of over-reaching the lascivious Duke in his wanton purpose, and yet to be assured of her Sisters life, without any blemish to her reputation. Soliciting him still as she was wont to doe, this promise passed from her to him, that when _Ninetta_ was delivered out of prison, and in safety at home in her house: hee should resort thither in some queint disguise, and enjoy his long expected desire; but untill then she would not yeeld. So violent was the Duke in the prosecution of his purpose, that under colour of altering the manner of _Ninettaes_ death, not suffering her to bee consumed by fire, but to be drowned, according to a custome observed there long time, and at the importunity of her Sister _Magdalena_, in the still silence of the night, _Ninetta_ was conveyed into a sacke, and sent in that manner to the House of _Folco_, the Duke following soone after, to challenge her promise. _Magdalena_, having acquainted her Husband with her vertuous intention, for preserving her Sisters life, and disappointing the Duke in his wicked desire; was as contrary to her true meaning in this case, as _Ninetta_ had formerly beene adverse to _Restagnone_, onely being over-ruled likewise by jealousie, and perswaded in his rash opinion, that the Duke had already dishonoured _Magdalena_, otherwise, he would not have delivered _Ninetta_ out of prison. Mad fury gave further fire to this unmanly perswasion, and nothing will now quench this violent flame, but the life of poore _Magdalena_, suddenly sacrificed in the rescue of her Sisters, such a divell is anger, when the understandings bright eye is thereby abused. No credit might be given to her womanly protestations, nor any thing seeme to alter his bloody purpose; but, having slaine _Magdalena_ with his Poniard, (notwithstanding her teares and humble entreaties) hee ran in haste to _Ninettaes_ Chamber, shee not dreaming on any such desperate accident, and to her he used these dissembling speeches. Sister (quoth he) my wife hath advised, that I should speedily convey you hence, as fearing the renewing of the Dukes fury, and your falling againe into the hands of Justice: I have a Barke readily prepared for you, and your life being secured, it is all that she and I doe most desire. _Ninetta_ being fearefull, and no way distrusting what he had saide; in thankfull allowance of her Sisters care, and curteous tender of his so ready service; departed thence presently with him, not taking any farewell of her other Sister and her Husband. To the Sea-shore they came, very weakely provided of monies to defray their charges, and getting aboard the Barke, directed their course themselves knew not whether. The amourous Duke in his disguise, having long daunced attendance at _Folcoes_ doore, and no admittance of his entrance; angerly returned backe to his Court, protesting severe revenge on _Magdalena_, if she gave him not the better satisfaction, to cleare her from thus basely abusing him. On the morrow morning, when _Magdalena_ was found murthered in her Chamber, and tidings thereof carried to the Duke; present search was made for the bloody offendor, but _Folco_ being fled and gone with _Ninetta_; some there were, who bearing deadly hatred to _Hugnetto_, incensed the Duke against him and his wife, as supposing them to be guilty of _Magdalenaes_ death. He being thereto very easily perswaded, in regard of his immoderate love to the slaine Gentlewoman; went himselfe in person (attended on by his Guard) to _Hugnettoes_ House, where both he and his wife were seized as prisoners. These newes were very strange to them, and their imprisonment as unwelcome; and although they were truly innocent, either in knowledge of the horrid fact, or the departure of _Folco_ with _Ninetta_: yet being unable to endure the tortures extremity, they made themselves culpable by confession, and that they had hand with _Folco_ in the murder of _Magdalena_. Upon this their forced confession, and sentence of death pronounced on them by the Duke himselfe; before the day appointed for their publike execution, by great summes of money, which they had closely hid in their House, to serve when any urgent extremitie should happen to them; they corrupted their keepers, and before any intelligence could be had of their flight, they escaped by Sea to _Rhodes_, where they lived afterward in great distresse and misery. The just vengeance of Heaven followed after _Folco_ and _Ninetta_, he for murthering his honest wife, and she for poysoning her offending Husband: for being beaten a long while on the Seas, by tempestuous stormes and weather, and not admitted landing in any Port or creeke; they were driven backe on the Coast of _Candie_ againe, where being apprehended, and brought to the City before the Duke, they confessed their severall notorious offences, and ended their loathed lives in one fire together. Thus the idle and loose love of _Restagnone_, with the franticke rage and jealousie of _Ninetta_ and _Folco_, overturned all their long continued happinesse, and threw a disastrous ending on them all. Gerbino, _contrary to the former plighted faith of his Grand-father, King_ Gulielmo, _fought with a Ship at Sea, belonging to the King of_ Thunis, _to take away his Daughter, who was then in the same Ship. Shee being slaine by them that had the possession of her, he likewise slew them; and afterward had his owne head smitten off._ The fourth Novell. _In commendation of Justice betweene Princes; and declaring withal, that neither feare, dangers, nor death it selfe; can any way daunt a true and loyall Lover._ Madam _Lauretta_ having concluded her Novel, and the company complaining on Lovers misfortunes, some blaming the angry and jealous fury of _Ninetta_, and every one delivering their severall opinions; the King, as awaking out of a passionate perplexity, exalted his lookes, giving a signe to Madam _Elisa_, that shee should follow next in order, whereto she obeying, began in this manner. I have heard (Gracious Ladies, quoth she) of many people, who are verily perswaded, that Loves arrowes, never wound any body, but onely by the eyes lookes and gazes, mocking and scorning such as maintaine that men may fall in love by hearing onely. Wherein (beleeve me) they are greatly deceived, as will appeare by a Novell which I must now relate unto you, and wherein you shall plainely perceive, that not onely fame or report is as prevailing as sight; but also hath conducted divers, to a wretched and miserable ending of their lives. _Gulielmo_ the second, King of _Sicilie_, according as the _Sicilian_ Chronicles record, had two children, the one a sonne, named _Don Rogero_, and the other a daughter, called Madam _Constance_. The saide _Rogero_ died before his Father, leaving a sonne behind him, named _Gerbino_, who, with much care and cost, was brought up by his Grand-father, proving to be a very goodly Prince, and wondrously esteemed for his great valour and humanity. His fame could not containe it selfe, within the bounds or limits of _Sicilie_ onely, but being published very prodigally, in many parts of the world beside, flourished with no meane commendations throughout all _Barbarie_, which in those dayes was tributary to the King of _Sicilie_. Among other persons, deserving most to be respected, the renowned vertues, and affability of this gallant Prince _Gerbino_, was understood by the beautious Daughter to the King of _Thunis_, who by such as had seene her, was reputed to be one of the rarest creatures, the best conditioned, and of the truest noble spirit, that ever Nature framed in her very choycest pride of art. Of famous, vertuous, and worthy men, it was continually her cheefest delight to heare, and the admired actions of valiant _Gerbino_, reported to her by many singular discoursers, such as could best describe him, with language answerable to his due deservings, won such honourable entertainment in her understanding soule, that they were most affectionately pleasing to her, and in capitulating (over and over againe) his manifold and heroycall perfections; meere speech made her extreamely amorous of him, nor willingly would she lend an eare to any other discourse, but that which tended to his honour and advancement. On the other side, the fame of her incomparable beauty, with addition of her other infinite singularities beside; as the World had given eare to in numberlesse places, so _Sicilie_ came at length acquainted therewith, in such flowing manner, as was truly answerable to her merit. Nor seemed this as a bare babling rumour, in the Princely hearing of royall _Gerbino_; but was embraced with such a reall apprehension, and the entire probation of a true understanding: that he was no lesse enflamed with noble affection towards her, then she expressed the like in vertuous opinion of him. Wherefore, awaiting such convenient opportunity, when he might entreate license of his Grandfather, for his owne going to _Thunis_, under colour of some honourable occasion, for the earnest desire hee had to see her: he gave charge to some of his especiall friends (whose affaires required their presence in those parts) to let the Princesse understand, in such secret manner as best they could devise, what noble affection he bare unto her, devoting himselfe onely to her service. One of his chosen friends thus put in trust, being a Jeweller, a man of singular discretion, and often resorting to Ladies for sight of his Jewelles, winning like admittance to the Princesse: related at large unto her, the honourable affection of _Gerbino_, with full tender of his person to her service, and that she onely was to dispose of him. Both the message and the messenger, were most graciously welcome to her, and flaming in the selfsame affection towards him; as a testimony thereof, one of the very choisest Jewelse which she bought of him, shee sent by him to the Prince _Gerbino_, it being received by him with such joy and contentment, as nothing in the world could be more pleasing to him. So that afterward, by the trusty carriage of this Jeweller, many Letters and Love-tokens passed betweene them, each being as highly pleased with this poore, yet happy kinde of entercourse, as if they had seene & conversed with one another. Matters proceeding on in this manner, and continuing longer then their love-sicke passions easily could permit, yet neither being able to find out any other meanes of helpe; it fortuned, that the King of _Thunis_ promised his daughter in marriage to the King of _Granada_, whereat she grew exceeding sorrowfull, perceyving, that not onely she should be sent further off, by a large distance of way from her friend, but also bee deprived utterly, of all hope ever to enjoy him. And if she could have devised any meanes, either by secret flight from her Father, or any way else to further her intention, she would have adventured it for the Princes sake. _Gerbino_ in like manner hearing of this purposed mariage, lived in a hell of torments, consulting oftentimes with his soule, how he might bee possessed of her by power, when she should be sent by Sea to her husband, or private stealing her away from her Fathers Court before: with these and infinite other thoughts, was he incessantly afflicted, both day and night. By some unhappy accident or other, the King of _Thunis_ heard of this their secret love, as also of _Gerbinoes_ purposed policy to surprize her, and how likely he was to effect it, in regard of his manly valour, and store of stout friends to assist him. Hereupon, when the time was come, that hee would convey his daughter thence to her marriage, and fearing to be prevented by _Gerbino_: he sent to the King of _Sicily_, to let him understand his determination, craving safe conduct from him, without impeachment of _Gerbino_, or any one elsee, untill such time as his intent was accomplished. King _Gulielmo_ being aged, and never acquainted with the affectionat proceedings of _Gerbino_, nor any doubtfull reason to urge this securitie from him, in a case convenient to be granted: yeelded the sooner thereto right willingly, and as a signale of his honourable meaning, he sent him his royall Glove, with a full confirmation for his safe conduct. No sooner were these Princely assurances received, but a goodly ship was prepared in the Port of _Carthagena_, well furnished with all thinges thereto belonging, for the sending his daughter to the King of _Granada_, waiting for nothing elsee but best favouring windes. The yong Princesse, who understood and saw all this great preparation; secretly sent a servant of hers to _Palermo_, giving him especiall charge, on her behalfe, to salute the Prince _Gerbino_, and to tell him withall, that (within few dayes) shee must be transported to _Granada_. And now opportunity gave fayre and free meane, to let the world know, whether hee were a man of that magnanimous spirit, or no, as generall opinion had formerly conceyved of him, and whether he affected her so firmely, as by many close messages he had assured her. He who had the charge of this embassie, effectually performed it, and then returned backe to _Thunis_. The Prince _Gerbino_, having heard this message from his divine Mistresse, and knowing also, that the King his Grandfather, had past his safe conduct to the King of _Thunis_, for peaceable passage thorough his Seas: was at his wits end, in this urgent necessitie, what might best bee done. Notwithstanding, moved by the setled constancie of his plighted Love, and the speeches delivered to him by the messenger from the Princesse: to shew himselfe a man endued with courage, he departed thence unto _Messina_, where he made readie two speedie gallies, and fitting them with men of valiant disposition, set away to _Sardignia_, as making full account, that the Ship which carried the Princesse, must come along that Coast. Nor was his expectation therein deceived: for, within few dayes after, the Ship (not over-swiftly winded) came sailing neere to the place where they attended for her arrivall; whereof _Gerbino_ had no sooner gotten a sight, but to animate the resolutes which were in his company, thus he spake. Gentlemen, if you be those men of valour, as heeretofore you have beene reputed, I am perswaded, that there are some among you, who either formerly have, or now instantly do feele, the all-commanding power of Love, without which (as I thinke) there is not any mortall man, that can have any goodnesse or vertue dwelling in him. Wherefore, if ever you have bene amorously affected, or presently have any apprehension thereof, you shall the more easily judge of what I now aime at. True it is, that I do love, and love hath guided me to be comforted, and manfully assisted by you, because in yonder Ship, which you see commeth on so gently under saile (even as if she offered her selfe to be our prize) not onely is the Jewell which I most esteeme, but also mighty and unvalewable treasure, to be wonne without any difficult labour, or hazard of a dangerous fight, you being men of such undauntable courage. In the honour of which victory, I covet not any part or parcell, but onely a Ladie, for whose sake I have undertaken these Armes, and freely give you all the rest contained in the shippe. Let us set on them, Gentlemen, and my dearest friends; couragiously let us assaile the ship, you see how the wind favours us, and (questionlesse) in so good an action, Fortune will not faile us. _Gerbino_ needed not to have spoken so much, in perswading them to seize so rich a booty; because the men of _Messina_ were naturally addicted to spoile and rapine: and before the Prince began his Oration, they had concluded to make the ship their purchase. Wherefore, giving a lowde shout, according to their Countrey manner, and commaunding their Trumpets to sound chearefully, they rowed on amain with their Oares, and (in meere despight) set upon the ship. But before the Gallies could come neere her, they that had the charge and managing of her, perceyving with what speede they made towards them, and no likely meanes of escaping from them, resolvedly they stood uppon their best defence, for now it was no time to be slothfull. The Prince being come neere to the Ship, commanded that the Patrones should come to him, except they would adventure the fight. When the Sarazines were thereof advertised, and understood also what he demanded, they returned answer: That their motion and proceeding in this manner, was both against Law and plighted faith, which was promised by the King of _Sicily_, for their safe passage thorow his Sea, by no meanes to be molested or assailed. In testimony whereof, they shewed his Glove, avouching moreover, that neyther by force (or otherwise) they would yeelde, or deliver him any thing which they had aboorde their Ship. _Gerbino_ espying his gracious Mistresse on the Ships decke, and she appearing to be farre more beautifull, then Fame had made relation of her: being much more enflamed now, then formerly he had bin, replyed thus when they shewed the Glove. Wee have (quoth he) no Faulcon heere now, to be humbled at the sight of your Glove: and therefore, if you will not deliver the Lady, prepare your selves for fight, for we must have her whether you will or no. Hereupon, they began to let flie (on both sides) their Darts and arrowes, with stones sent in violent sort from their slings, thus continuing the fight a long while, to very great harme on either side. At the length, _Gerbino_ perceyving, that small benefite would redound to him, if he did not undertake some other kinde of course: he tooke a small Pinnace, which purposely he brought with him from _Sardignia_, and setting it on a flaming fire, conveyd it (by the Gallies help) close to the ship. The Sarazines much amazed thereat, and evidently perceiving, that eyther they must yeeld or dy; brought their Kings daughter upon the prow of the ship, most greevously weeping and wringing her hands. Then calling _Gerbino_, to let him behold their resolution, there they slew hir before his face; and afterward, throwing her body into the Sea, said: Take her, there we give her to thee, according to our bounden duty, and as thy perjury hath justly deserved. This sight was not a little greevous to the Prince _Gerbino_, who madded now with this their monstrous cruelty, and not caring what became of his owne life, having lost her for whom hee onely desired to live: not dreading their Darts, Arrowes, slinged stones, or what violence else they could use against him; he leapt aboord their ship, in despight of all that durst resist him, behaving himself there like a hunger-starved Lyon, when he enters among a heard of beastes, tearing their carkasses in pieces both with his teeth and pawes. Such was the extreme fury of the poor Prince, not sparing the life of any one, that durst appeare in his presence; so that what with the bloody slaughter, and violence of the fires encreasing in the Ship; the Mariners got such wealth as possibly they could save, and suffering the Sea to swallow the rest, _Gerbino_ returned unto his Gallies againe, nothing proud of this so ill-gotten victory. Afterward, having recovered the Princesses dead body out of the Sea, and enbalmed it with sighes and teares: hee returned backe into _Sicilie_, where he caused it to be most honourably buried, in a little Island, named _Ustica_, face to face confronting _Trapanum_. The King of _Thunis_ hearing these disastrous Newes, sent his Ambassadors (habited in sad mourning) to the aged King of _Sicily_, complaining of his faith broken with him, and how the accident had falne out. Age being sodainly incited to anger, and the King extreamly offended at this injury, seeing no way whereby to deny him justice, it being urged so instantly by the Ambassadours: caused _Gerbino_ to be apprehended, and hee himselfe (in regard that none of his Lords and Barons would therein assist him, but laboured to divert him by their earnest importunity) pronounced the sentence of death on the Prince, and commanded to have him beheaded in his presence; affecting rather, to dye without an heire, then to be thought a King void of justice. So these two unfortunate Lovers, never enjoying the very least benefite of their long wished desires: ended both their lives in violent manner. _The three Brethren to_ Isabella, _slew a Gentleman that secretly loved her. His ghost appeared to her in her sleepe, and shewed her in what place they had buried his body. She (in silent manner) brought away his head, and putting it into a pot of earth, such as Flowers, Basile, or other sweet hearbes are usually set in; she watered it (a long while) with her teares. Whereof her Brethren having intelligence; soone after she dyed, with meere conceite of sorrow._ The fift Novell. _Wherein is plainly proved, that Love cannot be rooted uppe, by any humane power or providence; especially in such a soule, where it hath bene really apprehended._ The Novell of Madame _Eliza_ being finished, and some-what commended by the King, in regard of the Tragicall conclusion; _Philomena_ was enjoyned to proceede next with her discourse. She beeing overcome with much compassion, for the hard Fortunes of Noble _Gerbino_, and his beautifull Princesse, after an extreame and vehement sighe, thus she spake. My tale (worthy Ladies) extendeth not to persons of so high birth or quality, as they were of whom Madame _Eliza_ gave you relation: yet (peradventure) it may proove to be no lesse pitifull. And now I remember my selfe, _Messina_ so lately spoken of, is the place where this accident also happened. In _Messina_ there dwelt three yong men, Brethren, and Merchants by their common profession, who becoming very rich by the death of theyr Father, lived in very good fame and repute. Their Father was of _San Gemignano_, and they had a Sister named _Isabella_, young, beautifull, and well conditioned; who, upon some occasion, as yet remained unmaried. A proper youth, being a Gentleman borne in _Pisa_, and named _Lorenzo_, as a trusty factor or servant, had the managing of the Brethrens businesse and affaires. This _Lorenzo_ being of comely personage, affable, and excellent in his behaviour, grew so gracious in the eyes of _Isabella_, that shee affoorded him many very respective lookes, yea, kindnesses of no common quality. Which _Lorenzo_ taking notice of, and observing by degrees from time to time, gave over all other beauties in the Citie, which might allure any affection from him, and only fixed his heart on her, so that their love grew to a mutuall embracing, both equally respecting one another, and entertaining kindnesses, as occasion gave leave. Long time continued this amorous league of love, yet not so cunningly concealed, but at the length, the secret meeting of _Lorenzo_ and _Isabella_, to ease their poore soules of Loves oppressions, was discovered by the eldest of the Brethren, unknowne to them who were thus betrayed. He being a man of great discretion, although this sight was highly displeasing to him: yet notwithstanding, he kept it to himselfe till the next morning, labouring his braine what might best be done in so urgent a case. When day was come, he resorted to his other brethren, and told them what he had seene in the time past, betweene their sister and _Lorenzo_. Many deliberations passed on in this case; but after all, thus they concluded together, to let it proceede on with patient supportance, that no scandall might ensue to them, or their Sister, no evill acte being (as yet) committed. And seeming, as if they knew not of their love, had a wary eye still upon her secret walkes, awaiting for some convenient time, when without their owne prejudice, or _Isabellaes_ knowledge, they might safely breake off this their stolne love, which was altogether against their liking. So, shewing no worse countenance to _Lorenzo_, then formerly they had done, but imploying and conversing with him in kinde manner; it fortuned, that riding (all three) to recreate themselves out of the Cittie, they tooke _Lorenzo_ in their company, and when they were come to a solitarie place, such as best suited with their vile purpose: they ran sodainly upon _Lorenzo_, slew him, & afterward enterred his body, where hardly it could be discovered by any one. Then they returned backe to _Messina_, & gave it forth (as a credible report) that they had sent him abroad about their affaires, as formerly they were wont to do: which every one verily beleeved, because they knew no reason why they should conceite any otherwise. _Isabella_, living in expectation of his returne, and perceiving his stay to her was so offensively long: made many demands to her Brethren, into what parts they had sent him, that his tarrying was so quite from all wonted course. Such was her importunate speeches to them, that they taking it very discontentedly, one of them returned her this frowning answer. What is your meaning Sister, by so many questionings after _Lorenzo_? What urgent affaires have you with him, that makes you so impatient upon his absence? If heereafter you make any more demands for him, we shall shape you such a reply, as will bee but little to your liking. At these harsh words, _Isabella_ fell into abundance of teares, where-among she mingled many sighes and groanes, such as were able to overthrow a far stronger constitution: so that, being full of feare and dismay, yet no way distrusting her brethrens cruell deede; shee durst not question any more after him. In the silence of darke night, as she lay afflicted in her bed, oftentimes would she call for _Lorenzo_, entreating his speedy returning to her: And then againe, as if he had bene present with her, shee checkt and reproved him for his so long absence. One night amongst the rest, she being growen almost hopelesse, of ever seeing him againe, having a long while wept and greevously lamented; her senses and faculties utterly spent and tired, that she could not utter any more complaints, she fell into a trance or sleepe; and dreamed, that the ghost of _Lorenzo_ appeared unto her, in torne and unbefitting garments, his lookes pale, meager, and staring: and (as she thought) thus spake to her. My deare love _Isabella_, thou doest nothing but torment thy selfe, with calling on me, accusing me for overlong tarrying from thee: I am come therefore to let thee know, that thou canst not enjoy my company any more, because the very same day when last thou sawest me, thy brethren most bloodily murthered me. And acquainting her with the place where they had buried his mangled body: hee strictly charged her, not to call him at any time afterward, and so vanished away. The yong Damosell awaking, and giving some credite to her Vision, sighed and wept exceedingly; and after she was risen in the morning, not daring to say any thing to her brethren, she resolutely determined, to go see the place formerly appointed her, onely to make triall, if that which she seemed to see in her sleepe, should carry any likely-hood of truth. Having obtained favour of her brethren, to ride a dayes journey from the City, in company of her trusty Nurse, who long time had attended on her in the house, and knew the secret passages of her love: they rode directly to the designed place, which being covered with some store of dried leaves, and more deeply sunke then any other part of the ground thereabout, they digged not farre, but they found the body of murthered _Lorenzo_, as yet very little corrupted or impaired, and then perceived the truth of her vision. Wisedome and government so much prevailed with her, as to instruct her soule, that her teares spent there, were meerely fruitlesse and in vaine, neither did the time require any long tarrying there. Gladly would shee have carried the whole body with her, secretly to bestow honourable enterment on it, but it exceeded the compasse of her ability. Wherefore, in regard she could not have all, yet she would be possessed of a part, & having brought a keene razor with her, by helpe of the Nurse, shee divided the head from the body, and wrapped it up in a Napkin, which the nurse conveyed into her lap, and then laide the body in the ground again. Thus being undiscovered by any, they departed thence, and arrived at home in convenient time, where being alone by themselves in the Chamber: she washed the head over and over with her teares, and bestowed infinite kisses thereon. Not long after, the Nurse having brought her a large earthen potte, such as wee use to set Basile, Marjerom, Flowers, or other sweet hearbes in, and shrouding the head in a silken Scarfe, put it into the pot, covering it with earth, and planting divers rootes of excellent Basile therein, which she never watered, but either with her teares, Rose water, or water distilled from the Flowers of Oranges. This pot she used continually to sitte by, either in her chamber, or any where elsee: for she caried it alwaies with her, sighing and breathing foorth sad complaints thereto, even as if they had beene uttered to her _Lorenzo_, and day by day this was her continuall exercise, to the no meane admiration of her bretheren, and many other friends that beheld her. So long she held on in this mourning manner, that, what by the continuall watering of the Basile, and putrifaction of the head, so buried in the pot of earth; it grew very flourishing, and most odorifferous to such as scented it, so that as no other Basile could possibly yeeld so sweet a savour. The neighbours noting this behaviour in her, observing the long continuance thereof, how much her bright beauty was defaced, and the eyes sunke into her head by incessant weeping, made many kinde and friendly motions, to understand the reason of her so violent oppressions; but could not by any meanes prevaile with her, or win any discovery by her Nurse, so faithfull was she in secrecie to her. Her brethren also waxed wearie of this carriage in her; and having very often reproved her for it, without any other alteration in her: at length, they closely stole away the potte of Basile from her, for which she made infinite wofull lamentations, earnestly entreating to have it restored againe, avouching that shee could not live without it. Perceiving that she could not have the pot againe, she fell into an extreame sicknesse, occasioned onely by her ceaselesse weeping: and never urged she to have any thing, but the restoring of her Basile pot. Her brethren grew greatly amazed thereat, because shee never called for ought elsee beside; and thereupon were very desirous to ransacke the pot to the very bottome. Having emptied out all the earth, they found the Scarfe of silke, wherein the head of Lorenzo was wrapped; which was (as yet) not so much consumed, but by the lockes of haire, they knew it to be _Lorenzoes_ head, whereat they became confounded with amazement. Fearing least their offence might come to open publication, they buried it very secretly; and, before any could take notice thereof, they departed from _Messina_, and went to dwell in _Naples. Isabella_ crying & calling still for her pot of Basile, being unable to give over mourning, dyed within a few dayes after. Thus have you heard the hard fate of poore _Lorenzo_ and his _Isabella_. Within no long while after, when this accident came to be publikely knowne, an excellent ditty was composed thereof, beginning thus: _Cruell and unkinde was the Christian, That robd me of my Basiles blisse, &c._ _A beautifull yong Virgin, named_ Andreana, _became enamored of a yong Gentleman, called_ Gabriello. _In conference together, she declared a dreame of hers to him, and he another of his to her; whereupon_ Gabriello _fell downe sodainly dead in her armes. Shee, and her Chamber-maide were apprehended, by the Officers belonging to the Seigneury, as they were carrying_ Gabriello, _to lay him before his owne doore. The Potestate offering violence to the Virgin, and she resisting him vertuously: it came to the understanding of her Father, who approved the innocence of his daughter, and compassed her deliverance. But she afterward, being weary of all worldly felicities, entred into Religion, and became a Nun._ The sixth Novell. _Describing the admirable accidents of Fortune; and the mighty prevailing power of Love._ The Novell which Madam _Philomena_ had so graciously related, was highly pleasing unto the other Ladies; because they had oftentimes heard the Song, without knowing who made it, or uppon what occasion it was composed. But when the King saw that the Tale was ended: hee commanded _Pamphilus_, that hee should follow in his due course: whereupon he spake thus. The dreame already recounted in the last Novell, doth minister matter to me, to make report of another Tale, wherein mention is made of two severall dreames; which divined as well what was to ensue, as the other did what had hapned before. And no sooner were they finished in the relation, by both the parties which had formerly dreampt them, but the effects of both as sodainly followed. Worthy Ladies, I am sure it is not unknowne to you, that it is, & hath bene a generall passion, to all men and women living, to see divers and sundry things while they are sleeping. And although (to the sleeper) they seeme most certaine, so that when he awaketh, hee judgeth the trueth of some, the likelyhood of others, and some beyond all possibility of truth: yet notwithstanding, many dreames have bene observed to happen, and very strangely have come to passe. And this hath bene a grounded reason for some men, to give as great credit to such things as they see sleeping, as they do to others usually waking. So that, according unto their dreames, and as they make construction of them, that are sadly distasted, or merrily pleased, even as (by them) they either feare or hope. On the contrary, there are some, who will not credit any dreame whatsoever, untill they be falne into the very same danger which formerly they saw, and most evidently in their sleepe. I meane not to commend either the one or other, because they do not alwayes fall out to be true; neither are they at all times lyars. Now, that they prove not all to be true, we can best testifie to our selves. And that they are not alwayes lyars, hath already sufficiently bene manifested, by the discourse of Madame _Philomena_, and as you shall perceive by mine owne, which next commeth in order to salute you. Wherefore, I am of this opinion, that in matters of good life, and performing honest actions; no dreame is to be feared presaging the contrary, neither are good works any way to be hindred by them. Likewise, in matters of bad and wicked quality, although our dreames may appeare favourable to us, and our visions flatter us with prosperous successe: yet let us give no credence unto the best, nor addicte our minds to them of contrary Nature. And now we will proceed to our Novell. In the Citie of _Brescia_, there lived sometime a Gentleman, named _Messer Negro da Ponte Cararo_, who (among many other children) had a daughter called _Andreana_, yong and beautifull, but as yet unmarried. It fortuned, that shee fell in love with a neighbour, named _Gabriello_, a comely yong Gentleman, of affable complexion, and graciously conditioned. Which love was (with like kindnesse) welcommed and entertained by him, and by the furtherance of her Chamber-maide, it was so cunningly carried, that in the Garden belonging to _Andreanaes_ Father, she had many meetings with her _Gabriello_. And solemne vowes being mutually passed betweene them, that nothing but death could alter their affection: by such ceremonious words as are used in marriage, they maried themselves secretly together, and continued their stolne chaste pleasures, with equall contentment to them both. It came to passe, that _Andreana_ sleeping in her bed, dreamed, that she met with _Gabriello_ in the Garden, where they both embracing lovingly together, she seemed to see a thing blacke and terrible, which sodainely issued forth of his body, but the shape thereof she could not comprehend. It rudely seized upon _Gabriello_, & in despight of her utmost strength (with incredible force) snatched him out of her armes, and sinking with him into the earth, they never after did see one another; whereuppon, overcome with extremity of greefe and sorrow, presently shee awaked, being then not a little joyfull, that she found no such matter as shee feared, yet continued very doubtfull of her dreame. In regard whereof, _Gabriello_ being desirous to visite her the night following: she laboured very diligently to hinder his comming to her; yet knowing his loyall affection toward her, and fearing least he should grow suspitious of some other matter: she welcommed him into the Garden, where gathering both white and Damaske Roses (according to the nature of the season) at length, they sate downe by a goodly Fountaine, which stoode in the middst of the Garden. After some small familiar discourse passing betweene them, _Gabriello_ demanded of her upon what occasion shee denied his comming thither the night before, and by such a sodaine unexpected admonition? _Andreana_ told him, that it was in regard of a troublesome dreame, wherewith hir soule was perplexed the precedent night, and doubt what might ensue thereon. _Gabriello_ hearing this, began to smile, affirming to her, that it was an especiall note of folly, to give any credit to idle dreames: because (oftentimes) they are caused by excesse of feeding, and continually are observed to be meere lies. For (quoth hee) if I had any superstitious beleefe of dreames, I should not then have come hither nowe: yet not so much as being dismayed by your dreame, but for another of mine owne, which I am the more willing to acquaint you withall. Me thought, I was in a goodly delightfull Forrest, in the Noble exercise of sportfull hunting, and became there possessed of a yong Hinde, the verie loveliest and most pleasing beast that was ever seene. It seemed to be as white as snow, and grew (in a short while) so familiar with mee, that by no meanes it would forsake me. I could not but accept this rare kindnesse in the beast, and fearing least (by some ill hap) I might loose it, I put a coller of Gold about the necke thereof, and fastned it into a chain of Gold also, which then I held strictly in my hand. The Hind afterward couched downe by mee, laying his head mildely in my lap; and on a sudden, a blacke Grey-hound bitch came rushing on us (but whence, or how I could not imagine) seeming halfe hunger-starved, and very ugly to look upon. At me she made her full carriere, without any power in me of resistance: and putting her mouth into the lefte side of my bosome, griped it so mainly with her teeth, that (me thought) I felt my heart quite bitten through, and she tugged on still, to take it wholly away from me; by which imagined paine and anguish I felt, instantly I awaked: Laying then my hand upon my side, to know whether any such harme had befaln me, or no, and finding none at all, I smiled at mine owne folly, in making such a frivolous and idle search. What can be said then in these or the like cases? Divers times I have had as ill seeming dreames, yea, and much more to be feared: yet never any thing hurtfull to me followed thereon; and therefore I have alwaies made the lesse account of them. The yong Maiden, who was still dismayed by her owne dreame, became much more afflicted in her minde, when shee had heard this other reported by _Gabriello_: but yet to give him no occasion of distast, she bare it out in the best manner she could devise to doe. And albeit they spent the time in much pleasing discourse, maintained with infinite sweete kisses on either side: yet was she still suspitious, but knew not whereof; fixing her eies oftentimes upon his face, and throwing strange lookes to all parts of the Garden, to catch hold on any such blacke ugly sight, whereof he had formerly made description to her. As thus she continued in these afflicting feares, it fortuned, that _Gabriello_ sodainly breathing forth a very vehement sighe, and throwing his armes fast about her, said: O helpe me deare Love, or elsee I dye; and, in speaking the words, fell downe uppon the ground. Which the yong Damosell perceiving, and drawing him into her lappe, weeping saide: Alas sweete Friend, What paine dost thou feele? _Gabriello_ answered not one word, but being in an exceeding sweate, without any ability of drawing breath, very soone after gave up the ghost. How greevous this strange accident was to poore _Andreana_, who loved him as deerely as her owne life: you that have felt loves tormenting afflictions, can more easily conceive, then I relate. Wringing her hands, & weeping incessantly, calling him, rubbing his temples, and using all likely meanes to reduce life: she found all her labour to be spent in vain, because he was starke dead indeed, and every part of his body as cold as ice: whereupon, she was in such wofull extremity, that she knew not what to do or say. All about the Garden she went weeping, in infinite feares and distraction of soule, calling for her Chamber-maid, the only secret friend to their stolne meetings, and told her the occasion of this sudden sorrow. After they had sighed and mourned awhile, over the dead body of _Gabriello, Andreana_ in this manner spake to her maid. Seeing Fortune hath thus bereft me of my Love, mine owne life must needs be hatefull to me: but before I offer any violence to my selfe, let us devise some convenient meanes, as may both preserve mine honour from any touch or scandall, and conceale the secret love passing betweene us: but yet in such honest sort, that this body (whose blessed soule hath too soone forsaken it) may be honourably enterred. Whereto her Mayde thus answered: Mistresse, never talke of doing any violence to your self, because by such a blacke and dismall deed, as you have lost his kind company here in this life, so shall you never more see him in the other world: for immediately you sinke downe to hell, which foule place cannot bee a receptacle for his faire soule, that was endued with so many singular vertues. Wherefore, I holde it farre better for you, to comfort your selfe by all good meanes, and with the power of fervent prayer, to fight against all desperate intruding passions, as a truly vertuous minde ought to doe. Now, as concerning his enterrement, the meanes is readily prepared for you heere in this Garden, where never he hath bene seene by any, or his resorting hither knowne, but onely to our selves. If you will not consent to have it so, let you and I convey his bodye hence, and leave it in such apt place, where it may be found to morrow morning: and being then carried to his owne house, his friends and kindred will give it honest buriall. _Andreana_, although her soule was extraordinarily sorrowfull, & teares flowed abundantly from her eyes; yet she listned attentively to hir maids counsell; allowing her first advice against desperation, to be truly good; but to the rest thus she replied. God forbid (quoth she) that I shold suffer so deare a loving friend, as he hath alwayes shewed himselfe to mee; nay, which is much more, my husband; by sacred and solemn vowes passed betweene us, to be put into the ground basely, and like a dog, or elsee to be left in the open streete. He hath had the sacrifice of my virgin teares, and if I can prevaile, he shall have some of his kindred, as I have instantly devised, what (in this hard case) is best to be done. Forthwith she sent the maid to her Chamber, for divers elles of white Damaske lying in her Chest, which when she had brought, they spread it abroad on the grasse, even in the manner of a winding sheete, and therein wrapped the bodie of _Gabriello_, with a faire wrought pillow lying under his head, having first (with their teares) closed his mouth and eyes, and placed a Chaplet of Flowers on his head, covering the whole shrowd over in the same manner, which being done, thus she spake to her maide. The doore of his owne house is not farre hence, and thither (between us two) he may be easily carried, even in this manner as we have adorned him; where leaving him in his owne Porch, we may returne back before it be day; and although it will be a sad sight to his friends; yet, because he dyed in mine armes, and we being so well discharged of the bodie, it will be a little comfort to me. When she had ended these words, which were not uttered without infinite teares, the Maid entreated her to make hast, because the night passed swiftly on. At last, she remembred the Ring on her finger, wherewith _Gabriello_ had solemnly espoused her, and opening the shroud againe, she put it on his finger, saying, My deare and loving husband, if thy soule can see my teares, or any understanding do remaine in thy body, being thus untimely taken from me: receive the latest guifte thou gavest me, as a pledge of our solemne and spotlesse marriage. So, making up the shroud againe as it should be, and conveighing it closely out of the Garden, they went on along with it, towardes his dwelling house. As thus they passed along, it fortuned, that they were met and taken by the Guard or Watch belonging to the Potestate, who had bin so late abroad, about very earnest and important businesse. _Andreana_, desiring more the dead mans company, then theirs whom she had thus met withall, boldly spake thus to them. I know who and what you are, and can tel my selfe, that to offer flight will nothing availe me: wherefore, I am ready to go along with you before the Seigneurie, and there will tel the truth concerning this accident. But let not any man among you, be so bold as to lay hand on me, or to touch me, because I yeeld so obediently to you: neither to take any thing from this body, except he intend that I shal accuse him. In which respect, not any one daring to displease her, shee went with the dead bodye to the Seigneurie, there to answere all Objections. When notice heereof was given to the Potestate, he arose; and shee being brought foorth into the Hall before him, he questioned with her, how and by what meanes this accident happened. Beside, he sent for divers Physitians, to be informed by them, whether the Gentleman were poysoned, or otherwise murthered: but al of them affirmed the contrary, avouching rather, that some impostumation had engendred neere his heart, which sodainly breaking, occasioned his as sodaine death. The Potestate hearing this, and perceiving that _Andreana_ was little or nothing at all faulty in the matter: her beauty and good carriage, kindled a villanous and lustfull desire in him towards her, provoking him to the immodest motion, that upon granting his request, he would release her. But when he saw, that all his perswasions were to no purpose, hee sought to compasse his will by violence; which, like a vertuous and valiant _Virago_, shee worthily withstood, defending her honour Nobly, and reprooving him with many injurious speeches, such as a lustfull Letcher justlie deserved. On the morrow morning, these newes being brought to her Father, _Messer Negro da Ponte Cararo_; greeving thereat exceedingly, and accompanied with many of his friends, he went to the Palace. Being there arrived, and informed of the matter by the Potestate: hee demaunded (in teares) of his daughter, how, and by what meanes shee was brought thither? The Potestate would needs accuse her first, of outrage and wrong offered to him by her, rather then to tarry her accusing of him: yet, commending the yong Maiden, and her constancie, proceeded to say, that onely to prove her, he had made such a motion to her, but finding her so firmly vertuous, his love and liking was now so addicted to her, that if hir Father were so pleased, to forget the remembrance of her former secret husband, he willingly would accept her in marriage. While thus they continued talking, _Andreana_ comming before her Father, the teares trickling mainly downe her cheekes, and falling at his feete, she began in this manner. Deare Father, I shall not neede to make an historicall relation, either of my youthfull boldnesse or misfortunes, because you have both seene and knowne them: rather most humblie, I crave your pardon, for another error by me committed, in that, both without your leave and liking, I accepted the man as my troth-plighted husband, whom (above all other in the world) I most intirely affected. If my offence heerein do challenge the forfeite of my life, then (good Father) I free you from any such pardon: because my onely desire is to die your daughter, and in your gracious favour; with which words, in signe of her humility, she kissed his feete. _Messer Negro da Ponte_, being a man well stept into yeares, and of a milde and gentle nature, observing what his daughter had saide: could not refraine from teares, and in his weeping, lovingly tooke her from the ground, speaking thus to her. Daughter, I could have wished, that thou hadst taken such an husband, as (in my judgement) had bene best fitting for thee, and yet if thou didst make election of one, answerable to thine owne good opinion & liking: I have no just reason to be therewith offended. My greatest cause of complaint, is, thy too severe concealing it from me, and the slender trust thou didst repose in me, because thou hast lost him, before I knew him. Neverthelesse, seeing these occasions are thus come to passe, and accidents alreadie ended, cannot by any meanes be re-called: it is my will, that as I would gladly have contented thee, by making him my Sonne in Law, if he had lived; so I will expresse the like love to him now he is dead. And so turning himself to his kindred and friends, lovingly requested of them, that they would grace _Gabriello_ with most honourable obsequies. By this time, the kindred and friends to the dead man (uppon noise of his death bruited abroad) were likewise come to the Pallace, yea, most of the men and women dwelling in the City, the bodie of _Gabriello_ beeing laide in the midst of the Court, upon the white Damaske shrowde given by _Andreana_, with infinite Roses and other sweet Flowers lying thereon: and such was the peoples love to him, that never was any mans death, more to be bemoaned and lamented. Being delivered out of the Court, it was carried to buriall, not like a Burgesse or ordinary Citizen, but with such pompe as beseemed a Lord Baron, and on the shoulders of very noble Gentlemen, with very especiall honour and reverence. Within some few dayes after, the Potestate pursuing his former motion of marriage, and the Father moving it to his daughter; she wold not by any meanes listen thereto. And he being desirous to give her contentment, delivered her and her Chamber-maid into a Religious Abbey, very famous for devotion and sanctity, where afterwardes they ended their lives. _Faire_ Simonida _affecting_ Pasquino, _and walking with him in a pleasant garden, it fortuned, that_ Pasquino _rubbed his teeth with a leafe of Sage, and immediately fell downe dead._ Simonida _being brought before the bench of Justice, and charged with the death of_ Pasquino: _she rubbed her teeth likewise with one of the leaves of the same Sage, as declaring what shee saw him do: and thereon she dyed also in the same manner._ The seaventh Novell. _Whereby is given to understand, that Love & Death do use their power equally alike, as well upon poore and meane persons, as on them that are rich and Noble._ _Pamphilus_ having ended his Tale, the King declaring an outward shew of compassion, in regard of _Andreanaes_ disastrous Fortune: fixed his eye on Madam _Emillia_, and gave her such an apparant signe, as expressed his pleasure, for her next succeeding in discourse; which being sufficient for her understanding, thus she began: Faire assembly, the Novel so lately delivered by _Pamphilus_, maketh me willing to report another to you, varying from it, in any kinde of resemblance; onely this excepted: that as _Andreana_, lost her lover in a Garden, even so did shee of whome I am now to speake. And being brought before the seate of Justice, according as _Andreana_ was, freed her selfe from the power of the Law; yet neither by force, or her owne vertue, but by her sodaine and inopinate death. And although the nature of Love is such (according as wee have oftentimes heeretofore maintained) to make his abiding in the houses of the Noblest persons; yet men and women of poore and farre inferiour quality, do not alwayes sit out of his reach, though enclosed in their meanest Cottages; declaring himselfe sometimes as powerfull a commaunder in those humble places, as he doth in the richest and most imperious Palaces. As will plainly appeare unto you, either in all, or a great part of my Novell, whereto our Citie pleadeth some title; though, by the diversity of our discourses, talking of so many severall accidents; we have wandred into many other parts of the world, to make all answerable to our owne liking. It is not any long time since, when there lived in our City of _Florence_, a young and beautifull Damosell, yet according to the nature of hir condition; because she was the Daughter of a poore Father, and called by the name of _Simonida_. Now, albeit shee was not supplied by any better meanes, then to maintaine her selfe by her owne painfull travell, & earne her bread before shee could eate it, by carding and spinning to such as employed her; yet was she not of so base or dejected a spirit, but had both courage and sufficient vertue, to understand the secret solicitings of love, and to distinguish the parts of well deserving, both by private behaviour and outward ceremony. As naturall instinct was her first tutor thereto, so wanted she not a second maine and urging motion; a chip hewed out of the like Timber, one no better in birth then her selfe, a proper young springall, named _Pasquino_, whose generous behaviour, and gracefull actions (in bringing her daily wooll to spin, by reason his master was a Clothier) prevailed upon her liking and affection. Nor was he negligent in the observation of her amorous regards, but the Tinder tooke, and his soule flamed with the selfe-same fire; making him as desirous of her loving acceptance, as possibly she could bee of his: so that the commanding power of love, could not easily be distinguished in which of them it had the greater predominance. For, everie day as he brought her fresh supply of woolles, and found her seriously busied at hir wheele: her soule would vent forth many deepe sighes, and those sighes fetch floods of teares from her eyes, thorough the singular good opinion she had conceyved of him, and earnest desire to enjoy him. _Pasquino_ on the other side, as leysure gave him leave for the least conversing with her: his disease was every way answerable to her, for teares stood in his eyes, sighes flew abroad, to ease the poore hearts afflicting oppressions, which though he was unable to conceale; yet would hee seeme to clowd them cleanly, by entreating her that his masters worke might be neatly performed, and with such speed as time would permit her, intermixing infinite praises of her artificiall spinning; and affirming withall, that the Quilles of Yearne received from her, were the choisest beauty of the whole peece; so that when other worke-women played, _Simonida_ was sure to want no employment. Heereupon, the one soliciting, and the other taking delight in beeing solicited; it came to passe, that often accesse bred the bolder courage, & over-much bashfulnesse became abandoned, yet no immodestie passing betweene them: but affection grew the better setled in them both, by interchangeable vowes of constant perseverance, so that death onely, but no disaster elsee had power to divide them. Their mutuall delight continuing on in this manner, with more forcible encreasing of their Loves equall flame; it fortuned, that _Pasquino_ sitting by _Simonida_, tolde her of a goodly Garden, whereto hee was desirous to bring her, to the end, that they might the more safely converse together, without the suspition of envious eyes. _Simonida_ gave answer of her well-liking the motion, and acquainting her Father therewith, he gave her leave, on the Sunday following after dinner, to go serch the pardon of S. _Gallo_, and afterwards to visit the Garden. A modest yong maiden named _Lagina_, following the same profession, and being an intimate familiar friend, _Simonida_ tooke along in her company, and came to the Garden appointed by _Pasquino_; where shee found him readily expecting her comming, and another friend also with him, called _Puccino_ (albeit more usually tearmed _Strambo_) a secret well-willer to _Lagina_, whose love became the more furthered by this friendly meeting. Each Lover delighting in his hearts chosen Mistresse, caused them to walke alone by themselves, as the spaciousnesse of the Garden gave them ample liberty: _Puccino_ with his _Lagina_ in one part, & _Pasquino_ with his _Simonida_ in another. The walke which they had made choise of, was by a long and goodly bed of Sage, turning and returning by the same bed as their conference ministred occasion, and as they pleased to recreate themselves; affecting rather to continue still there, then in any part of the Garden. One while they would sit downe by the Sage bed, and afterward rise to walke againe, as ease or wearinesse seemed to invite them. At length, _Pasquino_ chanced to crop a leafe of the Sage, wherewith he both rubbed his teeth and gummes, and champing it betweene them also, saying; that there was no better thing in the world to cleanse the teeth withall, after feeding. Not long had he thus champed the Sage in his teeth, returning to his former kinde of discoursing, but his countenance began to change very pale, his sight failed, and speech forsooke him; so that (in briefe) he fell downe dead. Which when _Simonida_ beheld, wringing her hands, she cryed out for helpe to _Strambo_ and _Lagina_, who immediately came running to her. They finding _Pasquino_ not onely to be dead, but his bodie swolne; and strangely over-spred with foule black spots, both on his face, handes, and all parts elsee beside: _Strambo_ cried out, saying; Ah wicked maide, what hast thou poisoned him? These words and their shrill out-cries also, were heard by Neighbours dwelling neere to the Garden, who comming in sodainly uppon them, and seeing _Pasquino_ lying dead, and hugely swoln, _Strambo_ likewise complaining, and accusing _Simonida_ to have poysoned him; shee making no answer, but standing in a gastly amazement, all her senses meerely confounded, at such a strange and uncouth accident, in loosing him whome she so dearely loved: knew not how to excuse her selfe, and therefore every one verily beleeved, that _Strambo_ had not unjustly accused her. Poore woful maide, thus was shee instantly apprehended, and drowned in her teares, they led her along to the Potestates Palace, where her accusation was justified by _Strambo, Lagina,_ and two men more; the one named _Atticciato_, and the other _Malagevole_, fellowes and companions with _Pasquino_, who came into the Garden also upon the out-cry. The Judge, without any delay at all, gave eare to the busines, and examined the case very strictly: but could by no meanes comprehend, that any malice should appeare in her towards him, nor that she was guiltie of the mans death. Wherefore, in the presence of _Simonida_, hee desired to see the dead body, and the place where he fell downe dead, because there he intended to have her relate, how she saw the accident to happen, that her owne speeches might the sooner condemne her, whereas the case yet remained doubtfull, and farre beyond his comprehension. So, without any further publication, and to avoid the following of the turbulent multitude: they departed from the bench of Justice, and came to the place, where _Pasquinoes_ body lay swolne like a Tunne. Demanding there questions, concerning his behaviour, when they walked there in conference together, and, not a little admiring the manner of his death, while hee stood advisedly considering thereon. She going to the bed of Sage, reporting the whole precedent history, even from the original to the ending: the better to make the case understood, without the least colour of ill carriage towardes _Pasquino_; according as she had seene him do, even so did she plucke another leafe of the Sage, rubbing her teeth therewith, and champing it as he formerly did. _Strambo_, and the other intimate friends of _Pasquino_, having noted in what manner she used the Sage, and this appearing as her utmost refuge, either to acquit or condemne her: in presence of the Judge they smiled thereat, mocking and deriding whatsoever shee saide, or did, and desiring (the more earnestly) the sentence of death against her, that her body might be consumed with fire, as a just punishment for her abhominable transgression. Poore _Simonida_, sighing and sorrowing for her deere loves losse, and (perhappes) not meanly terrified, with the strict infliction of torment so severely urged and followed by _Strambo_ and the rest: standing dumb still, without answering so much as one word; by tasting of the same Sage, fell downe dead by the bed, even by the like accident as _Pasquino_ formerly did, to the admirable astonishment of all there present. Oh poore infortunate Lovers, whose Starres were so inauspicious to you, as to finish both your mortall lives, and fervent love, in lesse limitation then a dayes space. How to censure of your deaths, and happines to ensue thereon, by an accident so straunge and inevitable: it is not within the compasse of my power, but to hope the best, and so I leave you. But yet concerning _Simonida_ her selfe, in the common opinion of us that remaine living: her true vertue and innocency (though Fortune was other wise most cruell to her) would not suffer her to sinke under the testimony of _Strambo, Lagina, Atticciato_ and _Malagevole_, being but carders of wool, or perhaps of meaner condition; a happier course was ordained for her, to passe clearly from their infamous imputation, and follow her _Pasquino_, in the verie same manner of death, and with such a speedie expedition. The Judge standing amazed, and all there present in his companie, were silent for a long while together: but, uppon better re-collection of his spirits, thus he spake. This inconvenience which thus hath hapned, and confounded our senses with no common admiration; in mine opinion concerneth the bed of Sage, avouching it either to bee venomous, or dangerously infected; which (neverthelesse) is seldom found in Sage. But to the end, that it may not be offensive to any more heereafter, I will have it wholly digd up by the rootes, and then to bee burnt in the open Market place. Hereupon, the Gardiner was presently sent for, and before the Judge would depart thence, he saw the bed of Sage digged up by the roots, and found the true occasion, whereby these two poore Lovers lost their lives. For, just in the middest of the bed, and at the maine roote, which directed all the Sage in growth; lay an huge mighty Toad, even weltring (as it were) in a hole full of poyson; by meanes whereof, in conjecture of the Judge, and all the rest, the whole bed of Sage became envenomed, occasioning every leafe thereof to be deadly in taste. None being so hardie, as to approach neere the Toade, they made a pile of wood directly over it, and setting it on a flaming fire, threw all the Sage thereinto, and so they were consumed together. So ended all further suite in Lawe, concerning the deaths of _Pasquino_ and _Simonida_: whose bodies being carried to the Church of Saint _Paul_, by their sad and sorrowfull accusers, _Strambo, Lagina, Atticciato_ and _Malagevole_, were buried together in one goodlie Monument, for a future memory of their hard Fortune. Jeronimo _affecting a yong Maiden, named_ Silvestra: _was constrained (by the earnest importunity of his Mother) to take a journey to_ Paris. _At his return home from thence againe, hee found his love_ Silvestra _married. By secret meanes, he got entrance into her house, and dyed upon the bed lying by her. Afterward, his body being carried to Church, to receive buriall, she likewise died there instantly upon his coarse._ The eight Novell. _Wherein is againe declared, the great indiscretion and folly of them, that think to constraine love, according to their will, after it is constantly setled before: With other instructions, concerning the unspeakeable power of Love._ Madam _Emillia_ had no sooner concluded her Novell, but Madame _Neiphila_ (by the Kings command) began to speake in this manner. It seemeth to mee (Gracious Ladies) that there are some such people to be found, who imagine themselves to know more, then all other elsee in the world beside, and yet indeede doe know nothing at all: presuming (thorough this arrogant opinion of theirs) to imploy and oppose their senselesse understanding, against infallible grounded reason, yea, and to attempt courses, not only contrary to the counsell and judgment of men, but also to crosse the nature of divine ordination. Out of which fancy & ambitious presumption, many mighty harmes have already had beginning, and more are like to ensue uppon such boldnesse, because it is the ground of all evils. Now, in regard that among all other naturall things, no one is lesse subject to take counsell, or can bee wrought to contrariety, then Love, whose nature is such, as rather to run upon his owne rash consumption, then to be ruled by admonitions of the very wisest: my memory hath inspired itself, with matter incident to this purpose, effectually to approve, what I have already said. For I am now to speake of a woman, who would appeare to have more wit, then either she had indeed, or appertained to her by any title. The matter also, wherein she would needs shew hir studious judgement and capacity, was of much more consequence then she could deserve to meddle withall. Yet such was the issue of her fond presuming; that (in one instant) she expelled both love, and the soule of her owne sonne out of his body, where (doubtlesse) it was planted by divine favour and appointment. In our owne City (according to true & ancient testimony) there dwelt sometime a very worthy and wealthy Merchant, named _Leonardo Sighiero_, who by his wife had one onely Sonne, called _Jeronimo_, and within a short while after his birth, _Leonardo_ being very sicke, and having setled al his affaires in good order; departed out of this wretched life to a better. The Tutors and Governours of the Childe, thought it fittest to let him live with his Mother, where he had his whole education, though schooled among many other worthy neighbours children, according as in most Cities they use to do. Yong _Jeronimo_ growing on in yeares, and frequenting dayly the company of his Schoole-fellowes and others: hee would often sport (as the rest did) with the neighbours children, and much prety pastime they found together. In the harmlesse recreations of youth, graver judgements have often observed, that some especiall matter received then such original, as greater effect hath followed thereon. And many times, parents and kindred have bene the occasion (although perhaps beyond their expectation) of very strange and extraordinary accidents, by names of familiarity passing betweene Boyes and Girles, as King and Queene, sweet heart and sweet heart, friend and friend, husband and wife, and divers other such like kind tearmes, prooving afterwards to be true indeede. It fell out so with our yong _Jeronimo_; for, among a number of pretty Damoselse, daughters to men of especiall respect, and others of farre inferiour qualitie: a Taylors daughter, excelling the rest in favour and feature (albeit her Father was but poore) _Jeronimo_ most delighted to sport withall; and no other titles passed betweene them, even in the hearing of their parents and friendes, but wife and husband: such was the beginning of their young affection, presaging (no doubt) effectually to follow. Nor grew this familiarity (as yet) any way distasted, till by their dayly conversing together, and enterchange of infinite pretty speeches: _Jeronimo_ felt a strange alteration in his soule, with such enforcing and powerfull afflictions; as he was never well but in her company, nor she enjoyed any rest if _Jeronimo_ were absent. At the length, this being noted by his Mother, she beganne to rebuke him, yea, many times gave him both threatnings and blowes, which proving to no purpose, nor hindering his accesse to her; she complained to his Tutors, and like one that in regard of her riches, thought to plant an Orange upon a blacke thorne, spake as followeth. This Sonne of mine _Jeronimo_, being as yet but fourteene years of age, is so deeply enamored of a yong Girle, named _Silvestra_, daughter unto a poore Tailor, our neere dwelling neighbour: that if we do not send him out of her company, one day (perhaps) he may make her his wife, and yet without any knowledge of ours, which questionlesse would be my death. Otherwise, he may pine and consume himselfe away, if he see us procure her marriage to some other. Wherefore, I hold it good, that to avoid so great an inconvenience, we shold send _Jeronimo_ some far distance hence, to remaine where some of our Factors are employed: because, when he shall be out of her sight, and their often meetings utterly disappointed; his affection to her will the sooner ceasse, by frustrating his hope for ever enjoying her, and so we shall have the better meanes, to match him with one of greater quality. The Tutors did like well of her advice, not doubting but it would take answerable effect: and therefore, calling _Jeronimo_ into a private Parlour, one of them began in this manner. _Jeronimo_, you are now growne to an indifferent stature, and (almost) able to take government of your selfe. It cannot then seeme any way inconvenient, to acquaint you with your deceased Fathers affaires, and by what good courses he came to such wealth. You are his onely sonne and heire, to whom hee hath bequeathed his rich possessions (your Mothers moity evermore remembred) and travaile would now seeme fitting for you, as well to gaine experience in Traffick and Merchandize, as also to let you see the worlds occurrences. Your Mother therefore (and we) have thought it expedient, that you should journey from hence to _Paris_, there to continue for some such fitting time, as may grant you full and free opportunity, to survey what stocke of wealth is there employed for you, and to make you understand, how your Factors are furtherous to your affayres. Beside, this is the way to make you a man of more solid apprehension, & perfect instruction in civill courses of life; rather then by continuing here to see none but Lords, Barons, and Gentlemen, whereof wee have too great a number. When you are sufficiently qualified there, and have learned what belongeth to a worthy Marchant, such as was _Leonardo Sighiero_ your famous Father; you may returne home againe at your owne pleasure. The youth gave them attentive hearing, and (in few words) returned them answer: That he would not give way to any such travaile, because hee knew how to dispose of himselfe in _Florence_, as well as in any other place he should be sent too. Which when his Tutors heard, they reproved him with many severe speeches: and seeing they could win no other answer from him, they made returne thereof to his Mother. Shee storming extreamly thereat, yet not so much for denying the journey to _Paris_, as in regard of his violent affection to the Maide; gave him very bitter and harsh language. All which availing nothing, she began to speake in a more milde and gentle straine, entreating him with flattering and affable words, to be governed in this case by his Tutors good advise. And so farre (in the end) she prevailed with him, that he yeelded to live at _Paris_ for the space of a yeare; but further time he would not graunt, and so all was ended. _Jeronimo_ being gone to remain at _Paris_, his love daily increasing more and more, by reason of his absence from _Silvestra_, under faire and friendly promises, of this moneth and the next moneth sending for him home; there they detained him two whole yeares together. Whereuppon, his love was growne to such an extremity, that he neither would, or could abide any longer there, but home hee returned, before hee was expected. His love _Silvestra_, by the cunning compacting of his Mother and Tutors, he found married to a Tent-makers Sonne; whereat hee vexed and greeved beyond all measure. Neverthelesse, seeing the case was now no way to bee holpen; hee strove to beare it with so much patience, as so great a wrong, and his hearts tormenting greefe, would give him leave to doe. Having found out the place where she dwelt, hee began (as it is the custome of yong Lovers) to use divers daily walkes by her door: as thinking in his minde, that her remembrance of him was constantly continued, as his was most intirely fixed on her. But the case was verie strangely altred, because she was now growne no more mindfull of him, then if she had never seene him before. Or if she did any way remember him, it appeared to be so little, that manifest signes declared the contrary. Which _Jeronimo_ very quickely perceived, albeit not without many melanchollie perturbations. Notwithstanding, he laboured by all possible meanes, to recover her former kindnesse againe: but finding all his paines frivouslie employed; he resolved to dye, and yet to compasse some speech with her before. By meanes of a neere dwelling neighbour (that was his verie deare & intimate friend) he came acquainted with every part of the house, & prevailed so far, that one evening, when she and her husband supt at a neighbours house; he compassed accesse into the same bed chamber, where _Silvestra_ used most to lodge. Finding the Curtaines ready drawne, he hid himselfe behinde them on the further side of the bed, and so tarried there untill _Silvestra_ and her husband were returned home, and laide downe in bedde to take their rest. The husbands sences were soone overcome with sleepe, by reason of his painefull toyling all the day, and bodies that are exercised with much labour, are the more desirous to have ease. She staying up last, to put out the light, and hearing her husband sleepe so soundly, that his snoring gave good evidence thereof: layed her selfe down the more respectively, as being very loath any way to disease him, but sweetly to let him enjoy his rest. _Silvestra_ lay on the same side of the bed, where _Jeronimo_ had hid himselfe behinde the Curtaines; who stepping softly to her in the darke, and laying his hand gently on her brest, saide: Deare Love, forbeare a little while to sleepe, for heere is thy loyall friend _Jeronimo_. The yong woman starting with amazement, would have cried out, but that hee entreated her to the contrary; protesting, that he came for no ill intent to her, but onely to take his latest leave of her. Alas _Jeronimo_ (quoth she) those idle dayes are past and gone, when it was no way unseemly for our youth, to entertaine equality of those desires, which then well agreed with our young blood. Since when, you have lived in forraine Countries, which appeared to me to alter your former disposition: for, in the space of two whole yeares, either you grew forgetfull of me (as change of ayre, may change affection) or (at the best) made such account of mee, as I never heard the least salutation from you. Now you know me to be a married wife, in regard whereof, my thoughts have embraced that chaste and honourable resolution, not to minde any man but my husband; and therefore, as you are come hither without my love or license, so in like manner I do desire you to be gone. Let this priviledge of my Husbandes sound sleeping, be no colour to your longer continuing heere, or encourage you to finde any further favour at mine hand: for if mine husband shold awake, beside the danger that thereon may follow to you, I cannot but loose the sweet happinesse of peacefull life, which hitherto we have both mutually embraced. The yong man, hearing these wordes, and remembring what loving kindnesse he had formerly found, what secret love Letters hee had sent from _Paris_, with other private intelligences and tokens, which never came to her receite and knowledge, so cunningly his Mother and Tutors had carried the matter: immediately he felt his heart strings to break; and lying downe upon the beds side by her, uttered these his very last words. _Silvestra_ farewell, thou hast kilde the kindest heart that ever loved a woman: and speaking no more, gave up the ghost. She hearing these words delivered with an entire sighe, and deepe-fetcht groane: did not imagine the strange consequence following thereon; yet was mooved to much compassion, in regard of her former affection to him. Silent shee lay an indifferent while, as being unable to returne him any answer; and looking when he would be gone, according as before she had earnestly entreated him. But when she perceyved him to lye so still, as neither word or motion came from him, she saide: Kinde _Jeronimo_, why doest thou not depart and get thee gone? So putting forth her hand, it hapned to light upon his face, which she felt to be as cold as yce: whereat marvelling not a little, as also at his continued silence: shee jogged him, and felt his hands in like manner, which were stiffely extended forth, and all his body cold, as not having any life remaining in him, which greatly amazing her, and confounding her with sorrow beyond all measure, shee was in such perplexity, that the could not devise what to do or say. In the end, she resolved to try how her husband would take it, that so strange an accident should thus happen in his house, and putting the case as if it did not concerne them, but any other of the neighbours; awaking him first, demaunded of him what was best to bee done, if a man should steale into a neighbours house, unknowne to him, or any of his family; & in his bed chamber to be found dead. He presently replyed (as not thinking the case concerned himselfe) that, the onely helpe in such an unexpected extremity, was, to take the dead body, and convey it to his owne house, if he had any; whereby no scandall or reproach would followe to them, in whose house he had so unfortunately dyed. Heereupon, shee immediately arose, and lighting a candle, shewed him the dead bodie of _Jeronimo_, with protestation of every particular, both of her innocencie, either of knowledge of his comming thither, or any other blame that could concerne her. Which hee both constantly knowing and beleeving, made no more ceremonie, but putting on his Garments, tooke the dead bodie upon his shoulders, and carried it to the Mothers doore, where he left it, and afterward returned to his owne house againe. When day light was come, and the dead body found lying in the Porch, it moved very much greefe and amazement, considering, he had bin seene the day before, in perfect health to outward appearance. Nor neede we to urge any question of his Mothers sorrow upon this straunge accident, who, causing his body to bee carefully searched, without any blow, bruise, wound, or hurt uppon it, the Physitians could not give any other opinion, but that some inward conceyte of greefe had caused his death, as it did indeed, and no way otherwise. To the cheefe Church was the dead body carried, to be generally seene of all the people, his mother and friends weeping heavily by it, as many more did the like beside, because he was beloved of every one. In which time of universall mourning, the honest man (in whose house he dyed) spake thus to his wife: disguise thyselfe in some decent manner, and go to the Church, where (as I heare) they have laide the body of _Jeronimo_. Crowde in amongest the Women, as I will doe the like amongst the men, to heare what opinion passeth of his death, and whether wee shall bee scandalized thereby, or no. _Silvestra_, who was now become full of pitty too late, quickely condiscended, as desiring to see him dead, whom sometime she dearly affected in life. And being come to the Church, it is a matter to bee admired, if advisedly we consider on the powerfull working of love; for the heart of this woman, which the prosperous fortune of _Jeronimo_ could not pierce, now in his wofull death did split in sunder; and the ancient sparks of love so long concealed in the embers, brake foorth into a furious flame; and being violently surprized with extraordinary compassion, no sooner did she come neere to the dead body, where many stoode weeping round about it; but strangely shrieking out aloud, she fell downe upon it: & even as extremity of greefe finished his life, so did it hers in the same manner. For she moved neither hand not foot, because her vitall powers had quite forsaken her. The women labouring to comfort her by al the best means they could devise; did not take any knowledge of her, by reason of her disguised garments: but finding her dead indeede, and knowing her also to be _Silvestra_, being overcome with unspeakable compassion, & danted with no meane admiration, they stood strangely gazing each upon other. Wonderfull crowds of people were then in the Church; and this accident being now noysed among the men, at length it came to her Husbands understanding, whose greefe was so great, as it exceeded all capacitie of expression. Afterward, he declared what had hapned in his house the precedent night, according as his wife had truly related to him, with all the speeches, which past between _Silvestra_ and _Jeronimo_; by which discourse, they generally conceived, the certaine occasion of both their sodaine deaths, which moved them to great compassion. Then taking the yong womans body, and ordering it as a coarse ought to bee: they layed it on the same Biere by the yong man, and when they had sufficiently sorrowed for their disastrous fortunes, they gave them honourable buriall both in one grave. So, this poore couple, whome love (in life) could not joyne together, death did unite in an inseparable conjunction. _Messer_ Guiglielmo _of_ Rossiglione _having slaine Messer_ Guiglielmo Guardastagno, _whom hee imagined to love his wife, gave her his heart to eate. Which she knowing afterward, threw her selfe out of an high window to the ground; and being dead, was then buried with her friend._ The ninth Novell. _Whereby appeareth, what ill successe attendeth on them, that love contrarie to reason: in offering injurie both to friendship and marriage together._ When the Novell of Madam _Neiphila_ was ended, which occasioned much compassion in the whole assembly; the King who wold not infringe the priviledge graunted to _Dioneus_, no more remaining to speake but they two, began thus. I call to minde (gentle Ladies) a Novell, which (seeing we are so farre entred into the lamentable accidents of successelesse love) will urge you unto as much commisseration, as that so lately reported to you. And so much the rather; because the persons of whom we are to speake, were of respective quality; which approveth the accident to bee more cruell, then those whereof wee have formerly discoursed. According as the people of _Provence_ do report, there dwelt sometime in that jurisdiction, two noble Knights, each well possessed of Castles & followers; the one beeing named _Messer Guiglielmo de Rossiglione_, and the other _Messer Guiglielmo Guardastagno_. Now, in regard that they were both valiant Gentlemen, and singularly expert in actions of Armes; they loved together the more mutually, and held it as a kinde of custom, to be seene in all Tiltes and Tournaments, or any other exercises of Armes, going commonly alike in their wearing garments. And although their Castles stood about five miles distant each from other, yet were they dayly conversant together, as very loving and intimate friends. The one of them, I meane _Messer Guiglielmo de Rossiglione_, had to wife a very gallant beautifull Lady, of whom _Messer Guardastagno_ (forgetting the lawes of respect and loyall friendshippe) became over-fondly enamoured, expressing the same by such outward meanes, that the Lady her selfe tooke knowledge thereof, and not with any dislike, as it seemed, but rather lovingly entertained; yet she grew not so forgetfull of her honour and estimation, as the other did of faith to his friend. With such indiscretion was this idle love carried, that whether it sorted to effect, or no, I know not: but the husband perceived some such manner of behaviour, as hee could not easily digest, nor thought it fitting to endure. Whereuppon, the league of friendly amity so long continued, began to faile in very strange fashion, and became converted into deadly hatred: which yet hee very cunningly concealed, bearing an outwarde shew of constant friendshippe still, but (in his heart) hee had vowed the death of _Guardastagno_. Nothing wanted, but by what meanes it might best be effected, which fell out to bee in this manner. A publicke Just or Tourney, was proclaimed by sound of Trumpet throughout all France, wherewith immediately, _Messer Guiglielmo Rossiglione_ acquainted _Messer Guardastagno_, entreating him that they might further conferre thereon together, and for that purpose to come and visit him, if he intended to have any hand in the businesse. _Guardastagno_ being exceeding gladde of this accident, which gave him liberty to see his Mistresse; sent answer backe by the messenger, that on the morrow at night, he would come and sup with _Rossiglione_; who upon this reply, projected to himselfe in what manner to kill him. On the morrow, after dinner, arming himselfe, and two more of his servants with him, such as he had solemnly sworne to secrecy, hee mounted on horseback, and rode on about a mile from his owne Castle, where he lay closely ambushed in a Wood, through which _Guardastagno_ must needs passe. After he had stayed there some two houres space and more, he espyed him come riding with two of his attendants, all of them being unarmed, as no way distrusting any such intended treason. So soone as he was come to the place, where he had resolved to do the deed; hee rushed forth of the ambush, and having a sharpe Lance readily charged in his rest, ran mainly at him, saying: False villain, thou art dead. _Guardastagno_, having nothing wherewith to defend himselfe, nor his servants able to give him any succour; being pierced quite through the body with the Lance, downe hee fell dead to the ground, and his men (fearing the like misfortune to befall them) gallopped mainely backe againe to their Lords Castle, not knowing them who had thus murthered their Master, by reason of their armed disguises, which in those martiall times were usually worne. _Messer Guiglielmo Rossiglione_, alighting from his horse, and having a keene knife ready drawne in his hand; opened therewith the brest of dead _Guardastagno_, and taking foorth his heart with his owne hands, wrapped it in the Banderole belonging to his Lance, commanding one of his men to the charge thereof, and never to disclose the deed. So, mounting on horse-backe againe, and darke night drawing on apace, he returned home to his Castle. The Lady, who had heard before of _Guardastagnoes_ intent, to suppe there that night, and (perhaps) being earnestly desirous to see him; mervailing at his so long tarrying, saide to her husband. Beleeve me Sir (quoth she) me thinkes it is somewhat strange, that _Messer Guiglielmo Guardastagno_ delayes his comming so long, he never used to do so til now. I received tidings from him wife (said he) that he cannot be heere till to morrow. Whereat the Lady appearing to bee displeased, concealed it to her selfe, and used no more words. _Rossiglione_ leaving his Lady, went into the Kitchin, where calling for the Cooke, he delivered him the heart, saying: Take this heart of a wilde Boare, which it was my good happe to kill this day, and dresse it in the daintiest manner thou canst devise to doe; which being so done, when I am set at the Table, send it to me in a silver dish, with sauce beseeming so dainty a morsell. The Cooke tooke the heart, beleeving it to be no otherwise, then as his Lord had saide: and using his utmost skill in dressing it, did divide it into artificiall small slices, and made it most pleasing to be tasted. When supper time was come, _Rossiglione_ sate downe at the table with his Lady: but hee had little or no appetite at all to eate, the wicked deed which he had done so perplexed his soule, and made him to sit very strangely musing. At length, the Cook brought in the dainty dish, which he himselfe setting before his wife, began to finde fault with his own lack of stomack, yet provoked her with many faire speeches, to tast the Cooks cunning in so rare a dish. The Lady having a good appetite indeede, when she had first tasted it, fed afterward so heartily thereon, that shee left very little, or none at all remaining. When he perceyved that all was eaten, he said unto her: Tel me Madam, how you do like this delicate kinde of meat? In good faith Sir (quoth she) in all my life I was never better pleased. Now trust mee Madam, answered the Knight, I doe verily beleeve you, nor do I greatly wonder thereat, if you like that dead, which you loved so dearly being alive. When she heard these words, a long while she sate silent, but afterward saide. I pray you tell mee Sir, what meate was this which you have made me to eate? Muse no longer (said he) for therein I will quickly resolve thee. Thou hast eaten the heart of _Messer Guiglielmo Guardastagno_, whose love was so deare and precious to thee, thou false, perfidious, and disloyall Lady: I pluckt it out of his vile body with mine owne hands, and made my Cooke to dresse it for thy diet. Poor Lady, how strangely was her soule afflicted, hearing these harsh and unpleasing speeches? Teares flowed aboundantly from her faire eies, and like tempestuous windes embowelled in the earth, so did vehement sighes breake mainly from her heart, and after a tedious time of silence, she spake in this manner. My Lord and husband, you have done a most disloyall and damnable deede, misguided by your owne wicked jealous opinion, and not by any just cause given you, to murther so worthie and Noble a Gentleman. I protest unto you uppon my soule, which I wish to bee confounded in eternall perdition, if ever I were unchaste to your bedde, or allowed him any other favour, but what might well become so honourable a friend. And seeing my bodie hath bene made the receptacle for so precious a kinde of foode, as the heart of so valiant and courteous a Knight, such as was the Noble _Guardastagno_; never shall any other foode heereafter, have entertainment there, or my selfe live the Wife to so bloody a husband. So starting uppe from the Table, and stepping unto a great gazing Windowe, the Casement whereof standing wide open behinde her: violently shee leaped out thereat, which beeing an huge heighth in distance from the ground, the fall did not onely kill her, but also shivered her bodie into many peeces. Which _Rossiglione_ perceyving, hee stoode like a bodie without a soule, confounded with the killing of so deare a friend, losse of a chaste and honourable wife, and all through his owne over-credulous conceit. Uppon further conference with his private thoughtes, and remorsefull acknowledgement of his heinous offence, which repentance (too late) gave him eyes now to see, though rashnesse before would not permit him to consider; these two extreamities inlarged his dulled understanding. First, he grew fearfull of the friends and followers to murdered _Guardastagno_, as also the whole Countrey of _Provence_, in regarde of the peoples generall love unto him; which being two maine and important motives, both to the detestation of so horrid an acte, and immediate severe revenge to succeed thereon: hee made such provision as best hee could, and as so sodaine a warning would give leave, hee fled away secretly in the night season. These unpleasing newes were soone spread abroad the next morning, not only of the unfortunate accidents, but also of _Rossigliones_ flight; in regard whereof, the dead bodyes being found, and brought together, as well by the people belonging to _Guardastagno_, as them that attended on the Lady: they were layed in the Chappell of _Rossigliones_ Castell; where, after so much lamentation for so great a misfortune to befall them, they were honourably enterred in one faire Tombe, with excellent Verses engraven thereon, expressing both their noble degree, and by what unhappy meanes, they chanced to have buriall there. _A Physitians wife laide a Lover of her Maids (supposing him to bee dead) in a Chest, by reason that he had drunke water, which usually was given to procure a sleepy entrancing. Two Lombard Usurers, stealing the Chest, in hope of a rich booty, carried it into their owne house, where afterward the man awaking, was apprehended for a Theefe. The Chamber-maide to the Physitians wife, going before the bench of Justice, accuseth her selfe for putting the imagined dead body into the Chest, by which meanes he escapeth hanging. And the theeves which stole away the Chest, were condemned to pay a great summe of money._ The tenth Novell. _Wherein is declared, that sometime by adventurous accident, rather then anie reasonable comprehension, a man may escape out of manifold perilles, but especially in occurrences of Love._ After that the King had concluded his Novell, there remained none now but _Dioneus_ to tell the last; which himselfe confessing, and the King commaunding him to proceede, he beganne in this manner. So many miseries of unfortunate Love, as all of you have alreadie related, hath not onely swolne your eyes with weeping, but also made sicke our hearts with sighing: yea (Gracious Ladies) I my selfe finde my spirits not meanly afflicted thereby. Wherefore the whole day hath bene very irkesome to me, and I am not a little glad, that it is so neere ending. Now, for the better shutting it up altogether, I would be very loath to make an addition, of any more such sad and mournfull matter, good for nothing but onely to feede melancholly humour, and from which (I hope) my faire Starres will defend me. Tragical discourse, thou art no fit companion for me, I will therefore report a Novell which may minister a more joviall kinde of argument, unto those tales that must bee told to morrow, and with the expiration of our present Kings reigne, to rid us of all heart-greeving heereafter. Know then (most gracious assembly) that it is not many yeares since, when there lived in _Salerne_, a verie famous Physitian, named Signieur _Mazzeo della Montagna_, who being already well entred into years, would (neverthelesse) marrie with a beautifull young Mayden of the Cittie, bestowing rich garments, gaudie attyres, Ringes, and Jewelles on her, such as few Women elsee could any way equall, because hee loved her most deerely. Yet being an aged man, and never remembering, how vaine and idle a thing it is, for age to make such an unfitting Election, injurious to both; and therefore endangering that domesticke agreement, which ought to bee the sole and maine comfort of Marriage: it maketh mee therefore to misdoubt, that as in our former Tale of Signiour _Ricciardo de Cinzica_, some dayes of the Calender did heere seeme as distastefull, as those that occasioned the other Womans discontentment. In such unequall choyses, Parents commonly are more blame-woorthie, then any imputation, to bee layde on the young Women, who gladdely would enjoy such as in heart they have elected: but that their Parents, looking thorough the glasses of greedie lucre, doe overthrow both their owne hopes, and the faire fortunes of their children together. Yet to speake uprightly of this young married Wife, she declared her selfe to be of a wise and chearefull spirit, not discoraged with her inequalitie of marriage: but bearing all with a contented browe, for feare of urging the very least mislike in her Husband. And hee, on the other side, when occasions did not call him to visite his pacients, or to be present at the Colledge among his fellow-Doctours, would alwayes bee chearing and comforting his Wife, as one that could hardly affoord to bee out of her company. There is one especiall fatall misfortune, which commonly awaiteth on olde mens marriages; when freezing December will match with flouring May, and greene desires appeare in age, beyond all possibility of performance. Nor are there wanting good store of wanton Gallants, who hating to see Beauty in this manner betrayed, and to the embraces of a loathed bed, will make their folly seene in publike appearance, and by their dayly proffers of amorous services (seeming compassionate of the womans disaster) are usually the cause of jealous suspitions, & very heinous houshold discontentments. Among divers other, that faine would bee nibling at this bayte of beautie, there was one, named _Ruggiero de Jeroly_, of honourable parentage, but yet of such a deboshed and disordered life, as neither Kindred or Friends, were willing to take any knowledge of him, but utterly gave him over to his dissolute courses: so that, thoroughout all _Salerne_, his conditions caused his generall contempt, and hee accounted no better, but even as a theeving and lewde companion. The Doctours Wife, had a Chamber-maide attending on her; who, notwithstanding all the ugly deformities in _Ruggiero_, regarding more his person then his imperfections (because hee was a compleate and well-featured youth) bestowed her affection most entirely on him, and oftentimes did supplie his wants, with her owne best meanes. _Ruggiero_ having this benefite of the Maides kinde love to him, made it an hopefull mounting Ladder, whereby to derive some good liking from the Mistresse, presuming rather on his outward comely parts, then anie other honest quality that might commend him. The Mistresse knowing what choyse her Maide had made, and unable by any perswasions to remoove her, tooke knowledge of _Ruggieroes_ privat resorting to hir house, and in meere love to her Maide (who had very many especiall deservings in her) oftentimes she would (in kinde manner) rebuke him, and advise him to a more setled course of life; which counsell, that it might take the better effect; she graced with liberall gifts: one while with Gold, others with Silver, and often with garments, for his comelier accesse thether: which bounty, he (like a lewde mistaker) interpreted as assurances of her affection to him, and that he was more graceful in her eye, then any man elsee could be. In the continuance of these proceedings, it came to passe, that master Doctor _Mazzeo_ (being not onely a most expert Physitian, but likewise as skilfull in Chirurgerie beside) hadde a Pacient in cure, who by great misfortune, had one of his legges broken all in pieces; which some weaker judgement having formerly dealt withall, the bones and sinewes were become so fowly putrified, as he tolde the parties friends, that the legge must bee quite cut off, or elsee the Pacient must needes dye: yet he intended so to order the matter, that the perrill should proceede no further, to prejudice any other part of the bodie. The case beeing thus resolved on with the Pacient and his Friends, the day and time was appointed when the deede should be done: and the Doctor conceyving, that except the Patient were sleepily entranced, hee could not by anie meanes endure the paine, but must needes hinder what he meant to do: by distillation hee made such an artificiall Water, as (after the Pacient hath receyved it) it will procure a kinde of dead sleepe, and endure so long a space, as necessity requireth the use thereof, in full performance of the worke. After he had made this sleepy water, he put it into a glasse, wherewith it was filled (almost) up to the brimme; and till the time came when hee should use it; hee set it in his owne Chamber-Windowe, never acquainting any one, to what purpose he had provided the water, nor what was his reason of setting it there; when it drew towards the evening, and he was returned home from his pacients, a Messenger brought him Letters from _Malfy_, concerning a great conflict hapning there between two Noble Families, wherein divers were very dangerously wounded on either side, and without his speedy repairing thither, it would prove to the losse of many lives. Heereupon, the cure of the mans leg must needs bee prolonged, untill he was returned backe againe, in regard that manie of the wounded persons were his worthy friends, and liberall bountie was there to be expected, which made him presently go aboord a small Barke, and forthwith set away towards _Malfy_. This absence of Master Doctor _Mazzeo_, gave opportunity to adventurous _Ruggiero_, to visite his house (he being gone) in hope to get more Crownes, and courtesie from the Mistresse, under formall colour of courting the Maide. And being closely admitted into the house, when divers Neighbours were in conference with her Mistresse, and helde her with such pleasing Discourse, as required longer time then was expected: the Maide, had no other roome to conceale _Ruggiero_ in, but onely the bed chamber of her Master, where she lockt him in; because none of the houshold people should descry him, and stayed attending on her Mistris, till all the Guests tooke their leave, and were gone. _Ruggiero_ thus remayning alone in the Chamber, for the space of three long houres and more, was visited neither by Maide nor Mistris, but awaited when he should bee set at liberty. Now, whether feeding on salt meats before his coming thither, or customary use of drinking, which maketh men unable any long while to abstain, as being never satisfied with excesse; which of these two extreams they were, I know not: but drink needs hee must. And, having no other meanes for quenching his thirst, espied the glasse of water standing in the Window, and thinking it to be some soveraigne kinde of water, reserved by the Doctor for his owne drinking, to make him lusty in his old years, he tooke the glasse; and finding the Water pleasing to his pallate, dranke it off every drop; then sitting downe on a Coffer by the beds side, soone after hee fell into a sound sleepe, according to the powerfull working of the water. No sooner were all the Neighbours gone, and the Maide at libertie from her Mistresse, but unlocking the doore, into the chamber she went; and finding _Ruggiero_ sitting fast asleepe, she began to hunch and punche him, entreating him (softly) to awake: but all was to no purpose, for hee neither mooved, or answered one word, whereat her patience being some what provoked, she punched him more rudely, and angerly said: Awake for shame thou drowsie dullard, and if thou be so desirous of sleeping, get thee home to thine owne lodging, because thou art not allowed to sleep heere. _Ruggiero_ being thus rudely punched, fell from off the Coffer flat on the ground, appearing no other in all respects, then as if hee were a dead body. Whereat the Maide being fearfully amazed, plucking him by the nose and yong beard, and what elsee she could devise to do, yet all her labour proving still in vaine: she was almost beside her wits, stamping and raving all about the roome, as if sence and reason had forsaken her; so violent was her extreame distraction. Upon the hearing of this noise, her Mistris came sodainely into the Chamber, where being affrighted at so strange an accident, and suspecting that _Ruggiero_ was dead indeed: she pinched him strongly, and burnt his fingers with a candle, yet all was as fruitlesse as before. Then sitting downe, she began to consider advisedly with her selfe, how much her honour and reputation would be endangered heereby, both with her Husband, and in vulgar opinion when this should come to publique notice. For (quoth she to her Maide) it is not thy fond love to this unruly fellow that can sway the censure of the monster multitude, in beleeving his accesse hither onely to thee: but my good name, and honest repute, as yet untoucht with the very least taxation, will be rackt on the tenter of infamous judgement, and (though never so cleare) branded with generall condemnation. It is wisedome therefore, that we should make no noise but (in silence) consider with our selves, how to cleare the house of this dead body, by some such helpfull and witty device, as when it shall bee found in the morning, his being heere may passe without suspition, and the worlds rash opinion no way touch us. Weeping and lamenting is now laid aside, and all hope in them of his lives restoring: onely to rid his body out of the house, that now requires their care and cunning, whereupon the Maide thus beganne. Mistresse (quoth she) this evening, although it was very late, at our next Neighbours doore (who you know is a Joyner by his trade) I saw a great Chest stand; and, as it seemeth, for a publike sale, because two or three nightes together, it hath not bene thence remooved: and if the owner have not lockt it, all invention elsee cannot furnish us with the like help. For therein will we lay his body, whereon I will bestow two or three wounds with my Knife, and leaving him so, our house can be no more suspected concerning his being heere, then any other in the streete beside; nay rather farre lesse, in regard of your husbands credit and authority. Moreover, heereof I am certaine, that he being of such bad and disordered qualities: it will the more likely be imagined, that he was slaine by some of his own loose companions, being with them about some pilfering busines, and afterward hid his body in the chest, it standing so fitly for the purpose, and darke night also favouring the deed. The Maids counsell past under the seale of allowance, only her Mistris thought it not convenient, that (having affected him so deerely) shee should mangle his body with any wounds; but rather to let it be gathered by more likely-hood, that villaines had strangled him, and then conveied his body into the Chest. Away she sends the Maide, to see whether the Chest stood there still, or no; as indeede it did, and unlockt, whereof they were not a little joyfull. By the helpe of her Mistresse, the Maide tooke _Ruggiero_ upon her shoulders, and bringing him to the doore, with diligent respect that no one could discover them; in the Chest they laide him, and so there left him, closing downe the lidde according as they found it. In the same street, and not farre from the Joyner, dwelt two yong men who were Lombards, living uppon the interest of their moneyes, coveting to get much, and spend little. They having observed where the chest stood, and wanting a necessary mooveable to houshold, yet loath to lay out mony for buying it: complotted together this very night, to steale it thence, and carry it home to their house, as accordingly they did; finding it somewhat heavy, and therefore imagining, that matter of woorth was contained therein. In the chamber where their wives lay, they left it; and so without any further search till the next morning, they laid them down to rest likewise. _Ruggiero_, who had now slept a long while, the drinke being digested, & the vertue thereof fully consummated; began to awake before day. And although his naturall sleep was broken, and his sences had recoverd their former power, yet notwithstanding, there remained such an astonishment in his braine, as not onely did afflict him all the day following, but also divers dayes and nights afterward. Having his eies wide open, & yet not discerning any thing, he stretched forth his armes every where about him, and finding himselfe to be enclosed in the chest, he grew more broad awake, and said to himselfe. What is this? Where am I? Do I wake or sleepe? Full well I remember, that not long since I was in my sweet-hearts Chamber, and now (me thinkes) I am mewed up in a chest. What shold I thinke heereof? Is master Doctor returned home, or hath some other inconvenience hapned, whereby finding me asleepe, she was enforced to hide me thus? Surely it is so, and otherwise it cannot bee: wherefore, it is best for mee to lye still, and listen when I can heare any talking in the Chamber. Continuing thus a longer while then otherwise hee would have done, because his lying in the bare Chest was somewhat uneasie and painfull to him; turning divers times on the one side, and then as often again on the other, coveting still for ease, yet could not find any: at length, he thrust his backe so strongly against the Chests side, that (it standing on an un-even ground) it began to totter, and after fell downe. In which fall, it made so loud a noise, as the women (lying in the beds standing by) awaked, and were so overcome with feare, that they had not the power to speake one word. _Ruggiero_ also being affrighted with the Chests fall, and perceiving how by that meanes it was become open: he thought it better, least some other sinister fortune should befall him, to be at open liberty, then inclosed up so strictly. And because he knew not where he was, as also hoping to meet with his Mistresse; he went all about groping in the dark, to finde either some staires or doore, whereby to get forth. When the Women (being then awake) heard his trampling, as also his justling against the doores and Windowes; they demaunded, Who was there? _Ruggiero_, not knowing their voyces, made them no answer, wherefore they called to their husbands, who lay verie soundly sleeping by them, by reason of their so late walking abroad, and therefore heard not this noise in the house. This made the Women much more timorous, and therefore rising out of their beddes, they opened the Casements towards the streete, crying out aloude, Theeves, Theeves. The neighbours arose upon this outcry, running up and downe from place to place, some engirting the house, and others entering into it: by means of which troublesome noise, the two Lombards awaked, and seizing there uppon poore _Ruggiero_, (who was well-neere affrighted out of his wittes, at so strange an accident, and his owne ignorance, how he happened thither, and how to escape from them) he stood gazing on them without any answer. By this time, the Sergeants and other Officers of the City, ordinarily attending on the Magistrate, beeing raised by the tumult of this uproare, were come into the house, and had poore _Ruggiero_ committed unto their charge: who bringing him before the Governor, was forthwith called in question, and known to be of a most wicked life, a shame to al his friends and kindred. He could say little for himselfe, never denying his taking in the house, and therefore desiring to finish all his fortunes together, desperately confessed, that he came with a fellonious intent to rob them, and the Governor gave him sentence to be hanged. Soone were the newes spread throughout _Salerne_, that _Ruggiero_ was apprehended, about robbing the house of the two usuring Lombardes: which when Mistresse Doctor and her Chamber-maide heard, they were confounded with most straunge admiration, and scarsely credited what they themselves had done the night before, but rather imagined all matters past, to be no more then meerely a dreame, concerning _Ruggieroes_ dying in the house, and their putting him into the Chest, so that by no likely or possible meanes, hee could bee the man in this perillous extreamitie. In a short while after, Master Doctor _Mazzeo_ was returned from _Malfy_, to proceede in his cure of the poore mans legge; and calling for his glasse of Water, which he left standing in his owne Chamber window, it was found quite empty, and not a drop in it: whereat hee raged so extreamly, as never had the like impatience beene noted in him. His wife, and her Maide, who had another kinde of businesse in their braine, about a dead man so strangely come to life againe, knewe not well what to say; but at the last, his Wife thus replyed somewhat angerly. Sir (quoth she) what a coyle is heere about a paltry glasse of Water, which perhaps hath bene spilt, yet neyther of us faulty therein? Is there no more such water to be had in the world? Alas deere Wife (saide hee) you might repute it to be a common kinde of Water, but indeede it was not so; for I did purposely compound it, onely to procure a dead-seeming sleepe: And so related the whole matter at large, of the Pacients legge, and his Waters losse. When she had heard these words of her husband, presently she conceived, that the water was drunke off by _Ruggiero_, which had so sleepily entranced his sences, as they verily thought him to bee dead, wherefore she saide. Beleeve me Sir, you never acquainted us with any such matter, which would have procured more carefull respect of it: but seeing it is gone, your skill extendeth to make more, for now there is no other remedy. While thus Master Doctor and his Wife were conferring together, the Maide went speedily into the Citie, to understand truly, whither the condemned man was _Ruggiero_, and what would now become of him. Beeing returned home againe, and alone with her Mistresse in the Chamber, thus she spake. Now trust me Mistresse, not one in the Citie speaketh well of _Ruggiero_, who is the man condemned to dye; and, for ought I can perceive, he hath neither Kinsman nor Friend that will doe any thing for him; but he is left with the Provost, and must be executed to morrow morning. Moreover Mistresse, by such instructions as I have received, I can well-neere informe you, by what meanes hee came to the two Lombards house, if all be true that I have heard. You know the Joyner before whose doore the Chest stoode, wherein we did put _Ruggiero_; there is now a contention betweene him and another man, to whom (it seemeth) the Chest doth belong; in regard whereof, they are readie to quarrell extremly each with other. For the one owning the Chest, and trusting the Joyner to sell it for him, would have him to pay him for the Chest. The Joyner denieth any sale thereof, avouching, that the last night it was stolne from his doore. Which the other man contrarying, maintaineth that he solde the Chest to the two Lombard usurers, as himself is able to affirme, because he found it in the house, when he (being present at the apprehension of _Ruggiero_) sawe it there in the same house. Heereupon, the Joyner gave him the lye, because he never sold it to any man; but if it were there, they had robd him of it, as hee would make it manifest to their faces. Then falling into calmer speeches they went together to the Lombardes house, even as I returned home. Wherefore Mistresse, as you may easily perceive, _Ruggiero_ was (questionlesse) carried thither in the chest, and so there found; but how he revived againe, I cannot comprehend. The Mistresse understanding now apparantly, the full effect of the whole businesse, and in what manner it had bene carried, revealed to the maide her husbands speeches, concerning the glasse of sleepie Water, which was the onely engine of all this trouble, clearly acquitting _Ruggiero_ of the robbery, howsoever (in desperate fury, and to make an end of a life so contemptible) he had wrongfully accused himselfe. And notwithstanding this his hard fortune, which hath made him much more infamous then before, in all the dissolute behaviour of his life: yet it coulde not quaile her affection towards him; but being loath he should dye for some other mans offence, and hoping his future reformation; she fell on her knees before her mistresse, and (drowned in her teares) most earnestly entreated her, to advise her with some such happy course, as might bee the safety of poore _Ruggieroes_ life. Mistresse Doctor, affecting her maide dearely, and plainly perceiving, that no disastrous fortune whatsoever, could alter her love to condemned _Ruggiero_; hoping the best heereafter, as the Maide her selfe did, and willing to save life rather then suffer it to be lost without just cause, she directed her in such discreet manner, as you will better conceyve by the successe. According as she was instructed by hir Mistris, shee fell at the feete of Master Doctor, desiring him to pardon a great error, whereby shee had over-much offended him. As how? said Master Doctor. In this manner (quoth the Maid) and thus proceeded. You are not ignorant Sir, what a leud liver _Ruggiero de Jeroly_ is, and notwithstanding all his imperfections, how dearely I love him, as hee protesteth the like to me, and thus hath our love continued a yeare, and more. You beeing gone to _Malfy_, and your absence granting me apt opportunity, for conference with so kinde a friend; I made the bolder, and gave him entrance into your house, yea even into mine owne Chamber, yet free from any abuse, neyther did hee (bad though he be) offer any. Thirsty he was before his coming thether, either by salt meats, or distempered diet, and I being unable to fetch him wine or water, by reason my Mistresse sate in the Hall, seriouslie talking with her Sisters; remembred, that I saw a viall of Water standing in your Chamber Windowe, which hee drinking quite off, I set it emptie in the place againe. I have heard your discontentment for the said Water, and confesse my fault to you therein: but who liveth so justly, without offending at one time or other? And I am heartily sorry for my transgression; yet not so much for the water, as the hard fortune that hath followd thereon; because thereby _Ruggiero_ is in danger to lose his life, and all my hopes are utterly lost. Let me entreat you therefore (gentle Master) first to pardon me, and then to grant me permission, to succour my poore condemned friend, by all the best meanes I can devise. When the Doctor had heard all her discourse, angry though he were, yet thus he answered with a smile. Much better had it bin, if thy follies punishment had falne on thy selfe, that it might have paide thee with deserved repentance, upon thy Mistresses finding thee sleeping. But go and get his deliverance if thou canst, with this caution, that if ever heereafter he be seene in my house, the peril thereof shall light on thy selfe. Receyving this answer, for her first entrance into the attempt, and as her Mistris had advised her, in all hast shee went to the prison, where shee prevailed so well with the Jaylor, that hee granted her private conference with _Ruggiero_. She having instructed him what he should say to the Provost, if he had any purpose to escape with life; went thither before him to the Provost, who admitting her into his presence, and knowing that shee was Master Doctors maid, a man especially respected of all the Citie, he was the more willing to heare her message, he imagining that shee was sent by her Master. Sir (quoth shee) you have apprehended _Ruggiero de Jeroly_, as a theefe, and judgement of death is (as I heare) pronounced against him: but hee is wrongfully accused, and is clearly innocent of such a heinous detection. So entering into the History, she declared every circumstance, from the originall to the end: relating truly, that being her Lover, shee brought him into her Masters house, where he dranke the compounded sleepy water, and reputed for dead, she laide him in the Chest. Afterward, she rehearsed the speeches betweene the Joyner, and him that laide claime to the Chest, giving him to understand thereby, how _Ruggiero_ was taken in the Lombards house. The Provost presently gathering, that the truth in this case was easy to be knowne; sent first for Master Doctor _Mazzeo_, to know, whether hee compounded any such water, or no: which he affirmed to bee true, and upon what occasion he prepared it. Then the Joyner, the owner of the Chest, and the two Lombards, being severally questioned withall: it appeared evidently, that the Lombards did steale the chest in the night season, and carried it home to their owne house. In the end, _Ruggiero_ being brought from the prison, and demanded, where hee was lodged the night before, made answer, that he knew not where. Only he well remembred, that bearing affection to the Chamber-maide of Master Doctor _Mazzeo della Montagna_, she brought him into a Chamber, where a violl of water stoode in the Window, and he being extreamly thirsty, dranke it off all. But what became of him afterward (till being awake, hee found himselfe enclosed in a Chest, and in the house of the two Lombards) he could not say any thing. When the Provost had heard all their answers, which he caused them to repeate over divers times, in regard they were very pleasing to him: he cleared _Ruggiero_ from the crime imposed on him, and condemned the Lombards in three hundred Ducates, to bee given to _Ruggiero_ in way of an amends, and to enable his marriage with the Doctors Mayde, whose constancie was much commended, and wrought such a miracle on penitent _Ruggiero_; that, after his marriage, which was graced with great and honourable pompe, he regained the intimate love of all his kindred, and lived in most Noble condition, even as if he had never beene the disordered man. If the former Novelse had made all the Ladies sad and sighe, this last of _Dioneus_ as much delighted them, as restoring them to their former jocond humour, and banishing Tragicall discourse for ever. The King perceyving that the Sun was neere setting, and his government as neere ending, with many kinde and courteous speeches, excused himselfe to the Ladies, for being the motive of such an argument, as expressed the infelicity of poore Lovers. And having finished his excuse, up he arose, taking the Crowne of Lawrell from off his owne head, the Ladies awaiting on whose head he pleased next to set it, which proved to be the gracious Lady _Fiammetta_, and thus hee spake. Heere I place this Crowne on her head, that knoweth better then any other, how to comfort this fayre assembly to morrow, for the sorrow which they have this day endured. Madame _Fiammetta_, whose lockes of haire were curled, long, and like golden wiers, hanging somewhat downe over her white & delicate shoulders, her visage round, wherein the Damaske Rose and Lilly contended for priority, the eyes in her head, resembling those of the Faulcon messenger, and a dainty mouth; her lippes looking like two little Rubyes with a commendable smile thus she replyed. _Philostratus_, gladly I do accept your gift; and to the end that ye may the better remember your selfe, concerning what you have done hitherto: I will and commaund, that generall preparation bee made against to morrow, for faire and happy fortunes hapning to Lovers, after former cruell and unkinde accidents. Which proposition was very pleasing to them all. Then calling for the Master of the Housholde, and taking order with him, what was most needfull to be done; shee gave leave unto the whole company (who were all risen) to go recreate themselves until supper time. Some of them walked about the Garden, the beauty whereof banished the least thought of wearinesse. Others walked by the River to the Mill, which was not farre off, and the rest fel to exercises, fitting their own fancies, untill they heard the summons for Supper. Hard by the goodly Fountaine (according to their wonted manner) they supped altogether, and were served to their no mean contentment: but being risen from the Table, they fell to their delight of singing and dancing. While _Philomena_ led the dance, the Queene spake in this manner. _Philostratus_, I intend not to varie from those courses heeretofore observed by my predecessors, but even as they have already done, so it is my authority, to command a Song. And because I am well assured, that you are not unfurnished of Songs answerable to the quality of the passed Novelse: my desire is, in regard we would not be troubled heereafter, with any more discourses of unfortunate Love, that you shall sing a Song agreeing with your owne disposition. _Philostratus_ made answer, that he was readie to accomplish her command, and without all further ceremony, thus he began. _The Song._ Chorus. _My teares do plainly prove, How justly that poore heart hath cause to greeve, Which (under trust) findes Treason in his love. When first I saw her, that now makes me sigh, Distrust did never enter in my thoughts. So many vertues clearly shin'd in her, That I esteem'd all martyrdome was light Which Love could lay on me. Nor did I greeve, Although I found my liberty was lost. But now mine error I do plainly see: Not without sorrow, thus betray'd to bee. My teares do, &c. For, being left by basest treachery Of her in whom I most reposed trust: I then could see apparant flatterie In all the fairest shewes that she did make. But when I strove to get forth of the snare, I found myselfe the further plunged in. For I beheld another in my place, And I cast off, with manifest disgrace. My teares do, &c. Then felt my heart such helse of heavy woes, Not utterable. I curst the day and houre When first I saw her lovely countenance, Enricht with beautie, farre beyond all other, Which set my soule on fire, enflamde each part, Making a martyrdome of my poore hart. My faith and hope being basely thus betrayde; I durst not moove, to speake I was affrayde. My teares do, &c. Thou canst (thou powerfull God of Love) perceive, My ceasselesse sorrow, voide of any comfort, I make my moane to thee, and do not fable, Desiring, that to end my misery, Death may come speedily, and with his Dart With one fierce stroke, quite passing through my hart: To cut off future fell contending strife, An happy end be made of Love and Life. My teares do, &c. No other meanes of comfort doth remaine, To ease me of such sharpe afflictions, But only death. Grant then that I may die, To finish greefe and life in one blest houre. For, being bereft of any future joyes, Come, take me quickly from so false a friend. Yet in my death, let thy great power approve, That I died true, and constant in my Love. My teares, &c. Happy shall I account this sighing Song, If some (beside my selfe) doe learne to sing it, And so consider of my miseries, As may incite them to lament my wrongs. And to be warned by my wretched fate; Least (like my selfe) themselves do sigh too late. Learne Lovers learne, what tis to be unjust, And be betrayed where you repose best trust._ Finis The words contained in this Song, did manifestly declare, what torturing afflictions poore _Philostratus_ felt, and more (perhaps) had beene perceived by the lookes of the Lady whom he spake of, being then present in the dance; if the sodaine ensuing darknesse had not hid the crimson blush, which mounted up into her face. But the Song being ended, & divers other beside, lasting till the houre of rest drew on; by command of the Queene, they all repaired to their Chambers. _The End of the Fourth Day._ THE FIFT DAY. _Whereon, all the Discourses do passe under the Governement of the most Noble Lady_ Fiammetta: _Concerning such persons, as have bene successefull in their Love, after many hard and perillous misfortunes._ The Induction. Now began the Sunne to dart foorth his golden beames, when Madam _Fiammetta_ (incited by the sweete singing Birdes, which since the breake of day, sat merrily chanting on the trees) arose from her bed: as all the other Ladies likewise did, and the three young Gentlemen descending downe into the fields, where they walked in a gentle pace on the greene grasse, until the Sunne were risen a little higher. On many pleasant matters they conferred together, as they walked in severall companies, til at the length the Queene, finding the heate to enlarge it selfe strongly, returned backe to the Castle; where when they were all arrived, shee commanded, that after this mornings walking, their stomackes should bee refreshed with wholsome Wines, as also divers sorts of banquetting stuffe. Afterward, they all repaired into the Garden, not departing thence, untill the houre of dinner was come: at which time, the Master of the houshold, having prepared every thing in decent readinesse, after a solemn song was sung, by order from the Queene, they were seated at the Table. When they had dined, to their owne liking and contentment, they began (in continuation of their former order) to exercise divers dances, and afterward voyces to their instruments, with many pretty Madrigals and Roundelayes. Uppon the finishing of these delights, the Queene gave them leave to take their rest, when such as were so minded, went to sleep, others solaced themselves in the Garden. But after midday was overpast, they met (according to their wonted manner) and as the Queene had commanded, at the faire Fountaine; where she being placed in her seate royall, and casting her eye upon _Pamphilus_, shee bad him begin the dayes discourses, of happy successe in love, after disastrous and troublesome accidents; who yeelding thereto with humble reverence, thus began. Many Novelse (gracious Ladies) do offer themselves to my memory, wherewith to beginne so pleasant a day, as it is her Highnesse desire that this should be, among which plenty, I esteeme one above all the rest: because you may comprehend thereby, not onely the fortunate conclusion, wherewith we intend to begin our day; but also, how mighty the forces of Love are, deserving to bee both admired and reverenced. Albeit there are many, who scarsely knowing what they say, do condemne them with infinite grosse imputations: which I purpose to disprove, & (I hope) to your no little pleasing. Chynon, _by falling in love, became wise, and by force of Armes, winning his faire Lady_ Iphigenia _on the Seas, was afterward imprisoned at_ Rhodes. _Being delivered by one named_ Lysimachus, _with him he recovered his_ Iphigenia _againe, and faire_ Cassandra, _even in the middest of their mariage. They fled with them into_ Candye, _where after they had married them, they were called home to their owne dwelling._ The first Novell. _Wherein is approved, that Love (oftentimes) maketh a man both wise and valiant._ According to the ancient Annales of the _Cypriots_, there sometime lived in _Cyprus_, a Noble Gentleman, who was commonly called _Aristippus_, and exceeded all other of the Countrey in the goods of Fortune. Divers children he had, but (amongst the rest) a Sonne, in whose birth he was more infortunate then any of the rest; and continually greeved, in regard, that having all the compleate perfections of beauty, good forme, and manly parts, surpassing all other youths of his age or stature, yet hee wanted the reall ornament of the soule, reason and judgement; being (indeed) a meere Ideot or Foole, and no better hope to be expected of him. His true name, according as he receyved it by Baptisme, was _Galesus_, but because neyther by the laborious paines of his Tutors, indulgence, and faire endeavour of his parents, or ingenuity of any other, he could bee brought to civility of life, understanding of Letters, or common cariage of a reasonable creature: by his grosse and deformed kinde of speech, his qualities also savouring rather of brutish breeding, then any way derived from manly education; as an epithite of scorne and derision, generally, they gave him the name of _Chynon_, which in their native Countrey language, and divers other beside, signifieth a very Sot or Foole, and so was he termed by every one. This lost kinde of life in him, was no meane burthen of greefe unto his Noble Father, and all hope being already spent, of any future happy recovery, he gave command (because he would not alwayes have such a sorrow in his sight) that he should live at a Farme of his owne in a Country Village, among his Peazants and Plough-Swaines. Which was not any way distastefull to _Chynon_, but well agreed with his owne naturall disposition; for their rurall qualities, and grosse behaviour pleased him beyond the Cities civility. _Chynon_ living thus at his Fathers Countrey Village, exercising nothing elsee but rurall demeanour, such as then delighted him above all other: it chanced upon a day about the houre of noone, as hee was walking over the fields, with a long Staffe on his necke, which commonly he used to carry; he entred into a small thicket, reputed the goodliest in all those quarters, and by reason it was then the month of May, the Trees had their leaves fairely shot forth. When he had walked thorow the thicket, it came to passe, that (even as if good Fortune guided him) he came into a faire Meadow, on everie side engirt with Trees, and in one corner thereof stoode a goodly Fountaine, whose current was both coole and cleare. Harde by it, uppon the greene grasse, he espied a very beautifull yong Damosell, seeming to bee fast asleepe, attired in such fine loose garments, as hidde verie little of her white body: onely from the girdle downward, shee ware a kirtle made close unto her, of interwoven delicate silke, and at her feete lay two other Damoselse sleeping, and a servant in the same manner. No sooner hadde _Chynon_ fixed his eie upon her, but he stood leaning uppon his staffe, and viewed her very advisedly, without speaking a word, and in no mean admiration, as if he had never seene the forme of a woman before. He began then to feele in his harsh rurall understanding (where into never till now, either by painfull instruction, or all other good meanes used to him, any honest civility had power of impression) a strange kinde of humour to awake, which informed his grosse and dull spirite, that this Damosell was the very fairest, which ever any living man beheld. Then he began to distinguish her parts, commending the tresses of hir haire, which he imagined to be of gold; her forehead, nose, mouth, neck, armes, but (above all) her brests, appearing (as yet) but onely to shewe themselves, like two little mountainets. So that, of a fielden clownish lout, he would needs now become a judge of beauty, coveting earnestly in his soule, to see her eyes, which were veiled over with sound sleepe, that kept them fast enclosed together, and onely to looke on them, hee wished a thousand times, that she would awake. For, in his judgement, she excelled all the women that ever he had seene, and doubted, whether she were some Goddesse or no; so strangely was he metamorphosed from folly, to a sensible apprehension, more then common. And so far did this sodaine knowledge in him extend; that he could conceive of divine and celestiall things, and that they were more to be admired & reverenced, then those of humane or terrene consideration; wherefore the more gladly he contented himselfe, to tarry til she awaked of her owne accord. And although the time of stay seemed tedious to him, yet notwithstanding, he was overcome with such extraordinary contentment, as hee had no power to depart thence, but stood as if he had bin glued fast to the ground. After some indifferent respite of time, it chanced that the young Damosel (who was named _Iphigenia_) awaked before any of the other with her, and lifting up her head, with her eyes wide open, shee saw _Chynon_ standing before her, leaning still on his staffe; whereat mervailing not a little, she saide unto him: _Chynon_, whither wanderest thou, or what dost thou seeke for in this wood? _Chynon_, who not onely by his countenance, but likewise his folly, Nobility of birth, and wealthy possessions of his father, was generally knowne throughout the Countrey, made no answere at all to the demand of _Iphigenia_: but so soone as he beheld her eies open, he began to observe them with a constant regard, as being perswaded in his soule, that from them flowed such an unutterable singularity, as he had never felt til then. Which the yong Gentlewoman well noting, she began to wax fearfull, least these stedfast lookes of his, should incite his rusticity to some attempt, which might redound to her dishonour: wherefore awaking her women and servant, and they all being risen, she saide. Farewell _Chynon_, I leave thee to thine owne good Fortune; whereto hee presently replyed, saying: I will go with you. Now, although the Gentlewoman refused his company, as dreading some acte of incivility from him: yet could she not devise any way to be rid of him, til he had brought her to her owne dwelling, where taking leave mannerly of her, hee went directly home to his Fathers house, saying; Nothing should compel him to live any longer in the muddy Countrey. And albeit his Father was much offended heereat, and all the rest of his kindred and friends: (yet not knowing how to helpe it) they suffered him to continue there still, expecting the cause of this his so sodaine alteration, from the course of life, which contented him so highly before. _Chynon_ being now wounded to the heart (where never any civil instruction could before get entrance) with loves piercing dart, by the bright beauty of _Iphigenia_, mooved much admiration (falling from one change to another) in his Father, Kindred, and all elsee that knew him. For first, he requested of his Father, that he might be habited and respected like to his other Brethren, whereto right gladly he condiscended. And frequenting the company of civill youths, observing also the cariage of Gentlemen, especially such as were amorously enclined: he grew to a beginning in short time (to the wonder of every one) not onely to understande the first instruction of letters, but also became most skilfull, even amongest them that were best exercised in Philosophie. And afterward, love to _Iphigenia_ being the sole occasion of this happy alteration, not only did his harsh and clownish voyce convert it selfe more mildely, but also hee became a singular Musitian, & could perfectly play on any Instrument. Beside, he tooke delight in the riding and managing of great horses, and finding himselfe of a strong and able body, he exercised all kinds of Military Disciplines, as wel by sea, as on the land. And, to be breefe, because I would not seeme tedious in the repetition of al his vertues, scarsly had he attained to the fourth yeare, after he was thus falne in love, but hee became generally knowne, to bee the most civil, wise, and worthy Gentleman, as well for all vertues enriching the minde, as any whatsoever to beautifie the body, that very hardly he could be equalled throughout the whole kingdome of _Cyprus_. What shall we say then, (vertuous Ladies) concerning this _Chynon_? Surely nothing elsee, but that those high and divine vertues, infused into his gentle soule, were by envious Fortune bound and shut uppe in some small angle of his intellect, which being shaken and set at liberty by love, (as having a farre more potent power then Fortune, in quickning and reviving the dull drowsie spirits); declared his mighty and soveraigne Authority, in setting free so many faire and precious vertues unjustly detayned, to let the worlds eye behold them truly, by manifest testimony, from whence he can deliver those spirits subjected to his power, & guide them (afterward) to the highest degrees of honour. And although _Chynon_ by affecting _Iphigenia_, failed in some particular things; yet notwithstanding, his Father _Aristippus_ duely considering, that love had made him a man, whereas (before) he was no better then a beast: not only endured all patiently, but also advised him therein, to take such courses as best liked himselfe. Neverthelesse, _Chynon_ (who refused to be called _Galesus_, which was his naturall name indeede) remembring that _Iphigenia_ tearmed him _Chynon_, and coveting (under that title) to accomplish the issue of his honest amorous desire: made many motions to _Ciphæus_ the Father of _Iphigenia_, that he would be pleased to let him enjoy her in marriage. But _Ciphæus_ told him, that he had already passed his promise for her, to a Gentleman of _Rhodes_, named _Pasimondo_, which promise he religiously intended to performe. The time being come, which was concluded on for _Iphigeniaes_ marriage, in regard that the affianced husband had sent for her: _Chynon_ thus communed with his owne thoughts. Now is the time (quoth he) to let my divine Mistresse see, how truly and honourably I doe affect her, because (by her) I am become a man. But if I could bee possessed of her, I should growe more glorious, then the common condition of a mortall man, and have her I will, or loose my life in the adventure. Beeing thus resolved, he prevailed with divers young Gentlemen his friends, making them of his faction, and secretly prepared a Shippe, furnished with all things for a Navall fight, setting sodainly forth to sea, and hulling abroad in those parts by which the vessell should passe, that must convey _Iphigenia_ to _Rhodes_ to her husband. After many honours done to them, who were to transport her thence unto _Rhodes_, being imbarked, they set saile uppon their _Bon viaggio_. _Chynon_, who slept not in a businesse so earnestly importing him, set on them (the day following) with his Ship, and standing aloft on the decke, cried out to them that had the charge of _Iphigenia_, saying. Strike your sayles, or elsee determine to be sunke in the Sea. The enemies to _Chynon_, being nothing danted with his words, prepared to stand upon their own defence; which made _Chynon_, after the former speeches delivered, and no answer returned, to commaund the grapling Irons to bee cast forth, which tooke such fast hold on the Rhodians shippe, that (whether they would or no) both the vesselse joyned close together. And hee shewing himselfe fierce like a Lyon, not tarrying to be seconded by any, stepped aboord the Rhodians ship, as if he made no respect at all of them, and having his sword ready drawne in his hand (incited by the vertue of unfaigned love) layed about him on all sides very manfully. Which when the men of _Rhodes_ perceyved, calling downe their weapons, and all of them (as it were) with one voice, yeelded themselves his prisoners: whereupon he said. Honest Friends, neither desire of booty, or hatred to you, did occasion my departure from _Cyprus_, thus to assaile you with drawne weapons: but that which heereto hath most mooved me, is a matter highly importing to me, and very easie for you to graunt, and so enjoy your present peace. I desire to have faire _Iphigenia_ from you, whom I love above all other Ladies living, because I could not obtain her of her Father, to make her my lawfull wife in marriage. Love is the ground of my instant Conquest, and I must use you as my mortall enemies, if you stand uppon any further tearmes with me, and do not deliver her as mine owne: for your _Pasimondo_, must not enjoy what is my right, first by vertue of my love, & now by conquest: Deliver her therefore, and depart hence at your pleasure. The men of _Rhodes_, being rather constrained thereto, then of any free disposition in themselves; with teares in their eyes, delivered _Iphigenia_ to _Chynon_; who beholding her in like manner to weepe, thus spake unto her. Noble Lady, do not any way discomfort your selfe, for I am your _Chynon_, who have more right and true title to you, and much better doe deserve to enjoy you, by my long continued affection to you, then _Pasimondo_ can any way pleade; because you belong to him but only by promise. So, bringing her aboord his owne ship, where the Gentlemen his companions gave her kinde welcome, without touching any thing elsee belonging to the Rhodians, he gave them free liberty to depart. _Chynon_ being more joyfull, by the obtaining of his hearts desire, then any other conquest elsee in the world could make him, after hee had spent some time in comforting _Iphigenia_, who as yet sate sadly sighing; he consulted with his companions, who joyned with him in opinion, that their safest course was, by no meanes to returne to _Cyprus_; and therefore all (with one consent) resolved to set saile for _Candye_, where every one made account, but especially _Chynon_, in regard of ancient and newe combined Kindred, as also very intimate friends, to finde very worthy entertainement, and so to continue there safely with _Iphigenia_. But Fortune, who was so favourable to _Chynon_, in granting him so pleasing a Conquest, to shew her inconstancy, as sodainly changed the inestimable joy of our jocond Lover, into as heavy sorrow and disaster. For, foure houres were not fully compleated, since his departure from the Rhodians, but darke night came upon them, and he sitting conversing with his fayre Mistris, in the sweetest solace of his soule; the winds began to blow roughly, the Seas swelled angerly, & a tempest arose impetuously, that no man could see what his duty was to do, in such a great unexpected distresse, nor how to warrant themselves from perishing. If this accident were displeasing to poore _Chynon_, I thinke the question were in vaine demanded: for now it seemed to him, that the Godds had granted his cheefe desire, to the end hee should dye with the greater anguish, in losing both his love and life together. His friends likewise, felte the selfesame affliction, but especially _Iphigenia_, who wept and greeved beyond all measure, to see the ship beaten, with such stormy billowes, as threatned her sinking every minute. Impatiently she cursed the love of _Chynon_, greatly blaming his desperate boldnesse, and maintaining, that so violent a tempest could never happen, but onely by the Gods displeasure, who would not permit him to have a wife against their will; and therefore thus punished his proud presumption, not only in his unavoidable death, but also that her life must perish for company. She continuing in these wofull lamentations, and the Mariners labouring all in vaine, because the violence of the tempest encreased more and more, so that every moment they expected wracking: they were carried (contrary to their owne knowledge) very neere unto the Isle of _Rhodes_, which they being no way able to avoid, and utterly ignorant of the coast; for safety of their lives, they laboured to land there if possibly they might. Wherein Fortune was somewhat furtherous to them, driving them into a small gulfe of the Sea, whereinto (but a little while before) the Rhodians, from whom _Chynon_ had taken Iphigenia, were newly entred with their ship. Nor had they any knowledge each of other, till the breake of day (which made the heavens to looke more clearly) gave them discoverie, of being within a flight shoote together. _Chynon_ looking forth, and espying the same ship which he had left the day before, hee grew exceeding sorrowfull, as fearing that which after followed, and therefore hee willed the Mariners, to get away from her by all their best endeavour, & let fortune afterward dispose of them as she pleased; for into a worse place they could not come, nor fall into the like danger. The Mariners employed their very utmost paines, and all prooved but losse of time: for the winde was so stern, and the waves so turbulent, that still they drove them the contrary way: so that striving to get foorth of the gulfe, whether they would or no, they were driven on land, and instantly knowne to the Rhodians, whereof they were not a little joyful. The men of _Rhodes_ being landed, ran presently to a neere neighbouring Village, where dwelt divers worthy Gentlemen, to whom they reported the arrivall of _Chynon_, what fortune befell them at Sea, and that _Iphigenia_ might now be recovered againe, with chastisement to _Chynon_ for his bold insolence. They being very joyfull of these good newes, tooke so many men as they could of the same Village, and ran immediately to the Sea side, where _Chynon_ being newly Landed and his people, intending flight into a neere adjoining Forrest, for defence of himselfe and _Iphigenia_, they were all taken, led thence to the Village, and afterwards to the chiefe City of _Rhodes_. No sooner were they arrived, but _Pasimondo_, the intended Husband for _Iphigenia_ (who had already heard the tydings) went and complayned to the Senate, who appointed a Gentleman of _Rhodes_, named _Lysimachus_, and being that yeare soveraigne Magistrate over the Rhodians, to go well provided for the apprehension of _Chinon_ and all his company, committing them to prison, which accordingly was done. In this manner, the poore unfortunate lover _Chynon_, lost his faire _Iphigenia_, having won her in so short a while before, and scarsely requited with so much as a kisse. But as for _Iphigenia_, she was royally welcommed by many Lords and Ladies of _Rhodes_, who so kindely comforted her, that she soone forgotte all her greefe and trouble on the Sea, remaining in company of those Ladies and Gentlewomen, untill the day determined for her mariage. At the earnest entreaty of divers Rhodian Gentlemen, who were in the Ship with _Iphigenia_, and had their lives courteously saved by _Chynon_: both he and his friends had their lives likewise spared, although _Pasimondo_ laboured importunately, to have them all put to death; onely they were condemned to perpetuall imprisonment, which (you must thinke) was most greevous to them, as being now hopelesse of any deliverance. But in the meane time, while _Pasimondo_ was ordering his nuptiall preparation, Fortune seeming to repent the wrongs shee had done to _Chynon_, prepared a new accident, whereby to comfort him in this deep distresse, and in such manner as I will relate unto you. _Pasimondo_ had a Brother, yonger then he in yeares, but not a jot inferiour to him in vertue, whose name was _Hormisda_, and long time the case had bene in question, for his taking to wife a faire yong Gentlewoman of _Rhodes_, called _Cassandra_; whom _Lysimachus_ the Governour loved verie dearly, and hindred her marriage with _Hormisda_, by divers strange accidents. Now _Pasimondo_ perceiving, that his owne Nuptials required much cost and solemnity, hee thought it very convenient, that one day might serve for both the Weddinges, which elsee would lanch into more lavish expences, and therefore concluded, that his brother _Hormisda_ should marry _Cassandra_, at the same time as he wedded _Iphigenia_. Heereuppon, he consulted with the Gentlewomans parents, who liking the motion as well as he, the determination was set downe, and one day to effect the duties of both. When this came to the hearing of _Lysimachus_, it was very greatly displeasing to him, because now he saw himselfe utterly deprived of al hope to attaine the issue of his desire, if _Hormisda_ receyved _Cassandra_ in marriage. Yet being a very wise and worthy man, hee dissembled his distaste, and began to consider on some apt meanes, whereby to disappoint the marriage once more, which he found impossible to bee done, except it were by way of rape or stealth. And that did not appear to him any difficult matter, in regard of his Office and Authority: onely it wold seeme dishonest in him, by giving such an unfitting example. Neverthelesse, after long deliberation, honour gave way to love, and resolutely he concluded to steale her away, whatsoever became of it. Nothing wanted now, but a convenient company to assist him, & the order how to have it done. Then he remembred _Chynon_ and his friends, whom he detained as his prisoners, and perswaded himself, that he could not have a more faithfull friend in such a busines, then _Chynon_ was. Hereupon, the night following, he sent for him into his Chamber, and being alone by themselves, thus he began. _Chynon_ (quoth hee) as the Gods are very bountifull, in bestowing their blessings on men, so doe they therein most wisely make proofe of their vertues, and such as they finde firme and constant, in all occurrences which may happen, them they make worthy (as valiant spirits) of the very best and highest merites. Now, they being willing to have more certain experience of thy vertues, then those which heeretofore thou hast shewne, within the bounds and limits of thy fathers possessions, which I know to be superabounding: perhaps do intend to present thee other occasions, of more important weight and consequence. For first of all (as I have heard) by the piercing solicitudes of love, of a senselesse creature, they made thee to become a man endued with reason. Afterward, by adverse fortune, and now againe by wearisome imprisonment, it seemeth that they are desirous to make triall, whether thy manly courage be changed, or no, from that which heretofore it was, when thou enjoyedst a matchlesse beautie, and lost her againe in so short a while. Wherefore, if thy vertue be such as it hath bin, the Gods can never give thee any blessing more worthy of acceptance, then she whom they are now minded to bestow on thee: in which respect, to the end that thou mayst re-assume thy wonted heroicke spirit, and become more couragious then ever heretofore, I will acquaint thee withall more at large. Understand then Noble _Chynon_, that _Pasimondo_, the onely glad man of thy misfortune, and diligent sutor after thy death, maketh all hast hee can possibly devise to do, to celebrate his marriage with thy faire mistris: because he would pleade possession of the prey, which Fortune (when she smiled) did first bestow, and (afterward frowning) took from thee again. Now, that it must needs be very irkesome to thee (at least if thy love bee such, as I am perswaded it is) I partly can collect from my selfe, being intended to be wronged by his brother _Hormisda_, even in the selfsame manner, and on his marriage day, by taking faire _Cassandra_ from me, the onely Jewell of my love and life. For the prevention of two such notorious injuries, I see that Fortune hath left us no other meanes, but only the vertue of our courages, and the helpe of our right hands, by preparing our selves to Armes, opening a way to thee, by a second rape or stealth; and to me the first, for absolute possession of our divine Mistresses. Wherefore, if thou art desirous to recover thy losse, I will not onely pronounce liberty to thee (which I thinke thou dost little care for without her) but dare also assure thee to enjoy _Iphigenia_, so thou wilt assist mee in mine enterprize, and follow me in my fortune, if the Gods do let them fall into our power. You may well imagine, that _Chynons_ dismayed soule was not a little cheared at these speeches; and therefore, without craving any long respit of time for answer, thus he replyed. Lord _Lysimachus_, in such a busines as this is, you cannot have a faster friend then my self, at least, if such good hap may betide me, as you have more then halfe promised: & therefore do no more but command what you would have to be effected by mee, and make no doubt of my courage in the execution: whereon _Lysimachus_ made this answer. Know then _Chynon_ (quoth hee) that three dayes hence, these marriages are to bee celebrated in the houses of _Pasimondo_ and _Hormisda_, upon which day, thou, thy friends, and my self (with some others, in whom I repose especiall trust) by the friendly favour of night, will enter into their houses, while they are in the middest of theyr Joviall feasting; and (seizing on the two Brides) beare them thence to a Shippe, which I will have lye in secret, waiting for our comming, and kil all such as shall presume to impeach us. This direction gave great contentment to _Chynon_, who remained still in prison, without revealing a word to his owne friends, until the limited time was come. Upon the Wedding day, performed with great and magnificent Triumph, there was not a corner in the Brethrens houses, but it sung joy in the highest key. _Lysimachus_, after he had ordered all things as they ought to be, and the houre for dispatch approached neere; he made a division in three parts, of _Chynon_, his followers, and his owne friendes, being all well armed under their outward habites. Having first used some encouraging speeches, for more resolute prosecution of the enterprize, he sent one troope secretly to the Port, that they might not be hindred of going aboord the ship, when the urgent necessity should require it. Passing with the other two traines of _Pasimondo_, he left the one at the doore, that such as were in the house might not shut them up fast, and so impeach their passage forth. Then with _Chynon_, and the third band of Confederates, he ascended the staires up into the Hall, where he found the Brides with store of Ladies and Gentlewomen, all sitting in comely order at Supper. Rushing in roughly among the attendants, downe they threw the Tables, and each of them laying hold of his Mistris, delivered them into the hands of their followers, commanding that they should be carried aboord the ship, for avoiding of further inconveniences. This hurrie and amazement beeing in the house, the Brides weeping, the Ladies lamenting, and all the servants confusedly wondering; _Chynon_ and _Lysimachus_ (with their Friends) having their weapons drawn in their hands, made all opposers to give them way, and so gayned the stair head for their owne descending. There stoode _Pasimondo_, with an huge long Staffe in his hand, to hinder their passage downe the stayres; but _Chynon_ saluted him so soundly on the head, that it being cleft in twaine, hee fell dead before his feete. His Brother _Hormisda_ came to his rescue, and sped in the selfe-same manner as he had done; so did divers other beside, whom the companions to _Lysimachus_ and _Chynon_, either slew out-right, or wounded. So they left the house, filled with bloode, teares, and out-cries, going on together, without any hinderance, and so brought both the Brides aboord the shippe, which they rowed away instantly with theyr Oares. For, now the shore was full of armed people, who came in rescue of the stolne Ladies: but all in vaine, because they were lanched into the main, and sayled on merrily towardes _Candye_. Where beeing arrived, they were worthily entertained by honourable Friendes and Kinsmen, who pacified all unkindnesses betweene them and their Mistresses: And, having accepted them in lawfull marriage, there they lived in no meane joy and contentment: albeit there was a long and troublesome difference (about these rapes) betweene _Rhodes_ and _Cyprus_. But yet in the end, by the meanes of Noble Friends and Kindred on either side, labouring to have such discontentment appeased, endangering warre betweene the Kingdomes: after a limited time of banishment, _Chynon_ returned joyfully with his _Iphigenia_ home to _Cyprus_, and _Lysimachus_ with his beloved _Cassandra_ unto _Rhodes_, each living in their severall Countries, with much felicity. _Faire_ Constance _of_ Liparis, _fell in love with_ Martuccio Gomito: _and hearing that he was dead, desperately she entred into a Barke, which being transported by the windes to_ Susa _in_ Barbary, _from thence she went to_ Thunis, _where she found him to be living. There she made her selfe knowne to him, and he being in great authority, as a privy Counsellor to the King: he married the saide_ Constance, _and returned richly home with her, to the Island of_ Liparis. The second Novell. _Wherein is declared the firme loyaltie of a true Lover: And how Fortune doth sometime humble men, to raise them afterward to a farre higher degree._ When the Queene perceyved, that the Novell recited by _Pamphilus_ was concluded, which she graced with especial commendations: she commaunded Madame _Æmillia_, to take her turne as next in order; whereupon, thus she began. Me thinkes it is a matter of equity, that every one should take delight in those things, whereby the recompence may be noted, answerable to their owne affection. And because I rather desire to walke along by the paths of pleasure, then dwell on any ceremonious or scrupulous affectation, I shall the more gladly obey our Queen to day, then yesterday I did our melancholly King. Understand then (Noble Ladies) that neere to _Sicily_, there is a small Island, commonly called _Liparis_, wherein (not long since) lived a yong Damosell, named _Constance_, born of very sufficient parentage in the same Island. There dwelt also a young man, called _Martuccio Gomito_, of comely feature, well conditioned, and not unexpert in many vertuous qualities; affecting _Constance_ in hearty manner: and she so answerable to him in the same kinde, that to be in his company, was her onely felicity. _Martuccio_ coveting to enjoy her in marriage, made his intent knowne to her Father: who upbraiding him with poverty, tolde him plainly that hee should not have her. _Martuccio_ greeving to see himselfe thus despised, because he was poore: made such good meanes, that he was provided of a small Barke; and calling such friends (as he thought fit) to his association, made a solemne vow, that hee would never returne backe to _Liparis_, untill he was rich, and in better condition. In the nature and course of a Rover or Pirate, so put he thence to sea, coasting all about _Barbarie_, robbing and spoyling such as hee met with; who were of no greater strength then himselfe: wherein Fortune was so favourable to him, that he became wealthy in a very short while. But as felicities are not alwayes permanent, so hee and his followers, not contenting themselves with sufficient riches: by greedy seeking to get more, happened to be taken by certaine ships of the Sarazins, and so were robbed themselves of all that they had gotten, yet they resisted them stoutly a long while together, though it proved to the losse of many lives among them. When the Sarazens had sunke his shippe in the Sea, they tooke him with them to _Thunis_, where he was imprisoned, and lived in extreamest misery. Newes came to _Liparis_, not onely by one, but many more beside, that all those which departed thence in the small Barke with _Martuccio_ were drowned in the Sea, and not a man escaped. When _Constance_ heard these unwelcome tydings (who was exceeding full of greefe, for his so desperate departure) she wept and lamented extraordinarily, desiring now rather to dye, then live any longer. Yet shee had not the heart, to lay any violent hand on her selfe, but rather to end her dayes by some new kinde of necessity. And departing privately from her Fathers house, shee went to the port or haven, where (by chance) she found a small Fisher-boate, lying distant from the other vesselse, the owners whereof being all gone on shore, and it well furnished with Masts, Sailes, and Oares, she entred into it; and putting forth the Oares, beeing some-what skilfull in sayling, (as generally all the Women of that Island are) shee so well guyded the Sailes, Rudder, and Oares, that she was quickly farre off from the Land, and soly remained at the mercy of the windes. For thus she had resolved with her selfe, that the Boat being uncharged, and without a guide, wold either be over-whelmed by the windes, or split in peeces against some Rocke; by which meanes she could not escape although shee would, but (as it was her desire) must needs be drowned. In this determination, wrapping a mantle about her head, and lying downe weeping in the boats bottome, she hourely expected her finall expiration: but it fell out otherwise, and contrary to her desperate intention, because the winde turning to the North, and blowing very gently, without disturbing the Seas a jot, they conducted the small Boat in such sort, that after the night of her entering into it, and the morowes sailing untill the evening, it came within an hundred leagues of _Thunis_, and to a strond neere a Towne called _Susa_. The young Damosell knew not whether she were on the sea or land; as one, who not by any accident hapning, lifted up her head to look about her, neither intended ever to doe. Now it came to passe, that as the boate was driven to the shore, a poore woman stood at the Sea side, washing certaine Fishermens Nets; and seeing the boate comming towards her under saile, without any person appearing in it, she wondred thereat not a little. It being close at the shore, and she thinking the Fishermen to be asleepe therein: stept boldly, and looked into the boate, where she saw not any body, but onely the poore distressed Damosell, whose sorrowes having broght her now into a sound sleepe, the woman gave many cals before she could awake her, which at the length she did, and looked very strangely about her. The poore woman perceyving by her habite that she was a Christian, demanded of her (in speaking Latine) how it was possible for her, beeing all alone in the boate, to arrive there in this manner? When _Constance_ heard her speake the Latine tongue, she began to doubt, least some contrary winde had turned her backe to _Liparis_ againe, and starting up sodainly, to looke with better advice about her, shee saw her selfe at Land: and not knowing the Countrey, demanded of the poore woman where she was? Daughter (quoth she) you are heere hard by _Susa_ in _Barbarie_. Which _Constance_ hearing, and plainly perceyving, that death had denied to end her miseries, fearing least she should receive some dishonour, in such a barbarous unkinde Country, and not knowing what shold now become of her, she sate downe by the boates side, wringing her hands, & weeping bitterly. The good Woman did greatly compassionate her case, and prevailed so well by gentle speeches, that shee conducted her into her owne poore habitation; where at length she understoode, by what meanes shee hapned thither so strangely. And perceyving her to be fasting, shee set such homely bread as she had before her, a few small Fishes, and a Crewse of Water, praying her for to accept of that poore entertainement, which meere necessity compelled her to do, and shewed her selfe very thankefull for it. _Constance_ hearing that she spake the Latine language so well; desired to know what she was. Whereto the olde woman thus answered: Gentlewoman (quoth she) I am of _Trapanum_, named _Carapresa_, and am a servant in this Countrey to certaine Christian Fishermen. The yong Maiden (albeit she was very full of sorrow) hearing her name to be _Carapresa_, conceived it as a good augury to her selfe, & that she had heard the name before, although shee knew not what occasion should move her thus to do. Now began her hopes to quicken againe, and yet shee could not tell upon what ground; nor was she so desirous of death as before, but made more precious estimation of her life, and without any further declaration of her selfe or countrey, she entreated the good woman (even for charities sake) to take pitty on her youth, and help her with such good advice, to prevent all injuries which might happen to her, in such a solitary wofull condition. _Carapresa_ having heard her request, like a good woman as shee was, left _Constance_ in her poore Cottage, and went hastily to leave her nets in safety: which being done, she returned backe againe, and covering _Constance_ with her Mantle, led her on to _Susa_ with her, where being arrived, the good woman began in this manner. _Constance_, I will bring thee to the house of a very worthy Sarazin Lady, to whome I have done manie honest services, according as she pleased to command me. She is an ancient woman, full of charity, and to her I will commend thee as best I may, for I am well assured, that shee will gladly entertaine thee, and use thee as if thou wert her owne daughter. Now, let it be thy part, during thy time of remaining with her, to employ thy utmost diligence in pleasing her, by deserving and gaining her grace, till heaven shall blesse thee with better fortune: And as she promised, so she performed. The Sarazine Lady, being well stept into yeares, upon the commendable speeches delivered by _Carapresa_, did the more seriously fasten her eye on _Constance_, and compassion provoking her to teares, she tooke her by the hand, and (in loving manner) kissed her fore-head. So she led her further into her house, where dwelt divers other women (but not one man) all exercising themselves in severall labours, as working in all sorts of silke, with Imbroideries of Gold and Silver, and sundry other excellent Arts beside, which in short time were verie familiar to _Constance_, and so pleasing grew her behaviour to the old Lady, and all the rest beside; that they loved and delighted in her wonderfully, and (by little and little) she attained to the speaking of their language, although it were verie harsh and difficult. _Constance_ continuing thus in the old Ladies service at _Susa_, & thought to be dead or lost in her owne Fathers house; it fortuned, that one reigning then as King of _Thunis_, who named himselfe _Mariabdela_: there was a young Lord of great birth, and very powerfull, who lived as then in _Granada_, and pleaded that the Kingdome of _Thunis_ belonged to him. In which respect, he mustred together a mighty Army, and came to assault the King, as hoping to expell him. These newes comming to the eare of _Martuccio Gomito_, who spake the Barbarian Language perfectly; and hearing it reported, that the King of _Thunis_ made no meane preparation for his owne defence: he conferred with one of his keepers, who had the custody of him, and the rest taken with him, saying: If (quoth hee) I could have meanes to speake with the King, and he were pleased to allow of my counsell, I can enstruct him in such a course, as shall assure him to win the honour of the field. The Guard reported these speeches to his master, who presently acquainted the King therewith, and _Martuccio_ being sent for; he was commanded to speake his minde: Whereupon he began in this manner. My gracious Lord, during the time that I have frequented your countrey, I have heedfully observed, that the Militarie Discipline used in your fights and battailes, dependeth more upon your Archers, then any other men imployed in your warre. And therefore, if it could bee so ordered, that this kinde of Artillery might fayle in your Enemies Campe, & yours be sufficiently furnished therewith, you neede make no doubt of winning the battaile: whereto the King thus replyed. Doubtlesse, if such an acte were possible to be done, it would give great hope of successefull prevailing. Sir, said _Martuccio_, if you please it may bee done, and I can quickly resolve you how. Let the strings of your Archers Bowes bee made more soft and gentle, then those which heretofore they have formerly used; and next, let the nockes of the Arrowes be so provided, as not to receive any other, then those pliant gentle strings. But this must be done so secretly, that your enemies may have no knowledge thereof, least they should provide themselves in the same manner. Now the reason (Gracious Lord) why thus I counsell you, is to this end. When the Archers on the Enemies side have shot their Arrowes at your men, and yours in the like manner at them: it followeth, that (upon meere constraint) they must gather up your Arrowes, to shoote them backe againe at you, for so long while as the battell endureth, as no doubt but your men will do the like to them. But your enemies will finde themselves much deceived, because they can make no use of your peoples Arrowes, in regard that the nockes are too narrow to receive their boysterous strings. Which will fall out contrary with your followers, for the pliant strings belonging to your Bowes, are as apt for their enemies great nockt Arrowes, as their owne, and so they shall have free use of both, reserving them in plentifull store, when your adversaries must stand unfurnished of any, but them that they cannot any way use. This counsell pleased the King very highly, and hee being a Prince of great understanding, gave order to have it accordingly followed, and thereby valiantly vanquished his enemies. Heereupon, _Martuccio_ came to be great in his grace, as also consequently rich, and seated in no meane place of authority. Now, as worthy and commendable actions are soone spread abroad, in honour of the man by whome they hapned: even so the fame of this rare got victory, was quickly noysed throughout the Countrey, and came to the hearing of poore _Constance_, that _Martuccio Gomito_ (whom she supposed so long since to be dead) was living, and in honourable condition. The love which formerly she bare unto him, being not altogether extinct in her heart; of a small sparke, brake foorth into a sodaine flame, and so encreased day by day, that her hope (being before almost quite dead) revived againe in chearfull manner. Having imparted all her fortunes to the good olde Lady with whome she dwelt; she told her beside, that she had an earnest desire to see _Thunis_, to satisfie her eyes as well as her eares, concerning the rumor blazed abroad. The good olde Lady commended her desire, and (even as if she had bene her mother) tooke her with her aboord a Barke, and so sayled thence to _Thunis_, where both she and _Constance_ found honourable welcome, in the house of a kinsman to the Sarazin Lady. _Carapresa_ also went along with them thither, and her they sent abroad into the Citie, to understand the newes of _Martuccio Gomito_. After they knew for a certaintie that hee was living, and in great authority about the King, according as the former report went of him. Then the good old Lady, being desirous to let _Martuccio_ know, that his faire friend _Constance_ was come thither to see him; went her selfe to the place of his abiding, and spake unto him in this manner. Noble _Martuccio_, there is a servant of thine in my house, which came from _Liparis_, and requireth to have a little private conference with thee: but because I durst not trust any other with the message, my selfe (at her entreaty) am come to acquaint thee therewith. _Martuccio_ gave her kinde and hearty thankes, and then went along with her to the house. No sooner did _Constance_ behold him, but shee was ready to dye with conceite of joy, and being unable to containe her passion: sodainely she threw her armes about his necke, and in meere compassion of her many misfortunes, as also the instant solace of her soule (not being able to utter one word) the teares trickled abundantly downe her cheekes. _Martuccio_ also seeing his faire friend, was overcome with exceeding admiration, & stood awhile, as not knowing what to say; till venting forth a vehement sighe, thus he spake. My deerest love _Constance_! art thou yet living? It is a tedious long while since I heard thou wast lost, and never any tydinges knowne of thee in thine owne Fathers house. With which wordes, the teares standing his eyes, most lovingly he embraced her. _Constance_ recounted to him all her fortunes, and what kindnesse she hadde receyved from the Sarazine Lady, since her first houre of comming to her. And after much other discourse passing betweene them, _Martuccio_ departed from her, and returning to the King his master, tolde him all the historie of his fortunes, and those beside of his Love _Constance_, beeing purposely minded (with his gracious liking) to marry her according to the Christian Law. The King was much amazed at so many strange accidents, and sending for _Constance_ to come before him; from her own mouth he heard the whole relation of her continued affection to _Martuccio_, whereuppon hee saide. Now trust me faire Damosell, thou hast dearly deserved him to be thy husband. Then sending for very costly Jewelse, and rich presents, the one halfe of them he gave to her, and the other to _Martuccio_, graunting them license withall, to marry according to their owne mindes. _Martuccio_ did many honours, and gave great giftes to the aged Sarazine Lady, with whom _Constance_ had lived so kindly respected: which although she had no neede of, neither ever expected any such rewarding; yet (conquered by their urgent importunity, especially _Constance_, who could not be thankfull enough to her) she was enforced to receive them, and taking her leave of them weeping, sayled backe againe to _Susa_. Within a short while after, the King licensing their departure thence, they entred into a small Barke, and _Carapresa_ with them, sailing on with prosperous gales of winde, untill they arrived at _Liparis_, where they were entertained with generall rejoycing. And because their marriage was not sufficiently performed at _Thunis_, in regard of divers Christian ceremonies there wanting, their Nuptials were againe most honourably solemnized, and they lived (many yeares after) in health and much happinesse. Pedro Bocamazzo, _escaping away with a yong Damosell which he loved, named_ Angelina, _met with Theeves in his journey. The Damosell flying fearfully into a Forrest, by chance arriveth at a Castle._ Pedro _being taken by the Theeves, and happening afterward to escape from them; commeth (accidentally) to the same Castle where_ Angelina _was. And marrying her, they then returned home to Rome._ The third Novell. _Wherein, the severall powers both of Love and Fortune, is more at large approved._ There was not any one in the whole company, but much commended the Novell reported by Madam _Emillia_, and when the Queene perceived it was ended, she turned towards Madam _Eliza_, commanding her to continue on their delightfull exercise: whereto shee declaring her willing obedience, began to speak thus. Courteous Ladies, I remember one unfortunate night, which happened to two Lovers, that were not indued with the greatest discretion. But because they had very many faire and happy dayes afterwardes, I am the more willing for to let you heare it. In the Citie of _Rome_, which (in times past) was called the Ladie and Mistresse of the world, though now scarsely so good as the waiting maid: there dwelt sometime a yong Gentleman, named _Pedro Bocamazzo_, descended from one of the most honourable families in _Rome_, who was much enamoured of a beautifull Gentlewoman, called _Angelina_, daughter to one named _Giglivozzo Saullo_, whose fortunes were none of the fairest, yet he greatly esteemed among the Romaines. The entercourse of love between these twaine, had so equally enstructed their hearts and souls, that it could hardly be judged which of them was the more fervent in affection. But he, not being inured to such oppressing passions, and therefore the lesse able to support them, except he were sure to compasse his desire, plainly made the motion, that he might enjoy her in honourable mariage. Which his parents and friends hearing, they went to conferre with him, blaming him with over-much basenesse, so farre to disgrace himselfe and his stocke. Beside, they advised the Father to the Maid, neither to credit what _Pedro_ saide in this case, or to live in hope of any such match, because they all did wholly despise it. _Pedro_ perceiving, that the way was shut up, whereby (and none other) he was to mount the Ladder of his hopes; began to waxe weary of longer living: and if he could have won her fathers consent, he would have maried her in the despight of all his friends. Neverthelesse, he had a conceit hammering in his head, which if the maid would bee as forward as himselfe, should bring the matter to full effect. Letters and secret intelligences passing still betweene, at length he understood her ready resolution, to adventure with him thorough all fortunes whatsoever, concluding on their sodaine and secret flight from Rome. For which _Pedro_ did so well provide, that very early in a morning, and well mounted on horsebacke, they tooke the way leading unto _Alagna_, where _Pedro_ had some honest friends, in whom he reposed especiall trust. Riding on thus thorow the countrey, having no leysure to accomplish their marriage, because they stoode in feare of pursuite: they were ridden above foure leagues from Rome, still shortning the way with their amorous discoursing. It fortuned, that _Pedro_ having no certaine knowledge of the way, but following a trackt guiding too farre on the left hand; rode quite out of course, and came at last within sight of a small Castle, out of which (before they were aware) yssued twelve Villaines, whom _Angelina_ sooner espyed, then _Pedro_ could do, which made her cry out to him, saying: Help deere Love to save us, or elsee we shall be assayled. _Pedro_ then turning his horse so expeditiously as he could, and giving him the spurres as neede required; mainly he gallopped into a neere adjoining Forrest, more minding the following of _Angelina_, then any direction of his way, or then that endeavoured to be his hinderance. So that by often winding & turning about, as the passage appeared troublesome to him, when he thought him selfe free and furthest from them, he was round engirt, and seized on by them. When they had made him to dismount from his horse, questioning him of whence and what he was, and he resolving them therein, they fell into a secret consultation, saying thus among themselves. This man is a friend to our deadly enemies, how can wee then otherwise dispose of him, but bereave him of all he hath, and in despight of the _Orsini_ (men in nature hatefull to us) hang him up heere on one of these Trees? All of them agreeing in this dismall resolution, they commanded _Pedro_ to put off his garments, which he yeelding to do (albeit unwillingly) it so fell out, that five and twenty other theeves, came sodainly rushing in upon them, crying, Kill, kill, and spare not a man. They which before had surprized _Pedro_, desiring nowe to shifte for their owne safetie; left him standing quaking in his shirt, and so ranne away mainely to defend themselves. Which the new crewe perceyving, and that their number farre exceeded the other: they followed to robbe them of what they had gotten, accounting it as a present purchase for them. Which when _Pedro_ perceyved, and saw none tarrying to prey uppon him; hee put on his cloathes againe, and mounting on his owne Horsse, gallopped that way, which _Angelina_ before had taken: yet could hee not descry any tracke or path, or so much as the footing of a horse; but thought himselfe in sufficient securitie, beeing rid of them that first seized on him, and also of the rest, which followed in the pursuite of them. For the losse of his beloved _Angelina_, he was the most wofull man in the world, wandering one while this way, and then againe another, calling for her all about the Forrest, without any answere returning to him. And not daring to ride backe againe, on he travailed still, not knowing where to make his arrivall. And having formerly heard of savage ravenous beasts, which commonly live in such unfrequented Forrests: he not onely was in feare of loosing his owne life, but also despayred much for his _Angelina_, least some Lyon or Woolfe, had torne her body in peeces. Thus rode on poore unfortunate _Pedro_, untill the breake of day appeared, not finding any meanes to get forth of the Forrest, still crying and calling for his fayre friend, riding many times backeward, when as hee thought hee rode forward, untill hee became so weake and faint, what with extreame feare, lowd calling, and continuing so long a while without any sustenance, that the whole day beeing thus spent in vaine, and darke night sodainly come uppon him, hee was not able to hold out any longer. Now was hee in farre worse case then before, not knowing where, or how to dispose of himselfe, or what might best bee done in so great a necessity. From his Horse hee alighted, and tying him by the bridle unto a great tree, uppe he climbed into the same Tree, fearing to bee devoured (in the night time) by some wilde beast, choosing rather to let his Horsse perish, then himselfe. Within a while after, the Moone beganne to rise, and the skies appeared bright and cleare: yet durst hee not nod, or take a nap, lest he should fall out of the tree; but sate still greeving, sighing, and mourning, despairing of ever seeing his _Angelina_ any more, for he could not be comforted by the smallest hopefull perswasion, that any good fortune might befall her in such a desolate Forrest, where nothing but dismall feares was to be expected, and no likelihood that she should escape with life. Now, concerning poore affrighted _Angelina_, who (as you heard before) knew not any place of refuge to flye unto: but even as it pleased hir horse to carry her: she entred so farre into the Forest, that she could not devise where to seeke her owne safety. And therefore, even as it fared with her friend _Pedro_, in the same manner did it fall out with her, wandering the whole night, and all the day following, one while taking one hopefull tracke, and then another, calling, weeping, wringing hir hands, and greevously complaining of her hard fortune. At the length, perceyving that _Pedro_ came not to her at all, she found a little path (which shee lighted on by great good fortune) even when dark night was apace drawing, and followed it so long, til it brought her within the sight of a small poore Cottage, whereto she rode on so fast as she could; and found therein a very old man, having a wife rather more aged then he, who seeing hir to be without company, the old man spake thus unto her. Faire daughter (quoth he) whether wander you at such an unseasonable houre, and all alone in a place so desolate? The Damosell weeping, replied; that shee had lost her company in the forest, and enquired how neere shee was to _Alagna_. Daughter (answered the old man) this is not the way to _Alagna_, for it is above sixe leagues hence. Then shee desired to knowe, how farre off shee was from such houses, where she might have any reasonable lodging? There are none so neere, said the old man, that day light will give you leave to reach. May it please you then good Father (replied _Angelina_) seeing I cannot travaile any whether elsee; For Gods sake, to let me remaine heere with you this night. Daughter answered the good old man, wee can gladly give you entertainement here, for this night, in such poore manner as you see: but let mee tell you withall, that up and downe these wooddes (as well by night as day) walke companies of all conditions, and rather enimies then friends, who doe us many greevious displeasures and harmes. Now if by misfortune, you beeing heere, any such people should come, and seeing you so loovely faire, as indeed you are, offer you any shame or injurie: Alas you see it lies not in our power to lend you any helpe or succour. I thought it good (therefore) to acquaint you heerewith; because if any such mischance do happen, you should not afterward complaine of us. The yong Maiden, seeing the time to be so farre spent, albeit the olde mans words did much dismay her, yet she thus replyed. If it be the will of heaven, both you and I shall be defended from any misfortune: but if any such mischance do happen, I account the matter lesse deserving grief, if I fall into the mercy of men, then to be devoured by wild beasts in this Forrest. So, being dismounted from her horse, and entred into the homely house; she supt poorely with the olde man and his wife, with such mean cates as their provision affoorded: and after supper, lay downe in hir garments on the same poore pallet, where the aged couple tooke their rest, and was very well contented therewith, albeit she could not refraine from sighing and weeping, to bee thus divided from her deare _Pedro_, of whose life and welfare she greatly despaired. When it was almost day, she heard a great noise of people travailing by, whereupon sodainly she arose, and ranne into a Garden plot, which was on the backside of the poore Cottage, espying in one of the corners a great stacke of Hay, wherein she hid her selfe, to the end, that travelling strangers might not readily finde her there in the house. Scarsely was she fully hidden, but a great company of Theeves and Villaines, finding the doore open, rushed into the Cottage, where looking round about them for some booty, they saw the Damoselse horse stand ready sadled, which made them demand to whom it belonged. The good olde man, not seeing the Maiden present there, but immagining that shee had made some shift for her selfe, answered thus. Gentlemen, there is no body here but my wife and my selfe: as for this Horse, which seemeth to bee escaped from the Owner; hee came hither yesternight, and we gave him house-roome heere, rather then to be devoured by Wolves abroad. Then said the principall of the Theevish crew; This horse shall be ours, in regard he hath no other master, and let the owner come claime him of us. When they had searched every corner of the poore Cottage, & found no such prey as they looked for, some of them went into the backe side; where they had left their Javelins and Targets, wherewith they used commonly to travaile. It fortuned, that one of them, being more subtily suspitious then the rest, thrust his Javeline into the stacke of Hay, in the very same place where the Damosell lay hidden, missing very little of killing her; for it entred so farre, that the iron head pierced quite thorough her Garments, and touched her left bare brest: whereupon, shee was ready to cry out, as fearing that she was wounded: but considering the place where she was, she lay still, and spake not a word. This disordred company, after they had fed on some young Kids, and other flesh which they brought with them thither, they went thence about their theeving exercise, taking the Damoselse horse along with them. After they were gone a good distance off, the good old man beganne thus to question his Wife. What is become (quoth hee) of our young Gentlewoman, which came so late to us yesternight? I have not seen hir to day since our arising. The old woman made answer, that she knew not where she was, and sought all about to finde her. _Angelinaes_ feares being well over-blowne, and hearing none of the former noise, which made her the better hope of their departure, came forth of the Hay-stack; whereof the good old man was not a little joyfull, and because she had so well escaped from them: so seeing it was now broad day-light, he sayde unto her. Now that the morning is so fairely begun, if you can be so well contented, we will bring you to a Castle, which stands about two miles and an halfe hence, where you will be sure to remaine in safety. But you must needs travaile thither on foote, because the night-walkers that happened hither, have taken away your horse with them. _Angelina_ making little or no account of such a losse, entreated them for charities sake, to conduct her to that Castle, which accordingly they did, and arrived there betweene seven and eight of the clocke. The Castle belonged to one of the _Orsini_, being called, _Liello di Campo di Fiore_, and by great good fortune, his wife was then there, she being a very vertuous and religious Lady. No sooner did shee looke upon _Angelina_, but shee knew her immediately, and entertaining her very willingly, requested, to know the reason of her thus arriving there: which shee at large related, and moved the Lady (who likewise knew _Pedro_ perfectly well) to much compassion, because he was a kinsman and deare friend to her Husband; and understanding how the Theeves had surprized him, shee feared, that he was slaine among them, whereupon shee spake thus to _Angelina_. Seeing you know not what is become of my kinsman _Pedro_, you shall remaine here with me, untill such time, as (if we heare no other tidings of him) you may with safety be sent backe to _Rome_. _Pedro_ all this while sitting in the Tree, so full of griefe, as no man could be more; about the houre of midnight (by the bright splendour of the Moone) espied about some twenty Wolves, who, so soone as they got a sight of the Horse, ran and engirt him round about. The Horse when he perceived them so neere him, drew his head so strongly back-ward, that breaking the reines of his bridle, he laboured to escape away from them. But being beset on every side, and utterly unable to helpe himselfe, he contended with his teeth & feete in his owne defence, till they haled him violently to the ground, and tearing his body in peeces, left not a jot of him but the bare bones, and afterward ran ranging thorow the Forrest. At this sight, poore _Pedro_ was mightily dismayed, fearing to speed no better then his Horse had done, and therefore could not devise what was best to be done; for he saw no likelihood now, of getting out of the Forrest with life. But day-light drawing on apace, and he almost dead with cold, having stood quaking so long in the Tree; at length by continuall looking every where about him, to discerne the least glimpse of any comfort; he espied a great fire, which seemed to be about halfe a mile off from him. By this time it was broade day, when he descended downe out of the Tree, (yet not without much feare) and tooke his way towards the fire, where being arrived, he found a company of Shepheards banquetting about it, whom he curteously saluting, they tooke pity on his distresse, and welcommed him kindly. After he had tasted of such cheare as they had, and was indifferently refreshed by the good fire; hee discoursed his hard disasters to them, as also how he happened thither, desiring to know, if any Village or Castle were neere thereabout, where he might in better manner releeve himselfe. The Shepheards told him, that about a mile and an halfe from thence, was the Castle of _Signior Liello di Campo di Fiore_, and that his Lady was now residing there; which was no meane comfort to poore _Pedro_, requesting that one of them would accompany him thither, as two of them did in loving manner, to ridde him of all further feares. When he was arrived at the Castle, and found there divers of his familiar acquaintance; he laboured to procure some meanes, that the Damosell might be sought for in the Forrest. Then the Lady calling for her, and bringing her to him; he ran and caught her in his armes, being ready to swoune with conceit of joy, for never could any man be more comforted, then he was at the sight of his _Angelina_, and questionlesse, her joy was not a jot inferior to his, such a simpathy of firme love was sealed between them. The Lady of the Castle, after shee had given them very gracious entertainement, and understood the scope of their bold adventure; shee reproved them both somewhat sharpely, for presuming so farre without the consent of their Parents. But perceiving (notwithstanding all her remonstrances) that they continued still constant in their resolution, without any inequality on either side; shee saide to her selfe. Why should this matter be any way offensive to me? They love each other loyally; they are not inferiour to one another in birth, but in fortune; they are equally loved and allied to my Husband, and their desire is both honest and honourable. Moreover, what know I, if it be the will of Heaven to have it so? Theeves intended to hang him, in malice to his name and kinred, from which hard fate he hath happily escaped. Her life was endangered by a sharpe pointed Javeline, and yet her fairer starres would not suffer her so to perish: beside, they both have escaped the fury of ravenous wild beasts, and all these are apparant signes, that future comforts should recompence former passed misfortunes; farre be it therefore from me, to hinder the appointment of the Heavens. Then turning her selfe to them, thus shee proceeded. If your desire be to joyne in honourable marriage, I am well contented therewith, and your nuptials shall here be sollemnized at my Husbands charges. Afterward both he and I will endeavour, to make peace between you and your discontented Parents. _Pedro_ was not a little joyfull at her kind offer, and _Angelina_ much more then he; so they were maried together in the Castle, and worthily feasted by the Lady, as Forrest entertainment could permit, and there they enjoyed the first fruits of their love. Within a short while after, the Lady and they (well mounted on Horse-backe, and attended with an honourable traine) returned to _Rome_; where her Lord _Liello_ and shee prevailed so wel with _Pedroes_ angry Parents: that all variance ended in love and peace, and afterward they lived lovingly together, till old age made them as honourable, as their true and mutuall affection formerly had done. Ricciardo Manardy, _was found by_ Messer Lizio da Valbonna, _as he sate fast asleepe at his Daughters Chamber window, having his hand fast in hers, and shee sleeping in the same manner. Whereupon, they were joyned together in marriage, and their long loyall love mutually recompenced._ The fourth Novell. _Declaring the discreete providence of Parents, in care of their Childrens love and their owne credit, to cut off inconveniences, before they doe proceede too farre._ Madam _Eliza_ having ended her Tale, and heard what commendations the whole company gave thereof; the Queene commanded _Philostratus_, to tell a Novell agreeing with his owne minde, who smiling thereat, thus replyed. Faire Ladies, I have beene so often checkt & snapt, for my yester dayes matter and argument of discoursing, which was both tedious and offensive to you; that if I intended to make you any amends, I should now undertake to tell such a Tale, as might put you into a mirthfull humour. Which I am determined to doe, in relating a briefe and pleasant Novell, not any way offensive (as I trust) but exemplary for some good notes of observation. Not long since, there lived in _Romania_, a Knight, a very honest Gentleman, and well qualified, whose name was _Messer Lizio da Valbonna_, to whom it fortuned, that (at his entrance into age) by his Lady and wife, called _Jaquemina_, he had a Daughter, the very choycest and goodliest gentlewoman in all those parts. Now because such a happy blessing (in their olde yeeres) was not a little comfortable to them; they thought themselves the more bound in duty, to be circumspect of her education, by keeping her out of over-frequent companies, but onely such as agreed best with their gravity, & might give the least ill example to their Daughter, who was named _Catharina_; as making no doubt, but by this their provident and wary respect, to match her in mariage answerable to their liking. There was also a young Gentleman, in the very flourishing estate of his youthfull time, descended from the Family of the _Manardy da Brettinoro_, named _Messer Ricciardo_, who oftentimes frequented the House of _Messer Lizio_, and was a continuall welcome guest to his Table, _Messer Lizio_ and his wife making the like account of him, even as if he had beene their owne Sonne. This young Gallant, perceiving the Maiden to be very beautifull, of singular behaviour, and of such yeeres as was fit for mariage, became exceedingly enamoured of her, yet concealed his affection so closely as he could; which was not so covertly caried, but that she perceived it, and grew in as good liking of him. Many times he had an earnest desire to have conference with her, which yet still he deferred, as fearing to displease her; till at the length he lighted on an apt opportunity, and boldly spake to her in this manner. Faire _Catharina_, I hope thou wilt not let me die for thy love? _Signior Ricciardo_ (replyed shee suddenly againe) I hope you will extend the like mercy to me, as you desire that I should shew to you. This answere was so pleasing to _Messer Ricciardo_, that presently he saide. Alas deare Love, I have dedicated all my fairest fortunes onely to thy service, so that it remaineth soly in thy power, to dispose of me as best shall please thee, and to appoint such times of private conversation, as may yeeld more comfort to my poore afflicted soule. _Catherina_ standing musing awhile, at last returned him this answere. _Signior Ricciardo_, quoth shee, you see what a restraint is set on my liberty, how short I am kept from conversing with any one, that I hold this our enterparlance now almost miraculous. But if you could devise any convenient meanes, to admit us more familiar freedome, without any prejudice to mine honour, or the least distaste of my Parents; doe but enstruct it, and I will adventure it. _Ricciardo_ having considered on many wayes and meanes, thought one to be the fittest of all; and therefore thus replyed. _Catharina_ (quoth he) the onely place for our more private talking together, I conceive to be the Gallery over your Fathers Garden. If you can winne your Mother to let you lodge there, I will make meanes to climbe over the wall, and at the goodly gazing window, we may discourse so long as we please. Now trust me deare Love (answered _Catharina_) no place can be more convenient for our purpose, there shall we heare the sweete Birds sing, especially the Nightingale, which I have heard singing there all the night long; I will breake the matter to my Mother, and how I speede, you shall heare further from me. So, with divers parting kisses, they brake off conference, till their next meeting. On the day following, which was towards the ending of the moneth of _May, Catharina_ began to complaine to her Mother, that the season was over-hot and tedious, to be still lodged in her Mothers Chamber, because it was an hinderance to her sleeping; and wanting rest, it would be an empairing of her health. Why Daughter (quoth the Mother) the weather (as yet) is not so hot, but (in my minde) you may very well endure it. Alas Mother, said shee, aged people, as you and my Father are, doe not feele the heates of youthfull bloud, by reason of your farre colder complexion, which is not to be measured by younger yeeres. I know that well Daughter, replyed the Mother; but is it in my power, to make the weather warme or coole, as thou perhaps wouldst have it? Seasons are to be suffered, according to their severall qualities; and though the last night might seeme hot, this next ensuing may be cooler, and then thy rest will be the better. No Mother, quoth _Catherina_, that cannot be; for as Summer proceedeth on, so the heate encreaseth, and no expectation can be of temperate weather, untill it groweth to Winter againe. Why Daughter, saide the Mother, what wouldest thou have me to doe? Mother (quoth shee) if it might stand with my Fathers good liking and yours, I would be lodged in the Garden Gallery, which is a great deale more coole, and temperate. There shall I heare the sweete Nightingale sing, as every night shee useth to doe, and many other pretty Birds beside, which I cannot doe, lodging in your Chamber. The Mother loving her Daughter dearely, as being some-what over-fond of her, and very willing to give her contentment; promised to impart her minde to her Father, not doubting but to compasse what shee requested. When shee had moved the matter to _Messer Lizio_, whose age made him somewhat froward and teasty; angerly he said to his wife. Why how now woman? Cannot our Daughter sleepe, except shee heare the Nightingale sing? Let there be a bed made for her in the Oven, and there let the Crickets make her melody. When _Catharina_ heard this answere from her Father, and saw her desire to be disappointed; not onely could shee not take any rest the night following, but also complained more of the heate then before, not suffering her Mother to take any rest, which made her goe angerly to her Husband in the morning, saying. Why Husband, have we but one onely Daughter, whom you pretend to love right dearely, and yet can you be so carelesse of her, as to denie her a request, which is no more then reason? What matter is it to you or me, to let her lodge in the Garden Gallery? Is her young bloud to be compared with ours? Can our weake and crazie bodies, feele the frolicke temper of hers? Alas, shee is hardly (as yet) out of her childish yeeres, and Children have many desires farre differing from ours: the singing of Birds is rare musicke to them, and chiefly the Nightingale; whose sweete notes will provoke them to rest, when neither art or physicke can doe it. Is it even so Wife? answered _Messer Lizio_. Must your will and mine be governed by our Daughter? Well be it so then, let her bed be made in the Garden Gallerie, but I will have the keeping of the key, both to locke her in at night, and set her at libertie every morning. Woman, woman, young wenches are wily, many wanton crochets are busie in their braines, and to us that are aged, they sing like Lapwings, telling us one thing, and intending another; talking of Nightingales, when their mindes run on Cocke-Sparrowes. Seeing Wife, shee must needes have her minde, let yet your care and mine extend so farre, to keepe her chastity uncorrupted, and our credulity from being abused. _Catharina_ having thus prevailed with her Mother, her bed made in the Garden Gallery, and secret intelligence given to _Ricciardo_, for preparing his meanes of accesse to her window; old provident _Lizio_ lockes the doore to bed-ward, and gives her liberty to come forth in the morning, for his owne lodging was neere to the same Gallery. In the dead and silent time of night, when all (but Lovers) take their rest; _Ricciardo_ having provided a Ladder of Ropes, with grapling hookes to take hold above and below, according as he had occasion to use it. By helpe thereof, first he mounted over the Garden wall, and then climbde up to the Gallery window, before which (as is every where in _Italie_) was a little round engirting Tarras, onely for a man to stand upon, for making cleane the window, or otherwise repairing it. Many nights (in this manner) enjoyed they their meetings, entermixing their amorous conference with infinite kisses and kinde embraces, as the window gave leave, he sitting in the Tarras, and departing alwayes before breake of day, for feare of being discovered by any. But, as excesse of delight is the Nurse to negligence, and begetteth such an over-presuming boldnesse, as afterward proveth to be sauced with repentance: so came it to passe with our over-fond Lovers, in being taken tardy through their owne folly. After they had many times met in this manner, the nights (according to the season) growing shorter and shorter, which their stolne delight made them lesse respective of, then was requisite in an adventure so dangerous: it fortuned, that their amorous pleasure had so farre transported them, and dulled their sences in such sort, by these their continued nightly watchings; that they both fell fast asleepe, he having his hand closed in hers, and shee one arme folded about his body, and thus they slept till broade day light. Old _Messer Lizio_, who continually was the morning Cocke to the whole House, going foorth into his Garden, saw how his Daughter and _Ricciardo_ were seated at the window. In he went againe, and going to his wives Chamber, saide to her. Rise quickly wife, and you shall see, what made our Daughter so desirous to lodge in the Garden Gallery. I perceive that shee loved to heare the Nightingale, for shee hath caught one, and holds him fast in her hand. Is it possible, saide the Mother, that our Daughter should catch a live Nightingale in the darke? You shall see that your selfe, answered _Messer Lizio_, if you will make haste, and goe with me. Shee, putting on her garments in great haste, followed her Husband, and being come to the Gallery doore, he opened it very softly, and going to the window, shewed her how they both sate fast asleepe, and in such manner as hath been before declared: whereupon, shee perceiving how _Ricciardo_ and _Catharina_ had both deceived her, would have made an outcry, but that _Messer Lizio_ spake thus to her. Wife, as you love me, speake not a word, neither make any noyse: for, seeing shee hath loved _Ricciardo_ without our knowledge, and they have had their private meetings in this manner, yet free from any blamefull imputation; he shall enjoy her, and shee him. _Ricciardo_ is a Gentleman, well derived, and of rich possessions, it can be no disparagement to us, that _Catharina_ match with him in mariage, which he neither shall, or dare denie to doe, in regard of our Lawes severity; for climbing up to my window with his Ladder of Ropes, whereby his life is forfeited to the Law, except our Daughter please to spare it, as it remaineth in her power to doe, by accepting him as her husband, or yeelding his life up to the Law, which surely shee will not suffer, their love agreeing together in such mutuall manner, and he adventuring so dangerously for her. Madam _Jaquemina_, perceiving that her husband spake very reasonably, and was no more offended at the matter; stept aside with him behinde the drawne Curtaines, untill they should awake of themselves. At the last, _Ricciardo_ awaked, and seeing it was so farre in the day, thought himselfe halfe dead, and calling to _Catharina_, saide. Alas deare Love! what shall we doe? we have slept too long, and shall be taken here. At which words, _Messer Lizio_ stept forth from behind the Curtaines, saying. Nay, _Signior Ricciardo_, seeing you have found such an unbefitting way hither, we will provide you a better for your backe returning. When _Ricciardo_ saw the Father and Mother both there present, he could not devise what to doe or say, his sences became so strangely confounded; yet knowing how hainously hee had offended, if the strictnesse of Law should be challenged against him, falling on his knees, he saide. Alas _Messer Lizio_, I humbly crave your mercy, confessing my selfe well worthy of death, that knowing the sharpe rigour of the Law, I would presume so audaciously to breake it. But pardon me worthy Sir, my loyall and unfeined love to your Daughter _Catharina_, hath beene the onely cause of my transgressing. _Ricciardo_ (replyed _Messer Lizio_) the love I beare thee, and the honest confidence I doe repose in thee, step up (in some measure) to pleade thine excuse, especially in the regard of my Daughter, whom I blame thee not for loving, but for this unlawfull way of presuming to her. Neverthelesse, perceiving how the case now standeth, and considering withall, that youth and affection were the ground of thine offence: to free thee from death, and my selfe from dishonour, before thou departest hence, thou shalt espouse my Daughter _Catharina_, to make her thy lawfull wife in mariage, and wipe off all scandall to my House and me. All this while was poore _Catharina_ on her knees likewise to her Mother, who (notwithstanding this her bold adventure) made earnest suite to her Husband to remit all, because _Ricciardo_ right gladly condiscended, as it being the maine issue of his hope and desire; to accept his _Catharina_ in mariage, whereto shee was as willing as he. _Messer Lizio_ presently called for the Confessour of his House, and borrowing one of his Wives Rings, before they went out of the Gallery; _Ricciardo_ and _Catharina_ were espoused together, to their no little joy and contentment. Now had they more leasure for further conference, with the Parents and kindred to _Ricciardo_, who being no way discontented with this sudden match, but applauding it in the highest degree; they were publikely maried againe in the Cathedrall Church, and very honourable triumphes performed at the nuptials, living long after in happy prosperity. Guidotto _of Cremona, departing out of this mortall life, left a Daughter of his, with_ Jacomino _of Pavia._ Giovanni di Severino, _and_ Menghino da Minghole, _fell both in love with the young Maiden, and fought for her; who being afterward knowne, to be the Sister to_ Giovanni, _shee was given in mariage to_ Menghino. The fifth Novell. _Wherein may be observed, what quarrelse and contentions are occasioned by Love; with some particular discription, concerning the sincerity of a loyall friend._ All the Ladies laughing heartily, at the Novell of the Nightingale, so pleasingly delivered by _Philostratus_, when they saw the same to be fully ended, the Queene thus spake. Now trust me _Philostratus_, though yester-day you did much oppresse mee with melancholy, yet you have made me such an amends to day, as wee have little reason to complaine any more of you. So converting her speech to Madam _Neiphila_, shee commanded her to succeede with her discourse, which willingly she yeelded to, beginning in this manner. Seeing it pleased _Philostratus_, to produce his Novell out of _Romania_: I meane to walke with him in the same jurisdiction, concerning what I am to say. There dwelt sometime in the City of _Fano_, two Lombards, the one being named _Guidotto_ of _Cremona_, and the other _Jacomino_ of _Pavia_, men of sufficient entrance into yeeres, having followed the warres (as Souldiers) all their youthful time. _Guidotto_ feeling sicknesse to over-master him, and having no sonne, kinsman, or friend, in whom he might repose more trust, then hee did in _Jacomino_: having long conference with him about his worldly affaires, and setled his whole estate in good order; he left a Daughter to his charge, about ten yeeres of age, with all such goods as he enjoyed, and then departed out of this life. It came to passe, that the City of _Faenza_, long time being molested with tedious warres, and subjected to very servile condition; beganne now to recover her former strength, with free permission (for all such as pleased) to returne and possesse their former dwellings. Whereupon, _Jacomino_ (having sometime beene an inhabitant there) was desirous to live in _Faenza_ againe, convaying thither all his goods, and taking with him also the young girle, which _Guidotto_ had left him, whom hee loved, and respected as his owne childe. As shee grew in stature, so shee did in beauty and vertuous qualities, as none was more commended throughout the whole City, for faire, civill, and honest demeanour, which incited many amorously to affect her. But (above all the rest) two very honest young men, of good fame and repute, who were so equally in love addicted to her, that being jealous of each others fortune, in preventing of their severall hopefull expectation; a deadly hatred grew suddenly betweene them, the one being named, _Giovanni de Severino_, and the other _Menghino da Minghole_. Either of these two young men, before the Maide was fifteene yeeres old, laboured to be possessed of her in marriage, but her Guardian would give no consent thereto: wherefore, perceiving their honest intended meaning to be frustrated, they now began to busie their braines, how to forestall one another by craft and circumvention. _Jacomino_ had a Maide-servant belonging to his House, somewhat aged, and a Man-servant beside, named _Grivello_, of mirthfull disposition, and very friendly, with whom _Giovanni_ grew in great familiarity; and when he found time fit for the purpose, he discovered his love to him, requesting his furtherance and assistance, in compassing the height of his desire, with bountifull promises of rich rewarding; whereto _Grivello_ returned this answere. I know not how to sted you in this case, but when my Master shall sup foorth at some Neighbours House, to admit your entrance where she is: because, if I offer to speake to her, shee never will stay to heare me. Wherefore, if my service this way may doe you any good, I promise to performe it; doe you beside, as you shall find it most convenient for you. So the bargaine was agreed on betweene them, and nothing elsee now remained, but to what issue it should sort in the end. _Menghino_, on the other side, having entred into the Chamber-maides acquaintance, sped so well with her, that shee delivered so many messages from him, as had (already) halfe won the liking of the Virgin; passing further promises to him beside, of bringing him to have conference with her, whensoever her Master should be absent from home. Thus _Menghino_ being favoured (on the one side) by the olde Chamber-maide, and _Giovanni_ (on the other) by trusty _Grivello_; their amorous warre was now on foote, and diligently followed by both their sollicitors. Within a short while after, by the procurement of _Grivello, Jacomino_ was invited by a neighbour to supper, in company of divers his very familiar friends, whereof intelligence being given to _Giovanni_; a conclusion passed betweene them, that (upon a certaine signale given) he should come, and finde the doore standing ready open, to give him all accesse unto the affected Mayden. The appointed night being come, and neither of these hot Lovers knowing the others intent, but their suspition being alike, and encreasing still more and more; they made choyce of certaine friends and associates, well armed and provided, for eithers safer entrance when neede should require. _Menghino_ stayed with his troope, in a neere neighbouring house to the Mayden, attending when the signall would be given: but _Giovanni_ and his consorts, were ambushed somewhat further off from the House, and both saw when _Jacomino_ went foorth to supper. Now _Grivello_ and the Chamber-maide began to vary, which should send the other out of the way, till they had effected their severall intention; whereupon _Grivello_ said to her. What maketh thee to walke thus about the House, and why doest thou not get thee to bed? And thou (quoth the Maide) why doest thou not goe to attend on our Master, and tarry for his returning home? I am sure thou hast supt long agoe, and I know no businesse here in the House for thee to doe. Thus (by no meanes) the one could send away the other, but either remained as the others hinderance. But _Grivello_ remembring himselfe, that the houre of his appointment with _Giovanni_ was come, he saide to himselfe. What care I whether our olde Maide be present, or no? If shee disclose any thing that I doe, I can be revenged on her when I list. So, having made the signall, he went to open the doore, even when _Giovanni_ (and two of his confederates) rushed into the House, and finding the faire young Maiden sitting in the Hall, laide hands on her, to beare her away. The Damosell began to resist them, crying out for helpe so loude as shee could, as the olde Chamber-maide did the like: which _Menghino_ hearing, he ranne thither presently with his friends, and seeing the young Damosell brought well-neere out of the House; they drew their Swords, crying out: Traytors, you are but dead men, here is no violence to be offered, neither is this a booty for such base groomes. So they layed about them lustily, and would not permit them to passe any further. On the other side, upon this mutinous noyse and out-cry, the Neighbours came foorth of their Houses, with lights, staves, and clubbes, greatly reproving them for this out-rage, yet assisting _Menghino_: by meanes whereof, after a long time of contention, _Menghino_ recovered the Mayden from _Giovanni_, and placed her peaceably in _Jacominoes_ House. No sooner was this hurly-burly somewhat calmed, but the Serjeants to the Captaine of the City, came thither, and apprehended divers of the mutiners: among whom were _Menghino, Giovanni,_ and _Grivello_, committing them immediately to prison. But after every thing was pacified, and _Jacomino_ returned home to his House from supper; he was not a little offended at so grosse an injury. When he was fully informed, how the matter happened, and apparantly perceived, that no blame at all could be imposed on the Mayden: he grew the better contented, resolving with himselfe (because no more such inconveniences should happen) to have her married so soone as possibly he could. When morning was come, the kindred and friends on either side, understanding the truth of the error committed, and knowing beside, what punishment would be inflicted on the prisoners, if _Jacomino_ pressed the matter no further, then as with reason and equity well he might; they repaired to him, and (in gentle speeches) entreated him, not to regard a wrong offered by unruly and youthfull people, meerely drawne into the action by perswasion of friends; submitting both themselves, and the offendors, to such satisfaction as he pleased to appoint them. _Jacomino_, who had seene and observed many things in his time, and was a man of sound understanding, returned them this answere. Gentlemen, if I were in mine owne Countrey, as now I am in yours; I would as forwardly confesse my selfe your friend, as here I must needes fall short of any such service, but even as you shall please to command me. But plainely, and without all further ceremonious complement, I must agree to whatsoever you can request; as thinking you to be more injured by me, then any great wrong that I have sustained. Concerning the young Damosell remaining in my House, shee is not (as many have imagined) either of _Cremona_, or _Pavia_, but borne a _Faentine_, here in this Citie: albeit neither my selfe, shee, or he of whom I had her, did ever know it, or yet could learne whose Daughter shee was. Wherefore, the suite you make to me, should rather (in duty) be mine to you: for shee is a native of your owne, doe right to her, and then you can doe no wrong unto mee. When the Gentlemen understood, that the Mayden was borne in _Faenza_, they marvelled thereat, and after they had thanked _Jacomino_ for his curteous answer; they desired him to let them know, by what meanes the Damosell came into his custody, and how he knew her to be borne in _Faenza_: when he, perceiving them attentive to heare him, began in this manner. Understand worthy Gentlemen, that _Guidotto_ of _Cremona_, was my companion and deare friend, who growing neere to his death, tolde me, that when this City was surprized by the Emperour _Frederigo_, and all things committed to sacke and spoile; he and certaine of his confederates entred into a House, which they found to be well furnished with goods, but utterly forsaken of the dwellers, onely this poore Mayden excepted, being then aged but two yeeres, or thereabout. As hee mounted up the steps, with intent to depart from the House; she called him Father, which word moved him so compassionately: that he went backe againe, brought her away with him, and all things of worth which were in the House, going thence afterward to _Fano_, and there deceasing, he left her and all his goods to my charge; conditionally, that I should see her maried when due time required, and bestow on her the wealth which he had left her. Now, very true it is, although her yeeres are convenient for mariage, yet I could never find any one to bestow her on, at least that I thought fitting for her: howbeit, I will listen thereto much more respectively, before any other such accident shall happen. It came to passe, that in the reporting of this discourse, there was then a Gentleman in the company, named _Guillemino da Medicina_, who at the surprizal of the City, was present with _Guidotto_ of _Cremona_, and knew well the House which he had ransacked, the owner whereof was also present with him, wherefore taking him aside, he saide to him. _Bernardino_, hearest thou what _Jacomino_ hath related? yes very wel, replyed _Bernardino_, and remember withall, that in that dismall bloody combustion, I lost a little Daughter, about the age as _Jacomino_ speaketh. Questionlesse then, replied _Guillemino_, shee must needes be the same young Mayden, for I was there at the same time, and in the House, whence _Guidotto_ did bring both the girle and goods, and I doe perfectly remember, that it was thy House. I pray thee call to minde, if ever thou sawest any scarre or marke about her, which may revive thy former knowledge of her, for my minde perswades me, that the Maide is thy Daughter. _Bernardino_ musing a while with himselfe, remembred, that under her left eare, shee had a scarre, in the forme of a little crosse, which happened by the byting of a Wolfe, and but a small while before the spoyle was made. Wherefore, without deferring it to any further time, he stept to _Jacomino_ (who as yet staied there) and entreated him to fetch the Mayden from his house, because shee might be knowne to some in the company: whereto right willingly he condiscended, and there presented the Maide before them. So soone as _Bernardino_ beheld her, he began to be much inwardly moved; for the perfect character of her Mothers countenance, was really figured in her sweete face, onely that her beauty was somewhat more excelling. Yet not herewith satisfied, he desired _Jacomino_ to be so pleased, as to lift up a little the lockes of haire, depending over her left eare. _Jacomino_ did it presently, albeit with a modest blushing in the maide, and _Bernardino_ looking advisedly on it, knew it to be the selfe same crosse; which confirmed her constantly to be his Daughter. Overcome with excesse of joy, which made the teares to trickle downe his cheekes, he proffered to embrace and kisse the Maide: but she resisting his kindnesse, because (as yet) shee knew no reason for it, he turned himselfe to _Jacomino_, saying. My deare brother and friend, this Maide is my Daughter, and my House was the same which _Guidotto_ spoyled, in the generall havocke of our City, and thence he carried this child of mine, forgotten (in the fury) by my Wife her Mother. But happy was the houre of his becomming her Father, and carrying her away with him; for elsee she had perished in the fire, because the House was instantly burnt downe to the ground. The Mayden hearing his words, observing him also to be a man of yeeres and gravity: shee beleeved what he saide, and humbly submitted her selfe to his kisses & embraces, even as instructed thereto by instinct of nature. _Bernardino_ instantly sent for his wife, her owne mother, his daughters, sonnes, and kindred, who being acquainted with this admirable accident, gave her most gracious and kind welcome, he receiving her from _Jacomino_ as his childe, and the legacies which _Guidotto_ had left her. When the Captaine of the City (being a very wise and worthy Gentleman) heard these tydings, and knowing that _Giovanni_, then his prisoner, was the Son to _Bernardino_, and naturall Brother to the newly recovered Maide; he bethought himselfe, how best he might qualifie the fault committed by him. And entring into the Hall among them, handled the matter so discreetly, that a loving league of peace was confirmed betweene _Giovanni_ and _Menghino_, to whom (with free and full consent on all sides) the faire Maide, named _Agatha_, was given in marriage, with a more honourable enlargement of her dowry, and _Grivello_, with the rest, delivered out of prison, which for their tumultuous riot they had justly deserved. _Menghino_ and _Agatha_ had their wedding worthily sollemnized, with all due honours belonging thereto; and long time after they lived in _Faenza_, highly beloved, and graciously esteemed. Guion di Procida, _being found familiarly conversing with a young Damosell, which he loved; and had been given (formerly) to_ Frederigo, _King of Sicilie: was bound to a stake; to be consumed with fire. From which danger (neverthelesse) he escaped, being knowne by_ Don Rogiero de Oria, _Lord Admirall of Sicilie, and afterward married the Damosell._ The sixth Novell. _Wherein is manifested, that love can leade a man into numberlesse perils: out of which he escapeth with no meane difficulty._ The Novell of Madam _Neiphila_ being ended, which proved very pleasing to the Ladies: the Queene commanded Madam _Pampinea_, that shee should prepare to take her turne next, whereto willingly obeying, thus shee began. Many and mighty (Gracious Ladies) are the prevailing powers of love, conducting amorous soules into infinite travelse, with inconveniences no way avoidable, and not easily to be foreseene, or prevented. As partly already hath beene observed, by divers of our former Novelse related, and some (no doubt) to ensue hereafter; for one of them (comming now to my memory) I shall acquaint you withall, in so good tearmes as I can. _Ischia_ is an Iland very neere to _Naples_, wherein (not long since) lived a faire and lovely Gentlewoman, named _Restituta_, Daughter to a Gentleman of the same Isle, whose name was _Marino Bolgaro_. A proper youth called _Guion_, dwelling also in a neere neighbouring Isle, called _Procida_, did love her as dearely as his owne life, and she was as intimately affected towards him. Now because the sight of her was his onely comfort, as occasion gave him leave; he resorted to _Ischia_ very often in the day time, and as often also in the night season, when any Barque passed from _Procida_ to _Ischia_; if to see nothing elsee, yet to behold the walles that enclosed his Mistresse thus. While this love continued in equall fervency, it chanced upon a faire Summers day, that _Restituta_ walked alone upon the Sea-shoare, going from Rocke to Rocke, having a naked knife in her hand, wherewith shee opened such Oysters as shee found among the stones, seeking for small pearles enclosed in their shelles. Her walke was very solitary and shady, with a faire Spring or well adjoining to it, and thither (at that very instant time) certaine Sicilian young Gentlemen, which came from _Naples_, had made their retreate. They perceiving the Gentlewoman to be very beautifull (shee as yet not having any sight of them) and in such a silent place alone by her selfe: concluded together, to make a purchase of her, and carry her thence away with them; as indeed they did, notwithstanding all her out-cryes and exclaimes, bearing her perforce aboard their Barque. Setting sayle thence, they arrived in _Calabria_, and then there grew a great contention betweene them, to which of them this booty of beauty should belong, because each of them pleaded a title to her. But when they could not grow to any agreement, but doubted greater disaster would ensue thereon, by breaking their former league of friendship: by an equall conformity in consent, they resolved, to bestow her as a rich present, on _Frederigo_ King of _Sicilie_, who was then young & joviall, and could not be pleased with a better gift; wherefore they were no sooner landed at _Palermo_, but they did according as they had determined. The King did commend her beauty extraordinarily, and liked her farre beyond all his other Loves: but, being at that time empaired in his health, and his body much distempered by ill dyet; he gave command, that untill he should be in more able disposition, shee must be kept in a goodly house of his owne, erected in a beautifull Garden, called the _Cube_, where shee was attended in most pompeous manner. Now grew the noyse and rumor great in _Ischia_, about this rape or stealing away of _Restituta_; but the chiefest greevance of all, was, that it could not be knowne how, by whom, or by what meanes. But _Guion di Procida_, whom this injury concerned much more then any other; stood not in expectation of better tydings from _Ischia_, but hearing what course the Barke had taken, made ready another, to follow after with all possible speede. Flying thus on the winged minds through the Seas, even from _Minerva_, unto the _Scalea_ in _Calabria_, searching for his lost Love in every angle: at length it was tolde him at the _Scalea_, that shee was carried away by certaine _Sicillian_ Marriners, to _Palermo_, whither _Guion_ set sayle immediately. After some diligent search made there, he understood, that she was delivered to the King, and he had given strict command, for keeping her in his place of pleasure; called the _Cube_: which newes were not a little greevous to him, for now he was almost quite out of hope, not onely of ever enjoying her, but also of seeing her. Neverthelesse, Love would not let him utterly despaire, whereupon he sent away his Barque, and perceiving himselfe to be unknowne of any; he continued for some time in _Palermo_, walking many times by that goodly place of pleasure. It chanced on a day, that keeping his walke as he used to doe, Fortune was so favourable to him, as to let him have a sight of her at her window; from whence also she had a full view of him, to their exceeding comfort and contentment. And _Guion_ observing, that the _Cube_ was seated in a place of small resort; approached so neere as possibly he durst, to have some conference with _Restituta_. As Love sets a keene edge on the dullest spirit, and (by a small advantage) makes a man the more adventurous: so this little time of unseene talke, inspired him with courage, and her with witty advice, by what meanes his accesse might be much neerer to her, and their communication concealed from any discovery, the scituation of the place, and benefit of time duly considered. Night must be the cloud to their amorous conclusion, and therefore, so much thereof being spent, as was thought convenient, he returned thither againe, provided of such grappling-yrons, as is required when men will clamber, made fast unto his hands and knees; by their helpe he attained to the top of the wall, whence discending downe into the Garden, there he found the maine yard of a ship, whereof before shee had given him instruction, and rearing it up against her chamber window, made that his meanes for ascending thereto, shee having left it open for his easier entrance. You cannot denie (faire Ladies) but here was a very hopefull beginning, and likely to have as happy an ending, were it not true Loves fatall misery, even in the very height of promised assurance, to be thwarted by unkind prevention, and in such manner as I will tell you. This night, intended for our Lovers meeting, proved disastrous and dreadfull to them both: for the King, who at the first sight of _Restituta_, was highly pleased with her excelling beauty; gave order to his Eunuches and other women, that a costly bathe should be prepared for her, and therein to let her weare away that night, because the next day he intended to visit her. _Restituta_ being royally conducted from her Chamber to the Bathe, attended on with Torch-light, as if shee had been a Queene: none remained there behind, but such women as waited on her, and the Guards without, which watched the Chamber. No sooner was poore _Guion_ aloft at the window, calling softly to his Mistresse, as if she had beene there; but he was over-heard by the women in the darke, and immediately apprehended by the Guard, who forthwith brought him before the Lord Marshall, where being examined, and he avouching, that _Restituta_ was his elected wife, and for her he had presumed in that manner; closely was he kept in prison till the next morning. When he came into the Kings presence, and there boldly justified the goodnesse of his cause: _Restituta_ likewise was sent for, who no sooner saw her deare Love _Guion_, but shee ran and caught him fast about the necke, kissing him in teares, and greeving not a little at his hard fortune. Hereat the King grew exceedingly enraged, loathing and hating her now, much more then formerly he did affect her, and having himselfe seene, by what strange meanes he did climbe over the wall, and then mounted to her Chamber window; he was extreamely impatient, and could not otherwise be perswaded, but that their meetings thus had beene very many. Forthwith he sentenced them both with death, commanding, that they should be conveyed thence to _Palermo_, and there (being stript starke naked) be bound to a stake backe to backe, and so to stand the full space of nine houres, to see if any could take knowledge, of whence, or what they were; then afterward, to be consumed with fire. The sentence of death, did not so much daunt or dismay the poore Lovers, as the uncivill and unsightly manner, which (in feare of the Kings wrathfull displeasure) no man durst presume to contradict. Wherefore, as he had commanded, so were they carried thence to _Palermo_, and bound naked to a stake in the open Market place, and (before their eyes) the fire and wood brought, which was to consume them, according to the houre as the King had appointed. You need not make any question, what an huge concourse of people were soone assembled together, to behold such a sad and wofull spectacle, even the whole City of _Palermo_, both men and women. The men were stricken with admiration, beholding the unequalled beauty of faire _Restituta_, & the selfe same passion possessed the women, seeing _Guion_ to be such a goodly and compleat young man: but the poore infortunate Lovers themselves, they stood with their lookes dejected to the ground, being much pittied of all, but no way to be holpen or rescued by any, awaiting when the happy houre would come, to finish both their shame and lives together. During the time of this tragicall expectation, the fame of this publike execution being noysed abroade, calling all people farre and neere to behold it; it came to the eare of _Don Rogiero de Oria_, a man of much admired valour, and then the Lord high Admirall of _Sicily_, who came himselfe in person, to the place appointed for their death. First he observed the Mayden, confessing her (in his soule) to be a beauty beyond all compare. Then looking on the young man, thus he saide within himselfe: If the inward endowments of the mind, doe paralell the outward perfections of body; the World cannot yeeld a more compleate man. Now, as good natures are quickly incited to compassion (especially in cases almost commanding it) and compassion knocking at the doore of the soule, doth quicken the memory with many passed recordations: so this noble Admirall, advisedly beholding poore condemned _Guion_, conceived, that he had somewhat seene him before this instant, and upon this perswasion (even as if divine vertue had tutured his tongue) he saide: Is not thy name _Guion di Procida_? Marke now, how quickly misery can receive comfort, upon so poore and silly a question; for _Guion_ began to elevate his dejected countenance, and looking on the Admirall, returned him this answere. Sir, heretofore I have been the man which you spake of; but now, both that name and man must die with me. What misfortune (quoth the Admirall) hath thus unkindly crost thee? Love (answered _Guion_) and the Kings displeasure. Then the Admirall would needs know the whole history at large, which briefly was related to him, and having heard how all had happened; as he was turning his Horse to ride away thence, _Guion_ called to him, saying. Good my Lord, entreate one favour for me, if possible it may be. What is that? replyed the Admirall. You see Sir (quoth _Guion_) that I am very shortly to breathe my last; all the grace which I doe most humbly entreate, is, that as I am here with this chaste Virgin, (whom I honour and love beyond my life) and miserably bound backe to backe: our faces may be turned each to other, to the end, that when the fire shall finish my life, by looking on her, my soule may take her flight in full felicity. The Admirall smyling, saide; I will doe for thee what I can, and (perhaps) thou mayest so long looke on her, as thou wilt be weary, and desire to looke off her. At his departure, he commanded them that had the charge of this execution, to proceede no further, untill they heard more from the King, to whom hee gallopped immediately, and although hee beheld him to be very angerly moved; yet he spared not to speake in this manner. Sir, wherein have those poore young couple offended you, that are so shamefully to be burnt at _Palermo_? The King told him: whereto the Admirall (pursuing still his purpose) thus replyed. Beleeve me Sir, if true love be an offence, then theirs may be termed to be one; and albeit it did deserve death, yet farre be it from thee to inflict it on them: for as faults doe justly require punishment, so doe good turnes as equally merit grace and requitall. Knowest thou what and who they are, whom thou hast so dishonourably condemned to the fire? Not I, quoth the King. Why then I will tell thee, answered the Admirall, that thou mayest take the better knowledge of them, and forbeare hereafter, to be so over-violently transported with anger. The young Gentleman, is the Sonne to _Landolfo di Procida_, the onely Brother to Lord _John di Procida_, by whose meanes thou becamest Lord and King of this Countrey. The faire young Damosell, is the Daughter to _Marino Bolgaro_, whose power extendeth so farre, as to preserve thy prerogative in _Ischia_, which (but for him) had long since beene out-rooted there. Beside, these two maine motives, to challenge justly grace and favour from thee; they are in the floure and pride of their youth, having long continued in loyall love together, and compelled by fervency of endeared affection, not any will to displease thy Majesty: they have offended (if it may be termed an offence to love, and in such lovely young people as they are.) Canst thou then find in thine heart to let them die, whom thou rather oughtest to honour, and recompence with no meane rewards? When the King had heard this, and beleeved for a certainty, that the Admirall told him nothing but truth: he appointed not onely, that they should proceede no further, but also was exceeding sorrowfull for what he had done, sending presently to have them released from the Stake, and honourably to be brought before him. Being thus enstructed in their severall qualities, and standing in duty obliged, to recompence the wrong which he had done, with respective honours: he caused them to be cloathed in royall garments, and knowing them to be knit in unity of soule; the like he did by marrying them sollemnly together, and bestowing many rich gifts and presents on them, sent them honourably attented home to _Ischia_; where they were with much joy and comfort received, and lived long after in great felicity. Theodoro _falling in love with_ Violenta, _the Daughter to his Master, named_ Amarigo, _and shee conceiving with childe by him; was condemned to be hanged. As they were leading him to the Gallowes, beating and misusing him all the way: he happened to be knowne by his owne Father, whereupon hee was released, and afterward enjoyed_ Violenta _in marriage._ The seventh Novell. _Wherein is declared, the sundry travelse and perillous accidents, occasioned by those two powerfull Commanders, Love and Fortune, the insulting Tyrants over humaine life._ Greatly were the Ladies minds perplexed, when they heard, that the two poore Lovers were in danger to be burned: but hearing afterward of their happy deliverance, for which they were as joyfull againe; upon the concluding of the Novell, the Queene looked on Madam _Lauretta_, enjoyning her to tell the next Tale, which willingly she undertooke to doe, and thus began. Faire Ladies, at such time as the good King _William_ reigned in _Sicily_, there lived within the same Dominions a young Gentleman, named _Signior Amarigo_, Abbot of _Trapani_, who (among his other worldly blessings, commonly termed the goods of Fortune) was not unfurnished of children; and therefore having neede of servants, he made his provision of them as best he might. At that time, certaine Gallies of _Geneway_ Pyrates comming from the Easterne parts, which coasting along _Armenia_, had taken divers children; he bought some of them, thinking that they were Turkes. They all resembling clownish Peazants, yet there was one among them, who seemed to be of more tractable and gentle nature, yea, and of a more affable countenance then any of the rest, being named, _Theodoro_: who growing on in yeeres, (albeit he lived in the condition of a servant) was educated among _Amarigoes_ Children, and as enstructed rather by nature, then accident, his conditions were very much commended, as also the feature of his body, which proved so highly pleasing to his Master _Amarigo_, that he made him a free man, and imagining him to be a Turke, caused him to be baptized, and named _Pedro_, creating him superintendent of all his affaires, and reposing his chiefest trust in him. As the other Children of _Signior Amarigo_ grew in yeeres and stature, so did a Daughter of his, named _Violenta_, a very goodly and beautifull Damosell, somewhat over-long kept from marriage by her Fathers covetousnesse, and casting an eye of good liking on poore _Pedro_. Now, albeit shee loved him very dearely, and all his behaviour was most pleasing to her, yet maiden modesty forbad her to reveale it, till Love (too long concealed) must needes disclose itselfe. Which _Pedro_ at the length tooke notice of, and grew so forward towards her in equality of affection, as the very sight of her was his onely happinesse. Yet very fearefull he was, least it should be noted, either by any of the House, or the Maiden her selfe: who yet well observed it, and to her no meane contentment, as it appeared no lesse (on the other side) to honest _Pedro_. While thus they loved together meerely in dumbe shewes, not daring to speake to each other, (though nothing more desired) to find some ease in this their oppressing passions: Fortune, even as if shee pittied their so long languishing, enstructed them how to find out a way, whereby they might both better releeve themselves. _Signior Amarigo_, about some two or three miles distance from _Trapani_, had a Countrey-House or Farme, whereto his Wife, with her Daughter and some other women, used oftentimes to make their resort, as it were in sportfull recreation; _Pedro_ alwayes being diligent to man them thither. One time among the rest, it came to passe, as often it falleth out in the Summer season, that the faire Skie became suddenly over-clouded, even as they were returning home towards _Trapani_, threatning a storme of raine to overtake them, except they made the speedier haste. _Pedro_, who was young, and likewise _Violenta_, went farre more lightly then her Mother and her company, as much perhaps provoked by love, as feare of the sudden raine falling, and paced on so fast before them, that they were wholly out of sight. After many flashes of lightning, and a few dreadfull clappes of thunder, there fell such a tempestuous shower of hayle, as compelled the Mother and her traine to shelter themselves in a poore Countrey-mans Cottage. _Pedro_ and _Violenta_, having no other refuge, ranne likewise into a poore Sheepe-coate, so over ruined, as it was in danger to fall on their heads; for no body dwelt in it, neither stood any other house neere it, and it was scarcely any shelter for them, howbeit, necessity enforceth to make shift with the meanest. The storme encreasing more & more, and they coveting to avoide it so well as they could; sighes and drie hemmes were often inter-vented, as dumbly (before) they were wont to doe, when willingly they could affoord another kind of speaking. At last _Pedro_ tooke heart, and saide: I would this shower would never cease, that I might be alwayes where I am. The like could I wish, answered _Violenta_, so we were in a better place of safety. These wishes drew on other gentle language, with modest kisses and embraces, the onely ease to poore Lovers soules; so that the raine ceased not, till they had taken order for their oftner conversing, and absolute plighting of their faithes together. By this time the storme was fairely over-blowne, and they attending on the way, till the Mother and the rest were come, with whom they returned to _Trapani_, where by wise and provident meanes, they often conferred in private together, and enjoyed the benefit of their amorous desires; yet free from any ill surmise or suspition. But, as Lovers felicities are sildome permanent, without one encountring crosse or other: so these stolne pleasures of _Pedro_ and _Violenta_, met with as sowre a sauce in the farewell. For, shee proved to be conceived with childe, then which could befall them no heavier affliction, and _Pedro_ fearing to loose his life therefore, determined immediate flight, and revealed his purpose to _Violenta_. Which when she heard, she told him plainly, that if he fled, forth-with shee would kill her selfe. Alas deare Love (quoth _Pedro_) with what reason can you wish my tarrying here? This conception of yours, doth discover our offence, which a Fathers pity may easily pardon in you: but I being his servant and vassall, shall be punished both for your sinne and mine, because he will have no mercy on me. Content thy selfe _Pedro_, replyed _Violenta_, I will take such order for mine owne offence, by the discreete counsell of my loving Mother, that no blame shall any way be laide on thee, or so much as a surmise, except thou wilt fondly betray thy selfe. If you can doe so, answered _Pedro_, and constantly maintaine your promise; I will not depart, but see that you prove to be so good as your word. _Violenta_, who had concealed her amisse so long as shee could, and saw no other remedy, but now at last it must needes be discovered; went privately to her Mother, and (in teares) revealed her infirmity, humbly craving her pardon, and furtherance in hiding it from her Father. The Mother being extraordinarily displeased, chiding her with many sharpe and angry speeches, would needes know with whom shee had thus offended. The Daughter (to keepe _Pedro_ from any detection) forged a Tale of her owne braine, farre from any truth indeede, which her Mother verily beleeving, and willing to preserve her Daughter from shame, as also the fierce anger of her Husband, he being a man of very implacable nature: conveyed her to the Countrey-Farme, whither _Signior Amarigo_ sildome or never resorted, intending (under the shadow of sicknesse) to let her lie in there, without the least suspition of any in _Trapani_. Sinne and shame can never be so closely carried, or clouded with the greatest cunning; but truth hath a loop-light whereby to discover it, even when it supposeth it selfe in the surest safety. For, on the very day of her deliverance, at such time as the Mother, and some few friends (sworne to secrecy) were about the businesse: _Signior Amarigo_, having beene in company of other Gentlemen, to flye his Hawke at the River, upon a sudden, (but very unfortunately, albeit he was alone by himselfe) stept into his Farme house, even to the next roome where the women were, and heard the new-borne Babe to cry, whereat marvelling not a little, he called for his Wife, to know what young childe cryed in his House. The Mother, amazed at his so strange comming thither, which never before he had used to doe, and pittying the wofull distresse of her Daughter, which now could be no longer covered, revealed what happened to _Violenta_. But he, being nothing so rash in beliefe, as his Wife was, made answere, that it was impossible for his Daughter to be conceived with childe, because he never observed the least signe of love in her to any man whatsoever, and therefore he would be satisfied in the truth, as shee expected any favour from him, for elsee there was no other way but death. The Mother laboured by all meanes shee could devise, to pacifie her Husbands fury, which proved all in vaine; for being thus impatiently incensed, he drew foorth his Sword, and stepping with it drawne into the Chamber (where she had been delivered of a goodly Sonne) he said unto her. Either tell me who is the Father of this Bastard, or thou and it shall perish both together. Poore _Violenta_, lesse respecting her owne life, then she did the childes; forgot her sollemne promise made to _Pedro_, and discovered all. Which when _Amarigo_ had heard, he grew so desperately enraged, that hardly he could forbeare from killing her. But after he had spoken what his fury enstructed him, hee mounted on Horse-backe againe, ryding backe to _Trapani_, where he disclosed the injury which _Pedro_ had done him, to a noble Gentleman, named _Signior Conrado_, who was Captaine for the King over the City. Before poore _Pedro_ could have any intelligence, or so much as suspected any treachery against him; he was suddenly apprehended, and being called in question, stood not on any deniall, but confessed truly what he had done: whereupon, within some few dayes after, he was condemned by the Captaine, to be whipt to the place of execution, and afterward to be hanged by the necke. _Signior Amarigo_, because he would cut off (at one and the same time) not onely the lives of the two poore Lovers, but their childes also; as a franticke man, violently carried from all sense of compassion, even when _Pedro_ was led and whipt to his death: he mingled strong poyson in a Cup of wine, delivering it to a trusty servant of his owne, and a naked Rapier withall, speaking to him in this manner. Goe carry these two presents to my late Daughter _Violenta_, and tell her from me, that in this instant houre, two severall kinds of death are offered unto her, and one of them she must make choyce of, either to drinke the poyson, and so die, or to run her body on this Rapiers point, which if she denie to doe, she shall be haled to the publike market place, and presently be burned in the sight of her lewd companion, according as shee hath worthily deserved. When thou hast delivered her this message, take her bastard brat, so lately since borne, and dash his braines out against the walles, and afterward throw him to my Dogges to feede on. When the Father had given this cruell sentence, both against his own Daughter, and her young Sonne, the servant, readier to doe evill, then any good, went to the place where his Daughter was kept. Poore condemned _Pedro_, (as you have heard) was ledde whipt to the Jybbet, and passing (as it pleased the Captaines Officers to guide him) by a faire Inne: at the same time were lodged there three chiefe persons of _Armenia_, whom the King of the Countrey had sent to _Rome_, as Ambassadours to the Popes Holinesse, to negociate about an important businesse neerely concerning the King and State. Reposing there for some few dayes, as being much wearied with their journey, and highly honoured by the Gentlemen of _Trapani_, especially _Signior Amarigo_; these Ambassadours standing in their Chamber window, heard the wofull lamentations of _Pedro_ in his passage by. _Pedro_ was naked from the middle upward, and his hands bound fast behind him, but being well observed by one of the Ambassadours, a man aged, and of great authority, named _Phineo_: he espied a great red spot uppon his breast, not painted, or procured by his punishment, but naturally imprinted in the flesh, which women (in these parts) terme the Rose. Uppon the sight hereof, he suddenly remembred a Sonne of his owne, which was stolne from him about fifteene yeeres before, by Pyrates on the Sea-coast of _Laiazzo_, never hearing any tydings of him afterward. Upon further consideration, and compairing his Sonnes age with the likelyhood of this poore wretched mans; thus he conferred with his owne thoughts. If my Sonne (quoth he) be living, his age is equall to this mans time, and by the redde blemish on his brest, it plainely speakes him for to be my Sonne. Moreover, thus he conceived, that if it were he, he could not but remember his owne name, his Fathers, and the Armenian Language; wherefore, when hee was just opposite before the window, hee called aloud to him, saying: _Theodoro. Pedro_ hearing the voyce, presently listed up his head, and _Phineo_ speaking _Armenian_, saide: Of whence art thou, and what is thy Fathers name? The Sergeants (in reverence to the Lord Ambassadour) stayed a while, till _Pedro_ had returned his answer, who saide. I am an _Armenian_ borne, Sonne to one _Phineo_, and was brought hither I cannot tell by whom. _Phineo_ hearing this, knew then assuredly, that this was the same Sonne which he had lost; wherefore, the teares standing in his eyes with conceite of joy: downe he descended from the window, and the other Ambassadours with him, running in among the Sergeants to embrace his Sonne, and casting his owne rich Cloake about his whipt body, entreating them to forbeare and proceed no further, till they heard what command he should returne withall unto them; which very willingly they promised to doe. Already, by the generall rumour dispersed abroade, _Phineo_ had understood the occasion, why _Pedro_ was thus punished, and sentenced to be hanged; wherefore, accompanied with his fellow Ambassadours, and all their attending traine, he went to _Signior Conrado_, and spake thus to him. My Lord, he whom you have sent to death as a slave, is a free Gentleman borne, and my Sonne, able to make her amends whom he hath dishonoured, by taking her in mariage as his lawfull Wife. Let me therefore entreate you, to make stay of the execution, untill it may be knowne, whether she will accept him as her Husband, or no; least (if she be so pleased) you offend directly against your owne Law. When _Signior Conrado_ heard, that _Pedro_ was Sonne to the Lord Ambassadour, he wondered thereat not a little, and being somewhat ashamed of his fortunes error, confessed, that the claime of _Phineo_ was conformable to Law, and ought not to be denied him; going presently to the Councell Chamber, sending for _Signior Amarigo_ immediately thither, and acquainting him fully with the case. _Amarigo_, who beleeved that his Daughter and her Child were already dead, was the wofullest man in the World, for his so rash proceeding, knowing very well, that if shee were not dead, the scandall would easily be wipt away with credit. Wherefore he sent in all poast haste, to the place where his Daughter lay, that if his command were not already executed, by no meanes to have it done at all. He who went on this speedy errand, found there _Signior Amarigoes_ servant standing before _Violenta_, with the Cup of poyson in his one hand, and the drawne Rapier in the other, reproaching herewith very foule and injurious speeches, because shee had delayed the time so long, and would not accept the one or other, striving (by violence) to make her take the one. But hearing his Masters command to the contrary, he left her, and returned backe to him, certifying him how the case stood. Most highly pleased was _Amarigo_ with these glad newes, and going to the Ambassadour _Phineo_, in teares excused himselfe (so well as he could) for his severity, and craving pardon; assured him, that if _Theodoro_ would accept his Daughter in mariage, willingly he would bestow her on him. _Phineo_ allowed his excuses to be tollerable, and saide beside; If my Sonne will not mary your Daughter, then let the sentence of death be executed on him. _Amarigo_ and _Phineo_ being thus accorded, they went to poore _Theodoro_, fearefully looking every minute when he should die, yet joyfull that he had found his Father, who presently moved the question to him. _Theodoro_ hearing that _Violenta_ should be his Wife, if he would so accept her: was overcome with such exceeding joy, as if he had leapt out of hell into Paradise; confessing, that no greater felicity could befall him, if _Violenta_ her selfe were so well pleased as he. The like motion was made to her, to understand her disposition in this case, who hearing what good hap had befalne _Theodoro_, and now in like manner must happen to her: whereas not long before, when two such violent deathes were prepared for her, and one of them she must needes embrace, shee accounted her misery beyond all other womens, but shee now thought her selfe above all in happinesse, if she might be wife to her beloved _Theodoro_, submitting herselfe wholy to her Fathers disposing. The mariage being agreed on betweene them, it was celebrated with great pompe and sollemnity, a generall Feast being made for all the Citizens, and the young maried couple nourished up their sweete Son, which grew to be a very comely childe. After that the Embassie was dispatched at _Rome_, and _Phineo_ (with the rest) was returned thither againe; _Violenta_ did reverence him as her owne naturall Father, and he was not a little proud of so lovely a Daughter, beginning a fresh feasting againe, and continuing the same a whole moneth together. Within some short while after, a Galley being fairely furnished for the purpose, _Phineo_, his Sonne, Daughter, and their young Son went aboard, sayling away thence to _Laiazzo_, where afterward they lived long in much tranquility. Anastasio, _a Gentleman of the Family of the_ Honesti, _by loving the Daughter to_ Signior Paulo Traversario, _lavishly wasted a great part of his substance, without receiving any love from her againe. By perswasion of some of his kindred and friends, he went to a Countrey dwelling of his, called_ Chiasso, _where he saw a Knight desperately pursue a young Damosell, whom he slew, and afterward gave her to be devoured by his Hounds._ Anastasio _invited his friends, and hers also whom he so dearely loved, to take part of a dinner with him, who likewise saw the same Damosell so torne in peeces: which his unkind Love perceiving, and fearing least the like ill fortune should happen to her; shee accepted_ Anastasio _to be her Husband._ The eighth Novell. _Declaring, that Love not onely makes a man prodigall, but also an enemy to himselfe. Moreover, adventure oftentimes bringeth such matters to passe, as wit and cunning in man can never comprehend._ So soone as Madam _Lauretta_ held her peace, Madam _Philomena_ (by the Queenes command) began, and saide. Lovely Ladies, as pitty is most highly commended in our Sexe, even so is cruelty in us as severely revenged (oftentimes) by divine ordination. Which that you may the better know, and learne likewise to shun, as a deadly evill; I purpose to make apparant by a Novell, no lesse full of compassion, then delectable. _Ravenna_ being a very ancient City in _Romania_, there dwelt sometime a great number of worthy Gentlemen, among whom I am to speake of one more especially, named _Anastasio_, descended from the Family of the _Honesti_, who by the death of his Father, and an Unkle of his, was left extraordinarily abounding in riches, and growing to yeeres fitting for mariage, (as young Gallants are easily apt enough to doe) he became enamoured of a very beautifull Gentlewoman, who was Daughter to _Signior Paulo Traversario_, one of the most ancient and noble Families in all the Countrey. Nor made he any doubt, but by his meanes and industrious endeavour, to derive affection from her againe; for hee carried himselfe like a brave minded Gentleman, liberall in his expences, honest and affable in all his actions, which commonly are the true notes of a good nature, and highly to be commended in any man. But, howsoever Fortune became his enemy, these laudable parts of manhood did not any way friend him, but rather appeared hurtfull to him: so cruell, unkind, and almost meerely savage did she shew her selfe to him; perhaps in pride of her singular beauty, or presuming on her nobility by birth, both which are on her blemishes, then ornaments in a woman, especially when they be abused. The harsh and uncivill usage in her, grew very distastefull to _Anastasio_, and so unsufferable, that after a long time of fruitlesse service, requited still with nothing but coy disdain; desperate resolutions entred into his brain, and often he was minded to kill himselfe. But better thoughts supplanting those furious passions, he abstained from any such violent act; & governed by more manly consideration, determined, that as she hated him, he would requite her with the like, if he could: wherein he became altogether deceived, because as his hopes grew to a dayly decaying, yet his love enlarged it selfe more and more. Thus _Anastasio_ persevering still in his bootelesse affection, and his expences not limited within any compasse; it appeared in the judgement of his Kindred and Friends, that he was falne into a mighty consumption, both of his body and meanes. In which respect, many times they advised him to leave the City of _Ravenna_, and live in some other place for such a while; as might set a more moderate stint upon his spendings, and bridle the indiscreete course of his love, the onely fuell which fed this furious fire. _Anastasio_ held out thus a long time, without lending an eare to such friendly counsell: but in the end, he was so neerely followed by them, as being no longer able to deny them, he promised to accomplish their request. Whereupon, making such extraordinary preparation, as if he were to set thence for _France_ or _Spaine_, or elsee into some further distant countrey: he mounted on horsebacke, and accompanied with some few of his familiar friends, departed from _Ravenna_, and rode to a country dwelling house of his owne, about three or foure miles distant from the Cittie, which was called _Chiasso_, and there (upon a very goodly greene) erecting divers Tents and Pavillions, such as great persons make use of in the time of a Progresse: he said to his friends, which came with him thither, that there hee determined to make his abiding, they all returning backe unto _Ravenna_, and might come to visite him againe so often as they pleased. Now, it came to passe, that about the beginning of May, it being then a very milde and serrene season, and he leading there a much more magnificent life, then ever he had done before, inviting divers to dine with him this day, and as many to morrow, and not to leave him till after supper: upon the sodaine, falling into remembrance of his cruell Mistris, hee commanded all his servants to forbeare his company, and suffer him to walke alone by himselfe awhile, because he had occasion of private meditations, wherein he would not (by any meanes) be troubled. It was then about the ninth houre of the day, and he walking on solitary all alone, having gone some halfe miles distance from his Tents, entred into a Grove of Pine-trees, never minding dinner time, or any thing elsee, but only the unkind requitall of his love. Sodainly he heard the voice of a woman, seeming to make most mournfull complaints, which breaking of his silent considerations, made him to lift up his head, to know the reason of this noise. When he saw himselfe so farre entred into the Grove, before he could imagine where he was; hee looked amazedly round about him, and out of a little thicket of bushes & briars, round engirt with spreading trees, hee espyed a young Damosell come running towards him, naked from the middle upward, her haire dishevelled on her shoulders, and her faire skinne rent and torne with the briars and brambles, so that the blood ran trickling downe mainly; shee weeping, wringing her hands, and crying out for mercy so lowde as shee could. Two fierce Blood-hounds also followed swiftly after, and where their teeth tooke hold, did most cruelly bite her. Last of all (mounted on a lusty blacke Courser) came gallopping a Knight, with a very sterne and angry countenance, holding a drawne short Sword in his hand, giving her very vile and dreadfull speeches, and threatning everie minute to kill her. This strange and uncouth sight, bred in him no meane admiration, as also kinde compassion to the unfortunate woman; out of which compassion, sprung an earnest desire, to deliver her (if he could) from a death so full of anguish and horror: but seeing himselfe to be without Armes, hee ran and pluckt up the plant of a Tree, which handling as if it had beene a staffe, he opposed himselfe against the Dogges and the Knight, who seeing him comming, cryed out in this manner to him. _Anastasio_, put not thy selfe in any opposition, but referre to my Hounds and me, to punish this wicked woman as she hath justly deserved. And in speaking these words, the Hounds tooke fast hold on her body, so staying her, untill the Knight was come neerer to her, and alighted from his horse: when _Anastasio_ (after some other angry speeches) spake thus unto him. I cannot tell what or who thou art, albeit thou takest such knowledge of me: yet I must say, that it is meere cowardize in a Knight, being armed as thou art, to offer to kill a naked woman, and make thy dogges thus to seize on her, as if she were a savage beast; therefore beleeve me, I will defend her so farre as I am able. _Anastasio_, answered the Knight, I am of the same City as thou art, and do well remember, that thou wast a little Ladde, when I (who was then named _Guido Anastasio_, and thine Unckle) became as intirely in love with this woman, as now thou art of _Paulo Traversarioes_ daughter. But through her coy disdaine and cruelty, such was my heavy fate, that desperately I slew my selfe with this short sword which thou beholdest in mine hand: for which rash sinfull deede, I was and am condemned to eternall punishment. This wicked woman, rejoycing immeasurably in mine unhappie death, remained no long time alive after me, and for her mercilesse sinne of cruelty, and taking pleasure in my oppressing torments; dying unrepentant, and in pride of her scorne, she had the like sentence of condemnation pronounced on her, and sent to the same place where I was tormented. There the three impartiall Judges, imposed this further infliction on us both; namely, that shee should flye in this manner before mee, and I (who loved her so deerely while I lived) must pursue her as my deadly enemy, not like a woman that had any taste of love in her. And so often as I can overtake her, I am to kill her with this sword, the same Weapon wherewith I slew my selfe. Then am I enjoyned, therewith to open her accursed body, and teare out her hard and frozen heart, with her other inwards, as now thou seest me doe, which I give unto my hounds to feede on. Afterward, such is the appointment of the supreame powers, that she re-assumeth life againe, even as if she had not bene dead at all, and falling to the same kinde of flight, I with my houndes am still to follow her, without any respite or intermission. Every Friday, and just at this houre, our course is this way, where shee suffereth the just punishment inflicted on her. Nor do we rest any of the other dayes, but are appointed unto other places, where she cruelly executed her malice against me, being now (of her dear affectionate friend) ordained to be her endlesse enemy, and to pursue her in this manner, for so many yeeres, as she exercised monthes of cruelty towards me. Hinder me not then, in being the executioner of divine justice; for all thy interposition is but in vaine, in seeking to crosse the appointment of supreame powers. _Anastasio_ having attentively heard all this discourse, his haire stoode upright like Porcupines quils, and his soule was so shaken with the terror, that he stept back to suffer the Knight to doe what he was enjoyned, looking yet with milde commiseration on the poore woman. Who kneeling most humbly before the Knight, & sternly seised on by the two blood hounds, he opened her brest with his weapon, drawing foorth her heart and bowelse, which instantly he threw to the dogges, and they devoured them very greedily. Soone after, the Damosell (as if none of this punishment had bene inflicted on her) started up sodainly, running amaine towards the Sea shore, and the Hounds swiftly following her, as the Knight did the like, after he had taken his sword, and was mounted on horseback; so that _Anastasio_ had soon lost all sight of them, and could not gesse what was become of them. After he had heard and observed all these things, he stoode awhile as confounded with feare and pitty, like a simple silly man, hoodwinkt with his owne passions, not knowing the subtle enemies cunning illusions, in offering false suggestions to the sight, to worke his owne ends thereby, & encrease the number of his deceived servants. Forthwith hee perswaded himself, that he might make good use of this womans tormenting, so justly imposed on the Knight to prosecute, if thus it should continue still every Friday. Wherefore, setting a good note or marke upon the place, hee returned backe to his owne people, and at such time as hee thought convenient, sent for divers of his kindred and friends from _Ravenna_, who being present with him, thus hee spake to them. Deare Kinsmen and Friends, ye have a long while importuned mee, to discontinue my over doating love to her, whom you all think, and I find to be my mortall enemy: as also, to give over my lavish expences, wherein I confesse my selfe too prodigal; both which requests of yours, I will condiscend to, provided, that you will performe one gracious favour for mee; Namely, that on Friday next, Signior _Paulo Traversario_, his wife, daughter, with all other women linked in linage to them, and such beside onely as you shall please to appoynt, will vouchsafe to accept a dinner heere with mee; as for the reason thereto mooving mee, you shall then more at large be acquainted withall. This appeared no difficult matter for them to accomplish: wherefore, being returned to _Ravenna_, and as they found the time answerable to their purpose, they invited such as _Anastasio_ had appointed them. And although they found it somewhat an hard matter, to gain her company whom he so deerely affected; yet notwithstanding, the other women won her along with them. A most magnificent dinner had _Anastasio_ provided, and the tables were covered under the Pine-trees, where hee saw the cruell Lady so pursued and slaine: directing the guests so in their seating, that the yong Gentlewoman his unkinde Mistresse, sate with her face opposite unto the place, where the dismall spectacle was to be seene. About the closing up of dinner, they beganne to heare the noise of the poore prosecuted Woman, which drove them all to much admiration; desiring to know what it was, and no one resolving them, they arose from the tables, and looking directly as the noise came to them, they espied the wofull Woman, the Dogges eagerly pursuing her; and the armed Knight on horseback, gallopping fiercely after them with his drawn weapon, and came very nere unto the company, who cryed out with lowd exclaimes against the dogs and the Knight, stepping forth in assistance of the injuried woman. The Knight spake unto them, as formerly hee had done to _Anastasio_, (which made them draw backe, possessed with feare and admiration) acting the same cruelty as hee did the Friday before, not differing in the least degree. Most of the Gentlewomen there present, being neere allyed to the unfortunate Woman, and likewise to the Knight, remembring well both his love and death, did shed teares as plentifully, as if it had bin to the very persons themselves, in visiall performance of the action indeede. Which tragicall Scene being passed over, and the Woman and Knight gone out of their sight: all that had seene this straunge accident, fell into diversity of confused opinions, yet not daring to disclose them, as doubting some further danger to ensue thereon. But beyond al the rest, none could compare in feare and astonishment with the cruell yong Maide affected by _Anastasio_, who both saw and observed all with a more inward apprehension, knowing very well, that the morall of this dismall spectacle, carried a much neerer application to her then any other in all the company. For now she could call to mind, how unkinde and cruell she had shewn her selfe to _Anastasio_, even as the other Gentlewoman formerly did to her Lover, still flying from him in great contempt and scorne: for which, shee thought the Blood-hounds also pursued her at the heeles already, and a sword of due vengeance to mangle her body. This feare grew so powerfull in her, that, to prevent the like heavy doome from falling on her; she studied (by all her best & commendable meanes, and therein bestowed all the night season) how to change her hatred into kinde love, which at the length shee fully obtayned, and then purposed to prosecute in this manner. Secretly she sent a faithfull Chamber-maide of her owne, to greete _Anastasio_ on her behalfe; humbly entreating him to come see her: because now she was absolutely determined, to give him satisfaction in all which (with honour) he could request of her. Whereto _Anastasio_ answered, that he accepted her message thankfully, and desired no other favour at her hand, but that which stood with her owne offer, namely, to be his Wife in honourable marriage. The Maide knowing sufficiently, that hee could not be more desirous of the match, then her Mistresse shewed her selfe to be, made answere in her name, that this motion would bee most welcome to her. Heereupon, the Gentlewoman her selfe, became the solicitour to her Father and Mother, telling them plainly, that she was willing to bee the Wife of _Anastasio_: which newes did so highly content them, that uppon the Sunday next following, the mariage was very worthily sollemnized, and they lived and loved together very kindly. Thus the divine bounty, out of the malignant enemies secret machinations, can cause good effects to arise and succeede. For, from this conceite of fearfull imagination in her, not onely happened this long desired conversion, of a Maide so obstinately scornfull and proud: but likewise al the women of _Ravenna_ (being admonished by her example) grew afterward more kinde and tractable to mens honest motions, then ever they shewed themselves before. And let me make some use hereof (faire Ladies) to you, not to stand over-nicely conceited of your beauty and good parts, when men (growing enamored of you by them) solicite you with their best and humblest services. Remember then this disdainfull Gentlewoman, but more especially her, who being the death of so kinde a Lover, was therefore condemned to perpetuall punishment, and hee made the minister thereof, whom she had cast off with coy disdaine, from which I wish your minds to be as free, as mine is ready to do you any acceptable service. Frederigo, _of the_ Alberighi _Family, loved a Gentlewoman, and was not requited with like love againe. By bountifull expences, and over liberall invitations, he wasted and consumed all his lands and goods, having nothing left him, but a Hawke or Faulcon. His unkinde Mistresse happeneth to come visite him, and he not having any other foode for her dinner; made a daintie dish of his Faulcone for her to feede on. Being conquered by this his exceeding kinde courtesie, she changed her former hatred towardes him, accepting him as her Husband in marriage, and made him a man of wealthy possessions._ The ninth Novell. _Wherein is figured to the life, the notable kindnesse and courtesie, of a true and constant Lover: As also the magnanimous minde of a famous Lady._ Madame _Philomena_ having finished her discourse, the Queene perceiving, that her turne was the next, in regard of the priviledge granted to _Dioneus_; with a smiling countenance thus she spake. Now or never am I to maintaine the order which was instituted when we beganne this commendable exercise, whereto I yeeld with all humble obedience. And (worthy Ladies) I am to acquaint you with a Novell, in some sort answerable to the precedent, not onely to let you know, how powerfully your kindnesses do prevaile, in such as have a free and gentle soule: but also to advise you, in being bountifull, where vertue doth justly chalenge it. And evermore, let your favours shine on worthy deservers, without the direction of chaunce or Fortune, who never bestoweth any gift by discretion; but rashly without consideration, even to the first she blindly meets withall. You are to understand then, that _Coppo di Borghese Domenichi_, who was of our owne City, and perhaps (as yet) his name remaineth in great and reverend authority, now in these dayes of ours, as well deserving eternal memory; yet more for his vertues and commendable qualities, then any boast of Nobility from his predecessors. This man, being well entred into yeares, and drawing towards the finishing of his dayes; it was his only delight and felicity, in conversation among his neighbours, to talke of matters concerning antiquity, and some other things within compasse of his owne knowledge: which he would deliver in such singular order, (having an absolute memory) and with the best Language, as verie few or none could do the like. Among the multiplicity of his queint discourses, I remember he told us, that sometime there lived in _Florence_ a yong Gentleman, named _Frederigo_, Sonne to Signior _Philippo Alberigho_, who was held and reputed, both for Armes, and all other actions beseeming a Gentleman, hardly to have his equall through all _Tuscany_. This _Frederigo_ (as it is no rare matter in yong Gentlemen) became enamored of a Gentlewoman, named Madam _Giana_, who was esteemed (in her time) to be the fairest and most gracious Lady in all _Florence_. In which respect, and to reach the height of his desire, he made many sumptuous Feasts and Banquets, Joustes, Tiltes, Tournaments, and all other noble actions of Armes, beside, sending her infinite rich and costly presents, making spare of nothing, but lashing all out in lavish expence. Notwithstanding, shee being no lesse honest then faire, made no reckoning of whatsoever he did for her sake, or the least respect of his owne person. So that _Frederigo_, spending thus daily more, then his meanes and ability could maintaine, and no supplies any way redounding to him, or his faculties (as very easily they might) diminished in such sort, that he became so poore; as he had nothing left him, but a small poore Farme to live upon, the silly revenewes whereof were so meane, as scarcely allowed him meat and drinke; yet had he a Faire Hawke or Faulcon, hardly any where to be fellowed, so expeditious and sure she was of flight. His low ebbe and poverty, no way quailing his love to the Lady, but rather setting a keener edge thereon; he saw the City life could no longer containe him, where most he coveted to abide: and therefore, betooke himselfe to his poore Countrey Farme, to let his Faulcon get him his dinner and supper, patiently supporting his penurious estate, without suite or meanes making to one, for helpe or reliefe in any such necessity. While thus he continued in this extremity, it came to passe, that the Husband to Madam _Giana_ fell sicke, and his debility of body being such, as little, or no hope of life remained: he made his last will and testament, ordaining thereby, that his Sonne (already growne to indifferent stature) should be heire to all his Lands and riches, wherein hee abounded very greatly. Next unto him, if he chanced to die without a lawfull heire, hee substituted his Wife, whom most dearely he affected, and so departed out of this life. Madam _Giana_ being thus left a widow; as commonly it is the custome of our City Dames, during the Summer season, shee went to a House of her owne in the Countrey, which was somewhat neere to poore _Frederigoes_ Farme, and where he lived in such an honest kind of contented poverty. Hereupon, the young Gentleman her Sonne, taking great delight in Hounds and Hawkes; grew into familiarity with poore _Frederigo_, and having seene many faire flights of his Faulcon, they pleased him so extraordinarily, that he earnestly desired to enjoy her as his owne; yet durst not move the motion for her, because he saw how choycely _Frederigo_ esteemed her. Within a short while after, the young Gentleman, became very sicke, whereat his Mother greeved exceedingly, (as having no more but he, and therefore loved him the more entirely) never parting from him either night or day, comforting him so kindly as shee could, and demanding, if he had a desire to any thing, willing him to reveale it, and assuring him withall, that (if it were within the compasse of possibility) he should have it. The youth hearing how many times shee had made him these offers, and with such vehement protestations of performance, at last thus spake. Mother (quoth he) if you can doe so much for me, as that I may have _Frederigoes_ Faulcon, I am perswaded, that my sicknesse soone will cease. The Lady hearing this, sate some short while musing to her selfe, and began to consider, what shee might best doe to compasse her Sonnes desire: for well shee knew, how long a time _Frederigo_ had most lovingly kept it, not suffering it ever to be out of his sight. Moreover, shee remembred, how earnest in affection he had beene to her, never thinking himselfe happy, but onely when he was in her company; wherefore, shee entred into this private consultation with her owne thoughts. Shall I send, or goe my selfe in person, to request the Faulcon of him, it being the best that ever flew? It is his onely Jewell of delight, and that taken from him, no longer can he wish to live in this World. How farre then voide of understanding shall I shew my selfe, to rob a Gentleman of his sole felicity, having no other joy or comfort left him? These and the like considerations, wheeled about her troubled braine, onely in tender care and love to her Sonne, perswading her selfe assuredly, that the Faulcon were her own, if shee would but request it: yet not knowing whereon it were best to resolve, shee returned no answer to her Sonne, but sate still in her silent meditations. At the length, love to the youth, so prevailed with her, that she concluded on his contentation, and (come of it what could) shee would not send for it; but goe her selfe in person to request it, and then returne home againe with it, whereupon thus she spake. Sonne, comfort thy selfe, and let languishing thoughts no longer offend thee: for here I promise thee, that the first thing I doe to morrow morning, shall be my journey for the Faulcon, and assure thy selfe, that I will bring it with me. Whereat the youth was so joyed, that he imagined, his sicknesse began instantly a little to leave him, and promised him a speedy recovery. Somewhat early the next morning, the Lady, in care of her sicke Sons health, was up and ready betimes, and taking another Gentlewoman with her; onely as a mornings recreation, shee walked to _Frederigoes_ poore Countrey Farme, knowing that it would not a little glad him to see her. At the time of her arrivall there, he was (by chance) in a silly Garden, on the backe-side of his House, because (as yet) it was no convenient time for flight: but when he heard, that Madam _Giana_, was come thither, and desired to have some conference with him; as one almost confounded with admiration, in all haste he ran to her, and saluted her with most humble reverence. Shee in all modest and gracious manner, requited him with the like salutations, thus speaking to him. _Signior Frederigo_, your owne best wishes befriend you, I am now come hither, to recompence some part of your passed travailes, which heretofore you pretended to suffer for my sake, when your love was more to me, then did well become you to offer, or my selfe to accept. And such is the nature of my recompence, that I make my selfe your guest, and meane this day to dine with you, as also this Gentlewoman, making no doubt of our welcome: whereto, with lowly reverence, thus he replyed. Madam, I doe not remember, that ever I sustained any losse or hinderance by you, but rather so much good, as if I was woorth any thing, it proceeded from your great deservings, and by the service in which I did stand engaged to you. But my present happinesse can no way bee equalled, derived from your super-abounding gracious favour, and more then common course of kindnesse, vouchsafing (of your owne liberal nature) to come and visit so poore a servant. Oh that I had as much to spend againe, as heeretofore riotously I have run thorow: what a welcome wold your poore Host bestow upon you, for gracing this homely house with your divine presence? With these wordes, hee conducted her into his house, and then into his simple Garden, where having no convenient company for her, he saide. Madam, the poverty of this place is such, that it affoordeth none fit for your conversation: this poore woman, wife to an honest Husbandman will attend on you, while I (with some speede) shall make ready dinner. Poore _Frederigo_, although his necessity was extreame, and his greefe great, remembring his former inordinate expences, a moity whereof would now have stood him in some sted; yet hee had a heart as free and forward as ever, not a jotte dejected in his minde, though utterly overthrowne by Fortune. Alas! how was his good soule afflicted, that he had nothing wherewith to honour his Lady? Up and downe he runnes, one while this way, then againe another, exclaiming on his disastrous Fate, like a man enraged, or bereft of senses: for he had not one peny of mony neither pawne or pledge, wherewith to procure any. The time hasted on, and he would gladly (though in meane measure) expresse his honourable respect of the Lady. To begge of any, his nature denied it, and to borrow he could not, because his neighbours were all as needie as himselfe. At last, looking round about, and seeing his Faulcon standing on her pearch, which he felt to be very plumpe and fat, being voide of all other helpes in his neede, and thinking her to be a Fowle meete for so Noble a Lady to feede on: without any further demurring or delay, he pluckt off her necke, and caused the poore woman presently to pull her Feathers: which being done, he put her on the spit, and in short time she was daintily roasted. Himselfe covered the table, set bread and salt on, and laid the Napkins, whereof he had but a few left him. Going then with chearfull lookes into the Garden, telling the Lady that dinner was ready, and nothing now wanted, but her presence. Shee, and the Gentlewoman went in, and being seated at the table, not knowing what they fed on, the Falcon was all their foode; and _Frederigo_ not a little joyfull, that his credite was so well saved. When they were risen from the table, and had spent some small time in familiar conference: the Lady thought it fitte, to acquaint him with the reason of her comming thither, and therefore (in very kinde manner) thus began. _Frederigo_, if you do yet remember your former carriage towards me, as also my many modest and chaste denials, which (perhaps) you thought to favour of a harsh, cruell, and un-womanly nature: I make no doubt, but you will wonder at my present presumption, when you understande the occasion, which expressely mooved me to come hither. But if you were possessed of children, or ever had any, whereby you might comprehend what love (in nature) is due unto them: then I durst assure my self, that you would partly hold mee excused. Now, in regard that you never had any, and I my selfe (for my part) have but onely one, I stand not exempted from those Lawes, which are in common to other mothers. And being compelled to obey the power of those Lawes; contrary to mine owne will, and those duties which reason ought to maintaine: I am to request such a gift of you, which I am certaine, that you do make most precious account of, as in manly equity you can do no lesse. For, Fortune hath bin so extreamly adverse to you, that she hath robbed you of all other pleasures, allowing you no comfort or delight, but onely that poore one, which is your faire Faulcone. Of which Bird, my Sonne is become so straungely desirous, as, if I doe not bring it to him at my comming home; I feare so much the extreamity of his sicknesse, as nothing can ensue thereon, but his losse of life. Wherefore I beseech you, not in regard of the love you have born me, for thereby you stand no way obliged: but in your owne true gentle nature (the which hath alwayes declared it selfe ready in you, to do more kinde offices generally, then any other Gentleman that I know) you will be pleased to give her me, or at the least, let me buy her of you. Which if you do, I shall freely then confesse, that onely by your meanes, my Sonnes life is saved, and wee both shall for ever remaine engaged to you. When _Frederigo_ had heard the Ladies request, which was now quite out of his power to graunt, because it had bene her service at dinner: he stood like a man meerely dulled in his sences, the teares trickling amaine downe his cheekes: and he not able to utter one word. Which shee perceiving, began to conjecture immediately, that these teares and passions proceeded rather from greefe of minde, as being loather to part with his Faulcon, then any other kinde of matter: which made her readie to say, that she would not have it. Neverthelesse shee did not speake, but rather tarried to attend his answer. Which, after some small respite and pawse, he returned in this manner. Madame, since the houre, when first mine affection became soly devoted to your service; Fortune hath bene crosse and contrary to mee, in many occasions, as justly, and in good reason I may complain of her. Yet all seemed light and easie to be indured, in comparison of her present malicious contradiction, to my utter overthrow, and perpetuall molestation. Considering, that you are come hither to my poore house, which (while I was rich and able) you would not so much as vouchsafe to look on. And now you have requested a small matter of mee, wherein shee hath also most crookedly thwarted me, because she hath disabled mee, in bestowing so meane a gift, as your selfe will confesse, when it shall be related to you in very few words. So soone as I heard, that it was your gracious pleasure to dine with me, having regard to your excellency, and what (by merit) is justly due unto you: I thought it a part of my bounden dutie, to entertaine you with such exquisite viands, as my poore power could any way compas, and farre beyond respect or welcome, to other common and ordinarie persons. Whereupon, remembring my Faulcon, which nowe you aske for; and her goodnesse, excelling all other of her kinde; I supposed, that she would make a dainty dish for your dyet, and having drest hir, so well as I could devise to do: you have fed hartily on her, and I am proud that I have so well bestowne her. But perceiving now, that you would have her for your sicke Sonne; it is no meane affliction to mee, that I am disabled of yeelding you contentment, which all my lifetime I have desired to doe. To approve his words, the feathers, feete, and beake were brought in, which when she saw, she greatly blamed him for killing so rare a Falcon, to content the appetite of any woman whatsoever. Yet she commended his height of spirit, which poverty had no power to abase. Lastly, her hopes being frustrate for enjoying the Faulcon, and fearing besides the health of her Sonne: she thanked _Frederigo_ for his honourable kindnesse, returning home againe sad and melancholly. Shortly after, her sonne either greeving that he could not have the Faulcone, or by extreamity of his disease, chanced to dye, leaving his mother a most wofull Lady. After so much time was expired, as conveniently might agree with sorrow and mourning; her Brethren made many motions to her, to joyne her selfe in marriage againe, because she was extraordinarily rich, and as yet but yong in yeares. Now, although she was well contented never to be married any more; yet being continually importuned by them, and remembring the honourable honesty of _Frederigo_, his last poore, yet magnificent dinner, in killing his Faulcone for her sake, shee saide to her Brethren. This kinde of widdowed estate doth like me so well, as willingly I would never leave it: but seeing you are so earnest for my second marriage, let me plainly tell you, that I will never accept of any other husband, but onely _Frederigo di Alberino_. Her brethren in scornfull manner reprooved her, telling her, that hee was a begger, and had nothing left to keepe him in the world. I knowe it well (quoth she) and am heartily sorry for it. But give me a man that hath neede of wealth, rather then wealth that hath neede of a man. The Brethren hearing how shee stoode addicted, and knowing _Frederigo_ to bee a worthy Gentleman, though poverty had disgraced him in the Worlde: consented thereto, so she bestowed her selfe and her riches on him. He on the other side, having so noble a Lady to his Wife, and the same whome he had so long and deerely loved: submitted all his fairest Fortunes unto her, became a better husband (for the world) then before, and they lived and loved together in equall joy and happinesse. Pedro di Vinciolo _went to sup at a friends House in the City. His Wife (in the meane while) had a young man (whom shee loved) at supper with her._ Pedro _returning whom upon a sudden, the young man was hidden under a Coope for Hennes._ Pedro, _in excuse of his so soone comming home, declareth, how in the House of_ Herculano _(with whom he should have supt) a friend of his Wives was found, which was the reason of the Suppers breaking off._ Pedroes _Wife reproving the error of_ Herculanoes _Wife; An Asse (by chance) treads on the young mans fingers, that lay hidden under the Hen-Coope. Uppon his crying out,_ Pedro _steppeth thither, sees him, knowes him, and findeth the fallacy of his Wife: with whom (neverthelesse) he groweth to agreement, in regard of some imperfections in himselfe._ The tenth Novell. _Reprehending the cunning shifts, of light headed and immodest Women, who, by abusing themselves, doe throw evill aspersions on all the Sexe._ The Queenes Novell being ended, and all the company applauding the happy fortune of _Frederigo_, as also the noble nature of Madam _Giana: Dioneus_, who never expected any command, prepairing to deliver his discourse, began in this manner. I know not, whether I should terme it a vice accidental, and ensuing through the badnesse of complexions uppon us mortals; or elsee an error in Nature, to joy and smile rather at lewd accidents, then at deeds that justly deserve commendation, especially, when they doe not any way concerne our selves. Now, in regard that all the paines I have hitherto taken, and am also to undergoe at this present, aymeth at no other end, but onely to purge your mindes of melancholly, and entertaine the time with mirthful matter: pardon me I pray you (faire Ladies) if my Tale trip in some part, and favour a little of immodesty; yet in hearing it, you may observe the same course, as you doe in pleasing and delightfull Gardens, plucke a sweete Rose, and yet preserve your fingers from pricking. Which very easily you may doe, wincking at the imperfections of a foolish man, and smiling at the amorous subtilties of his Wife, compassionating the misfortune of others, where urgent necessity doth require it. There dwelt (not long since) in _Perugia_, a wealthy man, named _Pedro di Vinciolo_, who (perhaps) more to deceive some other, and restraine an evill opinion, which the _Perugians_ had conceived of him, in matter no way beseeming a man, then any beauty or good feature remaining in the woman, entred into the estate of marriage. And Fortune was so conforme to him in his election, that the woman whom he had made his wife, had a young, lusty, and well enabled body, a red hairde wench, hot and fiery spirited, standing more in neede of three Husbands, then he, who could not any way well content one Wife, because his minde ran more on his money, then those offices and duties belonging to wed-lock, which time acquainting his Wife withall, contrary to her owne expectation, and those delights which the estate of marriage afforded, knowing her selfe also to be of a sprightly disposition, and not to be easily tamed by houshold cares and attendances; shee waxed weary of her Husbands unkind courses, upbraided him daily with harsh speeches, making his owne home meerely as a hell to him. When shee saw that this domesticke disquietnesse returned her no benefit, but rather tended to her owne consumption, then any amendment in her miserable Husband; shee began thus to conferre with her private thoughts. This Husband of mine liveth with me, as if he were no Husband, or I his Wife; the marriage bed, which should be a comfort to us both, seemeth hatefull to him, and as little pleasing to me, because his minde is on his money, his head busied with worldly cogitations, and early and late in his counting-house, admitting no familiar conversation with me. Why should not I be as respectlesse of him, as he declares himselfe to be of me? I tooke him for an Husband, brought him a good and sufficient dowry, thinking him to be a man, and affected a woman as a man ought to doe, elsee he had never beene any Husband of mine. If he be a Woman hater, why did he make choyce of me to be his Wife? If I had not intended to be of the World, I could have coopt my selfe up in a Cloyster, and shorne my selfe a Nunne, but that I was not borne to such severity of life. My youth shall be blasted with age, before I can truly understand what youth is, and I shall be branded with the disgracefull word barrennesse, knowing my selfe meete and able to be a Mother, were my Husband but worthy the name of a Father, or expected issue and posterity, to leave our memoriall to after times in our race, as all our predecessours formerly have done, and for which mariage was chiefly instituted. Castles long besieged, doe yeeld at the last, and women wronged by their owne Husbands, can hardly warrant their owne frailty, especially living among so many temptations, which flesh and bloud are not alwayes able to resist. Well, I meane to be advised in this case, before I will hazard my honest reputation, either to suspition or scandall, then which, no woman can have two heavier enemies, and very few there are that can escape them. Having thus a long while consulted with her selfe, and (perhaps) oftner then twice or thrice; shee became secretly acquainted with an aged woman, generally reputed to be more then halfe a Saint, walking alwayes very demurely in the streetes, counting (over and over) her _Pater nosters_, and all the Cities holy pardons hanging at her girdle, never talking of any thing, but the lives of the holy Fathers, or the wounds of Saint _Frances_, all the World admiring her sanctity of life, even as if shee were divinely inspired: this she Saint must be our distressed womans Councellour, and having found out a convenient season, at large she imparted all her mind to her, in some such manner as formerly you have heard, whereto shee returned this answere. Now trust me Daughter, thy case is to be pittied, and so much the rather, because thou art in the floure and spring time of thy youth, when not a minute of time is to be left: for there is no greater an error in this life, then the losse of time, because it cannot be recovered againe; and when the fiends themselves affright us, yet if we keepe our embers still covered with warme ashes on the hearth, they have nor any power to hurt us. If any one can truly speake thereof, then I am able to deliver true testimony; for I know, but not without much perturbation of minde, and piercing afflictions in the spirit; how much time I lost without any profit. And yet I lost not all, for I would not have thee thinke me to be so foolish, that I did altogether neglect such an especiall benefit; which when I call to minde, and consider now in what condition I am, thou must imagine, it is no small hearts griefe to me, that age should make me utterly despised, and no fire afforded to light my tinder. With men it is not so, they are borne apt for a thousand occasions, as well for the present purpose we talke of, as infinite other beside; yea, and many of them are more esteemed being aged, then when they were yong. But women serve onely for mens contentation, and to bring children, and therefore are they generally beloved, which if they faile of, either it is by unfortunate marriage, or some imperfection depending on nature, not through want of good will in themselves. We have nothing in this world but what is given us, in which regard, we are to make use of our time, and employ it the better while we have it. For, when we grow to be old, our Husbands, yea, our very dearest and nearest friends, will scarcely looke on us. We are then fit for nothing, but to sit by the fire in the Kitchin, telling tales to the Cat, or counting the pots and pannes on the shelves. Nay, which is worse, rimes and songs is made of us, even in meere contempt of our age, and commendation of such as are young, the daintiest morselse are fittest for them, and we referred to feed on the scrappes from their trenchers, or such reversion as they can spare us. I tell thee Daughter, thou couldst not make choyce of a meeter woman in all the City, to whom thou mightest safely open thy minde, and knowes better to advise thee then I doe. But remember withall, that I am poore, and it is your part not to suffer poverty to be unsupplyed. I will make thee partaker of all these blessed pardons, at every Altar I will say a _Pater noster_, and an _Ave Maria_, that thou maist prosper in thy hearts desires, and be defended from foule sinne and shame, and so shee ended her Motherly counsell. Within a while after, it came to passe, that her Husband was invited foorth to Supper, with one named _Herculano_, a kind friend of his, but his Wife refused to goe, because shee had appointed a friend to supper with her, to whom the old woman was employed as her messenger, and was well recompenced for her labour. This friend was a gallant proper youth, as any all _Perugia_ yeelded, and scarcely was he seated at the Table, but her Husband was returned backe, and called to be let in at the doore. Which when shee perceived, shee was almost halfe dead with feare, and coveting to hide the young man, that her Husband should not have any sight of him, shee had no other meanes, but in an entry, hard by the Parlour where they purposed to have supt, stood a Coope or Hen-pen, wherein she used to keepe her Pullen, under which he crept, and then shee covered it with an old empty sacke, and after ran to let her Husband come in. When he was entred into the House; as halfe offended at his so sudden returne, angerly she saide: It seemes Sir you are a shaver at your meate, that you have made so short a supper. In troth Wife (quoth he) I have not supt at all, no, not so much as eaten one bit. How hapned that? said the woman. Mary wife (quoth he) I will tell you, and then thus he began. As _Herculano_, his wife, and I were sitting downe at the Table, very neere unto us we heard one sneeze, whereof at the first we made no reckoning, untill we heard it againe the second time, yea, a third, fourth, and fifth, and many more after, whereat we were not a little amazed. Now Wife I must tell you, before we entred the roome where we were to sup, _Herculanoes_ wife kept the doore fast shut against us, and would not let us enter in an indifferent while; which made him then somewhat offended, but now much more, when he had heard one to sneeze so often. Demanding of her a reason for it, and who it was that thus sneezed in his House: he started from the Table, and stepping to a little doore neere the staires head, necessarily there made, to set such things in, as otherwise would be troublesome to the roome, (as in all Houses we commonly see the like) he perceived, that the party was hidden there, which wee had heard so often to sneeze before. No sooner had he opened the doore, but such a smell of brimston came foorth (whereof we felt not the least savour before) as made us likewise to cough and sneeze, being no way able to refraine it. She seeing her Husband to be much moved, excused the matter thus, that (but a little while before) shee had whited certaine linnen with the smoake of brimstone, as it is an usuall thing to doe, and then set the pan into that spare place, because it should not be offensive to us. By this time, _Herculano_ had espied him that sneezed, who being almost stifled with the smell, and closenesse of the small roome wherein he lay, had not any power to helpe himselfe, but still continued coughing and sneezing, even as if his heart would have split in twaine. Foorth he pluckt him by the heeles, and perceiving how matters had past, he saide to her. I thanke you Wife, now I see the reason, why you kept us so long from comming into this roome, let me die, if I beare this wrong at your hands. When his Wife heard these words, and saw the discovery of her shame; without returning either excuse or answere, foorth of doores she ran, but whither, we know not. _Herculano_ drew his Dagger, and would have slaine him that still lay sneezing; but I disswaded him from it, as well in respect of his, as also mine owne danger, when the Law should censure on the deede. And after the young man was indifferently recovered; by the perswasion of some Neighbours comming in: he was closely conveyed out of the house, and all the noyse quietly pacified. Onely (by this meanes, and the flight of _Herculanoes_ wife) we were disappointed of our Supper; and now you know the reason of my so soone returning. When she had heard this whole discourse, then she perceived, that other Women were subject to the like infirmity, and as wise for themselves, as shee could be, though these and the like sinister accidents might sometimes crosse them, and gladly she wished, that _Herculanoes_ Wifes excuse, might now serve to acquite her: but because in blaming others errors, our owne may sometime chance to escape discovery, and cleare us, albeit we are as guilty; in a sharpe reprehending manner, thus she began. See Husband, here is hansome behaviour, of an holy faire seeming, and Saint-like woman, to whom I durst have confest my sinnes, I conceived such a religious perswasion of her lives integrity, free from the least scruple of taxation. A woman, so farre stept into yeeres, as shee is, to give such an evill example to other younger women, is it not a sinne beyond all sufferance? Accursed be the houre, when she was borne into this World, and her selfe likewise, to be so lewdly and incontinently given; an universall shame and slaunder, to all the good women of our City. Shall I terme her a woman, or rather some savage monster in a womans shape? Hath shee not made am open prostitution of her honesty, broken her plighted faith to her Husband, and all the womanly reputation shee had in this World? Her Husband, being an honourable Citizen, entreating her alwayes, as few men elsee in the City doe their wives; what an heart-breake must this needes be to him, good man? Neither I, nor any honest man elsee, ought to have any pity on her; but (with our owne hands) teare her in peeces, or dragge her along to a good fire in the market place, wherein she and her minion should be consumed together, and their base ashes dispersed abroade in the winde, least the pure Aire should be infected with them. Then, remembring her owne case, and her poore affrighted friend, who lay in such distresse under the Hen-coope; shee began to advise her Husband, that he would be pleased to goe to bed, because the night passed on apace. But _Pedro_, having a better will to eate, then to sleepe, desired her to let him have some meate, else hee must goe to bed with an empty bellie; whereto shee answered. Why Husband (quoth shee) do I make any large provision, when I am debard of your company? I would I were the wife of _Herculano_, seeing you cannot content your selfe from one nights feeding, considering, it is now over-late to make any thing ready. It fortuned, that certaine Husbandmen, which had the charge of _Pedroes_ Farme house in the Countrey, and there followed his affaires of Husbandry, were returned home this instant night, having their Asses laden with such provision, as was to be used in his City-house. When the Asses were unladen, and set up in a small Stable, without watering; one of them being (belike) more thirsty then the rest, brake loose, and wandering all about smelling to seeke water, happened into the entry, where the young man lay hidden under the Hen-pen. Now, he being constrained (like a Carpe) to lie flat on his belly, because the Coope was over-weighty for him to carry, and one of his hands more extended forth, then was requisite for him in so urgent a shift: it was his hap (or ill fortune rather) that the Asse set his foote on the young mans fingers, treading so hard, and the paine being very irkesome to him, as he was enforced to cry out aloude, which _Pedro_ hearing, he wondered thereat not a little. Knowing that this cry was in his house, he tooke the candle in his hand, and going foorth of the Parlour, heard the cry to be louder and louder; because the Asse removed not his foote, but rather trod the more firmely on his hand. Comming to the Coope, driving thence the Asse, and taking off the old sacke, he espyed the young man, who, beside the painfull anguish he felt of his fingers, arose up trembling, as fearing some outrage beside to be offered him by _Pedro_, who knew the youth perfectly, and demanded of him, how he came thither. No answer did he make to that question, but humbly entreated (for charities sake) that he would not doe him any harme. Feare not (quoth _Pedro_) I will not offer thee any violence: onely tel me how thou camest hither, and for what occasion; wherein the youth fully resolved him. _Pedro_ being no lesse joyfull for thus finding him, then his wife was sorrowfull, tooke him by the hand, and brought him into the Parlour, where shee sate trembling and quaking, as not knowing what to say in this distresse. Seating himselfe directly before her, and holding the youth still fast by the hand, thus he began. Oh Wife! what bitter speeches did you use (even now) against the wife of _Herculano_, maintaining that shee had shamed all other women, and justly deserved to be burned? Why did you not say as much of your selfe? Or, if you had not the heart to speake it, how could you be so cruell against her, knowing your offence as great as hers? Questionlesse, nothing else urged you thereto, but that all women are of one and the same condition, covering their owne grosse faults by farre inferiour infirmities in others. You are a perverse generation, meerely false in your fairest shewes. When she saw that he offered her no other violence, but gave her such vaunting and reproachfull speeches, holding still the young man before her face, meerely to vexe and despight her: shee began to take heart, and thus replied. Doest thou compare me with the wife of _Herculano_, who is an olde, dissembling hypocrite? yet she can have of him whatsoever she desireth, and he useth her as a woman ought to be, which favour I could never yet find at thy hands. Put the case, that thou keepest me in good garments, allowing me to goe neatly hosed and shod; yet well thou knowest, there are other meete matters belonging to a woman, and every way as necessarily required, both for the preservation of Houshold quietnesse, and those other rites betweene a Husband and Wife. Let me be worser garmented, courser dieted, yea, debarred of all pleasure and delights; so I might once be worthy the name of a Mother, and leave some remembrance of woman-hood behind me. I tell thee plainly _Pedro_, I am a woman as others are, and subject to the same desires, as (by nature) attendeth on flesh and bloud: look how thou failest in kindnesse towards me, thinke it not amisse, if I doe the like to thee, and endeavour thou to win the worthy title of a Father, because I was made to be a Mother. When _Pedro_ perceived, that his Wife had spoken nothing but reason, in regard of his over-much neglect towards her, and not using such houshold kindnesse, as ought to be between Man and Wife, he returned her this answer. Well Wife (quoth he) I confesse my fault, and hereafter will labour to amend it; conditionally, that this youth, nor any other, may no more visite my House in mine absence. Get me therefore something to eate, for doubtlesse, this young man and thy selfe fell short of your supper, by reason of my so soone returning home. In troth Husband, saide shee, we did not eate one bit of anything, and I will be a true and loyall Wife to thee, so thou wilt be the like to me. No more words then wife, replyed _Pedro_, all is forgotten and forgiven, let us to supper, and we are all friends. She seeing his anger was so well appeased, lovingly kissed him, and laying the cloth, set on the supper, which shee had provided for her selfe & the youth, and so they supt together merrily, not one unkind word passing betweene them. After supper, the youth was sent away in friendly manner, and _Pedro_ was alwayes afterward more loving to his Wife, then formerly he had been, and no complaint passed on either side, but mutuall joy and houshold contentment, such as ought to be betweene man and wife. _Dioneus_ having ended his Tale, for which the Ladies returned him no thankes, but rather angerly frowned on him: the Queene, knowing that her government was now concluded, arose, and taking off her Crowne of Lawrell, placed it graciously on the head of Madam _Eliza_, saying. Now Madam, it is your turne to command. _Eliza_ having received the honour, did (in all respects) as others formerly had done, and after she had enstructed the Master of the Houshold, concerning his charge during the time of her regiment, for contentation of all the company; thus she spake. We have long since heard, that with witty words, ready answers, and sudden jests or taunts, many have checkt & reproved great folly in others, and to their owne no meane commendation. Now, because it is a pleasing kind of argument, ministring occasion of mirth and wit: my desire is, that all our discourse to morrow shall tend thereto. I meane of such persons, either Men or Women, who with some sudden witty answer, have encountred a scorner in his owne intention, and layed the blame where it justly belonged. Every one commended the Queenes appointment, because it savoured of good wit and judgement; and the Queene being risen, they were all discharged till supper time, falling to such severall exercises as themselves best fancyed. When supper was ended, and the instruments layed before them; by the Queenes consent, Madam _Æmillia_ undertooke the daunce, and the Song was appointed to _Dioneus_, who began many, but none that proved to any liking, they were so palpably obscene and idle, savouring altogether of his owne wanton disposition. At the length, the Queene looking stearnely on him, and commanding him to sing a good one, or none at all; thus he began. _The Song. Eyes, can ye not refraine your hourely weeping? Eares, how are you deprivde of sweete attention? Thoughts, have you lost your quiet silent sleeping? Wit, who hath robde thee of thy rare invention? The lacke of these, being life and motion giving: Are sencelesse shapes, and no true signes of living. Eyes, when you gazde upon her Angell beauty; Eares, while you heard her sweete delicious straines, Thoughts (sleeping then) did yet performe their duty, Wit, then tooke sprightly pleasure in his paines. While shee did live, then none of these were scanting, But now (being dead) they all are gone and wanting._ After that _Dioneus_ (by proceeding no further) declared the finishing of his Song; many more were sung beside, and that of _Dioneus_ highly commended. Some part of the night being spent in other delightfull exercises, and a fitting houre for rest drawing on: they betooke themselves to their Chambers, where we will leave them till to morrow morning. _The end of the Fifth Day._ FINIS. 
23700	----	[Transcriber's Note: The original text does not observe the normal convention of placing quotation marks at the beginnings of paragraphs within a multiple-paragraph quotation. This idiosyncrasy has been preserved in this e-text. Archaic spellings have been preserved, but obvious printer errors have been corrected. In the untranslated Italian passage in Day 3, Story 10, the original is missing the accents, which have been added using an Italian edition of _Decameron_ (Milan: Mursia, 1977) as a guide. John Payne's translation of _The Decameron_ was originally published in a private printing for The Villon Society, London, 1886. The American edition from which this e-text was prepared is undated.] _The_ _Decameron_ _of_ _Giovanni Boccaccio_ _Translated by_ _John Payne_ [Illustration] WALTER J. BLACK, INC. 171 Madison Avenue NEW YORK, N.Y. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA _Contents_ PROEM. DAY THE FIRST 1 THE FIRST STORY. _Master Ciappelletto dupeth a holy friar with a false confession and dieth; and having been in his lifetime the worst of men, he is, after his death, reputed a saint and called Saint Ciappelletto_ 16 THE SECOND STORY. _Abraham the Jew, at the instigation of Jehannot de Chevigné, goeth to the Court of Rome and seeing the depravity of the clergy, returneth to Paris and there becometh a Christian_ 25 THE THIRD STORY. _Melchizedek the Jew, with a story of three rings, escapeth a parlous snare set for him by Saladin_ 28 THE FOURTH STORY. _A monk, having fallen into a sin deserving of very grievous punishment, adroitly reproaching the same fault to his abbot, quitteth himself of the penalty_ 30 THE FIFTH STORY. _The Marchioness of Monferrato, with a dinner of hens and certain sprightly words, curbeth the extravagant passion of the King of France_ 33 THE SIXTH STORY. _An honest man, with a chance pleasantry, putteth to shame the perverse hypocrisy of the religious orders_ 35 THE SEVENTH STORY. _Bergamino, with a story of Primasso and the Abbot of Cluny, courteously rebuketh a fit of parsimony newly come to Messer Cane della Scala_ 37 THE EIGHTH STORY. _Guglielmo Borsiere with some quaint words rebuketh the niggardliness of Messer Ermino de' Grimaldi_ 40 THE NINTH STORY. _The King of Cyprus, touched to the quick by a Gascon lady, from a mean-spirited prince becometh a man of worth and valiance_ 42 THE TENTH STORY. _Master Alberto of Bologna civilly putteth a lady to the blush who thought to have shamed him of being enamoured of her_ 43 DAY THE SECOND 48 THE FIRST STORY. _Martellino feigneth himself a cripple and maketh believe to wax whole upon the body of St. Arrigo. His imposture being discovered, he is beaten and being after taken [for a thief,] goeth in peril of being hanged by the neck, but ultimately escapeth_ 49 THE SECOND STORY. _Rinaldo d'Asti, having been robbed, maketh his way to Castel Guglielmo, where he is hospitably entertained by a widow lady and having made good his loss, returneth to his own house, safe and sound_ 52 THE THIRD STORY. _Three young men squander their substance and become poor; but a nephew of theirs, returning home in desperation, falleth in with an abbot and findeth him to be the king's daughter of England, who taketh him to husband and maketh good all his uncles' losses, restoring them to good estate_ 57 THE FOURTH STORY. _Landolfo Ruffolo, grown poor, turneth corsair and being taken by the Genoese, is wrecked at sea, but saveth himself upon a coffer full of jewels of price and being entertained in Corfu by a woman, returneth home rich_ 63 THE FIFTH STORY. _Andreuccio of Perugia, coming to Naples to buy horses, is in one night overtaken with three grievous accidents, but escapeth them all and returneth home with a ruby_ 66 THE SIXTH STORY. _Madam Beritola, having lost her two sons, is found on a desert island with two kids and goeth thence into Lunigiana, where one of her sons, taking service with the lord of the country, lieth with his daughter and is cast into prison. Sicily after rebelling against King Charles and the youth being recognized by his mother, he espouseth his lord's daughter, and his brother being likewise found, they are all three restored to high estate_ 75 THE SEVENTH STORY. _The Soldan of Babylon sendeth a daughter of his to be married to the King of Algarve, and she, by divers chances, in the space of four years cometh to the hands of nine men in various places. Ultimately, being restored to her father for a maid, she goeth to the King of Algarve to wife, as first she did_ 85 THE EIGHTH STORY. _The Count of Antwerp, being falsely accused, goeth into exile and leaveth his two children in different places in England, whither, after awhile, returning in disguise and finding them in good case, he taketh service as a horseboy in the service of the King of France and being approved innocent, is restored to his former estate_ 100 THE NINTH STORY. _Bernabo of Genoa, duped by Ambrogiuolo, loseth his good and commandeth that his innocent wife be put to death. She escapeth and serveth the Soldan in a man's habit. Here she lighteth upon the deceiver of her husband and bringeth the latter to Alexandria, where, her traducer being punished, she resumeth woman's apparel and returneth to Genoa with her husband, rich_ 111 THE TENTH STORY. _Paganino of Monaco stealeth away the wife of Messer Ricciardo di Chinzica, who, learning where she is, goeth thither and making friends with Paganino, demandeth her again of him. The latter concedeth her to him, an she will; but she refuseth to return with him and Messer Ricciardo dying, she becometh the wife of Paganino_ 120 DAY THE THIRD 127 THE FIRST STORY. _Masetto of Lamporecchio feigneth himself dumb and becometh gardener to a convent of women, who all flock to lie with him_ 129 THE SECOND STORY. _A horsekeeper lieth with the wife of King Agilulf, who, becoming aware thereof, without word said, findeth him out and polleth him; but the polled man polleth all his fellows on like wise and so escapeth ill hap_ 134 THE THIRD STORY. _Under colour of confession and of exceeding niceness of conscience, a lady, being enamoured of a young man, bringeth a grave friar, without his misdoubting him thereof, to afford a means of giving entire effect to her pleasure_ 137 THE FOURTH STORY. _Dom Felice teacheth Fra Puccio how he may become beatified by performing a certain penance of his fashion, which the other doth, and Dom Felice meanwhile leadeth a merry life of it with the good man's wife_ 143 THE FIFTH STORY. _Ricciardo, surnamed Il Zima, giveth Messer Francesco Vergellesi a palfrey of his and hath therefor his leave to speak with his wife. She keeping silence, he in her person replieth unto himself, and the effect after ensueth in accordance with his answer_ 147 THE SIXTH STORY. _Ricciardo Minutolo, being enamoured of the wife of Filippello Fighinolfi and knowing her jealousy of her husband, contriveth, by representing that Filippello was on the ensuing day to be with his own wife in a bagnio, to bring her to the latter place, where, thinking to be with her husband, she findeth that she hath abidden with Ricciardo_ 152 THE SEVENTH STORY. _Tedaldo Elisei, having fallen out with his mistress, departeth Florence and returning thither, after awhile, in a pilgrim's favour, speaketh with the lady and maketh her cognisant of her error; after which he delivereth her husband, who had been convicted of murdering him, from death and reconciling him with his brethren, thenceforward discreetly enjoyeth himself with his mistress_ 157 THE EIGHTH STORY. _Ferondo, having swallowed a certain powder, is entombed for dead and being taken forth of the sepulchre by the abbot, who enjoyeth his wife the while, is put in prison and given to believe that he is in purgatory; after which, being raised up again, he reareth for his own a child begotten of the abbot on his wife_ 169 THE NINTH STORY. _Gillette de Narbonne recovereth the King of France of a fistula and demandeth for her husband Bertrand de Roussillon, who marrieth her against his will and betaketh him for despite to Florence, where, he paying court to a young lady, Gillette, in the person of the latter, lieth with him and hath by him two sons; wherefore after, holding her dear, he entertaineth her for his wife_ 176 THE TENTH STORY. _Alibech, turning hermit, is taught by Rustico, a monk, to put the devil in hell, and being after brought away thence, becometh Neerbale his wife_ 182 DAY THE FOURTH 189 THE FIRST STORY. _Tancred, Prince of Salerno, slayeth his daughter's lover and sendeth her his heart in a bowl of gold; whereupon, pouring poisoned water over it, she drinketh thereof and dieth_ 194 THE SECOND STORY. _Fra Alberto giveth a lady to believe that the angel Gabriel is enamoured of her and in his shape lieth with her sundry times; after which, for fear of her kinsmen, he casteth himself forth of her window into the canal and taketh refuge in the house of a poor man, who on the morrow carrieth him, in the guise of a wild man of the woods, to the Piazza, where, being recognized, he is taken by his brethren and put in prison_ 201 THE THIRD STORY. _Three young men love three sisters and flee with them into Crete, where the eldest sister for jealousy slayeth her lover. The second, yielding herself to the Duke of Crete, saveth her sister from death, whereupon her own lover slayeth her and fleeth with the eldest sister. Meanwhile the third lover and the youngest sister are accused of the new murder and being taken, confess it; then, for fear of death, they corrupt their keepers with money and flee to Rhodes, where they die in poverty_ 208 THE FOURTH STORY. _Gerbino, against the plighted faith of his grandfather, King Guglielmo of Sicily, attacketh a ship of the King of Tunis, to carry off a daughter of his, who being put to death of those on board, he slayeth these latter and is after himself beheaded_ 213 THE FIFTH STORY. _Lisabetta's brothers slay her lover, who appeareth to her in a dream and showeth her where he is buried, whereupon she privily disinterreth his head and setteth it in a pot of basil. Thereover making moan a great while every day, her brothers take it from her and she for grief dieth a little thereafterward_ 216 THE SIXTH STORY. _Andrevuola loveth Gabriotto and recounteth to him a dream she hath had, whereupon he telleth her one of his own and presently dieth suddenly in her arms. What while she and a waiting woman of hers bear him to his own house, they are taken by the officers of justice and carried before the provost, to whom she discovereth how the case standeth. The provost would fain force her, but she suffereth it not and her father, coming to hear of the matter, procureth her to be set at liberty, she being found innocent; whereupon, altogether refusing to abide longer in the world, she becometh a nun_ 220 THE SEVENTH STORY. _Simona loveth Pasquino and they being together in a garden, the latter rubbeth a leaf of sage against his teeth and dieth. She, being taken and thinking to show the judge how her lover died, rubbeth one of the same leaves against her teeth and dieth on like wise_ 225 THE EIGHTH STORY. _Girolamo loveth Salvestra and being constrained by his mother's prayers to go to Paris, returneth and findeth his mistress married; whereupon he entereth her house by stealth and dieth by her side; and he being carried to a church, Salvestra dieth beside him_ 228 THE NINTH STORY. _Sir Guillaume de Roussillon giveth his wife to eat the heart of Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing by him slain and loved of her, which she after coming to know, casteth herself from a high casement to the ground and dying, is buried with her lover_ 232 THE TENTH STORY. _A physician's wife putteth her lover for dead in a chest, which two usurers carry off to their own house, gallant and all. The latter, who is but drugged, cometh presently to himself and being discovered, is taken for a thief; but the lady's maid avoucheth to the seignory that she herself had put him into the chest stolen by the two usurers, whereby he escapeth the gallows and the thieves are amerced in certain monies_ 235 DAY THE FIFTH 243 THE FIRST STORY. _Cimon, loving, waxeth wise and carrieth off to sea Iphigenia his mistress. Being cast into prison at Rhodes, he is delivered thence by Lysimachus and in concert with him carrieth off Iphigenia and Cassandra on their wedding-day, with whom the twain flee into Crete, where the two ladies become their wives and whence they are presently all four recalled home_ 244 THE SECOND STORY. _Costanza loveth Martuccio Gomito and hearing that he is dead, embarketh for despair alone in a boat, which is carried by the wind to Susa. Finding her lover alive at Tunis, she discovereth herself to him and he, being great in favour with the king for counsels given, espouseth her and returneth rich with her to Lipari_ 252 THE THIRD STORY. _Pietro Boccamazza, fleeing with Agnolella, falleth among thieves; the girl escapeth through a wood and is led [by fortune] to a castle, whilst Pietro is taken by the thieves, but presently, escaping from their hands, winneth, after divers adventures, to the castle where his mistress is and espousing her, returneth with her to Rome_ 256 THE FOURTH STORY. _Ricciardo Manardi, being found by Messer Lizio da Valbona with his daughter, espouseth her and abideth in peace with her father_ 261 THE FIFTH STORY. _Guidotto da Cremona leaveth to Giacomino da Pavia a daughter of his and dieth. Giannole di Severino and Minghino di Mingole fall in love with the girl at Faenza and come to blows on her account. Ultimately she is proved to be Giannole's sister and is given to Minghino to wife_ 265 THE SIXTH STORY. _Gianni di Procida being found with a young lady, whom he loved and who had been given to King Frederick of Sicily, is bound with her to a stake to be burnt; but, being recognized by Ruggieri dell' Oria, escapeth and becometh her husband_ 269 THE SEVENTH STORY. _Teodoro, being enamoured of Violante, daughter of Messer Amerigo his lord, getteth her with child and is condemned to be hanged; but, being recognized and delivered by his father, as they are leading him to the gallows, scourging him the while, he taketh Violante to wife_ 273 THE EIGHTH STORY. _Nastagio degli Onesti, falling in love with a lady of the Traversari family, spendeth his substance, without being beloved in return, and betaking himself, at the instance of his kinsfolk, to Chiassi, he there seeth a horseman give chase to a damsel and slay her and cause her to be devoured of two dogs. Therewithal he biddeth his kinsfolk and the lady whom he loveth to a dinner, where his mistress seeth the same damsel torn in pieces and fearing a like fate, taketh Nastagio to husband_ 278 THE NINTH STORY. _Federigo degli Alberighi loveth and is not loved. He wasteth his substance in prodigal hospitality till there is left him but one sole falcon, which, having nought else, he giveth his mistress to eat, on her coming to his house; and she, learning this, changeth her mind and taking him to husband, maketh him rich again_ 282 THE TENTH STORY. _Pietro di Vinciolo goeth to sup abroad, whereupon his wife letteth fetch her a youth to keep her company, and her husband returning, unlooked for, she hideth her gallant under a hen-coop. Pietro telleth her how there had been found in the house of one Arcolano, with whom he was to have supped, a young man brought in by his wife, and she blameth the latter. Presently, an ass, by mischance, setteth foot on the fingers of him who is under the coop and he roareth out, whereupon Pietro runneth thither and espying him, discovereth his wife's unfaith, but ultimately cometh to an accord with her for his own lewd ends_ 286 DAY THE SIXTH 294 THE FIRST STORY. _A gentleman engageth to Madam Oretta to carry her a-horseback with a story, but, telling it disorderly, is prayed by her to set her down again_ 296 THE SECOND STORY. _Cisti the baker with a word of his fashion maketh Messer Geri Spina sensible of an indiscreet request of his_ 297 THE THIRD STORY. _Madam Nonna de' Pulci, with a ready retort to a not altogether seemly pleasantry, imposeth silence on the Bishop of Florence_ 299 THE FOURTH STORY. _Chichibio, cook to Currado Gianfigliazzi, with a ready word spoken to save himself, turneth his master's anger into laughter and escapeth the punishment threatened him by the latter_ 301 THE FIFTH STORY. _Messer Forese da Rabatta and Master Giotto the painter coming from Mugello, each jestingly rallieth the other on his scurvy favour_ 303 THE SIXTH STORY. _Michele Scalza proveth to certain young men that the cadgers of Florence are the best gentlemen of the world or the Maremma and winneth a supper_ 304 THE SEVENTH STORY. _Madam Filippa, being found by her husband with a lover of hers and brought to justice, delivereth herself with a prompt and pleasant answer and causeth modify the statute_ 306 THE EIGHTH STORY. _Fresco exhorteth his niece not to mirror herself in the glass if, as she saith, it irketh her to see disagreeable folk_ 308 THE NINTH STORY. _Guido Cavalcanti with a pithy speech courteously flouteth certain Florentine gentlemen who had taken him by surprise_ 309 THE TENTH STORY. _Fra Cipolla promiseth certain country folk to show them one of the angel Gabriel's feathers and finding coals in place thereof, avoucheth these latter to be of those which roasted St. Lawrence_ 311 DAY THE SEVENTH 322 THE FIRST STORY. _Gianni Lotteringhi heareth knock at his door by night and awakeneth his wife, who giveth him to believe that it is a phantom; whereupon they go to exorcise it with a certain orison and the knocking ceaseth_ 323 THE SECOND STORY. _Peronella hideth a lover of hers in a vat, upon her husband's unlooked for return, and hearing from the latter that he hath sold the vat, avoucheth herself to have sold it to one who is presently therewithin, to see if it be sound; whereupon the gallant, jumping out of the vat, causeth the husband scrape it out for him and after carry it home to his house_ 326 THE THIRD STORY. _Fra Rinaldo lieth with his gossip and being found of her husband closeted with her in her chamber, they give him to believe that he was in act to conjure worms from his godson_ 329 THE FOURTH STORY. _Tofano one night shutteth his wife out of doors, who, availing not to re-enter by dint of entreaties, feigneth to cast herself into a well and casteth therein a great stone. Tofano cometh forth of the house and runneth thither, whereupon she slippeth in and locking him out, bawleth reproaches at him from the window_ 333 THE FIFTH STORY. _A jealous husband, in the guise of a priest, confesseth his wife, who giveth him to believe that she loveth a priest, who cometh to her every night; and whilst the husband secretly keepeth watch at the door for the latter, the lady bringeth in a lover of hers by the roof and lieth with him_ 336 THE SIXTH STORY. _Madam Isabella, being in company with Leonetto her lover, is visited by one Messer Lambertuccio, of whom she is beloved; her husband returning, [unexpected,] she sendeth Lambertuccio forth of the house, whinger in hand, and the husband after escorteth Leonetto home_ 341 THE SEVENTH STORY. _Lodovico discovereth to Madam Beatrice the love he beareth her, whereupon she sendeth Egano her husband into the garden, in her own favour, and lieth meanwhile with Lodovico, who, presently arising, goeth and cudgelleth Egano in the garden_ 344 THE EIGHTH STORY. _A man waxeth jealous of his wife, who bindeth a piece of packthread to her great toe anights, so she may have notice of her lover's coming. One night her husband becometh aware of this device and what while he pursueth the lover, the lady putteth another woman to bed in her room. This latter the husband beateth and cutteth off her hair, then fetcheth his wife's brothers, who, finding his story [seemingly] untrue, give him hard words_ 348 THE NINTH STORY. _Lydia, wife of Nicostratus, loveth Pyrrhus, who, so he may believe it, requireth of her three things, all which she doth. Moreover, she solaceth herself with him in the presence of Nicostratus and maketh the latter believe that that which he hath seen is not real_ 353 THE TENTH STORY. _Two Siennese love a lady, who is gossip to one of them; the latter dieth and returning to his companion, according to premise made him, relateth to him how folk fare in the other world_ 360 DAY THE EIGHTH 365 THE FIRST STORY. _Gulfardo borroweth of Guasparruolo certain monies, for which he hath agreed with his wife that he shall lie with her, and accordingly giveth them to her; then, in her presence, he telleth Guasparruolo that he gave them to her, and she confesseth it to be true_ 365 THE SECOND STORY. _The parish priest of Varlungo lieth with Mistress Belcolore and leaveth her a cloak of his in pledge; then, borrowing a mortar of her, he sendeth it back to her, demanding in return the cloak left by way of token, which the good woman grudgingly giveth him back_ 367 THE THIRD STORY. _Calandrino, Bruno and Buffalmacco go coasting along the Mugnone in search of the heliotrope and Calandrino thinketh to have found it. Accordingly he returneth home, laden with stones, and his wife chideth him; whereupon, flying out into a rage, he beateth her and recounteth to his companions that which they know better than he_ 371 THE FOURTH STORY. _The rector of Fiesole loveth a widow lady, but is not loved by her and thinking to lie with her, lieth with a serving-wench of hers, whilst the lady's brothers cause the bishop find him in this case_ 377 THE FIFTH STORY. _Three young men pull the breeches off a Marchegan judge in Florence, what while he is on the bench, administering justice_ 380 THE SIXTH STORY. _Bruno and Buffalmacco, having stolen a pig from Calandrino, make him try the ordeal with ginger boluses and sack and give him (instead of the ginger) two dogballs compounded with aloes, whereby it appeareth that he himself hath had the pig and they make him pay blackmail, and he would not have them tell his wife_ 383 THE SEVENTH STORY. _A scholar loveth a widow lady, who, being enamoured of another, causeth him spend one winter's night in the snow awaiting her, and he after contriveth, by his sleight, to have her abide naked, all one mid-July day, on the summit of a tower, exposed to flies and gads and sun_ 387 THE EIGHTH STORY. _Two men consorting together, one lieth with the wife of his comrade, who, becoming aware thereof, doth with her on such wise that the other is shut up in a chest, upon which he lieth with his wife, he being inside the while_ 403 THE NINTH STORY. _Master Simone the physician, having been induced by Bruno and Buffalmacco to repair to a certain place by night, there to be made a member of a company, that goeth a-roving, is cast by Buffalmacco into a trench full of ordure and there left_ 406 THE TENTH STORY. _A certain woman of Sicily artfully despoileth a merchant of that which he had brought to Palermo; but he, making believe to have returned thither with much greater plenty of merchandise than before, borroweth money of her and leaveth her water and tow in payment_ 418 DAY THE NINTH 427 THE FIRST STORY. _Madam Francesca, being courted of one Rinuccio Palermini and one Alessandro Chiarmontesi and loving neither the one nor the other, adroitly riddeth herself of both by causing one enter for dead into a sepulchre and the other bring him forth thereof for dead, on such wise that they cannot avail to accomplish the condition imposed_ 428 THE SECOND STORY. _An abbess, arising in haste and in the dark to find one of her nuns, who had been denounced to her, in bed with her lover and, thinking to cover her head with her coif, donneth instead thereof the breeches of a priest who is abed with her; the which the accused nun observing and making her aware thereof, she is acquitted and hath leisure to be with her lover_ 432 THE THIRD STORY. _Master Simone, at the instance of Bruno and Buffalmacco and Nello, maketh Calandrino believe that he is with child; wherefore he giveth them capons and money for medicines and recovereth without bringing forth_ 435 THE FOURTH STORY. _Cecco Fortarrigo gameth away at Buonconvento all his good and the monies of Cecco Angiolieri [his master;] moreover, running after the latter, in his shirt, and avouching that he hath robbed him, he causeth him be taken of the countryfolk; then, donning Angiolieri's clothes and mounting his palfrey, he maketh off and leaveth the other in his shirt_ 438 THE FIFTH STORY. _Calandrino falleth in love with a wench and Bruno writeth him a talisman, wherewith when he toucheth her, she goeth with him; and his wife finding them together, there betideth him grievous trouble and annoy_ 441 THE SIXTH STORY. _Two young gentlemen lodge the night with an innkeeper, whereof one goeth to lie with the host's daughter, whilst his wife unwittingly coucheth with the other; after which he who lay with the girl getteth him to bed with her father and telleth him all, thinking to bespeak his comrade. Therewithal they come to words, but the wife, perceiving her mistake, entereth her daughter's bed and thence with certain words appeaseth everything_ 446 THE SEVENTH STORY. _Talano di Molese dreameth that a wolf mangleth all his wife's neck and face and biddeth her beware thereof; but she payeth no heed to his warning and it befalleth her even as he had dreamed_ 450 THE EIGHTH STORY. _Biondello cheateth Ciacco of a dinner, whereof the other craftily avengeth himself, procuring him to be shamefully beaten_ 451 THE NINTH STORY. _Two young men seek counsel of Solomon, one how he may be loved and the other how he may amend his froward wife, and in answer he biddeth the one love and the other get him to Goosebridge_ 454 THE TENTH STORY. _Dom Gianni, at the instance of his gossip Pietro, performeth a conjuration for the purpose of causing the latter's wife to become a mare; but, whenas he cometh to put on the tail, Pietro marreth the whole conjuration, saying that he will not have a tail_ 457 DAY THE TENTH 462 THE FIRST STORY. _A knight in the king's service of Spain thinking himself ill guerdoned, the king by very certain proof showeth him that this is not his fault, but that of his own perverse fortune, and after largesseth him magnificently_ 462 THE SECOND STORY. _Ghino di Tacco taketh the Abbot of Cluny and having cured him of the stomach-complaint, letteth him go; whereupon the Abbot, returning to the court of Rome, reconcileth him with Pope Boniface and maketh him a Prior of the Hospitallers_ 464 THE THIRD STORY. _Mithridanes, envying Nathan his hospitality and generosity and going to kill him, falleth in with himself, without knowing him, and is by him instructed of the course he shall take to accomplish his purpose; by means whereof he findeth him, as he himself had ordered it, in a coppice and recognizing him, is ashamed and becometh his friend_ 468 THE FOURTH STORY. _Messer Gentile de' Carisendi, coming from Modona, taketh forth of the sepulchre a lady whom he loveth and who hath been buried for dead. The lady, restored to life, beareth a male child and Messer Gentile restoreth her and her son to Niccoluccio Caccianimico, her husband_ 472 THE FIFTH STORY. _Madam Dianora requireth of Messer Ansaldo a garden as fair in January as in May, and he by binding himself [to pay a great sum of money] to a nigromancer, giveth it to her. Her husband granteth her leave to do Messer Ansaldo's pleasure, but he, hearing of the former's generosity, absolveth her of her promise, whereupon the nigromancer, in his turn, acquitteth Messer Ansaldo of his bond, without willing aught of his_ 478 THE SIXTH STORY. _King Charles the Old, the Victorious, falleth enamoured of a young girl, but after, ashamed of his fond thought, honourably marrieth both her and her sister_ 481 THE SEVENTH STORY. _King Pedro of Arragon, coming to know the fervent love borne him by Lisa, comforteth the lovesick maid and presently marrieth her to a noble young gentleman; then, kissing her on the brow, he ever after avoucheth himself her knight_ 485 THE EIGHTH STORY. _Sophronia, thinking to marry Gisippus, becometh the wife of Titus Quintius Fulvus and with him betaketh herself to Rome, whither Gisippus cometh in poor case and conceiving himself slighted of Titus, declareth, so he may die, to have slain a man. Titus, recognizing him, to save him, avoucheth himself to have done the deed, and the true murderer, seeing this, discovereth himself; whereupon they are all three liberated by Octavianus and Titus, giving Gisippus his sister to wife, hath all his good in common with him_ 491 THE NINTH STORY. _Saladin, in the disguise of a merchant, is honourably entertained by Messer Torello d'Istria, who, presently undertaking the [third] crusade, appointeth his wife a term for her marrying again. He is taken [by the Saracens] and cometh, by his skill in training hawks, under the notice of the Soldan, who knoweth him again and discovering himself to him, entreateth him with the utmost honour. Then, Torello falling sick for languishment, he is by magical art transported in one night [from Alexandria] to Pavia, where, being recognized by his wife at the bride-feast held for her marrying again, he returneth with her to his own house_ 503 THE TENTH STORY. _The Marquess of Saluzzo, constrained by the prayers of his vassals to marry, but determined to do it after his own fashion, taketh to wife the daughter of a peasant and hath of her two children, whom he maketh believe to her to put to death; after which, feigning to be grown weary of her and to have taken another wife, he letteth bring his own daughter home to his house, as she were his new bride, and turneth his wife away in her shift; but, finding her patient under everything, he fetcheth her home again, dearer than ever, and showing her her children grown great, honoureth and letteth honour her as marchioness_ 510 CONCLUSION OF THE AUTHOR 525 HERE BEGINNETH THE BOOK CALLED DECAMERON AND SURNAMED PRINCE GALAHALT WHEREIN ARE CONTAINED AN HUNDRED STORIES IN TEN DAYS TOLD BY SEVEN LADIES AND THREE YOUNG MEN PROEM A kindly thing it is to have compassion of the afflicted and albeit it well beseemeth every one, yet of those is it more particularly required who have erst had need of comfort and have found it in any, amongst whom, if ever any had need thereof or held it dear or took pleasure therein aforetimes, certes, I am one of these. For that, having from my first youth unto this present been beyond measure inflamed with a very high and noble passion (higher and nobler, perchance, than might appear, were I to relate it, to sort with my low estate) albeit by persons of discretion who had intelligence thereof I was commended therefor and accounted so much the more worth, natheless a passing sore travail it was to me to bear it, not, certes, by reason of the cruelty of the beloved lady, but because of the exceeding ardour begotten in my breast of an ill-ordered appetite, for which, for that it suffered me not to stand content at any reasonable bounds, caused me ofttimes feel more chagrin than I had occasion for. In this my affliction the pleasant discourse of a certain friend of mine and his admirable consolations afforded me such refreshment that I firmly believe of these it came that I died not. But, as it pleased Him who, being Himself infinite, hath for immutable law appointed unto all things mundane that they shall have an end, my love,--beyond every other fervent and which nor stress of reasoning nor counsel, no, nor yet manifest shame nor peril that might ensue thereof, had availed either to break or to bend,--of its own motion, in process of time, on such wise abated that of itself at this present it hath left me only that pleasance which it is used to afford unto whoso adventureth himself not too far in the navigation of its profounder oceans; by reason whereof, all chagrin being done away, I feel it grown delightsome, whereas it used to be grievous. Yet, albeit the pain hath ceased, not, therefore, is the memory fled of the benefits whilom received and the kindnesses bestowed on me by those to whom, of the goodwill they bore me, my troubles were grievous; nor, as I deem, will it ever pass away, save for death. And for that gratitude, to my thinking, is, among the other virtues, especially commendable and its contrary blameworthy, I have, that I may not appear ungrateful, bethought myself, now that I can call myself free, to endeavour, in that little which is possible to me, to afford some relief, in requital of that which I received aforetime,--if not to those who succoured me and who, belike, by reason of their good sense or of their fortune, have no occasion therefor,--to those, at least, who stand in need thereof. And albeit my support, or rather I should say my comfort, may be and indeed is of little enough avail to the afflicted, natheless meseemeth it should rather be proffered whereas the need appeareth greater, as well because it will there do more service as for that it will still be there the liefer had. And who will deny that this [comfort], whatsoever [worth] it be, it behoveth much more to give unto lovesick ladies than unto men? For that these within their tender bosoms, fearful and shamefast, hold hid the fires of love (which those who have proved know how much more puissance they have than those which are manifest), and constrained by the wishes, the pleasures, the commandments of fathers, mothers, brothers and husbands, abide most time enmewed in the narrow compass of their chambers and sitting in a manner idle, willing and willing not in one breath, revolve in themselves various thoughts which it is not possible should still be merry. By reason whereof if there arise in their minds any melancholy, bred of ardent desire, needs must it with grievous annoy abide therein, except it be done away by new discourse; more by token that they are far less strong than men to endure. With men in love it happeneth not on this wise, as we may manifestly see. They, if any melancholy or heaviness of thought oppress them, have many means of easing it or doing it away, for that to them, an they have a mind thereto, there lacketh not commodity of going about hearing and seeing many things, fowling, hunting, fishing, riding, gaming and trafficking; each of which means hath, altogether or in part, power to draw the mind unto itself and to divert it from troublous thought, at least for some space of time, whereafter, one way or another, either solacement superveneth or else the annoy groweth less. Wherefore, to the end that the unright of Fortune may by me in part be amended, which, where there is the less strength to endure, as we see it in delicate ladies, hath there been the more niggard of support, I purpose, for the succour and solace of ladies in love (unto others[1] the needle and the spindle and the reel suffice) to recount an hundred stories or fables or parables or histories or whatever you like to style them, in ten days' time related by an honourable company of seven ladies and three young men made in the days of the late deadly pestilence, together with sundry canzonets sung by the aforesaid ladies for their diversion. In these stories will be found love-chances,[2] both gladsome and grievous, and other accidents of fortune befallen as well in times present as in days of old, whereof the ladies aforesaid, who shall read them, may at once take solace from the delectable things therein shown forth and useful counsel, inasmuch as they may learn thereby what is to be eschewed and what is on like wise to be ensued,--the which methinketh cannot betide without cease of chagrin. If it happen thus (as God grant it may) let them render thanks therefor to Love, who, by loosing me from his bonds, hath vouchsafed me the power of applying myself to the service of their pleasures. [Footnote 1: _i.e._ those not in love.] [Footnote 2: Syn. adventures (_casi_).] _Day the First_ HERE BEGINNETH THE FIRST DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN (AFTER DEMONSTRATION MADE BY THE AUTHOR OF THE MANNER IN WHICH IT CAME TO PASS THAT THE PERSONS WHO ARE HEREINAFTER PRESENTED FOREGATHERED FOR THE PURPOSE OF DEVISING TOGETHER) UNDER THE GOVERNANCE OF PAMPINEA IS DISCOURSED OF THAT WHICH IS MOST AGREEABLE UNTO EACH As often, most gracious ladies, as, taking thought in myself, I mind me how very pitiful you are all by nature, so often do I recognize that this present work will, to your thinking, have a grievous and a weariful beginning, inasmuch as the dolorous remembrance of the late pestiferous mortality, which it beareth on its forefront, is universally irksome to all who saw or otherwise knew it. But I would not therefore have this affright you from reading further, as if in the reading you were still to fare among sighs and tears. Let this grisly beginning be none other to you than is to wayfarers a rugged and steep mountain, beyond which is situate a most fair and delightful plain, which latter cometh so much the pleasanter to them as the greater was the hardship of the ascent and the descent; for, like as dolour occupieth the extreme of gladness, even so are miseries determined by imminent joyance. This brief annoy (I say brief, inasmuch as it is contained in few pages) is straightway succeeded by the pleasance and delight which I have already promised you and which, belike, were it not aforesaid, might not be looked for from such a beginning. And in truth, could I fairly have availed to bring you to my desire otherwise than by so rugged a path as this will be I had gladly done it; but being in a manner constrained thereto, for that, without this reminiscence of our past miseries, it might not be shown what was the occasion of the coming about of the things that will hereafter be read, I have brought myself to write them.[3] [Footnote 3: _i.e._ the few pages of which he speaks above.] I say, then, that the years [of the era] of the fruitful Incarnation of the Son of God had attained to the number of one thousand three hundred and forty-eight, when into the notable city of Florence, fair over every other of Italy, there came the death-dealing pestilence, which, through the operation of the heavenly bodies or of our own iniquitous dealings, being sent down upon mankind for our correction by the just wrath of God, had some years before appeared in the parts of the East and after having bereft these latter of an innumerable number of inhabitants, extending without cease from one place to another, had now unhappily spread towards the West. And thereagainst no wisdom availing nor human foresight (whereby the city was purged of many impurities by officers deputed to that end and it was forbidden unto any sick person to enter therein and many were the counsels given[4] for the preservation of health) nor yet humble supplications, not once but many times both in ordered processions and on other wise made unto God by devout persons,--about the coming in of the Spring of the aforesaid year, it began on horrible and miraculous wise to show forth its dolorous effects. Yet not as it had done in the East, where, if any bled at the nose, it was a manifest sign of inevitable death; nay, but in men and women alike there appeared, at the beginning of the malady, certain swellings, either on the groin or under the armpits, whereof some waxed of the bigness of a common apple, others like unto an egg, some more and some less, and these the vulgar named plague-boils. From these two parts the aforesaid death-bearing plague-boils proceeded, in brief space, to appear and come indifferently in every part of the body; wherefrom, after awhile, the fashion of the contagion began to change into black or livid blotches, which showed themselves in many [first] on the arms and about the thighs and [after spread to] every other part of the person, in some large and sparse and in others small and thick-sown; and like as the plague-boils had been first (and yet were) a very certain token of coming death, even so were these for every one to whom they came. [Footnote 4: Syn. provisions made or means taken (_consigli dati_). Boccaccio constantly uses _consiglio_ in this latter sense.] To the cure of these maladies nor counsel[5] of physician nor virtue of any medicine appeared to avail or profit aught; on the contrary,--whether it was that the nature of the infection suffered it not or that the ignorance of the physicians (of whom, over and above the men of art, the number, both men and women, who had never had any teaching of medicine, was become exceeding great,) availed not to know whence it arose and consequently took not due measures thereagainst,--not only did few recover thereof, but well nigh all died within the third day from the appearance of the aforesaid signs, this sooner and that later, and for the most part without fever or other accident.[6] And this pestilence was the more virulent for that, by communication with those who were sick thereof, it gat hold upon the sound, no otherwise than fire upon things dry or greasy, whenas they are brought very near thereunto. Nay, the mischief was yet greater; for that not only did converse and consortion with the sick give to the sound infection of cause of common death, but the mere touching of the clothes or of whatsoever other thing had been touched or used of the sick appeared of itself to communicate the malady to the toucher. A marvellous thing to hear is that which I have to tell and one which, had it not been seen of many men's eyes and of mine own, I had scarce dared credit, much less set down in writing, though I had heard it from one worthy of belief. I say, then, that of such efficience was the nature of the pestilence in question in communicating itself from one to another, that, not only did it pass from man to man, but this, which is much more, it many times visibly did;--to wit, a thing which had pertained to a man sick or dead of the aforesaid sickness, being touched by an animal foreign to the human species, not only infected this latter with the plague, but in a very brief space of time killed it. Of this mine own eyes (as hath a little before been said) had one day, among others, experience on this wise; to wit, that the rags of a poor man, who had died of the plague, being cast out into the public way, two hogs came up to them and having first, after their wont, rooted amain among them with their snouts, took them in their mouths and tossed them about their jaws; then, in a little while, after turning round and round, they both, as if they had taken poison, fell down dead upon the rags with which they had in an ill hour intermeddled. [Footnote 5: Syn. help, remedy.] [Footnote 6: _Accidente_, what a modern physician would call "complication." "Symptom" does not express the whole meaning of the Italian word.] From these things and many others like unto them or yet stranger divers fears and conceits were begotten in those who abode alive, which well nigh all tended to a very barbarous conclusion, namely, to shun and flee from the sick and all that pertained to them, and thus doing, each thought to secure immunity for himself. Some there were who conceived that to live moderately and keep oneself from all excess was the best defence against such a danger; wherefore, making up their company, they lived removed from every other and shut themselves up in those houses where none had been sick and where living was best; and there, using very temperately of the most delicate viands and the finest wines and eschewing all incontinence, they abode with music and such other diversions as they might have, never suffering themselves to speak with any nor choosing to hear any news from without of death or sick folk. Others, inclining to the contrary opinion, maintained that to carouse and make merry and go about singing and frolicking and satisfy the appetite in everything possible and laugh and scoff at whatsoever befell was a very certain remedy for such an ill. That which they said they put in practice as best they might, going about day and night, now to this tavern, now to that, drinking without stint or measure; and on this wise they did yet more freely in other folk's houses, so but they scented there aught that liked or tempted them, as they might lightly do, for that every one--as he were to live no longer--had abandoned all care of his possessions, as of himself, wherefore the most part of the houses were become common good and strangers used them, whenas they happened upon them, like as the very owner might have done; and with all this bestial preoccupation, they still shunned the sick to the best of their power. In this sore affliction and misery of our city, the reverend authority of the laws, both human and divine, was all in a manner dissolved and fallen into decay, for [lack of] the ministers and executors thereof, who, like other men, were all either dead or sick or else left so destitute of followers that they were unable to exercise any office, wherefore every one had license to do whatsoever pleased him. Many others held a middle course between the two aforesaid, not straitening themselves so exactly in the matter of diet as the first neither allowing themselves such license in drinking and other debauchery as the second, but using things in sufficiency, according to their appetites; nor did they seclude themselves, but went about, carrying in their hands, some flowers, some odoriferous herbs and other some divers kinds of spiceries,[7] which they set often to their noses, accounting it an excellent thing to fortify the brain with such odours, more by token that the air seemed all heavy and attainted with the stench of the dead bodies and that of the sick and of the remedies used. [Footnote 7: _i.e._ aromatic drugs.] Some were of a more barbarous, though, peradventure, a surer way of thinking, avouching that there was no remedy against pestilences better than--no, nor any so good as--to flee before them; wherefore, moved by this reasoning and recking of nought but themselves, very many, both men and women, abandoned their own city, their own houses and homes, their kinsfolk and possessions, and sought the country seats of others, or, at the least, their own, as if the wrath of God, being moved to punish the iniquity of mankind, would not proceed to do so wheresoever they might be, but would content itself with afflicting those only who were found within the walls of their city, or as if they were persuaded that no person was to remain therein and that its last hour was come. And albeit these, who opined thus variously, died not all, yet neither did they all escape; nay, many of each way of thinking and in every place sickened of the plague and languished on all sides, well nigh abandoned, having themselves, what while they were whole, set the example to those who abode in health. Indeed, leaving be that townsman avoided townsman and that well nigh no neighbour took thought unto other and that kinsfolk seldom or never visited one another and held no converse together save from afar, this tribulation had stricken such terror to the hearts of all, men and women alike, that brother forsook brother, uncle nephew and sister brother and oftentimes wife husband; nay (what is yet more extraordinary and well nigh incredible) fathers and mothers refused to visit or tend their very children, as they had not been theirs. By reason whereof there remained unto those (and the number of them, both males and females, was incalculable) who fell sick, none other succour than that which they owed either to the charity of friends (and of these there were few) or the greed of servants, who tended them, allured by high and extravagant wage; albeit, for all this, these latter were not grown many, and those men and women of mean understanding and for the most part unused to such offices, who served for well nigh nought but to reach things called for by the sick or to note when they died; and in the doing of these services many of them perished with their gain. Of this abandonment of the sick by neighbours, kinsfolk and friends and of the scarcity of servants arose an usage before well nigh unheard, to wit, that no woman, how fair or lovesome or well-born soever she might be, once fallen sick, recked aught of having a man to tend her, whatever he might be, or young or old, and without any shame discovered to him every part of her body, no otherwise than she would have done to a woman, so but the necessity of her sickness required it; the which belike, in those who recovered, was the occasion of lesser modesty in time to come. Moreover, there ensued of this abandonment the death of many who peradventure, had they been succoured, would have escaped alive; wherefore, as well for the lack of the opportune services which the sick availed not to have as for the virulence of the plague, such was the multitude of those who died in the city by day and by night that it was an astonishment to hear tell thereof, much more to see it; and thence, as it were of necessity, there sprang up among those who abode alive things contrary to the pristine manners of the townsfolk. It was then (even as we yet see it used) a custom that the kinswomen and she-neighbours of the dead should assemble in his house and there condole with those who more nearly pertained unto him, whilst his neighbours and many other citizens foregathered with his next of kin before his house, whither, according to the dead man's quality, came the clergy, and he with funeral pomp of chants and candles was borne on the shoulders of his peers to the church chosen by himself before his death; which usages, after the virulence of the plague began to increase, were either altogether or for the most part laid aside, and other and strange customs sprang up in their stead. For that, not only did folk die without having a multitude of women about them, but many there were who departed this life without witness and few indeed were they to whom the pious plaints and bitter tears of their kinsfolk were vouchsafed; nay, in lieu of these things there obtained, for the most part, laughter and jests and gibes and feasting and merrymaking in company; which usance women, laying aside womanly pitifulness, had right well learned for their own safety. Few, again, were they whose bodies were accompanied to the church by more than half a score or a dozen of their neighbours, and of these no worshipful and illustrious citizens, but a sort of blood-suckers, sprung from the dregs of the people, who styled themselves _pickmen_[8] and did such offices for hire, shouldered the bier and bore it with hurried steps, not to that church which the dead man had chosen before his death, but most times to the nearest, behind five or six[9] priests, with little light[10] and whiles none at all, which latter, with the aid of the said pickmen, thrust him into what grave soever they first found unoccupied, without troubling themselves with too long or too formal a service. [Footnote 8: _i.e._ gravediggers (_becchini_).] [Footnote 9: Lit. _four_ or six. This is the equivalent Italian idiom.] [Footnote 10: _i.e._ but few tapers.] The condition of the common people (and belike, in great part, of the middle class also) was yet more pitiable to behold, for that these, for the most part retained by hope[11] or poverty in their houses and abiding in their own quarters, sickened by the thousand daily and being altogether untended and unsuccoured, died well nigh all without recourse. Many breathed their last in the open street, whilst other many, for all they died in their houses, made it known to the neighbours that they were dead rather by the stench of their rotting bodies than otherwise; and of these and others who died all about the whole city was full. For the most part one same usance was observed by the neighbours, moved more by fear lest the corruption of the dead bodies should imperil themselves than by any charity they had for the departed; to wit, that either with their own hands or with the aid of certain bearers, whenas they might have any, they brought the bodies of those who had died forth of their houses and laid them before their doors, where, especially in the morning, those who went about might see corpses without number; then they fetched biers and some, in default thereof, they laid upon some board or other. Nor was it only one bier that carried two or three corpses, nor did this happen but once; nay, many might have been counted which contained husband and wife, two or three brothers, father and son or the like. And an infinite number of times it befell that, two priests going with one cross for some one, three or four biers, borne by bearers, ranged themselves behind the latter,[12] and whereas the priests thought to have but one dead man to bury, they had six or eight, and whiles more. Nor therefore were the dead honoured with aught of tears or candles or funeral train; nay, the thing was come to such a pass that folk recked no more of men that died than nowadays they would of goats; whereby it very manifestly appeared that that which the natural course of things had not availed, by dint of small and infrequent harms, to teach the wise to endure with patience, the very greatness of their ills had brought even the simple to expect and make no account of. The consecrated ground sufficing not to the burial of the vast multitude of corpses aforesaid, which daily and well nigh hourly came carried in crowds to every church,--especially if it were sought to give each his own place, according to ancient usance,--there were made throughout the churchyards, after every other part was full, vast trenches, wherein those who came after were laid by the hundred and being heaped up therein by layers, as goods are stowed aboard ship, were covered with a little earth, till such time as they reached the top of the trench. [Footnote 11: _i.e._ expectation of gain from acting as tenders of the sick, gravediggers, etc. The word _speranza_ is, however, constantly used by Dante and his follower Boccaccio in the contrary sense of "fear," and may be so meant in the present instance.] [Footnote 12: _i.e._ the cross.] Moreover,--not to go longer searching out and recalling every particular of our past miseries, as they befell throughout the city,--I say that, whilst so sinister a time prevailed in the latter, on no wise therefor was the surrounding country spared, wherein, (letting be the castles,[13] which in their littleness[14] were like unto the city,) throughout the scattered villages and in the fields, the poor and miserable husbandmen and their families, without succour of physician or aid of servitor, died, not like men, but well nigh like beasts, by the ways or in their tillages or about the houses, indifferently by day and night. By reason whereof, growing lax like the townsfolk in their manners and customs, they recked not of any thing or business of theirs; nay, all, as if they looked for death that very day, studied with all their wit, not to help to maturity the future produce of their cattle and their fields and the fruits of their own past toils, but to consume those which were ready to hand. Thus it came to pass that the oxen, the asses, the sheep, the goats, the swine, the fowls, nay, the very dogs, so faithful to mankind, being driven forth of their own houses, went straying at their pleasure about the fields, where the very corn was abandoned, without being cut, much less gathered in; and many, well nigh like reasonable creatures, after grazing all day, returned at night, glutted, to their houses, without the constraint of any herdsman. [Footnote 13: _i.e._ walled burghs.] [Footnote 14: _i.e._ in miniature.] To leave the country and return to the city, what more can be said save that such and so great was the cruelty of heaven (and in part, peradventure, that of men) that, between March and the following July, what with the virulence of that pestiferous sickness and the number of sick folk ill tended or forsaken in their need, through the fearfulness of those who were whole, it is believed for certain that upward of an hundred thousand human beings perished within the walls of the city of Florence, which, peradventure, before the advent of that death-dealing calamity, had not been accounted to hold so many? Alas, how many great palaces, how many goodly houses, how many noble mansions, once full of families, of lords and of ladies, abode empty even to the meanest servant! How many memorable families, how many ample heritages, how many famous fortunes were seen to remain without lawful heir! How many valiant men, how many fair ladies, how many sprightly youths, whom, not others only, but Galen, Hippocrates or Æsculapius themselves would have judged most hale, breakfasted in the morning with their kinsfolk, comrades and friends and that same night supped with their ancestors in the other world! I am myself weary of going wandering so long among such miseries; wherefore, purposing henceforth to leave such part thereof as I can fitly, I say that,--our city being at this pass, well nigh void of inhabitants,--it chanced (as I afterward heard from a person worthy of credit) that there foregathered in the venerable church of Santa Maria Novella, one Tuesday morning when there was well nigh none else there, seven young ladies, all knit one to another by friendship or neighbourhood or kinship, who had heard divine service in mourning attire, as sorted with such a season. Not one of them had passed her eight-and-twentieth year nor was less than eighteen years old, and each was discreet and of noble blood, fair of favour and well-mannered and full of honest sprightliness. The names of these ladies I would in proper terms set out, did not just cause forbid me, to wit, that I would not have it possible that, in time to come, any of them should take shame by reason of the things hereinafter related as being told or hearkened by them, the laws of disport being nowadays somewhat straitened, which at that time, for the reasons above shown, were of the largest, not only for persons of their years, but for those of a much riper age; nor yet would I give occasion to the envious, who are still ready to carp at every praiseworthy life, on anywise to disparage the fair fame of these honourable ladies with unseemly talk. Wherefore, so that which each saith may hereafterward be apprehended without confusion, I purpose to denominate them by names altogether or in part sorting with each one's quality.[15] The first of them and her of ripest age I shall call Pampinea, the second Fiammetta, the third Filomena and the fourth Emilia. To the fifth we will give the name of Lauretta, to the sixth that of Neifile and the last, not without cause, we will style Elisa.[16] These, then, not drawn of any set purpose, but foregathering by chance in a corner of the church, having seated themselves in a ring, after divers sighs, let be the saying of paternosters and fell to devising with one another many and various things of the nature of the time. After awhile, the others being silent, Pampinea proceeded to speak thus: [Footnote 15: Or character (_qualità_).] [Footnote 16: I know of no explanation of these names by the commentators, who seem, indeed, after the manner of their kind, to have generally confined themselves to the elaborate illustration and elucidation (or rather, alas! too often, obscuration) of passages already perfectly plain, leaving the difficult passages for the most part untouched. The following is the best I can make of them. _Pampinea_ appears to be formed from the Greek [Greek: pan], all, and [Greek: pinuô], I advise, admonish or inform, and to mean all-advising or admonishing, which would agree well enough with the character of Pampinea, who is represented as the eldest and sagest of the female personages of the Decameron and as taking the lead in everything. _Fiammetta_ is the name by which Boccaccio designates his mistress, the Princess Maria of Naples (the lady for whom he cherished "the very high and noble passion" of which he speaks in his Proem), in his earlier opuscule, the "Elégia di Madonna Fiammetta," describing, in her name, the torments of separation from the beloved. In this work he speaks of himself under the name of Pamfilo (Gr. [Greek: pan], all, and [Greek: phileô], I love, _i.e._ the all-loving or the passionate lover), and it is probable, therefore, that under these names he intended to introduce his royal ladylove and himself in the present work. _Filomena_ (Italian form of Philomela, a nightingale, Greek [Greek: philos] loving, and [Greek: melos], melody, song, _i.e._ song-loving) is perhaps so styled for her love of music, and _Emilia's_ character, as it appears in the course of the work, justifies the derivation of her name from the Greek [Greek: aimylios], pleasing, engaging in manners and behaviour, cajoling. _Lauretta_ Boccaccio probably intends us to look upon as a learned lady, if, as we may suppose, her name is a corruption of _laureata_, laurel-crowned; whilst _Neifile's_ name (Greek [Greek: neios] [[Greek: neos]] new, and [Greek: phileô], I love, _i.e._ novelty-loving) stamps her as being of a somewhat curious disposition, eager "to tell or to hear some new thing." The name _Elisa_ is not so easily to be explained as the others; possibly it was intended by the author as a reminiscence of Dido, to whom the name (which is by some authorities explained to mean "Godlike," from a Hebrew root) is said to have been given "quòd plurima supra animi muliebris fortitudinem gesserit." It does not, however, appear that there was in Elisa's character or life anything to justify the implied comparison.] "Dear my ladies, you may, like myself, have many times heard that whoso honestly useth his right doth no one wrong; and it is the natural right of every one who is born here below to succour, keep and defend his own life as best he may, and in so far is this allowed that it hath happened whiles that, for the preservation thereof, men have been slain without any fault. If this much be conceded of the laws, which have in view the well-being of all mortals, how much more is it lawful for us and whatsoever other, without offence unto any, to take such means as we may for the preservation of our lives? As often as I consider our fashions of this morning and those of many other mornings past and bethink me what and what manner discourses are ours, I feel, and you likewise must feel, that each of us is in fear for herself. Nor do I anywise wonder at this; but I wonder exceedingly, considering that we all have a woman's wit, that we take no steps to provide ourselves against that which each of us justly feareth. We abide here, to my seeming, no otherwise than as if we would or should be witness of how many dead bodies are brought hither for burial or to hearken if the friars of the place, whose number is come well nigh to nought, chant their offices at the due hours or by our apparel to show forth unto whosoever appeareth here the nature and extent of our distresses. If we depart hence, we either see dead bodies or sick persons carried about or those, whom for their misdeeds the authority of the public laws whilere condemned to exile, overrun the whole place with unseemly excesses, as if scoffing at the laws, for that they know the executors thereof to be either dead or sick; whilst the dregs of our city, fattened with our blood, style themselves _pickmen_ and ruffle it everywhere in mockery of us, riding and running all about and flouting us with our distresses in ribald songs. We hear nothing here but 'Such an one is dead' or 'Such an one is at the point of death'; and were there any to make them, we should hear dolorous lamentations on all sides. And if we return to our houses, I know not if it is with you as with me, but, for my part, when I find none left therein of a great household, save my serving-maid, I wax fearful and feel every hair of my body stand on end; and wherever I go or abide about the house, meseemeth I see the shades of those who are departed and who wear not those countenances that I was used to see, but terrify me with a horrid aspect, I know not whence newly come to them. By reason of these things I feel myself alike ill at ease here and abroad and at home, more by token that meseemeth none, who hath, as we have, the power and whither to go, is left here, other than ourselves; or if any such there be, I have many a time both heard and perceived that, without making any distinction between things lawful and unlawful, so but appetite move them, whether alone or in company, both day and night, they do that which affordeth them most delight. Nor is it the laity alone who do thus; nay, even those who are shut in the monasteries, persuading themselves that what befitteth and is lawful to others alike sortable and unforbidden unto them,[17] have broken the laws of obedience and giving themselves to carnal delights, thinking thus to escape, are grown lewd and dissolute. If thus, then, it be, as is manifestly to be seen, what do we here? What look we for? What dream we? Why are we more sluggish and slower to provide for our safety than all the rest of the townsfolk? Deem we ourselves of less price than others, or do we hold our life to be bounden in our bodies with a stronger chain than is theirs and that therefore we need reck nothing of aught that hath power to harm it? We err, we are deceived; what folly is ours, if we think thus! As often as we choose to call to mind the number and quality of the youths and ladies overborne of this cruel pestilence, we may see a most manifest proof thereof. [Footnote 17: This phrase may also be read "persuading themselves that that (_i.e._ their breach of the laws of obedience, etc.) beseemeth them and is forbidden only to others" (_faccendosi a credere che quello a lor si convenga e non si disdica che all' altre_); but the reading in the text appears more in harmony with the general sense and is indeed indicated by the punctuation of the Giunta Edition of 1527, which I generally follow in case of doubt.] Wherefore, in order that we may not, through wilfulness or nonchalance, fall into that wherefrom we may, peradventure, an we but will, by some means or other escape, I know not if it seem to you as it doth to me, but methinketh it were excellently well done that we, such as we are, depart this city, as many have done before us, and eschewing, as we would death, the dishonourable example of others, betake ourselves quietly to our places in the country, whereof each of us hath great plenty, and there take such diversion, such delight and such pleasance as we may, without anywise overpassing the bounds of reason. There may we hear the small birds sing, there may we see the hills and plains clad all in green and the fields full of corn wave even as doth the sea; there may we see trees, a thousand sorts, and there is the face of heaven more open to view, the which, angered against us though it be, nevertheless denieth not unto us its eternal beauties, far goodlier to look upon than the empty walls of our city. Moreover, there is the air far fresher[18] and there at this season is more plenty of that which behoveth unto life and less is the sum of annoys, for that, albeit the husbandmen die there, even as do the townsfolk here, the displeasance is there the less, insomuch as houses and inhabitants are rarer than in the city. [Footnote 18: Syn. cooler.] Here, on the other hand, if I deem aright, we abandon no one; nay, we may far rather say with truth that we ourselves are abandoned, seeing that our kinsfolk, either dying or fleeing from death, have left us alone in this great tribulation, as it were we pertained not unto them. No blame can therefore befall the ensuing of this counsel; nay, dolour and chagrin and belike death may betide us, an we ensue it not. Wherefore, an it please you, methinketh we should do well to take our maids and letting follow after us with the necessary gear, sojourn to-day in this place and to-morrow in that, taking such pleasance and diversion as the season may afford, and on this wise abide till such time (an we be not earlier overtaken of death) as we shall see what issue Heaven reserveth unto these things. And I would remind you that it is no more forbidden unto us honourably to depart than it is unto many others of our sex to abide in dishonour." The other ladies, having hearkened to Pampinea, not only commended her counsel, but, eager to follow it, had already begun to devise more particularly among themselves of the manner, as if, arising from their session there, they were to set off out of hand. But Filomena, who was exceeding discreet, said, "Ladies, albeit that which Pampinea allegeth is excellently well said, yet is there no occasion for running, as meseemeth you would do. Remember that we are all women and none of us is child enough not to know how [little] reasonable women are among themselves and how [ill], without some man's guidance, they know how to order themselves. We are fickle, wilful, suspicious, faint-hearted and timorous, for which reasons I misdoubt me sore, an we take not some other guidance than our own, that our company will be far too soon dissolved and with less honour to ourselves than were seemly; wherefore we should do well to provide ourselves, ere we begin." "Verily," answered Elisa, "men are the head of women, and without their ordinance seldom cometh any emprise of ours to good end; but how may we come by these men? There is none of us but knoweth that of her kinsmen the most part are dead and those who abide alive are all gone fleeing that which we seek to flee, in divers companies, some here and some there, without our knowing where, and to invite strangers would not be seemly, seeing that, if we would endeavour after our welfare, it behoveth us find a means of so ordering ourselves that, wherever we go for diversion and repose, scandal nor annoy may ensue thereof." Whilst such discourse was toward between the ladies, behold, there entered the church three young men,--yet not so young that the age of the youngest of them was less than five-and-twenty years,--in whom neither the perversity of the time nor loss of friends and kinsfolk, no, nor fear for themselves had availed to cool, much less to quench, the fire of love. Of these one was called Pamfilo,[19] another Filostrato[20] and the third Dioneo,[21] all very agreeable and well-bred, and they went seeking, for their supreme solace, in such a perturbation of things, to see their mistresses, who, as it chanced, were all three among the seven aforesaid; whilst certain of the other ladies were near kinswomen of one or other of the young men. [Footnote 19: See ante, p. 8, note.] [Footnote 20: _Filostrato_, Greek [Greek: philos], loving, and [Greek: stratos], army, _met._ strife, war, _i.e._ one who loves strife. This name appears to be a reminiscence of Boccaccio's poem (_Il Filostrato_, well known through its translation by Chaucer and the Senechal d'Anjou) upon the subject of the loves of Troilus and Cressida and to be in this instance used by him as a synonym for an unhappy lover, whom no rebuffs, no treachery can divert from his ill-starred passion. Such a lover may well be said to be in love with strife, and that the Filostrato of the Decameron sufficiently answers to this description we learn later on from his own lips.] [Footnote 21: _Dioneo_, a name probably coined from the Greek [Greek: Diônê], one of the _agnomina_ of Venus (properly her mother's name) and intended to denote the amorous temperament of his personage, to which, indeed, the erotic character of most of the stories told by him bears sufficient witness.] No sooner had their eyes fallen on the ladies than they were themselves espied of them; whereupon quoth Pampinea, smiling, "See, fortune is favourable to our beginnings and hath thrown in our way young men of worth and discretion, who will gladly be to us both guides and servitors, an we disdain not to accept of them in that capacity." But Neifile, whose face was grown all vermeil for shamefastness, for that it was she who was beloved of one of the young men, said, "For God's sake, Pampinea, look what thou sayest! I acknowledge most frankly that there can be nought but all good said of which one soever of them and I hold them sufficient unto a much greater thing than this, even as I opine that they would bear, not only ourselves, but far fairer and nobler dames than we, good and honourable company. But, for that it is a very manifest thing that they are enamoured of certain of us who are here, I fear lest, without our fault or theirs, scandal and blame ensue thereof, if we carry them with us." Quoth Filomena, "That skilleth nought; so but I live honestly and conscience prick me not of aught, let who will speak to the contrary; God and the truth will take up arms for me. Wherefore, if they be disposed to come, verily we may say with Pampinea that fortune is favourable to our going." The other ladies, hearing her speak thus absolutely, not only held their peace, but all with one accord agreed that the young men should be called and acquainted with their project and bidden to be pleased bear them company in their expedition. Accordingly, without more words, Pampinea, who was knit by kinship to one of them, rising to her feet, made for the three young men, who stood fast, looking upon them, and saluting them with a cheerful countenance, discovered to them their intent and prayed them, on behalf of herself and her companions, that they would be pleased to bear them company in a pure and brotherly spirit. The young men at the first thought themselves bantered, but, seeing that the lady spoke in good earnest, they made answer joyfully that they were ready, and without losing time about the matter, forthright took order for that which they had to do against departure. On the following morning, Wednesday to wit, towards break of day, having let orderly make ready all things needful and despatched them in advance whereas they purposed to go,[22] the ladies, with certain of their waiting-women, and the three young men, with as many of their serving-men, departing Florence, set out upon their way; nor had they gone more than two short miles from the city, when they came to the place fore-appointed of them, which was situate on a little hill, somewhat withdrawn on every side from the high way and full of various shrubs and plants, all green of leafage and pleasant to behold. On the summit of this hill was a palace, with a goodly and great courtyard in its midst and galleries[23] and saloons and bedchambers, each in itself most fair and adorned and notable with jocund paintings, with lawns and grassplots round about and wonder-goodly gardens and wells of very cold water and cellars full of wines of price, things more apt unto curious drinkers than unto sober and modest ladies. The new comers, to their no little pleasure, found the place all swept and the beds made in the chambers and every thing full of such flowers as might be had at that season and strewn with rushes. [Footnote 22: _e prima mandato là dove_, etc. This passage is obscure and may be read to mean "and having first despatched [a messenger] (or sent [word]) whereas," etc. I think, however, that _mandato_ is a copyist's error for _mandata_, in which case the meaning would be as in the text.] [Footnote 23: Or balconies (_loggie_).] As soon as they had seated themselves, Dioneo, who was the merriest springald in the world and full of quips and cranks, said, "Ladies, your wit, rather than our foresight, hath guided us hither, and I know not what you purpose to do with your cares; as for my own, I left them within the city gates, whenas I issued thence with you awhile agone; wherefore, do you either address yourselves to make merry and laugh and sing together with me (in so far, I mean, as pertaineth to your dignity) or give me leave to go back for my cares and abide in the afflicted city." Whereto Pampinea, no otherwise than as if in like manner she had banished all her own cares, answered blithely, "Dioneo, thou sayst well; it behoveth us live merrily, nor hath any other occasion caused us flee from yonder miseries. But, for that things which are without measure may not long endure, I, who began the discourse wherethrough this so goodly company came to be made, taking thought for the continuance of our gladness, hold it of necessity that we appoint some one to be principal among us, whom we may honour and obey as chief and whose especial care it shall be to dispose us to live joyously. And in order that each in turn may prove the burden of solicitude, together with the pleasure of headship; and that, the chief being thus drawn, in turn, from one and the other sex, there may be no cause for jealousy, as might happen, were any excluded from the sovranty, I say that unto each be attributed the burden and the honour for one day. Let who is to be our first chief be at the election of us all. For who shall follow, be it he or she whom it shall please the governor of the day to appoint, whenas the hour of vespers draweth near, and let each in turn, at his or her discretion, order and dispose of the place and manner wherein we are to live, for such time as his or her seignory shall endure." Pampinea's words pleased mightily, and with one voice they elected her chief of the first day; whereupon Filomena, running nimbly to a laurel-tree--for that she had many a time heard speak of the honour due to the leaves of this plant and how worship-worth they made whoso was deservedly crowned withal--and plucking divers sprays therefrom, made her thereof a goodly and honourable wreath, which, being set upon her head, was thenceforth, what while their company lasted, a manifest sign unto every other of the royal office and seignory. Pampinea, being made queen, commanded that every one should be silent; then, calling the serving-men of the three young gentlemen and her own and the other ladies' women, who were four in number, before herself and all being silent, she spoke thus: "In order that I may set you a first example, by which, proceeding from good to better, our company may live and last in order and pleasance and without reproach so long as it is agreeable to us, I constitute, firstly, Parmeno, Dioneo's servant, my seneschal and commit unto him the care and ordinance of all our household and [especially] that which pertaineth to the service of the saloon. Sirisco, Pamfilo's servant, I will shall be our purveyor and treasurer and ensue the commandments of Parmeno. Tindaro shall look to the service of Filostrato and the other two gentlemen in their bed chambers, what time the others, being occupied about their respective offices, cannot attend thereto. Misia, my woman, and Filomena's Licisca shall still abide in the kitchen and there diligently prepare such viands as shall be appointed them of Parmeno. Lauretta's Chimera and Fiammetta's Stratilia it is our pleasure shall occupy themselves with the ordinance of the ladies' chambers and the cleanliness of the places where we shall abide; and we will and command all and several, as they hold our favour dear, to have a care that, whithersoever they go or whencesoever they return and whatsoever they hear or see, they bring us from without no news other than joyous." These orders summarily given and commended of all, Pampinea, rising blithely to her feet, said, "Here be gardens, here be meadows, here be store of other delectable places, wherein let each go a-pleasuring at will; and when tierce[24] soundeth, let all be here, so we may eat in the cool." [Footnote 24: _i.e._ Nine o'clock a.m. Boccaccio's habit of measuring time by the canonical hours has been a sore stumbling-block to the ordinary English and French translator, who is generally terribly at sea as to his meaning, inclining to render _tierce_ three, _sexte_ six o'clock and _none_ noon and making shots of the same wild kind at the other hours. The monasterial rule (which before the general introduction of clocks was commonly followed by the mediæval public in the computation of time) divided the twenty-four hours of the day and night into seven parts (six of three hours each and one of six), the inception of which was denoted by the sound of the bells that summoned the clergy to the performance of the seven canonical offices _i.e._ _Matins_ at 3 a.m., _Prime_ at 6 a.m., _Tierce_ at 9 a.m., _Sexte_ or Noonsong at noon, _None_ at 3 p.m., _Vespers_ or Evensong at 6 p.m. and _Complines_ or Nightsong at 9 p.m., and at the same time served the laity as a clock.] The merry company, being thus dismissed by the new queen, went straying with slow steps, young men and fair ladies together, about a garden, devising blithely and diverting themselves with weaving goodly garlands of various leaves and carolling amorously. After they had abidden there such time as had been appointed them of the queen, they returned to the house, where they found that Parmeno had made a diligent beginning with his office, for that, entering a saloon on the ground floor, they saw there the tables laid with the whitest of cloths and beakers that seemed of silver and everything covered with the flowers of the broom; whereupon, having washed their hands, they all, by command of the queen, seated themselves according to Parmeno's ordinance. Then came viands delicately drest and choicest wines were proffered and the three serving-men, without more, quietly tended the tables. All, being gladdened by these things, for that they were fair and orderly done, ate joyously and with store of merry talk, and the tables being cleared away,[25] the queen bade bring instruments of music, for that all the ladies knew how to dance, as also the young men, and some of them could both play and sing excellent well. Accordingly, by her commandment, Dioneo took a lute and Fiammetta a viol and began softly to sound a dance; whereupon the queen and the other ladies, together with the other two young men, having sent the serving-men to eat, struck up a round and began with a slow pace to dance a brawl; which ended, they fell to singing quaint and merry ditties. On this wise they abode till it seemed to the queen time to go to sleep,[26] and she accordingly dismissed them all; whereupon the young men retired to their chambers, which were withdrawn from the ladies' lodging, and finding them with the beds well made and as full of flowers as the saloon, put off their clothes and betook themselves to rest, whilst the ladies, on their part, did likewise. [Footnote 25: The table of Boccaccio's time was a mere board upon trestles, which when not in actual use, was stowed away, for room's sake, against the wall.] [Footnote 26: _i.e._ to take the siesta or midday nap common in hot countries.] None[27] had not long sounded when the queen, arising, made all the other ladies arise, and on like wise the three young men, alleging overmuch sleep to be harmful by day; and so they betook themselves to a little meadow, where the grass grew green and high nor there had the sun power on any side. There, feeling the waftings of a gentle breeze, they all, as their queen willed it, seated themselves in a ring on the green grass; while she bespoke them thus, "As ye see, the sun is high and the heat great, nor is aught heard save the crickets yonder among the olives; wherefore it were doubtless folly to go anywhither at this present. Here is the sojourn fair and cool, and here, as you see, are chess and tables,[28] and each can divert himself as is most to his mind. But, an my counsel be followed in this, we shall pass away this sultry part of the day, not in gaming,--wherein the mind of one of the players must of necessity be troubled, without any great pleasure of the other or of those who look on,--but in telling stories, which, one telling, may afford diversion to all the company who hearken; nor shall we have made an end of telling each his story but the sun will have declined and the heat be abated, and we can then go a-pleasuring whereas it may be most agreeable to us. Wherefore, if this that I say please you, (for I am disposed to follow your pleasure therein,) let us do it; and if it please you not, let each until the hour of vespers do what most liketh him." Ladies and men alike all approved the story-telling, whereupon, "Then," said the queen, "since this pleaseth you, I will that this first day each be free to tell of such matters as are most to his liking." Then, turning to Pamfilo, who sat on her right hand, she smilingly bade him give beginning to the story-telling with one of his; and he, hearing the commandment, forthright began thus, whilst all gave ear to him. [Footnote 27: _i.e._ three o'clock p.m.] [Footnote 28: _i.e._ backgammon.] THE FIRST STORY [Day the First] MASTER CIAPPELLETTO DUPETH A HOLY FRIAR WITH A FALSE CONFESSION AND DIETH; AND HAVING BEEN IN HIS LIFETIME THE WORST OF MEN, HE IS, AFTER HIS DEATH, REPUTED A SAINT AND CALLED SAINT CIAPPELLETTO. "It is a seemly thing, dearest ladies, that whatsoever a man doth, he give it beginning from the holy and admirable name of Him who is the maker of all things. Wherefore, it behoving me, as the first, to give commencement to our story-telling, I purpose to begin with one of His marvels, to the end that, this being heard, our hope in Him, as in a thing immutable, may be confirmed and His name be ever praised of us. It is manifest that, like as things temporal are all transitory and mortal, even so both within and without are they full of annoy and anguish and travail and subject to infinite perils, against which it is indubitable that we, who live enmingled therein and who are indeed part and parcel thereof, might avail neither to endure nor to defend ourselves, except God's especial grace lent us strength and foresight; which latter, it is not to be believed, descendeth unto us and upon us by any merit of our own, but of the proper motion of His own benignity and the efficacy of the prayers of those who were mortals even as we are and having diligently ensued His commandments, what while they were on life, are now with Him become eternal and blessed and unto whom we,--belike not daring to address ourselves unto the proper presence of so august a judge,--proffer our petitions of the things which we deem needful unto ourselves, as unto advocates[29] informed by experience of our frailty. And this more we discern in Him, full as He is of compassionate liberality towards us, that, whereas it chanceth whiles (the keenness of mortal eyes availing not in any wise to penetrate the secrets of the Divine intent), that we peradventure, beguiled by report, make such an one our advocate unto His majesty, who is outcast from His presence with an eternal banishment,--nevertheless He, from whom nothing is hidden, having regard rather to the purity of the suppliant's intent than to his ignorance or to the reprobate estate of him whose intercession be invoketh, giveth ear unto those who pray unto the latter, as if he were in very deed blessed in His aspect. The which will manifestly appear from the story which I purpose to relate; I say manifestly, ensuing, not the judgment of God, but that of men. [Footnote 29: Or procurators.] It is told, then, that Musciatto Franzesi,[30] being from a very rich and considerable merchant in France become a knight and it behoving him thereupon go into Tuscany with Messire Charles Sansterre,[31] brother to the king of France,[32] who had been required and bidden thither by Pope Boniface,[33] found his affairs in one part and another sore embroiled, (as those of merchants most times are,) and was unable lightly or promptly to disentangle them; wherefore he bethought himself to commit them unto divers persons and made shift for all, save only he abode in doubt whom he might leave sufficient to the recovery of the credits he had given to certain Burgundians. The cause of his doubt was that he knew the Burgundians to be litigious, quarrelsome fellows, ill-conditioned and disloyal, and could not call one to mind, in whom he might put any trust, curst enough to cope with their perversity. After long consideration of the matter, there came to his memory a certain Master Ciapperello da Prato, who came often to his house in Paris and whom, for that he was little of person and mighty nice in his dress, the French, knowing not what Cepparello[34] meant and thinking it be the same with Cappello, to wit, in their vernacular, Chaplet, called him, not Cappello, but Ciappelletto,[35] and accordingly as Ciappelletto he was known everywhere, whilst few knew him for Master Ciapperello. [Footnote 30: A Florentine merchant settled in France; he had great influence over Philippe le Bel and made use of the royal favour to enrich himself by means of monopolies granted at the expense of his compatriots.] [Footnote 31: Charles, Comte de Valois et d'Alençon.] [Footnote 32: Philippe le Bel, A.D. 1268-1314.] [Footnote 33: The Eighth.] [Footnote 34: Sic. _Cepparello_ means a log or stump. Ciapperello is apparently a dialectic variant of the same word.] [Footnote 35: Diminutive of Cappello. This passage is obscure and most likely corrupt. Boccaccio probably meant to write "hat" instead of "chaplet" (_ghirlanda_), as the meaning of _cappello_, chaplet (diminutive of Old English _chapel_, a hat,) being the meaning of _ciappelletto_ (properly _cappelletto_).] Now this said Ciappelletto was of this manner life, that, being a scrivener, he thought very great shame whenas any of his instrument was found (and indeed he drew few such) other than false; whilst of the latter[36] he would have drawn as many as might be required of him and these with a better will by way of gift than any other for a great wage. False witness he bore with especial delight, required or not required, and the greatest regard being in those times paid to oaths in France, as he recked nothing of forswearing himself, he knavishly gained all the suits concerning which he was called upon to tell the truth upon his faith. He took inordinate pleasure and was mighty diligent in stirring up troubles and enmities and scandals between friends and kinsfolk and whomsoever else, and the greater the mischiefs he saw ensue thereof, the more he rejoiced. If bidden to manslaughter or whatsoever other naughty deed, he went about it with a will, without ever saying nay thereto; and many a time of his proper choice he had been known to wound men and do them to death with his own hand. He was a terrible blasphemer of God and the saints, and that for every trifle, being the most choleric man alive. To church he went never and all the sacraments thereof he flouted in abominable terms, as things of no account; whilst, on the other hand, he was still fain to haunt and use taverns and other lewd places. Of women he was as fond as dogs of the stick; but in the contrary he delighted more than any filthy fellow alive. He robbed and pillaged with as much conscience as a godly man would make oblation to God; he was a very glutton and a great wine bibber, insomuch that bytimes it wrought him shameful mischief, and to boot, he was a notorious gamester and a caster of cogged dice. But why should I enlarge in so many words? He was belike the worst man that ever was born.[37] His wickedness had long been upheld by the power and interest of Messer Musciatto, who had many a time safeguarded him as well from private persons, to whom he often did a mischief, as from the law, against which he was a perpetual offender. [Footnote 36: _i.e._ false instruments.] [Footnote 37: A "twopence-coloured" sketch of an impossible villain, drawn with a crudeness unusual in Boccaccio.] This Master Ciappelletto then, coming to Musciatto's mind, the latter, who was very well acquainted with his way of life, bethought himself that he should be such an one as the perversity of the Burgundians required and accordingly, sending for him, he bespoke him thus: 'Master Ciappelletto, I am, as thou knowest, about altogether to withdraw hence, and having to do, amongst others, with certain Burgundians, men full of guile, I know none whom I may leave to recover my due from them more fitting than thyself, more by token that thou dost nothing at this present; wherefore, an thou wilt undertake this, I will e'en procure thee the favour of the Court and give thee such part as shall be meet of that which thou shalt recover.' Don Ciappelletto, who was then out of employ and ill provided with the goods of the world, seeing him who had long been his stay and his refuge about to depart thence, lost no time in deliberation, but, as of necessity constrained, replied that he would well. They being come to an accord, Musciatto departed and Ciappelletto, having gotten his patron's procuration and letters commendatory from the king, betook himself into Burgundy, where well nigh none knew him, and there, contrary to his nature, began courteously and blandly to seek to get in his payments and do that wherefor he was come thither, as if reserving choler and violence for a last resort. Dealing thus and lodging in the house of two Florentines, brothers, who there lent at usance and who entertained him with great honour for the love of Messer Musciatto, it chanced that he fell sick, whereupon the two brothers promptly fetched physicians and servants to tend him and furnished him with all that behoved unto the recovery of his health. But every succour was in vain, for that, by the physicians' report, the good man, who was now old and had lived disorderly, grew daily worse, as one who had a mortal sickness; wherefore the two brothers were sore concerned and one day, being pretty near the chamber where he lay sick, they began to take counsel together, saying one to the other, 'How shall we do with yonder fellow? We have a sorry bargain on our hands of his affair, for that to send him forth of our house, thus sick, were a sore reproach to us and a manifest sign of little wit on our part, if the folk, who have seen us first receive him and after let tend and medicine him with such solicitude, should now see him suddenly put out of our house, sick unto death as he is, without it being possible for him to have done aught that should displease us. On the other hand, he hath been so wicked a man that he will never consent to confess or take any sacrament of the church; and he dying without confession, no church will receive his body; nay, he will be cast into a ditch, like a dog. Again, even if he do confess, his sins are so many and so horrible that the like will come of it, for that there is nor priest nor friar who can or will absolve him thereof; wherefore, being unshriven, he will still be cast into the ditches. Should it happen thus, the people of the city, as well on account of our trade, which appeareth to them most iniquitous and of which they missay all day, as of their itch to plunder us, seeing this, will rise up in riot and cry out, "These Lombard dogs, whom the church refuseth to receive, are to be suffered here no longer";--and they will run to our houses and despoil us not only of our good, but may be of our lives, to boot; wherefore in any case it will go ill with us, if yonder fellow die.' Master Ciappelletto, who, as we have said, lay near the place where the two brothers were in discourse, being quick of hearing, as is most times the case with the sick, heard what they said of him and calling them to him, bespoke them thus: 'I will not have you anywise misdoubt of me nor fear to take any hurt by me. I have heard what you say of me and am well assured that it would happen even as you say, should matters pass as you expect; but it shall go otherwise. I have in my lifetime done God the Lord so many an affront that it will make neither more nor less, an I do Him yet another at the point of death; wherefore do you make shift to bring me the holiest and worthiest friar you may avail to have, if any such there be,[38] and leave the rest to me, for that I will assuredly order your affairs and mine own on such wise that all shall go well and you shall have good cause to be satisfied.' [Footnote 38: _i.e._ if there be such a thing as a holy and worthy friar.] The two brothers, albeit they conceived no great hope of this, nevertheless betook themselves to a brotherhood of monks and demanded some holy and learned man to hear the confession of a Lombard who lay sick in their house. There was given them a venerable brother of holy and good life and a past master in Holy Writ, a very reverend man, for whom all the townsfolk had a very great and special regard, and they carried him to their house; where, coming to the chamber where Master Ciappelletto lay and seating himself by his side, he began first tenderly to comfort him and after asked him how long it was since he had confessed last; whereto Master Ciappelletto, who had never confessed in his life, answered, 'Father, it hath been my usance to confess every week once at the least and often more; it is true that, since I fell sick, to wit, these eight days past, I have not confessed, such is the annoy that my sickness hath given me.' Quoth the friar, 'My son, thou hast done well and so must thou do henceforward. I see, since thou confessest so often, that I shall be at little pains either of hearing or questioning.' 'Sir,' answered Master Ciappelletto, 'say not so; I have never confessed so much nor so often but I would still fain make a general confession of all my sins that I could call to mind from the day of my birth to that of my confession; wherefore I pray you, good my father, question me as punctually of everything, nay, everything, as if I had never confessed; and consider me not because I am sick, for that I had far liefer displease this my flesh than, in consulting its ease, do aught that might be the perdition of my soul, which my Saviour redeemed with His precious blood.' These words much pleased the holy man and seemed to him to argue a well-disposed mind; wherefore, after he had much commended Master Ciappelletto for that his usance, he asked him if he had ever sinned by way of lust with any woman. 'Father,' replied Master Ciappelletto, sighing, 'on this point I am ashamed to tell you the truth, fearing to sin by way of vainglory.' Quoth the friar, 'Speak in all security, for never did one sin by telling the truth, whether in confession or otherwise.' 'Then,' said Master Ciappelletto, 'since you certify me of this, I will tell you; I am yet a virgin, even as I came forth of my mother's body.' 'O blessed be thou of God!' cried the monk. 'How well hast thou done! And doing thus, thou hast the more deserved, inasmuch as, an thou wouldst, thou hadst more leisure to do the contrary than we and whatsoever others are limited by any rule.' After this he asked him if he had ever offended against God in the sin of gluttony; whereto Master Ciappelletto answered, sighing, Ay had he, and that many a time; for that, albeit, over and above the Lenten fasts that are yearly observed of the devout, he had been wont to fast on bread and water three days at the least in every week,--he had oftentimes (and especially whenas he had endured any fatigue, either praying or going a-pilgrimage) drunken the water with as much appetite and as keen a relish as great drinkers do wine. And many a time he had longed to have such homely salads of potherbs as women make when they go into the country; and whiles eating had given him more pleasure than himseemed it should do to one who fasteth for devotion, as did he. 'My son,' said the friar, 'these sins are natural and very slight and I would not therefore have thee burden thy conscience withal more than behoveth. It happeneth to every man, how devout soever he be, that, after long fasting, meat seemeth good to him, and after travail, drink.' 'Alack, father mine,' rejoined Ciappelletto, 'tell me not this to comfort me; you must know I know that things done for the service of God should be done sincerely and with an ungrudging mind; and whoso doth otherwise sinneth.' Quoth the friar, exceeding well pleased, 'I am content that thou shouldst thus apprehend it and thy pure and good conscience therein pleaseth me exceedingly. But, tell me, hast thou sinned by way of avarice, desiring more than befitted or withholding that which it behoved thee not to withhold?' 'Father mine,' replied Ciappelletto, 'I would not have you look to my being in the house of these usurers; I have nought to do here; nay, I came hither to admonish and chasten them and turn them from this their abominable way of gain; and methinketh I should have made shift to do so, had not God thus visited me. But you must know that I was left a rich man by my father, of whose good, when he was dead, I bestowed the most part in alms, and after, to sustain my life and that I might be able to succour Christ's poor, I have done my little traffickings, and in these I have desired to gain; but still with God's poor have I shared that which I gained, converting my own half to my occasion and giving them the other, and in this so well hath my Creator prospered me that my affairs have still gone from good to better.' 'Well hast thou done,' said the friar; 'but hast thou often been angered?' 'Oh,' cried Master Ciappelletto, 'that I must tell you I have very often been! And who could keep himself therefrom, seeing men do unseemly things all day long, keeping not the commandments of God neither fearing His judgment? Many times a day I had liefer been dead than alive, seeing young men follow after vanities and hearing them curse and forswear themselves, haunting the taverns, visiting not the churches and ensuing rather the ways of the world than that of God.' 'My son,' said the friar, 'this is a righteous anger, nor for my part might I enjoin thee any penance therefor. But hath anger at any time availed to move thee to do any manslaughter or to bespeak any one unseemly or do any other unright?' 'Alack, sir,' answered the sick man, 'you, who seem to me a man of God, how can you say such words? Had I ever had the least thought of doing any one of the things whereof you speak, think you I believe that God would so long have forborne me? These be the doings of outlaws and men of nought, whereof I never saw any but I said still, "Go, may God amend thee!"' Then said the friar, 'Now tell me, my son (blessed be thou of God), hast thou never borne false witness against any or missaid of another, or taken others' good, without leave of him to whom it pertained?' 'Ay, indeed, sir,' replied Master Ciappelletto; 'I have missaid of others; for that I had a neighbour aforetime, who, with the greatest unright in the world, did nought but beat his wife, insomuch that I once spoke ill of him to her kinsfolk, so great was the compassion that overcame me for the poor woman, whom he used as God alone can tell, whenassoever he had drunken overmuch.' Quoth the friar, 'Thou tellest me thou hast been a merchant. Hast thou never cheated any one, as merchants do whiles!' 'I' faith, yes, sir,' answered Master Ciappelletto; 'but I know not whom, except it were a certain man, who once brought me monies which he owed me for cloth I had sold him and which I threw into a chest, without counting. A good month after, I found that they were four farthings more than they should have been; wherefore, not seeing him again and having kept them by me a full year, that I might restore them to him, I gave them away in alms.' Quoth the friar, 'This was a small matter, and thou didst well to deal with it as thou didst.' Then he questioned him of many other things, of all which he answered after the same fashion, and the holy father offering to proceed to absolution, Master Ciappelletto said, 'Sir, I have yet sundry sins that I have not told you.' The friar asked him what they were, and he answered, 'I mind me that one Saturday, after none, I caused my servant sweep out the house and had not that reverence for the Lord's holy day which it behoved me have.' 'Oh,' said the friar, 'that is a light matter, my son.' 'Nay,' rejoined Master Ciappelletto, 'call it not a light matter, for that the Lord's Day is greatly to be honoured, seeing that on such a day our Lord rose from the dead.' Then said the friar, 'Well, hast thou done aught else?' 'Ay, sir,' answered Master Ciappelletto; 'once, unthinking what I did, I spat in the church of God.' Thereupon the friar fell a-smiling, and said, 'My son, that is no thing to be recked of; we who are of the clergy, we spit there all day long.' 'And you do very ill,' rejoined Master Ciappelletto; 'for that there is nought which it so straitly behoveth to keep clean as the holy temple wherein is rendered sacrifice to God.' Brief, he told him great plenty of such like things and presently fell a-sighing and after weeping sore, as he knew full well to do, whenas he would. Quoth the holy friar, 'What aileth thee, my son?' 'Alas, sir,' replied Master Ciappelletto, 'I have one sin left, whereof I never yet confessed me, such shame have I to tell it; and every time I call it to mind, I weep, even as you see, and meseemeth very certain that God will never pardon it me.' 'Go to, son,' rejoined the friar; 'what is this thou sayest? If all the sins that were ever wrought or are yet to be wrought of all mankind, what while the world endureth, were all in one man and he repented him thereof and were contrite therefor, as I see thee, such is the mercy and loving-kindness of God that, upon confession, He would freely pardon them to him. Wherefore do thou tell it in all assurance.' Quoth Master Ciappelletto, still weeping sore, 'Alack, father mine, mine is too great a sin, and I can scarce believe that it will ever be forgiven me of God, except your prayers strive for me.' Then said the friar, 'Tell it me in all assurance, for I promise thee to pray God for thee.' Master Ciappelletto, however, still wept and said nought; but, after he had thus held the friar a great while in suspense, he heaved a deep sigh and said, 'Father mine, since you promise me to pray God for me, I will e'en tell it you. Know, then, that, when I was little, I once cursed my mother.' So saying, he fell again to weeping sore. 'O my son,' quoth the friar, 'seemeth this to thee so heinous a sin? Why, men blaspheme God all day long and He freely pardoneth whoso repenteth him of having blasphemed Him; and deemest thou not He will pardon thee this? Weep not, but comfort thyself; for, certes, wert thou one of those who set Him on the cross, He would pardon thee, in favour of such contrition as I see in thee.' 'Alack, father mine, what say you?' replied Ciappelletto. 'My kind mother, who bore me nine months in her body, day and night, and carried me on her neck an hundred times and more, I did passing ill to curse her and it was an exceeding great sin; and except you pray God for me, it will not be forgiven me.' The friar, then, seeing that Master Ciappelletto had no more to say, gave him absolution and bestowed on him his benison, holding him a very holy man and devoutly believing all that he had told him to be true. And who would not have believed it, hearing a man at the point of death speak thus? Then, after all this, he said to him, 'Master Ciappelletto, with God's help you will speedily be whole; but, should it come to pass that God call your blessed and well-disposed soul to Himself, would it please you that your body be buried in our convent?' 'Ay, would it, sir,' replied Master Ciappelletto. 'Nay, I would fain no be buried otherwhere, since you have promised to pray God for me; more by token that I have ever had a special regard for your order. Wherefore I pray you that whenas you return to your lodging, you must cause bring me that most veritable body of Christ, which you consecrate a-mornings upon the altar, for that, with your leave, I purpose (all unworthy as I am) to take it and after, holy and extreme unction, to the intent that, if I have lived as a sinner, I may at the least die like a Christian.' The good friar replied that it pleased him much and that he said well and promised to see it presently brought him; and so was it done. Meanwhile, the two brothers, misdoubting them sore lest Master Ciappelletto should play them false, had posted themselves behind a wainscot, that divided the chamber where he lay from another, and listening, easily heard and apprehended that which he said to the friar and had whiles so great a mind to laugh, hearing the things which he confessed to having done, that they were like to burst and said, one to other, 'What manner of man is this, whom neither old age nor sickness nor fear of death, whereunto he seeth himself near, nor yet of God, before whose judgment-seat he looketh to be ere long, have availed to turn from his wickedness nor hinder him from choosing to die as he hath lived?' However, seeing that he had so spoken that he should be admitted to burial in a church, they recked nought of the rest. Master Ciappelletto presently took the sacrament and, growing rapidly worse, received extreme unction, and a little after evensong of the day he had made his fine confession, he died; whereupon the two brothers, having, of his proper monies, taken order for his honourable burial, sent to the convent to acquaint the friars therewith, bidding them come thither that night to hold vigil, according to usance, and fetch away the body in the morning, and meanwhile made ready all that was needful thereunto. The holy friar, who had shriven him, hearing that he had departed this life, betook himself to the prior of the convent and, letting ring to chapter, gave out to the brethren therein assembled that Master Ciappelletto had been a holy man, according to that which he had gathered from his confession, and persuaded them to receive his body with the utmost reverence and devotion, in the hope that God should show forth many miracles through him. To this the prior and brethren credulously consented and that same evening, coming all whereas Master Ciappelletto lay dead, they held high and solemn vigil over him and on the morrow, clad all in albs and copes, book in hand and crosses before them, they went, chanting the while, for his body and brought it with the utmost pomp and solemnity to their church, followed by well nigh all the people of the city, men and women. As soon as they had set the body down in the church, the holy friar, who had confessed him, mounted the pulpit and fell a-preaching marvellous things of the dead man and of his life, his fasts, his virginity, his simplicity and innocence and sanctity, recounting, amongst other things, that which he had confessed to him as his greatest sin and how he had hardly availed to persuade him that God would forgive it him; thence passing on to reprove the folk who hearkened, 'And you, accursed that you are,' quoth he, 'for every waif of straw that stirreth between your feet, you blaspheme God and the Virgin and all the host of heaven.' Moreover, he told them many other things of his loyalty and purity of heart; brief, with his speech, whereto entire faith was yielded of the people of the city, he so established the dead man in the reverent consideration of all who were present that, no sooner was the service at an end, than they all with the utmost eagerness flocked to kiss his hands and feet and the clothes were torn off his back, he holding himself blessed who might avail to have never so little thereof; and needs must they leave him thus all that day, so he might be seen and visited of all. The following night he was honourably buried in a marble tomb in one of the chapels of the church and on the morrow the folk began incontinent to come and burn candles and offer up prayers and make vows to him and hang images of wax[39] at his shrine, according to the promise made. Nay, on such wise waxed the frame of his sanctity and men's devotion to him that there was scarce any who, being in adversity, would vow himself to another saint than him; and they styled and yet style him Saint Ciappelletto and avouch that God through him hath wrought many miracles and yet worketh, them every day for whoso devoutly commendeth himself unto him. [Footnote 39: _i.e._ ex voto.] Thus, then, lived and died Master Cepperello[40] da Prato and became a saint, as you have heard; nor would I deny it to be possible that he is beatified in God's presence, for that, albeit his life was wicked and perverse, he may at his last extremity have shown such contrition that peradventure God had mercy on him and received him into His kingdom; but, for that this is hidden from us, I reason according to that which, is apparent and say that he should rather be in the hands of the devil in perdition than in Paradise. And if so it be, we may know from this how great is God's loving-kindness towards us, which, having regard not to our error, but to the purity of our faith, whenas we thus make an enemy (deeming him a friend) of His our intermediary, giveth ear unto us, even as if we had recourse unto one truly holy, as intercessor for His favour. Wherefore, to the end that by His grace we may be preserved safe and sound in this present adversity and in this so joyous company, let us, magnifying His name, in which we have begun our diversion, and holding Him in reverence, commend ourselves to Him in our necessities, well assured of being heard." And with this he was silent. [Footnote 40: It will be noted that this is Boccaccio's third variant of his hero's name (the others being Ciapperello and Cepparello) and the edition of 1527 furnishes us with a fourth and a fifth form _i.e._ Ciepparello and Ciepperello.] THE SECOND STORY [Day the First] ABRAHAM THE JEW, AT THE INSTIGATION OF JEHANNOT DE CHEVIGNÉ, GOETH TO THE COURT OF ROME AND SEEING THE DEPRAVITY OF THE CLERGY, RETURNETH TO PARIS AND THERE BECOMETH A CHRISTIAN Pamfilo's story was in part laughed at and altogether commended by the ladies, and it being come to its end, after being diligently hearkened, the queen bade Neifile, who sat next him, ensue the ordinance of the commenced diversion by telling one[41] of her fashion. Neifile, who was distinguished no less by courteous manners than by beauty, answered blithely that she would well and began on this wise: "Pamfilo hath shown us in his story that God's benignness regardeth not our errors, when they proceed from that which is beyond our ken; and I, in mine, purpose to show you how this same benignness,--patiently suffering the defaults of those who, being especially bounden both with words and deeds to bear true witness thereof[42] yet practise the contrary,--exhibiteth unto us an infallible proof of itself, to the intent that we may, with the more constancy of mind, ensue that which we believe. [Footnote 41: _i.e._ a story.] [Footnote 42: _i.e._ of God's benignness.] As I have heard tell, gracious ladies, there was once in Paris a great merchant and a very loyal and upright man, whose name was Jehannot de Chevigné and who was of great traffic in silks and stuffs. He had particular friendship for a very rich Jew called Abraham, who was also a merchant and a very honest and trusty man, and seeing the latter's worth and loyalty, it began to irk him sore that the soul of so worthy and discreet and good a man should go to perdition for default of faith; wherefore he fell to beseeching him on friendly wise leave the errors of the Jewish faith and turn to the Christian verity, which he might see still wax and prosper, as being holy and good, whereas his own faith, on the contrary, was manifestly on the wane and dwindling to nought. The Jew made answer that he held no faith holy or good save only the Jewish, that in this latter he was born and therein meant to live and die, nor should aught ever make him remove therefrom. Jehannot for all that desisted not from him, but some days after returned to the attack with similar words, showing him, on rude enough wise (for that merchants for the most part can no better), for what reasons our religion is better than the Jewish; and albeit the Jew was a past master in their law, nevertheless, whether it was the great friendship he bore Jehannot that moved him or peradventure words wrought it that the Holy Ghost put into the good simple man's mouth, the latter's arguments began greatly to please him; but yet, persisting in his own belief, he would not suffer himself to be converted. Like as he abode obstinate, even so Jehannot never gave over importuning him, till at last the Jew, overcome by such continual insistence, said, 'Look you, Jehannot, thou wouldst have me become a Christian and I am disposed to do it; insomuch, indeed, that I mean, in the first place, to go to Rome and there see him who, thou sayest, is God's Vicar upon earth and consider his manners and fashions and likewise those of his chief brethren.[43] If these appear to me such that I may, by them, as well as by your words, apprehend that your faith is better than mine, even as thou hast studied to show me, I will do as I have said; and if it be not so, I will remain a Jew as I am.' [Footnote 43: Lit. cardinal brethren (_fratelli cardinali_).] When Jehannot heard this, he was beyond measure chagrined and said in himself, 'I have lost my pains, which meseemed I had right well bestowed, thinking to have converted this man; for that, an he go to the court of Rome and see the lewd and wicked life of the clergy, not only will he never become a Christian, but, were he already a Christian, he would infallibly turn Jew again.' Then, turning to Abraham, he said to him, 'Alack, my friend, why wilt thou undertake this travail and so great a charge as it will be to thee to go from here to Rome? More by token that, both by sea and by land, the road is full of perils for a rich man such as thou art. Thinkest thou not to find here who shall give thee baptism? Or, if peradventure thou have any doubts concerning the faith which I have propounded to thee, where are there greater doctors and men more learned in the matter than are here or better able to resolve thee of that which thou wilt know or ask? Wherefore, to my thinking, this thy going is superfluous. Bethink thee that the prelates there are even such as those thou mayst have seen here, and indeed so much the better as they are nearer unto the Chief Pastor. Wherefore, an thou wilt be counselled by me, thou wilt reserve this travail unto another time against some jubilee or other, whereunto it may be I will bear thee company.' To this the Jew made answer, 'I doubt not, Jehannot, but it is as thou tellest me; but, to sum up many words in one, I am altogether determined, an thou wouldst have me do that whereof thou hast so instantly besought me, to go thither; else will I never do aught thereof.' Jehannot, seeing his determination, said, 'Go and good luck go with thee!' And inwardly assured that he would never become a Christian, when once he should have seen the court of Rome, but availing[44] nothing in the matter, he desisted. [Footnote 44: Lit. losing (_perdendo_), but this is probably some copyist's mistake for _podendo_, the old form of _potendo_, availing.] The Jew mounted to horse and as quickliest he might betook himself to the court of Rome, he was honourably entertained of his brethren, and there abiding, without telling any the reason of his coming, he began diligently to enquire into the manners and fashions of the Pope and Cardinals and other prelates and of all the members of his court, and what with that which he himself noted, being a mighty quick-witted man, and that which he gathered from others, he found all, from the highest to the lowest, most shamefully given to the sin of lust, and that not only in the way of nature, but after the Sodomitical fashion, without any restraint of remorse or shamefastness, insomuch that the interest of courtezans and catamites was of no small avail there in obtaining any considerable thing. Moreover, he manifestly perceived them to be universally gluttons, wine-bibbers, drunkards and slaves to their bellies, brute-beast fashion, more than to aught else after lust. And looking farther, he saw them all covetous and greedy after money, insomuch that human, nay, Christian blood, no less than things sacred, whatsoever they might be, whether pertaining to the sacrifices of the altar or to the benefices of the church, they sold and bought indifferently for a price, making a greater traffic and having more brokers thereof than folk at Paris of silks and stuffs or what not else. Manifest simony they had christened 'procuration' and gluttony 'sustentation,' as if God apprehended not,--let be the meaning of words but,--the intention of depraved minds and would suffer Himself, after the fashion of men, to be duped by the names of things. All this, together with much else which must be left unsaid, was supremely displeasing to the Jew, who was a sober and modest man, and himseeming he had seen enough, he determined to return to Paris and did so. As soon as Jehannot knew of his return, he betook himself to him, hoping nothing less than that he should become a Christian, and they greeted each other with the utmost joy. Then, after Abraham had rested some days, Jehannot asked him how himseemed of the Holy Father and of the cardinals and others of his court. Whereto the Jew promptly answered, 'Meseemeth, God give them ill one and all! And I say this for that, if I was able to observe aright, no piety, no devoutness, no good work or example of life or otherwhat did I see there in any who was a churchman; nay, but lust, covetise, gluttony and the like and worse (if worse can be) meseemed to be there in such favour with all that I hold it for a forgingplace of things diabolical rather than divine. And as far as I can judge, meseemeth your chief pastor and consequently all the others endeavour with all diligence and all their wit and every art to bring to nought and banish from the world the Christian religion, whereas they should be its foundation and support. And for that I see that this whereafter they strive cometh not to pass, but that your religion continually increaseth and waxeth still brighter and more glorious, meseemeth I manifestly discern that the Holy Spirit is verily the foundation and support thereof, as of that which is true and holy over any other. Wherefore, whereas, aforetime I abode obdurate and insensible to thine exhortations and would not be persuaded to embrace thy faith, I now tell thee frankly that for nothing in the world would I forbear to become a Christian. Let us, then, to church and there have me baptized, according to the rite and ordinance of your holy faith.' Jehannot, who looked for a directly contrary conclusion to this, was the joyfullest man that might be, when he heard him speak thus, and repairing with him to our Lady's Church of Paris, required the clergy there to give Abraham baptism. They, hearing that the Jew himself demanded it, straightway proceeded to baptize him, whilst Jehannot raised him from the sacred font[45] and named him Giovanni. After this, he had him thoroughly lessoned by men of great worth and learning in the tenets of our holy faith, which he speedily apprehended and thenceforward was a good man and a worthy and one of a devout life." [Footnote 45: _i.e._ stood sponsor for him.] THE THIRD STORY [Day the First] MELCHIZEDEK THE JEW, WITH A STORY OF THREE RINGS, ESCAPETH A PARLOUS SNARE SET FOR HIM BY SALADIN Neifile having made an end of her story, which was commended of all, Filomena, by the queen's good pleasure, proceeded to speak thus: "The story told by Neifile bringeth to my mind a parlous case the once betided a Jew; and for that, it having already been excellent well spoken both of God and of the verity of our faith, it should not henceforth be forbidden us to descend to the doings of mankind and the events that have befallen them, I will now proceed to relate to you the case aforesaid, which having heard, you will peradventure become more wary in answering the questions that may be put to you. You must know, lovesome[46] companions[47] mine, that, like as folly ofttimes draweth folk forth of happy estate and casteth them into the utmost misery, even so doth good sense extricate the wise man from the greatest perils and place him in assurance and tranquillity. How true it is that folly bringeth many an one from fair estate unto misery is seen by multitude of examples, with the recounting whereof we have no present concern, considering that a thousand instances thereof do every day manifestly appear to us; but that good sense is a cause of solacement I will, as I promised, briefly show you by a little story. [Footnote 46: Lit. amorous (_amorose_), but Boccaccio frequently uses _amoroso_, _vago_, and other adjectives, which are now understood in an active or transitive sense only, in their ancient passive or intransitive sense of lovesome, desirable, etc.] [Footnote 47: _Compagne_, _i.e._ she-companions. Filomena is addressing the female part of the company.] Saladin,--whose valour was such that not only from a man of little account it made him Soldan of Babylon, but gained him many victories over kings Saracen and Christian,--having in divers wars and in the exercise of his extraordinary munificences expended his whole treasure and having an urgent occasion for a good sum of money nor seeing whence he might avail to have it as promptly as it behoved him, called to mind a rich Jew, by name Melchizedek, who lent at usance in Alexandria, and bethought himself that this latter had the wherewithal to oblige him, and he would; but he was so miserly that he would never have done it of his freewill and Saladin was loath to use force with him; wherefore, need constraining him, he set his every wit awork to find a means how the Jew might be brought to serve him in this and presently concluded to do him a violence coloured by some show of reason. Accordingly he sent for Melchizedek and receiving him familiarly, seated him by himself, then said to him, 'Honest man, I have understood from divers persons that thou art a very learned man and deeply versed in matters of divinity; wherefore I would fain know of thee whether of the three Laws thou reputest the true, the Jewish, the Saracen or the Christian.' The Jew, who was in truth a man of learning and understanding, perceived but too well that Saladin looked to entrap him in words, so he might fasten a quarrel on him, and bethought himself that he could not praise any of the three more than the others without giving him the occasion he sought. Accordingly, sharpening his wits, as became one who felt himself in need of an answer by which he might not be taken at a vantage, there speedily occurred to him that which it behoved him reply and he said, 'My lord, the question that you propound to me is a nice one and to acquaint you with that which I think of the matter, it behoveth me tell you a little story, which you shall hear. An I mistake not, I mind me to have many a time heard tell that there was once a great man and a rich, who among other very precious jewels in his treasury, had a very goodly and costly ring, whereunto being minded, for its worth and beauty, to do honour and wishing to leave it in perpetuity to his descendants, he declared that whichsoever of his sons should, at his death, be found in possession thereof, by his bequest unto him, should be recognized as his heir and be held of all the others in honour and reverence as chief and head. He to whom the ring was left by him held a like course with his own descendants and did even as his father had done. In brief the ring passed from hand to hand, through many generations, and came at last into the possession of a man who had three goodly and virtuous sons, all very obedient to their father wherefore he loved them all three alike. The young men, knowing the usance of the ring, each for himself, desiring to be the most honoured among his folk, as best he might, besought his father, who was now an old man, to leave him the ring, whenas he came to die. The worthy man, who loved them all alike and knew not himself how to choose to which he had liefer leave the ring, bethought himself, having promised it to each, to seek to satisfy all three and privily let make by a good craftsman other two rings, which were so like unto the first that he himself scarce knew which was the true. When he came to die, he secretly gave each one of his sons his ring, wherefore each of them, seeking after their father's death, to occupy the inheritance and the honour and denying it to the others, produced his ring, in witness of his right, and the three rings being found so like unto one another that the true might not be known, the question which was the father's very heir abode pending and yet pendeth. And so say I to you, my lord, of the three Laws to the three peoples given of God the Father, whereof you question me; each people deemeth itself to have his inheritance, His true Law and His commandments; but of which in very deed hath them, even as of the rings, the question yet pendeth.' Saladin perceived that the Jew had excellently well contrived to escape the snare which he had spread before his feet; wherefore he concluded to discover to him his need and see if he were willing to serve him; and so accordingly he did, confessing to him that which he had it in mind to do, had he not answered him on such discreet wise. The Jew freely furnished him with all that he required, and the Soldan after satisfied him in full; moreover, he gave him very great gifts and still had him to friend and maintained him about his own person in high and honourable estate." THE FOURTH STORY [Day the First] A MONK, HAVING FALLEN INTO A SIN DESERVING OF VERY GRIEVOUS PUNISHMENT, ADROITLY REPROACHING THE SAME FAULT TO HIS ABBOT, QUITTETH HIMSELF OF THE PENALTY Filomena, having despatched her story, was now silent, whereupon Dioneo, who sat next her, knowing already, by the ordinance begun, that it fell to his turn to tell, proceeded, without awaiting farther commandment from the queen, to speak on this wise: "Lovesome ladies, if I have rightly apprehended the intention of you all, we are here to divert ourselves with story-telling; wherefore, so but it be not done contrary to this our purpose, I hold it lawful unto each (even as our queen told us a while agone) to tell such story as he deemeth may afford most entertainment. Accordingly having heard how, by the good counsels of Jehannot de Chevigné, Abraham had his soul saved and how Melchizedek, by his good sense, defended his riches from Saladin's ambushes, I purpose, without looking for reprehension from you, briefly to relate with what address a monk delivered his body from a very grievous punishment. There was in Lunigiana, a country not very far hence, a monastery whilere more abounding in sanctity and monks than it is nowadays, and therein, among others, was a young monk, whose vigour and lustiness neither fasts nor vigils availed to mortify. It chanced one day, towards noontide, when all the other monks slept, that, as he went all alone round about the convent,[48] which stood in a very solitary place, he espied a very well-favoured lass, belike some husbandman's daughter of the country, who went about the fields culling certain herbs, and no sooner had he set eyes on her than he was violently assailed by carnal appetite. Wherefore, accosting her, he entered into parley with her and so led on from one thing to another that he came to an accord with her and brought her to his cell, unperceived of any; but whilst, carried away by overmuch ardour, he disported himself with her less cautiously than was prudent, it chanced that the abbot arose from sleep and softly passing by the monk's cell, heard the racket that the twain made together; whereupon he came stealthily up to the door to listen, that he might the better recognize the voices, and manifestly perceiving that there was a woman in the cell, was at first minded to cause open to him, but after bethought himself to hold another course in the matter and, returning to his chamber, awaited the monk's coming forth. [Footnote 48: Lit. his church (_sua chiesa_); but the context seems to indicate that the monastery itself is meant.] The latter, all taken up as he was with the wench and his exceeding pleasure and delight in her company, was none the less on his guard and himseeming he heard some scuffling of feet in the dormitory, he set his eye to a crevice and plainly saw the abbot stand hearkening unto him; whereby he understood but too well that the latter must have gotten wind of the wench's presence in his cell and knowing that sore punishment would ensue to him thereof, he was beyond measure chagrined. However, without discovering aught of his concern to the girl, he hastily revolved many things in himself, seeking to find some means of escape, and presently hit upon a rare device, which went straight to the mark he aimed at. Accordingly, making a show of thinking he had abidden long enough with the damsel, he said to her, 'I must go cast about for a means how thou mayest win forth hence, without being seen; wherefore do thou abide quietly until my return.' Then, going forth and locking the cell door on her, he betook himself straight to the abbot's chamber and presenting him with the key, according as each monk did, whenas he went abroad, said to him, with a good countenance, 'Sir, I was unable to make an end this morning of bringing off all the faggots I had cut; wherefore with your leave I will presently go to the wood and fetch them away.' The abbot, deeming the monk unaware that he had been seen of him, was glad of such an opportunity to inform himself more fully of the offence committed by him and accordingly took the key and gave him the leave he sought. Then, as soon as he saw him gone, he fell to considering which he should rather do, whether open his cell in the presence of all the other monks and cause them to see his default, so they might after have no occasion to murmur against himself, whenas he should punish the offender, or seek first to learn from the girl herself how the thing had passed; and bethinking himself that she might perchance be the wife or daughter of such a man that he would be loath to have done her the shame of showing her to all the monks, he determined first to see her and after come to a conclusion; wherefore, betaking himself to the cell, he opened it and, entering, shut the door after him. The girl, seeing the abbot enter, was all aghast and fell a-weeping for fear of shame; but my lord abbot, casting his eyes upon her and seeing her young and handsome, old as he was, suddenly felt the pricks of the flesh no less importunate than his young monk had done and fell a-saying in himself, 'Marry, why should I not take somewhat of pleasure, whenas I may, more by token that displeasance and annoy are still at hand, whenever I have a mind to them? This is a handsome wench and is here unknown of any in the world. If I can bring her to do my pleasure, I know not why I should not do it. Who will know it? No one will ever know it and a sin that's hidden is half forgiven. Maybe this chance will never occur again. I hold it great sense to avail ourselves of a good, whenas God the Lord sendeth us thereof.' So saying and having altogether changed purpose from that wherewith he came, he drew near to the girl and began gently to comfort her, praying her not to weep, and passing from one word to another, he ended by discovering to her his desire. The girl, who was neither iron nor adamant, readily enough lent herself to the pleasure of the abbot, who, after he had clipped and kissed her again and again, mounted upon the monk's pallet and having belike regard to the grave burden of his dignity and the girl's tender age and fearful of irking her for overmuch heaviness, bestrode not her breast, but set her upon his own and so a great while disported himself with her. Meanwhile, the monk, who had only made believe to go to the wood and had hidden himself in the dormitory, was altogether reassured, whenas he saw the abbot enter his cell alone, doubting not but his device should have effect, and when he saw him lock the door from within, he held it for certain. Accordingly, coming forth of his hiding-place, he stealthily betook himself to a crevice, through which he both heard and saw all that the abbot did and said. When it seemed to the latter that he had tarried long enough with the damsel, he locked her in the cell and returned to his own chamber, whence, after awhile, he heard the monk stirring and deeming him returned from the wood, thought to rebuke him severely and cast him into prison, so himself might alone possess the prey he had gotten; wherefore, sending for him, he very grievously rebuked him and with a stern countenance and commanded that he should be put in prison. The monk very readily answered, 'Sir, I have not yet pertained long enough to the order of St. Benedict to have been able to learn every particular thereof, and you had not yet shown me that monks should make of women a means of mortification,[49] as of fasts and vigils; but, now that you have shown it me, I promise you, so you will pardon me this default, never again to offend therein, but still to do as I have seen you do.' The abbot, who was a quick-witted man, readily understood that the monk not only knew more than himself, but had seen what he did; wherefore, his conscience pricking him for his own default, he was ashamed to inflict on the monk a punishment which he himself had merited even as he. Accordingly, pardoning him and charging him keep silence of that which he had seen, they privily put the girl out of doors and it is believed that they caused her return thither more than once thereafterward." [Footnote 49: Lit. a pressure or oppression (_priemere_, hod. _premere_, to press or oppress, indicative used as a noun). The monk of course refers to the posture in which he had seen the abbot have to do with the girl, pretending to believe that he placed her on his own breast (instead of mounting on hers) out of a sentiment of humility and a desire to mortify his flesh _ipsâ in voluptate_.] THE FIFTH STORY [Day the First] THE MARCHIONESS OF MONFERRATO, WITH A DINNER OF HENS AND CERTAIN SPRIGHTLY WORDS, CURBETH THE EXTRAVAGANT PASSION OF THE KING OF FRANCE The story told by Dioneo at first pricked the hearts of the listening ladies with somewhat of shamefastness, whereof a modest redness appearing in their faces gave token; but after, looking one at other and being scarce able to keep their countenance, they listened, laughing in their sleeves. The end thereof being come, after they had gently chidden him, giving him to understand that such tales were not fit to be told among ladies, the queen, turning to Fiammetta, who sat next him on the grass, bade her follow on the ordinance. Accordingly, she began with a good grace and a cheerful countenance, "It hath occurred to my mind, fair my ladies,--at once because it pleaseth me that we have entered upon showing by stories how great is the efficacy of prompt and goodly answers and because, like as in men it is great good sense to seek still to love a lady of higher lineage than themselves,[50] so in women it is great discretion to know how to keep themselves from being taken with the love of men of greater condition than they,--to set forth to you, in the story which it falleth to me to tell, how both with deeds and words a noble lady guarded herself against this and diverted another therefrom. [Footnote 50: An evident allusion to Boccaccio's passion for the Princess Maria, _i.e._ Fiammetta herself.] The Marquis of Monferrato, a man of high worth and gonfalonier[51] of the church, had passed beyond seas on the occasion of a general crusade undertaken by the Christians, arms in hand, and it being one day discoursed of his merit at the court of King Phillippe le Borgne,[52] who was then making ready to depart France upon the same crusade, it was avouched by a gentleman present that there was not under the stars a couple to match with the marquis and his lady, for that, even as he was renowned among knights for every virtue, so was she the fairest and noblest of all the ladies in the world. These words took such hold upon the mind of the King of France that, without having seen the marchioness, he fell of a sudden ardently in love with her and determined to take ship for the crusade, on which he was to go, no otherwhere than at Genoa, in order that, journeying thither by land, he might have an honourable occasion of visiting the marchioness, doubting not but that, the marquis being absent, he might avail to give effect to his desire. [Footnote 51: Or standard-bearer.] [Footnote 52: _i.e._ the One-eyed (syn. le myope, the short-sighted, the Italian word [_Il Bornio_] having both meanings), _i.e._ Philip II. of France, better known as Philip Augustus.] As he had bethought himself, so he put his thought into execution; for, having sent forward all his power, he set out, attended only by some few gentlemen, and coming within a day's journey of the marquis's domains, despatched a vauntcourier to bid the lady expect him the following morning to dinner. The marchioness, who was well advised and discreet, replied blithely that in this he did her the greatest of favours and that he would be welcome and after bethought herself what this might mean that such a king should come to visit her in her husband's absence, nor was she deceived in the conclusion to which she came, to wit, that the report of her beauty drew him thither. Nevertheless, like a brave lady as she was, she determined to receive him with honour and summoning to her counsels sundry gentlemen of those who remained there, with their help, she let provide for everything needful. The ordinance of the repast and of the viands she reserved to herself alone and having forthright caused collect as many hens as were in the country, she bade her cooks dress various dishes of these alone for the royal table. The king came at the appointed time and was received by the lady with great honour and rejoicing. When he beheld her, she seemed to him fair and noble and well-bred beyond that which he had conceived from the courtier's words, whereat he marvelled exceedingly and commended her amain, waxing so much the hotter in his desire as he found the lady overpassing his foregone conceit of her. After he had taken somewhat of rest in chambers adorned to the utmost with all that pertaineth to the entertainment of such a king, the dinner hour being come, the king and the marchioness seated themselves at one table, whilst the rest, according to their quality, were honourably entertained at others. The king, being served with many dishes in succession, as well as with wines of the best and costliest, and to boot gazing with delight the while upon the lovely marchioness, was mightily pleased with his entertainment; but, after awhile, as the viands followed one upon another, he began somewhat to marvel, perceiving that, for all the diversity of the dishes, they were nevertheless of nought other than hens, and this although he knew the part where he was to be such as should abound in game of various kinds and although he had, by advising the lady in advance of his coming, given her time to send a-hunting. However, much as he might marvel at this, he chose not to take occasion of engaging her in parley thereof, otherwise than in the matter of her hens, and accordingly, turning to her with a merry air, 'Madam,' quoth he, 'are hens only born in these parts, without ever a cock?' The marchioness, who understood the king's question excellent well, herseeming God had vouchsafed her, according to her wish, an opportune occasion of discovering her mind, turned to him and answered boldly, 'Nay, my lord; but women, albeit in apparel and dignities they may differ somewhat from others, are natheless all of the same fashion here as elsewhere.' The King, hearing this, right well apprehended the meaning of the banquet of hens and the virtue hidden in her speech and perceived that words would be wasted upon such a lady and that violence was out of the question; wherefore, even as he had ill-advisedly taken fire for her, so now it behoved him sagely, for his own honour's sake, stifle his ill-conceived passion. Accordingly, without making any more words with her, for fear of her replies, he dined, out of all hope; and the meal ended, thanking her for the honourable entertainment he had received from her and commending her to God, he set out for Genoa, so by his prompt departure he might make amends for his unseemly visit." THE SIXTH STORY [Day the First] AN HONEST MAN, WITH A CHANCE PLEASANTRY, PUTTETH TO SHAME THE PERVERSE HYPOCRISY OF THE RELIGIOUS ORDERS Emilia, who sat next after Fiammetta,--the courage of the marchioness and the quaint rebuke administered by her to the King of France having been commended of all the ladies,--began, by the queen's pleasure, boldly to speak as follows: "I also, I will not keep silence of a biting reproof given by an honest layman to a covetous monk with a speech no less laughable than commendable. There was, then, dear lasses, no great while agone, in our city, a Minor friar and inquisitor of heretical pravity, who, for all he studied hard to appear a devout and tender lover of the Christian religion, as do they all, was no less diligent in enquiring of who had a well-filled purse than of whom he might find wanting in the things of the Faith. Thanks to this his diligence, he lit by chance upon a good simple man, richer, by far in coin than in wit, who, of no lack of religion, but speaking thoughtlessly and belike overheated with wine or excess of mirth, chanced one day to say to a company of his friends that he had a wine so good that Christ himself might drink thereof. This being reported to the inquisitor and he understanding that the man's means were large and his purse well filled, ran in a violent hurry _cum gladiis et fustibus_[53] to clap up a right grievous suit against him, looking not for an amendment of misbelief in the defendant, but for the filling of his own hand with florins to ensue thereof (as indeed it did,) and causing him to be cited, asked him if that which had been alleged against him were true. [Footnote 53: _i.e._ with sword and whips, a technical term of ecclesiastical procedure, about equivalent to our "with the strong arm of the law."] The good man replied that it was and told him how it chanced; whereupon quoth the most holy inquisitor, who was a devotee of St. John Goldenbeard,[54] 'Then hast thou made Christ a wine-bibber and curious in wines of choice, as if he were Cinciglione[55] or what not other of your drunken sots and tavern-haunters; and now thou speakest lowly and wouldst feign this to be a very light matter! It is not as thou deemest; thou hast merited the fire therefor, an we were minded to deal with thee as we ought.' With these and many other words he bespoke him, with as menacing a countenance as if the poor wretch had been Epicurus denying the immortality of the soul, and in brief so terrified him that the good simple soul, by means of certain intermediaries, let grease his palm with a good dose of St. John Goldenmouth's ointment[56] (the which is a sovereign remedy for the pestilential covetise of the clergy and especially of the Minor Brethren, who dare not touch money), so he should deal mercifully with him. [Footnote 54: _i.e._ a lover of money.] [Footnote 55: A notorious drinker of the time.] [Footnote 56: _i.e._ money.] This unguent, being of great virtue (albeit Galen speaketh not thereof in any part of his Medicines), wrought to such purpose that the fire denounced against him was by favour commuted into [the wearing, by way of penance, of] a cross, and to make the finer banner, as he were to go a crusading beyond seas, the inquisitor imposed it him yellow upon black. Moreover, whenas he had gotten the money, he detained him about himself some days, enjoining him, by way of penance, hear a mass every morning at Santa Croce and present himself before him at dinner-time, and after that he might do what most pleased him the rest of the day; all which he diligently performed. One morning, amongst others, it chanced that at the Mass he heard a Gospel, wherein these words were chanted, 'For every one ye shall receive an hundred and shall possess eternal life.'[57] This he laid fast up in his memory and according to the commandment given him, presented him at the eating hour before the inquisitor, whom he found at dinner. The friar asked him if he had heard mass that morning, whereto he promptly answered, 'Ay have I, sir.' Quoth the inquisitor, 'Heardest thou aught therein whereof thou doubtest or would question?' 'Certes,' replied the good man, 'I doubt not of aught that I heard, but do firmly believe all to be true. I did indeed hear something which caused and yet causeth me have the greatest compassion of you and your brother friars, bethinking me of the ill case wherein you will find yourselves over yonder in the next life.' 'And what was it that moved thee to such compassion of us?' asked the inquisitor. 'Sir,' answered the other, 'it was that verse of the Evangel, which saith, "For every one ye shall receive an hundred." 'That is true,' rejoined the inquisitor; 'but why did these words move thee thus?' 'Sir,' replied the good man, 'I will tell you. Since I have been used to resort hither, I have seen give out every day to a multitude of poor folk now one and now two vast great cauldrons of broth, which had been taken away from before yourself and the other brethren of this convent, as superfluous; wherefore, if for each one of these cauldrons of broth there be rendered you an hundred in the world to come, you will have so much thereof that you will assuredly all be drowned therein.' [Footnote 57: "And every one that hath forsaken houses or brethren or sisters or father or mother or wife or children or lands for my name's sake shall receive an hundredfold and shall inherit everlasting life."--Matthew xix. 29. Boccaccio has garbled the passage for the sake of his point.] All who were at the inquisitor's table fell a-laughing; but the latter, feeling the hit at the broth-swilling[58] hypocrisy of himself and his brethren, was mightily incensed, and but that he had gotten blame for that which he had already done, he would have saddled him with another prosecution, for that with a laughable speech he had rebuked him and his brother good-for-noughts; wherefore, of his despite, he bade him thenceforward do what most pleased him and not come before him again." [Footnote 58: Syn. gluttonous (_brodajuola_).] THE SEVENTH STORY [Day the First] BERGAMINO, WITH A STORY OF PRIMASSO AND THE ABBOT OF CLUNY, COURTEOUSLY REBUKETH A FIT OF PARSIMONY NEWLY COME TO MESSER CANE DELLA SCALA Emilia's pleasantness and her story moved the queen and all the rest to laugh and applaud the rare conceit of this new-fangled crusader. Then, after the laughter had subsided and all were silent again, Filostrato, whose turn it was to tell, began to speak on this wise: "It is a fine thing, noble ladies, to hit a mark that never stirreth; but it is well-nigh miraculous if, when some unwonted thing appeareth of a sudden, it be forthright stricken of an archer. The lewd and filthy life of the clergy, in many things as it were a constant mark for malice, giveth without much difficulty occasion to all who have a mind to speak of, to gird at and rebuke it; wherefore, albeit the worthy man, who pierced the inquisitor to the quick touching the hypocritical charity of the friars, who give to the poor that which it should behove them cast to the swine or throw away, did well, I hold him much more to be commended of whom, the foregoing tale moving me thereto, I am to speak and who with a quaint story rebuked Messer Cane della Scala, a magnificent nobleman, of a sudden and unaccustomed niggardliness newly appeared in him, figuring, in the person of another, that which he purposed to say to him concerning themselves; the which was on this wise. As very manifest renown proclaimeth well nigh throughout the whole world, Messer Cane della Scala, to whom in many things fortune was favourable, was one of the most notable and most magnificent gentlemen that have been known in Italy since the days of the Emperor Frederick the Second. Being minded to make a notable and wonder-goodly entertainment in Verona, whereunto many folk should have come from divers parts and especially men of art[59] of all kinds, he of a sudden (whatever might have been the cause) withdrew therefrom and having in a measure requited those who were come thither, dismissed them all, save only one, Bergamino by name, a man ready of speech and accomplished beyond the credence of whoso had not heard him, who, having received neither largesse nor dismissal, abode behind, in the hope that his stay might prove to his future advantage. But Messer Cane had taken it into his mind that what thing soever he might give him were far worse bestowed than if it had been thrown into the fire, nor of this did he bespeak him or let tell him aught. [Footnote 59: _i.e._ gleemen, minstrels, story-tellers, jugglers and the like, lit. men of court (_uomini di corte_).] Bergamino, after some days, finding himself neither called upon nor required unto aught that pertained to his craft and wasting his substance, to boot, in the hostelry with his horses and his servants, began to be sore concerned, but waited yet, himseeming he would not do well to depart. Now he had brought with him three goodly and rich suits of apparel, which had been given him of other noblemen, that he might make a brave appearance at the festival, and his host pressing for payment, he gave one thereof to him. After this, tarrying yet longer, it behoved him give the host the second suit, an he would abide longer with him, and withal he began to live upon the third, resolved to abide in expectation so long as this should last and then depart. Whilst he thus fed upon the third suit, he chanced one day, Messer Cane being at dinner, to present himself before him with a rueful countenance, and Messer Cane, seeing this, more by way of rallying him than of intent to divert himself with any of his speech, said to him, 'What aileth thee, Bergamino, to stand thus disconsolate? Tell us somewhat.'[60] Whereupon Bergamino, without a moment's hesitation, forthright, as if he had long considered it, related the following story to the purpose of his own affairs. [Footnote 60: _Dinne alcuna cosa._ If we take the affix _ne_ (thereof, of it), in its other meaning (as dative of _noi_, we), of "to us," this phrase will read "Tell somewhat thereof," _i.e._ of the cause of thy melancholy.] 'My lord,' said he, 'you must know that Primasso was a very learned grammarian[61] and a skilful and ready verse-maker above all others, which things rendered him so notable and so famous that, albeit he might not everywhere be known by sight, there was well nigh none who knew him not by name and by report. It chanced that, finding himself once at Paris in poor case, as indeed he abode most times, for that worth is[62] little prized of those who can most,[63] he heard speak of the Abbot of Cluny, who is believed to be, barring the Pope, the richest prelate of his revenues that the Church of God possesseth, and of him he heard tell marvellous and magnificent things, in that he still held open house nor were meat and drink ever denied to any who went whereas he might be, so but he sought it what time the Abbot was at meat. Primasso, hearing this and being one who delighted in looking upon men of worth and nobility, determined to go see the magnificence of this Abbot and enquired how near he then abode to Paris. It was answered him that he was then at a place of his maybe half a dozen miles thence; wherefore Primasso thought to be there at dinner-time, by starting in the morning betimes. [Footnote 61: _i.e._ Latinist.] [Footnote 62: Lit. was (_era_); but as Boccaccio puts "can" (_possono_) in the present tense we must either read _è_ and _possono_ or _era_ and _potevano_. The first reading seems the more probable.] [Footnote 63: _i.e._ have most power or means of requiting it.] Accordingly, he enquired the way, but, finding none bound thither, he feared lest he might go astray by mischance and happen on a part where there might be no victual so readily to be found; wherefore, in order that, if this should betide, he might not suffer for lack of food, he bethought himself to carry with him three cakes of bread, judging that water (albeit it was little to his taste) he should find everywhere. The bread he put in his bosom and setting out, was fortunate enough to reach the Abbot's residence before the eating-hour. He entered and went spying all about and seeing the great multitude of tables set and the mighty preparations making in the kitchen and what not else provided against dinner, said in himself, "Of a truth this Abbot is as magnificent as folk say." After he had abidden awhile intent upon these things, the Abbot's seneschal, eating-time being come, bade bring water for the hands; which being done, he seated each man at table, and it chanced that Primasso was set right over against the door of the chamber, whence the Abbot should come forth into the eating-hall. Now it was the usance in that house that neither wine nor bread nor aught else of meat or drink should ever be set on the tables, except the Abbot were first came to sit at his own table. Accordingly, the seneschal, having set the tables, let tell the Abbot that, whenas it pleased him, the meat was ready. The Abbot let open the chamber-door, that he might pass into the saloon, and looking before him as he came, as chance would have it, the first who met his eyes was Primasso, who was very ill accoutred and whom he knew not by sight. When he saw him, incontinent there came into his mind an ill thought and one that had never yet been there, and he said in himself, "See to whom I give my substance to eat!" Then, turning back, he bade shut the chamber-door and enquired of those who were about him if any knew yonder losel who sat at table over against his chamber-door; but all answered no. Meanwhile Primasso, who had a mind to eat, having come a journey and being unused to fast, waited awhile and seeing that the Abbot came not, pulled out of his bosom one of the three cakes of bread he had brought with him and fell to eating. The Abbot, after he had waited awhile, bade one of his serving-men look if Primasso were gone, and the man answered, "No, my lord; nay, he eateth bread, which it seemeth he hath brought with him." Quoth the Abbot, "Well, let him eat of his own, an he have thereof; for of ours he shall not eat to-day." Now he would fain have had Primasso depart of his own motion, himseeming it were not well done to turn him away; but the latter, having eaten one cake of bread and the Abbot coming not, began upon the second; the which was likewise reported to the Abbot, who had caused look if he were gone. At last, the Abbot still tarrying, Primasso, having eaten the second cake, began upon the third, and this again was reported to the Abbot, who fell a-pondering in himself and saying, "Alack, what new maggot is this that is come into my head to-day? What avarice! What despite! And for whom? This many a year have I given my substance to eat to whosoever had a mind thereto, without regarding if he were gentle or simple, poor or rich, merchant or huckster, and have seen it with mine own eyes squandered by a multitude of ribald knaves; nor ever yet came there to my mind the thought that hath entered into me for yonder man. Of a surety avarice cannot have assailed me for a man of little account; needs must this who seemeth to me a losel be some great matter, since my soul hath thus repugned to do him honour." So saying, he desired to know who he was and finding that it was Primasso, whom he had long known by report for a man of merit, come thither to see with his own eyes that which he had heard of his magnificence, was ashamed and eager to make him amends, studied in many ways to do him honour. Moreover, after eating, he caused clothe him sumptuously, as befitted his quality, and giving him money and a palfrey, left it to his own choice to go or stay; whereupon Primasso, well pleased with his entertainment, rendered him the best thanks in his power and returned on horseback to Paris, whence he had set out afoot. Messer Cane, who was a gentleman of understanding, right well apprehended Bergamino's meaning, without further exposition, and said to him, smiling, 'Bergamino, thou hast very aptly set forth to me thy wrongs and merit and my niggardliness, as well as that which thou wouldst have of me; and in good sooth, never, save now on thine account, have I been assailed of parsimony; but I will drive it away with that same stick which thou thyself hast shown me.' Then, letting pay Bergamino's host and clothing himself most sumptuously in a suit of his own apparel, he gave him money and a palfrey and committed to his choice for the nonce to go or stay." THE EIGHTH STORY [Day the First] GUGLIELMO BORSIERE WITH SOME QUAINT WORDS REBUKETH THE NIGGARDLINESS OF MESSER ERMINO DE' GRIMALDI Next Filostrato sat Lauretta, who, after she had heard Bergamino's address commended, perceiving that it behoved her tell somewhat, began, without awaiting any commandment, blithely to speak thus: "The foregoing story, dear companions,[64] bringeth me in mind to tell how an honest minstrel on like wise and not without fruit rebuked the covetise of a very rich merchant, the which, albeit in effect it resembleth the last story, should not therefore be less agreeable to you, considering that good came thereof in the end. [Footnote 64: Fem.] There was, then, in Genoa, a good while agone, a gentleman called Messer Ermino de' Grimaldi, who (according to general belief) far overpassed in wealth of lands and monies the riches of whatsoever other richest citizen was then known in Italy; and like as he excelled all other Italians in wealth, even so in avarice and sordidness he outwent beyond compare every other miser and curmudgeon in the world; for not only did he keep a strait purse in the matter of hospitality, but, contrary to the general usance of the Genoese, who are wont to dress sumptuously, he suffered the greatest privations in things necessary to his own person, no less than in meat and in drink, rather than be at any expense; by reason whereof the surname de' Grimaldi had fallen away from him and he was deservedly called of all only Messer Ermino Avarizia. It chanced that, whilst, by dint of spending not, he multiplied his wealth, there came to Genoa a worthy minstrel,[65] both well-bred and well-spoken, by name Guglielmo Borsiere, a man no whit like those[66] of the present day, who (to the no small reproach of the corrupt and blameworthy usances of those[67] who nowadays would fain be called and reputed gentlefolk and seigniors) are rather to be styled asses, reared in all the beastliness and depravity of the basest of mankind, than [minstrels, bred] in the courts [of kings and princes]. In those times it used to be a minstrel's office and his wont to expend his pains in negotiating treaties of peace, where feuds or despites had befallen between noblemen, or transacting marriages, alliances and friendships, in solacing the minds of the weary and diverting courts with quaint and pleasant sayings, ay, and with sharp reproofs, father-like, rebuking the misdeeds of the froward,--and this for slight enough reward; but nowadays they study to spend their time in hawking evil reports from one to another, in sowing discord, in speaking naughtiness and obscenity and (what is worse) doing them in all men's presence, in imputing evil doings, lewdnesses and knaveries, true or false, one to other, and in prompting men of condition with treacherous allurements to base and shameful actions; and he is most cherished and honoured and most munificently entertained and rewarded of the sorry unmannerly noblemen of our time who saith and doth the most abominable words and deeds; a sore and shameful reproach to the present age and a very manifest proof that the virtues have departed this lower world and left us wretched mortals to wallow in the slough of the vices. [Footnote 65: _Uomo di corte._ This word has been another grievous stumbling block to the French and English translators of Boccaccio, who render it literally "courtier." The reader need hardly be reminded that the minstrel of the middle ages was commonly jester, gleeman and story-teller all in one and in these several capacities was allowed the utmost license of speech. He was generally attached to the court of some king or sovereign prince, but, in default of some such permanent appointment, passed his time in visiting the courts and mansions of princes and men of wealth and liberty, where his talents were likely to be appreciated and rewarded; hence the name _uomo di corte_, "man of court" (not "courtier," which is _cortigiano_).] [Footnote 66: _i.e._ those minstrels.] [Footnote 67: _i.e._ the noblemen their patrons.] But to return to my story, from which a just indignation hath carried me somewhat farther astray than I purposed,--I say that the aforesaid Guglielmo was honoured by all the gentlemen of Genoa and gladly seen of them, and having sojourned some days in the city and hearing many tales of Messer Ermino's avarice and sordidness, he desired to see him. Messer Ermino having already heard how worthy a man was this Guglielmo Borsiere and having yet, all miser as he was, some tincture of gentle breeding, received him with very amicable words and blithe aspect and entered with him into many and various discourses. Devising thus, he carried him, together with other Genoese who were in his company, into a fine new house of his which he had lately built and after having shown it all to him, said, 'Pray, Messer Guglielmo, you who have seen and heard many things, can you tell me of something that was never yet seen, which I may have depictured in the saloon of this my house?' Guglielmo, hearing this his preposterous question, answered, 'Sir, I doubt me I cannot undertake to tell you of aught that was never yet seen, except it were sneezings or the like; but, an it like you, I will tell you of somewhat which me thinketh you never yet beheld.' Quoth Messer Ermino, not looking for such an answer as he got, 'I pray you tell me what it is.' Whereto Guglielmo promptly replied, 'Cause Liberality to be here depictured.' When Messer Ermino heard this speech, there took him incontinent such a shame that it availed in a manner to change his disposition altogether to the contrary of that which it had been and he said, 'Messer Guglielmo, I will have it here depictured after such a fashion that neither you nor any other shall ever again have cause to tell me that I have never seen nor known it.' And from that time forth (such was the virtue of Guglielmo's words) he was the most liberal and the most courteous gentleman of his day in Genoa and he who most hospitably entreated both strangers and citizens." THE NINTH STORY [Day the First] THE KING OF CYPRUS, TOUCHED TO THE QUICK BY A GASCON LADY, FROM A MEAN-SPIRITED PRINCE BECOMETH A MAN OF WORTH AND VALIANCE The Queen's last commandment rested with Elisa, who, without awaiting it, began all blithely, "Young ladies, it hath often chanced that what all manner reproofs and many pains[68] bestowed upon a man have not availed to bring about in him hath been effected by a word more often spoken at hazard than of purpose aforethought. This is very well shown in the story related by Lauretta and I, in my turn, purpose to prove to you the same thing by means of another and a very short one; for that, since good things may still serve, they should be received with a mind attent, whoever be the sayer thereof. [Footnote 68: Syn. penalties, punishments (_pene_).] I say, then, that in the days of the first King of Cyprus, after the conquest of the Holy Land by Godefroi de Bouillon, it chanced that a gentlewoman of Gascony went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre and returning thence, came to Cyprus, where she was shamefully abused of certain lewd fellows; whereof having complained, without getting any satisfaction, she thought to appeal to the King for redress, but was told that she would lose her pains, for that he was of so abject a composition and so little of worth that, far from justifying others of their wrongs, he endured with shameful pusillanimity innumerable affronts offered to himself, insomuch that whose had any grudge [against him] was wont to vent his despite by doing him some shame or insult. The lady, hearing this and despairing of redress, bethought herself, by way of some small solacement of her chagrin, to seek to rebuke the king's pusillanimity; wherefore, presenting herself in tears before him, she said to him, 'My lord, I come not into thy presence for any redress that I expect of the wrong that hath been done me; but in satisfaction thereof, I prithee teach me how thou dost to suffer those affronts which I understand are offered unto thyself, so haply I may learn of thee patiently to endure mine own, the which God knoweth, an I might, I would gladly bestow on thee, since thou art so excellent a supporter thereof.' The King, who till then had been sluggish and supine, awoke as if from sleep and beginning with the wrong done to the lady, which he cruelly avenged, thenceforth became a very rigorous prosecutor of all who committed aught against the honour of his crown." THE TENTH STORY [Day the First] MASTER ALBERTO OF BOLOGNA CIVILLY PUTTETH A LADY TO THE BLUSH WHO THOUGHT TO HAVE SHAMED HIM OF BEING ENAMOURED OF HER Elisa being now silent, the last burden of the story-telling rested with the queen, who, with womanly grace beginning to speak, said, "Noble damsels, like as in the lucid nights the stars are the ornament of the sky and as in Spring-time the flowers of the green meadows, even so are commendable manners and pleasing discourse adorned by witty sallies, which latter, for that they are brief, are yet more beseeming to women than to men, inasmuch as much and long speech, whenas it may be dispensed with, is straitlier forbidden unto women than to men, albeit nowadays there are few or no women left who understand a sprightly saying or, if they understand it, know how to answer it, to the general shame be it said of ourselves and of all women alive. For that virtue,[69] which was erst in the minds of the women of times past, those of our day have diverted to the adornment of the body, and she on whose back are to be seen the most motley garments and the most gaudily laced and garded and garnished with the greatest plenty of fringes and purflings and broidery deemeth herself worthy to be held of far more account than her fellows and to be honoured above them, considering not that, were it a question of who should load her back and shoulders with bravery, an ass would carry much more thereof than any of them nor would therefore be honoured for more than an ass. [Footnote 69: _Virtù_, in the old Roman sense of strength, vigour, energy.] I blush to avow it, for that I cannot say aught against other women but I say it against myself; these women that are so laced and purfled and painted and parti-coloured abide either mute and senseless, like marble statues, or, an they be questioned, answer after such a fashion that it were far better to have kept silence. And they would have you believe that their unableness to converse among ladies and men of parts proceedeth from purity of mind, and to their witlessness they give the name of modesty, as if forsooth no woman were modest but she who talketh with her chamberwoman or her laundress or her bake-wench; the which had Nature willed, as they would have it believed, she had assuredly limited unto them their prattle on other wise. It is true that in this, as in other things, it behoveth to have regard to time and place and with whom one talketh; for that it chanceth bytimes that women or men, thinking with some pleasantry or other to put another to the blush and not having well measured their own powers with those of the latter, find that confusion, which they thought to cast upon another, recoil upon themselves. Wherefore, so you may know how to keep yourselves and that, to boot, you may not serve as a text for the proverb which is current everywhere, to wit, that women in everything still take the worst, I would have you learn a lesson from the last of to-day's stories, which falleth to me to tell, to the intent that, even as you are by nobility of mind distinguished from other women, so likewise you may show yourselves no less removed from them by excellence of manners. It is not many years since there lived (and belike yet liveth) at Bologna a very great and famous physician, known by manifest renown to well nigh all the world. His name was Master Alberto and such was the vivacity of his spirit that, albeit he was an old man of hard upon seventy years of age and well nigh all natural heat had departed his body, he scrupled not to expose himself to the flames of love; for that, having seen at an entertainment a very beautiful widow lady, called, as some say, Madam Malgherida[70] de' Ghisolieri, and being vastly taken with her, he received into his mature bosom, no otherwise than if he had been a young gallant, the amorous fire, insomuch that himseemed he rested not well by night, except the day foregone he had looked upon the delicate and lovesome countenance of the fair lady. Wherefore he fell to passing continually before her house, now afoot and now on horseback, as the occasion served him, insomuch that she and many other ladies got wind of the cause of his constant passings to and fro and oftentimes made merry among themselves to see a man thus ripe of years and wit in love, as if they deemed that that most pleasant passion of love took root and flourished only in the silly minds of the young and not otherwhere. [Footnote 70: Old form of Margherita.] What while he continued to pass back and forth, it chanced one holiday that, the lady being seated with many others before her door and espying Master Alberto making towards them from afar, they one and all took counsel together to entertain him and do him honour and after to rally him on that his passion. Accordingly, they all rose to receive him and inviting him [to enter,] carried him into a shady courtyard, whither they let bring the choicest of wines and sweetmeats and presently enquired of him, in very civil and pleasant terms, how it might be that he was fallen enamoured of that fair lady, knowing her to be loved of many handsome, young and sprightly gentlemen. The physician, finding himself thus courteously attacked, put on a blithe countenance and answered, 'Madam, that I love should be no marvel to any understanding person, and especially that I love yourself, for that you deserve it; and albeit old men are by operation of nature bereft of the vigour that behoveth unto amorous exercises, yet not for all that are they bereft of the will nor of the wit to apprehend that which is worthy to be loved; nay, this latter is naturally the better valued of them, inasmuch as they have more knowledge and experience than the young. As for the hope that moveth me, who am an old man, to love you who are courted of many young gallants, it is on this wise: I have been many a time where I have seen ladies lunch and eat lupins and leeks. Now, although in the leek no part is good, yet is the head[71] thereof less hurtful and more agreeable to the taste; but you ladies, moved by a perverse appetite, commonly hold the head in your hand and munch the leaves, which are not only naught, but of an ill savour. How know I, madam, but you do the like in the election of your lovers? In which case, I should be the one chosen of you and the others would be turned away.' [Footnote 71: _i.e._ the base or eatable part of the stem.] The gentlewoman and her companions were somewhat abashed and said, 'Doctor, you have right well and courteously chastised our presumptuous emprise; algates, your love is dear to me, as should be that of a man of worth and learning; wherefore, you may in all assurance command me, as your creature, of your every pleasure, saving only mine honour.' The physician, rising with his companions, thanked the lady and taking leave of her with laughter and merriment, departed thence. Thus the lady, looking not whom she rallied and thinking to discomfit another, was herself discomfited; wherefrom, an you be wise, you will diligently guard yourselves." * * * * * The sun had begun to decline towards the evening, and the heat was in great part abated, when the stories of the young ladies and of the three young men came to an end; whereupon quoth the queen blithesomely, "Henceforth, dear companions, there remaineth nought more to do in the matter of my governance for the present day, save to give you a new queen, who shall, according to her judgment, order her life and ours, for that[72] which is to come, unto honest pleasance. And albeit the day may be held to endure from now until nightfall, yet,--for that whoso taketh not somewhat of time in advance cannot, meseemeth, so well provide for the future and in order that what the new queen shall deem needful for the morrow may be prepared,--methinketh the ensuing days should commence at this hour. Wherefore, in reverence of Him unto whom all things live and for our own solacement, Filomena, a right discreet damsel, shall, as queen, govern our kingdom for the coming day." So saying, she rose to her feet and putting off the laurel-wreath, set it reverently on the head of Filomena, whom first herself and after all the other ladies and the young men likewise saluted as queen, cheerfully submitting themselves to her governance. [Footnote 72: _i.e._ that day.] Filomena blushed somewhat to find herself invested with the queendom, but, calling to mind the words a little before spoken by Pampinea,[73]--in order that she might not appear witless, she resumed her assurance and in the first place confirmed all the offices given by Pampinea; then, having declared that they should abide whereas they were, she appointed that which was to do against the ensuing morning, as well as for that night's supper, and after proceeded to speak thus: [Footnote 73: See ante, p. 8.] "Dearest companions, albeit Pampinea, more of her courtesy than for any worth of mine, hath made me queen of you all, I am not therefore disposed to follow my judgment alone in the manner of our living, but yours together with mine; and that you may know that which meseemeth is to do and consequently at your pleasure add thereto or abate thereof, I purpose briefly to declare it to you. If I have well noted the course this day held by Pampinea, meseemeth I have found it alike praiseworthy and delectable; wherefore till such time as, for overlong continuance or other reason, it grow irksome to us, I judge it not to be changed. Order, then, being taken for [the continuance of] that which we have already begun to do, we will, arising hence, go awhile a-pleasuring, and whenas the sun shall be for going under, we will sup in the cool of the evening, and after sundry canzonets and other pastimes, we shall do well to betake ourselves to sleep. To-morrow, rising in the cool of the morning, we will on like wise go somewhither a-pleasuring, as shall be most agreeable to every one; and as we have done to-day, we will at the due hour come back to eat; after which we will dance and when we arise from sleep, as to-day we have done, we will return hither to our story-telling, wherein meseemeth a very great measure to consist alike of pleasance and of profit. Moreover, that which Pampinea had indeed no opportunity of doing, by reason of her late election to the governance, I purpose now to enter upon, to wit, to limit within some bound that whereof we are to tell and to declare it[74] to you beforehand, so each of you may have leisure to think of some goodly story to relate upon the theme proposed, the which, an it please you, shall be on this wise; namely, seeing that since the beginning of the world men have been and will be, until the end thereof, bandied about by various shifts of fortune, each shall be holden to tell OF THOSE WHO AFTER BEING BAFFLED BY DIVERS CHANCES HAVE WON AT LAST TO A JOYFUL ISSUE BEYOND THEIR HOPE." [Footnote 74: _i.e._ the terms of the limitation aforesaid.] Ladies and men alike all commended this ordinance and declared themselves ready to ensue it. Only Dioneo, the others all being silent, said, "Madam, as all the rest have said, so say I, to wit that the ordinance given by you is exceeding pleasant and commendable; but of especial favour I crave you a boon, which I would have confirmed to me for such time as our company shall endure, to wit, that I may not be constrained by this your law to tell a story upon the given theme, an it like me not, but shall be free to tell that which shall most please me. And that none may think I seek this favour as one who hath not stories, in hand, from this time forth I am content to be still the last to tell." The queen,--who knew him for a merry man and a gamesome and was well assured that he asked this but that he might cheer the company with some laughable story, whenas they should be weary of discoursing,--with the others' consent, cheerfully accorded him the favour he sought. Then, arising from session, with slow steps they took their way towards a rill of very clear water, that ran down from a little hill, amid great rocks and green herbage, into a valley overshaded with many trees and there, going about in the water, bare-armed and shoeless, they fell to taking various diversions among themselves, till supper-time drew near, when they returned to the palace and there supped merrily. Supper ended, the queen called for instruments of music and bade Lauretta lead up a dance, whilst Emilia sang a song, to the accompaniment of Dioneo's lute. Accordingly, Lauretta promptly set up a dance and led it off, whilst Emilia amorously warbled the following song: I burn for mine own charms with such a fire, Methinketh that I ne'er Of other love shall reck or have desire. Whene'er I mirror me, I see therein[75] That good which still contenteth heart and spright; Nor fortune new nor thought of old can win To dispossess me of such dear delight. What other object, then, could fill my sight, Enough of pleasance e'er To kindle in my breast a new desire? This good flees not, what time soe'er I'm fain Afresh to view it for my solacement; Nay, at my pleasure, ever and again With such a grace it doth itself present Speech cannot tell it nor its full intent Be known of mortal e'er, Except indeed he burn with like desire. And I, grown more enamoured every hour, The straitlier fixed mine eyes upon it be, Give all myself and yield me to its power, E'en tasting now of that it promised me, And greater joyance yet I hope to see, Of such a strain as ne'er Was proven here below of love-desire. [Footnote 75: _i.e._ in the mirrored presentment of her own beauty.] Lauretta having thus made an end of her ballad,[76]--in the burden of which all had blithely joined, albeit the words thereof gave some much matter for thought,--divers other rounds were danced and a part of the short night being now spent, it pleased the queen to give an end to the first day; wherefore, letting kindle the flambeaux, she commanded that all should betake themselves to rest until the ensuing morning, and all, accordingly, returning to their several chambers, did so. [Footnote 76: _Ballatella_, lit. little dancing song or song made to be sung as an accompaniment to a dance (from _ballare_, to dance). This is the origin of our word ballad.] HERE ENDETH THE FIRST DAY OF THE DECAMERON _Day the Second_ HERE BEGINNETH THE SECOND DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER THE GOVERNANCE OF FILOMENA IS DISCOURSED OF THOSE WHO AFTER BEING BAFFLED BY DIVERS CHANCES HAVE WON AT LAST TO A JOYFUL ISSUE BEYOND THEIR HOPE The sun had already everywhere brought on the new day with its light and the birds, carolling blithely among the green branches, bore witness thereof unto the ear with their merry songs, when the ladies and the three young men, arising all, entered the gardens and pressing the dewy grass with slow step, went wandering hither and thither, weaving goodly garlands and disporting themselves, a great while. And like as they had done the day foregone, even so did they at present; to wit, having eaten in the cool and danced awhile, they betook them to repose and arising thence after none, came all, by command of their queen, into the fresh meadows, where they seated themselves round about her. Then she, who was fair of favour and exceeding pleasant of aspect, having sat awhile, crowned with her laurel wreath, and looked all her company in the face, bade Neifile give beginning to the day's stories by telling one of her fashion; whereupon the latter, without making any excuse, blithely began to speak thus: THE FIRST STORY [Day the Second] MARTELLINO FEIGNETH HIMSELF A CRIPPLE AND MAKETH BELIEVE TO WAX WHOLE UPON THE BODY OF ST. ARRIGO. HIS IMPOSTURE BEING DISCOVERED, HE IS BEATEN AND BEING AFTER TAKEN [FOR A THIEF,] GOETH IN PERIL OF BEING HANGED BY THE NECK, BUT ULTIMATELY ESCAPETH "It chanceth oft, dearest ladies, that he who studieth to befool others, and especially in things reverend, findeth himself with nothing for his pains but flouts and whiles cometh not off scathless. Wherefore, that I may obey the queen's commandment and give beginning to the appointed theme with a story of mine, I purpose to relate to you that which, first misfortunately and after happily, beyond his every thought, betided a townsman of ours. No great while agone there was at Treviso a German called Arrigo, who, being a poor man, served whoso required him to carry burdens for hire; and withal he was held of all a man of very holy and good life. Wherefore, be it true or untrue, when he died, it befell, according to that which the Trevisans avouch, that, in the hour of his death, the bells of the great church of Treviso began to ring, without being pulled of any. The people of the city, accounting this a miracle, proclaimed this Arrigo a saint and running all to the house where he lay, bore his body, for that of a saint, to the Cathedral, whither they fell to bringing the halt, the impotent and the blind and others afflicted with whatsoever defect or infirmity, as if they should all be made whole by the touch of the body. In the midst of this great turmoil and concourse of folk, it chanced that there arrived at Treviso three of our townsmen, whereof one was called Stecchi, another Martellino and the third Marchese, men who visited the courts of princes and lords and diverted the beholders by travestying themselves and counterfeiting whatsoever other man with rare motions and grimaces. Never having been there before and seeing all the folk run, they marvelled and hearing the cause, were for going to see what was toward; wherefore they laid up their baggage at an inn and Marchese said, 'We would fain go look upon this saint; but, for my part, I see not how we may avail to win thither, for that I understand the Cathedral place is full of German and other men-at-arms, whom the lord of this city hath stationed there, so no riot may betide; more by token that they say the church is so full of folk that well nigh none else might enter there.' 'Let not that hinder you,' quoth Martellino, who was all agog to see the show; 'I warrant you I will find a means of winning to the holy body.' 'How so?' asked Marchese, and Martellino answered, 'I will tell thee. I will counterfeit myself a cripple and thou on one side and Stecchi on the other shall go upholding me, as it were I could not walk of myself, making as if you would fain bring me to the saint, so he may heal me. There will be none but, seeing us, will make way for us and let us pass.' The device pleased Marchese and Stecchi and they went forth of the inn without delay, all three. Whenas they came to a solitary place, Martellino writhed his hands and fingers and arms and legs and eke his mouth and eyes and all his visnomy on such wise that it was a frightful thing to look upon, nor was there any saw him but would have avouched him to be verily all fordone and palsied of his person. Marchese and Stecchi, taking him up, counterfeited as he was, made straight for the church, with a show of the utmost compunction, humbly beseeching all who came in their way for the love of God to make room for them, the which was lightly yielded them. Brief, every one gazing on them and crying well nigh all, 'Make way! Make way!' they came whereas Saint Arrigo's body lay and Martellino was forthright taken up by certain gentlemen who stood around and laid upon the body, so he might thereby regain the benefit of health. Martellino, having lain awhile, whilst all the folk were on the stretch to see what should come of him, began, as right well he knew how, to make a show of opening first one finger, then a hand and after putting forth an arm and so at last coming to stretch himself out altogether. Which when the people saw, they set up such an outcry in praise of Saint Arrigo as would have drowned the very thunder. Now, as chance would have it, there was therenigh a certain Florentine, who knew Martellino very well, but had not recognized him, counterfeited as he was, whenas he was brought thither. However, when he saw him grown straight again, he knew him and straightway fell a-laughing and saying, 'God confound him! Who that saw him come had not deemed him palsied in good earnest?' His words were overheard of sundry Trevisans, who asked him incontinent, 'How! Was he not palsied?' 'God forbid!' answered the Florentine. 'He hath ever been as straight as any one of us; but he knoweth better than any man in the world how to play off tricks of this kind and counterfeit what shape soever he will.' When the others heard this, there needed nothing farther; but they pushed forward by main force and fell a-crying out and saying, 'Seize yonder traitor and scoffer at God and His saints, who, being whole of his body, hath come hither, in the guise of a cripple, to make mock of us and of our saint!' So saying, they laid hold of Martellino and pulled him down from the place where he lay. Then, taking him by the hair of his head and tearing all the clothes off his back, they fell upon him with cuffs and kicks; nor himseemed was there a man in the place but ran to do likewise. Martellino roared out, 'Mercy, for God's sake!' and fended himself as best he might, but to no avail; for the crowd redoubled upon him momently. Stecchi and Marchese, seeing this, began to say one to the other that things stood ill, but, fearing for themselves, dared not come to his aid; nay, they cried out with the rest to put him to death, bethinking them the while how they might avail to fetch him out of the hands of the people, who would certainly have slain him, but for a means promptly taken by Marchese; to wit, all the officers of the Seignory being without the church, he betook himself as quickliest he might, to him who commanded for the Provost and said, 'Help, for God's sake! There is a lewd fellow within who hath cut my purse, with a good hundred gold florins. I pray you take him, so I may have mine own again.' Hearing this, a round dozen of sergeants ran straightway whereas the wretched Martellino was being carded without a comb and having with the greatest pains in the world broken through the crowd, dragged him out of the people's hands, all bruised and tumbled as he was, and haled him off to the palace, whither many followed him who held themselves affronted of him and hearing that he had been taken for a cutpurse and themseeming they had no better occasion[77] of doing him an ill turn,[78] began each on like wise to say that he had cut his purse. The Provost's judge, who was a crabbed, ill-conditioned fellow, hearing this, forthright took him apart and began to examine him of the matter; but Martellino answered jestingly, as if he made light of his arrest; whereat the judge, incensed, caused truss him up and give him two or three good bouts of the strappado, with intent to make him confess that which they laid to his charge, so he might after have him strung up by the neck. [Footnote 77: Or pretext (_titolo_).] [Footnote 78: Or "having him punished," lit. "causing give him ill luck" (_fargli dar la mala ventura_). This passage, like so many others of the Decameron, is ambiguous and may also be read "themseeming none other had a juster title to do him an ill turn."] When he was let down again, the judge asked him once more if that were true which the folk avouched against him, and Martellino, seeing that it availed him not to deny, answered, 'My lord, I am ready to confess the truth to you; but first make each who accuseth me say when and where I cut his purse, and I will tell you what I did and what not.' Quoth the judge, 'I will well,' and calling some of his accusers, put the question to them; whereupon one said that he had cut his purse eight, another six and a third four days agone, whilst some said that very day. Martellino, hearing this, said, 'My lord, these all lie in their throats and I can give you this proof that I tell you the truth, inasmuch as would God it were as sure that I had never come hither as it is that I was never in this place till a few hours agone; and as soon as I arrived, I went, of my ill fortune, to see yonder holy body in the church, where I was carded as you may see; and that this I say is true, the Prince's officer who keepeth the register of strangers can certify you, he and his book, as also can my host. If, therefore, you find it as I tell you, I beseech you torture me not neither put me to death at the instance of these wicked, men.' Whilst things were at this pass, Marchese and Stecchi, hearing that the judge of the Provostry was proceeding rigorously against Martellino and had already given him the strappado, were sore affeared and said in themselves, 'We have gone the wrong way to work; we have brought him forth of the frying-pan and cast him into the fire.' Wherefore they went with all diligence in quest of their host and having found him, related to him how the case stood. He laughed and carried them to one Sandro Agolanti, who abode in Treviso and had great interest with the Prince, and telling him everything in order, joined with them in beseeching him to occupy himself with Martellino's affairs. Sandro, after many a laugh, repaired to the Prince and prevailed upon him to send for Martellino. The Prince's messengers found Martellino still in his shirt before the judge, all confounded and sore adread, for that the judge would hear nothing in his excuse; nay, having, by chance, some spite against the people of Florence, he was altogether determined to hang him by the neck and would on no wise render him up to the Prince till such time as he was constrained thereto in his despite. Martellino, being brought before the lord of the city and having told him everything in order, besought him, by way of special favour, to let him go about his business, for that, until he should be in Florence again, it would still seem to him he had the rope about his neck. The Prince laughed heartily at his mischance and let give each of the three a suit of apparel, wherewith they returned home safe and sound, having, beyond all their hope, escaped so great a peril." THE SECOND STORY [Day the Second] RINALDO D'ASTI, HAVING BEEN ROBBED, MAKETH HIS WAY TO CASTEL GUGLIELMO, WHERE HE IS HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED BY A WIDOW LADY AND HAVING MADE GOOD HIS LOSS, RETURNETH TO HIS OWN HOUSE, SAFE AND SOUND The ladies laughed immoderately at Martellino's misfortunes narrated by Neifile, as did also the young men and especially Filostrato, whom, for that he sat next Neifile, the queen bade follow her in story-telling. Accordingly he began without delay, "Fair ladies, needs must I tell you a story[79] of things Catholic,[80] in part mingled with misadventures and love-matters, which belike will not be other than profitable to hear, especially to those who are wayfarers in the perilous lands of love, wherein whoso hath not said St. Julian his Paternoster is oftentimes ill lodged, for all he have a good bed. [Footnote 79: Lit. a story striveth in (draweth) me to be told or to tell itself (_a raccontarsi mi tira una novella_).] [Footnote 80: _i.e._ religious matters (_cose cattoliche_).] In the days, then, of the Marquis Azzo of Ferrara, there came a merchant called Rinaldo d'Asti to Bologna on his occasions, which having despatched and returning homeward, it chanced that, as he issued forth of Ferrara and rode towards Verona, he fell in with certain folk who seemed merchants, but were in truth highwaymen and men of lewd life and condition, with whom he unwarily joined company and entered into discourse. They, seeing him to be a merchant and judging him to have monies about him, took counsel together to rob him, at the first opportunity that should offer; wherefore, that he might take no suspicion, they went devising with him, like decent peaceable folk, of things honest and seemly and of loyalty, ordering themselves toward him, in so far as they knew and could, with respect and complaisance, so that he deemed himself in great luck to have met with them, for that he was alone with a serving-man of his on horseback. Thus faring on and passing from one thing to another, as it chanceth in discourse, they presently fell to talking of the orisons that men offer up to God, and one of the highwaymen, who were three in number, said to Rinaldo, 'And you, fair sir, what orison do you use to say on a journey?' Whereto he answered, 'Sooth to say, I am but a plain man and little versed in these matters and have few orisons in hand; I live after the old fashion and let a couple of shillings pass for four-and-twenty pence.[81] Nevertheless, I have still been wont, when on a journey, to say of a morning, what time I come forth of the inn, a Pater and an Ave for the soul of St. Julian's father and mother, after which I pray God and the saint to grant me a good lodging for the ensuing night. Many a time in my day have I, in the course of my journeyings, been in great perils, from all of which I have escaped and have still found myself at night, to boot, in a place of safety and well lodged. Wherefore I firmly believe that St. Julian, in whose honour I say it, hath gotten me this favour of God; nor meseemeth should I fare well by day nor come to good harbourage at night, except I had said it in the morning.' 'And did you say it[82] this morning?' asked he who had put the question to him. 'Ay did I,' answered Rinaldo; whereupon quoth the other in himself, knowing well how the thing was to go, 'May it stand thee in stead![83] For, an no hindrance betide us, methinketh thou art e'en like to lodge ill.' Then, to Rinaldo, 'I likewise,' quoth he, 'have travelled much and have never said this orison, albeit I have heard it greatly commended, nor ever hath it befallen me to lodge other than well; and this evening maybe you shall chance to see which will lodge the better, you who have said it or I who have not. True, I use, instead thereof, the _Dirupisti_ or the _Intemerata_ or the _De Profundis_, the which, according to that which a grandmother of mine used to tell me, are of singular virtue.' [Footnote 81: _i.e._ take things by the first intention, without seeking to refine upon them, or, in English popular phrase, "I do not pretend to see farther through a stone wall than my neighbours."] [Footnote 82: _i.e._ the aforesaid orison.] [Footnote 83: Or "'Twill have been opportunely done of thee."] Discoursing thus of various matters and faring on their way, on the look out the while for time and place apt unto their knavish purpose, they came, late in the day, to a place a little beyond Castel Guglielmo, where, at the fording of a river, the three rogues, seeing the hour advanced and the spot solitary and close shut in, fell upon Rinaldo and robbed him of money, clothes and horse. Then, leaving him afoot and in his shirt, they departed, saying, 'Go see if thy St. Julian will give thee a good lodging this night, even as ours[84] will assuredly do for us.' And passing the stream, they went their ways. Rinaldo's servant, seeing him attacked, like a cowardly knave as he was, did nought to help him, but turning his horse's head, never drew bridle till he came to Castel Guglielmo and entering the town, took up his lodging there, without giving himself farther concern. [Footnote 84: _i.e._ our patron saint.] Rinaldo, left in his shirt and barefoot, it being very cold and snowing hard, knew not what to do and seeing the night already at hand, looked about him, trembling and chattering the while with his teeth, if there were any shelter to be seen therenigh, where he might pass the night, so he should not perish of cold; but, seeing none, for that a little before there had been war in those parts and everything had been burnt, set off at a run, spurred by the cold, towards Castel Guglielmo, knowing not withal if his servant were fled thither or otherwise and thinking that, so he might but avail to enter therein, God would send him some relief. But darkness overtook him near a mile from the town, wherefore he arrived there so late that, the gates being shut and the draw-bridges raised, he could get no admission. Thereupon, despairing and disconsolate, he looked about, weeping, for a place where he might shelter, so at the least it should not snow upon him, and chancing to espy a house that projected somewhat beyond the walls of the town, he determined to go bide thereunder till day. Accordingly, betaking himself thither, he found there a door, albeit it was shut, and gathering at foot thereof somewhat of straw that was therenigh, he laid himself down there, tristful and woebegone, complaining sore to St. Julian and saying that this was not of the faith he had in him. However, the saint had not lost sight of him and was not long in providing him with a good lodging. There was in the town a widow lady, as fair of favour as any woman living, whom the Marquis Azzo loved as his life and there kept at his disposition, and she abode in that same house, beneath the projection whereof Rinaldo had taken shelter. Now, as chance would have it, the Marquis had come to the town that day, thinking to lie the night with her, and had privily let make ready in her house a bath and a sumptuous supper. Everything being ready and nought awaited by the lady but the coming of the Marquis, it chanced that there came a serving-man to the gate, who brought him news, which obliged him to take horse forthright; wherefore, sending to tell his mistress not to expect him, he departed in haste. The lady, somewhat disconsolate at this, knowing not what to do, determined to enter the bath prepared for the Marquis and after sup and go to bed. Accordingly she entered the bath, which was near the door, against which the wretched merchant was crouched without the city-wall; wherefore she, being therein, heard the weeping and trembling kept up by Rinaldo, who seemed as he were grown a stork,[85] and calling her maid, said to her, 'Go up and look over the wall who is at the postern-foot and what he doth there.' The maid went thither and aided by the clearness of the air, saw Rinaldo in his shirt and barefoot, sitting there, as hath been said, and trembling sore; whereupon she asked him who he was. He told her, as briefliest he might, who he was and how and why he was there, trembling the while on such wise that he could scarce form the words, and after fell to beseeching her piteously not to leave him there all night to perish of cold, [but to succour him,] an it might be. The maid was moved to pity of him and returning to her mistress, told her all. The lady, on like wise taking compassion on him and remembering that she had the key of the door aforesaid, which served whiles for the privy entrances of the Marquis, said, 'Go softly and open to him; here is this supper and none to eat it and we have commodity enough for his lodging.' [Footnote 85: _i.e._ whose teeth chattered as it were the clapping of a stork's beak.] The maid, having greatly commended her mistress for this her humanity, went and opening to Rinaldo, brought him in; whereupon the lady, seeing him well nigh palsied with cold, said to him, 'Quick, good man, enter this bath, which is yet warm.' Rinaldo, without awaiting farther invitation, gladly obeyed and was so recomforted with the warmth of the bath that himseemed he was come back from death to life. The lady let fetch him a suit of clothes that had pertained to her husband, then lately dead, which when he had donned, they seemed made to his measure, and whilst awaiting what she should command him, he fell to thanking God and St. Julian for that they had delivered him from the scurvy night he had in prospect and had, as he deemed, brought him to good harbourage. Presently, the lady, being somewhat rested,[86] let make a great fire in her dining-hall and betaking herself thither, asked how it was with the poor man; whereto the maid answered, 'Madam, he hath clad himself and is a handsome man and appeareth a person of good condition and very well-mannered.' Quoth the lady, 'Go, call him and bid him come to the fire and sup, for I know he is fasting.' Accordingly, Rinaldo entered the hall and seeing the gentlewoman, who appeared to him a lady of quality, saluted her respectfully and rendered her the best thanks in his power for the kindness done him. The lady, having seen and heard him and finding him even as her maid had said, received him graciously and making him sit familiarly with her by the fire, questioned him of the chance that had brought him thither; whereupon he related everything to her in order. Now she had heard somewhat of this at the time of his servant's coming into the town, wherefore she gave entire belief to all he said and told him, in turn, what she knew of his servant and how he might lightly find him again on the morrow. Then, the table being laid, Rinaldo, at the lady's instance, washed his hands and sat down with her to supper. Now he was tall of his person and comely and pleasant of favour and very engaging and agreeable of manners and a man in the prime of life; wherefore the lady had several times cast her eyes on him and found him much to her liking, and her desires being already aroused for the Marquis, who was to have come to lie with her, she had taken a mind to him. Accordingly, after supper, whenas they were risen from table, she took counsel with her maid whether herseemed she would do well, the Marquis having left her in the lurch, to use the good which fortune had sent her. The maid, seeing her mistress's drift, encouraged her as best she might to ensue it; whereupon the lady, returning to the fireside, where she had left Rinaldo alone, fell to gazing amorously upon him and said to him, 'How now, Rinaldo, why bide you thus melancholy? Think you you cannot be requited the loss of a horse and of some small matter of clothes? Take comfort and be of good cheer; you are in your own house. Nay, I will e'en tell you more, that, seeing you with those clothes on your back, which were my late husband's, and meseeming you were himself, there hath taken me belike an hundred times to-night a longing to embrace you and kiss you: and but that I feared to displease you, I had certainly done it.' [Footnote 86: _i.e._ after her bath.] Rinaldo, who was no simpleton, hearing these words and seeing the lady's eyes sparkle, advanced towards her with open arms, saying, 'Madam, considering that I owe it to you to say that I am now alive and having regard to that from which you delivered me, it were great unmannerliness in me, did I not study to do everything that may be agreeable to you; wherefore do you embrace me and kiss me to your heart's content, and I will kiss and clip you more than willingly.' There needed no more words. The lady, who was all afire with amorous longing, straightway threw herself into his arms and after she had strained him desirefully to her bosom and bussed him a thousand times and had of him been kissed as often, they went off to her chamber, and there without delay betaking themselves to bed, they fully and many a time, before the day should come, satisfied their desires one of the other. Whenas the day began to appear, they arose,--it being her pleasure, so the thing might not be suspected of any,--and she, having given him some sorry clothes and a purse full of money and shown him how he should go about to enter the town and find his servant, put him forth at the postern whereby he had entered, praying him keep the matter secret. As soon as it was broad day and the gates were opened, he entered the town, feigning to come from afar, and found his servant. Therewithal he donned the clothes that were in the saddle-bags and was about to mount the man's horse and depart, when, as by a miracle, it befell that the three highwaymen, who had robbed him overnight, having been a little after taken for some other misdeed of them committed, were brought into the town and on their confession, his horse and clothes and money were restored to him, nor did he lose aught save a pair of garters, with which the robbers knew not what they had done. Rinaldo accordingly gave thanks to God and St. Julian and taking horse, returned home, safe and sound, leaving the three rogues to go kick on the morrow against the wind."[87] [Footnote 87: _i.e._ to be hanged or, in the equivalent English idiom, to dance upon nothing.] THE THIRD STORY [Day the Second] THREE YOUNG MEN SQUANDER THEIR SUBSTANCE AND BECOME POOR; BUT A NEPHEW OF THEIRS, RETURNING HOME IN DESPERATION, FALLETH IN WITH AN ABBOT AND FINDETH HIM TO BE THE KING'S DAUGHTER OF ENGLAND, WHO TAKETH HIM TO HUSBAND AND MAKETH GOOD ALL HIS UNCLES' LOSSES, RESTORING THEM TO GOOD ESTATE The adventures of Rinaldo d'Asti were hearkened with admiration and his devoutness commended by the ladies, who returned thanks to God and St. Julian for that they had succoured him in his utmost need. Nor yet (though this was said half aside) was the lady reputed foolish, who had known how to take the good God had sent her in her own house. But, whilst they discoursed, laughing in their sleeves, of the pleasant night she had had, Pampinea, seeing herself beside Filostrato and deeming, as indeed it befell, that the next turn would rest with her, began to collect her thoughts and take counsel with herself what she should say; after which, having received the queen's commandment, she proceeded to speak thus, no less resolutely than blithely, "Noble ladies, the more it is discoursed of the doings of Fortune, the more, to whoso is fain to consider her dealings aright, remaineth to be said thereof; and at this none should marvel, an he consider advisedly that all the things, which we foolishly style ours, are in her hands and are consequently, according to her hidden ordinance, transmuted by her without cease from one to another and back again, without any method known unto us. Wherefore, albeit this truth is conclusively demonstrated in everything and all day long and hath already been shown forth in divers of the foregoing stories, nevertheless, since it is our queen's pleasure that we discourse upon this theme, I will, not belike without profit for the listeners, add to the stories aforesaid one of my own, which methinketh should please. There was once in our city a gentleman, by name Messer Tedaldo, who, as some will have it, was of the Lamberti family, albeit others avouch that he was of the Agolanti, arguing more, belike, from the craft after followed by his sons,[88] which was like unto that which the Agolanti have ever practised and yet practise, than from aught else. But, leaving be of which of these two houses he was, I say that he was, in his time, a very rich gentleman and had three sons, whereof the eldest was named Lamberto, the second Tedaldo and the third Agolante, all handsome and sprightly youths, the eldest of whom had not reached his eighteenth year when it befell that the aforesaid Messer Tedaldo died very rich and left all his possessions, both moveable and immoveable, to them, as his legitimate heirs. The young men, seeing themselves left very rich both in lands and monies, began to spend without check or reserve or other governance than that of their own pleasure, keeping a vast household and many and goodly horses and dogs and hawks, still holding open house and giving largesse and making tilts and tournaments and doing not only that which pertaineth unto men of condition, but all, to boot, that it occurred to their youthful appetite to will. [Footnote 88: _i.e._ usury? See post. One of the commentators ridiculously suggests that they were needlemakers, from _ago_, a needle.] They had not long led this manner of life before the treasure left by their father melted away and their revenues alone sufficing not unto their current expenses, they proceeded to sell and mortgage their estates, and selling one to-day and another to-morrow, they found themselves well nigh to nought, without perceiving it, and poverty opened their eyes, which wealth had kept closed. Whereupon Lamberto, one day, calling the other two, reminded them how great had been their father's magnificence and how great their own and setting before them what wealth had been theirs and the poverty to which they were come through their inordinate expenditure, exhorted them, as best he knew, ere their distress should become more apparent, to sell what little was left them and get them gone, together with himself. They did as he counselled them and departing Florence, without leavetaking or ceremony, stayed not till they came to England, where, taking a little house in London and spending very little, they addressed themselves with the utmost diligence to lend money at usance. In this fortune was so favourable to them that in a few years they amassed a vast sum of money, wherewith, returning to Florence, one after another, they bought back great part of their estates and purchased others to boot and took unto themselves wives. Nevertheless, they still continued to lend money in England and sent thither, to look to their affairs, a young man, a nephew of theirs, Alessandro by name, whilst themselves all three at Florence, for all they were become fathers of families, forgetting to what a pass inordinate expenditure had aforetime brought them, began to spend more extravagantly than ever and were high in credit with all the merchants, who trusted them for any sum of money, however great. The monies remitted them by Alessandro, who had fallen to lending to the barons upon their castles and other their possessions, which brought him great profit, helped them for some years to support these expenses; but, presently, what while the three brothers spent thus freely and lacking money, borrowed, still reckoning with all assurance upon England, it chanced that, contrary to all expectation, there broke out war in England between the king and his son, through which the whole island was divided into two parties, some holding with the one and some with the other; and by reason thereof all the barons' castles were taken from Alessandro nor was there any other source of revenue that answered him aught. Hoping that from day to day peace should be made between father and son and consequently everything restored to him, both interest and capital, Alessandro departed not the island and the three brothers in Florence no wise abated their extravagant expenditure, borrowing more and more every day. But, when, after several years, no effect was seen to follow upon their expectation, the three brothers not only lost their credit, but, their creditors seeking to be paid their due, they were suddenly arrested and their possessions sufficing not unto payment, they abode in prison for the residue, whilst their wives and little ones betook themselves, some into the country, some hither and some thither, in very ill plight, unknowing what to expect but misery for the rest of their lives. Meanwhile, Alessandro, after waiting several years in England for peace, seeing that it came not and himseeming that not only was his tarrying there in vain, but that he went in danger of his life, determined to return to Italy. Accordingly, he set out all alone and as chance would have it, coming out of Bruges, he saw an abbot of white friars likewise issuing thence, accompanied by many monks and with a numerous household and a great baggage-train in his van. After him came two old knights, kinsmen of the King, whom Alessandro accosted as acquaintances and was gladly admitted into their company. As he journeyed with them, he asked them softly who were the monks that rode in front with so great a train and whither they were bound; and one of them answered, 'He who rideth yonder is a young gentleman of our kindred, who hath been newly elected abbot of one of the most considerable abbeys of England, and for that he is younger than is suffered by the laws for such a dignity, we go with him to Rome to obtain of the Holy Father that he dispense him of his defect of overmuch youthfulness and confirm him in the dignity aforesaid; but this must not be spoken of with any.' The new abbot, faring on thus, now in advance of his retinue and now in their rear, as daily we see it happen with noblemen on a journey, chanced by the way to see near him Alessandro, who was a young man exceedingly goodly of person and favour, well-bred, agreeable and fair of fashion as any might be, and who at first sight pleased him marvellously, as nought had ever done, and calling him to his side, fell a-discoursing pleasantly with him, asking him who he was and whence he came and whither he was bound; whereupon Alessandro frankly discovered to him his whole case and satisfied his questions, offering himself to his service in what little he might. The abbot, hearing his goodly and well-ordered speech, took more particular note of his manners and inwardly judging him to be a man of gentle breeding, for all his business had been mean, grew yet more enamoured of his pleasantness and full of compassion for his mishaps, comforted him on very friendly wise, bidding him be of good hope, for that, an he were a man of worth, God would yet replace him in that estate whence fortune had cast him down, nay, in a yet higher. Moreover, he prayed him, since he was bound for Tuscany, that it would please him bear him company, inasmuch as himself was likewise on the way thitherward; whereupon Alessandro returned him thanks for his encouragement and declared himself ready to his every commandment. The abbot, in whose breast new feelings had been aroused by the sight of Alessandro, continuing his journey, it chanced that, after some days, they came to a village not overwell furnished with hostelries, and the abbot having a mind to pass the night there, Alessandro caused him alight at the house of an innkeeper, who was his familiar acquaintance, and let prepare him his sleeping-chamber in the least incommodious place of the house; and being now, like an expert man as he was, grown well nigh a master of the household to the abbot, he lodged all his company, as best he might, about the village, some here and some there. After the abbot had supped, the night being now well advanced and every one gone to bed, Alessandro asked the host where he himself could lie; whereto he answered, 'In truth, I know not; thou seest that every place is full and I and my household must needs sleep upon the benches. Algates, in the abbot's chamber there be certain grain-sacks, whereto I can bring thee and spread thee thereon some small matter of bed, and there, an it please thee, thou shalt lie this night, as best thou mayst.' Quoth Alessandro, 'How shall I go into the abbot's chamber, seeing thou knowest it is little and of its straitness none of his monks might lie there? Had I bethought me of this, ere the curtains were drawn, I would have let his monks lie on the grain-sacks and have lodged myself where they sleep.' 'Nay,' answered the host, 'the case standeth thus;[89] but, an thou wilt, thou mayst lie whereas I tell thee with all the ease in the world. The abbot is asleep and his curtains are drawn; I will quickly lay thee a pallet-bed there, and do thou sleep on it.' Alessandro, seeing that this might be done without giving the abbot any annoy, consented thereto and settled himself on the grain-sacks as softliest he might. [Footnote 89: _i.e._ the thing is done and cannot be undone; there is no help for it.] The abbot, who slept not, nay, whose thoughts were ardently occupied with his new desires, heard what passed between Alessandro and the host and noted where the former laid himself to sleep, and well pleased with this, began to say in himself, 'God hath sent an occasion unto my desires; an I take it not, it may be long ere the like recur to me.' Accordingly, being altogether resolved to take the opportunity and himseeming all was quiet in the inn, he called to Alessandro in a low voice and bade him come couch with him. Alessandro, after many excuses, put off his clothes and laid himself beside the abbot, who put his hand on his breast and fell to touching him no otherwise than amorous damsels use to do with their lovers; whereat Alessandro marvelled exceedingly and misdoubted him the abbot was moved by unnatural love to handle him on that wise; but the latter promptly divined his suspicions, whether of presumption or through some gesture of his, and smiled; then, suddenly putting off a shirt that he wore, he took Alessandro's hand and laying it on his own breast, said, 'Alessandro, put away thy foolish thought and searching here, know that which I conceal.' Alessandro accordingly put his hand to the abbot's bosom and found there two little breasts, round and firm and delicate, no otherwise than as they were of ivory, whereby perceiving that the supposed prelate was a woman, without awaiting farther bidding, he straightway took her in his arms and would have kissed her; but she said to him, 'Ere thou draw nearer to me, hearken to that which I have to say to thee. As thou mayst see, I am a woman and not a man, and having left home a maid, I was on my way to the Pope, that he might marry me. Be it thy good fortune or my mishap, no sooner did I see thee the other day than love so fired me for thee, that never yet was woman who so loved man. Wherefore, I am resolved to take thee, before any other, to husband; but, an thou wilt not have me to wife, begone hence forthright and return to thy place.' Alessandro, albeit he knew her not, having regard to her company and retinue, judged her to be of necessity noble and rich and saw that she was very fair; wherefore, without overlong thought, he replied that, if this pleased her, it was mighty agreeable to him. Accordingly, sitting up with him in bed, she put a ring into his hand and made him espouse her[90] before a picture wherein our Lord was portrayed, after which they embraced each other and solaced themselves with amorous dalliance, to the exceeding pleasure of both parties, for so much as remained of the night. [Footnote 90: _i.e._ make her a solemn promise of marriage, formally plight her his troth. The ceremony of betrothal was formerly (and still is in certain countries) the most essential part of the marriage rite.] When the day came, after they had taken order together concerning their affairs, Alessandro arose and departed the chamber by the way he had entered, without any knowing where he had passed the night. Then, glad beyond measure, he took to the road again with the abbot and his company and came after many days to Rome. There they abode some days, after which the abbot, with the two knights and Alessandro and no more, went in to the Pope and having done him due reverence, bespoke him thus, 'Holy Father, as you should know better than any other, whoso is minded to live well and honestly should, inasmuch as he may, eschew every occasion that may lead him to do otherwise; the which that I, who would fain live honestly, may throughly do, having fled privily with a great part of the treasures of the King of England my father, (who would have given me to wife to the King of Scotland, a very old prince, I being, as you see, a young maid), I set out, habited as you see me, to come hither, so your Holiness might marry me. Nor was it so much the age of the King of Scotland that made me flee as the fear, if I were married to him, lest I should, for the frailty of my youth, be led to do aught that might be contrary to the Divine laws and the honour of the royal blood of my father. As I came, thus disposed, God, who alone knoweth aright that which behoveth unto every one, set before mine eyes (as I believe, of His mercy) him whom it pleased Him should be my husband, to wit, this young man,' showing Alessandro, 'whom you see here beside me and whose fashions and desert are worthy of however great a lady, although belike the nobility of his blood is not so illustrious as the blood-royal. Him, then, have I taken and him I desire, nor will I ever have any other than he, however it may seem to my father or to other folk. Thus, the principal occasion of my coming is done away; but it pleased me to make an end of my journey, at once that I might visit the holy and reverential places, whereof this city is full, and your Holiness and that through you I might make manifest, in your presence and consequently in that of the rest of mankind, the marriage contracted between Alessandro and myself in the presence of God alone. Wherefore I humbly pray you that this which hath pleased God and me may find favour with you and that you will vouchsafe us your benison, in order that with this, as with more assurance of His approof whose Vicar you are, we may live and ultimately die together.' Alessandro marvelled to hear that the damsel was the King's daughter of England and was inwardly filled with exceeding great gladness; but the two knights marvelled yet more and were so incensed, that, had they been otherwhere than in the Pope's presence, they had done Alessandro a mischief and belike the lady also. The Pope also, on his part, marvelled exceedingly both at the habit of the lady and at her choice; but, seeing that there was no going back on that which was done, he consented to satisfy her of her prayer. Accordingly, having first appeased the two knights, whom he knew to be angered, and made them well at one again with the lady and Alessandro, he took order for that which was to do, and the day appointed by him being come, before all the cardinals and many other men of great worship, come, at his bidding, to a magnificent bride-feast prepared by him, he produced the lady, royally apparelled, who showed so fair and so agreeable that she was worthily commended of all, and on like wise Alessandro splendidly attired, in bearing and appearance no whit like a youth who had lent at usury, but rather one of royal blood, and now much honoured of the two knights. There he caused solemnly celebrate the marriage afresh and after goodly and magnificent nuptials made, he dismissed them with his benison. It pleased Alessandro, and likewise the lady, departing Rome, to betake themselves to Florence, whither report had already carried the news. There they were received by the townsfolk with the utmost honour and the lady caused liberate the three brothers, having first paid every man [his due]. Moreover, she reinstated them and their ladies in their possessions and with every one's goodwill, because of this, she and her husband departed Florence, carrying Agolante with them, and coming to Paris, were honourably entertained by the King. Thence the two knights passed into England and so wrought with the King that the latter restored to his daughter his good graces and with exceeding great rejoicing received her and his son-in-law, whom he a little after made a knight with the utmost honour and gave him the Earldom of Cornwall. In this capacity he approved himself a man of such parts and made shift to do on such wise that he reconciled the son with his father, whereof there ensued great good to the island, and thereby he gained the love and favour of all the people of the country. Moreover, Agolante thoroughly recovered all that was there due to him and his brethren and returned to Florence, rich beyond measure, having first been knighted by Count Alessandro. The latter lived long and gloriously with his lady, and according as some avouch, what with his wit and valour and the aid of his father-in-law, he after conquered Scotland and was crowned King thereof." THE FOURTH STORY [Day the Second] LANDOLFO RUFFOLO, GROWN POOR, TURNETH CORSAIR AND BEING TAKEN BY THE GENOESE, IS WRECKED AT SEA, BUT SAVETH HIMSELF UPON A COFFER FULL OF JEWELS OF PRICE AND BEING ENTERTAINED IN CORFU BY A WOMAN, RETURNETH HOME RICH Lauretta, who sat next Pampinea, seeing her come to the glorious ending of her story, began, without awaiting more, to speak on this wise: "Most gracious ladies, there can, to my judgment, be seen no greater feat of fortune than when we behold one raised from the lowest misery to royal estate, even as Pampinea's story hath shown it to have betided her Alessandro. And for that from this time forth whosoever relateth of the appointed matter must of necessity speak within these limits,[91] I shall think no shame to tell a story, which, albeit it compriseth in itself yet greater distresses hath not withal so splendid an issue. I know well, indeed, that, having regard unto that, my story will be hearkened with less diligence; but, as I can no otherwise, I shall be excused. [Footnote 91: _i.e._ cannot hope to tell a story presenting more extraordinary shifts from one to the other extreme of human fortune than that of Pampinea.] The sea-coast from Reggio to Gaeta is commonly believed to be well nigh the most delightful part of Italy, and therein, pretty near Salerno, is a hillside overlooking the sea, which the countryfolk call Amalfi Side, full of little towns and gardens and springs and of men as rich and stirring in the matter of trade as any in the world. Among the said cities is one called Ravello and therein, albeit nowadays there are rich men there, there was aforetime one, Landolfo Ruffolo by name, who was exceeding rich and who, his wealth sufficing him not, came nigh, in seeking to double it, to lose it all and himself withal. This man, then, having, after the usance of merchants, laid his plans, bought a great ship and freighting it all of his own monies with divers merchandise, repaired therewith to Cyprus. There he found sundry other ships come with the same kind and quality of merchandise as he had brought, by reason of which not only was he constrained to make great good cheap of his own venture, but it behoved him, an he would dispose of his goods, well nigh to throw them away, whereby he was brought near unto ruin. Sore chagrined at this mischance and knowing not what to do, seeing himself thus from a very rich man in brief space grown in a manner poor, he determined either to die or repair his losses by pillage, so he might not return thither poor, whence he had departed rich. Accordingly, having found a purchaser for his great ship, with the price thereof and that which he had gotten of his wares, he bought a little vessel, light and apt for cruising and arming and garnishing it excellent well with everything needful unto such a service, addressed himself to make his purchase of other men's goods and especially of those of the Turks. In this trade fortune was far kinder to him than she had been in that of a merchant, for that, in some year's space, he plundered and took so many Turkish vessels that he found he had not only gotten him his own again that he had lost in trade, but had more than doubled his former substance. Whereupon, schooled by the chagrin of his former loss and deeming he had enough, he persuaded himself, rather than risk a second mischance, to rest content with that which he had, without seeking more. Accordingly he resolved to return therewith to his own country and being fearful of trade, concerned not himself to employ his money otherwise, but, thrusting his oars into the water, set out homeward in that same little vessel wherewith he had gained it. He had already reached the Archipelago when there arose one evening a violent south-east wind, which was not only contrary to his course, but raised so great a sea that his little vessel could not endure it; wherefore he took refuge in a bight of the sea, made by a little island, and there abode sheltered from the wind and purposing there to await better weather. He had not lain there long when two great Genoese carracks, coming from Constantinople, made their way with great difficulty into the little harbour, to avoid that from which himself had fled. The newcomers espied the little ship and hearing that it pertained to Landolfo, whom they already knew by report to be very rich, blocked against it the way by which it might depart and addressed themselves, like men by nature rapacious and greedy of gain,[92] to make prize of it. Accordingly, they landed part of their men well harnessed and armed with crossbows and posted them on such wise that none might come down from the bark, an he would not be shot; whilst the rest, warping themselves in with small boats and aided by the current, laid Landolfo's little ship aboard and took it out of hand, crew and all, without missing a man. Landolfo they carried aboard one of the carracks, leaving him but a sorry doublet; then, taking everything out of the ship, they scuttled her. [Footnote 92: The Genoese have the reputation in Italy of being thieves by nature.] On the morrow, the wind having shifted, the carracks made sail westward and fared on their voyage prosperously all that day; but towards evening there arose a tempestuous wind which made the waves run mountains high and parted the two carracks one from the other. Moreover, from stress of wind it befell that that wherein was the wretched and unfortunate Landolfo smote with great violence upon a shoal over against the island of Cephalonia and parting amidships, broke all in sunder no otherwise than a glass dashed against a wall. The sea was in a moment all full of bales of merchandise and chests and planks, that floated on the surface, as is wont to happen in such cases, and the poor wretches on board, swimming, those who knew how, albeit it was a very dark night and the sea was exceeding great and swollen, fell to laying hold of such things as came within their reach. Among the rest the unfortunate Landolfo, albeit many a time that day he had called for death, (choosing rather to die than return home poor as he found himself,) seeing it near at hand, was fearful thereof and like the others, laid hold of a plank that came to his hand, so haply, an he put off drowning awhile, God might send him some means of escape. Bestriding this, he kept himself afloat as best he might, driven hither and thither of the sea and the wind, till daylight, when he looked about him and saw nothing but clouds and sea and a chest floating on the waves, which bytimes, to his sore affright, drew nigh unto him, for that he feared lest peradventure it should dash against him on such wise as to do him a mischief; wherefore, as often as it came near him, he put it away from him as best he might with his hand, albeit he had little strength thereof. But presently there issued a sudden flaw of wind out of the air and falling on the sea, smote upon the chest and drove it with such violence against Landolfo's plank that the latter was overset and he himself perforce went under water. However, he struck out and rising to the surface, aided more by fear than by strength, saw the plank far removed from him, wherefore, fearing he might be unable to reach it again, he made for the chest, which was pretty near him, and laying himself flat with his breast on the lid thereof, guided it with his arms as best he might.[93] [Footnote 93: It seems doubtful whether _la reggeva diritta_ should not rather be rendered "kept it upright." Boccaccio has a knack, very trying to the translator, of constantly using words in an obscure or strained sense.] On this wise, tossed about by the sea now hither and now thither, without eating, as one indeed who had not the wherewithal, but drinking more than he could have wished, he abode all that day and the ensuing night, unknowing where he was and descrying nought but sea; but, on the following day, whether it was God's pleasure or stress of wind that wrought it, he came, grown well nigh a sponge and clinging fast with both hands to the marges of the chest, even as we see those do who are like to drown, to the coast of the island of Corfu, where a poor woman chanced to be scouring her pots and pans and making them bright with sand and salt water. Seeing Landolfo draw near and discerning in him no [human] shape, she drew back, affrighted and crying out. He could not speak and scarce saw, wherefore he said nothing; but presently, the sea carrying him landward, the woman descried the shape of the chest and looking straitlier, perceived first the arms outspread upon it and then the face and guessed it for that which it was. Accordingly, moved with compassion, she entered somedele into the sea, which was now calm, and seizing Landolfo by the hair, dragged him ashore, chest and all. There having with difficulty unclasped his hands from the chest, she set the latter on the head of a young daughter of hers, who was with her, and carried him off, as he were a little child, to her hut, where she put him in a bagnio and so chafed and bathed him with warm water that the strayed heat returned to him, together with somewhat of his lost strength. Then, taking him up out of the bath, whenas it seemed good to her, she comforted him with somewhat of good wine and confections and tended him some days, as best she might, till he had recovered his strength and knew where he was, when she judged it time to restore him his chest, which she had kept safe for him, and to tell him that he might now prosecute his fortune. Landolfo, who had no recollection of the chest, yet took it, when the good woman presented it to him, thinking it could not be so little worth but that it might defray his expenses for some days, but, finding it very light, was sore abated of his hopes. Nevertheless, what while his hostess was abroad, he broke it open, to see what it contained, and found therein store of precious stones, both set and unset. He had some knowledge of these matters and seeing them, knew them to be of great value; wherefore he praised God, who had not yet forsaken him, and was altogether comforted. However, as one who had in brief space been twice cruelly baffled by fortune, fearing a third misadventure, he bethought himself that it behoved him use great wariness and he would bring those things home; wherefore, wrapping them, as best he might, in some rags, he told the good woman that he had no more occasion for the chest, but that, an it pleased her, she should give him a bag and take the chest herself. This she willingly did and he, having rendered her the best thanks in his power for the kindness received from her, shouldered his bag and going aboard a bark, passed over to Brindisi and thence made his way, along the coast, to Trani. Here he found certain townsmen of his, who were drapers and clad him for the love of God,[94] after he had related to them all his adventures, except that of the chest; nay more, they lent him a horse and sent him, under escort, to Ravello, whither he said he would fain return. There, deeming himself in safety and thanking God who had conducted him thither, he opened his bag and examining everything more diligently than he had yet done, found he had so many and such stones that, supposing he sold them at a fair price or even less, he was twice as rich again as when he departed thence. Then, finding means to dispose of his jewels, he sent a good sum of money to Corfu to the good woman who had brought him forth of the sea, in requital of the service received, and the like to Trani to those who had reclothed him. The rest he kept for himself and lived in honour and worship to the end of his days, without seeking to trade any more." [Footnote 94: _i.e._ for nothing.] THE FIFTH STORY [Day the Second] ANDREUCCIO OF PERUGIA, COMING TO NAPLES TO BUY HORSES, IS IN ONE NIGHT OVERTAKEN WITH THREE GRIEVOUS ACCIDENTS, BUT ESCAPETH THEM ALL AND RETURNETH HOME WITH A RUBY "The stones found by Landolfo," began Fiammetta, to whose turn it came to tell, "have brought to my mind a story scarce less full of perilous scapes than that related by Lauretta, but differing therefrom inasmuch as the adventures comprised in the latter befell in the course of belike several years and these of which I have to tell in the space of a single night, as you shall hear. There was once in Perugia, as I have heard tell aforetime, a young man, a horse-courser, by name Andreuccio di Pietro,[95] who, hearing that horses were good cheap at Naples, put five hundred gold florins in his purse and betook himself thither with other merchants, having never before been away from home. He arrived there one Sunday evening, towards vespers, and having taken counsel with his host, sallied forth next morning to the market, where he saw great plenty of horses. Many of them pleased him and he cheapened one and another, but could not come to an accord concerning any. Meanwhile, to show that he was for buying, he now and again, like a raw unwary clown as he was, pulled out the purse of florins he had with him, in the presence of those who came and went. As he was thus engaged, with his purse displayed, it chanced that a Sicilian damsel, who was very handsome, but disposed for a small matter to do any man's pleasure, passed near him, without his seeing her, and catching sight of the purse, said straightway in herself, 'Who would fare better than I, if yonder money were mine!' And passed on. [Footnote 95: _i.e._ son of Pietro, as they still say in Lancashire and other northern provinces, "Tom o' Dick" for "Thomas, son of Richard," etc.] Now there was with her an old woman, likewise a Sicilian, who, seeing Andreuccio, let her companion pass on and running to him, embraced him affectionately, which when the damsel saw, she stepped aside to wait for her, without saying aught. Andreuccio, turning to the old woman and recognizing her, gave her a hearty greeting and she, having promised to visit him at his inn, took leave, without holding overlong parley there, whilst he fell again to chaffering, but bought nothing that morning. The damsel, who had noted first Andreuccio's purse and after her old woman's acquaintance with him, began cautiously to enquire of the latter, by way of casting about for a means of coming at the whole or part of the money, who and whence he was and what he did there and how she came to know him. The old woman told her every particular of Andreuccio's affairs well nigh as fully as he himself could have done, having long abidden with his father, first in Sicily and after at Perugia, and acquainted her, to boot, where he lodged and wherefore he was come thither. The damsel, being thus fully informed both of his name and parentage, thereby with subtle craft laid her plans for giving effect to her desire and returning home, set the old woman awork for the rest of the day, so she might not avail to return to Andreuccio. Then, calling a maid of hers, whom she had right well lessoned unto such offices, she despatched her, towards evensong, to the inn where Andreuccio lodged. As chance would have it, she found him alone at the door and enquired at him of himself. He answered that he was the man she sought, whereupon she drew him aside and said to him, 'Sir, an it please you, a gentlewoman of this city would fain speak with you.' Andreuccio, hearing this, considered himself from head to foot and himseeming he was a handsome varlet of his person, he concluded (as if there were no other well-looking young fellow to be found in Naples,) that the lady in question must have fallen in love with him. Accordingly, he answered without further deliberation that he was ready and asked the girl when and where the lady would speak with him; whereto she answered, 'Sir, whenas it pleaseth you to come, she awaiteth you in her house'; and Andreuccio forthwith rejoined, without saying aught to the people of the inn, 'Go thou on before; I will come after thee.' Thereupon the girl carried him to the house of her mistress, who dwelt in a street called Malpertugio,[96] the very name whereof denoteth how reputable a quarter it is. But he, unknowing neither suspecting aught thereof and thinking to go to most honourable place and to a lady of quality, entered the house without hesitation,--preceded by the serving-maid, who called her mistress and said, 'Here is Andreuccio,'--and mounting the stair, saw the damsel come to the stairhead to receive him. Now she was yet in the prime of youth, tall of person, with a very fair face and very handsomely dressed and adorned. As he drew near her, she came down three steps to meet him with open arms and clasping him round the neck, abode awhile without speaking, as if hindered by excess of tenderness; then kissed him on the forehead, weeping, and said, in a somewhat broken voice, 'O my Andreuccio, thou art indeed welcome.' [Footnote 96: _i.e._ ill hole.] He was amazed at such tender caresses and answered, all confounded, 'Madam, you are well met.' Thereupon, taking him by the hand, she carried him up into her saloon and thence, without saying another word to him, she brought him into her chamber, which was all redolent of roses and orange flowers and other perfumes. Here he saw a very fine bed, hung round with curtains, and store of dresses upon the pegs and other very goodly and rich gear, after the usance of those parts; by reason whereof, like a freshman as he was, he firmly believed her to be no less than a great lady. She made him sit with her on a chest that stood at the foot of the bed and bespoke him thus, 'Andreuccio, I am very certain thou marvellest at these caresses that I bestow on thee and at my tears, as he may well do who knoweth me not and hath maybe never heard speak of me; but I have that to tell thee which is like to amaze thee yet more, namely, that I am thy sister; and I tell thee that, since God hath vouchsafed me to look upon one of my brothers, (though fain would I see you all,) before my death, henceforth I shall not die disconsolate; and as perchance thou has never heard of this, I will tell it thee. Pietro, my father and thine, as I doubt not thou knowest, abode long in Palermo and there for his good humour and pleasant composition was and yet is greatly beloved of those who knew him; but, among all his lovers, my mother, who was a lady of gentle birth and then a widow, was she who most affected him, insomuch that, laying aside the fear of her father and brethren, as well as the care of her own honour, she became so private with him that I was born thereof and grew up as thou seest me. Presently, having occasion to depart Palermo and return to Perugia, he left me a little maid with my mother nor ever after, for all that I could hear, remembered him of me or her; whereof, were he not my father, I should blame him sore, having regard to the ingratitude shown by him to my mother (to say nothing of the love it behoved him bear me, as his daughter, born of no serving-wench nor woman of mean extraction) who had, moved by very faithful love, without anywise knowing who he might be, committed into his hands her possessions and herself no less. But what [skilleth it]? Things ill done and long time passed are easier blamed than mended; algates, so it was. He left me a little child in Palermo, where being grown well nigh as I am now, my mother, who was a rich lady, gave me to wife to a worthy gentleman of Girgenti, who, for her love and mine, came to abide at Palermo and there, being a great Guelph,[97] he entered into treaty with our King Charles,[98] which, being discovered by King Frederick,[99] ere effect could be given to it, was the occasion of our being enforced to flee from Sicily, whenas I looked to be the greatest lady was ever in the island; wherefore, taking such few things as we might (I say few, in respect of the many we had) and leaving our lands and palaces, we took refuge in this city, where we found King Charles so mindful of our services that he hath in part made good to us the losses we had sustained for him, bestowing on us both lands and houses, and still maketh my husband, thy kinsman that is, a goodly provision, as thou shalt hereafter see. On this wise come I in this city, where, Godamercy and no thanks to thee, sweet my brother, I now behold thee.' So saying, she embraced him over again and kissed him on the forehead, still weeping for tenderness. [Footnote 97: _i.e._ a member of the Guelph party, as against the Ghibellines or partisans of the Pope.] [Footnote 98: Charles d'Anjou, afterwards King of Sicily.] [Footnote 99: _i.e._ Frederick II. of Germany.] Andreuccio, hearing this fable so orderly, so artfully delivered by the damsel, without ever stammering or faltering for a word, and remembering it to be true that his father had been in Palermo, knowing, moreover, by himself the fashions of young men and how lightly they fall in love in their youth and seeing the affectionate tears and embraces and the chaste kisses that she lavished on him, held all she told him for more than true; wherefore, as soon as she was silent, he answered her, saying, 'Madam, it should seem to you no very great matter if I marvel, for that in truth, whether it be that my father, for whatsoever reason, never spoke of your mother nor of yourself, or that if he did, it came not to my notice, I had no more knowledge of you than if you had never been, and so much the dearer is it to me to find you my sister here, as I am alone in this city and the less expected this. Indeed, I know no man of so high a condition that you should not be dear to him, to say nothing of myself, who am but a petty trader. But I pray you make me clear of one thing; how knew you that I was here?' Whereto she made answer, 'A poor woman, who much frequenteth me, gave me this morning to know of thy coming, for that, as she telleth me, she abode long with our father both at Palermo and at Perugia; and but that meseemed it was a more reputable thing that thou shouldst visit me in my own house than I thee in that of another, I had come to thee this great while agone.' After this, she proceeded to enquire more particularly of all his kinsfolk by name, and he answered her of all, giving the more credence, by reason of this, to that which it the less behoved him to believe. The talk being long and the heat great, she called for Greek wine and confections and let give Andreuccio to drink, after which he would have taken leave, for that it was supper-time; but she would on no wise suffer it and making a show of being sore vexed, embraced him and said, 'Ah, woe is me! I see but too clearly how little dear I am to thee! Who would believe that thou couldst be with a sister of thine, whom thou hast never yet seen and in whose house thou shouldst have lighted down, whenas thou earnest hither, and offer to leave her, to go sup at the inn? Indeed, thou shalt sup with me, and albeit my husband is abroad, which grieveth me mightily, I shall know well how to do thee some little honour, such as a woman may.' To which Andreuccio, unknowing what else he should say, answered, 'I hold you as dear as a sister should be held; but, an I go not, I shall be expected to supper all the evening and shall do an unmannerliness.' 'Praised be God!' cried she. 'One would think I had no one in the house to send to tell them not to expect thee; albeit thou wouldst do much greater courtesy and indeed but thy duty an thou sentest to bid thy companions come hither to supper; and after, am thou must e'en begone, you might all go away together.' Andreuccio replied that he had no desire for his companions that evening; but that, since it was agreeable to her, she might do her pleasure of him. Accordingly, she made a show of sending to the inn to say that he was not to be expected to supper, and after much other discourse, they sat down to supper and were sumptuously served with various meats, whilst she adroitly contrived to prolong the repast till it was dark night. Then, when they rose from table and Andreuccio would have taken his leave, she declared that she would on no wise suffer this, for that Naples was no place to go about in by night especially for a stranger, and that, whenas she sent to the inn to say that he was not to be expected to supper, she had at the same time given notice that he would lie abroad. Andreuccio, believing this and taking pleasure in being with her, beguiled as he was by false credence, abode where he was, and after supper they held much and long discourse, not without reason,[100] till a part of the night was past, when she withdrew with her women into another room, leaving Andreuccio in her own chamber, with a little lad to wait upon him, if he should lack aught. [Footnote 100: The reason was that she wished to keep him in play till late into the night, when all the folk should be asleep and she might the lightlier deal with him.] The heat being great, Andreuccio, as soon as he found himself alone, stripped to his doublet and putting off his hosen, laid them at the bedhead; after which, natural use soliciting him to rid himself of the overmuch burden of his stomach, he asked the boy where this might be done, who showed him a door in one corner of the room and said, 'Go in there.' Accordingly he opened the door and passing through in all assurance, chanced to set foot on a plank, which, being broken loose from the joist at the opposite end, [flew up] and down they went, plank and man together. God so favoured him that he did himself no hurt in the fall, albeit he fell from some height; but he was all bemired with the ordure whereof the place was full; and in order that you may the better apprehend both that which hath been said and that which ensueth, I will show you how the place lay. There were in a narrow alley, such as we often see between two houses, a pair of rafters laid from one house to another, and thereon sundry boards nailed and the place of session set up; of which boards that which gave way with Andreuccio was one. Finding himself, then, at the bottom of the alley and sore chagrined at the mishap, he fell a-bawling for the boy; but the latter, as soon as he heard him fall, had run to tell his mistress, who hastened to his chamber and searching hurriedly if his clothes were there, found them and with them the money, which, in his mistrust, he still foolishly carried about him. Having now gotten that for which, feigning herself of Palermo and sister to a Perugian, she had set her snare, she took no more reck of him, but hastened to shut the door whereby he had gone out when he fell. Andreuccio, getting no answer from the boy, proceeded to call loudlier, but to no purpose; whereupon, his suspicions being now aroused, he began too late to smoke the cheat. Accordingly, he scrambled over a low wall that shut off the alley from the street, and letting himself down into the road, went up to the door of the house, which he knew very well, and there called long and loud and shook and beat upon it amain, but all in vain. Wherefore, bewailing himself, as one who was now fully aware of his mischance, 'Ah, woe is me!' cried he. 'In how little time have I lost five hundred florins and a sister!' Then, after many other words, he fell again to battering the door and crying out and this he did so long and so lustily that many of the neighbours, being awakened and unable to brook the annoy, arose and one of the courtezan's waiting-women, coming to the window, apparently all sleepy-eyed, said peevishly, 'Who knocketh below there?' 'What?' cried Andreuccio. 'Dost thou not know me? I am Andreuccio, brother to Madam Fiordaliso.' Whereto quoth she, 'Good man, an thou have drunken overmuch, go sleep and come back to-morrow morning. I know no Andreuccio nor what be these idle tales thou tellest. Begone in peace and let us sleep, so it please thee.' 'How?' replied Andreuccio. 'Thou knowest not what I mean? Certes, thou knowest; but, if Sicilian kinships be of such a fashion that they are forgotten in so short a time, at least give me back my clothes and I will begone with all my heart.' 'Good man,' rejoined she, as if laughing, 'methinketh thou dreamest'; and to say this and to draw in her head and shut the window were one and the same thing. Whereat Andreuccio, now fully certified of his loss, was like for chagrin to turn his exceeding anger into madness and bethought himself to seek to recover by violence that which he might not have again with words; wherefore, taking up a great stone, he began anew to batter the door more furiously than ever. At this many of the neighbours, who had already been awakened and had arisen, deeming him some pestilent fellow who had trumped up this story to spite the woman of the house and provoked at the knocking he kept up, came to the windows and began to say, no otherwise than as all the dogs of a quarter bark after a strange dog, ''Tis a villainous shame to come at this hour to decent women's houses and tell these cock-and-bull stories. For God's sake, good man, please you begone in peace and let us sleep. An thou have aught to mell with her, come back to-morrow and spare us this annoy to-night.' Taking assurance, perchance, by these words, there came to the window one who was within the house, a bully of the gentlewoman's, whom Andreuccio had as yet neither heard nor seen, and said, in a terrible big rough voice, 'Who is below there?' Andreuccio, hearing this, raised his eyes and saw at the window one who, by what little he could make out, himseemed should be a very masterful fellow, with a bushy black beard on his face, and who yawned and rubbed his eyes, as he had arisen from bed or deep sleep; whereupon, not without fear, he answered, 'I am a brother of the lady of the house.' The other waited not for him to make an end of his reply, but said, more fiercely than before, 'I know not what hindereth me from coming down and cudgelling thee what while I see thee stir, for a pestilent drunken ass as thou must be, who will not let us sleep this night.' Then, drawing back into the house, he shut the window; whereupon certain of the neighbours, who were better acquainted with the fellow's quality, said softly to Andreuccio, 'For God's sake, good man, begone in peace and abide not there to-night to be slain; get thee gone for thine own good.' Andreuccio, terrified at the fellow's voice and aspect and moved by the exhortations of the neighbours, who seemed to him to speak out of charity, set out to return to his inn, in the direction of the quarter whence he had followed the maid, without knowing whither to go, despairing of his money and woebegone as ever man was. Being loathsome to himself, for the stench that came from him, and thinking to repair to the sea to wash himself, he turned to the left and followed a street called Ruga Catalana,[101] that led towards the upper part of the city. Presently, he espied two men coming towards him with a lantern and fearing they might be officers of the watch or other ill-disposed folk, he stealthily took refuge, to avoid them, in a hovel, that he saw hard by. But they, as of malice aforethought, made straight for the same place and entering in, began to examine certain irons which one of them laid from off his shoulder, discoursing various things thereof the while. [Footnote 101: _i.e._ Catalan Street.] Presently, 'What meaneth this?' quoth one. 'I smell the worst stench meseemeth I ever smelt.' So saying, he raised the lantern and seeing the wretched Andreuccio, enquired, in amazement. 'Who is there?' Andreuccio made no answer, but they came up to him with the light and asked him what he did there in such a pickle; whereupon he related to them all that had befallen him, and they, conceiving where this might have happened, said, one to the other, 'Verily, this must have been in the house of Scarabone Buttafuocco.' Then, turning to him, 'Good man,' quoth one, 'albeit thou hast lost thy money, thou hast much reason to praise God that this mischance betided thee, so that thou fellest nor couldst after avail to enter the house again; for, hadst thou not fallen, thou mayst be assured that, when once thou wast fallen asleep, thou hadst been knocked on the head and hadst lost thy life as well as thy money. But what booteth it now to repine? Thou mayst as well look to have the stars out of the sky as to recover a farthing of thy money; nay, thou art like to be murdered, should yonder fellow hear that thou makest any words thereof.' Then they consulted together awhile and presently said to him, 'Look you, we are moved to pity for thee; wherefore, an thou wilt join with us in somewhat we go about to do, it seemeth to us certain that there will fall to thee for thy share much more than the value of that which thou hast lost.' Whereupon Andreuccio, in his desperation, answered that he was ready. Now there had been that day buried an archbishop of Naples, by name Messer Filippo Minutolo, and he had been interred in his richest ornaments and with a ruby on his finger worth more than five hundred florins of gold. Him they were minded to despoil and this their intent they discovered to Andreuccio, who, more covetous than well-advised, set out with them for the cathedral. As they went, Andreuccio still stinking amain, one of the thieves said, 'Can we not find means for this fellow to wash himself a little, be it where it may, so he may not stink so terribly?' 'Ay can we,' answered the other. 'We are here near a well, where there useth to be a rope and pulley and a great bucket; let us go thither and we will wash him in a trice.' Accordingly they made for the well in question and found the rope there, but the bucket had been taken away; wherefore they took counsel together to tie him to the rope and let him down into the well, so he might wash himself there, charging him shake the rope as soon as he was clean, and they would pull him up. Hardly had they let him down when, as chance would have it, certain of the watch, being athirst for the heat and with running after some rogue or another, came to the well to drink, and the two rogues, setting eyes on them, made off incontinent, before the officers saw them. Presently, Andreuccio, having washed himself at the bottom of the well, shook the rope, and the thirsty officers, laying by their targets and arms and surcoats, began to haul upon the rope, thinking the bucket full of water at the other end. As soon as Andreuccio found himself near the top, he let go the rope and laid hold of the marge with both hands; which when the officers saw, overcome with sudden affright, they dropped the rope, without saying a word, and took to their heels as quickliest they might. At this Andreuccio marvelled sore, and but that he had fast hold of the marge, would have fallen to the bottom, to his no little hurt or maybe death. However, he made his way out and finding the arms, which he knew were none of his companions' bringing, he was yet more amazed; but, knowing not what to make of it and misdoubting [some snare], he determined to begone without touching aught and accordingly made off he knew not whither, bewailing his ill-luck. As he went, he met his two comrades, who came to draw him forth of the well; and when they saw him, they marvelled exceedingly and asked him who had drawn him up. Andreuccio replied that he knew not and told them orderly how it had happened and what he had found by the wellside, whereupon the others, perceiving how the case stood, told him, laughing, why they had fled and who these were that had pulled him up. Then, without farther parley, it being now middle night, they repaired to the cathedral and making their way thereinto lightly enough, went straight to the archbishop's tomb, which was of marble and very large. With their irons they raised the lid, which was very heavy, and propped it up so as a man might enter; which being done, quoth one, 'Who shall go in?' 'Not I,' answered the other. 'Nor I,' rejoined his fellow; 'let Andreuccio enter.' 'That will I not,' said the latter; whereupon the two rogues turned upon him and said, 'How! Thou wilt not? Cock's faith, an thou enter not, we will clout thee over the costard with one of these iron bars till thou fall dead.' Andreuccio, affrighted, crept into the tomb, saying in himself the while, 'These fellows will have me go in here so they may cheat me, for that, when I shall have given them everything, they will begone about their business, whilst I am labouring to win out of the tomb, and I shall abide empty-handed.' Accordingly, he determined to make sure of his share beforehand; wherefore, as soon as he came to the bottom, calling to mind the precious ring whereof he had heard them speak, he drew it from the archbishop's finger and set it on his own. Then he passed them the crozier and mitre and gloves and stripping the dead man to his shirt, gave them everything, saying that there was nothing more. The others declared that the ring must be there and bade him seek everywhere; but he replied that he found it not and making a show of seeking it, kept them in play awhile. At last, the two rogues, who were no less wily than himself, bidding him seek well the while, took occasion to pull away the prop that held up the lid and made off, leaving him shut in the tomb. What became of Andreuccio, when he found himself in this plight, you may all imagine for yourselves. He strove again and again to heave up the lid with his head and shoulders, but only wearied himself in vain; wherefore, overcome with chagrin and despair, he fell down in a swoon upon the archbishop's dead body; and whoso saw him there had hardly known which was the deader, the prelate or he. Presently, coming to himself, he fell into a passion of weeping, seeing he must there without fail come to one of two ends, to wit, either he must, if none came thither to open the tomb again, die of hunger and stench, among the worms of the dead body, or, if any came and found him there, he would certainly be hanged for a thief. As he abode in this mind, exceeding woebegone, he heard folk stirring in the Church and many persons speaking and presently perceived that they came to do that which he and his comrades had already done; whereat fear redoubled upon him. But, after the newcomers had forced open the tomb and propped up the lid, they fell into dispute of who should go in, and none was willing to do it. However, after long parley, a priest said, 'What fear ye? Think you he will eat you? The dead eat not men. I will go in myself.' So saying, he set his breast to the marge of the tomb and turning his head outward, put in his legs, thinking to let himself drop. Andreuccio, seeing this, started up and catching the priest by one of his legs, made a show of offering to pull him down into the tomb. The other, feeling this, gave a terrible screech and flung precipitately out of the tomb; whereupon all the others fled in terror, as they were pursued by an hundred thousand devils, leaving the tomb open. Andreuccio, seeing this, scrambled hastily out of the tomb, rejoiced beyond all hope, and made off out of the church by the way he had entered in. The day now drawing near, he fared on at a venture, with the ring on his finger, till he came to the sea-shore and thence made his way back to his inn, where he found his comrades and the host, who had been in concern for him all that night. He told them what had betided him and themseemed, by the host's counsel, that he were best depart Naples incontinent. Accordingly, he set out forthright and returned to Perugia, having invested his money in a ring, whereas he came to buy horses." THE SIXTH STORY [Day the Second] MADAM BERITOLA, HAVING LOST HER TWO SONS, IS FOUND ON A DESERT ISLAND WITH TWO KIDS AND GOETH THENCE INTO LUNIGIANA, WHERE ONE OF HER SONS, TAKING SERVICE WITH THE LORD OF THE COUNTRY, LIETH WITH HIS DAUGHTER AND IS CAST INTO PRISON. SICILY AFTER REBELLING AGAINST KING CHARLES AND THE YOUTH BEING RECOGNIZED BY HIS MOTHER, HE ESPOUSETH HIS LORD'S DAUGHTER, AND HIS BROTHER BEING LIKEWISE FOUND, THEY ARE ALL THREE RESTORED TO HIGH ESTATE Ladies and young men alike laughed heartily at Andreuccio's adventures, as related by Fiammetta, and Emilia, seeing the story ended, began, by the queen's commandment, to speak thus: "Grievous things and woeful are the various shifts of Fortune, whereof,--for that, whenassoever it is discoursed of them, it is an awakenment for our minds, which lightly fall asleep under her blandishments,--methinketh it should never be irksome either to the happy or the unhappy to hear tell, inasmuch as it rendereth the former wary and consoleth the latter. Wherefore, albeit great things have already been recounted upon this subject, I purpose to tell you thereanent a story no less true than pitiful, whereof, for all it had a joyful ending, so great and so longsome was the bitterness that I can scarce believe it to have been assuaged by any subsequent gladness. You must know, dearest ladies, that, after the death of the Emperor Frederick the Second, Manfred was crowned King of Sicily, in very high estate with whom was a gentleman of Naples called Arrighetto Capece, who had to wife a fair and noble lady, also of Naples, by name Madam Beritola Caracciola. The said Arrighetto, who had the governance of the island in his hands, hearing that King Charles the First[102] had overcome and slain Manfred at Benevento and that all the realm had revolted to him and having scant assurance of the short-lived fidelity of the Sicilians, prepared for flight, misliking to become a subject of his lord's enemy; but, his intent being known of the Sicilians, he and many other friends and servants of King Manfred were suddenly made prisoners and delivered to King Charles, together with possession of the island. [Footnote 102: Charles d'Anjou.] Madam Beritola, in this grievous change of affairs, knowing not what was come of Arrighetto and sore adread of that which had befallen, abandoned all her possessions for fear of shame and poor and pregnant as she was, embarked, with a son of hers and maybe eight years of age, Giusfredi by name, in a little boat and fled to Lipari, where she gave birth to another male child, whom she named Scacciato,[103] and getting her a nurse, took ship with all three to return to her kinsfolk at Naples. But it befell otherwise than as she purposed; for that the ship, which should have gone to Naples, was carried by stress of wind to the island of Ponza,[104] where they entered a little bight of the sea and there awaited an occasion for continuing their voyage. Madam Beritola, going up, like the rest, into the island and finding a remote and solitary place, addressed herself to make moan for her Arrighetto, all alone there. [Footnote 103: _i.e._ the Banished or the Expelled One.] [Footnote 104: An island in the Gulf of Gaeta, about 70 miles from Naples. It is now inhabited, but appears in Boccaccio's time to have been desert.] This being her daily usance, it chanced one day that, as she was occupied in bewailing herself, there came up a pirate galley, unobserved of any, sailor or other, and taking them all at unawares, made off with her prize. Madam Beritola, having made an end of her diurnal lamentation, returned to the sea-shore, as she was used to do, to visit her children, but found none there; whereat she first marvelled and after, suddenly misdoubting her of that which had happened, cast her eyes out to sea and saw the galley at no great distance, towing the little ship after it; whereby she knew but too well that she had lost her children, as well as her husband, and seeing herself there poor and desolate and forsaken, unknowing where she should ever again find any of them, she fell down aswoon upon the strand, calling upon her husband and her children. There was none there to recall her distracted spirits with cold water or other remedy, wherefore they might at their leisure go wandering whither it pleased them; but, after awhile, the lost senses returning to her wretched body, in company with tears and lamentations, she called long upon her children and went a great while seeking them in every cavern. At last, finding all her labour in vain and seeing the night coming on, she began, hoping and knowing not what, to be careful for herself and departing the sea-shore, returned to the cavern where she was wont to weep and bemoan herself. She passed the night in great fear and inexpressible dolour and the new day being come and the hour of tierce past, she was fain, constrained by hunger, for that she had not supped overnight, to browse upon herbs; and having fed as best she might, she gave herself, weeping, to various thoughts of her future life. Pondering thus, she saw a she-goat enter a cavern hard by and presently issue thence and betake herself into the wood; whereupon she arose and entering whereas the goat had come forth, found there two little kidlings, born belike that same day, which seemed to her the quaintest and prettiest things in the world. Her milk being yet undried from her recent delivery, she tenderly took up the kids and set them to her breast. They refused not the service, but sucked her as if she had been their dam and thenceforth made no distinction between the one and the other. Wherefore, herseeming she had found some company in that desert place, and growing no less familiar with the old goat than with her little ones, she resigned herself to live and die there and abode eating of herbs and drinking water and weeping as often as she remembered her of her husband and children and of her past life. The gentle lady, thus grown a wild creature, abiding on this wise, it befell, after some months, that there came on like wise to the place whither she had aforetime been driven by stress of weather, a little vessel from Pisa and there abode some days. On broad this bark was a gentleman named Currado [of the family] of the Marquises of Malespina, who, with his wife, a lady of worth and piety, was on his return home from a pilgrimage to all the holy places that be in the kingdom of Apulia. To pass away the time, Currado set out one day, with his lady and certain of his servants and his dogs, to go about the island, and not far from Madam Beritola's place of harbourage, the dogs started the two kids, which were now grown pretty big, as they went grazing. The latter, chased by the dogs, fled to no other place but into the cavern where was Madam Beritola, who, seeing this, started to her feet and catching up a staff, beat off the dogs. Currado and his wife, who came after them, seeing the lady, who was grown swart and lean and hairy, marvelled, and she yet more at them. But after Currado had, at her instance, called off his dogs, they prevailed with her, by dint of much entreaty, to tell them who she was and what she did there; whereupon she fully discovered to them her whole condition and all that had befallen her, together with her firm resolution [to abide alone in the island]. Currado, who had know Arrighetto Capece very well, hearing this, wept for pity, and did his utmost to divert her with words from so barbarous a purpose, offering to carry her back to her own house or to keep her with himself, holding her in such honour as his sister, until God should send her happier fortune. The lady not yielding to these proffers, Currado left his wife with her, bidding the latter cause bring thither to eat and clothe the lady, who was all in rags, with some of her own apparel, and charging her contrive, by whatsoever means, to bring her away with her. Accordingly, the gentle lady, being left with Madam Beritola, after condoling with her amain of her misfortunes, sent for raiment and victual and prevailed on her, with all the pains in the world, to don the one and eat the other. Ultimately, after many prayers, Madam Beritola protesting that she would never consent to go whereas she might be known, she persuaded her to go with her into Lunigiana, together with the two kids and their dam, which latter were meantime returned and had greeted her with the utmost fondness, to the no small wonderment of the gentlewoman. Accordingly, as soon as fair weather was come, Madam Beritola embarked with Currado and his lady in their vessel, carrying with her the two kids and the she-goat (on whose account, her name being everywhere unknown, she was styled Cavriuola[105]) and setting sail with a fair wind, came speedily to the mouth of the Magra,[106] where they landed and went up to Currado's castle. There Madam Beritola abode, in a widow's habit, about the person of Currado's lady, as one of her waiting-women, humble, modest and obedient, still cherishing her kids and letting nourish them. [Footnote 105: _i.e._ wild she-goat.] [Footnote 106: A river falling into the Gulf of Genoa between Carrara and Spezzia.] Meanwhile, the corsairs, who had taken the ship wherein Madam Beritola came to Ponza, but had left herself, as being unseen of them, betook themselves with all the other folk to Genoa, where, the booty coming to be shared among the owners of the galley, it chanced that the nurse and the two children fell, amongst other things, to the lot of a certain Messer Guasparrino d'Oria,[107] who sent them all three to his mansion, to be there employed as slaves about the service of the house. The nurse, afflicted beyond measure at the loss of her mistress and at the wretched condition where into she found herself and the two children fallen, wept long and sore; but, for that, albeit a poor woman, she was discreet and well-advised, when she saw that tears availed nothing and that she was become a slave together with them, she first comforted herself as best she might and after, considering whither they were come, she bethought herself that, should the two children be known, they might lightly chance to suffer hindrance; wherefore, hoping withal that, sooner or later fortune might change and they, an they lived, regain their lost estate, she resolved to discover to no one who they were, until she should see occasion therefor, and told all who asked her thereof that they were her sons. The elder she named, not Giusfredi, but Giannotto di Procida (the name of the younger she cared not to change), and explained to him, with the utmost diligence, why she had changed his name, showing him in what peril he might be, an he were known. This she set out to him not once, but many and many a time, and the boy, who was quick of wit, punctually obeyed the enjoinment of his discreet nurse. [Footnote 107: More familiar to modern ears as Doria.] Accordingly, the two boys and their nurse abode patiently in Messer Guasparrino's house several years, ill-clad and worse shod and employed about the meanest offices. But Giannotto, who was now sixteen years of age, and had more spirit than pertained to a slave, scorning the baseness of a menial condition, embarked on board certain galleys bound for Alexandria and taking leave of Messer Guasparrino's service, journeyed to divers parts, without any wise availing to advance himself. At last some three or four years after his departure from Genoa, being grown a handsome youth and tall of his person and hearing that his father, whom he thought dead, was yet alive, but was kept by King Charles in prison and duresse, he went wandering at a venture, well nigh despairing of fortune, till he came to Lunigiana and there, as chance would have it, took service with Currado Malespina, whom he served with great aptitude and acceptance. And albeit he now and again saw his mother, who was with Currado's lady, he never recognized her nor she him, so much had time changed the one and the other from that which they were used to be, whenas they last set eyes on each other. Giannotto being, then, in Currado's service, it befell that a daughter of the latter, by name Spina, being left the widow of one Niccolo da Grignano, returned to her father's house and being very fair and agreeable and a girl of little more than sixteen years of age, chanced to cast eyes on Giannotto and he on her, and they became passionately enamoured of each other. Their love was not long without effect and lasted several months ere any was ware thereof. Wherefore, taking overmuch assurance, they began to order themselves with less discretion than behoveth unto matters of this kind, and one day, as they went, the young lady and Giannotto together, through a fair and thickset wood, they pushed on among the trees, leaving the rest of the company behind. Presently, themseeming they had far foregone the others, they laid themselves down to rest in a pleasant place, full of grass and flowers and shut in with trees, and there fell to taking amorous delight one of the other. In this occupation, the greatness of their delight making the time seem brief to them, albeit they had been there a great while, they were surprised, first by the girl's mother and after by Currado, who, chagrined beyond measure at this sight, without saying aught of the cause, had them both seized by three of his serving-men and carried in bonds to a castle of his and went off, boiling with rage and despite and resolved to put them both to a shameful death. The girl's mother, although sore incensed and holding her daughter worthy of the severest punishment for her default, having by certain words of Currado apprehended his intent towards the culprits and unable to brook this, hastened after her enraged husband and began to beseech him that it would please him not run madly to make himself in his old age the murderer of his own daughter and to soil his hands with the blood of one of his servants, but to find other means of satisfying his wrath, such as to clap them in prison and there let them pine and bewail the fault committed. With these and many other words the pious lady so wrought upon him that she turned his mind from putting them to death and he bade imprison them, each in a place apart, where they should be well guarded and kept with scant victual and much unease, till such time as he should determine farther of them. As he bade, so was it done, and what their life was in duresse and continual tears and in fasts longer than might have behoved unto them, each may picture to himself. What while Giannotto and Spina abode in this doleful case and had therein already abidden a year's space, unremembered of Currado, it came to pass that King Pedro of Arragon, by the procurement of Messer Gian di Procida, raised the island of Sicily against King Charles and took it from him, whereat Currado, being a Ghibelline,[108] rejoiced exceedingly, Giannotto, hearing of this from one of those who had him in guard, heaved a great sigh and said, 'Ah, woe is me! These fourteen years have I gone ranging beggarlike about the world, looking for nought other than this, which, now that it is come, so I may never again hope for weal, hath found me in a prison whence I have no hope ever to come forth, save dead.' 'How so?' asked the gaoler. 'What doth that concern thee which great kings do to one another? What hast thou to do in Sicily?' Quoth Giannotto, 'My heart is like to burst when I remember me of that which my father erst had to do there, whom, albeit I was but a little child, when I fled thence, yet do I mind me to have been lord thereof, in the lifetime of King Manfred.' 'And who was thy father?' asked the gaoler. 'My father's name,' answered Giannotto, 'I may now safely make known, since I find myself in the peril whereof I was in fear, an I discovered it. He was and is yet, an he live, called Arrighetto Capece, and my name is, not Giannotto, but Giusfredi, and I doubt not a jot, an I were quit of this prison, but I might yet, by returning to Sicily, have very high place there.' [Footnote 108: The Ghibellines were the supporters of the Papal faction against the Guelphs or adherents of the Emperor Frederick II. of Germany. The cardinal struggle between the two factions took place over the succession to the throne of Naples and Sicily, to which the Pope appointed Charles of Anjou, who overcame and killed the reigning sovereign Manfred, but was himself, through the machinations of the Ghibellines, expelled from Sicily by the celebrated popular rising known as the Sicilian Vespers.] The honest man, without asking farther, reported Giannotto's words, as first he had occasion, to Currado, who, hearing this,--albeit he feigned to the gaoler to make light of it,--betook himself to Madam Beritola and courteously asked her if she had had by Arrighetto a son named Giusfredi. The lady answered, weeping, that, if the elder of her two sons were alive, he would so be called and would be two-and-twenty years old. Currado, hearing this, concluded that this must be he and bethought himself that, were it so, he might at once do a great mercy and take away his own and his daughter's shame by giving her to Giannotto to wife; wherefore, sending privily for the latter, he particularly examined him touching all his past life and finding, by very manifest tokens, that he was indeed Giusfredi, son of Arrighetto Capece, he said to him, 'Giannotto, thou knowest what and how great is the wrong thou hast done me in the person of my daughter, whereas, I having ever well and friendly entreated thee, it behoved thee, as a servant should, still to study and do for my honour and interest; and many there be who, hadst thou used them like as thou hast used me, would have put thee to a shameful death, the which my clemency brooked not. Now, if it be as thou tellest me, to wit, that thou art the son of a man of condition and of a noble lady, I purpose, an thou thyself be willing, to put an end to thy tribulations and relieving thee from the misery and duresse wherein thou abidest, to reinstate at once thine honour and mine own in their due stead. As thou knowest, Spina, whom thou hast, though after a fashion misbeseeming both thyself and her, taken with love-liking, is a widow and her dowry is both great and good; as for her manners and her father and mother, thou knowest them, and of thy present state I say nothing. Wherefore, an thou will, I purpose that, whereas she hath unlawfully been thy mistress, she shall now lawfully become thy wife and that thou shalt abide here with me and with her, as my very son, so long as it shall please thee.' Now prison had mortified Giannotto's flesh, but had nothing abated the generous spirit, which he derived from his noble birth, nor yet the entire affection he bore his mistress; and albeit he ardently desired that which Currado proffered him and saw himself in the latter's power, yet no whit did he dissemble of that which the greatness of his soul prompted him to say; wherefore he answered, 'Currado, neither lust of lordship nor greed of gain nor other cause whatever hath ever made me lay snares, traitor-wise, for thy life or thy good. I loved and love thy daughter and still shall love her, for that I hold her worthy of my love, and if I dealt with her less than honourably, in the opinion of the vulgar, my sin was one which still goeth hand in hand with youth and which an you would do away, it behoveth you first do away with youth. Moreover, it is an offence which, would the old but remember them of having been young and measure the defaults of others by their own and their own by those of others, would show less grievous than thou and many others make it; and as a friend, and not as an enemy, I committed it. This that thou profferest me I have still desired and had I thought it should be vouchsafed me, I had long since sought it; and so much the dearer will it now be to me, as my hope thereof was less. If, then, thou have not that intent which thy words denote, feed me not with vain hope; but restore me to prison and there torment me as thou wilt, for, so long as I love Spina, even so, for the love of her, shall I still love thee, whatsoever thou dost with me, and have thee in reverence.' Currado, hearing this, marvelled and held him great of soul and his love fervent and tendered him therefore the dearer; wherefore, rising to his feet, he embraced him and kissed him and without more delay bade privily bring Spina thither. Accordingly, the lady--who was grown lean and pale and weakly in prison and showed well nigh another than she was wont to be, as on like wise Giannotto another man--being come, the two lovers in Currado's presence with one consent contracted marriage according to our usance. Then, after some days, during which he had let furnish the newly-married pair with all that was necessary or agreeable to them, he deemed it time to gladden their mothers with the good news and accordingly calling his lady and Cavriuola, he said to the latter, 'What would you say, madam, an I should cause you have again your elder son as the husband of one of my daughters?' Whereto she answered, 'Of that I can say to you no otherwhat than that, could I be more beholden to you than I am, I should be so much the more so as you would have restored to me that which is dearer to me than mine own self; and restoring it to me on such wise as you say, you would in some measure re-awaken in me my lost hope.' With this, she held her peace, weeping, and Currado said to his lady, 'And thou, mistress, how wouldst thou take it, were I to present thee with such a son-in-law?' The lady replied, 'Even a common churl, so he pleased you, would please me, let alone one of these,[109] who are men of gentle birth.' 'Then,' said Currado, 'I hope, ere many days, to make you happy women in this.' [Footnote 109: _i.e._ Beritola's sons.] Accordingly, seeing the two young folk now restored to their former cheer, he clad them sumptuously and said to Giusfredi, 'Were it not dear to thee, over and above thy present joyance, an thou sawest thy mother here?' Whereto he answered, 'I dare not flatter myself that the chagrin of her unhappy chances can have left her so long alive; but, were it indeed so, it were dear to me above all, more by token that methinketh I might yet, by her counsel, avail to recover great part of my estate in Sicily.' Thereupon Currado sent for both the ladies, who came and made much of the newly-wedded wife, no little wondering what happy inspiration it could have been that prompted Currado to such exceeding complaisance as he had shown in joining Giannotto with her in marriage. Madam Beritola, by reason of the words she had heard from Currado, began to consider Giannotto and some remembrance of the boyish lineaments of her son's countenance being by occult virtue awakened in her, without awaiting farther explanation, she ran, open-armed, to cast herself upon his neck, nor did overabounding emotion and maternal joy suffer her to say a word; nay, they so locked up all her senses that she fell into her son's arms, as if dead. The latter, albeit he was sore amazed, remembering to have many times before seen her in that same castle and never recognized her, nevertheless knew incontinent the maternal odour and blaming himself for his past heedlessness, received her, weeping, in his arms and kissed her tenderly. After awhile, Madam Beritola, being affectionately tended by Currado's lady and Spina and plied both with cold water and other remedies, recalled her strayed senses and embracing her son anew, full of maternal tenderness, with many tears and many tender words, kissed him a thousand times, whilst he all reverently beheld and entreated her. After these joyful and honourable greetings had been thrice or four times repeated, to the no small contentment of the bystanders, and they had related unto each other all that had befallen them, Currado now, to the exceeding satisfaction of all, signified to his friends the new alliance made by him and gave ordinance for a goodly and magnificent entertainment. Then said Giusfredi to him, 'Currado, you have made me glad of many things and have long honourably entertained my mother; and now, that no whit may remain undone of that which it is in your power to do, I pray you gladden my mother and bride-feast and myself with the presence of my brother, whom Messer Guasparrino d'Oria holdeth in servitude in his house and whom, as I have already told you, he took with me in one of his cruises. Moreover, I would have you send into Sicily one who shall thoroughly inform himself of the state and condition of the country and study to learn what is come of Arrighetto, my father, an he be alive or dead, and if he be alive, in what estate; of all which having fully certified himself, let him return to us.' Giusfredi's request was pleasing to Currado, and without any delay he despatched very discreet persons both to Genoa and to Sicily. He who went to Genoa there sought out Messer Guasparrino and instantly besought him, on Currado's part, to send him Scacciato and his nurse, orderly recounting to him all his lord's dealings with Giusfredi and his mother. Messer Guasparrino marvelled exceedingly to hear this and said, 'True is it I would do all I may to pleasure Currado, and I have, indeed, these fourteen years had in my house the boy thou seekest and one his mother, both of whom I will gladly send him; but do thou bid him, on my part, beware of lending overmuch credence to the fables of Giannotto, who nowadays styleth himself Giusfredi, for that he is a far greater knave than he deemeth.' So saying, he caused honourably entertain the gentleman and sending privily for the nurse, questioned her shrewdly touching the matter. Now she had heard of the Sicilian revolt and understood Arrighetto to be alive, wherefore, casting off her former fears, she told him everything in order and showed him the reasons that had moved her to do as she had done. Messer Guasparrino, finding her tale to accord perfectly with that of Currado's messenger, began to give credit to the latter's words and having by one means and another, like a very astute man as he was, made enquiry of the matter and happening hourly upon things that gave him more and more assurance of the fact, took shame to himself of his mean usage of the lad, in amends whereof, knowing what Arrighetto had been and was, he gave him to wife a fair young daughter of his, eleven years of age, with a great dowry. Then, after making a great bride-feast thereon, he embarked with the boy and girl and Currado's messenger and the nurse in a well-armed galliot and betook himself to Lerici, where he was received by Currado and went up, with all his company, to one of the latter's castles, not far removed thence, where there was a great banquet toward. The mother's joy at seeing her son again and that of the two brothers in each other and of all three in the faithful nurse, the honour done of all to Messer Guasparrino and his daughter and of him to all and the rejoicing of all together with Currado and his lady and children and friends, no words might avail to express; wherefore, ladies, I leave it to you to imagine. Thereunto,[110] that it might be complete, it pleased God the Most High, a most abundant giver, whenas He beginneth, to add the glad news of the life and well-being of Arrighetto Capece; for that, the feast being at its height and the guests, both ladies and men, yet at table for the first service, there came he who had been sent into Sicily and amongst other things, reported of Arrighetto that he, being kept in captivity by King Charles, whenas the revolt against the latter broke out in the land, the folk ran in a fury to the prison and slaying his guards, delivered himself and as a capital enemy of King Charles, made him their captain and followed him to expel and slay the French: wherefore he was become in especial favour with King Pedro,[111] who had reinstated him in all his honours and possessions, and was now in great good case. The messenger added that he had received himself with the utmost honour and had rejoiced with inexpressible joy in the recovery of his wife and son, of whom he had heard nothing since his capture; moreover, he had sent a brigantine for them, with divers gentlemen aboard, who came after him. [Footnote 110: _i.e._ to which general joy.] [Footnote 111: Pedro of Arragon, son-in-law of Manfred, who, in consequence of the Sicilian Vespers, succeeded Charles d'Anjou as King of Sicily.] The messenger was received and hearkened with great gladness and rejoicing, whilst Currado, with certain of his friends, set out incontinent to meet the gentlemen who came for Madam Beritola and Giusfredi and welcoming them joyously, introduced them into his banquet, which was not yet half ended. There both the lady and Giusfredi, no less than all the others, beheld them with such joyance that never was heard the like; and the gentlemen, ere they sat down to meat, saluted Currado and his lady on the part of Arrighetto, thanking them, as best they knew and might, for the honour done both to his wife and his son and offering himself to their pleasure,[112] in all that lay in his power. Then, turning to Messer Guasparrino, whose kindness was unlooked for, they avouched themselves most certain that, whenas that which he had done for Scacciato should be known of Arrighetto, the like thanks and yet greater would be rendered him. [Footnote 112: Or (in modern phrase) putting himself at their disposition.] Thereafter they banqueted right joyously with the new-made bridegrooms at the bride-feast of the two newly-wedded wives; nor that day alone did Currado entertain his son-in-law and other his kinsmen and friends, but many others. As soon as the rejoicings were somewhat abated, it appearing to Madam Beritola and to Giusfredi and the others that it was time to depart, they took leave with many tears of Currado and his lady and Messer Guasparrino and embarked on board the brigantine, carrying Spina with them; then, setting sail with a fair wind, they came speedily to Sicily, where all alike, both sons and daughters-in-law, were received by Arrighetto in Palermo with such rejoicing as might never be told; and there it is believed that they all lived happily a great while after, in love and thankfulness to God the Most High, as mindful of the benefits received." THE SEVENTH STORY [Day the Second] THE SOLDAN OF BABYLON SENDETH A DAUGHTER OF HIS TO BE MARRIED TO THE KING OF ALGARVE, AND SHE, BY DIVERS CHANCES, IN THE SPACE OF FOUR YEARS COMETH TO THE HANDS OF NINE MEN IN VARIOUS PLACES. ULTIMATELY, BEING RESTORED TO HER FATHER FOR A MAID, SHE GOETH TO THE KING OF ALGARVE TO WIFE, AS FIRST SHE DID Had Emilia's story been much longer protracted, it is like the compassion had by the young ladies on the misfortunes of Madam Beritola would have brought them to tears; but, an end being now made thereof, it pleased the queen that Pamfilo should follow on with his story, and accordingly he, who was very obedient, began thus, "Uneath, charming ladies, is it for us to know that which is meet for us, for that, as may oftentimes have been seen, many, imagining that, were they but rich, they might avail to live without care and secure, have not only with prayers sought riches of God, but have diligently studied to acquire them, grudging no toil and no peril in the quest, and who,--whereas, before they became enriched, they loved their lives,--once having gotten their desire, have found folk to slay them, for greed of so ample an inheritance. Others of low estate, having, through a thousand perilous battles and the blood of their brethren and their friends, mounted to the summit of kingdoms, thinking in the royal estate to enjoy supreme felicity, without the innumerable cares and alarms whereof they see and feel it full, have learned, at the cost of their lives, that poison is drunken at royal tables in cups of gold. Many there be who have with most ardent appetite desired bodily strength and beauty and divers personal adornments and perceived not that they had desired ill till they found these very gifts a cause to them of death or dolorous life. In fine, not to speak particularly of all the objects of human desire, I dare say that there is not one which can, with entire assurance, be chosen by mortal men as secure from the vicissitudes of fortune; wherefore, an we would do aright, needs must we resign ourselves to take and possess that which is appointed us of Him who alone knoweth that which behoveth unto us and is able to give it to us. But for that, whereas men sin in desiring various things, you, gracious ladies, sin, above all, in one, to wit, in wishing to be fair,--insomuch that, not content with the charms vouchsafed you by nature, you still with marvellous art study to augment them,--it pleaseth me to recount to you how ill-fortunedly fair was a Saracen lady, whom it befell, for her beauty, to be in some four years' space nine times wedded anew. It is now a pretty while since there was a certain Soldan of Babylon,[113] by name Berminedab, to whom in his day many things happened in accordance with his pleasure.[114] Amongst many other children, both male and female, he had a daughter called Alatiel, who, by report of all who saw her, was the fairest woman to be seen in the world in those days, and having, in a great defeat he had inflicted upon a vast multitude of Arabs who were come upon him, been wonder-well seconded by the King of Algarve,[115] had, at his request, given her to him to wife, of especial favour; wherefore, embarking her aboard a ship well armed and equipped, with an honourable company of men and ladies and store of rich and sumptuous gear and furniture, he despatched her to him, commending her to God. [Footnote 113: _i.e._ Egypt, Cairo was known in the middle ages by the name of "Babylon of Egypt." It need hardly be noted that the Babylon of the Bible was the city of that name on the Euphrates, the ancient capital of Chaldæa (Irak Babili). The names Beminedab and Alatiel are purely imaginary.] [Footnote 114: _i.e._ to his wish, to whom fortune was mostly favourable in his enterprises.] [Footnote 115: _Il Garbo_, Arabic El Gherb or Gharb, [Arabic: al gharb], the West, a name given by the Arabs to several parts of the Muslim empire, but by which Boccaccio apparently means Algarve, the southernmost province of Portugal and the last part of that kingdom to succumb to the wave of Christian reconquest, it having remained in the hands of the Muslims till the second half of the thirteenth century. This supposition is confirmed by the course taken by Alatiel's ship, which would naturally pass Sardinia and the Balearic Islands on its way from Alexandria to Portugal.] The sailors, seeing the weather favourable, gave their sails to the wind and departing the port of Alexandria, fared on prosperously many days, and having now passed Sardinia, deemed themselves near the end of their voyage, when there arose one day of a sudden divers contrary winds, which, being each beyond measure boisterous, so harassed the ship, wherein was the lady, and the sailors, that the latter more than once gave themselves over for lost. However, like valiant men, using every art and means in their power, they rode it out two days, though buffeted by a terrible sea; but, at nightfall of the third day, the tempest abating not, nay, waxing momently, they felt the ship open, being then not far off Majorca, but knowing not where they were neither availing to apprehend it either by nautical reckoning or by sight, for that the sky was altogether obscured by clouds and dark night; wherefore, seeing no other way of escape and having each himself in mind and not others, they lowered a shallop into the water, into which the officers cast themselves, choosing rather to trust themselves thereto than to the leaking ship. The rest of the men in the ship crowded after them into the boat, albeit those who had first embarked therein opposed it, knife in hand,--and thinking thus to flee from death, ran straight into it, for that the boat, availing not, for the intemperance of the weather, to hold so many, foundered and they perished one and all. As for the ship, being driven by a furious wind and running very swiftly, albeit it was now well nigh water-logged, (none being left on board save the princess and her women, who all, overcome by the tempestuous sea and by fear, lay about the decks as they were dead,) it stranded upon a beach of the island of Majorca and such and so great was the shock that it well nigh buried itself in the sand some stone's cast from the shore, where it abode the night, beaten by the waves, nor might the wind avail to stir it more. Broad day came and the tempest somewhat abating, the princess, who was half dead, raised her head and weak as she was, fell to calling now one, now another of her household, but to no purpose, for that those she called were too far distant. Finding herself unanswered of any and seeing no one, she marvelled exceedingly and began to be sore afraid; then, rising up, as best she might, she saw the ladies who were in her company and the other women lying all about and trying now one and now another, found few who gave any signs of life, the most of them being dead what with sore travail of the stomach and what with affright; wherefore fear redoubled upon her. Nevertheless, necessity constraining her, for that she saw herself alone there and had neither knowledge nor inkling where she was, she so goaded those who were yet alive that she made them arise and finding them unknowing whither the men were gone and seeing the ship stranded and full of water, she fell to weeping piteously, together with them. It was noon ere they saw any about the shore or elsewhere, whom they might move to pity and succour them; but about that hour there passed by a gentleman, by name Pericone da Visalgo, returning by chance from a place of his, with sundry of his servants on horseback. He saw the ship and forthright conceiving what it was, bade one of the servants board it without delay and tell him what he found there. The man, though with difficulty, made his way on board and found the young lady, with what little company she had, crouched, all adread, under the heel of the bowsprit. When they saw him, they besought him, weeping, of mercy again and again; but, perceiving that he understood them not nor they him, they made shift to make known to him their misadventure by signs. The servant having examined everything as best he might, reported to Pericone that which was on board; whereupon the latter promptly caused to bring the ladies ashore, together with the most precious things that were in the ship and might be gotten, and carried them off to a castle of his, where, the women being refreshed with food and rest, he perceived, from the richness of her apparel, that the lady whom he had found must needs be some great gentlewoman, and of this he was speedily certified by the honour that he saw the others do her and her alone; and although she was pale and sore disordered of her person, for the fatigues of the voyage, her features seemed to him exceeding fair; wherefore he forthright took counsel with himself, an she had no husband, to seek to have her to wife, and if he might not have her in marriage, to make shift to have her favours. He was a man of commanding presence and exceeding robust and having for some days let tend the lady excellently well and she being thereby altogether restored, he saw her lovely past all conception and was grieved beyond measure that he could not understand her nor she him and so he might not learn who she was. Nevertheless, being inordinately inflamed by her charms, he studied, with pleasing and amorous gestures, to engage her to do his pleasure without contention; but to no avail; she altogether rejected his advances and so much the more waxed Pericone's ardour. The lady, seeing this and having now abidden there some days, perceived, by the usances of the folk, that she was among Christians and in a country where, even if she could, it had little profited her to make herself known and foresaw that, in the end, either perforce or for love, needs must she resign herself to do Pericone's pleasure, but resolved nevertheless by dint of magnanimity to override the wretchedness of her fortune; wherefore she commanded her women, of whom but three were left her, that they should never discover to any who she was, except they found themselves whereas they might look for manifest furtherance in the regaining of their liberty, and urgently exhorted them, moreover, to preserve their chastity, avouching herself determined that none, save her husband, should ever enjoy her. They commended her for this and promised to observe her commandment to the best of their power. Meanwhile Pericone, waxing daily more inflamed, insomuch as he saw the thing desired so near and yet so straitly denied, and seeing that his blandishments availed him nothing, resolved to employ craft and artifice, reserving force unto the last. Wherefore, having observed bytimes that wine was pleasing to the lady, as being unused to drink thereof, for that her law forbade it, he bethought himself that he might avail to take her with this, as with a minister of enus. Accordingly, feigning to reck no more of that whereof she showed herself so chary, he made one night by way of special festival a goodly supper, whereto he bade the lady, and therein, the repast being gladdened with many things, he took order with him who served her that he should give her to drink of various wines mingled. The cupbearer did his bidding punctually and she, being nowise on her guard against this and allured by the pleasantness of the drink, took more thereof than consisted with her modesty; whereupon, forgetting all her past troubles, she waxed merry and seeing some women dance after the fashion of Majorca, herself danced in the Alexandrian manner. Pericone, seeing this, deemed himself on the high road to that which he desired and continuing the supper with great plenty of meats and wines, protracted it far into the night. Ultimately, the guests having departed, he entered with the lady alone into her chamber, where she, more heated with wine than restrained by modesty, without any reserve of shamefastness, undid herself in his presence, as he had been one of her women, and betook herself to bed. Pericone was not slow to follow her, but, putting out all the lights, promptly hid himself beside her and catching her in his arms, proceeded, without any gainsayal on her part, amorously to solace himself with her; which when once she had felt,--having never theretofore known with what manner horn men butt,--as if repenting her of not having yielded to Pericone's solicitations, thenceforth, without waiting to be bidden to such agreeable nights, she oftentimes invited herself thereto, not by words, which she knew not how to make understood, but by deeds. But, in the midst of this great pleasance of Pericone and herself, fortune, not content with having reduced her from a king's bride to be the mistress of a country gentleman, had foreordained unto her a more barbarous alliance. Pericone had a brother by name Marato, five-and-twenty years of age and fair and fresh as a rose, who saw her and she pleased him mightily. Himseemed, moreover, according to that which he could apprehend from her gestures, that he was very well seen of her and conceiving that nought hindered him of that which he craved of her save the strait watch kept on her by Pericone, he fell into a barbarous thought, whereon the nefarious effect followed without delay. There was then, by chance, in the harbour of the city a vessel laden with merchandise and bound for Chiarenza[116] in Roumelia; whereof two young Genoese were masters, who had already hoisted sail to depart as soon as the wind should be fair. Marato, having agreed with them, took order how he should on the ensuing night be received aboard their ship with the lady; and this done, as soon as it was dark, having inwardly determined what he should do, he secretly betook himself, with certain of his trustiest friends, whom he had enlisted for the purpose, to the house of Pericone, who nowise mistrusted him. There he hid himself, according to the ordinance appointed between them, and after a part of the night had passed, he admitted his companions and repaired with them to the chamber where Pericone lay with the lady. Having opened the door, they slew Pericone, as he slept, and took the lady, who was now awake and in tears, threatening her with death, if she made any outcry; after which they made off, unobserved, with great part of Pericone's most precious things and betook themselves in haste to the sea-shore, where Marato and the lady embarked without delay on board the ship, whilst his companions returned whence they came. [Footnote 116: The modern Klarentza in the north-west of the Morea, which latter province formed part of Roumelia under the Turkish domination.] The sailors, having a fair wind and a fresh, made sail and set out on their voyage, whilst the princess sore and bitterly bewailed both her former and that her second misadventure; but Marato, with that Saint Waxeth-in-hand, which God hath given us [men,] proceeded to comfort her after such a fashion that she soon grew familiar with him and forgetting Pericone, began to feel at her ease, when fortune, as if not content with the past tribulations wherewith it had visited her, prepared her a new affliction; for that, she being, as we have already more than once said, exceeding fair of favour and of very engaging manners, the two young men, the masters of the ship, became so passionately enamoured of her that, forgetting all else, they studied only to serve and pleasure her, being still on their guard lest Marato should get wind of the cause. Each becoming aware of the other's passion, they privily took counsel together thereof, and agreed to join in getting the lady for themselves and enjoy her in common, as if love should suffer this, as do merchandise and gain. Seeing her straitly guarded by Marato and being thereby hindered of their purpose, one day, as the ship fared on at full speed under sail and Marato stood at the poop, looking out on the sea and nowise on his guard against them, they went of one accord and laying hold of him suddenly from behind, cast him into the sea, nor was it till they had sailed more than a mile farther that any perceived Marato to be fallen overboard. Alatiel, hearing this and seeing no possible way of recovering him, began anew to make moan for herself; whereupon the two lovers came incontinent to her succour and with soft words and very good promises, whereof she understood but little, studied to soothe and console the lady, who lamented not so much her lost husband as her own ill fortune. After holding much discourse with her at one time and another, themseeming after awhile they had well nigh comforted her, they came to words with one another which should first take her to lie with him. Each would fain be the first and being unable to come to any accord upon this, they first with words began a sore and hot dispute and thereby kindled into rage, they clapped hands to their knives and falling furiously on one another, before those on board could part them, dealt each other several blows, whereof one incontinent fell dead, whilst the other abode on life, though grievously wounded in many places. This new mishap was sore unpleasing to the lady, who saw herself alone, without aid or counsel of any, and feared lest the anger of the two masters' kinsfolk and friends should revert upon herself; but the prayers of the wounded man and their speedy arrival at Chiarenza delivered her from danger of death. There she went ashore with the wounded man and took up her abode with him in an inn, where the report of her great beauty soon spread through the city and came to the ears of the Prince of the Morea, who was then at Chiarenza and was fain to see her. Having gotten sight of her and himseeming she was fairer than report gave out, he straightway became so sore enamoured of her that he could think of nothing else and hearing how she came thither, doubted not to be able to get her for himself. As he cast about for a means of effecting his purpose, the wounded man's kinsfolk got wind of his desire and without awaiting more, sent her to him forthright, which was mighty agreeable to the prince and to the lady also, for that herseemed she was quit of a great peril. The prince, seeing her graced, over and above her beauty, with royal manners and unable otherwise to learn who she was, concluded her to be some noble lady, wherefore he redoubled in his love for her and holding her in exceeding honour, entreated her not as a mistress, but as his very wife. The lady, accordingly, having regard to her past troubles and herseeming she was well enough bestowed, was altogether comforted and waxing blithe again, her beauties flourished on such wise that it seemed all Roumelia could talk of nothing else. The report of her loveliness reaching the Duke of Athens, who was young and handsome and doughty of his person and a friend and kinsman of the prince, he was taken with a desire to see her and making a show of paying him a visit, as he was wont bytimes to do, repaired, with a fair and worshipful company, to Chiarenza, where he was honourably received and sumptuously entertained. Some days after, the two kinsmen coming to discourse together of the lady's charms, the duke asked if she were indeed so admirable a creature as was reported; to which the prince answered, 'Much more so; but thereof I will have not my words, but thine own eyes certify thee.' Accordingly, at the duke's solicitation, they betook themselves together to the princess's lodging, who, having had notice of their coming, received them very courteously and with a cheerful favour, and they seated her between them, but might not have the pleasure of conversing with her, for that she understood little or nothing of their language; wherefore each contented himself with gazing upon her, as upon a marvel, and especially the duke, who could scarce bring himself to believe that she was a mortal creature and thinking to satisfy his desire with her sight, heedless of the amorous poison he drank in at his eyes, beholding her, he miserably ensnared himself, becoming most ardently enamoured of her. After he had departed her presence with the prince and had leisure to bethink himself, he esteemed his kinsman happy beyond all others in having so fair a creature at his pleasure, and after many and various thoughts, his unruly passion weighing more with him than his honour, he resolved, come thereof what might, to do his utmost endeavour to despoil the prince of that felicity and bless himself therewith. Accordingly, being minded to make a quick despatch of the matter and setting aside all reason and all equity, he turned his every thought to the devising of means for the attainment of his wishes, and one day, in accordance with the nefarious ordinance taken by him with a privy chamberlain of the prince's, by name Ciuriaci, he let make ready in secret his horses and baggage for a sudden departure. The night come, he was, with a companion, both armed, stealthily introduced by the aforesaid Ciuriaci into the prince's chamber and saw the latter (the lady being asleep) standing, all naked for the great heat, at a window overlooking the sea-shore, to take a little breeze that came from that quarter; whereupon, having beforehand informed his companion of that which he had to do, he went softly up to the window and striking the prince with a knife, stabbed him, through and through the small of his back; then, taking him up in haste, he cast him forth of the window. The palace stood over against the sea and was very lofty and the window in question looked upon certain houses that had been undermined by the beating of the waves and where seldom or never any came; wherefore it happened, as the duke had foreseen, that the fall of the prince's body was not nor might be heard of any. The duke's companion, seeing this done, pulled out a halter he had brought with him to that end and making a show of caressing Ciuriaci, cast it adroitly about his neck and drew it so that he could make no outcry; then, the duke coming up, they strangled him and cast him whereas they had cast the prince. This done and they being manifestly certified that they had been unheard of the lady or of any other, the duke took a light in his hand and carrying it to the bedside, softly uncovered the princess, who slept fast. He considered her from head to foot and mightily commended her; for, if she was to his liking, being clothed, she pleased him, naked, beyond all compare. Wherefore, fired with hotter desire and unawed by his new-committed crime, he couched himself by her side, with hands yet bloody, and lay with her, all sleepy-eyed as she was and thinking him to be the prince. After he had abidden with her awhile in the utmost pleasure, he arose and summoning certain of his companions, caused take up the lady on such wise that she could make no outcry and carry her forth by a privy door, whereat he had entered; then, setting her on horseback, he took to the road with all his men, as softliest he might, and returned to his own dominions. However (for that he had a wife) he carried the lady, who was the most distressful of women, not to Athens, but to a very goodly place he had by the sea, a little without the city, and there entertained her in secret, causing honourably furnish her with all that was needful. The prince's courtiers on the morrow awaited his rising till none, when, hearing nothing, they opened the chamber-doors, which were but closed, and finding no one, concluded that he was gone somewhither privily, to pass some days there at his ease with his fair lady, and gave themselves no farther concern. Things being thus, it chanced next day that an idiot, entering the ruins where lay the bodies of the prince and Ciuriaci, dragged the latter forth by the halter and went haling him after him. The body was, with no little wonderment, recognized by many, who, coaxing the idiot to bring them to the place whence he had dragged it, there, to the exceeding grief of the whole city, found the prince's corpse and gave it honourable burial. Then, enquiring for the authors of so heinous a crime and finding that the Duke of Athens was no longer there, but had departed by stealth, they concluded, even as was the case, that it must be he who had done this and carried off the lady; whereupon they straightway substituted a brother of the dead man to their prince and incited him with all their might to vengeance. The new prince, being presently certified by various other circumstances that it was as they had surmised, summoned his friends and kinsmen and servants from divers parts and promptly levying a great and goodly and powerful army, set out to make war upon the Duke of Athens. The latter, hearing of this, on like wise mustered all his forces for his own defence, and to his aid came many lords, amongst whom the Emperor of Constantinople sent Constantine his son and Manual his nephew, with a great and goodly following. The two princes were honourably received by the duke and yet more so by the duchess, for that she was their sister,[117] and matters drawing thus daily nearer unto war, taking her occasion, she sent for them both one day to her chamber and there, with tears galore and many words, related to them the whole story, acquainting them with the causes of the war. Moreover, she discovered to them the affront done her by the duke in the matter of the woman whom it was believed he privily entertained, and complaining sore thereof, besought them to apply to the matter such remedy as best they might, for the honour of the duke and her own solacement. [Footnote 117: _i.e._ sister to the one and cousin to the other.] The young men already knew all the facts as it had been; wherefore, without enquiring farther, they comforted the duchess, as best they might, and filled her with good hope. Then, having learned from her where the lady abode, they took their leave and having a mind to see the latter, for that they had oftentimes heard her commended for marvellous beauty, they besought the duke to show her to them. He, unmindful of that which had befallen the Prince of the Morea for having shown her to himself, promised to do this and accordingly next morning, having let prepare a magnificent collation in a very goodly garden that pertained to the lady's place of abode, he carried them and a few others thither to eat with her. Constantine, sitting with Alatiel, fell a-gazing upon her, full of wonderment, avouching in himself that he had never seen aught so lovely and that certes the duke must needs be held excused, ay, and whatsoever other, to have so fair a creature, should do treason or other foul thing, and looking on her again and again and each time admiring her more, it betided him no otherwise than it had betided the duke; wherefore, taking his leave, enamoured of her, he abandoned all thought of the war and occupied himself with considering how he might take her from the duke, carefully concealing his passion the while from every one. Whilst he yet burnt in this fire, the time came to go out against the new prince, who now drew near to the duke's territories; wherefore the latter and Constantine and all the others, sallied forth of Athens according to the given ordinance and betook themselves to the defence of certain frontiers, so the prince might not avail to advance farther. When they had lain there some days, Constantine having his mind and thought still intent upon the lady and conceiving that, now the duke was no longer near her, he might very well avail to accomplish his pleasure, feigned himself sore indisposed of his person, to have an occasion of returning to Athens; wherefore, with the duke's leave, committing his whole power to Manuel, he returned to Athens to his sister, and there, after some days, putting her upon talk of the affront which herseemed she suffered from the duke by reason of the lady whom he entertained, he told her that, an it liked her, he would soon ease her thereof by causing take the lady from whereas she was and carry her off. The duchess, conceiving that he did this of regard for herself and not for love of the lady, answered that it liked her exceeding well so but it might be done on such wise that the duke should never know that she had been party thereto, which Constantine fully promised her, and thereupon she consented that he should do as seemed best to him. Constantine, accordingly, let secretly equip a light vessel and sent it one evening to the neighbourhood of the garden where the lady abode; then, having taught certain of his men who were on board what they had to do, he repaired with others to the lady's pavilion, where he was cheerfully received by those in her service and indeed by the lady herself, who, at his instance, betook herself with him to the garden, attended by her servitors and his companions. There, making as he would speak with her on the duke's part, he went with her alone towards a gate, which gave upon the sea and had already been opened by one of his men, and calling the bark thither with the given signal, he caused suddenly seize the lady and carry her aboard; then, turning to her people, he said to them, 'Let none stir or utter a word, an he would not die; for that I purpose not to rob the duke of his wench, but to do away the affront which he putteth upon my sister.' To this none dared make answer; whereupon Constantine, embarking with his people and seating himself by the side of the weeping lady, bade thrust the oars into the water and make off. Accordingly, they put out to sea and not hieing, but flying,[118] came, after a little after daybreak on the morrow, to Egina, where they landed and took rest, whilst Constantine solaced himself awhile with the lady, who bemoaned her ill-fated beauty. Thence, going aboard the bark again, they made their way, in a few days, to Chios, where it pleased Constantine to take up his sojourn, as in a place of safety, for fear of his father's resentment and lest the stolen lady should be taken from him. There the fair lady bewailed her ill fate some days, but, being presently comforted by Constantine, she began, as she had done otherwhiles, to take her pleasure of that which fortune had foreordained to her. [Footnote 118: _Non vogando, ma volando._] Things being at this pass, Osbech, King of the Turks, who abode in continual war with the Emperor, came by chance to Smyrna, where hearing how Constantine abode in Chios, without any precaution, leading a wanton life with a mistress of his, whom he had stolen away, he repaired thither one night with some light-armed ships and entering the city by stealth with some of his people, took many in their beds, ere they knew of the enemy's coming. Some, who, taking the alert, had run to arms, he slew and having burnt the whole place, carried the booty and captives on board the ships and returned to Smyrna. When they arrived there, Osbech, who was a young man, passing his prisoners in review, found the fair lady among them and knowing her for her who had been taken with Constantine asleep in bed, was mightily rejoiced at sight of her. Accordingly, he made her his wife without delay, and celebrating the nuptials forthright, lay with her some months in all joyance. Meanwhile, the Emperor, who had, before these things came to pass, been in treaty with Bassano, King of Cappadocia, to the end that he should come down upon Osbech from one side with his power, whilst himself assailed him on the other, but had not yet been able to come to a full accord with him, for that he was unwilling to grant certain things which Bassano demanded and which he deemed unreasonable, hearing what had betided his son and chagrined beyond measure thereat, without hesitating farther, did that which the King of Cappadocia asked and pressed him as most he might to fall upon Osbech, whilst himself made ready to come down upon him from another quarter. Osbech, hearing this, assembled his army, ere he should be straitened between two such puissant princes, and marched against Bassano, leaving his fair lady at Smyrna, in charge of a trusty servant and friend of his. After some time he encountered the King of Cappadocia and giving him battle, was slain in the mellay and his army discomfited and dispersed; whereupon Bassano advanced in triumph towards Smyrna, unopposed, and all the folk submitted to him by the way, as to a conqueror. Meanwhile, Osbech's servant, Antiochus by name, in whose charge the lady had been left, seeing her so fair, forgot his plighted faith to his friend and master and became enamoured of her, for all he was a man in years. Urged by love and knowing her tongue (the which was mighty agreeable to her, as well as it might be to one whom it had behoved for some years live as she were deaf and dumb, for that she understood none neither was understanded of any) he began, in a few days, to be so familiar with her that, ere long, having no regard to their lord and master who was absent in the field, they passed from friendly commerce to amorous privacy, taking marvellous pleasure one of the other between the sheets. When they heard that Osbech was defeated and slain and that Bassano came carrying all before him, they took counsel together not to await him there and laying hands on great part of the things of most price that were there pertaining to Osbech, gat them privily to Rhodes, where they had not long abidden ere Antiochus sickened unto death. As chance would have it, there was then in lodging with him a merchant of Cyprus, who was much loved of him and his fast friend, and Antiochus, feeling himself draw to his end, bethought himself to leave him both his possessions and his beloved lady; wherefore, being now nigh upon death, he called them both to him and bespoke them thus, 'I feel myself, without a doubt, passing away, which grieveth me, for that never had I such delight in life as I presently have. Of one thing, indeed, I die most content, in that, since I must e'en die, I see myself die in the arms of those twain whom I love over all others that be in the world, to wit, in thine, dearest friend, and in those of this lady, whom I have loved more than mine own self, since first I knew her. True, it grieveth me to feel that, when I am dead, she will abide here a stranger, without aid or counsel; and it were yet more grievous to me, did I not know thee here, who wilt, I trust, have that same care of her, for the love of me, which thou wouldst have had of myself. Wherefore, I entreat thee, as most I may, if it come to pass that I die, that thou take my goods and her into thy charge and do with them and her that which thou deemest may be for the solacement of my soul. And thou, dearest lady, I prithee forget me not after my death, so I may vaunt me, in the other world, of being beloved here below of the fairest lady ever nature formed; of which two things an you will give me entire assurance, I shall depart without misgiving and comforted.' The merchant his friend and the lady, hearing these words, wept, and when he had made an end of his speech, they comforted him and promised him upon their troth to do that which he asked, if it came to pass that he died. He tarried not long, but presently departed this life and was honourably interred of them. A few days after, the merchant having despatched all his business in Rhodes and purposing to return to Cyprus on board a Catalan carrack that was there, asked the fair lady what she had a mind to do, for that it behoved him return to Cyprus. She answered that, an it pleased him, she would gladly go with him, hoping for Antiochus his love to be of him entreated and regarded as a sister. The merchant replied that he was content to do her every pleasure, and the better to defend her from any affront that might be offered her, ere they came to Cyprus, he avouched that she was his wife. Accordingly, they embarked on board the ship and were given a little cabin on the poop, where, that the fact might not belie his words, he lay with her in one very small bed. Whereby there came about that which was not intended of the one or the other of them at departing Rhodes, to wit, that--darkness and commodity and the heat of the bed, matters of no small potency, inciting them,--drawn by equal appetite and forgetting both the friendship and the love of Antiochus dead, they fell to dallying with each other and before they reached Baffa, whence the Cypriot came, they had clapped up an alliance together. At Baffa she abode some time with the merchant till, as chance would have it, there came thither, for his occasions, a gentleman by name Antigonus, great of years and greater yet of wit, but little of wealth, for that, intermeddling in the affairs of the King of Cyprus, fortune had in many things been contrary to him. Chancing one day to pass by the house where the fair lady dwelt with the merchant, who was then gone with his merchandise into Armenia, he espied her at a window and seeing her very beautiful, fell to gazing fixedly upon her and presently began to recollect that he must have seen her otherwhere, but where he could on no wise call to mind. As for the lady, who had long been the sport of fortune, but the term of whose ills was now drawing near, she no sooner set eyes on Antigonus than she remembered to have seen him at Alexandria in no mean station in her father's service; wherefore, conceiving a sudden hope of yet by his aid regaining her royal estate, and knowing her merchant to be abroad, she let call him to her as quickliest she might and asked him, blushing, an he were not, as she supposed, Antigonus of Famagosta. He answered that he was and added, 'Madam, meseemeth I know you, but on no wise can I remember me where I have seen you; wherefore I pray you, an it mislike you not, put me in mind who you are.' The lady hearing that it was indeed he, to his great amazement, cast her arms about his neck, weeping sore, and presently asked him if he had never seen her in Alexandria. Antigonus, hearing this, incontinent knew her for the Soldan's daughter Alatiel, who was thought to have perished at sea, and would fain have paid her the homage due to her quality; but she would on no wise suffer it and besought him to sit with her awhile. Accordingly, seating himself beside her, he asked her respectfully how and when and whence she came thither, seeing that it was had for certain, through all the land of Egypt, that she had been drowned at sea years agone. 'Would God,' replied she, 'it had been so, rather than that I should have had the life I have had; and I doubt not but my father would wish the like, if ever he came to know it.' So saying, she fell anew to weeping wonder-sore; whereupon quoth Antigonus to her, 'Madam, despair not ere it behove you; but, an it please you, relate to me your adventures and what manner of life yours hath been; it may be the matter hath gone on such wise that, with God's aid, we may avail to find an effectual remedy.' 'Antigonus,' answered the fair lady, 'when I beheld thee, meseemed I saw my father, and moved by that love and tenderness, which I am bounden to bear him, I discovered myself to thee, having it in my power to conceal myself from thee, and few persons could it have befallen me to look upon in whom I could have been so well-pleased as I am to have seen and known thee before any other; wherefore that which in my ill fortune I have still kept hidden, to thee, as to a father, I will discover. If, after thou hast heard it, thou see any means of restoring me to my pristine estate, prithee use it; but, if thou see none, I beseech thee never tell any that thou hast seen me or heard aught of me.' This said, she recounted to him, still weeping, that which had befallen her from the time of her shipwreck on Majorca up to that moment; whereupon he fell a-weeping for pity and after considering awhile, 'Madam,' said he, 'since in your misfortunes it hath been hidden who you are, I will, without fail, restore you, dearer than ever, to your father and after to the King of Algarve to wife.' Being questioned of her of the means, he showed her orderly that which was to do, and lest any hindrance should betide through delay, he presently returned to Famagosta and going in to the king, said to him, 'My lord, an it like you, you have it in your power at once to do yourself exceeding honour and me, who am poor through you, a great service, at no great cost of yours.' The king asked how and Antigonus replied, 'There is come to Baffa the Soldan's fair young daughter, who hath so long been reputed drowned and who, to save her honour, hath long suffered very great unease and is presently in poor case and would fain return to her father. An it pleased you send her to him under my guard, it would be much to your honour and to my weal, nor do I believe that such a service would ever be forgotten of the Soldan.' The king, moved by a royal generosity of mind, answered forthright that he would well and sending for Alatiel, brought her with all honour and worship to Famagosta, where she was received by himself and the queen with inexpressible rejoicing and entertained with magnificent hospitality. Being presently questioned of the king and queen of her adventures, she answered according to the instructions given her by Antigonus and related everything;[119] and a few days after, at her request, the king sent her, under the governance of Antigonus, with a goodly and worshipful company of men and women, back to the Soldan, of whom let none ask if she was received with rejoicing, as also was Antigonus and all her company. [Footnote 119: Sic (_contò tutto_); but this is an oversight of the author's, as it is evident from what follows that she did _not_ relate everything.] As soon as she was somewhat rested, the Soldan desired to know how it chanced that she was yet alive and where she had so long abidden, without having ever let him know aught of her condition; whereupon the lady, who had kept Antigonus his instructions perfectly in mind, bespoke him thus, 'Father mine, belike the twentieth day after my departure from you, our ship, having sprung a leak in a terrible storm, struck in the night upon certain coasts yonder in the West,[120] near a place called Aguamorta, and what became of the men who were aboard I know not nor could ever learn; this much only do I remember that, the day come and I arisen as it were from death to life, the shattered vessel was espied of the country people, who ran from all the parts around to plunder it. I and two of my women were first set ashore and the latter were incontinent seized by certain of the young men, who fled with them, one this way and the other that, and what came of them I never knew. [Footnote 120: Lit. Ponant (_Ponente_), _i.e._ the Western coasts of the Mediterranean, as opposed to the Eastern or Levant.] As for myself, I was taken, despite my resistance, by two young men, and haled along by the hair, weeping sore the while; but, as they crossed over a road, to enter a great wood, there passed by four men on horseback, whom when my ravishers saw, they loosed me forthwith and took to flight. The new comers, who seemed to me persons of great authority, seeing this, ran where I was and asked me many questions; whereto I answered much, but neither understood nor was understanded of them. However, after long consultation they set me on one of their horses and carried me to a convent of women vowed to religion, according to their law, where, whatever they said, I was of all the ladies kindly received and still entreated with honour, and there with great devotion I joined them in serving Saint Waxeth-in-Deepdene, a saint for whom the women of that country have a vast regard. After I had abidden with them awhile and learned somewhat of their language, they questioned me of who I was and fearing, an I told the truth, to be expelled from amongst them, as an enemy of their faith, I answered that I was the daughter of a great gentleman of Cyprus, who was sending me to be married in Crete, when, as ill-luck would have it, we had run thither and suffered shipwreck. Moreover, many a time and in many things I observed their customs, for fear of worse, and being asked by the chief of the ladies, her whom they call abbess, if I wished to return thence to Cyprus, I answered that I desired nothing so much; but she, tender of my honour, would never consent to trust me to any person who was bound for Cyprus, till some two months agone, when there came thither certain gentlemen of France with their ladies. One of the latter being a kinswoman of the abbess and she hearing that they were bound for Jerusalem, to visit the Sepulchre where He whom they hold God was buried, after He had been slain by the Jews, she commended me to their care and besought them to deliver me to my father in Cyprus. With what honour these gentlemen entreated me and how cheerfully they received me together with their ladies, it were a long story to tell; suffice it to say that we took ship and came, after some days, to Baffa, where finding myself arrived and knowing none in the place, I knew not what to say to the gentlemen, who would fain have delivered me to my father, according to that which had been enjoined them of the reverend lady; but God, taking pity belike on my affliction, brought me Antigonus upon the beach what time we disembarked at Baffa, whom I straightway hailed and in our tongue, so as not to be understood of the gentlemen and their ladies, bade him receive me as a daughter. He promptly apprehended me and receiving me with a great show of joy, entertained the gentlemen and their ladies with such honour as his poverty permitted and carried me to the King of Cyprus, who received me with such hospitality and hath sent me back to you [with such courtesy] as might never be told of me. If aught remain to be said, let Antigonus, who hath ofttimes heard from me these adventures, recount it.' Accordingly Antigonus, turning to the Soldan, said, 'My lord, even as she hath many a time told me and as the gentlemen and ladies, with whom she came, said to me, so hath she recounted unto you. Only one part hath she forborne to tell you, the which methinketh she left unsaid for that it beseemeth her not to tell it, to wit, how much the gentlemen and ladies, with whom she came, said of the chaste and modest life which she led with the religious ladies and of her virtue and commendable manners and the tears and lamentations of her companions, both men and women, when, having restored her to me, they took leave of her. Of which things were I fain to tell in full that which they said to me, not only this present day, but the ensuing night would not suffice unto us; be it enough to say only that (according to that which their words attested and that also which I have been able to see thereof,) you may vaunt yourself of having the fairest daughter and the chastest and most virtuous of any prince that nowadays weareth a crown.' The Soldan was beyond measure rejoiced at these things and besought God again and again to vouchsafe him of His grace the power of worthily requiting all who had succoured his daughter and especially the King of Cyprus, by whom she had been sent back to him with honour. After some days, having caused prepare great gifts for Antigonus, he gave him leave to return to Cyprus and rendered, both by letters and by special ambassadors, the utmost thanks to the king for that which he had done with his daughter. Then desiring that that which was begun should have effect, to wit, that she should be the wife of the King of Algarve, he acquainted the latter with the whole matter and wrote to him to boot, that, an it pleased him have her, he should send for her. The King of Algarve was mightily rejoiced at this news and sending for her in state, received her joyfully; and she, who had lain with eight men belike ten thousand times, was put to bed to him for a maid and making him believe that she was so, lived happily with him as his queen awhile after; wherefore it was said, 'Lips for kissing forfeit no favour; nay, they renew as the moon doth ever.'" THE EIGHTH STORY [Day the Second] THE COUNT OF ANTWERP, BEING FALSELY ACCUSED, GOETH INTO EXILE AND LEAVETH HIS TWO CHILDREN IN DIFFERENT PLACES IN ENGLAND, WHITHER, AFTER AWHILE, RETURNING IN DISGUISE AND FINDING THEM IN GOOD CASE, HE TAKETH SERVICE AS A HORSEBOY IN THE SERVICE OF THE KING OF FRANCE AND BEING APPROVED INNOCENT, IS RESTORED TO HIS FORMER ESTATE The ladies sighed amain over the fortunes of the fair Saracen; but who knoweth what gave rise to those sighs? Maybe there were some of them who sighed no less for envy of such frequent nuptials than for pity of Alatiel. But, leaving that be for the present, after they had laughed at Pamfilo's last words, the queen, seeing his story ended, turned to Elisa and bade her follow on with one of hers. Elisa cheerfully obeyed and began as follows: "A most ample field is that wherein we go to-day a-ranging, nor is there any of us but could lightly enough run, not one, but half a score courses there, so abounding hath Fortune made it in her strange and grievous chances; wherefore, to come to tell of one of these latter, which are innumerable, I say that: When the Roman Empire was transferred from the French to the Germans,[121] there arose between the one and the other nation an exceeding great enmity and a grievous and continual war, by reason whereof, as well for the defence of their own country as for the offence of that of others, the King of France and a son of his, with all the power of their realm and of such friends and kinsfolk as they could command, levied a mighty army to go forth upon the foe; and ere they proceeded thereunto,--not to leave the realm without governance,--knowing Gautier, Count of Antwerp,[122] for a noble and discreet gentleman and their very faithful friend and servant, and for that (albeit he was well versed in the art of war) he seemed to them more apt unto things delicate than unto martial toils, they left him vicar general in their stead over all the governance of the realm of France and went on their way. Gautier accordingly addressed himself with both order and discretion to the office committed unto him, still conferring of everything with the queen and her daughter-in-law, whom, for all they were left under his custody and jurisdiction, he honoured none the less as his liege ladies and mistresses. [Footnote 121: _i.e._ A.D. 912, when, upon the death of Louis III, the last prince of the Carlovingian race, Conrad, Duke of Franconia, was elected Emperor and the Empire, which had till then been hereditary in the descendants of Charlemagne, became elective and remained thenceforth in German hands.] [Footnote 122: _Anguersa_, the old form of _Anversa_, Antwerp. All versions that I have seen call Gautier Comte d'_Angers_ or _Angiers_, the translators, who forgot or were unaware that Antwerp, as part of Flanders, was then a fief of the French crown, apparently taking it for granted that the mention of the latter city was in error and substituting the name of the ancient capital of Anjou on their own responsibility.] Now this Gautier was exceedingly goodly of his body, being maybe forty years old and as agreeable and well-mannered a gentleman as might be; and withal, he was the sprightliest and daintiest cavalier known in those days and he who went most adorned of his person. His countess was dead, leaving him two little children, a boy and a girl, without more, and it befell that, the King of France and his son being at the war aforesaid and Gautier using much at the court of the aforesaid ladies and speaking often with them of the affairs of the kingdom, the wife of the king's son cast her eyes on him and considering his person and his manners with very great affection, was secretly fired with a fervent love for him. Feeling herself young and lusty and knowing him wifeless, she doubted not but her desire might lightly be accomplished unto her and thinking nought hindered her thereof but shamefastness, she bethought herself altogether to put that away and discover to him her passion. Accordingly, being one day alone and it seeming to her time, she sent for him into her chamber, as though she would discourse with him of other matters. The count, whose thought was far from that of the lady, betook himself to her without any delay and at her bidding, seated himself by her side on a couch; then, they being alone together, he twice asked her the occasion for which she had caused him come thither; but she made him no reply. At last, urged by love and grown all vermeil for shame, well nigh in tears and all trembling, with broken speech she thus began to say: 'Dearest and sweet friend and my lord, you may easily as a man of understanding apprehend how great is the frailty both of men and of women, and that more, for divers reasons, in one than in another; wherefore, at the hands of a just judge, the same sin in diverse kinds of qualities of persons should not in equity receive one same punishment. And who is there will deny that a poor man or a poor woman, whom it behoveth gain with their toil that which is needful for their livelihood, would, an they were stricken with Love's smart and followed after him, be far more blameworthy than a lady who is rich and idle and to whom nothing is lacking that can flatter her desires? Certes, I believe, no one. For which reason methinketh the things aforesaid [to wit, wealth and leisure and luxurious living] should furnish forth a very great measure of excuse on behalf of her who possesseth them, if, peradventure, she suffer herself lapse into loving, and the having made choice of a lover of worth and discretion should stand for the rest,[123] if she who loveth hath done that. These circumstances being both, to my seeming, in myself (beside several others which should move me to love, such as my youth and the absence of my husband), it behoveth now that they rise up in my behalf for the defence of my ardent love in your sight, wherein if they avail that which they should avail in the eyes of men of understanding, I pray you afford me counsel and succour in that which I shall ask of you. True is it, that availing not, for the absence of my husband, to withstand the pricks of the flesh nor the might of love-liking, the which are of such potency that they have erst many a time overcome and yet all days long overcome the strongest men, to say nothing of weak women,--and enjoying the commodities and the leisures wherein you see me, I have suffered myself lapse into ensuing Love his pleasures and becoming enamoured; the which,--albeit, were it known, I acknowledge it would not be seemly, yet,--being and abiding hidden, I hold[124] well nigh nothing unseemly; more by token that Love hath been insomuch gracious to me that not only hath he not bereft me of due discernment in the choice of a lover, but hath lent me great plenty thereof[125] to that end, showing me yourself worthy to be loved of a lady such as I,--you whom, if my fancy beguile me not, I hold the goodliest, the most agreeable, the sprightliest and the most accomplished cavalier that may be found in all the realm of France; and even as I may say that I find myself without a husband, so likewise are you without a wife. Wherefore, I pray you, by the great love which I bear you, that you deny me not your love in return, but have compassion on my youth, the which, in very deed, consumeth for you, as ice before the fire.' [Footnote 123: _i.e._ of her excuse.] [Footnote 124: Lit. Thou holdest (or judges); but _giudichi_ in the text is apparently a mistake for _giudico_.] [Footnote 125: _i.e._ of discernment.] With these words her tears welled up in such abundance that, albeit she would fain have proffered him yet other prayers, she had no power to speak farther, but, bowing her face, as if overcome, she let herself fall, weeping, her head on the count's bosom. The latter, who was a very loyal gentleman, began with the gravest reproofs to rebuke so fond a passion and to repel the princess, who would fain have cast herself on his neck, avouching to her with oaths that he had liefer be torn limb from limb than consent unto such an offence against his lord's honour, whether in himself or in another. The lady, hearing this, forthright forgot her love and kindling into a furious rage, said, 'Felon knight that you are, shall I be this wise flouted by you of my desire? Now God forbid, since you would have me die, but I have you put to death or driven from the world!' So saying, she set her hands to her tresses and altogether disordered and tore them; then, rending her raiment at the breast, she fell to crying aloud and saying, 'Help! Help! The Count of Antwerp would do me violence.' The count, seeing this, misdoubting far more the courtiers' envy than his own conscience and fearful lest, by reason of this same envy, more credence should be given to the lady's malice than to his own innocence, started up and departing the chamber and the palace as quickliest he might, fled to his own house, where, without taking other counsel, he set his children on horseback and mounting himself to horse, made off with them, as most he might, towards Calais. Meanwhile, many ran to the princess's clamour and seeing her in that plight and hearing [her account of] the cause of her outcry, not only gave credence to her words, but added[126] that the count's gallant bearing and debonair address had long been used by him to win to that end. Accordingly, they ran in a fury to his houses to arrest him, but finding him not, first plundered them all and after razed them to the foundations. The news, in its perverted shape, came presently to the army to the king and his son, who, sore incensed, doomed Gautier and his descendants to perpetual banishment, promising very great guerdons to whoso should deliver him to them alive or dead. [Footnote 126: Sic (_aggiunsero_); but _semble_ should mean "believed, in addition."] The count, woeful for that by his flight he had, innocent as he was, approved himself guilty, having, without making himself known or being recognized, reached Calais with his children, passed hastily over into England and betook himself in mean apparel to London, wherein ere he entered, with many words he lessoned his two little children, and especially in two things; first, that they should brook with patience the poor estate, whereunto, without their fault, fortune had brought them, together with himself,--and after, that with all wariness they should keep themselves from ever discovering unto any whence or whose children they were, as they held life dear. The boy, Louis by name, who was some nine and the girl, who was called Violante and was some seven years old, both, as far as their tender age comported, very well apprehended their father's lessons and showed it thereafter by deed. That this might be the better done,[127] he deemed it well to change their names; wherefore he named the boy Perrot and the girl Jeannette and all three, entering London, meanly clad, addressed themselves to go about asking alms, like as we see yonder French vagabonds do. [Footnote 127: _i.e._ That the secret might be the better kept.] They being on this account one morning at a church door, it chanced that a certain great lady, the wife of one of the king's marshals of England, coming forth of the church, saw the count and his two little ones asking alms and questioned him whence he was and if the children were his, to which he replied that he was from Picardy and that, by reason of the misfeasance of a rakehelly elder son of his, it had behoved him depart the country with these two, who were his. The lady, who was pitiful, cast her eyes on the girl and being much taken with her, for that she was handsome, well-mannered and engaging, said, 'Honest man, an thou be content to leave thy daughter with me, I will willingly take her, for that she hath a good favour, and if she prove an honest woman, I will in due time marry her on such wise that she shall fare well.' This offer was very pleasing to the count, who promptly answered, 'Yes,' and with tears gave up the girl to the lady, urgently commending her to her care. Having thus disposed of his daughter, well knowing to whom, he resolved to abide there no longer and accordingly, begging his way across the island, came, not without sore fatigue, as one who was unused to go afoot, into Wales. Here dwelt another of the king's marshals, who held great state and entertained a numerous household, and to his court both the count and his son whiles much resorted to get food. Certain sons of the said marshal and other gentlemen's children being there engaged in such boyish exercises as running and leaping, Perrot began to mingle with them and to do as dextrously as any of the rest, or more so, each feat that was practised among them. The marshal, chancing whiles to see this and being much taken with the manners and fashion of the boy, asked who he was and was told that he was the son of a poor man who came there bytimes for alms; whereupon he caused require him of the count, and the latter, who indeed besought God of nought else, freely resigned the boy to him, grievous as it was to him to be parted from him. Having thus provided his son and daughter, he determined to abide no longer in England and passing over into Ireland, made his way, as best he might, to Stamford, where he took service with a knight belonging to an earl of the country, doing all such things as pertain unto a lackey or a horseboy, and there, without being known of any, he abode a great while in unease and travail galore. Meanwhile Violante, called Jeannette, went waxing with the gentlewoman in London in years and person and beauty and was in such favour both with the lady and her husband and with every other of the house and whoso else knew her, that it was a marvellous thing to see; nor was there any who noted her manners and fashions but avouched her worthy of every greatest good and honour. Wherefore the noble lady who had received her from her father, without having ever availed to learn who he was, otherwise than as she had heard from himself, was purposed to marry her honourably according to that condition whereof she deemed her. But God, who is a just observer of folk's deserts, knowing her to be of noble birth and to bear, without fault, the penalty of another's sin, ordained otherwise, and fain must we believe that He of His benignity permitted that which came to pass to the end that the gentle damsel might not fall into the hands of a man of low estate. The noble lady with whom Jeannette dwelt had of her husband one only son, whom both she and his father loved with an exceeding love, both for that he was their child and that he deserved it by reason of his worth and virtues. He, being some six years older than Jeannette and seeing her exceeding fair and graceful, became so sore enamoured of her that he saw nought beyond her; yet, for that he deemed her to be of mean extraction, not only dared he not demand her of his father and mother to wife, but, fearing to be blamed for having set himself to love unworthily, he held his love, as most he might, hidden; wherefore it tormented him far more than if he had discovered it; and thus it came to pass that, for excess of chagrin, he fell sick and that grievously. Divers physicians were called in to medicine him, who, having noted one and another symptom of his case and being nevertheless unable to discover what ailed him, all with one accord despaired of his recovery; whereat the young man's father and mother suffered dolour and melancholy so great that greater might not be brooked, and many a time, with piteous prayers, they questioned him of the cause of his malady, whereto or sighs he gave for answer or replied that he felt himself all wasting away. It chanced one day that, what while a doctor, young enough, but exceedingly deeply versed in science, sat by him and held him by the arm in that part where leaches use to seek the pulse, Jeannette, who, of regard for his mother, tended him solicitously, entered, on some occasion or another, the chamber where the young man lay. When the latter saw her, without word said or gesture made, he felt the amorous ardour redouble in his heart, wherefore his pulse began to beat stronglier than of wont; the which the leach incontinent noted and marvelling, abode still to see how long this should last. As soon as Jeannette left the chamber, the beating abated, wherefore it seemed to the physician he had gotten impartment of the cause of the young man's ailment, and after waiting awhile, he let call Jeannette to him, as he would question her of somewhat, still holding the sick man by the arm. She came to him incontinent and no sooner did she enter than the beating of the youth's pulse returned and she being gone again, ceased. Thereupon, it seeming to the physician that he had full enough assurance, he rose and taking the young man's father and mother apart, said to them, 'The healing of your son is not in the succour of physicians, but abideth in the hands of Jeannette, whom, as I have by sure signs manifestly recognized, the young man ardently loveth, albeit, for all I can see, she is unaware thereof. You know now what you have to do, if his life be dear to you.' The gentleman and his lady, hearing this, were well pleased, inasmuch as some means was found for his recoverance, albeit it irked them sore that the means in question should be that whereof they misdoubted them, to wit, that they should give Jeannette to their son to wife. Accordingly, the physician being gone, they went into the sick man and the lady bespoke him thus: 'Son mine, I could never have believed that thou wouldst keep from me any desire of thine, especially seeing thyself pine away for lack thereof; for that thou shouldst have been and shouldst be assured that there is nought I can for thy contentment, were it even less than seemly, which I would not do as for myself. But, since thou hast e'en done this, God the Lord hath been more pitiful over thee than thou thyself and that thou mayst not die of this sickness, hath shown me the cause of thine ill, which is no otherwhat than excess of love for some damsel or other, whoever she may be; and this, indeed, thou needest not have thought shame to discover, for that thine age requireth it, and wert thou not enamoured, I should hold thee of very little account. Wherefore, my son, dissemble not with me, but in all security discover to me thine every desire and put away from thee the melancholy and the thought-taking which be upon thee and from which proceedeth this thy sickness and take comfort and be assured that there is nothing of that which thou mayst impose on me for thy satisfaction but I will do it to the best of my power, as she who loveth thee more than her life. Banish shamefastness and fearfulness and tell me if I can do aught to further thy passion; and if thou find me not diligent therein or if I bring it not to effect for thee, account me the cruellest mother that ever bore son.' The young man, hearing his mother's words, was at first abashed, but presently, bethinking himself that none was better able than she to satisfy his wishes, he put away shamefastness and said thus to her: 'Madam, nothing hath wrought so effectually with me to keep my love hidden as my having noted of most folk that, once they are grown in years, they choose not to remember them of having themselves been young. But, since in this I find you reasonable, not only will I not deny that to be true which you say you have observed, but I will, to boot, discover to you of whom [I am enamoured], on condition that you will, to the best of your power, give effect to your promise; and thus may you have me whole again.' Whereto the lady (trusting overmuch in that which was not to come to pass for her on such wise as she deemed in herself) answered freely that he might in all assurance discover to her his every desire, for that she would without any delay address herself to contrive that he should have his pleasure. 'Madam,' then said the youth, 'the exceeding beauty and commendable fashions of our Jeannette and my unableness to make her even sensible, still less to move her to pity, of my love and the having never dared to discover it unto any have brought me whereas you see me; and if that which you have promised me come not, one way or another, to pass, you may be assured that my life will be brief.' The lady, to whom it appeared more a time for comfort than for reproof, said, smilingly, 'Alack, my son, hast thou then for this suffered thyself to languish thus? Take comfort and leave me do, once thou shalt be recovered.' The youth, full of good hope, in a very short time showed signs of great amendment, whereas the lady, being much rejoiced, began to cast about how she might perform that which she had promised him. Accordingly, calling Jeannette to her one day, she asked her very civilly, as by way of a jest, if she had a lover; whereupon she waxed all red and answered, 'Madam, it concerneth not neither were it seemly in a poor damsel like myself, banished from house and home and abiding in others' service, to think of love.' Quoth the lady, 'An you have no lover, we mean to give you one, in whom you may rejoice and live merry and have more delight of your beauty, for it behoveth not that so handsome a girl as you are abide without a lover.' To this Jeannette made answer, 'Madam, you took me from my father's poverty and have reared me as a daughter, wherefore it behoveth me to do your every pleasure; but in this I will nowise comply with you, and therein methinketh I do well. If it please you give me a husband, him do I purpose to love, but none other; for that, since of the inheritance of my ancestors nought is left me save only honour, this latter I mean to keep and preserve as long as life shall endure to me.' This speech seemed to the lady very contrary to that whereto she thought to come for the keeping of her promise to her son,--albeit, like a discreet woman as she was, she inwardly much commended the damsel therefor,--and she said, 'How now, Jeannette? If our lord the king, who is a young cavalier, as thou art a very fair damsel, would fain have some easance of thy love, wouldst thou deny it to him?' Whereto she answered forthright, 'The king might do me violence, but of my consent he should never avail to have aught of me save what was honourable.' The lady, seeing how she was minded, left parleying with her and bethought herself to put her to the proof; wherefore she told her son that, whenas he should be recovered, she would contrive to get her alone with him in a chamber, so he might make shift to have his pleasure of her, saying that it appeared to her unseemly that she should, procuress-wise, plead for her son and solicit her own maid. With this the young man was nowise content and presently waxed grievously worse, which when his mother saw, she opened her mind to Jeannette, but, finding her more constant than ever, recounted what she had done to her husband, and he and she resolved of one accord, grievous though it seemed to them, to give her to him to wife, choosing rather to have their son alive with a wife unsorted to his quality than dead without any; and so, after much parley, they did; whereat Jeannette was exceeding content and with a devout heart rendered thanks to God, who had not forgotten her; but for all that she never avouched herself other than the daughter of a Picard. As for the young man, he presently recovered and celebrating his nuptials, the gladdest man alive, proceeded to lead a merry life with his bride. Meanwhile, Perrot, who had been left in Wales with the King of England's marshal, waxed likewise in favour with his lord and grew up very goodly of his person and doughty as any man in the island, insomuch that neither in tourneying nor jousting nor in any other act of arms was there any in the land who could cope with him; wherefore he was everywhere known and famous under the name of Perrot the Picard. And even as God had not forgotten his sister, so on like wise He showed that He had him also in mind; for that a pestilential sickness, being come into those parts, carried off well nigh half the people thereof, besides that most part of those who survived fled for fear into other lands; wherefore the whole country appeared desert. In this mortality, the marshal his lord and his lady and only son, together with many others, brothers and nephews and kinsmen, all died, nor was any left of all his house save a daughter, just husband-ripe, and Perrot, with sundry other serving folk. The pestilence being somewhat abated, the young lady, with the approof and by the counsel of some few gentlemen of the country[128] left alive, took Perrot, for that he was a man of worth and prowess, to husband and made him lord of all that had fallen to her by inheritance; nor was it long ere the King of England, hearing the marshal to be dead and knowing the worth of Perrot the Picard, substituted him in the dead man's room and made him his marshal. This, in brief, is what came of the two innocent children of the Count of Antwerp, left by him for lost. [Footnote 128: _Paesani_, lit., countrymen; but Boccaccio evidently uses the word in the sense of "vassals."] Eighteen years were now passed since the count's flight from Paris, when, as he abode in Ireland, having suffered many things in a very sorry way of life, there took him a desire to learn, as he might, what was come of his children. Wherefore, seeing himself altogether changed of favour from that which he was wont to be and feeling himself, for long exercise, grown more robust of his person than he had been when young and abiding in ease and idlesse, he took leave of him with whom he had so long abidden and came, poor and ill enough in case, to England. Thence he betook himself whereas he had left Perrot and found him a marshal and a great lord and saw him robust and goodly of person; the which was mighty pleasing unto him, but he would not make himself known to him till he should have learned how it was with Jeannette. Accordingly, he set out and stayed not till he came to London, where, cautiously enquiring of the lady with whom he had left his daughter and of her condition, he found Jeannette married to her son, which greatly rejoiced him and he counted all his past adversity a little thing, since he had found his children again alive and in good case. Then, desirous of seeing Jeannette, he began beggarwise, to haunt the neighbourhood of her house, where one day Jamy Lamiens, (for so was Jeannette's husband called,) espying him and having compassion on him, for that he saw him old and poor, bade one of his servants bring him in and give him to eat for the love of God, which the man readily did. Now Jeannette had had several children by Jamy, whereof the eldest was no more than eight years old, and they were the handsomest and sprightliest children in the world. When they saw the count eat, they came one and all about him and began to caress him, as if, moved by some occult virtue, they divined him to be their grandfather. He, knowing them for his grandchildren, fell to fondling and making much of them, wherefore the children would not leave him, albeit he who had charge of their governance called them. Jeannette, hearing this, issued forth of a chamber therenigh and coming whereas the count was, chid them amain and threatened to beat them, an they did not what their governor willed. The children began to weep and say that they would fain abide with that honest man, who loved them better than their governor, whereat both the lady and the count laughed. Now the latter had risen, nowise as a father, but as a poor man, to do honour to his daughter, as to a mistress, and seeing her, felt a marvellous pleasure at his heart. But she nor then nor after knew him any whit, for that he was beyond measure changed from what he was used to be, being grown old and hoar and bearded and lean and swart, and appeared altogether another man than the count. The lady then, seeing that the children were unwilling to leave him and wept, when she would have them go away, bade their governor let them be awhile and the children thus being with the good man, it chanced that Jamy's father returned and heard from their governor what had passed, whereupon quoth the marshal, who held Jeannette in despite, 'Let them be, God give them ill-luck! They do but hark back to that whence they sprang. They come by their mother of a vagabond and therefore it is no wonder if they are fain to herd with vagabonds.' The count heard these words and was mightily chagrined thereat; nevertheless, he shrugged his shoulders and put up with the affront, even as he had put up with many others. Jamy, hearing how the children had welcomed the honest man, to wit, the count, albeit it misliked him, nevertheless so loved them that, rather than see them weep, he commanded that, if the good man chose to abide there in any capacity, he should be received into his service. The count answered that he would gladly abide there, but he knew not to do aught other than tend horses, whereto he had been used all his lifetime. A horse was accordingly assigned to him and when he had cared for it, he busied himself with making sport for the children. Whilst fortune handled the Count of Antwerp and his children on such wise as hath been set out, it befell that the King of France, after many truces made with the Germans, died and his son, whose wife was she through whom the count had been banished, was crowned in his place; and no sooner was the current truce expired than he again began a very fierce war. To his aid the King of England, as a new-made kinsman, despatched much people, under the commandment of Perrot his marshal and Jamy Lamiens, son of the other marshal, and with them went the good man, to wit, the count, who, without being recognized of any, abode a pretty while with the army in the guise of a horseboy, and there, like a man of mettle as he was, wrought good galore, more than was required of him, both with counsels and with deeds. During the war, it came to pass that the Queen of France fell grievously sick and feeling herself nigh unto death, contrite for all her sins, confessed herself unto the Archbishop of Rouen, who was held of all a very holy and good man. Amongst her other sins, she related to him that which the Count of Antwerp had most wrongfully suffered through her; nor was she content to tell it to him alone, nay, but before many other men of worth she recounted all as it had passed, beseeching them so to do with the king that the count, an he were on life, or, if not, one of his children, should be restored to his estate; after which she lingered not long, but, departing this life, was honourably buried. Her confession, being reported to the king, moved him, after he had heaved divers sighs of regret for the wrong done to the nobleman, to let cry throughout all the army and in many other parts, that whoso should give him news of the Count of Antwerp or of either of his children should for each be wonder-well guerdoned of him, for that he held him, upon the queen's confession, innocent of that for which he had gone into exile and was minded to restore him to his first estate and more. The count, in his guise of a horseboy, hearing this and being assured that it was the truth,[129] betook himself forthright to Jamy Lamiens and prayed him go with him to Perrot, for that he had a mind to discover to them that which the king went seeking. All three being then met together, quoth the count to Perrot, who had it already in mind to discover himself, 'Perrot, Jamy here hath thy sister to wife nor ever had any dowry with her; wherefore, that thy sister may not go undowered, I purpose that he and none other shall, by making thee known as the son of the Count of Antwerp, have this great reward that the king promiseth for thee and for Violante, thy sister and his wife, and myself, who am the Count of Antwerp and your father.' Perrot, hearing this and looking steadfastly upon him, presently knew him and cast himself, weeping, at his feet and embraced him, saying, 'Father mine, you are dearly welcome.' Jamy, hearing first what the count said and after seeing what Perrot did, was overcome at once with such wonderment and such gladness that he scarce knew what he should do. However, after awhile, giving credence to the former's speech and sore ashamed for the injurious words he had whiles used to the hostler-count, he let himself fall, weeping, at his feet and humbly besought him pardon of every past affront, the which the count, having raised him to his feet, graciously accorded him. [Footnote 129: _i.e._ that it was not a snare.] Then, after they had all three discoursed awhile of each one's various adventures and wept and rejoiced together amain, Perrot and Jamy would have reclad the count, who would on nowise suffer it, but willed that Jamy, having first assured himself of the promised guerdon, should, the more to shame the king, present him to the latter in that his then plight and in his groom's habit. Accordingly, Jamy, followed by the count and Perrot, presented himself before the king, and offered, provided he would guerdon him according to the proclamation made, to produce to him the count and his children. The king promptly let bring for all three a guerdon marvellous in Jamy's eyes and commanded that he should be free to carry it off, whenas he should in very deed produce the count and his children, as he promised. Jamy, then, turning himself about and putting forward the count his horseboy and Perrot, said, 'My lord, here be the father and the son; the daughter, who is my wife and who is not here, with God's aid you shall soon see.' The king, hearing this, looked at the count and albeit he was sore changed from that which he was used to be, yet, after he had awhile considered him, he knew him and well nigh with tears in his eyes raised him--for that he was on his knees before him--to his feet and kissed and embraced him. Perrot, also, he graciously received and commanded that the count should incontinent be furnished anew with clothes and servants and horses and harness, according as his quality required, which was straightway done. Moreover, he entreated Jamy with exceeding honour and would fain know every particular of his[130] past adventures. Then, Jamy being about to receive the magnificent guerdons appointed him for having discovered the count and his children, the former said to him, 'Take these of the munificence of our lord the king and remember to tell thy father that thy children, his grandchildren and mine, are not by their mother born of a vagabond.' Jamy, accordingly, took the gifts and sent for his wife and mother to Paris, whither came also Perrot's wife; and there they all foregathered in the utmost joyance with the count, whom the king had reinstated in all his good and made greater than he ever was. Then all, with Gautier's leave, returned to their several homes and he until his death abode in Paris more worshipfully than ever." [Footnote 130: _Quære_, the Count's?] THE NINTH STORY [Day the Second] BERNABO OF GENOA, DUPED BY AMBROGIUOLO, LOSETH HIS GOOD AND COMMANDETH THAT HIS INNOCENT WIFE BE PUT TO DEATH. SHE ESCAPETH AND SERVETH THE SOLDAN IN A MAN'S HABIT. HERE SHE LIGHTETH UPON THE DECEIVER OF HER HUSBAND AND BRINGETH THE LATTER TO ALEXANDRIA, WHERE, HER TRADUCER BEING PUNISHED, SHE RESUMETH WOMAN'S APPAREL AND RETURNETH TO GENOA WITH HER HUSBAND, RICH Elisa having furnished her due with her pitiful story, Filomena the queen, who was tall and goodly of person and smiling and agreeable of aspect beyond any other of her sex, collecting herself, said, "Needs must the covenant with Dioneo be observed, wherefore, there remaining none other to tell than he and I, I will tell my story first, and he, for that he asked it as a favour, shall be the last to speak." So saying, she began thus, "There is a proverb oftentimes cited among the common folk to the effect that the deceiver abideth[131] at the feet of the deceived; the which meseemeth may by no reasoning be shown to be true, an it approve not itself by actual occurrences. Wherefore, whilst ensuing the appointed theme, it hath occurred to me, dearest ladies, to show you, at the same time, that this is true, even as it is said; nor should it mislike you to hear it, so you may know how to keep yourselves from deceivers. [Footnote 131: _Rimane._ The verb _rimanere_ is constantly used by the old Italian writers in the sense of "to become," so that the proverb cited in the text may be read "The deceiver becometh (_i.e._ findeth himself in the end) at the feet (_i.e._ at the mercy) of the person deceived."] There were once at Paris in an inn certain very considerable Italian merchants, who were come thither, according to their usance, some on one occasion and some on another, and having one evening among others supped all together merrily, they fell to devising of divers matters, and passing from one discourse to another, they came at last to speak of their wives, whom they had left at home, and one said jestingly, 'I know not how mine doth; but this I know well, that, whenas there cometh to my hand here any lass that pleaseth me, I leave on one side the love I bear my wife and take of the other such pleasure as I may.' 'And I,' quoth another, 'do likewise, for that if I believe that my wife pusheth her fortunes [in my absence,] she doth it, and if I believe it not, still she doth it; wherefore tit for tat be it; an ass still getteth as good as he giveth.'[132] A third, following on, came well nigh to the same conclusion, and in brief all seemed agreed upon this point, that the wives they left behind had no mind to lose time in their husbands' absence. One only, who hight Bernabo Lomellini of Genoa, maintained the contrary, avouching that he, by special grace of God, had a lady to wife who was belike the most accomplished woman of all Italy in all those qualities which a lady, nay, even (in great part) in those which a knight or an esquire, should have; for that she was fair of favour and yet in her first youth and adroit and robust of her person; nor was there aught that pertaineth unto a woman, such as works of broidery in silk and the like, but she did it better than any other of her sex. Moreover, said he, there was no sewer, or in other words, no serving-man, alive who served better or more deftly at a nobleman's table than did she, for that she was very well bred and exceeding wise and discreet. He after went on to extol her as knowing better how to ride a horse and fly a hawk, to read and write and cast a reckoning than if she were a merchant; and thence, after many other commendations, coming to that whereof it had been discoursed among them, he avouched with an oath that there could be found no honester nor chaster woman than she; wherefore he firmly believed that, should he abide half a score years, or even always, from home, she would never incline to the least levity with another man. Among the merchants who discoursed thus was a young man called Ambrogiuolo of Piacenza, who fell to making the greatest mock in the world of this last commendation bestowed by Bernabo upon his wife and asked him scoffingly if the emperor had granted him that privilege over and above all other men. Bernabo, some little nettled, replied that not the emperor, but God, who could somewhat more than the emperor, had vouchsafed him the favour in question. Whereupon quoth Ambrogiuolo, 'Bernabo, I doubt not a whit but that thou thinkest to say sooth; but meseemeth thou hast paid little regard to the nature of things; for that, hadst thou taken heed thereunto, I deem thee not so dull of wit but thou wouldst have noted therein certain matters which had made thee speak more circumspectly on this subject. And that thou mayst not think that we, who have spoken much at large of our wives, believe that we have wives other or otherwise made than thine, but mayst see that we spoke thus, moved by natural perception, I will e'en reason with thee a little on this matter. I have always understood man to be the noblest animal created of God among mortals, and after him, woman; but man, as is commonly believed and as is seen by works, is the more perfect and having more perfection, must without fail have more of firmness and constancy, for that women universally are more changeable; the reason whereof might be shown by many natural arguments, which for the present I purpose to leave be. If then man be of more stability and yet cannot keep himself, let alone from complying with a woman who soliciteth him, but even from desiring one who pleaseth him, nay more, from doing what he can, so he may avail to be with her,--and if this betide him not once a month, but a thousand times a day,--what canst thou expect a woman, naturally unstable, to avail against the prayers, the blandishments, the gifts and a thousand other means which an adroit man, who loveth her, will use? Thinkest thou she can hold out? Certes, how much soever thou mayst affirm it, I believe not that thou believest it; and thou thyself sayst that thy wife is a woman and that she is of flesh and blood, as are other women. If this be so, those same desires must be hers and the same powers that are in other women to resist these natural appetites; wherefore, however honest she be, it is possible she may do that which other women do; and nothing that is possible she be so peremptorily denied nor the contrary thereof affirmed with such rigour as thou dost.' To which Bernabo made answer, saying, 'I am a merchant, and not a philosopher, and as a merchant I will answer; and I say that I acknowledge that what thou sayst may happen to foolish women in whom there is no shame; but those who are discreet are so careful of their honour that for the guarding thereof they become stronger than men, who reck not of this; and of those thus fashioned is my wife.' 'Indeed,' rejoined Ambrogiuolo, 'if, for every time they occupy themselves with toys of this kind, there sprouted from their foreheads a horn to bear witness of that which they have done, there be few, I believe, who would incline thereto; but, far from the horn sprouting, there appeareth neither trace nor token thereof in those who are discreet, and shame and soil of honour consist not but in things discovered; wherefore, whenas they may secretly, they do it, or, if they forebear, it is for stupidity. And have thou this for certain that she alone is chaste, who hath either never been solicited of any or who, having herself solicited, hath not been hearkened. And although I know by natural and true reasons that it is e'en as I say, yet should I not speak thereof with so full an assurance, had I not many a time and with many women made essay thereof. And this I tell thee, that, were I near this most sanctified wife of thine, I warrant me I would in brief space of time bring her to that which I have already gotten of other women.' Whereupon quoth Bernabo, 'Disputing with words might be prolonged without end; thou wouldst say and I should say, and in the end it would all amount to nothing. But, since thou wilt have it that all women are so compliant and that thine address is such, I am content, so I may certify thee of my wife's honesty, to have my head cut off, and thou canst anywise avail to bring her to do thy pleasure in aught of the kind; and if thou fail thereof, I will have thee lose no otherwhat than a thousand gold florins.' 'Bernabo,' replied Ambrogiuolo, who was now grown heated over the dispute, 'I know not what I should do with thy blood, if I won the wager; but, an thou have a mind to see proof of that which I have advanced, do thou stake five thousand gold florins of thy monies, which should be less dear to thee than thy head, against a thousand of mine, and whereas thou settest no limit [of time,] I will e'en bind myself to go to Genoa and within three months from the day of my departure hence to have done my will of thy wife and to bring back with me, in proof thereof, sundry of her most precious things and such and so many tokens that thou shalt thyself confess it to be truth, so verily thou wilt pledge me thy faith not to come to Genoa within that term nor write her aught of the matter.' Bernabo said that it liked him well and albeit the other merchants endeavoured to hinder the affair, foreseeing that sore mischief might come thereof, the two merchants' minds were so inflamed that, in despite of the rest, they bound themselves one to other by express writings under their hands. This done, Bernabo abode behind, whilst Ambrogiuolo, as quickliest he might, betook himself to Genoa. There he abode some days and informing himself with the utmost precaution of the name of the street where the lady dwelt and of her manner of life, understood of her that and more than that which he had heard of her from Bernabo, wherefore himseemed he was come on a fool's errand. However, he presently clapped up an acquaintance with a poor woman, who was much about the house and whose great well-wisher the lady was, and availing not to induce her to aught else, he debauched her with money and prevailed with her to bring him, in a chest wroughten after a fashion of his own, not only into the house, but into the gentlewoman's very bedchamber, where, according to the ordinance given her of him, the good woman commended it to her care for some days, as if she had a mind to go somewhither. The chest, then being left in the chamber and the night come, Ambrogiuolo, what time he judged the lady to be asleep, opened the chest with certain engines of his and came softly out into the chamber, where there was a light burning, with whose aid he proceeded to observe the ordinance of the place, the paintings and every other notable thing that was therein and fixed them in his memory. Then, drawing near the bed and perceiving that the lady and a little girl, who was with her, were fast asleep, he softly altogether uncovered the former and found that she was as fair, naked, as clad, but saw no sign about her that he might carry away, save one, to wit, a mole which she had under the left pap and about which were sundry little hairs as red as gold. This noted he covered her softly up again, albeit, seeing her so fair, he was tempted to adventure his life and lay himself by her side; however, for that he had heard her to be so obdurate and uncomplying in matters of this kind, he hazarded not himself, but, abiding at his leisure in the chamber the most part of the night, took from one of her coffers a purse and a night-rail, together with sundry rings and girdles, and laying them all in his chest, returned thither himself and shut himself up therein as before; and on this wise he did two nights, without the lady being ware of aught. On the third day the good woman came back for the chest, according to the given ordinance, and carried it off whence she had taken it, whereupon Ambrogiuolo came out and having rewarded her according to promise, returned, as quickliest he might, with the things aforesaid, to Paris, where he arrived before the term appointed. There he summoned the merchants who had been present at the dispute and the laying of the wager and declared, in Bernabo's presence, that he had won the wager laid between them, for that he had accomplished that whereof he had vaunted himself; and to prove this to be true, he first described the fashion of the chamber and the paintings thereof and after showed the things he had brought with him thence, avouching that he had them of herself. Bernabo confessed the chamber to be as he had said and owned, moreover, that he recognized the things in question as being in truth his wife's; but said that he might have learned from one of the servants of the house the fashion of the chamber and have gotten the things in like manner; wherefore, an he had nought else to say, himseemed not that this should suffice to prove him to have won. Whereupon quoth Ambrogiuolo, 'In sooth this should suffice, but, since thou wilt have me say more, I will say it. I tell thee that Madam Ginevra thy wife hath under her left pap a pretty big mole, about which are maybe half a dozen little hairs as red as gold.' When Bernabo heard this, it was as if he had gotten a knife-thrust in the heart, such anguish did he feel, and though he had said not a word, his countenance, being all changed, gave very manifest token that what Ambrogiuolo said was true. Then, after awhile, 'Gentlemen,' quoth he, 'that which Ambrogiuolo saith is true; wherefore, he having won, let him come whenassoever it pleaseth him and he shall be paid.' Accordingly, on the ensuing day Ambrogiuolo was paid in full and Bernabo, departing Paris, betook himself to Genoa with fell intent against the lady. When he drew near the city, he would not enter therein, but lighted down a good score miles away at a country house of his and despatched one of his servants, in whom he much trusted, to Genoa with two horses and letters under his hand, advising his wife that he had returned and bidding her come to him; and he privily charged the man, whenas he should be with the lady in such place as should seem best to him, to put her to death without pity and return to him. The servant accordingly repaired to Genoa and delivering the letters and doing his errand, was received with great rejoicing by the lady, who on the morrow took horse with him and set out for their country house. As they fared on together, discoursing of one thing and another, they came to a very deep and lonely valley, beset with high rocks and trees, which seeming to the servant a place wherein he might, with assurance for himself, do his lord's commandment, he pulled out his knife and taking the lady by the arm, said, 'Madam, commend your soul to God, for needs must you die, without faring farther.' The lady, seeing the knife and hearing these words, was all dismayed and said, 'Mercy, for God's sake! Ere thou slay me, tell me wherein I have offended thee, that thou wouldst put me to death.' 'Madam,' answered the man, 'me you have nowise offended; but wherein you have offended your husband I know not, save that he hath commanded me slay you by the way, without having any pity upon you, threatening me, an I did it not, to have me hanged by the neck. You know well how much I am beholden to him and how I may not gainsay him in aught that he may impose upon me; God knoweth it irketh me for you, but I can no otherwise.' Whereupon quoth the lady, weeping, 'Alack, for God's sake, consent not to become the murderer of one who hath never wronged thee, to serve another! God who knoweth all knoweth that I never did aught for which I should receive such a recompense from my husband. But let that be; thou mayst, an thou wilt, at once content God and thy master and me, on this wise; to wit, that thou take these my clothes and give me but thy doublet and a hood and with the former return to my lord and thine and tell him that thou hast slain me; and I swear to thee, by that life which thou wilt have bestowed on me, that I will remove hence and get me gone into a country whence never shall any news of me win either to him or to thee or into these parts.' The servant, who was loath to slay her, was lightly moved to compassion; wherefore he took her clothes and give her a sorry doublet of his and a hood, leaving her sundry monies she had with her. Then praying her depart the country, he left her in the valley and afoot and betook himself to his master, to whom he avouched that not only was his commandment accomplished, but that he had left the lady's dead body among a pack of wolves, and Bernabo presently returned to Genoa, where the thing becoming known, he was much blamed. As for the lady, she abode alone and disconsolate till nightfall, when she disguised herself as most she might and repaired to a village hard by, where, having gotten from an old woman that which she needed, she fitted the doublet to her shape and shortening it, made a pair of linen breeches of her shift; then, having cut her hair and altogether transformed herself in the guise of a sailor, she betook herself to the sea-shore, where, as chance would have it, she found a Catalan gentleman, by name Senor Encararch, who had landed at Alba from a ship he had in the offing, to refresh himself at a spring there. With him she entered into parley and engaging with him as a servant, embarked on board the ship, under the name of Sicurano da Finale. There, being furnished by the gentleman with better clothes, she proceeded to serve him so well and so aptly that she became in the utmost favour with him. No great while after it befell that the Catalan made a voyage to Alexandria with a lading of his and carrying thither certain peregrine falcons for the Soldan, presented them to him. The Soldan, having once and again entertained him at meat and noting with approof the fashions of Sicurano, who still went serving him, begged him[133] of his master, who yielded him to him, although it irked him to do it, and Sicurano, in a little while, by his good behaviour, gained the love and favour of the Soldan, even as he had gained that of the Catalan. Wherefore, in process of time, it befell that,--the time coming for a great assemblage, in the guise of a fair, of merchants, both Christian and Saracen, which was wont at a certain season of the year to be held in Acre, a town under the seignory of the Soldan, and to which, in order that the merchants and their merchandise might rest secure, the latter was still used to despatch, besides other his officers, some one of his chief men, with troops, to look to the guard,--he bethought himself to send Sicurano, who was by this well versed in the language of the country, on this service; and so he did. Sicurano accordingly came to Acre as governor and captain of the guard of the merchants and their merchandise and there well and diligently doing that which pertained to his office and going round looking about him, saw many merchants there, Sicilians and Pisans and Genoese and Venetians and other Italians, with whom he was fain to make acquaintance, in remembrance of his country. It befell, one time amongst others, that, having lighted down at the shop of certain Venetian merchants, he espied among other trinkets, a purse and a girdle, which he straightway knew for having been his and marvelled thereat; but, without making any sign, he carelessly asked to whom they pertained and if they were for sale. Now Ambrogiuolo of Piacenza was come thither with much merchandise on board a Venetian ship and hearing the captain of the guard ask whose the trinkets were, came forward and said, laughing, 'Sir, the things are mine and I do not sell them; but, if they please you, I will gladly give them to you.' Sicurano, seeing him laugh, misdoubted he had recognized him by some gesture of his; but yet, keeping a steady countenance, he said, 'Belike thou laughest to see me, a soldier, go questioning of these women's toys?' 'Sir,' answered Ambrogiuolo, 'I laugh not at that; nay, but at the way I came by them.' 'Marry, then,' said Sicurano, 'an it be not unspeakable, tell me how thou gottest them, so God give thee good luck.' Quoth Ambrogiuolo, 'Sir, a gentlewoman of Genoa, hight Madam Ginevra, wife of Bernabo Lomellini, gave me these things, with certain others, one night that I lay with her, and prayed me keep them for the love of her. Now I laugh for that I mind me of the simplicity of Bernabo, who was fool enough to lay five thousand florins to one that I would not bring his wife to do my pleasure; the which I did and won the wager; whereupon he, who should rather have punished himself for his stupidity than her for doing that which all women do, returned from Paris to Genoa and there, by what I have since heard, caused her put to death.' Sicurano, hearing this, understood forthwith what was the cause of Bernabo's anger against his wife[134] and manifestly perceiving this fellow to have been the occasion of all her ills, determined not to let him go unpunished therefor. Accordingly he feigned to be greatly diverted with the story and artfully clapped up a strait acquaintance with him, insomuch that, the fair being ended, Ambrogiuolo, at his instance, accompanied him, with all his good, to Alexandria. Here Sicurano let build him a warehouse and lodged in his hands store of his own monies; and Ambrogiuolo, foreseeing great advantage to himself, willingly took up his abode there. Meanwhile, Sicurano, careful to make Bernabo clear of his[135] innocence, rested not till, by means of certain great Genoese merchants who were then in Alexandria, he had, on some plausible occasion of his[136] own devising, caused him come thither, where finding him in poor enough case, he had him privily entertained by a friend of his[137] against it should seem to him[138] time to do that which he purposed. Now he had already made Ambrogiuolo recount his story before the Soldan for the latter's diversion; but seeing Bernabo there and thinking there was no need to use farther delay in the matter, he took occasion to procure the Soldan to have Ambrogiuolo and Bernabo brought before him and in the latter's presence, to extort from the former, by dint of severity, an it might not easily be done [by other means,] the truth of that whereof he vaunted himself concerning Bernabo's wife. Accordingly, they both being come, the Soldan, in the presence of many, with a stern countenance commanded Ambrogiuolo to tell the truth how he had won of Bernabo the five thousand gold florins; and Sicurano himself, in whom he most trusted, with a yet angrier aspect, threatened him with the most grievous torments, an he told it not; whereupon Ambrogiuolo, affrighted on one side and another and in a measure constrained, in the presence of Bernabo and many others, plainly related everything, even as it passed, expecting no worse punishment therefor than the restitution of the five thousand gold florins and of the stolen trinkets. He having spoken, Sicurano, as he were the Soldan's minister in the matter, turned to Bernabo and said to him, 'And thou, what didst thou to thy lady for this lie?' Whereto Bernabo replied, 'Overcome with wrath for the loss of my money and with resentment for the shame which meseemed I had gotten from my wife, I caused a servant of mine put her to death, and according to that which he reported to me, she was straightway devoured by a multitude of wolves,' These things said in the presence of the Soldan and all heard and apprehended of him, albeit he knew not yet to what end Sicurano, who had sought and ordered this, would fain come, the latter said to him, 'My lord, you may very clearly see how much reason yonder poor lady had to vaunt herself of her gallant and her husband, for that the former at once bereaved her of honour, marring her fair fame with lies, and despoiled her husband, whilst the latter more credulous of others' falsehoods than of the truth which he might by long experience have known, caused her to be slain and eaten of wolves; and moreover, such is the goodwill and the love borne her by the one and the other that, having long abidden with her, neither of them knoweth her. But that you may the better apprehend that which each of these hath deserved, I will,--so but you vouchsafe me, of special favour to punish the deceiver and pardon the dupe,--e'en cause her come hither into your and their presence.' The Soldan, disposed in the matter altogether to comply with Sicurano's wishes, answered that he would well and bade him produce the lady; whereat Bernabo marvelled exceedingly, for that he firmly believed her to be dead, whilst Ambrogiuolo, now divining his danger, began to be in fear of worse than paying of monies and knew not whether more to hope or to fear from the coming of the lady, but awaited her appearance with the utmost amazement. The Soldan, then, having accorded Sicurano his wish, the latter threw himself, weeping, on his knees before him and putting off, as it were at one and the same time, his manly voice and masculine demeanour, said, 'My lord, I am the wretched misfortunate Ginevra, who have these six years gone wandering in man's disguise about the world, having been foully and wickedly aspersed by this traitor Ambrogiuolo and given by yonder cruel and unjust man to one of his servants to be slain and eaten of wolves.' Then, tearing open the fore part of her clothes and showing her breast, she discovered herself to the Soldan and all else who were present and after, turning to Ambrogiuolo, indignantly demanded of him when he had ever lain with her, according as he had aforetime boasted; but he, now knowing her and fallen well nigh dumb for shame, said nothing. The Soldan, who had always held her a man, seeing and hearing this, fell into such a wonderment that he more than once misdoubted that which he saw and heard to be rather a dream than true. However, after his amazement had abated, apprehending the truth of the matter, he lauded to the utmost the life and fashions of Ginevra, till then called Sicurano, and extolled her constancy and virtue; and letting bring her very sumptuous woman's apparel and women to attend her, he pardoned Bernabo, in accordance with her request, the death he had merited, whilst the latter, recognizing her, cast himself at her feet, weeping and craving forgiveness, which she, ill worthy as he was thereof, graciously accorded him and raising him to his feet, embraced him tenderly, as her husband. Then the Soldan commanded that Ambrogiuolo should incontinent be bound to a stake and smeared with honey and exposed to the sun in some high place of the city, nor should ever be loosed thence till such time as he should fall of himself; and so was it done. After this he commanded that all that had belonged to him should be given to the lady, the which was not so little but that it outvalued ten thousand doubloons. Moreover, he let make a very goodly banquet, wherein he entertained Bernabo with honour, as Madam Ginevra's husband, and herself as a very valiant lady and gave her, in jewels and vessels of gold and silver and monies, that which amounted to better[139] than other ten thousand doubloons. Then, the banquet over, he caused equip them a ship and gave them leave to return at their pleasure to Genoa, whither accordingly they returned with great joyance and exceeding rich; and there they were received with the utmost honour, especially Madam Ginevra, who was of all believed to be dead and who, while she lived, was still reputed of great worth and virtue. As for Ambrogiuolo, being that same day bounded to the stake and anointed with honey, he was, to his exceeding torment, not only slain, but devoured, of the flies and wasps and gadflies, wherewith that country aboundeth, even to the bones, which latter, waxed white and hanging by the sinews, being left unremoved, long bore witness of his villainy to all who saw them. And on this wise did the deceiver abide at the feet of the deceived." [Footnote 132: Lit. Whatsoever an ass giveth against a wall, such he receiveth (_Quale asino da in parete, tal riceve_). I cannot find any satisfactory explanation of this proverbial saying, which may be rendered in two ways, according as _quale_ and _tale_ are taken as relative to a thing or a person. The probable reference seems to be to the circumstance of an ass making water against a wall, so that his urine returns to him.] [Footnote 133: From this point until the final discovery of her true sex, the heroine is spoken of in the masculine gender, as became her assumed name and habit.] [Footnote 134: Here Boccaccio uses the feminine pronoun, immediately afterward resuming the masculine form in speaking of Sicurano.] [Footnote 135: _i.e._ her.] [Footnote 136: _i.e._ her.] [Footnote 137: _i.e._ hers.] [Footnote 138: _i.e._ her.] [Footnote 139: Sic (_meglio_).] THE TENTH STORY [Day the Second] PAGANINO OF MONACO STEALETH AWAY THE WIFE OF MESSER RICCIARDO DI CHINZICA, WHO, LEARNING WHERE SHE IS, GOETH THITHER AND MAKING FRIENDS WITH PAGANINO, DEMANDETH HER AGAIN OF HIM. THE LATTER CONCEDETH HER TO HIM, AN SHE WILL; BUT SHE REFUSETH TO RETURN WITH HIM AND MESSER RICCIARDO DYING, SHE BECOMETH THE WIFE OF PAGANINO Each of the honourable company highly commended for goodly the story told by their queen, especially Dioneo, with whom alone for that present day it now rested to tell, and who, after many praises bestowed upon the preceding tale, said, "Fair ladies, one part of the queen's story hath caused me change counsel of telling you one that was in my mind, and determine to tell you another,--and that is the stupidity of Bernabo (albeit good betided him thereof) and of all others who give themselves to believe that which he made a show of believing and who, to wit, whilst going about the world, diverting themselves now with this woman and now with that, imagine that the ladies left at home abide with their hands in their girdles, as if we knew not, we who are born and reared among the latter, unto what they are fain. In telling you this story, I shall at once show you how great is the folly of these folk and how greater yet is that of those who, deeming themselves more potent than nature herself, think by dint of sophistical inventions[140] to avail unto that which is beyond their power and study to bring others to that which they themselves are, whenas the complexion of those on whom they practise brooketh it not. [Footnote 140: Lit. fabulous demonstrations (_dimostrazioni favolose_), casuistical arguments, founded upon premises of their own invention.] There was, then, in Pisa a judge, by name Messer Ricciardo di Chinzica, more gifted with wit than with bodily strength, who, thinking belike to satisfy a wife by the same means which served him to despatch his studies and being very rich, sought with no little diligence to have a fair and young lady to wife; whereas, had he but known to counsel himself as he counselled others, he should have shunned both the one and the other. The thing came to pass according to his wish, for Messer Lotto Gualandi gave him to wife a daughter of his, Bartolomea by name, one of the fairest and handsomest young ladies of Pisa, albeit there be few there that are not very lizards to look upon. The judge accordingly brought her home with the utmost pomp and having held a magnificent wedding, made shift the first night to hand her one venue for the consummation of the marriage, but came within an ace of making a stalemate of it, whereafter, lean and dry and scant of wind as he was, it behoved him on the morrow bring himself back to life with malmsey and restorative confections and other remedies. Thenceforward, being now a better judge of his own powers than he was, he fell to teaching his wife a calendar fit for children learning to read and belike made aforetime at Ravenna,[141] for that, according to what he feigned to her, there was no day in the year but was sacred not to one saint only, but to many, in reverence of whom he showed by divers reasons that man and wife should abstain from carnal conversation; and to these be added, to boot, fast days and Emberdays and the vigils of the Apostles and of a thousand other saints and Fridays and Saturdays and Lord's Day and all Lent and certain seasons of the moon and store of other exceptions, conceiving belike that it behoved to keep holiday with women in bed like as he did bytimes whilst pleading in the courts of civil law. This fashion (to the no small chagrin of the lady, whom he handled maybe once a month, and hardly that) he followed a great while, still keeping strait watch over her, lest peradventure some other should teach her to know working-days, even as he had taught her holidays. Things standing thus, it chanced that, the heat being great and Messer Ricciardo having a mind to go a-pleasuring to a very fair country-seat he had, near Monte Nero, and there abide some days to take the air, he betook himself thither, carrying with him his fair lady. There sojourning, to give her some diversion, he caused one day fish and they went out to sea in two boats, he in one with the fishermen, and she in another with other ladies. The sport luring them on, they drifted some miles out to sea, well nigh without perceiving it, and whilst they were intent upon their diversion, there came up of a sudden a galliot belonging to Paganino da Mare, a famous corsair of those days. The latter, espying the boats, made for them, nor could they flee so fast but he overtook that in which were the women and seeing therein the judge's fair lady, he carried her aboard the galliot, in full sight of Messer Ricciardo, who was now come to land, and made off without recking of aught else. When my lord judge, who was so jealous that he misdoubted of the very air, saw this, it booteth not to ask if he was chagrined; and in vain, both at Pisa and otherwhere, did he complain of the villainy of the corsairs, for that he knew not who had taken his wife from him nor whither he had carried her. As for Paganino, finding her so fair, he deemed himself in luck and having no wife, resolved to keep her for himself. Accordingly, seeing her weeping sore, he studied to comfort her with soft words till nightfall, when, his calendar having dropped from his girdle and saints' days and holidays gone clean out of his head, he fell to comforting her with deeds, himseeming that words had availed little by day; and after such a fashion did he console her that, ere they came to Monaco, the judge and his ordinances had altogether escaped her mind and she began to lead the merriest of lives with Paganino. The latter carried her to Monaco and there, over and above the consolations with which he plied her night and day, he entreated her honourably as his wife. After awhile it came to Messer Ricciardo's ears where his wife was and he, being possessed with the most ardent desire to have her again and bethinking himself that none other might thoroughly suffice to do what was needful to that end, resolved to go thither himself, determined to spend any quantity of money for her ransom. Accordingly he set out by sea and coming to Monaco, there both saw and was seen of the lady, who told it to Paganino that same evening and acquainted him with her intent. Next morning Messer Ricciardo, seeing Paganino, accosted him and quickly clapped up a great familiarity and friendship with him, whilst the other feigned not to know him and waited to see at what he aimed. Accordingly, whenas it seemed to him time, Messer Ricciardo discovered to him, as best and most civilly he knew, the occasion of his coming and prayed him take what he pleased and restore him the lady. To which Paganino made answer with a cheerful countenance, 'Sir, you are welcome, and to answer you briefly, I say thus; it is true I have a young lady in my house, if she be your wife or another's I know not, for that I know you not nor indeed her, save in so much as she hath abidden awhile with me. If you be, as you say, her husband, I will, since you seem to me a civil gentleman, carry you to her and I am assured that she will know you right well. If she say it is as you avouch and be willing to go with you, you shall, for the sake of your civility, give me what you yourself will to her ransom; but, an it be not so, you would do ill to seek to take her from me, for that I am a young man and can entertain a woman as well as another, and especially such an one as she, who is the most pleasing I ever saw.' Quoth Messer Ricciardo, 'For certain she is my wife, an thou bring me where she is, thou shalt soon see it; for she will incontinent throw herself on my neck; wherefore I ask no better than that it be as thou proposest.' 'Then,' said Paganino, 'let us be going.' Accordingly they betook themselves to the corsair's house, where he brought the judge into a saloon of his and let call the lady, who issued forth of a chamber, all dressed and tired, and came whereas they were, but accosted Messer Ricciardo no otherwise than as she would any other stranger who might have come home with Paganino. The judge, who looked to have been received by her with the utmost joy, marvelled sore at this and fell a-saying in himself, 'Belike the chagrin and long grief I have suffered, since I lost her, have so changed me that she knoweth me not.' Wherefore he said to her, 'Wife, it hath cost me dear to carry thee a-fishing, for that never was grief felt like that which I have suffered since I lost thee, and now meseemeth thou knowest me not, so distantly dost thou greet me. Seest thou not that I am thine own Messer Ricciardo, come hither to pay that which this gentleman, in whose house we are, shall require to thy ransom and to carry thee away? And he, of his favour, restoreth thee to me for what I will.' The lady turned to him and said, smiling somewhat, 'Speak you to me, sir? Look you mistake me not, for, for my part, I mind me not ever to have seen you.' Quoth Ricciardo, 'Look what thou sayest; consider me well; an thou wilt but recollect thyself, thou wilt see that I am thine own Ricciardo di Chinzica.' 'Sir,' answered the lady, 'you will pardon me; belike it is not so seemly a thing as you imagine for me to look much on you. Nevertheless I have seen enough of you to know that I never before set eyes on you.' Ricciardo, concluding that she did this for fear of Paganino and chose not to confess to knowing him in the latter's presence, besought him of his favour that he might speak with her in a room alone. Paganino replied that he would well, so but he would not kiss her against her will, and bade the lady go with him into a chamber and there hear what he had to say and answer him as it should please her. Accordingly the lady and Messer Ricciardo went into a room apart and as soon as they were seated, the latter began to say, 'Alack, heart of my body, sweet my soul and my hope, knowest thou not thy Ricciardo, who loveth thee more than himself? How can this be? Am I so changed? Prithee, fair mine eye, do but look on me a little.' The lady began to laugh and without letting him say more, replied, 'You may be assured that I am not so scatterbrained but that I know well enough you are Messer Ricciardo di Chinzica, my husband; but, what time I was with you, you showed that you knew me very ill, for that you should have had the sense to see that I was young and lusty and gamesome and should consequently have known that which behoveth unto young ladies, over and above clothes and meat, albeit for shamefastness they name it not; the which how you performed, you know. If the study of the laws was more agreeable to you than your wife, you should not have taken her, albeit it never appeared to me that you were a judge; nay, you seemed to me rather a common crier of saints' days and sacraments and fasts and vigils, so well you knew them. And I tell you this, that, had you suffered the husbandmen who till your lands keep as many holidays as you allowed him who had the tilling of my poor little field, you would never have reaped the least grain of corn. However, as God, having compassion on my youth, hath willed it, I have happened on yonder man, with whom I abide in this chamber, wherein it is unknown what manner of thing is a holiday (I speak of those holidays which you, more assiduous in the service of God than in that of the ladies, did so diligently celebrate) nor ever yet entered in at this door Saturday nor Friday nor vigil nor Emberday nor Lent, that is so long; nay, here swink we day and night and thump our wool; and this very night after matinsong, I know right well how the thing went, once he was up. Wherefore I mean to abide with him and work; whilst I am young, and leave saints' days and jubilees and fasts for my keeping when I am old; so get you gone about your business as quickliest you may, good luck go with you, and keep as many holidays as you please, without me.' Messer Ricciardo, hearing these words, was distressed beyond endurance and said, whenas he saw she had made an end of speaking. 'Alack, sweet my soul, what is this thou sayest? Hast thou no regard for thy kinsfolk's honour and thine own? Wilt thou rather abide here for this man's whore and in mortal sin than at Pisa as my wife? He, when he is weary of thee, will turn thee away to thine own exceeding reproach, whilst I will still hold thee dear and still (e'en though I willed it not) thou shalt be mistress of my house. Wilt thou for the sake of a lewd and disorderly appetite, forsake thine honour and me, who love thee more than my life? For God's sake, dear my hope, speak no more thus, but consent to come with me; henceforth, since I know thy desire, I will enforce myself [to content it;] wherefore, sweet my treasure, change counsel and come away with me, who have never known weal since thou wast taken from me.' Whereto answered the lady, 'I have no mind that any, now that it availeth not, should be more tender of my honour than I myself; would my kinsfolk had had regard thereto, whenas they gave me to you! But, as they had then no care for my honour, I am under no present concern to be careful of theirs; and if I am herein _mortar_[142] sin, I shall abide though it be in pestle[142] sin. And let me tell you that here meseemeth I am Paganino's wife, whereas at Pisa meseemed I was your whore, seeing that there, by season of the moon and quadratures of geometry, needs must be planets concur to couple betwixt you and me, whereas here Paganino holdeth me all night in his arms and straineth me and biteth me, and how he serveth me, let God tell you for me. You say forsooth you will enforce yourself; to what? To do it in three casts and cause it stand by dint of cudgelling? I warrant me you are grown a doughty cavalier since I saw you last! Begone and enforce yourself to live, for methinketh indeed you do but sojourn here below upon sufferance, so peaked and scant o' wind you show to me. And yet more I tell you, that, should he leave me (albeit meseemeth he is nowise inclined thereto, so I choose to stay,) I purpose not therefor ever to return to you, of whom squeeze you as I might, there were no making a porringer of sauce; for that I abode with you once to my grievous hurt and loss, wherefore in such a case I should seek my vantage elsewhere. Nay, once again I tell you, here be neither saints' days nor vigils; wherefore here I mean to abide; so get you gone in God's name as quickliest you may, or I will cry out that you would fain force me.' Messer Ricciardo, seeing himself in ill case and now recognizing his folly in taking a young wife, whenas he was himself forspent, went forth the chamber tristful and woebegone, and bespoke Paganino with many words, that skilled not a jot. Ultimately, leaving the lady, he returned to Pisa, without having accomplished aught, and there for chagrin fell into such dotage that, as he went about Pisa, to whoso greeted him or asked him of anywhat, he answered nought but 'The ill hole[143] will have no holidays;'[144] and there, no great while after, he died. Paganino, hearing this and knowing the love the lady bore himself, espoused her to his lawful wife and thereafter, without ever observing saints' day or vigil or keeping Lent, they wrought what while their legs would carry them and led a jolly life of it. Wherefore, dear my ladies, meseemeth Bernabo, in his dispute with Ambrogiuolo, rode the she-goat down the steep."[145] [Footnote 141: According to one of the commentators of the Decameron, there are as many churches at Ravenna as days in the year and each day is there celebrated as that of some saint or other.] [Footnote 142: A trifling jingle upon the similarity in sound of the words _mortale_ (mortal), _mortaio_ (mortar), _pestello_ (pestle), and _pestilente_ (pestilential). The same word-play occurs at least once more in the Decameron.] [Footnote 143: _Il mal foro_, a woman's commodity (Florio).] [Footnote 144: _i.e._ _Cunnus nonvult feriari._ Some commentators propose to read _il mal furo_, the ill thief, supposing Ricciardo to allude to Paganino, but this seems far-fetched.] [Footnote 145: _i.e. semble_ ran headlong to destruction. The commentators explain this proverbial expression by saying that a she-goat is in any case a hazardous mount, and _a fortiori_ when ridden down a precipice; but this seems a somewhat "sporting" kind of interpretation.] * * * * * This story gave such occasion for laughter to all the company that there was none whose jaws ached not therefor, and all the ladies avouched with one accord that Dioneo spoke sooth and that Bernabo had been an ass. But, after the story was ended and the laughter abated, the queen, observing that the hour was now late and that all had told and seeing that the end of her seignory was come, according to the ordinance commenced, took the wreath from her own head and set it on that of Neifile, saying, with a blithe aspect, "Henceforth, companion dear, be thine the governance of this little people"; and reseated herself. Neifile blushed a little at the honour received and became in countenance like as showeth a new-blown rose of April or of May in the breaking of the day, with lovesome eyes some little downcast, sparkling no otherwise than the morning-star. But, after the courteous murmur of the bystanders, whereby they gladsomely approved their goodwill towards the new-made queen, had abated and she had taken heart again, she seated herself somewhat higher than of wont and said, "Since I am to be your queen, I will, departing not from the manner holden of those who have foregone me and whose governance you have by your obedience commended, make manifest to you in few words my opinion, which, an it be approved by your counsel, we will ensue. To-morrow, as you know, is Friday and the next day is Saturday, days which, by reason of the viands that are used therein,[146] are somewhat irksome to most folk, more by token that Friday, considering that He who died for our life on that day suffered passion, is worthy of reverence; wherefore I hold it a just thing and a seemly that, in honour of the Divinity, we apply ourselves rather to orisons than to story-telling. As for Saturday, it is the usance of ladies on that day to wash their heads and do away all dust and all uncleanliness befallen them for the labours of the past week; and many, likewise, use, in reverence of the Virgin Mother of the Son of God, to fast and rest from all manner of work in honour of the ensuing Sunday. Wherefore, we being unable fully to ensue the order of living taken by us, on like wise methinketh we were well to rest from story-telling on that day also; after which, for that we shall then have sojourned here four days, I hold it opportune, an we would give no occasion for newcomers to intrude upon us, that we remove hence and get us gone elsewhither; where I have already considered and provided. There when we shall be assembled together on Sunday, after sleeping,--we having to-day had leisure enough for discoursing at large,[147]--I have bethought myself,--at once that you may have more time to consider and because it will be yet goodlier that the license of our story-telling be somewhat straitened and that we devise of one of the many fashions of fortune,--that our discourse shall be OF SUCH AS HAVE, BY DINT OF DILIGENCE,[148] ACQUIRED SOME MUCH DESIRED THING OR RECOVERED SOME LOST GOOD. Whereupon let each think to tell somewhat that may be useful or at least entertaining to the company, saving always Dioneo his privilege." All commended the speech and disposition of the queen and ordained that it should be as she had said. Then, calling for her seneschal, she particularly instructed him where he should set the tables that evening and after of what he should do during all the time of her seignory; and this done, rising to her feet, she gave the company leave to do that which was most pleasing unto each. Accordingly, ladies and men betook themselves to a little garden and there, after they had disported themselves awhile, the hour of supper being come, they supped with mirth and pleasance; then, all arising thence and Emilia, by the queen's commandment, leading the round, the ditty following was sung by Pampinea, whilst the other ladies responded: What lady aye should sing, and if not I, Who'm blest with all for which a maid can sigh? Come then, O Love, thou source of all my weal, All hope and every issue glad and bright Sing ye awhile yfere Of sighs nor bitter pains I erst did feel, That now but sweeten to me thy delight, Nay, but of that fire clear, Wherein I, burning, live in joy and cheer, And as my God, thy name do magnify. Thou settest, Love, before these eyes of mine Whenas thy fire I entered the first day, A youngling so beseen With valour, worth and loveliness divine, That never might one find a goodlier, nay, Nor yet his match, I ween. So sore I burnt for him I still must e'en Sing, blithe, of him with thee, my lord most high. And that in him which crowneth my liesse Is that I please him, as he pleaseth me, Thanks to Love debonair; Thus in this world my wish I do possess And in the next I trust at peace to be, Through that fast faith I bear To him; sure God, who seeth this, will ne'er The kingdom of His bliss to us deny. [Footnote 146: _i.e._ Friday being a fast day and Saturday a _jour maigre_.] [Footnote 147: _i.e._ generally upon the vicissitudes of Fortune and not upon any particular feature.] [Footnote 148: _Industria_, syn. address, skilful contrivance.] After this they sang sundry other songs and danced sundry dances and played upon divers instruments of music. Then, the queen deeming it time to go to rest, each betook himself, with torches before him, to his chamber, and all on the two following days, whilst applying themselves to those things whereof the queen had spoken, looked longingly for Sunday. HERE ENDETH THE SECOND DAY OF THE DECAMERON _Day the Third_ HERE BEGINNETH THE THIRD DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER THE GOVERNANCE OF NEIFILE IS DISCOURSED OF SUCH AS HAVE BY DINT OF DILIGENCE ACQUIRED SOME MUCH DESIRED THING OR RECOVERED SOME LOST GOOD The dawn from vermeil began to grow orange-tawny, at the approach of the sun, when on the Sunday the queen arose and caused all her company rise also. The seneschal had a great while before despatched to the place whither they were to go store of things needful and folk who should there make ready that which behoved, and seeing the queen now on the way, straightway let load everything else, as if the camp were raised thence, and with the household stuff and such of the servants as remained set out in rear of the ladies and gentlemen. The queen, then, with slow step, accompanied and followed by her ladies and the three young men and guided by the song of some score nightingales and other birds, took her way westward, by a little-used footpath, full of green herbs and flowers, which latter now all began to open for the coming sun, and chatting, jesting and laughing with her company, brought them a while before half tierce,[149] without having gone over two thousand paces, to a very fair and rich palace, somewhat upraised above the plain upon a little knoll. Here they entered and having gone all about and viewed the great saloons and the quaint and elegant chambers all throughly furnished with that which pertaineth thereunto, they mightily commended the place and accounted its lord magnificent. Then, going below and seeing the very spacious and cheerful court thereof, the cellars full of choicest wines and the very cool water that welled there in great abundance, they praised it yet more. Thence, as if desirous of repose, they betook themselves to sit in a gallery which commanded all the courtyard and was all full of flowers, such as the season afforded, and leafage, whereupon there came the careful seneschal and entertained and refreshed them with costliest confections and wines of choice. Thereafter, letting open to them a garden, all walled about, which coasted the palace, they entered therein and it seeming to them, at their entering, altogether[150] wonder-goodly, they addressed themselves more intently to view the particulars thereof. It had about it and athwart the middle very spacious alleys, all straight as arrows and embowered with trellises of vines, which made great show of bearing abundance of grapes that year and being then all in blossom, yielded so rare a savour about the garden, that, as it blent with the fragrance of many another sweet-smelling plant that there gave scent, themseemed they were among all the spiceries that ever grew in the Orient. The sides of these alleys were all in a manner walled about with roses, red and white, and jessamine, wherefore not only of a morning, but what while the sun was highest, one might go all about, untouched thereby, neath odoriferous and delightsome shade. What and how many and how orderly disposed were the plants that grew in that place, it were tedious to recount; suffice it that there is none goodly of those which may brook our air but was there in abundance. Amiddleward the garden (what was not less, but yet more commendable than aught else there) was a plat of very fine grass, so green that it seemed well nigh black, enamelled all with belike a thousand kinds of flowers and closed about with the greenest and lustiest of orange and citron trees, the which, bearing at once old fruits and new and flowers, not only afforded the eyes a pleasant shade, but were no less grateful to the smell. Midmost the grass-plat was a fountain of the whitest marble, enchased with wonder-goodly sculptures, and thence,--whether I know not from a natural or an artificial source,--there sprang, by a figure that stood on a column in its midst, so great a jet of water and so high towards the sky, whence not without a delectable sound it fell back into the wonder-limpid fount, that a mill might have wrought with less; the which after (I mean the water which overflowed the full basin) issued forth of the lawn by a hidden way, and coming to light therewithout, encompassed it all about by very goodly and curiously wroughten channels. Thence by like channels it ran through well nigh every part of the pleasance and was gathered again at the last in a place whereby it had issue from the fair garden and whence it descended, in the clearest of streams, towards the plain; but, ere it won thither, it turned two mills with exceeding power and to the no small vantage of the lord. The sight of this garden and its fair ordinance and the plants and the fountain, with the rivulets proceeding therefrom, so pleased the ladies and the three young men that they all of one accord avouched that, an Paradise might be created upon earth, they could not avail to conceive what form, other than that of this garden, might be given it nor what farther beauty might possibly be added thereunto. However, as they went most gladsomely thereabout, weaving them the goodliest garlands of the various leafage of the trees and hearkening the while to the carols of belike a score of different kinds of birds, that sang as if in rivalry one of other, they became aware of a delectable beauty, which, wonderstricken as they were with the other charms of the place, they had not yet noted; to wit, they found the garden full of maybe an hundred kinds of goodly creatures, and one showing them to other, they saw on one side rabbits issue, on another hares run; here lay kids and there fawns went grazing, and there was many another kind of harmless animal, each going about his pastime at his pleasure, as if tame; the which added unto them a yet greater pleasure than the others. After they had gone about their fill, viewing now this thing and now that, the queen let set the tables around the fair fountain and at her commandment, having first sung half a dozen canzonets and danced sundry dances, they sat down to meat. There, being right well and orderly served, after a very fair and sumptuous and tranquil fashion, with goodly and delicate viands, they waxed yet blither and arising thence, gave themselves anew to music-making and singing and dancing till it seemed good to the queen that those whom it pleased should betake themselves to sleep. Accordingly some went thither, whilst others, overcome with the beauty of the place, willed not to leave it, but, abiding there, addressed themselves, some to reading romances and some to playing chess or tables, whilst the others slept. But presently, the hour of none being past and the sleepers having arisen and refreshed their faces with cold water, they came all, at the queen's commandment, to the lawn hard by the fountain and there seating themselves, after the wonted fashion, waited to fall to story-telling upon the subject proposed by her. The first upon whom she laid this charge was Filostrato, who began on this wise: [Footnote 149: _i.e._ half _before_ (not half _after_) tierce or 7.30 a.m. _Cf._ the equivalent German idiom, _halb acht_, 7.30 (not 8.30) a.m.] [Footnote 150: _i.e._ as a whole (_tutto insieme_).] THE FIRST STORY [Day the Third] MASETTO OF LAMPORECCHIO FEIGNETH HIMSELF DUMB AND BECOMETH GARDENER TO A CONVENT OF WOMEN, WHO ALL FLOCK TO LIE WITH HIM "Fairest ladies, there be many men and women foolish enough to believe that, whenas the white fillet is bound about a girl's head and the black cowl clapped upon her back, she is no longer a woman and is no longer sensible of feminine appetites, as if the making her a nun had changed her to stone; and if perchance they hear aught contrary to this their belief, they are as much incensed as if a very great and heinous misdeed had been committed against nature, considering not neither having regard to themselves, whom full license to do that which they will availeth not to sate, nor yet to the much potency of idlesse and thought-taking.[151] On like wise there are but too many who believe that spade and mattock and coarse victuals and hard living do altogether purge away carnal appetites from the tillers of the earth and render them exceeding dull of wit and judgment. But how much all who believe thus are deluded, I purpose, since the queen hath commanded it to me, to make plain to you in a little story, without departing from the theme by her appointed. [Footnote 151: _Sollecitudine._ The commentators will have it that this is an error for _solitudine_, solitude, but I see no necessity for the substitution, the text being perfectly acceptable as it stands.] There was (and is yet) in these our parts a convent of women, very famous for sanctity (the which, that I may not anywise abate its repute, I will not name), wherein no great while agone, there being then no more than eight nuns and an abbess, all young, in the nunnery, a poor silly dolt of a fellow was gardener of a very goodly garden of theirs, who, being miscontent with his wage, settled his accounts with the ladies' bailiff and returned to Lamporecchio, whence he came. There, amongst others who welcomed him home, was a young labouring man, stout and robust and (for a countryman) a well-favoured fellow, by name of Masetto, who asked him where he had been so long. The good man, whose name was Nuto, told him, whereupon Masetto asked him in what he had served the convent, and he, 'I tended a great and goodly garden of theirs, and moreover I went while to the coppice for faggots and drew water and did other such small matters of service; but the nuns gave me so little wage that I could scare find me in shoon withal. Besides, they are all young and methinketh they are possessed of the devil, for there was no doing anything to their liking; nay, when I was at work whiles in the hortyard,[152] quoth one, "Set this here," and another, "Set that here," and a third snatched the spade from my hand, saying, "That is naught"; brief, they gave me so much vexation that I would leave work be and begone out of the hortyard; insomuch that, what with one thing and what with another, I would abide there no longer and took myself off. When I came away, their bailiff besought me, an I could lay my hand on any one apt unto that service, to send the man to him, and I promised it him; but may God make him sound of the loins as he whom I shall get him, else will I send him none at all!' Masetto, hearing this, was taken with so great a desire to be with these nuns that he was all consumed therewith, judging from Nuto's words that he might avail to compass somewhat of that which he desired. However, foreseeing that he would fail of his purpose, if he discovered aught thereof to Nuto, he said to the latter, 'Egad, thou didst well to come away. How is a man to live with women? He were better abide with devils. Six times out of seven they know not what they would have themselves.' But, after they had made an end of their talk, Masetto began to cast about what means he should take to be with them and feeling himself well able to do the offices of which Nuto had spoken, he had no fear of being refused on that head, but misdoubted him he might not be received, for that he was young and well-looked. Wherefore, after pondering many things in himself, he bethought himself thus: 'The place is far hence and none knoweth me there, an I can but make a show of being dumb, I shall for certain be received there.' Having fixed upon this device, he set out with an axe he had about his neck, without telling any whither he was bound, and betook himself, in the guise of a beggarman, to the convent, where being come, he entered in and as luck would have it, found the bailiff in the courtyard. Him he accosted with signs such as dumb folk use and made a show of asking food of him for the love of God and that in return he would, an it were needed, cleave wood for him. The bailiff willingly gave him to eat and after set before him divers logs that Nuto had not availed to cleave, but of all which Masetto, who was very strong, made a speedy despatch. By and by, the bailiff, having occasion to go to the coppice, carried him thither and put him to cutting faggots; after which, setting the ass before him, he gave him to understand by signs that he was to bring them home. This he did very well; wherefore the bailiff kept him there some days, so he might have him do certain things for which he had occasion. One day it chanced that the abbess saw him and asked the bailiff who he was. 'Madam,' answered he, 'this is a poor deaf and dumb man, who came hither the other day to ask an alms; so I took him in out of charity and have made him do sundry things of which we had need. If he knew how to till the hortyard and chose to abide with us, I believe we should get good service of him; for that we lack such an one and he is strong and we could make what we would of him; more by token that you would have no occasion to fear his playing the fool with yonder lasses of yours.' 'I' faith,' rejoined the abbess, 'thou sayst sooth. Learn if he knoweth how to till and study to keep him here; give him a pair of shoes and some old hood or other and make much of him, caress him, give him plenty to eat.' Which the bailiff promised to do. Masetto was not so far distant but he heard all this, making a show the while of sweeping the courtyard, and said merrily in himself, 'An you put me therein, I will till you your hortyard as it was never tilled yet.' Accordingly, the bailiff, seeing that he knew right well how to work, asked him by signs if he had a mind to abide there and he replied on like wise that he would do whatsoever he wished; whereupon the bailiff engaged him and charged him till the hortyard, showing him what he was to do; after which he went about other business of the convent and left him. Presently, as Masetto went working one day after another, the nuns fell to plaguing him and making mock of him, as ofttimes it betideth that folk do with mutes, and bespoke him the naughtiest words in the world, thinking he understood them not; whereof the abbess, mayhap supposing him to be tailless as well as tongueless, recked little or nothing. It chanced one day, however, that, as he rested himself after a hard morning's work, two young nuns, who went about the garden,[153] drew near the place where he lay and fell to looking upon him, whilst he made a show of sleeping. Presently quoth one who was somewhat the bolder of the twain to the other, 'If I thought thou wouldst keep my counsel, I would tell thee a thought which I have once and again had and which might perchance profit thee also.' 'Speak in all assurance,' answered the other, 'for certes I will never tell it to any.' Then said the forward wench, 'I know not if thou have ever considered how straitly we are kept and how no man dare ever enter here, save the bailiff, who is old, and yonder dumb fellow; and I have again and again heard ladies, who come to visit us, say that all other delights in the world are but toys in comparison with that which a woman enjoyeth, whenas she hath to do with a man. Wherefore I have often had it in mind to make trial with this mute, since with others I may not, if it be so. And indeed he is the best in the world to that end, for that, e'en if he would, he could not nor might tell it again. Thou seest he is a poor silly lout of a lad, who hath overgrown his wit, and I would fain hear how thou deemest of the thing.' 'Alack!' rejoined the other, 'what is this thou sayest? Knowest thou not that we have promised our virginity to God?' 'Oh, as for that,' answered the first, 'how many things are promised Him all day long, whereof not one is fulfilled unto Him! An we have promised it Him, let Him find Himself another or others to perform it to Him.' 'Or if,' went on her fellow, 'we should prove with child, how would it go then?' Quoth the other, 'Thou beginnest to take thought unto ill ere it cometh; when that betideth, then will we look to it; there will be a thousand ways for us of doing so that it shall never be known, provided we ourselves tell it not.' The other, hearing this and having now a greater itch than her companion to prove what manner beast a man was, said, 'Well, then, how shall we do?' Quoth the first, 'Thou seest it is nigh upon none and methinketh the sisters are all asleep, save only ourselves; let us look about the hortyard if there be any there, and if there be none, what have we to do but to take him by the hand and carry him into yonder hut, whereas he harboureth against the rain, and there let one of us abide with him, whilst the other keepeth watch? He is so simple that he will do whatever we will.' Masetto heard all this talk and disposed to compliance, waited but to be taken by one of the nuns. The latter having looked well all about and satisfied themselves that they could be seen from nowhere, she who had broached the matter came up to Masetto and aroused him, whereupon he rose incontinent to his feet. The nun took him coaxingly by the hand and led him, grinning like an idiot, to the hut, where, without overmuch pressing, he did what she would. Then, like a loyal comrade, having had her will, she gave place to her fellow, and Masetto, still feigning himself a simpleton, did their pleasure. Before they departed thence, each of the girls must needs once more prove how the mute could horse it, and after devising with each other, they agreed that the thing was as delectable as they had heard, nay, more so. Accordingly, watching their opportunity, they went oftentimes at fitting seasons to divert themselves with the mute, till one day it chanced that one of their sisters, espying them in the act from the lattice of her cell, showed it to other twain. At first they talked of denouncing the culprits to the abbess, but, after, changing counsel and coming to an accord with the first two, they became sharers with them in Masetto's services, and to them the other three nuns were at divers times and by divers chances added as associates. Ultimately, the abbess, who had not yet gotten wind of these doings, walking one day alone in the garden, the heat being great, found Masetto (who had enough of a little fatigue by day, because of overmuch posting it by night) stretched out asleep under the shade of an almond-tree, and the wind lifting the forepart of his clothes, all abode discovered. The lady, beholding this and seeing herself alone, fell into that same appetite which had gotten hold of her nuns, and arousing Masetto, carried him to her chamber, where, to the no small miscontent of the others, who complained loudly that the gardener came not to till the hortyard, she kept him several days, proving and reproving that delight which she had erst been wont to blame in others. At last she sent him back to his own lodging, but was fain to have him often again and as, moreover, she required of him more than her share, Masetto, unable to satisfy so many, bethought himself that his playing the mute might, an it endured longer, result in his exceeding great hurt. Wherefore, being one night with the abbess, he gave loose to[154] his tongue and bespoke her thus: 'Madam, I have heard say that one cock sufficeth unto half a score hens, but that half a score men can ill or hardly satisfy one woman; whereas needs must I serve nine, and to this I can no wise endure; nay, for that which I have done up to now, I am come to such a pass that I can do neither little nor much; wherefore do ye either let me go in God's name or find a remedy for the matter.' The abbess, hearing him speak whom she held dumb, was all amazed and said, 'What is this? Methought thou wast dumb.' 'Madam,' answered Masetto, 'I was indeed dumb, not by nature, but by reason of a malady which bereft me of speech, and only this very night for the first time do I feel it restored to me, wherefore I praise God as most I may.' The lady believed this and asked him what he meant by saying that he had to serve nine. Masetto told her how the case stood, whereby she perceived that she had no nun but was far wiser than herself; but, like a discreet woman as she was, she resolved to take counsel with her nuns to find some means of arranging the matter, without letting Masetto go, so the convent might not be defamed by him. Accordingly, having openly confessed to one another that which had been secretly done of each, they all of one accord, with Masetto's consent, so ordered it that the people round about believed speech to have been restored to him, after he had long been mute, through their prayers and by the merits of the saint in whose name the convent was intituled, and their bailiff being lately dead, they made Masetto bailiff in his stead and apportioned his toils on such wise that he could endure them. Thereafter, albeit he began upon them monikins galore, the thing was so discreetly ordered that nothing took vent thereof till after the death of the abbess, when Masetto began to grow old and had a mind to return home rich. The thing becoming known, enabled him lightly to accomplish his desire, and thus Masetto, having by his foresight contrived to employ his youth to good purpose, returned in his old age, rich and a father, without being at the pains or expense of rearing children, to the place whence he had set out with an axe about his neck, avouching that thus did Christ entreat whoso set horns to his cap." [Footnote 152: Hortyard (_orto_) is the old form of orchard, properly an enclosed tract of land in which fruit, vegetables and potherbs are cultivated for use, _i.e._ the modern kitchen garden and orchard in one, as distinguished from the pleasaunce or flower garden (_giardino_).] [Footnote 153: _Giardino_, _i.e._ flower-garden.] [Footnote 154: Lit. broke the string of.] THE SECOND STORY [Day the Third] A HORSEKEEPER LIETH WITH THE WIFE OF KING AGILULF, WHO, BECOMING AWARE THEREOF, WITHOUT WORD SAID, FINDETH HIM OUT AND POLLETH HIM; BUT THE POLLED MAN POLLETH ALL HIS FELLOWS ON LIKE WISE AND SO ESCAPETH ILL HAP The end of Filostrato's story, whereat whiles the ladies had some little blushed and other whiles laughed, being come, it pleased the queen that Pampinea should follow on with a story, and she accordingly, beginning with a smiling countenance, said, "Some are so little discreet in seeking at all hazards to show that they know and apprehend that which it concerneth them not to know, that whiles, rebuking to this end unperceived defects in others, they think to lessen their own shame, whereas they do infinitely augment it; and that this is so I purpose, lovesome ladies, to prove to you by the contrary thereof, showing you the astuteness of one who, in the judgment of a king of worth and valour, was held belike of less account than Masetto himself. Agilulf, King of the Lombards, as his predecessors had done, fixed the seat of his kingship at Pavia, a city of Lombardy, and took to wife Theodolinda[155] the widow of Autari, likewise King of the Lombards, a very fair lady and exceeding discreet and virtuous, but ill fortuned in a lover.[156] The affairs of the Lombards having, thanks to the valour and judgment of King Agilulf, been for some time prosperous and in quiet, it befell that one of the said queen's horse-keepers, a man of very low condition, in respect of birth, but otherwise of worth far above so mean a station, and comely of person and tall as he were the king, became beyond measure enamoured of his mistress. His mean estate hindered him not from being sensible that this love of his was out of all reason, wherefore, like a discreet man as he was, he discovered it unto none, nor dared he make it known to her even with his eyes. But, albeit he lived without any hope of ever winning her favour, yet inwardly he gloried in that he had bestowed his thoughts in such high place, and being all aflame with amorous fire, he studied, beyond every other of his fellows, to do whatsoever he deemed might pleasure the queen; whereby it befell that, whenas she had occasion to ride abroad, she liefer mounted the palfrey of which he had charge than any other; and when this happened, he reckoned it a passing great favour to himself nor ever stirred from her stirrup, accounting himself happy what time he might but touch her clothes. But, as often enough we see it happen that, even as hope groweth less, so love waxeth greater, so did it betide this poor groom, insomuch that sore uneath it was to him to avail to brook his great desire, keeping it, as he did, hidden and being upheld by no hope; and many a time, unable to rid himself of that his love, he determined in himself to die. And considering inwardly of the manner, he resolved to seek his death on such wise that it should be manifest he died for the love he bore the queen, to which end he bethought himself to try his fortune in an enterprise of such a sort as should afford him a chance of having or all or part of his desire. He set not himself to seek to say aught to the queen nor to make her sensible of his love by letters, knowing he should speak and write in vain, but chose rather to essay an he might by practice avail to lie with her; nor was there any other shift for it but to find a means how he might, in the person of the king, who, he knew, lay not with her continually, contrive to make his way to her and enter her bedchamber. Accordingly, that he might see on what wise and in what habit the king went, whenas he visited her, he hid himself several times by night in a great saloon of the palace, which lay between the king's bedchamber and that of the queen, and one night, amongst others, he saw the king come forth of his chamber, wrapped in a great mantle, with a lighted taper in one hand and a little wand in the other, and making for the queen's chamber, strike once or twice upon the door with the wand, without saying aught, whereupon it was incontinent opened to him and the taper taken from his hand. Noting this and having seen the king return after the same fashion, he bethought himself to do likewise. Accordingly, finding means to have a cloak like that which he had seen the king wear, together with a taper and a wand, and having first well washed himself in a bagnio, lest haply the smell of the muck should offend the queen or cause her smoke the cheat, he hid himself in the great saloon, as of wont. Whenas he knew that all were asleep and it seemed to him time either to give effect to his desire or to make his way by high emprise[157] to the wished-for death, he struck a light with a flint and steel he had brought with him and kindling the taper, wrapped himself fast in the mantle, then, going up to the chamber-door, smote twice upon it with the wand. The door was opened by a bedchamber-woman, all sleepy-eyed, who took the light and covered it; whereupon, without saying aught, he passed within the curtain, put off his mantle and entered the bed where the queen slept. Then, taking her desirefully in his arms and feigning himself troubled (for that he knew the king's wont to be that, whenas he was troubled, he cared not to hear aught), without speaking or being spoken to, he several times carnally knew the queen; after which, grievous as it seemed to him to depart, yet, fearing lest his too long stay should be the occasion of turning the gotten delight into dolour, he arose and taking up the mantle and the light, withdrew, without word said, and returned, as quickliest he might, to his own bed. He could scarce yet have been therein when the king arose and repaired to the queen's chamber, whereat she marvelled exceedingly; and as he entered the bed and greeted her blithely, she took courage by his cheerfulness and said, 'O my lord, what new fashion is this of to-night? You left me but now, after having taken pleasure of me beyond your wont, and do you return so soon? Have a care what you do.' The king, hearing these words, at once concluded that the queen had been deceived by likeness of manners and person, but, like a wise man, bethought himself forthright, seeing that neither she nor any else had perceived the cheat, not to make her aware thereof; which many simpletons would not have done, but would have said, 'I have not been here, I. Who is it hath been here? How did it happen? Who came hither?' Whence many things might have arisen, whereby he would needlessly have afflicted the lady and given her ground for desiring another time that which she had already tasted; more by token that, an he kept silence of the matter, no shame might revert to him, whereas, by speaking, he would have brought dishonour upon himself. The king, then, more troubled at heart than in looks or speech, answered, saying, 'Wife, seem I not to you man enough to have been here a first time and to come yet again after that?' 'Ay, my lord,' answered she. 'Nevertheless, I beseech you have regard to your health.' Quoth Agilulf, 'And it pleaseth me to follow your counsel, wherefore for the nonce I will get me gone again, without giving you more annoy.' This said, taking up his mantle, he departed the chamber, with a heart full of wrath and despite for the affront that he saw had been done him, and bethought himself quietly to seek to discover the culprit, concluding that he must be of the household and could not, whoever he might be, have issued forth of the palace. Accordingly, taking a very small light in a little lantern, he betook himself to a very long gallery that was over the stables of his palace and where all his household slept in different beds, and judging that, whoever he might be that had done what the queen said, his pulse and the beating of his heart for the swink endured could not yet have had time to abate, he silently, beginning at one end of the gallery, fell to feeling each one's breast, to know if his heart beat high. Although every other slept fast, he who had been with the queen was not yet asleep, but, seeing the king come and guessing what he went seeking, fell into such a fright that to the beating of the heart caused by the late-had fatigue, fear added yet a greater and he doubted not but the king, if he became aware of this, would put him to death without delay, and many things passed through his thought that he should do. However, seeing him all unarmed, he resolved to feign sleep and await what he should do. Agilulf, then, having examined many and found none whom he judged to be he of whom he was in quest, came presently to the horsekeeper and feeling his heart beat high, said in himself, 'This is the man.' Nevertheless, an he would have nought be known of that which he purposed to do, he did nought to him but poll, with a pair of scissors he had brought with him, somewhat on one side of his hair, which they then wore very long, so by that token he might know him again on the morrow; and this done, he withdrew and returned to his own chamber. The culprit, who had felt all this, like a shrewd fellow as he was, understood plainly enough why he had been thus marked; wherefore he arose without delay and finding a pair of shears, whereof it chanced there were several about the stables for the service of the horses, went softly up to all who lay in the gallery and clipped each one's hair on like wise over the ear; which having done without being observed, he returned to sleep. When the king arose in the morning, he commanded that all his household should present themselves before him, or ever the palace-doors were opened; and it was done as he said. Then, as they all stood before him with uncovered heads, he began to look that he might know him whom he had polled; but, seeing the most part of them with their hair clipped after one and the same fashion, he marvelled and said in himself, 'He whom I seek, for all he may be of mean estate, showeth right well he is of no mean wit.' Then, seeing that he could not, without making a stir, avail to have him whom he sought, and having no mind to incur a great shame for the sake of a paltry revenge, it pleased him with one sole word to admonish the culprit and show him that he was ware of the matter; wherefore, turning to all who were present, he said, 'Let him who did it do it no more and get you gone in peace.' Another would have been for giving them the strappado, for torturing, examining and questioning, and doing this, would have published that which every one should go about to conceal; and having thus discovered himself, though he should have taken entire revenge for the affront suffered, his shame had not been minished, nay, were rather much enhanced therefor and his lady's honour sullied. Those who heard the king's words marvelled and long debated amongst themselves what he meant by this speech; but none understood it, save he whom it concerned, and he, like a wise man, never, during Agilulf's lifetime, discovered the matter nor ever again committed his life to the hazard of such a venture." [Footnote 155: Boccaccio calls her _Teudelinga_; but I know of no authority for this form of the name of the famous Longobardian queen.] [Footnote 156: Referring apparently to the adventure related in the present story.] [Footnote 157: Lit. with high (_i.e._ worthy) cause (_con alta cagione_).] THE THIRD STORY [Day the Third] UNDER COLOUR OF CONFESSION AND OF EXCEEDING NICENESS OF CONSCIENCE, A LADY, BEING ENAMOURED OF A YOUNG MAN, BRINGETH A GRAVE FRIAR, WITHOUT HIS MISDOUBTING HIM THEREOF, TO AFFORD A MEANS OF GIVING ENTIRE EFFECT TO HER PLEASURE Pampinea being now silent and the daring and subtlety of the horsekeeper having been extolled by several of the company, as also the king's good sense, the queen, turning to Filomena, charged her follow on; whereupon she blithely began to speak thus, "I purpose to recount to you a cheat which was in very deed put by a fair lady upon a grave friar and which should be so much the more pleasing to every layman as these [--friars, to wit--], albeit for the most part very dull fools and men of strange manners and usances, hold themselves to be in everything both better worth and wiser than others, whereas they are of far less account than the rest of mankind, being men who, lacking, of the meanness of their spirit, the ability to provide themselves, take refuge, like swine, whereas they may have what to eat. And this story, charming ladies, I shall tell you, not only for the ensuing of the order imposed, but to give you to know withal that even the clergy, to whom we women, beyond measure credulous as we are, yield overmuch faith, can be and are whiles adroitly befooled, and that not by men only, but even by certain of our own sex. In our city, the which is fuller of cozenage than of love or faith, there was, not many years agone, a gentlewoman adorned with beauty and charms and as richly endowed by nature as any of her sex with engaging manners and loftiness of spirit and subtle wit, whose name albeit I know, I purpose not to discover it, no, nor any other that pertaineth unto the present story, for that there be folk yet alive who would take it in despite, whereas it should be passed over with a laugh. This lady, then, seeing herself, though of high lineage, married to a wool-monger and unable, for that he was a craftsman, to put off the haughtiness of her spirit, whereby she deemed no man of mean condition, how rich soever he might be, worthy of a gentlewoman and seeing him moreover, for all his wealth, to be apt unto nothing of more moment than to lay a warp for a piece of motley or let weave a cloth or chaffer with a spinster anent her yarn, resolved on no wise to admit of his embraces, save in so far as she might not deny him, but to seek, for her own satisfaction, to find some one who should be worthier of her favours than the wool-monger appeared to her to be, and accordingly fell so fervently in love with a man of very good quality and middle age, that, whenas she saw him not by day, she could not pass the ensuing night without unease. The gentleman, perceiving not how the case stood, took no heed of her, and she, being very circumspect, dared not make the matter known to him by sending of women nor by letter, fearing the possible perils that might betide. However, observing that he companied much with a churchman, who, albeit a dull lump of a fellow, was nevertheless, for that he was a man of very devout life, reputed of well nigh all a most worthy friar, she bethought herself that this latter would make an excellent go-between herself and her lover and having considered what means she should use, she repaired, at a fitting season, to the church where he abode, and letting call him to her, told him that, an he pleased, she would fain confess herself to him. The friar seeing her and judging her to be a woman of condition, willingly gave ear to her, and she, after confession, said to him, 'Father mine, it behoveth me have recourse to you for aid and counsel anent that which you shall hear. I know, as having myself told you, that you know my kinsfolk and my husband, who loveth me more than his life, nor is there aught I desire but I have it of him incontinent, he being a very rich man and one who can well afford it; wherefore I love him more than mine own self and should I but think, let alone do, aught that might be contrary to his honour and pleasure, there were no woman more wicked or more deserving of the fire than I. Now one, whose name in truth I know not, but who is, meseemeth, a man of condition, and is, if I mistake not, much in your company,--a well-favoured man and tall of his person and clad in very decent sad-coloured raiment,--unaware belike of the constancy of my purpose, appeareth to have laid siege to me, nor can I show myself at door or window nor go without the house, but he incontinent presenteth himself before me, and I marvel that he is not here now; whereat I am sore concerned, for that such fashions as these often bring virtuous women into reproach, without their fault. I have whiles had it in mind to have him told of this by my brothers; but then I have bethought me that men oftentimes do messages on such wise that ill answers ensue, which give rise to words and from words they come to deeds; wherefore, lest mischief spring therefrom and scandal, I have kept silence of the matter and have determined to discover it to yourself rather than to another, at once because meseemeth you are his friend and for that it beseemeth you to rebuke not only friends, but strangers, of such things. I beseech you, therefore, for the one God's sake, that you rebuke him of this and pray him leave these his fashions. There be women enough, who incline belike to these toys and would take pleasure in being dogged and courted by him, whereas to me, who have no manner of mind to such matters, it is a very grievous annoy.' So saying, she bowed her head as she would weep. The holy friar understood incontinent of whom she spoke and firmly believing what she said to be true, greatly commended her righteous intent and promised her to do on such wise that she should have no farther annoy from the person in question; and knowing her to be very rich, he commended to her works of charity and almsdeeds, recounting to her his own need. Quoth the lady, 'I beseech you thereof for God's sake, and should he deny, prithee scruple not to tell him that it was I who told you this and complained to you thereof.' Then, having made her confession and gotten her penance, recalling the friar's exhortations to works of almsgiving, she stealthily filled his hand with money, praying him to say masses for the souls of her dead kinsfolk; after which she rose from his feet and taking leave of him, returned home. Not long after up came the gentleman, according to his wont, and after they had talked awhile of one thing and another, the friar, drawing his friend aside, very civilly rebuked him of the manner in which, as he believed, he pursued and spied upon the lady aforesaid, according to that which she had given him to understand. The other marvelled, as well he might, having never set eyes upon her and being used very rarely to pass before her house, and would have excused himself; but the friar suffered him not to speak, saying, 'Now make no show of wonderment nor waste words in denying it, for it will avail thee nothing; I learnt not these matters from the neighbours; nay, she herself told them to me, complaining sore of thee. And besides that such toys beseem not a man of thine age, I may tell thee this much of her, that if ever I saw a woman averse to these follies, it is she; wherefore, for thine own credit and her comfort, I prithee desist therefrom and let her be in peace.' The gentleman, quicker of wit than the friar, was not slow to apprehend the lady's device and feigning to be somewhat abashed, promised to meddle no more with her thenceforward; then, taking leave of the friar, he betook himself to the house of the lady, who still abode await at a little window, so she might see him, should he pass that way. When she saw him come, she showed herself so rejoiced and so gracious to him, that he might very well understand that he had gathered the truth from the friar's words, and thenceforward, under colour of other business, he began with the utmost precaution to pass continually through the street, to his own pleasure and to the exceeding delight and solace of the lady. After awhile, perceiving that she pleased him even as he pleased her and wishful to inflame him yet more and to certify him of the love she bore him, she betook herself again, choosing her time and place, to the holy friar and seating herself at his feet in the church, fell a-weeping. The friar, seeing this, asked her affectionately what was to do with her anew. 'Alack, father mine,' answered she, 'that which aileth me is none other than yonder God-accursed friend of yours, of whom I complained to you the other day, for that methinketh he was born for my especial torment and to make me do a thing, such that I should never be glad again nor ever after dare to seat myself at your feet.' 'How?' cried the friar. 'Hath he not given over annoying thee?' 'No, indeed,' answered she; 'nay, since I complained to you of him, as if of despite, maybe taking it ill that I should have done so, for every once he used to pass before my house, I verily believe he hath passed seven times. And would to God he were content with passing and spying upon me! Nay, he is grown so bold and so malapert that but yesterday he despatched a woman to me at home with his idle tales and toys and sent me a purse and a girdle, as if I had not purses and girdles galore; the which I took and take so ill that I believe, but for my having regard to the sin of it and after for the love of you, I had played the devil. However, I contained myself and would not do or say aught whereof I should not first have let you know. Nay, I had already returned the purse and the girdle to the baggage who brought them, that she might carry them back to him, and had given her a rough dismissal, but after, fearing she might keep them for herself and tell him that I had accepted them, as I hear women of her fashion do whiles, I called her back and took them, full of despite, from her hands and have brought them to you, so you may return them to him and tell him I want none of his trash, for that, thanks to God and my husband, I have purses and girdles enough to smother him withal. Moreover, if hereafter he desist not from this, I tell you, as a father, you must excuse me, but I will tell it, come what may, to my husband and my brothers; for I had far liefer he should brook an affront, if needs he must, than that I should suffer blame for him; wherefore let him look to himself.' So saying, still weeping sore, she pulled out from under her surcoat a very handsome and rich purse and a quaint and costly girdle and threw them into the lap of the friar, who, fully crediting that which she told him and incensed beyond measure, took them and said to her, 'Daughter, I marvel not that thou art provoked at these doings, nor can I blame thee therefor; but I much commend thee for following my counsel in the matter. I rebuked him the other day and he hath ill performed that which he promised me; wherefore, as well for that as for this that he hath newly done, I mean to warm his ears[158] for him after such a fashion that methinketh he will give thee no farther concern; but do thou, God's benison on thee, suffer not thyself to be so overcome with anger that thou tell it to any of thy folk, for that overmuch harm might ensue thereof unto him. Neither fear thou lest this blame anywise ensue to thee, for I shall still, before both God and men, be a most constant witness to thy virtue.' The lady made believe to be somewhat comforted and leaving that talk, said, as one who knew his greed and that of his fellow-churchmen, 'Sir, these some nights past there have appeared to me sundry of my kinsfolk, who ask nought but almsdeeds, and meseemeth they are indeed in exceeding great torment, especially my mother, who appeareth to me in such ill case and affliction that it is pity to behold. Methinketh she suffereth exceeding distress to see me in this tribulation with yonder enemy of God; wherefore I would have you say me forty masses of Saint Gregory for her and their souls, together with certain of your own prayers, so God may deliver them from that penitential fire.' So saying, she put a florin into his hand, which the holy father blithely received and confirming her devoutness with fair words and store of pious instances, gave her his benison and let her go. The lady being gone, the friar, never thinking how he was gulled, sent for his friend, who, coming and finding him troubled, at once divined that he was to have news of the lady and awaited what the friar should say. The latter repeated that which he had before said to him and bespeaking him anew angrily and reproachfully, rebuked him severely of that which, according to the lady's report, he had done. The gentleman, not yet perceiving the friar's drift, faintly enough denied having sent her the purse and the girdle, so as not to undeceive the friar, in case the lady should have given him to believe that he had done this; whereat the good man was sore incensed and said, 'How canst thou deny it, wicked man that thou art? See, here they are, for she herself brought them to me, weeping; look if thou knowest them.' The gentleman feigned to be sore abashed and answered, 'Yes, I do indeed know them and I confess to you that I did ill; but I swear to you, since I see her thus disposed, that you shall never more hear a word of this.' Brief, after many words, the numskull of a friar gave his friend the purse and the girdle and dismissed him, after rating him amain and beseeching him occupy himself no more with these follies, the which he promised him. The gentleman, overjoyed both at the assurance that himseemed he had of the lady's love and at the goodly gift, was no sooner quit of the friar than he betook himself to a place where he made shift to let his mistress see that he had the one and the other thing; whereat she was mightily rejoiced, more by token that herseemed her device went from good to better. She now awaited nought but her husband's going abroad to give completion to the work, and it befell not long after that it behoved him repair to Genoa on some occasion or other. No sooner had he mounted to horse in the morning and gone his way, than the lady betook herself to the holy man and after many lamentations, said to him, weeping, 'Father mine, I tell you now plainly that I can brook no more; but, for that I promised you the other day to do nought, without first telling you, I am come to excuse myself to you; and that you may believe I have good reason both to weep and to complain, I will tell you what your friend, or rather devil incarnate, did to me this very morning, a little before matins. I know not what ill chance gave him to know that my husband was to go to Genoa yestermorn; algates, this morning, at the time I tell you, he came into a garden of mine and climbing up by a tree to the window of my bedchamber, which giveth upon the garden, had already opened the lattice and was for entering, when I of a sudden awoke and starting up, offered to cry out, nay, would assuredly have cried out, but that he, who was not yet within, besought me of mercy in God's name and yours, telling me who he was; which when I heard, I held my peace for the love of you and naked as I was born, ran and shut the window in his face; whereupon I suppose he took himself off (ill-luck go with him!), for I heard no more of him. Look you now if this be a goodly thing and to be endured. For my part I mean to bear with him no more; nay, I have already forborne him overmuch for the love of you.' The friar, hearing this, was the wrathfullest man alive and knew not what to say, except to ask again and again if she had well certified herself that it was indeed he and not another; to which she answered, 'Praised be God! As if I did not yet know him from another! I tell you it was himself, and although he should deny it, credit him not.' Then said the friar, 'Daughter, there is nothing to be said for it but that this was exceeding effrontery and a thing exceeding ill done, and in sending him off, as thou didst, thou didst that which it behoved thee to do. But I beseech thee, since God hath preserved thee from shame, that, like as thou hast twice followed my counsel, even so do thou yet this once; to wit, without complaining to any kinsman of thine, leave it to me to see an I can bridle yonder devil broke loose, whom I believed a saint. If I can make shift to turn him from this lewdness, well and good; if not, I give thee leave henceforth to do with him that which thy soul shall judge best, and my benison go with thee.' 'Well, then,' answered the lady, 'for this once I will well not to vex or disobey you; but look you do on such wise that he be ware of annoying me again, for I promise you I will never again return to you for this cause.' Thereupon, without saying more, she took leave of the friar and went away, as if in anger. Hardly was she out of the church when up came the gentleman and was called by the friar, who, taking him apart, gave him the soundest rating ever man had, calling him disloyal and forsworn and traitor. The other, who had already twice had occasion to know to what the monk's reprimands amounted, abode expectant and studied with embarrassed answers to make him speak out, saying, at the first, 'Why all this passion, Sir? Have I crucified Christ?' Whereupon, 'Mark this shameless fellow!' cried the friar. 'Hear what he saith! He speaketh as if a year or two were passed and he had for lapse of time forgotten his misdeeds and his lewdness! Hath it then escaped thy mind between this and matinsong that thou hast outraged some one this very morning? Where wast thou this morning a little before day?' 'I know not,' answered the gentleman; 'but wherever it was, the news thereof hath reached you mighty early.' Quoth the friar, 'Certes, the news hath reached me. Doubtless thou supposedst because her husband was abroad, that needs must the gentlewoman receive thee incontinent in her arms. A fine thing, indeed! Here's a pretty fellow! Here's an honourable man! He's grown a nighthawk, a garden-breaker, a tree-climber! Thinkest thou by importunity to overcome this lady's chastity, that thou climbest up to her windows anights by the trees? There is nought in the world so displeasing to her as thou; yet must thou e'en go essaying it again and again. Truly, thou hast profited finely by my admonitions, let alone that she hath shown thee her aversion in many ways. But this I have to say to thee; she hath up to now, not for any love she beareth thee, but at my instant entreaty, kept silence of that which thou hast done; but she will do so no more; I have given her leave to do what seemeth good to her, an thou annoy her again in aught. What wilt thou do, an she tell her brothers?' The gentleman having now gathered enough of that which it concerned him to know, appeased the friar, as best he knew and might, with many and ample promises, and taking leave of him, waited till matinsong[159] of the ensuing night, when he made his way into the garden and climbed up by the tree to the window. He found the lattice open and entering the chamber as quickliest he might, threw himself into the arms of his fair mistress, who, having awaited him with the utmost impatience, received him joyfully, saying, 'Gramercy to my lord the friar for that he so well taught thee the way hither!' Then, taking their pleasure one of the other, they solaced themselves together with great delight, devising and laughing amain anent the simplicity of the dolt of a friar and gibing at wool-hanks and teasels and carding-combs. Moreover, having taken order for their future converse, they did on such wise that, without having to resort anew to my lord the friar, they foregathered in equal joyance many another night, to the like whereof I pray God, of His holy mercy, speedily to conduct me and all Christian souls who have a mind thereto." [Footnote 158: Lit. (_riscaldare gli orecchi_).] [Footnote 159: _i.e._ three a.m. next morning.] THE FOURTH STORY [Day the Third] DOM FELICE TEACHETH FRA PUCCIO HOW HE MAY BECOME BEATIFIED BY PERFORMING A CERTAIN PENANCE OF HIS FASHION, WHICH THE OTHER DOTH, AND DOM FELICE MEANWHILE LEADETH A MERRY LIFE OF IT WITH THE GOOD MAN'S WIFE Filomena, having made an end of her story, was silent and Dioneo having with dulcet speech mightily commended the lady's shrewdness and eke the prayer with which Filomena had concluded, the queen turned with a smile to Pamfilo and said, "Come, Pamfilo, continue our diversion with some pleasant trifle." Pamfilo promptly answered that he would well and began thus: "Madam, there are many persons who, what while they study to enter Paradise, unwittingly send others thither; the which happened, no great while since, to a neighbour of ours, as you shall hear. According to that which I have heard tell, there abode near San Pancrazio an honest man and a rich, called Puccio di Rinieri, who, devoting himself in his latter days altogether to religious practices, became a tertiary[160] of the order of St. Francis, whence he was styled Fra Puccio, and ensuing this his devout life, much frequented the church, for that he had no family other than a wife and one maid and consequently, it behoved him not apply himself to any craft. Being an ignorant, clod-pated fellow, he said his paternosters, went to preachments and attended mass, nor ever failed to be at the Lauds chanted by the seculars,[161] and fasted and mortified himself; nay, it was buzzed about that he was of the Flagellants.[162] His wife, whose name was Mistress Isabetta,[163] a woman, yet young, of eight-and-twenty to thirty years of age, fresh and fair and plump as a lady-apple, kept, by reason of the piety and belike of the age of her husband, much longer and more frequent fasts than she could have wished, and when she would have slept or maybe frolicked with him, he recounted to her the life of Christ and the preachments of Fra Nastagio or the Complaint of Mary Magdalene or the like. Meantime there returned home from Paris a monk hight Dom[164] Felice, Conventual[165] of San Pancrazio, who was young and comely enough of person, keen of wit and a profound scholar, and with him Fra Puccio contracted a strait friendship. And for that this Dom Felice right well resolved him his every doubt and knowing his pious turn of mind, made him a show of exceeding devoutness, Fra Puccio fell to carrying him home bytimes and giving him to dine and sup, as the occasion offered; and the lady also, for her husband's sake, became familiar with him and willingly did him honour. The monk, then, continuing to frequent Fra Puccio's house and seeing the latter's wife so fresh and plump, guessed what should be the thing whereof she suffered the most default and bethought himself, an he might, to go about to furnish her withal himself, and so spare Fra Puccio fatigue. Accordingly, craftily casting his eyes on her, at one time and another, he made shift to kindle in her breast that same desire which he had himself, which when he saw, he bespoke her of his wishes as first occasion betided him. But, albeit he found her well disposed to give effect to the work, he could find no means thereunto, for that she would on nowise trust herself to be with him in any place in the world save her own house, and there it might not be, seeing that Fra Puccio never went without the town. At this the monk was sore chagrined; but, after much consideration, he hit upon a device whereby he might avail to foregather with the lady in her own house, without suspect, for all Fra Puccio should be at home. Accordingly, the latter coming one day to visit him, he bespoke him thus, 'I have many a time understood, Fra Puccio, that all thy desire is to become a saint and to this end meseemeth thou goest about by a long road, whereas there is another and a very short one, which the Pope and the other great prelates, who know and practise it, will not have made known, for that the clergy, who for the most part live by alms, would incontinent be undone, inasmuch as the laity would no longer trouble themselves to propitiate them with alms or otherwhat. But, for that thou art my friend and hast very honourably entertained me, I would teach it thee, so I were assured thou wouldst practise it and wouldst not discover it to any living soul.' Fra Puccio, eager to know the thing, began straightway to entreat him with the utmost instancy that he would teach it him and then to swear that never, save in so far as it should please him, would he tell it to any, engaging, an if it were such as he might avail to follow, to address himself thereunto. Whereupon quoth the monk, 'Since thou promisest me this, I will e'en discover it to thee. Thou must know that the doctors of the church hold that it behoveth whoso would become blessed to perform the penance which thou shalt hear; but understand me aright; I do not say that, after the penance, thou wilt not be a sinner like as thou presently art; but this will betide, that the sins which thou hast committed up to the time of the penance will all by virtue thereof be purged and pardoned unto thee, and those which thou shalt commit thereafterward will not be written to thy prejudice, but will pass away with the holy water, as venial sins do now. It behoveth a man, then, in the first place, whenas he cometh to begin the penance, to confess himself with the utmost diligence of his sins, and after this he must keep a fast and a very strict abstinence for the space of forty days, during which time thou[166] must abstain from touching, not to say other women, but even thine own wife. Moreover, thou must have in thine own house some place whence thou mayst see the sky by night, whither thou must betake thyself towards the hour of complines,[167] and there thou must have a wide plank set up, on such wise that, standing upright, thou mayst lean thy loins against it and keeping thy feet on the ground, stretch out thine arms, crucifix fashion. An thou wouldst rest them upon some peg or other, thou mayst do it, and on this wise thou must abide gazing upon the sky, without budging a jot, till matins. Wert thou a scholar, thou wouldst do well to repeat certain orisons I would give thee; but, as thou art it not, thou must say three hundred Paternosters and as many Ave Marys, in honour of the Trinity, and looking upon heaven, still have in remembrance that God is the Creator of heaven and earth and the passion of Christ, abiding on such wise as He abode on the cross. When the bell ringeth to matins, thou mayst, an thou wilt, go and cast thyself, clad as thou art, on thy bed and sleep, and after, in the forenoon, betake thyself to church and there hear at least three masses and repeat fifty Paternosters and as many Aves; after which thou shalt with a single heart do all and sundry thine occasions, if thou have any to do, and dine and at evensong be in church again and there say certain orisons which I will give thee by writ and without which it cannot be done. Then, towards complines, do thou return to the fashion aforesaid, and thus doing, even as I have myself done aforetime, I doubt not but, ere thou come to the end of the penance, thou wilt, (provided thou shalt have performed it with devoutness and compunction,) feel somewhat marvellous of eternal beatitude.' Quoth Fra Puccio, 'This is no very burdensome matter, nor yet overlong, and may very well be done; wherefore I purpose in God's name to begin on Sunday.' Then, taking leave of him and returning home, he related everything in due order to his wife, having the other's permission therefor. The lady understood very well what the monk meant by bidding him stand fast without stirring till matins; wherefore, the device seeming to her excellent, she replied that she was well pleased therewith and with every other good work that he did for the health of his soul and that, so God might make the penance profitable to him, she would e'en fast with him, but do no more. They being thus of accord and Sunday come, Fra Puccio began his penance and my lord monk, having agreed with the lady, came most evenings to sup with her, bringing with him store of good things to eat and drink, and after lay with her till matinsong, when he arose and took himself off, whilst Fra Puccio returned to bed. Now the place which Fra Puccio had chosen for his penance adjoined the chamber where the lady lay and was parted therefrom but by a very slight wall, wherefore, Master Monk wantoning it one night overfreely with the lady and she with him, it seemed to Fra Puccio that he felt a shaking of the floor of the house. Accordingly, having by this said an hundred of his Paternosters, he made a stop there and without moving, called to his wife to know what she did. The lady, who was of a waggish turn and was then belike astride of San Benedetto his beast or that of San Giovanni Gualberto, answered, 'I' faith, husband mine, I toss as most I may.' 'How?' quoth Fra Puccio. 'Thou tossest? What meaneth this tossing?' The lady, laughing, for that she was a frolicsome dame and doubtless had cause to laugh, answered merrily; 'How? You know not what it meaneth? Why, I have heard you say a thousand times, "Who suppeth not by night must toss till morning light."' Fra Puccio doubted not but that the fasting was the cause of her unableness to sleep and it was for this she tossed thus about the bed; wherefore, in the simplicity of his heart, 'Wife,' said he, 'I told thee not to fast; but, since thou wouldst e'en do it, think not of that, but address thyself to rest; thou givest such vaults about the bed that thou makest all in the place shake.' 'Have no care for that,' answered the lady; 'I know what I am about; do you but well, you, and I will do as well as I may.' Fra Puccio, accordingly, held his peace and betook himself anew to his Paternosters; and after that night my lord monk and the lady let make a bed in another part of the house, wherein they abode in the utmost joyance what while Fra Puccio's penance lasted. At one and the same hour the monk took himself off and the lady returned to her own bed, whereto a little after came Fra Puccio from his penance; and on this wise the latter continued to do penance, whilst his wife did her delight with the monk, to whom quoth she merrily, now and again, 'Thou hast put Fra Puccio upon performing a penance, whereby we have gotten Paradise.' Indeed, the lady, finding herself in good case, took such a liking to the monk's fare, having been long kept on low diet by her husband, that, whenas Fra Puccio's penance was accomplished, she still found means to feed her fill with him elsewhere and using discretion, long took her pleasure thereof. Thus, then, that my last words may not be out of accord with my first, it came to pass that, whereas Fra Puccio, by doing penance, thought to win Paradise for himself, he put therein the monk, who had shown him the speedy way thither, and his wife, who lived with him in great lack of that whereof Dom Felice, like a charitable man as he was, vouchsafed her great plenty." [Footnote 160: _i.e._ a lay brother or affiliate.] [Footnote 161: _i.e._ the canticles of praise chanted by certain lay confraternities, established for that purpose and answering to our præ-Reformation Laudsingers.] [Footnote 162: An order of lay penitents, who were wont at certain times to go masked about the streets, scourging themselves in expiation of the sins of the people. This expiatory practice was particularly prevalent in Italy in the middle of the thirteenth century.] [Footnote 163: Contraction of Elisabetta.] [Footnote 164: _Dom_, contraction of Dominus (lord), the title commonly given to the beneficed clergy in the middle ages, answering to our _Sir_ as used by Shakespeare (_e.g._ Sir Hugh Evans the Welsh Parson, Sir Topas the Curate, etc.). The expression survives in the title _Dominie_ (_i.e._ Domine, voc. of Dominus) still familiarly applied to schoolmasters, who were of course originally invariably clergymen.] [Footnote 165: A Conventual is a member of some monastic order attached to the regular service of a church, or (as would nowadays be said) a "beneficed" monk.] [Footnote 166: _Sic._ This confusion of persons constantly occurs in Boccaccio, especially in the conversational parts of the Decameron, in which he makes the freest use of the various forms of enallage and of other rhetorical figures, such as hyperbaton, synecdoche, etc., to the no small detriment of his style in the matter of clearness.] [Footnote 167: _i.e._ nine o'clock p.m.] THE FIFTH STORY [Day the Third] RICCIARDO, SURNAMED IL ZIMA, GIVETH MESSER FRANCESCO VERGELLESI A PALFREY OF HIS AND HATH THEREFOR HIS LEAVE TO SPEAK WITH HIS WIFE. SHE KEEPING SILENCE, HE IN HER PERSON REPLIETH UNTO HIMSELF, AND THE EFFECT AFTER ENSUETH IN ACCORDANCE WITH HIS ANSWER Pamfilo having made an end, not without laughter on the part of the ladies, of the story of Fra Puccio, the queen with a commanding air bade Elisa follow on. She, rather tartly than otherwise, not out of malice, but of old habit, began to speak thus, "Many folk, knowing much, imagine that others know nothing, and so ofttimes, what while they think to overreach others, find, after the event, that they themselves have been outwitted of them; wherefore I hold his folly great who setteth himself without occasion to test the strength of another's wit. But, for that maybe all are not of my opinion, it pleaseth me, whilst following on the given order of the discourse, to relate to you that which befell a Pistolese gentleman[168] by reason thereof. [Footnote 168: _i.e._ a gentleman of Pistoia.] There was in Pistoia a gentleman of the Vergellesi family, by name Messer Francesco, a man of great wealth and understanding and well advised in all else, but covetous beyond measure. Being made provost of Milan, he had furnished himself with everything necessary for his honourable going thither, except only with a palfrey handsome enough for him, and finding none to his liking, he abode in concern thereof. Now there was then in the same town a young man called Ricciardo, of little family, but very rich, who still went so quaintly clad and so brave of his person that he was commonly known as Il Zima,[169] and he had long in vain loved and courted Messer Francesco's wife, who was exceeding fair and very virtuous. Now he had one of the handsomest palfreys in all Tuscany and set great store by it for its beauty and it being public to every one that he was enamoured of Messer Francesco's wife, there were those who told the latter that, should he ask it, he might have the horse for the love Il Zima bore his lady. Accordingly, moved by covetise, Messer Francesco let call Il Zima to him and sought of him his palfrey by way of sale, so he should proffer it to him as a gift. The other, hearing this, was well pleased and made answer to him, saying, "Sir, though you gave me all you have in the world, you might not avail to have my palfrey by way of sale, but by way of gift you may have it, whenas it pleaseth you, on condition that, ere you take it, I may have leave to speak some words with your lady in your presence, but so far removed from every one that I may be heard of none other than herself.' The gentleman, urged by avarice and looking to outwit the other, answered that it liked him well and [that he might speak with her] as much as he would; then, leaving him in the saloon of his palace, he betook himself to the lady's chamber and telling her how easily he might acquire the palfrey, bade her come hearken to Il Zima, but charged her take good care to answer neither little or much to aught that he should say. To this the lady much demurred, but, it behoving her ensue her husband's pleasure, she promised to do his bidding and followed him to the saloon, to hear what Il Zima should say. The latter, having renewed his covenant with the gentleman, seated himself with the lady in a part of the saloon at a great distance from every one and began to say thus, 'Noble lady, meseemeth certain that you have too much wit not to have long since perceived how great a love I have been brought to bear you by your beauty, which far transcendeth that of any woman whom methinketh I ever beheld, to say nothing of the engaging manners and the peerless virtues which be in you and which might well avail to take the loftiest spirits of mankind; wherefore it were needless to declare to you in words that this [my love] is the greatest and most fervent that ever man bore woman; and thus, without fail, will I do[170] so long as my wretched life shall sustain these limbs, nay, longer; for that, if in the other world folk love as they do here below, I shall love you to all eternity. Wherefore you may rest assured that you have nothing, be it much or little worth, that you may hold so wholly yours and whereon you may in every wise so surely reckon as myself, such as I am, and that likewise which is mine. And that of this you may take assurance by very certain argument, I tell you that I should count myself more graced, did you command me somewhat that I might do and that would pleasure you, than if, I commanding, all the world should promptliest obey me. Since, then, I am yours, even as you have heard, it is not without reason that I dare to offer up my prayers to your nobility, wherefrom alone can all peace, all health and all well-being derive for me, and no otherwhence; yea, as the humblest of your servants, I beseech you, dear my good and only hope of my soul, which, midmost the fire of love, feedeth upon its hope in you,--that your benignity may be so great and your past rigour shown unto me, who am yours, on such wise be mollified that I, recomforted by your kindness, may say that, like as by your beauty I was stricken with love, even so by your pity have I life, which latter, an your haughty soul incline not to my prayers, will without fail come to nought and I shall perish and you may be said to be my murderer. Letting be that my death will do you no honour, I doubt not eke but that, conscience bytimes pricking you therefor, you will regret having wrought it[171] and whiles, better disposed, will say in yourself, "Alack, how ill I did not to have compassion upon my poor Zima!" and this repentance, being of no avail, will cause you the great annoy. Wherefore, so this may not betide, now that you have it in your power to succour me, bethink yourself and ere I die, be moved to pity on me, for that with you alone it resteth to make me the happiest or the most miserable man alive. I trust your courtesy will be such that you will not suffer me to receive death in guerdon of such and so great a love, but will with a glad response and full of favour quicken my fainting spirits, which flutter, all dismayed, in your presence.' Therewith he held his peace and heaving the deepest of sighs, followed up with sundry tears, proceeded to await the lady's answer. The latter,--whom the long court he had paid her, the joustings held and the serenades given in her honour and other like things done of him for the love of her had not availed to move,--was moved by the passionate speech of this most ardent lover and began to be sensible of that which she had never yet felt, to wit, what manner of thing love was; and albeit, in ensuance of the commandment laid upon her by her husband, she kept silence, she could not withal hinder sundry gentle sighs from discovering that which, in answer to Il Zima, she would gladly have made manifest. Il Zima, having waited awhile and seeing that no response ensued, was wondered and presently began to divine the husband's device; but yet, looking her in the face and observing certain flashes of her eyes towards him now and again and noting, moreover, the sighs which she suffered not to escape her bosom with all her strength, conceived fresh hope and heartened thereby, took new counsel[172] and proceeded to answer himself after the following fashion, she hearkening the while: 'Zima mine, this long time, in good sooth, have I perceived thy love for me to be most great and perfect, and now by thy words I know it yet better and am well pleased therewith, as indeed I should be. Algates, an I have seemed to thee harsh and cruel, I will not have thee believe that I have at heart been that which I have shown myself in countenance; nay, I have ever loved thee and held thee dear above all other men; but thus hath it behoved me do, both for fear of others and for the preserving of my fair fame. But now is the time at hand when I may show thee clearly that I love thee and guerdon thee of the love that thou hast borne and bearest me. Take comfort, therefore, and be of good hope, for that a few days hence Messer Francesco is to go to Milan for provost, as indeed thou knowest, who hast for the love of me given him thy goodly palfrey; and whenas he shall be gone, I promise thee by my troth and of the true love I bear thee, that, before many days, thou shalt without fail foregather with me and we will give gladsome and entire accomplishment to our love. And that I may not have to bespeak thee otherwhiles of the matter, I tell thee presently that, whenas thou shalt see two napkins displayed at the window of my chamber, which giveth upon our garden, do thou that same evening at nightfall make shift to come to me by the garden door, taking good care that thou be not seen. Thou wilt find me awaiting thee and we will all night long have delight and pleasance one of another, to our hearts' content.' Having thus spoken for the lady, he began again to speak in his own person and rejoined on this wise, 'Dearest lady, my every sense is so transported with excessive joy for your gracious reply that I can scarce avail to make response, much less to render you due thanks; nay, could I e'en speak as I desire, there is no term so long that it might suffice me fully to thank you as I would fain do and as it behoveth me; wherefore I leave it to your discreet consideration to imagine that which, for all my will, I am unable to express in words. This much only I tell you that I will without fail bethink myself to do as you have charged me, and being then, peradventure, better certified of so great a grace as that which you have vouchsafed me, I will, as best I may, study to render you the utmost thanks in my power. For the nonce there abideth no more to say; wherefore, dearest lady mine, God give you that gladness and that weal which you most desire, and so to Him I commend you.' For all this the lady said not a word; whereupon Il Zima arose and turned towards the husband, who, seeing him risen, came up to him and said, laughing 'How deemest thou? Have I well performed my promise to thee?' 'Nay, sir' answered Il Zima; 'for you promised to let me speak with your lady and you have caused me speak with a marble statue.' These words were mighty pleasing to the husband, who, for all he had a good opinion of the lady, conceived of her a yet better and said, 'Now is thy palfrey fairly mine.' 'Ay is it, sir,' replied Il Zima, 'but, had I thought to reap of this favour received of you such fruit as I have gotten, I had given you the palfrey, without asking it[173] of you; and would God I had done it, for that now you have bought the palfrey and I have not sold it.' The other laughed at this and being now provided with a palfrey, set out upon his way a few days after and betook himself to Milan, to enter upon the Provostship. The lady, left free in her house, called to mind Il Zima's words and the love he bore her and the palfrey given for her sake and seeing him pass often by the house, said in herself, 'What do I? Why waste I my youth? Yonder man is gone to Milan and will not return these six months. When will he ever render me them[174] again? When I am old? Moreover, when shall I ever find such a lover as Il Zima? I am alone and have no one to fear. I know not why I should not take this good opportunity what while I may; I shall not always have such leisure as I presently have. None will know the thing, and even were it to be known, it is better to do and repent, than to abstain and repent.' Having thus taken counsel with herself, she one day set two napkins in the garden window, even as Il Zima had said, which when he saw, he was greatly rejoiced and no sooner was the night come than he betook himself, secretly and alone, to the gate of the lady's garden and finding it open, passed on to another door that opened into the house, where he found his mistress awaiting him. She, seeing him come, started up to meet him and received him with the utmost joy, whilst he clipped and kissed her an hundred thousand times and followed her up the stair to her chamber, where, getting them to bed without a moment's delay, they knew the utmost term of amorous delight. Nor was this first time the last, for that, what while the gentleman abode at Milan and even after his coming back, Il Zima returned thither many another time, to the exceeding satisfaction of both parties." [Footnote 169: Lit. "The summit," or in modern slang "The tiptop," _i.e._ the pink of fashion.] [Footnote 170: _i.e._ this love shall I bear you. This is a flagrant instance of the misuse of ellipsis, which so frequently disfigures Boccaccio's dialogue.] [Footnote 171: _i.e._ my death.] [Footnote 172: Syn. a rare or strange means (_nuovo consiglio_). The word _nuovo_ is constantly used by Boccaccio in the latter sense, as is _consiglio_ in its remoter signification of means, remedy, etc.] [Footnote 173: _i.e._ the favour.] [Footnote 174: _i.e._ the lost six months.] THE SIXTH STORY [Day the Third] RICCIARDO MINUTOLO, BEING ENAMOURED OF THE WIFE OF FILIPPELLO FIGHINOLFI AND KNOWING HER JEALOUSY OF HER HUSBAND, CONTRIVETH, BY REPRESENTING THAT FILIPPELLO WAS ON THE ENSUING DAY TO BE WITH HIS OWN WIFE IN A BAGNIO, TO BRING HER TO THE LATTER PLACE, WHERE, THINKING TO BE WITH HER HUSBAND, SHE FINDETH THAT SHE HATH ABIDDEN WITH RICCIARDO Elisa having no more to say, the queen, after commending the sagacity of Il Zima, bade Fiammetta proceed with a story, who answered, all smilingly, "Willingly, Madam," and began thus: "It behoveth somedele to depart our city (which, like as it aboundeth in all things else, is fruitful in instances of every subject) and as Elisa hath done, to recount somewhat of the things that have befallen in other parts of the world; wherefore, passing over to Naples, I shall tell how one of those she-saints, who feign themselves so shy of love, was by the ingenuity of a lover of hers brought to taste the fruits of love, ere she had known its flowers; the which will at once teach you circumspection in the things that may hap and afford you diversion of those already befallen. In Naples, a very ancient city and as delightful as any in Italy or maybe more so, there was once a young man, illustrious for nobility of blood and noted for his much wealth, whose name was Ricciardo Minutolo. Albeit he had to wife a very fair and lovesome young lady, he fell in love with one who, according to general opinion, far overpassed in beauty all the other ladies of Naples. Her name was Catella and she was the wife of another young gentleman of like condition, hight Filippello Fighinolfi, whom, like a very virtuous woman as she was, she loved and cherished over all. Ricciardo, then, loving this Catella and doing all those things whereby the love and favour of a lady are commonly to be won, yet for all that availing not to compass aught of his desire, was like to despair; and unknowing or unable to rid him of his passion, he neither knew how to die nor did it profit him to live. Abiding in this mind, it befell that he was one day urgently exhorted by certain ladies of his kinsfolk to renounce this passion of his, seeing he did but weary himself in vain, for that Catella had none other good than Filippello, of whom she lived in such jealousy that she fancied every bird that flew through the air would take him from her. Ricciardo, hearing of Catella's jealousy, forthright bethought himself how he might compass his wishes and accordingly proceeded to feign himself in despair of her love and to have therefore set his mind upon another lady, for whose love he began to make a show of jousting and tourneying and doing all those things which he had been used to do for Catella; nor did he do this long before well nigh all the Neapolitans, and among the rest the lady herself, were persuaded that he no longer loved Catella, but was ardently enamoured of this second lady; and on this wise he persisted until it was so firmly believed not only of others, but of Catella herself, that the latter laid aside a certain reserve with which she was wont to entreat him, by reason of the love he bore her, and coming and going, saluted him familiarly, neighbourwise, as she did others. It presently befell that, the weather being warm, many companies of ladies and gentlemen went, according to the usance of the Neapolitans, to divert themselves on the banks of the sea and there to dine and sup, and Ricciardo, knowing Catella to be gone thither with her company, betook himself to the same place with his friends and was received into Catella's party of ladies, after allowing himself to be much pressed, as if he had no great mind to abide there. The ladies and Catella fell to rallying him upon his new love, and he, feigning himself sore inflamed therewith, gave them the more occasion for discourse. Presently, one lady going hither and thither, as commonly happeneth in such places, and Catella being left with a few whereas Ricciardo was, the latter cast at her a hint of a certain amour of Filippello her husband, whereupon she fell into a sudden passion of jealousy and began to be inwardly all afire with impatience to know what he meant. At last, having contained herself awhile and being unable to hold out longer, she besought Ricciardo, for that lady's sake whom he most loved, to be pleased to make her clear[175] of that which he had said of Filippello; whereupon quoth he, 'You conjure me by such a person that I dare not deny aught you ask me; wherefore I am ready to tell it you, so but you promise me that you will never say a word thereof either to him or to any other, save whenas you shall by experience have seen that which I shall tell you to be true; for that, when you please, I will teach you how you may see it.' [Footnote 175: Or, in modern parlance, to enlighten her.] The lady consented to that which he asked and swore to him never to repeat that which he should tell her, believing it the more to be true. Then, withdrawing apart with her, so they might not be overheard of any, he proceeded to say thus: 'Madam, an I loved you as once I loved, I should not dare tell you aught which I thought might vex you; but, since that love is passed away, I shall be less chary of discovering to you the whole truth. I know not if Filippello have ever taken umbrage at the love I bore you or have believed that I was ever loved of you. Be this as it may, he hath never personally shown me aught thereof; but now, having peradventure awaited a time whenas he deemed I should be less suspicious, it seemeth he would fain do unto me that which I misdoubt me he feareth I have done unto him, to wit, [he seeketh] to have my wife at his pleasure. As I find, he hath for some little time past secretly solicited her with sundry messages, all of which I have known from herself, and she hath made answer thereunto according as I have enjoined her. This very day, however, ere I came hither, I found in the house, in close conference with my wife, a woman whom I set down incontinent for that which she was, wherefore I called my wife and asked her what the woman wanted. Quoth she, "She is the agent of Filippello, with whom thou hast saddled me, by dint of making me answer him and give him hopes, and she saith that he will e'en know once for all what I mean to do and that, an I will, he would contrive for me to be privily at a bagnio in this city; nay, of this he prayeth and importuneth me; and hadst thou not, I know not why, caused me keep this traffic with him, I would have rid myself of him after such a fashion that he should never more have looked whereas I might be." Thereupon meseemed this was going too far and that it was no longer to be borne; and I bethought myself to tell it to you, so you might know how he requiteth that entire fidelity of yours, whereby aforetime I was nigh upon death. And so you shall not believe this that I tell you to be words and fables, but may, whenas you have a mind thereto, openly both see and touch it, I caused my wife make this answer to her who awaited it, that she was ready to be at the bagnio in question to-morrow at none, whenas the folk sleep; with which the woman took leave of her, very well pleased. Now methinketh not you believe that I will send my wife thither; but, were I in your place, I would contrive that he should find me there in the room of her he thinketh to meet, and whenas I had abidden with him awhile, I would give him to know with whom he had been and render him such honour thereof as should beseem him; by which means methinketh you would do him such a shame that the affront he would fain put upon yourself and upon me would at one blow be avenged.' Catella, hearing this, without anywise considering who it was that said it to her or suspecting his design, forthright, after the wont of jealous folk, gave credence to his words and fell a-fitting to his story certain things that had already befallen; then, fired with sudden anger, she answered that she would certainly do as he counselled,--it was no such great matter,--and that assuredly, if Filippello came thither, she would do him such a shame that it should still recur to his mind, as often as he saw a woman. Ricciardo, well pleased at this and himseeming his device was a good one and in a fair way of success, confirmed her in her purpose with many other words and strengthened her belief in his story, praying her, natheless, never to say that she had heard it from him, the which she promised him on her troth. Next morning, Ricciardo betook himself to a good woman, who kept the bagnio he had named to Catella, and telling her what he purposed to do, prayed her to further him therein as most she might. The good woman, who was much beholden to him, answered that she would well and agreed with him what she should do and say. Now in the house where the bagnio was she had a very dark chamber, for that no window gave thereon by which the light might enter. This chamber she made ready and spread a bed there, as best she might, wherein Ricciardo, as soon as he had dined, laid himself and proceeded to await Catella. The latter, having heard Ricciardo's words and giving more credence thereto than behoved her, returned in the evening, full of despite, to her house, whither Filippello also returned and being by chance full of other thought, maybe did not show her his usual fondness. When she saw this, her suspicions rose yet higher and she said in herself, 'Forsooth, his mind is occupied with yonder lady with whom he thinketh to take his pleasure to-morrow; but of a surety this shall not come to pass.' An in this thought she abode well nigh all that night, considering how she should bespeak him, whenas she should be with him [in the bagnio]. What more [need I say?] The hour of none come, she took her waiting-woman and without anywise changing counsel, repaired to the bagnio that Ricciardo had named to her, and there finding the good woman, asked her if Filippello had been there that day, whereupon quoth the other, who had been duly lessoned by Ricciardo, 'Are you the lady that should come to speak with him?' 'Ay am I,' answered Catella. 'Then,' said the woman, 'get you in to him.' Catella, who went seeking that which she would fain not have found, caused herself to be brought to the chamber where Ricciardo was and entering with covered head, locked herself in. Ricciardo, seeing her enter, rose joyfully to his feet and catching her in his arms, said softly, 'Welcome, my soul!' Whilst she, the better to feign herself other than she was, clipped him and kissed him and made much of him, without saying a word, fearing to be known of him if she should speak. The chamber was very dark, wherewith each of them was well pleased, nor for long abiding there did the eyes recover more power. Ricciardo carried her to the bed and there, without speaking, lest their voices should betray them, they abode a long while, to the greater delight and pleasance of the one party than the other. But presently, it seeming to Catella time to vent the resentment she felt, she began, all afire with rage and despite, to speak thus, 'Alas, how wretched is women's lot and how ill bestowed the love that many of them bear their husbands! I, unhappy that I am, these eight years have I loved thee more than my life, and thou, as I have felt, art all afire and all consumed with love of a strange woman, wicked and perverse man that thou art! Now with whom thinkest thou to have been? Thou hast been with her whom thou hast too long beguiled with thy false blandishments, making a show of love to her and being enamoured elsewhere. I am Catella, not Ricciardo's wife, disloyal traitor that thou art! Hearken if thou know my voice; it is indeed I; and it seemeth to me a thousand years till we be in the light, so I may shame thee as thou deservest, scurvy discredited cur that thou art! Alack, woe is me! To whom have I borne so much love these many years? To this disloyal dog, who, thinking to have a strange woman in his arms, hath lavished on me more caresses and more fondnesses in this little while I have been here with him than in all the rest of the time I have been his. Thou hast been brisk enough to-day, renegade cur that thou art, that usest at home to show thyself so feeble and forspent and impotent; but, praised be God, thou hast tilled thine own field and not, as thou thoughtest, that of another. No wonder thou camest not anigh me yesternight; thou lookedst to discharge thee of thy lading elsewhere and wouldst fain come fresh to the battle; but, thanks to God and my own foresight, the stream hath e'en run in its due channel. Why answerest thou not, wicked man? Why sayst thou not somewhat? Art thou grown dumb, hearing me? Cock's faith, I know not what hindereth me from thrusting my hands into thine eyes and tearing them out for thee. Thou thoughtest to do this treason very secretly; but, perdie, one knoweth as much as another; thou hast not availed to compass thine end; I have had better beagles at thy heels than thou thoughtest.' Ricciardo inwardly rejoiced at these words and without making any reply, clipped her and kissed her and fondled her more than ever; whereupon quoth she, following on her speech, 'Ay, thou thinkest to cajole me with thy feigned caresses, fashious dog that thou art, and to appease and console me; but thou art mistaken; I shall never be comforted for this till I have put thee to shame therefor in the presence of all our friends and kinsmen and neighbours. Am I not as fair as Ricciardo's wife, thou villain? Am I not as good a gentlewoman? Why dost thou not answer, thou sorry dog? What hath she more than I? Keep thy distance; touch me not; thou hast done enough feats of arms for to-day. Now thou knowest who I am, I am well assured that all thou couldst do would be perforce; but, so God grant me grace, I will yet cause thee suffer want thereof, and I know not what hindereth me from sending for Ricciardo, who hath loved me more than himself and could never boast that I once even looked at him; nor know I what harm it were to do it. Thou thoughtest to have his wife here and it is as if thou hadst had her, inasmuch as it is none of thy fault that the thing hath miscarried; wherefore, were I to have himself, thou couldst not with reason blame me.' Brief, many were the lady's words and sore her complaining. However, at last, Ricciardo, bethinking himself that, an he let her go in that belief, much ill might ensue thereof, determined to discover himself and undeceive her; wherefore, catching her in his arms and holding her fast, so she might not get away, he said, 'Sweet my soul, be not angered; that which I could not have of you by simply loving you, Love hath taught me to obtain by practice; and I am your Ricciardo.' Catella, hearing this and knowing him by the voice, would have thrown herself incontinent out of bed, but could not; whereupon she offered to cry out; but Ricciardo stopped her mouth with one hand and said, 'Madam, this that hath been may henceforth on nowise be undone, though you should cry all the days of your life; and if you cry out or cause this ever anywise to be known of any one, two things will come thereof; the one (which should no little concern you) will be that your honour and fair fame will be marred, for that, albeit you may avouch that I brought you hither by practice, I shall say that it is not true, nay, that I caused you come hither for monies and gifts that I promised you, whereof for that I gave you not so largely as you hoped, you waxed angry and made all this talk and this outcry; and you know that folk are more apt to credit ill than good, wherefore I shall more readily be believed than you. Secondly, there will ensue thereof a mortal enmity between your husband and myself, and it may as well happen that I shall kill him as he me, in which case you are never after like to be happy or content. Wherefore, heart of my body, go not about at once to dishonour yourself and to cast your husband and myself into strife and peril. You are not the first woman, nor will you be the last, who hath been deceived, nor have I in this practised upon you to bereave you of your own, but for the exceeding love that I bear you and am minded ever to bear you and to be your most humble servant. And although it is long since I and all that I possess or can or am worth have been yours and at your service, henceforward I purpose that they shall be more than ever so. Now, you are well advised in other things and so I am certain you will be in this.' Catella, what while Ricciardo spoke thus, wept sore, but, albeit she was sore provoked and complained grievously, nevertheless, her reason allowed so much force to his true words that she knew it to be possible that it should happen as he said; wherefore quoth she, 'Ricciardo, I know not how God will vouchsafe me strength to suffer the affront and the cheat thou hast put upon me; I will well to make no outcry here whither my simplicity and overmuch jealousy have brought me; but of this be assured that I shall never be content till one way or another I see myself avenged of this thou hast done to me. Wherefore, leave me, hold me no longer; thou hast had that which thou desiredst and hast tumbled me to thy heart's content; it is time to leave me; let me go, I prithee.' Ricciardo, seeing her mind yet overmuch disordered, had laid it to heart never to leave her till he had gotten his pardon of her; wherefore, studying with the softest words to appease her, he so bespoke and so entreated and so conjured her that she was prevailed upon to make peace with him, and of like accord they abode together a great while thereafter in the utmost delight. Moreover, Catella, having thus learned how much more savoury were the lover's kisses than those of the husband and her former rigour being changed into kind love-liking for Ricciardo, from that day forth she loved him very tenderly and thereafter, ordering themselves with the utmost discretion, they many a time had joyance of their loves. God grant us to enjoy ours!" THE SEVENTH STORY [Day the Third] TEDALDO ELISEI, HAVING FALLEN OUT WITH HIS MISTRESS, DEPARTETH FLORENCE AND RETURNING THITHER, AFTER AWHILE, IN A PILGRIM'S FAVOUR, SPEAKETH WITH THE LADY AND MAKETH HER COGNISANT OF HER ERROR; AFTER WHICH HE DELIVERETH HER HUSBAND, WHO HAD BEEN CONVICTED OF MURDERING HIM, FROM DEATH AND RECONCILING HIM WITH HIS BRETHREN, THENCEFORWARD DISCREETLY ENJOYETH HIMSELF WITH HIS MISTRESS Fiammetta being now silent, commended of all, the queen, to lose no time, forthright committed the burden of discourse to Emilia, who began thus: "It pleaseth me to return to our city, whence it pleased the last two speakers to depart, and to show you how a townsman of ours regained his lost mistress. There was, then, in Florence a noble youth, whose name was Tedaldo Elisei and who, being beyond measure enamoured of a lady called Madam Ermellina, the wife of one Aldobrandino Palermini, deserved for his praiseworthy fashions, to enjoy his desire. However, Fortune, the enemy of the happy, denied him this solace, for that, whatever might have been the cause, the lady, after complying awhile with Tedaldo's wishes, suddenly altogether withdrew her good graces from him and not only refused to hearken to any message of his, but would on no wise see him; wherefore he fell into a dire and cruel melancholy; but his love for her had been so hidden that none guessed it to be the cause of his chagrin. After he had in divers ways studied amain to recover the love himseemed he had lost without his fault and finding all his labour vain, he resolved to withdraw from the world, that he might not afford her who was the cause of his ill the pleasure of seeing him pine away; wherefore, without saying aught to friend or kinsman, save to a comrade of his, who knew all, he took such monies as he might avail to have and departing secretly, came to Ancona, where, under the name of Filippo di Sanlodeccio, he made acquaintance with a rich merchant and taking service with him, accompanied him to Cyprus on board a ship of his. His manners and behaviour so pleased the merchant that he not only assigned him a good wage, but made him in part his associate and put into his hands a great part of his affairs, which he ordered so well and so diligently that in a few years he himself became a rich and famous and considerable merchant; and albeit, in the midst of these his dealings, he oft remembered him of his cruel mistress and was grievously tormented of love and yearned sore to look on her again, such was his constancy that seven years long he got the better of the battle. But, chancing one day to hear sing in Cyprus a song that himself had made aforetime and wherein was recounted the love he bore his mistress and she him and the pleasure he had of her, and thinking it could not be she had forgotten him, he flamed up into such a passion of desire to see her again that, unable to endure longer, he resolved to return to Florence. Accordingly, having set all his affairs in order, he betook himself with one only servant to Ancona and transporting all his good thither, despatched it to Florence to a friend of the Anconese his partner, whilst he himself, in the disguise of a pilgrim returning from the Holy Sepulchre, followed secretly after with his servant and coming to Florence, put up at a little hostelry kept by two brothers, in the neighbourhood of his mistress's house, whereto he repaired first of all, to see her, an he might. However, he found the windows and doors and all else closed, wherefore his heart misgave him she was dead or had removed thence and he betook himself, in great concern, to the house of his brethren, before which he saw four of the latter clad all in black. At this he marvelled exceedingly and knowing himself so changed both in habit and person from that which he was used to be, whenas he departed thence, that he might not lightly be recognized, he boldly accosted a cordwainer hard by and asked him why they were clad in black; whereto he answered, 'Yonder men are clad in black for that it is not yet a fortnight since a brother of theirs, who had not been here this great while, was murdered, and I understand they have proved to the court that one Aldobrandino Palermini, who is in prison, slew him, for that he was a well-wisher of his wife and had returned hither unknown to be with her.' Tedaldo marvelled exceedingly that any one should so resemble him as to be taken for him and was grieved for Aldobrandino's ill fortune. Then, having learned that the lady was alive and well and it being now night, he returned, full of various thoughts, to the inn and having supped with his servant, was put to sleep well nigh at the top of the house. There, what with the many thoughts that stirred him and the badness of the bed and peradventure also by reason of the supper, which had been meagre, half the night passed whilst he had not yet been able to fall asleep; wherefore, being awake, himseemed about midnight he heard folk come down into the house from the roof, and after through the chinks of the chamber-door he saw a light come up thither. Thereupon he stole softly to the door and putting his eye to the chink, fell a-spying what this might mean and saw a comely enough lass who held the light, whilst three men, who had come down from the roof, made towards her; and after some greetings had passed between them, one of them said to the girl, 'Henceforth, praised be God, we may abide secure, since we know now for certain that the death of Tedaldo Elisei hath been proved by his brethren against Aldobrandino Palermini, who hath confessed thereto, and judgment is now recorded; nevertheless, it behoveth to keep strict silence, for that, should it ever become known that it was we [who slew him], we shall be in the same danger as is Aldobrandino.' Having thus bespoken the woman, who showed herself much rejoiced thereat, they left her and going below, betook themselves to bed. Tedaldo, hearing this, fell a-considering how many and how great are the errors which may befall the minds of men, bethinking him first of his brothers who had bewept and buried a stranger in his stead and after of the innocent man accused on false suspicion and brought by untrue witness to the point of death, no less than of the blind severity of laws and rulers, who ofttimes, under cover of diligent investigation of the truth, cause, by their cruelties, prove that which is false and style themselves ministers of justice and of God, whereas indeed they are executors of iniquity and of the devil; after which he turned his thought to the deliverance of Aldobrandino and determined in himself what he should do. Accordingly, arising in the morning, he left his servant at the inn and betook himself alone, whenas it seemed to him time, to the house of his mistress, where, chancing to find the door open, he entered in and saw the lady seated, all full of tears and bitterness of soul, in a little ground floor room that was there. At this sight he was like to weep for compassion of her and drawing near to her, said, 'Madam, afflict not yourself; your peace is at hand.' The lady, hearing this, lifted her eyes and said, weeping, 'Good man, thou seemest to me a stranger pilgrim; what knowest thou of my peace or of my affliction?' 'Madam,' answered Tedaldo, 'I am of Constantinople and am but now come hither, being sent of God to turn your tears into laughter and to deliver your husband from death.' Quoth she, 'An thou be of Constantinople and newly come hither, how knowest thou who I am or who is my husband?' Thereupon, the pilgrim beginning from the beginning, recounted to her the whole history of Aldobrandino's troubles and told her who she was and how long she had been married and other things which he very well knew of her affairs; whereat she marvelled exceedingly and holding him for a prophet, fell on her knees at his feet, beseeching him for God's sake, an he were come for Aldobrandino's salvation, to despatch, for that the time was short. The pilgrim, feigning himself a very holy man, said, 'Madam, arise and weep not, but hearken well to that which I shall say to you and take good care never to tell it to any. According to that which God hath revealed unto me, the tribulation wherein you now are hath betided you because of a sin committed by you aforetime, which God the Lord hath chosen in part to purge with this present annoy and will have altogether amended of you; else will you fall into far greater affliction.' 'Sir,' answered the lady, 'I have many sins and know not which one, more than another, God the Lord would have me amend; wherefore, an you know it, tell me and I will do what I may to amend it.' 'Madam,' rejoined the pilgrim, 'I know well enough what it is, nor do I question you thereof the better to know it, but to the intent that, telling it yourself, you may have the more remorse thereof. But let us come to the fact; tell me, do you remember, ever to have had a lover?' The lady, hearing this, heaved a deep sigh and marvelled sore, supposing none had ever known it, albeit, in the days when he was slain who had been buried for Tedaldo, there had been some whispering thereof, for certain words not very discreetly used by Tedaldo's confidant, who knew it; then answered, 'I see that God discovereth unto you all men's secrets, wherefore I am resolved not to hide mine own from you. True it is that in my youth I loved over all the ill-fortuned youth whose death is laid to my husband's charge, which death I have bewept as sore as it was grievous to me, for that, albeit I showed myself harsh and cruel to him before his departure, yet neither his long absence nor his unhappy death hath availed to tear him from my heart.' Quoth the pilgrim, 'The hapless youth who is dead you never loved, but Tedaldo Elisei ay.[176] But tell me, what was the occasion of your falling out with him? Did he ever give you any offence?' 'Certes, no,' replied she; 'he never offended against me; the cause of the breach was the prate of an accursed friar, to whom I once confessed me and who, when I told him of the love I bore Tedaldo and the privacy I had with him, made such a racket about my ears that I tremble yet to think of it, telling me that, an I desisted not therefrom, I should go in the devil's mouth to the deepest deep of hell and there be cast into everlasting fire; whereupon there entered into me such a fear that I altogether determined to forswear all further converse with him, and that I might have no occasion therefor, I would no longer receive his letters or messages; albeit I believe, had he persevered awhile, instead of getting him gone (as I presume) in despair, that, seeing him, as I did, waste away like snow in the sun, my harsh resolve would have yielded, for that I had no greater desire in the world.' [Footnote 176: _i.e._ It was not the dead man, but Tedaldo Elisei whom you loved. (_Lo sventurato giovane che fu morto non amasti voi mai, ma Tedaldo Elisei si._)] 'Madam,' rejoined the pilgrim, 'it is this sin alone that now afflicteth you. I know for certain that Tedaldo did you no manner of violence; whenas you fell in love with him, you did it of your own free will, for that he pleased you; and as you yourself would have it, he came to you and enjoyed your privacy, wherein both with words and deeds you showed him such complaisance that, if he loved you before, you caused his love redouble a thousandfold. And this being so (as I know it was) what cause should have availed to move you so harshly to withdraw yourself from him? These things should be pondered awhile beforehand and if you think you may presently have cause to repent thereof, as of ill doing, you ought not to do them. You might, at your pleasure, have ordained of him, as of that which belonged to you, that he should no longer be yours; but to go about to deprive him of yourself, you who were his, was a theft and an unseemly thing, whenas it was not his will. Now you must know that I am a friar and am therefore well acquainted with all their usances; and if I speak somewhat at large of them for your profit, it is not forbidden me, as it were to another; nay, and it pleaseth me to speak of them, so you may henceforward know them better than you appear to have done in the past. Friars of old were very pious and worthy men, but those who nowadays style themselves friars and would be held such have nothing of the monk but the gown; nor is this latter even that of a true friar, for that,--whereas of the founders of the monastic orders they[177] were ordained strait and poor and of coarse stuff and demonstrative[178] of the spirit of the wearers, who testified that they held things temporal in contempt whenas they wrapped their bodies in so mean a habit,--those of our time have them made full and double and glossy and of the finest cloth and have brought them to a quaint pontifical cut, insomuch that they think it no shame to flaunt it withal peacock-wise, in the churches and public places, even as do the laity with their apparel; and like as with the sweep-net the fisher goeth about to take many fishes in the river at one cast, even so these, wrapping themselves about with the amplest of skirts, study to entangle therein great store of prudish maids and widows and many other silly women and men, and this is their chief concern over any other exercise; wherefore, to speak more plainly, they have not the friar's gown, but only the colours thereof. [Footnote 177: _i.e._ friars' gowns. Boccaccio constantly uses this irregular form of enallage, especially in dialogue.] [Footnote 178: Or, as we should nowadays say, "typical."] Moreover, whereas the ancients[179] desired the salvation of mankind, those of our day covet women and riches and turn their every thought to terrifying the minds of the foolish with clamours and depicturements[180] and to making believe that sins may be purged with almsdeeds and masses, to the intent that unto themselves (who, of poltroonery, not of devoutness, and that they may not suffer fatigue,[181] have, as a last resort, turned friars) one may bring bread, another send wine and a third give them a dole of money for the souls of their departed friends. Certes, it is true that almsdeeds and prayers purge away sins; but, if those who give alms knew on what manner folks they bestow them, they would or keep them for themselves or cast them before as many hogs. And for that these[182] know that, the fewer the possessors of a great treasure, the more they live at ease, every one of them studieth with clamours and bugbears to detach others from that whereof he would fain abide sole possessor. They decry lust in men, in order that, they who are chidden desisting from women, the latter may be left to the chiders; they condemn usury and unjust gains, to the intent that, it being entrusted to them to make restitution thereof, they may, with that which they declare must bring to perdition him who hath it, make wide their gowns and purchase bishopricks and other great benefices. [Footnote 179: _i.e._ the founders of the monastic orders.] [Footnote 180: Lit. pictures, paintings (_dipinture_), but evidently here used in a tropical sense, Boccaccio's apparent meaning being that the hypocritical friars used to terrify their devotees by picturing to them, in vivid colours, the horrors of the punishment reserved for sinners.] [Footnote 181: _i.e._ may not have to labour for their living.] [Footnote 182: _i.e._ the false friars.] And when they are taken to task of these and many other unseemly things that they do, they think that to answer, "Do as we say and not as we do," is a sufficient discharge of every grave burden, as if it were possible for the sheep to be more constant and stouter to resist temptation[183] than the shepherds. And how many there be of those to whom they make such a reply who apprehend it not after the fashion[184] in which they say it, the most part of them know. The monks of our day would have you do as they say, to wit, fill their purses with money, trust your secrets to them, observe chastity, practise patience and forgiveness of injuries and keep yourselves from evil speaking,--all things good, seemly and righteous; but why would they have this? So they may do that, which if the laity did, themselves could not do. Who knoweth not that without money idleness may not endure? An thou expend thy monies in thy pleasures, the friar will not be able to idle it in the monastery; an thou follow after women, there will be no room for him, and except thou be patient or a forgiver of injuries, he will not dare to come to thy house to corrupt thy family. But why should I hark back after every particular? They condemn themselves in the eyes of the understanding as often as they make this excuse. An they believe not themselves able to abstain and lead a devout life, why do they not rather abide at home? Or, if they will e'en give themselves unto this,[185] why do they not ensue that other holy saying of the Gospel, "Christ began to do and to teach?"[186] Let them first do and after teach others. I have in my time seen a thousand of them wooers, lovers and haunters, not of lay women alone, but of nuns; ay, and of those that make the greatest outcry in the pulpit. Shall we, then, follow after these who are thus fashioned? Whoso doth it doth that which he will, but God knoweth if he do wisely. [Footnote 183: Lit. more of iron (_più di ferro_).] [Footnote 184: Sic (_per lo modo_); but _quære_ not rather "in the sense."] [Footnote 185: _i.e._ if they must enter upon this way of life, to wit, that of the friar.] [Footnote 186: The reference is apparently to the opening verse of the Acts of the Apostles, where Luke says, "The former treatise have I made, O Theophilus, of all that Jesus began to do and to teach." It need hardly be remarked that the passage in question does not bear the interpretation Boccaccio would put upon it.] But, granted even we are to allow that which the friar who chid you said to you, to wit, that it is a grievous sin to break the marriage vow, is it not a far greater sin to rob a man and a greater yet to slay him or drive him into exile, to wander miserably about the world? Every one must allow this. For a woman to have converse with a man is a sin of nature; but to rob him or slay him or drive him into exile proceedeth from malignity of mind. That you robbed Tedaldo I have already shown you, in despoiling him of yourself, who had become his of your spontaneous will, and I say also that, so far as in you lay, you slew him, for that it was none of your fault,--showing yourself, as you did, hourly more cruel,--that he slew not himself with his own hand; and the law willeth that whoso is the cause of the ill that is done be held alike guilty with him who doth it. And that you were the cause of his exile and of his going wandering seven years about the world cannot be denied. So that in whichever one of these three things aforesaid you have committed a far greater sin than in your converse with him. But, let us see; maybe Tedaldo deserved this usage? Certes, he did not; you yourself have already confessed it, more by token that I know he loveth[187] you more than himself. No woman was ever so honoured, so exalted, so magnified over every other of her sex as were you by him, whenas he found himself where he might fairly speak of you, without engendering suspicion. His every good, his every honour, his every liberty were all committed by him into your hands. Was he not noble and young? Was he not handsome among all his townsmen? Was he not accomplished in such things as pertain unto young men? Was he not loved, cherished and well seen of every one? You will not say nay to this either. Then how, at the bidding of a scurvy, envious numskull of a friar, could you take such a cruel resolve against him? I know not what error is that of women who eschew men and hold them in little esteem, whenas, considering what themselves are and what and how great is the nobility, beyond every other animal, given of God to man, they should rather glory whenas they are loved of any and prize him over all and study with all diligence to please him, so he may never desist from loving them. This how you did, moved by the prate of a friar, who must for certain have been some broth-swilling pasty-gorger, you yourself know; and most like he had a mind to put himself in the place whence he studied to expel others. [Footnote 187: _Sic_; but the past tense "loved" is probably intended, as the pretended pilgrim had not yet discovered Tedaldo to be alive.] This, then, is the sin that Divine justice, the which with a just balance bringeth all its operations to effect, hath willed not to leave unpunished; and even as you without reason studied to withdraw yourself from Tedaldo, so on like wise hath your husband been and is yet, without reason, in peril for Tedaldo, and you in tribulation. Wherefrom an you would be delivered, that which it behoveth you to promise, and yet more to do, is this; that, should it ever chance that Tedaldo return hither from his long banishment, you will render him again your favour, your love, your goodwill and your privacy and reinstate him in that condition wherein he was, ere you foolishly hearkened to yonder crack-brained friar.' The pilgrim having thus made an end of his discourse, the lady, who had hearkened thereto with the utmost attention, for that his arguments appeared to her most true and that, hearing him say, she accounted herself of a certainty afflicted for the sin of which he spoke, said, 'Friend of God, I know full well that the things you allege are true, and in great part by your showing do I perceive what manner of folk are these friars, whom till now I have held all saints. Moreover, I acknowledge my default without doubt to have been great in that which I wrought against Tedaldo; and an I might, I would gladly amend it on such wise as you have said; but how may this be done? Tedaldo can never more return hither; he is dead; wherefore I know not why it should behove me promise that which may not be performed.' 'Madam,' replied the pilgrim, 'according to that which God hath revealed unto me, Tedaldo is nowise dead, but alive and well and in good case, so but he had your favour.' Quoth the lady, 'Look what you say; I saw him dead before my door of several knife-thrusts and had him in these arms and bathed his dead face with many tears, the which it may be gave occasion for that which hath been spoken thereof unseemly.' 'Madam,' replied the pilgrim, 'whatever you may say, I certify you that Tedaldo is alive, and if you will e'en promise me that [which I ask,] with intent to fulfil your promise, I hope you shall soon see him.' Quoth she, 'That do I promise and will gladly perform; nor could aught betide that would afford me such content as to see my husband free and unharmed and Tedaldo alive.' Thereupon it seemed to Tedaldo time to discover himself and to comfort the lady with more certain hope of her husband, and accordingly he said, 'Madam, in order that I may comfort you for your husband, it behoveth me reveal to you a secret, which look you discover not unto any, as you value your life.' Now they were in a very retired place and alone, the lady having conceived the utmost confidence of the sanctity which herseemed was in the pilgrim; wherefore Tedaldo, pulling out a ring, which she had given him the last night he had been with her and which he had kept with the utmost diligence, and showing it to her, said, 'Madam, know you this?' As soon as she saw it, she recognized it and answered, 'Ay, sir; I gave it to Tedaldo aforetime.' Whereupon the pilgrim, rising to his feet, hastily cast off his palmer's gown and hat and speaking Florence-fashion, said, 'And know you me?' When the lady saw this, she knew him to be Tedaldo and was all aghast, fearing him as one feareth the dead, an they be seen after death to go as if alive; wherefore she made not towards him to welcome him as Tedaldo returned from Cyprus, but would have fled from him in affright, as he were Tedaldo come back from the tomb. Whereupon, 'Madam,' quoth he, 'fear not; I am your Tedaldo, alive and well, and have never died nor been slain, whatsoever you and my brothers may believe.' The lady, somewhat reassured and knowing his voice, considered him awhile longer and avouched in herself that he was certainly Tedaldo; wherefore she threw herself, weeping, on his neck and kissed him, saying, 'Welcome back, sweet my Tedaldo.' Tedaldo, having kissed and embraced her, said, 'Madam, it is no time now for closer greetings; I must e'en go take order that Aldobrandino may be restored to you safe and sound; whereof I hope that, ere to-morrow come eventide, you shall hear news that will please you; nay, if, as I expect, I have good news of his safety, I trust this night to be able to come to you and report them to you at more leisure than I can at this present.' Then, donning his gown and hat again, he kissed the lady once more and bidding her be of good hope, took leave of her and repaired whereas Aldobrandino lay in prison, occupied more with fear of imminent death than with hopes of deliverance to come. Tedaldo, with the gaoler's consent, went in to him, in the guise of a ghostly comforter, and seating himself by his side, said to him, 'Aldobrandino, I am a friend of thine, sent thee for thy deliverance by God, who hath taken pity on thee because of thine innocence; wherefore, if, in reverence to Him, thou wilt grant me a little boon that I shall ask of thee, thou shalt without fail, ere to-morrow be night, whereas thou lookest for sentence of death, hear that of thine acquittance.' 'Honest man,' replied the prisoner, 'since thou art solicitous of my deliverance, albeit I know thee not nor mind me ever to have seen thee, needs must thou be a friend, as thou sayst. In truth, the sin, for which they say I am to be doomed to death, I never committed; though others enough have I committed aforetime, which, it may be, have brought me to this pass. But this I say to thee, of reverence to God; an He presently have compassion on me, I will not only promise, but gladly do any thing, however great, to say nothing of a little one; wherefore ask that which pleaseth thee, for without fail, if it come to pass that I escape with life, I will punctually perform it.' Then said the pilgrim, 'What I would have of thee is that thou pardon Tedaldo's four brothers the having brought thee to this pass, believing thee guilty of their brother's death, and have them again for brethren and for friends, whenas they crave thee pardon thereof.' Whereto quoth Aldobrandino, 'None knoweth but he who hath suffered the affront how sweet a thing is vengeance and with what ardour it is desired; nevertheless, so God may apply Himself to my deliverance, I will freely pardon them; nay, I pardon them now, and if I come off hence alive and escape, I will in this hold such course as shall be to thy liking.' This pleased the pilgrim and without concerning himself to say more to him, he exhorted him to be of good heart, for that, ere the ensuing day came to an end, he should without fail hear very certain news of his safety. Then, taking leave of him, he repaired to the Seignory and said privily to a gentleman who was in session there, 'My lord, every one should gladly labour to bring to light the truth of things, and especially those who hold such a room as this of yours, to the end that those may not suffer the penalty who have not committed the crime and that the guilty may be punished; that which may be brought about, to your honour and the bane of those who have merited it, I am come hither to you. As you know, you have rigorously proceeded against Aldobrandino Palermini and thinking you have found for truth that it was he who slew Tedaldo Elisei, are minded to condemn him; but this is most certainly false, as I doubt not to show you, ere midnight betide, by giving into your hands the murderers of the young man in question.' The worthy gentleman, who was in concern for Aldobrandino, willingly gave ear to the pilgrim's words and having conferred at large with him upon the matter, on his information, took the two innkeeper brothers and their servant, without resistance, in their first sleep. He would have put them to the question, to discover how the case stood; but they brooked it not and each first for himself, and after all together, openly confessed that it was they who had slain Tedaldo Elisei, knowing him not. Being questioned of the case, they said [that it was] for that he had given the wife of one of them sore annoy, what while they were abroad, and would fain have enforced her to do his will. The pilgrim, having heard this, with the magistrate's consent took his leave and repairing privily to the house of Madam Ermellina, found her alone and awaiting him, (all else in the house being gone to sleep,) alike desirous of having good news of her husband and of fully reconciling herself with her Tedaldo. He accosted her with a joyful countenance and said, 'Dearest lady mine, be of good cheer, for to-morrow thou shalt certainly have thine Aldobrandino here again safe and sound'; and to give her more entire assurance thereof, he fully recounted to her that which he had done. Whereupon she, glad as ever woman was of two so sudden and so happy chances, to wit, the having her lover alive again, whom she verily believed to have bewept dead, and the seeing Aldobrandino free from peril, whose death she looked ere many days to have to mourn, affectionately embraced and kissed Tedaldo; then, getting them to bed together, with one accord they made a glad and gracious peace, taking delight and joyance one of the other. Whenas the day drew near, Tedaldo arose, after showing the lady that which he purposed to do and praying her anew to keep it a close secret, and went forth, even in his pilgrim's habit, to attend, whenas it should be time, to Aldobrandino's affairs. The day come, it appearing to the Seignory that they had full information of the matter, they straightway discharged Aldobrandino and a few days after let strike off the murderers' heads whereas they had committed the crime. Aldobrandino being now, to the great joy of himself and his wife and of all his friends and kinsfolk, free and manifestly acknowledging that he owed his deliverance to the good offices of the pilgrim, carried the latter to his house for such time as it pleased him to sojourn in the city; and there they could not sate themselves of doing him honour and worship, especially the lady, who knew with whom she had to do. After awhile, deeming it time to bring his brothers to an accord with Aldobrandino and knowing that they were not only put to shame by the latter's acquittance, but went armed for fear [of his resentment,] he demanded of his host the fulfilment of his promise. Aldobrandino freely answered that he was ready, whereupon the pilgrim caused him prepare against the morrow a goodly banquet, whereat he told him he would have him and his kinsmen and kinswomen entertain the four brothers and their ladies, adding that he himself would go incontinent and bid the latter on his part to peace and his banquet. Aldobrandino consenting to all that liked the pilgrim, the latter forthright betook himself to the four brothers and plying them with store of such words as behoved unto the matter, in fine, with irrepugnable arguments, brought them easily enough to consent to regain Aldobrandino's friendship by asking pardon; which done, he invited them and their ladies to dinner with Aldobrandino next morning, and they, being certified of his good faith, frankly accepted the invitation. Accordingly, on the morrow, towards dinner-time, Tedaldo's four brothers, clad all in black as they were, came, with sundry of their friends, to the house of Aldobrandino, who stayed for them, and there, in the presence of all who had been bidden of him to bear them company, cast down their arms and committed themselves to his mercy, craving forgiveness of that which they had wrought against him. Aldobrandino, weeping, received them affectionately, and kissing them all on the mouth, despatched the matter in a few words, remitting unto them every injury received. After them came their wives and sisters, clad all in sad-coloured raiment, and were graciously received by Madam Ermellina and the other ladies. Then were all, ladies and men alike, magnificently entertained at the banquet, nor was there aught in the entertainment other than commendable, except it were the taciturnity occasioned by the yet fresh sorrow expressed in the sombre raiment of Tedaldo's kinsfolk. Now on this account the pilgrim's device of the banquet had been blamed of some and he had observed it; wherefore, the time being come to do away with the constraint aforesaid, he rose to his feet, according as he had foreordained in himself, what while the rest still ate of the fruits, and said, 'Nothing hath lacked to this entertainment that should make it joyful, save only Tedaldo himself; whom (since having had him continually with you, you have not known him) I will e'en discover to you.' So saying, he cast off his palmer's gown and all other his pilgrim's weeds and abiding in a jerkin of green sendal, was with no little amazement, long eyed and considered of all, ere any would venture to believe it was indeed he. Tedaldo, seeing this, recounted many particulars of the relations and things betided between them, as well as of his own adventures; whereupon his brethren and the other gentlemen present ran all to embrace him, with eyes full of joyful tears, as after did the ladies on like wise, as well strangers as kinswomen, except only Madam Ermellina. Which Aldobrandino seeing, 'What is this, Ermellina?' quoth he. 'Why dost thou not welcome Tedaldo, as do the other ladies?' Whereto she answered, in the hearing of all, 'There is none who had more gladly welcomed and would yet welcome him than myself, who am more beholden to him than any other woman, seeing that by his means I have gotten thee again; but the unseemly words spoken in the days when we mourned him whom we deemed Tedaldo made me refrain therefrom.' Quoth her husband, 'Go to; thinkest thou I believe in the howlers?[188] He hath right well shown their prate to be false by procuring my deliverance; more by token that I never believed it. Quick, rise and go and embrace him.' [Footnote 188: Lit. barkers (_abbajatori_), _i.e._ slanderers.] The lady, who desired nothing better, was not slow to obey her husband in this and accordingly, arising, embraced Tedaldo, as the other ladies had done, and gave him joyous welcome. This liberality of Aldobrandino was mighty pleasing to Tedaldo's brothers and to every man and woman there, and thereby all suspect[189] that had been aroused in the minds of some by the words aforesaid was done away. Then, every one having given Tedaldo joy, he with his own hands rent the black clothes on his brothers' backs and the sad-coloured on those of his sisters and kinswomen and would have them send after other apparel, which whenas they had donned, they gave themselves to singing and dancing and other diversions galore; wherefore the banquet, which had had a silent beginning had a loud-resounding ending. Thereafter, with the utmost mirth, they one and all repaired, even as they were, to Tedaldo's house, where they supped that night, and on this wise they continued to feast several days longer. [Footnote 189: Lit. despite, rancour (_rugginuzza_), but the phrase appears to refer to the suspicions excited by the whispers that had been current, as above mentioned, of the connection between Ermellina and Tedaldo.] The Florentines awhile regarded Tedaldo with amazement, as a man risen from the dead; nay, in many an one's mind, and even in that of his brethren, there abode a certain faint doubt an he were indeed himself and they did not yet thoroughly believe it, nor belike had they believed it for a long time to come but for a chance which made them clear who the murdered man was which was on this wise. There passed one day before their house certain footmen[190] of Lunigiana, who, seeing Tedaldo, made towards him and said, 'Give you good day, Faziuolo.' Whereto Tedaldo in his brothers' presence answered, 'You mistake me.' The others, hearing him speak, were abashed and cried him pardon, saying, 'Forsooth you resemble, more than ever we saw one man favour another, a comrade of ours called Faziuolo of Pontremoli, who came hither some fortnight or more agone, nor could we ever since learn what is come of him. Indeed, we marvelled at the dress, for that he was a soldier, even as we are.' Tedaldo's elder brother, hearing this, came forward and enquired how this Faziuolo had been clad. They told him and it was found to have been punctually as they said; wherefore, what with these and what with other tokens, it was known for certain that he who had been slain was Faziuolo and not Tedaldo, and all doubt of the latter[191] accordingly departed [the minds of] his brothers and of every other. Tedaldo, then, being returned very rich, persevered in his love and the lady falling out with him no more, they long, discreetly dealing, had enjoyment of their love. God grant us to enjoy ours!" [Footnote 190: _i.e._ foot-soldiers.] [Footnote 191: _i.e._ of his identity.] THE EIGHTH STORY [Day the Third] FERONDO, HAVING SWALLOWED A CERTAIN POWDER, IS ENTOMBED FOR DEAD AND BEING TAKEN FORTH OF THE SEPULCHRE BY THE ABBOT, WHO ENJOYETH HIS WIFE THE WHILE, IS PUT IN PRISON AND GIVEN TO BELIEVE THAT HE IS IN PURGATORY; AFTER WHICH, BEING RAISED UP AGAIN, HE REARETH FOR HIS OWN A CHILD BEGOTTEN OF THE ABBOT ON HIS WIFE The end being come of Emilia's long story,--which had not withal for its length been unpleasing to any of the company, nay, but was held of all the ladies to have been briefly narrated, having regard to the number and diversity of the incidents therein recounted,--the queen, having with a mere sign intimated her pleasure to Lauretta, gave her occasion to begin thus: "Dearest ladies, there occurreth to me to tell you a true story which hath much more semblance of falsehood than of that which it indeed is and which hath been recalled to my mind by hearing one to have been bewept and buried for another. I purpose then, to tell you how a live man was entombed for dead and how after he and many other folk believed himself to have come forth of the sepulchre as one raised from the dead, by reason whereof he[192] was adored as a saint who should rather have been condemned as a criminal. [Footnote 192: _i.e._ the abbot who played the trick upon Ferondo. See post.] There was, then, and yet is, in Tuscany, an abbey situate, like as we see many thereof, in a place not overmuch frequented of men, whereof a monk was made abbot, who was a very holy man in everything, save in the matter of women, and in this he contrived to do so warily that well nigh none, not to say knew, but even suspected him thereof, for that he was holden exceeding godly and just in everything. It chanced that a very wealthy farmer, by name Ferondo, contracted a great intimacy with him, a heavy, clodpate fellow and dull-witted beyond measure, whose commerce pleased the abbot but for that his simplicity whiles afforded him some diversion, and in the course of their acquaintance, the latter perceived that Ferondo had a very handsome woman to wife, of whom he became so passionately enamoured that he thought of nothing else day or night; but, hearing that, simple and shallow-witted as Ferondo was in everything else, he was shrewd enough in the matter of loving and guarding his wife, he well nigh despaired of her. However, like a very adroit man as he was, he wrought on such wise with Ferondo that he came whiles, with his wife, to take his pleasance in the abbey-garden, and there he very demurely entertained them with discourse of the beatitude of the life eternal and of the pious works of many men and women of times past, insomuch that the lady was taken with a desire to confess herself to him and asked and had Ferondo's leave thereof. Accordingly, to the abbot's exceeding pleasure, she came to confess to him and seating herself at his feet, before she proceeded to say otherwhat, began thus: 'Sir, if God had given me a right husband or had given me none, it would belike be easy to me, with the help of your exhortations, to enter upon the road which you say leadeth folk unto life eternal; but I, having regard to what Ferondo is and to his witlessness, may style myself a widow, and yet I am married, inasmuch as, he living, I can have no other husband; and dolt as he is, he is without any cause, so out of all measure jealous of me that by reason thereof I cannot live with him otherwise than in tribulation and misery; wherefore, ere I come to other confession, I humbly beseech you, as most I may, that it may please you give me some counsel concerning this, for that, an the occasion of my well-doing begin not therefrom, confession or other good work will profit me little.' This speech gave the abbot great satisfaction and himseemed fortune had opened him the way to his chief desire; wherefore, 'Daughter,' quoth he, 'I can well believe that it must be a sore annoy for a fair and dainty dame such as you are to have a blockhead to husband, but a much greater meseemeth to have a jealous man; wherefore, you having both the one and the other, I can lightly credit that which you avouch of your tribulation. But for this, speaking briefly, I see neither counsel nor remedy save one, the which is that Ferondo be cured of this jealousy. The medicine that will cure him I know very well how to make, provided you have the heart to keep secret that which I shall tell you.' 'Father mine,' answered the lady, 'have no fear of that, for I would liefer suffer death than tell any that which you bid me not repeat; but how may this be done?' Quoth the abbot, 'An we would have him cured, it behoveth of necessity that he go to purgatory.' 'But how,' asked she, 'can he go thither alive?' 'Needs must he die,' replied the abbot, 'and so go thither; and whenas he shall have suffered such penance as shall suffice to purge him of his jealousy, we will pray God, with certain orisons that he restore him to this life, and He will do it.' 'Then,' said the lady, 'I am to become a widow?' 'Ay,' answered the abbot, 'for a certain time, wherein you must look well you suffer not yourself to be married again, for that God would take it in ill part, and whenas Ferondo returned hither, it would behove you return to him and he would then be more jealous than ever.' Quoth she, 'Provided he be but cured of this calamity, so it may not behove me abide in prison all my life, I am content; do as it pleaseth you.' 'And I will do it,'[193] rejoined he; 'but what guerdon am I to have of you for such a service?' 'Father,' answered the lady, 'you shall have whatsoever pleaseth you, so but it be in my power; but what can the like of me that may befit such a man as yourself?' 'Madam,' replied the abbot 'you can do no less for me than that which I undertake to do for you; for that, like as I am disposed to do that which is to be your weal and your solacement, even so can you do that which will be the saving and assainment of my life.' Quoth she, 'An it be so, I am ready.' 'Then,' said the abbot, 'you must give me your love and vouchsafe me satisfaction of yourself, for whom I am all afire with love and languishment.' [Footnote 193: _i.e._ I will cure your husband of his jealousy.] The lady, hearing this, was all aghast and answered, 'Alack, father mine, what is this you ask? Methought you were a saint. Doth it beseem holy men to require women, who come to them for counsel, of such things?' 'Fair my soul,' rejoined the abbot, 'marvel not, for that sanctity nowise abateth by this, seeing it hath its seat in the soul and that which I ask of you is a sin of the body. But, be that as it may, your ravishing beauty hath had such might that love constraineth me to do thus; and I tell you that you may glory in your charms over all other women, considering that they please holy men, who are used to look upon the beauties of heaven. Moreover, abbot though I be, I am a man like another and am, as you see, not yet old. Nor should this that I ask be grievous to you to do; nay, you should rather desire it, for that, what while Ferondo sojourneth in purgatory, I will bear you company by night and render you that solacement which he should give you; nor shall any ever come to know of this, for that every one believeth of me that, and more than that, which you but now believed of me. Reject not the grace that God sendeth you, for there be women enough who covet that which you may have and shall have, if, like a wise woman, you hearken to my counsel. Moreover, I have fair and precious jewels, which I purpose shall belong to none other than yourself. Do, then, for me, sweet my hope, that which I willingly do for you.' The lady hung her head, knowing not how to deny him, whilst herseemed it were ill done to grant him what he asked; but the abbot, seeing that she hearkened and hesitated to reply and himseeming he had already half converted her, followed up his first words with many others and stayed not till he had persuaded her that she would do well to comply with him. Accordingly, she said, blushing, that she was ready to do his every commandment, but might not avail thereto till such time as Ferondo should be gone to purgatory; whereupon quoth the abbot, exceeding well pleased, 'And we will make shift to send him thither incontinent; do you but contrive that he come hither to-morrow or next day to sojourn with me.' So saying, he privily put a very handsome ring into her hand and dismissed her. The lady rejoiced at the gift and looking to have others, rejoined her companions, to whom she fell to relating marvellous things of the abbot's sanctity, and presently returned home with them. A few days after Ferondo repaired to the abbey, whom, whenas the abbot saw, he cast about to send him to purgatory. Accordingly, he sought out a powder of marvellous virtue, which he had gotten in the parts of the Levant of a great prince who avouched it to be that which was wont to be used of the Old Man of the Mountain,[194] whenas he would fain send any one, sleeping, into his paradise or bring him forth thereof, and that, according as more or less thereof was given, without doing any hurt, it made him who took it sleep more or less [time] on such wise that, whilst its virtue lasted, none would say he had life in him. Of this he took as much as might suffice to make a man sleep three days and putting it in a beaker of wine, that was not yet well cleared, gave it to Ferondo to drink in his cell, without the latter suspecting aught; after which he carried him into the cloister and there with some of his monks fell to making sport of him and his dunceries; nor was it long before, the powder working, Ferondo was taken with so sudden and overpowering a drowsiness, that he slumbered as yet he stood afoot and presently fell down fast asleep. [Footnote 194: The well-known chief of the Assassins (properly _Heshashin_, _i.e._ hashish or hemp eaters). The powder in question is apparently a preparation of hashish or hemp. Boccaccio seems to have taken his idea of the Old Man of the Mountain from Marco Polo, whose travels, published in the early part of the fourteenth century, give a most romantic account of that chieftain and his followers.] The abbot made a show of being concerned at this accident and letting untruss him, caused fetch cold water and cast it in his face and essay many other remedies of his fashion, as if he would recall the strayed life and senses from [the oppression of] some fumosity of the stomach or what not like affection that had usurped them. The monks, seeing that for all this he came not to himself and feeling his pulse, but finding no sign of life in him, all held it for certain that he was dead. Accordingly, they sent to tell his wife and his kinsfolk, who all came thither forthright, and the lady having bewept him awhile with her kinswomen, the abbot caused lay him, clad as he was, in a tomb; whilst the lady returned to her house and giving out that she meant never to part from a little son, whom she had had by her husband, abode at home and occupied herself with the governance of the child and of the wealth which had been Ferondo's. Meanwhile, the abbot arose stealthily in the night and with the aid of a Bolognese monk, in whom he much trusted and who was that day come thither from Bologna, took up Ferondo out of the tomb and carried him into a vault, in which there was no light to be seen and which had been made for prison of such of the monks as should make default in aught. There they pulled off his garments and clothing him monk-fashion, laid him on a truss of straw and there left him against he should recover his senses, whilst the Bolognese monk, having been instructed by the abbot of that which he had to do, without any else knowing aught thereof, proceeded to await his coming to himself. On the morrow, the abbot, accompanied by sundry of his monks, betook himself, by way of visitation, to the house of the lady, whom he found clad in black and in great tribulation, and having comforted her awhile, he softly required her of her promise. The lady, finding herself free and unhindered of Ferondo or any other and seeing on his finger another fine ring, replied that she was ready and appointed him to come to her that same night. Accordingly, night come, the abbot, disguised in Ferondo's clothes and accompanied by the monk his confidant, repaired thither and lay with her in the utmost delight and pleasance till the morning, when he returned to the abbey. After this he very often made the same journey on a like errand and being whiles encountered, coming or going, of one or another of the villagers, it was believed he was Ferondo who went about those parts, doing penance; by reason whereof many strange stories were after bruited about among the simple countryfolk, and this was more than once reported to Ferondo's wife, who well knew what it was. As for Ferondo, when he recovered his senses and found himself he knew not where, the Bolognese monk came in to him with a horrible noise and laying hold of him, gave him a sound drubbing with a rod he had in his hand. Ferondo, weeping and crying out, did nought but ask, 'Where am I?' To which the monk answered, 'Thou art in purgatory.' 'How?' cried Ferondo. 'Am I then dead?' 'Ay, certes,' replied the other; whereupon Ferondo fell to bemoaning himself and his wife and child, saying the oddest things in the world. Presently the monk brought him somewhat of meat and drink, which Ferondo seeing, 'What!' cried he. 'Do the dead eat?' 'Ay do they,' answered the monk. 'This that I bring thee is what the woman, thy wife that was, sent this morning to the church to let say masses for thy soul, and God the Lord willeth that it be made over to thee.' Quoth Ferondo, 'God grant her a good year! I still cherished her ere I died, insomuch that I held her all night in mine arms and did nought but kiss her, and t' other thing also I did, when I had a mind thereto.' Then, being very sharp-set, he fell to eating and drinking and himseeming the wine was not overgood, 'Lord confound her!' quoth he. 'Why did not she give the priest wine of the cask against the wall?' After he had eaten, the monk laid hold of him anew and gave him another sound beating with the same rod; whereat Ferondo roared out lustily and said, 'Alack, why dost thou this to me?' Quoth the monk, 'Because thus hath God the Lord ordained that it be done unto thee twice every day.' 'And for what cause?' asked Ferondo. 'Because,' answered the monk, 'thou wast jealous, having the best woman in the country to wife.' 'Alas!' said Ferondo. 'Thou sayst sooth, ay, and the kindest creature; she was sweeter than syrup; but I knew not that God the Lord held it for ill that a man should be jealous; else had I not been so.' Quoth the monk, 'Thou shouldst have bethought thyself of that, whenas thou wast there below,[195] and have amended thee thereof; and should it betide that thou ever return thither, look thou so have in mind that which I do unto thee at this present that thou be nevermore jealous.' 'What?' said Ferondo. 'Do the dead ever return thither?' 'Ay,' answered the monk; 'whom God willeth.' 'Marry,' cried Ferondo, 'and I ever return thither, I will be the best husband in the world; I will never beat her nor give her an ill word, except it be anent the wine she sent hither this morning and for that she sent no candles, so it behoved me to eat in the dark.' 'Nay,' said the monk, 'she sent candles enough, but they were all burnt for the masses.' 'True,' rejoined Ferondo; 'and assuredly, an I return thither, I will let her do what she will. But tell me, who art thou that usest me thus?' Quoth the monk, 'I also am dead. I was of Sardinia and for that aforetime I much commended a master of mine of being jealous, I have been doomed of God to this punishment, that I must give thee to eat and drink and beat thee thus, till such time as God shall ordain otherwhat of thee and of me.' Then said Ferondo, 'Is there none here other than we twain?' 'Ay,' answered the monk, 'there be folk by the thousands; but thou canst neither see nor hear them, nor they thee.' Quoth Ferondo, 'And how far are we from our own countries?' 'Ecod,' replied the other, 'we are distant thence more miles than we can well cack at a bout.' 'Faith,' rejoined the farmer, 'that is far enough; meseemeth we must be out of the world, an it be so much as all that.' [Footnote 195: _i.e._ in the sublunary world.] In such and the like discourse was Ferondo entertained half a score months with eating and drinking and beating, what while the abbot assiduously visited the fair lady, without miscarriage, and gave himself the goodliest time in the world with her. At last, as ill-luck would have it, the lady found herself with child and straightway acquainted the abbot therewith, wherefore it seemed well to them both that Ferondo should without delay be recalled from purgatory to life and return to her, so she might avouch herself with child by him. Accordingly, the abbot that same night caused call to Ferondo in prison with a counterfeit voice, saying, 'Ferondo, take comfort, for it is God's pleasure that thou return to the world, where thou shalt have a son by thy wife, whom look thou name Benedict, for that by the prayers of thy holy abbot and of thy wife and for the love of St. Benedict He doth thee this favour.' Ferondo, hearing this, was exceedingly rejoiced and said, 'It liketh me well, Lord grant a good year to Seignior God Almighty and to the abbot and St. Benedict and my cheesy[196] sweet honey wife.' The abbot let give him, in the wine that he sent him, so much of the powder aforesaid as should cause him sleep maybe four hours and with the aid of his monk, having put his own clothes on him, restored him privily to the tomb wherein he had been buried. [Footnote 196: _Sic_ (_casciata_); meaning that he loves her as well as he loves cheese, for which it is well known that the lower-class Italian has a romantic passion. According to Alexandre Dumas, the Italian loves cheese so well that he has succeeded in introducing it into everything he eats or drinks, with the one exception of coffee.] Next morning, at break of day, Ferondo came to himself and espying light,--a thing which he had not seen for good ten months,--through some crevice of the tomb, doubted not but he was alive again. Accordingly, he fell to bawling out, 'Open to me! Open to me!' and heaving so lustily at the lid of the tomb with his head that he stirred it, for that it was eath to move, and had begun to move it away, when the monks, having now made an end of saying matins, ran thither and knew Ferondo's voice and saw him in act to come forth of the sepulchre; whereupon, all aghast for the strangeness of the case, they took to their heels and ran to the abbot, who made a show of rising from prayer and said, 'My sons, have no fear; take the cross and the holy water and follow after me, so we may see that which God willeth to show forth to us of His might'; and as he said, so he did. Now Ferondo was come forth of the sepulchre all pale, as well might he be who had so long abidden without seeing the sky. As soon as he saw the abbot, he ran to cast himself at his feet and said, 'Father mine, according to that which hath been revealed to me, your prayers and those of St. Benedict and my wife have delivered me from the pains of purgatory and restored me to life, wherefore I pray God to give you a good year and good calends now and always.' Quoth the abbot, 'Praised be God His might! Go, my son, since He hath sent thee back hither; comfort thy wife, who hath been still in tears, since thou departedst this life, and henceforth be a friend and servant of God.' 'Sir,' replied Ferondo, 'so hath it indeed been said to me; only leave me do; for, as soon as I find her, I shall buss her, such goodwill do I bear her.' The abbot, left alone with his monks, made a great show of wonderment at this miracle and caused devoutly sing Miserere therefor. As for Ferondo, he returned to his village, where all who saw him fled, as men use to do from things frightful; but he called them back and avouched himself to be raised up again. His wife on like wise feigned to be adread of him; but, after the folk were somewhat reassured anent him and saw that he was indeed alive, they questioned him of many things, and he, as it were he had returned wise, made answer to all and gave them news of the souls of their kinsfolk, making up, of his own motion, the finest fables in the world of the affairs of purgatory and recounting in full assembly the revelation made him by the mouth of the Rangel Bragiel[197] ere he was raised up again. Then, returning to his house and entering again into possession of his goods, he got his wife, as he thought, with child, and by chance it befell that, in due time,--to the thinking of the fools who believe that women go just nine months with child,--the lady gave birth to a boy, who was called Benedict Ferondi.[198] [Footnote 197: _i.e._ the Angel Gabriel.] [Footnote 198: The plural of a surname is, in strictness, always used by the Italians in speaking of a man by his full name, _dei_ being understood between the Christian and surname, as _Benedetto_ (_dei_) _Ferondi_, Benedict of the Ferondos or Ferondo family, whilst, when he is denominated by the surname alone, it is used in the singular, _il_ (the) being understood, _e.g._ (Il) Boccaccio, (Il) Ferondo, _i.e._ the particular Boccaccio or Ferondo in question for the nonce.] Ferondo's return and his talk, well nigh every one believing him to have risen from the dead, added infinitely to the renown of the abbot's sanctity, and he himself, as if cured of his jealousy by the many beatings he had received therefor, thenceforward, according to the promise made by the abbot to the lady, was no more jealous; whereat she was well pleased and lived honestly with him, as of her wont, save indeed that, whenas she conveniently might, she willingly foregathered with the holy abbot, who had so well and diligently served her in her greatest needs." THE NINTH STORY [Day the Third] GILLETTE DE NARBONNE RECOVERETH THE KING OF FRANCE OF A FISTULA AND DEMANDETH FOR HER HUSBAND BERTRAND DE ROUSSILLON, WHO MARRIETH HER AGAINST HIS WILL AND BETAKETH HIM FOR DESPITE TO FLORENCE, WHERE, HE PAYING COURT TO A YOUNG LADY, GILLETTE, IN THE PERSON OF THE LATTER, LIETH WITH HIM AND HATH BY HIM TWO SONS; WHEREFORE AFTER, HOLDING HER DEAR, HE ENTERTAINETH HER FOR HIS WIFE Lauretta's story being now ended, it rested but with the queen to tell, an she would not infringe upon Dioneo's privilege; wherefore, without waiting to be solicited by her companions, she began all blithesomely to speak thus: "Who shall tell a story that may appear goodly, now we have heard that of Lauretta? Certes, it was well for us that hers was not the first, for that few of the others would have pleased after it, as I misdoubt me[199] will betide of those which are yet to tell this day. Natheless, be that as it may, I will e'en recount to you that which occurreth to me upon the proposed theme. [Footnote 199: Lit. and so I hope (_spero_), a curious instance of the ancient Dantesque use of the word _spero_, I hope, in its contrary sense of fear.] There was in the kingdom of France a gentleman called Isnard, Count of Roussillon, who, for that he was scant of health, still entertained about his person a physician, by name Master Gerard de Narbonne. The said count had one little son, and no more, hight Bertrand, who was exceeding handsome and agreeable, and with him other children of his own age were brought up. Among these latter was a daughter of the aforesaid physician, by name Gillette, who vowed to the said Bertrand an infinite love and fervent more than pertained unto her tender years. The count dying and leaving his son in the hands of the king, it behoved him betake himself to Paris, whereof the damsel abode sore disconsolate, and her own father dying no great while after, she would fain, an she might have had a seemly occasion, have gone to Paris to see Bertrand: but, being straitly guarded, for that she was left rich and alone, she saw no honourable way thereto; and being now of age for a husband and having never been able to forget Bertrand, she had, without reason assigned, refused many to whom her kinsfolk would have married her. Now it befell that, what while she burned more than ever for love of Bertrand, for that she heard he was grown a very goodly gentleman, news came to her how the King of France, by an imposthume which he had had in his breast and which had been ill tended, had gotten a fistula, which occasioned him the utmost anguish and annoy, nor had he yet been able to find a physician who might avail to recover him thereof, albeit many had essayed it, but all had aggravated the ill; wherefore the king, despairing of cure, would have no more counsel nor aid of any. Hereof the young lady was beyond measure content and bethought herself that not only would this furnish her with a legitimate occasion of going to Paris, but that, should the king's ailment be such as she believed, she might lightly avail to have Bertrand to husband. Accordingly, having aforetime learned many things of her father, she made a powder of certain simples useful for such an infirmity as she conceived the king's to be and taking horse, repaired to Paris. Before aught else she studied to see Bertrand and next, presenting herself before the king, she prayed him of his favour to show her his ailment. The king, seeing her a fair and engaging damsel, knew not how to deny her and showed her that which ailed him. Whenas she saw it, she was certified incontinent that she could heal it and accordingly said, 'My lord, an it please you, I hope in God to make you whole of this your infirmity in eight days' time, without annoy or fatigue on your part.' The king scoffed in himself at her words, saying, 'That which the best physicians in the world have availed not neither known to do, how shall a young woman know?' Accordingly, he thanked her for her good will and answered that he was resolved no more to follow the counsel of physicians. Whereupon quoth the damsel, 'My lord, you make light of my skill, for that I am young and a woman; but I would have you bear in mind that I medicine not of mine own science, but with the aid of God and the science of Master Gerard de Narbonne, who was my father and a famous physician whilst he lived.' The king, hearing this, said in himself, 'It may be this woman is sent me of God; why should I not make proof of her knowledge, since she saith she will, without annoy of mine, cure me in little time?' Accordingly, being resolved to essay her, he said, 'Damsel, and if you cure us not, after causing us break our resolution, what will you have ensue to you therefor?' 'My lord,' answered she, 'set a guard upon me and if I cure you not within eight days, let burn me alive; but, if I cure you, what reward shall I have?' Quoth the king, 'You seem as yet unhusbanded; if you do this, we will marry you well and worshipfully.' 'My lord,' replied the young lady, 'I am well pleased that you should marry me, but I will have a husband such as I shall ask of you, excepting always any one of your sons or of the royal house.' He readily promised her that which she sought, whereupon she began her cure and in brief, before the term limited, she brought him back to health. The king, feeling himself healed, said, 'Damsel, you have well earned your husband'; whereto she answered, 'Then, my lord, I have earned Bertrand de Roussillon, whom I began to love even in the days of my childhood and have ever since loved over all.' The king deemed it a grave matter to give him to her; nevertheless, having promised her and unwilling to fail of his faith, he let call the count to himself and bespoke him thus: 'Bertrand, you are now of age and accomplished [in all that behoveth unto man's estate];[200] wherefore it is our pleasure that you return to govern your county and carry with you a damsel, whom we have given you to wife.' 'And who is the damsel, my lord?' asked Bertrand; to which the king answered, 'It is she who hath with her medicines restored to us our health.' [Footnote 200: _Fornito_, a notable example of what the illustrious Lewis Carroll Dodgson, Waywode of Wonderland, calls a "portmanteau-word," a species that abounds in mediæval Italian, for the confusion of translators.] Bertrand, who had seen and recognized Gillette, knowing her (albeit she seemed to him very fair) to be of no such lineage as sorted with his quality, said all disdainfully, 'My lord, will you then marry me to a she-leach? Now God forbid I should ever take such an one to wife!' 'Then,' said the king, 'will you have us fail of our faith, the which, to have our health again, we pledged to the damsel, who in guerdon thereof demanded you to husband?' 'My lord,' answered Bertrand, 'you may, an you will, take from me whatsoever I possess or, as your liegeman, bestow me upon whoso pleaseth you; but of this I certify you, that I will never be a consenting party unto such a marriage.' 'Nay,' rejoined the king, 'but you shall, for that the damsel is fair and wise and loveth you dear; wherefore we doubt not but you will have a far happier life with her than with a lady of higher lineage.' Bertrand held his peace and the king let make great preparations for the celebration of the marriage. The appointed day being come, Bertrand, sore against his will, in the presence of the king, espoused the damsel, who loved him more than herself. This done, having already determined in himself what he should do, he sought leave of the king to depart, saying he would fain return to his county and there consummate the marriage; then, taking horse, he repaired not thither, but betook himself into Tuscany, where, hearing that the Florentines were at war with those of Sienna, he determined to join himself to the former, by whom he was joyfully received and made captain over a certain number of men-at-arms; and there, being well provided[201] of them, he abode a pretty while in their service. [Footnote 201: _i.e._ getting good pay and allowances (_avendo buona provisione_).] The newly-made wife, ill content with such a lot, but hoping by her fair dealing to recall him to his county, betook herself to Roussillon, where she was received of all as their liege lady. There, finding everything waste and disordered for the long time that the land had been without a lord, with great diligence and solicitude, like a discreet lady as she was, she set all in order again, whereof the count's vassals were mightily content and held her exceeding dear, vowing her a great love and blaming the count sore for that he accepted not of her. The lady, having thoroughly ordered the county, notified the count thereof by two knights, whom she despatched to him, praying him that, an it were on her account he forbore to come to his county, he should signify it to her and she, to pleasure him, would depart thence; but he answered them very harshly, saying, 'For that, let her do her pleasure; I, for my part, will return thither to abide with her, whenas she shall have this my ring on her finger and in her arms a son by me begotten.' Now the ring in question he held very dear and never parted with it, by reason of a certain virtue which it had been given him to understand that it had. The knights understood the hardship of the condition implied in these two well nigh impossible requirements, but, seeing that they might not by their words avail to move him from his purpose, they returned to the lady and reported to her his reply; whereat she was sore afflicted and determined, after long consideration, to seek to learn if and where the two things aforesaid might be compassed, to the intent that she might, in consequence, have her husband again. Accordingly, having bethought herself what she should do, she assembled certain of the best and chiefest men of the county and with plaintive speech very orderly recounted to them that which she had already done for love of the count and showed them what had ensued thereof, adding that it was not her intent that, through her sojourn there, the count should abide in perpetual exile; nay, rather she purposed to spend the rest of her life in pilgrimages and works of mercy and charity for her soul's health; wherefore she prayed them take the ward and governance of the county and notify the count that she had left him free and vacant possession and had departed the country, intending nevermore to return to Roussillon. Many were the tears shed by the good folk, whilst she spoke, and many the prayers addressed to her that it would please her change counsel and abide there; but they availed nought. Then, commending them to God, she set out upon her way, without telling any whither she was bound, well furnished with monies and jewels of price and accompanied by a cousin of hers and a chamberwoman, all in pilgrims' habits, and stayed not till she came to Florence, where, chancing upon a little inn, kept by a decent widow woman, she there took up her abode and lived quietly, after the fashion of a poor pilgrim, impatient to hear news of her lord. It befell, then, that on the morrow of her arrival she saw Bertrand pass before her lodging, a-horseback with his company, and albeit she knew him full well, natheless she asked the good woman of the inn who he was. The hostess answered, 'That is a stranger gentleman, who calleth himself Count Bertrand, a pleasant man and a courteous and much loved in this city; and he is the most enamoured man in the world of a she-neighbour of ours, who is a gentlewoman, but poor. Sooth to say, she is a very virtuous damsel and abideth, being yet unmarried for poverty, with her mother, a very good and discreet lady, but for whom, maybe, she had already done the count's pleasure.' The countess took good note of what she heard and having more closely enquired into every particular and apprehended all aright, determined in herself how she should do. Accordingly, having learned the house and name of the lady whose daughter the count loved, she one day repaired privily thither in her pilgrim's habit and finding the mother and daughter in very poor case, saluted them and told the former that, an it pleased her, she would fain speak with her alone. The gentlewoman, rising, replied that she was ready to hearken to her and accordingly carried her into a chamber of hers, where they seated themselves and the countess began thus, 'Madam, meseemeth you are of the enemies of Fortune, even as I am; but, an you will, belike you may be able to relieve both yourself and me.' The lady answered that she desired nothing better than to relieve herself by any honest means; and the countess went on, 'Needs must you pledge me your faith, whereto an I commit myself and you deceive me, you will mar your own affairs and mine.' 'Tell me anything you will in all assurance,' replied the gentlewoman; 'for never shall you find yourself deceived of me.' Thereupon the countess, beginning with her first enamourment, recounted to her who she was and all that had betided her to that day after such a fashion that the gentlewoman, putting faith in her words and having, indeed, already in part heard her story from others, began to have compassion of her. The countess, having related her adventures, went on to say, 'You have now, amongst my other troubles, heard what are the two things which it behoveth me have, an I would have my husband, and to which I know none who can help me, save only yourself, if that be true which I hear, to wit, that the count my husband is passionately enamoured of your daughter.' 'Madam,' answered the gentlewoman, 'if the count love my daughter I know not; indeed he maketh a great show thereof. But, an it be so, what can I do in this that you desire?' 'Madam,' rejoined the countess, 'I will tell you; but first I will e'en show you what I purpose shall ensue thereof to you, an you serve me. I see your daughter fair and of age for a husband and according to what I have heard, meseemeth I understand the lack of good to marry her withal it is that causeth you keep her at home. Now I purpose, in requital of the service you shall do me, to give her forthright of mine own monies such a dowry as you yourself shall deem necessary to marry her honorably.' The mother, being needy, was pleased with the offer; algates, having the spirit of a gentlewoman, she said, 'Madam, tell me what I can do for you; if it consist with my honour, I will willingly do it, and you shall after do that which shall please you.' Then said the countess, 'It behoveth me that you let tell the count my husband by some one in whom you trust, that your daughter is ready to do his every pleasure, so she may but be certified that he loveth her as he pretendeth, the which she will never believe, except he send her the ring which he carrieth on his finger and by which she hath heard he setteth such store. An he send you the ring, you must give it to me and after send to him to say that your daughter is ready do his pleasure; then bring him hither in secret and privily put me to bed to him in the stead of your daughter. It may be God will vouchsafe me to conceive and on this wise, having his ring on my finger and a child in mine arms of him begotten, I shall presently regain him and abide with him, as a wife should abide with her husband, and you will have been the cause thereof.' This seemed a grave matter to the gentlewoman, who feared lest blame should haply ensue thereof to her daughter; nevertheless, bethinking her it were honourably done to help the poor lady recover her husband and that she went about to do this to a worthy end and trusting in the good and honest intention of the countess, she not only promised her to do it, but, before many days, dealing with prudence and secrecy, in accordance with the latter's instructions, she both got the ring (albeit this seemed somewhat grievous to the count) and adroitly put her to bed with her husband, in the place of her own daughter. In these first embracements, most ardently sought of the count, the lady, by God's pleasure, became with child of two sons, as her delivery in due time made manifest. Nor once only, but many times, did the gentlewoman gratify the countess with her husband's embraces, contriving so secretly that never was a word known of the matter, whilst the count still believed himself to have been, not with his wife, but with her whom he loved; and whenas he came to take leave of a morning, he gave her, at one time and another, divers goodly and precious jewels, which the countess laid up with all diligence. Then, feeling herself with child and unwilling to burden the gentlewoman farther with such an office, she said to her, 'Madam, thanks to God and you, I have gotten that which I desired, wherefore it is time that I do that which shall content you and after get me gone hence.' The gentlewoman answered that, if she had gotten that which contented her, she was well pleased, but that she had not done this of any hope of reward, nay, for that herseemed it behoved her to do it, an she would do well. 'Madam,' rejoined the countess, 'that which you say liketh me well and so on my part I purpose not to give you that which you shall ask of me by way of reward, but to do well, for that meseemeth behoveful so to do.' The gentlewoman, then, constrained by necessity, with the utmost shamefastness, asked her an hundred pounds to marry her daughter withal; but the countess, seeing her confusion and hearing her modest demand, gave her five hundred and so many rare and precious jewels as were worth maybe as much more. With this the gentlewoman was far more than satisfied and rendered the countess the best thanks in her power; whereupon the latter, taking leave of her, returned to the inn, whilst the other, to deprive Bertrand of all farther occasion of coming or sending to her house, removed with her daughter into the country to the house of one of her kinsfolk, and he, being a little after recalled by his vassals and hearing that the countess had departed the country, returned to his own house. The countess, hearing that he had departed Florence and returned to his county, was mightily rejoiced and abode at Florence till her time came to be delivered, when she gave birth to two male children, most like their father, and let rear them with all diligence. Whenas it seemed to her time, she set out and came, without being known of any, to Montpellier, where having rested some days and made enquiry of the count and where he was, she learned that he was to hold a great entertainment of knights and ladies at Roussillon on All Saints' Day and betook herself thither, still in her pilgrim's habit that she was wont to wear. Finding the knights and ladies assembled in the count's palace and about to sit down to table, she went up, with her children in her arms and without changing her dress, into the banqueting hall and making her way between man and man whereas she saw the count, cast herself at his feet and said, weeping, 'I am thine unhappy wife, who, to let thee return and abide in thy house, have long gone wandering miserably about the world. I conjure thee, in the name of God, to accomplish unto me thy promise upon the condition appointed me by the two knights I sent thee; for, behold, here in mine arms is not only one son of thine, but two, and here is thy ring. It is time, then, that I be received of thee as a wife, according to thy promise.' The count, hearing this, was all confounded and recognized the ring and the children also, so like were they to him; but yet he said, 'How can this have come to pass?' The countess, then, to his exceeding wonderment and that of all others who were present, orderly recounted that which had passed and how it had happened; whereupon the count, feeling that she spoke sooth and seeing her constancy and wit and moreover two such goodly children, as well for the observance of his promise as to pleasure all his liegemen and the ladies, who all besought him thenceforth to receive and honour her as his lawful wife, put off his obstinate despite and raising the countess to her feet, embraced her and kissing her, acknowledged her for his lawful wife and those for his children. Then, letting clothe her in apparel such as beseemed her quality, to the exceeding joyance of as many as were there and of all other his vassals who heard the news, he held high festival, not only all that day, but sundry others, and from that day forth still honoured her as his bride and his wife and loved and tendered her over all." THE TENTH STORY [Day the Third] ALIBECH, TURNING HERMIT, IS TAUGHT BY RUSTICO, A MONK, TO PUT THE DEVIL IN HELL, AND BEING AFTER BROUGHT AWAY THENCE, BECOMETH NEERBALE HIS WIFE Dioneo, who had diligently hearkened to the queen's story, seeing that it was ended and that it rested with him alone to tell, without awaiting commandment, smilingly began to speak as follows: "Charming ladies, maybe you have never heard tell how one putteth the devil in hell; wherefore, without much departing from the tenor of that whereof you have discoursed all this day, I will e'en tell it you. Belike, having learned it, you may catch the spirit[202] thereof and come to know that, albeit Love sojourneth liefer in jocund palaces and luxurious chambers than in the hovels of the poor, yet none the less doth he whiles make his power felt midmost thick forests and rugged mountains and in desert caverns; whereby it may be understood that all things are subject to his puissance. [Footnote 202: _Guadagnare l'anima_, lit. gain the soul (syn. pith, kernel, substance). This passage is ambiguous and should perhaps be rendered "catch the knack or trick" or "acquire the wish."] To come, then, to the fact, I say that in the city of Capsa in Barbary there was aforetime a very rich man, who, among his other children, had a fair and winsome young daughter, by name Alibech. She, not being a Christian and hearing many Christians who abode in the town mightily extol the Christian faith and the service of God, one day questioned one of them in what manner one might avail to serve God with the least hindrance. The other answered that they best served God who most strictly eschewed the things of the world, as those did who had betaken them into the solitudes of the deserts of Thebais. The girl, who was maybe fourteen years old and very simple, moved by no ordered desire, but by some childish fancy, set off next morning by stealth and all alone, to go to the desert of Thebais, without letting any know her intent. After some days, her desire persisting, she won, with no little toil, to the deserts in question and seeing a hut afar off, went thither and found at the door a holy man, who marvelled to see her there and asked her what she sought. She replied that, being inspired of God, she went seeking to enter into His service and was now in quest of one who should teach her how it behoved to serve Him. The worthy man, seeing her young and very fair and fearing lest, an he entertained her, the devil should beguile him, commended her pious intent and giving her somewhat to eat of roots of herbs and wild apples and dates and to drink of water, said to her, 'Daughter mine, not far hence is a holy man, who is a much better master than I of that which thou goest seeking; do thou betake thyself to him'; and put her in the way. However, when she reached the man in question, she had of him the same answer and faring farther, came to the cell of a young hermit, a very devout and good man, whose name was Rustico and to whom she made the same request as she had done to the others. He, having a mind to make a trial of his own constancy, sent her not away, as the others had done, but received her into his cell, and the night being come, he made her a little bed of palm-fronds and bade her lie down to rest thereon. This done, temptations tarried not to give battle to his powers of resistance and he, finding himself grossly deceived by these latter, turned tail, without awaiting many assaults, and confessed himself beaten; then, laying aside devout thoughts and orisons and mortifications, he fell to revolving in his memory the youth and beauty of the damsel and bethinking himself what course he should take with her, so as to win to that which he desired of her, without her taking him for a debauched fellow. Accordingly, having sounded her with sundry questions, he found that she had never known man and was in truth as simple as she seemed; wherefore he bethought him how, under colour of the service of God, he might bring her to his pleasures. In the first place, he showeth her with many words how great an enemy the devil was of God the Lord and after gave her to understand that the most acceptable service that could be rendered to God was to put back the devil into hell, whereto he had condemned him. The girl asked him how this might be done; and he, 'Thou shalt soon know that; do thou but as thou shalt see me do.' So saying, he proceeded to put off the few garments he had and abode stark naked, as likewise did the girl, whereupon he fell on his knees, as he would pray, and caused her abide over against himself.[203] [Footnote 203: The translators regret that the disuse into which magic has fallen, makes it impossible to render the technicalities of that mysterious art into tolerable English; they have therefore found it necessary to insert several passages in the original Italian.] E cosí stando, essendo Rustico, piú che mai, nel suo disidero acceso, per lo vederla cosí bella, venue la resurrezion della carne; la quale riguardando Alibech, e maravigliatasti, disse: Rustico, quella che cosa è, che io ti veggio, che cosí si pigne in fuori, e non l' ho io? O figliuola mia, disse Rustico, questo è il diavolo, di che io t'ho parlato, e vedi tu ora: egli mi dà grandissima molestia, tanta, che io appena la posso sofferire. Allora disse la giovane. O lodato sia Iddio, ché io veggio, che io sto meglio, che non stai tu, ché io non ho cotesto diavolo io. Disse Rustico, tu di vero; ma tu hai un' altra cosa, che non l'ho io, et haila in iscambio di questo. Disse Alibech: O che? A cui Rustico disse: Hai l'inferno; e dicoti, che io mi credo, che Dio t'abbia qui mandata per la salute dell' anima mia; perciòche, se questo diavolo pur mi darà questa noia, ove tu cogli aver di me tanta pietà, e sofferire, che io in inferno il rimetta; tu mi darai grandissima consolazione, et a Dio farai grandissimo piacere, e servigio; se tu per quello fare in queste parti venuta se; che tu di. La giovane di buona fede rispose O padre mio, poscia che io ho l'inferno, sia pure quando vi piacerà mettervi il diavolo. Disse allora Rustico: Figliuola mia benedetta sia tu: andiamo dunque, e rimettiamlovi sí, che egli poscia mi lasci stare. E cosí detto, menate la giovane sopra uno de' loro letticelli, le 'nsegnò, come star si dovesse a dover incarcerare quel maladetto da Dio. La giovane, che mai piú non aveva in inferno messo diavolo alcuno, per la prima volta sentí un poco di noia; perché ella disse a Rustico. Per certo, padre mio, mala cosa dee essere questo diavolo, e veramente nimico di Iddio ché ancora all'inferno, non che altrui duole quando, egli v'è dentro rimesso. Disse Rustico: Figliuola, egli non averrà sempre cosí: e per fare, che questo non avvenisse, da sei volte anziche di su il letticel si movesero, ve 'l rimisero; tantoche per quella volta gli trasser sí la superbia del capo, che egli si stette volentieri in pace. Ma ritornatagli poi nel seguente tempo piú volte, e la giovane ubbidente sempre a trargliela si disponesse, avvenne, che il giuoco le cominciò a piacere; e cominciò a dire a Rustico. Ben veggio, che il ver dicevano que valenti uomini in Capsa, che il servire a Dio era cosí dolce cosa, e per certo io non mi ricordo, che mai alcuna altra ne facessi, che di tanto diletto, e piacere mi fosse, quanto è il rimettere il diavolo in inferno; e perciò giudico ogn' altra persona, che ad altro che a servire a Dio attende, essere una bestia. Per la qual cosa essa spesse volte andava a Rustico, e gli diceva. Padre mio, io son qui venuta per servire a Dio, e non per istare oziosa; andiamo a rimittere il diavolo in inferno. La qual cosa faccendo, diceva ella alcuna volta. Rustico, io non so perché il diavolo si fugga di ninferno, ché s' egli vi stesse cosí volentiere, come l'inferno il riceve, e tiene; agli non sene uscirebbe mai. Cosí adunque invitando spesso la giovane Rustico, et al servigio di Dio confortandolo, se la bambagia del farsetto tratta gli avea, che egli a talora sentiva freddo, che un' altro sarebbe sudato; e perciò egli incominciò a dire alla giovane, che il diavolo non era da gastigare, né da rimettere in inferno, se non quando egli per superbia levasse il capo; e noi, per la grazia, di Dio, l'abbiamo sí sgannato, che egla priega Iddio di starsi in pace: e cosí alquanto impose di silenzio alla giovane. La qual, poiche vide che Rustico non la richiedeva a dovere il diavolo rimittere in inferno, gli disse un giorno. Rustico, se il diavolo tuo è gastigato, e piú non ti dà noia me il mio ninferno non lascia stare: perché tu farai bene, che tu col tuo diavolo aiuti ad attutare la rabbia al mio inferno; come io col mio ninferno ho ajutato a trarre la superbia al tuo diavolo. [Transcriber's Note: The following is a 1903 translation of this passage by J.M. Rigg (from Project Gutenberg Etext No. 3726): Whereupon Rustico, seeing her so fair, felt an accession of desire, and therewith came an insurgence of the flesh, which Alibech marking with surprise, said:--"Rustico, what is this, which I see thee have, that so protrudes, and which I have not?" "Oh! my daughter," said Rustico, "'tis the Devil of whom I have told thee: and, seest thou? he is now tormenting me most grievously, insomuch that I am scarce able to hold out." Then:--"Praise be to God," said the girl, "I see that I am in better case than thou, for no such Devil have I." "Sooth sayst thou," returned Rustico; "but instead of him thou hast somewhat else that I have not." "Oh!" said Alibech, "what may that be?" "Hell," answered Rustico: "and I tell thee, that 'tis my belief that God has sent thee hither for the salvation of my soul; seeing that, if this Devil shall continue to plague me thus, then, so thou wilt have compassion on me and permit me to put him in hell, thou wilt both afford me great and exceeding great solace, and render to God an exceeding most acceptable service, if, as thou sayst, thou art come into these parts for such a purpose." In good faith the girl made answer:--"As I have hell to match your Devil, be it, my father, as and when you will." Whereupon:--"Bless thee, my daughter," said Rustico, "go we then, and put him there, that he leave me henceforth in peace." Which said, he took the girl to one of the beds and taught her the posture in which she must lie in order to incarcerate this spirit accursed of God. The girl, having never before put any devil in hell, felt on this first occasion a twinge of pain: wherefore she said to Rustico:-- "Of a surety, my father, he must be a wicked fellow, this devil, and in very truth a foe to God; for there is sorrow even in hell--not to speak of other places--when he is put there." "Daughter," said Rustico, "'twill not be always so." And for better assurance thereof they put him there six times before they quitted the bed; whereby they so thoroughly abased his pride that he was fain to be quiet. However, the proud fit returning upon him from time to time, and the girl addressing herself always obediently to its reduction, it so befell that she began to find the game agreeable, and would say to Rustico:--"Now see I plainly that 'twas true, what the worthy men said at Capsa, of the service of God being so delightful: indeed I cannot remember that in aught that ever I did I had so much pleasure, so much solace, as in putting the Devil in hell; for which cause I deem it insensate folly on the part of any one to have a care to aught else than the service of God." Wherefore many a time she would come to Rustico, and say to him:--"My father, 'twas to serve God that I came hither, and not to pass my days in idleness: go we then, and put the Devil in hell." And while they did so, she would now and again say:--"I know not, Rustico, why the Devil should escape from hell; were he but as ready to stay there as hell is to receive and retain him, he would never come out of it." So, the girl thus frequently inviting and exhorting Rustico to the service of God, there came at length a time when she had so thoroughly lightened his doublet that he shivered when another would have sweated; wherefore he began to instruct her that the Devil was not to be corrected and put in hell, save when his head was exalted with pride; adding, "and we by God's grace have brought him to so sober a mind that he prays God he may be left in peace;" by which means he for a time kept the girl quiet. But when she saw that Rustico had no more occasion for her to put the Devil in hell, she said to him one day:--"Rustico, if thy Devil is chastened and gives thee no more trouble, my hell, on the other hand, gives me no peace; wherefore, I with my hell have holpen thee to abase the pride of thy Devil, so thou wouldst do well to lend me the aid of thy Devil to allay the fervent heat of my hell."] Rustico, who lived on roots and water, could ill avail to answer her calls and told her that it would need overmany devils to appease hell, but he would do what he might thereof. Accordingly he satisfied her bytimes, but so seldom it was but casting a bean into the lion's mouth; whereas the girl, herseeming she served not God as diligently as she would fain have done, murmured somewhat. But, whilst this debate was toward between Rustico his devil and Alibech her hell, for overmuch desire on the one part and lack of power on the other, it befell that a fire broke out in Capsa and burnt Alibech's father in his own house, with as many children and other family as he had; by reason whereof she abode heir to all his good. Thereupon, a young man called Neerbale, who had spent all his substance in gallantry, hearing that she was alive, set out in search of her and finding her, before the court[204] had laid hands upon her father's estate, as that of a man dying without heir, to Rustico's great satisfaction, but against her own will, brought her back to Capsa, where he took her to wife and succeeded, in her right, to the ample inheritance of her father. [Footnote 204: _i.e._ the government (_corte_).] There, being asked by the women at what she served God in the desert, she answered (Neerbale having not yet lain with her) that she served Him at putting the devil in hell and that Neerbale had done a grievous sin in that he had taken her from such service. The ladies asked, 'How putteth one the devil in hell?' And the girl, what with words and what with gestures, expounded it to them; whereat they set up so great a laughing that they laugh yet and said, 'Give yourself no concern, my child; nay, for that is done here also and Neerbale will serve our Lord full well with thee at this.' Thereafter, telling it from one to another throughout the city, they brought it to a common saying there that the most acceptable service one could render to God was to put the devil in hell, which byword, having passed the sea hither, is yet current here. Wherefore do all you young ladies, who have need of God's grace, learn to put the devil in hell, for that this is highly acceptable to Him and pleasing to both parties and much good may grow and ensue thereof." * * * * * A thousand times or more had Dioneo's story moved the modest ladies to laughter, so quaint and comical did his words appear to them; then, whenas he had made an end thereof, the queen, knowing the term of her sovranty to be come, lifted the laurel from her head and set it merrily on that of Filostrato, saying: "We shall presently see if the wolf will know how to govern the ewes better than the ewes have governed the wolves." Filostrato, hearing this, said, laughing, "An I were hearkened to, the wolves had taught the ewes to put the devil in hell, no worse than Rustico taught Alibech; wherefore do ye not style us wolven, since you yourselves have not been ewen. Algates, I will govern the kingdom committed to me to the best of my power." "Harkye, Filostrato," rejoined Neifile, "in seeking to teach us, you might have chanced to learn sense, even as did Masetto of Lamporecchio of the nuns, and find your tongue what time your bones should have learnt to whistle without a master." Filostrato, finding that he still got a Roland for his Oliver,[205] gave over pleasantry and addressed himself to the governance of the kingdom committed to him. Wherefore, letting call the seneschal, he was fain to know at what point things stood all and after discreetly ordained that which he judged would be well and would content the company for such time as his seignory should endure. Then, turning to the ladies, "Lovesome ladies," quoth he, "since I knew good from evil, I have, for my ill fortune, been still subject unto Love for the charms of one or other of you; nor hath humility neither obedience, no, nor the assiduous ensuing him in all his usances, in so far as it hath been known of me, availed me but that first I have been abandoned for another and after have still gone from bad to worse; and so I believe I shall fare unto my death; wherefore it pleaseth me that it be discoursed to-morrow of none other matter than that which is most conformable to mine own case, to wit, OF THOSE WHOSE LOVES HAVE HAD UNHAPPY ENDING, for that I in the long run look for a most unhappy [issue to mine own]; nor was the name by which you call me conferred on me for otherwhat by such an one who knew well what it meant."[206] So saying, he rose to his feet and dismissed every one until supper-time. [Footnote 205: Lit. that scythes were no less plenty that he had arrows (_che falci si trovavano non meno che egli avesse strali_), a proverbial expression the exact bearing of which I do not know, but whose evident sense I have rendered in the equivalent English idiom.] [Footnote 206: Syn. what he said (_che si dire_). See ante, p. 11, note.] The garden was so goodly and so delightsome that there was none who elected to go forth thereof, in the hope of finding more pleasance elsewhere. Nay, the sun, now grown mild, making it nowise irksome to give chase to the fawns and kids and rabbits and other beasts which were thereabout and which, as they sat, had come maybe an hundred times to disturb them by skipping through their midst, some addressed themselves to pursue them. Dioneo and Fiammetta fell to singing of Messer Guglielmo and the Lady of Vergiu,[207] whilst Filomena and Pamfilo sat down to chess; and so, some doing one thing and some another, the time passed on such wise that the hour of supper came well nigh unlooked for; whereupon, the tables being set round about the fair fountain, they supped there in the evening with the utmost delight. [Footnote 207: Apparently the well-known fabliau of the Dame de Vergy, upon which Marguerite d'Angoulême founded the seventieth story of the Heptameron.] As soon as the tables were taken away, Filostrato, not to depart from the course holden of those who had been queens before him, commanded Lauretta to lead up a dance and sing a song. "My lord," answered she, "I know none of other folk's songs, nor have I in mind any of mine own which should best beseem so joyous a company; but, an you choose one of those which I have, I will willingly sing it." Quote the king, "Nothing of thine can be other than goodly and pleasing; wherefore sing us such as thou hast." Lauretta, then, with a sweet voice enough, but in a somewhat plaintive style, began thus, the other ladies answering: No maid disconsolate Hath cause as I, alack! Who sigh for love in vain, to mourn her fate. He who moves heaven and all the stars in air Made me for His delight Lovesome and sprightly, kind and debonair, E'en here below to give each lofty spright Some inkling of that fair That still in heaven abideth in His sight; But erring men's unright, Ill knowing me, my worth Accepted not, nay, with dispraise did bate. Erst was there one who held me dear and fain Took me, a youngling maid, Into his arms and thought and heart and brain, Caught fire at my sweet eyes; yea time, unstayed Of aught, that flits amain And lightly, all to wooing me he laid. I, courteous, nought gainsaid And held[208] him worthy me; But now, woe's me, of him I'm desolate. Then unto me there did himself present A youngling proud and haught, Renowning him for valorous and gent; He took and holds me and with erring thought[209] To jealousy is bent; Whence I, alack! nigh to despair am wrought, As knowing myself,--brought Into this world for good Of many an one,--engrossed of one sole mate. The luckless hour I curse, in very deed, When I, alas! said yea, Vesture to change,--so fair in that dusk wede I was and glad, whereas in this more gay A weary life I lead, Far less than erst held honest, welaway! Ah, dolorous bridal day, Would God I had been dead Or e'er I proved thee in such ill estate! O lover dear, with whom well pleased was I Whilere past all that be,-- Who now before Him sittest in the sky Who fashioned us,--have pity upon me Who cannot, though I die, Forget thee for another; cause me see The flame that kindled thee For me lives yet unquenched And my recall up thither[210] impetrate. [Footnote 208: Lit. made (_Di me il feci digno_).] [Footnote 209: _i.e._ false suspicion (_falso pensiero_).] [Footnote 210: _i.e._ to heaven (_e costa su m'impetra la tornata_).] Here Lauretta made an end of her song, wherein, albeit attentively followed of all, she was diversely apprehended of divers persons, and there were those who would e'en understand, Milan-fashion, that a good hog was better than a handsome wench;[211] but others were of a loftier and better and truer apprehension, whereof it booteth not to tell at this present. Thereafter the king let kindle store of flambeaux upon the grass and among the flowers and caused sing divers other songs, until every star began to decline, that was above the horizon, when, deeming it time for sleep, he bade all with a good night betake themselves to their chambers. [Footnote 211: The pertinence of this allusion, which probably refers to some current Milanese proverbial saying, the word _tosa_, here used by Boccaccio for "wench," belonging to the Lombard dialect, is not very clear. The expression "Milan-fashion" (_alla melanese_) may be supposed to refer to the proverbial materialism of the people of Lombardy.] HERE ENDETH THE THIRD DAY OF THE DECAMERON _Day the Fourth_ HERE BEGINNETH THE FOURTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER THE GOVERNANCE OF FILOSTRATO IS DISCOURSED OF THOSE WHOSE LOVES HAVE HAD UNHAPPY ENDINGS Dearest ladies, as well by words of wise men heard as by things many a time both seen and read of myself, I had conceived that the boisterous and burning blast of envy was apt to smite none but lofty towers or the highest summits of the trees; but I find myself mistaken in my conceit, for that, fleeing, as I have still studied to flee, from the cruel onslaught of that raging wind, I have striven to go, not only in the plains, but in the very deepest of the valleys, as many manifestly enough appear to whoso considereth these present stories, the which have been written by me, not only in vulgar Florentine and in prose and without [author's] name, but eke in as humble and sober a style as might be. Yet for all this have I not availed to escape being cruelly shaken, nay, well nigh uprooted, of the aforesaid wind and all torn of the fangs of envy; wherefore I can very manifestly understand that to be true which the wise use to say, to wit, that misery alone in things present is without envy.[212] [Footnote 212: Sic (_senza invidia_); but the meaning is that misery alone is without _enviers_.] There are then, discreet ladies, some who, reading these stories, have said that you please me overmuch and that it is not a seemly thing that I should take so much delight in pleasuring and solacing you; and some have said yet worse of commending you as I do. Others, making a show of wishing to speak more maturely, have said that it sorteth ill with mine age henceforth to follow after things of this kind, to wit, to discourse of women or to study to please them. And many, feigning themselves mighty tender of my repute, avouch that I should do more wisely to abide with the Muses on Parnassus than to busy myself among you with these toys. Again, there be some who, speaking more despitefully than advisedly, have said that I should do more discreetly to consider whence I might get me bread than to go peddling after these baubles, feeding upon wind; and certain others, in disparagement of my pains, study to prove the things recounted by me to have been otherwise than as I present them to you. With such, then, and so many blusterings,[213] such atrocious backbitings, such needle-pricks, noble ladies, am I, what while I battle in your service, baffled and buffeted and transfixed even to the quick. The which things, God knoweth, I hear and apprehend with an untroubled mind; and albeit my defence in this pertaineth altogether unto you, natheless, I purpose not to spare mine own pains; nay, without answering so much [at large] as it might behove, I mean to rid mine ears of them with some slight rejoinder, and that without delay; for that if even now, I being not yet come to[214] the third part of my travail, they[215] are many and presume amain, I opine that, ere I come to the end thereof, they may, having had no rebuff at the first, on such wise be multiplied that with whatsoever little pains of theirs they might overthrow me, nor might your powers, great though they be, avail to withstand this. [Footnote 213: _i.e._ blasts of calumny.] [Footnote 214: _i.e._ having not yet accomplished.] [Footnote 215: _i.e._ my censors.] But, ere I come to make answer to any of them, it pleaseth me, in mine own defence, to relate, not an entire story,--lest it should seem I would fain mingle mine own stories with those of so commendable a company as that which I have presented to you,--but a part of one,--that so its very default [of completeness] may attest that it is none of those,--and accordingly, speaking to my assailants, I say that in our city, a good while agone, there was a townsman, by name Filippo Balducci, a man of mean enough extraction, but rich and well addressed and versed in such matters as his condition comported. He had a wife, whom he loved with an exceeding love, as she him, and they lived a peaceful life together, studying nothing so much as wholly to please one another. In course of time it came to pass, as it cometh to pass of all, that the good lady departed this life and left Filippo nought of herself but one only son, begotten of him and maybe two years old. Filippo for the death of his lady abode as disconsolate as ever man might, having lost a beloved one, and seeing himself left alone and forlorn of that company which most he loved, he resolved to be no more of the world, but to give himself altogether to the service of God and do the like with his little son. Wherefore, bestowing all his good for the love of God,[216] he repaired without delay to the top of Mount Asinajo, where he took up his abode with his son in a little hut and there living with him upon alms, in the practice of fasts and prayers, straitly guarded himself from discoursing whereas the boy was, of any temporal thing, neither suffered him see aught thereof, lest this should divert him from the service aforesaid, but still bespoke him of the glories of life eternal and of God and the saints, teaching him nought but pious orisons; and in this way of life he kept him many years, never suffering him go forth of the hermitage nor showing him aught other than himself. [Footnote 216: _i.e._ in alms.] Now the good man was used to come whiles into Florence, where being succoured, according to his occasions, of the friends of God, he returned to his hut, and it chanced one day that, his son being now eighteen years old and Filippo an old man, the lad asked him whither he went. Filippo told him and the boy said, "Father mine, you are now an old man and can ill endure fatigue; why do you not whiles carry me to Florence and bring me to know the friends and devotees of God and yourself, to the end that I, who am young and better able to toil than you, may after, whenas it pleaseth you, go to Florence for our occasions, whilst you abide here?" The worthy man, considering that his son was now grown to man's estate and thinking him so inured to the service of God that the things of this world might thenceforth uneath allure him to themselves, said in himself, "The lad saith well"; and accordingly, having occasion to go thither, he carried him with him. There the youth, seeing the palaces, the houses, the churches and all the other things whereof one seeth all the city full, began, as one who had never to his recollection beheld the like, to marvel amain and questioned his father of many things what they were and how they were called. Filippo told him and he, hearing him, abode content and questioned of somewhat else. As they went thus, the son asking and the father answering, they encountered by chance a company of pretty and well-dressed young women, coming from a wedding, whom as soon as the young man saw, he asked his father what manner of things these were. "My son," answered Filippo, "cast your eyes on the ground and look not at them, for that they are an ill thing." Quoth the son, "And how are they called?" The father, not to awaken in the lad's mind a carnal appetite less than useful, would not name them by the proper name, to wit, women, but said, "They are called green geese." Whereupon, marvellous to relate, he who have never seen a woman and who recked not of palaces nor oxen nor horses nor asses nor monies nor of aught else he had seen, said suddenly, "Father mine, I prithee get me one of these green geese." "Alack, my son," replied the father, "hold they peace; I tell thee they are an ill thing." "How!" asked the youth. "Are ill things then made after this fashion?" and Filippo answered, "Ay." Then said the son, "I know not what you would say nor why these are an ill thing; for my part, meseemeth I never yet saw aught goodly or pleasing as are these. They are fairer than the painted angels you have shown me whiles. For God's sake, an you reck of me, contrive that we may carry one of yonder green geese back with us up yonder, and I will give it to eat." "Nay," answered the father, "I will not: thou knowest not whereon they feed." And he understood incontinent that nature was stronger than his wit and repented him of having brought the youth to Florence. But I will have it suffice me to have told this much of the present story and return to those for whose behoof I have related it. Some, then, of my censurers say that I do ill, young ladies, in studying overmuch to please you and that you please me overmuch. Which things I do most openly confess, to wit, that you please me and that I study to please you, and I ask them if they marvel thereat,--considering (let be the having known the dulcet kisses and amorous embracements and delightsome couplings that are of you, most sweet ladies, often gotten) only my having seen and still seeing your dainty manners and lovesome beauty and sprightly grace and above all your womanly courtesy,--whenas he who had been reared and bred on a wild and solitary mountain and within the bounds of a little cell, without other company than his father, no sooner set eyes on you than you alone were desired of him, you alone sought, you alone followed with the eagerness of passion. Will they, then, blame me, back bite me, rend me with their tongues if I, whose body Heaven created all apt to love you, I, who from my childhood vowed my soul to you, feeling the potency of the light of your eyes and the sweetness of your honeyed words and the flame enkindled by your piteous sighs,--if, I say, you please me or if I study to please you, seeing that you over all else pleased a hermitling, a lad without understanding, nay, rather, a wild animal? Certes, it is only those, who, having neither sense nor cognizance of the pleasures and potency of natural affection, love you not nor desire to be loved of you, that chide me thus; and of these I reck little. As for those who go railing anent mine age, it would seem they know ill that, for all the leek hath a white head, the tail thereof is green. But to these, laying aside pleasantry, I answer that never, no, not to the extreme limit of my life, shall I repute it to myself for shame to seek to please those whom Guido Cavalcanti and Dante Alighieri, when already stricken in years, and Messer Cino da Pistoja, when a very old man, held in honour and whose approof was dear to them. And were it not to depart from the wonted usance of discourse, I would cite history in support and show it to be all full of stories of ancient and noble men who in their ripest years have still above all studied to please the ladies, the which an they know not, let them go learn. That I should abide with the Muses on Parnassus, I confess to be good counsel; but, since we can neither abide for ever with the Muses, nor they with us, it is nothing blameworthy if, whenas it chanceth a man is parted from them, he take delight in seeing that which is like unto them. The muses are women, and albeit women may not avail to match with them, yet at first sight they have a semblance of them; insomuch that, an they pleased me not for aught else, for this they should please me; more by token that women have aforetime been to me the occasion of composing a thousand verses, whereas the Muses never were to me the occasion of making any. They aided me, indeed, and showed me how to compose the verses in question; and peradventure, in the writing of these present things, all lowly though they be, they have come whiles to abide with me, in token maybe and honour of the likeness that women bear to them; wherefore, in inditing these toys, I stray not so far from Mount Parnassus nor from the Muses as many belike conceive. But what shall we say to those who have such compassion on my hunger that they counsel me provide myself bread? Certes, I know not, save that, whenas I seek to imagine in myself what would be their answer, an I should of necessity beseech them thereof, to wit, of bread, methinketh they would reply, "Go seek it among thy fables." Indeed, aforetime poets have found more thereof among their fables than many a rich man among his treasures, and many, following after their fables, have caused their age to flourish; whereas, on the contrary, many, in seeking to have more bread than they needed, have perished miserably. What more [shall I say?] Let them drive me forth, whenas I ask it of them, not that, Godamercy, I have yet need thereof; and even should need betide, I know with the Apostle Paul both how to abound and suffer need;[217] wherefore let none be more careful of me than I am of myself. For those who say that these things have not been such as I have here set them down, I would fain have them produce the originals, and an these latter accord not with that of which I write, I will confess their objection for just and will study to amend myself; but till otherwhat than words appeareth, I will leave them to their opinion and follow mine own, saying of them that which they say of me. [Footnote 217: "I know both how to be abased and I know how to abound; everywhere and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and suffer need."--_Philippians_ iv. 12.] Wherefore, deeming that for the nonce I have answered enough, I say that, armed, as I hope to be, with God's aid and yours, gentlest ladies, and with fair patience, I will fare on with this that I have begun, turning my back to the wind aforesaid and letting it blow, for that I see not that aught can betide me other than that which betideth thin dust, the which a whirlwind, whenas it bloweth, either stirreth not from the earth, or, an it stir it, carrieth it aloft and leaveth it oftentimes upon the heads of men and upon the crowns of kings and emperors, nay, bytimes upon high palaces and lofty towers, whence an it fall, it cannot go lower than the place wherefrom it was uplifted. And if ever with all my might I vowed myself to seek to please you in aught, now more than ever shall I address myself thereto; for that I know none can with reason say otherwhat than that I and others who love you do according to nature, whose laws to seek to gainstand demandeth overgreat strength, and oftentimes not only in vain, but to the exceeding hurt of whoso striveth to that end, is this strength employed. Such strength I confess I have not nor ever desired in this to have; and an I had it, I had liefer lend it to others than use it for myself. Wherefore, let the carpers be silent and an they avail not to warm themselves, let them live star-stricken[218] and abiding in their delights--or rather their corrupt appetites,--leave me to abide in mine for this brief life that is appointed me. But now, fair ladies, for that we have strayed enough, needs must we return whence we set out and ensue the ordinance commenced. [Footnote 218: _i.e._ benumbed (_assiderati_).] The sun had already banished every star from the sky and had driven from the earth the humid vapours of the night, when Filostrato, arising, caused all his company arise and with them betook himself to the fair garden, where they all proceeded to disport themselves, and the eating-hour come, they dined whereas they had supped on the foregoing evening. Then, after having slept, what time the sun was at its highest, they seated themselves, after the wonted fashion, hard by the fair fountain, and Filostrato bade Fiammetta give beginning to the story-telling; whereupon, without awaiting further commandment, she began with womanly grace as follows: THE FIRST STORY [Day the Fourth] TANCRED, PRINCE OF SALERNO, SLAYETH HIS DAUGHTER'S LOVER AND SENDETH HER HIS HEART IN A BOWL OF GOLD; WHEREUPON, POURING POISONED WATER OVER IT, SHE DRINKETH THEREOF AND DIETH "Our king hath this day appointed us a woeful subject of discourse, considering that, whereas we came hither to make merry, needs must we tell of others' tears, the which may not be recounted without moving both those who tell and those who hearken to compassion thereof. He hath mayhap done this somedele to temper the mirth of the foregoing days; but, whatsoever may have moved him thereto, since it pertaineth not to me to change his pleasure, I will relate a piteous chance, nay, an ill-fortuned and a worthy of your tears. Tancred, Lord of Salerno, was a humane prince and benign enough of nature, (had he not in his old age imbrued his hands in lover's blood,) who in all the course of his life had but one daughter, and happier had he been if he had none. She was of him as tenderly loved as ever daughter of father, and knowing not, by reason of this his tender love for her, how to part with her, he married her not till she had long overpassed the age when she should have had a husband. At last, he gave her to wife to a son of the Duke of Capua, with whom having abidden a little while, she was left a widow and returned to her father. Now she was most fair of form and favour, as ever was woman, and young and sprightly and learned perchance more than is required of a lady. Abiding, then, with her father in all ease and luxury, like a great lady as she was, and seeing that, for the love he bore her, he recked little of marrying her again, nor did it seem to her a seemly thing to require him thereof, she bethought herself to seek, an it might be, to get her privily a worthy lover. She saw men galore, gentle and simple, frequent her father's court, and considering the manners and fashions of many, a young serving-man of her father's, Guiscardo by name, a man of humble enough extraction, but nobler of worth and manners than whatsoever other, pleased her over all and of him, seeing him often, she became in secret ardently enamoured, approving more and more his fashions every hour; whilst the young man, who was no dullard, perceiving her liking for him, received her into his heart, on such wise that his mind was thereby diverted from well nigh everything other than the love of her. Each, then, thus secretly tendering the other, the young lady, who desired nothing so much as to foregather with him, but had no mind to make any one a confidant of her passion, bethought herself of a rare device to apprize him of the means; to wit, she wrote him a letter, wherein she showed him how he should do to foregather with her on the ensuing day, and placing it in the hollow of a cane, gave the letter jestingly to Guiscardo, saying, 'Make thee a bellows thereof for thy serving-maid, wherewith she may blow up the fire to-night.' Guiscardo took the cane and bethinking himself that she would not have given it him nor spoken thus, without some cause, took his leave and returned therewith to his lodging. There he examined the cane and seeing it to be cleft, opened it and found therein the letter, which having read and well apprehended that which he had to do, he was the joyfullest man alive and set about taking order how he might go to her, according to the fashion appointed him of her. There was, beside the prince's palace, a grotto hewn out of the rock and made in days long agone, and to this grotto some little light was given by a tunnel[219] by art wrought in the mountain, which latter, for that the grotto was abandoned, was well nigh blocked at its mouth with briers and weeds that had overgrown it. Into this grotto one might go by a privy stair which was in one of the ground floor rooms of the lady's apartment in the palace and which was shut in by a very strong door. This stair was so out of all folk's minds, for that it had been unused from time immemorial, that well nigh none remembered it to be there; but Love, to whose eyes there is nothing so secret but it winneth, had recalled it to the memory of the enamoured lady, who, that none should get wind of the matter, had laboured sore many days with such tools as she might command, ere she could make shift to open the door; then, going down alone thereby into the grotto and seeing the tunnel, she sent to bid Guiscardo study to come to her thereby and acquainted him with the height which herseemed should be from the mouth thereof to the ground. [Footnote 219: Or airshaft (_spiraglio_).] To this end Guiscardo promptly made ready a rope with certain knots and loops, whereby he might avail to descend and ascend, and donning a leathern suit, that might defend him from the briers, he on the ensuing night repaired, without letting any know aught of the matter, to the mouth of the tunnel. There making one end of the rope fast to a stout tree-stump that had grown up in the mouth, he let himself down thereby into the grotto and there awaited the lady, who, on the morrow, feigning a desire to sleep, dismissed her women and shut herself up alone in her chamber; then, opening the privy door, she descended into the grotto, where she found Guiscardo. They greeted one another with marvellous joy and betook themselves to her chamber, where they abode great part of the day in the utmost delight; and after they had taken order together for the discreet conduct of their loves, so they might abide secret, Guiscardo returned to the grotto, whilst she shut the privy door and went forth to her women. The night come, Guiscardo climbed up by his rope to the mouth of the tunnel and issuing forth whence he had entered in, returned to his lodging; and having learned this road, he in process of time returned many times thereafter. But fortune, jealous of so long and so great a delight, with a woeful chance changed the gladness of the two lovers into mourning and sorrow; and it befell on this wise. Tancred was wont to come bytimes all alone into his daughter's chamber and there abide with her and converse awhile and after go away. Accordingly, one day, after dinner, he came thither, what time the lady (whose name was Ghismonda) was in a garden of hers with all her women, and willing not to take her from her diversion, he entered her chamber, without being seen or heard of any. Finding the windows closed and the curtains let down over the bed, he sat down in a corner on a hassock at the bedfoot and leant his head against the bed; then, drawing the curtain over himself, as if he had studied to hide himself there, he fell asleep. As he slept thus, Ghismonda, who, as ill chance would have it, had appointed her lover to come thither that day, softly entered the chamber, leaving her women in the garden, and having shut herself in, without perceiving that there was some one there, opened the secret door to Guiscardo, who awaited her. They straightway betook themselves to bed, as of their wont, and what while they sported and solaced themselves together, it befell that Tancred awoke and heard and saw that which Guiscardo and his daughter did; whereat beyond measure grieved, at first he would have cried out at them, but after bethought himself to keep silence and abide, an he might, hidden, so with more secrecy and less shame to himself he might avail to do that which had already occurred to his mind. The two lovers abode a great while together, according to their usance, without observing Tancred, and coming down from the bed, whenas it seemed to them time, Guiscardo returned to the grotto and she departed the chamber; whereupon Tancred, for all he was an old man, let himself down into the garden by a window and returned, unseen of any, to his own chamber, sorrowful unto death. That same night, at the time of the first sleep, Guiscardo, by his orders, was seized by two men, as he came forth of the tunnel, and carried secretly, trussed as he was in his suit of leather, to Tancred, who, whenas he saw him, said, well nigh weeping, 'Guiscardo, my kindness to thee merited not the outrage and the shame thou hast done me in mine own flesh and blood, as I have this day seen with my very eyes.' Whereto Guiscardo answered nothing but this, 'Love can far more than either you or I.' Tancred then commanded that he should be kept secretly under guard and in one of the chambers of the palace, and so was it done. On the morrow, having meanwhile revolved in himself many and divers devices, he betook himself, after eating, as of his wont, to his daughter's chamber and sending for the lady, who as yet knew nothing of these things, shut himself up with her and proceeded, with tears in his eyes, to bespeak her thus: 'Ghismonda, meseemed I knew thy virtue and thine honesty, nor might it ever have occurred to my mind, though it were told me, had I not seen it with mine own eyes, that thou wouldst, even so much as in thought, have abandoned thyself to any man, except he were thy husband; wherefore in this scant remnant of life that my eld reserveth unto me, I shall still abide sorrowful, remembering me of this. Would God, an thou must needs stoop to such wantonness, thou hadst taken a man sortable to thy quality! But, amongst so many who frequent my court, thou hast chosen Guiscardo, a youth of the meanest condition, reared in our court, well nigh of charity, from a little child up to this day; wherefore thou hast put me in sore travail of mind, for that I know not what course to take with thee. With Guiscardo, whom I caused take yesternight, as he issued forth of the tunnel and have in ward, I am already resolved how to deal; but with thee God knoweth I know not what to do. On one side love draweth me, which I still borne thee more than father ever bore daughter, and on the other most just despite, conceived for thine exceeding folly; the one would have me pardon thee, the other would have me, against my nature, deal harshly by thee. But ere I come to a decision, I would fain hear what thou hast to say to this.' So saying, he bowed his head and wept sore as would a beaten child. Ghismonda, hearing her father's words and seeing that not only was her secret love discovered, but Guiscardo taken, felt an inexpressible chagrin and came many a time near upon showing it with outcry and tears, as women mostly do; nevertheless, her haughty soul overmastering that weakness, with marvellous fortitude she composed her countenance and rather than proffer any prayer for herself, determined inwardly to abide no more on life, doubting not but her Guiscardo was already dead. Wherefore, not as a woman rebuked and woeful for her default, but as one undaunted and valiant, with dry eyes and face open and nowise troubled, she thus bespoke her father: 'Tancred, I purpose neither to deny nor to entreat, for that the one would profit me nothing nor would I have the other avail me; more by token that I am nowise minded to seek to render thy mansuetude and thine affection favourable to me, but rather, confessing the truth, first with true arguments to vindicate mine honour and after with deeds right resolutely to ensue the greatness of my soul. True is it I have loved and love Guiscardo, and what while I live, which will be little, I shall love him, nor, if folk live after death, shall I ever leave loving him; but unto this it was not so much my feminine frailty that moved me as thy little solicitude to remarry me and his own worth. It should have been manifest to thee, Tancred, being as thou art flesh and blood, that thou hadst begotten a daughter of flesh and blood and not of iron or stone; and thou shouldst have remembered and should still remember, for all thou art old, what and what like are the laws of youth and with what potency they work; nor, albeit thou, being a man, hast in thy best years exercised thyself in part in arms, shouldst thou the less know what ease and leisure and luxury can do in the old, to say nothing of the young. I am, then, as being of thee begotten, of flesh and blood and have lived so little that I am yet young and (for the one and the other reason) full of carnal desire, whereunto the having aforetime, by reason of marriage, known what pleasure it is to give accomplishment to such desire hath added marvellous strength. Unable, therefore, to withstand the strength of my desires, I addressed myself, being young and a woman, to ensue that whereto they prompted me and became enamoured. And certes in this I set my every faculty to the endeavouring that, so far as in me lay, no shame should ensue either to thee or to me through this to which natural frailty moved me. To this end compassionate Love and favouring Fortune found and showed me a very occult way, whereby, unknown of any, I won to my desire, and this, whoever it be discovered it to thee or howsoever thou knowest it, I nowise deny. Guiscardo I took not at hazard, as many women do; nay, of deliberate counsel I chose him before every other and with advisement prepense drew him to me[220] and by dint of perseverance and discretion on my part and on his, I have long had enjoyment of my desire. Whereof it seemeth that thou, ensuing rather vulgar prejudice than truth, reproachest me with more bitterness than of having sinned by way of love, saying (as if thou shouldst not have been chagrined, had I chosen therefor a man of gentle birth,) that I have committed myself with a man of mean condition. Wherein thou seest not that thou blamest not my default, but that of fortune, which too often advanceth the unworthy to high estate, leaving the worthiest alow. [Footnote 220: Lit. introduced him to me (_a me lo 'ntrodussi_); but Boccaccio here uses the word _introdurre_ in its rarer literal sense to lead, to draw, to bring in.] But now let us leave this and look somewhat to the first principles of things, whereby thou wilt see that we all get our flesh from one same stock and that all souls were by one same Creator created with equal faculties, equal powers and equal virtues. Worth it was that first distinguished between us, who were all and still are born equal; wherefore those who had and used the greatest sum thereof were called noble and the rest abode not noble. And albeit contrary usance hath since obscured this primary law, yet is it nowise done away nor blotted out from nature and good manners; wherefore he who doth worthily manifestly showeth himself a gentleman, and if any call him otherwise, not he who is called, but he who calleth committeth default. Look among all thy gentlemen and examine into their worth, their usances and their manners, and on the other hand consider those of Guiscardo; if thou wilt consent to judge without animosity, thou wilt say that he is most noble and that these thy nobles are all churls. With regard to his worth and virtue, I trusted not to the judgment of any other, but to that of thy words and of mine own eyes. Who ever so commended him as thou didst in all those praiseworthy things wherefor a man of worth should be commended? And certes not without reason; for, if mine eyes deceived me not, there was no praise given him of thee which I saw him not justify by deeds, and that more admirably than thy words availed to express; and even had I suffered any deceit in this, it is by thyself I should have been deceived. An, then, thou say that I have committed myself with a man of mean condition, thou sayst not sooth; but shouldst thou say with a poor man, it might peradventure be conceded thee, to thy shame who hast so ill known to put a servant of thine and a man of worth in good case; yet poverty bereaveth not any of gentilesse; nay, rather, wealth it is that doth this. Many kings, many great princes were once poor and many who delve and tend sheep were once very rich. The last doubt that thou broachest, to wit, what thou shouldst do with me, drive it away altogether; an thou in thine extreme old age be disposed to do that which thou usedst not, being young, namely, to deal cruelly, wreak thy cruelty upon me, who am minded to proffer no prayer unto thee, as being the prime cause of this sin, if sin it be; for of this I certify thee, that whatsoever thou hast done or shalt do with Guiscardo, an thou do not the like with me, mine own hands shall do it. Now begone; go shed tears with women and waxing cruel, slay him and me with one same blow, an it seem to thee we have deserved it.' The prince knew the greatness of his daughter's soul, but notwithstanding believed her not altogether so firmly resolved as she said unto that which her words gave out. Wherefore, taking leave of her and having laid aside all intent of using rigour against her person, he thought to cool her fervent love with other's suffering and accordingly bade Guiscardo's two guardians strangle him without noise that same night and taking out his heart, bring it to him. They did even as it was commanded them, and on the morrow the prince let bring a great and goodly bowl of gold and setting therein Guiscardo's heart, despatched it to his daughter by the hands of a very privy servant of his, bidding him say, whenas he gave it her, 'Thy father sendeth thee this, to solace thee of the thing thou most lovest, even as thou hast solaced him of that which he loved most.' Now Ghismonda, unmoved from her stern purpose, had, after her father's departure, let bring poisonous herbs and roots and distilled and reduced them in water, so she might have it at hand, an that she feared should come to pass. The serving-man coming to her with the prince's present and message, she took the cup with a steadfast countenance and uncovered it. Whenas she saw the heart and apprehended the words of the message, she was throughly certified that this was Guiscardo's heart and turning her eyes upon the messenger, said to him, 'No sepulchre less of worth than one of gold had beseemed a heart such as this; and in this my father hath done discreetly.' So saying, she set the heart to her lips and kissing it, said, 'Still in everything and even to this extreme limit of my life have I found my father's love most tender towards me; but now more than ever; wherefore do than render him on my part for so great a gift the last thanks I shall ever have to give him.' Then, bending down over the cup, which she held fast, she said, looking upon the heart, 'Alack, sweetest harbourage of all my pleasures, accursed be his cruelty who maketh me now to see thee with the eyes of the body! Enough was it for me at all hours to behold thee with those of the mind. Thou hast finished thy course and hast acquitted thyself on such wise as was vouchsafed thee of fortune; thou art come to the end whereunto each runneth; thou hast left the toils and miseries of the world, and of thy very enemy thou hast that sepulchre which thy worth hath merited. There lacked nought to thee to make thy funeral rites complete save her tears whom in life thou so lovedst, the which that thou mightest have, God put it into the heart of my unnatural father to send thee to me and I will give them to thee, albeit I had purposed to die with dry eyes and visage undismayed of aught; and having given them to thee, I will without delay so do that my soul, thou working it,[221] shall rejoin that soul which thou erst so dearly guardedst. And in what company could I betake me more contentedly or with better assurance to the regions unknown than with it?[222] Certain am I that it abideth yet herewithin[223] and vieweth the seats of its delights and mine and as that which I am assured still loveth me, awaiteth my soul, whereof it is over all beloved.' [Footnote 221: _i.e._ thou being the means of bringing about the conjunction (_adoperandol tu_).] [Footnote 222: _i.e._ Guiscardo's soul.] [Footnote 223: _i.e._ in the heart.] So saying, no otherwise than as she had a fountain of water in her head, bowing herself over the bowl, without making any womanly outcry, she began, lamenting, to shed so many and such tears that they were a marvel to behold, kissing the dead heart the while an infinite number of times. Her women, who stood about her, understood not what this heart was nor what her words meant, but, overcome with compassion, wept all and in vain questioned her affectionately of the cause of her lament and studied yet more, as best they knew and might, to comfort her. The lady, having wept as much as herseemed fit, raised her head and drying her eyes, said, 'O much-loved heart, I have accomplished mine every office towards thee, nor is there left me aught else to do save to come with my soul and bear thine company.' So saying, she called for the vial wherein was the water she had made the day before and poured the latter into the bowl where was the heart bathed with so many of her tears; then, setting her mouth thereto without any fear, she drank it all off and having drunken, mounted, with the cup in her hand, upon the bed, where composing her body as most decently she might, she pressed her dead lover's heart to her own and without saying aught, awaited death. Her women, seeing and hearing all this, albeit they knew not what water this was she had drunken, had sent to tell Tancred everything, and he, fearing that which came to pass, came quickly down into his daughter's chamber, where he arrived what time she laid herself on her bed and addressed himself too late to comfort her with soft words; but, seeing the extremity wherein she was, he fell a-weeping grievously; whereupon quoth the lady to him, 'Tancred, keep these tears against a less desired fate than this of mine and give them not to me, who desire them not. Who ever saw any, other than thou, lament for that which he himself hath willed? Nevertheless, if aught yet live in thee of the love which once thou borest me, vouchsafe me for a last boon that, since it was not thy pleasure that I should privily and in secret live with Guiscardo, my body may openly abide with his, whereassoever thou hast caused cast him dead.' The agony of his grief suffered not the prince to reply; whereupon the young lady, feeling herself come to her end, strained the dead heart to her breast and said, 'Abide ye with God, for I go hence.' Then, closing her eyes and losing every sense, she departed this life of woe. Such, then, as you have heard, was the sorrowful ending of the loves of Guiscardo and Ghismonda, whose bodies Tancred, after much lamentation, too late repenting him of his cruelty, caused honourably bury in one same sepulchre, amid the general mourning of all the people of Salerno." THE SECOND STORY [Day the Fourth] FRA ALBERTO GIVETH A LADY TO BELIEVE THAT THE ANGEL GABRIEL IS ENAMOURED OF HER AND IN HIS SHAPE LIETH WITH HER SUNDRY TIMES; AFTER WHICH, FOR FEAR OF HER KINSMEN, HE CASTETH HIMSELF FORTH OF HER WINDOW INTO THE CANAL AND TAKETH REFUGE IN THE HOUSE OF A POOR MAN, WHO ON THE MORROW CARRIETH HIM, IN THE GUISE OF A WILD MAN OF THE WOODS, TO THE PIAZZA, WHERE, BEING RECOGNIZED, HE IS TAKEN BY HIS BRETHREN AND PUT IN PRISON The story told by Fiammetta had more than once brought the tears to the eyes of the ladies her companions; but, it being now finished, the king with a stern countenance said, "My life would seem to me a little price to give for half the delight that Guiscardo had with Ghismonda, nor should any of you ladies marvel thereat, seeing that every hour of my life I suffer a thousand deaths, nor for all that is a single particle of delight vouchsafed me. But, leaving be my affairs for the present, it is my pleasure that Pampinea follow on the order of the discourse with some story of woeful chances and fortunes in part like to mine own; which if she ensue like as Fiammetta hath begun, I shall doubtless begin to feel some dew fallen upon my fire." Pampinea, hearing the order laid upon her, more by her affection apprehended the mind of the ladies her companions than that of Filostrato by his words,[224] wherefore, being more disposed to give them some diversion than to content the king, farther than in the mere letter of his commandment, she bethought herself to tell a story, that should, without departing from the proposed theme, give occasion for laughter, and accordingly began as follows: [Footnote 224: _i.e._ was more inclined to consider the wishes of the ladies her companions, which she divined by sympathy, than those of Filostrato, as shown by his words (_più per la sua affezione cognobbe l'animo delle campagne che quello del re per le sue parole_). It is difficult, however, in this instance as in many others, to discover with certainty Boccaccio's exact meaning, owing to his affectation of Ciceronian concision and delight in obscure elliptical forms of construction; whilst his use of words in a remote or unfamiliar sense and the impossibility of deciding, in certain cases, the person of the pronouns and adjectives employed tend still farther to darken counsel. _E.g._, if we render _affezione_ sentiment, _cognobbe_ (as _riconobbe_) acknowledged, recognized, and read _le sue parole_ as meaning _her_ (instead of _his_) words, the whole sense of the passage is changed, and we must read it "more by her sentiment (_i.e._ by the tendency and spirit of her story) recognized the inclination of her companions than that of the king by her [actual] words." I have commented thus at large on this passage, in order to give my readers some idea of the difficulties which at every page beset the translator of the Decameron and which make Boccaccio perhaps the most troublesome of all authors to render into representative English.] "The vulgar have a proverb to the effect that he who is naught and is held good may do ill and it is not believed of him; the which affordeth me ample matter for discourse upon that which hath been proposed to me and at the same time to show what and how great is the hypocrisy of the clergy, who, with garments long and wide and faces paled by art and voices humble and meek to solicit the folk, but exceeding loud and fierce to rebuke in others their own vices, pretend that themselves by taking and others by giving to them come to salvation, and to boot, not as men who have, like ourselves, to purchase paradise, but as in a manner they were possessors and lords thereof, assign unto each who dieth, according to the sum of the monies left them by him, a more or less excellent place there, studying thus to deceive first themselves, an they believe as they say, and after those who put faith for that matter in their words. Anent whom, were it permitted me to discover as much as it behoved, I would quickly make clear to many simple folk that which they keep hidden under those huge wide gowns of theirs. But would God it might betide them all of their cozening tricks, as it betided a certain minor friar, and he no youngling, but held one of the first casuists[225] in Venice; of whom it especially pleaseth me to tell you, so as peradventure somewhat to cheer your hearts, that are full of compassion for the death of Ghismonda, with laughter and pleasance. [Footnote 225: Lit. of those who _was_ held of the greatest casuists (_di quelli che de' maggior cassesi era tenuto_). This is another very obscure passage. The meaning of the word _cassesi_ is unknown and we can only guess it to be a dialectic (probably Venetian) corruption of the word _casisti_ (casuists). The Giunta edition separates the word thus, _casse si_, making _si_ a mere corroborative prefix to _era_, but I do not see how the alteration helps us, the word _casse_ (chests, boxes) being apparently meaningless in this connection.] There was, then, noble ladies, in Imola, a man of wicked and corrupt life, who was called Berto della Massa and whose lewd fashions, being well known of the Imolese, had brought him into such ill savour with them that there was none in the town who would credit him, even when he said sooth; wherefore, seeing that his shifts might no longer stand him in stead there, he removed in desperation to Venice, the receptacle of every kind of trash, thinking to find there new means of carrying on his wicked practices. There, as if conscience-stricken for the evil deeds done by him in the past, feigning himself overcome with the utmost humility and waxing devouter than any man alive, he went and turned Minor Friar and styled himself Fra Alberta da Imola; in which habit he proceeded to lead, to all appearance, a very austere life, greatly commending abstinence and mortification and never eating flesh nor drinking wine, whenas he had not thereof that which was to his liking. In short, scarce was any ware of him when from a thief, a pimp, a forger, a manslayer, he suddenly became a great preacher, without having for all that forsworn the vices aforesaid, whenas he might secretly put them in practice. Moreover, becoming a priest, he would still, whenas he celebrated mass at the altar, an he were seen of many, beweep our Saviour's passion, as one whom tears cost little, whenas he willed it. Brief, what with his preachings and his tears, he contrived on such wise to inveigle the Venetians that he was trustee and depository of well nigh every will made in the town and guardian of folk's monies, besides being confessor and counsellor of the most part of the men and women of the place; and doing thus, from wolf he was become shepherd and the fame of his sanctity was far greater in those parts than ever was that of St. Francis at Assisi. It chanced one day that a vain simple young lady, by name Madam Lisetta da Ca[226] Quirino, wife of a great merchant who was gone with the galleys into Flanders, came with other ladies to confess to this same holy friar, at whose feet kneeling and having, like a true daughter of Venice as she was (where the women are all feather-brained), told him part of her affairs, she was asked of him if she had a lover. Whereto she answered, with an offended air, 'Good lack, sir friar, have you no eyes in your head? Seem my charms to you such as those of yonder others? I might have lovers and to spare, an I would; but my beauties are not for this one nor that. How many women do you see whose charms are such as mine, who would be fair in Paradise?' Brief, she said so many things of this beauty of hers that it was a weariness to hear. Fra Alberto incontinent perceived that she savoured of folly and himseeming she was a fit soil for his tools, he fell suddenly and beyond measure in love with her; but, reserving blandishments for a more convenient season, he proceeded, for the nonce, so he might show himself a holy man, to rebuke her and tell her that this was vainglory and so forth. The lady told him he was an ass and knew not what one beauty was more than another, whereupon he, unwilling to vex her overmuch, took her confession and let her go away with the others. [Footnote 226: Venetian contraction of _Casa_, house. Da Ca Quirino, of the Quirino house or family.] He let some days pass, then, taking with him a trusty companion of his, he repaired to Madam Lisetta's house and withdrawing with her into a room apart, where none might see him, he fell on his knees before her and said, 'Madam, I pray you for God's sake pardon me that which I said to you last Sunday, whenas you bespoke me of your beauty, for that the following night I was so cruelly chastised there that I have not since been able to rise from my bed till to-day.' Quoth Mistress Featherbrain, 'And who chastised you thus?' 'I will tell you,' replied the monk. 'Being that night at my orisons, as I still use to be, I saw of a sudden a great light in my cell and ere I could turn me to see what it might be, I beheld over against me a very fair youth with a stout cudgel in his hand, who took me by the gown and dragging me to my feet, gave me such a drubbing that he broke every bone in my body. I asked him why he used me thus and he answered, "For that thou presumedst to-day, to disparage the celestial charms of Madam Lisetta, whom I love over all things, save only God." "Who, then, are you?" asked I; and he replied that he was the angel Gabriel. "O my lord," said I, "I pray you pardon me"; and he, "So be it; I pardon thee on condition that thou go to her, as first thou mayst, and get her pardon; but if she pardons thee not, I will return to thee and give thee such a bout of it that I will make thee a woeful man for all the time thou shalt live here below." That which he said to me after I dare not tell you, except you first pardon me.' My Lady Addlepate, who was somewhat scant of wit, was overjoyed to hear this, taking it all for gospel, and said, after a little, 'I told you, Fra Alberto, that my charms were celestial, but, so God be mine aid, it irketh me for you and I will pardon you forthright, so you may come to no more harm, provided you tell me truly that which the angel said to you after.' 'Madam,' replied Fra Alberto, 'since you pardon me, I will gladly tell it you; but I must warn you of one thing, to wit, that whatever I tell you, you must have a care not to repeat it to any one alive, an you would not mar your affairs, for that you are the luckiest lady in the world. The angel Gabriel bade me tell you that you pleased him so much that he had many a time come to pass the night with you, but that he feared to affright you. Now he sendeth to tell you by me that he hath a mind to come to you one night and abide awhile with you and (for that he is an angel and that, if he came in angel-form, you might not avail to touch him,) he purposeth, for your delectation, to come in guise of a man, wherefore he biddeth you send to tell him when you would have him come and in whose form, and he will come hither; whereof you may hold yourself blest over any other lady alive.' My Lady Conceit answered that it liked her well that the angel Gabriel loved her, seeing she loved him well nor ever failed to light a candle of a groat before him, whereas she saw him depictured, and that what time soever he chose to come to her, he should be dearly welcome and would find her all alone in her chamber, but on this condition, that he should not leave her for the Virgin Mary, whose great well-wisher it was said he was, as indeed appeareth, inasmuch as in every place where she saw him [limned], he was on his knees before her. Moreover, she said it must rest with him to come in whatsoever form he pleased, so but she was not affrighted. Then said Fra Alberto, 'Madam, you speak sagely and I will without fail take order with him of that which you tell me. But you may do me a great favour, which will cost you nothing; it is this, that you will him come with this my body. And I will tell you in what you will do me a favour; you must know that he will take my soul forth of my body and put it in Paradise, whilst he himself will enter into me; and what while he abideth with you, so long will my soul abide in Paradise.' 'With all my heart,' answered Dame Littlewit. 'I will well that you have this consolation, in requital of the buffets he gave you on my account.' Then said Fra Alberto, 'Look that he find the door of your house open to-night, so he may come in thereat, for that, coming in human form, as he will, he might not enter save by the door.' The lady replied that it should be done, whereupon the monk took his leave and she abode in such a transport of exultation that her breech touched not her shift and herseemed a thousand years till the angel Gabriel should come to her. Meanwhile, Fra Alberto, bethinking him that it behoved him play the cavalier, not the angel, that night proceeded to fortify himself with confections and other good things, so he might not lightly be unhorsed; then, getting leave, as soon as it was night, he repaired with one of his comrades to the house of a woman, a friend of his, whence he was used whiles to take his start what time he went to course the fillies; and thence, whenas it seemed to him time, having disguised himself, he betook him to the lady's house. There he tricked himself out as an angel with the trappings he had brought with him and going up, entered the chamber of the lady, who, seeing this creature all in white, fell on her knees before him. The angel blessed her and raising her to her feet, signed to her to go to bed, which she, studious to obey, promptly did, and the angel after lay down with his devotee. Now Fra Alberto was a personable man of his body and a lusty and excellent well set up on his legs; wherefore, finding himself in bed with Madam Lisetta, who was young and dainty, he showed himself another guess bedfellow than her husband and many a time that night took flight without wings, whereof she avowed herself exceeding content; and eke he told her many things of the glories of heaven. Then, the day drawing near, after taking order for his return, he made off with his trappings and returned to his comrade, whom the good woman of the house had meanwhile borne amicable company, lest he should get a fright, lying alone. As for the lady, no sooner had she dined than, taking her waiting-woman with her, she betook herself to Fra Alberto and gave him news of the angel Gabriel, telling him that which she had heard from him of the glories of life eternal and how he was made and adding to boot, marvellous stories of her own invention. 'Madam,' said he, 'I know not how you fared with him; I only know that yesternight, whenas he came to me and I did your message to him, he suddenly transported my soul amongst such a multitude of roses and other flowers that never was the like thereof seen here below, and I abode in one of the most delightsome places that was aye until the morning; but what became of my body meanwhile I know not.' 'Do I not tell you?' answered the lady. 'Your body lay all night in mine arms with the angel Gabriel. If you believe me not, look under your left pap, whereas I gave the angel such a kiss that the marks of it will stay by you for some days to come.' Quoth the friar, 'Say you so? Then will I do to-day a thing I have not done this great while; I will strip myself, to see if you tell truth.' Then, after much prating, the lady returned home and Fra Alberto paid her many visits in angel-form, without suffering any hindrance. However, it chanced one day that Madam Lisetta, being in dispute with a gossip of hers upon the question of female charms, to set her own above all others, said, like a woman who had little wit in her noddle, 'An you but knew whom my beauty pleaseth, in truth you would hold your peace of other women.' The other, longing to hear, said, as one who knew her well, 'Madam, maybe you say sooth; but knowing not who this may be, one cannot turn about so lightly.' Thereupon quoth Lisetta, who was eath enough to draw, 'Gossip, it must go no farther; but he I mean is the angel Gabriel, who loveth me more than himself, as the fairest lady (for that which he telleth me) who is in the world or the Maremma.'[227] The other had a mind to laugh, but contained herself, so she might make Lisetta speak farther, and said, 'Faith, madam, an the angel Gabriel be your lover and tell you this, needs must it be so; but methought not the angels did these things.' 'Gossip,' answered the lady, 'you are mistaken; zounds, he doth what you wot of better than my husband and telleth me they do it also up yonder; but, for that I seem to him fairer than any she in heaven, he hath fallen in love with me and cometh full oft to lie with me; seestow now?'[228] [Footnote 227: _cf._ Artemus Ward's "Natives of the Universe and other parts."] [Footnote 228: _Mo vedi vu_, Venetian for _Or vedi tu_, now dost thou see? I have rendered it by the equivalent old English form.] The gossip, to whom it seemed a thousand years till she should be whereas she might repeat these things, took her leave of Madam Lisetta and foregathering at an entertainment with a great company of ladies, orderly recounted to them the whole story. They told it again to their husbands and other ladies, and these to yet others, and so in less than two days Venice was all full of it. Among others to whose ears the thing came were Lisetta's brothers-in-law, who, without saying aught to her, bethought themselves to find the angel in question and see if he knew how to fly, and to this end they lay several nights in wait for him. As chance would have it, some inkling of the matter[229] came to the ears of Fra Alberto, who accordingly repaired one night to the lady's house, to reprove her, but hardly had he put off his clothes ere her brothers-in-law, who had seen him come, were at the door of her chamber to open it. [Footnote 229: _i.e._ not of the trap laid for him by the lady's brothers-in-law, but of her indiscretion in discovering the secret.] Fra Alberto, hearing this and guessing what was to do, started up and having no other resource, opened a window, which gave upon the Grand Canal, and cast himself thence into the water. The canal was deep there and he could swim well, so that he did himself no hurt, but made his way to the opposite bank and hastily entering a house that stood open there, besought a poor man, whom he found within, to save his life for the love of God, telling him a tale of his own fashion, to explain how he came there at that hour and naked. The good man was moved to pity and it behoving him to go do his occasions, he put him in his own bed and bade him abide there against his return; then, locking him in, he went about his affairs. Meanwhile, the lady's brothers-in-law entered her chamber and found that the angel Gabriel had flown, leaving his wings there; whereupon, seeing themselves baffled, they gave her all manner hard words and ultimately made off to their own house with the angel's trappings, leaving her disconsolate. Broad day come, the good man with whom Fra Alberto had taken refuge, being on the Rialto, heard how the angel Gabriel had gone that night to lie with Madam Lisetta and being surprised by her kinsmen, had cast himself for fear into the canal, nor was it known what was come of him, and concluded forthright that this was he whom he had at home. Accordingly, he returned thither and recognizing the monk, found means after much parley, to make him fetch him fifty ducats, an he would not have him give him up to the lady's kinsmen. Having gotten the money and Fra Alberto offering to depart thence, the good man said to him, 'There is no way of escape for you, an it be not one that I will tell you. We hold to-day a festival, wherein one bringeth a man clad bear-fashion and another one accoutred as a wild man of the woods and what not else, some one thing and some another, and there is a hunt held in St. Mark's Place, which finished, the festival is at an end and after each goeth whither it pleaseth him with him whom he hath brought. An you will have me lead you thither, after one or other of these fashions, I can after carry you whither you please, ere it be spied out that you are here; else I know not how you are to get away, without being recognized, for the lady's kinsmen, concluding that you must be somewhere hereabout, have set a watch for you on all sides.' Hard as it seemed to Fra Alberto to go on such wise, nevertheless, of the fear he had of the lady's kinsmen, he resigned himself thereto and told his host whither he would be carried, leaving the manner to him. Accordingly, the other, having smeared him all over with honey and covered him with down, clapped a chain about his neck and a mask on his face; then giving him a great staff in on hand and in the other two great dogs which he had fetched from the shambles he despatched one to the Rialto to make public proclamation that whoso would see the angel Gabriel should repair to St. Mark's Place; and this was Venetian loyalty! This done, after a while, he brought him forth and setting him before himself, went holding him by the chain behind, to the no small clamour of the folk, who said all, 'What be this? What be this?'[230] till he came to the place, where, what with those who had followed after them and those who, hearing the proclamation, were come thither from the Rialto, were folk without end. There he tied his wild man to a column in a raised and high place, making a show of awaiting the hunt, whilst the flies and gads gave the monk exceeding annoy, for that he was besmeared with honey. But, when he saw the place well filled, making as he would unchain his wild man, he pulled off Fra Alberto's mask and said, 'Gentlemen, since the bear cometh not and there is no hunt toward, I purpose, so you may not be come in vain, that you shall see the angel Gabriel, who cometh down from heaven to earth anights, to comfort the Venetian ladies.' [Footnote 230: _Che xe quel?_ Venetian for _che c'e quella cosa_, What is this thing?] No sooner was the mask off than Fra Alberto was incontinent recognized of all, who raised a general outcry against him, giving him the scurviest words and the soundest rating was ever given a canting knave; moreover, they cast in his face, one this kind of filth and another that, and so they baited him a great while, till the news came by chance to his brethren, whereupon half a dozen of them sallied forth and coming thither, unchained him and threw a gown over him; then, with a general hue and cry behind them, they carried him off to the convent, where it is believed he died in prison, after a wretched life. Thus then did this fellow, held good and doing ill, without it being believed, dare to feign himself the angel Gabriel, and after being turned into a wild man of the woods and put to shame, as he deserved, bewailed, when too late, the sins he had committed. God grant it happen thus to all other knaves of his fashion!" THE THIRD STORY [Day the Fourth] THREE YOUNG MEN LOVE THREE SISTERS AND FLEE WITH THEM INTO CRETE, WHERE THE ELDEST SISTER FOR JEALOUSY SLAYETH HER LOVER. THE SECOND, YIELDING HERSELF TO THE DUKE OF CRETE, SAVETH HER SISTER FROM DEATH, WHEREUPON HER OWN LOVER SLAYETH HER AND FLEETH WITH THE ELDEST SISTER. MEANWHILE THE THIRD LOVER AND THE YOUNGEST SISTER ARE ACCUSED OF THE NEW MURDER AND BEING TAKEN, CONFESS IT; THEN, FOR FEAR OF DEATH, THEY CORRUPT THEIR KEEPERS WITH MONEY AND FLEE TO RHODES, WHERE THEY DIE IN POVERTY Filostrato, having heard the end of Pampinea's story, bethought himself awhile and presently, turning to her, said, "There was some little that was good and that pleased me in the ending of your story; but there was overmuch before that which gave occasion for laughter and which I would not have had there." Then, turning to Lauretta, "Lady," said he, "ensue you with a better, and it may be." Quoth she, laughing, "You are too cruel towards lovers, an you desire of them only an ill end;[231] but, to obey you, I will tell a story of three who all ended equally ill, having had scant enjoyment of their loves." So saying, she began thus: "Young ladies, as you should manifestly know, every vice may turn to the grievous hurt of whoso practiseth it, and often of other folk also; but of all others that which with the slackest rein carrieth us away to our peril, meseemeth is anger, which is none otherwhat than a sudden and unconsidered emotion, aroused by an affront suffered, and which, banishing all reason and overclouding the eyes of the understanding with darkness, kindleth the soul to the hottest fury. And although this often cometh to pass in men and more in one than in another, yet hath it been seen aforetime to work greater mischiefs in women, for that it is lightlier enkindled in these latter and burneth in them with a fiercer flame and urgeth them with less restraint. Nor is this to be marvelled at, for that, an we choose to consider, we may see that fire, of its nature, catcheth quicklier to light and delicate things than to those which are denser and more ponderous; and we women, indeed,--let men not take it ill,--are more delicately fashioned than they and far more mobile. Wherefore, seeing that we are naturally inclined thereunto[232] and considering after how our mansuetude and our loving kindness are of repose and pleasance to the men with whom we have to do and how big with harm and peril are anger and fury, I purpose, to the intent that we may with a more steadfast, mind keep ourselves from these latter, to show you by my story how the loves of three young men and as many ladies came, as I said before, to an ill end, becoming through the ire of one of the latter, from happy most unhappy. [Footnote 231: _i.e._ _semble_ "an you would wish them nought but an ill end."] [Footnote 232: _i.e._ to anger.] Marseilles is, as you know, a very ancient and noble city, situate in Provence on the sea-shore, and was once more abounding in rich and great merchants than it is nowadays. Among the latter was one called Narnald Cluada, a man of mean extraction, but of renowned good faith and a loyal merchant, rich beyond measure in lands and monies, who had by a wife of his several children, whereof the three eldest were daughters. Two of these latter, born at a birth, were fifteen and the third fourteen years old, nor was aught awaited by their kinsfolk to marry them but the return of Narnald, who was gone into Spain with his merchandise. The names of the two elder were the one Ninetta and the other Maddalena and the third called Bertella. Of Ninetta a young man of gentle birth, though poor, called Restagnone, was enamoured as much as man might be, and she of him, and they had contrived to do on such wise that, without any knowing it, they had enjoyment of their loves. They had already a pretty while enjoyed this satisfaction when it chanced that two young companions, named the one Folco and the other Ughetto, whose fathers were dead, leaving them very rich, fell in love, the one with Maddalena and the other with Bertella. Restagnone, noting this (it having been shown him of Ninetta), bethought himself that he might make shift to supply his own lack by means of the newcomers' love. Accordingly, he clapped up an acquaintance with them, so that now one, now the other of them accompanied him to visit their mistresses and his; and when himseemed he was grown privy enough with them and much their friend, he called them one day into his house and said to them, 'Dearest youths, our commerce should have certified you how great is the love I bear you and that I would do for you that which I would do for myself; and for that I love you greatly, I purpose to discover to you that which hath occurred to my mind, and you and I together will after take such counsel thereof as shall seem to you best. You, an your words lie not and for that to boot which meseemeth I have apprehended by your deeds, both daily and nightly, burn with an exceeding passion for the two young ladies beloved of you, as do I for the third their sister; and to this ardour, an you will consent thereunto,[233] my heart giveth me to find a very sweet and pleasing remedy, the which is as follows. You are both very rich, which I am not; now, if you will agree to bring your riches into a common stock, making me a third sharer with you therein, and determine in which part of the world we shall go lead a merry life with our mistresses, my heart warranteth me I can without fail so do that the three sisters, with a great part of their father's good, will go with, us whithersoever we shall please, and there, each with his wench, like three brothers, we may live the happiest lives of any men in the world. It resteth with you now to determine whether you will go about to solace yourself in this or leave it be.' [Footnote 233: _i.e._ to the proposal I have to make.] The two young men, who were beyond measure inflamed, hearing that they were to have their lasses, were not long in making up their minds, but answered that, so this[234] should ensue, they were ready to do as he said. Restagnone, having gotten this answer from the young men, found means a few days after to foregather with Ninetta, to whom he could not come without great unease, and after he had abidden with her awhile, he told her what he had proposed to the others and with many arguments studied to commend the emprise to her. This was little uneath to him, seeing that she was yet more desirous than himself to be with him without suspect; wherefore she answered him frankly that it liked her well and that her sisters would do whatever she wished, especially in this, and bade him make ready everything needful therefor as quickliest he might. Restagnone accordingly returned to the two young men, who still importuned him amain to do that whereof he had bespoken them, and told them that, so far as concerned their mistresses, the matter was settled. Then, having determined among themselves to go to Crete, they sold certain lands they had, under colour of meaning to go a-trading with the price, and having made money of all their other goods, bought a light brigantine and secretly equipped it to the utmost advantage. [Footnote 234: _i.e._ the possession of their mistresses.] Meanwhile, Ninetta, who well enough knew her sisters' mind, with soft words inflamed them with such a liking for the venture that themseemed they might not live to see the thing accomplished. Accordingly, the night come when they were to go aboard the brigantine, the three sisters opened a great coffer of their father's and taking thence a vast quantity of money and jewels, stole out of the house, according to the given order. They found their gallants awaiting them and going straightway all aboard the brigantine, they thrust the oars into the water and put out to sea nor rested till they came, on the following evening, to Genoa, where the new lovers for the first time took ease and joyance of their loves. There having refreshed themselves with that whereof they had need, they set out again and sailing from port to port, came, ere it was the eighth day, without any hindrance, to Crete, where they bought great and goodly estates near Candia and made them very handsome and delightsome dwelling-houses thereon. Here they fell to living like lords and passed their days in banquets and joyance and merrymaking, the happiest men in the world, they and their mistresses, with great plenty of servants and hounds and hawks and horses. Abiding on this wise, it befell (even as we see it happen all day long that, how much soever things may please, they grow irksome, an one have overgreat plenty thereof) that Restagnone, who had much loved Ninetta, being now able to have her at his every pleasure, without let or hindrance, began to weary of her, and consequently his love for her began to wane. Having seen at entertainment a damsel of the country, a fair and noble young lady, who pleased him exceedingly, he fell to courting her with all his might, giving marvellous entertainments in her honor and plying her with all manner gallantries; which Ninetta coming to know, she fell into such a jealousy that he could not go a step but she heard of it and after harassed both him and herself with words and reproaches on account thereof. But, like as overabundance of aught begetteth weariness, even so doth the denial of a thing desired redouble the appetite; accordingly, Ninetta's reproaches did but fan the flame of Restagnone's new love and in process of time it came to pass that, whether he had the favours of the lady he loved or not, Ninetta held it for certain, whoever it was reported it to her; wherefore she fell into such a passion of grief and thence passed into such a fit of rage and despite that the love which she bore Restagnone was changed to bitter hatred, and blinded by her wrath, she bethought herself to avenge, by his death, the affront which herseemed she had received. Accordingly, betaking herself to an old Greek woman, a past mistress in the art of compounding poisons, she induced her with gifts and promises to make her a death-dealing water, which she, without considering farther, gave Restagnone one evening to drink he being heated and misdoubting him not thereof; and such was the potency of the poison that, ere morning came, it had slain him. Folco and Ughetto and their mistresses, hearing of his death and knowing not of what poison he had died,[235] bewept him bitterly, together with Ninetta, and caused bury him honourably. But not many days after it chanced that the old woman, who had compounded the poisoned water for Ninetta, was taken for some other misdeed and being put to the torture, confessed to this amongst her other crimes, fully declaring that which had betided by reason thereof; whereupon the Duke of Crete, without saying aught of the matter, beset Folco's palace by surprise one night and without any noise or gainsayal, carried off Ninetta prisoner, from whom, without putting her to the torture, he readily got what he would know of the death of Restagnone. [Footnote 235: Sic (_di che veleno fosse morto_), but this is probably a copyist's error for _che di veleno fosse morto_, _i.e._ that he had died of poison.] Folco and Ughetto (and from them their ladies) had privy notice from the duke why Ninetta had been taken, the which was exceeding grievous to them and they used their every endeavour to save her from the fire, whereto they doubted not she would be condemned, as indeed she richly deserved; but all seemed vain, for that the duke abode firm in willing to do justice upon her. However, Maddalena, who was a beautiful young woman and had long been courted by the duke, but had never yet consented to do aught that might pleasure him, thinking that, by complying with his wishes, she might avail to save her sister from the fire, signified to him by a trusty messenger that she was at his commandment in everything, provided two things should ensue thereof, to wit, that she should have her sister again safe and sound and that the thing should be secret. Her message pleased the duke, and after long debate with himself if he should do as she proposed, he ultimately agreed thereto and said that he was ready. Accordingly, one night, having, with the lady's consent, caused detain Folco and Ughetto, as he would fain examine them of the matter, he went secretly to couch with Maddalena and having first made a show of putting Ninetta in a sack and of purposing to let sink her that night in the sea, he carried her with him to her sister, to whom on the morrow he delivered her at parting, in payment of the night he had passed with her, praying her that this,[236] which had been the first of their loves, might not be the last and charging her send the guilty lady away, lest blame betide himself and it behove him anew proceed against her with rigour. [Footnote 236: _i.e._ that night.] Next morning, Folco and Ughetto, having heard that Ninetta had been sacked overnight and believing it, were released and returned home to comfort their mistresses for the death of their sister. However, for all Maddalena could do to hide her, Folco soon became aware of Ninetta's presence in the palace, whereat he marvelled exceedingly and suddenly waxing suspicious,--for that he had heard of the duke's passion for Maddalena,--asked the latter how her sister came to be there. Maddalena began a long story, which she had devised to account to him therefor, but was little believed of her lover, who was shrewd and constrained her to confess the truth, which, after long parley, she told him. Folco, overcome with chagrin and inflamed with rage, pulled out a sword and slew her, whilst she in vain besought mercy; then, fearing the wrath and justice of the duke, he left her dead in the chamber and repairing whereas Ninetta was, said to her, with a feigned air of cheerfulness, 'Quick, let us begone whither it hath been appointed of thy sister that I shall carry thee, so thou mayst not fall again into the hands of the duke.' Ninetta, believing this and eager, in her fearfulness, to begone, set out with Folco, it being now night, without seeking to take leave of her sister; whereupon he and she, with such monies (which were but few) as he could lay hands on, betook themselves to the sea-shore and embarked on board a vessel; nor was it ever known whither they went. On the morrow, Maddalena being found murdered, there were some who, of the envy and hatred they bore to Ughetto, forthright gave notice thereof to the duke, whereupon the latter, who loved Maddalena exceedingly, ran furiously to the house and seizing Ughetto and his lady, who as yet knew nothing of the matter,--to wit, of the departure of Folco and Ninetta,--constrained them to confess themselves guilty, together with Folco, of his mistress's death. They, apprehending with reason death in consequence of this confession, with great pains corrupted those who had them in keeping, giving them a certain sum of money, which they kept hidden in their house against urgent occasions, and embarking with their guards, without having leisure to take any of their goods, fled by night to Rhodes, where they lived no great while after in poverty and distress. To such a pass, then, did Restagnone's mad love and Ninetta's rage bring themselves and others." THE FOURTH STORY [Day the Fourth] GERBINO, AGAINST THE PLIGHTED FAITH OF HIS GRANDFATHER, KING GUGLIELMO OF SICILY, ATTACKETH A SHIP OF THE KING OF TUNIS, TO CARRY OFF A DAUGHTER OF HIS, WHO BEING PUT TO DEATH OF THOSE ON BOARD, HE SLAYETH THESE LATTER AND IS AFTER HIMSELF BEHEADED Lauretta, having made an end of her story, was silent, whilst the company bewailed the illhap of the lovers, some blaming Ninetta's anger and one saying one thing and another another, till presently the king, raising his head, as if aroused from deep thought, signed to Elisa to follow on; whereupon she began modestly, "Charming ladies, there are many who believe that Love launcheth his shafts only when enkindled of the eyes and make mock of those who hold that one may fall in love by hearsay; but that these are mistaken will very manifestly appear in a story that I purpose to relate, wherein you will see that report not only wrought this, without the lovers having ever set eyes on each other, but it will be made manifest to you that it brought both the one and the other to a miserable death. Guglielmo, the Second, King of Sicily, had (as the Sicilians pretend) two children, a son called Ruggieri and a daughter called Costanza. The former, dying before his father, left a son named Gerbino, who was diligently reared by his grandfather and became a very goodly youth and a renowned for prowess and courtesy. Nor did his fame abide confined within the limits of Sicily, but, resounding in various parts of the world, was nowhere more glorious than in Barbary, which in those days was tributary to the King of Sicily. Amongst the rest to whose ears came the magnificent fame of Gerbino's valour and courtesy was a daughter of the King of Tunis, who, according to the report of all who had seen her, was one of the fairest creatures ever fashioned by nature and the best bred and of a noble and great soul. She, delighting to hear tell of men of valour, with such goodwill received the tales recounted by one and another of the deeds valiantly done of Gerbino and they so pleased her that, picturing to herself the prince's fashion, she became ardently enamoured of him and discoursed more willingly of him than of any other and hearkened to whoso spoke of him. On the other hand, the great renown of her beauty and worth had won to Sicily, as elsewhither, and not without great delight nor in vain had it reached the ears of Gerbino; nay, it had inflamed him with love of her, no less than that which she herself had conceived for him. Wherefore, desiring beyond measure to see her, against he should find a colourable occasion of having his grandfather's leave to go to Tunis, he charged his every friend who went thither to make known to her, as best he might, his secret and great love and bring him news of her. This was very dexterously done by one of them, who, under pretence of carrying her women's trinkets to view, as do merchants, throughly discovered Gerbino's passion to her and avouched the prince and all that was his to be at her commandment. The princess received the messenger and the message with a glad flavour and answering that she burnt with like love for the prince, sent him one of her most precious jewels in token thereof. This Gerbino received with the utmost joy wherewith one can receive whatsoever precious thing and wrote to her once and again by the same messenger, sending her the most costly gifts and holding certain treaties[237] with her, whereby they should have seen and touched one another, had fortune but allowed it. [Footnote 237: Or, in modern parlance, "laying certain plans."] But, things going thus and somewhat farther than was expedient, the young lady on the one hand and Gerbino on the other burning with desire, it befell that the King of Tunis gave her in marriage to the King of Granada, whereat she was beyond measure chagrined, bethinking herself that not only should she be separated from her lover by long distance, but was like to be altogether parted from him; and had she seen a means thereto, she would gladly, so this might not betide, have fled from her father and betaken herself to Gerbino. Gerbino, in like manner, hearing of this marriage, was beyond measure sorrowful therefor and often bethought himself to take her by force, if it should chance that she went to her husband by sea. The King of Tunis, getting some inkling of Gerbino's love and purpose and fearing his valour and prowess, sent to King Guglielmo, whenas the time came for despatching her to Granada, advising him of that which he was minded to do and that, having assurance from him that he should not be hindered therein by Gerbino or others, he purposed to do it. The King of Sicily, who was an old man and had heard nothing of Gerbino's passion and consequently suspected not that it was for this that such an assurance was demanded, freely granted it and in token thereof, sent the King of Tunis a glove of his. The latter, having gotten the desired assurance, caused equip a very great and goodly ship in the port of Carthage and furnish it with what was needful for those who were to sail therein and having fitted and adorned it for the sending of his daughter into Granada, awaited nought but weather. The young lady, who saw and knew all this, despatched one of her servants secretly to Palermo, bidding him salute the gallant Gerbino on her part and tell him that she was to sail in a few days for Granada, wherefore it would now appear if he were as valiant a man as was said and if he loved her as much as he had sundry times declared to her. Her messenger did his errand excellent well and returned to Tunis, whilst Gerbino, hearing this and knowing that his grandfather had given the King of Tunis assurance, knew not what to do. However, urged by love and that he might not appear a craven, he betook himself to Messina, where he hastily armed two light galleys and manning them with men of approved valour, set sail with them for the coast of Sardinia, looking for the lady's ship to pass there. Nor was he far out in his reckoning, for he had been there but a few days when the ship hove in sight with a light wind not far from the place where he lay expecting it. Gerbino, seeing this, said to his companions, 'Gentlemen, an you be the men of mettle I take you for, methinketh there is none of you but hath either felt or feeleth love, without which, as I take it, no mortal can have aught of valour or worth in himself; and if you have been or are enamoured, it will be an easy thing to you to understand my desire. I love and love hath moved me to give you this present pains; and she whom I love is in the ship which you see becalmed yonder and which, beside that thing which I most desire, is full of very great riches. These latter, an ye be men of valour, we may with little difficulty acquire, fighting manfully; of which victory I desire nothing to my share save one sole lady, for whose love I have taken up arms; everything else shall freely be yours. Come, then, and let us right boldly assail the ship; God is favourable to our emprise and holdeth it here fast, without vouchsafing it a breeze.' The gallant Gerbino had no need of many words, for that the Messinese, who were with him being eager for plunder, were already disposed to do that unto which he exhorted them. Wherefore, making a great outcry, at the end of his speech, that it should be so, they sounded the trumpets and catching up their arms, thrust the oars into the water and made for the Tunis ship. They who were aboard this latter, seeing the galleys coming afar off and being unable to flee,[238] made ready for defence. The gallant Gerbino accosting the ship, let command that the masters thereof should be sent on board the galleys, an they had no mind to fight; but the Saracens, having certified themselves who they were and what they sought, declared themselves attacked of them against the faith plighted them by King Guglielmo; in token whereof they showed the latter's glove, and altogether refused to surrender themselves, save for stress of battle, or to give them aught that was in the ship. [Footnote 238: _i.e._ for lack of wind.] Gerbino, who saw the lady upon the poop, far fairer than he had pictured her to himself, and was more inflamed than ever, replied to the showing of the glove that there were no falcons there at that present and consequently there needed no gloves; wherefore, an they chose not to give up the lady, they must prepare to receive battle. Accordingly, without further parley, they fell to casting shafts and stones at one another, and on this wise they fought a great while, with loss on either side. At last, Gerbino, seeing that he did little to the purpose, took a little vessel he had brought with him out of Sardinia and setting fire therein, thrust it with both the galleys aboard the ship. The Saracens, seeing this and knowing that they must of necessity surrender or die, fetched the king's daughter, who wept below, on deck and brought her to the ship's prow; then, calling Gerbino, they butchered her before his eyes, what while she called for mercy and succour, and cast her into the sea, saying, 'Take her; we give her to thee, such as we may and such as thine unfaith hath merited.' Gerbino, seeing their barbarous deed, caused lay himself alongside the ship and recking not of shaft or stone, boarded it, as if courting death, in spite of those who were therein; then,--even as a hungry lion, coming among a herd of oxen, slaughtereth now this, now that, and with teeth and claws sateth rather his fury than his hunger,--sword in hand, hewing now at one, now at another, he cruelly slew many of the Saracens; after which, the fire now waxing in the enkindled ship, he caused the sailors fetch thereout what they might, in payment of their pains, and descended thence, having gotten but a sorry victory over his adversaries. Then, letting take up the fair lady's body from the sea, long and with many tears he bewept it and steering for Sicily, buried it honourably in Ustica, a little island over against Trapani; after which he returned home, the woefullest man alive. The King of Tunis, hearing the heavy news, sent his ambassadors, clad all in black, to King Guglielmo, complaining of the ill observance of the faith which he had plighted him. They recounted to him how the thing had passed, whereat King Guglielmo was sore incensed and seeing no way to deny them the justice they sought, caused take Gerbino; then himself,--albeit there was none of his barons but strove with prayers to move him from his purpose,--condemned him to death and let strike off his head in his presence, choosing rather to abide without posterity than to be held a faithless king. Thus, then, as I have told you, did these two lovers within a few days[239] die miserably a violent death, without having tasted any fruit of their loves." [Footnote 239: _i.e._ of each other.] THE FIFTH STORY [Day the Fourth] LISABETTA'S[240] BROTHERS SLAY HER LOVER, WHO APPEARETH TO HER IN A DREAM AND SHOWETH HER WHERE HE IS BURIED, WHEREUPON SHE PRIVILY DISINTERRETH HIS HEAD AND SETTETH IT IN A POT OF BASIL. THEREOVER MAKING MOAN A GREAT WHILE EVERY DAY, HER BROTHERS TAKE IT FROM HER AND SHE FOR GRIEF DIETH A LITTLE THEREAFTERWARD [Footnote 240: This is the proper name of the heroine of the story immortalized by Keats as "Isabella or the Pot of Basil," and is one of the many forms of the and name _Elisabetta_ (Elizabeth), _Isabetta_ and _Isabella_ being others. Some texts of the Decameron call the heroine _Isabetta_, but in the heading only, all with which I am acquainted agreeing in the use of the form _Lisabetta_ in the body of the story.] Elisa's tale being ended and somedele commended of the king, Filomena was bidden to discourse, who, full of compassion for the wretched Gerbino and his mistress, after a piteous sigh, began thus: "My story, gracious ladies, will not treat of folk of so high condition as were those of whom Elisa hath told, yet peradventure it will be no less pitiful; and what brought me in mind of it was the mention, a little before, of Messina, where the case befell. There were then in Messina three young brothers, merchants and left very rich by their father, who was a man of San Gimignano, and they had an only sister, Lisabetta by name, a right fair and well-mannered maiden, whom, whatever might have been the reason thereof, they had not yet married. Now these brothers had in one of their warehouses a youth of Pisa, called Lorenzo, who did and ordered all their affairs and was very comely and agreeable of person; wherefore, Lisabetta looking sundry times upon him, it befell that he began strangely to please her; of which Lorenzo taking note at one time and another, he in like manner, leaving his other loves, began to turn his thoughts to her; and so went the affair, that, each being alike pleasing to the other, it was no great while before, taking assurance, they did that which each of them most desired. Continuing on this wise and enjoying great pleasure and delight one of the other, they knew not how to do so secretly but that, one night, Lisabetta, going whereas Lorenzo lay, was, unknown to herself, seen of the eldest of her brothers, who, being a prudent youth, for all the annoy it gave him to know this thing, being yet moved by more honourable counsel, abode without sign or word till the morning, revolving in himself various things anent the matter. The day being come, he recounted to his brothers that which he had seen the past night of Lisabetta and Lorenzo, and after long advisement with them, determined (so that neither to them nor to their sister should any reproach ensue thereof) to pass the thing over in silence and feign to have seen and known nothing thereof till such time as, without hurt or unease to themselves, they might avail to do away this shame from their sight, ere it should go farther. In this mind abiding and devising and laughing with Lorenzo as was their wont, it befell that one day, feigning to go forth the city, all three, a-pleasuring, they carried him with them to a very lonely and remote place; and there, the occasion offering, they slew him, whilst he was off his guard, and buried him on such wise that none had knowledge of it; then, returning to Messina, they gave out that they had despatched him somewhither for their occasions, the which was the lightlier credited that they were often used to send him abroad about their business. Lorenzo returning not and Lisabetta often and instantly questioning her brothers of him, as one to whom the long delay was grievous, it befell one day, as she very urgently enquired of him, that one of them said to her, 'What meaneth this? What hast thou to do often of him? An thou question of him with Lorenzo, that thou askest thus more, we will make thee such answer as thou deservest.' Wherefore the girl, sad and grieving and fearful she knew not of what, abode without more asking; yet many a time anights she piteously called him and prayed him come to her, and whiles with many tears she complained of his long tarrying; and thus, without a moment's gladness, she abode expecting him alway, till one night, having sore lamented Lorenzo for that he returned not and being at last fallen asleep, weeping, he appeared to her in a dream, pale and all disordered, with clothes all rent and mouldered, and herseemed he bespoke her thus: 'Harkye, Lisabetta; thou dost nought but call upon me, grieving for my long delay and cruelly impeaching me with thy tears. Know, therefore, that I may never more return to thee, for that, the last day thou sawest me, thy brothers slew me.' Then, having discovered to her the place where they had buried him, he charged her no more call him nor expect him and disappeared; whereupon she awoke and giving faith to the vision, wept bitterly. In the morning, being risen and daring not say aught to her brothers, she determined to go to the place appointed and see if the thing were true, as it had appeared to her in the dream. Accordingly, having leave to go somedele without the city for her disport, she betook herself thither,[241] as quickliest she might, in company of one who had been with them[242] otherwhiles and knew all her affairs; and there, clearing away the dead leaves from the place, she dug whereas herseemed the earth was less hard. She had not dug long before she found the body of her unhappy lover, yet nothing changed nor rotted, and thence knew manifestly that her vision was true, wherefore she was the most distressful of women; yet, knowing that this was no place for lament, she would fain, an she but might, have borne away the whole body, to give it fitter burial; but, seeing that this might not be, she with a knife did off[243] the head from the body, as best she could, and wrapping it in a napkin, laid it in her maid's lap. Then, casting back the earth over the trunk, she departed thence, without being seen of any, and returned home, where, shutting herself in her chamber with her lover's head, she bewept it long and bitterly, insomuch that she bathed it all with her tears, and kissed it a thousand times in every part. Then, taking a great and goodly pot, of those wherein they plant marjoram or sweet basil, she set the head therein, folded in a fair linen cloth, and covered it with earth, in which she planted sundry heads of right fair basil of Salerno; nor did she ever water these with other water than that of her tears or rose or orange-flower water. Moreover she took wont to sit still near the pot and to gaze amorously upon it with all her desire, as upon that which held her Lorenzo hid; and after she had a great while looked thereon, she would bend over it and fall to weeping so sore and so long that her tears bathed all the basil, which, by dint of long and assiduous tending, as well as by reason of the fatness of the earth, proceeding from the rotting head that was therein, waxed passing fair and very sweet of savour. [Footnote 241: _i.e._ to the place shown her in the dream.] [Footnote 242: _i.e._ in their service.] [Footnote 243: Lit. unhung (_spiccò_).] The damsel, doing without cease after this wise, was sundry times seen of her neighbours, who to her brothers, marvelling at her waste beauty and that her eyes seemed to have fled forth her head [for weeping], related this, saying, 'We have noted that she doth every day after such a fashion.' The brothers, hearing and seeing this and having once and again reproved her therefor, but without avail, let secretly carry away from her the pot, which she, missing, with the utmost instance many a time required, and for that it was not restored to her, stinted not to weep and lament till she fell sick; nor in her sickness did she ask aught other than the pot of basil. The young men marvelled greatly at this continual asking and bethought them therefor to see what was in this pot. Accordingly, turning out the earth, they found the cloth and therein the head, not yet so rotted but they might know it, by the curled hair, to be that of Lorenzo. At this they were mightily amazed and feared lest the thing should get wind; wherefore, burying the head, without word said, they privily departed Messina, having taken order how they should withdraw thence, and betook themselves to Naples. The damsel, ceasing never from lamenting and still demanding her pot, died, weeping; and so her ill-fortuned love had end. But, after a while the thing being grown manifest unto many, there was one who made thereon the song that is yet sung, to wit: Alack! ah, who can the ill Christian be, That stole my pot away?" etc.[244] [Footnote 244: The following is a translation of the whole of the song in question, as printed, from a MS. in the Medicean Library, in Fanfani's edition of the Decameron. Alack! ah, who can the ill Christian be, That stole my pot away, My pot of basil of Salern, from me? 'Twas thriv'n with many a spray And I with mine own hand did plant the tree, Even on the festal[A] day. 'Tis felony to waste another's ware. 'Tis felony to waste another's ware; Yea, and right grievous sin. And I, poor lass, that sowed myself whilere A pot with flowers therein, Slept in its shade, so great it was and fair; But folk, that envious bin, Stole it away even from my very door. 'Twas stolen away even from my very door. Full heavy was my cheer, (Ah, luckless maid, would I had died tofore!) Who brought[B] it passing dear, Yet kept ill ward thereon one day of fear. For him I loved so sore, I planted it with marjoram about. I planted it with marjoram about, When May was blithe and new; Yea, thrice I watered it, week in, week out, And watched how well it grew: But now, for sure, away from me 'tis ta'en. Ay, now, for sure, away from me 'tis ta'en; I may 't no longer hide. Had I but known (alas, regret is vain!) That which should me betide, Before my door on guard I would have lain To sleep, my flowers beside. Yet might the Great God ease me at His will. Yea, God Most High might ease me, at His will, If but it liked Him well, Of him who wrought me such unright and ill; He into pangs of hell Cast me who stole my basil-pot, that still Was full of such sweet smell, Its savour did all dole from me away. All dole its savour did from me away; It was so redolent, When, with the risen sun, at early day To water it I went, The folk would marvel all at it and say, "Whence comes the sweetest scent?" And I for love of it shall surely die. Yea, I for love of it shall surely die, For love and grief and pain. If one would tell me where it is, I'd buy It willingly again. Fivescore gold crowns, that in my pouch have I, I'd proffer him full fain, And eke a kiss, if so it liked the swain.] [Footnote A: Quære--natal?--perhaps meaning her birthday (_lo giorno della festa_).] [Footnote B: Or "purchased" in the old sense of obtained, acquired (_accattai_).] THE SIXTH STORY [Day the Fourth] ANDREVUOLA LOVETH GABRIOTTO AND RECOUNTETH TO HIM A DREAM SHE HATH HAD, WHEREUPON HE TELLETH HER ONE OF HIS OWN AND PRESENTLY DIETH SUDDENLY IN HER ARMS. WHAT WHILE SHE AND A WAITING WOMAN OF HERS BEAR HIM TO HIS OWN HOUSE, THEY ARE TAKEN BY THE OFFICERS OF JUSTICE AND CARRIED BEFORE THE PROVOST, TO WHOM SHE DISCOVERETH HOW THE CASE STANDETH. THE PROVOST WOULD FAIN FORCE HER, BUT SHE SUFFERETH IT NOT AND HER FATHER, COMING TO HEAR OF THE MATTER, PROCURETH HER TO BE SET AT LIBERTY, SHE BEING FOUND INNOCENT; WHEREUPON, ALTOGETHER REFUSING TO ABIDE LONGER IN THE WORLD, SHE BECOMETH A NUN Filomela's story was very welcome to the ladies, for that they had many a time heard sing this song, yet could never, for asking, learn the occasion of its making. But the king, having heard the end thereof, charged Pamfilo follow on the ordinance; whereupon quoth he, "The dream in the foregoing story giveth me occasion to recount one wherein is made mention of two dreams, which were of a thing to come, even as the former was of a thing [already] betided, and scarce were they finished telling by those who had dreamt them than the accomplishment followed of both. You must know, then, lovesome ladies, that it is an affection common to all alive to see various things in sleep, whereof,--albeit to the sleeper, what while he sleepeth, they all appear most true and he, awakened, accounteth some true, others probable and yet others out of all likelihood,--many are natheless found to be come to pass. By reason whereof many lend to every dream as much belief as they would to things they should see, waking, and for their proper dreams they sorrow or rejoice, according as by these they hope or fear. And contrariwise, there are those who believe none thereof, save after they find themselves fallen into the peril foreshown. Of these,[245] I approve neither the one nor other, for that dreams are neither always true nor always false. That they are not all true, each one of us must often enough have had occasion to know; and that they are not all false hath been already shown in Filomena her story, and I also purpose, as I said before, to show it in mine. Wherefore I am of opinion that, in the matter of living and doing virtuously, one should have no fear of any dream contrary thereto nor forego good intentions by reason thereof; as for perverse and wicked things, on the other hand, however favourable dreams may appear thereto and how much soever they may hearten him who seeth them with propitious auguries, none of them should be credited, whilst full faith should be accorded unto all that tend to the contrary.[246] But to come to the story. [Footnote 245: _i.e._ these two classes of folk.] [Footnote 246: _i.e._ to the encouragement of good and virtuous actions and purposes.] There was once in the city of Brescia a gentleman called Messer Negro da Ponte Carraro, who amongst sundry other children had a daughter named Andrevuola, young and unmarried and very fair. It chanced she fell in love with a neighbour of hers, Gabriotto by name, a man of mean condition, but full laudable fashions and comely and pleasant of his person, and by the means and with the aid of the serving-maid of the house, she so wrought that not only did Gabriotto know himself beloved of her, but was many and many a time brought, to the delight of both parties, into a goodly garden of her father's. And in order that no cause, other than death, should ever avail to sever those their delightsome loves, they became in secret husband and wife, and so stealthily continuing their foregatherings, it befell that the young lady, being one night asleep, dreamt that she was in her garden with Gabriotto and held him in her arms, to the exceeding pleasure of each; but, as they abode thus, herseemed she saw come forth of his body something dark and frightful, the form whereof she could not discern; the which took Gabriotto and tearing him in her despite with marvellous might from her embrace, made off with him underground, nor ever more might she avail to see either the one or the other. At this she fell into an inexpressible passion of grief, whereby she awoke, and albeit, awaking, she was rejoiced to find that it was not as she had dreamed, nevertheless fear entered into her by reason of the dream she had seen. Wherefore, Gabriotto presently desiring to visit her that next night, she studied as most she might to prevent his coming; however, seeing his desire and so he might not misdoubt him of otherwhat, she received him in the garden and having gathered great store of roses, white and red (for that it was the season), she went to sit with him at the foot of a very goodly and clear fountain that was there. After they had taken great and long delight together, Gabriotto asked her why she would have forbidden his coming that night; whereupon she told him, recounting to him the dream she had seen the foregoing night and the fear she had gotten therefrom. He, hearing this, laughed it to scorn and said that it was great folly to put any faith in dreams, for that they arose of excess of food or lack thereof and were daily seen to be all vain, adding, 'Were I minded to follow after dreams, I had not come hither, not so much on account of this of thine as of one I myself dreamt last night; which was that meseemed I was in a fair and delightsome wood, wherein I went hunting and had taken the fairest and loveliest hind was ever seen; for methought she was whiter than snow and was in brief space become so familiar with me that she never left me a moment. Moreover, meseemed I held her so dear that, so she might not depart from me, I had put a collar of gold about her neck and held her in hand with a golden chain. After this medreamed that, once upon a time, what while this hind lay couched with its head in my bosom,[247] there issued I know not whence a greyhound bitch as black as coal, anhungred and passing gruesome of aspect, and made towards me. Methought I offered it no resistance, wherefore meseemed it thrust its muzzle into my breast on the left side and gnawed thereat till it won to my heart, which methought it tore from me, to carry it away. Therewith I felt such a pain that my sleep was broken and awaking, I straightway clapped my hand to my side, to see if I had aught there; but, finding nothing amiss with me, I made mock of myself for having sought. But, after all, what booteth this dream?[248] I have dreamed many such and far more frightful, nor hath aught in the world befallen me by reason thereof; wherefore let it pass and let us think to give ourselves a good time.' [Footnote 247: Or "lap" (_seno_).] [Footnote 248: Lit. what meaneth this? (_che vuol dire questo?_)] The young lady, already sore adread for her own dream, hearing this, waxed yet more so, but hid her fear, as most she might, not to be the occasion of any unease to Gabriotto. Nevertheless, what while she solaced herself with him, clipping and kissing him again and again and being of him clipped and kissed, she many a time eyed him in the face more than of her wont, misdoubting she knew not what, and whiles she looked about the garden, and she should see aught of black come anywhence. Presently, as they abode thus, Gabriotto heaved a great sigh and embracing her said, 'Alas, my soul, help me, for I die!' So saying, he fell to the ground upon the grass of the lawn. The young lady, seeing this, drew him up into her lap and said, well nigh weeping, 'Alack, sweet my lord, what aileth thee?' He answered not, but, panting sore and sweating all over, no great while after departed this life. How grievous, how dolorous was this to the young lady, who loved him more than her life, each one of you may conceive for herself. She bewept him sore and many a time called him in vain; but after she had handled him in every part of his body and found him cold in all, perceiving that he was altogether dead and knowing not what to do or to say, she went, all tearful as she was and full of anguish, to call her maid, who was privy to their loves, and discovered to her misery and her grief. Then, after they had awhile made woeful lamentation over Gabriotto's dead face, the young lady said to the maid, 'Since God hath bereft me of him I love, I purpose to abide no longer on life; but, ere I go about to slay myself, I would fain take fitting means to preserve my honour and the secret of the love that hath been between us twain and that the body, wherefrom the gracious spirit is departed, may be buried.' 'Daughter mine,' answered the maid, 'talk not of seeking to slay thyself, for that, if thou have lost him in this world, by slaying thyself thou wouldst lose him in the world to come also, since thou wouldst go to hell, whither I am assured his soul hath not gone; for he was a virtuous youth. It were better far to comfort thyself and think of succouring his soul with prayers and other good works, so haply he have need thereof for any sin committed. The means of burying him are here at hand in this garden and none will ever know of the matter, for none knoweth that he ever came hither. Or, an thou wilt not have it so, let us put him forth of the garden and leave him be; he will be found to-morrow morning and carried to his house, where his kinsfolk will have him buried.' The young lady, albeit she was full of bitter sorrow and wept without ceasing, yet gave ear to her maid's counsels and consenting not to the first part thereof, made answer to the second, saying, 'God forbid that I should suffer so dear a youth and one so beloved of me and my husband to be buried after the fashion of a dog or left to lie in the street! He hath had my tears and inasmuch as I may, he shall have those of his kinsfolk, and I have already bethought me of that which we have to do to that end.' Therewith she despatched her maid for a piece of cloth of silk, which she had in a coffer of hers, and spreading it on the earth, laid Gabriotto's body thereon, with his head upon a pillow. Then with many tears she closed his eyes and mouth and weaving him a chaplet of roses, covered him with all they had gathered, he and she; after which she said to the maid, 'It is but a little way hence to his house; wherefore we will carry him thither, thou and I, even as we have arrayed him, and lay him before the door. It will not be long ere it be day and he will be taken up; and although this may be no consolation to his friends, yet to me, in whose arms he died, it will be a pleasure.' So saying, once more with most abundant tears she cast herself upon his face and wept a great while. Then, being urged by her maid to despatch, for that the day was at hand, she rose to her feet and drawing from her finger the ring wherewith Gabriotto had espoused her, she set it on his and said, weeping, 'Dear my lord, if thy soul now seeth my tears or if any sense or cognizance abide in the body, after the departure thereof, benignly receive her last gift, whom, living, thou lovedst so well.' This said, she fell down upon him in a swoon, but, presently coming to herself and rising, she took up, together with her maid, the cloth whereon the body lay and going forth the garden therewith, made for his house. As they went, they were discovered and taken with the dead body by the officers of the provostry, who chanced to be abroad at that hour about some other matter. Andrevuola, more desirous of death than of life, recognizing the officers, said frankly, 'I know who you are and that it would avail me nothing to seek to flee; I am ready to go with you before the Seignory and there declare how the case standeth; but let none of you dare to touch me, provided I am obedient to you, or to remove aught from this body, an he would not be accused of me.' Accordingly, without being touched of any, she repaired, with Gabriotto's body, to the palace, where the Provost, hearing what was to do, arose and sending for her into his chamber, proceeded to enquire of this that had happened. To this end he caused divers physicians look if the dead man had been done to death with poison or otherwise, who all affirmed that it was not so, but that some imposthume had burst near the heart, the which had suffocated him. The magistrate hearing this and feeling her to be guilty in [but] a small matter, studied to make a show of giving her that which he could not sell her and told her that, an she would consent to his pleasures, he would release her; but, these words availing not, he offered, out of all seemliness, to use force. However, Andrevuola, fired with disdain and waxed strong [for indignation], defended herself manfully, rebutting him with proud and scornful words. Meanwhile, broad day come and these things being recounted to Messer Negro, he betook himself, sorrowful unto death, to the palace, in company with many of his friends, and being there acquainted by the Provost with the whole matter, demanded resentfully[249] that his daughter should be restored to him. The Provost, choosing rather to accuse himself of the violence he would have done her than to be accused of her, first extolled the damsel and her constancy and in proof thereof, proceeded to tell that which he had done; by reason whereof, seeing her of so excellent a firmness, he had vowed her an exceeding love and would gladly, an it were agreeable to him, who was her father, and to herself, espouse her for his lady, notwithstanding she had had a husband of mean condition. Whilst they yet talked, Andrevuola presented herself and weeping, cast herself before her father and said, 'Father mine, methinketh there is no need that I recount to you the story of my boldness and my illhap, for I am assured that you have heard and know it; wherefore, as most I may, I humbly ask pardon of you for my default, to wit, the having without your knowledge taken him who most pleased me to husband. And this boon I ask of you, not for that my life may be spared me, but to die your daughter and not your enemy.' So saying, she fell weeping at his feet. [Footnote 249: Lit. complaining, making complaint (_dolendosi_).] Messer Negro, who was an old man and kindly and affectionate of his nature, hearing these words, began to weep and with tears in his eyes raised his daughter tenderly to her feet and said, 'Daughter mine, it had better pleased me that thou shouldst have had such a husband as, according to my thinking, behoved unto thee; and that thou shouldst have taken such an one as was pleasing unto thee had also been pleasing to me; but that thou shouldst have concealed him, of thy little confidence in me, grieveth me, and so much the more as I see thee to have lost him, ere I knew it. However, since the case is so, that which had he lived, I had gladly done him, to content thee, to wit, honour, as to my son-in-law, be it done him, now he is dead.' Then, turning to his sons and his kinsfolk, he commanded that great and honourable obsequies should be prepared for Gabriotto. Meanwhile, the kinsmen and kinswomen of the young man, hearing the news, had flocked thither, and with them well nigh all the men and women in the city. Therewith, the body, being laid out amiddleward the courtyard upon Andrevuola's silken cloth and strewn, with all her roses, was there not only bewept by her and his kinsfolk, but publicly mourned by well nigh all the ladies of the city and by many men, and being brought forth of the courtyard of the Seignory, not as that of a plebeian, but as that of a nobleman, it was with the utmost honour borne to the sepulchre upon the shoulders of the most noble citizens. Some days thereafterward, the Provost ensuing that which he had demanded, Messer Negro propounded it to his daughter, who would hear nought thereof, but, her father being willing to comply with her in this, she and her maid made themselves nuns in a convent very famous for sanctity and there lived honourably a great while after." THE SEVENTH STORY [Day the Fourth] SIMONA LOVETH PASQUINO AND THEY BEING TOGETHER IN A GARDEN, THE LATTER RUBBETH A LEAF OF SAGE AGAINST HIS TEETH AND DIETH. SHE, BEING TAKEN AND THINKING TO SHOW THE JUDGE HOW HER LOVER DIED, RUBBETH ONE OF THE SAME LEAVES AGAINST HER TEETH AND DIETH ON LIKE WISE Pamfilo having delivered himself of his story, the king, showing no compassion for Andrevuola, looked at Emilia and signed to her that it was his pleasure she should with a story follow on those who had already told; whereupon she, without delay, began as follows: "Dear companions, the story told by Pamfilo putteth me in mind to tell you one in nothing like unto his save that like as Andrevuola lost her beloved in a garden, even so did she of whom I have to tell, and being taken in like manner as was Andrevuola, freed herself from the court, not by dint of fortitude nor constancy, but by an unlooked-for death. And as hath otherwhile been said amongst us, albeit Love liefer inhabiteth the houses of the great, yet not therefor doth he decline the empery of those of the poor; nay, whiles in these latter he so manifesteth his power that he maketh himself feared, as a most puissant seignior, of the richer sort. This, if not in all, yet in great part, will appear from my story, with which it pleaseth me to re-enter our own city, wherefrom this day, discoursing diversely of divers things and ranging over various parts of the world, we have so far departed. There was, then, no great while ago, in Florence a damsel very handsome and agreeable, according to her condition, who was the daughter of a poor father and was called Simona; and although it behoved her with her own hands earn the bread she would eat and sustain her life by spinning wool, she was not therefor of so poor a spirit but that she dared to admit into her heart Love, which,--by means of the pleasing words and fashions of a youth of no greater account than herself, who went giving wool to spin for a master of his, a wool-monger,--had long made a show of wishing to enter there. Having, then, received Him into her bosom with the pleasing aspect of the youth who loved her whose name was Pasquino, she heaved a thousand sighs, hotter than fire, at every hank of yarn she wound about the spindle, bethinking her of him who had given it her to spin and ardently desiring, but venturing not to do more. He, on his side, grown exceeding anxious that his master's wool should be well spun, overlooked Simona's spinning more diligently than that of any other, as if the yarn spun by her alone and none other were to furnish forth the whole cloth; wherefore, the one soliciting and the other delighting to be solicited, it befell that, he growing bolder than of his wont and she laying aside much of the timidity and shamefastness she was used to feel, they gave themselves up with a common accord to mutual pleasures, which were so pleasing to both that not only did neither wait to be bidden thereto of the other, but each forewent other in the matter of invitation. Ensuing this their delight from day to day and waxing ever more enkindled for continuance, it chanced one day that Pasquino told Simona he would fain have her find means to come to a garden, whither he wished to carry her so they might there foregather more at their ease and with less suspect. Simona answered that she would well and accordingly on Sunday, after eating, giving her father to believe that she meant to go a-pardoning to San Gallo,[250] she betook herself, with a friend of hers, called Lagina, to the garden appointed her of Pasquino. There she found him with a comrade of his, whose name was Puccino, but who was commonly called Stramba,[251] and an amorous acquaintance being quickly clapped up between the latter and Lagina, Simona and her lover withdrew to one part of the garden, to do their pleasure, leaving Stramba and Lagina in another. [Footnote 250: _i.e._ to attend the ecclesiastical function called a Pardon, with which word, used in this sense, Meyerbeer's opera of Dinorah (properly Le Pardon de Ploërmel) has familiarized opera-goers. A Pardon is a sort of minor jubilee of the Roman Catholic Church, held in honour of some local saint, at which certain indulgences and remissions of sins (hence the name) are granted to the faithful attending the services of the occasion.] [Footnote 251: _i.e._ Bandy-legs.] Now in that part of the garden, whither Pasquino and Simona had betaken themselves, was a very great and goodly bush of sage, at the foot whereof they sat down and solaced themselves together a great while, holding much discourse of a collation they purposed to make there at their leisure. Presently, Pasquino turned to the great sage-bush and plucking a leaf thereof, began to rub his teeth and gums withal, avouching that sage cleaned them excellent well of aught that might be left thereon after eating. After he had thus rubbed them awhile, he returned to the subject of the collation, of which he had already spoken, nor had he long pursued his discourse when he began altogether to change countenance and well nigh immediately after lost sight and speech, and in a little while he died. Simona, seeing this, fell to weeping and crying out and called Stramba and Lagina, who ran thither in haste and seeing Pasquino not only dead, but already grown all swollen and full of dark spots about his face and body, Stramba cried out of a sudden, 'Ah, wicked woman! Thou hast poisoned him.' Making a great outcry, he was heard of many who dwelt near the garden and who, running to the clamour, found Pasquino dead and swollen. Hearing Stramba lamenting and accusing Simona of having poisoned him of her malice, whilst she, for dolour of the sudden mishap that had carried off her lover, knew not how to excuse herself, being as it were beside herself, they all concluded that it was as he said; and accordingly she was taken and carried off, still weeping sore, to the Provost's palace, where, at the instance of Stramba and other two comrades of Pasquino, by name Atticciato and Malagevole, who had come up meanwhile, a judge addressed himself without delay to examine her of the fact and being unable to discover that she had done malice in the matter or was anywise guilty, he bethought himself, in her presence, to view the dead body and the place and manner of the mishap, as recounted to him by her, for that he apprehended it not very well by her words. Accordingly, he let bring her, without any stir, whereas Pasquino's body lay yet, swollen as it were a tun, and himself following her thither, marvelled at the dead man and asked her how it had been; whereupon, going up to the sage-bush, she recounted to him all the foregoing story and to give him more fully to understand how the thing had befallen, she did even as Pasquino had done and rubbed one of the sage-leaves against her teeth. Then,--whilst her words were, in the judge's presence, flouted by Stramba and Atticciato and the other friends and comrades of Pasquino as frivolous and vain and they all denounced her wickedness with the more instance, demanding nothing less than that the fire should be the punishment of such perversity,--the wretched girl, who abode all confounded for dolour of her lost lover and fear of the punishment demanded by Stramba fell, for having rubbed the sage against her teeth, into that same mischance, whereinto her lover had fallen [and dropped dead], to the no small wonderment of as many as were present. O happy souls, to whom it fell in one same day to terminate at once your fervent love and your mortal life! Happier yet, an ye went together to one same place! And most happy, if folk love in the other life and ye love there as you loved here below! But happiest beyond compare,--at least in our judgment who abide after her on life,--was Simona's soul, whose innocence fortune suffered not to fall under the testimony of Stramba and Atticciato and Malagevole, wool-carders belike or men of yet meaner condition, finding her a more honourable way, with a death like unto that of her lover, to deliver herself from their calumnies and to follow the soul, so dearly loved of her, of her Pasquino. The judge, in a manner astonied, as were likewise as many as were there, at this mischance and unknowing what to say, abode long silent; then, recollecting himself, he said, 'It seemeth this sage is poisonous, the which is not wont to happen of sage. But, so it may not avail to offend on this wise against any other, be it cut down even to the roots and cast into the fire.' This the keeper of the garden proceeded to do in the judge's presence, and no sooner had he levelled the great bush with the ground than the cause of the death of the two unfortunate lovers appeared; for thereunder was a toad of marvellous bigness, by whose pestiferous breath they concluded the sage to have become venomous. None daring approach the beast, they made a great hedge of brushwood about it and there burnt it, together with the sage. So ended the judge's inquest upon the death of the unfortunate Pasquino, who, together with his Simona, all swollen as they were, was buried by Stramba and Atticciato and Guccio Imbratta and Malagevole in the church of St. Paul, whereof it chanced they were parishioners." THE EIGHTH STORY [Day the Fourth] GIROLAMO LOVETH SALVESTRA AND BEING CONSTRAINED BY HIS MOTHER'S PRAYERS TO GO TO PARIS, RETURNETH AND FINDETH HIS MISTRESS MARRIED; WHEREUPON HE ENTERETH HER HOUSE BY STEALTH AND DIETH BY HER SIDE; AND HE BEING CARRIED TO A CHURCH, SALVESTRA DIETH BESIDE HIM Emilia's story come to an end, Neifile, by the king's commandment, began thus: "There are some, noble ladies, who believe themselves to know more than other folk, albeit, to my thinking, they know less, and who, by reason thereof, presume to oppose their judgment not only to the counsels of men, but even to set it up against the very nature of things; of which presumption very grave ills have befallen aforetime, nor ever was any good known to come thereof. And for that of all natural things love is that which least brooketh contrary counsel or opposition and whose nature is such that it may lightlier consume of itself than be done away by advisement, it hath come to my mind to narrate to you a story of a lady, who, seeking to be wiser than pertained unto her and than she was, nay, than the matter comported in which she studied to show her wit, thought to tear out from an enamoured heart a love which had belike been set there of the stars, and so doing, succeeded in expelling at once love and life from her son's body. There was, then, in our city, according to that which the ancients relate, a very great and rich merchant, whose name was Lionardo Sighieri and who had by his wife a son called Girolamo, after whose birth, having duly set his affairs in order, he departed this life. The guardians of the boy, together with his mother, well and loyally ordered his affairs, and he, growing up with his neighbour's children, became familiar with a girl of his own age, the daughter of the tailor, more than with any other of the quarter. As he waxed in age, use turned to love so great and so ardent that he was never easy save what time he saw her, and certes she loved him no less than she was loved of him. The boy's mother, observing this, many a time chid and rebuked him therefor and after, Girolamo availing not to desist therefrom, complained thereof to his guardians, saying to them, as if she thought, thanks to her son's great wealth, to make an orange-tree of a bramble, 'This boy of ours, albeit he is yet scarce fourteen years old, is so enamoured of the daughter of a tailor our neighbour, by name Salvestra, that, except we remove her from his sight, he will peradventure one day take her to wife, without any one's knowledge, and I shall never after be glad; or else he will pine away from her, if he see her married to another; wherefore meseemeth, to avoid this, you were best send him somewhither far from here, about the business of the warehouse; for that, he being removed from seeing her, she will pass out of his mind and we may after avail to give him some well-born damsel to wife.' The guardians answered that the lady said well and that they would do this to the best of their power; wherefore, calling the boy into the warehouse, one of them began very lovingly to bespeak him thus, 'My son, thou art now somewhat waxen in years and it were well that thou shouldst begin to look for thyself to thine affairs; wherefore it would much content us that thou shouldst go sojourn awhile at Paris, where thou wilt see how great part of thy wealth is employed, more by token that thou wilt there become far better bred and mannered and more of worth than thou couldst here, seeing the lords and barons and gentlemen who are there in plenty and learning their usances; after which thou mayst return hither.' The youth hearkened diligently and answered curtly that he was nowise disposed to do this, for that he believed himself able to fare as well at Florence as another. The worthy men, hearing this, essayed him again with sundry discourse, but, failing to get other answer of him, told his mother, who, sore provoked thereat, gave him a sound rating, not because of his unwillingness to go to Paris, but of his enamourment; after which, she fell to cajoling him with fair words, coaxing him and praying him softly be pleased to do what his guardians wished; brief, she contrived to bespeak him to such purpose that he consented to go to France and there abide a year and no more. Accordingly, ardently enamoured as he was, he betook himself to Paris and there, being still put off from one day to another, he was kept two years; at the end of which time, returning, more in love than ever, he found his Salvestra married to an honest youth, a tent maker. At this he was beyond measure woebegone; but, seeing no help for it, he studied to console himself therefor and having spied out where she dwelt, began, after the wont of young men in love, to pass before her, expecting she should no more have forgotten him than he her. But the case was otherwise; she had no more remembrance of him than if she had never seen him; or, if indeed she remembered aught of him, she feigned the contrary; and of this, in a very brief space of time, Girolamo became aware, to his no small chagrin. Nevertheless, he did all he might to bring himself to her mind; but, himseeming he wrought nothing, he resolved to speak with her, face to face, though he should die for it. Accordingly, having learned from a neighbour how her house stood, one evening that she and her husband were gone to keep wake with their neighbours, he entered therein by stealth and hiding himself behind certain tent cloths that were spread there, waited till, the twain having returned and gotten them to bed, he knew her husband to be asleep; whereupon he came whereas he had seen Salvestra lay herself and putting his hand upon her breast, said softly, 'Sleepest thou yet, O my soul?' The girl, who was awake, would have cried out; but he said hastily, 'For God's sake, cry not, for I am thy Girolamo.' She, hearing this, said, all trembling, 'Alack, for God's sake, Girolamo, get thee gone; the time is past when it was not forbidden unto our childishness to be lovers. I am, as thou seest, married and it beseemeth me no more to have regard to any man other than my husband; wherefore I beseech thee, by God the Only, to begone, for that, if my husband heard thee, even should no other harm ensue thereof, yet would it follow that I might never more avail to live with him in peace or quiet, whereas now I am beloved of him and abide with him in weal and in tranquility.' The youth, hearing these words, was grievously endoloured and recalled to her the time past and his love no whit grown less for absence, mingling many prayers and many great promises, but obtained nothing; wherefore, desiring to die, he prayed her at last that, in requital of so much love, she would suffer him couch by her side, so he might warm himself somewhat, for that he was grown chilled, awaiting her, promising her that he would neither say aught to her nor touch her and would get him gone, so soon as he should be a little warmed. Salvestra, having some little compassion of him, granted him this he asked, upon the conditions aforesaid, and he accordingly lay down beside her, without touching her. Then, collecting into one thought the long love he had borne her and her present cruelty and his lost hope, he resolved to live no longer; wherefore, straitening in himself his vital spirits,[252] he clenched his hands and died by her side, without word or motion. [Footnote 252: _Ristretti in sè gli spiriti._ An obscure passage; perhaps "holding his breath" is meant; but in this case we should read "_lo spirito_" instead of "_gli spiriti_."] After a while the young woman, marvelling at his continence and fearing lest her husband should awake, began to say, 'Alack, Girolamo, why dost thou not get thee gone?' Hearing no answer, she concluded that he had fallen asleep and putting out her hand to awaken him, found him cold to the touch as ice, whereat she marvelled sore; then, nudging him more sharply and finding that he stirred not, she felt him again and knew that he was dead; whereat she was beyond measure woebegone and abode a great while, unknowing what she should do. At last she bethought herself to try, in the person of another, what her husband should say was to do [in such a case]; wherefore, awakening him, she told him, as having happened to another, that which had presently betided herself and after asked him what counsel she should take thereof,[253] if it should happen to herself. The good man replied that himseemed the dead man should be quietly carried to his house and there left, without bearing any ill will thereof to the woman, who, it appeared to him, had nowise done amiss. Then said Salvestra, 'And so it behoveth us do'; and taking his hand, made him touch the dead youth; whereupon, all confounded, he arose, without entering into farther parley with his wife, and kindled a light; then, clothing the dead body in its own garments, he took it, without any delay, on his shoulders and carried it, his innocence aiding him, to the door of Girolamo's house, where he set it down and left it. [Footnote 253: _i.e._ what course she should take in the matter, _consiglio_ used as before (see notes, pp. 2 and 150) in this special sense.] When the day came and Girolamo was found dead before his own door, great was outcry, especially on the part of his mother, and the physicians having examined him and searched his body everywhere, but finding no wound nor bruise whatsoever on him, it was generally concluded that he had died of grief, as was indeed the case. Then was the body carried into a church and the sad mother, repairing thither with many other ladies, kinswomen and neighbours, began to weep without stint and make sore moan over him, according to our usance. What while the lamentation was at it highest, the good man, in whose house he had died, said to Salvestra, 'Harkye, put some mantlet or other on thy head and get thee to the church whither Girolamo hath been carried and mingle with the women and hearken to that which is discoursed of the matter; and I will do the like among the men, so we may hear if aught be said against us.' The thing pleased the girl, who was too late grown pitiful and would fain look upon him, dead, whom, living, she had not willed to pleasure with one poor kiss, and she went thither. A marvellous thing it is to think how uneath to search out are the ways of love! That heart, which Girolamo's fair fortune had not availed to open, his illhap opened and the old flames reviving all therein, whenas she saw the dead face it[254] melted of a sudden into such compassion that she pressed between the women, veiled as she was in the mantlet, and stayed not till she won to the body, and there, giving a terrible great shriek, she cast herself, face downward, on the dead youth, whom she bathed not with many tears, for that no sooner did she touch him than grief bereaved her of life, even as it had bereft him. [Footnote 254: _i.e._ her heart.] The women would have comforted her and bidden her arise, not yet knowing her; but after they had bespoken her awhile in vain, they sought to lift her and finding her motionless, raised her up and knew her at once for Salvestra and for dead; whereupon all who were there, overcome with double pity, set up a yet greater clamour of lamentation. The news soon spread abroad among the men without the church and came presently to the ears of her husband, who was amongst them and who, without lending ear to consolation or comfort from any, wept a great while; after which he recounted to many of those who were there the story of that which had befallen that night between the dead youth and his wife; and so was the cause of each one's death made everywhere manifest, the which was grievous unto all. Then, taking up the dead girl and decking her, as they use to deck the dead, they laid her beside Girolamo on the same bier and there long bewept her; after which the twain were buried in one same tomb, and so these, whom love had not availed to conjoin on life, death conjoined with an inseparable union." THE NINTH STORY [Day the Fourth] SIR GUILLAUME DE ROUSSILLON GIVETH HIS WIFE TO EAT THE HEART OF SIR GUILLAUME DE GUARDESTAING BY HIM SLAIN AND LOVED OF HER, WHICH SHE AFTER COMING TO KNOW, CASTETH HERSELF FROM A HIGH CASEMENT TO THE GROUND AND DYING, IS BURIED WITH HER LOVER Neifile having made an end of her story, which had awakened no little compassion in all the ladies her companions, the king, who purposed not to infringe Dioneo his privilege, there being none else to tell but they twain, began, "Gentle ladies, since you have such compassion upon ill-fortuned loves, it hath occurred to me to tell you a story whereof it will behove you have no less pity than of the last, for that those to whom that which I shall tell happened were persons of more account than those of whom it hath been spoken and yet more cruel was the mishap that befell them. You must know, then, that according to that which the Provençals relate, there were aforetime in Provence two noble knights, each of whom had castles and vassals under him, called the one Sir Guillaume de Roussillon and the other Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing, and for that they were both men of great prowess in arms, they loved each other with an exceeding love and were wont to go still together and clad in the same colours to every tournament or jousting or other act of arms. Although they abode each in his own castle and were distant, one from other, a good half score miles, yet it came to pass that, Sir Guillaume de Roussillon having a very fair and lovesome lady to wife, Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing, notwithstanding the friendship and fellowship that was between them, become beyond measure enamoured of her and so wrought, now with one means and now with another, that the lady became aware of his passion and knowing him for a very valiant knight, it pleased her and she began to return his love, insomuch that she desired and tendered nothing more than him nor awaited otherwhat than to be solicited of him; the which was not long in coming to pass and they foregathered once and again. Loving each other amain and conversing together less discreetly than behoved, it befell that the husband became aware of their familiarity and was mightily incensed thereat, insomuch that the great love he bore to Guardestaing was turned into mortal hatred; but this he knew better to keep hidden than the two lovers had known to conceal their love and was fully resolved in himself to kill him. Roussillon being in this mind, it befell that a great tourneying was proclaimed in France, the which he forthright signified to Guardestaing and sent to bid him come to him, an it pleased him, so they might take counsel together if and how they should go thither; whereto the other very joyously answered that he would without fail come to sup with him on the ensuing day. Roussillon, hearing this, thought the time come whenas he might avail to kill him and accordingly on the morrow he armed himself and mounting to horse with a servant of his, lay at ambush, maybe a mile from his castle, in a wood whereas Guardestaing must pass. There after he had awaited him a good while, he saw him come, unarmed and followed by two servants in like case, as one who apprehends nothing from him; and when he saw him come whereas he would have him, he rushed out upon him, lance in hand, full of rage and malice, crying, 'Traitor, thou art dead!' And to say thus and to plunge the lance into his breast were one and the same thing. Guardestaing, without being able to make any defence or even to say a word, fell from his horse, transfixed of the lance, and a little after died, whilst his servants, without waiting to learn who had done this, turned their horses' heads and fled as quickliest they might, towards their lord's castle. Roussillon dismounted and opening the dead man's breast with a knife, with his own hands tore out his heart, which he let wrap in the pennon of a lance and gave to one of his men to carry. Then, commanding that none should dare make words of the matter, he remounted, it being now night, and returned to his castle. The lady, who had heard that Guardestaing was to be there that evening to supper and looked for him with the utmost impatience, seeing him not come, marvelled sore and said to her husband, 'How is it, sir, that Guardestaing is not come?' 'Wife,' answered he, 'I have had [word] from him that he cannot be here till to-morrow'; whereat the lady abode somewhat troubled. Roussillon then dismounted and calling the cook, said to him, 'Take this wild boar's heart and look thou make a dainty dish thereof, the best and most delectable to eat that thou knowest, and when I am at table, send it to me in a silver porringer.' The cook accordingly took the heart and putting all his art thereto and all his diligence, minced it and seasoning it with store of rich spices, made of it a very dainty ragout. When it was time, Sir Guillaume sat down to table with his wife and the viands came; but he ate little, being hindered in thought for the ill deed he had committed. Presently the cook sent him the ragout, which he caused set before the lady, feigning himself disordered[255] that evening and commending the dish to her amain. The lady, who was nowise squeamish, tasted thereof and finding it good, ate it all; which when the knight saw, he said to her, 'Wife, how deem you of this dish?' 'In good sooth, my lord,' answered she, 'it liketh me exceedingly.' Whereupon, 'So God be mine aid,' quoth Roussillon; 'I do indeed believe it you, nor do I marvel if that please you, dead, which, alive, pleased you more than aught else.' The lady, hearing this, hesitated awhile, then said, 'How? What have you made me eat?' 'This that you have eaten,' answered the knight, 'was in very truth the heart of Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing, whom you, disloyal wife as you are, so loved; and know for certain that it is his very heart, for that I tore it from his breast with these hands a little before my return.' [Footnote 255: Or surfeited (_svogliato_).] It needeth not to ask if the lady were woebegone, hearing this of him whom she loved more than aught else; and after awhile she said, 'You have done the deed of a disloyal and base knight, as you are; for, if I, unenforced of him, made him lord of my love and therein offended against you, not he, but I should have borne the penalty thereof. But God forfend that ever other victual should follow upon such noble meat the heart of so valiant and so courteous a gentleman as was Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing!' Then, rising to her feet, without any manner of hesitation, she let herself fall backward through a window which was behind her and which was exceeding high above the ground; wherefore, as she fell, she was not only killed, but well nigh broken in pieces. Sir Guillaume, seeing this, was sore dismayed and himseemed he had done ill; wherefore, being adread of the country people and of the Count of Provence, he let saddle his horses and made off. On the morrow it was known all over the country how the thing had passed; whereupon the two bodies were, with the utmost grief and lamentation, taken up by Guardestaing's people and those of the lady and laid in one same sepulchre in the chapel of the latter's own castle; and thereover were verses written, signifying who these were that were buried therewithin and the manner and occasion of their death."[256] [Footnote 256: This is the well-known story of the Troubadour Guillem de Cabestanh or Cabestaing, whose name Boccaccio alters to Guardastagno or Guardestaing.] THE TENTH STORY [Day the Fourth] A PHYSICIAN'S WIFE PUTTETH HER LOVER FOR DEAD IN A CHEST, WHICH TWO USURERS CARRY OFF TO THEIR OWN HOUSE, GALLANT AND ALL. THE LATTER, WHO IS BUT DRUGGED, COMETH PRESENTLY TO HIMSELF AND BEING DISCOVERED, IS TAKEN FOR A THIEF; BUT THE LADY'S MAID AVOUCHETH TO THE SEIGNORY THAT SHE HERSELF HAD PUT HIM INTO THE CHEST STOLEN BY THE TWO USURERS, WHEREBY HE ESCAPETH THE GALLOWS AND THE THIEVES ARE AMERCED IN CERTAIN MONIES Filostrato having made an end of his telling, it rested only with Dioneo to accomplish his task, who, knowing this and it being presently commanded him of the king, began as follows: 'The sorrows that have been this day related of ill fortuned loves have saddened not only your eyes and hearts, ladies, but mine also; wherefore I have ardently longed for an end to be made thereof. Now that, praised be God, they are finished (except I should choose to make an ill addition to such sorry ware, from which God keep me!), I will, without farther ensuing so dolorous a theme, begin with something blither and better, thereby perchance affording a good argument for that which is to be related on the ensuing day. You must know, then, fairest lasses, that there was in Salerno, no great while since, a very famous doctor in surgery, by name Master Mazzeo della Montagna, who, being already come to extreme old age, took to wife a fair and gentle damsel of his city and kept better furnished with sumptuous and rich apparel and jewels and all that can pleasure a lady than any woman of the place. True it is she went a-cold most of her time, being kept of her husband ill covered abed; for, like as Messer Ricardo di Chinzica (of whom we already told) taught his wife to observe saints' days and holidays, even so the doctor pretended to her that once lying with a woman necessitated I know not how many days' study to recruit the strength and the like toys; whereof she abode exceeding ill content and like a discreet and high-spirited woman as she was, bethought herself, so she might the better husband the household good, to betake herself to the highway and seek to spend others' gear. To this end, considering divers young men, at last she found one to her mind and on him she set all her hope; whereof he becoming aware and she pleasing him mightily, he in like manner turned all his love upon her. The spark in question was called Ruggieri da Jeroli, a man of noble birth, but of lewd life and blameworthy carriage, insomuch that he had left himself neither friend nor kinsman who wished him well or cared to see him and was defamed throughout all Salerno for thefts and other knaveries of the vilest; but of this the lady recked little, he pleasing her for otherwhat, and with the aid of a maid of hers, she wrought on such wise that they came together. After they had taken some delight, the lady proceeded to blame his past way of life and to pray him, for the love of her, to desist from these ill fashions; and to give him the means of doing this, she fell to succouring him, now with one sum of money and now with another. On this wise they abode together, using the utmost discretion, till it befell that a sick man was put into the doctor's hands, who had a gangrened leg, and Master Mazzeo, having examined the case, told the patient's kinsfolk that, except a decayed bone he had in his leg were taken out, needs must he have the whole limb cut off or die, and that, by taking out the bone, he might recover, but that he would not undertake him otherwise than for a dead man; to which those to whom the sick man pertained agreed and gave the latter into his hands for such. The doctor, judging that the patient might not brook the pain nor would suffer himself to be operated, without an opiate, and having appointed to set about the matter at evensong, let that morning distil a certain water of his composition, which being drunken by the sick man, should make him sleep so long as he deemed necessary for the performing of the operation upon him, and fetching it home, set it in his chamber, without telling any what it was. The hour of vespers come and the doctor being about to go to the patient in question, there came to him a messenger from certain very great friends of his at Malfi, charging him fail not for anything to repair thither incontinent, for that there had been a great fray there, in which many had been wounded. Master Mazzeo accordingly put off the tending of the leg until the ensuing morning and going aboard a boat, went off to Malfi, whereupon his wife, knowing that he would not return home that night, let fetch Ruggieri, as of her wont, and bringing him into her chamber, locked him therewithin, against certain other persons of the house should be gone to sleep. Ruggieri, then, abiding in the chamber, awaiting his mistress, and being,--whether for fatigue endured that day or salt meat that he had eaten or maybe for usance,--sore, athirst, caught sight of the flagon of water, which the doctor had prepared for the sick man and which stood in the window, and deeming it drinking water, set it to his mouth and drank it all off; nor was it long ere a great drowsiness took him and he fell asleep. The lady came to the chamber as first she might and finding Ruggieri asleep, nudged him and bade him in a low voice arise, but to no effect, for he replied not neither stirred anywhit; whereat she was somewhat vexed and nudged him more sharply, saying, 'Get up, slugabed! An thou hadst a mind to sleep, thou shouldst have betaken thee to thine own house and not come hither.' Ruggieri, being thus pushed, fell to the ground from a chest whereon he lay and gave no more sign of life than a dead body; whereupon the lady, now somewhat alarmed, began to seek to raise him up and to shake him more roughly, tweaking him by the nose and plucking him by the beard, but all in vain; he had tied his ass to a fast picket.[257] At this she began to fear lest he were dead; nevertheless she proceeded to pinch him sharply and burn his flesh with a lighted taper, but all to no purpose; wherefore, being no doctress, for all her husband was a physician, she doubted not but he was dead in very deed. Loving him over all else as she did, it needeth no asking if she were woebegone for this and daring not make any outcry, she silently fell a-weeping over him and bewailing so sore a mishap. [Footnote 257: A proverbial way of saying that he was fast asleep.] After awhile, fearing to add shame to her loss, she bethought herself that it behoved her without delay find a means of carrying the dead man forth of the house and knowing not how to contrive this, she softly called her maid and discovering to her her misadventure sought counsel of her. The maid marvelled exceedingly and herself pulled and pinched Ruggieri, but, finding him without sense or motion, agreed with her mistress that he was certainly dead and counselled her put him forth of the house. Quoth the lady, 'And where can we put him, so it may not be suspected, whenas he shall be seen to-morrow morning, that he hath been brought out hence?' 'Madam,' answered the maid, 'I saw, this evening at nightfall, over against the shop of our neighbour yonder the carpenter, a chest not overbig, the which, an the owner have not taken it in again, will come very apt for our affair; for that we can lay him therein, after giving him two or three slashes with a knife, and leave him be. I know no reason why whoso findeth him should suppose him to have been put there from this house rather than otherwhence; nay, it will liefer be believed, seeing he was a young man of lewd life, that he hath been slain by some enemy of his, whilst going about to do some mischief or other, and after clapped in the chest.' The maid's counsel pleased the lady, save that she would not hear of giving him any wound, saying that for naught in the world would her heart suffer her to do that. Accordingly she sent her to see if the chest were yet whereas she had noted it and she presently returned and said, 'Ay.' Then, being young and lusty, with the aid of her mistress, she took Ruggieri on her shoulders and carrying him out,--whilst the lady forewent her, to look if any came,--clapped him into the chest and shutting down the lid, left him there. Now it chanced that, a day or two before, two young men, who lent at usance, had taken up their abode in a house a little farther and lacking household gear, but having a mind to gain much and spend little, had that day espied the chest in question and had plotted together, if it should abide there the night, to carry it off to their own house. Accordingly, midnight come, they sallied forth and finding the chest still there, without looking farther, they hastily carried it off, for all it seemed to them somewhat heavy, to their own house, where they set it down beside a chamber in which their wives slept and there leaving it, without concerning themselves for the nonce to settle it overnicely, betook them to bed. Presently, the morning drawing near, Ruggieri, who had slept a great while, having by this time digested the sleeping draught and exhausted its effects, awoke and albeit his sleep was broken and his senses in some measure restored, there abode yet a dizziness in his brain, which held him stupefied, not that night only, but some days after. Opening his eyes and seeing nothing, he put out his hands hither and thither and finding himself in the chest, bethought himself and said, 'What is this? Where am I? Am I asleep or awake? Algates I mind me that I came this evening into my mistress's chamber and now meseemeth I am in a chest. What meaneth this? Can the physician have returned or other accident befallen, by reason whereof the lady hath hidden me here, I being asleep? Methinketh it must have been thus; assuredly it was so.' Accordingly, he addressed himself to abide quiet and hearken if he could hear aught and after he had abidden thus a great while, being somewhat ill at ease in the chest, which was small, and the side whereon he lay irking him, he would have turned over to the other and wrought so dexterously that, thrusting his loins against one of the sides of the chest, which had not been set on a level place, he caused it first to incline to one side and after topple over. In falling, it made a great noise, whereat the women who slept therenigh awoke and being affrighted, were silent for fear. Ruggieri was sore alarmed at the fall of the chest, but, finding that it had opened in the fall, chose rather, if aught else should betide, to be out of it than to abide therewithin. Accordingly, he came forth and what with knowing not where he was and what with one thing and another, he fell to groping about the house, so haply he should find a stair or a door, whereby he might get him gone. The women, hearing this, began to say, 'Who is there?' But Ruggieri, knowing not the voice, answered not; whereupon they proceeded to call the two young men, who, for that they had overwatched themselves, slept fast and heard nothing of all this. Thereupon the women, waxing more fearful, arose and betaking themselves to the windows, fell a-crying, 'Thieves! Thieves!' At this sundry of the neighbours ran up and made their way, some by the roof and some by one part and some by another, into the house; and the young men also, awaking for the noise, arose and seized Ruggieri, who finding himself there, was in a manner beside himself for wonderment and saw no way of escape. Then they gave him into the hands of the officers of the governor of the city, who had now run thither at the noise and carried him before their chief. The latter, for that he was held of all a very sorry fellow, straightway put him to the question and he confessed to having entered the usurers' house to steal; whereupon the governor thought to let string him up by the neck without delay. The news was all over Salerno by the morning that Ruggieri had been taken in the act of robbing the money-lenders' house, which the lady and her maid hearing, they were filled with such strange and exceeding wonderment that they were like to persuade themselves that they had not done, but had only dreamed of doing, that which they had done overnight; whilst the lady, to boot, was so concerned at the news of the danger wherein Ruggieri was that she was like to go mad. Soon after half tierce[258] the physician, having returned from Malfi and wishing to medicine his patient, called for his prepared water and finding the flagon empty, made a great outcry, saying that nothing could abide as it was in his house. The lady, who was troubled with another great chagrin, answered angrily, saying 'What wouldst thou say, doctor, of grave matter, whenas thou makest such an outcry anent a flagonlet of water overset? Is there no more water to be found in the world?' 'Wife,' rejoined the physician, 'thou thinkest this was common water; it was not so; nay, it was a water prepared to cause sleep'; and told her for what occasion he had made it. When she heard this, she understood forthright that Ruggieri had drunken the opiate and had therefore appeared to them dead and said to her husband, 'Doctor, we knew it not; wherefore do you make yourself some more'; and the physician, accordingly, seeing he might not do otherwise, let make thereof anew. [Footnote 258: _i.e._ about half-past seven a.m.] A little after, the maid, who had gone by her mistress's commandment to learn what should be reported of Ruggieri, returned and said to her, 'Madam, every one missaith of Ruggieri; nor, for aught I could hear, is there friend or kinsman who hath risen up or thinketh to rise up to assist him, and it is held certain that the prefect of police will have him hanged to-morrow. Moreover, I have a strange thing to tell you, to wit, meseemeth I have discovered how he came into the money-lenders' house, and hear how. You know the carpenter overagainst whose shop was the chest wherein we laid him; he was but now at the hottest words in the world with one to whom it seemeth the chest belonged; for the latter demanded of him the price of his chest, and the carpenter replied that he had not sold it, but that it had that night been stolen from him. Whereto, "Not so," quoth the other, "nay, thou soldest it to the two young men, the money-lenders yonder, as they told me yesternight, when I saw it in their house what time Ruggieri was taken." "They lie," answered the carpenter. "I never sold it to them; but they stole it from me yesternight. Let us go to them." So they went off with one accord to the money-lenders' house, and I came back hither. On this wise, as you may see, I conclude that Ruggieri was transported whereas he was found; but how he came to life again I cannot divine.' The lady now understood very well how the case stood and telling the maid what she had heard from the physician, besought her help to save Ruggieri, for that she might, an she would, at once save him and preserve her honour. Quoth she, 'Madam, teach me how, and I will gladly do anything.' Whereupon the lady, whose wits were sharpened by the urgency of the case, having promptly bethought herself of that which was to do, particularly acquainted the maid therewith, who first betook herself to the physician and weeping, began to say to him, 'Sir, it behoveth me ask you pardon of a great fault, which I have committed against you.' 'In what?' asked the doctor, and she, never giving over weeping, answered, 'Sir, you know what manner young man is Ruggieri da Jeroli. He took a liking to me awhile agone and partly for fear and partly for love, needs must I become his mistress. Yesternight, knowing that you were abroad, he cajoled me on such wise that I brought him into your house to lie with me in my chamber, and he being athirst and I having no whither more quickly to resort for water or wine, unwilling as I was that your lady, who was in the saloon, should see me, I remembered me to have seen a flagon of water in your chamber. Accordingly, I ran for it and giving him the water to drink, replaced the flagon whence I had taken it, whereof I find you have made a great outcry in the house. And certes I confess I did ill; but who is there doth not ill bytimes? Indeed, I am exceeding grieved to have done it, not so much for the thing itself as for that which hath ensued of it and by reason whereof Ruggieri is like to lose his life. Wherefore I pray you, as most I may, pardon me and give me leave to go succour Ruggieri inasmuch as I can.' The physician, hearing this, for all he was angry, answered jestingly, 'Thou hast given thyself thine own penance therefor, seeing that, whereas thou thoughtest yesternight to have a lusty young fellow who would shake thy skincoats well for thee, thou hadst a sluggard; wherefore go and endeavour for the deliverance of thy lover; but henceforth look thou bring him not into the house again, or I will pay thee for this time and that together.' The maid, thinking she had fared well for the first venue, betook herself, as quickliest she might, to the prison, where Ruggieri lay and coaxed the gaoler to let her speak with the prisoner, whom after she had instructed what answers he should make to the prefect of police, an he would fain escape, she contrived to gain admission to the magistrate himself. The latter, for that she was young and buxom, would fain, ere he would hearken to her, cast his grapnel aboard the good wench, whereof she, to be the better heard, was no whit chary; then, having quitted herself of the grinding due,[259] 'Sir,' said she, 'you have here Ruggieri da Jeroli taken for a thief; but the truth is not so.' Then, beginning from the beginning, she told him the whole story; how she, being his mistress, had brought him into the physician's house and had given him the drugged water to drink, unknowing what it was, and how she had put him for dead into the chest; after which she told him the talk she had heard between the master carpenter and the owner of the chest, showing him thereby how Ruggieri had come into the money-lenders' house. [Footnote 259: Or "having risen from the grinding" (_levatasi dal macinio_).] The magistrate, seeing it an easy thing to come at the truth of the matter, first questioned the physician if it were true of the water and found that it was as she had said; whereupon he let summon the carpenter and him to whom the chest belonged and the two money-lenders and after much parley, found that the latter had stolen the chest overnight and put it in their house. Ultimately he sent for Ruggieri and questioned him where he had lain that night, whereto he replied that where he had lain he knew not; he remembered indeed having gone to pass the night with Master Mazzeo's maid, in whose chamber he had drunken water for a sore thirst he had; but what became of him after he knew not, save that, when he awoke, he found himself in the money-lenders' house in a chest. The prefect, hearing these things and taking great pleasure therein, caused the maid and Ruggieri and the carpenter and the money-lenders repeat their story again and again; and in the end, seeing Ruggieri to be innocent, he released him and amerced the money-lenders in half a score ounces for that they had stolen the chest. How welcome this was to Ruggieri, none need ask, and it was beyond measure pleasing to his mistress, who together with her lover and the precious maid, who had proposed to give him the slashes with the knife, many a time after laughed and made merry of the matter, still continuing their loves and their disport from good to better; the which I would well might so betide myself, save always the being put in the chest." * * * * * If the former stories had saddened the hearts of the lovesome ladies, this last one of Dioneo's made them laugh heartily, especially when he spoke of the prefect casting his grapnel aboard the maid, that they were able thus to recover themselves of the melancholy caused by the others. But the king, seeing that the sun began to grow yellow and that the term of his seignory was come, with very courteous speech excused himself to the fair ladies for that which he had done, to wit, that he had caused discourse of so sorrowful a matter as that of lovers' infelicity; which done, he rose to his feet and taking from his head the laurel wreath, whilst the ladies waited to see on whom he should bestow it, set it daintily on Fiammetta's fair head, saying, "I make over this crown to thee, as to her who will, better than any other, know how with to-morrow's pleasance to console these ladies our companions of to-day's woefulness." Fiammetta, whose locks were curled and long and golden and fell over her white and delicate shoulders and whose soft-rounded face was all resplendent with white lilies and vermeil roses commingled, with two eyes in her head as they were those of a peregrine falcon and a dainty little mouth, the lips whereof seemed twin rubies, answered, smiling, "And I, Filostrato, I take it willingly, and that thou mayst be the better cognizant of that which thou hast done, I presently will and command that each prepare to discourse to-morrow of THAT WHICH HATH HAPPILY BETIDED LOVERS AFTER SUNDRY CRUEL AND MISFORTUNATE ADVENTURES." Her proposition[260] was pleasing unto all and she, after summoning the seneschal and taking counsel with him of things needful, arising from session, blithely dismissed all the company until supper-time. Accordingly, they all proceeded, according to their various appetites, to take their several pleasures, some wandering about the garden, whose beauties were not such as might lightly tire, and other some betaking themselves towards the mills which wrought therewithout, whilst the rest fared some hither and some thither, until the hour of supper, which being come, they all foregathered, as of their wont, anigh the fair fountain and there supped with exceeding pleasance and well served. Presently, arising thence, they addressed themselves, as of their wont, to dancing and singing, and Filomena leading off the dance, the queen said, "Filostrato, I purpose not to depart from the usance of those who have foregone me in the sovranty, but, like as they have done, so I intend that a song be sung at my commandment; and as I am assured that thy songs are even such as are thy stories, it is our pleasure that, so no more days than this be troubled with thine ill fortunes, thou sing such one thereof as most pleaseth thee." Filostrato replied that he would well and forthright proceeded to sing on this wise: [Footnote 260: _i.e._ the theme proposed by her.] Weeping, I demonstrate How sore with reason doth my heart complain Of love betrayed and plighted faith in vain. Love, whenas first there was of thee imprest Thereon[261] her image for whose sake I sigh, Sans hope of succour aye, So full of virtue didst thou her pourtray, That every torment light accounted I That through thee to my breast Grown full of drear unrest And dole, might come; but now, alack! I'm fain To own my error, not withouten pain. Yea, of the cheat first was I made aware, Seeing myself of her forsaken sheer, In whom I hoped alone; For, when I deemed myself most fairly grown Into her favour and her servant dear, Without her thought or care Of my to-come despair, I found she had another's merit ta'en To heart and put me from her with disdain. Whenas I knew me banished from my stead, Straight in my heart a dolorous plaint there grew, That yet therein hath power, And oft I curse the day and eke the hour When first her lovesome visage met my view, Graced with high goodlihead; And more enamouréd Than eye, my soul keeps up its dying strain, Faith, ardour, hope, blaspheming still amain. How void my misery is of all relief Thou mayst e'en feel, so sore I call thee, sire, With voice all full of woe; Ay, and I tell thee that it irks me so That death for lesser torment I desire. Come, death, then; shear the sheaf Of this my life of grief And with thy stroke my madness eke assain; Go where I may, less dire will be my bane. No other way than death is left my spright, Ay, and none other solace for my dole; Then give it[262] me straightway, Love; put an end withal to my dismay: Ah, do it; since fate's spite Hath robbed me of delight; Gladden thou her, lord, with my death, love-slain, As thou hast cheered her with another swain. My song, though none to learn thee lend an ear, I reck the less thereof, indeed, that none Could sing thee even as I; One only charge I give thee, ere I die, That thou find Love and unto him alone Show fully how undear This bitter life and drear Is to me, craving of his might he deign Some better harbourage I may attain. Weeping I demonstrate How sore with reason doth my heart complain Of love betrayed and plighted faith in vain. [Footnote 261: _i.e._ on my heart.] [Footnote 262: _i.e._ death.] The words of this song clearly enough discovered the state of Filostrato's mind and the cause thereof, the which belike the countenance of a certain lady who was in the dance had yet plainlier declared, had not the shades of the now fallen night hidden the blushes that rose to her face. But, when he had made an end of his song, many others were sung, till such time as the hour of sleep arrived, whereupon, at the queen's commandment, each of the ladies withdrew to her chamber. HERE ENDETH THE FOURTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON _Day the Fifth_ HERE BEGINNETH THE FIFTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER THE GOVERNANCE OF FIAMMETTA IS DISCOURSED OF THAT WHICH HATH HAPPILY BETIDED LOVERS AFTER SUNDRY CRUEL AND MISFORTUNATE ADVENTURES The East was already all white and the rays of the rising sun had made it light through all our hemisphere, when Fiammetta, allured by the sweet song of the birds that blithely chanted the first hour of the day upon the branches, arose and let call all the other ladies and the three young men; then, with leisured pace descending into the fields, she went a-pleasuring with her company about the ample plain upon the dewy grasses, discoursing with them of one thing and another, until the sun was somewhat risen, when, feeling that its rays began to grow hot, she turned their steps to their abiding-place. There, with excellent wines and confections, she let restore the light fatigue had and they disported themselves in the delightsome garden until the eating hour, which being come and everything made ready by the discreet seneschal, they sat blithely down to meat, such being the queen's pleasure, after they had sung sundry roundelays and a ballad or two. Having dined orderly and with mirth, not unmindful of their wonted usance of dancing, they danced sundry short dances to the sound of songs and tabrets, after which the queen dismissed them all until the hour of slumber should be past. Accordingly, some betook themselves to sleep, whilst others addressed themselves anew to their diversion about the fair garden; but all, according to the wonted fashion, assembled together again, a little after none, near the fair fountain, whereas it pleased the queen. Then she, having seated herself in the chief room, looked towards Pamfilo and smilingly charged him make a beginning with the fair-fortuned stories; whereto he willingly addressed himself and spoke as follows: THE FIRST STORY [Day the Fifth] CIMON, LOVING, WAXETH WISE AND CARRIETH OFF TO SEA IPHIGENIA HIS MISTRESS. BEING CAST INTO PRISON AT RHODES, HE IS DELIVERED THENCE BY LYSIMACHUS AND IN CONCERT WITH HIM CARRIETH OFF IPHIGENIA AND CASSANDRA ON THEIR WEDDING-DAY, WITH WHOM THE TWAIN FLEE INTO CRETE, WHERE THE TWO LADIES BECOME THEIR WIVES AND WHENCE THEY ARE PRESENTLY ALL FOUR RECALLED HOME "Many stories, delightsome ladies, apt to give beginning to so glad a day as this will be, offer themselves unto me to be related; whereof one is the most pleasing to my mind, for that thereby, beside the happy issue which is to mark this day's discourses, you may understand how holy, how puissant and how full of all good is the power of Love, which many, unknowing what they say, condemn and vilify with great unright; and this, an I err not, must needs be exceeding pleasing to you, for that I believe you all to be in love. There was, then, in the island of Cyprus, (as we have read aforetime in the ancient histories of the Cypriots,) a very noble gentleman, by name Aristippus, who was rich beyond any other of the country in all temporal things and might have held himself the happiest man alive, had not fortune made him woeful in one only thing, to wit, that amongst his other children he had a son who overpassed all the other youths of his age in stature and goodliness of body, but was a hopeless dullard and well nigh an idiot. His true name was Galesus, but for that neither by toil of teacher nor blandishment nor beating of his father nor study nor endeavour of whatsoever other had it been found possible to put into his head any inkling of letters or good breeding and that he had a rough voice and an uncouth and manners more befitting a beast than a man, he was of well nigh all by way of mockery called Cimon, which in their tongue signified as much as brute beast in ours. His father brooked his wastrel life with the most grievous concern and having presently given over all hope of him, he bade him begone to his country house[263] and there abide with his husbandmen, so he might not still have before him the cause of his chagrin; the which was very agreeable to Cimon, for that the manners and usages of clowns and churls were much more to his liking than those of the townsfolk. [Footnote 263: Or farm (_villa_).] Cimon, then, betaking himself to the country and there employing himself in the things that pertained thereto, it chanced one day, awhile after noon, as he passed from one farm to another, with his staff on his shoulder, that he entered a very fair coppice which was in those parts and which was then all in leaf, for that it was the month of May. Passing therethrough, he happened (even as his fortune guided him thither) upon a little mead compassed about with very high trees, in one corner whereof was a very clear and cool spring, beside which he saw a very fair damsel asleep upon the green grass, with so thin a garment upon her body that it hid well nigh nothing of her snowy flesh. She was covered only from the waist down with a very white and light coverlet; and at her feet slept on like wise two women and a man, her servants. When Cimon espied the young lady, he halted and leaning upon his staff, fell, without saying a word, to gazing most intently upon her with the utmost admiration, no otherwise than as he had never yet seen a woman's form, whilst in his rude breast, wherein for a thousand lessonings no least impression of civil pleasance had availed to penetrate, he felt a thought awaken which intimated to his gross and material spirit that this maiden was the fairest thing that had been ever seen of any living soul. Thence he proceeded to consider her various parts,--commending her hair, which he accounted of gold, her brow, her nose, her mouth, her throat and her arms, and above all her breast, as yet but little upraised,--and grown of a sudden from a churl a judge of beauty, he ardently desired in himself to see the eyes, which, weighed down with deep sleep, she kept closed. To this end, he had it several times in mind to awaken her; but, for that she seemed to him beyond measure fairer than the other women aforetime seen of him, he misdoubted him she must be some goddess. Now he had wit enough to account things divine worthy of more reverence than those mundane; wherefore he forbore, waiting for her to awake of herself; and albeit the delay seemed overlong to him, yet, taken as he was with an unwonted pleasure, he knew not how to tear himself away. It befell, then, that, after a long while, the damsel, whose name was Iphigenia, came to herself, before any of her people, and opening her eyes, saw Cimon (who, what for his fashion and uncouthness and his father's wealth and nobility, was known in a manner to every one in the country) standing before her, leant on his staff, marvelled exceedingly and said, 'Cimon, what goest thou seeking in this wood at this hour?' He made her no answer, but, seeing her eyes open, began to look steadfastly upon them, himseeming there proceeded thence a sweetness which fulfilled him with a pleasure such as he had never before felt. The young lady, seeing this, began to misdoubt her lest his so fixed looking upon her should move his rusticity to somewhat that might turn to her shame; wherefore, calling her women, she rose up, saying, 'Cimon, abide with God.' To which he replied, 'I will begone with thee'; and albeit the young lady, who was still in fear of him, would have declined his company, she could not win to rid herself of him till he had accompanied her to her own house. Thence he repaired to his father's house [in the city,] and declared to him that he would on no wise consent to return to the country; the which was irksome enough to Aristippus and his kinsfolk; nevertheless they let him be, awaiting to see what might be the cause of his change of mind. Love's arrow having, then, through Iphigenia's beauty, penetrated into Cimon's heart, whereinto no teaching had ever availed to win an entrance, in a very brief time, proceeding from one idea to another, he made his father marvel and all his kinsfolk and every other that knew him. In the first place he besought his father that he would cause him go bedecked with clothes and every other thing, even as his brothers, the which Aristippus right gladly did. Then, consorting with young men of condition and learning the fashions and carriage that behoved unto gentlemen and especially unto lovers, he first, to the utmost wonderment of every one, in a very brief space of time, not only learned the first [elements of] letters, but became very eminent among the students of philosophy, and after (the love which he bore Iphigenia being the cause of all this) he not only reduced his rude and rustical manner of speech to seemliness and civility, but became a past master of song and sound[264] and exceeding expert and doughty in riding and martial exercises, both by land and by sea. In short, not to go recounting every particular of his merits, the fourth year was not accomplished from the day of his first falling in love, ere he was grown the sprightliest and most accomplished gentleman of all the young men in the island of Cyprus, ay, and the best endowed with every particular excellence. What, then, charming ladies, shall we say of Cimon? Certes, none other thing than that the lofty virtues implanted by heaven in his generous soul had been bounden with exceeding strong bonds of jealous fortune and shut in some straitest corner of his heart, all which bonds Love, as a mightier than fortune, broke and burst in sunder and in its quality of awakener and quickener of drowsed and sluggish wits, urged forth into broad daylight the virtues aforesaid, which had till then been overdarkened with a barbarous obscurity, thus manifestly discovering from how mean a room it can avail to uplift those souls that are subject unto it and to what an eminence it can conduct them with its beams. [Footnote 264: _i.e._ of music, vocal and instrumental.] Although Cimon, loving Iphigenia as he did, might exceed in certain things, as young men in love very often do, nevertheless Aristippus, considering that Love had turned him from a dunce into a man, not only patiently bore with the extravagances into which it might whiles lead him, but encouraged him to ensue its every pleasure. But Cimon, (who refused to be called Galesus, remembering that Iphigenia had called him by the former name,) seeking to put an honourable term to his desire, once and again caused essay Cipseus, Iphigenia's father, so he should give him his daughter to wife; but Cipseus still answered that he had promised her to Pasimondas, a young nobleman of Rhodes, to whom he had no mind to fail of his word. The time coming the covenanted nuptials of Iphigenia and the bridegroom having sent for her, Cimon said to himself, 'Now, O Iphigenia, is the time to prove how much thou are beloved of me. By thee am I become a man and so I may but have thee, I doubt not to become more glorious than any god; and for certain I will or have thee or die.' Accordingly, having secretly recruited certain young noblemen who were his friends and let privily equip a ship with everything apt for naval battle, he put out to sea and awaited the vessel wherein Iphigenia was to be transported to her husband in Rhodes. The bride, after much honour done of her father to the bridegroom's friends, took ship with the latter, who turned their prow towards Rhodes and departed. On the following day, Cimon, who slept not, came out upon them with his ship and cried out, in a loud voice, from the prow, to those who were on board Iphigenia's vessel, saying, 'Stay, strike your sails or look to be beaten and sunken in the sea.' Cimon's adversaries had gotten up their arms on deck and made ready to defend themselves; whereupon he, after speaking the words aforesaid, took a grappling-iron and casting it upon the poop of the Rhodians, who were making off at the top of their speed, made it fast by main force to the prow of his own ship. Then, bold as a lion, he leapt on board their ship, without waiting for any to follow him, as if he held them all for nought, and Love spurring him, he fell upon his enemies with marvellous might, cutlass in hand, striking now this one and now that and hewing them down like sheep. The Rhodians, seeing this, cast down their arms and all as with one voice confessed themselves prisoners; whereupon quoth Cimon to them, 'Young men, it was neither lust of rapine nor hate that I had against you made me depart Cyprus to assail you, arms in hand, in mid sea. That which moved me thereunto was the desire of a thing which to have gotten is a very grave matter to me and to you a very light one to yield me in peace; it is, to wit, Iphigenia, whom I loved over all else and whom, availing not to have of her father on friendly and peaceful wise, Love hath constrained me to win from you as an enemy and by force of arms. Wherefor I mean to be to her that which your friend Pasimondas should have been. Give her to me, then, and begone and God's grace go with you.' The Rhodians, more by force constrained than of freewill, surrendered Iphigenia, weeping, to Cimon, who, seeing her in tears, said to her, 'Noble Lady, be not disconsolate; I am thy Cimon, who by long love have far better deserved to have thee than Pasimondas by plighted faith.' Thereupon he caused carry her aboard his own ship and returning to his companions, let the Rhodians go, without touching aught else of theirs. Then, glad beyond any man alive to have gotten so dear a prey, after devoting some time to comforting the weeping lady, he took counsel with his comrades not to return to Cyprus at that present; wherefore, of one accord, they turned the ship's head towards Crete, where well nigh every one, and especially Cimon, had kinsfolk, old and new, and friends in plenty and where they doubted not to be in safety with Iphigenia. But fortune the unstable, which had cheerfully enough vouchsafed unto Cimon the acquisition of the lady, suddenly changed the inexpressible joyance of the enamoured youth into sad and bitter mourning; for it was not four full told hours since he had left the Rhodians when the night (which Cimon looked to be more delightsome than any he had ever known) came on and with it a very troublous and tempestuous shift of weather, which filled all the sky with clouds and the sea with ravening winds, by reason whereof none could see what to do or whither to steer, nor could any even keep the deck to do any office. How sore concerned was Cimon for this it needeth not to ask; himseemed the gods had vouchsafed him his desire but to make death the more grievous to him, whereof, without that, he had before recked little. His comrades lamented on like wise, but Iphigenia bewailed herself over all, weeping sore and fearing every stroke of the waves; and in her chagrin she bitterly cursed Cimon's love and blamed his presumption, avouching that the tempest had arisen for none other thing but that the gods chose not that he, who would fain against their will have her to wife, should avail to enjoy his presumptuous desire, but, seeing her first die, should after himself perish miserably. Amidst such lamentations and others yet more grievous, the wind waxing hourly fiercer and the seamen knowing not what to do, they came, without witting whither they went or availing to change their course, near to the island of Rhodes, and unknowing that it was Rhodes, they used their every endeavour to get to land thereon, an it were possible, for the saving of their lives. In this fortune was favourable to them and brought them into a little bight of the sea, where the Rhodians whom Cimon had let go had a little before arrived with their ship; nor did they perceive that they had struck the island of Rhodes till the dawn broke and made the sky somewhat clearer, when they found themselves maybe a bowshot distant from the ship left of them the day before. At this Cimon was beyond measure chagrined and fearing lest that should betide them which did in very deed ensue, bade use every endeavour to issue thence and let fortune after carry them whither it should please her, for that they could be nowhere in worse case than there. Accordingly, they made the utmost efforts to put to sea, but in vain; for the wind blew so mightily against them that not only could they not avail to issue from the little harbour, but whether they would or no, it drove them ashore. No sooner were they come thither than they were recognized by the Rhodian sailors, who had landed from their ship, and one of them ran nimbly to a village hard by, whither the young Rhodian gentlemen had betaken themselves, and told the latter that, as luck would have it,[265] Cimon and Iphigenia were come thither aboard their ship, driven, like themselves, by stress of weather. They, hearing this, were greatly rejoiced and repairing in all haste to the sea-shore, with a number of the villagers, took Cimon, together with Iphigenia and all his company, who had now landed and taken counsel together to flee into some neighbouring wood, and carried them to the village. The news coming to Pasimondas, he made his complaint to the senate of the island and according as he had ordered it with them, Lysimachus, in whom the chief magistracy of the Rhodians was for that year vested, coming thither from the city with a great company of men-at-arms, haled Cimon and all his men to prison. On such wise did the wretched and lovelorn Cimon lose his Iphigenia, scantwhile before won of him, without having taken of her more than a kiss or two; whilst she herself was received by many noble ladies of Rhodes and comforted as well for the chagrin had of her seizure as for the fatigue suffered by reason of the troubled sea; and with them she abode against the day appointed for her nuptials. [Footnote 265: _Per fortuna._ This may also be rendered "by tempest," _fortuna_ being a name for a squall or hurricane, which Boccaccio uses elsewhere in the same sense.] As for Cimon and his companions, their lives were granted them, in consideration of the liberty given by them to the young Rhodians the day before,--albeit Pasimondas used his utmost endeavour to procure them to be put to death,--and they were condemned to perpetual prison, wherein, as may well be believed, they abode woebegone and without hope of any relief. However, whilst Pasimondas, as most he might, hastened the preparations for his coming nuptials, fortune, as if repenting her of the sudden injury done to Cimon, brought about a new circumstance for his deliverance, the which was on this wise. Pasimondas had a brother called Ormisdas, less in years, but not in merit, than himself, who had been long in treaty for the hand of a fair and noble damsel of the city, by name Cassandra, whom Lysimachus ardently loved, and the match had sundry times been broken off by divers untoward accidents. Now Pasimondas, being about to celebrate his own nuptials with the utmost splendour, bethought himself that it were excellently well done if he could procure Ormisdas likewise to take wife on the same occasion, not to resort afresh to expense and festival making. Accordingly, he took up again the parleys with Cassandra's parents and brought them to a successful issue; wherefore he and his brother agreed, in concert with them, that Ormisdas should take Cassandra to wife on the same day whenas himself took Iphigenia. Lysimachus hearing this, it was beyond measure displeasing to him, for that he saw himself bereaved of the hope which he cherished, that, an Ormisdas took her not, he should certainly have her. However, like a wise man, he kept his chagrin hidden and fell to considering on what wise he might avail to hinder this having effect, but could see no way possible save the carrying her off. This seemed easy to him to compass for the office which he held, but he accounted the deed far more dishonourable than if he had not held the office in question. Ultimately, however, after long deliberation, honour gave place to love and he determined, come what might of it, to carry off Cassandra. Then, bethinking himself of the company he must have and the course he must hold to do this, he remembered him of Cimon, whom he had in prison with his comrades, and concluded that he might have no better or trustier companion than Cimon in this affair. Accordingly, that same night he had him privily into his chamber and proceeded to bespeak him on this wise: 'Cimon, like as the gods are very excellent and bountiful givers of things to men, even so are they most sagacious provers of their virtues, and those, whom they find resolute and constant under all circumstances, they hold deserving, as the most worthy, of the highest recompenses. They have been minded to have more certain proof of thy worth than could be shown by thee within the limits of thy father's house, whom I know to be abundantly endowed with riches; wherefore, first, with the poignant instigations of love they brought thee from a senseless animal to be a man, and after with foul fortune and at this present with prison dour, they would fain try if thy spirit change not from that which it was, whenas thou wast scantwhile glad of the gotten prize. If that[266] be the same as it was erst, they never yet vouchsafed thee aught so gladsome as that which they are presently prepared to bestow on thee and which, so thou mayst recover thy wonted powers and resume thy whilom spirit, I purpose to discover to thee. [Footnote 266: _i.e._ thy spirit.] Pasimondas, rejoicing in thy misadventure and a diligent promoter of thy death, bestirreth himself as most he may to celebrate his nuptials with thine Iphigenia, so therein he may enjoy the prize which fortune first blithely conceded thee and after, growing troubled, took from thee of a sudden. How much this must grieve thee, an thou love as I believe, I know by myself, to whom Ormisdas his brother prepareth in one same day to do a like injury in the person of Cassandra, whom I love over all else. To escape so great an unright and annoy of fortune, I see no way left open of her to us, save the valour of our souls and the might of our right hands, wherein it behoveth us take our swords and make us a way to the carrying off of our two mistresses, thee for the second and me for the first time. If, then, it be dear to thee to have again--I will not say thy liberty, whereof methinketh thou reckest little without thy lady, but--thy mistress, the gods have put her in thy hands, an thou be willing to second me in my emprize.' All Cimon's lost spirit was requickened in him by these words and he replied, without overmuch consideration, 'Lysimachus, thou canst have no stouter or trustier comrade than myself in such an enterprise, an that be to ensue thereof for me which thou avouchest; wherefore do thou command me that which thou deemest should be done of me, and thou shalt find thyself wonder-puissantly seconded.' Then said Lysimachus, 'On the third day from this the new-married wives will for the first time enter their husbands' houses, whereinto thou with thy companions armed and I with certain of my friends, in whom I put great trust, will make our way towards nightfall and snatching up our mistresses out of the midst of the guests, will carry them off to a ship, which I have caused secretly equip, slaying whosoever shall presume to offer opposition.' The devise pleased Cimon and he abode quiet in prison until the appointed time. The wedding-day being come, great and magnificent was the pomp of the festival and every part of the two brothers' house was full of mirth and merrymaking; whereupon Lysimachus, having made ready everything needful, divided Cimon and his companions, together with his own friends, all armed under their clothes, into three parties and having first kindled them to his purpose with many words, secretly despatched one party to the harbour, so none might hinder their going aboard the ship, whenas need should be. Then, coming with the other twain, whenas it seemed to him time, to Pasimondas his house, he left one party of them at the door, so as none might shut them up therewithin or forbid them the issue, and with Cimon and the rest went up by the stairs. Coming to the saloon where the new-wedded brides were seated orderly at meat with many other ladies, they rushed in upon them and overthrowing the tables, took each his mistress and putting them in the hands of their comrades, bade straightway carry them to the ship that was in waiting. The brides fell a-weeping and shrieking, as did likewise the other ladies and the servants, and the whole house was of a sudden full of clamour and lamentation. Cimon and Lysimachus and their companions, drawing their swords, made for the stairs, without any opposition, all giving way to them, and as they descended, Pasimondas presented himself before them, with a great cudgel in his hand, being drawn thither by the outcry; but Cimon dealt him a swashing blow on the head and cleaving it sheer in sunder, laid him dead at his feet. The wretched Ormisdas, running to his brother's aid, was on like wise slain by one of Cimon's strokes, and divers others who sought to draw nigh them were in like manner wounded and beaten off by the companions of the latter and Lysimachus, who, leaving the house full of blood and clamour and weeping and woe, drew together and made their way to the ship with their prizes, unhindered of any. Here they embarked with their mistresses and all their companions, the shore being now full of armed folk come to the rescue of the ladies, and thrusting the oars into the water, made off, rejoicing, about their business. Coming presently to Crete, they were there joyfully received by many, both friends and kinsfolk, and espousing their mistresses with great pomp, gave themselves up to the glad enjoyment of their purchase. Loud and long were the clamours and differences in Cyprus and in Rhodes by reason of their doings; but, ultimately, their friends and kinsfolk, interposing in one and the other place, found means so to adjust matters that, after some exile, Cimon joyfully returned to Cyprus with Iphigenia, whilst Lysimachus on like wise returned to Rhodes with Cassandra, and each lived long and happily with his mistress in his own country." THE SECOND STORY [Day the Fifth] COSTANZA LOVETH MARTUCCIO GOMITO AND HEARING THAT HE IS DEAD, EMBARKETH FOR DESPAIR ALONE IN A BOAT, WHICH IS CARRIED BY THE WIND TO SUSA. FINDING HER LOVER ALIVE AT TUNIS, SHE DISCOVERETH HERSELF TO HIM AND HE, BEING GREAT IN FAVOUR WITH THE KING FOR COUNSELS GIVEN, ESPOUSETH HER AND RETURNETH RICH WITH HER TO LIPARI The queen, seeing Pamfilo's story at an end, after she had much commended it, enjoined Emilia to follow on, telling another, and she accordingly began thus: "Every one must naturally delight in those things wherein he seeth rewards ensue according to the affections;[267] and for that love in the long run deserveth rather happiness than affliction, I shall, intreating of the present theme, obey the queen with much greater pleasure to myself than I did the king in that of yesterday. [Footnote 267: Syn. inclinations (_affezioni_). This is a somewhat obscure passage, owing to the vagueness of the word _affezioni_ (syn. _affetti_) in this position, and may be rendered, with about equal probability, in more than one way.] You must know, then, dainty dames, that near unto Sicily is an islet called Lipari, wherein, no great while agone, was a very fair damsel called Costanza, born of a very considerable family there. It chanced that a young man of the same island, called Martuccio Gomito, who was very agreeable and well bred and of approved worth[268] in his craft,[269] fell in love with her; and she in like manner so burned for him that she was never easy save whenas she saw him. Martuccio, wishing to have her to wife, caused demand her of her father, who answered that he was poor and that therefore he would not give her to him. The young man, enraged to see himself rejected for poverty, in concert with certain of his friends and kinsmen, equipped a light ship and swore never to return to Lipari, except rich. Accordingly, he departed thence and turning corsair, fell to cruising off the coast of Barbary and plundering all who were weaker than himself; wherein fortune was favourable enough to him, had he known how to set bounds to his wishes; but, it sufficing him not to have waxed very rich, he and his comrades, in a brief space of time, it befell that, whilst they sought to grow overrich, he was, after a long defence, taken and plundered with all his companions by certain ships of the Saracens, who, after scuttling the vessel and sacking the greater part of the crew, carried Martuccio to Tunis, where he was put in prison and long kept in misery. [Footnote 268: Or "eminent" (_valoroso_), _i.e._ in modern parlance, "a man of merit and talent."] [Footnote 269: _Valoroso nel suo mestiere._ It does not appear that Martuccio was a craftsman and it is possible, therefore, that Boccaccio intended the word _mestiere_ to be taken in the sense (to me unknown) of "condition" or "estate," in which case the passage would read, "a man of worth for (_i.e._ as far as comported with) his [mean] estate"; and this seems a probable reading.] The news was brought to Lipari, not by one or by two, but by many and divers persons, that he and all on board the bark had been drowned; whereupon the girl, who had been beyond measure woebegone for her lover's departure, hearing that he was dead with the others, wept sore and resolved in herself to live no longer; but, her heart suffering her not to slay herself by violence, she determined to give a new occasion[270] to her death.[271] Accordingly, she issued secretly forth of her father's house one night and betaking herself to the harbour, happened upon a fishing smack, a little aloof from the other ships, which, for that its owners had but then landed therefrom, she found furnished with mast and sail and oars. In this she hastily embarked and rowed herself out to sea; then, being somewhat skilled in the mariner's art, as the women of that island mostly are, she made sail and casting the oars and rudder adrift, committed herself altogether to the mercy of the waves, conceiving that it must needs happen that the wind would either overturn a boat without lading or steersman or drive it upon some rock and break it up, whereby she could not, even if she would, escape, but must of necessity be drowned. Accordingly, wrapping her head in a mantle, she laid herself, weeping, in the bottom of the boat. [Footnote 270: Lit. necessity (_necessità_).] [Footnote 271: _i.e._ to use a new (or strange) fashion of exposing herself to an inevitable death (_nuova necessità dare alla sua morte_).] But it befell altogether otherwise than as she conceived, for that, the wind being northerly and very light and there being well nigh no sea, the boat rode it out in safety and brought her on the morrow, about vespers, to a beach near a town called Susa, a good hundred miles beyond Tunis. The girl, who, for aught that might happen, had never lifted nor meant to lift her head, felt nothing of being ashore more than at sea;[272] but, as chance would have it, there was on the beach, whenas the bark struck upon it, a poor woman in act to take up from the sun the nets of the fishermen her masters, who, seeing the bark, marvelled how it should be left to strike full sail upon the land. Thinking that the fishermen aboard were asleep, she went up to the bark and seeing none therein but the damsel aforesaid, who slept fast, called her many times and having at last aroused her and knowing her by her habit for a Christian, asked her in Latin how she came there in that bark all alone. The girl, hearing her speak Latin, misdoubted her a shift of wind must have driven her back to Lipari and starting suddenly to her feet, looked about her, but knew not the country, and seeing herself on land, asked the good woman where she was; to which she answered, 'Daughter mine, thou art near unto Susa in Barbary.' The girl, hearing this, was woeful for that God had not chosen to vouchsafe her the death she sought, and being in fear of shame and knowing not what to do, she seated herself at the foot of her bark and fell a-weeping. [Footnote 272: _i.e._ knew not whether she was ashore or afloat, so absorbed was she in her despair.] The good woman, seeing this, took pity upon her and brought her, by dint of entreaty, into a little hut of hers and there so humoured her that she told her how she came thither; whereupon, seeing that she was fasting, she set before her her own dry bread and somewhat of fish and water and so besought her that she ate a little. Costanza after asked her who she was that she spoke Latin thus; to which she answered that she was from Trapani and was called Carapresa and served certain Christian fishermen there. The girl, hearing the name of Carapresa, albeit she was exceeding woebegone and knew not what reason moved her thereunto, took it unto herself for a good augury to have heard this name[273] and began to hope, without knowing what, and somewhat to abate of her wish to die. Then, without discovering who or whence she was, she earnestly besought the good woman to have pity, for the love of God, on her youth and give her some counsel how she might escape any affront being offered her. [Footnote 273: Or "augured well from the hearing of the name." _Carapresa_ signifies "a dear or precious prize, gain or capture."] Carapresa, like a good woman as she was, hearing this, left her in her hut, whilst she hastily gathered up her nets; then, returning to her, she wrapped her from head to foot in her own mantle and carried her to Susa, where she said to her, 'Costanza, I will bring thee into the house of a very good Saracen lady, whom I serve oftentimes in her occasions and who is old and pitiful. I will commend thee to her as most I may and I am very certain that she will gladly receive thee and use thee as a daughter; and do thou, abiding with her, study thine utmost, in serving her, to gain her favour, against God send thee better fortune.' And as she said, so she did. The lady, who was well stricken in years, hearing the woman's story, looked the girl in the face and fell a-weeping; then taking her by the hand, she kissed her on the forehead and carried her into her house, where she and sundry other women abode, without any man, and wrought all with their hands at various crafts, doing divers works of silk and palm-fibre and leather. Costanza soon learned to do some of these and falling to working with the rest, became in such favour with the lady and the others that it was a marvellous thing; nor was it long before, with their teaching, she learnt their language. What while she abode thus at Susa, being now mourned at home for lost and dead, it befell that, one Mariabdela[274] being King of Tunis, a certain youth of great family and much puissance in Granada, avouching that that kingdom belonged to himself, levied a great multitude of folk and came upon King Mariabdela, to oust him from the kingship. This came to the ears of Martuccio Gomito in prison and he knowing the Barbary language excellent well and hearing that the king was making great efforts for his defence, said to one of those who had him and his fellows in keeping, 'An I might have speech of the king, my heart assureth me that I could give him a counsel, by which he should gain this his war.' The keeper reported these words to his chief, and he carried them incontinent to the king, who bade fetch Martuccio and asked him what might be his counsel; whereto he made answer on this wise, 'My lord, if, what time I have otherwhiles frequented these your dominions, I have noted aright the order you keep in your battles, meseemeth you wage them more with archers than with aught else; wherefore, if a means could be found whereby your adversary's bowmen should lack of arrows, whilst your own had abundance thereof, methinketh your battle would be won.' 'Without doubt,' answered the king, 'and this might be compassed, I should deem myself assured of victory.' Whereupon, 'My lord,' quoth Martuccio, 'an you will, this may very well be done, and you shall hear how. You must let make strings for your archers' bows much thinner than those which are everywhere commonly used and after let make arrows, the notches whereof shall not serve but for these thin strings. This must be so secretly done that your adversary should know nought thereof; else would he find a remedy therefor; and the reason for which I counsel you thus is this. After your enemy's archers and your own shall have shot all their arrows, you know that, the battle lasting, it will behove your foes to gather up the arrows shot by your men and the latter in like manner to gather theirs; but the enemy will not be able to make use of your arrows, by reason of the strait notches which will not take their thick strings, whereas the contrary will betide your men of the enemy's arrows, for that the thin strings will excellently well take the wide-notched arrows; and so your men will have abundance of ammunition, whilst the others will suffer default thereof.' [Footnote 274: This name is apparently a distortion of the Arabic _Amir Abdullah_.] The king, who was a wise prince, was pleased with Martuccio's counsel and punctually following it, found himself thereby to have won his war. Wherefore Martuccio became in high favour with him and rose in consequence to great and rich estate. The report of these things spread over the land and it came presently to Costanza's ears that Martuccio Gomito, whom she had long deemed dead, was alive, whereupon the love of him, that was now grown cool in her heart, broke out of a sudden into fresh flame and waxed greater than ever, whilst dead hope revived in her. Therewithal she altogether discovered her every adventure to the good lady, with whom she dwelt, and told her that she would fain go to Tunis, so she might satisfy her eyes of that whereof her ears had made them desireful, through the reports received. The old lady greatly commended her purpose and taking ship with her, carried her, as if she had been her mother, to Tunis, where they were honourably entertained in the house of a kinswoman of hers. There she despatched Carapresa, who had come with them, to see what she could learn of Martuccio, and she, finding him alive and in great estate and reporting this to the old gentlewoman, it pleased the latter to will to be she who should signify unto Martuccio that his Costanza was come thither to him; wherefore, betaking herself one day whereas he was, she said to him, 'Martuccio, there is come to my house a servant of thine from Lipari, who would fain speak with thee privily there; wherefore, not to trust to others, I have myself, at his desire, come to give thee notice thereof.' He thanked her and followed her to her house, where when Costanza saw him, she was like to die of gladness and unable to contain herself, ran straightway with open arms to throw herself on his neck; then, embracing him, without availing to say aught, she fell a-weeping tenderly, both for compassion of their past ill fortunes and for present gladness. Martuccio, seeing his mistress, abode awhile dumb for amazement, then said sighing, 'O my Costanza, art thou then yet alive? It is long since I heard that thou wast lost; nor in our country was aught known of thee.' So saying, he embraced her, weeping, and kissed her tenderly. Costanza then related to him all that had befallen her and the honourable treatment which she had received from the gentlewoman with whom she dwelt; and Martuccio, after much discourse, taking leave of her, repaired to the king his master and told him all, to wit, his own adventures and those of the damsel, adding that, with his leave, he meant to take her to wife, according to our law. The king marvelled at these things and sending for the damsel and hearing from her that it was even as Martuccio had avouched, said to her, 'Then hast thou right well earned him to husband.' Then, letting bring very great and magnificent gifts, he gave part thereof to her and part to Martuccio, granting them leave to do one with the other that which was most pleasing unto each of them; whereupon Martuccio, having entreated the gentlewoman who had harboured Costanza with the utmost honour and thanked her for that which she had done to serve her and bestowed on her such gifts as sorted with her quality, commended her to God and took leave of her, he and his mistress, not without many tears from the latter. Then, with the king's leave, they embarked with Carapresa on board a little ship and returned with a fair wind to Lipari, where so great was the rejoicing that it might never be told. There Martuccio took Costanza to wife and held great and goodly nuptials; after which they long in peace and repose had enjoyment of their loves." THE THIRD STORY [Day the Fifth] PIETRO BOCCAMAZZA, FLEEING WITH AGNOLELLA, FALLETH AMONG THIEVES; THE GIRL ESCAPETH THROUGH A WOOD AND IS LED [BY FORTUNE] TO A CASTLE, WHILST PIETRO IS TAKEN BY THE THIEVES, BUT PRESENTLY, ESCAPING FROM THEIR HANDS, WINNETH, AFTER DIVERS ADVENTURES, TO THE CASTLE WHERE HIS MISTRESS IS AND ESPOUSING HER, RETURNETH WITH HER TO ROME There was none among all the company but commended Emilia's story, which the queen seeing to be finished, turned to Elisa and bade her follow on. Accordingly, studious to obey, she began: "There occurreth to my mind, charming ladies, an ill night passed by a pair of indiscreet young lovers; but, for that many happy days ensued thereon, it pleaseth me to tell the story, as one that conformeth to our proposition. There was, a little while agone, at Rome,--once the head, as it is nowadays the tail of the world,[275]--a youth, called Pietro Boccamazza, of a very worshipful family among those of the city, who fell in love with a very fair and lovesome damsel called Agnolella, the daughter of one Gigliuozzo Saullo, a plebeian, but very dear to the Romans, and loving her, he contrived so to do that the girl began to love him no less than he loved her; whereupon, constrained by fervent love and himseeming he might no longer brook the cruel pain that the desire he had of her gave him, he demanded her in marriage; which no sooner did his kinsfolk know than they all repaired to him and chid him sore for that which he would have done; and on the other hand they gave Gigliuozzo to understand that he should make no account of Pietro's words, for that, an he did this, they would never have him for friend or kinsman. Pietro seeing that way barred whereby alone he deemed he might avail to win to his desire, was like to die of chagrin, and had Gigliuozzo consented, he would have taken his daughter to wife, in despite of all his kindred. However, he determined, an it liked the girl, to contrive to give effect to their wishes, and having assured himself, by means of an intermediary, that this was agreeable to her, he agreed with her that she should flee with him from Rome. [Footnote 275: Clement V. early in the fourteenth century removed the Papal See to Avignon, where it continued to be during the reigns of the five succeeding Popes, Rome being in the meantime abandoned by the Papal Court, till Gregory XI, in the year 1376 again took up his residence at the latter city. It is apparently to this circumstance that Boccaccio alludes in the text.] Accordingly, having taken order for this, Pietro arose very early one morning and taking horse with the damsel, set out for Anagni, where he had certain friends in whom he trusted greatly. They had no leisure to make a wedding of it, for that they feared to be followed, but rode on, devising of their love and now and again kissing one another. It chanced that, when they came mayhap eight miles from Rome, the way not being overwell known to Pietro, they took a path to the left, whereas they should have kept to the right; and scarce had they ridden more than two miles farther when they found themselves near a little castle, wherefrom, as soon as they were seen, there issued suddenly a dozen footmen. The girl, espying these, whenas they were already close upon them, cried out, saying, 'Pietro, let us begone, for we are attacked'; then, turning her rouncey's head, as best she knew, towards a great wood hard by, she clapped her spurs fast to his flank and held on to the saddlebow, whereupon the nag, feeling himself goaded, bore her into the wood at a gallop. Pietro, who went gazing more at her face than at the road, not having become so quickly aware as she of the new comers, was overtaken and seized by them, whilst he still looked, without yet perceiving them, to see whence they should come. They made him alight from his hackney and enquired who he was, which he having told, they proceeded to take counsel together and said, 'This fellow is of the friends of our enemies; what else should we do but take from him these clothes and this nag and string him up to one of yonder oaks, to spite the Orsini?' They all fell in with this counsel and bade Pietro put off his clothes, which as he was in act to do, foreboding him by this of the ill fate which awaited him, it chanced that an ambush of good five-and-twenty footmen started suddenly out upon the others, crying, 'Kill! Kill!' The rogues, taken by surprise, let Pietro be and turned to stand upon their defence, but, seeing themselves greatly outnumbered by their assailants, betook themselves to flight, whilst the others pursued them. Pietro, seeing this, hurriedly caught up his gear and springing on his hackney, addressed himself, as best he might, to flee by the way he had seen his mistress take; but finding her not and seeing neither road nor footpath in the wood neither perceiving any horse's hoof marks, he was the woefullest man alive; and as soon as himseemed he was safe and out of reach of those who had taken him, as well as of the others by whom they had been assailed, he began to drive hither and thither about the wood, weeping and calling; but none answered him and he dared not turn back and knew not where he might come, an he went forward, more by token that he was in fear of the wild beasts that use to harbour in the woods, at once for himself and for his mistress, whom he looked momently to see strangled of some bear or some wolf. On this wise, then, did the unlucky Pietro range all day about the wood, crying and calling, whiles going backward, when as he thought to go forward, until, what with shouting and weeping and fear and long fasting, he was so spent that he could no more and seeing the night come and knowing not what other course to take, he dismounted from his hackney and tied the latter to a great oak, into which he climbed, so he might not be devoured of the wild beasts in the night. A little after the moon rose and the night being very clear and bright, he abode there on wake, sighing and weeping and cursing his ill luck, for that he durst not go to sleep, lest he should fall, albeit, had he had more commodity thereof, grief and the concern in which he was for his mistress would not have suffered him to sleep. Meanwhile, the damsel, fleeing, as we have before said, and knowing not whither to betake herself, save whereas it seemed good to her hackney to carry her, fared on so far into the wood that she could not see where she had entered, and went wandering all day about that desert place, no otherwise than as Pietro had done, now pausing [to hearken] and now going on, weeping the while and calling and making moan of her illhap. At last, seeing that Pietro came not and it being now eventide, she happened on a little path, into which her hackney turned, and following it, after she had ridden some two or more miles she saw a little house afar off. Thither she made her way as quickliest she might and found there a good man sore stricken in years and a woman, his wife alike old, who, seeing her alone, said to her, 'Daughter, what dost thou alone at this hour in these parts?' The damsel replied, weeping, that she had lost her company in the wood and enquired how near she was to Anagni. 'Daughter mine,' answered the good man, 'this is not the way to go to Anagni; it is more than a dozen miles hence.' Quoth the girl, 'And how far is it hence to any habitations where I may have a lodging for the night?' To which the good man answered, 'There is none anywhere so near that thou mayst come thither by daylight.' Then said the damsel, 'Since I can go no otherwhere, will it please you harbour me here to-night for the love of God?' 'Young lady,' replied the old man, 'thou art very welcome to abide with us this night; algates, we must warn you that there are many ill companies, both of friends and of foes that come and go about these parts both by day and by night, who many a time do us sore annoy and great mischief; and if, by ill chance, thou being here, there come any of them and seeing thee, fair and young as thou art, should offer to do thee affront and shame, we could not avail to succour thee therefrom. We deem it well to apprise thee of this, so that, an it betide, thou mayst not be able to complain of us.' The girl, seeing that it was late, albeit the old man's words affrighted her, said, 'An it please God, He will keep both you and me from that annoy; and even if it befall me, it were a much less evil to be maltreated of men than to be mangled of the wild beasts in the woods.' So saying, she alighted from the rouncey and entered the poor man's house, where she supped with him on such poor fare as they had and after, all clad as she was, cast herself, together with them, on a little bed of theirs. She gave not over sighing and bewailing her own mishap and that of Pietro all night, knowing not if she might hope other than ill of him; and when it drew near unto morning, she heard a great trampling of folk approaching, whereupon she arose and betaking herself to a great courtyard, that lay behind the little house, saw in a corner a great heap of hay, in which she hid herself, so she might not be so quickly found, if those folk should come thither. Hardly had she made an end of hiding herself when these, who were a great company of ill knaves, came to the door of the little house and causing open to them, entered and found Agnolella's hackney yet all saddled and bridled; whereupon they asked who was there and the good man, not seeing the girl, answered, 'None is here save ourselves; but this rouncey, from whomsoever it may have escaped, came hither yestereve and we brought it into the house, lest the wolves should eat it.' 'Then,' said the captain of the troop, 'since it hath none other master, it is fair prize for us.' Thereupon they all dispersed about the little house and some went into the courtyard, where, laying down their lances and targets, it chanced that one of them, knowing not what else to do, cast his lance into the hay and came very near to slay the hidden girl and she to discover herself, for that the lance passed so close to her left breast that the steel tore a part of her dress, wherefore she was like to utter a great cry, fearing to be wounded; but, remembering where she was, she abode still, all fear-stricken. Presently, the rogues, having dressed the kids and other meat they had with them and eaten and drunken, went off, some hither and some thither, about their affairs, and carried with them the girl's hackney. When they had gone some distance, the good man asked his wife, 'What befell of our young woman, who came thither yestereve? I have seen nothing of her since we arose.' The good wife replied that she knew not and went looking for her, whereupon the girl, hearing that the rogues were gone, came forth of the hay, to the no small contentment of her host, who, rejoiced to see that she had not fallen into their hands, said to her, it now growing day, 'Now that the day cometh, we will, an it please thee, accompany thee to a castle five miles hence, where thou wilt be in safety; but needs must thou go afoot, for yonder ill folk, that now departed hence, have carried off thy rouncey.' The girl concerned herself little about the nag, but besought them for God's sake to bring her to the castle in question, whereupon they set out and came thither about half tierce. Now this castle belonged to one of the Orsini family, by name Lionello di Campodifiore, and there by chance was his wife, a very pious and good lady, who, seeing the girl, knew her forthright and received her with joy and would fain know orderly how she came thither. Agnolella told her all and the lady, who knew Pietro on like wise, as being a friend of her husband's, was grieved for the ill chance that had betided and hearing where he had been taken, doubted not but he was dead; wherefore she said to Agnolella, 'Since thou knowest not what is come of Pietro, thou shalt abide here till such time as I shall have a commodity to send thee safe to Rome.' Meanwhile Pietro abode, as woebegone as could be, in the oak, and towards the season of the first sleep, he saw a good score of wolves appear, which came all about his hackney, as soon as they saw him. The horse, scenting them, tugged at his bridle, till he broke it, and would have fled, but being surrounded and unable to escape, he defended himself a great while with his teeth and his hoofs. At last, however, he was brought down and strangled and quickly disembowelled by the wolves, which took all their fill of his flesh and having devoured him, made off, without leaving aught but the bones, whereat Pietro, to whom it seemed he had in the rouncey a companion and a support in his troubles, was sore dismayed and misdoubted he should never avail to win forth of the wood. However, towards daybreak, being perished with cold in the oak and looking still all about him, he caught sight of a great fire before him, mayhap a mile off, wherefore, as soon as it was grown broad day, he came down from the oak, not without fear, and making for the fire, fared on till he came to the place, where he found shepherds eating and making merry about it, by whom he was received for compassion. After he had eaten and warmed himself, he acquainted them with his misadventure and telling them how he came thither alone, asked them if there was in those parts a village or castle, to which he might betake himself. The shepherds answered that some three miles thence there was a castle belonging to Lionello di Campodifiore, whose lady was presently there; whereat Pietro was much rejoiced and besought them that one of them should accompany him to the castle, which two of them readily did. There he found some who knew him and was in act to enquire for a means of having search made about the forest for the damsel, when he was bidden to the lady's presence and incontinent repaired to her. Never was joy like unto his, when he saw Agnolella with her, and he was all consumed with desire to embrace her, but forbore of respect for the lady, and if he was glad, the girl's joy was no less great. The gentle lady, having welcomed him and made much of him and heard from him what had betided him, chid him amain of that which he would have done against the will of his kinsfolk; but, seeing that he was e'en resolved upon this and that it was agreeable to the girl also, she said in herself, 'Why do I weary myself in vain? These two love and know each other and both are friends of my husband. Their desire is an honourable one and meseemeth it is pleasing to God, since the one of them hath scaped the gibbet and the other the lance-thrust and both the wild beasts of the wood; wherefore be it as they will.' Then, turning to the lovers, she said to them, 'If you have it still at heart to be man and wife, it is my pleasure also; be it so, and let the nuptials be celebrated here at Lionello's expense. I will engage after to make peace between you and your families.' Accordingly, they were married then and there, to the great contentment of Pietro and the yet greater satisfaction of Agnolella, and the gentle lady made them honourable nuptials, in so far as might be in the mountains. There, with the utmost delight, they enjoyed the first-fruits of their love and a few days after, they took horse with the lady and returned, under good escort, to Rome, where she found Pietro's kinsfolk sore incensed at that which he had done, but contrived to make his peace with them, and he lived with his Agnolella in all peace and pleasance to a good old age." THE FOURTH STORY [Day the Fifth] RICCIARDO MANARDI, BEING FOUND BY MESSER LIZIO DA VALBONA WITH HIS DAUGHTER, ESPOUSETH HER AND ABIDETH IN PEACE WITH HER FATHER Elisa holding her peace and hearkening to the praises bestowed by the ladies her companions upon her story, the Queen charged Filostrato tell one of his own, whereupon he began, laughing, "I have been so often rated by so many of you ladies for having imposed on you matter for woeful discourse and such as tended to make you weep, that methinketh I am beholden, an I would in some measure requite you that annoy, to relate somewhat whereby I may make you laugh a little; and I mean therefore to tell you, in a very short story, of a love that, after no worse hindrance than sundry sighs and a brief fright, mingled with shame, came to a happy issue. It is, then, noble ladies, no great while ago since there lived in Romagna a gentleman of great worth and good breeding, called Messer Lizio da Valbona, to whom, well nigh in his old age, it chanced there was born of his wife, Madam Giacomina by name, a daughter, who grew up fair and agreeable beyond any other of the country; and for that she was the only child that remained to her father and mother, they loved and tendered her exceeding dear and guarded her with marvellous diligence, looking to make some great alliance by her. Now there was a young man of the Manardi of Brettinoro, comely and lusty of his person, by name Ricciardo, who much frequented Messer Lizio's house and conversed amain with him and of whom the latter and his lady took no more account than they would have taken of a son of theirs. Now, this Ricciardo, looking once and again upon the young lady and seeing her very fair and sprightly and commendable of manners and fashions, fell desperately in love with her, but was very careful to keep his love secret. The damsel presently became aware thereof and without anywise seeking to shun the stroke, began on like wise to love him; whereat Ricciardo was mightily rejoiced. He had many a time a mind to speak to her, but kept silence of misdoubtance; however, one day, taking courage and opportunity, he said to her, 'I prithee, Caterina, cause me not die of love.' To which she straightway made answer, 'Would God thou wouldst not cause _me_ die!' This answer added much courage and pleasure to Ricciardo and he said to her, 'Never shall aught that may be agreeable to thee miscarry[276] for me; but it resteth with thee to find a means of saving thy life and mine.' 'Ricciardo,' answered she, 'thou seest how straitly I am guarded; wherefore, for my part, I cannot see how thou mayst avail to come at me; but, if thou canst see aught that I may do without shame to myself, tell it me and I will do it.' Ricciardo, having bethought himself of sundry things, answered promptly, 'My sweet Caterina, I can see no way, except that thou lie or make shift to come upon the gallery that adjoineth thy father's garden, where an I knew that thou wouldst be anights, I would without fail contrive to come to thee, how high soever it may be.' 'If thou have the heart to come thither,' rejoined Caterina, 'methinketh I can well enough win to be there.' Ricciardo assented and they kissed each other once only in haste and went their ways. [Footnote 276: Lit. stand (_stare_), _i.e._ abide undone.] Next day, it being then near the end of May, the girl began to complain before her mother that she had not been able to sleep that night for the excessive heat. Quoth the lady, 'Of what heat dost thou speak, daughter? Nay, it was nowise hot.' 'Mother mine,' answered Caterina, 'you should say "To my seeming," and belike you would say sooth; but you should consider how much hotter are young girls than ladies in years.' 'Daughter mine,' rejoined the lady, 'that is true; but I cannot make it cold and hot at my pleasure, as belike thou wouldst have me do. We must put up with the weather, such as the seasons make it; maybe this next night will be cooler and thou wilt sleep better.' 'God grant it may be so!' cried Caterina. 'But it is not usual for the nights to go cooling, as it groweth towards summer.' 'Then what wouldst thou have done?' asked the mother; and she answered, 'An it please my father and you, I would fain have a little bed made in the gallery, that is beside his chamber and over his garden, and there sleep. There I should hear the nightingale sing and having a cooler place to lie in, I should fare much better than in your chamber.' Quoth the mother, 'Daughter, comfort thyself; I will tell thy father, and as he will, so will we do.' Messer Lizio hearing all this from his wife, said, for that he was an old man and maybe therefore somewhat cross-grained, 'What nightingale is this to whose song she would sleep? I will yet make her sleep to the chirp of the crickets.' Caterina, coming to know this, more of despite than for the heat, not only slept not that night, but suffered not her mother to sleep, still complaining of the great heat. Accordingly, next morning, the latter repaired to her husband and said to him, 'Sir, you have little tenderness for yonder girl; what mattereth it to you if she lie in the gallery? She could get no rest all night for the heat. Besides, can you wonder at her having a mind to hear the nightingale sing, seeing she is but a child? Young folk are curious of things like themselves. Messer Lizio, hearing this, said, 'Go to, make her a bed there, such as you think fit, and bind it about with some curtain or other, and there let her lie and hear the nightingale sing to her heart's content.' The girl, learning this, straightway let make a bed in the gallery and meaning to lie there that same night, watched till she saw Ricciardo and made him a signal appointed between them, by which he understood what was to be done. Messer Lizio, hearing the girl gone to bed, locked a door that led from his chamber into the gallery and betook himself likewise to sleep. As for Ricciardo, as soon as he heard all quiet on every hand, he mounted a wall, with the aid of a ladder, and thence, laying hold of certain toothings of another wall, he made his way, with great toil and danger, if he had fallen, up to the gallery, where he was quietly received by the girl with the utmost joy. Then, after many kisses, they went to bed together and took delight and pleasure one of another well nigh all that night, making the nightingale sing many a time. The nights being short and the delight great and it being now, though they thought it not, near day, they fell asleep without any covering, so overheated were they what with the weather and what with their sport, Caterina having her right arm entwined about Ricciardo's neck and holding him with the left hand by that thing which you ladies think most shame to name among men. As they slept on this wise, without awaking, the day came on and Messer Lizio arose and remembering him that his daughter lay in the gallery, opened the door softly, saying in himself, 'Let us see how the nightingale hath made Caterina sleep this night.' Then, going in, he softly lifted up the serge, wherewith the bed was curtained about, and saw his daughter and Ricciardo lying asleep, naked and uncovered, embraced as it hath before been set out; whereupon, having recognized Ricciardo, he went out again and repairing to his wife's chamber, called to her, saying, 'Quick, wife, get thee up and come see, for that thy daughter hath been so curious of the nightingale that she hath e'en taken it and hath it in hand.' 'How can that be?' quoth she; and he answered, 'Thou shalt see it, an thou come quickly.' Accordingly, she made haste to dress herself and quietly followed her husband to the bed, where, the curtain being drawn, Madam Giacomina might plainly see how her daughter had taken and held the nightingale, which she had so longed to hear sing; whereat the lady, holding herself sore deceived of Ricciardo, would have cried out and railed at him; but Messer Lizio said to her, 'Wife, as thou holdest my love dear, look thou say not a word, for, verily, since she hath gotten it, it shall be hers. Ricciardo is young and rich and gently born; he cannot make us other than a good son-in-law. An he would part from me on good terms, needs must he first marry her, so it will be found that he hath put the nightingale in his own cage and not in that of another.' The lady was comforted to see that her husband was not angered at the matter and considering that her daughter had passed a good night and rested well and had caught the nightingale, to boot, she held her tongue. Nor had they abidden long after these words when Ricciardo awoke and seeing that it was broad day, gave himself over for lost and called Caterina, saying, 'Alack, my soul, how shall we do, for the day is come and hath caught me here?' Whereupon Messer Lizio came forward and lifting the curtain, answered, 'We shall do well.' When Ricciardo saw him, himseemed the heart was torn out of his body and sitting up in bed, he said, 'My lord, I crave your pardon for God's sake. I acknowledged to have deserved death, as a disloyal and wicked man; wherefore do you with me as best pleaseth you; but, I prithee, an it may be, have mercy on my life and let me not die.' 'Ricciardo,' answered Messer Lizio, 'the love that I bore thee and the faith I had in thee merited not this return; yet, since thus it is and youth hath carried thee away into such a fault, do thou, to save thyself from death and me from shame, take Caterina to thy lawful wife, so that, like as this night she hath been thine, she may e'en be thine so long as she shall live. On this wise thou mayst gain my pardon and thine own safety; but, an thou choose not to do this, commend thy soul to God.' Whilst these words were saying, Caterina let go the nightingale and covering herself, fell to weeping sore and beseeching her father to pardon Ricciardo, whilst on the other hand she entreated her lover to do as Messer Lizio wished, so they might long pass such nights together in security. But there needed not overmany prayers, for that, on the one hand, shame of the fault committed and desire to make amends for it, and on the other, the fear of death and the wish to escape,--to say nothing of his ardent love and longing to possess the thing beloved,--made Ricciardo freely and without hesitation avouch himself ready to do that which pleased Messer Lizio; whereupon the latter borrowed of Madam Giacomina one of her rings and there, without budging, Ricciardo in their presence took Caterina to his wife. This done, Messer Lizio and his lady departed, saying, 'Now rest yourselves, for belike you have more need thereof than of rising.' They being gone, the young folk clipped each other anew and not having run more than half a dozen courses overnight, they ran other twain ere they arose and so made an end of the first day's tilting. Then they arose and Ricciardo having had more orderly conference with Messer Lizio, a few days after, as it beseemed, he married the damsel over again, in the presence of their friends and kinsfolk, and brought her with great pomp to his own house. There he held goodly and honourable nuptials and after went long nightingale-fowling with her to his heart's content, in peace and solace, both by night and by day." THE FIFTH STORY [Day the Fifth] GUIDOTTO DA CREMONA LEAVETH TO GIACOMINO DA PAVIA A DAUGHTER OF HIS AND DIETH. GIANNOLE DI SEVERINO AND MINGHINO DI MINGOLE FALL IN LOVE WITH THE GIRL AT FAENZA AND COME TO BLOWS ON HER ACCOUNT. ULTIMATELY SHE IS PROVED TO BE GIANNOLE'S SISTER AND IS GIVEN TO MINGHINO TO WIFE All the ladies, hearkening to the story of the nightingale, had laughed so much that, though Filostrato had made an end of telling, they could not yet give over laughing. But, after they had laughed awhile, the queen said to Filostrato, "Assuredly, if thou afflictedest us ladies yesterday, thou hast so tickled us to-day that none of us can deservedly complain of thee." Then, addressing herself to Neifile, she charged her tell, and she blithely began to speak thus: "Since Filostrato, discoursing, hath entered into Romagna, it pleaseth me on like wise to go ranging awhile therein with mine own story. I say, then, that there dwelt once in the city of Fano two Lombards, whereof the one was called Guidotto da Cremona and the other Giacomino da Pavia, both men advanced in years, who had in their youth been well nigh always soldiers and engaged in deeds of arms. Guidotto, being at the point of death and having nor son nor other kinsmen nor friend in whom he trusted more than in Giacomino, left him a little daughter he had, of maybe ten years of age, and all that he possessed in the world, and after having bespoken him at length of his affairs, he died. In those days it befell that the city of Faenza, which had been long in war and ill case, was restored to somewhat better estate and permission to sojourn there was freely conceded to all who had a mind to return thither; wherefore Giacomino, who had abidden there otherwhile and had a liking for the place, returned thither with all his good and carried with him the girl left him by Guidotto, whom he loved and entreated as his own child. The latter grew up and became as fair a damsel as any in the city, ay, and as virtuous and well bred as she was fair; wherefore she began to be courted of many, but especially two very agreeable young men of equal worth and condition vowed her a very great love, insomuch that for jealousy they came to hold each other in hate out of measure. They were called, the one Giannole di Severino and the other Minghino di Mingole; nor was there either of them but would gladly have taken the young lady, who was now fifteen years old, to wife, had it been suffered of his kinsfolk; wherefore, seeing her denied to them on honourable wise, each cast about to get her for himself as best he might. Now Giacomino had in his house an old serving-wench and a serving-man, Crivello by name, a very merry and obliging person, with whom Giannole clapped up a great acquaintance and to whom, whenas himseemed time, he discovered his passion, praying him to be favourable to him in his endeavour to obtain his desire and promising him great things an he did this; whereto quoth Crivello, 'Look you, I can do nought for thee in this matter other than that, when next Giacomino goeth abroad to supper, I will bring thee whereas she may be; for that, an I offered to say a word to her in thy favour, she would never stop to listen to me. If this like thee, I promise it to thee and will do it; and do thou after, an thou know how, that which thou deemest shall best serve thy purpose.' Giannole answered that he desired nothing more and they abode on this understanding. Meanwhile Minghino, on his part, had suborned the maidservant and so wrought with her that she had several times carried messages to the girl and had well night inflamed her with love of him; besides which she had promised him to bring him in company with her, so soon as Giacomino should chance to go abroad of an evening for whatever cause. Not long after this it chanced that, by Crivello's contrivance, Giacomino went to sup with a friend of his, whereupon Crivello gave Giannole to know thereof and appointed with him that, whenas he made a certain signal, he should come and would find the door open. The maid, on her side, knowing nothing of all this, let Minghino know that Giacomino was to sup abroad and bade him abide near the house, so that, whenas he saw a signal which she should make he might come and enter therein. The evening come, the two lovers, knowing nothing of each other's designs, but each misdoubting of his rival, came, with sundry companions armed, to enter into possession. Minghino, with his troop took up his quarters in the house of a friend of his, a neighbour of the young lady's; whilst Giannole and his friends stationed themselves at a little distance from the house. Meanwhile, Crivello and the maid, Giacomino being gone, studied each to send the other away. Quoth he to her, 'Why dost thou not get thee to bed? Why goest thou still wandering about the house?' 'And thou,' retorted she, 'why goest thou not for thy master? What awaitest thou here, now that thou hast supped?' And so neither could make other avoid the place; but Crivello, seeing the hour come that he had appointed with Giannole said in himself, 'What reck I of her? An she abide not quiet, she is like to smart for it.' Accordingly, giving the appointed signal, he went to open the door, whereupon Giannole, coming up in haste with two companions, entered and finding the young lady in the saloon, laid hands on her to carry her off. The girl began to struggle and make a great outcry, as likewise did the maid, which Minghino hearing, he ran thither with his companions and seeing the young lady being presently dragged out at the door, they pulled out their swords and cried all, 'Ho, traitors, ye are dead men! The thing shall not go thus. What is this violence?' So saying, they fell to hewing at them, whilst the neighbors, issuing forth at the clamour with lights and arms, began to blame Giannole's behaviour and to second Minghino; wherefore, after long contention, the latter rescued the young lady from his rival and restored her to Giacomino's house. But, before the fray was over, up came the town-captain's officers and arrested many of them; and amongst the rest Minghino and Giannole and Crivello were taken and carried off to prison. After matters were grown quiet again, Giacomino returned home and was sore chagrined at that which had happened; but, enquiring how it had come about and finding that the girl was nowise at fault, he was somewhat appeased and determined in himself to marry her as quickliest he might, so the like should not again betide. Next morning, the kinsfolk of the two young men, hearing the truth of the case and knowing the ill that might ensue thereof for the imprisoned youths, should Giacomino choose to do that which he reasonably might, repaired to him and prayed him with soft words to have regard, not so much to the affront which he had suffered from the little sense of the young men as to the love and goodwill which they believed he bore to themselves who thus besought him, submitting themselves and the young men who had done the mischief to any amends it should please him take. Giacomino, who had in his time seen many things and was a man of sense, answered briefly, 'Gentlemen, were I in mine own country, as I am in yours, I hold myself so much your friend that neither in this nor in otherwhat would I do aught save insomuch as it should please you; besides, I am the more bounden to comply with your wishes in this matter, inasmuch as you have therein offended against yourselves, for that the girl in question is not, as belike many suppose, of Cremona nor of Pavia; nay, she is a Faentine,[277] albeit neither I nor she nor he of whom I had her might ever learn whose daughter she was; wherefore, concerning that whereof you pray me, so much shall be done by me as you yourselves shall enjoin me.' [Footnote 277: _i.e._ a native of Faenza (_Faentina_).] The gentlemen, hearing this, marvelled and returning thanks to Giacomino for his gracious answer, prayed him that it would please him tell them how she came to his hands and how he knew her to be a Faentine; whereto quoth he, 'Guidotto da Cremona, who was my friend and comrade, told me, on his deathbed, that, when this city was taken by the Emperor Frederick and everything given up to pillage, he entered with his companions into a house and found it full of booty, but deserted by its inhabitants, save only this girl, who was then some two years old or thereabouts and who, seeing him mount the stairs, called him "father"; whereupon, taking compassion upon her, he carried her off with him to Fano, together with all that was in the house, and dying there, left her to me with what he had, charging me marry her in due time and give her to her dowry that which had been hers. Since she hath come to marriageable age, I have not yet found an occasion of marrying her to my liking, though I would gladly do it, rather than that another mischance like that of yesternight should betide me on her account.' Now among the others there was a certain Guiglielmino da Medicina, who had been with Guidotto in that affair[278] and knew very well whose house it was that he had plundered, and he, seeing the person in question[279] there among the rest, accosted him, saying, 'Bernabuccio, hearest thou what Giacomino saith?' 'Ay do I,' answered Bernabuccio, 'and I was presently in thought thereof, more by token that I mind me to have lost a little daughter of the age whereof Giacomino speaketh in those very troubles.' Quoth Guiglielmino, 'This is she for certain, for that I was once in company with Guidotto, when I heard him tell where he had done the plundering and knew it to be thy house that he had sacked; wherefore do thou bethink thee if thou mayst credibly recognize her by any token and let make search therefor; for thou wilt assuredly find that she is thy daughter.' [Footnote 278: _A questo fatto_, _i.e._ at the storm of Faenza.] [Footnote 279: _i.e._ the owner of the plundered house.] Accordingly, Bernabuccio bethought himself and remembered that she should have a little cross-shaped scar over her left ear, proceeding from a tumour, which he had caused cut for her no great while before that occurrence; whereupon, without further delay, he accosted Giacomino, who was still there, and besought him to carry him to his house and let him see the damsel. To this he readily consented and carrying him thither, let bring the girl before him. When Bernabuccio set eyes on her, himseemed he saw the very face of her mother, who was yet a handsome lady; nevertheless, not contenting himself with this, he told Giacomino that he would fain of his favour have leave to raise her hair a little above her left ear, to which the other consented. Accordingly, going up to the girl, who stood shamefast, he lifted up her hair with his right hand and found the cross; whereupon, knowing her to be indeed his daughter, he fell to weeping tenderly and embracing her, notwithstanding her resistance; then, turning to Giacomino, 'Brother mine,' quoth he, 'this is my daughter; it was my house Guidotto plundered and this girl was, in the sudden alarm, forgotten there of my wife and her mother; and until now we believed that she had perished with the house, which was burned me that same day.' The girl, hearing this, and seeing him to be a man in years, gave credence to his words and submitting herself to his embraces, as moved by some occult instinct, fell a-weeping tenderly with him. Bernabuccio presently sent for her mother and other her kinswomen and for her sisters and brothers and presented her to them all, recounting the matter to them; then, after a thousand embraces, he carried her home to his house with the utmost rejoicing, to the great satisfaction of Giacomino. The town-captain, who was a man of worth, learning this and knowing that Giannole, whom he had in prison, was Bernabuccio's son and therefore the lady's own brother, determined indulgently to overpass the offence committed by him and released with him Minghino and Crivello and the others who were implicated in the affair. Moreover, he interceded with Bernabuccio and Giacomino concerning these matters and making peace between the two young men, gave the girl, whose name was Agnesa, to Minghino to wife, to the great contentment of all their kinsfolk; whereupon Minghino, mightily rejoiced, made a great and goodly wedding and carrying her home, lived with her many years after in peace and weal." THE SIXTH STORY [Day the Fifth] GIANNI DI PROCIDA BEING FOUND WITH A YOUNG LADY, WHOM HE LOVED AND WHO HAD BEEN GIVEN TO KING FREDERICK OF SICILY, IS BOUND WITH HER TO A STAKE TO BE BURNT; BUT, BEING RECOGNIZED BY RUGGIERI DELL' ORIA, ESCAPETH AND BECOMETH HER HUSBAND Neifile's story, which had much pleased the ladies, being ended, the queen bade Pampinea address herself to tell another, and she accordingly, raising her bright face, began: "Exceeding great, charming ladies, is the might of Love and exposeth lovers to sore travails, ay, and to excessive and unforeseen perils, as may be gathered from many a thing that hath been related both to-day and otherwhiles; nevertheless, it pleaseth me yet again to demonstrate it to you with a story of an enamoured youth. Ischia is an island very near Naples, and therein, among others, was once a very fair and sprightly damsel, by name Restituta, who was the daughter of a gentleman of the island called Marino Bolgaro and whom a youth named Gianni, a native of a little island near Ischia, called Procida, loved more than his life, as she on like wise loved him. Not only did he come by day from Procida to see her, but oftentimes anights, not finding a boat, he had swum from Procida to Ischia, at the least to look upon the walls of her house, an he might no otherwise. During the continuance of this so ardent love, it befell that the girl, being all alone one summer day on the sea-shore, chanced, as she went from rock to rock, loosening shell-fish from the stones with a knife, upon a place hidden among the cliffs, where, at once for shade and for the commodity of a spring of very cool water that was there, certain young men of Sicily, coming from Naples, had taken up their quarters with a pinnace they had. They, seeing that she was alone and very handsome and was yet unaware of them, took counsel together to seize her and carry her off and put their resolve into execution. Accordingly, they took her, for all she made a great outcry, and carrying her aboard the pinnace, made the best of their way to Calabria, where they fell to disputing of whose she should be. Brief, each would fain have her; wherefore, being unable to agree among themselves and fearing to come to worse and to mar their affairs for her, they took counsel together to present her to Frederick, King of Sicily, who was then a young man and delighted in such toys. Accordingly, coming to Palermo, they made gift of the damsel to the king, who, seeing her to be fair, held her dear; but, for that he was presently somewhat infirm of his person, he commanded that, against he should be stronger, she should be lodged in a very goodly pavilion, belonging to a garden of his he called La Cuba, and there tended; and so it was done. Great was the outcry in Ischia for the ravishment of the damsel and what most chagrined them was that they could not learn who they were that had carried her off; but Gianni, whom the thing concerned more than any other, not looking to get any news of this in Ischia and learning in what direction the ravishers had gone, equipped another pinnace and embarking therein, as quickliest as he might, scoured all the coast from La Minerva to La Scalea in Calabria, enquiring everywhere for news of the girl. Being told at La Scalea that she had been carried off to Palermo by some Sicilian sailors, he betook himself thither, as quickliest he might, and there, after much search, finding that she had been presented to the king and was by him kept under ward at La Cuba, he was sore chagrined and lost well nigh all hope, not only of ever having her again, but even of seeing her. Nevertheless, detained by love, having sent away his pinnace and seeing that he was known of none there, he abode behind and passing often by La Cuba, he chanced one day to catch sight of her at a window and she saw him, to the great contentment of them both. Gianni, seeing the place lonely, approached as most he might and bespeaking her, was instructed by her how he must do, an he would thereafterward have further speech of her. He then took leave of her, having first particularly examined the ordinance of the place in every part, and waited till a good part of the night was past, when he returned thither and clambering up in places where a woodpecker had scarce found a foothold, he made his way into the garden. There he found a long pole and setting it against the window which his mistress had shown him, climbed up thereby lightly enough. The damsel, herseeming she had already lost her honour, for the preservation whereof she had in times past been somewhat coy to him, thinking that she could give herself to none more worthily than to him and doubting not to be able to induce him to carry her off, had resolved in herself to comply with him in every his desire; wherefore she had left the window open, so he might enter forthright. Accordingly, Gianni, finding it open, softly made his way into the chamber and laid himself beside the girl, who slept not and who, before they came to otherwhat, discovered to him all her intent, instantly beseeching him to take her thence and carry her away. Gianni answered that nothing could be so pleasing to him as this and promised that he would without fail, as soon as he should have taken his leave of her, put the matter in train on such wise that he might carry her away with him, the first time he returned thither. Then, embracing each other with exceeding pleasure, they took that delight beyond which Love can afford no greater, and after reiterating it again and again, they fell asleep, without perceiving it, in each other's arms. Meanwhile, the king, who had at first sight been greatly taken with the damsel, calling her to mind and feeling himself well of body, determined, albeit it was nigh upon day, to go and abide with her awhile. Accordingly, he betook himself privily to La Cuba with certain of his servants and entering the pavilion, caused softly open the chamber wherein he knew the girl slept. Then, with a great lighted flambeau before him, he entered therein and looking upon the bed, saw her and Gianni lying asleep and naked in each other's arms; whereas he was of a sudden furiously incensed and flamed up into such a passion of wrath that it lacked of little but he had, without saying a word, slain them both then and there with a dagger he had by his side. However, esteeming it a very base thing of any man, much more a king, to slay two naked folk in their sleep, he contained himself and determined to put them to death in public and by fire; wherefore, turning to one only companion he had with him, he said to him, 'How deemest thou of this vile woman, on whom I had set my hope?' And after he asked him if he knew the young man who had dared enter his house to do him such an affront and such an outrage; but he answered that he remembered not ever to have seen him. The king then departed the chamber, full of rage, and commanded that the two lovers should be taken and bound, naked as they were, and that, as soon as it was broad day, they should be carried to Palermo and there bound to a stake, back to back, in the public place, where they should be kept till the hour of tierce, so they might be seen of all, and after burnt, even as they had deserved; and this said, he returned to his palace at Palermo, exceeding wroth. The king gone, there fell many upon the two lovers and not only awakened them, but forthright without any pity took them and bound them; which when they saw, it may lightly be conceived if they were woeful and feared for their lives and wept and made moan. According to the king's commandment, they were carried to Palermo and bound to a stake in the public place, whilst the faggots and the fire were made ready before their eyes, to burn them at the hour appointed. Thither straightway flocked all the townsfolk, both men and women, to see the two lovers; the men all pressed to look upon the damsel and like as they praised her for fair and well made in every part of her body, even so, on the other hand, the women, who all ran to gaze upon the young man, supremely commended him for handsome and well shapen. But the wretched lovers, both sore ashamed, stood with bowed heads and bewailed their sorry fortune, hourly expecting the cruel death by fire. Whilst they were thus kept against the appointed hour, the default of them committed, being bruited about everywhere, came to the ears of Ruggieri dell' Oria, a man of inestimable worth and then the king's admiral, whereupon he repaired to the place where they were bound and considering first the girl, commended her amain for beauty, then, turning to look upon the young man, knew him without much difficulty and drawing nearer to him, asked him if he were not Gianni di Procida. The youth, raising his eyes and recognizing the admiral, answered, 'My lord, I was indeed he of whom you ask; but I am about to be no more.' The admiral then asked him what had brought him to that pass, and he answered, 'Love and the king's anger.' The admiral caused him tell his story more at large and having heard everything from him as it had happened, was about to depart, when Gianni called him back and said to him, 'For God's sake, my lord, an it may be, get me one favour of him who maketh me to abide thus.' 'What is that?' asked Ruggieri; and Gianni said, 'I see I must die, and that speedily, and I ask, therefore, by way of favour,--as I am bound with my back to this damsel, whom I have loved more than my life, even as she hath loved me, and she with her back to me,--that we may be turned about with our faces one to the other, so that, dying, I may look upon her face and get me gone, comforted.' 'With all my heart,' answered Ruggieri, laughing; 'I will do on such wise that thou shalt yet see her till thou grow weary of her sight.' Then, taking leave of him, he charged those who were appointed to carry the sentence into execution that they should proceed no farther therein, without other commandment of the king, and straightway betook himself to the latter, to whom, albeit he saw him sore incensed, he spared not to speak his mind, saying, 'King, in what have the two young folk offended against thee, whom thou hast commanded to be burned yonder in the public place?' The king told him and Ruggieri went on, 'The offence committed by them deserveth it indeed, but not from thee; for, like as defaults merit punishment, even so do good offices merit recompense, let alone grace and clemency. Knowest thou who these are thou wouldst have burnt?' The king answered no, and Ruggieri continued, 'Then I will have thee know them, so thou mayst see how discreetly[280] thou sufferest thyself to be carried away by the transports of passion. The young man is the son of Landolfo di Procida, own brother to Messer Gian di Procida,[281] by whose means thou art king and lord of this island, and the damsel is the daughter of Marino Bolgaro, to whose influence thou owest it that thine officers have not been driven forth of Ischia. Moreover, they are lovers who have long loved one another and constrained of love, rather than of will to do despite to thine authority, have done this sin, if that can be called sin which young folk do for love. Wherefore, then, wilt thou put them to death, whenas thou shouldst rather honour them with the greatest favours and boons at thy commandment?' [Footnote 280: Iron., meaning "with how little discretion."] [Footnote 281: Gianni (Giovanni) di Procida was a Sicilian noble, to whose efforts in stirring up the island to revolt against Charles of Anjou was mainly due the popular rising known as the Sicilian Vespers (A.D. 1283) which expelled the French usurper from Sicily and transferred the crown to the house of Arragon. The Frederick (A.D. 1296-1337) named in the text was the fourth prince of the latter dynasty.] The king, hearing this and certifying himself that Ruggieri spoke sooth, not only forbore from proceeding to do worse, but repented him of that which he had done, wherefore he commanded incontinent that the two lovers should be loosed from the stake and brought before him; which was forthright done. Therewith, having fully acquainted himself with their case, he concluded that it behoved him requite them the injury he had done them with gifts and honour; wherefore he let clothe them anew on sumptuous wise and finding them of one accord, caused Gianni to take the damsel to wife. Then, making them magnificent presents, he sent them back, rejoicing, to their own country, where they were received with the utmost joyance and delight." THE SEVENTH STORY [Day the Fifth] TEODORO, BEING ENAMOURED OF VIOLANTE, DAUGHTER OF MESSER AMERIGO HIS LORD, GETTETH HER WITH CHILD AND IS CONDEMNED TO BE HANGED; BUT, BEING RECOGNIZED AND DELIVERED BY HIS FATHER, AS THEY ARE LEADING HIM TO THE GALLOWS, SCOURGING HIM THE WHILE, HE TAKETH VIOLANTE TO WIFE The ladies, who abode all fearful in suspense to know if the lovers should be burnt, hearing of their escape, praised God and were glad; whereupon the queen, seeing that Pampinea had made an end of her story, imposed on Lauretta the charge of following on, who blithely proceeded to say: "Fairest ladies, in the days when good King William[282] ruled over Sicily, there was in that island a gentleman hight Messer Amerigo Abate of Trapani, who, among other worldly goods, was very well furnished with children; wherefore, having occasion for servants and there coming thither from the Levant certain galleys of Genoese corsairs, who had, in their cruises off the coast of Armenia, taken many boys, he bought some of these latter, deeming them Turks, and amongst them one, Teodoro by name, of nobler mien and better bearing than the rest, who seemed all mere shepherds. Teodoro, although entreated as a slave, was brought up in the house with Messer Amerigo's children and conforming more to his own nature than to the accidents of fortune, approved himself so accomplished and well-bred and so commended himself to Messer Amerigo that he set him free and still believing him to be a Turk, caused baptize him and call him Pietro and made him chief over all his affairs, trusting greatly in him. [Footnote 282: William II. (A.D. 1166-1189), the last (legitimate) king of the Norman dynasty in Sicily, called the Good, to distinguish him from his father, William the Bad.] As Messer Amerigo's children grew up, there grew up with them a daughter of his, called Violante, a fair and dainty damsel, who, her father tarrying overmuch to marry her, became by chance enamoured of Pietro and loving him and holding his manners and fashions in great esteem, was yet ashamed to discover this to him. But Love spared her that pains, for that Pietro, having once and again looked upon her by stealth, had become so passionately enamoured of her that he never knew ease save whenas he saw her; but he was sore afraid lest any should become aware thereof, himseeming that in this he did other than well. The young lady, who took pleasure in looking upon him, soon perceived this and to give him more assurance, showed herself exceeding well pleased therewith, as indeed she was. On this wise they abode a great while, daring not to say aught to one another, much as each desired it; but, whilst both, alike enamoured, languished enkindled in the flames of love, fortune, as if it had determined of will aforethought that this should be, furnished them with an occasion of doing away the timorousness that baulked them. Messer Amerigo had, about a mile from Trapani, a very goodly place,[283] to which his lady was wont ofttimes to resort by way of pastime with her daughter and other women and ladies. Thither accordingly they betook themselves one day of great heat, carrying Pietro with them, and there abiding, it befell, as whiles we see it happen in summer time, that the sky became of a sudden overcast with dark clouds, wherefore the lady set out with her company to return to Trapani, so they might not be there overtaken of the foul weather, and fared on as fast as they might. But Pietro and Violante, being young, outwent her mother and the rest by a great way, urged belike, no less by love than by fear of the weather, and they being already so far in advance that they were hardly to be seen, it chanced that, of a sudden, after many thunderclaps, a very heavy and thick shower of hail began to fall, wherefrom the lady and her company fled into the house of a husbandman. [Footnote 283: Apparently a pleasure-garden, without a house attached in which they might have taken shelter from the rain.] Pietro and the young lady, having no readier shelter, took refuge in a little old hut, well nigh all in ruins, wherein none dwelt, and there huddled together under a small piece of roof, that yet remained whole. The scantness of the cover constrained them to press close one to other, and this touching was the means of somewhat emboldening their minds to discover the amorous desires that consumed them both; and Pietro first began to say, 'Would God this hail might never give over, so but I might abide as I am!' 'Indeed,' answered the girl, 'that were dear to me also.' From these words they came to taking each other by the hands and pressing them and from that to clipping and after to kissing, it hailing still the while; and in short, not to recount every particular, the weather mended not before they had known the utmost delights of love and had taken order to have their pleasure secretly one of the other. The storm ended, they fared on to the gate of the city, which was near at hand, and there awaiting the lady, returned home with her. Thereafter, with very discreet and secret ordinance, they foregathered again and again in the same place, to the great contentment of them both, and the work went on so briskly that the young lady became with child, which was sore unwelcome both to the one and the other; wherefore she used many arts to rid herself, contrary to the course of nature, of her burden, but could nowise avail to accomplish it. Therewithal, Pietro, fearing for his life, bethought himself to flee and told her, to which she answered, 'An thou depart, I will without fail kill myself.' Whereupon quoth Pietro, who loved her exceedingly, 'Lady mine, how wilt thou have me abide here? Thy pregnancy will discover our default and it will lightly be pardoned unto thee; but I, poor wretch, it will be must needs bear the penalty of thy sin and mine own.' 'Pietro,' replied she, 'my sin must indeed be discovered; but be assured that thine will never be known, an thou tell not thyself.' Then said he, 'Since thou promisest me this, I will remain; but look thou keep thy promise to me.' After awhile, the young lady, who had as most she might, concealed her being with child, seeing that, for the waxing of her body, she might no longer dissemble it, one day discovered her case to her mother, beseeching her with many tears to save her; whereupon the lady, beyond measure woeful, gave her hard words galore and would know of her how the thing had come about. Violante, in order that no harm might come to Pietro, told her a story of her own devising, disguising the truth in other forms. The lady believed it and to conceal her daughter's default, sent her away to a country house of theirs. There, the time of her delivery coming and the girl crying out, as women use to do, what while her mother never dreamed that Messer Amerigo, who was well nigh never wont to do so, should come thither, it chanced that he passed, on his return from hawking, by the chamber where his daughter lay and marvelling at the outcry she made, suddenly entered the chamber and demanded what was to do. The lady, seeing her husband come unawares, started up all woebegone and told him that which had befallen the girl. But he, less easy of belief than his wife had been, declared that it could not be true that she knew not by whom she was with child and would altogether know who he was, adding that, by confessing it, she might regain his favour; else must she make ready to die without mercy. The lady did her utmost to persuade her husband to abide content with that which she had said; but to no purpose. He flew out into a passion and running, with his naked sword in his hand, at his daughter, who, what while her mother held her father in parley, had given birth to a male child, said, 'Either do thou discover by whom the child was begotten, or thou shalt die without delay.' The girl, fearing death, broke her promise to Pietro and discovered all that had passed between him and her; which when the gentleman heard, he fell into a fury of anger and hardly withheld himself from slaying her. However, after he had said to her that which his rage dictated to him, he took horse again and returning to Trapani, recounted the affront that Pietro had done him to a certain Messer Currado, who was captain there for the king. The latter caused forthright seize Pietro, who was off his guard, and put him to the torture, whereupon he confessed all and being a few days after sentenced by the captain to be flogged through the city and after strung up by the neck, Messer Amerigo (whose wrath had not been done away by the having brought Pietro to death,) in order that one and the same hour should rid the earth of the two lovers and their child, put poison in a hanap with wine and delivering it, together with a naked poniard, to a serving-man of his, said to him, 'Carry these two things to Violante and bid her, on my part, forthright take which she will of these two deaths, poison or steel; else will I have her burned alive, even as she hath deserved, in the presence of as many townsfolk as be here. This done, thou shalt take the child, a few days agone born of her, and dash its head against the wall and after cast it to the dogs to eat.' This barbarous sentence passed by the cruel father upon his daughter and his grandchild, the servant, who was more disposed to ill than to good, went off upon his errand. Meanwhile, Pietro, as he was carried to the gallows by the officers, being scourged of them the while, passed, according as it pleased those who led the company, before a hostelry wherein were three noblemen of Armenia, who had been sent by the king of that country ambassadors to Rome, to treat with the Pope of certain matters of great moment, concerning a crusade that was about to be undertaken, and who had lighted down there to take some days' rest and refreshment. They had been much honoured by the noblemen of Trapani and especially by Messer Amerigo, and hearing those pass who led Pietro, they came to a window to see. Now Pietro was all naked to the waist, with his hands bounden behind his back, and one of the three ambassadors, a man of great age and authority, named Fineo, espied on his breast a great vermeil spot, not painted, but naturally imprinted on his skin, after the fashion of what women here call _roses_. Seeing this, there suddenly recurred to his memory a son of his who had been carried off by corsairs fifteen years agone upon the coast of Lazistan and of whom he had never since been able to learn any news; and considering the age of the poor wretch who was scourged, he bethought himself that, if his son were alive, he must be of such an age as Pietro appeared to him. Wherefore he began to suspect by that token that it must be he and bethought himself that, were he indeed his son, he should still remember him of his name and that of his father and of the Armenian tongue. Accordingly, as he drew near, he called out, saying, 'Ho, Teodoro!' Pietro, hearing this, straightway lifted up his head and Fineo, speaking in Armenian, said to him, 'What countryman art thou and whose son?' The sergeants who had him in charge halted with him, of respect for the nobleman, so that Pietro answered, saying, 'I was of Armenia and son to one Fineo and was brought hither, as a little child, by I know not what folk.' Fineo, hearing this, knew him for certain to be the son whom he had lost, wherefore he came down, weeping, with his companions, and ran to embrace him among all the sergeants; then, casting over his shoulders a mantle of the richest silk, which he had on his own back, he besought the officer who was escorting him to execution to be pleased to wait there till such time as commandment should come to him to carry the prisoner back; to which he answered that he would well. Now Fineo had already learned the reason for which Pietro was being led to death, report having noised it abroad everywhere; wherefore he straightway betook himself, with his companions and their retinue, to Messer Currado and bespoke him thus: 'Sir, he whom you have doomed to die, as a slave, is a free man and my son and is ready to take to wife her whom it is said he hath bereft of her maidenhead; wherefore may it please you to defer the execution till such time as it may be learned if she will have him to husband, so, in case she be willing, you may not be found to have done contrary to the law.' Messer Currado, hearing that the condemned man was Fineo's son, marvelled and confessing that which the latter said to be true, was somewhat ashamed of the unright of fortune and straightway caused carry Pietro home; then, sending for Messer Amerigo, he acquainted him with these things. Messer Amerigo, who by this believed his daughter and grandson to be dead, was the woefullest man in the world for that which he had done, seeing that all might very well have been set right, so but Violante were yet alive. Nevertheless, he despatched a runner whereas his daughter was, to the intent that, in case his commandment had not been done, it should not be carried into effect. The messenger found the servant sent by Messer Amerigo rating the lady, before whom he had laid the poniard and the poison, for that she made not her election as speedily [as he desired], and would have constrained her to take the one or the other. But, hearing his lord's commandment, he let her be and returning to Messer Amerigo, told him how the case stood, to the great satisfaction of the latter, who, betaking himself whereas Fineo was, excused himself, well nigh with tears, as best he knew, of that which had passed, craving pardon therefor and evouching that, an Teodoro would have his daughter to wife, he was exceeding well pleased to give her to him. Fineo gladly received his excuses and answered, 'It is my intent that my son shall take your daughter to wife; and if he will not, let the sentence passed upon him take its course.' Accordingly, being thus agreed, they both repaired whereas Teodoro abode yet all fearful of death, albeit he was rejoiced to have found his father again, and questioned him of his mind concerning this thing. When he heard that, an he would, he might have Violante to wife, such was his joy that himseemed he had won from hell to heaven at one bound, and he answered that this would be to him the utmost of favours, so but it pleased both of them. Thereupon they sent to know the mind of the young lady, who, whereas she abode in expectation of death, the woefullest woman alive, hearing that which had betided and was like to betide Teodoro, after much parley, began to lend some faith to their words and taking a little comfort, answered that, were she to ensue her own wishes in the matter, no greater happiness could betide her than to be the wife of Teodoro; algates, she would do that which her father should command her. Accordingly, all parties being of accord, the two lovers were married with the utmost magnificence, to the exceeding satisfaction of all the townsfolk; and the young lady, heartening herself and letting rear her little son, became ere long fairer than ever. Then, being risen from childbed, she went out to meet Fineo, whose return was expected from Rome, and paid him reverence as to a father; whereupon he, exceeding well pleased to have so fair a daughter-in-law, caused celebrate their nuptials with the utmost pomp and rejoicing and receiving her as a daughter, ever after held her such. And after some days, taking ship with his son and her and his little grandson, he carried them with him into Lazistan, where the two lovers abode in peace and happiness, so long as life endured unto them." THE EIGHTH STORY [Day the Fifth] NASTAGIO DEGLI ONESTI, FALLING IN LOVE WITH A LADY OF THE TRAVERSARI FAMILY, SPENDETH HIS SUBSTANCE WITHOUT BEING BELOVED IN RETURN, AND BETAKING HIMSELF, AT THE INSTANCE OF HIS KINSFOLK, TO CHIASSI, HE THERE SEETH A HORSEMAN GIVE CHASE TO A DAMSEL AND SLAY HER AND CAUSE HER BE DEVOURED OF TWO DOGS. THEREWITHAL HE BIDDETH HIS KINSFOLK AND THE LADY WHOM HE LOVETH TO A DINNER, WHERE HIS MISTRESS SEETH THE SAME DAMSEL TORN IN PIECES AND FEARING A LIKE FATE, TAKETH NASTAGIO TO HUSBAND No sooner was Lauretta silent than Filomena, by the queen's commandment, began thus: "Lovesome ladies, even as pity is in us commended, so also is cruelty rigorously avenged by Divine justice; the which that I may prove to you and so engage you altogether to purge yourselves therefrom, it pleaseth me tell you a story no less pitiful than delectable. In Ravenna, a very ancient city of Romagna, there were aforetime many noblemen and gentlemen, and amongst the rest a young man called Nastagio degli Onesti, who had, by the death of his father and an uncle of his, been left rich beyond all estimation and who, as it happeneth often with young men, being without a wife, fell in love with a daughter of Messer Paolo Traversari, a young lady of much greater family than his own, hoping by his fashions to bring her to love him in return. But these, though great and goodly and commendable, not only profited him nothing; nay, it seemed they did him harm, so cruel and obdurate and intractable did the beloved damsel show herself to him, being grown belike, whether for her singular beauty or the nobility of her birth, so proud and disdainful that neither he nor aught that pleased him pleased her. This was so grievous to Nastagio to bear that many a time, for chagrin, being weary of complaining, he had it in his thought to kill himself, but held his hand therefrom; and again and again he took it to heart to let her be altogether or have her, an he might, in hatred, even as she had him. But in vain did he take such a resolve, for that, the more hope failed him, the more it seemed his love redoubled. Accordingly, he persisted both in loving and in spending without stint or measure, till it seemed to certain of his friends and kinsfolk that he was like to consume both himself and his substance; wherefore they besought him again and again and counselled him depart Ravenna and go sojourn awhile in some other place, for that, so doing, he would abate both his passion and his expenditure. Nastagio long made light of this counsel, but, at last, being importuned of them and able no longer to say no, he promised to do as they would have him and let make great preparations, as he would go into France or Spain or some other far place. Then, taking horse in company with many of his friends, he rode out of Ravenna and betook himself to a place called Chiassi, some three miles from the city, where, sending for tents and pavilions, he told those who had accompanied him thither that he meant to abide and that they might return to Ravenna. Accordingly, having encamped there, he proceeded to lead the goodliest and most magnificent life that was aye, inviting now these, now those others, to supper and to dinner, as he was used. It chanced one day, he being come thus well nigh to the beginning of May and the weather being very fair, that, having entered into thought of his cruel mistress, he bade all his servants leave him to himself, so he might muse more at his leisure, and wandered on, step by step, lost in melancholy thought, till he came [unwillingly] into the pine-wood. The fifth hour of the day was well nigh past and he had gone a good half mile into the wood, remembering him neither of eating nor of aught else, when himseemed of a sudden he heard a terrible great wailing and loud cries uttered by a woman; whereupon, his dulcet meditation being broken, he raised his head to see what was to do and marvelled to find himself among the pines; then, looking before him, he saw a very fair damsel come running, naked through a thicket all thronged with underwood and briers, towards the place where he was, weeping and crying sore for mercy and all dishevelled and torn by the bushes and the brambles. At her heels ran two huge and fierce mastiffs, which followed hard upon her and ofttimes bit her cruelly, whenas they overtook her; and after them he saw come riding upon a black courser a knight arrayed in sad-coloured armour, with a very wrathful aspect and a tuck in his hand, threatening her with death in foul and fearsome words. This sight filled Nastagio's mind at once with terror and amazement and after stirred him to compassion of the ill-fortuned lady, wherefrom arose a desire to deliver her, an but he might, from such anguish and death. Finding himself without arms, he ran to take the branch of a tree for a club, armed wherewith, he advanced to meet the dogs and the knight. When the latter saw this, he cried out to him from afar off, saying, 'Nastagio, meddle not; suffer the dogs and myself to do that which this wicked woman hath merited.' As he spoke, the dogs, laying fast hold of the damsel by the flanks, brought her to a stand and the knight, coming up, lighted down from his horse; whereupon Nastagio drew near unto him and said, 'I know not who thou mayst be, that knowest me so well; but this much I say to see that it is a great felony for an armed knight to seek to slay a naked woman and to set the dogs on her, as she were a wild beast; certes, I will defend her as most I may.' 'Nastagio,' answered the knight, 'I was of one same city with thyself and thou wast yet a little child when I, who hight Messer Guido degli Anastagi, was yet more passionately enamoured of this woman than thou art presently of yonder one of the Traversari and my ill fortune for her hard-heartedness and barbarity came to such a pass that one day I slew myself in despair with this tuck thou seest in my hand and was doomed to eternal punishment. Nor was it long ere she, who was beyond measure rejoiced at my death, died also and for the sin of her cruelty and of the delight had of her in my torments (whereof she repented her not, as one who thought not to have sinned therein, but rather to have merited reward,) was and is on like wise condemned to the pains of hell. Wherein no sooner was she descended than it was decreed unto her and to me, for penance thereof,[284] that she should flee before me and that I, who once loved her so dear, should pursue her, not as a beloved mistress, but as a mortal enemy, and that, as often as I overtook her, I should slay her with this tuck, wherewith I slew myself, and ripping open her loins, tear from her body, as thou shalt presently see, that hard and cold heart, wherein nor love nor pity might ever avail to enter, together with the other entrails, and give them to the dogs to eat. Nor is it a great while after ere, as God's justice and puissance will it, she riseth up again, as she had not been dead, and beginneth anew her woeful flight, whilst the dogs and I again pursue her. And every Friday it betideth that I come up with her here at this hour and wreak on her the slaughter that thou shalt see; and think not that we rest the other days; nay, I overtake her in other places, wherein she thought and wrought cruelly against me. Thus, being as thou seest, from her lover grown her foe, it behoveth me pursue her on this wise as many years as she was cruel to me months. Wherefore leave me to carry the justice of God into effect and seek not to oppose that which thou mayst not avail to hinder.' [Footnote 284: _i.e._ of her sin.] Nastagio, hearing these words, drew back, grown all adread, with not an hair on his body but stood on end, and looking upon the wretched damsel, began fearfully to await that which the knight should do. The latter, having made an end of his discourse, ran, tuck in hand, as he were a ravening dog, at the damsel, who, fallen on her knees and held fast by the two mastiffs, cried him mercy, and smiting her with all his might amiddleward the breast, pierced her through and through. No sooner had she received this stroke than she fell grovelling on the ground, still weeping and crying out; whereupon the knight, clapping his hand to his hunting-knife, ripped open her loins and tearing forth her heart and all that was thereabout, cast them to the two mastiffs, who devoured them incontinent, as being sore anhungred. Nor was it long ere, as if none of these things had been, the damsel of a sudden rose to her feet and began to flee towards the sea, with the dogs after her, still rending her; and in a little while they had gone so far that Nastagio could see them no more. The latter, seeing these things, abode a great while between pity and fear, and presently it occurred to his mind that this might much avail him, seeing that it befell every Friday; wherefore, marking the place, he returned to his servants and after, whenas it seemed to him fit, he sent for sundry of his kinsmen and friends and said to them, 'You have long urged me leave loving this mine enemy and put an end to my expenditure, and I am ready to do it, provided you will obtain me a favour; the which is this, that on the coming Friday you make shift to have Messer Paolo Traversari and his wife and daughter and all their kinswomen and what other ladies soever it shall please you here to dinner with me. That for which I wish this, you shall see then.' This seemed to them a little thing enough to do, wherefore, returning to Ravenna, they in due time invited those whom Nastagio would have to dine with him, and albeit it was no easy matter to bring thither the young lady whom he loved, natheless she went with the other ladies. Meanwhile, Nastagio let make ready a magnificent banquet and caused set the tables under the pines round about the place where he had witnessed the slaughter of the cruel lady. The time come, he seated the gentlemen and the ladies at table and so ordered it that his mistress should be placed right over against the spot where the thing should befall. Accordingly, hardly was the last dish come when the despairful outcry of the hunted damsel began to be heard of all, whereat each of the company marvelled and enquired what was to do, but none could say; whereupon all started to their feet and looking what this might be, they saw the woeful damsel and the knight and the dogs; nor was it long ere they were all there among them. Great was the clamor against both dogs and knight, and many rushed forward to succour the damsel; but the knight, bespeaking them as he had bespoken Nastagio, not only made them draw back, but filled them all with terror and amazement. Then did he as he had done before, whereat all the ladies that were there (and there were many present who had been kinswomen both to the woeful damsel and to the knight and who remembered them both of his love and of his death) wept as piteously as if they had seen this done to themselves. The thing carried to its end and the damsel and the knight gone, the adventure set those who had seen it upon many and various discourses; but of those who were the most affrighted was the cruel damsel beloved of Nastagio, who had distinctly seen and heard the whole matter and understood that these things concerned her more than any other who was there, remembering her of the cruelty she had still used towards Nastagio; wherefore herseemed she fled already before her enraged lover and had the mastiffs at her heels. Such was the terror awakened in her thereby that,--so this might not betide her,--no sooner did she find an opportunity (which was afforded her that same evening) than, turning her hatred into love, she despatched to Nastagio a trusty chamberwoman of hers, who besought him that it should please him to go to her, for that she was ready to do all that should be his pleasure. He answered that this was exceeding agreeable to him, but that, so it pleased her, he desired to have his pleasure of her with honour, to wit, by taking her to wife. The damsel, who knew that it rested with none other than herself that she had not been his wife, made answer to him that it liked her well; then, playing the messenger herself, she told her father and mother that she was content to be Nastagio's wife, whereat they were mightily rejoiced, and he, espousing her on the ensuing Sunday and celebrating his nuptials, lived with her long and happily. Nor was this affright the cause of that good only; nay, all the ladies of Ravenna became so fearful by reason thereof, that ever after they were much more amenable than they had before been to the desires of the men." THE NINTH STORY [Day the Fifth] FEDERIGO DEGLI ALBERIGHI LOVETH AND IS NOT LOVED. HE WASTETH HIS SUBSTANCE IN PRODIGAL HOSPITALITY TILL THERE IS LEFT HIM BUT ONE SOLE FALCON, WHICH, HAVING NOUGHT ELSE, HE GIVETH HIS MISTRESS TO EAT, ON HER COMING TO HIS HOUSE; AND SHE, LEARNING THIS, CHANGETH HER MIND AND TAKING HIM TO HUSBAND, MAKETH HIM RICH AGAIN Filomena having ceased speaking, the queen, seeing that none remained to tell save only herself and Dioneo, whose privilege entitled him to speak last, said, with blithe aspect, "It pertaineth now to me to tell and I, dearest ladies, will willingly do it, relating a story like in part to the foregoing, to the intent that not only may you know how much the love of you[285] can avail in gentle hearts, but that you may learn to be yourselves, whenas it behoveth, bestowers of your guerdons, without always suffering fortune to be your guide, which most times, as it chanceth, giveth not discreetly, but out of all measure. [Footnote 285: Syn. your charms (_la vostra vaghezza_).] You must know, then, that Coppo di Borghese Domenichi, who was of our days and maybe is yet a man of great worship and authority in our city and illustrious and worthy of eternal renown, much more for his fashions and his merit than for the nobility of his blood, being grown full of years, delighted oftentimes to discourse with his neighbours and others of things past, the which he knew how to do better and more orderly and with more memory and elegance of speech than any other man. Amongst other fine things of his, he was used to tell that there was once in Florence a young man called Federigo, son of Messer Filippo Alberighi and renowned for deeds of arms and courtesy over every other bachelor in Tuscany, who, as betideth most gentlemen, became enamoured of a gentlewoman named Madam Giovanna, in her day held one of the fairest and sprightliest ladies that were in Florence; and to win her love, he held jousts and tourneyings and made entertainments and gave gifts and spent his substance without any stint; but she, being no less virtuous than fair, recked nought of these things done for her nor of him who did them. Federigo spending thus far beyond his means and gaining nought, his wealth, as lightly happeneth, in course of time came to an end and he abode poor, nor was aught left him but a poor little farm, on whose returns he lived very meagrely, and to boot a falcon he had, one of the best in the world. Wherefore, being more in love than ever and himseeming he might no longer make such a figure in the city as he would fain do, he took up his abode at Campi, where his farm was, and there bore his poverty with patience, hawking whenas he might and asking of no one. Federigo being thus come to extremity, it befell one day that Madam Giovanna's husband fell sick and seeing himself nigh upon death, made his will, wherein, being very rich, he left a son of his, now well grown, his heir, after which, having much loved Madam Giovanna, he substituted her to his heir, in case his son should die without lawful issue, and died. Madam Giovanna, being thus left a widow, betook herself that summer, as is the usance of our ladies, into the country with her son to an estate of hers very near that of Federigo; wherefore it befell that the lad made acquaintance with the latter and began to take delight in hawks and hounds, and having many a time seen his falcon flown and being strangely taken therewith, longed sore to have it, but dared not ask it of him, seeing it so dear to him. The thing standing thus, it came to pass that the lad fell sick, whereat his mother was sore concerned, as one who had none but him and loved him with all her might, and abode about him all day, comforting him without cease; and many a time she asked him if there were aught he desired, beseeching him tell it her, for an it might be gotten, she would contrive that he should have it. The lad, having heard these offers many times repeated, said, 'Mother mine, an you could procure me to have Federigo's falcon, methinketh I should soon be whole.' The lady hearing this, bethought herself awhile and began to consider how she should do. She knew that Federigo had long loved her and had never gotten of her so much as a glance of the eye; wherefore quoth she in herself, 'How shall I send or go to him to seek of him this falcon, which is, by all I hear, the best that ever flew and which, to boot, maintaineth him in the world? And how can I be so graceless as to offer to take this from a gentleman who hath none other pleasure left?' Perplexed with this thought and knowing not what to say, for all she was very certain of getting the bird, if she asked for it, she made no reply to her son, but abode silent. However, at last, the love of her son so got the better of her that she resolved in herself to satisfy him, come what might, and not to send, but to go herself for the falcon and fetch it to him. Accordingly she said to him, 'My son, take comfort and bethink thyself to grow well again, for I promise thee that the first thing I do to-morrow morning I will go for it and fetch it to thee.' The boy was rejoiced at this and showed some amendment that same day. Next morning, the lady, taking another lady to bear her company, repaired, by way of diversion, to Federigo's little house and enquired for the latter, who, for that it was no weather for hawking nor had been for some days past, was then in a garden he had, overlooking the doing of certain little matters of his, and hearing that Madam Giovanna asked for him at the door, ran thither, rejoicing and marvelling exceedingly. She, seeing him come, rose and going with womanly graciousness to meet him, answered his respectful salutation with 'Give you good day, Federigo!' then went on to say, 'I am come to make thee amends for that which thou hast suffered through me, in loving me more than should have behooved thee; and the amends in question is this that I purpose to dine with thee this morning familiarly, I and this lady my companion.' 'Madam,' answered Federigo humbly, 'I remember me not to have ever received any ill at your hands, but on the contrary so much good that, if ever I was worth aught, it came about through your worth and the love I bore you; and assuredly, albeit you have come to a poor host, this your gracious visit is far more precious to me than it would be an it were given me to spend over again as much as that which I have spent aforetime.' So saying, he shamefastly received her into his house and thence brought her into his garden, where, having none else to bear her company, he said to her, 'Madam, since there is none else here, this good woman, wife of yonder husbandman, will bear you company, whilst I go see the table laid.' Never till that moment, extreme as was his poverty, had he been so dolorously sensible of the straits to which he had brought himself for the lack of those riches he had spent on such disorderly wise. But that morning, finding he had nothing wherewithal he might honourably entertain the lady, for love of whom he had aforetime entertained folk without number, he was made perforce aware of his default and ran hither and thither, perplexed beyond measure, like a man beside himself, inwardly cursing his ill fortune, but found neither money nor aught he might pawn. It was now growing late and he having a great desire to entertain the gentle lady with somewhat, yet choosing not to have recourse to his own labourer, much less any one else, his eye fell on his good falcon, which he saw on his perch in his little saloon; whereupon, having no other resource, he took the bird and finding him fat, deemed him a dish worthy of such a lady. Accordingly, without more ado, he wrung the hawk's neck and hastily caused a little maid of his pluck it and truss it and after put it on the spit and roast it diligently. Then, the table laid and covered with very white cloths, whereof he had yet some store, he returned with a blithe countenance to the lady in the garden and told her that dinner was ready, such as it was in his power to provide. Accordingly, the lady and her friend, arising, betook themselves to table and in company with Federigo, who served them with the utmost diligence, ate the good falcon, unknowing what they did. Presently, after they had risen from table and had abidden with him awhile in cheerful discourse, the lady, thinking it time to tell that wherefor she was come, turned to Federigo and courteously bespoke him, saying, 'Federigo, I doubt not a jot but that, when thou hearest that which is the especial occasion of my coming hither, thou wilt marvel at my presumption, remembering thee of thy past life and of my virtue, which latter belike thou reputedst cruelty and hardness of heart; but, if thou hadst or hadst had children, by whom thou mightest know how potent is the love one beareth them, meseemeth certain that thou wouldst in part hold me excused. But, although thou hast none, I, who have one child, cannot therefore escape the common laws to which other mothers are subject and whose enforcements it behoveth me ensue, need must I, against my will and contrary to all right and seemliness, ask of thee a boon, which I know is supremely dear to thee (and that with good reason, for that thy sorry fortune hath left thee none other delight, none other diversion, none other solace), to wit, thy falcon, whereof my boy is so sore enamoured that, an I carry it not to him, I fear me his present disorder will be so aggravated that there may presently ensue thereof somewhat whereby I shall lose him. Wherefore I conjure thee,--not by the love thou bearest me and whereto thou art nowise beholden, but by thine own nobility, which in doing courtesy hath approved itself greater than in any other,--that it please thee give it to me, so by the gift I may say I have kept my son alive and thus made him for ever thy debtor.' Federigo, hearing what the lady asked and knowing that he could not oblige her, for that he had given her the falcon to eat, fell a-weeping in her presence, ere he could answer a word. The lady at first believed that his tears arose from grief at having to part from his good falcon and was like to say that she would not have it. However, she contained herself and awaited what Federigo should reply, who, after weeping awhile, made answer thus: 'Madam, since it pleased God that I should set my love on you, I have in many things reputed fortune contrary to me and have complained of her; but all the ill turns she hath done me have been a light matter in comparison with that which she doth me at this present and for which I can never more be reconciled to her, considering that you are come hither to my poor house, whereas you deigned not to come what while I was rich, and seek of me a little boon, the which she hath so wrought that I cannot grant you; and why this cannot be I will tell you briefly. When I heard that you, of your favour, were minded to dine with me, I deemed it a light thing and a seemly, having regard to your worth and the nobility of your station, to honour you, as far as in me lay, with some choicer victual than that which is commonly set before other folk; wherefore, remembering me of the falcon which you ask of me and of his excellence, I judged him a dish worthy of you. This very morning, then, you have had him roasted upon the trencher, and indeed I had accounted him excellently well bestowed; but now, seeing that you would fain have had him on other wise, it is so great a grief to me that I cannot oblige you therein that methinketh I shall never forgive myself therefor.' So saying, in witness of this, he let cast before her the falcon's feathers and feet and beak. The lady, seeing and hearing this, first blamed him for having, to give a woman to eat, slain such a falcon, and after inwardly much commended the greatness of his soul, which poverty had not availed nor might anywise avail to abate. Then, being put out of all hope of having the falcon and fallen therefore in doubt of her son's recovery, she took her leave and returned, all disconsolate, to the latter, who, before many days had passed, whether for chagrin that he could not have the bird or for that his disorder was e'en fated to bring him to that pass, departed this life, to the inexpressible grief of his mother. After she had abidden awhile full of tears and affliction, being left very rich and yet young, she was more than once urged by her brothers to marry again, and albeit she would fain not have done so, yet, finding herself importuned and calling to mind Federigo's worth and his last magnificence, to wit, the having slain such a falcon for her entertainment, she said to them, 'I would gladly, an it liked you, abide as I am; but, since it is your pleasure that I take a [second] husband, certes I will never take any other, an I have not Federigo degli Alberighi.' Whereupon her brothers, making mock of her, said 'Silly woman that thou art, what is this thou sayest? How canst thou choose him, seeing he hath nothing in the world?' 'Brothers mine,' answered she, 'I know very well that it is as you say; but I would liefer have a man that lacketh of riches than riches that lack of a man.' Her brethren, hearing her mind and knowing Federigo for a man of great merit, poor though he was, gave her, with all her wealth, to him, even as she would; and he, seeing himself married to a lady of such worth and one whom he had loved so dear and exceeding rich, to boot, became a better husband of his substance and ended his days with her in joy and solace." THE TENTH STORY [Day the Fifth] PIETRO DI VINCIOLO GOETH TO SUP ABROAD, WHEREUPON HIS WIFE LETTETH FETCH HER A YOUTH TO KEEP HER COMPANY, AND HER HUSBAND RETURNING, UNLOOKED FOR, SHE HIDETH HER GALLANT UNDER A HEN-COOP. PIETRO TELLETH HER HOW THERE HAD BEEN FOUND IN THE HOUSE OF ONE ARCOLANO, WITH WHOM HE WAS TO HAVE SUPPED, A YOUNG MAN BROUGHT IN BY HIS WIFE, AND SHE BLAMETH THE LATTER. PRESENTLY, AN ASS, BY MISCHANCE, SETTETH FOOT ON THE FINGERS OF HIM WHO IS UNDER THE COOP AND HE ROARETH OUT, WHEREUPON PIETRO RUNNETH THITHER AND ESPYING HIM, DISCOVERETH HIS WIFE'S UNFAITH, BUT ULTIMATELY COMETH TO AN ACCORD WITH HER FOR HIS OWN LEWD ENDS The queen's story come to an end and all having praised God for that He had rewarded Federigo according to his desert, Dioneo, who never waited for commandment, began on this wise: "I know not whether to say if it be a casual vice, grown up in mankind through perversity of manners and usances, or a defect inherent in our nature, that we laugh rather at things ill than at good works, especially when they concern us not. Wherefore, seeing that the pains I have otherwhiles taken and am now about to take aim at none other end than to rid you of melancholy and afford you occasion for laughter and merriment,--albeit the matter of my present story may be in part not altogether seemly, nevertheless, lovesome lasses, for that it may afford diversion, I will e'en tell it you, and do you, hearkening thereunto, as you are wont to do, whenas you enter into gardens, where, putting out your dainty hands, you cull the roses and leave the thorns be. On this wise must you do with my story, leaving the naughty man of whom I shall tell you to his infamy and ill-luck go with him, what while you laugh merrily at the amorous devices of his wife, having compassion, whenas need is, of the mischances of others. There was, then, in Perugia, no great while agone, a rich man called Pietro di Vinciolo, who, belike more to beguile others and to abate the general suspect in which he was had of all the Perugians, than for any desire of his own, took him a wife, and fortune in this was so far conformable to his inclination that the wife he took was a thickset, red-haired, hot-complexioned wench, who would liefer have had two husbands than one, whereas she happened upon one who had a mind far more disposed to otherwhat than to her. Becoming, in process of time, aware of this and seeing herself fair and fresh and feeling herself buxom and lusty, she began by being sore incensed thereat and came once and again to unseemly words thereof with her husband, with whom she was well nigh always at variance. Then, seeing that this might result rather in her own exhaustion than in the amendment of her husband's depravity, she said in herself, 'Yonder caitiff forsaketh me to go of his ribaldries on pattens through the dry, and I will study to carry others on shipboard through the wet. I took him to husband and brought him a fine great dowry, knowing him to be a man and supposing him desireful of that whereunto men are and should be fain; and had I not believed that he would play the part of a man, I had never taken him. He knew that I was a woman; why, then, did he take me to wife, if women were not to his mind? This is not to be suffered. Were I minded to renounce the world, I should have made myself a nun; but, if, choosing to live in the world, as I do, I look for delight or pleasure from yonder fellow, I may belike grow old, expecting in vain, and whenas I shall be old, I shall in vain repent and bemoan myself of having wasted my youth, which latter he himself is a very good teacher and demonstrator how I should solace, showing me by example how I should delect myself with that wherein he delighteth, more by token that this were commendable in me, whereas in him it is exceeding blameworthy, seeing that I should offend against the laws alone, whereas he offendeth against both law and nature.' Accordingly, the good lady, having thus bethought herself and belike more than once, to give effect privily to these considerations, clapped up an acquaintance with an old woman who showed like Saint Verdiana, that giveth the serpents to eat, and still went to every pardoning, beads in hand, nor ever talked of aught but the lives of the Holy Fathers or of the wounds of St. Francis and was of well nigh all reputed a saint, and whenas it seemed to her time, frankly discovered to her her intent. 'Daughter mine,' replied the beldam, 'God who knoweth all knoweth that thou wilt do exceeding well, and if for nought else, yet shouldst thou do it, thou and every other young woman, not to lose the time of your youth, for that to whoso hath understanding, there is no grief like that of having lost one's time. And what a devil are we women good for, once we are old, save to keep the ashes about the fire-pot? If none else knoweth it and can bear witness thereof, that do and can I; for, now that I am old, I recognize without avail, but not without very sore and bitter remorse of mind, the time that I let slip, and albeit I lost it not altogether (for that I would not have thee deem me a ninny), still I did not what I might have done; whereof whenas I remember me, seeing myself fashioned as thou seest me at this present, so that thou wouldst find none to give me fire to my tinder,[286] God knoweth what chagrin I feel. With men it is not so; they are born apt for a thousand things, not for this alone, and most part of them are of much more account old than young; but women are born into the world for nothing but to do this and bear children, and it is for this that they are prized; the which, if from nought else, thou mayst apprehend from this, that we women are still ready for the sport; more by token that one woman would tire out many men at the game, whereas many men cannot tire one woman; and for that we are born unto this, I tell thee again that thou wilt do exceeding well to return thy husband a loaf for his bannock, so thy soul may have no cause to reproach thy flesh in thine old age. Each one hath of this world just so much as he taketh to himself thereof, and especially is this the case with women, whom it behoveth, much more than men, make use of their time, whilst they have it; for thou mayst see how, when we grow old, nor husband nor other will look at us; nay, they send us off to the kitchen to tell tales to the cat and count the pots and pans; and what is worse, they tag rhymes on us and say, "Tidbits for wenches young; Gags[287] for the old wife's tongue." [Footnote 286: _i.e._ she was grown so repulsively ugly in her old age, that no one cared to do her even so trifling a service as giving her a spark in tinder to light her fire withal.] [Footnote 287: Or chokebits (_stranguglioni_).] And many another thing to the like purpose. And that I may hold thee no longer in parley, I tell thee in fine that thou couldst not have discovered thy mind to any one in the world who can be more useful to thee than I, for that there is no man so high and mighty but I dare tell him what behoveth, nor any so dour or churlish but I know how to supple him aright and bring him to what I will. Wherefore do thou but show me who pleaseth thee and after leave me do; but one thing I commend to thee, daughter mine, and that is, that thou be mindful of me, for that I am a poor body and would have thee henceforth a sharer in all my pardonings and in all the paternosters I shall say, so God may make them light and candles for thy dead.'[288] [Footnote 288: _i.e._ that they may serve to purchase remission from purgatory for the souls of her dead relatives, instead of the burning of candles and tapers, which is held by the Roman Catholic Church to have that effect.] With this she made an end of her discourse, and the young lady came to an understanding with her that, whenas she chanced to spy a certain young spark who passed often through that quarter and whose every feature she set out to her, she should know what she had to do; then, giving her a piece of salt meat, she dismissed her with God's blessing; nor had many days passed ere the old woman brought her him of whom she had bespoken her privily into her chamber, and a little while after, another and another, according as they chanced to take the lady's fancy, who stinted not to indulge herself in this as often as occasion offered, though still fearful of her husband. It chanced one evening that, her husband being to sup abroad with a friend of his, Ercolano by name, she charged the old woman bring her a youth, who was one of the goodliest and most agreeable of all Perugia, which she promptly did; but hardly had the lady seated herself at table to sup with her gallant, when, behold, Pietro called out at the door to have it opened to him. She, hearing this, gave herself up for lost, but yet desiring, an she might, to conceal the youth and not having the presence of mind to send him away or hide him elsewhere, made him take refuge under a hen-coop, that was in a shed adjoining the chamber where they were at supper, and cast over him the sacking of a pallet-bed that she had that day let empty. This done, she made haste to open to her husband, to whom quoth she, as soon as he entered the house, 'You have very soon despatched this supper of yours!' 'We have not so much as tasted it,' replied he; and she said, 'How was that?' Quoth he, 'I will tell thee. Scarce were we seated at table, Ercolano and his wife and I, when we heard some one sneeze hard by, whereof we took no note the first time nor the second; but, he who sneezed sneezing yet a third time and a fourth and a fifth and many other times, it made us all marvel; whereupon Ercolano, who was somewhat vexed with his wife for that she had kept us a great while standing at the door, without opening to us, said, as if in a rage, "What meaneth this? Who is it sneezeth thus?" And rising from table, made for a stair that stood near at hand and under which, hard by the stairfoot, was a closure of planks, wherein to bestow all manner things, as we see those do every day who set their houses in order. Himseeming it was from this that came the noise of sneezing, he opened a little door that was therein and no sooner had he done this than there issued forth thereof the frightfullest stench of sulphur that might be. Somewhat of this smell had already reached us and we complaining thereof, the lady had said, "It is because I was but now in act to bleach my veils with sulphur and after set the pan, over which I had spread them to catch the fumes, under the stair, so that it yet smoketh thereof." As soon as the smoke was somewhat spent, Ercolano looked into the cupboard and there espied him who had sneezed and who was yet in act to sneeze, for that the fumes of the sulphur constrained him thereto, and indeed they had by this time so straitened his breast that, had he abidden a while longer, he had never sneezed nor done aught else again. Ercolano, seeing him, cried out, "Now, wife, I see why, whenas we came hither awhile ago, we were kept so long at the door, without its being opened to us; but may I never again have aught that shall please me, an I pay thee not for this!" The lady, hearing this and seeing that her sin was discovered, stayed not to make any excuse, but started up from table and made off I know not whither. Ercolano, without remarking his wife's flight, again and again bade him who sneezed come forth; but the latter, who was now at the last gasp, offered not to stir, for all that he could say; whereupon, taking him by one foot, he haled him forth of his hiding-place and ran for a knife to kill him; but I, fearing the police on mine own account, arose and suffered him not to slay him or do him any hurt; nay, crying out and defending him, I gave the alarm to certain of the neighbours, who ran thither and taking the now half-dead youth, carried him forth the house I know not whither. Wherefore, our supper being disturbed by these things, I have not only not despatched it, nay, I have, as I said, not even tasted it.' The lady, hearing this, knew that there were other women as wise as herself, albeit illhap bytimes betided some of them thereof, and would fain have defended Ercolano's wife with words; but herseeming that, by blaming others' defaults, she might make freer way for her own, she began to say, 'Here be fine doings! A holy and virtuous lady indeed she must be! She, to whom, as I am an honest woman, I would have confessed myself, so spiritually minded meseemed she was! And the worst of it is that she, being presently an old woman, setteth a mighty fine example to the young. Accursed by the hour she came into the world and she also, who suffereth herself to live, perfidious and vile woman that she must be, the general reproach and shame of all the ladies of this city, who, casting to the winds her honour and the faith plighted to her husband and the world's esteem, is not ashamed to dishonour him, and herself with him, for another man, him who is such a man and so worshipful a citizen and who used her so well! So God save me, there should be no mercy had of such women as she; they should be put to death; they should be cast alive into the fire and burned to ashes.' Then, bethinking her of her gallant, whom she had hard by under the coop, she began to exhort Pietro to betake himself to bed, for that it was time; but he, having more mind to eat than to sleep, enquired if there was aught for supper. 'Supper, quotha!' answered the lady. 'Truly, we are much used to get supper, whenas thou art abroad! A fine thing, indeed! Dost thou take me for Ercolano's wife? Alack, why dost thou not go to sleep for to-night? How far better thou wilt do!' Now it chanced that, certain husbandmen of Pietro's being come that evening with sundry matters from the farm and having put up their asses, without watering them, in a little stable adjoining the shed, one of the latter, being sore athirst, slipped his head out of the halter and making his way out of the stable, went smelling to everything, so haply he might find some water, and going thus, he came presently full on the hen-coop, under which was the young man. The latter having, for that it behoved him abide on all fours, put out the fingers of one hand on the ground beyond the coop, such was his luck, or rather let us say, his ill luck, that the ass set his hoof on them, whereupon the youth, feeling an exceeding great pain, set up a terrible outcry. Pietro, hearing this, marvelled and perceived that the noise came from within the house; wherefore he went out into the shed and hearing the other still clamouring, for that the ass had not lifted up his hoof from his fingers, but still trod hard upon them, said, 'Who is there?' Then, running to the hen-coop, he raised it and espied the young man, who, beside the pain he suffered from his fingers that were crushed by the ass's hoof, was all a-trembling for fear lest Pietro should do him a mischief. The latter, knowing him for one whom he had long pursued for his lewd ends, asked him what he did there, whereto he answered him nothing, but prayed him for the love of God do him no harm. Quoth Pietro, 'Arise and fear not that I will do thee any hurt; but tell me how thou comest here and for what purpose.' The youth told him all, whereupon Pietro, no less rejoiced to have found him than his wife was woeful, taking him by the hand, carried him into the chamber, where the lady awaited him with the greatest affright in the world, and seating himself overagainst her, said, 'But now thou cursedst Ercolano's wife and avouchedst that she should be burnt and that she was the disgrace of all you women; why didst thou not speak of thyself? Or, an thou choosedst not to speak of thyself, how could thy conscience suffer thee to speak thus of her, knowing thyself to have done even as did she? Certes, none other thing moved thee thereunto save that you women are all made thus and look to cover your own doings with others' defaults; would fire might come from heaven to burn you all up, perverse generation that you are!' The lady, seeing that, in the first heat of the discovery, he had done her no harm other than in words and herseeming she saw that he was all agog with joy for that he held so goodly a stripling by the hand, took heart and said, 'Of this much, indeed, I am mighty well assured, that thou wouldst have fire come from heaven to burn us women all up, being, as thou art, as fain to us as a dog to cudgels; but, by Christ His cross, thou shalt not get thy wish. However, I would fain have a little discourse with thee, so I may know of what thou complainest. Certes, it were a fine thing an thou shouldst seek to even me with Ercolano's wife, who is a beat-breast, a smell-sin,[289] and hath of her husband what she will and is of him held dear as a wife should be, the which is not the case with me. For, grant that I am well clad and shod of thee, thou knowest but too well how I fare for the rest and how long it is since thou hast lain with me; and I had liefer go barefoot and rags to my back and be well used of thee abed than have all these things, being used as I am of thee. For understand plainly, Pietro; I am a woman like other women and have a mind unto that which other women desire; so that, an I procure me thereof, not having it from thee, thou hast no call to missay of me therefor; at the least, I do thee this much honour that I have not to do with horseboys and scald-heads.' [Footnote 289: _i.e._ a hypocritical sham devotee, covering a lewd life with an appearance of sanctity.] Pietro perceived that words were not like to fail her for all that night; wherefore, as one who recked little of her, 'Wife,' said he, 'no more for the present; I will content thee aright of this matter; but thou wilt do us a great courtesy to let us have somewhat to sup withal, for that meseemeth this lad, like myself, hath not yet supped.' 'Certes, no,' answered the lady, 'he hath not yet supped; for we were sitting down to table, when thou camest in thine ill hour.' 'Go, then,' rejoined Pietro, 'contrive that we may sup, and after I will order this matter on such wise that thou shalt have no cause to complain.' The lady, finding that her husband was satisfied, arose and caused straightway reset the table; then, letting bring the supper she had prepared, she supped merrily in company with her caitiff of a husband and the young man. After supper, what Pietro devised for the satisfaction of all three hath escaped my mind; but this much I know that on the following morning the youth was escorted back to the public place, not altogether certain which he had the more been that night, wife or husband. Wherefore, dear my ladies, this will I say to you, 'Whoso doth it to you, do you it to him'; and if you cannot presently, keep it in mind till such time as you can, so he may get as good as he giveth." * * * * * Dioneo having made an end of his story, which had been less laughed at by the ladies [than usual], more for shamefastness than for the little delight they took therein, the queen, seeing the end of her sovranty come, rose to her feet and putting off the laurel crown, set it blithely on Elisa's head, saying, "With you, madam, henceforth it resteth to command." Elisa, accepting the honour, did even as it had been done before her, in that, having first, to the satisfaction of the company, taken order with the seneschal for that whereof there was need for the time of her governance, she said, "We have many a time heard how, by dint of smart sayings and ready repartees and prompt advisements, many have availed with an apt retort[290] to take the edge off other folks' teeth or to fend off imminent perils; and, for that the matter is goodly and may be useful,[291] I will that to-morrow, with God's aid, it be discoursed within these terms, to wit, OF WHOSO, BEING ASSAILED WITH SOME JIBING SPEECH, HATH VINDICATED HIMSELF OR HATH WITH SOME READY REPLY OR ADVISEMENT ESCAPED LOSS, PERIL OR SHAME." [Footnote 290: Lit. a due or deserved bite (_debito morso_). I mention this to show the connection with teeth.] [Footnote 291: An ellipsis of a kind common in Boccaccio and indeed in all the old Italian writers, meaning "it may be useful to enlarge upon the subject in question."] This was much commended of all, whereupon the queen, rising to her feet, dismissed them all until supper time. The honourable company, seeing her risen, stood up all and each, according to the wonted fashion, applied himself to that which was most agreeable to him. But, the crickets having now given over singing, the queen let call every one and they betook themselves to supper, which being despatched with merry cheer, they all gave themselves to singing and making music, and Emilia having, at the queen's commandment, set up a dance, Dioneo was bidden sing a song, whereupon he straightway struck up with "Mistress Aldruda, come lift up your fud-a, for I bring you, I bring you, good tidings." Whereat all the ladies fell a-laughing and especially the queen, who bade him leave that and sing another. Quoth Dioneo, "Madam, had I a tabret, I would sing 'Come truss your coats, I prithee, Mistress Burdock,' or 'Under the olive the grass is'; or will you have me say 'The waves of the sea do great evil to me'? But I have no tabret, so look which you will of these others. Will it please you have 'Come forth unto us, so it may be cut down, like a May in the midst of the meadows'?" "Nay," answered the queen; "give us another." "Then," said Dioneo, "shall I sing, 'Mistress Simona, embarrel, embarrel! It is not the month of October'?" Quoth the queen, laughing, "Ill luck to thee, sing us a goodly one, an thou wilt, for we will none of these." "Nay, madam," rejoined Dioneo, "fash not yourself; but which then like you better? I know more than a thousand. Will you have 'This my shell an I prick it not well,' or 'Fair and softly, husband mine' or 'I'll buy me a cock, a cock of an hundred pounds sterling'?"[292] Therewithal the queen, somewhat provoked, though all the other ladies laughed, said, "Dioneo, leave jesting and sing us a goodly one; else shalt thou prove how I can be angry." Hearing this, he gave over his quips and cranks and forthright fell a-singing after this fashion: [Footnote 292: The songs proposed by Dioneo are all apparently of a light, if not a wanton, character and "not fit to be sung before ladies."] O Love, the amorous light That beameth from yon fair one's lovely eyes Hath made me thine and hers in servant-guise. The splendour of her lovely eyes, it wrought That first thy flames were kindled in my breast, Passing thereto through mine; Yea, and thy virtue first unto my thought Her visage fair it was made manifest, Which picturing, I twine And lay before her shrine All virtues, that to her I sacrifice, Become the new occasion of my sighs. Thus, dear my lord, thy vassal am I grown And of thy might obediently await Grace for my lowliness; Yet wot I not if wholly there be known The high desire that in my breast thou'st set And my sheer faith, no less, Of her who doth possess My heart so that from none beneath the skies, Save her alone, peace would I take or prize. Wherefore I pray thee, sweet my lord and sire, Discover it to her and cause her taste Some scantling of thy heat To-me-ward,--for thou seest that in the fire, Loving, I languish and for torment waste By inches at her feet,-- And eke in season meet Commend me to her favour on such wise As I would plead for thee, should need arise.[293] [Footnote 293: This singularly naïve give-and-take fashion of asking a favour of a God recalls the old Scotch epitaph cited by Mr. George Macdonald: Here lie I Martin Elginbrodde: Hae mercy o' my soul, Lord God; As I wad do, were I Lord God And ye were Martin Elginbrodde.] Dioneo, by his silence, showing that his song was ended, the queen let sing many others, having natheless much commended his. Then, somedele of the night being spent and the queen feeling the heat of the day to be now overcome of the coolness of the night, she bade each at his pleasure betake himself to rest against the ensuing day. HERE ENDETH THE FIFTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON _Day the Sixth_ HERE BEGINNETH THE SIXTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER THE GOVERNANCE OF ELISA IS DISCOURSED OF WHOSO BEING ASSAILED WITH SOME JIBING SPEECH HATH VINDICATED HIMSELF OR HATH WITH SOME READY REPLY OR ADVISEMENT ESCAPED LOSS, PERIL OR SHAME The moon, being now in the middest heaven, had lost its radiance and every part of our world was bright with the new coming light, when, the queen arising and letting call her company, they all with slow step fared forth and rambled over the dewy grass to a little distance from the fair hill, holding various discourse of one thing and another and debating of the more or less goodliness of the stories told, what while they renewed their laughter at the various adventures related therein, till such time as the sun mounting high and beginning to wax hot, it seemed well to them all to turn homeward. Wherefore, reversing their steps, they returned to the palace and there, by the queen's commandment, the tables being already laid and everything strewn with sweet-scented herbs and fair flowers, they addressed themselves to eat, ere the heat should grow greater. This being joyously accomplished, ere they did otherwhat, they sang divers goodly and pleasant canzonets, after which some went to sleep, whilst some sat down to play at chess and other some at tables and Dioneo fell to singing, in concert with Lauretta, of Troilus and Cressida. Then, the hour come for their reassembling after the wonted fashion,[294] they all, being summoned on the part of the queen, seated themselves, as of their usance, about the fountain; but, as she was about to call for the first story, there befell a thing that had not yet befallen there, to wit, that a great clamour was heard by her and by all, made by the wenches and serving-men in the kitchen. [Footnote 294: Lit. for their returning to consistory (_del dovere a concistoro tornare_).] The seneschal, being called and questioned who it was that cried thus and what might be the occasion of the turmoil, answered that the clamour was between Licisca and Tindaro, but that he knew not the cause thereof, being but then come thither to make them bide quiet, whenas he had been summoned on her part. The queen bade him incontinent fetch thither the two offenders and they being come, enquired what was the cause of their clamour; whereto Tindaro offering to reply, Licisca, who was well in years and somewhat overmasterful, being heated with the outcry she had made, turned to him with an angry air and said, "Mark this brute of a man who dareth to speak before me, whereas I am! Let me speak." Then, turning again to the queen, "Madam," quoth she, "this fellow would teach me, forsooth, to know Sicofante's wife and neither more nor less than as if I had not been familiar with her, would fain give me to believe that, the first night her husband lay with her, Squire Maul[295] made his entry into Black Hill[296] by force and with effusion of blood; and I say that it is not true; nay, he entered there in peace and to the great contentment of those within. Marry, this fellow is simple enough to believe wenches to be such ninnies that they stand to lose their time, abiding the commodity of their fathers and brothers, who six times out of seven tarry three or four years more than they should to marry them. Well would they fare, forsooth, were they to wait so long! By Christ His faith (and I should know what I say, when I swear thus) I have not a single gossip who went a maid to her husband; and as for the wives, I know full well how many and what tricks they play their husbands; and this blockhead would teach me to know women, as if I had been born yesterday." [Footnote 295: _Messer Mazza_, _i.e._ veretrum.] [Footnote 296: _Monte Nero_, _i.e._ vas muliebre.] What while Licisca spoke, the ladies kept up such a laughing that you might have drawn all their teeth; and the queen imposed silence upon her a good half dozen times, but to no purpose; she stinted not till she had said her say. When she had at last made an end of her talk, the queen turned to Dioneo and said, laughing, "Dioneo, this is a matter for thy jurisdiction; wherefore, when we shall have made an end of our stories, thou shalt proceed to give final judgment thereon." Whereto he answered promptly, "Madam, the judgment is already given, without hearing more of the matter; and I say that Licisca is in the right and opine that it is even as she saith and that Tindaro is an ass." Licisca, hearing this, fell a-laughing and turning to Tindaro, said, "I told thee so; begone and God go with thee; thinkest thou thou knowest better than I, thou whose eyes are not yet dry?[297] Gramercy, I have not lived here below for nothing, no, not I!" And had not the queen with an angry air imposed silence on her and sent her and Tindaro away, bidding her make no more words or clamour, an she would not be flogged, they had had nought to do all that day but attend to her. When they were gone, the queen called on Filomena to make a beginning with the day's stories and she blithely began thus: [Footnote 297: _i.e._ who are yet a child, in modern parlance, "Thou whose lips are yet wet with thy mother's milk."] THE FIRST STORY [Day the Sixth] A GENTLEMAN ENGAGETH TO MADAM ORETTA TO CARRY HER A-HORSEBACK WITH A STORY, BUT, TELLING IT DISORDERLY, IS PRAYED BY HER TO SET HER DOWN AGAIN "Young ladies, like as stars, in the clear nights, are the ornaments of the heavens and the flowers and the leaf-clad shrubs, in the Spring, of the green fields and the hillsides, even so are praiseworthy manners and goodly discourse adorned by sprightly sallies, the which, for that they are brief, beseem women yet better than men, inasmuch as much speaking is more forbidden to the former than to the latter. Yet, true it is, whatever the cause, whether it be the meanness of our[298] understanding or some particular grudge borne by heaven to our times, that there be nowadays few or no women left who know how to say a witty word in due season or who, an it be said to them, know how to apprehend it as it behoveth; the which is a general reproach to our whole sex. However, for that enough hath been said aforetime on the subject by Pampinea,[299] I purpose to say no more thereof; but, to give you to understand how much goodliness there is in witty sayings, when spoken in due season, it pleaseth me to recount to you the courteous fashion in which a lady imposed silence upon a gentleman. [Footnote 298: _i.e._ women's.] [Footnote 299: See ante, p. 43, Introduction to the last story of the First Day.] As many of you ladies may either know by sight or have heard tell, there was not long since in our city a noble and well-bred and well-spoken gentlewoman, whose worth merited not that her name be left unsaid. She was called, then, Madam Oretta and was the wife of Messer Geri Spina. She chanced to be, as we are, in the country, going from place to place, by way of diversion, with a company of ladies and gentlemen, whom she had that day entertained to dinner at her house, and the way being belike somewhat long from the place whence they set out to that whither they were all purposed to go afoot, one of the gentlemen said to her, 'Madam Oretta, an you will, I will carry you a-horseback great part of the way we have to go with one of the finest stories in the world.' 'Nay, sir,' answered the lady, 'I pray you instantly thereof; indeed, it will be most agreeable to me.' Master cavalier, who maybe fared no better, sword at side than tale on tongue, hearing this, began a story of his, which of itself was in truth very goodly; but he, now thrice or four or even half a dozen times repeating one same word, anon turning back and whiles saying, 'I said not aright,' and often erring in the names and putting one for another, marred it cruelly, more by token that he delivered himself exceedingly ill, having regard to the quality of the persons and the nature of the incidents of his tale. By reason whereof, Madam Oretta, hearkening to him, was many a time taken with a sweat and failing of the heart, as she were sick and near her end, and at last, being unable to brook the thing any more and seeing the gentleman engaged in an imbroglio from which he was not like to extricate himself, she said to him pleasantly, 'Sir, this horse of yours hath too hard a trot; wherefore I pray you be pleased to set me down.' The gentleman, who, as it chanced, understood a hint better than he told a story, took the jest in good part and turning it off with a laugh, fell to discoursing of other matters and left unfinished the story that he had begun and conducted so ill." THE SECOND STORY [Day the Sixth] CISTI THE BAKER WITH A WORD OF HIS FASHION MAKETH MESSER GERI SPINA SENSIBLE OF AN INDISCREET REQUEST OF HIS Madam Oretta's saying was greatly commended of all, ladies and men, and the queen bidding Pampinea follow on, she began thus: "Fair ladies, I know not of mine own motion to resolve me which is the more at fault, whether nature in fitting to a noble soul a mean body or fortune in imposing a mean condition upon a body endowed with a noble soul, as in one our townsman Cisti and in many another we may have seen it happen; which Cisti being gifted with a very lofty spirit, fortune made him a baker. And for this, certes, I should curse both nature and fortune like, did I not know the one to be most discreet and the other to have a thousand eyes, albeit fools picture her blind; and I imagine, therefore, that, being exceeding well-advised, they do that which is oftentimes done of human beings, who, uncertain of future events, bury their most precious things, against their occasions, in the meanest places of their houses, as being the least suspect, and thence bring them forth in their greatest needs, the mean place having the while kept them more surely than would the goodly chamber. And so, meseemeth, do the governors of the world hide oftentimes their most precious things under the shadow of crafts and conditions reputed most mean, to the end that, bringing them forth therefrom in time of need, their lustre may show the brighter. Which how Cisti the baker made manifest, though in but a trifling matter, restoring to Messer Geri Spina (whom the story but now told of Madam Oretta, who was his wife, hath recalled to my memory) the eyes of the understanding, it pleaseth me to show you in a very short story. I must tell you, then, that Pope Boniface, with whom Messer Geri Spina was in very great favour, having despatched to Florence certain of his gentlemen on an embassy concerning sundry important matters of his, they lighted down at the house of Messer Geri and he treating the pope's affairs in company with them, it chanced, whatever might have been the occasion thereof, that he and they passed well nigh every morning afoot before Santa Maria Ughi, where Cisti the baker had his bakehouse and plied his craft in person. Now, albeit fortune had appointed Cisti a humble enough condition, she had so far at the least been kind to him therein that he was grown very rich and without ever choosing to abandon it for any other, lived very splendidly, having, amongst his other good things, the best wines, white and red, that were to be found in Florence or in the neighbouring country. Seeing Messer Geri and the pope's ambassadors pass every morning before his door and the heat being great, he bethought himself that it were a great courtesy to give them to drink of his good white wine; but, having regard to his own condition and that of Messer Geri, he deemed it not a seemly thing to presume to invite them, but determined to bear himself on such wise as should lead Messer Geri to invite himself. Accordingly, having still on his body a very white doublet and an apron fresh from the wash, which bespoke him rather a miller than a baker, he let set before his door, every morning, towards the time when he looked for Messer Geri and the ambassadors to pass, a new tinned pail of fair water and a small pitcher of new Bolognese ware, full of his good white wine, together with two beakers, which seemed of silver, so bright they were, and seated himself there, against they should pass, when, after clearing his throat once or twice, he fell to drinking of that his wine with such a relish that he had made a dead man's mouth water for it. Messer Geri, having seen him do thus one and two mornings, said on the third, 'How now, Cisti? Is it good?' Whereupon he started to his feet and said, 'Ay is it, Sir; but how good I cannot give you to understand, except you taste thereof.' Messer Geri, in whom either the nature of the weather or belike the relish with which he saw Cisti drink had begotten a thirst, turned to the ambassadors and said, smiling, 'Gentlemen, we shall do well to taste this honest man's wine; belike it is such that we shall not repent thereof.' Accordingly, he made with them towards Cisti, who let bring a goodly settle out of his bakehouse and praying them sit, said to their serving-men, who pressed forward to rinse the beakers, 'Stand back, friends, and leave this office to me, for that I know no less well how to skink than to wield the baking-peel; and look you not to taste a drop thereof.' So saying, he with his own hands washed out four new and goodly beakers and letting bring a little pitcher of his good wine, busied himself with giving Messer Geri and his companions to drink, to whom the wine seemed the best they had drunken that great while; wherefore they commended it greatly, and well nigh every morning, whilst the ambassadors abode there, Messer Geri went thither to drink in company with them. After awhile, their business being despatched and they about to depart, Messer Geri made them a magnificent banquet, whereto he bade a number of the most worshipful citizens and amongst the rest, Cisti, who would, however, on no condition go thither; whereupon Messer Geri bade one of his serving-men go fetch a flask of the baker's wine and give each guest a half beaker thereof with the first course. The servant, despiteful most like for that he had never availed to drink of the wine, took a great flagon, which when Cisti saw, 'My son,' said he, 'Messer Geri sent thee not to me.' The man avouched again and again that he had, but, getting none other answer, returned to Messer Geri and reported it to him. Quoth he, 'Go back to him and tell him that I do indeed send thee to him; and if he still make thee the same answer, ask him to whom I send thee, [an it be not to him.]' Accordingly, the servant went back to the baker and said to him, 'Cisti, for certain Messer Geri sendeth me to thee and none other.' 'For certain, my son,' answered the baker, 'he doth it not.' 'Then,' said the man, 'to whom doth he send me?' 'To the Arno,' replied Cisti; which answer when the servant reported to Messer Geri, the eyes of his understanding were of a sudden opened and he said to the man, 'Let me see what flask thou carriedst thither.' When he saw the great flagon aforesaid, he said, 'Cisti saith sooth,' and giving the man a sharp reproof, made him take a sortable flask, which when Cisti saw, 'Now,' quoth he, 'I know full well that he sendeth thee to me,' and cheerfully filled it unto him. Then, that same day, he let fill a little cask with the like wine and causing carry it softly to Messer Geri's house, went presently thither and finding him there, said to him, 'Sir. I would not have you think that the great flagon of this morning frightened me; nay, but, meseeming that which I have of these past days shown you with my little pitchers had escaped your mind, to wit, that this is no household wine,[300] I wished to recall it to you. But, now, for that I purpose no longer to be your steward thereof, I have sent it all to you; henceforward do with it as it pleaseth you.' Messer Geri set great store by Cisti's present and rendering him such thanks as he deemed sortable, ever after held him for a man of great worth and for friend." [Footnote 300: Lit. Family wine (_vin da famiglia_), _i.e._ no wine for servants' or general drinking, but a choice vintage, to be reserved for special occasions.] THE THIRD STORY [Day the Sixth] MADAM NONNA DE' PULCI, WITH A READY RETORT TO A NOT ALTOGETHER SEEMLY PLEASANTRY, IMPOSETH SILENCE ON THE BISHOP OF FLORENCE Pampinea having made an end of her story and both Cisti's reply and his liberality having been much commended of all, it pleased the queen that the next story should be told by Lauretta, who blithely began as follows, "Jocund ladies, first Pampinea and now Filomena have spoken truly enough touching our little worth and the excellence of pithy sayings, whereto that there may be no need now to return, I would fain remind you, over and above that which hath been said on the subject, that the nature of smart sayings is such that they should bite upon the hearer, not as the dog, but as the sheep biteth; for that, an a trait bit like a dog, it were not a trait, but an affront. The right mean in this was excellently well hit both by Madam Oretta's speech and Cisti's reply. It is true that, if a smart thing be said by way of retort, and the answerer biteth like a dog, having been bitten on like wise, meseemeth he is not to be blamed as he would have been, had this not been the case; wherefore it behoveth us look how and with whom, no less than when and where, we bandy jests; to which considerations, a prelate of ours, taking too little heed, received at least as sharp a bite as he thought to give, as I shall show you in a little story. Messer Antonio d'Orso, a learned and worthy prelate, being Bishop of Florence, there came thither a Catalan gentleman, called Messer Dego della Ratta, marshal for King Robert, who, being a man of a very fine person and a great amorist, took a liking to one among other Florentine ladies, a very fair lady and granddaughter to a brother of the said bishop, and hearing that her husband, albeit a man of good family, was very sordid and miserly, agreed with him to give him five hundred gold florins, so he would suffer him lie a night with his wife. Accordingly, he let gild so many silver poplins,[301] a coin which was then current, and having lain with the lady, though against her will, gave them to the husband. The thing after coming to be known everywhere, the sordid wretch of a husband reaped both loss and scorn, but the bishop, like a discreet man as he was, affected to know nothing of the matter. Wherefore, he and the marshal consorting much together, it chanced, as they rode side by side with each other, one St. John's Day, viewing the ladies on either side of the way where the mantle is run for,[302] the prelate espied a young lady,--of whom this present pestilence hath bereft us and whom all you ladies must have known, Madam Nonna de' Pulci by name, cousin to Messer Alessio Rinucci, a fresh and fair young woman, both well-spoken and high-spirited, then not long before married in Porta San Piero,--and pointed her out to the marshal; then, being near her, he laid his hand on the latter's shoulder and said to her, 'Nonna, how deemest thou of this gallant? Thinkest thou thou couldst make a conquest of him?' It seemed to the lady that those words somewhat trenched upon her honour and were like to sully it in the eyes of those (and there were many there) who heard them; wherefore, not thinking to purge away the soil, but to return blow for blow, she promptly answered, 'Maybe, sir, he would not make a conquest of me; but, in any case, I should want good money.' The marshal and the bishop, hearing this, felt themselves alike touched to the quick by her speech, the one as the author of the cheat put upon the bishop's brother's granddaughter and the other as having suffered the affront in the person of his kinswoman, and made off, shamefast and silent, without looking at one another or saying aught more to her that day. Thus, then, the young lady having been bitten, it was not forbidden her to bite her biter with a retort." [Footnote 301: A silver coin of about the size and value of our silver penny, which, when gilded, would pass muster well enough for a gold florin, unless closely examined.] [Footnote 302: _Il palio_, a race anciently run at Florence on St. John's Day, as that of the Barberi at Rome during the Carnival.] THE FOURTH STORY [Day the Sixth] CHICHIBIO, COOK TO CURRADO GIANFIGLIAZZI, WITH A READY WORD SPOKEN TO SAVE HIMSELF, TURNETH HIS MASTER'S ANGER INTO LAUGHTER AND ESCAPETH THE PUNISHMENT THREATENED HIM BY THE LATTER Lauretta being silent and Nonna having been mightily commended of all, the queen charged Neifile to follow on, and she said, "Although, lovesome ladies, a ready wit doth often furnish folk with words both prompt and useful and goodly, according to the circumstances, yet fortune whiles cometh to the help of the fearful and putteth of a sudden into their mouths such answers as might never of malice aforethought be found of the speaker, as I purpose to show you by my story. Currado Gianfigliazzi, as each of you ladies may have both heard and seen, hath still been a noble citizen of our city, liberal and magnificent, and leading a knightly life, hath ever, letting be for the present his weightier doings, taken delight in hawks and hounds. Having one day with a falcon of his brought down a crane and finding it young and fat, he sent it to a good cook he had, a Venetian hight Chichibio, bidding him roast it for supper and dress it well. Chichibio, who looked the new-caught gull he was, trussed the crane and setting it to the fire, proceeded to cook it diligently. When it was all but done and gave out a very savoury smell, it chanced that a wench of the neighbourhood, Brunetta by name, of whom Chichibio was sore enamoured, entered the kitchen and smelling the crane and seeing it, instantly besought him to give her a thigh thereof. He answered her, singing, and said, 'Thou shalt not have it from me, Mistress Brunetta, thou shalt not have it from me.' Whereat she, being vexed, said to him, 'By God His faith, an thou give it me not, thou shalt never have of me aught that shall pleasure thee.' In brief, many were the words between them and at last, Chichibio, not to anger his mistress, cut off one of the thighs of the crane and gave it her. The bird being after set before Messer Currado and certain stranger guests of his, lacking a thigh, and the former marvelling thereat, he let call Chichibio and asked him what was come of the other thigh; whereto the liar of a Venetian answered without hesitation, 'Sir, cranes have but one thigh and one leg.' 'What a devil?' cried Currado in a rage. 'They have but one thigh and one leg? Have I never seen a crane before?' 'Sir,' replied Chichibio, 'it is as I tell you, and whenas it pleaseth you, I will cause you see it in the quick.' Currado, out of regard for the strangers he had with him, chose not to make more words of the matter, but said, 'Since thou sayst thou wilt cause me see it in the quick, a thing I never yet saw or heard tell of, I desire to see it to-morrow morning, in which case I shall be content; but I swear to thee, by Christ His body, that, an it be otherwise, I will have thee served on such wise that thou shalt still have cause to remember my name to thy sorrow so long as thou livest.' There was an end of the talk for that night; but, next morning, as soon as it was day, Currado, whose anger was nothing abated for sleep, arose, still full of wrath, and bade bring the horses; then, mounting Chichibio upon a rouncey, he carried him off towards a watercourse, on whose banks cranes were still to be seen at break of day, saying, 'We shall soon see who lied yestereve, thou or I.' Chichibio, seeing that his master's wrath yet endured and that needs must be made good his lie and knowing not how he should avail thereunto, rode after Currado in the greatest fright that might be, and fain would he have fled, so but he might. But, seeing no way of escape, he looked now before him and now behind and now on either side and took all he saw for cranes standing on two feet. Presently, coming near to the river, he chanced to catch sight, before any other, of a round dozen of cranes on the bank, all perched on one leg, as they use to do, when they sleep; whereupon he straightway showed them to Currado, saying, 'Now, sir, if you look at those that stand yonder, you may very well see that I told you the truth yesternight, to wit, that cranes have but one thigh and one leg.' Currado, seeing them, answered, 'Wait and I will show thee that they have two,' and going somewhat nearer to them, he cried out, 'Ho! Ho!' At this the cranes, putting down the other leg, all, after some steps, took to flight; whereupon Currado said to him, 'How sayst thou now, malapert knave that thou art? Deemest thou they have two legs?' Chichibio, all confounded and knowing not whether he stood on his head or his heels,[303] answered, 'Ay, sir; but you did not cry, "Ho! Ho!" to yesternight's crane; had you cried thus, it would have put out the other thigh and the other leg, even as did those yonder.' This reply so tickled Currado that all his wrath was changed into mirth and laughter and he said, 'Chichibio, thou art in the right; indeed, I should have done it.' Thus, then, with his prompt and comical answer did Chichibio avert ill luck and made his peace with his master." [Footnote 303: Lit. knowing not whence himself came.] THE FIFTH STORY [Day the Sixth] MESSER FORESE DA RABATTA AND MASTER GIOTTO THE PAINTER COMING FROM MUGELLO, EACH JESTINGLY RALLIETH THE OTHER ON HIS SCURVY FAVOUR Neifile being silent and the ladies having taken much pleasure in Chichibio's reply, Pamfilo, by the queen's desire, spoke thus: "Dearest ladies, it chanceth often that, like as fortune whiles hideth very great treasures of worth and virtue under mean conditions, as hath been a little before shown by Pampinea, even so, under the sorriest of human forms are marvellous wits found to have been lodged by nature; and this very plainly appeared in two townsmen of ours, of whom I purpose briefly to entertain you. For that the one, who was called Messer Forese da Rabatta, though little of person and misshapen, with a flat camoys face, that had been an eyesore on the shoulders of the foulest cadger in Florence, was yet of such excellence in the interpretation of the laws, that he was of many men of worth reputed a very treasury of civil right; whilst the other, whose name was Giotto, had so excellent a genius that there was nothing of all which Nature, mother and mover of all things, presenteth unto us by the ceaseless revolution of the heavens, but he with pencil and pen and brush depicted it and that so closely that not like, nay, but rather the thing itself it seemed, insomuch that men's visual sense is found to have been oftentimes deceived in things of his fashion, taking that for real which was but depictured. Wherefore, he having brought back to the light this art, which had for many an age lain buried under the errors of certain folk who painted more to divert the eyes of the ignorant than to please the understanding of the judicious, he may deservedly be styled one of the chief glories of Florence, the more so that he bore the honours he had gained with the utmost humility and although, while he lived, chief over all else in his art, he still refused to be called master, which title, though rejected by him, shone so much the more gloriously in him as it was with greater eagerness greedily usurped by those who knew less than he, or by his disciples. Yet, great as was his skill, he was not therefore anywise goodlier of person or better favoured than Messer Forese. But, to come to my story: I must tell you that Messer Forese and Giotto had each his country house at Mugello and the former, having gone to visit his estates, at that season of the summer when the Courts hold holiday, and returning thence on a sorry cart-horse, chanced to fall in with the aforesaid Giotto, who had been on the same errand and was then on his way back to Florence nowise better equipped than himself in horse and accoutrements. Accordingly, they joined company and fared on softly, like old men as they were. Presently, it chanced, as we often see it happen in summer time, that a sudden shower overtook them, from which, as quickliest they might, they took shelter in the house of a husbandman, a friend and acquaintance of both of them. After awhile, the rain showing no sign of giving over and they wishing to reach Florence by daylight, they borrowed of their host two old homespun cloaks and two hats, rusty with age, for that there were no better to be had, and set out again upon their way. When they had gone awhile and were all drenched and bemired with the splashing that their hackneys kept up with their hoofs--things which use not to add worship to any one's looks,--the weather began to clear a little and the two wayfarers, who had long fared on in silence, fell to conversing together. Messer Forese, as he rode, hearkening to Giotto, who was a very fine talker, fell to considering his companion from head to foot and seeing him everywise so ill accoutred and in such scurvy case, burst out laughing and without taking any thought to his own plight, said to him, 'How sayst thou, Giotto? An there encountered us here a stranger who had never seen thee, thinkest thou he would believe thee to be, as thou art, the finest painter in the world?' 'Ay, sir,' answered Giotto forthright, 'methinketh he might e'en believe it whenas, looking upon you, he should believe that you knew your A B C.' Messer Forese, hearing this, was sensible of his error and saw himself paid with money such as the wares he had sold."[304] [Footnote 304: Or, as we should say, "in his own coin."] THE SIXTH STORY [Day the Sixth] MICHELE SCALZA PROVETH TO CERTAIN YOUNG MEN THAT THE CADGERS OF FLORENCE ARE THE BEST GENTLEMEN OF THE WORLD OR THE MAREMMA AND WINNETH A SUPPER The ladies yet laughed at Giotto's prompt retort, when the queen charged Fiammetta follow on and she proceeded to speak thus: "Young ladies, the mention by Pamfilo of the cadgers of Florence, whom peradventure you know not as doth he, hath brought to my mind a story, wherein, without deviating from our appointed theme, it is demonstrated how great is their nobility; and it pleaseth me, therefore, to relate it. It is no great while since there was in our city a young man called Michele Scalza, who was the merriest and most agreeable man in the world and he had still the rarest stories in hand, wherefore the young Florentines were exceeding glad to have his company whenas they made a party of pleasure amongst themselves. It chanced one day, he being with certain folk at Monte Ughi, that the question was started among them of who were the best and oldest gentlemen of Florence. Some said the Uberti, others the Lamberti, and one this family and another that, according as it occurred to his mind; which Scalza hearing, he fell a-laughing and said, 'Go to, addlepates that you are! You know not what you say. The best gentlemen and the oldest, not only of Florence, but of all the world or the Maremma,[305] are the Cadgers,[306] a matter upon which all the phisopholers and every one who knoweth them, as I do, are of accord; and lest you should understand it of others, I speak of the Cadgers your neighbors of Santa Maria Maggiore.' [Footnote 305: A commentator notes that the adjunction to the world of the Maremma (cf. Elijer Goff, "The Irish Question has for some centuries been enjoyed by _the universe and other parts_") produces a risible effect and gives the reader to understand that Scalza broaches the question only by way of a joke. The same may be said of the jesting inversion of the word philosophers (phisopholers, Fisofoli) in the next line.] [Footnote 306: _Baronci_, the Florentine name for what we should call professional beggars, "mumpers, chanters and Abrahammen," called _Bari_ and _Barocci_ in other parts of Italy. This story has been a prodigious stumbling-block to former translators, not one of whom appears to have had the slightest idea of Boccaccio's meaning.] When the young men, who looked for him to say otherwhat, heard this, they all made mock of him and said, 'Thou gullest us, as if we knew not the Cadgers, even as thou dost.' 'By the Evangels,' replied Scalza, 'I gull you not; nay, I speak the truth, and if there be any here who will lay a supper thereon, to be given to the winner and half a dozen companions of his choosing, I will willingly hold the wager; and I will do yet more for you, for I will abide by the judgment of whomsoever you will.' Quoth one of them, called Neri Mannini, 'I am ready to try to win the supper in question'; whereupon, having agreed together to take Piero di Fiorentino, in whose house they were, to judge, they betook themselves to him, followed by all the rest, who looked to see Scalza lose and to make merry over his discomfiture, and recounted to him all that had passed. Piero, who was a discreet young man, having first heard Neri's argument, turned to Scalza and said to him, 'And thou, how canst thou prove this that thou affirmest?' 'How, sayest thou?' answered Scalza. 'Nay, I will prove it by such reasoning that not only thou, but he who denieth it, shall acknowledge that I speak sooth. You know that, the ancienter men are, the nobler they are; and so was it said but now among these. Now the Cadgers are more ancient than any one else, so that they are nobler; and showing you how they are the most ancient, I shall undoubtedly have won the wager. You must know, then, that the Cadgers were made by God the Lord in the days when He first began to learn to draw; but the rest of mankind were made after He knew how to draw. And to assure yourselves that in this I say sooth, do but consider the Cadgers in comparison with other folk; whereas you see all the rest of mankind with faces well composed and duly proportioned, you may see the Cadgers, this with a visnomy very long and strait and with a face out of all measure broad; one hath too long and another too short a nose and a third hath a chin jutting out and turned upward and huge jawbones that show as they were those of an ass, whilst some there be who have one eye bigger than the other and other some who have one set lower than the other, like the faces that children used to make, whenas they first begin to learn to draw. Wherefore, as I have already said, it is abundantly apparent that God the Lord made them, what time He was learning to draw; so that they are more ancient and consequently nobler than the rest of mankind.' At this, both Piero, who was the judge, and Neri, who had wagered the supper, and all the rest, hearing Scalza's comical argument and remembering themselves,[307] fell all a-laughing and affirmed that he was in the right and had won the supper, for that the Cadgers were assuredly the noblest and most ancient gentlemen that were to be found not in Florence alone, but in the world or the Maremma. Wherefore it was very justly said of Pamfilo, seeking to show the foulness of Messer Forese's visnomy, that it would have showed notably ugly on one of the Cadgers." [Footnote 307: _i.e._ of the comical fashion of the Cadgers.] THE SEVENTH STORY [Day the Sixth] MADAM FILIPPA, BEING FOUND BY HER HUSBAND WITH A LOVER OF HERS AND BROUGHT TO JUSTICE, DELIVERETH HERSELF WITH A PROMPT AND PLEASANT ANSWER AND CAUSETH MODIFY THE STATUTE Fiammetta was now silent and all laughed yet at the novel argument used by Scalza for the ennoblement over all of the Cadgers, when the queen enjoined Filostrato to tell and he accordingly began to say, "It is everywise a fine thing, noble ladies, to know how to speak well, but I hold it yet goodlier to know how to do it whereas necessity requireth it, even as a gentlewoman, of whom I purpose to entertain you, knew well how to do on such wise that not only did she afford her hearers matter for mirth and laughter, but did herself loose from the toils of an ignominious death, as you shall presently hear. There was, then, aforetime, in the city of Prato, a statute in truth no less blameworthy than cruel, which, without making any distinction, ordained that any woman found by her husband in adultery with any her lover should be burnt, even as she who should be discovered to have sold her favours for money. What while this statute was in force, it befell that a noble and beautiful lady, by name Madam Filippa, who was of a singularly amorous complexion, was one night found by Rinaldo de' Pugliesi her husband, in her own chamber in the arms of Lazzerino de' Guazzagliotri, a noble and handsome youth of that city, whom she loved even as herself. Rinaldo, seeing this, was sore enraged and scarce contained himself from falling upon them and slaying them; and but that he feared for himself, an he should ensue the promptings of his anger, he had certainly done it. However, he forbore from this, but could not refrain from seeking of the law of Prato that which it was not permitted him to accomplish with his own hand, to wit, the death of his wife. Having, therefore, very sufficient evidence to prove the lady's default, no sooner was the day come than, without taking other counsel, he lodged an accusation against her and caused summon her before the provost. Madam Filippa, being great of heart, as women commonly are who are verily in love, resolved, although counselled to the contrary by many of her friends and kinsfolk, to appear, choosing rather, confessing the truth, to die with an undaunted spirit, than, meanly fleeing, to live an outlaw in exile and confess herself unworthy of such a lover as he in whose arms she had been the foregoing night. Wherefore, presenting herself before the provost, attended by a great company of men and ladies and exhorted of all to deny the charge, she demanded, with a firm voice and an assured air, what he would with her. The magistrate, looking upon her and seeing her very fair and commendable of carriage and according as her words testified, of a lofty spirit, began to have compassion of her, fearing lest she should confess somewhat wherefore it should behoove him, for his own honour's sake, condemn her to die. However, having no choice but to question her of that which was laid to her charge, he said to her, 'Madam, as you see, here is Rinaldo your husband, who complaineth of you, avouching himself to have found you in adultery with another man and demanding that I should punish you therefor by putting you to death, according to the tenor of a statute which here obtaineth; but this I cannot do, except you confess it; wherefore look well what you answer and tell me if that be true whereof your husband impeacheth you.' The lady, no wise dismayed, replied very cheerfully, 'Sir, true it is that Rinaldo is my husband and that he found me last night in the arms of Lazzarino, wherein, for the great and perfect love I bear him, I have many a time been; nor am I anywise minded to deny this. But, as I am assured you know, laws should be common to all and made with the consent of those whom they concern; and this is not the case with this statute, which is binding only upon us unhappy women, who might far better than men avail to satisfy many; more by token that, when it was made, not only did no woman yield consent thereunto, but none of us was even cited to do so; wherefore it may justly be styled naught. However, an you choose, to the prejudice of my body and of your own soul, to be the executor of this unrighteous law, it resteth with you to do so; but, ere you proceed to adjudge aught, I pray you do me one slight favour, to wit, that you question my husband if at all times and as often as it pleased him, without ever saying him nay, I have or not vouchsafed him entire commodity of myself.' Rinaldo, without waiting to be questioned of the provost, straightway made answer that undoubtedly the lady had, at his every request, accorded him his every pleasure of herself; whereupon, 'Then, my lord provost,' straightway rejoined she, 'if he have still taken of me that which was needful and pleasing to him, what, I ask you, was or am I to do with that which remaineth over and above his requirements? Should I cast it to the dogs? Was it not far better to gratify withal a gentleman who loveth me more than himself, than to leave it waste or spoil?' Now well nigh all the people of Prato had flocked thither to the trial of such a matter and of so fair and famous a lady, and hearing so comical a question, they all, after much laughter, cried out as with one voice that she was in the right of it and that she said well. Moreover, ere they departed thence, at the instance of the provost, they modified the cruel statute and left it to apply to those women only who should for money make default to their husbands. Thereupon Rinaldo, having taken nought but shame by so fond an emprise, departed the court, and the lady returned in triumph to her own house, joyful and free and in a manner raised up out of the fire." THE EIGHTH STORY [Day the Sixth] FRESCO EXHORTETH HIS NIECE NOT TO MIRROR HERSELF IN THE GLASS, IF, AS SHE SAITH, IT IRKETH HER TO SEE DISAGREEABLE FOLK The story told by Filostrato at first touched the hearts of the listening ladies with some little shamefastness and they gave token thereof by a modest redness that appeared upon their faces; but, after looking one at another, they hearkened thereto, tittering the while and scarce able to abstain from laughing. As soon as he was come to the end thereof, the queen turned to Emilia and bade her follow on, whereupon, sighing no otherwise than as she had been aroused from a dream, she began, "Lovesome lasses, for that long thought hath held me far from here, I shall, to obey our queen content myself with [relating] a story belike much slighter than that which I might have bethought myself to tell, had my mind been present here, recounting to you the silly default of a damsel, corrected by an uncle of hers with a jocular retort, had she been woman enough to have apprehended it. A certain Fresco da Celatico, then, had a niece familiarly called Ciesca,[308] who, having a comely face and person (though none of those angelical beauties that we have often seen aforetime), set so much store by herself and accounted herself so noble that she had gotten a habit of carping at both men and women and everything she saw, without anywise taking thought to herself, who was so much more fashous, froward and humoursome than any other of her sex that nothing could be done to her liking. Beside all this, she was so prideful that, had she been of the blood royal of France, it had been overweening; and when she went abroad, she gave herself so many airs that she did nought but make wry faces, as if there came to her a stench from whomsoever she saw or met. But, letting be many other vexatious and tiresome fashions of hers, it chanced one day that she came back to the house, where Fresco was, and seating herself near him, all full of airs and grimaces, did nothing but puff and blow; whereupon quoth he, 'What meaneth this, Ciesca, that, to-day being a holiday, thou comest home so early?' To which she answered, all like to die away with affectation, 'It is true I have come back soon, for that I believe there were never in this city so many disagreeable and tiresome people, both men and women, as there are to-day; there passeth none about the streets but is hateful to me as ill-chance, and I do not believe there is a woman in the world to whom it is more irksome to see disagreeable folk than it is to me; wherefore I have returned thus early, not to see them.' 'My lass,' rejoined Fresco, to whom his niece's airs and graces were mighty displeasing, 'if disagreeable folk be so distasteful to thee as thou sayest, never mirror thyself in the glass, so thou wouldst live merry.' But she, emptier than a reed, albeit herseemed she was a match for Solomon in wit, apprehended Fresco's true speech no better than a block; nay, she said that she chose to mirror herself in the glass like other women; and so she abode in her folly and therein abideth yet." [Footnote 308: An abbreviation of Francesca.] THE NINTH STORY [Day the Sixth] GUIDO CAVALCANTI WITH A PITHY SPEECH COURTEOUSLY FLOUTETH CERTAIN FLORENTINE GENTLEMEN WHO HAD TAKEN HIM BY SURPRISE The queen, seeing Emilia delivered of her story and that it rested with none other than herself to tell, saving him who was privileged to speak last, began thus, "Although, sprightly ladies, you have this day taken out of my mouth at the least two stories, whereof I had purposed to relate one, I have yet one left to tell, the end whereof compriseth a saying of such a fashion that none, peradventure, of such pertinence, hath yet been cited to us. You must know, then, that there were in our city, of times past, many goodly and commendable usances, whereof none is left there nowadays, thanks to the avarice that hath waxed therein with wealth and hath banished them all. Among these there was a custom to the effect that the gentlemen of the various quarters of Florence assembled together in divers places about the town and formed themselves into companies of a certain number, having a care to admit thereinto such only as might aptly bear the expense, whereof to-day the one and to-morrow the other, and so all in turn, hold open house, each his day, for the whole company. At these banquets they often entertained both stranger gentlemen, whenas there came any thither, and those of the city; and on like wise, once at the least in the year, they clad themselves alike and rode in procession through the city on the most notable days and whiles they held passes of arms, especially on the chief holidays or whenas some glad news of victory or the like came to the city. Amongst these companies was one of Messer Betto Brunelleschi, whereinto the latter and his companions had studied amain to draw Guido, son of Messer Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti, and not without cause; for that, besides being one of the best logicians in the world and an excellent natural philosopher (of which things, indeed, they recked little), he was very sprightly and well-bred and a mighty well-spoken man and knew better than any other to do everything that he would and that pertained unto a gentleman, more by token that he was very rich and knew wonder-well how to entertain whomsoever he deemed deserving of honour. But Messer Betto had never been able to win and to have him, and he and his companions believed that this betided for that Guido, being whiles engaged in abstract speculations, became much distraught from mankind; and for that he inclined somewhat to the opinion of the Epicureans, it was reported among the common folk that these his speculations consisted only in seeking if it might be discovered that God was not. It chanced one day that Guido set out from Orto San Michele and came by way of the Corso degli Ademari, the which was oftentimes his road, to San Giovanni, round about which there were at that present divers great marble tombs (which are nowadays at Santa Reparata) and many others. As he was between the columns of porphyry there and the tombs in question and the door of the church, which was shut, Messer Betto and his company, coming a-horseback along the Piazza di Santa Reparata, espied him among the tombs and said, 'Let us go plague him.' Accordingly, spurring their horses, they charged all down upon him in sport and coming upon him ere he was aware of them, said to him, 'Guido, thou refusest to be of our company; but, harkye, whenas thou shalt have found that God is not, what wilt thou have accomplished?' Guido, seeing himself hemmed in by them, answered promptly, 'Gentlemen, you may say what you will to me in your own house'; then, laying his hand on one of the great tombs aforesaid and being very nimble of body, he took a spring and alighting on the other side, made off, having thus rid himself of them. The gentlemen abode looking one upon another and fell a-saying that he was a crack-brain and that this that he had answered them amounted to nought seeing that there where they were they had no more to do than all the other citizens, nor Guido himself less than any of themselves. But Messer Betto turned to them and said, 'It is you who are the crackbrains, if you have not apprehended him. He hath courteously and in a few words given us the sharpest rebuke in the world; for that, an you consider aright, these tombs are the houses of the dead, seeing they are laid and abide therein, and these, saith he, are our house, meaning thus to show us that we and other foolish and unlettered men are, compared with him and other men of learning, worse than dead folk; wherefore, being here, we are in our own house.' Thereupon each understood what Guido had meant to say and was abashed nor ever plagued him more, but held Messer Betto thenceforward a gentleman of a subtle wit and an understanding." THE TENTH STORY [Day the Sixth] FRA CIPOLLA PROMISETH CERTAIN COUNTRY FOLK TO SHOW THEM ONE OF THE ANGEL GABRIEL'S FEATHERS AND FINDING COALS IN PLACE THEREOF, AVOUCHETH THESE LATTER TO BE OF THOSE WHICH ROASTED ST. LAWRENCE Each of the company being now quit of his[309] story, Dioneo perceived that it rested with him to tell; whereupon, without awaiting more formal commandment, he began on this wise, silence having first been imposed on those who commended Guido's pregnant retort: "Charming ladies, albeit I am privileged to speak of that which most liketh me, I purpose not to-day to depart from the matter whereof you have all very aptly spoken; but, ensuing in your footsteps, I mean to show you how cunningly a friar of the order of St. Anthony, by name Fra Cipolla, contrived with a sudden shift to extricate himself from a snare[310] which had been set for him by two young men; nor should it irk you if, for the complete telling of the story, I enlarge somewhat in speaking, an you consider the sun, which is yet amiddleward in the sky. [Footnote 309: "Or her."] [Footnote 310: Lit. to avoid or elude a scorn (_fuggire uno scorno_).] Certaldo, as you may have heard, is a burgh of Val d' Elsa situate in our country, which, small though it be, was once inhabited by gentlemen and men of substance; and thither, for that he found good pasture there, one of the friars of the order of St. Anthony was long used to resort once a year, to get in the alms bestowed by simpletons upon him and his brethren. His name was Fra Cipolla and he was gladly seen there, no less belike, for his name's sake[311] than for other reasons, seeing that these parts produce onions that are famous throughout all Tuscany. This Fra Cipolla was little of person, red-haired and merry of countenance, the jolliest rascal in the world, and to boot, for all he was no scholar, he was so fine a talker and so ready of wit that those who knew him not would not only have esteemed him a great rhetorician, but had avouched him to be Tully himself or may be Quintilian; and he was gossip or friend or well-wisher[312] to well nigh every one in the country. [Footnote 311: _Cipolla_ means onion.] [Footnote 312: The term "well-wisher" (_benivogliente_), when understood in relation to a woman, is generally equivalent (at least with the older Italian writers) to "lover." See ante, passim.] One August among others he betook himself thither according to his wont, and on a Sunday morning, all the goodmen and goodwives of the villages around being come to hear mass at the parish church, he came forward, whenas it seemed to him time, and said, 'Gentlemen and ladies, it is, as you know, your usance to send every year to the poor of our lord Baron St. Anthony of your corn and of your oats, this little and that much, according to his means and his devoutness, to the intent that the blessed St. Anthony may keep watch over your beeves and asses and swine and sheep; and besides this, you use to pay, especially such of you as are inscribed into our company, that small due which is payable once a year. To collect these I have been sent by my superior, to wit, my lord abbot; wherefore, with the blessing of God, you shall, after none, whenas you hear the bells ring, come hither without the church, where I will make preachment to you after the wonted fashion and you shall kiss the cross; moreover, for that I know you all to be great devotees of our lord St. Anthony, I will, as an especial favour show you a very holy and goodly relic, which I myself brought aforetime from the holy lands beyond seas; and that is one of the Angel Gabriel's feathers, which remained in the Virgin Mary's chamber, whenas he came to announce to her in Nazareth.' This said, he broke off and went on with his mass. Now, when he said this, there were in the church, among many others, two roguish young fellows, hight one Giovanni del Bragioniera and the other Biagio Pizzini, who, after laughing with one another awhile over Fra Cipolla's relic, took counsel together, for all they were great friends and cronies of his, to play him some trick in the matter of the feather in question. Accordingly, having learned that he was to dine that morning with a friend of his in the burgh, they went down into the street as soon as they knew him to be at table, and betook themselves to the inn where he had alighted, purposing that Biagio should hold his servant in parley, whilst Giovanni should search his baggage for the feather aforesaid, whatever it might be, and carry it off, to see what he should say to the people of the matter. Fra Cipolla had a servant, whom some called Guccio[313] Balena,[314] others Guccio Imbratta[315] and yet others Guccia Porco[316] and who was such a scurvy knave that Lipo Topo[317] never wrought his like, inasmuch as his master used oftentimes to jest of him with his cronies and say, 'My servant hath in him nine defaults, such that, were one of them in Solomon or Aristotle or Seneca, it would suffice to mar all their worth, all their wit and all their sanctity. Consider, then, what a man he must be, who hath all nine of them and in whom there is neither worth nor wit nor sanctity.' Being questioned whiles what were these nine defaults and having put them into doggerel rhyme, he would answer, 'I will tell you. He's a liar, a sloven, a slugabed; disobedient, neglectful, ill bred; o'erweening, foul-spoken, a dunderhead; beside which he hath divers other peccadilloes, whereof it booteth not to speak. But what is most laughable of all his fashions is that, wherever he goeth, he is still for taking a wife and hiring a house; for, having a big black greasy beard, him-seemeth he is so exceeding handsome and agreeable that he conceiteth himself all the women who see him fall in love with him, and if you let him alone, he would run after them all till he lost his girdle.[318] Sooth to say, he is of great assistance to me, for that none can ever seek to speak with me so secretly but he must needs hear his share; and if it chance that I be questioned of aught, he is so fearful lest I should not know how to answer, that he straightway answereth for me both Ay and No, as he judgeth sortable.' [Footnote 313: Diminutive of contempt of Arrigo, contracted from Arriguccio, _i.e._ mean little Arrigo.] [Footnote 314: _i.e._ Whale.] [Footnote 315: _i.e._ Dirt.] [Footnote 316: _i.e._ Hog.] [Footnote 317: A painter of Boccaccio's time, of whom little or nothing seems to be known.] [Footnote 318: _Perpendo lo coreggia._ The exact meaning of this passage is not clear. The commentators make sundry random shots at it, but, as usual, only succeed in making confusion worse confounded. It may perhaps be rendered, "till his wind failed him."] Now Fra Cipolla, in leaving him at the inn, had bidden him look well that none touched his gear, and more particularly his saddle-bags, for that therein were the sacred things. But Guccio, who was fonder of the kitchen than the nightingale of the green boughs, especially if he scented some serving-wench there, and who had seen in that of the inn a gross fat cookmaid, undersized and ill-made, with a pair of paps that showed like two manure-baskets and a face like a cadger's, all sweaty, greasy and smoky, leaving Fra Cipolla's chamber and all his gear to care for themselves, swooped down upon the kitchen, even as the vulture swoopeth upon carrion, and seating himself by the fire, for all it was August, entered into discourse with the wench in question, whose name was Nuta, telling her that he was by rights a gentleman and had more than nine millions of florins, beside that which he had to give others, which was rather more than less, and that he could do and say God only knew what. Moreover, without regard to his bonnet, whereon was grease enough to have seasoned the caldron of Altopascio,[319] and his doublet all torn and pieced and enamelled with filth about the collar and under the armpits, with more spots and patches of divers colours than ever had Turkey or India stuffs, and his shoes all broken and hose unsewn, he told her, as he had been the Sieur de Châtillon,[320] that he meant to clothe her and trick her out anew and deliver her from the wretchedness of abiding with others,[321] and bring her to hope of better fortune, if without any great wealth in possession, and many other things, which, for all he delivered them very earnestly, all turned to wind and came to nought, as did most of his enterprises. [Footnote 319: Said by the commentators to have been an abbey, where they made cheese-soup for all comers twice a week; hence "the caldron of Altopascio" became a proverb; but _quære_ is not the name Altopascio (high feeding) a fancy one?] [Footnote 320: It does not appear to which member of this great house Boccaccio here alludes, but the Châtillons were always rich and magnificent gentlemen, from Gaucher de Châtillon, who followed Philip Augustus to the third crusade, to the great Admiral de Coligny.] [Footnote 321: Sic (_star con altrui_); but "being in the service of or dependent upon others" seems to be the probable meaning.] The two young men, accordingly, found Guccio busy about Nuta, whereat they were well pleased, for that it spared them half their pains, and entering Fra Cipolla's chamber, which they found open, the first thing that came under their examination was the saddle-bags wherein was the feather. In these they found, enveloped in a great taffetas wrapper, a little casket and opening this latter, discovered therein a parrot's tail-feather, which they concluded must be that which the friar had promised to show the people of Certaldo. And certes he might lightly cause it to be believed in those days, for that the refinements of Egypt had not yet made their way save into a small part of Tuscany, as they have since done in very great abundance, to the undoing of all Italy; and wherever they may have been some little known, in those parts they were well nigh altogether unknown of the inhabitants; nay the rude honesty of the ancients yet enduring there, not only had they never set eyes on a parrot, but were far from having ever heard tell of such a bird. The young men, then, rejoiced at finding the feather, laid hands on it and not to leave the casket empty, filled it with some coals they saw in a corner of the room and shut it again. Then, putting all things in order as they had found them, they made off in high glee with the feather, without having been seen, and began to await what Fra Cipolli should say, when he found the coals in place thereof. The simple men and women who were in the church, hearing that they were to see the Angel Gabriel's feather after none, returned home, as soon as mass was over, and neighbor telling it to neighbor and gossip to gossip, no sooner had they all dined than so many men and women flocked to the burgh that it would scarce hold them, all looking eagerly to see the aforesaid feather. Fra Cipolla, having well dined and after slept awhile, arose a little after none and hearing of the great multitude of country folk come to see the feather, sent to bid Guccio Imbratta come thither with the bells and bring his saddle-bags. Guccio, tearing himself with difficulty away from the kitchen and Nuta, betook himself with the things required to the appointed place, whither coming, out of breath, for that the water he had drunken had made his belly swell amain, he repaired, by his master's commandment, to the church door and fell to ringing the bells lustily. When all the people were assembled there, Fra Cipolla, without observing that aught of his had been meddled with, began his preachment and said many words anent his affairs; after which, thinking to come to the showing of the Angel Gabriel's feather, he first recited the Confiteor with the utmost solemnity and let kindle a pair of flambeaux; then, pulling off his bonnet, he delicately unfolded the taffetas wrapper and brought out the casket. Having first pronounced certain ejaculations in praise and commendation of the Angel Gabriel and of his relic, he opened the casket and seeing it full of coals, suspected not Guccio Balena of having played him this trick, for that he knew him not to be man enough; nor did he curse him for having kept ill watch lest others should do it, but silently cursed himself for having committed to him the care of his gear, knowing him, as he did, to be negligent, disobedient, careless and forgetful. Nevertheless, without changing colour, he raised his eyes and hands to heaven and said, so as to be heard of all, 'O God, praised be still thy puissance!' Then, shutting the casket and turning to the people, 'Gentlemen and ladies,' quoth he, 'you must know that, whilst I was yet very young, I was dispatched by my superior to those parts where the sun riseth and it was expressly commanded me that I should seek till I found the Privileges of Porcellana, which, though they cost nothing to seal, are much more useful to others than to us. On this errand I set out from Venice and passed through Borgo de' Greci,[322] whence, riding through the kingdom of Algarve and Baldacca,[323] I came to Parione,[324] and from there, not without thirst, I came after awhile into Sardinia. But what booteth it to set out to you in detail all the lands explored by me? Passing the straits of San Giorgio,[325] I came into Truffia[326] and Buffia,[327] countries much inhabited and with great populations, and thence into the land of Menzogna,[328] where I found great plenty of our brethren and of friars of other religious orders, who all went about those parts, shunning unease for the love of God, recking little of others' travail, whenas they saw their own advantage to ensue, and spending none other money than such as was uncoined.[329] Thence I passed into the land of the Abruzzi, where the men and women go in clogs over the mountains, clothing the swine in their own guts;[330] and a little farther I found folk who carried bread on sticks and wine in bags. From this I came to the Mountains of the Bachi, where all the waters run down hill; and in brief, I made my way so far inward that I won at last even to India Pastinaca,[331] where I swear to you, by the habit I wear on my back, that I saw hedge-bills[332] fly, a thing incredible to whoso hath not seen it. But of this Maso del Saggio will confirm me, whom I found there a great merchant, cracking walnuts and selling the shells by retail. [Footnote 322: Apparently the Neapolitan town of that name.] [Footnote 323: The name of a famous tavern in Florence (_Florio_).] [Footnote 324: _Quære_ a place in Florence? One of the commentators, with characteristic carelessness, states that the places mentioned in the preachment of Fra Cipolla (an amusing specimen of the patter-sermon of the mendicant friar of the middle ages, that ecclesiastical Cheap Jack of his day) are all names of streets or places of Florence, a statement which, it is evident to the most cursory reader, is altogether inaccurate.] [Footnote 325: Apparently the island of that name near Venice.] [Footnote 326: _i.e._ Nonsense-land.] [Footnote 327: _i.e._ Land of Tricks or Cozenage.] [Footnote 328: _i.e._ Falsehood, Lie-land.] [Footnote 329: _i.e._ paying their way with fine words, instead of coin.] [Footnote 330: _i.e._ making sausages of them.] [Footnote 331: _Bachi_, drones or maggots. _Pastinaca_ means "parsnip" and is a meaningless addition of Fra Cipolla's fashion.] [Footnote 332: A play of words upon the primary meaning (winged things) of the word _pennate_, hedge-bills.] Being unable to find that which I went seeking, for that thence one goeth thither by water, I turned back and arrived in those holy countries, where, in summer-years, cold bread is worth four farthings a loaf and the hot goeth for nothing. There I found the venerable father my lord Blamemenot Anitpleaseyou, the very worshipful Patriarch of Jerusalem, who, for reverence of the habit I have still worn of my lord Baron St. Anthony, would have me see all the holy relics that he had about him and which were so many that, an I sought to recount them all to you, I should not come to an end thereof in several miles. However, not to leave you disconsolate, I will tell you some thereof. First, he showed me the finger of the Holy Ghost, as whole and sound as ever it was, and the forelock of the seraph that appeared to St. Francis and one of the nails of the Cherubim and one of the ribs of the Verbum Caro[333] Get-thee-to-the-windows and some of the vestments of the Holy Catholic Faith and divers rays of the star that appeared to the Three Wise Men in the East and a vial of the sweat of St. Michael, whenas he fought with the devil, and the jawbone of the death of St. Lazarus and others. And for that I made him a free gift of the Steeps[334] of Monte Morello in the vernacular and of some chapters of the Caprezio,[335] which he had long gone seeking, he made me a sharer in his holy relics and gave me one of the teeth of the Holy Rood and somewhat of the sound of the bells of Solomon's Temple in a vial and the feather of the Angel Gabriel, whereof I have already bespoken you, and one of the pattens of St. Gherardo da Villa Magna, which not long since at Florence I gave to Gherardo di Bonsi, who hath a particular devotion for that saint; and he gave me also of the coals wherewith the most blessed martyr St. Lawrence was roasted; all which things I devoutly brought home with me and yet have. True it is that my superior hath never suffered me to show them till such time as he should be certified if they were the very things or not. But now that, by certain miracles performed by them and by letters received from the patriarch, he hath been made certain of this, he hath granted me leave to show them; and I, fearing to trust them to others, still carry them with me. [Footnote 333: _i.e._ The Word [made] flesh. Get-thee-to-the-windows is only a patter tag.] [Footnote 334: Or Slopes or Coasts (_piaggie_).] [Footnote 335: ?] Now I carry the Angel Gabriel's feather, so it may not be marred, in one casket, and the coals wherewith St. Lawrence was roasted in another, the which are so like one to other, that it hath often happened to me to take one for the other, and so hath it betided me at this present, for that, thinking to bring hither the casket wherein was the feather, I have brought that wherein are the coals. The which I hold not to have been an error; nay, meseemeth certain that it was God's will and that He Himself placed the casket with the coals in my hands, especially now I mind me that the feast of St. Lawrence is but two days hence; wherefore God, willing that, by showing you the coals wherewith he was roasted, I should rekindle in your hearts the devotion it behoveth you have for him, caused me take, not the feather, as I purposed, but the blessed coals extinguished by the sweat of that most holy body. So, O my blessed children, put off your bonnets and draw near devoutly to behold them; but first I would have you knew that whoso is scored with these coals, in the form of the sign of the cross, may rest assured, for the whole year to come, that fire shall not touch him but he shall feel it.' Having thus spoken, he opened the casket, chanting the while a canticle in praise of St. Lawrence, and showed the coals, which after the simple multitude had awhile beheld with reverent admiration, they all crowded about Fra Cipolla and making him better offerings than they were used, besought him to touch them withal. Accordingly, taking the coals in hand, he fell to making the biggest crosses for which he could find room upon their white smocks and doublets and upon the veils of the women, avouching that how much soever the coals diminished in making these crosses, they after grew again in the casket, as he had many a time proved. On this wise he crossed all the people of Certaldo, to his no small profit, and thus, by his ready wit and presence of mind, he baffled those who, by taking the feather from him, had thought to baffle him and who, being present at his preachment and hearing the rare shift employed by him and from how far he had taken it and with what words, had so laughed that they thought to have cracked their jaws. Then, after the common folk had departed, they went up to him and with all the mirth in the world discovered to him that which they had done and after restored him his feather, which next year stood him in as good stead as the coals had done that day." * * * * * This story afforded unto all the company alike the utmost pleasure and solace, and it was much laughed of all at Fra Cipolla, and particularly of his pilgrimage and the relics seen and brought back by him. The queen, seeing the story and likewise her sovantry at an end, rose to her feet and put off the crown, which she set laughingly on Dioneo's head, saying, "It is time, Dioneo, that thou prove awhile what manner charge it is to have ladies to govern and guide; be thou, then, king and rule on such wise that, in the end, we may have reason to give ourselves joy of thy governance." Dioneo took the crown and answered, laughing, "You may often enough have seen much better kings than I, I mean chess-kings; but, an you obey me as a king should in truth be obeyed, I will cause you enjoy that without which assuredly no entertainment is ever complete in its gladness. But let that talk be; I will rule as best I know." Then, sending for the seneschal, according to the wonted usance, he orderly enjoined him of that which he should do during the continuance of his seignory and after said, "Noble ladies, it hath in divers manners been devised of human industry[336] and of the various chances [of fortune,] insomuch that, had not Dame Licisca come hither a while agone and found me matter with her prate for our morrow's relations, I misdoubt me I should have been long at pains to find a subject of discourse. As you heard, she avouched that she had not a single gossip who had come to her husband a maid and added that she knew right well how many and what manner tricks married women yet played their husbands. But, letting be the first part, which is a childish matter, methinketh the second should be an agreeable subject for discourse; wherefore I will and ordain it that, since Licisca hath given us occasion therefor, it be discoursed to-morrow OF THE TRICKS WHICH, OR FOR LOVE OR FOR THEIR OWN PRESERVATION, WOMEN HAVE HERETOFORE PLAYED THEIR HUSBANDS, WITH OR WITHOUT THE LATTER'S COGNIZANCE THEREOF." [Footnote 336: _Industria_ in the old sense of ingenuity, skilful procurement, etc.] It seemed to some of the ladies that to discourse of such a matter would ill beseem them and they prayed him, therefore, to change the theme proposed; wherefore answered he, "Ladies, I am no less cognizant than yourselves of that which I have ordained, and that which you would fain allege to me availed not to deter me from ordaining it, considering that the times are such that, provided men and women are careful to eschew unseemly actions, all liberty of discourse is permitted. Know you not that, for the malignity of the season, the judges have forsaken the tribunals, that the laws, as well Divine as human, are silent and full licence is conceded unto every one for the preservation of his life? Wherefore, if your modesty allow itself some little freedom in discourse, not with intent to ensue it with aught of unseemly in deeds, but to afford yourselves and others diversion, I see not with what plausible reason any can blame you in the future. Moreover, your company, from the first day of our assembling until this present, hath been most decorous, nor, for aught that hath been said here, doth it appear to me that its honour hath anywise been sullied. Again, who is there knoweth not your virtue? Which, not to say mirthful discourse, but even fear of death I do not believe could avail to shake. And to tell you the truth, whosoever should hear that you shrank from devising bytimes of these toys would be apt to suspect that you were guilty in the matter and were therefore unwilling to discourse thereof. To say nothing of the fine honour you would do me in that, I having been obedient unto all, you now, having made me your king, seek to lay down the law to me, and not to discourse of the subject which I propose. Put off, then, this misdoubtance, apter to mean minds than to yours, and good luck to you, let each of you bethink herself of some goodly story to tell." When the ladies heard this, they said it should be as he pleased; whereupon he gave them all leave to do their several pleasures until supper-time. The sun was yet high, for that the discoursement[337] had been brief; wherefor Dioneo having addressed himself to play at tables with the other young men, Elisa called the other ladies apart and said to them, "Since we have been here, I have still wished to carry you to a place very near at hand, whither methinketh none of you hath ever been and which is called the Ladies' Valley, but have never yet found an occasion of bringing you thither unto to-day; wherefore, as the sun is yet high, I doubt not but, an it please you come thither, you will be exceeding well pleased to have been there." They answered that they were ready and calling one of their maids, set out upon their way, without letting the young men know aught thereof; nor had they gone much more than a mile, when they came to the Ladies' Valley. They entered therein by a very strait way, on one side whereof ran a very clear streamlet, and saw it as fair and as delectable, especially at that season whenas the heat was great, as most might be conceived. According to that which one of them after told me, the plain that was in the valley was as round as if it had been traced with the compass, albeit it seemed the work of nature and not of art, and was in circuit a little more than half a mile, encompassed about with six little hills not over-high, on the summit of each of which stood a palace builded in guise of a goodly castle. The sides of these hills went sloping gradually downward to the plain on such wise as we see in amphitheatres, the degrees descend in ordered succession from the highest to the lowest, still contracting their circuit; and of these slopes those which looked toward the south were all full of vines and olives and almonds and cherries and figs and many another kind of fruit-bearing trees, without a span thereof being wasted; whilst those which faced the North Star[338] were all covered with thickets of dwarf oaks and ashes and other trees as green and straight as might be. The middle plain, which had no other inlet than that whereby the ladies were come thither, was full of firs and cypresses and laurels and various sorts of pines, as well arrayed and ordered as if the best artist in that kind had planted them; and between these little or no sun, even at its highest, made its way to the ground, which was all one meadow of very fine grass, thick-sown with flowers purpurine and others. Moreover, that which afforded no less delight than otherwhat was a little stream, which ran down from a valley that divided two of the hills aforesaid and falling over cliffs of live rock, made a murmur very delectable to hear, what while it showed from afar, as it broke over the stones, like so much quicksilver jetting out, under pressure of somewhat, into fine spray. As it came down into the little plain, it was there received into a fair channel and ran very swiftly into the middest thereof, where it formed a lakelet, such as the townsfolk made whiles, by way of fishpond, in their gardens, whenas they have a commodity thereof. This lakelet was no deeper than a man's stature, breast high, and its waters being exceeding clear and altogether untroubled with any admixture, it showed its bottom to be of a very fine gravel, the grains whereof whoso had nought else to do might, an he would, have availed to number; nor, looking into the water, was the bottom alone to be seen, nay, but so many fish fleeting hither and thither that, over and above the pleasure thereof, it was a marvel to behold; nor was it enclosed with other banks than the very soil of the meadow, which was the goodlier thereabout in so much as it received the more of its moisture. The water that abounded over and above the capacity of the lake was received into another channel, whereby, issuing forth of the little valley, it ran off into the lower parts. [Footnote 337: _i.e._ the tale-telling.] [Footnote 338: Lit. the northern chariot (_carro di tramontana_); _quære_ the Great Bear?] Hither then came the young ladies and after they had gazed all about and much commended the place, they took counsel together to bathe, for that the heat was great and that they saw the lakelet before them and were in no fear of being seen. Accordingly, bidding their serving maid abide over against the way whereby one entered there and look if any should come and give them notice thereof, they stripped themselves naked, all seven, and entered the lake, which hid their white bodies no otherwise than as a thin glass would do with a vermeil rose. Then, they being therein and no troubling of the water ensuing thereof, they fell, as best they might, to faring hither and thither in pursuit of the fish, which had uneath where to hide themselves, and seeking to take them with the naked hand. After they had abidden awhile in such joyous pastime and had taken some of the fish, they came forth of the lakelet and clad themselves anew. Then, unable to commend the place more than they had already done and themseeming time to turn homeward, they set out, with soft step, upon their way, discoursing much of the goodliness of the valley. They reached the palace betimes and there found the young men yet at play where they had left them; to whom quoth Pampinea, laughing. "We have e'en stolen a march on you to-day." "How?" asked Dioneo. "Do you begin to do deeds ere you come to say words?"[339] "Ay, my lord," answered she and related to him at large whence they came and how the place was fashioned and how far distant thence and that which they had done. The king, hearing tell of the goodliness of the place and desirous of seeing it, caused straightway order the supper, which being dispatched to the general satisfaction, the three young men, leaving the ladies, betook themselves with their servants to the valley and having viewed it in every part, for that none of them had ever been there before, extolled it for one of the goodliest things in the world. Then, for that it grew late, after they had bathed and donned their clothes, they returned home, where they found the ladies dancing a round, to the accompaniment of a song sung by Fiammetta. [Footnote 339: Alluding to the subject fixed for the next day's discourse, as who should say, "Have you begun already to play tricks upon us men in very deed, ere you tell about them in words?"] The dance ended, they entered with them into a discourse of the Ladies' Valley and said much in praise and commendation thereof. Moreover, the king, sending for the seneschal, bade him look that the dinner be made ready there on the following morning and have sundry beds carried thither, in case any should have a mind to lie or sleep there for nooning; after which he let bring lights and wine and confections and the company having somedele refreshed themselves, he commanded that all should address themselves to dancing. Then, Pamfilo having, at his commandment, set up a dance, the king turned to Elisa and said courteously to her, "Fair damsel, thou has to-day done me the honour of the crown and I purpose this evening to do thee that of the song; wherefore look thou sing such an one as most liketh thee." Elisa answered, smiling, that she would well and with dulcet voice began on this wise: Love, from thy clutches could I but win free, Hardly, methinks, again Shall any other hook take hold on me. I entered in thy wars a youngling maid, Thinking thy strife was utmost peace and sweet, And all my weapons on the ground I laid, As one secure, undoubting of defeat; But thou, false tyrant, with rapacious heat, Didst fall on me amain With all the grapnels of thine armoury. Then, wound about and fettered with thy chains, To him, who for my death in evil hour Was born, thou gav'st me, bounden, full of pains And bitter tears; and syne within his power He hath me and his rule's so harsh and dour No sighs can move the swain Nor all my wasting plaints to set me free. My prayers, the wild winds bear them all away; He hearkeneth unto none and none will hear; Wherefore each hour my torment waxeth aye; I cannot die, albeit life irks me drear. Ah, Lord, have pity on my heavy cheer; Do that I seek in vain And give him bounden in thy chains to me. An this thou wilt not, at the least undo The bonds erewhen of hope that knitted were; Alack, O Lord, thereof to thee I sue, For, an thou do it, yet to waxen fair Again I trust, as was my use whilere, And being quit of pain Myself with white flowers and with red besee. Elisa ended her song with a very plaintive sigh, and albeit all marvelled at the words thereof, yet was there none who might conceive what it was that caused her sing thus. But the king, who was in a merry mood, calling for Tindaro, bade him bring out his bagpipes, to the sound whereof he let dance many dances; after which, a great part of the night being now past, he bade each go sleep. HERE ENDETH THE SIXTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON _Day the Seventh_ HERE BEGINNETH THE SEVENTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER THE GOVERNANCE OF DIONEO IS DISCOURSED OF THE TRICKS WHICH OR FOR LOVE OR FOR THEIR OWN PRESERVATION WOMEN HAVE HERETOFORE PLAYED THEIR HUSBANDS WITH OR WITHOUT THE LATTER'S COGNIZANCE THEREOF Every star was already fled from the parts of the East, save only that which we style Lucifer and which shone yet in the whitening dawn, when the seneschal, arising, betook himself, with a great baggage-train, to the Ladies' Valley, there to order everything, according to commandment had of his lord. The king, whom the noise of the packers and of the beasts had awakened, tarried not long after his departure to rise and being risen, caused arouse all the ladies and likewise the young men; nor had the rays of the sun yet well broken forth, when they all entered upon the road. Never yet had the nightingales and the other birds seemed to them to sing so blithely as they did that morning, what while, accompanied by their carols, they repaired to the Ladies' Valley, where they were received by many more, which seemed to them to make merry for their coming. There, going round about the place and reviewing it all anew, it appeared to them so much fairer than on the foregoing day as the season of the day was more sorted to its goodliness. Then, after they had broken their fast with good wine and confections, not to be behindhand with the birds in the matter of song, they fell a-singing and the valley with them, still echoing those same songs which they did sing, whereto all the birds, as if they would not be outdone, added new and dulcet notes. Presently, the dinner-hour being come and the tables spread hard by the fair lakelet under the thickset laurels and other goodly trees, they seated themselves there, as it pleased the king, and eating, watched the fish swim in vast shoals about the lake, which gave bytimes occasion for talk as well as observation. When they had made an end of dining and the meats and tables were removed, they fell anew to singing more blithely than ever; after which, beds having been spread in various places about the little valley and all enclosed about by the discreet seneschal with curtains and canopies of French serge, whoso would might with the king's permission, go sleep; whilst those who had no mind to sleep might at their will take pleasure of their other wonted pastimes. But, after awhile, all being now arisen and the hour come when they should assemble together for story-telling, carpets were, at the king's commandment, spread upon the grass, not far from the place where they had eaten, and all having seated themselves thereon hard by the lake, the king bade Emilia begin; whereupon she blithely proceeded to speak, smiling, thus: THE FIRST STORY [Day the Seventh] GIANNI LOTTERINGHI HEARETH KNOCK AT HIS DOOR BY NIGHT AND AWAKENETH HIS WIFE, WHO GIVETH HIM TO BELIEVE THAT IT IS A PHANTOM; WHEREUPON THEY GO TO EXORCISE IT WITH A CERTAIN ORISON AND THE KNOCKING CEASETH "My Lord, it had been very agreeable to me, were such your pleasure, that other than I should have given a beginning to so goodly a matter as is that whereof we are to speak; but, since it pleaseth you that I give all the other ladies assurance by my example, I will gladly do it. Moreover, dearest ladies, I will study to tell a thing that may be useful to you in time to come, for that, if you others are as fearful as I, and especially of phantoms, (though what manner of thing they may be God knoweth I know not, nor ever found I any woman who knew it, albeit all are alike adread of them,) you may, by noting well my story, learn a holy and goodly orison of great virtue for the conjuring them away, should they come to you. There was once in Florence, in the quarter of San Brancazio, a wool-comber called Gianni Lotteringhi, a man more fortunate in his craft than wise in other things, for that, savoring of the simpleton, he was very often made captain of the Laudsingers[340] of Santa Maria Novella and had the governance of their confraternity, and he many a time had other little offices of the same kind, upon which he much valued himself. This betided him for that, being a man of substance, he gave many a good pittance to the clergy, who, getting of him often, this a pair of hose, that a gown and another a scapulary, taught him in return store of goodly orisons and gave him the paternoster in the vulgar tongue, the Song of Saint Alexis, the Lamentations of Saint Bernard, the Canticles of Madam Matilda and the like trumpery, all which he held very dear and kept very diligently for his soul's health. Now he had a very fair and lovesome lady to wife, by name Mistress Tessa, who was the daughter of Mannuccio dalla Cuculia and was exceeding discreet and well advised. She, knowing her husband's simplicity and being enamoured of Federigo di Neri Pegolotti, a brisk and handsome youth, and he of her, took order with a serving-maid of hers that he should come speak with her at a very goodly country house which her husband had at Camerata, where she sojourned all the summer and whither Gianni came whiles to sup and sleep, returning in the morning to his shop and bytimes to his Laudsingers. [Footnote 340: See p. 144, note 2.] Federigo, who desired this beyond measure, taking his opportunity, repaired thither on the day appointed him towards vespers and Gianni not coming thither that evening, supped and lay the night in all ease and delight with the lady, who, being in his arms, taught him that night a good half dozen of her husband's lauds. Then, neither she nor Federigo purposing that this should be the last, as it had been the first time [of their foregathering], they took order together on this wise, so it should not be needful to send the maid for him each time, to wit, that every day, as he came and went to and from a place he had a little farther on, he should keep his eye on a vineyard that adjoined the house, where he would see an ass's skull set up on one of the vine poles, which whenas he saw with the muzzle turned towards Florence, he should without fail and in all assurance betake himself to her that evening after dark; and if he found the door shut he should knock softly thrice and she would open to him; but that, whenas he saw the ass's muzzle turned towards Fiesole, he should not come, for that Gianni would be there; and doing on this wise, they foregathered many a time. But once, amongst other times, it chanced that, Federigo being one night to sup with Mistress Tessa and she having let cook two fat capons, Gianni, who was not expected there that night, came thither very late, whereat the lady was much chagrined and having supped with her husband on a piece of salt pork, which she had let boil apart, caused the maid wrap the two boiled capons in a white napkin and carry them, together with good store of new-laid eggs and a flask of good wine, into a garden she had, whither she could go, without passing through the house, and where she was wont to sup whiles with her lover, bidding her lay them at the foot of a peach-tree that grew beside a lawn there. But such was her trouble and annoy that she remembered not to bid the maid wait till Federigo should come and tell him that Gianni was there and that he should take the viands from the garden; wherefore, she and Gianni betaking themselves to bed and the maid likewise, it was not long before Federigo came to the door and knocked softly once. The door was so near to the bedchamber that Gianni heard it incontinent, as also did the lady; but she made a show of being asleep, so her husband might have no suspicion of her. After waiting a little, Federigo knocked a second time, whereupon Gianni, marvelling, nudged his wife somewhat and said, 'Tessa, hearest thou what I hear? Meseemeth there is a knocking at our door.' The lady, who had heard it much better than he, made a show of awaking and said, 'Eh? How sayst thou?' 'I say,' answered Gianni, 'that meseemeth there is a knocking at our door.' 'Knocking!' cried she. 'Alack, Gianni mine, knowst thou not what it is? It is a phantom, that hath these last few nights given me the greatest fright that ever was, insomuch that, whenas I hear it, I put my head under the clothes and dare not bring it out again until it is broad day.' Quoth Gianni, 'Go to, wife; have no fear, if it be so; for I said the _Te Lucis_ and the _Intemerata_ and such and such other pious orisons, before we lay down, and crossed the bed from side to side, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, so that we have no need to fear, for that, what power soever it have, it cannot avail to harm us.' The lady, fearing lest Federigo should perchance suspect otherwhat and be angered with her, determined at all hazards to arise and let him know that Gianni was there; wherefore quoth she to her husband, 'That is all very well; thou sayst thy words, thou; but, for my part, I shall never hold myself safe nor secure, except we exorcise it, since thou art here.' 'And how is it to be exorcised?' asked he; and she, 'I know full well how to exorcise it; for, the other day, when I went to the Pardon at Fiesole, a certain anchoress (the very holiest of creatures, Gianni mine, God only can say how holy she is,) seeing me thus fearful, taught me a pious and effectual orison and told me that she had made trial of it several times, ere she became a recluse, and that it had always availed her. God knoweth I should never have dared go alone to make proof of it; but, now that thou art here, I would have us go exorcise the phantom.' Gianni answered that he would well and accordingly they both arose and went softly to the door, without which Federigo, who now began to misdoubt him of somewhat, was yet in waiting. When they came thither, the lady said to Gianni, 'Do thou spit, whenas I shall bid thee.' And he answered, 'Good.' Then she began the conjuration and said, 'Phantom, phantom that goest by night, with tail upright[341] thou cam'st to us; now get thee gone with tail upright. Begone into the garden to the foot of the great peach tree; there shalt thou find an anointed twice-anointed one[342] and an hundred turds of my sitting hen;[343] set thy mouth to the flagon and get thee gone again and do thou no hurt to my Gianni nor to me.' Then to her husband, 'Spit, Gianni,' quoth she, and he spat. Federigo, who heard all this from without and was now quit of jealousy, had, for all his vexation, so great a mind to laugh that he was like to burst, and when Gianni spat, he said under his breath '[Would it were] thy teeth!' [Footnote 341: _i.e._ pene arrecto.] [Footnote 342: _i.e._ a fattened capon well larded.] [Footnote 343: _i.e._ eggs.] The lady, having thrice conjured the phantom on this wise, returned to bed with her husband, whilst Federigo, who had not supped, looking to sup with her, and had right well apprehended the words of the conjuration, betook himself to the garden and finding the capons and wine and eggs at the foot of the great peach-tree, carried them off to his house and there supped at his ease; and after, when he next foregathered with the lady, he had a hearty laugh with her anent the conjuration aforesaid. Some say indeed that the lady had actually turned the ass's skull towards Fiesole, but that a husbandman, passing through the vineyard, had given it a blow with a stick and caused it spin round and it had become turned towards Florence, wherefore Federigo, thinking himself summoned, had come thither, and that the lady had made the conjuration on this wise: 'Phantom, phantom, get thee gone in God's name; for it was not I turned the ass's head; but another it was, God put him to shame! and I am here with my Gianni in bed'; whereupon he went away and abode without supper or lodging. But a neighbour of mine, a very ancient lady, telleth me that, according to that which she heard, when a child, both the one and the other were true; but that the latter happened, not to Gianni Lotteringhi, but to one Gianni di Nello, who abode at Porta San Piero and was no less exquisite a ninny than the other. Wherefore, dear my ladies, it abideth at your election to take whether of the two orisons most pleaseth you, except you will have both. They have great virtue in such cases, as you have had proof in the story you have heard; get them, therefore, by heart and they may yet avail you." THE SECOND STORY [Day the Seventh] PERONELLA HIDETH A LOVER OF HERS IN A VAT, UPON HER HUSBAND'S UNLOOKED FOR RETURN, AND HEARING FROM THE LATTER THAT HE HATH SOLD THE VAT, AVOUCHETH HERSELF TO HAVE SOLD IT TO ONE WHO IS PRESENTLY THEREWITHIN, TO SEE IF IT BE SOUND; WHEREUPON THE GALLANT, JUMPING OUT OF THE VAT, CAUSETH THE HUSBAND SCRAPE IT OUT FOR HIM AND AFTER CARRY IT HOME TO HIS HOUSE Emilia's story was received with loud laughter and the conjuration commended of all as goodly and excellent; and this come to an end, the king bade Filostrato follow on, who accordingly began, "Dearest ladies, so many are the tricks that men, and particularly husbands, play you, that, if some woman chance whiles to put a cheat upon her husband, you should not only be blithe that this hath happened and take pleasure in coming to know it or hearing it told of any, but should yourselves go telling it everywhere, so men may understand that, if they are knowing, women, on their part, are no less so! the which cannot be other than useful unto you, for that, when one knoweth that another is on the alert, he setteth himself not overlightly to cozen him. Who, then, can doubt but that which we shall say to-day concerning this matter, coming to be known of men, may be exceeding effectual in restraining them from cozening you ladies, whenas they find that you likewise know how to cozen, an you will? I purpose, therefore, to tell you the trick which, on the spur of the moment, a young woman, albeit she was of mean condition, played her husband for her own preservation. In Naples no great while agone there was a poor man who took to wife a fair and lovesome damsel called Peronella, and albeit he with his craft, which was that of a mason, and she by spinning, earned but a slender pittance, they ordered their life as best they might. It chanced one day that a young gallant of the neighbourhood saw this Peronella and she pleasing him mightily, he fell in love with her and importuned her one way and another till he became familiar with her and they took order with each other on this wise, so they might be together; to wit, seeing that her husband arose every morning betimes to go to work or to find work, they agreed that the young man should be whereas he might see him go out, and that, as soon as he was gone,--the street where she abode, which was called Avorio, being very solitary,--he should come to her house. On this wise they did many times; but one morning, the good man having gone out and Giannello Strignario (for so was the lover named) having entered the house and being with Peronella, it chanced that, after awhile, the husband returned home, whereas it was his wont to be abroad all day, and finding the door locked within, knocked and after fell a-saying in himself, 'O my God, praised be Thou ever! For, though Thou hast made me poor, at least Thou hast comforted me with a good and honest damsel to wife. See how she locked the door within as soon as I was gone out, so none might enter to do her any annoy.' Peronella, knowing her husband by his way of knocking, said to her lover, 'Alack, Giannello mine, I am a dead woman! For here is my husband, whom God confound, come back and I know not what this meaneth, for never yet came he back hither at this hour; belike he saw thee whenas thou enteredst here. But, for the love of God, however the case may be, get thee into yonder vat, whilst I go open to him, and we shall see what is the meaning of his returning home so early this morning.' Accordingly, Giannello betook himself in all haste into the vat, whilst Peronella, going to the door, opened to her husband and said to him, with an angry air, 'What is to do now, that thou returnest home so soon this morning? Meseemeth thou hast a mind to do nought to-day, that I see thee come back, tools in hand; and if thou do thus, on what are we to live? Whence shall we get bread? Thinkest thou I will suffer thee pawn my gown and my other poor clothes? I, who do nothing but spin day and night, till the flesh is come apart from my nails, so I may at the least have so much oil as will keep our lamp burning! Husband, husband, there is not a neighbour's wife of ours but marvelleth thereat and maketh mock of me for the pains I give myself and all that I endure; and thou, thou returnest home to me, with thy hands a-dangle, whenas thou shouldst be at work.' So saying, she fell a-weeping and went on to say, 'Alack, woe is me, unhappy woman that I am! In what an ill hour was I born, at what an ill moment did I come hither! I who might have had a young man of such worth and would none of him, so I might come to this fellow here, who taketh no thought to her whom he hath brought home! Other women give themselves a good time with their lovers, for there is none [I know] but hath two and some three, and they enjoy themselves and show their husbands the moon for the sun. But I, wretch that I am! because I am good and occupy myself not with such toys, I suffer ill and ill hap. I know not why I do not take me a lover, as do other women. Understand well, husband mine, that had I a mind to do ill, I could soon enough find the wherewithal, for there be store of brisk young fellows who love me and wish me well and have sent to me, proffering money galore or dresses and jewels, at my choice; but my heart would never suffer me to do it, for that I was no mother's daughter of that ilk; and here thou comest home to me, whenas thou shouldst be at work.' 'Good lack, wife,' answered the husband, 'fret not thyself, for God's sake; thou shouldst be assured that I know what manner of woman thou art, and indeed this morning I have in part had proof thereof. It is true that I went out to go to work; but it seemeth thou knowest not, as I myself knew not, that this is the Feast-day of San Galeone and there is no work doing; that is why I am come back at this hour; but none the less I have provided and found a means how we shall have bread for more than a month, for I have sold yonder man thou seest here with me the vat which, as thou knowest, hath this long while cumbered the house; and he is to give me five lily-florins[344] for it.' Quoth Peronella, 'So much the more cause have I to complain; thou, who art a man and goest about and should be versed in the things of the world, thou hast sold a vat for five florins, whilst I, a poor silly woman who hath scarce ever been without the door, seeing the hindrance it gave us in the house, have sold it for seven to an honest man, who entered it but now, as thou camest back, to see if it were sound!' When the husband heard this, he was more than satisfied and said to him who had come for the vat, 'Good man, begone in peace; for thou hearest that my wife hath sold the vat for seven florins, whereas thou wast to give me but five for it.' 'Good,' replied the other and went his way; whereupon quoth Peronella to her husband, 'Since thou art here, come up and settle with him thyself.' Giannello, who abode with his ears pricked up to hear if it behoved him fear or be on his guard against aught, hearing his mistress's words, straightway scrambled out of the vat and cried out, as if he had heard nothing of the husband's return, 'Where art thou, good wife?' whereupon the goodman, coming up, answered, 'Here am I; what wouldst thou have?' 'Who art thou?' asked Giannello. 'I want the woman with whom I made the bargain for this vat.' Quoth the other, 'You may deal with me in all assurance, for I am her husband.' Then said Giannello, 'The vat appeareth to me sound enough; but meseemeth you have kept dregs or the like therein, for it is all overcrusted with I know not what that is so hard and dry that I cannot remove aught thereof with my nails; wherefore I will not take it, except I first see it clean.' 'Nay,' answered Peronella, 'the bargain shall not fall through for that; my husband will clean it all out.' 'Ay will I,' rejoined the latter, and laying down his tools, put off his coat; then, calling for a light and a scraper, he entered the vat and fell to scraping. Peronella, as if she had a mind to see what he did, thrust her head and one of her arms, shoulder and all, in at the mouth of the vat, which was not overbig, and fell to saying, 'Scrape here' and 'There' and 'There also' and 'See, here is a little left.' [Footnote 344: So called from the figure of a lily stamped on the coin; cf. our rose-nobles.] Whilst she was thus engaged in directing her husband and showing him where to scrape, Giannello, who had scarce yet that morning done his full desire, when they were interrupted by the mason's coming, seeing that he could not as he would, bethought himself to accomplish it as he might; wherefore, boarding her, as she held the mouth of the vat all closed up, on such wise as in the ample plains the unbridled stallions, afire with love, assail the mares of Parthia, he satisfied his juvenile ardour, the which enterprise was brought to perfection well nigh at the same moment as the scraping of the vat; whereupon he dismounted and Peronella withdrawing her head from the mouth of the vat, the husband came forth thereof. Then said she to her gallant, 'Take this light, good man, and look if it be clean to thy mind.' Giannello looked in and said that it was well and that he was satisfied and giving the husband seven florins, caused carry the vat to his own house." THE THIRD STORY [Day the Seventh] FRA RINALDO LIETH WITH HIS GOSSIP AND BEING FOUND OF HER HUSBAND CLOSETED WITH HER IN HER CHAMBER, THEY GIVE HIM TO BELIEVE THAT HE WAS IN ACT TO CONJURE WORMS FROM HIS GODSON Filostrato had not known to speak so obscurely of the mares of Parthia but that the roguish ladies laughed thereat, making believe to laugh at otherwhat. But, when the king saw that his story was ended, he bade Elisa tell, who accordingly, with obedient readiness, began, "Charming ladies, Emilia's conjuration of the phantom hath brought to my memory the story of another conjuration, which latter, though it be not so goodly as hers, nevertheless, for that none other bearing upon our subject occurreth to me at this present, I will proceed to relate. You must know that there was once in Siena a very agreeable young man and of a worshipful family, by name Rinaldo, who was passionately enamored of a very beautiful lady, a neighbour of his and the wife of a rich man, and flattered himself that, could he but find means to speak with her unsuspected, he might avail to have of her all that he should desire. Seeing none other way and the lady being great with child, he bethought himself to become her gossip and accordingly, clapping up an acquaintance with her husband, he offered him, on such wise as appeared to him most seemly, to be godfather to his child. His offer was accepted and he being now become Madam Agnesa's gossip and having a somewhat more colourable excuse for speaking with her, he took courage and gave her in so many words to know that of his intent which she had indeed long before gathered from his looks; but little did this profit him, although the lady was nothing displeased to have heard him. Not long after, whatever might have been the reason, it came to pass that Rinaldo turned friar and whether or not he found the pasturage to his liking, he persevered in that way of life; and albeit, in the days of his becoming a monk, he had for awhile laid on one side the love he bore his gossip, together with sundry other vanities of his, yet, in process of time, without quitting the monk's habit, he resumed them[345] and began to delight in making a show and wearing fine stuffs and being dainty and elegant in all his fashions and making canzonets and sonnets and ballads and in singing and all manner other things of the like sort. But what say I of our Fra Rinaldo, of whom we speak? What monks are there that do not thus? Alack, shame that they are of the corrupt world, they blush not to appear fat and ruddy in the face, dainty in their garb and in all that pertaineth unto them, and strut along, not like doves, but like very turkey-cocks, with crest erect and breast puffed out; and what is worse (to say nothing of having their cells full of gallipots crammed with electuaries and unguents, of boxes full of various confections, of phials and flagons of distilled waters and oils, of pitchers brimming with Malmsey and Cyprus and other wines of price, insomuch that they seem to the beholder not friars' cells, but rather apothecaries' or perfumers' shops) they think no shame that folk should know them to be gouty, conceiving that others see not nor know that strict fasting, coarse viands and spare and sober living make men lean and slender and for the most part sound of body, and that if indeed some sicken thereof, at least they sicken not of the gout, whereto it is used to give, for medicine, chastity and everything else that pertaineth to the natural way of living of an honest friar. Yet they persuade themselves that others know not that,--let alone the scant and sober living,--long vigils, praying and discipline should make men pale and mortified and that neither St. Dominic nor St. Francis, far from having four gowns for one, clad themselves in cloth dyed in grain nor in other fine stuffs, but in garments of coarse wool and undyed, to keep out the cold and not to make a show. For which things, as well as for the souls of the simpletons who nourish them, there is need that God provide. [Footnote 345: _i.e._ the discarded vanities aforesaid.] Fra Rinaldo, then, having returned to his former appetites, began to pay frequent visits to his gossip and waxing in assurance, proceeded to solicit her with more than his former instancy to that which he desired of her. The good lady, seeing herself hard pressed and Fra Rinaldo seeming to her belike goodlier than she had thought him aforetime, being one day sore importuned of him, had recourse to that argument which all women use who have a mind to yield that which is asked of them and said, 'How now, Fra Rinaldo? Do monks such things?' 'Madam,' answered he, 'when as I shall have this gown off my back,--and I can put it off mighty easily,--I shall appear to you a man fashioned like other men and not a monk.' The lady pulled a demure face and said, 'Alack, wretched me! You are my gossip; how can I do this? It were sadly ill, and I have heard many a time that it is a very great sin; but, certes, were it not for this, I would do that which you wish.' Quoth Fra Rinaldo, 'You are a simpleton, if you forbear for this; I do not say that it is not a sin, but God pardoneth greater than this to whoso repenteth. But tell me, who is more akin to your child, I who held him at baptism or your husband who begat him?' 'My husband is more akin to him,' answered the lady; whereupon, 'You say sooth,' rejoined the friar. 'And doth not your husband lie with you?' 'Ay doth he,' replied she. 'Then,' said Fra Rinaldo, 'I, who am less akin to your child than is your husband, may lie with you even as doth he.' The lady, who knew no logic and needed little persuasion, either believed or made a show of believing that the friar spoke the truth and answered, 'Who might avail to answer your learned words?' And after, notwithstanding the gossipship, she resigned herself to do his pleasure; nor did they content themselves with one bout, but foregathered many and many a time, having the more commodity thereof under cover of the gossipship, for that there was less suspicion. But once, amongst other times, it befell that Fra Rinaldo, coming to the lady's house and finding none with her but a little maid of hers, who was very pretty and agreeable, despatched his comrade with the latter to the pigeon-loft, to teach her her Paternoster, and entered with the lady, who had her child in her hand, into her bedchamber, where they locked themselves in and fell to taking their pleasure upon a daybed that was there. As they were thus engaged, it chanced that the husband came home and making for the bedchamber-door, unperceived of any, knocked and called to the lady, who, hearing this, said to the friar, 'I am a dead woman, for here is my husband, and now he will certainly perceive what is the reason of our familiarity.' Now Rinaldo was stripped to his waistcoat, to wit, he had put off his gown and his scapulary, and hearing this, answered, 'You say sooth; were I but dressed, there might be some means; but, if you open to him and he find me thus, there can be no excuse for us.' The lady, seized with a sudden idea, said, 'Harkye, dress yourself and when you are dressed, take your godchild in your arms and hearken well to that which I shall say to him, so your words may after accord with mine, and leave me do.' Then, to the good man, who had not yet left knocking, 'I come to thee,' quoth she and rising, opened the chamber-door and said, with a good countenance, 'Husband mine, I must tell thee that Fra Rinaldo, our gossip, is come hither and it was God sent him to us; for, certes, but for his coming, we should to-day have lost our child.' The good simple man, hearing this, was like to swoon and said, 'How so?' 'O husband mine,' answered Agnesa, 'there took him but now of a sudden a fainting-fit, that methought he was dead, and I knew not what to do or say; but just then Fra Rinaldo our gossip came in and taking him in his arms, said, "Gossip, these be worms he hath in his body, the which draw near to his heart and would infallibly kill him; but have no fear, for I will conjure them and make them all die; and ere I go hence, you shall see the child whole again as ever you saw him." And for that we had need of thee to repeat certain orisons and that the maid could not find thee, he caused his comrade say them in the highest room of our house, whilst he and I came hither and locked ourselves in, so none should hinder us, for that none other than the child's mother might be present at such an office. Indeed, he hath the child yet in his arms and methinketh he waiteth but for his comrade to have made an end of saying the orisons and it will be done, for that the boy is already altogether restored to himself.' The good simple man, believing all this, was so straitened with concern for his child that it never entered his mind to suspect the cheat put upon him by his wife; but, heaving a great sigh, he said, 'I will go see him.' 'Nay,' answered she, 'thou wouldst mar that which hath been done. Wait; I will go see an thou mayst come in and call thee.' Meanwhile, Fra Rinaldo, who had heard everything and had dressed himself at his leisure, took the child in his arms and called out, as soon as he had ordered matters to his mind, saying, 'Harkye, gossip, hear I not my gossip your husband there?' 'Ay, sir,' answered the simpleton; whereupon, 'Then,' said the other, 'come hither.' The cuckold went to him and Fra Rinaldo said to him, 'Take your son by the grace of God whole and well, whereas I deemed but now you would not see him alive at vespers; and look you let make a waxen image of his bigness and set it up, to the praise and glory of God, before the statue of our lord St. Ambrose, through whose intercession He hath vouchsafed to restore him unto you.' The child, seeing his father, ran to him and caressed him, as little children used to do, whilst the latter, taking him, weeping, in his arms, no otherwise than as he had brought him forth of the grave, fell to kissing him and returning thanks to his gossip for that he had made him whole. Meanwhile, Fra Rinaldo's comrade, who had by this taught the serving-wench not one, but maybe more than four paternosters, and had given her a little purse of white thread, which he had from a nun, and made her his devotee, hearing the cuckold call at his wife's chamber-door, had softly betaken himself to a place whence he could, himself unseen, both see and hear what should betide and presently, seeing that all had passed off well, came down and entering the chamber, said, 'Fra Rinaldo, I have despatched all four of the orisons which you bade me say.' 'Brother mine,' answered the friar, 'thou hast a good wind and hast done well; I, for my part, had said but two thereof, when my gossip came; but God the Lord, what with thy pains and mine, hath shown us such favour that the child is healed.' Therewithal the cuckold let bring good wines and confections and entertained his gossip and the latter's comrade with that whereof they had more need than of aught else. Then, attending them to the door, he commended them to God and letting make the waxen image without delay, he sent to hang it up with the others[346] before the statue of St. Ambrose, but not that of Milan."[347] [Footnote 346: _i.e._ the other ex votos.] [Footnote 347: There is apparently some satirical allusion here, which I cannot undertake to explain.] THE FOURTH STORY [Day the Seventh] TOFANO ONE NIGHT SHUTTETH HIS WIFE OUT OF DOORS, WHO, AVAILING NOT TO RE-ENTER BY DINT OF ENTREATIES, FEIGNETH TO CAST HERSELF INTO A WELL AND CASTETH THEREIN A GREAT STONE. TOFANO COMETH FORTH OF THE HOUSE AND RUNNETH THITHER, WHEREUPON SHE SLIPPETH IN AND LOCKING HIM OUT, BAWLETH REPROACHES AT HIM FROM THE WINDOW The king no sooner perceived Elisa's story to be ended than, turning without delay to Lauretta, he signified to her his pleasure that she should tell; whereupon she, without hesitation, began thus, "O Love, how great and how various is thy might! How many thy resources and thy devices! What philosopher, what craftsman[348] could ever have availed or might avail to teach those shifts, those feints, those subterfuges which thou on the spur of the moment suggestest to whoso ensueth in thy traces! Certes, all others' teaching is halting compared with thine, as may very well have been apprehended by the devices which have already been set forth and to which, lovesome ladies, I will add one practised by a woman of a simple wit enough and such as I know none but Love could have taught her. [Footnote 348: Syn. professor of the liberal arts (_artista_).] There was once, then, in Arezzo, a rich man called Tofano and he was given to wife a very fair lady, by name Madam Ghita, of whom, without knowing why, he quickly waxed jealous. The lady, becoming aware of this, was despited thereat and questioned him once and again of the reason of his jealousy; but he was able to assign her none, save such as were general and naught; wherefore it occurred to her mind to cause him die of the disease whereof he stood without reason in fear. Accordingly, perceiving that a young man, who was much to her taste, sighed for her, she proceeded discreetly to come to an understanding with him and things being so far advanced between them that there lacked but with deeds to give effect to words, she cast about for a means of bringing this also to pass; wherefore, having already remarked, amongst her husband's other ill usances, that he delighted in drinking, she began not only to commend this to him, but would often artfully incite him thereto. This became so much his wont that, well nigh whensoever it pleased her, she led him to drink even to intoxication, and putting him to bed whenas she saw him well drunken, she a first time foregathered with her lover, with whom many a time thereafter she continued to do so in all security. Indeed, she grew to put such trust in her husband's drunkenness that not only did she make bold to bring her gallant into the house, but went whiles to pass a great part of the night with him in his own house, which was not very far distant. The enamoured lady continuing on this wise, it befell that the wretched husband came to perceive that she, whilst encouraging him to drink, natheless herself drank never; wherefore suspicion took him that it might be as in truth it was, to wit, that she made him drunken, so she might after do her pleasure what while he slept, and wishing to make proof of this, an it were so, he one evening, not having drunken that day, feigned himself, both in words and fashions, the drunkenest man that was aye. The lady, believing this and judging that he needed no more drink, put him to bed in all haste and this done, betook herself, as she was used to do whiles, to the house of her lover, where she abode till midnight. As for Tofano, no sooner did he know the lady to have left the house than he straightway arose and going to the doors, locked them from within; after which he posted himself at the window, so he might see her return and show her that he had gotten wind of her fashions; and there he abode till such time as she came back. The lady, returning home and finding herself locked out, was beyond measure woeful and began to essay an she might avail to open the door by force, which, after Tofano had awhile suffered, 'Wife,' quoth he, 'thou weariest thyself in vain, for thou canst nowise come in here again. Go, get thee back whereas thou hast been till now and be assured that thou shalt never return thither till such time as I shall have done thee, in respect of this affair, such honour as beseemeth thee in the presence of thy kinsfolk and of the neighbours.' The lady fell to beseeching him for the love of God that it would please him open to her, for that she came not whence he supposed, but from keeping vigil with a she-neighbour of hers, for that the nights were long and she could not sleep them all out nor watch at home alone. However, prayers profited her nought, for that her brute of a husband was minded to have all the Aretines[349] know their shame, whereas none as yet knew it; wherefore, seeing that prayers availed her not, she had recourse to threats and said, 'An thou open not to me, I will make thee the woefullest man alive.' 'And what canst thou do to me?' asked Tofano, and Mistress Tessa, whose wits Love had already whetted with his counsels, replied, 'Rather than brook the shame which thou wouldst wrongfully cause me suffer, I will cast myself into this well that is herenigh, where when I am found dead, there is none will believe otherwise than that thou, for very drunkenness, hast cast me therein; wherefore it will behove thee flee and lose all thou hast and abide in banishment or have thy head cut off for my murderer, as thou wilt in truth have been.' [Footnote 349: _i.e._ inhabitants of Arezzo.] Tofano was nowise moved by these words from his besotted intent; wherefore quoth she to him, 'Harkye now, I can no longer brook this thy fashery, God pardon it thee! Look thou cause lay up[350] this distaff of mine that I leave here.' So saying, the night being so dark that one might scarce see other by the way, she went up to the well and taking a great stone that lay thereby, cried out, 'God pardon me!' and let it drop into the water. The stone, striking the water, made a very great noise, which when Tofano heard, he verily believed that she had cast herself in; wherefore, snatching up the bucket and the rope, he rushed out of the house and ran to the well to succour her. The lady, who had hidden herself near the door, no sooner saw him run to the well than she slipped into the house and locked herself in; then, getting her to the window, 'You should water your wine, whenas you drink it,' quoth she, 'and not after and by night.' Tofano, hearing this, knew himself to have been fooled and returned to the door, but could get no admission and proceeded to bid her open to him; but she left speaking softly, as she had done till then, and began, well nigh at a scream, to say, 'By Christ His Cross, tiresome sot that thou art, thou shalt not enter here to-night; I cannot brook these thy fashions any longer; needs must I let every one see what manner of man thou art and at what hour thou comest home anights.' Tofano, on his side, flying into a rage, began to rail at her and bawl; whereupon the neighbours, hearing the clamour, arose, both men and women, and coming to the windows, asked what was to do. The lady answered, weeping, 'It is this wretch of a man, who still returneth to me of an evening, drunken, or falleth asleep about the taverns and after cometh home at this hour; the which I have long suffered, but, it availing me not and I being unable to put up with it longer, I have bethought me to shame him therefor by locking him out of doors, to see and he will mend himself thereof.' [Footnote 350: _Riporre_, possibly a mistake for _riportare_, to fetch back.] Tofano, on the other hand, told them, like an ass as he was, how the case stood and threatened her sore; but she said to the neighbours, 'Look you now what a man he is! What would you say, were I in the street, as he is, and he in the house, as am I? By God His faith, I doubt me you would believe he said sooth. By this you may judge of his wits; he saith I have done just what methinketh he hath himself done. He thought to fear me by casting I know not what into the well; but would God he had cast himself there in good sooth and drowned himself, so he might have well watered the wine which he hath drunken to excess.' The neighbours, both men and women, all fell to blaming Tofano, holding him at fault, and chid him for that which he said against the lady; and in a short time the report was so noised abroad from neighbour to neighbour that it reached the ears of the lady's kinsfolk, who came thither and hearing the thing from one and another of the neighbours, took Tofano and gave him such a drubbing that they broke every bone in his body. Then, entering the house, they took the lady's gear and carried her off home with them, threatening Tofano with worse. The latter, finding himself in ill case and seeing that his jealousy had brought him to a sorry pass, for that he still loved his wife heartily,[351] procured certain friends to intercede for him and so wrought that he made his peace with the lady and had her home again with him, promising her that he would never be jealous again. Moreover, he gave her leave to do her every pleasure, provided she wrought so discreetly that he should know nothing thereof; and on this wise, like a crack-brained churl as he was, he made peace after suffering damage. So long live Love and death to war and all its company!" [Footnote 351: Lit. wished her all his weal.] THE FIFTH STORY [Day the Seventh] A JEALOUS HUSBAND, IN THE GUISE OF A PRIEST, CONFESSETH HIS WIFE, WHO GIVETH HIM TO BELIEVE THAT SHE LOVETH A PRIEST, WHO COMETH TO HER EVERY NIGHT; AND WHILST THE HUSBAND SECRETLY KEEPETH WATCH AT THE DOOR FOR THE LATTER, THE LADY BRINGETH IN A LOVER OF HERS BY THE ROOF AND LIETH WITH HIM Lauretta having made an end of her story and all having commended the lady for that she had done aright and even as befitted her wretch of a husband, the king, to lose no time, turned to Fiammetta and courteously imposed on her the burden of the story-telling; whereupon she began thus, "Most noble ladies, the foregoing story moveth me to tell you, on like wise, of a jealous husband, accounting, as I do, all that their wives do unto such,--particularly whenas they are jealous without cause,--to be well done and holding that, if the makers of the laws had considered everything, they should have appointed none other penalty unto women who offend in this than that which they appoint unto whoso offendeth against other in self-defence; for that jealous men are plotters against the lives of young women and most diligent procurers of their deaths. Wives abide all the week mewed up at home, occupying themselves with domestic offices and the occasions of their families and households, and after they would fain, like every one else, have some solace and some rest on holidays and be at leisure to take some diversion even as do the tillers of the fields, the artisans of the towns and the administrators of the laws, according to the example of God himself, who rested from all His labours the seventh day, and to the intent of the laws, both human and Divine, which, looking to the honour of God and the common weal of all, have distinguished working days from those of repose. But to this jealous men will on no wise consent; nay, those days which are gladsome for all other women they make wretcheder and more doleful than the others to their wives, keeping them yet closelier straitened and confined; and what a misery and a languishment this is for the poor creatures those only know who have proved it. Wherefore, to conclude, I say that what a woman doth to a husband who is jealous without cause should certes not be condemned, but rather commended. There was, then, in Arimino a merchant, very rich both in lands and monies, who, having to wife a very fair lady, became beyond measure jealous of her; nor had he other cause for this save that, as he loved her exceedingly and held her very fair and saw that she studied with all her might to please him, even so he imagined that every man loved her and that she appeared fair to all and eke that she studied to please others as she did himself, which was the reasoning of a man of nought and one of little sense. Being grown thus jealous, he kept such strict watch over her and held her in such constraint that belike many there be of those who are condemned to capital punishment who are less straitly guarded of their gaolers; for, far from being at liberty to go to weddings or entertainments or to church or indeed anywise to set foot without the house, she dared not even stand at the window nor look abroad on any occasion; wherefore her life was most wretched and she brooked this annoy with the more impatience as she felt herself the less to blame. Accordingly, seeing herself unjustly suspected of her husband, she determined, for her own solacement, to find a means (an she but might) of doing on such wise that he should have reason for his ill usage of her. And for that she might not station herself at the window and so had no opportunity of showing herself favourable to the suit of any one who might take note of her, as he passed along her street, and pay his court to her,--knowing that in the adjoining house there was a certain young man both handsome and agreeable,--she bethought herself to look if there were any hole in the wall that parted the two houses and therethrough to spy once and again till such time as she should see the youth aforesaid and find an occasion of speaking with him and bestowing on him her love, so he would accept thereof, purposing, if a means could be found, to foregather with him bytimes and on this wise while away her sorry life till such time as the demon [of jealousy] should take leave of her husband. Accordingly, she went spying about the walls of the house, now in one part and now in another, whenas her husband was abroad, and happened at last upon a very privy place where the wall was somewhat opened by a fissure and looking therethrough, albeit she could ill discover what was on the other side, algates she perceived that the opening gave upon a bedchamber there and said in herself, 'Should this be the chamber of Filippo,' to wit, the youth her neighbour, 'I were half sped.' Then, causing secretly enquire of this by a maid of hers, who had pity upon her, she found that the young man did indeed sleep in that chamber all alone; wherefore, by dint of often visiting the crevice and dropping pebbles and such small matters, whenas she perceived him to be there, she wrought on such wise that he came to the opening, to see what was to do; whereupon she called to him softly. He, knowing her voice, answered her, and she, profiting by the occasion, discovered to him in brief all her mind; whereat the youth was mightily content and made shift to enlarge the hole from his side on such wise that none could perceive it; and therethrough they many a time bespoke one another and touched hands, but could go no farther, for the jealous vigilance of the husband. After awhile, the Feast of the Nativity drawing near, the lady told her husband that, an it pleased him, she would fain go to church on Christmas morning and confess and take the sacrament, as other Christians did. Quoth he, 'And what sin hast thou committed that thou wouldst confess?' 'How?' answered the lady. 'Thinkest thou that I am a saint, because thou keepest me mewed up? Thou must know well enough that I commit sins like all others that live in this world; but I will not tell them to thee, for that thou art not a priest.' The jealous wretch took suspicion at these words and determined to seek to know what sins she had committed; wherefore, having bethought himself of a means whereby he might gain his end, he answered that he was content, but that he would have her go to no other church than their parish chapel and that thither she must go betimes in the morning and confess herself either to their chaplain or to such priest as the latter should appoint her and to none other and presently return home. Herseemed she half apprehended his meaning; but without saying otherwhat, she answered that she would do as he said. Accordingly, Christmas Day come, the lady arose at daybreak and attiring herself, repaired to the church appointed her of her husband, who, on his part, betook himself to the same place and reached it before her. Having already taken order with the chaplain of that which he had a mind to do, he hastily donned one of the latter's gowns, with a great flapped cowl, such as we see priests wear, and drawing the hood a little over his face, seated himself in the choir. The lady, entering the chapel, enquired for the chaplain, who came and hearing from her that she would fain confess, said that he could not hear her, but would send her one of his brethren. Accordingly, going away, he sent her the jealous man, in an ill hour for the latter, who came up with a very grave air, and albeit the day was not over bright and he had drawn the cowl far over his eyes, knew not so well to disguise himself but he was readily recognized by the lady, who, seeing this, said in herself, 'Praised be God! From a jealous man he is turned priest; but no matter; I will e'en give him what he goeth seeking.' Accordingly, feigning not to know him, she seated herself at his feet. My lord Jealousy had put some pebbles in his mouth, to impede his speech somewhat, so his wife might not know him by his voice, himseeming he was in every other particular so thoroughly disguised that he was nowise fearful of being recognized by her. To come to the confession, the lady told him, amongst other things, (having first declared herself to be married,) that she was enamoured of a priest, who came every night to lie with her. When the jealous man heard this, himseemed he had gotten a knife-thrust in the heart, and had not desire constrained him to know more, he had abandoned the confession and gone away. Standing fast, then, he asked the lady, 'How! Doth not your husband lie with you?' 'Ay doth he, sir,' replied she. 'How, then,' asked the jealous man, 'can the priest also lie with you?' 'Sir,' answered she, 'by what art he doth it I know not, but there is not a door in the house so fast locked but it openeth so soon as he toucheth it; and he telleth me that, whenas he cometh to the door of my chamber, before opening it, he pronounceth certain words, by virtue whereof my husband incontinent falleth asleep, and so soon as he perceiveth him to be fast, he openeth the door and cometh in and lieth with me; and this never faileth.' Quoth the mock priest, 'Madam, this is ill done, and it behoveth you altogether to refrain therefrom.' 'Sir,' answered the lady, 'methinketh I could never do that, for that I love him too well.' 'Then,' said the other, 'I cannot shrive you.' Quoth she, 'I am grieved for that; but I came not hither to tell you lies; an I thought I could do it, I would tell you so.' 'In truth, madam,' replied the husband, 'I am concerned for you, for that I see you lose your soul at this game; but, to do you service, I will well to take the pains of putting up my special orisons to God in your name, the which maybe shall profit you, and I will send you bytimes a little clerk of mine, to whom you shall say if they have profited you or not; and if they have profited you, we will proceed farther.' 'Sir,' answered the lady, 'whatever you do, send none to me at home, for, should my husband come to know of it, he is so terribly jealous that nothing in the world would get it out of his head that your messenger came hither for nought[352] but ill, and I should have no peace with him this year to come.' Quoth the other, 'Madam, have no fear of that, for I will certainly contrive it on such wise that you shall never hear a word of the matter from him.' Then said she, 'So but you can engage to do that, I am content.' Then, having made her confession and gotten her penance, she rose to her feet and went off to hear mass; whilst the jealous man, (ill luck go with him!) withdrew, bursting with rage, to put off his priest's habit, and returned home, impatient to find a means of surprising the priest with his wife, so he might play the one and the other an ill turn. [Footnote 352: Boccaccio writes carelessly "for _aught_" (_altro_), which makes nonsense of the passage.] Presently the lady came back from church and saw plainly enough from her husband's looks that she had given him an ill Christmas; albeit he studied, as most he might, to conceal that which he had done and what himseemed he had learned. Then, being inwardly resolved to lie in wait near the street-door that night and watch for the priest's coming, he said to the lady, 'Needs must I sup and lie abroad to-night, wherefore look thou lock the street-door fast, as well as that of the midstair and that of thy chamber, and get thee to bed, whenas it seemeth good to thee.' The lady answered, 'It is well,' and betaking herself, as soon as she had leisure, to the hole in the wall, she made the wonted signal, which when Filippo heard, he came to her forthright. She told him how she had done that morning and what her husband had said to her after dinner and added, 'I am certain he will not leave the house, but will set himself to watch the door; wherefore do thou find means to come hither to me to-night by the roof, so we may lie together.' The young man was mightily rejoiced at this and answered, 'Madam, leave me do.' Accordingly, the night come, the jealous man took his arms and hid himself by stealth in a room on the ground floor, whilst the lady, whenas it seemed to her time,--having caused lock all the doors and in particular that of the midstair, so he might not avail to come up,--summoned the young man, who came to her from his side by a very privy way. Thereupon they went to bed and gave themselves a good time, taking their pleasure one of the other till daybreak, when the young man returned to his own house. Meanwhile, the jealous man stood to his arms well nigh all night beside the street-door, sorry and supperless and dying of cold, and waited for the priest to come till near upon day, when, unable to watch any longer, he returned to the ground floor room and there fell asleep. Towards tierce he awoke and the street door being now open, he made a show of returning from otherwhere and went up into his house and dined. A little after, he sent a lad, as he were the priest's clerkling that had confessed her, to the lady to ask if she wot of were come thither again. She knew the messenger well enough and answered that he had not come thither that night and that if he did thus, he might haply pass out of her mind, albeit she wished it not. What more should I tell you? The jealous man abode on the watch night after night, looking to catch the priest at his entering in, and the lady still had a merry life with her lover the while. At length the cuckold, able to contain himself no longer, asked his wife, with an angry air, what she had said to the priest the morning she had confessed herself to him. She answered that she would not tell him, for that it was neither a just thing nor a seemly; whereupon, 'Vile woman that thou art!' cried he. 'In despite of thee I know what thou saidst to him, and needs must I know the priest of whom thou art so mightily enamoured and who, by means of his conjurations, lieth with thee every night; else will I slit thy weasand.' She replied that it was not true that she was enamoured of any priest. 'How?' cried the husband, 'Saidst thou not thus and thus to the priest who confessed thee?' And she, 'Thou couldst not have reported it better, not to say if he had told it thee, but if thou hadst been present; ay, I did tell him this.' 'Then,' rejoined the jealous man, 'tell me who is this priest, and that quickly.' The lady fell a-smiling and answered, 'It rejoiceth me mightily to see a wise man led by the nose by a woman, even as one leadeth a ram by the horns to the shambles, albeit thou art no longer wise nor hast been since the hour when, unknowing why, thou sufferedst the malignant spirit of jealousy to enter thy breast; and the sillier and more besotted thou art, so much the less is my glory thereof. Deemest thou, husband mine, I am as blind of the eyes of the body as thou of those of the mind? Certes, no; I perceived at first sight who was the priest that confessed me and know that thou wast he; but I had it at heart to give thee that which thou wentest seeking, and in sooth I have done it. Wert thou as wise as thou thinkest to be, thou wouldst not have essayed by this means to learn the secrets of thy good wife, but wouldst, without taking vain suspicion, have recognized that which she confessed to thee to be the very truth, without her having sinned in aught. I told thee that I loved a priest, and wast not thou, whom I am much to blame to love as I do, become a priest? I told thee that no door of my house could abide locked, whenas he had a mind to lie with me; and what door in the house was ever kept against thee, whenas thou wouldst come whereas I might be? I told thee that the priest lay with me every night, and when was it that thou layest not with me? And whenassoever thou sentest thy clerk to me, which was thou knowest, as often as thou layest from me, I sent thee word that the priest had not been with me. What other than a crack-brain like thee, who has suffered thyself to be blinded by thy jealousy, had failed to understand these things? Thou hast abidden in the house, keeping watch anights, and thoughtest to have given me to believe that thou wast gone abroad to sup and sleep. Bethink thee henceforth and become a man again, as thou wast wont to be; and make not thyself a laughing stock to whoso knoweth thy fashions, as do I, and leave this unconscionable watching that thou keepest; for I swear to God that, an the fancy took me to make thee wear the horns, I would engage, haddest thou an hundred eyes, as thou hast but two, to do my pleasure on such wise that thou shouldst not be ware thereof.' The jealous wretch, who thought to have very adroitly surprised his wife's secrets, hearing this, avouched himself befooled and without answering otherwhat, held the lady for virtuous and discreet; and whenas it behoved him to be jealous, he altogether divested himself of his jealousy, even as he had put it on, what time he had no need thereof. Wherefore the discreet lady, being in a manner licensed to do her pleasures, thenceforward no longer caused her lover to come to her by the roof, as go the cats, but e'en brought him in at the door, and dealing advisedly, many a day thereafter gave herself a good time and led a merry life with him." THE SIXTH STORY [Day the Seventh] MADAM ISABELLA, BEING IN COMPANY WITH LEONETTO HER LOVER, IS VISITED BY ONE MESSER LAMBERTUCCIO, OF WHOM SHE IS BELOVED; HER HUSBAND RETURNING, [UNEXPECTED,] SHE SENDETH LAMBERTUCCIO FORTH OF THE HOUSE, WHINGER IN HAND, AND THE HUSBAND AFTER ESCORTETH LEONETTO HOME The company were wonder-well pleased with Fiammetta's story, all affirming that the lady had done excellently well and as it behoved unto such a brute of a man, and after it was ended, the king bade Pampinea follow on, who proceeded to say, "There are many who, speaking ignorantly, avouch that love bereaveth folk of their senses and causeth whoso loveth to become witless. Meseemeth this is a foolish opinion, as hath indeed been well enough shown by the things already related, and I purpose yet again to demonstrate it. In our city, which aboundeth in all good things, there was once a young lady both gently born and very fair, who was the wife of a very worthy and notable gentleman; and as it happeneth often that folk cannot for ever brook one same food, but desire bytimes to vary their diet, this lady, her husband not altogether satisfying her, became enamoured of a young man called Leonetto and very well bred and agreeable, for all he was of no great extraction. He on like wise fell in love with her, and as you know that seldom doth that which both parties desire abide without effect, it was no great while before accomplishment was given to their loves. Now it chanced that, she being a fair and engaging lady, a gentleman called Messer Lambertuccio became sore enamoured of her, whom, for that he seemed to her a disagreeable man and a tiresome, she could not for aught in the world bring herself to love. However, after soliciting her amain with messages and it availing him nought, he sent to her threatening her, for that he was a notable man, to dishonour her, an she did not his pleasure; wherefore she, fearful and knowing his character, submitted herself to do his will. It chanced one day that the lady, whose name was Madam Isabella, being gone, as is our custom in summer-time, to abide at a very goodly estate she had in the country and her husband having ridden somewhither to pass some days abroad, she sent for Leonetto to come and be with her, whereat he was mightily rejoiced and betook himself thither incontinent. Meanwhile Messer Lambertuccio, hearing that her husband was gone abroad, took horse and repairing, all alone, to her house, knocked at the door. The lady's waiting-woman, seeing him, came straight to her mistress, who was closeted with Leonetto, and called to her, saying, 'Madam, Messer Lambertuccio is below, all alone.' The lady, hearing this, was the woefullest woman in the world, but, as she stood in great fear of Messer Lambertuccio, she besought Leonetto not to take it ill to hide himself awhile behind the curtains of her bed till such time as the other should be gone. Accordingly, Leonetto, who feared him no less than did the lady, hid himself there and she bade the maid go open to Messer Lambertuccio, which being done, he lighted down in the courtyard and making his palfrey fast to a staple there, went up into the house. The lady put on a cheerful countenance and coming to the head of the stair, received him with as good a grace as she might and asked him what brought him thither; whereupon he caught her in his arms and clipped her and kissed her, saying, 'My soul, I understood that your husband was abroad and am come accordingly to be with you awhile.' After these words, they entered a bedchamber, where they locked themselves in, and Messer Lambertuccio fell to taking delight of her. As they were thus engaged, it befell, altogether out of the lady's expectation, that her husband returned, whom when the maid saw near the house, she ran in haste to the lady's chamber and said, 'Madam, here is my lord come back; methinketh he is already below in the courtyard.' When the lady heard this, bethinking her that she had two men in the house and knowing that there was no hiding Messer Lambertuccio, by reason of his palfrey which was in the courtyard, she gave herself up for lost. Nevertheless, taking a sudden resolution, she sprang hastily down from the bed and said to Messer Lambertuccio, 'Sir, an you wish me anywise well and would save me from death, do that which I shall bid you. Take your hanger naked in your hand and go down the stair with an angry air and all disordered and begone, saying, "I vow to God that I will take him elsewhere." And should my husband offer to detain you or question you of aught, do you say no otherwhat than that which I have told you, but take horse and look you abide not with him on any account.' The gentleman answered that he would well, and accordingly, drawing his hanger, he did as she had enjoined him, with a face all afire what with the swink he had furnished and with anger at the husband's return. The latter was by this dismounted in the courtyard and marvelled to see the palfrey there; then, offering to go up into the house, he saw Messer Lambertuccio come down and wondering both at his words and his air, said, 'What is this, sir?' Messer Lambertuccio putting his foot in the stirrup and mounting to horse, said nought but, 'Cock's body, I shall find him again otherwhere,' and made off. The gentleman, going up, found his wife at the stairhead, all disordered and fearful, and said to her, 'What is all this? Whom goeth Messer Lambertuccio threatening thus in such a fury?' The lady, withdrawing towards the chamber where Leonetto was, so he might hear her, answered, 'Sir, never had I the like of this fright. There came fleeing hither but now a young man, whom I know not, followed by Messer Lambertuccio, hanger in hand, and finding by chance the door of this chamber open, said to me, all trembling, "For God's sake, madam, help me, that I be not slain in your arms." I rose to my feet and was about to question him who he was and what ailed him, when, behold, in rushed Messer Lambertuccio, saying, "Where art thou, traitor?" I set myself before the chamber-door and hindered him from entering; and he was in so far courteous that, after many words, seeing it pleased me not that he should enter there, he went his way down, as you have seen.' Quoth the husband, 'Wife, thou didst well, it were too great a reproach to us, had a man been slain in our house, and Messer Lambertuccio did exceeding unmannerly to follow a person who had taken refuge here.' Then he asked where the young man was, and the lady answered, 'Indeed sir, I know not where he hath hidden himself.' Then said the husband 'Where art thou? Come forth in safety.' Whereupon Leonetto, who had heard everything, came forth all trembling for fear, (as indeed he had had a great fright,) of the place where he had hidden himself, and the gentleman said to him, 'What hast thou to do with Messer Lambertuccio?' 'Sir,' answered he, 'I have nothing in the world to do with him, wherefore methinketh assuredly he is either not in his right wits or he hath mistaken me for another; for that no sooner did he set eyes on me in the road not far from this house than he forthright clapped his hand to his hanger and said, "Traitor, thou art a dead man!" I stayed not to ask why, but took to my heels as best I might and made my way hither, where, thanks to God and to this gentlewoman, I have escaped.' Quoth the husband, 'Go to; have no fears; I will bring thee to thine own house safe and sound, and thou canst after seek out what thou hast to do with him.' Accordingly, when they had supped, he mounted him a-horseback and carrying him back to Florence, left him in his own house. As for Leonetto, that same evening, according as he had been lessoned of the lady, he privily bespoke Messer Lambertuccio and took such order with him, albeit there was much talk of the matter thereafterward, the husband never for all that became aware of the cheat that had been put on him by his wife." THE SEVENTH STORY [Day the Seventh] LODOVICO DISCOVERETH TO MADAM BEATRICE THE LOVE HE BEARETH HER, WHEREUPON SHE SENDETH EGANO HER HUSBAND INTO THE GARDEN, IN HER OWN FAVOUR, AND LIETH MEANWHILE WITH LODOVICO, WHO, PRESENTLY ARISING, GOETH AND CUDGELLETH EGANO IN THE GARDEN Madam Isabella's presence of mind, as related by Pampinea, was held admirable by all the company; but, whilst they yet marvelled thereat, Filomena, whom the king had appointed to follow on, said, "Lovesome ladies, and I mistake not, methinketh I can tell you no less goodly a story on the same subject, and that forthright. You must know, then, that there was once in Paris a Florentine gentleman, who was for poverty turned merchant and had thriven so well in commerce that he was grown thereby very rich. He had by his lady one only son, whom he had named Lodovico, and for that he might concern himself with his father's nobility and not with trade, he had willed not to place him in any warehouse, but had sent him to be with other gentlemen in the service of the King of France, where he learned store of goodly manners and other fine things. During his sojourn there, it befell that certain gentlemen, who were returned from visiting the Holy Sepulchre, coming in upon a conversation between certain young men, of whom Lodovico was one, and hearing them discourse among themselves of the fair ladies of France and England and other parts of the world, one of them began to say that assuredly, in all the lands he had traversed and for all the ladies he had seen, he had never beheld the like for beauty of Madam Beatrice, the wife of Messer Egano de' Gulluzzi of Bologna; to which all his companions, who had with him seen her at Bologna, agreed. Lodovico, who had never yet been enamoured of any woman, hearkening to this, was fired with such longing to see her that he could hold his thought to nothing else and being altogether resolved to journey to Bologna for that purpose and there, if she pleased him, to abide awhile, he feigned to his father that he had a mind to go visit the Holy Sepulchre, the which with great difficulty he obtained of him. Accordingly, taking the name of Anichino, he set out for Bologna, and on the day following [his arrival,] as fortune would have it, he saw the lady in question at an entertainment, where she seemed to him fairer far than he had imagined her; wherefore, falling most ardently enamoured of her, he resolved never to depart Bologna till he should have gained her love. Then, devising in himself what course he should take to this end, he bethought himself, leaving be all other means, that, an he might but avail to become one of her husband's servants, whereof he entertained many, he might peradventure compass that which he desired. Accordingly, having sold his horses and disposed as best might be of his servants, bidding them make a show of knowing him not, he entered into discourse with his host and told him that he would fain engage for a servant with some gentleman of condition, could such an one be found. Quoth the host, 'Thou art the right serving-man to please a gentleman of this city, by name Egano, who keepeth many and will have them all well looking, as thou art. I will bespeak him of the matter.' As he said, so he did, and ere he took leave of Egano, he had brought Anichino to an accord with him, to the exceeding satisfaction of the latter, who, abiding with Egano and having abundant opportunity of seeing his lady often, proceeded to serve him so well and so much to his liking that he set such store by him that he could do nothing without him and committed to him the governance, not of himself alone, but of all his affairs. It chanced one day that, Egano being gone a-fowling and having left Anichino at home, Madam Beatrice (who was not yet become aware of his love for her, albeit, considering him and his fashions, she had ofttimes much commended him to herself and he pleased her,) fell to playing chess with him and he, desiring to please her, very adroitly contrived to let himself be beaten, whereat the lady was marvellously rejoiced. Presently, all her women having gone away from seeing them play and left them playing alone, Anichino heaved a great sigh, whereupon she looked at him and said, 'What aileth thee, Anichino? Doth it irk thee that I should beat thee?' 'Madam,' answered he, 'a far greater thing than that was the cause of my sighing.' Quoth the lady, 'Prithee, as thou wishest me well, tell it me.' When Anichino heard himself conjured, 'as thou wishest me well,' by her whom he loved over all else, he heaved a sigh yet heavier than the first; wherefore the lady besought him anew that it would please him tell her the cause of his sighing. 'Madam,' replied Anichino, 'I am sore fearful lest it displease you, if I tell it you, and moreover I misdoubt me you will tell it again to others.' Whereto rejoined she, 'Certes, it will not displease me, and thou mayst be assured that, whatsoever thou sayest to me I will never tell to any, save whenas it shall please thee.' Quoth he, 'Since you promise me this, I will e'en tell it you.' Then, with tears in his eyes, he told her who he was and what he had heard of her and when and how he was become enamoured of her and why he had taken service with her husband and after humbly besought her that it would please her have compassion on him and comply with him in that his secret and so fervent desire, and in case she willed not to do this, that she should suffer him to love her, leaving him be in that his then present guise. O singular blandness of the Bolognese blood! How art thou still to be commended in such circumstance! Never wast thou desirous of tears or sighs; still wast thou compliant unto prayers and amenable unto amorous desires! Had I words worthy to commend thee, my voice should never weary of singing thy praises. The gentle lady, what while Anichino spoke, kept her eyes fixed on him and giving full credence to his words, received, by the prevalence of his prayers, the love of him with such might into her heart that she also fell a-sighing and presently answered, 'Sweet my Anichino, be of good courage; neither presents nor promises nor solicitations of nobleman or gentleman or other (for I have been and am yet courted of many) have ever availed to move my heart to love any one of them; but thou, in this small space of time that thy words have lasted, hast made me far more thine than mine own. Methinketh thou hast right well earned my love, wherefore I give it thee and promise thee that I will cause thee have enjoyment thereof ere this next night be altogether spent. And that this may have effect, look thou come to my chamber about midnight. I will leave the door open; thou knowest which side the bed I lie; do thou come thither and if I sleep, touch me so I may awake, and I will ease thee of this so long desire that thou hast had. And that thou mayst believe this that I say, I will e'en give thee a kiss by way of arles.' Accordingly, throwing her arms about his neck, she kissed him amorously and he on like wise kissed her. These things said, he left her and went to do certain occasions of his, awaiting with the greatest gladness in the world the coming of the night. Presently, Egano returned from fowling and being weary, betook himself to bed, as soon as he had supper, and after him the lady, who left the chamber-door open, as she had promised. Thither, at the appointed hour, came Anichino and softly entering the chamber, shut the door again from within; then, going up to the bed on the side where the lady lay, he put his hand to her breast and found her awake. As soon as she felt him come, she took his hand in both her own and held it fast; then, turning herself about in the bed, she did on such wise that Egano, who was asleep, awoke; whereupon quoth she to him, 'I would not say aught to thee yestereve, for that meseemed thou was weary; but tell me, Egano, so God save thee, whom holdest thou thy best and trustiest servant and him who most loveth thee of those whom thou hast in the house?' 'Wife,' answered Egano, 'what is this whereof thou askest me? Knowest thou it not? I have not nor had aye any in whom I so trusted and whom I loved as I love and trust in Anichino. But why dost thou ask me thereof?' Anichino, seeing Egano awake and hearing talk of himself, was sore afraid lest the lady had a mind to cozen him and offered again and again to draw his hand away, so he might begone; but she held it so fast that he could not win free. Then said she to Egano, 'I will tell thee. I also believed till to-day that he was even such as thou sayest and that he was more loyal to thee than any other, but he hath undeceived me; for that, what while thou wentest a-fowling to-day, he abode here, and whenas it seemed to him time, he was not ashamed to solicit me to yield myself to his pleasures, and I, so I might make thee touch and see this thing and that it might not behove me certify thee thereof with too many proofs, replied that I would well and that this very night, after midnight, I would go into our garden and there await him at the foot of the pine. Now for my part I mean not to go thither; but thou, an thou have a mind to know thy servant's fidelity, thou mayst lightly do it by donning a gown and a veil of mine and going down yonder to wait and see if he will come thither, as I am assured he will.' Egano hearing this, answered, 'Certes, needs must I go see,' and rising, donned one of the lady's gowns, as best he knew in the dark; then, covering his head with a veil, he betook himself to the garden and proceeded to await Anichino at the foot of the pine. As for the lady, as soon as she knew him gone forth of the chamber, she arose and locked the door from within, whilst Anichino, (who had had the greatest fright he had ever known and had enforced himself as most he might to escape from the lady's hands, cursing her and her love and himself who had trusted in her an hundred thousand times,) seeing this that she had done in the end, was the joyfullest man that was aye. Then, she having returned to bed, he, at her bidding, put off his clothes and coming to bed to her, they took delight and pleasure together a pretty while; after which, herseeming he should not abide longer, she caused him arise and dress himself and said to him, 'Sweetheart, do thou take a stout cudgel and get thee to the garden and there, feigning to have solicited me to try me, rate Egano, as he were I, and ring me a good peal of bells on his back with the cudgel, for that thereof will ensue to us marvellous pleasance and delight.' Anichino accordingly repaired to the garden, with a sallow-stick in his hand, and Egano, seeing him draw near the pine, rose up and came to meet him, as he would receive him with the utmost joy; whereupon quoth Anichino, 'Ah, wicked woman, art thou then come hither, and thinkest thou I would do my lord such a wrong? A thousand times ill come to thee!' Then, raising the cudgel, he began to lay on to him. Egano, hearing this and seeing the cudgel, took to his heels, without saying a word, whilst Anichino still followed after him, saying, 'Go to, God give thee an ill year, vile woman that thou art! I will certainly tell it to Egano to-morrow morning.' Egano made his way back to the chamber as quickliest he might, having gotten sundry good clouts, and being questioned of the lady if Anichino had come to the garden, 'Would God he had not!' answered he. 'For that, taking me for thee, he hath cudgelled me to a mummy and given me the soundest rating that was aye bestowed upon lewd woman. Certes, I marvelled sore at him that he should have said these words to thee, with intent to do aught that might be a shame to me; but, for that he saw thee so blithe and gamesome, he had a mind to try thee.' Then said the lady, 'Praised be God that he hath tried me with words and thee with deeds! Methinketh he may say that I suffered his words more patiently than thou his deeds. But, since he is so loyal to thee, it behoveth thee hold him dear and do him honour.' 'Certes,' answered Egano, 'thou sayst sooth'; and reasoning by this, he concluded that he had the truest wife and the trustiest servant that ever gentleman had; by reason whereof, albeit both he and the lady made merry more than once with Anichino over this adventure, the latter and his mistress had leisure enough of that which belike, but for this, they would not have had, to wit, to do that which afforded them pleasance and delight, that while it pleased Anichino abide with Egano in Bologna." THE EIGHTH STORY [Day the Seventh] A MAN WAXETH JEALOUS OF HIS WIFE, WHO BINDETH A PIECE OF PACKTHREAD TO HER GREAT TOE ANIGHTS, SO SHE MAY HAVE NOTICE OF HER LOVER'S COMING. ONE NIGHT HER HUSBAND BECOMETH AWARE OF THIS DEVICE AND WHAT WHILE HE PURSUETH THE LOVER, THE LADY PUTTETH ANOTHER WOMAN TO BED IN HER ROOM. THIS LATTER THE HUSBAND BEATETH AND CUTTETH OFF HER HAIR, THEN FETCHETH HIS WIFE'S BROTHERS, WHO, FINDING HIS STORY [SEEMINGLY] UNTRUE, GIVE HIM HARD WORDS It seemed to them all that Madam Beatrice had been extraordinarily ingenious in cozening her husband and all agreed that Anichino's fright must have been very great, whenas, being the while held fast by the lady, he heard her say that he had required her of love. But the king, seeing Filomena silent, turned to Neifile and said to her, "Do you tell"; whereupon she, smiling first a little, began, "Fair ladies, I have a hard task before me if I desire to pleasure you with a goodly story, as those of you have done, who have already told; but, with God's aid, I trust to discharge myself thereof well enough. You must know, then, that there was once in our city a very rich merchant called Arriguccio Berlinghieri, who, foolishly thinking, as merchants yet do every day, to ennoble himself by marriage, took to wife a young gentlewoman ill sorting with himself, by name Madam Sismonda, who, for that he, merchant-like, was much abroad and sojourned little with her, fell in love with a young man called Ruberto, who had long courted her, and clapped up a lover's privacy with him. Using belike over-little discretion in her dealings with her lover, for that they were supremely delightsome to her, it chanced that, whether Arriguccio scented aught of the matter or how else soever it happened, the latter became the most jealous man alive and leaving be his going about and all his other concerns, applied himself well nigh altogether to the keeping good watch over his wife; nor would he ever fall asleep, except he first felt her come into the bed; by reason whereof the lady suffered the utmost chagrin, for that on no wise might she avail to be with her Ruberto. However, after pondering many devices for finding a means to foregather with him and being to boot continually solicited thereof by him, it presently occurred to her to do on this wise; to wit, having many a time observed that Arriguccio tarried long to fall asleep, but after slept very soundly, she determined to cause Ruberto come about midnight to the door of the house and to go open to him and abide with him what while her husband slept fast. And that she might know when he should be come, she bethought herself to hang a twine out of the window of her bedchamber, which looked upon the street, on such wise that none might perceive it, one end whereof should well nigh reach the ground, whilst she carried the other end along the floor of the room to the bed and hid it under the clothes, meaning to make it fast to her great toe, whenas she should be abed. Accordingly, she sent to acquaint Ruberto with this and charged him, when he came, to pull the twine, whereupon, if her husband slept, she would let it go and come to open to him; but, if he slept not, she would hold it fast and draw it to herself, so he should not wait. The device pleased Ruberto and going thither frequently, he was whiles able to foregather with her and whiles not. On this wise they continued to do till, one night, the lady being asleep, it chanced that her husband stretched out his foot in bed and felt the twine, whereupon he put his hand to it and finding it made fast to his wife's toe, said in himself, 'This should be some trick'; and presently perceiving that the twine led out of window, he held it for certain. Accordingly, he cut it softly from the lady's toe and making it fast to his own, abode on the watch to see what this might mean. He had not waited long before up came Ruberto and pulled at the twine, as of his wont; whereupon Arriguccio started up; but, he not having made the twine well fast to his toe and Ruberto pulling hard, it came loose in the latter's hand, whereby he understood that he was to wait and did so. As for Arriguccio, he arose in haste and taking his arms, ran to the door, to see who this might be and do him a mischief, for, albeit a merchant, he was a stout fellow and a strong. When he came to the door, he opened it not softly as the lady was used to do, which when Ruberto, who was await, observed, he guessed how the case stood, to wit, that it was Arriguccio who opened the door, and accordingly made off in haste and the other after him. At last, having fled a great way and Arriguccio stinting not from following him, Ruberto, being also armed, drew his sword and turned upon his pursuer, whereupon they fell to blows, the one attacking and the other defending himself. Meanwhile, the lady, awaking, as Arriguccio opened the chamber-door, and finding the twine cut from her toe, knew incontinent that her device was discovered, whereupon, perceiving that her husband had run after her lover, she arose in haste and foreseeing what might happen, called her maid, who knew all, and conjured her to such purpose that she prevailed with her to take her own place in the bed, beseeching her patiently to endure, without discovering herself, whatsoever buffets Arriguccio might deal her, for that she would requite her therefor on such wise that she should have no cause to complain; after which she did out the light that burnt in the chamber and going forth thereof, hid herself in another part of the house and there began to await what should betide. Meanwhile, the people of the quarter, aroused by the noise of the affray between Arriguccio and Ruberto, arose and fell a-railing at them; whereupon the husband, fearing to be known, let the youth go, without having availed to learn who he was or to do him any hurt, and returned to his house, full of rage and despite. There, coming into the chamber, he cried out angrily, saying, 'Where art thou, vile woman? Thou hast done out the light, so I may not find thee; but thou art mistaken.' Then, coming to the bedside, he seized upon the maid, thinking to take his wife, and laid on to her so lustily with cuffs and kicks, as long as he could wag his hands and feet, that he bruised all her face, ending by cutting off her hair, still giving her the while the hardest words that were ever said to worthless woman. The maid wept sore, as indeed she had good cause to do, and albeit she said whiles, 'Alas, mercy, for God's sake!' and 'Oh, no more!' her voice was so broken with sobs and Arriguccio was so hindered with his rage that he never discerned it to be that of another woman than his wife. Having, then, as we have said, beaten her to good purpose and cut off her hair, he said to her, 'Wicked woman that thou art, I mean not to touch thee otherwise, but shall now go fetch thy brothers and acquaint them with thy fine doings and after bid them come for thee and deal with thee as they shall deem may do them honour and carry thee away; for assuredly in this house thou shalt abide no longer.' So saying, he departed the chamber and locking the door from without, went away all alone. As soon as Madam Sismonda, who had heard all, was certified of her husband's departure, she opened the door and rekindling the light, found her maid all bruised and weeping sore; whereupon she comforted her as best she might and carried her back to her own chamber, where she after caused privily tend her and care for her and so rewarded her of Arriguccio's own monies that she avouched herself content. No sooner had she done this than she hastened to make the bed in her own chamber and all restablished it and set it in such order as if none had lain there that night; after which she dressed and tired herself, as if she had not yet gone to bed; then, lighting a lamp, she took her clothes and seated herself at the stairhead, where she proceeded to sew and await the issue of the affair. Meanwhile Arriguccio betook himself in all haste to the house of his wife's brothers and there knocked so long and so loudly that he was heard and it was opened to him. The lady's three brothers and her mother, hearing that it was Arriguccio, rose all and letting kindle lights, came to him and asked what he went seeking at that hour and alone. Whereupon, beginning from the twine he had found tied to wife's toe, he recounted to them all that he had discovered and done, and to give them entire proof of the truth of his story, he put into their hands the hair he thought to have cut from his wife's head, ending by requiring them to come for her and do with her that which they should judge pertinent to their honour, for that he meant to keep her no longer in his house. The lady's brothers, hearing this and holding it for certain, were sore incensed against her and letting kindle torches, set out to accompany Arriguccio to his house, meaning to do her a mischief; which their mother seeing, she followed after them, weeping and entreating now the one, now the other not to be in such haste to believe these things of their sister, without seeing or knowing more of the matter, for that her husband might have been angered with her for some other cause and have maltreated her and might now allege this in his own excuse, adding that she marvelled exceedingly how this [whereof he accused her] could have happened, for that she knew her daughter well, as having reared her from a little child, with many other words to the like purpose. When they came to Arriguccio's house, they entered and proceeded to mount the stair, whereupon Madam Sismonda, hearing them come, said, 'Who is there?' To which one of her brothers answered, 'Thou shalt soon know who it is, vile woman that thou art!' 'God aid us!' cried she. 'What meaneth this?' Then, rising to her feet, 'Brothers mine,' quoth she, 'you are welcome; but what go you all three seeking at this hour?' The brothers,--seeing her seated sewing, with no sign of beating on her face, whereas Arriguccio avouched that he had beaten her to a mummy,--began to marvel and curbing the violence of their anger, demanded of her how that had been whereof Arriguccio accused her, threatening her sore, and she told them not all. Quoth she, 'I know not what you would have me say nor of what Arriguccio can have complained to you of me.' Arriguccio, seeing her thus, eyed her as if he had lost his wits, remembering that he had dealt her belike a thousand buffets on the face and scratched her and done her all the ill in the world, and now he beheld her as if nothing of all this had been. Her brothers told her briefly what they had heard from Arriguccio, twine and beating and all, whereupon she turned to him and said, 'Alack, husband mine, what is this I hear? Why wilt thou make me pass, to thine own great shame, for an ill woman, where as I am none, and thyself for a cruel and wicked man, which thou art not? When wast thou in this house to-night till now, let alone with me? When didst thou beat me? For my part, I have no remembrance of it.' 'How, vile woman that thou art!' cried he. 'Did we not go to bed together here? Did I not return hither, after running after thy lover? Did I not deal thee a thousand buffets and cut off thy hair?' 'Thou wentest not to bed in this house to-night,' replied Sismonda. 'But let that pass, for I can give no proof thereof other than mine own true words, and let us come to that which thou sayest, to wit, that thou didst beat me and cut off my hair. Me thou hast never beaten, and do all who are here and thou thyself take note of me, if I have any mark of beating in any part of my person. Indeed, I should not counsel thee make so bold as to lay a hand on me, for, by Christ His Cross, I would mar thy face for thee! Neither didst thou cut off my hair, for aught that I felt or saw; but haply thou didst it on such wise that I perceived it not; let me see if I have it shorn or no.' Then, putting off her veil from her head, she showed that she had her hair unshorn and whole. Her mother and brothers, seeing and hearing all this, turned upon her husband and said to him, 'What meanest thou, Arriguccio? This is not that so far which thou camest to tell us thou hadst done, and we know not how thou wilt make good the rest.' Arriguccio stood as one in a trance and would have spoken; but, seeing that it was not as he thought he could show, he dared say nothing; whereupon the lady, turning to her brothers, said to them, 'Brothers mine, I see he hath gone seeking to have me do what I have never yet chosen to do, to wit, that I should acquaint you with his lewdness and his vile fashions, and I will do it. I firmly believe that this he hath told you hath verily befallen him and that he hath done as he saith; and you shall hear how. This worthy man, to whom in an ill hour for me you gave me to wife, who calleth himself a merchant and would be thought a man of credit, this fellow, forsooth, who should be more temperate than a monk and chaster than a maid, there be few nights but he goeth fuddling himself about the taverns, foregathering now with this lewd woman and now with that and keeping me waiting for him, on such wise as you find me, half the night and whiles even till morning. I doubt not but that, having well drunken, he went to bed with some trull of his and waking, found the twine on her foot and after did all these his fine feats whereof he telleth, winding up by returning to her and beating her and cutting off her hair; and not being yet well come to himself, he fancied (and I doubt not yet fancieth) that he did all this to me; and if you look him well in the face, you will see he is yet half fuddled. Algates, whatsoever he may have said of me, I will not have you take it to yourselves except as a drunken man's talk, and since I forgive him, do you also pardon him.' Her mother, hearing this, began to make an outcry and say, 'By Christ His Cross, daughter mine, it shall not pass thus! Nay, he should rather be slain for a thankless, ill-conditioned dog, who was never worthy to have a girl of thy fashion to wife. Marry, a fine thing, forsooth! He could have used thee no worse, had he picked thee up out of the dirt! Devil take him if thou shalt abide at the mercy of the spite of a paltry little merchant of asses' dung! They come to us out of their pigstyes in the country, clad in homespun frieze, with their bag-breeches and pen in arse, and as soon as they have gotten a leash of groats, they must e'en have the daughters of gentlemen and right ladies to wife and bear arms and say, "I am of such a family" and "Those of my house did thus and thus." Would God my sons had followed my counsel in the matter, for that they might have stablished thee so worshipfully in the family of the Counts Guidi, with a crust of bread to thy dowry! But they must needs give thee to this fine jewel of fellow, who, whereas thou art the best girl in Florence and the modestest, is not ashamed to knock us up in the middle of the night, to tell us that thou art a strumpet, as if we knew thee not. But, by God His faith, an they would be ruled by me, he should get such a trouncing therefor that he should stink for it!' Then, turning to the lady's brothers, 'My sons,' said she, 'I told you this could not be. Have you heard how your fine brother-in-law here entreateth your sister? Four-farthing[353] huckster that he is! Were I in your shoes, he having said what he hath of her and doing that which he doth, I would never hold myself content nor appeased till I had rid the earth of him; and were I a man, as I am a woman, I would trouble none other than myself to despatch his business. Confound him for a sorry drunken beast, that hath no shame!' [Footnote 353: Or, in modern parlance, "twopennny-halfpenny."] The young men, seeing and hearing all this, turned upon Arriguccio and gave him the soundest rating ever losel got; and ultimately they said to him. 'We pardon thee this as to a drunken man; but, as thou tenderest thy life, look henceforward we hear no more news of this kind, for, if aught of the like come ever again to our ears, we will pay thee at once for this and for that.' So saying, they went their ways, leaving Arriguccio all aghast, as it were he had taken leave of his wits, unknowing in himself whether that which he had done had really been or whether he had dreamed it; wherefore he made no more words thereof, but left his wife in peace. Thus the lady, by her ready wit, not only escaped the imminent peril [that threatened her,] but opened herself a way to do her every pleasure in time to come, without evermore having any fear of her husband." THE NINTH STORY [Day the Seventh] LYDIA, WIFE OF NICOSTRATUS, LOVETH PYRRHUS, WHO, SO HE MAY BELIEVE IT, REQUIRETH OF HER THREE THINGS, ALL WHICH SHE DOTH. MOREOVER, SHE SOLACETH HERSELF WITH HIM IN THE PRESENCE OF NICOSTRATUS AND MAKETH THE LATTER BELIEVE THAT THAT WHICH HE HATH SEEN IS NOT REAL Neifile's story so pleased the ladies that they could neither give over to laugh at nor to talk of it, albeit the king, having bidden Pamfilo tell his story, had several times imposed silence upon them. However, after they had held their peace, Pamfilo began thus: "I do not believe, worshipful ladies, that there is anything, how hard and doubtful soever it be, that whoso loveth passionately will not dare to do; the which, albeit it hath already been demonstrated in many stories, methinketh, nevertheless, I shall be able yet more plainly to show forth to you in one which I purpose to tell you and wherein you shall hear of a lady, who was in her actions much more favoured of fortune than well-advised of reason; wherefore I would not counsel any one to adventure herself in the footsteps of her of whom I am to tell, for that fortune is not always well disposed nor are all men in the world equally blind. In Argos, city of Achia far more famous for its kings of past time than great in itself, there was once a nobleman called Nicostratus, to whom, when already neighbouring on old age, fortune awarded a lady of great family to wife, whose name was Lydia and who was no less high-spirited than fair. Nicostratus, like a nobleman and a man of wealth as he was, kept many servants and hounds and hawks and took the utmost delight in the chase. Among his other servants he had a young man called Pyrrhus, who was sprightly and well bred and comely of his person and adroit in all that he had a mind to do, and him he loved and trusted over all else. Of this Pyrrhus Lydia became so sore enamoured that neither by day nor by night could she have her thought otherwhere than with him; but he, whether it was that he perceived not her liking for him or that he would none of it, appeared to reck nothing thereof, by reason whereof the lady suffered intolerable chagrin in herself and being altogether resolved to give him to know of her passion, called a chamberwoman of hers, Lusca by name, in whom she much trusted, and said to her, 'Lusca, the favours thou hast had of me should make thee faithful and obedient; wherefore look thou none ever know that which I shall presently say to thee, save he to whom I shall charge thee tell it. As thou seest, Lusca, I am a young and lusty lady, abundantly endowed with all those things which any woman can desire; in brief, I can complain of but one thing, to wit, that my husband's years are overmany, an they be measured by mine own, wherefore I fare but ill in the matter of that thing wherein young women take most pleasure, and none the less desiring it, as other women do, I have this long while determined in myself, since fortune hath been thus little my friend in giving me so old a husband, that I will not be so much mine own enemy as not to contrive to find means for my pleasures and my weal; which that I may have as complete in this as in other things, I have bethought myself to will that our Pyrrhus, as being worthier thereof than any other, should furnish them with his embracements; nay, I have vowed him so great a love that I never feel myself at ease save whenas I see him or think of him, and except I foregather with him without delay, methinketh I shall certainly die thereof. Wherefore, if my life be dear to thee, thou wilt, on such wise as shall seem best to thee, signify to him any love and beseech him, on my part, to be pleased to come to me, whenas thou shalt go for him.' The chamberwoman replied that she would well and taking Pyrrhus apart, whenas first it seemed to her time and place, she did her lady's errand to him as best she knew. Pyrrhus, hearing this, was sore amazed thereat, as one who had never anywise perceived aught of the matter, and misdoubted him the lady had let say this to him to try him; wherefore he answered roughly and hastily, 'Lusca, I cannot believe that these words come from my lady; wherefore, have a care what thou sayst; or, if they do indeed come from her, I do not believe that she caused thee say them with intent, and even if she did so, my lord doth me more honour than I deserve and I would not for my life do him such an outrage; wherefore look thou bespeak me no more of such things.' Lusca, nowise daunted by his austere speech, said to him, 'Pyrrhus, I will e'en bespeak thee both of this and of everything else wherewithal my lady shall charge me when and as often as she shall bid me, whether it cause thee pleasure or annoy; but thou art an ass.' Then, somewhat despited at his words, she returned to her mistress, who, hearing what Pyrrhus had said, wished for death, but, some days after, she again bespoke the chamberwoman of the matter and said to her, 'Lusca, thou knowest that the oak falleth not for the first stroke; wherefore meseemeth well that thou return anew to him who so strangely willeth to abide loyal to my prejudice, and taking a sortable occasion, throughly discover to him my passion and do thine every endeavour that the thing may have effect; for that, an it fall through thus, I shall assuredly die of it. Moreover, he will think to have been befooled, and whereas we seek to have his love, hate will ensue thereof.' The maid comforted her and going in quest of Pyrrhus found him merry and well-disposed and said to him, 'Pyrrhus I showed thee, a few days agone, in what a fire my lady and thine abideth for the love she beareth thee, and now anew I certify thee thereof, for that, an thou persist in the rigour thou showedst the other day, thou mayst be assured that she will not live long; wherefore I prithee be pleased to satisfy her of her desire, and if thou yet abide fast in thine obstinacy, whereas I have still accounted thee mighty discreet, I shall hold thee a blockhead. What can be a greater glory for thee than that such a lady, so fair and so noble, should love thee over all else? Besides, how greatly shouldst thou acknowledge thyself beholden unto Fortune, seeing that she proffereth thee a thing of such worth and so conformable to the desires of thy youth and to boot, such a resource for thy necessities! Which of thy peers knowest thou who fareth better by way of delight than thou mayst fare, an thou be wise? What other couldst thou find who may fare so well in the matter of arms and horses and apparel and monies as thou mayst do, so thou wilt but vouchsafe thy love to this lady? Open, then, thy mind to my words and return to thy senses; bethink thee that once, and no oftener, it is wont to betide that fortune cometh unto a man with smiling face and open arms, who an he know not then to welcome, if after he find himself poor and beggarly, he hath himself and not her to blame. Besides, there is no call to use that loyalty between servants and masters that behoveth between friends and kinsfolk; nay, servants should use their masters, in so far as they may, like as themselves are used of them. Thinkest thou, an thou hadst a fair wife or mother or daughter or sister, who pleased Nicostratus, that he would go questing after this loyalty that thou wouldst fain observe towards him in respect of this lady? Thou are a fool, if thou think thus; for thou mayst hold it for certain that, if blandishments and prayers sufficed him not, he would not scruple to use force in the matter, whatsoever thou mightest deem thereof. Let us, then, entreat them and their affairs even as they entreat us and ours. Profit by the favour of fortune and drive her not away, but welcome her with open arms and meet her halfway, for assuredly, and thou do it not, thou wilt yet (leave alone the death that will without fail ensue thereof to thy lady) repent thee thereof so many a time thou wilt be fain to die therefor.' Pyrrhus, who had again and again pondered the words that Lusca had said to him, had determined, and she should return to him, to make her another guess answer and altogether to submit himself to comply with the lady's wishes, so but he might be certified that it was not a trick to try him, and accordingly answered, 'Harkye, Lusca; all that thou sayst to me I allow to be true; but, on the other hand, I know my lord for very discreet and well-advised, and as he committeth all his affairs to my hands, I am sore adread lest Lydia, with his counsel and by his wish, do this to try me; wherefore, an it please her for mine assurance do three things that I shall ask, she shall for certain thereafterward command me nought but I will do it forthright. And the three things I desire are these: first, that in Nicostratus his presence she slay his good hawk; secondly, that she send me a lock of her husband's beard and lastly, one of his best teeth.' These conditions seemed hard unto Lusca and to the lady harder yet; however, Love, who is an excellent comforter[354] and a past master in shifts and devices, made her resolve to do his pleasure and accordingly she sent him word by her chamberwoman that she would punctually do what he required and that quickly, and that over and above this, for that he deemed Nicostratus so well-advised, she would solace herself with him in her husband's presence and make the latter believe that it was not true. [Footnote 354: Syn. encourager, helper, auxiliary (_confortatore_).] Pyrrhus, accordingly, began to await what the lady should do, and Nicostratus having, a few days after, made, as he oftentimes used to do, a great dinner to certain gentlemen, Madam Lydia, whenas the tables were cleared away, came forth of her chamber, clad in green samite and richly bedecked, and entered the saloon where the guests were. There, in the sight of Pyrrhus and of all the rest, she went up to the perch, whereon was the hawk that Nicostratus held so dear, and cast it loose, as she would set it on her hand; then, taking it by the jesses, she dashed it against the wall and killed it; whereupon Nicostratus cried out at her, saying, 'Alack, wife, what hast thou done?' She answered him nothing, but, turning to the gentlemen who had eaten with him, she said to them, 'Gentlemen, I should ill know how to avenge myself on a king who did me a despite, an I dared not take my wreak of a hawk. You must know that this bird hath long robbed me of all the time which should of men be accorded to the pleasuring of the ladies; for that no sooner is the day risen than Nicostratus is up and drest and away he goeth a-horseback, with his hawk on his fist, to the open plains, to see him fly, whilst I, such as you see me, abide in bed alone and ill-content; wherefore I have many a time had a mind to do that which I have now done, nor hath aught hindered me therefrom but that I waited to do it in the presence of gentlemen who would be just judges in my quarrel, as methinketh you will be.' The gentlemen, hearing this and believing her affection for Nicostratus to be no otherwise than as her words denoted, turned all to the latter, who was angered, and said, laughing, 'Ecod, how well hath the lady done to avenge herself of her wrong by the death of the hawk!' Then, with divers of pleasantries upon the subject (the lady being now gone back to her chamber), they turned Nicostratus his annoy into laughter; whilst Pyrrhus, seeing all this, said in himself, 'The lady hath given a noble beginning to my happy loves; God grant she persevere!' Lydia having thus slain the hawk, not many days were passed when, being in her chamber with Nicostratus, she fell to toying and frolicking with him, and he, pulling her somedele by the hair, by way of sport, gave her occasion to accomplish the second thing required of her by Pyrrhus. Accordingly, taking him of a sudden by a lock of his beard, she tugged so hard at it, laughing the while, that she plucked it clean out of his chin; whereof he complaining, 'How now?' quoth she. 'What aileth thee to pull such a face? Is it because I have plucked out maybe half a dozen hairs of thy beard? Thou feltest not that which I suffered, whenas thou pulledst me now by the hair.' On this wise continuing their disport from one word to another, she privily kept the lock of hair that she had plucked from his beard and sent it that same day to her lover. Anent the last of the three things required by Pyrrhus she was harder put to it for a device; nevertheless, being of a surpassing wit and Love making her yet quicker of invention, she soon bethought herself what means she should use to give it accomplishment. Nicostratus had two boys given him of their father, to the intent that, being of gentle birth, they might learn somewhat of manners and good breeding in his house, of whom, whenas he was at meat, one carved before him and the other gave him to drink. Lydia called them both and giving them to believe that they stank at the mouth, enjoined them that, whenas they served Nicostratus, they should still hold their heads backward as most they might nor ever tell this to any. The boys, believing that which she said, proceeded to do as she had lessoned them, and she after a while said to her husband one day, 'Hast thou noted that which yonder boys do, whenas they serve thee?' 'Ay have I,' replied Nicostratus; 'and indeed I had it in mind to ask them why they did it.' Quoth the lady, 'Do it not, for I can tell thee the reason; and I have kept it silent from thee this long while, not to cause thee annoy; but, now I perceive that others begin to be aware thereof, it skilleth not to hide it from thee longer. This betideth thee for none other what than that thou stinkest terribly at the mouth, and I know not what can be the cause thereof; for that it used not to be thus. Now this is a very unseemly thing for thee who hast to do with gentlemen, and needs must we see for a means of curing it.' Whereupon said he, 'What can this be? Can I have some rotten tooth in my head?' 'Maybe ay,' answered Lydia and carried him to a window, where she made him open his mouth, and after she had viewed it in every part, 'O Nicostratus,' cried she, 'how canst thou have put up with it so long? Thou hast a tooth on this side which meseemth is not only decayed, but altogether rotten, and assuredly, and thou keep it much longer in thy mouth, it will mar thee those which be on either side; wherefore I counsel thee have it drawn, ere the thing go farther.' 'Since it seemeth good to thee,' answered he, 'I will well; let a surgeon be sent for without more delay, who shall draw it for me.' 'God forbid,' rejoined the lady, 'that a surgeon come hither for that! Methinketh it lieth on such wise that I myself, without any surgeon, can very well draw it for thee; more by token that these same surgeons are so barbarous in doing such offices that my heart would on no account suffer me to see or know thee in the hands of any one of them; for, an it irk thee overmuch, I will at least loose thee incontinent, which a surgeon would not do.' Accordingly, she let fetch the proper instruments and sent every one forth of the chamber, except only Lusca; after which, locking herself in, she made Nicostratus lie down on a table and thrusting the pincers into his mouth, what while the maid held him fast, she pulled out one of his teeth by main force, albeit he roared out lustily for the pain. Then, keeping to herself that which she had drawn, she brought out a frightfully decayed tooth she had ready in her hand and showed it to her husband, half dead as he was for pain, saying, 'See what thou hast had in thy mouth all this while.' Nicostratus believed what she said and now that the tooth was out, for all he had suffered the most grievous pain and made sore complaint thereof, him seemed he was cured; and presently, having comforted himself with one thing and another and the pain being abated, he went forth of the chamber; whereupon his wife took the tooth and straightway despatched it to her gallant, who, being now certified of her love, professed himself ready to do her every pleasure. The lady, albeit every hour seemed to her a thousand till she should be with him, desiring to give him farther assurance and wishful to perform that which she had promised him, made a show one day of being ailing and being visited after dinner by Nicostratus, with no one in his company but Pyrrhus, she prayed them, by way of allaying her unease, to help her go into the garden. Accordingly, Nicostratus taking her on one side and Pyrrhus on the other, they carried her into the garden and set her down on a grassplot, at the foot of a fine pear-tree; where, after they had sat awhile, the lady, who had already given her gallant to know what he had to do, said, 'Pyrrhus, I have a great desire to eat of yonder pears; do thou climb up and throw us down some of them.' Pyrrhus straightway climbed up into the tree and fell to throwing down of the pears, which as he did, he began to say, 'How now, my lord! What is this you do? And you, madam, are you not ashamed to suffer it in my presence? Think you I am blind? But now you were sore disordered; how cometh it you have so quickly recovered that you do such things? An you have a mind unto this, you have store of goodly chambers; why go you not do it in one of these? It were more seemly than in my presence.' The lady turned to her husband and said, 'What saith Pyrrhus? Doth he rave?' 'No, madam,' answered the young man, 'I rave not. Think you I cannot see?' As for Nicostratus, he marvelled sore and said, 'Verily, Pyrrhus, methinketh thou dreamest.' 'My lord,' replied Pyrrhus, 'I dream not a jot, neither do you dream; nay, you bestir yourselves on such wise that were this tree to do likewise, there would not be a pear left on it.' Quoth the lady, 'What may this be? Can it be that this he saith appeareth to him to be true? So God save me, and I were whole as I was aforetime, I would climb up into the tree, to see what marvels are those which this fellow saith he seeth.' Meanwhile Pyrrhus from the top of the pear-tree still said the same thing and kept up the pretence; whereupon Nicostratus bade him come down. Accordingly he came down and his master said to him, 'Now, what sayst thou thou sawest?' 'Methinketh,' answered he, 'you take me for a lackwit or a loggerhead. Since I must needs say it, I saw you a-top of your lady, and after, as I came down, I saw you arise and seat yourself where you presently are.' 'Assuredly,' said Nicostratus, 'thou dotest; for we have not stirred a jot, save as thou seest, since thou climbest up into the pear-tree.' Whereupon quoth Pyrrhus, 'What booteth it to make words of the matter? I certainly saw you; and if I did see you, it was a-top of your own.' Nicostratus waxed momently more and more astonished, insomuch that he said, 'Needs must I see if this pear-tree is enchanted and if whoso is thereon seeth marvels.' Thereupon he climbed up into the tree and no sooner was he come to the top than the lady and Pyrrhus fell to solacing themselves together; which when Nicostratus saw, he began to cry out, saying, 'Ah, vile woman that thou art, what is this thou dost? And thou, Pyrrhus, in whom I most trusted?' So saying, he proceeded to descend the tree, whilst the lovers said, 'We are sitting here'; then, seeing him come down, they reseated themselves whereas he had left them. As soon as he was down and saw his wife and Pyrrhus where he had left them, he fell a-railing at them; whereupon quoth Pyrrhus, 'Now, verily, Nicostratus, I acknowledged that, as you said before, I must have seen falsely what while I was in the pear-tree, nor do I know it otherwise than by this, that I see and know yourself to have seen falsely in the like case. And that I speak the truth nought else should be needful to certify you but that you have regard to the circumstances of the case and consider if it be possible that your lady, who is the most virtuous of women and discreeter than any other of her sex, could, an she had a mind to outrage you on such wise, bring herself to do it before your very eyes. I speak not of myself, who would rather suffer myself to be torn limb-meal than so much as think of such a thing, much more come to do it in your presence. Wherefore the fault of this misseeing must needs proceed from the pear-tree, for that all the world had not made me believe but that you were in act to have carnal knowledge of your lady here, had I not heard you say that it appeared to yourself that I did what I know most certainly I never thought, much less did.' Thereupon the lady, feigning to be mightily incensed, rose to her feet and said, 'Ill luck betide thee, dost thou hold me so little of wit that, an I had a mind to such filthy fashions as thou wouldst have us believe thou sawest, I should come to do them before thy very eyes? Thou mayst be assured of this that, if ever the fancy took me thereof, I should not come hither; marry, methinketh I should have sense enough to contrive it in one of our chambers, on such wise and after such a fashion that it would seem to me an extraordinary thing if ever thou camest to know of it.' Nicostratus, himseeming that what the lady and Pyrrhus said was true, to wit, that they would never have ventured upon such an act there before himself, gave over words and reproaches and fell to discoursing of the strangeness of the fact and the miracle of the sight, which was thus changed unto whoso climbed up into the pear-tree. But his wife, feigning herself chagrined for the ill thought he had shown of her, said, 'Verily, this pear-tree shall never again, if I can help it, do me nor any other lady the like of this shame; wherefore do thou run, Pyrrhus, and fetch a hatchet and at one stroke avenge both thyself and me by cutting it down; albeit it were better yet lay it about Nicostratus his cosard, who, without any consideration, suffered the eyes of his understanding to be so quickly blinded, whenas, however certain that which thou[355] saidst might seem to those[356] which thou hast in thy head, thou shouldst for nought in the world in the judgment of thy mind have believed or allowed that such a thing could be.' [Footnote 355: This sudden change from the third to the second person, in speaking of Nicostratus, is a characteristic example of Boccaccio's constant abuse of the figure enallage in his dialogues.] [Footnote 356: _i.e._ those eyes.] Pyrrhus very readily fetched the hatchet and cut down the tree, which when the lady saw fallen, she said to Nicostratus, 'Since I see the enemy of mine honour overthrown, my anger is past,' and graciously forgave her husband, who besought her thereof, charging him that it should never again happen to him to presume such a thing of her, who loved him better than herself. Accordingly, the wretched husband, thus befooled, returned with her and her lover to the palace, where many a time thereafterward Pyrrhus took delight and pleasance more at ease of Lydia and she of him. God grant us as much!" THE TENTH STORY [Day the Seventh] TWO SIENNESE LOVE A LADY, WHO IS GOSSIP TO ONE OF THEM; THE LATTER DIETH AND RETURNING TO HIS COMPANION, ACCORDING TO PROMISE MADE HIM, RELATETH TO HIM HOW FOLK FARE IN THE OTHER WORLD It now rested only with the king to tell and he accordingly, as soon as he saw the ladies quieted, who lamented the cutting down of the unoffending pear-tree, began, "It is a very manifest thing that every just king should be the first to observe the laws made by him, and an he do otherwise, he must be adjudged a slave deserving of punishment and not a king, into which offence and under which reproach I, who am your king, am in a manner constrained to fall. True it is that yesterday I laid down the law for to-day's discourses, purposing not this day to make use of my privilege, but, submitting myself to the same obligation as you, to discourse of that whereof you have all discoursed. However, not only hath that story been told which I had thought to tell, but so many other and far finer things have been said upon the matter that, for my part, ransack my memory as I will, I can call nothing to mind and must avouch myself unable to say aught anent such a subject that may compare with those stories which have already been told. Wherefore, it behoving me transgress against the law made by myself, I declare myself in advance ready, as one deserving of punishment, to submit to any forfeit which may be imposed on me, and so have recourse to my wonted privilege. Accordingly, dearest ladies, I say that Elisa's story of Fra Rinaldo and his gossip and eke the simplicity of the Siennese have such efficacy that they induce me, letting be the cheats put upon foolish husbands by their wily wives, to tell you a slight story of them,[357] which though it have in it no little of that which must not be believed, will natheless in part, at least, be pleasing to hear. [Footnote 357: _i.e._ the Siennese.] There were, then, in Siena two young men of the people, whereof one was called Tingoccio Mini and the other Meuccio di Tura; they abode at Porta Salaja and consorted well nigh never save one with the other. To all appearance they loved each exceedingly and resorting, as men do, to churches and preachings, they had many a time heard tell of the happiness and of the misery that are, according to their deserts, allotted in the next world to the souls of those who die; of which things desiring to have certain news and finding no way thereto, they promised one another that whichever of them died first should, an he might, return to him who abode on life and give him tidings of that which he would fain know; and this they confirmed with an oath. Having come to this accord and companying still together, as hath been said, it chanced that Tingoccio became godfather to a child which one Ambruogio Anselmini, abiding at Campo Reggi, had had of his wife, Mistress Mita by name, and from time to time visiting, together with Meuccio, his gossip who was a very fair and lovesome lady, he became, notwithstanding the gossipship, enamoured of her. Meuccio, on like wise, hearing her mightily commended of his friend and being himself much pleased with her, fell in love with her, and each hid his love from the other, but not for one same reason. Tingoccio was careful not to discover it to Meuccio, on account of the naughty deed which himseemed he did to love his gossip and which he had been ashamed that any should know. Meuccio, on the other hand, kept himself therefrom,[358] for that he had already perceived that the lady pleased Tingoccio; whereupon he said in himself, 'If I discover this to him, he will wax jealous of me and being able, as her gossip, to bespeak her at his every pleasure, he will, inasmuch as he may, bring me in ill savour with her, and so I shall never have of her aught that may please me.' [Footnote 358: _i.e._ from discovering to his friend his liking for the lady.] Things being at this pass, it befell that Tingoccio, having more leisure of discovering his every desire to the lady, contrived with acts and words so to do that he had his will of her, of which Meuccio soon became aware and albeit it sore misliked him, yet, hoping some time or other to compass his desire, he feigned ignorance thereof, so Tingoccio might not have cause or occasion to do him an ill turn or hinder him in any of his affairs. The two friends loving thus, the one more happily than the other, it befell that Tingoccio, finding the soil of his gossip's demesne soft and eath to till, so delved and laboured there that there overcame him thereof a malady, which after some days waxed so heavy upon him that, being unable to brook it, he departed this life. The third day after his death (for that belike he had not before been able) he came by night, according to the promise made, into Meuccio's chamber and called the latter, who slept fast. Meuccio awoke and said, 'Who art thou?' Whereto he answered, 'I am Tingoccio, who, according to the promise which I made thee, am come back to thee to give thee news of the other world.' Meuccio was somewhat affrighted at seeing him; nevertheless, taking heart, 'Thou art welcome, brother mine,' quoth he, and presently asked him if he were lost. 'Things are lost that are not to be found,' replied Tingoccio; 'and how should I be here, if I were lost?' 'Alack,' cried Meuccio, 'I say not so; nay, I ask thee if thou art among the damned souls in the avenging fire of hell.' Whereto quoth Tingoccio, 'As for that, no; but I am, notwithstanding, in very grievous and anguishful torment for the sins committed by me.' Meuccio then particularly enquired of him what punishments were awarded in the other world for each of the sins that folk use to commit here below, and he told him them all. After this Meuccio asked if there were aught he might do for him in this world, whereto Tingoccio replied that there was, to wit, that he should let say for him masses and orisons and do alms in his name, for that these things were mightily profitable to those who abode yonder. Meuccio said that he would well and Tingoccio offering to take leave of him, he remembered himself of the latter's amour with his gossip and raising his head, said, 'Now that I bethink me, Tingoccio, what punishment is given thee over yonder anent thy gossip, with whom thou layest, whenas thou wast here below?' 'Brother mine,' answered Tingoccio, 'whenas I came yonder, there was one who it seemed knew all my sins by heart and bade me betake myself to a certain place, where I bemoaned my offences in exceeding sore punishment and where I found many companions condemned to the same penance as myself. Being among them and remembering me of that which I had done whilere with my gossip, I looked for a much sorer punishment on account thereof than that which had presently been given me and went all shivering for fear, albeit I was in a great fire and an exceeding hot; which one who was by my side perceiving, he said to me, "What aileth thee more than all the others who are here that thou shiverest, being in the fire?" "Marry," said I, "my friend, I am sore in fear of the sentence I expect for a grievous sin I wrought aforetime." The other asked me what sin this was, and I answered, "It was that I lay with a gossip of mine, and that with such a vengeance that it cost me my life"; whereupon quoth he, making merry over my fear, "Go to, fool; have no fear. Here is no manner of account taken of gossips." Which when I heard, I was altogether reassured.' This said and the day drawing near, 'Meuccio,' quoth he, 'abide with God, for I may no longer be with thee,' and was suddenly gone. Meuccio, hearing that no account was taken of gossips in the world to come, began to make mock of his own simplicity, for that whiles he had spared several of them; wherefore, laying by his ignorance, he became wiser in that respect for the future. Which things if Fra Rinaldo had known, he had not needed to go a-syllogizing,[359] whenas he converted his good gossip to his pleasure." [Footnote 359: Or, in modern parlance, logic-chopping (_sillogizzando_).] * * * * * Zephyr was now arisen, for the sun that drew near unto the setting, when the king, having made an end of his story and there being none other left to tell, put off the crown from his own head and set it on that of Lauretta, saying, "Madam, with yourself[360] I crown you queen of our company; do you then, from this time forth, as sovereign lady, command that which you may deem shall be for the pleasure and solacement of all." This said, he reseated himself, whereupon Lauretta, become queen, let call the seneschal and bade him look that the tables be set in the pleasant valley somewhat earlier than of wont, so they might return to the palace at their leisure; after which she instructed him what he should do what while her sovranty lasted. Then, turning to the company, she said, "Dioneo willed yesterday that we should discourse to-day of the tricks that women play their husbands and but that I am loath to show myself of the tribe of snappish curs, which are fain incontinent to avenge themselves of any affront done them, I would say that to-morrow's discourse should be of the tricks that men play their wives. But, letting that be, I ordain that each bethink himself to tell OF THE TRICKS THAT ALL DAY LONG WOMEN PLAY MEN OR MEN WOMEN OR MEN ONE ANOTHER; and I doubt not but that in this[361] there will be no less of pleasant discourse than there hath been to-day." So saying, she rose to her feet and dismissed the company till supper-time. [Footnote 360: _i.e._ with that whereof you bear the name, _i.e._ laurel (_laurea_).] [Footnote 361: Or "on this subject" (_in questo_).] Accordingly, they all, ladies and men alike, arose and some began to go barefoot through the clear water, whilst others went a-pleasuring upon the greensward among the straight and goodly trees. Dioneo and Fiammetta sang together a great while of Arcite and Palemon, and on this wise, taking various and divers delights, they passed the time with the utmost satisfaction until the hour of supper; which being come, they seated themselves at table beside the lakelet and there, to the song of a thousand birds, still refreshed by a gentle breeze, that came from the little hills around, and untroubled of any fly, they supped in peace and cheer. Then, the tables being removed and the sun being yet half-vespers[362] high, after they had gone awhile round about the pleasant valley, they wended their way again, even as it pleased their queen, with slow steps towards their wonted dwelling-place, and jesting and chattering a thousand things, as well of those whereof it had been that day discoursed as of others, they came near upon nightfall to the fair palace, where having with the coolest of wines and confections done away the fatigues of the little journey, they presently fell to dancing about the fair fountain, carolling[363] now to the sound of Tindaro's bagpipe and anon to that of other instruments. But, after awhile, the queen bade Filomena sing a song, whereupon she began thus: [Footnote 362: _Quære_, "half-complines," _i.e._ half-past seven p.m. "Half-vespers" would be half-past four, which seems too early.] [Footnote 363: _Carolando_, _i.e._ dancing in a round and singing the while, the original meaning of our word "carol."] Alack, my life forlorn! Will't ever chance I may once more regain Th' estate whence sorry fortune hath me torn? Certes, I know not, such a wish of fire I carry in my thought To find me where, alas! I was whilere. O dear my treasure, thou my sole desire, That holdst my heart distraught. Tell it me, thou; for whom I know nor dare To ask it otherwhere. Ah, dear my lord, oh, cause me hope again, So I may comfort me my spright wayworn. What was the charm I cannot rightly tell That kindled in me such A flame of love that rest nor day nor night I find; for, by some strong unwonted spell, Hearing and touch And seeing each new fires in me did light, Wherein I burn outright; Nor other than thyself can soothe my pain Nor call my senses back, by love o'erborne. O tell me if and when, then, it shall be That I shall find thee e'er Whereas I kissed those eyes that did me slay. O dear my good, my soul, ah, tell it me, When thou wilt come back there, And saying "Quickly," comfort my dismay Somedele. Short be the stay Until thou come, and long mayst thou remain! I'm so love-struck, I reck not of men's scorn. If once again I chance to hold thee aye, I will not be so fond As erst I was to suffer thee to fly; Nay, fast I'll hold thee, hap of it what may, And having thee in bond, Of thy sweet mouth my lust I'll satisfy. Now of nought else will I Discourse. Quick, to thy bosom come me strain; The sheer thought bids me sing like lark at morn. This song caused all the company conclude that a new and pleasing love held Filomena in bonds, and as by the words it appeared that she had tasted more thereof than sight alone, she was envied of this by certain who were there and who held her therefor so much the happier. But, after her song was ended, the queen, remembering her that the ensuing day was Friday, thus graciously bespoke all, "You know, noble ladies and you also, young men, that to-morrow is the day consecrated to the passion of our Lord, the which, an you remember aright, what time Neifile was queen, we celebrated devoutly and therein gave pause to our delightsome discoursements, and on like wise we did with the following Saturday. Wherefore, being minded to follow the good example given us by Neifile, I hold it seemly that to-morrow and the next day we abstain, even as we did a week agone, from our pleasant story-telling, recalling to memory that which on those days befell whilere for the salvation of our souls." The queen's pious speech was pleasing unto all and a good part of the night being now past, they all, dismissed by her, betook them to repose. HERE ENDETH THE SEVENTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON _Day the Eighth_ HERE BEGINNETH THE EIGHTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER THE GOVERNANCE OF LAURETTA IS DISCOURSED OF THE TRICKS THAT ALL DAY LONG WOMEN PLAY MEN OR MEN WOMEN OR MEN ONE ANOTHER Already on the Sunday morning the rays of the rising light appeared on the summits of the higher mountains and every shadow having departed, things might manifestly be discerned, when the queen, arising with her company, went wandering first through the dewy grass and after, towards half-tierce,[364] visiting a little neighboring church, heard there divine service; then, returning home, they ate with mirth and joyance and after sang and danced awhile till the queen dismissed them, so whoso would might go rest himself. But, whenas the sun had passed the meridian, they all seated themselves, according as it pleased the queen, near the fair fountain, for the wonted story-telling, and Neifile, by her commandment, began thus: [Footnote 364: _i.e._ half-past seven a.m.] THE FIRST STORY [Day the Eighth] GULFARDO BORROWETH OF GUASPARRUOLO CERTAIN MONIES, FOR WHICH HE HATH AGREED WITH HIS WIFE THAT HE SHALL LIE WITH HER, AND ACCORDINGLY GIVETH THEM TO HER; THEN, IN HER PRESENCE, HE TELLETH GUASPARRUOLO THAT HE GAVE THEM TO HER, AND SHE CONFESSETH IT TO BE TRUE "Since God hath so ordered it that I am to give a beginning to the present day's discourses, with my story, I am content, and therefore, lovesome ladies, seeing that much hath been said of the tricks played by women upon men, it is my pleasure to relate one played by a man upon a woman, not that I mean therein to blame that which the man did or to deny that it served the woman aright, nay, rather to commend the man and blame the woman and to show that men also know how to cozen those who put faith in them, even as themselves are cozened by those in whom they believe. Indeed, to speak more precisely, that whereof I have to tell should not be called cozenage; nay, it should rather be styled a just requital; for that, albeit a woman should still be virtuous and guard her chastity as her life nor on any account suffer herself be persuaded to sully it, yet, seeing that, by reason of our frailty, this is not always possible as fully as should be, I affirm that she who consenteth to her own dishonour for a price is worthy of the fire, whereas she who yieldeth for Love's sake, knowing his exceeding great puissance, meriteth forgiveness from a judge not too severe, even as, a few days agone, Filostrato showed it to have been observed towards Madam Filippa at Prato. There was, then, aforetime at Milan a German, by name Gulfardo, in the pay of the state, a stout fellow of his person and very loyal to those in whose service he engaged himself, which is seldom the case with Germans; and for that he was a very punctual repayer of such loans as were made him, he might always find many merchants ready to lend him any quantity of money at little usance. During his sojourn in Milan, he set his heart upon a very fair lady called Madam Ambruogia, the wife of a rich merchant, by name Guasparruolo Cagastraccio, who was much his acquaintance and friend, and loving her very discreetly, so that neither her husband nor any other suspected it, he sent one day to speak with her, praying her that it would please her vouchsafe him her favours and protesting that he, on his part, was ready to do whatsoever she should command him. The lady, after many parleys, came to this conclusion, that she was ready to do that which Gulfardo wished, provided two things should ensue thereof; one, that this should never be by him discovered to any and the other, that, as she had need of two hundred gold florins for some occasion of hers, he, who was a rich man, should give them to her; after which she would still be at his service. Gulfardo, hearing this and indignant at the sordidness of her whom he had accounted a lady of worth, was like to exchange his fervent love for hatred and thinking to cheat her, sent back to her, saying that he would very willingly do this and all else in his power that might please her and that therefore she should e'en send him word when she would have him go to her, for that he would carry her the money, nor should any ever hear aught of the matter, save a comrade of his in whom he trusted greatly and who still bore him company in whatsoever he did. The lady, or rather, I should say, the vile woman, hearing this, was well pleased and sent to him, saying that Guasparruolo her husband was to go to Genoa for his occasions a few days hence and that she would presently let him know of this and send for him. Meanwhile, Gulfardo, taking his opportunity, repaired to Guasparruolo and said to him, 'I have present occasion for two hundred gold florins, the which I would have thee lend me at that same usance whereat thou art wont to lend me other monies.' The other replied that he would well and straightway counted out to him the money. A few days thereafterward Guasparruolo went to Genoa, even as the lady had said, whereupon she sent to Gulfardo to come to her and bring the two hundred gold florins. Accordingly, he took his comrade and repaired to the lady's house, where finding her expecting him, the first thing he did was to put into her hands the two hundred gold florins, in his friend's presence, saying to her, 'Madam, take these monies and give them to your husband, whenas he shall be returned.' The lady took them, never guessing why he said thus, but supposing that he did it so his comrade should not perceive that he gave them to her by way of price, and answered, 'With all my heart; but I would fain see how many they are.' Accordingly, she turned them out upon the table and finding them full two hundred, laid them up, mighty content in herself; then, returning to Gulfardo and carrying him into her chamber, she satisfied him of her person not that night only, but many others before her husband returned from Genoa. As soon as the latter came back, Gulfardo, having spied out a time when he was in company with his wife, betook himself to him, together with his comrade aforesaid, and said to him, in the lady's presence, 'Guasparruolo, I had no occasion for the monies, to wit, the two hundred gold florins, thou lentest me the other day, for that I could not compass the business for which I borrowed them. Accordingly, I brought them presently back to thy lady here and gave them to her; wherefore look thou cancel my account.' Guasparruolo, turning to his wife, asked her if she had the monies, and she, seeing the witness present, knew not how to deny, but said, 'Ay, I had them and had not yet remembered me to tell thee.' Whereupon quoth Guasparruolo, 'Gulfardo, I am satisfied; get you gone and God go with you: I will settle your account aright.' Gulfardo gone, the lady, finding herself cozened, gave her husband the dishonourable price of her baseness; and on this wise the crafty lover enjoyed his sordid mistress without cost." THE SECOND STORY [Day the Eighth] THE PARISH PRIEST OF VARLUNGO LIETH WITH MISTRESS BELCOLORE AND LEAVETH HER A CLOAK OF HIS IN PLEDGE; THEN, BORROWING A MORTAR OF HER, HE SENDETH IT BACK TO HER, DEMANDING IN RETURN THE CLOAK LEFT BY WAY OF TOKEN, WHICH THE GOOD WOMAN GRUDGINGLY GIVETH HIM BACK Men and ladies alike commended that which Gulfardo had done to the sordid Milanese lady, and the queen, turning to Pamfilo, smilingly charged him follow on; whereupon quoth he, "Fair ladies, it occurreth to me to tell you a little story against those who continually offend against us, without being open to retaliation on our part, to wit, the clergy, who have proclaimed a crusade against our wives and who, whenas they avail to get one of the latter under them, conceive themselves to have gained forgiveness of fault and pardon of penalty no otherwise than as they had brought the Soldan bound from Alexandria to Avignon.[365] Whereof the wretched laymen cannot return them the like, albeit they wreak their ire upon the priests' mothers and sisters, doxies and daughters, assailing them with no less ardour than the former do their wives. Wherefore I purpose to recount to you a village love-affair, more laughable for its conclusion than long in words, wherefrom you may yet gather, by way of fruit, that priests are not always to be believed in everything. [Footnote 365: Where the papal court then was. See p. 257, note.] You must know, then, that there was once at Varlungo,--a village very near here, as each of you ladies either knoweth or may have heard,--a worthy priest and a lusty of his person in the service of the ladies, who, albeit he knew not overwell how to read, natheless regaled his parishioners with store of good and pious saws at the elmfoot on Sundays and visited their women, whenas they went abroad anywhither, more diligently than any priest who had been there aforetime, carrying them fairings and holy water and a stray candle-end or so, whiles even to their houses. Now it chanced that, among other his she-parishioners who were most to his liking, one pleased him over all, by name Mistress Belcolore, the wife of a husbandman who styled himself Bentivegna del Mazzo, a jolly, buxom country wench, brown-favoured and tight-made, as apt at turning the mill[366] as any woman alive. Moreover, it was she who knew how to play the tabret and sing 'The water runneth to the ravine' and lead up the haye and the round, when need was, with a fine muckender in her hand and a quaint, better than any woman of her neighbourhood; by reason of which things my lord priest became so sore enamoured of her that he was like to lose his wits therefor and would prowl about all day long to get a sight of her. Whenas he espied her in church of a Sunday morning, he would say a Kyrie and a Sanctus, studying to show himself a past master in descant, that it seemed as it were an ass a-braying; whereas, when he saw her not there, he passed that part of the service over lightly enough. But yet he made shift to do on such wise that neither Bentivegna nor any of his neighbours suspected aught; and the better to gain Mistress Belcolore's goodwill, he made her presents from time to time, sending her whiles a clove of garlic, which he had the finest of all the countryside in a garden he tilled with his own hands, and otherwhiles a punnet of peascods or a bunch of chives or scallions, and whenas he saw his opportunity, he would ogle her askance and cast a friendly gibe at her; but she, putting on the prude, made a show of not observing it and passed on with a demure air; wherefore my lord priest could not come by his will of her. [Footnote 366: Or, as La Fontaine would say, "aussi bien faite pour armer un lit."] It chanced one day that as he sauntered about the quarter on the stroke of noon, he encountered Bentivegna del Mazzo, driving an ass laden with gear, and accosting him, asked whither he went. 'Faith, sir,' answered the husbandman, 'to tell you the truth, I am going to town about a business of mine and am carrying these things to Squire Bonaccorri da Ginestreto, so he may help me in I know not what whereof the police-court judge hath summoned me by his proctor for a peremptory attendance.' The priest was rejoiced to hear this and said, 'Thou dost well, my son; go now with my benison and return speedily; and shouldst thou chance to see Lapuccio or Naldino, forget not to bid them bring me those straps they wot of for my flails.' Bentivegna answered that it should be done and went his way towards Florence, whereupon the priest bethought himself that now was his time to go try his luck with Belcolore. Accordingly, he let not the grass grow under his feet, but set off forthright and stayed not till he came to her house and entering in, said, 'God send us all well! Who is within there?' Belcolore, who was gone up into the hay-loft, hearing him, said, 'Marry, sir, you are welcome; but what do you gadding it abroad in this heat?' 'So God give me good luck,' answered he, 'I came to abide with thee awhile, for that I met thy man going to town.' Belcolore came down and taking a seat, fell to picking over cabbage-seed which her husband had threshed out a while before; whereupon quoth the priest to her, 'Well, Belcolore, wilt thou still cause me die for thee on this wise?' She laughed and answered, 'What is it I do to you?' Quoth he, 'Thou dost nought to me, but thou sufferest me not do to thee that which I would fain do and which God commandeth.' 'Alack!' cried Belcolore, 'Go to, go to. Do priests do such things?' 'Ay do we,' replied he, 'as well as other men; and why not? And I tell thee more, we do far and away better work and knowest thou why? Because we grind with a full head of water. But in good sooth it shall be shrewdly to thy profit, an thou wilt but abide quiet and let me do.' 'And what might this "shrewdly to my profit" be?' asked she. 'For all you priests are stingier than the devil.' Quoth he, 'I know not; ask thou. Wilt have a pair of shoes or a head-lace or a fine stammel waistband or what thou wilt?' 'Pshaw!' cried Belcolore. 'I have enough and to spare of such things; but an you wish me so well, why do you not render me a service, and I will do what you will?' Quoth the priest, 'Say what thou wilt have of me, and I will do it willingly.' Then said she, 'Needs must I go to Florence, come Saturday, to carry back the wool I have spun and get my spinning-wheel mended; and an you will lend me five crowns, which I know you have by you, I can take my watchet gown out of pawn and my Sunday girdle[367] that I brought my husband, for you see I cannot go to church nor to any decent place, because I have them not; and after I will still do what you would have me.' 'So God give me a good year,' replied the priest, 'I have them not about me; but believe me, ere Saturday come, I will contrive that thou shalt have them, and that very willingly.' 'Ay,' said Belcolore, 'you are all like this, great promisers, and after perform nothing to any. Think you to do with me as you did with Biliuzza, who went off with the ghittern-player?[368] Cock's faith, then, you shall not, for that she is turned a common drab only for that. If you have them not about you, go for them.' 'Alack,' cried the priest, 'put me not upon going all the way home. Thou seest that I have the luck just now to find thee alone, but maybe, when I return, there will be some one or other here to hinder us; and I know not when I shall find so good an opportunity again.' Quoth she, 'It is well; an you choose to go, go; if not, go without.' [Footnote 367: Or apron.] [Footnote 368: _Se n'andò col ceteratojo_; a proverbial expression of similar meaning to our "was whistled down the wind," _i.e._ was lightly dismissed without provision, like a cast-off hawk.] The priest, seeing that she was not in the humour to do his pleasure without a _salvum me fac_, whereas he would fain have done it _sine custodiâ_, said, 'Harkye, thou believest not that I will bring thee the money; but, so thou mayst credit me, I will leave thee this my blue-cloth cloak.' Belcolore raised her eyes and said, 'Eh what! That cloak? What is it worth?' 'Worth?' answered the priest. 'I would have thee know that it is cloth of Douay, nay, Threeay, and there be some of our folk here who hold it for Fouray.[369] It is scarce a fortnight since it cost me seven crowns of hard money to Lotto the broker, and according to what Buglietto telleth me (and thou knowest he is a judge of this kind of cloth), I had it good five shillings overcheap.' 'Indeed!' quoth Belcolore. 'So God be mine aid, I had never thought it. But give it me first of all.' My lord priest, who had his arbalest ready cocked, pulled off the cloak and gave it her; and she, after she had laid it up, said, 'Come, sir, let us go into the barn, for no one ever cometh there.' And so they did. There the priest gave her the heartiest busses in the world and making her sib to God Almighty,[370] solaced himself with her a great while; after which he took leave of her and returned to the parsonage in his cassock, as it were he came from officiating at a wedding. [Footnote 369: A play of words upon the Italian equivalent of the French word Douay (_Duagio, i.e. Twoay, Treagio, Quattragio_) invented by the roguish priest to impose upon the simple goodwife.] [Footnote 370: Or in modern parlance, "making her a connection by marriage of etc.," Boccaccio feigning priests to be members of the Holy Family, by virtue of their office.] There, bethinking himself that all the candle-ends he got by way of offertory in all the year were not worth the half of five crowns, himseemed he had done ill and repenting him of having left the cloak, he fell to considering how he might have it again without cost. Being shrewd enough in a small way, he soon hit upon a device and it succeeded to his wish; for that on the morrow, it being a holiday, he sent a neighbour's lad of his to Mistress Belcolore's house, with a message praying her be pleased to lend him her stone mortar, for that Binguccio dal Poggio and Nuto Buglietti were to dine with him that morning and he had a mind to make sauce. She sent it to him and towards dinner-time, the priest, having spied out when Bentivegna and his wife were at meat together, called his clerk and said to him, 'Carry this mortar back to Belcolore and say to her, 'His reverence biddeth you gramercy and prayeth you send him back the cloak that the boy left you by way of token.' The clerk accordingly repaired to her house and there, finding her at table with Bentivegna, set down the mortar and did the priest's errand. Belcolore, hearing require the cloak again, would have answered; but her husband said, with an angry air, 'Takest thou a pledge of his reverence? I vow to Christ, I have a mind to give thee a good clout over the head! Go, give it quickly back to him, pox take thee! And in future, let him ask what he will of ours, (ay, though he should seek our ass,) look that it be not denied him.' Belcolore rose, grumbling, and pulling the cloak out of the chest, gave it to the clerk, saying, 'Tell her reverence from me, Belcolore saith, she voweth to God you shall never again pound sauce in her mortar; you have done her no such fine honour of this bout.' The clerk made off with the cloak and did her message to the priest, who said, laughing, 'Tell her, when thou seest her, that, an she will not lend me her mortar, I will not lend her my pestle; and so we shall be quits.' Bentivegna concluded that his wife had said this, because he had chidden her, and took no heed thereof; but Belcolore bore the priest a grudge and held him at arm's length till vintage-time; when, he having threatened to cause her go into the mouth of Lucifer the great devil, for very fear she made her peace with him over must and roast chestnuts and they after made merry together time and again. In lieu of the five crowns, the priest let put new parchment to her tabret and string thereto a cast of hawk's bells, and with this she was fain to be content." THE THIRD STORY [Day the Eighth] CALANDRINO, BRUNO AND BUFFALMACCO GO COASTING ALONG THE MUGNONE IN SEARCH OF THE HELIOTROPE AND CALANDRINO THINKETH TO HAVE FOUND IT. ACCORDINGLY HE RETURNETH HOME, LADEN WITH STONES, AND HIS WIFE CHIDETH HIM; WHEREUPON, FLYING OUT INTO A RAGE, HE BEATETH HER AND RECOUNTETH TO HIS COMPANIONS THAT WHICH THEY KNOW BETTER THAN HE Pamfilo having made an end of his story, at which the ladies had laughed so much that they laugh yet, the queen bade Elisa follow on, who, still laughing, began, "I know not, charming ladies, if with a little story of mine, no less true than pleasant, I shall succeed in making you laugh as much as Pamfilo hath done with his; but I will do my endeavor thereof. In our city, then, which hath ever abounded in various fashions and strange folk, there was once, no great while since, a painter called Calandrino, a simple-witted man and of strange usances. He companied most of his time with other two painters, called the one Bruno and the other Buffalmacco, both very merry men, but otherwise well-advised and shrewd, who consorted with Calandrino for that they ofttimes had great diversion of his fashions and his simplicity. There was then also in Florence a young man of a mighty pleasant humor and marvellously adroit in all he had a mind to do, astute and plausible, who was called Maso del Saggio, and who, hearing certain traits of Calandrino's simplicity, determined to amuse himself at his expense by putting off some cheat on him or causing him believe some strange thing. He chanced one day to come upon him in the church of San Giovanni and seeing him intent upon the carved work and paintings of the pyx, which is upon the altar of the said church and which had then not long been placed there, he judged the place and time opportune for carrying his intent into execution. Accordingly, acquainting a friend of his with that which he purposed to do, they both drew near unto the place where Calandrino sat alone and feigning not to see him, fell a-discoursing together of the virtues of divers stones, whereof Maso spoke as authoritatively as if he had been a great and famous lapidary. Calandrino gave ear to their talk and presently, seeing that it was no secret, he rose to his feet and joined himself to them, to the no small satisfaction of Maso, who, pursuing his discourse, was asked by Calandrino where these wonder-working stones were to be found. Maso replied that the most of them were found in Berlinzone, a city of the Basques, in a country called Bengodi,[371] where the vines are tied up with sausages and a goose is to be had for a farthing[372] and a gosling into the bargain, and that there was a mountain all of grated Parmesan cheese, whereon abode folk who did nothing but make maccaroni and ravioli[373] and cook them in capon-broth, after which they threw them down thence and whoso got most thereof had most; and that hard by ran a rivulet of vernage,[374] the best ever was drunk, without a drop of water therein. 'Marry,' cried Calandrino, 'that were a fine country; but tell me, what is done with the capons that they boil for broth?' Quoth Maso, 'The Basques eat them all.' Then said Calandrino, 'Wast thou ever there?' 'Was I ever there, quotha!' replied Maso. 'If I have been there once I have been there a thousand times.' 'And how many miles is it distant hence?' asked Calandrino; and Maso, 'How many? a million or more; you might count them all night and not know.' 'Then,' said Calandrino, 'it must be farther off than the Abruzzi?' 'Ay, indeed,' answered Maso; 'it is a trifle farther.' [Footnote 371: _i.e._ Good cheer.] [Footnote 372: A play upon the double meaning of _a denajo_, which signifies also "for money."] [Footnote 373: A kind of rissole made of eggs, sweet herbs and cheese.] [Footnote 374: _Vernaccia_, a kind of rich white wine like Malmsey.] Calandrino, like a simpleton as he was, hearing Maso tell all this with an assured air and without laughing, gave such credence thereto as can be given to whatsoever verity is most manifest and so, holding it for truth, said, 'That is overfar for my money; though, were it nearer, I tell thee aright I would go thither with thee once upon a time, if but to see the maccaroni come tumbling headlong down and take my fill thereof. But tell me, God keep thee merry, is there none of those wonder-working stones to be found in these parts?' 'Ay is there,' answered Maso; 'there be two kinds of stones of very great virtue found here; the first are the grits of Settignano and Montisci, by virtue whereof, when they are wrought into millstones, flour is made; wherefore it is said in those parts that grace cometh from God and millstones from Montisci; but there is such great plenty of these grits that they are as little prized with us as emeralds with the folk over yonder, where they have mountains of them bigger than Mount Morello, which shine in the middle of the night, I warrant thee. And thou must know that whoso should cause set fine and perfect millstones, before they are pierced, in rings and carry them to the Soldan might have for them what he would. The other is what we lapidaries call Heliotrope, a stone of exceeding great virtue, for that whoso hath it about him is not seen of any other person whereas he is not, what while he holdeth it.' Quoth Calandrino, 'These be indeed great virtues; but where is this second stone found?' To which Maso replied that it was commonly found in the Mugnone. 'What bigness is this stone,' asked Calandrino, 'and what is its colour?' Quoth Maso, 'It is of various sizes, some more and some less; but all are well nigh black of colour.' Calandrino noted all this in himself and feigning to have otherwhat to do, took leave of Maso, inwardly determined to go seek the stone in question, but bethought himself not to do it without the knowledge of Bruno and Buffalmacco, whom he most particularly affected. Accordingly he addressed himself to seek for them, so they might, without delay and before any else, set about the search, and spent all the rest of the morning seeking them. At last, when it was past none, he remembered him that they were awork in the Ladies' Convent at Faenza and leaving all his other business, he betook himself thither well nigh at a run, notwithstanding the great heat. As soon as he saw them, he called them and bespoke them thus: 'Comrades, an you will hearken to me, we may become the richest men in all Florence, for that I have learned from a man worthy of belief that in the Mugnone is to be found a stone, which whoso carrieth about him is not seen of any; wherefore meseemeth we were best go thither in quest thereof without delay, ere any forestall us. We shall certainly find it, for that I know it well, and when we have gotten it, what have we to do but put it in our poke and getting us to the moneychangers' tables, which you know stand still laden with groats and florins, take as much as we will thereof? None will see us, and so may we grow rich of a sudden, without having to smear walls all day long, snail-fashion.' Bruno and Buffalmacco, hearing this, fell a-laughing in their sleeves and eyeing each other askance, made a show of exceeding wonderment and praised Calandrino's counsel, but Bruno asked how the stone in question was called. Calandrino, who was a clod-pated fellow, had already forgotten the name, wherefore quoth he, 'What have we to do with the name, since we know the virtue of the stone? Meseemeth we were best go about the quest without more ado.' 'Well, then,' said Bruno, 'how is it fashioned?' 'It is of all fashions,' replied Calandrino; 'but all are well nigh black; wherefore meseemeth that what we have to do is to gather up all the black stones we see, till we happen upon the right. So let us lose no time, but get us gone.' Quoth Bruno, 'Wait awhile,' and turning to his comrade, said, 'Methinketh Calandrino saith well; but meseemeth this is no season for the search, for that the sun is high and shineth full upon the Mugnone, where it hath dried all the stones, so that certain of those that be there appear presently white, which of a morning, ere the sun have dried them, show black; more by token that, to-day being a working day, there be many folk, on one occasion or another abroad along the banks, who, seeing us, may guess what we are about and maybe do likewise, whereby the stone may come to their hands and we shall have lost the trot for the amble. Meseemeth (an you be of the same way of thinking) that this is a business to be undertaken of a morning, whenas the black may be the better known from the white, and of a holiday, when there will be none there to see us.' Buffalmacco commended Bruno's counsel and Calandrino fell in therewith; wherefore they agreed to go seek for the stone all three on the following Sunday morning, and Calandrino besought them over all else not to say a word of the matter to any one alive, for that it had been imparted to him in confidence, and after told them that which he had heard tell of the land of Bengodi, affirming with an oath that it was as he said. As soon as he had taken his leave, the two others agreed with each other what they should do in the matter and Calandrino impatiently awaited the Sunday morning, which being come, he arose at break of day and called his friends, with whom he sallied forth of the city by the San Gallo gate and descending into the bed of the Mugnone, began to go searching down stream for the stone. Calandrino, as the eagerest of the three, went on before, skipping nimbly hither and thither, and whenever he espied any black stone, he pounced upon it and picking it up, thrust it into his bosom. His comrades followed after him picking up now one stone and now another; but Calandrino had not gone far before he had his bosom full of stones; wherefore, gathering up the skirts of his grown, which was not cut Flanders fashion,[375] he tucked them well into his surcingle all round and made an ample lap thereof. However, it was no great while ere he had filled it, and making a lap on like wise of his mantle, soon filled this also with stones. Presently, the two others seeing that he had gotten his load and that dinner-time drew nigh, quoth Bruno to Buffalmacco, in accordance with the plan concerted between them, 'Where is Calandrino?' Buffalmacco, who saw him hard by, turned about and looking now here and now there, answered, 'I know not; but he was before us but now.' 'But now, quotha!' cried Bruno. 'I warrant you he is presently at home at dinner and hath left us to play the fool here, seeking black stones down the Mugnone.' 'Egad,' rejoined Buffalmacco 'he hath done well to make mock of us and leave us here, since we were fools enough to credit him. Marry, who but we had been simple enough to believe that a stone of such virtue was to be found in the Mugnone?' [Footnote 375: _i.e._ not strait-cut.] Calandrino, hearing this, concluded that the heliotrope had fallen into his hands and that by virtue thereof they saw him not, albeit he was present with them, and rejoiced beyond measure at such a piece of good luck, answered them not a word, but determined to return; wherefore, turning back, he set off homeward. Buffalmacco, seeing this, said to Bruno, 'What shall we do? Why do we not get us gone?' Whereto Bruno answered, 'Let us begone; but I vow to God that Calandrino shall never again serve me thus, and were I presently near him as I have been all the morning, I would give him such a clout on the shins with this stone that he should have cause to remember this trick for maybe a month to come.' To say this and to let fly at Calandrino's shins with the stone were one and the same thing; and the latter, feeling the pain, lifted up his leg and began to puff and blow, but yet held his peace and fared on. Presently Buffalmacco took one of the flints he had picked up and said to Bruno, 'Look at this fine flint; here should go for Calandrino's loins!' So saying, he let fly and dealt him a sore rap in the small of the back with the stone. Brief, on this wise, now with one word and now with another, they went pelting him up the Mugnone till they came to the San Gallo gate, where they threw down the stones they had gathered and halted awhile at the custom house. The officers, forewarned by them, feigned not to see Calandrino and let him pass, laughing heartily at the jest, whilst he, without stopping, made straight for his house, which was near the Canto alla Macina, and fortune so far favoured the cheat that none accosted him, as he came up the stream and after through the city, as, indeed, he met with few, for that well nigh every one was at dinner. Accordingly, he reached his house, thus laden, and as chance would have it, his wife, a fair and virtuous lady, by name Mistress Tessa, was at the stairhead. Seeing him come and somewhat provoked at his long tarriance, she began to rail at him, saying, 'Devil take the man! Wilt thou never think to come home betimes? All the folk have already dined whenas thou comest back to dinner.' Calandrino, hearing this and finding that he was seen, was overwhelmed with chagrin and vexation and cried out, 'Alack, wicked woman that thou art, wast thou there? Thou hast undone me; but, by God His faith, I will pay thee therefor!' Therewithal he ran up to a little saloon he had and there disburdened himself of the mass of stones he had brought home; then, running in a fury at his wife, he laid hold of her by the hair and throwing her down at his feet, cuffed and kicked her in every part as long as he could wag his arms and legs, without leaving a hair on her head or a bone in her body that was not beaten to a mash, nor did it avail her aught to cry him mercy with clasped hands. Meanwhile Bruno and Buffalmacco, after laughing awhile with the keepers of the gate, proceeded with slow step to follow Calandrino afar off and presently coming to the door of his house, heard the cruel beating he was in act to give his wife; whereupon, making a show of having but then come back, they called Calandrino, who came to the window, all asweat and red with anger and vexation, and prayed them come up to him. Accordingly, they went up, making believe to be somewhat vexed, and seeing the room full of stones and the lady, all torn and dishevelled and black and blue in the face for bruises, weeping piteously in one corner of the room, whilst Calandrino sat in another, untrussed and panting like one forspent, eyed them awhile, then said, 'What is this, Calandrino? Art thou for building, that we see all these stones here? And Mistress Tessa, what aileth her? It seemeth thou hast beaten her. What is all this ado?' Calandrino, outwearied with the weight of the stones and the fury with which he had beaten his wife, no less than with chagrin for the luck which himseemed he had lost, could not muster breath to give them aught but broken words in reply; wherefore, as he delayed to answer, Buffalmacco went on, 'Harkye, Calandrino, whatever other cause for anger thou mightest have had, thou shouldst not have fooled us as thou hast done, in that, after thou hadst carried us off to seek with thee for the wonder-working stone, thou leftest us in the Mugnone, like a couple of gulls, and madest off home, without saying so much as God be with you or devil; the which we take exceeding ill; but assuredly this shall be the last trick thou shalt ever play us.' Therewithal, Calandrino enforcing himself,[376] answered, 'Comrades, be not angered; the case standeth otherwise than as you deem. I (unlucky wretch that I am!) had found the stone in question, and you shall hear if I tell truth. When first you questioned one another of me, I was less than half a score yards distant from you; but, seeing that you made off and saw me not, I went on before you and came back hither, still keeping a little in front of you.' Then, beginning from the beginning, he recounted to them all that they had said and done, first and last, and showed them how the stones had served his back and shins; after which, 'And I may tell you,' continued he, 'that, whenas I entered in at the gate, with all these stones about me which you see here, there was nothing said to me, albeit you know how vexatious and tiresome these gatekeepers use to be in wanting to see everything; more by token that I met by the way several of my friends and gossips, who are still wont to accost me and invite me to drink; but none of them said a word to me, no, nor half a word, as those who saw me not. At last, being come home hither, this accursed devil of a woman presented herself before me, for that, as you know, women cause everything lose its virtue, wherefore I, who might else have called myself the luckiest man in Florence, am become the most unlucky. For this I have beaten her as long as I could wag my fists and I know not what hindereth me from slitting her weasand, accursed be the hour when first I saw her and when she came to me in this house.' Then, flaming out into fresh anger, he offered to rise and beat her anew. [Footnote 376: _Sforzandosi_, _i.e._ recovering his wind with an effort.] Bruno and Buffalmacco, hearing all this, made believe to marvel exceedingly and often confirmed that which Calandrino said, albeit they had the while so great a mind to laugh that they were like to burst; but, seeing him start up in a rage to beat his wife again, they rose upon him and withheld him, avouching that the lady was nowise at fault, but that he had only himself to blame for that which had happened, since he knew that women caused things to lose their virtue and had not bidden her beware of appearing before him that day, and that God had bereft him of foresight to provide against this, either for that the adventure was not to be his or because he had had it in mind to cozen his comrades, to whom he should have discovered the matter, as soon as he perceived that he had found the stone. Brief, after many words, they made peace, not without much ado, between him and the woebegone lady and went their ways, leaving him disconsolate, with the house full of stones." THE FOURTH STORY [Day the Eighth] THE RECTOR OF FIESOLE LOVETH A WIDOW LADY, BUT IS NOT LOVED BY HER AND THINKING TO LIE WITH HER, LIETH WITH A SERVING-WENCH OF HERS, WHILST THE LADY'S BROTHERS CAUSE THE BISHOP FIND HIM IN THIS CASE Elisa being come to the end of her story, which she had related to the no small pleasure of all the company, the queen turned to Emilia, and signified to her her wish that she should follow after with her story, whereupon she promptly began thus: "I have not forgotten, noble ladies, that it hath already been shown, in sundry of the foregoing stories, how much we women are exposed to the importunities of the priests and friars and clergy of every kind; but, seeing that so much cannot be said thereof but that yet more will remain to say, I purpose, to boot, to tell you a story of a rector, who, maugre all the world, would e'en have a gentlewoman wish him well,[377] whether she would or not; whereupon she, like a very discreet woman as she was, used him as he deserved. [Footnote 377: _i.e._ love him, grant him her favours. See ante, passim.] As all of you know, Fiesole, whose hill we can see hence, was once a very great and ancient city, nor, albeit it is nowadays all undone, hath it ever ceased to be, as it is yet, the seat of a bishop. Near the cathedral church there a widow lady of noble birth, by name Madam Piccarda, had an estate, where, for that she was not overwell to do, she abode the most part of the year in a house of hers that was not very big, and with her, two brothers of hers, very courteous and worthy youths. It chanced that, the lady frequenting the cathedral church and being yet very young and fair and agreeable, the rector of the church became so sore enamoured of her that he could think of nothing else, and after awhile, making bold to discover his mind to her, he prayed her accept of his love and love him as he loved her. Now he was already old in years, but very young in wit, malapert and arrogant and presumptuous in the extreme, with manners and fashions full of conceit and ill grace, and withal so froward and ill-conditioned that there was none who wished him well; and if any had scant regard for him, it was the lady in question, who not only wished him no whit of good, but hated him worse than the megrims; wherefore, like a discreet woman as she was, she answered him, 'Sir, that you love me should be mighty pleasing to me, who am bound to love you and will gladly do so; but between your love and mine nothing unseemly should ever befall. You are my spiritual father and a priest and are presently well stricken in years, all which things should make you both modest and chaste; whilst I, on the other hand, am no girl, nor do these amorous toys beseem my present condition, for that I am a widow and you well know what discretion is required in widows; wherefore I pray you hold me excused, for that I shall never love you after the fashion whereof you require me; nor do I wish to be thus loved of you.' The rector could get of her no other answer for that time, but, nowise daunted or disheartened by the first rebuff, solicited her again and again with the most overweening importunity, both by letter and message, nay, even by word of mouth, whenas he saw her come into the church. Wherefor, herseeming that this was too great and too grievous an annoy, she cast about to rid herself of him after such a fashion as he deserved, since she could no otherwise, but would do nought ere she had taken counsel with her brothers. Accordingly, she acquainted them with the rector's behaviour towards her and that which she purposed to do, and having therein full license from them, went a few days after to the church, as was her wont. As soon as the rector saw her, he came up to her and with his usual assurance, accosted her familiarly. The lady received him with a cheerful countenance and withdrawing apart with him, after he had said many words to her in his wonted style, she heaved a great sigh and said, 'Sir, I have heard that there is no fortalice so strong but that, being every day assaulted, it cometh at last to be taken, and this I can very well see to have happened to myself; for that you have so closely beset me with soft words and with one complaisance and another, that you have made me break my resolve, and I am now disposed, since I please you thus, to consent to be yours.' 'Gramercy, madam,' answered the rector, overjoyed, 'to tell you the truth, I have often wondered how you could hold out so long, considering that never did the like betide me with any woman; nay, I have said whiles, "Were women of silver, they would not be worth a farthing, for that not one of them would stand the hammer." But let that pass for the present. When and where can we be together?' Whereto quoth the lady, 'Sweet my lord, as for the when, it may be what time soever most pleaseth us, for that I have no husband to whom it behoveth me render an account of my nights; but for the where I know not how to contrive.' 'How?' cried the priest. 'Why, in your house to be sure.' 'Sir,' answered the lady, 'you know I have two young brothers, who come and go about the house with their companions day and night, and my house is not overbig; wherefore it may not be there, except one chose to abide there mute-fashion, without saying a word or making the least sound, and be in the dark, after the manner of the blind. An you be content to do this, it might be, for they meddle not with my bedchamber; but their own is so close to mine that one cannot whisper the least word, without its being heard.' 'Madam,' answered the rector, 'this shall not hinder us for a night or two, against I bethink me where we may foregather more at ease.' Quoth she, 'Sir, let that rest with you; but of one thing I pray you, that this abide secret, so no word be ever known thereof.' 'Madam,' replied he, 'have no fear for that; but, an it may be, make shift that we shall foregather this evening.' 'With all my heart,' said the lady; and appointing him how and when he should come, she took leave of him and returned home. Now she had a serving-wench, who was not overyoung, but had the foulest and worst-favoured visnomy was ever seen; for she had a nose flattened sore, a mouth all awry, thick lips and great ill-set teeth; moreover, she inclined to squint, nor was ever without sore eyes, and had a green and yellow complexion, which gave her the air of having passed the summer not at Fiesole, but at Sinigaglia.[378] Besides all this, she was hipshot and a thought crooked on the right side. Her name was Ciuta, but, for that she had such a dog's visnomy of her own, she was called of every one Ciutazza;[379] and for all she was misshapen of her person, she was not without a spice of roguishness. The lady called her and said to her, 'Harkye, Ciutazza, an thou wilt do me a service this night. I will give thee a fine new shift.' Ciutazza, hearing speak of the shift, answered, 'Madam, so you give me a shift, I will cast myself into the fire, let alone otherwhat.' 'Well, then,' said her mistress, 'I would have thee lie to-night with a man in my bed and load him with caresses, but take good care not to say a word, lest thou be heard by my brothers, who, as thou knowest, sleep in the next room; and after I will give thee the shift.' Quoth Ciutazza, 'With all my heart. I will lie with half a dozen men, if need be, let alone one.' Accordingly, at nightfall, my lord the rector made his appearance, according to agreement, whilst the two young men, by the lady's appointment, were in their bedchamber and took good care to make themselves heard; wherefore he entered the lady's chamber in silence and darkness and betook himself, as she had bidden him, straight to the bed, whither on her part came Ciutazza, who had been well lessoned by the lady of that which she had to do. My lord rector, thinking he had his mistress beside him, caught Ciutazza in his arms and fell to kissing her, without saying a word, and she him; whereupon he proceeded to solace himself with her, taking, as he thought, possession of the long-desired good. [Footnote 378: _i.e._ in the malaria district.] [Footnote 379: _i.e._ great ugly Ciuta.] The lady, having done this, charged her brothers carry the rest of the plot into execution, wherefore, stealing softly out of the chamber, they made for the great square and fortune was more favorable to them than they themselves asked in that which they had a mind to do, inasmuch as, the heat being great, the bishop had enquired for the two young gentlemen, so he might go a-pleasuring to their house and drink with them. But, seeing them coming, he acquainted them with his wish and returned with them to their house, where, entering a cool little courtyard of theirs, in which were many flambeaux alight, he drank with great pleasure of an excellent wine of theirs. When he had drunken, the young men said to him, 'My lord, since you have done us so much favour as to deign to visit this our poor house, whereto we came to invite you, we would have you be pleased to view a small matter with which we would fain show you.' The bishop answered that he would well; whereupon one of the young men, taking a lighted flambeau in his hand, made for the chamber where my lord rector lay with Ciutazza, followed by the bishop and all the rest. The rector, to arrive the quicklier at his journey's end, had hastened to take horse and had already ridden more than three miles before they came thither; wherefore, being somewhat weary, he had, notwithstanding the heat, fallen asleep with Ciutazza in his arms. Accordingly, when the young man entered the chamber, light in hand, and after him the bishop and all the others, he was shown to the prelate in this plight; whereupon he awoke and seeing the light and the folk about him, was sore abashed and hid his head for fear under the bed-clothes. The bishop gave him a sound rating and made him put out his head and see with whom he had lain; whereupon the rector, understanding the trick that had been played him of the lady, what with this and what with the disgrace himseemed he had gotten, became of a sudden the woefullest man that was aye. Then, having, by the bishop's commandment, reclad himself, he was despatched to his house under good guard, to suffer sore penance for the sin he had committed. The bishop presently enquiring how it came to pass that he had gone thither to lie with Ciutazza, the young men orderly related everything to him, which having heard, he greatly commended both the lady and her brothers for that, without choosing to imbrue their hands in the blood of a priest, they had entreated him as he deserved. As for the rector, he caused him bewail his offence forty days' space; but love and despite made him rue it for more than nine-and-forty,[380] more by token that, for a great while after, he could never go abroad but the children would point at him and say, 'See, there is he who lay with Ciutazza'; the which was so sore an annoy to him that he was like to go mad therefor. On such wise did the worthy lady rid herself of the importunity of the malapert rector and Ciutazza gained the shift and a merry night." [Footnote 380: _Quarantanove_, a proverbial expression for an indefinite number.] THE FIFTH STORY [Day the Eighth] THREE YOUNG MEN PULL THE BREECHES OFF A MARCHEGAN JUDGE IN FLORENCE, WHAT WHILE HE IS ON THE BENCH, ADMINISTERING JUSTICE Emilia having made an end of her story and the widow lady having been commended of all, the queen looked to Filostrato and said, "It is now thy turn to tell." He answered promptly that he was ready and began, "Delightsome ladies, the mention by Elisa a little before of a certain young man, to wit, Maso del Saggio, hath caused me leave a story I purposed to tell you, so I may relate to you one of him and certain companions of his, which, if (albeit it is nowise unseemly) it offer certain expressions which you think shame to use, is natheless so laughable that I will e'en tell it. As you may all have heard, there come oftentimes to our city governors from the Marches of Ancona, who are commonly mean-spirited folk and so paltry and sordid of life that their every fashion seemeth nought other than a lousy cadger's trick; and of this innate paltriness and avarice, they bring with them judges and notaries, who seem men taken from the plough-tail or the cobbler's stall rather than from the schools of law. Now, one of these being come hither for Provost, among the many judges whom he brought with him was one who styled himself Messer Niccola da San Lepidio and who had more the air of a tinker than of aught else, and he was set with other judges to hear criminal causes. As it oft happeneth that, for all the townsfolk have nought in the world to do at the courts of law, yet bytimes they go thither, it befell that Maso del Saggio went thither one morning, in quest of a friend of his, and chancing to cast his eyes whereas this said Messer Niccola sat, himseemed that here was a rare outlandish kind of wild fowl. Accordingly, he went on to examine him from head to foot, and albeit he saw him with the miniver bonnet on his head all black with smoke and grease and a paltry inkhorn at his girdle, a gown longer than his mantle and store of other things all foreign to a man of good breeding and manners, yet of all these the most notable, to his thinking, was a pair of breeches, the backside whereof, as the judge sat, with his clothes standing open in front for straitness, he perceived came halfway down his legs. Thereupon, without tarrying longer to look upon him, he left him with whom he went seeking and beginning a new quest, presently found two comrades of his, called one Ribi and the other Matteuzzo, men much of the same mad humour as himself, and said to them, 'As you tender me, come with me to the law courts, for I wish to show you the rarest scarecrow you ever saw.' Accordingly, carrying them to the court house, he showed them the aforesaid judge and his breeches, whereat they fell a-laughing, as soon as they caught sight of him afar off; then, drawing nearer to the platform whereon my lord judge sat, they saw that one might lightly pass thereunder and that, moreover, the boards under his feet were so broken that one might with great ease thrust his hand and arm between them; whereupon quoth Maso to his comrades, 'Needs must we pull him off those breeches of his altogether, for that it may very well be done.' Each of the others had already seen how;[381] wherefore, having agreed among themselves what they should say and do, they returned thither next morning, when, the court being very full of folk, Matteuzzo, without being seen of any, crept under the bench and posted himself immediately beneath the judge's feet. Meanwhile, Maso came up to my lord judge on one side and taking him by the skirt of his gown, whilst Ribi did the like on the other side, began to say, 'My lord, my lord, I pray you for God's sake, ere yonder scurvy thief on the other side of you go elsewhere, make him restore me a pair of saddle-bags whereof he hath saith indeed he did it not; but I saw him, not a month ago, in act to have them resoled.' Ribi on his side cried out with all his might, 'Believe him not, my lord; he is an arrant knave, and for that he knoweth I am come to lay a complaint against him for a pair of saddle-bags whereof he hath robbed me, he cometh now with his story of the boothose, which I have had in my house this many a day. An you believe me not, I can bring you to witness my next-door neighbor Trecca and Grassa the tripewoman and one who goeth gathering the sweepings from Santa Masia at Verjaza, who saw him when he came back from the country. [Footnote 381: _i.e._ how they might do this.] Maso on the other hand suffered not Ribi to speak, but bawled his loudest, whereupon the other but shouted the more. The judge stood up and leaned towards them, so he might the better apprehend what they had to say, wherefore Matteuzzo, watching his opportunity, thrust his hand between the crack of the boards and laying hold of Messer Niccola's galligaskins by the breech, tugged at them amain. The breeches came down incontinent, for that the judge was lean and lank of the crupper; whereupon, feeling this and knowing not what it might be, he would have sat down again and pulled his skirts forward to cover himself; but Maso on the one side and Ribi on the other still held him fast and cried out, 'My lord, you do ill not to do me justice and to seek to avoid hearing me and get you gone otherwhere; there be no writs granted in this city for such small matters as this.' So saying, they held him fast by the clothes on such wise that all who were in the court perceived that his breeches had been pulled down. However, Matteuzzo, after he had held them awhile, let them go and coming forth from under the platform, made off out of the court and went his way without being seen; whereupon quoth Ribi, himseeming he had done enough, 'I vow to God I will appeal to the syndicate!' Whilst Maso, on his part, let go the mantle and said, 'Nay, I will e'en come hither again and again until such time as I find you not hindered as you seem to be this morning.' So saying, they both made off as quickliest they might, each on his own side, whilst my lord judge pulled up his breeches in every one's presence, as if he were arisen from sleep; then, perceiving how the case stood, he enquired whither they were gone who were at difference anent the boothose and the saddle-bags; but they were not to be found, whereupon he began to swear by Cock's bowels that need must he know and learn if it were the wont at Florence to pull down the judges' breeches, whenas they sat on the judicial bench. The Provost, on his part, hearing of this, made a great stir; but, his friends having shown him that this had only been done to give him notice that the Florentines right well understood how, whereas he should have brought judges, he had brought them sorry patches, to have them better cheap, he thought it best to hold his peace, and so the thing went no farther for the nonce." THE SIXTH STORY [Day the Eighth] BRUNO AND BUFFALMACCO, HAVING STOLEN A PIG FROM CALANDRINO, MAKE HIM TRY THE ORDEAL WITH GINGER BOLUSES AND SACK AND GIVE HIM (INSTEAD OF THE GINGER) TWO DOG-BALLS COMPOUNDED WITH ALOES, WHEREBY IT APPEARETH THAT HE HIMSELF HATH HAD THE PIG AND THEY MAKE HIM PAY BLACKMAIL, AN HE WOULD NOT HAVE THEM TELL HIS WIFE No sooner had Filostrato despatched his story, which had given rise to many a laugh, than the queen bade Filomena follow on, whereupon she began: "Gracious ladies, even as Filostrato was led by the mention of Maso to tell the story which you have just heard from him, so neither more nor less am I moved by that of Calandrino and his friends to tell you another of them, which methinketh will please you. Who Calandrino, Bruno and Buffalmacco were I need not explain to you, for that you have already heard it well enough; wherefore, to proceed with my story, I must tell you that Calandrino owned a little farm at no great distance from Florence, that he had had to his wife's dowry. From this farm, amongst other things that he got thence, he had every year a pig, and it was his wont still to betake himself thither, he and his wife, and kill the pig and have it salted on the spot. It chanced one year that, his wife being somewhat ailing, he went himself to kill the pig, which Bruno and Buffalmacco hearing and knowing that his wife was not gone to the farm with him, they repaired to a priest, very great friend of theirs and a neighbor of Calandrino, to sojourn some days with him. Now Calandrino had that very morning killed the pig and seeing them with the priest, called to them saying, 'You are welcome. I would fain have you see what a good husband[382] I am.' Then carrying them into the house, he showed them the pig, which they seeing to be a very fine one and understanding from Calandrino that he meant to salt it down for his family, 'Good lack,' quoth Bruno to him, 'what a ninny thou art! Sell it and let us make merry with the price, and tell thy wife that it hath been stolen from thee.' 'Nay, answered Calandrino, 'she would never believe it and would drive me out of the house. Spare your pains, for I will never do it.' And many were the words, but they availed nothing. [Footnote 382: _i.e._ in the old sense of "manager" (_massajo_).] Calandrino invited them to supper, but with so ill a grace that they refused to sup there and took their leave of him; whereupon quoth Bruno and Buffalmacco, 'What sayest thou to stealing yonder pig from him to-night?' 'Marry,' replied the other, 'how can we do it?' Quoth Bruno, 'I can see how well enough, an he remove it not from where it was but now.' 'Then,' rejoined his companion, 'let us do it. Why should we not? And after we will make merry over it with the parson here.' The priest answered that he would well, and Bruno said, 'Here must some little art be used. Thou knowest, Buffalmacco, how niggardly Calandrino is and how gladly he drinketh when others pay; let us go and carry him to the tavern, where the priest shall make believe to pay the whole scot in our honor nor suffer him to pay aught. Calandrino will soon grow fuddled and then we can manage it lightly enough, for that he is alone in the house.' As he said, so they did and Calandrino seeing that the priest suffered none to pay, gave himself up to drinking and took in a good load, albeit it needed no great matter to make him drunk. It was pretty late at night when they left the tavern and Calandrino, without troubling himself about supper, went straight home, where, thinking to have shut the door, he left it open and betook himself to bed. Buffalmacco and Bruno went off to sup with the priest and after supper repaired quietly to Calandrino's house, carrying with them certain implements wherewithal to break in whereas Bruno had appointed it; but, finding the door open, they entered and unhooking the pig, carried it off to the priest's house, where they laid it up and betook themselves to sleep. On the morrow, Calandrino, having slept off the fumes of the wine, arose in the morning and going down, missed his pig and saw the door open; whereupon he questioned this one and that if they knew who had taken it and getting no news of it, began to make a great outcry, saying, 'Woe is me, miserable wretch that I am!' for that the pig had been stolen from him. As soon as Bruno and Buffalmacco were risen, they repaired to Calandrino's house, to hear what he would say anent the pig, and he no sooner saw them than he called out to them, well nigh weeping, and said, 'Woe's me, comrades mine; my pig hath been stolen from me!' Whereupon Bruno came up to him and said softly, 'It is a marvel that thou hast been wise for once.' 'Alack,' replied Calandrino, 'indeed I say sooth.' 'That's the thing to say,' quoth Bruno. 'Make a great outcry, so it may well appear that it is e'en as thou sayst.' Therewithal Calandrino bawled out yet loudlier, saying, 'Cock's body, I tell thee it hath been stolen from me in good earnest!' 'Good, good,' replied Bruno; 'that's the way to speak; cry out lustily, make thyself well heard, so it may seem true.' Quoth Calandrino, 'Thou wouldst make me give my soul to the Fiend! I tell thee and thou believest me not. May I be strung up by the neck an it have not been stolen from me!' 'Good lack!' cried Bruno. 'How can that be? I saw it here but yesterday. Thinkest thou to make me believe that it hath flown away?' Quoth Calandrino, 'It is as I tell thee.' 'Good lack,' repeated Bruno, 'can it be?' 'Certes,' replied Calandrino, 'it is so, more by token that I am undone and know not how I shall return home. My wife will never believe me; or even if she do, I shall have no peace with her this year to come.' Quoth Bruno, 'So God save me, this is ill done, if it be true; but thou knowest, Calandrino, I lessoned thee yesterday to say thus and I would not have thee at once cozen thy wife and us.' Therewithal Calandrino fell to crying out and saying, 'Alack, why will you drive me to desperation and make me blaspheme God and the Saints? I tell you the pig was stolen from me yesternight.' Then said Buffalmacco, 'If it be so indeed, we must cast about for a means of having it again, an we may contrive it.' 'But what means,' asked Calandrino, 'can we find?' Quoth Buffalmacco, 'We may be sure that there hath come none from the Indies to rob thee of thy pig; the thief must have been some one of thy neighbors. An thou canst make shift to assemble them, I know how to work the ordeal by bread and cheese and we will presently see for certain who hath had it.' 'Ay,' put in Bruno, 'thou wouldst make a fine thing of bread and cheese with such gentry as we have about here, for one of them I am certain hath had the pig, and he would smoke the trap and would not come.' 'How, then, shall we do?' asked Buffalmacco, and Bruno said, 'We must e'en do it with ginger boluses and good vernage[383] and invite them to drink. They will suspect nothing and come, and the ginger boluses can be blessed even as the bread and cheese.' Quoth Buffalmacco, 'Indeed, thou sayst sooth. What sayst thou, Calandrino? Shall's do 't?' 'Nay,' replied the gull, 'I pray you thereof for the love of God; for, did I but know who hath had it, I should hold myself half consoled.' 'Marry, then,' said Bruno, 'I am ready to go to Florence, to oblige thee, for the things aforesaid, so thou wilt give me the money.' Now Calandrino had maybe forty shillings, which he gave him, and Bruno accordingly repaired to Florence to a friend of his, a druggist, of whom he bought a pound of fine ginger boluses and caused compound a couple of dogballs with fresh confect of hepatic aloes; after which he let cover these latter with sugar, like the others, and set thereon a privy mark by which he might very well know them, so he should not mistake them nor change them. Then, buying a flask of good vernage, he returned to Calandrino in the country and said to him, 'Do thou to-morrow morning invite those whom thou suspectest to drink with thee; it is a holiday and all will willingly come. Meanwhile, Buffalmacco and I will to-night make the conjuration over the pills and bring them to thee to-morrow morning at home; and for the love of thee I will administer them myself and do and say that which is to be said and done.' [Footnote 383: _i.e._ white wine, see p. 372, note.] Calandrino did as he said and assembled on the following morning a goodly company of such young Florentines as were presently about the village and of husbandmen; whereupon Bruno and Buffalmacco came with a box of pills and the flask of wine and made the folk stand in a ring. Then said Bruno, 'Gentlemen, needs must I tell you the reason wherefore you are here, so that, if aught betide that please you not, you may have no cause to complain of me. Calandrino here was robbed yesternight of a fine pig, nor can he find who hath had it; and for that none other than some one of us who are here can have stolen it from him, he proffereth each of you, that he may discover who hath had it, one of these pills to eat and a draught of wine. Now you must know that he who hath had the pig will not be able to swallow the pill; nay, it will seem to him more bitter than poison and he will spit it out; wherefore, rather than that shame be done him in the presence of so many, he were better tell it to the parson by way of confession and I will proceed no farther with this matter.' All who were there declared that they would willingly eat of the pills, whereupon Bruno ranged them in order and set Calandrino among them; then, beginning at one end of the line, he proceeded to give each his bolus, and whenas he came over against Calandrino, he took one of the dogballs and put it into his hand. Calandrino clapped it incontinent into his mouth and began to chew it; but no sooner did his tongue taste the aloes, than he spat it out again, being unable to brook the bitterness. Meanwhile, each was looking other in the face, to see who should spit out his bolus, and whilst Bruno, not having made an end of serving them out, went on to do so, feigning to pay no heed to Calandrino's doing, he heard say behind him, 'How now, Calandrino? What meaneth this?' Whereupon he turned suddenly round and seeing that Calandrino had spat out his bolus, said, 'Stay, maybe somewhat else hath caused him spit it out. Take another of them.' Then, taking the other dogball, he thrust it into Calandrino's mouth and went on to finish giving out the rest. If the first ball seemed bitter to Calandrino, the second was bitterer yet; but, being ashamed to spit it out, he kept it awhile in his mouth, chewing it and shedding tears that seemed hazel-nuts so big they were, till at last, unable to hold out longer, he cast it forth, like as he had the first. Meanwhile Buffalmacco and Bruno gave the company to drink, and all, seeing this, declared that Calandrino had certainly stolen the pig from himself; nay, there were those there who rated him roundly. After they were all gone, and the two rogues left alone with Calandrino, Buffalmacco said to him, 'I still had it for certain that it was thou tookst the pig thyself and wouldst fain make us believe that it had been stolen from thee, to escape giving us one poor while to drink of the monies thou hadst for it.' Calandrino, who was not yet quit of the bitter taste of the aloes, began to swear that he had not had it, and Buffalmacco said, 'But in good earnest, comrade, what gottest thou for it? Was it six florins?' Calandrino, hearing this, began to wax desperate, and Bruno said, 'Harkye, Calandrino, there was such an one in the company that ate and drank with us, who told me that thou hast a wench over yonder, whom thou keepest for thy pleasure and to whom thou givest whatsoever thou canst scrape together, and that he held it for certain that thou hadst sent her the pig. Thou hast learned of late to play pranks of this kind; thou carriedst us off t'other day down the Mugnone, picking up black stones, and whenas thou hadst gotten us aboard ship without biscuit,[384] thou madest off and wouldst after have us believe that thou hadst found the magic stone; and now on like wise thou thinkest, by dint of oaths, to make us believe that the pig, which thou hast given away or more like sold, hath been stolen from thee. But we are used to thy tricks and know them; thou shalt not avail to play us any more of them, and to be plain with thee, since we have been at pains to make the conjuration, we mean that thou shalt give us two pairs of capons; else will we tell Mistress Tessa everything.' Calandrino, seeing that he was not believed and himseeming he had had vexation enough, without having his wife's scolding into the bargain, gave them two pairs of capons, which they carried off to Florence, after they had salted the pig, leaving Calandrino to digest the loss and the flouting as best he might." [Footnote 384: _i.e._ embarked on a bootless quest.] THE SEVENTH STORY [Day the Eighth] A SCHOLAR LOVETH A WIDOW LADY, WHO, BEING ENAMOURED OF ANOTHER, CAUSETH HIM SPEND ONE WINTER'S NIGHT IN THE SNOW AWAITING HER, AND HE AFTER CONTRIVETH, BY HIS SLEIGHT, TO HAVE HER ABIDE NAKED, ALL ONE MID-JULY DAY, ON THE SUMMIT OF A TOWER, EXPOSED TO FLIES AND GADS AND SUN The ladies laughed amain at the unhappy Calandrino and would have laughed yet more, but that it irked them to see him fleeced of the capons, to boot, by those who had already robbed him of the pig. But, as soon as the end of the story was come, the queen charged Pampinea tell hers, and she promptly began thus: "It chanceth oft, dearest ladies, that craft is put to scorn by craft and it is therefore a sign of little wit to delight in making mock of others. We have, for several stories, laughed amain at tricks that have been played upon folk and whereof no vengeance is recorded to have been taken; but I purpose now to cause you have some compassion of a just retribution wreaked upon a townswoman of ours, on whose head her own cheat recoiled and was retorted well nigh unto death; and the hearing of this will not be without profit unto you, for that henceforward you will the better keep yourselves from making mock of others, and in this you will show great good sense. Not many years ago there was in Florence, a young lady, by name Elena, fair of favour and haughty of humour, of very gentle lineage and endowed with sufficient abundance of the goods of fortune, who, being widowed of her husband, chose never to marry again, for that she was enamoured of a handsome and agreeable youth of her own choice, and with the aid of a maid of hers, in whom she put great trust, being quit of every other care, she often with marvellous delight gave herself a good time with him. In these days it chanced that a young gentleman of our city, by name Rinieri, having long studied in Paris, not for the sake of after selling his knowledge by retail, as many do, but to know the nature of things and their causes, the which excellently becometh a gentleman, returned thence to Florence and there lived citizen-fashion, much honoured as well for his nobility as for his learning. But, as it chanceth often that those, who have the most experience of things profound, are the soonest snared of love, even so it befell this Rinieri; for, having one day repaired, by way of diversion, to an entertainment, there presented herself before his eyes the aforesaid Elena, clad all in black, as our widows go, and full, to his judgment, of such beauty and pleasantness as himseemed he had never beheld in any other woman; and in his heart he deemed that he might call himself blest whom God should vouchsafe to hold her naked in his arms. Then, furtively considering her once and again and knowing that great things and precious were not to be acquired without travail, he altogether determined in himself to devote all his pains and all his diligence to the pleasing her, to the end that thereby he might gain her love and so avail to have his fill of her. The young lady, (who kept not her eyes fixed upon the nether world, but, conceiting herself as much and more than as much as she was, moved them artfully hither and thither, gazing all about, and was quick to note who delighted to look upon her,) soon became aware of Rinieri and said, laughing, in herself, 'I have not come hither in vain to-day; for, an I mistake not, I have caught a woodcock by the bill.' Accordingly, she fell to ogling him from time to time with the tail of her eye and studied, inasmuch as she might, to let him see that she took note of him, thinking that the more men she allured and ensnared with her charms, so much the more of price would her beauty be, especially to him on whom she had bestowed it, together with her love. The learned scholar, laying aside philosophical speculations, turned all his thoughts to her and thinking to please her, enquired where she lived and proceeded to pass to and fro before her house, colouring his comings and goings with various pretexts, whilst the lady, idly glorying in this, for the reason already set out, made believe to take great pleasure in seeing him. Accordingly, he found means to clap up an acquaintance with her maid and discovering to her his love, prayed her make interest for him with her mistress, so he might avail to have her favour. The maid promised freely and told the lady, who hearkened with the heartiest laughter in the world and said, 'Seest thou where yonder man cometh to lose the wit he hath brought back from Paris? Marry, we will give him that which he goeth seeking. An he bespeak thee again, do thou tell him that I love him far more than he loveth me; but that it behoveth me look to mine honour, so I may hold up my head with the other ladies; whereof and he be as wise as folk say, he will hold me so much the dearer.' Alack, poor silly soul, she knew not aright, ladies mine, what it is to try conclusions with scholars. The maid went in search of Rinieri and finding him, did that which had been enjoined her of her mistress, whereat he was overjoyed and proceeded to use more urgent entreaties, writing letters and sending presents, all of which were accepted, but he got nothing but vague and general answers; and on this wise she held him in play a great while. At last, to show her lover, to whom she had discovered everything and who was whiles somewhat vexed with her for this and had conceived some jealousy of Rinieri, that he did wrong to suspect her thereof, she despatched to the scholar, now grown very pressing, her maid, who told him, on her mistress's part, that she had never yet had an opportunity to do aught that might pleasure him since he had certified her of his love, but that on the occasion of the festival of the Nativity she hoped to be able to be with him; wherefore, an it liked him, he was on the evening of the feast to come by night to her courtyard, whither she would go for him as first she might. At this the scholar was the gladdest man alive and betook himself at the appointed time to his mistress's house, where he was carried by the maid into a courtyard and being there locked in, proceeded to wait the lady's coming. The latter had that evening sent for her lover and after she had supped merrily with him, she told him that which she purposed to do that night, adding, 'And thou mayst see for thyself what and how great is the love I have borne and bear him of whom thou hast taken a jealousy.' The lover heard these words with great satisfaction and was impatient to see by the fact that which the lady gave him to understand with words. It had by chance snowed hard during the day and everything was covered with snow, wherefore the scholar had not long abidden in the courtyard before he began to feel colder than he could have wished; but, looking to recruit himself speedily, he was fain to endure it with patience. Presently, the lady said to her lover, 'Let us go look from a lattice what yonder fellow, of whom thou art waxed jealous, doth and hear what he shall answer the maid, whom I have sent to parley with him.' Accordingly, they betook themselves to a lattice and thence, seeing, without being seen, they heard the maid from another lattice bespeak the scholar and say, 'Rinieri, my lady is the woefullest woman that was aye, for that there is one of her brothers come hither to-night, who hath talked much with her and after must needs sup with her, nor is yet gone away; but methinketh he will soon be gone; wherefore she hath not been able to come to thee, but will soon come now and prayeth thee not to take the waiting in ill part.' Rinieri, believing this to be true, replied, 'Tell my lady to give herself no concern for me till such time as she can at her commodity come to me, but bid her do this as quickliest she may.' The maid turned back into the house and betook herself to bed, whilst the lady said to her gallant, 'Well, how sayst thou? Thinkest thou that, an I wished him such weal as thou fearest, I would suffer him stand a-freezing down yonder?' So saying, she betook herself to bed with her lover, who was now in part satisfied, and there they abode a great while in joyance and liesse, laughing and making mock of the wretched scholar, who fared to and fro the while in the courtyard, making shift to warm himself with exercise, nor had whereas he might seat himself or shelter from the night-damp. He cursed her brother's long stay with the lady and took everything he heard for the opening of a door to him by her, but hoped in vain. The lady, having solaced herself with her lover till near upon midnight, said to him, 'How deemest thou, my soul, of our scholar? Whether seemeth to thee the greater, his wit or the love I bear him? Will the cold which I presently cause him suffer do away from thy mind the doubts which my pleasantries aroused therein the other day?' Whereto he replied, 'Heart of my body, yes, I know right well that, like as thou art my good and my peace and my delight and all my hope, even so am I thine.' 'Then,' rejoined she, 'kiss me a thousand times, so I may see if thou say sooth.' Whereupon he clipped her fast in his arms and kissed her not a thousand, but more than an hundred thousand times. Then, after they had abidden awhile in such discourse, the lady said, 'Marry, let us arise a little and go see if the fire is anydele spent, wherein this my new lover wrote me that he burnt all day long.' Accordingly, they arose and getting them to the accustomed lattice, looked out into the courtyard, where they saw the scholar dancing a right merry jig on the snow, so fast and brisk that never had they seen the like, to the sound of the chattering of the teeth that he made for excess of cold; whereupon quoth the lady, 'How sayst thou, sweet my hope? Seemeth to thee that I know how to make folk jig it without sound of trump or bagpipe?' Whereto he answered, laughing, 'Ay dost thou, my chief delight.' Quoth the lady, 'I will that we go down to the door; thou shalt abide quiet, whilst I bespeak him, and we shall hear what he will say; belike we shall have no less diversion thereof than we had from seeing him.' Accordingly, they softly opened the chamber and stole down to the door, where, without opening it anydele, the lady called to the scholar in a low voice by a little hole that was there. Rinieri hearing himself called, praised God, taking it oversoon for granted that he was to be presently admitted, and coming up to the door, said, 'Here am I, madam; open for God's sake, for I die of cold.' 'O ay,' replied the lady, 'I know thou art a chilly one; is then the cold so exceeding great, because, forsooth, there is a little snow about? I wot the nights are much colder in Paris. I cannot open to thee yet, for that accursed brother of mine, who came to sup with me to-night, is not yet gone; but he will soon begone and I will come incontinent to open to thee. I have but now very hardly stolen away from him, that I might come to exhort thee not to wax weary of waiting.' 'Alack, madam,' cried the scholar, 'I pray you for God's sake open to me, so I may abide within under cover, for that this little while past there is come on the thickest snow in the world and it yet snoweth, and I will wait for you as long as it shall please you.' 'Woe's me, sweet my treasure,' replied the lady, 'that cannot I; for this door maketh so great a noise, whenas it is opened, that it would lightly be heard of my brother, if I should open to thee; but I will go bid him begone, so I may after come back and open to thee.' 'Then go quickly,' rejoined he; 'and I prithee let make a good fire, so I may warm me as soon as I come in, for that I am grown so cold I can scarce feel myself.' Quoth the lady, 'That should not be possible, an that be true which thou hast many a time written me, to wit, that thou burnest for the love of me. Now, I must go, wait and be of good heart.' Then, with her lover, who had heard all this with the utmost pleasure, she went back to bed, and that night they slept little, nay, they spent it well nigh all in dalliance and delight and in making mock of Rinieri. Meanwhile, the unhappy scholar (now well nigh grown a stork, so sore did his teeth chatter,) perceiving at last that he was befooled, essayed again and again to open the door and sought an he might not avail to issue thence by another way; but, finding no means thereunto, he fell a-ranging to and fro like a lion, cursing the foulness of the weather and the lady's malignity and the length of the night, together with his own credulity; wherefore, being sore despited against his mistress, the long and ardent love he had borne her was suddenly changed to fierce and bitter hatred and he revolved in himself many and various things, so he might find a means of revenge, the which he now desired far more eagerly than he had before desired to be with the lady. At last, after much long tarriance, the night drew near unto day and the dawn began to appear; whereupon the maid, who had been lessoned by the lady, coming down, opened the courtyard door and feigning to have compassion of Rinieri, said, 'Bad luck may he have who came hither yestereve! He hath kept us all night upon thorns and hath caused thee freeze; but knowest thou what? Bear it with patience, for that which could not be to-night shall be another time. Indeed, I know nought could have happened that had been so displeasing to my lady.' The despiteful scholar, like a wise man as he was, who knew that threats are but arms for the threatened, locked up in his breast that which untempered will would fain have vented and said in a low voice, without anywise showing himself vexed, 'In truth I have had the worst night I ever had; but I have well apprehended that the lady is nowise to blame for this, inasmuch as she herself of her compassion for me, came down hither to excuse herself and to hearten me; and as thou sayest, that which hath not been to-night shall be another time. Commend me to her and God be with thee.' Therewithal, well nigh stark with cold, he made his way, as best he might, back to his house, where, being drowsed to death, he cast himself upon his bed to sleep and awoke well nigh crippled of his arms and legs; wherefore, sending for sundry physicians and acquainting them with the cold he had suffered, he caused take order for his cure. The leaches, plying him with prompt and very potent remedies, hardly, after some time, availed to recover him of the shrinking of the sinews and cause them relax; and but that he was young and that the warm season came on, he had overmuch to suffer. However, being restored to health and lustihead, he kept his hate to himself and feigned himself more than ever enamoured of his widow. Now it befell, after a certain space of time, that fortune furnished him with an occasion of satisfying his desire [for vengeance], for that the youth beloved of the widow being, without any regard for the love she bore him, fallen enamoured of another lady, would have nor little nor much to say to her nor do aught to pleasure her, wherefore she pined in tears and bitterness. But her maid, who had great compassion of her, finding no way of rousing her mistress from the chagrin into which the loss of her lover had cast her and seeing the scholar pass along the street, after the wonted manner, entered into a fond conceit, to wit, that the lady's lover might be brought by some necromantic operation or other to love her as he had been wont to do and that the scholar should be a past master in this manner of thing, and told her thought to her mistress. The latter, little wise, without considering that, had the scholar been acquainted with the black art, he would have practised it for himself, lent her mind to her maid's words and bade her forthright learn from him if he would do it and give him all assurance that, in requital thereof, she would do whatsoever pleased him. The maid did her errand well and diligently, which when the scholar heard, he was overjoyed and said in himself, 'Praised be Thou, my God! The time is come when with Thine aid I may avail to make yonder wicked woman pay the penalty of the harm she did me in requital of the great love I bore her.' Then to the maid, 'Tell my lady,' quoth he, 'that she need be in no concern for this, for that, were her lover in the Indies, I would speedily cause him come to her and crave pardon of that which he hath done to displeasure her; but the means she must take to this end I purpose to impart to herself, when and where it shall most please her. So say to her and hearten her on my part.' The maid carried his answer to her mistress and it was agreed that they should foregather at Santa Lucia del Prato, whither, accordingly, the lady, and the scholar being come and speaking together alone, she, remembering her not that she had aforetime brought him well nigh to death's door, openly discovered to him her case and that which she desired and besought him to succour her. 'Madam,' answered he, 'it is true that amongst the other things I learned at Paris was necromancy, whereof for certain I know that which is extant thereof; but for that the thing is supremely displeasing unto God, I had sworn never to practise it either for myself or for others. Nevertheless, the love I bear you is of such potency that I know not how I may deny you aught that you would have me do; wherefore, though it should behove me for this alone go to the devil's stead, I am yet ready to do it, since it is your pleasure. But I must forewarn you that the thing is more uneath to do than you perchance imagine, especially whenas a woman would recall a man to loving her or a man a woman, for that this cannot be done save by the very person unto whom it pertaineth; and it behoveth that whoso doth it be of an assured mind, seeing it must be done anights and in solitary places without company; which things I know not how you are disposed to do.' The lady, more enamoured than discreet, replied, 'Love spurreth me on such wise that there is nothing I would not do to have again him who hath wrongfully forsaken me. Algates, an it please you, show me in what I must approve myself assured of mind.' 'Madam,' replied the scholar, who had a patch of ill hair to his tail,[385] 'I must make an image of pewter in his name whom you desire to get again, which whenas I shall send you, it will behove you seven times bathe yourself therewith, all naked, in a running stream, at the hour of the first sleep, what time the moon is far on the wane. Thereafter, naked as you are, you must get you up into a tree or to the top of some uninhabited house and turning to the north, with the image in your hand, seven times running say certain words which I shall give you written; which when you shall have done, there will come to you two of the fairest damsels you ever beheld, who will salute you and ask you courteously what you would have done. Do you well and throughly discover to them your desires and look it betide you not to name one for another. As soon as you have told them, they will depart and you may then come down to the place where you shall have left your clothes and re-clothe yourself and return home; and for certain, ere it be the middle of the ensuing night, your lover will come, weeping, to crave you pardon and mercy; and know that from that time forth he will never again leave you for any other.' [Footnote 385: A proverbial way of saying that he bore malice and was vindictive.] The lady, hearing all this and lending entire faith thereto, was half comforted, herseeming she already had her lover again in her arms, and said, 'Never fear; I will very well do these things, and I have therefor the finest commodity in the world; for I have, towards the upper end of the Val d'Arno, a farm, which is very near the river-bank, and it is now July, so that bathing will be pleasant; more by token that I mind me there is, not far from the stream, a little uninhabited tower, save that the shepherds climb up bytimes, by a ladder of chestnut-wood that is there, to a sollar at the top, to look for their strayed beasts: otherwise it is a very solitary out-of-the-way[386] place. Thither will I betake myself and there I hope to do that which you shall enjoin me the best in the world.' The scholar, who very well knew both the place and the tower mentioned by the lady, was rejoiced to be certified of her intent and said, 'Madam, I was never in these part and therefore know neither the farm nor the tower; but, an it be as you say, nothing in the world can be better. Wherefore, whenas it shall be time, I will send you the image and the conjuration; but I pray you instantly, whenas you shall have gotten your desire and shall know I have served you well, that you be mindful of me and remember to keep your promise to me.' She answered that she would without fail do it and taking leave of him, returned to her house; whilst the scholar, rejoiced for that himseemed his desire was like to have effect, made an image with certain talismanic characters of his own devising, and wrote a rigmarole of his fashion, by way of conjuration; the which, whenas it seemed to him time, he despatched to the lady and sent to tell her that she must that very night, without more tarriance, do that which he had enjoined her; after which he secretly betook himself, with a servant of his, to the house of one of his friends who abode very near the tower, so he might give effect to his design. [Footnote 386: Lit. out of hand (_fuor di mano_).] The lady, on her part, set out with her maid and repaired to her farm, where, as soon as the night was come, she made a show of going to bed and sent the maid away to sleep, but towards the hour of the first sleep, she issued quietly forth of the house and betook herself to the bank of the Arno hard by the tower, where, looking first well all about and seeing nor hearing any, she put off her clothes and hiding them under a bush, bathed seven times with the image; after which, naked as she was, she made for the tower, image in hand. The scholar, who had, at the coming on of the night, hidden himself with his servant among the willows and other trees near the tower and had witnessed all this, seeing her, as she passed thus naked close to him, overcome the darkness of the night with the whiteness of her body and after considering her breast and the other parts of her person and seeing them fair, bethought himself what they should become in a little while and felt some compassion of her; whilst, on the other hand, the pricks of the flesh assailed him of a sudden and caused that stand on end which erst lay prone, inciting him to issue forth of his ambush and go take her and do his will of her. Between the one and the other he was like to be overcome; but, calling to mind who he was and what the injury he had suffered and wherefore and at whose hands and he being thereby rekindled in despite and compassion and carnal appetite banished, he abode firm in his purpose and let her go. The lady, going up on to the tower and turning to the north, began to repeat the words given her by the scholar, who, coming quietly into the tower awhile after, little by little removed the ladder, which led to the sollar where she was, and after awaited that which she should do and say. Meanwhile, the lady, having seven times said her conjuration, began to look for the two damsels and so long was her waiting (more by token that she felt it cooler than she could have wished) that she saw the dawn appear; whereupon, woeful that it had not befallen as the scholar had told her, she said in herself, 'I fear me yonder man hath had a mind to give me a night such as that which I gave him; but, an that be his intent, he hath ill known to avenge himself, for that this night hath not been as long by a third as was his, forbye that the cold was of anothergates sort.' Then, so the day might not surprise her there, she proceeded to seek to go down from the tower, but found the ladder gone; whereupon her courage forsook her, as it were the world had failed beneath her feet, and she fell down aswoon upon the platform of the tower. As soon as her sense returned to her, she fell to weeping piteously and bemoaning herself, and perceiving but too well that this must have been the scholar's doing, she went on to blame herself for having affronted others and after for having overmuch trusted in him whom she had good reason to believe her enemy; and on this wise she abode a great while. Then, looking if there were no way of descending and seeing none, she fell again to her lamentation and gave herself up to bitter thought, saying in herself, 'Alas, unhappy woman! What will be said of thy brothers and kinsfolk and neighbours and generally of all the people of Florence, when it shall be known that thou has been found here naked? Thy repute, that hath hitherto been so great, will be known to have been false; and shouldst thou seek to frame lying excuses for thyself, (if indeed there are any to be found) the accursed scholar, who knoweth all thine affairs, will not suffer thee lie. Oh wretched woman, that wilt at one stroke have lost the youth so ill-fatedly beloved and thine own honour!' Therewithal she fell into such a passion of woe that she was like to cast herself down from the tower to the ground; but, the sun being now risen and she drawing near to one side of the walls of the tower, to look if any boy should pass with cattle, whom she might send for her maid, it chanced that the scholar, who had slept awhile at the foot of a bush, awaking, saw her and she him; whereupon quoth he to her, 'Good day, madam; are the damsels come yet?' The lady, seeing and hearing him, began afresh to weep sore and besought him to come within the tower, so she might speak with him. In this he was courteous enough to comply with her and she laying herself prone on the platform and showing only her head at the opening, said, weeping, 'Assuredly, Rinieri, if I gave thee an ill night, thou hast well avenged thyself of me, for that, albeit it is July, I have thought to freeze this night, naked as I am, more by token that I have so sore bewept both the trick I put upon thee and mine own folly in believing thee that it is a wonder I have any eyes left in my head. Wherefore I entreat thee, not for the love of me, whom thou hast no call to love, but for the love of thyself, who are a gentleman, that thou be content, for vengeance of the injury I did thee, with that which thou hast already done and cause fetch me my clothes and suffer me come down hence, nor seek to take from me that which thou couldst not after restore me, an thou wouldst, to wit, my honour; for, if I took from thee the being with me that night, I can render thee many nights for that one, whenassoever it liketh thee. Let this, then, suffice and let it content thee, as a man of honour, to have availed to avenge thyself and to have caused me confess it. Seek not to use thy strength against a woman; no glory is it for an eagle to have overcome a dove, wherefore, for the love of God and thine own honour, have pity on me.' The scholar, with stern mind revolving in himself the injury suffered and seeing her weep and beseech, felt at once both pleasure and annoy; pleasure in the revenge which he had desired more than aught else, and annoy he felt, for that his humanity moved him to compassion of the unhappy woman. However, humanity availing not to overcome the fierceness of his appetite [for vengeance], 'Madam Elena,' answered he, 'if my prayers (which, it is true, I knew not to bathe with tears nor to make honeyed, as thou presently knowest to proffer thine,) had availed, the night when I was dying of cold in thy snow-filled courtyard, to procure me to be put of thee but a little under cover, it were a light matter to me to hearken now unto thine; but, if thou be presently so much more concerned for thine honour than in the past and it be grievous to thee to abide up there naked, address these thy prayers to him in whose arms thou didst not scruple, that night which thou thyself recallest, to abide naked, hearing me the while go about thy courtyard, chattering with my teeth and trampling the snow, and get thee succour of him; cause him fetch thee thy clothes and set thee the ladder, whereby thou mayest descend, and study to inform him with tenderness for thine honour, the which thou hast not scrupled both now and a thousand other times to imperil for him. Why dost thou not call him to come help thee? To whom pertaineth it more than unto him? Thou art his; and what should he regard or succour, an he regard not neither succour thee? Call him, silly woman that thou art, and prove if the love thou bearest him and thy wits and his together can avail to deliver thee from my folly, whereof, dallying with him the while, thou questionedst aforetime whether himseemed the greater, my folly or the love thou borest him.[387] Thou canst not now be lavish to me of that which I desire not, nor couldst thou deny it to me, an I desired it; keep thy nights for thy lover, an it chance that thou come off hence alive; be they thine and his. I had overmuch of one of them and it sufficeth me to have been once befooled. Again, using thy craft and wiliness in speech, thou studiest, by extolling me, to gain my goodwill and callest me a gentleman and a man of honour, thinking thus to cajole me into playing the magnanimous and forebearing to punish thee for thy wickedness; but thy blandishments shall not now darken me the eyes of the understanding, as did thy disloyal promises whilere. I know myself, nor did I learn so much of myself what while I sojourned at Paris as thou taughtest me in one single night of thine. But, granted I were indeed magnanimous, thou art none of those towards whom magnanimity should be shown; the issue of punishment, as likewise of vengeance, in the case of wild beasts such as thou art, behoveth to be death, whereas for human beings that should suffice whereof thou speakest. Wherefore, albeit I am no eagle, knowing thee to be no dove, but a venomous serpent, I mean to pursue thee, as an immemorial enemy, with every hate and all my might, albeit this that I do to thee can scarce properly be styled vengeance, but rather chastisement, inasmuch as vengeance should overpass the offence and this will not attain thereto; for that, an I sought to avenge myself, considering to what a pass thou broughtest my soul, thy life, should I take it from thee, would not suffice me, no, nor the lives of an hundred others such as thou, since, slaying thee, I should but slay a vile, wicked and worthless trull of a woman. And what a devil more account (setting aside this thy scantling of fair favour,[388] which a few years will mar, filling it with wrinkles,) art thou than whatsoever other sorry serving-drab? Whereas it was no fault of thine that thou failedst of causing the death of a man of honour, as thou styledst me but now, whose life may yet in one day be of more service to the world than an hundred thousand of thy like could be what while the world endureth. I will teach thee, then, by means of this annoy that thou sufferest, what it is to flout men of sense, and particularly scholars, and will give thee cause never more, an thou comest off alive, to fall into such a folly. But, an thou have so great a wish to descend, why dost thou not cast thyself down? On this wise, with God's help, thou wilt, by breaking thy neck, at once deliver thyself from the torment, wherein it seemeth to thee thou art, and make me the joyfullest man in the world. Now, I have no more to say to thee. I knew to contrive on such wise that I caused thee go up thither; do thou now contrive to come down thence, even as thou knewest to befool me.' [Footnote 387: Boccaccio here misquotes himself. See p. 389, where the lady says to her lover, "Whether seemeth to thee the greater, his wit or the love I bear him?" This is only one of the numberless instances of negligence and inconsistency which occur in the Decameron and which make it evident to the student that it must have passed into the hands of the public without the final revision and correction by the author, that _limæ labor_ without which no book is complete and which is especially necessary in the case of such a work as the present, where Boccaccio figures as the virtual creator of Italian prose.] [Footnote 388: Lit. face, aspect (_viso_).] What while the scholar spoke thus, the wretched lady wept without ceasing and the time lapsed by, the sun still rising high and higher; but, when she saw that he was silent, she said, 'Alack, cruel man, if the accursed night was so grievous to thee and if my default seem to thee so heinous a thing that neither my young beauty nor my bitter tears and humble prayers may avail to move thee to any pity, at least let this act of mine alone some little move thee and abate the rigour of thy rancour, to wit, that I but now trusted in thee and discovered to thee mine every secret, opening withal to thy desire a way whereby thou mightest avail to make me cognizant of my sin; more by token that, except I had trusted in thee, thou hadst had no means of availing to take of me that vengeance, which thou seemest to have so ardently desired. For God's sake, leave thine anger and pardon me henceforth; I am ready, so thou wilt but forgive me and bring me down hence, altogether to renounce yonder faithless youth and to have thee alone to lover and lord, albeit thou decriest my beauty, avouching it short-lived and little worth; natheless, whatever it be, compared with that of other women, yet this I know, that, if for nought else, it is to be prized for that it is the desire and pastime and delight of men's youth, and thou art not old. And albeit I am cruelly entreated of thee, I cannot believe withal that thou wouldst fain see me die so unseemly a death as were the casting myself down from this tower, as in desperation, before thine eyes, wherein, an thou was not a liar as thou are since become, I was erst so pleasing. Alack, have ruth on me for God's sake and pity's! The sun beginneth to wax hot, and like as the overmuch cold irked me this night, even so doth the heat begin to do me sore annoy.' The scholar, who held her in parley for his diversion, answered, 'Madam, thou hast not presently trusted thine honour in my hands for any love that thou borest me, but to regain him whom thou hast lost, wherefore it meriteth but greater severity, and if thou think that this way alone was apt and opportune unto the vengeance desired of me, thou thinkest foolishly; I had a thousand others; nay, whilst feigning to love thee, I had spread a thousand snares about thy feet, and it would not have been long, had this not chanced, ere thou must of necessity have fallen into one of them, nor couldst thou have fallen into any but it had caused thee greater torment and shame than this present, the which I took, not to ease thee, but to be the quicklier satisfied. And though all else should have failed me, the pen had still been left me, wherewithal I would have written such and so many things of thee and after such a fashion that, whenas thou camest (as thou wouldst have come) to know of them, thou wouldst a thousand times a day have wished thyself never born. The power of the pen is far greater than they imagine who have not proved it with experience. I swear to God (so may He gladden me to the end of this vengeance that I take of thee, even as He hath made me glad thereof in the beginning!) that I would have written such things of thee, that, being ashamed, not to say before other folk, but before thine own self, thou shouldst have put out thine own eyes, not to see thyself in the glass; wherefore let not the little rivulet twit the sea with having caused it wax. Of thy love or that thou be mine, I reck not, as I have already said, a jot; be thou e'en his, an thou may, whose thou wast erst and whom, as I once hated, so at this present I love, having regard unto that which he hath wrought towards thee of late. You women go falling enamoured of young springalds and covet their love, for that you see them somewhat fresher of colour and blacker of beard and they go erect and jaunty and dance and joust, all which things they have had who are somewhat more in years, ay, and these know that which those have yet to learn. Moreover, you hold them better cavaliers and deem that they fare more miles in a day than men of riper age. Certes, I confess that they jumble a wench's furbelows more briskly; but those more in years, being men of experience, know better where the fleas stick, and little meat and savoury is far and away rather to be chosen than much and insipid, more by token that hard trotting undoth and wearieth folk, how young soever they be, whereas easy going, though belike it bring one somewhat later to the inn, at the least carrieth him thither unfatigued. You women perceive not, animals without understanding that you are, how much ill lieth hid under this scantling of fair seeming. Young fellows are not content with one woman; nay, as many as they see, so many do they covet and of so many themseemeth they are worthy; wherefore their love cannot be stable, and of this thou mayst presently of thine own experience bear very true witness. Themseemeth they are worthy to be worshipped and caressed of their mistresses and they have no greater glory than to vaunt them of those whom they have had; the which default of theirs hath aforetime cast many a woman into the arms of the monks, who tell no tales. Albeit thou sayst that never did any know of thine amours, save thy maid and myself, thou knowest it ill and believest awry, an thou think thus. His[389] quarter talketh well nigh of nothing else, and thine likewise; but most times the last to whose ears such things come is he to whom they pertain. Young men, to boot, despoil you, whereas it is given you[390] of men of riper years. Since, then, thou hast ill chosen, be thou his to whom thou gavest thyself and leave me, of whom thou madest mock, to others, for that I have found a mistress of much more account than thou, who hath been wise enough to know me better than thou didst. And that thou mayst carry into the other world greater assurance of the desire of mine eyes than meseemeth thou gatherest from my words, do but cast thyself down forthright and thy soul, being, as I doubt not it will be, straightway received into the arms of the devil, will be able to see if mine eyes be troubled or not at seeing thee fall headlong. But, as medoubteth thou wilt not consent to do me so much pleasure, I counsel thee, if the sun begin to scorch thee, remember thee of the cold thou madest me suffer, which an thou mingle with the heat aforesaid, thou wilt without fail feel the sun attempered.' [Footnote 389: _i.e._ thy lover's.] [Footnote 390: _V'è donato_, _i.e._ young lovers look to receive gifts of their mistresses, whilst those of more mature age bestow them.] The disconsolate lady, seeing that the scholar's words tended to a cruel end, fell again to weeping and said, 'Harkye, since nothing I can say availeth to move thee to pity of me, let the love move thee, which thou bearest that lady whom thou hast found wiser than I and of whom thou sayst thou art beloved, and for the love of her pardon me and fetch me my clothes, so I may dress myself, and cause me descend hence.' Therewith the scholar began to laugh and seeing that tierce was now passed by a good hour, replied, 'Marry, I know not how to say thee nay, since thou conjurest me by such a lady; tell me where thy clothes are and I will go for them and help thee come down from up yonder.' The lady, believing this, was somewhat comforted and showed him where she had laid her clothes; whereupon he went forth of the tower and bidding his servant not depart thence, but abide near at hand and watch as most he might that none should enter there till such time as he should return, went off to his friend's house, where he dined at his ease and after, whenas himseemed time, betook himself to sleep; whilst the lady, left upon the tower, albeit some little heartened with fond hope, natheless beyond measure woebegone, sat up and creeping close to that part of the wall where there was a little shade, fell a-waiting, in company of very bitter thoughts. There she abode, now hoping and now despairing of the scholar's return with her clothes, and passing from one thought to another, she presently fell asleep, as one who was overcome of dolour and who had slept no whit the past night. The sun, which was exceeding hot, being now risen to the meridian, beat full and straight upon her tender and delicate body and upon her head, which was all uncovered, with such force that not only did it burn her flesh, wherever it touched it, but cracked and opened it all over little by little, and such was the pain of the burning that it constrained her to awake, albeit she slept fast. Feeling herself on the roast and moving somewhat, it seemed as if all her scorched skin cracked and clove asunder for the motion, as we see happen with a scorched sheepskin, if any stretch it, and to boot her head irked her so sore that it seemed it would burst, which was no wonder. And the platform of the tower was so burning hot that she could find no restingplace there either for her feet or for otherwhat; wherefore, without standing fast, she still removed now hither and now thither, weeping. Moreover, there being not a breath of wind, the flies and gads flocked thither in swarms and settling upon her cracked flesh, stung her so cruelly that each prick seemed to her a pike-stab; wherefore she stinted not to fling her hands about, still cursing herself, her life, her lover and the scholar. Being thus by the inexpressible heat of the sun, by the flies and the gads and likewise by hunger, but much more by thirst, and by a thousand irksome thoughts, to boot, tortured and stung and pierced to the quick, she started to her feet and addressed herself to look if she might see or hear any one near at hand, resolved, whatever might betide thereof, to call him and crave aid. But of this resource also had her unfriendly fortune deprived her. The husbandmen were all departed from the fields for the heat, more by token that none had come that day to work therenigh, they being all engaged in threshing out their sheaves beside their houses; wherefore she heard nought but crickets and saw the Arno, which latter sight, provoking in her desire of its waters, abated not her thirst, but rather increased it. In several places also she saw thickets and shady places and houses here and there, which were all alike to her an anguish for desire of them. What more shall we say of the ill-starred lady? The sun overhead and the heat of the platform underfoot and the stings of the flies and gads on every side had so entreated her that, whereas with her whiteness she had overcome the darkness of the foregoing night, she was presently grown red as ruddle,[391] and all bescabbed as she was with blood, had seemed to whoso saw her the foulest thing in the world. [Footnote 391: Lit. red as rabies (_rabbia_). Some commentators suppose that Boccaccio meant to write _robbia_, madder.] As she abode on this wise, without aught of hope or counsel,[392] expecting death more than otherwhat, it being now past half none, the scholar, arising from sleep and remembering him of his mistress, returned to the tower, to see what was come of her, and sent his servant, who was yet fasting, to eat. The lady, hearing him, came, all weak and anguishful as she was for the grievous annoy she had suffered, overagainst the trap-door and seating herself there, began, weeping, to say, 'Indeed, Rinieri, thou hast beyond measure avenged thyself, for, if I made thee freeze in my courtyard by night, thou hast made me roast, nay burn, on this tower by day and die of hunger and thirst to boot; wherefore I pray thee by the One only God that thou come up hither and since my heart suffereth me not give myself death with mine own hands, give it me thou, for that I desire it more than aught else, such and so great are the torments I endure. Or, an thou wilt not do me that favour, let bring me, at the least, a cup of water, so I may wet my mouth, whereunto my tears suffice not; so sore is the drouth and the burning that I have therein.' [Footnote 392: _i.e._ resource (_consiglio_). See ante, passim.] The scholar knew her weakness by her voice and eke saw, in part, her body all burnt up of the sun; wherefore and for her humble prayers there overcame him a little compassion of her; but none the less he answered, 'Wicked woman, thou shalt not die by my hands; nay, by thine own shalt thou die, an thou have a mind thereto; and thou shalt have of me as much water for the allaying of thy heat as I had fire of thee for the comforting of my cold. This much I sore regret that, whereas it behoved me heal the infirmity of my cold with the heat of stinking dung, that of thy heat will be healed with the coolth of odoriferous rose-water; and whereas I was like to lose both limbs and life, thou, flayed by this heat, wilt abide fair none otherwise than doth the snake, casting its old skin.' 'Alack, wretch that I am,' cried the lady, 'God give beauties on such wise acquired to those who wish me ill! But thou, that are more cruel than any wild beast, how couldst thou have the heart to torture me after this fashion? What more could I expect from thee or any other, if I had done all thy kinsfolk to death with the cruellest torments? Certes, meknoweth not what greater cruelty could be wreaked upon a traitor who had brought a whole city to slaughter than that whereto thou hast exposed me in causing me to be roasted of the sun and devoured of the flies and withal denying me a cup of water, whenas to murderers condemned of justice is oftentimes, as they go to their death, given to drink of wine, so but they ask it. Nay, since I see thee abide firm in thy savage cruelty and that my sufferance availeth not anywise to move thee, I will resign myself with patience to receive death, so God, whom I beseech to look with equitable eyes upon this thy dealing, may have mercy upon my soul.' So saying, she dragged herself painfully to the midward of the platform, despairing to escape alive from so fierce a heat; and not once, but a thousand times, over and above her other torments, she thought to swoon for thirst, still weeping and bemoaning her illhap. However, it being now vespers and it seeming to the scholar he had done enough, he caused his servant take up the unhappy lady's clothes and wrap them in his cloak; then, betaking himself to her house, he found her maid seated before the door, sad and disconsolate and unknowing what to do, and said to her, 'Good woman, what is come of thy mistress?' 'Sir,' replied she, 'I know not. I thought to find her this morning in the bed whither meseemed I saw her betake herself yesternight; but I can find her neither there nor otherwhere and know not what is come of her; wherefore I suffer the utmost concern. But you, sir, can you not tell me aught of her?' Quoth he, 'Would I had had thee together with her whereas I have had her, so I might have punished thee of thy default, like as I have punished her for hers! But assuredly thou shalt not escape from my hands, ere I have so paid thee for thy dealings that thou shalt never more make mock of any man, without remembering thee of me.' Then to his servant, 'Give her the clothes,' quoth he, 'and bid her go to her mistress, an she will.' The man did his bidding and gave the clothes to the maid, who, knowing them and hearing what Rinieri said, was sore afraid lest they should have slain her mistress and scarce refrained from crying out; then, the scholar being done, she set out with the clothes for the tower, weeping the while. Now it chanced that one of the lady's husbandmen had that day lost two of his swine and going in search of them, came, a little after the scholar's departure, to the tower. As he went spying about everywhere if he should see his hogs, he heard the piteous lamentation made of the miserable lady and climbing up as most he might, cried out, 'Who maketh moan there aloft?' The lady knew her husbandman's voice and calling him by name, said to him, 'For God's sake, fetch me my maid and contrive so she may come up hither to me.' Whereupon quoth the man, recognizing her, 'Alack, madam, who hath brought you up yonder? Your maid hath gone seeking you all day; but who had ever thought you could be here?' Then, taking the ladder-poles, he set them up in their place and addressed himself to bind the cross-staves thereto with withy bands.[393] Meanwhile, up came the maid, who no sooner entered the tower than, unable any longer to hold her tongue, she fell to crying out, buffeting herself the while with her hands, 'Alack, sweet my lady, where are you?' The lady, hearing her, answered as loudliest she might, 'O sister mine, I am here aloft. Weep not, but fetch me my clothes quickly.' When the maid heard her speak, she was in a manner all recomforted and with the husbandman's aid, mounting the ladder, which was now well nigh repaired, reached the sollar, where, whenas she saw her lady lying naked on the ground, all forspent and wan, more as she were a half-burnt log than a human being, she thrust her nails into her own face and fell a-weeping over her, no otherwise than as she had been dead. [Footnote 393: Boccaccio appears to have forgotten to mention that Rinieri had broken the rounds of the ladder, when he withdrew it (as stated, p. 394), apparently to place an additional obstacle in the way of the lady's escape.] The lady besought her for God's sake be silent and help her dress herself, and learning from her that none knew where she had been save those who had carried her the clothes and the husbandman there present, was somewhat comforted and prayed them for God's sake never to say aught of the matter to any one. Then, after much parley, the husbandman, taking the lady in his arms, for that she could not walk, brought her safely without the tower; but the unlucky maid, who had remained behind, descending less circumspectly, made a slip of the foot and falling from the ladder to the ground, broke her thigh, whereupon she fell a-roaring for the pain, that it seemed a lion. The husbandman, setting the lady down on a plot of grass, went to see what ailed the maid and finding her with her thigh broken, carried her also to the grass-plat and laid her beside her mistress, who, seeing this befallen in addition to her other troubles and that she had broken her thigh by whom she looked to have been succoured more than by any else, was beyond measure woebegone and fell a-weeping afresh and so piteously that not only could the husbandman not avail to comfort her, but himself fell a-weeping like wise. But presently, the sun being now low, he repaired, at the instance of the disconsolate lady, lest the night should overtake them there, to his own house, and there called his wife and two brothers of his, who returned to the tower with a plank and setting the maid thereon, carried her home, whilst he himself, having comforted the lady with a little cold water and kind words, took her up in his arms and brought her to her own chamber. His wife gave her a wine-sop to eat and after, undressing her, put her to bed; and they contrived that night to have her and her maid carried to Florence. There, the lady, who had shifts and devices great plenty, framed a story of her fashion, altogether out of conformity with that which had passed, and gave her brothers and sisters and every one else to believe that this had befallen herself and her maid by dint of diabolical bewitchments. Physicians were quickly at hand, who, not without putting her to very great anguish and vexation, recovered the lady of a sore fever, after she had once and again left her skin sticking to the sheets, and on like wise healed the maid of her broken thigh. Wherefore, forgetting her lover, from that time forth she discreetly forbore both from making mock of others and from loving, whilst the scholar, hearing that the maid had broken her thigh, held himself fully avenged and passed on, content, without saying otherwhat thereof. Thus, then, did it befall the foolish young lady of her pranks, for that she thought to fool it with a scholar as she would have done with another, unknowing that scholars,--I will not say all, but the most part of them,--know where the devil keepeth his tail. Wherefore, ladies, beware of making mock of folk, and especially of scholars." THE EIGHTH STORY [Day the Eighth] TWO MEN CONSORTING TOGETHER, ONE LIETH WITH THE WIFE OF HIS COMRADE, WHO, BECOMING AWARE THEREOF, DOTH WITH HER ON SUCH WISE THAT THE OTHER IS SHUT UP IN A CHEST, UPON WHICH HE LIETH WITH HIS WIFE, HE BEING INSIDE THE WHILE Elena's troubles had been irksome and grievous to the ladies to hear; natheless, for that they deemed them in part justly befallen her, they passed them over with more moderate compassion, albeit they held the scholar to have been terribly stern and obdurate, nay, cruel. But, Pampinea being now come to the end of her story, the queen charged Fiammetta follow on, who, nothing loath to obey, said, "Charming ladies, for that meseemeth the severity of the offended scholar hath somedele distressed you, I deem it well to solace your ruffled spirits with somewhat more diverting; wherefore I purpose to tell you a little story of a young man who received an injury in a milder spirit and avenged it after a more moderate fashion, by which you may understand that, whenas a man goeth about to avenge an injury suffered, it should suffice him to give as good as he hath gotten, without seeking to do hurt overpassing the behoof of the feud. You must know, then, that there were once in Siena, as I have understood aforetime, two young men in easy enough case and of good city families, whereof one was named Spinelloccio Tanena and the other Zeppa di Mino, and they were next-door neighbours in Camollia.[394] These two young men still companied together and loved each other, to all appearance, as they had been brothers, or better; and each of them had a very fair wife. It chanced that Spinelloccio, by dint of much frequenting Zeppa's house, both when the latter was at home and when he was abroad, grew so private with his wife that he ended by lying with her, and on this wise they abode a pretty while, before any became aware thereof. However, at last, one day, Zeppa being at home, unknown to his wife, Spinelloccio came to call him and the lady said that he was abroad; whereupon the other came straightway up into the house and finding her in the saloon and seeing none else there, he took her in his arms and fell to kissing her and she him. Zeppa, who saw this, made no sign, but abode hidden to see in what the game should result and presently saw his wife and Spinelloccio betake themselves, thus embraced, to a chamber and there lock themselves in; whereat he was sore angered. But, knowing that his injury would not become less for making an outcry nor for otherwhat, nay, that shame would but wax therefor, he set himself to think what revenge he should take thereof, so his soul might abide content, without the thing being known all about, and himseeming, after long consideration, he had found the means, he abode hidden so long as Spinelloccio remained with his wife. [Footnote 394: _Quære_, the street of that name?] As soon as the other was gone away, he entered the chamber and there finding the lady, who had not yet made an end of adjusting her head-veils, which Spinelloccio had plucked down in dallying with her, said to her, 'Wife, what dost thou?' Quoth she, 'Seest thou not?' And Zeppa answered, 'Ay, indeed, I have seen more than I could wish.' So saying, he taxed her with that which had passed and she, in sore affright, confessed to him, after much parley, that which she could not aptly deny of her familiarity with Spinelloccio. Then she began to crave him pardon, weeping, and Zeppa said to her, 'Harkye, wife, thou hast done ill, and if thou wilt have me pardon it to thee, bethink thee punctually to do that which I shall enjoin thee, which is this; I will have thee bid Spinelloccio find an occasion to part company with me to-morrow morning, towards tierce, and come hither to thee. When he is here I will come back and so soon as thou hearest me, do thou make him enter this chest here and lock him therein. Then, when thou shalt have done this, I will tell thee what else thou shalt do; and have thou no fear of doing this, for that I promise thee I will do him no manner of hurt.' The lady, to satisfy him, promised to do his bidding, and so she did. The morrow come and Zeppa and Spinelloccio being together towards tierce, the latter, who had promised the lady to be with her at that hour, said to the former, 'I am to dine this morning with a friend, whom I would not keep waiting for me; wherefore God be with thee.' Quoth Zeppa, 'It is not dinner-time yet awhile'; but Spinelloccio answered, 'No matter; I am to speak with him also of an affair of mine, so that needs must I be there betimes.' Accordingly, taking leave of him, he fetched a compass and making for Zeppa's house, entered a chamber with the latter's wife. He had not been there long ere Zeppa returned, whom when the lady heard, feigning to be mightily affrighted, she made him take refuge in the chest, as her husband had bidden her, and locking him therein, went forth of the chamber. Zeppa, coming up, said, 'Wife, is it dinner-time?' 'Ay,' answered she, 'forthright.' Quoth he, 'Spinelloccio is gone to dine this morning with a friend of his and hath left his wife alone; get thee to the window and call her and bid her come dine with us.' The lady, fearing for herself and grown therefor mighty obedient, did as he bade her and Spinelloccio's wife, being much pressed by her and hearing that her own husband was to dine abroad, came hither. Zeppa made much of her and whispering his wife begone into the kitchen, took her familiarly by the hand and carried her into the chamber, wherein no sooner were they come than, turning back, he locked the door within. When the lady saw him do this, she said, 'Alack, Zeppa, what meaneth this? Have you then brought me hither for this? Is this the love you bear Spinelloccio and the loyal companionship you practise towards him?' Whereupon quoth Zeppa, drawing near to the chest wherein was her husband locked up and holding her fast, 'Madam, ere thou complainest, hearken to that which I have to say to thee. I have loved and love Spinelloccio as a brother, and yesterday, albeit he knoweth it not, I found that the trust I had in him was come to this, that he lieth with my wife even as with thee. Now, for that I love him, I purpose not to take vengeance of him, save on such wise as the offence hath been; he hath had my wife and I mean to have thee. An thou wilt not, needs must I take him here and for that I mean not to let this affront go unpunished, I will play him such a turn that neither thou nor he shall ever again be glad.' The lady, hearing this and believing what Zeppa said, after many affirmations made her of him, replied, 'Zeppa mine, since this vengeance is to fall on me, I am content, so but thou wilt contrive, notwithstanding what we are to do, that I may abide at peace with thy wife, even as I intend to abide with her, notwithstanding this that she hath done to me.' 'Assuredly,' rejoined Zeppa, 'I will do it; and to boot, I will give thee a precious and fine jewel as none other thou hast.' So saying, he embraced her; then, laying her flat on the chest, there to his heart's content, he solaced himself with her, and she with him. Spinelloccio, hearing from within the chest all that Zeppa said his wife's answer and feeling the morrisdance[395] that was toward over his head, was at first so sore despited that himseemed he should die; and but that he stood in fear of Zeppa, he had rated his wife finely, shut up as he was. However, bethinking himself that the offence had begun with him and that Zeppa was in his right to do as he did and had indeed borne himself towards him humanely and like a comrade, he presently resolved in himself to be, an he would, more than ever his friend. Zeppa, having been with the lady so long as it pleased him, dismounted from the chest, and she asking for the promised jewel, he opened the chamber-door and called his wife, who said nought else than 'Madam, you have given me a loaf for my bannock'; and this she said laughing. To her quoth Zeppa, 'Open this chest.' Accordingly she opened it and therein Zeppa showed the lady her husband, saying, 'Here is the jewel I promised thee.' It were hard to say which was the more abashed of the twain, Spinelloccio, seeing Zeppa and knowing that he knew what he had done, or his wife, seeing her husband and knowing that he had both heard and felt that which she had done over his head. But Spinelloccio, coming forth of the chest, said, without more parley, 'Zeppa, we are quits; wherefore it is well, as thou saidst but now to my wife, that we be still friends as we were, and that, since there is nothing unshared between us two but our wives, we have these also in common.' Zeppa was content and they all four dined together in the utmost possible harmony; and thenceforward each of the two ladies had two husbands and each of the latter two wives, without ever having any strife or grudge anent the matter." [Footnote 395: _Danza trivigiana_, lit. Trevisan dance, O.E. the shaking of the sheets.] THE NINTH STORY [Day the Eighth] MASTER SIMONE THE PHYSICIAN, HAVING BEEN INDUCED BY BRUNO AND BUFFALMACCO TO REPAIR TO A CERTAIN PLACE BY NIGHT, THERE TO BE MADE A MEMBER OF A COMPANY THAT GOETH A-ROVING, IS CAST BY BUFFALMACCO INTO A TRENCH FULL OF ORDURE AND THERE LEFT After the ladies had chatted awhile over the community of wives practised by the two Siennese, the queen, with whom alone it rested to tell, so she would not do Dioneo an unright, began on this wise: "Right well, lovesome ladies, did Spinelloccio deserve the cheat put upon him by Zeppa; wherefore meseemeth he is not severely to be blamed (as Pampinea sought awhile ago to show), who putteth a cheat on those who go seeking it or deserve it. Now Spinelloccio deserved it, and I mean to tell you of one who went seeking it for himself. Those who tricked him, I hold not to be blameworthy, but rather commendable, and he to whom it was done was a physician, who, having set out for Bologna a sheepshead, returned to Florence all covered with miniver.[396] [Footnote 396: _i.e._ with the doctor's hood of miniver.] As we see daily, our townsmen return hither from Bologna, this a judge, that a physician and a third a notary, tricked out with robes long and large and scarlets and minivers and store of other fine paraphernalia, and make a mighty brave show, to which how far the effects conform we may still see all day long. Among the rest a certain Master Simone da Villa, richer in inherited goods than in learning, returned hither, no great while since, a doctor of medicine, according to his own account, clad all in scarlet[397] and with a great miniver hood, and took a house in the street which we call nowadays the Via del Cocomero. This said Master Simone, being thus newly returned, as hath been said, had, amongst other his notable customs, a trick of asking whosoever was with him who was no matter what man he saw pass in the street, and as if of the doings and fashions of men he should compound the medicines he gave his patients, he took note of all and laid them all up in his memory. Amongst others on whom it occurred to him more particularly to cast his eyes were two painters of whom it hath already twice to-day been discoursed, namely, Bruno and Buffalmacco, who were neighbours of his and still went in company. Himseeming they recked less of the world and lived more merrily than other folk, as was indeed the case, he questioned divers persons of their condition and hearing from all that they were poor men and painters, he took it into his head that it might not be they lived so blithely of their poverty, but concluded, for that he had heard they were shrewd fellows, that they must needs derive very great profits from some source unknown to the general; wherefore he was taken with a desire to clap up an acquaintance, an he might, with them both, or at least with one of them, and succeeded in making friends with Bruno. The latter, perceiving, after he had been with him a few times, that the physician was a very jackass, began to give himself the finest time in the world with him and to be hugely diverted with his extraordinary humours, whilst Master Simone in like manner took a marvellous delight in his company. [Footnote 397: The colour of the doctors' robes of that time.] After a while, having sundry times bidden him to dinner and thinking himself entitled in consequence to discourse familiarly with him, he discovered to him the wonderment that he felt at him and Buffalmacco, how, being poor men, they lived so merrily, and besought him to apprise him how they did. Bruno, hearing this talk from the physician and himseeing the question was one of his wonted witless impertinences, fell a-laughing in his sleeve, and bethinking himself to answer him according as his folly deserved, said, 'Doctor, there are not many whom I would tell how we do; but you I shall not scruple to tell, for that you are a friend and I know you will not repeat it to any. It is true we live, my friend and I, as merrily and as well as it appeareth to you, nay, more so, albeit neither of our craft nor of revenues we derive from any possessions might we have enough to pay for the very water we consume. Yet I would not, for all that, have you think that we go steal; nay, we go a-roving, and thence, without hurt unto any, we get us all to which we have a mind or for which we have occasion; hence the merry life you see us lead.' The physician, hearing this and believing it, without knowing what it was, marvelled exceedingly and forthright conceiving an ardent desire to know what manner of thing this going a-roving might be, besought him very urgently to tell him, affirming that he would assuredly never discover it to any. 'Alack, doctor,' cried Bruno, 'what is this you ask me? This you would know is too great a secret and a thing to undo me and drive me from the world, nay, to bring me into the mouth of the Lucifer of San Gallo,[398] should any come to know it. But so great is the love I bear your right worshipful pumpkinheadship of Legnaja[399] and the confidence I have in you that I can deny you nothing you would have; wherefore I will tell it you, on condition that you swear to me by the cross at Montesone, never, as you have promised, to tell it to any one. [Footnote 398: The commentators note here that on the church door of San Gallo was depicted an especially frightful Lucifer, with many mouths.] [Footnote 399: Legnaja is said to be famous for big pumpkins.] The physician declared that he would never repeat what he should tell him, and Bruno said, 'You must know, then, honey doctor mine, that not long since there was in this city a great master in necromancy, who was called Michael Scott, for that he was of Scotland, and who received the greatest hospitality from many gentlemen, of whom few are nowadays alive; wherefore, being minded to depart hence, he left them, at their instant prayers, two of his ablest disciples, whom he enjoined still to hold themselves in readiness to satisfy every wish of the gentlemen who had so worshipfully entertained him. These two, then, freely served the aforesaid gentlemen in certain amours of theirs and other small matters, and afterward, the city and the usages of the folk pleasing them, they determined to abide there always. Accordingly, they contracted great and strait friendship with certain of the townfolk, regarding not who they were, whether gentle or simple, rich or poor, but solely if they were men comfortable to their own usances; and to pleasure these who were thus become their friends, they founded a company of maybe five-and-twenty men, who should foregather twice at the least in the month in some place appointed of them, where being assembled, each should tell them his desire, which they would forthright accomplish unto him for that night. Buffalmacco and I, having an especial friendship and intimacy with these two, were put of them on the roll of the aforesaid company and are still thereof. And I may tell you that, what time it chanceth that we assemble together, it is a marvellous thing to see the hangings about the saloon where we eat and the tables spread on royal wise and the multitude of noble and goodly servants, as well female as male, at the pleasure of each one who is of the company, and the basons and ewers and flagons and goblets and the vessels of gold and silver, wherein we eat and drink, more by token of the many and various viands that are set before us, each in its season, according to that which each one desireth. I could never avail to set out to you what and how many are the sweet sounds of innumerable instruments and the songs full of melody that are heard there; nor might I tell you how much wax is burned at these suppers nor what and how many are the confections that are consumed there nor how costly are the wines that are drunken. But I would not have you believe, good saltless pumpkinhead mine, that we abide there in this habit and with these clothes that you see us wear every day; nay, there is none of us of so little account but would seem to you an emperor, so richly are we adorned with vestments of price and fine things. But, over all the other pleasures that be there is that of fair ladies, who, so one but will it, are incontinent brought thither from the four quarters of the world. There might you see the Sovereign Lady of the Rascal-Roughs, the Queen of the Basques, the wife of the Soldan, the Empress of the Usbeg Tartars, the Driggledraggletail of Norroway, the Moll-a-green of Flapdoodleland and the Madkate of Woolgathergreen. But why need I enumerate them to you? There be all the queens in the world, even, I may say, to the Sirreverence of Prester John, who hath his horns amiddleward his arse; see you now? There, after we have drunken and eaten confections and walked a dance or two, each lady betaketh herself to her bedchamber with him at whose instance she hath been brought thither. And you must know that these bedchambers are a very paradise to behold, so goodly they are; ay, and they are no less odoriferous than are the spice-boxes of your shop, whenas you let bray cummin-seed, and therein are beds that would seem to you goodlier than that of the Doge of Venice, and in these they betake themselves to rest. Marry, what a working of the treadles, what a hauling-to of the battens to make the cloth close, these weaveresses keep up, I will e'en leave you to imagine; but of those who fare best, to my seeming, are Buffalmacco and myself, for that he most times letteth come thither the Queen of France for himself, whilst I send for her of England, the which are two of the fairest ladies in the world, and we have known so to do that they have none other eye in their head than us.[400] Wherefore you may judge for yourself if we can and should live and go more merrily than other men, seeing we have the love of two such queens, more by token that, whenas we would have a thousand or two thousand florins of them, we get them not. This, then, we commonly style going a-roving, for that, like as the rovers take every man's good, even so do we, save that we are in this much different from them that they never restore that which they take, whereas we return it again, whenas we have used it. Now, worthy doctor mine, you have heard what it is we call going a-roving; but how strictly this requireth to be kept secret you can see for yourself, and therefore I say no more to you nor pray you thereof.' [Footnote 400: _i.e._ they think of and cherish us alone, holding us as dear as their very eyes.] The physician, whose science reached no farther belike than the curing children of the scald-head, gave as much credit to Bruno's story as had been due to the most manifest truth and was inflamed with as great desire to be received into that company as might be kindled in any for the most desirable thing in the world; wherefore he made answer to him that assuredly it was no marvel if they went merry and hardly constrained himself to defer requesting him to bring him to be there until such time as, having done him further hospitality, he might with more confidence proffer his request to him. Accordingly, reserving this unto a more favourable season, he proceeded to keep straiter usance with Bruno, having him morning and evening to eat with him and showing him an inordinate affection; and indeed so great and so constant was this their commerce that it seemed as if the physician could not nor knew how to live without the painter. The latter, finding himself in good case, so he might not appear ungrateful for the hospitality shown him, had painted Master Simone a picture of Lent in his saloon, besides an Agnus Dei at the entering in of his chamber and a chamber-pot over the street-door, so those who had occasion for his advice might know how to distinguish him from the others; and in a little gallery he had, he had depictured him the battle of the rats and the cats, which appeared to the physician a very fine thing. Moreover, he said whiles to him, whenas he had not supper with him overnight, 'I was at the society yesternight and being a trifle tired of the Queen of England, I caused fetch me the Dolladoxy of the Grand Cham of Tartary.' 'What meaneth Dolladoxy?' asked Master Simone. 'I do not understand these names.' 'Marry, doctor mine,' replied Bruno, 'I marvel not thereat, for I have right well heard that Porcograsso and Vannacena[401] say nought thereof.' Quoth the physician. 'Thou meanest Ipocrasso and Avicenna.' 'I' faith,' answered Bruno, 'I know not; I understand your names as ill as you do mine; but Dolladoxy in the Grand Cham's lingo meaneth as much as to say Empress in our tongue. Egad, you would think her a plaguy fine woman! I dare well say she would make you forget your drugs and your clysters and all your plasters.' [Footnote 401: _i.e._ Fat-hog and Get-thee-to-supper, burlesque perversions of the names Ipocrasso (Hippocrates) and Avicenna.] On this wise he bespoke him at one time and another, to enkindle him the more, till one night, what while it chanced my lord doctor held the light to Bruno, who was in act to paint the battle of the rats and the cats, the former, himseeming he had now well taken him with his hospitalities, determined to open his mind to him, and accordingly, they being alone together, he said to him, 'God knoweth, Bruno, there is no one alive for whom I would do everything as I would for thee; indeed, shouldst thou bid me go hence to Peretola, methinketh it would take little to make me go thither; wherefore I would not have thee marvel if I require thee of somewhat familiarly and with confidence. As thou knowest, it is no great while since thou bespokest me of the fashions of your merry company, wherefore so great a longing hath taken me to be one of you that never did I desire aught so much. Nor is this my desire without cause, as thou shalt see, if ever it chance that I be of your company; for I give thee leave to make mock of me an I cause not come thither the finest serving-wench thou ever setst eyes on. I saw her but last year at Cacavincigli and wish her all my weal;[402] and by the body of Christ, I had e'en given her half a score Bolognese groats, so she would but have consented to me; but she would not. Wherefore, as most I may, I prithee teach me what I must do to avail to be of your company and do thou also do and contrive so I may be thereof. Indeed, you will have in me a good and loyal comrade, ay, and a worshipful. Thou seest, to begin with, what a fine man I am and how well I am set up on my legs. Ay, and I have a face as it were a rose, more by token that I am a doctor of medicine, such as I believe you have none among you. Moreover, I know many fine things and goodly canzonets; marry, I will sing you one.' And incontinent he fell a-singing. [Footnote 402: _i.e._ love her beyond anything in the world. For former instances of this idiomatic expression, see ante, passim.] Bruno had so great a mind to laugh that he was like to burst; however he contained himself and the physician, having made an end of his song, said, 'How deemedst thou thereof?' 'Certes,' answered Bruno, 'there's no Jew's harp but would lose with you, so archigothically do you caterwarble it.' Quoth Master Simone, 'I tell thee thou wouldst never have believed it, hadst thou not heard me.' 'Certes,' replied Bruno, 'you say sooth!' and the physician went on, 'I know store of others; but let that be for the present. Such as thou seest me, my father was a gentleman, albeit he abode in the country, and I myself come by my mother of the Vallecchio family. Moreover, as thou mayst have seen, I have the finest books and gowns of any physician in Florence. Cock's faith, I have a gown that stood me, all reckoned, in nigh upon an hundred pounds of doits, more than half a score years ago; wherefore I pray thee as most I may, to bring me to be of your company, and by Cock's faith, an thou do it, thou mayst be as ill as thou wilt, for I will never take a farthing of thee for my services.' Bruno, hearing this and the physician seeming to him a greater numskull than ever, said, 'Doctor, hold the light a thought more this way and take patience till I have made these rats their tails, and after I will answer you.' The tails being finished, Bruno made believe that the physician's request was exceeding irksome to him and said, 'Doctor mine, these be great things you would do for me and I acknowledge it; nevertheless, that which you ask of me, little as it may be for the greatness of your brain, is yet to me a very grave matter, nor know I any one in the world for whom, it being in my power, I would do it, an I did it not for you, both because I love you as it behoveth and on account of your words, which are seasoned with so much wit that they would draw the straps out of a pair of boots, much more me from my purpose; for the more I consort with you, the wiser you appear to me. And I may tell you this, to boot, that, though I had none other reason, yet do I wish you well, for that I see you enamoured of so fair a creature as is she of whom you speak. But this much I will say to you; I have no such power in this matter as you suppose and cannot therefore do for you that which were behoving; however, an you will promise me, upon your solemn and surbated[403] faith, to keep it me secret, I will tell you the means you must use and meseemeth certain that, with such fine books and other gear as you tell me you have, you will gain your end.' [Footnote 403: Syn. cauterized (_calterita_), a nonsensical word employed by Bruno for the purpose of mystifying the credulous physician.] Quoth the doctor, 'Say on in all assurance; I see thou art not yet well acquainted with me and knowest not how I can keep a secret. There be few things indeed that Messer Guasparruolo da Saliceto did, whenas he was judge of the Provostry at Forlimpopoli, but he sent to tell me, for that he found me so good a secret-keeper.[404] And wilt thou judge an I say sooth? I was the first man whom he told that he was to marry Bergamina: seest thou now?' 'Marry, then,' rejoined Bruno, 'all is well; if such a man trusted in you, I may well do so. The course you must take is on this wise. You must know that we still have to this our company a captain and two counsellors, who are changed from six months to six months, and without fail, at the first of the month, Buffalmacco will be captain and I shall be counsellor; for so it is settled. Now whoso is captain can do much by way of procuring whomsoever he will to be admitted into the company; wherefore meseemeth you should seek, inasmuch as you may, to gain Buffalmacco's friendship and do him honour. He is a man, seeing you so wise, to fall in love with you incontinent, and whenas with your wit and with these fine things you have you shall have somedele ingratiated yourself with him, you can make your request to him; he will not know how to say you nay. I have already bespoken him of you and he wisheth you all the weal in the world; and whenas you shall have done this, leave me do with him.' Quoth the physician, 'That which thou counsellest liketh me well. Indeed, an he be a man who delighteth in men of learning and talketh but with me a little, I will engage to make him go still seeking my company, for that, as for wit, I have so much thereof that I could stock a city withal and yet abide exceeding wise.' [Footnote 404: Syn. secretary, confidant (_segretaro_).] This being settled, Bruno imparted the whole matter to Buffalmacco, wherefore it seemed to the latter a thousand years till they should come to do that which this arch-zany went seeking. The physician, who longed beyond measure to go a-roving, rested not till he made friends with Buffalmacco, which he easily succeeded in doing, and therewithal he fell to giving him, and Bruno with him, the finest suppers and dinners in the world. The two painters, like the accommodating gentlemen they were, were nothing loath to engage with him and having once tasted the excellent wines and fat capons and other good things galore, with which he plied them, stuck very close to him and ended by quartering themselves upon him, without awaiting overmuch invitation, still declaring that they would not do this for another. Presently, whenas it seemed to him time, the physician made the same request to Buffalmacco as he had made Bruno aforetime; whereupon Buffalmacco feigned himself sore chagrined and made a great outcry against Bruno, saying, 'I vow to the High God of Pasignano that I can scarce withhold myself from giving thee such a clout over the head as should cause thy nose drop to thy heels, traitor that thou art; for none other than thou hath discovered these matters to the doctor.' Master Simone did his utmost to excuse Bruno, saying and swearing that he had learned the thing from another quarter, and after many of his wise words, he succeeded in pacifying Buffalmacco; whereupon the latter turned to him and said, 'Doctor mine, it is very evident that you have been at Bologna and have brought back a close mouth to these parts; and I tell you moreover that you have not learnt your A B C on the apple as many blockheads are fain to do; nay, you have learned it aright on the pumpkin, that is so long;[405] and if I mistake not, you were baptized on a Sunday.[406] And albeit Bruno hath told me that you told me that you studied medicine there, meseemeth you studied rather to learn to catch men, the which you, with your wit and your fine talk, know better to do than any man I ever set eyes on.' Here the physician took the words out of his mouth and breaking in, said to Bruno, 'What a thing it is to talk and consort with learned men! Who would so have quickly apprehended every particular of my intelligence as hath this worthy man? Thou didst not half so speedily become aware of my value as he; but, at the least, that which I told thee, whenas thou saidst to me that Buffalmacco delighted in learned men, seemeth it to thee I have done it?' 'Ay hast thou,' replied Bruno, 'and better.' [Footnote 405: A play of words upon _mela_ (apple) and _mellone_ (pumpkin). _Mellone_ is strictly a water-melon; but I have rendered it "pumpkin," to preserve the English idiom, "pumpkinhead" being our equivalent for the Italian "melon," used in the sense of dullard, noodle.] [Footnote 406: According to the commentators, "baptized on a Sunday" anciently signified a simpleton, because salt (which is constantly used by the Italian classical writers as a synonym for wit or sense) was not sold on Sundays.] Then said the doctor to Buffalmacco, 'Thou wouldst have told another tale, hadst thou seen me at Bologna, where there was none, great or small, doctor or scholar, but wished me all the weal in the world, so well did I know to content them all with my discourse and my wit. And what is more, I never said a word there, but I made every one laugh, so hugely did I please them; and whenas I departed thence, they all set up the greatest lament in the world and would all have had me remain there; nay, to such a pass came it for that I should abide there, that they would have left it to me alone to lecture on medicine to as many students as were there; but I would not, for that I was e'en minded to come hither to certain very great heritages which I have here and which have still been in my family; and so I did.' Quoth Bruno to Buffalmacco, 'How deemest thou? Thou believedst me not, whenas I told it thee. By the Evangels, there is not a leach in these parts who is versed in asses' water to compare with this one, and assuredly thou wouldst not find another of him from here to Paris gates. Marry, hold yourself henceforth [if you can,] from doing that which he will.' Quoth Master Simone, 'Bruno saith sooth; but I am not understood here. You Florentines are somewhat dull of wit; but I would have you see me among the doctors, as I am used to be.' 'Verily, doctor,' said Buffalmacco, 'you are far wiser than I could ever have believed; wherefore to speak to you as it should be spoken to scholars such as you are, I tell you, cut-and-slash fashion,[407] I will without fail procure you to be of our company.' [Footnote 407: Syn. confusedly (_frastagliatamente_).] After this promise the physician redoubled in his hospitalities to the two rogues, who enjoyed themselves [at his expense,] what while they crammed him with the greatest extravagances in the world and fooled him to the top of his bent, promising him to give him to mistress the Countess of Jakes,[408]who was the fairest creature to be found in all the back-settlements of the human generation. The physician enquired who this countess was, whereto quoth Buffalmacco, 'Good my seed-pumpkin, she is a very great lady and there be few houses in the world wherein she hath not some jurisdiction. To say nothing of others, the Minor Friars themselves render her tribute, to the sound of kettle-drums.[409] And I can assure you that, whenas she goeth abroad, she maketh herself well felt,[410] albeit she abideth for the most part shut up. Natheless, it is no great while since she passed by your door, one night that she repaired to the Arno, to wash her feet and take the air a little; but her most continual abiding-place is in Draughthouseland.[411] There go ofttimes about store of her serjeants, who all in token of her supremacy, bear the staff and the plummet, and of her barons many are everywhere to be seen, such as Sirreverence of the Gate, Goodman Turd, Hardcake,[412] Squitterbreech and others, who methinketh are your familiars, albeit you call them not presently to mind. In the soft arms, then, of this great lady, leaving be her of Cacavincigli, we will, an expectation cheat us not, bestow you.' [Footnote 408: _La Contessa di Civillari_, _i.e._ the public sewers. Civillari, according to the commentators, was the name of an alley in Florence, where all the ordure and filth of the neighbourhood was deposited and stored in trenches for manure.] [Footnote 409: _Nacchere_, syn. a loud crack of wind.] [Footnote 410: Syn. smelt (_sentito_).] [Footnote 411: _Laterina_, _i.e._ Latrina.] [Footnote 412: Lit. Broom-handle (_Manico della Scopa_).] The physician, who had been born and bred at Bologna, understood not their canting terms and accordingly avouched himself well pleased with the lady in question. Not long after this talk, the painters brought him news that he was accepted to member of the company and the day being come before the night appointed for their assembly, he had them both to dinner. When they had dined, he asked them what means it behoved him take to come thither; whereupon quoth Buffalmacco, 'Look you, doctor, it behoveth you have plenty of assurance; for that, an you be not mighty resolute, you may chance to suffer hindrance and do us very great hurt; and in what it behoveth you to approve yourself very stout-hearted you shall hear. You must find means to be this evening, at the season of the first sleep, on one of the raised tombs which have been lately made without Santa Maria Novella, with one of your finest gowns on your back, so you may make an honourable figure for your first appearance before the company and also because, according to what was told us (we were not there after) the Countess is minded, for that you are a man of gentle birth, to make you a Knight of the Bath at her own proper costs and charges; and there you must wait till there cometh for you he whom we shall send. And so you may be apprised of everything, there will come for you a black horned beast, not overbig, which will go capering about the piazza before you and making a great whistling and bounding, to terrify you; but, when he seeth that you are not to be daunted, he will come up to you quietly. Then do you, without any fear, come down from the tomb and mount the beast, naming neither God nor the Saints; and as soon as you are settled on his back, you must cross your hands upon your breast, in the attitude of obeisance, and touch him no more. He will then set off softly and bring you to us; but if you call upon God or the Saints or show fear, I must tell you that he may chance to cast you off or strike you into some place where you are like to stink for it; wherefore, an your heart misgive you and unless you can make sure of being mighty resolute, come not thither, for you would but do us a mischief, without doing yourself any good.'[413] [Footnote 413: Lit. "do _yourself_ a mischief, without doing _us_ any good"; but the sequel shows that the contrary is meant, as in the text.] Quoth the physician, 'I see you know me not yet; maybe you judge of me by my gloves and long gown. If you knew what I did aforetimes at Bologna anights, when I went a-wenching whiles with my comrades, you would marvel. Cock's faith, there was such and such a night when, one of them refusing to come with us, (more by token that she was a scurvy little baggage, no higher than my fist,) I dealt her, to begin with, good store of cuffs, then, taking her up bodily, I dare say I carried her a crossbowshot and wrought so that needs must she come with us. Another time I remember me that, without any other in my company than a serving-man of mine, I passed yonder alongside the Cemetery of the Minor Friars, a little after the Ave Maria, albeit there had been a woman buried there that very day, and felt no whit of fear; wherefore misdoubt you not of this, for I am but too stout of heart and lusty. Moreover, I tell you that, to do you credit at my coming thither, I will don my gown of scarlet, wherein I was admitted doctor, and we shall see if the company rejoice not at my sight and an I be not made captain out of hand. You shall e'en see how the thing will go, once I am there, since, without having yet set eyes on me, this countess hath fallen so enamoured of me that she is minded to make me a Knight of the Bath. It may be knighthood will not sit so ill on me nor shall I be at a loss to carry it off with worship! Marry, only leave me do.' 'You say very well,' answered Buffalmacco; 'but look you leave us not in the lurch and not come or not be found at the trysting-place, whenas we shall send for you; and this I say for that the weather is cold and you gentlemen doctors are very careful of yourselves thereanent.' 'God forbid!' cried Master Simone. 'I am none of your chilly ones. I reck not of the cold; seldom or never, whenas I rise of a night for my bodily occasions, as a man will bytimes, do I put me on more than my fur gown over my doublet. Wherefore I will certainly be there.' Thereupon they took leave of him and whenas it began to grow towards night, Master Simone contrived to make some excuse or other to his wife and secretly got out his fine gown; then, whenas it seemed to him time, he donned it and betook himself to Santa Maria Novella, where he mounted one of the aforesaid tombs and huddling himself up on the marble, for that the cold was great, he proceeded to wait the coming of the beast. Meanwhile Buffalmacco, who was tall and robust of his person, made shift to have one of those masks that were wont to be used for certain games which are not held nowadays, and donning a black fur pelisse, inside out, arrayed himself therein on such wise that he seemed a very bear, save that his mask had a devil's face and was horned. Thus accoutred, he betook himself to the new Piazza of Santa Maria, Bruno following him to see how the thing should go. As soon as he perceived that the physician was there, he fell a-capering and caracoling and made a terrible great blustering about the piazza, whistling and howling and bellowing as he were possessed of the devil. When Master Simone, who was more fearful than a woman, heard and saw this, every hair of his body stood on end and he fell a-trembling all over, and it was now he had liefer been at home than there. Nevertheless, since he was e'en there, he enforced himself to take heart, so overcome was he with desire to see the marvels whereof the painters had told him. After Buffalmacco had raged about awhile, as hath been said, he made a show of growing pacified and coming up to the tomb whereon was the physician, stood stock-still. Master Simone, who was all a-tremble for fear, knew not what to do, whether to mount or abide where he was. However, at last, fearing that the beast should do him a mischief, an he mounted him not, he did away the first fear with the second and coming down from the tomb, mounted on his back, saying softly, 'God aid me!' Then he settled himself as best he might and still trembling in every limb, crossed his hands upon his breast, as it had been enjoined him; whereupon Buffalmacco set off at an amble towards Santa Maria della Scala and going on all fours, brought him hard by the Nunnery of Ripole. In those days there were dykes in that quarter, wherein the tillers of the neighbouring lands let empty the jakes, to manure their fields withal; whereto whenas Buffalmacco came nigh, he went up to the brink of one of them and taking the opportunity, laid hold of one of the physician's legs and jerking him off his back, pitched him clean in, head foremost. Then he fell a-snorting and snarling and capering and raged about awhile; after which he made off alongside Santa Maria della Scala till he came to Allhallows Fields. There he found Bruno, who had taken to flight, for that he was unable to restrain his laughter; and with him, after they had made merry together at Master Simone's expense, he addressed himself to see from afar what the bemoiled physician should do. My lord leech, finding himself in that abominable place, struggled to arise and strove as best he might to win forth thereof; and after falling in again and again, now here and now there, and swallowing some drachms of the filth, he at last succeeded in making his way out of the dyke, in the woefullest of plights, bewrayed from head to foot and leaving his bonnet behind him. Then, having wiped himself as best he might with his hands and knowing not what other course to take, he returned home and knocked till it was opened to him. Hardly was he entered, stinking as he did, and the door shut again ere up came Bruno and Buffalmacco, to hear how he should be received of his wife, and standing hearkening, they heard the lady give him the foulest rating was ever given poor devil, saying, 'Good lack, what a pickle thou art in! Thou hast been gallanting it to some other woman and must needs seek to cut a figure with thy gown of scarlet! What, was not I enough for thee? Why, man alive, I could suffice to a whole people, let alone thee. Would God they had choked thee, like as they cast thee whereas thou deservedst to be thrown! Here's a fine physician for you, to have a wife of his own and go a-gadding anights after other folk's womankind!' And with these and many other words of the same fashion she gave not over tormenting him till midnight, what while the physician let wash himself from head to foot. Next morning up came Bruno and Buffalmacco, who had painted all their flesh under their clothes with livid blotches, such as beatings use to make, and entering the physician's house, found him already arisen. Accordingly they went in to him and found the whole place full of stench, for that they had not yet been able so to clean everything that it should not stink there. Master Simone, seeing them enter, came to meet them and bade God give them good day; whereto the two rogues, as they had agreed beforehand, replied with an angry air, saying, 'That say we not to you; nay, rather, we pray God give you so many ill years that you may die a dog's death, as the most disloyal man and the vilest traitor alive; for it was no thanks to you that, whereas we studied to do you pleasure and worship, we were not slain like dogs. As it is, thanks to your disloyalty, we have gotten so many buffets this past night that an ass would go to Rome for less, without reckoning that we have gone in danger of being expelled the company into which we had taken order for having you received. An you believe us not, look at our bodies and see how they have fared.' Then, opening their clothes in front, they showed him, by an uncertain light, their breasts all painted and covered them up again in haste. The physician would have excused himself and told of his mishaps and how and where he had been cast; but Buffalmacco said, 'Would he had thrown you off the bridge into the Arno! Why did you call on God and the Saints? Were you not forewarned of this?' 'By God His faith,' replied the physician, 'I did it not.' 'How?' cried Buffalmacco. 'You did not call on them? Egad, you did it again and again; for our messenger told us that you shook like a reed and knew not where you were. Marry, for the nonce you have befooled us finely; but never again shall any one serve us thus, and we will yet do you such honour thereof as you merit.' The physician fell to craving pardon and conjuring them for God's sake not to dishonour him and studied to appease them with the best words he could command. And if aforetime he had entreated them with honour, from that time forth he honoured them yet more and made much of them, entertaining them with banquets and otherwhat, for fear lest they should publish his shame. Thus, then, as you have heard, is sense taught to whoso hath learned no great store thereof at Bologna." THE TENTH STORY [Day the Eighth] A CERTAIN WOMAN OF SICILY ARTFULLY DESPOILETH A MERCHANT OF THAT WHICH HE HAD BROUGHT TO PALERMO; BUT HE, MAKING BELIEVE TO HAVE RETURNED THITHER WITH MUCH GREATER PLENTY OF MERCHANDISE THAN BEFORE, BORROWETH MONEY OF HER AND LEAVETH HER WATER AND TOW IN PAYMENT How much the queen's story in divers places made the ladies laugh, it needed not to ask; suffice it to say that there was none of them to whose eyes the tears had not come a dozen times for excess of laughter: but, after it had an end, Dioneo, knowing that it was come to his turn to tell, said, "Gracious ladies, it is a manifest thing that sleights and devices are the more pleasing, the subtler the trickster who is thereby artfully outwitted. Wherefore, albeit you have related very fine stories, I mean to tell you one, which should please you more than any other that hath been told upon the same subject, inasmuch as she who was cheated was a greater mistress of the art of cheating others than was any of the men or women who were cozened by those of whom you have told. There used to be, and belike is yet, a custom, in all maritime places which have a port, that all merchants who come thither with merchandise, having unloaded it, should carry it all into a warehouse, which is in many places called a customhouse, kept by the commonality or by the lord of the place. There they give unto those who are deputed to that end a note in writing of all their merchandise and the value thereof, and they thereupon make over to each merchant a storehouse, wherein he layeth up his goods under lock and key. Moreover, the said officers enter in the book of the Customs, to each merchant's credit, all his merchandise, causing themselves after he paid their dues of the merchants, whether for all his said merchandise or for such part thereof as he withdraweth from the customhouse. By this book of the Customs the brokers mostly inform themselves of the quality and the quantity of the goods that are in bond there and also who are the merchants that own them; and with these latter, as occasion serveth them, they treat of exchanges and barters and sales and other transactions. This usance, amongst many other places, was current at Palermo in Sicily, where likewise there were and are yet many women, very fair of their person, but sworn enemies to honesty, who would be and are by those who know them not held great ladies and passing virtuous and who, being given not to shave, but altogether to flay men, no sooner espy a merchant there than they inform themselves by the book of the Customs of that which he hath there and how much he can do;[414] after which by their lovesome and engaging fashions and with the most dulcet words, they study to allure the said merchants and draw them into the snare of their love; and many an one have they aforetime lured thereinto, from whom they have wiled great part of their merchandise; nay, many have they despoiled of all, and of these there be some who have left goods and ship and flesh and bones in their hands, so sweetly hath the barberess known to ply the razor. [Footnote 414: _i.e._ what he is worth.] It chanced, not long since, that there came thither, sent by his masters, one of our young Florentines, by name Niccolo da Cignano, though more commonly called Salabaetto, with as many woollen cloths, left on his hands from the Salerno fair, as might be worth some five hundred gold florins, which having given the customhouse officers the invoice thereof, he laid up in a magazine and began, without showing overmuch haste to dispose of them, to go bytimes a-pleasuring about the city. He being of a fair complexion and yellow-haired and withal very sprightly and personable, it chanced that one of these same barberesses, who styled herself Madam Biancofiore, having heard somewhat of his affairs, cast her eyes on him; which he perceiving and taking her for some great lady, concluded that he pleased her for his good looks and bethought himself to order this amour with the utmost secrecy; wherefore, without saying aught thereof to any, he fell to passing and repassing before her house. She, noting this, after she had for some days well enkindled him with her eyes, making believe to languish for him, privily despatched to him one of her women, who was a past mistress in the procuring art and who, after much parley, told him, well nigh with tears in her eyes, that he had so taken her mistress with his comeliness and his pleasing fashions that she could find no rest day or night; wherefore, whenas it pleased him, she desired, more than aught else, to avail to foregather with him privily in a bagnio; then, pulling a ring from her pouch, she gave it to him on the part of her mistress. Salabaetto, hearing this, was the joyfullest man that was aye and taking the ring, rubbed it against his eyes and kissed it; after which he set it on his finger and replied to the good woman that, if Madam Biancofiore loved him, she was well requited it, for that he loved her more than his proper life and was ready to go whereassoever it should please her and at any hour. The messenger returned to her mistress with this answer and it was appointed Salabaetto out of hand at what bagnio he should expect her on the ensuing day after vespers. Accordingly, without saying aught of the matter to any, he punctually repaired thither at the hour appointed him and found the bagnio taken by the lady; nor had he waited long ere there came two slave-girls laden with gear and bearing on their heads, the one a fine large mattress of cotton wool and the other a great basket full of gear. The mattress they set on a bedstead in one of the chambers of the bagnio and spread thereon a pair of very fine sheets, laced with silk, together with a counterpane of snow-white Cyprus buckram[415] and two pillows wonder-curiously wrought.[416] Then, putting off their clothes they entered the bath and swept it all and washed it excellent well. Nor was it long ere the lady herself came thither, with other two slave-girls, and accosted Salabaetto with the utmost joy; then, as first she had commodity, after she had both clipped and kissed him amain, heaving the heaviest sighs in the world, she said to him, 'I know not who could have brought me to this pass, other than thou; thou hast kindled a fire in my vitals, little dog of a Tuscan!' Then, at her instance, they entered the bath, both naked, and with them two of the slave-girls; and there, without letting any else lay a finger on him, she with her own hands washed Salabaetto all wonder-well with musk and clove-scented soap; after which she let herself be washed and rubbed of the slave-girls. This done, the latter brought two very white and fine sheets, whence came so great a scent of roses that everything there seemed roses, in one of which they wrapped Salabaetto and in the other the lady and taking them in their arms, carried them both to the bed prepared for them. There, whenas they had left sweating, the slave-girls did them loose from the sheets wherein they were wrapped and they abode naked in the others, whilst the girls brought out of the basket wonder-goodly casting-bottles of silver, full of sweet waters, rose and jessamine and orange and citron-flower scented, and sprinkled them all therewith; after which boxes of succades and wines of great price were produced and they refreshed themselves awhile. [Footnote 415: _Bucherame._ The word "buckram" was anciently applied to the finest linen cloth, as is apparently the case here; see Ducange, voce _Boquerannus_, and Florio, voce _Bucherame_.] [Footnote 416: _i.e._ in needlework.] It seemed to Salabaetto as he were in Paradise and he cast a thousand glances at the lady, who was certes very handsome, himseeming each hour was an hundred years till the slave-girls should begone and he should find himself in her arms. Presently, at her commandment, the girls departed the chamber, leaving a flambeau alight there; whereupon she embraced Salabaetto and he her, and they abode together a great while, to the exceeding pleasure of the Florentine, to whom it seemed she was all afire for love of him. Whenas it seemed to her time to rise, she called the slave-girls and they clad themselves; then they recruited themselves somedele with a second collation of wine and sweetmeats and washed their hands and faces with odoriferous waters; after which, being about to depart, the lady said to Salabaetto, 'So it be agreeable to thee, it were doing me a very great favour an thou camest this evening to sup and lie the night with me.' Salabaetto, who was by this time altogether captivated by her beauty and the artful pleasantness of her fashions and firmly believed himself to be loved of her as he were the heart out of her body, replied, 'Madam, your every pleasure is supremely agreeable to me, wherefore both to-night and at all times I mean to do that which shall please you and that which shall be commanded me of you.' Accordingly the lady returned to her house, where she caused well bedeck her bedchamber with her dresses and gear and letting make ready a splendid supper, awaited Salabaetto, who, as soon as it was grown somewhat dark, betook himself thither and being received with open arms, supped with all cheer and commodity of service. Thereafter they betook themselves into the bedchamber, where he smelt a marvellous fragrance of aloes-wood and saw the bed very richly adorned with Cyprian singing-birds[417] and store of fine dresses upon the pegs, all which things together and each of itself made him conclude that this must be some great and rich lady. And although he had heard some whispers to the contrary anent her manner of life, he would not anywise believe it; or, if he e'en gave so much credit thereto as to allow that she might erst have cozened others, for nothing in the world could he have believed that this might possibly happen to himself. He lay that night with her in the utmost delight, still waxing more enamoured, and in the morning she girt him on a quaint and goodly girdle of silver, with a fine purse thereto, saying, 'Sweet my Salabaetto, I commend myself to thy remembrance, and like as my person is at thy pleasure, even so is all that is here and all that dependeth upon me at thy service and commandment.' Salabaetto, rejoiced, embraced and kissed her; then, going forth of her house, he betook himself whereas the other merchants were used to resort. [Footnote 417: "It was the custom in those days to attach to the bedposts sundry small instruments in the form of birds, which, by means of certain mechanical devices, gave forth sounds modulated like the song of actual birds."--_Fanfani._] On this wise consorting with her at one time and another, without its costing him aught in the world, and growing every hour more entangled, it befell that he sold his stuffs for ready money and made a good profit thereby; of which the lady incontinent heard, not from him, but from others, and Salabaetto being come one night to visit her, she fell to prattling and wantoning with him, kissing and clipping him and feigning herself so enamoured of him that it seemed she must die of love in his arms. Moreover, she would fain have given him two very fine hanaps of silver that she had; but he would not take them, for that he had had of her, at one time and another, what was worth a good thirty gold florins, without availing to have her take of him so much as a groat's worth. At last, whenas she had well enkindled him by showing herself so enamoured and freehanded, one of her slave-girls called her, as she had ordained beforehand; whereupon she left the chamber and coming back, after awhile, in tears cast herself face downward on the bed and fell to making the woefullest lamentation ever woman made. Salabaetto, marvelling at this, caught her in his arms and fell a-weeping with her and saying, 'Alack, heart of my body, what aileth thee thus suddenly? What is the cause of this grief? For God's sake, tell it me, my soul.' The lady, after letting herself be long entreated, answered, 'Woe's me, sweet my lord, I know not what to say or to do; I have but now received letters from Messina and my brother writeth me that, should I sell or pawn all that is here,[418] I must without fail send him a thousand gold florins within eight days from this time, else will his head be cut off; and I know not how I shall do to get this sum so suddenly. Had I but fifteen days' grace, I would find a means of procuring it from a certain quarter whence I am to have much more, or I would sell one of our farms; but, as this may not be, I had liefer be dead than that this ill news should have come to me.' [Footnote 418: Syn. that which belongeth to us (_ciò che ci è_,) _ci_, as I have before noted, signifying both "here" and "us," dative and accusative.] So saying, she made a show of being sore afflicted and stinted not from weeping; whereupon quoth Salabaetto, whom the flames of love had bereft of great part of his wonted good sense, so that he believed her tears to be true and her words truer yet, 'Madam, I cannot oblige you with a thousand florins, but five hundred I can very well advance you, since you believe you will be able to return them to me within a fortnight from this time; and this is of your good fortune that I chanced but yesterday to sell my stuffs; for, had it not been so, I could not have lent you a groat.' 'Alack,' cried the lady, 'hast thou then been straitened for lack of money? Marry, why didst thou not require me thereof? Though I have not a thousand, I had an hundred and even two hundred to give thee. Thou hast deprived me of all heart to accept of thee the service thou profferest me.' Salabaetto was more than ever taken with these words and said, 'Madam, I would not have you refrain on that account, for, had I had such an occasion therefor as you presently have, I would assuredly have asked you.' 'Alack, Salabaetto mine,' replied the lady, 'now know I aright that thine is a true and perfect love for me, since, without waiting to be required, thou freely succoureth me, in such a strait, with so great a sum of money. Certes, I was all thine without this, but with this I shall be far more so; nor shall I ever forget that I owe thee my brother's life. But God knoweth I take it sore unwillingly, seeing that thou art a merchant and that with money merchants transact all their affairs; however, since need constraineth me, and I have certain assurance of speedily restoring it to thee, I will e'en take it; and for the rest, an I find no readier means, I will pawn all these my possessions.' So saying, she let herself fall, weeping, on Salabaetto's neck. He fell to comforting her and after abiding the night with her, he, next morning, to approve himself her most liberal servant, without waiting to be asked by her, carried her five hundred right gold florins, which she received with tears in her eyes, but laughter in her heart, Salabaetto contenting himself with her simple promise. As soon as the lady had the money, the signs began to change, and whereas before he had free access to her whenassoever it pleased him, reasons now began to crop up, whereby it betided him not to win admission there once out of seven times, nor was he received with the same countenance nor the same caresses and rejoicings as before. And the term at which he was to have had his monies again being, not to say come, but past by a month or two and he requiring them, words were given him in payment. Thereupon his eyes were opened to the wicked woman's arts and his own lack of wit, wherefore, feeling that he could say nought of her beyond that which might please her concerning the matter, since he had neither script nor other evidence thereof, and being ashamed to complain to any, as well for that he had been forewarned thereof as for fear of the scoffs which he might reasonably expect for his folly, he was beyond measure woeful and inwardly bewailed his credulity. At last, having had divers letters from his masters, requiring him to change[419] the monies in question and remit them to them, he determined to depart, lest, an he did it not, his default should be discovered there, and accordingly, going aboard a little ship, he betook himself, not to Pisa, as he should have done, but to Naples. There at that time was our gossip Pietro dello Canigiano, treasurer to the Empress of Constantinople, a man of great understanding and subtle wit and a fast friend of Salabaetto and his family; and to him, as to a very discreet man, the disconsolate Florentine recounted that which he had done and the mischance that had befallen him, requiring him of aid and counsel, so he might contrive to gain his living there, and avouching his intention nevermore to return to Florence. Canigiano was concerned for this and said, 'Ill hast thou done and ill hast thou carried thyself; thou hast disobeyed thy masters and hast, at one cast, spent a great sum of money in wantonness; but, since it is done, we must look for otherwhat.'[420] Accordingly, like a shrewd man as he was, he speedily bethought himself what was to be done and told it to Salabaetto, who was pleased with the device and set about putting it in execution. He had some money and Canigiano having lent him other some, he made up a number of bales well packed and corded; then, buying a score of oil-casks and filling them, he embarked the whole and returned to Palermo, where, having given the customhouse officers the bill of lading and the value of the casks and let enter everything to his account, he laid the whole up in the magazines, saying that he meant not to touch them till such time as certain other merchandise which he expected should be come. [Footnote 419: _i.e._ procure bills of exchange for.] [Footnote 420: _i.e._ we must see what is to be done.] Biancofiore, getting wind of this and hearing that the merchandise he had presently brought with him was worth good two thousand florins, without reckoning what he looked for, which was valued at more than three thousand, bethought herself that she had flown at too small game and determined to restore him the five hundred florins, so she might avail to have the greater part of the five thousand. Accordingly, she sent for him and Salabaetto, grown cunning, went to her; whereupon, making believe to know nothing of that which he had brought with him, she received him with a great show of fondness and said to him, 'Harkye, if thou wast vexed with me, for that I repaid thee not thy monies on the very day....' Salabaetto fell a-laughing and answered; 'In truth, madam, it did somewhat displease me, seeing I would have torn out my very heart to give it you, an I thought to pleasure you withal; but I will have you hear how I am vexed with you. Such and so great is the love I bear you, that I have sold the most part of my possessions and have presently brought hither merchandise to the value of more than two thousand florins and expect from the westward as much more as will be worth over three thousand, with which I mean to stock me a warehouse in this city and take up my sojourn here, so I may still be near you, meseeming I fare better of your love than ever lover of his lady.' 'Look you, Salabaetto,' answered the lady, 'every commodity of thine is mighty pleasing to me, as that of him whom I love more than my life, and it pleaseth me amain that thou art returned hither with intent to sojourn here, for that I hope yet to have good time galore with thee; but I would fain excuse myself somedele to thee for that, whenas thou wast about to depart, thou wouldst bytimes have come hither and couldst not, and whiles thou camest and wast not so gladly seen as thou wast used to be, more by token that I returned thee not thy monies at the time promised. Thou must know that I was then in very great concern and sore affliction, and whoso is in such case, how much soever he may love another, cannot always show him so cheerful a countenance or pay him such attention as he might wish. Moreover, thou must know that it is mighty uneasy for a woman to avail to find a thousand gold florins; all day long we are put off with lies and that which is promised us is not performed unto us; wherefore needs must we in our turn lie unto others. Hence cometh it, and not of my default, that I gave thee not back thy monies. However, I had them a little after thy departure, and had I known whither to send them, thou mayst be assured that I would have remitted them to thee; but, not knowing this, I kept them for thee.' Then, letting fetch a purse wherein were the very monies he had brought her, she put it into his hand, saying, 'Count them if there be five hundred.' Never was Salabaetto so glad; he counted them and finding them five hundred, put them up and said, 'Madam, I am assured that you say sooth; but you have done enough [to convince me of your love for me,] and I tell you that, for this and for the love I bear you, you could never require me, for any your occasion, of whatsoever sum I might command, but I would oblige you therewith; and whenas I am established here, you may put this to the proof.' Having again on this wise renewed his loves with her in words, he fell again to using amically with her, whilst she made much of him and showed him the greatest goodwill and honour in the world, feigning the utmost love for him. But he, having a mind to return her cheat for cheat, being one day sent for by her to sup and sleep with her, went thither so chapfallen and so woebegone that it seemed as he would die. Biancofiore, embracing him and kissing him, began to question him of what ailed him to be thus melancholy, and he, after letting himself be importuned a good while, answered, 'I am a ruined man, for that the ship, wherein is the merchandise I expected, hath been taken by the corsairs of Monaco and held to ransom in ten thousand gold florins, whereof it falleth to me to pay a thousand, and I have not a farthing, for that the five hundred pieces thou returnedst to me I sent incontinent to Naples to lay out in cloths to be brought hither; and should I go about at this present to sell the merchandise I have here, I should scarce get a penny for two pennyworth, for that it is no time for selling. Nor am I yet so well known that I could find any here to help me to this, wherefore I know not what to do or to say; for, if I send not the monies speedily, the merchandise will be carried off to Monaco and I shall never again have aught thereof.' The lady was mightily concerned at this, fearing to lose him altogether, and considering how she should do, so he might not go to Monaco, said, 'God knoweth I am sore concerned for the love of thee; but what availeth it to afflict oneself thus? If I had the monies, God knoweth I would lend them to thee incontinent; but I have them not. True, there is a certain person here who obliged me the other day with the five hundred florins that I lacked; but he will have heavy usance for his monies; nay, he requireth no less than thirty in the hundred, and if thou wilt borrow of him, needs must he be made secure with a good pledge. For my part, I am ready to engage for thee all these my goods and my person, to boot, for as much as he will lend thereon; but how wilt thou assure him of the rest?' Salabaetto readily apprehended the reason that moved her to do him this service and divined that it was she herself who was to lend him the money; wherewith he was well pleased and thanking her, answered that he would not be put off for exorbitant usance, need constraining him. Moreover, he said that he would give assurance of the merchandise he had in the customhouse, letting inscribe it to him who should lend him the money; but that needs must be kept the key of the magazines, as well that he might be able to show his wares, an it were required of him, as that nothing might be touched or changed or tampered withal. The lady answered that it was well said and that this was good enough assurance; wherefore, as soon as the day was come, she sent for a broker, in whom she trusted greatly, and taking order with him of the matter, gave him a thousand gold florins, which he lent to Salabaetto, letting inscribe in his own name at the customhouse that which the latter had there; then, having made their writings and counter-writings together and being come to an accord,[421] they occupied themselves with their other affairs. Salabaetto, as soonest he might, embarked, with the fifteen hundred gold florins, on board a little ship and returned to Pietro dello Canigiano at Naples, whence he remitted to his masters, who had despatched him with the stuffs, a good and entire account thereof. Then, having repaid Pietro and every other to whom he owed aught, he made merry several days with Canigiano over the cheat he had put upon the Sicilian trickstress; after which, resolved to be no more a merchant, he betook himself to Ferrara. [Footnote 421: _i.e._ having executed and exchanged the necessary legal documents for the proper carrying out of the transaction and completed the matter to their mutual satisfaction.] Meanwhile, Biancofiore, finding that Salabaetto had left Palermo, began to marvel and wax misdoubtful and after having awaited him good two months, seeing that he came not, she caused the broker force open the magazines. Trying first the casks, which she believed to be filled with oil, she found them full of seawater, save that there was in each maybe a runlet of oil at the top near the bunghole. Then, undoing the bales, she found them all full of tow, with the exception of two, which were stuffs; and in brief, with all that was there, there was not more than two hundred florins' worth. Wherefore Biancofiore, confessing herself outwitted, long lamented the five hundred florins repaid and yet more the thousand lent, saying often, 'Who with a Tuscan hath to do, Must nor be blind nor see askew.' On this wise, having gotten nothing for her pains but loss and scorn, she found, to her cost, that some folk know as much as others." * * * * * No sooner had Dioneo made an end of his story than Lauretta, knowing the term to be come beyond which she was not to reign and having commended Canigiano's counsel (which was approved good by its effect) and Salabaetto's shrewdness (which was no less commendable) in carrying it into execution, lifted the laurel from her own head and set it on that of Emilia, saying, with womanly grace, "Madam, I know not how pleasant a queen we shall have of you; but, at the least, we shall have a fair one. Look, then, that your actions be conformable to your beauties." So saying, she returned to her seat, whilst Emilia, a thought abashed, not so much at being made queen as to see herself publicly commended of that which women use most to covet, waxed such in face as are the new-blown roses in the dawning. However, after she had kept her eyes awhile lowered, till the redness had given place, she took order with the seneschal of that which concerned the general entertainment and presently said, "Delightsome ladies, it is common, after oxen have toiled some part of the day, confined under the yoke, to see them loosed and eased thereof and freely suffered to go a-pasturing, where most it liketh them, about the woods; and it is manifest also that leafy gardens, embowered with various plants, are not less, but much more fair than groves wherein one seeth only oaks. Wherefore, seeing how many days we have discoursed, under the restraint of a fixed law, I opine that, as well unto us as to those whom need constraineth to labour for their daily bread, it is not only useful, but necessary, to play the truant awhile and wandering thus afield, to regain strength to enter anew under the yoke. Wherefore, for that which is to be related to-morrow, ensuing your delectable usance of discourse, I purpose not to restrict you to any special subject, but will have each discourse according as it pleaseth him, holding it for certain that the variety of the things which will be said will afford us no less entertainment than to have discoursed of one alone; and having done thus, whoso shall come after me in the sovranty may, as stronger than I, avail with greater assurance to restrict us within the limits of the wonted laws." So saying, she set every one at liberty till supper-time. All commended the queen of that which she had said, holding it sagely spoken, and rising to their feet, addressed themselves, this to one kind of diversion and that to another, the ladies to weaving garlands and to gambolling and the young men to gaming and singing. On this wise they passed the time until the supper-hour, which being come, they supped with mirth and good cheer about the fair fountain and after diverted themselves with singing and dancing according to the wonted usance. At last, the queen, to ensue the fashion of her predecessors, commanded Pamfilo to sing a song, notwithstanding those which sundry of the company had already sung of their freewill; and he readily began thus: Such is thy pleasure, Love And such the allegresse I feel thereby That happy, burning in thy fire, am I. The abounding gladness in my heart that glows, For the high joy and dear Whereto thou hast me led, Unable to contain there, overflows And in my face's cheer Displays my happihead; For being enamouréd In such a worship-worthy place and high Makes eath to me the burning I aby. I cannot with my finger what I feel Limn, Love, nor do I know My bliss in song to vent; Nay, though I knew it, needs must I conceal, For, once divulged, I trow 'Twould turn to dreariment. Yet am I so content, All speech were halt and feeble, did I try The least thereof with words to signify. Who might conceive it that these arms of mine Should anywise attain Whereas I've held them aye, Or that my face should reach so fair a shrine As that, of favour fain And grace, I've won to? Nay, Such fortune ne'er a day Believed me were; whence all afire am I, Hiding the source of my liesse thereby. This was the end of Pamfilo's song, whereto albeit it had been completely responded of all, there was none but noted the words thereof with more attent solicitude than pertained unto him, studying to divine that which, as he sang, it behoved him to keep hidden from them; and although sundry went imagining various things, nevertheless none happened upon the truth of the case.[422] But the queen, seeing that the song was ended and that both young ladies and men would gladly rest themselves, commanded that all should betake themselves to bed. [Footnote 422: The song sung by Pamfilo (under which name, as I have before pointed out, the author appears to represent himself) apparently alludes to Boccaccio's amours with the Princess Maria of Naples (Fiammetta), by whom his passion was returned in kind.] HERE ENDETH THE EIGHTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON _Day the Ninth_ HERE BEGINNETH THE NINTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER THE GOVERNANCE OF EMILIA EACH DISCOURSETH ACCORDING AS IT PLEASETH HIM AND OF THAT WHICH IS MOST TO HIS LIKING The light, from whose resplendence the night fleeth, had already changed all the eighth heaven[423] from azure to watchet-colour[424] and the flowerets began to lift their heads along the meads, when Emilia, uprising, let call the ladies her comrades and on like wise the young men, who, being come, fared forth, ensuing the slow steps of the queen, and betook themselves to a coppice but little distant from the palace. Therein entering, they saw the animals, wild goats and deer and others, as if assured of security from the hunters by reason of the prevailing pestilence, stand awaiting them no otherwise than as they were grown without fear or tame, and diverted themselves awhile with them, drawing near, now to this one and now to that, as if they would fain lay hands on them, and making them run and skip. But, the sun now waxing high, they deemed it well to turn back. They were all garlanded with oak leaves, with their hands full of flowers and sweet-scented herbs, and whoso encountered them had said no otherwhat than "Or these shall not be overcome of death or it will slay them merry." On this wise, then, they fared on, step by step, singing and chatting and laughing, till they came to the palace, where they found everything orderly disposed and their servants full of mirth and joyous cheer. There having rested awhile, they went not to dinner till half a dozen canzonets, each merrier than other, had been carolled by the young men and the ladies; then, water being given to their hands, the seneschal seated them all at table, according to the queen's pleasure, and the viands being brought, they all ate blithely. Rising thence, they gave themselves awhile to dancing and music-making, and after, by the queen's commandment, whoso would betook himself to rest. But presently, the wonted hour being come, all in the accustomed place assembled to discourse, whereupon the queen, looking at Filomena, bade her give commencement to the stories of that day, and she, smiling, began on this wise: [Footnote 423: According to the Ptolemaic system, the earth is encompassed by eight celestial zones or heavens; the first or highest, above which is the empyrean, (otherwise called the ninth heaven,) is that of the Moon, the second that of Mercury, the third that of Venus, the fourth that of the Sun, the fifth that of Mars, the sixth that of Jupiter, the seventh that of Saturn and the eighth or lowest that of the fixed stars and of the Earth.] [Footnote 424: _D'azzurrino in color cilestro._ This is one of the many passages in which Boccaccio has imitated Dante (cf. Purgatorio, c. xxvi. II. 4-6, "... il sole.... Che già, raggiando, tutto l'occidente Mutava in bianco aspetto di cilestro,") and also one of the innumerable instances in which former translators (who all agree in making the advent of the light change the colour of the sky from azure to a darker colour, instead of, as Boccaccio intended, to watchet, _i.e._ a paler or greyish blue,) have misrendered the text, for sheer ignorance of the author's meaning.] THE FIRST STORY [Day the Ninth] MADAM FRANCESCA, BEING COURTED BY ONE RINUCCIO PALERMINI AND ONE ALESSANDRO CHIARMONTESI AND LOVING NEITHER THE ONE NOR THE OTHER, ADROITLY RIDDETH HERSELF OF BOTH BY CAUSING ONE ENTER FOR DEAD INTO A SEPULCHRE AND THE OTHER BRING HIM FORTH THEREOF FOR DEAD, ON SUCH WISE THAT THEY CANNOT AVAIL TO ACCOMPLISH THE CONDITION IMPOSED "Since it is your pleasure, madam, I am well pleased to be she who shall run the first ring in this open and free field of story-telling, wherein your magnificence hath set us; the which an I do well, I doubt not but that those who shall come after will do well and better. Many a time, charming ladies, hath it been shown in our discourses what and how great is the power of love; natheless, for that medeemeth not it hath been fully spoken thereof (no, nor would be, though we should speak of nothing else for a year to come,) and that not only doth love bring lovers into divers dangers of death, but causeth them even to enter for dead into the abiding-places of the dead, it is my pleasure to relate to you a story thereof, over and above those which have been told, whereby not only will you apprehend the puissance of love, but will know the wit used by a worthy lady in ridding herself of two who loved her against her will. You must know, then, that there was once in the city of Pistoia a very fair widow lady, of whom two of our townsmen, called the one Rinuccio Palermini and the other Alessandro Chiarmontesi, there abiding by reason of banishment from Florence, were, without knowing one of other, passionately enamoured, having by chance fallen in love with her and doing privily each his utmost endeavour to win her favour. The gentlewoman in question, whose name was Madam Francesca de' Lazzari, being still importuned of the one and the other with messages and entreaties, to which she had whiles somewhat unwisely given ear, and desiring, but in vain, discreetly to retract, bethought herself how she might avail to rid herself of their importunity by requiring them of a service, which, albeit it was possible, she conceived that neither of them would render her, to the intent that, they not doing that which she required, she might have a fair and colourable occasion of refusing to hearken more to their messages; and the device which occurred to her was on this wise. There had died that very day at Pistoia, one, who, albeit his ancestors were gentlemen, was reputed the worst man that was, not only in Pistoia, but in all the world; more by token that he was in his lifetime so misshapen and of so monstrous a favour that whoso knew him not, seeing him for the first time, had been affeared of him; and he had been buried in a tomb without the church of the Minor Friars. This circumstance she bethought herself would in part be very apt to her purpose and accordingly she said to a maid of hers, 'Thou knowest the annoy and the vexation I suffer all day long by the messages of yonder two Florentines, Rinuccio and Alessandro. Now I am not disposed to gratify [either of] them with my love, and to rid myself of them, I have bethought myself, for the great proffers that they make, to seek to make proof of them in somewhat which I am certain they will not do; so shall I do away from me this their importunity, and thou shalt see how. Thou knowest that Scannadio,[425] for so was the wicked man called of whom we have already spoken, 'was this morning buried in the burial-place of the Minor Brethren, Scannadio, of whom, whenas they saw him alive, let alone dead, the doughtiest men of this city went in fear; wherefore go thou privily first to Alessandro and bespeak him, saying, "Madam Francesca giveth thee to know that now is the time come whenas thou mayst have her love, which thou hast so much desired, and be with her, an thou wilt, on this wise. This night, for a reason which thou shalt know after, the body of Scannadio, who was this morning buried, is to be brought to her house by a kinsman of hers, and she, being in great fear of him, dead though he be, would fain not have him there; wherefore she prayeth thee that it please thee, by way of doing her a great service, go this evening, at the time of the first sleep, to the tomb wherein he is buried, and donning the dead man's clothes, abide as thou wert he until such time as they shall come for thee. Then, without moving or speaking, thou must suffer thyself be taken up out of the tomb and carried to her house, where she will receive thee, and thou mayst after abide with her and depart at thy leisure, leaving to her the care of the rest." An he say that he will do it, well and good; but, should he refuse, bid him on my part, never more show himself whereas I may be and look, as he valueth his life, that he send me no more letters or messages. Then shalt thou betake thee to Rinuccio Palermini and say to him, "Madam Francesca saith that she is ready to do thine every pleasure, an thou wilt render her a great service, to wit, that to-night, towards the middle hour, thou get thee to the tomb wherein Scannadio was this morning buried and take him up softly thence and bring him to her at her house, without saying a word of aught thou mayst hear or feel. There shalt thou learn what she would with him and have of her thy pleasure; but, an it please thee not to do this, she chargeth thee never more send her writ nor message."' [Footnote 425: _Scannadio_ signifies "Murder-God" and was no doubt a nickname bestowed upon the dead man, on account of his wicked and reprobate way of life.] The maid betook herself to the two lovers and did her errand punctually to each, saying as it had been enjoined her; whereto each made answer that, an it pleased her, they would go, not only into a tomb, but into hell itself. The maid carried their reply to the lady and she waited to see if they would be mad enough to do it. The night come, whenas it was the season of the first sleep, Alessandro Chiarmontesi, having stripped himself to his doublet, went forth of his house to take Scannadio's place in the tomb; but, by the way, there came a very frightful thought into his head and he fell a-saying in himself, 'Good lack, what a fool I am! Whither go I? How know I but yonder woman's kinsfolk, having maybe perceived that I love her and believing that which is not, have caused me do this, so they may slaughter me in yonder tomb? An it should happen thus, I should suffer for it nor would aught in the world be ever known thereof to their detriment. Or what know I but maybe some enemy of mine hath procured me this, whom she belike loveth and seeketh to oblige therein?' Then said he, 'But, grant that neither of these things be and that her kinsfolk are e'en for carrying me to her house, I must believe that they want not Scannadio's body to hold it in their arms or to put it in hers; nay, it is rather to be conceived that they mean to do it some mischief, as the body of one who maybe disobliged them in somewhat aforetime. She saith that I am not to say a word for aught that I may feel. But, should they put out mine eyes or draw my teeth or lop off my hands or play me any other such trick, how shall I do? How could I abide quiet? And if I speak, they will know me and mayhap do me a mischief, or, though they do me no hurt, yet shall I have accomplished nothing, for that they will not leave me with the lady; whereupon she will say that I have broken her commandment and will never do aught to pleasure me.' So saying, he had well nigh returned home; but, nevertheless, his great love urged him on with counter arguments of such potency that they brought him to the tomb, which he opened and entering therein, stripped Scannadio of his clothes; then, donning them and shutting the tomb upon himself, he laid himself in the dead man's place. Thereupon he began to call to mind what manner of man the latter had been and remembering him of all the things whereof he had aforetime heard tell as having befallen by night, not to say in the sepulchres of the dead, but even otherwhere, his every hair began to stand on end and himseemed each moment as if Scannadio should rise upright and butcher him then and there. However, aided by his ardent love, he got the better of these and the other fearful thoughts that beset him and abiding as he were the dead man, he fell to awaiting that which should betide him. Meanwhile, Rinuccio, midnight being now at hand, departed his house, to do that which had been enjoined him of his mistress, and as he went, he entered into many and various thoughts of the things which might possibly betide him; as, to wit, that he might fall into the hands of the police, with Scannadio's body on his shoulders, and be doomed to the fire as a sorcerer, and that he should, an the thing came to be known, incur the ill-will of his kinsfolk, and other like thoughts, whereby he was like to have been deterred. But after, bethinking himself again, 'Alack,' quoth he, 'shall I deny this gentlewoman, whom I have so loved and love, the first thing she requireth of me, especially as I am thereby to gain her favour? God forbid, though I were certainly to die thereof, but I should set myself to do that which I have promised!' Accordingly, he went on and presently coming to the sepulchre, opened it easily; which Alessandro hearing, abode still, albeit he was in great fear. Rinuccio, entering in and thinking to take Scannadio's body, laid hold of Alessandro's feet and drew him forth of the tomb; then, hoisting him on his shoulders, he made off towards the lady's house. Going thus and taking no manner of heed to his burden, he jolted it many a time now against one corner and now another of certain benches that were beside the way, more by token that the night was so cloudy and so dark he could not see whither he went. He was already well nigh at the door of the gentlewoman, who had posted herself at the window with her maid, to see if he would bring Alessandro, and was ready armed with an excuse to send them both away, when it chanced that the officers of the watch, who were ambushed in the street and abode silently on the watch to lay hands upon a certain outlaw, hearing the scuffling that Rinuccio made with his feet, suddenly put out a light, to see what was to do and whither to go, and rattled their targets and halberds, crying, 'Who goeth there?' Rinuccio, seeing this and having scant time for deliberation, let fall his burden and made off as fast as his legs would carry him; whereupon Alessandro arose in haste and made off in his turn, for all he was hampered with the dead man's clothes, which were very long. The lady, by the light of the lantern put out by the police, had plainly recognized Rinuccio, with Alessandro on his shoulders, and perceiving the latter to be clad in Scannadio's clothes, marvelled amain at the exceeding hardihood of both; but, for all her wonderment, she laughed heartily to see Alessandro cast down on the ground and to see him after take to flight. Then, rejoiced at this accident and praising God that He had rid her of the annoy of these twain, she turned back into the house and betook herself to her chamber, avouching to her maid that without doubt they both loved her greatly, since, as it appeared, they had done that which she had enjoined them. Meanwhile Rinuccio, woeful and cursing his ill fortune, for all that returned not home, but, as soon as the watch had departed the neighbourhood, he came back whereas he had dropped Alessandro and groped about, to see if he could find him again, so he might make an end of his service; but, finding him not and concluding that the police had carried him off, he returned to his own house, woebegone, whilst Alessandro, unknowing what else to do, made off home on like wise, chagrined at such a misadventure and without having recognized him who had borne him thither. On the morrow, Scannadio's tomb being found open and his body not to be seen, for that Alessandro had rolled it to the bottom of the vault, all Pistoia was busy with various conjectures anent the matter, and the simpler sort concluded that he had been carried off by the devils. Nevertheless, each of the two lovers signified to the lady that which he had done and what had befallen and excusing himself withal for not having full accomplished her commandment, claimed her favour and her love; but she, making believe to credit neither of this, rid herself of them with a curt response to the effect that she would never consent to do aught for them, since they had not done that which she had required of them." THE SECOND STORY [Day the Ninth] AN ABBESS, ARISING IN HASTE AND IN THE DARK TO FIND ONE OF HER NUNS, WHO HAD BEEN DENOUNCED TO HER, IN BED WITH HER LOVER AND THINKING TO COVER HER HEAD WITH HER COIF, DONNETH INSTEAD THEREOF THE BREECHES OF A PRIEST WHO IS ABED WITH HER; THE WHICH THE ACCUSED NUN OBSERVING AND MAKING HER AWARE THEREOF, SHE IS ACQUITTED AND HATH LEISURE TO BE WITH HER LOVER Filomena was now silent and the lady's address in ridding herself of those whom she chose not to love having been commended of all, whilst, on the other hand, the presumptuous hardihood of the two gallants was held of them to be not love, but madness, the queen said gaily to Elisa, "Elisa, follow on." Accordingly, she promptly began, "Adroitly, indeed, dearest ladies, did Madam Francesca contrive to rid herself of her annoy, as hath been told; but a young nun, fortune aiding her, delivered herself with an apt speech from an imminent peril. As you know, there be many very dull folk, who set up for teachers and censors of others, but whom, as you may apprehend from my story, fortune bytimes deservedly putteth to shame, as befell the abbess, under whose governance was the nun of whom I have to tell. You must know, then, that there was once in Lombardy a convent, very famous for sanctity and religion, wherein, amongst the other nuns who were there, was a young lady of noble birth and gifted with marvellous beauty, who was called Isabetta and who, coming one day to the grate to speak with a kinsman of hers, fell in love with a handsome young man who accompanied him. The latter, seeing her very fair and divining her wishes with his eyes, became on like wise enamoured of her, and this love they suffered a great while without fruit, to the no small unease of each. At last, each being solicited by a like desire, the young man hit upon a means of coming at his nun in all secrecy, and she consenting thereto, he visited her, not once, but many times, to the great contentment of both. But, this continuing, it chanced one night that he was, without the knowledge of himself or his mistress, seen of one of the ladies of the convent to take leave of Isabetta and go his ways. The nun communicated her discovery to divers others and they were minded at first to denounce Isabetta to the abbess, who was called Madam Usimbalda and who, in the opinion of the nuns and of whosoever knew her, was a good and pious lady; but, on consideration, they bethought themselves to seek to have the abbess take her with the young man, so there might be no room for denial. Accordingly, they held their peace and kept watch by turns in secret to surprise her. Now it chanced that Isabetta, suspecting nothing of this nor being on her guard, caused her lover come thither one night, which was forthright known to those who were on the watch for this and who, whenas it seemed to them time, a good part of the night being spent, divided themselves into two parties, whereof one abode on guard at the door of her cell, whilst the other ran to the abbess's chamber and knocking at the door, till she answered, said to her, 'Up, madam; arise quickly, for we have discovered that Isabetta hath a young man in her cell.' Now the abbess was that night in company with a priest, whom she ofttimes let come to her in a chest; but, hearing the nuns' outcry and fearing lest, of their overhaste and eagerness, they should push open the door, she hurriedly arose and dressed herself as best she might in the dark. Thinking to take certain plaited veils, which nuns wear on their heads and call a psalter, she caught up by chance the priest's breeches, and such was her haste that, without remarking what she did, she threw them over her head, in lieu of the psalter, and going forth, hurriedly locked the door after her, saying, 'Where is this accursed one of God?' Then, in company with the others, who were so ardent and so intent upon having Isabetta taken in default that they noted not that which the abbess had on her head, she came to the cell-door and breaking it open, with the aid of the others, entered and found the two lovers abed in each other's arms, who, all confounded at such a surprise, abode fast, unknowing what to do. The young lady was incontinent seized by the other nuns and haled off, by command of the abbess, to the chapter-house, whilst her gallant dressed himself and abode await to see what should be the issue of the adventure, resolved, if any hurt were offered to his mistress, to do a mischief to as many nuns as he could come at and carry her off. The abbess, sitting in chapter, proceeded, in the presence of all the nuns, who had no eyes but for the culprit, to give the latter the foulest rating that ever woman had, as having by her lewd and filthy practices (an the thing should come to be known without the walls) sullied the sanctity, the honour and the fair fame of the convent; and to this she added very grievous menaces. The young lady, shamefast and fearful, as feeling herself guilty, knew not what to answer and keeping silence, possessed the other nuns with compassion for her. However, after a while, the abbess multiplying words, she chanced to raise her eyes and espied that which the former had on her head and the hose-points that hung down therefrom on either side; whereupon, guessing how the matter stood, she was all reassured and said, 'Madam, God aid you, tie up your coif and after say what you will to me.' The abbess, taking not her meaning, answered, 'What coif, vile woman that thou art? Hast thou the face to bandy pleasantries at such a time? Thinkest thou this that thou hast done is a jesting matter?' 'Prithee, madam,' answered Isabetta, 'tie up your coif and after say what you will to me.' Thereupon many of the nuns raised their eyes to the abbess's head and she also, putting her hand thereto, perceived, as did the others, why Isabetta spoke thus; wherefore the abbess, becoming aware of her own default and perceiving that it was seen of all, past hope of recoverance, changed her note and proceeding to speak after a fashion altogether different from her beginning, came to the conclusion that it is impossible to withstand the pricks of the flesh, wherefore she said that each should, whenas she might, privily give herself a good time, even as it had been done until that day. Accordingly, setting the young lady free, she went back to sleep with her priest and Isabetta returned to her lover, whom many a time thereafter she let come thither, in despite of those who envied her, whilst those of the others who were loverless pushed their fortunes in secret, as best they knew." THE THIRD STORY [Day the Ninth] MASTER SIMONE, AT THE INSTANCE OF BRUNO AND BUFFALMACCO AND NELLO, MAKETH CALANDRINO BELIEVE THAT HE IS WITH CHILD; WHEREFORE HE GIVETH THEM CAPONS AND MONEY FOR MEDICINES AND RECOVERETH WITHOUT BRINGING FORTH After Elisa had finished her story and all the ladies had returned thanks to God, who had with a happy issue delivered the young nun from the claws of her envious companions, the queen bade Filostrato follow on, and he, without awaiting further commandment, began, "Fairest ladies, the unmannerly lout of a Marchegan judge, of whom I told you yesterday, took out of my mouth a story of Calandrino and his companions, which I was about to relate; and for that, albeit it hath been much discoursed of him and them, aught that is told of him cannot do otherwise than add to our merriment, I will e'en tell you that which I had then in mind. It hath already been clearly enough shown who Calandrino was and who were the others of whom I am to speak in this story, wherefore, without further preface, I shall tell you that an aunt of his chanced to die and left him two hundred crowns in small coin; whereupon he fell a-talking of wishing to buy an estate and entered into treaty with all the brokers in Florence, as if he had ten thousand gold florins to expend; but the matter still fell through, when they came to the price of the estate in question. Bruno and Buffalmacco, knowing all this, had told him once and again that he were better spend the money in making merry together with them than go buy land, as if he had had to make pellets;[426] but, far from this, they had never even availed to bring him to give them once to eat. One day, as they were complaining of this, there came up a comrade of theirs, a painter by name Nello, and they all three took counsel together how they might find a means of greasing their gullets at Calandrino's expense; wherefore, without more delay, having agreed among themselves of that which was to do, they watched next morning for his coming forth of his house, nor had he gone far when Nello accosted him, saying, 'Good-day, Calandrino.' Calandrino answered God give him good day and good year, and Nello, halting awhile, fell to looking him in the face; whereupon Calandrino asked him, 'At what lookest thou?' Quoth the painter, 'Hath aught ailed thee this night? Meseemeth thou are not thyself this morning.' Calandrino incontinent began to quake and said, 'Alack, how so? What deemest thou aileth me?' 'Egad,' answered Nello, 'as for that I can't say; but thou seemest to me all changed; belike it is nothing.' So saying, he let him pass, and Calandrino fared on, all misdoubtful, albeit he felt no whit ailing; but Buffalmacco, who was not far off, seeing him quit of Nello, made for him and saluting him, enquired if aught ailed him. Quoth Calandrino, 'I know not; nay, Nello told me but now that I seemed to him all changed. Can it be that aught aileth me?' 'Ay,' rejoined Buffalmacco, 'there must e'en be something or other amiss with thee, for thou appearest half dead.' [Footnote 426: _i.e._ balls for a pellet bow, usually made out of clay. Bruno and Buffalmacco were punning upon the double meaning, land and earth (or clay), of the word _terra_.] By this time it seemed to Calandrino that he had the fevers, when, lo, up came Bruno and the first thing he said was, 'Calandrino, what manner of face is this?' Calandrino, hearing them all in the same tale, held it for certain that he was in an ill way and asked them, all aghast, 'what shall I do?' Quoth Bruno, 'Methinketh thou wert best return home and get thee to bed and cover thyself well and send thy water to Master Simone the doctor, who is, as thou knowest, as our very creature and will tell thee incontinent what thou must do. We will go with thee and if it behoveth to do aught, we will do it.' Accordingly, Nello having joined himself to them, they returned home with Calandrino, who betook himself, all dejected, into the bedchamber and said to his wife, 'Come, cover me well, for I feel myself sore disordered.' Then, laying himself down, he despatched his water by a little maid to Master Simone, who then kept shop in the Old Market, at the sign of the Pumpkin, whilst Bruno said to his comrades, 'Abide you here with him, whilst I go hear what the doctor saith and bring him hither, if need be.' 'Ay, for God's sake, comrade mine,' cried Calandrino, 'go thither and bring me back word how the case standeth, for I feel I know not what within me.' Accordingly, Bruno posted off to Master Simone and coming thither before the girl who brought the water, acquainted him with the case; wherefore, the maid being come and the physician, having seen the water, he said to her, 'Begone and bid Calandrino keep himself well warm, and I will come to him incontinent and tell him that which aileth him and what he must do.' The maid reported this to her master nor was it long before the physician and Bruno came, whereupon the former, seating himself beside Calandrino, fell to feeling his pulse and presently, the patient's wife being there present, he said, 'Harkye, Calandrino, to speak to thee as a friend, there aileth thee nought but that thou art with child.' When Calandrino heard this, he fell a-roaring for dolour and said, 'Woe's me! Tessa, this is thy doing, for that thou wilt still be uppermost; I told thee how it would be.' The lady, who was a very modest person, hearing her husband speak thus, blushed all red for shamefastness and hanging her head, went out of the room, without answering a word; whilst Calandrino, pursuing his complaint, said, 'Alack, wretch that I am! How shall I do? How shall I bring forth this child? Whence shall he issue? I see plainly I am a dead man, through the mad lust of yonder wife of mine, whom God make as woeful as I would fain be glad! Were I as well as I am not, I would arise and deal her so many and such buffets that I would break every bone in her body; albeit it e'en serveth me right, for that I should never have suffered her get the upper hand; but, for certain, an I come off alive this time, she may die of desire ere she do it again.' Bruno and Buffalmacco and Nello were like to burst with laughter, hearing Calandrino's words; however, they contained themselves, but Doctor Simple-Simon[427] laughed so immoderately that you might have drawn every tooth in his head. Finally, Calandrino commending himself to the physician and praying him give him aid and counsel in this his strait, the latter said to him, 'Calandrino, I will not have thee lose heart; for, praised be God, we have taken the case so betimes that, in a few days and with a little trouble, I will deliver thee thereof; but it will cost thee some little expense.' 'Alack, doctor mine,' cried Calandrino, 'ay, for the love of God, do it! I have here two hundred crowns, wherewith I was minded to buy me an estate; take them all, if need be, so I be not brought to bed; for I know not how I should do, seeing I hear women make such a terrible outcry, whereas they are about to bear child, for all they have ample commodity therefor, that methinketh, if I had that pain to suffer, I should die ere I came to the bringing forth.' Quoth the doctor, 'Have no fear of that; I will let make thee a certain ptisan of distilled waters, very good and pleasant to drink, which will in three mornings' time carry off everything and leave thee sounder than a fish; but look thou be more discreet for the future and suffer not thyself fall again into these follies. Now for this water it behoveth us have three pairs of fine fat capons, and for other things that are required thereanent, do thou give one of these (thy comrades) five silver crowns, so he may buy them, and let carry everything to my shop; and to-morrow, in God's name, I will send thee the distilled water aforesaid, whereof thou shalt proceed to drink a good beakerful at a time.' 'Doctor mine,' replied Calandrino, 'I put myself in your hands'; and giving Bruno five crowns and money for three pairs of capons, he besought him to oblige him by taking the pains to buy these things. [Footnote 427: _Scimmione_ (lit. ape), a contemptuous distortion of _Simone_.] The physician then took his leave and letting make a little clary,[428] despatched it to Calandrino, whilst Bruno, buying the capons and other things necessary for making good cheer, ate them in company with his comrades and Master Simone. Calandrino drank of his clary three mornings, after which the doctor came to him, together with his comrades, and feeling his pulse, said to him, 'Calandrino, thou art certainly cured; wherefore henceforth thou mayst safely go about thine every business nor abide longer at home for this.' Accordingly, Calandrino arose, overjoyed, and went about his occasions, mightily extolling, as often as he happened to speak with any one, the fine cure that Master Simone had wrought of him, in that he had unbegotten him with child in three days' time, without any pain; whilst Bruno and Buffalmacco and Nello abode well pleased at having contrived with this device to overreach his niggardliness, albeit Dame Tessa, smoking the cheat, rated her husband amain thereanent." [Footnote 428: _Chiarea._ According to the commentators, the composition of this drink is unknown, but that of clary, a sort of hippocras or spiced wine _clear-strained_ (whence the name), offers no difficulty to the student of old English literature.] THE FOURTH STORY [Day the Ninth] CECCO FORTARRIGO GAMETH AWAY AT BUONCONVENTO ALL HIS GOOD AND THE MONIES OF CECCO ANGIOLIERI [HIS MASTER;] MOREOVER, RUNNING AFTER THE LATTER, IN HIS SHIRT, AND AVOUCHING THAT HE HATH ROBBED HIM, HE CAUSETH HIM BE TAKEN OF THE COUNTRYFOLK; THEN, DONNING ANGIOLIERI'S CLOTHES AND MOUNTING HIS PALFREY, HE MAKETH OFF AND LEAVETH THE OTHER IN HIS SHIRT Calandrino's speech concerning his wife had been hearkened of all the company with the utmost laughter; then, Filostrato being silent, Neifile, as the queen willed it, began, "Noble ladies, were it not uneather for men to show forth unto others their wit and their worth than it is for them to exhibit their folly and their vice, many would weary themselves in vain to put a bridle on their tongues; and this hath right well been made manifest to you by the folly of Calandrino, who had no call, in seeking to be made whole of the ailment in which his simplicity caused him believe, to publish the privy diversions of his wife; and this hath brought to my mind somewhat of contrary purport to itself, to wit, a story of how one man's knavery got the better of another's wit, to the grievous hurt and confusion of the over-reached one, the which it pleaseth me to relate to you. There were, then, in Siena, not many years ago, two (as far as age went) full-grown men, each of whom was called Cecco. One was the son of Messer Angiolieri and the other of Messer Fortarrigo, and albeit in most other things they sorted ill of fashions one with the other, they were natheless so far of accord in one particular, to wit, that they were both hated of their fathers, that they were by reason thereof grown friends and companied often together. After awhile, Angiolieri, who was both a handsome man and a well-mannered, himseeming he could ill live at Siena of the provision assigned him of his father and hearing that a certain cardinal, a great patron of his, was come into the Marches of Ancona as the Pope's Legate, determined to betake himself to him, thinking thus to better his condition. Accordingly, acquainting his father with his purpose, he took order with him to have at once that which he was to give him in six months, so he might clothe and horse himself and make an honourable figure. As he went seeking some one whom he might carry with him for his service, the thing came to Fortarrigo's knowledge, whereupon he presently repaired to Angiolieri and besought him, as best he knew, to carry him with him, offering himself to be to him lackey and serving-man and all, without any wage beyond his expenses paid. Angiolieri answered that he would nowise take him, not but he knew him to be right well sufficient unto every manner of service, but for that he was a gambler and bytimes a drunkard, to boot. But the other replied that he would without fail keep himself from both of these defaults and affirmed it unto him with oaths galore, adding so many prayers that Angiolieri was prevailed upon and said that he was content. Accordingly, they both set out one morning and went to dine at Buonconvento, where, after dinner, the heat being great, Angiolieri let make ready a bed at the inn and undressing himself, with Fortarrigo's aid, went to sleep, charging the latter call him at the stroke of none. As soon as his master was asleep, Fortarrigo betook himself to the tavern and there, after drinking awhile, he fell to gaming with certain men, who in a trice won of him some money he had and after, the very clothes he had on his back; whereupon, desirous of retrieving himself, he repaired, in his shirt as he was, to Angiolieri's chamber and seeing him fast asleep, took from his purse what monies he had and returning to play, lost these as he had lost the others. Presently, Angiolieri awoke and arising, dressed himself and enquired for Fortarrigo. The latter was not to be found and Angiolieri, concluding him to be asleep, drunken, somewhere, as was bytimes his wont, determined to leave him be and get himself another servant at Corsignano. Accordingly, he caused put his saddle and his valise on a palfrey he had and thinking to pay the reckoning, so he might get him gone, found himself without a penny; whereupon great was the outcry and all the hostelry was in an uproar, Angiolieri declaring that he had been robbed there and threatening to have the host and all his household carried prisoners to Siena. At this moment up came Fortarrigo in his shirt, thinking to take his master's clothes, as he had taken his money, and seeing the latter ready to mount, said, 'What is this, Angiolieri? Must we needs be gone already? Good lack, wait awhile; there will be one here forthwith who hath my doublet in pawn for eight-and-thirty shillings; and I am certain that he will render it up for five-and-thirty, money down.' As he spoke, there came one who certified Angiolieri that it was Fortarrigo who had robbed him of his monies, by showing him the sum of those which the latter had lost at play; wherefore he was sore incensed and loaded Fortarrigo with reproaches; and had he not feared others more than he feared God, he had done him a mischief; then, threatening to have him strung up by the neck or outlawed from Siena, he mounted to horse. Fortarrigo, as if he spoke not to him, but to another, said, 'Good lack, Angiolieri, let be for the nonce this talk that skilleth not a straw, and have regard unto this; by redeeming it[429] forthright, we may have it again for five-and-thirty shillings; whereas, if we tarry but till to-morrow, he will not take less than the eight-and-thirty he lent me thereon; and this favour he doth me for that I staked it after his counsel. Marry, why should we not better ourselves by these three shillings?' [Footnote 429: _i.e._ the doublet.] Angiolieri, hearing him talk thus, lost all patience (more by token that he saw himself eyed askance by the bystanders, who manifestly believed, not that Fortarrigo had gamed away his monies, but that he had yet monies of Fortarrigo's in hand) and said to him, 'What have I to do with thy doublet? Mayst thou be strung up by the neck, since not only hast thou robbed me and gambled away my money, but hinderest me to boot in my journey, and now thou makest mock of me.' However, Fortarrigo still stood to it, as it were not spoken to him and said, 'Ecod, why wilt thou not better me these three shillings? Thinkest thou I shall not be able to oblige thee therewith another time? Prithee, do it, an thou have any regard for me. Why all this haste? We shall yet reach Torrenieri betimes this evening. Come, find the purse; thou knowest I might ransack all Siena and not find a doublet to suit me so well as this; and to think I should let yonder fellow have it for eight-and-thirty shillings! It is worth yet forty shillings or more, so that thou wouldst worsen me in two ways.'[430] [Footnote 430: _i.e._ do me a double injury.] Angiolieri, beyond measure exasperated to see himself first robbed and now held in parley after this fashion, made him no further answer, but, turning his palfrey's head, took the road to Torrenieri, whilst Fortarrigo, bethinking himself of a subtle piece of knavery, proceeded to trot after him in his shirt good two miles, still requiring him of his doublet. Presently, Angiolieri pricking on amain, to rid his ears of the annoy, Fortarrigo espied some husbandmen in a field, adjoining the highway in advance of him, and cried out to them, saying, 'Stop him, stop him!' Accordingly, they ran up, some with spades and others with mattocks, and presenting themselves in the road before Angiolieri, concluding that he had robbed him who came crying after him in his shirt, stopped and took him. It availed him little to tell them who he was and how the case stood, and Fortarrigo, coming up, said with an angry air, 'I know not what hindereth me from slaying thee, disloyal thief that thou wast to make off with my gear!' Then, turning to the countrymen, 'See, gentlemen,' quoth he, 'in what a plight he left me at the inn, having first gamed away all his own! I may well say by God and by you have I gotten back this much, and thereof I shall still be beholden to you.' Angiolieri told them his own story, but his words were not heeded; nay, Fortarrigo, with the aid of the countrymen, pulled him off his palfrey and stripping him, clad himself in his clothes; then, mounting to horse, he left him in his shirt and barefoot and returned to Siena, avouching everywhere that he had won the horse and clothes of Angiolieri, whilst the latter, who had thought to go, as a rich man, to the cardinal in the Marches, returned to Buonconvento, poor and in his shirt, nor dared for shamefastness go straight back to Siena, but, some clothes being lent him, he mounted the rouncey that Fortarrigo had ridden and betook himself to his kinsfolk at Corsignano, with whom he abode till such time as he was furnished anew by his father. On this wise Fortarrigo's knavery baffled Angiolieri's fair advisement,[431] albeit his villainy was not left by the latter unpunished in due time and place." [Footnote 431: Syn. goodly design of foresight (_buono avviso_).] THE FIFTH STORY [Day the Ninth] CALANDRINO FALLETH IN LOVE WITH A WENCH AND BRUNO WRITETH HIM A TALISMAN, WHEREWITH WHEN HE TOUCHETH HER, SHE GOETH WITH HIM; AND HIS WIFE FINDING THEM TOGETHER, THERE BETIDETH HIM GRIEVOUS TROUBLE AND ANNOY Neifile's short story being finished and the company having passed it over without overmuch talk or laughter, the queen turned to Fiammetta and bade her follow on, to which she replied all blithely that she would well and began, "Gentlest ladies, there is, as methinketh you may know, nothing, how much soever it may have been talked thereof, but will still please, provided whoso is minded to speak of it know duly to choose the time and the place that befit it. Wherefore, having regard to our intent in being here (for that we are here to make merry and divert ourselves and not for otherwhat), meseemeth that everything which may afford mirth and pleasance hath here both due place and due time; and albeit it may have been a thousand times discoursed thereof, it should natheless be none the less pleasing, though one speak of it as much again. Wherefore, notwithstanding it hath been many times spoken among us of the sayings and doings of Calandrino, I will make bold, considering, as Filostrato said awhile ago, that these are all diverting, to tell you yet another story thereof, wherein were I minded to swerve from the fact, I had very well known to disguise and recount it under other names; but, for that, in the telling of a story, to depart from the truth of things betided detracteth greatly from the listener's pleasure, I will e'en tell it you in its true shape, moved by the reason aforesaid. Niccolo Cornacchini was a townsman of ours and a rich man and had, among his other possessions, a fine estate at Camerata, whereon he let build a magnificent mansion and agreed with Bruno and Buffalmacco to paint it all for him; and they, for that the work was great, joined to themselves Nello and Calandrino and fell to work. Thither, for that there was none of the family in the house, although there were one or two chambers furnished with beds and other things needful and an old serving-woman abode there, as guardian of the place, a son of the said Niccolo, by name Filippo, being young and without a wife, was wont bytimes to bring some wench or other for his diversion and keep her there a day or two and after send her away. It chanced once, among other times, that he brought thither one called Niccolosa, whom a lewd fellow, by name Mangione, kept at his disposal in a house at Camaldoli and let out on hire. She was a woman of a fine person and well clad and for her kind well enough mannered and spoken. One day at noontide, she having come forth her chamber in a white petticoat, with her hair twisted about her head, and being in act to wash her hands and face at a well that was in the courtyard of the mansion, it chanced that Calandrino came thither for water and saluted her familiarly. She returned him his greeting and fell to eying him, more because he seemed to her an odd sort of fellow than for any fancy she had for him; whereupon he likewise fell a-considering her and himseeming she was handsome, he began to find his occasions for abiding there and returned not to his comrades with the water, but, knowing her not, dared not say aught to her. She, who had noted his looking, glanced at him from time to time, to make game of him, heaving some small matter of sighs the while; wherefore Calandrino fell suddenly over head and ears in love with her and left not the courtyard till she was recalled by Filippo into the chamber. Therewithal he returned to work, but did nought but sigh, which Bruno, who had still an eye to his doings, for that he took great delight in his fashions, remarking, 'What a devil aileth thee, friend Calandrino?' quoth he. 'Thou dost nought but sigh.' 'Comrade,' answered Calandrino, 'had I but some one to help me, I should fare well.' 'How so?' enquired Bruno; and Calandrino replied, 'It must not be told to any; but there is a lass down yonder, fairer than a fairy, who hath fallen so mightily in love with me that 'twould seem to thee a grave matter. I noted it but now, whenas I went for the water.' 'Ecod,' cried Bruno, 'look she be not Filippo's wife.' Quoth Calandrino, 'Methinketh it is she, for that he called her and she went to him in the chamber; but what of that? In matters of this kind I would jockey Christ himself, let alone Filippo; and to tell thee the truth, comrade, she pleaseth me more than I can tell thee.' 'Comrade,' answered Bruno, 'I will spy thee out who she is, and if she be Filippo's wife, I will order thine affairs for thee in a brace of words, for she is a great friend of mine. But how shall we do, so Buffalmacco may not know? I can never get a word with her, but he is with me.' Quoth Calandrino, 'Of Buffalmacco I reck not; but we must beware of Nello, for that he is Tessa's kinsman and would mar us everything.' And Bruno said, 'True.' Now he knew very well who the wench was, for that he had seen her come and moreover Filippo had told him. Accordingly, Calandrino having left work awhile and gone to get a sight of her, Bruno told Nello and Buffalmacco everything and they took order together in secret what they should do with him in the matter of this his enamourment. When he came back, Bruno said to him softly, 'Hast seen her?' 'Alack, yes,' replied Calandrino; 'she hath slain me.' Quoth Bruno, 'I must go see an it be she I suppose; and if it be so, leave me do.' Accordingly, he went down into the courtyard and finding Filippo and Niccolosa there, told them precisely what manner of man Calandrino was and took order with them of that which each of them should do and say, so they might divert themselves with the lovesick gull and make merry over his passion. Then, returning to Calandrino, he said, 'It is indeed she; wherefore needs must the thing be very discreetly managed, for, should Filippo get wind of it, all the water in the Arno would not wash us. But what wouldst thou have me say to her on thy part, if I should chance to get speech of her?' 'Faith,' answered Calandrino, 'thou shalt tell her, to begin with, that I will her a thousand measures of that good stuff that getteth with child, and after, that I am her servant and if she would have aught.... Thou takest me?' 'Ay,' said Bruno, 'leave me do.' Presently, supper-time being come, the painters left work and went down into the courtyard, where they found Filippo and Niccolosa and tarried there awhile, to oblige Calandrino. The latter fell to ogling Niccolosa and making the oddest grimaces in the world, such and so many that a blind man would have remarked them. She on her side did everything that she thought apt to inflame him, and Filippo, in accordance with the instructions he had of Bruno, made believe to talk with Buffalmacco and the others and to have no heed of this, whilst taking the utmost diversion in Calandrino's fashions. However, after a while, to the latter's exceeding chagrin, they took their leave and as they returned to Florence, Bruno said to Calandrino, 'I can tell thee thou makest her melt like ice in the sun. Cock's body, wert thou to fetch thy rebeck and warble thereto some of those amorous ditties of thine, thou wouldst cause her cast herself out of window to come to thee.' Quoth Calandrino, 'Deemest thou, gossip? Deemest thou I should do well to fetch it?' 'Ay, do I,' answered Bruno; and Calandrino went on, 'Thou wouldst not credit me this morning, whenas I told it thee; but, for certain, gossip, methinketh I know better than any man alive to do what I will. Who, other than I, had known to make such a lady so quickly in love with me? Not your trumpeting young braggarts,[432] I warrant you, who are up and down all day long and could not make shift, in a thousand years, to get together three handsful of cherry stones. I would fain have thee see me with the rebeck; 'twould be fine sport for thee. I will have thee to understand once for all that I am no dotard, as thou deemest me, and this she hath right well perceived, she; but I will make her feel it othergates fashion, so once I get my claw into her back; by the very body of Christ, I will lead her such a dance that she will run after me, as the madwoman after her child.' 'Ay,' rejoined Bruno, 'I warrant me thou wilt rummage her; methinketh I see thee, with those teeth of thine that were made for virginal jacks,[433] bite that little vermeil mouth of hers and those her cheeks, that show like two roses, and after eat her all up.' [Footnote 432: _Giovani di tromba marina._ The sense seems as above; the commentators say that _giovani di tromba marina_ is a name given to those youths who go trumpeting about everywhere the favours accorded them by women; but the _tromba marina_ is a _stringed_ (not a wind) _instrument_, a sort of primitive violoncello with one string.] [Footnote 433: "Your teeth did dance like virginal jacks."--_Ben Jonson._] Calandrino, hearing this, fancied himself already at it and went singing and skipping, so overjoyed that he was like to jump out of his skin. On the morrow, having brought the rebeck, he, to the great diversion of all the company, sang sundry songs thereto; and in brief, he was taken with such an itch for the frequent seeing of her that he wrought not a whit, but ran a thousand times a day, now to the window, now to the door and anon into the courtyard, to get a look at her, whereof she, adroitly carrying out Bruno's instructions, afforded him ample occasion. Bruno, on his side, answered his messages in her name and bytimes brought him others as from her; and whenas she was not there, which was mostly the case, he carried him letters from her, wherein she gave him great hopes of compassing his desire, feigning herself at home with her kinsfolk, where he might not presently see her. On this wise, Bruno, with the aid of Buffalmacco, who had a hand in the matter, kept the game afoot and had the greatest sport in the world with Calandrino's antics, causing him give them bytimes, as at his mistress's request, now an ivory comb, now a purse and anon a knife and such like toys, for which they brought him in return divers paltry counterfeit rings of no value, with which he was vastly delighted; and to boot, they had of him, for their pains, store of dainty collations and other small matters of entertainment, so they might be diligent about his affairs. On this wise they kept him in play good two months, without getting a step farther, at the end of which time, seeing the work draw to an end and bethinking himself that, an he brought not his amours to an issue in the meantime, he might never have another chance thereof, he began to urge and importune Bruno amain; wherefore, when next the girl came to the mansion, Bruno, having first taken order with her and Filippo of what was to be done, said to Calandrino, 'Harkye, gossip, yonder lady hath promised me a good thousand times to do that which thou wouldst have and yet doth nought thereof, and meseemeth she leadeth thee by the nose; wherefore, since she doth it not as she promiseth, we will an it like thee, make her do it, will she, nill she.' 'Ecod, ay!' answered Calandrino. 'For the love of God let it be done speedily.' Quoth Bruno, 'Will thy heart serve thee to touch her with a script I shall give thee?' 'Ay, sure,' replied Calandrino; and the other, 'Then do thou make shift to bring me a piece of virgin parchment and a live bat, together with three grains of frankincense and a candle that hath been blessed by the priest, and leave me do.' Accordingly, Calandrino lay in wait all the next night with his engines to catch a bat and having at last taken one, carried it to Bruno, with the other things required; whereupon the latter, withdrawing to a chamber, scribbled divers toys of his fashion upon the parchment, in characters of his own devising, and brought it to him, saying, 'Know, Calandrino, that, if thou touch her with this script, she will incontinent follow thee and do what thou wilt. Wherefore, if Filippo should go abroad anywhither to-day, do thou contrive to accost her on some pretext or other and touch her; then betake thyself to the barn yonder, which is the best place here for thy purpose, for that no one ever frequenteth there. Thou wilt find she will come thither, and when she is there, thou knowest well what thou hast to do.' Calandrino was the joyfullest man alive and took the script, saying, 'Gossip, leave me do.' Now Nello, whom Calandrino mistrusted, had as much diversion of the matter as the others and bore a hand with them in making sport of him: wherefore, of accord with Bruno, he betook himself to Florence to Calandrino's wife and said to her, 'Tessa, thou knowest what a beating Calandrino gave thee without cause the day he came back, laden with stones from the Mugnone; wherefore I mean to have thee avenge thyself on him; and if thou do it not, hold me no more for kinsman or for friend. He hath fallen in love with a woman over yonder, and she is lewd enough to go very often closeting herself with him. A little while agone, they appointed each other to foregather together this very day; wherefore I would have thee come thither and lie in wait for him and chastise him well.' When the lady heard this, it seemed to her no jesting matter, but, starting to her feet, she fell a-saying, 'Alack, common thief that thou art, is it thus that thou usest me? By Christ His Cross, it shall not pass thus, but I will pay thee therefor!' Then, taking her mantle and a little maid to bear her company, she started off at a good round pace for the mansion, together with Nello. As soon as Bruno saw the latter afar off, he said to Filippo, 'Here cometh our friend'; whereupon the latter, betaking himself whereas Calandrino and the others were at work, said, 'Masters, needs must I go presently to Florence; work with a will.' Then, going away, he hid himself in a place when he could, without being seen, see what Calandrino should do. The latter, as soon as he deemed Filippo somewhat removed, came down into the courtyard and finding Niccolosa there alone, entered into talk with her, whilst she, who knew well enough what she had to do, drew near him and entreated him somewhat more familiarly than of wont. Thereupon he touched her with the script and no sooner had he done so than he turned, without saying a word, and made for the barn, whither she followed him. As soon as she was within, she shut the door and taking him in her arms, threw him down on the straw that was on the floor; then, mounting astride of him and holding him with her hands on his shoulders, without letting him draw near her face, she gazed at him, as he were her utmost desire, and said, 'O sweet my Calandrino, heart of my body, my soul, my treasure, my comfort, how long have I desired to have thee and to be able to hold thee at my wish! Thou hast drawn all the thread out of my shift with thy gentilesse; thou hast tickled my heart with thy rebeck. Can it be true that I hold thee?' Calandrino, who could scarce stir, said, 'For God's sake, sweet my soul, let me buss thee.' 'Marry,' answered she, 'thou art in a mighty hurry. Let me first take my fill of looking upon thee; let me sate mine eyes with that sweet face of thine.' Now Bruno and Buffalmacco were come to join Filippo and all three heard and saw all this. As Calandrino was now offering to kiss Niccolosa perforce, up came Nello with Dame Tessa and said, as soon as he reached the place, 'I vow to God they are together.' Then, coming up to the door of the barn, the lady, who was all a-fume with rage, dealt it such a push with her hands that she sent it flying, and entering, saw Niccolosa astride of Calandrino. The former, seeing the lady, started up in haste and taking to flight, made off to join Filippo, whilst Dame Tessa fell tooth and nail upon Calandrino, who was still on his back, and clawed all his face; then, clutching him by the hair and haling him hither and thither, 'Thou sorry shitten cur,' quoth she, 'dost thou then use me thus? Besotted dotard that thou art, accursed be the weal I have willed thee! Marry, seemeth it to thee thou hast not enough to do at home, that thou must go wantoning it in other folk's preserves? A fine gallant, i'faith! Dost thou not know thyself, losel that thou art? Dost thou not know thyself, good for nought? Wert thou to be squeezed dry, there would not come as much juice from thee as might suffice for a sauce. Cock's faith, thou canst not say it was Tessa that was presently in act to get thee with child, God make her sorry, who ever she is, for a scurvy trull as she must be to have a mind to so fine a jewel as thou!' Calandrino, seeing his wife come, abode neither dead nor alive and had not the hardihood to make any defence against her; but, rising, all scratched and flayed and baffled as he was, and picking up his bonnet, he fell to humbly beseeching her leave crying out, an she would not have him cut in pieces, for that she who had been with him was the wife of the master of the house; whereupon quoth she, 'So be it, God give her an ill year.' At this moment, Bruno and Buffalmacco, having laughed their fill at all this, in company with Filippo and Niccolosa, came up, feigning to be attracted by the clamour, and having with no little ado appeased the lady, counselled Calandrino betake himself to Florence and return thither no more, lest Filippo should get wind of the matter and do him a mischief. Accordingly he returned to Florence, chapfallen and woebegone, all flayed and scratched, and never ventured to go thither again; but, being plagued and harassed night and day with his wife's reproaches, he made an end of his fervent love, having given much cause for laughter to his companions, no less than to Niccolosa and Filippo." THE SIXTH STORY [Day the Ninth] TWO YOUNG GENTLEMEN LODGE THE NIGHT WITH AN INNKEEPER, WHEREOF ONE GOETH TO LIE WITH THE HOST'S DAUGHTER, WHILST HIS WIFE UNWITTINGLY COUCHETH WITH THE OTHER; AFTER WHICH HE WHO LAY WITH THE GIRL GETTETH HIM TO BED WITH HER FATHER AND TELLETH HIM ALL, THINKING TO BESPEAK HIS COMRADE. THEREWITHAL THEY COME TO WORDS, BUT THE WIFE, PERCEIVING HER MISTAKE, ENTERETH HER DAUGHTER'S BED AND THENCE WITH CERTAIN WORDS APPEASETH EVERYTHING Calandrino, who had otherwhiles afforded the company matter for laughter, made them laugh this time also, and whenas the ladies had left devising of his fashions, the queen bade Pamfilo tell, whereupon quoth he, "Laudable ladies, the name of Niccolosa, Calandrino's mistress, hath brought me back to mind a story of another Niccolosa, which it pleaseth me to tell you, for that therein you shall see how a goodwife's ready wit did away a great scandal. In the plain of Mugnone there was not long since a good man who gave wayfarers to eat and drink for their money, and although he was poor and had but a small house, he bytimes at a pinch gave, not every one, but sundry acquaintances, a night's lodging. He had a wife, a very handsome woman, by whom he had two children, whereof one was a fine buxom lass of some fifteen or sixteen years of age, who was not yet married, and the other a little child, not yet a year old, whom his mother herself suckled. Now a young gentleman of our city, a sprightly and pleasant youth, who was often in those parts, had cast his eyes on the girl and loved her ardently; and she, who gloried greatly in being beloved of a youth of his quality, whilst studying with pleasing fashions to maintain him in her love, became no less enamoured of him, and more than once, by mutual accord, this their love had had the desired effect, but that Pinuccio (for such was the young man's name) feared to bring reproach upon his mistress and himself. However, his ardour waxing from day to day, he could no longer master his desire to foregather with her and bethought himself to find a means of harbouring with her father, doubting not, from his acquaintance with the ordinance of the latter's house, but he might in that event contrive to pass the night in her company, without any being the wiser; and no sooner had he conceived this design than he proceeded without delay to carry it into execution. Accordingly, in company with a trusty friend of his called Adriano, who knew his love, he late one evening hired a couple of hackneys and set thereon two pairs of saddle-bags, filled belike with straw, with which they set out from Florence and fetching a compass, rode till they came overagainst the plain of Mugnone, it being by this night; then, turning about, as they were on their way back from Romagna, they made for the good man's house and knocked at the door. The host, being very familiar with both of them, promptly opened the door and Pinuccio said to him, 'Look you, thou must needs harbour us this night. We thought to reach Florence before dark, but have not availed to make such haste but that we find ourselves here, as thou seest at this hour.' 'Pinuccio,' answered the host, 'thou well knowest how little commodity I have to lodge such men as you are; however, since the night hath e'en overtaken you here and there is no time for you to go otherwhere, I will gladly harbour you as I may.' The two young men accordingly alighted and entered the inn, where they first eased[434] their hackneys and after supper with the host, having taken good care to bring provision with them. [Footnote 434: _Adagiarono_, _i.e._ unsaddled and stabled and fed them.] Now the good man had but one very small bedchamber, wherein were three pallet-beds set as best he knew, two at one end of the room and the third overagainst them at the other end; nor for all that was there so much space left that one could go there otherwise than straitly. The least ill of the three the host let make ready for the two friends and put them to lie there; then, after a while neither of the gentlemen being asleep, though both made a show thereof, he caused his daughter betake herself to bed in one of the two others and lay down himself in the third, with his wife, who set by the bedside the cradle wherein she had her little son. Things being ordered after this fashion and Pinuccio having seen everything, after a while, himseeming that every one was asleep, he arose softly and going to the bed where slept the girl beloved of him, laid himself beside the latter, by whom, for all she did it timorously, he was joyfully received, and with her he proceeded to take of that pleasure which both most desired. Whilst Pinuccio abode thus with his mistress, it chanced that a cat caused certain things fall, which the good wife, awaking, heard; whereupon, fearing lest it were otherwhat, she arose, as she was, in the dark and betook herself whereas she had heard the noise. Meanwhile, Adriano, without intent aforethought, arose by chance for some natural occasion and going to despatch this, came upon the cradle, whereas it had been set by the good wife, and unable to pass without moving it, took it up and set it down beside his own bed; then, having accomplished that for which he had arisen, he returned and betook himself to bed again, without recking of the cradle. The good wife, having searched and found the thing which had fallen was not what she thought, never troubled herself to kindle a light, to see it, but, chiding the cat, returned to the chamber and groped her way to the bed where her husband lay. Finding the cradle not there, 'Mercy o' me!' quoth she in herself. 'See what I was about to do! As I am a Christian, I had well nigh gone straight to our guest's bed.' Then, going a little farther and finding the cradle, she entered the bed whereby it stood and laid herself down beside Adriano, thinking to couch with her husband. Adriano, who was not yet asleep, feeling this, received her well and joyously and laying her aboard in a trice, clapped on all sail, to the no small contentment of the lady. Meanwhile, Pinuccio, fearing lest sleep should surprise him with his lass and having taken of her his fill of pleasure, arose from her, to return to his own bed, to sleep, and finding the cradle in his way, took the adjoining bed for that of his host; wherefore, going a little farther, he lay down with the latter, who awoke at his coming. Pinuccio, deeming himself beside Adriano, said, 'I tell thee there never was so sweet a creature as is Niccolosa. Cock's body, I have had with her the rarest sport ever man had with woman, more by token that I have gone upwards of six times into the country, since I left thee.' The host, hearing this talk and being not overwell pleased therewith, said first in himself, 'What a devil doth this fellow here?' Then, more angered than well-advised, 'Pinuccio,' quoth he, 'this hath been a great piece of villainy of thine, and I know not why thou shouldst have used me thus; but, by the body of God, I will pay thee for it!!' Pinuccio, who was not the wisest lad in the world, seeing his mistake, addressed not himself to mend it as best he might, but said, 'Of what wilt thou pay me? What canst thou do to me?' Therewithal the hostess, who thought herself with her husband, said to Adriano, 'Good lack, hark to our guests how they are at I know not what words together!' Quoth Adriano, laughing, 'Leave them do, God land them in an ill year! They drank overmuch yesternight.' The good wife, herseeming she had heard her husband scold and hearing Adriano speak, incontinent perceived where and with whom she had been; whereupon, like a wise woman as she was, she arose forthright, without saying a word, and taking her little son's cradle, carried it at a guess, for that there was no jot of light to be seen in the chamber, to the side of the bed where her daughter slept and lay down with the latter; then, as if she had been aroused by her husband's clamour, she called him and enquired what was to do between himself and Pinuccio. He answered, 'Hearest thou not what he saith he hath done this night unto Niccolosa?' 'Marry,' quoth she, 'he lieth in his throat, for he was never abed with Niccolosa, seeing that I have lain here all night; more by token that I have not been able to sleep a wink; and thou art an ass to believe him. You men drink so much of an evening that you do nothing but dream all night and fare hither and thither, without knowing it, and fancy you do wonders. 'Tis a thousand pities you don't break your necks. But what doth Pinuccio yonder? Why bideth he not in his own bed?' Adriano, on his part, seeing how adroitly the good wife went about to cover her own shame and that of her daughter, chimed in with, 'Pinuccio, I have told thee an hundred times not to go abroad, for that this thy trick of arising in thy sleep and telling for true the extravagances thou dreamest will bring thee into trouble some day or other. Come back here, God give thee an ill night!' The host, hearing what his wife and Adriano said, began to believe in good earnest that Pinuccio was dreaming; and accordingly, taking him by the shoulders, he fell to shaking and calling him, saying, 'Pinuccio, awake; return to thine own bed.' Pinuccio having apprehended all that had been said began to wander off into other extravagances, after the fashion of a man a-dream; whereat the host set up the heartiest laughter in the world. At last, he made believe to awake for stress of shaking, and calling to Adriano, said, 'Is it already day, that thou callest me?' 'Ay,' answered the other, 'come hither.' Accordingly, Pinuccio, dissembling and making a show of being sleepy-eyed, arose at last from beside the host and went back to bed with Adriano. The day come and they being risen, the host fell to laughing and mocking at Pinuccio and his dreams; and so they passed from one jest to another, till the young men, having saddled their rounceys and strapped on their valises and drunken with the host, remounted to horse and rode away to Florence, no less content with the manner in which the thing had betided than with the effect itself thereof. Thereafter Pinuccio found other means of foregathering with Niccolosa, who vowed to her mother that he had certainly dreamt the thing; wherefore the goodwife, remembering her of Adriano's embracements, inwardly avouched herself alone to have waked." THE SEVENTH STORY [Day the Ninth] TALANO DI MOLESE DREAMETH THAT A WOLF MANGLETH ALL HIS WIFE'S NECK AND FACE AND BIDDETH HER BEWARE THEREOF; BUT SHE PAYETH NO HEED TO HIS WARNING AND IT BEFALLETH HER EVEN AS HE HAD DREAMED Pamfilo's story being ended and the goodwife's presence of mind having been commended of all, the queen bade Pampinea tell hers and she thereupon began, "It hath been otherwhile discoursed among us, charming ladies, of the truths foreshown by dreams, the which many of our sex scoff at; wherefore, notwithstanding that which hath been said thereof, I shall not scruple to tell you, in a very few words, that which no great while ago befell a she-neighbour of mine for not giving credit to a dream of herself seen by her husband. I know not if you were acquainted with Talano di Molese, a very worshipful man, who took to wife a young lady called Margarita, fair over all others, but so humoursome, ill-conditioned and froward that she would do nought of other folk's judgment, nor could others do aught to her liking; the which, irksome as it was to Talano to endure, natheless, as he could no otherwise, needs must he put up with. It chanced one night that, being with this Margarita of his at an estate he had in the country, himseemed in his sleep he saw his wife go walking in a very fair wood which they had not far from their house, and as she went, himseemed there came forth of a thicket a great and fierce wolf, which sprang straight at her throat and pulling her to the ground, enforced himself to carry her off, whilst she screamed for aid; and after, she winning free of his fangs, it seemed he had marred all her throat and face. Accordingly, when he arose in the morning, he said to the lady, 'Wife, albeit thy frowardness hath never suffered me to have a good day with thee, yet it would grieve me should ill betide thee; wherefore, an thou wilt hearken to my counsel, thou wilt not go forth the house to-day'; and being asked of her why, he orderly recounted to her his dream. The lady shook her head and said, 'Who willeth thee ill, dreameth thee ill. Thou feignest thyself mighty careful of me; but thou dreamest of me that which thou wouldst fain see come to pass; and thou mayst be assured that I will be careful both to-day and always not to gladden thee with this or other mischance of mine.' Quoth Talano, 'I knew thou wouldst say thus; for that such thanks still hath he who combeth a scald-head; but, believe as thou listeth, I for my part tell it to thee for good, and once more I counsel thee abide at home to-day or at least beware of going into our wood.' 'Good,' answered the lady, 'I will do it'; and after fell a-saying to herself, 'Sawest thou how artfully yonder man thinketh to have feared me from going to our wood to-day? Doubtless he hath given some trull or other tryst there and would not have me find him with her. Marry, it were fine eating for him with blind folk and I should be a right simpleton an I saw not his drift and if I believed him! But certes he shall not have his will; nay, though I abide there all day, needs must I see what traffic is this that he hath in hand to-day.' Accordingly, her husband being gone out at one door, she went out at the other and betook herself as most secretly she might straight to the wood and hid herself in the thickest part thereof, standing attent and looking now here and now there, an she should see any one come. As she abode on this wise, without any thought of danger, behold, there sallied forth of a thick coppice hard by a terrible great wolf, and scarce could she say, 'Lord, aid me!' when it flew at her throat and laying fast hold of her, proceeded to carry her off, as she were a lambkin. She could neither cry nor aid herself on other wise, so sore was her gullet straitened; wherefore the wolf, carrying her off, would assuredly have throttled her, had he not encountered certain shepherds, who shouted at him and constrained him to loose her. The shepherds knew her and carried her home, in a piteous plight, where, after long tending by the physicians, she was healed, yet not so wholly but she had all her throat and a part of her face marred on such wise that, whereas before she was fair, she ever after appeared misfeatured and very foul of favour; wherefore, being ashamed to appear whereas she might be seen, she many a time bitterly repented her of her frowardness and her perverse denial to put faith, in a matter which cost her nothing, in her husband's true dream." THE EIGHTH STORY [Day the Ninth] BIONDELLO CHEATETH CIACCO OF A DINNER, WHEREOF THE OTHER CRAFTILY AVENGETH HIMSELF, PROCURING HIM TO BE SHAMEFULLY BEATEN The merry company with one accord avouched that which Talano had seen in sleep to have been no dream, but a vision, so punctually, without there failing aught thereof, had it come to pass. But, all being silent the queen charged Lauretta follow on, who said, "Like as those, most discreet ladies, who have to-day foregone me in speech, have been well nigh all moved to discourse by something already said, even so the stern vengeance wreaked by the scholar, of whom Pampinea told us yesterday, moveth me to tell of a piece of revenge, which, without being so barbarous as the former, was nevertheless grievous unto him who brooked it. I must tell you, then, that there was once in Florence a man whom all called Ciacco,[435] as great a glutton as ever lived. His means sufficing him not to support the expense that his gluttony required and he being, for the rest, a very well-mannered man and full of goodly and pleasant sayings, he addressed himself to be, not altogether a buffoon, but a spunger[436] and to company with those who were rich and delighted to eat of good things; and with these he went often to dine and sup, albeit he was not always bidden. There was likewise at Florence, in those days, a man called Biondello, a little dapper fellow of his person, very quaint of his dress and sprucer than a fly, with his coif on his head and his yellow periwig still drest to a nicety, without a hair awry, who plied the same trade as Ciacco. Going one morning in Lent whereas they sell the fish and cheapening two very fine lampreys for Messer Vieri de' Cerchj, he was seen by Ciacco, who accosted him and said, 'What meaneth this?' Whereto Biondello made answer, 'Yestereve there were sent unto Messer Corso Donati three lampreys, much finer than these, and a sturgeon; to which sufficing him not for a dinner he is minded to give certain gentlemen, he would have me buy these other two. Wilt thou not come thither, thou?' Quoth Ciacco, 'Thou knowest well that I shall be there.' [Footnote 435: _i.e._ hog.] [Footnote 436: Lit. a backbiter (_morditore_).] Accordingly, whenas it seemed to him time, he betook himself to Messer Corso's house, where he found him with sundry neighbours of his, not yet gone to dinner, and being asked of him what he went doing, answered, 'Sir, I am come to dine with you and your company.' Quoth Messer Corso, 'Thou art welcome; and as it is time, let us to table.' Thereupon they seated themselves at table and had, to begin with, chickpease and pickled tunny, and after a dish of fried fish from the Arno, and no more, Ciacco, perceiving the cheat that Biondello had put upon him, was inwardly no little angered thereat and resolved to pay him for it; nor had many days passed ere he again encountered the other, who had by this time made many folk merry with the trick he had played him. Biondello, seeing him, saluted him and asked him, laughing, how he had found Messer Corso's lampreys; to which Ciacco answered, 'That shalt thou know much better than I, ere eight days be past.' Then, without wasting time over the matter, he took leave of Biondello and agreeing for a price with a shrewd huckster, carried him near to the Cavicciuoli Gallery and showing him a gentleman there, called Messer Filippo Argenti, a big burly rawboned fellow and the most despiteful, choleric and humoursome man alive, gave him a great glass flagon and said to him, 'Go to yonder gentleman with this flask in hand and say to him, "Sir Biondello sendeth me to you and prayeth you be pleased to rubify him this flask with your good red wine, for that he would fain make merry somedele with his minions." But take good care he lay not his hands on thee; else will he give thee an ill morrow and thou wilt have marred my plans.' 'Have I aught else to say,' asked the huckster; and Ciacco answered, 'No; do but go and say this and after come back to me here with the flask and I will pay thee.' The huckster accordingly set off and did his errand to Messer Filippo, who, hearing the message and being lightly ruffled, concluded that Biondello, whom he knew, had a mind to make mock of him, and waxing all red in the face, said, 'What "rubify me" and what "minions" be these? God land thee and him an ill year!' Then, starting to his feet, he put out his hand to lay hold of the huckster; but the latter, who was on his guard, promptly took to his heels and returning by another way to Ciacco, who had seen all that had passed, told him what Messer Filippo had said to him. Ciacco, well pleased, paid him and rested not till he found Biondello, to whom quoth he, 'Hast thou been late at the Cavicciuoli Gallery?' 'Nay,' answered the other. 'Why dost thou ask me?' 'Because,' replied Ciacco, 'I must tell thee that Messer Filippo enquireth for thee; I know not what he would have.' 'Good,' rejoined Biondello; 'I am going that way and will speak with him.' Accordingly, he made off, and Ciacco followed him, to see how the thing should pass. Meanwhile Messer Filippo, having failed to come at the huckster, abode sore disordered and was inwardly all a-fume with rage, being unable to make anything in the world of the huckster's words, if not that Biondello, at whosesoever instance, was minded to make mock of him. As he fretted himself thus, up came Biondello, whom no sooner did he espy than he made for him and dealt him a sore buffet in the face. 'Alack, sir,' cried Biondello, 'what is this?' Whereupon Messer Filippo, clutching him by the hair and tearing his coif, cast his bonnet to the ground and said, laying on to him amain the while, 'Knave that thou art, thou shalt soon see what it is! What is this thou sendest to say to me with thy "rubify me" and thy "minions"? Deemest thou me a child, to be flouted on this wise?' So saying, he battered his whole face with his fists, which were like very iron, nor left him a hair on his head unruffled; then, rolling him in the mire, he tore all the clothes off his back; and to this he applied himself with such a will that Biondello could not avail to say a word to him nor ask why he served him thus. He had heard him indeed speak of 'rubify me' and 'minions,' but knew not what this meant. At last, Messer Filippo having beaten him soundly, the bystanders, whereof many had by this time gathered about them, dragged him, with the utmost difficulty, out of the other's clutches, all bruised and battered as he was, and told him why the gentleman had done this, blaming him for that which he had sent to say to him and telling him that he should by that time have known Messer Filippo better and that he was not a man to jest withal. Biondello, all in tears protested his innocence, declaring that he had never sent to Messer Filippo for wine, and as soon as he was somewhat recovered, he returned home, sick and sorry, divining that this must have been Ciacco's doing. When, after many days, the bruises being gone, he began to go abroad again, it chanced that Ciacco encountered him and asked him, laughing, 'Harkye, Biondello, how deemest thou of Messer Filippo's wine?' 'Even as thou of Messer Corso's lampreys,' replied the other; and Ciacco said, 'The thing resteth with thee henceforth. Whenever thou goest about to give me to eat as thou didst, I will give thee in return to drink after t'other day's fashion.' Biondello, knowing full well that it was easier to wish Ciacco ill than to put it in practise, besought God of his peace[437] and thenceforth was careful to affront him no more." [Footnote 437: _i.e._ conjured him by God to make peace with him.] THE NINTH STORY [Day the Ninth] TWO YOUNG MEN SEEK COUNSEL OF SOLOMON, ONE HOW HE MAY BE LOVED AND THE OTHER HOW HE MAY AMEND HIS FROWARD WIFE, AND IN ANSWER HE BIDDETH THE ONE LOVE AND THE OTHER GET HIM TO GOOSEBRIDGE None other than the queen remaining to tell, so she would maintain Dioneo his privilege, she, after the ladies had laughed at the unlucky Biondello, began blithely to speak thus: "Lovesome ladies, if the ordinance of created things be considered with a whole mind, it will lightly enough be seen that the general multitude of women are by nature, by custom and by law subjected unto men and that it behoveth them order and govern themselves according to the discretion of these latter; wherefore each woman, who would have quiet and ease and solace with those men to whom she pertaineth, should be humble, patient and obedient, besides being virtuous, which latter is the supreme and especial treasure of every wise woman. Nay, though the laws, which in all things regard the general weal, and usance or (let us say) custom, whose puissance is both great and worship-worth, taught us not this, nature very manifestly showeth it unto us, inasmuch as she hath made us women tender and delicate of body and timid and fearful of spirit and hath given us little bodily strength, sweet voices and soft and graceful movements, all things testifying that we have need of the governance of others. Now, those who have need to be helped and governed, all reason requireth that they be obedient and submissive and reverent to their governors; and whom have we to governors and helpers, if not men? To men, therefore, it behoveth us submit ourselves, honouring them supremely; and whoso departeth from this, I hold her deserving, not only of grave reprehension, but of severe punishment. To these considerations I was lead, though not for the first time, by that which Pampinea told us a while ago of Talano's froward wife, upon whom God sent that chastisement which her husband had not known to give her; wherefore, as I have already said, all those women who depart from being loving, compliant and amenable, as nature, usance and law will it, are, in my judgment, worthy of stern and severe chastisement. It pleaseth me, therefore, to recount to you a counsel given by Solomon, as a salutary medicine for curing women who are thus made of that malady; which counsel let none, who meriteth not such treatment, repute to have been said for her, albeit men have a byword which saith, 'Good horse and bad horse both the spur need still, And women need the stick, both good and ill.' Which words, an one seek to interpret them by way of pleasantry, all women will lightly allow to be true; nay, but considering them morally,[438] I say that the same must be conceded of them; for that women are all naturally unstable and prone [to frailty,] wherefore, to correct the iniquity of those who allow themselves too far to overpass the limits appointed them, there needeth the stick which punisheth them, and to support the virtue of others who suffer not themselves to transgress, there needeth the stick which sustaineth and affeareth them. But, to leave be preaching for the nonce and come to that which I have it in mind to tell. [Footnote 438: _i.e._ from a serious or moral point of view.] You must know that, the high renown of Solomon's miraculous wisdom being bruited abroad well nigh throughout the whole world, no less than the liberality with which he dispensed it unto whoso would fain be certified thereof by experience, there flocked many to him from divers parts of the world for counsel in their straitest and most urgent occasions. Amongst others who thus resorted to him was a young man, Melisso by name, a gentleman of noble birth and great wealth, who set out from the city of Lajazzo,[439] whence he was and where he dwelt; and as he journeyed towards Jerusalem, it chanced that, coming forth of Antioch, he rode for some distance with a young man called Giosefo, who held the same course as himself. As the custom is of wayfarers, he entered into discourse with him and having learned from him what and whence he was, he asked him whither he went and upon what occasion; to which Giosefo replied that he was on his way to Solomon, to have counsel of him what course he should take with a wife he had, the most froward and perverse woman alive, whom neither with prayers nor with blandishments nor on any other wise could he avail to correct of her waywardness. Then he in his turn questioned Melisso whence he was and whither he went and on what errand, and he answered, 'I am of Lajazzo, and like as thou hast a grievance, even so have I one; I am young and rich and spend my substance in keeping open house and entertaining my fellow-townsmen, and yet, strange to say, I cannot for all that find one who wisheth me well; wherefore I go whither thou goest, to have counsel how I may win to be beloved.' [Footnote 439: Apparently Laodicea (_hod._ Eskihissar) in Anatolia, from which a traveller, taking the direct land route, would necessarily pass Antioch (_hod._ Antakhia) on his way to Jerusalem.] Accordingly, they joined company and journeyed till they came to Jerusalem, where, by the introduction of one of Solomon's barons, they were admitted to the presence of the king, to whom Melisso briefly set forth his occasion. Solomon answered him, 'Love'; and this said, Melisso was straightway put forth and Giosefo told that for which he was there. Solomon made him no other answer than 'Get thee to Goosebridge'; which said, Giosefo was on like wise removed, without delay, from the king's presence and finding Melisso awaiting him without, told him that which he had had for answer. Thereupon, pondering Solomon's words and availing to apprehend therefrom neither significance nor profit whatsoever for their occasions, they set out to return home, as deeming themselves flouted. After journeying for some days, they came to a river, over which was a fine bridge, and a caravan of pack-mules and sumpter-horses being in act to pass, it behoved them tarry till such time as these should be crossed over. Presently, the beasts having well nigh all crossed, it chanced that one of the mules took umbrage, as oftentimes we see them do, and would by no means pass on; whereupon a muleteer, taking a stick, began to beat it at first moderately enough to make it go on; but the mule shied now to this and now to that side of the road and whiles turned back altogether, but would on no wise pass on; whereupon the man, incensed beyond measure, fell to dealing it with the stick the heaviest blows in the world, now on the head, now on the flanks and anon on the crupper, but all to no purpose. Melisso and Giosefo stood watching this and said often to the muleteer, 'Alack, wretch that thou art, what dost thou? Wilt thou kill the beast? Why studiest thou not to manage him by fair means and gentle dealing? He will come quicklier than for cudgeling him as thou dost.' To which the man answered, 'You know your horses and I know my mule; leave me do with him.' So saying, he fell again to cudgelling him and belaboured him to such purpose on one side and on the other, that the mule passed on and the muleteer won the bout. Then, the two young men being now about to depart, Giosefo asked a poor man, who sat at the bridge-head, how the place was called, and he answered, 'Sir, this is called Goosebridge.' When Giosefo heard this, he straightway called to mind Solomon's words and said to Melisso, 'Marry, I tell thee, comrade, that the counsel given me by Solomon may well prove good and true, for I perceive very plainly that I knew not how to beat my wife; but this muleteer hath shown me what I have to do.' Accordingly, they fared on and came, after some days, to Antioch, where Giosefo kept Melisso with him, that he might rest himself a day or two, and being scurvily enough received of his wife, he bade her prepare supper according as Melisso should ordain; whereof the latter, seeing that it was his friend's pleasure, acquitted himself in a few words. The lady, as her usance had been in the past, did not as Melisso had ordained, but well nigh altogether the contrary; which Giosefo seeing, he was vexed and said, 'Was it not told thee on what wise thou shouldst prepare the supper?' The lady, turning round haughtily, answered, 'What meaneth this? Good lack, why dost thou not sup, an thou have a mind to sup? An if it were told me otherwise, it seemed good to me to do thus. If it please thee, so be it; if not, leave it be.' Melisso marvelled at the lady's answer and blamed her exceedingly; whilst Giosefo, hearing this, said, 'Wife, thou art still what thou wast wont to be; but, trust me, I will make thee change thy fashion.' Then turning to Melisso, 'Friend,' said he, 'we shall soon see what manner of counsel was Solomon's; but I prithee let it not irk thee to stand to see it and hold that which I shall do for a sport. And that thou mayest not hinder me, bethink thee of the answer the muleteer made us, when we pitied his mule.' Quoth Melisso, 'I am in thy house, where I purpose not to depart from thy good pleasure.' Giosefo then took a round stick, made of a young oak, and repaired a chamber, whither the lady, having arisen from table for despite, had betaken herself, grumbling; then, laying hold of her by the hair, he threw her down at his feet and proceeded to give her a sore beating with the stick. The lady at first cried out and after fell to threats; but, seeing that Giosefo for all that stinted not and being by this time all bruised, she began to cry him mercy for God's sake and besought him not to kill her, declaring that she would never more depart from his pleasure. Nevertheless, he held not his hand; nay, he continued to baste her more furiously than ever on all her seams, belabouring her amain now on the ribs, now on the haunches and now about the shoulder, nor stinted till he was weary and there was not a place left unbruised on the good lady's back. This done, he returned to his friend and said to him, 'To-morrow we shall see what will be the issue of the counsel to go to Goosebridge.' Then, after he had rested awhile and they had washed their hands, he supped with Melisso and in due season they betook themselves to bed. Meanwhile the wretched lady arose with great pain from the ground and casting herself on the bed, there rested as best she might until the morning, when she arose betimes and let ask Giosefo what he would have dressed for dinner. The latter, making merry over this with Melisso, appointed it in due course, and after, whenas it was time, returning, they found everything excellently well done and in accordance with the ordinance given; wherefore they mightily commended the counsel at first so ill apprehended of them. After some days, Melisso took leave of Giosefo and returning to his own house, told one, who was a man of understanding, the answer he had had from Solomon; whereupon quoth the other, 'He could have given thee no truer nor better counsel. Thou knowest thou lovest no one, and the honours and services thou renderest others, thou dost not for love that thou bearest them, but for pomp and ostentation. Love, then, as Solomon bade thee, and thou shalt be loved.' On this wise, then, was the froward wife corrected and the young man, loving, was beloved." THE TENTH STORY [Day the Ninth] DOM GIANNI, AT THE INSTANCE OF HIS GOSSIP PIETRO, PERFORMETH A CONJURATION FOR THE PURPOSE OF CAUSING THE LATTER'S WIFE TO BECOME A MARE; BUT, WHENAS HE COMETH TO PUT ON THE TAIL, PIETRO MARRETH THE WHOLE CONJURATION, SAYING THAT HE WILL NOT HAVE A TAIL The queen's story made the young men laugh and gave rise to some murmurs on the part of the ladies; then, as soon as the latter were quiet, Dioneo began to speak thus, "Sprightly ladies, a black crow amongst a multitude of white doves addeth more beauty than would a snow-white swan, and in like manner among many sages one less wise is not only an augmentation of splendour and goodliness to their maturity, but eke a source of diversion and solace. Wherefore, you ladies being all exceeding discreet and modest, I, who savour somewhat of the scatterbrain, should be dearer to you, causing, as I do, your worth to shine the brightlier for my default, than if with my greater merit I made this of yours wax dimmer; and consequently, I should have larger license to show you myself such as I am and should more patiently be suffered of you, in saying that which I shall say, than if I were wiser. I will, therefore, tell you a story not overlong, whereby you may apprehend how diligently it behoveth to observe the conditions imposed by those who do aught by means of enchantment and how slight a default thereof sufficeth to mar everything done by the magician. A year or two agone there was at Barletta a priest called Dom Gianni di Barolo, who, for that he had but a poor cure, took to eking out his livelihood by hawking merchandise hither and thither about the fairs of Apulia with a mare of his and buying and selling. In the course of his travels he contracted a strait friendship with one who styled himself Pietro da Tresanti and plied the same trade with the aid of an ass he had. In token of friendship and affection, he called him still Gossip Pietro, after the Apulian fashion, and whenassoever he visited Barletta, he carried him to his parsonage and there lodged him with himself and entertained him to the best of his power. Gossip Pietro, on his part, albeit he was very poor and had but a sorry little house at Tresanti, scarce sufficing for himself and a young and buxom wife he had and his ass, as often as Dom Gianni came to Tresanti, carried him home with him and entertained him as best he might, in requital of the hospitality received from him at Barletta. Nevertheless, in the matter of lodging, having but one sorry little bed, in which he slept with his handsome wife, he could not entertain him as he would, but, Dom Gianni's mare being lodged with Pietro's ass in a little stable he had, needs must the priest himself lie by her side on a truss of straw. The goodwife, knowing the hospitality which the latter did her husband at Barletta, would more than once, whenas the priest came thither, have gone to lie with a neighbor of hers, by name Zita Caraprese, [daughter] of Giudice Leo, so he might sleep in the bed with her husband, and had many a time proposed it to Dom Gianni, but he would never hear of it; and once, amongst other times, he said to her, 'Gossip Gemmata, fret not thyself for me; I fare very well, for that, whenas it pleaseth me, I cause this mare of mine become a handsome wench and couch with her, and after, when I will, I change her into a mare again; wherefore I care not to part from her.' The young woman marvelled, but believed his tale and told her husband, saying, 'If he is so much thy friend as thou sayest, why dost thou not make him teach thee his charm, so thou mayst avail to make of me a mare and do thine affairs with the ass and the mare? So should we gain two for one; and when we were back at home, thou couldst make me a woman again, as I am.' Pietro, who was somewhat dull of wit, believed what she said and falling in with her counsel, began, as best he knew, to importune Dom Gianni to teach him the trick. The latter did his best to cure him of that folly, but availing not thereto, he said, 'Harkye, since you will e'en have it so, we will arise to-morrow morning before day, as of our wont, and I will show you how it is done. To tell thee the truth, the uneathest part of the matter is the putting on of the tail, as thou shalt see.' Accordingly, whenas it drew near unto day, Goodman Pietro and Gossip Gemmata, who had scarce slept that night, with such impatience did they await the accomplishment of the matter, arose and called Dom Gianni, who, arising in his shirt, betook himself to Pietro's little chamber and said to him, 'I know none in the world, except you, for whom I would do this; wherefore since it pleaseth you, I will e'en do it; but needs must you do as I shall bid you, an you would have the thing succeed.' They answered that they would do that which he should say; whereupon, taking the light, he put it into Pietro's hand and said to him, 'Mark how I shall do and keep well in mind that which I shall say. Above all, have a care, an thou wouldst not mar everything, that, whatsoever thou hearest or seest, thou say not a single word, and pray God that the tail may stick fast.' Pietro took the light, promising to do exactly as he said, whereupon Dom Gianni let strip Gemmata naked as she was born and caused her stand on all fours, mare-fashion, enjoining herself likewise not to utter a word for aught that should betide. Then, passing his hand over her face and her head, he proceeded to say, 'Be this a fine mare's head,' and touching her hair, said, 'Be this a fine mare's mane'; after which he touched her arms, saying, 'Be these fine mare's legs and feet,' and coming presently to her breast and finding it round and firm, such an one awoke that was not called and started up on end,[440] whereupon quoth he, 'Be this a fine mare's chest.' And on like wise he did with her back and belly and crupper and thighs and legs. Ultimately, nothing remaining to do but the tail, he pulled up his shirt and taking the dibble with which he planted men, he thrust it hastily into the furrow made therefor and said, 'And be this a fine mare's tail.' [Footnote 440: _i.e._ arrectus est penis ejus.] Pietro, who had thitherto watched everything intently, seeing this last proceeding and himseeming it was ill done, said, 'Ho there, Dom Gianni, I won't have a tail there, I won't have a tail there!' The radical moisture, wherewith all plants are made fast, was by this come, and Dom Gianni drew it forth, saying, 'Alack, gossip Pietro, what hast thou done? Did I not bid thee say not a word for aught that thou shouldst see? The mare was all made; but thou hast marred everything by talking, nor is there any means of doing it over again henceforth.' Quoth Pietro, 'Marry, I did not want that tail there. Why did you not say to me, "Make it thou"? More by token that you were for setting it too low.' 'Because,' answered Dom Gianni, 'thou hadst not known for the first time to set it on so well as I.' The young woman, hearing all this, stood up and said to her husband, in all good faith, 'Dolt that thou art, why hast thou marred thine affairs and mine? What mare sawest thou ever without a tail? So God aid me, thou art poor, but it would serve thee right, wert thou much poorer.' Then, there being now, by reason of the words that Pietro had spoken, no longer any means of making a mare of the young woman, she donned her clothes, woebegone and disconsolate, and Pietro, continuing to ply his old trade with an ass, as he was used, betook himself, in company with Dom Gianni, to the Bitonto fair, nor ever again required him of such a service." * * * * * How much the company laughed at this story, which was better understood of the ladies than Dioneo willed, let her who shall yet laugh thereat imagine for herself. But, the day's stories being now ended and the sun beginning to abate of its heat, the queen, knowing the end of her seignory to be come, rose to her feet and putting off the crown, set it on the head of Pamfilo, whom alone it remained to honour after such a fashion, and said, smiling, "My lord, there devolveth on thee a great burden, inasmuch as with thee it resteth, thou being the last, to make amends for my default and that of those who have foregone me in the dignity which thou presently holdest; whereof God lend thee grace, even as He hath vouchsafed it unto me to make thee king." Pamfilo blithely received the honour done him and answered, "Your merit and that of my other subjects will do on such wise that I shall be adjudged deserving of commendation, even as the others have been." Then, having, according to the usance of his predecessors, taken order with the seneschal of the things that were needful, he turned to the expectant ladies and said to them, "Lovesome ladies, it was the pleasure of Emilia, who hath this day been our queen, to give you, for the purpose of affording some rest to your powers, license to discourse of that which should most please you; wherefore, you being now rested, I hold it well to return to the wonted ordinance, and accordingly I will that each of you bethink herself to discourse to-morrow of this, to wit, OF WHOSO HATH ANYWISE WROUGHT GENEROUSLY OR MAGNIFICENTLY IN MATTERS OF LOVE OR OTHERWHAT. The telling and doing of these things will doubtless fire your well-disposed minds to do worthily; so will our life, which may not be other than brief in this mortal body, be made perpetual in laudatory renown; a thing which all, who serve not the belly only, as do the beasts, should not only desire, but with all diligence seek and endeavour after." The theme pleased the joyous company, who having all, with the new king's license, arisen from session, gave themselves to their wonted diversions, according to that unto which each was most drawn by desire; and on this wise they did until the hour of supper, whereunto they came joyously and were served with diligence and fair ordinance. Supper at an end, they arose to the wonted dances, and after they had sung a thousand canzonets, more diverting of words than masterly of music, the king bade Neifile sing one in her own name; whereupon, with clear and blithesome voice, she cheerfully and without delay began thus: A youngling maid am I and full of glee, Am fain to carol in the new-blown May, Love and sweet thoughts-a-mercy, blithe and free. I go about the meads, considering The vermeil flowers and golden and the white, Roses thorn-set and lilies snowy-bright, And one and all I fare a-likening Unto his face who hath with love-liking Ta'en and will hold me ever, having aye None other wish than as his pleasures be; Whereof when one I find me that doth show, Unto my seeming, likest him, full fain I cull and kiss and talk with it amain And all my heart to it, as best I know, Discover, with its store of wish and woe, Then it with others in a wreath I lay, Bound with my hair so golden-bright of blee. Ay, and that pleasure which the eye doth prove, By nature, of the flower's view, like delight Doth give me as I saw the very wight Who hath inflamed me of his dulcet love, And what its scent thereover and above Worketh in me, no words indeed can say; But sighs thereof bear witness true for me, The which from out my bosom day nor night Ne'er, as with other ladies, fierce and wild, Storm up; nay, thence they issue warm and mild And straight betake them to my loved one's sight, Who, hearing, moveth of himself, delight To give me; ay, and when I'm like to say "Ah come, lest I despair," still cometh he. Neifile's canzonet was much commended both of the king and of the other ladies; after which, for that a great part of the night was now spent, the king commanded that all should betake themselves to rest until the day. HERE ENDETH THE NINTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON _Day the Tenth_ HERE BEGINNETH THE TENTH AND LAST DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER THE GOVERNANCE OF PAMFILO IS DISCOURSED OF WHOSO HATH ANYWISE WROUGHT GENEROUSLY OR MAGNIFICENTLY IN MATTERS OF LOVE OR OTHERWHAT Certain cloudlets in the West were yet vermeil, what time those of the East were already at their marges grown lucent like unto very gold, when Pamfilo, arising, let call his comrades and the ladies, who being all come, he took counsel with them of whither they should go for their diversion and fared forth with slow step, accompanied by Filomena and Fiammetta, whilst all the others followed after. On this wise, devising and telling and answering many things of their future life together, they went a great while a-pleasuring; then, having made a pretty long circuit and the sun beginning to wax overhot, they returned to the palace. There they let rinse the beakers in the clear fountain and whoso would drank somewhat; after which they went frolicking among the pleasant shades of the garden until the eating-hour. Then, having eaten and slept, as of their wont, they assembled whereas it pleased the king and there he called upon Neifile for the first discourse, who blithely began thus: THE FIRST STORY [Day the Tenth] A KNIGHT IN THE KING'S SERVICE OF SPAIN THINKING HIMSELF ILL GUERDONED, THE KING BY VERY CERTAIN PROOF SHOWETH HIM THAT THIS IS NOT HIS FAULT, BUT THAT OF HIS OWN PERVERSE FORTUNE, AND AFTER LARGESSETH HIM MAGNIFICENTLY "Needs, honourable ladies, must I repute it a singular favour to myself that our king hath preferred me unto such an honour as it is to be the first to tell of magnificence, the which, even as the sun is the glory and adornment of all the heaven, is the light and lustre of every other virtue. I will, therefore, tell you a little story thereof, quaint and pleasant enough to my thinking, which to recall can certes be none other than useful. You must know, then, that, among the other gallant gentlemen who have from time immemorial graced our city, there was one (and maybe the most of worth) by name Messer Ruggieri de' Figiovanni, who, being both rich and high-spirited and seeing that, in view of the way of living and of the usages of Tuscany, he might, if he tarried there, avail to display little or nothing of his merit, resolved to seek service awhile with Alfonso, King of Spain, the renown of whose valiance transcended that of every other prince of his time; wherefore he betook himself, very honourably furnished with arms and horses and followers, to Alfonso in Spain and was by him graciously received. Accordingly, he took up his abode there and living splendidly and doing marvellous deeds of arms, he very soon made himself known for a man of worth and valour. When he had sojourned there a pretty while and had taken particular note of the king's fashions, himseemed he bestowed castles and cities and baronies now upon one and now upon another with little enough discretion, as giving them to those who were unworthy thereof, and for that to him, who held himself for that which he was, nothing was given, he conceived that his repute would be much abated by reason thereof; wherefore he determined to depart and craved leave of the king. The latter granted him the leave he sought and gave him one of the best and finest mules that ever was ridden, the which, for the long journey he had to make, was very acceptable to Messer Ruggieri. Moreover, he charged a discreet servant of his that he should study, by such means as seemed to him best, to ride with Messer Ruggieri on such wise that he should not appear to have been sent by the king, and note everything he should say of him, so as he might avail to repeat it to him, and that on the ensuing morning he should command him return to the court. Accordingly, the servant, lying in wait for Messer Ruggieri's departure, accosted him, as he came forth the city, and very aptly joined company with him, giving him to understand that he also was bound for Italy. Messer Ruggieri, then, fared on, riding the mule given him by the king and devising of one thing and another with the latter's servant, till hard upon tierce, when he said, 'Methinketh it were well done to let our beasts stale.' Accordingly, they put them up in a stable and they all staled, except the mule; then they rode on again, whilst the squire still took note of the gentleman's words, and came presently to a river, where, as they watered their cattle, the mule staled in the stream; which Messer Ruggieri seeing, 'Marry,' quoth he, 'God confound thee, beast, for that thou art made after the same fashion as the prince who gave thee to me!' The squire noted these words and albeit he took store of many others, as he journeyed with him all that day, he heard him say nought else but what was to the highest praise of the king. Next morning, they being mounted and Ruggieri offering to ride towards Tuscany, the squire imparted to him the king's commandment, whereupon he incontinent turned back. When he arrived at court, the king, learning what he had said of the mule, let call him to himself and receiving him with a cheerful favour, asked him why he had likened him to his mule, or rather why he had likened the mule to him. 'My lord,' replied Ruggieri frankly, 'I likened her to you for that, like as you give whereas it behoveth not and give not whereas it behoveth, even so she staled not whereas it behoved, but staled whereas it behoved not.' Then said the king, 'Messer Ruggieri, if I have not given to you, as I have given unto many who are of no account in comparison with you, it happened not because I knew you not for a most valiant cavalier and worthy of every great gift; nay, but it is your fortune, which hath not suffered me guerdon you according to your deserts, that hath sinned in this, and not I; and that I may say sooth I will manifestly prove to you.' 'My lord,' replied Ruggieri, 'I was not chagrined because I have gotten no largesse of you, for that I desire not to be richer than I am, but because you have on no wise borne witness to my merit. Natheless, I hold your excuse for good and honourable and am ready to see that which it shall please you show me, albeit I believe you without proof.' The king then carried him into a great hall of his, where, as he had ordered it beforehand, were two great locked coffers, and said to him, in presence of many, 'Messer Ruggieri, in one of these coffers is my crown, the royal sceptre and the orb, together with many goodly girdles and ouches and rings of mine, and in fine every precious jewel I have; and the other is full of earth. Take, then, one and be that which you shall take yours; and you may thus see whether of the twain hath been ungrateful to your worth, myself of your ill fortune.' Messer Ruggieri, seeing that it was the king's pleasure, took one of the coffers, which, being opened by Alfonso's commandment, was found to be that which was full of earth; whereupon quoth the king, laughing, 'Now can you see, Messer Ruggieri, that this that I tell you of your fortune is true; but certes your worth meriteth that I should oppose myself to her might. I know you have no mind to turn Spaniard and therefore I will bestow upon you neither castle nor city in these parts; but this coffer, of which fortune deprived you, I will in her despite shall be yours, so you may carry it off to your own country and justly glorify yourself of your worth in the sight of your countrymen by the witness of my gifts.' Messer Ruggieri accordingly took the coffer and having rendered the king those thanks which sorted with such a gift, joyfully returned therewith to Tuscany." THE SECOND STORY [Day the Tenth] GHINO DI TACCO TAKETH THE ABBOT OF CLUNY AND HAVING CURED HIM OF THE STOMACH-COMPLAINT, LETTETH HIM GO; WHEREUPON THE ABBOT, RETURNING TO THE COURT OF ROME, RECONCILETH HIM WITH POPE BONIFACE AND MAKETH HIM A PRIOR OF THE HOSPITALLERS The magnificence shown by King Alfonso to the Florentine cavalier having been duly commended, the king, who had been mightily pleased therewith, enjoined Elisa to follow on, and she straightway began thus: "Dainty dames, it cannot be denied that for a king to be munificent and to have shown his munificence to him who had served him is a great and a praiseworthy thing; but what shall we say if a churchman be related to have practised marvellous magnanimity towards one, whom if he had used as an enemy, he had of none been blamed therefor? Certes, we can say none otherwise than that the king's magnificence was a virtue, whilst that of the churchman was a miracle, inasmuch as the clergy are all exceeding niggardly, nay, far more so than women, and sworn enemies of all manner of liberality; and albeit all men naturally hunger after vengeance for affronts received, we see churchmen, for all they preach patience and especially commend the remission of offences, pursue it more eagerly than other folk. This, then, to wit, how a churchman was magnanimous, you may manifestly learn from the following story of mine. Ghino di Tacco, a man very famous for his cruelty and his robberies, being expelled [Transcriber's Note: missing 'from'] Siena and at feud with the Counts of Santa Fiore, raised Radicofani against the Church of Rome and taking up his sojourn there, caused his swashbucklers despoil whosoever passed through the surrounding country. Now, Boniface the Eighth being pope in Rome, there came to court the Abbot of Cluny, who is believed to be one of the richest prelates in the world, and having there marred his stomach, he was advised by the physicians to repair to the baths of Siena and he would without fail be cured. Accordingly, having gotten the pope's leave, he set out on his way thither in great pomp of gear and baggage and horses and servitors, unrecking of Ghino's [ill] report. The latter, hearing of his coming, spread his nets and hemmed him and all his household and gear about in a strait place, without letting a single footboy escape. This done, he despatched to the abbot one, the most sufficient, of his men, well accompanied, who in his name very lovingly prayed him be pleased to light down and sojourn with the aforesaid Ghino in his castle. The abbot, hearing this, answered furiously that he would nowise do it, having nought to do with Ghino, but that he would fare on and would fain see who should forbid his passage. Whereto quoth the messenger on humble wise, 'Sir, you are come into parts where, barring God His might, there is nothing to fear for us and where excommunications and interdicts are all excommunicated; wherefore, may it please you, you were best comply with Ghino in this.' During this parley, the whole place had been encompassed about with men-at-arms; wherefore the abbot, seeing himself taken with his men, betook himself, sore against his will, to the castle, in company with the ambassador, and with him all his household and gear, and alighting there, was, by Ghino's orders, lodged all alone in a very dark and mean little chamber in one of the pavilions, whilst every one else was well enough accommodated, according to his quality, about the castle and the horses and all the gear put in safety, without aught thereof being touched. This done, Ghino betook himself to the abbot and said to him, 'Sir, Ghino, whose guest you are, sendeth to you, praying you acquaint him whither you are bound and on what occasion.' The abbot, like a wise man, had by this laid by his pride and told him whither he went and why. Ghino, hearing this, took his leave and bethought himself to go about to cure him without baths. Accordingly, he let keep a great fire still burning in the little room and causing guard the place well, returned not to the abbot till the following morning, when he brought him, in a very white napkin, two slices of toasted bread and a great beaker of his own Corniglia vernage[441] and bespoke him thus, 'Sir, when Ghino was young, he studied medicine and saith that he learned there was no better remedy for the stomach-complaint than that which he purposeth to apply to you and of which these things that I bring you are the beginning; wherefore do you take them and refresh yourself.' [Footnote 441: See p. 372, note.] The abbot, whose hunger was greater than his desire to bandy words, ate the bread and drank the wine, though he did it with an ill will, and after made many haughty speeches, asking and counselling of many things and demanding in particular to see Ghino. The latter, hearing this talk, let part of it pass as idle and answered the rest very courteously, avouching that Ghino would visit him as quickliest he might. This said, he took his leave of him and returned not until the ensuing day, when he brought him as much toasted bread and as much malmsey; and so he kept him several days, till such time as he perceived that he had eaten some dried beans, which he had of intent aforethought brought secretly thither and left there; whereupon he asked him, on Ghino's part, how he found himself about the stomach. The abbot answered, 'Meseemeth I should fare well, were I but out of his hands; and after that, I have no greater desire than to eat, so well have his remedies cured me.' Thereupon Ghino caused the abbot's own people array him a goodly chamber with his own gear and let make ready a magnificent banquet, to which he bade the prelate's whole household, together with many folk of the burgh. Next morning, he betook himself to the abbot and said to him, 'Sir, since you feel yourself well, it is time to leave the infirmary.' Then, taking him by the hand, he brought him to the chamber prepared for him and leaving him there in company of his own people, occupied himself with caring that the banquet should be a magnificent one. The abbot solaced himself awhile with his men and told them what his life had been since his capture, whilst they, on the other hand, avouched themselves all to have been wonder-well entreated of Ghino. The eating-hour come, the abbot and the rest were well and orderly served with goodly viands and fine wines, without Ghino yet letting himself be known of the prelate; but, after the latter had abidden some days on this wise, the outlaw, having let bring all his gear into one saloon and all his horses, down to the sorriest rouncey, into a courtyard that was under the windows thereof, betook himself to him and asked him how he did and if he deemed himself strong enough to take horse. The abbot answered that he was strong enough and quite recovered of his stomach-complaint and that he should fare perfectly well, once he should be out of Ghino's hands. Ghino then brought him into the saloon, wherein was his gear and all his train, and carrying him to a window, whence he might see all his horses, said, 'My lord abbot, you must know that it was the being a gentleman and expelled from his house and poor and having many and puissant enemies, and not evilness of mind, that brought Ghino di Tacco (who is none other than myself) to be, for the defence of his life and his nobility, a highway-robber and an enemy of the court of Rome. Nevertheless, for that you seem to me a worthy gentleman, I purpose not, now that I have cured you of your stomach-complaint, to use you as I would another, from whom, he being in my hands as you are, I would take for myself such part of his goods as seemed well to me; nay, it is my intent that you, having regard to my need, shall appoint to me such part of your good as you yourself will. It is all here before you in its entirety and your horses you may from this window see in the courtyard; take, therefore, both part and all, as it pleaseth you, and from this time forth be it at your pleasure to go or to stay.' The abbot marvelled to hear such generous words from a highway-robber and was exceeding well pleased therewith, insomuch that, his anger and despite being of a sudden fallen, nay, changed into goodwill, he became Ghino's hearty friend and ran to embrace him, saying, 'I vow to God that, to gain the friendship of a man such as I presently judge thee to be, I would gladly consent to suffer a far greater affront than that which meseemed but now thou hadst done me. Accursed be fortune that constrained thee to so damnable a trade!' Then, letting take of his many goods but a very few necessary things, and the like of his horses, he left all the rest to Ghino and returned to Rome. The pope had had news of the taking of the abbot and albeit it had given him sore concern, he asked him, when he saw him, how the baths had profited him; whereto he replied, smiling, 'Holy Father, I found a worthy physician nearer than at the baths, who hath excellently well cured me'; and told him how, whereat the pope laughed, and the abbot, following on his speech and moved by a magnanimous spirit, craved a boon of him. The pope, thinking he would demand otherwhat, freely offered to do that which he should ask; and the abbot said, 'Holy Father, that which I mean to ask of you is that you restore your favour to Ghino di Tacco, my physician, for that, of all the men of worth and high account whom I ever knew, he is certes one of the most deserving; and for this ill that he doth, I hold it much more fortune's fault than his; the which[442] if you change by bestowing on him somewhat whereby he may live according to his condition, I doubt not anywise but you will, in brief space of time, deem of him even as I do.' The pope, who was great of soul and a lover of men of worth, hearing this, replied that he would gladly do it, an Ghino were indeed of such account as the abbot avouched, and bade the latter cause him come thither in all security. Accordingly, Ghino, at the abbot's instance, came to court, upon that assurance, nor had he been long about the pope's person ere the latter reputed him a man of worth and taking him into favour, bestowed on him a grand priory of those of the Hospitallers, having first let make him a knight of that order; which office he held whilst he lived, still approving himself a loyal friend and servant of Holy Church and of the Abbot of Cluny." [Footnote 442: _i.e._ fortune.] THE THIRD STORY [Day the Tenth] MITHRIDANES, ENVYING NATHAN HIS HOSPITALITY AND GENEROSITY AND GOING TO KILL HIM, FALLETH IN WITH HIMSELF, WITHOUT KNOWING HIM, AND IS BY HIM INSTRUCTED OF THE COURSE HE SHALL TAKE TO ACCOMPLISH HIS PURPOSE; BY MEANS WHEREOF HE FINDETH HIM, AS HE HIMSELF HAD ORDERED IT, IN A COPPICE AND RECOGNIZING HIM, IS ASHAMED AND BECOMETH HIS FRIEND Themseemed all they had heard what was like unto a miracle, to wit, that a churchman should have wrought anywhat magnificently; but, as soon as the ladies had left discoursing thereof, the king bade Filostrato proceed, who forthright began, "Noble ladies, great was the magnificence of the King of Spain and that of the Abbot of Cluny a thing belike never yet heard of; but maybe it will seem to you no less marvellous a thing to hear how a man, that he might do generosity to another who thirsted for his blood, nay, for the very breath of his nostrils, privily bethought himself to give them to him, ay, and would have done it, had the other willed to take them, even as I purpose to show you in a little story of mine. It is a very certain thing (if credit may be given to the report of divers Genoese and others who have been in those countries) that there was aforetime in the parts of Cattajo[443] a man of noble lineage and rich beyond compare, called Nathan, who, having an estate adjoining a highway whereby as of necessity passed all who sought to go from the Ponant to the Levant or from the Levant to the Ponant, and being a man of great and generous soul and desirous that it should be known by his works, assembled a great multitude of artificers and let build there, in a little space of time, one of the fairest and greatest and richest palaces that had ever been seen, the which he caused excellently well furnished with all that was apt unto the reception and entertainment of gentlemen. Then, having a great and goodly household, he there received and honourably entertained, with joyance and good cheer, whosoever came and went; and in this praiseworthy usance he persevered insomuch that not only the Levant, but well nigh all the Ponant, knew him by report. He was already full of years nor was therefore grown weary of the practice of hospitality, when it chanced that his fame reached the ears of a young man of a country not far from his own, by name Mithridanes, who, knowing himself no less rich than Nathan and waxing envious of his renown and his virtues, bethought himself to eclipse or shadow them with greater liberality. Accordingly, letting build a palace like unto that of Nathan, he proceeded to do the most unbounded courtesies[444] that ever any did whosoever came or went about those parts, and in a short time he became without doubt very famous. [Footnote 443: _Cattajo._ This word is usually translated Cathay, _i.e._ China; but _semble_ Boccaccio meant rather the Dalmatian province of Cattaro, which would better answer the description in the text, Nathan's estate being described as adjoining a highway leading from the Ponant (or Western shores of the Mediterranean) to the Levant (or Eastern shores), _e.g._ the road from Cattaro on the Adriatic to Salonica on the Ægean. Cathay (China) seems, from the circumstances of the case, out of the question, as is also the Italian town called Cattaio, near Padua.] [Footnote 444: _i.e._ to show the most extravagant hospitality.] It chanced one day that, as he abode all alone in the midcourt of his palace, there came in, by one of the gates, a poor woman, who sought of him an alms and had it; then, coming in again to him by the second, she had of him another alms, and so on for twelve times in succession; but, whenas she returned for the thirteenth time, he said to her, 'Good woman, thou art very diligent in this thine asking,' and natheless gave her an alms. The old crone, hearing these words, exclaimed, 'O liberality of Nathan, how marvellous art thou! For that, entering in by each of the two-and-thirty gates which his palace hath, and asking of him an alms, never, for all that he showed, was I recognized of him, and still I had it; whilst here, having as yet come in but at thirteen gates, I have been both recognized and chidden.' So saying, she went her ways and returned thither no more. Mithridanes, hearing the old woman's words, flamed up into a furious rage, as he who held that which he heard of Nathan's fame a diminishment of his own, and fell to saying, 'Alack, woe is me! When shall I attain to Nathan's liberality in great things, let alone overpass it, as I seek to do, seeing that I cannot approach him in the smallest? Verily, I weary myself in vain, an I remove him not from the earth; wherefore, since eld carrieth him not off, needs must I with mine own hands do it without delay.' Accordingly, rising upon that motion, he took horse with a small company, without communicating his design to any, and came after three days whereas Nathan abode. He arrived there at eventide and bidding his followers make a show of not being with him and provide themselves with lodging, against they should hear farther from him, abode alone at no great distance from the fair palace, where he found Nathan all unattended, as he went walking for his diversion, without any pomp of apparel, and knowing him not, asked him if he could inform him where Nathan dwelt. 'My son,' answered the latter cheerfully, 'there is none in these parts who is better able than I to show thee that; wherefore, whenas it pleaseth thee, I will carry thee thither.' Mithridanes rejoined that this would be very acceptable to him, but that, an it might be, he would fain be neither seen nor known of Nathan; and the latter said, 'That also will I do, since it pleaseth thee.' Mithridanes accordingly dismounted and repaired to the goodly palace, in company with Nathan, who quickly engaged him in most pleasant discourse. There he caused one of his servants take the young man's horse and putting his mouth to his ear, charged him take order with all those of the house, so none should tell the youth that he was Nathan; and so was it done. Moreover, he lodged him in a very goodly chamber, where none saw him, save those whom he had deputed to this service, and let entertain him with the utmost honour, himself bearing him company. After Mithridanes had abidden with him awhile on this wise, he asked him (albeit he held him in reverence as a father) who he was; to which Nathan answered, 'I am an unworthy servant of Nathan, who have grown old with him from my childhood, nor hath he ever advanced me to otherwhat than that which thou seest me; wherefore, albeit every one else is mighty well pleased with him, I for my part have little cause to thank him.' These words afforded Mithridanes some hope of availing with more certitude and more safety to give effect to his perverse design, and Nathan very courteously asking him who he was and what occasion brought him into those parts and proffering him his advice and assistance insomuch as lay in his power, he hesitated awhile to reply, but, presently, resolving to trust himself to him, he with a long circuit of words[445] required him first of secrecy and after of aid and counsel and entirely discovered to him who he was and wherefore and on what motion he came. Nathan, hearing his discourse and his cruel design, was inwardly all disordered; but nevertheless, without much hesitation, he answered him with an undaunted mind and a firm countenance, saying, 'Mithridanes, thy father was a noble man and thou showest thyself minded not to degenerate from him, in having entered upon so high an emprise as this thou hast undertaken, to wit, to be liberal unto all; and greatly do I commend the jealousy thou bearest unto Nathan's virtues, for that, were there many such,[446] the world, that is most wretched, would soon become good. The design that thou hast discovered to me I will without fail keep secret; but for the accomplishment thereof I can rather give thee useful counsel than great help; the which is this. Thou mayst from here see a coppice, maybe half a mile hence, wherein Nathan well nigh every morning walketh all alone, taking his pleasure there a pretty long while; and there it will be a light matter to thee to find him and do thy will of him. If thou slay him, thou must, so thou mayst return home without hindrance, get thee gone, not by that way thou camest, but by that which thou wilt see issue forth of the coppice on the left hand, for that, albeit it is somewhat wilder, it is nearer to thy country and safer for thee.' [Footnote 445: Or as we should say, "After much beating about the bush."] [Footnote 446: _i.e._ jealousies.] Mithridanes, having received this information and Nathan having taken leave of him, privily let his companions, who had, like himself, taken up their sojourn in the palace, know where they should look for him on the morrow; and the new day came, Nathan, whose intent was nowise at variance with the counsel he had given Mithridanes nor was anywise changed, betook himself alone to the coppice, there to die. Meanwhile, Mithridanes arose and taking his bow and his sword, for other arms he had not, mounted to horse and made for the coppice, where he saw Nathan from afar go walking all alone. Being resolved, ere he attacked him, to seek to see him and hear him speak, he ran towards him and seizing him by the fillet he had about his head, said, 'Old man, thou art dead.' Whereto Nathan answered no otherwhat than, 'Then have I merited it.' Mithridanes, hearing his voice and looking him in the face, knew him forthright for him who had so lovingly received him and familiarly companied with him and faithfully counselled him; whereupon his fury incontinent subsided and his rage was changed into shame. Accordingly, casting away the sword, which he had already pulled out to smite him, and lighting down from his horse, he ran, weeping, to throw himself at Nathan's feet and said to him, 'Now, dearest father, do I manifestly recognize your liberality, considering with what secrecy you are come hither to give me your life, whereof, without any reason, I showed myself desirous, and that to yourself; but God, more careful of mine honour than I myself, hath, in the extremest hour of need, opened the eyes of my understanding, which vile envy had closed. Wherefore, the readier you have been to comply with me, so much the more do I confess myself beholden to do penance for my default. Take, then, of me the vengeance which you deem conformable to my sin.' Nathan raised Mithridanes to his feet and tenderly embraced and kissed him, saying, 'My son, it needeth not that thou shouldst ask nor that I should grant forgiveness of thine emprise, whatever thou choosest to style it, whether wicked or otherwise; for that thou pursuedst it, not of hatred, but to win to be held better. Live, then, secure from me and be assured that there is no man alive who loveth thee as I do, having regard to the loftiness of thy soul, which hath given itself, not to the amassing of monies, as do the covetous, but to the expenditure of those that have been amassed. Neither be thou ashamed of having sought to slay me, so though mightest become famous, nor think that I marvel thereat. The greatest emperors and the most illustrious kings have, with well nigh none other art than that of slaying, not one man, as thou wouldst have done, but an infinite multitude of men, and burning countries and razing cities, enlarged their realms and consequently their fame; wherefore, an thou wouldst, to make thyself more famous, have slain me only, thou diddest no new nor extraordinary thing, but one much used.' Mithridanes, without holding himself excused of his perverse design, commended the honourable excuse found by Nathan and came, in course of converse with him, to say that he marvelled beyond measure how he could have brought himself to meet his death and have gone so far as even to give him means and counsel to that end; whereto quoth Nathan, 'Mithridanes, I would not have thee marvel at my resolution nor at the counsel I gave thee, for that, since I have been mine own master and have addressed myself to do that same thing which thou hast undertaken to do, there came never any to my house but I contented him, so far as in me lay, of that which was required of me by him. Thou camest hither, desirous of my life; wherefore, learning that thou soughtest it, I straightway determined to give it thee, so thou mightest not be the only one to depart hence without his wish; and in order that thou mightest have thy desire, I gave thee such counsel as I thought apt to enable thee to have my life and not lose thine own; and therefore I tell thee once more and pray thee, an it please thee, take it and satisfy thyself thereof. I know not how I may better bestow it. These fourscore years have I occupied it and used it about my pleasures and my diversions, and I know that in the course of nature, according as it fareth with other men and with things in general, it can now be left me but a little while longer; wherefore I hold it far better to bestow it by way of gift, like as I have still given and expended my [other] treasures, than to seek to keep it until such times as it shall be taken from me by nature against my will. To give an hundred years is no great boon; how much less, then, is it to give the six or eight I have yet to abide here? Take it, then, an it like thee. Prithee, then, take it, an thou have a mind thereto; for that never yet, what while I have lived here, have I found any who hath desired it, nor know I when I may find any such, an thou, who demandest it, take it not. And even should I chance to find any one, I know that, the longer I keep it, the less worth will it be; therefore, ere it wax sorrier, take it, I beseech thee.' Mithridanes was sore abashed and replied, 'God forbid I should, let alone take and sever from you a thing of such price as your life, but even desire to do so, as but late I did,--your life, whose years far from seeking to lessen, I would willingly add thereto of mine own!' Whereto Nathan straightway rejoined, 'And art thou indeed willing, it being in thy power to do it, to add of thy years unto mine and in so doing, to cause me do for thee that which I never yet did for any man, to wit, take of thy good, I who never yet took aught of others?' 'Ay am I,' answered Mithridanes in haste. 'Then,' said Nathan, 'thou must do as I shall bid thee. Thou shalt take up thine abode, young as thou art, here in my house and bear the name of Nathan, whilst I will betake myself to thy house and let still call myself Mithridanes.' Quoth Mithridanes, 'An I knew how to do as well as you have done and do, I would, without hesitation, take that which you proffer me; but, since meseemeth very certain that my actions would be a diminishment of Nathan's fame and as I purpose not to mar in another that which I know not how to order in myself, I will not take it.' These and many other courteous discourses having passed between them, they returned, at Nathan's instance, to the latter's palace, where he entertained Mithridanes with the utmost honour sundry days, heartening him in his great and noble purpose with all manner of wit and wisdom. Then, Mithridanes desiring to return to his own house with his company, he dismissed him, having throughly given him to know that he might never avail to outdo him in liberality." THE FOURTH STORY [Day the Tenth] MESSER GENTILE DE' CARISENDI, COMING FROM MODONA, TAKETH FORTH OF THE SEPULCHRE A LADY WHOM HE LOVETH AND WHO HATH BEEN BURIED FOR DEAD. THE LADY, RESTORED TO LIFE, BEARETH A MALE CHILD AND MESSER GENTILE RESTORETH HER AND HER SON TO NICCOLUCCIO CACCIANIMICO, HER HUSBAND It seemed to all a marvellous thing that a man should be lavish of his own blood and they declared Nathan's liberality to have verily transcended that of the King of Spain and the Abbot of Cluny. But, after enough to one and the other effect had been said thereof, the king, looking towards Lauretta, signed to her that he would have her tell, whereupon she straightway began, "Young ladies, magnificent and goodly are the things that have been recounted, nor meseemeth is there aught left unto us who have yet to tell, wherethrough we may range a story-telling, so throughly have they all[447] been occupied with the loftiness of the magnificences related, except we have recourse to the affairs of love, which latter afford a great abundance of matter for discourse on every subject; wherefore, at once on this account and for that the theme is one to which our age must needs especially incline us, it pleaseth me to relate to you an act of magnanimity done by a lover, which, all things considered, will peradventure appear to you nowise inferior to any of those already set forth, if it be true that treasures are lavished, enmities forgotten and life itself, nay, what is far more, honour and renown, exposed to a thousand perils, so we may avail to possess the thing beloved. [Footnote 447: _i.e._ all sections of the given theme.] There was, then, in Bologna, a very noble city of Lombardy, a gentleman very notable for virtue and nobility of blood, called Messer Gentile Carisendi, who, being young, became enamoured of a noble lady called Madam Catalina, the wife of one Niccoluccio Caccianimico; and for that he was ill repaid of his love by the lady, being named provost of Modona, he betook himself thither, as in despair of her. Meanwhile, Niccoluccio being absent from Bologna and the lady having, for that she was with child, gone to abide at a country house she had maybe three miles distant from the city, she was suddenly seized with a grievous fit of sickness,[448] which overcame her with such violence that it extinguished in her all sign of life, so that she was even adjudged dead of divers physicians; and for that her nearest kinswomen declared themselves to have had it from herself that she had not been so long pregnant that the child could be fully formed, without giving themselves farther concern, they buried her, such as she was, after much lamentation, in one of the vaults of a neighbouring church. [Footnote 448: Lit. accident (_accidente_).] The thing was forthright signified by a friend of his to Messer Gentile, who, poor as he had still been of her favour, grieved sore therefor and ultimately said in himself, 'Harkye, Madam Catalina, thou art dead, thou of whom, what while thou livedst, I could never avail to have so much as a look; wherefore, now thou canst not defend thyself, needs must I take of thee a kiss or two, all dead as thou art.' This said, he took order so his going should be secret and it being presently night, he mounted to horse with one of his servants and rode, without halting, till he came whereas the lady was buried and opened the sepulchre with all despatch. Then, entering therein, he laid himself beside her and putting his face to hers, kissed her again and again with many tears. But presently,--as we see men's appetites never abide content within any limit, but still desire farther, and especially those of lovers,--having bethought himself to tarry there no longer, he said, 'Marry, now that I am here, why should I not touch her somedele on the breast? I may never touch her more, nor have I ever yet done so.' Accordingly, overcome with this desire, he put his hand into her bosom and holding it there awhile, himseemed he felt her heart beat somewhat. Thereupon, putting aside all fear, he sought more diligently and found that she was certainly not dead, scant and feeble as he deemed the life [that lingered in her;] wherefore, with the help of his servant, he brought her forth of the tomb, as softliest he might, and setting her before him on his horse, carried her privily to his house in Bologna. There was his mother, a worthy and discreet gentlewoman, and she, after she had heard everything at large from her son, moved to compassion, quietly addressed herself by means of hot baths and great fires to recall the strayed life to the lady, who, coming presently to herself, heaved a great sigh and said, 'Ah me, where am I?' To which the good lady replied, 'Be of good comfort; thou art in safety.' Madam Catalina, collecting herself, looked about her and knew not aright where she was; but, seeing Messer Gentile before her, she was filled with wonderment and besought his mother to tell her how she came thither; whereupon Messer Gentile related to her everything in order. At this she was sore afflicted, but presently rendered him such thanks as she might and after conjured him, by the love he had erst borne her and of his courtesy, that she might not in his house suffer at his hands aught that should be anywise contrary to her honour and that of her husband and that, as soon as the day should be come, he would suffer her return to her own house. 'Madam,' answered Messer Gentile, 'whatsoever may have been my desire of time past, I purpose not, either at this present or ever henceforth, (since God hath vouchsafed me this grace that He hath restored you to me from death to life, and that by means of the love I have hitherto borne you,) to use you either here or elsewhere otherwise than as a dear sister; but this my service that I have done you to-night meriteth some recompense; wherefore I would have you deny me not a favour that I shall ask you.' The lady very graciously replied that she was ready to do his desire, so but she might and it were honourable. Then said he, 'Madam, your kinsfolk and all the Bolognese believe and hold you for certain to be dead, wherefore there is no one who looketh for you more at home, and therefore I would have you of your favour be pleased to abide quietly here with my mother till such time as I shall return from Modona, which will be soon. And the reason for which I require you of this is that I purpose to make a dear and solemn present of you to your husband in the presence of the most notable citizens of this place.' The lady, confessing herself beholden to the gentleman and that his request was an honourable one, determined to do as he asked, how much soever she desired to gladden her kinsfolk of her life,[449] and so she promised it to him upon her faith. Hardly had she made an end of her reply, when she felt the time of her delivery to be come and not long after, being lovingly tended of Messer Gentile's mother, she gave birth to a goodly male child, which manifold redoubled his gladness and her own. Messer Gentile took order that all things needful should be forthcoming and that she should be tended as she were his proper wife and presently returned in secret to Modona. There, having served the term of his office and being about to return to Bologna, he took order for the holding of a great and goodly banquet at his house on the morning he was to enter the city, and thereto he bade many gentlemen of the place, amongst whom was Niccoluccio Caccianimico. Accordingly, when he returned and dismounted, he found them all awaiting him, as likewise the lady, fairer and sounder than ever, and her little son in good case, and with inexpressible joy seating his guests at table, he let serve them magnificently with various meats. [Footnote 449: _i.e._ with news of her life.] Whenas the repast was near its end, having first told the lady what he meant to do and taken order with her of the course that she should hold, he began to speak thus: 'Gentlemen, I remember to have heard whiles that there is in Persia a custom and to my thinking a pleasant one, to wit, that, whenas any is minded supremely to honour a friend of his, he biddeth him to his house and there showeth him the thing, be it wife or mistress or daughter or whatsoever else, he holdeth most dear, avouching that, like as he showeth him this, even so, an he might, would he yet more willingly show him his very heart; which custom I purpose to observe in Bologna. You, of your favour, have honoured my banquet with your presence, and I in turn mean to honour you, after the Persian fashion, by showing you the most precious thing I have or may ever have in the world. But, ere I proceed to do this, I pray you tell me what you deem of a doubt[450] which I shall broach to you and which is this. A certain person hath in his house a very faithful and good servant, who falleth grievously sick, whereupon the former, without awaiting the sick man's end, letteth carry him into the middle street and hath no more heed of him. Cometh a stranger, who, moved to compassion of the sick man, carrieth him off to his own house and with great diligence and expense bringeth him again to his former health. Now I would fain know whether, if he keep him and make use of his services, his former master can in equity complain of or blame the second, if, he demanding him again, the latter refuse to restore him.' [Footnote 450: _Dubbio_, _i.e._ a doubtful case or question.] The gentlemen, after various discourse among themselves, concurring all in one opinion, committed the response to Niccoluccio Caccianimico, for that he was a goodly and eloquent speaker; whereupon the latter, having first commended the Persian usage, declared that he and all the rest were of opinion that the first master had no longer any right in his servant, since he had, in such a circumstance, not only abandoned him, but cast him away, and that, for the kind offices done him by the second, themseemed the servant was justly become his; wherefore, in keeping him, he did the first no hurt, no violence, no unright whatsoever. The other guests at table (and there were men there of worth and worship) said all of one accord that they held to that which had been answered by Niccoluccio; and Messer Gentile, well pleased with this response and that Niccoluccio had made it, avouched himself also to be of the same opinion. Then said he, 'It is now time that I honour you according to promise,' and calling two of his servants, despatched them to the lady, whom he had let magnificently dress and adorn, praying her be pleased to come gladden the company with her presence. Accordingly, she took her little son, who was very handsome, in her arms and coming into the banqueting-hall, attended by two serving-men seated herself, as Messer Gentile willed it, by the side of a gentleman of high standing. Then said he, 'Gentlemen, this is the thing which I hold and purpose to hold dearer than any other; look if it seem to you that I have reason to do so.' The guests, having paid her the utmost honour, commending her amain and declaring to Messer Gentile that he might well hold her dear, fell to looking upon her; and there were many there who had avouched her to be herself,[451] had they not held her for dead. But Niccoluccio gazed upon her above all and unable to contain himself, asked her, (Messer Gentile having withdrawn awhile,) as one who burned to know who she was, if she were a Bolognese lady or a foreigner. The lady, seeing herself questioned of her husband, hardly restrained herself from answering; but yet, to observe the appointed ordinance, she held her peace. Another asked her if the child was hers and a third if she were Messer Gentile's wife or anywise akin to him; but she made them no reply. Presently, Messer Gentile coming up, one of his guests said to him, 'Sir, this is a fair creature of yours, but she seemeth to us mute; is she so?' 'Gentlemen,' replied he, 'her not having spoken at this present is no small proof of her virtue.' And the other said, 'Tell us, then, who she is.' Quoth Messer Gentile, 'That will I gladly, so but you will promise me that none, for aught that I shall say, will budge from his place till such time as I shall have made an end of my story.' [Footnote 451: _i.e._ who would have recognized her as Madam Catalina.] All promised this and the tables being presently removed, Messer Gentile, seating himself beside the lady, said, 'Gentlemen, this lady is that loyal and faithful servant, of whom I questioned you awhile agone and who, being held little dear of her folk and so, as a thing without worth and no longer useful, cast out into the midward of the street, was by me taken up; yea, by my solicitude and of my handiwork I brought her forth of the jaws of death, and God, having regard to my good intent, hath caused her, by my means, from a frightful corpse become thus beautiful. But, that you may more manifestly apprehend how this betided me, I will briefly declare it to you.' Then, beginning from his falling enamoured of her, he particularly related to them that which had passed until that time, to the great wonderment of the hearers, and added, 'By reason of which things, an you, and especially Niccoluccio, have not changed counsel since awhile ago, the lady is fairly mine, nor can any with just title demand her again of me.' To this none made answer; nay, all awaited that which he should say farther; whilst Niccoluccio and the lady and certain of the others who were there wept for compassion.[452] [Footnote 452: _Compassione_, _i.e._ emotion.] Then Messer Gentile, rising to his feet and taking the little child in his arms and the lady by the hand, made for Niccoluccio and said to him, 'Rise up, gossip; I do not restore thee thy wife, whom thy kinsfolk and hers cast away; nay, but I will well bestow on thee this lady my gossip, with this her little son, who I am assured, was begotten of thee and whom I held at baptism and named Gentile; and I pray thee that she be none the less dear to thee for that she hath abidden near upon three months in my house; for I swear to thee,--by that God who belike caused me aforetime fall in love with her, to the intent that my love might be, as in effect it hath been, the occasion of her deliverance,--that never, whether with father or mother or with thee, hath she lived more chastely than she hath done with my mother in my house.' So saying, he turned to the lady and said to her, 'Madam, from this time forth I absolve you of every promise made me and leave you free [to return] to Niccoluccio.'[453] Then, giving the lady and the child into Niccoluccio's arms, he returned to his seat. Niccoluccio received them with the utmost eagerness, so much the more rejoiced as he was the farther removed from hope thereof, and thanked Messer Gentile, as best he might and knew; whilst the others, who all wept for compassion, commended the latter amain of this; yea, and he was commended of whosoever heard it. The lady was received in her house with marvellous rejoicing and long beheld with amazement by the Bolognese, as one raised from the dead; whilst Messer Gentile ever after abode a friend of Niccoluccio and of his kinsfolk and those of the lady. [Footnote 453: Lit. I leave you free _of_ Niccoluccio (_libera vi lascio di Niccoluccio_).] What, then, gentle ladies, will you say [of this case]? Is, think you, a king's having given away his sceptre and his crown or an abbot's having, without cost to himself, reconciled an evildoer with the pope or an old man's having proffered his weasand to the enemy's knife to be evened with this deed of Messer Gentile, who, being young and ardent and himseeming he had a just title to that which the heedlessness of others had cast away and he of his good fortune had taken up, not only honourably tempered his ardour, but, having in his possession that which he was still wont with all his thoughts to covet and to seek to steal away, freely restored it [to its owner]? Certes, meseemeth none of the magnificences already recounted can compare with this." THE FIFTH STORY [Day the Tenth] MADAM DIANORA REQUIRETH OF MESSER ANSALDO A GARDEN AS FAIR IN JANUARY AS IN MAY, AND HE BY BINDING HIMSELF [TO PAY A GREAT SUM OF MONEY] TO A NIGROMANCER, GIVETH IT TO HER. HER HUSBAND GRANTETH HER LEAVE TO DO MESSER ANSALDO'S PLEASURE, BUT HE, HEARING OF THE FORMER'S GENEROSITY, ABSOLVETH HER OF HER PROMISE, WHEREUPON THE NIGROMANCER, IN HIS TURN, ACQUITTETH MESSER ANSALDO OF HIS BOND, WITHOUT WILLING AUGHT OF HIS Messer Gentile having by each of the merry company been extolled to the very skies with the highest praise, the king charged Emilia follow on, who confidently, as if eager to speak, began as follows: "Dainty dames, none can with reason deny that Messer Gentile wrought magnificently; but, if it be sought to say that his magnanimity might not be overpassed, it will not belike be uneath to show that more is possible, as I purpose to set out to you in a little story of mine. In Friuli, a country, though cold, glad with goodly mountains and store of rivers and clear springs, is a city called Udine, wherein was aforetime a fair and noble lady called Madam Dianora, the wife of a wealthy gentleman named Gilberto, who was very debonair and easy of composition. The lady's charm procured her to be passionately loved of a noble and great baron by name Messer Ansaldo Gradense, a man of high condition and everywhere renowned for prowess and courtesy. He loved her fervently and did all that lay in his power to be beloved of her, to which end he frequently solicited her with messages, but wearied himself in vain. At last, his importunities being irksome to the lady and she seeing that, for all she denied him everything he sought of her, he stinted not therefor to love and solicit her, she determined to seek to rid herself of him by means of an extraordinary and in her judgment an impossible demand; wherefore she said one day to a woman, who came often to her on his part, 'Good woman, thou hast many times avouched to me that Messer Ansaldo loveth me over all things and hast proffered me marvellous great gifts on his part, which I would have him keep to himself, seeing that never thereby might I be prevailed upon to love him or comply with his wishes; but, an I could be certified that he loveth me in very deed as much as thou sayest, I might doubtless bring myself to love him and do that which he willeth; wherefore, an he choose to certify me of this with that which I shall require of him, I shall be ready to do his commandments.' Quoth the good woman, 'And what is that, madam, which you would have him do?' 'That which I desire,' replied the lady, 'is this; I will have, for this coming month of January, a garden, near this city, full of green grass and flowers and trees in full leaf, no otherwise than as it were May; the which if he contrive not, let him never more send me thee nor any other, for that, an he importune me more, so surely as I have hitherto kept his pursuit hidden from my husband and my kinsfolk, I will study to rid myself of him by complaining to them.' The gentleman, hearing the demand and the offer of his mistress, for all it seemed to him a hard thing and in a manner impossible to do and he knew it to be required of the lady for none otherwhat than to bereave him of all hope, determined nevertheless to essay whatsoever might be done thereof and sent into various parts about the world, enquiring if there were any to be found who would give him aid and counsel in the matter. At last, he happened upon one who offered, so he were well guerdoned, to do the thing by nigromantic art, and having agreed with him for a great sum of money, he joyfully awaited the appointed time, which come and the cold being extreme and everything full of snow and ice, the learned man, the night before the calends of January, so wrought by his arts in a very goodly meadow adjoining the city, that it appeared in the morning (according to the testimony of those who saw it) one of the goodliest gardens was ever seen of any, with grass and trees and fruits of every kind. Messer Ansaldo, after viewing this with the utmost gladness, let cull of the finest fruits and the fairest flowers that were there and caused privily present them to his mistress, bidding her come and see the garden required by her, so thereby she might know how he loved her and after, remembering her of the promise made him and sealed with an oath, bethink herself, as a loyal lady, to accomplish it to him. The lady, seeing the fruits and flowers and having already from many heard tell of the miraculous garden, began to repent of her promise. Natheless, curious, for all her repentance, of seeing strange things, she went with many other ladies of the city to view the garden and having with no little wonderment commended it amain, returned home, the woefullest woman alive, bethinking her of that to which she was bounden thereby. Such was her chagrin that she availed not so well to dissemble it but needs must it appear, and her husband, perceiving it, was urgent to know the reason. The lady, for shamefastness, kept silence thereof a great while; but at last, constrained to speak, she orderly discovered to him everything; which Gilberto, hearing, was at the first sore incensed, but presently, considering the purity of the lady's intent and chasing away anger with better counsel, he said, 'Dianora, it is not the part of a discreet nor of a virtuous woman to give ear unto any message of this sort nor to compound with any for her chastity under whatsoever condition. Words received into the heart by the channel of the ears have more potency than many conceive and well nigh every thing becometh possible to lovers. Thou didst ill, then, first to hearken and after to enter into terms of composition; but, for that I know the purity of thine intent, I will, to absolve thee of the bond of the promise, concede thee that which peradventure none other would do, being thereto the more induced by fear of the nigromancer, whom Messer Ansaldo, an thou cheat him, will maybe cause make us woeful. I will, then, that thou go to him and study to have thyself absolved of this thy promise, preserving thy chastity, if thou mayst anywise contrive it; but, an it may not be otherwise, thou shalt, for this once, yield him thy body, but not thy soul.' The lady, hearing her husband's speech, wept and denied herself willing to receive such a favour from him; but, for all her much denial, he would e'en have it be so. Accordingly, next morning, at daybreak, the lady, without overmuch adorning herself, repaired to Messer Ansaldo's house, with two of her serving-men before and a chamberwoman after her. Ansaldo, hearing that his mistress was come to him, marvelled sore and letting call the nigromancer, said to him, 'I will have thee see what a treasure thy skill hath gotten me.' Then, going to meet her, he received her with decency and reverence, without ensuing any disorderly appetite, and they entered all[454] into a goodly chamber, wherein was a great fire. There he caused set her a seat and said, 'Madam, I prithee, if the long love I have borne you merit any recompense, let it not irk you to discover to me the true cause which hath brought you hither at such an hour and in such company.' The lady, shamefast and well nigh with tears in her eyes, answered, 'Sir, neither love that I bear you nor plighted faith bringeth me hither, but the commandment of my husband, who, having more regard to the travails of your disorderly passion than to his honour and mine own, hath caused me come hither; and by his behest I am for this once disposed to do your every pleasure.' If Messer Ansaldo had marvelled at the sight of the lady, far more did he marvel, when he heard her words, and moved by Gilberto's generosity, his heat began to change to compassion and he said, 'God forbid, madam, an it be as you say, that I should be a marrer of his honour who hath compassion of my love; wherefore you shall, what while it is your pleasure to abide here, be no otherwise entreated than as you were my sister; and whenas it shall be agreeable to you, you are free to depart, so but you will render your husband, on my part, those thanks which you shall deem befitting unto courtesy such as his hath been and have me ever, in time to come, for brother and for servant.' [Footnote 454: _i.e._ Ansaldo, Dianora and the nigromancer.] The lady, hearing these words, was the joyfullest woman in the world and answered, saying, 'Nothing, having regard to your fashions, could ever make me believe that aught should ensue to me of my coming other than this that I see you do in the matter; whereof I shall still be beholden to you.' Then, taking leave, she returned, under honourable escort, to Messer Gilberto and told him that which had passed, of which there came about a very strait and loyal friendship between him and Messer Ansaldo. Moreover, the nigromancer, to whom the gentleman was for giving the promised guerdon, seeing Gilberto's generosity towards his wife's lover and that of the latter towards the lady, said, 'God forbid, since I have seen Gilberto liberal of his honour and you of your love, that I should not on like wise be liberal of my hire; wherefore, knowing it[455] will stand you in good stead, I intend that it shall be yours.' At this the gentleman was ashamed and studied to make him take or all or part; but, seeing that he wearied himself in vain and it pleasing the nigromancer (who had, after three days, done away his garden) to depart, he commended him to God and having extinguished from his heart his lustful love for the lady, he abode fired with honourable affection for her. How say you now, lovesome ladies? Shall we prefer [Gentile's resignation of] the in a manner dead lady and of his love already cooled for hope forspent, before the generosity of Messer Ansaldo, whose love was more ardent than ever and who was in a manner fired with new hope, holding in his hands the prey so long pursued? Meseemeth it were folly to pretend that this generosity can be evened with that." [Footnote 455: _i.e._ the money promised him by way of recompense.] THE SIXTH STORY [Day the Tenth] KING CHARLES THE OLD, THE VICTORIOUS, FALLETH ENAMOURED OF A YOUNG GIRL, BUT AFTER, ASHAMED OF HIS FOND THOUGHT, HONOURABLY MARRIETH BOTH HER AND HER SISTER It were over longsome fully to recount the various discourse that had place among the ladies of who used the greatest generosity, Gilberto or Messer Ansaldo or the nigromancer, in Madam Dianora's affairs; but, after the king had suffered them debate awhile, he looked at Fiammetta and bade her, telling a story, put an end to their contention; whereupon she, without hesitation, began as follows: "Illustrious ladies, I was ever of opinion that, in companies such as ours, it should still be discoursed so much at large that the overstraitness[456] of intent of the things said be not unto any matter for debate, the which is far more sortable among students in the schools than among us [women,] who scarce suffice unto the distaff and the spindle. Wherefore, seeing that you are presently at cross-purposes by reason of the things already said, I, who had in mind a thing maybe somewhat doubtful [of meaning,] will leave that be and tell you a story, treating nowise of a man of little account, but of a valiant king, who therein wrought knightly, in nothing attainting his honour. [Footnote 456: _i.e._, nicety, minuteness (_strettezza_).] Each one of you must many a time have heard tell of King Charles the Old or First, by whose magnanimous emprise, and after by the glorious victory gained by him over King Manfred, the Ghibellines were expelled from Florence and the Guelphs returned thither. In consequence of this a certain gentleman, called Messer Neri degli Uberti, departing the city with all his household and much monies and being minded to take refuge no otherwhere than under the hand of King Charles, betook himself to Castellamare di Stabia.[457] There, belike a crossbowshot removed from the other habitations of the place, among olive-trees and walnuts and chestnuts, wherewith the country aboundeth, he bought him an estate and built thereon a goodly and commodious dwelling-house, with a delightsome garden thereby, amiddleward which, having great plenty of running water, he made, after our country fashion, a goodly and clear fishpond and lightly filled it with good store of fish. Whilst he concerned himself to make his garden goodlier every day, it befell that King Charles repaired to Castellamare, to rest himself awhile in the hot season, and there hearing tell of the beauty of Messer Neri's garden, he desired to behold it. Hearing, moreover, to whom it belonged, he bethought himself that, as the gentleman was of the party adverse to his own, it behoved to deal the more familiarly with him, and accordingly sent to him to say that he purposed to sup with him privily in his garden that evening, he and four companions. This was very agreeable to Messer Neri, and having made magnificent preparation and taken order with his household of that which was to do, he received the king in his fair garden as gladliest he might and knew. The latter, after having viewed and commended all the garden and Messer Neri's house and washed, seated himself at one of the tables, which were set beside the fishpond, and seating Count Guy de Montfort, who was of his company, on one side of him and Messer Neri on the other, commanded other three, who were come thither with them, to serve according to the order appointed of his host. Thereupon there came dainty meats and there were wines of the best and costliest and the ordinance was exceeding goodly and praiseworthy, without noise or annoy whatsoever, the which the king much commended. [Footnote 457: A town on the Bay of Naples, near the ruins of Pompeii.] Presently, as he sat blithely at meat, enjoying the solitary place, there entered the garden two young damsels of maybe fifteen years of age, with hair like threads of gold, all ringleted and hanging loose, whereon was a light chaplet of pervinck-blossoms. Their faces bespoke them rather angels than otherwhat, so delicately fair they were, and they were clad each upon her skin in a garment of the finest linen and white as snow, the which from the waist upward was very strait and thence hung down in ample folds, pavilionwise, to the feet. She who came first bore on her left shoulder a pair of hand-nets and in her right hand a long pole, and the other had on her left shoulder a frying-pan and under the same arm a faggot of wood, whilst in her left hand she held a trivet and in the other a flask of oil and a lighted flambeau. The king, seeing them, marvelled and in suspense awaited what this should mean. The damsels came forward modestly and blushingly did obeisance to him, then, betaking themselves whereas one went down into the fishpond, she who bore the frying-pan set it down and the other things by it and taking the pole that the other carried, they both entered the water, which came up to their breasts. Meanwhile, one of Messer Neri's servants deftly kindled fire under the trivet and setting the pan thereon, poured therein oil and waited for the damsels to throw him fish. The latter, the one groping with the pole in those parts whereas she knew the fish lay hid and the other standing ready with the net, in a short space of time took fish galore, to the exceeding pleasure of the king, who eyed them attently; then, throwing some thereof to the servant, who put them in the pan, well nigh alive, they proceeded, as they had been lessoned, to take of the finest and cast them on the table before the king and his table-fellows. The fish wriggled about the table, to the marvellous diversion of the king, who took of them in his turn and sportively cast them back to the damsels; and on this wise they frolicked awhile, till such time as the servant had cooked the fish which had been given him and which, Messer Neri having so ordered it, were now set before the king, more as a relish than as any very rare and delectable dish. The damsels, seeing the fish cooked and having taken enough, came forth of the water, their thin white garments all clinging to their skins and hiding well nigh nought of their delicate bodies, and passing shamefastly before the king, returned to the house. The latter and the count and the others who served had well considered the damsels and each inwardly greatly commended them for fair and well shapen, no less than for agreeable and well mannered. But above all they pleased the king, who had so intently eyed every part of their bodies, as they came forth of the water, that, had any then pricked him, he would not have felt it, and as he called them more particularly to mind, unknowing who they were, he felt a very fervent desire awaken in his heart to please them, whereby he right well perceived himself to be in danger of becoming enamoured, an he took no heed to himself thereagainst; nor knew he indeed whether of the twain it was the more pleased him, so like in all things was the one to the other. After he had abidden awhile in this thought, he turned to Messer Neri and asked him who were the two damsels, to which the gentleman answered, 'My lord, these are my daughters born at a birth, whereof the one is called Ginevra the Fair and the other Isotta the Blonde.' The king commended them greatly and exhorted him to marry them, whereof Messer Neri excused himself, for that he was no more able thereunto. Meanwhile, nothing now remaining to be served of the supper but the fruits, there came the two damsels in very goodly gowns of sendal, with two great silver platters in their hands, full of various fruits, such as the season afforded, and these they set on the table before the king; which done, they withdrew a little apart and fell to singing a canzonet, whereof the words began thus: Whereas I'm come, O Love, It might not be, indeed, at length recounted, etc. This song they carolled on such dulcet wise and so delightsomely that to the king, who beheld and hearkened to them with ravishment, it seemed as if all the hierarchies of the angels were lighted there to sing. The song sung, they fell on their knees and respectfully craved of him leave to depart, who, albeit their departure was grievous to him, yet with a show of blitheness accorded it to them. The supper being now at an end, the king remounted to horse with his company and leaving Messer Neri, returned to the royal lodging, devising of one thing and another. There, holding his passion hidden, but availing not, for whatsoever great affair might supervene, to forget the beauty and grace of Ginevra the Fair, (for love of whom he loved her sister also, who was like unto her,) he became so fast entangled in the amorous snares that he could think of well nigh nought else and feigning other occasions, kept a strait intimacy with Messer Neri and very often visited his fair garden, to see Ginevra. At last, unable to endure longer and bethinking himself, in default of other means of compassing his desire, to take not one alone, but both of the damsels from their father, he discovered both his passion and his intent to Count Guy, who, for that he was an honourable man, said to him, 'My lord, I marvel greatly at that which you tell me, and that more than would another, inasmuch as meseemeth I have from your childhood to this day known your fashions better than any other; wherefore, meseeming never to have known such a passion in your youth, wherein Love might lightlier have fixed his talons, and seeing you presently hard upon old age, it is so new and so strange to me that you should love by way of enamourment[458] that it seemeth to me well nigh a miracle, and were it my office to reprove you thereof, I know well that which I should say to you thereanent, having in regard that you are yet with your harness on your back in a kingdom newly gained, amidst a people unknown and full of wiles and treasons, and are all occupied with very grave cares and matters of high moment, nor have you yet availed to seat yourself [in security;] and yet, among such and so many affairs, you have made place for the allurements of love. This is not the fashion of a magnanimous king; nay, but rather that of a pusillanimous boy. Moreover, what is far worse, you say that you are resolved to take his two daughters from a gentleman who hath entertained you in his house beyond his means and who, to do you the more honour, hath shown you these twain in a manner naked, thereby attesting how great is the faith he hath in you and that he firmly believeth you to be a king and not a ravening wolf. Again, hath it so soon dropped your memory that it was the violences done of Manfred to women that opened you the entry into this kingdom? What treason was ever wroughten more deserving of eternal punishment than this would be, that you should take from him who hospitably entreateth you his honour and hope and comfort? What would be said of you, an you should do it? You think, maybe, it were a sufficient excuse to say, "I did it for that he is a Ghibelline." Is this of the justice of kings, that they who resort on such wise to their arms should be entreated after such a fashion, be they who they may? Let me tell you, king, that it was an exceedingly great glory to you to have overcome Manfred, but a far greater one it is to overcome one's self; wherefore do you, who have to correct others, conquer yourself and curb this appetite, nor offer with such a blot to mar that which you have so gloriously gained.' [Footnote 458: _Per amore amiate_ (Fr. aimiez par amour).] These words stung the king's conscience to the quick and afflicted him the more inasmuch as he knew them for true; wherefore, after sundry heavy sighs, he said, 'Certes, Count, I hold every other enemy, however strong, weak and eath enough to the well-lessoned warrior to overcome in comparison with his own appetites; natheless, great as is the travail and inexpressible as is the might it requireth, your words have so stirred me that needs must I, ere many days be past, cause you see by deed that, like as I know how to conquer others, even so do I know how to overcome myself.' Nor had many days passed after this discourse when the king, having returned to Naples, determined, as well to deprive himself of occasion to do dishonourably as to requite the gentleman the hospitality received from him, to go about (grievous as it was to him to make others possessors of that which he coveted over all for himself) to marry the two young ladies, and that not as Messer Neri's daughters, but as his own. Accordingly, with Messer Neri's accord, he dowered them magnificently and gave Ginevra the Fair to Messer Maffeo da Palizzi and Isotta the Blonde to Messer Guglielmo della Magna, both noble cavaliers and great barons, to whom with inexpressible chagrin consigning them, he betook himself into Apulia, where with continual fatigues he so mortified the fierceness of his appetite that, having burst and broken the chains of love, he abode free of such passion for the rest of his life. There are some belike who will say that it was a little thing for a king to have married two young ladies, and that I will allow; but a great and a very great thing I call it, if we consider that it was a king enamoured who did this and who married to another her whom he loved, without having gotten or taking of his love leaf or flower or fruit. On this wise, then, did this magnanimous king, at once magnificently guerdoning the noble gentleman, laudably honouring the young ladies whom he loved and bravely overcoming himself." THE SEVENTH STORY [Day the Tenth] KING PEDRO OF ARRAGON, COMING TO KNOW THE FERVENT LOVE BORNE HIM BY LISA, COMFORTETH THE LOVE-SICK MAID AND PRESENTLY MARRIETH HER TO A NOBLE YOUNG GENTLEMAN; THEN, KISSING HER ON THE BROW, HE EVER AFTER AVOUCHETH HIMSELF HER KNIGHT Fiammetta having made an end of her story and the manful magnanimity of King Charles having been much commended, albeit there was one lady there who, being a Ghibelline, was loath to praise him, Pampinea, by the king's commandment, began thus, "There is no one of understanding, worshipful ladies, but would say that which you say of good King Charles, except she bear him ill-will for otherwhat; but, for that there occurreth to my memory a thing, belike no less commendable than this, done of one his adversary to one of our Florentine damsels, it pleaseth me to relate it to you. At the time of the expulsion of the French from Sicily, one of our Florentines was an apothecary at Palermo, a very rich man called Bernardo Puccini, who had by his wife an only daughter, a very fair damsel and already apt for marriage. Now King Pedro of Arragon, become lord of the island, held high festival with his barons at Palermo, wherein he tilting after the Catalan fashion, it chanced that Bernardo's daughter, whose name was Lisa, saw him running [at the ring] from a window where she was with other ladies, and he so marvellously pleased her that, looking upon him once and again, she fell passionately in love with him; and the festival ended and she abiding in her father's house, she could think of nothing but of this her illustrious and exalted love. And what most irked her in this was the consciousness of her own mean condition, which scarce suffered her to cherish any hope of a happy issue; natheless, she could not therefor bring herself to leave loving the king, albeit, for fear of greater annoy, she dared not discover her passion. The king had not perceived this thing and recked not of her, wherefor she suffered intolerable chagrin, past all that can be imagined. Thus it befell that, love still waxing in her and melancholy redoubling upon melancholy, the fair maid, unable to endure more, fell sick and wasted visibly away from day to day, like snow in the sun. Her father and mother, sore concerned for this that befell her, studied with assiduous tenderness to hearten her and succoured her in as much as might be with physicians and medicines, but it availed nothing, for that, despairing of her love, she had elected to live no longer. It chanced one day that, her father offering to do her every pleasure, she bethought herself, and she might aptly, to seek, before she died, to make the king acquainted with her love and her intent, and accordingly she prayed him bring her Minuccio d'Arezzo. Now this Minuccio was in those days held a very quaint and subtle singer and player and was gladly seen of the king; and Bernardo concluded that Lisa had a mind to hear him sing and play awhile. Accordingly, he sent to tell him, and Minuccio, who was a man of a debonair humour, incontinent came to her and having somedele comforted her with kindly speech, softly played her a fit or two on a viol he had with him and after sang her sundry songs, the which were fire and flame unto the damsel's passion, whereas he thought to solace her. Presently she told him that she would fain speak some words with him alone, wherefore, all else having withdrawn, she said to him, 'Minuccio, I have chosen thee to keep me very faithfully a secret of mine, hoping in the first place that thou wilt never discover it to any one, save to him of whom I shall tell thee, and after that thou wilt help me in that which lieth in thy power; and of this I pray thee Thou must know, then, Minuccio mine, that the day our lord King Pedro held the great festival in honour of his exaltation to the throne, it befell me, as he tilted, to espy him at so dour a point[459] that for the love of him there was kindled in my heart a fire that hath brought me to this pass wherein thou seest me, and knowing how ill my love beseemeth to a king, yet availing not, let alone to drive it away, but even to abate it, and it being beyond measure grievous to me to bear, I have as a lesser evil elected to die, as I shall do. True it is that I should begone hence cruelly disconsolate, an he first knew it not; wherefore, unknowing by whom I could more aptly acquaint him with this my resolution than by thyself, I desire to commit it to thee and pray thee that thou refuse not to do it, and whenas thou shalt have done it, that thou give me to know thereof, so that, dying comforted, I may be assoiled of these my pains.' And this said, she stinted, weeping. [Footnote 459: _In si forte punto_, or, in modern parlance, at so critical or ill-starred a moment.] Minuccio marvelled at the greatness of the damsel's soul and at her cruel resolve and was sore concerned for her; then, it suddenly occurring to his mind how he might honourably oblige her, he said to her, 'Lisa, I pledge thee my faith, whereof thou mayst live assured that thou wilt never find thyself deceived, and after, commending thee of so high an emprise as it is to have set thy mind upon so great a king, I proffer thee mine aid, by means whereof I hope, an thou wilt but take comfort, so to do that, ere three days be past, I doubt not to bring thee news that will be exceeding grateful to thee; and to lose no time, I mean to go about it forthright.' Lisa, having anew besought him amain thereof and promised him to take comfort, bade him God speed; whereupon Minuccio, taking his leave, betook himself to one Mico da Siena, a mighty good rhymer of those days, and constrained him with prayers to make the following canzonet: Bestir thee, Love, and get thee to my Sire And tell him all the torments I aby; Tell him I'm like to die, For fearfulness concealing my desire. Love, with clasped hands I cry thee mercy, so Thou mayst betake thee where my lord doth dwell. Say that I love and long for him, for lo, My heart he hath inflamed so sadly well; Yea, for the fire wherewith I'm all aglow, I fear to die nor yet the hour can tell When I shall part from pain so fierce and fell As that which, longing, for his sake I dree In shame and fear; ah me, For God's sake, cause him know my torment dire. Since first enamoured, Love, of him I grew, Thou hast not given me the heart to dare So much as one poor once my lord unto My love and longing plainly to declare, My lord who maketh me so sore to rue; Death, dying thus, were hard to me to bear. Belike, indeed, for he is debonair, 'Twould not displease him, did he know what pain I feel and didst thou deign Me daring to make known to him my fire. Yet, since 'twas not thy pleasure to impart, Love, such assurance to me that by glance Or sign or writ I might make known my heart Unto my lord, for my deliverance I prithee, sweet my master, of thine art Get thee to him and give him souvenance Of that fair day I saw him shield and lance Bear with the other knights and looking more, Enamoured fell so sore My heart thereof doth perish and expire. These words Minuccio forthwith set to a soft and plaintive air, such as the matter thereof required, and on the third day he betook himself to court, where, King Pedro being yet at meat, he was bidden by him sing somewhat to his viol. Thereupon he fell to singing the song aforesaid on such dulcet wise that all who were in the royal hall appeared men astonied, so still and attent stood they all to hearken, and the king maybe more than the others. Minuccio having made an end of his singing, the king enquired whence came this song that himseemed he had never before heard. 'My lord,' replied the minstrel, 'it is not yet three days since the words were made and the air.' The king asked for whom it had been made; and Minuccio answered, 'I dare not discover it save to you alone.' The king, desirous to hear it, as soon as the tables were removed, sent for Minuccio into his chamber and the latter orderly recounted to him all that he had heard from Lisa; wherewith Don Pedro was exceeding well pleased and much commended the damsel, avouching himself resolved to have compassion of so worthful a young lady and bidding him therefore go comfort her on his part and tell her that he would without fail come to visit her that day towards vespers. Minuccio, overjoyed to be the bearer of such pleasing news, betook himself incontinent, viol and all, to the damsel and bespeaking her in private, recounted to her all that had passed and after sang her the song to his viol; whereat she was so rejoiced and so content that she straightway showed manifest signs of great amendment and longingly awaited the hour of vespers, whenas her lord should come, without any of the household knowing or guessing how the case stood. Meanwhile, the king, who was a debonair and generous prince, having sundry times taken thought to the things heard from Minuccio and very well knowing the damsel and her beauty, waxed yet more pitiful over her and mounting to horse towards vespers, under colour of going abroad for his diversion, betook himself to the apothecary's house, where, having required a very goodly garden which he had to be opened to him, he alighted therein and presently asked Bernardo what was come of his daughter and if he had yet married her. 'My lord,' replied the apothecary, 'she is not married; nay, she hath been and is yet very sick; albeit it is true that since none she hath mended marvellously.' The king readily apprehended what this amendment meant and said, 'In good sooth, 'twere pity so fair a creature should be yet taken from the world. We would fain go visit her.' Accordingly, a little after, he betook himself with Bernardo and two companions only to her chamber and going up to the bed where the damsel, somedele upraised,[460] awaited him with impatience, took her by the hand and said to her, 'What meaneth this, my mistress? You are young and should comfort other women; yet you suffer yourself to be sick. We would beseech you be pleased, for the love of us, to hearten yourself on such wise that you may speedily be whole again.' The damsel, feeling herself touched of his hands whom she loved over all else, albeit she was somewhat shamefast, felt yet such gladness in her heart as she were in Paradise and answered him, as best she might, saying, 'My lord, my having willed to subject my little strength unto very grievous burdens hath been the cause to me of this mine infirmity, whereof, thanks to your goodness, you shall soon see me quit.' The king alone understood the damsel's covert speech and held her momently of more account; nay, sundry whiles he inwardly cursed fortune, who had made her daughter unto such a man; then, after he had tarried with her awhile and comforted her yet more, he took his leave. [Footnote 460: _Sollevata_, syn. solaced, relieved or (3) agitated, troubled.] This humanity of the king was greatly commended and attributed for great honour to the apothecary and his daughter, which latter abode as well pleased as ever was woman of her lover, and sustained of better hope, in a few days recovered and became fairer than ever. When she was whole again, the king, having taken counsel with the queen of what return he should make her for so much love, mounting one day to horse with many of his barons, repaired to the apothecary's house and entering the garden, let call Master Bernardo and his daughter; then, the queen presently coming thither with many ladies and having received Lisa among them, they fell to making wonder-merry. After a while, the king and queen called Lisa to them and the former said to her, 'Noble damsel, the much love you have borne us hath gotten you a great honour from us, wherewith we would have you for the love of us be content; to wit, that, since you are apt for marriage, we would have you take him to husband whom we shall bestow on you, purposing, notwithstanding this, to call ourselves still your knight, without desiring aught from you of so much love but one sole kiss.' The damsel, grown all vermeil in the face for shamefastness, making the king's pleasure hers, replied in a low voice on this wise, 'My lord, I am well assured that, were it known that I had fallen enamoured of you, most folk would account me mad therefor, thinking belike that I had forgotten myself and knew not mine own condition nor yet yours; but God, who alone seeth the hearts of mortals, knoweth that, in that same hour whenas first you pleased me, I knew you for a king and myself for the daughter of Bernardo the apothecary and that it ill beseemed me to address the ardour of my soul unto so high a place. But, as you know far better than I, none here below falleth in love according to fitness of election, but according to appetite and inclination, against which law I once and again strove with all my might, till, availing no farther, I loved and love and shall ever love you. But, since first I felt myself taken with love of you, I determined still to make your will mine; wherefore, not only will I gladly obey you in this matter of taking a husband at your hands and holding him dear whom it shall please you to bestow on me, since that will be mine honour and estate, but, should you bid me abide in the fire, it were a delight to me, an I thought thereby to pleasure you. To have you, a king, to knight, you know how far it befitteth me, wherefore to that I make no farther answer; nor shall the kiss be vouchsafed you, which alone of my love you would have, without leave of my lady the queen. Natheless, of such graciousness as hath been yours towards me and that of our lady the queen here God render you for me both thanks and recompense, for I have not the wherewithal.' And with that she was silent. Her answer much pleased the queen and she seemed to her as discreet as the king had reported her. Don Pedro then let call the girl's father and mother and finding that they were well pleased with that which he purposed to do, summoned a young man, by name Perdicone, who was of gentle birth, but poor, and giving certain rings into his hand, married him, nothing loath, to Lisa; which done, he then and there, over and above many and precious jewels bestowed by the queen and himself upon the damsel, gave him Ceffalu and Calatabellotta, two very rich and goodly fiefs, and said to him, 'These we give thee to the lady's dowry. That which we purpose to do for thyself, thou shalt see in time to come.' This said, he turned to the damsel and saying, 'Now will we take that fruit which we are to have of your love,' took her head in his hands and kissed her on the brow. Perdicone and Lisa's father and mother, well pleased, (as indeed was she herself,) held high festival and joyous nuptials; and according as many avouch, the king very faithfully kept his covenant with the damsel, for that, whilst she lived, he still styled himself her knight nor ever went about any deed of arms but he wore none other favour than that which was sent him of her. It is by doing, then, on this wise that subjects' hearts are gained, that others are incited to do well and that eternal renown is acquired; but this is a mark at which few or none nowadays bend the bow of their understanding, most princes being presently grown cruel and tyrannical." THE EIGHTH STORY [Day the Tenth] SOPHRONIA, THINKING TO MARRY GISIPPUS, BECOMETH THE WIFE OF TITUS QUINTIUS FULVUS AND WITH HIM BETAKETH HERSELF TO ROME, WHITHER GISIPPUS COMETH IN POOR CASE AND CONCEIVING HIMSELF SLIGHTED OF TITUS, DECLARETH, SO HE MAY DIE, TO HAVE SLAIN A MAN. TITUS, RECOGNIZING HIM, TO SAVE HIM, AVOUCHETH HIMSELF TO HAVE DONE THE DEED, AND THE TRUE MURDERER, SEEING THIS, DISCOVERETH HIMSELF; WHEREUPON THEY ARE ALL THREE LIBERATED BY OCTAVIANUS AND TITUS, GIVING GISIPPUS HIS SISTER TO WIFE, HATH ALL HIS GOOD IN COMMON WITH HIM Pampinea having left speaking and all having commended King Pedro, the Ghibelline lady more than the rest, Fiammetta, by the king's commandment, began thus, "Illustrious ladies, who is there knoweth not that kings, when they will, can do everything great and that it is, to boot, especially required of them that they be magnificent? Whoso, then, having the power, doth that which pertaineth unto him, doth well; but folk should not so much marvel thereat nor exalt him to such a height with supreme praise as it would behove them do with another, of whom, for lack of means, less were required. Wherefore, if you with such words extol the actions of kings and they seem to you fair, I doubt not anywise but those of our peers, whenas they are like unto or greater than those of kings, will please you yet more and be yet highlier commended of you, and I purpose accordingly to recount to you, in a story, the praiseworthy and magnanimous dealings of two citizens and friends with each other. You must know, then, that at the time when Octavianus Cæsar (not yet styled Augustus) ruled the Roman empire in the office called Triumvirate, there was in Rome a gentleman called Publius Quintius Fulvus,[461] who, having a son of marvellous understanding, by name Titus Quintius Fulvus, sent him to Athens to study philosophy and commended him as most he might to a nobleman there called Chremes, his very old friend, by whom Titus was lodged in his own house, in company of a son of his called Gisippus, and set to study with the latter, under the governance of a philosopher named Aristippus. The two young men, coming to consort together, found each other's usances so conformable that there was born thereof a brotherhood between them and a friendship so great that it was never sundered by other accident than death, and neither of them knew weal nor peace save in so much as they were together. Entering upon their studies and being each alike endowed with the highest understanding, they ascended with equal step and marvellous commendation to the glorious altitudes of philosophy; and in this way of life they continued good three years, to the exceeding contentment of Chremes, who in a manner looked upon the one as no more his son than the other. At the end of this time it befell, even as it befalleth of all things, that Chremes, now an old man, departed this life, whereof the two young men suffered a like sorrow, as for a common father, nor could his friends and kinsfolk discern which of the twain was the more in need of consolation for that which had betided them. [Footnote 461: Sic, _Publio Quinzio Fulvo_; but _quære_ should it not rather be _Publio Quinto Fulvio_, _i.e._ Publius Quintus Fulvius, a form of the name which seems more in accordance with the genius of the Latin language?] It came to pass, after some months, that the friends and kinsfolk of Gisippus resorted to him and together with Titus exhorted him to take a wife, to which he consenting, they found him a young Athenian lady of marvellous beauty and very noble parentage, whose name was Sophronia and who was maybe fifteen years old. The term of the future nuptials drawing nigh, Gisippus one day besought Titus to go visit her with him, for that he had not yet seen her. Accordingly, they being come into her house and she seated between the twain, Titus proceeded to consider her with the utmost attention, as if to judge of the beauty of his friend's bride, and every part of her pleasing him beyond measure, what while he inwardly commended her charms to the utmost, he fell, without showing any sign thereof, as passionately enamoured of her as ever yet man of woman. After they had been with her awhile, they took their leave and returned home, where Titus, betaking himself alone into his chamber, fell a-thinking of the charming damsel and grew the more enkindled the more he enlarged upon her in thought; which, perceiving, he fell to saying in himself, after many ardent sighs, 'Alack, the wretchedness of thy life, Titus! Where and on what settest thou thy mind and thy love and thy hope? Knowest thou not that it behoveth thee, as well for the kindness received from Chremes and his family as for the entire friendship that is between thee and Gisippus, whose bride she is, to have yonder damsel in such respect as a sister? Whom, then, lovest thou? Whither lettest thou thyself be carried away by delusive love, whither by fallacious hope? Open the eyes of thine understanding and recollect thyself, wretch that thou art; give place to reason, curb thy carnal appetite, temper thine unhallowed desires and direct thy thoughts unto otherwhat; gainstand thy lust in this its beginning and conquer thyself, whilst it is yet time. This thou wouldst have is unseemly, nay, it is dishonourable; this thou art minded to ensue it behoveth thee, even wert thou assured (which thou art not) of obtaining it, to flee from, an thou have regard unto that which true friendship requireth and that which thou oughtest. What, then, wilt thou do, Titus? Thou wilt leave this unseemly love, an thou wouldst do that which behoveth.' Then, remembering him of Sophronia and going over to the contrary, he denounced all that he had said, saying, 'The laws of love are of greater puissance than any others; they annul even the Divine laws, let alone those of friendship; how often aforetime hath father loved daughter, brother sister, stepmother stepson, things more monstrous than for one friend to love the other's wife, the which hath already a thousand times befallen! Moreover, I am young and youth is altogether subject to the laws of Love; wherefor that which pleaseth Him, needs must it please me. Things honourable pertain unto maturer folk; I can will nought save that which Love willeth. The beauty of yonder damsel deserveth to be loved of all, and if I love her, who am young, who can justly blame me therefor? I love her not because she is Gisippus's; nay, I love her for that I should love her, whosesoever she was. In this fortune sinneth that hath allotted her to Gisippus my friend, rather than to another; and if she must be loved, (as she must, and deservedly, for her beauty,) Gisippus, an he came to know it, should be better pleased that I should love her, I, than another.' Then, from that reasoning he reverted again to the contrary, making mock of himself, and wasted not only that day and the ensuing night in passing from this to that and back again, but many others, insomuch that, losing appetite and sleep therefor, he was constrained for weakness to take to his bed. Gisippus, having beheld him several days full of melancholy thought and seeing him presently sick, was sore concerned and with every art and all solicitude studied to comfort him, never leaving him and questioning him often and instantly of the cause of his melancholy and his sickness. Titus, after having once and again given him idle tales, which Gisippus knew to be such, by way of answer, finding himself e'en constrained thereunto, with tears and sighs replied to him on this wise, 'Gisippus, had it pleased the Gods, death were far more a-gree to me than to live longer, considering that fortune hath brought me to a pass whereas it behoved me make proof of my virtue and that I have, to my exceeding shame, found this latter overcome; but certes I look thereof to have ere long the reward that befitteth me, to wit, death, and this will be more pleasing to me than to live in remembrance of my baseness, which latter, for that I cannot nor should hide aught from thee, I will, not without sore blushing, discover to thee.' Then, beginning from the beginning, he discovered to him the cause of his melancholy and the conflict of his thoughts and ultimately gave him to know which had gotten the victory and confessed himself perishing for love of Sophronia, declaring that, knowing how much this misbeseemed him, he had for penance thereof resolved himself to die, whereof he trusted speedily to make an end. Gisippus, hearing this and seeing his tears, abode awhile irresolute, as one who, though more moderately, was himself taken with the charms of the fair damsel, but speedily bethought himself that his friend's life should be dearer to him than Sophronia. Accordingly, solicited to tears by those of his friend, he answered him, weeping, 'Titus, wert thou not in need as thou art of comfort, I should complain of thee to thyself, as of one who hath transgressed against our friendship in having so long kept thy most grievous passion hidden from me; since, albeit it appeared not to thee honourable, nevertheless dishonourable things should not, more than honourable, be hidden from a friend; for that a friend, like as he rejoiceth with his friend in honourable things, even so he studieth to do away the dishonourable from his friend's mind; but for the present I will refrain therefrom and come to that which I perceive to be of greater urgency. That thou lovest Sophronia, who is betrothed to me, I marvel not: nay, I should marvel, indeed, if it were not so, knowing her beauty and the nobility of thy mind, so much the more susceptible of passion as the thing that pleaseth hath the more excellence. And the more reason thou hast to love Sophronia, so much the more unjustly dost thou complain of fortune (albeit thou expressest this not in so many words) in that it hath awarded her to me, it seeming to thee that thy love for her had been honourable, were she other than mine; but tell me, if thou be as well advised as thou usest to be, to whom could fortune have awarded her, whereof thou shouldst have more cause to render it thanks, than of having awarded her to me? Whoso else had had her, how honourable soever thy love had been, had liefer loved her for himself[462] than for thee,[463] a thing which thou shouldst not fear[464] from me, an thou hold me a friend such as I am to thee, for that I mind me not, since we have been friends, to have ever had aught that was not as much thine as mine. Now, were the matter so far advanced that it might not be otherwise, I would do with her as I have done with my other possessions;[465] but it is yet at such a point that I can make her thine alone; and I will do so, for that I know not why my friendship should be dear to thee, if, in respect of a thing that may honourably be done, I knew not of a desire of mine to make thine. True it is that Sophronia is my promised bride and that I loved her much and looked with great joyance for my nuptials with her; but, since thou, being far more understanding than I, with more ardour desirest so dear a thing as she is, live assured that she shall enter my chamber, not as my wife, but as thine. Wherefore leave thought-taking, put away melancholy, call back thy lost health and comfort and allegresse and from this time forth expect with blitheness the reward of thy love, far worthier than was mine.' [Footnote 462: Or "his" (_a sè_).] [Footnote 463: Or "thine" (_a te_).] [Footnote 464: Lit. "hope" (_sperare_). See note, p. 5.] [Footnote 465: _i.e._ I would have her in common with thee.] When Titus heard Gisippus speak thus, the more the flattering hopes given him of the latter afforded him pleasure, so much the more did just reason inform him with shame, showing him that, the greater was Gisippus his liberality, the more unworthy it appeared of himself to use it; wherefore, without giving over weeping, he with difficulty replied to him thus, 'Gisippus, thy generous and true friendship very plainly showeth me that which it pertaineth unto mine to do. God forfend that her, whom He hath bestowed upon thee as upon the worthier, I should receive from thee for mine! Had He judged it fitting that she should be mine, nor thou nor others can believe that He would ever have bestowed her on thee. Use, therefore, joyfully, thine election and discreet counsel and His gifts, and leave me to languish in the tears, which, as to one undeserving of such a treasure, He hath prepared unto me and which I will either overcome, and that will be dear to thee, or they will overcome me and I shall be out of pain.' 'Titus,' rejoined Gisippus, 'an our friendship might accord me such license that I should enforce thee to ensue a desire of mine and if it may avail to induce thee to do so, it is in this case that I mean to use it to the utmost, and if thou yield not to my prayers with a good grace, I will, with such violence as it behoveth us use for the weal of our friends, procure that Sophronia shall be thine. I know how great is the might of love and that, not once, but many a time, it hath brought lovers to a miserable death; nay, unto this I see thee so near that thou canst neither turn back nor avail to master thy tears, but, proceeding thus, wouldst pine and die; whereupon I, without any doubt, should speedily follow after. If, then, I loved thee not for otherwhat, thy life is dear to me, so I myself may live. Sophronia, therefore, shall be thine, for that thou couldst not lightly find another woman who would so please thee, and as I shall easily turn my love unto another, I shall thus have contented both thyself and me. I should not, peradventure, be so free to do this, were wives as scarce and as uneath to find as friends; however, as I can very easily find me another wife, but not another friend, I had liefer (I will not say _lose_ her, for that I shall not lose her, giving her to thee, but shall transfer her to another and a better self, but) transfer her than lose thee. Wherefore, if my prayers avail aught with thee, I beseech thee put away from thee this affliction and comforting at once thyself and me, address thee with good hope to take that joyance which thy fervent love desireth of the thing beloved.' Although Titus was ashamed to consent to this, namely, that Sophronia should become his wife, and on this account held out yet awhile, nevertheless, love on the one hand drawing him and Gisippus his exhortations on the other urging him, he said, 'Look you, Gisippus, I know not which I can say I do most, my pleasure or thine, in doing that whereof thou prayest me and which thou tellest me is so pleasing to thee, and since thy generosity is such that it overcometh my just shame, I will e'en do it; but of this thou mayst be assured that I do it as one who knoweth himself to receive of thee, not only the beloved lady, but with her his life. The Gods grant, an it be possible, that I may yet be able to show thee, for thine honour and thy weal, how grateful to me is that which thou, more pitiful for me than I for myself, dost for me!' These things said, 'Titus,' quoth Gisippus, 'in this matter, an we would have it take effect, meseemeth this course is to be held. As thou knowest, Sophronia, after long treaty between my kinsfolk and hers, is become my affianced bride; wherefore, should I now go about to say that I will not have her to wife, a sore scandal would ensue thereof and I should anger both her kinsfolk and mine own. Of this, indeed, I should reck nothing, an I saw that she was thereby to become thine; but I misdoubt me that, an I renounce her at this point, her kinsfolk will straightway give her to another, who belike will not be thyself, and so wilt thou have lost that which I shall not have gained. Wherefore meseemeth well, an thou be content, that I follow on with that which I have begun and bring her home as mine and hold the nuptials, and thou mayst after, as we shall know how to contrive, privily lie with her as with thy wife. Then, in due place and season, we will make manifest the fact, which, if it please them not, will still be done and they must perforce be content, being unable to go back upon it.' The device pleased Titus; wherefore Gisippus received the lady into his house, as his, (Titus being by this recovered and in good case,) and after holding high festival, the night being come, the ladies left the new-married wife in her husband's bed and went their ways. Now Titus his chamber adjoined that of Gisippus and one might go from the one room into the other; wherefore Gisippus, being in his chamber and having put out all the lights, betook himself stealthily to his friend and bade him go couch with his mistress. Titus, seeing this, was overcome with shame and would fain have repented and refused to go; but Gisippus, who with his whole heart, no less than in words, was minded to do his friend's pleasure, sent him thither, after long contention. Whenas he came into the bed, he took the damsel in his arms and asked her softly, as if in sport, if she chose to be his wife. She, thinking him to be Gisippus, answered, 'Yes'; whereupon he set a goodly and rich ring on her finger, saying, 'And I choose to be thy husband.' Then, the marriage consummated, he took long and amorous pleasance of her, without her or others anywise perceiving that other than Gisippus lay with her. The marriage of Sophronia and Titus being at this pass, Publius his father departed this life, wherefore it was written him that he should without delay return to Rome, to look to his affairs, and he accordingly took counsel with Gisippus to betake himself thither and carry Sophronia with him; which might not nor should aptly be done without discovering to her how the case stood. Accordingly, one day, calling her into the chamber, they thoroughly discovered to her the fact and thereof Titus certified her by many particulars of that which had passed between them twain. Sophronia, after eying the one and the other somewhat despitefully, fell a-weeping bitterly, complaining of Gisippus his deceit; then, rather than make any words of this in his house, she repaired to that of her father and there acquainted him and her mother with the cheat that had been put upon her and them by Gisippus, avouching herself to be the wife of Titus and not of Gisippus, as they believed. This was exceeding grievous to Sophronia's father, who made long and sore complaint thereof to her kinsfolk and those of Gisippus, and much and great was the talk and the clamour by reason thereof. Gisippus was held in despite both by his own kindred and those of Sophronia and every one declared him worthy not only of blame, but of severe chastisement; whilst he, on the contrary, avouched himself to have done an honourable thing and one for which thanks should be rendered him by Sophronia's kinsfolk, having married her to a better than himself. Titus, on his part, heard and suffered everything with no little annoy and knowing it to be the usance of the Greeks to press on with clamours and menaces, till such times as they found who should answer them, and then to become not only humble, but abject, he bethought himself that their clamour was no longer to be brooked without reply and having a Roman spirit and an Athenian wit, he adroitly contrived to assemble Gisippus his kinsfolk and those of Sophronia in a temple, wherein entering, accompanied by Gisippus alone, he thus bespoke the expectant folk: 'It is the belief of many philosophers that the actions of mortals are determined and foreordained of the immortal Gods, wherefore some will have it that all that is or shall ever be done is of necessity, albeit there be others who attribute this necessity to that only which is already done. If these opinions be considered with any diligence, it will very manifestly be seen that to blame a thing which cannot be undone is to do no otherwhat than to seek to show oneself wiser than the Gods, who, we must e'en believe, dispose of and govern us and our affairs with unfailing wisdom and without any error; wherefore you may very easily see what fond and brutish overweening it is to presume to find fault with their operations and eke how many and what chains they merit who suffer themselves be so far carried away by hardihood as to do this. Of whom, to my thinking, you are all, if that be true which I understand you have said and still say for that Sophronia is become my wife, whereas you had given her to Gisippus, never considering that it was foreordained from all eternity that she should become not his, but mine, as by the issue is known at this present. But, for that to speak of the secret foreordinance and intention of the Gods appeareth unto many a hard thing and a grievous to apprehend, I am willing to suppose that they concern not themselves with aught of our affairs and to condescend to the counsels[466] of mankind, in speaking whereof, it will behove me to do two things, both very contrary to my usances, the one, somedele to commend myself, and the other, in some measure to blame or disparage others; but, for that I purpose, neither in the one nor in the other, to depart from the truth and that the present matter requireth it, I will e'en do it. [Footnote 466: Or "arguments" (_consigli_).] Your complainings, dictated more by rage than by reason, upbraid, revile and condemn Gisippus with continual murmurs or rather clamours, for that, of his counsel, he hath given me to wife her whom you of yours[467] had given him; whereas I hold that he is supremely to be commended therefor, and that for two reasons, the one, for that he hath done that which a friend should do, and the other, for that he hath in this wrought more discreetly than did you. That which the sacred laws of friendship will that one friend should do for the other, it is not my intention at this present to expound, being content to have recalled to you this much only thereof, to wit, that the bonds of friendship are far more stringent than those of blood or of kindred, seeing that the friends we have are such as we choose for ourselves and our kinsfolk such as fortune giveth us; wherefore, if Gisippus loved my life more than your goodwill, I being his friend, as I hold myself, none should marvel thereat. But to come to the second reason, whereanent it more instantly behoveth to show you that he hath been wiser than yourselves, since meseemeth you reck nothing of the foreordinance of the Gods and know yet less of the effects of friendship:--I say, then, that you of your judgment, of your counsel and of your deliberation, gave Sophronia to Gisippus, a young man and a philosopher; Gisippus of his gave her to a young man and a philosopher; your counsel gave her to an Athenian and that of Gisippus to a Roman; your counsel gave her to a youth of noble birth and his to one yet nobler; yours to a rich youth, his to a very rich; yours to a youth who not only loved her not, but scarce knew her, his to one who loved her over his every happiness and more than his very life. And to show you that this I say is true and that Gisippus his action is more commendable than yours, let us consider it, part by part. That I, like Gisippus, am a young man and a philosopher, my favour and my studies may declare, without more discourse thereof. One same age is his and mine and still with equal step have we proceeded studying. True, he is an Athenian and I am a Roman. If it be disputed of the glory of our native cities, I say that I am a citizen of a free city and he of a tributary one; I am of a city mistress of the whole world and he of a city obedient unto mine; I am of a city most illustrious in arms, in empery and in letters, whereas he can only commend his own for letters. Moreover, albeit you see me here on lowly wise enough a student, I am not born of the dregs of the Roman populace; my houses and the public places of Rome are full of antique images of my ancestors and the Roman annals will be found full of many a triumph led by the Quintii up to the Roman Capitol; nor is the glory of our name fallen for age into decay, nay, it presently flourisheth more splendidly than ever. I speak not, for shamefastness, of my riches, bearing in mind that honourable poverty hath ever been the ancient and most ample patrimony of the noble citizens of Rome; but, if this be condemned of the opinion of the vulgar and treasures commended, I am abundantly provided with these latter, not as one covetous, but as beloved of fortune.[468] I know very well that it was and should have been and should be dear unto you to have Gisippus here in Athens to kinsman; but I ought not for any reason to be less dear to you at Rome, considering that in me you would have there an excellent host and an useful and diligent and powerful patron, no less in public occasions than in matters of private need. [Footnote 467: _i.e._ of your counsel.] [Footnote 468: _i.e._ my riches are not the result of covetous amassing, but of the favours of fortune.] Who then, letting be wilfulness and considering with reason, will commend your counsels above those of my Gisippus? Certes, none. Sophronia, then, is well and duly married to Titus Quintius Fulvus, a noble, rich and long-descended citizen of Rome and a friend of Gisippus; wherefore whoso complaineth or maketh moan of this doth not that which he ought neither knoweth that which he doth. Some perchance will say that they complain not of Sophronia being the wife of Titus, but of the manner wherein she became his wife, to wit, in secret and by stealth, without friend or kinsman knowing aught thereof; but this is no marvel nor thing that betideth newly. I willingly leave be those who have aforetime taken husbands against their parents' will and those who have fled with their lovers and have been mistresses before they were wives and those who have discovered themselves to be married rather by pregnancy or child-bearing than with the tongue, yet hath necessity commended it to their kinsfolk; nothing of which hath happened in Sophronia's case; nay, she hath orderly, discreetly and honourably been given by Gisippus to Titus. Others will say that he gave her in marriage to whom it appertained not to do so; but these be all foolish and womanish complaints and proceed from lack of advisement. This is not the first time that fortune hath made use of various means and strange instruments to bring matters to foreordained issues. What have I to care if it be a cordwainer rather than a philosopher, that hath, according to his judgment, despatched an affair of mine, and whether in secret or openly, provided the issue be good? If the cordwainer be indiscreet, all I have to do is to look well that he have no more to do with my affairs and thank him for that which is done. If Gisippus hath married Sophronia well, it is a superfluous folly to go complaining of the manner and of him. If you have no confidence in his judgment, look he have no more of your daughters to marry and thank him for this one. Nevertheless I would have you to know that I sought not, either by art or by fraud, to impose any stain upon the honour and illustriousness of your blood in the person of Sophronia, and that, albeit I took her secretly to wife, I came not as a ravisher to rob her of her maidenhead nor sought, after the manner of an enemy, whilst shunning your alliance, to have her otherwise than honourably; but, being ardently enkindled by her lovesome beauty and by her worth and knowing that, had I sought her with that ordinance which you will maybe say I should have used, I should not (she being much beloved of you) have had her, for fear lest I should carry her off to Rome, I used the occult means that may now be discovered to you and caused Gisippus, in my person, consent unto that which he himself was not disposed to do. Moreover, ardently as I loved her, I sought her embraces not as a lover, but as a husband, nor, as she herself can truly testify, did I draw near to her till I had first both with the due words and with the ring espoused her, asking her if she would have me for husband, to which she answered ay. If it appear to her that she hath been deceived, it is not I who am to blame therefor, but she, who asked me not who I was. This, then, is the great misdeed, the grievous crime, the sore default committed by Gisippus as a friend and by myself as a lover, to wit, that Sophronia hath secretly become the wife of Titus Quintius, and this it is for which you defame and menace and plot against him. What more could you do, had he bestowed her upon a churl, a losel or a slave? What chains, what prison, what gibbets had sufficed thereunto? But let that be for the present; the time is come which I looked not for yet, to wit, my father is dead and it behoveth me return to Rome; wherefore, meaning to carry Sophronia with me, I have discovered to you that which I should otherwise belike have yet kept hidden from you and with which, an you be wise, you will cheerfully put up, for that, had I wished to cheat or outrage you, I might have left her to you, scorned and dishonored; but God forfend that such a baseness should ever avail to harbour in a Roman breast! She, then, namely Sophronia, by the consent of the Gods and the operation of the laws of mankind, no less than by the admirable contrivance of my Gisippus and mine own amorous astuteness, is become mine, and this it seemeth that you, holding yourselves belike wiser than the Gods and than the rest of mankind, brutishly condemn, showing your disapproval in two ways both exceedingly noyous to myself, first by detaining Sophronia, over whom you have no right, save in so far as it pleaseth me to allow it, and secondly, by entreating Gisippus, to whom you are justly beholden, as an enemy. How foolishly you do in both which things I purpose not at this present to make farther manifest to you, but will only counsel you, as a friend, to lay by your despites and altogether leaving your resentments and the rancours that you have conceived, to restore Sophronia to me, so I may joyfully depart your kinsman and live your friend; for of this, whether that which is done please you or please you not, you may be assured that, if you offer to do otherwise, I will take Gisippus from you and if I win to Rome, I will without fail, however ill you may take it, have her again who is justly mine and ever after showing myself your enemy, will cause you know by experience that whereof the despite of Roman souls is capable.' Titus, having thus spoken, rose to his feet, with a countenance all disordered for anger, and taking Gisippus by the hand, went forth of the temple, shaking his head threateningly and showing that he recked little of as many as were there. The latter, in part reconciled by his reasonings to the alliance and desirous of his friendship and in part terrified by his last words, of one accord determined that it was better to have him for a kinsman, since Gisippus had not willed it, than to have lost the latter to kinsman and gotten the former for an enemy. Accordingly, going in quest of Titus, they told him that they were willing that Sophronia should be his and to have him for a dear kinsman and Gisippus for a dear friend; then, having mutually done each other such honours and courtesies as beseem between kinsmen and friends, they took their leaves and sent Sophronia back to him. She, like a wise woman, making a virtue of necessity, readily transferred to Titus the affection she bore Gisippus and repaired with him to Rome, where she was received with great honour. Meanwhile, Gisippus abode in Athens, held in little esteem of well nigh all, and no great while after, through certain intestine troubles, was, with all those of his house, expelled from Athens, in poverty and misery, and condemned to perpetual exile. Finding himself in this case and being grown not only poor, but beggarly, he betook himself, as least ill he might, to Rome, to essay if Titus should remember him. There, learning that the latter was alive and high in favour with all the Romans and enquiring for his dwelling-place, he stationed himself before the door and there abode till such time as Titus came, to whom, by reason of the wretched plight wherein he was, he dared not say a word, but studied to cause himself be seen of him, so he might recognize him and let call him to himself; wherefore Titus passed on, [without noting him,] and Gisippus, conceiving that he had seen and shunned him and remembering him of that which himself had done for him aforetime, departed, despiteful and despairing. It being by this night and he fasting and penniless, he wandered on, unknowing whither and more desirous of death than of otherwhat, and presently happened upon a very desert part of the city, where seeing a great cavern, he addressed himself to abide the night there and presently, forspent with long weeping, he fell asleep on the naked earth and ill in case. To this cavern two, who had gone a-thieving together that night, came towards morning, with the booty they had gotten, and falling out over the division, one, who was the stronger, slew the other and went away. Gisippus had seen and heard this and himseemed he had found a way to the death so sore desired of him, without slaying himself; wherefore he abode without stirring, till such time as the Serjeants of the watch, who had by this gotten wind of the deed, came thither and laying furious hands of him, carried him off prisoner. Gisippus, being examined, confessed that he had murdered the man nor had since availed to depart the cavern; whereupon the prætor, who was called Marcus Varro, commanded that he should be put to death upon the cross, as the usance then was. Now Titus was by chance come at that juncture to the prætorium and looking the wretched condemned man in the face and hearing why he had been doomed to die, suddenly knew him for Gisippus; whereupon, marvelling at his sorry fortune and how he came to be in Rome and desiring most ardently to succour him, but seeing no other means of saving him than to accuse himself and thus excuse him, he thrust forward in haste and cried out, saying, 'Marcus Varro, call back the poor man whom thou hast condemned, for that he is innocent. I have enough offended against the Gods with one crime, in slaying him whom thine officer found this morning dead, without willing presently to wrong them with the death of another innocent.' Varro marvelled and it irked him that all the prætorium should have heard him; but, being unable, for his own honour's sake, to forbear from doing that which the laws commanded, he caused bring back Gisippus and in the presence of Titus said to him, 'How camest thou to be so mad that, without suffering any torture, thou confessedst to that which thou didst not, it being a capital matter? Thou declaredst thyself to be he who slew the man yesternight, and now this man cometh and saith that it was not thou, but he that slew him.' Gisippus looked and seeing that it was Titus, perceived full well that he did this to save him, as grateful for the service aforetime received from him; wherefore, weeping for pity, 'Varro,' quoth he, 'indeed it was I slew him and Titus his solicitude for my safety is now too late.' Titus on the other hand, said, 'Prætor, do as thou seest, this man is a stranger and was found without arms beside the murdered man, and thou mayst see that his wretchedness giveth him occasion to wish to die; wherefore do thou release him and punish me, who have deserved it.' Varro marvelled at the insistence of these two and beginning now to presume that neither of them might be guilty, was casting about for a means of acquitting them, when, behold, up came a youth called Publius Ambustus, a man of notorious ill life and known to all the Romans for an arrant rogue, who had actually done the murder and knowing neither of the twain to be guilty of that whereof each accused himself, such was the pity that overcame his heart for the innocence of the two friends that, moved by supreme compassion, he came before Varro and said, 'Prætor, my fates impel me to solve the grievous contention of these twain and I know not what God within me spurreth and importuneth me to discover to thee my sin. Know, then, that neither of these men is guilty of that whereof each accuseth himself. I am verily he who slew yonder man this morning towards daybreak and I saw this poor wretch asleep there, what while I was in act to divide the booty gotten with him whom I slew. There is no need for me to excuse Titus; his renown is everywhere manifest and every one knoweth him to be no man of such a condition. Release him, therefore, and take of me that forfeit which the laws impose on me.' By this Octavianus had notice of the matter and causing all three be brought before him, desired to hear what cause had moved each of them to seek to be the condemned man. Accordingly, each related his own story, whereupon Octavianus released the two friends, for that they were innocent, and pardoned the other for the love of them. Thereupon Titus took his Gisippus and first reproaching him sore for lukewarmness[469] and diffidence, rejoiced in him with marvellous great joy and carried him to his house, where Sophronia with tears of compassion received him as a brother. Then, having awhile recruited him with rest and refreshment and reclothed him and restored him to such a habit as sorted with his worth and quality, he first shared all his treasures and estates in common with him and after gave him to wife a young sister of his, called Fulvia, saying, 'Gisippus, henceforth it resteth with thee whether thou wilt abide here with me or return with everything I have given thee into Achaia.' Gisippus, constrained on the one hand by his banishment from his native land and on the other by the love which he justly bore to the cherished friendship of Titus, consented to become a Roman and accordingly took up his abode in the city, where he with his Fulvia and Titus with his Sophronia lived long and happily, still abiding in one house and waxing more friends (an more they might be) every day. [Footnote 469: Sic (_tiepidezza_); but _semble_ "timidity" or "distrustfulness" is meant.] A most sacred thing, then, is friendship and worthy not only of especial reverence, but to be commended with perpetual praise, as the most discreet mother of magnanimity and honour, the sister of gratitude and charity and the enemy of hatred and avarice, still, without waiting to be entreated, ready virtuously to do unto others that which it would have done to itself. Nowadays its divine effects are very rarely to be seen in any twain, by the fault and to the shame of the wretched cupidity of mankind, which, regarding only its own profit, hath relegated it to perpetual exile, beyond the extremest limits of the earth. What love, what riches, what kinship, what, except friendship, could have made Gisippus feel in his heart the ardour, the tears and the sighs of Titus with such efficacy as to cause him yield up to his friend his betrothed bride, fair and gentle and beloved of him? What laws, what menaces, what fears could have enforced the young arms of Gisippus to abstain, in solitary places and in dark, nay, in his very bed, from the embraces of the fair damsel, she mayhap bytimes inviting him, had friendship not done it? What honours, what rewards, what advancements, what, indeed, but friendship, could have made Gisippus reck not of losing his own kinsfolk and those of Sophronia nor of the unmannerly clamours of the populace nor of scoffs and insults, so that he might pleasure his friend? On the other hand, what, but friendship, could have prompted Titus, whenas he might fairly have feigned not to see, unhesitatingly to compass his own death, that he might deliver Gisippus from the cross to which he had of his own motion procured himself to be condemned? What else could have made Titus, without the least demur, so liberal in sharing his most ample patrimony with Gisippus, whom fortune had bereft of his own? What else could have made him so forward to vouchsafe his sister to his friend, albeit he saw him very poor and reduced to the extreme of misery? Let men, then, covet a multitude of comrades, troops of brethren and children galore and add, by dint of monies, to the number of their servitors, considering not that every one of these, who and whatsoever he may be, is more fearful of every least danger of his own than careful to do away the great[470] from father or brother or master, whereas we see a friend do altogether the contrary." [Footnote 470: _i.e._ perils.] THE NINTH STORY [Day the Tenth] SALADIN, IN THE DISGUISE OF A MERCHANT, IS HONOURABLY ENTERTAINED BY MESSER TORELLO D'ISTRIA, WHO, PRESENTLY UNDERTAKING THE [THIRD] CRUSADE, APPOINTETH HIS WIFE A TERM FOR HER MARRYING AGAIN. HE IS TAKEN [BY THE SARACENS] AND COMETH, BY HIS SKILL IN TRAINING HAWKS, UNDER THE NOTICE OF THE SOLDAN, WHO KNOWETH HIM AGAIN AND DISCOVERING HIMSELF TO HIM, ENTREATETH HIM WITH THE UTMOST HONOUR. THEN, TORELLO FALLING SICK FOR LANGUISHMENT, HE IS BY MAGICAL ART TRANSPORTED IN ONE NIGHT [FROM ALEXANDRIA] TO PAVIA, WHERE, BEING RECOGNIZED BY HIS WIFE AT THE BRIDE-FEAST HELD FOR HER MARRYING AGAIN, HE RETURNETH WITH HER TO HIS OWN HOUSE Filomena having made an end of her discourse and the magnificent gratitude of Titus having been of all alike commended, the king, reserving the last place unto Dioneo, proceeded to speak thus: "Assuredly, lovesome ladies, Filomena speaketh sooth in that which she saith of friendship and with reason complaineth, in concluding her discourse, of its being so little in favour with mankind. If we were here for the purpose of correcting the defaults of the age or even of reprehending them, I might ensue her words with a discourse at large upon the subject; but, for that we aim at otherwhat, it hath occurred to my mind to set forth to you, in a story belike somewhat overlong, but withal altogether pleasing, one of the magnificences of Saladin, to the end that, if, by reason of our defaults, the friendship of any one may not be throughly acquired, we may, at the least, be led, by the things which you shall hear in my story, to take delight in doing service, in the hope that, whenassoever it may be, reward will ensue to us thereof. I must tell you, then, that, according to that which divers folk affirm, a general crusade was, in the days of the Emperor Frederick the First, undertaken by the Christians for the recovery of the Holy Land, whereof Saladin, a very noble and valiant prince, who was then Soldan of Babylon, having notice awhile beforehand, he bethought himself to seek in his own person to see the preparations of the Christian princes for the undertaking in question, so he might the better avail to provide himself. Accordingly, having ordered all his affairs in Egypt, he made a show of going a pilgrimage and set out in the disguise of a merchant, attended by two only of his chiefest and sagest officers and three serving-men. After he had visited many Christian countries, it chanced that, as they rode through Lombardy, thinking to pass beyond the mountains,[471] they encountered, about vespers, on the road from Milan to Pavia, a gentleman of the latter place, by name Messer Torello d'Istria, who was on his way, with his servants and dogs and falcons, to sojourn at a goodly country seat he had upon the Tesino, and no sooner set eyes on Saladin and his company than he knew them for gentlemen and strangers; wherefore, the Soldan enquiring of one of his servants how far they were yet distant from Pavia and if he might win thither in time to enter the city, he suffered not the man to reply, but himself answered, 'Gentlemen, you cannot reach Pavia in time to enter therein.' 'Then,' said Saladin, 'may it please you acquaint us (for that we are strangers) where we may best lodge the night.' Quoth Messer Torello, 'That will I willingly do. I had it presently in mind to dispatch one of my men here to the neighborhood of Pavia for somewhat: I will send him with you and he shall bring you to a place where you may lodge conveniently enough.' Then, turning to the discreetest of his men he [privily] enjoined him what he should do and sent him with them, whilst he himself, making for his country house, let order, as best he might, a goodly supper and set the tables in the garden; which done, he posted himself at the door to await his guests. [Footnote 471: _i.e._ to cross the Alps into France.] Meanwhile, the servant, devising with the gentlemen of one thing and another, led them about by certain by-roads and brought them, without their suspecting it, to his lord's residence, where, whenas Messer Torello saw them, he came to meet them afoot and said, smiling, 'Gentlemen, you are very welcome.' Saladin, who was very quick of apprehension, understood that the gentleman had misdoubted him they would not have accepted his invitation, had he bidden them whenas he fell in with them, and had, therefore, brought them by practice to his house, so they might not avail to refuse to pass the night with him, and accordingly, returning his greeting, he said, 'Sir, an one could complain of men of courtesy, we might complain of you, for that (letting be that you have somewhat hindered us from our road) you have, without our having merited your goodwill otherwise than by a mere salutation, constrained us to accept of such noble hospitality as is this of yours.' 'Gentlemen,' answered Messer Torello, who was a discreet and well-spoken man, 'it is but a sorry hospitality that you will receive from us, regard had to that which should behove unto you, an I may judge by that which I apprehend from your carriage and that of your companions; but in truth you could nowhere out of Pavia have found any decent place of entertainment; wherefore, let it not irk you to have gone somedele beside your way, to have a little less unease.' Meanwhile, his servants came round about the travellers and helping them to dismount, eased[472] their horses. [Footnote 472: _Adagiarono_; see p. 447, note.] Messer Torello then brought the three stranger gentlemen to the chambers prepared for them, where he let unboot them and refresh them somewhat with very cool wines and entertained them in agreeable discourse till such time as they might sup. Saladin and his companions and servants all knew Latin, wherefore they understood very well and were understood, and it seemed to each of them that this gentleman was the most pleasant and well-mannered man they had ever seen, ay, and the best spoken. It appeared to Messer Torello, on the other hand, that they were men of magnificent fashions and much more of account than he had at first conceived, wherefore he was inwardly chagrined that he could not honour them that evening with companions and with a more considerable entertainment. But for this he bethought himself to make them amends on the morrow, and accordingly, having instructed one of his servants of that which he would have done, he despatched him to Pavia, which was very near at hand and where no gate was ever locked, to his lady, who was exceeding discreet and great-hearted. Then, carrying the gentlemen into the garden, he courteously asked them who they were, to which Saladin answered, 'We are merchants from Cyprus and are bound to Paris on our occasions.' 'Would to God,' cried Messer Torello, 'that this our country produced gentlemen of such a fashion as I see Cyprus doth merchants!' In these and other discourses they abode till it was time to sup, whereupon he left it to them to honour themselves at table,[473] and there, for an improvised supper, they were very well and orderly served; nor had they abidden long after the tables were removed, when Messer Torello, judging them to be weary, put them to sleep in very goodly beds and himself a little after in like manner betook himself to rest. [Footnote 473: _i.e._ to place themselves according to their several ranks, which were unknown to Torello.] Meanwhile the servant sent to Pavia did his errand to the lady, who, with no womanly, but with a royal spirit, let call in haste a great number of the friends and servants of Messer Torello and made ready all that behoved unto a magnificent banquet. Moreover, she let bid by torchlight many of the noblest of the townfolk to the banquet and bringing out cloths and silks and furs, caused throughly order that which her husband had sent to bid her do. The day come, Saladin and his companions arose, whereupon Messer Torello took horse with them and sending for his falcons, carried them to a neighbouring ford and there showed them how the latter flew; then, Saladin enquiring for some one who should bring him to Pavia and to the best inn, his host said, 'I will be your guide, for that it behoveth me go thither.' The others, believing this, were content and set out in company with him for the city, which they reached about tierce and thinking to be on their way to the best inn, were carried by Messer Torello to his own house, where a good half-hundred of the most considerable citizens were already come to receive the stranger gentlemen and were straightway about their bridles and stirrups. Saladin and his companions, seeing this, understood but too well what was forward and said, 'Messer Torello, this is not what we asked of you; you have done enough for us this past night, ay, and far more than we are worth; wherefore you might now fitly suffer us fare on our way.' 'Gentlemen,' replied Messer Torello, 'for my yesternight's dealing with you I am more indebted to fortune than to you, which took you on the road at an hour when it behoved you come to my poor house; but of your this morning's visit I shall be beholden to yourselves, and with me all these gentlemen who are about you and to whom an it seem to you courteous to refuse to dine with them, you can do so, if you will.' Saladin and his companions, overcome, dismounted and being joyfully received by the assembled company, were carried to chambers which had been most sumptuously arrayed for them, where having put off their travelling gear and somewhat refreshed themselves, they repaired to the saloon, where the banquet was splendidly prepared. Water having been given to the hands, they were seated at table with the goodliest and most orderly observance and magnificently served with many viands, insomuch that, were the emperor himself come thither, it had been impossible to do him more honour, and albeit Saladin and his companions were great lords and used to see very great things, natheless, they were mightily wondered at this and it seemed to them of the greatest, having regard to the quality of the gentleman, whom they knew to be only a citizen and not a lord. Dinner ended and the tables removed, they conversed awhile of divers things; then, at Messer Torello's instance, the heat being great, the gentlemen of Pavia all betook themselves to repose, whilst he himself, abiding alone with his three guests, carried them into a chamber and (that no precious thing of his should remain unseen of them) let call thither his noble lady. Accordingly, the latter, who was very fair and tall of her person, came in to them, arrayed in rich apparel and flanked by two little sons of hers, as they were two angels, and saluted them courteously. The strangers, seeing her, rose to their feet and receiving her with worship, caused her sit among them and made much of her two fair children. Therewithal she entered into pleasant discourse with them and presently, Messer Torello having gone out awhile, she asked them courteously whence they were and whither they went; to which they made answer even as they had done to her husband; whereupon quoth she, with a blithe air, 'Then see I that my womanly advisement will be useful; wherefore I pray you, of your especial favour, refuse me not neither disdain a slight present, which I shall cause bring you, but accept it, considering that women, of their little heart, give little things and regarding more the goodwill of the giver than the value of the gift.' Then, letting fetch them each two gowns, one lined with silk and the other with miniver, no wise citizens' clothes nor merchants, but fit for great lords to wear, and three doublets of sendal and linen breeches to match, she said, 'Take these; I have clad my lord in gowns of the like fashion, and the other things, for all they are little worth, may be acceptable to you, considering that you are far from your ladies and the length of the way you have travelled and that which is yet to travel and that merchants are proper men and nice of their persons.' The Saracens marvelled and manifestly perceived that Messer Torello was minded to leave no particular of hospitality undone them; nay, seeing the magnificence of the unmerchantlike gowns, they misdoubted them they had been recognized of him. However, one of them made answer to the lady, saying, 'Madam, these are very great matters and such as should not lightly be accepted, an your prayers, to which it is impossible to say no, constrained us not thereto.' This done and Messer Torello being now returned, the lady, commending them to God, took leave of them and let furnish their servants with like things such as sorted with their condition. Messer Torello with many prayers prevailed upon them to abide with him all that day; wherefore, after they had slept awhile, they donned their gowns and rode with him somedele about the city; then, the supper-hour come, they supped magnificently with many worshipful companions and in due time betook themselves to rest. On the morrow they arose with day and found, in place of their tired hackneys, three stout and good palfreys, and on likewise fresh and strong horses for their servants, which when Saladin saw, he turned to his companions and said, 'I vow to God that never was there a more accomplished gentleman nor a more courteous and apprehensive than this one, and if the kings of the Christians are kings of such a fashion as this is a gentleman, the Soldan of Babylon can never hope to stand against a single one of them, not to speak of the many whom we see make ready to fall upon him.' Then, knowing that it were in vain to seek to refuse this new gift, they very courteously thanked him therefor and mounted to horse. Messer Torello, with many companions, brought them a great way without the city, till, grievous as it was to Saladin to part from him, (so much was he by this grown enamoured of him,) natheless, need constraining him to press on, he presently besought him to turn back; whereupon, loath as he was to leave them, 'Gentlemen,' quoth he, 'since it pleaseth you, I will do it; but one thing I will e'en say to you; I know not who you are nor do I ask to know more thereof than it pleaseth you to tell me; but, be you who you may, you will never make me believe that you are merchants, and so I commend you to God.' Saladin, having by this taken leave of all Messer Torello's companions, replied to him, saying, 'Sir, we may yet chance to let you see somewhat of our merchandise, whereby we may confirm your belief;[474] meantime, God be with you.' Thereupon he departed with his followers, firmly resolved, if life should endure to him and the war he looked for undo him not, to do Messer Torello no less honour than that which he had done him, and much did he discourse with his companions of him and of his lady and all his affairs and fashions and dealings, mightily commending everything. Then, after he had, with no little fatigue, visited all the West, he took ship with his companions and returned to Alexandria, where, being now fully informed, he addressed himself to his defence. As for Messer Torello, he returned to Pavia and went long in thought who these might be, but never hit upon the truth, no, nor came near it. [Footnote 474: Sic (_la vostra credenza raffermeremo_); but the meaning is, "whereby we may amend your unbelief and give you cause to credit our assertion that we are merchants."] The time being now come for the crusade and great preparations made everywhere, Messer Torello, notwithstanding the tears and entreaties of his wife, was altogether resolved to go thereon and having made his every provision and being about to take horse, he said to his lady, whom he loved over all, 'Wife, as thou seest, I go on this crusade, as well for the honour of my body as for the health of my soul. I commend to thee our affairs and our honour, and for that I am certain of the going, but of the returning, for a thousand chances that may betide, I have no assurance, I will have thee do me a favour, to wit, that whatever befall of me, an thou have not certain news of my life, thou shalt await me a year and a month and a day, ere thou marry again, beginning from this the day of my departure.' The lady, who wept sore, answered, 'Messer Torello, I know not how I shall endure the chagrin wherein you leave me by your departure; but, an my life prove stronger than my grief and aught befall you, you may live and die assured that I shall live and die the wife of Messer Torello and of his memory.' 'Wife,' rejoined Messer Torello, 'I am very certain that, inasmuch as in thee lieth, this that thou promisest me will come to pass; but thou art a young woman and fair and of high family and thy worth is great and everywhere known; wherefore I doubt not but many great and noble gentlemen will, should aught be misdoubted of me,[475] demand thee of thy brethren and kinsfolk; from whose importunities, how much soever thou mightest wish, thou wilt not be able to defend thyself and it will behove thee perforce comply with their wishes; and this is why I ask of thee this term and not a greater one.' Quoth the lady, 'I will do what I may of that which I have told you, and should it nevertheless behove me to do otherwise, I will assuredly obey you in this that you enjoin me; but I pray God that He bring nor you nor me to such an extremity in these days.' This said, she embraced him, weeping, and drawing a ring from her finger, gave it to him, saying, 'And it chance that I die ere I see you again, remember me when you look upon this ring.' [Footnote 475: _i.e._ should any rumour get wind of death.] Torello took the ring and mounted to horse; then, bidding all his people adieu, he set out on his journey and came presently with his company to Genoa. There he embarked on board a galleon and coming in a little while to Acre, joined himself to the other army[476] of the Christians, wherein, well nigh out of hand, there began a sore sickness and mortality. During this, whether by Saladin's skill or of his good fortune, well nigh all the remnant of the Christians who had escaped alive were taken by him, without blow stricken, and divided among many cities and imprisoned. Messer Torello was one of those taken and was carried prisoner to Alexandria, where, being unknown and fearing to make himself known, he addressed himself, of necessity constrained, to the training of hawks, of which he was a great master, and by this he came under the notice of Saladin, who took him out of prison and entertained him for his falconer. Messer Torello, who was called by the Soldan by none other name than the Christian, recognized him not nor did Saladin recognize him; nay, all his thoughts were in Pavia and he had more than once essayed to flee, but without avail; wherefore, certain Genoese coming ambassadors to Saladin, to treat for the ransom of sundry of their townsmen, and being about to depart, he bethought himself to write to his lady, giving her to know that he was alive and would return to her as quickliest he might and bidding her await him. Accordingly, he wrote letters to this effect and instantly besought one of the ambassadors, whom he knew, to cause them come to the hands of the Abbot of San Pietro in Ciel d'Oro, who was his uncle. [Footnote 476: Sic (_all' altro esercito_). The meaning of this does not appear, as no mention has yet been made of two Christian armies. Perhaps we should translate "the rest of the army," _i.e._ such part of the remnant of the Christian host as fled to Acre and shut themselves up there after the disastrous day of Hittin (23 June, 1187). Acre fell on the 29th July, 1187.] Things being at this pass with him, it befell one day that, as Saladin was devising with him of his hawks, Messer Torello chanced to smile and made a motion with his mouth, which the former had much noted, what while he was in his house at Pavia. This brought the gentleman to his mind and looking steadfastly upon him, himseemed it was himself; wherefore, leaving the former discourse, 'Harkye, Christian, said he, 'What countryman art thou of the West?' 'My lord,' replied Torello, 'I am a Lombard of a city called Pavia, a poor man and of mean condition.' Saladin, hearing this, was in a manner certified of the truth of his suspicion and said joyfully in himself, 'God hath vouchsafed me an opportunity of showing this man how grateful his courtesy was to me.' Accordingly, without saying otherwhat, he let lay out all his apparel in a chamber and carrying him thither, said to him, 'Look, Christian, if there be any among these gowns that thou hast ever seen.' Torello looked and saw those which his lady had given Saladin; but, natheless, conceiving not that they could possibly be the same, he answered, 'My lord, I know none of them; albeit, in good sooth, these twain do favour certain gowns wherewithal I, together with three merchants who came to my house, was invested aforetime.' Thereupon Saladin, unable to contain himself farther, embraced him tenderly, saying, 'You are Messer Torello d'Istria and I am one of the three merchants to whom your lady gave these gowns; and now is the time come to certify you what manner merchandise mine is, even as I told you, at my parting from you, might chance to betide.' Messer Torello, hearing this, was at once rejoiced and ashamed; rejoiced to have had such a guest and ashamed for that himseemed he had entertained him but scurvily. Then said Saladin, 'Messer Torello, since God hath sent you hither to me, henceforth consider that not I, but you are master here.' Accordingly, after they had mightily rejoiced in each other, he clad him in royal apparel and carrying him into the presence of all his chief barons, commanded, after saying many things in praise of his worth, that he should of all who held his favour dear be honoured as himself, which was thenceforward done of all, but above all of the two gentlemen who had been Saladin's companions in his house. The sudden height of glory to which Messer Torello thus found himself advanced put his Lombardy affairs somedele out of his mind, more by token that he had good reason to hope that his letters were by this come to his uncle's hands. Now there had died and been buried in the camp or rather in the host, of the Christians, the day they were taken by Saladin, a Provençal gentleman of little account, by name Messer Torello de Dignes, by reason whereof, Messer Torello d'Istria being renowned throughout the army for his magnificence, whosoever heard say, 'Messer Torello is dead,' believed it of Messer Torello d'Istria, not of him of Dignes. The hazard of the capture that ensued thereupon suffered not those who had been thus misled to be undeceived; wherefore many Italians returned with this news, amongst whom were some who scrupled not to avouch that they had seen him dead and had been at the burial. This, coming to be known of his wife and kinsfolk, was the cause of grievous and inexpressible sorrow, not only to them, but to all who had known him. It were longsome to set forth what and how great was the grief and sorrow and lamentation of his lady; but, after having bemoaned herself some months in continual affliction, coming to sorrow less and being sought in marriage with the chiefest men in Lombardy, she began to be presently importuned by her brothers and other her kinsfolk to marry again. After having again and again refused with many tears, needs must she at the last consent perforce to do her kinsfolk's will, on condition that she should abide, without going to a husband, so long as she had promised Messer Torello. The lady's affairs at Pavia being at this pass and there lacking maybe eight days of the term appointed for her going to her new husband, it chanced that Messer Torello espied one day in Alexandria one whom he had seen embark with the Genoese ambassadors on board the galley that was to carry them back to Genoa, and calling him, asked him what manner voyage they had had and when they had reached Genoa; whereto the other replied, 'Sir, the galleon (as I heard in Crete, where I remained,) made an ill voyage; for that, as she drew near unto Sicily, there arose a furious northerly wind, which drove her on to the Barbary quicksands, nor was any one saved; and amongst the rest two brothers of mine perished there.' Messer Torello, giving credit to his words, which were indeed but too true, and remembering him that the term required by him of his wife ended a few days thence, concluded that nothing could be known at Pavia of his condition and held it for certain that the lady must have married again; wherefore he fell into such a chagrin that he lost [sleep and] appetite and taking to his bed, determined to die. When Saladin, who loved him above all, heard of this, he came to him and having, by dint of many and urgent prayers, learned the cause of his grief and his sickness, upbraided him sore for that he had not before told it to him and after besought him to be comforted, assuring him that, if he would but take heart, he would so contrive that he should be in Pavia at the appointed term and told him how. Messer Torello, putting faith in Saladin's words and having many a time heard say that this was possible and had indeed been often enough done, began to take comfort and pressed Saladin to despatch. The Soldan accordingly charged a nigromancer of his, of whose skill he had aforetime made proof, to cast about for a means whereby Messer Torello should be in one night transported upon a bed to Pavia, to which the magician replied that it should be done, but that, for the gentleman's own weal, he must put him to sleep. This done, Saladin returned to Messer Torello and finding him altogether resolved to seek at any hazard to be in Pavia at the term appointed, if it were possible, and in default thereof, to die, bespoke him thus; 'Messer Torello, God knoweth that I neither will nor can anywise blame you if you tenderly love your lady and are fearful of her becoming another's, for that, of all the women I ever saw, she it is whose manners, whose fashions and whose demeanour, (leaving be her beauty, which is but a short-lived flower,) appear to me most worthy to be commended and held dear. It had been very grateful to me, since fortune hath sent you hither, that we should have passed together, as equal masters in the governance of this my realm, such time as you and I have to live, and if this was not to be vouchsafed me of God, it being fated that you should take it to heart to seek either to die or to find yourself in Pavia at the appointed term, I should above all have desired to know it in time, that I might have you transported to your house with such honour, such magnificence and in such company as your worth meriteth. However, since this hath not been vouchsafed and you desire to be presently there, I will e'en, as I may, despatch you thither after the fashion whereof I have bespoken you.' 'My lord,' replied Messer Torello, 'your acts, without your words, have given me sufficient proof of your favour, which I have never merited in such supreme degree, and of that which you say, though you had not said it, I shall live and die most assured; but, since I have taken this resolve, I pray you that that which you tell me you will do may be done speedily, for that to-morrow is the last day I am to be looked for.' Saladin answered that this should without fail be accomplished and accordingly, on the morrow, meaning to send him away that same night, he let make, in a great hall of his palace, a very goodly and rich bed of mattresses, all, according to their usance, of velvet and cloth of gold and caused lay thereon a counterpoint curiously wrought in various figures with great pearls and jewels of great price (the which here in Italy was after esteemed an inestimable treasure) and two pillows such as sorted with a bed of that fashion. This done, he bade invest Messer Torello, who was presently well and strong again, in a gown of the Saracen fashion, the richest and goodliest thing that had ever been seen of any, and wind about his head, after their guise, one of his longest turban-cloths.[477] Then, it growing late, he betook himself with many of his barons to the chamber where Messer Torello was and seating himself, well nigh weeping, by his side, bespoke him thus; 'Messer Torello, the hour draweth near that is to sunder me from you, and since I may not bear you company nor cause you to be accompanied, by reason of the nature of the journey you have to make, which suffereth it not, needs must I take leave of you here in this chamber, to which end I am come hither. Wherefore, ere I commend you to God, I conjure you, by that love and that friendship that is between us, that you remember you of me and if it be possible, ere our times come to an end, that, whenas you have ordered your affairs in Lombardy, you come at the least once to see me, to the end that, what while I am cheered by your sight, I may then supply the default which needs must I presently commit by reason of your haste; and against that betide, let it not irk you to visit me with letters and require me of such things as shall please you; for that of a surety I will more gladly do them for you than for any man alive.' [Footnote 477: It may be well to remind the European reader that the turban consists of two parts, _i.e._ a skull-cap and a linen cloth, which is wound round it in various folds and shapes, to form the well-known Eastern head-dress.] As for Messer Torello, he could not contain his tears; wherefore, being hindered thereby, he answered, in a few words, that it was impossible his benefits and his nobility should ever escape his mind and that he would without fail do that which he enjoined him, whenas occasion should be afforded him; whereupon Saladin, having tenderly embraced him and kissed him, bade him with many tears God speed and departed the chamber. The other barons then all took leave of him and followed the Soldan into the hall where he had caused make ready the bed. Meanwhile, it waxing late and the nigromant awaiting and pressing for despatch, there came a physician to Messer Torello with a draught and making him believe that he gave it him to fortify him, caused him drink it; nor was it long ere he fell asleep and so, by Saladin's commandment, was carried into the hall and laid upon the bed aforesaid, whereon the Soldan placed a great and goodly crown of great price and inscribed it on such wise that it was after manifestly understood to be sent by him to Messer Torello's lady; after which he put on Torello's finger a ring, wherein was a carbuncle enchased, so resplendent that it seemed a lighted flambeau, the value whereof could scarce be reckoned, and girt him with a sword, whose garniture might not lightly be appraised. Moreover, he let hang a fermail on his breast, wherein were pearls whose like were never seen, together with other precious stones galore, and on his either side he caused set two great basins of gold, full of doubloons, and many strings of pearls and rings and girdles and other things, which it were tedious to recount, round about him. This done, he kissed him once more and bade the nigromant despatch, whereupon, in his presence, the bed was incontinent taken away, Messer Torello and all, and Saladin abode devising of him with his barons. Meanwhile, Messer Torello had been set down, even as he had requested, in the church of San Pietro in Ciel d'Oro at Pavia, with all the jewels and ornaments aforesaid, and yet slept when, matins having sounded, the sacristan of the church entered, with a light in his hand, and chancing suddenly to espy the rich bed, not only marvelled, but, seized with a terrible fright, turned and fled. The abbot and the monks, seeing him flee, marvelled and questioned him of the cause, which he told them; whereupon quoth the abbot, 'Marry, thou art no child nor art thou new to the church that thou shouldst thus lightly take fright; let us go see who hath played the bugbear with thee.' Accordingly, kindling several lights, the abbot and all his monks entered the church and saw that wonder-rich and goodly bed and thereon the gentleman asleep; and what while, misdoubting and fearful, they gazed upon the noble jewels, without drawing anywise near to the bed, it befell that, the virtue of the draught being spent, Messer Torello awoke and heaved a great sigh, which when the monks saw and heard, they took to flight, abbot and all, affrighted and crying, 'Lord aid us!' Messer Torello opened his eyes and looking about him, plainly perceived himself to be whereas he had asked Saladin to have him carried, at which he was mightily content. Then, sitting up, he particularly examined that which he had about him, and for all he had before known of the magnificence of Saladin, it seemed to him now greater and he knew it more. Nevertheless, without moving farther, seeing the monks flee and divining why, he proceeded to call the abbot by name, praying him be not afraid, for that he was Torello his nephew. The abbot, hearing this, waxed yet more fearful, as holding him as dead many months before; but, after awhile, taking assurance by true arguments and hearing himself called, he made the sign of the cross and went up to him; whereupon quoth Messer Torello, 'How now, father mine, of what are you adread? Godamercy, I am alive and returned hither from beyond seas.' The abbot, for all he had a great beard and was clad after the Saracen fashion, presently recognized him and altogether reassured, took him by the hand, saying, 'My son, thou art welcome back.' Then he continued, 'Thou must not marvel at our affright, for that there is not a man in these parts but firmly believeth thee to be dead, insomuch that I must tell thee that Madam Adalieta thy wife, overmastered by the prayers and threats of her kinsfolk and against her own will, is married again and is this morning to go to her new husband; ay, and the bride-feast and all that pertaineth unto the nuptial festivities is prepared.' Therewithal Messer Torello arose from off the rich bed and greeting the abbot and the monks with marvellous joyance, prayed them all to speak with none of that his return, against he should have despatched an occasion of his; after which, having caused lay up the costly jewels in safety, he recounted to his uncle all that had befallen him up to that moment. The abbot rejoiced in his happy fortunes and together with him, rendered thanks to God, after which Messer Torello asked him who was his lady's new husband. The abbot told him and Torello said, 'I have a mind, ere folk know of my return, to see what manner countenance is that of my wife in these nuptials; wherefore, albeit it is not the usance of men of your habit to go to entertainments of this kind, I would have you contrive, for the love of me, that we may go thither, you and I.' The abbot replied that he would well and accordingly, as soon as it was day, he sent to the new bridegroom, saying that he would fain be at his nuptials with a friend of his, whereto the gentleman answered that it liked him passing well. Accordingly, eating-time come, Messer Torello, clad as he was, repaired with his uncle to the bridegroom's house, beheld with wonderment of all who saw him, but recognized of none; and the abbot told every one that he was a Saracen sent ambassador from the Soldan to the King of France. He was, therefore, seated at a table right overagainst his lady, whom he beheld with the utmost pleasure, and himseemed she was troubled in countenance at these new nuptials. She, in her turn, looked whiles upon him, but not of any cognizance that she had of him, for that his great beard and outlandish habit and the firm assurance she had that he was dead hindered her thereof. Presently, whenas it seemed to him time to essay if she remembered her of him, he took the ring she had given him at his parting and calling a lad who served before her, said to him, 'Say to the bride, on my part, that it is the usance in my country, whenas any stranger, such as I am here, eateth at the bride-feast of any new-married lady, like herself, that she, in token that she holdeth him welcome at her table, send him the cup, wherein she drinketh, full of wine, whereof after the stranger hath drunken what he will, the cup being covered again, the bride drinketh the rest.' The page did his errand to the lady, who, like a well-bred and discreet woman as she was, believing him to be some great gentleman, commanded, to show him that she had his coming in gree, that a great gilded cup, which stood before her, should be washed and filled with wine and carried to the gentleman; and so it was done. Messer Torello, taking her ring in his mouth, contrived in drinking to drop it, unseen of any, into the cup, wherein having left but a little wine, he covered it again and despatched it to the lady. Madam Adalieta, taking the cup and uncovering it, that she might accomplish his usance, set it to her mouth and seeing the ring, considered it awhile, without saying aught; then, knowing it for that which she had given to Messer Torello at parting, she took it up and looking fixedly upon him whom she deemed a stranger, presently recognized him; whereupon, as she were waxen mad, she overthrew the table she had before her and cried out, saying, 'It is my lord, it is indeed Messer Torello!' Then, running to the place where he sat, she cast herself as far forward as she might, without taking thought to her clothes or to aught that was on the table, and clipped him close in her arms nor could, for word or deed of any there, be loosed from his neck till she was bidden of Messer Torello contain herself somewhat, for that time enough would yet be afforded her to embrace him. She accordingly having arisen and the nuptials being by this all troubled, albeit in part more joyous than ever for the recovery of such a gentleman, every one, at Messer Torello's request, abode quiet; whereupon he related to them all that had betided him from the day of his departure up to that moment, concluding that the gentleman, who, deeming him dead, had taken his lady to wife, must not hold it ill if he, being alive, took her again unto himself. The bridegroom, though somewhat mortified, answered frankly and as a friend that it rested with himself to do what most pleased him of his own. Accordingly, the lady put off the ring and crown had of her new groom and donned the ring which she had taken from the cup and the crown sent her by the Soldan; then, issuing forth of the house where they were, they betook themselves, with all the nuptial train, to Messer Torello's house and there recomforted his disconsolate friends and kindred and all the townsfolk, who regarded his return as well nigh a miracle, with long and joyous festival. As for Messer Torello, after imparting of his precious jewels to him who had had the expense of the nuptials, as well as to the abbot and many others, and signifying his happy repatriation by more than one message to Saladin, whose friend and servant he still professed himself, he lived many years thereafterward with his noble lady and thenceforth, used more hospitality and courtesy than ever. Such then was the issue of the troubles of Messer Torello and his beloved lady and the recompense of their cheerful and ready hospitalities, the which many study to practise, who, albeit they have the wherewithal, do yet so ill contrive it that they make those on whom they bestow their courtesies buy them, ere they have done with them, for more than their worth; wherefore, if no reward ensue to them thereof, neither themselves nor others should marvel thereat." THE TENTH STORY [Day the Tenth] THE MARQUESS OF SALUZZO, CONSTRAINED BY THE PRAYERS OF HIS VASSALS TO MARRY, BUT DETERMINED TO DO IT AFTER HIS OWN FASHION, TAKETH TO WIFE THE DAUGHTER OF A PEASANT AND HATH OF HER TWO CHILDREN, WHOM HE MAKETH BELIEVE TO HER TO PUT TO DEATH; AFTER WHICH, FEIGNING TO BE GROWN WEARY OF HER AND TO HAVE TAKEN ANOTHER WIFE, HE LETTETH BRING HIS OWN DAUGHTER HOME TO HIS HOUSE, AS SHE WERE HIS NEW BRIDE, AND TURNETH HIS WIFE AWAY IN HER SHIFT; BUT, FINDING HER PATIENT UNDER EVERYTHING, HE FETCHETH HER HOME AGAIN, DEARER THAN EVER, AND SHOWING HER HER CHILDREN GROWN GREAT, HONOURETH AND LETTETH HONOUR HER AS MARCHIONESS The king's long story being ended and having, to all appearance, much pleased all, Dioneo said, laughing, "The good man,[478] who looked that night to abase the phantom's tail upright,[479] had not given a brace of farthings of all the praises that you bestow on Messer Torello." Then, knowing that it rested with him alone to tell, he proceeded: "Gentle ladies mine, it appeareth to me that this day hath been given up to Kings and Soldans and the like folk; wherefore, that I may not remove overfar from you, I purpose to relate to you of a marquess, not an act of magnificence, but a monstrous folly, which, albeit good ensued to him thereof in the end, I counsel not any to imitate, for it was a thousand pities that weal betided him thereof. [Footnote 478: _i.e._ he who was to have married Madam Adalieta.] [Footnote 479: See p. 325.] It is now a great while agone since the chief of the house among the Marquesses of Saluzzo was a youth called Gualtieri, who, having neither wife nor children, spent his time in nought but hunting and hawking nor had any thought of taking a wife nor of having children; wherein he deserved to be reputed very wise. The thing, however, not pleasing his vassals, they besought him many times to take a wife, so he might not abide without an heir nor they without a lord, and offered themselves to find him one of such a fashion and born of such parents that good hopes might be had of her and he be well content with her; whereto he answered, 'My friends, you constrain me unto that which I was altogether resolved never to do, considering how hard a thing it is to find a wife whose fashions sort well within one's own humour and how great an abundance there is of the contrary sort and how dour a life is his who happeneth upon a woman not well suited unto him. To say that you think, by the manners and fashions of the parents, to know the daughters, wherefrom you argue to give me a wife such as will please me, is a folly, since I know not whence you may avail to know their fathers nor yet the secrets of their mothers; and even did you know them, daughters are often unlike their parents. However, since it e'en pleaseth you to bind me in these chains, I am content to do your desire; but, that I may not have occasion to complain of other than myself, if it prove ill done, I mean to find a wife for myself, certifying you that, whomsoever I may take me, if she be not honoured of you as your lady and mistress, you shall prove, to your cost, how much it irketh me to have at your entreaty taken a wife against mine own will.' The good honest men replied that they were content, so he would but bring himself to take a wife. Now the fashions of a poor girl, who was of a village near to his house, had long pleased Gualtieri, and himseeming she was fair enough, he judged that he might lead a very comfortable life with her; wherefore, without seeking farther, he determined to marry her and sending for her father, who was a very poor man, agreed with him to take her to wife. This done, he assembled all his friends of the country round and said to them, 'My friends, it hath pleased and pleaseth you that I should dispose me to take a wife and I have resigned myself thereto, more to complease you than of any desire I have for marriage. You know what you promised me, to wit, that you would be content with and honour as your lady and mistress her whom I should take, whosoever she might be; wherefore the time is come when I am to keep my promise to you and when I would have you keep yours to me. I have found a damsel after mine own heart and purpose within some few days hence to marry her and bring her home to my house; wherefore do you bethink yourselves how the bride-feast may be a goodly one and how you may receive her with honour, on such wise that I may avouch myself contented of your promise, even as you will have cause to be of mine.' The good folk all answered joyfully that this liked them well and that, be she who he would, they would hold her for lady and mistress and honour her as such in all things; after which they all addressed themselves to hold fair and high and glad festival and on like wise did Gualtieri, who let make ready very great and goodly nuptials and bade thereto many his friends and kinsfolk and great gentlemen and others of the neighbourhood. Moreover, he let cut and fashion store of rich and goodly apparel, after the measure of a damsel who seemed to him like of her person to the young woman he was purposed to marry, and provided also rings and girdles and a rich and goodly crown and all that behoveth unto a bride. The day come that he had appointed for the nuptials, Gualtieri towards half tierce mounted to horse, he and all those who were come to do him honour, and having ordered everything needful. 'Gentlemen,' quoth he, 'it is time to go fetch the bride.' Then, setting out with all his company, he rode to the village and betaking himself to the house of the girl's father, found her returning in great haste with water from the spring, so she might after go with other women to see Gualtieri's bride come. When the marquess saw her, he called her by name, to wit, Griselda, and asked her where her father was; to which she answered bashfully, 'My lord, he is within the house.' Thereupon Gualtieri dismounted and bidding all await him, entered the poor house alone, where he found her father, whose name was Giannucolo, and said to him, 'I am come to marry Griselda, but first I would fain know of her somewhat in thy presence.' Accordingly, he asked her if, an he took her to wife, she would still study to please him, nor take umbrage at aught that he should do or say, and if she would be obedient, and many other like things, to all of which she answered ay; whereupon Gualtieri, taking her by the hand, led her forth and in the presence of all his company and of every one else, let strip her naked. Then, sending for the garments which he had let make, he caused forthright clothe and shoe her and would have her set the crown on her hair, all tumbled as it was; after which, all marvelling at this, he said, 'Gentlemen, this is she who I purpose shall be my wife, an she will have me to husband.' Then, turning to her, where she stood, all shamefast and confounded, he said to her, 'Griselda, wilt thou have me to thy husband?' To which she answered, 'Ay, my lord.' Quoth he, 'And I will have thee to my wife'; and espoused her in the presence of all. Then, mounting her on a palfrey, he carried her, honourably accompanied, to his mansion, where the nuptials were celebrated with the utmost splendour and rejoicing, no otherwise than as he had taken to wife the king's daughter of France. The young wife seemed to have, together with her clothes, changed her mind and her manners. She was, as we have already said, goodly of person and countenance, and even as she was fair, on like wise she became so engaging, so pleasant and so well-mannered that she seemed rather to have been the child of some noble gentleman than the daughter of Giannucolo and a tender of sheep; whereof she made every one marvel who had known her aforetime. Moreover, she was so obedient to her husband and so diligent in his service that he accounted himself the happiest and best contented man in the world; and on like wise she bore herself with such graciousness and such loving kindness towards her husband's subjects that there was none of them but loved and honoured her with his whole heart, praying all for her welfare and prosperity and advancement; and whereas they were used to say that Gualtieri had done as one of little wit to take her to wife, they now with one accord declared that he was the sagest and best-advised man alive, for that none other than he might ever have availed to know her high worth, hidden as it was under poor clothes and a rustic habit. Brief, it was no great while ere she knew so to do that, not only in her husband's marquisate, but everywhere else, she made folk talk of her virtues and her well-doing and turned to the contrary whatsoever had been said against her husband on her account, whenas he married her. She had not long abidden with Gualtieri ere she conceived with child and in due time bore a daughter, whereat he rejoiced greatly. But, a little after, a new[480] thought having entered his mind, to wit, to seek, by dint of long tribulation and things unendurable, to make trial of her patience, he first goaded her with words, feigning himself troubled and saying that his vassals were exceeding ill content with her, by reason of her mean extraction, especially since they saw that she bore children, and that they did nothing but murmur, being sore chagrined for the birth of her daughter. The lady, hearing this, replied, without anywise changing countenance or showing the least distemperature, 'My lord, do with me that which thou deemest will be most for thine honour and solace, for that I shall be content with all, knowing, as I do, that I am of less account than they[481] and that I was unworthy of this dignity to which thou hast advanced me of thy courtesy.' This reply was mighty agreeable to Gualtieri, for that he saw she was not uplifted into aught of pridefulness for any honour that himself or others had done her; but, a little after, having in general terms told her that his vassals could not brook this girl that had been born of her, he sent to her a serving-man of his, whom he had lessoned and who said to her with a very woeful countenance, 'Madam, an I would not die, needs must I do that which my lord commandeth me. He hath bidden me take this your daughter and....' And said no more. The lady, hearing this and seeing the servant's aspect and remembering her of her husband's words, concluded that he had enjoined him put the child to death; whereupon, without changing countenance, albeit she felt a sore anguish at heart, she straightway took her from the cradle and having kissed and blessed her, laid her in the servant's arms, saying, 'Take her and punctually do that which thy lord hath enjoined thee; but leave her not to be devoured of the beasts and the birds, except he command it thee.' The servant took the child and reported that which the lady had said to Gualtieri, who marvelled at her constancy and despatched him with the child to a kinswoman of his at Bologna, praying her to bring her up and rear her diligently, without ever saying whose daughter she was. [Footnote 480: Or "strange" (_nuovo_); see ante, passim.] [Footnote 481: _i.e._ his vassals.] In course of time the lady again conceived and in due season bore a male child, to her husband's great joy; but, that which he had already done sufficing him not, he addressed himself to probe her to the quick with a yet sorer stroke and accordingly said to her one day with a troubled air, 'Wife, since thou hast borne this male child, I have nowise been able to live in peace with these my people, so sore do they murmur that a grandson of Giannucolo should become their lord after me; wherefore I misdoubt me, an I would not be driven forth of my domains, it will behove me do in this case that which I did otherwhen and ultimately put thee away and take another wife.' The lady gave ear to him with a patient mind nor answered otherwhat then, 'My lord, study to content thyself and to satisfy thy pleasure and have no thought of me, for that nothing is dear to me save in so much as I see it please thee.' Not many days after, Gualtieri sent for the son, even as he had sent for the daughter, and making a like show of having him put to death, despatched him to Bologna, there to be brought up, even as he had done with the girl; but the lady made no other countenance nor other words thereof than she had done of the girl; whereat Gualtieri marvelled sore and affirmed in himself that no other woman could have availed to do this that she did; and had he not seen her tender her children with the utmost fondness, what while it pleased him, he had believed that she did this because she recked no more of them; whereas in effect he knew that she did it of her discretion. His vassals, believing that he had caused put the children to death, blamed him sore, accounting him a barbarous man, and had the utmost compassion of his wife, who never answered otherwhat to the ladies who condoled with her for her children thus slain, than that that which pleased him thereof who had begotten them, pleased her also. At last, several years being passed since the birth of the girl, Gualtieri, deeming it time to make the supreme trial of her endurance, declared, in the presence of his people, that he could no longer endure to have Griselda to wife and that he perceived that he had done ill and boyishly in taking her, wherefore he purposed, as far as in him lay, to make interest with the Pope to grant him a dispensation, so he might put her away and take another wife. For this he was roundly taken to task by many men of worth, but answered them nothing save that needs must it be so. The lady, hearing these things and herseeming she must look to return to her father's house and maybe tend sheep again as she had done aforetime, what while she saw another woman in possession of him to whom she willed all her weal, sorrowed sore in herself; but yet, even as she had borne the other affronts of fortune, so with a firm countenance she addressed herself to bear this also. Gualtieri no great while after let come to him from Rome counterfeit letters of dispensation and gave his vassals to believe that the Pope had thereby licensed him to take another wife and leave Griselda; then, sending for the latter, he said to her, in presence of many, 'Wife, by concession made me of the Pope, I am free to take another wife and put thee away, and accordingly, for that mine ancestors have been great gentlemen and lords of this country, whilst thine have still been husbandmen, I mean that thou be no more my wife, but that thou return to Giannucolo his house with the dowry which thou broughtest me, and I will after bring hither another wife, for that I have found one more sorted to myself.' The lady, hearing this, contained her tears, contrary to the nature of woman, though not without great unease, and answered, 'My lord, I ever knew my mean estate to be nowise sortable with your nobility, and for that which I have been with you I have still confessed myself indebted to you and to God, nor have I ever made nor held it mine, as given to me, but have still accounted it but as a loan. It pleaseth you to require it again and it must and doth please me to restore it to you. Here is your ring wherewith you espoused me; take it. You bid me carry away with me that dowry which I brought hither, which to do you will need no paymaster and I neither purse nor packhorse, for I have not forgotten that you had me naked, and if you account it seemly that this my body, wherein I have carried children begotten of you, be seen of all, I will begone naked; but I pray you, in requital of my maidenhead, which I brought hither and bear not hence with me, that it please you I may carry away at the least one sole shift over and above my dowry.' Gualtieri, who had more mind to weep than to otherwhat, natheless kept a stern countenance and said, 'So be it; carry away a shift.' As many as stood around besought him to give her a gown, so that she who had been thirteen years and more his wife should not be seen go forth of his house on such mean and shameful wise as it was to depart in her shift; but their prayers all went for nothing; wherefore the lady, having commended them to God, went forth his house in her shift, barefoot and nothing on her head, and returned to her father, followed by the tears and lamentations of all who saw her. Giannucolo, who had never been able to believe it true that Gualtieri should entertain his daughter to wife and went in daily expectation of this event, had kept her the clothes which she had put off the morning that Gualtieri had married her and now brought them to her; whereupon she donned them and addressed herself, as she had been wont to do, to the little offices of her father's house, enduring the cruel onslaught of hostile fortune with a stout heart. Gualtieri, having done this, gave out to his people that he had chosen a daughter of one of the Counts of Panago and letting make great preparations for the nuptials, sent for Griselda to come to him and said to her, 'I am about to bring home this lady, whom I have newly taken to wife, and mean, at this her first coming, to do her honour. Thou knowest I have no women about me who know how to array me the rooms nor to do a multitude of things that behove unto such a festival; wherefore do thou, who art better versed than any else in these household matters, order that which is to do here and let bid such ladies as it seemeth good to thee and receive them as thou wert mistress here; then, when the nuptials are ended, thou mayst begone back to thy house.' Albeit these words were all daggers to Griselda's heart, who had been unable to lay down the love she bore him as she had laid down her fair fortune, she replied, 'My lord, I am ready and willing.' Then, in her coarse homespun clothes, entering the house, whence she had a little before departed in her shift, she fell to sweeping and ordering the chambers and letting place hangings and cover-cloths about the saloons and make ready the viands, putting her hand to everything, as she were some paltry serving-wench of the house, nor ever gave over till she had arrayed and ordered everything as it behoved. Thereafter, having let invite all the ladies of the country on Gualtieri's part, she awaited the day of the festival, which being come, with a cheerful countenance and the spirit and bearing of a lady of high degree, for all she had mean clothes on her back, she received all the ladies who came thither. Meanwhile, Gualtieri, who had caused the two children be diligently reared in Bologna by his kinswoman, (who was married to a gentleman of the Panago family,) the girl being now twelve years old and the fairest creature that ever was seen and the boy six, had sent to his kinsman[482] at Bologna, praying him be pleased to come to Saluzzo with his son and daughter and take order to bring with him a goodly and honourable company and bidding him tell every one that he was carrying him the young lady to his wife, without otherwise discovering to any aught of who she was. The gentleman did as the marquess prayed him and setting out, with the girl and boy and a goodly company of gentlefolk, after some days' journey, arrived, about dinner-time, at Saluzzo, where he found all the countryfolk and many others of the neighbourhood awaiting Gualtieri's new bride. The latter, being received by the ladies and come into the saloon where the tables were laid, Griselda came to meet her, clad as she was, and accosted her blithely, saying, 'Welcome and fair welcome to my lady.' Thereupon the ladies (who had urgently, but in vain, besought Gualtieri to suffer Griselda to abide in a chamber or lend her one of the gowns that had been hers, so that she might not go thus before his guests) were seated at table and it was proceeded to serve them. The girl was eyed by every one and all declared that Gualtieri had made a good exchange; and among the rest Griselda commended her amain, both her and her young brother. [Footnote 482: _i.e._ the husband of his kinswoman aforesaid.] Gualtieri perceiving that the strangeness of the case in no wise changed her and being assured that this proceeded not from lack of understanding, for that he knew her to be very quick of wit, himseemed he had now seen fully as much as he desired of his lady's patience and he judged it time to deliver her from the bitterness which he doubted not she kept hidden under her constant countenance; wherefore, calling her to himself, he said to her, smiling, in the presence of every one, 'How deemest thou of our bride?' 'My lord,' answered she, 'I deem exceeding well of her, and if, as I believe, she is as discreet as she is fair, I doubt not a whit but you will live the happiest gentleman in the world with her; but I beseech you, as most I may, that you inflict not on her those pangs which you inflicted whilere on her who was sometime yours; for methinketh she might scarce avail to endure them, both because she is younger and because she hath been delicately reared, whereas the other had been in continual fatigues from a little child.' Thereupon, Gualtieri, seeing she firmly believed that the young lady was to be his wife nor therefore spoke anywise less than well, seated her by his side and said to her, 'Griselda, it is now time that thou reap the fruits of thy long patience and that those who have reputed me cruel and unjust and brutish should know that this which I have done I wrought to an end aforeseen, willing to teach thee to be a wife and to show them how to take and use one and at the same time to beget myself perpetual quiet, what while I had to live with thee; the which, whenas I came to take a wife, I was sore afraid might not betide me, and therefore, to make proof thereof, I probed and afflicted thee after such kind as thou knowest. And meseeming, for that I have never perceived that either in word or in deed hast thou departed from my pleasure, that I have of thee that solace which I desired, I purpose presently to restore thee, at one stroke, that which I took from thee at many and to requite thee with a supreme delight the pangs I have inflicted on thee. Wherefore with a joyful heart take this whom thou deemest my bride and her brother for thy children and mine; for these be they whom thou and many others have long accounted me to have barbarously let put to death; and I am thy husband, who loveth thee over all else, believing I may vaunt me that there is none else who can be so content of his wife as can I.' So saying, he embraced her and kissed her; then, rising up, he betook himself with Griselda, who wept for joy, whereas the daughter, hearing these things, sat all stupefied, and tenderly embracing her and her brother, undeceived her and many others who were there. Thereupon the ladies arose from table, overjoyed, and withdrew with Griselda into a chamber, where, with happier augury, pulling off her mean attire, they clad her anew in a magnificent dress of her own and brought her again to the saloon, as a gentlewoman, which indeed she appeared, even in rags. There she rejoiced in her children with wonder-great joy, and all being overjoyed at this happy issue, they redoubled in feasting and merrymaking and prolonged the festivities several days, accounting Gualtieri a very wise man, albeit they held the trials which he had made of his lady overharsh, nay, intolerable; but over all they held Griselda most sage. The Count of Panago returned, after some days, to Bologna, and Gualtieri, taking Giannucolo from his labour, placed him in such estate as befitted his father-in-law, so that he lived in honour and great solace and so ended his days; whilst he himself, having nobly married his daughter, lived long and happily with Griselda, honouring her as most might be. What more can here be said save that even in poor cottages there rain down divine spirits from heaven, like as in princely palaces there be those who were worthier to tend swine than to have lordship over men? Who but Griselda could, with a countenance, not only dry,[483] but cheerful, have endured the barbarous and unheard proofs made by Gualtieri? Which latter had not belike been ill requited, had he happened upon one who, when he turned her out of doors in her shift, had let jumble her furbelows of another to such purpose that a fine gown had come of it." [Footnote 483: _i.e._ unwetted with tears.] * * * * * Dioneo's story being finished and the ladies having discoursed amain thereof, some inclining to one side and some to another, this blaming one thing and that commending it, the king, lifting his eyes to heaven and seeing that the sun was now low and the hour of vespers at hand, proceeded, without arising from session, to speak thus, "Charming ladies, as I doubt not you know, the understanding of mortals consisteth not only in having in memory things past and taking cognizance of things present; but in knowing, by means of the one and the other of these, to forecast things future is reputed by men of mark to consist the greatest wisdom. To-morrow, as you know, it will be fifteen days since we departed Florence, to take some diversion for the preservation of our health and of our lives, eschewing the woes and dolours and miseries which, since this pestilential season began, are continually to be seen about our city. This, to my judgment, we have well and honourably done; for that, an I have known to see aright, albeit merry stories and belike incentive to concupiscence have been told here and we have continually eaten and drunken well and danced and sung and made music, all things apt to incite weak minds to things less seemly, I have noted no act, no word, in fine nothing blameworthy, either on your part or on that of us men; nay, meseemeth I have seen and felt here a continual decency, an unbroken concord and a constant fraternal familiarity; the which, at once for your honour and service and for mine own, is, certes, most pleasing to me. Lest, however, for overlong usance aught should grow thereof that might issue in tediousness, and that none may avail to cavil at our overlong tarriance,--each of us, moreover, having had his or her share of the honour that yet resideth in myself,--I hold it meet, an it be your pleasure, that we now return whence we came; more by token that, if you consider aright, our company, already known to several others of the neighbourhood, may multiply after a fashion that will deprive us of our every commodity. Wherefore, if you approve my counsel, I will retain the crown conferred on me until our departure, which I purpose shall be to-morrow morning; but, should you determine otherwise, I have already in mind whom I shall invest withal for the ensuing day." Much was the debate between the ladies and the young men; but ultimately they all took the king's counsel for useful and seemly and determined to do as he proposed; whereupon, calling the seneschal, he bespoke him of the manner which he should hold on the ensuing morning and after, having dismissed the company until supper-time, he rose to his feet. The ladies and the young men, following his example, gave themselves, this to one kind of diversion and that to another, no otherwise than of their wont; and supper-time come, they betook themselves to table with the utmost pleasure and after fell to singing and carolling and making music. Presently, Lauretta leading up a dance, the king bade Fiammetta sing a song, whereupon she very blithely proceeded to sing thus: If love came but withouten jealousy, I know no lady born So blithe as I were, whosoe'er she be. If gladsome youthfulness In a fair lover might content a maid, Virtue and worth discreet, Valiance or gentilesse, Wit and sweet speech and fashions all arrayed In pleasantness complete, Certes, I'm she for whose behoof these meet In one; for, love-o'erborne, All these in him who is my hope I see. But for that I perceive That other women are as wise as I, I tremble for affright And tending to believe The worst, in others the desire espy Of him who steals my spright; Thus this that is my good and chief delight Enforceth me, forlorn, Sigh sore and live in dole and misery. If I knew fealty such In him my lord as I know merit there, I were not jealous, I; But here is seen so much Lovers to tempt, how true they be soe'er, I hold all false; whereby I'm all disconsolate and fain would die, Of each with doubting torn Who eyes him, lest she bear him off from me. Be, then, each lady prayed By God that she in this be not intent 'Gainst me to do amiss; For, sure, if any maid Should or with words or becks or blandishment My detriment in this Seek or procure and if I know't, ywis, Be all my charms forsworn But I will make her rue it bitterly. No sooner had Fiammetta made an end of her song than Dioneo, who was beside her, said, laughing, "Madam, you would do a great courtesy to let all the ladies know who he is, lest you be ousted of his possession through ignorance, since you would be so sore incensed thereat." After this divers other songs were sung and the night being now well nigh half spent, they all, by the king's commandment, betook themselves to repose. As the new day appeared, they arose and the seneschal having already despatched all their gear in advance, they returned, under the guidance of their discreet king, to Florence, where the three young men took leave of the seven ladies and leaving them in Santa Maria Novella, whence they had set out with them, went about their other pleasures, whilst the ladies, whenas it seemed to them time, returned to their houses. HERE ENDETH THE TENTH AND LAST DAY OF THE DECAMERON _Conclusion of the Author_ Most noble damsels, for whose solace I have addressed myself to so long a labour, I have now, methinketh, with the aid of the Divine favour, (vouchsafed me, as I deem, for your pious prayers and not for my proper merits,) throughly accomplished that which I engaged, at the beginning of this present work, to do; wherefore, returning thanks first to God and after to you, it behoveth to give rest to my pen and to my tired hand. Which ere I accord them, I purpose briefly to reply, as to objections tacitly broached, to certain small matters that may peradventure be alleged by some one of you or by others, since meseemeth very certain that these stories have no especial privilege more than other things; nay, I mind me to have shown, at the beginning of the fourth day, that they have none such. There are, peradventure, some of you who will say that I have used overmuch license in inditing these stories, as well as in making ladies whiles say and very often hearken to things not very seemly either to be said or heard of modest women. This I deny, for that there is nothing so unseemly as to be forbidden unto any one, so but he express it in seemly terms, as meseemeth indeed I have here very aptly done. But let us suppose that it is so (for that I mean not to plead with you, who would overcome me,) I say that many reasons very readily offer themselves in answer why I have done this. Firstly, if there be aught thereof[484] in any of them, the nature of the stories required it, the which, an they be considered with the rational eye of a person of understanding, it will be abundantly manifest that I could not have otherwise recounted, an I would not altogether disfeature them. And if perchance there be therein some tittle, some wordlet or two freer, maybe, than liketh your squeamish hypocritical prudes, who weigh words rather than deeds and study more to appear, than to be, good, I say that it should no more be forbidden me to write them than it is commonly forbidden unto men and women to say all day long _hole_ and _peg_ and _mortar_ and _pestle_ and _sausage_ and _polony_ and all manner like things; without reckoning that no less liberty should be accorded to my pen than is conceded to the brush of the limner, who, without any (or, at the least, any just) reprehension, maketh--let be St. Michael smite the serpent with sword or spear and St. George the dragon, whereas it pleaseth them--but Adam male and Eve female and affixeth to the cross, whiles with one nail and whiles with two, the feet of Him Himself who willed for the salvation of the human race to die upon the rood. Moreover, it is eath enough to see that these things are spoken, not in the church, of the affairs whereof it behoveth to speak with a mind and in terms alike of the chastest (albeit among its histories there are tales enough to be found of anothergates fashion than those written by me), nor yet in the schools of philosophy, where decency is no less required than otherwhere, nor among churchmen or philosophers anywhere, but amidst gardens, in a place of pleasance and diversion and among men and women, though young, yet of mature wit and not to be led astray by stories, at a time when it was not forbidden to the most virtuous to go, for their own preservation, with their breeches on their heads. Again, such as they are, these stories, like everything else, can both harm and profit, according to the disposition of the listener. Who knoweth not that wine, though, according to Cinciglione and Scolajo[485] and many others, an excellent thing for people in health,[486] is hurtful unto whoso hath the fever? Shall we say, then, because it harmeth the fevered, that it is naught? Who knoweth not that fire is most useful, nay, necessary to mortals? Shall we say, because it burneth houses and villages and cities, that it is naught? Arms on like wise assure the welfare of those who desire to live in peace and yet oftentimes slay men, not of any malice of their own, but of the perversity of those who use them wrongfully. Corrupt mind never understood word healthily, and even as seemly words profit not depraved minds, so those which are not altogether seemly avail not to contaminate the well-disposed, any more than mire can sully the rays of the sun or earthly foulness the beauties of the sky. What books, what words, what letters are holier, worthier, more venerable than those of the Divine Scriptures? Yet many there be, who, interpreting them perversely, have brought themselves and others to perdition. Everything in itself is good unto somewhat and ill used, may be in many things harmful; and so say I of my stories. If any be minded to draw therefrom ill counsel or ill practice, they will nowise forbid it him, if perchance they have it in them or be strained and twisted into having it; and who so will have profit and utility thereof, they will not deny it him, nor will they be ever styled or accounted other than useful and seemly, if they be read at those times and to those persons for which and for whom they have been recounted. Whoso hath to say paternosters or to make tarts and puddings for her spiritual director, let her leave them be; they will not run after any to make her read them; albeit your she-saints themselves now and again say and even do fine things. [Footnote 484: _i.e._ of overmuch licence.] [Footnote 485: Two noted wine-bidders of the time.] [Footnote 486: Lit. living folk (_viventi_).] There be some ladies also who will say that there are some stories here, which had been better away. Granted; but I could not nor should write aught save those actually related, wherefore those who told them should have told them goodly and I would have written them goodly. But, if folk will e'en pretend that I am both the inventor and writer thereof (which I am not), I say that I should not take shame to myself that they were not all alike goodly, for that there is no craftsman living (barring God) who doth everything alike well and completely; witness Charlemagne, who was the first maker of the Paladins, but knew not to make so many thereof that he might avail to form an army of them alone. In the multitude of things, needs must divers qualities thereof be found. No field was ever so well tilled but therein or nettles or thistles or somewhat of briers or other weeds might be found mingled with the better herbs. Besides, having to speak to simple lasses, such as you are for the most part, it had been folly to go seeking and wearying myself to find very choice and exquisite matters, and to use great pains to speak very measuredly. Algates, whoso goeth reading among these, let him leave those which offend and read those which divert. They all, not to lead any one into error, bear branded upon the forefront that which they hold hidden within their bosoms. Again, I doubt not but there be those who will say that some of them are overlong; to whom I say again that whoso hath overwhat to do doth folly to read these stories, even though they were brief. And albeit a great while is passed from the time when I began to write to this present hour whenas I come to the end of my toils, it hath not therefor escaped my memory that I proffered this my travail to idle women and not to others, and unto whoso readeth to pass away the time, nothing can be overlong, so but it do that for which he useth it. Things brief are far better suited unto students, who study, not to pass away, but usefully to employ time, than to you ladies, who have on your hands all the time that you spend not in the pleasures of love; more by token that, as none of you goeth to Athens or Bologna or Paris to study, it behoveth to speak to you more at large than to those who have had their wits whetted by study. Again, I doubt not a jot but there be yet some of you who will say that the things aforesaid are full of quips and cranks and quodlibets and that it ill beseemeth a man of weight and gravity to have written thus. To these I am bound to render and do render thanks, for that, moved by a virtuous jealousy, they are so tender of my fame; but to their objection I reply on this wise; I confess to being a man of weight and to have been often weighed in my time, wherefore, speaking to those ladies who have not weighed me, I declare that I am not heavy; nay, I am so light that I abide like a nutgall in water, and considering that the preachments made of friars, to rebuke men of their sins, are nowadays for the most part seen full of quips and cranks and gibes, I conceived that these latter would not sit amiss in my stories written to ease women of melancholy. Algates, an they should laugh overmuch on that account, the Lamentations of Jeremiah, the Passion of our Saviour and the Complaint of Mary Magdalen will lightly avail to cure them thereof. Again, who can doubt but there will to boot be found some to say that I have an ill tongue and a venomous, for that I have in sundry places written the truth anent the friars? To those who shall say thus it must be forgiven, since it is not credible that they are moved by other than just cause, for that the friars are a good sort of folk, who eschew unease for the love of God and who grind with a full head of water and tell no tales, and but that they all savour somewhat of the buck-goat, their commerce would be far more agreeable. Natheless, I confess that the things of this world have no stability and are still on the change, and so may it have befallen of my tongue, the which, not to trust to mine own judgment, (which I eschew as most I may in my affairs,) a she-neighbour of mine told me, not long since, was the best and sweetest in the world; and in good sooth, were this the case, there had been few of the foregoing stories to write. But, for that those who say thus speak despitefully, I will have that which hath been said suffice them for a reply; wherefore, leaving each of you henceforth to say and believe as seemeth good to her, it is time for me to make an end of words, humbly thanking Him who hath, after so long a labour, brought us with His help to the desired end. And you, charming ladies, abide you in peace with His favour, remembering you of me, if perchance it profit any of you aught to have read these stories. HERE ENDETH THE BOOK CALLED DECAMERON AND SURNAMED PRINCE GALAHALT